But then the fire went out of Somnire’s eyes and his shoulders sagged. “Still, there’s some decency in you. Even I must admit that. So. If you’re successful against The Yellowleaf, I’ll give you the secret, and you must do with it what your violent heart tells you to do. You may find unexpected help among the ruins, so be alert.” He took Ruiz by the arm and tugged him toward the nearest holotank. “Look,” he said, and brought the tank to glowing life.
Ruiz saw the niche, in half-life-size scale. His body lay on the softstone slab, apparently resting in easy slumber — though at first his body seemed as motionless as death. Then Ruiz detected a slight slow rise of the chest, and Nisa, who had been standing beside his body, facing away, commenced a painfully slow turn toward his viewpoint. “Time differential,” he said in realization.
“Yes, yes,” said Somnire. “Didn’t I say so?”
“So you did.” Ruiz stepped quickly to the far side of the holotank, so that he could see Nisa’s face. She was looking down at his body as she turned, and there was an unmistakably tender expression on her patrician features.
Ruiz felt a pleasant pain in his heart.
He glanced past Nisa and saw The Yellowleaf sitting against the far wall, ghoulmask glinting in the uncertain light.
A serious doubt struck him. “What about surveillance devices? It’ll do me no good to kill the hetman if her guards come running in a moment later. Gejas surely has a man outside the cave.”
“Probably,” said Somnire. “But no spy devices are permitted in the cave — if we detect any, the virtual won’t activate. If any appear after activation, we shut the field down abruptly, which almost always kills the visitor. They’ve learned to respect our notions of privacy, over the centuries.”
“Oh,” said Ruiz. He turned his gaze once more to Nisa and felt himself smiling foolishly.
“All right, Ruiz — pay attention,” said Somnire impatiently. “First neck-breaking, then happy reunions. The order of your universe, I suppose. Now do pay attention.” The Librarian produced a light wand and used it to point to a particular heap of bones and rubbish in the darkest corner of the niche. “If you survive, look here. There’s an inductor helmet, voice only, hidden here. Put it on; we’ll talk. I won’t bring you back into the virtual — that costs too much energy and the cell you brought is long since exhausted.”
“All right,” said Ruiz, still looking at Nisa, who had begun a gesture that would eventually become a pat on his arm. Her expression was shifting by subtle degrees toward worry.
Somnire snorted, his youthful features wearing an incongruously cynical cast. “Ruiz. You must concentrate on the task at hand. I’ll leave you for five minutes. Gather your will, make your plans, compose yourself. Lie down so that you won’t jerk about when I return you to your body.”
Ruiz pulled his attention away from Nisa. “Yes. Well, I’ll do my best.”
Somnire regarded him seriously for a long moment. “Good luck, then,” he said finally, and before the sound of his voice had entirely died away, he was gone.
IT HURT. RUIZ couldn’t entirely suppress a hiss of pain when he returned to his body. It was as if all his bones had been broken and reset, all his joints dislocated and restored.
Agony turned his muscles to nerveless jelly for long heartbeats. When the first twitch of returning control shuddered through him, he turned his head and saw The Yellowleaf rising, her hand dropping toward the hidden wireblade.
He thought of his time in the slaughterhouse, and the madness that had swept him away. He could still feel it, a great infected bruise under the lucid surface of his mind.
He closed his eyes and let the madness well up, a black volcano erupting from his holomnemonic ocean, belching red horror. He released his face, felt it turn monstrously gleeful.
Terrible sounds forced their way from his throat, and he opened his eyes again. The Yellowleaf was sliding her wireblade back into its calf sheath, her body relaxing into disappointment.
He couldn’t look at Nisa, but he heard a broken-off sob, and a soft “Oh, no. Oh, no.”
The Yellowleaf came closer, and he let the madness dance. But underneath it, he pitted his muscles against themselves, flexor against extensor, a motionless clenching that drove blood and life into them. Sweat broke on his face and his lips writhed back from his teeth.
The Yellowleaf raised her gauntleted hands toward his neck, as though reaching for his carotids.
He waited until her body passed the balance point and her hands had almost touched his neck.
He exploded from the table, all the madness compressed into that one movement, expelled from him in one tearing burst.
He struck her breastplate with his shoulder, driving upward so that she lifted from her feet for a precious instant, could not gather her strength against him. The heel of his right hand smashed upward against the side of her helmet, and he felt the latch break, a tiny triumphant snick. But the helmet stayed on, held by the remaining latches, and now The Yellowleaf got her feet under her and rotated, snapping her armored forearm around, catching him under his still-raised arm.
The pain took his breath for a moment and she thrust him back. He wondered if his ribs were broken, but the thought fled as the hetman bent, quick as a snake, for her wireblade. It came from its sheath with a sizzling metallic sound, and she flicked it up, reversing it with easy dexterity, so that the needle tip plunged toward his heart.
At the last instant, he parried the stroke, but the impact of his unprotected wrist against her armor made his hand go limp and numb.
He was losing, he was losing. After all that they had gone through, he was going to die. He grabbed desperately at The Yellowleaf’s knife hand, managed to get it locked between his damaged left wrist and his right. He clung to it with all his strength, but she was stronger. She bent him backward over the softstone slab, she put her other hand behind her knifehand, and pressed him down until the tip of the knife trembled over his breastbone, and he knew it was all over. The ghoul carved into her helmet leered at Ruiz like a demon welcoming him to Hell. The armorglass eyeslots winked blue light. His strength ebbed.
A glittering blur caught the corner of his eye, just before it crashed into The Yellowleaf’s helmet. Her helmet cocked over farther, and the pressure of the knife lessened. Then the hetman tried to pull loose, but Ruiz clung to the wristlock he’d achieved — and again something smashed into her helmet, making an even louder sound.
Ruiz felt a great astonished delight. The force of the mysterious blow had twisted the hetman’s helmet to the side, too far to the side, and he felt the first tremors as the hetman lost control of her muscles. The wireblade fell loose; the hetman’s knees buckled.
He shoved, and the body crashed down, legs jerking, making a terrible clatter amid the bones.
Ruiz turned and saw Nisa, still holding aloft one of the corpse’s long greaves, as if she meant to make sure of the hetman.
“She’s dead,” Ruiz said.
Nisa lowered the piece of alloy slowly, then let it fall from her hands. “Good,” she said in a muffled voice.
Ruiz massaged his wrist as the hetman’s corpse grew still. “That was well done,” he finally said.
Nisa didn’t answer at first. Finally she turned toward him and spoke in an almost inaudible voice. “Are you badly hurt?”
Ruiz flexed his left hand; the numbness was fading. He lifted his right arm and winced. He might well have a broken rib or two. He probed with his fingers, but discovered no evidence of splintering. He could still function, as long as he took no more heavy blows on that side. “I’ll live,” he said.