"Just a little way back along the road, Madame. A few travelers like yourself elect to wait," the young soldier explained very courteously in careful Vonahrish. "I will lead the way, if you please."

The companion of the famous Overcommander Stornzof merited some respect, it seemed, or at least the appearance thereof. She looked back once to see Karsler already retreating, enveloped in a grey cloud of his admiring compatriots, and then she turned her eyes resolutely forward as her guide conducted her back the way she had come along the Trans-Bruzh for a few hundred yards to a break in the trees and a narrow offshoot cutting through the woods to a roughly circular clearing. Two sleighs and a heavy wagon stood there. No telling how long they had waited in that place. Long enough to build a big, smoky bonfire around which pa.s.sengers and drivers huddled.

"Here, Madame," the soldier declared. "Here you are out of harm's way. But I cannot say how long before the road opens, and it will be cold here, very cold, come nightspill."

"Nightfall?"

"Yes. Pardon me, Madame, my Vonahrish is very poor."

"No, it's excellent."

"I thank you for your kind words. I offer you best wishes, together with this a.s.surance. You may rely on the men of my squadron, there is nothing we would not do for a friend of the Overcommander Stornzof. If this driver of yours attempts to flee, let us know, and we shall bring him back to you. If anyone in this place troubles you, call on us. We are at Madame's service."

Grewzians at her service. What a thought. This boy and his comrades misconstrued her connection to Karsler, but their mistake only worked to her advantage. And the gallantry of the offer was practically Vonahrish.

"Thank you." She flashed her best smile. "I'll remember."

He departed, and she alighted from the sleigh to approach the fire. Four men sat there on logs, and her eyes went straight to the face of Girays v'Alisante, whose expression reflected chagrin. Understandably so-he must have thought that he had left her safely behind, and now she had caught up with him. Her sense of satisfaction was short lived. Next to Girays sat a squat, wide-faced frog of a fellow, probably his driver. And next to the driver, a s.h.a.ggy, roughly garbed peasant farmer, presumably the owner of the wagon. But it was the fourth figure, big and muscular and black bearded, on whom she gazed with a shock of unpleasant recognition. Bav Tchornoi. She had not caught sight of him since Quinnekevah Station. She had imagined and hoped that he had fallen somewhere by the wayside, and here he was, gigantic and morose-looking as ever.

And evidently here ahead of her. How in the world?

Four sets of eyes followed her as she seated herself upon a log. She felt her color rise. Her driver planted himself nearby, momentarily drawing collective attention, and then the eyes returned to Luzelle. The silence pressed, and at last she remarked civilly, "Girays, Master Tchornoi, I hope you are both well."

"Quite well," Girays returned with equal civility.

"Well-hah!" Bav Tchornoi exclaimed explosively. "And how shall we be well when these Grewzian p.i.s.s lickers keep us cooling our heels in the snow until the crack of doom? Cooling our heels-that is funny, yes."

"How long have you been here?" asked Luzelle.

"Since yesterday afternoon," Girays told her. "Spent last night in a warmstop a couple of miles back along the road."

"I remember pa.s.sing that."

"And I arrive this morning," Tchornoi proclaimed. "Only to find these Grewzians telling me where I can go, where I cannot go, in my own land. I am Rhazaullean, this is my place. That village down below beside the lake-that is Slekya, the village of my mother, where I have people. And these Grewzians puff out their little chests and wave their little guns, and tell me I cannot go there, the road is closed. Closed, by their order! I would like to get my hands on one or two of these fine blond boys, yes." Pulling a flask from his pocket, he pulled the stopper and downed an irritable draft.

"Yes, it would make me angry too," Luzelle told him truthfully.

"It would, eh? Maybe so. You have got some backbone, you have proved that. Here, you have some vouvrak." Tchornoi proffered his flask.

