"A translator?" Shetri speculated, face turned up toward their voices.
"No, they don’t bring children to learn to be interpreters," Rukuei informed the others. "At least, they didn’t last time. Some of their adults are small." He turned his attention to the radio monitor, but was distracted when a few notes of song reached him. "That’s the one for Isaac. Can you see who’s singing?"
Another small dispute broke out. "Sipaj, Kajpin, did your grandmother screw djanada? You’re the one who’s blind!" Tiyat teased. "It’s the one doing the cooking. Watch the mouths! The others are just jabbering. The cook—do you see? His mouth stays open longer, while the song comes out." There was the sound of sliding as the Runa skidded down the bank, still arguing. Rukuei, listening to the radio, motioned for silence.
"One of their party got sick, so they took him back up," he reported, when the transmission ended. "The others are still waiting for an escort to Gayjur."
"So. There are three adults and one child—or whatever that little one is," Kajpin said, brushing debris from her knees and climbing back into the boat. "There’s black rain east of here, but the VaGayjuri could show up any time, once the weather clears. I say we wait for the foreigners to fall asleep tonight, take the singer for Isaac, and go home."
"The others will wake up!" Tiyat objected. "Isaac can see at night, you know. They’re not like djanada."
"Then grab all four! They don’t look like much for a fight—"
"No," Rukuei said firmly. "Ha’anala was right—you don’t make allies by sneaking up and grabbing people."
"Just invite them to breakfast!" Shetri insisted again. "Sipaj, foreigners, such a long journey you’ve had!" he whispered in a piping Runa falsetto that made Tiyat smother a laugh. "Won’t you join us?" This had been Shetri’s plan from the start, and he was convinced it would work. "Roast some betrin root—Isaac likes betrin," he’d argued back in the valley. "Mix a few grains of othrat into the seasoning, and they’ll sleep all the way to the N’Jarr!"
"Listen to that song," Rukuei breathed. The wind was shifting as the smallest sun dropped below the horizon, and "Che gelida manina" floated toward them on the breeze. "Sipaj, Tiyat, what do you think?" Rukuei asked. "Any ideas?"
"I say wait until morning, so you can see them, too," Tiyat declared. "Two kinds of mind are better than one for making plans."
Which was true, but nothing went as planned.
"SIGNORA," CARLO INSISTED THREE DAYS LATER, "I ASSURE YOU, THEY are at the rendezvous coordinates you gave us—"
"They’re not there," Sofia repeated, cutting Carlo off. Her voice was clear and hard, despite the huge storm system over Gayjur, which made her transmission pop and hiss. "The escort reports they have located the site. Signor Giuliani, my people say that the camp smells strongly of blood, but there are no bodies."
"Oh, my God," John Candotti whispered, hugging himself and pacing along the bridge bulkhead. "I knew we should have gone back down!"
"Let’s not panic, ace," said Danny, but like everyone else, he was reconsidering the facts. Three days of terrible weather, with short reports from the ground crew: "We’re fine." But no details…
"Signora, our entire party has subcutaneous GPS implants," Carlo said, having taken this step to avoid the fate of the lost Contact Consortium party. He watched as Frans Vanderhelst brought up the readouts from the global positioning system. "We are checking the position data as I speak, but there is no reason to believe—"
"What the hell…?" Frans said.
Carlo swore briefly. "Signora, we show three GPS transmitters at the coordinates of the rendezvous. But the implants haven’t moved for sixty-eight hours—. That doesn’t make sense. We heard from the ground party last night. Wait. There is a fourth trace showing a position approximately two hundred and forty kilometers northeast of the landing site."
"Whose trace is still active?" Sofia asked tightly.
"That’s Sandoz," Frans reported.
There was a moan from John and something near a growl from Sofia Mendes. Carlo cut in, still studying the GPS data. "Yes. Definitely. Sandoz started moving north almost three days ago."
"He’s been taken hostage. The others are dead—or worse!"
"Signora! Please! They—"
"Why didn’t you cross-reference the GPS locale with the origin of the radio transmissions?" Sofia demanded. "You should have realized days ago that something was wrong!"
"Never occurred to me," Frans said defensively. He was already pulling up the transcripts to see if there was something he missed, some clue… "Everyone sounded fine!"
"Signora, please! You are assuming your conclusions," Carlo cried. He was hardly one to dither, but Mendes seemed to leap out ahead of everything that was said. "The ground party checked in last night!"
"Have you spoken to all four of them?"
"Yes, at one time or another."
"Then obviously they have been reporting under duress," Sofia snapped, furiously impatient with their slowness. "The GPS implants have been ripped out—"
"Signora, how would anyone know—"
"— which is why there’s been no movement for three days. Someone has managed to take Sandoz’s with them and they’re—"
"One of my men is still down there," Carlo said, trying to slow her down. "Nico has orders to protect Sandoz in particular. If Sandoz were in danger, Nico would have told me."
"There was blood at the campsite," Sofia reminded him. "Signor Giuliani, they’ve been taken hostage. There are renegades in the northern mountains. We’ve never been able to root them out, but now—. This ends," she said almost to herself, her anger like the thunderheads in Gayjur’s sky, whose lightning made the radio crackle and spit. "This ends. The raiding, the theft, the lies. The kidnapping, the murders—it all ends now. I will get our people back and, by God, I will put a stop to this. Signor Giuliani, I am going north with troops to intercept them. I’ll want a continuous monitor of your GPS trace and all radio contacts with the ground party, is that understood? We are going to track those djanada bastards to their lair and finish this, once and for all."
EMILIO SANDOZ WAS THE FIRST TO NOTICE THE TRAVELERS APPROACHING the campsite on foot from the west. All four VaRakhati wore the robes and boots of urban Runa traders, and he had no reason to doubt their identity. "Visitors," he announced, and walked out to meet the newcomers, Nico at his side, Sean and Joseba behind him. He was not afraid. Sofia had assured him repeatedly that there were no djanada south of the Gamu mountains, and Nico was armed.
He held out both his hands, palms upward in the Runa manner, and readied himself for the once-familiar warmth of the long Runa fingers that would rest in his own, then remembered the braces and lowered his arms. "Someone’s hands are not fit for touch, but someone greets you with goodwill," he explained. Glancing at Nico, he urged, "Say hello," and watched, pleased, as Nice’s grave and correct greeting—"Challalla khaeri" — was acknowledged and returned by the two Runa who came forward.
Turning to Sean and Joseba, he smiled at their dumbstruck immobility. "The two in front are women," Emilio told them. "The ones hanging back may be males. Sometimes they prefer to let the ladies do the honors. Say hello." When the greetings had been exchanged, he continued as though he had never been away, "Such a long journey you have had! We would be pleased to share our meal with you."
He saw the two people in the back look at each other, and it was then that he stopped breathing, and stared at the smaller of them. Not a Runao, but someone Emilio Sandoz had seen in all too many nightmares: a man of medium stature, with violet eyes of surpassing beauty that met and held his own with a gaze so direct and searching that it took all his strength to stare back, and give no ground.