they picked.'
'I'm pleased for you, old man,' replied Marco. The old man's very young wife came in from the back, carrying two buckets of water, and she smiled shyly and meaningfully at Marco and then slipped back outside. Marco turned back to the bearded man. ' 'Why, Raevsky? Do you know what will become of them?' Then, on a sudden impulse, he went on. 'The truth is, I'm also looking for a woman. A Jedan woman.' He had already manufactured the story to give her importance but not too much importance. 'A merchant's sister. Her ship was lost but the merchant believes she may still be alive.'
Josef Raevsky examined him, and Marco felt abruptly that he was being measured and judged by a man whose judgments were worth something. 'You mean,' said Raevsky, 'the sister of the Prince.'
Marco was rarely too astonished to be at a loss for words. But the sudden euphoria that overwhelmed him now obliterated everything else. A moment later, he realized that he was grinning.
Josef Raevsky stood up. 'Come with me.' He went to the door without looking back, and walked outside.
Marco rose to follow him.
'Say, lad,' said the innkeeper. 'My wife heard a bit of interesting news last night from the captain.' The old man's wife was not only young but unexpectedly good-looking, and Marco had quickly ascertained that her favors were for the asking, if one was willing to pay. It was the other reason the innkeeper liked him: that he had paid well and the young woman had enjoyed herself. 'Yea. A warband of them damned zherawn rode into town late last night. We see them every second year or thereabouts, in here, trading and such like. But the captain said they've some of them chepalis with them as well.' Then, either because Marco's expression betrayed him or because the old man was keener than he looked, he went on. 'That's what you've been waiting here for, in't it? More of them foreigners. And it looks like now we know why all these strangers have come into our port this late in the year.''
'Thank you,' said Marco. He went outside. Josef Raevsky was waiting for him. 'Where are we going?' Marco asked.
'There's someone who wishes to see you.'
They walked to the outskirts of town. The rains had not come in great force yet, so the roads and tracks were still dry. But it was getting cold at night. Barefoot children stared at him from doorways. An old woman carded wool. Heat swelled out from a blacksmith's forge.
Within sight of the barracks, Josef halted. Marco stared. What had been a quiet outpost before was now bustling with activity. Scarlet-shirted men examined the horses while Chapalii, clearly more Chapalii than the four who had been here all along, spoke to each other and to a trio of red-shirted men over to one side.
'Have you seen enough?' Josef asked.
'What does this mean? Why are they here, and who are you?'
'We are jaran. We have escorted these pilgrims from the issledova tel shore to this port, where they will set sail for their own lands across the seas.'
'The horses are for you,' said Marco, suddenly understanding something the innkeeper had said. 'You must be-' There was no word in Taor that he knew for nomads.
'We are not khaja, if that is what you mean. The ones who settle in one place. We ride.'
One question answered, a million sprouting to take its place. 'Who wants to talk with me?'
'Come. We will go down to the port to see the khepelli to their ship.'
Marco followed and Josef led him down to the docks. As he waited, Marco chatted with the ship's master of the Queen Aireon, which was returning to Jeds the next day. The ship he had come in on eight days before had already sailed on northward. As he watched, a sail cleared the horizon and banked toward the harbor.
It took until midday for the ship to anchor within rowing distance from the docks. By that time, fifteen Chapalii with an escort of fifteen brilliantly clad riders arrived at the dock. Marco realized quickly enough that he himself was being escorted by Josef. Being watched so that he did not interfere with their leave-taking. The Chapalii were being sent home. Well, being put on the ship, at least. Marco was wild to know how they intended to get off- planet from here, but he had a healthy respect for the saber riding on Josef Raevsky's hip.
Boats came. The Chapalii loaded gear into them. In all this, Marco quickly discerned that two people-one Chapalii, one jaran-were being deferred to here. One Chapalii lord. The jaran man-from this distance, it was hard to tell, except that he was clearly in charge. The Chapalii clambered awkwardly into the boats. Final respects were paid, and the human sailors at the oars began the long stroke out to the ship.