Evidently he had decided to forgive her for drawing a gun on him in the caves of the Nazara Sin. Fine, she had no desire to quarrel with anyone, and she would not reject an obvious peace offering. Luzelle accepted the flask. Eye-watering alcoholic fumes wafted from the interior, and she blinked. Taking a cautious swallow, she felt the liquid fire burn its way down her throat. The heat reached her stomach and spread out from there. Carefully she contained all coughs and sputters.

"Good, eh?" Tchornoi nodded almost affably.

She bobbed her head.

"You have some more, then. Go on, you help yourself."

In the interests of amity she forced down another mouthful, and handed the flask back to its owner, who thereafter lapsed into thirsty silence. Minutes later, when he had drained the contents, Tchornoi surged to his feet, stalked across the clearing to his sleigh, rummaged therein for a fresh bottle, and returned to his place by the fire.

Time pa.s.sed slowly. Conversation was sporadic. Eventually the anonymous farmer glanced up at the weak sun, now hovering just above the treetops, shook his head glumly, rose, and went to his wagon. Climbing in, he shook the reins and departed the clearing without a word.

Observing this, Girays's driver spoke up in Rhazaullean.

"I do not understand you," said Girays.

"He says he goes now," Bav Tchornoi translated, emerging from an apparent stupor for the first time in an hour or more.

"He can't go, I've need of his services," declared M. the Marquis. He pulled out his wallet.

Typical, thought Luzelle.

Tchornoi shrugged his big shoulders.

"How much to stay?" Girays v'Alisante's dexterous manipulation of paper currency transcended all language barriers.

The driver mumbled.

"He says he does not spend another night in this place for any amount of money. He says he goes home now," Tchornoi reported.

"Then tell him I'll buy his sleigh and horses."

Tchornoi translated and the driver shook his head.

"Tell him I'll pay-" Girays named an improbable figure.

"Hah! You are crazy, Vonahrishman. This is like a comedy."

Bav Tchornoi relayed the message, and the driver's eyes rounded. He nodded. Presently he departed on foot, clutching a wad of cash.

Luzelle's driver observed the retreat wistfully. He leaned his chin on his hand. He said nothing.

Retrieving books from their respective vehicles, Luzelle and Girays sat reading in silence. The driver watched the fire and sang to himself, while Bav Tchornoi drank.

When the atmosphere began to dim, Luzelle looked up from her book to inquire hopefully, "Anyone want to go ask the soldiers if we can get through yet?"

n.o.body troubled to reply, and she began to wonder seriously, for the first time, if Karsler had not been right. Perhaps she needed to plot an alternative route north. And if so, she should do it quickly, before all hope of victory froze to death in icebound Rhazaulle.

The small pangs of hunger recalled the pa.s.sage of time. The sleigh carried some provisions, a.s.sorted foodstuffs that required no cooking. Luzelle fetched bread, cheese, potted meat, pickled onions, and sh.e.l.led almonds for herself and the driver. Girays went to his own vehicle and brought similar supplies back to the fire. Bav Tchornoi did not bother with food.

They ate in reasonably companionable silence as the sun went down. The air darkened, a new chill descended upon the clearing, and Luzelle's driver threw a couple of logs on the fire. Sparks flew, the flames jumped, and the long shadows stretching out behind them writhed. Luzelle returned to her reading, but looked up in surprise when Bav Tchornoi spoke, his voice slow and slurred.

"These Grewzian c.o.c.kroaches think their campaign is all but won. They think we Rhazaulleans are all finished, beaten, ready to take it up the a.s.s. Hah. They are fools," opined Tchornoi. "They know nothing. They forget our great resources."

"You mean the Rhazaullean climate?" asked Girays.

"Yes, that is one. Spring has come, the weather is warm and mild. Pleasant, yes?"

No, thought Luzelle. Snow lay everywhere, and the evening breezes knifed through her parka.

