Chapter 22 Hat

        `Purasan': Conley didn't know whether it was a noun or an adjective, singular or plural. He is Purasan, she is a Purasan, they are Purasan, maybe Purasans... No-one else seemed to know, either, the words were used interchangeably as fancy took. When someone actually was a Purasan, though, you were left in no doubt of the fact.
        "Fiercely independent," Roween had said, and she was right. Their lands were maybe a hotch-potch of tiny duchies, but the Purasan nation was proud, coherent, and united against adversity. It meant something to be Purasan, the overwhelming sense of history, tradition, continuance, belonging. Her own country was just four miserable nations thrown together by geographical proximity, economic necessity, use of magic, and, yes, a common, ignoble heritage. It didn't even have a proper name.
        But there was no point in trying to pretend to be Purasan, the cultural differences were too wide. Your movements, dress, accent, attitude - they all marked you as a non-Purasan. Purasans would no sooner accept you as one of their number than they would a shaved gorilla.
        That was why the Messenger was having such trouble conquering them. In other countries, sexagenarian missionaries were not tied to trees, did not thereupon have thirty arrows fired at them, and were not subsequently set alight. Here, to worship false gods was to deny your birthright, and for others to challenge your myths meant they threatened the heart of Purasan lore, thence all society. The Messenger was thus obliged to take the Purasan lands by force of arms.
        She looked to the North. Dreimen couldn't be seen for the mist, clinging to the marshes like moss to an ancient gravestone. Dreimen was there, though, walled, insolent, holding out against the tide of Followers that swelled daily outside its gates. Visually obscured it may be, but in the minds of Purasans it was a beacon of resistance, refusing to be snuffed despite the continuing near-suicidal assaults on its defences. It couldn't last much longer, however, Conley knew. She and Roween wouldn't have been able to enter it even if they'd wanted to.
        Their small mountain village nestled snug in the foothills. They'd arrived the day before yesterday; the locals had paid them scant attention, preferring to herd their goats and hoard their grain than bandy words with foreigners, even if they were nominal allies. At least they hadn't been offensive. There'd been a lot of visitors recently, it seemed; they were used to it.
        The villagers spoke in a dialect so thick that at first Conley wasn't convinced it was Estavian at all, it sounded like it should have been Old Purasan from a thousand years ago. Roween assured her it wasn't, and after she got used to it understanding became easier. Some villages still used their ancient alphabet, though, so for outsiders reading was often impossible.
        Roween must have known that the roots of her hair would be showing brown now, but she didn't bother reapplying the bleach. Disguise was of no consequence here, and she maybe didn't want to be someone else again. "Other people can be so stupid..."
        They'd camped against a dry-stone wall, out in the fields. The air was fresh, breezy up here, but down below it didn't clear the swamp fog. Weather magic? Out here? Sennary had said he was heading this way with a squad of mages.
        She wandered over to Roween. "These Purasans are strange. I talked to a shepherd, young, gangly, a little shy looking. He didn't want to know. Polite, of course, but he just answered questions, never made comments or took the initiative."
        "You talked to him alone?"
        She nodded. "Safe enough - I can flick when you're not with me. No, he just kept back."
        "Maybe he was scared?"
        "I don't think so, he was more, well, like aloof, but not in a nasty sort of way. Distant. Must be because I'm not Purasan."
        "Probably is, it's a good enough explanation for anything round here."
        Conley crouched beside Roween. The ground was wet, so she didn't sit. She noticed white, salty crystals forming around the toes of her boots, a watermark, brushed them off. "Don't you wish we were more like Purasans, Ro?"
        "How'd you mean? In looks? Customs? Don't the women tie their hair back or something when they're married?"
        "Culturally. For a Purasan, being Purasan is important, it's the most important thing in your life. There's this mass of things past, always there to comfort you, to guide you, give you confidence, support - a reason to feel good about yourself, like you're a member of an exclusive fellowship."
        "Some peoples need the strength of a national identity just to survive. If the Purasans didn't think that way, they'd have been crushed long ago. With a sense of uniqueness, being somehow special, sharing with their kinsfolk an intense loyalty to their collective legacy, they can keep from going under."
        "But it must be inspiring for individuals, too, heartening to feel you really belong, have a background you can be proud of. I envy them."
        "It's alright for Purasans, they're at an international crossroads, they get invaded every time some hothead decides to rule the world, they need it. It's dangerous for the rest of us, though, especially if someone emerges who can succeed in identifying their personal goals with the destiny of the nation. Suppose the Messenger had been Purasan, he'd have stomped all over the continent by now." She looked out, towards the marshes. "But no, I don't like it personally: there's no room for individuality. It's a way of excusing your actions, discharging responsibili- ties. I'd rather be proud of being myself, not of being a part of an abstract ancestral animal evolved over centuries."
        "That's a philosophy you picked up in Elet, right?"
