The Terridae

Chapter Four

The scarlet gown was marred with ugly smears of darker hue staining the fabric, blood which had dried as she worked. Now, straightening, Carina wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, careless of the trail she left behind.

Dumarest was impatient. "Well?"

"He'll live," she said. "The beam charred bone but missed vital organs. I've fixed the seared tissue and administered prophylactic therapy together with hormone healing compounds. That's all I can do with what I've got."

"How long?"

"Until he's up and running? About a month. A pity we can't use slowtime."

It would heal him in a day but was expensive and, while effective, gave rise to complications. The accelerated metabolism demanded a continuous intake of energy if tissue-deterioration was to be avoided. Looking at the lad's frail body Dumarest knew he lacked the resources to take advantage of the drug. Too little fat, too little strength in reserve. To give it would be to kill.

"See that he gets the best available," he said. "What you haven't got, buy from the infirmary. I'll pay."

"Conscience money?"

"I didn't burn him."

"But it was because of you he got hurt." Her voice was sharp with accusation. "Three men dead," she said bitterly. "A boy almost killed and for what? Because you'd been robbed. Because you wanted your goods back. For money!"

His actions seemed dictated by greed or pride, but she knew it was more than that. It was a matter of survival, rather, his reaction a conditioned reflex born of a time when to be robbed was to be threatened with starvation, when each scrap of food became associated with continued existence and a thief was tantamount to a murderer. The association continued and she wondered what kind of childhood he had known.

Looking at him, seeing the hardness of his face, she knew it couldn't have been easy.

"I'm sorry," she said. "That was a stupid thing to have said. I guess seeing him lying there, working on him-" She broke off, then said angrily, "What the hell was he doing in the basement anyway?"

Scavenging, trying to keep warm, to stay out of sight. Surviving in the best way he could. Dumarest could understand that. Turning from the small figure on the couch, he looked around the dispensary. Little had changed. To one side a monk murmured comfort to a woman as he extracted shards of glass from a lacerated cheek-the result of a quarrel with a professional rival. A man sat on a bench with his throat bandaged, staring at the floor, a failed suicide who would speak in whispers from now on if he was able to speak at all. He didn't look up as Brother Pandion entered the room and made his way to where Dumarest was standing.

"Good news," he said. "I've seen Anton's mother. She was, I'm happy to say, not alone. Her friend-"

Carina was sharp. "A man?"

"Boyle Fenton. An old associate of her husband's. There seems to have been some romantic liaison between them in the past and he is most concerned as to her welfare. And there was a promise made of which he was reminded." The monk glanced at Dumarest. "A happy event. Fortunately she can be cured. Fenton has agreed to meet the expense but his funds are limited and-"

"The boy is my concern," said Dumarest. "I'll take care of that."

Pandion bowed. "You are most kind, brother. We do what we can but our resources are limited."

All he had was consolation and the use of hypnotic techniques to ease the torment of the sick and dying, salves to heal sores and ulcers, antibiotics to alleviate disease. Most of all the comfort and warmth of human sympathy.

Outside the day had grown warm with the sun well above the horizon and Dumarest was conscious of his fatigue. It gritted his eyes and made the pack he'd recovered from Ca Lee's room heavier than it was but before he could rest there were still things needing to be done.

Glover looked up as he entered the store, nodding a greeting as he reached for a bottle, one foot dragging as he moved.

"Have a drink, Earl. I figure you deserve it after last night." The wine was a pale amber, sweet, holding an unexpected bouquet. "Bramble-flower," he explained. "I've more brewing from frond-bloom but it isn't ready yet." He sobered, looking into his glass. "I heard about the boy. Will he be all right?"

"He was lucky."

"No permanent injuries? I mean-"

"I said he was lucky." Dumarest sipped a little of the wine. Over the rim of the glass Glover's face looked strained, his eyes anxious. "He'll heal as good as new."

"I'm glad." Glover sounded sincere. "He's had a bad enough time without those scum making it worse. Jarl I can understand, Berge too-both losers and desperate-but what made Ca Lee do it? He was living soft enough." He drank and refilled his glass. "At least he could walk without dragging a leg."

"So could you."

"Sure, with surgery and money to pay for it. I could even find a decent woman… hell, while we're dreaming let's go all the way." Glover swayed a little-the bottle wasn't his first. "The kind of woman a man dreams about. One to make him wish he was young and whole and rich enough to afford what she has to offer." He drank again and stared into the empty glass and then slammed it down and threw back his shoulders. Later, drugs would provide a dream surrogate of what he yearned to possess and he would wake filled with a vague despondency. An emptiness to be filled with more drink, more drugs. "You come to trade, Earl?"