"Very nice, very comfortable, but what do you suppose happens next?" Tchornoi demanded. "The sun shines, the ice melts. The little blond boys trundle their guns north along the frozen River Xana, and one sweet, bright afternoon-crack! The ice gives way beneath their feet, and then The ice gives way beneath their feet, and then splash! splash! The big guns, the caissons, the wagons and horses, and all the little golden lads-down they go into the water. They do not last long there, I think. Or let us say they are not quite that stupid, and they stay off the ice. Then what? They march north toward Rialsq, and the ground softens beneath them as they go, and soon they sink in mud that sucks like quicksand. And as they wallow there, along come our men on The big guns, the caissons, the wagons and horses, and all the little golden lads-down they go into the water. They do not last long there, I think. Or let us say they are not quite that stupid, and they stay off the ice. Then what? They march north toward Rialsq, and the ground softens beneath them as they go, and soon they sink in mud that sucks like quicksand. And as they wallow there, along come our men on grushtyevniks grushtyevniks-that is, what you would call mudskidders-and where are the Grewzians then?"

"I think there may be some truth to that," Girays conceded, interested.

"You think, eh? Well, there is more." Tchornoi gulped vouvrak and continued, "My country is a stern land. Many within our borders have died by violence, and the site of such death is often haunted by the ghosts of the slain. Our necromancers rule these ghosts, use them against the enemies of Rhazaulle. How do the Grewzians fight a gathering of ghosts? Hah? Shoot guns at them?"

"I don't quite understand you." Girays spoke with an air of polite forbearance.

"I've read about it," Luzelle volunteered. "Rhazaulle has a tradition of necromancy dating back hundreds of years. It was said that the sorcerous masters wielded absolute power over the ghosts they summoned. But the drugs and poisons used in the rituals induced violent insanity, so the practice was outlawed centuries ago. I daresay it secretly survives to this day, though."

"The woman knows more than you do, v'Alisante," Tchornoi chaffed. "She has got it right."

"So necromancy is still secretly practiced in Rhazaulle." Girays shrugged. "What of it? You think some magical gibberish muttered at the dark of the moon will impede the Grewzian advance? You think the ghosts will start popping up like flowers in springtime?"

"I think you do not know much of Rhazaulle," Tchornoi returned. "I think you do not know that that village of Slekya down there is a place of power, center of many forces. My mother grows up in this place, she often tells me. There are secret things there. These Grewzians do not know what they deal with in Slekya."

"Possibly not," Girays conceded wearily.

"Nor do they know what they deal with in me me." Tchornoi drained the last of the latest bottle. "I am Bav Tchornoi, and it is not for the likes of the Grewzians to tell me where I go, where I do not go. No. Tonight it pleases me to visit the village of my mother and drink in the tavern there. Let no man hinder me." So saying, he drew a revolver from his pocket and laid it across his knees.

Luzelle and Girays traded consternated glances. Out of the corner of her eye she noted the similarly alarmed expression of the driver.

"Hah, your faces. So shocked, so scared." Tchornoi chuckled. Meeting Luzelle's eyes, he inquired jovially, "You think you are the only one to carry a gun? You are good teacher, little woman. I pick up revolver in Bizaqh for a song. Now I use it on anyone blocking my way."

Drunk, stinking drunk and belligerent, thought Luzelle. The miserable fool will get himself killed, and the rest of us along with him. The miserable fool will get himself killed, and the rest of us along with him. Aloud she appealed gently, "Master Tchornoi, you won't defy an entire squadron of Grewzian soldiers, will you? You're very courageous, but you've no hope of defeating so many." Aloud she appealed gently, "Master Tchornoi, you won't defy an entire squadron of Grewzian soldiers, will you? You're very courageous, but you've no hope of defeating so many."

"You are right. There are too many blond c.o.c.kroaches on the road; I cannot squash them all. No, I will cut through the woods on foot."

"Don't try it," Girays advised. "The woods are full of patrols. You can't get through."

"Patrols? You think I fear patrols? Listen, I know these woods. Often I am here as a boy-I learn to play Ice Kings on that lake down below. I have not forgotten the paths. The offal chompers, they know nothing. I flip them the Feyennese Four as I go by, they do not see."

