Bili lowered his voice. “Help keep these people back, Ravna. Please. Be responsible.”
“Let Ravna through, Mr. Yngva. The Queen asked especially to see her.” It was a pack in the shadows, behind the guard line. One of Woodcarver’s chamberlains.
Maybe Bili frowned, but the light was dim and the expression quickly passed. He waved her through, then turned to shout to the crowd: “Okay, Ravna is going to help us out here. She’d really appreciate it if you’d all give us some room to work, folks.”
Ravna didn’t stop to contradict him, but
The chamberlain and Gannon Jorkenrud guided Ravna back into the depths of the embassy. Both had lamps, and Jorkenrud was waving his light all around. His voice seemed both angry and triumphant. “We nailed the bastards.” He had an axe—a bloody axe?—in his other hand.
This was the first time she’d been in the so-called “embassy.” The sanctum was less and more than the stories. She saw random pieces of metal and polished stone, items chipped away from public buildings and turned into interior decorations. The walls were bare of acoustic quilting, scarred with holes that might mark recent removals. Trash lay in various depths. The ceilings were almost high enough for her to walk standing upright, but the paths through the trash weren’t wide enough for pack privacy and there were no turnouts for packs to courteously pass. Here and there, through openings in the walls, she could see Woodcarver’s troopers searching further corridors.
They passed doors that had been smashed in. Here the air was warm and humid, smelling of body odor and incense. The chamberlain led them up a round of stairs that circled the central tower. Gannon came right behind, still talking angrily about how “we done ’em good tonight.”
The stairs ended at a door with a shattered lock. The chamberlain pulled the door open a crack, and a breeze swept past them into the room beyond. There was a gobble of Interpack between the chamberlain and some pack inside. Ravna thought she heard a chord that meant contradictorily “too crowded” and “come in.” The chamberlain waved snouts at Gannon and Ravna. “You two go in, please. I’ll stay out here.” Some of him streamed down the steps, the members spreading themselves as far as they could think. The one at the bottom of the stairs could talk to the troops on main floor.
Ravna and Gannon stepped through. The draft slammed the door shut behind them.
She looked around, taking in the broken windows and the burned fabric hangings. Once upon a time—up until a few minutes ago?—the ceiling had been much lower, with hanging silken canopies. No doubt the place had been as swampy-warm as the rest of the embassy. Now it was cold and smelled of smoke. Woodcarver stood around a pile of rubbish that had tumbled from an armoire. Still-glowing embers smouldered near her feet, but all of her— even the puppy—was looking in Ravna’s direction: “We’ll find Geri/Edvi/Timor.” She spoke the three names as a chord. “I promise, Ravna.”
Nevil nodded. “We know who did this and we have a good idea where they are now.” He wore the ship’s remaining HUD tiara, but away from that, his face was sooty. Behind the tiara, his eyes were a little wide, the first time she had ever seen horror on his face. “The Tropicals must have been planning this for some tendays. They had perfect knowledge of the three kids’ habits and their Best Friends.” He kicked savagely at whatever was behind the papers, then recovered himself, brushing at his face with a faintly trembling hand. “I’m coordinating with Jo and Pilgrim. They have the agrav flying, looking for the kidnappers. Scrupilo says he’ll have
Ravna walked across the room, looked down at what Nevil had kicked: a pack member. Two pack members. One lay in an enormous pool of blood. The other was stretched out, as though in mid-leap. Now both lay motionless, beyond any punishment. In life, they had been part of something that thought well of itself. Few of the Tropicals dressed so royally. She glanced around at Woodcarver.
“That’s two of Godsgift,” said the Queen.
“These were the only ones left when Gannon got here.”
From behind Ravna, Jorkenrud said, “All the rest must have taken off at least an hour earlier. They took their sleighs, everything.”