        Roween pulled up her knee, linked her hands around it. "No, it's just the way I am. Your individuality is all you have, you have to keep it to be worth anything. The past is gone, and though it's still relevant, using it as a template, a surrogate for your feeling of self, well it makes life meaningless. Likewise, religion: false promises, demanding subservience. If you force conformity of opinion, you rob people of their spark, their vitality, their expression, their reason for existence." She was struggling, trying to frame her ideas. "If you can't think for yourself, you might as well be dead." She sighed. "I wish I was better with words."
        "No, it's alright, think I know what you're saying. For you, the fundamental point to life is to act independently. Once people fall into line with some group, be it religious or cultural, they're conceding the right of that group to direct their actions, at least partly. That stops them from being fully free-thinking, and so they're squandering some of what, you believe, ultimately justifies their existence."
        "That's it, yes. If you don't do things completely of your own free will, you don't really live. You're just a pebble on the beach." She reached into her pocket. "I ought to write that down..."
        "So your convictions are your own? You didn't take up the Eletic doctrine having become exposed to it at some point?"
        "Well, no. You see, in Elet, they go one stage further, they rein in their emotions, only letting them loose when they want to. They don't wish their own feelings to enslave them any more than they wish the dictates of others to. To them, the mind is a continuum from emotion to sentience. The more you surrender to your emotions, the less your real self is in control."
        "Life must be monotonous..."
        "No, they're not machines, far from it." She rolled to face Conley, hands needed to make her points. "They do enjoy themselves, do worry, get angry, fall in love, just like everyone else. They just don't let their emotions gain the advantage. You need a free mind to appreciate your feelings, to understand them. Otherwise you might as well just happy yourself up with shots or drugs, only come off for a while each day to eat, sleep, keep your body ticking over."
        Conley couldn't decide whether Roween was philosophising or lecturing. "But what is life, then, if it's not to be happy?"
        "If you're unable to reflect on your happiness, what value has it? Are trees happy? So what?"
        "Well, it matters if you're a tree."
        "No, without self-awareness it doesn't at all. If you can't contemplate your feelings, or if by experiencing them you reduce your reflective faculties, you're just a husk. You may be in euphoria, but it's meaningless. You of all people should realise that."
        She was lecturing... "So where is it exactly that you and the Elets differ?"
        "I can't accept that my emotions are an external influence I oughtn't to trust. I take them as integral to my personality, and I don't mind - can't help - listening to them. Just sometimes, though, because of that, I can't do something I know in my mind I should do. Or I just do something plain dumb."
        Conley remembered Sennary, relaxing casually in the armchair, shirt undone at the neck, half a day's stubble roughing his chin, exuding wit and charm and fascination, seemingly unaware of it. She sat up straight, quickly. "You've given this a lot of thought."
        "What? Sorry, yes, yes I have." Roween had been thinking of him too, transparent.
        "But isn't it all a bit selfish?"
        "Selfish? In what way?" She bit at a side of her lower lip. "I don't normally think of myself as a selfish person."
        "Well, there's nothing in what you've said that allows for self- sacrifice, doing things for the greater good, for your children, for others."
        "Yes there is. People who go in for philanthropy, they do it because they like it, it gives them pleasure. If they dislike it, then they must have ulterior motives, doing it as a step towards attaining rewards later on - maybe much later on, like an afterlife. Don't kid yourself, Con, in the end everyone's in it for themselves, no matter how much they might like to think otherwise."
        "You're being over-cynical, you take things too far. I see no harm in..." She stopped. Hoofbeats. Roween had heard them too.
        "Coming this way?"
        "I don't know." Conley peered over the wall. Charging straight at her was an enormous black warhorse laden with barding, its helmeted mount leaning forward in the saddle, looking back. Behind him, five, ten other riders, in pursuit. Hot, we're directly in their path!
        She bobbed down, put her hand on Roween's head, stopped her poking it up. The sleek-muscled stallion leaped over, thundering as it landed, lathered sweat flying backwards. Seconds later, the rest followed, all sides, close, so close. Roween rolled up in a ball, Conley flattened against the stonework, tight up, tense, terrified. Dirt flew, the air rushed, men shouted. Conley pressed her back as hard as she could against the sharp, flint-like rocks - kept pressing, through the pain, until the sound of hooves drifted into the distance.
        She opened her eyes. The camp was a mess, their makeshift tent shredded to rags. The little cooking pot she'd bought in Rhiev was overturned, cracked. Their clothesline had been brought down, their washing trampled. Damn and damn again!
        Roween was over by the tent. She'd found something. Conley crawled to see. A body, dead.
        "Must've fallen."
        "One of the Messenger's?"
        "I guess so. That horse they were chasing, it was one of ours, had to have been - it'd need added muscle to jump like that with all the armour it was carrying."
        "Sennary?"

