Brun finished eating, and by then they were getting fussy, looking at her. In her mind, she heard a voice somewhere between her own and Esmay's: All right then. Let's do it.

Nursing both at once was harder now that they were bigger, but she was used to it. She leaned back against the tree, and let her mind drift . . . one way or another, in less than seven days, she would be somewhere else. Maybe dead . . . she wasn't going to be taken alive, not again. But maybe . . . somewhere . . . she couldn't picture it, quite. Her mind threw up pictures from her past life-hills, valleys, forests, fields, island beaches, rocky ledges. The shuttlefield on Rotterdam, then the shuttle, rumbling down the runway, taking off, the sky darkening, darkening, the stars .

She shook her head abruptly. The twins had taken most of her milk; it was time to try out her brew. She added a little honey, to make it sweeter, and dribbled it into their mouths as they sucked. Redhead made a face, and snorted before going on, but the dark-haired one didn't pause in his rhythm.

She had no idea how much to use. Not as much today; she didn't want anyone to notice, and worry

about them. Did babies go to sleep with a spoonful or a cup? She had no idea. Their sucking slowed, finally, and their mouths fell away . . . they gained a kilo whenever they fell asleep, she thought. Carefully, she laid them on the little quilts. Asleep like this . . . she could almost . . . but no. Not now. She told herself firmly what she already knew: they would be loved, cherished, given every opportunity this world held, because they were boys. That their mother had been an outlander heathen abomination would not affect the care given them.

They would look this way-this vulnerable, this beautiful-when she left them on the market day after the holy day. She stared at them, eyes narrowed. She could leave them-she had to leave them-and she would leave them.

She levered herself up and stood, fastening her dress and then stretching. She found the knife she had hidden, and turned it in her hands. She could go now . . . no. Better stick to her plan, such as it was. But one thing she could do, with a knife in hand. She might die-it was likely. Her family might not know where she was. But she could leave a record that would not be found until fall, if they noticed it then.

With the sharp tip of the paring knife she marked the tree under which the babies lay, thin scorings that would scar into visible marks later. Maybe. Her name, every syllable of it.

She wanted to write more. She wanted to scribble with that knife blade on every tree, saying what had been smothered all this time . . . but she stopped herself. No more indulgence. She had to try the wall today, to measure her strength against its height. She tied a length of yarn around the knife and hung it around her neck, then took the cloth strips she'd made and bound them tight around her breasts. When it was time to go, really time, she would bind her breasts before she fastened her dress . . . but this was only practice.

With a last glance at the sleeping babies, she turned and walked over to the wall. A last glance back, to make sure she could not been seen through the thick leaves . . . no. She turned to the wall again, steeling herself. It was the quiet time of day, after lunch. Chances were there was no one on the other side right now. If there were . . . if they saw her . . . she hesitated. Today was not the day. She didn't have to jump the wall today, and it would be disasterous if she were caught unprepared.

She looked back at the babies. Still sleeping. When she turned again to the wall, a man was looking over it. Brun stood frozen, immobilized with shock.

The man stared at her. "Brun?" he said softly.

Her heart lurched, then pounded. Someone who knew her name-who used her name. It must be a rescue.

She nodded, giddy with relief.

"Can you climb over?"

She nodded again, and a wad of brown cloth flew toward her. She dropped back, furious. But his voice came over the wall, urgent and barely loud enough to hear. "Put that on. Cover your dress, and your hair. Not many have such light hair. Then wait for me to call-I'm watching for groundcars. Don't bring the babies; they'll be cared for."

The babies. She had given them only a few drops each-would they sleep long enough? She yanked her long skirt up around her waist and ran to them, fumbled at the jug, and poured more of the honeyed brew onto her hand. Would they suck? Could they swallow? Their mouths caught at her finger, sucking, and she dribbled more brew into each mouth. Then she dragged the garment on-a hooded cloaklike thing, too warm for the day-and ran back to the wall. Even in those few moments, she was aware how good it felt to have her legs free, not bound by the narrow skirt. While she waited, she thought how to make him understand that they had to find Hazel and the little girls. She could not go without them; if she could not save her babies from this world's horrors, she must save them.

"Now," he said. She stood up; the wall was not as tall as she was, and she made it easily. It was wide enough to lie on; she rolled the cloak around her and then dropped off, to be steadied by his waiting arm. "Are the babies inside?" he asked. "When will they cry?"

How did he think she could answer that? She mimed drinking, then sleeping, and he nodded.

"Come along," he said. "We have to get to the car." He took her arm. "Look down," he reminded her.

Fuming, Brun looked down at the rough pavement and went where he directed. She didn't want to argue with him in the street, where anyone might see, but she had to convince him about Hazel.

He stopped beside a groundcar parked in a row. He opened the driver's door, and then the back doors popped open. "Get in," he said. She looked him full in the face, and mouthed Hazel. He paled. "Look down! Get in," he said. "Before someone notices."

She slipped into the back seat, and leaned forward, waiting for him. As soon as he closed his own door, she tapped his shoulder. He glanced back.

Hazel.

"I can't understand you. What's wrong?"

