He paused before answering, studying what he saw. The clothing was correct; gray tunic and pants with high boots, the hilt of his knife riding above the right. The background was the same; the foothills beyond the window, the brush, the dying light painting the sky. But the man she had depicted seemed a stranger. The face was a mask fashioned of hate and hurt and a cold determination. A blend swamped by a ruthless savagery which gave him the air of a crouching beast of prey.
'Is that how you see me?'
'That's what I think you are.' she corrected. 'Not on the surface but way down deep where it matters. A basic animal fighting to survive in the best way it can. The only real difference between you and the rest of us is that you are good at it. Annoyed?'
'No.'
'Good.' She seemed relieved. 'Some men can't stand to see themselves reflected in a true mirror. They strut and pretend to be what they know they are not. Fools who never realize how they display their stupidity.'
'Human,' Said Dumarest. 'Human enough not to like their faults and do their best to forget them.' He looked again at the painting. 'how long did it take you to learn how to do this?'
'To catch the inner moods? Three years. That's how long I studied at the Brenarch University on Drago. That was before I decided to take up medicine and after I realized I would never be a dancer.'
'Drago-your home world?'
'No. I was born on Mevdon. Do you really have sympathy for posturing fools?'
'I try to understand them.' He shook his head as he met her eyes. 'You work with the monks, Carina-have they taught you nothing?'
'I help the monks,' she said. 'I can't stand to be bored. But that doesn't mean I believe all they teach. To be tolerant, yes, and to be gentle and kind and have the imagination to be considerate. But I am an artist and to me there is no beauty in dirt and decay, no glory in failure. And, as a doctor, I find nothing but disgust in disease and ignorance.'
'A doctor?'
'Five years at the Hamed Foundation on Hyslop. They use hypno-tuition and cellular-experience therapy. I got my degree but I don't claim to be other than mediocre.'
He said, dryly, 'You must have started young.'
'Too damned young!' The bitterness of her reaction surprised him. 'I don't know what kind of a childhood you had, Earl, but mine just didn't exist. My father was a genius and wanted me to be the same. So he force-fed me and damned near drove me insane. If he hadn't got himself killed he would have succeeded.'
'Your mother?'
'Died at my birth-or so I was told. Sometimes I think I came from a vat. The truth could be that he hired a genetic mate to carry his child and later hired nurses. Anyway, he's dead now. One day I'll go back and dance on his grave.'
Dumarest said, 'Have you ever been painted by someone as skilled as yourself?'
'No. Why? I-' She broke off, understanding. 'The mirror of truth-am I that bad?'
'You're human-just like the rest of us.'
'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
