They had made good time, the best that Duncan could do, from nooning till now, that the sun began its midair vanishing out over the basins, and shadows were beginning to fade. Duncan kept the pace still, his breathing loud and raw. At times Niun caught him walking with eyes shut: he was doing so now, and Niun took his arm and guided him, breaking rapport with the dus, wishing to shed none of his despair on Duncan. He tried it again in the shadows’ deepening . . . shaped again what he sought of the dusei, received back nothing comforting, no sense of friendly presence. There was a prickling of something else as they neared the rocks, a sense which might come of one of the ha-dusei, remote, disturbed.
Melein had warned him: other cities, she had said. Other choices. Hlil had gotten back; must have.
And somewhere they must find a place to rest, a place for Dun-can. They had entered into a trap, a triangle of land with the rim on one side, the chasm of the cut on the other, and the enemy behind them, on the third. The dusei had led them here; they had followed, hoping and blind, reliant on them.
Still that blankness: dusine obsession, perhaps, with what followed . . . they were notoriously single-minded. But the dread grew in him, that the emptiness might be death, might be that Hlil had failed, that the storm had been too much for them. Dusei could not comprehend death, minds that would not respond; a be wildered persistence even without answer.
“Sov-kela,” he said finally, himself hoarse with exertion. “They have moved on.”
Duncan did not falter, did not answer. Some emotion came back through the dusei, a kind of panic, quickly smothered.
“We . . . go across the cut,” Niun said. “We know where they are not; and the dusei probably mean . . . we should keep going south. The cut goes half a day’s march around its farther end; a long diversion for our followers . . . a cautious approach this way, to go down . . . where they could meet trouble. Where I know the ground and they do not. Stay with me. Stay with me.”
“Aye,” Duncan said, a sound hardly recognizable.
Colors began to fade from the land. In the treacherous last light they entered the trail itself, passed under the place where a sentry should have challenged them. Sand had filled here, unreadable in the constant gentle wind, a thick blanket which lay knee-deep over the old trail, half burying rocks which had once stood clear. The dusei gave neither alarm nor sense of contact, shambling along before them.
Suddenly the way opened to the terrible vista of the sand-slip, which admitted the last amber light upon a sand-surface widened and seamed much farther than it once had been. “Yai!” Niun exclaimed, willing the dusei to stay close to them, giddy even to contemplate that fall and tormented with an abiding fear, that the dusei had brought them here because they had no other track, because there was nothing farther, and the others were lost, down that, down there.
Duncan breathed an exclamation beside him, a choked sound; Niun reached back, flung an arm about him, guided his unsteady steps as they came down along the edge of the cliffs. The least bream might set it into motion again, might rip loose not only that unstable surface but reach far back into the canyon.
He and Duncan walked the edge of the cliffs, the dusei throwing their heads in mistrust of this place . . . by instinct or some knowledge gleaned of his mind, they hugged the cliffs as well, shouldering against the rock, rolling nervous eyes on that outer surface.
They reached the place which had belonged to Kel, and within was nothing but shadow, sand filled halfway up to the roof of the recess. Beyond that the sandfall continued, pouring down onto what was now the face of the slip, having lost much of the cone which it had built up before. They crossed under the whispering fall and back and back in the canyon, where it had begun to be night, where the seam of the slip did not reach.
“Now,” Niun said. “We cross here. No delicacy and no delay; it goes or it does not.”
He sent stern command to the dusei and seized Duncan by the arm, and such as they could, they ran, crossing the stone’s-throw of sand. There was a natural slipping underfoot, no more than that; and the rocks loomed before them, received them into safety. Duncan stumbled and caught himself against the rocks, moved when Niun seized him and pulled him on, up, into the tangle of rocks and wind-carved stone. The dusei climbed, no natural activity for them, with a clatter of stone and scratching of claws, and Niun clambered after, up and up where there had been an ascent from the far side.