"That's right." Dumarest dumped his pack on the counter. "What will you offer for this?"

As Glover made his examination Dumarest wandered about the store. Little had changed; the baskets stood as he remembered, the jars and pots, the bales and bundles. The bench beneath the window still held a book and the binoculars. Dumarest picked them up and lifted them to his eyes. Before him the brush jumped to magnified enlargement.

"A hobby," said Glover, noticing. "With this leg of mine it's hard to get around. When I'm not busy I like to look at the hills. See Anton at work, maybe."

"A hobby? Like brewing wine?"

"Just things to do." Glover looked at the stuff he had spread on the counter. The mass of corbinite stood bright among the rest. "The camping and survival gear isn't worth a lot, but the corbinite is in fair demand. I'll offer-" He broke off as Dumarest rested his hand on his arm. "Something wrong?"

"I just don't want you to be too hasty," said Dumarest. "You've seen the stuff, now let's talk a little. About your hobbies," he added. "About people you know. Berge, for example."

"I don't know anything about him!"

"Of course not." Dumarest smiled without humor. "But you know he's dead. You might even know how he died."

Glover, sweating, licked his lips.

"A man like you," said Dumarest. "One foot dragging and thinking of his bad luck all the time. Dreaming of the women he'd like to own and the things money could buy. A man with a store and a powerful pair of binoculars and plenty of time to use them. One who could talk to a mute, maybe, with signs and expressions. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

"Earl! I swear-"

"I could have died." Dumarest was harsh. "Been killed in the brush. Been killed again by Jarl. Again by Ca Lee. Three dead-maybe it should be four?"

"No!" Glover shook his head, eyes wide with fear. "You're wrong, Earl. I… No, Earl! No!"

"You seem to get my meaning." Dumarest lifted his hand and glanced at the items spread on the counter. "I'm glad of that. Now let's talk about how much you're going to give me for my stuff."

Carina said, "You robbed him, Earl. Why else should he have given you so much?"

"He wanted to."

"I'd like to know why." She leaned back in her chair, hair a glistening helmet, lips paled by the scarlet of her newly cleaned gown. "Did you threaten to kill him?"

"No."

The truth was that Glover's own conscience had made him the victim of his guilt. There was his lack of curiosity when Dumarest had returned after three weeks of prospecting without even a pack. His knowledge of Berge's death when the man still lay where he had fallen in the brush.

"But you suspected him?"

"He had to be involved," he said. "For the usual reason, of course. Greed."

"But you let him buy his life. Why?" She answered her own question. "For money. For Anton to get his chance. Dead he would be of no help at all. And I can imagine how glad he was to get out of it so easily. If you looked like you did when you chased Ca Lee he would have jumped at the chance. How you fought-I've never seen anyone move so quickly. At times you were just a blur." She took a sip of the wine standing before her and added, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"That I had been robbed?"

"It would have helped. When you questioned Jarl I took you for a sadist."

Dumarest said, "You couldn't talk about what you didn't know."

"So the man who knew had to be guilty." She nodded, understanding. "Ca Lee was a fool. There was no need for him to have left his table the previous night."

A mistake he didn't correct; the man would have needed time to get into position and would have wanted the cover of darkness to shield him from prying eyes.

"He underestimates you," she said. "Any other man would have complained. Talked about his loss. Tried to get help. You know, Earl, you are no ordinary man."

And she seemed no ordinary woman. He watched as she leaned back and sipped again at her wine. They had eaten and were now surrounded by the decaying luxury of the Durand, lingering over a dish of sweetmeats and a bottle of wine. Dumarest felt relaxed now that he had eaten but fatigue still gritted his eyes. The days were short on Shard as were the nights but he had been awake since his last camp in the hills. Carina also must be tired but she seemed as fresh as ever. Was that due to drugs or a naturally efficient metabolism which rid her body of toxic wastes?

"It's natural," she said when, bluntly, he asked. "A genetic trait. I only need half the sleep of a normal person."

"Convenient."

"At times, yes," she admitted. "At others it isn't so pleasant. The time can drag when everyone is asleep and thought's your only companion. But it helped when I was studying."

"And when you were a child?"

"I dreamed. I lay with my eyes wide open staring at the ceiling and I dreamed of castles in the sky and great beasts and armies which would fight for me and magicians who would perform wonders at my command. I dreamed of vast and empty lands and long and endless journeys." She drank the last of her wine. "I dreamed of nothing but escape."

