And some messages were patent nonsense. One thing about the Net: the multiple, automatic translations often disguised the fundamental alienness of participants. Behind the chatty, colloquial postings, there were faraway realms, so misted by distance and difference that communication was impossible-even though it might take a while to realize the fact. For instance: Crypto: 0 Syntax: 43 As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc Language path: Arbwyth->Trade24->Cherguelen->Triskweline, SjK units From: Twirlip of the Mists [Perhaps an organization of cloud fliers in a single jovian system. Very sparse priors.]

Subject: Blighter Video thread Key phrases: Hexapodia as the key insight Distribution:

Threat of the Blight

Date: 8.68 days since Fall of Relay Text of message: I haven't had a chance to see the famous video from Straumli Realm, except as an evocation. (My only gateway onto the Net is very expensive.) Is it true that humans have six legs? I wasn't sure from the evocation. If these humans have three pairs of legs, then I think there is an easy explanation for- Hexapodia? Six legs? Three pairs of legs? Probably none of these translations was close to what the bewildered creature of Twirlip had in its mind. Ravna didn't read any more of that posting.

Crypto: 0 Syntax: 43 As received by: OOB shipboard ad hoc Language path: Triskweline, SjK units From: Hanse [No references prior to the Fall of Relay. No probable source. This is someone being very cautious]

Subject: Blighter Video thread, Khurvark University 1 Distribution:

War Trackers Interest Group

Threat of the Blight

Date: 8.68 days since Fall of Relay Text of message: Khurvark University thinks the Blight is a fraud because elements of the former regime have survived on Straum. There is another explanation. Suppose the Blight is indeed a Power, and that its claims of effective symbiosis are generally true. That means that the creature being "Helped" is no more than a remotely controlled device, his brain simply a local processor supporting the communication. Would you want to be helped like that? My question isn't completely rhetorical; the readership is wide enough that there may be some of you who would answer "yes". However, the vast majority of naturally evolved, sentient beings would be revolted by the notion. Surely the Blight knows this. My guess is that the Blight is not a fraud-but that the notion of surviving culture in Straumli Realm is. Subtly, the Blight wanted to convey the impression that only some are directly enslaved, that cultures as a whole will survive. Combine that with Blight's claim that not all races can be teleoperated. We're left with the subtext that immense riches are available to races that associate themselves with this Power, yet the biological and intellectual imperatives of these races will still be satisfied.

So, the question remains. Just how complete is the Blight's control over conquered races? I don't know. There may not be any self-aware minds left in the Blight's Beyond, only billions of teleoperated devices. One thing is clear: The Blight needs something from us that it cannot yet take.

And so it went. Tens of thousands of messages, hundreds of points of view. It was not called the Net of a Million Lies for nothing. Ravna talked with Blueshell and Greenstalk about it every day, trying to put it together, trying to decide which interpretation to believe.

The Riders knew humans well, but even they weren't sure of the deadness in vn Nilsndot's face. And Greenstalk knew humans well enough to see that there was no answer that would comfort Ravna. She rolled back and forth in front of the News window, finally reached a frond out to touch the human. "Perhaps Sir Pham can say, once he is well."

Blueshell was bustly, clinical. "If you're right, that means that somehow the Blight doesn't care what humans and those close to humans know. In a way that makes sense, but..." His voder buzzed absentmindedly for a moment. "I mistrust this message. Four hundred seconds of broad-band, so rich that it gives full-sense imagery for many different races. That's an enormous amount of information, and no compression whatsoever... Maybe it's sweetened bait, forwarded by us poor Beyonders back to our every nest." That suspicion had been in the News too. But there were no obvious patterns in the message, and nothing that talked to network automation. Such subtle poison might work at the Top of the Beyond, but not down here. And that left a simpler explanation, one that would make perfect sense even on Nyjora or Old Earth: the video masked a message to agents already in place.