And that was that.
Except, of course, it wasn't. Across a hundred meters' distance, a man turned to stare at Marco. Every alarm Marco had honed by instinct to its finest degree went off. Danger.
'Come,' said Josef. A crowd had long since gathered to watch. An audience, of course. Somehow, Marco was no longer surprised at any twist this journey might take. He followed Josef meekly but cautiously.
The man waited for them as a prince waits. He was of middling height, but height never matters in the kind of man he was. On a whim, Marco bowed to him, with the flourish granted to the nobility in Jeds.
'You are the emissary from the Prince of Jeds,' said the man in faultless Rhuian. His accent was slight but melodious. 'I am Ilyakoria Bakhtiian. I have two letters and a holy relic for you to deliver to the prince.' He gestured with a hand, and Raevsky extracted a leather pouch from the saddlebags of Bakhtiian's horse. 'By the way.' Bakhtiian said it offhandedly. 'If I ever find out that you did not deliver the messages and the relic to the prince, I will hunt you down and kill you.' He gave Marco the pouch.
Marco took it. For the first time in his life, he felt entirely out of his depth.
'Please,' said Bakhtiian politely. 'Examine each item so that you know what you're carrying.'
Marco nodded, still not trusting himself to speak. He opened the pouch and pulled out the cylinder. Stared at it, knowing instantly that it was of Chapalii manufacture. And read Tess's letter. Tess.
'But I must come with you,' he said, looking up. 'I must get to Tess.'
'Do I need to repeat myself? She said that this is important to her brother, that he needs it, not next season or the one after but now. Therefore, you will deliver it.'
His men flanked him, a scatter of brilliant color, all armed, most mounted. Josef Raevsky stood to one side. But it was clear to Marco that Bakhtiian was the most dangerous of these men. That he was a man who would, who could, who had killed, a man who would not hesitate to do so again if his will were crossed.
'I understand,' said Marco finally.
'Good,' said Bakhtiian.
'But is Tess safe? Where is she?'
Bakhtiian looked so angry in that instant that Marco took an involuntary step back. 'She is with my people,' he said fiercely. He turned on his heel and began to walk away.
'Wait. Surely I can send a message to her. A gift.'
Bakhtiian spun back. He looked furious. 'What?' he snapped. 'Write something, then.'
Marco always wore the emergency kit at his belt. He had an emergency transmitter he could send to her but he had nothing to write on here, had no parchment except back at the inn. Bakhtiian said a few words in a foreign tongue, and Raevsky rummaged again in the saddlebags and brought out a book-a book! — and a quill pen and ink.
'Here.' Bakhtiian carefully tore a page out of the front of the book and handed it to Marco.
Marco stared. Newton's Principia, the title page. He felt disoriented; he felt like laughing. Newton in the hands of this barbarian. He glanced up to see Bakhtiian's unnerving stare focused on him. Crouching hastily, he set the page on his knee and wrote in Anglais.
My darling Tess, your dear old Uncle Marco wonders what the hell you 're up to on Rhui, but most of all he hopes you are safe. I am sending an emergency transmitter by way of your escort. For God's sake, child, let us know where you are and that you 're well. I am not going to endanger my life at this time by trying to follow your escort back to you. And I'm sure you understand that the Mushai's cylinder must get to Charles as soon as possible. As you must. I do not understand what your circumstances are. If you are being held against your will, though it does not seem so from your letter, you can merely activate the primary codes and we will come and pick you up in a shuttle and damn the Interdiction. If not against your will, then I will only say this: You have a duty to your brother. You also have a duty to yourself. Make of that what you will. I send my love. Marco Burckhardt
Marco fished the emergency transmitter from his pouch. It looked like a little dagger, snuggled into a leather sheath. He folded the letter carefully and slid it inside the sheath, and handed the dagger to Bakhtiian. Bakhtiian
