"When the station guard changes and they discover us gone, do you think they'll hunt us?"

"Under the circ.u.mstances, yes. I don't want to alarm you, but it's best to face facts."

"Yes." Fact-she had landed him in this mess. Fact-if it hadn't been for her impulsiveness, he would have spent the night in some opulent hotel. Fact-if he ended up facing an Aennorvi firing squad, it would be on her account alone. Aloud she observed, "And we won't be hard to spot, either. A scruffy, unshaven Vonahrishman in a miniature purple shirt, a reddish-haired Vonahrishwoman with a battered face and visible underwear."

"Battered face? Did that swine-"

"He landed a couple of good ones," she informed him unemotionally. "But I'm all right, and you paid him back with interest."

"Let me see." Halting in the light of a streetlamp, he examined her face. "My poor Luzelle. He's given you a black eye. Bruises. A split lip. I should have killed him when I had the chance."

"No you shouldn't."

"We'll find a doctor for you."

"No need. A few bruises won't kill me. They're trivial compared to what would have happened if you hadn't been there." She hesitated, and continued with difficulty, "I like to think that I can take care of myself. Usually I can. But not always, and not this time. This time I needed help and I needed it badly. You saved me, and telling you that I am grateful hardly seems adequate."

"It's more than adequate, since it evens the score between us," he returned lightly. "Have you any idea how irksome it was to realize that I owed my life to your knowledge and resourcefulness alone when we came among the Blessed Tribesmen? You saved me then and it was almost intolerable, but now I've bandaged my wounded vanity."

She smiled unwillingly. Trust M. the Marquis to say the right thing. Trust M. the Marquis, period. But his loyalty was liable to cost him dearly. If she allowed it.

"Time for a few decisions," Girays announced. "We'll have to go without sleep for the rest of the night and make it up when we can. As soon as it's light, we'll see about coach transportation to Dasuneville. If nothing's immediately available, we'll check the livery stables. But it might be wise, before we begin, to alter our appearance. If we simply revert to decent western clothing, and I shave off the beard, we'll be almost unrecogni-"

"We'll be entirely recognizable," she told him calmly, "and you know it. Either one of us alone is noticeable enough. Together, we're impossible to overlook." He was silent, and she continued, "The police will be searching for the two of us, and they'll probably pick us up within hours unless we separate, which is what we must do now."

"Absolutely not. Do you think I'd leave you alone at night on some street corner in a foreign city, with the local constabulary on your trail?"

"Yes, because the alternative is even more dangerous for both of us. After what we did to the night guard, the police aren't about to treat us gently when they find us. And they will will find us if we stick together, and you know it; I can see by your face." find us if we stick together, and you know it; I can see by your face."

"That's speculation, and the most pessimistic speculation at that. Come, where's your spirit? We're Vonahrish, and together we'll outwit these Aennorvi colonial clods."

"They're not such fools as you seem to imagine. Listen, I know you're trying to protect me, but this isn't the way. This is only increasing the risk for each of us, and I don't want to be the cause of your-"

"In any case the matter is not open to discussion," he interrupted. "I can't allow you to go gadding off on your own, and there's an end to it."

"Allow? You can't allow allow?"

"Correct, and I'm in no humor to argue the point; we've no time now for emanc.i.p.ated nonsense. You'll behave prudently for once, you'll stay with me for now, and I don't want to hear another word on the subject."

"Very well, you won't." Turning on her heel, she jumped for the darkness of the nearest alley.

She heard him call her name once, and then he cut himself off. He could not afford to disturb the peace of sleeping Jumo Towne, he would not dare shout through the streets after her, but he was not giving up. He was following, she could hear his quick footsteps, and if he caught her she would have to submit quietly, for resistance would invite disastrous public attention.

She quickened her pace, and it flashed through her mind how incongruous it was, how madly awry, that she should find herself obliged to run and hide from Girays v'Alisante, of all people in the world. Well, it was for his own good as well as hers, and somewhere underneath all that formerly-Exalted domineering gallantry he must know it. She hoped he wasn't too furious with her.

The alley terminated and she emerged into a star-shaped intersection. Four new paths offered themselves. She chose one at random, ran a few feet, then paused in the shadow of a recessed doorway. She had a clear view of the intersection, but she herself was invisible.