And halfway up, a shelf, a tilting slab, hardly more than a dus’s width. The beasts went on climbing, sending down small rocks; Niun stopped there, tucked up in a cramped position, dragged Duncan as much onto the ledge as he could. Duncan coughed, a racking, heaving cough lay face down and curled somewhat; and Niun crouched there listening, his hand on Duncan’s heaving shoulder.’
The dusei reached the top, perhaps to move on, perhaps to wait; Niun willed them to wait, felt Duncan’s breathing ease at last to deep gasps and finally to a quick, shallow pace. There was no bed but the cold stone, no place but this to rest. In his mind Niun hoped their pursuers would try the cut in the dark—one grand slide to oblivion for that carelessness, going into that place not knowing it was there. Or if they came around it, they would go some distance out of their way, some far distance. There was time to rest, enough, at least, to give Duncan a little ease.
Melein, he cast out toward his dus, hoping, desperately hoping. There was nothing, but only that remote unease that had begun this day and continued. He dared not yield to sleep; tired as he was, he might go on sleeping, until the moment he found himself surrounded by hao’nath.
He did sleep, came awake with a guilty jerk, an attempt to focus his eyes on the stars, to know how long. The moon was up. For a moment it seemed a star moved, and his strained eyes blinked and lost it: illusion, he persuaded himself. There was still a star there, stable and twinkling with dust. He watched that patch of visible heavens until he found his eyes closing again, despite numbed limbs and the misery of a point of rock in his back; Dun-can’s back moved evenly under his hand. He stayed still a long time, finally moved his hand and shook at Duncan, as reluctantly as he would have struck him.
“Move,” he said. “We have to move.”
Duncan tried, almost slipped off the ledge in trying to push himself up to his knees; Niun seized him by his Honors-belt and steadied him, moved his own stiffened limbs and pulled, secured a better grip on him. Somewhere above them the dusei stirred out of a sleep, and vague alarm prickled through the air, a re-reckoning of positions. The enemy had a new direction . . . going around the cut, Niun reckoned.
Where Melein might have gone, to be set in their path before he might.
He climbed, hauling Duncan’s faltering steps higher with him, bracing himself and struggling by turns. At last the upper rocks were about them, and a sandy ridge, a last hard climb. Duncan hung on him and made it, carried his own weight then, though bent and stumbling. The dusei met them there, comfort in the dark and the moonlight; and before them stretched another flat, and the low southern hills.
A land with no more limits than the one they had just passed from; and no sight of a camp, nothing.
“Come,” he urged Duncan, against complaints Duncan had not voiced. He caught Duncan’s sleeve, gentle guidance, started walking, a slower pace than before. It was almost the worse for rest; aches settled into bones, rawness into his throat: Duncan’s hoarse breathing and occasional coughs caught at his own nerves, and at times he hesitated in a step as if his joints yielded, minute pauses, one upon the next.
And suddenly there was sense of presence, familiar presence, home, home, home.
“They are out there,” Niun exclaimed. “Sov-kela, do you feel it?”
“Yes.” The voice was nothing like Duncan’s. It managed joy. “I do.”
And out of some reserve of strength he widened his steps, struggled the harder, a hand cupped to his mouth, attempt to warm the air.
Rounded domes of rock existed here and there, knobs of sand-stone wind-smoothed,
sometimes hollowed into bowls or flattened into tear shapes. A skirl of sand ran along the ground, a wind for once at their backs, helping and not tormenting, for all that it was cold; and a lightening began in the east, the first apricot seam of dawn.
Dus-sense persisted, a muddle of confusions, urging them south, unease in one quarter and another, as if the evil had fragmented and scattered; there was hope amid it; and a darkness that was nearest of all, a void, a shielded spot in the network.
It acquired substance.
There was a stone, a roughness in the land: dus, perhaps . . . a ha-dus might have such a feel, nonparticipant; might look so, a lump of shadow in the dawn.
The shape straightened, black-robed, weapons and Honors aglitter in the uncertain light. Niun stopped; Duncan did. And suddenly dus-sense took hold of that other mind, a muddle of distress before it closed itself off again.
