Scanner's Note: The Roads of Heaven trilogy is one of my favorite
"alternate scientific paradigm" kinds of trilogies. Set in the far future,
Melissa Scott makes up LOTS of words, and abuses the hell out of
compounded words and conjunctions, as part of developing a subtle dialect
to reflect changes in usage and language. While I think she does a good
job of making them sound normal, without requiring a lot of explanation in
the text, they give spellcheckers fits. Except for a couple of blatant
spelling errors in the original text, I have kept these strange
conjunctions and compound words as printed in this edition. 



The Roads of Heaven: 

Five-Twelfths of Heaven 

Silence in Solitude 

The Empress of Earth 







THE EMPRESS OF EARTH 

The Third Book of "The Roads of Heaven" 

by Melissa Scott 

Copyrights 1987 by Melissa Scott 



Chapter I 

THE GRASSLAND SLOPED GENTLY DOWN TOWARD THE LOW cliff and the
scrub-covered mountainside below it, the red-tipped leaves of the clinging
pines barely rising above the edge of the cliff. Beyond the dark line
stretched the Silvermarsh, its vast expanse veined with blue-gleaming
channels, the grey-white reeds rising and falling in a breeze that did not
reach the clifftop. On the horizon, where the solid ground of the Shiled
Islet lifted at last out of the marshes, the towers of Anshar Asteriona
were faintly visible. 

Silence Leigh, lying halfway up the grassy slope, shook her head slowly,
moved in spite of herself by the subtle beauty. She was a star-traveller,
a pilot, inured to the scenery of a hundred different worlds, familiar
with the significant beauties of purgatory, the voidmarks spread across a
gaudy sky; a simple marshland shouldn't seem so exquisite. But then, this
was Asterion, central world of the Hegemony, the greatest power in
human-settled space, and this view, this hillside above a cliff, was part
of the Hegemon's personal estates, all of which had been chosen to take
advantage of naturally occurring beauty. Of course the Silvermarsh would
be magnificent. 

Sighing, she leaned back into the curve of one husband's arm. Julian Chase
Mago shifted drowsily, adjusting himself to her weight. The other husband,
Denis Balthasar, was soundly asleep, his head resting against her hip, one
arm thrown across her thighs. Overhead, the sky was very bright, the hot,
hazed blue of Asterion's late summer. They said, in the magi's hostel,
that Asterion had been chosen as the capital because it bore a close
resemblance to lost Earth; sleepily, Silence wondered if it were true. All
human-settled worlds resembled Earth to a degree: systemic and planetary
harmonies related to the original notes of Earth and Earth's star system
in varying degrees, allowing the star-ships to travel easily between them,
but a close resemblance seemed unlikely. There would be ways to calculate
the probability, of course -- her teacher Isambard would know them.... 

She shook herself lightly, stretching a shoulder that had stiffened. Chase
Mago, disturbed by the movement, murmured an incoherent question, and
promptly fell asleep again. Silence smiled. This had been the first day in
months she had not spent studying, or, with her husbands, supervising the
refitting of the starship, Recusante, for the long voyage to Earth. In
fact, Chase Mago should have been installing new dolor-crystal pipes in
the harmonium that morning, a delicate, boring operation that would have
kept all three of them fully occupied for seven or eight hours, if the
dockyard hadn't failed to make its delivery. Isambard had left for the
magi's hostel in Savaid, Anshar' Asteriona's western suburb, a little
after sunrise, to be out of their way. If he hadn't left so early, Silence
thought, still smiling, she would have had to spend at least a part of the
day with him. Isambard had acknowledged eight standard months ago that she
was a magus -- a theoretical impossibility that still made her laugh, so
thoroughly had she upset the magi's understanding of the worlds -- but
they both knew she was still relatively inexperienced. Her skills would
have to be honed and polished before they made the attempt on the
Earth-road. Even so, she thought, I need some time apart. 

She sighed, her smile fading. The thought of Earth, of the complicated web
of obligation and unwritten contract that kept her searching for a way to
reach the lost planet, drove away her lingering pleasure in the view. 

She shifted against Chase Mago's encircling arm, suddenly faintly
impatient with the day's enforced leisure. It was not that she regretted
the laziness, but that she was ready to complete the adventure she'd begun
nearly two years before. The engineer opened his eyes and yawned hugely,
teeth very white behind his dark beard. Before he could speak, however, a
flat voice said respectfully, "Sieuri." 

Silence sat up, finally disturbing Balthasar, who muttered querulously and
rolled over, rubbing at his eyes. She ignored him, and turned to glare up
at the figure that stood patiently at the top of the slope. 

"I left orders we weren't to be disturbed," she said. 

The homunculus looked back at her. It was an expensive toy, finely
detailed, its face an immobile, inhumanly beautiful mask sculpted by one
of the Hegemony's greatest artists. "A priority call," it said. The voice
issued without inflection from a pinhole in the slightly pouting lips. 

Silence eyed the homunculus warily. "Who is it?" 

"The vizier n'Halian." The homunculus's voice did not change, but it
lifted one grey-fleshed hand to its gilded forehead in imprinted response
to the title. 

"N'Halian?" Balthasar sat up, frowning. "I wonder what he wants." 

Silence shrugged, and pushed herself to her feet. Halian n'Halian was the
Hegemon's chief minister and his most trusted servant -- not a man to be
kept waiting. 

Chase Mago stood, stretching, then turned to pull Balthasar to his feet.
"Who knows?" the big engineer said, calmly enough, but his eyes were wary.

"I bet it isn't good news," Balthasar muttered. 

"Don't be such a goddamn pessimist," Silence said, more sharply than she'd
intended. Balthasar grinned, and she knew he'd recognized her own fear.
She gestured quickly to the homunculus, cutting off the Delian's response.
"Please inform the vizier we're on our way. We can call him back, if he
doesn't want to wait." 

"I beg your pardon, sieura," the homunculus answered. "The vizier is
waiting in the garden room." 

The three humans exchanged glances, and then Silence said again, "Tell the
vizier we're on our way." 

"Yes, sieura." The homunculus bowed over folded, grey-fingered hands and
turned away, striding over the uneven ground with inhuman precision. 

As soon as it was out of earshot, Chase Mago said, "That's very odd." 

Silence reached for the thin, gold-flecked shawl she carried instead of
the veil required by Hegemonic law, and wound it expertly around her head,
covering her boy-short black hair, and tossed the trailing end over her
left shoulder, just concealing nose and mouth. It would -- just --
preserve the amenities, but there was no time to change into full court
regalia. "Very," she agreed. 

"Come on." Balthasar was already hurrying up the hill after the
homunculus; Chase Mago shrugged and followed. Silence clambered after
them, frowning. There was no reason that she knew of for the vizier to
come to the villa in person; all the obvious things could just as easily
have been dealt with over the view-globe network. But there shouldn't be
anything wrong, either, she thought, and ducked under a trailing branch
from one of the allreds that formed a windbreak at the top of the slope.
At the Hegemon's request, she had stayed out of sight for the past months,
letting the Thousand, the members of the great families that governed the
Hegemony, forget that Adeben Kibbe owed his throne at least in part to a
woman magus. She hadn't been outside the villa, except to visit the magi's
hostel or the star-travellers' Pale surrounding Anshar' Asteriona's
starport, in over a month. 

Inside the line of allreds, the landscape flattened suddenly, manicured
lawn stretching as though cut with a level from the tidy edge of the
carpet of fallen leaves to the fretted door. Above the bluestone lintel,
carved with an abstract pattern of leaves and twining flowers, the garden
room's glass wall had gone green in the afternoon sunlight. Behind it,
Silence could just make out the moving shadow that was the vizier. Pacing?
she thought, with a sudden feeling of dread, but Chase Mago pushed open
the fretted door before she was certain. 

Another of the villa's homunculi was waiting at the foot of the back
stairway, formal clothes -- knee-length coats for the men, and a
floor-length veil for her -- draped across its stiff arms. Chase Mago
absently accepted the larger of the coats, fastening its buttons all the
way up to the high collar, but Balthasar waved his away, grimacing.
Silence hesitated for a moment, then started up the stairs without taking
the longer veil. 

Halian n'Halian was standing in the middle of the garden room, staring at
the central fountain without really seeing the fine haze of water. He
turned at the sound of the door opening, and the sunlight streaming
through the windows glittered from the tips of his forked beard. 

"Sieuri." 

"Vizier," Silence answered, watching his eyes. N'Halian wore his most
opaque expression, but she was usually able to read some indication of his
mood. She did not think he was afraid, or angry, but there was a new
hesitation in his manner that troubled her. 

"I am sorry to trouble you, when your servants said you were engaged, "
n'Halian continued smoothly, "but his Majesty wishes to speak to you." 

"What about?" That was Balthasar, coming up on Silence's left. The pilot
glanced sideways, and saw that the Delian's thin face was set in a
truculent scowl. Before she could say anything, however, Chase Mago made
his chilly, oligarch's bow. 

"Vizier," the engineer said. "I hope nothing's wrong?" 

N'Halian shook his head, and in spite of herself, Silence gave a sigh of
relief. Balthasar's mouth twisted, but for once he said nothing. 

"I'm instructed to say that his Majesty has acquired something he believes
will be of use to you," n'Halian went on, with a smile that showed his
gold-set teeth. "He would like to discuss it with you in person." 

That's better news than I expected, Silence thought, and said aloud, "Of
course, vizier. Can you give us any more details?" 

N'Halian shook his head. "I'm sorry, sieura, but his Majesty hasn't told
me anything more." 

"I see," Silence said. She didn't quite believe him, but knew better than
to press the issue. "Do we have time to change?" 

"That won't be necessary," n'Halian answered. "If you'll come with me,
sieuri, I have a flyer waiting." 

Silence hesitated for a moment, seeing her reflection in the wall of glass
behind n'Halian. She was still wearing the boys' clothes she had adopted
on Solitude Hermae, loose tunic belted over shapeless trousers, tool kit
dangling from her belt -- hardly the sort of thing she should wear to face
the ruler of two-thirds of human-settled space, especially when it was
topped oft" by the fraying, almost transparent shawl instead of a veil.
But that was vanity, and she knew it. It wasn't the elegance of court
costume -- an elegance that weighed over twelve kilograms -- that she
missed, but the familiarity of Rusadir tunic and tights. "As his Majesty
wishes," she said aloud, and wound the shawl more securely across her
face. 

N'Halian's flyer sat on the disused playing field beside the villa that
doubled as a landing area. Its crew, a pilot, co-pilot, and a trio of
soldiers in Inariman livery, lounged in the shade of its fully extended
wings. Clearly, Silence thought, they'd been waiting for n'Halian for some
time. At the vizier's approach, the soldiers sprang to attention, one
moving to trigger the ramp, the others sliding off the wing to stiffen
into a hasty salute. The two pilots stood as well, though less smartly.
Silence guessed they were civilians -- n'Halian's employees rather than
members of the Hegemon's official household -- and her wariness increased.
The Hegemon usually sent his household, unless there were good reasons for
secrecy.... Then the co-pilot dropped from the wing and began pulling off
the baffle that hid the flyer's keel, and Silence suppressed a gasp of
surprise. At her elbow, Balthasar whispered a curse. The ship was no
ordinary flyer, but a long-range craft, its shiny keel capable of reaching
the boundary between the atmospheric and celestial harmonies. She opened
her mouth to ask where they were going, but Chase Mago forestalled her. 

"I take it we're not going to Anshar' Asteriona?" the engineer asked, as
coolly as if he were inquiring about the weather. Silence saw that
Balthasar's left hand was deep in his coat pocket, and she felt sure his
fingers were curled around the butt of a heylin. 

"No, sieur Chase Mago," n'Halian answered, with equal courtesy. "His
Majesty is at the Winter Palace." 

Silence relaxed, and saw Balthasar slip his hand quietly out of his
pocket. If n'Halian was willing to tell them where they were going, the
secrecy couldn't be directed at them. "That's on the far side?" she asked.

N'Halian nodded once. "That's correct, sieura." 

They had reached the bottom of the ramp while they were talking. The
co-pilot, still stuffing the thick dura-felt baffle back into its well,
stopped abruptly, staring, when he heard the title. Silence stared back,
and, after a moment, the man looked away. Even so, she was aware of his
interest, of the avid curiosity at her back, as she made her way up the
ramp and into the flyer's passenger compartment. 

"Another of your admirers, Silence?" Balthasar murmured, with a lifted
eyebrow. 

Silence flushed. "I doubt it," she said, tartly. She had been noticeable
enough as a woman pilot -- the only female pilots most star-travellers
knew were from the matriarchal world of Misthia -- but now she was
positively notorious. Despite the Hegemon's efforts to keep her
involvement secret, star-travellers' gossip whispered that she'd been a
part of his victory, that she knew something about the road to Earth, that
she dabbled in strange powers.... Having two husbands had not helped,
either: three-way marriages weren't common, and the star-travellers who
did not believe the wilder rumors were more than willing to speculate
about her marriage. She supposed she should be pleased that she had a
ready-made red herring, to take interest away from the rumors that she was
-- that they were -- looking for Earth, but she found the whole thing
rather embarrassing. The situation wasn't improved by the fact that
Balthasar thought it was funny, and added his own bizarre inventions to
the stories already circulating. At least Chase Mago was sympathetic, she
thought -- but then he, like herself, had been a citizen of one of the
more conservative worlds of the Rusadir, before the Rusadir had fallen to
the Hegemony. Balthasar was a Delian, and on Delos anything was permitted.

She ducked through the low hatch into the flyer's passenger cabin,
ignoring the senior pilot loitering in the entrance to the control
compartment. The first of the soldiers was already aboard, coiled
compactly in the rearmost seat, his sonic rifle stuffed into the holster
clamped to the bulkhead behind him. His face was impassive, but Silence
sensed the curiosity behind his stolid gaze. 

She shook away the thought, and seated herself at the front of the
passenger section, choosing a place by one of the circular windows. Chase
Mago dropped heavily into the seat next to her, and Balthasar, with a
grimace, took his place behind her. N'Halian settled himself into the seat
across the aisle, and gestured to the pilot. The man touched his forehead,
and vanished into the control compartment. The rest of the soldiers
trooped aboard, and the co-pilot sealed the hatch behind them. A few
moments later, the flyer's tiny harmonium sounded, the low, bone-tingling
base note swelling rapidly to the complex lift sequence. The flyer
shuddered once, and rose. Silence leaned against the bulkhead, watching
the ground drop away. This was not the dizzying upward fall of a
starship's liftoff; rather, the flyer seemed almost to float upward, the
harmonium's note, sounding through the half-tinctured keel, shifting
slowly from Asterion's core harmony to the purer celestial tone. The note
changed again and the flyer tilted sharply, the world wheeling around it,
then steadied on a new course. Already, the ground below was becoming
featureless, the Silvermarsh just a pale blob webbed with greyish lines.
The flyer banked again, less steeply, and Silence caught a glimpse of one
of Anshar' Asteriona's suburbs, a darker, more regular shape spangled with
bright patches that were parks. 

"Nice flying," Balthasar said, leaning forward. "You think we're on the
line yet, Julie?" 

Chase Mago's face wore the abstracted expression that meant he was
listening with all his heart to a harmonium's seductive music, but he
broke his concentration long enough to say, "Not yet. You'll hear it." 

"On the line?" Silence asked. 

Balthasar nodded. "You know. Whatever harmonic line will take us where
we're going." 

"I've never flown one of these," Silence said, with some annoyance. She
bit back the rest of her thought -- I'm a star-pilot, not some planetary
hack -- knowing that Balthasar had probably flown these craft at some
point in his career. 

"They use the envelope the way we use the system harmonies, in- and
outbound," Balthasar began, but whatever he had been going to say was cut
off by a sudden deep shift in the music of the flyer's harmonium. It
wasn't the complex, familiar change that marked the moment a starship
passed out of a planet's chaotic harmonic envelope, the affinities between
the heaven, the celestial music -- or its approximation -- of the
harmonium and the Philosopher's Tincture in the keel itself coming into
resonance and steadying to a note so comparatively simple as to be almost
inaudible. Rather, the harsh music, which had been wavering on the edge of
dissonance, seemed almost to shift to a chord comprehensible to a human
ear. It hovered heartbreakingly on the edge of completion, as though in
any instant it would resolve itself into a sound so perfect that it would
shatter the hearer. 

Silence shook herself, seeing her own feelings -- pleasure in the lovely
note, despair that it was still incomplete, and the certainty of
disappointment -- reflected and redoubled in Chase Mago's face. For a
brief moment, she wondered what more he heard, with his engineer's
training, then put the thought aside. The sound was not beautiful, she
told herself firmly; it was merely that the human ear perceived as
beautiful those sounds which came closest to true harmonies. The harmonium
was imitating, as closely as was humanly possible, some part of
Aster-ion's core harmony, that was all. 

And that, she thought abruptly, explained what Balthasar had begun to say.
The little flyers worked by riding a specific note within the planet's
harmonic envelope. It was only pilot's convention that said the envelope
was monochromatic; like the musica mundana, the complex, system-filling
music that resulted from the interaction of solar and planetary harmonies,
the planetary envelope was actually made up of innumerable variations on
the simple music of the core. It was similar enough, in its function, to
make her glad she had not said anything derogatory about the art of
piloting these local craft. 

Outside the flyer's window, Asterion had dropped away almost completely,
its rich landscape fading into broad swaths of color smeared with cloud.
There were cities below, Silence knew, but they were invisible at this
height. The sky itself had darkened toward the blue-black that marked the
border between planetary and celestial harmony. That explained some of the
perfection of the flyer's music, Silence thought. The craft was far enough
above any local topographical features to avoid their distortion. Still,
whatever the reasons for it, the harmonium's note was achingly beautiful,
and she was glad when the sound shifted at last to the more muddled music
of landing. 

It was late morning at the Winter Palace. The flyer slid down an almost
inaudible landing beam toward a white, featureless plain. Silence frowned
out the window for a long moment before she realized it was snow. The
Palace itself, multiple spires gleaming in the noon light, rose from the
center of the plain like a fantastic ice sculpture. Silence remembered the
Women's Palace, presented on its island like a jewel on a tray, and
shivered. 

"Either we're at one of the poles," Balthasar said, "or this is magi's
work." 

Chase Mago shrugged. 

"Probably a creation," Silence said, thoughtfully. She was too far away,
as yet, to feel the bending of harmonies, of reality, that marked a
magus's created landscape, but she could not imagine any hegemon choosing
to live at either of Asterion's poles. She glanced toward n'Halian, hoping
the vizier would confirm or deny her guess, but the older man was smiling
indulgently into his gilded beard, and Silence looked away. She should not
have expected the vizier to betray the true location of one of the royal
palaces, but he didn't have to look so smug about it. Then, reluctantly,
she smiled. She and Balthasar were whistling in the dark, and sounded it.
Chase Mago had the right idea: say nothing, and wait. 

The flyer dropped lower still, until it was almost skimming the surface,
throwing up a great cloud of snow that rattled against wings and body,
completely obscuring the windows. At the same time, the noise of the
harmonium changed again, showing new strain as it fought to balance the
pull of the planet's core. The flyer dipped and slowed further. The
harmonium cut out, and the flyer dropped neatly into an invisible cradle.
Silence distinctly heard the cradle fingers clamp onto the flyer's hull,
and heard, as distinctly, Balthasar's muttered comment. 

"Show-off." 

He meant the flyer's pilot, and Silence nodded. Before she could say
anything, however, n'Halian had hauled himself to his feet. "If you'll
come with me, sieuri?" 

"Of course," Silence answered, with all the dignity she could muster.
Ahead, she heard the thud of the hatch being thrown back, and shivered in
a blast of chill air. Balthasar jammed his hands into his coat pockets,
whispering a curse. 

N'Halian led them forward to the hatch without showing any sign that he
felt the cold, though he was no more warmly dressed than any of them.
Silence hesitated in the hatchway, wondering if she could refuse to go
further until she could get something warmer to wear. They were still some
distance from the palace. Then she saw the gever drawn up beside the
flyer, and resigned herself to a cold ride. At least, she thought, as she
made her way down the cradle stairs, it's a closed car. 

As they appeared at the top of the cradle, two doors popped open in the
gever's side. Soldiers -- members of the True Thousand this time, their
splendid uniforms almost gaudy against the snow -- stepped from the
machine's forward compartment and stiffened into a salute. Silence
shivered again, from fear this time: even if most of the True Thousand had
supported Adeben's coup, she and her husbands had suffered enough at the
hands of the Hegemon's elite guard. Then a slim figure, his crimson coat
looped with a colonel's braid, stepped from the passenger compartment. 

"Welcome to the Winter Palace, my lord vizier, sieuri." 

Silence relaxed then, and sensed rather than saw the others do the same.
Marcinik -- a colonel now, promoted on the occasion of his marriage to the
hegemon's daughter Aili -- was an old acquaintance. He had been their
contact in rescuing Aili from the Women's Palace; before that, he had
served on the conscript transport where Silence had first discovered her
powers. It was, Silence thought, an interesting relationship. 

"Thank you, Colonel," n'Halian said serenely, and made his way down the
cradle stairs. The bottom steps were slick with blown snow. He frowned,
and picked his way delicately across. Following him, Silence suppressed a
grin, and heard Balthasar mutter something behind her. 

Marcinik gestured for them to enter the gever. He was a handsome man,
young for a colonel, with fine aristocratic bones and almond-fair skin.
Only the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth
saved him from a tedious beauty. 

"There are coats inside," he said, "since the vizier didn't see fit to
warn you." 

"I had my instructions, colonel," n'Halian answered, and ducked into the
gever's wide passenger compartment. 

As Marcinik had promised, there was a pile of quilted coats lying on the
nearest bench-seat. Silence reached for the first one, not caring what it
looked like, and realized to her surprise that the outer layer, at least,
was made of silk. She shrugged it on, hugging the pillowy fabric around
herself, and settled into the rear corner of the bench, stretching her
feet out to the nearest heating block. The others did the same, but
n'Halian waved aside the offer of a coat. A moment later, one of his own
soldiers leaned into the gever, holding out a fur-lined cloak. The vizier
wrapped it comfortably around his shoulders, and settled into his place.
Marcinik, a slight smile on his lips, gestured for his men to close the
compartment door. 

"I don't suppose you can tell us what he -- his Majesty -- wants?"
Balthasar asked. There was a note in his voice that dared the colonel to
answer with more than a simple negative. 

"I'm sorry." Marcinik shook his head, still smiling, but Silence thought
she glimpsed a sort of annoyance behind that polite mask. She sighed, and
looked away. Balthasar had had good cause to dislike the colonel -- but
she had thought that the two men had come to an understanding during the
escape from the Palace. She was aware of Chase Mago's eyes on her, of a
slight tightening of the engineer's lips, and knew he was thinking the
same thing. 

To Silence's surprise, however, Balthasar did not pursue the question, but
leaned back against the padded seat. He saw the pilot's glance, and made a
slight shrugging movement, one shoulder moving under the heavy coat. Chase
Mago grinned, but to Silence's relief, said nothing. The gever rose,
engine whining softly, and swung around the cradled flyer in a broad arc
that would bring it up to the palace from the east, well away from the
main gate. Now that they were moving, Silence could feel the faint,
unnatural shifts in the local harmonies -- a sort of tingling, a note of
almost-music, faint as a feather's fall against her skin -- that marked an
artificially maintained snowfield. She smiled to herself then, staring out
the tiny sideport into the plume of snow kicked up by the gever's passage.
It hardly mattered where the Winter Palace was located on Asterion's
surface; still, it was nice to have her intuition confirmed. 

The gever did not follow the well-marked track that led to the Palace's
imposing main gate, but swung off onto unmarked snow, skirting the
perimeter wall. They had travelled almost a quarter of the way around its
circle before the gever slowed, and Silence saw one of the drivers raise a
cupped hand to his mouth. A few moments later a snowbank shivered and
split open with a shower of flakes, revealing a paved tunnel that sloped
steeply down into darkness. 

"Subtle," Balthasar said, with a quick glance at Marcinik. 

The colonel showed no sign of having heard him. The gever slowed still
further, engine whining fiercely to compensate, and slid off" the snow
onto the slick tiling of the tunnel. The snowbank, with its hidden door,
rumbled shut behind them. The gever hung in darkness for a moment, its
engine idling, and then a light faded into existence ahead of them,
throwing a long wedge of brightness along the tunnel floor. The gever
lurched into motion again, heading toward the light. 

Silence did her best to plot the path of the tunnel, matching its twists
and turns against the glimpse she'd had of the palace and its grounds, but
gave up after only the third turn. She knew too little.... Carefully, she
masked her impatience, and settled back in her seat, glancing as
unobtrusively as she could at the chronograph slung at Balthasar's waist.
It was a quarter of an hour later, by the graph, before the gever slowed
again and made a sharp turn into a new corridor. They had to have doubled
back more than once, Silence thought, glancing as casually as she could at
the new surroundings, and wondered again what had prompted this unusual
security. From the grim set of Balthasar's mouth, the Delian was wondering
the same thing, and Chase Mago looked very thoughtful. 

The new tunnel was more brightly lit than the first, and the tiles that
covered the floor and the curving walls were pale blue, banded at about
the height of a man's shoulder with a wide stripe of deeper blue. As they
flashed past a cross-tunnel, Silence could see that its walls were marked
with a double stripe, one blue, one red; the second cross-tunnel was
marked in green. They had reached the palace's regular maintenance
tunnels, she guessed, remembering similar arrangements from the Women's
Palace, and wondered again about such roundabout dealings. 

A few minutes later, the tunnel widened suddenly, and the gever slowed
still further, gliding toward a shallow platform. More troops in the
Thousand's bright uniforms were waiting there. They were formed up in the
double line of an honor guard, but even so Silence tensed, and saw Chase
Mago's mouth tighten again. Balthasar swept back the fronts of the
borrowed coat and jammed both hands into the pockets of his own jacket,
one thumb visibly caressing the touchplate of his heylin. Silence
contrived to touch his shoulder, frowning, and the Delian moved his hand
away. The pilot wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, and hoped no
one had noticed Balthasar's lapse. 

As the gever drew to a halt in front of the platform, the officer in
command -- a major, Silence noticed, an older man with battle ribbons
banding his sleeves and trailing hood -- snapped into a salute, then came
forward to unlatch the gever door himself. Behind him, a voice
high-pitched with strain barked a command. The soldiers swept their
ceremonial swords from their gilded scabbards, holding them overhead to
form a steel canopy from the gever to an arched doorway at the far side of
the platform. Marcinik nodded and stepped from the gever, turning to offer
his hand first to n'Halian and then to Silence. The pilot let him steady
her as she stepped from the craft, and followed the vizier toward the
distant archway. She felt the scarf, never intended to serve as a veil,
slip slightly, but she ignored it, disdaining to adjust it or to glance at
the men following at her back. She took a certain grim pleasure in the
disciplined stir she created. 

As she approached the arch, she became aware of Watchers, the created
beings that could serve as a magus's eyes and ears. In the same instant,
something moved in the carvings above the arch. She glanced up, breaking
stride, and saw one of the carvings detach itself from the stone tree that
made up the sides of the arch and launch itself, with a raptor's screech,
into space. A second statue, another gold-taloned bird of prey, freed
itself an instant later, screeching angrily. Balthasar's heylin, she
thought, they've sensed it. Without conscious decision, she lifted her
hands and spoke a single Word. The sound, hard and flat and as sharp as
the crack of stone against stone, seemed to explode in the confined space,
cutting through the sudden commotion behind her. The statues froze, then
seemed to contract, drawing into themselves, and were sucked toward the
arch as though they were metal drawn by a powerful magnet. They snapped
back into their places with a noise that struck complex echoes from the
walls. 

Silence turned slowly -- Isambard had taught her how to take advantage of
the shock her powers always brought -- and hid a smile at seeing them all
frozen in surprise. Predictably enough, it was one of the sergeants who
recovered first, glancing rapidly from Marcinik to the open-mouthed major.

"Sir, Colonel, he's got a weapon --" 

The major shut his mouth as though he'd just realized it was open.
Marcinik lifted a placating hand. "Take it easy," he began, and Silence
cleared her throat. 

"Denis?" 

Balthasar made a complex grimace and straightened, slowly drawing the
heylin from his pocket. Before the troopers could react, he reversed it,
presenting the heavy butt to Marcinik. "I --" The Delian hesitated, then
continued with more grace than Silence had expected," -- apologize for the
trouble. We were not expecting the invitation." 

Marcinik accepted the heylin warily, running his thumb absently across the
touchplate. It was hot, signalling that the heylin was fully charged, and
he lifted an eyebrow. "No more were you," he said, with a quelling glance
at the indignant major. "I accept the responsibility." 

The major saluted, reluctantly, and Marcinik slipped the heylin into his
own pocket. "Sieur Chase Mago --" he began, but the engineer was already
shaking his head. 

"I'm unarmed, colonel." 

"Then let's continue," Marcinik said, and gestured for the startravellers
to precede him. This time, the Watchers remained where they belonged,
frozen among the stone branches. N'Halian, waiting on the far side of the
archway, gave them an impatient nod. A trio of chamberlains, greying men
in the long blue coats of their office, were waiting with him, leaning on
their staffs of office. 

Silence frowned slightly, seeing them. Always before, the Hegemon had gone
out of his way to keep their meetings informal; this time he seemed to be
doing everything he could to make certain the proper members of the
household witnessed their arrival. "Why the publicity, my lord vizier?"
she asked softly, using the coine of the space lanes rather than the High
Speech of the court, as she took her place at n'Halian's elbow. 

The vizier gave her a quick, sideways glance before answering. "His most
serene Majesty would honor you according to your rank." 

He had used the High Speech, Silence noted, as though he'd intended to be
overheard. "And what rank's that?" she asked, still in coine. "I -- we --
have no official position here." 

N'Halian slipped into coine at last, this time with a rather annoyed
glance at the nearest of the chamberlains. "You are a subject of his
Majesty's, and a magus. That confers rank." 

It does that, Silence thought, but not sufficient rank to account for all
of this. She had better sense than to say that, however, and dropped back
a half-step, so that she was no longer walking at n'Halian's side. The
reception they'd had, after the secrecy of the flight that had brought
them to the Palace, worried her; she couldn't think of a good reason for
this sudden reversal. 

The chamberlains led them down a long corridor that fed abruptly into a
huge, high-ceilinged hall. The floor was covered with a thick, snow-white
carpet, and the walls and massive support pillars were hung with more
carpets, these woven in subtle, muted shades of grey. Strange bluish
shadows flickered briefly across the carpets. Silence glanced up, not
wanting to seem too obviously ignorant, and saw, high in the vaulted
ceiling, a miniature skyscape. Clouds flicked across the scene, swelling
and changing, then vanishing without releasing their burden of rain. 

"You better hope it doesn't rain here," Balthasar murmured, and Silence
heard Chase Mago's choked snort of laughter in response. She smiled
herself, tardily recognizing a magus's illusion, and followed the vizier
down the length of the hall. The layers of carpet swallowed any sound of
footsteps. They moved in an unnatural quiet, broken only by the hiss of
the silk coats and the heavier rustling of the vizier's furs. 

At the end of the hall, one of the chamberlains used his staff to touch a
plate set above the gold-studded door. Chimes sounded somewhere inside,
muffled like everything else by the carpets, and then, very slowly, the
door was drawn back. A second chamberlain said, "The vizier Halian
n'Halian, Colonel Marcinik, the doctor Leigh. Her husbands." 

The figure in the doorway was also familiar: the Hegemon's favorite page.
The boy bowed deeply, almost double, and answered, "His Majesty expects
them." 

The first chamberlain returned the bow, and stepped back from the door.
The second chamberlain bowed, too, not as deeply as the others, and said,
"I commit them to your care." 

The page bowed again, and opened the door fully. Silence caught a brief
glimpse of a warmly lit room, walls alternately paneled and hung with
woven gold, and men in the elaborate robes of the Thousand and the Ten
Thousand gathered in little groups beneath branching lamps that held
globes and eggs and rounded polygons filled with fixed fire. Then the page
gestured, with yet another bow, for n'Halian to precede him down a path
market by a crimson carpet, and the vizier hissed, "Bow to the Throne as
you pass it, all of you. And for God's sake, say nothing." 

The intensity of his voice was enough to make even Balthasar obey. Silence
drew herself up to her full height, wishing for only the second time in
her life for the protection of the court regalia, with its floor-length
veil, and did as she was told. From pictures and descriptions she
recognized the Hall of Audience, the place where the Hegemon heard the
formal requests and petitions of his nobles, but she still could not guess
why she -- why they -- had been brought here. There could be no more
public way of announcing both her presence and the Hegemon's patronage of
their group. Already, she could hear the whispers beginning, and did her
best to shut out the surprised disapproval. 

"Bow," n'Halian hissed again, and Silence did so, automatically. She
caught a dizzying glimpse of the Hegemonic throne -- a massive
construction of gold and precious minerals and the wood-ivory that was the
bone of the semi-sentient reef-dwellers of Alonae, a display of wealth
that transcended any question of taste -- but then the page opened the
small door that stood to the left of the throne. 

"Your Majesty, the persons you sent for." 

N'Halian swept through the narrow doorway without disdaining to
acknowledge the page, and the others followed. The page closed the door
gently behind them. Silence realized then that they had been admitted to
one of the Hegemon's private meeting rooms, a privilege that at least some
of the nobles waiting in the Hall would never achieve. The realization was
at once flattering and frightening; to calm herself, she glanced quickly
around the room, concentrating on her surroundings. The place was
instantly familiar, from the shielded computer cabinet and the locked
book-presses to the massive desk and the immense inverted pyramid with its
light-bearing homunculissima, to the cluster of tabourets and the
black-robed magus sitting in the central place. The Hegemon had brought
his private office with him from Inarime, furniture, books, and all. For a
moment, seeing Isambard sitting so calmly among the scattered papers,
Silence could almost imagine herself back on Inarmine, a half-trained
fugitive. 

"Thank you, Halian. Sieuri, welcome." Adeben Kibbe pushed aside the last
of the papers that filled his desk, and leaned back in his chair. It alone
was new, a tall, carved thing that strongly resembled a throne. The
Hegemon, not a tall man by anyone's reckoning, should have been dwarfed by
it; Silence was not surprised to see that he dominated it and the entire
room. 

"Thank you, your Majesty," she said, and was a little surprised at her own
presumption. "May I ask what's prompted so --" She hesitated delicately
and deliberately over the next word." -- flattering a welcome?" 

The Hegemon smiled. Silence was aware as well of the vizier's amusement,
like the sudden warmth of a fire, and of Isambard's more measured
approval. "I have a present for you, sieura -- for all of you." The
Hegemon gestured gracefully toward Isambard's hunched figure. "Thus I
summoned Doctor Isambard as well." 

"A present?" Chase Mago said, softly, but the Hegemon heard him. 

"A present -- a gift," he amended, switching to coine with a bland smile.
Silence heard Chase Mago gasp affrontedly, and Balthasar's stifled
snicker. 

She suppressed her own annoyance. The Hegemon was deliberately baiting
them, first with his mention of a gift and then with the insulting shift
from the courtiers' High Speech to the common coine. 

The Hegemon continued. "My agents have been fortunate enough to acquire...
something that should be very useful to you in your search." He paused,
clearly expecting a question, but Silence met his gaze with a blank stare.
The quiet lengthened. 

Isambard said, with some asperity, "Your Majesty, I have been waiting for
an hour to hear about this mysterious gift. If it will please you to hear
me ask, very well, I am asking: what is it?" 

Silence winced at the bluntness of the magus's words, but Adeben did not
seem to be offended. "It's very gracious of you to indulge me, Isambard. I
trust you'll indulge me further, and allow me to begin at the beginning."
He reached for the papers he had pushed aside at their arrival, and swept
on without waiting for an answer. "Three weeks ago, on Enkomi, the local
satrap's guards were called out to deal with a disturbance in the Pale." 

Balthasar snorted at that, and Silence hid a grin. Enkomi's Pale was
notoriously rowdy, and the satrap's forces equally notorious for their
inefficiency. The Hegemon continued unheeding. "When the guard-captain and
his men arrived at the bar in question, they found a fight in progress
among the crew of a Rose-Worlder merchantman. One man, the ship's captain,
was already dead; the others were apparently trying to take the killer
into custody themselves. The satrap's men arrested both parties, and the
killer threw herself onto his -- the satrap's -- mercy." Adeben looked up,
allowing himself a faint smile. "I believe the Rose Worlds' legal code
considers homicide to be an extremely serious matter." He referred to his
papers again, theatrically. "Her plea was accepted, over the
Rose-Worlders' protests. I might add that the woman was the merchantman's
record-keeper --" 

"Supercargo," Balthasar murmured, but there was a new, approving note in
his voice. 

The Hegemon lifted his eyebrow. "As you say. In any case, she is more than
willing to trade everything she knows about the Rose Worlds and the star
roads that lead between them -- and about the engines that block the
Earth-road -- for her life." 

Chase Mago said, "May I ask, your Majesty, how you got her to admit she
knew about the Earth-road? From all I've heard, they put a geas on their
people." 

"Any geas can be broken," Adeben answered, "as you well know. And in this
case, our knowing that the engines were there helped make it easy." He
glanced at Silence. "I'd expected those questions from you, sieura." 

The pilot hesitated. There were half a dozen things she needed to know
before she could analyze this "gift," but one thing was more important
than all others. "I was wondering more about the price." 

The Hegemon smiled. "I thought it was good merchant practice to examine
the goods first, and then inquire the price." He held up his hand,
forestalling Chase Mago's immediate response. "Frankly, sieuri, I wish you
would -- interview -- the supercargo first, and decide for yourselves if
her information will be of any use to you. Then we can talk about the
thing that I want." 

488	THE ROADS OF HEAVEN 

Silence glanced at the men to either side, and saw her own suspicions
reflected in their faces. Before she could say anything, however, Isambard
said, "That seems reasonable, your Majesty. Thank you." 

Silence bit back her anger, recognizing from the magus's tone that no
argument of hers would sway him. At least, she thought bitterly, the
Hegemon didn't quite have the gall to try to pass off this supercargo's
information as payment of the debt he owed her for destroying the enemy
fleet at the Battle of Niminx. No, this was just the bait for some
political favor, and probably an unpleasant one. 

"Certainly." The Hegemon gestured to Marcinik, still waiting by the door.
"Colonel, if you'd escort them to the cell block? You may use the private
way." 

"Very good, your Majesty," Marcinik answered. 

The page rose from the corner where he'd been sitting, and crossed the
room to place his palm against one of the diamond-shaped tiles that formed
a band along three of the room's four walls. There was a dull pop, and a
narrow door sagged open in the wall to the left of the massive desk.
Marcinik bowed to the Hegemon, and stepped forward to pull the door fully
open. Isambard stood slowly, gathering his robes around him, and beckoned
for the others to join him. Reluctantly, Silence followed him through the
narrow opening, and the page shut the door behind them. 

The latch had barely clicked shut before Balthasar murmured, "Doesn't it
figure they'd have a jail here?" 

"Yes, it does," Chase Mago said, grimly. "Marcinik, where exactly are we
going?" 

There was a note in his voice that made Silence take a quick step forward
and catch hastily at his sleeve. This was no time for the engineer to come
to the end of his prodigious patience. "Hang on a minute, Julie, take it
easy." To Marcinik, she added, "Could we have a few more details,
Marcinik?" 

"Of course, I'm sorry." The colonel looked genuinely chagrined, and
Silence felt Chase Mago's muscles relax under her touch. 

"They brought her -- the supercargo -- here for privacy, and so you could
talk to her more easily," Marcinik continued. "This isn't really a jail.
Of course there are secure sections; they were built for things like this.
You should be flattered: this is part of the private passage." 

Silence glanced around the tiny, beige-walled cubicle, and had to stifle a
slightly hysterical laugh. After the opulence of the rest of the Winter
Palace, the undecorated room and the equally plain staircase that
spiralled down from one corner seemed almost to belong to some other place
entirely. Her eyes met Balthasar's, and the Delian gave her a mocking grin
before stepping forward to murmur something in Chase Mago's ear. The
engineer shrugged him away, but managed a reluctant smile. 

"If you'll follow me?" Marcinik went on. 

Silence stood back to let Isambard precede her down the curving staircase,
grateful it was a closed spiral. She counted twenty complete turns before
they reached the bottom, and guessed that they had come down at least two
levels, were now below ground level. "Secure section" this might be, she
thought, but it was beginning to look very much like a conventional jail. 

The stairway ended in another beige-walled cubicle, this one with its door
directly opposite the last step. The jamb was painted red -- the first
mark of color Silence had seen since they'd left the audience chamber --
and the flat silver panel of a two-stage lock replaced any visible
latch-plate. 

"Tell me, Colonel," Isambard said abruptly, "what sort of restraint is
this woman under?" 

Marcinik hesitated for an instant, then set his palm against the silver
plate. "Restraint?" He did not glance at the star-travellers behind him. 

Isambard, Silence thought savagely, had no such delicacy. The magus said,
a touch of impatience in his voice, "Is she under geas, or trance-bound,
or -- which?" 

"Trance-bound, I believe," Marcinik answered, with some distaste. A chime
sounded then, and the door swung open, sparing him the necessity of a more
detailed answer. "Sieuri, we're entering the secure section of the palace.
I'll ask you to bear that in mind." 

He had not looked at Balthasar, Silence thought, but his meaning
couldn't've been clearer. Chase Mago said, with some relish, "That's one
for you, Denis." 

The Delian grimaced, but said nothing. 

The secure section had wider corridors, with walls that were painted a
white tinged with the faintest admixture of blue. Every ten meters or so,
a shallow alcove was set into the wall. As they passed the first one,
Silence glanced sideways, into the red-glowing eyes of a
guard-homun-culus. It took every ounce of her control not to jump back in
surprise. She made herself walk stiffly away instead, matching the others'
pace, telling herself the creature was passive now, would not harm them.
... Only if they somehow lost their authorization -- was Marcinik himself
their passport, she wondered suddenly? -- would the homunculus become
active. Balthasar touched her shoulder, making her start, but when she
glanced up, the Delian's face showed only a sort of sympathetic
encouragement. Chase Mago, too, had slowed his steps a little, so that her
shoulder was almost rubbing against his arm. His massive presence was
calming, and Silence made herself look into each alcove until she was
certain the guard-homunculi could no longer surprise her. 

The corridor ended abruptly, at another door that carried a two-stage
lock. Marcinik put his palm to the plate, but this time the door slid open
to reveal another man in the uniform of the True Thousand. 

"Colonel," the stranger said. His tone was polite enough, but his eyes
were wary, and his right hand wasn't far from the butt of his slung
heylin. 

"Captain Drieu," Marcinik answered. "These are the persons his Majesty
wished you to admit." 

Drieu's eyes flickered over the group, pausing briefly and unhappily on
Balthasar, but then he seemed to relax slightly. 

"Very good, colonel." As he spoke, he gestured unobtrusively with his left
hand, and Silence was suddenly aware of the fading of a tension so
all-pervasive that she hadn't noticed it until it was gone. She frowned --
it was something she should have noticed, if she was going to call herself
a magus -- but then Drieu was motioning for them to enter. 

"This way, sieuri, if you please." 

They emerged into an odd, curved room, its walls banded with multicolored
tubes of fixed fire -- less a room, Silence thought suddenly, than a
corridor, a circular corridor ringing some hidden core. More doors like
the one through which they'd entered seemed to feed into the ring, and
each was sealed with one of the complex two-stage locks. A pair of
troopers in the Thousand's battle dress paced slowly along the curve,
sonic rifles cradled in their arms. Another half-dozen troopers were
seated on a set of benches between two doors, their rifles stowed neatly
beneath their feet, but instead of playing cards or talking, their eyes
were fixed on the newcomers. Silence shivered and looked away, but she was
still aware of that measuring stare. 

Drieu led them along the curve of the corridor, following the pair of
troopers, until they came to a door set into the inner wall. Seeing it,
Isambard's head lifted sharply, and, a moment later, Silence felt the same
cold harmony frozen in the metal. She frowned, and studied the door more
closely. It seemed to be a rather ordinary door, an elongated hexagon like
a starship's hatch, ribs running from each corner to meet in a central
boss.... Her eyes narrowed then. Six was a stable figure, more complex
than solid, simple four, not as involved as busy eight; six was complex
enough to carry a stasis field, and simple enough to add its own
considerable strength to whatever formulae a magus chose to superimpose on
it. She held her breath, and thought she could almost see the lines of the
field, a faint, bluish haze clinging to the edge of the door, and running
down the ribs to flare into a white-hot spark in the center of the boss
itself. She blinked, and the perception faded. 

"Your token, please, colonel?" Drieu said, and Silence shook herself back
to reality. 

Marcinik reached carefully into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled
out a small cloth pouch. Its cords were knotted together at the top, and
the knot had been covered with a skin of bright red wax. Drieu took the
bag, wrapping his hand completely around it, then touched the door's boss
lightly with his knuckles. There was a flash of heat, and a subliminal
snapping sound, and then an almost invisible panel slid back, revealing a
tiny keyboard. Drieu fingered that with his left hand, careful to stand so
that his body blocked everyone's sight of the keys, and, with a groaning
sound, the boss sank into the main part of the door and the whole thing
split along the line of the ribs, each segment drawing back into the
frame. 

Isambard nodded almost proprietorially. "Angelos-lock," he murmured. 

Silence nodded back, hiding a sudden surge of resentment -- she had
guessed that herself -- and was saved from having to make a polite answer
by Drieu's next words. 

"I'm sorry, colonel, I'm only authorized to allow you and the magi into
the chamber. The sieuri will have to wait outside." 

Silence tensed, waiting for the explosion from Balthasar, but to her
surprise, the Delian made no answer. Chase Mago said, "That's no trouble
to us, colonel." 

"Very well," Marcinik said. "You'll wait here, then. Doctor Isambard,
sieura -- Doctor Leigh, will you come with me?" 

"Of course," Isambard answered, with a touch of annoyance. 

Marcinik smiled, and gestured for the magus to precede him into the inner
room. Silence braced herself -- she disliked the idea of trance-binding
almost as much as she disliked the idea of a geas, but would not show her
unease -- and followed, Marcinik at her elbow. 

The inner room was much smaller than she had expected, as though the walls
were very thick, and there was a still, dead quality to the air that set
her teeth on edge. The space itself was cylindrical, divided into two
semicircular sections by a transparent wall that seemed to be made of
lumpy purple glass. A balding man in the red-trimmed robes of a Master in
Fire was sitting in a pillow-chair on their side of the glass, a
complicated meditation-pattern sketched with colored sand on the floor in
front of him. Beyond the glass lay a woman, brown-skinned, fair-haired,
arms folded across her bared breasts. A light blanket covered the rest of
her body. From her own experiences, Silence guessed that when the magi had
prepared the trance, they had not noticed the supercargo's gender, rather
than sought to exploit it. 

"Master?" Marcinik said quietly, and the balding man's shoulder twitched
beneath the red-trimmed robe. 

"Colonel," he said, without turning, and without taking his eyes from the
colored sand on the floor at his feet. "And Doctor -- Isambard, is it?" 

"And Doctor Leigh," Marcinik answered. He glanced at the older magus, his
expression unreadable. "I leave the rest to you, sieuri." He stepped away,
setting his back against the door, without waiting for a response. 

Isambard nodded absently. "How is the girl held, master -- ?" 

"Maedon Bee, doctor." The balding man's head shifted slightly, and one
hand rose to indicate the complex pattern in front of him. "She's
trance-bound -- the trance of Giduarius." 

Silence frowned. She had never made a close study of the arts of binding,
and was not familiar with the schema for that particular trance -- after
her experiences on the troopship, she had a strong aversion to any kind of
compulsive bond -- but she had encountered references to the Giduarian
trance in other literature. It was one of the strongest bonds, and among
the most dangerous, though if properly set it would hold even the
strongest of magi immobile and impotent, his thoughts accessible to any
half-trained apprentice, until the maker of the bond chose to release him.
But if the bond-maker made the slightest error at any stage in the long
and complicated process, or if the victim struggled unduly, or any one of
dozens of variables had not been calculated perfectly, the victim would
die, or, worse still, go mad, his disordered mind a deadly snare for the
bond-maker. Silence found herself staring at the supercargo's plain brown
face with something approaching loathing, and made herself look away.
Isambard was frowning, too, and Bee seemed to sense their unease. 

"The trance was made by my own teacher, Rassiy, who is leader of the
Alasset school on Enkomi. The woman has been questioned once,
superficially, and no harm came of it." Bee glanced again at his hands,
closing his eyes, and the hint of emotion drained out of his voice,
leaving it as thick and toneless as the air in the little room. "I brought
her from the depths to the lightless plain as soon as I was informed you
would be coming. She is ready for your questions." 

Isambard grunted and took a step forward, staring over the Master in
Fire's shoulder at the meditation-pattern. "This is the schema?" 

"The sketch of it, Doctor," Bee answered. 

Isambard lifted an eyebrow, but said only, "Come here, Silence." 

His tone brooked no refusal. Reluctantly, the pilot stepped forward
herself, so that she stood at Bee's left, and turned her attention to the
pattern on the floor. The usual linear formulae had been laid out in a
mantric frame, presumably to reinforce the self-perpetuating bond, and it
took her a moment to pick out the normal shape of the equation. Most of
the symbols were familiar -- ordinary, simple signs that, in conjunction
with each other, took on a new and terrible meaning. Silence shivered,
catching an echo of the trance-bond's cold power. 

"Well?" Isambard demanded. "What is your analysis?" 

"A most -- impressive structure," Silence answered, and knew she had not
fully hidden her fear. 

At the sound of her voice, Bee started, and for the first time took his
eyes from the meditation-pattern. "A woman -- ?" he began, glancing
quickly from Isambard to Silence to the supercargo. "Then it's true --" 

"I wouldn't indulge in unprofitable speculation," Marcinik said softly
from his place by the door. 

"Mind your work, Master," Isambard snapped, almost in the same moment. 

Quelled, Bee dropped his eyes to the meditation-pattern, murmuring an
incoherent apology. Isambard smiled thinly, but Silence was aware of Bee's
continued curiosity, and of his sidelong glances, hastily concealed. 

"Impressive, certainly," Isambard continued, as though there had been no
interruption. "And very powerful. A well-considered piece of work." He
stepped forward again, carefully avoiding the strewn sand, and placed one
hand against the lumpy glass that separated their room from the
supercargo. "Come, Silence." 

"I'd rather not," the pilot answered, and almost instinctively folded her
hands behind her back. 

Isambard gave her an annoyed look. "Don't be squeamish, girl. I'll need
your assessment as well, if this is to be of use." 

"I'd rather not," Silence said again, and put all her strength into that
refusal. She would not, could not, bear to question that still form, to
invade the other woman's bound mind. "You know what's needed as well as I
do." 

Isambard frowned, but, as Silence had hoped, did not pursue the issue in
Bee's presence. "As you wish," he said, and closed his eyes. Silence saw
his hand contract slightly, then flatten against the lumpy glass. 

She was never sure how long they stood there, unspeaking, barely daring to
breathe, before the phantoms began to appear. At first, she thought that
somehow Isambard had been careless, that the tantalizing shapes were as
much emotion as image, but then, glancing hastily toward Bee and then
toward Marcinik, still standing motionless against the locked door, she
knew that Isambard was doing it deliberately, and that the display was for
her alone. She looked away hurriedly, searching for something that would
let her break the fascination being woven for her, but everything in the
little room was intended to hold the supercargo in her trance. Each object
led the eye back to the still figure beyond the purple glass. 

Silence shook herself, hard, trying to think of something -- anything --
that would distract her, but the tantalizing images broke through her
guard. For a fleeting instant, it seemed as though she stood on a balcony
in a strange city, where the air smelled of foreign spices and the dim
stars were arranged in unfamiliar patterns. She gasped, and a flat lagoon
stretched before her, violet water under a metallic, cloud-streaked sky.
Then she was bombarded with a rain of images, voidmarks from a dozen
different star roads, each more tempting than the last. Almost in spite of
herself, she stepped forward, and laid her hand against the glass.
Isambard's power caught and held her, guiding her entry into the
trance-bound mind. 

The supercargo's mind was like a frozen garden, images curled in on
themselves like ferns caught by frost. Silence cringed, afraid that she
would somehow touch one of the fragile, ice-colored images and damage it
beyond saving. She could not help remembering the troopship again, and how
she had fought just such a geas, and overcome it for herself and for her
husbands, and she was bitterly ashamed. The emotion whirled within her,
threatening to break free; she gasped and heard, or thought she heard,
Isambard's angry voice. 

Control yourself, girl. This is no place for that. 

With an effort, Silence fought down the memory, concentrating instead on
the First Principles, until those stern words had caged her unruly
thoughts. 

Better, Isambard said dryly. Now see what we've gained. 

Reluctantly, Silence turned her attention outward again, trying not to see
the frozen images. Isambard's presence -- he seemed little more than a
black robe, so deeply had he submerged himself in his studies -- seemed to
float ahead of her. She followed the ghostly form, half afraid of what
she'd find. At last he paused, and seemed to gesture; the shapes around
them seemed to spring into unnatural life. Silence winced, overwhelmed by
the rush of knowledge -- knowledge of the star roads, knowledge of the
ways of the Rose Worlds and of the Rose Worlders' ships, knowledge even of
great engines that stood along a forbidden road.... The pilot drew back
then, dazed by the rush of information, pushing forward her own knowledge
and strength to dim the flaring images. Seen through that screen, it
seemed odd that a supercargo should know so much. Of course, she told
herself, a supercargo would have to know a little about every aspect of
ship handling, but still, the indefinable strangeness remained.
Cautiously, she reached out to probe the supercargo's mind, delicately
searching for the knowledge that lay behind the superficial images. 

Almost at once she met resistance, like a wall of glass rather than the
ice that filled the rest of the supercargo's mind. Silence hesitated, not
wanting to push too hard, and then the wall seemed to shatter, the sound
of the falling shards blending into a note that struck an answering chord
in her own memory. The voidmarks of the Earth-road itself rose in her mind
-- not the maimed, broken symbols she herself had seen through the
distorting music of the Rose Worlders' engines, but the true marks in all
their glory. It was too much to stumble over, unprepared; Silence thrust
herself away from the seductive music. 

She was herself again, standing at Bee's left hand, her own right hand
braced against the glass wall. The sudden shift in perception, of reality,
was sickening; she swallowed hard, closing her eyes against the quaking
world. After perhaps a dozen heartbeats, she had mastered herself enough
to step back, away from the wall, but the sickness stayed in the pit of
her stomach. She could not quite bring herself to look at the supercargo's
still figure, the colors of skin and hair dulled by the colored glass.
Instead, she stared at the floor, doing her best to avoid the bright sands
of the meditation-pattern. How could you do it? she demanded of herself.
After everything, after you yourself were under geas, how could you let
yourself be tricked into doing this? 

"Yes, that was most enlightening." Isambard's voice was almost painfully
self-satisfied, and Silence felt her stomach heave. Somehow, she made a
neutral answer, but the older magus continued, unheeding, "I think we will
be able to learn a great deal from her." 

Silence stood mute, unable to think of any suitable reply. Marcinik
cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, sieuri, but his Majesty asked me,
if you found the information useful, to bring you back to him at once, so
that you might discuss the -- price." 

Silence looked up sharply. She had been so caught up in her own feelings
that she had almost forgotten about the Hegemon's bargain. She glanced at
Isambard, and saw the magus's face set in its most unreadable expression. 

"Very well," Isambard said, after a pause that was fractionally too long.
"Since his Majesty wishes it so." 

"He does," Marcinik said, and touched a signal plate on the wall behind
him. 

Chapter 2 

THEY RETURNED TO THE HEGEMON'S CHAMBER THE SAME way they'd come, Marcinik
hurrying them through the maze of corridors as though there were some
unstated deadline. Silence, her thoughts still whirling from what she had
done and from the vision of the Earth-road, was grateful for the haste
that kept the others from asking awkward questions. Even so, she was aware
of Chase Mago's eyes on her, and knew that both her husbands recognized
that something had happened. At the top of the last stairway, Marcinik
touched a hidden signal button, and stood back to wait. For a long moment
nothing happened, and Balthasar's mouth curved slowly into a smile. 

"Don't tell me he's forgotten us." 

Silence shuddered, her nerves still raw, and barely stopped herself from
snapping angrily at him. She knew Chase Mago had seen her convulsive
movement, and glanced up, meeting the engineer's eyes in mute appeal.
Chase Mago gave her a reassuring smile, and said, "Denis." 

Balthasar turned, his rather startled expression fading to one of
annoyance and then of understanding. As the door scraped open at last, he
said, "Pull yourself together, woman, there's work to do." 

Silence nodded, unexpectedly heartened by the Delian's words. Chase Mago
frowned, but any response either could have made was cut off by the page's
censorious, "Sieuri, his Majesty is waiting." 

The lights had been lowered in the Hegemon's private chamber, the fixed
fire burning low at the tips of the quasicandles. In the dimmer light, the
monkeylike homunculissimae looked even more grotesque than before, but
Silence barely glanced at them. A gold-chased coffee service had been set
on a low table in front of the row of tabourets, four fragile cups
arranged in a formal square beside the urn. Silence wondered who would not
be invited to drink, then realized that Marcinik had once again stepped
aside, to take his place by the outer door. 

"Sieuri." The Hegemon's great chair had been moved to the head of the line
of tabourets, far enough away from the table to make it clear that Adeben
would not take coffee with them. It was not a deliberate insult, Silence
knew, but an attempt to make things more comfortable -- the etiquette
involved in actually sharing food or drink with the reigning Hegemon was
complex beyond imagining -- but even so she could not help feeling a touch
of anger. 

"Please be seated," the Hegemon continued. "You'll take coffee with me?"
Without waiting for an answer, the page slipped forward, and filled each
of the fragile cups. Silence accepted hers politely -- there was nothing
else she could do -- but shook her head at the proffered spices. She
cradled the cup in her hands, glad of its heat, feeling the chased-silver
flowers that coiled around it, using that warmth and solidity to chase
away the lingering sickness. Her recovery wouldn't last, she knew, but she
hoped it would be enough to get her through this meeting. 

Isambard tasted his coffee ceremoniously and nodded, murmuring some proper
compliment. The Hegemon smiled austerely, and Silence hoped he wouldn't
prolong the amenities out of sheer mischief. Then Adeben seemed to shake
himself, and said, "Does my -- gift meet with your approval, Doctor
Isambard?" 

Isambard took his time answering, straining Silence's equanimity almost to
the breaking point. She stared into her coffee, not daring to speak for
fear she would betray how much the encounter with the supercargo had
shaken her, and willed Isambard to answer. At last, just as Silence was
ready to speak herself, the older magus said, "It is a most generous
present, your Majesty. I am able to read almost everything we will need to
know in her mind." 

Silence saw her husbands exchange a wary look, and frowned warningly at
them. Balthasar grinned, but said nothing. 

"Then you'll agree my help is worth quite a bit," Adeben continued
smoothly. 

But just how much do you want? Silence thought. She felt her shoulders
stiffen painfully, and set her cup carefully aside. Before Isambard could
answer, she said, "Indeed, what the supercargo can tell us will help, but
of course your Majesty has already promised all his assistance." 

A pair of tiny lines appeared between Isambard's eyebrows, and Silence
wondered if she had gone too far. If all else failed, she had the
Hegemon's assurance -- in writing -- that he was personally in her debt,
but that was a promise she had hoped to use for more important things. The
Hegemon smiled. 

"I do acknowledge that, Sieura Doctor, as of course I must. But this
additional help, I should think, would be worth additional cooperation
from you." 

Isambard said, "As your Majesty says. But it would help if we knew what
your Majesty wants from us." 

Adeben leaned forward slightly. From such a controlled man, it was as
startling as if he'd suddenly stood up and started to pace the length of
the room. Silence felt a chill go down her spine, and saw both her
husbands set their cups aside. Only Isambard seemed unaffected. 

"Sieuri," Adeben said. "You are aware, of course, of the political
situation here. I am newly come to the throne --" He managed a rather wry
smile." -- and I hold power only by right of conquest." 

He paused and, after a moment, Chase Mago said slowly, "With respect, your
Majesty, the majority of your subjects seem to prefer you to your
predecessor." 

The Hegemon nodded. "I won't pretend they don't. That will hold me safe
against rebellion, for now -- that and the fact that I control the True
Thousand, and the True Thousand controls the army. But, as you, sieura
doctor, are only too well aware, my legitimate child, the child of my
First Wife, is a daughter. I have no legal sons." 

So it comes to that, Silence thought. An old bitterness rose in her, and
she fought it back with an effort. Let the shazadi -- the Princess Royal
-- look after her own rights, she thought. It's no longer a concern of
mine. All that matters is how this affects us. 

"As I remember," she said aloud, "you've one son older than her Serenity
-- he's in your navy, I think -- and at least two others who're officially
of your household." She let the unspoken question hang in the air between
them. 

The Hegemon nodded. "That's true," he said, "and I intend Azarian to
inherit. But --" He smiled again, with even less humor than before. "-- he
is not legitimate, and there are too many families among the Hundred --
those families that can claim kinship with the ruling house, Captain
Balthasar -- who have legal sons. One of my oldest friends has already
hinted that his son would make a worthy successor. He would have had the
boy marry Aili, but he scotched that plan." He nodded toward Marcinik,
standing expressionless by the door. 

"And how, your Majesty, can we prevent it?" Silence asked. 

"You stand a good chance of reaching Earth." The Hegemon fixed his eyes on
her, and Silence shivered a little under that unblinking stare. "You have
come very close to succeeding twice already. The Hegemony's interest in
that search is quite well known; I've already hinted that I am as
interested in it as was my predecessor. In fact, I've gone so far as to
say to those who have pressed me to name an heir that I will leave this
kingdom to whichever son of the Hundred discovers -- or sponsors an
expedition to discover -- the true road to Earth. I intend for Azarian to
meet those conditions." 

No one said anything for a long moment, but then Isambard said mildly,
"You can't seriously mean to do this, your Majesty." 

Adeben lifted an eyebrow, but showed no other sign of displeasure. "And
why not? I grant you, the men I've spoken to now think that I'm evading
the issue, but there's nothing in law or custom to prevent me." 

Silence hesitated, trying to think of something she could say that might
stop him. The trouble is, she thought, in the bizarre world of the
Thousand and the Hundred, where every gesture, every common daily act was
filled with special meaning, it could well work. The only thing that could
go wrong is if we fail. She opened her mouth to say as much, but Balthasar
spoke first. 

"That's for fairy tales; this is real." 

Adeben looked down his nose at the Delian. "Yes, it is real, Captain. And
I intend for my son to inherit." 

Silence cut in hastily, afraid of what else Balthasar might say. "And what
if we don't reach Earth, your Majesty?" 

The Hegemon turned to face her, the tight lines of temper easing from the
corners of his mouth. "Sieura Doctor, you have every incentive of your own
to reach Earth, and I have no doubt that you will do it. If you fail. I'll
think of some other way. But for now, will you take my -- my son's
charter?" 

"Will you give us a little time to discuss this?" Silence asked, and
Adeben shook his head. 

"I'm sorry, Sieura Doctor, but I must have your answer now." 

Silence sighed. They had little choice in the matter -- but then, she told
herself, it hardly made any difference. They would make the attempt to
reach Earth regardless of any political capital that might be made of the
trip later. A mere piece of paper couldn't hurt them, and in the long run
it would only put the Hegemon more deeply in their debt. Glancing at the
others, she saw the same knowledge reflected in their faces. She raised an
eyebrow in wordless question, and Chase Mago gave a fractional nod.
Balthasar scowled, but Silence stared at him until he shrugged and nodded.

"We're agreed, then," she said, and looked to Isambard. 

"Very well," the older magus said. "It shall be as his Majesty wishes." 

Adeben motioned to the page, who crossed to the desk and returned a moment
later with a ribboned binder. "This is the charter," the Hegemon said.
"Will you sign?" 

"Pretty damned confident," Balthasar muttered, but nodded. 

Silence said, "We'll sign." 

In the end, all four signed their names beneath the Hegemon's seal, and
Marcinik and the page witnessed that and the young prince's scrawled
signature at the top of the charter. When they had finished, Adeben sighed
softly. "It's done," he said, almost in disbelief, then shook himself.
"Colonel. Escort the sieuri back to the villa, and see that they have
every facility they need -- see to it personally, Marcinik, if you
please." 

"Of course, your Majesty," Marcinik said, bowing, and gestured for the
others to precede him from the room. 

The flight back around the planet to the villa outside Anshar' Asteriona
seemed even longer than it had before. Silence, her nerves already
stretched taut, was only too aware of Balthasar's leashed anger. Her brief
recovery was wearing off, too; at last, she leaned back against the
cushioned seat and pretended to sleep. 

They arrived at the villa in the fading darkness of a cloudy morning.
Marcinik, who had quarters in the main palace complex in Anshar' Asteriona
itself, excused himself at once, and vanished in the flyer. Silence
hurried ahead of the others into the villa's main hall, murmuring
something disjointed about getting some sleep. 

"At this point, we might as well stay up," Balthasar growled. There was a
note in his voice that stopped the pilot in her tracks. 

"What's eating you, Denis?" Chase Mago said. 

Balthasar didn't answer at once, shouting instead for a serving
homunculus. When the creature appeared, its sculpted features oblivious to
the hour, he ordered it to have a breakfast laid in the dining room, and
turned away from its bowing acknowledgement. "Are you particularly happy
with all this, Julie?" 

"Reasonably," Chase Mago answered, and for the first time, there was a
hint of anger in his voice. "You know as well as I do that the weak point
in our plan was what to do once we got to Earth. Now we have information
that will help us, and the Hegemon's even deeper in our debt. Why
shouldn't I be happy? Why shouldn't you?" 

"I'm not," Balthasar snapped back. "You're the one who always said we
should steer clear of politics, not me. And I'm not wild about the way
we're getting this 'help. ' " 

Silence lifted both hands to her face, unwinding her veil and then
pressing her palms against her eyes. The nausea had vanished, but it had
been replaced by a slowly worsening ache behind her temples. The pressure
brought an instant's relief, but the pain returned almost immediately. 

"Neither am I," Chase Mago said. His voice was barely under control now.
"But we need it." 

"We'd manage --" Balthasar began, and Silence said desperately, "Will you
both shut up?" 

"How the hell could you do it?" Balthasar demanded. "Silence, you know
what it's like. You were bound too." 

"I didn't have any choice," Silence snapped, and to her horror her voice
broke in a sob. She turned her back on both men, but not before Chase Mago
saw, and took a step forward. 

"Silence?" he asked. 

"Leave me alone, Julie, ignore it," Silence said, furious with them and
with herself. "It's just that my head hurts. I'll fight fair." 

The engineer froze, waiting. Silence dug her knuckles into the corners of
her eyes, fighting to control herself. After a few moments, Balthasar
said, sullenly, "I'm listening." 

"Thank you," Silence said. "It's so gracious of you." She knew she was
only making things worse, but she was past caring, goaded by the pain in
her head and her own sense of guilt. She heard Balthasar draw breath for
an angry answer, but Chase Mago spoke first. 

"Let it go, both of you." He held out his hand, but Silence shook her
head. She had said she would fight fair; she would not speak from the
shelter of the engineer's arms. 

"I told you," she said, with difficulty, "I didn't have much choice. The
place -- the whole room was set up to draw you in, to make it easy to read
her, and then, when I said I didn't want to, Isambard let me see little
bits, projected what he saw, until I couldn't help looking for myself. "
Her voice trailed off in defeat. There was no way Balthasar could
understand, she thought greyly; he distrusted the magi's power too much
already. "I can't explain. I wish -- I know I shouldn't've done it." 

The hall was very quiet for a long time -- so quiet that Silence could
hear the clatter of dishes in the dining room as the homunculi laid out
the breakfast. Beyond the treated glass that framed the door the sun was
rising, turning the clouds white. Finally, Balthasar said softly, "I'm
sorry." 

Silence nodded, but didn't turn, not knowing quite what the Delian meant,
and a moment later felt his hand on her shoulder. 

"Forgive me?" he said again, and this time she turned into his embrace. 

"It's all right," Balthasar said. "It's all right." 

Silence didn't know how long she stood there, her head resting against
Balthasar's shoulder, before Chase Mago cleared his throat gently. "If
anyone wants it," he said, "there's breakfast waiting." 

Silence pushed herself away, and even managed a smile at the engineer's
indulgent tone. Balthasar laughed aloud, and gestured for the other man to
lead the way. 

The breaking of the emotional tension had eased Silence's headache, and
the sight of food was almost welcome. She accepted a plate from the
steaming sideboard, and settled herself at the table beneath the single
long window. The sun was well up now; she touched the control board to
darken the glass against the glare. 

"Still," Chase Mago said, as he seated himself at the pilot's right, "I
would like to know just what it is we're getting." 

Balthasar grunted agreement, and came to join them, his plate heaped high.
Silence sighed, recognizing that the brief respite had ended, and set her
cup aside. "Apparently, this woman -- she was a round-ship's supercargo --
knows at least a little bit about everything. There's a whole lot of data
on general shipping procedures, and she seems to know names of roads and
even some voidmarks --" 

Balthasar looked up at that. "How'd she learn those? That's the pilot's
business." 

Silence shrugged. "I don't know, yet. We'll find out." She shuddered in
spite of herself, and added, "Or Isambard'll find out, anyway." She
managed a smile. "Don't worry, I don't intend to trust any of that kind of
knowledge unless I've verified it myself." 

"She could've picked it up subconsciously while the ship was in
purgatory," Chase Mago said, frowning thoughtfully. "At least, I've heard
that's possible." 

Silence nodded. "Theoretically it is, anyway, and a trancebond's deep
enough to reach that kind of buried knowledge. This was just a preliminary
survey, anyway. The best thing is, she does seem to know something about
the engines blocking the Earth-road, and that means she may actually have
been to Earth herself." 

Balthasar whistled softly. "Now, that would be useful." 

"If," Chase Mago said. "Pass the coffee, Denis, would you?" 

Balthasar did as he was told, saying, "So how do we handle getting this
information? I assume you don't want to do it, Silence." 

"No," Silence said, flatly. She controlled herself with an effort, and
went on, "Isambard will do it, and I'll tell him to have it transcribed. "

"Our very own guidebook," Balthasar said. "Can we trust him to find out
everything we need to know?" 

We have to, Silence thought. I can't -- I won't touch that woman's mind
again. Aloud, she said, "He knows enough about star travel. I think we
can." 

Chase Mago nodded. "I agree. It should be all right." He put his cup aside
and stood, stretching. "I wonder if they'll send out our pipes today?" 

To Silence's disappointment -- she had hoped for another day of rest --
the new pipes arrived some hours before noon, and Chase Mago decided to
begin the difficult installation procedure at once. The next two days were
spent damping the harmonium, foam-packing the parts of the array that
would not be changed, and wrapping the pipes nearest to the ones that
would be replaced in dura-felt sleeves. Only then could the new pipes be
fitted into their place in the main array. It was dull, delicate work,
complicated by the fact that the smallest pipe, a thin, ice-blue cylinder
of dolor-crystal barely longer than Silence's hand, proved to be flawed
and had to be replaced from the yard. Finally, however, all the pipes were
in place and the last of the damping was cleared from the harmonium, and
Chase Mago began the millimetric adjustments that would bring the new
pipes into perfect harmony with the rest of the array. Silence had neither
the ear nor the patience for the work, and was almost relieved when one of
the household homunculi appeared in the workshed to announce that Isambard
had returned from the Winter Palace. 

Chase Mago, crouched beside the tuning studs, merely grunted an
acknowledgement, and Silence said quickly, "I'll go." 

It took a moment for the words to register, but then the engineer looked
up and nodded. "Yes, do that, would you?" 

"Right," Silence said, and set the audirim monitor she had been using on
the deckplates to Chase Mago's left. The engineer nodded again, but his
attention was already back on his work. Silence nodded back, and turned to
follow the homunculus from the engine room. At the main hatch the intercom
buzzed, and Balthasar's voice crackled from the speaker. 

"Silence? What's up?" 

The pilot paused by the intercom panel. "Where's Isambard?" she asked. 

"Doctor Isambard is in the study," the homunculus answered, in its
emotionless voice. 

"Then you can go. Tell him I'll be there in a moment," Silence said, and
touched the intercom's answer button. "Isambard's back, Denis. He sent to
say he wanted to see me." 

"Have fun," Balthasar answered, and laughed. 

"Thanks," Silence said, rather sourly, and broke the connection. 

The villa did not have a study, in the usual sense of the owner's private
library; instead, Isambard had ordered the household homunculi to bring
broad tables and comfortable chairs into a room that had originally been
intended as a chance room, and had personally augmented the fixed-fire
lamps so that it was possible to work for long periods at the tables.
Silence paused just inside the doorway, blinking a little in spite of the
heavy curtains pulled tight across the windows. 

"You wanted to see me?" she asked, and frowned at the empty table caught
in the cone of light. Its surface was covered with papers, but there was
no sign of Isambard. 

"Yes." The voice came from the shadowed corner to her left. Silence's
frown deepened, and then she saw the magus. He was stooped over an
accident portfolio, his black robe effectively hiding him. "I have work
for you." Isambard came forward as he spoke, and placed another sheaf of
papers on the table. 

"Oh?" Silence picked up the first sheet, and scanned Isambard's crabbed
writing. It was part of the transcription of Isambard's "interview" with
the Rose Worlder supercargo. The pilot shivered in spite of herself, and
put the paper aside. 

"This is the rough data," Isambard went on, as if he hadn't noticed the
other's sudden revulsion. "If you won't help me collect it, at least you
can set it into order for me. You know your husbands' training better than
I; choose whatever system you think best." He stooped to pick up a final
crumpled piece of paper, and set it on top of the rest. "I will be back
here in two days with the rest." 

"Wait," Silence said. "What's all this about -- what are the topics?" 

"Everything," Isambard answered, from the doorway. "I told you, this is
the raw data. I leave its arrangement to you." 

With that, he was gone. Silence stood for a moment, staring after him,
then shook herself and sat down at the table. The drifts of paper were
intimidating, but one thing that both her pilot's training and the course
of study on Solitude Hermae had stressed was the technique of ordering
information. Years before, long before the Millennial Wars had shattered
the Earth-road and Earth's hold on human-settled space, before the art of
star travel had been fully understood, that sort of work had been done by
artificial minds -- and in truth, she thought, the old computers were more
suited to it. But computers, because they parodied human thought, gave off
a parody of the magi's powers -- a sort of anti-thought that disrupted
every function of the art; human minds could sort as well, and, once the
mnemonic science had been fully developed, almost as efficiently as any
machine. One sacrifices convenience for real power: that was the first
lesson dinned into every apprentice of every art. 

Silence sighed, and reached for the nearest sheet of paper. There were
literally dozens of mnemonic systems, each one designed for a particular
purpose; there was no point in trying to decide which one to use until she
had made a survey of the data. At least she could rely on both Balthasar
and Chase Mago to know the simple Guilian and the more complicated Grand
memory Theaters, as well as the Chanfro exercises that made learning such
quantities of information possible in a limited time. Balthasar, too, had
been trained as a pilot by the Cor Tauri guild's method, and would
certainly know the hexagram system, but it was less likely that Chase Mago
would know that highly visual method.... 

