Deer-Hunter weighed up Purple-Rain as the Mute moved away, then turned his attention back to Steve.

'Maybe you like to live dangerously. If not, do something about it."

'I will. Thanks." Steve rose from the table and began putting on his uniform - a loose saffron yellow jacket and trousers, and a matching bandanna which, when folded to the required width, was wrapped round the forehead and knotted at the base of the skull.

DeerrHunter got dressed alongside him. 'Do the M'Calls have many smoothies like you?"

FA few." Steve tied the black sash round his waist and pulled on his shoes. They had extra-thick rope soles sewn to heavy-grade cotton uppers, and laces that fastened round the ankle.

'I'm surprised they let someone like you come here.

They'd have got a much better deal from the sand-burrowers. If they'd traded you in as a yearling -' Steve cut him off. 'The M'Calls don't do deals with the sand-burrowers."

'Maybe it's time they started. Were you in that battle last year?

Against the iron-snake?"

'Yes." Steve picked up the waist-bag containing the precious bundle of pink leaves. 'How come you know about that?"

Deer-Hunter smiled. 'Word travels fast. They say the M'Calls had a Storm-Bringer whose magic cut the snake in half. Many sand-burrowers died, but their beast escaped by breathing white fire. It is also said that Mo-Town drank deep that day."

Steve nodded. 'We'll do better next time." He left the cabin and headed across to the post-house. He did not want to get into a rerun of the battle between the clan M'Call and wagon-train known as the 'Lady from Louisiana' - especially when he had been fighting on the other side.

Within a few minutes, Deer-Hunter and the other

roadrunners joined Steve outside the post-house and stood in a respectful line with downcast eyes: displaying what Mr Snow, in his parting lecture, had called 'a little humility'. As a fellow Mute from the blood-line of the She-Kargo, Deer-Hunter had felt obliged to urge Steve to tone down the challenging and often contemptuous way he looked at people. After three years at the Flight Academy, where student wingmen were constantly urged to think of themselves as the brightest and the best, and where Steve was convinced he had been top of the heap, it was not something that came easily.

Responding to a single hammer-stroke on an iron bell, the diminutive Iron Master in charge of the depot and his two princ.i.p.al clerks appeared and went through the usual jut-jawed, mean-eyed routine, swaggering slowly down the line and back up the rear, making sure that everyone was properly and cleanly attired, and comporting themselves with the required degree of deference.

Once the inspection and roll-call was completed, the roadrunners were allowed to sit on a long bench made out of a single sawn log placed on the veranda next to the post-house door. From there, the roadrunners were called in four at a time to receive the sealed black satchels of mail they were to deliver.

Deer-Hunter was in the first quartet. After a short while he emerged carrying the bulging leather bag on his back. He drew the hooks on the shoulder straps together, fastening them across his chest, and walked back to bid farewell to Steve.

'Where are you headed?"

'llti-ka,' said Deer-Hunter. 'Regular run of mine.

Know it like the back of my hand." They slapped palms, warrior-fashion. 'See you around, blood-brother."

'Maybe. Mind how you go."

Deer-Hunter grinned, then vaulted over the rail of the veranda and ran off down the road.

Steve was among the third group to be called inside.

Aside from the fact that his job as a roadrunner was bringing him ever closer to the Heron Pool, being part of the postal service gave him access to detailed maps of Ne-Issan. Hanging on an inside wall of every post-house was a large panel bearing a hand-painted map of the territory served by that particular depot. On the facing wall was another equally large map of the Iron Masters' world, showing the domains, the major highways and the network of post-houses. Not only that, the family names of the domain-lords and the names of places, mountain ranges and rivers had been carefully recorded in j.a.panese and Basic.

Since Mutes had no written language, Steve had been obliged, at the start of his journey, to pretend he could not read, allowing himself to be taught how to p.r.o.nounce and recognise the name of his given destination and any places en route. He had then repeated them for the benefit of the clerk, hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence until the d.i.n.k was satisfied and sent him on his way. He had gone through the same routine at each post-house, gradually improving his 'reading skill', but taking care to make a mistake now and then so as not to give the game away.

With the help of his photographic memory, Steve now possessed a clear picture of the country and knew precisely to which part and in which direction he was heading.

He had also grasped the relative size and disposition of each domain.

Instead of the arbitrary straight-line divisions between the states of pre-Holocaust America, the domains of the Iron Masters tended to follow the more natural boundary lines of rivers from their source to their confluence with other, larger waterways or to where they met the sea.

Yama-s.h.i.ta's domain was the only one which ran from the Great Lakes in the west to the Eastern Sea at the mouth of the Uda-sona River. It was here that the lands of the Toh-Yota was split in two, and the northern half - a narrow strip which ran up the west bank of the Udasona to the Sanoransa River - was sandwiched between the Yama-s.h.i.ta and the Min-Orota.

The maps gave no hint as to who would back whom if it came to a fire-fight, but from the strategic point of view the Yama-s.h.i.ta were well placed. They could not be encircled, and the rivers and lakes which formed the greater part of their borders severely limited the number of points where a frontal attack could be launched against them.

It was not surprising that the mystery 'colleague' of the man in black had opted for a covert operation which, if it went wrong, could be blamed on renegade Trackers and Mutes.

One of the clerks beckoned Steve over to the district map and pointed to a location west of the Udasona.

'Today a-you go this-a place. Sapirina-fida. Unnastan'?"

Steve bowed. 'Sapirinafida."

The clerk then pointed to a third map showing the street layout of Ari-bani. 'Go a-river this a-way. Take ferry to uh-thah side. We give a-you spe-shawl pa-pah to make car-rossinah. Now a-you show me way a-you mus' gob."

After pretending to think hard, Steve swiftly traced the route from the post-house to the ferry, then switched to the larger map and ran his finger over the road from Albany to the pre-Holocaust urban centre of Springfield, Ma.s.sachusetts.

With a grunt of satisfaction the clerk went back behind the counter and wrote the word-signs stamped on Steve's gorget on to a ferry pa.s.s which he handed over with the satchel of mail.

Steve accepted both with a grateful bow and, keeping his eyes on the floor, took five backwards steps towards the door, bowed again, turned left and made his exit. Slimy little worms...

Steve adjusted the sit of the mailbag so that it lay snugly across his shoulder-blades, giving the remaining roadrunners a farewell wave and set off towards the ferry.

Although traditionally regarded as the lowest form of life, Mutes serving as roadrunners were, nevertheless, servants of the Shogunate.

Acting on the dictum 'the mails must go through', the bakufu had decreed that roadrunners were not required to kowtow to anyone en route except mounted samurai and palanquins carrying n.o.bles or high court officials. Since these were always escorted by samurai they were easy to spot. It was a sensible arrangement: if roadrunners had been obliged to prostrate themselves every time they encountered a social superior, the whole postal system would have ground to a halt.

As it reached the river, the road came out on to a long wooden wharf.

Several vessels of varying shapes and sizes were moored alongside.

Upstream to his left was a two-funnelled wheelboat. Steve glanced at it casually as he turned towards the boarding point for the ferry which lay at the far right-hand end.

After he had gone a few yards it suddenly dawned on him that the wheelboat was decorated in the same colour scheme as the one which had carried him to Ne-Issan.

He turned back and ran towards it. It was the same one!

The same pennants and banners fluttered from the masts and gallery posts. Side-Winder had said, in parting, that the boats went to all parts of Ne-Issan. And here it was!

It was an incredible stroke of luck. All he needed now was to find Side-Winder and his day would be made.

And 1o and behold, there he was - standing with his back to Steve, talking to a group of Mute stevedores, his red bandanna knotted round his shaven head.