Vendacious was well-known to the people of Woodcarvers-but for mostly the wrong reasons. He was about a century old, the fusion offspring of Woodcarver on two of his strategists. In his early decades, Vendacious had managed the city's wood mills. Along the way he devised some clever improvements on the waterwheel. Vendacious had had his own romantic entanglements-mostly with politicians and speech-makers. More and more, his replacement members inclined him toward public life. For the last thirty years he had been one of the strongest voices on Woodcarvers Council; for the last ten, Lord Chamberlain. In both roles, he had stood for the guilds and for fair trade. There were rumors that if Woodcarver should ever abdicate or wholly die, Vendacious would be the next Lord of Council. Many thought that might be the best that could be made of such a disaster-though Vendacious's pompous speeches were already the bane of the Council.

That was the public's view of Vendacious. Anyone who understood the ways of security would also guess that the chamberlain managed Woodcarver's spies. No doubt he had dozens of informants in the mills and on the docks. But now Scriber knew that even that was just a cover. Imagine-having agents in the Flenser inner circle, knowing the Flenser plans, their fears, their weaknesses, and being able to manipulate them! Vendacious was simply incredible. Ruefully, Scriber must acknowledge the other's stark genius.

And yet ... this knowledge did not guarantee victory. Not all the Flenser schemes could be directly managed from the top. Some of the enemy's low-level operations might proceed unknown and quite successfully ... and it would only take a single arrow to totally kill Johanna Olsndot.

Here was where Scriber Jaqueramaphan could prove his value.

He asked to move into the castle curtain, on the third floor. No problem getting permission; his new quarters were smaller, the walls rudely quilted. A single arrow loop gave an uninspired view across the castle grounds. For Scriber's new purpose, the room was perfect. Over the next few days, he took to lurking in the promenades. The main walls were laced with tunnels, fifteen inches wide by thirty tall. Scriber could get almost anywhere in the curtain without being seen from outside. He padded single file from one tunnel to the next, emerging for a few moments on a rampart to flit from merlon to embrasure to merlon, a head poking out here, a head poking out there.

Of course he ran into guards, but Jaqueramaphan was cleared to be in the walls ... and he had studied the guards' routine. They knew he was around, but Scriber was confident they had no idea of the extent of his effort. It was hard, cold work, but worth the effort. Scriber's great goal in life was to do something spectacular and valuable. The problem was, most of his ideas were so deep that other packs-even people he respected immensely-didn't understand. That had been the problem with Johanna. Well, after a few more days he could go to Vendacious and then...

As he peeked around corners and through arrow slots, two of Scriber's members huddled down, taking notes. After ten days, he had enough to impress even Vendacious.

Vendacious's official residence was surrounded by rooms for assistants and guards. It was not the place to make a secret offer. Besides, Scriber had had bad luck with the direct approach before. You could wait days for an appointment, and the more patient you were, the more you followed the rules, the more the bureaucrats considered you a nonentity.

But Vendacious was sometimes alone. There was this turret on the old wall, on the forest side of the castle... Late on the eleventh day of his investigation, Scriber stationed himself on that turret and waited. An hour passed. The wind eased. Heavy fog washed in from the harbor. It oozed up the old wall like slow-moving sea foam. Everything became very, very quiet-the way it always does in a thick fog. Scriber nosed moodily around the turret platform; it really was decrepit. The mortar crumbled under his claws. It felt like you could pull some of the stones right out of the wall. Damn. Maybe Vendacious was going to break the pattern and not come up here today.

But Scriber waited another half hour ... and his patience paid off. He heard the click of steel on the spiral stairs. There was no sound of thought; it was just too foggy for that. A minute passed. The trapdoor popped up and a head stuck through.

Even in the fog, Vendacious's surprise was a fierce hiss.

"Peace, sir! It is only I, loyal Jaqueramaphan."

The head came further out. "What would a loyal citizen be doing up here?"

"Why, I am here to see you," Scriber said, laughing, "at this, your secret office. Come on up, sir. With this fog, there is enough room for both of us."

