A performance was presently in progress. At the center of the open area a muscular woman clad in silver-spangled tights and leotard balanced on the shaky back of a two-legged chair, her whole weight supported on one lean arm, her body twisting itself into astonishing knots. At the moment, both glittering legs arched backward over an impossibly flexible spine, while two satin-slippered feet framed an insouciant dark face.

The contortionist was remarkable, but Girays scarcely glanced at her. His searching gaze swept the surrounding streets, but nowhere did he spy a hansom or a horse-drawn vehicle of any description. He had not caught sight of one since quitting the Revenant Revenant, hours earlier. With his excellent knowledge of the Aennorvi language, it had not taken him long to discover the Travornish co-optation of the dockside cabs, a coup initially perceived as a minor annoyance. Suitcase in hand, he had set forth from the wharf on foot, confident of securing commercial transportation long before reaching his destination, on the far side of Aeshno.

He had found none, however; a state of affairs less influenced by the Festinettes than by the railroad strike. He had walked the afternoon away through Aeshno's sun-glaring white streets, walked until his mouth was parched and his arm ached with the weight of the suitcase, and only then had he stopped at the akrobatteria akrobatteria for rest and refreshment. for rest and refreshment.

No time for much of either. Still no sign of a hansom anywhere, and he had tarried long enough. He signaled, and his waiter was instantly present.

The newspaper lay on the table. Noting the front-page banner, GREWZIAN ATROCITIES IN JUMO GREWZIAN ATROCITIES IN JUMO, the waiter observed, "Next thing you know, those offal-rooting swine will be setting their sights on Feyenne."

"Sherreen, more likely," Girays opined, his perfect Aennorvi belied by a very Vonahrish shrug.

"They are nothing but a gang of overgrown hooligans, these Grewzians. Their imperior is the worst of the lot. Someone should teach this Ogron ruffian of theirs a lesson. I wish we had this Ogron right here in Aeshno, this very moment. I'd like to turn the kitchen lads loose on him with their spits and ladles. Ho, but a good basting would teach the mighty imperior a thing or two."

Perhaps, but the entire Aennorvi and Vonahrish armies combined hadn't strength enough to accomplish that feat, Girays reflected. Aloud he merely replied, "Fine spirit, my friend."

"We Aennorvis burn with spirit, sir," the waiter declared. "Only some fools don't know what to do with it. The railroad workers, for instance. The Grewzians rob and flout us, we should unite against the foreigners, but these workers think only of their own pockets, and so they stop the trains. At such a time, this is almost like treason."

"Worse, an inconvenience," Girays murmured. "No horses to be purchased or rented, I presume?"

"Not at any price, sir. Where are you bound for?"

"Willune's Wheels, in Wheeler Street." The name and address had been supplied by an amiable vendor at the wharf.

"Isn't that way 'cross town? Hope you're a good walker."

"I will be, before this is finished. Can you give me directions?"

"Sorry, I don't know that section."

"Neither does anyone else in the world. Never mind, I'll find it eventually." So saying, Girays paid his bill, reluctantly picked up his suitcase, and departed.

The brief rest had served him well. His thirst was quenched, his aches had subsided, and he could observe his surroundings with renewed interest. The elongated shadows of late afternoon relieved the glare of sunlight on white buildings and palely dusty pavement. A salt-sharp breeze cut the heavy warmth of southern springtime. The long midday break had concluded, the shops and booths along the avenue were reopening for business, and the citizens were venturing from their shady shuttered refuges as the town of Aeshno woke from its afternoon nap.

By his reckoning another half hour of walking would bring him to Wheeler Street. Girays loosened his cravat, shifted his grip on the suitcase, and marched on. The strong colors of the crowd filled his eyes, the voices swirled about him, and the atmosphere seemed festive, as if the Aennorvis generated celebration out of daily routine. But as he went, the quality of sound and movement altered. The voices rang with new emotion and the human currents pressed with feverish intensity. He hurried on, and now he heard shouting, and the moving stream coagulated into a dense but highly animated human ma.s.s packed around some central object invisible from his present vantage point. The clamor swelled, and ma.s.s fury scorched the air. In the midst of that uproar individual vituperation perished, but one word bursting from multiple angry mouths distinguished itself: Butcher. Butcher.

Butcher?

Grewzian butcher.

