Scanner's Note: The Roads of Heaven trilogy is one of my favorite 
"alternate scientific paradigm" kinds of trilogies. Set in the far 
future, 
Melissa Scott makes up LOTS of words, and abuses the hell out of 
compounded words and conjunctions, as part of developing a subtle 
dialect 
to reflect changes in usage and language. While I think she does a 
good 
job of making them sound normal, without requiring a lot of 
explanation in 
the text, they give spellcheckers fits. Except for a couple of 
blatant 
spelling errors in the original text, I have kept these strange 
conjunctions and compound words as printed in this edition. 
The Roads of Heaven: 
Five-Twelfths of Heaven 
Silence in Solitude 
The Empress of Earth 
THE EMPRESS OF EARTH 
The Third Book of "The Roads of Heaven" 
by Melissa Scott 
Copyrights 1987 by Melissa Scott 

 Chapter I 
THE GRASSLAND SLOPED GENTLY DOWN TOWARD THE LOW cliff and the 
scrub-covered mountainside below it, the red-tipped leaves of the 
clinging 
pines barely rising above the edge of the cliff. Beyond the dark 
line 
stretched the Silvermarsh, its vast expanse veined with bluegleaming 
channels, the grey-white reeds rising and falling in a breeze that 
did not 
reach the clifftop. On the horizon, where the solid ground of the 
Shiled 
Islet lifted at last out of the marshes, the towers of Anshar 
Asteriona 
were faintly visible. 
Silence Leigh, lying halfway up the grassy slope, shook her head 
slowly, 
moved in spite of herself by the subtle beauty. She was a startraveller, 
a pilot, inured to the scenery of a hundred different worlds, 
familiar 
with the significant beauties of purgatory, the voidmarks spread 
across a 
gaudy sky; a simple marshland shouldn't seem so exquisite. But 
then, this 
was Asterion, central world of the Hegemony, the greatest power in 
human-settled space, and this view, this hillside above a cliff, 
was part 
of the Hegemon's personal estates, all of which had been chosen to 
take 
advantage of naturally occurring beauty. Of course the Silvermarsh 
would 
be magnificent. 
Sighing, she leaned back into the curve of one husband's arm. 
Julian Chase 
Mago shifted drowsily, adjusting himself to her weight. The other 

husband, 
Denis Balthasar, was soundly asleep, his head resting against her 
hip, one 
arm thrown across her thighs. Overhead, the sky was very bright, 
the hot, 
hazed blue of Asterion's late summer. They said, in the magi's 
hostel, 
that Asterion had been chosen as the capital because it bore a 
close 
resemblance to lost Earth; sleepily, Silence wondered if it were 
true. All 
human-settled worlds resembled Earth to a degree: systemic and 
planetary 
harmonies related to the original notes of Earth and Earth's star 
system 
in varying degrees, allowing the star-ships to travel easily 
between them, 
but a close resemblance seemed unlikely. There would be ways to 
calculate 
the probability, of course -- her teacher Isambard would know 
them.... 
She shook herself lightly, stretching a shoulder that had 
stiffened. Chase 
Mago, disturbed by the movement, murmured an incoherent question, 
and 
promptly fell asleep again. Silence smiled. This had been the 
first day in 
months she had not spent studying, or, with her husbands, 
supervising the 
refitting of the starship, Recusante, for the long voyage to 
Earth. In 
fact, Chase Mago should have been installing new dolor-crystal 
pipes in 
the harmonium that morning, a delicate, boring operation that 
would have 
kept all three of them fully occupied for seven or eight hours, if 
the 
dockyard hadn't failed to make its delivery. Isambard had left for 
the 

magi's hostel in Savaid, Anshar' Asteriona's western suburb, a 
little 
after sunrise, to be out of their way. If he hadn't left so early, 
Silence 
thought, still smiling, she would have had to spend at least a 
part of the 
day with him. Isambard had acknowledged eight standard months ago 
that she 
was a magus -- a theoretical impossibility that still made her 
laugh, so 
thoroughly had she upset the magi's understanding of the worlds -- 
but 
they both knew she was still relatively inexperienced. Her skills 
would 
have to be honed and polished before they made the attempt on the 
Earth-road. Even so, she thought, I need some time apart. 
She sighed, her smile fading. The thought of Earth, of the 
complicated web 
of obligation and unwritten contract that kept her searching for a 
way to 
reach the lost planet, drove away her lingering pleasure in the 
view. 
She shifted against Chase Mago's encircling arm, suddenly faintly 
impatient with the day's enforced leisure. It was not that she 
regretted 
the laziness, but that she was ready to complete the adventure 
she'd begun 
nearly two years before. The engineer opened his eyes and yawned 
hugely, 
teeth very white behind his dark beard. Before he could speak, 
however, a 
flat voice said respectfully, "Sieuri." 
Silence sat up, finally disturbing Balthasar, who muttered 
querulously and 
rolled over, rubbing at his eyes. She ignored him, and turned to 
glare up 
at the figure that stood patiently at the top of the slope. 

 "I left orders we weren't to be disturbed," she said. 
The homunculus looked back at her. It was an expensive toy, finely 
detailed, its face an immobile, inhumanly beautiful mask sculpted 
by one 
of the Hegemony's greatest artists. "A priority call," it said. 
The voice 
issued without inflection from a pinhole in the slightly pouting 
lips. 
Silence eyed the homunculus warily. "Who is it?" 
"The vizier n'Halian." The homunculus's voice did not change, but 
it 
lifted one grey-fleshed hand to its gilded forehead in imprinted 
response 
to the title. 
"N'Halian?" Balthasar sat up, frowning. "I wonder what he wants." 
Silence shrugged, and pushed herself to her feet. Halian n'Halian 
was the 
Hegemon's chief minister and his most trusted servant -- not a man 
to be 
kept waiting. 
Chase Mago stood, stretching, then turned to pull Balthasar to his 
feet. 
"Who knows?" the big engineer said, calmly enough, but his eyes 
were wary. 
"I bet it isn't good news," Balthasar muttered. 
"Don't be such a goddamn pessimist," Silence said, more sharply 
than she'd 
intended. Balthasar grinned, and she knew he'd recognized her own 
fear. 
She gestured quickly to the homunculus, cutting off the Delian's 
response. 

"Please inform the vizier we're on our way. We can call him back, 
if he 
doesn't want to wait." 
"I beg your pardon, sieura," the homunculus answered. "The vizier 
is 
waiting in the garden room." 
The three humans exchanged glances, and then Silence said again, 
"Tell the 
vizier we're on our way." 
"Yes, sieura." The homunculus bowed over folded, grey-fingered 
hands and 
turned away, striding over the uneven ground with inhuman 
precision. 
As soon as it was out of earshot, Chase Mago said, "That's very 
odd." 
Silence reached for the thin, gold-flecked shawl she carried 
instead of 
the veil required by Hegemonic law, and wound it expertly around 
her head, 
covering her boy-short black hair, and tossed the trailing end 
over her 
left shoulder, just concealing nose and mouth. It would -- just -- 
preserve the amenities, but there was no time to change into full 
court 
regalia. "Very," she agreed. 
"Come on." Balthasar was already hurrying up the hill after the 
homunculus; Chase Mago shrugged and followed. Silence clambered 
after 
them, frowning. There was no reason that she knew of for the 
vizier to 
come to the villa in person; all the obvious things could just as 
easily 
have been dealt with over the view-globe network. But there 
shouldn't be 

anything wrong, either, she thought, and ducked under a trailing 
branch 
from one of the allreds that formed a windbreak at the top of the 
slope. 
At the Hegemon's request, she had stayed out of sight for the past 
months, 
letting the Thousand, the members of the great families that 
governed the 
Hegemony, forget that Adeben Kibbe owed his throne at least in 
part to a 
woman magus. She hadn't been outside the villa, except to visit 
the magi's 
hostel or the star-travellers' Pale surrounding Anshar' 
Asteriona's 
starport, in over a month. 
Inside the line of allreds, the landscape flattened suddenly, 
manicured 
lawn stretching as though cut with a level from the tidy edge of 
the 
carpet of fallen leaves to the fretted door. Above the bluestone 
lintel, 
carved with an abstract pattern of leaves and twining flowers, the 
garden 
room's glass wall had gone green in the afternoon sunlight. Behind 
it, 
Silence could just make out the moving shadow that was the vizier. 
Pacing? 
she thought, with a sudden feeling of dread, but Chase Mago pushed 
open 
the fretted door before she was certain. 
Another of the villa's homunculi was waiting at the foot of the 
back 
stairway, formal clothes -- knee-length coats for the men, and a 
floor-length veil for her -- draped across its stiff arms. Chase 
Mago 
absently accepted the larger of the coats, fastening its buttons 
all the 
way up to the high collar, but Balthasar waved his away, 

grimacing. 
Silence hesitated for a moment, then started up the stairs without 
taking 
the longer veil. 
Halian n'Halian was standing in the middle of the garden room, 
staring at 
the central fountain without really seeing the fine haze of water. 
He 
turned at the sound of the door opening, and the sunlight 
streaming 
through the windows glittered from the tips of his forked beard. 
"Sieuri." 
"Vizier," Silence answered, watching his eyes. N'Halian wore his 
most 
opaque expression, but she was usually able to read some 
indication of his 
mood. She did not think he was afraid, or angry, but there was a 
new 
hesitation in his manner that troubled her. 
"I am sorry to trouble you, when your servants said you were 
engaged, " 
n'Halian continued smoothly, "but his Majesty wishes to speak to 
you." 
"What about?" That was Balthasar, coming up on Silence's left. The 
pilot 
glanced sideways, and saw that the Delian's thin face was set in a 
truculent scowl. Before she could say anything, however, Chase 
Mago made 
his chilly, oligarch's bow. 
"Vizier," the engineer said. "I hope nothing's wrong?" 
N'Halian shook his head, and in spite of herself, Silence gave a 
sigh of 
relief. Balthasar's mouth twisted, but for once he said nothing. 

 "I'm instructed to say that his Majesty has acquired something he 
believes 
will be of use to you," n'Halian went on, with a smile that showed 
his 
gold-set teeth. "He would like to discuss it with you in person." 
That's better news than I expected, Silence thought, and said 
aloud, "Of 
course, vizier. Can you give us any more details?" 
N'Halian shook his head. "I'm sorry, sieura, but his Majesty 
hasn't told 
me anything more." 
"I see," Silence said. She didn't quite believe him, but knew 
better than 
to press the issue. "Do we have time to change?" 
"That won't be necessary," n'Halian answered. "If you'll come with 
me, 
sieuri, I have a flyer waiting." 
Silence hesitated for a moment, seeing her reflection in the wall 
of glass 
behind n'Halian. She was still wearing the boys' clothes she had 
adopted 
on Solitude Hermae, loose tunic belted over shapeless trousers, 
tool kit 
dangling from her belt -- hardly the sort of thing she should wear 
to face 
the ruler of two-thirds of human-settled space, especially when it 
was 
topped oft" by the fraying, almost transparent shawl instead of a 
veil. 
But that was vanity, and she knew it. It wasn't the elegance of 
court 
costume -- an elegance that weighed over twelve kilograms -- that 
she 
missed, but the familiarity of Rusadir tunic and tights. "As his 

Majesty 
wishes," she said aloud, and wound the shawl more securely across 
her 
face. 
N'Halian's flyer sat on the disused playing field beside the villa 
that 
doubled as a landing area. Its crew, a pilot, co-pilot, and a trio 
of 
soldiers in Inariman livery, lounged in the shade of its fully 
extended 
wings. Clearly, Silence thought, they'd been waiting for n'Halian 
for some 
time. At the vizier's approach, the soldiers sprang to attention, 
one 
moving to trigger the ramp, the others sliding off the wing to 
stiffen 
into a hasty salute. The two pilots stood as well, though less 
smartly. 
Silence guessed they were civilians -- n'Halian's employees rather 
than 
members of the Hegemon's official household -- and her wariness 
increased. 
The Hegemon usually sent his household, unless there were good 
reasons for 
secrecy.... Then the co-pilot dropped from the wing and began 
pulling off 
the baffle that hid the flyer's keel, and Silence suppressed a 
gasp of 
surprise. At her elbow, Balthasar whispered a curse. The ship was 
no 
ordinary flyer, but a long-range craft, its shiny keel capable of 
reaching 
the boundary between the atmospheric and celestial harmonies. She 
opened 
her mouth to ask where they were going, but Chase Mago forestalled 
her. 
"I take it we're not going to Anshar' Asteriona?" the engineer 
asked, as 

coolly as if he were inquiring about the weather. Silence saw that 
Balthasar's left hand was deep in his coat pocket, and she felt 
sure his 
fingers were curled around the butt of a heylin. 
"No, sieur Chase Mago," n'Halian answered, with equal courtesy. 
"His 
Majesty is at the Winter Palace." 
Silence relaxed, and saw Balthasar slip his hand quietly out of 
his 
pocket. If n'Halian was willing to tell them where they were 
going, the 
secrecy couldn't be directed at them. "That's on the far side?" 
she asked. 
N'Halian nodded once. "That's correct, sieura." 
They had reached the bottom of the ramp while they were talking. 
The 
co-pilot, still stuffing the thick dura-felt baffle back into its 
well, 
stopped abruptly, staring, when he heard the title. Silence stared 
back, 
and, after a moment, the man looked away. Even so, she was aware 
of his 
interest, of the avid curiosity at her back, as she made her way 
up the 
ramp and into the flyer's passenger compartment. 
"Another of your admirers, Silence?" Balthasar murmured, with a 
lifted 
eyebrow. 
Silence flushed. "I doubt it," she said, tartly. She had been 
noticeable 
enough as a woman pilot -- the only female pilots most startravellers 
knew were from the matriarchal world of Misthia -- but now she was 
positively notorious. Despite the Hegemon's efforts to keep her 

involvement secret, star-travellers' gossip whispered that she'd 
been a 
part of his victory, that she knew something about the road to 
Earth, that 
she dabbled in strange powers.... Having two husbands had not 
helped, 
either: three-way marriages weren't common, and the startravellers 
who 
did not believe the wilder rumors were more than willing to 
speculate 
about her marriage. She supposed she should be pleased that she 
had a 
ready-made red herring, to take interest away from the rumors that 
she was 
-- that they were -- looking for Earth, but she found the whole 
thing 
rather embarrassing. The situation wasn't improved by the fact 
that 
Balthasar thought it was funny, and added his own bizarre 
inventions to 
the stories already circulating. At least Chase Mago was 
sympathetic, she 
thought -- but then he, like herself, had been a citizen of one of 
the 
more conservative worlds of the Rusadir, before the Rusadir had 
fallen to 
the Hegemony. Balthasar was a Delian, and on Delos anything was 
permitted. 
She ducked through the low hatch into the flyer's passenger cabin, 
ignoring the senior pilot loitering in the entrance to the control 
compartment. The first of the soldiers was already aboard, coiled 
compactly in the rearmost seat, his sonic rifle stuffed into the 
holster 
clamped to the bulkhead behind him. His face was impassive, but 
Silence 
sensed the curiosity behind his stolid gaze. 
She shook away the thought, and seated herself at the front of the 
passenger section, choosing a place by one of the circular 

windows. Chase 
Mago dropped heavily into the seat next to her, and Balthasar, 
with a 
grimace, took his place behind her. N'Halian settled himself into 
the seat 
across the aisle, and gestured to the pilot. The man touched his 
forehead, 
and vanished into the control compartment. The rest of the 
soldiers 
trooped aboard, and the co-pilot sealed the hatch behind them. A 
few 
moments later, the flyer's tiny harmonium sounded, the low, bonetingling 
base note swelling rapidly to the complex lift sequence. The flyer 
shuddered once, and rose. Silence leaned against the bulkhead, 
watching 
the ground drop away. This was not the dizzying upward fall of a 
starship's liftoff; rather, the flyer seemed almost to float 
upward, the 
harmonium's note, sounding through the half-tinctured keel, 
shifting 
slowly from Asterion's core harmony to the purer celestial tone. 
The note 
changed again and the flyer tilted sharply, the world wheeling 
around it, 
then steadied on a new course. Already, the ground below was 
becoming 
featureless, the Silvermarsh just a pale blob webbed with greyish 
lines. 
The flyer banked again, less steeply, and Silence caught a glimpse 
of one 
of Anshar' Asteriona's suburbs, a darker, more regular shape 
spangled with 
bright patches that were parks. 
"Nice flying," Balthasar said, leaning forward. "You think we're 
on the 
line yet, Julie?" 
Chase Mago's face wore the abstracted expression that meant he was 

listening with all his heart to a harmonium's seductive music, but 
he 
broke his concentration long enough to say, "Not yet. You'll hear 
it." 
"On the line?" Silence asked. 
Balthasar nodded. "You know. Whatever harmonic line will take us 
where 
we're going." 
"I've never flown one of these," Silence said, with some 
annoyance. She 
bit back the rest of her thought -- I'm a star-pilot, not some 
planetary 
hack -- knowing that Balthasar had probably flown these craft at 
some 
point in his career. 
"They use the envelope the way we use the system harmonies, inand 
outbound," Balthasar began, but whatever he had been going to say 
was cut 
off by a sudden deep shift in the music of the flyer's harmonium. 
It 
wasn't the complex, familiar change that marked the moment a 
starship 
passed out of a planet's chaotic harmonic envelope, the affinities 
between 
the heaven, the celestial music -- or its approximation -- of the 
harmonium and the Philosopher's Tincture in the keel itself coming 
into 
resonance and steadying to a note so comparatively simple as to be 
almost 
inaudible. Rather, the harsh music, which had been wavering on the 
edge of 
dissonance, seemed almost to shift to a chord comprehensible to a 
human 
ear. It hovered heartbreakingly on the edge of completion, as 
though in 

any instant it would resolve itself into a sound so perfect that 
it would 
shatter the hearer. 
Silence shook herself, seeing her own feelings -- pleasure in the 
lovely 
note, despair that it was still incomplete, and the certainty of 
disappointment -- reflected and redoubled in Chase Mago's face. 
For a 
brief moment, she wondered what more he heard, with his engineer's 
training, then put the thought aside. The sound was not beautiful, 
she 
told herself firmly; it was merely that the human ear perceived as 
beautiful those sounds which came closest to true harmonies. The 
harmonium 
was imitating, as closely as was humanly possible, some part of 
Aster-ion's core harmony, that was all. 
And that, she thought abruptly, explained what Balthasar had begun 
to say. 
The little flyers worked by riding a specific note within the 
planet's 
harmonic envelope. It was only pilot's convention that said the 
envelope 
was monochromatic; like the musica mundana, the complex, systemfilling 
music that resulted from the interaction of solar and planetary 
harmonies, 
the planetary envelope was actually made up of innumerable 
variations on 
the simple music of the core. It was similar enough, in its 
function, to 
make her glad she had not said anything derogatory about the art 
of 
piloting these local craft. 
Outside the flyer's window, Asterion had dropped away almost 
completely, 
its rich landscape fading into broad swaths of color smeared with 
cloud. 

There were cities below, Silence knew, but they were invisible at 
this 
height. The sky itself had darkened toward the blue-black that 
marked the 
border between planetary and celestial harmony. That explained 
some of the 
perfection of the flyer's music, Silence thought. The craft was 
far enough 
above any local topographical features to avoid their distortion. 
Still, 
whatever the reasons for it, the harmonium's note was achingly 
beautiful, 
and she was glad when the sound shifted at last to the more 
muddled music 
of landing. 
It was late morning at the Winter Palace. The flyer slid down an 
almost 
inaudible landing beam toward a white, featureless plain. Silence 
frowned 
out the window for a long moment before she realized it was snow. 
The 
Palace itself, multiple spires gleaming in the noon light, rose 
from the 
center of the plain like a fantastic ice sculpture. Silence 
remembered the 
Women's Palace, presented on its island like a jewel on a tray, 
and 
shivered. 
"Either we're at one of the poles," Balthasar said, "or this is 
magi's 
work." 
Chase Mago shrugged. 
"Probably a creation," Silence said, thoughtfully. She was too far 
away, 
as yet, to feel the bending of harmonies, of reality, that marked 
a 

magus's created landscape, but she could not imagine any hegemon 
choosing 
to live at either of Asterion's poles. She glanced toward 
n'Halian, hoping 
the vizier would confirm or deny her guess, but the older man was 
smiling 
indulgently into his gilded beard, and Silence looked away. She 
should not 
have expected the vizier to betray the true location of one of the 
royal 
palaces, but he didn't have to look so smug about it. Then, 
reluctantly, 
she smiled. She and Balthasar were whistling in the dark, and 
sounded it. 
Chase Mago had the right idea: say nothing, and wait. 
The flyer dropped lower still, until it was almost skimming the 
surface, 
throwing up a great cloud of snow that rattled against wings and 
body, 
completely obscuring the windows. At the same time, the noise of 
the 
harmonium changed again, showing new strain as it fought to 
balance the 
pull of the planet's core. The flyer dipped and slowed further. 
The 
harmonium cut out, and the flyer dropped neatly into an invisible 
cradle. 
Silence distinctly heard the cradle fingers clamp onto the flyer's 
hull, 
and heard, as distinctly, Balthasar's muttered comment. 
"Show-off." 
He meant the flyer's pilot, and Silence nodded. Before she could 
say 
anything, however, n'Halian had hauled himself to his feet. "If 
you'll 
come with me, sieuri?" 

"Of course," Silence answered, with all the dignity she could 
muster. 
Ahead, she heard the thud of the hatch being thrown back, and 
shivered in 
a blast of chill air. Balthasar jammed his hands into his coat 
pockets, 
whispering a curse. 
N'Halian led them forward to the hatch without showing any sign 
that he 
felt the cold, though he was no more warmly dressed than any of 
them. 
Silence hesitated in the hatchway, wondering if she could refuse 
to go 
further until she could get something warmer to wear. They were 
still some 
distance from the palace. Then she saw the gever drawn up beside 
the 
flyer, and resigned herself to a cold ride. At least, she thought, 
as she 
made her way down the cradle stairs, it's a closed car. 
As they appeared at the top of the cradle, two doors popped open 
in the 
gever's side. Soldiers -- members of the True Thousand this time, 
their 
splendid uniforms almost gaudy against the snow -- stepped from 
the 
machine's forward compartment and stiffened into a salute. Silence 
shivered again, from fear this time: even if most of the True 
Thousand had 
supported Adeben's coup, she and her husbands had suffered enough 
at the 
hands of the Hegemon's elite guard. Then a slim figure, his 
crimson coat 
looped with a colonel's braid, stepped from the passenger 
compartment. 
"Welcome to the Winter Palace, my lord vizier, sieuri." 

Silence relaxed then, and sensed rather than saw the others do the 
same. 
Marcinik -- a colonel now, promoted on the occasion of his 
marriage to the 
hegemon's daughter Aili -- was an old acquaintance. He had been 
their 
contact in rescuing Aili from the Women's Palace; before that, he 
had 
served on the conscript transport where Silence had first 
discovered her 
powers. It was, Silence thought, an interesting relationship. 
"Thank you, Colonel," n'Halian said serenely, and made his way 
down the 
cradle stairs. The bottom steps were slick with blown snow. He 
frowned, 
and picked his way delicately across. Following him, Silence 
suppressed a 
grin, and heard Balthasar mutter something behind her. 
Marcinik gestured for them to enter the gever. He was a handsome 
man, 
young for a colonel, with fine aristocratic bones and almond-fair 
skin. 
Only the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his 
mouth 
saved him from a tedious beauty. 
"There are coats inside," he said, "since the vizier didn't see 
fit to 
warn you." 
"I had my instructions, colonel," n'Halian answered, and ducked 
into the 
gever's wide passenger compartment. 
As Marcinik had promised, there was a pile of quilted coats lying 
on the 
nearest bench-seat. Silence reached for the first one, not caring 
what it 

looked like, and realized to her surprise that the outer layer, at 
least, 
was made of silk. She shrugged it on, hugging the pillowy fabric 
around 
herself, and settled into the rear corner of the bench, stretching 
her 
feet out to the nearest heating block. The others did the same, 
but 
n'Halian waved aside the offer of a coat. A moment later, one of 
his own 
soldiers leaned into the gever, holding out a fur-lined cloak. The 
vizier 
wrapped it comfortably around his shoulders, and settled into his 
place. 
Marcinik, a slight smile on his lips, gestured for his men to 
close the 
compartment door. 
"I don't suppose you can tell us what he -- his Majesty -- wants?" 
Balthasar asked. There was a note in his voice that dared the 
colonel to 
answer with more than a simple negative. 
"I'm sorry." Marcinik shook his head, still smiling, but Silence 
thought 
she glimpsed a sort of annoyance behind that polite mask. She 
sighed, and 
looked away. Balthasar had had good cause to dislike the colonel -- 
but 
she had thought that the two men had come to an understanding 
during the 
escape from the Palace. She was aware of Chase Mago's eyes on her, 
of a 
slight tightening of the engineer's lips, and knew he was thinking 
the 
same thing. 
To Silence's surprise, however, Balthasar did not pursue the 
question, but 
leaned back against the padded seat. He saw the pilot's glance, 

and made a 
slight shrugging movement, one shoulder moving under the heavy 
coat. Chase 
Mago grinned, but to Silence's relief, said nothing. The gever 
rose, 
engine whining softly, and swung around the cradled flyer in a 
broad arc 
that would bring it up to the palace from the east, well away from 
the 
main gate. Now that they were moving, Silence could feel the 
faint, 
unnatural shifts in the local harmonies -- a sort of tingling, a 
note of 
almost-music, faint as a feather's fall against her skin -- that 
marked an 
artificially maintained snowfield. She smiled to herself then, 
staring out 
the tiny sideport into the plume of snow kicked up by the gever's 
passage. 
It hardly mattered where the Winter Palace was located on 
Asterion's 
surface; still, it was nice to have her intuition confirmed. 
The gever did not follow the well-marked track that led to the 
Palace's 
imposing main gate, but swung off onto unmarked snow, skirting the 
perimeter wall. They had travelled almost a quarter of the way 
around its 
circle before the gever slowed, and Silence saw one of the drivers 
raise a 
cupped hand to his mouth. A few moments later a snowbank shivered 
and 
split open with a shower of flakes, revealing a paved tunnel that 
sloped 
steeply down into darkness. 
"Subtle," Balthasar said, with a quick glance at Marcinik. 
The colonel showed no sign of having heard him. The gever slowed 
still 

further, engine whining fiercely to compensate, and slid off" the 
snow 
onto the slick tiling of the tunnel. The snowbank, with its hidden 
door, 
rumbled shut behind them. The gever hung in darkness for a moment, 
its 
engine idling, and then a light faded into existence ahead of 
them, 
throwing a long wedge of brightness along the tunnel floor. The 
gever 
lurched into motion again, heading toward the light. 
Silence did her best to plot the path of the tunnel, matching its 
twists 
and turns against the glimpse she'd had of the palace and its 
grounds, but 
gave up after only the third turn. She knew too little.... 
Carefully, she 
masked her impatience, and settled back in her seat, glancing as 
unobtrusively as she could at the chronograph slung at Balthasar's 
waist. 
It was a quarter of an hour later, by the graph, before the gever 
slowed 
again and made a sharp turn into a new corridor. They had to have 
doubled 
back more than once, Silence thought, glancing as casually as she 
could at 
the new surroundings, and wondered again what had prompted this 
unusual 
security. From the grim set of Balthasar's mouth, the Delian was 
wondering 
the same thing, and Chase Mago looked very thoughtful. 
The new tunnel was more brightly lit than the first, and the tiles 
that 
covered the floor and the curving walls were pale blue, banded at 
about 
the height of a man's shoulder with a wide stripe of deeper blue. 
As they 
flashed past a cross-tunnel, Silence could see that its walls were 

marked 
with a double stripe, one blue, one red; the second cross-tunnel 
was 
marked in green. They had reached the palace's regular maintenance 
tunnels, she guessed, remembering similar arrangements from the 
Women's 
Palace, and wondered again about such roundabout dealings. 
A few minutes later, the tunnel widened suddenly, and the gever 
slowed 
still further, gliding toward a shallow platform. More troops in 
the 
Thousand's bright uniforms were waiting there. They were formed up 
in the 
double line of an honor guard, but even so Silence tensed, and saw 
Chase 
Mago's mouth tighten again. Balthasar swept back the fronts of the 
borrowed coat and jammed both hands into the pockets of his own 
jacket, 
one thumb visibly caressing the touchplate of his heylin. Silence 
contrived to touch his shoulder, frowning, and the Delian moved 
his hand 
away. The pilot wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, and 
hoped no 
one had noticed Balthasar's lapse. 
As the gever drew to a halt in front of the platform, the officer 
in 
command -- a major, Silence noticed, an older man with battle 
ribbons 
banding his sleeves and trailing hood -- snapped into a salute, 
then came 
forward to unlatch the gever door himself. Behind him, a voice 
high-pitched with strain barked a command. The soldiers swept 
their 
ceremonial swords from their gilded scabbards, holding them 
overhead to 
form a steel canopy from the gever to an arched doorway at the far 
side of 
the platform. Marcinik nodded and stepped from the gever, turning 

to offer 
his hand first to n'Halian and then to Silence. The pilot let him 
steady 
her as she stepped from the craft, and followed the vizier toward 
the 
distant archway. She felt the scarf, never intended to serve as a 
veil, 
slip slightly, but she ignored it, disdaining to adjust it or to 
glance at 
the men following at her back. She took a certain grim pleasure in 
the 
disciplined stir she created. 
As she approached the arch, she became aware of Watchers, the 
created 
beings that could serve as a magus's eyes and ears. In the same 
instant, 
something moved in the carvings above the arch. She glanced up, 
breaking 
stride, and saw one of the carvings detach itself from the stone 
tree that 
made up the sides of the arch and launch itself, with a raptor's 
screech, 
into space. A second statue, another gold-taloned bird of prey, 
freed 
itself an instant later, screeching angrily. Balthasar's heylin, 
she 
thought, they've sensed it. Without conscious decision, she lifted 
her 
hands and spoke a single Word. The sound, hard and flat and as 
sharp as 
the crack of stone against stone, seemed to explode in the 
confined space, 
cutting through the sudden commotion behind her. The statues 
froze, then 
seemed to contract, drawing into themselves, and were sucked 
toward the 
arch as though they were metal drawn by a powerful magnet. They 
snapped 
back into their places with a noise that struck complex echoes 

from the 
walls. 
Silence turned slowly -- Isambard had taught her how to take 
advantage of 
the shock her powers always brought -- and hid a smile at seeing 
them all 
frozen in surprise. Predictably enough, it was one of the 
sergeants who 
recovered first, glancing rapidly from Marcinik to the openmouthed 
major. 
"Sir, Colonel, he's got a weapon --" 
The major shut his mouth as though he'd just realized it was open. 
Marcinik lifted a placating hand. "Take it easy," he began, and 
Silence 
cleared her throat. 
"Denis?" 
Balthasar made a complex grimace and straightened, slowly drawing 
the 
heylin from his pocket. Before the troopers could react, he 
reversed it, 
presenting the heavy butt to Marcinik. "I --" The Delian 
hesitated, then 
continued with more grace than Silence had expected," -- apologize 
for the 
trouble. We were not expecting the invitation." 
Marcinik accepted the heylin warily, running his thumb absently 
across the 
touchplate. It was hot, signalling that the heylin was fully 
charged, and 
he lifted an eyebrow. "No more were you," he said, with a quelling 
glance 
at the indignant major. "I accept the responsibility." 
The major saluted, reluctantly, and Marcinik slipped the heylin 

into his 
own pocket. "Sieur Chase Mago --" he began, but the engineer was 
already 
shaking his head. 
"I'm unarmed, colonel." 
"Then let's continue," Marcinik said, and gestured for the 
startravellers 
to precede him. This time, the Watchers remained where they 
belonged, 
frozen among the stone branches. N'Halian, waiting on the far side 
of the 
archway, gave them an impatient nod. A trio of chamberlains, 
greying men 
in the long blue coats of their office, were waiting with him, 
leaning on 
their staffs of office. 
Silence frowned slightly, seeing them. Always before, the Hegemon 
had gone 
out of his way to keep their meetings informal; this time he 
seemed to be 
doing everything he could to make certain the proper members of 
the 
household witnessed their arrival. "Why the publicity, my lord 
vizier?" 
she asked softly, using the coine of the space lanes rather than 
the High 
Speech of the court, as she took her place at n'Halian's elbow. 
The vizier gave her a quick, sideways glance before answering. 
"His most 
serene Majesty would honor you according to your rank." 
He had used the High Speech, Silence noted, as though he'd 
intended to be 
overheard. "And what rank's that?" she asked, still in coine. "I -- 
we -- 
have no official position here." 

 N'Halian slipped into coine at last, this time with a rather 
annoyed 
glance at the nearest of the chamberlains. "You are a subject of 
his 
Majesty's, and a magus. That confers rank." 
It does that, Silence thought, but not sufficient rank to account 
for all 
of this. She had better sense than to say that, however, and 
dropped back 
a half-step, so that she was no longer walking at n'Halian's side. 
The 
reception they'd had, after the secrecy of the flight that had 
brought 
them to the Palace, worried her; she couldn't think of a good 
reason for 
this sudden reversal. 
The chamberlains led them down a long corridor that fed abruptly 
into a 
huge, high-ceilinged hall. The floor was covered with a thick, 
snow-white 
carpet, and the walls and massive support pillars were hung with 
more 
carpets, these woven in subtle, muted shades of grey. Strange 
bluish 
shadows flickered briefly across the carpets. Silence glanced up, 
not 
wanting to seem too obviously ignorant, and saw, high in the 
vaulted 
ceiling, a miniature skyscape. Clouds flicked across the scene, 
swelling 
and changing, then vanishing without releasing their burden of 
rain. 
"You better hope it doesn't rain here," Balthasar murmured, and 
Silence 
heard Chase Mago's choked snort of laughter in response. She 
smiled 

herself, tardily recognizing a magus's illusion, and followed the 
vizier 
down the length of the hall. The layers of carpet swallowed any 
sound of 
footsteps. They moved in an unnatural quiet, broken only by the 
hiss of 
the silk coats and the heavier rustling of the vizier's furs. 
At the end of the hall, one of the chamberlains used his staff to 
touch a 
plate set above the gold-studded door. Chimes sounded somewhere 
inside, 
muffled like everything else by the carpets, and then, very 
slowly, the 
door was drawn back. A second chamberlain said, "The vizier Halian 
n'Halian, Colonel Marcinik, the doctor Leigh. Her husbands." 
The figure in the doorway was also familiar: the Hegemon's 
favorite page. 
The boy bowed deeply, almost double, and answered, "His Majesty 
expects 
them." 
The first chamberlain returned the bow, and stepped back from the 
door. 
The second chamberlain bowed, too, not as deeply as the others, 
and said, 
"I commit them to your care." 
The page bowed again, and opened the door fully. Silence caught a 
brief 
glimpse of a warmly lit room, walls alternately paneled and hung 
with 
woven gold, and men in the elaborate robes of the Thousand and the 
Ten 
Thousand gathered in little groups beneath branching lamps that 
held 
globes and eggs and rounded polygons filled with fixed fire. Then 
the page 
gestured, with yet another bow, for n'Halian to precede him down a 

path 
market by a crimson carpet, and the vizier hissed, "Bow to the 
Throne as 
you pass it, all of you. And for God's sake, say nothing." 
The intensity of his voice was enough to make even Balthasar obey. 
Silence 
drew herself up to her full height, wishing for only the second 
time in 
her life for the protection of the court regalia, with its floorlength 
veil, and did as she was told. From pictures and descriptions she 
recognized the Hall of Audience, the place where the Hegemon heard 
the 
formal requests and petitions of his nobles, but she still could 
not guess 
why she -- why they -- had been brought here. There could be no 
more 
public way of announcing both her presence and the Hegemon's 
patronage of 
their group. Already, she could hear the whispers beginning, and 
did her 
best to shut out the surprised disapproval. 
"Bow," n'Halian hissed again, and Silence did so, automatically. 
She 
caught a dizzying glimpse of the Hegemonic throne -- a massive 
construction of gold and precious minerals and the wood-ivory that 
was the 
bone of the semi-sentient reef-dwellers of Alonae, a display of 
wealth 
that transcended any question of taste -- but then the page opened 
the 
small door that stood to the left of the throne. 
"Your Majesty, the persons you sent for." 
N'Halian swept through the narrow doorway without disdaining to 
acknowledge the page, and the others followed. The page closed the 
door 

gently behind them. Silence realized then that they had been 
admitted to 
one of the Hegemon's private meeting rooms, a privilege that at 
least some 
of the nobles waiting in the Hall would never achieve. The 
realization was 
at once flattering and frightening; to calm herself, she glanced 
quickly 
around the room, concentrating on her surroundings. The place was 
instantly familiar, from the shielded computer cabinet and the 
locked 
book-presses to the massive desk and the immense inverted pyramid 
with its 
light-bearing homunculissima, to the cluster of tabourets and the 
black-robed magus sitting in the central place. The Hegemon had 
brought 
his private office with him from Inarime, furniture, books, and 
all. For a 
moment, seeing Isambard sitting so calmly among the scattered 
papers, 
Silence could almost imagine herself back on Inarmine, a halftrained 
fugitive. 
"Thank you, Halian. Sieuri, welcome." Adeben Kibbe pushed aside 
the last 
of the papers that filled his desk, and leaned back in his chair. 
It alone 
was new, a tall, carved thing that strongly resembled a throne. 
The 
Hegemon, not a tall man by anyone's reckoning, should have been 
dwarfed by 
it; Silence was not surprised to see that he dominated it and the 
entire 
room. 
"Thank you, your Majesty," she said, and was a little surprised at 
her own 
presumption. "May I ask what's prompted so --" She hesitated 
delicately 

and deliberately over the next word." -- flattering a welcome?" 
The Hegemon smiled. Silence was aware as well of the vizier's 
amusement, 
like the sudden warmth of a fire, and of Isambard's more measured 
approval. "I have a present for you, sieura -- for all of you." 
The 
Hegemon gestured gracefully toward Isambard's hunched figure. 
"Thus I 
summoned Doctor Isambard as well." 
"A present?" Chase Mago said, softly, but the Hegemon heard him. 
"A present -- a gift," he amended, switching to coine with a bland 
smile. 
Silence heard Chase Mago gasp affrontedly, and Balthasar's stifled 
snicker. 
She suppressed her own annoyance. The Hegemon was deliberately 
baiting 
them, first with his mention of a gift and then with the insulting 
shift 
from the courtiers' High Speech to the common coine. 
The Hegemon continued. "My agents have been fortunate enough to 
acquire... 
something that should be very useful to you in your search." He 
paused, 
clearly expecting a question, but Silence met his gaze with a 
blank stare. 
The quiet lengthened. 
Isambard said, with some asperity, "Your Majesty, I have been 
waiting for 
an hour to hear about this mysterious gift. If it will please you 
to hear 
me ask, very well, I am asking: what is it?" 
Silence winced at the bluntness of the magus's words, but Adeben 
did not 

seem to be offended. "It's very gracious of you to indulge me, 
Isambard. I 
trust you'll indulge me further, and allow me to begin at the 
beginning." 
He reached for the papers he had pushed aside at their arrival, 
and swept 
on without waiting for an answer. "Three weeks ago, on Enkomi, the 
local 
satrap's guards were called out to deal with a disturbance in the 
Pale." 
Balthasar snorted at that, and Silence hid a grin. Enkomi's Pale 
was 
notoriously rowdy, and the satrap's forces equally notorious for 
their 
inefficiency. The Hegemon continued unheeding. "When the guardcaptain 
and 
his men arrived at the bar in question, they found a fight in 
progress 
among the crew of a Rose-Worlder merchantman. One man, the ship's 
captain, 
was already dead; the others were apparently trying to take the 
killer 
into custody themselves. The satrap's men arrested both parties, 
and the 
killer threw herself onto his -- the satrap's -- mercy." Adeben 
looked up, 
allowing himself a faint smile. "I believe the Rose Worlds' legal 
code 
considers homicide to be an extremely serious matter." He referred 
to his 
papers again, theatrically. "Her plea was accepted, over the 
Rose-Worlders' protests. I might add that the woman was the 
merchantman's 
record-keeper --" 
"Supercargo," Balthasar murmured, but there was a new, approving 
note in 
his voice. 

The Hegemon lifted his eyebrow. "As you say. In any case, she is 
more than 
willing to trade everything she knows about the Rose Worlds and 
the star 
roads that lead between them -- and about the engines that block 
the 
Earth-road -- for her life." 
Chase Mago said, "May I ask, your Majesty, how you got her to 
admit she 
knew about the Earth-road? From all I've heard, they put a geas on 
their 
people." 
"Any geas can be broken," Adeben answered, "as you well know. And 
in this 
case, our knowing that the engines were there helped make it 
easy." He 
glanced at Silence. "I'd expected those questions from you, 
sieura." 
The pilot hesitated. There were half a dozen things she needed to 
know 
before she could analyze this "gift," but one thing was more 
important 
than all others. "I was wondering more about the price." 
The Hegemon smiled. "I thought it was good merchant practice to 
examine 
the goods first, and then inquire the price." He held up his hand, 
forestalling Chase Mago's immediate response. "Frankly, sieuri, I 
wish you 
would -- interview -- the supercargo first, and decide for 
yourselves if 
her information will be of any use to you. Then we can talk about 
the 
thing that I want." 
488 THE ROADS OF HEAVEN 

Silence glanced at the men to either side, and saw her own 
suspicions 
reflected in their faces. Before she could say anything, however, 
Isambard 
said, "That seems reasonable, your Majesty. Thank you." 
Silence bit back her anger, recognizing from the magus's tone that 
no 
argument of hers would sway him. At least, she thought bitterly, 
the 
Hegemon didn't quite have the gall to try to pass off this 
supercargo's 
information as payment of the debt he owed her for destroying the 
enemy 
fleet at the Battle of Niminx. No, this was just the bait for some 
political favor, and probably an unpleasant one. 
"Certainly." The Hegemon gestured to Marcinik, still waiting by 
the door. 
"Colonel, if you'd escort them to the cell block? You may use the 
private 
way." 
"Very good, your Majesty," Marcinik answered. 
The page rose from the corner where he'd been sitting, and crossed 
the 
room to place his palm against one of the diamond-shaped tiles 
that formed 
a band along three of the room's four walls. There was a dull pop, 
and a 
narrow door sagged open in the wall to the left of the massive 
desk. 
Marcinik bowed to the Hegemon, and stepped forward to pull the 
door fully 
open. Isambard stood slowly, gathering his robes around him, and 
beckoned 
for the others to join him. Reluctantly, Silence followed him 
through the 
narrow opening, and the page shut the door behind them. 

 The latch had barely clicked shut before Balthasar murmured, 
"Doesn't it 
figure they'd have a jail here?" 
"Yes, it does," Chase Mago said, grimly. "Marcinik, where exactly 
are we 
going?" 
There was a note in his voice that made Silence take a quick step 
forward 
and catch hastily at his sleeve. This was no time for the engineer 
to come 
to the end of his prodigious patience. "Hang on a minute, Julie, 
take it 
easy." To Marcinik, she added, "Could we have a few more details, 
Marcinik?" 
"Of course, I'm sorry." The colonel looked genuinely chagrined, 
and 
Silence felt Chase Mago's muscles relax under her touch. 
"They brought her -- the supercargo -- here for privacy, and so 
you could 
talk to her more easily," Marcinik continued. "This isn't really a 
jail. 
Of course there are secure sections; they were built for things 
like this. 
You should be flattered: this is part of the private passage." 
Silence glanced around the tiny, beige-walled cubicle, and had to 
stifle a 
slightly hysterical laugh. After the opulence of the rest of the 
Winter 
Palace, the undecorated room and the equally plain staircase that 
spiralled down from one corner seemed almost to belong to some 
other place 
entirely. Her eyes met Balthasar's, and the Delian gave her a 
mocking grin 
before stepping forward to murmur something in Chase Mago's ear. 

The 
engineer shrugged him away, but managed a reluctant smile. 
"If you'll follow me?" Marcinik went on. 
Silence stood back to let Isambard precede her down the curving 
staircase, 
grateful it was a closed spiral. She counted twenty complete turns 
before 
they reached the bottom, and guessed that they had come down at 
least two 
levels, were now below ground level. "Secure section" this might 
be, she 
thought, but it was beginning to look very much like a 
conventional jail. 
The stairway ended in another beige-walled cubicle, this one with 
its door 
directly opposite the last step. The jamb was painted red -- the 
first 
mark of color Silence had seen since they'd left the audience 
chamber -- 
and the flat silver panel of a two-stage lock replaced any visible 
latch-plate. 
"Tell me, Colonel," Isambard said abruptly, "what sort of 
restraint is 
this woman under?" 
Marcinik hesitated for an instant, then set his palm against the 
silver 
plate. "Restraint?" He did not glance at the star-travellers 
behind him. 
Isambard, Silence thought savagely, had no such delicacy. The 
magus said, 
a touch of impatience in his voice, "Is she under geas, or trancebound, 
or -- which?" 

"Trance-bound, I believe," Marcinik answered, with some distaste. 
A chime 
sounded then, and the door swung open, sparing him the necessity 
of a more 
detailed answer. "Sieuri, we're entering the secure section of the 
palace. 
I'll ask you to bear that in mind." 
He had not looked at Balthasar, Silence thought, but his meaning 
couldn't've been clearer. Chase Mago said, with some relish, 
"That's one 
for you, Denis." 
The Delian grimaced, but said nothing. 
The secure section had wider corridors, with walls that were 
painted a 
white tinged with the faintest admixture of blue. Every ten meters 
or so, 
a shallow alcove was set into the wall. As they passed the first 
one, 
Silence glanced sideways, into the red-glowing eyes of a 
guard-homun-culus. It took every ounce of her control not to jump 
back in 
surprise. She made herself walk stiffly away instead, matching the 
others' 
pace, telling herself the creature was passive now, would not harm 
them. 
... Only if they somehow lost their authorization -- was Marcinik 
himself 
their passport, she wondered suddenly? -- would the homunculus 
become 
active. Balthasar touched her shoulder, making her start, but when 
she 
glanced up, the Delian's face showed only a sort of sympathetic 
encouragement. Chase Mago, too, had slowed his steps a little, so 
that her 
shoulder was almost rubbing against his arm. His massive presence 
was 
calming, and Silence made herself look into each alcove until she 

was 
certain the guard-homunculi could no longer surprise her. 
The corridor ended abruptly, at another door that carried a twostage 
lock. Marcinik put his palm to the plate, but this time the door 
slid open 
to reveal another man in the uniform of the True Thousand. 
"Colonel," the stranger said. His tone was polite enough, but his 
eyes 
were wary, and his right hand wasn't far from the butt of his 
slung 
heylin. 
"Captain Drieu," Marcinik answered. "These are the persons his 
Majesty 
wished you to admit." 
Drieu's eyes flickered over the group, pausing briefly and 
unhappily on 
Balthasar, but then he seemed to relax slightly. 
"Very good, colonel." As he spoke, he gestured unobtrusively with 
his left 
hand, and Silence was suddenly aware of the fading of a tension so 
all-pervasive that she hadn't noticed it until it was gone. She 
frowned -- 
it was something she should have noticed, if she was going to call 
herself 
a magus -- but then Drieu was motioning for them to enter. 
"This way, sieuri, if you please." 
They emerged into an odd, curved room, its walls banded with 
multicolored 
tubes of fixed fire -- less a room, Silence thought suddenly, than 
a
corridor, a circular corridor ringing some hidden core. More doors 
like 

the one through which they'd entered seemed to feed into the ring, 
and 
each was sealed with one of the complex two-stage locks. A pair of 
troopers in the Thousand's battle dress paced slowly along the 
curve, 
sonic rifles cradled in their arms. Another half-dozen troopers 
were 
seated on a set of benches between two doors, their rifles stowed 
neatly 
beneath their feet, but instead of playing cards or talking, their 
eyes 
were fixed on the newcomers. Silence shivered and looked away, but 
she was 
still aware of that measuring stare. 
Drieu led them along the curve of the corridor, following the pair 
of 
troopers, until they came to a door set into the inner wall. 
Seeing it, 
Isambard's head lifted sharply, and, a moment later, Silence felt 
the same 
cold harmony frozen in the metal. She frowned, and studied the 
door more 
closely. It seemed to be a rather ordinary door, an elongated 
hexagon like 
a starship's hatch, ribs running from each corner to meet in a 
central 
boss.... Her eyes narrowed then. Six was a stable figure, more 
complex 
than solid, simple four, not as involved as busy eight; six was 
complex 
enough to carry a stasis field, and simple enough to add its own 
considerable strength to whatever formulae a magus chose to 
superimpose on 
it. She held her breath, and thought she could almost see the 
lines of the 
field, a faint, bluish haze clinging to the edge of the door, and 
running 
down the ribs to flare into a white-hot spark in the center of the 
boss 

itself. She blinked, and the perception faded. 
"Your token, please, colonel?" Drieu said, and Silence shook 
herself back 
to reality. 
Marcinik reached carefully into the inner pocket of his coat and 
pulled 
out a small cloth pouch. Its cords were knotted together at the 
top, and 
the knot had been covered with a skin of bright red wax. Drieu 
took the 
bag, wrapping his hand completely around it, then touched the 
door's boss 
lightly with his knuckles. There was a flash of heat, and a 
subliminal 
snapping sound, and then an almost invisible panel slid back, 
revealing a 
tiny keyboard. Drieu fingered that with his left hand, careful to 
stand so 
that his body blocked everyone's sight of the keys, and, with a 
groaning 
sound, the boss sank into the main part of the door and the whole 
thing 
split along the line of the ribs, each segment drawing back into 
the 
frame. 
Isambard nodded almost proprietorially. "Angelos-lock," he 
murmured. 
Silence nodded back, hiding a sudden surge of resentment -- she 
had 
guessed that herself -- and was saved from having to make a polite 
answer 
by Drieu's next words. 
"I'm sorry, colonel, I'm only authorized to allow you and the magi 
into 
the chamber. The sieuri will have to wait outside." 

