What would you do if you were raised that way, sc.r.a.ping for a living like animals, knowing a land of wealth and power lay beyond those mountains to the west?

Dwer had never thought of the Slope that way before. Most scrolls and legends emphasized how far the six exile races had already fallen, not how much farther there was yet to go.

That night, Dwer used tobar seeds to call another clock teet, not because he wanted an early wakeup, but to have the steady, tapping rhythm in the background while he slept. When Mudfoot yowled at the burst of aroma, covering his snout, Rety let out a soft giggle and her first smile.

He insisted on examining her feet before bed, and she quietly let him treat two blisters showing early signs of infection. "We'll have healers look you over when we reach Gathering," he told her. Neither of them commented when he kept her moccasins, tucking them under his sleeping roll for the night.

As they lay under a starry canopy, separated by the dim campfire coals, he urged Rety to name a few constellations, and her curt answers helped Dwer eliminate one momentous possibility-that some new group of human exiles had landed, destroying their ship and settling to brute existence far from the Slope. Rety couldn't realize the importance of naming a few patterns in the sky, but Dwer erased one more pinp.r.i.c.k of worry. The legends were the same.

At dawn Dwer awoke sniffing something in the air-a familiar odor, almost pleasant, but also nervous-a sensation Lark once explained mysteriously as "negative ions and water vapor." Dwer shook Rety awake and hurriedly led the glaver under a rocky overhang. Mudfoot followed, moving like an arthritic g'Kek, grumbling hatred of mornings with every step. They all made it to shelter just as a sheet-storm hit-an undulating curtain of continuous rain that crept along the mountainside from left to right, pouring water like a translucent drapery that pummeled everything beneath, soaking the forest, one wavy ribbon at a time. Rety stared wide-eyed as the rainbow-colored tapestry swept by, drenching their campsite and ripping half the leaves off trees. Obviously she had never witnessed one before.

The trek resumed. Perhaps it was a night's restful sleep, or the eye-opening start to the day. But Rety now seemed less sullen, more willing to enjoy sights like a meadow full of b.u.mble flowers-yellow tubes, fringed with black fuzz, which rode the steady west wind, swooping and buzzing at the end of tether-stems. Rety's eyes darted, enthralled by the antic dance of deception and pollination. The species did not exist in the stagnant weather shadow beyond the Rimmers, where a vast plain of poison gra.s.s stretched most of the way to the Gray Hills.

Just getting here across all that was an accomplishment, Dwer noted, wondering how she had managed it.

As alpine sheerness gave way to gentler foothills, Rety gave up hiding her fierce curiosity. She began by pointing and asking-"Are those wooden poles holding up your backpack? Don't they make it heavy? I'll bet they're hollow."

Then-"If you're a hunter, where's the rest of your stalking gang? Or do you always hunt alone?"

In rapid succession more questions followed. "Who made your bow? How far can you hit somethin' the size of my hand?

"Did you live in one place the whole time you were little? In a ... house? Did you get to hold on to stuff you wanted to keep, 'stead of leavin' it behind when you moved?

"If you grew up by a river, did you ever see any hoon? What're they like? I hear they're tall as a tree, with noses long as your arm.

"Are the trikki really tricky? Are they made of tree sap? Do they eat garbage?

"Do noors ever slow down? I wonder why Buyur made 'em that way."

Other than her habit of turning Buyur into a singular proper name, Dwer couldn't have phrased the last question any better himself. Mudfoot was a perpetual nuisance, getting underfoot, chasing shrub critters, then lying in ambush somewhere along the path, squeaking in delight when Dwer failed to pick him out of the overhanging foliage.

I could shake you easily, if I didn't have a glaver and a kid in tow, Dwer thought at the grinning noor. Yet he was starting to feel pretty good. They would make quite an entrance at Gathering, sure to be the talk of the festival.

Over lunch, Rety used his cooking knife to prepare a scrub hen he had shot. Dwer could barely follow her whirling hands as the good parts landed in the skillet with a crackling sizzle, while the poison glands flew to the waste pit. She finished, wiping the knife with a flourish, and offered it back to him.

"Keep it," Dwer said, and she responded with a hesitant smile.

With that he ceased being her jailor and became her guide, escorting a prodigal daughter back to the embrace of clan and Commons. Or so he thought, until some time later, during the meal, when she said-"I really ha' seen some of those before."

"Seen some of what?"

Rety pointed at the glaver, placidly chewing under the shade of a stand of swaying lesser-boo.

