March Upcountry

with thongs which he untied to reveal a strange shape. It looked like a small box attached to a cube of clay the size of his hand.

“How do you attach it?” Sena asked, for there were no strings or ropes in evidence.

“They told me that if I pushed it on stone, it would stay.” Denat tried it, and it adhered to the nearer wall, which was in easy arm’s reach. He pulled at it, and it came away with difficulty.

“Like glue,” Selat observed. The older female looked at the device curiously. “Very interesting. What does it do?”

“That I don’t know,” Denat lied again. He knew very well what it did, but he wasn’t about to tell the locals. “I also need to be near the river on the day of the battle,” he added.

“That won’t be hard,” Sena assured him. “Right on the river would be difficult, but there are several places on that edge of town where you’ll be outside the walls and within easy running distance. Will that do?”

“Yes. Now, how do we get the item attached?”

“How well do you swim?” Sena asked with a handclap of humor.

“Well enough to swim that little puddle you call a river.”

“There’s a landing beneath the bridge,” the little female said. “We can put you in the river upstream. You swim down to the bridge, climb up and attach your item, then swim downriver to another point, where someone will meet you to lead you back.”

“Very well,” Denat said with satisfaction. “Now, I suppose we wait.”

“Indeed,” Sena said. “And starve,” she added sourly.

“Oh, it isn’t that bad, dear,” the host rebuked. “We have enough to share with our guest. The House of T’Leen is not so fallen as to be unable to provide hospitality!”

“T’Leen?” Denat repeated, startled. “Was that a common name in Voitan? Because I know a T’Leen Targ.”

“T’Leen Targ?” The host sounded surprised. “I am T’Leen Sul. He’s my cousin on my father’s side! Where do you know him from?” he asked eagerly. “I haven’t seen him since before the fall of S’Lenna! How is he?”

“He’s well,” Denat said, glad to be able to impart some happy news. “He was one of the leaders of the force that relieved us in Voitan. They’re rebuilding the city, and he’ll be one of the leaders of that, as well.”

“Ah!” Sul clapped his hands in joy. “The shining city shall rise again!”

“Let it not be too late for us,” his wife said quietly. “Would that we could go to it before our deaths.”

“We shall,” Sul said with quiet firmness. “We shall return to the shining city. We might have only our hands to offer, but it will be enough.”

There was no doubt in his voice, but the whole group had lost its animation. Even if they returned to Voitan, it would be as beggars.

“I was surprised by your choice of messengers,” Denat said, deliberately moving away from what was obviously a painful subject. “My people wouldn’t have entrusted such a grave responsibility to a female.”

“Because we’re worthless and unintelligent?” Sena snorted. “Good only for birthing babies and cooking?”

“Yes,” Denat said calmly. “I was surprised that the people of Voitan were so accepting of women working other than in the fields and home. You keep to the Voitan customs?”

“With difficulty,” T’Leen Sul said. “Marshad doesn’t agree with those customs. A female cannot own property and she must obey the orders of any male. Such are both customs and law in this land, so it’s hard for one raised among the customs of Voitan to put up with. Females are common in weaving, but that’s because it’s work males don’t want.” The old male grunted in laughter. “But Sena was raised in the Voitan way, and she’s proof that not all females are worthless and weak.”

“So she is,” Denat grunted. He looked at the little female out of the corner of his eye. “So she is.” He gave himself a shake. “But returning to the matter of starvation.” He reached back into his sack. “I brought some food. When that runs out, we’ll have to see what we can think of.”

“Well,” Sena said, clapping her hands in resignation, “that means we can stay out of sight until we have to go to the bridge. Of course, staying out of sight means being stuck in the company of a smelly tribesman for all that time, but at least one part of the plan is working.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

“This is going too smoothly,” Pahner complained, shaking his head.

“Really?” Roger looked around the room and chuckled. “I suppose Voitan was your idea of just the right amount of friction?”

“Yes, Your Highness, it was.” The captain turned dark eyes on the prince and nodded. “We survived.” He shook his head again. “Something is bound to screw this up, and there’s not much in the way of a backup.”

“Blow the town down and take what we can?” Despreaux suggested.

“More or less.” The CO straightened and kneaded the small of his back with both hands. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“Seventy isn’t old,” Roger told him with a laugh. “Look at my grandfather. He lived to the ripe old age of one hundred and eighty-three senile years.”

“Not a record I hope to beat, Your Highness.” The captain smiled. “Time for bed. We’d better be on our toes tomorrow.”

Roger nodded a good night to Pahner as he left the room, then looked over at O’Casey.

“You’ve been particularly quiet this evening, Eleanora,” he observed, taking off the borrowed helmet he’d been using to monitor the operation.

“Just thinking about our host,” the chief of staff replied with a smile. “And about universality.”

“How so?” Roger asked, mopping at his sweaty forehead. The evening was unusually hot, even for Marduk. It usually cooled off a bit after nightfall, but not tonight, apparently.

“If you don’t mind, Your Highness,” Despreaux said, “I’m going to turn in as well. I have guard duty in a few hours.”

“Take off, Nimashet.” Roger waved one hand in a shooing gesture. “I think we can guard ourselves for a while.”

The sergeant smiled at him and left the room behind the captain. Roger watched her go, and then turned back to O’Casey.

“You were saying?” he said, then noticed her slight smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” his former tutor said. “I was talking about universality. It’s not quite a given that fops aren’t to be trusted, but rulers who pay more attention to their wardrobes than their subjects have a habit of coming to bad ends.”

“Did you have anyone in mind?” Roger asked coldly.

“Oh,” O’Casey chuckled, “that wasn’t directed at you, Roger. Although, at one time it might have been,” she added pensively. “But, frankly, son, there’s not much of the peacock left in you.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.” Roger gave her a wry smile now that he realized the comment wasn’t directed at him. “I’m definitely looking forward to getting back into some civilized clothing.”

“That’s fair.” O’Casey looked down at her own stained uniform. “So am I. But I wasn’t speaking of you. I was actually thinking of Ceasare Borgia and your father.”

“Now that’s a comparison you don’t often hear,” Roger said tightly.

“Perhaps you don’t,” O’Casey acknowledged, “but before I was your tutor, I used it frequently in lectures. I suspect that was one of the reasons I was assigned to you in the first place. That and the follow-through, which is that, frankly, it’s an insult to the Borgias. They never would’ve screwed up their plot the way New Madrid did.”

“You know the whole story?” Roger asked in an odd voice. “I never realized that.”

“I’m sorry, Roger,” O’Casey said sadly. “I’m surprised you weren’t aware of how widely it’s studied. I only learned the details after becoming your tutor, of course, but the broad outline is used in political courses as a case