The driver pointed at the gun and loosed a brief spate of frightened Rhazaullean. n.o.body heeded him.

"Please don't do it, Bav Tchornoi," Luzelle frankly begged. "At least, not tonight. Visit Slekya some other time, when it's safer. Tomorrow, perhaps. There's no sense in risking your life over nothing."

"I do not risk my life over nothing. If I risk my life, it is over something big-my right to come and go as I please in my own land. Who will deny me?" He rose to his full height, casting an immense shadow across the snow.

Despite the quarts of vouvrak and the slurred speech, Luzelle suspected that it was not alcohol alone talking. She had no answer.

Girays did. "Forget yourself and your precious rights for now," he snapped. "You're putting the rest of us at risk. You can't do it."

"Can't? You say so?" The revolver leveled itself at Girays's chest. "You think you stop me? Hah, don't worry, you and the woman are safe. n.o.body sees me, I slide right on by under their Grewzian noses."

"Put that gun away, you'll get us all killed." Girays drew a deep breath. "Listen, Tchornoi, stop and think. If you'll just wait-"

"I have waited long enough. I have waited all through the day, and now I wait no longer. Now I go to Slekya. Out of my way." So saying, Bav Tchornoi lurched from the circle of firelight into the shadow of the trees. The darkness swallowed him.

They gazed after him. No one attempted pursuit.

"Think he'll make it?" asked Luzelle.

"In his present state, I'd say he hasn't a chance," Girays told her. "He'll probably be nailed within minutes, and I don't want the Grewzians thinking we're in league with that idiot. We'd best get out of here."

"Warmstop?"

"Yes."

She communicated her intentions to the driver by means of pantomime. He nodded, lit the sleigh lanterns, and resumed his seat. She climbed in behind him and they set off, closely followed by Girays's vehicle. The white road and black trees streamed by. Presently the crackle of not-so-distant gunfire broke the silence of the night. Luzelle stiffened at the sound, and her gloved fists clenched beneath the lap robe. She listened and heard it again-two isolated pops, followed by the quick rataplan of a barrage. Her breath quickened, steaming on the cold air.

"Faster," she whispered. "Faster."

In the unlikely event that he heard her, the driver would not have understood her language, yet he clearly shared her sentiments, for he snapped his whip and the horses broke into a trot.

The conical warmstop rose before them. The two sleighs arrived almost simultaneously. While the men tended the horses, Luzelle carried lap robes and fur throws into the little shelter, dumped her burden on the floor, and kindled the fire. By the time Girays and the driver came in, the smoke was rising through the hole in the roof and the interior was starting to warm.

Girays dropped the heavy bar across the door; no protection against Grewzian soldiery, but it made Luzelle feel safer all the same. For a time they sat mutely around the fire, the three of them listening for the sound of gunfire-footsteps-voices-fists pounding the door-anything. Silence reigned.

The air grew heavy with warmth and smoke. Girays banked the fire and the three composed themselves for slumber. For a while Luzelle lay wide awake, the musty smell of the old fur robe in her nostrils, ears and mind straining for the sounds that never came, but finally her lids drooped and the world slid away.

SHE WOKE AT DAWN. The atmosphere of the warmstop was cold but still smoky. Girays lay deeply sleeping. The driver was absent. He had probably stepped outside to relieve himself. His nest of robes and rugs was gone; he must already have returned them to the sleigh. Very efficient. She would give him a nice little bonus when they parted company, the poor fellow deserved it. The atmosphere of the warmstop was cold but still smoky. Girays lay deeply sleeping. The driver was absent. He had probably stepped outside to relieve himself. His nest of robes and rugs was gone; he must already have returned them to the sleigh. Very efficient. She would give him a nice little bonus when they parted company, the poor fellow deserved it.