Girays came out of the alley and halted, listening intently. There were no footsteps for him to hear. His eyes scanned the streets before him. He hesitated, then chose one; the wrong one.

She listened to his footfalls receding. Soon they were gone. She was alone, truly alone for the first time in weeks, and the tropical night suddenly seemed darker and heavier than any she had ever known.

It was not too late to change her mind, she could still go after him.

No.

Stepping forth from the shadows, she sent a mental message flying in his wake. Good luck. Be careful. I owe you an apology the next time we meet. Good luck. Be careful. I owe you an apology the next time we meet.

Whenever and wherever that might be.

18.

A FAINT FLUSH stained the eastern skies. Dawn was breaking, and Jumo Towne was stirring to life. A few pedestrians were out and about, a few carts rumbled along the streets. Perhaps the morning guards had already reported to West Street Station, there to discover the escape of the Vonahrish prisoners. If so, the hunt had commenced. stained the eastern skies. Dawn was breaking, and Jumo Towne was stirring to life. A few pedestrians were out and about, a few carts rumbled along the streets. Perhaps the morning guards had already reported to West Street Station, there to discover the escape of the Vonahrish prisoners. If so, the hunt had commenced.

Luzelle's eyes ranged. No constables in sight, but how much longer could it be before she tripped over one? And then, what constable on the lookout could possibly fail to recognize her? She needed to disguise herself, and quickly. But how to do it? A half-dozen far-fetched schemes zipped through her mind, each to be rejected in turn. Her thoughts whirled, but one fact stood clear and firm: in the shabbier sections of Jumo Towne, her present disreputable appearance would attract less attention.

She walked on, holding herself to a moderate pace, and as she went the skies lightened and the streets filled. A few carriages began to mingle with the utilitarian wagons pa.s.sing by, and once she spied a youth on a red velocipede, its brilliant enamel flashing in the light of the rising sun. Caught by the scarlet glitter, she turned her head to watch for a moment, then turned back to confront the straightforward curiosity of an early-morning flower vendor. The vendor was staring at her face, no doubt intrigued by the fresh bruises and lacerations. Ducking her head a little, Luzelle hurried on. The incident was bound to repeat itself, probably with increasing frequency as the sun climbed.

She needed quite literally to hide her face. A pity that vizard masks had gone out of style. Contemporary actresses painted their faces with oily substances guaranteed to conceal the most glaring imperfections of complexion, but where in Jumo Towne would she find theatrical cosmetics? Or the equally concealing widow's weeds, for that matter? Her wallet was stuffed with cash, Jumo Towne overflowed with merchandise, there had to be a way. Her mind spun, and she hurried on.

The white marble town houses of the wealthy diamond merchants rose about her. The natives toiling in the gardens eyed her askance as she pa.s.sed, and understandably so.

She pushed on along beautiful broad boulevards lined with mansions of ever-increasing grandeur, and at length began to wonder if the unwelcome magnificence would ever end. But then she came to a slightly humbler avenue where white marble yielded to handsome white stucco, and after that there were comparatively modest dwellings and shops of whitewashed brick. The streets were not quite so clean anymore. There was litter strewn about, heaps of refuse presided over by stilt-legged scavenger birds, animal droppings, and swarms of golden phoenix flies. Encouraged, she trudged on, and now the fine buildings and carriages were finally gone, and the heavy air carried the nauseous sweetness of decaying garbage, while the western faces mingled with copper Ygahri visages in equal proportion along the termite-plagued elevated wooden sidewalks. The down-at-heels little shopfronts bore signs written in Aennorvi, for here it seemed that the Grewzians had not as yet troubled to leave their visible mark.

She could not read a word of Aennorvi, but many of the signs bore pictorial devices designed to advertise the wares or services offered within, and in quick succession she spotted a wineshop, a locksmith, a tobacconist, and a shoemaker. Then she came to a small draper's shop, with the painted Eye of the Gifted Iyecktor staring down from the sign, and her mind winged back to the village store in the south of Aennorve with its hostile Iyecktori proprietors. She remembered the shopkeeper's indignant wife, who had shrilled insults and flung a handful of dried white beans at her. A typical Iyecktori matron, clad in shapeless saffron robes, thumbless black gloves, and a black cap with linen lappets concealing every strand of hair. Nothing of the woman's body beyond her thumbs and her blunt-featured face had shown. And, Luzelle recalled, orthodox Iyecktori women mourning male family members were wont to veil even the face....