* * *


        Their first impulse was to hide lest the riders return for their man, but it seemed clear they'd left him, at least for the moment. So instead, the two had bundled what they could onto their own horses, and followed the tracks as far as possible. It was was getting dark now, though, and the prints grew ever more indistinct. The lone rider must have escaped, anyway; surely if the posse hadn't caught him after this distance, they weren't going to?
        Roween was constantly on the alert, turning to every rustle of the trees, movement in the bracken, flutter of wings in the evening sky. Conley began to feel cold, shivery, although it was warm. Her stomach was tightening, and she felt her arms keep tensing up. Angry, she realised she was getting scared. If those horsemen hadn't been chasing someone else, they might have been after us. She shuddered. They could have turned back by now, be coming towards us, minutes away. She didn't have any proper weapons, couldn't use her spells, was outnumbered. Her arm started trembling a little again, involuntarily, she stopped it but it returned a moment later. Roween's hand touched her shoulder. She looked over, apprehensive.
        Roween wasn't a vision of confidence, either. "Do you think maybe we should turn around, or would they have gone back to the camp, found the body, be waiting for us?"
        "I want to get somewhere safe as soon as I can, forget the camp, it's trashed anyway. Maybe the bottom of that ridge?" She pointed; Roween followed her arm. The trail narrowed, wound through a tumbling ravine, led upwards to the top of an escarpment before carrying on into blackness that her eyes couldn't make out. Left, before the ascent, were woods - pine trees that clamoured round the base of the scarp, stretching off someway down the lower slopes.
        "That's safe?" asked Roween, giving her fears voice.
        Conley spurred her mare. Logically, probably safer, yes, it's not on the track. But bandits live in forests near desolate, narrow passes, thieves, murderers. She caught her thoughts. Calm down, bandits live nearer main roads, they'd be down by the swamp. Wouldn't they?

