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.