"Which Men Darnak?" asked Sandon.

Barely pausing in his rapid stride across the square, the man answered quickly. "The Princ.i.p.al. The Old Princ.i.p.al."

Sandon watched the man disappear up a side street. So, Leannis Men Darnak was nearby, and close enough to send these lower-station officials into a flurry of action. Sandon stood where he was, thinking, running his fingers through the beard at his chin. It was time to take his leave. Tchardo the bar help was about to disappear, to be replaced once more by Tchardo the Atavist.

Sixteen.

He wasted no time retrieving the padder, donning the old Atavist homespun and taking his leave of Benjo and Milana. They appeared genuinely sorry to see him go, and in a way, Sandon himself was sorry to go, but he had more important things to spend his time worrying about than how these folk whom he'd known for a mere couple of weeks felt about his departure. Funny...the last few weeks had been nothing more than a series of leave-takings, one after the other. Milana had fussed about, giving him a blanket and provisions for the journey, as well as a light wet-weather overcoat for him to take. He'd never seen an Atavist wearing anything else than their simple homespun robes, regardless of the weather, but he took it all the same. He had no idea how many days he'd end up on the road again, and there was no guarantee that he'd be able to find any decent shelter. Even if they had already moved on, the Men Darnak part would have a proper camp, and they'd be on one of the main routes leading into the town. He knew very well from his own experience how the Men Darnak entourage operated and he had seen the direction in which the messenger had departed. He quickly headed the padder out of town, dug his heels into its flanks, and winced as the animal broke into a bouncing trot. Such a short time and he'd forgotten about the jouncing, bony back and uncomfortable seat. It didn't take very long to be reminded.

He headed out of town, across the network of connecting ca.n.a.l bridges and on toward the main road. The padder was sluggish. It seemed that in having it stabled, it had received more of the good life than it was used to. Every now and again, the jouncing step brought bursts of gaseous odor in a rhythm that kept time with the animal's pace. Sandon pulled up his hood in a vain attempt to ward off some of what the padder was sharing. The day itself was still, and though clouds whipped across the sky far above, the air at ground level was calm. For once, he would have been grateful for at least a hint of a seasonal breeze. He pa.s.sed a few travelers on the road, but most hurried past without even a glance. Once again, he had apparently slipped further into his guise as a wandering Atavist.

After about a mile, he neared the bloated, muddy flow of the Bodrum River. A wide masonry bridge crossed from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, broad, flat stones forming its bulk, smaller cobbling stretching across the top. He wondered briefly how long it was since it had been rebuilt. It was one of the pa.s.sing tasks of the Guild officials stationed in Bortruz. When the bridge shook loose, they had to organize the repair crews that would painstakingly lift stone after stone back in place. Meanwhile, Bortruz's trade would continue unhampered, serviced by the ca.n.a.ls and the river itself. As he crossed the bridge, he peered warily down into the churning waters. Even plying these ways in the long oar boats must be hazardous. He was glad he was in no position to find out, but for those who relied upon it for their living...

Signs of true civilization quickly faded as he left the bridge behind. The long roadway stretched before him, flat land peppered with Storm Season vegetation stretching out in either direction. Off in the distance to the left, ahead of him, the ground slowly rose, leading up and away to the hills where another collection of mines and the major Kallathik settlement lay. Far across to the right, well out of sight from his current position, lay broad farmland and further on, the slopes bearing the thick, ancient ajura forest, the source of most of their timber. The ancient forests had grown for hundred, perhaps thousands of Seasons, but they were starting to thin at the edges as the Guild of Primary Production plundered the ready produce, used to such good effect in their furniture and their houses and in so many other things, not to mention the trade with the Kallathik.