Curious, Girays advanced through the crowd, elbowing his way forward until he glimpsed the object of popular wrath, at sight of which he checked in amazement. For there stood none other than the Overcommander Karsler Stornzof, the glorious golden Grewzian demiG.o.d himself, backed up against a wall and hemmed in by enraged Aennorvis. Stornzof-sole Ellipsoid permitted to sail freely from occupied Lanthi Ume by order of his anthropoid Grewzian countrymen, whose notions of sportsmanship were rudimentary at best. Stornzof, whose unearned advantage should have placed him at the front of the race, hundreds of miles ahead of his closest rival. Stornzof, unaccountably here.

And hardly thriving.

The demiG.o.d had suffered some damage. His grey uniform was torn and muddied, his d.a.m.nable golden hair disheveled. A gash along his brow was bleeding freely.

An officer of the Imperium tasting a little of his own medicine? Difficult to work up much sympathy. In fact, rather an agreeable sight.

The probable source of the demiG.o.d's injury soon revealed itself. Somebody in the crowd threw a fist-sized rock. Stornzof ducked and the missile whizzed by, missing his head by inches.

The overcommander raised one hand in a universally recognizable request for attention that his tormentors refused to grant. The noise did not abate in the least, and Stornzof was obliged to shout.

"Citizens of Aeshno-Aennorvis-I am not here as your enemy-"

Much chance a uniformed Grewzian had of convincing them of that, particularly when he wasn't even speaking their language. Presumably Stornzof knew no Aennorvi, for he was yelling in Vonahrish, which his listeners did not understand, or else chose to ignore.

"My presence is unwelcome, and I will depart your city at once, if-"

Another rock flew, and Stornzof managed to dodge it. The next grazed his left hand. Blood welled from a fresh cut, and the mob whooped joyously.

Girays felt his initial mean satisfaction ebbing fast. This Aennorvi crowd seemed quite ready to stone the Grewzian to death right here in the street for the crime of his nationality, much as v'Alisante family members at the time of the revolution had been slaughtered in the streets of Sherreen for the crime of their Exalted birth. n.o.body merited such treatment.

But why didn't the fellow use his revolver? He was armed, and knew enough about guns to persuade certain credulous, dangerously reckless females to arm themselves unnecessarily.... to persuade certain credulous, dangerously reckless females to arm themselves unnecessarily.... A couple of warning shots- A couple of warning shots- Would only incense the mob. And if he killed one or two rabid Aennorvis? Worse yet. The survivors would tear him limb from limb. The Grewzian had sense and self-control enough to keep his hands off the gun.

Sense and self-control notwithstanding, Stornzof's chances of survival appeared slight, for the rocks were flying and the avenues of escape solidly blocked.

Girays intended no intervention, for a Grewzian rival's troubles were no concern of his. In fact, the overcommander's permanent removal offered pure advantage. It was quite to his own surprise that he found himself pushing forward, pistol in hand, to take a place at Stornzof's side. He hardly noted the other's astonished glance. Aiming skyward, he squeezed the trigger and the Khrennisov in his hand popped sharply. The crowd squalled, then drew in its breath. Into the ensuing lull Girays tossed his fluent Aennorvi.

"Citizens, calm yourselves," he enjoined. "This Grewzian officer comes among you not as a soldier of the Imperium, but rather as a contestant in the Grand Ellipse race-as I do."

"Vonahrishman?" someone demanded.

"Yes."

"What Vonahrishman in his right mind takes up for an offal chomper?"

"One who recognizes the truce existing among sportsmen. This Grewzian racer means no harm, and desires nothing more than leave to pa.s.s across Aennorvi territory as speedily as possible."

"Shoot 'im out of a cannon, then," some anonymous wit offered helpfully. "Now, there's speedy travel."

Affirmative hoots from his listeners.

"The Grand Ellipse is open to all nations," Girays continued, ignoring both the suggestion and the response. "One of your own Aennorvi countrymen competes. What sort of treatment may Mesq'r Zavune expect to encounter on foreign soil? Perhaps his reception abroad will be influenced by the handling that aliens receive here in Aennorve. The injury or murder of a Grand Ellipse contestant in the streets of Aeshno will stain Aennorvi honor in the eyes of all the world. It will also," he added clearly, "arouse the extreme wrath of the Grewzian Imperium, and understandably so. There will be consequences." This point appeared to register with the listeners, and Girays swiftly followed through with another, of a more face-saving character. "And what if your Master Zavune should win the race? Slaughter his rivals to ensure his success, and this Aennorvi victory is defiled and devalued. You do your own compatriot no service."