 Silence tensed, waiting for the explosion from Balthasar, but to 
her 
surprise, the Delian made no answer. Chase Mago said, "That's no 
trouble 
to us, colonel." 
"Very well," Marcinik said. "You'll wait here, then. Doctor 
Isambard, 
sieura -- Doctor Leigh, will you come with me?" 
"Of course," Isambard answered, with a touch of annoyance. 
Marcinik smiled, and gestured for the magus to precede him into 
the inner 
room. Silence braced herself -- she disliked the idea of trancebinding 
almost as much as she disliked the idea of a geas, but would not 
show her 
unease -- and followed, Marcinik at her elbow. 
The inner room was much smaller than she had expected, as though 
the walls 
were very thick, and there was a still, dead quality to the air 
that set 
her teeth on edge. The space itself was cylindrical, divided into 
two 
semicircular sections by a transparent wall that seemed to be made 
of 
lumpy purple glass. A balding man in the red-trimmed robes of a 
Master in 
Fire was sitting in a pillow-chair on their side of the glass, a 
complicated meditation-pattern sketched with colored sand on the 
floor in 
front of him. Beyond the glass lay a woman, brown-skinned, fairhaired, 
arms folded across her bared breasts. A light blanket covered the 
rest of 
her body. From her own experiences, Silence guessed that when the 
magi had 

prepared the trance, they had not noticed the supercargo's gender, 
rather 
than sought to exploit it. 
"Master?" Marcinik said quietly, and the balding man's shoulder 
twitched 
beneath the red-trimmed robe. 
"Colonel," he said, without turning, and without taking his eyes 
from the 
colored sand on the floor at his feet. "And Doctor -- Isambard, is 
it?" 
"And Doctor Leigh," Marcinik answered. He glanced at the older 
magus, his 
expression unreadable. "I leave the rest to you, sieuri." He 
stepped away, 
setting his back against the door, without waiting for a response. 
Isambard nodded absently. "How is the girl held, master -- ?" 
"Maedon Bee, doctor." The balding man's head shifted slightly, and 
one 
hand rose to indicate the complex pattern in front of him. "She's 
trance-bound -- the trance of Giduarius." 
Silence frowned. She had never made a close study of the arts of 
binding, 
and was not familiar with the schema for that particular trance -- 
after 
her experiences on the troopship, she had a strong aversion to any 
kind of 
compulsive bond -- but she had encountered references to the 
Giduarian 
trance in other literature. It was one of the strongest bonds, and 
among 
the most dangerous, though if properly set it would hold even the 
strongest of magi immobile and impotent, his thoughts accessible 
to any 
half-trained apprentice, until the maker of the bond chose to 

release him. 
But if the bond-maker made the slightest error at any stage in the 
long 
and complicated process, or if the victim struggled unduly, or any 
one of 
dozens of variables had not been calculated perfectly, the victim 
would 
die, or, worse still, go mad, his disordered mind a deadly snare 
for the 
bond-maker. Silence found herself staring at the supercargo's 
plain brown 
face with something approaching loathing, and made herself look 
away. 
Isambard was frowning, too, and Bee seemed to sense their unease. 
"The trance was made by my own teacher, Rassiy, who is leader of 
the 
Alasset school on Enkomi. The woman has been questioned once, 
superficially, and no harm came of it." Bee glanced again at his 
hands, 
closing his eyes, and the hint of emotion drained out of his 
voice, 
leaving it as thick and toneless as the air in the little room. "I 
brought 
her from the depths to the lightless plain as soon as I was 
informed you 
would be coming. She is ready for your questions." 
Isambard grunted and took a step forward, staring over the Master 
in 
Fire's shoulder at the meditation-pattern. "This is the schema?" 
"The sketch of it, Doctor," Bee answered. 
Isambard lifted an eyebrow, but said only, "Come here, Silence." 
His tone brooked no refusal. Reluctantly, the pilot stepped 
forward 
herself, so that she stood at Bee's left, and turned her attention 
to the 

pattern on the floor. The usual linear formulae had been laid out 
in a 
mantric frame, presumably to reinforce the self-perpetuating bond, 
and it 
took her a moment to pick out the normal shape of the equation. 
Most of 
the symbols were familiar -- ordinary, simple signs that, in 
conjunction 
with each other, took on a new and terrible meaning. Silence 
shivered, 
catching an echo of the trance-bond's cold power. 
"Well?" Isambard demanded. "What is your analysis?" 
"A most -- impressive structure," Silence answered, and knew she 
had not 
fully hidden her fear. 
At the sound of her voice, Bee started, and for the first time 
took his 
eyes from the meditation-pattern. "A woman -- ?" he began, 
glancing 
quickly from Isambard to Silence to the supercargo. "Then it's 
true --" 
"I wouldn't indulge in unprofitable speculation," Marcinik said 
softly 
from his place by the door. 
"Mind your work, Master," Isambard snapped, almost in the same 
moment. 
Quelled, Bee dropped his eyes to the meditation-pattern, murmuring 
an 
incoherent apology. Isambard smiled thinly, but Silence was aware 
of Bee's 
continued curiosity, and of his sidelong glances, hastily 
concealed. 
"Impressive, certainly," Isambard continued, as though there had 

been no 
interruption. "And very powerful. A well-considered piece of 
work." He 
stepped forward again, carefully avoiding the strewn sand, and 
placed one 
hand against the lumpy glass that separated their room from the 
supercargo. "Come, Silence." 
"I'd rather not," the pilot answered, and almost instinctively 
folded her 
hands behind her back. 
Isambard gave her an annoyed look. "Don't be squeamish, girl. I'll 
need 
your assessment as well, if this is to be of use." 
"I'd rather not," Silence said again, and put all her strength 
into that 
refusal. She would not, could not, bear to question that still 
form, to 
invade the other woman's bound mind. "You know what's needed as 
well as I 
do." 
Isambard frowned, but, as Silence had hoped, did not pursue the 
issue in 
Bee's presence. "As you wish," he said, and closed his eyes. 
Silence saw 
his hand contract slightly, then flatten against the lumpy glass. 
She was never sure how long they stood there, unspeaking, barely 
daring to 
breathe, before the phantoms began to appear. At first, she 
thought that 
somehow Isambard had been careless, that the tantalizing shapes 
were as 
much emotion as image, but then, glancing hastily toward Bee and 
then 
toward Marcinik, still standing motionless against the locked 
door, she 

knew that Isambard was doing it deliberately, and that the display 
was for 
her alone. She looked away hurriedly, searching for something that 
would 
let her break the fascination being woven for her, but everything 
in the 
little room was intended to hold the supercargo in her trance. 
Each object 
led the eye back to the still figure beyond the purple glass. 
Silence shook herself, hard, trying to think of something -- 
anything -- 
that would distract her, but the tantalizing images broke through 
her 
guard. For a fleeting instant, it seemed as though she stood on a 
balcony 
in a strange city, where the air smelled of foreign spices and the 
dim 
stars were arranged in unfamiliar patterns. She gasped, and a flat 
lagoon 
stretched before her, violet water under a metallic, cloudstreaked 
sky. 
Then she was bombarded with a rain of images, voidmarks from a 
dozen 
different star roads, each more tempting than the last. Almost in 
spite of 
herself, she stepped forward, and laid her hand against the glass. 
Isambard's power caught and held her, guiding her entry into the 
trance-bound mind. 
The supercargo's mind was like a frozen garden, images curled in 
on 
themselves like ferns caught by frost. Silence cringed, afraid 
that she 
would somehow touch one of the fragile, ice-colored images and 
damage it 
beyond saving. She could not help remembering the troopship again, 
and how 
she had fought just such a geas, and overcome it for herself and 
for her 

husbands, and she was bitterly ashamed. The emotion whirled within 
her, 
threatening to break free; she gasped and heard, or thought she 
heard, 
Isambard's angry voice. 
Control yourself, girl. This is no place for that. 
With an effort, Silence fought down the memory, concentrating 
instead on 
the First Principles, until those stern words had caged her unruly 
thoughts. 
Better, Isambard said dryly. Now see what we've gained. 
Reluctantly, Silence turned her attention outward again, trying 
not to see 
the frozen images. Isambard's presence -- he seemed little more 
than a 
black robe, so deeply had he submerged himself in his studies -- 
seemed to 
float ahead of her. She followed the ghostly form, half afraid of 
what 
she'd find. At last he paused, and seemed to gesture; the shapes 
around 
them seemed to spring into unnatural life. Silence winced, 
overwhelmed by 
the rush of knowledge -- knowledge of the star roads, knowledge of 
the 
ways of the Rose Worlds and of the Rose Worlders' ships, knowledge 
even of 
great engines that stood along a forbidden road.... The pilot drew 
back 
then, dazed by the rush of information, pushing forward her own 
knowledge 
and strength to dim the flaring images. Seen through that screen, 
it 
seemed odd that a supercargo should know so much. Of course, she 
told 
herself, a supercargo would have to know a little about every 

aspect of 
ship handling, but still, the indefinable strangeness remained. 
Cautiously, she reached out to probe the supercargo's mind, 
delicately 
searching for the knowledge that lay behind the superficial 
images. 
Almost at once she met resistance, like a wall of glass rather 
than the 
ice that filled the rest of the supercargo's mind. Silence 
hesitated, not 
wanting to push too hard, and then the wall seemed to shatter, the 
sound 
of the falling shards blending into a note that struck an 
answering chord 
in her own memory. The voidmarks of the Earth-road itself rose in 
her mind 
-- not the maimed, broken symbols she herself had seen through the 
distorting music of the Rose Worlders' engines, but the true marks 
in all 
their glory. It was too much to stumble over, unprepared; Silence 
thrust 
herself away from the seductive music. 
She was herself again, standing at Bee's left hand, her own right 
hand 
braced against the glass wall. The sudden shift in perception, of 
reality, 
was sickening; she swallowed hard, closing her eyes against the 
quaking 
world. After perhaps a dozen heartbeats, she had mastered herself 
enough 
to step back, away from the wall, but the sickness stayed in the 
pit of 
her stomach. She could not quite bring herself to look at the 
supercargo's 
still figure, the colors of skin and hair dulled by the colored 
glass. 
Instead, she stared at the floor, doing her best to avoid the 
bright sands 

of the meditation-pattern. How could you do it? she demanded of 
herself. 
After everything, after you yourself were under geas, how could 
you let 
yourself be tricked into doing this? 
"Yes, that was most enlightening." Isambard's voice was almost 
painfully 
self-satisfied, and Silence felt her stomach heave. Somehow, she 
made a 
neutral answer, but the older magus continued, unheeding, "I think 
we will 
be able to learn a great deal from her." 
Silence stood mute, unable to think of any suitable reply. 
Marcinik 
cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, sieuri, but his Majesty 
asked me, 
if you found the information useful, to bring you back to him at 
once, so 
that you might discuss the -- price." 
Silence looked up sharply. She had been so caught up in her own 
feelings 
that she had almost forgotten about the Hegemon's bargain. She 
glanced at 
Isambard, and saw the magus's face set in its most unreadable 
expression. 
"Very well," Isambard said, after a pause that was fractionally 
too long. 
"Since his Majesty wishes it so." 
"He does," Marcinik said, and touched a signal plate on the wall 
behind 
him. 
Chapter 2 
THEY RETURNED TO THE HEGEMON'S CHAMBER THE SAME way they'd come, 

Marcinik 
hurrying them through the maze of corridors as though there were 
some 
unstated deadline. Silence, her thoughts still whirling from what 
she had 
done and from the vision of the Earth-road, was grateful for the 
haste 
that kept the others from asking awkward questions. Even so, she 
was aware 
of Chase Mago's eyes on her, and knew that both her husbands 
recognized 
that something had happened. At the top of the last stairway, 
Marcinik 
touched a hidden signal button, and stood back to wait. For a long 
moment 
nothing happened, and Balthasar's mouth curved slowly into a 
smile. 
"Don't tell me he's forgotten us." 
Silence shuddered, her nerves still raw, and barely stopped 
herself from 
snapping angrily at him. She knew Chase Mago had seen her 
convulsive 
movement, and glanced up, meeting the engineer's eyes in mute 
appeal. 
Chase Mago gave her a reassuring smile, and said, "Denis." 
Balthasar turned, his rather startled expression fading to one of 
annoyance and then of understanding. As the door scraped open at 
last, he 
said, "Pull yourself together, woman, there's work to do." 
Silence nodded, unexpectedly heartened by the Delian's words. 
Chase Mago 
frowned, but any response either could have made was cut off by 
the page's 
censorious, "Sieuri, his Majesty is waiting." 
The lights had been lowered in the Hegemon's private chamber, the 

fixed 
fire burning low at the tips of the quasicandles. In the dimmer 
light, the 
monkeylike homunculissimae looked even more grotesque than before, 
but 
Silence barely glanced at them. A gold-chased coffee service had 
been set 
on a low table in front of the row of tabourets, four fragile cups 
arranged in a formal square beside the urn. Silence wondered who 
would not 
be invited to drink, then realized that Marcinik had once again 
stepped 
aside, to take his place by the outer door. 
"Sieuri." The Hegemon's great chair had been moved to the head of 
the line 
of tabourets, far enough away from the table to make it clear that 
Adeben 
would not take coffee with them. It was not a deliberate insult, 
Silence 
knew, but an attempt to make things more comfortable -- the 
etiquette 
involved in actually sharing food or drink with the reigning 
Hegemon was 
complex beyond imagining -- but even so she could not help feeling 
a touch 
of anger. 
"Please be seated," the Hegemon continued. "You'll take coffee 
with me?" 
Without waiting for an answer, the page slipped forward, and 
filled each 
of the fragile cups. Silence accepted hers politely -- there was 
nothing 
else she could do -- but shook her head at the proffered spices. 
She 
cradled the cup in her hands, glad of its heat, feeling the chasedsilver 
flowers that coiled around it, using that warmth and solidity to 
chase 

away the lingering sickness. Her recovery wouldn't last, she knew, 
but she 
hoped it would be enough to get her through this meeting. 
Isambard tasted his coffee ceremoniously and nodded, murmuring 
some proper 
compliment. The Hegemon smiled austerely, and Silence hoped he 
wouldn't 
prolong the amenities out of sheer mischief. Then Adeben seemed to 
shake 
himself, and said, "Does my -- gift meet with your approval, 
Doctor 
Isambard?" 
Isambard took his time answering, straining Silence's equanimity 
almost to 
the breaking point. She stared into her coffee, not daring to 
speak for 
fear she would betray how much the encounter with the supercargo 
had 
shaken her, and willed Isambard to answer. At last, just as 
Silence was 
ready to speak herself, the older magus said, "It is a most 
generous 
present, your Majesty. I am able to read almost everything we will 
need to 
know in her mind." 
Silence saw her husbands exchange a wary look, and frowned 
warningly at 
them. Balthasar grinned, but said nothing. 
"Then you'll agree my help is worth quite a bit," Adeben continued 
smoothly. 
But just how much do you want? Silence thought. She felt her 
shoulders 
stiffen painfully, and set her cup carefully aside. Before 
Isambard could 
answer, she said, "Indeed, what the supercargo can tell us will 

help, but 
of course your Majesty has already promised all his assistance." 
A pair of tiny lines appeared between Isambard's eyebrows, and 
Silence 
wondered if she had gone too far. If all else failed, she had the 
Hegemon's assurance -- in writing -- that he was personally in her 
debt, 
but that was a promise she had hoped to use for more important 
things. The 
Hegemon smiled. 
"I do acknowledge that, Sieura Doctor, as of course I must. But 
this 
additional help, I should think, would be worth additional 
cooperation 
from you." 
Isambard said, "As your Majesty says. But it would help if we knew 
what 
your Majesty wants from us." 
Adeben leaned forward slightly. From such a controlled man, it was 
as 
startling as if he'd suddenly stood up and started to pace the 
length of 
the room. Silence felt a chill go down her spine, and saw both her 
husbands set their cups aside. Only Isambard seemed unaffected. 
"Sieuri," Adeben said. "You are aware, of course, of the political 
situation here. I am newly come to the throne --" He managed a 
rather wry 
smile." -- and I hold power only by right of conquest." 
He paused and, after a moment, Chase Mago said slowly, "With 
respect, your 
Majesty, the majority of your subjects seem to prefer you to your 
predecessor." 
The Hegemon nodded. "I won't pretend they don't. That will hold me 

safe 
against rebellion, for now -- that and the fact that I control the 
True 
Thousand, and the True Thousand controls the army. But, as you, 
sieura 
doctor, are only too well aware, my legitimate child, the child of 
my 
First Wife, is a daughter. I have no legal sons." 
So it comes to that, Silence thought. An old bitterness rose in 
her, and 
she fought it back with an effort. Let the shazadi -- the Princess 
Royal 
-- look after her own rights, she thought. It's no longer a 
concern of 
mine. All that matters is how this affects us. 
"As I remember," she said aloud, "you've one son older than her 
Serenity 
-- he's in your navy, I think -- and at least two others who're 
officially 
of your household." She let the unspoken question hang in the air 
between 
them. 
The Hegemon nodded. "That's true," he said, "and I intend Azarian 
to 
inherit. But --" He smiled again, with even less humor than 
before. "-- he 
is not legitimate, and there are too many families among the 
Hundred -- 
those families that can claim kinship with the ruling house, 
Captain 
Balthasar -- who have legal sons. One of my oldest friends has 
already 
hinted that his son would make a worthy successor. He would have 
had the 
boy marry Aili, but he scotched that plan." He nodded toward 
Marcinik, 
standing expressionless by the door. 

 "And how, your Majesty, can we prevent it?" Silence asked. 
"You stand a good chance of reaching Earth." The Hegemon fixed his 
eyes on 
her, and Silence shivered a little under that unblinking stare. 
"You have 
come very close to succeeding twice already. The Hegemony's 
interest in 
that search is quite well known; I've already hinted that I am as 
interested in it as was my predecessor. In fact, I've gone so far 
as to 
say to those who have pressed me to name an heir that I will leave 
this 
kingdom to whichever son of the Hundred discovers -- or sponsors 
an 
expedition to discover -- the true road to Earth. I intend for 
Azarian to 
meet those conditions." 
No one said anything for a long moment, but then Isambard said 
mildly, 
"You can't seriously mean to do this, your Majesty." 
Adeben lifted an eyebrow, but showed no other sign of displeasure. 
"And 
why not? I grant you, the men I've spoken to now think that I'm 
evading 
the issue, but there's nothing in law or custom to prevent me." 
Silence hesitated, trying to think of something she could say that 
might 
stop him. The trouble is, she thought, in the bizarre world of the 
Thousand and the Hundred, where every gesture, every common daily 
act was 
filled with special meaning, it could well work. The only thing 
that could 
go wrong is if we fail. She opened her mouth to say as much, but 
Balthasar 
spoke first. 

 "That's for fairy tales; this is real." 
Adeben looked down his nose at the Delian. "Yes, it is real, 
Captain. And 
I intend for my son to inherit." 
Silence cut in hastily, afraid of what else Balthasar might say. 
"And what 
if we don't reach Earth, your Majesty?" 
The Hegemon turned to face her, the tight lines of temper easing 
from the 
corners of his mouth. "Sieura Doctor, you have every incentive of 
your own 
to reach Earth, and I have no doubt that you will do it. If you 
fail. I'll 
think of some other way. But for now, will you take my -- my son's 
charter?" 
"Will you give us a little time to discuss this?" Silence asked, 
and 
Adeben shook his head. 
"I'm sorry, Sieura Doctor, but I must have your answer now." 
Silence sighed. They had little choice in the matter -- but then, 
she told 
herself, it hardly made any difference. They would make the 
attempt to 
reach Earth regardless of any political capital that might be made 
of the 
trip later. A mere piece of paper couldn't hurt them, and in the 
long run 
it would only put the Hegemon more deeply in their debt. Glancing 
at the 
others, she saw the same knowledge reflected in their faces. She 
raised an 
eyebrow in wordless question, and Chase Mago gave a fractional 
nod. 

Balthasar scowled, but Silence stared at him until he shrugged and 
nodded. 
"We're agreed, then," she said, and looked to Isambard. 
"Very well," the older magus said. "It shall be as his Majesty 
wishes." 
Adeben motioned to the page, who crossed to the desk and returned 
a moment 
later with a ribboned binder. "This is the charter," the Hegemon 
said. 
"Will you sign?" 
"Pretty damned confident," Balthasar muttered, but nodded. 
Silence said, "We'll sign." 
In the end, all four signed their names beneath the Hegemon's 
seal, and 
Marcinik and the page witnessed that and the young prince's 
scrawled 
signature at the top of the charter. When they had finished, 
Adeben sighed 
softly. "It's done," he said, almost in disbelief, then shook 
himself. 
"Colonel. Escort the sieuri back to the villa, and see that they 
have 
every facility they need -- see to it personally, Marcinik, if you 
please." 
"Of course, your Majesty," Marcinik said, bowing, and gestured for 
the 
others to precede him from the room. 
The flight back around the planet to the villa outside Anshar' 
Asteriona 
seemed even longer than it had before. Silence, her nerves already 
stretched taut, was only too aware of Balthasar's leashed anger. 
Her brief 

recovery was wearing off, too; at last, she leaned back against 
the 
cushioned seat and pretended to sleep. 
They arrived at the villa in the fading darkness of a cloudy 
morning. 
Marcinik, who had quarters in the main palace complex in Anshar' 
Asteriona 
itself, excused himself at once, and vanished in the flyer. 
Silence 
hurried ahead of the others into the villa's main hall, murmuring 
something disjointed about getting some sleep. 
"At this point, we might as well stay up," Balthasar growled. 
There was a 
note in his voice that stopped the pilot in her tracks. 
"What's eating you, Denis?" Chase Mago said. 
Balthasar didn't answer at once, shouting instead for a serving 
homunculus. When the creature appeared, its sculpted features 
oblivious to 
the hour, he ordered it to have a breakfast laid in the dining 
room, and 
turned away from its bowing acknowledgement. "Are you particularly 
happy 
with all this, Julie?" 
"Reasonably," Chase Mago answered, and for the first time, there 
was a 
hint of anger in his voice. "You know as well as I do that the 
weak point 
in our plan was what to do once we got to Earth. Now we have 
information 
that will help us, and the Hegemon's even deeper in our debt. Why 
shouldn't I be happy? Why shouldn't you?" 
"I'm not," Balthasar snapped back. "You're the one who always said 
we 
should steer clear of politics, not me. And I'm not wild about the 

way 
we're getting this 'help. ' " 
Silence lifted both hands to her face, unwinding her veil and then 
pressing her palms against her eyes. The nausea had vanished, but 
it had 
been replaced by a slowly worsening ache behind her temples. The 
pressure 
brought an instant's relief, but the pain returned almost 
immediately. 
"Neither am I," Chase Mago said. His voice was barely under 
control now. 
"But we need it." 
"We'd manage --" Balthasar began, and Silence said desperately, 
"Will you 
both shut up?" 
"How the hell could you do it?" Balthasar demanded. "Silence, you 
know 
what it's like. You were bound too." 
"I didn't have any choice," Silence snapped, and to her horror her 
voice 
broke in a sob. She turned her back on both men, but not before 
Chase Mago 
saw, and took a step forward. 
"Silence?" he asked. 
"Leave me alone, Julie, ignore it," Silence said, furious with 
them and 
with herself. "It's just that my head hurts. I'll fight fair." 
The engineer froze, waiting. Silence dug her knuckles into the 
corners of 
her eyes, fighting to control herself. After a few moments, 
Balthasar 
said, sullenly, "I'm listening." 

 "Thank you," Silence said. "It's so gracious of you." She knew she 
was 
only making things worse, but she was past caring, goaded by the 
pain in 
her head and her own sense of guilt. She heard Balthasar draw 
breath for 
an angry answer, but Chase Mago spoke first. 
"Let it go, both of you." He held out his hand, but Silence shook 
her 
head. She had said she would fight fair; she would not speak from 
the 
shelter of the engineer's arms. 
"I told you," she said, with difficulty, "I didn't have much 
choice. The 
place -- the whole room was set up to draw you in, to make it easy 
to read 
her, and then, when I said I didn't want to, Isambard let me see 
little 
bits, projected what he saw, until I couldn't help looking for 
myself. " 
Her voice trailed off in defeat. There was no way Balthasar could 
understand, she thought greyly; he distrusted the magi's power too 
much 
already. "I can't explain. I wish -- I know I shouldn't've done 
it." 
The hall was very quiet for a long time -- so quiet that Silence 
could 
hear the clatter of dishes in the dining room as the homunculi 
laid out 
the breakfast. Beyond the treated glass that framed the door the 
sun was 
rising, turning the clouds white. Finally, Balthasar said softly, 
"I'm 
sorry." 
Silence nodded, but didn't turn, not knowing quite what the Delian 

meant, 
and a moment later felt his hand on her shoulder. 
"Forgive me?" he said again, and this time she turned into his 
embrace. 
"It's all right," Balthasar said. "It's all right." 
Silence didn't know how long she stood there, her head resting 
against 
Balthasar's shoulder, before Chase Mago cleared his throat gently. 
"If 
anyone wants it," he said, "there's breakfast waiting." 
Silence pushed herself away, and even managed a smile at the 
engineer's 
indulgent tone. Balthasar laughed aloud, and gestured for the 
other man to 
lead the way. 
The breaking of the emotional tension had eased Silence's 
headache, and 
the sight of food was almost welcome. She accepted a plate from 
the 
steaming sideboard, and settled herself at the table beneath the 
single 
long window. The sun was well up now; she touched the control 
board to 
darken the glass against the glare. 
"Still," Chase Mago said, as he seated himself at the pilot's 
right, "I 
would like to know just what it is we're getting." 
Balthasar grunted agreement, and came to join them, his plate 
heaped high. 
Silence sighed, recognizing that the brief respite had ended, and 
set her 
cup aside. "Apparently, this woman -- she was a round-ship's 
supercargo -- 

knows at least a little bit about everything. There's a whole lot 
of data 
on general shipping procedures, and she seems to know names of 
roads and 
even some voidmarks --" 
Balthasar looked up at that. "How'd she learn those? That's the 
pilot's 
business." 
Silence shrugged. "I don't know, yet. We'll find out." She 
shuddered in 
spite of herself, and added, "Or Isambard'll find out, anyway." 
She 
managed a smile. "Don't worry, I don't intend to trust any of that 
kind of 
knowledge unless I've verified it myself." 
"She could've picked it up subconsciously while the ship was in 
purgatory," Chase Mago said, frowning thoughtfully. "At least, 
I've heard 
that's possible." 
Silence nodded. "Theoretically it is, anyway, and a trancebond's 
deep 
enough to reach that kind of buried knowledge. This was just a 
preliminary 
survey, anyway. The best thing is, she does seem to know something 
about 
the engines blocking the Earth-road, and that means she may 
actually have 
been to Earth herself." 
Balthasar whistled softly. "Now, that would be useful." 
"If," Chase Mago said. "Pass the coffee, Denis, would you?" 
Balthasar did as he was told, saying, "So how do we handle getting 
this 
information? I assume you don't want to do it, Silence." 

 "No," Silence said, flatly. She controlled herself with an effort, 
and 
went on, "Isambard will do it, and I'll tell him to have it 
transcribed. " 
"Our very own guidebook," Balthasar said. "Can we trust him to 
find out 
everything we need to know?" 
We have to, Silence thought. I can't -- I won't touch that woman's 
mind 
again. Aloud, she said, "He knows enough about star travel. I 
think we 
can." 
Chase Mago nodded. "I agree. It should be all right." He put his 
cup aside 
and stood, stretching. "I wonder if they'll send out our pipes 
today?" 
To Silence's disappointment -- she had hoped for another day of 
rest -- 
the new pipes arrived some hours before noon, and Chase Mago 
decided to 
begin the difficult installation procedure at once. The next two 
days were 
spent damping the harmonium, foam-packing the parts of the array 
that 
would not be changed, and wrapping the pipes nearest to the ones 
that 
would be replaced in dura-felt sleeves. Only then could the new 
pipes be 
fitted into their place in the main array. It was dull, delicate 
work, 
complicated by the fact that the smallest pipe, a thin, ice-blue 
cylinder 
of dolor-crystal barely longer than Silence's hand, proved to be 
flawed 
and had to be replaced from the yard. Finally, however, all the 

pipes were 
in place and the last of the damping was cleared from the 
harmonium, and 
Chase Mago began the millimetric adjustments that would bring the 
new 
pipes into perfect harmony with the rest of the array. Silence had 
neither 
the ear nor the patience for the work, and was almost relieved 
when one of 
the household homunculi appeared in the workshed to announce that 
Isambard 
had returned from the Winter Palace. 
Chase Mago, crouched beside the tuning studs, merely grunted an 
acknowledgement, and Silence said quickly, "I'll go." 
It took a moment for the words to register, but then the engineer 
looked 
up and nodded. "Yes, do that, would you?" 
"Right," Silence said, and set the audirim monitor she had been 
using on 
the deckplates to Chase Mago's left. The engineer nodded again, 
but his 
attention was already back on his work. Silence nodded back, and 
turned to 
follow the homunculus from the engine room. At the main hatch the 
intercom 
buzzed, and Balthasar's voice crackled from the speaker. 
"Silence? What's up?" 
The pilot paused by the intercom panel. "Where's Isambard?" she 
asked. 
"Doctor Isambard is in the study," the homunculus answered, in its 
emotionless voice. 
"Then you can go. Tell him I'll be there in a moment," Silence 
said, and 

touched the intercom's answer button. "Isambard's back, Denis. He 
sent to 
say he wanted to see me." 
"Have fun," Balthasar answered, and laughed. 
"Thanks," Silence said, rather sourly, and broke the connection. 
The villa did not have a study, in the usual sense of the owner's 
private 
library; instead, Isambard had ordered the household homunculi to 
bring 
broad tables and comfortable chairs into a room that had 
originally been 
intended as a chance room, and had personally augmented the fixedfire 
lamps so that it was possible to work for long periods at the 
tables. 
Silence paused just inside the doorway, blinking a little in spite 
of the 
heavy curtains pulled tight across the windows. 
"You wanted to see me?" she asked, and frowned at the empty table 
caught 
in the cone of light. Its surface was covered with papers, but 
there was 
no sign of Isambard. 
"Yes." The voice came from the shadowed corner to her left. 
Silence's 
frown deepened, and then she saw the magus. He was stooped over an 
accident portfolio, his black robe effectively hiding him. "I have 
work 
for you." Isambard came forward as he spoke, and placed another 
sheaf of 
papers on the table. 
"Oh?" Silence picked up the first sheet, and scanned Isambard's 
crabbed 
writing. It was part of the transcription of Isambard's 

"interview" with 
the Rose Worlder supercargo. The pilot shivered in spite of 
herself, and 
put the paper aside. 
"This is the rough data," Isambard went on, as if he hadn't 
noticed the 
other's sudden revulsion. "If you won't help me collect it, at 
least you 
can set it into order for me. You know your husbands' training 
better than 
I; choose whatever system you think best." He stooped to pick up a 
final 
crumpled piece of paper, and set it on top of the rest. "I will be 
back 
here in two days with the rest." 
"Wait," Silence said. "What's all this about -- what are the 
topics?" 
"Everything," Isambard answered, from the doorway. "I told you, 
this is 
the raw data. I leave its arrangement to you." 
With that, he was gone. Silence stood for a moment, staring after 
him, 
then shook herself and sat down at the table. The drifts of paper 
were 
intimidating, but one thing that both her pilot's training and the 
course 
of study on Solitude Hermae had stressed was the technique of 
ordering 
information. Years before, long before the Millennial Wars had 
shattered 
the Earth-road and Earth's hold on human-settled space, before the 
art of 
star travel had been fully understood, that sort of work had been 
done by 
artificial minds -- and in truth, she thought, the old computers 
were more 

suited to it. But computers, because they parodied human thought, 
gave off 
a parody of the magi's powers -- a sort of anti-thought that 
disrupted 
every function of the art; human minds could sort as well, and, 
once the 
mnemonic science had been fully developed, almost as efficiently 
as any 
machine. One sacrifices convenience for real power: that was the 
first 
lesson dinned into every apprentice of every art. 
Silence sighed, and reached for the nearest sheet of paper. There 
were 
literally dozens of mnemonic systems, each one designed for a 
particular 
purpose; there was no point in trying to decide which one to use 
until she 
had made a survey of the data. At least she could rely on both 
Balthasar 
and Chase Mago to know the simple Guilian and the more complicated 
Grand 
memory Theaters, as well as the Chanfro exercises that made 
learning such 
quantities of information possible in a limited time. Balthasar, 
too, had 
been trained as a pilot by the Cor Tauri guild's method, and would 
certainly know the hexagram system, but it was less likely that 
Chase Mago 
would know that highly visual method.... 
Silence shook herself, and forced herself to look at the paper in 
front of 
her. She could not decide -- could not begin to decide now, before 
she had 
seen any of the information, without running the risk of choosing 
the 
wrong system, and forcing the data into a framework that it would 
not fit, 
or, worse still, that would distort the information it contained. 

She 
blanked her mind, putting aside all thoughts of any system, and 
began to 
read. 
After perhaps an hour of reading more or less at random, she began 
to see 
patterns emerging in the data itself, and began to sort the sheets 
of 
paper into rough piles, following the pattern of the Grand 
Theater. 
Isambard had done his best to keep from putting more than one 
topic on 
each page, but, working without a system, he had been unable to be 
fully 
consistent in that. Looking at the mountain of paper in front of 
her, and 
knowing that there was more to come, Silence cursed softly, but 
then, 
grimly, set herself to copying out the older magus's notes so that 
they 
could be sorted more easily. 
In the end, it took her almost two weeks to reduce the data 
Isambard had 
gathered to a manageable text that could be carefully transcribed 
by one 
of the homunculi. Looking at her own flash-printed copy, she had 
to admit 
that she was rather pleased by the results. For a first attempt, 
she 
thought, she'd done rather well. Still, she found herself glancing 
anxiously from her husbands to Isambard as she waited for them to 
finish 
skimming through the text. She could not quite read the emotions 
behind 
the abstracted expressions; she could only hope that she had done 
the 
right things. 

Predictably, it was Balthasar who finished first, and set aside 
his copy 
with a wry smile. "As good as Valman's any day." 
"It had better be," Silence answered, a little grimly. "Or better. 
"
Valman's Guide was the standard planetary almanac for the Hegemony 
and the 
Rusadir; it was also notoriously incomplete. 
"I didn't mean it like that," Balthasar began, but before he could 
complete the sentence, Chase Mago looked up from his own copy of 
the text. 
"There's an awful lot here on the siege engines. Are you going to 
try to 
break through after all?" 
Silence sighed, and darted a quick glance toward Isambard. The 
older magus 
was still absorbed in his book, and the pilot let herself relax a 
little. 
"That's one of the things we need to talk about," she said. "I 
don't think 
we should risk it --" 
"And I disagree," Isambard said calmly, without looking up from 
his book. 
He turned the final two pages, then closed the book and set it on 
the 
table in front of him. "We have the information we need now, 
either to 
break the engines, or at the very least, make an excellent attempt 
at 
circumventing them --" 
"Did the woman know the passwords?" Balthasar broke in, frowning. 
Silence shook her head. "No." 

Isambard said, "But I believe I understand how the passwords are 
chosen, 
and how the responsors work. I believe I can convince the system 
to let us 
through." 
"It sounds like a risk we don't have to take," Chase Mago said. 
Silence gave a sigh of relief. She had been arguing with Isambard 
for the 
past few days over whether or not they should use the portolan she 
had won 
as her fee for freeing the Princess Royal, but she had not known 
for sure 
where the other two star-travellers would stand on the question. 
"I 
agree," she said, and Isambard said, "But this portolan method of 
yours is 
equally risky. This is too important to trust to some archaic 
theory, a 
theory that you admit you don't completely understand. " 
"And if we do it your way, and you can't unlock the engines," 
Silence 
retorted, "we'd have no choice except to break the engines -- 
which would 
at the very least tell the Rose Worlders we were on the way." 
"You've got a point there," Chase Mago murmured, with a smile. 
Then his 
smile faded slightly. "On the other hand, if we could sneak 
through, 
posing as a Rose Worlder ship...." 
"We could do that anyway," Silence said. "We'll have to. I don't 
like the 
idea of my having to control the ship while we're hung up in the 
Earth-road waiting for you to figure out the engines." 
"You did manage to change roads once before," Chase Mago said, 

thoughtfully. "You could always do that again, if things get bad." 
"I did it once," Silence answered. "There's no guarantee I could 
do it 
again." The excuse was feeble, and she knew it. If she had been 
able to 
switch star roads once, under difficult conditions, manipulating 
two sets 
of voidmarks that reflected related harmonics and similar objects 
in the 
mundane universe, she could do it again. 
Isambard smiled, but mastered himself almost at once. "If we use 
your 
portolan, Silence, you yourself said that we have to spend a great 
deal of 
time in mundane space. Isn't that so? Time in which the Rose 
Worlders can 
search for us with impunity. We -- and particularly you, Silence -- 
went 
to a good deal of trouble to obtain the portolan, but I don't 
think that 
should force us to use such a primitive method when a better one 
is 
available." He looked directly at Balthasar. "What do you say, 
Captain 
Balthasar?" 
Balthasar sighed, staring at nothing, and seemed to weigh his 
words before 
answering. Silence held her breath, hoping the Delian wouldn't 
side 
against her. Isambard was determined to try breaking the engines, 
she 
knew; it would take all three star-travellers together to overrule 
the 
magus. 
"I'm with you, Silence," Balthasar said at last. "I just don't 
trust the 

Rose Worlders -- I never have. I'd rather not have any contact 
with them 
at all until we hit the Earth approach, and I don't want to be 
dependent 
on any of them, no matter how trustworthy she is. I see your 
point, 
Julie," he added, "but I don't think it's worth it." 
How like Balthasar, Silence thought remotely, to blame the 
engineer for 
Isambard's suggestion. Aloud, she said, "It's three to one, 
Isambard, and 
I'm the one who's piloting. We'll do it by the portolan." 
"I don't believe Sieur Chase Mago was in agreement with you," 
Isambard 
said sharply, and Silence held her breath. 
The engineer lifted an eyebrow. "I hadn't agreed with anyone," he 
said, 
with deceptive mildness. "This is the pilot's choice." 
Isambard took a deep breath, and Silence braced herself to 
continue the 
argument. But then, quite suddenly, the older magus gave a very 
human 
sigh, and shook his head. "Very well. I accept that you know more 
about 
these matters than I." He picked up his copy of the text again. 
"So. If 
we're to use the portolan method, how do we hide the fact that we 
haven't 
come the usual road? And what will be our story when we do reach 
Earth?" 
"We should be able to sort of ease into the usual arrival point, " 
Balthasar said, and Silence nodded. 
"An entrance point to an approach road is pretty big, Isambard," 
she said. 

"Given that space within the Rose Worlds is so complexly 
interlinked, 
there shouldn't be any problem getting to it." 
"As for a story," Balthasar said, and grinned, "leave that to me." 
"God help us all," Chase Mago said. 
The next weeks were spent in the final preparations for their 
departure. 
With the installation of the new pipes, Chase Mago proclaimed 
Recusante 
ready for loading, and he and Balthasar promptly vanished into 
Anshar' 
Asteriona's Pale. The engineer returned to the villa at regular 
intervals, 
each time bringing another airsled full of provisions and fuels, 
but 
Balthasar seemed to have disappeared completely. Silence, busy 
plotting 
first their ostensible course off-world, and then the passage 
through the 
dead roads into the Rose Worlders' sphere, was only peripherally 
aware of 
the Delian's absence. It was only when he finally reappeared, 
unshaven and 
disheveled, but carrying Rose Worlder papers for Recusante and her 
crew, 
that she realized he had been gone for some time. 
"Where the hell did you get those?" she asked. "And why'd it take 
so 
long?" 
They were sitting in the villa's dining room, beneath the long 
window, but 
still Balthasar looked over his shoulder. "From an old 
acquaintance," he 
said, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "You don't know him - 
- but 

you do, Julie." 
Chase Mago, who had been sitting sprawled in the room's most 
comfortable 
chair, sat up abruptly. "You don't mean Morwen Daso," he said, in 
the flat 
tone of someone who expects contradiction. 
Balthasar grinned. "Of course." 
Chase Mago growled a curse, and Silence said, "Who's Morwen Daso?" 
"An old acquaintance," Balthasar said again, with the same 
maddening smile 
on his lips. 
I thought we'd broken you of this, Silence thought. Can't you for 
once 
give a straight answer? She scowled, and Chase Mago said, "He used 
to work 
for Wrath-of-God, but he sold out three years ago." 
"That's before Arganthonios," Silence said, in spite of herself 
and the 
engineer nodded. 
"That's right." He stared at Balthasar for a long moment, then 
said, in a 
tone that suggested immense patience wearing very thin, "Why him, 
Denis?" 
"He's the best there is," Balthasar answered simply. "He's the 
only person 
I can think of who could forge papers good enough to get us 
through Rose 
Worlder security." 
"But he's a talker," Chase Mago objected. "Leaving aside the fact 
that he 
sold an entire network, he always had a name for talking too 

much." 
Balthasar smiled again, the self-satisfied smile of a successful 
gambler. 
With difficulty, Silence suppressed the desire to kick him. 
"Not this time," the Delian said. "Morwen's back in the business -- 
" 
"I heard he went legal," Chase Mago interjected, frowning. 
"He got bored." Balthasar spread his hands. "He's got a new name, 
new 
network, he's up-and-coming -- so he gives me the papers, and he 
keeps his 
mouth shut, and I don't tell the darksiders that he used to be 
Morwen 
Daso." He smiled directly at Silence this time. "Honor among 
thieves and 
all that. Most darksiders frown on selling your own men to the 
local 
cops." 
Silence made a skeptical noise. In her limited experience, 
darksiders -- 
smugglers, fences, thieves, petty pirates too small to work for 
Wrath-of-God -- were perfectly willing to ignore any treachery not 
directed at themselves, and to make a profit off it if at all 
possible. 
"How're you going to enforce that?" Chase Mago asked. His tone was 
still 
disapproving, but the frown had eased a little. 
"The Wrath still has an ear on Asterion," Balthasar answered. "I 
spoke to 
him." 
"Who?" the engineer asked, still frowning. 

"Kalle." 
"Ah." Chase Mago nodded, clearly satisfied. 
"I take it this Kalle's reliable?" Silence asked. In spite of 
herself, a 
note of asperity crept into her voice. It didn't happen often, but 
every 
now and then the two men's shared years with Wrath-of-God became a 
wall, 
excluding her. 
"Very." Chase Mago, always more sensitive to tone, made a face. 
"He runs a 
bar in the Pale, everybody goes there. The Wrath finances him -- 
or used 
to, at any rate -- so anybody who has anything, any information to 
sell, 
always goes to him." 
Silence nodded, grateful and still a little resentful, and 
Balthasar 
pulled himself upright in his chair. 
"So," he said, "that means we're ready." 
Silence blinked, startled. Somehow, despite the frantic 
preparations of 
the past weeks, she hadn't really realized how close they were to 
leaving 
Asterion. Chase Mago nodded slowly, and Silence saw the same mild 
surprise 
reflected in his expression. 
"There's just the charter to deal with," Balthasar said, and there 
was an 
odd note in his voice that made Silence look warily at him. 
"What do you mean, deal with?" she asked. "It's in the ship's arms 
locker, 

sealed in." 
"I don't suppose we could leave without it," the Delian murmured, 
giving 
the words an odd, almost quizzical twist. 
"Why?" she asked, and in the same moment Chase Mago said, "No, we 
couldn't. We can't afford to get any further entangled in 
politics, 
whatever you're up to." 
Balthasar raised both hands in mock surrender. "All right. I just 
don't 
like playing the hegemon's little game." 
There was more to it than that, Silence thought, but then Chase 
Mago 
leaned forward to pick up the flat case that held the new papers, 
and the 
moment was gone. 
"So what exactly is our story?" the engineer asked. 
"Routine trade run," Balthasar answered promptly. "Under special 
license." 
"'Special license' doesn't sound exactly routine to me," Chase 
Mago 
objected, and Silence shook her head. 
"There aren't any regularly scheduled runs, remember," she said. 
"Anything 
going through the engines has to have a special license." 
The engineer nodded, satisfied, and slid one of the golden disks 
into the 
reader on the outside of the case, snapping the machine on as he 
did so. 
Silence watched him, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded. 
The 

Rose Worlder supercargo had known any number of scattered facts -- 
that 
there were engines on a semi-forbidden star road; that a starship 
passing 
those engines needed a special pass, the sort of pass she had seen 
once, 
and remembered because of its complexity; the star-travellers 
reaching 
that blocked world were restricted to Pale and port -- but so much 
of 
their plan rested on Isambard's interpretation of those facts. But 
of 
course, Silence told herself, Isambard's worked in the Rose Worlds 
before; 
he knows a lot more about them than we do. We can trust him to do 
his 
best, if only because he wants to reach Earth even more than we 
do. Still, 
the lingering sense of unease persisted. 
"Mersaa Maia," Chase Mago said, half to himself. "That's good." 
"It's the one Rose World we've all been on," Balthasar said, shrugging 
Silence glanced over the engineer's shoulder, and saw that both 
Recusante 
-- the ship was keeping its own name, for once -- and her crew 
were listed 
as registrants of Mersaa Maia. It was a good idea, she thought, 
though 
less because of their one brief and unpleasant visit than because 
Mersaa 
was the Rose Worlds' single open port. Of necessity, Mersaa's 
natives 
would have had more contact with the inhabitants of the Hegemony 
and the 
Fringe, and any oddities in their own behavior would -- she hoped - 
- be 
explained that way. "So I'm the supercargo?" she asked. 

 Balthasar nodded. "I figured that was easiest. And that way Morwen 
could 
copy that woman's papers for you." 
Silence made a face -- somehow, she didn't like the idea of 
carrying 
papers stolen from the bound supercargo -- but nodded back. 
"And I've lined up the cargo for us," Balthasar continued. "Our 
hold will 
contain just what the manifest says it does." 
"It sounds good," Chase Mago said, and slid the last disk back 
into its 
case. "So when do we lift?" 
"Marcinik said we'll take priority whenever we want to go," 
Balthasar 
answered, and looked at Silence. 
The pilot hesitated, still strangely unprepared for the idea of 
leaving 
Asterion. "If Isambard's ready," she began, then shook herself, 
almost 
angrily. The older magus was ready, and had been ready for several 
days. 
It was up to her to set the time. "You're fueled and stocked, 
Julie?" 
The engineer nodded. 
"Then we'll go the day after tomorrow," Silence said. 
The relative planetary harmonies gave them a choice of a predawn 
lift or 
one during the main traffic period in the middle of the local 
afternoon. 
Rather than attract undue attention, they opted for the earlier 
place, and 

Silence turned her attention to the last-minute preparations. Her 
course 
plot, the first leg from Asterion to Meng that would set them up 
for an 
easy entrance to the dead roads, had been ready for weeks; even 
so, she 
spent several more hours reviewing the unfamiliar voidmarks. 
Between that 
study, and Balthasar's unexpected demands for her help in setting 
up the 
departure course, she had less time to pack her own few belongings 
than 
she had expected, and found herself dragging her last carryall 
aboard less 
than two hours before liftoff. I think I've acquired more things 
than ever 
before, she thought, frantically trying to find secure places for 
the bags 
and its contents, though I'll be damned if I know where it all 
came from. 
Finally, however, she had crammed the last clean shirt into a 
latched 
drawer, and reached for the shipsuit she had left hanging on its 
peg 
beside the door. She worked her way into the tight, clinging 
fabric and 
jammed her discarded clothes into another of the latched drawers. 
Carefully, she ran her fingers along each of the seven seam-seals, 
making 
sure they'd caught, then stood for a moment staring around the 
little 
cabin. 
The carryall itself lay on the tidied bunk, just waiting, she 
thought, for 
the pseudo-animation of purgatory. There was a tiny amount of the 
supermaterial in everything; in purgatory, stimulated by the 
harmonium's 
effects, that supermaterial substance could -- and often did -- 
cause 

objects to wander about the ship, seeking to return to their 
proper place. 
She smiled, and stuffed the carryall into the least crowded wall 
locker. 
The last thing she needed was for the carryall to appear on the 
bridge, 
and try to climb onto her shoulder. Nor did she need the teasing 
that that 
sort of carelessness would inevitably bring. 
She glanced around again, satisfied that everything was either in 
its 
proper place or safely under lock and key, and left the cabin, 
locking the 
door behind her. The ship seemed oddly quiet, and she paused for a 
moment 
in the main corridor, listening. Very distantly, she could hear 
the usual 
noises as Chase Mago moved about the engine room, but the 
harmonium's 
notes seemed more muted than they should be. It was almost as 
though 
someone had set up an aphonic ring, she thought, or at least a 
damper 
field. Perhaps Isambard had decided to shield his cabin from the 
noises of 
lift-off? She closed her eyes, concentrating, but the strange 
soundlessness refused to take form. Whatever it was, she thought, 
it 
didn't seem to be coming from Isambard's cabin. If anything, it 
seemed to 
center on the empty passenger cabins.... Frowning, she moved 
farther down 
the corridor, toward the common room door. 
"Silence!" Balthasar was halfway down the ladder that led to the 
twin 
bridges, hawk face set into a scowl. "Where the hell are you 
going? I need 
you topside." 

 And what's the matter with you? Silence thought, but said nothing. 
The 
past few days hadn't been particularly easy for the Delian; he was 
entitled to a certain amount of ill temper. Still, she thought, I 
wish he 
wouldn't take it out on me. "Coming," she said, and followed 
Balthasar up 
the ladder to the lower bridge. 
The bridge had changed almost as much as the rest of the ship, 
with larger 
and more powerful equipment crammed into a very limited space. 
Silence had 
to turn sideways to get past the musonar console, and practically 
fell 
into the second pilot's couch. Balthasar was already strapped into 
the 
captain's couch, his fingers dancing busily across his keyboards. 
The 
triple viewscreens showed only the walls of the improvised docking 
shed; 
the left-hand screen showed the waiting tow, crouched on its 
double 
treads. Through the dock's open door, Silence could see a slice of 
the 
grasslands surrounding the villa, the ground very dark in the predawn 
light. 
"Who's driving the tow?" she asked. 
"Julie," Balthasar answered, his eyes still glued to the banks of 
checklights above the secondary console. Most glowed standby blue, 
but 
here and there an orange light showed a waking system. 
Silence frowned. The engineer had enough to do preparing for 
liftoff 
without having to manage the tow as well. "I thought we were 

hiring 
someone from the port." 
"It didn't work out," Balthasar said, as he touched a series of 
buttons, 
and studied the resulting readout intently. 
"Do you want me to take it?" Silence asked, still frowning. "I can 
drive a 
tow." 
Balthasar shook his head. "No, I need you here." 
Silence hesitated -- the second pilot's job didn't really begin 
until the 
ship reached the twelfth of heaven -- then shrugged. The worst 
that could 
happen was for Chase Mago's countdown to be delayed and, since 
Marcinik 
had promised them a priority lift, there was no need to worry 
about delay 
causing them to miss their place in the departure queue. She 
adjusted her 
couch to its most comfortable position and began flipping the 
switches 
that lit her own instruments. Musonar, Ficinan model, the camera 
controls, 
the environmental boards.... She paused then, frowning, and rocked 
the 
switch back and forth a second time. 
"Denis, I'm not getting a response from the passive internal 
monitor." 
"Damn." Balthasar glanced over his shoulder, saw the unlit 
telltales, and 
touched a switch on the intercom panel. "Attention, people, I'm 
testing 
the environmental alarms." With that, he flipped off the intercom 
and 

leaned back to punch a set of keys on a secondary control board. 
Silence 
winced as lights flashed across the warning screens and audio 
alarms began 
sounding throughout the ship. Balthasar let it run through two 
cycles, 
then cut the test. "Everything looks green here. It's probably 
just a fuse 
or something." 
That was an awfully quick decision, Silence thought. Aloud, she 
said. "Do 
you want me to warn Julie? If it's something simple, it shouldn't 
take 
long." 
"I don't want to miss the lift," Balthasar answered. "It'll wait." 
"I could do it," Silence began, and Balthasar cut her off. 
"Let it go. It's not important." 
Silence darted a quick glance at the Delian. It wasn't like him to 
ignore 
even minor repairs without good reason. "Is anything wrong?" she 
began. 
Her voice trailed off as she noticed Balthasar's hands were 
shaking. 
The captain saw the direction of her gaze and forced a smile. "I'm 
just a 
little nervous, I guess. It's a tricky business." 
Something in that didn't quite ring true, but before Silence could 
pursue 
the issue, the intercom buzzed. 
"I'm in the tow now," Chase Mago's voice announced. "Are you ready 
in 
control?" 

 "Ready here," Balthasar answered, and there was a distinct note of 
relief 
in his voice. 
Silence glanced down at her board, now showing multiple rows of 
orange 
lights, and touched the buttons that would secure the ship's 
systems 
against the inevitable jolting of the tow, "All secure." 
"You can begin the tow, Julie," Balthasar said. 
There was no answer, but a moment later the left-hand screen 
showed the 
tow creeping forward on its double tracks. As the tow hook came 
taut, the 
ship's cradle jerked hard, but then settled under the engineer's 
cautious 
handling to a gentle swaying. Very slowly, cradle and tow moved 
toward the 
huge entrance, and then out onto the soft ground. Silence held her 
breath 
-- the homunculi had spent some hours hard-foaming the improvised 
taxiway 
-- but the cradle showed no inclination to stick. It was strange 
to see 
trees and grass in the screens, rather than the familiar buildings 
of the 
port complex, but Silence was only vaguely aware of the anomaly. 
Instead, 
she kept an eye on Balthasar, who was scowling nervously at his 
readouts, 
wondering just what the Delian was up to. 
The cradle's swaying stopped abruptly, and Chase Mago's voice 
interrupted 
her thoughts. "We're in position. I'm unhitching the tow." 
Balthasar did not answer, still staring at his controls, and after 

a
moment Silence reached across to touch the outside button on the 
communications board. "All right. Let us know when you're back 
inside." 
"I'll do that," the engineer answered, and broke the connection. A 
minute 
later, the tow's top hatch lifted, and Chase Mago levered himself 
out of 
the cramped interior. Silence watched the viewscreen until the 
engineer 
vanished under the high nose of the cradle, out of range of 
Recusante's 
cameras. A light flashed from red to green, indicating that Chase 
Mago had 
released the tow hook, and then the tow itself began to move 
slowly away 
under control of its own tiny brain. Silence caught a brief 
glimpse of the 
engineer as he crossed the left-wing camera's field of vision, but 
then he 
was gone again, only the flicker of the hatch light, from green to 
orange 
to green, marking the moment he came aboard. 
Balthasar saw the flicker too, and managed a ghostly grin. He 
reached 
across the empty Ficinan model to touch keys on the communications 
board. 
"Anshar' Asteriona Control, this is DRV Recusants. I understand 
you're 
holding a place for us in the lift queue." 
Anshar' Asteriona answered promptly -- so promptly that Silence 
wondered 
if a special technician had been detailed to handle their liftoff. 
"That's correct, Recusante. Please stand by to confirm the liftline." 

"Standing by," Balthasar answered, and Silence keyed the Ficinan 
display. 
The little globe darkened perceptibly, the planets of Asterion's 
system 
fading into existence in its depths. Each pinpoint was surrounded 
by a 
slowly deepening flush of color, a reflection of the planetary 
harmonies, 
the musica mundana, that surrounded each world. The outer planets, 
Niminx 
and Mim Seras, were in conjunction, and sparks flared where the 
harmonic 
envelopes touched. Recusante's course line curved well away from 
that 
dissonance. "Ready for your figures." 
"Transmitting," Anshar' Asteriona answered. 
A moment later, a second course line appeared in the Ficinan 
display, 
hovered for an instant, and then melted into the original line. 
Silence 
glanced quickly at the numerical display to confirm it, and said, 
"I show 
a match." 
"Good enough," Balthasar said. "We show a match, Asteriona 
Control." 
"Very good," Anshar' Asteriona responded. "Please confirm your 
bearing. " 
Silence glanced to her right, reading off the numbers on the 
astrolabe set 
into the console just in front of the Ficinan globe. Balthasar 
repeated 
them into his microphone, and waited. 
"The tower astrologers confirm the bearing," Anshar' Asteriona 
said, after 

a brief pause. "Traffic has been put on hold. You may lift when 
ready, 
Recusante." 
Silence whistled softly to herself. To hold traffic on a busy 
world like 
Asterion was almost unheard of, an honor reserved for satraps and 
other 
planetary powers, not for private starships. Balthasar gave a sigh 
-- 
almost of relief, Silence thought, and her suspicion deepened. 
"Ready to lift," the Delian responded, and cut the outside 
transmitter. He 
touched a second button on the intercom console, saying, "All set 
below, 
Julie?" 
"Everything's green," the engineer answered. 
Balthasar took a deep breath, and Silence saw that his hands were 
trembling again. "First sequence." 
"First sequence," Chase Mago answered, and an instant later the 
harmonium 
sounded. This was the first time Silence had heard the full 
diapason since 
the worn pipes had been replaced. The new sound -- bone-deep, 
without 
human harmonies -- woke echoes in brain and body. She shivered at 
the 
beauty of it. The note that she had heard each time they attempted 
the 
Earth-road, the note that was as close as human perception could 
come to 
the note of heaven, hung within it, implicit in that sound. 
Recusante 
shivered in her cradle, and leaped upward. The harmonic envelope 
formed 
almost before Silence was aware of the usual sensation of crushing 

weight. 
"My God," she said aloud. 
Balthasar nodded, his fingers busy on his keyboard. The sound 
eased a 
little, then steadied as Chase Mago made his own corrections. 
"Sorry, Denis." Even through the intercom's distortion, the 
engineer 
sounded faintly shaken. "I didn't expect that." 
"Shows you what money will buy," Balthasar answered, but his tone 
was less 
flippant than his words. 
"Recusante, we show that you are steady on your departure line," 
Anshar' 
Asteriona announced. "Good voyage." 
"We confirm that," Silence answered, when Balthasar showed no 
signs of 
responding. "Thank you, Control." 
She switched off the transmitter, and leaned back in her couch. 
Already, 
the harmonium's music was fading as Recusante passed the edges of 
Asterion's harmonic envelope. A few moments later, the last of the 
core-based notes cut out, leaving only the pure, sweet chord that 
would 
take them up to the twelfth of heaven. 
"On course and in the groove," Balthasar announced, with some 
satisfaction. He glanced at the readouts on the astrogation board. 
"Not 
long to the twelfth, Silence. You might want to go on up." 
The pilot raised her eyebrows. It would be at least an hour, and 
more 
probably two, even with the power provided by the new pipes, 

before 
Recusante could reach a point at which the systemic harmonies were 
sufficiently deadened by the celestial harmonies -- the delicate 
background note of deep space -- for the ship to cross the border 
into 
purgatory. Still, she thought, there was no point in arguing, 
especially 
since Balthasar was already in a bad humor. She nodded, and 
released the 
catches on her safety webbing. 
To her surprise, the minor effects of purgatory -- the faint 
stickiness of 
the decking, the odd sense of a world askew -- were already 
beginning to 
make themselves felt as she pulled herself up the ladder to the 
upper 
bridge. The dome, which, unlike the rest of the ship's bulkheads, 
was made 
of a special tinctureless metal, was already beginning to show 
translucence, the nearest stars shining faintly in its depths. 
Silence 
frowned, checking the readouts set in the hub and spokes of her 
control 
wheel, but the numbers still showed Recusante to be well below the 
twelfth 
of heaven. Still frowning, she fitted her headphone jack into its 
socket, 
and keyed the intercom. 
"Denis, I'm getting some very strange responses up here." 
"Yeah, I know," Balthasar answered. "Here, too." 
Chase Mago's chuckle sounded in their ears, and Silence hastily 
adjusted 
the volume. "This is the way it's supposed to be, people," the 
engineer 
said. "This is a freshly tuned ship and mostly new pipes, 
remember?" 