Especially the face.

She went into the draper's shop. The place was small and old but immaculate, offering a limited selection of fabrics and ready-made Iyecktori accoutrements. The proprietor, an aged grey wisp of a man garbed in the traditional costume of his sect, sported looped linen streamers trimmed with the finest black-edged cutwork. His eyes widened in simple surprise as she entered. He took in the bruises marking her face, and his expression changed to one of sadness perhaps mixed with pity. He addressed her gently in Aennorvi.

Expecting animosity and disapproval, Luzelle was taken by surprise. Her eyes stung, and she blinked back a couple of sudden silly tears. She answered the shopkeeper in Vonahrish, and deep grat.i.tude filled her when he displayed perfect comprehension.

She stated her needs and he asked no questions, but simply furnished her with a loose traditional robe, thumbless gloves, black cap with lappets, a black veil of mourning, and a pair of faquerishi faquerishi, the tiny matched brooches used to pin the veil in place. He also offered a leather wallet-belt, worn around the waist beneath the robe, and accessible through a discreet gap in a side seam.

She purchased the Iyecktori gear without haggling, then retired to a tiny curtained alcove at the rear of the shop to don the new garments. Designed for practicality and modesty, they were easily managed, comfortable, and no doubt unbecoming. All to the good; a striking appearance was the last thing she wanted at the moment. A tiny wall mirror of polished tin reflected her face, primly framed in linen, every single flamboyantly hued hair hidden. She dropped the veil over her head and pinned it. The filmy gauze permitted almost unimpaired vision, but effectively obscured her face. A dark ghost gazed back from the mirror. She smiled invisibly.

Her Bizaqhi clothing, filthy and torn, was fit only for disposal. Emerging from the alcove, she deposited the ruined garments in the shopkeeper's rag bin, not without regret, for the divided skirt had served her well indeed. She bade the proprietor farewell, and left.

The sun was bright and the streets were teeming, but she was no longer so afraid. It would take an uncommonly sharp official eye to penetrate her new disguise.

She walked along the elevated sidewalk, and n.o.body paid her much heed; evidently a veiled Iyecktori woman was a commonplace sight. Her confidence and spirits mounted, and when she came upon a public banesman swabbing the wooden sidewalk with an insecticidal wash, she dared to ask directions in halting Grewzian.

The banesman displayed no sign of suspicion as he described the best route to Jumo-Dasune Circle, site of the posting house where travelers boarded the Dasuneville coach. The distance was not inconsiderable, and the bereaved Respected Matron might wish to consider the benefits of a hansom. Such vehicles rarely entered this particular neighborhood, but the Respected Matron might walk on as far as Orchid Street, where public transportation was usually available.

She thanked him and moved on. Fifteen minutes of walking brought her to the Orchid Street intersection, where a couple of hansoms waited for customers. She chose one, instructed the driver, and climbed in. The vehicle sped off, and Luzelle settled back in her seat with a sigh. Safe. Safe. Comparatively. Comparatively.

The minutes pa.s.sed and the white streets rattled by. The hansom came at last to Jumo-Dasune Circle, mouth of the busy Jumo-Dasune Pa.s.sage. The circle was edged with commercial enterprise and filled with traffic. Straight ahead was the posting house, its facade newly graced with the symbol of the Endless Fire. Pedestrians crowded the walkways, and among them she spied many a trim grey-uniformed figure, no source of immediate alarm. Far worse were the khaki constables patrolling the area, a pair of them stationed before the front entrance of the posting house. Perhaps their presence meant nothing, perhaps they were always there. Perhaps not.

The hansom halted. Luzelle alighted and paid the driver. The vehicle departed. For a moment she stood watching it go, then bowed her head in pious grief, let her shoulders sag, and made for the posting house.

The constables on guard barely glanced at her as she slipped past them into the small waiting room, where a trio of travelers perched on uncomfortable wooden benches. A timetable chalked on a slate affixed to the wall furnished information. A coach was scheduled to leave for Dasuneville in ten minutes' time. It would be the final departure of the day.