Nevil glanced at Gannon. “Gannon didn’t know that at the time, but—I take full responsibility. I messed up. There was a chance the kids were here; we couldn’t wait for Woodcarver—”
Gannon interrupted. “Look. I didn’t do anything wrong. We busted in, chased what we thought was a whole pack up into the tower here. The critter said they had the kids, said he’d cut their throats. We could smell fire in here, so we busted in and he attacked. We just killed two of him—and then we realized that’s all he was!”
Ravna turned to look at him. “And there were no Children either?” she said.
Gannon glared at her and visibly bit back some angry retort. “No, nobody.”
She walked over to where Woodcarver was nosing around the corpses. Ravna had never liked Godsgift, but —“I really didn’t know packs could do this sort of thing.”
Woodcarver shrugged, but Ravna guessed she was trying to look unimpressed: the Puppy from Hell had a kind of dazed expression in its eyes. “Tropicals are crazy asses,” said Woodcarver. She nosed at the one lying in a pool of blood. “I think this was the pack’s verbal center; it was a fixed point in their recent swapping. And these two always paid more attention than the others to written materials.”
Nevil looked surprised. “I didn’t know that. Downstairs, there were several smaller fires—blubber oil tossed around and lit, though nothing spread far enough to bring the whole place down.” He looked around at the charred papers. “Maybe at the last moment they realized there were secrets left behind.”
Woodcarver’s heads turned toward him. She said, “Together, these two might have been bright enough to decide what to burn first.” She shook herself. “So Godsgift maimed himself to keep a secret.”
A bit of good fortune: the cloud cover broke, and the next real storm was two days out to sea. Scrupilo’s great airship was still ten days short of its maiden voyage, but Scrup managed to get his little electric airboat into the search, circling out to the limits of its motor charge. Air search beyond that depended on the agrav skiff and the very-low-resolution pictures from the orbiter. Woodcarver’s Domain covered millions of hectares of snowfields, naked rock, and channel ice, but clues littered the bloody snows where Geri and Edvi and Timor had been taken, and not all the witnesses were dead. The best ground trackers searched all the nearby forest trails. Video from the orbiter guided them to the most likely places further out, where mountain farms were scarcely more than wilderness marked with property boundaries.
Meantime, Johanna and Pilgrim accomplished what no dirigible could: they shadowed the main party of fleeing Tropicals. They ghosted along within clouds and behind mountain walls, watching every move the Tropicals made. The mob had fled before any of the actual kidnappers could have made it to the embassy—but there might be a rendezvous.…
The main group mushed on along the East Forest Road, not pausing for any rendezvous. The embassy Tropicals had always looked so stupid, playing with their huge sleighs in the most inappropriate weather. Now for once, the weather and the terrain were ideal for a mad sleigh ride. When they got over High Knob Pass, they all hopped aboard and took a single long slalom, interrupted only by occasional overturnings and mayhem collisions. Even so, the next blizzard caught up with them as they came barrelling down upon the East Gate border garrison, their eight remaining sleighs crowded with all who had so far survived. They smashed through the Domain’s border garrison on the East Gate, causing casualties but no total deaths.
In principle, the Tropicals were now beyond Domain jurisdiction. In fact, that was where their pursuers finally moved to stop them.
Within hours of the East Gate debacle, Johanna and Pilgrim were back with Ravna, up on the second floor of the town house. Outside, the blizzard was a roaring blow, white swirling just beyond the windows. Inside was snug and warm. On the table by the windows was the cargo Ravna had been waiting for from the Cold Valley, ten thousand adders fabricated on a fifty-centimeter disk of pressed carbon. These must still be delivered to Scrupilo for testing, but Jo and Pilgrim’s mission up north had delivered the images for the next step: true processors and memory devices. If these adders tested out, the way was clear for what Ravna and Scrupilo had worked ten years to create.
The delivery should have been the joyous high point of Ravna’s year. Instead, when Jo had presented her with the carbon black disk, Ravna had barely taken the time to tilt it in the light, to admire the nearly microscopic patterning. She would get the devices to Scrupilo soon enough; he would do his testing. Meantime, three of the