* * *


        They dismounted in the woods. The sun was down maybe half an hour, but the trees made it dark as midnight. Conley was ahead, searching for a clearing where they could leave the horses. As the boughs flew back from her passage, Roween was being whipped, needles brushing at her face, lacerating with a pine-scented purity.
        "Over to the right," Conley ordered. They pushed through, broke out into a small glade. A tall, smoke-scarred tree had fallen, lightning, taken some of the smaller ones with it. They tied the horses. "This will do, no-one will find us here."
        "I wouldn't count on that," said a voice, male, western accent, malicious. Conley could just see his outline, against the trees. Hot, he was drawing his sword, a warrior.
        "Roween, he's carrying - "
        "I know, take your dirk; if you get chance, go for his neck."
        He was advancing, smiled when he saw the glint of their steel, pulled a dagger of his own from a sheath on his back. Oh for love, he's professional.
        "I think we ought to run, Ro..."
        His first swing was just for show, worry them a little. Roween circled round until he was between them, but he tracked her, keeping both covered. He lunged at Conley, she fell back. Jittery. He smiled. Another teaser, not intended to do damage, only check her mettle, lack of it.
        Roween tried a quick stab; he parried her knife with hardly a glance, like she didn't even deserve that, concentrated on the older-looking woman. Conley regarded his gleaming weapon, a sabre, meant for slashes from horseback but easily pointy enough to rip through an unprotected gullet if thrust. She looked beyond him to Roween, on his left. Roween was making, hand signals, trying to say something. Palm, fist, palm, point, what? Gestures? Conley quick-frowned, puzzled, desperate, what did she mean? Tell me! The sabre scythed across her midriff, whistling a handspan away. He grinned. Still playing.
        Suddenly, she grasped Ro's message, started gesturing, flicking a spell, or a non-spell, he wouldn't know. His gaze was momentarily caught, surprise, maybe a tinge of panic. She had magic? He'd better end it swiftly, then.
        Roween was instantly on his back, arm round his neck, trying to hold tight as he threw her. He cursed, bent low, rolled a shoulder, swung her underneath as she held on, her body tumbling on the flat of his sword. He stabbed with the dagger, missed as her grip slipped, she fell. He looked up, pulling free his longer blade, watching for a strike from the taller girl. Conley's knife beat his late parry, bit into his neck, left side. He buckled on one knee.
        Conley hesitated. Should she stay back, out of his range, or press on, get underneath his swing, protect Roween. Ro was scrambling, she'd dropped her dagger, was moving away, crawling on her back. Blood was gushing from the wound on his neck, his left hand was there, empty, trying to plug it, futile, it was mortal. He roared, took a chop at Ro, she was far enough back, the blow short. He tugged at his sword, embedded in the dirt, strength waning.
        Roween stumbled to her feet, joined Con, rested on her shoulder as the pair watched him, gruesome, dying, blood gurgling audibly from his severed jugular.

* * *


        He'd been dead awhile, they knew it, but they still didn't want to get close, were still afraid. Roween was drenched waist-down in blood, spattered elsewhere. She ignored it, stared at the cadaver until the smell got to her.
        "He was alone then, no-one came when he shouted." Conley recovered Roween's dagger, began to clean it.
        "I guess you're right, I hadn't thought." Roween stared around, into the pitch-blend of night. "What was he doing here? He's army, not an outlaw."
        They reached the same conclusion simultaneously. Conley spoke. "He's one of the riders we were following, he's looking for Sennary."
        Roween continued. "There's only one of him, so he was expecting to find a corpse."
        "I'll make a light."

* * *


        It was late, very late, when they found him, crumpled among the boulders creviced beneath an overhang. He must have hit trees, bounced here. It was Sennary, and he wasn't dead, not quite. Pretty broken up, though.
        Roween loosened his breastplate, he wheezed, spat some blood, not much, probably a tooth.
        "Careful," Conley cautioned, "don't move anything that's..." Her words trailed off as Roween's mind-charged, cross-eyed stare raged gravity at her.
        "We'll need to make some splints, the branches slowed him down but he's cut up, and his sword-arm is shattered. His leg looks twisted, maybe it's busted too."
        Conley nodded. "I'll get my notebook, I think I have the sequences."

