A lift and she was perched high, the doll firm beneath one arm, the other locked around his neck. A clown called to her and waved, another whistled; novelties which dried her tears as Dumarest walked down the gallery toward the information desk. The woman on duty smiled.
"Another lost one? Well, set her down." She waved to where a cushioned area held a few stuffed animals, a ball, some scattered toys. "What's your name, dear? Celi? That's a nice name." She looked at Dumarest. "I can take care of this now. Thanks for bringing her."
He nodded and walked on. The crowd was thin for the time of day; late afternoon was prime for those on vacation or with a day off from work. Later would be better but if it was like the pattern of others, it would be far from what was desired. Poor attendances led to bad performances from those operating the sideshows. Already most would be grumbling.
Krystyna would be one of them.
Only a couple of clients waited outside her booth instead of the normal dozen and they were a pair wanting a joint reading. They dived through the flap as a woman emerged to stand, looking vaguely about, blinking as she saw Dumarest.
"Tall," she murmured. "All in gray-how did she know?"
A glimpse caught from a mirror reflecting the external scene and Dumarest could guess what the woman had been told. A stranger, waiting, who could guide her on her way. One who would steer her decision.
She said, "Pardon me, but could you-I mean, would you help me? She," a hand lifted to gesture toward the booth, "She said you would."
"How can I help?"
"Give me a color. Black or blond. Quickly now."
"Black." She was a brunette, young, and it was easy to guess torn with indecision over an emotional affair. Two suitors-which should she choose? The old woman had craftily avoided any chance of being placed in the wrong.
"Black-that's Marek. I'm glad. So glad!" Her smile was radiant. "Thank you. Thank you so much!"
For telling her what she had wanted to hear. Dumarest watched her move away then thrust himself into the booth as the couple left. It was as he remembered; a shadowed dimness lit by a single, guttering flame. In her chair the cowled figure waited, silent as he slipped into the chair.
"Give me your hand."
He extended it, frowning, the voice though dry was not as he remembered. He caught the hand which moved toward his palm, gripped it, held it as he threw back the shielding cowl.
"Where's Krystyna?"
"Please!" The girl was young, her face marred by furrows which had torn her cheek and ruined her nose and upper lip. "The cowl."
Dumarest watched as the face disappeared into kindly darkness. An apprentice or someone filling in. The former, he guessed, for someone so scarred and lacking the funds to have the damage repaired opportunities of earning a living would be few.
She said, "If you want a reading give me your hand."
"No, give me yours." He heard the sudden intake of her breath as he ran a coin over her palm. "You've been badly taught, girl. Always have your hand crossed with silver before doing anything else. Here." He dropped the coin into her palm. "Where's Krystyna?"
"Resting."
"At this time of day?" He guessed the reason. "Is she just tired-or sick?"
He knew the answer as soon as he stepped into the cubicle she called home.
"The doctor," he snapped at the girl who had guided him. "Run to the infirmary and get medical aid."
Alone he stooped over the narrow cot and the supine figure it contained. Devoid of her shielding cowl the old woman looked like a mummified corpse. The skull was bald but for a few wisps of straggling white hair, the skin creped and looking like leather. The eyes opened as Dumarest touched the scrawny throat.
"Water! I thirst! Give me water!"
A plea couched in a whisper which he barely heard. A small table stood beside the bed containing a decanter of water, a glass, a small bottle of some volatile liquid. A few crumbs lay scattered on a scrap of brightly colored paper; the remains of a snack bought at one of the stalls.
Dumarest poured the glass half-full, sniffed at it, held it to the parched lips. She drank as he supported her, lifting her almost upright, laying her back as she finished the water.
"You shouldn't be alone," he said. "I've sent for help."
"Which I don't need-and my own company's good enough."
"I'll pay for it." Dumarest guessed the reason for her objections. Quietly he added, "Who put you up to it, Mother?"
"What?" Her eyes were suddenly bright, wary. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes you do."
"No, I-" She licked her lips. "My head hurts and I've a burning in my stomach. Leave me. I must sleep."
"The reading," he said. "Reiza brought me to you, remember? Who told you what to say?"
"A reading? You want a reading?" Her hand fumbled beneath her pillow and returned bearing the familiar deck. "Shuffle. You have to shuffle."
Dumarest said, harshly, "Quit trying to con me. I've handled an arcana deck too often not to know when one has been stripped. The pack I shuffled was too thin. You'd selected the right cards and made the switch after I'd finished with them." He leaned closer to the withered face. "Who told you to do it? Who told you what to say?"
The skull-like head rolled a little as, again, Krystyna licked her lips.
"Water! God! I burn!"
Dumarest could feel the heat of her as he lifted the thin body with his left hand. Water dribbled from the glass over her chin, spattering as it fell to her chest.
"Help's coming," he said as he put her down. "The girl is getting the doctor." And taking too long about it or the man was hard to find. "Now tell me who gave you the orders."
"Orders?"
"About the cards." Dumarest forced himself to be patient. The woman, old, afflicted by what ailed her, could be finding it hard to concentrate. "The reading. Reiza brought me to you. Who arranged with you to make the switch?" A thing easily done in the guttering candlelight; cards placed on the pack he'd shuffled from where they'd been kept hidden in a wide sleeve of the robe. "Who told you what to say?"
"Eh?"
"Who told you what to say?" The important question, one he repeated. "Who told you what to say? Tell me, damn you! Tell me!"
She responded to the raw anger in his tone, trying to rise in the bed, gasping as he supported her. Cards riffled from the gnarled hands to lie in a scatter on the bed, the floor. One lay face-up on her chest. The depiction of an hourglass.
Time-for him it was running out.
"Krystyna!" Dumarest leaned over her, fingers searching, finding no movement beneath the dry texture of her skin. "Krystyna!"
She was dying, already dead, showing no sign of a pulse in neck or wrist. Dumarest lowered his hands, thrust his clenched fists hard beneath the breastbone in a series of impacts against the heart. As again he made to check her pulse the doctor burst into the cubicle.
"Here, let me!"
He was skilled, fast and efficient, working with drugs, a hissing hypogun, trained massage. For long minutes Dumarest could do nothing but stand and watch.
Then, as the doctor straightened, shaking his head, the girl who had followed him into the cubicle said, "Will she be all right now?"
"No, I'm afraid not. She's dead."
"Dead?" Her voice rose a little. "But she was just tired and wanted to rest for a while. How can she be dead?"
The doctor glanced at Dumarest then at the girl. Gently he said, "It happens, my dear. Krystyna was very old. She could have gone at any time."
"But-"
"There's no more I can do." At the door the doctor paused, turning to look back at the dead woman. "I'll send men to take care of things. The best thing you can do, my dear, is to get back to work."