"You thought I never saw any, 'cause I feared she'd bite. But I seen 'em, from afar. A whole herd. Sneaky devils, hard to catch. Took the guys all day to spear 'un. They taste awful gamey, but the boys liked it fine."

Dwer swallowed hard. "Are you saying your tribe hunts and eats glavers?"

Rety looked back with brown eyes full of innocent curiosity. "You don't on this side? I'm not surprised. There's easier prey, an' better eatin'."

He shook his head, nauseated by the news.

Part of him chided-You were willing to shoot this particular glaver down, stone dead, if it crossed over the pa.s.s.

Yes, but only as a last resort. And I wouldn't eat her!

Dwer knew what people called him-the Wild Man of the Forest, living beyond the law. He even helped nurse the mystique, since it meant his awkward speech was taken for something more manly than shyness. In truth, killing was the part of any hunt he did as capably and swiftly as possible, never with enjoyment. Now, to learn people beyond the mountains were devouring glavers! The sages would be appalled!

Ever since surmising that Rety came from a sooner band, Dwer had known his duty would be to guide a militia expedition to round up the errant clan. Ideally, it would be a simple matter of firm but gentle ingathering, resettling lost cousins back into the fold of the Commons. But now, Rety had unknowingly indicted her tribe with another crime. The Scrolls were clear. That which is rare, you shall not eat. That which is precious, you must protect. But, above all-You may not devour what once flew between the stars.

Irony was ashen in Dwer's mouth. For after the soon-ers were brought back for trial, his job then would be to collect every glaver living east of the Rimmers-and slaughter those he could not catch.

Ah, but that won't make me a bad person because I won't eat them.

Rety must have sensed his reaction. She turned to stare at the nearby stand of great-boo, its young shoots barely as thick as her waist. The tubelike green shafts swayed in rippling waves, like fur on the belly of the lazy noor, dozing by her foot.

"Are they gonna hang me?" the girl asked quietly. The scar on her face, which was muted when she smiled, now seemed stretched and livid. "Old Clin says you slopies hang sooners when you catch "em."

"Nonsense. Actually, each race handles its own-"

"The old folks say it's slopie law. Kill anyone who tries to make a free life east o' the Rimmers."

Dwer stammered, suddenly awash in irritation, "If-if you think that, why'd you come all this way? To-to stick your head in a noose?"

Rety's lips pressed. She looked away and murmured low. "You wouldn't believe me."

Dwer repented his own flash of temper. In a gentler tone, he asked-"Why don't you try me? Maybe ... I might understand better than you think."

But she withdrew once more into a coc.o.o.n of brooding silence, unresponsive as a stone.

While Dwer hastily rinsed the cooking gear, Rety tied herself in place ahead of the glaver, even though he had said she could walk free. He found his cooking knife by the smothered coals, where she must have laid it after those sharp words.

The gesture of rejection irked him, and he muttered gruffly, "Let's get out of here."

Asx WE HAD CHOSEN TO FEIGN A SMALL DISTINCTION between two crimes. At best a slightly lesser felony- that of accidental rather than planned colonization.

No one could deny the obvious-that our ancestors had loosed unsanctioned offspring on a fallow world. But Vubben's artful evasion implied an act of culpable carelessness, rather than villainy by design.

The lie would not hold for long. When archaeological traces were sifted, forensic detectives from the Inst.i.tutes would swiftly perceive our descent from many separate landings, not one mixed crew stranded by mishap on this remote sh.o.r.e. Moreover, there was the presence of our juniormost sept-the human clan. By their own bizarre tale, they are a wolfling-race, unknown to Galactic culture until just three hundred Jijoan years ago.

Then why even try such a bluff?

Desperation. Plus a frail hope that our "guests" have not the skill or tools for archaeology. Their goal must be to swoop in for a quick sampling of hidden treasures. Then, covering their tracks, they would wish a swift, stealthy departure with a ship's hold full of contraband. To this mercenary quest, our strange, forlorn colony of miscreants offers both opportunity and a threat.

They must know we possess firsthand knowledge of Jijo, valuable to their needs.

Alas, my rings. Are we not also potential witnesses to their villainy?

Sara n.o.bODY EXPECTED AN AMBUSH. It was the perfect place for one. Still, no one aboard the Haupb-woa had any idea of danger until it actually happened.

A century of peace had blurred the once-jealously guarded domains of old. Urrish and g'Kek settlers were few, since the former could not raise young near water, and the latter preferred smooth terrain. Still, all types were seen crowding tiny docks when the Hauph-woa glided by, eager to share scant news.

Alas, there had been none from downstream since that terrible spectacle crossed the sky.

