found herself relegated to riding on the cart next to Hoggles while both the runner and the sensitive rode ahead. A sure sign that previously broken fences had been mended. Which was just as well, because it was less than an hour later when the group topped a rise and found themselves looking down on the Army of God. It was a relatively large group consisting of at least three hundred people. They were kneeling at that particular moment, heads bowed as a man dressed in a tattered robe stood atop an ice-encrusted rock and delivered the morning sermon.
There was no reason to be surprised, since the travelers had been following along behind the larger group for more than a week by then, but Rebo was taken aback by the size of the mob below, and the fact that a detachment of what looked like heavy cavalry had been sent up the hill to intercept them. Brightly colored banners snapped in the breeze as mismatched mounts snorted what looked like puffs of steam and clods of half-frozen muck shot from under their iron-shod hooves.
Norr turned to Rebo. “Return to the cart . . . Hide your guns and tell Phan to do the same. I’ll try to stall them.”
The runner nodded, jerked the angen’s head around, and kicked the animal’s barrel-shaped sides. He was gone two seconds later.
“Logos,” Norr said, as she eyed the oncoming riders.
“Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can hear you,” the AI replied testily. “I’m not deaf!”
“Then pay attention,” the sensitive instructed curtly.
“I’m looking at an army of antitechnic fanatics. They’re going to be all around us soon—and they would like nothing more than to rip you apart. So keep quiet until I say you can speak. Even if that takes a week or more. Understood?”
It was probably Norr’s imagination, but the sensitive thought that the computer sounded resentful. “Understood.”
The riders were close by then, thundering up over the rise, their swords, spears, and battle-axes plain to see. Norr smiled in what she hoped was a disarming manner. “Good morning!”
There was a mad clatter of metal and a good deal of snorting as both riders and mounts circled around her. One of the warriors, a gaunt-looking man dressed in homemade armor, nodded politely. “Greetings . . . We ride for the Army of God. Do you carry the pestilence? Or are you clean?”
Norr frowned. “The pestilence? I don’t understand.”
“Technology,” the rider answered sternly. “Meaning those items listed in the Book of Abominations.”
“No,” the sensitive answered. “At least I don’t think so.”
“Take care, woman,” the man cautioned grimly. “Ignorance is no excuse. . . . And if you’re hiding something—
the diviner will surely fi?nd it.”
Norr didn’t know who or what the “diviner” was, but wasn’t about to tell the rider about Logos, the guns, or her vibro blade. “Yes, I mean no, we aren’t carrying any proscribed items.”
“Good,” the man responded loftily. “Come that you might become one with the Army of God! The rector welcomes all who burn with holy passion and live to battle the pestilence.”
Norr forced a smile. “Yes, well, I’m not sure how much time we can spend with the army—but thank you for the invitation.”
Rebo had arrived by that time, along with the cart, and felt utterly defenseless knowing that his guns, not to mention Phan’s, were hidden under the cart’s bench-style seat. But there was nothing that the runner and his companions could do but follow the religious fanatics down into the valley below. The church service had ended, and the faithful were streaming up toward the road, as the off-world travelers were escorted into the campsite. Norr noticed that most of the antitechnics were dressed in little more than rags, that many were so malnourished as to appear starved, and that some lay on makeshift litters. Still others, including most of the older children, were bent under the weight of heavy packs. It was a pitiful sight, and one that Rebo was still struggling to deal with, when a group of cudgel-wielding acolytes stepped out to bar the way. Like the cavalry, they were better fed than the rest, which suggested a hierarchy of some sort. “Halt!” one of the men ordered pompously. “The rector would speak with you.”
“You must dismount,” one of the riders added helpfully.
“Or pay for your arrogance.”
Both Rebo and Norr got down from their angens, only to have the reins snatched out of their hands as the man known as the rector appeared. He was at least seven feet tall. A rarity during an age when most A-strain males stood about fi?vefoot-ten. But if the holy man’s height was intimidating, so were his broad forehead, hooked nose, and thin, nearly nonexistent lips. Worse, from Norr’s perspective, was the force of his personality, which would have rolled in to supplant her own had she allowed it to do so.
The sensitive staggered under the psychic assault, threw up a protective barrier, and struggled to stand her ground. That was when the sensitive realized that while a fi?lthy robe concealed most of the rector’s long angular body, his feet were bare and blue from the cold. A sign of penitence perhaps? Of otherworldliness? There was no way to know. The rector sketched the letter “A” into the air. “Blessings be upon you my children. Where are you from?”
Rebo remembered the way people turned out to stone the shuttle back in New Wimmura and knew that some sort of cover story was required. Consistent with lessons learned while growing up inside the guild, the runner stuck to the truth to the extent that was possible. “From New Wimmura, holy one. I’m a runner with a message for a merchant in Feda. This woman is my wife, Citizen Hoggles hopes to fi?nd work there, and Citizen Phan was engaged to guard our humble belongings.”
The rector’s gaze shifted to Phan. “You’re an assassin?”
Phan inclined her head. There wasn’t much on Derius or any other planet that frightened her, yet this man did. “Yes, holy one.”
“Are you carrying any breech-loaded fi?rearms?”