“Ras,” Niun murmured. He started walking again, Duncan beside him. The dusei reached the kel’e’en and edged back, growling.
“Ja’anom,” Duncan breathed.
“Aye,” Niun said. He walked closer than stranger’s-distance to her; it was no place for raising voices.
“You found him,” Ras said.
“Where is the rest of the tribe?”
She lifted a robed arm south-southeast, as they were bearing.
“Are they well?” Niun asked, bitter at having to ask.
“When I left.”
Duncan made a faltering move and sat down, bowed over. Ras spared him a cold glance. Niun swallowed pride and knelt down by him, fended off the dus that wanted close to him, then let it, for the warmth was comfort to Duncan. Niun leaned his hands against his own knees, to rest, the reassurance of Ras’s message coiling uncertainly in his belly. He put aside the rest of his reserve and looked up at Ras. “All safe?”
“Kel Ros, sen Otha, sen Kadas . . . dead.”
He let it go, bowed his head, too weary to go into prolonged questioning with Ras. He had not known the sen’ein; Ros had been a quiet man, even for a kel’en; he had never known him either.
Ras settled with a rustling of cloth, kel-sword across her knees to lean on.
“There are others out there,” Niun said at last. “Hao’nath. They have been following some few days.”
If that perturbed Ras she did not show it.
“Did Hlil send you?” he asked.
“No.”
The old feeling returned, that tautness at the gut that assailed him whenever Ras turned up in his path, or behind him. Brother and sister was the obligation between them; it was mockery. For a moment the hao’nath themselves seemed warmer.
“Come,” he said. “Duncan, can you?”
Duncan moved and tried. Niun rose and took his arm, lifting him up, and at the unsteadiness he felt, slipped an arm about him, started in the direction the dus-sense indicated.
Ras walked beside him this time, a shielded blankness in the dus-sense. Mri of Kesrith had learned that inner veil, living among dusei; Ras had, of loathing or of necessity, ignoring even a warding-impulse to stay with him.
The light brought detail to the land, the rounded hills, the limitless flat, the shadowy gape of the cut they had passed.
There was nothing in all of it that indicated a camp.
* * *
The preparations had that cold and lonely feeling which always came of dawn hours and broken routines. Galey meddled with his personal gear while the three regs with him did the same, and all of them waited on Boaz.
Ben Shibo, Moshe Kadarin, Ed Lane, two legitimate regs and Lane, who was more tech than hot, in armscomp. Shibo was backup pilot; Kadarin he had picked for a combination of reasons the others shared, the several world-patches on his sleeve, a personnel file that indicated an absence of hatreds, a phlegmatic acceptance of close contact with regul.
They took to Boaz’s presence the same way: quietly, keeping misgivings to themselves.
At present the misgivings were his own, a fretting at the delay, wondering if at the last moment Luiz might not confound them all by interposing his own orders.
But at length she came, Luiz trailing anxiously in her wake. She had a clutter of gear with her photographic and otherwise; and Galey objected to nothing—it was civ business and none of his. She paused to press a kiss on the old surgeon’s cheek, and Galey turned his head, feeling oddly intrusive between these two. “Load aboard,” he told the others; Kadarin and Lane gathered up the gear and went out. Shibo delayed to offer a hand for Boaz’s gear.
“No,” she said, adjusting the straps. Fiftyish, stout to the extent she could not fit into one of their fight suits, she wore an insulated jacket and breeches that in no wise made her slighter. Her crown of gray-blonde braids lent her a curious dignity. She looked at him, questioning. “Out,” he said. She paused for another look at Luiz and went.
The question had occurred to him more than once, how much Saber knew, whether Luiz had communicated to Koch precisely which civ had been included. There was at the back of his mind a doubt on that point, the suspicion that he was ultimately responsible, and that Koch would lay matters to his account. Boaz was not expendable.