Just in time. Another quarter of an hour in finding her way to this place, and she might have been trapped in Jumo Towne for an extra day and a night. Seating herself at the end of an empty bench, she clasped her hands in an att.i.tude of glum reverence, and waited.

Three quarters of an hour pa.s.sed, and her foot began to tap beneath the long robe. The Grewzians now controlled the South Ygahro Territory and would no doubt soon have the stagecoaches running on time, but they had not managed it yet. The Dasuneville coach might be hours late. It might not come at all....

Just as her stomach was starting to tighten, the coach-drawn by a quartet of the locally bred thick-legged horses-pulled up at the side door. The pa.s.sengers rose and filed from the waiting room, pa.s.sing beneath the bored gaze of a constable stationed at the exit. Luzelle, greatly daring, inclined a courteous veiled head at him as she went by, and he returned the gesture affably enough.

a.s.sorted bags and boxes were handed up to the roof of the coach and tied in place. The bereaved Iyecktori matron's lack of luggage could hardly have gone unnoticed, but no inquiries were voiced. The pa.s.sengers paid the driver, and the Iyecktori's Vonahrish New-rekkoes were accepted without demur. They entered the coach, the door closed, the driver ascended, the whip snapped, and the big vehicle began to move.

Muscles tensed beneath her voluminous robes, Luzelle awaited the inevitable blast of a constable's whistle. Nothing happened, and gradually she began to relax as the coach swung around the curve of the circle to enter the Jumo-Dasune Pa.s.sage. The pavement under the wheels was clean and smooth. The clatter and vibration of the coach subsided as the thick-legged horses settled into a steady pace.

Leaning back against the lumpy upholstery, she covertly studied her three fellow pa.s.sengers, all of them male westerners. A couple of pale and sedentary-looking youngish men, brown hair slicked down with pomade, cheaply clad in ready-made seersucker suits. Highly polished, inexpensive shoes. Nondescript, anxiously respectable. Neophyte commercial travelers, perhaps. And the third man-older, threadbare, big restless hands, sour expression. Tradesman or artisan, down on his luck, she guessed. Nothing remarkable or even interesting enough to hold her attention. The neighboring faces faded from her consciousness, and she found herself dwelling on another face, dark and slightly worn.

Girays. Free and safe? Or recaptured and returned to the city jail? He had nearly strangled one of the guards, on her account. If he fell into their hands again, they would probably kill him. And she had abandoned him.

The coach rumbled on along the road. The buildings of Jumo Towne were already thinning out of existence, but Luzelle never noticed. She stared out the window and saw nothing.

UNTIL COMPARATIVELY RECENT TIMES, travelers toiling between Jumo Towne and the eastern coastal port of Dasuneville had endured a circuitous slow voyage down the tributary Obiluki River to the great Ygah, down the Ygah to the Munako River, and upstream along the Munako as far as King's Landing, where muleteers could be hired to navigate the final overland portion of the journey.

The creation of the Jumo-Dasune Pa.s.sage had changed all of that. A scant twenty years earlier, the will of an Aennorvi monarch eager to facilitate the swiftest possible transfer of diamonds from the mines of the South Ygahro Territory to the tables of the master cutters in Feyenne had mandated construction of a roadway slicing straight through the seventy-odd miles of deep jungle that separated Jumo Towne from the coast. The task-over three years in completion, and beset with every possible difficulty-had claimed the lives of several hundred native laborers, but eventually the great work had drawn to its conclusion and the wheeled traffic had commenced flowing between Jumo Towne and Dasuneville.

Within weeks of completion, however, it had become apparent that certain difficulties persisted. The jungle-slashed, burned, hacked, chopped, and paved over with stone-remained invincibly vital. The greenery so murderously pruned required no encouragement to regenerate, and every spattering of warm rain prompted wild vegetative incursion. The Jumo-Dasune Pa.s.sage demanded continual maintenance, and to this end the colonial authorities legislated the formation of road gangs composed of convicted felons sentenced to hard labor.

There was no dearth of manpower. Criminals of the legally disenfranchised native Ygahri stripe abounded. Those legions succ.u.mbing to malnutrition, heat, disease, exhaustion, and abuse were easily replaced. The road gangs slaved almost unnoticed from dawn until dark every day of the year, and the diamonds streamed on toward Aennorve.