Mostly, the river folk were reacting constructively, rushing to reinforce their facade screens, cleaning the baffles of their smokestacks, or hauling boats under cover-but one forlorn tribe of traeki marsh-dwellers had gone much further, burning their entire stilt village in a spasm of fear and fealty to the Scrolls. Pzora's topknot shivered at the aroma of woebegone ring-stacks, floundering in the ashes. The Hauph-woa's captain promised to spread word of their plight. Perhaps other traeki would send new basal segments for the locals to wear, making them better suited for evacuation inland. At worst, the swamp traeki could gather rotting matter, settle on top, and shut down higher functions till the world became a less scary place.

The same could not be said for an urrish trade caravan they pa.s.sed later, stranded with their pack beasts on the desolate west bank, when the panicky citizens of Bing Village blew up their beloved bridge.

The hoonish boat crew back-pedaled with frantic haste, rowing against the current to avoid getting caught in a tangle of broken timbers and mule-fiber cables, shattered remnants of a beautiful span that had been the chief traverse for an entire region. A marvel of clever camouflage, the bridge used to resemble a jagged snag of jumbled logs. But even that apparently wasn't enough for local orthodox scroll thumpers. Maybe they were burning it while I had my nightmare last night, Sara thought, observing charred timbers and recalling images of flame that had torn her sleep.

A crowd,of villagers stood on the east bank, beckoning the Hauph-woa to draw near.

Blade spoke up. "I would not approach," the blue qheuen hissed from several leg-vents. He wore a rewq over his vision-ring while peering at the folk on sh.o.r.e.

"And why not?" Jop demanded. "See? They're pointing to a way past the debris. Perhaps they have news, as well."

Sure enough, there did appear to be a channel, near the sh.o.r.e, un.o.bstructed by remnants of the broken bridge.

"I don't know," Blade went on. "I sense that . . . something is wrong."

"You're right avout that," Ulgor added. "I'd like to know why they have done nothing for the stranded caravan. The villagers have voats. The urs could have veen ferried across vy now."

Sara wondered. It certainly would not be fun for any of Ulgor's race to ride a little coracle, with icy water lapping just an arm's breadth away. "The urs may have refused," she suggested. "Perhaps they're not that desperate yet."

The captain made his decision, and the Hauph-woa turned toward the village. As they drew near, Sara saw that the only construct still intact was the hamlet's camouflage lattice. Everything else lay in ruins. They've probably sent their families into the forest, she thought. There were plenty of garu trees for humans to live in, and qheuenish citizens could join cousins upstream. Still, the toppled village was a depressing sight.

Sara pondered how much worse things might be if Jop ever got his wish. If Dolo Dam blew up, every dock, weir, and cabin they had seen below the flood line would be swept away. Native creatures would also suffer, though perhaps no more than in a natural flood. Lark says it is species that matter, not individuals. No eco-niches would be threatened by demolishing our small wooden structures. Jijo won't be harmed.

Still, it seems dubious, all of this burning and wrecking just to persuade some Galactic big shots we're farther along the Path of Redemption than we really are.

Blade sidled alongside, his blue carapace steaming as dew evaporated from the seams of his sh.e.l.l-a sure sign of anxiety. He rocked a complex rhythm among his five chitinous legs.

"Sara, do you have a rewq? Can you put it on and see if I'm mistaken?"

"Sorry. I gave mine up. All those colors and raw emotions get in the way of paying close attention to language." She did not add that it had grown painful to wear the things, ever since she made the mistake of using one at Joshu's funeral. "Why?" she asked. "What's got you worried?"

Blade's cupola trembled, and the rewq that was wrapped around it quivered. "The people onsh.o.r.e- they seem . . . strange somehow."

Sara peered through the morning haze. The Bing Villagers were mostly human, but there were also hoon, traeki, and qheuens in the mix. Likes attract, she thought. Orthodox fanaticism crossed racial lines.

As does heresy, Sara noted, recalling that her own brother was part of a movement no less radical than the folk who had brought down this bridge.

Several coracles set forth from tree-shrouded shelters, aiming to intercept the riverboat. "Are they coming to pilot us through?" young Jomah asked.

He got his answer when the first grappling hook whistled, then fell to the deck of the Hauph-woa.

Others swiftly followed.

"We mean you no harm.'" shouted a thick-armed man in the nearest skiff. "Come ash.o.r.e, and we'll take care of you. All we want is your boat."

That was the wrong thing to say to the proud crew of a river-runner. Every hoon but the helmsman ran to seize and toss overboard the offending hooks. But more grapplers sailed aboard for every one they removed.

Then Jomah pointed downstream. "Look!"