One after another, Vendacious's members hoisted themselves through the trapdoor. Some barely made it, their knives and jewelry catching on the door frame; Vendacious was not the slimmest of packs. The security chief ranged himself along the far side of the turret, a posture that bespoke suspicion. He was nothing like the pompous, patronizing pack of their public encounters. Scriber grinned to himself. He certainly had the other's attention.

"Well?" Vendacious said in a flat voice.

"Sir. I wish to offer my services. I believe that my very presence here shows I can be of value to Woodcarver's security. Who but a talented professional could have determined that you use this place as your secret den?"

Vendacious seemed to untense a little. He smiled wryly. "Who indeed? I come here precisely because this part of the old wall can't be seen from anywhere in the castle. Here I can ... commune with the hills, and be free of bureaucratic trivia."

Jaqueramaphan nodded. "I understand, sir. But you are wrong in one detail." He pointed past the security chief. "You can't see it through all this fog, but on the harbor side of the castle there is a single spot that has a line of sight on your turret."

"So? Who could see much from-ah, the eye-tools you brought from the Republic!"

"Exactly." Scriber reached into a pocket and brought out a telescope. "Even from across the yard, I could recognize you." The eye-tools could have made Scriber famous. Woodcarver and Scrupilo had been enchanted by them. Unfortunately, honesty had required to him to admit that he bought the devices from an inventor in Rangathir. Never mind that it was he who recognized the value of the invention, that it was he who used it to help rescue Johanna. When they discovered that he did not know quite how the lenses worked, they had accepted his gift of one ... and turned to their own glass makers. Oh well, he was still the best eye-tool user in this part of the world.

"It's not just you I've been watching, my lord. That's been the smallest part of my investigation. Over the last ten days I've spent many hours on the castle walks."

Vendacious's lips quirked. "Indeed."

"I daresay not many noticed me, and I was very careful that no one saw me using the eye-tool. In any case," he pulled his book from another pocket, "I've compiled extensive notes. I know who goes where and when during almost all the hours of light. You can imagine the power of my technique during the summer!" He set the book on the floor and slid it toward Vendacious. After a moment, the other reached a member forward and dragged it toward himself. He didn't seem very enthusiastic.

"Please understand, sir. I know that you tell Woodcarver what goes on in the highest Flenser councils. Without your sources we would be helpless against those lords, but-"

"Who told you such things?"

Scriber gulped. Brazen it out. He grinned weakly. "No one had to tell me. I'm a professional, like yourself; and I know how to keep a secret. But think: there may be others of my ability within the castle, and some might be traitors. You might never hear of them from your high-placed sources. Think of the damage they could do. You need my help. With my approach, you can keep track of everyone. I would be happy to train a corps of investigators. We could even operate in the city, watching from the market towers."

The security chief sidled around the parapet; he kicked idly at stones in the rotted mortar. "The idea has its attractions. Mind you, I think we have all Flenser's agents identified; we feed them well ... with lies. It's interesting to hear the lies come back from our sources up there." He laughed shortly, and glanced over the parapet, thinking. "But you're right. If we are missing anyone with access to the Two-legs or Dataset ... it could be disastrous." He turned more heads at Scriber. "You've got a deal. I can get you four or five people to, ah, train in your methods."

Scriber couldn't control his expression; he almost bounced in enthusiasm, all eyes on Vendacious. "You won't regret this, sir!"

Vendacious shrugged. "Probably not. Now, how many others have you told about your investigation? We'll want to bring them in, swear them to secrecy."

Scriber drew himself up. "My Lord! I told you that I am a professional. I have kept this completely to myself, waiting for this conversation."

Vendacious smiled and relaxed to an almost genial posture. "Excellent. Then we can begin."

Maybe it was Vendacious's voice-a trifle too loud-or maybe it was some small sound behind him. Whatever the reason, Scriber turned a head from the other and saw swift shadows coming over the forest side of the parapet. Too late he heard the attacker's mind noise.

