Lawrence experienced an intoxicating infusion of excitement. He could now locate his exact position on an up-to-date map. That meant he could expose the Value System despite the loss of Pezzini—if he could get out of this marsh, a point that returned his concentration to the occupants of the refuge tower.
No one travelled this route in winter. Even in summer trying to move vehicles of any weight along the old way plagued as it was with subsidence, washouts, tedious fords and crossings was hard, slow work. At this time of year there should have been no one within ten miles. Undoubtedly The Captain had posted a team up in that refuge tower to survey the drain and the estuary—the motor launch they had heard earlier must have been bringing a relief shift up. It required little insight to guess that value who stole a section of pier would ride inland on the tide. Probably the team had night glasses—they would not linger out here overnight without good reason. So why had they not seen two fugitive value wandering about on the open mud?
Lawrence had some experience with night vision. He had used infra-red searchlights to ambush bandits as they returned to their dens after a raid. He had also used passive night-intensifier type goggles. All such equipment was fickle, heirloom stuff passed down since the Glorious Resolution, less and less of it remaining serviceable as the decades passed. The pattern of failure typified Public Era heirlooms; the most impressive, highest-tech equipment failed first, the simple, robust pieces kept performing, after a fashion at least, for generations. That was what was left now. Lawrence guessed the bonfire had blinded the equipment. He could not rely on that kind of luck again.
Within an integument of flesh that was slowly dying of cold, Lawrence’s mind ranged over the total realm of the possible with a clarity and efficiency that comes to those thinking for their life. The nearest habitation was probably Wisbech. The Captain would no doubt post a small troop there. The inhabitants were simple hunters who would offer hospitality to those who put some metal about. He could not go there, nor could he stay here under the bridge to be found at dawn. The only option was to head west on the public drain, as he knew nothing of the land to the east.
His first attempt to climb the mud bank failed. He slid back waist deep into water. Using his knife as a piton, he stabbed his way up inch by inch until the ground curved over into long grass and bushes, where he lay a while until he had enough strength to move. Keeping to all fours amongst the bushes, he worked his way around the end of the bridge to the open drain, where he crouched and inspected both ways. To the east, he could see down the length of the bridge, lit wanly in the pulsing light of the bonfire. To the west lay the grim prospect of miles of dark marsh. He decided to keep crawling in the long grass and bushes beside the drain to reduce the chance of being seen in night glasses. To the right, the bonfire tore this way and that in the wind, warm gusts sweeping him with bitter smoke and a somewhat roast pork smell. No savages danced around it now—they must be out in the darkness. He froze and listened, then moved on, easing slowly forward, yard upon yard, now and again cutting sideways to check he was not drifting away from the drain. The refuge tower shrank into the distance and became vague as the bonfire died down, which of course also meant night glasses would gradually become more effective.
A howling from behind dropped him flat. It came from the direction of the bridge, a high-pitched war-cry reminiscent of Indians in old Western movies from the Public Era. Straightening his arms to get a better view, he could see figures jumping around on the bridge, apparently in some kind of dance. It was impossible to guess the numbers due to the weak light of the fire and the splintering effect of the shadows of the bridge railings. It was like a nightmare—were they throwing something in the air? Had they caught Pezzini? He shuddered, turning away and crawling on in mechanical deliberation, murmuring instructions to move his hand, his knee, the next hand, all to neutralise his mind.
He finally abandoned the excruciatingly laborious crawling after the drain cleared a slight rise and the bridge sank from view, then having to massage and knead his knees to bring them back to life before he could manage even a hobble. The drain was rough gravel, which forced him to keep to the verge for silence, although it did provide half a dozen egg-sized stones. These would make fine shots for the sling.
He was certain he heard a stone rattle. Lurking under the wind there seemed to be whispers… He sped up, the road got muddier, until he had to slow down to avoid his feet splatting. The land rose and the surface dried out to became loose gravel again, pushing him