* * *


        When Conley returned, Roween had raised Sennary's head onto her lap as she knelt. She was rocking him, ever so gently, stroking his yellow, red hair. She looked up at Conley, cheeks glistening with tears. "You know what to do?"
        "Yes, I can numb him for a couple of minutes if he makes a focus, realign the bones, tighten them up. Is it compound?"
        Roween looked away, not wanting to be reminded of the jagged, splintered ulna ripped obliquely through his forearm. She nodded.
        "Is he conscious?"
        Roween nodded again. "Just. Can't speak a lot, I think his ribs are cracked, armour must have saved him."
        Conley crouched, held her notes to the light. "Is this going to work with you here, Ro? I don't want to push you away, but..."
        "Yes, no, oh I don't know, some will, but if one doesn't then they'll all disappear. I'll leave." It hurt so much to say that. She slid out from under Sennary, slowly, lowered his head with a careful tenderness. He looked up at her, reached for her hand, drew her towards him.
        She choked back a sob, he was in such pain. He moved his lips, was trying to say something. She put her ear to his mouth, pulled back her hair, listened. "Find ... my ... horse," he rasped.
        She froze a moment, had she heard him right? He let go of her, Conley waved her aside. She stood, walked back, kept looking at him. His horse? Delirium? She followed the rocks round to the right.

* * *


        The horse was a crumpled mass of meat and bone. The prosthetics had reverted on its death, flesh shed from the skeleton, red joints on blue-lit rocks. It had taken her a while to find the beast, it was wedged higher up, she'd only looked when she'd noticed spots of marooning blood dried on the stones below. What did it have that Sennary wanted? A dying man might ask for the Books, but he wasn't religious was he? Documents he was carrying, then? Plans? Secrets, lists of names, places, details of organisations? Why would he want them now?
        She unbuckled the saddle, trying to avoid contact with the cold, matted skin. She worked the saddlebags free, dropped them to the ground, pulled out his blanket, tossed that too, might be useful later, keep him warm.
        The bags weren't full, there was little food, he must've left someplace in a hurry. She felt something, though, deep behind her eyes: there was zip in here - well of course - but some of it was good, healing. She delved deeper, found papers - just scrawled notes and a map - a bit of gold, a strip of shots. Maybe he wanted these, take his mind off the pain? He hadn't seemed that sort. No, there was something else, niggling her...
        His comsphere was split in two. Shame, looks new. She rummaged around further. A small light-set, a flicky dagger, lightweight platter, whistle, compass; there was more in here than she'd first thought in the flicker of her candle-lit panic.
        At the bottom of one of the bags, she found it, in a small tin that looked like it used to hold boiled sugars. Gel, some gone, but plenty enough to staunch his arm, sterilise it, stop the rot getting in. Hot, it was so sweet! She replaced the lid, hurried back.

* * *


        "Is it safe?" she called from the edge of the trees. Conley lifted a finger to her mouth, shhh, she nodded.
        Roween tiptoed over, as best she could. Sennary was asleep, and now it was Conley's lap he had for a pillow. Roween felt the inevitable twang; it would always be thus. She held out the tin. Conley tilted her head sideways, what is it?
        "White gel," whispered Roween, "for his arm."
        Conley's eyes widened. She reached out her hand, beckoned, impatient, took it; Roween had kept the lid. Conley smelled the contents, nodded approvingly, tasted a smidge. "Hot, Ro," whispered, "there must be eighteen hundred clicks worth in here - you could do a heart replacement with this much! Where'd he get it?"
        "How would I know? Just put some on his arm!"
        "I can do better than that," she reached for her notebook again. "Can you boil me some water?"

* * *


        Roween didn't know what spell Conley flicked at the melted gel, she couldn't risk standing close enough to watch, might have smelled bad. She figured it was a seeker of some kind: Conley would have like magnetised the fractures, made them hot spots for the programmed gel to find. She'd have him drink a bowl of the stuff, and once it got into his bloodstream it would circulate, stick to the highlighted breaks, promote healing. They'd be able to move him tomorrow, day after that he'd be able to move himself. He'd be very grateful. To Conley.

