Paul struggled to find his indignation again. Because he actually hadn't done anything wrong, had he? After all? "I . . . damn it, this is my job. And she's just a child!"
Finney pulled a sour smile. "She is fifteen years old, Jonas. Not a child in most senses of the word."
"In the legal sense. In the professional sense. My God, as far as I'm concerned, too. In my own sense."
"Don't tell us about children, Jonas," said Mudd with heavy amusement. "We know all about children."
"What are you basing this on?" Paul asked. "Did Ava say something? She's a young girl kept locked up like a storybook princess—she's . . . well, she's a little eccentric, perhaps, imaginative. But I would never. . . ."
"No, you would never," Finney said, cutting him off. "You definitely would never. Because we would know. And you would spend the rest of your life regretting it." He leaned forward, and even laid his pale fingers on Paul's arm, as though about to tell him a useful secret. "The rest of your very short life."
"A short life, but a merry one!" said Mudd, and laughed out loud.
Bizarrely, as the office door closed behind Paul, he heard Finney join in the laughter. It was a strange, terrible sound.
When the door opened on the top floor, the swelling scent of gardenias washed into the elevator. A moment later, before he had taken more than a few steps into the hall. Ava had thrown herself at him, wrapping her arms around him so tightly it took him long seconds to pull free.
"Oh, darling," she said, her eyes so bright they might have been harboring tears, "do they know about us?"
"Jesus, Ava." Paul quickly led her outside into the garden. "Are you mad?" he whispered. "Don't do that."
The look of melodramatic sorrow on her face turned into something infinitely more subtle, infinitely more painful to see. She rushed past him and disappeared into the trees that took up most of the vast towertop. A fireworks display of white and yellow birds leaped into the air, disturbed by her headlong flight. . . .
He woke to find his head on Florimel's lap, although at first it was hard to separate the throbbing ache from the lap. All his bones hurt too, and he made a little noise of pain as he tried to sit up. Florimel calmly pushed him back down again. With a strip of cloth tied over her wounded eye and ear, she looked piratical. The up-and-down motion of the bubble, which was doing Paul's head no good, added to the buccaneering illusion.
"She was so . . . unstable," he said. "I'd forgotten, but it's no wonder all the things she's told me have been so hard to understand."
"He's delirious," Florimel told Martine.
"No, no. I'm talking about Ava—about Jongleur's daughter. Another memory just came back, I guess while I was unconscious. Like a dream, but it wasn't a dream." He was bursting to tell them all that he'd remembered, but suddenly realized there was a here and now quite separate from the returned memories, no matter how sharp and new they felt. "Where are we? On the river?"
Martine nodded. "Bobbing along. No sign of Wells or the Twins or their monster insects."
"Yes," Florimel said, "and Martine and T4b and I all survived, too, although we're sore and badly bruised. Thank you for asking."
"Sorry." Paul shrugged and winced. "Kunohara?"
Florimel shook her head. "I cannot believe he lived through the collapse of his house. We never saw it come back to the surface after the river took it."
"Fishfood," said T4b, not without satisfaction. "Pure."
"So where are we heading? Is there any way to control this thing?" The ride was actually fairly comfortable, the bubble so much a part of the river that there was little jostling. He had heard once that riding in a dirigible felt the same way, because the ship moved with the air currents, not through them.
Florimel grunted in disgust. "Control it? Look around—do you see a rudder? A steering wheel?"
"What do we do then?" He sat up, resting his back against the curve of the wall, and moved carefully to disentangle himself from Florimel. They all faced each other, feet touching at the bottom of the bubble, the river water flowing along beneath them as though they hung in open space. "Just wait until we snag on a sandbar or something?"
"Or until we reach the end of the river and pass through a gateway," Martine said. "Orlando told us that many of the gates are no longer functioning. We will have to hope that if the next simworld is closed off we will be able to find another. One that is safe."
"Is that all we're going to do? Just wait and see?"
"We could worry about how much air we have in here," Florimel observed. "But that wouldn't do us any good either."
"I would rather talk about Kunohara," Martine said. "If he had denied he had an informant with us in Troy, and if it had felt to me even slightly likely that he told the truth, that would have been the end of it. But you heard him—he had no answer."
"We were being attacked by giant wasps," Paul pointed out, compelled for some reason to defend the man. "He saved our lives."
"That is not the issue." Martine was firm. Paul found himself a little alarmed—what had happened to the quiet voice, the almost ghostly presence? "If he was playing a double game, it might make a difference to us—and if one of us has kept a secret. . . ." She did not finish, but did not need to. Paul knew without being told what it had meant to these people to discover that a murderer had traveled with them in Quan Li's body, a murderer they had treated as a trustworthy friend.
"Perhaps," said Florimel. "But suspicion can be devastating, too. And we are only half of those who were in Troy."
"Just tell me," Martine said. "Tell me that you had no secret relationship with Kunohara. I will believe you."
Florimel did not look pleased. "Martine, you are not like us. Don't pretend you with not look at us with your little lie-detector rays."
"I have no lie-detector rays." Her smile was bitter, her voice hard. "Tell me, Florimel."
"I have had no dealings with Kunohara that the rest of you have not been part of." Her voice was angry, and Paul thought there was a great deal of pain, too. This network, with its masks and labyrinths, was hard on friendship.
"Paul?" Martine asked.
"The same. This is the first time I've met him—I didn't know him when I was in Troy."
Martine turned to T4b, who had been unusually silent. "Javier?" She waited a moment, then prompted him again. He looked like a spring coiled too tight. "Just tell the truth, Javier."
"Off my face, you," he snarled. Even Paul felt there was something defensive in his voice. "Got nothing to do with Kuno-whatever. Just like Florimel said, the rest of you seen it all." He seemed to feel Martine's continuing gaze as an assault. He swiveled his head angrily. "Stop staring! No dupping, I told you! Off my face."
Martine looked troubled, but before she spoke, someone else did.
"Martine? I heard you before—can you hear me now?"
It sounded so much like the familiar voice was right beside him that for a moment Paul found himself wondering how anyone could be in the bubble without being seen. Then as Martine pulled out the lighter, he understood.
"Renie? Is that you?" Florimel made an angry shushing gesture at her, but the blind woman shook her head. "Dread knows where we are," Martine said quietly. "And he will until we get out of this world, so it doesn't matter." She raised her voice. "Renie? We hear you. Talk to us."