So what good, she had cornered him, what good is some assistant of mine with good legs and no comprehension of what he’s seeing? What’s known of mri customs is my work; what’s known of the mri writings I broke in the first place. You need me to get the answers you’re going for. I’m your safety out there.
He wanted her, trusted her attitudes that did not want holocaust. He offered his own hand to Luiz, forbore the question and walked out, after the others.
Cold, thin air. Without the breathers for the short trip between hatch and shuttle, they were all panting by the time they had the shuttle hatch closed, and settled into the cheerless, cramped interior. Galey took his place at controls, gave them light other than what came in from outside, started up the engines.
He cast a look back and to the side of him, found nothing but calm faces in the greenish glow . . . wondered if Boaz was afraid: no less than the rest of them, he reckoned.
He cleared with Flower and started lift, disturbing the sand. He did not seek any great altitude; the ground ripped past in the dawning, a blur of infrequent irregularities in the sands. Eventually the chasm gaped beneath them and he banked and dropped. He passed no orders, kept scan audio in his ear, and Shibo, beside him, watched as intently.
They went for the nearest of the sites; and it was the safest approach in his calculation, the best approach to that site potentially ready and hostile . . . . to fly below rim level. Dizzying perspective opened before them in the dawn, rocks blurring past on the left. Air currents jerked at them. In places sand torrented off the heights before them, cables and ribbons of sand which fell kilometers down to the bottom of the sea chasm . . . stained with sun colors. Rounded peaks rose disembodied out of the chasm haze.
And nearer and nearer they came to the city, to that point at which he had designated on their charts a limit to air approach.
His hands sweated; no one had spoken a word for the duration of the flight. He gathered a little altitude, peering over the rim and hoping to live through the probe.
“No fire,” Lane breathed at his shoulder . . . for confirmation, perhaps, that they were still alive.
The ruins were in sight now; he slipped over the plateau, settled down, shut down the engines.
No one seemed to breathe for the moment.
“Out,” Galey said, freeing himself of the restraints. There was no question, no hesitation, no sorting of gear: all of that on their part was already done. They went for the exit and scrambled down, himself last, to secure the ship. After that there was the ping of metal cooling, the whisper of the sand and the wind, nothing more. They shouldered the burden of breather-tanks, pulled up the masks which rasped with their breaths, adjusted equipment.
And walked, an easy pace, heavily booted against the denizens of the sands. Breathing seemed easier out of the vulnerable vicinity of
the ship.
Boaz meddled with a pocket, fished out black and gold cloth which fluttered lightly in the breeze. “Suggest you adopt the black,” she said. Galey took one, and the other three did, while Boaz tied the conspicuous gold to her arm.
“Black is Kel,” he said, “and gold is scholars.”
“Noncombatant. If they respect that, you’ve a chance, in an encounter.”
“Because of you.”
“It’s something they might at least question.”
It was something, at least. There was the city before them, a far, far walk, and a lonely one. They were smaller targets apart from the ship, less deserving of the great weapons of the city.
Most of all was the cold, the knife-sharp air, and an abiding consciousness that they had no help but themselves.
Mri did not take prisoners. Humanity had learned that long ago.
Chapter Nine
The tents were in sight, appearing out of the evening and a roll of the land, and there was still no forcing. Duncan tried, and had soon to sink down and rest all the same, senses completely grayed for the moment, so that all he felt was his dus and the touch of its hot velvet body.
More came, then: dus-carried . . . Niun’s presence, the cold blankness that was Ras Kov-Nelan. It was one with the sickness that throbbed in his temples, that muddle of anxiousness and cold.
“Go on,” Duncan said after a moment. “Am I a child, that I cannot walk to what I Can see? You go on. Send someone out for me if you must.”
Niun paid no heed to him. He moved his numb hands over the shoulder of the dus, his vision clearing finally. Niun was kneeling near him, Ras standing. Somewhere was consciousness of what they sought; somewhere was the sense of their pursuers, anger and desire, an element in which he had moved for uncounted time, that gnawed persistently at them, far, far east and north, dus-carried.