If anyone still wondered what the Bing-ites planned for the Hauph-woa, all doubts vanished at the sight of a charred ruin, blackened ribs spearing upward like a huge, halfVburned skeleton. It triggered an umble of dismay from the crew, resonating down Sara's spine and sending the noor beasts into frenzied fits of barking.

The hoon redoubled their efforts, tearing frantically at the hooks.

Sara's first instinct was to shield the Stranger. But the wounded man seemed safe, still unconscious under Pzora's protecting bulk.

"Come on," she told Blade. "We better help."

Pirates often used to attack ships this way until the Great Peace. Perhaps the attackers' own ancestors used the technique in deadly earnest, during the bad old days. The grapples, made of pointy Buyur metal, dug deep when the cables tautened. Sara realized in dismay that the cords were mule fiber, treated by a traeki process that made them d.a.m.nably hard to cut. Worse, the lines stretched not just to the coracles but all the way to sh.o.r.e, where locals hauled them taut with blocks and tackle. Hoon strength, helped by Blade's great claws, barely sufficed to wrestle the hooks free. Still, Sara tried to help, and even the g'Kek pa.s.senger kept lookout with four keen eyes, shouting to warn when another boat drew near. Only Jop leaned against the mast, watching with clear amus.e.m.e.nt. Sara had no doubt who the orthodox tree farmer was rooting for.

The beach loomed ever closer. If the Hauph-woa made it past midpoint, she'd have the river's pull on her side. But even that force might be too little to break the strong cords. When the keel sc.r.a.ped sand, it would spell the end.

In desperation, the crew hit on a new tactic. Taking up axes, they chopped away at planks and rails, wherever a grapple had dug in, tearing out whole wooden chunks to throw overboard, attacking their own vessel with a fury that was dazzling to behold, given normal hoon placidity.

Then, all at once, the deck jerked under Sara's feet as the whole boat suddenly shuddered, slewing, as if the center mast were a pivot.

"They've hooked the rudder!" someone cried.

Sara looked over the stern and saw a ma.s.sive metal barb speared through the great hinged paddle the helmsman used to steer the ship. The rudder could not be pulled aboard or chopped loose *without crippling the Hauph-woa, leaving it adrift and helpless.

Prity bared her teeth and screamed. Though shivering *with fear, the little ape started climbing over the rail, till Sara stopped her with a firm hand.

"It's my job," she said tersely, and without pause shrugged out of her tunic and kilt. A sailor handed her a hatchet with a strap-thong through the haft.

Don't everybody speak up all at once to argue me out of doing this, she thought sardonically, knowing no one would.

Some things were simply obvious.

The hatchet hung over one shoulder. It wasn't comforting to feel its metal coolness stroke her left breast as she climbed, even though the cutting edge still bore a leather cover.

Clothes would have been an impediment. Sara needed her toes, especially, to seek footholds on the Hauph-woa's stern. The clinker construction style left overlaps in the boards that helped a bit. Still, she could not prevent shivering, half from the morning chill and partly from stark terror. Sweaty palms made it doubly hard, even though her mouth felt dry as urrish breath.

I haven't done any climbing in years!

To nonhumans, this must look like another day's work for a tree-hugging Earthling. Kind of like expecting every urs to be a courier runner, or all traekis to make a good martini. In fact, Jop was the logical one for this task, but the captain didn't trust the man, with good reason.

The crew shouted tense encouragement as she clambered down the stern, holding the rudder with one arm. Meanwhile, derisive scorn came from the coracles and those ash.o.r.e. Great. More attention than I ever had in my life, and I'm stark naked at the time.

The mule-cable groaned with tension as villagers strained on pulleys to haul Hauph-woa toward the beach, where several gray qheuens gathered, holding torches that loomed so frighteningly close that Sara imagined she could hear the flames. At last, she reached a place where she could plant her feet and hands- bracing her legs in a way that forever surrendered all illusions of personal modesty. She had to tear the leather cover off the ax with her teeth and got a bitter electrical taste from the reddish metal. It made her shudder-then tense up as she almost lost her grip. The boat's churning wake looked oily and bitter cold.

Jeers swelled as she hacked at the rudder blade, sending chips flying, trying to cut a crescent around the embedded hook. She soon finished gouging away above the grapple and was starting on the tougher part below, when something smacked the back of her left hand, sending waves of pain throbbing up her arm. She saw blood ooze around a wooden sliver, protruding near the wrist.

A slingshot pellet lay buried halfway in the plank nearby.

Another glanced off the rudder, ricocheting from the boat's stern, then skipping across the water.