Dwer didn't pause to question fortune. He flung himself over the glaver's other side, sucking warmth from her downy hide. Patiently-or apathetically-the creature let both humans hang on, till Dwer finally found the strength to gather his feet and stand.

One of the glaver's hind legs still bore remnants of a rope hobble, chewed off at the knot. Behind her, the cause of this miracle grinned with the other end in its mouth. Mudfoot leered at Dwer, eyes glittering.

Always gotta make sure to get full credit, don't you? Dwer thought, knowing it was ungrateful but thinking it anyway.

Another brilliant explosion sent rays of brightness cutting through black shadows, all centered on the fiery site by the lake. Two more reports followed within a few duras, erasing any thought of going back after his supplies. Flames continued to spread.

He helped Rety up, leaning on the glaver for support. Come on, Dwer said, with a slight incline of the head. Better to die in motion than just lying here.

Even stumbling in the dark, numbed by cold, pain, and weariness, Dwer couldn't help pondering what he'd seen.

One little bird-machine might have been rare but explainable-a surviving relic of Buyur days, somehow preserved into this era, wandering confused across a continent long abandoned by its masters. But the second machine-that daunting, floating menace-was no dazed leftover of vanished Jijoan tenants. It had been powerful, resolute.

A new thing in the world.

Together they weaved unsteadily down another avenue between two forests of boo. The channel spared them from the frigid wind, and also from having to make any decisions. Each step took them farther from the lakeside conflagration, which suited Dwer fine.

Where there's one death machine, might there be more?

Could another levitating minifortress come to avenge its brother? With that thought, the narrow, star-canopied aisle ceased seeming a refuge, rather an awful trap.

The boo-lined corridor ended at last, spilling the four of them onto a meadow of knee-high gra.s.s swaying before a stiff, icy wind that drained their bodies as they shuffled along. Frost flurries whirled all around. Dwer knew it was just a matter of time before they collapsed.

A grove of scrubby saplings cl.u.s.tered by a small watercourse, some distance from the path. Shivering, he nudged the glaver across the crunching, crackling gra.s.s. We're leaving tracks, the hunter in him carped. Lessons drilled by old Fallen floated to mind. Try keeping to hare rock or water. . . . When you're being stalked, head downwind. . . .

None of which was helpful now. Instinct led him to a rocky ledge, an outcrop shrouded by low bushes. Without his fire-lighter or even a knife or piece of flint, their best hope lay in finding shelter. Dwer yanked Rety off the glaver's neck, pushing till she understood to bend and crawl under the shelf. The glaver shuffled inward on all four knees, Mudfoot hitching a ride on her corrugated back. Dwer yanked some fallen branches where the wind would pile leaves on top. Then he also dropped, slithering to join an interspecies tangle of limbs, fur, skin-and someone's fetid breath not far from his face. Snowflakes sublimed off flesh as body heat spread through the confined s.p.a.ce. Just our luck to have a late flurry, so far into spring, he thought. Old Fallen used to say there were just two seasons in the mountains. One was called Winter. The other was also winter, with some green stuff growing to trick the unwary.

He told himself the weather wasn't really so bad-or wouldn't be if their clothes hadn't been burned off their bodies, or if they weren't already in shock, or if they had supplies.

After a while, Dwer realized the deafness must be fading. He could hear someone's teeth chattering, then a murmur of some sort, coming from behind him. That was followed by a sharp jab on his shoulder.

"I said could you move jes a bit?" Rety shouted, not far from his ear. "You're lying on my-"

He shifted. Something bony slid from under his rib-cage. When he lay back down, his flank sc.r.a.ped icy grit. Dwer sighed.

"Are you all right?"

She squirmed some more. "What'd you say?"

He writhed around to see her blurry outline. "Are you okay?" he shouted.

"Oh, sure. Never better, dimmie. Good question."

Dwer shrugged. If she had energy to be nasty, she was probably far from death's door.

"You got anything to eat?" Rety added.

He shook his head. "We'll find something in the morn. Till then, don't speak 'less you must."

"Why?"

Because robots probably have ears, he almost said. But why worry the kid?

"Save your strength. Now be good and get some sleep."

A slight vibration might have been the girl, mimicking his words sarcastically under her breath. But he couldn't be sure-a blessed side effect to the beating his ears had taken.

With a series of sharp jabs, Mudfoot clambered up his leg to settle in the wedge between his body and Rety's. Dwer squirmed to a position where his head was less sheltered by the glaver's warm flank. A bitter chill greeted his face as he peered back at the trail they had just left-the narrow avenue between two vast stands of boo. As a makeshift hunter's blind, this wasn't bad-if only more snow would fill in the trampled trail they had left in the broken gra.s.s.