Silence shook herself, and forced herself to look at the paper in front of
her. She could not decide -- could not begin to decide now, before she had
seen any of the information, without running the risk of choosing the
wrong system, and forcing the data into a framework that it would not fit,
or, worse still, that would distort the information it contained. She
blanked her mind, putting aside all thoughts of any system, and began to
read. 

After perhaps an hour of reading more or less at random, she began to see
patterns emerging in the data itself, and began to sort the sheets of
paper into rough piles, following the pattern of the Grand Theater.
Isambard had done his best to keep from putting more than one topic on
each page, but, working without a system, he had been unable to be fully
consistent in that. Looking at the mountain of paper in front of her, and
knowing that there was more to come, Silence cursed softly, but then,
grimly, set herself to copying out the older magus's notes so that they
could be sorted more easily. 

In the end, it took her almost two weeks to reduce the data Isambard had
gathered to a manageable text that could be carefully transcribed by one
of the homunculi. Looking at her own flash-printed copy, she had to admit
that she was rather pleased by the results. For a first attempt, she
thought, she'd done rather well. Still, she found herself glancing
anxiously from her husbands to Isambard as she waited for them to finish
skimming through the text. She could not quite read the emotions behind
the abstracted expressions; she could only hope that she had done the
right things. 

Predictably, it was Balthasar who finished first, and set aside his copy
with a wry smile. "As good as Valman's any day." 

"It had better be," Silence answered, a little grimly. "Or better. "
Valman's Guide was the standard planetary almanac for the Hegemony and the
Rusadir; it was also notoriously incomplete. 

"I didn't mean it like that," Balthasar began, but before he could
complete the sentence, Chase Mago looked up from his own copy of the text.

"There's an awful lot here on the siege engines. Are you going to try to
break through after all?" 

Silence sighed, and darted a quick glance toward Isambard. The older magus
was still absorbed in his book, and the pilot let herself relax a little.
"That's one of the things we need to talk about," she said. "I don't think
we should risk it --" 

"And I disagree," Isambard said calmly, without looking up from his book.
He turned the final two pages, then closed the book and set it on the
table in front of him. "We have the information we need now, either to
break the engines, or at the very least, make an excellent attempt at
circumventing them --" 

"Did the woman know the passwords?" Balthasar broke in, frowning. 

Silence shook her head. "No." 

Isambard said, "But I believe I understand how the passwords are chosen,
and how the responsors work. I believe I can convince the system to let us
through." 

"It sounds like a risk we don't have to take," Chase Mago said. 

Silence gave a sigh of relief. She had been arguing with Isambard for the
past few days over whether or not they should use the portolan she had won
as her fee for freeing the Princess Royal, but she had not known for sure
where the other two star-travellers would stand on the question. "I
agree," she said, and Isambard said, "But this portolan method of yours is
equally risky. This is too important to trust to some archaic theory, a
theory that you admit you don't completely understand. " 

"And if we do it your way, and you can't unlock the engines," Silence
retorted, "we'd have no choice except to break the engines -- which would
at the very least tell the Rose Worlders we were on the way." 

"You've got a point there," Chase Mago murmured, with a smile. Then his
smile faded slightly. "On the other hand, if we could sneak through,
posing as a Rose Worlder ship...." 

"We could do that anyway," Silence said. "We'll have to. I don't like the
idea of my having to control the ship while we're hung up in the
Earth-road waiting for you to figure out the engines." 

"You did manage to change roads once before," Chase Mago said,
thoughtfully. "You could always do that again, if things get bad." 

"I did it once," Silence answered. "There's no guarantee I could do it
again." The excuse was feeble, and she knew it. If she had been able to
switch star roads once, under difficult conditions, manipulating two sets
of voidmarks that reflected related harmonics and similar objects in the
mundane universe, she could do it again. 

Isambard smiled, but mastered himself almost at once. "If we use your
portolan, Silence, you yourself said that we have to spend a great deal of
time in mundane space. Isn't that so? Time in which the Rose Worlders can
search for us with impunity. We -- and particularly you, Silence -- went
to a good deal of trouble to obtain the portolan, but I don't think that
should force us to use such a primitive method when a better one is
available." He looked directly at Balthasar. "What do you say, Captain
Balthasar?" 

Balthasar sighed, staring at nothing, and seemed to weigh his words before
answering. Silence held her breath, hoping the Delian wouldn't side
against her. Isambard was determined to try breaking the engines, she
knew; it would take all three star-travellers together to overrule the
magus. 

"I'm with you, Silence," Balthasar said at last. "I just don't trust the
Rose Worlders -- I never have. I'd rather not have any contact with them
at all until we hit the Earth approach, and I don't want to be dependent
on any of them, no matter how trustworthy she is. I see your point,
Julie," he added, "but I don't think it's worth it." 

How like Balthasar, Silence thought remotely, to blame the engineer for
Isambard's suggestion. Aloud, she said, "It's three to one, Isambard, and
I'm the one who's piloting. We'll do it by the portolan." 

"I don't believe Sieur Chase Mago was in agreement with you," Isambard
said sharply, and Silence held her breath. 

The engineer lifted an eyebrow. "I hadn't agreed with anyone," he said,
with deceptive mildness. "This is the pilot's choice." 

Isambard took a deep breath, and Silence braced herself to continue the
argument. But then, quite suddenly, the older magus gave a very human
sigh, and shook his head. "Very well. I accept that you know more about
these matters than I." He picked up his copy of the text again. "So. If
we're to use the portolan method, how do we hide the fact that we haven't
come the usual road? And what will be our story when we do reach Earth?" 

"We should be able to sort of ease into the usual arrival point, "
Balthasar said, and Silence nodded. 

"An entrance point to an approach road is pretty big, Isambard," she said.
"Given that space within the Rose Worlds is so complexly interlinked,
there shouldn't be any problem getting to it." 

"As for a story," Balthasar said, and grinned, "leave that to me." 

"God help us all," Chase Mago said. 

The next weeks were spent in the final preparations for their departure.
With the installation of the new pipes, Chase Mago proclaimed Recusante
ready for loading, and he and Balthasar promptly vanished into Anshar'
Asteriona's Pale. The engineer returned to the villa at regular intervals,
each time bringing another airsled full of provisions and fuels, but
Balthasar seemed to have disappeared completely. Silence, busy plotting
first their ostensible course off-world, and then the passage through the
dead roads into the Rose Worlders' sphere, was only peripherally aware of
the Delian's absence. It was only when he finally reappeared, unshaven and
disheveled, but carrying Rose Worlder papers for Recusante and her crew,
that she realized he had been gone for some time. 

"Where the hell did you get those?" she asked. "And why'd it take so
long?" 

They were sitting in the villa's dining room, beneath the long window, but
still Balthasar looked over his shoulder. "From an old acquaintance," he
said, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "You don't know him -- but
you do, Julie." 

Chase Mago, who had been sitting sprawled in the room's most comfortable
chair, sat up abruptly. "You don't mean Morwen Daso," he said, in the flat
tone of someone who expects contradiction. 

Balthasar grinned. "Of course." 

Chase Mago growled a curse, and Silence said, "Who's Morwen Daso?" 

"An old acquaintance," Balthasar said again, with the same maddening smile
on his lips. 

I thought we'd broken you of this, Silence thought. Can't you for once
give a straight answer? She scowled, and Chase Mago said, "He used to work
for Wrath-of-God, but he sold out three years ago." 

"That's before Arganthonios," Silence said, in spite of herself and the
engineer nodded. 

"That's right." He stared at Balthasar for a long moment, then said, in a
tone that suggested immense patience wearing very thin, "Why him, Denis?" 

"He's the best there is," Balthasar answered simply. "He's the only person
I can think of who could forge papers good enough to get us through Rose
Worlder security." 

"But he's a talker," Chase Mago objected. "Leaving aside the fact that he
sold an entire network, he always had a name for talking too much." 

Balthasar smiled again, the self-satisfied smile of a successful gambler.
With difficulty, Silence suppressed the desire to kick him. 

"Not this time," the Delian said. "Morwen's back in the business --" 

"I heard he went legal," Chase Mago interjected, frowning. 

"He got bored." Balthasar spread his hands. "He's got a new name, new
network, he's up-and-coming -- so he gives me the papers, and he keeps his
mouth shut, and I don't tell the darksiders that he used to be Morwen
Daso." He smiled directly at Silence this time. "Honor among thieves and
all that. Most darksiders frown on selling your own men to the local
cops." 

Silence made a skeptical noise. In her limited experience, darksiders --
smugglers, fences, thieves, petty pirates too small to work for
Wrath-of-God -- were perfectly willing to ignore any treachery not
directed at themselves, and to make a profit off it if at all possible. 

"How're you going to enforce that?" Chase Mago asked. His tone was still
disapproving, but the frown had eased a little. 

"The Wrath still has an ear on Asterion," Balthasar answered. "I spoke to
him." 

"Who?" the engineer asked, still frowning. 

"Kalle." 

"Ah." Chase Mago nodded, clearly satisfied. 

"I take it this Kalle's reliable?" Silence asked. In spite of herself, a
note of asperity crept into her voice. It didn't happen often, but every
now and then the two men's shared years with Wrath-of-God became a wall,
excluding her. 

"Very." Chase Mago, always more sensitive to tone, made a face. "He runs a
bar in the Pale, everybody goes there. The Wrath finances him -- or used
to, at any rate -- so anybody who has anything, any information to sell,
always goes to him." 

Silence nodded, grateful and still a little resentful, and Balthasar
pulled himself upright in his chair. 

"So," he said, "that means we're ready." 

Silence blinked, startled. Somehow, despite the frantic preparations of
the past weeks, she hadn't really realized how close they were to leaving
Asterion. Chase Mago nodded slowly, and Silence saw the same mild surprise
reflected in his expression. 

"There's just the charter to deal with," Balthasar said, and there was an
odd note in his voice that made Silence look warily at him. 

"What do you mean, deal with?" she asked. "It's in the ship's arms locker,
sealed in." 

"I don't suppose we could leave without it," the Delian murmured, giving
the words an odd, almost quizzical twist. 

"Why?" she asked, and in the same moment Chase Mago said, "No, we
couldn't. We can't afford to get any further entangled in politics,
whatever you're up to." 

Balthasar raised both hands in mock surrender. "All right. I just don't
like playing the hegemon's little game." 

There was more to it than that, Silence thought, but then Chase Mago
leaned forward to pick up the flat case that held the new papers, and the
moment was gone. 

"So what exactly is our story?" the engineer asked. 

"Routine trade run," Balthasar answered promptly. "Under special license."

"'Special license' doesn't sound exactly routine to me," Chase Mago
objected, and Silence shook her head. 

"There aren't any regularly scheduled runs, remember," she said. "Anything
going through the engines has to have a special license." 

The engineer nodded, satisfied, and slid one of the golden disks into the
reader on the outside of the case, snapping the machine on as he did so.
Silence watched him, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded. The
Rose Worlder supercargo had known any number of scattered facts -- that
there were engines on a semi-forbidden star road; that a starship passing
those engines needed a special pass, the sort of pass she had seen once,
and remembered because of its complexity; the star-travellers reaching
that blocked world were restricted to Pale and port -- but so much of
their plan rested on Isambard's interpretation of those facts. But of
course, Silence told herself, Isambard's worked in the Rose Worlds before;
he knows a lot more about them than we do. We can trust him to do his
best, if only because he wants to reach Earth even more than we do. Still,
the lingering sense of unease persisted. 

"Mersaa Maia," Chase Mago said, half to himself. "That's good." 

"It's the one Rose World we've all been on," Balthasar said, shrug-ging 

Silence glanced over the engineer's shoulder, and saw that both Recusante
-- the ship was keeping its own name, for once -- and her crew were listed
as registrants of Mersaa Maia. It was a good idea, she thought, though
less because of their one brief and unpleasant visit than because Mersaa
was the Rose Worlds' single open port. Of necessity, Mersaa's natives
would have had more contact with the inhabitants of the Hegemony and the
Fringe, and any oddities in their own behavior would -- she hoped -- be
explained that way. "So I'm the supercargo?" she asked. 

Balthasar nodded. "I figured that was easiest. And that way Morwen could
copy that woman's papers for you." 

Silence made a face -- somehow, she didn't like the idea of carrying
papers stolen from the bound supercargo -- but nodded back. 

"And I've lined up the cargo for us," Balthasar continued. "Our hold will
contain just what the manifest says it does." 

"It sounds good," Chase Mago said, and slid the last disk back into its
case. "So when do we lift?" 

"Marcinik said we'll take priority whenever we want to go," Balthasar
answered, and looked at Silence. 

The pilot hesitated, still strangely unprepared for the idea of leaving
Asterion. "If Isambard's ready," she began, then shook herself, almost
angrily. The older magus was ready, and had been ready for several days.
It was up to her to set the time. "You're fueled and stocked, Julie?" 

The engineer nodded. 

"Then we'll go the day after tomorrow," Silence said. 

The relative planetary harmonies gave them a choice of a predawn lift or
one during the main traffic period in the middle of the local afternoon.
Rather than attract undue attention, they opted for the earlier place, and
Silence turned her attention to the last-minute preparations. Her course
plot, the first leg from Asterion to Meng that would set them up for an
easy entrance to the dead roads, had been ready for weeks; even so, she
spent several more hours reviewing the unfamiliar voidmarks. Between that
study, and Balthasar's unexpected demands for her help in setting up the
departure course, she had less time to pack her own few belongings than
she had expected, and found herself dragging her last carryall aboard less
than two hours before liftoff. I think I've acquired more things than ever
before, she thought, frantically trying to find secure places for the bags
and its contents, though I'll be damned if I know where it all came from.
Finally, however, she had crammed the last clean shirt into a latched
drawer, and reached for the shipsuit she had left hanging on its peg
beside the door. She worked her way into the tight, clinging fabric and
jammed her discarded clothes into another of the latched drawers.
Carefully, she ran her fingers along each of the seven seam-seals, making
sure they'd caught, then stood for a moment staring around the little
cabin. 

The carryall itself lay on the tidied bunk, just waiting, she thought, for
the pseudo-animation of purgatory. There was a tiny amount of the
supermaterial in everything; in purgatory, stimulated by the harmonium's
effects, that supermaterial substance could -- and often did -- cause
objects to wander about the ship, seeking to return to their proper place.
She smiled, and stuffed the carryall into the least crowded wall locker.
The last thing she needed was for the carryall to appear on the bridge,
and try to climb onto her shoulder. Nor did she need the teasing that that
sort of carelessness would inevitably bring. 

She glanced around again, satisfied that everything was either in its
proper place or safely under lock and key, and left the cabin, locking the
door behind her. The ship seemed oddly quiet, and she paused for a moment
in the main corridor, listening. Very distantly, she could hear the usual
noises as Chase Mago moved about the engine room, but the harmonium's
notes seemed more muted than they should be. It was almost as though
someone had set up an aphonic ring, she thought, or at least a damper
field. Perhaps Isambard had decided to shield his cabin from the noises of
lift-off? She closed her eyes, concentrating, but the strange
soundlessness refused to take form. Whatever it was, she thought, it
didn't seem to be coming from Isambard's cabin. If anything, it seemed to
center on the empty passenger cabins.... Frowning, she moved farther down
the corridor, toward the common room door. 

"Silence!" Balthasar was halfway down the ladder that led to the twin
bridges, hawk face set into a scowl. "Where the hell are you going? I need
you topside." 

And what's the matter with you? Silence thought, but said nothing. The
past few days hadn't been particularly easy for the Delian; he was
entitled to a certain amount of ill temper. Still, she thought, I wish he
wouldn't take it out on me. "Coming," she said, and followed Balthasar up
the ladder to the lower bridge. 

The bridge had changed almost as much as the rest of the ship, with larger
and more powerful equipment crammed into a very limited space. Silence had
to turn sideways to get past the musonar console, and practically fell
into the second pilot's couch. Balthasar was already strapped into the
captain's couch, his fingers dancing busily across his keyboards. The
triple viewscreens showed only the walls of the improvised docking shed;
the left-hand screen showed the waiting tow, crouched on its double
treads. Through the dock's open door, Silence could see a slice of the
grasslands surrounding the villa, the ground very dark in the pre-dawn
light. 

"Who's driving the tow?" she asked. 

"Julie," Balthasar answered, his eyes still glued to the banks of
checklights above the secondary console. Most glowed standby blue, but
here and there an orange light showed a waking system. 

Silence frowned. The engineer had enough to do preparing for liftoff
without having to manage the tow as well. "I thought we were hiring
someone from the port." 

"It didn't work out," Balthasar said, as he touched a series of buttons,
and studied the resulting readout intently. 

"Do you want me to take it?" Silence asked, still frowning. "I can drive a
tow." 

Balthasar shook his head. "No, I need you here." 

Silence hesitated -- the second pilot's job didn't really begin until the
ship reached the twelfth of heaven -- then shrugged. The worst that could
happen was for Chase Mago's countdown to be delayed and, since Marcinik
had promised them a priority lift, there was no need to worry about delay
causing them to miss their place in the departure queue. She adjusted her
couch to its most comfortable position and began flipping the switches
that lit her own instruments. Musonar, Ficinan model, the camera controls,
the environmental boards.... She paused then, frowning, and rocked the
switch back and forth a second time. 

"Denis, I'm not getting a response from the passive internal monitor." 

"Damn." Balthasar glanced over his shoulder, saw the unlit telltales, and
touched a switch on the intercom panel. "Attention, people, I'm testing
the environmental alarms." With that, he flipped off the intercom and
leaned back to punch a set of keys on a secondary control board. Silence
winced as lights flashed across the warning screens and audio alarms began
sounding throughout the ship. Balthasar let it run through two cycles,
then cut the test. "Everything looks green here. It's probably just a fuse
or something." 

That was an awfully quick decision, Silence thought. Aloud, she said. "Do
you want me to warn Julie? If it's something simple, it shouldn't take
long." 

"I don't want to miss the lift," Balthasar answered. "It'll wait." 

"I could do it," Silence began, and Balthasar cut her off. 

"Let it go. It's not important." 

Silence darted a quick glance at the Delian. It wasn't like him to ignore
even minor repairs without good reason. "Is anything wrong?" she began.
Her voice trailed off as she noticed Balthasar's hands were shaking. 

The captain saw the direction of her gaze and forced a smile. "I'm just a
little nervous, I guess. It's a tricky business." 

Something in that didn't quite ring true, but before Silence could pursue
the issue, the intercom buzzed. 

"I'm in the tow now," Chase Mago's voice announced. "Are you ready in
control?" 

"Ready here," Balthasar answered, and there was a distinct note of relief
in his voice. 

Silence glanced down at her board, now showing multiple rows of orange
lights, and touched the buttons that would secure the ship's systems
against the inevitable jolting of the tow, "All secure." 

"You can begin the tow, Julie," Balthasar said. 

There was no answer, but a moment later the left-hand screen showed the
tow creeping forward on its double tracks. As the tow hook came taut, the
ship's cradle jerked hard, but then settled under the engineer's cautious
handling to a gentle swaying. Very slowly, cradle and tow moved toward the
huge entrance, and then out onto the soft ground. Silence held her breath
-- the homunculi had spent some hours hard-foaming the improvised taxiway
-- but the cradle showed no inclination to stick. It was strange to see
trees and grass in the screens, rather than the familiar buildings of the
port complex, but Silence was only vaguely aware of the anomaly. Instead,
she kept an eye on Balthasar, who was scowling nervously at his readouts,
wondering just what the Delian was up to. 

The cradle's swaying stopped abruptly, and Chase Mago's voice interrupted
her thoughts. "We're in position. I'm unhitching the tow." 

Balthasar did not answer, still staring at his controls, and after a
moment Silence reached across to touch the outside button on the
communications board. "All right. Let us know when you're back inside." 

"I'll do that," the engineer answered, and broke the connection. A minute
later, the tow's top hatch lifted, and Chase Mago levered himself out of
the cramped interior. Silence watched the viewscreen until the engineer
vanished under the high nose of the cradle, out of range of Recusante's
cameras. A light flashed from red to green, indicating that Chase Mago had
released the tow hook, and then the tow itself began to move slowly away
under control of its own tiny brain. Silence caught a brief glimpse of the
engineer as he crossed the left-wing camera's field of vision, but then he
was gone again, only the flicker of the hatch light, from green to orange
to green, marking the moment he came aboard. 

Balthasar saw the flicker too, and managed a ghostly grin. He reached
across the empty Ficinan model to touch keys on the communications board.
"Anshar' Asteriona Control, this is DRV Recusants. I understand you're
holding a place for us in the lift queue." 

Anshar' Asteriona answered promptly -- so promptly that Silence wondered
if a special technician had been detailed to handle their liftoff. 

"That's correct, Recusante. Please stand by to confirm the lift-line." 

"Standing by," Balthasar answered, and Silence keyed the Ficinan display.
The little globe darkened perceptibly, the planets of Asterion's system
fading into existence in its depths. Each pinpoint was surrounded by a
slowly deepening flush of color, a reflection of the planetary harmonies,
the musica mundana, that surrounded each world. The outer planets, Niminx
and Mim Seras, were in conjunction, and sparks flared where the harmonic
envelopes touched. Recusante's course line curved well away from that
dissonance. "Ready for your figures." 

"Transmitting," Anshar' Asteriona answered. 

A moment later, a second course line appeared in the Ficinan display,
hovered for an instant, and then melted into the original line. Silence
glanced quickly at the numerical display to confirm it, and said, "I show
a match." 

"Good enough," Balthasar said. "We show a match, Asteriona Control." 

"Very good," Anshar' Asteriona responded. "Please confirm your bearing. " 

Silence glanced to her right, reading off the numbers on the astrolabe set
into the console just in front of the Ficinan globe. Balthasar repeated
them into his microphone, and waited. 

"The tower astrologers confirm the bearing," Anshar' Asteriona said, after
a brief pause. "Traffic has been put on hold. You may lift when ready,
Recusante." 

Silence whistled softly to herself. To hold traffic on a busy world like
Asterion was almost unheard of, an honor reserved for satraps and other
planetary powers, not for private starships. Balthasar gave a sigh --
almost of relief, Silence thought, and her suspicion deepened. 

"Ready to lift," the Delian responded, and cut the outside transmitter. He
touched a second button on the intercom console, saying, "All set below,
Julie?" 

"Everything's green," the engineer answered. 

Balthasar took a deep breath, and Silence saw that his hands were
trembling again. "First sequence." 

"First sequence," Chase Mago answered, and an instant later the harmonium
sounded. This was the first time Silence had heard the full diapason since
the worn pipes had been replaced. The new sound -- bone-deep, without
human harmonies -- woke echoes in brain and body. She shivered at the
beauty of it. The note that she had heard each time they attempted the
Earth-road, the note that was as close as human perception could come to
the note of heaven, hung within it, implicit in that sound. Recusante
shivered in her cradle, and leaped upward. The harmonic envelope formed
almost before Silence was aware of the usual sensation of crushing weight.

"My God," she said aloud. 

Balthasar nodded, his fingers busy on his keyboard. The sound eased a
little, then steadied as Chase Mago made his own corrections. 

"Sorry, Denis." Even through the intercom's distortion, the engineer
sounded faintly shaken. "I didn't expect that." 

"Shows you what money will buy," Balthasar answered, but his tone was less
flippant than his words. 

"Recusante, we show that you are steady on your departure line," Anshar'
Asteriona announced. "Good voyage." 

"We confirm that," Silence answered, when Balthasar showed no signs of
responding. "Thank you, Control." 

She switched off the transmitter, and leaned back in her couch. Already,
the harmonium's music was fading as Recusante passed the edges of
Asterion's harmonic envelope. A few moments later, the last of the
core-based notes cut out, leaving only the pure, sweet chord that would
take them up to the twelfth of heaven. 

"On course and in the groove," Balthasar announced, with some
satisfaction. He glanced at the readouts on the astrogation board. "Not
long to the twelfth, Silence. You might want to go on up." 

The pilot raised her eyebrows. It would be at least an hour, and more
probably two, even with the power provided by the new pipes, before
Recusante could reach a point at which the systemic harmonies were
sufficiently deadened by the celestial harmonies -- the delicate
background note of deep space -- for the ship to cross the border into
purgatory. Still, she thought, there was no point in arguing, especially
since Balthasar was already in a bad humor. She nodded, and released the
catches on her safety webbing. 

To her surprise, the minor effects of purgatory -- the faint stickiness of
the decking, the odd sense of a world askew -- were already beginning to
make themselves felt as she pulled herself up the ladder to the upper
bridge. The dome, which, unlike the rest of the ship's bulkheads, was made
of a special tinctureless metal, was already beginning to show
translucence, the nearest stars shining faintly in its depths. Silence
frowned, checking the readouts set in the hub and spokes of her control
wheel, but the numbers still showed Recusante to be well below the twelfth
of heaven. Still frowning, she fitted her headphone jack into its socket,
and keyed the intercom. 

"Denis, I'm getting some very strange responses up here." 

"Yeah, I know," Balthasar answered. "Here, too." 

Chase Mago's chuckle sounded in their ears, and Silence hastily adjusted
the volume. "This is the way it's supposed to be, people," the engineer
said. "This is a freshly tuned ship and mostly new pipes, remember?" 

Silence nodded to herself, leaving the intercom channel open. The
engineer's explanation made sense: star travel depended on the interaction
between the harmonium and a starship's massive sounding keel, and if both
were in perfect tune, or even close to perfection, naturally the ship
would see the effects of purgatory more quickly. The harmonium produced a
note as close as humanly possible to the celestial harmony, the note of
the supermaterial state beyond the mundane universe, the source of the
Forms on which much of the magi's Art was based. A sounding keel was made
of base metal impregnated with the Philosopher's Tincture, the only
celestial substance that could exist in a mundane state. The Tincture
sought always to return to its proper, celestial state, but was confined
by the mundane materials around it. Only under the influence of the
harmonium could the Tincture approach its original state, carrying with it
and being restrained by the mundane nature of the rest of the ship and its
crew. The ship would never reach heaven, but it could reach the twelfth of
heaven that was purgatory, and that was enough. In purgatory, so the
metaphysicists said, time and space became potentially identical; the
pilots manipulated the visible symbols of those potentials -- the
voidmarks -- to move from star system to star system. 

Overhead, the dome was fading toward full transparence, and Silence shook
herself. Through the untinctured metal, little more than shadow now, she
could see the starscape, each sun ringed by the garish corona that marked
the twelfth of heaven. She took a deep breath, recalling the voidmarks she
had so carefully memorized, and stepped onto the low platform before the
wheel, wriggling her feet into the cling-foam covering. They were
travelling by the Road of the Harmonious Spheres, one of a class of roads
known generally as rolling roads. If she closed her eyes, she could almost
see the illustration in her New Aquarius. A crowned figure, young, male,
wearing an old-fashioned version of the usual Hegemonic loose coat and
trousers under an even more archaic breastplate, balanced on the top of a
massive sphere that seemed to contain the shadowy image of an orrery. The
figure's breastplate was badged with a living eye; he held in his right
hand a short, spindle-shaped wand, and in his left an open book from which
rose drops of fire. Behind the central figure was a city wall and a
cluster of figures in magi's robes, all of whom pointed in amazement to a
sky that, though filled with clouds, showed sun and moon and stars. 

Remembering the image, Silence smiled, but her smile faded quickly. The
Harmonious Spheres was a crowded road -- that was one of the meanings of
the impossible sky -- and the symbols involved were very powerful ones.
The pilot's Art was essentially a passive skill, manipulating already
related symbols; a magus's training made it very difficult to concentrate
on the voidmarks, without drawing in all the other symbols and Forms that
existed in potential in purgatory. If she were to become distracted on a
rolling road, where the wand and the book and the eye all warned of the
need for precise control.... 

Silence shook herself. She had met and dealt with the multiple symbols
crowding the Earth-road, and there were no more seductive images in either
the pilots' or the magi's hieroglypicae. She would not allow herself to
become distracted. The control yoke moved gently under her hands, and she
realized abruptly that the stars had vanished, leaving only their
brilliant coronae scattered across the sky. She glanced down, and saw her
bones gleaming through suddenly translucent flesh, caught in a ruby web of
blood vessels. 

"We're almost at the twelfth," Balthasar's voice said in her ears. 

"I'm ready to take control," Silence answered automatically. 

"Switching to the upper register," Balthasar said. "Now, Julie." 

"Switching," Chase Mago answered, but the word was swallowed in the sudden
surge of music. The keelsong split and broadened, individual tones
momentarily audible, cascading up and down the scale until they merged
into a new and greater song. 

Silence gasped, the sound vibrating in her bones, and then that sensation
merged into a new, less pleasant feeling. Recusante seemed suddenly to be
rushing forward at an impossible speed, as though the pilot and the ship
and everything in it were balancing on the rim of a moving wheel, running
at breakneck speed without ever moving forward. Silence swore, remembering
tardily that this was a rolling road, and sought her voidmarks. 

For the first instant, as she had feared, a cloud of symbols blocked her
vision, crowding out the true signs. She forced herself to look down at
the tincture-treated decking, murmuring the first cantrips. She could hear
the keelsong changing, sliding out of true, but ignored it for the moment,
forcing herself to recover the pilot's disciplined vision. Then, at last,
she looked up. 

The last coronae had vanished, and she was surrounded by the images of
purgatory. On all sides, the cloudy sky of the New Aquarius's drawing
surrounded them, spangled with its impossible sun and stars and
multiphased moon, but she barely noticed those minor marks. Ahead and
slightly above swung the central image, only vaguely like an orrery, seven
huge rings swinging in self-contradictory orbits around a single gleaming
axis. Recusante was falling toward one of those whizzing rings, and the
sensation of movement, of unbalanced speed, increased as they came closer
to it. 

Silence swallowed hard, fighting back the impulse to swerve away from the
ring. She touched the control yoke gently, easing Recusante onto a course
that would bring her keel down onto that speeding ring. The dissonance
eased perceptibly, but the speeding sensation increased. It was unreal,
Silence knew, as unreal as the apparent increase in speed she felt when a
ship left purgatory, but still unsettling. Recusante settled toward the
approaching ring, her movement relative to the image disorientingly slow,
completely unrelated to the sense of rapid movement. The discontinuity
made it very hard to judge the approach, and Silence could feel her palms
growing sweaty on the control yoke. If she missed -- and wasn't thrown off
into the dissonances that flanked every star road, marked here by the
astronomical bodies hovering in the clouds -- she could probably meet the
next ring.... But it would still be an unbearably amateurish mistake. 

The ring swung closer, and Silence swung the ship so that the keel would
intersect the image first. She could no longer see the image, now lying
underfoot, but she was tuned to its movements. She held her breath,
waiting. Now, she thought, just... now. 

Even as she thought the word, the sense of movement stopped. In the same
moment the keelsong changed, a new note sounding in its music, and the
clouds to either side began to move, swirling in a great vortex around the
suddenly stationary starship. Silence let out her breath with a great sigh
of relief. The first part of the road had been successfully negotiated;
the rest would be easy. 

This was the stable part of the Road of the Harmonious Spheres; a starship
could lie here, static, carried around and around by the vortex that was
represented by the revolving ring, until the elemental water that powered
its harmonium was exhausted and the ship fell from purgatory. The ship
still had to travel "up" the ring to the axis itself, and then down the
axis to its midpoint, before it could leave purgatory. Carefully, Silence
pulled back on the control yoke, lifting Recusante from its stable place
at the heart of the ring. The keelsong changed, protesting, but the
sensation of movement returned. Slowly, very slowly, the ship began to
move along the ring, heading toward the axis. 

Silence wasn't sure how long she'd stood there, the clouds and stars
spinning dizzily around her, when Balthasar appeared on the bridge. 

"Shall I spell you?" he asked. "Clock's changed twice, but I think we've
still got some time before you make the shift." 

Silence glanced along the ring ahead of them, suddenly aware of cramped
muscles and an urgent pressure in her bladder. Real time passed
irregularly in purgatory, but subjective time remained constant, and
demanding. They were perhaps halfway to the axis. "We should have," she
said aloud. "Thanks, Denis, it's all yours." 

Balthasar stepped onto the platform behind her, so close that his body was
pressed against her back, and reached around her to set his hands on the
control yoke. The bones and arteries showed clearly beneath his
transparent skin, the knob of an old break starkly visible in the bones
just above his left wrist. She avoided looking at his face, knowing what
she would see. 

"I've got it," the Delian said. 

"All yours," Silence said again, and released the wheel, ducking under the
other's arms. Balthasar was a good pilot; she did not glance back as she
let herself slide down the ladders to the ship's main deck. She went into
her own cabin to relieve herself, then returned to the main corridor,
carefully latching the door behind her. She stood for a moment, working
her shoulders, trying to shrug away some of the stiffness. I'm out of
shape, she thought. The Road of the Harmonious Spheres wasn't a
particularly long one -- a little more than nine minutes, real time, but
only four subjective hours -- but it had been some months since she'd
flown. She laced her fingers together and pushed them straight out in
front of her, feeling the tightness in her arms and shoulders. At least by
the time this trip is over I'll be back in shape, she thought. I'll have
done enough piloting for that, if nothing else. 

The corridor was very quiet, Chase Mago cloistered in the engine room,
Isambard locked in his cabin, dreaming through the passage. Silence
glanced down the corridor toward the orange safety light ringing the
engine room hatch, and felt again the strange, oppressive quiet. She
frowned, but knew this was not the time to investigate. Instead, she
pulled herself back up the ladders, pausing momentarily on the lower
bridge to check the chronometer. It had ticked once since she had left the
bridge: plenty of time. 

She swung herself off the ladder on the upper bridge, hurriedly scanning
the voidmarks. They were closer to the end of the ring and the turn down
the axis, but there was still plenty of time to make the changeover. She
said, "Did Isambard bring any equipment that needed special shielding, or
anything like that?" 

Balthasar did not turn, but Silence thought his shoulders tightened under
the clinging shipsuit. "Not that I know of," the Delian said. "Why?" 

"There's -- well, a funny feeling down on the main deck," Silence
answered. "Nothing serious, but it feels like a damper, or something like
that." 

This time Balthasar did shrug. "I don't know," he said, and his tone made
it clear that he didn't particularly care. "You want to take her again?" 

So much for that, Silence thought. If the Delian didn't think her feeling
was important, she would let it go, at least for now. Though it did seem
odd, given Balthasar's usual near paranoia.... She pushed the thought
aside, and said, "If you're ready." 

Without waiting for Balthasar's nod, she stepped onto the platform behind
him, reaching around to take the wheel in her right hand. "I've got it, "
she said. 

Balthasar nodded, and slipped aside. Silence put her other hand on the
yoke, working her feet back into the clingfoam. 

"I wouldn't worry about it," Balthasar said. From his voice, he was
already on the ladder, but Silence did not look back. "It's probably not
anything important." 

"Thanks," Silence said, but the Delian was gone. Sighing, Silence put
aside the minor problem, and turned her attention to the voidmarks. 

Recusante was almost up to the axis, its silvery column almost twice as
wide as the ship's extended stabilizers. The point at which the ring met
the axis gleamed brilliantly, throwing off clouds of sparks. Silence made
a face at that, but she could see that the real point of intersection was
clear of interference. The starship inched its way up the ring, seeming to
slow as it approached the axis. That, too, was deception, but for once it
worked in the pilot's favor. Silence took her time studying the approach,
letting her hands rest loosely on the wheel. Almost, she thought. And...
now. 

She swung the yoke hard, pulling Recusante down and to the right. The
keelsong rose, a stressed note at its core, and then abruptly steadied.
Recusante rode in a tube of silver, its cylindrical walls reflecting the
glow of the starship's keel. Silence gave a sigh of relief. They were
almost through. Already, she could see the black disk that marked the end
of the road, could feel the false acceleration that meant the ship was
falling away from purgatory. 

And then they were through, the keelsong shifting pitch again, back to the
normal register. Silence locked the control yoke without waiting for
Balthasar's order -- she could tell from the way the ship handled that the
Delian had it fully under control -- then let herself slide down the
ladder to the lower bridge. 

The displays were busy already, Meng Approach flashing multiple audio and
visual instructions, and Silence dropped quickly into her couch, reaching
for the communications keyboard. Balthasar, still busy fine-tuning the
harmonium, gave her a grateful glance. 

"We want a parking orbit, right?" Silence said, her fingers already busy
filtering out the unnecessary input. "Meng, or the Anaskazeion?" 

"The Anaskazeion," Balthasar answered. 

Silence nodded, and keyed in the commands for the proper displays. The
image in the Ficinan model swam momentarily, planets shifting fractionally
in relation to each other, then steadied. An instant later, the projected
course appeared, a blue line running along the edge of the system, just
skirting the flaring dissonance that followed a massive gas giant. A light
was flashing on the communications board, indicating that someone was
querying their automatic identification, but she ignored it. It was nice
not to have to worry about hitting the override in time. 

"DRV Recusante, this is Anaskazeion Approach Control," a deep voice said a
moment later. "You are presently inbound for the Anaskazeion Ring. Do you
wish dock or orbit facilities?" 

"Anaskazeion Approach, this is Recusante," Silence answered. "We
acknowledge we're in your lane, and would like to request orbit
facilities." 

There was a pause -- time/distance lag more than anything else, Silence
guessed -- before Anaskazeion answered. "Very good, Recusante. There are
free spaces in sector 246. 29. Please stand by to receive precise
coordinates." 

"Standing by," Silence answered, and keyed the recorder. There was a
whine, and numbers flashed across the right-hand viewscreen. Balthasar
reached across hastily to freeze the output, then touched a second set of
keys to transfer the information to the musonar and the Ficinan model. 

"Not bad," he said, and nodded toward the musonar display. 

"Anaskazeion Approach, we acknowledge receipt of the coordinates, "
Silence said automatically, and barely heard the deep-voiced response. She
was staring at the musonar, enthralled. Like all star-travellers, she had
heard of the Anaskazeion ring, but the stories had not prepared her for
the reality. Meng was a predominantly agricultural world, every meter of
its amazingly fertile soil given over to growing something. Rather than
waste valuable ground on a true starport and all its facilities, Meng's
governors had built the Anaskazeion in what had once been an asteroid
belt. That subplanetary debris was long gone, transformed into the hulls
of permanent stations. In its place, a network of stations and fixpoints
circled the planet, providing the star-travellers with every conceivable
comfort while lighters ferried cargo to and from the planet's surface. 

"Stop down to half power, Julie," Balthasar said. "Local regulations." 

"Stopping down to half power," Chase Mago repeated, and the harmonium's
sound faded. 

Silence stared into the musonar display. She could see why the local
authorities wanted ships to mute their harmonia: already the screen was
flecked with the dull bronze dots that indicated active keels,
interspersed with the brighter lights of the parking beacons. 

"That's where we're headed," Balthasar said, and lifted one hand from his
keyboards to touch one of the left-hand buoys. 

Silence nodded and leaned back in her couch, watching the Delian bring the
little ship in through the crowded lanes. Balthasar was a good systems
pilot, she thought idly, much better than she herself was, though she was
the better starpilot. At last the Delian brought them alongside the
fixpoint, and cut the harmonium. He touched keys on the communications
board, and the fixpoint's anchor nodes glowed, creating a newtonian field
that drew Recusante gently in toward the fixpoint and held it steady. At
the same time a power cable unfurled, probing awkwardly for the ship's
intake jack. There was a sharp click, more felt than heard, and a new set
of lights sprang to life on the environmental display. 

"DRV Recusante, we show that you have docked," Anaskazeion Approach said
cheerfully. "Welcome to the ring." 

"We are docked," Silence agreed. "Thanks, Approach." She cut the channel
and glanced at Balthasar, who looked away. 

"Shall we go below?" he said, without waiting for her to speak. "There's
some things we need to talk about." 

Oh, really? Silence thought, all the vague suspicions of the past few days
crystallizing into the conviction that Balthasar was up to something,
probably no good. "Sure," she said aloud, and unfastened the safety
webbing. Before she could push herself out of the couch, the intercom
buzzed. 

"Denis," Chase Mago began, his voice dangerously quiet, and Balthasar cut
him off hastily. 

"Don't panic, Julie, I'll be right down." 

"What the hell are you up to?" Silence demanded, but Balthasar was already
sliding down the ladder, and pretended not to hear. The pilot cursed him,
and followed. 

Chase Mago was standing in the doorway of the common room, his face
thunderous. "I hope to hell you have a good explanation, Denis," he said,
and Balthasar spread his hands nervously. 

"Of course," he began, but his voice faded under the engineer's furious
glare. 

Silence took a deep breath, wondering just what the Delian had done this
time, and pushed past Chase Mago into the common room. Three people were
waiting there, one in a magus's black. Silence barely noticed Isambard's
familiar figure, her attention going instead to the other two. Marcinik,
as striking as ever in the Thousand's undress black, stood at attention
behind the room's tallest oilchair. In that chair sat a small, veiled
figure: Aili, the Princess Royal. 

Chapter 3 

SILENCE TURNED SLOWLY, UNTIL SHE WAS FACING BALthasar. "You stupid son of
a bitch. What the hell are you playing at?" 

Balthasar spread his hands again, grinning uneasily. Chase Mago eyed him
dubiously, one fist clenched as though he was restraining himself from
hitting the smaller man. "It's like this," the Delian began, and Silence
cut him off. 

"Don't give me any of your bullshit stories, Denis, or I'll take you
apart." 

"I'll help," Chase Mago said. 

"Silence." Aili's cool voice cut through Balthasar's stammering answer.
"This isn't entirely Captain Balthasar's doing." 

Silence turned, goaded, but bit back her angry answer at the last possible
moment. "You wouldn't be here without him." 

"That's true." Aili rose gracefully from her chair, and came to stand
between the combatants. Marcinik, with an obvious effort, remained where
he was. Out of the corner of her eye, Silence could see Isambard watching
with detached interest, and his very detachment steadied her. 

"So why are you here, your Serenity?" the pilot asked. 

"Because of my father's proclamation," Aili answered simply. 

Silence frowned, and Chase Mago said, "Proclamation?" 

"And, of course, the charter," Aili said. She turned her veiled head so
that she was looking directly at Silence. "My half-brother is merely
competent: I am both more capable than he, and the more legitimate heir. "
The veil hid her expression completely, but there was a note of humor in
her voice. "I had thought you would sympathize with me, Silence. After
all, if you can become a magus, why should I be denied mere political
power?" 

Silence looked away. There was some justice in the Princess Royal's words
-- but that, Silence thought, is not my affair. We only just managed to
get the Hegemon on our side; we can't afford to antagonize him, not now.
And won't all the authorities be looking for a runaway princess? She
opened her mouth to ask, but Chase Mago spoke first, a wealth of
bitterness in his voice. 

"I thought you hated politics, Denis." 

Balthasar shrugged, obviously torn between his habitual reticence and the
desire to brag about his cleverness. 

Silence said, "He just likes to make trouble." She turned back to Aili.
"Proclamation or not, your Serenity, we're already under charter to your
brother." 

"Half-brother," Aili corrected. "And the terms of the proclamation give
precedence to persons who make the search themselves." 

"Why would anyone do that?" Chase Mago asked, apparently distracted by the
odd condition. 

Marcinik's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "His most serene Majesty was
trying to get rid of a rival known for his adventurous spirit." 

"Oh." The engineer nodded thoughtfully. "It makes a perverse sort of
sense." 

"Be that as it may," Silence said, "I don't want anything to do with
this." 

"They're already aboard," Balthasar said, with another nervous grin. "You
can hardly put them off." 

"Oh, can't I?" Silence said grimly. 

The Delian's smile vanished. "Now wait just a goddamn minute," he said.
"Silence, you can't." 

"Why not?" Silence retorted. "Look, aside from the fact that helping them
is going to get us into serious trouble with this hegemon -- trouble we
can't afford -- they'll be nothing but a liability once we reach Earth. We
don't have papers for them --" She broke off, seeing Balthasar's almost
embarrassed gesture, and continued, controlling her temper with an effort,
"All right, you got them papers. Still, they're not star-travellers, not
even Marcinit; they'll give us away the minute they set foot in the Pale.
Especially Aili. She's a woman of the Thousand -- a princess of the royal
blood, for God's sake. She'll be nothing but a liability. We can't do it,
Denis." 

"You sound just like Nils Og," Balthasar said, and Silence suppressed the
urge to hit him. Og had been the most vocal critic of female pilots, even
Misthians. "Take a good look at her. Does she look like a liability?" 

Silence glanced at the Princess Royal, sobered in spite of herself by the
Delian's words. For the first time, Aili's clothes registered properly.
The Princess Royal was wearing the shapeless coat and trousers favored by
the poorer citizens of the Hegemony, and her face was covered, as
Hegemonic law required. However, instead of a veil, she wore the turban
and draped facecloth of a member of the Bethlemites. Silence raised an
eyebrow, but had to admit it was a good choice. The Bethlemite sect held,
among other odd beliefs, that star travel, and especially the passage
through purgatory, revealed a man's essential nakedness too clearly, and
therefore kept all parts of their bodies hidden beneath tinctured
clothing. It was also a small sect, and one whose members kept very much
to themselves. Glancing back at Aili, Silence saw the Princess Royal had
even acquired the form-fitted gloves. 

"All right," the pilot said, more calmly, to Balthasar, "you found her a
good disguise." 

"No." For the first time, Aili's voice held a hint of anger. "I chose the
disguise, Silence. I planned this. Don't insult me that way again." 

Silence hesitated, unwillingly remembering a similar conversation she had
had with Aili in the Women's Palace. Aili had accused her of believing
that women -- or at least other women -- really were inferior. It wasn't
true then, Silence thought, and it isn't true now. We just can't afford to
help her. It wasn't much of an excuse, and she knew it. Aili's first words
rang in her ears: If you can become a magus, why should I be denied mere
political power? 

Balthasar said, "It's true. They approached me with the idea." 

"That must've been something to see," Silence said bitterly, then shook
her head, gesturing to brush the words away. "I'm sorry, Denis, I didn't
mean it." She took a deep breath, and turned to face Aili. "And I
apologize to you. I was upset, I didn't mean any insult." 

Aili nodded back, her tone easing somewhat. "We should have consulted you
first, but there was no safe opportunity." 

And you probably knew I'd react this way, too, Silence thought, already
ashamed of herself. She said aloud, "Are you sure his Majesty's
proclamation will really give you precedence?" 

"Almost completely," Aili answered, and once again the note of humor was
in her voice. "I can think of only one jurist who could break it, and I
think I can pay him well enough to support me." 

"In any case," Marcinik said, "that doesn't have to affect you. You will
have done your duty to his Majesty and to the Princess Royal; you can
argue with some justice that conflicts of precedence aren't your affair." 

I doubt it will be that simple, Silence thought, but nodded. "All right, I
know how you vote, Denis. Julie?" 

The big engineer shrugged, a rather bemused expression on his face.
"Unless you want to put them off by force -- and I wouldn't want to try it
with one of the True Thousand -- I don't think we have any choice." 

"Isambard?" Silence asked. 

"The political question is immaterial," the older magus answered. His
voice rose abruptly, infused with more passion than any of the others had
heard from him. "But I will see Earth." 

The unexpected vehemence of his words left the others speechless. When
Silence finally spoke, her voice held a new seriousness. "So be it. We --
all of us -- go to Earth." 

Recusante spent three days in the Anaskazeion, a day longer than they had
originally intended. Silence threw herself into the business of plotting a
course from Meng into the dead roads, star roads that once had led to
worlds destroyed in the Millennial Wars. They were dangerous, their
voidmarks distorted by the destruction of all or part of the end system,
but Wrath-of-God had made use of them on a regular basis, and Balthasar
knew them well. On their previous attempts to reach Earth, they had used
the broken Decelea system as a staging point, but Decelea offered no easy
road to Limyre, the point at which they had chosen to switch to the
portolan system. Two other broken systems, Sebethos and Atrax, offered
decent departure roads, but Balthasar vetoed Atrax on the grounds that its
system was too unstable. After some searching, putting together the
information in Silence's ancient -- pre-War -- copy of the starbook The
Gilded Stairs with Balthasar's knowledge of the dead roads, they settled
on Sebethos, by means of the road listed in The Gilded Stairs as the
Eagle's Flight. 

Balthasar snorted. "We called it the Ganymede Run." 

Silence glanced again at the book lying on the common room table in front
of her, and the delicate miniature filling half the page. Like all The
Gilded Stairs' illustrations, it was a beautiful drawing, yet strangely
disturbing. It showed a fiery river, flames leaping and flowing like water
over a rocky bed. Lean, feral animals prowled along the riverbanks,
seemingly kept in check only by the lapping fires. A bird of prey -- an
eagle, by the road's name, Silence thought -- soared away from that fire,
a naked youth caught in its claws. Looking more closely, Silence could see
more naked figures, all male, all young, formed by the river's flames.
Trust Balthasar and the rest of Wrath-of-God to see that, she thought, and
to find the reference. Aloud, she said, "How much have the marks changed?"
On most of the dead roads, the printed voidmarks were no longer accurate,
distorted by the broken harmonies of the shattered systems. 

Balthasar gave a twisted smile. "The marks haven't really changed, it's
the emotional -- hell, sexual -- effect that's the problem. Something in
the systemic music really touches a nerve." 

Silence nodded, still studying the illustration. Fire was one of the most
common symbols for desire, sexual and otherwise. From the flaming river,
she guessed that the erotic potential had always been implicit in the
voidmarks, though the soaring eagle -- it was rising, not stooping, she
was fairly certain -- suggested that the eroticism had originally been
harnessed and channeled to the control of the starship. She nodded again.
It made sense that the destruction of the object, the road's higher goal,
would allow the unleashed sexuality of the images full play. It was
perhaps a pity that she and Balthasar were the only trained pilots aboard,
she thought. They were both of a nature vulnerable to the voidmarks'
appeal. She shook the thought away irritably. There was not a
star-traveller alive who didn't know the dangers of uncontrolled passions,
hadn't had the horror stories dinned into him from the first days of his
apprenticeship. It might be an upsetting ride, but hardly an impossible
one. 

"And then, when we get to Limyre, we switch systems," she said, and
reached for the locked carryall that sat beside her chair. She touched the
lockplate, and lifted the lid, drawing out the battered portolan. 

Balthasar nodded. "That strikes me as the tricky part." He searched among
the papers littering the table until he found the oversized printout from
the astrogation console, a two-dimensional drawing of the Ficinan model of
the Limyre system. "Counting in all factors, we should come out of
purgatory here." One long finger touched a point just outside the orbit of
Limyre's most distant sister, an unnamed gas giant. The Rose Worlders had
probably named it, Silence thought, irrelevantly, but that information had
never made it to the rest of human-settled space. 

"We really need Julie for this," Balthasar said fretfully, and Silence
shrugged. 

"He's got the final adjustments to make, you know that. We'll have time to
go over it again with him, don't worry." 

"I know," Balthasar muttered, then shook himself, returning his attention
to the system map. "So, as soon as we hit the twelfth, Julie lets the
harmonium stop down naturally --" 

"Thus hopefully making us look like a normal flare," Silence finished
impatiently. "Limyre system's supposed to be full of them." 

"I hope that damn supercargo was right about that," Balthasar said. He
sighed, and looked up. "After that, it's all yours." 

Silence nodded, not entirely happily, staring at the unopened porto-lan.
No one had used the portolan system since the third century of star
travel; between that time and her own lay both centuries and the
destruction of the Millennial Wars. She herself had never heard of the
portolan system until she had stumbled across a photoflashed copy of an
ancient pamphlet, bound in with half a dozen like it, which the magi had
collected as a curiosity without recognizing what it contained. No, to be
fair, Silence thought, they simply didn't have the knowledge to give it
context. Even being a pilot might not have been enough for me to see it
could take us to Earth. But she owned a copy of a pre-War starbook, one
that contained both the Earth-road and the closely guarded roads that led
among the Rose Worlds. The three things together had been enough to show
her a new road to Earth. 

Sighing, she opened the portolan, turning the pages one by one until she
found the drawing she was looking for. The portolan system was totally
unlike the normal method of star travel, using the voidmarks only as
signposts, rather than the potent symbols they had later become. In normal
star travel, the pilot actually manipulated the voidmarks; there was a
true interaction between pilot, ship, and symbol. Using a portolan....
Silence forced herself to look again at the double-page drawing spread out
before her. It showed Limyre and environs, the planet and its sun at the
center, lines -- called landlines for some unknown reason -- radiating out
in all directions from that central point. Marks, some familiar as parts
of the more complex images that made up the voidmarks, others completely
unknown, lay scattered across the page as well. Each mark had its own
smaller halo of landlines, and each line was carefully labelled with its
harmonic bearing. Silence traced her planned course, along one line from
Limyre to a mark shaped like a triple rose, then along a second line to a
walled city, along a third to the goose-necked man, and so on, until at
last they reached Earth. Following those lines would depend at least as
much on matching the listed harmonic bearings as it would on her steering
from one mark to the next; that was the reason Chase Mago was making final
adjustments to the harmonium, to be sure its music was pure to the full
nine places. 

She sighed, still staring at the map. Theoretically, this should all work
as planned, but she could not forget that most of her assumptions were no
more than that, guesses based on the pamphlet she had read and the
structure of the portolan itself. If she were wrong.... She put the image
of disaster from her mind with an effort. If I'm wrong, she told herself,
we will have to resort to Isambard's plan, and try to force the engines.
That's all. 

"Well, now." That was Chase Mago's voice, tired but triumphant. Silence
looked up to find the engineer smiling down at her and Balthasar. 

"Everything's finished," Chase Mago went on. "It's all done, and we're
ready to go." 

They left the Anaskazeion the morning of the next day, ship's time,
wanting to be sure everyone was well rested before attempting the passage
into the Rose Worlds. Ostensibly, they were outbound for Caire, a Fringe
World noted for its resorts, and Departure Control's final "good voyage"
was so wistful that Silence felt vaguely guilty for disappointing him. It
was only a short run-up to the twelfth of heaven, but Silence took her
place on the upper bridge early, remembering what Balthasar had said about
the Eagle's Flight. 

"Standing by to switch to the upper register," Balthasar's voice announced
in her headset, and Silence rested both hands on the control yoke, her
thumb poised over the lock. All around, the dome was fading, the stars'
coronae shining through its metallic shadow. 

"Ready above," she said. 

"Engine room ready," Chase Mago said. 

There was a momentary pause -- Silence could almost see Balthasar watching
his readouts -- and then the Delian said, "Now." 

If the engineer acknowledged the order, his words were lost in the sudden
surge of music. The last wisps of the dome went transparent, as though
blown away by the wave of sound. Silence smiled, caught in spite of
herself by the soaring harmonies. Then she shook herself, almost angrily,
and sought her voidmarks. 

The feeling hit her first, a wave of absolute lust stronger than anything
she had ever felt before. She gasped, body tingling, but forced herself to
ignore the sensations. The voidmarks whirled around her, refused to steady
into any familiar image. She swore, then cursed again as she realized
she'd used a sexual image. The flaming river of The Gilded Stairs' drawing
took shaky form ahead of her, but she could not seem to concentrate on it
enough to make it come clear. Bodies swirled up from its shadow like
leaping flames, momentarily distinct, inviting, then spun away into the
fire. A single figure swam before her, young, male, its muscles sharply
molded. It reached for her, laughing, even as it dissolved in a shower of
liquid flame. Its face had been vaguely familiar, but it vanished before
she could capture the memory. 

A second plume of flame rose from the fire, shaped itself into a new
figure, instantly recognizable. It was the form of her first lover, the
fire sharply outlining every curve and hollow of that familiar body,
gleaming on the flat planes of chest and belly. There had been nothing
between them except sex -- he had not believed she was a star pilot, and
she had not bothered to enlighten him, leaving him willingly when Black
Dolphin left the planet -- but she still remembered with aching precision
the explosive delights of their lovemaking. He beckoned, smiling, Silence
shivered, but looked away. 

This is unreal, she told herself, it is illusion. He was -- he is nothing
to you. The words were powerless against the remembered passion. More
shapes crowded up behind the smiling figure, familiar faces forming in the
flames. Every man she had ever seen and desired was there, each one
perfected, polished and completed, by years of daydream, fantasy
embellishing experience. I never slept with you, with any of you but one,
she thought, but the wordless challenge rang hollow in her mind. It did
not matter; it was not experience but imagination that betrayed her now. 

The keelsong changed, the spreading dissonance cutting through the haze of
emotion. The voidmarks cleared, the eagle hovering above the flaming
river, but there was barely time for that vision to register: Recusante
was falling toward the river, its apparent speed increasing with every
second. Silence's mouth set in a grim line, and she pulled up sharply on
the control yoke, fixing her attention on the keelsong. She would allow no
one -- nothing -- to distract her from the ship. The dissonance eased, but
as it eased the memories returned, the figures even more desirable than
before. 

Something more was needed, something stronger than the generalized
protections of the pilots' cantrips and her professional instincts --
something intrinsic to the road itself. Holding her breath, Silence fixed
her eyes on the tinctured decking and eased the control yoke forward
again, steering by the keelsong alone. The dissonance rose slightly, and
Silence levelled the ship again, knowing the keel could not endure the
dissonance for long without going out of tune. There was a voice in her
headset, Chase Mago's voice, but she could not spare the concentration to
untangle the words. 

"I need time," she said, and was never afterwards certain that she had
spoken aloud. The voice in the headset ceased, and she lifted her head
cautiously, looking at the voidmarks. 

The dissonance gave her something real to cling to, to use against the
haze of memory that threatened to overwhelm her. The destruction of
Sebethos had distorted the central figure, so that the eagle no longer
rose, but stooped toward the flames, a naked youth dropping from slack
claws as it sought new prey. On the false horizon, a tori gate still
spanned the river, its once pure colors faded into greys. She took a deep
breath, calming herself, putting aside the twin pressures of desire and
memory. This was the Eagle's Flight -- but that symbolism, of mastered
passion, of royalty and freedom and conquest, provided little help now. Or
Ganymede's Run.... That name triggered a memory from her studies on
Solitudo Hermae. First the shepherd, the seducing male, and then its
related symbols: the rainbow-clad shepherdess, its feminine equivalent;
the huntress, its feminine antithesis; the empress, its opposite and its
opposition; and finally the seeress, personified wisdom, absolute negation
of everything for which the Ganymede-figure stood. She was conventionally
shown armored, armed with the sickle of the moon and the flaming disk of
the sun. 

Without conscious thought, Silence reached for that image, abandoning a
pilot's detachment to shape the symbol out of the potentiality of
purgatory. She drew it to herself, surrounding herself with the symbol and
its meanings, clothing herself in the seeress's armor. The compelling
desire faded, but she was surrounded by too many symbols, each one
triggering an explosion of related images. She controlled that with an
effort, banishing all but the necessary images of the star road and the
seeress who was her talisman, balancing herself between the power of a
magus and the art of a pilot. 

The dissonance wailed around her, and she knew she could wait no longer.
Cautiously, afraid of losing her precarious balance, she pulled back on
the yoke, lifting Recusante back into the proper road. The dissonance,
faded, and she braced herself for the resurgence of the memory-figures.
The first one rose, scar-faced, feral, a pilot she had worshipped during
her apprenticeship and for years after. He was exactly as she remembered
him from her daydreams, the cruel mouth relaxed into a smile of welcome,
yet the memory lacked the demanding sexuality of the other figures, was
nothing more than a memory, Silence lifted her eyes to the tori gate. 

It was very close now, and already Silence could feel the first subtle
increase in Recusante's apparent speed as the ship began to fall away from
the twelfth of heaven. More figures rose from the flames, the same
familiar shapes, but this time they held no power over her. Recusante's
speed increased still further, and then they were through, the note of the
harmonium dropping perceptibly. Silence glanced over her shoulder, and saw
the seeress's armored figure framed in the afterimage of the tori gate. In
the instant before the image vanished altogether, the pilot thought she
saw her own face beneath the shadowing helmet. 

"I have control," Balthasar's voice said in her ears. 

"You have it," Silence answered, and heard how flat her own voice sounded.
She locked her wheel, but instead of climbing down the ladder to the lower
bridge, she seated herself at the base of the yoke, drawing herself into a
huddled ball. The passion created by the star road had gone sour, leaving
her stale and bitter. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying
to put aside the feeling. It was all unreal, she told herself again, all
illusion and therefore unimportant. It did not feel unimportant, and she
was profoundly grateful that the others had not seen the road's images.
Aili and Marcinik and Isambard were still in their cabins, locked in
drugged, dreamless sleep; both Balthasar and Chase Mago would see their
own desires in the fiery river. I wonder why I didn't see them among all
the rest, Silence thought, but the question answered itself almost at
once. The Eagle's Flight showed purposeless passion, desire unmoderated by
any other influence; her marriage had become passionate, but it was
founded on far more complex needs and desires. 

"Silence?" Balthasar's voice held the same dulled quality as her own, and
the pilot wondered momentarily just what the Delian had seen. She put the
thought firmly aside: she did not want to know, any more than she wanted
her own fantasies to be known. 

"Oh my way," she answered, and pushed herself up off the clinging
platform. 

Balthasar was leaning back in his couch, one hand resting lightly on the
keyboard that gave the pilot limited control of the harmonium, the other
fiddling with the controls of the Ficinan model. He looked up as Silence
took her place beside him, but glanced away before she met his eyes.
Silence thought she recognized her own embarrassed guilt in his somber
expression. 

"How're we doing?" Silence asked. For both their sakes, she kept her voice
businesslike, focusing all her attention on the readouts and the triple
screen. There was a momentary pause before Balthasar answered, and the
pilot hoped she was doing the right thing. 

"So far, everything's according to plan," the Delian answered at last, and
gestured to the musonar. "Nothing's stirring." 

Silence nodded, careful to watch the screens instead of the other. The
main pitch indicator was slipping down the lower quarter of the scale, the
harmonium's note already well below human hearing, matching the music
emanating from the system's outer planet. At this scale the Ficinan model
showed only the wash of music from the inner planets. The musonar, set at
its greatest range, showed a few tiny flecks of bronze, the reflections of
starships' keels, but all of them were well within Limyre's envelope.
"That's good." 

Balthasar nodded back, then darted another glance in her direction. "I --"
He made a face then, as though he couldn't find the words, and settled
for, "It's a bad road, that one." 

Silence shrugged uncomfortably, not certain quite how she should respond,
but knowing something needed to be said. "You gave me fair warning," she
said, and held out her hand, not quite daring to look at him. After a
moment, Balthasar grasped it tightly, but said nothing. Silence glanced
sideways, and saw the other's face shut against her, as it had been on
Wrath-of-God, and on the transport. She said, slowly, "It's a road,
Denis." 

Balthasar didn't move for a long moment, but then one corner of his mouth
twitched upward in a grimace that was something less than a smile. Still,
from him that was enough. Silence relaxed a little, but did not release
his hand, grateful for the chaste warmth. They sat unmoving, linked hands
resting lightly on the globe of the Ficinan display. The pitch indicator
crept toward the base line. 

Chase Mago's voice finally broke the quiet. "I show that we're there." 

Balthasar pulled his hand away without the smallest expression of apology
and reached for the intercom. 

Silence leaned sideways to get a better look at the pitch indicators. The
main indicator line hovered at the base; the numerical readings below,
each covering a quarter of the scale, showed three rows of zeros and a
single number. "I show a match to four places," she said, and Balthasar
nodded. 

"Our readout shows correct to four," he said into his headset microphone. 

"Five, now," Silence interrupted. 

"To five places," Balthasar corrected. "There's no traffic out here. Do
you want to wait for the full nine?" 

There was a long pause. Silence stared at the pitch indicators. A
nine-point match would be almost perfect, but it had taken them almost an
hour to reach the acceptable five places, and the indicator showed no
desire to move again. The longer they stayed hi mundane space, the more
chance there was that a Rose Worlder ship would see them.... 

"I wouldn't risk it," Chase Mago said abruptly. "It's going to take us
another two hours or better to run up to heaven Silence's way. I'd rather
go now, and take my time matching the landline." 

"Good enough," Balthasar said. "We'll go now." He glanced at Silence, the
familiar nervous grin on his face. "Well, what's the first line, pilot?" 

Silence lifted the portolan onto the arms of the couch, opening it to the
marked pages that showed the Limyre system. She had laid out the course a
dozen times already, but even so, she traced the chosen line with her
finger, from the system edge to the first mark, before replying. "The
setting is rho five, sol seven over five, mi octavo, tau six-three-one." 

"Rho five, sol seven-fifths, mi octavo, and tau six-three-one," Chase Mago
repeated. In the background, Silence could hear clicking noises as the
engineer adjusted the harmonium's limiting stops. "Rise?" 

Silence glanced again at the chain of symbols, looking for a single number
printed in red. "Eight-zero slash seven." 

"Eight-zero over seven," Chase Mago said. He took a deep breath, the noise
of it clearly audible in the headsets. "We're ready to go, bridge. " 

Balthasar looked toward Silence, still with that nervous smile on his
face. The pilot nodded, holding her breath, and Balthasar said, "Go." 

For a long moment, it seemed as though nothing had happened, and Silence
clasped her hands tightly in her lap. To be wrong now, after everything,
would be more than she could stand. Then, very faintly, she felt the first
note of the adjusted keelsong, a note so deep it trembled just at the edge
of hearing. She sighed, and heard Balthasar let out his breath in an
explosive gasp. 

"Well, at least the tuning works," he said aloud. 

Silence nodded, still listening to the unfamiliar song. This was a new
method to her, to all of them, even though it dated in actuality from the
very earliest days of star travel. It had been the great star-faring
guilds, the Leading Star, the Adventurine, and later the Cor Tauri and Num
Sessa, who had developed the modern harmonia with their multiple,
multi-throated pipes, and the flexible tuning systems that let a ship go
directly from the lifting sequence, the harmony that countered the music
of the planetary core, to the music that would take them to the edge of
the systemic envelope and finally beyond the twelfth of heaven.
Originally, the harmonium had been a crude instrument, with single pipes
and only a few stops with which to control them; star travel had been a
long, multi-stage process. The ship left the planet, then paused in orbit
to retune to the systemic notes; it reached the edge of the system, and
stopped to retune to the celestial harmony. Reaching purgatory had been a
matter of copying the natural pattern of a harmonic flare, not creating
and controlling an artificially determined music. At least that should
work to our advantage, Silence thought. Limyre's musonar shouldn't be able
to tell us from a normal flare. 

She sighed, and glanced again at the portolan. So much depended on her
having correctly deduced its workings, the workings of a system no one had
used in generations. At least the tuning was given in a notation that
hadn't changed over the years, but the rest of it.... She shook herself,
hard. She had been right about the first part; she would be right about
the rest, as well. 

The keelsong strengthened around her, rough music after the complex notes
of the normal tuning. The pitch indicators shifted, moving away from the
systemic harmonies, and Balthasar leaned across to punch a new target into
the console. The upper bank of numbers blurred and shifted, steadying on
the new readings. Silence studied them closely, nodding to herself. There
hadn't been much change, but it was moving in the right direction. 

"Julie said it would be at least a couple of hours before we reached the
twelfth," Balthasar said. "Why don't you go below for a while, get some
rest?" 

"I'm not tired," Silence said, automatically. 

"Take a break, then," the Delian answered, in a voice that brooked no
argument. "Get something to eat. I want you fit for purgatory." 

Silence made a face, but had to admit the other was right. "Can I get you
anything?" 

Balthasar hesitated, then nodded. "Bring me up some daybread, please. And
coffee." 

"Right," Silence answered, unfastening the safety webbing, and let herself
slide down the last ladder to Recusante's main deck. 

To her surprise, the common room door was already unlatched and someone
was moving about inside. She pushed through the door, and Aili turned to
face her, one hand holding her loosened veil across her face. Seeing who
it was, she let the veil fall again, murmuring a greeting. 

"I didn't expect to see you awake yet," Silence said, and felt instantly
rather foolish. Of course the elixir would have worn off by now, she
thought. It had been over an hour since the ship left purgatory. 

To her surprise, however, Aili looked away, and the pilot thought she saw
a blush coloring the other woman's cheeks. "We were hungry," Aili said,
and the blush deepened. 

Silence stared for a moment, completely confused, then understood.
Evidently the star road had produced its effects even through the elixir's
influence. She looked away, keeping face and voice carefully neutral.
"There's plenty in the cells. I came down to get something for Denis and
me." She crossed the room to the intercom panel. "And to see if Julie
wanted anything." Without waiting for an answer, she punched the engine
room button. "Julie? I'm in the commons. Do you want anything to eat?" 

There was a moment's pause before the engineer answered. "Concentrate
bar?" 

"What about a sandwich?" Silence said. 

"That would be better," Chase Mago acknowledged. "Thanks." 

"May I help?" Aili asked. 

Silence hesitated, the instant refusal dying on her tongue. Like all the
women of the Thousand, Aili had been trained to keep household, knew how
to manage common kitchen equipment and prepare a simple meal. It was one
of the few skills women of rank were able to acquire. "Sure," she said,
and then, belatedly, "Thanks." 

The two women worked side by side, almost without conversation, slicing
the heavy, faintly sweet daybread and covering it with mounds of the
salty, protein-rich isawra spread. They finished five sandwiches before
Silence glanced at the remaining bread, shrugging. 

"Might as well finish it," she said. 

Aili nodded, handling the serrated knife as deftly as a soldier. They made
seven more, piling them into a keepbox. Silence filled two of the covered
mugs from the wallboard's coffee unit, and reached for a tray to carry it
all, but Aili caught her hand. 

"Let me," she said again, wrapping the veil back across her face in a
single deft movement. "You should rest." 

Silence shook her head -- what was life becoming, that the Princess Royal
should wait on a pair of star-travellers? -- but said, "All right." 

"Thank you," Aili said, and there was a note in her voice that hinted she
was smiling. "I'll feed Isambard too, if he's awake." She lifted the full
tray, and was gone. 

Left to herself, Silence drew a third mug of coffee from the wallboard,
and took it and a sandwich across to the table, suddenly weary. The
Eagle's Flight had taken more out of her than she had expected, though the
drain was more emotional than physical; still, she could feel the
sluggishness in her very bones. She closed her eyes for a moment, resting
her head in her hands, then reached for the sandwich and began,
methodically, to eat, washing the food down with the scalding coffee. It
was a star-travellers' maxim that when you can't sleep, you eat, and
Silence had long ago learned the truth of that. Aili returned, carrying
the emptied tray, but seemed to sense Silence's mood and left again
without speaking. When the Princess Royal had gone, Silence finished a
second sandwich, and then a third, before the intercom buzzed. 

The pilot frowned, but pushed herself up out of her chair, and crossed the
room to push the answer button. "Commons." 

"Silence," Balthasar's voice said. "You might want to come up now." 

Silence's frown deepened, and she asked, "Trouble?" 

"Not exactly," Balthasar began, and Silence could almost see the wary
grimace. "Not yet, anyway." 

"I'm on my way," Silence said, and flicked off the intercom. Hurriedly,
she shoved the remaining sandwiches into one of the refrigerated cells,
and jammed the dishes into the cleaning slot -- if there was no emergency,
there was no excuse for letting things wander about unsecured -- then left
the commons, latching the door behind her. She pulled herself up the
ladder to the lower bridge, craning her neck to see the readouts even
before she'd stepped off the rungs onto the decking. Nothing seemed out of
the ordinary at first glance, and she frowned again as she slipped into
the second pilot's couch. 

"What's wrong?" she asked. Even on a closer examination, the readouts
looked normal, nothing showing on musonar except the distant haze of the
last planetary envelope. The Ficinan model was still clear, and the rows
of status lights showed monotonously green. The pitch was lower than
usual, but that had been expected. 

Balthasar looked up from his keyboard, worry lines sharp between his
eyebrows. "Listen." 

Silence did as she was told, closing her eyes to concentrate on the
keelsong. For a moment, the unfamiliar music made everything seem out of
place, but then, as she became accustomed to the music, she began to hear
something else beneath the eerie harmonics. There was a note of strain --
no, not strain in the usual sense of unresolved dissonance, but a laboring
sound, as though the harmonium were being pushed beyond its limits to
maintain the new song. She looked up, and Balthasar nodded grimly. 

"You hear?" 

"I hear something," Silence answered, and reached for her headset, lying
discarded over the arm of the couch. She settled it into place, and keyed
the intercom. "Julie, what's going on?" 

"I'm not entirely sure," the engineer answered, almost too promptly.
"We're not developing a clear harmony at this setting -- I've tried
increasing my input power, but that just creates more interference in the
damped pipes." 

Silence made a face, trying to understand just what this would mean. She
had known -- they had all known -- that the given setting was intended for
an old-style harmonium, using only a quarter of the pipes in Recusante's
harmonium. They had not expected that this would be a problem. After all,
Silence thought, don't we only use part of the array at any one time? "I
don't understand," she said aloud. 

"I'm not sure we're going to make the twelfth," Chase Mago said. 

"Not make --" Silence bit off the rest of her horrified echo, furious at
her self-betrayal. 

Balthasar nodded, glaring at the screens. 

"Even if we make it, we won't go much above it," the engineer continued.
"There won't be much for you to work with." 

Silence took a deep breath, trying to order her thoughts. "That isn't so
much of a problem," she said, slowly. "We don't want to manipulate the
marks -- and I doubt the old ships went very deep into purgatory anyway. "

"But they did get there," Balthasar murmured. "Do you really think we're
not going to make it, Julie?" 

"Would I say it if I didn't?" Chase Mago retorted, with some asperity. "If
we don't get more power, clean up the song, we're going to peak just below
the twelfth." He paused, then continued, "I want to cut in the upper
register." 

There was a momentary pause. Balthasar covered his microphone with one
hand and glanced toward the other pilot. "Silence? You know more about
this than I do." 

Silence hesitated. Cutting in the upper register would take them well
beyond the twelfth of heaven -- and probably too deep into purgatory for
her to be able to use the portolan. Damn it, she thought, they used this
setting, they got to purgatory on it.... The laboring note of the keelsong
sounded in her ears; she could hear, at its heart, the imperfections that
would keep it from matching the celestial harmony closely enough to take
them into purgatory. God, it couldn't be that the tuning was damaged going
through the Eagle's Flight, she thought suddenly. Could it? But no, that
would have showed itself at once. This has to be something else. 

"If the old ships got to purgatory this way," she said, half to herself,
"so can we." 

She had not intended to speak aloud, but Chase Mago answered anyway.
"Their harmonia -- their whole engine setup was very different. We may
just carry too many pipes." 

Silence did not answer at once. Something was tugging at her memory,
something the engineer had said back on Asterion, during the weeks they
had spent planning the flight. Something about the differences between
Recusante and other modern ships and the ships that had originally used
the portolan system, something about power as well as pipes and stops and
settings.... "You said," she began slowly, "you said the old ships didn't
carry the power we do, right? That we develop half again as much?" 

"About a quarter more, I think," Balthasar said, when Chase Mago didn't
answer immediately. 

"That's about right," the engineer said, after a moment. "Why?" 

"What are we carrying now?" Silence asked. 

"Seven-eighths of normal capacity," Chase Mago answered, promptly this
time. "Why --" His voice died away abruptly. "I think I see. If we cut
back to their maximum, or even a little below, that might purify the
song." 

"We're using the same harmonic setting, so we should duplicate the power
level as well," Silence said. 

"That means spending more time in mundane space," Balthasar objected
automatically. 

Silence nodded toward the empty musonar display. "I think we can afford
it." 