Perhaps his arguments carried some weight, or perhaps the popular rage was simply starting to flag. Whatever the reason, the vocal volume was subsiding and the shouts diminishing to a muted condemnatory mutter. For a few moments longer the crowd retained its cohesion, then began to erode as individual members wandered off. A pathway opened and Girays made for it. Stornzof fell into step beside him, and the two retreated smartly. The citizens jeered, but let them go. Somebody flung a final rock, but the missile fell short of its target. The angry voices faded behind them.

"What did you say to them?" Stornzof asked, some minutes later. Producing a handkerchief, he pressed the linen to his gashed forehead.

"I cannot recall the entire harangue," Girays returned carelessly. "Largely an appeal to their sense of justice, I believe."

"I am much in your debt."

"Not at all. I was concerned for the welfare of these Aennorvi citizens, who seemed too ready to compromise their national neutrality, thus furnishing your imperior with an excuse for reprisal."

"Nevertheless"-Stornzof courteously disregarded the barb-"your intervention surely preserved me from serious injury or death. You have my grat.i.tude, together with my promise to return the favor, should the opportunity arise."

The formal, old-fashioned phrasing that should have sounded pompous or quaint somehow possessed a curious dignity upon this man's lips, Girays noted with annoyance. Grewzians were barbarous boors, dangerous but distinctly absurd, fit b.u.t.t of formerly-Exalted scorn, but this one managed to defy mockery.

"I scarcely seek recompense, Overcommander," he heard himself say, and knew even as he spoke that his aim was off and that he sounded merely churlish. He met the other's clear, grave gaze, and remembered then that he had read or heard somewhere that the troops under Karsler Stornzof's command idolized their leader as a being set above the general run of mankind. For a moment Girays could almost see how simple souls might think so. Ridiculous, of course; a fallacy largely based on the fellow's appearance, reinforced by a few effective little tricks of speech and manner. Nothing substantive; well, perhaps the famous victory at Duschlekl had been extraordinary, but certainly great good luck had blessed the Grewzian forces upon that occasion. The overcommander was undeniably capable and courageous, but his divinity remained unverified. He was only another Grewzian, rather more palatable than some, but still a minion of the Imperium. There was neither point nor profit in prolonging the exchange, and thus it was almost to his own surprise that Girays found himself asking, "Do you need st.i.tches for that cut?"

"Not at all."

"Best take care-this uniformed Grewzian progress through the streets of Aeshno draws attention, and the blood on your face doesn't help matters. Where are you going?"

"Wheeler Street," Stornzof replied.

"Willune's Wheels?"

"The velocipedia, yes. And you?"

"The same, if I can find it. I've been misdirected half a dozen times this afternoon, and the map I bought is useless."

"Mine is quite good. It is printed in Grewzian." Stornzof proffered a folded paper sheet. "You are welcome to make use of it."

Girays suppressed the instinctive refusal. The Grewzian was doing him no favor, but only repaying a legitimate debt. Moreover, the arrangement equally benefited both parties. The overcommander whose uniform proclaimed his detestable nationality might well require further a.s.sistance before departing Aennorve.

"I'll take a look at the map," he conceded.

Stornzof handed it over, and the two men paused.

"This way, I think." The overcommander's finger was tracing a route before his companion had even begun to decipher the Grewzian print.

"Agreed." Girays returned the map to its owner. Progress resumed, and a thought struck him. "But what of your kinsman, the grandlandsman? I suppose he's somewhere about."

"The grandlandsman and I have parted company for the time being," Stornzof told him.

Girays caught a fleeting hint of contentment in the other's eyes and voice. Interesting. Perhaps the Stornzof family ties were raveling?

They pushed on through the streets of Aeshno, where the Grewzian officer's uniform drew many a hostile glare. The insults crackled in their wake, but n.o.body raised a hand against them. The taunts and obscenities flew unaccompanied by stones. The dusty white avenues narrowed as they went, the architecture aged and dwindled in height, the stuccoed walls cracked and coated themselves in grime. Presently they pa.s.sed beneath a heavy old archway into a breathless alley indented with deeply recessed doorways designed to collect shadows. The incised lettering upon the archway identified Wheeler Street. And there, straight ahead, a faded old sign bearing the image of a velocipede proclaimed the presence of Willune's Wheels.

