“No,” the sensitive said intractably. “I won’t.” And with that, Norr entered her room and slammed the door behind her.
Rebo wanted to tell Norr about the tattoos, and the sick feeling in his stomach, but it was too late for that. The bath’s warmth had been dissipated by then, the runner’s skin had cooled, and his breath was visible as he walked down the dimly lit hall. Night had fallen—and it promised to be both long and dark.
Like all of the youngsters raised within the steely embrace of the assassin’s guild, Du Phan had been taught how to set her mental alarm clock and wake up whenever she needed to. Which was why her eyes popped open three seconds before the ancient clock in the lobby began to chime. And, thanks to the fact that she no longer shared the room with Norr, there was no need to be quiet as the assassin got dressed and tiptoed down the stairs. A brutish watchman sat next to the front door. He was wrapped in an old blanket, and a double-barreled shotgun rested across his knees. His head lay back against the grimy wall, and judging from the volume of his snores, the security guard was sound asleep.
Phan circled the man, opened the front door, and slid into the night. It was breathtakingly cold, but the assassin forced herself to pause for a moment and listen. She had a story ready for the telling, but preferred not to use it and felt relieved to hear nothing more than the sound of her own breathing.
Careful to maintain the near-perfect silence, Phan made her way around to the stable. A dog rushed out to confront the assassin as she approached the front entrance. It was a large beast, made all the more threatening by the fact that its vocal cords had been cut, leaving the animal to cough hoarsely rather than bark. The dog bared its fangs, lowered its head, and was about to attack when a throwing spike penetrated the top of its skull. The animal went down as if poleaxed. Phan paused to jerk the weapon free from the watchdog’s skull, discovered that the huge padlock that was supposed to protect the stable from thieves had already been picked, and pushed her way in. An angen snorted nervously as the assassin passed by, and another bumped the side of its stall as she made her way back toward the spot where an oil-fed lantern threw a circle of yellow light down onto the frozen muck. A whirring noise caused Phan to whirl and confront the source. “Fear not,” the metal man said softly. “Master Shaz sent me.”
Had the cowled metal man been able to evade the dog because he was a machine? And therefore lacked a human scent? Yes, that seemed likely. Phan was disappointed. After many days of what she considered to be isolation, the assassin had been hoping for a visit with the combat variant himself. But hope is little more than solace for the weak. Or so the guild’s oldsters liked to say. Phan was brisk. “What have you got for me?”
Rather than reply himself—the android activated one of many capabilities built into his body. Beams of white light shot out of his “eyes,” converged on a spot in front of Phan, and combined to produce a three-dimensional likeness of Shaz. It had been nighttime when the message was recorded, and judging from the way the light played across his distinctly canine features, the off-world operative was seated in front of a campfi?re. “We’re about one day’s march behind you,” the combat variant said hollowly. “Remember, stay close to the sensitive, because she’s wearing the computer. Or was back on Thara. Take care—and I’ll see you soon.”
The picture vanished, the beams of light disappeared, and Phan was left to wonder why it had been necessary to get out of bed for what amounted to a pep talk. There was one takeaway, however, and that was the admonition to “. . . stay close to the sensitive.” That particular responsibility was something of a problem at the moment, but things would almost certainly come right out on the trail, where Norr would be forced to interact with other members of the group. A servo whined. “Do you have a message for Master Shaz?”
“No,” Phan replied, unaware that everything she said was being recorded. “But do me a favor . . . Steal one of the angens on the way out.”
The robot was incapable of facial expressions—but was quick to ask the same question that any human would.
“Why?”
“Because I had to kill a guard dog on the way in,” Phan explained economically, and left before the machine could reply.
The next morning dawned clear and bright. As Hoggles peered out over the angens’ backs he could see for miles as the big wooden wheels crunched through the half-frozen slush. Meanwhile, for reasons not entirely clear, Phan was riding well ahead of the wagon while Rebo lagged behind it, and Norr sat wrapped in a blanket at his side. There had clearly been a falling-out of some kind, and, judging from the way the others were behaving, Hoggles fi?gured that the problem had something to do with sex.
There were a number of reasons why the heavy had elected to remain with Rebo and Norr after arriving on Thara. The fi?rst was that the variant had nothing better to do. But there was another reason as well, one that Hoggles was hesitant to admit to himself, much less anyone else. His feelings for Norr were hopeless, the giant knew that, but heartfelt nonetheless. Which was why the heavy planned to return home once Logos had been transported to Socket and the sensitive was safe. Until then Hoggles was resolved to remain at Norr’s side, protecting her to whatever extent he could, while enjoying the sound of her voice, smiles earned by virtue of small favors, and the occasional whiff of her perfume.
As the sensitive sat staring out over the searingly white landscape, Hoggles felt sympathy for Norr—and a combination of anger and resentment where the others were concerned. But none of it was his affair—so the variant was hesitant to get involved. But fi?nally, after the group had been on the road for an hour, the heavy found the courage to speak. He began by clearing his throat. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry.”
Norr turned to look at him. Her expression was bleak, but she forced a smile. “Don’t be, Bo. . . . Life brings us all sorts of lessons. And, while some are painful, it’s usually for the best.”
The cart slowed as the angens were forced to tackle a hill, and the variant whistled at them before turning to look at his passenger. She was beautiful, even when she was sad, and Hoggles wanted to comfort her. Even if that meant pushing her toward another man. “The truth is that he loves you,”
the heavy commented. “Even if he’s been slow to say so.”
Norr was surprised to hear something like that from Hoggles. She looked at him—then “looked” again. That was when the sensitive “saw” what had been there for a long time and realized the true nature of what the heavy felt for her, evidence of which could be seen in the fact that he was busy trying to heal the rift between her and another man. It was a delicate moment—and one that Norr was determined to handle correctly. “Really? What makes you think so?”
“That’s simple,” Hoggles replied confi?dently. “He’s here, isn’t he? Even though he’s losing money rather than making it.”
Suddenly Norr knew that the man sitting next to her was present for much the same reason and felt a deep pang of regret, not to mention guilt, and a sort of sisterly affection.
“And there’s one more thing,” Hoggles added. “I don’t know what transpired between the two of you—but it’s my guess that Phan was part of it. I don’t trust her Lonni—and you shouldn’t, either.”
Norr remembered Rebo’s apology, followed by her harsh words, and the bang as the door slammed closed. The runner wasn’t entirely innocent, she knew that, but he wasn’t entirely guilty either. Not according to Hoggles—and not according to the voice inside her. The one she should have been listening to all along. “You are a good friend, Bo. . . . A very good friend, and I’m fortunate.”