Sandon turned his attention to the road ahead, noting that in places it was in sore need of repair. No doubt the Princ.i.p.al would have it recorded and pa.s.sed back to those responsible with the appropriate words of disapproval. Very little escaped the old man's attention. If Sandon was ever again in a position to ... no, there was no point even thinking about it. The way things were developing, he might as well reconcile himself to the role of a wandering Atavist as regaining any status within the Princ.i.p.ate let alone anything resembling his old life. Everything else, for now, was just wishful thinking. He gave a heavy sigh and scanned the landscape ahead for any sign of the Men Darnak camp.

After a couple more miles, set off the roadside in an open field, he saw what could be nothing than what he sought. There was a cl.u.s.ter of large tents and wagons. Padders lay tethered off to one side. At this distance, he could barely make out the detail, but the flashes of color spoke Men Darnak in a clear and unmistakable voice. More than once he had been in a camp such as that. He squinted, trying to make more detail. There should have been more tents than there were, more animals. Either the Princ.i.p.al was traveling with a vastly reduced retinue, for which he could hazard no reason, or this was a lesser encampment, and the main body was stationed somewhere else. He pulled the beast to a halt and sat where he was, observing. There seemed to be nothing unusual about the camp activities. Men went about their business, moving between the tents, or wagons, shifting things from one place to another. Sandon turned to scan the surrounding countryside, but there were no other signs of life. Nor was there anywhere to find cover. He chewed at one side of his moustache, considering. He couldn't really ride straight into the camp, so that still left him with a problem. He couldn't even tie up the padder if he was to wait around and observe, looking for his opportunity. Why, he hadn't even worked through a plausible story as to why he might want to join up with the party in the first place.

Sandon sat there watching for over an hour, the padder becoming restless and complaining more and more with every pa.s.sing minute. Once or twice, he had to jerk sharply on the reins to stop it wandering off looking for somewhere to graze, not that it would find anything in the immediate area. The seasonal vegetation provided nothing fit for a padder to eat, and that suddenly gave him an idea. Thankful for the light raincoat Milana had given him, he dismounted, dug around in the bundle strapped to the padder's rear and wrestled it free, then spread it out on the soggy ground. Still holding the padder's reins in one hand, he sat, cross-legged, waiting for darkness to fall. The animal grumbled and complained, and once or twice, he had to tug firmly on the reins again to still it, but eventually it subsided and its head dropped as it dozed, standing in place.

Darkness fell earlier now that Storm Season was truly with them -- not that the daylight was more than gloom, day after day. Its oppression sat heavily in the back of his mind, like the discomfort, the drizzle and the constant orange-gray smudged coloration that lay over everything like a pall. He squatted watching the camp, noting the way the men's movements were sluggish, lacking enthusiasm. Finally, one by one, lanterns sprang into life, and before long, the large central oil fire was set up in the middle of the tents. Men started gathering around it, huddling in groups. Others withdrew to tents, the shapes suffused with yellow glows lit from within. Pity the poor individuals set to duty outside, with nothing more than the comfort of the large central heater and their own company to keep them warm.

After he judged enough time had pa.s.sed, Sandon stood, and gathering the waterproof coat into a bundle, shoved it back into the pack. He groaned as he moved; sitting on the cold damp ground for so long had left him stiff and sore. At least it was only a short ride to the camp now, and he'd only have a limited time sitting astride the d.a.m.ned animal's bony back. With a grimace, he mounted, and running his story over in his head, headed the animal toward the camp with a sharp kick of his heels.

Slowing the animal to a walk, he pa.s.sed the first of the tents, looking around. He had been right, there were fewer here than he would have expected. A couple of the men -- how many were there, five? -- looked up as he neared, showing first a touch of confusion, then open hostility.

"What do you want here, Atavist?" challenged one, not even bothering to get up.

"I am seeking some food for the animal, perhaps some warmth for the night."

Another man laughed. Sandon recognized neither of them, not that he necessarily should. Generally, Men Darnak's traveling parties were taken from the administrative ranks, or some of his personal household. That was good too. Right now, he was immensely conscious that he might be recognized at any moment. He swallowed back his natural response to the laughter, and thought about his next words carefully.