Balthasar gave a reluctant nod. "All right. Do what you think's best,
Julie." 

"I'll power down," Chase Mago answered, and moved away without switching
off the intercom. Silence could hear him moving around the engine room,
could hear, on the quiet bridge, the faint clicks as the engineer adjusted
his equipment. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the keelsong changed, the
sense of strain -- a tension more felt than heard -- easing away. The
change was too slight to register on the bridge instrumentation, but Chase
Mago gave an exclamation of delight. 

"I think -- yes, that's done it." His voice grew clearer as he returned to
the intercom panel. "We'll reach purgatory in a little more than an hour."

Balthasar made a face, but said, "Good enough, Julie." Glancing sideways,
he added, "Thanks, Silence." 

"Good thought," the engineer agreed, then cut the circuit. 

Silence leaned back in her couch, smiling a little at the unexpected
compliments. She had worked with men -- notably her maternal uncle -- who
had resented any and all of her suggestions, particularly when she turned
out to be right. It was pleasant to be valued fairly. 

"Do you want to go below?" Balthasar asked, and gave her a rather
whimsical smile. "Sorry to have got you up here, when this turned out to
be so minor." 

Silence shook her head, returning the smile. "I'll stay, see if I can
catch some sleep up here." 

Balthasar nodded, and Silence adjusted her couch, tilting it until it
formed a reasonably comfortable bunk. She slipped off her headset, and
hung it over the arm of the couch, turning so that her face was to a bank
of telltales. As always, she didn't mean to sleep, but the steady drone of
the harmonium, purified now of the note of strain, was almost hypnotic.
She dozed, waking now and then from dreams that slipped away the instant
she reached full awareness. They were not unpleasant -- in fact, they left
no emotional residue at all -- but that very blandness made her uneasy,
and she shook herself fully awake well before they reached the twelfth.
Balthasar lifted an eyebrow as she pulled her couch upright. 

"You could get another quarter hour at least." 

Silence shook her head. "I'm not really tired." She picked up her
portolan, cutting off any response. The first mark was unmistakable -- a
triple rose, white and black and red -- but she couldn't help wondering,
not for the first time, exactly how it would appear. If she had understood
the system correctly, the symbol should appear on a false horizon,
conjured by the similitudes of landline and keelsong; Recusante would seem
to travel up to and then through that image. The next image after that was
a walled city, its representation in the portolan incredibly detailed.
Silence frowned at it, suddenly convinced that a magnifier would show even
more detail, impossible detail, behind the painted walls. Why should the
printer do that? she wondered. What possible purpose can it serve? 

She put the book aside, pushing that problem to the back of her mind.
Whatever the reason -- magi's obsessive concern with accurate
representation, or just old-fashioned precision -- it could have nothing
to do with the road itself. In the screens, the stars were beginning to
show faint coronae, and she glanced instinctively toward the pitch
indicators. Not far to the twelfth now, she thought, and loosened her
safety netting. "I'm going up." 

Balthasar nodded, too much a pilot himself to question her even though it
was still some minutes to purgatory, and turned his attention back to his
control consoles. Silence pulled herself up to the upper bridge, the
ladder oddly slick, unstable underfoot. She frowned, then realized that
purgatory's secondary effects were only just beginning to be felt. The
usual stickiness of deck and ladders was almost completely missing. 

She shook herself, annoyed at having wasted even that much thought on such
an unimportant thing, and came to stand in front of the wheel, her hands
not quite touching the control yoke. The dome had begun to fade a little,
but she could barely see the bodies of the stars. The coronae were
completely obscured by the hazy metal. 

Her headset clicked, and Balthasar's voice said, "I'll give you a
countdown." 

"All right." Silence stared at the still-solid dome. "How far off are we?"

"Half a step, still, but who knows how long that means?" Balthasar's voice
was irritable with nervousness. "No, here we go. Three-quarters. ...
Seven-eighths.... Now." 

There was no familiar roar of music, no sudden burst of song to lift
Recusante out of the mundane universe. Instead, the dome simply faded a
little more, and the keelsong seemed suddenly lighter. Silence took a deep
breath, and sought her triple rose. 

The dome had not vanished completely. Its shadow enclosed the bridge,
transparent but definitely there, and Silence shook herself, momentarily
disoriented. Then, through the thin veil of fog that was the dome, she saw
the triple rose, blood red petals enclosing ebony enclosing a central
flower as white as sunlit snow. It gleamed with a light of its own, but
somehow it lacked the weird vitality of the usual voidmarks. Seeing it
hovering in the distance, Silence felt suddenly like an insect, bearing
down on the most tremendous source of pollen ever discovered. She laughed,
but then put away the image. 

"Bearing, please?" she asked. 

Chase Mago's response was reassuringly quick. "Exactly in the groove. Do
you want me to give you a check every five minutes, or wait until we go
off the line?" 

Silence hesitated, then shrugged. "Every five minutes, at least for
starters. If you don't mind." 

"Every five minutes," Chase Mago repeated. "No problem." 

Very slowly, Recusante crept toward the massive rose. Once, twice, a third
time the ship slipped from the proper bearing, but each time Chase Mago
reported the deviation, and Silence corrected it within minutes. The mark
did not alter, or change its apparent position on the false horizon. The
early pilots couldn't have steered by it, Silence decided, and shook her
head at the thought. 

She tensed suddenly, very aware of the immense, unchanging image, filling
half the apparent sky ahead of the ship. If it did not show a deviation
from the proper bearing, would it show any of the changes that marked the
end of a normal star road? And if it didn't, how did this road end? She
bit her lip, conquering her fear with an effort. Surely there would be
some change, she thought, some signal to let a pilot know he's reached the
end of a bearing -- unless that's supposed to be relayed from the
engineer's sensors? Damn, I didn't count on this at all. 

"Julie," she said aloud. "We're getting close to the end. Give me a
continuous reading, please." 

Chase Mago's voice sounded faintly surprised, but for a mercy he didn't
argue. "Continuous readings. Very well." A moment later, the numbers began
sounding in Silence's headset, a comforting drone. Recusante was cleanly
on the bearing, correct to the last points. 

The rose swelled ahead of her, filling most of the apparent sky, its lower
petals hidden by the decking. The whole image seemed to curve inward
slightly, as though the cupped flower would engulf the ship. Silence
thought she saw faint stars reflected in the black petals. The center of
the innermost flower was directly ahead, its parts -- stamen, pistil,
grains of pollen -- gleaming as though they were made of solid gold. The
engineer's voice sounded in her ear: Recusante was still on course, still
perfectly on the bearing. 

Still, Silence thought, trying to control her own nervousness, you almost
always pass through a mark, leaving a normal star road. It's only logical
for us to go through this one. She had no proof of that, however -- there
had been nothing in either the portolan itself or in the pamphlet she had
read back on Solitudo Hermae. She could feel herself beginning to shake,
as much from tension as from fear, and self-consciously worked her
shoulder, trying to relax tight muscles. It did little good; she could
feel herself trembling as Recusante slid past the last petals into the
flower's golden center. 

Instantly, the bridge was suffused with an eerie yellow light, as though
the golden pistils and the gold-lined petals themselves were transparent,
a strong light shining through them. Silence glanced over her shoulder,
and saw only a tiny black disk to mark their point of entrance, as though
the flower itself had folded shut over them. The bearing remained constant
in her ears. 

Cautiously, Silence guided the ship past the towering stamens, past grains
of pollen almost as large as Recusante itself, into the very heart of the
rose. It loomed ahead, a golden wall faintly shadowed where the petals met
and overlapped, a tiny black dot visible at its very center. Silence
smiled, certain she saw the way out of the mark, but her smile faded as
the ship drew closer. The black dot wasn't the mark of an opening into the
mundane universe; rather, it was a shadow, a stain on the gilded
perfection of the flower. Still, the bearing remained constant, pointing
Recusante directly at the spot. Experimentally, Silence pulled back on the
control yoke, lifting the ship toward the nearest stamen. The droning
numbers faltered and shifted: that way lay certain destruction. She let
the ship slide back onto its original course, and the bearing steadied. 

Then, quite abruptly, the numbers changed, shifting wildly as though
somehow threefold space itself was in flux. At the same moment, the
keelsong howled, reflecting sudden dissonance. Silence swore, clinging to
the bucking control yoke, but could find no visible sign of that
disharmony. 

"Three point eight, four, four point five, four-nine, five point three, "
Chase Mago chanted. "God, Silence, I think the line's gone. Six-five, six
point seven, point nine --" 

Silence shut out his words with an effort, hauling back on the control
yoke. It refused to respond, the sympathetic linkages distorted by the
rising dissonance. She cursed again, seeing the black spot looming ever
nearer. 

"Eight point one," Chase Mago said, "eight point four, eight point six,
point seven --" 

"Get us out, Julie," Balthasar snapped, and in the same instant, Silence
said, "Stop down -- power down now." 

The engineer obeyed without question, and the noise of the harmonium sank,
bringing with it the deceptive increase in their apparent speed. Silence
cringed, seeing the black spot rush closer, but the rest of the image was
already fading, the golden walls irregularly shadowed, stars shining
through sudden holes in the gilded fabric. Then Recusante burst through
the shreds of the image sending a last wave of dissonance through the
ship. Silence screamed, knocked backward by the explosion of sound, but
her voice was drowned in the sudden wail of the keel. And then they were
through, the dissonance dropping to a whisper and then vanishing entirely.

"What the hell?" Balthasar demanded. "Silence, are you all right?" 

Silence pulled herself upright, and managed to spare a wry smile for her
bruises. She had taken ships through dissonances before, but never yet had
one been strong enough to knock her off the pilot's platform. "I'm not
hurt," she said and was instantly annoyed at how shaken she sounded. She
cleared her throat and tried again. "A couple of bruises, that's all. Did
we make it?" 

Balthasar did not answer for a long moment, and when he spoke again, it
was to the engineer. "Julie, how's the tuning?" 

"All right," Chase Mago answered. "Not even shaken." He paused himself,
then asked, falsely casual, "Do I retune to the new bearing?" 

There was another, longer pause before Balthasar finally answered. "No. I
can't find the line." 

Silence swore, her bruises forgotten, and scrambled for the ladder. As she
slid down it, she asked, "What do you mean, you can't find it?" 

"Just what I said," Balthasar snapped. He was staring at the three
viewscreens, two of which showed a musonar display, while the third
flashed strings of numbers in response to the Delian's touch on his
keyboard. "I can't find it." 

There was a note of controlled hysteria in his voice that terrified
Silence. She fought back the urge to panic, and slid into the second
pilot's couch, reaching for her own keyboard. The musonar displays showed
the almost-black of true interstellar space, the distant stars no more
than pale dots with only the faintest harmonic envelopes. The display was
set to its largest scale, Silence realized; nothing smaller would show
anything at all. She shivered, awed by the immensity of space. Every pilot
had heard tales of missing a voidmark, of failing to control the forces of
purgatory -- how ships had fallen to mundane space in unfamiliar places,
unable to reenter purgatory without the correct voidmarks, doomed to
wander between the stars until the crew starved, until at last the
elemental water that powered the harmonium was exhausted, and the ship was
drawn inevitably into some distant star. 

Silence shook herself, angry at her own imaginings. "We can't be that far
off," she said aloud. "We were right on course, right on the line up to
the end." 

"Yeah," Balthasar said, "but who knows how far off course we came when we
lost the line --" He bit off whatever else he had been going to say, and
punched a new set of numbers into his keyboard, watching the figures shift
and reform on the central viewscreen. When he spoke again, he was almost
calm. "What happened then, anyway?" 

"I'm not sure," Silence answered honestly. "I'm still learning the damn
method --" She broke off, angrily aware that Balthasar had stopped
listening after her first answer. With an effort, she controlled her
anger, and said, "What can I do to help?" 

"I'm trying to find the landline; it should show up on the musonar,"
Balthasar answered. He shook his head. "I don't know, keep an eye on the
figures. Maybe you'll see something I've missed." 

Silence nodded, too glad of something to occupy her thoughts to protest
being given such an unimportant job, and fixed her eyes on the screen. The
numbers shifted and reformed as Balthasar tilted the musonar horn this way
and that, but nothing matched the listed harmony. Where did we -- I -- go
wrong? Silence wondered, still watching the screen. It should have worked.
I don't understand why it didn't.... Unless, somehow, the ship isn't
supposed to leave the mark? But I couldn't find the next landline if the
ship stayed in purgatory. 

"Got it," Balthasar exclaimed, and pointed to a red dot flashing on the
screen. "That's it." Silence gave a sigh of relief, but Balthasar ignored
her, still talking excitedly. "Julie, retune to the numbers Silence gave
you, but don't put in the riser yet. We should reach the line in, oh, two
or three hours; you can adjust it then." 

"Right," Chase Mago answered, and Silence could hear the relief in his
voice as well. 

Slowly, very slowly, the keelsong changed, one note replacing another,
others blending into new and subtle harmonies. Silence barely heard it,
still staring at the screen. After a moment, frowning, she punched in a
second set of numbers, and saw the same point of light flare on the visual
screens. Balthasar gave her a curious glance, but said nothing. So,
Silence thought, the first landline seems to end in the same place that
our second line begins. Therefore, since the portolans deal more with
physical correspondences than the voidmark system, that must be the
"place" that's roughly equivalent to the rose. Which means that we have to
leave purgatory before we leave the mark -- but that still doesn't tell me
when. 

Balthasar asked softly, "Found something?" 

"Maybe," Silence answered. Quickly, she outlined what she had guessed, but
ended, "Unfortunately, that doesn't tell me when to leave purgatory. I'd
imagine leaving too soon would be as bad as leaving too late. Or maybe
not." She frowned, hardly seeing the control room around her. "Maybe not.
If we stopped down early, the resemblances should still carry us along to
the natural departure point, and even if they don't, we'd still be on that
line, not in uncharted space. Denis, I think that's it." 

Balthasar was nodding. "That makes sense." 

"So when we reach purgatory on this second road," Chase Mago said slowly,
"I start stopping down and trust that the resemblance will carry us
through?" His voice made his distrust of that plan perfectly clear. 

"No," Silence answered, "you stop down as soon as we enter the mark. I'll
tell you when." 

"I see," the engineer said, and there was a long pause. Silence held her
breath, wondering if she should say more, and was very grateful that
Balthasar said nothing. Then Chase Mago sighed. "All right, pilot, the
next ride can't be worse than this one." 

"Thanks," Silence said, rather sourly. She waited for an answer, but the
engineer did not reply. 

Balthasar cleared his throat. "We've got four, five hours before you have
to take the next leg, Silence. You should get some rest." 

"I'm not tired," the pilot answered automatically, but even as she spoke
she knew it for a lie. 

"You look like death," Balthasar said frankly. "Go on, get below." 

Silence managed a wry smile, and pushed herself up out of the couch. A lot
of her weariness was emotional, she knew, the result of fear and tension,
but it was no less real for that. She made her way cautiously down the
ladder, suddenly aware of pain in her wrists. Probably from being knocked
backward while I was trying to hold onto the wheel, she thought, and
pushed open the door of her cabin. The tidy bunk looked so inviting that
she almost cried, but she turned away from its softness, leaning on the
back of her chair instead. She stood there for a long moment, gathering
strength, then doggedly began to strip off the tight-fitting shipsuit. She
pulled off sleeves and bodice, then began working the clinging fabric down
over her hips. A purple bruise the size of her hand was already visible on
her left leg just below the point of her hip. She touched it lightly,
experimentally, and winced at the pain. I must've landed on it when I
fell, she thought, then put the discovery aside. After a moment's
hesitation, she pulled on an outsized sleepshirt and crawled into her
bunk, leaving the shipsuit crumpled on the floor. She was asleep almost
before her head hit the pillow. 

She woke to a hand on her shoulder and a familiar voice in her ear, riding
over the rising note of the keelsong. "Julie?" she said, still half
asleep, and pushed herself upright. 

"I brought you coffee," the engineer said. "It's about half an hour to the
twelfth." 

"Half an hour?" Silence echoed, then shook herself fully awake. "You
should've waked me sooner." 

Chase Mago shrugged, and held out a closed mug. Silence took it
automatically, murmuring her thanks. 

"Denis figured he'd let you sleep now, and then he could take a break
while you ran us through purgatory," the engineer continued. 

Silence nodded and took a sip of the coffee, studying the other. Chase
Mago looked almost as tired as she had felt, circles clearly visible under
his eyes, his dark hair falling lank across his collar. "When are you
going to get a break?" she asked, with some concern. 

To her surprise, the engineer managed a tired smile. "As soon as we hit
purgatory, I'll curl up in a corner. I've waked your magus. He can at
least read the numbers, and I've rigged you a buzzer. You get a steady
tone when you're on the line; the pitch will rise or fall if you get off
it." 

"Good idea," Silence said. "Thanks." We should've hired another engineer,
she thought. Julie won't be able to keep this up for too long -- but then,
we didn't know how this was going to work, and anyway, who is there we
could've trusted to hire? She stretched, feeling the bruises on her hips
and back and the sore muscles in her wrists and forearms. "How're Aili and
Marcinik doing?" she asked, idly. 

"All right, Fretting a little because there's nothing they can do to
help." Chase Mago smiled. "Except carry sandwiches. I've never been waited
on by a princess before. Speaking of which, I brought you a sandwich, too.
" 

Silence smiled back. "Thanks." 

The engineer pushed himself to his feet and stretched slowly. "I'll leave
you -- I've got to get back to work. Remember, we hit the twelfth in half
an hour." 

"I'm not likely to forget," Silence said to his retreating back, and
levered herself out of the bunk as the door closed behind him. She took a
quick shower, then dressed, snatching a few bites of the sandwich as she
did so. She ran her fingers through her short hair -- it was still damp,
and would be an unruly mess when it dried, but there was no time to do
more -- then tested the last seal, and started for the upper bridge. 

Balthasar swung around in his couch as she reached the lower bridge,
managed a nod and a smile. He looked dreadful, Silence thought, unshaven
and disheveled, great circles under his eyes, but his voice was cheerful
enough. "Almost there." 

Silence nodded. "You should get some rest, Denis." 

"I will," Balthasar answered. "Once you've taken over, and we're in
purgatory." 

Silence shook her head, but there was nothing to say. She pulled herself
up the rest of the ladder -- the rungs still felt strange without the
clinging effect of deep purgatory -- and took up her position in front of
the wheel, hands resting easily on the control yoke. The dome had faded
considerably already, star-coronae showing clearly through its shadow.
Even as she watched, it faded further, to the strange translucence of the
twelfth of heaven, and the stars vanished completely, leaving only their
coronae blazing against a flat black sky. 

"At the twelfth," Chase Mago announced. 

"I have control," Silence responded, and flipped off the lock. 

"You have it," Balthasar said. 

"Get some sleep, Denis," the engineer said, and Silence could hear
Balthasar's soft laughter. 

"I will, I promise. Good night." 

With an effort, Silence banished both of them from her thoughts, staring
instead out into the starless night. The next mark, a massive walled city,
rode an imaginary horizon. Its towers -- Silence counted seven, and
suspected that others were hidden behind the red-tiled roofs -- were
topped with gaudy banners; its walls seemed to end in stony fringes,
trailing off into nothingness like the roots of a tree. 

"I'm putting on the buzzer now," Chase Mago's voice said in her ears. 

"Go ahead," Silence answered, and a moment later a low, pleasant tone
sounded in her headset. Experimentally, she moved the control yoke
forward, and then back. The tone changed, dropping and then rising in
response to the ship's movements. Silence nodded, satisfied, and pressed
the transmitter button, momentarily overriding the signal. "It sounds
good, Julie. Why don't you take a break now, if Isambard can spell you?" 

She wasn't particularly happy about working with the magus in purgatory --
piloting was her own special skill, her first Art, and one she wasn't
eager to share with Isambard -- and she gave a sigh of relief when the
engineer answered, "I'm going to. Don't worry, Isambard will wake me if
there's any sign of trouble -- of anything at all unusual," he amended
fiercely, and Silence grinned, picturing the magus's restrained annoyance.

"Thanks, Julie," she said. Chase Mago did not answer, but an instant later
the tone sounded again in her ears. 

The passage along the landline to the mark itself was remarkably
uneventful, so uneventful that in the end Silence had deliberately to tip
Recusante off the proper course to keep herself from falling asleep at the
wheel. Progress seemed impossibly slow, but at last the city wall loomed
ahead, filling the apparent sky. Twin towers guarded an open gate set a
little to the left of Recusante's course. Silence eased the control yoke
over, tilting the starship toward the opening. The warning tone wavered
momentarily, then settled again. "Isambard," she said aloud. "Wake Julie."

"I'm awake," the engineer answered. 

"We're coming up on the mark," Silence said, and damned herself for having
left things so late. "Denis, do you hear?" There was no answer from the
Delian. "Damn. Julie, send Isambard forward to wake him, if you would --
and tell him to check in as soon as he's in?" 

"Right," Chase Mago answered, and there was a momentary pause while he
passed her request to the magus. "He's going forward now," the engineer
reported. "How close are we?" 

"It's hard to tell," Silence answered. "It looks like a hundred meters or
so to the gate, but you can't tell how long it's going to take to cover
it." 

Chase Mago grunted his agreement, and Silence turned her attention back to
the mark ahead. Through the open gate, she could see a wall of buildings,
each one elaborately decorated with columns and grotesques and fancifully
carved cornices, each one with shutters pulled tight across its windows.
With a detached comer of her mind, Silence wondered what the symbolism of
that was. Infuriatingly, Recusants seemed to hang almost motionless,
barely creeping toward the gate. 

There was a rattling noise in her headset, just audible under the warning
tone, and Balthasar announced, "I'm on, Silence." He still sounded tired,
Silence thought, but more alert than before. 

"Thanks," she said, and kept her eyes on the mark. 

Recusants crawled on toward the gate. As the ship came closer and closer
to the massive towers, Silence tensed, waiting for some change in the
tone. Nothing happened, and she forced herself to relax, to keep her hands
loose on the control yoke. At last, Recusante slid between the towers,
under the shadow of the gate. 

"Begin stopping down, Julie," Silence said, and held her breath. 

"Stopping down," Chase Mago answered, and for once there was a genuine
note of nervousness in his voice. The keelsong changed subtly, thinning
out, but the mark stayed clear, showed no signs of deterioration. 

Silence sighed hard. So far, she was right -- or at least she hadn't done
anything terribly wrong. Now all she could do was hope that she'd guessed
right, and that the altered song would carry them out of purgatory as soon
as the landline faded. 

Recusante floated through the wide gate, the apparent pace maddeningly
sedate. As they emerged from the wall's shadow, Silence glanced quickly to
her left, only to find the way blocked by yet another wall of shuttered
houses. Instinctively, she swung the yoke to the right, and found herself
sailing down a wide avenue between palatial buildings. At the same moment,
the warning tone began to drop. 

She pulled back on the yoke, lifting the ship until the tone steadied on
its proper note. Recusante floated now just above the level of the
housetops, well above the illusory pavement. From this perspective,
Silence could see that Recusante was following the single street, which
spiralled inward from the gate to the town's central tower. Its walls were
ivory-colored, its scattered windows sealed with crimson shutters, and a
vine, its leaves as red as blood, coiled three times around the tower's
base before spiralling up toward the gold-tiled roof. There seemed to be a
wealth of symbolism in the image, but Silence had no time to contemplate
it. Already, Recusante's apparent speed was increasing, the ship careening
along above the street as though carried by a rising wind. 

Silence tightened her grip on the control yoke as the ship began to slip
sideways, sliding toward the red-tiled roofs to either side. She held the
course, though it took all her strength to do it, and leaned hard against
the wheel as the curve of the spiral sharpened. Recusante was moving even
faster now, whipping around the final circles with dizzying speed. As they
swung into the final curve, Silence caught a glimpse of the tower base. A
gate had opened just above the triple-wrapped vine, the portcullis drawn
up just far enough to admit a starship. Do we go in after all? she
wondered. And what will I find if we do? Then Recusante swept past the
gate, circling the tower for the final time, and Silence realized with a
shock that the city was fading around her. The bright colors dimmed, went
misty, the shuttered windows cleared, though the interior of the tower
remained maddeningly dark. They would not enter the tower, despite the
open doorway, and Silence bit back a cry of frustration. It had promised
such a wealth of secrets.... 

And then they were through, the last shadows vanishing just as Recusante
started to circle the base of the tower itself. Silence swore softly and
locked her wheel, tasting disappointment. Only a little farther, she
thought, just a little farther and I could at least have seen into it.
That would have told me something. 

"I have control," Balthasar's voice said in her ears. He sounded dead
tired still, Silence realized, belatedly -- and no wonder, she thought,
considering how little sleep he's had. That was enough to drive the
thoughts of the tower from her mind. 

"On my way," she said, and dropped down the ladder to the lower bridge.
Balthasar nodded a greeting as she took her place in the second pilot's
couch, but said nothing. Once again, the triple viewscreen was slaved to
the musonar, one showing the distant starscape only faintly touched with
music, the other showing a maze of multicolored lines. The central screen
was filled with numbers, changing in response to promptings from
Balthasar's keyboard. 

"How're we doing?" Silence asked, readjusting her headset. 

"As I just told Julie, I'm looking for it," Balthasar answered. He made a
face then, and glanced apologetically in her direction. "Sorry. I think
it's worked this time, but it just takes a while to be sure." 

Silence nodded, trying not to feel hurt, and fixed her attention on the
right-hand screen. The display showed the harmonic lines that crossed and
recrossed in the local volume, some stronger and brighter than the rest,
most shown in a dull blue that was barely visible against the black
background. The brighter ones formed a pattern that seemed somehow
familiar. Silence reached again for the portolan, opening it to the marked
pages. The pattern didn't seem to match the halo of lines surrounding the
city-mark, but it was hard to tell among the confusion of markings.
Certainly there seemed to be a correspondence. "Denis," she said slowly,
"would you block out the lesser lines, everything that shows blue?" 

Balthasar gave her a rather irritated glance, but did as she'd asked. The
blue lines faded, leaving only pale yellow ones, crisscrossing the screen
like counters in a giant game of pick-up sticks. Still, it didn't match
the pattern in the portolan. Silence stared at it for a moment longer,
then covered two-thirds of the mark. The remaining lines matched the
pattern in the screen. "There," she said aloud, and held the book out so
that Balthasar could see. 

The Delian grunted, and punched numbers into his keyboard. A moment later,
lights flashed green across the monitors, and all but one of the lines
vanished from the screen. Balthasar nodded, and said, reluctantly,
"Thanks." He straightened almost painfully, stretching against the stiff
cushions of the couch, then reached across to flip the intercom switch.
"We're right on the line, Julie. You can retune now." 

"Retuning," Chase Mago answered distantly, and the Delian cut the
connection. 

Silence said carefully, not looking at the other, "Why don't you let me
handle the run-up, and you get some proper sleep?" Balthasar made a sort
of growling noise, and Silence braced herself for a blistering rejoinder.
Then the Delian sighed, and relaxed perceptibly. 

"That'll leave you wiped out for purgatory." 

"If I'm too tired, I'll let you handle it," Silence said. "You've seen how
it works." 

Balthasar hesitated a moment longer, then nodded, reaching for the clasp
of the safety webbing. "All right. I'll hold you to that." 

"You can trust me," Silence said, but the Delian had vanished. She sighed,
already feeling the strain of the trip through purgatory, then unclasped
her own safety webbing to slide across to the first pilot's couch. It felt
odd to sit there, in Balthasar's place, for all that she had handled a
first pilot's duties a hundred times before. She hesitated before
fastening the webbing firmly around herself. She couldn't control the ship
as easily from her own couch; it was necessary to switch. She made herself
check each of the display boards and readouts, running through the
changeover list, immersing herself in her pilot's duties, before reaching
for the intercom switch. 

"Julie? I'm taking the con for now." 

"Good idea," Chase Mago answered. "I'm going to hand over to Isambard as
soon as I've got us on line." 

"All right," Silence said, and did her best to hide her sudden feeling of
disappointment. 

A few minutes later, the engineer's voice sounded in her ears again. "I
show us on the line, Silence. Do you confirm?" 

"I confirm it," Silence said. 

"Then I'll let Isambard watch things from here," Chase Mago said, a faint
note of satisfaction in his voice. "He'll wake me if there's anything
unusual." 

"All right," Silence said again, and cut the connection. She could almost
feel the moment when the engineer put aside his responsibilities, and then
damned herself for an over-imaginative idiot. She felt strangely lonely
without either Chase Mago or the Delian to share the watch, even though
she knew perfectly well that any emergency would bring them instantly to
their posts. It had been a very long time since she'd stood a watch
without one of them -- the last time had been when Recusante was still
Black Dolphin, before her grandfather's death. She shivered, suddenly
chilled. Even on Asterion, in the Women's Palace, she had not felt quite
so alone. No, she corrected herself, this wasn't precisely loneliness, but
a sense of wrongness, of time and place askew. 

She shook herself then, annoyed that she had let her emotions get the
better of her. This is a part of the pilot's Art, she told herself, the
pilot's Art that was your first love. There's nothing wrong aboard, just a
new method that requires some adjustment. That's all. She scowled down at
the monitor, forcing herself to be aware of every single point in the rows
of green lights, submerging her uneasiness in the routine of her work. 

Chapter 4 

BALTHASAR RETURNED TO THE BRIDGE A LITTLE MORE than half an hour before
Recusante reached purgatory, and Silence was glad to leave the passage up
to and through the next mark to him. It was not so much that the
portolan's system was physically exhausting, she decided, but that it
demanded the pilot's attention for such long periods of time. The engineer
had it even worse, she knew. Even with Isambard's help -- and occasional
unskilled number-watching from Marcinik and Aili -- Chase Mago was having
to handle all the transitions himself, and they could all hear the rising
exhaustion in his voice. 

"Do we hang here and rest for a few hours?" Silence wondered aloud,
staring at the musonar readings displayed in the viewscreens without
really seeing them. They were past the fifth mark, well over halfway
there, and the strain was beginning to tell on the big engineer. 

Balthasar shrugged, his fingers moving on his keyboard as he tilted the
musonar horn, looking for the next landline. "I'd rather not," he said,
and nodded toward the left-hand screen. Instead of the blank starscape
visible between the other points, this one showed a nearby sun, its music
spreading out in fading shades of red to cover nearly half the screen.
"You never know when someone'll show up, so close to a system. Maybe
between six and seven." 

Silence nodded reluctantly. They were too close to the sun, even if they
were too far away for the musonar to pick out the contrasting music of any
daughter planets. For a moment, she wondered if any human being had ever
seen this star before, if it held planets too alien to be reached by more
conventional methods -- if in fact the portolan method might somehow offer
a key to reaching truly alien worlds -- but then the enthusiasm was
drowned by the encompassing weariness. Alien worlds seemed unimportant,
even as reaching Earth was beginning to seem trivial, compared to the
importance of pushing through one more mark. With an effort, Silence
dragged her mind back to the conversation at hand. "We ought to rest then
anyway. It's my turn, I'll take number six." 

Balthasar nodded, saying, "You hear, Julie? One more." He glanced at
Silence. "You get below and rest." 

Silence did as she was told, stopping in the common room only long enough
to bolt down one of the sandwiches left in the hotbox by Aili. The
Princess Royal, recognizing her lack of technical skills, had taken over
food preparation as the one thing she could do, and had done it with, in
Silence's opinion, a commendable lack of fanfare. I wouldn't exactly want
to be in Aili's shoes, Silence thought, as she settled herself once again
into her unmade bunk. It can't be easy for her, not being able to help --
Marcinik is an officer at least, he knows how to read the simple
instruments, but Aili hasn't had any of that. There was a lesson in that
somewhere, the pilot knew, but she fell asleep before it could penetrate. 

Aili appeared to wake her half an hour before the transition to purgatory.
Silence hauled herself out of the bunk, groaning, and found herself
halfway dressed before she was fully aware of what she was doing. She
swore, rubbing at her forehead. This wasn't the first time she'd caught
herself doing things by rote. It was something about the portolan method,
a method she was rapidly growing to hate passionately. The ship never
seemed to get far from purgatory, or to go far enough into it; she was
surrounded by a perpetual unresolved, unresolvable tension that was
ultimately far more enervating than the piloting itself. They all felt it,
she knew, though after the first complaints the three star-travellers had
conspired to ignore it in the hopes that the feeling would eventually go
away. It had not, and Silence found herself wondering more and more often
if they wouldn't have been better off trying to break the siege engines
after all. 

She was wondering it again as she climbed to her station, barely pausing
on the lower bridge long enough to exchange monosyllables with Balthasar.
The routine of changeover proceeded properly, the faint change in the
keelsong, the dimming of the dome, and then the warning tone in her
headset, giving its monotonous assurance that Recusante was on course.
First Balthasar and then Chase Mago announced that they were taking a
rest, and Silence was left alone, watching the new mark take shape on the
false horizon. 

This one was an arched gate, rather like the triumphs on Asterion, but its
triple columns were carved with cabalistic symbols rather than with
political insignias. Silence regarded the symbols without affection,
knowing that the ship would not come close enough for her to read them
clearly. That was one more thing she hated about the portolan: its symbols
promised much, but in the end proved as sterile as the rest of the method.

Very slowly, Recusante crept up to the triumph, Chase Mago stopping down
as soon as the ship came under the shadow of the gate. As Silence had more
than half expected, the image began to fade at once, the symbols blurring
into nothingness. Recusante slid out of purgatory as she passed through
the gate. Silence sighed, locked her wheel, and headed back down to the
lower bridge. 

Balthasar managed a crooked smile of welcome, the familiar crisscross
pattern dancing across the screens. "You're getting better at this,
Silence. We're practically on the line now." 

"Do we take a rest now?" Chase Mago's voice asked from the intercom. 

Balthasar looked up at the musonar display, then back at Silence. "What do
you think?" 

The pilot studied the left-hand screen, trying to focus her attention on
its information. To her surprise, the screen was almost black, only a few
pale dots showing to indicate very distant stars. It was a disconcerting
picture, almost a frightening one, an emptiness few star-travellers ever
experienced. She looked away quickly. "It looks -- good for what we want."

"Yeah." Balthasar grimaced, not looking at the left-hand screen. "I think
we chance it. I doubt there's much traffic out here." 

Wearily, they began the job of preparing Recusante to float free in
mundane space, held only by its affinity to the local harmonies. Chase
Mago stopped down the harmonium to the lowest setting that would maintain
ship's power, while the two pilots locked the bridge controls into
positions that would match local conditions, and set the deadman alarms
that would trigger a warning if the ship drifted too far off course. When
they had finished, Balthasar sighed, and reached for the intercom switch.
"Marcinik? I'm ready to show you what I've done." 

"I'm here," Marcinik said from the bridge ladder. 

Silence gasped in spite of herself, and saw Balthasar jerk in his couch. 

"Damn it, don't do that to me," the Delian snapped, then got himself under
control. "Come here." 

The colonel came to stand at Balthasar's elbow, and Silence saw the
Princess Royal pull herself up onto the bridge behind him. 

"I hope you don't mind," Aili said softly, to Silence. 

Before the pilot could answer, Balthasar interrupted his quick explanation
of the deadman system to say, "Not at all. Why don't you listen, then, so
you can be useful, too?" 

Silence glared at the Delian, but Aili nodded quite seriously, and moved
to join the colonel. The pilot shrugged to herself, biting back her first
answer. If Aili wasn't offended, so much the better. 

Balthasar finished his instructions, and levered himself up out of the
couch. "You know where the intercom is," he said, as Marcinik took his
place at the first pilot's station. "Call if there's anything at all
unusual." 

"We will," Marcinik said, the ghost of a chuckle in his voice, and Aili
echoed. "Of course." 

Balthasar gave them both a dubious look, but nodded and let himself down
the ladder to the main deck. Silence followed him, hiding her laughter. 

Chase Mago was waiting in the corridor just outside the common room door,
one hand on the latch. "I've left Isambard to watch things," he said. "Are
either of you hungry?" 

"Not particularly," Balthasar said. 

Silence shook her head, the laughter fading from her thoughts. She was
suddenly aware of the vast quiet that filled the ship, of the absence of
the familiar keelsong and the little noises from a dozen other systems,
all shut down now as nonessentials. She shivered, remembering the
uncannily empty starscape, and could see from the others' faces that they
were thinking of the same thing. She did not want to leave either of them,
to sleep alone with the unnatural quiet, but Marcinik and Aili occupied
the spare cabin, she told herself roughly, and there was no room in any of
the others for all three of them. Still, she could not bring herself to
turn away. They stood unspeaking for a long moment, and then Chase Mago
said, awkwardly, "I think my bunk's the biggest." 

"That's not saying a lot," Balthasar murmured, but nodded. "We might just
fit." 

In the end, they did fit, but only just. Silence lay wedged between the
two men, too tired to feel any discomfort, sleepily grateful that their
presence warded off the emptiness that surrounded the ship. She was
vaguely aware that they were arguing about setting an alarm, but couldn't
bring herself awake enough to express an opinion. She fell asleep before
the question was settled. 

She woke to the realization that someone was missing. She stirred, opening
her eyes, and saw Balthasar standing by the monitor console, one hand
resting on the alarm switch. He had deactivated it before it could ring,
she realized, and felt Chase Mago stir behind her. 

"Damn it, Denis," the engineer said, "we agreed on eight hours." 

Balthasar shrugged, unabashed. "I thought you might as well sleep while
you could." 

"I'm awake now," Chase Mago said grimly, but he was smiling. 

"What's been happening?" Silence asked, and levered herself out of the
bunk. 

"I assume nothing, since we weren't called," Balthasar said. He touched
the intercom button. "Bridge? How're things?" 

"Everything is still as you left it," Marcinik answered promptly. "The
ship's drifted a little, but it's well within the limits you set." 

Silence nodded, satisfied, and pushed open the cabin door, ignoring Chase
Mago's protest of, "And what about my engines?" She made her way back to
her own cabin, showered, then dressed quickly, pulling on a clean
shipsuit. It was the last one, she realized, and smiled. It was just as
well this was the last stage of the road. 

The others were already in the common room, Balthasar sawing awkwardly at
a loaf of daybread under the engineer's critical eye. As Silence entered,
Chase Mago shook his head. "There's no doubt about it, Denis, her highness
is a better cook than you are." 

Balthasar glared at him, and slid the plate of sliced bread across the
table with more force than was necessary. The engineer caught it,
grinning, and Balthasar reluctantly smiled back. "Coffee, Silence?" he
asked, still smiling. 

"Thanks." Silence took her place at the table, wondering what had brought
on the sudden high spirits. She could feel it herself, though, a pleasant
apprehension that bordered on fear. For a moment she frowned, puzzled,
then froze in understanding, the coffee mug forgotten in her hand. In a
few short hours -- five, six, ten at the most -- they would be on Earth,
or dead. One way or another, all their work would be over, and, with luck,
something entirely new would have begun. 

"Silence?" That was Chase Mago, one eyebrow raised in question. 

The pilot shook herself. "Sorry. I guess -- I can't quite believe it,
that's all." 

Balthasar nodded, a crooked smile on his gaunt face. Chase Mago said, "I
know. It's strange, isn't it?" 

"It is that," Silence agreed. They sat for a long moment, no one saying
anything, and then, with a decisive gesture, Balthasar put his cup aside. 

"I'm going to collect our papers and ID tapes now, cue them up properly.
We'll leave in, say, fifteen minutes?" 

Silence nodded, suddenly unable to speak, excitement choking her. Chase
Mago said, the same excitement in his voice, "In fifteen minutes." 

Once the Delian had left, Silence busied herself tidying the common room,
making sure that everything was stowed away for the passage into
purgatory. Aili could have done it, she knew, or at worst, they could
simply have locked the common room door, but she needed something to
occupy her hands for the moment. Chase Mago grinned, pushing himself away
from the table. 

"I'm going on to the engine room," he announced. "Might as well get
started." 

Balthasar had been gone less than two minutes by the common room clock.
Silence laughed, and pushed the last mug into the cleaning slot, saying,
"I know. I think I'll head up to the bridge myself." 

"It is hard to imagine, isn't it?" Chase Mago said again, and disappeared.

Silence gave the common room a final glance. Everything was in place,
dishes and food stowed in the appropriate cells, furniture securely dogged
to the decking. She nodded to herself and left the room, latching the door
behind her. 

Balthasar was already on the bridge, perched on the arm of the first
pilot's couch to get at the communications console's
automatic-identification unit. The access panel was folded back, and two
stacks of disks lay on the console beside the opening. Silence recognized
one set as Recusante's legal -- or at least quasi-legal -- Delian papers,
the disks showing opalescent blue under the bridge lights, and knew the
others had to be the disks forged on Asterion. They didn't show the same
convincing wash of color, and the pilot couldn't help wondering if
Balthasar's mysterious contact had done his job properly. She shook the
thought away -- it was too late to worry about that now -- and took her
place in the second pilot's couch, glancing automatically at the console
displays. The checklights showed green and standby blue across her boards.
Nodding to herself, she reached for the portolan. 

By now, the book opened to the proper pages almost by itself. Silence sat
for a moment, staring at the bizarre map, with its patchwork of symbols
linked by the overlapping rays of the landlines. It was hard to believe,
even now, that this archaic system -- this infuriating, exhausting,
archaic method -- would actually lead them past the Rose Worlders' engines
to Earth. And yet it had brought them this far, deeper into the ring of
the Rose Worlds than any uninvited foreigner had ever come. Murmuring the
first cantrip, she turned her attention to the final mark. 

The tiny drawing, impossibly detailed like all of the illustrations on the
map, showed four women dancing in a ring on a grassy hill, their right
hands lifted toward a child dressed only in a wreath of bright flowers who
floated just above their fingertips. Each wore a long gown cut to an
unfamiliar pattern, and each carried something in her left hand. Silence
leaned closer, concentrating on each of the figures in turn. The nearest
one, a golden-haired woman in a flowing gown that seemed to shift in color
from white to a tawny shade so dark as to be almost red, held a slender
wand; her long sleeves were caught up to her shoulders by pins shaped like
salamanders. To her left was a dark woman in rich russet patterned with
bunches of grapes, a square crown confining her jet-black hair. She
carried a dull bronze disk in her free hand, but held it so loosely that
she seemed almost about to toss it into the air like a juggler. Next to
her, half hidden by the golden woman, danced a woman in a turquoise gown.
Her trailing sleeves were lined in a paler blue, and the great cloak that
streamed back from her shoulders seemed to flow from a black blue-green in
the shadows to a strange almost-color like thickly flawed glass. Her hair
was hidden by a silver coronet from which fell a draped curtain made of
strands of pearls, and she carried a closed silver cup in her left hand.
The fourth woman, at the golden woman's right, was dressed all in greys.
Her gown was more severely cut than the others', tight in the
cloud-colored bodice, and then swirling out into an immensely full skirt
that darkened from the cloudy grey of the bodice to a rich blue-purple at
the flaring hem. She alone carried a sword, but held it so easily it
seemed to have no weight at all. 

Those were the old symbols of the four elements, Silence realized
abruptly, symbols taken from a system even older than the portolan itself.
The sword stood for elemental air, the cup for water, the bronze disk for
earth, and the little wand for fire. Four dancers, four suits of the
tarot, four elements -- the last four symbols of the Earth-road. The
portolan's symbols were not that different from the voidmarks given in The
Gilded Stairs, Silence thought, but while the original image used the
alchemical marriage, the active union of the king and queen, the portolan,
true to its passive nature, showed the result of that union, the Child
that symbolized the end of every quest. It was an auspicious image with
which to end their own journey. 

She looked away, deliberately breaking the mark's spell, and realized that
Balthasar was watching her, a wry smile on his face. 

"I was looking at the mark earlier," the Delian said. "It's -- beautiful,
but do you think the siege engines will have affected it, too?" 

Silence made a face. Until now, she had assumed that, since the pilot did
not manipulate the portolan's marks in any way, the engines would not be
able to distort what she saw in purgatory. But if the symbols of the mark
were the same as the last four symbols of the Earth-road, there was at
least a chance that they, too, would be affected. On the other hand, the
engines could not distort the symbolism too thoroughly, or the Rose
Worlders' own ships could not pass the barrier their own magi had
created.... "I don't know," she said, slowly. "All things considered, I
don't think they will." 

"I hope not," Balthasar said, and turned back to his keyboards. He touched
a button on the intercom panel, and looked back at Silence, a quirky smile
on his face. "Ready?" 

"I'm ready," Silence answered. 

"Julie?" Balthasar asked, and the engineer answered promptly. 

"Ready when you are, Denis." 

"Then let's go," Balthasar said. 

For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen, and then Silence heard the
first note of the new keelsong, rising very slowly and by a deliberate
progression toward the twelfth of heaven. She shivered, fighting back her
excitement, and settled herself to wait. 

As always, it seemed to take forever to reach the twelfth. Silence leaned
back in her couch, doing her best to wait patiently, and not lose the
unexpected pleasure she had found in the final image. It was a losing
battle. By the time Recusante came within fifteen minutes of purgatory,
the excitement had been drowned by the tedium of the run along the
landline. 

Sighing, she unfastened the safety webbing, and pushed herself out of her
couch. Balthasar glanced over his shoulder, a crooked smile on his face. 

"Enjoy yourself, Silence." 

"Thanks," the pilot said, sourly, and climbed onto the upper bridge. The
dome had begun to thin out already, but she ignored it as she plugged in
her headset and checked the line of status lights running across the hub
of the control yoke. Everything was in order, all the lights showing
green. 

"Five minutes," Chase Mago's voice announced. 

"Five minutes," Silence acknowledged absently, resting her hands on the
wheel. Her thumb hovered over the lock. She moved it aside, grimacing --
it was much too early -- but put it back a moment later. 

"Three minutes," Chase Mago said. 

Silence repeated the engineer's words, her attention on the dome around
her. It was fading more rapidly than it had on the other stages of the
voyage, but in patches, like ice melting. Some sections were almost clear,
or as clear as they ever became following the portolan's lines, while
others were still almost opaque. Silence frowned, wondering if this was an
indication of trouble to come, but then the last solid patches abruptly
vanished. 

"You have control, Silence," Balthasar said. "Everything looks good here."

"I have control," Silence answered, and unlocked her wheel. For the first
time since she'd begun to follow the portolan, the yoke moved stiffly,
with the slight hint of resistance she associated with normal star travel.

"We're on the line," Chase Mago said. "Everything looks good. I'm
switching on the warning." 

"Go ahead," Silence answered, and a moment later the familiar tone sounded
in her ears, sweet and true. Ahead, a green knoll rose from nothing, its
roots trailing off into shadows. The four figures were frozen in midstep,
circling its crown. Above their outstretched hands floated the Child on
its wreath of roses and lilies, apparently asleep, serenely unconscious of
its position. Silence smiled in spite of herself, and let Recusante follow
the landline toward the dancing figures. 

As Recusante drew closer to the mark, Silence became aware of a change in
the image, a faint haziness circling the little hill just below the
dancers' feet. It was less than shadow, a sort of fuzziness above the
grass, distorting the shapes only slightly, but it was something that
should not be there. It had not been a part of the portolan's drawing,
that much was certain, but she could not make it take any clear shape.
Silence kept Recusante on course, frowning, and felt her shoulders tighten
in spite of herself, ready to pull the ship out of possible danger. 

The ship came closer, but the weird circle still refused to take on
concrete form, wavering almost like heat-shadow on a sun-baked road.
Silence deliberately looked away, the way she looked away from the
faintest lights in a darkened room, but the image stayed obstinately
vague. Whatever it is, she thought, I don't like it. She pulled back
gently on the control yoke, lifting Recusante until the warning tone began
to rise in pitch. She levelled off then, shaking her head. The maneuver
had gained her a little altitude relative to the circle, but not enough.
If the line ran true, Recusante would have to pass through the upper edges
of that shimmering disturbance. 

Of course, a magus's skills might be able to determine what it is, she
thought, but hesitated. She wasn't sure what the effects of a pilot's
semi-active power would be on the delicate balance of the landlines and
the simple mark, had refused to let Chase Mago call in the upper register
on the first stage of the journey and had been proven right. A magus's
power was even more active, so much so that its use might completely
destroy her ability to perceive the portolan's images. Maybe if I asked
Isambard to do it? she thought, but rejected the idea almost at once. The
effect would be the same, no matter who wielded the active power. There
was nothing to do but wait. The tone was steady in her headset, indicating
that the ship was still solidly on the line; even so, she touched the
intercom button to override it. 

"Julie, Denis, are either of you picking up anything unusual?" 

Balthasar answered first, as usual. "Not a thing. Is anything wrong?" 

"Everything looks fine here," Chase Mago said, almost in the same instant.
"Why?" 

"I'm not sure," Silence said. "There's something funny about the mark...."
She let her voice trail off, not quite sure even how she should describe
it. 

Balthasar's voice sharpened. "Trouble?" 

"Maybe," Silence said, staring at the strangely blurred line. It was
closer now, but no clearer. She had never seen or heard of anything like
it, and she could hear the frustration in her own voice. "I can't see it
well enough to tell." 

Recusante was almost at the foot of the little hill, and Silence broke off
the conversation. There were formulae that could be used to test the
substance of an immaterial object; the magi used them to investigate the
nature of Forms. Maybe, she thought, one of them would be good enough to
test this -- whatever it is. Very cautiously, she murmured one of Jabir's
cantrips, putting only a fraction of her strength into the probing
formula. She felt the faint tingling that meant she had called on her
power correctly, and in the same instant the universe seemed to stagger, a
sickening, earthquake sensation. She broke off the cantrip instantly,
hoping she had been able to hold it long enough to get a result. Nothing
happened: either she had succeeded and the wavering circle was harmless,
or, more likely, she had not had time to complete the cantrip. She
grimaced, but kept the ship on course, knowing there was nothing else she
could do. 

And then Recusante had reached the edge of the mark. "Julie, stop down
now," Silence said. There was no acknowledgement, but the keel-song
thinned slightly. The warning tone began to drop as well, and Silence
pulled back on the yoke, lifting the ship farther above the illusory
grasses. The dancing figures loomed overhead, but the pilot barely saw
them, fixing her eyes instead on the odd band of haze. This close, it had
a sort of shape, like a wall of invisible flame, the upper edges of the
circle pulsing very slowly, as though in time to some distant heartbeat. 

Then, too late, she knew what it was, and damned herself for a fool.
Balthasar had guessed it, for all he wasn't a magus, had warned her, and
she'd been too stupid to listen. The shadow was the reflection of the
siege engines that had corrupted the elemental symbols each time she had
tried to force the Earth-road. They weren't able to affect this passive
perception of the symbols, but they did exist, and they did block her path
into the mark. Swearing, she pulled up on the control yoke, lifting
Recusante as far off the landline as she dared. The warning note changed,
protesting, and was swallowed in an explosion of pure noise as the ship's
keel touched the top of the invisible wall. Silence winced, cringing under
the sheer force of the sound, and ripped off her headset. The sound eased
a little, but seemed to take almost solid form, rising like mist, like
static, to destroy her vision of the mark. She swore again, twisting the
control yoke from side to side to find the landline, but she had lost the
warning tone when she pulled off the headset. Cursing, she brought the
ship back to what she hoped was the proper course, fighting down panic.
She could not hear the keelsong through the smothering roar; she thought
the ship trembled underfoot, but could not longer trust her own
perceptions. 

With a tremendous effort, she controlled her fear, forcing herself to
think logically. If Isambard were here, he would know how to break the
engines -- had always known, and here where the engines' force was weaker,
he might actually succeed.... But the magus wasn't there, and there was no
way -- and no time -- to send for him. Silence groped frantically for the
memory of how Isambard had attempted to break the engines. He had invoked
the Forms of the elements, she remembered that much; she remembered the
words themselves, but not the formulae that bound those Forms to his
bidding. She sobbed aloud, feeling the deck shake beneath her. Recusante
was tearing herself apart, disrupted by the noise that was the ultimate
dissonance. The stolen mailship, Bruja, had almost gone the same way,
shattered by the engines' music. 

The thought of Bruja sparked a vague memory. Silence fought back panic
knowing she had no time to waste, and focused her thoughts inward, forcing
herself into a state of awareness. It had been on Bruja that she'd learned
she had a magus's power, first by breaking the Hegemonic geas and then,
when she had tried to fly the Earth-road.... The memory came rushing back,
and with it came the ghost of the Earth-road's music, the note that once
before had taken Recusante to the eighth of heaven. She reached for the
memory of that music without conscious plan, knowing only that it had
saved Bruja so many months before. She twisted it, turning it outward,
forcing it to take on a Form, and then forced that Form to become reality.
The note sang in her and around her, driving back the engines' noise. 

The deck steadied underfoot, though she could still feel it trembling, and
the blurring static faded slightly. A line appeared in the haze ahead of
the ship, faint at first, then growing solid. Colors ran along its length,
black to white to peacock-blue to royal purple, strobing away from her in
great waves of light that also carried the sound of heaven to blend with
the keelsong in glorious diapason. 

Blindly, Silence turned Recusante onto that brilliant pathway, feeling the
ship's trembling ease further. Then, quite suddenly, the static was gone,
though the path remained, stretching away up the hill to twist in and out
of the feet of the unmoving dancers. Shaking, Silence glanced back over
her shoulder, and saw the hazy wall behind her: she had passed through the
engines' influence without destroying it, or them. 

Now that the engines' noise was gone, she could hear faint voices calling
from her headset, but she could not leave the wheel to pick it up. She put
the voices from her mind, concentrating on the images ahead. Recusante was
moving very fast now, skimming along above the multicolored path. Silence
leaned against the wheel, turning the ship to follow the path as it wound
around the first dancer's monstrous ankle. As Recusante completed the
loop, Silence thought she saw the dancer's other foot, lifted for the next
step, tremble slightly, but the path led away from that figure, heading
directly across the dance to the figure that stood for elemental water.
Fire to water, Silence thought, dizzily, then earth to air? 

The glowing path traced a loop around the water-dancer's foot as well.
Silence leaned on the wheel, forcing Recusante into the sharp curve. As
the ship came around again, closing the circle, she caught a glimpse of
the fire-dancer. The golden woman had moved, she thought, had taken
another step along the pattern -- but surely that was impossible? The path
twisted, whirling her away before she could be sure. 

As she had half expected, the path took her next around the earth-dancer's
foot, then traced a line back through the center of the dance, crossing
itself again. This time, as she passed the first two dancers, she was
certain they had moved, were moving, continuing a dance suspended for too
many years, and knew without looking back that the earth-dancer was
stirring, too. The keelsong rose gloriously around her, and she was
suddenly aware that it was the harmonium's full concord, upper and lower
register both, but she did not know if she had triggered it, or if Chase
Mago had guessed what was happening, and opened all the stops. 

The path looped again around the final dancer's foot, almost touching the
hem of her flaring skirt. Silence held her breath, but Recusante passed
under it safely, and turned to follow the path back to the center of the
dance. A moment later, she heard a whisper of sound behind her, almost
blending into the swelling keelsong, and guessed the skirt had brushed the
path as the air-dancer shifted into motion. 

All the dancers were moving now, tracing the steps of the dance with
monumental grace. The path seemed to end in the center of the turning
figures -- or rather, Silence realized, the path joined itself again,
closing the knot. For a moment, she wondered if the ship would have to
retrace that pattern, dodging the dancers' moving feet, but then Recusante
reached the center of the pattern, and the path abruptly vanished. Silence
blinked, startled, her hands freezing on the wheel. Before she could move,
however, the ship began to rise, as though lifted by an invisible hand.
She glanced down instinctively, but the tinctured decking blocked her
view. She looked up, and saw that the Child had vanished. The wreath
remained, and through its circle Silence could see the unhaloed stars of
mundane space. 

The dancers swung past again, serenely beautiful archetypes, and then
Recusante had reached the wreath and was through, harmonium dropping into
the lower register. Silence shook her head, completely without words for
what she had done, then, stiffly, locked her wheel and bent to pick up her
discarded headset. 

Balthasar's voice sounded instantly in her ears." -- down. We're on the
normal exit point, and I don't see any hostiles. Silence, are you there?" 

"I'm here," the pilot said slowly, and her own voice sounded harsh and
clumsy after the music of heaven. 

"What happened?" Chase Mago demanded. "My God, I thought we'd had it that
time." 

Silence took a deep breath, fumbling for the words, and Balthasar said,
"Let it go, Julie. She brought us through the engines, right? And that's
quite enough for now." His voice sharpened. "Silence, I'm going to need
your help. Their Approach Control's going to be signalling any minute." 

The demand seemed doubly unfair, coming so soon after the wonders of the
passage. Silence felt tears stinging in her eyes. She wanted nothing more
than to sit quietly until she understood just what had happened, what she
had done -- but Balthasar was right. This was only the first part; if the
Rose Worlders suspected them now, all her work would have been for
nothing. Still, it was hard to make herself climb down the ladder, and
take her place in the second pilot's couch beside Balthasar. 

All three of the viewscreens showed the same image, a single sun against a
sea of stars. Silence frowned, wondering why Balthasar had not switched
one of them to musonar display, and the Delian leaned toward her, reaching
across the Ficinan model to touch her hand. 

"There it is," he said softly. "The first sun, Earth's sun." 

Silence stared at the screens, not quite able to believe it even now. But
it is Earth's sun, she told herself firmly, the words sounding more real
with each repetition, and somewhere in there is Earth itself. They were
still too far out for the real-light cameras to pick up planets. She
turned to the Ficinan model, suddenly desperate to prove that Earth really
did exist, that it had not been destroyed like so many worlds during the
Millennial War. 

The globe showed a schematic image, the sun at the center surrounded by
slowly pulsing waves of light, ringed by planets, each of which moved in
its own circle of color, deepest at the center, fading toward invisibility
at the edges. Here and there, interference showed darkly red, where two
planetary envelopes overlapped. Silence counted, her breath coming more
quickly: nine planets -- nine planets and a pale band of blue that was
certainly an asteroid belt. Nine planets.... She could remember only a few
of the extra names -- the other worlds were useless, their names
meaningless and easily forgotten without the key that was Earth -- but
every star-traveller knew that the third world from the First Sun was
Earth. The image hung in the globe, much like any other planet, a pinpoint
of light surrounded by the waves of the musica mundana. She touched the
crystal of the Ficinan globe just above the point, as though that could
make it more real. 

"I know," Balthasar said. "I know." 

Silence nodded, and lifted her eyes to the viewscreens. The first sun
looked quite ordinary, much like any other sun in human-settled space. It
took a deliberate effort of will to convince herself that it was something
special. 

"Captain Balthasar." Isambard's voice sounded very loud in the intercom
speakers. "We've arrived? May I come on the bridge?" 

Silence gave the Delian an imploring glance, and Balthasar grinned. "We've
made it into the system, Isambard, and we're waiting for a signal from the
Approach Control. I'd rather you stayed in commons for now; I'll patch the
picture onto the screen there." 

Silence bent to adjust the remote-screen controls, slaving the unit in the
common room to the bow camera. Isambard didn't say anything for a long
moment, but finally sighed deeply. 

"Very well, Captain Balthasar, I'll wait here." 

"Thank you," Balthasar said, almost cheerfully, and touched another button
on the intercom panel. "Marcinik? We made it to the system, anyway. I've
patched our camera view into the common room screen if you and her
serenity want to take a look." 

"Thanks," Marcinik answered. "We shall." 

Balthasar cut the connection, the smile fading from his face. "Question
is," he murmured, "where's our approach contact?" 

"You said we came out on the usual appearance point?" Silence asked. That
had always been one of her worries -- managing their emergence from
purgatory so that it looked as though Recusante had flown the normal
Earth-road. 

Balthasar nodded. "According to the supercargo's information, we were
close enough that even the orbital musonar couldn't tell the difference. "

According to the supercargo's information. That was the sticky point,
Silence thought. All their knowledge of Earth was based on what that woman
had told them, and there had been no way to verify more than a few minor
details. Not for the first time, she wondered if they had learned enough. 

"Ah, here we go," Balthasar exclaimed, pointing to the communications
console. Lights flashed orange on the automatic-identification panel,
indicating an arriving signal, then turned green as the equipment
recognized the inquiry and broadcast the forged papers in response.
Silence held her breath, waiting for the acknowledgement, and saw without
surprise that Balthasar's hands were white-knuckled on his controls. She
reached across the Ficinan model to adjust the musonar, scanning the
volume around them for signs of any other ships. The screen stayed clear,
with only a faint reading just at the edge of their range to worry about
-- and if that diffuse blob was another ship, Silence thought, it would
take even a navy six at least an hour to cover the distance between the
two. Still, she did not relax until the external speaker crackled to life.

"Double-M vessel Recusante, this is Interior Approach Control. You are
entering a special license area. Please transmit your permit at once." 

"Interior Approach, this is Recusante," Balthasar answered, his voice
remarkably calm. "Transmitting now." He touched a button on the
communications console, and a new light flashed red. Silence held her
breath again, hoping the supercargo's memory had been accurate, and that
Balthasar's forger was as good as the Delian had claimed. There was a long
pause before the speaker hissed again. 

"Recusante, this is Interior Approach Control. Your permit has been
received and verified. Please set up to accept your entry course." 

Silence let out the breath she had been holding in a great sigh, and
hastily adjusted the astrogation console. "Ready," she said, too quietly
for the microphones to pick up her voice, and Balthasar nodded. 

"We're ready to accept the entry course," he said. 

"Stand by," Interior Approach said severely. "Transmitting." 

The astrogation console whirred briefly, then stopped. Silence checked the
telltales, and said, "It's recorded and shows green." 

"Course recorded and on our board," Balthasar said into his microphone. 

"Please retransmit to verify," Interior Approach responded, and the Delian
lifted an eyebrow. 

"Wrath-of-God wasn't this sticky," he said. Silence winced, but saw his
microphone was safely off. Balthasar winked, and flipped his headset on
again. "Retransmitting," he announced, and Silence hit the necessary keys.

There was a brief pause, and then Interior Approach said, "We verify the
course as correct, Recusante. Do not, I repeat, do not deviate from this
line for any reason whatsoever. You will be under observation from
planetary stations and from patrolcraft to make certain you obey the
restrictions." 

Balthasar made a face at that, but answered evenly, "Understood,
Approach." 

"You will be contacted again when you reach the planetary envelope," the
severe voice continued. "Interior Approach Control out." The open-channel
indicator winked out before the Delian could respond. 

"Rude set of bastards, aren't they?" Balthasar murmured. His grim
expression belied the flippant words. 

"Charming," Chase Mago agreed, but his heart wasn't in it. "Patrol-craft,
Denis?" 

"We were warned about them," Silence said soothingly, hands already busy
on her keyboards. The musonar was already set to broad-scan at its longest
range. She left that as it was, and adjusted the astrogation console so
that the central viewscreen and the Ficinan model displayed their assigned
course. The yellow line curved in toward Earth in a wide arc, threading a
narrow channel of undistorted space between two worlds just past their
closest approach. It was clearly a course intended to waste their time, to
make sure that the Rose Worlders -- or whoever it was that Interior
Approach Control's stiff voice represented -- had time to take a very good
look at the newcomers. 

Balthasar frowned. "I don't like the looks of that," he said, and tapped
the little gap between edges of the planetary envelopes. "I don't like it
at all." 

"There's plenty of room," Silence began, and Balthasar cut her off. 

"Yeah, plenty of room for those patrolcraft Approach was talking about." 

Silence stared at the musonar image. To either side of the indicated
course lay a wash of color, the reflection of trailing planetary
harmonies. The edges nearest the course line were tinged with red:
interference cast by the conflicting harmonies. "I wouldn't want to take a
ship into that," she said aloud. 

Balthasar snorted. "It wouldn't be that bad, provided you knew the system
music pretty well, and turned accordingly. And all that underlying noise
is going to play games with our musonar; that's something else they'll
use." 

Silence made a doubtful face, but she had to admit that the Delian, with
his Wrath-of-God experience, knew more about such things than she did.
"Well, so far I don't see any sign of a patrol." 

"Keep looking," Balthasar said, and touched the intercom switch. "Julie,
we're headed in-system. Give me half power." 

"Half power it is," Chase Mago answered. "What do we do about the
patrols?" 

"Just what we planned," Balthasar answered. "Recusante looks enough like a
Rose Worlder freighter -- no offense, Silence -- so we'll just play
innocent and let them stare as much as they like." 

Chase Mago made a rather skeptical noise, but said nothing else. Silence
looked to her left, and saw that Balthasar was chewing thoughtfully on his
lower lip. The Delian saw her glance, and smiled. "On the other hand,
there's no point in being stupid," he said, and pressed another button on
the intercom panel. "Marcinik? Are you there?" 

The colonel answered after only a second's delay. "I'm here, Balthasar.
What is it?" 

"I want you to man the guns," Balthasar answered, and Silence thought she
heard a murmur of surprise from Aili in the background. Whatever the
Princess Royal had been about to say was cut off by Isambard. 

"That would ruin everything," the magus said indignantly. "You mustn't
take the chance of their seeing that you're ready to fight." 

Balthasar took a deep breath, obviously fighting back his anger, and
Silence said hastily, "Let me talk to him." 

"He's all yours," Balthasar said, with relish. 

"We discussed this back on Asterion," Silence said, not bothering to
respond to the Delian's remark. "Even if they spot us now, there's a good
chance we could break away, and take what we've learned back to the
Hegemon." 

The magus did not answer for a long moment, but at last he said, "Very
well." 

Balthasar did not bother to acknowledge him, saying only, "Take the guns,
Marcinik." 

"On my way," the colonel answered. A moment later, Silence heard the faint
sound of the common room door opening and closing. To her surprise,
however, the intercom sounded again. 

"Is there anything Doctor Isambard and I can -- should be doing?" Aili
asked, her voice preternaturally calm. 

"What do you think?" Balthasar growled at his closed microphone. "Damn
stupid question." 

"Shut up, Denis," Silence said. She could not help feeling sorry for the
Princess Royal. It wasn't the easiest position to be in, sitting and
waiting for disaster or success, all the while knowing that nothing one
did could affect the result, and the pilot let that sympathy color her
answer. "I'm afraid not, Serenity. If anything comes up, we'll call, I
promise." 

"Thank you," Aili answered, her voice still very much under control. "I'll
be in my cabin, and Doctor Isambard will be in his." 

"Silence?" Chase Mago said. "Tell them they can be going over their
stories, making absolutely sure they know them. We may need them to back
us up." 

Silence nodded, even though she knew the engineer couldn't see her, and
repeated his words to the two in the common room. It was a good idea, even
if it wasn't strictly true -- they had all spent weeks learning their
cover story, in learning-trance and out -- and it would give Aili in
particular something to occupy her mind. 

"We'll do that," the Princess Royal said, and broke the connection. 

Silence leaned back in her couch then, staring at the musonar. It still
showed nothing but empty space and the dull wash of music from the
outermost planet, and she sighed deeply. "So now we wait," she said. 

"We wait," Balthasar agreed. 

After a moment's thought, Silence adjusted the musonar so that the side
viewscreens showed the results of short-range scanning: nothing unusual,
unless you wanted to count the strange readings from the two outermost
worlds. The tiny ninth world wasn't even within the plane of the system,
but swung through it on a weirdly tilted orbit, trailing a cloud of
pinkish interference. The next world in was surrounded by an inner
envelope of a peculiar, violent blue, and that envelope in turn was
enclosed in a flattened pale-blue oval. A strange, intense music sang in
that world's core, and for a moment, Silence could almost remember its
name. The teasing memory vanished before she could seize it, and the pilot
made a disgusted face. 

They still had a very long way to go, she thought, and almost said the
words aloud until she glanced sideways and saw Balthasar's set face. The
Delian was in no mood for conversation, that much was clear. Sighing,
Silence edged back further into her couch, with an effort turning her
thoughts to what they had to do once they actually landed on Earth. From
the beginning, even before they had known for certain that the Rose
Worlders controlled Earth as well as the Earth-road, they had known they
could do nothing more than a quick survey. That had been modified only
slightly since. All they intended to do -- all they could do. Silence told
herself firmly -- was land, deliver their faked cargo, and try to guess
how strongly Earth was held. Then they would lift, and return to the
Hegemon with the knowledge they had gathered. I'm tempted to try the
Earth-road going back, Silence thought. It would be quicker than the
portolan's route, and probably a lot more pleasant -- maybe even safer, if
the Rose Worlders suspect anything. After all, Isambard's pretty sure he
can break the engines, and once we're through that barrier, we're almost
home. If we went back by portolan, we'd have to spend so much time in
mundane space that the Rose Worlders would be sure to spot us. 

She shook her head then, still not quite able to believe that this was
really Earth's system. Maybe it isn't, she thought, a sudden rush of fear
threatening to overwhelm her. Maybe somehow the Rose Worlders have tricked
us -- there must be other nine-planet systems, after all -- maybe they're
hiding in that lovely ambush spot Denis picked out, just waiting to blast
us out of space. Maybe Earth really was destroyed, the way I was always
sure it had been, and this is just the Rose Worlder's way of eliminating
inquisitive star-travellers. 

She cut off that flight of fancy abruptly. It was hardly likely -- if
nothing else, the Rose Worlders could not have produced the images she had
seen on the last stage of the portolan-journey. Still, the feeling of
unreality persisted, despite the images on the screens. 

Slowly, Recusante crept inward along the prescribed course. A quarter of
the way along the yellow line, Silence caught the first flicker of another
keel on the musonar; fifteen minutes later, the musonar picked up a second
ship, as big as a Navy five but even more heavily armed, moving along a
course that paralleled Recusante's own. 

"What do you want to bet they're scanning us like crazy?" Balthasar
murmured. 

"Let them," Silence said, with a confidence she was far from feeling. 

"And next they're bound to query the A-ID," Balthasar continued, as though
he hadn't heard. "Yes, there they go." 

Silence looked at the communications console. Sure enough, the green light
was on above the automatic identification panel, and she could hear the
faint whine as the console automatically broadcast the information
contained on the disks in its various cells. The light blinked out, and
she could hear Balthasar's quick breathing, both of them bracing against
possible attack. Silence's eyes went to the chronometer. A minute ticked
by, impossibly slowly, and then another, and she began to relax. In the
musonar, the patrolship kept its station, neither moving off nor closing
in. 

"I suppose that's something to be grateful for," she murmured, and
realized with some embarrassment that she had spoken aloud. 

Balthasar grunted. "We'll know for certain in about half an hour," he
said. 

Silence frowned at the course plot, then understood. If the five kept
station, its course would bring it up against and then into the musica
mundana of the seventh planet in half an hour, where the interference
would be too strong even for a ship well-tuned to the vagaries of the
local system. She stared at the screens, willing the five to turn back. 

"Captain Balthasar." Marcinik's voice in the headset made Silence jump.
"The gunnery sensors show a target at extreme range. Do you want me to do
anything about it?" 

Balthasar grinned, and Silence had to suppress a slightly hysterical
giggle. The idea of Recusante, with her tiny cannon, "doing something
about" a well-armed patrolship was ludicrous. She sobered a little as she
realized they might have to try. 

"Not just at the moment, colonel," Balthasar said. 

"Permission to power the guns?" Marcinik asked. 

Balthasar hesitated. "No," he said, after a moment. "They might spot the
change. Don't worry, I'll give you plenty of warning." 

"Please do," Marcinik said, and broke the connection. 

"Trust me, damn you," Balthasar said to his dead microphone, and shook his
head. "We'll have time, if it comes to fighting." 

Silence nodded, then realized he was speaking more to reassure himself. 

Slowly, Recusante crept along the course line toward the inner planets. As
the patrolship approached the edge of the planetary envelope, Silence held
her breath, then forced herself to breathe normally. For a long moment,
the patrolship too, held steady, nosing a little way into the shadowy
color, and the musonar picked up the faint sparks of dissonance flaring
around it. Then, quite suddenly, it swung away, back toward the edge of
the system, accelerating until it vanished from the musonar altogether. 

Balthasar sighed noisily. "Well, that one believed us." 

Let's hope the others do, too, Silence thought, but said nothing. Instead,
she directed the musonar forward, throwing in as much power as she dared.
They were coming up on Balthasar's ambush point, the narrow gap between
the harmonic envelopes, and Silence swung the horn back and forth,
scanning the areas of low interference. As the Delian had predicted, the
rising harmonies of the envelopes made it difficult to pick out details
from the background clamor, but she thought she saw the bronze shadow of
at least one keel in the wash of color. It was too quick a sighting to
determine the class of ship, but she could not delude herself into
thinking it would be anything less than a warship. 

"Anything?" Balthasar asked. 

Silence shrugged. "I thought I saw at least one keel, but the clamor
blocked it before I could get a good reading. It looks like you were
right, Denis." 

"Mmm." Balthasar stared at the screen as though he could force it to come
clear, once again chewing on his lower lip. Then he reached for the
intercom in sudden decision. "Marcinik, power the guns -- low setting for
now, but get the fires running." 

"Certainly, Captain Balthasar," the colonel answered. A few seconds later,
a row of lights blinked orange and then pale green on the status board.
Silence lifted an eyebrow. Marcinik must've been sitting with his finger
practically on the button to respond that quickly, she thought. And I
don't blame him for it, either. 

As Recusante edged her way into the gap between the two envelopes, the
musonar cleared momentarily. Silence caught a brief glimpse of four, maybe
five keels before the flaring color hid them completely. Balthasar swore
softly. 

"Did you get a guess on the class?" 

Silence shook her head doubtfully. "I don't think any of them were any
brighter than that five, but I couldn't swear to it." 

"Damn," Balthasar muttered, and fixed his brooding stare on the screens. 

Silence divided her attention between the musonar, the real-light cameras'
tiny screen, and the chronometer. When five, and then ten minutes passed
without an attack, she allowed herself to relax a little. Still, she
jumped when the communications console clicked, her heart pounding
painfully. 

"Checking our papers again," Balthasar said, and smiled. "That should mean
they still believe us." 

Silence nodded, heart still beating too hard for her to speak. Still,
Balthasar seemed to be right. Other than that one inquiry, the hidden
patrolships gave no sign of their presence. Even so, Silence could not
quite breathe easily until Recusante emerged from the narrow lane. The
course ahead showed empty of patrolcraft. After a moment's consideration,
she adjusted the musonar horn to point back along the way they'd come.
There was nothing there either -- and then a small bronze dot slid out of
the screening music. Silence swore as the patrolcraft -- it looked like
another five -- moved slowly forward to take up station behind them,
effectively blocking any attempt to escape. 

"Denis, we're being followed," she said aloud. 

"I see it." Balthasar sounded surprisingly calm. Silence glanced warily in
his direction and saw that he was smiling. She made a face, but there was
nothing to say to that unexpected cool. Instead, she reset the musonar,
leaving one of the smaller units to watch the trailing ship, and turned
the main horn forward again. 

As they moved deeper into the system, more traffic showed in the screens.
Silence counted four more patrolcraft -- smaller ships this time, the
equivalents of Navy threes and fours -- and perhaps half a dozen other
ships moving within the orbit of the fourth planet. One of those was
recognizably a roundship, another freighter similar in size and tuning to
Recusante, but the others gave off strange, contradictory readings. It was
almost as though there was no keelsong involved, Silence thought, just the
musonar's notes reflecting off bare, untinctured metal. It was more than
that, she realized a moment later; there was a secondary harmony involved,
one that bore a strong resemblance to the note of elemental fire. That
sparked a memory. The primitive, chemical-fuel tugs used by Wrath-of-God
had given off a similar reading -- though why Earth would use that kind of
ship is a mystery to me, Silence thought. Aloud, she said, "Denis, I think
I'm picking up flame-throwers." 