Toward Grewzland, now. The crystalline flow had recently altered course.

The coach rumbled by a chained gang engaged in tearing weeds from the cracks in the pavement, and Luzelle caught a clear glimpse of fettered wrists, scarred naked backs, and empty ageless faces. They were gone within seconds, but their image lingered, a voiceless reproach.

She breathed a small sigh. Leaning her head back, she let her eyes close. She discovered that she was deeply tired; not surprising, for she had scarcely rested within the past twenty-four hours. She could afford sleep now, and she drifted off within seconds.

She woke around noon, when the coach halted at the side of the road. While the horses rested, the pa.s.sengers vanished briefly into the bush, then reappeared to stride vigorously back and forth, stretching cramped muscles.

Some twenty minutes later the journey resumed, and now her fellow travelers produced small sacks containing provisions for the midday meal. Simple-enough fare-bread, cheese, dried fruit, sweet biscuits-but her stomach clenched at the sight of it. She had tasted no food since yesterday's jail-house supper, and she had brought nothing with her.

Nothing but money.

Slipping a surrept.i.tious hand through the aperture in her robe, she drew a couple of coins from her wallet-belt. Proffering the silver to her nearest neighbor, one of the slicked-down young men, she suggested in halting Grewzian, "You sell some bread?" He stared at her blankly, and she added for good measure, "I am hungry."

He took the coins, handed her a substantial chunk of bread, and added a fistful of dried fruit for good measure. Seeing this, the sour-faced threadbare fellow pa.s.sed her a couple of hard-cooked eggs and a sugar biscuit. When she attempted to pay him, he shook his head gruffly.

"Thank you," she murmured, and looked down shyly, terminating the exchange.

Head bent modestly over her lap, she lifted the veil of mourning and proceeded to eat her lunch. Without looking up she knew that her companions were watching for a glimpse of her face, but they weren't about to get one. The dangling lappets of her cap hid her profile, obscuring western complexion, fresh bruises, split lip, and all. When she finished eating, she carefully lowered the veil back into place before lifting her head. The desultory curiosity surrounding her promptly expired.

The two young men began playing cards. The generous sour-faced fellow cogitated frowningly. Luzelle went back to sleep. She was dimly aware, a couple of hours later, that the coach halted again beside the road, but she did not trouble to emerge.

Progress resumed. The vehicle pa.s.sed another fettered road gang, and paused once more for a half hour in the late afternoon. It did not stop again until early evening, at which time the driver pulled up at the entrance to the Halfway Inn, whose location marked the halfway point between Jumo Towne and Dasuneville.

The pa.s.sengers disembarked and the driver handed down their luggage. Having no suitcase to wait for, Luzelle preceded her companions into the building-a curious hybrid structure, long and low-slung in the native style, with walls of whitewashed western brick and a roof of curved red-brown tile.

She registered under a false name, and once again her lack of luggage went unquestioned, while her New-rekkoes were accepted without hesitation.

Her room was clean, s.p.a.cious, and equipped with a private bath, which she promptly used. Only when she had scoured herself pink and the water was starting to cool did she emerge, feeling thoroughly and marvelously clean for the first time in days.

She toweled herself dry, then went to the mirror hanging above the washstand, wiped the moisture away, and checked her face. The bruises were still fresh and dark, but most of the swelling had subsided. Encouraging, but she would need to remain covered for another few days to come.

Resuming the Iyecktori garb, she ventured forth as far as the common room, where the lamplight shone on a sizable gathering of travelers. She spotted the pa.s.sengers and driver from her own coach at once, but made no move to join them. Presumably an orthodox Iyecktori matron in mourning would minimize contact with infidels.

She ate alone, head bowed and lappets dangling. Afterward she paused briefly at the desk to order a boxed lunch for tomorrow's journey before returning to the pleasant chamber altogether devoid of books, newspapers, or any other source of entertainment.

There was really nothing to do but sleep. Extinguishing all the lamps, she climbed without undressing into a soft bed furnished with clean lemon-scented sheets. She was comfortable there, but she had slumbered through most of the afternoon, and she was thoroughly wakeful now. She lay motionlessly alert, uneasy, ears straining to catch the sound of-what? Flutes in the jungle? The roar of some forest man-eater? The shriek of a constable's whistle?