"By the Prophet, I am asking for your help." He said it as clearly as he could.

Another man sitting across the other side from the first two glanced up and quickly looked away again.

"Please," continued Sandon. "I can pay."

One of the first pair was grinning now. "Do you know whose camp you're in? And since when did your lot pay for anything?"

Sandon met the grin levelly. "I have some credits," he said. "Or I can work. I have been doing what the Prophet wills."

"Go on. Get out of here," said the grinning face dismissively, the expression now becoming less amused.

"Wait, Jask," said another one. "The Princ.i.p.al wouldn't like it."

The man called Jask frowned. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"Please, brother," said Sandon. "You must have plenty to feed all these animals. You must be able to spare a little."

"I said get out of here." Jask's voice had lifted a little, and he stood and took a step forward. "Now. Go on. Take your stinking beast away from here."

"And the rest of you, brothers?" said Sandon, turning to the rest of the group. Three avoided looking at him, but the one that had spoken before was chewing his lip, watching, and he too rose slowly to his feet.

"Jask?" he said quietly.

"d.a.m.n you, Fran," said Jask, glancing at his companion. "No, d.a.m.n you. You can keep your stupid religious nonsense to yourself."

A hiss came from another of those seated about the heater, now openly watching the exchange.

A motion from one of the nearby tents, and the flap was shoved to one side revealing a tall, thin figure. Sandon would recognize that frame anywhere. Witness Kovaar. He lifted a hand to pull his hood further about his face. Kovaar strode across to the group.

"What's going on here?" he asked in his thin reedy voice as he approached.

One of the other men in the group muttered in a low voice as he neared. "Now you've done it, Jask."

"Nothing to worry about, Witness Kovaar," said Jask. "Just one of those Atavists looking for what he can get. We can handle it."

Kovaar drew up beside the man, and with merely a glance at Sandon, peered at Jask with narrowed eyes. He looked back at Sandon, seeming to both study him and be thinking at the same time. Sandon gave the barest of nods, hoping that the poor light and his changed appearance would be enough. Witness Kovaar, after a moment, returned the nod with the barest inclination of his head.

"This is one of the Prophet's people. Do you know what he wants? Have you asked?"

The man called Jask shrank back from Kovaar's gaze. "Said he wanted some feed for the animal."

"Well give it to him."

"Said he wanted to stay here the night."

Kovaar glanced back at Sandon, gave him another a.s.sessing look, then spoke. "Well let him."

"But..."

"Did you not hear me? Give him what he wants. It is our duty by the Prophet's will." He turned on his heel and without another word, strode back to his tent and disappeared inside.

The look on Jask's face was like he had swallowed something bad. "You'd better come with me," he said sullenly.

Sandon dismounted and followed, leading his padder back to the line of tethered beasts staked further behind the line of tents. It looked like he'd gotten away with it...so far. There had been no sign yet that Kovaar had seen through his subterfuge. But then, there was something not right as well; it was Kovaar who had appeared from the tent to see what was creating the fuss. It was Kovaar who had ordered the men around. Where was Leannis Men Darnak, and how had Kovaar managed to gain such a hold on the Princ.i.p.al's affairs. Sandon was immediately more concerned than he had been before. Men Darnak's men were deferring to the odious priest. And what had that look of calculating a.s.sessment Kovaar had given him been about? Certainly, on the surface of things, they were both men of the Prophet in their own ways, and the teachings of the Church spoke of charity, but there was something more there. Sandon chewed this over as the grudging Jask set him up for the night. One thing was sure; the fates were shining his way to have allowed him to come even this far. He would have to wait and see exactly how long that good fortune lasted.