We got away from you, One-of-a-Kind, he thought, savoring a victory he had not won. Many patches of skin still seemed too numb, too cool for even the glaver's warmth to heat up, tracing where the spider's golden preserving fluid had stuck. No way to clean them right now ... if the droplets ever would come off.

Still, we got away, didn't we?

A faint touch seemed to stroke his mind. Nothing he could pinpoint, but it triggered a tickle of worry. Surely the crazy old mulc-deconstructor couldn't have survived the inferno by the lake?

It's just my imagination. Forget it.

Unfortunately, his imagination also supplied what One-of-a-Kind would surely reply.

Ah, my precious. Is that not what you always say?

Shivering from more than mere cold, Dwer settled for a long watch, eyeing the funnel-avenue for other strange things sneaking over the pa.s.s through the Rimmer Range.

A sound roused Dwer from a dream filled with sensations of failure and paralysis. His eyes flinched when he opened them to a chill wind. Listlessly, he tried focusing on what had yanked him awake. But all that came to mind was a preposterous notion that someone had called his name.

The Dolphin was up near zenith, its flank shimmering with blue-white stars, seeming to dive between milky waves.

Clouds. And more snow was falling. He blinked, trying to stare. Something was moving out there.

Dwer lifted a hand to rub his eye, but the fingers would not uncurl. When they touched his face, they seemed petrified-a sign of shock compounded by frostbite.

Over there. Is that it?

Something was moving. Not another robot, wafting on smug pillars of force, but a shambling bipedal figure, hurrying upslope at a pace Dwer found professionally lacking. At that rate, whoever-it-was would tire much faster than necessary. No errand was worth taking such risks in this kind of weather.

Of the Six, only a hoon or human could make it this high in a snowfall, and no hoon would let himself get into that much of a hurry.

Hey, you! Don't go up through the boo! There's danger thataway!

Dwer's voice produced only a croak, barely loud enough to rouse the noor, causing Mudfoot to lift its head.

Hey, fool. Can't you see our trail in the gra.s.s and snow? It's like a Buyur highway out there! Are you blind?

The figure plowed right on by, disappearing into the dark cathedral-like aisle between twin walls of vaulting boo. Dwer slumped, hating himself for his weakness. All I had to do was shout. That's all. Just a little shout.

Gla.s.sy-eyed, he watched more flakes fill the runnel in the gra.s.s, slowly erasing all signs leading to this rocky cleft. Well, you wanted to hide, wasn't that the idea?

Perhaps the four of them would never be found.

Dwer lacked the strength to feel irony.

Some hunter. Some mighty hunter. . .

The Stranger It will take some getting used to, this curious unlikely voyage, rushing along in a wooden boat that glides down rocky canyons, swooping past high stone walls, giving a sense of incredible speed. Which is odd, since he knows he used to travel much, much faster than this . . . though right now it's hard to recall exactly how.

Then there are his fellow pa.s.sengers, a mixture of types he finds amazing to behold.

At first, several of them had filled him with raw terror-especially the squishy thing, looking like a stack of phlegmy doughnuts piled up high, venting complex stinks that sc.r.a.pe-tickled his nose and tongue. The mere sight of its corrugated cone wrenched feelings of blank horror-until he realized that something was quite different about this particular Joph- His mind refuses to bring forth the epithet, the name, even though he trolls and sifts for it.

Words refuse to come easily. Most of the time, they do not come at all.

Worse, he cannot speak or form ideas, or comprehend when others send shaped-sounds toward him. Even names, the simplest of labels, refuse to rest within his grasp but wriggle off like slippery things, too angry or fickle to bear his touch.

No matter.

He resolves to wait, since there is no other choice. He even manages to hold back revulsion when the doughy cone-creature touches him, since healing seems its obvious intent, and since the pain always lessens a bit, each time it ivraps oily tendrils round his throbbing head.

In time, the contact becomes oddly pleasant.

Anyway, she is usually there, speaking to him gently, filling the tunnel-view of his attention with her smile, providing an excuse for frail optimism.

He doesn't recall much about his former life, but he can dimly remember something about the way he used to live . . . not so much a philosophy as an att.i.tude- If the universe seems to be trying to destroy you, the best way to fight back is with hope.

IX. THE BOOK OF THE SEA.

Scrolls In order to be blessed, And to bring redemption, Forgetfulness cannot come at random.

Aspects of oblivion Must come in the right order.

First must come detachment from the driving need To coerce the material world, Or to shape other beings to your needs.

To be shaped is your goal.

First by nature, And later by hands and minds Wiser than your own.

The Scroll of Promise Alvin's Tale SO THERE WE WERE, WAY UP IN THE THIN, DRY AIR atop Mount Guenn, surrounded by heat and dust and sulfury smells from Uriel's forge, and what does Gybz the Alchemist want to talk to us about?

The traeki tells us we're being sent to a different kind of h.e.l.l.