Damn the idiot fool. How had Lady Cecelia kept from bursting? There on the seat beside him were a map and notebook, with a pen. She reached over and snatched at it, wrote GET HAZEL in large letters, and then RANGER BOWIE HOUSE. He read, then paled even more.

"We can't do that! No one can get in there! Dammit, woman, you want off this planet or not?"

She tapped GET HAZEL again, glaring into his face, trying to give him a mind-to-mind transfusion of her determination.

"Who the hell is Hazel, anyway?"

She wrote again: GIRL ON SHIP. GET HER AWAY TOO.

"Can't do it," he said, starting the groundcar. "Now you sit back, and I'll take you where it's arranged-" The barrier between them started to rise; Brun lunged forward, putting her weight on it, and the barrier stopped, its mechanism whining loudly. "Get back, you fool." The mechanism that moved the barrier gave a grinding noise and died; the barrier slid back the small distance it had risen. She paid no attention, wriggling over the barrier into the front passenger seat. Up here the windows weren't frosted. The man jerked the groundcar out of its parking space and accelerated. "Gods, woman, if they see you up here-"

She held the paper out: GET HAZEL.

"I can't, I tell you! The five Rangers are the most powerful men in town. Ever since Mitch Pardue got elected Ranger Bowie, he's been angling for the Captaincy. I can't barge in there and get some fool girl. I got you; that's what I contracted to do."

Brun glanced at the groundcar controls, at his movements as he turned, slowed, sped up again, made another turn. Simple enough. After the next turn, she grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard. He yanked back, and stared at her long enough to almost hit another groundcar. "Dammit! Woman! It's no wonder they muted you-Heaven knows what you'd say if you could talk!"

She scribbled rapidly on the notebook. GET HAZEL. IT'S MARKET DAY-SHE GOES OUT. MARKET NEAR RANGER BOWIE HOUSE. She pushed that in front of his face; the groundcar swerved again; she lowered it slightly, so he could read and see over it.

"Can't do it. Too dangerous. I have it all planned out-"

She poked a finger into his ear, hard, and laid the pruning knife on his thigh, pointed where he could not ignore it. The groundcar swerved wildly, then he got it back on his side of the street.

"You're crazy, you are. All right, we'll drive past Ranger Bowie house. And the damn market. But you've got to get in the back. If anyone sees-" He glanced at her, and she bared her teeth. "All right, I said. I'll do it; we'll go past. But you're going to get us killed-"

With some care, Brun reversed herself into the back seat, making sure that she had enough weight on the barrier to prevent its coming back up, if the controls weren't actually broken. She laid the knife at the back of his neck . . . it would do no good there, unless it was strong enough to slide between the vertebrae, but she judged it too obvious to hold it to his throat.

"They told me you were wild, but they didn't tell me you were crazy," the man grumbled. Brun grinned. They hadn't known what had been done to her, or they'd have known how crazy she was.

"That's Ranger Bowie's house," the man said finally. Brun stared, uncertain. It was one of five huge houses arranged around the sides of a plaza . . . in the center was a huge five-pointed star outlined in flowers and grass. Pretty, really, if you weren't trying to escape the place. "Ranger Houston, Ranger Crockett, Ranger Travis, and Ranger Lamar. Ranger Travis is Captain right now. The nearest market to Ranger Bowie's house is down this street . . . the women's service door is right down there, see?"

Brun saw a shadowed gap in the long stucco wall. As they drove past, she could see the door set back from the sidewalk, and the little alcove for the gate guard. They went past one cross street, then another. Ahead, down this street, a rope blocked off traffic beyond the next cross street.

"That's the market-groundcars can't go there. Nor you. Now you've seen there's nothing we can do, we can-"

Brun pressed the tip of the knife just below his ear. With her other hand she scrabbled for the pen and notebooks, and printed, GO AROUND, KEEP LOOKING.

On the third circuit, Brun spotted a woman walking toward Ranger Bowie House, baskets in each hand, still some blocks from it. Something about the quick, short shuffle caught her eye. She tapped the driver's shoulder.

"That her?" He eased the car closer.

It was hard to tell . . . the dark head bent forward, the slim body gliding along with those short, quick steps enforced by her dress. But as the car slid past, Brun caught a glimpse of the serious face, that tucked-in lower lip. She tapped the man's arm again, hard.

"I'm gonna regret this, I know I am." But he pulled the car to the curb and got out.

"You. Girlie." Hazel stopped, eyes on the ground. "You from Ranger Bowie House?" She nodded. "I got business there. Get in back." He popped the rear doors. Brun could feel Hazel's confusion, her uncertainty, her near-panic. "Hurry up now," he said. "I don't want to have to tell Mitch you're lazy." She ducked into the car, then, eyes still down. Then she saw Brun, and her eyes widened.

Brun grinned. The driver got back in, grumbling, and tried to raise the shield, but the mechanism made only a faint noise and the barrier didn't go up. "Sit low," the driver said, and drove off quickly.

"Brun . . . what . . . where . . . ?" Hazel's voice was soft as mothwings.

Brun mouthed escape, but Hazel shook her head. So Brun made a rocket of one hand, and jerked it upward. Hazel stared, then grinned.