They went in to discover a seen-better-days old shop presided over by a pockmarked paragon of adolescent insolence, presumably the owner's son and heir. There were no single-seat velocipedes left in stock, the youth announced without apology. The last of them had been snapped up days ago, their value boosted by the strevvio. strevvio. Really it was a joke, people would pay any price. Now the vehicles were gone, and there would be no more until the Really it was a joke, people would pay any price. Now the vehicles were gone, and there would be no more until the strevvio strevvio concluded. In the meantime all that remained was a rusty double-seater, heavy as a dreadnought, its ma.s.s beyond the power of any lone rider to balance and propel. Twin pilots were required. concluded. In the meantime all that remained was a rusty double-seater, heavy as a dreadnought, its ma.s.s beyond the power of any lone rider to balance and propel. Twin pilots were required.

Girays and the Grewzian regarded the double-seater in silence for a gloomy span, then turned to inspect one another. Stornzof finally voiced the melancholy inevitable.

"We will share."

THE SKIES WERE DIMMING and her stomach was growling. A nearby restaurant was already lighted for the evening. Its sign, shaped in the likeness of a scallop sh.e.l.l, suggested seafood. Luzelle went in and waited for fifteen minutes to be shown to a bad table, where she sat and consulted the menu. It was handwritten in Aennorvi, and she did not recognize a single word. Even the numbers in the price column were oddly formed and difficult to read. A manifestly disapproving waiter approached. Disinclined to beg his a.s.sistance, she chose a dish at random, indicating her selection with a tap of her forefinger. and her stomach was growling. A nearby restaurant was already lighted for the evening. Its sign, shaped in the likeness of a scallop sh.e.l.l, suggested seafood. Luzelle went in and waited for fifteen minutes to be shown to a bad table, where she sat and consulted the menu. It was handwritten in Aennorvi, and she did not recognize a single word. Even the numbers in the price column were oddly formed and difficult to read. A manifestly disapproving waiter approached. Disinclined to beg his a.s.sistance, she chose a dish at random, indicating her selection with a tap of her forefinger.

Jerking a curt nod, the waiter withdrew. Luzelle looked around her. The dining room was small and undistinguished, its decor vaguely nautical. Several patrons sat watching the unescorted female customer in undisguised curiosity. She met one such pair of speculative eyes coolly, and its owner did not trouble to lower his gaze. Provincial oaf. She glowered briefly and looked away. Inevitable, of course, that she would encounter such rudeness somewhere or other along the Grand Ellipse. The wonder was that it hadn't happened sooner.

Her eyes traveled on. The neighboring table belonged to a lone diner occupied with a newspaper whose front-page headline, printed in very large Lanthian, she could make out even at a distance.

GREWZIAN TROOPS ENTER JUMO.

Jumo Towne, capital of the South Ygahro Territory, an Aennorvi possession and site of the famous diamond mines, annexed by Grewzland. An open invitation to war. But surely Aennorve, justifiable fury notwithstanding, would never dare accept.

Her meal arrived, and Luzelle studied the plate before her in dismay. She beheld a tall mound of plump blue strands, supple as noodles but distinctively striated and segmented, glistening with a tavril-scented blue dressing. What in the world? What in the world? Then her questing fork turned up a tiny triangular head marked with sapphire sensory organs, and she knew what she confronted. Blue Aennorvermis in Sauce Feyennaise, a famous local delicacy. Then her questing fork turned up a tiny triangular head marked with sapphire sensory organs, and she knew what she confronted. Blue Aennorvermis in Sauce Feyennaise, a famous local delicacy.

Poached sea worms.

Dinner.

She twisted a worm around her fork, raised it to her lips, and took a wary nibble. Overly soft consistency for her taste, but not as bad as she had feared. No discernible flavor to the worm-the taste of the dish resided in the sauce, which blended tavril, juniper, and mountain thyme in a manner unexpectedly pleasing.

She finished her meal down to the last blue squirmer, paid her bill, and walked out into the lamplit street. The sky was rich with stars and the air had cooled, but she scarcely noticed.

Old Knightly Crescent, home of Madame Moneybags, proprietress of at least two highly desirable horses. How to find it, without a map and without knowledge of the Aennorvi language?

The problem resolved itself with unexpected ease. One of the precious rare hansoms of Aeshno appeared as if by divine intervention. Luzelle hailed the cabman, who halted at once. She issued her commands in Lanthian, and he appeared to understand. Climbing in, she shut the door, and the hansom clattered off into the night.

Aeshno went by her, street by lamplit street. When she reached Old Knightly Crescent, the affluence and extreme modernity of the neighborhood proclaimed itself in the glow of the gaslights flanking the portals of certain morning-new mansions designed to resemble the castles and temples of old.

Incongruous, she thought.