Sandon awoke to the sounds of the camp stirring about him, another cold, gray day and the noise of padders complaining. Men were grumbling along with the beasts as they went about their allotted tasks, and here and there, he caught s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation. He hitched himself to his feet and went to attend to his own padder. At the line of animals, he received one or two strange looks, but he a.s.sumed that news of last night's events had already made its way throughout the camp. From what he overheard, he quickly learned that they were nearing the end of their visit to the area, that Men Darnak had indeed been looking for Tarlain, and that there had been expeditions to the Kallathik hive. When he had seen to the animal, he went in search of the man who had offered support, Fran. He found him over the other side of the camp, carrying bundles and loading them onto the back of a wagon.

"Brother," he said.

Fran stopped, still holding the bundle he was carrying, frowned, and then slowly placed the bundle at his feet.

"I was wondering if I might have a word with you."

Fran nodded. He had clear, open features. His hair was light, and fell in waves about his ears. He looked at Sandon, waiting for him to continue.

"I wished to thank you for your words last night."

Fran shook his head. "It wasn't for you, especially."

"All the same..."

Fran stood waiting and Sandon nodded. "I have heard that you might be leaving soon. The activity suggests you are about to break camp." He gestured about them with one hand. "Would you know where you are headed?"

Fran shrugged. "Probably back to the Men Darnak estates, but the way the Princ.i.p.al's been behaving lately, it's hard to say. We'll know soon enough."

"Ahh," said Sandon. "It would be good if that was the way. I too am traveling in that direction." He filed the comment about Men Darnak's behavior away without comment.

Fran leaned down and hefted the bundle again. "So, what is it you're saying?" He started off toward the wagon, and Sandon kept pace with him.

"Perhaps there might be a way I can travel with you."

Fran headed back to the pile of bundles and lifted one with a grunt. Sandon reached down and lifted another.

"What are you doing?"

"I am helping," said Sandon. "I can help. I can work."

"I don't know," said Fran, but the young man didn't protest as Sandon walked with him and tossed the bundle into the wagon's back with the others. "Someone would have to clear it with Witness Kovaar, but the Prophet knows, we're short handed enough." He grunted as he hefted a heavy sack. Sandon stooped to help him. Together they carried it back to the wagon and swung it inside.

Kovaar again. Sandon mulled this over as they walked back to the pile of supplies. Elsewhere, others were starting to break down the tents and pack them away. If it was going to be cleared with Kovaar, it would have to happen soon.

"Fran, could you...?"

The young man stopped, hesitating, looking back at the remaining pile of bundles and sacks, then back at Sandon.

"I'll keep loading while you go and see," said Sandon.

Fran was caught in a moment of indecision, but then he nodded. "All right," he said. "It can't hurt."

As Fran headed off to speak to whomever he had to, Sandon, good to his word, kept loading the wagon. The young man seemed simple and good-natured enough. He had no doubt that he'd put in a good word for the lone Atavist. Meantime, he had seen nothing of Leannis Men Darnak. In the past, the Princ.i.p.al would have been in the midst of everything, directing, pa.s.sing judgment, making his presence felt, but there had been not a sign. He'd seen Witness Kovaar already once or twice, but still nothing of the old man. Then there was the whole question of how he was going to get close to Men Darnak anyway. If he was to be of any use, he had to get near enough to be able to observe, perhaps to influence, without giving the whole game away. As it was, he needn't have worried. He was nearing the end of the pile, starting to shift the last few sacks, when Witness Kovaar came striding toward him over the damp ground with Fran in tow. Almost out of habit now, Sandon reached up and pulled the hood further around his face, bowing his head.

"So, Atavist, what are you called?" said Kovaar.

"I am Tchardo."

Kovaar stood looking at him for several moments. Sandon felt the tension rising inside, but finally, the priest spoke.

"This man here tells me that you wish to travel with us. Is that so? Where are you headed?"

"Where the Prophet wills," said Sandon. "I go where the Prophet wills."