Arrows hissed, and fire burned through his Phan's throat. He gagged, but kept himself together and raced around the turret toward Vendacious. "Help me!" The scream was a waste of speech. Scriber knew, even before the other drew his knives and backed away.

Vendacious stood clear as his assassin jumped into Scriber's midst. Rational thought dimmed in a frenzy of noise and slashing pain. Tell Peregrine! Tell Johanna! The butchering continued for timeless instants and then- Part of him was drowning in sticky red. Part of him was blinded. Jaquerama's thought came in ragged fragments. At least one of him was dead: Phan lay beheaded in a spreading pool of blood. It steamed in the cold air. Pain and cold and ... drowning, choking ... tell Johanna.

The assassin and his boss had retreated from him. Vendacious. Security chief. Traitor-in-chief. Tell Johanna. They stood quietly ... watching him bleed to death. Too prissy to mess their thoughts with his. They'd wait. They'd wait ... till his mind noise dimmed, then finish the job.

Quiet. So quiet. The killers' distant thoughts. Sounds of gagging, moaning. No one would ever know...

Almost all gone. Ja stared dumbly at the two strange packs. One came toward him, steel claws on its feet, blades in its mouth. No! Ja jumped up, slipping and skidding on the wet. The pack lunged, but Ja was already standing on the parapet. He leaped backwards and fell and fell...

... and shattered on rocks far below. Ja pulled himself away from the wall. There was pain across his back, then numbness. Where am I? Where am I? Fog everywhere. High above him there were muttering voices. Memories of knives and tines floated in his small mind, all jumbled. Tell Johanna! He remembered ... something ... from before. A hidden trail through deep brush. If he went that way far enough, he would find Johanna.

Ja dragged himself slowly up the path. Something was wrong with his rear legs; he couldn't feel them. Tell Johanna.

NINETEEN.

Johanna coughed; things just seemed to go from bad to worse around here. She'd had a sore throat and sniffles the last three days. She didn't know whether to be frightened or not. Diseases were an everyday thing in medieval times. Yeah, and lots of people died of them, too! She wiped her nose and tried to concentrate on what Woodcarver was saying.

"Scrupilo has already made some gunpowder. It works just as Dataset predicted. Unfortunately, he nearly lost a member trying to use it in a wooden cannon. If we can't make cannon, I'm afraid-"

A week ago, Woodcarver wouldn't have been welcome here; all their meetings had been down in the castle halls. But then Johanna got sick-it was a "cold", she was sure-and hadn't felt like running around out of doors. Besides, Scriber's visit had kind of ... shamed her. Some of the packs were decent enough. She had decided to try and get along with Woodcarver-and Pompous Clown too, if he'd ever come around again. As long as creatures like Scarbutt stayed out of her way... Johanna leaned a little closer to the fire and waved away Woodcarver's objections; sometimes this pack seemed like her eldest grandmother. "Assume we can make them. We have lots of time till summer. Tell Scrupilo to study the dataset more carefully, and quit trying shortcuts. The question is, how to use them to rescue my star ship."

Woodcarver brightened. The drooler broke off wiping its muzzle to join the others in a head bob. "I've talked about this with Peregr-with several people, especially Vendacious. Ordinarily, getting an army to Hidden Island would be a terrible problem. Going by sea is fast, but there are some deadly choke points along way. Going through the forest is slow, and the other side would have plenty of warning. But great good luck: Vendacious has found some safe trails. We may be able to sneak-"

Someone was scratching at the door.

Woodcarver cocked a pair of heads. "That's strange," she said.

"Why?" Johanna asked absently. She hiked the quilt around her shoulders and stood. Two of Woodcarver went with her to the door.

Johanna opened the door and looked into the fog. Suddenly Woodcarver was talking loudly, all gobble. Their visitor had retreated. Something was strange, and for an instant she couldn't figure what it was. This was the first time she had seen a dogthing all by itself. The point barely registered when most of Woodcarver spilled past her, out the doorway. Then Johanna's servant, up in the loft, began screaming. The sound jabbed pain through Johanna's ears.