 Silence nodded to herself, leaving the intercom channel open. The 
engineer's explanation made sense: star travel depended on the 
interaction 
between the harmonium and a starship's massive sounding keel, and 
if both 
were in perfect tune, or even close to perfection, naturally the 
ship 
would see the effects of purgatory more quickly. The harmonium 
produced a 
note as close as humanly possible to the celestial harmony, the 
note of 
the supermaterial state beyond the mundane universe, the source of 
the 
Forms on which much of the magi's Art was based. A sounding keel 
was made 
of base metal impregnated with the Philosopher's Tincture, the 
only 
celestial substance that could exist in a mundane state. The 
Tincture 
sought always to return to its proper, celestial state, but was 
confined 
by the mundane materials around it. Only under the influence of 
the 
harmonium could the Tincture approach its original state, carrying 
with it 
and being restrained by the mundane nature of the rest of the ship 
and its 
crew. The ship would never reach heaven, but it could reach the 
twelfth of 
heaven that was purgatory, and that was enough. In purgatory, so 
the 
metaphysicists said, time and space became potentially identical; 
the 
pilots manipulated the visible symbols of those potentials -- the 
voidmarks -- to move from star system to star system. 
Overhead, the dome was fading toward full transparence, and 
Silence shook 
herself. Through the untinctured metal, little more than shadow 

now, she 
could see the starscape, each sun ringed by the garish corona that 
marked 
the twelfth of heaven. She took a deep breath, recalling the 
voidmarks she 
had so carefully memorized, and stepped onto the low platform 
before the 
wheel, wriggling her feet into the cling-foam covering. They were 
travelling by the Road of the Harmonious Spheres, one of a class 
of roads 
known generally as rolling roads. If she closed her eyes, she 
could almost 
see the illustration in her New Aquarius. A crowned figure, young, 
male, 
wearing an old-fashioned version of the usual Hegemonic loose coat 
and 
trousers under an even more archaic breastplate, balanced on the 
top of a 
massive sphere that seemed to contain the shadowy image of an 
orrery. The 
figure's breastplate was badged with a living eye; he held in his 
right 
hand a short, spindle-shaped wand, and in his left an open book 
from which 
rose drops of fire. Behind the central figure was a city wall and 
a
cluster of figures in magi's robes, all of whom pointed in 
amazement to a 
sky that, though filled with clouds, showed sun and moon and 
stars. 
Remembering the image, Silence smiled, but her smile faded 
quickly. The 
Harmonious Spheres was a crowded road -- that was one of the 
meanings of 
the impossible sky -- and the symbols involved were very powerful 
ones. 
The pilot's Art was essentially a passive skill, manipulating 
already 
related symbols; a magus's training made it very difficult to 

concentrate 
on the voidmarks, without drawing in all the other symbols and 
Forms that 
existed in potential in purgatory. If she were to become 
distracted on a 
rolling road, where the wand and the book and the eye all warned 
of the 
need for precise control.... 
Silence shook herself. She had met and dealt with the multiple 
symbols 
crowding the Earth-road, and there were no more seductive images 
in either 
the pilots' or the magi's hieroglypicae. She would not allow 
herself to 
become distracted. The control yoke moved gently under her hands, 
and she 
realized abruptly that the stars had vanished, leaving only their 
brilliant coronae scattered across the sky. She glanced down, and 
saw her 
bones gleaming through suddenly translucent flesh, caught in a 
ruby web of 
blood vessels. 
"We're almost at the twelfth," Balthasar's voice said in her ears. 
"I'm ready to take control," Silence answered automatically. 
"Switching to the upper register," Balthasar said. "Now, Julie." 
"Switching," Chase Mago answered, but the word was swallowed in 
the sudden 
surge of music. The keelsong split and broadened, individual tones 
momentarily audible, cascading up and down the scale until they 
merged 
into a new and greater song. 
Silence gasped, the sound vibrating in her bones, and then that 
sensation 
merged into a new, less pleasant feeling. Recusante seemed 

suddenly to be 
rushing forward at an impossible speed, as though the pilot and 
the ship 
and everything in it were balancing on the rim of a moving wheel, 
running 
at breakneck speed without ever moving forward. Silence swore, 
remembering 
tardily that this was a rolling road, and sought her voidmarks. 
For the first instant, as she had feared, a cloud of symbols 
blocked her 
vision, crowding out the true signs. She forced herself to look 
down at 
the tincture-treated decking, murmuring the first cantrips. She 
could hear 
the keelsong changing, sliding out of true, but ignored it for the 
moment, 
forcing herself to recover the pilot's disciplined vision. Then, 
at last, 
she looked up. 
The last coronae had vanished, and she was surrounded by the 
images of 
purgatory. On all sides, the cloudy sky of the New Aquarius's 
drawing 
surrounded them, spangled with its impossible sun and stars and 
multiphased moon, but she barely noticed those minor marks. Ahead 
and 
slightly above swung the central image, only vaguely like an 
orrery, seven 
huge rings swinging in self-contradictory orbits around a single 
gleaming 
axis. Recusante was falling toward one of those whizzing rings, 
and the 
sensation of movement, of unbalanced speed, increased as they came 
closer 
to it. 
Silence swallowed hard, fighting back the impulse to swerve away 
from the 

ring. She touched the control yoke gently, easing Recusante onto a 
course 
that would bring her keel down onto that speeding ring. The 
dissonance 
eased perceptibly, but the speeding sensation increased. It was 
unreal, 
Silence knew, as unreal as the apparent increase in speed she felt 
when a 
ship left purgatory, but still unsettling. Recusante settled 
toward the 
approaching ring, her movement relative to the image 
disorientingly slow, 
completely unrelated to the sense of rapid movement. The 
discontinuity 
made it very hard to judge the approach, and Silence could feel 
her palms 
growing sweaty on the control yoke. If she missed -- and wasn't 
thrown off 
into the dissonances that flanked every star road, marked here by 
the 
astronomical bodies hovering in the clouds -- she could probably 
meet the 
next ring.... But it would still be an unbearably amateurish 
mistake. 
The ring swung closer, and Silence swung the ship so that the keel 
would 
intersect the image first. She could no longer see the image, now 
lying 
underfoot, but she was tuned to its movements. She held her 
breath, 
waiting. Now, she thought, just... now. 
Even as she thought the word, the sense of movement stopped. In 
the same 
moment the keelsong changed, a new note sounding in its music, and 
the 
clouds to either side began to move, swirling in a great vortex 
around the 
suddenly stationary starship. Silence let out her breath with a 

great sigh 
of relief. The first part of the road had been successfully 
negotiated; 
the rest would be easy. 
This was the stable part of the Road of the Harmonious Spheres; a 
starship 
could lie here, static, carried around and around by the vortex 
that was 
represented by the revolving ring, until the elemental water that 
powered 
its harmonium was exhausted and the ship fell from purgatory. The 
ship 
still had to travel "up" the ring to the axis itself, and then 
down the 
axis to its midpoint, before it could leave purgatory. Carefully, 
Silence 
pulled back on the control yoke, lifting Recusante from its stable 
place 
at the heart of the ring. The keelsong changed, protesting, but 
the 
sensation of movement returned. Slowly, very slowly, the ship 
began to 
move along the ring, heading toward the axis. 
Silence wasn't sure how long she'd stood there, the clouds and 
stars 
spinning dizzily around her, when Balthasar appeared on the 
bridge. 
"Shall I spell you?" he asked. "Clock's changed twice, but I think 
we've 
still got some time before you make the shift." 
Silence glanced along the ring ahead of them, suddenly aware of 
cramped 
muscles and an urgent pressure in her bladder. Real time passed 
irregularly in purgatory, but subjective time remained constant, 
and 
demanding. They were perhaps halfway to the axis. "We should 

have," she 
said aloud. "Thanks, Denis, it's all yours." 
Balthasar stepped onto the platform behind her, so close that his 
body was 
pressed against her back, and reached around her to set his hands 
on the 
control yoke. The bones and arteries showed clearly beneath his 
transparent skin, the knob of an old break starkly visible in the 
bones 
just above his left wrist. She avoided looking at his face, 
knowing what 
she would see. 
"I've got it," the Delian said. 
"All yours," Silence said again, and released the wheel, ducking 
under the 
other's arms. Balthasar was a good pilot; she did not glance back 
as she 
let herself slide down the ladders to the ship's main deck. She 
went into 
her own cabin to relieve herself, then returned to the main 
corridor, 
carefully latching the door behind her. She stood for a moment, 
working 
her shoulders, trying to shrug away some of the stiffness. I'm out 
of 
shape, she thought. The Road of the Harmonious Spheres wasn't a 
particularly long one -- a little more than nine minutes, real 
time, but 
only four subjective hours -- but it had been some months since 
she'd 
flown. She laced her fingers together and pushed them straight out 
in 
front of her, feeling the tightness in her arms and shoulders. At 
least by 
the time this trip is over I'll be back in shape, she thought. 
I'll have 
done enough piloting for that, if nothing else. 

 The corridor was very quiet, Chase Mago cloistered in the engine 
room, 
Isambard locked in his cabin, dreaming through the passage. 
Silence 
glanced down the corridor toward the orange safety light ringing 
the 
engine room hatch, and felt again the strange, oppressive quiet. 
She 
frowned, but knew this was not the time to investigate. Instead, 
she 
pulled herself back up the ladders, pausing momentarily on the 
lower 
bridge to check the chronometer. It had ticked once since she had 
left the 
bridge: plenty of time. 
She swung herself off the ladder on the upper bridge, hurriedly 
scanning 
the voidmarks. They were closer to the end of the ring and the 
turn down 
the axis, but there was still plenty of time to make the 
changeover. She 
said, "Did Isambard bring any equipment that needed special 
shielding, or 
anything like that?" 
Balthasar did not turn, but Silence thought his shoulders 
tightened under 
the clinging shipsuit. "Not that I know of," the Delian said. 
"Why?" 
"There's -- well, a funny feeling down on the main deck," Silence 
answered. "Nothing serious, but it feels like a damper, or 
something like 
that." 
This time Balthasar did shrug. "I don't know," he said, and his 
tone made 
it clear that he didn't particularly care. "You want to take her 

again?" 
So much for that, Silence thought. If the Delian didn't think her 
feeling 
was important, she would let it go, at least for now. Though it 
did seem 
odd, given Balthasar's usual near paranoia.... She pushed the 
thought 
aside, and said, "If you're ready." 
Without waiting for Balthasar's nod, she stepped onto the platform 
behind 
him, reaching around to take the wheel in her right hand. "I've 
got it, " 
she said. 
Balthasar nodded, and slipped aside. Silence put her other hand on 
the 
yoke, working her feet back into the clingfoam. 
"I wouldn't worry about it," Balthasar said. From his voice, he 
was 
already on the ladder, but Silence did not look back. "It's 
probably not 
anything important." 
"Thanks," Silence said, but the Delian was gone. Sighing, Silence 
put 
aside the minor problem, and turned her attention to the 
voidmarks. 
Recusante was almost up to the axis, its silvery column almost 
twice as 
wide as the ship's extended stabilizers. The point at which the 
ring met 
the axis gleamed brilliantly, throwing off clouds of sparks. 
Silence made 
a face at that, but she could see that the real point of 
intersection was 
clear of interference. The starship inched its way up the ring, 

seeming to 
slow as it approached the axis. That, too, was deception, but for 
once it 
worked in the pilot's favor. Silence took her time studying the 
approach, 
letting her hands rest loosely on the wheel. Almost, she thought. 
And... 
now. 
She swung the yoke hard, pulling Recusante down and to the right. 
The 
keelsong rose, a stressed note at its core, and then abruptly 
steadied. 
Recusante rode in a tube of silver, its cylindrical walls 
reflecting the 
glow of the starship's keel. Silence gave a sigh of relief. They 
were 
almost through. Already, she could see the black disk that marked 
the end 
of the road, could feel the false acceleration that meant the ship 
was 
falling away from purgatory. 
And then they were through, the keelsong shifting pitch again, 
back to the 
normal register. Silence locked the control yoke without waiting 
for 
Balthasar's order -- she could tell from the way the ship handled 
that the 
Delian had it fully under control -- then let herself slide down 
the 
ladder to the lower bridge. 
The displays were busy already, Meng Approach flashing multiple 
audio and 
visual instructions, and Silence dropped quickly into her couch, 
reaching 
for the communications keyboard. Balthasar, still busy fine-tuning 
the 
harmonium, gave her a grateful glance. 

 "We want a parking orbit, right?" Silence said, her fingers 
already busy 
filtering out the unnecessary input. "Meng, or the Anaskazeion?" 
"The Anaskazeion," Balthasar answered. 
Silence nodded, and keyed in the commands for the proper displays. 
The 
image in the Ficinan model swam momentarily, planets shifting 
fractionally 
in relation to each other, then steadied. An instant later, the 
projected 
course appeared, a blue line running along the edge of the system, 
just 
skirting the flaring dissonance that followed a massive gas giant. 
A light 
was flashing on the communications board, indicating that someone 
was 
querying their automatic identification, but she ignored it. It 
was nice 
not to have to worry about hitting the override in time. 
"DRV Recusante, this is Anaskazeion Approach Control," a deep 
voice said a 
moment later. "You are presently inbound for the Anaskazeion Ring. 
Do you 
wish dock or orbit facilities?" 
"Anaskazeion Approach, this is Recusante," Silence answered. "We 
acknowledge we're in your lane, and would like to request orbit 
facilities." 
There was a pause -- time/distance lag more than anything else, 
Silence 
guessed -- before Anaskazeion answered. "Very good, Recusante. 
There are 
free spaces in sector 246. 29. Please stand by to receive precise 
coordinates." 

"Standing by," Silence answered, and keyed the recorder. There was 
a
whine, and numbers flashed across the right-hand viewscreen. 
Balthasar 
reached across hastily to freeze the output, then touched a second 
set of 
keys to transfer the information to the musonar and the Ficinan 
model. 
"Not bad," he said, and nodded toward the musonar display. 
"Anaskazeion Approach, we acknowledge receipt of the coordinates, 
"
Silence said automatically, and barely heard the deep-voiced 
response. She 
was staring at the musonar, enthralled. Like all star-travellers, 
she had 
heard of the Anaskazeion ring, but the stories had not prepared 
her for 
the reality. Meng was a predominantly agricultural world, every 
meter of 
its amazingly fertile soil given over to growing something. Rather 
than 
waste valuable ground on a true starport and all its facilities, 
Meng's 
governors had built the Anaskazeion in what had once been an 
asteroid 
belt. That subplanetary debris was long gone, transformed into the 
hulls 
of permanent stations. In its place, a network of stations and 
fixpoints 
circled the planet, providing the star-travellers with every 
conceivable 
comfort while lighters ferried cargo to and from the planet's 
surface. 
"Stop down to half power, Julie," Balthasar said. "Local 
regulations." 
"Stopping down to half power," Chase Mago repeated, and the 

harmonium's 
sound faded. 
Silence stared into the musonar display. She could see why the 
local 
authorities wanted ships to mute their harmonia: already the 
screen was 
flecked with the dull bronze dots that indicated active keels, 
interspersed with the brighter lights of the parking beacons. 
"That's where we're headed," Balthasar said, and lifted one hand 
from his 
keyboards to touch one of the left-hand buoys. 
Silence nodded and leaned back in her couch, watching the Delian 
bring the 
little ship in through the crowded lanes. Balthasar was a good 
systems 
pilot, she thought idly, much better than she herself was, though 
she was 
the better starpilot. At last the Delian brought them alongside 
the 
fixpoint, and cut the harmonium. He touched keys on the 
communications 
board, and the fixpoint's anchor nodes glowed, creating a 
newtonian field 
that drew Recusante gently in toward the fixpoint and held it 
steady. At 
the same time a power cable unfurled, probing awkwardly for the 
ship's 
intake jack. There was a sharp click, more felt than heard, and a 
new set 
of lights sprang to life on the environmental display. 
"DRV Recusante, we show that you have docked," Anaskazeion 
Approach said 
cheerfully. "Welcome to the ring." 
"We are docked," Silence agreed. "Thanks, Approach." She cut the 
channel 

and glanced at Balthasar, who looked away. 
"Shall we go below?" he said, without waiting for her to speak. 
"There's 
some things we need to talk about." 
Oh, really? Silence thought, all the vague suspicions of the past 
few days 
crystallizing into the conviction that Balthasar was up to 
something, 
probably no good. "Sure," she said aloud, and unfastened the 
safety 
webbing. Before she could push herself out of the couch, the 
intercom 
buzzed. 
"Denis," Chase Mago began, his voice dangerously quiet, and 
Balthasar cut 
him off hastily. 
"Don't panic, Julie, I'll be right down." 
"What the hell are you up to?" Silence demanded, but Balthasar was 
already 
sliding down the ladder, and pretended not to hear. The pilot 
cursed him, 
and followed. 
Chase Mago was standing in the doorway of the common room, his 
face 
thunderous. "I hope to hell you have a good explanation, Denis," 
he said, 
and Balthasar spread his hands nervously. 
"Of course," he began, but his voice faded under the engineer's 
furious 
glare. 
Silence took a deep breath, wondering just what the Delian had 
done this 

time, and pushed past Chase Mago into the common room. Three 
people were 
waiting there, one in a magus's black. Silence barely noticed 
Isambard's 
familiar figure, her attention going instead to the other two. 
Marcinik, 
as striking as ever in the Thousand's undress black, stood at 
attention 
behind the room's tallest oilchair. In that chair sat a small, 
veiled 
figure: Aili, the Princess Royal. 
Chapter 3 
SILENCE TURNED SLOWLY, UNTIL SHE WAS FACING BALthasar. "You stupid 
son of 
a bitch. What the hell are you playing at?" 
Balthasar spread his hands again, grinning uneasily. Chase Mago 
eyed him 
dubiously, one fist clenched as though he was restraining himself 
from 
hitting the smaller man. "It's like this," the Delian began, and 
Silence 
cut him off. 
"Don't give me any of your bullshit stories, Denis, or I'll take 
you 
apart." 
"I'll help," Chase Mago said. 
"Silence." Aili's cool voice cut through Balthasar's stammering 
answer. 
"This isn't entirely Captain Balthasar's doing." 
Silence turned, goaded, but bit back her angry answer at the last 
possible 
moment. "You wouldn't be here without him." 

"That's true." Aili rose gracefully from her chair, and came to 
stand 
between the combatants. Marcinik, with an obvious effort, remained 
where 
he was. Out of the corner of her eye, Silence could see Isambard 
watching 
with detached interest, and his very detachment steadied her. 
"So why are you here, your Serenity?" the pilot asked. 
"Because of my father's proclamation," Aili answered simply. 
Silence frowned, and Chase Mago said, "Proclamation?" 
"And, of course, the charter," Aili said. She turned her veiled 
head so 
that she was looking directly at Silence. "My half-brother is 
merely 
competent: I am both more capable than he, and the more legitimate 
heir. " 
The veil hid her expression completely, but there was a note of 
humor in 
her voice. "I had thought you would sympathize with me, Silence. 
After 
all, if you can become a magus, why should I be denied mere 
political 
power?" 
Silence looked away. There was some justice in the Princess 
Royal's words 
-- but that, Silence thought, is not my affair. We only just 
managed to 
get the Hegemon on our side; we can't afford to antagonize him, 
not now. 
And won't all the authorities be looking for a runaway princess? 
She 
opened her mouth to ask, but Chase Mago spoke first, a wealth of 
bitterness in his voice. 
"I thought you hated politics, Denis." 

 Balthasar shrugged, obviously torn between his habitual reticence 
and the 
desire to brag about his cleverness. 
Silence said, "He just likes to make trouble." She turned back to 
Aili. 
"Proclamation or not, your Serenity, we're already under charter 
to your 
brother." 
"Half-brother," Aili corrected. "And the terms of the proclamation 
give 
precedence to persons who make the search themselves." 
"Why would anyone do that?" Chase Mago asked, apparently 
distracted by the 
odd condition. 
Marcinik's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "His most serene 
Majesty was 
trying to get rid of a rival known for his adventurous spirit." 
"Oh." The engineer nodded thoughtfully. "It makes a perverse sort 
of 
sense." 
"Be that as it may," Silence said, "I don't want anything to do 
with 
this." 
"They're already aboard," Balthasar said, with another nervous 
grin. "You 
can hardly put them off." 
"Oh, can't I?" Silence said grimly. 
The Delian's smile vanished. "Now wait just a goddamn minute," he 
said. 
"Silence, you can't." 

 "Why not?" Silence retorted. "Look, aside from the fact that 
helping them 
is going to get us into serious trouble with this hegemon -- 
trouble we 
can't afford -- they'll be nothing but a liability once we reach 
Earth. We 
don't have papers for them --" She broke off, seeing Balthasar's 
almost 
embarrassed gesture, and continued, controlling her temper with an 
effort, 
"All right, you got them papers. Still, they're not startravellers, 
not 
even Marcinit; they'll give us away the minute they set foot in 
the Pale. 
Especially Aili. She's a woman of the Thousand -- a princess of 
the royal 
blood, for God's sake. She'll be nothing but a liability. We can't 
do it, 
Denis." 
"You sound just like Nils Og," Balthasar said, and Silence 
suppressed the 
urge to hit him. Og had been the most vocal critic of female 
pilots, even 
Misthians. "Take a good look at her. Does she look like a 
liability?" 
Silence glanced at the Princess Royal, sobered in spite of herself 
by the 
Delian's words. For the first time, Aili's clothes registered 
properly. 
The Princess Royal was wearing the shapeless coat and trousers 
favored by 
the poorer citizens of the Hegemony, and her face was covered, as 
Hegemonic law required. However, instead of a veil, she wore the 
turban 
and draped facecloth of a member of the Bethlemites. Silence 
raised an 
eyebrow, but had to admit it was a good choice. The Bethlemite 

sect held, 
among other odd beliefs, that star travel, and especially the 
passage 
through purgatory, revealed a man's essential nakedness too 
clearly, and 
therefore kept all parts of their bodies hidden beneath tinctured 
clothing. It was also a small sect, and one whose members kept 
very much 
to themselves. Glancing back at Aili, Silence saw the Princess 
Royal had 
even acquired the form-fitted gloves. 
"All right," the pilot said, more calmly, to Balthasar, "you found 
her a 
good disguise." 
"No." For the first time, Aili's voice held a hint of anger. "I 
chose the 
disguise, Silence. I planned this. Don't insult me that way 
again." 
Silence hesitated, unwillingly remembering a similar conversation 
she had 
had with Aili in the Women's Palace. Aili had accused her of 
believing 
that women -- or at least other women -- really were inferior. It 
wasn't 
true then, Silence thought, and it isn't true now. We just can't 
afford to 
help her. It wasn't much of an excuse, and she knew it. Aili's 
first words 
rang in her ears: If you can become a magus, why should I be 
denied mere 
political power? 
Balthasar said, "It's true. They approached me with the idea." 
"That must've been something to see," Silence said bitterly, then 
shook 
her head, gesturing to brush the words away. "I'm sorry, Denis, I 

didn't 
mean it." She took a deep breath, and turned to face Aili. "And I 
apologize to you. I was upset, I didn't mean any insult." 
Aili nodded back, her tone easing somewhat. "We should have 
consulted you 
first, but there was no safe opportunity." 
And you probably knew I'd react this way, too, Silence thought, 
already 
ashamed of herself. She said aloud, "Are you sure his Majesty's 
proclamation will really give you precedence?" 
"Almost completely," Aili answered, and once again the note of 
humor was 
in her voice. "I can think of only one jurist who could break it, 
and I 
think I can pay him well enough to support me." 
"In any case," Marcinik said, "that doesn't have to affect you. 
You will 
have done your duty to his Majesty and to the Princess Royal; you 
can 
argue with some justice that conflicts of precedence aren't your 
affair." 
I doubt it will be that simple, Silence thought, but nodded. "All 
right, I 
know how you vote, Denis. Julie?" 
The big engineer shrugged, a rather bemused expression on his 
face. 
"Unless you want to put them off by force -- and I wouldn't want 
to try it 
with one of the True Thousand -- I don't think we have any 
choice." 
"Isambard?" Silence asked. 
"The political question is immaterial," the older magus answered. 

His 
voice rose abruptly, infused with more passion than any of the 
others had 
heard from him. "But I will see Earth." 
The unexpected vehemence of his words left the others speechless. 
When 
Silence finally spoke, her voice held a new seriousness. "So be 
it. We -- 
all of us -- go to Earth." 
Recusante spent three days in the Anaskazeion, a day longer than 
they had 
originally intended. Silence threw herself into the business of 
plotting a 
course from Meng into the dead roads, star roads that once had led 
to 
worlds destroyed in the Millennial Wars. They were dangerous, 
their 
voidmarks distorted by the destruction of all or part of the end 
system, 
but Wrath-of-God had made use of them on a regular basis, and 
Balthasar 
knew them well. On their previous attempts to reach Earth, they 
had used 
the broken Decelea system as a staging point, but Decelea offered 
no easy 
road to Limyre, the point at which they had chosen to switch to 
the 
portolan system. Two other broken systems, Sebethos and Atrax, 
offered 
decent departure roads, but Balthasar vetoed Atrax on the grounds 
that its 
system was too unstable. After some searching, putting together 
the 
information in Silence's ancient -- pre-War -- copy of the 
starbook The 
Gilded Stairs with Balthasar's knowledge of the dead roads, they 
settled 
on Sebethos, by means of the road listed in The Gilded Stairs as 

the 
Eagle's Flight. 
Balthasar snorted. "We called it the Ganymede Run." 
Silence glanced again at the book lying on the common room table 
in front 
of her, and the delicate miniature filling half the page. Like all 
The 
Gilded Stairs' illustrations, it was a beautiful drawing, yet 
strangely 
disturbing. It showed a fiery river, flames leaping and flowing 
like water 
over a rocky bed. Lean, feral animals prowled along the 
riverbanks, 
seemingly kept in check only by the lapping fires. A bird of prey - 
- an 
eagle, by the road's name, Silence thought -- soared away from 
that fire, 
a naked youth caught in its claws. Looking more closely, Silence 
could see 
more naked figures, all male, all young, formed by the river's 
flames. 
Trust Balthasar and the rest of Wrath-of-God to see that, she 
thought, and 
to find the reference. Aloud, she said, "How much have the marks 
changed?" 
On most of the dead roads, the printed voidmarks were no longer 
accurate, 
distorted by the broken harmonies of the shattered systems. 
Balthasar gave a twisted smile. "The marks haven't really changed, 
it's 
the emotional -- hell, sexual -- effect that's the problem. 
Something in 
the systemic music really touches a nerve." 
Silence nodded, still studying the illustration. Fire was one of 
the most 
common symbols for desire, sexual and otherwise. From the flaming 

river, 
she guessed that the erotic potential had always been implicit in 
the 
voidmarks, though the soaring eagle -- it was rising, not 
stooping, she 
was fairly certain -- suggested that the eroticism had originally 
been 
harnessed and channeled to the control of the starship. She nodded 
again. 
It made sense that the destruction of the object, the road's 
higher goal, 
would allow the unleashed sexuality of the images full play. It 
was 
perhaps a pity that she and Balthasar were the only trained pilots 
aboard, 
she thought. They were both of a nature vulnerable to the 
voidmarks' 
appeal. She shook the thought away irritably. There was not a 
star-traveller alive who didn't know the dangers of uncontrolled 
passions, 
hadn't had the horror stories dinned into him from the first days 
of his 
apprenticeship. It might be an upsetting ride, but hardly an 
impossible 
one. 
"And then, when we get to Limyre, we switch systems," she said, 
and 
reached for the locked carryall that sat beside her chair. She 
touched the 
lockplate, and lifted the lid, drawing out the battered portolan. 
Balthasar nodded. "That strikes me as the tricky part." He 
searched among 
the papers littering the table until he found the oversized 
printout from 
the astrogation console, a two-dimensional drawing of the Ficinan 
model of 
the Limyre system. "Counting in all factors, we should come out of 
purgatory here." One long finger touched a point just outside the 

orbit of 
Limyre's most distant sister, an unnamed gas giant. The Rose 
Worlders had 
probably named it, Silence thought, irrelevantly, but that 
information had 
never made it to the rest of human-settled space. 
"We really need Julie for this," Balthasar said fretfully, and 
Silence 
shrugged. 
"He's got the final adjustments to make, you know that. We'll have 
time to 
go over it again with him, don't worry." 
"I know," Balthasar muttered, then shook himself, returning his 
attention 
to the system map. "So, as soon as we hit the twelfth, Julie lets 
the 
harmonium stop down naturally --" 
"Thus hopefully making us look like a normal flare," Silence 
finished 
impatiently. "Limyre system's supposed to be full of them." 
"I hope that damn supercargo was right about that," Balthasar 
said. He 
sighed, and looked up. "After that, it's all yours." 
Silence nodded, not entirely happily, staring at the unopened 
porto-lan. 
No one had used the portolan system since the third century of 
star 
travel; between that time and her own lay both centuries and the 
destruction of the Millennial Wars. She herself had never heard of 
the 
portolan system until she had stumbled across a photoflashed copy 
of an 
ancient pamphlet, bound in with half a dozen like it, which the 
magi had 

collected as a curiosity without recognizing what it contained. 
No, to be 
fair, Silence thought, they simply didn't have the knowledge to 
give it 
context. Even being a pilot might not have been enough for me to 
see it 
could take us to Earth. But she owned a copy of a pre-War 
starbook, one 
that contained both the Earth-road and the closely guarded roads 
that led 
among the Rose Worlds. The three things together had been enough 
to show 
her a new road to Earth. 
Sighing, she opened the portolan, turning the pages one by one 
until she 
found the drawing she was looking for. The portolan system was 
totally 
unlike the normal method of star travel, using the voidmarks only 
as 
signposts, rather than the potent symbols they had later become. 
In normal 
star travel, the pilot actually manipulated the voidmarks; there 
was a 
true interaction between pilot, ship, and symbol. Using a 
portolan.... 
Silence forced herself to look again at the double-page drawing 
spread out 
before her. It showed Limyre and environs, the planet and its sun 
at the 
center, lines -- called landlines for some unknown reason -- 
radiating out 
in all directions from that central point. Marks, some familiar as 
parts 
of the more complex images that made up the voidmarks, others 
completely 
unknown, lay scattered across the page as well. Each mark had its 
own 
smaller halo of landlines, and each line was carefully labelled 
with its 

harmonic bearing. Silence traced her planned course, along one 
line from 
Limyre to a mark shaped like a triple rose, then along a second 
line to a 
walled city, along a third to the goose-necked man, and so on, 
until at 
last they reached Earth. Following those lines would depend at 
least as 
much on matching the listed harmonic bearings as it would on her 
steering 
from one mark to the next; that was the reason Chase Mago was 
making final 
adjustments to the harmonium, to be sure its music was pure to the 
full 
nine places. 
She sighed, still staring at the map. Theoretically, this should 
all work 
as planned, but she could not forget that most of her assumptions 
were no 
more than that, guesses based on the pamphlet she had read and the 
structure of the portolan itself. If she were wrong.... She put 
the image 
of disaster from her mind with an effort. If I'm wrong, she told 
herself, 
we will have to resort to Isambard's plan, and try to force the 
engines. 
That's all. 
"Well, now." That was Chase Mago's voice, tired but triumphant. 
Silence 
looked up to find the engineer smiling down at her and Balthasar. 
"Everything's finished," Chase Mago went on. "It's all done, and 
we're 
ready to go." 
They left the Anaskazeion the morning of the next day, ship's 
time, 
wanting to be sure everyone was well rested before attempting the 

passage 
into the Rose Worlds. Ostensibly, they were outbound for Caire, a 
Fringe 
World noted for its resorts, and Departure Control's final "good 
voyage" 
was so wistful that Silence felt vaguely guilty for disappointing 
him. It 
was only a short run-up to the twelfth of heaven, but Silence took 
her 
place on the upper bridge early, remembering what Balthasar had 
said about 
the Eagle's Flight. 
"Standing by to switch to the upper register," Balthasar's voice 
announced 
in her headset, and Silence rested both hands on the control yoke, 
her 
thumb poised over the lock. All around, the dome was fading, the 
stars' 
coronae shining through its metallic shadow. 
"Ready above," she said. 
"Engine room ready," Chase Mago said. 
There was a momentary pause -- Silence could almost see Balthasar 
watching 
his readouts -- and then the Delian said, "Now." 
If the engineer acknowledged the order, his words were lost in the 
sudden 
surge of music. The last wisps of the dome went transparent, as 
though 
blown away by the wave of sound. Silence smiled, caught in spite 
of 
herself by the soaring harmonies. Then she shook herself, almost 
angrily, 
and sought her voidmarks. 
The feeling hit her first, a wave of absolute lust stronger than 

anything 
she had ever felt before. She gasped, body tingling, but forced 
herself to 
ignore the sensations. The voidmarks whirled around her, refused 
to steady 
into any familiar image. She swore, then cursed again as she 
realized 
she'd used a sexual image. The flaming river of The Gilded Stairs' 
drawing 
took shaky form ahead of her, but she could not seem to 
concentrate on it 
enough to make it come clear. Bodies swirled up from its shadow 
like 
leaping flames, momentarily distinct, inviting, then spun away 
into the 
fire. A single figure swam before her, young, male, its muscles 
sharply 
molded. It reached for her, laughing, even as it dissolved in a 
shower of 
liquid flame. Its face had been vaguely familiar, but it vanished 
before 
she could capture the memory. 
A second plume of flame rose from the fire, shaped itself into a 
new 
figure, instantly recognizable. It was the form of her first 
lover, the 
fire sharply outlining every curve and hollow of that familiar 
body, 
gleaming on the flat planes of chest and belly. There had been 
nothing 
between them except sex -- he had not believed she was a star 
pilot, and 
she had not bothered to enlighten him, leaving him willingly when 
Black 
Dolphin left the planet -- but she still remembered with aching 
precision 
the explosive delights of their lovemaking. He beckoned, smiling, 
Silence 
shivered, but looked away. 

 This is unreal, she told herself, it is illusion. He was -- he is 
nothing 
to you. The words were powerless against the remembered passion. 
More 
shapes crowded up behind the smiling figure, familiar faces 
forming in the 
flames. Every man she had ever seen and desired was there, each 
one 
perfected, polished and completed, by years of daydream, fantasy 
embellishing experience. I never slept with you, with any of you 
but one, 
she thought, but the wordless challenge rang hollow in her mind. 
It did 
not matter; it was not experience but imagination that betrayed 
her now. 
The keelsong changed, the spreading dissonance cutting through the 
haze of 
emotion. The voidmarks cleared, the eagle hovering above the 
flaming 
river, but there was barely time for that vision to register: 
Recusante 
was falling toward the river, its apparent speed increasing with 
every 
second. Silence's mouth set in a grim line, and she pulled up 
sharply on 
the control yoke, fixing her attention on the keelsong. She would 
allow no 
one -- nothing -- to distract her from the ship. The dissonance 
eased, but 
as it eased the memories returned, the figures even more desirable 
than 
before. 
Something more was needed, something stronger than the generalized 
protections of the pilots' cantrips and her professional instincts 
-- 
something intrinsic to the road itself. Holding her breath, 
Silence fixed 

her eyes on the tinctured decking and eased the control yoke 
forward 
again, steering by the keelsong alone. The dissonance rose 
slightly, and 
Silence levelled the ship again, knowing the keel could not endure 
the 
dissonance for long without going out of tune. There was a voice 
in her 
headset, Chase Mago's voice, but she could not spare the 
concentration to 
untangle the words. 
"I need time," she said, and was never afterwards certain that she 
had 
spoken aloud. The voice in the headset ceased, and she lifted her 
head 
cautiously, looking at the voidmarks. 
The dissonance gave her something real to cling to, to use against 
the 
haze of memory that threatened to overwhelm her. The destruction 
of 
Sebethos had distorted the central figure, so that the eagle no 
longer 
rose, but stooped toward the flames, a naked youth dropping from 
slack 
claws as it sought new prey. On the false horizon, a tori gate 
still 
spanned the river, its once pure colors faded into greys. She took 
a deep 
breath, calming herself, putting aside the twin pressures of 
desire and 
memory. This was the Eagle's Flight -- but that symbolism, of 
mastered 
passion, of royalty and freedom and conquest, provided little help 
now. Or 
Ganymede's Run.... That name triggered a memory from her studies 
on 
Solitudo Hermae. First the shepherd, the seducing male, and then 
its 

related symbols: the rainbow-clad shepherdess, its feminine 
equivalent; 
the huntress, its feminine antithesis; the empress, its opposite 
and its 
opposition; and finally the seeress, personified wisdom, absolute 
negation 
of everything for which the Ganymede-figure stood. She was 
conventionally 
shown armored, armed with the sickle of the moon and the flaming 
disk of 
the sun. 
Without conscious thought, Silence reached for that image, 
abandoning a 
pilot's detachment to shape the symbol out of the potentiality of 
purgatory. She drew it to herself, surrounding herself with the 
symbol and 
its meanings, clothing herself in the seeress's armor. The 
compelling 
desire faded, but she was surrounded by too many symbols, each one 
triggering an explosion of related images. She controlled that 
with an 
effort, banishing all but the necessary images of the star road 
and the 
seeress who was her talisman, balancing herself between the power 
of a 
magus and the art of a pilot. 
The dissonance wailed around her, and she knew she could wait no 
longer. 
Cautiously, afraid of losing her precarious balance, she pulled 
back on 
the yoke, lifting Recusante back into the proper road. The 
dissonance, 
faded, and she braced herself for the resurgence of the memoryfigures. 
The first one rose, scar-faced, feral, a pilot she had worshipped 
during 
her apprenticeship and for years after. He was exactly as she 
remembered 

him from her daydreams, the cruel mouth relaxed into a smile of 
welcome, 
yet the memory lacked the demanding sexuality of the other 
figures, was 
nothing more than a memory, Silence lifted her eyes to the tori 
gate. 
It was very close now, and already Silence could feel the first 
subtle 
increase in Recusante's apparent speed as the ship began to fall 
away from 
the twelfth of heaven. More figures rose from the flames, the same 
familiar shapes, but this time they held no power over her. 
Recusante's 
speed increased still further, and then they were through, the 
note of the 
harmonium dropping perceptibly. Silence glanced over her shoulder, 
and saw 
the seeress's armored figure framed in the afterimage of the tori 
gate. In 
the instant before the image vanished altogether, the pilot 
thought she 
saw her own face beneath the shadowing helmet. 
"I have control," Balthasar's voice said in her ears. 
"You have it," Silence answered, and heard how flat her own voice 
sounded. 
She locked her wheel, but instead of climbing down the ladder to 
the lower 
bridge, she seated herself at the base of the yoke, drawing 
herself into a 
huddled ball. The passion created by the star road had gone sour, 
leaving 
her stale and bitter. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, 
trying 
to put aside the feeling. It was all unreal, she told herself 
again, all 
illusion and therefore unimportant. It did not feel unimportant, 
and she 

was profoundly grateful that the others had not seen the road's 
images. 
Aili and Marcinik and Isambard were still in their cabins, locked 
in 
drugged, dreamless sleep; both Balthasar and Chase Mago would see 
their 
own desires in the fiery river. I wonder why I didn't see them 
among all 
the rest, Silence thought, but the question answered itself almost 
at 
once. The Eagle's Flight showed purposeless passion, desire 
unmoderated by 
any other influence; her marriage had become passionate, but it 
was 
founded on far more complex needs and desires. 
"Silence?" Balthasar's voice held the same dulled quality as her 
own, and 
the pilot wondered momentarily just what the Delian had seen. She 
put the 
thought firmly aside: she did not want to know, any more than she 
wanted 
her own fantasies to be known. 
"Oh my way," she answered, and pushed herself up off the clinging 
platform. 
Balthasar was leaning back in his couch, one hand resting lightly 
on the 
keyboard that gave the pilot limited control of the harmonium, the 
other 
fiddling with the controls of the Ficinan model. He looked up as 
Silence 
took her place beside him, but glanced away before she met his 
eyes. 
Silence thought she recognized her own embarrassed guilt in his 
somber 
expression. 
"How're we doing?" Silence asked. For both their sakes, she kept 

her voice 
businesslike, focusing all her attention on the readouts and the 
triple 
screen. There was a momentary pause before Balthasar answered, and 
the 
pilot hoped she was doing the right thing. 
"So far, everything's according to plan," the Delian answered at 
last, and 
gestured to the musonar. "Nothing's stirring." 
Silence nodded, careful to watch the screens instead of the other. 
The 
main pitch indicator was slipping down the lower quarter of the 
scale, the 
harmonium's note already well below human hearing, matching the 
music 
emanating from the system's outer planet. At this scale the 
Ficinan model 
showed only the wash of music from the inner planets. The musonar, 
set at 
its greatest range, showed a few tiny flecks of bronze, the 
reflections of 
starships' keels, but all of them were well within Limyre's 
envelope. 
"That's good." 
Balthasar nodded back, then darted another glance in her 
direction. "I --" 
He made a face then, as though he couldn't find the words, and 
settled 
for, "It's a bad road, that one." 
Silence shrugged uncomfortably, not certain quite how she should 
respond, 
but knowing something needed to be said. "You gave me fair 
warning," she 
said, and held out her hand, not quite daring to look at him. 
After a 
moment, Balthasar grasped it tightly, but said nothing. Silence 

glanced 
sideways, and saw the other's face shut against her, as it had 
been on 
Wrath-of-God, and on the transport. She said, slowly, "It's a 
road, 
Denis." 
Balthasar didn't move for a long moment, but then one corner of 
his mouth 
twitched upward in a grimace that was something less than a smile. 
Still, 
from him that was enough. Silence relaxed a little, but did not 
release 
his hand, grateful for the chaste warmth. They sat unmoving, 
linked hands 
resting lightly on the globe of the Ficinan display. The pitch 
indicator 
crept toward the base line. 
Chase Mago's voice finally broke the quiet. "I show that we're 
there." 
Balthasar pulled his hand away without the smallest expression of 
apology 
and reached for the intercom. 
Silence leaned sideways to get a better look at the pitch 
indicators. The 
main indicator line hovered at the base; the numerical readings 
below, 
each covering a quarter of the scale, showed three rows of zeros 
and a 
single number. "I show a match to four places," she said, and 
Balthasar 
nodded. 
"Our readout shows correct to four," he said into his headset 
microphone. 
"Five, now," Silence interrupted. 

 "To five places," Balthasar corrected. "There's no traffic out 
here. Do 
you want to wait for the full nine?" 
There was a long pause. Silence stared at the pitch indicators. A 
nine-point match would be almost perfect, but it had taken them 
almost an 
hour to reach the acceptable five places, and the indicator showed 
no 
desire to move again. The longer they stayed hi mundane space, the 
more 
chance there was that a Rose Worlder ship would see them.... 
"I wouldn't risk it," Chase Mago said abruptly. "It's going to 
take us 
another two hours or better to run up to heaven Silence's way. I'd 
rather 
go now, and take my time matching the landline." 
"Good enough," Balthasar said. "We'll go now." He glanced at 
Silence, the 
familiar nervous grin on his face. "Well, what's the first line, 
pilot?" 
Silence lifted the portolan onto the arms of the couch, opening it 
to the 
marked pages that showed the Limyre system. She had laid out the 
course a 
dozen times already, but even so, she traced the chosen line with 
her 
finger, from the system edge to the first mark, before replying. 
"The 
setting is rho five, sol seven over five, mi octavo, tau six-threeone." 
"Rho five, sol seven-fifths, mi octavo, and tau six-three-one," 
Chase Mago 
repeated. In the background, Silence could hear clicking noises as 
the 

engineer adjusted the harmonium's limiting stops. "Rise?" 
Silence glanced again at the chain of symbols, looking for a 
single number 
printed in red. "Eight-zero slash seven." 
"Eight-zero over seven," Chase Mago said. He took a deep breath, 
the noise 
of it clearly audible in the headsets. "We're ready to go, bridge. 
" 
Balthasar looked toward Silence, still with that nervous smile on 
his 
face. The pilot nodded, holding her breath, and Balthasar said, 
"Go." 
For a long moment, it seemed as though nothing had happened, and 
Silence 
clasped her hands tightly in her lap. To be wrong now, after 
everything, 
would be more than she could stand. Then, very faintly, she felt 
the first 
note of the adjusted keelsong, a note so deep it trembled just at 
the edge 
of hearing. She sighed, and heard Balthasar let out his breath in 
an 
explosive gasp. 
"Well, at least the tuning works," he said aloud. 
Silence nodded, still listening to the unfamiliar song. This was a 
new 
method to her, to all of them, even though it dated in actuality 
from the 
very earliest days of star travel. It had been the great starfaring 
guilds, the Leading Star, the Adventurine, and later the Cor Tauri 
and Num 
Sessa, who had developed the modern harmonia with their multiple, 
multi-throated pipes, and the flexible tuning systems that let a 

ship go 
directly from the lifting sequence, the harmony that countered the 
music 
of the planetary core, to the music that would take them to the 
edge of 
the systemic envelope and finally beyond the twelfth of heaven. 
Originally, the harmonium had been a crude instrument, with single 
pipes 
and only a few stops with which to control them; star travel had 
been a 
long, multi-stage process. The ship left the planet, then paused 
in orbit 
to retune to the systemic notes; it reached the edge of the 
system, and 
stopped to retune to the celestial harmony. Reaching purgatory had 
been a 
matter of copying the natural pattern of a harmonic flare, not 
creating 
and controlling an artificially determined music. At least that 
should 
work to our advantage, Silence thought. Limyre's musonar shouldn't 
be able 
to tell us from a normal flare. 
She sighed, and glanced again at the portolan. So much depended on 
her 
having correctly deduced its workings, the workings of a system no 
one had 
used in generations. At least the tuning was given in a notation 
that 
hadn't changed over the years, but the rest of it.... She shook 
herself, 
hard. She had been right about the first part; she would be right 
about 
the rest, as well. 
The keelsong strengthened around her, rough music after the 
complex notes 
of the normal tuning. The pitch indicators shifted, moving away 
from the 

systemic harmonies, and Balthasar leaned across to punch a new 
target into 
the console. The upper bank of numbers blurred and shifted, 
steadying on 
the new readings. Silence studied them closely, nodding to 
herself. There 
hadn't been much change, but it was moving in the right direction. 
"Julie said it would be at least a couple of hours before we 
reached the 
twelfth," Balthasar said. "Why don't you go below for a while, get 
some 
rest?" 
"I'm not tired," Silence said, automatically. 
"Take a break, then," the Delian answered, in a voice that brooked 
no 
argument. "Get something to eat. I want you fit for purgatory." 
Silence made a face, but had to admit the other was right. "Can I 
get you 
anything?" 
Balthasar hesitated, then nodded. "Bring me up some daybread, 
please. And 
coffee." 
"Right," Silence answered, unfastening the safety webbing, and let 
herself 
slide down the last ladder to Recusante's main deck. 
To her surprise, the common room door was already unlatched and 
someone 
was moving about inside. She pushed through the door, and Aili 
turned to 
face her, one hand holding her loosened veil across her face. 
Seeing who 
it was, she let the veil fall again, murmuring a greeting. 

"I didn't expect to see you awake yet," Silence said, and felt 
instantly 
rather foolish. Of course the elixir would have worn off by now, 
she 
thought. It had been over an hour since the ship left purgatory. 
To her surprise, however, Aili looked away, and the pilot thought 
she saw 
a blush coloring the other woman's cheeks. "We were hungry," Aili 
said, 
and the blush deepened. 
Silence stared for a moment, completely confused, then understood. 
Evidently the star road had produced its effects even through the 
elixir's 
influence. She looked away, keeping face and voice carefully 
neutral. 
"There's plenty in the cells. I came down to get something for 
Denis and 
me." She crossed the room to the intercom panel. "And to see if 
Julie 
wanted anything." Without waiting for an answer, she punched the 
engine 
room button. "Julie? I'm in the commons. Do you want anything to 
eat?" 
There was a moment's pause before the engineer answered. 
"Concentrate 
bar?" 
"What about a sandwich?" Silence said. 
"That would be better," Chase Mago acknowledged. "Thanks." 
"May I help?" Aili asked. 
Silence hesitated, the instant refusal dying on her tongue. Like 
all the 
women of the Thousand, Aili had been trained to keep household, 
knew how 

to manage common kitchen equipment and prepare a simple meal. It 
was one 
of the few skills women of rank were able to acquire. "Sure," she 
said, 
and then, belatedly, "Thanks." 
The two women worked side by side, almost without conversation, 
slicing 
the heavy, faintly sweet daybread and covering it with mounds of 
the 
salty, protein-rich isawra spread. They finished five sandwiches 
before 
Silence glanced at the remaining bread, shrugging. 
"Might as well finish it," she said. 
Aili nodded, handling the serrated knife as deftly as a soldier. 
They made 
seven more, piling them into a keepbox. Silence filled two of the 
covered 
mugs from the wallboard's coffee unit, and reached for a tray to 
carry it 
all, but Aili caught her hand. 
"Let me," she said again, wrapping the veil back across her face 
in a 
single deft movement. "You should rest." 
Silence shook her head -- what was life becoming, that the 
Princess Royal 
should wait on a pair of star-travellers? -- but said, "All 
right." 
"Thank you," Aili said, and there was a note in her voice that 
hinted she 
was smiling. "I'll feed Isambard too, if he's awake." She lifted 
the full 
tray, and was gone. 
Left to herself, Silence drew a third mug of coffee from the 

wallboard, 
and took it and a sandwich across to the table, suddenly weary. 
The 
Eagle's Flight had taken more out of her than she had expected, 
though the 
drain was more emotional than physical; still, she could feel the 
sluggishness in her very bones. She closed her eyes for a moment, 
resting 
her head in her hands, then reached for the sandwich and began, 
methodically, to eat, washing the food down with the scalding 
coffee. It 
was a star-travellers' maxim that when you can't sleep, you eat, 
and 
Silence had long ago learned the truth of that. Aili returned, 
carrying 
the emptied tray, but seemed to sense Silence's mood and left 
again 
without speaking. When the Princess Royal had gone, Silence 
finished a 
second sandwich, and then a third, before the intercom buzzed. 
The pilot frowned, but pushed herself up out of her chair, and 
crossed the 
room to push the answer button. "Commons." 
"Silence," Balthasar's voice said. "You might want to come up 
now." 
Silence's frown deepened, and she asked, "Trouble?" 
"Not exactly," Balthasar began, and Silence could almost see the 
wary 
grimace. "Not yet, anyway." 
"I'm on my way," Silence said, and flicked off the intercom. 
Hurriedly, 
she shoved the remaining sandwiches into one of the refrigerated 
cells, 
and jammed the dishes into the cleaning slot -- if there was no 
emergency, 

there was no excuse for letting things wander about unsecured -- 
then left 
the commons, latching the door behind her. She pulled herself up 
the 
ladder to the lower bridge, craning her neck to see the readouts 
even 
before she'd stepped off the rungs onto the decking. Nothing 
seemed out of 
the ordinary at first glance, and she frowned again as she slipped 
into 
the second pilot's couch. 
"What's wrong?" she asked. Even on a closer examination, the 
readouts 
looked normal, nothing showing on musonar except the distant haze 
of the 
last planetary envelope. The Ficinan model was still clear, and 
the rows 
of status lights showed monotonously green. The pitch was lower 
than 
usual, but that had been expected. 
Balthasar looked up from his keyboard, worry lines sharp between 
his 
eyebrows. "Listen." 
Silence did as she was told, closing her eyes to concentrate on 
the 
keelsong. For a moment, the unfamiliar music made everything seem 
out of 
place, but then, as she became accustomed to the music, she began 
to hear 
something else beneath the eerie harmonics. There was a note of 
strain -- 
no, not strain in the usual sense of unresolved dissonance, but a 
laboring 
sound, as though the harmonium were being pushed beyond its limits 
to 
maintain the new song. She looked up, and Balthasar nodded grimly. 

"You hear?" 
"I hear something," Silence answered, and reached for her headset, 
lying 
discarded over the arm of the couch. She settled it into place, 
and keyed 
the intercom. "Julie, what's going on?" 
"I'm not entirely sure," the engineer answered, almost too 
promptly. 
"We're not developing a clear harmony at this setting -- I've 
tried 
increasing my input power, but that just creates more interference 
in the 
damped pipes." 
Silence made a face, trying to understand just what this would 
mean. She 
had known -- they had all known -- that the given setting was 
intended for 
an old-style harmonium, using only a quarter of the pipes in 
Recusante's 
harmonium. They had not expected that this would be a problem. 
After all, 
Silence thought, don't we only use part of the array at any one 
time? "I 
don't understand," she said aloud. 
"I'm not sure we're going to make the twelfth," Chase Mago said. 
"Not make --" Silence bit off the rest of her horrified echo, 
furious at 
her self-betrayal. 
Balthasar nodded, glaring at the screens. 
"Even if we make it, we won't go much above it," the engineer 
continued. 
"There won't be much for you to work with." 

Silence took a deep breath, trying to order her thoughts. "That 
isn't so 
much of a problem," she said, slowly. "We don't want to manipulate 
the 
marks -- and I doubt the old ships went very deep into purgatory 
anyway. " 
"But they did get there," Balthasar murmured. "Do you really think 
we're 
not going to make it, Julie?" 
"Would I say it if I didn't?" Chase Mago retorted, with some 
asperity. "If 
we don't get more power, clean up the song, we're going to peak 
just below 
the twelfth." He paused, then continued, "I want to cut in the 
upper 
register." 
There was a momentary pause. Balthasar covered his microphone with 
one 
hand and glanced toward the other pilot. "Silence? You know more 
about 
this than I do." 
Silence hesitated. Cutting in the upper register would take them 
well 
beyond the twelfth of heaven -- and probably too deep into 
purgatory for 
her to be able to use the portolan. Damn it, she thought, they 
used this 
setting, they got to purgatory on it.... The laboring note of the 
keelsong 
sounded in her ears; she could hear, at its heart, the 
imperfections that 
would keep it from matching the celestial harmony closely enough 
to take 
them into purgatory. God, it couldn't be that the tuning was 
damaged going 
through the Eagle's Flight, she thought suddenly. Could it? But 

no, that 
would have showed itself at once. This has to be something else. 
"If the old ships got to purgatory this way," she said, half to 
herself, 
"so can we." 
She had not intended to speak aloud, but Chase Mago answered 
anyway. 
"Their harmonia -- their whole engine setup was very different. We 
may 
just carry too many pipes." 
Silence did not answer at once. Something was tugging at her 
memory, 
something the engineer had said back on Asterion, during the weeks 
they 
had spent planning the flight. Something about the differences 
between 
Recusante and other modern ships and the ships that had originally 
used 
the portolan system, something about power as well as pipes and 
stops and 
settings.... "You said," she began slowly, "you said the old ships 
didn't 
carry the power we do, right? That we develop half again as much?" 
"About a quarter more, I think," Balthasar said, when Chase Mago 
didn't 
answer immediately. 
"That's about right," the engineer said, after a moment. "Why?" 
"What are we carrying now?" Silence asked. 
"Seven-eighths of normal capacity," Chase Mago answered, promptly 
this 
time. "Why --" His voice died away abruptly. "I think I see. If we 
cut 
back to their maximum, or even a little below, that might purify 

the 
song." 
"We're using the same harmonic setting, so we should duplicate the 
power 
level as well," Silence said. 
"That means spending more time in mundane space," Balthasar 
objected 
automatically. 
Silence nodded toward the empty musonar display. "I think we can 
afford 
it." 
Balthasar gave a reluctant nod. "All right. Do what you think's 
best, 
Julie." 
"I'll power down," Chase Mago answered, and moved away without 
switching 
off the intercom. Silence could hear him moving around the engine 
room, 
could hear, on the quiet bridge, the faint clicks as the engineer 
adjusted 
his equipment. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the keelsong changed, 
the 
sense of strain -- a tension more felt than heard -- easing away. 
The 
change was too slight to register on the bridge instrumentation, 
but Chase 
Mago gave an exclamation of delight. 
"I think -- yes, that's done it." His voice grew clearer as he 
returned to 
the intercom panel. "We'll reach purgatory in a little more than 
an hour." 
Balthasar made a face, but said, "Good enough, Julie." Glancing 
sideways, 

he added, "Thanks, Silence." 
"Good thought," the engineer agreed, then cut the circuit. 
Silence leaned back in her couch, smiling a little at the 
unexpected 
compliments. She had worked with men -- notably her maternal uncle 
-- who 
had resented any and all of her suggestions, particularly when she 
turned 
out to be right. It was pleasant to be valued fairly. 
"Do you want to go below?" Balthasar asked, and gave her a rather 
whimsical smile. "Sorry to have got you up here, when this turned 
out to 
be so minor." 
Silence shook her head, returning the smile. "I'll stay, see if I 
can 
catch some sleep up here." 
Balthasar nodded, and Silence adjusted her couch, tilting it until 
it 
formed a reasonably comfortable bunk. She slipped off her headset, 
and 
hung it over the arm of the couch, turning so that her face was to 
a bank 
of telltales. As always, she didn't mean to sleep, but the steady 
drone of 
the harmonium, purified now of the note of strain, was almost 
hypnotic. 
She dozed, waking now and then from dreams that slipped away the 
instant 
she reached full awareness. They were not unpleasant -- in fact, 
they left 
no emotional residue at all -- but that very blandness made her 
uneasy, 
and she shook herself fully awake well before they reached the 
twelfth. 
Balthasar lifted an eyebrow as she pulled her couch upright. 