"You can't be," Balthasar said automatically, but looked to the musonar.
His frown deepened. "But that's what it looks like, isn't it? I wonder
why...." 

"Wrath-of-God used them at the Wrath," Silence said, and waited. 

"Yeah, but that was because we were water-poor. Earth should have all the
distilleries it needs." Balthasar shook his head, and touched the general
speaker. "Julie, Isambard, can you think of any good reason to run
flame-throwers -- chemical-fuel ships -- instead of normal subcelestial
keels?" 

Neither the magus nor the engineer answered for a long moment. Finally,
Chase Mago said, "I can't." Silence could almost hear the shrug. 

The magus took longer to answer. "There is no reason that I can think of,
except lack of elemental water or an inability to tincture a sounding keel
correctly. Both hypotheses seem to be ruled out a priori: we see true
starships all around us." 

"Thanks," Balthasar said sourly. 

Silence grimaced, leaning back in her couch. The chemical-fuel ships
seemed clustered in the shadow of Earth's envelope, hovering around the
single moon. Maybe they were tugs, like Wrath-of-God's, she thought. Most
moons were barren, dead earth at their cores; if there were some sort of
station on that moon, it might be more economical to use chemical-fuel
ships than import elemental water. But why would anyone go to the trouble
of setting up a settlement on a moon when there was a perfectly good world
available? 

Recusants crept inward along the curving course line, following a
well-buoyed path through the ring of asteroids, then skirting the edge of
the fourth world's harmonic envelope. After a moment's hesitation, Silence
switched one of the triple screens from musonar display to the image from
the bow cameras. At the system's highest magnification, the red-orange
disk showed darker lines, and bright icecaps at both poles. A pair of
ragged moons circled it. Silence watched, entranced, until the image
dwindled in the screen. 

The intercom clicked again. "Mars," Isambard said, his voice tinged with
reverence. "Captain Balthasar, we are coming up on Earth. I ask you again
to allow me on the bridge." 

Balthasar rolled his eyes, but answered politely enough, "I'm sorry,
Isambard, there just isn't room. I'm afraid you'll have to make do with
the pictures." 

"Captain Balthasar --" the magus began again, and Silence cut in hastily,
"Isambard, it's all the same picture." 

There was a brief pause, and then Isambard sighed. "So it is. You do well
to remind me." 

Balthasar put his hand over his headset's microphone. "I wish to hell he'd
remember it, then." 

Silence nodded, but said, soothingly, "We still have an hour to go." Her
eyes flickered to the chronometer to confirm the guess. Yes, she thought,
it would take a little less than an hour to reach the end of the set
course -- She broke off then, shaking her head. In a little less than a
standard hour, Recusante would be in Earth orbit: she could not quite make
it seem real. 

She adjusted the bow cameras, focusing them on the still-distant world. It
was little more than a pinpoint on the screen, barely distinguishable from
the stars around it -- a little brighter, perhaps, its brilliance tinged
with blue, but there was nothing particularly noticeable about it. Very
slowly, the image swelled on the screen, from a mere dot of light to a
visible disk, from a disk to the great, white-banded globe of legend,
continents half hidden under the streaks of cloud. Silence's breath caught
in her throat. This, then, was Earth, humankind's first home: there were
no words for the moment, and she did not even try to find any, caught up
in the wonder of it all. 

A noise from the communications console broke the spell, and a new voice
said, "MMV Recusante, this is Earth Traffic Control. Please transmit your
manifest and supporting documents." 

Balthasar touched keys on his board, frowning deeply. "Transmitting," he
said, and switched off his microphone. "That's not coming from the
planet." 

Silence adjusted the secondary musonar, sweeping its lesser horn in short
arcs. "You're right," she said, after a moment. "It's an orbital station."

"Why?" Balthasar demanded, the frustration clear in his voice. "That's all
I want to know. Why make things difficult?" 

Silence shrugged, and was grateful when the communications console beeped
again, cutting off her reply. 

"Recusante, this is Earth Traffic Control. Please stand by for your field
assignment." 

"Standing by," Balthasar said, and keyed the intercom. "Julie, be ready to
record the field beam." 

"Ready to record," Chase Mago answered. 

"Right," the Delian answered. "Earth Traffic Control, we are ready to
record." 

Traffic Control answered promptly. "You will be landing at Lady-springs.
Transmitting course and beam now." 

"Ready," Balthasar answered, and keyed the astrogation console. It whined
abruptly, and an instant later Chase Mago's voice came over the intercom. 

"Field beam's recorded." 

"And the course is in the box," Balthasar said, with a quick, nervous
grin. "This is it, people, we're going in." He touched the transmitter for
a final time. "Earth Traffic Control, we have recorded landing
instructions. Ready to commence our descent." 

"Very good, Recusante," Earth Traffic Control answered. "You may land when
ready. Switch to frequency sixteen for Ladysprings Field Beacon." 

"Thank you, Traffic Control," Balthasar said. "Switching now." 

At his nod, Silence touched her keyboard, adjusting the console to the new
frequency, but did not open the transmitter. Balthasar adjusted the
astrogation display, projecting the new course onto the central screen.
The bright yellow line skimmed across the edge of the atmospheric
envelope, following a line almost parallel to the world's equator. It
crossed into the planet's night after travelling only a few thousand
kilometers, then changed to the red of beam descent above the center of a
huge island. 

"So that's Ladysprings," Balthasar said, half to himself. "Keep the
frequency open, Silence, but we'll let them make first contact. Julie do
you need a pitch reading?" 

"Already in," Chase Mago answered. "Compensators set, stops at planetary
maximum." 

"Then we go," Balthasar said. Despite the confident words, there was a
perceptible pause before he touched his own controls. Recusante dropped
further toward the atmosphere, levelling off with its keel just skimming
the line of demarcation. Silence winced as the contact set off a thin,
high whining, just at the upper range of audibility. Balthasar touched
keys again, and Recusante lifted slightly, the noise easing a little. 

There was nothing to do now but wait. Silence leaned back in her couch,
trying to relax, but she could feel her muscles tensing with every new
sound from the keel. She could picture how Recusante must look from the
planet's surface, a streak of light that trailed a fine line of cloud
through the daylight sky, then changed to a crackling red vee of
interference as they passed into night. They would be very bright against
the stars -- automatically, she checked the weather readings, and saw that
it was indeed clear over their landing field -- and she wondered just why
the Rose Worlders were steering them to a darkened field. Surely it would
make more sense to have them land in daylight -- or would the trail of
clouds be more conspicuous than the lights? 

Recusante crossed the divider into darkness then, and she saw Balthasar's
hands tense on his controls. "Coming up on the beam, Julie," he said. 

"Ready," the engineer answered, but his words were swallowed by the sudden
shrilling of the musonar. 

"What the hell --" Balthasar began, and Silence cut him off, her eyes
fixed on the musonar display. It was somewhat obscured by the noise from
their own keel, but she could see clearly enough to know that they were in
trouble. 

"Aircraft, Denis, bearing one-three-five relative." She shivered
reflexively, seeing a second flight of four ships rising over the curve of
the planet. "Eight of them. I'm not getting a keel reading --" She broke
off at Balthasar's abrupt gesture, too frightened now to be offended.
Somehow the Rose Worlders had spotted them, had lured them in this far,
and now the trap was sprung.... 

"Full power to the guns -- now, Marcinik," Balthasar snapped, and Silence
forced herself to concentrate, waiting for orders. "Julie, we got trouble.
I need everything you've got." He fixed his eyes on the triple screen.
"What's the range, Silence?" 

The pilot stared at the musonar for a moment without understanding, fear
digging claws into her stomach. She had never flown in combat before, not
really -- at Arganthonios, the real fighting had happened before the
little ships arrived, and then they hadn't made it to the ship before the
Thousand landed. The battle off Asterion had been different, too, a space
battle... 

"Silence?" Balthasar said again, and the pilot shook herself. 

"About three hundred kilometers," she answered, and somehow her voice was
almost steady. "Still no reading on class or weapons. I don't think
they're standard." 

Balthasar made a face, and swung Recusants southward, away from the
approaching ships. At the same time, he touched keys to lift her farther,
away from the sticky atmosphere. The musonar cleared slightly, and Silence
swung the secondary horn toward space, scanning the volume above and
behind them. Two more dots appeared on her screen, both showing the
brilliant white-bronze of subcelestial keels. She swung the horn forward,
cursing, and found a third ship closing in from ahead. 

"Two fours on our tail," she reported, "and it looks like a five ahead of
us." 

"Damn it," Balthasar muttered, and slammed his hands down on his keyboard.
Recusante's nose dropped sharply, and the ship dove toward the planet's
distant surface. Interference sang around them, and the main musonar
display dimmed perceptibly. 

"Denis," Chase Mago said, warningly, and Balthasar snapped, "Compensate." 

"The aircraft are still closing," Silence said, and clenched her teeth to
keep from saying anything more. 

"Damn it," Balthasar said again, and touched another sequence of keys.
Recusante seemed to stagger slightly, and Silence knew that the ship was
running flat out, making its top speed through the interference of the
atmosphere. Starships aren't designed for this, she thought, numbly. We
can't hold out, not against aircraft. 

"Marcinik," the Delian said. "Fire as soon as you can, and keep firing.
How long 'til they're in range?" 

"Ten minutes, no more," Marcinik answered, and Silence could hear the
controlled panic beneath his cultured tones. "Firing at range, affirmed. "

"That's one for the soldiers," Balthasar muttered. He took one hand off
his controls long enough to rub his chin, and Silence could see the
fingers shaking. "Damn, Julie, give me more power." 

"I'm sorry, Denis," Chase Mago answered, and for once Silence could hear
the fear in the big man's voice. "You've got everything I can give you." 

Balthasar didn't answer, staring at the triple screens as though he could
force them to change by sheer strength of will. In the central screen,
Silence could see the double flight of aircraft closing in, a flashing red
dot marking the projected interception point. They were much faster than
Recusante, and more maneuverable -- any aircraft would be, as sluggish as
a starship was in atmosphere. Balthasar could only delay a meeting, not
avoid it. Without much hope, the pilot glanced at the left-hand screen.
The three starships had slowed their approach -- letting the aircraft take
care of us, Silence thought bitterly -- but they still blocked any attempt
to return to space. 

Something flashed in the center screen, and a trio of tiny dots, almost
too small to be visible to the musonar, detached themselves from the
leading aircraft. Silence frowned, not recognizing them, and Marcinik
said, incredulously, "Missiles." 

"Oh, fuck," Balthasar said. His hands moved convulsively on the keyboards,
and then he had himself under control, his hands dancing across the keys.
Recusante staggered sideways, throwing itself into a ponderous series of
evasive maneuvers. Too slow, Silence thought, watching the musonar, oh,
too slow. The ship shuddered down its length: Marcinik was finally
returning the aircrafts' fire. No, she realized an instant later, he was
shooting at the missiles instead. He fired again, and a third time, the
fixed-fire shells bracketing and then falling behind the little dots. He
missed them all, but one of the dots wavered and vanished, its turning
apparently disrupted by the concussion. 

"One missile gone," Silence announced, and was remotely surprised at how
calm she still sounded. Marcinik fired again twice, in rapid succession,
and a second dot disappeared. "Two gone. Third missile still closing." 

Balthasar whispered a curse, hands busy on his controls. Recusante wove a
drunken course through the air, keel wailing in protest, interference
keening around them. Marcinik fired again, but the missile was inside the
cannon's optimum range. 

"Still closing," Silence said. "God, it intercepts in two minutes." 

Balthasar wrenched the ship sideways, turning it practically onto the tips
of its stubby wings, and pointed its nose at the planet's surface. The
keel shrieked as Chase Mago failed to compensate for the unexpected
maneuver, its chorded notes of air and earth suddenly sounding only
against air. The ship fell, reeling down toward the water suddenly not so
far below. Silence, biting back a cry of utter panic, saw the missile
slide past above them. An instant later, an explosion rocked the ship, and
she heard and felt a rattle of metal along Recusante's sides. 

Swearing steadily, Balthasar swung the ship, easing it back into a more
normal position, keel pointed again toward the planetary surface. The
shrieking eased a little, but there was a definite note of strain, a
raggedness in the roaring music. 

"Shit," Chase Mago said, and Silence felt herself grow suddenly cold. She
could not remember having heard the engineer swear. "Denis, we're out of
tune." 

"Damn, damn, damn," Balthasar whispered. He swung the ship into a series
of tight, irregular turns, and said at the same time, "Silence, where are
the fucking aircraft?" 

Silence swallowed hard, staring at the musonar. "One hundred fifty
kilometers," she whispered. She took a deep breath, and tried again.
"Still closing. Oh, damn it all, missiles." She clenched her hands
together, trying to control her shaking, to remember what she had to do,
what information had to be passed along. "Two, three targets, intercept in
eight minutes." 

"I see them," Marcinik said. A moment later, the twin cannons began
firing. He was trying something different, Silence realized, laying down a
barrier of shells, of disturbed, distorted air, between Recusante and the
approaching missiles. The missiles entered that barrier and abruptly
vanished. Silence gave a cry of triumph, abruptly cut off as she caught a
glimpse of the cannon's status lights. They had paled from healthy green
to yellow, would have to build up again before Marcinik could repeat his
tactics. 

"Nice shooting," Balthasar said, grimly. 

Recusante had fallen deep into the atmosphere in their attempt to avoid
the missiles, Silence saw, but to her surprise the Delian made no attempt
to regain the lost altitude. Instead, he brought the ship lower still,
until the already stressed keel was almost sobbing, the sound discordant
enough to bring tears of pain to her crew's eyes. The pitch shifted,
wavered as Chase Mago attempted to compensate for the strong core
harmonies, but there was little he could do without a field beam to help
him cheat the shattering dissonances. 

A flicker of change in the main musonar display caught Silence's eye, but
she had to look twice before she could believe what she had seen. "Denis!
The aircraft, four of them are turning back!" 

Balthasar grunted, and for an instant Silence felt almost hurt. Then she
saw the second set of blotches rising, ahead and to the right of
Recusante's course, and wanted to sob with the disappointment. "No, four
more taking their place," she said instead. 

"Where are they coming from?" Balthasar asked. 

"Ahead -- about three thousand kilometers? Bearing about two-thirty, "
Silence answered. They were coming up on the end of the ocean, she
realized remotely. The astrogation console showed a large landmass ahead,
linked to a second continent by a narrow hook of land. 

"Find me a storm system," Balthasar said. "The biggest you can." 

Obediently, Silence adjusted the musonar. There were a few minor storm
cells to the south, toward the approaching aircraft and the hook of land
that curved away toward the planet's southeast, but nothing big enough to
hide the ship. She turned the horn toward the north, sweeping across the
bulging coastline. There were clouds just at the ocean's edge, and those
clouds thickened inland into a swirling storm that trailed a long curve of
disturbed air back toward the sea. "There," she said aloud, and touched
keys to display the image on Balthasar's screen. 

"Good enough," Balthasar said, "but will we get there first?" 

Silence touched more keys, calculating relative speeds. "Yes! If we can
hold this speed," she amended quickly, and cleared Balthasar's screen of
everything except the medium-range musonar display. 

"We'll hold it," Chase Mago said, and somehow the Delian smiled. 

"I knew you could," he murmured, and swung the ship planetary north onto
her new course. 

Silence held her breath as the seconds ticked by. She could see
Balthasar's plan clearly enough. Within the disturbed air of the storms,
Recusante's keelsong would be less noticeable, might even, if the storm
were strong enough, be drowned out altogether in the general clamor of the
roiling air. They were moving steadily toward the cloaking clouds, but the
aircraft were moving equally steadily toward a point of interception just
north of the storm's first major cell. 

"Come on," Balthasar muttered. "Come on. Julie, can't you give me anything
more?" 

The engineer did not answer, but a moment later the intercept numbers
flickered and changed, the point of interception moving deeper into the
storm. Balthasar grinned. 

"I knew you'd have something in reserve," he said. His voice sharpened
instantly. "Silence, how're the aircraft doing?" 

The pilot was already watching the musonar intently. So far, there was no
movement, no change on the numbers, but she let another minute tick by
before she answered. "No change." 

"Then we know their top speed," Balthasar said. "By God, we might just
make it." 

Silence watched as Recusante crept slowly over the landmass, moving up the
coast toward the storm's trailing edges. The aircraft followed inexorably,
gaining seemingly by centimeters. They would be in missile range in less
than five minutes, the pilot realized, and felt the same cold fear in the
pit of her stomach. They were back in daylight now, had been since they
crossed the coastline; as the first clouds swallowed them, the light
dimmed visibly, went chill and milky. Balthasar pushed the ship lower
still, evoking more protest from the already stressed keel. Silence
winced, but knew better than to protest. The ship rocked beneath her as
the first winds hit her, and Balthasar controlled it with an effort. 

The musonar display faded further, and Silence fiddled with the controls
until she found a setting that seemed to override some of the storm's
music. "The aircraft will be in missile range in three minutes," she
announced, and glanced at the cannon-status display. The lights showed
green again, and she gave a sigh of relief. At least that much was going
well. 

The first aircraft fired before it was actually in range; the others fired
a few moments later. "Missiles fired," she reported, glancing quickly at
Balthasar. The Delian was very pale, sweat standing out on his forehead,
but his hands still moved across his keyboard with sure grace. Recusante
rolled sideways into her ponderous evasive maneuvers, and Silence held her
breath, waiting for the cannons' blast to rock the ship. Marcinik held his
fire for a long moment, so long that Silence wanted to scream at him,
order him to fire. Then, seemingly in the last second, he fired rapidly,
once again laying down a pattern of bursting shells between the ship and
the approaching missiles. Three vanished at once from the screen. The
fourth came on, but it was wobbling, its tracking devices clearly
disrupted. It exploded well above and to the left of Recusante, the blast
rocking the ship, but doing no other damage. The musonar image dimmed
further as Balthasar flew them deeper into the storm, the blips that were
the pursuing aircraft flickering in and out of the rising wash of color. 

"I've lost the aircraft," Silence said, and reached forward to adjust the
musonar again. Nothing happened, and she allowed herself to relax a
little. 

"Let's hope they've lost us," Balthasar said. "What about the star-ships
overhead?" 

Silence checked the musonar again. The storm distorted the view above the
ship as well, but the music of the warships' keels was strong enough to
cut through that dissonance. The bronze dots flickered through the clouds
of bluish static, still blocking any escape to the safety of space. "Still
there," she said at last. 

"How's the contact?" Balthasar said, and grimaced as a gust of wind hit
the ship, sending it lurching across the sky. 

"Intermittent, at best," Silence answered. 

Balthasar grunted. "Let's hope their sighting isn't any better." 

Silence nodded. The starships would have to look down into the worst of
the storm -- and they would be looking for a ship whose keel-song was far
quieter than their own. With any luck, she thought, they won't be able to
find us at all. 

"Aircraft?" the Delian continued. 

"I've lost them," Silence answered. 

"So they should've lost us," Balthasar murmured, then said, more loudly,
"Keep alert, Marcinik, just in case." 

"I'm watching closely," the colonel answered. 

Balthasar took a deep breath, and Silence saw his shoulders move slightly,
relaxing. 

"Now what?" she said aloud, and the Delian grimaced. 

"I don't know," he said, almost too softly for her to hear. "We can't make
space, not with that lot watching for us, but I don't want to set down --"

"Denis." Chase Mago's voice was flat calm, but there was a note in it that
sent Silence's heart into her mouth. "Denis, we've got real trouble. The
keel's losing tuning. That last missile must've been the last straw --" 

"How bad is it?" Balthasar interrupted. 

"We've got an hour's flying time," Chase Mago answered. "Then you'll have
to put her down." 

"Shit!" After that first explosive response, Balthasar's voice went calm
again. "All right. We've got an hour. Silence, what do maps and musonar
say?" 

Silence stared at the twin consoles, trying to control her own panic. A
southerly course was out; that would only bring them back into the paths
of the pursuing aircraft. The storm stretched northeast, curving up across
the continent. Most of the land beyond its eastern edges was heavily
populated -- if they could rely on anything the supercargo said, she
thought, bitterly. Some of her information had obviously been unreliable
-- if the whole thing, the woman's plea for asylum and her offer of
information, hadn't just been an elaborate trap. It was too late now to
worry about that, she told herself, and put the thought aside. They had no
other choice now; they would have to rely on the only maps they had. 

If Recusante followed the concealing storm northward, forty minutes'
travel would bring them out of the storm a hundred kilometers or so to the
north of the heavily populated area on the continent's eastern coast. They
could set the ship down there, conceal it in the thick forest that was
supposed to dominate that area. And if the supercargo had lied, and the
area wasn't unpopulated forest, they would still have twenty minutes in
which to turn back into the storm and find another place to land. She
turned one of the secondary horns groundward, trying to pick out the
terrain details through the double distortion of untuned keel and the
storm itself. The land below seemed very flat, unpopulated, but without
any topographical features that would help hide the downed ship. 

"Fly local northeast along the storm track," she said at last. "When we
reach the edge of the storm, we should be within a few minutes of a very
large woodland. We can set the ship down there, and hide it until we
figure out what to do." 

Balthasar nodded. "Sounds good to me." 

For the next half hour, Balthasar nursed the crippled ship northward
through the storm, easing it lower, and lower still, until it was
wallowing through the atmosphere at an altitude no higher than that of an
ordinary flyer. Chase Mago babied the keel, making constant minute
adjustments to the harmonium in hopes of easing the strain on the tuning,
but even Silence, no engineer, could hear how badly the ship was laboring.
She focused her attention on the musonar, sweeping the clouds behind and
above them for further aircraft. The warships remained in orbit, but there
was no sign of pursuit from atmospheric craft, and she began to hope that
the warships had lost sight of them as well. 

Then Recusants broke out of the storm's cover. It lurched sharply, the
keel no longer fighting the storm as well as the pull of Earth's core, and
Chase Mago adjusted the harmonium, swearing. The ship steadied, but it was
clear from the grating keelsong that it would not last much longer. 

"Well, Silence?" Balthasar demanded. 

Silence adjusted the musonar for what she hoped was the final time,
sweeping the horn in a slow arc across the bow of the ship. To the south,
confused harmonies flared: the populated area the supercargo had spoken
of. Beyond that lay another ocean. But directly ahead, long fingers of
woodland stretching toward them as if in welcome, lay the promised forest.
Silence sighed deeply, and heard the relief in her own voice as she said,
"The forest is coming up. You can let us down in two minutes, Denis." 

Balthasar smiled again, fingers moving delicately on his keys. Recusante
staggered forward, dropping lower still, keelsong fading in and out of
true. Now the forest was visible in the cameras' images, rolling land
covered in trees whose leaves were so dark a green as to be almost black. 

"Do you see a clearing?" Balthasar panted. 

Silence shook her head. "Not yet." 

"There has to be one," Balthasar muttered. "There has to be...." He
brought the ship lower still, until the tortured keel was almost skimming
the treetops. Silence watched the branches thrashing beneath her, a
detached part of her mind admiring the Delian's skill. 

And then, quite suddenly, the keelsong died. Balthasar cursed, pulling
Recusante's nose up sharply, but the starship had never been designed to
glide in atmosphere. It fell like a stone, crashing into and through the
trees, keel skidding along branches and dirt with a noise like a cry of
pain. Silence swore as she was thrown against her safety netting, swore
again as Recusante ground to a halt at last, the bow nosing gently up onto
some unseen object. She reached shakily for the camera controls, but the
bow cameras had been ripped away. At her side, Balthasar managed a rather
hysterical laugh. 

"Welcome to Earth," he said. 

Chapter 5 

SILENCE LAUGHED WITH HIM, BUT BROUGHT HERSELF under control before she
gave way to the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Instead, she
reached across for the intercom controls, hoping that the system was still
intact, and said, "Julie? Are you all right?" 

Balthasar interrupted her. "Everybody, check in. Status please." 

"I'm all right," Chase Mago said, breathlessly, and with grim emphasis,
"but I don't know about the keel." 

Marcinik answered next, panic tinging his voice. "Nothing serious here,
just cuts, but Aili doesn't answer." 

"Hang on, colonel," Balthasar said, "it may just be systems failure. "
Without waiting for Marcinik's answer, he cut the connection, and touched
the button that connected him directly with the Princess Royal's cabin.
"Your Serenity? Check in, please." 

There was no answer, and Silence loosened the safety webbing, wincing at
the bruises it had left. The crew positions were well protected against a
crash, as of course they had to be, but the cabins were less well
shielded. Unless both Aili and the magus had strapped themselves into
their bunks at the first sign of trouble, there was a good chance that
they had been badly hurt. There wasn't time to warn them, Silence thought,
trying to suppress the sudden feeling of guilt; there just wasn't time.
Damn, this was why I didn't want Aili along in the first place.... 

The intercom clicked then, and Aili's voice said, weakly, "Captain
Balthasar? I'm -- all right, I think. Oh, my head!" 

"Marcinik -- ?" Balthasar began, and the colonel cut in quickly. 

"I'm on my way. I'll take care of her. "	« 

Balthasar nodded, not bothering to reply. "Silence? Better check on the
magus." 

Silence paused, her hands already on the ladder leading to the main deck,
suddenly aware that Balthasar hadn't moved from his position in front of
the first pilot's consoles. "And you? Are you hurt?" 

Balthasar managed a wry smile. "No more than you are. But it's daylight
out there, Silence, and I bet we left one hell of a trail. Someone needs
to monitor the musonar, just in case we have visitors." 

Silence hesitated at the top of the ladder, torn between conflicting
needs. Balthasar was right. Recusante's crash would have torn a huge gash
in the virgin woodland, a raw clearing that would be only too visible from
the air. She could create an illusion to cover that gap -- but Isambard
and probably the Princess Royal as well needed her help. 

As if he'd read her thoughts, Balthasar said, "Musonar doesn't show
anything yet. I think maybe we lost them in the storm." He nodded
encouragingly. "See if you can help Marcinik first." 

Silence nodded back and slid down the ladder, wincing as she discovered
still more bruised muscles. Of course Marcinik would know rudimentary
medicine -- he was an officer of the Thousand, after all -- and, with
luck, that would be all they'd need. 

The door to Aili's cabin was already open, and Silence could hear voices
talking softly inside. She gave a sigh of relief -- at least the Princess
Royal was alive, and not too badly hurt -- and tapped gently on the
doorframe, glancing quickly inside. "Is there anything I can do?" 

Marcinik was sitting on the bunk at Aili's side, supporting her with one
hand while the other pressed a bloody cloth to the Princess Royal's temple
just above her left ear. "It's all right," the colonel said quickly, and
Aili managed a weak smile. "It looks worse than it is. But the magus?" 

"I don't know," Silence said, and pushed herself away from the door.
Isambard's cabin was at the far end of the corridor, opposite the
engineer's. Its door was still tightly closed, and she felt a stab of fear
as she reached for the latchplate. Before she could punch out the master
combination, however, the door swung open under her hand. Isambard stood
there, leaning heavily against the frame. His lined face was very pale,
and his wide-open eyes were strangely unfocused. Frightened again, Silence
caught at his shoulders and staggered as the magus fell toward her. He was
surprisingly light, even for an old man. She held his weight, glancing
over her shoulder toward the lights of the engine room. 

"Julie? Marcinik?" 

"No." Isambard's voice was little better than a whisper. "Earth -- I must
see...." 

"We've landed," Silence said. "There's plenty of time --" 

"I must see it," Isambard said again, and pushed feebly at her hands,
trying to shove her away. She blocked him awkwardly, not wanting to hurt
him further, and the magus stood still, breathing heavily. A measure of
awareness seemed to come into his eyes, and he said, "We did not land at
the port, I think. A crash?" 

Silence nodded, wishing one of the others would appear to help. "They knew
who we were, attacked us. We lost them, but the tuning went and we had to
land." To her relief, Chase Mago's massive figure loomed behind the glare
of the warning lights ringing the engine room hatch, and she loosed her
hold on the magus long enough to beckon to him. "Julie? I need you." 

Chase Mago stepped over the coaming and came to join her, one hand still
pressed to his bloody nose. Silence eyed him anxiously as he approached,
but could see no other sign of damage. 

"Let me see, Isambard," the engineer said gently, but the magus waved him
off. 

"There are things -- I must cast --" He broke off with a gasp of pain, one
hand going to his forehead. For the first time, Silence saw the ugly cuts
running across the back of his hand. 

"Get Marcinik," she said softly, to Chase Mago. The engineer nodded and
ducked away, leaving her supporting the old man's weight. "Isambard, tell
me what has to be done. I can do it for you." 

The magus looked up at her, struggling to focus his eyes and thoughts. "We
crashed," he managed, after a moment, "did we not? I remember --" He broke
off, frowning. "No matter. There will be traces. I must hide them --" 

Silence interrupted him firmly, trying to project more confidence than she
felt. "Tell me what schema to use, and I'll do it. I'd already thought of
it, truth." 

Isambard nodded, slowly. "The Maids' Breath would be easiest," he said,
his voice fading again to a whisper. "Silence, let me go. I must see
Earth!" 

"In a few hours, maybe," Marcinik said firmly. At his nod, Silence stepped
back, letting him slip his arm around the magus's shoulders, easing him
back into the cabin. 

"No!" Isambard cried, pushing the colonel away. "I want to see, before I
die --" 

Silence glanced at Marcinik, and saw her own sudden panic reflected in his
eyes. "Marcinik, he isn't --" she began, and the colonel shrugged roughly.

"How can I know, if he won't let me look at him?" Marcinik took a deep
breath, obviously fighting for calm. "All right, Isambard," he said, after
a moment. "You win. I'll take you to the main hatch, but let me look at
you there, all right?" 

The magus sagged slightly in the colonel's grip, but then pulled himself
upright again. "Very well," he said. "Very well." 

"I have to go," Silence said hastily. "I'll send Julie to help. " Marcinik
nodded, his attention fully occupied with the task of easing the magus
toward the hatch. Silence turned and ran back up the corridor toward the
ship's main hatch, almost colliding with the engineer as he emerged from
the common room, wiping his face with a damp towel. 

"Julie, Marcinik needs you to help with Isambard," the pilot gasped, but
Chase Mago caught her arm. Silence winced as his fingers touched a bruise,
and the engineer hastily eased his hold, murmuring an apology. 

"Denis -- is he all right?" 

Silence nodded. "He says so. He's watching the musonar, I've got to see
what I can do about our trail." 

Chase Mago nodded. "Go on, then, and good luck." 

Silence turned away before he'd finished, hurrying toward the hatch. There
was no need to go through the elaborate routine of test and counter-test.
This was Earth, humankind's first world: despite the number of generations
that had passed since her ancestors left the planet, she had still been
bred to breathe this atmosphere, to walk under this sun. She fumbled with
the controls, swearing as the handwheel that controlled the hatch itself
refused to turn. Surely, oh, surely the mechanism wasn't damaged in the
crash, she thought, and in the same instant felt the stubborn wheel give
way. The hatch swung outward, and there was a flurry of air as the
pressures equalized themselves. Silence stood frozen, staring out at
Earth. 

Recusante had landed lucky, she thought, when she could think at all. The
ship had come down in the valley between two steep hills, where rocks
sprouted from the ground between the tangle of trees, and had slid to a
stop just as the land began to rise steeply again. A few hundred meters
farther on, and the ship would probably have hit the hillside nose-first,
killing them all. Silence shuddered, and reached for the crank that
extended the rampway. She turned it stiffly, hoping the mechanism would
work. After a couple of turns, the gears caught, and the ramp began to
extend itself, clanking, toward the ground below. The tip touched the dirt
at last, but Silence gave the handle a few more turns, jamming the ramp
hard into the soil, before trusting herself to it. It sagged a little
under her weight, but held. After a moment's thought, she reached for the
charged heylin that Balthasar insisted on hanging just inside the hatch,
and started down the ramp. 

The air smelled strange, sweet and cool with an odd, almost tangy
undertone. She stood for a moment, fascinated, but unable to work out
where she had smelled that scent before. Then, with an effort, she shook
herself back to reality. There was work to be done, she told herself
sternly. Jamming the heylin into her belt, she began to walk back along
the length of the ship, heading toward the stern. 

She did not have to go far before finding the first evidences of damage.
Halfway back from the ramp, she was forced to climb over a broken tree,
its splintered wood poking out from under the dulled keel. The broken
parts were very white, and covered with a strange, sticky liquid. The
tangy scent was much stronger here, and she sniffed curiously at her
hands: it was the tree sap that gave the air its peculiar smell. 

There were more broken trees astern of the ship, some snapped completely,
others -- farther away, the ones Recusante had struck first in the
headlong descent -- with huge branches snapped and dangling. It was all as
conspicuous as they had feared, and Silence shook her head, wondering what
to do. An illusion is what's needed, she thought, but an illusion needs a
model, and I don't have any idea what all these things looked like
before.... She glanced to either side, up the valley's sides. The trees
there seemed to be of the same species, tall, rough-barked, trunks rising
for meters before branching out into clusters of branches. The leaves were
very dark green, like long spines. I could use them as a model, she
thought, chewing on her underlip, but whatever I do, I'd better do it
soon. Damn, what was it Isambard said? She frowned, and then remembered.
The Maids' Breath, he'd said, that would be the easiest.... 

He was right, too, she thought, and for the first time since landing, her
mouth curved into a real smile. The technique known as the Maids' Breath
wasn't really an illusion; rather, it was a way of seeing the proper state
of a thing. Usually, the magi used it to read palimpsests, or to decipher
manuscripts too faded to be legible, but it would serve to give her a
guide. She took a deep breath and turned slowly, scanning the valley. She
let herself absorb the quiet of the place, the sunlight, the brilliant
blue of the sky above her, unbroken now by clouds, the smell of the trees
and the faint sighing of wind through their uppermost branches. Only then
did she murmur the First Cantation, the words bending reality around her,
ready to receive the imprint of a new Form. She spoke the schema of the
Maids' Breath; the words were no sooner spoken than they lost audibility
and rolled off into the supermaterial, seeking what had been. Shadows
moved and shifted first, the valley dimming as though trees once again
shaded it, and then ghostly images appeared. The hanging branches wavered,
then seemed to swing back up into place; an entire tree rose from where it
lay shattered by Recusante's passage. Silence studied the images for a
long moment, then spoke a final Word. The images steadied, solidified into
something approaching reality. Ghost-trees filled the valley, rising from
their broken remains. Silence turned back toward the ship, and saw a
shadowy trunk apparently thrusting through Recusante's spine. Another was
half-swallowed by the hull near the bow, and a third sprang up from a
point just astern of the far wing. 

Shaking her head, she made her way back toward the ramp, suddenly
exhausted. Isambard was sitting at the top of the ramp, bandaged hands
folded in his lap. Marcinik crouched beside him. Silence tensed, afraid
again, but Marcinik saw her and shook his head, smiling. She smiled back
but kept a wary eye on the magus. 

"How are you?" she asked, as she started up the ramp. 

Isambard waved the question aside. "Well done, your illusion. I am
pleased." 

"Thank you," Silence said, startled, and wondered for an instant if the
crash had affected the old man's brain. Praise for anything she did was
rare. 

"He's just shaken up," Marcinik said. 

Before she could answer, Balthasar's voice rose indignantly from inside
the hatch. "There's a fucking tree in here!" 

Silence began to laugh helplessly, and called back, "It's an illusion,
Denis, don't worry." 

A moment later, Balthasar appeared in the hatch, Chase Mago looming behind
him. The engineer's hand was at his mouth as if to hide a smile. 

"You got us covered, then?" the Delian asked. 

Silence nodded. "The question is, will it hold up under a real scanning?" 

Balthasar nodded back, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth.
The lower lip was swelling and bloody -- probably he'd bitten it in the
landing, Silence thought, and suppressed the desire to laugh again. "How
is everyone, anyway?" the Delian went on. "Where's her Serenity?" 

"I'm here." 

Aili still sounded rather shaken, Silence thought, and then the other
star-travellers edged aside to let the younger woman past. The Princess
Royal had resumed her Bethlemite turban and veil, but it was pushed askew
by the lump of bandages that covered the left side of her head, revealing
one dark eye and a narrow expanse of cheek and forehead. 

Marcinik said, frowning, "I thought you were going to rest." 

"I'm much better," Aili answered, and lowered herself carefully to the
ramp at the colonel's side. "I need to know what's going on," she said, in
a softer voice, and Marcinik nodded. 

Balthasar said, "So we're all here. What about this illusion, then? Will
it hold?" 

Silence spread her hands, glancing at Isambard, but before either magus
could answer, Chase Mago said slowly, "I've been thinking about that,
Denis. We got some damn strange readings coming in-system -- those
chemical-fuel ships, the aircraft. I'm wondering if they've got anything
that'll see through it." 

Isambard said, "Properly created, an illusion will be tangible and
effective to musonar and other sensors. This one is properly created." 

"Thanks," Silence said again, and saw Balthasar grin. 

"But what if they're using some other system?" Chase Mago persisted. "The
readings were just too weird to ignore." He shook his head, still
frowning. "It was almost like they were using mechanics." 

"They couldn't be," Balthasar said. "It wouldn't make sense." 

"If for some obscure reason the Earth-natives are using mechanics, "
Isambard said, "the illusion should be sufficient. After all, it produces
a facsimile of reality, correct in outward similitudes. But they will not
be using the Mechanical Arts. Not on Earth." 

There was nothing anyone could say to that pronouncement, though Chase
Mago still looked troubled. Watching the engineer's unhappy face, Silence
couldn't help wondering if he were right after all. The chemical-fuel
ships were mechanical in nature, after all; the musonar had treated the
aircraft as though they were bare metal, without the treated keels that
lifted most ships away from a planet's core -- in other words, as though
they, too, were mechanical. But there her imagination stuck, unable to
conceive of a world that chose to use machines instead of the creations of
the Art. Maybe there were restrictions of some kind that made machines
more practical for some things -- such as the crowding on Delos, which
made mechanical systems an absolute necessity. 

"How does the ship look, Julie?" she said aloud. 

Chase Mago shrugged, his expression bleak. "Not good at all, I'm afraid.
But I want to take a close look before I do anything." He glanced at
Balthasar. "I'd better get started." 

"Yeah," Balthasar said. "Do you need a hand?" 

The engineer shook his head. "Not really." 

"It's the keel?" Silence asked. 

"Yes." Chase Mago sighed. "We lost tuning completely. I have to see how
deep it goes." 

Silence shivered despite the warmth of the sunlight on her back. It was
almost unheard of for a keel fully to lose its tuning. The sort of stress
that could so disrupt the tinctured metal usually destroyed or at least
damaged the rest of the ship beyond repair. The resonances were set at the
molecular level, worked deep into the structure of the tinctured metal
itself; while the surface might shift slightly -- would shift slightly
under even the best conditions -- that shifting never affected the true
tuning at the heart of the keel itself. Or almost never, she thought, and
glanced warily at the keel. Most of it was buried in the soft earth,
little waves of dirt and scattered rock thrown back along its length, but
the visible portions looked sickly, without the usual oily sheen. She
shivered again, and looked away. 

"Let us know if we can help," Balthasar said. Chase Mago nodded, and
started down the ramp. 

"What I would like to know," Aili said, breaking the sudden quiet, "is
where we are." Marcinik nodded in thoughtful agreement. 

Balthasar sighed, and gave the empty sky a final wary glance. "I guess
you're right. Let me get the tapes, and I'll meet you all in the commons."

"Right," Silence answered. She started up the ramp to assist Isambard, but
Marcinik was already helping the magus to his feet. She paused at the top
of the ramp to offer her hand to Aili, glancing back over her shoulder at
the forest as she did so. For an instant, as the breeze freshened and
swirled around them, Silence thought she smelled burning, but the scent
was gone before she could be sure. She scanned the sky above the
tree-tops, but saw no rising plume of smoke, and turned away, shrugging to
herself. 

"This is very bad, isn't it?" Aili said, as they moved toward the common
room. 

Silence hesitated, torn between the desire to reassure and the need to
confide in someone. "It isn't good," she said at last. "At the very least,
we're untuned, and that usually means a dockyard job. If it isn't too bad,
Julie might be able to rig something off the harmonium, force-tune it here
-- but if it goes very deep, we'll have to take it into a dock. And if the
keel itself is damaged -- if it cracked, or one of those rocks took a
chunk out of it, say -- we'll need a new keel before we can lift." 

"And at that point," Aili said, "we might as well get a new ship." The
crooked veil still hid most of her expression, but Silence could hear the
uneasiness in her voice. "But a keel is very strong." 

"Yes," Silence said. "It's tinctured metal; it should take a lot of abuse.
That's really the worst-case scenario." 

Aili nodded, but said nothing more. 

The shadow of a tree trunk thrust through the corridor just outside the
common room. Silence stopped with an exclamation of dismay, then put out
her hand to test the illusion. Her fingers moved easily into and out of
the grey bark, and she nerved herself to step quickly through. As she
passed through the image, she heard a faint sighing, a breath of
dissonance, but it vanished before she could fix its origin for certain. A
little dissonance was only to be expected, she told herself, and beckoned
for Aili to follow. After all, an illusion wasn't meant to be walked
through. 

The others were already in the common room, Isambard seated at his usual
place at the main table, Marcinik busy at the kitchen console. Aili moved
hastily to join him, but the colonel waved her away. 

"Sit, please," he said. "You're the injured one." 

After a moment's hesitation, Aili did as she was told, sighing softly in
spite of herself. 

"How is your head?" Silence asked, and crossed the room to collect tea for
all of them. 

"It hurts," Aili said, and the pilot thought she heard a ghost of a smile
in the other woman's voice. "But I'll be all right." 

At that moment, Balthasar appeared in the doorway, a sheaf of
rough-printed papers tucked under one arm. "I'm not fond of wildlife on
the ship, Silence," he said, with a grin. 

The pilot glared back at him, suddenly too tired to respond in kind.
Balthasar took his place at the table, spreading the papers out in front
of him. "I set the musonar to warn us if anything comes near the ship -- a
full-volume warning, fifty kilometers' diameter." He accepted the mug of
tea Marcinik handed him, but winced as the hot plastic touched his swollen
lip, and set it aside. "I also ran a quick scan. It doesn't look like
we're in a settled area at all -- no sign of open land, much less human
habitation, at least not on my preliminary look -- which I guess is good
news." 

Silence grinned at the Delian's rather dubious tone. Balthasar had been
born and raised on Delos, where every centimeter of available land had
become part of the city that covered most of the planet's surface. He was
not fond of wilderness. She picked up her cup of tea and started, almost
spilling it, as Marcinik touched her arm. 

"Sorry," he said, and slid a small packet across the table in front of
her. "I thought you might want these." 

Silence picked the packet up curiously, recognized the mark of one of the
Hegemony's more famous pharmaceutical companies. 

"Hamma," Marcinik said. "It'll ease the soreness, and help heal wrenched
muscles." 

"Thanks," Silence said, tearing open the packet, and swallowed the
capsules gratefully. 

Balthasar accepted his own share from the colonel and bolted them with a
grimace. "This is the rough map we had," he said, spreading papers across
the table, "supplemented by observations along the first part of the
descent." His finger traced a curved line from the smaller of the two main
oceans toward a large island, then across a much larger ocean toward the
northernmost of two linked continents. "That's about what our course was.
We came down here." On the map, the northern continent's eastern coastline
swelled out into a huge horn, a smaller horn protruding beneath it.
Balthasar's finger rested on the center of the smaller horn. 

Silence nodded thoughtfully. "Most of that's forest, if I remember right,"
she said, and was pleased at how casual -- how normal -- her voice
sounded. Privately, she doubted she would ever forget the pattern of the
storm, and the forest that lay beyond its edges. 

"Yeah, that's right," Balthasar answered. "And hills. And, like I said, my
first survey didn't pick up any sign of settlement." 

"Do you have any idea where the nearest settlements are?" Marcinik asked. 

"South, I think," Balthasar said, and Silence nodded. 

"I picked them up on the musonar as we came in." . "How far?" the colonel
asked. 

Balthasar rustled his maps again until he found an enlargement of the area
where they'd landed. It didn't show much detail, and Marcinik eyed it
warily. 

"About three hundred kilometers," the Delian answered, after a moment. He
touched a point where the coastline began to curve outward again. 

Silence frowned, studying the image more closely. Something was tugging at
her memory -- something the supercargo had said, something that was in the
text she had so carefully structured.... She closed her eyes, calling up
the structures of the Grand Theater, letting the errant thought find its
own place in that pattern. "One of the big centers is on this coast," she
said, after a moment. "A place called Man's Island." 

Isambard gave a little exclamation of surprise. "Yes, that is so. A --
continental control point, the woman said." 

"I'm not at all sure we ought to trust any of the information she gave
us," Balthasar said sourly. He shook his head. "She sure suckered us in --
all of us." 

Isambard drew himself up indignantly, and Silence said, "Some of the
information is good -- we were able to check at least some of it,
remember? That's probably true." 

The older magus relaxed slowly. "I admit that I was deceived," he said,
after a moment. "I apologize, Captain Balthasar." 

The Delian's mouth fell open in shock. Silence stared hard at him, willing
him to understand just what he was being offered. The magi did not admit
to making errors, much less apologize for them -- and certainly never to
mere star-travellers. Balthasar closed his mouth abruptly, and said, with
unexpected grace, "It could've happened to anyone." 

Isambard nodded gravely, and said nothing more. No one said anything for a
long moment, all of them staring at the maps spread out on the table in
front of them. Silence barely saw the lines and spaces, thinking instead
of the little room at the center of Asterion's Winter Palace. Should I
have helped Isambard question her? she wondered. Could I have seen that it
was a trap, if he didn't? I am a star-traveller; I have that advantage....
All too clearly, she remembered the faint note of strangeness she'd sensed
in the supercargo's mind, the one time she'd been forced to enter it. That
had to have been the mark of a second, deeper geas, she thought -- and I
felt it, I knew something was there, but I didn't have the knowledge to
identify it. I could have stopped this, if only I'd realized.... She
looked up in relief as Chase Mago stepped into the room, grateful for the
distraction even of bad news. 

"What's the word?" Balthasar said, softly. 

The big engineer shrugged, exhaustion written on his bearded face. "It
could be worse," he said. "The keel's intact, at least -- we were lucky
there, the ground's very rocky." He sighed, the momentary animation fading
from his voice. "However, the first eighty-one centimeters are completely
untuned, and it's pretty random almost to the center line. That's still
true, but...." He let the words trail off in defeat. 

Silence could hear her own heart pounding, could feel a spreading chill in
the pit of her stomach. She saw her own fear reflected in the engineer's
face, in Balthasar's narrowed eyes. 

"I don't understand," Aili said, tentatively. Marcinik shook his head, but
Chase Mago roused himself to answer, and even managed a humorless smile. 

"What it means is, we have to do a full retuning before we can lift, your
Serenity, and I don't have the facilities for the operation. Sometimes you
can force-tune, using the harmonium itself to realign the resonances, but
that only works when the harmonies're just a little out of true. I need a
dockyard's equipment." 

There was another long pause, broken at last by Marcinik's quiet voice.
"Wouldn't it be easier just to -- acquire -- another ship?" 

"No," Silence said, in instinctive, indignant protest, but the others
ignored her. 

"It might be," Balthasar said, "but just how easy do you think it is to
'acquire' a starship?" 

"You acquired this one," Marcinik said. 

"Recusante was mine," Silence said, "and is mine, my ship. I don't intend
to abandon her." She paused, fighting down her anger, and tried to bolster
emotion with logic. "Besides, when we took her, back on Mersaa Maia --
well, it was a very different situation." 

"That's true," Chase Mago said unexpectedly, and Silence threw him a
grateful look. "Besides," the engineer went on, with a stubborn glance at
Isambard, "I still say we've seen too many mechanical things around for me
to feel comfortable finding a starship anywhere close at hand." 

"Could you retune, if we could get into a tuning shed?" Silence asked, and
held her breath, hoping for the answer she wanted. 

"Of course I could," Chase Mago said, and Marcinik cut in, "Forgive me,
but I can't see how you could get permission to use any field facilities."

Balthasar said, "You'd be surprised at what I can come up with, colonel. "
There was a light in his eyes that made Silence frown, remembering some of
the Delian's other plans. 

"Hold it," Chase Mago said, cutting off an acid rejoinder from Marcinik.
"Just wait. I don't need the whole shed, people; I just need a tone
generator." 

"Oh, well," Balthasar said, after a moment. "That makes it easy. " Silence
eyed him warily, unable to decide if he was being sarcastic or not. 

"Easier, anyway," Chase Mago said. He glanced at the non-star-travellers,
and said, "The tone generator's the most important thing a tuner has. It
produces really pure notes, purer than a harmonium can provide, since its
pipes are adjusted to the idiosyncrasies of the ship. It creates a sort of
Form, and you force the keel to follow it." He looked back at Balthasar,
and added, "Hell, if I could get the right components, I could build one
for myself." 

The Delian nodded slowly. "So," he said, almost cheerfully, "all we have
to do now is get a tone generator." 

Silence gave him a jaundiced look, but refused to be drawn. Chase Mago
looked at the maps in front of him, not meeting anyone's eyes. 

"And just how, Captain Balthasar, do you propose to do that?" Marcinik
said. "We're at least three hundred kilometers away from the nearest
settlement, and I doubt this ship carries an all-terrain vehicle." 

"We have a runabout, actually," Silence muttered, unable to ignore the
slur on her ship. The little three-wheeled cart was only good on paved
roads, however, and she was just as glad that no one responded. 

"There must be other settlements closer to us," Balthasar said. "After
all, we've only done a preliminary survey, and this is Earth. There'll be
roads." 

Silence sighed, unable fully to share the Delian's enthusiasm, but offered
what little support she could. "I thought I smelled smoke earlier," she
said. "That might mean someone living near here." 

"The way our luck's been running, it's more likely a forest fire, "
Marcinik murmured, but he was smiling. 

Balthasar ignored him. "Right, then," he said briskly. "Silence and I will
set up a box-scan, and then we'll go watch-and-watch -- I'll need your
help, Marcinik, and her Serenity's -- until we turn up a settlement." 

"And then?" Silence asked, rather skeptically, but it was impossible not
to be infected by the other's optimism. 

"We'll see how big it is, and then decide," Balthasar answered. "Come on."

Silence sighed, but hauled herself to her feet, and followed the Delian
back onto the lower bridge. The musonar system was intact -- they'd been
lucky there, too, Balthasar said, more soberly -- but it still took them
several hours to transfer everything to back-up power and then to set up
the search pattern. Balthasar insisted on keeping a secondary horn pointed
skyward, and Silence did not argue. Even if they had shaken off the
pursuing aircraft, there was no harm in staying alert for other searchers.
They set the search grid in motion, and then drew straws to see who'd take
the first watch. Silence, to her secret relief, drew the long straw, and
headed gratefully for her cabin. 

She stripped off her shipsuit, wincing at the bruises dotting her body,
and forced herself to take a hot shower before dropping exhausted into her
bunk. She had not thought she would be able to relax after the tension of
the pursuit and then the crash itself, but to her surprise she slept
almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. 

The persistent shrilling of the intercom woke her at last. Silence pulled
herself upright, swearing at her sore muscles, then reached across the
bunk to slap at the answer plate. She hit it on the second try, and said,
"What the hell is it?" 

Balthasar answered. "We've spotted a settlement, we think." 

"I'll be right up," Silence said. 

"In the commons," Balthasar added hastily, and the pilot cut the
connection. 

Dressing was a painful process, but by the time she'd fastened her shirt
and pulled a loose tunic over her head, Silence had to admit she was in
better shape than she had expected. She made her way to the common room,
ducking through the illusory tree trunk, feeling almost confident. 

The others were there ahead of her, clustered around the main table. A
number of sheets of rough-printed paper were spread out in front of them,
some held together with strips of tape. Balthasar looked up as she
entered, and smiled. "We're in luck again," he called. "Come and see." 

Silence came to look over the Delian's shoulder. The papers showed a rough
contour map of the area surrounding the ship, the lines spilling out from
the blank spot that was the valley. To the north and west, the forest
continued unbroken; to the northeast, several rivers and one higher
mountain showed through the cloaking woods. Due east lay water -- the edge
of the smaller ocean, Silence thought -- and more forest. 

"There," Balthasar said, and pointed. 

His finger was touching a small break in the forest, barely more than a
thin wedge of cleared ground on the slope of a steeply rising hill. There
were marks in the center of the clearing, but the symbols meant nothing to
Silence. She looked up inquiringly, and Marcinik said, "We picked up a
single large metallic structure first, something tall but narrow -- I
couldn't really tell any more closely. I think there are buildings around
it, but they're made of stone or wood, hard to pick out. The shaded square
marks the metal structure; the other marks are for the other buildings." 

"It looks like some kind of farm to me," Aili said slowly. She leaned
forward, holding her veil in place with one hand. "You see? That would be
a main building, and those the barns and a greenhouse, and then the metal
thing would be a pump, or a power vane. And before you say it," she added,
lifting her head to stare directly at Balthasar, "I would know better than
you how a farm is laid out. There are enough of them on Inarime." 

Balthasar lifted both hands in surrender. "It sounds reasonable to me." 

Silence nodded. "All right," she said, "so what do we do?" 

"That's the question," Chase Mago said. He sighed, staring at the crude
map. "How far is it?" 

"A little under twenty kilometers," Marcinik answered. "That's a full
day's hike." 

"What if we started before sunrise?" Balthasar asked, and the colonel
shook his head. 

"I wouldn't want to risk it. This may be Earth, but there is still a
certain amount of hostile wildlife to consider. Not to mention the risk of
getting lost in the dark." 

Balthasar shrugged, but nodded. 

"That's all very well," Silence said, "but what are we going to say once
we get there?" 

"Perhaps we could tell a part of the truth," Aili suggested. "We could say
we'd been stranded by an air crash." 

"That could work," Silence said, doubtfully, "but wouldn't they already
have searchers out, if that were true?" 

Balthasar shrugged again. "I say we play it by ear." 

Chase Mago cleared his throat, drawing all eyes. "Forgive me for saying
it, but I don't think her Serenity should come with us. Nor should Doctor
Isambard," he added hastily, as Silence gave him an incredulous look. 

Aili's expression was hidden by her veil, but her voice was dangerously
quiet. "And why not, sieur Chase Mago?" 

"Three reasons," the engineer answered. To give him credit, Silence
thought, he didn't flinch under the Princess Royal's stare. "First,
someone should stay with the ship. Second, both you and Isambard have been
injured; and third, because of that, you're the ones we can spare to watch
the ship." 

Marcinik's chin lifted dangerously. "And if anything happens to us, who
will protect Aili?" he demanded. "The magus isn't a star-traveller, he
couldn't take her off-planet." 

Silence intervened hastily, watching the Princess Royal. "Julie's right, "
she said, "if we just make a quick reconnaissance, and don't try to
contact anybody unless we're positive it's safe to do so." 

"I think I should stay with the ship," Marcinik murmured. 

Silence shook her head. "You're the only real soldier we have aboard. We
need you." 

After a moment, Aili sighed deeply. "You're right, damn you for it. I'll
stay -- and you'll go, Marcinik." 

There was a note in her voice that brooked no argument. The colonel bowed.
"As you wish." 

Once that decision had been made, it didn't take long to settle the rest
of the plan. At Marcinik's insistence, they left the ship just at sunrise,
each one carrying a light pack made up from the ship's survival kit and a
fully charged heylin. They carried extra charges as well, and Silence had
a smaller version of a magus's kit slung from her belt. Chase Mago,
unarguably the strongest of the four, carried the communications unit. 

For the first hour, they trudged in silence up the valley's eastern side,
steering by Marcinik's compass. The morning air was very cool under the
trees, cool enough that Silence found herself shivering a little despite
the exertion. Then, quite abruptly, they reached the top of the ridge, and
emerged into a narrow clearing. Silence slowed her steps a little, soaking
up the sunlight, and saw that the other star-travellers were doing the
same. Marcinik paused at the edge of the clearing, laughing. 

"Come on," he called, "you'll warm up soon enough." 

The colonel had spoken only the truth, Silence discovered all too soon. By
midmorning she was sweating, and stopped to slip off her overtunic,
knotting it around her waist by the sleeves. As she tugged it into place,
pulling the heylin forward a little so that the draw wasn't impeded by the
bundled fabric, she heard a shout from her right. She tensed, but in the
same instant recognized Chase Mago's voice. 

"Hey! I've found a wall!" 

Obediently, Silence made her way across the carpet of brown, dead spines
fallen from the towering trees. There was little undergrowth, for which
she was grateful, and the wall was clearly visible. It was made of piled
stone, the smallest the size of her own head, the largest that she could
see a massive boulder almost a meter across. It seemed to start from
nowhere, running off into the trees to the right of their original path.
Chase Mago was standing at its end, frowning down at it. 

"I think it turned a corner here," he said, almost to himself. 

Silence nodded. A little cascade of stone fell off from the side of the
wall, and there were more stones trailing away in odd heaps and jumbled
piles at a right angle to the part that was still standing. A field wall?
she wondered. A boundary marker? It couldn't ever have been high enough to
provide real protection.... 

Balthasar said, "It's a wall. So?" 

"So someone lived here once," Silence said impatiently, and stepped around
a pile of rock to examine the land the wall had once enclosed. It was as
overgrown as the rest of the forest, showing no signs of recent growth --
though who can tell what recent growth might look like here? Silence
thought. 

"Interesting," Marcinik said, coming up to join them. "So maybe this was
more populated once?" 

"At least there was something here," Silence said. Chase Mago dug a booted
foot into the dirt, then squinted down the length of the standing wall. 

"There might be foundations in there," he offered. 

Marcinik hesitated, then shook his head. "No. We don't have the time to
waste. Come on." 

Chase Mago grimaced, but made no other protest as the colonel led them
away from the crumbling wall. They walked almost a kilometer before he
spoke again. 

"I wonder why the site was abandoned." 

Balthasar snorted. "Would you live here if you had any other choice?" he
demanded. 

The engineer laughed, and slapped the other man lightly on the back of the
head. Silence laughed with them, but sobered quickly. Why would anyone
abandon what must have been a fairly large estate -- especially when land,
real property, was always a source of prestige and power? Or was that
always true? she wondered suddenly. Certainly it was the case in the
Hegemony and on the worlds of the Rusadir and the Fringe, but that didn't
mean it would be true on Earth. Hostile wildlife? Certainly they'd seen
nothing larger than the occasional climbing mammal, and the only predator
seemed to be some sort of large black bird -- and in any case, Silence
thought, all accounts said Earth had controlled its animal life fairly
closely. They would never have allowed dangerous animals to remain in a
populated area. Then they reached a narrow, swift-running stream, and she
put aside her musings to concentrate on the treacherous stones that
spanned it. 

They came to a second stream two kilometers farther, and Marcinik paused
on its bank, staring dubiously at the rushing water. It was bigger than
the first one, wider and deeper both, but the water flowed as quickly.
Silence eyed it uneasily, and was grateful when the colonel said, "We'll
ford it farther down." 

"It's not that deep," Balthasar objected. 

Marcinik didn't answer directly, but stooped to pick up a handful of the
tree spines that still littered the ground. Unspeaking, he tossed them
into the water. Light as they were, they didn't reach the center of the
stream, but the current still whirled them away at a frightening speed.
"And it's damn cold," Marcinik said. 

"I take the point," Balthasar said, but he was smiling. 

They had to follow the stream for almost two kilometers before it finally
slowed and widened, waters rippling over a wide stretch of sand and
pebbles. It looked like a perfect ford, but Marcinik still checked it
carefully, tossing grass and tree spines into the water, then tossing
fist-sized rocks into the sand to scare off any lurking predators, before
he nodded and sat down on the bank to unlace his knee-length boots. The
others followed his example, but hung back as the colonel waded out into
the stream. He gasped a little at the cold, and walked out to the middle
of the ford, splashing noisily, before he beckoned for the others to
follow. Silence stepped gingerly into the water, and barely stopped
herself from shrieking aloud. She had expected chill, but not this numbing
cold. It took every gram of self-control she possessed to keep walking.
Behind her, she heard Balthasar swear loudly, but did not look back. 

The far bank was in sunlight, the grass pleasantly warm. Silence rubbed
her feet dry with the hem of her tunic, but couldn't seem to force warmth
back into them. She looked up, and saw that even Marcinik seemed to be
having the same difficulty. He met her glance with a smile. 

"Break for lunch?" he suggested, and the pilot laughed. 

"You won't get any argument from me." 

The colonel didn't let them rest for long, however. As soon as they had
finished the thick bars of nutrient concentrate, Marcinik was on his feet,
boots laced and ready. "Come on," he said, and the others groaned and
followed. 

As the afternoon wore on, they passed more broken walls, and once a rusted
hunk of metal that Chase Mago admitted might once have been some sort of
engine. He could not identify it, and Silence could feel no harmful
energies lurking in it, but nevertheless they gave it a wide berth. The
pilot was glad when it was swallowed in the forest. 

The shadows had lengthened perceptibly, and the sun no longer reached to
the bottoms of the deeper valleys when Marcinik called a halt. 

"The settlement should be over the next rise," he said, unconsciously
lowering his voice. "About a kilometer." 

Silence shivered again, though the air was not cold, then unfastened the
tunic's knotted sleeves and slipped the garment over her head. The dark
green material had dried nicely, was still a little warm from the sun, and
she hugged it to herself, suddenly afraid. She could not quite bring
herself to contemplate what they might do if this turned out to be a Rose
Worlder settlement. Where there are people, there are vehicles, she told
herself firmly. We can always steal one. Then Marcinik was speaking again,
and she forced herself to listen. 

"-- heavier growth to the north," the colonel said. "We'll go through
that, stop on the ridge line, and lie up there for a while. That'll give
us a good chance to get a look at the place." 

The others nodded, Chase Mago swinging the communications unit forward to
type out a quick report for the ship, and Silence saw her own fear
reflected in their sober faces. Almost without conscious thought, she drew
her heylin, running her thumb across the touchplate. It was comfortingly
hot, the weapon fully charged. Marcinik saw the movement and smiled. 

"Let's hope we don't need them," he said, but Silence was very aware of
the fact that he had not ordered her to put it away. She kept the heylin
in her hand as she followed the others up the last ridge. 

It took them almost an hour to cover the last five hundred meters, and
Silence was made depressingly aware of her own inadequacies as a woodsman.
Despite all her efforts, she knew she had left a trail of broken
vegetation behind her. The only consolation, she thought, is that the
others aren't any better. 

And then, at last, they reached the ridge. Marcinik covered the final
meters on his hands and knees, easing himself into position behind a
screening clump of bushes. Silence watched enviously, knowing she would
never be able to do it so quietly, and heard the leaves stir faintly
behind her as Chase Mago shook his head in admiration. After a moment, the
colonel beckoned for them to join him, and Silence scrambled awkwardly up
after him, wincing at the noise she made. She dropped to her belly beside
Marcinik, screened by the same line of bushes, and a few minutes later the
others joined them. 

"Look," Marcinik whispered. 

Cautiously, Silence peered through the bushes' lowest branches. As Aili
had predicted, the place had once been a farm. The charred skeletons of
half a dozen outbuildings clustered around a central building whose stone
walls still carried black stains of smoke. For an instant, Silence felt
close to tears, sure the place had been abandoned, and then she saw the
signs of repairs, the raw yellow wood shoring up the central building, and
forming the sides and roof of the single remaining shanty. The metal
structure that had showed up on the musonar was clearly visible, and
clearly still in working order: a windmill tower stood to one side of the
crude compound, its metal-film vanes turning lazily in the light air.
Beyond the windmill lay newly plowed fields. From one of the outbuildings
came a low animal cry, a plaintive, moaning noise; a moment later, a door
opened in the side of the central building and a boy emerged, a metal
bucket swinging in one hand. 

"Feeding time?" Balthasar whispered, unable to keep quiet any longer. 

Silence shrugged, and kept her eyes on the scene below. The boy crossed to
the remaining shanty -- almost, Silence thought, you can hear him
whistling -- and vanished inside. Nothing else moved within the compound.
After some time, the boy reappeared, pulled sideways a little now by the
weight of the bucket. He returned to the central building, and shut the
door carefully behind him. 

"Do I call the ship?" Chase Mago murmured, and Marcinik shook his head. 

"Not yet. Wait until we have something to report." 

The pilot frowned, wondering what they should do. All their plans had
depended on finding transport here, but so far she had seen no signs of
any such device, and the condition of the buildings argued there'd been a
serious fire. Still, the windmill's still running, she thought, frowning
down at the settlement. Surely that argues that people are still here. 

"All right," a harsh voice said from behind her. "Stand up slowly, all of
you, and keep your hands where I can see them." 

Silence did as she was told, her heart pounding in her throat. She caught
a brief glimpse of Marcinik's face, chagrin and resignation mingling in
his expression, and then she had pushed herself to her feet, carefully
holding her hands away from her body. 

"Put it down, girl," the harsh voice said. Silence hesitated, unable to
locate the source of the voice -- somewhere in the shadowed ground to her
left, she thought -- and Marcinik said softly, "Do as she says, Silence. "

The pilot stooped slowly, still scanning the woods to either side, and
laid the heylin gently on the carpet of tree spines at her feet. 

"All right." The harsh voice was definitely coming from the trees to their
left, Silence thought, and then the branches rustled over a meter from the
spot she'd chosen and a brownclad figure edged out from among the trees.
It was a woman, an older woman, grey hair bound back with a dirty rag, who
leaned heavily on a metal crutch. One leg was roughly splinted, trouser
leg ripped almost to the waist to accommodate the bandages, but the injury
didn't seem to affect her steady grip on her lowered weapon. It looked
rather like a sonic rifle, but no resonance chamber ringed the slim barrel
just beyond the stock. Still, silence had no doubt that it was just as
deadly. 

"What the fuck do you want here?" the woman demanded. "Haven't you done
enough?" 

Silence forced herself to think calmly. The woman spoke a form of the
star-travellers' coine, heavily accented, but entirely understandable; she
should be equally able to understand her captives. 

"Whatever's happened," the pilot said carefully, "we had nothing to do
with it." The woman's expression did not change, but at least she made no
pretense of not understanding. Emboldened, Silence went on. "Our ship --
we crashed, up in the hills. Yours was the nearest settlement." 

"We're not on the maps," the woman said flatly. "And don't try to tell me
you're from around here." 

"No, we're not," Silence agreed, desperate to keep the conversation going.
"And you weren't on our maps, no, but your tower showed up on musonar. It
was the closest, so we came here." 

The woman shook her head, her grim expression unchanging. "It won't do,
girl," she said, and steadied the weapon against her body. 

"Wait!" Silence cried. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see
Marcinik shift slightly, readying himself for a hopeless attempt to seize
the woman's rifle, could sense the same subtle tension in the other two
men. "You're making a mistake; we're not involved. We're from off-world
--" She broke off abruptly as the other woman's mouth twitched downward
into a frown. 

"Off-world," the woman repeated. Silence held her breath, hoping that
somehow she'd hit upon the right words. At last, very slowly, the older
woman shook her head. 

"Goddamn mystics," she growled. "Javerry's dead, no thanks to you." 

Despite the words, she sounded less hostile than before. To Silence's
left, Balthasar slid his foot forward in the carpeting tree spines. When
the woman did not seem to notice, he eased the rest of his body forward as
well. He'd gained only a few centimeters, Silence knew, but every little
bit would help, if it came to a fight. Hardly daring to breathe, she
groped for the words that would consolidate her slim gains. "I -- We don't
know any Javerry, I'm sorry. We're strangers here ourselves, from
off-world like I said. Our ship --" She broke off abruptly, not wanting to
reveal anything more about Recusante until she had to. 

Leaves rustled sharply, this time to Silence's right, and a new voice
said, "They could be telling the truth, Mama." 

Balthasar whispered a curse, and Silence saw Marcinik's shoulders twitch.
She could feel the despair sour in her stomach, tasted fear. Two of them,
she thought crazily, there's nothing we can do if they don't believe us,
nothing we can do but die.... 

"Easy, now," the older woman said sharply, her hands tightening again on
the weapon's stock. 

"Mama," the voice said from the woods, and in the same moment, Chase Mago
said, "Sieura, please. We mean you no harm." 

"You're as bad as your damn father," the older woman snapped, without
looking at the source of the new voice. "You, what'd you call me?" 

The leaves rustled again, then parted as a man stepped out to join her. He
was blond, as his mother might once have been, with a high forehead and a
straggling beard, and very thin. His left sleeve was empty, the cuff
pinned neatly to the shoulder seam, but he held his short twin-barrelled
weapon securely in his remaining hand, bracing it against his side. 

"Shotgun," Balthasar hissed, almost in spite of himself. 

"Be quiet," Silence said, and tightened all her muscles in a vain attempt
to stop her shaking. A shotgun was -- mostly -- a Delian weapon, meant for
use against crowds, and generally restricted to that world because of its
mechanical nature. It broadcast a cloud of solid pellets that would rip
through anyone stupid enough to get in its way -- and the worst of it was
there was nothing even a magus could do to stop the random blast of metal.

"Well?" the woman said again. "You with the beard, answer me." 

Chase Mago shook his head, glancing uncertainly at Silence. She shrugged,
not daring to do more, and the engineer looked away again. "Sieura?" he
said, carefully, and the young man gave an exclamation of pleasure. 

"You see, Mama?" 

"There's proof and there's proof," the older woman said, her hands steady
on the strange rifle. "And if they really are off-worlders --" She smiled
suddenly, bitterly, showing a missing tooth. "We'll take them back, let
them prove it there." 

"Mama --" the young man began, warningly, but his mother cut him off. 

"You four, put your hands on your heads and walk real slow toward me.
There's a path through here. Get on it and follow it down to the farm. One
wrong move, and we'll blast you." 

Silence laced her shaking fingers together and rested her hands on the top
of her head, then followed Balthasar and Chase Mago down the ridge.
Despite the crutch, the older woman skipped nimbly out of their reach,
keeping her weapons levelled on them at all times. Silence glanced over
her shoulder, almost falling over a tree stump, and saw the son bringing
up the rear, shotgun steady. 

As the woman had promised, they thrashed through thick growth for a few
meters, then emerged onto a narrow path. Balthasar hesitated, his
shoulders working slightly as though he was looking for a chance to run.
Silence tensed, willing him not to do anything stupid, and the woman
growled, "Don't even think it, bright boy." 

The trail curved gently to the left as it rose over the ridge line, but
too gently to provide any sort of cover. As they came out of the woods
into the cleared land of the compound, the door of the main building burst
open and a dog rushed out, barking wildly. It stopped short, brought up by
its chain, and Silence saw the boy they had seen earlier peering warily
around the doorframe. The young man saw him too, and his voice cracked in
a shout. 

"Get back inside, Cass!" 

The boy tugged at the dog's chain, and managed to pull the reluctant
animal back inside. He slammed the door, but Silence could still hear the
barking. 

"Keep going," the older woman said. "Around the back." 

"Mama?" the son asked. "What're you --" 

"Shut up," the woman said. "You lot, keep going." 

Silence could feel her arms shaking as they rounded the corner of the
house, partly from the strain of keeping them on her head, but mostly from
fear. The same fear was sour in her stomach. Somehow, she had lost the
brief advantage she'd gained by saying they were out-worlders, and she
didn't know how or why -- or why it had gained them anything in the first
place. She heard Chase Mago gasp, and Balthasar curse softly, and looked
up. They were facing the charred ruins of one of the outbuildings, but
beyond that, just outside the line of the plowed field, was the
unmistakable mound of a new-dug grave. There were three more beside the
first, one much smaller than the others, and she bit back a whimper of
sheer terror. They could not have come so far just to die here.... She
pushed away the thought, and was aware that both her husbands had edged
closer, trying to put themselves between her and the natives' weapons. The
last rays of sunlight glinted from the tuning wheel on the communications
unit slung over Chase Mago's shoulder, and Silence stared at it, wishing
she could control it from a distance. There was nothing Recusante could do
for them, but Aili and the magus deserved to be warned, to know that
they'd failed.... She closed her eyes, struggling to think of something --
anything -- that might help them now, but the other woman's harsh voice
cut through her concentration. 

"Stop there." 

"Mama, what the hell are you doing?" the young man demanded again, but the
woman ignored him. 

"All my life," she said, "they've been telling me the off-worlders're
going to come for us, going to come work miracles and save us all. All
right. You say you're off-worlders, so work me my miracle. Give me back
what I've lost. Give me back my Javerry, and Ardis, and the babies. I've
lost too damn much waiting for you not to get something back." 

The sudden fury in her voice snapped something deep in Silence. The
levelled weapons seemed to vanish from her perceptions; instead, she saw,
with stark clarity, the way the harmonies of Earth's core rose into and
through the land around her, vibrating in the air to all sides. She
lowered her hands, reaching out with them and with her new-trained powers
to grasp that dark music, twisting it to match a new and unexpected Form.
Wind howled, rising from still air, and she heard her own voice shouting
in it. 

"I don't have any miracles, woman, and I can't raise the dead, but I have
power!" Flames sprang from her hands, and from the ground beneath her
hands, fountained up to fall back in a rain of fire that vanished the
instant before it touched the earth. Faintly, she heard a cry of fear, and
then a voice shouting her name. Chase Mago's voice, she thought, and the
recognition shocked her back to reality. Carefully, she loosed her hold on
the elemental harmonies, letting them ease back into their proper places.
The firefall dwindled to a swirl of sparks, then vanished altogether as
the wind ceased. 

"Good God almighty," the woman was saying quietly, in a voice queerly torn
between despair and awe. "My God almighty." 

Her son was very pale, the shotgun dangling forgotten in his hand. "It's
true then, Mama. It's the Empress, here, just like Pap said." 

The woman shook her head, her own weapon on the dirt at her feet, but did
not answer. 

"Empress?" Silence said. The sudden upswelling of power and emotion had
left her drained, unable quite to comprehend the emotions she felt around
her. She clung to the simple question as though to a lifeline. "What do
you mean?" 

The young man turned to face her. "It's what we've always said, like Mama
told you, that the off-worlders would come for us, teach us their secrets.
And when we came up here, Pap -- my father," he corrected himself, with
sudden formality, "cast the cards, and he said you'd come. He saw your
card, the Empress, and he told us all you'd be here before summer." 

"A bit late for him," the woman growled, but the worst of the anger was
gone. There was even a hint of exasperated pride in the glance she gave
the nearest grave. "So. You've really come." She shook herself then, and
reached for the weapon lying at her feet. Silence tensed in spite of
herself, and saw the others ready to jump, but the woman shouldered it
easily, juggling it and the crutch with practiced ease. "I'm Emma
Javerry," she said, "and you're on what's left of my farm." She jerked her
head toward the one-armed man. "My son, Quin." 

Silence hesitated, still wary, and said, "My name's Leigh, Silence Leigh.
My husbands, Denis Balthasar and Julian Chase Mago, and Colonel Yles
Marcinik, of the True Thousand." 

Quin hissed softly through his teeth, and the woman's eyes widened. 

"More proof, Mama," the young man murmured. 

Emma Javerry nodded. "Will you accept our hospitality, gentlefolk?" she
asked, with awkward formality. 

"Sieuri," Quin added, the foreign word clumsy on his tongue. 