* * *


        They snatched some rest, not much. They'd have to start off early, before the other riders missed their man, came looking. Sennary was the last to wake, they had to stir him so he could climb onto a horse. He shared Conley's; she was stronger than Roween, could hold him if he started to topple.
        "How much did you use?" he asked.
        "About a third."
        He nodded, jutted his jaw. "I owe you."
        Conley smiled, "But where did you get that much gel? Steal it from a hospital?"
        He laughed, short, it still hurt. "I did a job clearing a black-fac that was running the stuff, mixing it with a poor clone they had, selling it like it was the real article. They had a few unadulterated jars, I took them before I fired the place. It burned like a candle, all that grease." He coughed. "I'd better shut up."
        Roween was leading them out of the forest, careful not to let the branches spring back and lash Sennary, needling herself instead. Too smart for her own good; if she didn't think of these things she could behave as innocently inconsiderate as had Conley yesterday. She hadn't seen a mirror, but knew her face was going to be grimy, scratched, blood-splattered, tear- stained... Conley was a model of radiant freshness.
        Roween breathed a sigh. What did it matter anyway? She was fooling herself if she thought Sennary would - could - ever be attracted to her: she'd always have the wrong eyes. Conley's were alert, alive, showed passion. Hers were just boring brown, out of line, laughable. She was stupid. Stupid stupid stupid! Why was she still worrying about her hair? Maybe the Elets have it figured right.
        She could hear further snatches of Conley's chat with Sennary. So much for his keeping quiet. He said he had split the riders, four had chimed with him, the rest had gone off north. Those that stayed, they knew the area, had had some short-cuts to play with. Two had cut him off, worked him to the top of the cliff, the drop had just come up as he rode full gallop, he couldn't stop in time, over he went. Conley was oohing in all the right places, interjecting with exclamations where appropriate, keeping him talking when he should be resting his voice. Why doesn't she think, sometimes?

* * *


        Lunch was eaten beside a stream, lolling through a heather- bedded dale. They didn't have many rations; Roween had built up courage, offered Sennary some of hers, but Conley had already beaten her to it. Of course. If she wasn't careful, Roween could get awful jealous of that girl. No point, though - just something she had to accept. With looks flawed like hers, she could spend her whole life envious of others. She ought to get rid of some of this caking dirt in the brook.
        She was surprised when Sennary excused himself to Conley, followed her to the stream. She hurried on. What was he about?
        He didn't call after her, just kept going, she could hear him struggling to keep pace. He might loosen a splint. She slowed down, let him catch up.
        "Feeling better, Lord Sennary?"
        "A lot better than I would have if you hadn't have found the horse." Gratitude. Polite of him. Why does he have to put his hand on my shoulder?
        "You haven't chased after me to make sure I don't fall in the water: what is it you want?"
        He fell back a little, dropped his arm. "Sorry, I..." He tipped his head forward, she looked aside. He was so sweet when he did that.
        "Yes, you..?"
        "I... Oh, well I need some advice. About Conley."
        Here's some: give her an excuse to feel inadequate, so she'll use it to toss herself into a pit of depression.
        "Rumour is, her father's dead."
        Her father? Roween wasn't sure of his relationship with Conley. She seems to worship him, thinks he adores her likewise, doesn't absorb any evidence to the contrary. "Don't tell her, leave it to me. Where'd you hear this?"
        He leaned against a beech; too much quick movement just now, he might have shaken some of the gel. Why did I have to walk so fast? "The MSR unit received orders to return to Davia. Chewt's the new chancellor, she's assumed full control of the regiment, pulled them back, she doesn't want a war."
        "And Justan's let her?"
        "Well they went, anyway. They have husbands, wives to go home to. Who knows what power games Chewt's playing? Justan's away, his army's success is dependent on her mages, she's maybe showing him what she can do, what she's made of, that she's not to be messed with."
        "If it's true, she probably wants something; she's expecting he'll agree to whatever she's after, then she'll send the MSR squads back into the fray. But if Justan calls her bluff, or even if he doesn't, it could be too late, the Messenger may by then have crushed Purasan resistance, Akrea could rally, join them."
        "If there's definitely no threat of assassination, Estavia is a major player, too. Have you heard they - "
        " - invaded two of Akrea's border provinces, yes. How did he die?"
        Sennary wasn't expecting the question, paused, pursed his lips. She liked it when he did that. "Ansle? Chewt didn't say, killed, I think, wasn't natural."
        "Did you speak to her?"
        "No, I saw though, she was in Ansle's office, black ribbon everywhere." He winced, put his free hand to his bad arm.
        "You better go back to Conley. Don't mention any of this to her, promise?"
        "No promises," he said, "but thanks." He hobbled back. Roween watched him, ached. She realised it, cursed herself, scurried down to the stream.