 "You could get another quarter hour at least." 
Silence shook her head. "I'm not really tired." She picked up her 
portolan, cutting off any response. The first mark was 
unmistakable -- a 
triple rose, white and black and red -- but she couldn't help 
wondering, 
not for the first time, exactly how it would appear. If she had 
understood 
the system correctly, the symbol should appear on a false horizon, 
conjured by the similitudes of landline and keelsong; Recusante 
would seem 
to travel up to and then through that image. The next image after 
that was 
a walled city, its representation in the portolan incredibly 
detailed. 
Silence frowned at it, suddenly convinced that a magnifier would 
show even 
more detail, impossible detail, behind the painted walls. Why 
should the 
printer do that? she wondered. What possible purpose can it serve? 
She put the book aside, pushing that problem to the back of her 
mind. 
Whatever the reason -- magi's obsessive concern with accurate 
representation, or just old-fashioned precision -- it could have 
nothing 
to do with the road itself. In the screens, the stars were 
beginning to 
show faint coronae, and she glanced instinctively toward the pitch 
indicators. Not far to the twelfth now, she thought, and loosened 
her 
safety netting. "I'm going up." 
Balthasar nodded, too much a pilot himself to question her even 
though it 
was still some minutes to purgatory, and turned his attention back 
to his 
control consoles. Silence pulled herself up to the upper bridge, 

the 
ladder oddly slick, unstable underfoot. She frowned, then realized 
that 
purgatory's secondary effects were only just beginning to be felt. 
The 
usual stickiness of deck and ladders was almost completely 
missing. 
She shook herself, annoyed at having wasted even that much thought 
on such 
an unimportant thing, and came to stand in front of the wheel, her 
hands 
not quite touching the control yoke. The dome had begun to fade a 
little, 
but she could barely see the bodies of the stars. The coronae were 
completely obscured by the hazy metal. 
Her headset clicked, and Balthasar's voice said, "I'll give you a 
countdown." 
"All right." Silence stared at the still-solid dome. "How far off 
are we?" 
"Half a step, still, but who knows how long that means?" 
Balthasar's voice 
was irritable with nervousness. "No, here we go. Three-quarters. 
... 
Seven-eighths.... Now." 
There was no familiar roar of music, no sudden burst of song to 
lift 
Recusante out of the mundane universe. Instead, the dome simply 
faded a 
little more, and the keelsong seemed suddenly lighter. Silence 
took a deep 
breath, and sought her triple rose. 
The dome had not vanished completely. Its shadow enclosed the 
bridge, 
transparent but definitely there, and Silence shook herself, 

momentarily 
disoriented. Then, through the thin veil of fog that was the dome, 
she saw 
the triple rose, blood red petals enclosing ebony enclosing a 
central 
flower as white as sunlit snow. It gleamed with a light of its 
own, but 
somehow it lacked the weird vitality of the usual voidmarks. 
Seeing it 
hovering in the distance, Silence felt suddenly like an insect, 
bearing 
down on the most tremendous source of pollen ever discovered. She 
laughed, 
but then put away the image. 
"Bearing, please?" she asked. 
Chase Mago's response was reassuringly quick. "Exactly in the 
groove. Do 
you want me to give you a check every five minutes, or wait until 
we go 
off the line?" 
Silence hesitated, then shrugged. "Every five minutes, at least 
for 
starters. If you don't mind." 
"Every five minutes," Chase Mago repeated. "No problem." 
Very slowly, Recusante crept toward the massive rose. Once, twice, 
a third 
time the ship slipped from the proper bearing, but each time Chase 
Mago 
reported the deviation, and Silence corrected it within minutes. 
The mark 
did not alter, or change its apparent position on the false 
horizon. The 
early pilots couldn't have steered by it, Silence decided, and 
shook her 
head at the thought. 

 She tensed suddenly, very aware of the immense, unchanging image, 
filling 
half the apparent sky ahead of the ship. If it did not show a 
deviation 
from the proper bearing, would it show any of the changes that 
marked the 
end of a normal star road? And if it didn't, how did this road 
end? She 
bit her lip, conquering her fear with an effort. Surely there 
would be 
some change, she thought, some signal to let a pilot know he's 
reached the 
end of a bearing -- unless that's supposed to be relayed from the 
engineer's sensors? Damn, I didn't count on this at all. 
"Julie," she said aloud. "We're getting close to the end. Give me 
a
continuous reading, please." 
Chase Mago's voice sounded faintly surprised, but for a mercy he 
didn't 
argue. "Continuous readings. Very well." A moment later, the 
numbers began 
sounding in Silence's headset, a comforting drone. Recusante was 
cleanly 
on the bearing, correct to the last points. 
The rose swelled ahead of her, filling most of the apparent sky, 
its lower 
petals hidden by the decking. The whole image seemed to curve 
inward 
slightly, as though the cupped flower would engulf the ship. 
Silence 
thought she saw faint stars reflected in the black petals. The 
center of 
the innermost flower was directly ahead, its parts -- stamen, 
pistil, 
grains of pollen -- gleaming as though they were made of solid 
gold. The 

engineer's voice sounded in her ear: Recusante was still on 
course, still 
perfectly on the bearing. 
Still, Silence thought, trying to control her own nervousness, you 
almost 
always pass through a mark, leaving a normal star road. It's only 
logical 
for us to go through this one. She had no proof of that, however -- 
there 
had been nothing in either the portolan itself or in the pamphlet 
she had 
read back on Solitudo Hermae. She could feel herself beginning to 
shake, 
as much from tension as from fear, and self-consciously worked her 
shoulder, trying to relax tight muscles. It did little good; she 
could 
feel herself trembling as Recusante slid past the last petals into 
the 
flower's golden center. 
Instantly, the bridge was suffused with an eerie yellow light, as 
though 
the golden pistils and the gold-lined petals themselves were 
transparent, 
a strong light shining through them. Silence glanced over her 
shoulder, 
and saw only a tiny black disk to mark their point of entrance, as 
though 
the flower itself had folded shut over them. The bearing remained 
constant 
in her ears. 
Cautiously, Silence guided the ship past the towering stamens, 
past grains 
of pollen almost as large as Recusante itself, into the very heart 
of the 
rose. It loomed ahead, a golden wall faintly shadowed where the 
petals met 
and overlapped, a tiny black dot visible at its very center. 

Silence 
smiled, certain she saw the way out of the mark, but her smile 
faded as 
the ship drew closer. The black dot wasn't the mark of an opening 
into the 
mundane universe; rather, it was a shadow, a stain on the gilded 
perfection of the flower. Still, the bearing remained constant, 
pointing 
Recusante directly at the spot. Experimentally, Silence pulled 
back on the 
control yoke, lifting the ship toward the nearest stamen. The 
droning 
numbers faltered and shifted: that way lay certain destruction. 
She let 
the ship slide back onto its original course, and the bearing 
steadied. 
Then, quite abruptly, the numbers changed, shifting wildly as 
though 
somehow threefold space itself was in flux. At the same moment, 
the 
keelsong howled, reflecting sudden dissonance. Silence swore, 
clinging to 
the bucking control yoke, but could find no visible sign of that 
disharmony. 
"Three point eight, four, four point five, four-nine, five point 
three, " 
Chase Mago chanted. "God, Silence, I think the line's gone. Sixfive, 
six 
point seven, point nine --" 
Silence shut out his words with an effort, hauling back on the 
control 
yoke. It refused to respond, the sympathetic linkages distorted by 
the 
rising dissonance. She cursed again, seeing the black spot looming 
ever 
nearer. 

"Eight point one," Chase Mago said, "eight point four, eight point 
six, 
point seven --" 
"Get us out, Julie," Balthasar snapped, and in the same instant, 
Silence 
said, "Stop down -- power down now." 
The engineer obeyed without question, and the noise of the 
harmonium sank, 
bringing with it the deceptive increase in their apparent speed. 
Silence 
cringed, seeing the black spot rush closer, but the rest of the 
image was 
already fading, the golden walls irregularly shadowed, stars 
shining 
through sudden holes in the gilded fabric. Then Recusante burst 
through 
the shreds of the image sending a last wave of dissonance through 
the 
ship. Silence screamed, knocked backward by the explosion of 
sound, but 
her voice was drowned in the sudden wail of the keel. And then 
they were 
through, the dissonance dropping to a whisper and then vanishing 
entirely. 
"What the hell?" Balthasar demanded. "Silence, are you all right?" 
Silence pulled herself upright, and managed to spare a wry smile 
for her 
bruises. She had taken ships through dissonances before, but never 
yet had 
one been strong enough to knock her off the pilot's platform. "I'm 
not 
hurt," she said and was instantly annoyed at how shaken she 
sounded. She 
cleared her throat and tried again. "A couple of bruises, that's 
all. Did 
we make it?" 

 Balthasar did not answer for a long moment, and when he spoke 
again, it 
was to the engineer. "Julie, how's the tuning?" 
"All right," Chase Mago answered. "Not even shaken." He paused 
himself, 
then asked, falsely casual, "Do I retune to the new bearing?" 
There was another, longer pause before Balthasar finally answered. 
"No. I 
can't find the line." 
Silence swore, her bruises forgotten, and scrambled for the 
ladder. As she 
slid down it, she asked, "What do you mean, you can't find it?" 
"Just what I said," Balthasar snapped. He was staring at the three 
viewscreens, two of which showed a musonar display, while the 
third 
flashed strings of numbers in response to the Delian's touch on 
his 
keyboard. "I can't find it." 
There was a note of controlled hysteria in his voice that 
terrified 
Silence. She fought back the urge to panic, and slid into the 
second 
pilot's couch, reaching for her own keyboard. The musonar displays 
showed 
the almost-black of true interstellar space, the distant stars no 
more 
than pale dots with only the faintest harmonic envelopes. The 
display was 
set to its largest scale, Silence realized; nothing smaller would 
show 
anything at all. She shivered, awed by the immensity of space. 
Every pilot 
had heard tales of missing a voidmark, of failing to control the 
forces of 

purgatory -- how ships had fallen to mundane space in unfamiliar 
places, 
unable to reenter purgatory without the correct voidmarks, doomed 
to 
wander between the stars until the crew starved, until at last the 
elemental water that powered the harmonium was exhausted, and the 
ship was 
drawn inevitably into some distant star. 
Silence shook herself, angry at her own imaginings. "We can't be 
that far 
off," she said aloud. "We were right on course, right on the line 
up to 
the end." 
"Yeah," Balthasar said, "but who knows how far off course we came 
when we 
lost the line --" He bit off whatever else he had been going to 
say, and 
punched a new set of numbers into his keyboard, watching the 
figures shift 
and reform on the central viewscreen. When he spoke again, he was 
almost 
calm. "What happened then, anyway?" 
"I'm not sure," Silence answered honestly. "I'm still learning the 
damn 
method --" She broke off, angrily aware that Balthasar had stopped 
listening after her first answer. With an effort, she controlled 
her 
anger, and said, "What can I do to help?" 
"I'm trying to find the landline; it should show up on the 
musonar," 
Balthasar answered. He shook his head. "I don't know, keep an eye 
on the 
figures. Maybe you'll see something I've missed." 
Silence nodded, too glad of something to occupy her thoughts to 
protest 

being given such an unimportant job, and fixed her eyes on the 
screen. The 
numbers shifted and reformed as Balthasar tilted the musonar horn 
this way 
and that, but nothing matched the listed harmony. Where did we -- 
I -- go 
wrong? Silence wondered, still watching the screen. It should have 
worked. 
I don't understand why it didn't.... Unless, somehow, the ship 
isn't 
supposed to leave the mark? But I couldn't find the next landline 
if the 
ship stayed in purgatory. 
"Got it," Balthasar exclaimed, and pointed to a red dot flashing 
on the 
screen. "That's it." Silence gave a sigh of relief, but Balthasar 
ignored 
her, still talking excitedly. "Julie, retune to the numbers 
Silence gave 
you, but don't put in the riser yet. We should reach the line in, 
oh, two 
or three hours; you can adjust it then." 
"Right," Chase Mago answered, and Silence could hear the relief in 
his 
voice as well. 
Slowly, very slowly, the keelsong changed, one note replacing 
another, 
others blending into new and subtle harmonies. Silence barely 
heard it, 
still staring at the screen. After a moment, frowning, she punched 
in a 
second set of numbers, and saw the same point of light flare on 
the visual 
screens. Balthasar gave her a curious glance, but said nothing. 
So, 
Silence thought, the first landline seems to end in the same place 
that 

our second line begins. Therefore, since the portolans deal more 
with 
physical correspondences than the voidmark system, that must be 
the 
"place" that's roughly equivalent to the rose. Which means that we 
have to 
leave purgatory before we leave the mark -- but that still doesn't 
tell me 
when. 
Balthasar asked softly, "Found something?" 
"Maybe," Silence answered. Quickly, she outlined what she had 
guessed, but 
ended, "Unfortunately, that doesn't tell me when to leave 
purgatory. I'd 
imagine leaving too soon would be as bad as leaving too late. Or 
maybe 
not." She frowned, hardly seeing the control room around her. 
"Maybe not. 
If we stopped down early, the resemblances should still carry us 
along to 
the natural departure point, and even if they don't, we'd still be 
on that 
line, not in uncharted space. Denis, I think that's it." 
Balthasar was nodding. "That makes sense." 
"So when we reach purgatory on this second road," Chase Mago said 
slowly, 
"I start stopping down and trust that the resemblance will carry 
us 
through?" His voice made his distrust of that plan perfectly 
clear. 
"No," Silence answered, "you stop down as soon as we enter the 
mark. I'll 
tell you when." 
"I see," the engineer said, and there was a long pause. Silence 

held her 
breath, wondering if she should say more, and was very grateful 
that 
Balthasar said nothing. Then Chase Mago sighed. "All right, pilot, 
the 
next ride can't be worse than this one." 
"Thanks," Silence said, rather sourly. She waited for an answer, 
but the 
engineer did not reply. 
Balthasar cleared his throat. "We've got four, five hours before 
you have 
to take the next leg, Silence. You should get some rest." 
"I'm not tired," the pilot answered automatically, but even as she 
spoke 
she knew it for a lie. 
"You look like death," Balthasar said frankly. "Go on, get below." 
Silence managed a wry smile, and pushed herself up out of the 
couch. A lot 
of her weariness was emotional, she knew, the result of fear and 
tension, 
but it was no less real for that. She made her way cautiously down 
the 
ladder, suddenly aware of pain in her wrists. Probably from being 
knocked 
backward while I was trying to hold onto the wheel, she thought, 
and 
pushed open the door of her cabin. The tidy bunk looked so 
inviting that 
she almost cried, but she turned away from its softness, leaning 
on the 
back of her chair instead. She stood there for a long moment, 
gathering 
strength, then doggedly began to strip off the tight-fitting 
shipsuit. She 
pulled off sleeves and bodice, then began working the clinging 

fabric down 
over her hips. A purple bruise the size of her hand was already 
visible on 
her left leg just below the point of her hip. She touched it 
lightly, 
experimentally, and winced at the pain. I must've landed on it 
when I 
fell, she thought, then put the discovery aside. After a moment's 
hesitation, she pulled on an outsized sleepshirt and crawled into 
her 
bunk, leaving the shipsuit crumpled on the floor. She was asleep 
almost 
before her head hit the pillow. 
She woke to a hand on her shoulder and a familiar voice in her 
ear, riding 
over the rising note of the keelsong. "Julie?" she said, still 
half 
asleep, and pushed herself upright. 
"I brought you coffee," the engineer said. "It's about half an 
hour to the 
twelfth." 
"Half an hour?" Silence echoed, then shook herself fully awake. 
"You 
should've waked me sooner." 
Chase Mago shrugged, and held out a closed mug. Silence took it 
automatically, murmuring her thanks. 
"Denis figured he'd let you sleep now, and then he could take a 
break 
while you ran us through purgatory," the engineer continued. 
Silence nodded and took a sip of the coffee, studying the other. 
Chase 
Mago looked almost as tired as she had felt, circles clearly 
visible under 
his eyes, his dark hair falling lank across his collar. "When are 

you 
going to get a break?" she asked, with some concern. 
To her surprise, the engineer managed a tired smile. "As soon as 
we hit 
purgatory, I'll curl up in a corner. I've waked your magus. He can 
at 
least read the numbers, and I've rigged you a buzzer. You get a 
steady 
tone when you're on the line; the pitch will rise or fall if you 
get off 
it." 
"Good idea," Silence said. "Thanks." We should've hired another 
engineer, 
she thought. Julie won't be able to keep this up for too long -- 
but then, 
we didn't know how this was going to work, and anyway, who is 
there we 
could've trusted to hire? She stretched, feeling the bruises on 
her hips 
and back and the sore muscles in her wrists and forearms. "How're 
Aili and 
Marcinik doing?" she asked, idly. 
"All right, Fretting a little because there's nothing they can do 
to 
help." Chase Mago smiled. "Except carry sandwiches. I've never 
been waited 
on by a princess before. Speaking of which, I brought you a 
sandwich, too. 
" 
Silence smiled back. "Thanks." 
The engineer pushed himself to his feet and stretched slowly. 
"I'll leave 
you -- I've got to get back to work. Remember, we hit the twelfth 
in half 
an hour." 

 "I'm not likely to forget," Silence said to his retreating back, 
and 
levered herself out of the bunk as the door closed behind him. She 
took a 
quick shower, then dressed, snatching a few bites of the sandwich 
as she 
did so. She ran her fingers through her short hair -- it was still 
damp, 
and would be an unruly mess when it dried, but there was no time 
to do 
more -- then tested the last seal, and started for the upper 
bridge. 
Balthasar swung around in his couch as she reached the lower 
bridge, 
managed a nod and a smile. He looked dreadful, Silence thought, 
unshaven 
and disheveled, great circles under his eyes, but his voice was 
cheerful 
enough. "Almost there." 
Silence nodded. "You should get some rest, Denis." 
"I will," Balthasar answered. "Once you've taken over, and we're 
in 
purgatory." 
Silence shook her head, but there was nothing to say. She pulled 
herself 
up the rest of the ladder -- the rungs still felt strange without 
the 
clinging effect of deep purgatory -- and took up her position in 
front of 
the wheel, hands resting easily on the control yoke. The dome had 
faded 
considerably already, star-coronae showing clearly through its 
shadow. 
Even as she watched, it faded further, to the strange translucence 
of the 

twelfth of heaven, and the stars vanished completely, leaving only 
their 
coronae blazing against a flat black sky. 
"At the twelfth," Chase Mago announced. 
"I have control," Silence responded, and flipped off the lock. 
"You have it," Balthasar said. 
"Get some sleep, Denis," the engineer said, and Silence could hear 
Balthasar's soft laughter. 
"I will, I promise. Good night." 
With an effort, Silence banished both of them from her thoughts, 
staring 
instead out into the starless night. The next mark, a massive 
walled city, 
rode an imaginary horizon. Its towers -- Silence counted seven, 
and 
suspected that others were hidden behind the red-tiled roofs -- 
were 
topped with gaudy banners; its walls seemed to end in stony 
fringes, 
trailing off into nothingness like the roots of a tree. 
"I'm putting on the buzzer now," Chase Mago's voice said in her 
ears. 
"Go ahead," Silence answered, and a moment later a low, pleasant 
tone 
sounded in her headset. Experimentally, she moved the control yoke 
forward, and then back. The tone changed, dropping and then rising 
in 
response to the ship's movements. Silence nodded, satisfied, and 
pressed 
the transmitter button, momentarily overriding the signal. "It 
sounds 
good, Julie. Why don't you take a break now, if Isambard can spell 

you?" 
She wasn't particularly happy about working with the magus in 
purgatory -- 
piloting was her own special skill, her first Art, and one she 
wasn't 
eager to share with Isambard -- and she gave a sigh of relief when 
the 
engineer answered, "I'm going to. Don't worry, Isambard will wake 
me if 
there's any sign of trouble -- of anything at all unusual," he 
amended 
fiercely, and Silence grinned, picturing the magus's restrained 
annoyance. 
"Thanks, Julie," she said. Chase Mago did not answer, but an 
instant later 
the tone sounded again in her ears. 
The passage along the landline to the mark itself was remarkably 
uneventful, so uneventful that in the end Silence had deliberately 
to tip 
Recusante off the proper course to keep herself from falling 
asleep at the 
wheel. Progress seemed impossibly slow, but at last the city wall 
loomed 
ahead, filling the apparent sky. Twin towers guarded an open gate 
set a 
little to the left of Recusante's course. Silence eased the 
control yoke 
over, tilting the starship toward the opening. The warning tone 
wavered 
momentarily, then settled again. "Isambard," she said aloud. "Wake 
Julie." 
"I'm awake," the engineer answered. 
"We're coming up on the mark," Silence said, and damned herself 
for having 
left things so late. "Denis, do you hear?" There was no answer 

from the 
Delian. "Damn. Julie, send Isambard forward to wake him, if you 
would -- 
and tell him to check in as soon as he's in?" 
"Right," Chase Mago answered, and there was a momentary pause 
while he 
passed her request to the magus. "He's going forward now," the 
engineer 
reported. "How close are we?" 
"It's hard to tell," Silence answered. "It looks like a hundred 
meters or 
so to the gate, but you can't tell how long it's going to take to 
cover 
it." 
Chase Mago grunted his agreement, and Silence turned her attention 
back to 
the mark ahead. Through the open gate, she could see a wall of 
buildings, 
each one elaborately decorated with columns and grotesques and 
fancifully 
carved cornices, each one with shutters pulled tight across its 
windows. 
With a detached comer of her mind, Silence wondered what the 
symbolism of 
that was. Infuriatingly, Recusants seemed to hang almost 
motionless, 
barely creeping toward the gate. 
There was a rattling noise in her headset, just audible under the 
warning 
tone, and Balthasar announced, "I'm on, Silence." He still sounded 
tired, 
Silence thought, but more alert than before. 
"Thanks," she said, and kept her eyes on the mark. 
Recusants crawled on toward the gate. As the ship came closer and 

closer 
to the massive towers, Silence tensed, waiting for some change in 
the 
tone. Nothing happened, and she forced herself to relax, to keep 
her hands 
loose on the control yoke. At last, Recusante slid between the 
towers, 
under the shadow of the gate. 
"Begin stopping down, Julie," Silence said, and held her breath. 
"Stopping down," Chase Mago answered, and for once there was a 
genuine 
note of nervousness in his voice. The keelsong changed subtly, 
thinning 
out, but the mark stayed clear, showed no signs of deterioration. 
Silence sighed hard. So far, she was right -- or at least she 
hadn't done 
anything terribly wrong. Now all she could do was hope that she'd 
guessed 
right, and that the altered song would carry them out of purgatory 
as soon 
as the landline faded. 
Recusante floated through the wide gate, the apparent pace 
maddeningly 
sedate. As they emerged from the wall's shadow, Silence glanced 
quickly to 
her left, only to find the way blocked by yet another wall of 
shuttered 
houses. Instinctively, she swung the yoke to the right, and found 
herself 
sailing down a wide avenue between palatial buildings. At the same 
moment, 
the warning tone began to drop. 
She pulled back on the yoke, lifting the ship until the tone 
steadied on 
its proper note. Recusante floated now just above the level of the 

housetops, well above the illusory pavement. From this 
perspective, 
Silence could see that Recusante was following the single street, 
which 
spiralled inward from the gate to the town's central tower. Its 
walls were 
ivory-colored, its scattered windows sealed with crimson shutters, 
and a 
vine, its leaves as red as blood, coiled three times around the 
tower's 
base before spiralling up toward the gold-tiled roof. There seemed 
to be a 
wealth of symbolism in the image, but Silence had no time to 
contemplate 
it. Already, Recusante's apparent speed was increasing, the ship 
careening 
along above the street as though carried by a rising wind. 
Silence tightened her grip on the control yoke as the ship began 
to slip 
sideways, sliding toward the red-tiled roofs to either side. She 
held the 
course, though it took all her strength to do it, and leaned hard 
against 
the wheel as the curve of the spiral sharpened. Recusante was 
moving even 
faster now, whipping around the final circles with dizzying speed. 
As they 
swung into the final curve, Silence caught a glimpse of the tower 
base. A 
gate had opened just above the triple-wrapped vine, the portcullis 
drawn 
up just far enough to admit a starship. Do we go in after all? she 
wondered. And what will I find if we do? Then Recusante swept past 
the 
gate, circling the tower for the final time, and Silence realized 
with a 
shock that the city was fading around her. The bright colors 
dimmed, went 
misty, the shuttered windows cleared, though the interior of the 

tower 
remained maddeningly dark. They would not enter the tower, despite 
the 
open doorway, and Silence bit back a cry of frustration. It had 
promised 
such a wealth of secrets.... 
And then they were through, the last shadows vanishing just as 
Recusante 
started to circle the base of the tower itself. Silence swore 
softly and 
locked her wheel, tasting disappointment. Only a little farther, 
she 
thought, just a little farther and I could at least have seen into 
it. 
That would have told me something. 
"I have control," Balthasar's voice said in her ears. He sounded 
dead 
tired still, Silence realized, belatedly -- and no wonder, she 
thought, 
considering how little sleep he's had. That was enough to drive 
the 
thoughts of the tower from her mind. 
"On my way," she said, and dropped down the ladder to the lower 
bridge. 
Balthasar nodded a greeting as she took her place in the second 
pilot's 
couch, but said nothing. Once again, the triple viewscreen was 
slaved to 
the musonar, one showing the distant starscape only faintly 
touched with 
music, the other showing a maze of multicolored lines. The central 
screen 
was filled with numbers, changing in response to promptings from 
Balthasar's keyboard. 
"How're we doing?" Silence asked, readjusting her headset. 

"As I just told Julie, I'm looking for it," Balthasar answered. He 
made a 
face then, and glanced apologetically in her direction. "Sorry. I 
think 
it's worked this time, but it just takes a while to be sure." 
Silence nodded, trying not to feel hurt, and fixed her attention 
on the 
right-hand screen. The display showed the harmonic lines that 
crossed and 
recrossed in the local volume, some stronger and brighter than the 
rest, 
most shown in a dull blue that was barely visible against the 
black 
background. The brighter ones formed a pattern that seemed somehow 
familiar. Silence reached again for the portolan, opening it to 
the marked 
pages. The pattern didn't seem to match the halo of lines 
surrounding the 
city-mark, but it was hard to tell among the confusion of 
markings. 
Certainly there seemed to be a correspondence. "Denis," she said 
slowly, 
"would you block out the lesser lines, everything that shows 
blue?" 
Balthasar gave her a rather irritated glance, but did as she'd 
asked. The 
blue lines faded, leaving only pale yellow ones, crisscrossing the 
screen 
like counters in a giant game of pick-up sticks. Still, it didn't 
match 
the pattern in the portolan. Silence stared at it for a moment 
longer, 
then covered two-thirds of the mark. The remaining lines matched 
the 
pattern in the screen. "There," she said aloud, and held the book 
out so 
that Balthasar could see. 

The Delian grunted, and punched numbers into his keyboard. A 
moment later, 
lights flashed green across the monitors, and all but one of the 
lines 
vanished from the screen. Balthasar nodded, and said, reluctantly, 
"Thanks." He straightened almost painfully, stretching against the 
stiff 
cushions of the couch, then reached across to flip the intercom 
switch. 
"We're right on the line, Julie. You can retune now." 
"Retuning," Chase Mago answered distantly, and the Delian cut the 
connection. 
Silence said carefully, not looking at the other, "Why don't you 
let me 
handle the run-up, and you get some proper sleep?" Balthasar made 
a sort 
of growling noise, and Silence braced herself for a blistering 
rejoinder. 
Then the Delian sighed, and relaxed perceptibly. 
"That'll leave you wiped out for purgatory." 
"If I'm too tired, I'll let you handle it," Silence said. "You've 
seen how 
it works." 
Balthasar hesitated a moment longer, then nodded, reaching for the 
clasp 
of the safety webbing. "All right. I'll hold you to that." 
"You can trust me," Silence said, but the Delian had vanished. She 
sighed, 
already feeling the strain of the trip through purgatory, then 
unclasped 
her own safety webbing to slide across to the first pilot's couch. 
It felt 
odd to sit there, in Balthasar's place, for all that she had 
handled a 

first pilot's duties a hundred times before. She hesitated before 
fastening the webbing firmly around herself. She couldn't control 
the ship 
as easily from her own couch; it was necessary to switch. She made 
herself 
check each of the display boards and readouts, running through the 
changeover list, immersing herself in her pilot's duties, before 
reaching 
for the intercom switch. 
"Julie? I'm taking the con for now." 
"Good idea," Chase Mago answered. "I'm going to hand over to 
Isambard as 
soon as I've got us on line." 
"All right," Silence said, and did her best to hide her sudden 
feeling of 
disappointment. 
A few minutes later, the engineer's voice sounded in her ears 
again. "I 
show us on the line, Silence. Do you confirm?" 
"I confirm it," Silence said. 
"Then I'll let Isambard watch things from here," Chase Mago said, 
a faint 
note of satisfaction in his voice. "He'll wake me if there's 
anything 
unusual." 
"All right," Silence said again, and cut the connection. She could 
almost 
feel the moment when the engineer put aside his responsibilities, 
and then 
damned herself for an over-imaginative idiot. She felt strangely 
lonely 
without either Chase Mago or the Delian to share the watch, even 
though 

she knew perfectly well that any emergency would bring them 
instantly to 
their posts. It had been a very long time since she'd stood a 
watch 
without one of them -- the last time had been when Recusante was 
still 
Black Dolphin, before her grandfather's death. She shivered, 
suddenly 
chilled. Even on Asterion, in the Women's Palace, she had not felt 
quite 
so alone. No, she corrected herself, this wasn't precisely 
loneliness, but 
a sense of wrongness, of time and place askew. 
She shook herself then, annoyed that she had let her emotions get 
the 
better of her. This is a part of the pilot's Art, she told 
herself, the 
pilot's Art that was your first love. There's nothing wrong 
aboard, just a 
new method that requires some adjustment. That's all. She scowled 
down at 
the monitor, forcing herself to be aware of every single point in 
the rows 
of green lights, submerging her uneasiness in the routine of her 
work. 
Chapter 4 
BALTHASAR RETURNED TO THE BRIDGE A LITTLE MORE than half an hour 
before 
Recusante reached purgatory, and Silence was glad to leave the 
passage up 
to and through the next mark to him. It was not so much that the 
portolan's system was physically exhausting, she decided, but that 
it 
demanded the pilot's attention for such long periods of time. The 
engineer 
had it even worse, she knew. Even with Isambard's help -- and 
occasional 

unskilled number-watching from Marcinik and Aili -- Chase Mago was 
having 
to handle all the transitions himself, and they could all hear the 
rising 
exhaustion in his voice. 
"Do we hang here and rest for a few hours?" Silence wondered 
aloud, 
staring at the musonar readings displayed in the viewscreens 
without 
really seeing them. They were past the fifth mark, well over 
halfway 
there, and the strain was beginning to tell on the big engineer. 
Balthasar shrugged, his fingers moving on his keyboard as he 
tilted the 
musonar horn, looking for the next landline. "I'd rather not," he 
said, 
and nodded toward the left-hand screen. Instead of the blank 
starscape 
visible between the other points, this one showed a nearby sun, 
its music 
spreading out in fading shades of red to cover nearly half the 
screen. 
"You never know when someone'll show up, so close to a system. 
Maybe 
between six and seven." 
Silence nodded reluctantly. They were too close to the sun, even 
if they 
were too far away for the musonar to pick out the contrasting 
music of any 
daughter planets. For a moment, she wondered if any human being 
had ever 
seen this star before, if it held planets too alien to be reached 
by more 
conventional methods -- if in fact the portolan method might 
somehow offer 
a key to reaching truly alien worlds -- but then the enthusiasm 
was 

drowned by the encompassing weariness. Alien worlds seemed 
unimportant, 
even as reaching Earth was beginning to seem trivial, compared to 
the 
importance of pushing through one more mark. With an effort, 
Silence 
dragged her mind back to the conversation at hand. "We ought to 
rest then 
anyway. It's my turn, I'll take number six." 
Balthasar nodded, saying, "You hear, Julie? One more." He glanced 
at 
Silence. "You get below and rest." 
Silence did as she was told, stopping in the common room only long 
enough 
to bolt down one of the sandwiches left in the hotbox by Aili. The 
Princess Royal, recognizing her lack of technical skills, had 
taken over 
food preparation as the one thing she could do, and had done it 
with, in 
Silence's opinion, a commendable lack of fanfare. I wouldn't 
exactly want 
to be in Aili's shoes, Silence thought, as she settled herself 
once again 
into her unmade bunk. It can't be easy for her, not being able to 
help -- 
Marcinik is an officer at least, he knows how to read the simple 
instruments, but Aili hasn't had any of that. There was a lesson 
in that 
somewhere, the pilot knew, but she fell asleep before it could 
penetrate. 
Aili appeared to wake her half an hour before the transition to 
purgatory. 
Silence hauled herself out of the bunk, groaning, and found 
herself 
halfway dressed before she was fully aware of what she was doing. 
She 
swore, rubbing at her forehead. This wasn't the first time she'd 

caught 
herself doing things by rote. It was something about the portolan 
method, 
a method she was rapidly growing to hate passionately. The ship 
never 
seemed to get far from purgatory, or to go far enough into it; she 
was 
surrounded by a perpetual unresolved, unresolvable tension that 
was 
ultimately far more enervating than the piloting itself. They all 
felt it, 
she knew, though after the first complaints the three startravellers 
had 
conspired to ignore it in the hopes that the feeling would 
eventually go 
away. It had not, and Silence found herself wondering more and 
more often 
if they wouldn't have been better off trying to break the siege 
engines 
after all. 
She was wondering it again as she climbed to her station, barely 
pausing 
on the lower bridge long enough to exchange monosyllables with 
Balthasar. 
The routine of changeover proceeded properly, the faint change in 
the 
keelsong, the dimming of the dome, and then the warning tone in 
her 
headset, giving its monotonous assurance that Recusante was on 
course. 
First Balthasar and then Chase Mago announced that they were 
taking a 
rest, and Silence was left alone, watching the new mark take shape 
on the 
false horizon. 
This one was an arched gate, rather like the triumphs on Asterion, 
but its 
triple columns were carved with cabalistic symbols rather than 

with 
political insignias. Silence regarded the symbols without 
affection, 
knowing that the ship would not come close enough for her to read 
them 
clearly. That was one more thing she hated about the portolan: its 
symbols 
promised much, but in the end proved as sterile as the rest of the 
method. 
Very slowly, Recusante crept up to the triumph, Chase Mago 
stopping down 
as soon as the ship came under the shadow of the gate. As Silence 
had more 
than half expected, the image began to fade at once, the symbols 
blurring 
into nothingness. Recusante slid out of purgatory as she passed 
through 
the gate. Silence sighed, locked her wheel, and headed back down 
to the 
lower bridge. 
Balthasar managed a crooked smile of welcome, the familiar 
crisscross 
pattern dancing across the screens. "You're getting better at 
this, 
Silence. We're practically on the line now." 
"Do we take a rest now?" Chase Mago's voice asked from the 
intercom. 
Balthasar looked up at the musonar display, then back at Silence. 
"What do 
you think?" 
The pilot studied the left-hand screen, trying to focus her 
attention on 
its information. To her surprise, the screen was almost black, 
only a few 
pale dots showing to indicate very distant stars. It was a 

disconcerting 
picture, almost a frightening one, an emptiness few startravellers 
ever 
experienced. She looked away quickly. "It looks -- good for what 
we want." 
"Yeah." Balthasar grimaced, not looking at the left-hand screen. 
"I think 
we chance it. I doubt there's much traffic out here." 
Wearily, they began the job of preparing Recusante to float free 
in 
mundane space, held only by its affinity to the local harmonies. 
Chase 
Mago stopped down the harmonium to the lowest setting that would 
maintain 
ship's power, while the two pilots locked the bridge controls into 
positions that would match local conditions, and set the deadman 
alarms 
that would trigger a warning if the ship drifted too far off 
course. When 
they had finished, Balthasar sighed, and reached for the intercom 
switch. 
"Marcinik? I'm ready to show you what I've done." 
"I'm here," Marcinik said from the bridge ladder. 
Silence gasped in spite of herself, and saw Balthasar jerk in his 
couch. 
"Damn it, don't do that to me," the Delian snapped, then got 
himself under 
control. "Come here." 
The colonel came to stand at Balthasar's elbow, and Silence saw 
the 
Princess Royal pull herself up onto the bridge behind him. 
"I hope you don't mind," Aili said softly, to Silence. 

Before the pilot could answer, Balthasar interrupted his quick 
explanation 
of the deadman system to say, "Not at all. Why don't you listen, 
then, so 
you can be useful, too?" 
Silence glared at the Delian, but Aili nodded quite seriously, and 
moved 
to join the colonel. The pilot shrugged to herself, biting back 
her first 
answer. If Aili wasn't offended, so much the better. 
Balthasar finished his instructions, and levered himself up out of 
the 
couch. "You know where the intercom is," he said, as Marcinik took 
his 
place at the first pilot's station. "Call if there's anything at 
all 
unusual." 
"We will," Marcinik said, the ghost of a chuckle in his voice, and 
Aili 
echoed. "Of course." 
Balthasar gave them both a dubious look, but nodded and let 
himself down 
the ladder to the main deck. Silence followed him, hiding her 
laughter. 
Chase Mago was waiting in the corridor just outside the common 
room door, 
one hand on the latch. "I've left Isambard to watch things," he 
said. "Are 
either of you hungry?" 
"Not particularly," Balthasar said. 
Silence shook her head, the laughter fading from her thoughts. She 
was 
suddenly aware of the vast quiet that filled the ship, of the 

absence of 
the familiar keelsong and the little noises from a dozen other 
systems, 
all shut down now as nonessentials. She shivered, remembering the 
uncannily empty starscape, and could see from the others' faces 
that they 
were thinking of the same thing. She did not want to leave either 
of them, 
to sleep alone with the unnatural quiet, but Marcinik and Aili 
occupied 
the spare cabin, she told herself roughly, and there was no room 
in any of 
the others for all three of them. Still, she could not bring 
herself to 
turn away. They stood unspeaking for a long moment, and then Chase 
Mago 
said, awkwardly, "I think my bunk's the biggest." 
"That's not saying a lot," Balthasar murmured, but nodded. "We 
might just 
fit." 
In the end, they did fit, but only just. Silence lay wedged 
between the 
two men, too tired to feel any discomfort, sleepily grateful that 
their 
presence warded off the emptiness that surrounded the ship. She 
was 
vaguely aware that they were arguing about setting an alarm, but 
couldn't 
bring herself awake enough to express an opinion. She fell asleep 
before 
the question was settled. 
She woke to the realization that someone was missing. She stirred, 
opening 
her eyes, and saw Balthasar standing by the monitor console, one 
hand 
resting on the alarm switch. He had deactivated it before it could 
ring, 

she realized, and felt Chase Mago stir behind her. 
"Damn it, Denis," the engineer said, "we agreed on eight hours." 
Balthasar shrugged, unabashed. "I thought you might as well sleep 
while 
you could." 
"I'm awake now," Chase Mago said grimly, but he was smiling. 
"What's been happening?" Silence asked, and levered herself out of 
the 
bunk. 
"I assume nothing, since we weren't called," Balthasar said. He 
touched 
the intercom button. "Bridge? How're things?" 
"Everything is still as you left it," Marcinik answered promptly. 
"The 
ship's drifted a little, but it's well within the limits you set." 
Silence nodded, satisfied, and pushed open the cabin door, 
ignoring Chase 
Mago's protest of, "And what about my engines?" She made her way 
back to 
her own cabin, showered, then dressed quickly, pulling on a clean 
shipsuit. It was the last one, she realized, and smiled. It was 
just as 
well this was the last stage of the road. 
The others were already in the common room, Balthasar sawing 
awkwardly at 
a loaf of daybread under the engineer's critical eye. As Silence 
entered, 
Chase Mago shook his head. "There's no doubt about it, Denis, her 
highness 
is a better cook than you are." 
Balthasar glared at him, and slid the plate of sliced bread across 

the 
table with more force than was necessary. The engineer caught it, 
grinning, and Balthasar reluctantly smiled back. "Coffee, 
Silence?" he 
asked, still smiling. 
"Thanks." Silence took her place at the table, wondering what had 
brought 
on the sudden high spirits. She could feel it herself, though, a 
pleasant 
apprehension that bordered on fear. For a moment she frowned, 
puzzled, 
then froze in understanding, the coffee mug forgotten in her hand. 
In a 
few short hours -- five, six, ten at the most -- they would be on 
Earth, 
or dead. One way or another, all their work would be over, and, 
with luck, 
something entirely new would have begun. 
"Silence?" That was Chase Mago, one eyebrow raised in question. 
The pilot shook herself. "Sorry. I guess -- I can't quite believe 
it, 
that's all." 
Balthasar nodded, a crooked smile on his gaunt face. Chase Mago 
said, "I 
know. It's strange, isn't it?" 
"It is that," Silence agreed. They sat for a long moment, no one 
saying 
anything, and then, with a decisive gesture, Balthasar put his cup 
aside. 
"I'm going to collect our papers and ID tapes now, cue them up 
properly. 
We'll leave in, say, fifteen minutes?" 
Silence nodded, suddenly unable to speak, excitement choking her. 

Chase 
Mago said, the same excitement in his voice, "In fifteen minutes." 
Once the Delian had left, Silence busied herself tidying the 
common room, 
making sure that everything was stowed away for the passage into 
purgatory. Aili could have done it, she knew, or at worst, they 
could 
simply have locked the common room door, but she needed something 
to 
occupy her hands for the moment. Chase Mago grinned, pushing 
himself away 
from the table. 
"I'm going on to the engine room," he announced. "Might as well 
get 
started." 
Balthasar had been gone less than two minutes by the common room 
clock. 
Silence laughed, and pushed the last mug into the cleaning slot, 
saying, 
"I know. I think I'll head up to the bridge myself." 
"It is hard to imagine, isn't it?" Chase Mago said again, and 
disappeared. 
Silence gave the common room a final glance. Everything was in 
place, 
dishes and food stowed in the appropriate cells, furniture 
securely dogged 
to the decking. She nodded to herself and left the room, latching 
the door 
behind her. 
Balthasar was already on the bridge, perched on the arm of the 
first 
pilot's couch to get at the communications console's 
automatic-identification unit. The access panel was folded back, 
and two 

stacks of disks lay on the console beside the opening. Silence 
recognized 
one set as Recusante's legal -- or at least quasi-legal -- Delian 
papers, 
the disks showing opalescent blue under the bridge lights, and 
knew the 
others had to be the disks forged on Asterion. They didn't show 
the same 
convincing wash of color, and the pilot couldn't help wondering if 
Balthasar's mysterious contact had done his job properly. She 
shook the 
thought away -- it was too late to worry about that now -- and 
took her 
place in the second pilot's couch, glancing automatically at the 
console 
displays. The checklights showed green and standby blue across her 
boards. 
Nodding to herself, she reached for the portolan. 
By now, the book opened to the proper pages almost by itself. 
Silence sat 
for a moment, staring at the bizarre map, with its patchwork of 
symbols 
linked by the overlapping rays of the landlines. It was hard to 
believe, 
even now, that this archaic system -- this infuriating, 
exhausting, 
archaic method -- would actually lead them past the Rose Worlders' 
engines 
to Earth. And yet it had brought them this far, deeper into the 
ring of 
the Rose Worlds than any uninvited foreigner had ever come. 
Murmuring the 
first cantrip, she turned her attention to the final mark. 
The tiny drawing, impossibly detailed like all of the 
illustrations on the 
map, showed four women dancing in a ring on a grassy hill, their 
right 
hands lifted toward a child dressed only in a wreath of bright 

flowers who 
floated just above their fingertips. Each wore a long gown cut to 
an 
unfamiliar pattern, and each carried something in her left hand. 
Silence 
leaned closer, concentrating on each of the figures in turn. The 
nearest 
one, a golden-haired woman in a flowing gown that seemed to shift 
in color 
from white to a tawny shade so dark as to be almost red, held a 
slender 
wand; her long sleeves were caught up to her shoulders by pins 
shaped like 
salamanders. To her left was a dark woman in rich russet patterned 
with 
bunches of grapes, a square crown confining her jet-black hair. 
She 
carried a dull bronze disk in her free hand, but held it so 
loosely that 
she seemed almost about to toss it into the air like a juggler. 
Next to 
her, half hidden by the golden woman, danced a woman in a 
turquoise gown. 
Her trailing sleeves were lined in a paler blue, and the great 
cloak that 
streamed back from her shoulders seemed to flow from a black bluegreen 
in 
the shadows to a strange almost-color like thickly flawed glass. 
Her hair 
was hidden by a silver coronet from which fell a draped curtain 
made of 
strands of pearls, and she carried a closed silver cup in her left 
hand. 
The fourth woman, at the golden woman's right, was dressed all in 
greys. 
Her gown was more severely cut than the others', tight in the 
cloud-colored bodice, and then swirling out into an immensely full 
skirt 
that darkened from the cloudy grey of the bodice to a rich bluepurple 
at 

the flaring hem. She alone carried a sword, but held it so easily 
it 
seemed to have no weight at all. 
Those were the old symbols of the four elements, Silence realized 
abruptly, symbols taken from a system even older than the portolan 
itself. 
The sword stood for elemental air, the cup for water, the bronze 
disk for 
earth, and the little wand for fire. Four dancers, four suits of 
the 
tarot, four elements -- the last four symbols of the Earth-road. 
The 
portolan's symbols were not that different from the voidmarks 
given in The 
Gilded Stairs, Silence thought, but while the original image used 
the 
alchemical marriage, the active union of the king and queen, the 
portolan, 
true to its passive nature, showed the result of that union, the 
Child 
that symbolized the end of every quest. It was an auspicious image 
with 
which to end their own journey. 
She looked away, deliberately breaking the mark's spell, and 
realized that 
Balthasar was watching her, a wry smile on his face. 
"I was looking at the mark earlier," the Delian said. "It's -- 
beautiful, 
but do you think the siege engines will have affected it, too?" 
Silence made a face. Until now, she had assumed that, since the 
pilot did 
not manipulate the portolan's marks in any way, the engines would 
not be 
able to distort what she saw in purgatory. But if the symbols of 
the mark 
were the same as the last four symbols of the Earth-road, there 

was at 
least a chance that they, too, would be affected. On the other 
hand, the 
engines could not distort the symbolism too thoroughly, or the 
Rose 
Worlders' own ships could not pass the barrier their own magi had 
created.... "I don't know," she said, slowly. "All things 
considered, I 
don't think they will." 
"I hope not," Balthasar said, and turned back to his keyboards. He 
touched 
a button on the intercom panel, and looked back at Silence, a 
quirky smile 
on his face. "Ready?" 
"I'm ready," Silence answered. 
"Julie?" Balthasar asked, and the engineer answered promptly. 
"Ready when you are, Denis." 
"Then let's go," Balthasar said. 
For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen, and then Silence 
heard the 
first note of the new keelsong, rising very slowly and by a 
deliberate 
progression toward the twelfth of heaven. She shivered, fighting 
back her 
excitement, and settled herself to wait. 
As always, it seemed to take forever to reach the twelfth. Silence 
leaned 
back in her couch, doing her best to wait patiently, and not lose 
the 
unexpected pleasure she had found in the final image. It was a 
losing 
battle. By the time Recusante came within fifteen minutes of 
purgatory, 

the excitement had been drowned by the tedium of the run along the 
landline. 
Sighing, she unfastened the safety webbing, and pushed herself out 
of her 
couch. Balthasar glanced over his shoulder, a crooked smile on his 
face. 
"Enjoy yourself, Silence." 
"Thanks," the pilot said, sourly, and climbed onto the upper 
bridge. The 
dome had begun to thin out already, but she ignored it as she 
plugged in 
her headset and checked the line of status lights running across 
the hub 
of the control yoke. Everything was in order, all the lights 
showing 
green. 
"Five minutes," Chase Mago's voice announced. 
"Five minutes," Silence acknowledged absently, resting her hands 
on the 
wheel. Her thumb hovered over the lock. She moved it aside, 
grimacing -- 
it was much too early -- but put it back a moment later. 
"Three minutes," Chase Mago said. 
Silence repeated the engineer's words, her attention on the dome 
around 
her. It was fading more rapidly than it had on the other stages of 
the 
voyage, but in patches, like ice melting. Some sections were 
almost clear, 
or as clear as they ever became following the portolan's lines, 
while 
others were still almost opaque. Silence frowned, wondering if 
this was an 

indication of trouble to come, but then the last solid patches 
abruptly 
vanished. 
"You have control, Silence," Balthasar said. "Everything looks 
good here." 
"I have control," Silence answered, and unlocked her wheel. For 
the first 
time since she'd begun to follow the portolan, the yoke moved 
stiffly, 
with the slight hint of resistance she associated with normal star 
travel. 
"We're on the line," Chase Mago said. "Everything looks good. I'm 
switching on the warning." 
"Go ahead," Silence answered, and a moment later the familiar tone 
sounded 
in her ears, sweet and true. Ahead, a green knoll rose from 
nothing, its 
roots trailing off into shadows. The four figures were frozen in 
midstep, 
circling its crown. Above their outstretched hands floated the 
Child on 
its wreath of roses and lilies, apparently asleep, serenely 
unconscious of 
its position. Silence smiled in spite of herself, and let 
Recusante follow 
the landline toward the dancing figures. 
As Recusante drew closer to the mark, Silence became aware of a 
change in 
the image, a faint haziness circling the little hill just below 
the 
dancers' feet. It was less than shadow, a sort of fuzziness above 
the 
grass, distorting the shapes only slightly, but it was something 
that 
should not be there. It had not been a part of the portolan's 

drawing, 
that much was certain, but she could not make it take any clear 
shape. 
Silence kept Recusante on course, frowning, and felt her shoulders 
tighten 
in spite of herself, ready to pull the ship out of possible 
danger. 
The ship came closer, but the weird circle still refused to take 
on 
concrete form, wavering almost like heat-shadow on a sun-baked 
road. 
Silence deliberately looked away, the way she looked away from the 
faintest lights in a darkened room, but the image stayed 
obstinately 
vague. Whatever it is, she thought, I don't like it. She pulled 
back 
gently on the control yoke, lifting Recusante until the warning 
tone began 
to rise in pitch. She levelled off then, shaking her head. The 
maneuver 
had gained her a little altitude relative to the circle, but not 
enough. 
If the line ran true, Recusante would have to pass through the 
upper edges 
of that shimmering disturbance. 
Of course, a magus's skills might be able to determine what it is, 
she 
thought, but hesitated. She wasn't sure what the effects of a 
pilot's 
semi-active power would be on the delicate balance of the 
landlines and 
the simple mark, had refused to let Chase Mago call in the upper 
register 
on the first stage of the journey and had been proven right. A 
magus's 
power was even more active, so much so that its use might 
completely 
destroy her ability to perceive the portolan's images. Maybe if I 

asked 
Isambard to do it? she thought, but rejected the idea almost at 
once. The 
effect would be the same, no matter who wielded the active power. 
There 
was nothing to do but wait. The tone was steady in her headset, 
indicating 
that the ship was still solidly on the line; even so, she touched 
the 
intercom button to override it. 
"Julie, Denis, are either of you picking up anything unusual?" 
Balthasar answered first, as usual. "Not a thing. Is anything 
wrong?" 
"Everything looks fine here," Chase Mago said, almost in the same 
instant. 
"Why?" 
"I'm not sure," Silence said. "There's something funny about the 
mark...." 
She let her voice trail off, not quite sure even how she should 
describe 
it. 
Balthasar's voice sharpened. "Trouble?" 
"Maybe," Silence said, staring at the strangely blurred line. It 
was 
closer now, but no clearer. She had never seen or heard of 
anything like 
it, and she could hear the frustration in her own voice. "I can't 
see it 
well enough to tell." 
Recusante was almost at the foot of the little hill, and Silence 
broke off 
the conversation. There were formulae that could be used to test 
the 

substance of an immaterial object; the magi used them to 
investigate the 
nature of Forms. Maybe, she thought, one of them would be good 
enough to 
test this -- whatever it is. Very cautiously, she murmured one of 
Jabir's 
cantrips, putting only a fraction of her strength into the probing 
formula. She felt the faint tingling that meant she had called on 
her 
power correctly, and in the same instant the universe seemed to 
stagger, a 
sickening, earthquake sensation. She broke off the cantrip 
instantly, 
hoping she had been able to hold it long enough to get a result. 
Nothing 
happened: either she had succeeded and the wavering circle was 
harmless, 
or, more likely, she had not had time to complete the cantrip. She 
grimaced, but kept the ship on course, knowing there was nothing 
else she 
could do. 
And then Recusante had reached the edge of the mark. "Julie, stop 
down 
now," Silence said. There was no acknowledgement, but the keelsong 
thinned slightly. The warning tone began to drop as well, and 
Silence 
pulled back on the yoke, lifting the ship farther above the 
illusory 
grasses. The dancing figures loomed overhead, but the pilot barely 
saw 
them, fixing her eyes instead on the odd band of haze. This close, 
it had 
a sort of shape, like a wall of invisible flame, the upper edges 
of the 
circle pulsing very slowly, as though in time to some distant 
heartbeat. 
Then, too late, she knew what it was, and damned herself for a 

fool. 
Balthasar had guessed it, for all he wasn't a magus, had warned 
her, and 
she'd been too stupid to listen. The shadow was the reflection of 
the 
siege engines that had corrupted the elemental symbols each time 
she had 
tried to force the Earth-road. They weren't able to affect this 
passive 
perception of the symbols, but they did exist, and they did block 
her path 
into the mark. Swearing, she pulled up on the control yoke, 
lifting 
Recusante as far off the landline as she dared. The warning note 
changed, 
protesting, and was swallowed in an explosion of pure noise as the 
ship's 
keel touched the top of the invisible wall. Silence winced, 
cringing under 
the sheer force of the sound, and ripped off her headset. The 
sound eased 
a little, but seemed to take almost solid form, rising like mist, 
like 
static, to destroy her vision of the mark. She swore again, 
twisting the 
control yoke from side to side to find the landline, but she had 
lost the 
warning tone when she pulled off the headset. Cursing, she brought 
the 
ship back to what she hoped was the proper course, fighting down 
panic. 
She could not hear the keelsong through the smothering roar; she 
thought 
the ship trembled underfoot, but could not longer trust her own 
perceptions. 
With a tremendous effort, she controlled her fear, forcing herself 
to 
think logically. If Isambard were here, he would know how to break 
the 

engines -- had always known, and here where the engines' force was 
weaker, 
he might actually succeed.... But the magus wasn't there, and 
there was no 
way -- and no time -- to send for him. Silence groped frantically 
for the 
memory of how Isambard had attempted to break the engines. He had 
invoked 
the Forms of the elements, she remembered that much; she 
remembered the 
words themselves, but not the formulae that bound those Forms to 
his 
bidding. She sobbed aloud, feeling the deck shake beneath her. 
Recusante 
was tearing herself apart, disrupted by the noise that was the 
ultimate 
dissonance. The stolen mailship, Bruja, had almost gone the same 
way, 
shattered by the engines' music. 
The thought of Bruja sparked a vague memory. Silence fought back 
panic 
knowing she had no time to waste, and focused her thoughts inward, 
forcing 
herself into a state of awareness. It had been on Bruja that she'd 
learned 
she had a magus's power, first by breaking the Hegemonic geas and 
then, 
when she had tried to fly the Earth-road.... The memory came 
rushing back, 
and with it came the ghost of the Earth-road's music, the note 
that once 
before had taken Recusante to the eighth of heaven. She reached 
for the 
memory of that music without conscious plan, knowing only that it 
had 
saved Bruja so many months before. She twisted it, turning it 
outward, 
forcing it to take on a Form, and then forced that Form to become 
reality. 

