"Would she have me if I asked?"
"Why should you do that?" He imagined he guessed the reason. "Is it because of Dumarest? Are you jealous of him?"
"No."
"No?" His eyes held her own. "I wish I could be sure of that. You traveled together and have been lovers. j__"
"Did he tell you that?"
"No." Me blinked at the interruption. "But it's true, isn't it?"
"Does it matter?" Her shrug gave the measure of the importance she attached to the subject. "I was thinking of your work, Cornelius. I feel I am a distraction. Don't misunderstand me, you are a genius, but with you art must always come first. This portrait, for example, you look at me too often and for too long."
"You are beautiful!"
"As is a flower, the sunset, the flight of a bird. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But your work holds more than beauty. There is an added dimension which must be maintained." The ingredient which set him above others and would make his work fetch fantastic prices. The thing he must not lose and she sensed that it had its roots in pain. She said, "Have you used live models before?"
"No."
"Because they create a conflict?" She knew the answer before he nodded. The fact at war with the impression, eye straining against brain, the observed data clashing with the subconscious awareness of what should be. "Cornelius, you are not alone. Many artists produce their best work in isolation. They store up impressions, ideas, methods of treatment and then, when finally ready, they close themselves in a world of their own and become lost in the creative process."
He said flatly, "Are you telling me that you don't want to see me again?"
"Of course not!"
"For the sake of my paintings? The markets you spoke of? The money you said I would make?" His voice grew bitter. "What is money to me? What can it buy that I don't already own? Happiness? Only you can give me that. Sardia, don't leave me, please!"
He was a small boy crying in the darkness. One begging for the comfort she was too much a woman to refuse. A step and she was close to him, her arm around his shoulders, her free hand running over his hair as, smiling, she looked into his eyes.
"I won't leave you, Cornelius."
"You promise? You'll stay here with me?"
"Until the ship leaves, yes."
"And then?"
"I'll return, of course, often. Or better still, you could come with me."
"No."
"Why not? What is to stop you? Oh, I know, the Choud do not travel." She masked the impatience the answer had given, one she faced again. "But all the Choud? Couldn't you, at least, be spared?"
"No. It isn't that. I-" He drew in his breath and stepped away from her and said, looking at the window, "Why can't you stay here on Ath?"
"Business, Cornelius. I have to attend to the display of your work and achieve the recognition of your genius. I explained all that."
"Agents could handle it. You could send the paintings to friends who would do as you direct. Dumarest could take them. You trust him?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. I left him at the lake this morning. We had a quarrel."
"Dumarest." Cornelius threw back his head and his eyes veiled. "He is with the Ohrm." He blinked. "Why should he be there? Ursula has been looking for him and he has neglected the obligations of a guest. Sardia, j___»»
"No." She sensed coming danger, a decision she would have to make. "We'll talk later. I've a slight headache and I'd like to rest for a while. The fact is I'm not used to posing and it was a greater strain than I imagined."
Her smile absolved him from blame. "Please, Cornelius, be a darling and understand."
"Later? You promise to talk later?"
"Of course." How often in the past had she handled just such an incident? But this was one suitor she dared not rebuff too harshly. "Later."
Alone, Cornelius looked at the easel and the work it supported. A waste; the marring of pristine canvas for no good purpose. The outline was wrong, the pose, the position of the head and arms. A woman seated at her ease and dreaming as she stared through a window. A lovely woman but there was more to beauty than the contours of the skin. And, sitting there, what did she see? What was she thinking?
And where was the suffering? The pain?
It guided his hand as he reached for the brushes. It decided the pigments used, the direction and intensity of the strokes, the fury of his application. Outside the sky darkened as the night conquered day, shadows adding their mystery to the vista beyond the window. Lights glowed to banish the inner gloom and still he worked on, sweating, his face taut with strain. A man obsessed. One in torment as, again, he entered his own private hell.
The path was uneven and twice Dumarest stumbled before mounting the final slope to stand on the summit of the ridge and stare down into the bowl which held the city. Behind, hidden from view and unable to spoil the jewel-like perfection of the terraces, the homes of the Ohrm sprawled in an untidy growth which reached toward the plains and the mountains beyond. A collection of low-roofed dwellings, clean and functional, but set too close and lacking the individual charm of those owned by the Choud.
"It's beautiful," said Pellia at his side. "So beautiful."
"No."
"But, Earl, how can you say that?"
"It's pretty," he corrected. "But that's all. It has no life, no warmth. Listen." He held up a hand, starlight glinting on his fingers, his nails. "No laughter. No noise. No sounds of people at play. No quarreling, no shouting, no passion."
"And no pain." Her tone was bitter. "No burned, flesh and dying men."
Too many men-those who had used the lasers hadn't all missed. Dumarest thought of those he had tended: men with charred holes penetrating vital organs; wounds which had been cauterized by the beams which had made them, each wound now a repository of pain. One had been burned across the eyes, another hit in the groin, a third lacked a lower jaw.
He had done what he could, injecting antibiotics, giving the balm of unconsciousness, easing pain and setting bones shattered by the blast. Rough surgery when skilled attention was needed but the best he could do.
And, in return, had learned almost nothing.
"I'm sorry, Earl." Pellia tore a leaf from a shrub and shredded it between her strong, white teeth. She had stayed at his side as he had worked and had grown, close. "Was it important to you?"
"It doesn't matter."
"All they know is that the handler allowed them to unload the ship. Then the guards arrived and the shooting started. One of the boxes must have been hit."
Hit to explode and kill those holding it and the handler too. The blast had spread to fling debris against the generator. Facts Dumarest was aware of but other questions remained to be answered.