* * *


        They bought him a horse at the next village, thin, but well. Roween paid, rubies. They picked up some food, moved on. You don't sleep in places where people see you have a stash of gems, may be you have more.
        He'd mentioned to Conley that the mage squad had been withdrawn, didn't say why. Said how he'd stayed with some Purasans in the swamp, acted as tactical adviser and comms link, Justan's forward command. There were two groups of mages, his and another. When they'd left, they'd fixed the mist to stay another week, give time to pull everyone else out. Spies got wind of their departure, though, and three thousand frustrated Messenger warriors had charged in next day. He'd been lucky to get out alive, wouldn't have if he hadn't been given the horse. Even luckier that he was still alive now. Thanks to her. Here we go again.
        They were in a stone hut on the lower slopes. Winter, it'd be occupied, shepherds or goatherds would stay here the night if a heavy snow fell. They'd be higher up, now, though, letting their flocks eat the Summer grass while it was still accessible, before the weather turned.
        "You'll be well enough to fend for yourself tomorrow," said Conley, motherly. "Will you be leaving?"
        Sennary shrugged, wished he hadn't. "Depends where you're heading. I ought to stay with you, obey my last orders. Things have changed, though, and my comsphere's broken. Not unless you can fix it?"
        "I don't know the sequences, take it to a dealer." They both smiled.
        "I think I should head back east, there's an exchange in Rhiev; if they're still open I can get a message through to Cala's, they'll patch me through to the Academy."
        "Send my love to father..."
        "You'll need money." Roween's interruption surprised them both. "Money, if you're going to Rhiev, you'll need money. Do you want the click-well? Some Eletic rubies?"
        Sennary looked at Conley. "Well, rubies I guess. Your click- well still works?"
        "Shouldn't it?"
        "Another theory blown away."

* * *


        Roween hadn't listened to their conversation. Conley's giggling a while later woke her up, still, at least giggling was all it was. Could have been worse... Sennary's arm would burn like a torch for another week, and if he didn't get the soft support renewed by then it'd be Spring before he could wield a sword again. Splintered bone painfully gelling together has a distracting way of making all strenuous activities difficult. So, at least she was spared that.
        She'd decided not to tell Conley about Ansle. Something was going on, she wasn't sure what, but it was big and it was sinister. She didn't know much about Chewt, except that she and Ansle were the only powerful old-timers left at the Academy; the rest were next generation or imported industrials. Chewt was an illusion specialist, wasn't she? Chewt- Farmer, yes, of course.
        Besides, if Conley knew, or even suspected, that her father was dead, she'd be back like an arrow.
        Roween was having a hard time tallying things up. Conley's mother had hated her, fine, she could accept that. Conley had love-hated her mother, fair enough. She also hated herself, probably because of what she did to her mother, guilt and all that. However, she still loved her father, yet he was not at all a nice person. Maybe he hadn't always been that way? Maybe part of the reason she was out here with Roween was because she didn't want to face what he had become, preferred to remember him as he was? Or was she afraid that if she did face facts she'd lose control, try to hurt him?
        Too many unknowns, Roween didn't have the right experience, couldn't empathise enough with Conley's situation to predict how she'd react. Best take no chances, keep it secret. Can't jeopardise the master plan.

* * *


        Sennary left next day. He'd tried to say something to Roween just before departing, but Conley had showed up out of nowhere. He pecked Ro on the cheek, did the same to Conley. "I'll see you again, sometime," he said. Conley waved him off, Roween moped in a corner of the hut.
        An hour or so later, they saddled up, made their way north, wide of Dreimen. The coast was still two weeks away, along the battle lines.


Copyright © Richard A. Bartle (richard@mud.co.uk)
21st January 1999: isif22.htm