"Yes," she admitted. "So?"
"Let others make the attempt. We have those in the Church more skilled than myself. If you could arrange passage I am confident that some progress could be made."
"Passage? To where?"
To Hope, she assumed, where the Church had their headquarters or to Pace where they had their great medical establishment. She blinked at the answer.
"To Elysium, my lady. A world not too distant from Esslin."
"And the cost?"
Again he surprised her. "The cost of the journey naturally, but once on Elysium there will be no charge. You will merely donate what you wish to give." He added quietly, "If you were sick, dying of a malignancy which could be cured, would you appreciate your life being set in the scales against what you owned? Or if one dear to you were ill would you thank those who refused to cure her because you could not afford to meet their fees?"
"Charity?" Her laugh was strained. "You believe in charity?"
"We believe in doing to others as we would like them to do to us. You may have heard that before, my lady. It is known as the Golden Rule."
Was he rebuking her? For a moment she suspected it then recognized the ridiculousness of the suspicion. On this world no man, not even a monk, could have been such a fool.
"My lady, you summoned me and I came and did what I could, for we of the Church never refuse any in need. Now you have given me leave to go. Before I do may I crave a boon?"
The reward he wanted-what would it be? Cynicism sharpened her tones.
"You disappoint me, monk. For once I had hoped to have found a man who practiced what he preached. One willing to give without demanding a return. Well, what do you want? Money?"
"Permission, my lady." Startled, she heard him press on. "Your permission to set up the Church at the edge of the field. Twice we have tried and each time the guards have thrown it down. Brother Juba was injured the last time and Brother Echo is tending him at this moment. Both are old."
"And?" She waited for him to continue. Some comforts for his companions, surely. If he called them old they must be almost doddering. What brought men like that to share such poverty? "Speak, man," she demanded. "What else?"
"Nothing, my lady."
"Nothing?" She gave a curt laugh. "Just my permission to set up your church? You have it. A hundred square yards- not closer than the same distance from the gate."
The reward of failure. How would Gustav take it? She must go to him at once.
He was within his study, seated at his desk, busy with a litter of papers, old books, mouldering tomes from a host of worlds brought by traders who knew of his interest. For a moment she stood watching him from the open door then, as if sensing her presence, he turned and rose to face her.
"Kathryn!"
He gave his usual, impeccable bow, a gesture which was as much a part of him as the trick he had of touching his left eyebrow when mastering his anger. A thing she had not seen since the fool from Elkan had given his verdict and made his suggestion. She wondered if his back still bore the scars she had ordered to be placed there.
"Gustav!" She lifted her hands as he advanced and smiled as he took them and lifted them to his lips. A smile which vanished as he looked at her. "No, my dear. Again-no!"
She felt him near her, his arms around her, all protocol forgotten in this moment of her need. A weakness, no Matriarch could ever lean on another, but it was good to know that she was not alone, that there was another to share her grief, her empty yearning. And he had the right. Of all men he had the right.
"Don't give up hope," he whispered. "We can try again. There will be someone with courage enough or skill enough. Dear God, there has to be someone!"
He turned as his voice broke, unwilling to let her see the tears in his eyes, the haggard expression he knew must be marring his face. Did she recognize his contempt? Share it? Know him for the coward he was? And yet was sheer willingness enough? Arnold had been young and strong and willing and where was Arnold now? Charles had burned with the strength of greed and it had killed him. Muhi had wanted to prove his friendship. Fhrel had insisted and Nerva had thought it a game.
Gone. Failures all.
Could he have done better?
Even so he should have tried. Should still try-was he to wait and die while thinking of making the attempt?
"No, Gustav! No!" This time it was the woman who had read his thoughts. She reached out and took him by the shoulders and turned him to face her and she did it as if he were a child. "No," she said again. "I've given the orders and you couldn't even if you tried. And I don't want you to try. Haven't I lost enough as it is? Dear God, haven't I lost enough!"
Too much and all that made life a meaningful existence. He must reassure her and give her hope.
"Well find a way," he said. "We can send to other worlds for experts. To Payne and to-" He broke off, looking at the hand she had pressed over his heart. "Kathryn?"
"I've been a fool, Gustav. To have put my hope in a monk and then to be so disappointed when he failed to perform a miracle. Then to come to you and upset you in turn. But there must be no stupid heroics. That is an order. I mustn't lose you, too." She waited until he met her eyes. "I want you to promise. I want you to give me your word."
A moment and then he nodded. "You have it."
"Good." She inhaled and then stepped back away from him again in full emotional control. "Thank you, husband."
"You will stay?"
"I can't." She saw regret in his eyes and hastened to explain. "I've work to be getting on with. A stupid bitch who is too ambitious for her own good needs to be taught a lesson. I want everything arranged."
The pens were washed and clean but for reasons of hygiene not comfort. The same reasoning applied to the floor, the walls, the catwalk on which the slaves were displayed, the block on which they were sold. Only the seats provided for the curious were padded; serious buyers preferred to stand.
Maureen Clairmont had been among them. She was gone now, leaving tight-lipped and with the skin stretched tautly over her cheekbones, realizing just on the edge of ruin the plan which had been devised against her. One only the Matriarch herself could have engineered, as her backers must realize; and, knowing the strength of the displayed opposition, they would be quick to disavow her.
Leaning back in her chair, Kathryn felt the glow of satisfaction of a job well done.
"Twenty males," said the auctioneer. "Assorted planets of origin. Offered for sale by Hylda Vroom. I will allow the usual time for examination."
A man who relished his power over others but one who knew how to be deferential while maintaining his pride. Not an easy thing to do while selling others of his own kind but such work was too demeaning for any woman to contemplate. As the line shuffled from the pens to stand on the catwalk Kathryn leaned forward to study them the better. As the auctioneer had said, they were a motley crew dressed in an assortment of garments. A convenience; why provide fresh clothing when there was no need? And why heat a compartment when clothing would keep the captives warm?
They would have been searched, naturally, and all of value taken. And, equally naturally, some showed the signs of combat.
And yet was that wholly natural?
To Shamarre who attended her Kathryn said, "Isn't gas used during a raid?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Then why are some of those men hurt? Is Hylda so careless as to stacking? Or did she have trouble once in space?"
"Trouble," said Shamarre with relish. "You're looking at the fruit of a couple of raids, my lady. The second proved expensive. Some managed to escape the gas and decided to fight. That one, you see him? The one in gray? I heard that he killed a score on his own."
An exaggeration, it had to be, no man could best a score of women especially if they were armed and alert. Yet there was something about him that attracted her interest. His height for one thing, he was taller than Gustav and far wider across the shoulders, but it wasn't just that. His face held a hard, ruthless determination, his eyes probing the area even as he was urged toward the block. On the side of his head an ugly wound made a patch of red and blue which set off the taut pallor of his face.
She lifted her hand as the auctioneer began his chant.