"And now?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "To move on, I guess. To find new places."

"To look for the one place which will mean happiness," he said gently. "To search for that illusive something which will make you forget the terrors of childhood and fill your days with an assortment of joys."

"To find Bonanza," she whispered, responding, continuing the game. "Heaven or El Dorado. Jackpot or even Earth." She laughed and picked up her glass and shook her head on finding it empty. Dumarest gave her half his own and they faced each other, glass in hand as if about to make a toast. She turned the accident into determination. "To all the hopes that ever were, Earl. To all the planets which can never be. To myths and legends and worlds born of imagination. To you, to them, I drink!"

He followed her example, draining the bottle into their glasses as she lowered her own, giving her the lion's share. Accumulated fatigue must, by now, be dulling the sharp edge of her mind and the extra alcohol would help to loosen her tongue. She had mentioned Earth. She was a traveler and she had mentioned Earth!

Then he realized his own fatigue had bolstered false hopes. She had mentioned Earth but only in passing and with others accepted to be legends. To her as to others Earth was as unreal as the dream of an eternal paradise or a world made of solid diamond. No almanac listed it No navigational tables held its coordinates. No one he had ever met admitted it could be real.

But Earth existed-he was living proof of that. He had been born on that lost and forgotten world. One day, he would find it again.

The studio was as he remembered: the table, the bed, the paintings stacked against a wall. He closed, the door and jammed a chair beneath the knob, then turned to meet her wide, watchful eyes.

"I'm staying," he said. "A precaution." He saw her glance toward the bed, sensed her trepidation and added quickly, "Ca Lee could have had friends. Some of them might not like the way he died."

"But you killed him!"

"And you're easier to hurt." He remembered the woman in the dispensary with her lacerated face and put a snap into his voice. "Don't argue about it. Just go to bed-I'll take the chair."

She was like an animal, lying wakeful and tense and he wondered why. The way she had snatched her arm free of his grasp held a clue and he wondered what had been done to her to induce such fear. Or was it a fear of inner weakness? A need to which she dared not succumb? The questions ceased to have meaning as fatigue weighted his eyelids and drove him into restless sleep… broken as the woman moved.

"Earl?" She looked at his hand as he gripped her wrist, face ghostly in the starlight streaming through the window. "Please, Earl! Please!"

"You startled me." He released her hand. "You shouldn't have come so close to me." He rubbed his eyes, the sleep, though short, had removed some of the grit. "Have you water?"

She gave it to him in a cup, pouring from a pot damp with moisture which she took from a recess in the wall. He sipped and tasted a faint salinity. Had hers been a hot and arid world?

"No," she said when he asked. "There are mountains and seas and fertile land and everything is clean and bright as if it were new. You'd never see a cripple in the streets and no one would have to live as Anton does." Pausing, she asked, "Why, Earl? Why spend what you did on his welfare?"

"Bells."

"What?"

"Bells," he said again. "They warned me. Down in the basement when I hunted Ca Lee. I saw Anton move and thought he was the man I was after and sprang forward-"

"And would have killed him if you hadn't heard the bells." She nodded, understanding. "Then Ca Lee would have had you at his mercy. But were you kind only to repay a debt?"

A boy, handicapped, fighting to survive in a hostile environment, Anton could have been himself. Dumarest rose from the chair and stepped toward the window to look at the stars, the slope of the foothills now dark and solid in the silver light. A boy's hunting ground-his own had been far less gentle-but no child should have to creep among thorns to harvest a little fruit.

Turning, he said to lighten his thoughts, "Tell me about your home. What color are the seas? The sky? Do you have a moon?"

"Green," she said. "And azure and, yes, we do have a moon. Two of them in fact but one is very small. At times it glows scarlet."

"Bad times?" He saw the movement of her eyes, the tensing of small muscles in her face and took another sip of water, knowing he had touched a sensitive area. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

"I couldn't sleep. The bed's yours if you want it."

"Later, perhaps." His nerves were too edgy to permit of deep and restful sleep and it would be better for him to stay awake. Dumarest drank the rest of the water and set down the cup. It fell to the floor, and as he picked it up his hand brushed the edge of the stacked paintings. "You've been busy," he commented. "May I see them?"

"Why not?" She snapped on the light and lifted them and set them on the table face upwards. "I'll have to make a decision about them soon."

"Too many?"

"Too heavy. I like to stay mobile."