The note sang in her and around her, driving back the engines' 
noise. 
The deck steadied underfoot, though she could still feel it 
trembling, and 
the blurring static faded slightly. A line appeared in the haze 
ahead of 
the ship, faint at first, then growing solid. Colors ran along its 
length, 
black to white to peacock-blue to royal purple, strobing away from 
her in 
great waves of light that also carried the sound of heaven to 
blend with 
the keelsong in glorious diapason. 
Blindly, Silence turned Recusante onto that brilliant pathway, 
feeling the 
ship's trembling ease further. Then, quite suddenly, the static 
was gone, 
though the path remained, stretching away up the hill to twist in 
and out 
of the feet of the unmoving dancers. Shaking, Silence glanced back 
over 
her shoulder, and saw the hazy wall behind her: she had passed 
through the 
engines' influence without destroying it, or them. 
Now that the engines' noise was gone, she could hear faint voices 
calling 
from her headset, but she could not leave the wheel to pick it up. 
She put 
the voices from her mind, concentrating on the images ahead. 
Recusante was 
moving very fast now, skimming along above the multicolored path. 
Silence 
leaned against the wheel, turning the ship to follow the path as 
it wound 
around the first dancer's monstrous ankle. As Recusante completed 
the 
loop, Silence thought she saw the dancer's other foot, lifted for 

the next 
step, tremble slightly, but the path led away from that figure, 
heading 
directly across the dance to the figure that stood for elemental 
water. 
Fire to water, Silence thought, dizzily, then earth to air? 
The glowing path traced a loop around the water-dancer's foot as 
well. 
Silence leaned on the wheel, forcing Recusante into the sharp 
curve. As 
the ship came around again, closing the circle, she caught a 
glimpse of 
the fire-dancer. The golden woman had moved, she thought, had 
taken 
another step along the pattern -- but surely that was impossible? 
The path 
twisted, whirling her away before she could be sure. 
As she had half expected, the path took her next around the earthdancer's 
foot, then traced a line back through the center of the dance, 
crossing 
itself again. This time, as she passed the first two dancers, she 
was 
certain they had moved, were moving, continuing a dance suspended 
for too 
many years, and knew without looking back that the earth-dancer 
was 
stirring, too. The keelsong rose gloriously around her, and she 
was 
suddenly aware that it was the harmonium's full concord, upper and 
lower 
register both, but she did not know if she had triggered it, or if 
Chase 
Mago had guessed what was happening, and opened all the stops. 
The path looped again around the final dancer's foot, almost 
touching the 
hem of her flaring skirt. Silence held her breath, but Recusante 

passed 
under it safely, and turned to follow the path back to the center 
of the 
dance. A moment later, she heard a whisper of sound behind her, 
almost 
blending into the swelling keelsong, and guessed the skirt had 
brushed the 
path as the air-dancer shifted into motion. 
All the dancers were moving now, tracing the steps of the dance 
with 
monumental grace. The path seemed to end in the center of the 
turning 
figures -- or rather, Silence realized, the path joined itself 
again, 
closing the knot. For a moment, she wondered if the ship would 
have to 
retrace that pattern, dodging the dancers' moving feet, but then 
Recusante 
reached the center of the pattern, and the path abruptly vanished. 
Silence 
blinked, startled, her hands freezing on the wheel. Before she 
could move, 
however, the ship began to rise, as though lifted by an invisible 
hand. 
She glanced down instinctively, but the tinctured decking blocked 
her 
view. She looked up, and saw that the Child had vanished. The 
wreath 
remained, and through its circle Silence could see the unhaloed 
stars of 
mundane space. 
The dancers swung past again, serenely beautiful archetypes, and 
then 
Recusante had reached the wreath and was through, harmonium 
dropping into 
the lower register. Silence shook her head, completely without 
words for 
what she had done, then, stiffly, locked her wheel and bent to 

pick up her 
discarded headset. 
Balthasar's voice sounded instantly in her ears." -- down. We're 
on the 
normal exit point, and I don't see any hostiles. Silence, are you 
there?" 
"I'm here," the pilot said slowly, and her own voice sounded harsh 
and 
clumsy after the music of heaven. 
"What happened?" Chase Mago demanded. "My God, I thought we'd had 
it that 
time." 
Silence took a deep breath, fumbling for the words, and Balthasar 
said, 
"Let it go, Julie. She brought us through the engines, right? And 
that's 
quite enough for now." His voice sharpened. "Silence, I'm going to 
need 
your help. Their Approach Control's going to be signalling any 
minute." 
The demand seemed doubly unfair, coming so soon after the wonders 
of the 
passage. Silence felt tears stinging in her eyes. She wanted 
nothing more 
than to sit quietly until she understood just what had happened, 
what she 
had done -- but Balthasar was right. This was only the first part; 
if the 
Rose Worlders suspected them now, all her work would have been for 
nothing. Still, it was hard to make herself climb down the ladder, 
and 
take her place in the second pilot's couch beside Balthasar. 
All three of the viewscreens showed the same image, a single sun 
against a 

sea of stars. Silence frowned, wondering why Balthasar had not 
switched 
one of them to musonar display, and the Delian leaned toward her, 
reaching 
across the Ficinan model to touch her hand. 
"There it is," he said softly. "The first sun, Earth's sun." 
Silence stared at the screens, not quite able to believe it even 
now. But 
it is Earth's sun, she told herself firmly, the words sounding 
more real 
with each repetition, and somewhere in there is Earth itself. They 
were 
still too far out for the real-light cameras to pick up planets. 
She 
turned to the Ficinan model, suddenly desperate to prove that 
Earth really 
did exist, that it had not been destroyed like so many worlds 
during the 
Millennial War. 
The globe showed a schematic image, the sun at the center 
surrounded by 
slowly pulsing waves of light, ringed by planets, each of which 
moved in 
its own circle of color, deepest at the center, fading toward 
invisibility 
at the edges. Here and there, interference showed darkly red, 
where two 
planetary envelopes overlapped. Silence counted, her breath coming 
more 
quickly: nine planets -- nine planets and a pale band of blue that 
was 
certainly an asteroid belt. Nine planets.... She could remember 
only a few 
of the extra names -- the other worlds were useless, their names 
meaningless and easily forgotten without the key that was Earth -- 
but 
every star-traveller knew that the third world from the First Sun 

was 
Earth. The image hung in the globe, much like any other planet, a 
pinpoint 
of light surrounded by the waves of the musica mundana. She 
touched the 
crystal of the Ficinan globe just above the point, as though that 
could 
make it more real. 
"I know," Balthasar said. "I know." 
Silence nodded, and lifted her eyes to the viewscreens. The first 
sun 
looked quite ordinary, much like any other sun in human-settled 
space. It 
took a deliberate effort of will to convince herself that it was 
something 
special. 
"Captain Balthasar." Isambard's voice sounded very loud in the 
intercom 
speakers. "We've arrived? May I come on the bridge?" 
Silence gave the Delian an imploring glance, and Balthasar 
grinned. "We've 
made it into the system, Isambard, and we're waiting for a signal 
from the 
Approach Control. I'd rather you stayed in commons for now; I'll 
patch the 
picture onto the screen there." 
Silence bent to adjust the remote-screen controls, slaving the 
unit in the 
common room to the bow camera. Isambard didn't say anything for a 
long 
moment, but finally sighed deeply. 
"Very well, Captain Balthasar, I'll wait here." 
"Thank you," Balthasar said, almost cheerfully, and touched 

another button 
on the intercom panel. "Marcinik? We made it to the system, 
anyway. I've 
patched our camera view into the common room screen if you and her 
serenity want to take a look." 
"Thanks," Marcinik answered. "We shall." 
Balthasar cut the connection, the smile fading from his face. 
"Question 
is," he murmured, "where's our approach contact?" 
"You said we came out on the usual appearance point?" Silence 
asked. That 
had always been one of her worries -- managing their emergence 
from 
purgatory so that it looked as though Recusante had flown the 
normal 
Earth-road. 
Balthasar nodded. "According to the supercargo's information, we 
were 
close enough that even the orbital musonar couldn't tell the 
difference. " 
According to the supercargo's information. That was the sticky 
point, 
Silence thought. All their knowledge of Earth was based on what 
that woman 
had told them, and there had been no way to verify more than a few 
minor 
details. Not for the first time, she wondered if they had learned 
enough. 
"Ah, here we go," Balthasar exclaimed, pointing to the 
communications 
console. Lights flashed orange on the automatic-identification 
panel, 
indicating an arriving signal, then turned green as the equipment 
recognized the inquiry and broadcast the forged papers in 

response. 
Silence held her breath, waiting for the acknowledgement, and saw 
without 
surprise that Balthasar's hands were white-knuckled on his 
controls. She 
reached across the Ficinan model to adjust the musonar, scanning 
the 
volume around them for signs of any other ships. The screen stayed 
clear, 
with only a faint reading just at the edge of their range to worry 
about 
-- and if that diffuse blob was another ship, Silence thought, it 
would 
take even a navy six at least an hour to cover the distance 
between the 
two. Still, she did not relax until the external speaker crackled 
to life. 
"Double-M vessel Recusante, this is Interior Approach Control. You 
are 
entering a special license area. Please transmit your permit at 
once." 
"Interior Approach, this is Recusante," Balthasar answered, his 
voice 
remarkably calm. "Transmitting now." He touched a button on the 
communications console, and a new light flashed red. Silence held 
her 
breath again, hoping the supercargo's memory had been accurate, 
and that 
Balthasar's forger was as good as the Delian had claimed. There 
was a long 
pause before the speaker hissed again. 
"Recusante, this is Interior Approach Control. Your permit has 
been 
received and verified. Please set up to accept your entry course." 
Silence let out the breath she had been holding in a great sigh, 
and 

hastily adjusted the astrogation console. "Ready," she said, too 
quietly 
for the microphones to pick up her voice, and Balthasar nodded. 
"We're ready to accept the entry course," he said. 
"Stand by," Interior Approach said severely. "Transmitting." 
The astrogation console whirred briefly, then stopped. Silence 
checked the 
telltales, and said, "It's recorded and shows green." 
"Course recorded and on our board," Balthasar said into his 
microphone. 
"Please retransmit to verify," Interior Approach responded, and 
the Delian 
lifted an eyebrow. 
"Wrath-of-God wasn't this sticky," he said. Silence winced, but 
saw his 
microphone was safely off. Balthasar winked, and flipped his 
headset on 
again. "Retransmitting," he announced, and Silence hit the 
necessary keys. 
There was a brief pause, and then Interior Approach said, "We 
verify the 
course as correct, Recusante. Do not, I repeat, do not deviate 
from this 
line for any reason whatsoever. You will be under observation from 
planetary stations and from patrolcraft to make certain you obey 
the 
restrictions." 
Balthasar made a face at that, but answered evenly, "Understood, 
Approach." 
"You will be contacted again when you reach the planetary 
envelope," the 

severe voice continued. "Interior Approach Control out." The openchannel 
indicator winked out before the Delian could respond. 
"Rude set of bastards, aren't they?" Balthasar murmured. His grim 
expression belied the flippant words. 
"Charming," Chase Mago agreed, but his heart wasn't in it. "Patrolcraft, 
Denis?" 
"We were warned about them," Silence said soothingly, hands 
already busy 
on her keyboards. The musonar was already set to broad-scan at its 
longest 
range. She left that as it was, and adjusted the astrogation 
console so 
that the central viewscreen and the Ficinan model displayed their 
assigned 
course. The yellow line curved in toward Earth in a wide arc, 
threading a 
narrow channel of undistorted space between two worlds just past 
their 
closest approach. It was clearly a course intended to waste their 
time, to 
make sure that the Rose Worlders -- or whoever it was that 
Interior 
Approach Control's stiff voice represented -- had time to take a 
very good 
look at the newcomers. 
Balthasar frowned. "I don't like the looks of that," he said, and 
tapped 
the little gap between edges of the planetary envelopes. "I don't 
like it 
at all." 
"There's plenty of room," Silence began, and Balthasar cut her 
off. 

"Yeah, plenty of room for those patrolcraft Approach was talking 
about." 
Silence stared at the musonar image. To either side of the 
indicated 
course lay a wash of color, the reflection of trailing planetary 
harmonies. The edges nearest the course line were tinged with red: 
interference cast by the conflicting harmonies. "I wouldn't want 
to take a 
ship into that," she said aloud. 
Balthasar snorted. "It wouldn't be that bad, provided you knew the 
system 
music pretty well, and turned accordingly. And all that underlying 
noise 
is going to play games with our musonar; that's something else 
they'll 
use." 
Silence made a doubtful face, but she had to admit that the 
Delian, with 
his Wrath-of-God experience, knew more about such things than she 
did. 
"Well, so far I don't see any sign of a patrol." 
"Keep looking," Balthasar said, and touched the intercom switch. 
"Julie, 
we're headed in-system. Give me half power." 
"Half power it is," Chase Mago answered. "What do we do about the 
patrols?" 
"Just what we planned," Balthasar answered. "Recusante looks 
enough like a 
Rose Worlder freighter -- no offense, Silence -- so we'll just 
play 
innocent and let them stare as much as they like." 
Chase Mago made a rather skeptical noise, but said nothing else. 
Silence 

looked to her left, and saw that Balthasar was chewing 
thoughtfully on his 
lower lip. The Delian saw her glance, and smiled. "On the other 
hand, 
there's no point in being stupid," he said, and pressed another 
button on 
the intercom panel. "Marcinik? Are you there?" 
The colonel answered after only a second's delay. "I'm here, 
Balthasar. 
What is it?" 
"I want you to man the guns," Balthasar answered, and Silence 
thought she 
heard a murmur of surprise from Aili in the background. Whatever 
the 
Princess Royal had been about to say was cut off by Isambard. 
"That would ruin everything," the magus said indignantly. "You 
mustn't 
take the chance of their seeing that you're ready to fight." 
Balthasar took a deep breath, obviously fighting back his anger, 
and 
Silence said hastily, "Let me talk to him." 
"He's all yours," Balthasar said, with relish. 
"We discussed this back on Asterion," Silence said, not bothering 
to 
respond to the Delian's remark. "Even if they spot us now, there's 
a good 
chance we could break away, and take what we've learned back to 
the 
Hegemon." 
The magus did not answer for a long moment, but at last he said, 
"Very 
well." 

Balthasar did not bother to acknowledge him, saying only, "Take 
the guns, 
Marcinik." 
"On my way," the colonel answered. A moment later, Silence heard 
the faint 
sound of the common room door opening and closing. To her 
surprise, 
however, the intercom sounded again. 
"Is there anything Doctor Isambard and I can -- should be doing?" 
Aili 
asked, her voice preternaturally calm. 
"What do you think?" Balthasar growled at his closed microphone. 
"Damn 
stupid question." 
"Shut up, Denis," Silence said. She could not help feeling sorry 
for the 
Princess Royal. It wasn't the easiest position to be in, sitting 
and 
waiting for disaster or success, all the while knowing that 
nothing one 
did could affect the result, and the pilot let that sympathy color 
her 
answer. "I'm afraid not, Serenity. If anything comes up, we'll 
call, I 
promise." 
"Thank you," Aili answered, her voice still very much under 
control. "I'll 
be in my cabin, and Doctor Isambard will be in his." 
"Silence?" Chase Mago said. "Tell them they can be going over 
their 
stories, making absolutely sure they know them. We may need them 
to back 
us up." 

Silence nodded, even though she knew the engineer couldn't see 
her, and 
repeated his words to the two in the common room. It was a good 
idea, even 
if it wasn't strictly true -- they had all spent weeks learning 
their 
cover story, in learning-trance and out -- and it would give Aili 
in 
particular something to occupy her mind. 
"We'll do that," the Princess Royal said, and broke the 
connection. 
Silence leaned back in her couch then, staring at the musonar. It 
still 
showed nothing but empty space and the dull wash of music from the 
outermost planet, and she sighed deeply. "So now we wait," she 
said. 
"We wait," Balthasar agreed. 
After a moment's thought, Silence adjusted the musonar so that the 
side 
viewscreens showed the results of short-range scanning: nothing 
unusual, 
unless you wanted to count the strange readings from the two 
outermost 
worlds. The tiny ninth world wasn't even within the plane of the 
system, 
but swung through it on a weirdly tilted orbit, trailing a cloud 
of 
pinkish interference. The next world in was surrounded by an inner 
envelope of a peculiar, violent blue, and that envelope in turn 
was 
enclosed in a flattened pale-blue oval. A strange, intense music 
sang in 
that world's core, and for a moment, Silence could almost remember 
its 
name. The teasing memory vanished before she could seize it, and 
the pilot 

made a disgusted face. 
They still had a very long way to go, she thought, and almost said 
the 
words aloud until she glanced sideways and saw Balthasar's set 
face. The 
Delian was in no mood for conversation, that much was clear. 
Sighing, 
Silence edged back further into her couch, with an effort turning 
her 
thoughts to what they had to do once they actually landed on 
Earth. From 
the beginning, even before they had known for certain that the 
Rose 
Worlders controlled Earth as well as the Earth-road, they had 
known they 
could do nothing more than a quick survey. That had been modified 
only 
slightly since. All they intended to do -- all they could do. 
Silence told 
herself firmly -- was land, deliver their faked cargo, and try to 
guess 
how strongly Earth was held. Then they would lift, and return to 
the 
Hegemon with the knowledge they had gathered. I'm tempted to try 
the 
Earth-road going back, Silence thought. It would be quicker than 
the 
portolan's route, and probably a lot more pleasant -- maybe even 
safer, if 
the Rose Worlders suspect anything. After all, Isambard's pretty 
sure he 
can break the engines, and once we're through that barrier, we're 
almost 
home. If we went back by portolan, we'd have to spend so much time 
in 
mundane space that the Rose Worlders would be sure to spot us. 
She shook her head then, still not quite able to believe that this 
was 

really Earth's system. Maybe it isn't, she thought, a sudden rush 
of fear 
threatening to overwhelm her. Maybe somehow the Rose Worlders have 
tricked 
us -- there must be other nine-planet systems, after all -- maybe 
they're 
hiding in that lovely ambush spot Denis picked out, just waiting 
to blast 
us out of space. Maybe Earth really was destroyed, the way I was 
always 
sure it had been, and this is just the Rose Worlder's way of 
eliminating 
inquisitive star-travellers. 
She cut off that flight of fancy abruptly. It was hardly likely -- 
if 
nothing else, the Rose Worlders could not have produced the images 
she had 
seen on the last stage of the portolan-journey. Still, the feeling 
of 
unreality persisted, despite the images on the screens. 
Slowly, Recusante crept inward along the prescribed course. A 
quarter of 
the way along the yellow line, Silence caught the first flicker of 
another 
keel on the musonar; fifteen minutes later, the musonar picked up 
a second 
ship, as big as a Navy five but even more heavily armed, moving 
along a 
course that paralleled Recusante's own. 
"What do you want to bet they're scanning us like crazy?" 
Balthasar 
murmured. 
"Let them," Silence said, with a confidence she was far from 
feeling. 
"And next they're bound to query the A-ID," Balthasar continued, 

as though 
he hadn't heard. "Yes, there they go." 
Silence looked at the communications console. Sure enough, the 
green light 
was on above the automatic identification panel, and she could 
hear the 
faint whine as the console automatically broadcast the information 
contained on the disks in its various cells. The light blinked 
out, and 
she could hear Balthasar's quick breathing, both of them bracing 
against 
possible attack. Silence's eyes went to the chronometer. A minute 
ticked 
by, impossibly slowly, and then another, and she began to relax. 
In the 
musonar, the patrolship kept its station, neither moving off nor 
closing 
in. 
"I suppose that's something to be grateful for," she murmured, and 
realized with some embarrassment that she had spoken aloud. 
Balthasar grunted. "We'll know for certain in about half an hour," 
he 
said. 
Silence frowned at the course plot, then understood. If the five 
kept 
station, its course would bring it up against and then into the 
musica 
mundana of the seventh planet in half an hour, where the 
interference 
would be too strong even for a ship well-tuned to the vagaries of 
the 
local system. She stared at the screens, willing the five to turn 
back. 
"Captain Balthasar." Marcinik's voice in the headset made Silence 
jump. 

"The gunnery sensors show a target at extreme range. Do you want 
me to do 
anything about it?" 
Balthasar grinned, and Silence had to suppress a slightly 
hysterical 
giggle. The idea of Recusante, with her tiny cannon, "doing 
something 
about" a well-armed patrolship was ludicrous. She sobered a little 
as she 
realized they might have to try. 
"Not just at the moment, colonel," Balthasar said. 
"Permission to power the guns?" Marcinik asked. 
Balthasar hesitated. "No," he said, after a moment. "They might 
spot the 
change. Don't worry, I'll give you plenty of warning." 
"Please do," Marcinik said, and broke the connection. 
"Trust me, damn you," Balthasar said to his dead microphone, and 
shook his 
head. "We'll have time, if it comes to fighting." 
Silence nodded, then realized he was speaking more to reassure 
himself. 
Slowly, Recusante crept along the course line toward the inner 
planets. As 
the patrolship approached the edge of the planetary envelope, 
Silence held 
her breath, then forced herself to breathe normally. For a long 
moment, 
the patrolship too, held steady, nosing a little way into the 
shadowy 
color, and the musonar picked up the faint sparks of dissonance 
flaring 
around it. Then, quite suddenly, it swung away, back toward the 

edge of 
the system, accelerating until it vanished from the musonar 
altogether. 
Balthasar sighed noisily. "Well, that one believed us." 
Let's hope the others do, too, Silence thought, but said nothing. 
Instead, 
she directed the musonar forward, throwing in as much power as she 
dared. 
They were coming up on Balthasar's ambush point, the narrow gap 
between 
the harmonic envelopes, and Silence swung the horn back and forth, 
scanning the areas of low interference. As the Delian had 
predicted, the 
rising harmonies of the envelopes made it difficult to pick out 
details 
from the background clamor, but she thought she saw the bronze 
shadow of 
at least one keel in the wash of color. It was too quick a 
sighting to 
determine the class of ship, but she could not delude herself into 
thinking it would be anything less than a warship. 
"Anything?" Balthasar asked. 
Silence shrugged. "I thought I saw at least one keel, but the 
clamor 
blocked it before I could get a good reading. It looks like you 
were 
right, Denis." 
"Mmm." Balthasar stared at the screen as though he could force it 
to come 
clear, once again chewing on his lower lip. Then he reached for 
the 
intercom in sudden decision. "Marcinik, power the guns -- low 
setting for 
now, but get the fires running." 

"Certainly, Captain Balthasar," the colonel answered. A few 
seconds later, 
a row of lights blinked orange and then pale green on the status 
board. 
Silence lifted an eyebrow. Marcinik must've been sitting with his 
finger 
practically on the button to respond that quickly, she thought. 
And I 
don't blame him for it, either. 
As Recusante edged her way into the gap between the two envelopes, 
the 
musonar cleared momentarily. Silence caught a brief glimpse of 
four, maybe 
five keels before the flaring color hid them completely. Balthasar 
swore 
softly. 
"Did you get a guess on the class?" 
Silence shook her head doubtfully. "I don't think any of them were 
any 
brighter than that five, but I couldn't swear to it." 
"Damn," Balthasar muttered, and fixed his brooding stare on the 
screens. 
Silence divided her attention between the musonar, the real-light 
cameras' 
tiny screen, and the chronometer. When five, and then ten minutes 
passed 
without an attack, she allowed herself to relax a little. Still, 
she 
jumped when the communications console clicked, her heart pounding 
painfully. 
"Checking our papers again," Balthasar said, and smiled. "That 
should mean 
they still believe us." 

Silence nodded, heart still beating too hard for her to speak. 
Still, 
Balthasar seemed to be right. Other than that one inquiry, the 
hidden 
patrolships gave no sign of their presence. Even so, Silence could 
not 
quite breathe easily until Recusante emerged from the narrow lane. 
The 
course ahead showed empty of patrolcraft. After a moment's 
consideration, 
she adjusted the musonar horn to point back along the way they'd 
come. 
There was nothing there either -- and then a small bronze dot slid 
out of 
the screening music. Silence swore as the patrolcraft -- it looked 
like 
another five -- moved slowly forward to take up station behind 
them, 
effectively blocking any attempt to escape. 
"Denis, we're being followed," she said aloud. 
"I see it." Balthasar sounded surprisingly calm. Silence glanced 
warily in 
his direction and saw that he was smiling. She made a face, but 
there was 
nothing to say to that unexpected cool. Instead, she reset the 
musonar, 
leaving one of the smaller units to watch the trailing ship, and 
turned 
the main horn forward again. 
As they moved deeper into the system, more traffic showed in the 
screens. 
Silence counted four more patrolcraft -- smaller ships this time, 
the 
equivalents of Navy threes and fours -- and perhaps half a dozen 
other 
ships moving within the orbit of the fourth planet. One of those 
was 

recognizably a roundship, another freighter similar in size and 
tuning to 
Recusante, but the others gave off strange, contradictory 
readings. It was 
almost as though there was no keelsong involved, Silence thought, 
just the 
musonar's notes reflecting off bare, untinctured metal. It was 
more than 
that, she realized a moment later; there was a secondary harmony 
involved, 
one that bore a strong resemblance to the note of elemental fire. 
That 
sparked a memory. The primitive, chemical-fuel tugs used by Wrathof-
God 
had given off a similar reading -- though why Earth would use that 
kind of 
ship is a mystery to me, Silence thought. Aloud, she said, "Denis, 
I think 
I'm picking up flame-throwers." 
"You can't be," Balthasar said automatically, but looked to the 
musonar. 
His frown deepened. "But that's what it looks like, isn't it? I 
wonder 
why...." 
"Wrath-of-God used them at the Wrath," Silence said, and waited. 
"Yeah, but that was because we were water-poor. Earth should have 
all the 
distilleries it needs." Balthasar shook his head, and touched the 
general 
speaker. "Julie, Isambard, can you think of any good reason to run 
flame-throwers -- chemical-fuel ships -- instead of normal 
subcelestial 
keels?" 
Neither the magus nor the engineer answered for a long moment. 
Finally, 
Chase Mago said, "I can't." Silence could almost hear the shrug. 

 The magus took longer to answer. "There is no reason that I can 
think of, 
except lack of elemental water or an inability to tincture a 
sounding keel 
correctly. Both hypotheses seem to be ruled out a priori: we see 
true 
starships all around us." 
"Thanks," Balthasar said sourly. 
Silence grimaced, leaning back in her couch. The chemical-fuel 
ships 
seemed clustered in the shadow of Earth's envelope, hovering 
around the 
single moon. Maybe they were tugs, like Wrath-of-God's, she 
thought. Most 
moons were barren, dead earth at their cores; if there were some 
sort of 
station on that moon, it might be more economical to use chemicalfuel 
ships than import elemental water. But why would anyone go to the 
trouble 
of setting up a settlement on a moon when there was a perfectly 
good world 
available? 
Recusants crept inward along the curving course line, following a 
well-buoyed path through the ring of asteroids, then skirting the 
edge of 
the fourth world's harmonic envelope. After a moment's hesitation, 
Silence 
switched one of the triple screens from musonar display to the 
image from 
the bow cameras. At the system's highest magnification, the redorange 
disk showed darker lines, and bright icecaps at both poles. A pair 
of 
ragged moons circled it. Silence watched, entranced, until the 
image 

dwindled in the screen. 
The intercom clicked again. "Mars," Isambard said, his voice 
tinged with 
reverence. "Captain Balthasar, we are coming up on Earth. I ask 
you again 
to allow me on the bridge." 
Balthasar rolled his eyes, but answered politely enough, "I'm 
sorry, 
Isambard, there just isn't room. I'm afraid you'll have to make do 
with 
the pictures." 
"Captain Balthasar --" the magus began again, and Silence cut in 
hastily, 
"Isambard, it's all the same picture." 
There was a brief pause, and then Isambard sighed. "So it is. You 
do well 
to remind me." 
Balthasar put his hand over his headset's microphone. "I wish to 
hell he'd 
remember it, then." 
Silence nodded, but said, soothingly, "We still have an hour to 
go." Her 
eyes flickered to the chronometer to confirm the guess. Yes, she 
thought, 
it would take a little less than an hour to reach the end of the 
set 
course -- She broke off then, shaking her head. In a little less 
than a 
standard hour, Recusante would be in Earth orbit: she could not 
quite make 
it seem real. 
She adjusted the bow cameras, focusing them on the still-distant 
world. It 

was little more than a pinpoint on the screen, barely 
distinguishable from 
the stars around it -- a little brighter, perhaps, its brilliance 
tinged 
with blue, but there was nothing particularly noticeable about it. 
Very 
slowly, the image swelled on the screen, from a mere dot of light 
to a 
visible disk, from a disk to the great, white-banded globe of 
legend, 
continents half hidden under the streaks of cloud. Silence's 
breath caught 
in her throat. This, then, was Earth, humankind's first home: 
there were 
no words for the moment, and she did not even try to find any, 
caught up 
in the wonder of it all. 
A noise from the communications console broke the spell, and a new 
voice 
said, "MMV Recusante, this is Earth Traffic Control. Please 
transmit your 
manifest and supporting documents." 
Balthasar touched keys on his board, frowning deeply. 
"Transmitting," he 
said, and switched off his microphone. "That's not coming from the 
planet." 
Silence adjusted the secondary musonar, sweeping its lesser horn 
in short 
arcs. "You're right," she said, after a moment. "It's an orbital 
station." 
"Why?" Balthasar demanded, the frustration clear in his voice. 
"That's all 
I want to know. Why make things difficult?" 
Silence shrugged, and was grateful when the communications console 
beeped 

again, cutting off her reply. 
"Recusante, this is Earth Traffic Control. Please stand by for 
your field 
assignment." 
"Standing by," Balthasar said, and keyed the intercom. "Julie, be 
ready to 
record the field beam." 
"Ready to record," Chase Mago answered. 
"Right," the Delian answered. "Earth Traffic Control, we are ready 
to 
record." 
Traffic Control answered promptly. "You will be landing at Ladysprings. 
Transmitting course and beam now." 
"Ready," Balthasar answered, and keyed the astrogation console. It 
whined 
abruptly, and an instant later Chase Mago's voice came over the 
intercom. 
"Field beam's recorded." 
"And the course is in the box," Balthasar said, with a quick, 
nervous 
grin. "This is it, people, we're going in." He touched the 
transmitter for 
a final time. "Earth Traffic Control, we have recorded landing 
instructions. Ready to commence our descent." 
"Very good, Recusante," Earth Traffic Control answered. "You may 
land when 
ready. Switch to frequency sixteen for Ladysprings Field Beacon." 
"Thank you, Traffic Control," Balthasar said. "Switching now." 

At his nod, Silence touched her keyboard, adjusting the console to 
the new 
frequency, but did not open the transmitter. Balthasar adjusted 
the 
astrogation display, projecting the new course onto the central 
screen. 
The bright yellow line skimmed across the edge of the atmospheric 
envelope, following a line almost parallel to the world's equator. 
It 
crossed into the planet's night after travelling only a few 
thousand 
kilometers, then changed to the red of beam descent above the 
center of a 
huge island. 
"So that's Ladysprings," Balthasar said, half to himself. "Keep 
the 
frequency open, Silence, but we'll let them make first contact. 
Julie do 
you need a pitch reading?" 
"Already in," Chase Mago answered. "Compensators set, stops at 
planetary 
maximum." 
"Then we go," Balthasar said. Despite the confident words, there 
was a 
perceptible pause before he touched his own controls. Recusante 
dropped 
further toward the atmosphere, levelling off with its keel just 
skimming 
the line of demarcation. Silence winced as the contact set off a 
thin, 
high whining, just at the upper range of audibility. Balthasar 
touched 
keys again, and Recusante lifted slightly, the noise easing a 
little. 
There was nothing to do now but wait. Silence leaned back in her 
couch, 

trying to relax, but she could feel her muscles tensing with every 
new 
sound from the keel. She could picture how Recusante must look 
from the 
planet's surface, a streak of light that trailed a fine line of 
cloud 
through the daylight sky, then changed to a crackling red vee of 
interference as they passed into night. They would be very bright 
against 
the stars -- automatically, she checked the weather readings, and 
saw that 
it was indeed clear over their landing field -- and she wondered 
just why 
the Rose Worlders were steering them to a darkened field. Surely 
it would 
make more sense to have them land in daylight -- or would the 
trail of 
clouds be more conspicuous than the lights? 
Recusante crossed the divider into darkness then, and she saw 
Balthasar's 
hands tense on his controls. "Coming up on the beam, Julie," he 
said. 
"Ready," the engineer answered, but his words were swallowed by 
the sudden 
shrilling of the musonar. 
"What the hell --" Balthasar began, and Silence cut him off, her 
eyes 
fixed on the musonar display. It was somewhat obscured by the 
noise from 
their own keel, but she could see clearly enough to know that they 
were in 
trouble. 
"Aircraft, Denis, bearing one-three-five relative." She shivered 
reflexively, seeing a second flight of four ships rising over the 
curve of 
the planet. "Eight of them. I'm not getting a keel reading --" She 

broke 
off at Balthasar's abrupt gesture, too frightened now to be 
offended. 
Somehow the Rose Worlders had spotted them, had lured them in this 
far, 
and now the trap was sprung.... 
"Full power to the guns -- now, Marcinik," Balthasar snapped, and 
Silence 
forced herself to concentrate, waiting for orders. "Julie, we got 
trouble. 
I need everything you've got." He fixed his eyes on the triple 
screen. 
"What's the range, Silence?" 
The pilot stared at the musonar for a moment without 
understanding, fear 
digging claws into her stomach. She had never flown in combat 
before, not 
really -- at Arganthonios, the real fighting had happened before 
the 
little ships arrived, and then they hadn't made it to the ship 
before the 
Thousand landed. The battle off Asterion had been different, too, 
a space 
battle... 
"Silence?" Balthasar said again, and the pilot shook herself. 
"About three hundred kilometers," she answered, and somehow her 
voice was 
almost steady. "Still no reading on class or weapons. I don't 
think 
they're standard." 
Balthasar made a face, and swung Recusants southward, away from 
the 
approaching ships. At the same time, he touched keys to lift her 
farther, 
away from the sticky atmosphere. The musonar cleared slightly, and 

Silence 
swung the secondary horn toward space, scanning the volume above 
and 
behind them. Two more dots appeared on her screen, both showing 
the 
brilliant white-bronze of subcelestial keels. She swung the horn 
forward, 
cursing, and found a third ship closing in from ahead. 
"Two fours on our tail," she reported, "and it looks like a five 
ahead of 
us." 
"Damn it," Balthasar muttered, and slammed his hands down on his 
keyboard. 
Recusante's nose dropped sharply, and the ship dove toward the 
planet's 
distant surface. Interference sang around them, and the main 
musonar 
display dimmed perceptibly. 
"Denis," Chase Mago said, warningly, and Balthasar snapped, 
"Compensate." 
"The aircraft are still closing," Silence said, and clenched her 
teeth to 
keep from saying anything more. 
"Damn it," Balthasar said again, and touched another sequence of 
keys. 
Recusante seemed to stagger slightly, and Silence knew that the 
ship was 
running flat out, making its top speed through the interference of 
the 
atmosphere. Starships aren't designed for this, she thought, 
numbly. We 
can't hold out, not against aircraft. 
"Marcinik," the Delian said. "Fire as soon as you can, and keep 
firing. 

How long 'til they're in range?" 
"Ten minutes, no more," Marcinik answered, and Silence could hear 
the 
controlled panic beneath his cultured tones. "Firing at range, 
affirmed. " 
"That's one for the soldiers," Balthasar muttered. He took one 
hand off 
his controls long enough to rub his chin, and Silence could see 
the 
fingers shaking. "Damn, Julie, give me more power." 
"I'm sorry, Denis," Chase Mago answered, and for once Silence 
could hear 
the fear in the big man's voice. "You've got everything I can give 
you." 
Balthasar didn't answer, staring at the triple screens as though 
he could 
force them to change by sheer strength of will. In the central 
screen, 
Silence could see the double flight of aircraft closing in, a 
flashing red 
dot marking the projected interception point. They were much 
faster than 
Recusante, and more maneuverable -- any aircraft would be, as 
sluggish as 
a starship was in atmosphere. Balthasar could only delay a 
meeting, not 
avoid it. Without much hope, the pilot glanced at the left-hand 
screen. 
The three starships had slowed their approach -- letting the 
aircraft take 
care of us, Silence thought bitterly -- but they still blocked any 
attempt 
to return to space. 
Something flashed in the center screen, and a trio of tiny dots, 
almost 

too small to be visible to the musonar, detached themselves from 
the 
leading aircraft. Silence frowned, not recognizing them, and 
Marcinik 
said, incredulously, "Missiles." 
"Oh, fuck," Balthasar said. His hands moved convulsively on the 
keyboards, 
and then he had himself under control, his hands dancing across 
the keys. 
Recusante staggered sideways, throwing itself into a ponderous 
series of 
evasive maneuvers. Too slow, Silence thought, watching the 
musonar, oh, 
too slow. The ship shuddered down its length: Marcinik was finally 
returning the aircrafts' fire. No, she realized an instant later, 
he was 
shooting at the missiles instead. He fired again, and a third 
time, the 
fixed-fire shells bracketing and then falling behind the little 
dots. He 
missed them all, but one of the dots wavered and vanished, its 
turning 
apparently disrupted by the concussion. 
"One missile gone," Silence announced, and was remotely surprised 
at how 
calm she still sounded. Marcinik fired again twice, in rapid 
succession, 
and a second dot disappeared. "Two gone. Third missile still 
closing." 
Balthasar whispered a curse, hands busy on his controls. Recusante 
wove a 
drunken course through the air, keel wailing in protest, 
interference 
keening around them. Marcinik fired again, but the missile was 
inside the 
cannon's optimum range. 

"Still closing," Silence said. "God, it intercepts in two 
minutes." 
Balthasar wrenched the ship sideways, turning it practically onto 
the tips 
of its stubby wings, and pointed its nose at the planet's surface. 
The 
keel shrieked as Chase Mago failed to compensate for the 
unexpected 
maneuver, its chorded notes of air and earth suddenly sounding 
only 
against air. The ship fell, reeling down toward the water suddenly 
not so 
far below. Silence, biting back a cry of utter panic, saw the 
missile 
slide past above them. An instant later, an explosion rocked the 
ship, and 
she heard and felt a rattle of metal along Recusante's sides. 
Swearing steadily, Balthasar swung the ship, easing it back into a 
more 
normal position, keel pointed again toward the planetary surface. 
The 
shrieking eased a little, but there was a definite note of strain, 
a
raggedness in the roaring music. 
"Shit," Chase Mago said, and Silence felt herself grow suddenly 
cold. She 
could not remember having heard the engineer swear. "Denis, we're 
out of 
tune." 
"Damn, damn, damn," Balthasar whispered. He swung the ship into a 
series 
of tight, irregular turns, and said at the same time, "Silence, 
where are 
the fucking aircraft?" 
Silence swallowed hard, staring at the musonar. "One hundred fifty 

kilometers," she whispered. She took a deep breath, and tried 
again. 
"Still closing. Oh, damn it all, missiles." She clenched her hands 
together, trying to control her shaking, to remember what she had 
to do, 
what information had to be passed along. "Two, three targets, 
intercept in 
eight minutes." 
"I see them," Marcinik said. A moment later, the twin cannons 
began 
firing. He was trying something different, Silence realized, 
laying down a 
barrier of shells, of disturbed, distorted air, between Recusante 
and the 
approaching missiles. The missiles entered that barrier and 
abruptly 
vanished. Silence gave a cry of triumph, abruptly cut off as she 
caught a 
glimpse of the cannon's status lights. They had paled from healthy 
green 
to yellow, would have to build up again before Marcinik could 
repeat his 
tactics. 
"Nice shooting," Balthasar said, grimly. 
Recusante had fallen deep into the atmosphere in their attempt to 
avoid 
the missiles, Silence saw, but to her surprise the Delian made no 
attempt 
to regain the lost altitude. Instead, he brought the ship lower 
still, 
until the already stressed keel was almost sobbing, the sound 
discordant 
enough to bring tears of pain to her crew's eyes. The pitch 
shifted, 
wavered as Chase Mago attempted to compensate for the strong core 
harmonies, but there was little he could do without a field beam 
to help 

him cheat the shattering dissonances. 
A flicker of change in the main musonar display caught Silence's 
eye, but 
she had to look twice before she could believe what she had seen. 
"Denis! 
The aircraft, four of them are turning back!" 
Balthasar grunted, and for an instant Silence felt almost hurt. 
Then she 
saw the second set of blotches rising, ahead and to the right of 
Recusante's course, and wanted to sob with the disappointment. 
"No, four 
more taking their place," she said instead. 
"Where are they coming from?" Balthasar asked. 
"Ahead -- about three thousand kilometers? Bearing about twothirty, 
" 
Silence answered. They were coming up on the end of the ocean, she 
realized remotely. The astrogation console showed a large landmass 
ahead, 
linked to a second continent by a narrow hook of land. 
"Find me a storm system," Balthasar said. "The biggest you can." 
Obediently, Silence adjusted the musonar. There were a few minor 
storm 
cells to the south, toward the approaching aircraft and the hook 
of land 
that curved away toward the planet's southeast, but nothing big 
enough to 
hide the ship. She turned the horn toward the north, sweeping 
across the 
bulging coastline. There were clouds just at the ocean's edge, and 
those 
clouds thickened inland into a swirling storm that trailed a long 
curve of 
disturbed air back toward the sea. "There," she said aloud, and 
touched 

keys to display the image on Balthasar's screen. 
"Good enough," Balthasar said, "but will we get there first?" 
Silence touched more keys, calculating relative speeds. "Yes! If 
we can 
hold this speed," she amended quickly, and cleared Balthasar's 
screen of 
everything except the medium-range musonar display. 
"We'll hold it," Chase Mago said, and somehow the Delian smiled. 
"I knew you could," he murmured, and swung the ship planetary 
north onto 
her new course. 
Silence held her breath as the seconds ticked by. She could see 
Balthasar's plan clearly enough. Within the disturbed air of the 
storms, 
Recusante's keelsong would be less noticeable, might even, if the 
storm 
were strong enough, be drowned out altogether in the general 
clamor of the 
roiling air. They were moving steadily toward the cloaking clouds, 
but the 
aircraft were moving equally steadily toward a point of 
interception just 
north of the storm's first major cell. 
"Come on," Balthasar muttered. "Come on. Julie, can't you give me 
anything 
more?" 
The engineer did not answer, but a moment later the intercept 
numbers 
flickered and changed, the point of interception moving deeper 
into the 
storm. Balthasar grinned. 
"I knew you'd have something in reserve," he said. His voice 

sharpened 
instantly. "Silence, how're the aircraft doing?" 
The pilot was already watching the musonar intently. So far, there 
was no 
movement, no change on the numbers, but she let another minute 
tick by 
before she answered. "No change." 
"Then we know their top speed," Balthasar said. "By God, we might 
just 
make it." 
Silence watched as Recusante crept slowly over the landmass, 
moving up the 
coast toward the storm's trailing edges. The aircraft followed 
inexorably, 
gaining seemingly by centimeters. They would be in missile range 
in less 
than five minutes, the pilot realized, and felt the same cold fear 
in the 
pit of her stomach. They were back in daylight now, had been since 
they 
crossed the coastline; as the first clouds swallowed them, the 
light 
dimmed visibly, went chill and milky. Balthasar pushed the ship 
lower 
still, evoking more protest from the already stressed keel. 
Silence 
winced, but knew better than to protest. The ship rocked beneath 
her as 
the first winds hit her, and Balthasar controlled it with an 
effort. 
The musonar display faded further, and Silence fiddled with the 
controls 
until she found a setting that seemed to override some of the 
storm's 
music. "The aircraft will be in missile range in three minutes," 
she 

announced, and glanced at the cannon-status display. The lights 
showed 
green again, and she gave a sigh of relief. At least that much was 
going 
well. 
The first aircraft fired before it was actually in range; the 
others fired 
a few moments later. "Missiles fired," she reported, glancing 
quickly at 
Balthasar. The Delian was very pale, sweat standing out on his 
forehead, 
but his hands still moved across his keyboard with sure grace. 
Recusante 
rolled sideways into her ponderous evasive maneuvers, and Silence 
held her 
breath, waiting for the cannons' blast to rock the ship. Marcinik 
held his 
fire for a long moment, so long that Silence wanted to scream at 
him, 
order him to fire. Then, seemingly in the last second, he fired 
rapidly, 
once again laying down a pattern of bursting shells between the 
ship and 
the approaching missiles. Three vanished at once from the screen. 
The 
fourth came on, but it was wobbling, its tracking devices clearly 
disrupted. It exploded well above and to the left of Recusante, 
the blast 
rocking the ship, but doing no other damage. The musonar image 
dimmed 
further as Balthasar flew them deeper into the storm, the blips 
that were 
the pursuing aircraft flickering in and out of the rising wash of 
color. 
"I've lost the aircraft," Silence said, and reached forward to 
adjust the 
musonar again. Nothing happened, and she allowed herself to relax 
a 

little. 
"Let's hope they've lost us," Balthasar said. "What about the starships 
overhead?" 
Silence checked the musonar again. The storm distorted the view 
above the 
ship as well, but the music of the warships' keels was strong 
enough to 
cut through that dissonance. The bronze dots flickered through the 
clouds 
of bluish static, still blocking any escape to the safety of 
space. "Still 
there," she said at last. 
"How's the contact?" Balthasar said, and grimaced as a gust of 
wind hit 
the ship, sending it lurching across the sky. 
"Intermittent, at best," Silence answered. 
Balthasar grunted. "Let's hope their sighting isn't any better." 
Silence nodded. The starships would have to look down into the 
worst of 
the storm -- and they would be looking for a ship whose keel-song 
was far 
quieter than their own. With any luck, she thought, they won't be 
able to 
find us at all. 
"Aircraft?" the Delian continued. 
"I've lost them," Silence answered. 
"So they should've lost us," Balthasar murmured, then said, more 
loudly, 
"Keep alert, Marcinik, just in case." 