What she actually heard was the whir and hum of the airborne creatures inhabiting her room in defiance of all window screens. The mosquito netting guarded her s.p.a.ce, they could not get at her flesh, but they could sting and goad her imagination, filling her head with visions of Girays v'Alisante in manacles, behind bars, in trouble and even in danger because of her. She pictured him slaving in a chained road gang somewhere along the Jumo-Dasune Pa.s.sage, and her eyes tingled behind their tightly closed lids. Absurd, of course. Such things did not happen to men of means. M. the Marquis possessed money, rank, connections, influence- Thousands of miles away.

More important, he owned a sharp mind and a cool head. The police wouldn't catch him, they wouldn't even come close.

Perhaps.

She lay wide awake for hours. At last she slid into restless sleep poisoned with bad dreams, only to waken before dawn. Rising from bed, she stepped to one of the windows, opened the louvers, and stood staring up at the southern stars.

The skies lightened gradually. The insect chorus diminished, the night birds muted themselves, the stars faded away, color bloomed in the east, and a rim of sun rose into view above the Forests of Oorex.

She washed, finger-combed her clean hair, then resumed her cap, veil, and thumbless gloves. After breakfasting in the common room she returned to a busy lobby, stood in line to pay her reckoning at the desk, collected the boxed lunch she had ordered, then walked out the front door to find the stagecoach waiting amid a clutter of a.s.sorted commercial and private conveyances. The driver greeted her as she drew near, and she muttered a modest m.u.f.fled courtesy in reply before taking her seat.

Fifteen minutes pa.s.sed before the two slicked-down young men handed their luggage up to the roof and boarded. There was no sign of yesterday's sour-faced pa.s.senger. Another ten minutes pa.s.sed, and he did not appear. The driver snapped his whip, and the coach rattled away from the inn.

The second day's travel along the Jumo-Dasune Pa.s.sage was a repet.i.tion of the first; a tedious long span, its hot monotony broken only by periodic rest stops and by periodic glimpses of convict-slaves tending the roadway. This time, when her companions invited her to join their card game, Luzelle accepted. Probably the choice compromised her orthodox disguise, but she was almost beyond caring, so thoroughly had boredom corroded caution.

The afternoon wore on to its finish, and so at last did the journey. The sun was hovering above the horizon as the coach lumbered up to the posting house in the old port town of Dasuneville. A busy place, she saw at a glance; rough-hewn and utilitarian, coa.r.s.e by comparison with Jumo Towne's studied elegance, but attractive nonetheless, thanks to its air. Fresh sea air, very warm but braced with a salty tang, rushing through the streets to sweep Dasuneville clear of jungle miasma. She drew a deep breath that seemed to clean her lungs out for the first time in days. New vigor filled her, and her spirits rose.

The pa.s.sengers disembarked and went their separate ways. Unenc.u.mbered with personal belongings, Luzelle strolled the old brick-paved avenues until, with the aid of directions gleaned from random citizens, she found her way to the waterfront.

The ticketing agencies had already closed for the evening, but timetables posted on wooden walls offered unwelcome information. The next steamship bound northeast for Aveshq was not scheduled to depart until the day after tomorrow. There were no alternatives. No possibility of engaging private transport across the wide Sea of Aveshq. No balloons, no revolutionary subaqueous vessels, no convenient magic. Nothing to do but hang around town for the next thirty-six hours.

During which time, Girays might turn up. For all she knew, he had reached Dasuneville ahead of her. He could be holed up in some nearby inn or hotel, he might be eating an early dinner, he might be wandering the streets or the waterfront. She cast a glance around her, half expecting to spot him, but the faces she confronted belonged to strangers. A pang of disappointment twinged through her.

Inappropriate. She'd been waiting for weeks for a chance to leave him behind, hadn't she?

Departing the wharves in dissatisfaction, she wandered the darkening streets until she happened upon a clean old rooming house, where she engaged lodgings for two nights. She ate a forgettable meal in her own room, and then, thoroughly bored, retired early.

The sun was high in the sky when she awoke. For once she could afford the luxury of late slumber, one of the few advantages of the present situation. She could also afford to devote the day to the replacement of her lost belongings.