He nodded and looked at the paintings. Each was on a thin sheet of metalized paper and could be flexed and rolled without damage. Final products; the one she had made of himself had been crude by comparison. She guessed what he was thinking.

"I was in a hurry but I'd like to paint you again. I'd be able to achieve greater depth this time now that I know you better. What do you think of that?"

A rose lay on a cushion, the petals dewed, the stem with its spines so real that he could almost smell the perfume.

"And that?"

An egg, broken, the bird newly hatched, struggling with tiny wings to free itself from the smooth prison. Each feather was a fluffed gem. The gaping beak seemed to be sounding all the fury of all the creatures ever born. The eyes held in their orbits the panoply of worlds.

"And these?"

Dumarest leafed through them, pausing to look at the woman. "Did your father ever see any similar work?"

"Of mine? No."

"A pity. If he had he wouldn't have died a disappointed man."

Frowning, she said, "I don't understand, Earl."

"He wanted you to be a genius, you said." Dumarest touched the painting in his hand. "This is proof of it. The proof of his success-your success. I-" He broke off, looking at the next to be revealed.

A woman, seated on a casket, and she was old.

Old!

The accumulated weight of years piled invisible mountains on her shoulders, bowing them, hollowing the thin chest to match the hollows of her cheeks, the sunken pits in which dwelt her eyes. Her hair was a cloud of whiteness holding the fragile delicacy of gossamer. The hands resting on her lap were brittle straws ending pipestem arms which matched the reed-like figure. The face was creped with a countless mesh of lines, the lips thin and bloodless, the whole giving the impression of a mask.

Old!

Old-and patient.

The impression was almost tangible and dominated the portrayal. The woman was old and yet not ugly. She held the same beauty as a tree that is old or a lichened wall or the worn hills of ancient worlds. The mask-like face looked at things created by time beyond normal comprehension-the span of years which had passed in a ceaseless flow from the time of her conception and would continue long after she was dust. Time spent in waiting as she was waiting now. Waiting with the incredible patience of the very old.

"Who-?"

"She isn't real," said Carina, anticipating his question, "Not an actual person. She symbolizes an ideal."

Age and patience and waiting-but waiting for what?

Dumarest closed his eyes, pressed the lids tightly together, looked again at the timeless face of the old woman. An ideal, Carina had said. An artist's impression-but of what?

"The box," she said when he asked. "I saw it and was curious and made some inquiries. It looks like a shipping container but it isn't that and neither is it a coffin. I thought it was at first, despite its size, but I was wrong. It's the reverse, in fact. A survival-casket."

That was new to him. Ships carried life-support sacs for use in emergency but they were a last hope and a desperate gamble. The usual caskets were strictly functional affairs shaped by the need to achieve a low temperature in the minimum time and to keep it stable once obtained. And why the old woman? The impression of limitless patience?

"They wait," said Carina. "Those who use the boxes, I mean. I depicted an old woman but it could have been a man. And I guess neither had to be old but that's how I felt it. Old people lying in their boxes in a form of suspended animation while the years spin past outside. Just lying there, waiting. Patiently waiting."

"For what?"

She shrugged, indifferent. "Who knows? They are crazy, of course, they have to be. To waste a life just lying in a box in the hope you'll be able to last long enough to be around when whatever you're waiting for happens. The end of the universe, maybe. The discovery of immortality. Who knows?"

And who cared? Oddities were common in a galaxy thick with scattered worlds bearing a host of varying cultures. Societies with peculiar beliefs and customs strange to any not of their kind. Frameworks of reference which turned madness into normal behavior. Freaks and fanatics going their own way, tolerated or ignored as long as they did no harm.

Dumarest put down the painting, half-turned, then reached for it again with belated recognition. The woman dominated the scene or he would have noticed it before. Had noticed it but fatigue had delayed his reaction. Now he studied the painting again, concentrating, not on the woman but on the box.

It was decorated with a profusion of painted symbols.

"Earl?" He turned and saw her face, the anxiety in her eyes, and realized he had stood silent and immobile for too long. "Earl, is anything wrong?"

"No. Where did you see this?"

"The box? Why, Earl, is it important?"

"Where!"

"On Caval," she said quickly. "The Hurich Complex- Earl, please!"

He turned from her, smoothing his face, forcing himself to be calm. She didn't know. She couldn't know-to her the box was nothing more than an oversized sarcophagus. An amusing novelty which had triggered her creative artistry. The symbols adorning the casket merely vague abstractions.

Symbols which could guide him to Earth.