"I'm watching closely," the colonel answered. 
Balthasar took a deep breath, and Silence saw his shoulders move 
slightly, 
relaxing. 
"Now what?" she said aloud, and the Delian grimaced. 
"I don't know," he said, almost too softly for her to hear. "We 
can't make 
space, not with that lot watching for us, but I don't want to set 
down --" 
"Denis." Chase Mago's voice was flat calm, but there was a note in 
it that 
sent Silence's heart into her mouth. "Denis, we've got real 
trouble. The 
keel's losing tuning. That last missile must've been the last 
straw --" 
"How bad is it?" Balthasar interrupted. 
"We've got an hour's flying time," Chase Mago answered. "Then 
you'll have 
to put her down." 
"Shit!" After that first explosive response, Balthasar's voice 
went calm 
again. "All right. We've got an hour. Silence, what do maps and 
musonar 
say?" 
Silence stared at the twin consoles, trying to control her own 
panic. A 
southerly course was out; that would only bring them back into the 
paths 
of the pursuing aircraft. The storm stretched northeast, curving 
up across 
the continent. Most of the land beyond its eastern edges was 
heavily 

populated -- if they could rely on anything the supercargo said, 
she 
thought, bitterly. Some of her information had obviously been 
unreliable 
-- if the whole thing, the woman's plea for asylum and her offer 
of 
information, hadn't just been an elaborate trap. It was too late 
now to 
worry about that, she told herself, and put the thought aside. 
They had no 
other choice now; they would have to rely on the only maps they 
had. 
If Recusante followed the concealing storm northward, forty 
minutes' 
travel would bring them out of the storm a hundred kilometers or 
so to the 
north of the heavily populated area on the continent's eastern 
coast. They 
could set the ship down there, conceal it in the thick forest that 
was 
supposed to dominate that area. And if the supercargo had lied, 
and the 
area wasn't unpopulated forest, they would still have twenty 
minutes in 
which to turn back into the storm and find another place to land. 
She 
turned one of the secondary horns groundward, trying to pick out 
the 
terrain details through the double distortion of untuned keel and 
the 
storm itself. The land below seemed very flat, unpopulated, but 
without 
any topographical features that would help hide the downed ship. 
"Fly local northeast along the storm track," she said at last. 
"When we 
reach the edge of the storm, we should be within a few minutes of 
a very 
large woodland. We can set the ship down there, and hide it until 

we 
figure out what to do." 
Balthasar nodded. "Sounds good to me." 
For the next half hour, Balthasar nursed the crippled ship 
northward 
through the storm, easing it lower, and lower still, until it was 
wallowing through the atmosphere at an altitude no higher than 
that of an 
ordinary flyer. Chase Mago babied the keel, making constant minute 
adjustments to the harmonium in hopes of easing the strain on the 
tuning, 
but even Silence, no engineer, could hear how badly the ship was 
laboring. 
She focused her attention on the musonar, sweeping the clouds 
behind and 
above them for further aircraft. The warships remained in orbit, 
but there 
was no sign of pursuit from atmospheric craft, and she began to 
hope that 
the warships had lost sight of them as well. 
Then Recusants broke out of the storm's cover. It lurched sharply, 
the 
keel no longer fighting the storm as well as the pull of Earth's 
core, and 
Chase Mago adjusted the harmonium, swearing. The ship steadied, 
but it was 
clear from the grating keelsong that it would not last much 
longer. 
"Well, Silence?" Balthasar demanded. 
Silence adjusted the musonar for what she hoped was the final 
time, 
sweeping the horn in a slow arc across the bow of the ship. To the 
south, 
confused harmonies flared: the populated area the supercargo had 
spoken 

of. Beyond that lay another ocean. But directly ahead, long 
fingers of 
woodland stretching toward them as if in welcome, lay the promised 
forest. 
Silence sighed deeply, and heard the relief in her own voice as 
she said, 
"The forest is coming up. You can let us down in two minutes, 
Denis." 
Balthasar smiled again, fingers moving delicately on his keys. 
Recusante 
staggered forward, dropping lower still, keelsong fading in and 
out of 
true. Now the forest was visible in the cameras' images, rolling 
land 
covered in trees whose leaves were so dark a green as to be almost 
black. 
"Do you see a clearing?" Balthasar panted. 
Silence shook her head. "Not yet." 
"There has to be one," Balthasar muttered. "There has to be...." 
He 
brought the ship lower still, until the tortured keel was almost 
skimming 
the treetops. Silence watched the branches thrashing beneath her, 
a
detached part of her mind admiring the Delian's skill. 
And then, quite suddenly, the keelsong died. Balthasar cursed, 
pulling 
Recusante's nose up sharply, but the starship had never been 
designed to 
glide in atmosphere. It fell like a stone, crashing into and 
through the 
trees, keel skidding along branches and dirt with a noise like a 
cry of 
pain. Silence swore as she was thrown against her safety netting, 
swore 

again as Recusante ground to a halt at last, the bow nosing gently 
up onto 
some unseen object. She reached shakily for the camera controls, 
but the 
bow cameras had been ripped away. At her side, Balthasar managed a 
rather 
hysterical laugh. 
"Welcome to Earth," he said. 
Chapter 5 
SILENCE LAUGHED WITH HIM, BUT BROUGHT HERSELF under control before 
she 
gave way to the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Instead, 
she 
reached across for the intercom controls, hoping that the system 
was still 
intact, and said, "Julie? Are you all right?" 
Balthasar interrupted her. "Everybody, check in. Status please." 
"I'm all right," Chase Mago said, breathlessly, and with grim 
emphasis, 
"but I don't know about the keel." 
Marcinik answered next, panic tinging his voice. "Nothing serious 
here, 
just cuts, but Aili doesn't answer." 
"Hang on, colonel," Balthasar said, "it may just be systems 
failure. " 
Without waiting for Marcinik's answer, he cut the connection, and 
touched 
the button that connected him directly with the Princess Royal's 
cabin. 
"Your Serenity? Check in, please." 
There was no answer, and Silence loosened the safety webbing, 
wincing at 

the bruises it had left. The crew positions were well protected 
against a 
crash, as of course they had to be, but the cabins were less well 
shielded. Unless both Aili and the magus had strapped themselves 
into 
their bunks at the first sign of trouble, there was a good chance 
that 
they had been badly hurt. There wasn't time to warn them, Silence 
thought, 
trying to suppress the sudden feeling of guilt; there just wasn't 
time. 
Damn, this was why I didn't want Aili along in the first place.... 
The intercom clicked then, and Aili's voice said, weakly, "Captain 
Balthasar? I'm -- all right, I think. Oh, my head!" 
"Marcinik -- ?" Balthasar began, and the colonel cut in quickly. 
"I'm on my way. I'll take care of her. " « 
Balthasar nodded, not bothering to reply. "Silence? Better check 
on the 
magus." 
Silence paused, her hands already on the ladder leading to the 
main deck, 
suddenly aware that Balthasar hadn't moved from his position in 
front of 
the first pilot's consoles. "And you? Are you hurt?" 
Balthasar managed a wry smile. "No more than you are. But it's 
daylight 
out there, Silence, and I bet we left one hell of a trail. Someone 
needs 
to monitor the musonar, just in case we have visitors." 
Silence hesitated at the top of the ladder, torn between 
conflicting 
needs. Balthasar was right. Recusante's crash would have torn a 
huge gash 

in the virgin woodland, a raw clearing that would be only too 
visible from 
the air. She could create an illusion to cover that gap -- but 
Isambard 
and probably the Princess Royal as well needed her help. 
As if he'd read her thoughts, Balthasar said, "Musonar doesn't 
show 
anything yet. I think maybe we lost them in the storm." He nodded 
encouragingly. "See if you can help Marcinik first." 
Silence nodded back and slid down the ladder, wincing as she 
discovered 
still more bruised muscles. Of course Marcinik would know 
rudimentary 
medicine -- he was an officer of the Thousand, after all -- and, 
with 
luck, that would be all they'd need. 
The door to Aili's cabin was already open, and Silence could hear 
voices 
talking softly inside. She gave a sigh of relief -- at least the 
Princess 
Royal was alive, and not too badly hurt -- and tapped gently on 
the 
doorframe, glancing quickly inside. "Is there anything I can do?" 
Marcinik was sitting on the bunk at Aili's side, supporting her 
with one 
hand while the other pressed a bloody cloth to the Princess 
Royal's temple 
just above her left ear. "It's all right," the colonel said 
quickly, and 
Aili managed a weak smile. "It looks worse than it is. But the 
magus?" 
"I don't know," Silence said, and pushed herself away from the 
door. 
Isambard's cabin was at the far end of the corridor, opposite the 
engineer's. Its door was still tightly closed, and she felt a stab 

of fear 
as she reached for the latchplate. Before she could punch out the 
master 
combination, however, the door swung open under her hand. Isambard 
stood 
there, leaning heavily against the frame. His lined face was very 
pale, 
and his wide-open eyes were strangely unfocused. Frightened again, 
Silence 
caught at his shoulders and staggered as the magus fell toward 
her. He was 
surprisingly light, even for an old man. She held his weight, 
glancing 
over her shoulder toward the lights of the engine room. 
"Julie? Marcinik?" 
"No." Isambard's voice was little better than a whisper. "Earth -- 
I must 
see...." 
"We've landed," Silence said. "There's plenty of time --" 
"I must see it," Isambard said again, and pushed feebly at her 
hands, 
trying to shove her away. She blocked him awkwardly, not wanting 
to hurt 
him further, and the magus stood still, breathing heavily. A 
measure of 
awareness seemed to come into his eyes, and he said, "We did not 
land at 
the port, I think. A crash?" 
Silence nodded, wishing one of the others would appear to help. 
"They knew 
who we were, attacked us. We lost them, but the tuning went and we 
had to 
land." To her relief, Chase Mago's massive figure loomed behind 
the glare 
of the warning lights ringing the engine room hatch, and she 

loosed her 
hold on the magus long enough to beckon to him. "Julie? I need 
you." 
Chase Mago stepped over the coaming and came to join her, one hand 
still 
pressed to his bloody nose. Silence eyed him anxiously as he 
approached, 
but could see no other sign of damage. 
"Let me see, Isambard," the engineer said gently, but the magus 
waved him 
off. 
"There are things -- I must cast --" He broke off with a gasp of 
pain, one 
hand going to his forehead. For the first time, Silence saw the 
ugly cuts 
running across the back of his hand. 
"Get Marcinik," she said softly, to Chase Mago. The engineer 
nodded and 
ducked away, leaving her supporting the old man's weight. 
"Isambard, tell 
me what has to be done. I can do it for you." 
The magus looked up at her, struggling to focus his eyes and 
thoughts. "We 
crashed," he managed, after a moment, "did we not? I remember --" 
He broke 
off, frowning. "No matter. There will be traces. I must hide them - 
-" 
Silence interrupted him firmly, trying to project more confidence 
than she 
felt. "Tell me what schema to use, and I'll do it. I'd already 
thought of 
it, truth." 
Isambard nodded, slowly. "The Maids' Breath would be easiest," he 

said, 
his voice fading again to a whisper. "Silence, let me go. I must 
see 
Earth!" 
"In a few hours, maybe," Marcinik said firmly. At his nod, Silence 
stepped 
back, letting him slip his arm around the magus's shoulders, 
easing him 
back into the cabin. 
"No!" Isambard cried, pushing the colonel away. "I want to see, 
before I 
die --" 
Silence glanced at Marcinik, and saw her own sudden panic 
reflected in his 
eyes. "Marcinik, he isn't --" she began, and the colonel shrugged 
roughly. 
"How can I know, if he won't let me look at him?" Marcinik took a 
deep 
breath, obviously fighting for calm. "All right, Isambard," he 
said, after 
a moment. "You win. I'll take you to the main hatch, but let me 
look at 
you there, all right?" 
The magus sagged slightly in the colonel's grip, but then pulled 
himself 
upright again. "Very well," he said. "Very well." 
"I have to go," Silence said hastily. "I'll send Julie to help. " 
Marcinik 
nodded, his attention fully occupied with the task of easing the 
magus 
toward the hatch. Silence turned and ran back up the corridor 
toward the 
ship's main hatch, almost colliding with the engineer as he 
emerged from 

the common room, wiping his face with a damp towel. 
"Julie, Marcinik needs you to help with Isambard," the pilot 
gasped, but 
Chase Mago caught her arm. Silence winced as his fingers touched a 
bruise, 
and the engineer hastily eased his hold, murmuring an apology. 
"Denis -- is he all right?" 
Silence nodded. "He says so. He's watching the musonar, I've got 
to see 
what I can do about our trail." 
Chase Mago nodded. "Go on, then, and good luck." 
Silence turned away before he'd finished, hurrying toward the 
hatch. There 
was no need to go through the elaborate routine of test and 
counter-test. 
This was Earth, humankind's first world: despite the number of 
generations 
that had passed since her ancestors left the planet, she had still 
been 
bred to breathe this atmosphere, to walk under this sun. She 
fumbled with 
the controls, swearing as the handwheel that controlled the hatch 
itself 
refused to turn. Surely, oh, surely the mechanism wasn't damaged 
in the 
crash, she thought, and in the same instant felt the stubborn 
wheel give 
way. The hatch swung outward, and there was a flurry of air as the 
pressures equalized themselves. Silence stood frozen, staring out 
at 
Earth. 
Recusante had landed lucky, she thought, when she could think at 
all. The 
ship had come down in the valley between two steep hills, where 

rocks 
sprouted from the ground between the tangle of trees, and had slid 
to a 
stop just as the land began to rise steeply again. A few hundred 
meters 
farther on, and the ship would probably have hit the hillside nosefirst, 
killing them all. Silence shuddered, and reached for the crank 
that 
extended the rampway. She turned it stiffly, hoping the mechanism 
would 
work. After a couple of turns, the gears caught, and the ramp 
began to 
extend itself, clanking, toward the ground below. The tip touched 
the dirt 
at last, but Silence gave the handle a few more turns, jamming the 
ramp 
hard into the soil, before trusting herself to it. It sagged a 
little 
under her weight, but held. After a moment's thought, she reached 
for the 
charged heylin that Balthasar insisted on hanging just inside the 
hatch, 
and started down the ramp. 
The air smelled strange, sweet and cool with an odd, almost tangy 
undertone. She stood for a moment, fascinated, but unable to work 
out 
where she had smelled that scent before. Then, with an effort, she 
shook 
herself back to reality. There was work to be done, she told 
herself 
sternly. Jamming the heylin into her belt, she began to walk back 
along 
the length of the ship, heading toward the stern. 
She did not have to go far before finding the first evidences of 
damage. 
Halfway back from the ramp, she was forced to climb over a broken 
tree, 

its splintered wood poking out from under the dulled keel. The 
broken 
parts were very white, and covered with a strange, sticky liquid. 
The 
tangy scent was much stronger here, and she sniffed curiously at 
her 
hands: it was the tree sap that gave the air its peculiar smell. 
There were more broken trees astern of the ship, some snapped 
completely, 
others -- farther away, the ones Recusante had struck first in the 
headlong descent -- with huge branches snapped and dangling. It 
was all as 
conspicuous as they had feared, and Silence shook her head, 
wondering what 
to do. An illusion is what's needed, she thought, but an illusion 
needs a 
model, and I don't have any idea what all these things looked like 
before.... She glanced to either side, up the valley's sides. The 
trees 
there seemed to be of the same species, tall, rough-barked, trunks 
rising 
for meters before branching out into clusters of branches. The 
leaves were 
very dark green, like long spines. I could use them as a model, 
she 
thought, chewing on her underlip, but whatever I do, I'd better do 
it 
soon. Damn, what was it Isambard said? She frowned, and then 
remembered. 
The Maids' Breath, he'd said, that would be the easiest.... 
He was right, too, she thought, and for the first time since 
landing, her 
mouth curved into a real smile. The technique known as the Maids' 
Breath 
wasn't really an illusion; rather, it was a way of seeing the 
proper state 
of a thing. Usually, the magi used it to read palimpsests, or to 
decipher 

manuscripts too faded to be legible, but it would serve to give 
her a 
guide. She took a deep breath and turned slowly, scanning the 
valley. She 
let herself absorb the quiet of the place, the sunlight, the 
brilliant 
blue of the sky above her, unbroken now by clouds, the smell of 
the trees 
and the faint sighing of wind through their uppermost branches. 
Only then 
did she murmur the First Cantation, the words bending reality 
around her, 
ready to receive the imprint of a new Form. She spoke the schema 
of the 
Maids' Breath; the words were no sooner spoken than they lost 
audibility 
and rolled off into the supermaterial, seeking what had been. 
Shadows 
moved and shifted first, the valley dimming as though trees once 
again 
shaded it, and then ghostly images appeared. The hanging branches 
wavered, 
then seemed to swing back up into place; an entire tree rose from 
where it 
lay shattered by Recusante's passage. Silence studied the images 
for a 
long moment, then spoke a final Word. The images steadied, 
solidified into 
something approaching reality. Ghost-trees filled the valley, 
rising from 
their broken remains. Silence turned back toward the ship, and saw 
a
shadowy trunk apparently thrusting through Recusante's spine. 
Another was 
half-swallowed by the hull near the bow, and a third sprang up 
from a 
point just astern of the far wing. 
Shaking her head, she made her way back toward the ramp, suddenly 
exhausted. Isambard was sitting at the top of the ramp, bandaged 

hands 
folded in his lap. Marcinik crouched beside him. Silence tensed, 
afraid 
again, but Marcinik saw her and shook his head, smiling. She 
smiled back 
but kept a wary eye on the magus. 
"How are you?" she asked, as she started up the ramp. 
Isambard waved the question aside. "Well done, your illusion. I am 
pleased." 
"Thank you," Silence said, startled, and wondered for an instant 
if the 
crash had affected the old man's brain. Praise for anything she 
did was 
rare. 
"He's just shaken up," Marcinik said. 
Before she could answer, Balthasar's voice rose indignantly from 
inside 
the hatch. "There's a fucking tree in here!" 
Silence began to laugh helplessly, and called back, "It's an 
illusion, 
Denis, don't worry." 
A moment later, Balthasar appeared in the hatch, Chase Mago 
looming behind 
him. The engineer's hand was at his mouth as if to hide a smile. 
"You got us covered, then?" the Delian asked. 
Silence nodded. "The question is, will it hold up under a real 
scanning?" 
Balthasar nodded back, pressing the back of his hand against his 
mouth. 
The lower lip was swelling and bloody -- probably he'd bitten it 

in the 
landing, Silence thought, and suppressed the desire to laugh 
again. "How 
is everyone, anyway?" the Delian went on. "Where's her Serenity?" 
"I'm here." 
Aili still sounded rather shaken, Silence thought, and then the 
other 
star-travellers edged aside to let the younger woman past. The 
Princess 
Royal had resumed her Bethlemite turban and veil, but it was 
pushed askew 
by the lump of bandages that covered the left side of her head, 
revealing 
one dark eye and a narrow expanse of cheek and forehead. 
Marcinik said, frowning, "I thought you were going to rest." 
"I'm much better," Aili answered, and lowered herself carefully to 
the 
ramp at the colonel's side. "I need to know what's going on," she 
said, in 
a softer voice, and Marcinik nodded. 
Balthasar said, "So we're all here. What about this illusion, 
then? Will 
it hold?" 
Silence spread her hands, glancing at Isambard, but before either 
magus 
could answer, Chase Mago said slowly, "I've been thinking about 
that, 
Denis. We got some damn strange readings coming in-system -- those 
chemical-fuel ships, the aircraft. I'm wondering if they've got 
anything 
that'll see through it." 
Isambard said, "Properly created, an illusion will be tangible and 
effective to musonar and other sensors. This one is properly 

created." 
"Thanks," Silence said again, and saw Balthasar grin. 
"But what if they're using some other system?" Chase Mago 
persisted. "The 
readings were just too weird to ignore." He shook his head, still 
frowning. "It was almost like they were using mechanics." 
"They couldn't be," Balthasar said. "It wouldn't make sense." 
"If for some obscure reason the Earth-natives are using mechanics, 
"
Isambard said, "the illusion should be sufficient. After all, it 
produces 
a facsimile of reality, correct in outward similitudes. But they 
will not 
be using the Mechanical Arts. Not on Earth." 
There was nothing anyone could say to that pronouncement, though 
Chase 
Mago still looked troubled. Watching the engineer's unhappy face, 
Silence 
couldn't help wondering if he were right after all. The chemicalfuel 
ships were mechanical in nature, after all; the musonar had 
treated the 
aircraft as though they were bare metal, without the treated keels 
that 
lifted most ships away from a planet's core -- in other words, as 
though 
they, too, were mechanical. But there her imagination stuck, 
unable to 
conceive of a world that chose to use machines instead of the 
creations of 
the Art. Maybe there were restrictions of some kind that made 
machines 
more practical for some things -- such as the crowding on Delos, 
which 
made mechanical systems an absolute necessity. 

 "How does the ship look, Julie?" she said aloud. 
Chase Mago shrugged, his expression bleak. "Not good at all, I'm 
afraid. 
But I want to take a close look before I do anything." He glanced 
at 
Balthasar. "I'd better get started." 
"Yeah," Balthasar said. "Do you need a hand?" 
The engineer shook his head. "Not really." 
"It's the keel?" Silence asked. 
"Yes." Chase Mago sighed. "We lost tuning completely. I have to 
see how 
deep it goes." 
Silence shivered despite the warmth of the sunlight on her back. 
It was 
almost unheard of for a keel fully to lose its tuning. The sort of 
stress 
that could so disrupt the tinctured metal usually destroyed or at 
least 
damaged the rest of the ship beyond repair. The resonances were 
set at the 
molecular level, worked deep into the structure of the tinctured 
metal 
itself; while the surface might shift slightly -- would shift 
slightly 
under even the best conditions -- that shifting never affected the 
true 
tuning at the heart of the keel itself. Or almost never, she 
thought, and 
glanced warily at the keel. Most of it was buried in the soft 
earth, 
little waves of dirt and scattered rock thrown back along its 
length, but 
the visible portions looked sickly, without the usual oily sheen. 

She 
shivered again, and looked away. 
"Let us know if we can help," Balthasar said. Chase Mago nodded, 
and 
started down the ramp. 
"What I would like to know," Aili said, breaking the sudden quiet, 
"is 
where we are." Marcinik nodded in thoughtful agreement. 
Balthasar sighed, and gave the empty sky a final wary glance. "I 
guess 
you're right. Let me get the tapes, and I'll meet you all in the 
commons." 
"Right," Silence answered. She started up the ramp to assist 
Isambard, but 
Marcinik was already helping the magus to his feet. She paused at 
the top 
of the ramp to offer her hand to Aili, glancing back over her 
shoulder at 
the forest as she did so. For an instant, as the breeze freshened 
and 
swirled around them, Silence thought she smelled burning, but the 
scent 
was gone before she could be sure. She scanned the sky above the 
tree-tops, but saw no rising plume of smoke, and turned away, 
shrugging to 
herself. 
"This is very bad, isn't it?" Aili said, as they moved toward the 
common 
room. 
Silence hesitated, torn between the desire to reassure and the 
need to 
confide in someone. "It isn't good," she said at last. "At the 
very least, 
we're untuned, and that usually means a dockyard job. If it isn't 

too bad, 
Julie might be able to rig something off the harmonium, force-tune 
it here 
-- but if it goes very deep, we'll have to take it into a dock. 
And if the 
keel itself is damaged -- if it cracked, or one of those rocks 
took a 
chunk out of it, say -- we'll need a new keel before we can lift." 
"And at that point," Aili said, "we might as well get a new ship." 
The 
crooked veil still hid most of her expression, but Silence could 
hear the 
uneasiness in her voice. "But a keel is very strong." 
"Yes," Silence said. "It's tinctured metal; it should take a lot 
of abuse. 
That's really the worst-case scenario." 
Aili nodded, but said nothing more. 
The shadow of a tree trunk thrust through the corridor just 
outside the 
common room. Silence stopped with an exclamation of dismay, then 
put out 
her hand to test the illusion. Her fingers moved easily into and 
out of 
the grey bark, and she nerved herself to step quickly through. As 
she 
passed through the image, she heard a faint sighing, a breath of 
dissonance, but it vanished before she could fix its origin for 
certain. A 
little dissonance was only to be expected, she told herself, and 
beckoned 
for Aili to follow. After all, an illusion wasn't meant to be 
walked 
through. 
The others were already in the common room, Isambard seated at his 
usual 

place at the main table, Marcinik busy at the kitchen console. 
Aili moved 
hastily to join him, but the colonel waved her away. 
"Sit, please," he said. "You're the injured one." 
After a moment's hesitation, Aili did as she was told, sighing 
softly in 
spite of herself. 
"How is your head?" Silence asked, and crossed the room to collect 
tea for 
all of them. 
"It hurts," Aili said, and the pilot thought she heard a ghost of 
a smile 
in the other woman's voice. "But I'll be all right." 
At that moment, Balthasar appeared in the doorway, a sheaf of 
rough-printed papers tucked under one arm. "I'm not fond of 
wildlife on 
the ship, Silence," he said, with a grin. 
The pilot glared back at him, suddenly too tired to respond in 
kind. 
Balthasar took his place at the table, spreading the papers out in 
front 
of him. "I set the musonar to warn us if anything comes near the 
ship -- a 
full-volume warning, fifty kilometers' diameter." He accepted the 
mug of 
tea Marcinik handed him, but winced as the hot plastic touched his 
swollen 
lip, and set it aside. "I also ran a quick scan. It doesn't look 
like 
we're in a settled area at all -- no sign of open land, much less 
human 
habitation, at least not on my preliminary look -- which I guess 
is good 
news." 

 Silence grinned at the Delian's rather dubious tone. Balthasar had 
been 
born and raised on Delos, where every centimeter of available land 
had 
become part of the city that covered most of the planet's surface. 
He was 
not fond of wilderness. She picked up her cup of tea and started, 
almost 
spilling it, as Marcinik touched her arm. 
"Sorry," he said, and slid a small packet across the table in 
front of 
her. "I thought you might want these." 
Silence picked the packet up curiously, recognized the mark of one 
of the 
Hegemony's more famous pharmaceutical companies. 
"Hamma," Marcinik said. "It'll ease the soreness, and help heal 
wrenched 
muscles." 
"Thanks," Silence said, tearing open the packet, and swallowed the 
capsules gratefully. 
Balthasar accepted his own share from the colonel and bolted them 
with a 
grimace. "This is the rough map we had," he said, spreading papers 
across 
the table, "supplemented by observations along the first part of 
the 
descent." His finger traced a curved line from the smaller of the 
two main 
oceans toward a large island, then across a much larger ocean 
toward the 
northernmost of two linked continents. "That's about what our 
course was. 
We came down here." On the map, the northern continent's eastern 
coastline 

swelled out into a huge horn, a smaller horn protruding beneath 
it. 
Balthasar's finger rested on the center of the smaller horn. 
Silence nodded thoughtfully. "Most of that's forest, if I remember 
right," 
she said, and was pleased at how casual -- how normal -- her voice 
sounded. Privately, she doubted she would ever forget the pattern 
of the 
storm, and the forest that lay beyond its edges. 
"Yeah, that's right," Balthasar answered. "And hills. And, like I 
said, my 
first survey didn't pick up any sign of settlement." 
"Do you have any idea where the nearest settlements are?" Marcinik 
asked. 
"South, I think," Balthasar said, and Silence nodded. 
"I picked them up on the musonar as we came in." . "How far?" the 
colonel 
asked. 
Balthasar rustled his maps again until he found an enlargement of 
the area 
where they'd landed. It didn't show much detail, and Marcinik eyed 
it 
warily. 
"About three hundred kilometers," the Delian answered, after a 
moment. He 
touched a point where the coastline began to curve outward again. 
Silence frowned, studying the image more closely. Something was 
tugging at 
her memory -- something the supercargo had said, something that 
was in the 
text she had so carefully structured.... She closed her eyes, 
calling up 

the structures of the Grand Theater, letting the errant thought 
find its 
own place in that pattern. "One of the big centers is on this 
coast," she 
said, after a moment. "A place called Man's Island." 
Isambard gave a little exclamation of surprise. "Yes, that is so. 
A -- 
continental control point, the woman said." 
"I'm not at all sure we ought to trust any of the information she 
gave 
us," Balthasar said sourly. He shook his head. "She sure suckered 
us in -- 
all of us." 
Isambard drew himself up indignantly, and Silence said, "Some of 
the 
information is good -- we were able to check at least some of it, 
remember? That's probably true." 
The older magus relaxed slowly. "I admit that I was deceived," he 
said, 
after a moment. "I apologize, Captain Balthasar." 
The Delian's mouth fell open in shock. Silence stared hard at him, 
willing 
him to understand just what he was being offered. The magi did not 
admit 
to making errors, much less apologize for them -- and certainly 
never to 
mere star-travellers. Balthasar closed his mouth abruptly, and 
said, with 
unexpected grace, "It could've happened to anyone." 
Isambard nodded gravely, and said nothing more. No one said 
anything for a 
long moment, all of them staring at the maps spread out on the 
table in 
front of them. Silence barely saw the lines and spaces, thinking 

instead 
of the little room at the center of Asterion's Winter Palace. 
Should I 
have helped Isambard question her? she wondered. Could I have seen 
that it 
was a trap, if he didn't? I am a star-traveller; I have that 
advantage.... 
All too clearly, she remembered the faint note of strangeness 
she'd sensed 
in the supercargo's mind, the one time she'd been forced to enter 
it. That 
had to have been the mark of a second, deeper geas, she thought -- 
and I 
felt it, I knew something was there, but I didn't have the 
knowledge to 
identify it. I could have stopped this, if only I'd realized.... 
She 
looked up in relief as Chase Mago stepped into the room, grateful 
for the 
distraction even of bad news. 
"What's the word?" Balthasar said, softly. 
The big engineer shrugged, exhaustion written on his bearded face. 
"It 
could be worse," he said. "The keel's intact, at least -- we were 
lucky 
there, the ground's very rocky." He sighed, the momentary 
animation fading 
from his voice. "However, the first eighty-one centimeters are 
completely 
untuned, and it's pretty random almost to the center line. That's 
still 
true, but...." He let the words trail off in defeat. 
Silence could hear her own heart pounding, could feel a spreading 
chill in 
the pit of her stomach. She saw her own fear reflected in the 
engineer's 
face, in Balthasar's narrowed eyes. 

 "I don't understand," Aili said, tentatively. Marcinik shook his 
head, but 
Chase Mago roused himself to answer, and even managed a humorless 
smile. 
"What it means is, we have to do a full retuning before we can 
lift, your 
Serenity, and I don't have the facilities for the operation. 
Sometimes you 
can force-tune, using the harmonium itself to realign the 
resonances, but 
that only works when the harmonies're just a little out of true. I 
need a 
dockyard's equipment." 
There was another long pause, broken at last by Marcinik's quiet 
voice. 
"Wouldn't it be easier just to -- acquire -- another ship?" 
"No," Silence said, in instinctive, indignant protest, but the 
others 
ignored her. 
"It might be," Balthasar said, "but just how easy do you think it 
is to 
'acquire' a starship?" 
"You acquired this one," Marcinik said. 
"Recusante was mine," Silence said, "and is mine, my ship. I don't 
intend 
to abandon her." She paused, fighting down her anger, and tried to 
bolster 
emotion with logic. "Besides, when we took her, back on Mersaa 
Maia -- 
well, it was a very different situation." 
"That's true," Chase Mago said unexpectedly, and Silence threw him 
a 

grateful look. "Besides," the engineer went on, with a stubborn 
glance at 
Isambard, "I still say we've seen too many mechanical things 
around for me 
to feel comfortable finding a starship anywhere close at hand." 
"Could you retune, if we could get into a tuning shed?" Silence 
asked, and 
held her breath, hoping for the answer she wanted. 
"Of course I could," Chase Mago said, and Marcinik cut in, 
"Forgive me, 
but I can't see how you could get permission to use any field 
facilities." 
Balthasar said, "You'd be surprised at what I can come up with, 
colonel. " 
There was a light in his eyes that made Silence frown, remembering 
some of 
the Delian's other plans. 
"Hold it," Chase Mago said, cutting off an acid rejoinder from 
Marcinik. 
"Just wait. I don't need the whole shed, people; I just need a 
tone 
generator." 
"Oh, well," Balthasar said, after a moment. "That makes it easy. " 
Silence 
eyed him warily, unable to decide if he was being sarcastic or 
not. 
"Easier, anyway," Chase Mago said. He glanced at the non-startravellers, 
and said, "The tone generator's the most important thing a tuner 
has. It 
produces really pure notes, purer than a harmonium can provide, 
since its 
pipes are adjusted to the idiosyncrasies of the ship. It creates a 
sort of 

Form, and you force the keel to follow it." He looked back at 
Balthasar, 
and added, "Hell, if I could get the right components, I could 
build one 
for myself." 
The Delian nodded slowly. "So," he said, almost cheerfully, "all 
we have 
to do now is get a tone generator." 
Silence gave him a jaundiced look, but refused to be drawn. Chase 
Mago 
looked at the maps in front of him, not meeting anyone's eyes. 
"And just how, Captain Balthasar, do you propose to do that?" 
Marcinik 
said. "We're at least three hundred kilometers away from the 
nearest 
settlement, and I doubt this ship carries an all-terrain vehicle." 
"We have a runabout, actually," Silence muttered, unable to ignore 
the 
slur on her ship. The little three-wheeled cart was only good on 
paved 
roads, however, and she was just as glad that no one responded. 
"There must be other settlements closer to us," Balthasar said. 
"After 
all, we've only done a preliminary survey, and this is Earth. 
There'll be 
roads." 
Silence sighed, unable fully to share the Delian's enthusiasm, but 
offered 
what little support she could. "I thought I smelled smoke 
earlier," she 
said. "That might mean someone living near here." 
"The way our luck's been running, it's more likely a forest fire, 
" 

Marcinik murmured, but he was smiling. 
Balthasar ignored him. "Right, then," he said briskly. "Silence 
and I will 
set up a box-scan, and then we'll go watch-and-watch -- I'll need 
your 
help, Marcinik, and her Serenity's -- until we turn up a 
settlement." 
"And then?" Silence asked, rather skeptically, but it was 
impossible not 
to be infected by the other's optimism. 
"We'll see how big it is, and then decide," Balthasar answered. 
"Come on." 
Silence sighed, but hauled herself to her feet, and followed the 
Delian 
back onto the lower bridge. The musonar system was intact -- 
they'd been 
lucky there, too, Balthasar said, more soberly -- but it still 
took them 
several hours to transfer everything to back-up power and then to 
set up 
the search pattern. Balthasar insisted on keeping a secondary horn 
pointed 
skyward, and Silence did not argue. Even if they had shaken off 
the 
pursuing aircraft, there was no harm in staying alert for other 
searchers. 
They set the search grid in motion, and then drew straws to see 
who'd take 
the first watch. Silence, to her secret relief, drew the long 
straw, and 
headed gratefully for her cabin. 
She stripped off her shipsuit, wincing at the bruises dotting her 
body, 
and forced herself to take a hot shower before dropping exhausted 
into her 

bunk. She had not thought she would be able to relax after the 
tension of 
the pursuit and then the crash itself, but to her surprise she 
slept 
almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. 
The persistent shrilling of the intercom woke her at last. Silence 
pulled 
herself upright, swearing at her sore muscles, then reached across 
the 
bunk to slap at the answer plate. She hit it on the second try, 
and said, 
"What the hell is it?" 
Balthasar answered. "We've spotted a settlement, we think." 
"I'll be right up," Silence said. 
"In the commons," Balthasar added hastily, and the pilot cut the 
connection. 
Dressing was a painful process, but by the time she'd fastened her 
shirt 
and pulled a loose tunic over her head, Silence had to admit she 
was in 
better shape than she had expected. She made her way to the common 
room, 
ducking through the illusory tree trunk, feeling almost confident. 
The others were there ahead of her, clustered around the main 
table. A 
number of sheets of rough-printed paper were spread out in front 
of them, 
some held together with strips of tape. Balthasar looked up as she 
entered, and smiled. "We're in luck again," he called. "Come and 
see." 
Silence came to look over the Delian's shoulder. The papers showed 
a rough 
contour map of the area surrounding the ship, the lines spilling 

out from 
the blank spot that was the valley. To the north and west, the 
forest 
continued unbroken; to the northeast, several rivers and one 
higher 
mountain showed through the cloaking woods. Due east lay water -- 
the edge 
of the smaller ocean, Silence thought -- and more forest. 
"There," Balthasar said, and pointed. 
His finger was touching a small break in the forest, barely more 
than a 
thin wedge of cleared ground on the slope of a steeply rising 
hill. There 
were marks in the center of the clearing, but the symbols meant 
nothing to 
Silence. She looked up inquiringly, and Marcinik said, "We picked 
up a 
single large metallic structure first, something tall but narrow -- 
I
couldn't really tell any more closely. I think there are buildings 
around 
it, but they're made of stone or wood, hard to pick out. The 
shaded square 
marks the metal structure; the other marks are for the other 
buildings." 
"It looks like some kind of farm to me," Aili said slowly. She 
leaned 
forward, holding her veil in place with one hand. "You see? That 
would be 
a main building, and those the barns and a greenhouse, and then 
the metal 
thing would be a pump, or a power vane. And before you say it," 
she added, 
lifting her head to stare directly at Balthasar, "I would know 
better than 
you how a farm is laid out. There are enough of them on Inarime." 

Balthasar lifted both hands in surrender. "It sounds reasonable to 
me." 
Silence nodded. "All right," she said, "so what do we do?" 
"That's the question," Chase Mago said. He sighed, staring at the 
crude 
map. "How far is it?" 
"A little under twenty kilometers," Marcinik answered. "That's a 
full 
day's hike." 
"What if we started before sunrise?" Balthasar asked, and the 
colonel 
shook his head. 
"I wouldn't want to risk it. This may be Earth, but there is still 
a
certain amount of hostile wildlife to consider. Not to mention the 
risk of 
getting lost in the dark." 
Balthasar shrugged, but nodded. 
"That's all very well," Silence said, "but what are we going to 
say once 
we get there?" 
"Perhaps we could tell a part of the truth," Aili suggested. "We 
could say 
we'd been stranded by an air crash." 
"That could work," Silence said, doubtfully, "but wouldn't they 
already 
have searchers out, if that were true?" 
Balthasar shrugged again. "I say we play it by ear." 
Chase Mago cleared his throat, drawing all eyes. "Forgive me for 

saying 
it, but I don't think her Serenity should come with us. Nor should 
Doctor 
Isambard," he added hastily, as Silence gave him an incredulous 
look. 
Aili's expression was hidden by her veil, but her voice was 
dangerously 
quiet. "And why not, sieur Chase Mago?" 
"Three reasons," the engineer answered. To give him credit, 
Silence 
thought, he didn't flinch under the Princess Royal's stare. 
"First, 
someone should stay with the ship. Second, both you and Isambard 
have been 
injured; and third, because of that, you're the ones we can spare 
to watch 
the ship." 
Marcinik's chin lifted dangerously. "And if anything happens to 
us, who 
will protect Aili?" he demanded. "The magus isn't a startraveller, 
he 
couldn't take her off-planet." 
Silence intervened hastily, watching the Princess Royal. "Julie's 
right, " 
she said, "if we just make a quick reconnaissance, and don't try 
to 
contact anybody unless we're positive it's safe to do so." 
"I think I should stay with the ship," Marcinik murmured. 
Silence shook her head. "You're the only real soldier we have 
aboard. We 
need you." 
After a moment, Aili sighed deeply. "You're right, damn you for 
it. I'll 

stay -- and you'll go, Marcinik." 
There was a note in her voice that brooked no argument. The 
colonel bowed. 
"As you wish." 
Once that decision had been made, it didn't take long to settle 
the rest 
of the plan. At Marcinik's insistence, they left the ship just at 
sunrise, 
each one carrying a light pack made up from the ship's survival 
kit and a 
fully charged heylin. They carried extra charges as well, and 
Silence had 
a smaller version of a magus's kit slung from her belt. Chase 
Mago, 
unarguably the strongest of the four, carried the communications 
unit. 
For the first hour, they trudged in silence up the valley's 
eastern side, 
steering by Marcinik's compass. The morning air was very cool 
under the 
trees, cool enough that Silence found herself shivering a little 
despite 
the exertion. Then, quite abruptly, they reached the top of the 
ridge, and 
emerged into a narrow clearing. Silence slowed her steps a little, 
soaking 
up the sunlight, and saw that the other star-travellers were doing 
the 
same. Marcinik paused at the edge of the clearing, laughing. 
"Come on," he called, "you'll warm up soon enough." 
The colonel had spoken only the truth, Silence discovered all too 
soon. By 
midmorning she was sweating, and stopped to slip off her 
overtunic, 
knotting it around her waist by the sleeves. As she tugged it into 

place, 
pulling the heylin forward a little so that the draw wasn't 
impeded by the 
bundled fabric, she heard a shout from her right. She tensed, but 
in the 
same instant recognized Chase Mago's voice. 
"Hey! I've found a wall!" 
Obediently, Silence made her way across the carpet of brown, dead 
spines 
fallen from the towering trees. There was little undergrowth, for 
which 
she was grateful, and the wall was clearly visible. It was made of 
piled 
stone, the smallest the size of her own head, the largest that she 
could 
see a massive boulder almost a meter across. It seemed to start 
from 
nowhere, running off into the trees to the right of their original 
path. 
Chase Mago was standing at its end, frowning down at it. 
"I think it turned a corner here," he said, almost to himself. 
Silence nodded. A little cascade of stone fell off from the side 
of the 
wall, and there were more stones trailing away in odd heaps and 
jumbled 
piles at a right angle to the part that was still standing. A 
field wall? 
she wondered. A boundary marker? It couldn't ever have been high 
enough to 
provide real protection.... 
Balthasar said, "It's a wall. So?" 
"So someone lived here once," Silence said impatiently, and 
stepped around 
a pile of rock to examine the land the wall had once enclosed. It 

was as 
overgrown as the rest of the forest, showing no signs of recent 
growth -- 
though who can tell what recent growth might look like here? 
Silence 
thought. 
"Interesting," Marcinik said, coming up to join them. "So maybe 
this was 
more populated once?" 
"At least there was something here," Silence said. Chase Mago dug 
a booted 
foot into the dirt, then squinted down the length of the standing 
wall. 
"There might be foundations in there," he offered. 
Marcinik hesitated, then shook his head. "No. We don't have the 
time to 
waste. Come on." 
Chase Mago grimaced, but made no other protest as the colonel led 
them 
away from the crumbling wall. They walked almost a kilometer 
before he 
spoke again. 
"I wonder why the site was abandoned." 
Balthasar snorted. "Would you live here if you had any other 
choice?" he 
demanded. 
The engineer laughed, and slapped the other man lightly on the 
back of the 
head. Silence laughed with them, but sobered quickly. Why would 
anyone 
abandon what must have been a fairly large estate -- especially 
when land, 

real property, was always a source of prestige and power? Or was 
that 
always true? she wondered suddenly. Certainly it was the case in 
the 
Hegemony and on the worlds of the Rusadir and the Fringe, but that 
didn't 
mean it would be true on Earth. Hostile wildlife? Certainly they'd 
seen 
nothing larger than the occasional climbing mammal, and the only 
predator 
seemed to be some sort of large black bird -- and in any case, 
Silence 
thought, all accounts said Earth had controlled its animal life 
fairly 
closely. They would never have allowed dangerous animals to remain 
in a 
populated area. Then they reached a narrow, swift-running stream, 
and she 
put aside her musings to concentrate on the treacherous stones 
that 
spanned it. 
They came to a second stream two kilometers farther, and Marcinik 
paused 
on its bank, staring dubiously at the rushing water. It was bigger 
than 
the first one, wider and deeper both, but the water flowed as 
quickly. 
Silence eyed it uneasily, and was grateful when the colonel said, 
"We'll 
ford it farther down." 
"It's not that deep," Balthasar objected. 
Marcinik didn't answer directly, but stooped to pick up a handful 
of the 
tree spines that still littered the ground. Unspeaking, he tossed 
them 
into the water. Light as they were, they didn't reach the center 
of the 

stream, but the current still whirled them away at a frightening 
speed. 
"And it's damn cold," Marcinik said. 
"I take the point," Balthasar said, but he was smiling. 
They had to follow the stream for almost two kilometers before it 
finally 
slowed and widened, waters rippling over a wide stretch of sand 
and 
pebbles. It looked like a perfect ford, but Marcinik still checked 
it 
carefully, tossing grass and tree spines into the water, then 
tossing 
fist-sized rocks into the sand to scare off any lurking predators, 
before 
he nodded and sat down on the bank to unlace his knee-length 
boots. The 
others followed his example, but hung back as the colonel waded 
out into 
the stream. He gasped a little at the cold, and walked out to the 
middle 
of the ford, splashing noisily, before he beckoned for the others 
to 
follow. Silence stepped gingerly into the water, and barely 
stopped 
herself from shrieking aloud. She had expected chill, but not this 
numbing 
cold. It took every gram of self-control she possessed to keep 
walking. 
Behind her, she heard Balthasar swear loudly, but did not look 
back. 
The far bank was in sunlight, the grass pleasantly warm. Silence 
rubbed 
her feet dry with the hem of her tunic, but couldn't seem to force 
warmth 
back into them. She looked up, and saw that even Marcinik seemed 
to be 
having the same difficulty. He met her glance with a smile. 

 "Break for lunch?" he suggested, and the pilot laughed. 
"You won't get any argument from me." 
The colonel didn't let them rest for long, however. As soon as 
they had 
finished the thick bars of nutrient concentrate, Marcinik was on 
his feet, 
boots laced and ready. "Come on," he said, and the others groaned 
and 
followed. 
As the afternoon wore on, they passed more broken walls, and once 
a rusted 
hunk of metal that Chase Mago admitted might once have been some 
sort of 
engine. He could not identify it, and Silence could feel no 
harmful 
energies lurking in it, but nevertheless they gave it a wide 
berth. The 
pilot was glad when it was swallowed in the forest. 
The shadows had lengthened perceptibly, and the sun no longer 
reached to 
the bottoms of the deeper valleys when Marcinik called a halt. 
"The settlement should be over the next rise," he said, 
unconsciously 
lowering his voice. "About a kilometer." 
Silence shivered again, though the air was not cold, then 
unfastened the 
tunic's knotted sleeves and slipped the garment over her head. The 
dark 
green material had dried nicely, was still a little warm from the 
sun, and 
she hugged it to herself, suddenly afraid. She could not quite 
bring 
herself to contemplate what they might do if this turned out to be 

a Rose 
Worlder settlement. Where there are people, there are vehicles, 
she told 
herself firmly. We can always steal one. Then Marcinik was 
speaking again, 
and she forced herself to listen. 
"-- heavier growth to the north," the colonel said. "We'll go 
through 
that, stop on the ridge line, and lie up there for a while. 
That'll give 
us a good chance to get a look at the place." 
The others nodded, Chase Mago swinging the communications unit 
forward to 
type out a quick report for the ship, and Silence saw her own fear 
reflected in their sober faces. Almost without conscious thought, 
she drew 
her heylin, running her thumb across the touchplate. It was 
comfortingly 
hot, the weapon fully charged. Marcinik saw the movement and 
smiled. 
"Let's hope we don't need them," he said, but Silence was very 
aware of 
the fact that he had not ordered her to put it away. She kept the 
heylin 
in her hand as she followed the others up the last ridge. 
It took them almost an hour to cover the last five hundred meters, 
and 
Silence was made depressingly aware of her own inadequacies as a 
woodsman. 
Despite all her efforts, she knew she had left a trail of broken 
vegetation behind her. The only consolation, she thought, is that 
the 
others aren't any better. 
And then, at last, they reached the ridge. Marcinik covered the 
final 

meters on his hands and knees, easing himself into position behind 
a
screening clump of bushes. Silence watched enviously, knowing she 
would 
never be able to do it so quietly, and heard the leaves stir 
faintly 
behind her as Chase Mago shook his head in admiration. After a 
moment, the 
colonel beckoned for them to join him, and Silence scrambled 
awkwardly up 
after him, wincing at the noise she made. She dropped to her belly 
beside 
Marcinik, screened by the same line of bushes, and a few minutes 
later the 
others joined them. 
"Look," Marcinik whispered. 
Cautiously, Silence peered through the bushes' lowest branches. As 
Aili 
had predicted, the place had once been a farm. The charred 
skeletons of 
half a dozen outbuildings clustered around a central building 
whose stone 
walls still carried black stains of smoke. For an instant, Silence 
felt 
close to tears, sure the place had been abandoned, and then she 
saw the 
signs of repairs, the raw yellow wood shoring up the central 
building, and 
forming the sides and roof of the single remaining shanty. The 
metal 
structure that had showed up on the musonar was clearly visible, 
and 
clearly still in working order: a windmill tower stood to one side 
of the 
crude compound, its metal-film vanes turning lazily in the light 
air. 
Beyond the windmill lay newly plowed fields. From one of the 
outbuildings 

came a low animal cry, a plaintive, moaning noise; a moment later, 
a door 
opened in the side of the central building and a boy emerged, a 
metal 
bucket swinging in one hand. 
"Feeding time?" Balthasar whispered, unable to keep quiet any 
longer. 
Silence shrugged, and kept her eyes on the scene below. The boy 
crossed to 
the remaining shanty -- almost, Silence thought, you can hear him 
whistling -- and vanished inside. Nothing else moved within the 
compound. 
After some time, the boy reappeared, pulled sideways a little now 
by the 
weight of the bucket. He returned to the central building, and 
shut the 
door carefully behind him. 
"Do I call the ship?" Chase Mago murmured, and Marcinik shook his 
head. 
"Not yet. Wait until we have something to report." 
The pilot frowned, wondering what they should do. All their plans 
had 
depended on finding transport here, but so far she had seen no 
signs of 
any such device, and the condition of the buildings argued there'd 
been a 
serious fire. Still, the windmill's still running, she thought, 
frowning 
down at the settlement. Surely that argues that people are still 
here. 
"All right," a harsh voice said from behind her. "Stand up slowly, 
all of 
you, and keep your hands where I can see them." 

Silence did as she was told, her heart pounding in her throat. She 
caught 
a brief glimpse of Marcinik's face, chagrin and resignation 
mingling in 
his expression, and then she had pushed herself to her feet, 
carefully 
holding her hands away from her body. 
"Put it down, girl," the harsh voice said. Silence hesitated, 
unable to 
locate the source of the voice -- somewhere in the shadowed ground 
to her 
left, she thought -- and Marcinik said softly, "Do as she says, 
Silence. " 
The pilot stooped slowly, still scanning the woods to either side, 
and 
laid the heylin gently on the carpet of tree spines at her feet. 
"All right." The harsh voice was definitely coming from the trees 
to their 
left, Silence thought, and then the branches rustled over a meter 
from the 
spot she'd chosen and a brownclad figure edged out from among the 
trees. 
It was a woman, an older woman, grey hair bound back with a dirty 
rag, who 
leaned heavily on a metal crutch. One leg was roughly splinted, 
trouser 
leg ripped almost to the waist to accommodate the bandages, but 
the injury 
didn't seem to affect her steady grip on her lowered weapon. It 
looked 
rather like a sonic rifle, but no resonance chamber ringed the 
slim barrel 
just beyond the stock. Still, silence had no doubt that it was 
just as 
deadly. 
"What the fuck do you want here?" the woman demanded. "Haven't you 

done 
enough?" 
Silence forced herself to think calmly. The woman spoke a form of 
the 
star-travellers' coine, heavily accented, but entirely 
understandable; she 
should be equally able to understand her captives. 
"Whatever's happened," the pilot said carefully, "we had nothing 
to do 
with it." The woman's expression did not change, but at least she 
made no 
pretense of not understanding. Emboldened, Silence went on. "Our 
ship -- 
we crashed, up in the hills. Yours was the nearest settlement." 
"We're not on the maps," the woman said flatly. "And don't try to 
tell me 
you're from around here." 
"No, we're not," Silence agreed, desperate to keep the 
conversation going. 
"And you weren't on our maps, no, but your tower showed up on 
musonar. It 
was the closest, so we came here." 
The woman shook her head, her grim expression unchanging. "It 
won't do, 
girl," she said, and steadied the weapon against her body. 
"Wait!" Silence cried. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see 
Marcinik shift slightly, readying himself for a hopeless attempt 
to seize 
the woman's rifle, could sense the same subtle tension in the 
other two 
men. "You're making a mistake; we're not involved. We're from offworld 
--" She broke off abruptly as the other woman's mouth twitched 
downward 

into a frown. 
"Off-world," the woman repeated. Silence held her breath, hoping 
that 
somehow she'd hit upon the right words. At last, very slowly, the 
older 
woman shook her head. 
"Goddamn mystics," she growled. "Javerry's dead, no thanks to 
you." 
Despite the words, she sounded less hostile than before. To 
Silence's 
left, Balthasar slid his foot forward in the carpeting tree 
spines. When 
the woman did not seem to notice, he eased the rest of his body 
forward as 
well. He'd gained only a few centimeters, Silence knew, but every 
little 
bit would help, if it came to a fight. Hardly daring to breathe, 
she 
groped for the words that would consolidate her slim gains. "I -- 
We don't 
know any Javerry, I'm sorry. We're strangers here ourselves, from 
off-world like I said. Our ship --" She broke off abruptly, not 
wanting to 
reveal anything more about Recusante until she had to. 
Leaves rustled sharply, this time to Silence's right, and a new 
voice 
said, "They could be telling the truth, Mama." 
Balthasar whispered a curse, and Silence saw Marcinik's shoulders 
twitch. 
She could feel the despair sour in her stomach, tasted fear. Two 
of them, 
she thought crazily, there's nothing we can do if they don't 
believe us, 
nothing we can do but die.... 

"Easy, now," the older woman said sharply, her hands tightening 
again on 
the weapon's stock. 
"Mama," the voice said from the woods, and in the same moment, 
Chase Mago 
said, "Sieura, please. We mean you no harm." 
"You're as bad as your damn father," the older woman snapped, 
without 
looking at the source of the new voice. "You, what'd you call me?" 
The leaves rustled again, then parted as a man stepped out to join 
her. He 
was blond, as his mother might once have been, with a high 
forehead and a 
straggling beard, and very thin. His left sleeve was empty, the 
cuff 
pinned neatly to the shoulder seam, but he held his short twinbarrelled 
weapon securely in his remaining hand, bracing it against his 
side. 
"Shotgun," Balthasar hissed, almost in spite of himself. 
"Be quiet," Silence said, and tightened all her muscles in a vain 
attempt 
to stop her shaking. A shotgun was -- mostly -- a Delian weapon, 
meant for 
use against crowds, and generally restricted to that world because 
of its 
mechanical nature. It broadcast a cloud of solid pellets that 
would rip 
through anyone stupid enough to get in its way -- and the worst of 
it was 
there was nothing even a magus could do to stop the random blast 
of metal. 
"Well?" the woman said again. "You with the beard, answer me." 

Chase Mago shook his head, glancing uncertainly at Silence. She 
shrugged, 
not daring to do more, and the engineer looked away again. 
"Sieura?" he 
said, carefully, and the young man gave an exclamation of 
pleasure. 
"You see, Mama?" 
"There's proof and there's proof," the older woman said, her hands 
steady 
on the strange rifle. "And if they really are off-worlders --" She 
smiled 
suddenly, bitterly, showing a missing tooth. "We'll take them 
back, let 
them prove it there." 
"Mama --" the young man began, warningly, but his mother cut him 
off. 
"You four, put your hands on your heads and walk real slow toward 
me. 
There's a path through here. Get on it and follow it down to the 
farm. One 
wrong move, and we'll blast you." 
Silence laced her shaking fingers together and rested her hands on 
the top 
of her head, then followed Balthasar and Chase Mago down the 
ridge. 
Despite the crutch, the older woman skipped nimbly out of their 
reach, 
keeping her weapons levelled on them at all times. Silence glanced 
over 
her shoulder, almost falling over a tree stump, and saw the son 
bringing 
up the rear, shotgun steady. 
As the woman had promised, they thrashed through thick growth for 
a few 

meters, then emerged onto a narrow path. Balthasar hesitated, his 
shoulders working slightly as though he was looking for a chance 
to run. 
Silence tensed, willing him not to do anything stupid, and the 
woman 
growled, "Don't even think it, bright boy." 
The trail curved gently to the left as it rose over the ridge 
line, but 
too gently to provide any sort of cover. As they came out of the 
woods 
into the cleared land of the compound, the door of the main 
building burst 
open and a dog rushed out, barking wildly. It stopped short, 
brought up by 
its chain, and Silence saw the boy they had seen earlier peering 
warily 
around the doorframe. The young man saw him too, and his voice 
cracked in 
a shout. 
"Get back inside, Cass!" 
The boy tugged at the dog's chain, and managed to pull the 
reluctant 
animal back inside. He slammed the door, but Silence could still 
hear the 
barking. 
"Keep going," the older woman said. "Around the back." 
"Mama?" the son asked. "What're you --" 
"Shut up," the woman said. "You lot, keep going." 
Silence could feel her arms shaking as they rounded the corner of 
the 
house, partly from the strain of keeping them on her head, but 
mostly from 
fear. The same fear was sour in her stomach. Somehow, she had lost 

the 
brief advantage she'd gained by saying they were out-worlders, and 
she 
didn't know how or why -- or why it had gained them anything in 
the first 
place. She heard Chase Mago gasp, and Balthasar curse softly, and 
looked 
up. They were facing the charred ruins of one of the outbuildings, 
but 
beyond that, just outside the line of the plowed field, was the 
unmistakable mound of a new-dug grave. There were three more 
beside the 
first, one much smaller than the others, and she bit back a 
whimper of 
sheer terror. They could not have come so far just to die here.... 
She 
pushed away the thought, and was aware that both her husbands had 
edged 
closer, trying to put themselves between her and the natives' 
weapons. The 
last rays of sunlight glinted from the tuning wheel on the 
communications 
unit slung over Chase Mago's shoulder, and Silence stared at it, 
wishing 
she could control it from a distance. There was nothing Recusante 
could do 
for them, but Aili and the magus deserved to be warned, to know 
that 
they'd failed.... She closed her eyes, struggling to think of 
something -- 
anything -- that might help them now, but the other woman's harsh 
voice 
cut through her concentration. 
"Stop there." 
"Mama, what the hell are you doing?" the young man demanded again, 
but the 
woman ignored him. 

"All my life," she said, "they've been telling me the offworlders're 
going to come for us, going to come work miracles and save us all. 
All 
right. You say you're off-worlders, so work me my miracle. Give me 
back 
what I've lost. Give me back my Javerry, and Ardis, and the 
babies. I've 
lost too damn much waiting for you not to get something back." 
The sudden fury in her voice snapped something deep in Silence. 
The 
levelled weapons seemed to vanish from her perceptions; instead, 
she saw, 
with stark clarity, the way the harmonies of Earth's core rose 
into and 
through the land around her, vibrating in the air to all sides. 
She 
lowered her hands, reaching out with them and with her new-trained 
powers 
to grasp that dark music, twisting it to match a new and 
unexpected Form. 
Wind howled, rising from still air, and she heard her own voice 
shouting 
in it. 
"I don't have any miracles, woman, and I can't raise the dead, but 
I have 
power!" Flames sprang from her hands, and from the ground beneath 
her 
hands, fountained up to fall back in a rain of fire that vanished 
the 
instant before it touched the earth. Faintly, she heard a cry of 
fear, and 
then a voice shouting her name. Chase Mago's voice, she thought, 
and the 
recognition shocked her back to reality. Carefully, she loosed her 
hold on 
the elemental harmonies, letting them ease back into their proper 
places. 

