"And I pretend just as hard?"
He made no comment but his eyes gave the answer and she frowned, hugging herself, as she looked through the window. Beyond, the world had grown dark, the sun vanishing as if snuffed, and the stars now illuminated the sky with a cold and hostile beauty. Too many stars set too close; the Zaragoza Cluster was a hive of worlds, most similar to Shard- planets which recognized no law and held only the bare elements of civilization. Dead-end worlds, used, discarded, left to scavengers; places devoid of culture and tradition, jungles in which only the strong could hope to survive.
"Night." Carina shivered in the growing cold. "One moment it's summer and then you're smack in the dark of winter. I hate the cold. I was lost once on Camarge; my raft developed a fault and I had to land and wait for rescue. Five days with the temperature never above freezing-hell must be made of ice."
"Camarge," said Dumarest. "You move around."
"So?"
"Three years training to be an artist. Five to be a doctor."
"And I travel." She turned to face him, her eyes bright with defiance. "Now tell me I'm wasting my life."
"I wouldn't say that."
"There are plenty who would. Plenty who have. Settle down, they say. Take care of a man and breed a clutch of children. Be a cook and nurse and bedmate. Be a real woman." Her tone was brittle with anger. "What do they know about it? A woman's no different from a man in her needs and aspirations. She gets just as restless. The itch to move is just as strong. She gets as stale and as bored as any man ever born."
"So you cut loose," said Dumarest. "Became a traveler."
"Yes," she said. "I travel."
Drifting from world to world, earning her keep as best she could, moving on in a restless search-for what? Peace, she could have said, or happiness, but for her and those like her there could never be either. Always there would be one more world to see, one more passage to take. High if she could afford it with the magic of quicktime to compress hours into seconds. Low if she couldn't, riding doped, frozen and ninety percent dead in caskets designed for the transportation of beasts. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. And, at the end?
Dumarest had seen them, old, withered, starving on hostile worlds. Not many, for few reached old age and fewer were women. They, with a stronger streak of realism, took what they could while still attractive enough to command a degree of security and comfort.
Perhaps Carina would do the same.
The Barracoon was as he'd expected; a room fitted with benches, tables, a bar served by a swarthy, thick-set man with a scarred face. Yellow light from suspended lanterns softened rough outlines and masked the dirt while giving an illusion of warmth and comfort. The floor was torn, stained, the windows meshed with a spider's web of cracks.
Dumarest ordered wine, which was served in a thick mug. Raw stuff with an acrid odor, the product of anything that would ferment.
"I'm looking for Fenton," he said. "Boyle Fenton."
The bartender scowled. "Who wants him?"
"A friend. Send word I'm here." Dumarest looked around and nodded at a table set close to the door. "I'll be over there." He added, "Tell Boyle I don't want to wait too long."
Fenton was a man once hard, the hardness now softened with a layer of fat. His clothing was of good quality, the bulge beneath his jacket warning of a holstered gun. Heavy rings gleamed from his fingers and his eyes matched the gems. He wasted no time.
"I'm Fenton." He sat without invitation, facing Dumarest, one hand poised at the opening of his jacket. "You asked to see me. Why?"
"We have a mutual friend."
"Who?"
"A boy. A mute." Dumarest sipped at the wine. "His name's Anton. You must know him-his father used to hang around here."
"Brill. He's dead."
"So his wife told me. Well, I guess he's no loss. Incidentally she thinks a lot of you. Told me that you were a good man." Dumarest toyed with his mug. "It shows how wrong some people can be."
"Meaning?"
"Nothing. It's none of my business. So what if you did promise to help? A dying woman and a mute kid-what kind of bargain is that?"
He saw the face alter, anger giving life to the eyes, and darted out his left hand to grip Fenton's right as it moved toward the gun hidden under the jacket. Beneath the fat was muscle and Dumarest tightened his grip as Fenton strained.
"You want to carry on with this?" Dumarest kept his voice low as he lifted the mug in his other hand. "Relax or you'll get this in the face." His expression made it no idle threat. "And don't signal to any of your help. If anyone comes close you'll regret it."
"Who the hell are you?"
"No one you need worry about." Dumarest eased his grip as he felt the muscles beneath his fingers relax. Dropping his hand he revealed the welts marking the skin. "All I want is some information. Where can I find the boy?"
"With his mother."
"He isn't there. He must be hiding out somewhere. With a friend, maybe. Someone he knows. You could tell me where to look."
"I'm not sure." Fenton rubbed at his wrist. "I don't see much of him since Brill went. Susan-dying you say?"
"Forget her." Dumarest let irritation edge his voice. "What about the boy? Who was close to his father?"
Anton would have known the man and the places he frequented. Fenton knew of the lad as others would have and they, in turn, would have recognized his value. Some could have used him in the brush.
"She moved," said Fenton abruptly. "Susan, I mean. I offered help but when she didn't ask I figured she was making out. The boy said nothing-how the hell could he? Where can I find her?"
"She's sick," said Dumarest. "Dying, as I told you. Give her a few months and she'll be gone. All you have to do is wait."
"You bastard!"
"Jarl," said Dumarest. "Let's start with Jarl. He knows Anton. Where can I find him?"
"Jarl who?" Fenton shrugged as Dumarest remained silent. "It's a common name. Can you describe him?" He scowled as he listened. "That sounds like it could be Jarl Capron. How the hell did the kid get mixed up with scum like that?"
"Maybe he was lonely. The address?"
"Scorelane. Number seventy-nine. That's all I know."
Scorelane was a slash across town in what had once been the fashionable quarter. Now the houses looked like raddled old women dressed in rotting finery; windows dull, paint flaking, the whole looking drab and soiled beneath the cold light of the stars. Some places fought back with the use of lights and colored pennons and blaring music; small casinos, eating places, brothels, drug emporiums. Refuges for the optimistic, the hungry, the lonely, the desperate. Number seventy-nine was a hotel.
"A room? You want a room?" The crone behind the desk looked sharply at Dumarest with faded blue eyes. "That isn't easy to provide at this time of year. We're pretty full and our regulars like to retain their quarters even while working away. But I'll see what can be arranged. You'll pay in advance, of course, and I shall need the highest references."
The woman was lost in illusion, believing the place was what it had never been. Finding escape from reality in a game as she fussed over ledgers she could no longer read.
Dumarest looked beyond her to the wall which held a row of boxes each with a hook for its key. Most were cluttered with assorted debris and all were dusty and grimed. He said, "I'm looking for Jarl Capron."
"Jarl?" Her face became blank. "You mean Mister Capron?"