The lone Tine twisted awkwardly on its rear and tried to drag itself away, but Woodcarver had it surrounded. She shouted something and the screeching in the loft stopped. There was the thump of paws on wooden stairs, and the servant bounded into the open, its crossbows cocked. From down the hill, she heard the rattle of weapons as guards raced toward them.

Johanna ran to Woodcarver, ready to add her fists to any defense. But the pack was nuzzling the stranger, licking its neck. After a moment, Woodcarver caught the Tine by its jacket. "Help me carry him inside, Johanna please."

The girl lifted the Tine's flanks. The fur was damp with mist ... and sticky with blood.

Then they were through the doorway and laying the member on a pillow by the fire. The creature was making that breathy whistling, the sound of ultimate pain. It looked up at her, its eyes so wide she could see the white all around. For an instant she thought it was terrified of her, but when she stepped back, it just made the sound louder and stretched its neck toward her. She knelt beside the pillow. It lay its muzzle on her hand.

"W-what is it?" She looked back along its body, past the padded jacket. The Tine's haunches were twisted at an odd angle, one legged dangling near the fire.

"Don't you know-" began Woodcarver. "This is part of Jaqueramaphan." She pushed a nose under the dangling leg, and raised it onto the pillow.

There was loud talk between the guards and Johanna's servant. Through the door she saw members holding torches; they rested their forepaws on their fellows shoulders, and held the lights high. No one tried to come in; there'd be no room.

Johanna looked back at the injured Tine. Scriber? Then she recognized the jacket. The creature looked back at her, still wheezing its pain. "Can't you get a doctor!"

Woodcarver was all around her. She answered, "I am a doctor, Johanna." She nodded at the dataset and continued softly, "At least, what passes for one here."

Johanna wiped blood from the creature's neck. More kept oozing. "Well, can you save him?"

"This fragment maybe, but-" One of Woodcarver went to the door and talked to the packs beyond. "My people are searching for the rest of him... I think he is mostly murdered, Johanna. If there were others ... well, even fragments stick together."

"Has he said anything?" It was another voice, speaking Samnorsk. Scarbutt. His big ugly snout was stuck through the doorway.

"No," said Woodcarver. "And his mind noise is a complete jumble."

"Let me listen to him," said Scarbutt.

"You stay back, you!" Johanna's voice was a scream; the creature in her arms twitched.

"Johanna! This is Scriber's friend. Let him help." As the Scarbutt pack sidled into the room, Woodcarver climbed into the loft, giving him room.

Johanna eased her arm from under the injured Tine and moved aside, ending up at the doorway herself. There were lots more packs outside than she had imagined, and they were standing closer than she had ever seen. Their torches glowed like soft fluorescents in the foggy dark.

Her gaze snapped back to the fire pit. "I'm watching you!"

Scarbutt's members clustered around the pillow. The big one lay its head next to the injured Tine's. For a moment the Tine continued its breathy whistling. Scarbutt gobbled at it. The reply was a steady warbling, almost beautiful. From up in the loft, Woodcaver said something. She and Scarbutt talked back and forth.

"Well?" said Johanna.

"Ja-the fragment-is not a 'talker'," came Woodcarver's voice.

"Worse," said Scarbutt. "For now at least, I can't match his mind sounds. I'm not getting sense or image from him; I can't tell who murdered Scriber."

Johanna stepped back into the room, and walked slowly to the pillow. Scarbutt moved aside, but did not leave the wounded Tine. She knelt between two of him and petted the long, bloodied neck. "Will Ja"-she spoke the sound as best she could-"live?"

Scarbutt ran three noses down the length of the body. They pressed gently at the wounds. Ja twisted and whistled ... except when Scarbutt pressed his haunches. "I don't know. Most of this blood is just splatter, probably from the other members. But his spine is broken. Even if the fragment lives, he'll have only two usable legs."