Luzelle yawned, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and stepped to the door, unbarred as the driver had left it. She listened, heard nothing sinister, and opened the door to look out at the empty patch of trampled snow where her sleigh had stopped last night. Girays's sleigh stood a few feet from the shelter, and his horse was tethered to a nearby tree. Her own vehicle, horse, and driver were gone. Her valise sat beside the door. Her driver, a sneak and a coward, at least was no thief.

For a moment she gazed about almost without comprehension. Then reality sank in, dismay flooded her mind, and anger erupted. He had simply abandoned her to starve or freeze in the middle of nowhere. The slimy little Rhazaullean poltroon wasn't going to get away with it. Those friendly Grewzian soldiers had promised to retrieve her driver in the event of desertion, and she now intended to accept that offer. She would have to walk two miles or so along the snowy TransBruzh, carrying her valise, or- Her eyes jumped to Girays's sleigh, and then to the tethered horse. She could probably manage to harness the animal, it couldn't be that complicated, and she could certainly manage the short drive. She could be gone before Girays awoke to stop her, she could hurry to the Grewzians, sic them on her fugitive driver, then return the sleigh to its owner, with no harm done. Or-the darkly brilliant thought was suddenly whole-she might expedite matters by simply neglecting to return Girays's sleigh. By stealing it. Perhaps by now the TransBruzh was open, and she could drive on toward Rialsq, or if necessary acquire a new driver somewhere along the way. And it wasn't as if Girays would be endangered. The warm-stop stood within a few miles of Slekya, where he would find shelter, food, and alternative transportation. He wouldn't be harmed, merely inconvenienced. And she would gain a potentially vital lead.

Not for the first time since the race began, the workings of her own intellect disturbed her. Steal from Girays? Cheat Girays? An extraordinarily ugly notion. Where had it sprung from?

From necessity. The demands of the race. Moreover-should she fail to grab the one sleigh now, while she had the chance, Girays would shortly awake, and then she she might be the one left behind. Perhaps he would be generous and let her ride with him, perhaps not. He certainly had every right to leave her. They were in a race, and the sleigh belonged to him. And then? The Grewzian soldiers might fail to recapture her own driver, or they might be too busy to bother, gallant a.s.surances notwithstanding. At the very least she was likely to fall behind, far behind, unless she seized opportunity now. might be the one left behind. Perhaps he would be generous and let her ride with him, perhaps not. He certainly had every right to leave her. They were in a race, and the sleigh belonged to him. And then? The Grewzian soldiers might fail to recapture her own driver, or they might be too busy to bother, gallant a.s.surances notwithstanding. At the very least she was likely to fall behind, far behind, unless she seized opportunity now.

She would do what was necessary.

But steal-from Girays? She turned and looked at him. His hair was growing s.h.a.ggy again. He looked younger asleep, his face relaxed, bronzed by the sun of Mekzaes and the Tribal Territories. He looked peaceful and totally unsuspecting. Guilt froze her, exigency pushed, and even as she stood vacillating, Girays opened his eyes and sat up. Frustration, anger at her own irresolution, and deep relief mingled confusedly within her.

He took one look at her and said, "Something's happened. Tchornoi turn up?"

"No. My driver has made off with the sleigh."

"Did he? Did he really do that to you? Astonishing that the villain would dare." Girays shook his head. "But what a misfortune."

He was laughing at her, and she wanted to throw something at him. She should have taken the sleigh when she had the chance. She should have left him here to rot, and serve him right. She had blundered badly.

"And what will you do now?" he inquired kindly. "Any plans?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," she replied with an air of confidence that she hoped would disappoint him. "I'll ask the help of those Grewzian soldiers down the road."

"The Grewzian soldiers. They'll be eager to a.s.sist you, they are philanthropy personified."

"They are are eager to a.s.sist me, as it happens." She smiled guilelessly. "There's nothing they won't do, they a.s.sured me, for a friend of the Overcommander Stornzof." eager to a.s.sist me, as it happens." She smiled guilelessly. "There's nothing they won't do, they a.s.sured me, for a friend of the Overcommander Stornzof."