Silence hesitated again, but could think of no good reason to distrust
them any longer. "Thank you," she said slowly. "We're -- grateful for it."

Emma Javerry gave a brusque nod, and swung herself around, leaning heavily
on her crutch. "This way," she said, and started toward the main building
without waiting for an answer. Quin made an odd, embarrassed movement,
ducking his head and shrugging slightly, and gestured for the others to
follow. Silence exchanged glances with her fellow star-travellers, seeing
her own residual wariness reflected in their faces, and saw Marcinik
shrug, his shoulders lifting only a few millimeters. The message was
clear: what have we got to lose now? Silence smiled almost in spite of
herself, and followed the older woman toward the house. 

It was unexpectedly warm inside the stone-walled building, and the light
was very dim. Silence stood, blinking, in the doorway, and Emma Javerry,
herself no more than a clumsy shadow in the darkness, said, "You can open
the shutters now, Cass." 

There was no answer except a murmur, but then there was a rattle of metal
from the distant wall, and the waning sunlight streamed in. The boy she'd
seen earlier moved on to the next window, folding back those shutters as
well. 

"Where's the dog?" Javerry asked. 

The boy paused, one hand still on the shutters' latch. "Out back. I put
him there when I saw you coming in." 

"And what have I told you about peeking out when we've told you to stay
in?" Javerry asked, but her tone was fairly mild. "All right, leave him
there for now." 

"Yes, Grandma," the boy said, dutifully enough, and moved on to the next
window. 

"Have a seat, all of you." Javerry lowered herself into the largest of the
room's battered chairs, and lifted her splinted leg onto a footstool,
grimacing a little. She set the crutch beside her on the floor, and
Silence realized she had already discarded the strange rifle. The pilot
moved toward the nearest chair, glancing around covertly as she did so,
and saw that Javerry had placed the rifle in a rack that stood just to the
left of a side door. 

"Thanks," Silence said again, and seated herself opposite the other woman.
She was shaking a little -- reaction, she thought -- and hoped no one
would see. 

"That's my grandson Cass," Javerry went on, jerking her head toward the
boy. "Quin's son." She looked up at the rest of the star-travellers, still
hanging back by the door, and scowled. "Sit down, damn you, we're not
going to eat you." 

"Sieura, I wasn't sure," Balthasar retorted, and Silence bit back a laugh,
watching the older woman's face. The scowl deepened, and then, quite
suddenly, eased into a fleeting smile. 

"And so you weren't," Javerry said. "Now sit." 

This time, the star-travellers did as they were told, arranging themselves
on the couch and one of the two remaining chairs. Quin, following them in,
set his shotgun in the rack by the far door, and crossed the room to join
them. 

"Would you be hungry?" he asked. "We can offer a meal, soup and bread and
cheese -- or just bread and cheese, if you don't eat meat." 

"Food would be good," Silence said, suddenly aware that she was very
hungry. "The soup would be fine." The other star-travellers nodded, and
she saw Quin's eyebrows lift slightly. 

"Of course, sieura," he said, and turned toward an inner door. 

"How come you can eat meat?" the boy said suddenly, ignoring his father's
admonitory frown. "Grandpa couldn't." 

Silence frowned back, genuinely puzzled. "There's no reason I know of that
I shouldn't," she said at last. "It's hard enough to deal with allergies
and the like, travelling, without adding trouble...." Her voice trailed
off as she realized she was babbling. Javerry gave her a rather skeptical
glance, but said nothing, easing her bandaged leg on the uncomfortable
footstool. 

The sunlight was fading fast now, and the boy Cass moved without being
told to light the twin lamps that stood on a sort of sideboard beside the
inner doorway through which Quin had disappeared. Silence watched idly,
but the boy's body hid the movements of his hands. Javerry said something
too low-voiced for the star-travellers to hear, and the boy brought one of
the lamps forward, setting it on the low table that stood by his
grandmother's chair. With a shock, Silence realized that the glass globe
held real fire, an ordinary flame dancing above a pool of some dark fuel.
Then Cass brought the second lamp, placing it so that they sat at the
heart of two overlapping circles of golden light. 

Javerry made a face, the expression almost hidden in the shadows. "We used
to have electricity -- still do, for the important things, now that Quin
has the mill working again -- but I don't like using it unless we have to.
I swear that's how they hunted us down." 

"Now, Mama," Quin said, appearing in the doorway with a tray balanced in
his hands. His tone suggested they'd had the argument before. 

"Why who hunted you down, sieura?" Marcinik asked. 

Javerry didn't answer at once. "Go help your daddy, Cass," she said, after
a moment. The boy made a face, but pushed himself up off the floor. 

"Get the bread, please," Quin said, and the boy vanished into the kitchen.
Quin continued into the room, setting the tray on the low table beside the
lamp, and ceremoniously handed out the steaming bowls of soup. Silence
accepted hers warily, but the aroma of the alien spices was so enticing
that she put aside her caution. She dipped her spoon into the cloudy
liquid, and tasted it. The only familiar thing was salt; the rest --
shreds of some pale, sweetish meat, chunks of multicolored vegetables, odd
flecks of spice -- was strange, but so good that she forgot Marcinik's
unanswered question, concentrating on the exotic flavors. 

"Bread, m -- sieura?" Cass asked shyly. 

Silence looked up to find the boy standing at her elbow, holding out a
basket filled with slices of thick brown bread. She took one with a smile,
and a murmur of thanks, and glanced to the side to see the other
star-travellers bent over their bowls, each wearing the same expression of
absolute absorption in the tastes and smells. Her smile widened to a grin,
and in the same moment Chase Mago looked up, meeting her gaze with a
rather rueful smile. 

"It's very good," he said. "Thank you." 

Marcinik nodded his agreement, but before he could repeat his question,
Emma Javerry said, "Now, then, off-worlders, what brings you to Earth?" 

Silence paused, and knew the others were looking at her again. Why me? she
thought, with sudden, irrational anger, but shoved away the response. She
was to answer because she was the magus, and because in the end it was she
who had gotten them into this situation. Unfortunately, none of their
plans had included telling even a part of the truth, and she was
unprepared. She chewed the rest of her bread methodically, mind racing,
and swallowed without having found a good answer. "We've come to Earth, "
she began, slowly, "because -- well, because it's here." 

"Hell, we weren't entirely sure of that," Balthasar cut in, with a
lopsided grin, and Silence threw him a grateful glance. 

"That's true, too," she said. "The thing is, the records of the Earth-road
were lost during the Millennial Wars, at least to the Fringe, and the
Hegemony and Rusadir. People have been trying to rediscover it ever since,
and --" She stopped there, not knowing quite how to explain the sequence
of events that had brought her and the others into the search for Earth.
Hell, I never wanted to look for Earth, she thought; that was my Uncle
Otto's obsession -- and do I want to tell this fierce old woman that
somebody's keeping Earth blocked off from the rest of human-settled space?
Javerry was staring at her, and Silence finished lamely, "We were able to
find an old starbook, an old method, and so we got through." 

Javerry and her son exchanged looks, and then Quin said, "Did you have any
-- difficulty -- getting through?" 

So they do know, Silence thought, and barely stopped herself from glancing
at the other star-travellers. Or at the very least they suspect -- but do
I tell them about it? She said, cautiously, "Yes, we had some
difficulties." 

Balthasar smothered a half-hysterical laugh. "You could call it that,
yeah. Difficulties!" 

Silence looked at him with some annoyance, and the Delian mouthed, tell
them. The pilot hesitated a second longer, then shrugged to herself,
saying, "The leadership of the Rose Worlds -- the worlds that used to be
called the Ring -- has built siege engines that block the Earth-road,
distort the harmonies that a pilot should follow. We got through them, but
their people attacked while we were landing, and shot us down." 

Javerry nodded, an expression of dour satisfaction on her face. "Typical
Unionists." 

Silence started. "Unionists?" 

Javerry nodded again, impatiently this time. "Them -- the government down
on Man's Island, and all the rest of them." 

Silence said nothing, not quite certain what she could say to that.
"Unionist" surely meant the pre-War Union of the Human Sphere, but she had
never heard the word spoken with such disgust before. All the accounts she
had studied on Solitude Hermae had praised the Earth-centered,
Earth-founded Union; star-travellers' legend said much the same things,
and mourned it as a lost golden age. 

"These Unionists," Marcinik said, and Silence heard the same
disorientation in his voice. "Were they the ones who attacked here,
sieura?" 

"Who else?" Javerry said bitterly. 

Quin said, "Are you telling us they're off-worlders, too?" 

"I don't know," Silence said. "Some probably are -- the Rose Worlders have
to be involved in this somehow." She looked back at Javerry. "But why did
they attack you, sieura?" 

Javerry grunted, her eyes going to her son. Quin made a face, and looked
away. "Hah," the older woman said, "so you'll let me tell it now?" She
looked back at the star-travellers, fierce eyes sweeping across them all.
"The Unionists, they don't like people living in the exurb -- they don't
even like the suburbs much, but not everyone'll fit in the mainurb no
matter how hard they try." Her face changed then, softened and saddened.
"I remember, when I was a girl, when they closed the texurb. I saw it on
the newsband, bringing out the last people on the jethoppers. They none of
them had anything more than what they could grab up when the hoppers
landed, because they didn't believe -- nobody really believed -- the
government would do it." 

Silence frowned, not quite understanding, and Javerry elaborated, "That
the government'd make them move. They wanted to clear out all the people,
bring them into the mainurb so they could use the land for fanning, or so
they said. I think they just don't like anybody living outside the urban
net -- and I say that's why they came down on us, because we're outside
the net and happy out of it." She turned to her son with one of her
fleeting smiles. "Quin disagrees." 

The younger man shrugged, embarrassed. "Well, I do," he said. "The texurb
was a special case, and you know it. There were a lot of smallholders
there, and they were organized, most of them, and they'd been trouble for
generations. It was entirely different." He stopped, seeing the other's
blank looks, and flushed slightly. "But that's beside the point. What I
think is, it was because of my father and his experiments. He was working
on a lot of things -- and getting somewhere with it, too. Look how he
predicted the Empress, and here she is." 

The last was for his mother, Silence realized belatedly. Clearly Emma
Javerry hadn't shared either her husband's or her son's interest in the
experiments, whatever those experiments were. From Quin's words -- and I
must ask him to explain just what it was his father did, Silence thought,
"casting the cards" -- it sounded as though his father had been involved
in the Art. Then Quin was speaking again, and the pilot hastily dragged
her attention back to him. 

"Pap knew a lot of people in the mainurbs, and all over the world," Quin
said. "And he kept in pretty close touch with them, so it wouldn't've been
hard to find out both what he was doing and that things were beginning to
work. They wanted to stop him; that's why they attacked us." 

"Just what was he doing that the Unionists felt they had to stop him?"
Marcinik asked slowly. 

Quin gave him a blank look. "He was trying to get off-world power, like
she has." He nodded toward Silence. "Magic." 

Silence realized her mouth had fallen open in shock, and closed it
hastily, trying to think of an answer to that. Before she could say
anything, however, Balthasar said indignantly, "It's not magic, it's the
Art, the magi's Art." 

"If you say so," Quin said, doubtfully. Javerry gave a snort of laughter,
but said nothing. 

"If you don't use the Art," Silence said, "what do you use?" Seeing their
uncomprehending expressions, she added, "For -- for farming, or heavy
labor -- for things human beings can't do." 

Javerry and her son stared at the younger woman -- looking, Silence
thought irritably, as though I've lost my mind. When neither of his elders
answered, Cass piped up, "Machines, of course. We use machines." 

Machines. Silence let the word roll through her mind. Mechanics. An entire
world that used machines. She shook her head, unable quite to comprehend
it. Delos, of all the worlds she'd ever visited, had used mechanics more
than most, but even there the individual units were banned from the ports,
kept small and isolated and carefully shielded. But an entire world -- and
Earth, of all worlds -- 

"Aren't they restricted?" That was Chase Mago, the bowl of soup forgotten
in his hands. 

"No," Quin said slowly. "Why should they be?" 

"They must be," Balthasar said. "You can't lift a starship when there are
machines around the port --" 

"There aren't any starports," Javerry said. "Or are there?" 

"There are," Silence said grimly. "There are." She looked at her husbands
and then at Marcinik, her mind racing. "We know there are at least two,
Ladysprings and S'haar, because we were going to land there. And we know
that their rules restrict star-travellers to port and Pale -- I think we
can believe that much of what the woman told us." She turned to Javerry.
"Who farms all that land that was taken from those people -- the texurb?" 

"Robots," Javerry said. "AFMs -- automatic farm machines." 

Silence nodded, looking back at the other star-travellers. "So we know two
more things. They use machines for everything, for things we'd never dream
of, and they don't know much about the Art. If they did," she added,
forestalling a question from Marcinik, "his father wouldn't've been
wasting his time on predictions, he'd've been working on something useful,
like harmonics -- or symbology and manipulation." Too late, she saw Quin's
stricken expression, and winced. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean.... " She shook
her head helplessly. "Prediction is a wild-card talent, not really a part
of the Art. It can't be taught, and it can't be refined much beyond the
basic stages. It sounds as though your father had the talent, all right --
I'm here, and you say he did foretell it -- but it's ultimately a dead
end." 

"Very much so, for him," Javerry said, dryly. 

"I'm sorry," Silence said again, and the older woman shrugged. 

"It doesn't matter. Go on with what you were saying; I'm interested." 

Silence grimaced, trying to recover her train of thought. "So it looks to
me as though the Rose Worlders are trying to keep you from finding out
about the Art," she said at last, knowing how flat the conclusion sounded.

No one said anything for a long moment. Glancing to her left, Silence
could see the other star-travellers struggling to absorb the idea and all
its implications. To her surprise, however, it was Cass who spoke first. 

"But of course they are. They pretend to laugh at it, but every time
anyone gets serious, the Unionists crack down." 

Javerry cleared her throat. "Be that as it may," she said, "our guests
look like they're about ready to drop. I assume you'll be staying the
night, gentlefolk?" 

"Sieuri," Quin murmured, and was ignored. 

"Thank you, sieura," Marcinik said, "you're most kind. We'd planned to
sleep out, but --" He smiled. "We would not say no to a roof and a bed. " 

"It'll be air mattresses in the storeroom," Javerry warned, but she didn't
seem displeased with his compliments. "But you will be warm -- and dry, if
it comes on to rain. See to it, Quin, will you?" 

"Of course, Mama." The blond man pushed himself up out of his chair, and
motioned to his son. "Cass, why don't you take people's plates, if they're
done with them." 

Silence handed her bowl to the boy, suddenly aware of just how tired she
was. Much of it was reaction, she knew, first to being spotted and then to
the use of her powers, and finally to the Javerrys' description of life on
Earth, but it was nonetheless real. She leaned back in her chair, trying
to decide just what they should do next. They had been lucky so far, she
knew, finding a household that was sympathetic to them, but it didn't look
as though the Javerrys would be able to provide much more than sympathy
and, possibly, information. Nor, if what she guessed were true, would any
other Earth natives, trapped as they were within their mechanical society;
the tools of the Art would have to come from the Rose Worlders. 

Chase Mago cleared his throat suddenly. "I better check in," he said to
Marcinik, and the colonel nodded. 

Emma Javerry stiffened. "There's more of you?" 

The engineer hesitated, but answered honestly. "Yes." 

"We said our ship was wrecked," Marcinik said. "There're still some people
aboard." 

"How many?" Javerry demanded. 

"Two more," Marcinik answered promptly. Silence winced, but then realized
it was a cheap concession: the Javerrys would still have to find the ship.
"Another magus, Silence's teacher, and her Serenity the Princess Royal
Aili Kibbe, eldest daughter -- eldest child -- of his most serene majesty
the Hegemon of Asterion and its allied worlds." The titles rolled
sonorously from his tongue, and Silence saw his head lift proudly. "And
also my wife." 

Javerry's eyebrows rose, her mouth twitching into a sardonic smile, and
Chase Mago cut in hastily, "With your permission, sieura?" He gestured to
the communications unit slung at his belt. 

"Sure," Javerry answered. "If you need to be private, you can step out
into the yard. The dog's inside." 

"It's not privacy I'm worried about," the engineer said frankly, "it's
your machines." He gave Silence a questioning glance, and the pilot
shrugged. 

"I don't know. I've never dealt with this many machines before." 

Balthasar said, "It'd probably be better outside." 

Chase Mago nodded, and rose ponderously to his feet. "If you'll excuse me,
sieura?" he said again. 

"Of course," Javerry answered. "You'll excuse my not getting up. Get the
door, Cass, would you?" 

The boy scrambled to obey, staring up at the big engineer with something
approaching awe. Recognizing the reaction, Silence smiled. She had felt
much the same way about Chase Mago when she'd first met him. 

The engineer returned quickly. Almost too quickly, Silence thought, and
sat up, frowning. 

"Problems, Julie?" Balthasar asked. 

The engineer shook his head. "Nothing to speak of; a little distortion. I
got through, told them we were all right, and signed off." He looked at
Javerry. "I didn't want to take any chance of someone getting a fix on my
signal." 

"Thank you for that," Javerry retorted. She lifted her voice to a shout.
"How're you doing in there, Quin?" 

"Just finished, Mama." A moment later, Quin appeared at the inner door,
saying shyly, "If you'd come with me, sieuri?" 

Silence pulled herself to her feet, surprised again at how exhausted she
was, and Balthasar caught her arm, steadying her. Together, they followed
Quin through the door into the huge, well-scrubbed kitchen, and out into
the storeroom. Quin had done his best to make it comfortable, pushing
aside the crates and barrels to clear a fairly large stretch of floor, and
there was a pile of dust in one corner where he'd left his broom. He had
brought in another of the ordinary-fire lamps as well, and it stood with
an earthenware pitcher on an upturned metal crate. The four air mattresses
lay in a neat row in the middle of the cleared space, and Quin shrugged a
little uncomfortably. 

"I thought you'd want to make your own arrangements." 

"This is fine, thank you," Silence said. 

"I brought some extra blankets," Quin went on, gesturing to a pile of dark
cloth that lay on top of the nearest barrel. "They're not much to look at,
but they are clean. The bathroom's back through the kitchen; the first
door on your right takes you into the hall, and then it's the last door on
the left. Is there anything else I can get you?" 

Silence shook her head, and the others murmured vague answers. 

"Then I'll say good night," Quin said, and backed away, closing the door
firmly behind him. 

"Well," Balthasar said, after a moment. He crossed the room on tiptoe and
turned the door handle cautiously. It moved easily. He nodded to himself,
and pushed the door gently open. "So we're not locked in," he said, and
closed the door as quietly as he'd opened it. 

"No," Marcinik said, and there was something in his voice that made
Silence look up quickly. The colonel was standing by the storeroom's
single window, staring out into the darkened yard. "But the dog's loose
out there." 

"They probably turn it loose every night," Chase Mago said, and seated
himself, sighing, on the nearest mattress. It creaked, but held his
weight. 

Marcinik nodded reluctantly, and settled himself on the end mattress,
tugging off his heavy boots. "Probably," he said. 

"What do you think, Silence?" Balthasar asked. 

"About what?" the pilot returned, yawning, and bent to unlace her own
boots. 

"Can we trust these people?" The Delian stretched, then began methodically
loosening the clasps of his shirt. Silence watched idly, too tired to take
any particular interest, but Marcinik politely turned his back. 

"I'd trust them," Chase Mago said. "Look what's happened to them already."

"That's what worries me," Marcinik said. 

Balthasar grinned. "Silence?" he said again. 

The pilot sighed. "I don't know," she said at last. "I think -- I feel
that they can be trusted, but I haven't got any reasons for it, just a
feeling." 

"Your feelings, sieura doctor," Marcinik began, and bit off the rest of
the sentence. He finished in a slightly stifled voice." -- should be good
enough for anyone." 

Chapter 6 

SILENCE WOKE TO THE SOUND OF RAIN, FAMILIAR EVEN on this alien world, and
a strange, damp smell. She sat up in her cocoon of blankets, nose
wrinkling. It was not exactly unpleasant, she decided, but it was very
strange. 

"I think it's the vegetation," Balthasar said, rather doubtfully, and
reached for the shirt Silence had discarded the night before. The pilot
took it from him, shrugging it over her shoulders just as the Delian said,
"And now what?" 

Silence scowled, and concentrated on the shirt's clasps. Why ask me? she
thought, but before she could think of a better answer, Marcinik said from
the doorway, "I suggest we bring her Serenity and the magus here, and
discuss it with them." He closed the door gently behind him, and leaned
against it, a ragged towel dangling from one hand. 

"Discuss what with who?" Chase Mago sat up, his mattress groaning, and
rubbed at his eyes and beard. 

"What we're going to do," Balthasar said. 

Silence glanced quickly at him, but the Delian didn't seem inclined to
continue. "Aili should be here," she said, "and so should Isambard." She
lifted her hand as Balthasar frowned, cutting off his automatic retort.
"Look, we're going to have to stay here a while, if the Javerrys will have
us, don't you see? They know Earth, which we don't, and we're going to
need their help if we're going to get off-world again. And we're going to
need everybody's knowledge -- especially Isambard's, but Aili's, too -- if
we're going to come up with a plan that stands even half a chance of
working." 

"You're right," Chase Mago said, yawning. Balthasar nodded, and made no
further protest. 

"Then I'll bring them," Marcinik said. "Assuming Sieura Javerry permits." 

To Silence's surprise, Emma Javerry raised no serious objection to the
idea of bringing the other off-worlders to her farm, suggesting only that
they wait until the rain stopped. The star-travellers agreed to that
readily enough, and Silence set herself the task of persuading Quin to
tell her about his father's researches. It was not particularly difficult
work -- Quin was proud of his father's discoveries -- but Silence found
the whole experience unexpectedly depressing. The senior Javerry had been,
from Quin's description, at least potentially a fairly skillful
practitioner, but without a coherent paradigm to shape his work, he had
drifted away from his earlier, successful symbolic experiments into
attempts at prediction. He had been better at those than most, as he had
the wild-card talent for it, but Silence found it even more frustrating
that the father had just resumed his symbolic work a month before the
attack that killed him. That tends to support Quin's theory that the farm
was attacked because of the elder Javerry's work, Silence thought, but I'd
better not take sides in that argument. Instead, she questioned Quin
further about his father's predictions, and particularly the empress he'd
seen. 

Quin shrugged uncomfortably, searching for the right words. He was afraid
of offending her, Silence realized, afraid of offending both because of
the images his father had seen and because of the rituals involved. 

"Pap -- he set up the circle, and the table," Quin began, and darted a
quick glance, appeal and apology combined, toward the pilot. 

Silence nodded, strictly controlling her automatic reaction. That would be
the neo-Apollonarian ritual, long ago rejected in the human-settled
worlds, mentioned in the magi's curriculum only as an example 

-- the example -- of a deceitful symbolic connection. In actuality, of
course, the connections were there -- the symbols did not, could not, lie 

-- but led nowhere real. The ritual would enhance whatever native talent
that practitioner had for prediction, would even enhance the
practitioner's sensitivity to the subliminal clues visible in even the
most skeptical querant's posture and movements, but, unlike the most other
operations of the Art, it could go no further. "The ritual of Apollonius,"
she said. "I know it." 

Quin nodded. "Well, he set it up, at the right time and in the right
conjunctions, following all the preparations, and at just the right moment
-- I was timing it, I know that part was done absolutely correctly -- he
cut the cards and the Empress came up. Pap put away the rest of the cards
then, and set the Empress in the place he'd made ready, and waited."
Quin's voice faltered. "I suppose he was meditating. Anyway, it seemed
like forever, and then he said, 'The empress is coming. ' He said that
again, and then he said, 'She will have the twelve-star crown, and she
will be the one of three. But she's coming, Quin she'll be here. '" Quin
stopped abruptly, as though embarrassed, and shrugged again. "That was
what happened, Silence -- what he saw, anyway." 

The pilot nodded slowly. "He had the talent for the Art," she said, and
closed her mouth firmly over the rest of the thought. Quin did not need to
be told again that his father had wasted his skills, that his life's work
-- the work for which he had died -- was a blind alley. 

"We looked some of it up afterward," Quin said. There was an odd note in
his voice, almost defiant, and Silence gave him a questioning glance. The
young man looked away, blushing hotly. 

"Well, I did, anyway," he muttered. 

"You have a hieroglyphica?" the pilot asked. 

Quin shook his head. "No, but you can find the meanings of things in other
books." 

If you work hard enough at it, Silence thought dryly. She said, "So what
did you find out?" 

"Not a whole lot," Quin admitted. He looked away again, embarrassed. "The
Empress -- the card, that is -- is supposed to be an Earth-mother symbol.
You're not quite what I'd expected." 

Silence laughed, but smothered the response as Quin blushed even more
hotly than before. "That's one of the meanings, yes, but not the only
one." In spite of herself, her voice took on the precision drilled into
her on Solitude Hermae. "On a higher level, it simply means creativity,
creativity specifically of the mundane world -- the magus as operator
within the mundane universe. The twelve-star crown means control of those
forces -- the twelve stars are the twelve operations of the Great
Transformation. The association of the number three -- among its other
meanings, the number of synthesis and the basis of harmony -- with the
symbol of the empress is fairly obvious." 

"I thought that meant there would be three of you," Quin said, rather
dryly. 

Silence flushed. It was annoying at her age, to be caught showing off. ...
She controlled herself instantly, and said, "There's that, too, though the
Empress is the third card, and the number/symbol link's always been there.
It could be either." 

The rain had stopped by noon of the third day, but Marcinik waited until
the next morning to return to Recusante. Quin offered the use of the
farm's drag-cat, and the colonel accepted, taking Balthasar with him to
manage the machine. Even with its assistance, however, they did not return
to the farm until late in the afternoon of the next day. Silence, watching
from the doorway of the farmhouse, saw Javerry's eyes narrow at the sight
of Aili's Bethlemite disguise, and braced herself to meet the
Earth-woman's disapproval. To her surprise, however, Javerry's tone was
merely thoughtful. 

"Now I wonder, did that fashion come from off-world?" 

"Fashion?" Silence said. 

Javerry nodded. "Started when I was a girl, among the rich folks, the real
Unionists. Girls -- and some of the boys, for that matter -- wearing veils
or little masks, or just brushing their hair half over their faces. Still
popular in the mainurbs, Quin tells me, for fancy dress." She looked
directly at Silence. "Did this come from off-world, too?" 

"I don't know," Silence said. Javerry frowned, and the younger woman added
hastily, "In the Hegemony -- that's one of the associations of worlds --
the laws say a woman has to keep her face covered in public, and it's
become common practice all over human-settled space. But I don't know if
it ever was a Rose Worlder practice, and it's the Rose Worlders who're in
charge here." 

Javerry grunted. "And you say she's a princess?" 

"Yes." 

The older woman shook her head, apparently disconcerted by the baldness of
the answer. Silence bit her tongue to keep from saying anything more. Let
Aili deal with this, she thought; let her win Javerry over. The Princess
Royal was more than capable of that. 

"And the old man," Javerry continued. "You say he's a wizard, like you?" 

"He's my teacher," Silence said. She made herself add, "He's far more
experienced than I am." 

Javerry nodded, half to herself. "We'll see," she said. "We'll see." 

Silence hid her smile as Aili swung herself easily out of the drag-cat's
short bed, barely touching Marcinik's steadying hand. Her eyes flickered
above the veil as she favored Javerry with a single, searching glance.
From that instant, she treated Javerry precisely as she would treat a
noble landholder, without arrogance, but with due awareness of her own
worth. It was the right approach, Silence thought: Javerry was not the
woman to admire a pretense of weakness. 

In the end, they spent almost two weeks at the Javerrys' farm, and most of
that time was spent picking the Javerrys' brains for information about the
urban net to the south. Quin, it appeared, had contacts -- friends -- in
the nearest suburb, and through them was able to obtain local maps and a
copy of the regulations-book for the mainurb farther to the south. He was
also able to barter for Earth-style clothes, including a loose coat large
enough for Chase Mago. Silence protested, afraid the younger Javerry would
put himself in danger, but Quin shook his head. 

"Everyone knows there're a few people living in the exurb," he said, "but
nobody, except maybe the real highest-ups, cares a whole lot. I mean, the
people down in Diesmon know me -- know I live outside, though I've made
damn sure they don't know where. And they don't really care, as long as I
don't try to persuade anyone to join me. They figure the suburb'll catch
up with me sooner or later." A shadow seemed to pass over his face then.
"That was why we figured we weren't in any danger, when Pap started his
work. But those were the real Unionists, not the local authority." 

He shook the memory away, and Silence hastily changed the subject, turning
her attention instead to the maps and regulations-book he had brought.
Over the next few days, she and the other star-travellers studied these
closely, questioning the Javerrys, and particularly Quin, about everything
they could think of, until they had built up a picture of the conditions
inside the urban net. As they worked, it became clear that neither Aili
nor Isambard could pass for Earth natives -- it was impossible to meet the
legal requirement of the veil, or for Isambard to hide his knowledge of
the Art -- and it was decided that they would remain with the ship.
Marcinik, with some reluctance, agreed to stay with them. 

Once that decision had been made, Silence turned her attention back to the
books, and spent several days reducing all the accumulated information to
a pattern that would fit into the framework of the Grand Memory Theater.
Despite all her work, however, she knew there were entirely too many gaps
in their knowledge. She knew, too, that they were gaps she could not fill
from the Javerrys' farm. 

She said as much that evening, when she and the other star-travellers had
gathered around the low table in the farmhouse's central room. Balthasar
nodded in thoughtful agreement, both hands wrapped around a mug of the
herbal tea Javerry brewed nightly. 

"I think it's amazing how much you've gathered -- and how efficiently
you've ordered it," Quin said, with just a hint of reproach in his tone. 

"Hah." Javerry spoke from the kitchen doorway, her hands wrapped in a
tattered towel. Isambard had examined her injured leg, and despite her
protests, had performed a simple operation to speed its healing. She was
able to walk without her crutch now, though she still limped a little,
favoring the mending leg. "At least she has the sense to recognize her
limitations." She came in to join them, seating herself in her favorite
chair beneath the suspended lantern. 

Aili said softly, "Silence is right, of course." 

Chase Mago looked up sharply, glancing from the Princess Royal to Silence.
"Surely you don't mean for us to go into the mainurb now. ..." His voice
trailed off as Silence nodded. 

"The longer we delay, the more chance there is that the ship will be
traced, despite all the wards we set on it. We can't learn much more here,
and I'm afraid we'll put the Javerrys in danger. I think we ought to go
now, or at least very soon, within the next few days." She glanced around
the circle, and saw Marcinik nod thoughtfully. Balthasar smiled at her,
but said nothing. 

"I see your point," Chase Mago said, "and I admit it's a good one. But the
nearest star port we know of is on the next landmass. I don't know if this
mainurb/suburb mess will have what I need to repair the ship -- and even
if it does, how're we going to get hold of it?" 

Silence sighed, wishing the engineer would not make things so difficult.
"Man's Island's a major government center. From everything Quin's told us,
there's a sort of Pale around it, and a black market in curiosities." 

"My father used to buy things there," Quin put in. 

"Exactly." Silence glanced again around the circle of faces, softened and
made strange by the golden light from the lamps. She had grown comfortable
on the Javerry farm, she realized; it would be painful to leave it. Or
perhaps it was less the farm itself than the settled routine of its daily
life, so different in its specifics from the routine of star travel, but
oddly familiar in its ordered complexity. She shook the thought away and
said, "I think we can deal with a black market. We should be able to get
what you need, Julie." 

The big engineer shrugged, unconvinced. Balthasar said, "Come on, Julie,
it's no different from the Wrath." 

"It's very different," Chase Mago snapped. "There're too damn many
machines." He glanced to his left then, toward Javerry. "I beg your
pardon, sieura. Your serenity." 

Javerry laughed softly. Aili said, as if he hadn't spoken, "I think it has
to be now." 

Chase Mago sighed, and looked at Silence. "All right." He still did not
sound convinced, but the pilot knew she could ignore his doubts for the
moment. "This Pale -- the black market you mentioned, Quin. It's around
Man's Island itself?" 

The younger Javerry nodded, reaching for the largest of the maps lying on
the low table. "The island itself is here," he said, pointing. "It's
off-limits, as you can see. It's the areas on the shore, here, where they
say you can buy -- things." 

"Man's Island's a long way south of here," Balthasar said. "How do we get
there?" 

"There's a high-speed transit line that runs from Diesmon all the way into
the mainurb," Quin offered, but the Delian shook his head. 

"Transit lines mean tickets, and that means money. Probably ID, too, and
we don't have either." 

Isambard stirred then. "Identification is not a problem," he said. "If
Sieura Javerry will allow me to view her papers, you and I, Silence, can
copy them easily enough." 

Balthasar nodded, but said, "Money?" 

Javerry said, "I have money, credit and such. You're welcome to it. "
Silence glanced at her, startled, and the older woman said, "This was what
Javerry wanted; he said you'd be here. It's the least I can do." 

"Thank you," Silence said, after a moment. "We -- this is very generous of
you. We're truly grateful." 

Isambard cleared his throat, frowning slightly. "Indeed, sieura, the offer
is most generous, but we need not presume so far. We -- Silence and I --
should be able to create as much cash as we need, if you will only provide
us with a sample." 

"Cash?" Javerry said, and laughed. 

The older magus's frown deepened, and Quin said hastily, "Most people are
tied into the net's credit lines. But, Mama, you haven't used those
numbers in years." 

"They're still good," Javerry said. 

"Still, we don't want to put you in any danger," Silence cut in,
forestalling any further comment from Isambard. "I think it'd be better if
we used cash, even if it does look a little odd." The other
star-travellers nodded, and Javerry shrugged. 

"Whatever you want, then. There are bills in the kitchen -- you can fetch
them, Cass -- that you can copy." 

"Thank you," Silence said again. If the truth were to be told, she was
just as glad not to have to try to deal with the complex workings of the
urban net's financial systems. Quin had tried to explain them to her, and
to the other star-travellers, but the idea of a system in which no tokens
of value ever changed hands was completely alien to all of them. "May we
see your papers, too?" 

"I'll get them," Quin said, and vanished into the farm's back rooms. 

Silence leaned back in her chair, suddenly afraid. Once the copying was
done -- and that was a simple, almost mechanical task -- they would have
to go south, into the immense city Quin had described, a city full of
machines, and hostile to her Art.... She pulled away from that line of
thought, angry at herself for letting her fears run away with her. They
would manage somehow -- after all, this could not be that different from
Delos itself. And, in any case, they had no choice. 

Silence spent most of the next three days closeted in the remaining
outbuilding with the older magus, producing first the raw copies of the
papers and bills that the Javerrys provided, and then making the minute
changes, cosmetic and structural, that made them usable. Balthasar watched
nervously, unable to stay away. 

"They must have ways to check for created money," he said, for the fifth
time. 

Silence put aside the bills she had been working on, and turned to face
him, framing a blistering retort. Before she could speak, however,
Isambard said, "Captain Balthasar, such means are certainly available in
the rest of human-settled space, and were we dealing with Rose Worlders
alone I would not risk it. However, to detect such counterfeits requires
the Art, and the Art is clearly not much known on this world. Does this
resolve your difficulties?" 

It was the first time the magus had ever spoken with such annoyance, and
Silence hid her smile. Balthasar made a face, but nodded. 

"Then have the kindness to go away and let us work." Isambard turned back
to his improvised equipment without waiting for an answer. 

Balthasar frowned, and Silence said, "Do it, Denis." 

"All right." The Delian turned on his heel and stalked away, but paused in
the doorway. "Sorry," he muttered, and was gone. 

Silence smiled to herself, unaccountably cheered, and turned back to her
own work. There wasn't very much to be done, she realized suddenly, just a
few more serial numbers to be changed, and then they would be ready to
leave. She looked up, and Isambard said, "Yes. When you've finished, you
might want to begin packing." 

There wasn't that much to pack, Silence thought that evening, staring at
the single satchel that held her and her husbands' belongings. She had
left her starbooks with the ship, for fear their off-world information
would betray her; without them, even with the Earth-style clothes Quin had
provided, the satchel was barely full. She shook herself, unable to shrug
off her sudden depression, and crawled into bed between her husbands. 

The next morning dawned clear and cool. Silence picked at the breakfast
Javerry had prepared for them, and seized the first chance she could find
to make her escape. I don't think it's true that you get used to being
afraid, she thought, as she made her way toward the outbuilding where
Isambard slept. At least I haven't -- and I didn't notice Denis or Julie
eating too heartily, either. The thought was perversely encouraging, and
she felt a little more confident as she tapped on the window. 

"Come in," Isambard called. 

Silence reached for the latch, and felt the lock that held it fade under
her hand. She turned the handle as though she had noticed nothing, and
stepped into the musty room. Isambard was standing behind the table that
had served as his workbench over the past few days, staring thoughtfully
at the few pieces of improvised equipment that remained. An old-fashioned
carryall of woven plastic lay at his feet, and there were several odd,
paper-wrapped packets on the table as well. 

"Good morning, Silence," the magus said, without looking up. "The papers
and the money are here, a package for each of you, and such materials as I
can spare have been packed for your use. I think that is all." 

"Thanks," Silence said, and reached for the packet that bore her own name.
She broke it open, even though she knew what it contained, and checked the
papers before tucking the leather ID folder into one pocket and the
money-wallet into another. She picked up the other packets, and shouldered
the carryall as well. "What about the rest of this?" 

"I thought it could be left for the young sieur Javerry," Isambard
answered. "He seemed interested in pursuing his father's researches." 

"I just hope he's more careful than his father was," Silence muttered. 

"He has had an object lesson," Isambard said dryly, and motioned for her
to precede him into the farmyard. 

The drag-cat sat idly in front of the house, Quin leaning against the
steering tackle. Balthasar was already sprawled in its bed. He lifted a
hand in greeting as the magi approached, then reached down to help Silence
aboard. "Julie's getting our stuff," he said, "and Sieura Javerry's packed
us a travelling-lunch." 

"Picnic," Quin corrected, rather diffidently. 

"Picnic," Balthasar repeated, shrugging. "So we're off." 

We certainly are, Silence thought, and handed him his papers. In the same
moment, the door of the house opened and Chase Mago appeared, the
clothes-satchel balanced on his shoulder. Marcinik and Aili followed, the
Princess Royal fidgeting with the draperies that concealed her face.
Balthasar lifted an eyebrow, and Silence kicked him, not gently. It was
hard enough for Aili to stay behind -- especially when her presence was
keeping Marcinik out of the action -- without Balthasar making comments. 

"Keep your mouth shut, Denis, do you hear me?" she whispered. 

Balthasar sighed. Silence glared at him, and the Delian shrugged. "I
hear," he said. For once, Silence thought, I think he means it. She nodded
at him, and took the satchel Chase Mago passed to her, shoving it out of
the way against the side walls. 

"Is everything set?" Quin asked, from the driver's perch. 

Silence nodded, unwilling to delay any longer. "I think so. Yes, we're
ready." 

"Wait a minute." The farmhouse door had opened again. Javerry herself
stood beside the drag-cat, a covered basket in one hand. Cass hovered at
her side, his expression at once excited and afraid. "You'll want your
lunch," the older woman said. Without waiting for an answer, she hoisted
the basket into the drag-cat. Balthasar took it from her, sliding it
toward the other carryalls at the front of the car. 

"Good luck," Aili said, and Marcinik echoed her. 

Isambard gave his student a long, appraising glance. "Be careful, Silence.
Use the Art as I have taught you." 

The pilot nodded, wishing they would start. 

"So." Javerry's harsh voice was deliberately cheerful. "Be off with you,
Quin, or you won't get to the station in time." 

"We'll get there," Quin said. "Don't worry so much, Mama." He slipped the
drag-cat into gear, drowning out any answer Javerry might have made.
Silence grabbed for the nearest handhold as the machine lurched into
motion, tracks digging into the loose ground. They were off at last. 

The path that the drag-cat followed through the woods was very rough, the
ground still muddy from the rains, but the machine's tracks handled it
without too much difficulty. After perhaps an hour's travelling, the path
-- it was little more than twin ruts cutting through the worst of the
underbrush, Silence thought -- joined a wider track, and Quin swung the
drag-cat onto it. More vehicles obviously used this road: the ground was
flattened in less regular patterns, the mud showing the tracks of several
different types of machine, and something heavy had been dragged down the
very center of the trail, cutting a shallow ditch now almost filled with
stagnant water. Quin was careful to keep the drag-cat out of that
depression, choosing instead to let the machine wallow over the rocks that
studded the rest of the trail. 

The jolting made that part of the trip seem interminable, but it was
actually only two hours by Chase Mago's chronometer before they reached
the point at which the trail joined a semi-paved road. Silence gave a sigh
of relief as the drag-cat hauled itself up onto the cracked surface, and
and saw her emotion reflected in the other's faces. Quin glanced over his
shoulder, grinning. 

"Not too bad, eh? All downhill from here." 

He meant that literally as well as figuratively, Silence realized after a
moment. The new road twisted and turned, the drag-cat veering from side to
side to avoid the worst of the breaks in the paving, but it was indeed
sloping always gently downward. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the
maps she had studied back on Recusante. If they were going downhill, she
decided at last, they must be moving south and east, toward the flat land
of the coast, and toward the mainurb that covered it. 

"How much farther?" Balthasar asked, after a while. 

"About another ten kilometers," Quin answered, without turning. "Then we
hit the station road -- it rings the Diesmon suburb -- and take it on in
to the terminus." 

Balthasar nodded, and settled back into the bed of the drag-cat, closing
his eyes, seemingly oblivious to the jolting. Silence eyed him enviously,
then, sighing, resigned herself to the discomfort. This was the easy part
of the trip, after all; things would be different at the Diesmon Terminus.
Quin had promised that they wouldn't be conspicuous there, that enough
squatters moved in and out of the exurb for their presence to attract
little notice, but the pilot could not feel as confident about it as the
younger Javerry apparently did. Still, she told herself, he knew this
world, and she did not. They would have to trust him. 

The battered road got better as they approached the larger station road,
and the junction itself had actually been repaired so recently that the
black patches had barely begun to crumble. There was even a stamped metal
sign to mark the junction, but it displayed only a single, south-pointing
arrow, despite the fact that the station road ran north as well. Silence
frowned, curious, but Balthasar spoke first. 

"What's up that way?" 

"Squatters' town." Quin spoke brusquely, wrestling the drag-cat onto the
new surface. After a moment, as the cat steadied, he spoke again, his
voice calmer. "It isn't really a town yet, just a collection of houses and
a lady who runs a sort of store, but they'll probably attach it in the
next census. They might even run a spur out there, if there's enough
people." 

"What do they consider to be enough people?" Silence asked. 

Quin shrugged. "Anything over a dozen adults." 

Chase Mago whistled, but Silence nodded. "It makes sense," she said, as
much to herself as to the engineer. "If the point is to keep control of
people, what better way to do it than to tie them into the rest of the
mainurb?" Still, it was interesting that the Rose Worlders found it worth
their while to control as few as a dozen people. 

The station road was in much better shape than the other tracks they had
been using, but just as empty. They did not encounter any other vehicles
until they were almost within sight of the station itself, and then it was
only another drag-cat, this one driven by a scrawny adolescent. Its bed
was full of oddly shaped bundles, piled around a central crate. Quin
nodded a greeting as the two machines edged past each other, calling, "Did
you get the parts, Mattie?" 

"Just came yesterday," the other driver -- it was a girl, Silence
realized, with some surprise -- called back, and let her drag-cat grind to
a stop. "Going in town?" 

Quin geared down his own machine until it was moving at a snail's pace.
"That's right. Said I'd give these folks a ride, too." He nodded over his
shoulder toward the star-travellers crouching in the back of the cat. 

Silence held her breath, but the girl nodded, and gave them a friendly
smile. 

"Settling?" she asked. 

Silence felt the words catch in her throat, almost strangling her. Chase
Mago returned the girl's smile. "We think, maybe," he said, with a
passable imitation of the local accent. 

The girl nodded again, her interest apparently satisfied. She adjusted her
gear lever, setting her drag-cat in motion. "Good luck to you, then," she
called, over the sudden noise of the engine, and let the machine make its
way down the road. 

Silence realized she had been holding her breath, and let it out with a
gasp. Quin smiled. "You see?" he said. "I told you no one would think
about it." 

Balthasar grunted. "Let's just hope the station folk are as easygoing." 

The station itself was a bizarre sight, a long, low building made of the
metal-and-poured-stone that Silence always associated with pre-War
construction. This one, however, was obviously new and spotlessly kept,
doubly weird against the massive trees that rose above its polished roof.
Even when the drag-cat swung onto the narrow approach road, and she could
see the ramshackle buildings -- mostly wood frame, occasionally stacked
stone, never the stuff of which the station was made -- that were the
Diesmon suburb, the station retained its incongruity. 

Quin turned the drag-cat into a barren square of packed earth, let it
grind its way to the edge, and cut the engine. Silence, stretching,
levered herself out of the cat's bed and turned to take her carryall from
the engineer. A moment later the others had joined her, and then Quin
straightened from under the nose of the cat, wiping his hand on his
trousers. 

"All set," he said, in answer to their questioning glances. "The fluid has
to be checked occasionally, that's all. Are you ready?" 

Silence took a deep breath, but nodded. "We're ready." 

"I'll wish you luck now, then." Quin led them back over the packed dirt,
then across the narrow approach road and up a short row of steps into the
terminus itself. Inside, the building was cool, and very damp, as though
years of rain had seeped into the poured-stone walls and never been
released. Silence shivered, hugging her thin jacket against herself.
Overhead, polished metal arches denned the distant ceiling; a flickering
notice board hung from the intersection of the arches, constantly changing
menus displaying the departure and arrival schedules, and the ways in
which the Diesmon line joined the wider network. The pilot paused beneath
that board, staring up at the palm-sized letters, even though they had
chosen their time before they left the Javerry's farm. At least the Earth
natives used a simplified form of the usual coine, she thought, watching
the familiar letters dissolve and reform. The Rose Worlders didn't take
that away from them.... No, she realized suddenly, it works the other way.
Earth used this language first, invented these symbols to encode it. We're
the ones who changed it, not them. The thought was dizzying, as though
she'd suddenly looked down from a very great height. She was glad when
Balthasar caught her arm. 

"At least the trans is on time," he said, a little too loudly, his eyes
fixed on a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. 

Silence froze, then turned as nonchalantly as she could to face whatever
it was that had frightened the Delian. A pair of men in the
saffron-colored jackets that Quin had described as Transit livery were
watching them from beside a massive, box-shaped machine. Lights flashed
across its dull surface and from its various offices; a sign above its
central panel read Tickets/Inbound. "We'd better get the tickets, then, "
she said aloud, through stiff lips. 

Balthasar nodded, unspeaking. 

"Don't worry," Quin said, and, unbelievably, smiled. Without further ado,
he set off toward the Transport men, lifting his hand in greeting. The
smaller of the two waved back, and came to meet him, though their
conversation was too quiet for the star-travellers to hear more than the
pitch of the voices. After a moment, the Transport man nodded, gesturing
toward a distant door. Quin thanked him, and walked on; the Transport man
walked with him, still talking idly. The second Transport man took a few
steps away from the box-like machine, watching them. 

Silence took a deep breath. Quin had done his best for them; now it was
their turn to act. "Let's go," she said again, and forced her stiff body
into motion. The others followed at her back. 

The walk across the station's plastic-tiled floor seemed interminable --
Silence was remotely amazed at how long it seemed to take her to cover the
dozen meters -- but at last they'd reached the machine. The Transport man
was less than two meters away, to her left. Carefully, she did not look at
him, fixing her eyes on the banks of controls that covered the machine's
face. For a moment, the coine lettering swam before her eyes, refusing to
focus; she took a deep breath, forcing herself to concentrate. One slot
was for the plastic cards that served for credit on Earth; another
eventually produced the tickets, but she could not seem to find the place
to insert the sheaf of bills she had ready in her pocket, or even a way of
finding out the precise fare. There was a single-pad keyboard below the
machine's display screen, but the screen itself was blank. Experimentally,
she touched what she thought should be the inquiry key, but nothing
happened. 

"Silence," Balthasar hissed. "For God's sake, do something." 

The pilot glanced up, and saw the Transport man watching them, a light
frown on his long-jawed face. She looked away again hastily, but not
before the Transport man had seen the movement. 

"Damn it," Chase Mago said, very softly. "He's coming over here." There
was note of suppressed panic in his voice. 

Silence bit back a curse of her own, and turned to face the approaching
stranger. She knew she could not manage a convincing smile, and fought
only to keep from looking too hunted. The Transport man stopped just out
of reach -- though not out of range of Balthasar's heylin, Silence
thought. But that would betray them before they began. 

"Can I help you folks?" The Transport man's voice was perfectly neutral,
touched with the same flat accent as the Javerrys'. He glanced at the
ticket machine, and the neutrality seemed to ease a little. "Going
inbound?" 

Silence nodded, hardly daring to speak. "That's right." 

The Transport man gestured toward a sort of drawer set into one side of
the machine, just to the left of the keyboard. "You've got to pay first --
new rules." 

"Oh?" Silence fumbled with the wad of bills in her pocket, pulled out one
almost at random, and slid it blindly toward the slot. As the edge of the
bill entered the machine, something seized it, drawing it fully into the
slot. A chime sounded, and the keyboard sprang to life. Silence gave a
sigh of relief, and turned her attention to the letters forming on the
screen, trying to ignore the hovering presence of the Transport man. The
codes were listed by exchanges rather than by final destination; she
studied the system for a few moments, letting the words scroll by, until
she could guess at the overall pattern. 

"Giving up the exurb?" the Transport man asked. 

Silence hesitated, unable to answer safely while most of her mind was
focused on the unfolding system, and Balthasar said, "Yeah. We've had
about enough of it." 

"Going anywhere in particular?" There was no particular interest in the
Transport man's voice, Silence thought, but any wrong answer -- any odd
answer -- would certainly turn his idle curiosity into distrust. She
touched a set of keys, praying it would call the menu she'd intended, and
was rewarded with the codes that controlled access to the longer distance
lines. She pretended to study them for a second, listening for the
Delian's answer. 

Balthasar shrugged, the movement painfully casual. "South," he said, and
somehow managed a quick grin. "Just about anywhere'll do." 

The Transport man nodded, leaning to look over the pilot's shoulder.
Silence hesitated for an instant, and then, when it was obvious that the
man wasn't going to leave, reluctantly touched the key sequence that
called up all possible runs to Man's Island. The Transport man whistled. 

"You're brave." 

Silence managed what she hoped would be an embarrassed smile. "We may not
go there," she began, and Chase Mago cut in quickly, "We haven't entirely
decided." 

The Transport man shook his head, but before he could continue the
conversation, something on the far side of the lobby caught his eye.
"Well, good luck," he said, and strode away. 

Silence took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension drain from her
body. After a moment, she bent her head to scan the listing, looking for
the next departure. 

"It's all right," Chase Mago said, after a moment. "He's talking to Quin."

"Let's hope that's good," Balthasar growled. "Come on, Silence, let's get
the tickets." 

"Give me a minute," Silence snapped. "I'm still not sure I understand the
system -- ah, there." The screen showed the trans they wanted, leaving
Diesmon in less than a local hour, then linking onto a larger trans at the
Sayl'm suburb, which then continued along the coast, picking up other,
smaller trans until it reached its end point at Man's Island. It was a
long ride, almost twenty hours, with a lot of stops along the way -- but
at least, Silence thought, as she keyed in the code that passed the full
schedule in review across the little screen, they didn't have to worry
about making connections anywhere along the way. 

"It looks right," Chase Mago said. "How do we pay?" 

"I'm not sure," Silence began, but at that moment the display loop reached
its end, and a new message, which gave prices and instructions, was fed
onto the screen. Silence typed in the codes it listed for three round-trip
tickets, and fed the required bills into the cash slot. The screen blanked
itself, and then a thin pad of paper was extruded from the ticket slot.
She took it, handing it automatically to Chase Mago, and the slot spat a
second booklet, and then a third. 

Balthasar took his warily, flipping through the stiff pages. "You use
these to unlock the car doors, right?" 

"That's what Quin said," Silence answered. She glanced over her shoulder,
and saw the younger Javerry still deep in conversation with the Transit
men. He saw her look, and lifted his hand in careless farewell. The pilot
copied the gesture, wishing there were time for more, and turned away. To
her right, a bright orange sign proclaimed "Departures"; she turned toward
it, the other star-travellers following. 

The sign directed them to a flight of stairs leading down into a space lit
in an unnatural, blue-tinged light. Silence slowed, but made herself keep
walking, following the stairs downward into a vast, barrel-vaulted space.
Three walkways extended like fingers from the platform at the base of the
stairs, and there were dirty, ditch-like docking spaces in between the
walks. A silvery cylinder -- no, Silence realized an instant later, it was
a cylinder made of a dozen smooth segments, almost perfectly joined -- lay
beside one of the walkways. A woman was walking up and down beside it,
gently bouncing the child she carried in her arms, but there was no one
else in sight. 

"It's a tube train," Balthasar said, and there was a note almost of
indignation in his voice. 

It did look something like the trains she'd seen in Delos, Silence
thought, but there were differences. Instead of the massive, brown-stained
wheels of a normal tube-train cast from elemental earth and tuned to the
harmony of the planetary core, this train -- trans, she corrected herself,
frowning -- had dozens of tiny, silvery wheels, the metal showing none of
the peacock marking that might mean a magi had had a hand in its casting. 

"No." Chase Mago shook his head. "No, look, no drive wheels and no
resonators -- and no baffling, either. It's something else. Something
mechanical." 

The note of distrust was strong in his voice, and Silence found herself
nodding in agreement. Whatever it was that powered this machine, it was
something profoundly alien to everything she had ever learned. Her steps
slowed still further. She did not want to touch any of those shiny doors,
did not want to enter any of those bullet-like compartments.... 

Balthasar grunted then, breaking the spell. "Whatever runs it, it looks
like a tube train and it acts like a tube train." He glanced at Silence
and added, with emphasis, "Nothing more." 

Silence grimaced, annoyed at her own weakness, and reached into her pocket
for the book of tickets. Flipping back the cover, she studied the cards
for an instant, then tore loose the first one. "Which car?" 

Balthasar shrugged. Chase Mago said, "In the middle?" He paused, staring
at the train. "How do we tell which ones are occupied, anyway?" 

"A green light means full," Balthasar said, impatiently. He stalked
forward along the walkway, and jammed his ticket into the meter of the
first unoccupied car. The door popped open a few centimeters; he caught
the handle and pulled it back against its stops. At his gesture, Silence
stepped up into the car, tossing her carryall ahead of her. As soon as her
weight was fully inside the trans, a buzzer sounded, and the door jerked
itself out of Balthasar's hand, slamming shut behind her. Silence choked
back a startled cry, reaching for her carryall and the heylin concealed in
its lining. A moment later, the door opened again, and Balthasar gave her
a sheepish grin. 

"I guess they want to make sure everybody's got a ticket," he said. Behind
him, Chase Mago shook his head, and fed his ticket into the machine. The
only apparent result was a faint click, but the door did not close as the
engineer climbed into the car. Balthasar tossed the last carryall in after
the others, then handed in Javerry's food basket, and climbed in himself.
The buzzer sounded, and the door sealed itself behind them. Overhead, a
ventilator fan began to whine, and a mechanical female voice said, "This
is Trans East number 627 south. You are in a coastal-route car. This is
Trans East number 627 south. You are in a coastal-route car. If you wish
to change cars, or are in the wrong Trans, please touch the alarm button
located beneath the speaker, and a Transport worker will be with you
momentarily. We will be departing in twenty minutes. Thank you." 

"That's ours?" Chase Mago asked. 

Silence nodded, looking around the confined space. The little car seemed
comfortable enough, at least for now, though she had her doubts about how
comfortable it would seem at the end of the twenty-hour trip. There were
broad, heavily padded benches at each end of the closed space, and storage
nets hung above each one. Balthasar, following the direction of her
glance, nodded, and began securing the carryalls, tightening the netting
carefully around them. The cubicle in the corner was marked with an
unfamiliar symbol, but could only be one thing; Silence unlatched the door
anyway, and was glad to find the sanitary facilities. 

"I've found the environmental box," Balthasar announced, and turned out
the car lights to prove it. Chase Mago swore at him. When the lights
returned, the Delian looked somewhat chastened. "I was looking for -- ah,
there." 

Overhead, the speaker crackled to life, tinny music pouring into the car.
Silence winced, and Balthasar hastily adjusted the volume, until the sound
was barely audible. 

"Do we have to listen to that?" Chase Mago asked. 

"Quin said the line keeps passengers posted on news and such," Balthasar
answered. "That should be the channel." 

"I'm not sure it's worth it," Chase Mago said, but shrugged. 

Silence said, "It can't hurt to know what's going on." 

Some time later -- the repetitive music blurred her perception of time --
a chime sounded, and the mechanical voice spoke again, overriding the
music. "This is Trans East 627 south. Last call, please. Last call." 

The voice repeated the message twice more, but Silence was no longer
listening, staring instead out the car's tiny window. The station was
empty now, the woman with the child presumably back in a compartment; the
only sign of life was the display board on the far wall. Even as she
watched, the departure listing for Trans East 627 winked out, and the
trans jerked slowly into motion. 

Surprisingly, the machine was very quiet, especially when compared to the
tube trains on Delos. The driving engine rose from a distant whine to a
dull, steady rumbling not much louder than the background hum of a
stopped-down harmonium. After the first minutes, the jolting stopped, too,
settling to a steady, regular swaying. 

Leaving the station, the trans entered a long, unlighted tunnel. Silence
thought she could feel a steady acceleration, but without visual
references, she was unprepared for the moment the trans flashed out of the
tunnel onto the elevated track. The trans was going very fast indeed, so
fast that the treetops, rising just to the edge of the Iran's windows,
merged into an indistinct green blur. She edged forward on the padded
bench, trying to focus on some individual object, a tree, or some part of
the track itself, but the trans was moving too quickly. The effect was
literally dizzying; she leaned back again, avoiding the windows until the
dizziness passed. 

"We are moving," Balthasar said. The pilot was maliciously pleased to see
that he, too, avoided looking out the windows. 

"Well, obviously they'd have to maintain a substantial speed, to make
Man's Island in twenty hours with all the stops," Chase Mago said. 

"Substantial," Balthasar repeated. "Yeah, you could say that." 

The worst of the dizziness had vanished now. Silence glanced cautiously
toward the nearer window, keeping her eyes away from the rushing
vegetation at the bottom of the frame. The distant hills, and the band of
settlements -- shiny roofs and strangely spidery towers competing with
more solid structures -- in front of them were still moving rather too
fast for something so far away, but the effect was not quite as
disconcerting as before. Then, unexpectedly, the trans began to slow,
engines whining. The tracks ducked again into a tunnel, still slowing, and
finally ground to a halt against a platform that seemed to be a copy of
the one at Diesmon. Silence leaned against the window, watching curiously
as the few passengers on the platform selected their cars. No one got off.
A few moments after the trans had pulled into the station, a buzzer
sounded, and it began to move again. 

The countryside flattened as the trans moved south and east, but the
pattern of settlement did not change much. The knots of settled land grew
larger, the buildings more complex, but the land between the suburbs
remained empty, overgrown. Once, Silence thought she caught a glimpse of
some broken structure in the center of one barren spot, but the trans was
past before she could be sure. I wonder where they get the food to supply
all the people? she wondered. Each of the suburbs they passed looked
easily large enough to hold several thousand people; the station suburbs,
glimpsed only briefly as the trans entered the braking tunnel, looked much
larger. Quin had said that the Rose Worlders -- Unionists, she corrected
herself -- farmed the uninhabited interior of the continent; still, the
transport costs must be very high. And therefore, she added thoughtfully,
there must be some compelling reason for forcing people into the mainurb.
If I could just figure out what it is.... The connection eluded her. She
leaned back against the padding, shaking her head. 

The sun was setting as they reached the larger suburb of Sayl'm. This
time, the trans did not duck into a tunnel, but slowed above ground.
Silence frowned, unsure of what was happening, and in the same moment saw
that there was a second elevated track next to theirs, running at a
shallow angle toward a point of meeting. The trans slowed further as it
reached the intersection, and Silence pressed herself against the window,
trying to see back along the second track. For an instant, she thought she
saw another trans moving toward them along it, but then her own trans had
moved forward, cutting off her view. It couldn't've been, she told
herself, but felt her muscles tense anyway. A moment later, there was a
gentle but perceptible thump at the back of the car, and the trans began
picking up speed again. Of course, Silence berated herself. This is where
our trans links up with the main line -- and I'd guess the link was just
made. 

"That was neat," Chase Mago said idly, and the pilot was glad that the
dimming light hid her blushes. 

They ate Javerry's picnic in the sunset light, then settled back against
the padding. Balthasar adjusted the car's lights to a comfortable level,
then, after a moment's thought, banished the tedious music. There was
something about it -- about the trans in its entirety, Silence thought,
that created a strange lethargy. The star-travellers had barely spoken a
dozen words to each other since leaving Diesmon, caught up in the passing
scenery and the weird, noiseless travel. It was not a comfortable feeling,
either. Now that night had fallen, and there was nothing outside to
distract her, Silence felt a dull ache beginning behind her temples, and a
strange queasiness at the pit of her stomach. She swallowed hard,
wondering if she had been wise to eat at all. 

"Look," Balthasar said. "We're coming up on another suburb." 

Grateful for the distraction, Silence glanced out the window. At night,
the suburbs turned to heaps of lights, carbon-crystals spilled out
carelessly across the countryside. Trails of lights led away from the
suburb -- lighted roads, Silence guessed, or more of the transit line.
Another suburb appeared almost before the first had been left behind, and
a third was just visible in the distance, barely more than a scattering of
lights on the horizon. They must be approaching the mainurb, she thought,
trying not to feel the worsening headache, or whatever invisible line
divided the suburbs from the sprawling, continuous settlement of the
mainurb. She sighed and closed her eyes, resting her cheek against the
cold wall of the car. 

Chase Mago gave her a wary glance. "Are you all right?" 

Silence made a face, not opening her eyes. "I've got a headache," she
admitted, after a moment. 

"We packed some pills." That was Balthasar. Silence hesitated, wondering
just what the medicines would do to her already queasy stomach, but then
nodded. A moment later, the Delian had taken her hand, and poured a couple
of flat tablets into her palm. She sat up, wincing a little, but took them
dutifully, washing them down with a swallow of water from the Javerry's
spring. The water, kept pleasantly cool by the fields of Chase Mago's djin
bottle, tasted remarkably good. She took a second swallow, letting it
drive away the headache for a moment, but set the bottle aside for fear of
making herself sick. She felt a little better, though, and smiled. After a
moment, Chase Mago put his arm around her; she leaned into his embrace and
let herself fall asleep. 

When she woke again, after some hours of fitful sleep, the headache and
the nausea were much worse. Outside the windows, a river of lights
streamed past, throwing crazy reflections and shadows into the car. It was
worse than daylight travel. She looked away, shivering, but the flickering
lights pursued her. She closed her eyes, but could not shut out the play
of light and shadow. She shivered again, miserably certain she was going
to be sick, and pulled free of the engineer's sleep grip. Balthasar
stirred at that. 

"Silence?" He sat up, automatic smile turning to a worried frown. "Are you
all right?" 

"I don't feel good," Silence said. 

"Neither," Chase Mago said deliberately, "do I." 

Balthasar glanced once at the box that had held their picnic, then, as
visibly, dismissed it. "I'm all right," he said, and reached for his own
carryall. He rummaged through it until he found the emergency kit he'd
been carrying since the star-travellers had been forced to abandon
Recusante, and pulled out two of the kit's bulbous diffusers. Silence took
hers eagerly, recognizing the symbol of the powerful anti-nausea drug on
its label. It was intended for use against space sickness, but surely it
would be effective against other things. She set the soft tip against the
veins of her wrist, feeling the material mold itself to her skin, and
pushed the dispenser button. There was a brief numbed sensation, cold pins
and needles against her wrist, and then the diffuser was empty. She leaned
back and closed her eyes again, waiting for the drug to take effect. 

Somewhat to her surprise, the nausea began to recede, and she sat up
cautiously. I haven't had motion sickness since I was eighteen and an
apprentice, she thought bitterly. Why now? Or was it even motion sickness
at all? She could still feel the queasiness, a strange, unbalanced --
unanchored -- sensation not only in her stomach, but throughout her body.
The drugs had dulled the misery enough for her to analyze the feeling. No,
she thought, not an ordinary sickness at all. Very carefully, she murmured
Paimel's Cantrip, reaching for the harmonic lines that had to surround the
trans. There was nothing there. She swallowed hard, fighting back the
surge of nausea, tasted bile. There had to be something there; no planet
could exist without casting a shadow into the super-material, without that
shadow creating the complex interaction of dissonances and harmony on
which the magi depended for much of their work. She took a deep breath,
and tried again. 

This time, she caught the brief echo of the nearest harmonic, faint and
badly distorted by the noise of the trans, before she was forced to give
up. No, she realized almost instantly, not by the noise, but by the mere
presence of the trans, and by the suburbs around them -- by all the
machines. She had known academically, intellectually, that the Unionists'
machines would interfere with her hard-learned skills, but she had not
guessed, until now, just how disturbing this interference would be. And if
she could not find some way to overcome it, or even to overcome its
effects on herself.... She thrust the thought away. She would have to find
some solution; there were no other choices. She wished suddenly and
passionately that Isambard had come with them, then put that thought aside
as well. 

Sighing, she opened her eyes, studying the car as though seeing it for the
first time. Balthasar had turned up the lights, drowning out some of the
outside reflections, but otherwise nothing had changed. The river of
lights still flowed past the windows, the unnatural brilliance seeming now
to mirror the static spread across the land, cutting her off from her
instinctive awareness of the core harmonies. It would not be easy to
counter the effect, especially not from the moving trans.... She killed
that thought, and reached for the djinn bottle. It was an ordinary thing,
its walls enclosing a simple stasis field; its touch was reassuring, a
reminder of other, more modern worlds. She sipped the cool water, trying
to think of some way out. She was aware that the other star-travellers
were watching her nervously, but did her best to ignore them Whatever she
did would have to spring from her own internal resources, not from the
unreachable planetary harmonics. There were techniques for creating
harmony with oneself, techniques intended for magi working in deep space,
where the mundane music that bounded common transformation was almost
nonexistent. She had learned the theory, at least, on Solitudo Hermae, but
the practice was a different matter. And even in space, a magus had a
starship's harmonium at hand, to keep the music true. She looked down at
the djinn bottle then, frowning. Its stasis field could provide a basic
harmony, a set of guide-notes, but she herself would have to do the rest. 

She forced herself to relax, breathing easily, then murmured the First
Cantation, the djinn bottle held loosely in her left hand. She could feel
the stasis field through the confining metal, but did nothing yet, letting
the faint music of the stasis field travel through the enclosing bottle
and into her fingertips. When she was sure she had it, she summoned her
own strength, the talent and knowledge that was her power, molding it into
a thing receptive to the delicate tones. Then, slowly, carefully, she
teased the elusive harmony into the bones of her hand, until the music
filled it and, looking down, she saw her flesh glowing with the borrowed
power. Already, the music had grown a little stronger, reverberating from
the bones themselves as if from a starship's keel. As it grew, she let the
music rise along her arm, humming deep in the twinned bones of her forearm
and tingling in the hollow of her elbow. For a moment, it hung there, then
surged up the thicker bone of her upper arm. It struck her shoulder like a
wave, and splashed into the bones of her chest and body. The music seemed
to fade then, weakening. Silence held her breath, not sure how or where to
intervene, and felt the harmonies revive, altered and amplified by her own
power. The music rippled through her body, crested, and seemed to vanish.
The sickness, the headache, vanished with it. The pilot murmured Paimel's
Cantrip and heard, faintly, the music that was now within her sound again,
driving back the machine-made dissonance. 

"Are you all right?" Balthasar said again. 

Silence grinned. "Much better," she said, and turned to Chase Mago. "It's
the machines that're doing it. Give me your hand, Julie." 

The engineer extended a clammy hand, and Silence took it, wincing in
sympathy with the obvious suffering on the bearded face. She could feel
the machines' noise, their aching dissonance, in his touch, and quickly
murmured the Words that would establish the mirrored rapport. The Words
woke echoes; she felt them sing through her bones, reinforcing her
new-made internal harmony. Dimly at first, and then more strongly, she
felt the same music wake in Chase Mago's body. 

When she was sure the harmony was fully established, she released his
hand, and couldn't help laughing at his expression of distrust and relief.
"I take it it worked." 

Chase Mago nodded warily. "It... worked, thanks. You said it's the
machines?" 

"Yes." Silence turned to Balthasar, who shook his head. 

"I'm all right, thanks." 

Silence shrugged, feeling obscurely hurt, and glanced back at the
engineer. "We were always taught that mechanics would interfere with the
Art, but I didn't realize how bad it could be -- or that it would affect
people as well as operations." 

"Neither did I," Chase Mago said. "This could be a problem, you know." 

"Tell me about it," Silence said, grimly. She didn't really want to think
about that possibility until she had to, and glanced back at Balthasar
instead. "Denis, are you sure you're... ?" 

The Delian abruptly extended his hand. "No, not really." 

Silence folded her hands around his palm. The gesture reminded her
painfully of their first days on the Hegemonic transport, and she knew
from Balthasar's twisted grin that he was thinking of the same things.
"Relax, Denis," she said. 

The Delian made a face, but Silence thought she could feel the tension
ease in his fingers. She murmured the proper Words, repeating the
operation she had performed for Chase Mago. When it was finished, the
harmony fully established, Balthasar gave her an approving smile. 

"That is better -- like there was a shield between you and it." 

That was it exactly, Silence thought, and if I ever make it back to
civilized space, I'll name the schema for it -- if no one else has thought
of it, of course. That was a small question, compared to the first, but
she put it aside. "Where are we -- how much longer to Man's Island?" 

Balthasar had shrugged in answer to the first question. Chase Mago said,
"Another thirteen local hours, it looks like." He stretched, awkward in
the cramped space, and attempted to settle himself more comfortably
against the padded bench. "I'd suggest we try to get some sleep." 

Silence nodded, burrowing in against him, and Balthasar, shrugging again,
turned down the lights. 

They were wakened before first light by the insistent voice of the
mechanical announcer. Silence pushed herself up on one elbow, struggling
to understand the accented words. 

"-- disembark at the Havens for a rolling check. All passengers will
disembark at the Havens for a rolling check. Please have your papers ready
at this time. Thank you." 

The announcement was repeated, but Silence wasn't listening, trying
instead to remember if any of their sources had ever mentioned "rolling
checks." Nothing sprang to mind, not even when she summoned up the Grand
Theater; the symbolic nexus that should hold that information was
completely empty. She closed her eyes in order to concentrate, searching
for related concepts. Balthasar spoke before she finished. 

"The Havens. That's not even a major stop, is it?" He was already eying
the car doors thoughtfully, as if plotting an escape. 

Hastily, Silence reviewed the maps she'd memorized back at the Javerrys'
farm. "No," she said slowly. "It's just inside the official boundary of
the mainurb -- we were scheduled to stop there, I think -- but it's not
one of the big centers." The key word was border, she realized abruptly,
borders and border checks. She summoned the Grand Theater again, riffling
through the carefully nurtured memories, until she found the proper nexus.
It was less useful than she had hoped: the supercargo had mentioned that
IDs were often checked at the border between suburb and mainurb, but
rarely elsewhere. So we should be all right, Silence thought -- assuming
that we can trust that part of her information. She said aloud, "I think
this is just routine, people. We'll know more when we stop." 

"There won't be much chance to run inside the station, if it turns out
they're on to us," Balthasar said. 

Chase Mago snorted. "And there's no chance at all to get off this thing.
Not at this speed." 

Balthasar made a face, but nodded. "All right." 

Already the trans was slowing. Silence glanced out the window, but saw
nothing except the flickering lights. Then the lights vanished: the trans
had entered the braking tunnel. The announcer's voice said, "All
passengers, please collect your baggage and be ready to disembark as soon
as the trans has stopped moving. Please have your papers ready when you
reach the checkpoint. Thank you." 

Silence stooped to collect the remnants of Javerry's picnic, cramming the
bits and pieces back into the basket. There was no time to be tidy about
it. The trans had slowed significantly, was slowing more with every
moment. Even as she snapped the catches closed again, light sprang up
beyond the windows. The trans had entered the Havens station. 

This platform was a little different from the others they had seen, she
thought. Instead of the immense high-ceilinged, multi-tracked stations
they had seen at Diesmon and at the other stop along the way, this one was
little more than a grey-walled tunnel with a broad ledge running along one
side. She couldn't see any doors in the curving walls. Balthasar shook his
head. 

"I don't like this," he muttered. "I don't like it at all." 

"This was obviously built for inspections," Silence said, with more
confidence than she felt. "I don't think they're stopping it just because
of us." 

The trans ground to a halt with a final sighing of brakes, and the car
door unsealed itself. At the same time, the mechanical voice announced,
"All passengers, please disembark now. All passengers, please disembark.
Thank you." 

"Let's get it over with," Balthasar said, and pushed the door fully open. 

Silence stepped cautiously past him onto the narrow platform, trying not
to stare too obviously. All along the length of the trans, people were
climbing out of their cars, baggage in hand. Most were very soberly
dressed, at least by Hegemonic standards, men and women alike in trousers
and short jackets of tough, grey-blue workcloth. A few -- a very few --
were more colorfully dressed, long coats of brightly patterned fabric
drawn close over lighter, fuller trousers and soft tunics. Unlike the
other passengers, they seemed to take the check in stride, their bodies
revealing boredom rather than the others' wariness. The plainly clad
passengers gave them a wide berth, Silence realized, though she saw no
weapons beneath the swirling coats. Frowning, she filed the information
for later use. 

There was a door at the end of the platform after all, and the other
passengers were walking slowly toward it, forming themselves into a ragged
line. Silence tucked the picnic basket under her arm and fell in behind
the nearest native, a tall, heavily painted woman. I haven't yet seen a
veiled woman, the pilot thought, irrelevantly, and was glad Aili had
remained with the ship. Chase Mago moved up beside her, carryall slung
over his shoulder. His left hand was close to the breakaway compartment
that held his heylin, and Silence shivered. 

"Can you see what's coming up?" she asked, softly. 

"Yes." The engineer stretched to see over the crowd ahead. "There's some
sort of a metal gate, and guards at a table behind that. I think they're
checking papers." He had kept his voice low, barely more than a whisper,
the words almost lost in the sounds of the moving crowd, but Silence
glanced around nervously nonetheless. No one seemed to have heard, the
other passengers busy with their own worries. Somewhere in the crowd, a
baby was crying angrily. She tried to make herself relax, but her muscles
remained painfully taut. 

To her left, the trans's engines whined suddenly to life, and the linked
cars began to move again, drawing away from the platform. "What the hell
--" she began, and realized too late that none of the natives seemed
concerned. Flushing, she tried to pretend she hadn't spoken, but the
painted woman was already glancing back. 

"Don't ride the trans much, do you, honey?" Her voice was more accented
than the Javerrys' had been, harsher and flatter on the vowels. Silence
shook her head mutely. The stranger didn't seem exactly unfriendly,
despite the rough words, but they could not afford to attract any notice
now. 