The firefall dwindled to a swirl of sparks, then vanished 
altogether as 
the wind ceased. 
"Good God almighty," the woman was saying quietly, in a voice 
queerly torn 
between despair and awe. "My God almighty." 
Her son was very pale, the shotgun dangling forgotten in his hand. 
"It's 
true then, Mama. It's the Empress, here, just like Pap said." 
The woman shook her head, her own weapon on the dirt at her feet, 
but did 
not answer. 
"Empress?" Silence said. The sudden upswelling of power and 
emotion had 
left her drained, unable quite to comprehend the emotions she felt 
around 
her. She clung to the simple question as though to a lifeline. 
"What do 
you mean?" 
The young man turned to face her. "It's what we've always said, 
like Mama 
told you, that the off-worlders would come for us, teach us their 
secrets. 
And when we came up here, Pap -- my father," he corrected himself, 
with 
sudden formality, "cast the cards, and he said you'd come. He saw 
your 
card, the Empress, and he told us all you'd be here before 
summer." 
"A bit late for him," the woman growled, but the worst of the 
anger was 
gone. There was even a hint of exasperated pride in the glance she 
gave 
the nearest grave. "So. You've really come." She shook herself 

then, and 
reached for the weapon lying at her feet. Silence tensed in spite 
of 
herself, and saw the others ready to jump, but the woman 
shouldered it 
easily, juggling it and the crutch with practiced ease. "I'm Emma 
Javerry," she said, "and you're on what's left of my farm." She 
jerked her 
head toward the one-armed man. "My son, Quin." 
Silence hesitated, still wary, and said, "My name's Leigh, Silence 
Leigh. 
My husbands, Denis Balthasar and Julian Chase Mago, and Colonel 
Yles 
Marcinik, of the True Thousand." 
Quin hissed softly through his teeth, and the woman's eyes 
widened. 
"More proof, Mama," the young man murmured. 
Emma Javerry nodded. "Will you accept our hospitality, 
gentlefolk?" she 
asked, with awkward formality. 
"Sieuri," Quin added, the foreign word clumsy on his tongue. 
Silence hesitated again, but could think of no good reason to 
distrust 
them any longer. "Thank you," she said slowly. "We're -- grateful 
for it." 
Emma Javerry gave a brusque nod, and swung herself around, leaning 
heavily 
on her crutch. "This way," she said, and started toward the main 
building 
without waiting for an answer. Quin made an odd, embarrassed 
movement, 
ducking his head and shrugging slightly, and gestured for the 
others to 

follow. Silence exchanged glances with her fellow star-travellers, 
seeing 
her own residual wariness reflected in their faces, and saw 
Marcinik 
shrug, his shoulders lifting only a few millimeters. The message 
was 
clear: what have we got to lose now? Silence smiled almost in 
spite of 
herself, and followed the older woman toward the house. 
It was unexpectedly warm inside the stone-walled building, and the 
light 
was very dim. Silence stood, blinking, in the doorway, and Emma 
Javerry, 
herself no more than a clumsy shadow in the darkness, said, "You 
can open 
the shutters now, Cass." 
There was no answer except a murmur, but then there was a rattle 
of metal 
from the distant wall, and the waning sunlight streamed in. The 
boy she'd 
seen earlier moved on to the next window, folding back those 
shutters as 
well. 
"Where's the dog?" Javerry asked. 
The boy paused, one hand still on the shutters' latch. "Out back. 
I put 
him there when I saw you coming in." 
"And what have I told you about peeking out when we've told you to 
stay 
in?" Javerry asked, but her tone was fairly mild. "All right, 
leave him 
there for now." 
"Yes, Grandma," the boy said, dutifully enough, and moved on to 
the next 

window. 
"Have a seat, all of you." Javerry lowered herself into the 
largest of the 
room's battered chairs, and lifted her splinted leg onto a 
footstool, 
grimacing a little. She set the crutch beside her on the floor, 
and 
Silence realized she had already discarded the strange rifle. The 
pilot 
moved toward the nearest chair, glancing around covertly as she 
did so, 
and saw that Javerry had placed the rifle in a rack that stood 
just to the 
left of a side door. 
"Thanks," Silence said again, and seated herself opposite the 
other woman. 
She was shaking a little -- reaction, she thought -- and hoped no 
one 
would see. 
"That's my grandson Cass," Javerry went on, jerking her head 
toward the 
boy. "Quin's son." She looked up at the rest of the startravellers, 
still 
hanging back by the door, and scowled. "Sit down, damn you, we're 
not 
going to eat you." 
"Sieura, I wasn't sure," Balthasar retorted, and Silence bit back 
a laugh, 
watching the older woman's face. The scowl deepened, and then, 
quite 
suddenly, eased into a fleeting smile. 
"And so you weren't," Javerry said. "Now sit." 
This time, the star-travellers did as they were told, arranging 
themselves 

on the couch and one of the two remaining chairs. Quin, following 
them in, 
set his shotgun in the rack by the far door, and crossed the room 
to join 
them. 
"Would you be hungry?" he asked. "We can offer a meal, soup and 
bread and 
cheese -- or just bread and cheese, if you don't eat meat." 
"Food would be good," Silence said, suddenly aware that she was 
very 
hungry. "The soup would be fine." The other star-travellers 
nodded, and 
she saw Quin's eyebrows lift slightly. 
"Of course, sieura," he said, and turned toward an inner door. 
"How come you can eat meat?" the boy said suddenly, ignoring his 
father's 
admonitory frown. "Grandpa couldn't." 
Silence frowned back, genuinely puzzled. "There's no reason I know 
of that 
I shouldn't," she said at last. "It's hard enough to deal with 
allergies 
and the like, travelling, without adding trouble...." Her voice 
trailed 
off as she realized she was babbling. Javerry gave her a rather 
skeptical 
glance, but said nothing, easing her bandaged leg on the 
uncomfortable 
footstool. 
The sunlight was fading fast now, and the boy Cass moved without 
being 
told to light the twin lamps that stood on a sort of sideboard 
beside the 
inner doorway through which Quin had disappeared. Silence watched 
idly, 

but the boy's body hid the movements of his hands. Javerry said 
something 
too low-voiced for the star-travellers to hear, and the boy 
brought one of 
the lamps forward, setting it on the low table that stood by his 
grandmother's chair. With a shock, Silence realized that the glass 
globe 
held real fire, an ordinary flame dancing above a pool of some 
dark fuel. 
Then Cass brought the second lamp, placing it so that they sat at 
the 
heart of two overlapping circles of golden light. 
Javerry made a face, the expression almost hidden in the shadows. 
"We used 
to have electricity -- still do, for the important things, now 
that Quin 
has the mill working again -- but I don't like using it unless we 
have to. 
I swear that's how they hunted us down." 
"Now, Mama," Quin said, appearing in the doorway with a tray 
balanced in 
his hands. His tone suggested they'd had the argument before. 
"Why who hunted you down, sieura?" Marcinik asked. 
Javerry didn't answer at once. "Go help your daddy, Cass," she 
said, after 
a moment. The boy made a face, but pushed himself up off the 
floor. 
"Get the bread, please," Quin said, and the boy vanished into the 
kitchen. 
Quin continued into the room, setting the tray on the low table 
beside the 
lamp, and ceremoniously handed out the steaming bowls of soup. 
Silence 
accepted hers warily, but the aroma of the alien spices was so 
enticing 

that she put aside her caution. She dipped her spoon into the 
cloudy 
liquid, and tasted it. The only familiar thing was salt; the rest - 
-
shreds of some pale, sweetish meat, chunks of multicolored 
vegetables, odd 
flecks of spice -- was strange, but so good that she forgot 
Marcinik's 
unanswered question, concentrating on the exotic flavors. 
"Bread, m -- sieura?" Cass asked shyly. 
Silence looked up to find the boy standing at her elbow, holding 
out a 
basket filled with slices of thick brown bread. She took one with 
a smile, 
and a murmur of thanks, and glanced to the side to see the other 
star-travellers bent over their bowls, each wearing the same 
expression of 
absolute absorption in the tastes and smells. Her smile widened to 
a grin, 
and in the same moment Chase Mago looked up, meeting her gaze with 
a
rather rueful smile. 
"It's very good," he said. "Thank you." 
Marcinik nodded his agreement, but before he could repeat his 
question, 
Emma Javerry said, "Now, then, off-worlders, what brings you to 
Earth?" 
Silence paused, and knew the others were looking at her again. Why 
me? she 
thought, with sudden, irrational anger, but shoved away the 
response. She 
was to answer because she was the magus, and because in the end it 
was she 
who had gotten them into this situation. Unfortunately, none of 
their 

plans had included telling even a part of the truth, and she was 
unprepared. She chewed the rest of her bread methodically, mind 
racing, 
and swallowed without having found a good answer. "We've come to 
Earth, " 
she began, slowly, "because -- well, because it's here." 
"Hell, we weren't entirely sure of that," Balthasar cut in, with a 
lopsided grin, and Silence threw him a grateful glance. 
"That's true, too," she said. "The thing is, the records of the 
Earth-road 
were lost during the Millennial Wars, at least to the Fringe, and 
the 
Hegemony and Rusadir. People have been trying to rediscover it 
ever since, 
and --" She stopped there, not knowing quite how to explain the 
sequence 
of events that had brought her and the others into the search for 
Earth. 
Hell, I never wanted to look for Earth, she thought; that was my 
Uncle 
Otto's obsession -- and do I want to tell this fierce old woman 
that 
somebody's keeping Earth blocked off from the rest of humansettled 
space? 
Javerry was staring at her, and Silence finished lamely, "We were 
able to 
find an old starbook, an old method, and so we got through." 
Javerry and her son exchanged looks, and then Quin said, "Did you 
have any 
-- difficulty -- getting through?" 
So they do know, Silence thought, and barely stopped herself from 
glancing 
at the other star-travellers. Or at the very least they suspect -- 
but do 
I tell them about it? She said, cautiously, "Yes, we had some 
difficulties." 

 Balthasar smothered a half-hysterical laugh. "You could call it 
that, 
yeah. Difficulties!" 
Silence looked at him with some annoyance, and the Delian mouthed, 
tell 
them. The pilot hesitated a second longer, then shrugged to 
herself, 
saying, "The leadership of the Rose Worlds -- the worlds that used 
to be 
called the Ring -- has built siege engines that block the Earthroad, 
distort the harmonies that a pilot should follow. We got through 
them, but 
their people attacked while we were landing, and shot us down." 
Javerry nodded, an expression of dour satisfaction on her face. 
"Typical 
Unionists." 
Silence started. "Unionists?" 
Javerry nodded again, impatiently this time. "Them -- the 
government down 
on Man's Island, and all the rest of them." 
Silence said nothing, not quite certain what she could say to 
that. 
"Unionist" surely meant the pre-War Union of the Human Sphere, but 
she had 
never heard the word spoken with such disgust before. All the 
accounts she 
had studied on Solitude Hermae had praised the Earth-centered, 
Earth-founded Union; star-travellers' legend said much the same 
things, 
and mourned it as a lost golden age. 
"These Unionists," Marcinik said, and Silence heard the same 
disorientation in his voice. "Were they the ones who attacked 

here, 
sieura?" 
"Who else?" Javerry said bitterly. 
Quin said, "Are you telling us they're off-worlders, too?" 
"I don't know," Silence said. "Some probably are -- the Rose 
Worlders have 
to be involved in this somehow." She looked back at Javerry. "But 
why did 
they attack you, sieura?" 
Javerry grunted, her eyes going to her son. Quin made a face, and 
looked 
away. "Hah," the older woman said, "so you'll let me tell it now?" 
She 
looked back at the star-travellers, fierce eyes sweeping across 
them all. 
"The Unionists, they don't like people living in the exurb -- they 
don't 
even like the suburbs much, but not everyone'll fit in the mainurb 
no 
matter how hard they try." Her face changed then, softened and 
saddened. 
"I remember, when I was a girl, when they closed the texurb. I saw 
it on 
the newsband, bringing out the last people on the jethoppers. They 
none of 
them had anything more than what they could grab up when the 
hoppers 
landed, because they didn't believe -- nobody really believed -- 
the 
government would do it." 
Silence frowned, not quite understanding, and Javerry elaborated, 
"That 
the government'd make them move. They wanted to clear out all the 
people, 
bring them into the mainurb so they could use the land for 

fanning, or so 
they said. I think they just don't like anybody living outside the 
urban 
net -- and I say that's why they came down on us, because we're 
outside 
the net and happy out of it." She turned to her son with one of 
her 
fleeting smiles. "Quin disagrees." 
The younger man shrugged, embarrassed. "Well, I do," he said. "The 
texurb 
was a special case, and you know it. There were a lot of 
smallholders 
there, and they were organized, most of them, and they'd been 
trouble for 
generations. It was entirely different." He stopped, seeing the 
other's 
blank looks, and flushed slightly. "But that's beside the point. 
What I 
think is, it was because of my father and his experiments. He was 
working 
on a lot of things -- and getting somewhere with it, too. Look how 
he 
predicted the Empress, and here she is." 
The last was for his mother, Silence realized belatedly. Clearly 
Emma 
Javerry hadn't shared either her husband's or her son's interest 
in the 
experiments, whatever those experiments were. From Quin's words -- 
and I 
must ask him to explain just what it was his father did, Silence 
thought, 
"casting the cards" -- it sounded as though his father had been 
involved 
in the Art. Then Quin was speaking again, and the pilot hastily 
dragged 
her attention back to him. 
"Pap knew a lot of people in the mainurbs, and all over the 

world," Quin 
said. "And he kept in pretty close touch with them, so it 
wouldn't've been 
hard to find out both what he was doing and that things were 
beginning to 
work. They wanted to stop him; that's why they attacked us." 
"Just what was he doing that the Unionists felt they had to stop 
him?" 
Marcinik asked slowly. 
Quin gave him a blank look. "He was trying to get off-world power, 
like 
she has." He nodded toward Silence. "Magic." 
Silence realized her mouth had fallen open in shock, and closed it 
hastily, trying to think of an answer to that. Before she could 
say 
anything, however, Balthasar said indignantly, "It's not magic, 
it's the 
Art, the magi's Art." 
"If you say so," Quin said, doubtfully. Javerry gave a snort of 
laughter, 
but said nothing. 
"If you don't use the Art," Silence said, "what do you use?" 
Seeing their 
uncomprehending expressions, she added, "For -- for farming, or 
heavy 
labor -- for things human beings can't do." 
Javerry and her son stared at the younger woman -- looking, 
Silence 
thought irritably, as though I've lost my mind. When neither of 
his elders 
answered, Cass piped up, "Machines, of course. We use machines." 
Machines. Silence let the word roll through her mind. Mechanics. 
An entire 

world that used machines. She shook her head, unable quite to 
comprehend 
it. Delos, of all the worlds she'd ever visited, had used 
mechanics more 
than most, but even there the individual units were banned from 
the ports, 
kept small and isolated and carefully shielded. But an entire 
world -- and 
Earth, of all worlds -- 
"Aren't they restricted?" That was Chase Mago, the bowl of soup 
forgotten 
in his hands. 
"No," Quin said slowly. "Why should they be?" 
"They must be," Balthasar said. "You can't lift a starship when 
there are 
machines around the port --" 
"There aren't any starports," Javerry said. "Or are there?" 
"There are," Silence said grimly. "There are." She looked at her 
husbands 
and then at Marcinik, her mind racing. "We know there are at least 
two, 
Ladysprings and S'haar, because we were going to land there. And 
we know 
that their rules restrict star-travellers to port and Pale -- I 
think we 
can believe that much of what the woman told us." She turned to 
Javerry. 
"Who farms all that land that was taken from those people -- the 
texurb?" 
"Robots," Javerry said. "AFMs -- automatic farm machines." 
Silence nodded, looking back at the other star-travellers. "So we 
know two 
more things. They use machines for everything, for things we'd 

never dream 
of, and they don't know much about the Art. If they did," she 
added, 
forestalling a question from Marcinik, "his father wouldn't've 
been 
wasting his time on predictions, he'd've been working on something 
useful, 
like harmonics -- or symbology and manipulation." Too late, she 
saw Quin's 
stricken expression, and winced. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean.... " 
She shook 
her head helplessly. "Prediction is a wild-card talent, not really 
a part 
of the Art. It can't be taught, and it can't be refined much 
beyond the 
basic stages. It sounds as though your father had the talent, all 
right -- 
I'm here, and you say he did foretell it -- but it's ultimately a 
dead 
end." 
"Very much so, for him," Javerry said, dryly. 
"I'm sorry," Silence said again, and the older woman shrugged. 
"It doesn't matter. Go on with what you were saying; I'm 
interested." 
Silence grimaced, trying to recover her train of thought. "So it 
looks to 
me as though the Rose Worlders are trying to keep you from finding 
out 
about the Art," she said at last, knowing how flat the conclusion 
sounded. 
No one said anything for a long moment. Glancing to her left, 
Silence 
could see the other star-travellers struggling to absorb the idea 
and all 
its implications. To her surprise, however, it was Cass who spoke 

first. 
"But of course they are. They pretend to laugh at it, but every 
time 
anyone gets serious, the Unionists crack down." 
Javerry cleared her throat. "Be that as it may," she said, "our 
guests 
look like they're about ready to drop. I assume you'll be staying 
the 
night, gentlefolk?" 
"Sieuri," Quin murmured, and was ignored. 
"Thank you, sieura," Marcinik said, "you're most kind. We'd 
planned to 
sleep out, but --" He smiled. "We would not say no to a roof and a 
bed. " 
"It'll be air mattresses in the storeroom," Javerry warned, but 
she didn't 
seem displeased with his compliments. "But you will be warm -- and 
dry, if 
it comes on to rain. See to it, Quin, will you?" 
"Of course, Mama." The blond man pushed himself up out of his 
chair, and 
motioned to his son. "Cass, why don't you take people's plates, if 
they're 
done with them." 
Silence handed her bowl to the boy, suddenly aware of just how 
tired she 
was. Much of it was reaction, she knew, first to being spotted and 
then to 
the use of her powers, and finally to the Javerrys' description of 
life on 
Earth, but it was nonetheless real. She leaned back in her chair, 
trying 
to decide just what they should do next. They had been lucky so 

far, she 
knew, finding a household that was sympathetic to them, but it 
didn't look 
as though the Javerrys would be able to provide much more than 
sympathy 
and, possibly, information. Nor, if what she guessed were true, 
would any 
other Earth natives, trapped as they were within their mechanical 
society; 
the tools of the Art would have to come from the Rose Worlders. 
Chase Mago cleared his throat suddenly. "I better check in," he 
said to 
Marcinik, and the colonel nodded. 
Emma Javerry stiffened. "There's more of you?" 
The engineer hesitated, but answered honestly. "Yes." 
"We said our ship was wrecked," Marcinik said. "There're still 
some people 
aboard." 
"How many?" Javerry demanded. 
"Two more," Marcinik answered promptly. Silence winced, but then 
realized 
it was a cheap concession: the Javerrys would still have to find 
the ship. 
"Another magus, Silence's teacher, and her Serenity the Princess 
Royal 
Aili Kibbe, eldest daughter -- eldest child -- of his most serene 
majesty 
the Hegemon of Asterion and its allied worlds." The titles rolled 
sonorously from his tongue, and Silence saw his head lift proudly. 
"And 
also my wife." 
Javerry's eyebrows rose, her mouth twitching into a sardonic 
smile, and 

Chase Mago cut in hastily, "With your permission, sieura?" He 
gestured to 
the communications unit slung at his belt. 
"Sure," Javerry answered. "If you need to be private, you can step 
out 
into the yard. The dog's inside." 
"It's not privacy I'm worried about," the engineer said frankly, 
"it's 
your machines." He gave Silence a questioning glance, and the 
pilot 
shrugged. 
"I don't know. I've never dealt with this many machines before." 
Balthasar said, "It'd probably be better outside." 
Chase Mago nodded, and rose ponderously to his feet. "If you'll 
excuse me, 
sieura?" he said again. 
"Of course," Javerry answered. "You'll excuse my not getting up. 
Get the 
door, Cass, would you?" 
The boy scrambled to obey, staring up at the big engineer with 
something 
approaching awe. Recognizing the reaction, Silence smiled. She had 
felt 
much the same way about Chase Mago when she'd first met him. 
The engineer returned quickly. Almost too quickly, Silence 
thought, and 
sat up, frowning. 
"Problems, Julie?" Balthasar asked. 
The engineer shook his head. "Nothing to speak of; a little 
distortion. I 

got through, told them we were all right, and signed off." He 
looked at 
Javerry. "I didn't want to take any chance of someone getting a 
fix on my 
signal." 
"Thank you for that," Javerry retorted. She lifted her voice to a 
shout. 
"How're you doing in there, Quin?" 
"Just finished, Mama." A moment later, Quin appeared at the inner 
door, 
saying shyly, "If you'd come with me, sieuri?" 
Silence pulled herself to her feet, surprised again at how 
exhausted she 
was, and Balthasar caught her arm, steadying her. Together, they 
followed 
Quin through the door into the huge, well-scrubbed kitchen, and 
out into 
the storeroom. Quin had done his best to make it comfortable, 
pushing 
aside the crates and barrels to clear a fairly large stretch of 
floor, and 
there was a pile of dust in one corner where he'd left his broom. 
He had 
brought in another of the ordinary-fire lamps as well, and it 
stood with 
an earthenware pitcher on an upturned metal crate. The four air 
mattresses 
lay in a neat row in the middle of the cleared space, and Quin 
shrugged a 
little uncomfortably. 
"I thought you'd want to make your own arrangements." 
"This is fine, thank you," Silence said. 
"I brought some extra blankets," Quin went on, gesturing to a pile 
of dark 

cloth that lay on top of the nearest barrel. "They're not much to 
look at, 
but they are clean. The bathroom's back through the kitchen; the 
first 
door on your right takes you into the hall, and then it's the last 
door on 
the left. Is there anything else I can get you?" 
Silence shook her head, and the others murmured vague answers. 
"Then I'll say good night," Quin said, and backed away, closing 
the door 
firmly behind him. 
"Well," Balthasar said, after a moment. He crossed the room on 
tiptoe and 
turned the door handle cautiously. It moved easily. He nodded to 
himself, 
and pushed the door gently open. "So we're not locked in," he 
said, and 
closed the door as quietly as he'd opened it. 
"No," Marcinik said, and there was something in his voice that 
made 
Silence look up quickly. The colonel was standing by the 
storeroom's 
single window, staring out into the darkened yard. "But the dog's 
loose 
out there." 
"They probably turn it loose every night," Chase Mago said, and 
seated 
himself, sighing, on the nearest mattress. It creaked, but held 
his 
weight. 
Marcinik nodded reluctantly, and settled himself on the end 
mattress, 
tugging off his heavy boots. "Probably," he said. 

"What do you think, Silence?" Balthasar asked. 
"About what?" the pilot returned, yawning, and bent to unlace her 
own 
boots. 
"Can we trust these people?" The Delian stretched, then began 
methodically 
loosening the clasps of his shirt. Silence watched idly, too tired 
to take 
any particular interest, but Marcinik politely turned his back. 
"I'd trust them," Chase Mago said. "Look what's happened to them 
already." 
"That's what worries me," Marcinik said. 
Balthasar grinned. "Silence?" he said again. 
The pilot sighed. "I don't know," she said at last. "I think -- I 
feel 
that they can be trusted, but I haven't got any reasons for it, 
just a 
feeling." 
"Your feelings, sieura doctor," Marcinik began, and bit off the 
rest of 
the sentence. He finished in a slightly stifled voice." -- should 
be good 
enough for anyone." 
Chapter 6 
SILENCE WOKE TO THE SOUND OF RAIN, FAMILIAR EVEN on this alien 
world, and 
a strange, damp smell. She sat up in her cocoon of blankets, nose 
wrinkling. It was not exactly unpleasant, she decided, but it was 
very 
strange. 

"I think it's the vegetation," Balthasar said, rather doubtfully, 
and 
reached for the shirt Silence had discarded the night before. The 
pilot 
took it from him, shrugging it over her shoulders just as the 
Delian said, 
"And now what?" 
Silence scowled, and concentrated on the shirt's clasps. Why ask 
me? she 
thought, but before she could think of a better answer, Marcinik 
said from 
the doorway, "I suggest we bring her Serenity and the magus here, 
and 
discuss it with them." He closed the door gently behind him, and 
leaned 
against it, a ragged towel dangling from one hand. 
"Discuss what with who?" Chase Mago sat up, his mattress groaning, 
and 
rubbed at his eyes and beard. 
"What we're going to do," Balthasar said. 
Silence glanced quickly at him, but the Delian didn't seem 
inclined to 
continue. "Aili should be here," she said, "and so should 
Isambard." She 
lifted her hand as Balthasar frowned, cutting off his automatic 
retort. 
"Look, we're going to have to stay here a while, if the Javerrys 
will have 
us, don't you see? They know Earth, which we don't, and we're 
going to 
need their help if we're going to get off-world again. And we're 
going to 
need everybody's knowledge -- especially Isambard's, but Aili's, 
too -- if 
we're going to come up with a plan that stands even half a chance 
of 

working." 
"You're right," Chase Mago said, yawning. Balthasar nodded, and 
made no 
further protest. 
"Then I'll bring them," Marcinik said. "Assuming Sieura Javerry 
permits." 
To Silence's surprise, Emma Javerry raised no serious objection to 
the 
idea of bringing the other off-worlders to her farm, suggesting 
only that 
they wait until the rain stopped. The star-travellers agreed to 
that 
readily enough, and Silence set herself the task of persuading 
Quin to 
tell her about his father's researches. It was not particularly 
difficult 
work -- Quin was proud of his father's discoveries -- but Silence 
found 
the whole experience unexpectedly depressing. The senior Javerry 
had been, 
from Quin's description, at least potentially a fairly skillful 
practitioner, but without a coherent paradigm to shape his work, 
he had 
drifted away from his earlier, successful symbolic experiments 
into 
attempts at prediction. He had been better at those than most, as 
he had 
the wild-card talent for it, but Silence found it even more 
frustrating 
that the father had just resumed his symbolic work a month before 
the 
attack that killed him. That tends to support Quin's theory that 
the farm 
was attacked because of the elder Javerry's work, Silence thought, 
but I'd 
better not take sides in that argument. Instead, she questioned 
Quin 

further about his father's predictions, and particularly the 
empress he'd 
seen. 
Quin shrugged uncomfortably, searching for the right words. He was 
afraid 
of offending her, Silence realized, afraid of offending both 
because of 
the images his father had seen and because of the rituals 
involved. 
"Pap -- he set up the circle, and the table," Quin began, and 
darted a 
quick glance, appeal and apology combined, toward the pilot. 
Silence nodded, strictly controlling her automatic reaction. That 
would be 
the neo-Apollonarian ritual, long ago rejected in the humansettled 
worlds, mentioned in the magi's curriculum only as an example 
-- the example -- of a deceitful symbolic connection. In 
actuality, of 
course, the connections were there -- the symbols did not, could 
not, lie 
-- but led nowhere real. The ritual would enhance whatever native 
talent 
that practitioner had for prediction, would even enhance the 
practitioner's sensitivity to the subliminal clues visible in even 
the 
most skeptical querant's posture and movements, but, unlike the 
most other 
operations of the Art, it could go no further. "The ritual of 
Apollonius," 
she said. "I know it." 
Quin nodded. "Well, he set it up, at the right time and in the 
right 
conjunctions, following all the preparations, and at just the 

right moment 
-- I was timing it, I know that part was done absolutely correctly 
-- he 
cut the cards and the Empress came up. Pap put away the rest of 
the cards 
then, and set the Empress in the place he'd made ready, and 
waited." 
Quin's voice faltered. "I suppose he was meditating. Anyway, it 
seemed 
like forever, and then he said, 'The empress is coming. ' He said 
that 
again, and then he said, 'She will have the twelve-star crown, and 
she 
will be the one of three. But she's coming, Quin she'll be here. 
'" Quin 
stopped abruptly, as though embarrassed, and shrugged again. "That 
was 
what happened, Silence -- what he saw, anyway." 
The pilot nodded slowly. "He had the talent for the Art," she 
said, and 
closed her mouth firmly over the rest of the thought. Quin did not 
need to 
be told again that his father had wasted his skills, that his 
life's work 
-- the work for which he had died -- was a blind alley. 
"We looked some of it up afterward," Quin said. There was an odd 
note in 
his voice, almost defiant, and Silence gave him a questioning 
glance. The 
young man looked away, blushing hotly. 
"Well, I did, anyway," he muttered. 
"You have a hieroglyphica?" the pilot asked. 
Quin shook his head. "No, but you can find the meanings of things 
in other 
books." 

 If you work hard enough at it, Silence thought dryly. She said, 
"So what 
did you find out?" 
"Not a whole lot," Quin admitted. He looked away again, 
embarrassed. "The 
Empress -- the card, that is -- is supposed to be an Earth-mother 
symbol. 
You're not quite what I'd expected." 
Silence laughed, but smothered the response as Quin blushed even 
more 
hotly than before. "That's one of the meanings, yes, but not the 
only 
one." In spite of herself, her voice took on the precision drilled 
into 
her on Solitude Hermae. "On a higher level, it simply means 
creativity, 
creativity specifically of the mundane world -- the magus as 
operator 
within the mundane universe. The twelve-star crown means control 
of those 
forces -- the twelve stars are the twelve operations of the Great 
Transformation. The association of the number three -- among its 
other 
meanings, the number of synthesis and the basis of harmony -- with 
the 
symbol of the empress is fairly obvious." 
"I thought that meant there would be three of you," Quin said, 
rather 
dryly. 
Silence flushed. It was annoying at her age, to be caught showing 
off. ... 
She controlled herself instantly, and said, "There's that, too, 
though the 
Empress is the third card, and the number/symbol link's always 
been there. 

It could be either." 
The rain had stopped by noon of the third day, but Marcinik waited 
until 
the next morning to return to Recusante. Quin offered the use of 
the 
farm's drag-cat, and the colonel accepted, taking Balthasar with 
him to 
manage the machine. Even with its assistance, however, they did 
not return 
to the farm until late in the afternoon of the next day. Silence, 
watching 
from the doorway of the farmhouse, saw Javerry's eyes narrow at 
the sight 
of Aili's Bethlemite disguise, and braced herself to meet the 
Earth-woman's disapproval. To her surprise, however, Javerry's 
tone was 
merely thoughtful. 
"Now I wonder, did that fashion come from off-world?" 
"Fashion?" Silence said. 
Javerry nodded. "Started when I was a girl, among the rich folks, 
the real 
Unionists. Girls -- and some of the boys, for that matter -- 
wearing veils 
or little masks, or just brushing their hair half over their 
faces. Still 
popular in the mainurbs, Quin tells me, for fancy dress." She 
looked 
directly at Silence. "Did this come from off-world, too?" 
"I don't know," Silence said. Javerry frowned, and the younger 
woman added 
hastily, "In the Hegemony -- that's one of the associations of 
worlds -- 
the laws say a woman has to keep her face covered in public, and 
it's 
become common practice all over human-settled space. But I don't 

know if 
it ever was a Rose Worlder practice, and it's the Rose Worlders 
who're in 
charge here." 
Javerry grunted. "And you say she's a princess?" 
"Yes." 
The older woman shook her head, apparently disconcerted by the 
baldness of 
the answer. Silence bit her tongue to keep from saying anything 
more. Let 
Aili deal with this, she thought; let her win Javerry over. The 
Princess 
Royal was more than capable of that. 
"And the old man," Javerry continued. "You say he's a wizard, like 
you?" 
"He's my teacher," Silence said. She made herself add, "He's far 
more 
experienced than I am." 
Javerry nodded, half to herself. "We'll see," she said. "We'll 
see." 
Silence hid her smile as Aili swung herself easily out of the dragcat's 
short bed, barely touching Marcinik's steadying hand. Her eyes 
flickered 
above the veil as she favored Javerry with a single, searching 
glance. 
From that instant, she treated Javerry precisely as she would 
treat a 
noble landholder, without arrogance, but with due awareness of her 
own 
worth. It was the right approach, Silence thought: Javerry was not 
the 
woman to admire a pretense of weakness. 

 In the end, they spent almost two weeks at the Javerrys' farm, and 
most of 
that time was spent picking the Javerrys' brains for information 
about the 
urban net to the south. Quin, it appeared, had contacts -- friends 
-- in 
the nearest suburb, and through them was able to obtain local maps 
and a 
copy of the regulations-book for the mainurb farther to the south. 
He was 
also able to barter for Earth-style clothes, including a loose 
coat large 
enough for Chase Mago. Silence protested, afraid the younger 
Javerry would 
put himself in danger, but Quin shook his head. 
"Everyone knows there're a few people living in the exurb," he 
said, "but 
nobody, except maybe the real highest-ups, cares a whole lot. I 
mean, the 
people down in Diesmon know me -- know I live outside, though I've 
made 
damn sure they don't know where. And they don't really care, as 
long as I 
don't try to persuade anyone to join me. They figure the suburb'll 
catch 
up with me sooner or later." A shadow seemed to pass over his face 
then. 
"That was why we figured we weren't in any danger, when Pap 
started his 
work. But those were the real Unionists, not the local authority." 
He shook the memory away, and Silence hastily changed the subject, 
turning 
her attention instead to the maps and regulations-book he had 
brought. 
Over the next few days, she and the other star-travellers studied 
these 
closely, questioning the Javerrys, and particularly Quin, about 

everything 
they could think of, until they had built up a picture of the 
conditions 
inside the urban net. As they worked, it became clear that neither 
Aili 
nor Isambard could pass for Earth natives -- it was impossible to 
meet the 
legal requirement of the veil, or for Isambard to hide his 
knowledge of 
the Art -- and it was decided that they would remain with the 
ship. 
Marcinik, with some reluctance, agreed to stay with them. 
Once that decision had been made, Silence turned her attention 
back to the 
books, and spent several days reducing all the accumulated 
information to 
a pattern that would fit into the framework of the Grand Memory 
Theater. 
Despite all her work, however, she knew there were entirely too 
many gaps 
in their knowledge. She knew, too, that they were gaps she could 
not fill 
from the Javerrys' farm. 
She said as much that evening, when she and the other startravellers 
had 
gathered around the low table in the farmhouse's central room. 
Balthasar 
nodded in thoughtful agreement, both hands wrapped around a mug of 
the 
herbal tea Javerry brewed nightly. 
"I think it's amazing how much you've gathered -- and how 
efficiently 
you've ordered it," Quin said, with just a hint of reproach in his 
tone. 
"Hah." Javerry spoke from the kitchen doorway, her hands wrapped 
in a 

tattered towel. Isambard had examined her injured leg, and despite 
her 
protests, had performed a simple operation to speed its healing. 
She was 
able to walk without her crutch now, though she still limped a 
little, 
favoring the mending leg. "At least she has the sense to recognize 
her 
limitations." She came in to join them, seating herself in her 
favorite 
chair beneath the suspended lantern. 
Aili said softly, "Silence is right, of course." 
Chase Mago looked up sharply, glancing from the Princess Royal to 
Silence. 
"Surely you don't mean for us to go into the mainurb now. ..." His 
voice 
trailed off as Silence nodded. 
"The longer we delay, the more chance there is that the ship will 
be 
traced, despite all the wards we set on it. We can't learn much 
more here, 
and I'm afraid we'll put the Javerrys in danger. I think we ought 
to go 
now, or at least very soon, within the next few days." She glanced 
around 
the circle, and saw Marcinik nod thoughtfully. Balthasar smiled at 
her, 
but said nothing. 
"I see your point," Chase Mago said, "and I admit it's a good one. 
But the 
nearest star port we know of is on the next landmass. I don't know 
if this 
mainurb/suburb mess will have what I need to repair the ship -- 
and even 
if it does, how're we going to get hold of it?" 

Silence sighed, wishing the engineer would not make things so 
difficult. 
"Man's Island's a major government center. From everything Quin's 
told us, 
there's a sort of Pale around it, and a black market in 
curiosities." 
"My father used to buy things there," Quin put in. 
"Exactly." Silence glanced again around the circle of faces, 
softened and 
made strange by the golden light from the lamps. She had grown 
comfortable 
on the Javerry farm, she realized; it would be painful to leave 
it. Or 
perhaps it was less the farm itself than the settled routine of 
its daily 
life, so different in its specifics from the routine of star 
travel, but 
oddly familiar in its ordered complexity. She shook the thought 
away and 
said, "I think we can deal with a black market. We should be able 
to get 
what you need, Julie." 
The big engineer shrugged, unconvinced. Balthasar said, "Come on, 
Julie, 
it's no different from the Wrath." 
"It's very different," Chase Mago snapped. "There're too damn many 
machines." He glanced to his left then, toward Javerry. "I beg 
your 
pardon, sieura. Your serenity." 
Javerry laughed softly. Aili said, as if he hadn't spoken, "I 
think it has 
to be now." 
Chase Mago sighed, and looked at Silence. "All right." He still 
did not 

sound convinced, but the pilot knew she could ignore his doubts 
for the 
moment. "This Pale -- the black market you mentioned, Quin. It's 
around 
Man's Island itself?" 
The younger Javerry nodded, reaching for the largest of the maps 
lying on 
the low table. "The island itself is here," he said, pointing. 
"It's 
off-limits, as you can see. It's the areas on the shore, here, 
where they 
say you can buy -- things." 
"Man's Island's a long way south of here," Balthasar said. "How do 
we get 
there?" 
"There's a high-speed transit line that runs from Diesmon all the 
way into 
the mainurb," Quin offered, but the Delian shook his head. 
"Transit lines mean tickets, and that means money. Probably ID, 
too, and 
we don't have either." 
Isambard stirred then. "Identification is not a problem," he said. 
"If 
Sieura Javerry will allow me to view her papers, you and I, 
Silence, can 
copy them easily enough." 
Balthasar nodded, but said, "Money?" 
Javerry said, "I have money, credit and such. You're welcome to 
it. " 
Silence glanced at her, startled, and the older woman said, "This 
was what 
Javerry wanted; he said you'd be here. It's the least I can do." 

"Thank you," Silence said, after a moment. "We -- this is very 
generous of 
you. We're truly grateful." 
Isambard cleared his throat, frowning slightly. "Indeed, sieura, 
the offer 
is most generous, but we need not presume so far. We -- Silence 
and I -- 
should be able to create as much cash as we need, if you will only 
provide 
us with a sample." 
"Cash?" Javerry said, and laughed. 
The older magus's frown deepened, and Quin said hastily, "Most 
people are 
tied into the net's credit lines. But, Mama, you haven't used 
those 
numbers in years." 
"They're still good," Javerry said. 
"Still, we don't want to put you in any danger," Silence cut in, 
forestalling any further comment from Isambard. "I think it'd be 
better if 
we used cash, even if it does look a little odd." The other 
star-travellers nodded, and Javerry shrugged. 
"Whatever you want, then. There are bills in the kitchen -- you 
can fetch 
them, Cass -- that you can copy." 
"Thank you," Silence said again. If the truth were to be told, she 
was 
just as glad not to have to try to deal with the complex workings 
of the 
urban net's financial systems. Quin had tried to explain them to 
her, and 
to the other star-travellers, but the idea of a system in which no 
tokens 

of value ever changed hands was completely alien to all of them. 
"May we 
see your papers, too?" 
"I'll get them," Quin said, and vanished into the farm's back 
rooms. 
Silence leaned back in her chair, suddenly afraid. Once the 
copying was 
done -- and that was a simple, almost mechanical task -- they 
would have 
to go south, into the immense city Quin had described, a city full 
of 
machines, and hostile to her Art.... She pulled away from that 
line of 
thought, angry at herself for letting her fears run away with her. 
They 
would manage somehow -- after all, this could not be that 
different from 
Delos itself. And, in any case, they had no choice. 
Silence spent most of the next three days closeted in the 
remaining 
outbuilding with the older magus, producing first the raw copies 
of the 
papers and bills that the Javerrys provided, and then making the 
minute 
changes, cosmetic and structural, that made them usable. Balthasar 
watched 
nervously, unable to stay away. 
"They must have ways to check for created money," he said, for the 
fifth 
time. 
Silence put aside the bills she had been working on, and turned to 
face 
him, framing a blistering retort. Before she could speak, however, 
Isambard said, "Captain Balthasar, such means are certainly 
available in 

the rest of human-settled space, and were we dealing with Rose 
Worlders 
alone I would not risk it. However, to detect such counterfeits 
requires 
the Art, and the Art is clearly not much known on this world. Does 
this 
resolve your difficulties?" 
It was the first time the magus had ever spoken with such 
annoyance, and 
Silence hid her smile. Balthasar made a face, but nodded. 
"Then have the kindness to go away and let us work." Isambard 
turned back 
to his improvised equipment without waiting for an answer. 
Balthasar frowned, and Silence said, "Do it, Denis." 
"All right." The Delian turned on his heel and stalked away, but 
paused in 
the doorway. "Sorry," he muttered, and was gone. 
Silence smiled to herself, unaccountably cheered, and turned back 
to her 
own work. There wasn't very much to be done, she realized 
suddenly, just a 
few more serial numbers to be changed, and then they would be 
ready to 
leave. She looked up, and Isambard said, "Yes. When you've 
finished, you 
might want to begin packing." 
There wasn't that much to pack, Silence thought that evening, 
staring at 
the single satchel that held her and her husbands' belongings. She 
had 
left her starbooks with the ship, for fear their off-world 
information 
would betray her; without them, even with the Earth-style clothes 
Quin had 

provided, the satchel was barely full. She shook herself, unable 
to shrug 
off her sudden depression, and crawled into bed between her 
husbands. 
The next morning dawned clear and cool. Silence picked at the 
breakfast 
Javerry had prepared for them, and seized the first chance she 
could find 
to make her escape. I don't think it's true that you get used to 
being 
afraid, she thought, as she made her way toward the outbuilding 
where 
Isambard slept. At least I haven't -- and I didn't notice Denis or 
Julie 
eating too heartily, either. The thought was perversely 
encouraging, and 
she felt a little more confident as she tapped on the window. 
"Come in," Isambard called. 
Silence reached for the latch, and felt the lock that held it fade 
under 
her hand. She turned the handle as though she had noticed nothing, 
and 
stepped into the musty room. Isambard was standing behind the 
table that 
had served as his workbench over the past few days, staring 
thoughtfully 
at the few pieces of improvised equipment that remained. An oldfashioned 
carryall of woven plastic lay at his feet, and there were several 
odd, 
paper-wrapped packets on the table as well. 
"Good morning, Silence," the magus said, without looking up. "The 
papers 
and the money are here, a package for each of you, and such 
materials as I 
can spare have been packed for your use. I think that is all." 

 "Thanks," Silence said, and reached for the packet that bore her 
own name. 
She broke it open, even though she knew what it contained, and 
checked the 
papers before tucking the leather ID folder into one pocket and 
the 
money-wallet into another. She picked up the other packets, and 
shouldered 
the carryall as well. "What about the rest of this?" 
"I thought it could be left for the young sieur Javerry," Isambard 
answered. "He seemed interested in pursuing his father's 
researches." 
"I just hope he's more careful than his father was," Silence 
muttered. 
"He has had an object lesson," Isambard said dryly, and motioned 
for her 
to precede him into the farmyard. 
The drag-cat sat idly in front of the house, Quin leaning against 
the 
steering tackle. Balthasar was already sprawled in its bed. He 
lifted a 
hand in greeting as the magi approached, then reached down to help 
Silence 
aboard. "Julie's getting our stuff," he said, "and Sieura 
Javerry's packed 
us a travelling-lunch." 
"Picnic," Quin corrected, rather diffidently. 
"Picnic," Balthasar repeated, shrugging. "So we're off." 
We certainly are, Silence thought, and handed him his papers. In 
the same 
moment, the door of the house opened and Chase Mago appeared, the 
clothes-satchel balanced on his shoulder. Marcinik and Aili 

followed, the 
Princess Royal fidgeting with the draperies that concealed her 
face. 
Balthasar lifted an eyebrow, and Silence kicked him, not gently. 
It was 
hard enough for Aili to stay behind -- especially when her 
presence was 
keeping Marcinik out of the action -- without Balthasar making 
comments. 
"Keep your mouth shut, Denis, do you hear me?" she whispered. 
Balthasar sighed. Silence glared at him, and the Delian shrugged. 
"I 
hear," he said. For once, Silence thought, I think he means it. 
She nodded 
at him, and took the satchel Chase Mago passed to her, shoving it 
out of 
the way against the side walls. 
"Is everything set?" Quin asked, from the driver's perch. 
Silence nodded, unwilling to delay any longer. "I think so. Yes, 
we're 
ready." 
"Wait a minute." The farmhouse door had opened again. Javerry 
herself 
stood beside the drag-cat, a covered basket in one hand. Cass 
hovered at 
her side, his expression at once excited and afraid. "You'll want 
your 
lunch," the older woman said. Without waiting for an answer, she 
hoisted 
the basket into the drag-cat. Balthasar took it from her, sliding 
it 
toward the other carryalls at the front of the car. 
"Good luck," Aili said, and Marcinik echoed her. 

Isambard gave his student a long, appraising glance. "Be careful, 
Silence. 
Use the Art as I have taught you." 
The pilot nodded, wishing they would start. 
"So." Javerry's harsh voice was deliberately cheerful. "Be off 
with you, 
Quin, or you won't get to the station in time." 
"We'll get there," Quin said. "Don't worry so much, Mama." He 
slipped the 
drag-cat into gear, drowning out any answer Javerry might have 
made. 
Silence grabbed for the nearest handhold as the machine lurched 
into 
motion, tracks digging into the loose ground. They were off at 
last. 
The path that the drag-cat followed through the woods was very 
rough, the 
ground still muddy from the rains, but the machine's tracks 
handled it 
without too much difficulty. After perhaps an hour's travelling, 
the path 
-- it was little more than twin ruts cutting through the worst of 
the 
underbrush, Silence thought -- joined a wider track, and Quin 
swung the 
drag-cat onto it. More vehicles obviously used this road: the 
ground was 
flattened in less regular patterns, the mud showing the tracks of 
several 
different types of machine, and something heavy had been dragged 
down the 
very center of the trail, cutting a shallow ditch now almost 
filled with 
stagnant water. Quin was careful to keep the drag-cat out of that 
depression, choosing instead to let the machine wallow over the 
rocks that 

studded the rest of the trail. 
The jolting made that part of the trip seem interminable, but it 
was 
actually only two hours by Chase Mago's chronometer before they 
reached 
the point at which the trail joined a semi-paved road. Silence 
gave a sigh 
of relief as the drag-cat hauled itself up onto the cracked 
surface, and 
and saw her emotion reflected in the other's faces. Quin glanced 
over his 
shoulder, grinning. 
"Not too bad, eh? All downhill from here." 
He meant that literally as well as figuratively, Silence realized 
after a 
moment. The new road twisted and turned, the drag-cat veering from 
side to 
side to avoid the worst of the breaks in the paving, but it was 
indeed 
sloping always gently downward. She closed her eyes, trying to 
picture the 
maps she had studied back on Recusante. If they were going 
downhill, she 
decided at last, they must be moving south and east, toward the 
flat land 
of the coast, and toward the mainurb that covered it. 
"How much farther?" Balthasar asked, after a while. 
"About another ten kilometers," Quin answered, without turning. 
"Then we 
hit the station road -- it rings the Diesmon suburb -- and take it 
on in 
to the terminus." 
Balthasar nodded, and settled back into the bed of the drag-cat, 
closing 

his eyes, seemingly oblivious to the jolting. Silence eyed him 
enviously, 
then, sighing, resigned herself to the discomfort. This was the 
easy part 
of the trip, after all; things would be different at the Diesmon 
Terminus. 
Quin had promised that they wouldn't be conspicuous there, that 
enough 
squatters moved in and out of the exurb for their presence to 
attract 
little notice, but the pilot could not feel as confident about it 
as the 
younger Javerry apparently did. Still, she told herself, he knew 
this 
world, and she did not. They would have to trust him. 
The battered road got better as they approached the larger station 
road, 
and the junction itself had actually been repaired so recently 
that the 
black patches had barely begun to crumble. There was even a 
stamped metal 
sign to mark the junction, but it displayed only a single, southpointing 
arrow, despite the fact that the station road ran north as well. 
Silence 
frowned, curious, but Balthasar spoke first. 
"What's up that way?" 
"Squatters' town." Quin spoke brusquely, wrestling the drag-cat 
onto the 
new surface. After a moment, as the cat steadied, he spoke again, 
his 
voice calmer. "It isn't really a town yet, just a collection of 
houses and 
a lady who runs a sort of store, but they'll probably attach it in 
the 
next census. They might even run a spur out there, if there's 
enough 

people." 
"What do they consider to be enough people?" Silence asked. 
Quin shrugged. "Anything over a dozen adults." 
Chase Mago whistled, but Silence nodded. "It makes sense," she 
said, as 
much to herself as to the engineer. "If the point is to keep 
control of 
people, what better way to do it than to tie them into the rest of 
the 
mainurb?" Still, it was interesting that the Rose Worlders found 
it worth 
their while to control as few as a dozen people. 
The station road was in much better shape than the other tracks 
they had 
been using, but just as empty. They did not encounter any other 
vehicles 
until they were almost within sight of the station itself, and 
then it was 
only another drag-cat, this one driven by a scrawny adolescent. 
Its bed 
was full of oddly shaped bundles, piled around a central crate. 
Quin 
nodded a greeting as the two machines edged past each other, 
calling, "Did 
you get the parts, Mattie?" 
"Just came yesterday," the other driver -- it was a girl, Silence 
realized, with some surprise -- called back, and let her drag-cat 
grind to 
a stop. "Going in town?" 
Quin geared down his own machine until it was moving at a snail's 
pace. 
"That's right. Said I'd give these folks a ride, too." He nodded 
over his 
shoulder toward the star-travellers crouching in the back of the 

cat. 
Silence held her breath, but the girl nodded, and gave them a 
friendly 
smile. 
"Settling?" she asked. 
Silence felt the words catch in her throat, almost strangling her. 
Chase 
Mago returned the girl's smile. "We think, maybe," he said, with a 
passable imitation of the local accent. 
The girl nodded again, her interest apparently satisfied. She 
adjusted her 
gear lever, setting her drag-cat in motion. "Good luck to you, 
then," she 
called, over the sudden noise of the engine, and let the machine 
make its 
way down the road. 
Silence realized she had been holding her breath, and let it out 
with a 
gasp. Quin smiled. "You see?" he said. "I told you no one would 
think 
about it." 
Balthasar grunted. "Let's just hope the station folk are as 
easygoing." 
The station itself was a bizarre sight, a long, low building made 
of the 
metal-and-poured-stone that Silence always associated with pre-War 
construction. This one, however, was obviously new and spotlessly 
kept, 
doubly weird against the massive trees that rose above its 
polished roof. 
Even when the drag-cat swung onto the narrow approach road, and 
she could 
see the ramshackle buildings -- mostly wood frame, occasionally 

stacked 
stone, never the stuff of which the station was made -- that were 
the 
Diesmon suburb, the station retained its incongruity. 
Quin turned the drag-cat into a barren square of packed earth, let 
it 
grind its way to the edge, and cut the engine. Silence, 
stretching, 
levered herself out of the cat's bed and turned to take her 
carryall from 
the engineer. A moment later the others had joined her, and then 
Quin 
straightened from under the nose of the cat, wiping his hand on 
his 
trousers. 
"All set," he said, in answer to their questioning glances. "The 
fluid has 
to be checked occasionally, that's all. Are you ready?" 
Silence took a deep breath, but nodded. "We're ready." 
"I'll wish you luck now, then." Quin led them back over the packed 
dirt, 
then across the narrow approach road and up a short row of steps 
into the 
terminus itself. Inside, the building was cool, and very damp, as 
though 
years of rain had seeped into the poured-stone walls and never 
been 
released. Silence shivered, hugging her thin jacket against 
herself. 
Overhead, polished metal arches denned the distant ceiling; a 
flickering 
notice board hung from the intersection of the arches, constantly 
changing 
menus displaying the departure and arrival schedules, and the ways 
in 
which the Diesmon line joined the wider network. The pilot paused 

beneath 
that board, staring up at the palm-sized letters, even though they 
had 
chosen their time before they left the Javerry's farm. At least 
the Earth 
natives used a simplified form of the usual coine, she thought, 
watching 
the familiar letters dissolve and reform. The Rose Worlders didn't 
take 
that away from them.... No, she realized suddenly, it works the 
other way. 
Earth used this language first, invented these symbols to encode 
it. We're 
the ones who changed it, not them. The thought was dizzying, as 
though 
she'd suddenly looked down from a very great height. She was glad 
when 
Balthasar caught her arm. 
"At least the trans is on time," he said, a little too loudly, his 
eyes 
fixed on a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. 
Silence froze, then turned as nonchalantly as she could to face 
whatever 
it was that had frightened the Delian. A pair of men in the 
saffron-colored jackets that Quin had described as Transit livery 
were 
watching them from beside a massive, box-shaped machine. Lights 
flashed 
across its dull surface and from its various offices; a sign above 
its 
central panel read Tickets/Inbound. "We'd better get the tickets, 
then, " 
she said aloud, through stiff lips. 
Balthasar nodded, unspeaking. 
"Don't worry," Quin said, and, unbelievably, smiled. Without 
further ado, 

he set off toward the Transport men, lifting his hand in greeting. 
The 
smaller of the two waved back, and came to meet him, though their 
conversation was too quiet for the star-travellers to hear more 
than the 
pitch of the voices. After a moment, the Transport man nodded, 
gesturing 
toward a distant door. Quin thanked him, and walked on; the 
Transport man 
walked with him, still talking idly. The second Transport man took 
a few 
steps away from the box-like machine, watching them. 
Silence took a deep breath. Quin had done his best for them; now 
it was 
their turn to act. "Let's go," she said again, and forced her 
stiff body 
into motion. The others followed at her back. 
The walk across the station's plastic-tiled floor seemed 
interminable -- 
Silence was remotely amazed at how long it seemed to take her to 
cover the 
dozen meters -- but at last they'd reached the machine. The 
Transport man 
was less than two meters away, to her left. Carefully, she did not 
look at 
him, fixing her eyes on the banks of controls that covered the 
machine's 
face. For a moment, the coine lettering swam before her eyes, 
refusing to 
focus; she took a deep breath, forcing herself to concentrate. One 
slot 
was for the plastic cards that served for credit on Earth; another 
eventually produced the tickets, but she could not seem to find 
the place 
to insert the sheaf of bills she had ready in her pocket, or even 
a way of 
finding out the precise fare. There was a single-pad keyboard 
below the 

machine's display screen, but the screen itself was blank. 
Experimentally, 
she touched what she thought should be the inquiry key, but 
nothing 
happened. 
"Silence," Balthasar hissed. "For God's sake, do something." 
The pilot glanced up, and saw the Transport man watching them, a 
light 
frown on his long-jawed face. She looked away again hastily, but 
not 
before the Transport man had seen the movement. 
"Damn it," Chase Mago said, very softly. "He's coming over here." 
There 
was note of suppressed panic in his voice. 
Silence bit back a curse of her own, and turned to face the 
approaching 
stranger. She knew she could not manage a convincing smile, and 
fought 
only to keep from looking too hunted. The Transport man stopped 
just out 
of reach -- though not out of range of Balthasar's heylin, Silence 
thought. But that would betray them before they began. 
"Can I help you folks?" The Transport man's voice was perfectly 
neutral, 
touched with the same flat accent as the Javerrys'. He glanced at 
the 
ticket machine, and the neutrality seemed to ease a little. "Going 
inbound?" 
Silence nodded, hardly daring to speak. "That's right." 
The Transport man gestured toward a sort of drawer set into one 
side of 
the machine, just to the left of the keyboard. "You've got to pay 
first -- 

new rules." 
"Oh?" Silence fumbled with the wad of bills in her pocket, pulled 
out one 
almost at random, and slid it blindly toward the slot. As the edge 
of the 
bill entered the machine, something seized it, drawing it fully 
into the 
slot. A chime sounded, and the keyboard sprang to life. Silence 
gave a 
sigh of relief, and turned her attention to the letters forming on 
the 
screen, trying to ignore the hovering presence of the Transport 
man. The 
codes were listed by exchanges rather than by final destination; 
she 
studied the system for a few moments, letting the words scroll by, 
until 
she could guess at the overall pattern. 
"Giving up the exurb?" the Transport man asked. 
Silence hesitated, unable to answer safely while most of her mind 
was 
focused on the unfolding system, and Balthasar said, "Yeah. We've 
had 
about enough of it." 
"Going anywhere in particular?" There was no particular interest 
in the 
Transport man's voice, Silence thought, but any wrong answer -- 
any odd 
answer -- would certainly turn his idle curiosity into distrust. 
She 
touched a set of keys, praying it would call the menu she'd 
intended, and 
was rewarded with the codes that controlled access to the longer 
distance 
lines. She pretended to study them for a second, listening for the 
Delian's answer. 

 Balthasar shrugged, the movement painfully casual. "South," he 
said, and 
somehow managed a quick grin. "Just about anywhere'll do." 
The Transport man nodded, leaning to look over the pilot's 
shoulder. 
Silence hesitated for an instant, and then, when it was obvious 
that the 
man wasn't going to leave, reluctantly touched the key sequence 
that 
called up all possible runs to Man's Island. The Transport man 
whistled. 
"You're brave." 
Silence managed what she hoped would be an embarrassed smile. "We 
may not 
go there," she began, and Chase Mago cut in quickly, "We haven't 
entirely 
decided." 
The Transport man shook his head, but before he could continue the 
conversation, something on the far side of the lobby caught his 
eye. 
"Well, good luck," he said, and strode away. 
Silence took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension drain from 
her 
body. After a moment, she bent her head to scan the listing, 
looking for 
the next departure. 
"It's all right," Chase Mago said, after a moment. "He's talking 
to Quin." 
"Let's hope that's good," Balthasar growled. "Come on, Silence, 
let's get 
the tickets." 