"Yes, of course," said Kovaar with a sigh. "Nowhere else but where the Prophet wills." Again the look of a.s.sessment. "So, it may be useful to have you along. Every reminder that we can give the Princ.i.p.al about the Prophet's teachings can only serve to the good." This time Kovaar looked around the camp before turning back. "Yes, you will travel with us. You will even sit with us tonight, I think. The Princ.i.p.al and I will have much to talk about with you." He turned to Fran. "You, whatever your name is. If any of the others give you any trouble about this, or if they start giving this man, Tchardo, any grief, you send them to me." He again fixed Sandon with that lingering gaze, then nodded and walked away. That last look had invoked a sense of unease, deep in Sandon's belly. He watched the priest's thin figure disappearing across the other side of the camp. Finally, he turned back, ready to load the last of the sacks. Fran looked at him and grinned. Together they lifted the sack and tossed it into the back of the wagon, then dusted off their hands.

Sandon nodded slowly, and just as slowly he said, "Thank you." He didn't speak the last words he added to the thought, I think.

"Fran," he said, as they headed back to a.s.sist with other preparations. "You said something about the way the Princ.i.p.al has been acting. What did you mean?"

Fran looked troubled. "I'm not sure I can say. It's, just...well, I don't think he's been himself. I wouldn't like to say any more than that."

The young man refused to be drawn any further on the topic, but it only served to make Sandon's sense of unease more solid.

Seventeen.

Long after the encounter with the lone Kallathik, Tarlain stood within the pa.s.sageway entrance considering his options. His first urge had been to turn and walk rapidly away from the central chamber, head back to his simple burrow and sit until the beating of his heart stilled. That had been the first urge, and then he thought about why he was there, why he was buried away in the heart of the hills in the darkness and gloom, amongst a species not his own. Not that he particularly felt a part of his own race, or any particular race at the moment, but he reminded himself that he was here for a reason. Steeling himself, he stood tall, tried to adopt the air that was proper for a Men Darnak, stepped back into the chamber and cleared his throat. Two of the Kallathik heads turned to face him. The others stood where they were, unmoving.

"I am Tarlain Men Darnak," he said, as clearly and as slowly as possible. "I am from the Guild of Welfare. I am here to help you."

He heard the words repeated, then the signing of amus.e.m.e.nt, but he was not going to be deterred. He tried again, speaking in a loud clear voice. And suddenly there was a Kallathik right in front of him. He gasped, took two steps backward and the Kallathik was with him again. He swallowed, looking up into the vast alien face.

"But how did you...?" He had barely seen the Kallathik move. He had seen the rapid motion when the Atavists had been in the chamber before, but even that had not prepared him for the creature's sudden presence right on top of him. He took another hesitant step back. No. This couldn't be happening. He had watched the Kallathik for weeks. He had observed them from a distance for seasons before that.

"We know who you are, Tarlain Men Darnak. You are with the Guilds. You are the Princ.i.p.al's offspring. You are part of the Princ.i.p.ate."

Again, Tarlain was rocked. They knew exactly who he was, what his station and function in life were, and they had understood exactly what he was saying. He tried rapidly to regain his composure, but it was hard with an enormous Kallathik looming above him and several more cl.u.s.tered in the chamber's middle. Suddenly, he felt very much alone and very, very out of place.

"I...I...," he started, then paused, took a deep breath and started again. "Yes, I am Tarlain Men Darnak. I am attached to the Guild of Welfare, but I am no longer part of the Princ.i.p.ate."

There was a long silence. He cleared his throat nervously, waiting. Finally, the Kallathik spoke in its sibilant, clacking voice. "What are you doing here?" it asked.

"I came to help you," he said again, his voice sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. "Really..." He didn't know whether the last was to convince them or to convince himself.

"Why would the Guilds wish to help us? Why would the Princ.i.p.al's offspring wish to help us?" said the Kallathik. The amus.e.m.e.nt sign echoed all around the chamber, and Tarlain felt himself flush. He looked around the Kallathik's bulk, scanning the sides of the vast meeting cave, looking at the cleanly hewn ceiling, then back at the creature standing above him.

"I don't know why," he said. "I do. We do. The conditions in the mines..." His voice trailed off, its echoes fading back to him mockingly from the walls all around him.