"None of us do." Balthasar spoke softly enough, but there was an edge to
his voice that made the native woman shrug. 

"Hey, I'm not messing with you. That's their job." Her hard eyes swept
over the three of them, curious now, assessing clothes and baggage.
Silence swore internally, but could think of nothing that would distract
her. 

"You've been in the exurb," the stranger continued. It was not a question.

Balthasar hesitated, then nodded tightly. "Yeah." 

The stranger eyed him speculatively. "All right," she said after a moment,
her voice dropping to match the Delian's quiet tones. "This is just
routine -- same as at Danb'ree, they just moved it. I'll talk to you
after." She turned away before Balthasar could answer, her painted face
already setting into an impassive mask. 

Silence frowned, wishing she knew just what was going on, and glanced at
Balthasar. The Delian lifted his shoulders in a fractional shrug, but his
grey eyes were thoughtful. He knew something, or guessed something,
Silence recognized, and could have screamed in frustration. 

They were coming up on the barrier at last, and Silence leaned sideways,
glancing around the shifting bodies. As the engineer had said, an immense
metal arch spanned the platform a few meters ahead, lights flashing from
various parts of its dulled surface. It was a machine, and a powerful one:
she could feel the bizarre dissonances -- no, she corrected herself, not
dissonance but worse, the very antithesis of the music with which she had
lived all her life -- from here. Beyond that barrier waited half a dozen
men -- and women -- in saffron Transit livery; three more sat behind a
long table piled high with more machines. As she watched, a passenger
stepped beneath the arch of the machine, glancing warily to either side as
he did so, then came forward to lay the plastic folder that contained his
papers on the table before the nearest Transit officer. Yawning, the woman
took the folder and inserted it in her machine, tapping her fingers as she
waited for a readout. Silence relaxed for an instant -- surely it was a
good sign if the officers themselves were bored -- but snapped alert again
the next instant. As the woman with the crying baby stepped beneath the
arch, a different pattern of lights flared. The lounging Transit men
snapped to attention, leveling strange weapons that seemed to have
materialized in their hands. The woman paused, looking bewildered and
frightened; the nearest Transit officer beckoned her toward a second table
set to one side. They kept their guns on her as she crossed to it. Another
Transit officer spoke to her briefly. She nodded, and then, made awkward
by the child in her arms, swung her lumpy bag onto the table. The Transit
officer ripped it open, and began searching it with practiced speed. 

Silence looked away, tasting fear. If the officer searched her bag, or her
husbands', they couldn't help but find the magi's supplies, or the heylins
in their hidden pockets.... And we don't even know what the machine is
scanning for, she thought. It took all her will to keep from looking
around frantically for an escape route. She glanced sideways once, and saw
Chase Mago chewing unhappily on stray hairs of his beard. 

Then they were almost at the gate. The painted woman glanced back once,
with apparent unconcern, but Silence saw her give Balthasar a ghostly
wink. She turned away again, and stepped through the arch when her turn
came. Lights flickered, but the Transit officers did not move. Silence
took a deep breath and followed her, her fingers clammy on the thin
plastic of her folder. More lights rippled across the dull metal. With an
effort, she kept from looking to her right, toward the Transit officer,
and stepped up to the larger table, holding out her papers. The seated
officer, a young man this time, took the folder from her nerveless fingers
and inserted it into his machine. 

Silence held her breath, watching the man's bored face for any betraying
change of expression. Her hands were closed painfully tightly around the
strap of the carryall; she forced herself to loosen them, hoping the
officer had not noticed her tension. 

"O. K." The young man pulled the folder from his machine and handed it
back to her. Silence took it with trembling fingers, not daring to speak.
She turned away from the table, fumbling the folder back into her pocket,
heading blindly for the narrow door set into the far wall. Both Balthasar
and Chase Mago were still at the table; she was aware of them, but did not
dare glance back. A Transit officer, black metal weapon slung at his hip,
pushed the door open for her, smiling. She smiled back, lips stiff and
cold, and then she had stepped through into a small, coldly lit tunnel. It
led without turning into an immense, multi-platformed station. 

It was much like the one at Diesmon, only much larger. Her mind registered
that fact mechanically as she took a few steps up the platform, her heart
still racing. They didn't suspect me, she thought, and felt herself
trembling with relief. There was a bench ahead, unoccupied except for an
old man who sat mumbling to himself. Heedless of his presence, she sat
down on the far end, letting her carryall fall to the stone floor between
her feet. Her papers had passed the first test -- she was safe, but where
were the others? 

She looked up, newly afraid, and saw Balthasar emerging from the
passageway. Chase Mago loomed behind him, stooping beneath the low lintel.
She gave a sigh of relief and started to stand, to go to meet them. Her
legs were shaking too badly to support her; she sank back on the bench,
swearing to herself, and let them come to her. 

Balthasar dropped to a crouch beside her, a self-satisfied smile on his
thin face, and touched the pocket where he kept his papers. "Nice work,
Silence." His voice was too low to carry to the old man, even if the
native had been capable of hearing; nevertheless, Silence winced. 

"Are you all right?" Chase Mago asked. 

Silence hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Just reaction, that's all. "
Already, her body felt stronger, the tremors almost gone from her muscles.
Chase Mago gave her a quick, encouraging smile, but the pilot hardly
noticed. "Denis, that woman -- what do you think she wanted?" 

Balthasar raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure," he began, and then his eyes
shifted, focusing on something behind the pilot's shoulder. "Damn, here
she comes." 

Silence turned, to see the native woman bearing down on them. Chase Mago
extended his hand, and the pilot took it, pulling herself upright. For
some reason, she did not want to meet this stranger from a position of
weakness. 

"Hello," the stranger said. Her eyes swept over all of them, and settled
on Balthasar. "I said we'd talk. You want to go somewhere?" 

The Delian shook his head. 

The native studied him briefly. "The trans isn't here yet, won't be in
'til they're finished searching...." She let her voice trail off, and
shrugged. "Talk here?" 

Balthasar hesitated only for a fraction of a second. "Yeah." He took a few
steps away from the bench, out of earshot of any of the other passengers.
Silence followed, very glad of Chase Mago's looming presence. 

The stranger did not seem particularly intimidated. "If you're carrying, "
she said, "I might deal." 

The words meant nothing to Silence, but Balthasar's expression shifted
slightly. He was pleased, the pilot realized, but why? 

"I couldn't do that," Balthasar said. "Contracts." 

"We're good," the woman answered. 

"So's mine." Balthasar paused, visibly considering the stranger's words.
"But if I was thinking of a deal -- ?" 

The woman smiled cynically. "You might try the Lirior. By the Kills. I
might be there." She turned away without waiting for an answer, moving up
the platform as though looking for someone. Balthasar nodded to himself. 

"What the hell was that all about?" Silence asked. 

The Delian grinned. "I don't really know," he admitted. "Drugs, I think --
that's what it would be on the Fringe, anyway." 

Chase Mago made a choked sound that might have been laughter. Silence's
mouth fell open; she closed it with a snap. "Do you mean to tell me you
went through all that without knowing what the two of you were talking
about?" 

"Not exactly," Balthasar said. He shrugged again, half embarrassed, half
pleased with himself. "Remember, I was a courier for the Wrath for a long
time -- longer even than you, Julie. That's what it felt like, and that's
how I played it." 

Silence shook her head, incredulous. It was typical of the Delian, she
thought; it was equally typical that it had somehow worked out. She
started to say as much, but her voice was drowned by the sudden whine of a
trans. The silvery cars droned into the station, sliding to a gentle halt
beside the platform. The waiting crowd turned almost as one, heading for
the doors. Silence pulled her book of tickets from her pocket and moved
with them, aiming for the nearest car. Somewhat to her surprise, no one
cut her off. She fed her ticket into the box, popping the door, and waited
for the others to do the same. The machine acknowledged the tickets with a
faint chirp. Balthasar swung the door wide, and they climbed aboard. 

The rest of the trans ride into Man's Island was uneventful. The machine
moved more slowly, travelling along surface tracks; to either side
stretched acres of crudely painted poured-stone buildings. The sun was up
now, but the light did nothing to make the mainurb seem more appealing --
if anything, Silence thought, it only made the buildings look uglier. They
weren't far from the Man's Island terminus, she knew, at least
geographically, but the trans made maybe half a dozen stops before the
mechanical voice finally announced the end of the line. Shivering again,
she collected her belongings, and the three star-travellers stepped out
onto the platform. 

The terminus was twice as large as the Havens station, three or four times
bigger than the station at Diesmon. To her right, Silence counted five
more platforms; still more were hidden behind the trans. Ahead, the
platform curved to join a second platform, and the merged walkway led onto
a circular island filled with hurrying people. There were still more
platforms beyond the island, all filled with people -- so many that for a
moment Silence thought she was looking into an immense mirror. Man's
Island was certainly the hub of something; she just hoped it would be
large enough for them to find the materials Chase Mago needed. 

The engineer touched her elbow gently. "This way," he said, nodding toward
the central island. Balthasar was already striding ahead. 

Silence followed in a daze, overwhelmed by the crowd and the noise that
echoed against the curved ceilings. Even in the time she'd spent on
Asterion, the capital of the Hegemony -- even in her brief time on Delos,
which had a higher population than any other human-settled world -- she
had never seen so many people crowded into a single space. She glanced at
the engineer, and saw that he was frowning darkly, watching the moving
crowd. 

Balthasar made his way through the mob with efficient ease, barely seeming
to notice the natives, who hardly seemed aware of him. Silence did her
best to copy that indifference, but was glad of Chase Mago's presence at
her side. The Delian paused on the central island only long enough to
orient himself by the flashing signs and arrows. The others had barely
drawn even with him before he was off again, heading down a walkway that
led off to the left, rising slightly toward a distant doorway. Silence
followed, scowling, lengthening her stride until she'd caught up with
Balthasar. She caught his sleeve, intending to demand to know where they
were going, but he frowned at her, and shook his head slightly. There was
a tension in his muscles through the worn cloth of his jacket that kept
her from speaking, a fear more daunting than his frown. She concentrated
instead on matching his pace, Chase Mago stiff-faced beside her, and,
after a moment, she recognized what the Delian had already seen. None of
the natives were talking; they hurried along the platforms as though to
linger was somehow dangerous. 

Only when they finally reached the end of the walkway did the pace slow.
The massive opening, perhaps twice as wide as it was high, gave onto a
gloomy plaza, the light filtering in through thick ceiling panes of amber
glass. Or maybe there were artificial lights set behind the ugly
rectangles, Silence thought. Whatever they were, they did little to
relieve the dimness. Most of the passengers turned sharply to right or
left, heading for air-lock doors labeled in red and blue letters, but
enough moved on into the plaza proper to keep them from being conspicuous.
Balthasar slowed, glancing warily from side to side, then nodded to a
kiosk that stood toward the middle of the plaza. The sign above it said,
"Information." 

A skinny youth -- barely more than a boy, Silence thought -- stood at one
face; a greying man in grey, straight-cut tunic and trousers was
consulting the other. As the star-travellers approached, the boy turned
away. Balthasar appropriated his place, running his hand across the
glowing touchplate. Somewhat to Silence's surprise -- she had expected to
have to pay for the service -- the screen sprang to life in front of him. 

"Do you want me to make the inquiry?" she asked, low-voiced. At the
kiosk's other face, the greying man grunted to himself, and pushed himself
away. The pilot sighed her relief. 

Balthasar nodded, and made room for her in front of the keyboard. "What we
want," he said, studying the display over her shoulder, "is the Kills." 

Silence gave him a questioning glance, and he elaborated. "Look, that
woman said to go there if we were dealing, right? Then that's a place
where there won't be people asking many questions." 

It makes sense, Silence thought. Still, she wasn't sure she liked the
idea. 

"I hope you're right, Denis," Chase Mago growled. 

The Delian grinned, unrepentant. "So do I." 

Wonderful, Silence thought. Just wonderful. Scowling, she triggered the
inquiry mode, and waited while the screen filled up with a mix of letters
and symbols. The system seemed to be organized in precisely the same way
as the one she had used at Diesmon -- maybe, she thought, typing further
codes, it's all the same system? The screen blanked, then, more slowly,
refilled. The information on the Kills was rather limited, just
locator-codes and list of the various ways the neighborhood could be
reached, without any of the hostel listings or other advertising that was
attached to other names. If nothing else, it bore out Balthasar's guess
about the nature of the area, but the pilot still wasn't sure that was a
good thing. The file did contain a map, however. She called it up, meaning
to memorize its listings, but one of the options displayed below its
border was to print a copy. She touched the proper keys, and a concealed
printer chattered, spitting out a fold of thin, pin-printed paper.
Balthasar took it from her, scanning the faint lines dubiously. 

"I suppose it's better than nothing. So how do we get there?" 

Silence consulted the screen again. "It looks as though there are two
choices -- three, if you count walking. Take the tube-train -- it really
is a tube-train, this time -- or take a taxi." 

"Tube-train," Balthasar said at once, and the engineer nodded. "We don't
want to draw more attention to ourselves than necessary." 

Silence nodded, and turned to scan the plaza. To their left, a red arrow
pointed down a flight of stairs. The sign above it read Public Access
Transportation. "That must be it," she said, and the others nodded. 

The tube-train -- which wasn't a tube-train after all, but another
mechanical contrivance like the trans -- was very crowded, and both the
platform and the long, windowless cars smelled strongly of people and
machines. Silence swallowed hard, feeling an echo of her earlier sickness,
but the shielding music protected her, keeping it at bay. She kept her
attention on the caged display screen at the end of the car, watching the
stops flash by. Balthasar was watching, too, his eyes flicking from the
screen to the doors and back again. At last the symbol they had been
waiting for flashed onto the screen; Silence looked at Balthasar, who
nodded, a twisted smile on his face. 

"This is it?" Chase Mago asked, pitching his voice to carry through the
incessant rumble of the engines. 

"This is it," Balthasar said. 

The tube-train was slowing. Silence balanced against the changing motion,
hitching the carryall to a more comfortable position on her shoulder.
There didn't seem to be many others leaving the train at this point, she
noticed; those who stood, gathering satchels and shapeless web-paper
sacks, wore a weird mixture of the cheapest work clothes and single
expensive pieces, here a richly beaded jacket, there a real-stone torque,
even a shawl-scarf that might be made of Akra Leuke silk. In spite of her
best intentions, her expression sharpened, seeing that. The dark girl
wearing it scowled back, and moved away a little. The whole picture
reminded her irresistibly of the poorer parts of a Transients' Pale on any
Fringe World. 

"Denis," the pilot began, and Balthasar grimaced. 

"I saw," he said. "But not here." 

The tube-train ground to a halt, metal shrieking against metal. Silence
made a face, and Chase Mago looked physically sick at the sound. Then the
doors sighed open, and they stepped out onto the platform. 

It was above ground, this time, and not merely on the surface but well
above it. To the left, looking back along the way the train had come, an
elevated trackway led across a greasy river toward a towering cliff. The
tracks emerged from a tunnel halfway up that crumbling wall of stone. To
the right, the trackway curved gently down to another tunnel entrance,
this one almost lost among the crowding, ugly buildings. Beyond their
roofs, Silence could just see the dark line of the ocean. Somewhere beyond
that -- and not far beyond it, either -- lay the administrative complex of
Man's Island. Silence stumbled, staring, and Chase Mago caught her elbow. 

"Easy, now." the engineer said, and turned her gently toward a metal
turnstile at the far end of the platform. Silence shook herself, and
followed the men through the gate and down the rattling metal stairs to
the street. Balthasar barely hesitated at the first intersection, before
striking out to the left along the badly paved street. There were no other
pedestrians in sight; remembering the people who had left the train with
them, Silence glanced once over her shoulder, but saw no one following.
The ugly, windowless buildings rose to either side, cutting off the thin
sunlight. The air smelled strange, sharp; looking up, she saw the sky half
obscured by a pale yellow haze that thickened to clouds above the water. 

Balthasar led them across another street, turning left again at the next
intersection. Silence frowned, but before she could say anything, Chase
Mago asked mildly, "Do you have any particular place in mind, Denis?" 

Balthasar looked back, grinning, and pointed. "There." 

Silence's eyes narrowed. The Delian was pointing to a lighted sign, pale
in the sunlight, that advertised rooms for rent. It hung above an
unimpressive arched doorway flanked by chipped poured-stone columns;
undecorated windows rose above it for five or six stories. The pilot shook
her head. "No," she said, "there were no hostels listed." 

"That was a search pattern," Chase Mago cut in, with some disgust. 

"I found us a hostel, didn't I?" Balthasar shot back. "What are you
complaining about?" 

"You may have found a hotel," Silence corrected. "Let's see what it looks
like on the inside." 

The door beneath the arch led into a long, dimly lit room divided in half
by an elaborately scrolled metal grille. It looked more functional than
decorative, Silence thought, and found herself looking warily in the
corners. There was no central desk, as there would be in a hostel on most
other worlds. Instead, a kiosk like the one they had used in the trans
station stood in the center of the worn tiling, wan lights flickering
behind its screens. As they moved closer, the camera set at the top of the
kiosk swivelled toward them, and the nearest screen brightened. 

"-- help you?" The tinny voice came from a grille somewhere beneath the
camera; the speaker sounded as though he didn't really care about the
answer. 

"Yes." Silence stepped forward, glancing first at the camera and then at
the flickering picture now visible on the screen. It showed an older man,
lank grey hair fringing his bald head. The camera was set somewhere above
him, and he was looking down into something -- presumably a viewscreen of
his own, the pilot thought. She looked up into the camera, schooling her
face to remain emotionless. "We want a room." 

"Rates are twenty-five for the top floors, twenty-eight with bath, thirty
for the first and second floors, and thirty-five for a suite with a bath."
The man recited the list in a monotone, still watching his screen. Heavy,
thumping music sounded faintly behind him. 

Silence darted a glance at Balthasar, who shrugged. 

"Top floor?" he said. 

"With bath," Chase Mago murmured. ' 

Silence nodded. "The top floor'll do -- with bath, please." 

The man's hands moved off-screen. "How long you staying?" 

"We haven't decided," Balthasar said silkily. 

"Hah." The old man seemed unmoved by the statement. "Minimum deposit's
fifty, split it how you like." 

"Put us down for two weeks," Silence said, after hasty calculations. "With
an option to renew." 

"Fine." The man did something off-screen again, and a new panel lit up
below the kiosk viewscreen. "Insert your card." 

"This is cash," Silence said. 

"Cash?" There was a long pause, and then the old man said, "There's a ten
percent surcharge for cash." 

"Surcharge?" Silence asked, and just managed to keep the outrage from her
voice. 

"Yeah. For the security risk." The man looked up into the camera. "You
sure you don't want to use your cards?" 

"That's right," Silence said. "Cash." 

The old man folded his arms across his chest. "Show me." 

The star-travellers exchanged glances. If someone else is watching,
Silence thought, if this is just a setup for robbery, we're in trouble.
Still, there are three of us, and we have heylins within reach....
Balthasar nodded slowly, as if he'd read her thought. Chase Mago slid his
hand across the surface of his carryall, so that it was resting on the
opening of the hidden pocket. Reassured by that, and by the weight of her
own carryall, Silence reached into the pocket of her jacket and brought
out the wad of bills she and Isambard had made. She fanned them slowly in
front of the camera. 

The old man grunted. "All right. I'll be down. You wait." 

It took him a few minutes to emerge from his hiding place. Silence glanced
nervously around, scanning the blank, white-painted walls, then schooled
herself to wait with at least outward calm. At last, the old man appeared
behind the heavy grille. Silence stepped forward, hand in her pocket, and
he flinched back instantly. 

"Hold it right there, woman. Take your hand out slow." There was no weapon
in sight, but Silence had no doubt that he had one concealed somewhere in
his shapeless clothing. She frowned, but did as she was told, pulling a
second sheaf of bills from her jacket pocket. The old man's eyes
brightened at the sight, and he beckoned her forward. 

"That's three ninety-two for the room, plus the surcharge -- four
thirty-two all told." 

Silence raised an eyebrow at that, but carefully counted out the proper
fee and passed half of it through a slot in the grillwork. The old man
scowled, but grudgingly unlocked the narrow door to let them into the rest
of the hostel. Silence let the other star-travellers go first; only when
they were safely inside did she step through herself, and hand the rest of
the bills to the old man. He took them avidly, counted and recounted them,
then stuffed the money into the pocket of his trousers. 

"This way." 

The top floor rooms were cheap, it seemed, because the ancient gravity
lift was shut down after the midnight curfew. They could come and go as
they liked, the old man's shrugging explanation implied, but they would
have to climb the six flights of stairs. Silence listened, nodding, as the
lift carriage whined its way to the top of its shaft, and dismissed the
man as soon as they'd reached the door of the room. He left without trying
to charge them for the third keycard. 

The room itself was surprisingly comfortable. The furnishings -- table,
two chairs, the media center that filled one corner, and the oversized bed
behind a painted paper screen -- were worn but still serviceable; the thin
carpet and the tiled bath were unexpectedly clean. Chase Mago dropped at
once onto the huge bed, throwing one arm over his eyes. Seeing him
reminded Silence of just how tired she was; she slumped into the nearest
chair, her carryall forgotten by the door. 

"So here we are," she said. 

"Yeah." Balthasar was prowling the room, fingering the thin curtains and
warily inspecting each piece of furniture. Checking for listeners, Silence
knew, and sat quietly, waiting. The Delian finished quickly, but stood for
a moment in the center of the room, a dissatisfied expression on his face.
Then he crossed to the media center and folded back the double doors. He
studied the controls for a moment, then flipped a set of switches. A
square of carpet slid aside, almost under his feet -- he dodged, cursing,
and Silence grinned -- and a strange black cube rose through the floor. A
moment later, its top began to glow, and images coalesced in the air above
it. At the same time, sound faded on, coming from the base of the cube. It
was a harsh, monotonously accented music, overlaid by the scree and wail
of some unfamiliar instrument. Chase Mago sat up quickly, wincing, but
Silence hardly noticed the engineer's discomfort. That machine was a
holotable, something she'd only read about in ancient novels. As she
watched, the image fuzzed briefly, music fading, and shifted to another
set of musicians. She looked up, smile fading, as Balthasar cleared his
throat. 

"I'm still not sure I'd know a listener if I saw one," he said, his voice
barely audible through the noise from the holotable. "But, I tried." 

"Now what?" Silence asked. She matched the pitch of her voice to
Balthasar's, but her lighter tones were swallowed in the music. She made a
face and tried again. "What do we do next?" 

Balthasar made a face. "This is the area where the kid said you could buy
stuff. I guess we try to make some contacts, see what we can turn up that
might be of use...." 

His voice trailed off, and Silence sighed. In other words, she thought,
you don't know either. To buy time to think of something more
constructive, she said, "Wait, let me set a ring first, before we do any
more planning." 

The Delian nodded, and Silence pushed herself to her feet, looking around
for something with which to sketch a circle. There was nothing at hand;
she leaned into the bathroom, looking for soap powders, when Chase Mago
said, "Look. That's it." 

Silence turned back to face the engineer. He was pointing to the fuzzy
image on the holotable, a new, self-satisfied grin on his face. "That's
it," he said again. 

"What's it?" Balthasar ran a hand through his hair, and darted a puzzled
glance at the other man. 

"That, the vox -- the instrument he's playing." Chase Mago paused, visibly
collecting his thoughts. "Look, the blond one, there. The instrument he's
playing is a vox humana, and a vox humana is one of the ancestors of the
harmonium. I can use that to tune --" He broke off abruptly, the
excitement fading from his face. "At least, I think I can; the mechanisms
shouldn't've changed too much...." 

Silence said, slowly, hearing the same excitement rising in her voice, "If
you can retune using one of those --" 

"We wouldn't have to deal with any underground," Balthasar broke in.
"Yeah, that would make it easier. Can you do it, Julie?" 

"I told you," Chase Mago answered, "if the mechanisms haven't been changed
too much over the years, if I can get pure tones from one -- yes, I think
so." 

"Where does one buy a vox humana?" Silence asked. She was thinking aloud,
but Balthasar answered anyway. 

"A store that sells musical instruments, I suppose -- or, no." There was a
sudden, smug grin on the Delian's face. "Pawnshops. That's the place to
look." 

"If they have pawnshops here," Silence said automatically, but she hardly
took her own objection seriously. They would have pawnshops in the Kills,
or some equivalent institution; it was almost as inevitable that musicians
would be poor enough to make use of them. She nodded thoughtfully. "I'll
start checking the directory." 

Chapter 7 

THE ROOM'S MEDIA CENTER CONTAINED YET ANOTHER keyboard-and-screen
combination, this one linked to some sort of district-wide network. That
network was in turn linked to a more powerful system that served the
entire mainurb. Silence eyed the access commands rather wistfully -- she
had had enough success in deducing the structures of the smaller systems
to feel fairly confident in her ability to handle something larger -- but
confined herself to the local net. It was set up rather differently from
the other systems she had dealt with, but the time she'd spent on Solitude
Hermae had made her adept at deciphering unfamiliar symbolic systems. By
the time the district curfew shut down the network, she had found half a
dozen shops that looked promising, and Balthasar had located them on the
map they'd gotten back at the terminus. Chase Mago pulled the crude
communicator he'd improvised from the bits and pieces of Recusante's
emergency system from the lining of the satchel, assembled it, then
reported briefly to the ship. The media center contained a tiny
kitchenette unit along with everything else, water heater and antique
hotbox, and a limited supply of dried staples. Chase Mago fixed a scanty
dinner from among those packages, and then they went to bed. 

They breakfasted from the kitchenette as well, almost emptying the supply
cabinet, and then started on the round of the pawnshops and free-brokers
Silence had found in the district directory listings. After some debate,
they left the carryalls and the picnic basket in the hostel, but, at
Balthasar's insistence, each star-traveller carried a fully charged heylin
in his or her pocket. 

It was warmer in the streets than it had been the previous day, and the
air was damp and sticky. Silence grimaced, loosening the clasps of her
jacket, and glanced up. The band of sky visible between the building was
even more tinged with yellow than it had been the day before, like a
brassy, metallic dome over the city, but there were no clouds, no real
signs of rain to relieve the oppressive heat. 

There were more Earth natives visible than there had been the previous
day, the traffic about evenly divided between the old and the very young.
A few shopkeepers watched the passersby from their doorways, both men and
women narrow-eyed, wary, but ready for business; their shops were well
guarded, with heavy grilles across doors and tiny windows. The one or two
that actually displayed their goods did so through remote-view cubes. It
was not so very different in spirit from poor worlds like Cibistra or
Elysium, Silence thought. Only the technology had changed. 

The street turned abruptly into a broad market square, where foodstuffs --
vegetables and grains in huge web-paper sacks -- were stacked on trestle
tables. The space was very crowded, men and women alike pawing over the
piled goods. The noise of haggling was very loud, sharp voices rising in
calculated anger. Silence faltered, suddenly afraid of being recognized as
an outsider, and Balthasar gave her a quick, encouraging smile. 

"Don't worry," he said, under his breath. "Who's going to notice us, in
this mess?" 

"No one, you hope," Silence said, but her voice was mild enough. The
Delian seemed able to find his way in this world; she would trust him this
far, at least. 

Balthasar led them along the side of the square, where a line of locked
storage bins formed a sort of narrow alley, mostly out of sight of the
hurrying crowd. One or two of the merchants called after them, but no one
else seemed to pay any attention. Even so, Silence breathed a sigh of
relief as they turned out of the market onto a quiet side street. 

"The first shop should be over there," Balthasar began, and grinned. "And
there it is, Samson Liu's." 

It was not a very imposing building, seen from a distance, just a tall,
windowless rectangle -- brick, this time, rather than the ubiquitous
poured stone -- with a white-painted grille over the door opening and
several more grilles along the front where the windows should have been.
It was no more attractive close up, and Silence found herself wondering if
they were doing the right thing. There was no handle on the door-grille;
she reached for the grille itself, and felt the warning tingle of some
kind of defensive field. She drew back instantly, saying in a low voice,
"Careful, don't touch it." 

Chase Mago frowned. "So how do we get in? I don't see a call button --" 

A clicking from the grille cut him off, and Silence, standing closest to
the barred doorway, felt the defensive field fade and die. A sexless voice
said, "Enter, please." 

The star-travellers exchanged a wary glance, and then Silence reached
cautiously for the grille, ready to snatch her hand back if the field
reappeared. It did not; the metal of the grille was barely warm to the
touch, and cooling rapidly. Silence took a deep breath, and pulled open
the door. 

The interior of the store was coldly lit, and very clean. It reminded
Silence irresistibly of pictures she had seen of hospices, in the days
before the Art had proved the efficacy of color-therapies. A single short
counter ran the length of one wall; otherwise, the white-painted room was
completely empty. Silence frowned uneasily, and glanced at the two men.
Chase Mago was frowning too, but Balthasar's face was impassive, his hands
tucked deep into the pockets of his trousers. Seeing her look, he
shrugged, and gave her a lopsided smile. 

There was a clicking sound from behind the counter, and a line appeared in
the white wall. It expanded, became a door, and a small, olive-skinned
woman stepped through it to take her place behind the counter. 

"Can I help you?" she asked. Silence barely heard the words, all of her
attention focusing on the other woman's bizarre dress. She was wearing a
strange, broad-shouldered coat -- or perhaps it was a gown; the counter
hid her body from the waist down -- that tapered drastically from the
shoulderline, so that she was reduced to tiny, mincing steps, tottering as
though she wore high-soled clogs as well. Great clusters of orange and
blue feathers further extended the shoulder line, and rippled down the
outer seams of the sleeves, suggesting gaudy wings; her face and hair were
striped with the same colors, and she wore a palm-sized medallion covered
with unfamiliar symbols -- also orange and blue -- pinned between her
breasts. She put her hands on her hips then, the feathers fluttering
wildly. 

"What's the matter," she asked, "you Greenies or something?" 

Silence shook herself, and managed a smile. "No," she said. "Sorry." 

The woman grunted disbelievingly, but seemed to accept it. "So what do you
want?" 

Chase Mago cleared his throat. "We want to buy a musical instrument," he
said. "Do you have any?" 

The woman eyed him thoughtfully. "We've got a lot of them," she said. "Did
you have something particular in mind?" 

"I'm looking for a vox humana," the engineer answered. 

The woman shook her head, frowning. "I've never heard of that. Are you
sure it's an instrument?" 

Silence saw the sudden flicker of panic on the engineer's face, felt the
same fear stirring in her belly. They hadn't even considered that
possibility, that the vox humana would be known by some other name. She
closed her eyes, searching the patterns of the Grand Theater for anything
that might be of use, but found nothing. She opened her eyes again, and
saw the woman behind the counter staring at her, expression changing from
indifference to curiosity. "It's a -- keyboard," the pilot began, fumbling
for a better description, and the saleswoman scowled. Silence barely
managed to bite back the rest of her sentence before she betrayed herself
further. 

"For God's sake, why didn't you say so?" She reached beneath the counter,
and brought out a squat machine topped by a cloudy glass dome. After a
moment's search, she produced a pair of gold-colored disks, and slid them
across the counter. "That's the catalogue," she said, pointing to one,
"and that's the update." 

"Thanks," Chase Mago said absently, staring at the machine. 

"God." The woman leaned across the counter, twitched the disk out of his
hand, and slid it into a slot in the machine's side. The glass dome fuzzed
and darkened, displaying a holographic image of a glittering pin. The
woman touched a knob on the machine's side, and the image shifted, became
a cube of words, a marker flashing in the center of the array. "Where are
you from, anyway?" 

Silence tensed, weighing her answer, but Balthasar spoke first. "You ask a
lot of questions." 

"Hey." The saleswoman took a step backward, almost falling in her tight
skirt. "No offense." 

Silence smiled at her mockingly, and the other woman moved farther away.
"Yell if you need me," she said, and retreated to the far end of the
counter. 

"Silence," Chase Mago said, softly. "Can you figure out how this is
arranged?" 

The pilot turned her attention away from the saleswoman, focusing on the
image in the dome. The individual words were almost too small to read. She
glanced at the machine's controls -- a pair of buttons, a large, unlabeled
dial, and a well-worn socket-ball -- and touched the upper button gently.
The image swelled instantly, and she snatched her hand away almost too
late. The cubed image completely filled the dome, losing a few letters at
the corners of the structure, but at least she could read the individual
words. 

The pattern that governed the cube was a completely unfamiliar one. She
frowned into it, recalling the techniques of analysis she'd learned on
Solitude Hermae, and chose a line of words at random. Time faded; she
opened her mind as fully as possible, letting the words trigger all
possible connections in her memory. Slowly at first, and then with
blinding suddenness, she understood. She looked up quickly, and saw with
some shock that only a minute or two had passed. Chase Mago lifted an
eyebrow in question, and she smiled reassuringly, setting her hands on the
machine controls. 

"I understand it," she said, softly, and added to herself, or at least I
understand it well enough to find what we need. It was an interesting
system, though, one that would bear remembering -- something else that she
might be able to sell when they returned to human-settled space, something
the magi could turn into a new mnemonic device, as revolutionary as the
memory theaters themselves. The data, Samson Liu's inventory, was ordered
in three dimensions rather than in the usual two; in this case, the two
horizontal dimensions -- axes? she wondered -- indicated type, while the
vertical dimension was an index of value. She thought that the
side-to-side axis was the indicator of general item type, while the
front-to-back axis was being used for specific items within the class, but
too many of the actual listings were unfamiliar to her for her to be
certain of that. Still, it was a fascinating system. Her smile faded then.
Of course, if it were to be used on the human-settled worlds, they'd have
to come up with some inexpensive non-mechanical means of projecting a
three-dimensional display.... 

She shook herself, annoyed at having wasted even that much thought on
something so distant, and flicked the socketball. The flashing marker
shifted with it. She maneuvered it quickly to the section she wanted and
paused, studying the controls. The other woman had used the dial to change
images, she thought, and cautiously touched it. It seemed soft under her
hand, and she pressed harder. There was a faint click, and the cube of
words vanished, to be replaced by an unfamiliar array of black plastic
tablets. The printing beneath the image identified it as a not
particularly expensive set of drums. She frowned, considering, then
shifted the dial to the left. After a few moments' maneuvering,
controlling her position with it and the socket-ball, she found the part
of the matrix that displayed the voces, and nodded to the engineer. 

"Here you are." 

"Thanks," Chase Mago said, and took her place in front of the machine,
murmuring to himself as he studied each of the machines. Silence sighed,
and resigned herself to waiting. She didn't know precisely what the
engineer needed from the vox humana in order to be able to use it to
retune, and didn't quite know what to do to help. She glanced at
Balthasar, but before she could say anything, a buzzer sounded from
somewhere near the outside door. Silence glanced curiously toward the
saleswoman, and saw her fumble again with something beneath the counter.
The buzzing changed to a tri-toned chime, and a moment later, two more
people entered the shop. 

They were dressed in the same colors as the woman behind the counter, the
boy in flaming neon shades, the girl in more muted tones. Their gaudy
coats had the same exaggerated shoulderline as the saleswoman's dress,
though the girl's was slit front and back for ease of movement. The boy's
coat was quite short, the hem barely falling below his buttocks, and
buttoned close around slender hips. Silence glanced sideways, sighing, and
saw Balthasar's appreciative grin. She kicked him, and he looked away. 

If the newcomers saw the movement, they ignored it, crossing at once to
the counter in front of the saleswoman. The boy said something,
low-voiced, and the girl swung a plastic-covered bundle onto the counter.
Pawning -- or selling -- something, Silence thought, and craned her head
as unobtrusively as she could. At the saleswoman's nod, the girl loosened
the wrappings, but kept the plastic tucked around whatever it was,
effectively concealing the contents. The boy glanced down the length of
the counter, scowling, and Silence met the look with a blank stare. He
looked away then, still frowning, and said something to the saleswoman,
who shrugged. 

"Not from around here," she said, her voice fading in response to a murmur
from the girl. 

Silence glanced back at the domed machine, now displaying something that
looked like a control keyboard mated to a misshapen harp with crystal
strings. Chase Mago considered it gravely, but looked up as Silence moved
closer. 

"I think this could be what we want," he said. "I need to see the internal
arrangements, though." 

"You don't ask for much, do you?" That was the saleswoman, moving closer.
She reached under the counter for another machine, then slid it along the
counter top toward the waiting couple. 

Silence called after her, "Is that possible?" 

The woman shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. But you'll have to wait." 

"All right." The newcomers were watching them now with open curiosity,
Silence saw, and steeled herself to meet their stares. After a moment, the
girl said something, and they both looked away, but the pilot could still
feel the heat of their interest. Then the saleswoman had taken their cards
and put each one through the reader. The boy nodded, and the saleswoman
swept the bundle under the counter. The boy seemed inclined to linger even
then, but the girl spoke again, low-voiced, and drew him away. The buzzer
sounded behind them as they left. 

"You wanted to see the insides?" The saleswoman had returned to the other
end of the counter, her hands poised over something just under the counter
top. 

Chase Mago nodded, absently, and Silence said, "That's right." 

There was a momentary pause, and then the saleswoman shrugged. Her hands
moved on the hidden controls; there was a distant whirring, and a faint
series of clanks from behind the nearly invisible inside door. Silence's
eyes narrowed in spite of herself. The noises were oddly familiar -- and
then she remembered a spice warehouse on Cibistra, where the shielding
walls, a good meter thick, had hidden a bizarre machine like a metal
lattice, from whose intersection points had hung strange, basket-like
containers. Her grandfather had made his purchase -- a kilo of
arianhrodae, to be resold on half a dozen other worlds -- and the entire
structure had clattered into motion, pulleys and wires rearranging the
baskets until at last the container of arianhrodae had dropped into the
spice merchant's waiting hands. It would make sense for Earth's natives to
use a similar system, especially when coupled with the cubic index.... 

A door slid open in the wall beside the counter, and a shelf extended
itself, servos whining under its burden. The machine they had seen
pictured in the dome was waiting there, the thin crystal spines above the
keyboard carefully shrouded in clingfoam. 

"There it is," the saleswoman said, and reached for a section of counter
top. Silence realized instantly what the other woman intended, and leaned
hard against the hidden gate, effectively blocking her escape. 

"We won't hurt it," she said, and kept her position. "You can get on with
your other work." 

For a moment, she thought the saleswoman would protest further, but then
the other woman dropped her eyes and turned away, shrugging in a painful
attempt at nonchalance. "All right," she said. "God, some people." 

Silence held her pose for a few minutes longer, watching the saleswoman.
She was aware of Chase Mago, busy with his palm-sized tool kit, and of
Balthasar's leashed impatience, but she did not dare turn to see what was
happening. Then Chase Mago sighed. 

"No, it won't do. See there." 

Silence risked a quick glance, saw only the tilted casing and the
engineer's hand pointing to something at the base of the crystals. Then
Chase Mago had closed it again, neatly refastening the catches. 

"You mean after all that you don't want it?" The saleswoman glared at them
from the far end of the counter. 

Silence smiled sweetly at her. "That's right," she said. "Thank you for
your help." 

The saleswoman turned away disgustedly, and did not answer. Balthasar
grinned and gestured for the others to precede him from the store. "After
you, people, after you." 

His smile faded once they were in the street, however, and Chase Mago
shook his head, sighing. Silence glanced around quickly, saw no one within
earshot, and said, "What was wrong?" 

The engineer grimaced. "The active mechanical elements were too close to
the crystal, powered them directly -- in fact, I don't think they needed
the crystals as resonators at all, I think they were just there for
decoration." He squinted thoughtfully into the hazy sunlight. "I could
maybe do something with it, but I'd have to rebuild the whole thing...." 

"We'll come back if we have to," Silence interrupted firmly. "For now,
let's see if any of the other places have something closer to what you
need." She glanced at Balthasar. "Where next?" 

"A place called the Fish Pier," the Delian answered, and pointed. "That
way." 

The Fish Pier proved to have no musical instruments in stock, and the next
stop had only a less well cared for version of the instrument they'd seen
at Samson Liu's. As they made their way through the maze of streets toward
the next shop -- a place listed in the directory as Rafaiel's Bulletin
Board, Coffee Shop, and Small Loans Bank -- Silence felt an odd chill at
the nape of her neck. Almost, she thought, as though we were being
followed. But she had seen no signs of that, only a few unremarkable
pedestrians. She had read, somewhere, that the thing to watch for was the
shoes -- you could vary outer clothing easily enough, but rarely shoes --
but saw nothing that looked familiar. Still, the nagging feeling
persisted. 

"Denis," she began. "There's something -- I feel as though we're being
watched." 

The Delian nodded without turning his head, frowning thoughtfully. "I
know, I feel it, too. But, damn it all, I can't actually see anybody." 

"Do we head back to the Hostel?" Chase Mago asked. 

Balthasar gave a frustrated grimace. "I don't know -- no. If there is
anybody, let's find them out; if there isn't --" He shrugged. "We might as
well keep going." 

Silence nodded, and, after a moment, the engineer did the same. It isn't
as though there's anything definite, the pilot thought, not as though
either of us -- any of us -- had seen something suspicious. It could well
be that the strangeness of the planet, and of all these machines, is
what's making us nervous. That's probably all it is. The feeling faded as
they walked further, until it was no more than a tickling at the back of
her mind. 

Rafaiel's Bulletin Board, Coffee Shop, and Small Loans Bank was located at
the end of a suspiciously clean cul-de-sac. The building itself was almost
identical to the windowless box that housed Samson Liu's, but Rafaiel, or
whoever actually owned the place, had used neon tubing to sketch windows
on the blank brick facade, and added fantastic neon flowers and curtains
as well. The colors were pale in the sunlight, but Silence could picture
the nighttime splendor. The sign over the open doorway read "Rafaiel's" in
meter-high letters; beneath that were the initials BBC. 

"What, he ran out of room?" Balthasar muttered. 

Silence shrugged. 

"Are you sure about this place?" Chase Mago asked. 

"It was listed as a pawnshop," Silence said. "What do you think, Denis?" 

"I say we take a look," Delian answered. 

Silence nodded. "I agree." 

The interior of Rafaiel's BBC was warmly lit, and smelled strongly of
baking bread and grilled meats. Silence swallowed hard, suddenly aware
that she hadn't eaten since breakfast, and looked around for any sign of a
pawnshop. The big, wood-floored room held a dozen, perhaps two dozen small
tables crowded together to either side of a central aisle marked out by a
strip of well-worn carpeting leading to two curtained doorways. Only a few
were occupied right now, most by men and women old enough to have retired
from their work, but a couple of younger men moved along the walls, which
were completely covered in crudely printed handbills. So that's the
bulletin board, Silence thought, and in front of me's the coffee shop --
but where's the small loans bank? 

"Can I help you?" A dark-skinned woman ducked through the bright blue
curtain and came down the aisle to meet them, a tray and clickpad balanced
on her hip. "Food, news, or money?" 

"Money, I think," Silence said, and tried a tentative smile. "Except we've
come to buy?" 

The dark woman did not return the smile. "Upstairs, then -- through the
green door." She touched a couple of buttons on her clickpad, and turned
toward the nearest occupied table. 

"Thanks," Silence said, to her departing back, and started down the aisle,
the other star-travellers following. 

The narrow, badly lit stairway led directly into a long room with
candy-striped walls. More brilliant stripes outlined a set of doors and
hatches at the back of the room. A round counter set toward the end of the
room encircled a column of amber-tinged glass, at the center of which sat
a honey-skinned man with short, greying hair. He lifted a hand in greeting
as the star-travellers emerged into the cool light, and his voice crackled
from a speaker set at the top of his column. 

"Greetings. I'm Rafaiel. And what can I do for you?" 

He knows part of it already, Silence thought, with sudden conviction,
either from the woman downstairs or from the other shops we've been to.
There was something in Rafaiel's slight, superior smile that hinted at
hidden knowledge. 

Chase Mago spoke into her hesitation. "We're looking for -- we want to buy
-- a vox humana." 

"A keyboard," Silence corrected hastily. 

Rafaiel smiled. "Which is it, people, a keyboard or a vox?" 

"You have a vox?" Silence allowed a polite skepticism to color her tone,
and Rafaiel's smile widened. 

"I have four keyboards of the type you've been examining," he said. "And
the vox." 

So he had been in touch with the other shop owners, Silence thought. She
did not dare look over her shoulders at the other star-travellers. "If you
have one," she said slowly, "we'd like to look at it." 

"You're welcome to examine it fully," Rafaiel answered. His hand moved on
the controls beside him. There was a distant clicking noise, like the
sounds Silence had heard in Samson Liu's, and then a door slid open in the
far wall. A plastic-shrouded box was waiting in the opening. Silence
nodded to Rafaiel, but made no move toward it. 

"If you'll permit us?" she asked. 

"Of course." Rafaiel leaned back in his raised chair, obviously enjoying
himself. "Make free." 

Only then did Silence dare to glance at the other star-travellers. There
was no expression on Balthasar's thin face, but she could read an unease
that matched her own in the set of his shoulders. Chase Mago stared at the
wrapped box with open curiosity; feeling her eyes on him, he smiled. 

"Let's take a look," he said. 

Unwrapped, the vox humana didn't look at all different from the machines
they'd already examined. Silence bit back an exclamation of
disappointment, and Chase Mago gave her a quick grin. 

"It's too early to tell, yet," he said softly, and slipped his tool kit
from his pocket. Silence deliberately maneuvered herself to block
Rafaiel's view as the engineer folded back the stiff protective cover and
slid out the first of his tools. Delicately, he released the minuscule
screws that held the cover in place, and carefully lifted it away.
Balthasar caught the opposite edge, easing it up and over the thin tubes
of crystal. The interior of the vox was a labyrinth of multicolored wires,
snaking from the keyboards to a central unit that looked to Silence like a
metallic honeycomb. That in turn was separated from the mouths of the
crystals by a wedge of what looked like durafelt. Chase Mago made a soft,
satisfied sound, and carefully lifted the wedge from its seating. 

"This is it," he said, still softly. "Feel that." 

Obediently, Silence put out her hand, and touched a familiar roughness.
"That's durafelt," she said aloud, and the engineer nodded. 

"It's also a real vox humana, and I don't know what it's doing here," he
said, and eased the wedge back into its place. "I want it, Denis. This is
what we need." 

Balthasar nodded, and Silence was not entirely sorry to let him assume the
responsibility of bargaining with Rafaiel. She might be pilot and magus,
but she had never been an independent starship's captain. She remained at
Chase Mago's side, helping him lower the awkwardly shaped cover back into
place, then waited while the engineer tightened the tiny screws. She could
hear, distantly, the rise and fall of Balthasar's voice, and Rafaiel's
machine-distorted answers, but did not really listen. For once, the price
truly did not matter; she could, and would, create more bills to make up
for whatever they spent on this. 

"-- holding it as a pledge," Rafaiel was saying, "and it's only a couple
of days overdue." 

Silence's attention sharpened, and she glanced warily toward the central
column. Balthasar said, "But it is yours to sell." 

"Legally," Rafaiel answered, "but morally...." He let his voice trail off
suggestively. 

"Surely nobody pays your morals," Balthasar said. There was a new tension
in his posture, Silence saw, a controlled anger in the movements of his
hands and arms. She willed him to be careful, not daring to speak. 

"Look," Balthasar said, and kept his voice reasonable with an effort, "we
want to buy the vox. Are you selling?" 

Rafaiel managed to look coy behind the amber wall. "It's a matter of my
obligations," he complained. "I owe it to my business -- to my wife and
children, and to my employees -- to make what profit I may. But it's also
my obligation not to be too hasty in turning my customers' pledges into
credit, when they're only a little late...." 

Balthasar cut through the stream of chatter. "I'm willing to pay your
asking price," he said, firmly, "and a hundred more to salve your
conscience." 

Rafaiel's eyes brightened -- though not, Silence thought, entirely with
greed. "Very well," he said, "though I must ask you to leave your name and
address, so that if the original owner comes to redeem it, I can tell him
where you've gone. And I would also ask that you seriously consider
permitting him to buy it back from you." 

"Of course," Balthasar said. "We haven't got a permanent address, though.
We're staying at one of the hostels; you can reach us there. At the Blue
Lion; tell him to ask for Garret Kisigi." 

He lies well -- he always has, Silence thought -- but I don't think
Rafaiel believes him. She watched, cold with fear, while Balthasar
ceremoniously counted out the necessary bills and passed them one by one
through a tiny slot in the amber glass. Rafaiel recounted them just as
ceremoniously, and then bowed to Balthasar. "It's all yours, Kisigi." 

The vox was fitted with a carrying strap and a foamfelt collar to protect
the delicate crystals. Chase Mago snapped both into place, not hurrying,
and lifted the vox gently to his shoulder. Silence nodded toward Rafaiel,
still watching from his enclosed column, and started toward the stairs.
The men followed. 

No one in the coffee shop paid any attention as they made their way back
down the aisle toward the main door, though Silence was aware of two more
people in the bright orange and blue livery -- adolescents, again, like
the ones who had come into Samson Liu's -- off to one side, scanning the
notices pinned to the walls. The taller of the two gave the
star-travellers an incurious glance, and looked away again. Silence
shivered, but could not decide if she was being unreasonable. Alone, the
blue and orange meant nothing -- the saleswoman at Samson Liu's had worn
it, too -- but coupled with Rafaiel's too-great knowledge and the sense
that she'd had all afternoon of being followed, it meant trouble. She held
her breath until they were out on the street, but nothing happened; no one
moved inside the coffee shop. 

"Denis," she said quietly, and the Delian nodded. 

"I saw," he said, and glanced up and down the alleyway. There were no side
streets of any kind, and all the doors were set flush into the walls of
the blank-faced warehouses, but he eyed them suspiciously anyway. "We get
back to the hostel as quickly as we can." 

"I agree," Silence said, and flushed, realizing how relieved she sounded. 

"There's one thing, though," Chase Mago said. "No, don't stop, we can talk
as we go -- but this vox, it's a work of the Art." 

Silence hesitated, the danger momentarily forgotten, and had to hurry to
catch up. "How can that be?" she asked. "Earth doesn't use the Art for
anything, especially not for something so trivial." 

The engineer shrugged. "I don't know. But this is a real vox humana,
people, and it's not pre-War, either. I'm almost willing to bet it was
made in the Fringe, maybe even on Sabate." 

Silence eyed the well-padded instrument with more respect. The artisans of
Sabate were famous throughout human-settled space for their
craftsmanship.... She said aloud, "That doesn't explain how it got here. "

"So somebody's trading with the rest of space," Balthasar said
impatiently. He paused at the corner of the next street, gnawed his lip
for a moment, then pointed to the left down a wide avenue. 

"From everything the Javerrys said, that's not just illegal but literally
unthinkable," Silence said. "They don't know there's anything out there,
so how could any of the natives trade with it?" 

Balthasar grimaced again. Ahead, the road divided around a wedge-shaped
building; he hesitated only for an instant before choosing the right-hand
fork. "Come on, Silence, there can't be that many Rose Worlders on-planet
at any one time. They have to have recruited some help from the local
elites -- and I bet off-world luxuries are a pretty good bribe to keep
them quiet, too." 

Silence made a face at the Delian's back, annoyed at her own stupidity.
What Balthasar had said made perfect sense: the Rose Worlders couldn't
function without some support from the local population, and those natives
in Rose Worlder service couldn't be of much use unless they knew at least
a part of the truth. And the taste of off-world goods -- of the things
only the Art could supply -- would probably go a long way toward
reconciling them to their inferior position. She had seen plenty of people
like that in the Rusadir and on the Fringe -- for some reason, they all
seemed to work in Customs. 

"I'm a little worried that we had to give that Rafaiel any name," Chase
Mago said thoughtfully. "Even a false one." 

Balthasar shrugged. "I wasn't wild about it, but what could I do? We could
switch hostels, but I don't see it doing us any good." 

Silence said, "We can't get out of the district before the curfew anyway,
but I think we ought to catch the next trans out of here. We've got what
we came for -- haven't we?" She gave the engineer a sharp look. 

He nodded. "Yes. This should be sufficient." 

Balthasar had a discontented look on his face, and Silence frowned. "Well,
Denis?" 

The Delian shrugged. "It just seems a shame, to have come so far, and to
see so little...." His voice trailed off unhappily, and he shook himself.
"No, I know you're right, Silence. But it's hard." 

"Not for me," Silence said, lying only a little, and Chase Mago nodded.
Balthasar managed a twisted smile. 

"All right. But don't blame me if you're disappointed." 

They turned onto a side street -- avoiding the now-empty market, Balthasar
said -- and Silence stiffened abruptly. There was something wrong in the
road ahead, a shadow that had no business being where it was. She reached
into her pocket, fingers curling around the butt of her heylin. Its
touchplate was warm under her thumb: full charge, she thought, and kept
walking. Balthasar had seen it, too; she could tell it from the sudden set
of his jaw and the way he'd jammed his left hand into the pocket of his
jacket, but he kept walking. Chase Mago tugged the vox humana to a safer
position on his shoulder, wrapping his arm protectively around the
crystals. Silence scanned the street around her, coldly afraid. She saw
nothing -- the warning shadow had vanished, dissolved as if it had never
been -- but the buildings to either side did not quite meet, leaving
crooked passageways between their poured-stone walls, perfect for an
ambush. The buildings themselves were old and abandoned, boards tacked
across their doors and windows, and one or two bore the black scars of
recent fires. 

"Great choice, Denis," she muttered, and was instantly ashamed. The maps
they had consulted didn't give any indication of the status of an area:
Balthasar couldn't have known. 

The Delian turned to face her, scowling, but his words were drowned in a
sudden sliding rumble. It came from behind them, from the end of the
street. Silence swung around, instinctively drawing her heylin. The entire
facade of one of the fire-marked buildings had collapsed, the rubble
blocking the street almost completely. No, she realized an instant later,
not collapsed. It had been brought down deliberately, a neat and very
effective trap. Figures in orange and blue were climbing over the piled
rubble, and out of the broken building. She glanced without hope over her
shoulder, and saw still more of them edging out of the alleys. 

"Oh, fuck it," Balthasar said softly, his heylin cradled in both hands.
Silence lifted hers as well, hoping that the advancing figures would
recognize the threat. Chase Mago swept the vox protectively against his
body, leveling his heylin one-handed. The figures -- they were all young,
mostly adolescents, Silence realized numbly -- stopped when they were a
few meters away, and began spreading out, trying to encircle the
star-travellers. 

"Oh, no, you don't," Balthasar said, and fired quite deliberately into the
wall just in front of a tall boy in blue feathers. He jerked back -- none
of them had been expecting the heylin's fixed-fire bolts, Silence thought,
with sudden hope -- and the advance halted. She kept her heylin levelled
anyway, pointing it at the nearest of the attackers. 

"Do we try talking?" she murmured. 

Balthasar shook his head, and somehow managed a strained smile. "No good.
This kind don't talk." 

Wonderful, Silence thought. "So what do we do?" 

Balthasar didn't answer immediately, swinging slowly to face the direction
they had been travelling. Very deliberately, he lowered his heylin at the
closest of the figures -- a young woman this time, her hair bound up with
orange and blue beads -- and took two steps forward. The woman hesitated,
then took a slow step back. Balthasar took another step forward, saying
softly, "Follow me." 

The woman leaped backward, shouting, "Fitch!" 

Balthasar cursed and dodged sideways, just avoiding a thrown rock. Silence
fired twice, not bothering to aim, and saw one of the attackers fall. Then
she saw a glint of metal in the hand of a youth at the back of the crowd,
from an object she recognized only too well. The magi's usual protections
were useless against it; her only defense was to use the Art before the
boy could fire. She fired at him, but missed, and saw him dive behind a
pile of rubble. Time slowed; she reached instinctively for the planetary
harmonies, to shape the weapons she needed, but her mind rebounded from
the overlying noise of the machines. It was not as bad as it had been in
other parts of the city -- the buildings here were empty shells, the dull
brick acting almost as a baffle. She let her heylin fall to the ground at
her feet, reaching again, with more care and with more focused strength,
for the harmonies surrounding her. For a fleeting moment, the world
wavered, and then she had it under control, the music vibrant in the air
around her. 

Already, the boy hiding behind the rubble had levelled his gun, was
shouting for the others to get out of his way. She could feel its
distortion in the enclosing music. This was no place for subtlety, for the
usual barriers and counter-Words. She spoke a single Word, and a tiny
patch of hell blossomed between her cupped hands, a door into the Formless
potential of the submaterial world. Hastily, she summoned Form, the first
that sprang to mind, the union of fire and air that was the lightning
bolt, then spoke the Words that would direct it to its target, the
combination of metal and powdered fire that practically shrieked its
menace aloud. There was no time to do more, to shape the bolt or to allow
for displacement. She opened her hands and the lightning roared upward,
air splitting away from its passage. A man's height above her hands, the
bolt divided, became threefold. The three fell together, one striking at
the youth Silence had seen behind the pile of rubble, the others splitting
off to strike guns she had neither seen nor felt. Then the fire vanished,
the air rolling back in a single long peal of thunder. Silence swallowed
hard, looking at the charred corpses, but kept her hands steady before
her, containing and controlling the patch of hell. 

"Let us pass," she said, and her voice was very loud in the sudden quiet. 

For a long moment no one moved, the figures in orange and blue standing
frozen in the dirty street. Then, very slowly, one tall boy let the chain
he carried slide, rattling, to the ground. The clatter and splash of metal
seemed almost as loud as the thunder; Silence winced, and kept her hands
steady with an effort. 

"It's her," the boy said, and sank slowly to his knees. 

An inarticulate murmur like a sudden wind ran through the group. Silence
did not dare take her eyes from them to glance at the other
star-travellers, waiting tensely at her shoulders, but in her state of
heightened awareness she could sense their confusion and wary hope,
feelings that matched her own. 

"No...." The voice, a woman's voice, came from behind Silence. The pilot
turned, not daring to move too quickly, keeping the patch of hell steady
before her. The opening spat and fizzed as the unFormed potential struck
her hastily constructed barrier, sparks rising from and falling back into
an eye-searing disk that was at once all colors and no color at all.
Another awed murmur rippled through the crowd, the sound tinged with fear.
Another youth dropped to his knees, and a girl followed him, stretching
herself face down on the cracked paving. One by one, the others followed,
until only a single woman was left standing. It was she who had spoken
before, Silence knew, but she herself said nothing, waiting for the other
woman to speak. 

"Silence," Balthasar said, very softly. "Silence...." 

"Shh." Silence fixed her eyes on the standing woman, and lifted one
eyebrow in imperious question. The woman hesitated a moment longer, then,
grudgingly, bent her knee. Silence took a deep breath, and nodded to the
men at her shoulders. 

"All right, let's go," she whispered, and took a step forward. 

"Lady." It was the kneeling woman who spoke, in a harsh, painful voice.
"We repent our sin. Don't leave us, we beg you." 

Silence froze, the words echoing in her mind. Behind her, she heard Chase
Mago's startled gasp, and Balthasar whispered a curse. 

"We will serve you faithfully. We've waited for you loyally all these
years," the kneeling woman went on. "Punish us however you want, but don't
leave us." 

"Who --" Silence began, and then rephrased her question, a vague plan
forming in her mind. "Who am I?" 

"Herself," the kneeling woman answered. "The Empress." 

Abruptly, Silence was seized with the desire to laugh. It was too much,
that these crazy natives should go from trying to kill her to kneeling at
her feet, that they should call her empress. She struggled to keep her
face expressionless, the laughter welling up inside her. 

"We'll serve you," the kneeling woman said, her voice cajoling now. "We'll
do whatever you want -- look." She reached into the bloused front of her
bright-blue vest, and pulled out a small, glittering disk. "See, we've
done what we were told; we've gathered the forbidden tools. Please, stay."

Silence's eyes narrowed, the laughter draining away. The woman was holding
an old-fashioned astrolabe, the tool port astrologers had used to
calculate relative planetary positions and the intersecting harmonic
envelopes. Such a thing shouldn't be loose on Earth, especially not here
in the Kills.... At her shoulder, Balthasar said softly, "This is
beginning to show potential." 

Chase Mago shook his head fractionally, the vox humana still hugged close
to his body. "I don't like it," he said. 

Silence hesitated. She had no doubt that this gang was dangerous, and the
dangers of impersonating a deity were a staple of star-travellers'
fiction. But the woman had an astrolabe -- carried it in her pocket like
any professional astrologer -- and she promised other items.... And,
almost as important, they could use this gang to protect themselves from
Rafaiel. I've been with Denis entirely too long, she thought, but nodded
slowly. "Very well," she said, and closed her hands over the patch of
hell, whispering the Word that sealed it. "We'll stay with you for a
while." 

"Thank you, lady," the kneeling woman said. She looked up, questioningly,
and Silence realized she was waiting for permission to rise. The pilot
nodded, and the other woman pushed herself slowly to her feet, her head
still lowered subserviently. 

"I'm named Efelay," she said. "What -- how should we call you, lady?" 

The pilot hesitated in her turn, wondering if she should invent something,
but then shrugged internally. "My name is Silence," she began, and was cut
off by the sudden awed murmur from the crowd. 

"Haven't they ever heard a virtue-name before?" Chase Mago muttered into
the noise. 

Silence shook her head. "Why should they have?" she answered, still
watching Efelay. The native woman lifted her hands, waiting until the
crowd quieted again. 

"And these others?" She nodded toward Balthasar and Chase Mago. 

Silence hesitated again. If she told the truth, she might be able to
associate the other star-travellers with whatever odd virtue she'd
acquired; a lie would be pointless, without knowing more of this group's
morals, and difficult to maintain. She said slowly, "They're my husbands.
Julian Chase Mago and Denis Balthasar." 

Efelay nodded, an almost ritual movement. "Then will you come with us,
sieuri?" 

"We will," Silence answered. 

At her back, Balthasar gave a choked laugh, and said, in his broadest
Delian accent, "Gods-consort, are we? What next?" 

Chapter 8 

EFELAY LED THEM THROUGH THE NARROW, EMPTY streets with unerring grace, the
rest of the gang following at a respectful distance. Silence was very
aware of their presence but was equally certain that she had cowed them,
at least for now. As they passed yet another burned-out group of
factories, these marked with some of the same orange-and-blue symbols worn
by the gang members, Silence wondered again if she was doing the right
thing. Still, they did have the astrolabe, and Efelay had promised other
"forbidden items": even so, Silence kept her inner ear tuned to the
surrounding harmonies, ready in an instant to summon up the powers that
had overawed the gang before. 

They were coming up on another building almost covered with
orange-and-blue markings, the painted symbols taller even than Chase Mago.
Some were completely unfamiliar, names and slogans written in a mixture of
coine and local orthography; others were distortions of the magi's
symbols. Silence's eyes narrowed, seeing those. One was a symbol of simple
conjuration, and the double lines of alchemical multiplication were
repeated above and to either side of a boarded-over doorway; beyond that
was a distorted drawing that might have been the sign of projection, but
the simple lines had been doubled and redoubled until the meaning was
completely lost. The pilot frowned. None of the symbols was placed
properly to call on any power. They were scattered at random, almost as
though a child with a hieroglyphica had been allowed to scribble on the
walls. If this was all the knowledge the gang possessed, she had already
lost her gamble. 

To her surprise, however, Efelay led them past the painted building, then
through an increasingly complicated series of alleys, until at last they
reached a narrow street almost blocked by fallen bricks and wood. Efelay
turned into that maze, walking along the right-hand wall, and seemed to
vanish as she ducked under a massive beam that slanted from the ruined
upper story to the rubble below. Silence checked, startled, and Balthasar
said, "Go on." The gang pressed close behind. 

There was a note in his voice that allowed no argument. Silence did as she
was told, running one hand lightly along the wall. As she reached the
beam, the wall disappeared: there was an entrance hidden there, shadowed
by the beam and the rubble, and further concealed by curtains hung to trap
the light. She fought her way through the heavy fabric, swearing to
herself, and emerged into a narrow corridor where the paint was peeling in
great strips from the walls. Efelay was waiting at its end, at the top of
a badly lit stairway. More curtains shrouded the landing, cutting off any
light from below. 

"Down here," she said, and beckoned. 

Silence followed, glancing back only once to make sure the other
star-travellers were at her back. The rest of Efelay's people trailed
after, but she ignored them. 

The gang's quarters were well below ground level, and cut off from the
rest of the abandoned building by still more blind turns and elaborate
light traps. The building had probably once been a factory, Silence
thought, with these lower levels once used for transit access or for work
that needed to be shielded from all outside influences, but the room in
which they finally stopped had been changed beyond all recognition. 

It was another long room, perhaps three times as long as it was wide, with
poured-stone walls that seemed to exude a damp chill. Silence shivered
once, and disciplined herself to be still. The first two-thirds of the
room was almost empty, dismounted tables and folding chairs, all of
brightly colored plastic, stacked against the walls. The walls at the far
end of the room had been hung with thick curtains painted with some of the
brightly colored symbols that she had seen on the building outside. Here,
they seemed to have been arranged in a more considered order. She frowned,
trying to trace the common theme, and then realized that the symbols had
been ordered according to the ancient -- and anciently discredited --
zodiacal system. A low platform had been built up within the space
enclosed by the curtains, its top painted black, and marked with more
silver-grey symbols. From where she stood, it was hard to be sure, but the
pilot thought she recognized a Ficinan-derived schema of the Earth system.
She frowned, confused -- a two-dimensional model was less than useless for
operations of the Art, and not much use for star-travellers, either, even
if the Earth natives knew anything about it -- and Efelay cleared her
throat. 

"If you'll take your place, lady?" 

Silence took a deep breath. This was the moment she had been dreading
since she'd made the decision to go with the gang, the moment when she'd
have to admit that she didn't have any idea what they wanted of her.
Balthasar would bluff, she knew, and bluff magnificently, with no more
information than she had. Or did she know more than she'd thought? she
wondered abruptly. They'd spoken of the empress, as Quin Javerry said his
father had done; predictors did tap into a common, if frequently silly and
ultimately uncontrollable source, and she did know what the elder Javerry
had seen.... She pitched her voice carefully, using the tones reserved for
public -- and therefore impressive -- ritual, and said, "What is it you
want of me?" 

She heard an intake of breath behind her: neither Balthasar nor Chase Mago
had heard her use that voice before. There was a murmur at once awed and
unhappy from the gang members crowding the doorway. Efelay caught her
breath, too, and answered, stammering a little, "To -- to teach us, lady.
That's why you've come?" Her voice trailed off at the end, and Silence
lifted an eyebrow. 

"Is it?" 

Efelay hesitated, but rallied quickly. "So we were promised." 

Silence smiled deliberately. "Are you certain of that?" Without waiting
for Efelay's answer, she swept on, "Think: you saw that I -- we -- would
come here, that I would be, as I am, a magus. You were promised nothing
more." She held her breath again, hoping that she'd guessed right, that
they hadn't seen anything more than the older Javerry. They couldn't've
seen more, she told herself again, but her muscles tightened anyway, ready
to fight or run. 

Slowly, Efelay nodded, and Silence hid her own gasp of relief. From the
crowd behind her came a second voice, a young man's this time. "I told you
that was all, that this didn't have anything to do with the teacher." 

In her state of heightened awareness, Silence could hear the first
stirrings of skepticism in the young man's voice, and braced herself to
meet it. Before she could speak, however, Efelay said, "She knew what was
seen, didn't she?" 

"Yeah, Fitch, you can't argue with that." The voice, too young to be
surely either male or female, came from somewhere in the group on the
stairs, and was echoed by a mutter of agreement. 

"So?" The young man the others had called Fitch was quick to answer.
Silence glanced sideways, and saw him shouldering his way out from among
the others, a tall, skinny youth with the beginnings of a beard straggling
across his jawline. In an attempt to make the fair hairs seem thicker, he
had dyed them blue and orange; instead of making him look ridiculous, the
patchy color somehow added to the menace. 

"Fitch," Efelay said, with new formality, "is our anadvocate." 

Silence nodded, wondering how that concept -- the Contrary, the one
required to speak for the unpopular side -- had survived the centuries,
when so much else had been lost. 

"If she didn't come to teach us," Fitch said, "what's she here for?" 

It was a pity, however, Silence thought remotely, that so many anadvocates
seemed to enjoy the job. She could feel the other star-travellers' sudden
tension at her side, and said, "I -- we -- are here for purposes of our
own. That we encountered you I admit is a sort of good fortune. You have
certain things that could help us, and we would be willing to trade
knowledge, teaching, for them. But we were not -- sent -- to teach you,
that I deny." 

Fitch and Efelay exchanged glances, the woman expressionless, Fitch
frowning, and then the anadvocate said, "I accept that." 

Silence heard Chase Mago's soft sigh of relief, but there was something in
Fitch's stance that stopped her from echoing it. 

"But," Fitch said, "if this is just a matter of bargaining, what's the
price for the three of us she killed, and the wounded?" 

Silence raised an eyebrow, hiding the cold fear in her stomach. That they
could escape, she had no doubt -- she could still feel the harmonies,
could still feel the powers waiting within her -- but it could cost them
dearly. She could not defend them all against the gang's mechanical
weapons. "That was fair fight," she said, and smiled. 

There was a long pause, and then, quite slowly, the anadvocate nodded.
"Fair fight," he acknowledged, "but there should be a price." The crowd
murmured in agreement. 

Efelay clapped her hands, cutting off the noise. "Will you give rest?" 

Silence hesitated, not knowing exactly what the other woman meant, and
Fitch said, "The rite thambhor." 

Silence bit off an instinctive refusal. At her back, Balthasar said, "Do
it." 

With an effort, Silence kept her face expressionless, forcing back her
anger. Thambhor was another of the examples the magi on Solitude used to
point out the misuses of the Art, a simple, almost mechanical operation
invested with a significance far greater than its real symbolic values.
Still, she knew what the rite involved, if not the forms of the ritual;
she could do what had to be done. And Balthasar was right; it was a small
enough price to pay to win the gang's support. She took a deep breath, and
said, as calmly as she could, "I'll do it, as you ask, as payment. But
I'll tell you this, also as payment -- as a first teaching. There's no
virtue in this rite, except for the virtue -- no, the necessity -- of
getting rid of the bodies." 

There was a murmur at that, incredulous and tinged with anger, and Silence
bit her lip, afraid she'd gone too far. Chase Mago stirred at her side.
"Or such virtue as imparted to it by the good intentions of practitioner
and witnesses," he said. 

Silence gave him a startled glance -- she hadn't expected that particular
brand of metaphysics from the engineer -- but nodded slowly. 

"Let's go," Efelay said, and pointed toward the stairs. 

The bodies had been left in yet another section of the warren, reached
through another series of stairs and tunnels. Finally they had climbed the
last stairway, and ducked through a carefully arranged light trap into a
small, stone-paved courtyard. Half of its surface was covered with rubble,
narrowing the space even further. In the center, piled awkwardly on a
trestle table, lay the bodies of the gang members killed in the attack. No
one had made any attempt to lay out the charred bodies properly; whoever
had brought them had apparently decided he or she had done enough just by
placing them on the table. Silence swallowed hard, sickened by what she'd
done. She doubted she would have done any better, wasn't sure she would
have done as much. 

The gang had followed her up the stairs, had, without speaking, arranged
themselves around the walls of the courtyard, with Efelay standing at the
far side of the circle. Silence looked up sharply, and Efelay said, "Let's
begin." 

"Let's," Fitch echoed, and Silence was grateful for his acid voice. His
anger steadied her; she put her own guilt and sorrow grimly aside, and
concentrated on the work at hand. This was a work of simple dissolution --
she would not think of it as thambhor -- an operation controlled primarily
by a world's lunar harmonies, and by the interaction of core notes and the
distant, dissonant music of its moons. On a moonless world, one could use
the music of the system's other planets, though that was a less effective
expedient, and it was often better to use another operation altogether,
but here.... Silence glanced up, and saw Earth's single moon, rising
three-quarters full above the broken roofs of the surrounding factories.
One moon -- the first moon known to human beings, to the first magi -- and
one core harmony, a music that was becoming more familiar to her with
every passing day. She murmured the First Cantation, letting herself slide
into the familiar waiting state. It was becoming easier to block out the
noise of the machines, though there seemed to be fewer of them in this
part of the mainurb; she could feel the core notes almost at once, and let
them rise around her. Then, very cautiously, she damped them down, as she
would damp down the music of the harmonium, and reached instead for the
music of the moon. 

It was there, but very faint, despite the swollen shape in the sky. She
listened for what seemed to be a very long time before she was sure she
had it under control. Only then did she speak the Words that brought the
two harmonies together. There was a sort of sigh in the courtyard's chill
air, a buzzing that was almost like a human music. Faintly, Silence heard
a murmur from the gang members lined up along the walls, and, as faintly,
heard Balthasar telling them to be quiet. 

The buzzing sigh swelled further, the sound taking form, a faint silver
haze, just visible against the dark walls. Silence spoke again, shaping
and directing the controlled dissonance. The haze moved, coalescing into a
silver fog. She gestured, and it moved toward the table where the bodies
lay. Slowly, moving under her direction, the fog formed itself into a
ragged disk, and lowered itself toward the bodies. Tendrils formed,
drooped, and touched the bodies, faint sparks showing here and there.
Silence brought the disk closer, until it touched and enclosed the bodies,
hiding them from sight. The sound shifted, darkened and deepened, and then
returned to what it had been. Silence spoke a final Word, releasing the
controlled harmonies. There was a sound almost like chimes, and the
silvery light vanished. The bodies were gone as well. 

Silence glanced around the circle, feeling the weariness that came from
performing such an operation completely unsupported, but not daring to
acknowledge it yet. "There," she said aloud, "what you asked is done." 

"It's done," Efelay agreed, and, after a moment, Fitch nodded, too. 

"It's done." 

"And our bargain?" Silence asked. "My teaching in exchange for the use of
your -- what you call your forbidden tools?" 

There was another, shorter pause, and then Efelay nodded. "It's a bargain,
lady Silence." 

"It's a bargain," the anadvocate echoed. 

The gang provided them with a pair of rooms in one of the factory
outbuildings, in a section set well apart from the gang's other holdings,
and not too obtrusively guarded. The gang controlled the usable parts of
at least four such structures, each one linked to the main building
through a maze of tunnels. The tunnels had to antedate the abandoning of
the factory, Silence thought -- the gang didn't have the technical or
mechanical skills to dig so deep in the Kills' unstable soil -- but she
could not figure out the tunnels' original purpose. They were convenient,
though, allowing the gang to move from one part of the factory to another
without being seen, and adding an additional layer of insulation against
both mechanical sensors and the more sophisticated questers available to
the Rose Worlders. 

After the first few days, the gang was scrupulous in allowing them the
appearance of privacy, though Balthasar swore they were still being
watched. Silence did not doubt him: whatever else they might be, the gang,
and Efelay in particular, was not noticeably naive. As an experiment,
Silence enclosed their rooms in an aphonic ring; when none of the gang
members mentioned the creation, she sealed off the space with a simonist
lock, keyed only to the star-travellers. Its presence was unmistakable,
unlike the ring's, and she waited nervously for Efelay or Fitch to comment
on it. Neither mentioned it, however, and the pilot allowed herself to
relax a little. 

