Flomel looked down. “Guildmaster,” he said in a low voice. “What do you advise.”
Dolmaero answered reluctantly, “I think Ruiz Aw is our only hope, Master Flomel. We’re babes here, in a wilderness full of banebears. I think we should accompany him as long as he will permit it.”
“I must accept your advice, then,” muttered Flomel.
Ruiz was disappointed.
He examined the weapons he had salvaged from the wreck. He wore, clipped to his belt, Marmo’s splinter gun — the only really effective weapon they possessed. From Banessa’s collection of archaic weapons he had taken an antique stiletto, a heavy two-edged dagger, a small lady’s kris with a garter sheath, and a short solid-brass club with a spiked head. The giant woman had owned more powerful weapons: a graser, a brace of seeker-stingers — but like many personal weapons, they were designed to function only under their owner’s control. He’d jettisoned them along with her body.
He gave the dagger to Dolmaero, who handled it as though he had no idea what to do with it. Ruiz recalled that there had been no wars on Pharaoh for many generations. He would have to remember not to expect too much of the Guildmaster, should they meet with hostilities before they escaped from Sook.
“Carry it through your belt, Guildmaster,” Ruiz instructed Dolmaero. “No, like this; you’ll probably want to avoid castration, should you stumble.”
Ruiz handed the sheathed kris to Nisa.
“And how shall I wear this?” she asked.
“I’ll show you.” Ruiz knelt and pushed up the hem of her tunic, enjoying the silky texture of her skin. When he’d fastened the garter that held the kris to the outside of her thigh, he had to force himself to take his hands away. Desire made his head swim for a moment. He realized he was still at the mercy of those reckless romantic impulses that the bootleg minddiver Nacker had afflicted him with.
He handed the club to Molnekh. “I wish we had a better choice of weapons,” he said.
“No matter,” said Molnekh, swishing the club enthusiastically back and forth. “We’ll make do.”
Ruiz pulled up the sleeve of his tunic and bound the stiletto to the inside of his forearm with a length of sturdy cloth.
Flomel edged forward. “Where’s mine?” he asked.
Ruiz turned to him, surprised at Flomel’s audacity. “Sorry. But surely you need nothing sharper than your wits.”
Flomel opened his mouth, as if he meant to argue, then snapped it shut and contented himself with a dark glare.
“Now,” Ruiz said. “Here’s what we must do.”
It was a pity, Ruiz told them, that the boat’s power system had been irreparably damaged and that the turret raptor was therefore useless. Otherwise, they might do well to wait here and arrange an ambush for Corean when she came, as she certainly would.
He explained his plan to the Pharaohans — they would walk over the pass, and hope to come across some habitation or at least a promising track. Then they’d try to reach a launch ring and get off Sook.
Ruiz was deliberately vague about what might happen to the Pharaohans after that; he didn’t know. He wanted to give Nisa the opportunity to stay with him if she wanted to; he could afford to buy her from the Art League. The others could escape to the pangalac worlds with his blessing, or he might be able to arrange to have them returned to Pharaoh — though the League would insist on removing their memories before they would be released on their home world.
The Pharaohans seemed no more eager to ask about their eventual fate than Ruiz was to discuss it, though Dolmaero looked as if he were full of questions that weren’t quite ripe yet. Ruiz was grateful for the respite.
Ruiz distributed the food packs equitably. Only Flomel grumbled over his load; the others accepted their packs cheerfully enough. He gave Flomel a hard look, and the conjuror subsided.
Into the food packs Ruiz jammed a few more useful items: three of the self-inflating tents, a water jug for each traveler, and insulated rain capes.
Finally he took one of the self-securing leashes by which they had all been tethered the night before. Flomel looked at him and showed his teeth in a grimace of disgust.
The sun was hot on Ruiz’s back as the five of them toiled up toward the pass, but a chill wind blew down the mountainside, making him shiver occasionally. They had scrambled across the talus slope and found a rough path leading in the direction of the notch through the mountains. It showed little sign of recent use, and Ruiz wasn’t optimistic that they’d soon come across anything resembling civilization. Still, he was as happy as he’d been since he’d landed on Pharaoh. He was free, except for the mission-imperative that still pushed him, and the death net that waited in the abyss of his mind. As long as he could stay free, the death net would remain quiescent. Only if he were helplessly captured by enemies of the League and in imminent danger of dying or divulging League secrets would the net kill him and send his recent memories to League headquarters on Dilvermoon.
Ruiz forced himself to optimism. All he had to do was to launch a message torp to the League, detailing his discoveries: the location and identity of the poacher who had been stealing slaves from Pharaoh — and the fact that an enclave of rogue Gencha existed on Sook. And when he’d done that, the net and the mission-imperative would evaporate from his mind, and he would be truly free.
He gave himself to the pleasurable contemplation of Nisa’s smooth strong legs as she climbed the path just ahead of him.
At the top of the pass they paused, and Ruiz looked out over the country on the other side of the mountains. The foothills were much greener, and the dense forest beyond indicated that this was the moist side of the range. In the far distance, another range lifted misty peaks. The broad valley between them seemed to stretch forever in both directions.
To his delight, Ruiz could see a straight line striking down the center of the valley, parallel to the mountains, perhaps thirty kilometers away. It was too far away to positively identify, but it looked like a highway cut through the forest, on which might travel vehicles fast enough to get them away to a hiding spot before Corean arrived.
“It’s like my father’s gardens,” said Nisa, who stood close beside him. “Where do they get all the water?”
Ruiz smiled at her. “It falls from the sky here, all the time. Or at least often enough that the trees grow without tending.”
She turned an unbelieving glance at him. “Of course,” she said in tolerant tones, as though she was certain he teased her.
“No, really,” he said. “Wait, you’ll see.” As he spoke, he noticed that dark roiling clouds were building to the north. “In fact, we’d better hurry along, before we get washed away.”
Flomel sat down. “I must rest. And it’s time to eat.”
Ruiz sighed. “I tire of you, Master Flomel. I cannot leave you here; you would surely tell Corean where we’ve gone, long before she finished killing you. So, either come along without further complaint, or I must end your life. I can do it without pain.”
Flomel stood quickly. “I’ll go,” he said sullenly.
“Are you sure?” Ruiz asked gently. “I fear our association must end badly for one of us. And there are worse places to die.” He made a gesture that took in the broad sky, the green country beyond, the clean wind that blew up the pass. “And worse ways.”
“No,” said Flomel with more enthusiasm. “I’ll go.”
Chapter 3
The path, though steep, seemed in better condition on this side of the pass, and they made good progress. By the time the sun was halfway down the afternoon sky, they had descended to the wooded foothills, where the trees were tall and ancient. Ruiz set a fast pace, but apart from the occasional mutter from Flomel, no one complained. As they walked down the path, the day grew darker, and soon the sun was hidden behind the clouds, and the light further dimmed by the branches of the trees that overhung the way. The Pharaohans drew closer together, made uneasy by this unnatural exuberance of greenery. Pharaoh’s one habitable plateau was such a dry barren place that only the richest and most powerful Pharaohans could afford to maintain gardens.