But hold on, Alvin. Spin the yarn the way an old-time human storyteller would. Describe the scene, then the action.

Gybz concocts recipes for metal and gla.s.s in a grimy workshop, quite unlike Uriel's prim, spotless hall of spinning disks. Mineral powders spill across stained wooden shelves and earthenware jars stink with noxious liquids. One slit window overlooks a northern vista stretching all the way down to a splash of painful color that could only be .the Spectral Flow, which means the chamber is about as high as you can get without tumbling into Mount Guenn's simmering caldera.

Below the window, flies swarmed over a pile of nicely aged kitchen mulch. I hoped we weren't interrupting Gybz at dinner.

The four of us-Huck, Pincer, Ur-ronn, and me-had come up to the alchemy lab at the command of Uriel, the great blacksmith, ruler of this fortress of industry perched on Jijo's trembling knee. At first I figured she sent us away just to get rid of some irritating youngsters, while she conferred with a human sage over how to improve her beloved mobile of gears, pulleys, and whirling gla.s.s. The chief a.s.sistant, Urdonnol, muttered disapproval while shepherding us up a long ramp to the traeki's mixing room. Only our pal Ur-ronn seemed cheerful, almost ebullient. Huck and I exchanged a glance, wondering why.

We found out when Gybz shuffled ers mottled, conical bulk around from behind a workbench. Words bubbled from a speaking tube that puckered the third-from-the-top ring.

"Bright youths of four races, be made welcome! Sublime news for you, it is an honor to relate. A decision to approve your expedition, this has occurred. Your endeavor to reach, visit, explore the nearest reaches of the Upper Midden, this you may attempt."

Gybz paused, venting puffs from a purple synthi ring. When the traeki resumed, it was in warbling, uneven Anglic, with a voice that sounded strained.

"The attempt will have . . . the full backing of Mount Guenn Forge. As evidence of this support, behold-your completed window!"

The Master of Mixes gestured with a wraparound tentacle toward a wooden crate near the wall, with its cover removed. Amid drifts of fine sawdust, there gleamed a curved pane of thick gla.s.s, flawless to the eye.

Pincer-Tip danced excitedly, his red-clawed feet noisy on the stone floor. "Beautiful-iful!"

Gybz agreed. "It has been treated with proper coatings-for clear vision in the planned environment."

Ur-ronn snaked her long neck around to inspect the bubble-pane.

"This last phase was delicate. Thank you, Gyfz, for the exquisite coatings!"

Ur-ronn turned to explain to Huck and me, "After months of delay, Uriel suddenly agreed just three days ago to allow the casting. And since the results were good on the first try, she will let this count toward a kun-urul"

That was urrish plains dialect for a master work. One qualifying the maker for craftsman status. It would take Ur-ronn a long way toward fulfilling her ambitions.

None of the rest of us have started professions, or even decided what we want to do, I thought, a little jealously.

On the other hand, urs have to hurry. They don't get that much time.

I glanced at Urdonnol, who was Ur-ronn's top rival as Uriel's heir. I didn't need a rewq to read her annoyance with all this fuss over what she called a "childish hobby"-the making of an experimental deep diving craft.

You should know better, I thought, feeling a bit sorry for Urdonnol. Uriel also has a useless pastime, that room full of spinning disks. Ur-ronn's project shares thatjust-for-the-h.e.l.l-of-it quality. It's a similarity between them that goes beyond mere kin-scent.

To Ur-ronn, then, this had also been a smart career move. I felt happy for our friend.

"The gla.s.s was tested to withstand hydrostatic pressures exceeding those at fifty cords depth," she commented with evident satisfaction. "And when you add the lanterns and other gear Uriel is kindly lending us-"

"Us?" Huck cut in, breaking the mood. She spun to face Ur-ronn with three outthrust eyes. "What you mean us, honky? You're volunteering to come along, then?"

Ur-ronn's narrow head snapped back, staring at Huck. Then her neck slumped in an S-curve.

"I will . . . if I can."

"Huck!" I chided. It was mean to rub Ur-ronn's nostril in her limitations. I could hear Huck's spokes vibrate with tension.

Gybz interrupted with another venting, this time pungent like rusty metal.

"If possible, an urrish presence will be called for." The traeki seemed short of breath. "But even if that proves impossible, fear not. A member from Mount Guenn shall . . . accompany this bold undertaking ... to its deepest depths."

I had trouble following Gybz's halting, accented Anglic. Huck and I shared a confused look.

"It is i/we . . . who shall part-wise accompany . . . this august group," Gybz explained, wheezing through the topmost ring. With that, the traeki showed us something none of us expected, shuffling around to expose an oozing blister on its far side, halfway up the fleshy stack. It was no normal swelling, where the traeki might be making another tentacle or readying chemicals for the mill. A crack split the swollen zone, exposing something slick and wriggly within.