Efelay allowed the star-travellers access to the gang's collection of
"forbidden tools" almost at once, and when Silence said she needed
materials she had left at the hostel, sent a couple of gang members to
fetch the carryalls. Looking at the materials the gang had collected,
Silence was very glad she had a few things of her own. The gang's
collection of tools was a very mixed bag, ranging from useful items such
as the astrolabe to a child's toy, a Ficinan model of the Earth system
enclosed in a sphere of crystal. The planets, surrounded by haloes of
colored light representing the planetary harmonies, moved soundlessly
along their orbits, the lights fuzzing and blending as the planets moved
from opposition to conjunction. Silence appropriated that at once as a
useful tool for her teaching, leaving the engineer to explore the rest of
the cache. 

She discovered almost at once that she had no talent for teaching, lacking
the ability to restate a paradigm in order to make it comprehensible. To
her surprise, however, both Balthasar and the anadvocate Fitch had that
knack, and were able to translate for her. Her more complicated
explanations tended to be filtered first through the Delian, and then
through Fitch, who worked and reworked Balthasar's version until Efelay
and a dark youth named T'la, who seemed to be the most naturally talented
of the group, understood. 

Taken as a group, the gang knew a surprising number of individual facts --
among other things, they believed in what Fitch described, with a sardonic
grin, as the "UFO heresy," that space travel is or was once possible, and
that there were other intelligent beings on unnamed other planets, which
made it easier for the star-travellers to explain the Rose Worlders'
domination of Earth. They also had learned, from samizdat, the crude,
hand-printed booklets that circulated at astronomical prices among the
Kills' underworld, a surprising assortment of workable and unworkable
operations. However, they lacked both an organizing principal and an
awareness of the importance of such a principal. Silence, trying to take
them through what she remembered of the Trivium as she had been taught it
on Solitudo, was continually sidetracked by questions about the more
sophisticated applications of the Three Arts, and frustrated by her own
inability to explain why the basic structure was so important. 

"Why don't we just write it all down, and then look it up when we need
it?" a skinny boy -- Larabee, his name was, Silence remembered, after a
moment's thought -- complained. It was at least the fourth time that day
that someone had made the same objection. Silence took a deep breath,
fighting back her anger. 

"Because you may not have the books with you, or have time to look it up,"
she said, shortly, falling back on the one explanation that seemed to
carry some weight with the Earth natives. There was more to it than that
-- a written chart was static, unable to express the multiple nexuses, the
subtle and shifting connections between categories, all of which were
governed by explicit symbolic rules. On Solitudo, she had learned those
rules by rote, memorizing both those lists and the elaborate ordering
methods, systems far more complicated than the comparatively simple rules
for piloting, simply because she had been told to do it, because that was
the way the Art was learned. She had been rewarded by the wonderful moment
when everything suddenly became clear, the almost-epiphany when the
systems began to function as they should, leading her mind automatically
through the required conjunctions. She had tried explaining that, once,
and Balthasar had done his best to translate, but even he hadn't fully
understood. Silence had admitted defeat, and looked instead for the
practical explanations that seemed to convince the students. 

"But doesn't it take time to remember all that?" someone else, a girl this
time, asked from the back of the group. 

Sometimes, Silence thought, I'd almost believe the magi when they say
women don't have the right sort of mind to appreciate the Art. She
controlled her anger, and said, "No. The more you learn -- the more you
know, the faster it gets." 

The girl scowled, and Fitch said, "Like a computer, sort of. The better
you know the system, the faster you find things?" He looked at Silence
with a sudden smile, pleased with the metaphor. 

Nothing like a computer, Silence thought, with a shiver of distaste. A
computer is non-thought, anti-thought; what it creates destroys the Art.
... She put aside that knowledge with an effort, forced herself to
contemplate the metaphor itself, as a metaphor, without the emotional
resonances. After all, she herself had learned to use the information
systems at the transport stations -- which were computers -- by making use
of the techniques she had learned on Solitudo to analyze unfamiliar
symbolic languages. Still, the equation of computer knowledge with the
symbology that was the basis of the Art disturbed her on a very deep
level. To make that association seemed somehow dangerous, inviting the
computer's anti-thought to invade the Art at its most basic, and thus most
vulnerable point. Fitch was waiting for his answer, the smile fading a
little. Silence sighed. "Yes, that's true to a certain extent," she said.
"But remember what I told you about computers before. They can't be used
around the workings of the Art -- they're like all mechanical creations,
except worse. So it's a dangerous way to think of it, Fitch, even if it's
true." 

"But if it's just a metaphor," Larabee began, and Silence glared at him. 

"Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you? Metaphors are real." She
bit back the rest of her outburst, and went on, more calmly, "Metaphor is
simply one class of symbol, do you see that? And symbols are the basis of
the Art; symbols are the way we manipulate reality, and therefore symbols
are -- must be -- real, too. Think about that for the rest of the day,
understand it. We'll talk more about it tomorrow." 

She pushed herself to her feet before anyone could protest at the abrupt
ending, and stalked off toward the room where Chase Mago was working. She
ignored Efelay's voice behind her, soothing and dismissing the others.
After a moment, she became aware of Balthasar's presence at her elbow, and
slowed apologetically. To her relief, however, the Delian didn't mention
the day's lesson, saying instead, "How's Julie doing with the vox?" 

Silence shrugged. "How would I know? I think he's still sorting out what
works from the mess they've collected." She still sounded sour, and knew
it. She glanced sideways with a half-smile of apology, and Balthasar
nodded. 

"Frustrating, I know. But it buys us time -- and the use of their toys." 

Silence smiled fully then in spite of herself. "Don't you feel old?" 

Balthasar grinned back. "Not me." 

Silence snorted, and then they had reached the painted curtain that
covered the door of the gang's treasure room. The curtain was the result
of the pilot's first attempt to teach the gang an elementary manipulation,
before she'd realized how fragmentary their knowledge really was. She
lifted her hand, feeling the warding music imprisoned in warp and weft,
held by the painted pattern, and pushed it aside to step into the enclosed
space. Chase Mago had set up a sort of workshop here, covering the walls
and the floor and ceiling with crudely made baffles, but Silence could
feel the leashed music trembling in the air around her. If the shielding
ever failed, or if she and the engineer had been less skillful than they'd
thought in preparing the baffles, the Rose Worlders could hardly miss the
site. And the Rose Worlders did keep a watch for such things; she had
learned that much in her time with the gang. Quin Javerry had been right;
the Rose Worlders had attacked the farm because they'd discovered the
senior Javerry's successful experiments. The farm, unshielded and set far
away from the urban areas that might have provided some disguising
dissonance, must have sung on their screens like a half-tuned keel.
Silence winced, and put the thought aside. 

Chase Mago had sorted the gang's collection of "forbidden tools" into
several different categories, and objects were arranged along the walls
and across the single work table in a complicated pattern. Most of the
items had been set in a pile at the back of the room as useless. Silence
recognized a ring from an orrery among the debris, and a couple of frayed
strings that might once have belonged to a magus's monochord, but most of
the things were no longer identifiable. What could the scraps of black
cloth have been? she wondered. Durafelt, or some other material for
baffles? She stooped to touch it, but felt only ordinary cloth. 

The engineer grunted his agreement, and Silence looked up quickly. 

"I'd like to know why they brought it, too," Chase Mago went on. "Hell,
I'd like to know why they got most of this stuff, never mind where." 

Balthasar laughed. "You can't expect them to tell you where they got it,
Julie. They've got their trade secrets." 

"I'd like to know -- I need to know what some of this is." Chase Mago
gestured to a handful of clear tubes spread out on the main table. They
glittered and sparked in the glow from the fixed-fire lamp Silence had
rigged for the work space. "Those, for instance. I could maybe use them
for a tuner, but I haven't the faintest idea what the tolerances might be
-- from the look of them, they could be anything from ship's parts to
something out of a homunculus, for God's sake. And I don't have enough of
them to test them out -- half of them are flawed anyway, and by the time I
knew what I had, I'd've smashed them all." 

He stopped, glaring at the other star-travellers, and Silence said
quickly, "I think we might be able to take Efelay into telling us what
these things were being used for when they acquired them." 

"If they know," Balthasar said. He leaned against the worktable, and
picked up one of the thin tubes. He held it under the light, turning it so
that reflected lights danced across the peeling walls. Chase Mago gave an
exclamation of annoyance, and took it away from him. 

"Do you want the counter-clash to shatter it? Leave my things alone." 

The Delian shrugged, and looked at Silence. "I just wonder how much of
this they're buying on the darkside, getting it third- or fourth-hand from
people who don't know what it is, either." 

Silence shook her head. "Not too much," she said, thoughtfully. "To make
it worth buying, someone must know something...." Her voice trailed oft"
as she glanced at the objects littering the room. "No, that's not
necessarily so, is it? There seems to be a market for anything the Rose
Worlders use." She shook herself. "Still, why don't we try asking it that
way, Denis? Put it as needing to know what things were being used for, not
where they got it." 

"We can try," Balthasar said, "but I'm not hopeful." 

"It would be a help," Chase Mago said, with thinly disguised impatience. 

"We'll try," Silence said, and touched his shoulder gently. 

The engineer made a face, shrugging a little, but did not turn away.
Before he could say anything, however, the bells sewn to the inside of the
door curtain chimed, and one of the younger gang members stuck his head
into the workshop. 

"Sorry, guys -- sieuri, I mean -- but Efelay wants to see you right now,
all of you. She says it's important." 

Silence exchanged quick glances with the other star-travellers. It wasn't
like Efelay to interrupt them -- and it wasn't like her to overestimate a
thing's importance, either. "We'll come. Where is she?" 

"In the Out," the boy answered. "I'll take you." 

The Out was the surviving half of a building set somewhat apart from the
rest of the factory used by the gang. There was no tunnel leading from the
last of the linked buildings to the Out; instead, the star-travellers
followed their guide up a narrow stairway to a smelly, half-covered alley.
It was the first time in several days that Silence had been outside, and
she found herself glancing rather wistfully at the hazy sky. 

The boy led them through a low arch half hidden by a carefully arranged
pile of rubble, then through yet another series of light traps and into a
narrow, badly lit hall. The walls were scribbled with more of the gang's
orange and blue symbols, the symbols they used, Silence realized, to mark
their "public" buildings, the one from which they confronted strangers. 

The hall ended abruptly in a curtained doorway. The boy paused there
briefly, then swept the curtain up and back. Silence took a deep breath,
suddenly aware of the theatricality of the gesture, and made her entrance.

The room was crowded, perhaps a third of the gang gathered in its center.
Efelay turned as the star-travellers entered, and beckoned for them to
join her, saying, "Lady Silence, I think this is a matter that concerns
you." 

"Oh?" The pilot came forward warily. The walls, painted with the
overlapping orange and blue designs for perhaps three or four meters, only
accentuated the height of the ceiling; it was like walking into the bottom
of one of the crystal tubes that controlled Solitudo Hermae's atmosphere.
The gang made way for her, and closed in again behind the star-travellers
as they passed. 

Efelay and Fitch were standing together at the center of the circle,
staring thoughtfully at the man whose arms were pinioned by two more gang
members. He stared back with a sort of frightened determination, licking
at the blood that trickled from his split lip. He was young, Silence saw,
not much older than most of the gang members, and handsome in a nervous,
feral way. He wore a short, brocaded coat that glittered with multicolored
metallic threads, and a brightly feathered mask lay crumpled at this feet.
Rich boy, Silence thought, but then she saw the worn workcloth trousers,
and the coat's carefully mended seams. Not rich, then, but fashionable
beyond his means, and in a way she hadn't seen before. 

"Lady Silence," Efelay said again. "This -- person says he has business
with you." 

The prisoner took a half-step forward, and was hauled back by his guards.
"You're the ones who bought my vox?" he said, and winced as the words
jarred his cut mouth. 

"Your vox?" Chase Mago said involuntarily. 

Silence gestured for him to be quiet. "We bought a vox, from a man called
Rafaiel." 

"That was mine." There was a desperation in his voice that had nothing to
do with the gang surrounding him, and Silence's attention sharpened
further. 

"I need -- I want it back," the young man continued. "I'll pay you what
you spent, and then some -- or whatever you want. But I want my vox back."

"I say we put him down the shaft," Fitch said, and nodded toward a gaping
doorway at the far end of the room. Silence saw the prisoner twitch, but
he kept his eyes focused on her face. 

"That vox had to have come from off-world, Julie?" she asked, keeping her
voice low. 

The engineer nodded. "It isn't old enough to be pre-War," he answered, in
the same soft tone, "and it couldn't've been made here. Not without magi's
help, anyway." 

Silence nodded, as much to herself as to Chase Mago, and the prisoner
said, "Then you'll let me have it back?" 

"Maybe." Silence paused deliberately, studying the young man. He was
afraid of the gang, she knew, could read that in every movement of his
body, but there was something else driving him -- someone of whom he was
more afraid, perhaps? It was impossible to be sure, and she put that
question aside for the moment. "Where'd you get this vox?" 

The young man jerked in his captors' hands, and Silence's eyes narrowed.
That was not the question he had been expecting, of that she felt sure.
"Answer me," she said, and put compulsion into her voice. It wasn't a
technique that often worked, and she was not surprised when the young man
shook his head convulsively. 

"I can't," he said, and shook his head again. His voice wavered as he
added, "Surely it's not important?" 

That was the textbook counter to an attempt at compulsion, Silence knew,
the attempt to distract the questioner, to postpone the next question in
order to allow one to rebuild one's defenses. An off-world vox, and
knowledge of off-world techniques.... 

"I still say we ought to drop him down the shaft," Fitch said again. 

"Not yet," Silence said, with deliberate menace, and raised her left hand.
Slowly, exaggerating each movement, she began to sketch the outline of a
geas, the pentagram first, and then the warding crescents. She glanced at
the prisoner -- he had paled even further, and he was sweating -- and
started to close the geas. The young man threw himself violently backward,
almost dragging the guards down with him. They hauled him upright again,
swearing, and one of them punched him hard in the stomach, doubling him
over in their arms. Silence murmured the Words that dismissed the geas
half-formed, and waited until the prisoner had his breathing under control
again. 

"So," she said, and smiled thinly. "You recognized that, too. Where did
you learn it -- the same place you got your vox?" 

The young man hesitated, trembling, and Silence lifted her hand again. 

"Yes," the prisoner said quickly. "Yes, that's right." 

"Where?" Silence asked. 

"From -- a friend," the young man answered, and flinched, anticipating a
blow that did not come. 

"He sleeps with the Unionists," Efelay observed. 

"Does he, now?" Balthasar murmured, and Silence couldn't check her own
satisfied smile. A connection with the Unionists -- with the Rose Worlders
-- recognition of a geas in formation, and a real vox humana.... 

"The vox came from off-world," she said aloud. "Who gave it to you?" 

The prisoner flinched again. "He'll kill me." 

"We'll kill you," Efelay said, dispassionately. 

"Answer me," Silence said, and lifted her left hand again. 

The prisoner pulled away, and the guards dragged him back. "Don't," he
said, and took a quick breath. "He works on the Island, that's all, just a
friend." 

Silence shook her head. "I can read you," she said, and the young man made
a face. 

"He works on the Island," he said again, and added, sullenly, "His name's
Radan." 

"Kennet Radan?" Efelay said sharply, and Fitch whistled. 

"We've caught us an interesting fish this time." 

Radan? Silence thought. She glanced at Efelay, not wanting to ask aloud,
and the gang leader shrugged. 

"Kennet Radan is a Unionist functionary, mid-rank or better -- his title's
havildar, I think." 

The young man made a slight, involuntary movement, and Silence nodded to
herself. "Havildar" was an old, old word, dropped from all but the most
formal hierarchies within a century of the War's ending. Even the Hegemony
no longer used it, except as an honorific. Once, however, it had signified
the second most powerful post within a government department, a position
that did not change with party or dynasty, but was held by a professional
bureaucrat. All things considered, she thought, I doubt an Earth native
could rise much higher -- and I'm quite sure no Rose Worlder would give a
native a vox humana. She glanced at Balthasar and saw him smiling, the
calculation obvious in his face. 

"All right," she said slowly. "What's your name, anyway?" 

The prisoner did not answer, but Fitch said, "He calls himself Mikajaa.
He's a musician, of sorts." 

"Mikajaa, then." Silence nodded. "I'll name a price for returning your
vox. I want to see Radan." 

"Silence?" Chase Mago's voice was frankly appalled. 

The pilot glanced at him, unsmiling. "Don't you see? He can get us a tuner
-- if he got this Mikajaa a vox humana, he can get us a tuner, and you
won't have to fool around with these bits and pieces." She looked back at
the prisoner. "Because if he doesn't get us a tuner, we can destroy him
without ever harming ourselves." 

"Wait a minute," Efelay said, her face hardening abruptly. "We had an
agreement." 

Silence turned to the other woman, cursing her own unguarded tongue. "I
don't see that this affects it," she began. 

Fitch cut in. "This wasn't part of the bargain, messing with the Unions
directly." 

Silence lifted an eyebrow in calculated disdain and said to Efelay, "This
is our best chance to get the thing we need -- the tuner -- without having
to take all of the tools you've collected. I'm offering exactly what I
offered before; it's just your part that's changed -- become easier, I'd
say." 

Fitch frowned at that, but Efelay gestured for him to be quiet. "What
exactly do you want?" 

"Your support -- your backing -- when we meet Radan." 

Efelay nodded. "For your teaching," she said, "We'll do it." 

Mikajaa took a deep breath, and capitulated. "All right. I can take you to
him." 

"Oh, no," Balthasar said. "Neutral ground." 

"The Earth-born don't leave the island," Mikajaa answered. He licked
nervously at his bloody lip, and jerked his head at Efelay and Fitch. "Ask
them, if you don't know yourselves. If he -- if I -- betrayed you, you
could still ruin him." He grimaced bitterly. "You'll get your chance to
talk to him. He'll probably like it." 

Silence nodded. It seemed logical enough -- if I were the Rose Worlder in
charge of the local help, she thought, I wouldn't let them out of my
sight, either -- and Mikajaa was being right about his chances of
betraying them. The only way to stop them from telling any captors what
Mikajaa's patron had done was to kill them, and it was highly unlikely
that the musician would be able either to do it himself or to arrange
their deaths before one of them could tell the Rose Worlders just what was
going on. It was a risk worth taking, if it would get them a real tuner,
and get them off Earth that much more quickly.... She nodded again,
decisively. "We'll do it," she said aloud. 

"Silence," Chase Mago said again. "I can retune with what we've got." 

"And how long will it take you?" Balthasar retorted. "She's right, Julie."

"There's more involved here than just retuning," Silence said. She
hesitated, then added, "Aili, remember?" She willed them to understand.
Whatever happened with their contract or with Aili, once the Hegemon
understood that Earth could be taken from the Rose Worlders' control,
there would be an invasion, and the more information they could provide,
the less chance there would be of being dragooned into the invasion fleet.
All around her, the gang members did their best to look as though they'd
heard nothing, but she was not deceived. She lifted an eyebrow at the
anadvocate, who had the grace to blush and look away. 

The engineer sighed. "All right." 

"Some of us will go with you part of the way," Efelay said. "Just to keep
him honest." 

Silence considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Up to the bridges,
then." 

"It'll be a pleasure," Fitch said, and gestured to the youths holding
Mikajaa's arms. They released him, and the musician stooped quickly to
recover his broken half-mask. 

"One thing, Mikajaa," Silence said, and the musician straightened warily.
"Do the bridge Watchers scan for weapons -- off-world weapons," she added,
and saw Mikajaa wince at her casual mention of forbidden topics. 

"Answer the Lady," Fitch growled. 

Mikajaa nodded reluctantly. "They scan for everything," he said, after a
moment. 

Silence glanced at the other star-travellers. "Better leave the heylins,
then." She held out her hand. 

Chase Mago slipped his heylin out of the pocket of his coat without
protest, but Balthasar hesitated. "Do you think that's wise?" 

"Wiser than trying to sneak them in," Silence answered. The Delian made a
face, but handed over the heylin. The pilot put her own heylin with the
others, and frowned down at the piled weapons. She could sense the leashed
fire in their chambers, and the distant harmonies of the planet: carefully
but quickly, she wove the two together, sealing the heylins in a shell of
frozen air. When she had finished, they seemed to float a few centimeters
above her hands, the seal invisible but tangible. She offered the creation
to Efelay, who took it warily, shivering as her hands touched the
invisible solidity. 

"I've sealed them because I don't want anyone trying to use them and
getting hurt," Silence said. They all knew that was not the whole truth,
but Efelay nodded anyway. 

"We'll keep them safe," she said. 

"Thank you," Silence said, and turned her attention to the musician. He
was wiping the blood from his mouth with the sleeve of his undershirt, but
stopped, feeling her eyes on him. 

"A warning, Mikajaa," the pilot went on. "You know what I am -- I'll know
if you're trying to betray us, and I'll stop you." She sketched the
opening gesture of a geas in the air between them, and saw the musician
flinch away again. 

"I understand," he whispered. 

"Good," Silence said coldly, and suppressed the sudden feeling of guilt.
She had been under geas herself; she should know better than to use those
tactics.... I haven't put him under geas, she told herself firmly, and I
won't, if I can frighten him without it. That's all that matters, getting
him to cooperate. She looked at her husbands, reading her own
determination in their faces. "Let's go." 

It was a long walk to the bridge that linked the Kills to the Rose
Worlders' main holding on Man's Island itself. One spur of the elevated
train ran there, of course, but Balthasar vetoed that, for fear Mikajaa
would find some way of alerting the Transit Authority. The musician looked
sulky at the suggestion, but said nothing. Instead, Fitch led them through
the uncrowded streets, occasionally pausing to point out some local
landmark. Balthasar listened closely, obviously plotting escape routes,
and Silence was just as glad to let him deal with it, and with the other
gang members who were following a distance behind, ready to intervene if
they were attacked. Instead, she watched Mikajaa, trying to read the
thoughts behind the handsome face. The musician was more than he seemed,
of that she felt certain -- for one thing, she could not imagine taking
the risk of revealing any part of the Rose Worlders' secrets to someone
who was nothing more than a convenient bedmate -- but she couldn't be sure
what he was or just how much he did know. He would have to be watched
closely once they came into the Rose Worlders' domain, she decided, and
marshalled all her powers. Once they were across the bridge, everything
would depend on her. 

"We're coming up on the Rosemont," Fitch said over his shoulder. He slowed
down as they approached the next cross street, coming to a halt in front
of a barred store window. "I don't think we should go any farther. " 

Balthasar nodded. "All right. What's beyond here?" 

"More stores, houses, a couple of blocks of that," Fitch answered, "and
then the Rosemont. You just follow this street and it'll bring you right
up to the approach." 

"Wonderful," Chase Mago muttered, and made a gesture of apology. "Sorry,
Fitch, no insult intended." 

The anadvocate shrugged. 

"Thank you, Fitch," Silence said. "We'll go on alone from here." 

"I'll have T'la wait for you, here by the fountains," Fitch answered, and
turned away. 

"Fountains?" Silence said, and then she saw, between two houses, the
entrance to a sort of courtyard. A stone basin was just visible between
the walls, though no water played over its dusty surface. "Oh, I see." 

Fitch lifted his hand in farewell, and was gone. 

Silence turned back to study the musician, who returned her stare with
outward calm. "You understand what you have to do," she said. 

Mikajaa nodded. "It's my own neck, and Radan's," he said. "I'll tell them
you're part of a band; that'll be good enough." 

"It had better be," Balthasar said, with silken menace. 

The musician gave him a baleful glare. "Do you think I want to get
killed?" 

"We're trusting not," Silence said. "Come on." 

The street curved gently as they approached the Rosemont, then widened
into a sort of plaza. The open space was paved with square tiles of some
dark-grey stone; beyond it was a low, white-painted fence, reaching only
to the middle of her thigh. A grass-covered hill rose gently beyond that,
sweeping up to support the massive pillar of the bridge. There were no
pedestrians in sight: clearly this was an area that ordinary people
avoided. Silence frowned thoughtfully, studying the arrangement. It was
significant, of that she felt sure, each element a part of some hidden
schema, but she was not certain of its purpose. Or rather, she corrected
herself, she could guess it had protective intent, but she wasn't certain
of its precise function. The stone looked familiar, though -- like the
treated chips of slate the magi used to animate their Watchers, she
thought suddenly, and her attention sharpened. That slate was far from
inexpensive, or easily made; no one would use it for paving without very
good reason. 

Frowning, she whispered the Words that allowed her to see the patterns
imposed by the Art. For a moment, she saw nothing, but then a web of
twisted lines became visible, floating just above the surface of the
slates. She studied it dubiously, her steps slowing, but saw no traps
concealed in its convoluted surface. It was a variation of the same
schemae that created the Watchers, a warning device, and nothing more.
Even so, she found she was holding her breath as she stepped onto the dark
stones. 

The moment that her foot touched the first slate, a door slammed open in
the base of the bridge piling. Even though she'd been expecting something,
Silence jumped, startled, and glanced quickly at her companions. Balthasar
smiled back at her, one hand resting on Mikajaa's shoulder in a seemingly
friendly gesture. The musician's face was impassive. After a moment,
Balthasar released him, still smiling, but kept close to the younger man's
side. 

Two men were waiting in the doorway, rifles lowered at the ready. Seeing
that, Silence frowned and said, "Are they always this suspicious?" 

Mikajaa nodded. "Oh, yeah. They don't really like having the Earth-born on
the Island -- if they could put us anywhere else, they would. But don't
worry, I can get us through." 

"I see." Silence studied him warily. This was the first time Mikajaa had
volunteered information, and also the first time he'd referred to himself
as one of the "Earth-born." I wonder, the pilot thought, does that refer
to any native, or just to the ones who serve the Rose Worlders? And if
it's the latter, have we been -- very neatly -- manipulated? 

There was no time to pursue the thought. They had reached the bottom of
the little hill, and Mikajaa stopped at the opening in the fence, nodding
to the man who came down the hill toward them. The guard nodded back
politely enough, but his face was closed and wary. 

"Papers?" 

Silence pulled her own folder carefully from her pocket, and the others
did the same. The guard scanned them without haste, and then handed
Mikajaa's folder back to him. 

"I know you," he said. "What about the rest of you?" 

"They're friends of mine," Mikajaa said. "Part of the band. Mir Radan
wanted to meet them." 

The guard lifted an eyebrow, and flipped through the papers again,
scanning each set of ident stamps in turn. After what seemed like an
interminable tune, but was probably only a minute or so, he shrugged and
handed them back to Mikajaa. The musician, face still carefully impassive,
handed them to their owners. "Do we pass?" he asked. 

The guard hesitated, and then sighed. "Yeah, go ahead. You'll be
red-stamped at the other end of the bridge. Mikajaa can tell you what that
means." 

"Thanks," Silence murmured, and the others echoed her. The guard did
something with the control box at his belt, and nodded. Mikajaa stepped
carefully through the opening, and the guard beckoned to the
star-travellers. 

"One at a time, now," he said. 

Silence stepped through the opening first, and felt the tingling of a
leashed newtonian field. It came from the fencing to either side, she
realized, and shivered. Anyone attempting to cross that ordinary-looking
fence would be immobilized by the field -- would be torn apart, if the
power input were high enough. She glanced at the other star-travellers,
wondering if they'd felt it, too. Chase Mago lifted an eyebrow as he
stepped through the gate, but Balthasar, as always, was unreadable. 

"This way," Mikajaa said, and pointed to the open door. 

A spiral stairway led up through the center of the pillar. There were
guards at the top and bottom, but they made no move to stop the newcomers.
Silence could feel their eyes on her, curious and appraising, and wished
suddenly for a veil. Lacking that, she met their stares as calmly as she
could, and hoped they would attribute her nervousness to ordinary fear. 

The bridge itself was surprisingly narrow, barely wide enough for two
groundcars to pass abreast, and quite empty of traffic. There was no
provision for vehicles, either; in fact, the paving was deliberately
ridged in a pattern designed to disrupt a hoverfan. Silence stumbled on
the first of the ridges, and swore irritably. 

"Over here," Mikajaa said. 

There was a smoothed path through the ridges, after all, small enough to
force them to walk single file. Mikajaa took the lead, and Silence fell in
behind him, wishing she had been able to bring her heylin. Still, she
consoled herself, at this distance the Art would be able to control him. 

The bridge seemed very long. To either side, support-steel cables dipped
and rose between the twinned towers, smaller cables connecting that broad
coil to the platform of the roadway. The water was very blue and choppy,
the surface broken up by hundreds of little waves that appeared and
vanished abruptly. There was no particular pattern to their movement, no
current visible in the water. Silence studied it curiously. Some of the
water would be coming downriver, mingling here with the tide from the
great ocean that lay to the east. She thought she could pick out a
brownish tinge to the water to her left, but it might have been only the
reflection of the buildings lining the shore. She sighed and looked away. 

As they approached the bridge's central tower, Silence became aware of a
faint sighing, like the noise of wind through narrow-leaf marryns. The
sound grew stronger as she came closer to the tower, becoming more like
running water, or the noise of a distant fire. 

At her back, Chase Mago said, "Do you hear -- ?" 

"I hear it," Silence said, and touched Mikajaa's shoulder. The musician
did not turn. 

"There's some kind of guard field coming up," he said. "It's normal." 

"I don't like it," the engineer muttered, but said nothing more. 

Silence shivered, and felt the hairs on her arms rise slowly. Whatever the
field was -- not another newtonian field, that much she knew, but she did
not recognize the schema -- it was very powerful. The dull, rushing noise
seemed to come from the clear air to either side of the tower, not from
the tower itself. It grew still louder as they came within a few meters of
the structure, and Silence caught herself glancing back, looking for the
approaching wind. She controlled herself angrily, forcing herself to
consider it as an academic problem, even as Mikajaa said, "Relax." 

"You'd better be right about this," Balthasar said again, and Silence
could hear the fear beneath the threat. 

"It feels like --" she began, and stopped abruptly, remembering that the
Rose Worlders would have listeners set up along the span of the bridge. 

"Oh, I know, it's all right," Balthasar said, but he did not sound
appeased. 

"Relax," Mikajaa said again. 

Then they had reached the tower. Silence could feel the leashed power, far
greater than anything she had handled. Even on the Earth-road, when she
had manipulated those magnificent symbols, she had been assisting an
existing process, channeling power into a path for which it already had an
affinity. Whatever formed the basis of this field was unstable, barely
controlled by the strict bonds laid upon it. The pilot could feel its
restlessness, could almost hear, beneath the rushing noise, a voiceless
moaning, something demanding to be free. She could almost smell sulphur,
the most common by-product of working with the submaterial, and held her
breath as she stepped under the tower's arch. 

The noise eased slightly, and the feeling of tension faded. She glanced
over her shoulder, and saw what seemed to be a wall of fog, filling the
space between the towers and curving across the water to either side. That
explained the instability, at least: the magus who had built the barrier
had created it so that it was invisible from the outside, all the visual
clues to its existence confined inside it. That sort of trick was
inherently unbalanced, expensive and difficult to maintain -- but, Silence
thought, probably the only way the barrier could be created without
betraying its origins. 

Man's Island itself loomed ahead, very green after the poured-stone
buildings of the rest of the mainurb. Silence smiled in spite of herself,
but Balthasar said sourly, "Very pretty." 

Chase Mago laughed, but Silence nodded, the smile fading from her face.
The careful landscape was too pretty, too perfect to be trusted. She
looked more closely, and began to see the pattern hidden in the apparently
random arrangement of the long buildings, the overlapping fields of fire
from the fantastically decorated towers to either side, and the hedges and
trees placed to herd invaders into certain specific areas. She couldn't
tell exactly what would be hidden there, but she was certain she didn't
want to find out directly. 

There was another guard post at the end of the bridge. This time, their
papers were checked at the top of the spiral stairs, and again at the
bottom, before the guard captain nodded reluctantly. At this gesture, a
second guard came forward with an oddly shaped vial fitted with a wide
nozzle. "Hold out your hands." 

Mikajaa did as he was told, and the star-travellers copied him. The guard
touched a button on the side of the vial, and Silence felt her hands
bathed in a damp, invisible mist. 

"That's the red stamp," the guard captain said. "If you enter any
restricted areas -- they're clearly marked as forbidden -- the stain will
show, and alarms will sound. The penalties for trespassing begin with
death." He sighed. "I suppose Mir Radan knows what he's doing," he said,
and handed the ID folders back to the musician, who distributed them
without speaking. "But you're responsible for them, Mikajaa, remember
that." 

"I know," Mikajaa said, and made a face. "I'm not likely to forget, am I?"

Silence tensed at that, bracing herself for betrayal, but the guard
captain laughed and motioned them through the gate. The star-travellers
followed Mikajaa across an immaculately groomed lawn, and then through a
series of interlocking gates, half living tree and half metal, until they
finally reached a low-lying building. Mikajaa paused in the shadow of the
overhanging doorway, fumbling in the pocket of his brocaded coat. Silence
eyed him warily, and Balthasar said, "Lost your keys?" 

The musician glanced angrily at him, but said nothing. Instead, he pulled
out a paper-thin disk a little smaller than a woman's hand and slipped it
into an almost invisible slot beside the door's lock mechanism. There was
a distant chime, and a hatch slid back to reveal a small screen and
keyboard. The screen was blank, but Mikajaa studied it for a moment
anyway, his head tilted to one side, before typing in a quick series of
commands. Silence, watching shamelessly over his shoulder, recognized the
access and inquiry codes for the Hegemony's most common control system,
and filed the information for later use. After a moment, the screen
flashed a curt message, "entrance permitted," and the door unlocked itself
noisily. Mikajaa pushed it open, motioning for the others to precede him
into the building. 

"After you," Silence said, firmly. The musician shrugged, and did as he
was told. When nothing happened, the star-travellers followed. 

The doorway opened onto a sort of low balcony that overlooked a sunken
reception room. Silence caught her breath, recognizing goods from across
human-settled space -- handwoven rugs from Athlit laid over a much larger,
darkly patterned carpet, a crystal carved in the shape of a Sareptan
orchid, an immense platter that seemed to have been made from a single,
meter-long piece of cloud-agate -- and Mikajaa said, "This way." 

"So you were right about this Radan importing things," Chase Mago
murmured, and the pilot nodded. 

"I hope I'm right about the rest." She followed the musician down the
short ramp into the reception room, feeling her feet sink deep into the
carpet's thick pile. A faint, cinnamony scent rose from it: chamaas, she
realized, and whistled softly. 

"Come now, sieura, I didn't think you'd be impressed." 

The voice, with its perfectly accented coine -- the coine of the star
lanes, not of Earth -- came from the left. Silence controlled her first
reaction, made herself turn slowly to face the stranger. A man was
standing in a door set just beyond the ramp, hidden from above by a
carefully placed painted screen. He was not a particularly big man, a
little above medium height, with greying hair and a strong, rather fleshy
face. He was wearing a floor-length scarlet coat covered from hem to knee
with gold embroidery: in the old days, Silence remembered, that had been
the mark of a havildar. 

"Sieur Radan," she said, and was pleased that her voice remained steady. 

"Sieura -- Silence? Surely that's not your only name." Radan stepped into
the room, and Mikajaa came forward quickly, easing the coat from the
havildar's shoulders. He slipped it onto the t-shaped stand that stood in
one corner of the room, and returned with a crystal goblet, which he
handed to Radan. 

"It is my name," Silence said, and smiled. 

"As you wish." The havildar gestured to the carved chairs that stood at
studied intervals across the room. He had been wearing a plain tunic and
workcloth trousers beneath the robe of office, Silence saw -- an
interesting affectation, she thought, as she seated herself in the chair
closest to the door, but not necessarily significant. ' 

"I'll stand," Balthasar said, with a grin, and leaned against the back of
the pilot's chair. Chase Mago settled himself on the floor beside Silence
without a word. 

"Drinks?" Radan asked, and nodded to Mikajaa. The musician came forward
with a tray on which stood four glasses. Silence took one, but did not
drink. After a moment's hesitation, the other star-travellers copied her.
Mikajaa retreated noiselessly to the table that held the liquor. 

Radan sipped thoughtfully at his drink, watching the star-travellers over
the rim of his glass. Silence met his stare with all the innocence she
could muster, and after a moment, the havildar smiled. "I've been
expecting you, sieura." 

Silence smiled back. "I know," she lied. She heard Chase Mago stir
slightly, and willed him not to give her away. "It seemed -- useful to
make your acquaintance." 

Radan's smile widened. "Useful to me, certainly," he agreed. 

"Possibly," Silence said. 

Radan shrugged deliberately. "The crew of the foreign spaceship -- forgive
me, the starship -- that broke through the barriers and then vanished
could be extremely useful to me. You are that crew, are you not?" 

His tone implied certainty, rather than any real doubt. Silence nodded
slowly. "We are." This time it was Balthasar who shifted in protest; the
pilot put out her hand, not looking at him, and gestured for him to be
quiet. 

Radan smiled again. "My -- employers -- are most anxious to 'contain the
contagion, ' as they put it." 

"It's a bit late for that," Balthasar muttered. 

"Obviously they would be," Silence said. "After all, they've been
controlling the Earth-road for -- how many years? They hardly want to lose
their monopoly now." Radan started to say something, but Silence
continued, riding over the havildar's words, "I confess I'm surprised you
haven't turned us over to your masters -- employers. I should think you'd
be in need of proofs of loyalty." 

"How so?" Radan frowned. "Oh, the vox." 

Silence gestured to the other off-world goods decorating the room. "And
all of this." 

"Ah, well, that's permitted -- an acceptable perquisite of the position, "
Radan said. 

When your position's weak, Silence thought, attack. She nodded toward
Mikajaa. "And him? I'm surprised he's been allowed to see so much." 

"Perhaps it is something of a gamble," Radan admitted, "but he is a useful
agent. As you've seen." 

So it was all staged, the pawned vox and everything that followed, Silence
thought. Except the gang: I'm reasonably sure Radan has no control there.
She said, "Indeed. I think we've made our points, Sieur Radan. We're
mutually vulnerable." 

Radan nodded. "We are." 

When he said nothing more, Silence sighed, "You brought us here, havildar.
What do you want of us?" 

Radan set his goblet aside, and the pilot braced herself. "Your
star-ship," the havildar said. "All our reports indicate it was rather
badly damaged before we lost it, and I frankly have to assume that your
presence here confirms that --" 

"We could be coming to overthrow the Rose Worlders," Balthasar said, and
Radan shook his head. 

"Three of you, alone? I hardly think so." 

"Your estimate is a little low, havildar," Silence said, smiling to hide
the cold knot of fear in her stomach. Radan was guessing entirely too well
for her comfort. 

Radan smiled again. "If you say so, sieura. Nonetheless, I do think the
reports -- visual as well as sensor scan -- of extensive damage to your
ship are quite accurate." He leaned forward slightly. "I would be willing
to help you make your repairs -- for a price, of course." 

"Oh, of course," Balthasar said. 

"We might be willing to not tell the Rose Worlders just what you've been
doing," Silence said, deliberately misunderstanding. 

Radan laughed. "That would hardly be to your advantage, sieura, really. "
He sobered quickly. "What I am offering is access to off-world equipment,
things that will make your repairs much easier. In exchange, I'd ask your
help, sieura, in one thing." 

"And that is?" Silence asked. 

"Help me to destroy the barrier enclosing Man's Island." Radan's lined
face was completely serious now. "That's always been the crucial thing.
I'm not a magus -- none of the Earth-born are allowed to learn the Art --
and it will take a magus's power to break through that field. You, sieura,
are the first magus to reach Earth in hundreds of years who is not one of
them. I want your help." 

Silence blinked, startled by the sudden passion in the havildar's voice.
"What good will it do to destroy the field?" she asked, buying time. "I
understood the central control point was on another island, I forget the
name." 

"Ice Island," Mikajaa said, softly. 

Radan made an impatient gesture. "Since the eruptions started again last
year -- it's a volcanic island, sieura -- most of the operations have been
transferred here. As to what good it will do.... We've been waiting for
this chance for quite some time." 

Silence nodded to herself. A number of things were being suddenly made
clear. She said, slowly, "So you have something planned --" and Radan cut
in quickly. 

"Which, frankly, does not concern you." 

"But it does," Balthasar said. "Very much so." 

Radan frowned. "I can offer you the off-world -- non-mechanical -- tools
you need to make repairs," he said again. "Whatever you need, I can get
for you -- if you'll do this one thing." 

Chase Mago stirred for the first time since he'd entered the reception
room. "But can you?" he asked softly. "Not that I doubt your word, of
course, but if you rebel and lose -- I assume that's what you're intending
-- I don't see how you can help us." 

Radan murmured some answer, but Silence wasn't listening. A plan was
forming in her mind, one that could -- would -- solve all their
difficulties; one that would get them safely back out into human-settled
space, and at the same time help Aili and possibly even break the Rose
Worlders' hold on Earth itself, all with one simple move. Or relatively
simple, she amended, the elation fading a little. But if I can persuade
Radan, I think Aili and I between us can do the rest. She said aloud,
interrupting the havildar, "Sieur Radan, your plan won't work, no matter
how much support you have among the other Earth-born." 

"Why is that, sieura?" There was an edge to Radan's invincible courtesy
this time, and Silence chose her next words carefully. 

"Even if you succeed in taking over Man's Island, and I admit you could
probably do that, if I destroyed the barrier for you, you won't beat the
Rose Worlders." Radan started to say something, and the pilot held up her
hand. "Please, sieur Radan, hear me out. I don't know how much you know
about star travel --" 

"A little," Radan murmured, and gestured in apology. "I beg your pardon,
please continue." 

Silence said, as if he hadn't spoken," -- or the precise reasons that
Earth hasn't been visited by people from outside the Rose Worlds. In
brief, the Rose Worlders have set up siege engines that block the
Earth-road, and we are the first to figure out how to break through that
interference. Now that we know how to do it, of course, others will
develop the same techniques -- especially since we're acting as agents for
his most serene majesty the Hegemon. His majesty has been at odds with the
Rose Worlds for some time." She took a deep breath, measuring the dawning
comprehension on Radan's face. "If you were willing to cooperate with his
majesty, to coordinate your rebellion with an attack by his fleet.... It
would certainly increase the odds of your success." 

Radan was watching her closely, and Silence made herself meet his gaze
without flinching. After a moment, the havildar said, "And how will this
fleet get past the -- siege engines?" 

Silence took another deep breath, steadying herself. When she spoke, her
voice was coldly calm. "I will destroy them." 

She heard a soft gasp from Chase Mago, but did not glance in his
direction, fixing her eyes instead on the havildar. Very slowly, Radan
nodded. "And can you promise me this alliance?" 

Silence shook her head, and Radan's eyes narrowed. "I can't," the pilot
said. "But there's someone on-planet who can." 

"Aili --" Balthasar bit back the word almost before he'd finished
speaking, and shook his head in apology. 

"Forgive me, sieura," Radan said, "but how do I know this person has the
authority to make this bargain?" 

"Aili -- the Princess Royal," Silence said coldly, "is the Hegemon's
oldest -- only legitimate -- child." 

Radan said nothing for a long moment, staring into space. "I'll want to
speak with her myself," he said at last. 

"That can be arranged." Silence met his searching look blandly, and after
a moment, the havildar looked away. 

"When?" 

Silence shrugged. 

"We'll contact you," Balthasar said. 

Radan smiled thinly. "I'd prefer a little more in the way of guarantee." 

"We are, as you pointed out, mutually vulnerable," Silence said. "Surely
that's enough for you." 

Radan sighed. "I gather it will have to be." He straightened abruptly.
"I'm intrigued by your proposal, sieura -- sieuri -- but, as I said, I'll
want to meet your princess before I commit myself to anything." 

"How can we contact you?" Silence said. 

"Through Mikajaa," Radan answered. The musician looked up sharply, his
mouth opening as though he'd protest, but the havildar ignored him, and
the younger man subsided. "He has a drop-box at a bar called the Elite,
which he will check daily." He glanced at Mikajaa, who nodded unhappily.
Radan turned his attention back to the star-travellers. "Will that
suffice?" 

"Yes," Silence answered, and pushed herself to her feet, setting aside her
untouched drink. The other star-travellers copied her. Chase Mago drew
himself up to his full height, and Silence was very grateful for his
massive presence. 

"Mikajaa will see you back to the Kills," Radan said. 

Balthasar started to protest, but Silence shook her head at him. "That
will do," she said, and managed a chill smile. "Thank you for this
meeting, sieur Radan." 

The havildar bowed with almost courtly grace. "I'm delighted to have met
you, sieura." 

Outside the low building the air was sticky, but Silence found herself
shivering despite the heat. She forced herself to relax, to think of
nothing at all, and the shivering lessened. By the time they'd reached the
bridge, she had herself under control; by the time they reached Rosemont
on the far side, she was almost calm. 

"So," Balthasar said, as they reached the edge of the slate plaza and
stepped into the shadow of the street. "I think you've gone far enough. "
He was looking at Mikajaa, who stopped warily, just out of reach. 

"You know where we're going," Silence said, almost gently, weaving a
subtle thread of compulsion into her words. "You don't need to follow." 

Mikajaa made a face -- clearly, the pilot thought, my spells don't have
much effect on him -- but backed away from Balthasar's advance. "All
right, I won't follow." 

"Better get moving, then," the Delian said. 

The musician hesitated a moment longer, then turned away, picking up speed
as he moved down the street. Silence watched him out of sight, then
glanced back at the others. "Thanks for backing me up." 

"You're out of your mind, you know," Balthasar said, but he was grinning.
"If this works...." 

"If," Silence said, grimly. 

"Can you really destroy the siege engines?" Chase Mago asked. 

The pilot hesitated. That had been the biggest uncertainty in her plan,
but, in theory at least, there was no reason that the engines could not be
shattered from Earth. "I think so," she said, and was not convinced. She
made herself speak more firmly. "I think I can." 

The engineer shook his head, but said, "If anyone can do it, Silence, you
will." He glanced at Balthasar. "This still feels like one of your ideas,
Denis." 

The Delian laughed. 

"Be grateful for it," Silence said, and glanced around again. Mikajaa was
long gone -- she could not feel his presence anywhere nearby -- and the
shadowed street was empty. She sighed, and nodded in the direction of the
fountains where T'la was waiting. "Let's go." 

Chapter 9 

T'LA WAS SITTING ON THE EDGE OF THE BROKEN fountain, idly tossing chips of
stone at a flowering weed. He looked up as the star-travellers appeared at
the head of the alley, and smiled. 

"I'm glad you made it." 

So am I, Silence thought, but said only, "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

The boy shrugged. "No problem." 

They returned to the gang's headquarters by a different, more direct
route, and T'la, after a low-voiced conversation with the girls on guard
duty at the main entrance, took them through the maze of tunnels to the
painted basement room where they had first confronted Efelay. The gang
leader was waiting there, sitting cross-legged on one of the dismounted
tables, Fitch at her side. They looked up eagerly as the star-travellers
appeared, and Efelay said, "Did you get what you wanted?" 

Silence nodded, and seated herself on a table opposite the gang leader.
"What can you tell me about Kennet Radan?" 

Efelay shrugged, and glanced at Fitch. "You know more than I do," she
said. 

The anadvocate made a face. "What do you want to know? He's one of them
--" 

"Them?" Chase Mago asked. He leaned against the painted wall, apparently
at ease, but Silence could see the tension in his movements, and was not
deceived. 

"The Unionists," Fitch said. "The ones who run things." He paused, looking
back at Silence. "What do you want to know?" he said again. 

"Who is he, where does he come from, what has he done?" Silence answered.
"Anything you can tell me about him." 

"All right." Fitch nodded. "It isn't much, though. He's a Unionist from
way back. I don't know where he comes from, or anything like that, but he
started out here as a recording sergeant, and gave everybody a whole lot
of trouble." 

"Recording sergeant?" Balthasar asked. 

The anadvocate nodded again. "You know, the person in charge of keeping
track of everybody in a district. He started out in the Kills, and did
such a good job that he got promoted, taken into the hierarchy. He's been
on the Island ever since -- they say he's real important, but not the top
man." 

Silence nodded. That fitted in well with her own perception of the
situation: Radan was intelligent, ambitious, extremely competent -- and he
could never rise beyond his present position, simply because he had had
the misfortune to be born on Earth. "Is he -- reliable?" she said aloud. 

Fitch shrugged. "Define reliable." 

"They say," Efelay began slowly, "they do say he had a deal with Rafaiel,
back when they were starting out. And he hasn't done Rafaiel dirty yet,
for all that everybody knows Rafaiel's a technologist, and that he runs
their organization." 

"What do you mean by a 'technologist'?" Silence asked. 

Efelay grinned. "They don't believe in the Art," she said. "They think
that their machines're going to save everybody." 

"Well, of course Radan -- or the Rose Worlders -- wouldn't crack down on
them," Chase Mago said. His voice held the startled note of sudden
revelation. "The more machines there are, and the more complicated the
individual machines are, the less chance there is of somebody stumbling
onto any of the important discoveries." 

That made a good deal of sense, Silence thought, was a very clever way to
control Earth's natives, but it was hardly important at the moment. Before
she could say anything, however, Fitch frowned. 

"Rafaiel's not just a technologist," he said. "Or at least he's becoming
something else. His people don't talk as much about it as they used to,
anyway. I mean, it's almost like he's using that for cover." He looked up
sharply, his face lighting with sudden knowledge. "And he's still in
contact with Radan. I know that for a fact." 

Is he, now? Silence thought. That cast a new and interesting light on both
Radan and Rafaiel, and on the pawned vox.... "Can you find out any more
about him -- about Rafaiel's connections with the Island?" she said aloud.

"I can try," Fitch said, and Efelay corrected him. 

"We can do it." 

"Thanks," Silence said. She glanced at her husbands, and pushed herself to
her feet. "The more we know about him, the more we can do." 

"But what are you doing?" Efelay asked. 

Silence smiled. "I intend to break the Rose Worlders' -- your Unionists'
-- hold on Earth," she said. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and
stalked toward the stairs that led to the tunnel that would take her back
to her quarters. Balthasar and Chase Mago followed close at her heels. 

Once they had reached the outbuilding, and the aphonic ring was safely
sealed around them, Silence dropped into the most comfortable of the
chairs the gang had provided, sighing to herself. Balthasar threw himself
down on the wide bed, kicking off his shoes. Only the engineer remained
standing, staring soberly at the others. 

"Is it really fair," he said at last, "to tell these kids that?" 

Silence looked away, ashamed, but Balthasar said, "Well, it's the truth,
isn't it? If what I think she's planning works, we will break the Rose
Worlders' hold." 

"It's a pretty Delphic truth," Chase Mago said. 

Silence sighed. The engineer was right: even if she were able to put
everything together, persuade the Hegemon to send his fleet to secure
Earth and persuade Radan to cooperate with him, it wouldn't free Earth. It
would merely result in an exchange of masters, and that was wrong, too.
Still, the more contact Earth had with the rest of human-settled space the
better; the more chance there would be of the planet's obtaining real
freedom.... The argument was not entirely convincing, even to herself, and
she looked away again. On the other hand, she -- they -- didn't have a
great deal of choice. No, she told herself firmly, that wasn't true at
all. There would be no hiding behind that excuse. She could have avoided
meeting with Radan, could have made Chase Mago build his tuner from the
bits and pieces owned by the gang; it would not have been easy, but it
certainly wouldn't've been impossible. She had chosen, deliberately and on
her own, to play for higher stakes, to try to get the materials that would
let them get off-world more quickly. She would have to take the
consequences of her decision, and do whatever she could to see that things
were at least no worse on Earth once the Hegemon's forces had arrived. 

"I don't think it will be worse," she said, half to herself, and Balthasar
frowned. 

"Don't think what will be worse?" he asked. 

Silence looked instead at Chase Mago. "I don't think I'm doing the wrong
thing," she said. "Even if the Hegemon does take over here, he's still
better than the Rose Worlders -- and once the Earth-road is generally
known, which it will be, very quickly, there'll be even more options
available. I don't think I'm wrong." 

The engineer sighed. "I hope you're right," he said. "I just hope you're
right." 

Balthasar gave the pilot a wary glance. "Just what is it you have in mind,
Silence?" 

"Exactly what I told Radan," the pilot answered. "I want to use Aili to
contact her father --" 

"How?" Chase Mago interrupted. 

"Through the ship's systems, I suppose," Silence answered, "or even
through the Rose Worlders' devices, if Radan has that kind of access. Once
we've made contact, the Hegemon can bring his fleet in to support Radan's
rebellion." She looked from one man to the other, from Balthasar's
expression of thoughtful consideration to Chase Mago's frown of distaste,
and burst out, "Good God, aren't you tired of being acted upon? I'm
finally in a position to do something, and by God I'm going to arrange
things my way for once." 

Balthasar grinned. "All right, I'm with you," he said. "Hell, why not?" 

"Julie?" Silence fixed her eyes on the big engineer. 

Chase Mago said nothing for a long moment, then, slowly, shook his head.
"I don't like the Hegemony," he said at last. Balthasar started to say
something, and the engineer held up his hand. "I know, Denis, it's not the
same people who destroyed Kesse, not precisely. I know it's irrational --
but I don't particularly like handing Earth over to the government that
did that." 

"We never had much choice about that," Balthasar said, but gently. "The
Hegemon was going to profit by it one way or another." 

"I know." The engineer shook his head. "I said I was being irrational." 

"I think," Silence said slowly, "I think it makes a difference that Radan
will be involved, practically in charge of the rebellion here. He'll be
able to treat with the Hegemon as something like an equal, which is
something we can give him, and something he couldn't've done on his own. "

"I know," Chase Mago said again. He sighed. "You're right, Silence. We'll
do it your way." 

"Thanks," Silence said. 

There was a moment's pause, and then Balthasar pushed himself up off the
bed. "Right," he said, a little too loudly. "Let's get communications set
up." 

The engineer nodded, and reached for the bag he'd left standing against
the wall. Working quickly, he assembled the disguised bits and pieces into
the communications unit, and, a little gingerly, keyed on the power. The
tiny unit whined softly, but the crystal-lined dish remained clouded. The
engineer made a face and adjusted the controls. Still nothing happened. 

"Wait a minute," Silence said, and murmured the Word that dissolved the
aphonic ring. 

Chase Mago grunted. "That's better," he said, "but not wonderful." 

Silence leaned over his shoulder. An image was beginning to take shape in
the dish. Isambard's features, backed by the familiar shapes and colors of
Recusante's bulkheads, came clear, distorted only a little by the dish's
curve. More annoying -- more disturbing, Silence thought -- was the haze,
like a fog of tiny crystals, that washed back and forth across the image,
threatening now and again to obscure it completely. "Can you do anything?"
she asked aloud. 

The engineer shook his head. "It's the machines." 

Silence sighed, and leaned closer to the dish, staring into its foggy
depths. She thought she could see Marcinik, standing behind the magus's
shoulder, but Aili was nowhere to be seen. "Isambard." 

"Silence." The magus bowed slowly in acknowledgement. "Everything's well
here." 

"And here," the pilot answered. "Something important's come up." 

In the background, she could see Marcinik stiffen warily, but Isambard was
less easily perturbed. "Indeed?" 

"Is Aili there?" Silence asked, playing for time. "This concerns her,
too." 

"I'm here." The faint voice, heavily overlaid with the whispering of the
fog, a noise softer and more distorting than true static, came from the
corner behind Isambard. 

Silence took a deep breath, bracing herself for the questions she knew
would follow. "We've made contact with someone -- an Earth native in the
Rose Worlders' service, here on Man's Island. He already has some plan to
overthrow the Rose Worlders, and wanted my help. I suggested that he ally
with the Hegemon, through you, Aili, and that you -- that we all work
together to get rid of the Rose Worlders." 

"Do you think that's wise?" Isambard asked. 

Marcinik said, in almost the same instant, "But there's no way of knowing
if his Majesty would agree...." 

"Of course he would," Balthasar muttered, and Silence waved for him to be
quiet. 

"I think it would be pretty foolish of him not to take advantage of the
chance of creating a friendly local government," she said to the dish, and
Marcinik nodded. 

"Can we contact him?"	; 

"I think so," Silence began, and Isambard cut her off. 

"The ship's equipment is certainly capable of making such a transmission,
and I believe it could be adjusted so that a brief message could even be
sent without betraying the location of the sender." 

"Or there's a chance we could even use the Rose Worlders' own facilities,"
Silence said. "If Radan -- that's the native; his name's Kennet Radan --
has access to the communications facilities on the Island." 

Marcinik nodded, accepting the technical decision, but said, "I wonder
what this Radan wants from his Majesty?" 

"I don't know," Silence said. "I thought it would be better if Aili dealt
with that." She paused, and then said, "Are you willing to do this, i your
Serenity?" 

There was a brief pause, the fog whispering across the face of the - dish,
and then Aili's voice said, "Oh, yes, I'm willing." 

There was something in her tone that made Silence look up quickly, a note
of calculation and of decision. Before she could say anything, however,
Aili went on, "I think my father would accept it, too -- as you said,
Silence, he'd be a fool not to." She moved suddenly out of Marcinik's
shadow, to lean over the dish, her veil held automatically in front of her
face. "I'll talk to him, and to this Radan." 

"It'll take time to get to the mainurb," Marcinik said. "How do we find
you once we're there?" 

Isambard shook his head. "That will not be necessary," he said. "There is
a quicker way." 

Silence made a face. "The janus gate," she said, and the other magus
nodded. 

"It will be a strain on you, Silence, you will have to hold it by
yourself, at the end, but it is not impossible." 

"We'll do it," Silence said, before she could change her mind. She glanced
over her shoulder, but the other star-travellers were already moving away
from the dish. "Be ready to help them through the gate," she said, and
Chase Mago nodded. Satisfied, Silence looked back into the dish, and saw
Isambard lift his hands, beginning the first part of the schema. She took
a deep breath, and curled her own hands into the answering position, as
though she cupped an invisible cylinder that rose from the edges of the
dish itself. 

"Are you ready?" Isambard asked. 

Silence took a second deep breath, calming and controlling herself. She
knew the schemae for the janus gate well -- it was the first operation she
had ever had participated in, when they had been trapped on Mersaa Maia.
There would be no difficulty in forming the gate, only in finding the
sheer physical strength to hold it open alone while Isambard passed
through it. But she would find it, somehow. She nodded. "I'm ready." 

"Excellent." Isambard paused for a long moment, visibly calling on his own
rituals to calm and center his power. "Then let us begin." 

"Let's begin," Silence echoed. 

Isambard spoke first, intoning a chain of sound that made the air thicken
even at a distance. Silence spoke the confirming phrase, and felt the
common air of the room thicken even further, the heat rising as new forces
were set into motion. Isambard spoke again, Words of Earth and Air that
framed a space above the dish, gave solidity and Form to the shape Silence
had imagined. She answered with the Words that locked that Form to her own
power, and thought she could see the shaped air like a ghostly shadow
rising from her cupped hands. It was very hot in the room now, the power
they had summoned hovering just outside the mundane world, held only by
barriers that they themselves had weakened. The janus gate was a
manipulation of purgatory, similar to but in the end very different from
the act of piloting, capable of joining two places on the same landmass of
the same planet. The power involved was tremendous, and the possible
danger if they lost control of the confining Forms was very high. Silence
was sweating heavily, but could not spare a hand to wipe her face.
Isambard spoke again, and she answered; the skeleton of the gate was
complete, waiting for the power to be channeled through it. 

"Now," Isambard said, and gestured, reinforcing that movement with a Word
like a crack of thunder. 

Silence copied him, and felt the power blossom beneath her hands,
scorching her palms. She blinked, but held steady, colors fountaining
between her hands, to pour and reform into something resembling
recognizable images. Slowly, the wavering shapes steadied, until she was
looking directly into Recusante's common room. She spoke the schema's
final phrase, and felt the image lock firmly into place, the immense power
of purgatory contained for now by the structure of the gate. 

"It's done," she said, and Isambard nodded. The older magus looked almost
as tired as she already felt, and the operation was not even half over
yet. Silence shivered, and forced herself to concentrate. 

"Now, your Serenity," Isambard said. 

Aili moved warily toward the opening defined by the gate, still holding
her veil across her face. Chase Mago stepped forward promptly, offering
his hand in support. The Princess Royal reached through the gate and took
it, and then, with no apparent hesitation, stepped over the gate's high
threshold and into the little room. Marcinik followed, declining any help
from Balthasar. The colonel's face was pale, the very lack of expression
betraying his unease. 

"Are you ready, Silence?" Isambard asked again. 

The pilot nodded. 

"Then I will transfer full control to you," Isambard answered. "We will do
this in stages, as it was made." 

Silence nodded again, soothed by the magus's steady voice, then braced
herself. 

"First, the threshold," Isambard said. 

Silence closed her eyes. She controlled most of that already, its solidity
a comfort against the shift and flux of purgatory contained within it.
Slowly, as Isambard relinquished his hold, the shadowy threshold took on
weight, became not a comfort but a burden, sliding away from her.
Frightened, she reached out for it, caught and held it. When she was sure
that she had stopped its fall, she eased it cautiously back into the
structure they had so laboriously prepared. It clicked back into place,
but the sense of weight remained, the feeling that she had to work to keep
it there where it belonged. 

"The sideposts," Isambard said. He released his hold very slowly, but even
so, Silence had to struggle to keep them from tilting out of true. She
could feel the heat rising again as she fought to control the unwieldy,
invisible mass, heat that was another manifestation of the dissonance she
could almost hear. At last, she had both columns under control, but she
could feel her muscles trembling under the strain. 

"The keystone," Isambard said, and Silence took a deep breath before she
nodded. She could feel the keystone's heavy form already, a massive,
triangular block poised, point downward, between the pillars above her
head. As the older magus released his hold on it, Silence could feel the
stone beginning to slip, grating against the pillars. The non-sound rasped
at her nerves, flared like a sudden fire in the air above her. She fought
it, sweating, and managed to stop the downward slide, but the stone was
still out of true. The gate could not be used without danger until the
Form was corrected. She ground her teeth together and, with her last gram
of strength, pushed the invisible stone back into place. 

"Now," she gasped, and Isambard nodded. He rose stiffly to his feet, and
stepped ungracefully through the opening, almost stumbling over the high
threshold. Chase Mago steadied him, but the magus waved him away. 

"Dismiss it," he said, and his voice was almost gentle. "But slowly.
Easily." 

Silence released the breath she had been holding, and felt the entire
structure tremble. Only a few more seconds, she promised herself, only a
little longer. The janus gate had to be dismantled in much the same way
that it had been constructed, or the pent-up energies would dissipate all
at once, with an explosive force. She spoke the Words that damped down the
conflicting harmonies, closing the opening into purgatory. Recusante's
familiar common room faded, became merely an image, and then vanished
altogether. Then, cautiously, she called up Words of Unmaking, directed
them at the keystone. Its weight faded, and then vanished. Unbalanced, the
pillars wobbled; she controlled them, and, once they were steadied again,
dismissed them as well. The threshold remained, a great weight in the air
before her. She dismissed it, too, and sat staring at the unpainted floor.
Exhaustion swept through her; she closed her eyes, and felt familiar arms
around her, lifting her gently. She turned toward the embrace, and let
herself fall into sleep. 

She woke in her own improvised bed, her husbands to either side of her.
The cool light of dawn was filtering in the room's single window, and she
blinked up at it, momentarily disoriented. The janus gate had exhausted
her more than she'd realized; she'd slept through the end of an afternoon
and at least one night. Cautiously, not wanting to wake the others, she
reached beneath the pillows for Chase Mago's chronograph, and touched the
button that activated the date display. By its reading, she'd slept
through the next day as well. Startled, she slid the chronograph back
under the engineer's pillow, and wondered what to do next. She was fully
awake at last, though she thought she could remember waking briefly at
some earlier time, and ravenously hungry. Sighing, she eased herself free
of the blankets. Balthasar shifted, and opened his eyes. Silence made a
face -- the Delian was never at his best on waking -- but, to her
surprise, Balthasar managed a smile. 

"Glad to see you awake again," he murmured. To his left Chase Mago
stirred, but did not wake. 

"You're cheerful," Silence answered, reaching for her clothes. 

Balthasar's smile widened. "There's a lot going on," he said, and pushed
himself out of bed. 

Oh, wonderful, Silence thought, but said nothing. She finished dressing,
and went on into the outer room, where the food was kept. Balthasar
followed, shrugging on his heavy jacket. 

"I'll take care of coffee," he said, and stooped to adjust the antique
machine. 

Silence let him fiddle with it, turning her attention to the cold-storage
chest that held the supplies. There was woven-paper bag full of the hard
round rolls the gang favored, and a tub of the soft cheese that went with
it. The pilot busied herself with those, and by the time she had finished,
Balthasar had poured two mugs of the steaming coffee. They ate without
speaking, Silence concentrating on the sheer physical pleasure of eating.
She finished three of the chewy rolls before finally leaning back,
satisfied. 

"So what is happening?" she asked. 

Balthasar looked up with a quirky smile. "You know, Aili really is
something else," he said. "We told her what you had in mind, and she
really seemed to like the idea. She asked us to set up a meeting with
Radan as soon as possible --" 

"And did you?" Silence asked. 

The Delian nodded. "We -- actually one of Efelay's kids -- left a note for
Mikajaa like he said to, so we should be hearing something soon." 

"What does Isambard think of the idea?" Silence asked, and was surprised
at the sudden anxious fear in the pit of her stomach. 

Balthasar sobered. "He agrees, the siege engines can be destroyed, but
he's not so happy about trying to destroy that barrier. He wants to talk
to you about it first, anyway, or maybe even see it for himself, before he
says anything." 

Silence frowned. "That doesn't make sense," she began -- surely the
barrier surrounding the island was a less massive creation than an engine
capable of blocking a star road? -- and Balthasar shrugged. 

"It doesn't to me, but I'm not the magus." 

"I'll talk to him," Silence said, and sighed. "When do you think we'll
hear from Mikajaa?" 

"Who knows?" Balthasar answered. "Fitch has been watching him, and he
says, Mikajaa checks his drop box regularly every evening. We should hear
sometime today. " 

"Where are the others, anyway?" the pilot asked. 

"Efelay put them in a couple of rooms next door," Balthasar began, but
before he could finish, there was a tapping at the main door. Silence made
the gesture that dissolved the lock, and the door swung open. Isambard,
impeccable as always in his black robes, stood in the doorway. 

"I'm glad to see that you're finally awake, Silence," he said. 

The pilot made a face, but managed to answer politely enough, "I feel much
recovered, thanks." 

Isambard moved into the room and seated himself, stiffly, in the only
chair. At Silence's frown Balthasar grimaced, and poured a third cup of
coffee for the older magus, who accepted it with only a nod of thanks. "We
need to discuss the details of this plan of yours," he said, and sipped at
the scalding liquid. 

Silence bit back an annoyed response. After all this -- I brought him
here, held open the gate for him, and what do I get out of it? she
thought. Nothing, not even thanks -- which is as usual, she added, so why
am I surprised? She said only, "Denis tells me you're worried about the
barrier around the island. I'd've thought the engines were more
difficult." 

"I expect they will be," Isambard answered, "at least in the sense that
they require more strength -- more power. But I do not know the schemae
involved in creating this barrier of yours. Describe it for me." 

It's not my barrier, Silence thought, and saw Balthasar scowling, ready to
speak. That was enough to restore her sense of priorities. She shook her
head at the Delian, and said, "I didn't recognize any particular schema.
I'm certain a direct link to the submaterial was involved, probably as a
power source, and the Art was employed to hide the visual spectrum of the
field from an outside viewer. That's all I know." She was pleased at the
professionalism of her voice, and realized suddenly that she shouldn't be
angry at the magus's apparent unconcern. He was simply treating her as he
would treat any other magus. It was not that he didn't care, but that he
assumed he didn't need to care. It was a startling thought, pleasing and
frightening at the same time. 

"It sounds rather like one of the Alaruan branch schemae," Isambard said,
and Silence dragged her attention back to the business at hand. "The Rose
Worlders always favored his work." 

"Can it be broken?" Silence asked. 

"Oh, yes, 'Anything that can be created can be destroyed,'" Isambard
quoted. 

"Like the siege engines?" Balthasar asked. 

Isambard gave him a rather annoyed glance. "Especially the siege engines,
Captain Balthasar." 

Before he could continue, there was another knock at the door, and it
opened to admit Aili and Marcinik. The colonel in particular looked tired
and ill-tempered -- the result of dealing with Balthasar, Silence
wondered, or just of having been cooped up aboard Recusante with Isambard
for so long? To her surprise, however, Balthasar did not make any of his
usual challenging remarks, mutely offering coffee and rolls instead.
Isambard waited with ostentatious patience until the newcomers were
settled, and then continued his lecture. 

"The siege engines are an unnatural blockage, Captain. Metaphysically
speaking, that road should be open -- it wants to be open, one might even
say. After all, it was the first star road to be discovered, and because
of that it is still the Form on which all other roads are founded. All
these other open roads create a tremendous and constant pressure on the
engines, forcing them to expend a great deal of power to keep the
Earth-road closed. We will be able to use that strain to shatter the
engines." 

"So if we can just repair the ship," Silence began, and Isambard shook his
head. 

"The engines can more easily be destroyed from here -- from the surface of
the planet, don't you see?" 

"No, I don't," Silence snapped, and bit off the rest of her angry words.
Nothing would be gained by losing her temper now, she told herself, and
forced herself to remain calm. 

Isambard sighed. "In a sense," he began, in the tones reserved for his
more important lectures, "the ancients were right. Earth is the center of
the universe, because it is the place where human beings first evolved. No
matter how far into space the species has spread, it remains tied,
physically and metaphysically, to the planet which gave it birth." He
glanced expectantly at Silence, who nodded, curbing her annoyance at being
lectured in front of the others. 

"I see," she said, when it became clear that something more was expected
of her, and dredged up a bastard-latin phrase she had stumbled across
during her first weeks on Solitudo Hermae. "Not umbilicus universi, but
umbilicus universi nostri -- not the navel of the universe, but the navel
of our universe." 

Isambard was nodding eagerly. "Precisely. And the choice of the word
'navel' is equally significant, because it points up the nature of the
metaphysical tie." He paused, as though he'd lost track of what he was
saying, and resumed after a moment in a less elevated voice. "We are at
the center of that metaphysical universe, and we are trying to restore
things to their natural state: that will multiply the effects of our
operation by --" He paused again, but shook his head. "I can't calculate
the precise order of magnitude without more study, but certainly by a
significant amount." 

Silence took a swallow of her cooling coffee, trying to figure out exactly
what this would mean for the workings of the Art. Certainly, being at the
center of the human universe hadn't been much help in overcoming the
effects of the machines that filled the planet -- or had it? she wondered
suddenly. She had been able to compensate for the interference rather
better than she'd hoped.... 

"Sieuri?" The voice came from outside the door. Silence thought she
recognized it as belonging to one of Fitch's runners, and gestured. The
door swung open, and Isambard frowned. 

"That is a rather frivolous use of the Art, surely." 

"It was necessary to maintain our privacy," Silence answered, rather
sharply. 

The girl in the doorway cleared her throat. "Excuse me, sieuri, but Fitch
says he's got Mikajaa, if you want him." 

"We do." Balthasar pulled himself to his feet. "Better wake Julie,
Silence." 

"I'm awake." The engineer appeared in the inside doorway, fastening the
clasps of his coat. "Did you say Mikajaa was here?" 

The runner nodded. "Yeah. He's in the Out." 

"Sorry to interrupt breakfast," Balthasar began, and Marcinik nodded,
setting aside his mug. 

"We'd better go." 

"Wait." That was Aili, and Silence gave her a rather startled glance. "The
rest of you go ahead," the Princess Royal continued. "Arrange to meet with
Radan today, if you can -- I'll leave the details to you, you know the
area best. But I have some things I need to discuss with Silence." 

Marcinik started to protest, but seemed to think better of it as Aili
shook her head slightly. Silence frowned. "Are you sure, your Serenity?" 

"It's important," Aili said, firmly. "Please." 

The pilot hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged. "All right, the rest
of you go ahead. We'll join you when we can." 

Balthasar raised an eyebrow, obviously ready to argue, but Chase Mago took
him by the shoulder and turned him forcibly away. The others followed,
leaving the two women alone together. 

Aili waited until the door had closed firmly behind them before she spoke.
"I want to be sure I understand the implications of this," she said,
putting aside her veil in the gesture that indicated a desire to be
completely clear, "and what you want from me." 

Silence paused, still frowning. It seemed simple enough, she thought, and
said, "To put it bluntly, this is my price for getting you declared his
heir. I want you to call in the fleet -- can you do it?" 

Aili nodded. "I can. Yes, I can convince him to send a fleet, if Radan can
convince me that he will support -- that his people and his rebellion or
whatever it is can support -- our attack. I owe my father's people that
much." 

There was something in her voice that kept Silence from speaking. After a
moment, the Princess Royal sighed and continued, more slowly, "It's -- my
question is, what will happen when Earth is freed?" 

"Will it be freed?" Silence muttered. 

Aili went on unheeding. "With the Earth-road open, and Earth restored to
its proper place at the center of our universe, won't the person who
controls Earth control that universe?" She fixed Silence with a sudden
fierce stare. "I want to be that person." 

The pilot froze. She had not thought of that possibility, had not
considered anything beyond the metaphysical implications, the impact on
her Art. Once stated, however, the political possibilities became
frighteningly -- possible. That might explain why the Rose Worlders had
blocked the Earth-road, she thought, remotely. The Rose Worlds, the worlds
of the ancient Ring, were even more closely bound to Earth than the rest
of the planets in human-settled space -- the fact that the Rose Worlds,
and only the Rose Worlds, could be reached by means of the portolan was a
clear demonstration of the metaphysical link. If Earth were free -- if
Earth's goods and knowledge could be traded freely, as they once had been,
unmediated by the Rose Worlders -- then the Rose Worlds themselves would
become little more than a suburb of Earth itself. Who would go to the Rose
Worlds, when he could come to Earth? 

She shook herself away from that line of thought, forcing herself to look
again at Aili's question. It was more than possible -- it was even likely
-- that the person who controlled Earth would also come to control all of
human-settled space. Which answered Chase Mago's fears of the Hegemony's
taking over Earth, she thought, but doesn't make me any happier. I
definitely don't like the idea of Radan running everything, and I'm not
sure Aili could take and hold that kind of power. She looked again at the
princess royal's face, and was no longer unsure. There was a strength
behind the conventional beauty, a strength and a wisdom beyond Aili's
years, an almost frightening awareness of self and of others. Silence
shivered, and looked away. 

"Whatever I do," she said, "you'll try it." 

Aili nodded. "Yes." 

Silence took a deep breath. "Better you than anyone else I've seen," she
said, in an attempt at a lighter tone. 

Aili nodded, quite seriously. "Yes," she said again. "I think so." 

The confidence in her voice made Silence raise her eyebrows a little, but
she nodded anyway. "Then you'll bargain with Radan?" she asked. 

"You seem to think he's trustworthy enough," Aili answered. "But I'll want
to see for myself." 

"Then we'd better join the others," Silence said. 

Aili nodded again, drawing the veil across her face. "Let's go." 

The Out was less crowded than before, the extra gang members who had been
hanging about to help intimidate the prisoner dismissed to other business.
A wooden barrier had been pulled across the open elevator shaft, but
Mikajaa, standing again in the middle of the room, had positioned himself
so that he could keep an eye on it. Silence nodded a greeting to Efelay,
who was sitting cross-legged on a table at the far side of the room, and
wondered suddenly just how Balthasar had explained the others' arrival.
Efelay smiled in response, and the pilot decided it didn't really matter.
After all, she thought, they seem to be accepting it. 

