128627.fb2 The Terridae - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 2

The Terridae - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 2

"Anton's a good boy," she said. "He does what he can. He wouldn't hurt anyone."

Dumarest was patient. "I mean him no harm. I just want to know about him. Was he born a mute?"

"A genetic defect but it can be corrected. A new larynx-" Her hands closed on the faded scarlet of the patched jupon. "All it needs is money."

The cure for so many ills. Dumarest noted the thinness of the hands, the lankness of the hair. She had met his eyes only at their first meeting, dropping her own as if ashamed, pretending to be engrossed in her sewing. From below came a sudden shout, a slap, a following scream.

"Martia," she said. "Her man has little patience."

"And yours?"

"Dead." Her voice was as dull as her eyes. "Over a year ago now. An accident."

"At work?"

"In the brush. A friend brought the news." She didn't want to talk about it and Dumarest watched the movement of her hands on the jupon. A spare-the garment was edged with gold instead of silver. Anton had not yet returned home. "What do you want, mister?"

"I'm looking for someone. A man named Kelly. He could have been a friend of your husband. Anton might know him. Does he?"

She was silent a moment then she shook her head. "Think," urged Dumarest. "Your man could have mentioned him. Anton-you can communicate?" He continued as she nodded. "Kelly could have befriended the boy. Jarl too. You know Jarl?"

"No."

Her denial came too fast, perhaps simply an automatic defense. In such places as the Drell strangers were always objects of suspicion and it would be natural for her to protect the boy. "A pity." Dumarest was casual. "There could be money in it. I want to get my business done and be on my way. Did your man have a favorite place? Who brought you the news of his death?"

The question was asked without change of tone and she answered with unthinking response. "Fenton. Boyle Fenton. He owns the Barracoon. It's on the corner of Tenlane and Three." She added, "He's a good man."

He had softened the bad news, given her a little money, promised aid if she should need it, a promise she could have been too proud to ask him to keep.

Had the boy been willing bait?

It was possible and he fit the part; young, weak, helpless, unable to do more than jangle his bells, a decoy to disarm the suspicious, placed by the predators who had been willing to kill for what loot they could find. Or had they merely taken advantage of a genuine accident?

"Does Anton go out often?"

"Every day."

"Into the brush? Alone?"

"He's used to it. He collects what he can and sells it for what he can get." Pride in her son lifted the woman's head, a ray of sunlight touching her hair and lending it a transient beauty, echoed in the bones of cheek and jaw, the arched brows over the sunken eyes. The fever staining her cheeks gave her a false appearance of health. "He's a good boy, mister!"

The boy was small and frail and unable to speak yet wise in the dangers of the brush. It had not been an accident, then, but even so he was not wholly to be blamed. Those who had used him carried the guilt.

Downstairs the woman who had greeted him was waiting in the doorway.

"Any luck, mister?" Her eyes moved toward the upper regions. One was dark with a fresh bruise and weals marked the shallow cheek. "If you really want the boy I could arrange it."

Dumarest said, "Is there a hospital here?"

"An infirmary at the Rotunda but they want paying in advance." Her eyes moved over his face to settle on the dried blood marking his lacerated scalp. "For her or yourself? If it's for her then forget it-she won't last another season. If it's for you then why waste money? The monks will treat you for free."

It had been a hard day and Brother Pandion was tired. He rested his shoulders against the sun-warmed brick of the building used as a church and looked at the line which never seemed to end. Many of the faces were familiar; but all were suppliants coming to gain the comfort of confession. They would kneel before the benediction light to ease their guilt, then to suffer subjective penance and, after, to receive the Bread of Forgiveness. And if many came only to get the wafer of concentrates it was a fair exchange-for all who knelt to be hypnotized beneath the swirling glow of the light were conditioned against killing a fellow man.

A fair exchange, but how many would need to be so conditioned before all could walk safely and in peace? Pandion knew the answer, as did all dedicated to serve the Church of Universal Brotherhood, but knowing it did not lessen his resolve. Once all could look at their fellows and recognize the truth of the credo-there, but for the grace of God, go I!-the millennium would have arrived.

He would never live to see it as would no monk now living. Men traveled too far and bred too fast yet each person touched by the church lessened pain and anguish by just that amount. Each who saw in another the reflection of what he might have been was a step upward from barbarism and savagery. A life spent in that pursuit was a life well-spent.

He straightened as Dumarest approached, the brown homespun robe shielding the angular lines of his body. Even as a youth he had never been plump and now years of privation had drawn skin taut over bone and shrinking muscle. But the privation had been chosen and was not a duty, for the church did not believe in the virtue of pain or the benefit of suffering, yet how could he indulge himself while so many remained unfed?

"Brother?" His eyes, deep-set beneath prominent brows, studied the tall figure now halted before him. "If you wish to use the church there is a line already waiting." The line was too long and Pandion felt a touch of guilt at his indolence. Brother Lloyd was now on duty, fresh from his time of rest, but even so the guilt remained, tainted, perhaps, by the sin of pride-when would he learn that others could take his place?

He added, "If it is a matter of other business I will be pleased to help."

"A boy," said Dumarest. "A mute about ten years of age. You know him?"

"Anton? Yes."

"He was hurt and I wondered if he'd called here for treatment."

"It is possible," said Pandion. "I have not seen him myself but I have been standing here only a short while. You know him well?"

"No, but I am concerned."

The old monk smiled with genuine pleasure. "He may have asked for help. If so Carina Davaranch would have attended him."

She was tall with cropped hair forming a golden helmet over a rounded skull. Her brows were thick, shadowing deep-set eyes of vivid blue. Her mouth was hard, the lips thin, carrying a determination matched by the jaw. A woman entering her fourth decade yet appearing older than she was. Her hands with their bluntly rounded nails could have belonged to a man.

"You need help?" Her eyes met his own, lifted to the dried blood on his scalp. The dull green smock she wore masked the contours of her body. "You'll have to sit-you're too tall for me to reach."

A man cried out as Dumarest obeyed, pain given vocal expression from a figure stretched on a table to one side and flanked by two others wearing green. Both were males, neither young, monks now busy closing a shallow wound. There was no sign of the boy.

"An accident," she said, noting Dumarest's attention. "A carpenter was careless with a chisel. Now let me look at that head of yours."

He smelt her perfume as she leaned over him and wondered why she had chosen to use it. A defense against the odors natural to such a place? A desire to assert her femininity? Backing, she reached for a swab, wetted it with antiseptic, washed off the dried blood.

"Hold still!" The sting was sharp but quickly over. A spray and it was done. "Just leave it alone for a while and you'll have no trouble. If you can afford to pay for the treatment put it into the box."

A gesture showed where it was. As he fed coins into the slot Dumarest said, "How long have you worked here?"

"I arrived on the Orchinian ten days ago. A mistake but I'm stuck with it and I don't like being idle. The monks were willing to let me help."

"Did you treat the boy?"

"The mute? Yes. He has a bruised ankle and minor lacerations but he'll be fine in a few days if he gives it rest." She added, "A pity. A fine boy like that. If he was mine I'd turn harlot if there was no other way to buy him a voice."

"Don't blame her."

"Her?"