Her goal was easy to spot. New brick mansion the color of raw meat in Old Knightly Crescent New brick mansion the color of raw meat in Old Knightly Crescent, her picketer informant had told her, and there it was, a turreted architectural offense, ridiculously equipped with crenellations and machicolations worthy of a medieval stronghold. Any lingering doubts vanished when she spied the signpost topped with the three-dimensional model railway car, cast in bronze and monogrammed with an ornate capital T T.

T for Tastriune, chief stockholder and president of the Feyenne-Aeshno Railroad. for Tastriune, chief stockholder and president of the Feyenne-Aeshno Railroad.

Luzelle rapped the roof and the cab halted. She hopped out, paid the driver, and he departed, leaving her alone on an alien night-mantled street. It did not occur to her to worry.

Horses. How to get them?

No point in trying to buy them, her picketer had explained, and he had seemed knowledgeable. If Madame Moneybags wouldn't sell at any price, then she wasn't likely to rent either. What remained? A plea to her sisterly sympathies? The sympathies of a woman fond of setting her dogs on the overly importunate? An appeal to her sporting instincts, then? Probably Tastriune's wife had never even heard of the Grand Ellipse. And if by chance she had heard of it, wouldn't she, as an Aennorvi, naturally favor the sole Aennorvi contender, Mesq'r Zavune? Of course she would. No good. What else? Chicanery of some sort? Find a way of convincing the owner that the horses were about to be appropriated by the local authorities, and that a quick sale would forestall major loss? Too elaborate, too improbable, and she couldn't even speak the language. She would never pull it off. What else? What else?

And the thought surfaced effortlessly: Oh, leave off the silly fluttering. If you want a horse, just get in there and grab one. Oh, leave off the silly fluttering. If you want a horse, just get in there and grab one.

The idea amazed her. Steal a horse? Not only morally wrong, but a serious criminal offense, carrying a jail sentence or worse. She did not know the local laws, but in some places they hanged horse thieves. One hand rose unconsciously to her throat. Anyway, the point was academic; she was Luzelle Devaire, and she didn't steal.

You won't be stealing if you leave a fair price behind.

Madame Tastriune had at least two horses, maybe more. She could easily afford to let one go.

Luzelle could imagine what the Judge would have to say. She could hear his voice too clearly in her mind. Your blood is good, and you have been properly reared. Thus I can scarcely account for your mental and moral deficiencies. Your blood is good, and you have been properly reared. Thus I can scarcely account for your mental and moral deficiencies. Should she lose the Grand Ellipse, of course, she would not need to imagine or remember-his perfectly real voice would reverberate in her ears, perhaps for decades to come. Should she lose the Grand Ellipse, of course, she would not need to imagine or remember-his perfectly real voice would reverberate in her ears, perhaps for decades to come.

But she would not lose the Grand Ellipse. She had promised vo Rouvignac and herself a victory at any cost, any cost at all.

She realized that her feet were carrying her along the tradesmen's alley that led to the back of the mansion, where she might reasonably expect to discover a stable. They'll have the place well protected. I can't be the first one to think of s.n.a.t.c.hing one of Madame's precious horses. They'll have the place well protected. I can't be the first one to think of s.n.a.t.c.hing one of Madame's precious horses.

The carriage house rose before her, a miniature castle in its own right, connected to the main house by a long colonnade. Faint light shone yellow at the windows. The great front door, tall and broad enough to accommodate the largest coach, was shut. No servants visible roaming the grounds. No watchdogs in evidence. Approaching with caution, she peeped in a window to behold a cavernous s.p.a.ce, its gloom relieved by the glow of two or three ordinary lanterns. No ultramodern gaslight here.

A couple of st.u.r.dy, plainly clad young men sat playing cards at a small deal table beside the window. Grooms, stableboys, coachmen, groundskeepers-she did not know which, but certainly servants of some sort, stationed there to guard the premises. She ducked back quickly. Her luck held; neither of the men had noticed her. And if they did? Her hand strayed to the pistol in her pocket and she paused momentarily, once again astonished at herself.

Horses. Focus.

She circled the building in the dark, pa.s.sing a couple of small side doors and a larger back door, none of which she dared to touch. Along the southern wall a row of big, heavily shuttered square windows almost certainly marked the location of the stalls. She tried one at random, very quietly. Locked, as she had expected. Pressing her ear to the shutter, she listened intently and caught the ghost of a muted equine snort.

A horse, inches away. She wanted to tear straight through the wall.

Have to find a way in, have to, have to, have to....