"So this is the woman?" Mikajaa's voice was a little shaky, despite the
bravado of his words. 

Fitch stared speculatively at him, flick-knife open in his hands.
Balthasar said hastily, "Her Serenity the Princess Royal." 

There were whispers from some of the gang members at that, their faces
startled and impressed rather than disbelieving, and Efelay said, "Hush
up." 

Mikajaa eyed the princess royal warily, obviously taken aback by the veil.
Silence didn't bother to hide her grin, and saw the musician flush. "They
tell me you want to see Mir Radan," he said. 

"Yes." Aili's voice was cool and pleasant, but her tone brooked no
argument. "You're the one who arranges this?" She allowed a faint note of
doubt to creep into her words, and Silence grinned again. 

To his credit, however, Mikajaa did not rise to that bait. "That's right.
When?" 

"As soon as possible," Aili answered. Her voice sharpened on the next
word. "Today." 

Mikajaa made a hissing sound between his teeth. "I don't think I can
manage that --" 

"Radan said you could," Silence pointed out. 

Mikajaa gave her an unfriendly glance. "If you wanted to go to him on the
Island, sure. But they said you didn't want to." He nodded toward
Balthasar and Marcinik. 

"That's right," Silence said, and kept her face expressionless. She felt
distinctly foolish, and knew that he had intended to make her feel so. 

"How soon, then?" Aili asked, and the pilot dragged her attention back to
the matter at hand. 

Mikajaa shrugged. "Tonight, maybe, if he can get away." 

"I think he'll want to," Silence murmured, and the musician made a face. 

"We'll assume he can," Aili said. She looked at Efelay and then at
Balthasar, including them in the question. "Where shall we meet with him?"

"There's a bar called the Elite," Mikajaa began, and Fitch cut in. 

"Not on your life." 

The musician shrugged again. "The fountains?" 

Balthasar glanced at Fitch, who shrugged. "It's all right." 

Aili said, "Are there other objections to it?" She looked to Efelay.
"Sieura?" 

The gang leader looked up quickly, startled and pleased by the coine
title. "The fountains is like a park, sort of. We can watch you there, no
problem." 

"Then that will do," Aili said, and looked back to Mikajaa. "When will
your master be free?" 

"He should be able to make it by ten," Mikajaa answered. "If it doesn't
work out, I'll pass the word through Liu's." 

"You'll come here and tell us," Balthasar corrected. 

For a moment, Silence thought the musician would refuse, but then he
nodded sullenly. "All right." 

"If you don't come," Silence said, "and if no one's there, we'll assume
Radan doesn't want to cooperate with us." She paused, watching Mikajaa's
face, and saw that the musician understood. 

"I'll let you know," he said again, and Efelay slid forward off the table.

"See him out, Fitch," she said. The anadvocate pushed himself to his feet,
the flick-knife vanishing from his hand. Mikajaa followed him without a
word, or a glance at the other gang members closing in behind him. Silence
stared after him, wondering again if they should trust him, or Radan. This
time, at least, they did have other options -- but none as good, she
reminded herself. Besides, it hardly seemed likely that the musician would
be able to set up a meeting on such short notice, or that Radan would be
willing to allow it. There would be time to think of alternate plans. 

To the pilot's surprise, however, Mikajaa did not reappear to call off the
meeting. She said as much to the others, sitting around the low table in
the rooms that had been given to the new arrivals, and Marcinik grunted.
"He wouldn't dare not come." 

"We have something he wants," Aili amplified gently. "He'll be there." 

Silence nodded, but privately she still had her doubts. Even so, she
returned to the room she shared with Balthasar and Chase Mago and made
herself lie down for most of the afternoon, just in case. She felt fully
recovered from forming the janus gate, but there was no point in taking
chances. The more rest she could get, the better. In the quiet of the
closed room, she soon lost herself in waking dreams. 

"Silence?" Balthasar was standing in the doorway. 

The pilot shook herself fully awake, and sat up. "What is it?" 

"Fitch says it's time to go." Balthasar held out a heavy dark-blue jacket
trimmed with a single, palm-sized cluster of orange feathers. "You might
want to wear this -- it'll make you look like one of them." 

Silence took it, belting it securely around her waist. Balthasar, too, was
wearing the gang's colors pinned to the shoulder of his work-cloth jacket,
and she wondered momentarily if the gang had managed to find something
that would fit Chase Mago, or if the engineer had had to resort to the
clip-on badges. She shook the thought away, and said, "I'm ready." 

Balthasar nodded. "Isambard's staying here," he said. "But the rest of us
are going. And Efelay's sending some people to escort us." 

"Good," Silence said, and meant it. The more protection the better, in the
Kills' unfamiliar streets. 

As Fitch had promised, it wasn't very far to the fountains. Perhaps a
dozen gang members walked with them for most of the way, moving
surprisingly quietly through the dark streets. However, as they approached
the entrance to the park, a filigreed metal arch spanning the width of the
street, Fitch gave a low-voiced order, and the gang members melted away
into the shadows, leaving the anadvocate alone with the star-travellers. 

"They'll be keeping an eye on us," Fitch said. "No point in upsetting this
Radan if we don't have to." 

"Good enough," Balthasar said. 

Silence said nothing, eyeing the empty gateway. Everything was in shadow
beyond the metal arch, though she could just make out the outline of low
trees. In the distance, she could hear the faint sound of running water.
Nothing else seemed to be moving in the darkness. 

Beside her, Marcinik stirred uneasily. "Lights?" 

"I brought a hand torch," Fitch said, and reached into the pocket of his
long coat. "Here." He held out the long cylinder, adjusting the screw so
that the tube cast a soft wedge of light across the paving. The colonel
took it thoughtfully, sweeping the beam across the entrance. For a long
moment nothing happened, and then there was a movement to the left of the
arch. Mikajaa stepped out of the shadows and beckoned without speaking. 

"Here we go again," Balthasar murmured, and Chase Mago grunted his
agreement. Silence said nothing, concentrating instead on the harmonies of
the world around her. There were more machines here -- she could feel
their presence even though most of them were not in use, a sort of
distracting tension in the air around her -- but the park itself seemed
clear of their influence. Overhead, the waning moon was just visible
between the towers of two nearby buildings, its distant music offering
neither help nor hindrance. The pilot shivered, then braced herself to
follow the others. 

Once past the gate and the encircling line of trees, the park was quite
small. The noise of falling water was suddenly very loud. Silence looked
toward it, and caught her breath in pleased surprise. The fountains from
which the park had taken its name rose in the center of a paved circle, a
three-tiered pyramid in the center, with smaller basins set at each of the
compass points. A tiny stream wound between them, very dark in the
moonlight; the same light glittered from the droplets falling from the
central pyramid, turning them to strands of light. 

Radan was sitting on the edge of the basin that surrounded the pyramid. At
the star-travellers' approach, he rose easily to his feet, tilting his
head to one side in thoughtful appraisal. He was wearing ordinary
workman's clothes, a patched leather jacket over work-cloth trousers, and
looked, Silence thought, like nothing so much as a common dock worker. It
was a clever disguise, nothing like the magnificence they might have
expected of one of the Rose Worlders' servants. She held her breath,
hoping Aili would recognize the intelligence behind the craggy face and
the rough clothes. 

"So," Radan said. Mikajaa moved to join him, fading into the shadow of the
central fountain. "You're the princess the sieura told me about." 

"I am she." Aili stepped forward into the light from Fitch's torch. She
had exchanged her veil for a feathered half-mask borrowed from Efelay, and
the dark blue plumes nodded in the light. A triple strand of pearls fell
from the mask, further hiding her face. Radan studied her curiously, and
Silence thought she read a touch of uncertainty in his stance. 

"She tells me you'd be willing to act as a go-between to the hegemon, "
the havildar said, after a moment's pause, and nodded toward Silence. 

"Not precisely," Aili answered. Silence could almost see the thin smile on
the other woman's face. "I'm willing to act as his representative." 

"Can you?" Radan straightened slowly. "What precisely is your authority?" 

"I am the princess royal," Aili said. "Until my father names another heir,
I am the next in line for the throne." 

Silence hid a smile. While what Aili said was quite true, it failed to
mention that the hegemon wanted his son to inherit, not his daughter --
but then, the pilot thought suddenly, neither the Rose Worlders nor
Earth's natives seemed to restrict their women as much as the Hegemony
did. 

"But does that give you the right to act as his representative?" Radan
continued, with a slight smile of his own. 

"I'm here, am I not?" Aili countered. "And I can bring his fleet here, to
support you -- if you can convince me that I will not be bringing them
into a hopeless fight." 

Radan's smile widened reluctantly. "I have things in hand here," he
admitted, "which I believe will succeed." 

Aili started to answer, but her words were cut off by a sudden noise from
the park wall, toward Silence's left. The pilot swung toward it
instinctively, and saw Balthasar's heylin ready in his hand. Marcinik
dropped into a fighting crouch, his heylin drawn as well. 

"Silence!" It was Fitch's voice, coming from somewhere near the gate. "Get
out, you're --" 

He was cut off, but the pilot was already moving. She gestured, spoke a
single Word, and felt hell open between her hands. She cupped that power,
framing the phrases that would shape it to her needs, but left them
unfinished, ready to be triggered by a single Word. Figures moved suddenly
in the shadows, stepped out onto the pavement with lowered rifles, and a
voice called, "Put down your weapons!" 

The voice was vaguely familiar, Silence thought, and frowned at the
irrelevant thought. The other star-travellers hesitated, and the voice
called again, "Drop them, I said." 

Reluctantly, Balthasar stooped and set his heylin on the stones at his
feet. After a moment, both Chase Mago and Marcinik copied him, the colonel
taking a single quick step forward to place himself between Aili and the
nearest gun. Silence stood quite still, her cupped hands, helped by the
darkness, concealing the roiling patch of hell. Out of the corner of her
eye, she saw Mikajaa draw back toward the fountain, into the deeper
shadows, and held her breath, hoping he'd escape. 

"Mikajaa," the voice said. "Don't try it." 

The musician froze, and the voice added, "Put your gun down." Mikajaa
hesitated, and then, very slowly, slid a gleaming gun -- it looked like a
heylin, but lacked the bulbous charging chamber near the butt -- from his
coat pocket and laid it on the edge of the fountain. 

"Rafaiel!" That was Radan, his voice harsh with anger. "What the hell do
you think you're doing?" 

"What do I think I'm doing?" the voice mimicked. Rafaiel stepped out of
the circle of the trees, rifle cradled loosely in his hands. "What are you
doing, Kennet? We had an understanding, remember?" He raised the rifle
until the barrel was centered on the havildar's chest. 

Radan did not flinch. "We still do, as far as I'm concerned. What's your
complaint?" 

Rafaiel nodded toward the star-travellers. "Making a deal without me,
that's what. I don't like it, Kennet, I don't like it at all." 

"You'd've been informed when the time came," Radan said. "It was your
safety I was thinking of." 

"Bullshit," Rafaiel answered. "What are these, more of your foreign --
excuse me, off-world -- wizards?" His voice was thick with contempt. 

"Don't start that technologists' crap again," Radan said, and Rafaiel cut
him off. 

"You've fooled me once too often, Kennet. Not again." 

This has gone far enough, Silence thought. She opened her hands, and spoke
aloud the Word that completed the schema. Rafaiel's people turned toward
her, just as lightning exploded upward from between her hands. There had
been time, this time, to control and modify her attack; the bolts were
more light and sound than unbound elemental Fire. They curved down,
dividing as they fell, to strike the lowered rifles, knocking most of them
from their owners' hands. Thunder rolled through the park. 

"If you're a technologist, Rafaiel, I suggest you reconsider your
position," Silence said, into the sudden quiet. She lifted her hands,
displaying the opening into the submaterial world, at the same time
whispering a Word that set up a crackling dissonance along its outer
edges. A few of Rafaiel's people stepped backward, in spite of themselves,
and she thought she heard someone whisper, "The empress...." 

So that story's gained currency even with the technologists, she thought.
She said, "We came here to reestablish contact with a lost world; we will
do that, one way or another. This man --" She nodded toward Radan." --
says he wishes to be free of the Rose Worlders. Are you with us, or
against us?" 

There was a long pause, and through it the pilot could hear the noise of
the fountains, and, beneath that, nervous mutterings from Rafaiel's
people. She thought she heard, as well, faint scufflings from behind them,
and hoped that, if it were Fitch and the rest of the gang, they would hold
off just a little longer. Still Rafaiel said nothing, and, after a moment,
Radan said, "I was counting on you, Rafaiel." 

Rafaiel gave him a rather bitter glance. "You might have warned me." 

Radan shrugged. "I admit my error." It was a formula, but Rafaiel nodded
slowly. 

"All right. What's in this for me and mine?" 

"Is this your army?" Aili asked coolly, looking at Radan. 

The havildar gave her a harassed look. "I was expecting their help, yes. "

"And who are you?" Rafaiel demanded. 

Aili turned her masked face toward him. "I am the princess royal." 

Silence held her breath, but there was something in Aili's voice that cut
off the technologists' comments. 

"An off-worlder," Rafaiel said again. "And you'll break the Unionists?" 

"If we come to some agreement," Aili answered. 

Rafaiel hesitated, biting his lip, then nodded. "I want to sit in on the
discussions," he said. "Will you come back to the BBC? We can talk there."

Silence started to refuse, but Radan spoke first. "What guarantee do you
offer, after all this?" He gestured to Rafaiel's men. 

"My word to you," Rafaiel answered, and, after a moment, Radan nodded. 

"I'd accept it," he said. 

"I'm not entirely sure we can," Marcinik said, and Balthasar nodded, a
lop-sided grin on his face. 

"We accept," Aili said firmly. Silence felt the Delian's eyes on her, and
nodded. She was not completely happy with the idea, but she thought Aili
knew what she was doing. 

"Fitch!" she called, and heard a rustling in the underbrush. "Are you all
right?" 

There was more rustling, and the anadvocate appeared from behind the
fountain, his own gun swung casually at his side. At his appearance,
several of Rafaiel's men reached for their rifles, but Rafaiel gestured
for them to stop. 

"We're O. K.," Fitch said. There was a cut on his forearm and a bloody,
scraped patch on the side of his face, but he moved easily enough. 

"Come with us," Silence said, and the anadvocate nodded. 

"We'll be with you," he said, with meaning, and the pilot smiled, knowing
that her intent had been understood. 

"Then we'll do as you say, Aili," she said aloud. 

They made their way to Rafaiel's BBC through the back alleys, following
the technologists' leader through the maze of streets. As they went,
Silence glanced once at Fitch, and saw that the anadvocate seemed
perfectly calm. The other gang members were following them, then, she
thought, and in that moment Fitch saw her eyes on him, and nodded. She
smiled back, grateful for the reassurance, and turned her attention to
memorizing the route. 

They entered the BBC through a side door, by a stairway that led down into
a dimly lit basement. Silence caught a glimpse of the lights of the coffee
shop, heard snatches of conversation and music, but then Rafaiel had said
something to the burly man who seemed to be his lieutenant, and the lights
and sounds vanished. The pilot stood very still, letting her eyes adjust
to the new darkness, and felt something touch her arm. She started, and
Balthasar said, very softly, "Julie and I are right beside you, with
Marcinik and the princess." 

Silence tensed -- they were expecting trouble, but why? -- and then the
basement lights flashed on. She blinked, and felt Balthasar's hand relax.
The room was almost square, the walls painted stark white, the floor just
a naked slab of poured stone. The only touch of color was a fabric screen,
patterned in abstract, multicolored stripes, that was folded back against
the rear wall. It was intended to conceal a white-painted door. Even as
Silence looked that way the door opened, and the dark-skinned woman who
had been in charge of the coffee shop when the star-travellers had first
come to the mainurb came into the room. She stared at the strangers,
frankly curious, and Rafaiel beckoned to her, saying something in a voice
too soft for the pilot to overhear. The dark woman nodded, and disappeared
through the doorway again. 

"Get the tables set up," Rafaiel went on, more loudly, "and then you can
head upstairs, Jaan." 

The burly man nodded, and moved toward the wall to the left of the screen.
There was a compartment set into that space, Silence saw, cleverly
camouflaged. Jaan set his hand in a slight depression at the center of the
door, then yanked it open. Several of Rafaiel's men moved to help him set
up the trestle table and the breakdown chairs. 

Almost as soon as they'd finished, the dark woman returned, carrying a
heavy tray; she was followed by a young man who held a shiny coffee
service. At Rafaiel's nod, they set their burdens on the table, and
vanished again. Jaan and his men followed more slowly, Jaan glancing
unhappily over his shoulder. Rafaiel ignored him, and gestured toward the
table. 

"Please, people, have a seat. There's coffee, and food if you want it." 

Silence chose a place toward the end of the table opposite Rafaiel,
suddenly aware that she was very hungry. Aili took her place at the foot
of the table as though by unquestioned right, Marcinik settling himself at
her right hand. Rafaiel had already claimed the head of the table, and
Radan grinned. He took the chair that stood in the center of the
right-hand side, Mikajaa hovering at his shoulder, and glanced
benevolently from side to side. Balthasar and Chase Mago seated themselves
beside Silence, and, after a moment, Fitch settled reluctantly to Chase
Mago's right, just below Aili. 

"Coffee?" Rafaiel asked, and Radan nodded. 

"Please." 

Mikajaa moved to intercept the offered cup, and Silence saw Marcinik give
a wry smile. If the food or drink were poisoned, there was nothing even
Mikajaa's devoted service could do to stop it. The coffee service and the
tray of food -- a selection of the little sandwiches offered in the coffee
shop -- made the rounds of the table. Silence took her share eagerly,
ignoring the other star-travellers' nervous looks, and ate without
hesitation. There had been no time to poison the food; if anything, they
should be wary of the coffee -- it was far easier to poison a drink. 

"Well, people," Rafaiel said. "I think we have some things to discuss." 

Radan nodded. "You and I had an agreement," he said. "The lady --" He
gestured to Aili." -- has an offer that may improve our chances." 

"Not precisely an offer," Aili said, as all eyes turned to her. Silence
saw the beads move as the princess royal drew a long breath, and then the
other woman had begun to speak, once more outlining who she was and what
she hoped to do. She speaks well, Silence thought. Someone, somewhere,
taught her the basics of public speaking -- but then, the pilot added to
herself, I saw myself that that kind of knowledge can come in handy, in
the Women's Palace. It wasn't all that surprising, when you come to think
of it. 

"In brief," Aili finished, "I now need from you some guarantee -- no,
better, some proof -- that this plan of yours, whatever it is, can work.
As I've said before, I can't risk my father's men without some chance of
winning." 

Rafaiel looked stubborn, but the havildar nodded again. "That seems
reasonable." Rafaiel started to protest, and Radan gestured for him to be
quiet. "As I said before, there've been troubles with the Ice Island as a
central depot, and most control functions have been removed to Man's
Island until they -- these Rose Worlders -- can find some other remote
area on which to build their capital. Because the Earth-born were never
allowed on the Ice Island, there's been nothing we could do to break their
hold, but now, with the facilities suddenly at hand --" He stopped
abruptly, made himself continue in a less passionate voice, "This is our
first, and possibly our last chance to seize control of the planet. There
aren't many Rose Worlders in residence, perhaps a thousand or less,
scattered across the world. There are more potential rebels in the Kills
alone." He nodded to Rafaiel. "With his help, and with the help of some of
the other gangs -- yes, I was planning to contact your Efelay, boy -- I
could overrun Man's Island before anyone could move to stop me." 

"Except for the barrier," Silence said. 

"Except for the barrier," Radan agreed. "I had intended to gain access to
its control point myself, and deactivate it -- I believe I could have
stretched my authority that far -- but that was a risky activity. Better
still to find a magus who could destroy it from the outside." 

"So that's why you went through that whole charade," Rafaiel said, and
made a gesture of apology. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt." 

"Precisely," Radan said. He looked at Aili. "I think my plan would have
succeeded anyway. With your magus's help, I can almost promise it." 

The princess royal glanced at Marcinik, who nodded slowly. "They aren't a
bad fighting force," he said. "If they cooperate." 

Radan smiled. "They will." 

After a moment, Rafaiel nodded. Fitch said, with a touch of belligerence,
"If Silence says we should, all right." 

"Then I think we have a bargain," Aili said. 

"One thing disturbs me," Radan said. "How do you propose to contact your
father?" 

Aili smiled. "I rather thought you might be able to help us there, Sieur
Radan, given your various contacts." 

The havildar said nothing, clearly rather startled by the idea, and
Silence saw suddenly that the princess royal was holding her breath. Then,
slowly, Radan began to laugh. "Very well -- your serenity? I think it can
be managed." 

"Excellent," Aili answered. Only the slight movement of her hand against
the tabletop betrayed her relief. 

"What do you intend?" Marcinik asked. 

Radan gave him an appraising glance. "To be frank, I'm not entirely sure.
It depends on what you need." 

"What can you give us?" the colonel replied, grinning. 

The havildar shrugged, his eyes flickering toward Rafaiel. "I have --
contacts -- outside the Rose Worlders' control," he said cautiously. "I
also have access to the off-world transmitters." 

Rafaiel looked up sharply, started to say something, and then closed his
mouth again, scowling. There was something there, Silence thought --
distrust of the off-worlders, or annoyance with Radan for not revealing
that secret sooner -- but she could not be sure just what. 

"If you'll give me your message," the havildar went on, "I can see that
it's passed along as intended." 

Aili hesitated, and the pilot could read a sudden uncertainty in the other
woman's face. She was being asked to commit herself completely, to trust
someone whom she had no real reason to trust, and didn't like it. I don't
blame you, Silence thought, but we haven't got much choice. If we use
Recusante to try and reach one of the relays, we're almost certain to lose
the ship -- and there's no guarantee we'd get through. 

"Your contact's reliable, I assume," Aili said, and waved aside Radan's
answer. "No, of course he is, it was a foolish question." She sighed.
"I'll give you the message." 

"Then we're decided?" Radan asked, and the princess royal nodded. 

"We are agreed." 

Chapter 10 

THERE WASN'T MUCH TO BE SAID AFTER THAT, AND THE meeting broke up quickly.
The star-travellers made their way back to the gang's quarters just ahead
of the curfew, and paused just inside the main doorway while Fitch gave
low-voiced orders to the group who'd accompanied him. The girl who was his
apparent second-in-command nodded once, and vanished, drawing the others
away with her. Fitch sighed, and looked at Silence. 

"You'd better come with me," he said. "You'll want to tell Efelay what
you've been planning." 

There was a bitterness in his voice that made the pilot hesitate, suddenly
aware of how much she'd counted on the gang's support, when she had no
real right to speak for them. That kind of misjudgement might be enough to
destroy her precarious hold over them, already undermined by her admission
that she wasn't the empress, or, rather, that the empress was not quite
what they had been expecting.... She shook the thought away, and said,
"There wasn't time to consult with you. I'm sorry." 

"You kind of took us for granted," Fitch said, and sighed. "But you're
right, and I know it. Anything's worth it, if we can just drive them off."

To Silence's surprise, Efelay accepted the gang's place in the scheme
without protest, and agreed to put her people under Radan's orders when
the time came to attack the Island. Aili and Marcinik busied themselves
with composing the message to the hegemon, debating the effectiveness and
importance of each phrase. Radan's access to the transmitters was limited,
and there was less of a chance that a short message would be noticed and
questioned; each word had to bear the maximum information possible. Most
of the text, of necessity, was taken up with the description of the
Earth-road: without that key, the hegemon's fleet could not hope to reach
Earth in time, even if the magi had no difficulty in destroying the siege
engines. Silence reluctantly recast the image from her Gilded Stairs into
the symbolic language of the guilds, and gave the description to Aili.
That was her own greatest gamble, the pilot knew, and her greatest fear
was that the hegemon, having been given both the description of the
voidmarks and the promise that rebels would move against the Rose
Worlders, would simply ignore their appeal for support, and move in only
after their attack had failed. But Adeben Kibbe was an honest man, she
told herself grimly. He would not betray either his daughter or the people
who had won him his throne. 

She paused abruptly, staring into space. It had been she who'd beaten the
old hegemon's fleet during Adeben's invasion of Asterion, and Adeben knew
it. She had his formal admission of that debt, and his promise to pay it,
signed and sealed before witnesses. The charter was sitting in Recusante's
strongbox even now, and there was another copy somewhere in the records
house on Asterion itself. Maybe she could use that to secure the hegemon's
cooperation. "Aili?" 

The princess royal, bent over her books at the far end of the room, looked
up sharply. "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong," Silence said, and controlled her voice with an effort.
"I've just thought of something, that's all. The charter his majesty
signed, back on Asterion. Can you use that, make sure everyone knows he's
bound to help us?" 

Aili smiled rather shyly. "I'm afraid I already mentioned it," she said.
"And I left instructions with my agents, too, as insurance. I hope you
don't mind." 

Silence shook her head, startled and a little annoyed by the other woman's
action. But then, she told herself, Aili knows more about politics than I
do; there's no shame in that. "It's just as well," she said aloud. "Good."

Aili gave her an appraising glance, but Marcinik called her name from the
doorway, interrupting whatever she might have said. Silence gave a sigh of
relief -- she didn't really want to admit her momentary jealousies -- and
turned back to her work. 

The magi faced two major projects, though Isambard hoped to develop some
device, a variant of a siege engine, perhaps, which Radan could use to
destroy the barrier. If not, he said, one of them would have to remain
behind to manage the operation. Silence guessed which of them that would
be, and, though she admitted the logic of Isambard's argument -- she was,
after all, the less experienced magus -- she very much wanted to be a part
of the greater operation. 

Twice already in the five days since their meeting with Radan, Mikajaa had
taken the magi to half-hidden lookouts, one on the cliffs behind the
Kills, the other on a low bluff just south of the Rosemont, from which
they could study the barrier. They could get closer, the musician had said
sourly, but he did not recommend it. Isambard, apparently oblivious to the
young man's dislike, had said he could make his observations well enough
from a distance. He was back at the bluff right now, Silence knew, still
studying the barrier, while she finished transcribing the voidmarks for
the Earth-road. 

She sighed, trying to concentrate on the work in front of her, but it was
a merely mechanical task, and she found her thoughts wandering instead to
the siege engines blocking the Earth-road. She wondered which of the
schemae they could use -- perhaps something based on the laws of sympathy
would be best, would let them use the natural harmonies to greatest
effect? She closed her eyes, a vague image taking shape in her mind. If it
were a matter of sympathy, maybe the best model to use would be something
based on an orrery. In modern terminology, of course, an orrery was merely
a physical model of a star system, articulated so that the planets and all
the other subsolar bodies moved appropriately, but the original orreries
had been models of Earth's system. They could use the orrery as a type --
as a Form -- to compel the larger system to return to its proper
harmonies.... 

"Silence." Isambard spoke from the doorway, interrupting her train of
thought. "Have you finished the transcription?" 

The pilot shook herself and nodded, putting aside the vague plans. "Here
it is." 

"Excellent. Her serenity is waiting for it." 

Silence made a face, but collected her papers and rose stiffly to her
feet. "I'll take it to her, then." 

"Captain Balthasar can do that," Isambard answered. Silence saw the
Delian, standing in the hallway behind the magus, roll his eyes in
disgust, and did not hide her sympathetic grin. 

"Thanks, Denis," she said. 

Balthasar took the slip of paper with an unwilling smile. "I'll find you
later," he said, and disappeared. 

Silence stood looking after him, trying to suppress her feeling of
disappointment. At the moment, she would far rather be with her husbands,
not continuing the day's work. She glanced toward the single window, and
saw that the sun had already set. "Do you need me, Isambard?" 

"Yes." The older magus seated himself at the table, wincing as though he
were suddenly very stiff. Silence frowned but said nothing, and, after a
moment, Isambard went on, "I want to discuss with you the methods we shall
use." 

Silence sighed, but nodded and reseated herself. "All right." 

"I have been studying the barrier," Isambard said, "and I believe I was
correct in my first assessment. I am almost certain it is indeed based on
one -- the third, in fact -- of the Alaurae branches, and therefore I am
confident that I can destroy it. There is, however, a difficulty." 

"I'm not surprised," Silence murmured, and added, more loudly, "What do
you mean, difficulty?" 

"The Alaurae branches are all based on a rather crude application of sheer
power," Isambard answered. "When the Form of the barrier is altered, that
power must be contained, and at once, or its release will devastate the
surrounding areas. That is obviously undesirable." 

"Obviously," Silence said. When the magus did not go on at once, she said,
"Which means -- ?" 

Isambard sighed. "I cannot build an engine to destroy it. I must do it
myself." 

"You?" Silence frowned, warily, looking for the hole in the argument. Was
she going to get to take part in the destruction of the siege engines,
after all? She put aside her excitement, and said, as calmly as she could,
"That's going to create a problem with the timing, isn't it?" 

"Perhaps not." Unaccountably, Isambard looked away, and Silence felt a
sudden touch of fear. Something was wrong -- she had never seen the other
magus look so uncertain, or so old. 

Isambard sighed again. "I must make a confession," he said at last, "one
that is painful to me." He paused, bowing his head, and the pilot sat very
still, not wanting to disturb him further. After a moment, Isambard lifted
his head, and continued in a steady voice. "I do not know how to destroy
the engines on the Earth-road; I have no vision or schema to guide me. And
I do not know if I am capable of managing such a powerful operation
anymore. If you have either the knowledge or the strength, I beg you to
inform me." 

Silence sat frozen, appalled by the old man's words. Not long ago, she had
thought that she would give anything to become a greater magus than her
teacher, and to force him to admit that fact. Now that it had happened,
she wanted to run, to run away both from the terrifying responsibility and
from the pain in the older magus's eyes. Why is it always me? she wondered
again, and forced the thought away. It was on her shoulders now -- this is
why, she thought bitterly, this is why they tell you never to wish too
much for anything. You may get it. She had wanted just to be a part of the
destruction of the siege engines, not to have to do it all herself. Then
she saw the matching bitterness in Isambard's face, and put those thoughts
aside. 

"I'd given the operation some thought," she said, choosing her words with
almost painful care. "But I'd very much appreciate your advice." She
waited until the older magus nodded before continuing. "I thought the laws
of sympathy seemed to be what was needed, and that we might shape an
orrery -- a real orrery, a model of this system as it should be, and use
that, somehow." She had been talking almost at random, trying to put words
to the vague picture she'd developed earlier. Now she saw Isambard's
expression sharpen, and braced herself for his response. 

To her surprise, however, the older magus nodded, a smile spreading slowly
across his face. "Yes, of course, I should have seen it. Oh, God, the
advantages of a pilot's training!" He calmed himself with an effort, and
went on. "But the orrery must not be tuned, Silence -- or, rather, it must
be deliberately mistuned to match the notes of the engines. And then, when
the engine is brought into tune --" 

Silence nodded, caught up in the same sudden excitement. "The siege
engines, the ones blocking the road, will shatter. The whole system will
be brought into its proper alignment." 

"Yes!" Isambard's delight faded as quickly as it had appeared, to be
replaced by a more sober assessment. "You are possibly the most talented
student I have taught, Sieura Doctor. I congratulate you." The words were
spoken with unconcealed bitterness. 

As you said, Silence thought, I was trained as a pilot; it's easy for me
to make those connections. She started to say as much, then stopped. It
would sound too much like an apology, as though she did not properly value
her own hard-won skills. She said, instead, "It can't be done inside the
mainurb." 

"No." Isambard's momentary jealousy vanished again, his mind already
grappling with the practical aspects of the problem. "Perhaps this Radan
knows of someplace suitable." 

"Probably," Silence answered. "We can ask him when Marcinik delivers the
message." 

Once again, they met in the room beneath Rafaiel's BBC. This time, it was
well after curfew -- Radan had not been able to leave the island any
earlier -- and Silence could feel the tension in the escorting gang
members as they made their way through the streets. Radan was there before
them, as she'd half expected he would be, but the pilot was startled to
see signs of strain in his face. He managed a smile as the star-travellers
made their way down the narrow staircase, but it faded quickly. 

"Is anything wrong?" Silence asked, tensing. Only she and Marcinik had
come to the meeting this time, escorted again by Fitch, and she wondered
for a brief moment if she'd made a bad mistake. 

Radan shook his head. "No, sieura, nothing's wrong. We've just been rather
busy, that's all." 

Marcinik's eyes narrowed. "Why?" 

Radan lifted an eyebrow, and Silence cursed the colonel's bluntness. After
a moment, however, the havildar relaxed, and said, "Truthfully, I'm not
sure. But it has nothing to do with us, in any case." 

"I hope so," Marcinik said, and pulled the message disk from his pocket.
"Here it is, as promised." 

Radan took the transparent case, turning it thoughtfully in his hand
before tucking it inside his battered jacket. "I'll see that it's
transmitted," he said. "How long after it's received do you expect your
fleet?" 

"As we agreed," Marcinik said, "eight weeks, local." 

The havildar nodded. "We'll be ready." 

Silence stepped forward. "So should we be, but there are some things we
need from you." 

"Whatever I can offer," Radan answered, but his face was wary. 

Silence hid a grin. "Doctor Isambard has decided to remain here in the
mainurb to deal with the barrier for you. I'll be handling the siege
engines." Marcinik gave her a quick, startled glance at that, but she
ignored him. "To do it, though, I'll need someplace safe outside the
mainurb -- someplace away from mechanical influences. Can you do that?" 

Radan paused, visibly considering the question. "You don't ask the easy
things, do you, sieura doctor?" He sighed, chewing thoughtfully on his
lower lip. "Possibly -- yes, I think I can arrange it." He gave a fleeting
smile. "One of the perqs of my position -- I'm technically the owner of
several tracts of farmland in the exurb; it's a way of calculating
compensation for my services. It's crawling with machinery, of course, but
all that could be deactivated -- if that would be sufficient, sieura." 

"Wouldn't that be noticed, if you turned all the fanners off?" Marcinik
asked, before Silence could say anything. 

"I can cover that," Radan said. 

"How large an area are we talking about?" the pilot asked. 

"Around five hundred hectares," Radan answered, indifferently. 

Silence nodded, impressed in spite of herself. "That should be more than
enough room," she said, "but how're we going to get there?" 

The havildar smiled. "If either of your husbands can fly a mechanical
flyer," he began, and Marcinik cut in. 

"If they can't, I can." 

"Then I'll get you one -- we'll call it an inspection trip; we run them
often enough, and that'll help cover any anomalous reports from that part
of the exurb." Radan nodded, almost to himself. "Mikajaa can go with you,
handle the communications." 

The musician, waiting quietly in the corner until now, made a noise of
protest, but the havildar ignored him. "Is that agreeable, sieura doctor?"

Silence paused, looking for any holes in the plan, but could find none.
"That'll do." 

Neither Balthasar nor Chase Mago offered any objections to the new plan,
and even Isambard was dourly approving. As Silence had more than half
expected, Balthasar admitted to knowing how to handle a mechanical flyer
-- they were in limited use on Delos, outside the port areas -- and
Mikajaa made arrangements to escort them to the landing field, on the
western edge of the mainurb. Aili and Marcinik would remain in the Kills
with Isambard, to coordinate the operation. Silence packed her belongings
for what she hoped was the last time, and then turned her attention to
helping Chase Mago tune the communications board he'd improvised from the
gang's collection of miscellaneous material. At last they had it adjusted
to the tuning of Recusante's portable board, which they would leave with
Isambard. The next day, as dawn was breaking, they made their way through
the slowly brightening streets toward the tube-train station. The streets
were more crowded than Silence had ever seen them. She said as much,
yawning, and Balthasar shrugged. 

"Day shift, on its way to work," Fitch said. He and T'la had insisted on
accompanying the star-travellers to the field, to provide what protection
they could. Silence was not entirely happy with the idea -- two young men,
one of them little more than a boy, were hardly much protection, and the
bright gang livery drew more attention than it was worth -- but there had
been no way to refuse, and she did her best to hide her unease. 

"Factory workers?" Chase Mago asked. Of the five, he was easily the most
alert, apparently unaffected by the early hour. 

Fitch nodded. "Yeah. They make computers, things like that." He made a
face. "Just what we need, more mechanics." 

He sounds like one of us, Silence thought, and hid a smile. 

They caught the tube-train from the Kills' only station. It was so crowded
in the car that Silence found it difficult to breathe. She fixed her eyes
on the monitor, trying to ignore the mob around her, and was very glad
when the symbols for the terminus appeared in the screen. She shouldered
her way out of the car after the others, and stood for a bewildered moment
on the busy platform before Fitch caught her arm. 

"This way." He pointed up the moving staircase, and Silence followed him
obediently, clutching her bag close against her side. Balthasar and Chase
Mago moved with them, efficiently shepherded by T'la. The anadvocate led
them back to the plaza Silence remembered from their arrival in the
mainurb, where he vanished briefly, to return a moment later with three
booklets of tickets. 

"Returns, too," he said, with a grin, and Balthasar nodded approvingly. 

"Good thought." 

Instead of taking them back to the circular northern platform by which
they'd arrived, however, Fitch led them through a purple-bordered archway
that bore the sign "Eastern Suburban Transit" and down a badly lit tunnel.
The embarkation area at the end of the tunnel was smaller than the
northern line, containing only five or six platforms. Strings of silver
capsules were drawn up to each platform, and Fitch paused for a moment to
consult the main notice board. 

"The nonstop leaves from platform two," he said after a moment. "You're
going to Nexa; it'll be the second stop." 

Balthasar nodded, but Silence frowned. "I thought you said it was a
nonstop?" 

"Mostly." Fitch held out the ticket booklets. "It only stops at the big
suburban stations. But the one you want is Nexa." 

"All right," Silence said, and took the booklets from his hand. "Thanks,
Fitch. This has been a help." 

The anadvocate shrugged, and for a moment Silence thought she saw him
blush. "Be careful, Lady -- Sieura -- all of you," he said, and T'la
echoed, "Please." 

"We will," Silence said, but they'd already turned away, and a moment
later the crowd swallowed them. The pilot stood looking after them,
feeling unaccountably lost, though she could not have said for certain
why. 

Chase Mago touched her shoulder. "Come on," he said gently. "Platform
two?" 

Silence nodded, and shook away the strange sense of loss. "Over there." 

They found an empty car without too much trouble, and settled back on the
padded benches to wait for the departure. Silence dozed, and was awakened
by the sudden swaying as the trans jerked into motion. She glanced
automatically at her husbands, and saw the same mix of emotions, fear and
excitement and a certain amount of relief, in both their faces. She
smiled, and, reluctantly, Balthazar smiled back. 

"I guess it's almost over," he said, and Silence nodded. 

"I guess so." 

It was not that long a ride to Nexa, but it seemed to take forever. The
trans passed over kilometers of the heavily settled country that seemed to
characterize the mainurb, and then, very slowly, the buildings began to
thin out and patches of unused land began to appear. By the time the trans
stopped at the first station, labelled Valon, the land was little
different from the land around Diesmon. It was another half hour to Nexa,
according to the announcer's rich voice, but even so Silence started to
gather the bags together. She stopped, flushing, as Balthasar grinned.
"Eager?" 

The pilot glared at him, and Balthasar made a gesture of apology, the
smile fading. "Sorry. So am I." 

The Nexa station was very like the terminus at Diesmon, except that its
single narrow platform was situated between two sets of tracks. Balthasar
opened the capsule door, and they clambered out onto the metal flooring.
Sunlight was pouring down the central stairway, and the star-travellers
made for that, unspeaking. Silence could feel the tension settling in her
shoulders, and tried to relax, but could not. If Mikajaa weren't waiting
for them, if things had somehow gone wrong, and this were a trap -- and
even if it weren't, she thought, greyly, she still had the siege engines
ahead of her. She shook herself, hard; the fear retreated, but it remained
a cold presence at the back of her mind. 

Mikajaa was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, lounging with
apparent insouciance against one of the pillars that supported the
station's roof. He nodded a greeting as they approached, but said nothing.
Balthasar grinned and said, with silky menace, "Hello, Mikajaa." 

"There's a car waiting," the musician said. "Over here." 

"Stop it, Denis," Silence said. There was no point in antagonizing their
only contact. Balthasar made a face, but nodded reluctant agreement. 

Mikajaa led them down the long, open-sided station -- there was a
surprising amount of traffic, enough to make the star-travellers
inconspicuous among the crowd -- then out into the sunlight and across the
hard-formed parking area to a battered four-wheeled runabout. Machines
like it had been banished from most of the human-settled worlds for
generations, but Mikajaa pointed to it with some pride. 

"Here we are, people." 

Silence struggled to hide a grin, and saw Chase Mago's eyebrows lift as he
examined the dented frame. The engineer said nothing, however, and Silence
breathed a sigh of relief. 

Somewhat to her surprise, the runabout worked smoothly, the closed
compartment comfortable despite the faintly unpleasant smell of the
engine. Mikajaa handled it easily, swerving to avoid the patches of broken
pavement. To either side of the road stood clusters of buildings,
interrupted periodically by empty, neglected fields. One more sign of the
Rose Worlders' insistence on Earth's natives staying in the urban areas,
Silence realized. On any world in the Hegemony or in the Fringe, someone
would have claimed those lots, used them either to supplement diet or
their prestige. 

As the runabout drew closer to the airfield, the clusters of buildings
thinned out even further, until there were perhaps two or three buildings
to every kilometer. Even out here, far from Unionist supervision, the
buildings huddled together, with great stretches of open space in between:
the prohibition had bitten deep. 

The airfield itself wasn't much, just a paved runway and a single low
hangar. The flyer had been wheeled out onto the pavement by the fueling
stand, but there were no attendants in sight. No one appeared when Mikajaa
pulled the runabout to a careful stop behind the hangar, and Silence
frowned. 

"Where is everybody?" Balthasar asked, before the pilot could say
anything. 

"Off duty, if they followed orders," Mikajaa answered. He shut off the
runabout, and then tucked the control key carefully beneath the driver's
seat. "Radan didn't want you to be seen, if we could help it." 

"That makes sense," Chase Mago said, and pulled the star-travellers' bags
from the runabout's luggage well. 

The flyer was small, compared to the ones Silence was used to, and very
noisy. It was not the ordinary, almost musical sound of a harmonium
magnified through a sounding keel, either, but the coughing roar of a
machine. The pilot winced, and pressed herself back against the padded
seat as Balthasar ran the engine up to its full power, wishing there were
some other way to reach the farmland. 

The noise lessened once they were in the air, however, or at least,
Silence thought, she became more used to it. She leaned forward, peering
curiously out the little windows. They were flying below the thin cloud
cover -- below the Unionists' sensor net, Mikajaa had explained -- and she
could see the occasional opening in the forest that might have been a
settlement like the Javerrys' but was more likely just a natural clearing.
After perhaps an hour's flying, they crossed a low mountain range and
turned fractionally south, heading out over empty country that became
progressively flatter as they moved farther west. There were no
settlements at all here, just acre upon acre of cropland, broken here and
there by a flash of silver or the bone-white scar of a paved airstrip.
Those were the repair stations for the AFMs, Mikajaa explained; the
airfields were there so that flyers could land to collect the harvest.
Once or twice, Silence thought she glimpsed the outline of ruined
buildings, half hidden beneath the sea of grain, but the flyer passed over
them before she could be sure. It wasn't impossible, she thought. Emma
Javerry had said that all this land had once been heavily settled. She
shivered at the thought of those massive relocations, and looked away. 

They landed at Radan's holding a little after sunset, the flyer slanting
down onto the paved strip that was the only sign of human activity for
hundreds of kilometers in any direction. Silence climbed out into the
purple twilight, stiff from the hours of travel, and stood staring at the
sea of vegetation surrounding her. It was some sort of grass-like grain,
growing almost as high as her waist, an oddly bright yellow in the fading
light. Behind her, the flyer's engine coughed a final time and cut out,
leaving an almost painful quiet. 

"Over here," Mikajaa said, and Silence jumped. The musician was standing
in the doorway of a metal-sided building, little more than a large shed.
There was a second shed behind it, round-roofed -- the machine-shed,
Silence guessed, and shivered again. In their own way, she thought, the
AFMs were worse than the homunculi. He beckoned again, impatiently, and
Silence moved to join him, Chase Mago and Balthasar trailing behind her. 

The interior of the shed was very dark. Mikajaa fumbled impatiently with
the control box just inside the door, and the lights came on at last,
throwing a cold glare across the single room. The place had never been
intended for long-term visits, Silence saw at once, looking at the stacked
cots and the crude mechanical kitchen. The only new-looking piece of
equipment was the control console that filled one entire wall. She stared
at the lights blinking on and off across the multiple boards, and Mikajaa
crossed to stand in front of the least complicated of the control panels. 

"I'm letting Radan know we've landed," he said, and touched a set of keys.
After a moment, one set of lights turned green, and then a single light --
the channel indicator, Silence guessed, though she could not be sure --
turned from red to orange. Mikajaa nodded to himself, and lifted the
headset that hung beneath the board. "Mir Radan," he said, and the orange
light turned green. "Mir Radan, we're here." 

"Acknowledged." Radan's voice was faint, choked by static. "Go ahead with
the plan." 

The light flickered out before Mikajaa could answer, and the musician
nodded to himself. 

"What now?" Chase Mago asked. 

"You heard him," Mikajaa answered. "We shut down the machinery." Without
waiting for a response, he moved to the main console, pulling a tattered
notebook from the pocket of his coat. He flipped through its pages until
he found the reference he wanted, then stood for a moment, studying the
controls. Silence saw him take a deep breath, then reach for the first set
of switches, flicking them off in a steady pattern. For a long time
nothing happened, and then Balthasar whistled sharply. 

The pilot turned. Balthasar was standing by the shed's rear window,
staring out into the gloom. "Look at this," he said, and pointed. Silence
moved to join him, and the engineer followed, warily. 

Outside, in the almost-darkness, the AFMs were moving. The machine-shed
door had opened, and the machines were rolling toward it, to vanish into
its unlit depths. Some of them Silence recognized -- tillers, another that
was probably a harvester, its cutter bar cocked up behind it like a
scorpion's sting, a little wheeled platform that carried the tank and
bellows-pump of a duster -- but most were alien, their functions
unguessable. They moved almost noiselessly, the clank of their tracks and
the rattle of the unsecured equipment almost inaudible through the walls
of the shed. 

"What the hell powers them?" Chase Mago murmured, almost to himself. 

"Solar cells," Mikajaa said from behind them, and they all jumped.
"Storage batteries at night." 

The wave of machines was slowing already, Silence saw, and she frowned.
"Surely that isn't all of them." 

Mikajaa shook his head. "Not nearly. They'll be coming in all night, to
here and to the other depots. By morning, though, they'll all be shut
down." 

And I can get to work, Silence thought. I just wish to hell I knew exactly
what I was doing. She turned away, sighing, to look at the stacked cots
and the crusted kitchen. "Let's get settled, then." 

By morning, as Mikajaa had promised, all the AFMs had returned to their
depots and the control console had gone dark. Silence stood for a long
while, staring out into the brilliant sunlight, trying to decide what she
should do next. She was vaguely aware of the others, watching her out of
the corners of their eyes while they pretended to be busy with other
things, but she put them out of her mind. Isambard had said that her idea
would work -- that she could use the Form of an orrery to destroy the
siege engines -- but she still was not fully certain how she should
construct the schema. She closed her eyes, and whispered the first
cantation, letting the local harmonies wash over her. For the first time
since she'd come to Earth, there was no machine-made dissonance to
interfere with the planetary music; the harmonies were at once unknown,
and strangely familiar. It was like the Earth-road, she realized. There
was a peculiar tightness to the music. And that, she told herself, would
only work for her plan. 

She turned away from the window, smiling distractedly at the others, still
watching from beside the darkened console. "I'm going out, to get
started," she said, and saw Balthasar take a deep breath. 

"Is there anything we can do -- ?" he began, and Chase Mago laid a hand on
his shoulder, cutting off the rest of the sentence. 

"Good luck, Silence," he said. 

The pilot nodded her thanks, and pushed through the shed door. Outside,
the air was already very warm. She stood for a moment, squinting into the
sunlight, then turned slowly, feeling for the harmonic lines. The two
sheds, and the pavement of the airstrip itself were badly sited, lying at
an angle to the music around them. She frowned, and started away from the
airstrip, skirting the machine shed by a wide margin. 

She walked west for perhaps two hundred meters, until she was free of the
last traces of mechanical influence. She knelt in the center of the grain,
the ground still damp with dew beneath her, and felt the stalks close in
around her, hiding her completely. Julie will worry, she thought, and then
shut the irrelevant thought away. She knelt there for a long time,
listening to the faint, unfamiliar sounds of insects and birds, then
slowly put those things aside, groping instead for the deeper music of the
planet itself. Those harmonies swelled around her, enclosing her, until
she felt that music deep within herself, stripping away the armor she had
fashioned for herself against the dissonances of the mainurb, leaving her
open to the music of the planet's core. Beneath that harmony, she could
hear another, more distant dissonance -- the natural dissonance caused by
the clash of the other systemic harmonies, solar, lunar, planetary,
against the dominant music of the world. She listened for a long time,
until she was certain she understood it fully, and then, cautiously,
reached beyond it to the super-material. 

She chose the Form of the circle first, because it was the easiest, and
brought it into existence, laying the harmonies against it and bending
them to her will until at last she had a solid wall of sound, enclosing a
space perhaps fifty meters in diameter. She spoke the Words that fixed
that creation, and saw the grass within the circle shiver, bending toward
her as though a wind were blowing from the invisible wall toward the
center. She spoke again, and the grasses disappeared, leaving freshly
plowed dirt beneath her feet. She touched it, feeling the rich loam
crumble in her hands, and felt, too, the distant music of the planet. She
could still smell the vanished grass, a strong, green scent, but even as
she recognized it, the odor faded. She stood for a moment, surveying her
handiwork, then spoke softly. The Words dismissed the created barrier but
retained it in potential: she would need that wall again, when she began
to create the orrery itself. 

She sighed, studying both the land and its reflected harmonies. The proper
material for an orrery was metal -- metal considered as one Form of
elemental Earth, the Form most responsive to harmony -- but there was very
little metal in the land beneath her. She could create it, of course, fuse
some compound from the raw soil beneath her, but that would take time, and
a great deal of power. She had neither to spare. She made a face, then,
shaking her head at her own stupidity. There was metal and to spare back
at the sheds, as long as the AFMs could be broken down into their
component parts, and purged of the inescapably mechanical. If they could
be purged, she added to herself, trying to control her rising excitement,
but she could see no reason that they couldn't be. She looked up, trying
to judge the time -- to her surprise, the sun had slipped halfway down the
western sky -- then, sighing, started back toward the sheds. 

The others were waiting by the machine sheds, idly examining one of the
AFMs, but they looked up quickly at her approach. "How did it go?" Chase
Mago asked, at last. 

The pilot nodded. "Well enough," she said. "I still think it can be done."

"Well, that's a relief," Balthasar said, but he was smiling. 

Silence smiled back at him. "I'll need your help -- all of you," she
began, and the engineer cut in quickly. 

"Anything we can do, of course." 

"The AFMs," Silence said. "I need the raw metal, to cast the orrery." 

Mikajaa frowned. "Each one of them has a computer aboard," he began. "I
don't see how --" 

"I need the raw metal," Silence said again. 

Chase Mago nodded. "I see. Yes, I think we can rip out all the computer
components -- will that be enough, or will the internal structure have
been warped?" 

"I don't think so," Silence answered. "Once the components have been
removed, I should be able to reshape it all right." Mikajaa still looked
confused, and she elaborated, "The computers are antithetical to the Art.
We have to take them out -- and preferably get them away from here, though
that's not absolutely vital -- before I can get to work." 

The musician nodded slowly. "I think I understand." 

They spent the next four days disassembling a medium-sized tiller. Mikajaa
proved invaluable at this, as he was able to point out minuscule
components that the star-travellers might otherwise have missed, and the
work progressed quickly. By mid-morning on the fifth day, all the
irrevocably mechanical bits and pieces had been pulled out of the AFM, and
the shell stood empty, waiting. Silence studied it, hands on hips,
wondering if it wasn't too late to begin the work of transformation that
day. She shook the thought away -- if she allowed herself to delay now,
for no better reason than fear, she would never finish -- and said, "I i
think that does it." 

Chase Mago nodded, wiping his arm across his sweating face. "I don't see
anything else that has to come out." 

Balthasar grimaced. "I suppose this means we have to move it out to that
space you cleared," he said, and Silence nodded. 

"That's right. And we'd better start now, before it gets any hotter." 

The tiller was one of the smaller AFMs that ran on wheels rather than on
tracks, which made it somewhat easier to move. Even so, and despite the
fact that most of the heavy engine had been removed, it took all of their
strength to push it into the circle Silence had cleared. The four sat on
the ground for a long time after they'd gotten the AFM past the perimeter,
panting, unable to say a word. Silence could feel her heart pounding,
could feel the pain of a wrenched muscle in her shoulder. 

"There's got to be a better way." That was Mikajaa, sprawled flat in the
dirt just beyond the gutted machine. He sounded completely exhausted, and
Silence felt a pang of guilt. 

"I'll try to come up with something," she began, and Chase Mago shook his
head. 

"No," he said, "leave that to me. I've got a couple of ideas I can try. " 

"A little late with them, aren't you, Julie?" Balthasar grumbled, but he
was the first to push himself to his feet. "We'll let you get on with it,
Silence." 

The engineer groaned as he stood up, then turned to pull Mikajaa to his
feet. "Good luck," Chase Mago said, and, after a moment, the musician
hesitantly echoed him. 

Left to herself, Silence sat for a moment longer, gathering strength. When
at last she felt fully recovered, she pushed herself to her feet, and
turned to study the mass of metal. In its present state, it was useless to
her; it would have to be transformed, and then reshaped into the various
parts of the orrery. There was enough raw metal in this machine to form
the centerpiece and the first ring. Well, then, she told herself, get on
with it. 

She took a deep breath, and spoke the Words that recalled the barrier,
sealing herself off from the fields around her. The harmonies with which
she would be working were dangerously powerful, could poison the land
itself if she let her control slip. This way, at least, any errors would
harm only herself. She felt the barrier close in around her, the air
taking on the faintly lifeless quality that she associated with the
isolation rings on Solitude Hermae, where she had first learned the Art.
Unpleasant though it was, the familiar feeling steadied her, and she
regarded the stripped machine with more confidence. This would be a
two-stage operation: first the metal would have to be transformed from its
present, common state to a compound more receptive to the Art, and then
that new metal would have to be forged into the orrery's centerpiece. The
latter was easy; it was the transformation that worried her. 

She took another deep breath, putting aside her doubts. Metals, compounded
as they were of elemental Earth, the least volatile of the major elements,
were notoriously difficult to work in the first stages of transformation,
but once the original Form had been broken, were surprisingly easy to
reshape. She fixed her eyes on the AFM, barely aware of the way the sun
glinted off the unpainted surface, or of its heat against her back. She
concentrated instead on the weight of the metal, on its solidity and its
essential Form. When she was sure that the present Form was fixed in her
mind, she spoke the Words of the first step of transformation. She felt
heat flare in her mind, matching the sun's heat on her back; felt the same
heat reflected from the AFM. This was calcination, the necessary death
that bound the metal to its present state, and prepared it for the changes
that were to come. 

The heat rose, driving her back a step or two. She winced, but kept her
eyes on the AFM. Outwardly, it was unchanged, but she could feel the heat
rising within it, feel the first impure elements stir and shift, loosened
from their place in the metal's structure. Then the AFM's outline seemed
to waver, to loosen. Instantly, she spoke the next Words, banishing the
heat, to leave the AFM shimmering in the sunlight, its outline as vaguely
unstable as if she were viewing it through imperfect glass. She spoke
again, and felt the metal solidify under the lash of the heavy syllables.
Now, however, each lesser element was separate from the others, ready to
be manipulated. She paused, gathering strength, watching the fixed metal
for any signs of instability, then spoke the Words that opened a door into
hell. 

There was no true sound in answer, but she felt a kind of thunder shiver
in the thick air. The patch of hell, roiling with the non-color that was
all colors at once, grew between her hands. She whispered the phrases that
controlled and shaped it, but did not stop its growth. The opening grew
larger, shimmering like a silver platter; under her sure touch, it grew
larger still, until it lay like a flat lake between her and the AFM, a
shallow disk easily large enough to contain the entire machine. She spoke
the Words that fixed it, then, and turned her attention to the AFM. 

The machine seemed unchanged, the uncanny heat gone from its frame, but
Silence could feel the difference in its response to her commands. She
lifted her hands, balancing her awareness of the chaotic energies of hell
against the arrested movement of the AFM's metal. With infinite care, she
sent the disk of hell drifting away from her, until it hung suspended just
above the AFM. Bracing herself, she lowered her hands, bringing the disk
down over the machine. 

Even though she had been expecting it, the explosion of released energy
rocked her back on her heels. She swore, and swallowed the words unspoken,
afraid of upsetting the delicate balance of forces around her. The disk
sank lower, concealing and consuming the AFM. She fought to control the
process, venting the unnatural energies back into the submaterial where
they belonged. This was perhaps the most dangerous part of the
transformation: the violent dissolution, followed by the digestion of the
lesser elements into the chaotic state that was potentially any element,
releasing its parts unevenly, throwing off dangerous bits and pieces of
near-elemental matter. Those particles were inherently unstable,
short-lived, but in their brief existence were capable of invading the
more ordinary compounds, translating them into deadly poisons. 

The disk sank lower still, until it had completely consumed the AFM, and
its strange surface seemed to float only a few centimeters above the
ground. There was a platform of stability here, and Silence seized it
gratefully, wiping the sweat from her face. One more step, she told
herself, one more step, and you're halfway there. She took a deep breath,
and spoke the next Words. 

There was another quivering in the air around her, a sense of shifting,
but nothing else happened. She frowned, and spoke again, reinforcing her
first command with a Word of even greater power. There was a groan, a
sound deeper than the deepest notes of a ship's harmonium, and a noise
like something tearing. Very slowly, a shape began to rise from the disk
of hell. Silence spoke again, quickly, using Words that were the
reflections of elemental Earth, and the shape stabilized into a dark,
shimmering cube that hung just above the surface of the disk. 

Silence sighed in relief -- she was halfway finished now; she had broken
the metal down to its elemental form, and now needed only to recast it
into something more useful for her purposes -- and dismissed the opening
into hell. The cube remained in the air before her, a dark, oily-brown
shape that sang with a power all its own. She tilted her head to one side,
studying it a moment longer, then spoke the Words that began the next
sequence. The surface of the cube shifted, darkened, then began to bubble
gently. Wisps of matter rose from it like steam; she spoke again, softly
now, and those wisps dissolved into the materials of common air, harmless
and even beneficial. She spoke once again, drawing on the Form of the
tetrahedron, dividing the interior volume from the planes of the surface.
At another Word, those planes hardened, became a barrier between the
near-elemental Earth within and the contaminating common air around it. 

She paused again, breathing hard. The final three stages were the most
difficult, primarily because the process proceeded so quickly once it had
been initiated. She closed her eyes, visualizing first the completed
orrery and then the specific pieces she would forge from this
transformation, then spoke the Words that divided the substance within the
cube from its Form. She could feel the surge of power, the rising music,
not dissonant but not harmonious, either, and chanted the next phrase, the
Words that were the schema, the definition, of the metallic compound
illarion, the metal from which an orrery should be created. She could feel
the substance shifting toward the metal, first a few tiny fragments
bonding to form a lesser element, then another, and then those lesser
elements shifting and reforming, joining one to another in an
ever-increasing reaction that changed the Formless substance into a
defined metal. She spoke again, phrases that shaped and defined the first
parts of the orrery, tuning it to the true notes of the system around her,
and felt the still-malleable metal changing state within the cube. She
spoke a final Word, and the cube split open, to reveal the sun-sphere in
its stand, and the ring-and-ball of the first planet. She gestured
hurriedly, using the last of the rapidly dissipating energies to shift the
newly made structure into the center of the ring, and then stood for a
long moment, looking at it. I did it, she thought, and smiled. Around her,
she could feel the last energies ebbing gently away. She waited for them
to fade, listening to their soft reflection in the incomplete orrery. This
part, at least, was properly in tune; the rest would be made deliberately
out of tune, to allow her to break the engines, but this was perfect. She
smiled again, savoring her success, then sighed, and turned to dismiss the
barrier. She called up the last of her strength, and threw a shield of
illusion around the circle, hiding it from any passing flyers, and then,
fighting off the waves of exhaustion that suddenly threatened to overwhelm
her, started back toward the sheds. 

Over the next weeks, she performed that operation eight more times,
casting each of the planetary rings. As the rings grew larger and more
complex, it became harder to manipulate them; she had to struggle to force
the unwieldy masses to take on the Forms she wanted. The deliberately
dissonant tuning caused difficulties, too, and she had to cast a series of
stasis fields to keep the disharmony from destroying the half-finished
structure. At night, the buzzing of those fields haunted her dreams. Chase
Mago and Balthasar, and even Mikajaa, did all they could to help, but
there was little they could do, and Silence felt herself becoming remote
from them, lost in a sort of waking dream. Things were progressing as
planned in the mainurb, she gathered from the conversations she
occasionally was aware of hearing, and Aili was making herself more than
useful coordinating the various groups' activities, and mediating among
their conflicting interests, but beyond that point she barely listened.
She was too busy with the delicate process of creating the imperfect
orrery to spare much thought for mere politics. 

And then the last ring was in place. The dissonances were finally
internally consistent, and she released the stasis fields with a sigh of
relief. The tension, the nagging, sour sensation in the back of her mind,
vanished, and she started back to the sheds feeling more alert than she
had in days. Chase Mago greeted her with a smile and a nod, his eyes wary,
but Balthasar grinned openly. 

"It's finished, is it?" he asked. "Not before time, either." 

Silence frowned, suddenly aware that she had lost all track of time. "When
is it?" 

Balthasar's grin widened. "If everything's gone according to plan --" 

"There's no reason to think it hasn't," Chase Mago interjected. 

"-- the Hegemon's fleet will start the final leg tomorrow," the Delian
finished. 

"Oh, my God." Silence froze, putting a hand over her mouth. If it had
taken another day -- if she had waited any longer, or hesitated, or taken
any steps over, the orrery would have been finished too late. She shook
herself, pushing away the fear. She could not dwell on what might have
happened; the orrery was finished, and she was ready to perform the final
operation. 

As if he'd read her doubts, Mikajaa said, "You are ready, aren't you?" 

The pilot nodded, biting back a slightly hysterical laugh. "Oh, yes." She
saw Balthasar's lifted eyebrow, and smiled. "Well, yes, Denis, I would've
liked a day or two to rest, but it's no problem. Don't worry." 

"But I do," the Delian said, surprisingly, then shrugged. "Like you say,
there's no choice." He looked from Chase Mago to Mikajaa, who was waiting
beside the communications console. "What now?" 

It was the musician who answered first. "I'll tell Radan we're ready. "
Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the control board and began
flipping switches. 

Chase Mago said thoughtfully, "The plan so far has been that we'll
coordinate the destruction of the siege engines with Isambard's attack on
the barrier. Is that still true, and, if so, how do we know?" 

Mikajaa looked up from the flickering lights. "Radan will signal us when
the barrier's down. Then I guess whoever's watching the console can signal
Silence." 

The pilot nodded. "That's simple enough," she said. Privately, she wished
that the siege engines could be controlled from Man's Island -- but it was
a waste of time to wish that her enemies had been stupid, she told herself
angrily. Of course they cast the engines to be independent, just in case
there ever was a rebellion on Earth. Whatever else they might be, the Rose
Worlders were not fools. 

"Everything's set," Mikajaa reported, a few moments later. "They're
planning on attacking just before dawn, just before the curfew lifts. Is
that all right with you, Silence?" 

"That's fine," the pilot said quickly, before she, could change her mind.
The actual time made very little difference to her. The orrery was already
set to the approximate planetary positions relative to Earth; she could
make whatever final adjustments were needed in the morning. 

"You should get some rest," Chase Mago said gently, and Silence nodded
again. 

"I will," she said, without much hope. 

Somewhat to her surprise, however, she slept heavily, and Balthasar had to
shake her awake to give her her breakfast. Silence sipped cautiously at
the dreadful coffee and stared at the wall in front of her, trying to
clear her mind. In theory, at least, the operation was not that complex.
As Isambard had repeated from the beginning, the siege engines imposed an
unnatural dissonance on a system meant to be in harmony; the orrery was
merely a tool to correct the situation. Still, the siege engines were very
powerful -- she could still remember the stresses that had destroyed the
Bruja, and had almost destroyed Recusante; it would take a corresponding
strength to overcome them. 

"It's time," Chase Mago said, at her elbow. 

Silence forced a smile, suddenly afraid. She was still relatively
untried.... She pushed that thought away violently. She could not afford
that kind of weakness, not today. She had thought of the operation; she
would see it through. "I'm ready," she said aloud. 

"Is there anything we can do?" the engineer went on. 

Silence shook her head. "Once you've given the signal, stay inside, that's
about it. I don't think there's any danger, but I'd rather not have to
worry about you." 

Chase Mago nodded, and the pilot reached for the magus's supplies Isambard
had so carefully packed for her before she left Recusante. The only thing
she needed from it today was the simple pitchfork, but she stopped
abruptly. She only needed it to set the base notes, and there were better
ways to do that. "Julie," she said aloud, "would you do me a favor? Let me
borrow your pitch pipe." 

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she cringed, expecting a
refusal. An engineer's pitch pipe was the main tool of his trade, as
personally valuable as a pilot's starbooks; Chase Mago wouldn't want to
give it up, especially not for something as uncertain as this operation. 

To her surprise, however, the engineer reached into his shirt without a
second's hesitation, and brought out the silvery egg. "Good luck," he
said, and put the cord around Silence's neck. 

The pilot touched it wonderingly, and managed a tremulous smile. "Thanks,"
she whispered, and impulsively threw her arms around him. "Thanks," she
said again, and found herself close to tears. 

"Hey," Balthasar said, and put his arms around them both. "It's time to
go." 

Silence nodded, fighting to get herself under control, and pushed herself
away. "All right." 

"Good luck," Balthasar said again, and gave his slow, lopsided smile. "So
this is it." 

"This is it," Silence said, and smiled back. 

"We'll fire one of the flyer's flare-lights when the attack begins, "
Chase Mago said. "You can't miss that." 

"I'll be watching for it," Silence said, and stepped out into the predawn
chill. 

The light was still dim, but strangely clear, a few stars still showing on
the western horizon. The dew was heavy in the thick grass, and Silence was
soaked to the knees by the time she reached the clearing. She shivered,
wishing she had thought to bring dry clothes, but then put that concern
aside, and walked slowly around the orrery, checking one last time for
defects. The dissonance was there, clearly audible in the way the
concentric rings rang softly to her footsteps, but it was an intentional
dissonance, not destructive. She stood for a moment longer, looking
through the great silver rings, each one carrying a sphere that was a
symbol of one of the first system's planets, to the larger central sphere
that was the symbol of the sun. When the light hit it, she knew, it would
gleam gold, the sun's metal, but for now it was just a slightly darker
shape among the rings. 

She looked toward the east then, past the dark shed, light glowing in its
windows, toward the distant horizon. It was already growing lighter there,
the sky fading toward sunrise. She shivered again, but knew this time it
was tension, not the chill. Soon, now, she thought, very soon.... 

Something moved by the sheds. She reached hastily for the pitch pipe
dangling at her breast, but then curbed her impatience. She had to wait
for the attack to begin on Man's Island, or she would almost certainly
have to contend with extra interference, as the controllers there sought
to drive her away from the siege engines. Even with the attack, she might
have to face them, but, with any luck, Radan's agents would keep the Rose
Worlders too busy for them to worry about anything but saving their own
skins. 

A light flared above the shed, rose and blossomed into a hundred stars.
She stared for a moment, then realized abruptly what it was. The signal
had been given; it was time to begin. She took a slow, deep breath,
steadying her nerves, then lifted the pitch pipe to her lips. She sounded
the first note, a low, dark note like the tolling of an immense bell, then
spoke the Words that chained it to the outermost of the nine rings. She
could feel the metal resisting, and spoke again, reinforcing those Words
with other, more commanding sounds. With a strange, groaning noise the
ring shifted, the metal realigning itself with the new, more perfect note
she had sounded. 

Silence stood for a moment, assessing the new internal harmonies she had
created, and then sounded the second note. The first note still sounded,
but more distantly; the second note cut through it as though it had not
been there. The next ring resisted, too, but then adjusted itself. The two
correct notes blended into a sound that Silence recognized as the basis of
the music she had heard when she finally travelled the Earth-road. The
dissonance at the center of the orrery rose slightly, humming like a swarm
of insects. Silence gave it a wary glance, ready to hold it static if she
had to, but the humming stabilized at its new level. She waited a moment
longer, and sounded the third note. 

As she moved inward toward the sun-sphere, the rings' resistance
increased. At the seventh ring, the Earth-ring, her note evoked a strange
brassy cry, so weirdly tuned that she had to put both hands to her ears,
the dissonance lashing at her. She shouted into it, binding it to her
will, and, after a moment in which the entire universe seemed to hang
suspended, the metal shifted, obeying her command. She stood for a moment,
shaking, and felt the tension of the last two untuned rings, like a
physical presence in the air around her. The combined music of the other
rings surrounded her as well, a note almost too deep for human hearing,
yet still somehow strangely muted. The dissonance of the remaining rings
and spheres seemed to drown that perfection. She listened, wondering if
the Rose Worlders were somehow affecting her operation, but could feel no
signs of outside interference. She took a deep breath, and sounded the
eighth note. 

The sound seemed to hang in the air after she had lowered the pitch pipe,
swelling toward some unimaginable climax. Hastily, she shouted the Words
that turned it toward the proper ring, and felt that ominous pressure
recede. No, not ominous, she corrected herself instantly, less threatening
than unimaginably powerful. She sounded the next note, directing it to the
last of the planetary rings, and felt the same power loom for a moment
before her commands diverted it. That left only the sun-sphere, and the
final operation itself. 

The sun was rising now, its light glinting from the rings, which seemed to
float along the central axis. It glowed from the sun-sphere as well,
turning the metal to gold. All the conditions were right, Silence knew,
and sounded the final note. It rose from the pipe, took on substance and
weight, became visible as a spark of sun-colored light that soared through
the orrery's rings to strike the central sphere. Silence braced herself,
ready to speak the Words that would turn the orrery into a sympathetic
model of the first system, and light exploded from the sun-sphere. It
flashed outward, and with it came music. The sound was terrifyingly
perfect, balanced between the notes of the sun and planets that blended
into a systemic music that could never be forgotten, and the music of
heaven itself, of the realm of Form beyond the material. The wave of sound
struck Silence, knocking her backward onto the cleared ground. For a
moment, she was aware only of pain, an agony like nothing she had ever
imagined, and then the ground seemed to shift, or perhaps it was she who
moved, and she hung gloriously suspended in the heart of the music. 

She could feel it striking through her body, and through the core of Earth
itself, waking the same glad echoes at its center; she felt the same notes
reach up through the envelope of air and out into the vacuum of the first
system, encompassing each planet in its course. Almost in passing, she
felt the siege engines shriek and die, but it hardly seemed to matter,
compared to the wonder of the music. The entire system sang with it, in
perfect tune for the first time since the Millennial Wars, but the music
reached still farther, resonating through purgatory until it seemed that
all of human-settled space was encompassed in that song. And still the
music continued, pulling away from her comprehension toward something that
lay beyond the borders of the universe. She strained after it, fought to
follow, but the music was failing now, or she was failing, the magnificent
harmony slipping from her grasp. She thought she cried out, a wail of
despair and loss, but the song had passed beyond her reach. She fell, and
thought she wept. 

And then she was lying in the shadow of the broken orrery, staring up into
blazing sunlight. She moved her head cautiously, and winced at the pain in
every limb. 

"Silence?" That was Chase Mago's voice, thick with relief. The pilot
turned her head, grimacing as the muscles of her neck protested the
movement, and looked up into the engineer's familiar face. There were
tears in his beard; she reached to touch them, frowning in concern. 

"Are you all right?" the engineer continued. Behind his shoulder, Silence
could see Balthasar. There were tears on the Delian's face as well, and
her frown deepened. 

"I'm fine," she said, and started to push herself up into a sitting
position. The new pains in her arms and back made her swear, and she was
grateful for the engineer's supporting arms. "At least, I think I am, "
she amended. "I feel as though I've wrenched every muscle in my body. "
The memory of the magnificent music was already fading to a bearable
level; had she been able to remember it more clearly, she knew, she would
not be able to bear its loss. She looked around deliberately, forcing
herself to concentrate on mundane things. The sun was almost directly
overhead, she realized, and the concerns of the morning came rushing back.
"The engines were destroyed," she said slowly -- somehow, she could not
take credit for the effects of that glorious harmony -- "but did the fleet
get through? What happened?" She clutched the engineer's arm in sudden
panic. 

"It's all right," Balthasar said quickly. "Radan's people took the island,
just the way he planned, and the fleet's through. It's moving in-system
right now, and Aili's talking to it." He grinned suddenly. "The last
Mikajaa heard, she was telling his most serene majesty where to get oft7."
The smile faded a little. "Not that we were paying a whole lot of
attention. We didn't dare move you, until we knew what had happened." 

"Sieura!" 

That was Mikajaa's voice, and Silence shifted in the engineer's embrace to
stare blearily at the young musician. 

"You're all right, I'm glad." Mikajaa seemed to see the other men's stares
for the first time, and blushed faintly. "I thought you'd want to know,"
he went on after a moment speaking now to all of them. "The hegemon's
agreed, her serenity will have Earth -- I don't know how she conned Radan
into that --" 

"Practice," Silence murmured, and saw Balthasar nod in wry agreement. 

"Whatever," Mikajaa said. "And some prince -- Azarian, or something like
that -- will inherit the Hegemony." His tone made it clear that he didn't
understand how that was part of the issue. 

Silence nodded. "So we've fulfilled our contract, too," she murmured. 

"Were we mentioned at all?" Balthasar asked, and Chase Mago laughed. 

"You're getting conceited, Denis." 

Mikajaa grinned. "Not really, considering. Yes, you were. The hegemon
wants you to enter his service, and so does her serenity. They're both
offering you just about anything you could want." 

Silence nodded again, smiling. "I don't know about you two," she said,
"but my vote's for Aili." 

"Let's see what she's offering," Balthasar demurred, and the engineer
reached up to grab the slighter man's collar. 

"It's two to one, Denis," he said firmly. "We'll stay." His determined
expression softened slightly, and he released the Delian. "Think of it,
man, we'll be based on Earth." 

Balthasar smiled reluctantly. "All right," he said, "you win." 

Silence relaxed slowly, leaning back into the engineer's arms. That was
enough of a decision for now, she thought, smiling. There would be other
decisions later, details to be settled -- she still owed Efelay what
knowledge she could share, and the Javerrys too deserved whatever help she
could give -- but for now, it was enough. She, and Balthasar, and Chase
Mago, were free, truly free, for the first time since they had met --
better than free, she thought suddenly, and better than just surviving.
Whatever happens now, we're at the center, the center of human-settled
space. We'll be a part of it, of this new time that's beginning. Her smile
widened, as she stared into the blue of Earth's sky. That should be enough
for anyone.