"Give me a minute," Silence snapped. "I'm still not sure I 
understand the 
system -- ah, there." The screen showed the trans they wanted, 
leaving 
Diesmon in less than a local hour, then linking onto a larger 
trans at the 
Sayl'm suburb, which then continued along the coast, picking up 
other, 
smaller trans until it reached its end point at Man's Island. It 
was a 
long ride, almost twenty hours, with a lot of stops along the way - 
- but 
at least, Silence thought, as she keyed in the code that passed 
the full 
schedule in review across the little screen, they didn't have to 
worry 
about making connections anywhere along the way. 
"It looks right," Chase Mago said. "How do we pay?" 
"I'm not sure," Silence began, but at that moment the display loop 
reached 
its end, and a new message, which gave prices and instructions, 
was fed 
onto the screen. Silence typed in the codes it listed for three 
round-trip 
tickets, and fed the required bills into the cash slot. The screen 
blanked 
itself, and then a thin pad of paper was extruded from the ticket 
slot. 
She took it, handing it automatically to Chase Mago, and the slot 
spat a 
second booklet, and then a third. 
Balthasar took his warily, flipping through the stiff pages. "You 
use 
these to unlock the car doors, right?" 
"That's what Quin said," Silence answered. She glanced over her 
shoulder, 

and saw the younger Javerry still deep in conversation with the 
Transit 
men. He saw her look, and lifted his hand in careless farewell. 
The pilot 
copied the gesture, wishing there were time for more, and turned 
away. To 
her right, a bright orange sign proclaimed "Departures"; she 
turned toward 
it, the other star-travellers following. 
The sign directed them to a flight of stairs leading down into a 
space lit 
in an unnatural, blue-tinged light. Silence slowed, but made 
herself keep 
walking, following the stairs downward into a vast, barrel-vaulted 
space. 
Three walkways extended like fingers from the platform at the base 
of the 
stairs, and there were dirty, ditch-like docking spaces in between 
the 
walks. A silvery cylinder -- no, Silence realized an instant 
later, it was 
a cylinder made of a dozen smooth segments, almost perfectly 
joined -- lay 
beside one of the walkways. A woman was walking up and down beside 
it, 
gently bouncing the child she carried in her arms, but there was 
no one 
else in sight. 
"It's a tube train," Balthasar said, and there was a note almost 
of 
indignation in his voice. 
It did look something like the trains she'd seen in Delos, Silence 
thought, but there were differences. Instead of the massive, brownstained 
wheels of a normal tube-train cast from elemental earth and tuned 
to the 
harmony of the planetary core, this train -- trans, she corrected 

herself, 
frowning -- had dozens of tiny, silvery wheels, the metal showing 
none of 
the peacock marking that might mean a magi had had a hand in its 
casting. 
"No." Chase Mago shook his head. "No, look, no drive wheels and no 
resonators -- and no baffling, either. It's something else. 
Something 
mechanical." 
The note of distrust was strong in his voice, and Silence found 
herself 
nodding in agreement. Whatever it was that powered this machine, 
it was 
something profoundly alien to everything she had ever learned. Her 
steps 
slowed still further. She did not want to touch any of those shiny 
doors, 
did not want to enter any of those bullet-like compartments.... 
Balthasar grunted then, breaking the spell. "Whatever runs it, it 
looks 
like a tube train and it acts like a tube train." He glanced at 
Silence 
and added, with emphasis, "Nothing more." 
Silence grimaced, annoyed at her own weakness, and reached into 
her pocket 
for the book of tickets. Flipping back the cover, she studied the 
cards 
for an instant, then tore loose the first one. "Which car?" 
Balthasar shrugged. Chase Mago said, "In the middle?" He paused, 
staring 
at the train. "How do we tell which ones are occupied, anyway?" 
"A green light means full," Balthasar said, impatiently. He 
stalked 
forward along the walkway, and jammed his ticket into the meter of 

the 
first unoccupied car. The door popped open a few centimeters; he 
caught 
the handle and pulled it back against its stops. At his gesture, 
Silence 
stepped up into the car, tossing her carryall ahead of her. As 
soon as her 
weight was fully inside the trans, a buzzer sounded, and the door 
jerked 
itself out of Balthasar's hand, slamming shut behind her. Silence 
choked 
back a startled cry, reaching for her carryall and the heylin 
concealed in 
its lining. A moment later, the door opened again, and Balthasar 
gave her 
a sheepish grin. 
"I guess they want to make sure everybody's got a ticket," he 
said. Behind 
him, Chase Mago shook his head, and fed his ticket into the 
machine. The 
only apparent result was a faint click, but the door did not close 
as the 
engineer climbed into the car. Balthasar tossed the last carryall 
in after 
the others, then handed in Javerry's food basket, and climbed in 
himself. 
The buzzer sounded, and the door sealed itself behind them. 
Overhead, a 
ventilator fan began to whine, and a mechanical female voice said, 
"This 
is Trans East number 627 south. You are in a coastal-route car. 
This is 
Trans East number 627 south. You are in a coastal-route car. If 
you wish 
to change cars, or are in the wrong Trans, please touch the alarm 
button 
located beneath the speaker, and a Transport worker will be with 
you 
momentarily. We will be departing in twenty minutes. Thank you." 

 "That's ours?" Chase Mago asked. 
Silence nodded, looking around the confined space. The little car 
seemed 
comfortable enough, at least for now, though she had her doubts 
about how 
comfortable it would seem at the end of the twenty-hour trip. 
There were 
broad, heavily padded benches at each end of the closed space, and 
storage 
nets hung above each one. Balthasar, following the direction of 
her 
glance, nodded, and began securing the carryalls, tightening the 
netting 
carefully around them. The cubicle in the corner was marked with 
an 
unfamiliar symbol, but could only be one thing; Silence unlatched 
the door 
anyway, and was glad to find the sanitary facilities. 
"I've found the environmental box," Balthasar announced, and 
turned out 
the car lights to prove it. Chase Mago swore at him. When the 
lights 
returned, the Delian looked somewhat chastened. "I was looking for 
-- ah, 
there." 
Overhead, the speaker crackled to life, tinny music pouring into 
the car. 
Silence winced, and Balthasar hastily adjusted the volume, until 
the sound 
was barely audible. 
"Do we have to listen to that?" Chase Mago asked. 
"Quin said the line keeps passengers posted on news and such," 
Balthasar 
answered. "That should be the channel." 

 "I'm not sure it's worth it," Chase Mago said, but shrugged. 
Silence said, "It can't hurt to know what's going on." 
Some time later -- the repetitive music blurred her perception of 
time -- 
a chime sounded, and the mechanical voice spoke again, overriding 
the 
music. "This is Trans East 627 south. Last call, please. Last 
call." 
The voice repeated the message twice more, but Silence was no 
longer 
listening, staring instead out the car's tiny window. The station 
was 
empty now, the woman with the child presumably back in a 
compartment; the 
only sign of life was the display board on the far wall. Even as 
she 
watched, the departure listing for Trans East 627 winked out, and 
the 
trans jerked slowly into motion. 
Surprisingly, the machine was very quiet, especially when compared 
to the 
tube trains on Delos. The driving engine rose from a distant whine 
to a 
dull, steady rumbling not much louder than the background hum of a 
stopped-down harmonium. After the first minutes, the jolting 
stopped, too, 
settling to a steady, regular swaying. 
Leaving the station, the trans entered a long, unlighted tunnel. 
Silence 
thought she could feel a steady acceleration, but without visual 
references, she was unprepared for the moment the trans flashed 
out of the 
tunnel onto the elevated track. The trans was going very fast 
indeed, so 

fast that the treetops, rising just to the edge of the Iran's 
windows, 
merged into an indistinct green blur. She edged forward on the 
padded 
bench, trying to focus on some individual object, a tree, or some 
part of 
the track itself, but the trans was moving too quickly. The effect 
was 
literally dizzying; she leaned back again, avoiding the windows 
until the 
dizziness passed. 
"We are moving," Balthasar said. The pilot was maliciously pleased 
to see 
that he, too, avoided looking out the windows. 
"Well, obviously they'd have to maintain a substantial speed, to 
make 
Man's Island in twenty hours with all the stops," Chase Mago said. 
"Substantial," Balthasar repeated. "Yeah, you could say that." 
The worst of the dizziness had vanished now. Silence glanced 
cautiously 
toward the nearer window, keeping her eyes away from the rushing 
vegetation at the bottom of the frame. The distant hills, and the 
band of 
settlements -- shiny roofs and strangely spidery towers competing 
with 
more solid structures -- in front of them were still moving rather 
too 
fast for something so far away, but the effect was not quite as 
disconcerting as before. Then, unexpectedly, the trans began to 
slow, 
engines whining. The tracks ducked again into a tunnel, still 
slowing, and 
finally ground to a halt against a platform that seemed to be a 
copy of 
the one at Diesmon. Silence leaned against the window, watching 
curiously 

as the few passengers on the platform selected their cars. No one 
got off. 
A few moments after the trans had pulled into the station, a 
buzzer 
sounded, and it began to move again. 
The countryside flattened as the trans moved south and east, but 
the 
pattern of settlement did not change much. The knots of settled 
land grew 
larger, the buildings more complex, but the land between the 
suburbs 
remained empty, overgrown. Once, Silence thought she caught a 
glimpse of 
some broken structure in the center of one barren spot, but the 
trans was 
past before she could be sure. I wonder where they get the food to 
supply 
all the people? she wondered. Each of the suburbs they passed 
looked 
easily large enough to hold several thousand people; the station 
suburbs, 
glimpsed only briefly as the trans entered the braking tunnel, 
looked much 
larger. Quin had said that the Rose Worlders -- Unionists, she 
corrected 
herself -- farmed the uninhabited interior of the continent; 
still, the 
transport costs must be very high. And therefore, she added 
thoughtfully, 
there must be some compelling reason for forcing people into the 
mainurb. 
If I could just figure out what it is.... The connection eluded 
her. She 
leaned back against the padding, shaking her head. 
The sun was setting as they reached the larger suburb of Sayl'm. 
This 
time, the trans did not duck into a tunnel, but slowed above 
ground. 

Silence frowned, unsure of what was happening, and in the same 
moment saw 
that there was a second elevated track next to theirs, running at 
a
shallow angle toward a point of meeting. The trans slowed further 
as it 
reached the intersection, and Silence pressed herself against the 
window, 
trying to see back along the second track. For an instant, she 
thought she 
saw another trans moving toward them along it, but then her own 
trans had 
moved forward, cutting off her view. It couldn't've been, she told 
herself, but felt her muscles tense anyway. A moment later, there 
was a 
gentle but perceptible thump at the back of the car, and the trans 
began 
picking up speed again. Of course, Silence berated herself. This 
is where 
our trans links up with the main line -- and I'd guess the link 
was just 
made. 
"That was neat," Chase Mago said idly, and the pilot was glad that 
the 
dimming light hid her blushes. 
They ate Javerry's picnic in the sunset light, then settled back 
against 
the padding. Balthasar adjusted the car's lights to a comfortable 
level, 
then, after a moment's thought, banished the tedious music. There 
was 
something about it -- about the trans in its entirety, Silence 
thought, 
that created a strange lethargy. The star-travellers had barely 
spoken a 
dozen words to each other since leaving Diesmon, caught up in the 
passing 
scenery and the weird, noiseless travel. It was not a comfortable 

feeling, 
either. Now that night had fallen, and there was nothing outside 
to 
distract her, Silence felt a dull ache beginning behind her 
temples, and a 
strange queasiness at the pit of her stomach. She swallowed hard, 
wondering if she had been wise to eat at all. 
"Look," Balthasar said. "We're coming up on another suburb." 
Grateful for the distraction, Silence glanced out the window. At 
night, 
the suburbs turned to heaps of lights, carbon-crystals spilled out 
carelessly across the countryside. Trails of lights led away from 
the 
suburb -- lighted roads, Silence guessed, or more of the transit 
line. 
Another suburb appeared almost before the first had been left 
behind, and 
a third was just visible in the distance, barely more than a 
scattering of 
lights on the horizon. They must be approaching the mainurb, she 
thought, 
trying not to feel the worsening headache, or whatever invisible 
line 
divided the suburbs from the sprawling, continuous settlement of 
the 
mainurb. She sighed and closed her eyes, resting her cheek against 
the 
cold wall of the car. 
Chase Mago gave her a wary glance. "Are you all right?" 
Silence made a face, not opening her eyes. "I've got a headache," 
she 
admitted, after a moment. 
"We packed some pills." That was Balthasar. Silence hesitated, 
wondering 
just what the medicines would do to her already queasy stomach, 

but then 
nodded. A moment later, the Delian had taken her hand, and poured 
a couple 
of flat tablets into her palm. She sat up, wincing a little, but 
took them 
dutifully, washing them down with a swallow of water from the 
Javerry's 
spring. The water, kept pleasantly cool by the fields of Chase 
Mago's djin 
bottle, tasted remarkably good. She took a second swallow, letting 
it 
drive away the headache for a moment, but set the bottle aside for 
fear of 
making herself sick. She felt a little better, though, and smiled. 
After a 
moment, Chase Mago put his arm around her; she leaned into his 
embrace and 
let herself fall asleep. 
When she woke again, after some hours of fitful sleep, the 
headache and 
the nausea were much worse. Outside the windows, a river of lights 
streamed past, throwing crazy reflections and shadows into the 
car. It was 
worse than daylight travel. She looked away, shivering, but the 
flickering 
lights pursued her. She closed her eyes, but could not shut out 
the play 
of light and shadow. She shivered again, miserably certain she was 
going 
to be sick, and pulled free of the engineer's sleep grip. 
Balthasar 
stirred at that. 
"Silence?" He sat up, automatic smile turning to a worried frown. 
"Are you 
all right?" 
"I don't feel good," Silence said. 

"Neither," Chase Mago said deliberately, "do I." 
Balthasar glanced once at the box that had held their picnic, 
then, as 
visibly, dismissed it. "I'm all right," he said, and reached for 
his own 
carryall. He rummaged through it until he found the emergency kit 
he'd 
been carrying since the star-travellers had been forced to abandon 
Recusante, and pulled out two of the kit's bulbous diffusers. 
Silence took 
hers eagerly, recognizing the symbol of the powerful anti-nausea 
drug on 
its label. It was intended for use against space sickness, but 
surely it 
would be effective against other things. She set the soft tip 
against the 
veins of her wrist, feeling the material mold itself to her skin, 
and 
pushed the dispenser button. There was a brief numbed sensation, 
cold pins 
and needles against her wrist, and then the diffuser was empty. 
She leaned 
back and closed her eyes again, waiting for the drug to take 
effect. 
Somewhat to her surprise, the nausea began to recede, and she sat 
up 
cautiously. I haven't had motion sickness since I was eighteen and 
an 
apprentice, she thought bitterly. Why now? Or was it even motion 
sickness 
at all? She could still feel the queasiness, a strange, unbalanced 
-- 
unanchored -- sensation not only in her stomach, but throughout 
her body. 
The drugs had dulled the misery enough for her to analyze the 
feeling. No, 
she thought, not an ordinary sickness at all. Very carefully, she 
murmured 

Paimel's Cantrip, reaching for the harmonic lines that had to 
surround the 
trans. There was nothing there. She swallowed hard, fighting back 
the 
surge of nausea, tasted bile. There had to be something there; no 
planet 
could exist without casting a shadow into the super-material, 
without that 
shadow creating the complex interaction of dissonances and harmony 
on 
which the magi depended for much of their work. She took a deep 
breath, 
and tried again. 
This time, she caught the brief echo of the nearest harmonic, 
faint and 
badly distorted by the noise of the trans, before she was forced 
to give 
up. No, she realized almost instantly, not by the noise, but by 
the mere 
presence of the trans, and by the suburbs around them -- by all 
the 
machines. She had known academically, intellectually, that the 
Unionists' 
machines would interfere with her hard-learned skills, but she had 
not 
guessed, until now, just how disturbing this interference would 
be. And if 
she could not find some way to overcome it, or even to overcome 
its 
effects on herself.... She thrust the thought away. She would have 
to find 
some solution; there were no other choices. She wished suddenly 
and 
passionately that Isambard had come with them, then put that 
thought aside 
as well. 
Sighing, she opened her eyes, studying the car as though seeing it 
for the 

first time. Balthasar had turned up the lights, drowning out some 
of the 
outside reflections, but otherwise nothing had changed. The river 
of 
lights still flowed past the windows, the unnatural brilliance 
seeming now 
to mirror the static spread across the land, cutting her off from 
her 
instinctive awareness of the core harmonies. It would not be easy 
to 
counter the effect, especially not from the moving trans.... She 
killed 
that thought, and reached for the djinn bottle. It was an ordinary 
thing, 
its walls enclosing a simple stasis field; its touch was 
reassuring, a 
reminder of other, more modern worlds. She sipped the cool water, 
trying 
to think of some way out. She was aware that the other startravellers 
were watching her nervously, but did her best to ignore them 
Whatever she 
did would have to spring from her own internal resources, not from 
the 
unreachable planetary harmonics. There were techniques for 
creating 
harmony with oneself, techniques intended for magi working in deep 
space, 
where the mundane music that bounded common transformation was 
almost 
nonexistent. She had learned the theory, at least, on Solitudo 
Hermae, but 
the practice was a different matter. And even in space, a magus 
had a 
starship's harmonium at hand, to keep the music true. She looked 
down at 
the djinn bottle then, frowning. Its stasis field could provide a 
basic 
harmony, a set of guide-notes, but she herself would have to do 
the rest. 

 She forced herself to relax, breathing easily, then murmured the 
First 
Cantation, the djinn bottle held loosely in her left hand. She 
could feel 
the stasis field through the confining metal, but did nothing yet, 
letting 
the faint music of the stasis field travel through the enclosing 
bottle 
and into her fingertips. When she was sure she had it, she 
summoned her 
own strength, the talent and knowledge that was her power, molding 
it into 
a thing receptive to the delicate tones. Then, slowly, carefully, 
she 
teased the elusive harmony into the bones of her hand, until the 
music 
filled it and, looking down, she saw her flesh glowing with the 
borrowed 
power. Already, the music had grown a little stronger, 
reverberating from 
the bones themselves as if from a starship's keel. As it grew, she 
let the 
music rise along her arm, humming deep in the twinned bones of her 
forearm 
and tingling in the hollow of her elbow. For a moment, it hung 
there, then 
surged up the thicker bone of her upper arm. It struck her 
shoulder like a 
wave, and splashed into the bones of her chest and body. The music 
seemed 
to fade then, weakening. Silence held her breath, not sure how or 
where to 
intervene, and felt the harmonies revive, altered and amplified by 
her own 
power. The music rippled through her body, crested, and seemed to 
vanish. 
The sickness, the headache, vanished with it. The pilot murmured 
Paimel's 
Cantrip and heard, faintly, the music that was now within her 

sound again, 
driving back the machine-made dissonance. 
"Are you all right?" Balthasar said again. 
Silence grinned. "Much better," she said, and turned to Chase 
Mago. "It's 
the machines that're doing it. Give me your hand, Julie." 
The engineer extended a clammy hand, and Silence took it, wincing 
in 
sympathy with the obvious suffering on the bearded face. She could 
feel 
the machines' noise, their aching dissonance, in his touch, and 
quickly 
murmured the Words that would establish the mirrored rapport. The 
Words 
woke echoes; she felt them sing through her bones, reinforcing her 
new-made internal harmony. Dimly at first, and then more strongly, 
she 
felt the same music wake in Chase Mago's body. 
When she was sure the harmony was fully established, she released 
his 
hand, and couldn't help laughing at his expression of distrust and 
relief. 
"I take it it worked." 
Chase Mago nodded warily. "It... worked, thanks. You said it's the 
machines?" 
"Yes." Silence turned to Balthasar, who shook his head. 
"I'm all right, thanks." 
Silence shrugged, feeling obscurely hurt, and glanced back at the 
engineer. "We were always taught that mechanics would interfere 
with the 
Art, but I didn't realize how bad it could be -- or that it would 
affect 

people as well as operations." 
"Neither did I," Chase Mago said. "This could be a problem, you 
know." 
"Tell me about it," Silence said, grimly. She didn't really want 
to think 
about that possibility until she had to, and glanced back at 
Balthasar 
instead. "Denis, are you sure you're... ?" 
The Delian abruptly extended his hand. "No, not really." 
Silence folded her hands around his palm. The gesture reminded her 
painfully of their first days on the Hegemonic transport, and she 
knew 
from Balthasar's twisted grin that he was thinking of the same 
things. 
"Relax, Denis," she said. 
The Delian made a face, but Silence thought she could feel the 
tension 
ease in his fingers. She murmured the proper Words, repeating the 
operation she had performed for Chase Mago. When it was finished, 
the 
harmony fully established, Balthasar gave her an approving smile. 
"That is better -- like there was a shield between you and it." 
That was it exactly, Silence thought, and if I ever make it back 
to 
civilized space, I'll name the schema for it -- if no one else has 
thought 
of it, of course. That was a small question, compared to the 
first, but 
she put it aside. "Where are we -- how much longer to Man's 
Island?" 
Balthasar had shrugged in answer to the first question. Chase Mago 
said, 

"Another thirteen local hours, it looks like." He stretched, 
awkward in 
the cramped space, and attempted to settle himself more 
comfortably 
against the padded bench. "I'd suggest we try to get some sleep." 
Silence nodded, burrowing in against him, and Balthasar, shrugging 
again, 
turned down the lights. 
They were wakened before first light by the insistent voice of the 
mechanical announcer. Silence pushed herself up on one elbow, 
struggling 
to understand the accented words. 
"-- disembark at the Havens for a rolling check. All passengers 
will 
disembark at the Havens for a rolling check. Please have your 
papers ready 
at this time. Thank you." 
The announcement was repeated, but Silence wasn't listening, 
trying 
instead to remember if any of their sources had ever mentioned 
"rolling 
checks." Nothing sprang to mind, not even when she summoned up the 
Grand 
Theater; the symbolic nexus that should hold that information was 
completely empty. She closed her eyes in order to concentrate, 
searching 
for related concepts. Balthasar spoke before she finished. 
"The Havens. That's not even a major stop, is it?" He was already 
eying 
the car doors thoughtfully, as if plotting an escape. 
Hastily, Silence reviewed the maps she'd memorized back at the 
Javerrys' 
farm. "No," she said slowly. "It's just inside the official 
boundary of 

the mainurb -- we were scheduled to stop there, I think -- but 
it's not 
one of the big centers." The key word was border, she realized 
abruptly, 
borders and border checks. She summoned the Grand Theater again, 
riffling 
through the carefully nurtured memories, until she found the 
proper nexus. 
It was less useful than she had hoped: the supercargo had 
mentioned that 
IDs were often checked at the border between suburb and mainurb, 
but 
rarely elsewhere. So we should be all right, Silence thought -- 
assuming 
that we can trust that part of her information. She said aloud, "I 
think 
this is just routine, people. We'll know more when we stop." 
"There won't be much chance to run inside the station, if it turns 
out 
they're on to us," Balthasar said. 
Chase Mago snorted. "And there's no chance at all to get off this 
thing. 
Not at this speed." 
Balthasar made a face, but nodded. "All right." 
Already the trans was slowing. Silence glanced out the window, but 
saw 
nothing except the flickering lights. Then the lights vanished: 
the trans 
had entered the braking tunnel. The announcer's voice said, "All 
passengers, please collect your baggage and be ready to disembark 
as soon 
as the trans has stopped moving. Please have your papers ready 
when you 
reach the checkpoint. Thank you." 
Silence stooped to collect the remnants of Javerry's picnic, 

cramming the 
bits and pieces back into the basket. There was no time to be tidy 
about 
it. The trans had slowed significantly, was slowing more with 
every 
moment. Even as she snapped the catches closed again, light sprang 
up 
beyond the windows. The trans had entered the Havens station. 
This platform was a little different from the others they had 
seen, she 
thought. Instead of the immense high-ceilinged, multi-tracked 
stations 
they had seen at Diesmon and at the other stop along the way, this 
one was 
little more than a grey-walled tunnel with a broad ledge running 
along one 
side. She couldn't see any doors in the curving walls. Balthasar 
shook his 
head. 
"I don't like this," he muttered. "I don't like it at all." 
"This was obviously built for inspections," Silence said, with 
more 
confidence than she felt. "I don't think they're stopping it just 
because 
of us." 
The trans ground to a halt with a final sighing of brakes, and the 
car 
door unsealed itself. At the same time, the mechanical voice 
announced, 
"All passengers, please disembark now. All passengers, please 
disembark. 
Thank you." 
"Let's get it over with," Balthasar said, and pushed the door 
fully open. 

Silence stepped cautiously past him onto the narrow platform, 
trying not 
to stare too obviously. All along the length of the trans, people 
were 
climbing out of their cars, baggage in hand. Most were very 
soberly 
dressed, at least by Hegemonic standards, men and women alike in 
trousers 
and short jackets of tough, grey-blue workcloth. A few -- a very 
few -- 
were more colorfully dressed, long coats of brightly patterned 
fabric 
drawn close over lighter, fuller trousers and soft tunics. Unlike 
the 
other passengers, they seemed to take the check in stride, their 
bodies 
revealing boredom rather than the others' wariness. The plainly 
clad 
passengers gave them a wide berth, Silence realized, though she 
saw no 
weapons beneath the swirling coats. Frowning, she filed the 
information 
for later use. 
There was a door at the end of the platform after all, and the 
other 
passengers were walking slowly toward it, forming themselves into 
a ragged 
line. Silence tucked the picnic basket under her arm and fell in 
behind 
the nearest native, a tall, heavily painted woman. I haven't yet 
seen a 
veiled woman, the pilot thought, irrelevantly, and was glad Aili 
had 
remained with the ship. Chase Mago moved up beside her, carryall 
slung 
over his shoulder. His left hand was close to the breakaway 
compartment 
that held his heylin, and Silence shivered. 

"Can you see what's coming up?" she asked, softly. 
"Yes." The engineer stretched to see over the crowd ahead. 
"There's some 
sort of a metal gate, and guards at a table behind that. I think 
they're 
checking papers." He had kept his voice low, barely more than a 
whisper, 
the words almost lost in the sounds of the moving crowd, but 
Silence 
glanced around nervously nonetheless. No one seemed to have heard, 
the 
other passengers busy with their own worries. Somewhere in the 
crowd, a 
baby was crying angrily. She tried to make herself relax, but her 
muscles 
remained painfully taut. 
To her left, the trans's engines whined suddenly to life, and the 
linked 
cars began to move again, drawing away from the platform. "What 
the hell 
--" she began, and realized too late that none of the natives 
seemed 
concerned. Flushing, she tried to pretend she hadn't spoken, but 
the 
painted woman was already glancing back. 
"Don't ride the trans much, do you, honey?" Her voice was more 
accented 
than the Javerrys' had been, harsher and flatter on the vowels. 
Silence 
shook her head mutely. The stranger didn't seem exactly 
unfriendly, 
despite the rough words, but they could not afford to attract any 
notice 
now. 
"None of us do." Balthasar spoke softly enough, but there was an 
edge to 

his voice that made the native woman shrug. 
"Hey, I'm not messing with you. That's their job." Her hard eyes 
swept 
over the three of them, curious now, assessing clothes and 
baggage. 
Silence swore internally, but could think of nothing that would 
distract 
her. 
"You've been in the exurb," the stranger continued. It was not a 
question. 
Balthasar hesitated, then nodded tightly. "Yeah." 
The stranger eyed him speculatively. "All right," she said after a 
moment, 
her voice dropping to match the Delian's quiet tones. "This is 
just 
routine -- same as at Danb'ree, they just moved it. I'll talk to 
you 
after." She turned away before Balthasar could answer, her painted 
face 
already setting into an impassive mask. 
Silence frowned, wishing she knew just what was going on, and 
glanced at 
Balthasar. The Delian lifted his shoulders in a fractional shrug, 
but his 
grey eyes were thoughtful. He knew something, or guessed 
something, 
Silence recognized, and could have screamed in frustration. 
They were coming up on the barrier at last, and Silence leaned 
sideways, 
glancing around the shifting bodies. As the engineer had said, an 
immense 
metal arch spanned the platform a few meters ahead, lights 
flashing from 
various parts of its dulled surface. It was a machine, and a 

powerful one: 
she could feel the bizarre dissonances -- no, she corrected 
herself, not 
dissonance but worse, the very antithesis of the music with which 
she had 
lived all her life -- from here. Beyond that barrier waited half a 
dozen 
men -- and women -- in saffron Transit livery; three more sat 
behind a 
long table piled high with more machines. As she watched, a 
passenger 
stepped beneath the arch of the machine, glancing warily to either 
side as 
he did so, then came forward to lay the plastic folder that 
contained his 
papers on the table before the nearest Transit officer. Yawning, 
the woman 
took the folder and inserted it in her machine, tapping her 
fingers as she 
waited for a readout. Silence relaxed for an instant -- surely it 
was a 
good sign if the officers themselves were bored -- but snapped 
alert again 
the next instant. As the woman with the crying baby stepped 
beneath the 
arch, a different pattern of lights flared. The lounging Transit 
men 
snapped to attention, leveling strange weapons that seemed to have 
materialized in their hands. The woman paused, looking bewildered 
and 
frightened; the nearest Transit officer beckoned her toward a 
second table 
set to one side. They kept their guns on her as she crossed to it. 
Another 
Transit officer spoke to her briefly. She nodded, and then, made 
awkward 
by the child in her arms, swung her lumpy bag onto the table. The 
Transit 
officer ripped it open, and began searching it with practiced 
speed. 

 Silence looked away, tasting fear. If the officer searched her 
bag, or her 
husbands', they couldn't help but find the magi's supplies, or the 
heylins 
in their hidden pockets.... And we don't even know what the 
machine is 
scanning for, she thought. It took all her will to keep from 
looking 
around frantically for an escape route. She glanced sideways once, 
and saw 
Chase Mago chewing unhappily on stray hairs of his beard. 
Then they were almost at the gate. The painted woman glanced back 
once, 
with apparent unconcern, but Silence saw her give Balthasar a 
ghostly 
wink. She turned away again, and stepped through the arch when her 
turn 
came. Lights flickered, but the Transit officers did not move. 
Silence 
took a deep breath and followed her, her fingers clammy on the 
thin 
plastic of her folder. More lights rippled across the dull metal. 
With an 
effort, she kept from looking to her right, toward the Transit 
officer, 
and stepped up to the larger table, holding out her papers. The 
seated 
officer, a young man this time, took the folder from her nerveless 
fingers 
and inserted it into his machine. 
Silence held her breath, watching the man's bored face for any 
betraying 
change of expression. Her hands were closed painfully tightly 
around the 
strap of the carryall; she forced herself to loosen them, hoping 
the 
officer had not noticed her tension. 

 "O. K." The young man pulled the folder from his machine and 
handed it 
back to her. Silence took it with trembling fingers, not daring to 
speak. 
She turned away from the table, fumbling the folder back into her 
pocket, 
heading blindly for the narrow door set into the far wall. Both 
Balthasar 
and Chase Mago were still at the table; she was aware of them, but 
did not 
dare glance back. A Transit officer, black metal weapon slung at 
his hip, 
pushed the door open for her, smiling. She smiled back, lips stiff 
and 
cold, and then she had stepped through into a small, coldly lit 
tunnel. It 
led without turning into an immense, multi-platformed station. 
It was much like the one at Diesmon, only much larger. Her mind 
registered 
that fact mechanically as she took a few steps up the platform, 
her heart 
still racing. They didn't suspect me, she thought, and felt 
herself 
trembling with relief. There was a bench ahead, unoccupied except 
for an 
old man who sat mumbling to himself. Heedless of his presence, she 
sat 
down on the far end, letting her carryall fall to the stone floor 
between 
her feet. Her papers had passed the first test -- she was safe, 
but where 
were the others? 
She looked up, newly afraid, and saw Balthasar emerging from the 
passageway. Chase Mago loomed behind him, stooping beneath the low 
lintel. 
She gave a sigh of relief and started to stand, to go to meet 
them. Her 

legs were shaking too badly to support her; she sank back on the 
bench, 
swearing to herself, and let them come to her. 
Balthasar dropped to a crouch beside her, a self-satisfied smile 
on his 
thin face, and touched the pocket where he kept his papers. "Nice 
work, 
Silence." His voice was too low to carry to the old man, even if 
the 
native had been capable of hearing; nevertheless, Silence winced. 
"Are you all right?" Chase Mago asked. 
Silence hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Just reaction, that's all. " 
Already, her body felt stronger, the tremors almost gone from her 
muscles. 
Chase Mago gave her a quick, encouraging smile, but the pilot 
hardly 
noticed. "Denis, that woman -- what do you think she wanted?" 
Balthasar raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure," he began, and then 
his eyes 
shifted, focusing on something behind the pilot's shoulder. "Damn, 
here 
she comes." 
Silence turned, to see the native woman bearing down on them. 
Chase Mago 
extended his hand, and the pilot took it, pulling herself upright. 
For 
some reason, she did not want to meet this stranger from a 
position of 
weakness. 
"Hello," the stranger said. Her eyes swept over all of them, and 
settled 
on Balthasar. "I said we'd talk. You want to go somewhere?" 
The Delian shook his head. 

 The native studied him briefly. "The trans isn't here yet, won't 
be in 
'til they're finished searching...." She let her voice trail off, 
and 
shrugged. "Talk here?" 
Balthasar hesitated only for a fraction of a second. "Yeah." He 
took a few 
steps away from the bench, out of earshot of any of the other 
passengers. 
Silence followed, very glad of Chase Mago's looming presence. 
The stranger did not seem particularly intimidated. "If you're 
carrying, " 
she said, "I might deal." 
The words meant nothing to Silence, but Balthasar's expression 
shifted 
slightly. He was pleased, the pilot realized, but why? 
"I couldn't do that," Balthasar said. "Contracts." 
"We're good," the woman answered. 
"So's mine." Balthasar paused, visibly considering the stranger's 
words. 
"But if I was thinking of a deal -- ?" 
The woman smiled cynically. "You might try the Lirior. By the 
Kills. I 
might be there." She turned away without waiting for an answer, 
moving up 
the platform as though looking for someone. Balthasar nodded to 
himself. 
"What the hell was that all about?" Silence asked. 
The Delian grinned. "I don't really know," he admitted. "Drugs, I 
think -- 

that's what it would be on the Fringe, anyway." 
Chase Mago made a choked sound that might have been laughter. 
Silence's 
mouth fell open; she closed it with a snap. "Do you mean to tell 
me you 
went through all that without knowing what the two of you were 
talking 
about?" 
"Not exactly," Balthasar said. He shrugged again, half 
embarrassed, half 
pleased with himself. "Remember, I was a courier for the Wrath for 
a long 
time -- longer even than you, Julie. That's what it felt like, and 
that's 
how I played it." 
Silence shook her head, incredulous. It was typical of the Delian, 
she 
thought; it was equally typical that it had somehow worked out. 
She 
started to say as much, but her voice was drowned by the sudden 
whine of a 
trans. The silvery cars droned into the station, sliding to a 
gentle halt 
beside the platform. The waiting crowd turned almost as one, 
heading for 
the doors. Silence pulled her book of tickets from her pocket and 
moved 
with them, aiming for the nearest car. Somewhat to her surprise, 
no one 
cut her off. She fed her ticket into the box, popping the door, 
and waited 
for the others to do the same. The machine acknowledged the 
tickets with a 
faint chirp. Balthasar swung the door wide, and they climbed 
aboard. 
The rest of the trans ride into Man's Island was uneventful. The 

machine 
moved more slowly, travelling along surface tracks; to either side 
stretched acres of crudely painted poured-stone buildings. The sun 
was up 
now, but the light did nothing to make the mainurb seem more 
appealing -- 
if anything, Silence thought, it only made the buildings look 
uglier. They 
weren't far from the Man's Island terminus, she knew, at least 
geographically, but the trans made maybe half a dozen stops before 
the 
mechanical voice finally announced the end of the line. Shivering 
again, 
she collected her belongings, and the three star-travellers 
stepped out 
onto the platform. 
The terminus was twice as large as the Havens station, three or 
four times 
bigger than the station at Diesmon. To her right, Silence counted 
five 
more platforms; still more were hidden behind the trans. Ahead, 
the 
platform curved to join a second platform, and the merged walkway 
led onto 
a circular island filled with hurrying people. There were still 
more 
platforms beyond the island, all filled with people -- so many 
that for a 
moment Silence thought she was looking into an immense mirror. 
Man's 
Island was certainly the hub of something; she just hoped it would 
be 
large enough for them to find the materials Chase Mago needed. 
The engineer touched her elbow gently. "This way," he said, 
nodding toward 
the central island. Balthasar was already striding ahead. 
Silence followed in a daze, overwhelmed by the crowd and the noise 

that 
echoed against the curved ceilings. Even in the time she'd spent 
on 
Asterion, the capital of the Hegemony -- even in her brief time on 
Delos, 
which had a higher population than any other human-settled world -- 
she 
had never seen so many people crowded into a single space. She 
glanced at 
the engineer, and saw that he was frowning darkly, watching the 
moving 
crowd. 
Balthasar made his way through the mob with efficient ease, barely 
seeming 
to notice the natives, who hardly seemed aware of him. Silence did 
her 
best to copy that indifference, but was glad of Chase Mago's 
presence at 
her side. The Delian paused on the central island only long enough 
to 
orient himself by the flashing signs and arrows. The others had 
barely 
drawn even with him before he was off again, heading down a 
walkway that 
led off to the left, rising slightly toward a distant doorway. 
Silence 
followed, scowling, lengthening her stride until she'd caught up 
with 
Balthasar. She caught his sleeve, intending to demand to know 
where they 
were going, but he frowned at her, and shook his head slightly. 
There was 
a tension in his muscles through the worn cloth of his jacket that 
kept 
her from speaking, a fear more daunting than his frown. She 
concentrated 
instead on matching his pace, Chase Mago stiff-faced beside her, 
and, 
after a moment, she recognized what the Delian had already seen. 

None of 
the natives were talking; they hurried along the platforms as 
though to 
linger was somehow dangerous. 
Only when they finally reached the end of the walkway did the pace 
slow. 
The massive opening, perhaps twice as wide as it was high, gave 
onto a 
gloomy plaza, the light filtering in through thick ceiling panes 
of amber 
glass. Or maybe there were artificial lights set behind the ugly 
rectangles, Silence thought. Whatever they were, they did little 
to 
relieve the dimness. Most of the passengers turned sharply to 
right or 
left, heading for air-lock doors labeled in red and blue letters, 
but 
enough moved on into the plaza proper to keep them from being 
conspicuous. 
Balthasar slowed, glancing warily from side to side, then nodded 
to a 
kiosk that stood toward the middle of the plaza. The sign above it 
said, 
"Information." 
A skinny youth -- barely more than a boy, Silence thought -- stood 
at one 
face; a greying man in grey, straight-cut tunic and trousers was 
consulting the other. As the star-travellers approached, the boy 
turned 
away. Balthasar appropriated his place, running his hand across 
the 
glowing touchplate. Somewhat to Silence's surprise -- she had 
expected to 
have to pay for the service -- the screen sprang to life in front 
of him. 
"Do you want me to make the inquiry?" she asked, low-voiced. At 
the 

kiosk's other face, the greying man grunted to himself, and pushed 
himself 
away. The pilot sighed her relief. 
Balthasar nodded, and made room for her in front of the keyboard. 
"What we 
want," he said, studying the display over her shoulder, "is the 
Kills." 
Silence gave him a questioning glance, and he elaborated. "Look, 
that 
woman said to go there if we were dealing, right? Then that's a 
place 
where there won't be people asking many questions." 
It makes sense, Silence thought. Still, she wasn't sure she liked 
the 
idea. 
"I hope you're right, Denis," Chase Mago growled. 
The Delian grinned, unrepentant. "So do I." 
Wonderful, Silence thought. Just wonderful. Scowling, she 
triggered the 
inquiry mode, and waited while the screen filled up with a mix of 
letters 
and symbols. The system seemed to be organized in precisely the 
same way 
as the one she had used at Diesmon -- maybe, she thought, typing 
further 
codes, it's all the same system? The screen blanked, then, more 
slowly, 
refilled. The information on the Kills was rather limited, just 
locator-codes and list of the various ways the neighborhood could 
be 
reached, without any of the hostel listings or other advertising 
that was 
attached to other names. If nothing else, it bore out Balthasar's 
guess 

about the nature of the area, but the pilot still wasn't sure that 
was a 
good thing. The file did contain a map, however. She called it up, 
meaning 
to memorize its listings, but one of the options displayed below 
its 
border was to print a copy. She touched the proper keys, and a 
concealed 
printer chattered, spitting out a fold of thin, pin-printed paper. 
Balthasar took it from her, scanning the faint lines dubiously. 
"I suppose it's better than nothing. So how do we get there?" 
Silence consulted the screen again. "It looks as though there are 
two 
choices -- three, if you count walking. Take the tube-train -- it 
really 
is a tube-train, this time -- or take a taxi." 
"Tube-train," Balthasar said at once, and the engineer nodded. "We 
don't 
want to draw more attention to ourselves than necessary." 
Silence nodded, and turned to scan the plaza. To their left, a red 
arrow 
pointed down a flight of stairs. The sign above it read Public 
Access 
Transportation. "That must be it," she said, and the others 
nodded. 
The tube-train -- which wasn't a tube-train after all, but another 
mechanical contrivance like the trans -- was very crowded, and 
both the 
platform and the long, windowless cars smelled strongly of people 
and 
machines. Silence swallowed hard, feeling an echo of her earlier 
sickness, 
but the shielding music protected her, keeping it at bay. She kept 
her 
attention on the caged display screen at the end of the car, 

watching the 
stops flash by. Balthasar was watching, too, his eyes flicking 
from the 
screen to the doors and back again. At last the symbol they had 
been 
waiting for flashed onto the screen; Silence looked at Balthasar, 
who 
nodded, a twisted smile on his face. 
"This is it?" Chase Mago asked, pitching his voice to carry 
through the 
incessant rumble of the engines. 
"This is it," Balthasar said. 
The tube-train was slowing. Silence balanced against the changing 
motion, 
hitching the carryall to a more comfortable position on her 
shoulder. 
There didn't seem to be many others leaving the train at this 
point, she 
noticed; those who stood, gathering satchels and shapeless webpaper 
sacks, wore a weird mixture of the cheapest work clothes and 
single 
expensive pieces, here a richly beaded jacket, there a real-stone 
torque, 
even a shawl-scarf that might be made of Akra Leuke silk. In spite 
of her 
best intentions, her expression sharpened, seeing that. The dark 
girl 
wearing it scowled back, and moved away a little. The whole 
picture 
reminded her irresistibly of the poorer parts of a Transients' 
Pale on any 
Fringe World. 
"Denis," the pilot began, and Balthasar grimaced. 
"I saw," he said. "But not here." 

 The tube-train ground to a halt, metal shrieking against metal. 
Silence 
made a face, and Chase Mago looked physically sick at the sound. 
Then the 
doors sighed open, and they stepped out onto the platform. 
It was above ground, this time, and not merely on the surface but 
well 
above it. To the left, looking back along the way the train had 
come, an 
elevated trackway led across a greasy river toward a towering 
cliff. The 
tracks emerged from a tunnel halfway up that crumbling wall of 
stone. To 
the right, the trackway curved gently down to another tunnel 
entrance, 
this one almost lost among the crowding, ugly buildings. Beyond 
their 
roofs, Silence could just see the dark line of the ocean. 
Somewhere beyond 
that -- and not far beyond it, either -- lay the administrative 
complex of 
Man's Island. Silence stumbled, staring, and Chase Mago caught her 
elbow. 
"Easy, now." the engineer said, and turned her gently toward a 
metal 
turnstile at the far end of the platform. Silence shook herself, 
and 
followed the men through the gate and down the rattling metal 
stairs to 
the street. Balthasar barely hesitated at the first intersection, 
before 
striking out to the left along the badly paved street. There were 
no other 
pedestrians in sight; remembering the people who had left the 
train with 
them, Silence glanced once over her shoulder, but saw no one 
following. 

The ugly, windowless buildings rose to either side, cutting off 
the thin 
sunlight. The air smelled strange, sharp; looking up, she saw the 
sky half 
obscured by a pale yellow haze that thickened to clouds above the 
water. 
Balthasar led them across another street, turning left again at 
the next 
intersection. Silence frowned, but before she could say anything, 
Chase 
Mago asked mildly, "Do you have any particular place in mind, 
Denis?" 
Balthasar looked back, grinning, and pointed. "There." 
Silence's eyes narrowed. The Delian was pointing to a lighted 
sign, pale 
in the sunlight, that advertised rooms for rent. It hung above an 
unimpressive arched doorway flanked by chipped poured-stone 
columns; 
undecorated windows rose above it for five or six stories. The 
pilot shook 
her head. "No," she said, "there were no hostels listed." 
"That was a search pattern," Chase Mago cut in, with some disgust. 
"I found us a hostel, didn't I?" Balthasar shot back. "What are 
you 
complaining about?" 
"You may have found a hotel," Silence corrected. "Let's see what 
it looks 
like on the inside." 
The door beneath the arch led into a long, dimly lit room divided 
in half 
by an elaborately scrolled metal grille. It looked more functional 
than 
decorative, Silence thought, and found herself looking warily in 

the 
corners. There was no central desk, as there would be in a hostel 
on most 
other worlds. Instead, a kiosk like the one they had used in the 
trans 
station stood in the center of the worn tiling, wan lights 
flickering 
behind its screens. As they moved closer, the camera set at the 
top of the 
kiosk swivelled toward them, and the nearest screen brightened. 
"-- help you?" The tinny voice came from a grille somewhere 
beneath the 
camera; the speaker sounded as though he didn't really care about 
the 
answer. 
"Yes." Silence stepped forward, glancing first at the camera and 
then at 
the flickering picture now visible on the screen. It showed an 
older man, 
lank grey hair fringing his bald head. The camera was set 
somewhere above 
him, and he was looking down into something -- presumably a 
viewscreen of 
his own, the pilot thought. She looked up into the camera, 
schooling her 
face to remain emotionless. "We want a room." 
"Rates are twenty-five for the top floors, twenty-eight with bath, 
thirty 
for the first and second floors, and thirty-five for a suite with 
a bath." 
The man recited the list in a monotone, still watching his screen. 
Heavy, 
thumping music sounded faintly behind him. 
Silence darted a glance at Balthasar, who shrugged. 
"Top floor?" he said. 

 "With bath," Chase Mago murmured. ' 
Silence nodded. "The top floor'll do -- with bath, please." 
The man's hands moved off-screen. "How long you staying?" 
"We haven't decided," Balthasar said silkily. 
"Hah." The old man seemed unmoved by the statement. "Minimum 
deposit's 
fifty, split it how you like." 
"Put us down for two weeks," Silence said, after hasty 
calculations. "With 
an option to renew." 
"Fine." The man did something off-screen again, and a new panel 
lit up 
below the kiosk viewscreen. "Insert your card." 
"This is cash," Silence said. 
"Cash?" There was a long pause, and then the old man said, 
"There's a ten 
percent surcharge for cash." 
"Surcharge?" Silence asked, and just managed to keep the outrage 
from her 
voice. 
"Yeah. For the security risk." The man looked up into the camera. 
"You 
sure you don't want to use your cards?" 
"That's right," Silence said. "Cash." 
The old man folded his arms across his chest. "Show me." 
The star-travellers exchanged glances. If someone else is 

watching, 
Silence thought, if this is just a setup for robbery, we're in 
trouble. 
Still, there are three of us, and we have heylins within reach.... 
Balthasar nodded slowly, as if he'd read her thought. Chase Mago 
slid his 
hand across the surface of his carryall, so that it was resting on 
the 
opening of the hidden pocket. Reassured by that, and by the weight 
of her 
own carryall, Silence reached into the pocket of her jacket and 
brought 
out the wad of bills she and Isambard had made. She fanned them 
slowly in 
front of the camera. 
The old man grunted. "All right. I'll be down. You wait." 
It took him a few minutes to emerge from his hiding place. Silence 
glanced 
nervously around, scanning the blank, white-painted walls, then 
schooled 
herself to wait with at least outward calm. At last, the old man 
appeared 
behind the heavy grille. Silence stepped forward, hand in her 
pocket, and 
he flinched back instantly. 
"Hold it right there, woman. Take your hand out slow." There was 
no weapon 
in sight, but Silence had no doubt that he had one concealed 
somewhere in 
his shapeless clothing. She frowned, but did as she was told, 
pulling a 
second sheaf of bills from her jacket pocket. The old man's eyes 
brightened at the sight, and he beckoned her forward. 
"That's three ninety-two for the room, plus the surcharge -- four 
thirty-two all told." 

Silence raised an eyebrow at that, but carefully counted out the 
proper 
fee and passed half of it through a slot in the grillwork. The old 
man 
scowled, but grudgingly unlocked the narrow door to let them into 
the rest 
of the hostel. Silence let the other star-travellers go first; 
only when 
they were safely inside did she step through herself, and hand the 
rest of 
the bills to the old man. He took them avidly, counted and 
recounted them, 
then stuffed the money into the pocket of his trousers. 
"This way." 
The top floor rooms were cheap, it seemed, because the ancient 
gravity 
lift was shut down after the midnight curfew. They could come and 
go as 
they liked, the old man's shrugging explanation implied, but they 
would 
have to climb the six flights of stairs. Silence listened, 
nodding, as the 
lift carriage whined its way to the top of its shaft, and 
dismissed the 
man as soon as they'd reached the door of the room. He left 
without trying 
to charge them for the third keycard. 
The room itself was surprisingly comfortable. The furnishings -- 
table, 
two chairs, the media center that filled one corner, and the 
oversized bed 
behind a painted paper screen -- were worn but still serviceable; 
the thin 
carpet and the tiled bath were unexpectedly clean. Chase Mago 
dropped at 
once onto the huge bed, throwing one arm over his eyes. Seeing him 
reminded Silence of just how tired she was; she slumped into the 

nearest 
chair, her carryall forgotten by the door. 
"So here we are," she said. 
"Yeah." Balthasar was prowling the room, fingering the thin 
curtains and 
warily inspecting each piece of furniture. Checking for listeners, 
Silence 
knew, and sat quietly, waiting. The Delian finished quickly, but 
stood for 
a moment in the center of the room, a dissatisfied expression on 
his face. 
Then he crossed to the media center and folded back the double 
doors. He 
studied the controls for a moment, then flipped a set of switches. 
A
square of carpet slid aside, almost under his feet -- he dodged, 
cursing, 
and Silence grinned -- and a strange black cube rose through the 
floor. A 
moment later, its top began to glow, and images coalesced in the 
air above 
it. At the same time, sound faded on, coming from the base of the 
cube. It 
was a harsh, monotonously accented music, overlaid by the scree 
and wail 
of some unfamiliar instrument. Chase Mago sat up quickly, wincing, 
but 
Silence hardly noticed the engineer's discomfort. That machine was 
a
holotable, something she'd only read about in ancient novels. As 
she 
watched, the image fuzzed briefly, music fading, and shifted to 
another 
set of musicians. She looked up, smile fading, as Balthasar 
cleared his 
throat. 
"I'm still not sure I'd know a listener if I saw one," he said, 

his voice 
barely audible through the noise from the holotable. "But, I 
tried." 
"Now what?" Silence asked. She matched the pitch of her voice to 
Balthasar's, but her lighter tones were swallowed in the music. 
She made a 
face and tried again. "What do we do next?" 
Balthasar made a face. "This is the area where the kid said you 
could buy 
stuff. I guess we try to make some contacts, see what we can turn 
up that 
might be of use...." 
His voice trailed off, and Silence sighed. In other words, she 
thought, 
you don't know either. To buy time to think of something more 
constructive, she said, "Wait, let me set a ring first, before we 
do any 
more planning." 
The Delian nodded, and Silence pushed herself to her feet, looking 
around 
for something with which to sketch a circle. There was nothing at 
hand; 
she leaned into the bathroom, looking for soap powders, when Chase 
Mago 
said, "Look. That's it." 
Silence turned back to face the engineer. He was pointing to the 
fuzzy 
image on the holotable, a new, self-satisfied grin on his face. 
"That's 
it," he said again. 
"What's it?" Balthasar ran a hand through his hair, and darted a 
puzzled 
glance at the other man. 

"That, the vox -- the instrument he's playing." Chase Mago paused, 
visibly 
collecting his thoughts. "Look, the blond one, there. The 
instrument he's 
playing is a vox humana, and a vox humana is one of the ancestors 
of the 
harmonium. I can use that to tune --" He broke off abruptly, the 
excitement fading from his face. "At least, I think I can; the 
mechanisms 
shouldn't've changed too much...." 
Silence said, slowly, hearing the same excitement rising in her 
voice, "If 
you can retune using one of those --" 
"We wouldn't have to deal with any underground," Balthasar broke 
in. 
"Yeah, that would make it easier. Can you do it, Julie?" 
"I told you," Chase Mago answered, "if the mechanisms haven't been 
changed 
too much over the years, if I can get pure tones from one -- yes, 
I think 
so." 
"Where does one buy a vox humana?" Silence asked. She was thinking 
aloud, 
but Balthasar answered anyway. 
"A store that sells musical instruments, I suppose -- or, no." 
There was a 
sudden, smug grin on the Delian's face. "Pawnshops. That's the 
place to 
look." 
"If they have pawnshops here," Silence said automatically, but she 
hardly 
took her own objection seriously. They would have pawnshops in the 
Kills, 
or some equivalent institution; it was almost as inevitable that 

musicians 
would be poor enough to make use of them. She nodded thoughtfully. 
"I'll 
start checking the directory." 
Chapter 7 
THE ROOM'S MEDIA CENTER CONTAINED YET ANOTHER keyboard-and-screen 
combination, this one linked to some sort of district-wide 
network. That 
network was in turn linked to a more powerful system that served 
the 
entire mainurb. Silence eyed the access commands rather wistfully - 
- she 
had had enough success in deducing the structures of the smaller 
systems 
to feel fairly confident in her ability to handle something larger 
-- but 
confined herself to the local net. It was set up rather 
differently from 
the other systems she had dealt with, but the time she'd spent on 
Solitude 
Hermae had made her adept at deciphering unfamiliar symbolic 
systems. By 
the time the district curfew shut down the network, she had found 
half a 
dozen shops that looked promising, and Balthasar had located them 
on the 
map they'd gotten back at the terminus. Chase Mago pulled the 
crude 
communicator he'd improvised from the bits and pieces of 
Recusante's 
emergency system from the lining of the satchel, assembled it, 
then 
reported briefly to the ship. The media center contained a tiny 
kitchenette unit along with everything else, water heater and 
antique 
hotbox, and a limited supply of dried staples. Chase Mago fixed a 
scanty 
dinner from among those packages, and then they went to bed. 

 They breakfasted from the kitchenette as well, almost emptying the 
supply 
cabinet, and then started on the round of the pawnshops and freebrokers 
Silence had found in the district directory listings. After some 
debate, 
they left the carryalls and the picnic basket in the hostel, but, 
at 
Balthasar's insistence, each star-traveller carried a fully 
charged heylin 
in his or her pocket. 
It was warmer in the streets than it had been the previous day, 
and the 
air was damp and sticky. Silence grimaced, loosening the clasps of 
her 
jacket, and glanced up. The band of sky visible between the 
building was 
even more tinged with yellow than it had been the day before, like 
a
brassy, metallic dome over the city, but there were no clouds, no 
real 
signs of rain to relieve the oppressive heat. 
There were more Earth natives visible than there had been the 
previous 
day, the traffic about evenly divided between the old and the very 
young. 
A few shopkeepers watched the passersby from their doorways, both 
men and 
women narrow-eyed, wary, but ready for business; their shops were 
well 
guarded, with heavy grilles across doors and tiny windows. The one 
or two 
that actually displayed their goods did so through remote-view 
cubes. It 
was not so very different in spirit from poor worlds like Cibistra 
or 
Elysium, Silence thought. Only the technology had changed. 

 The street turned abruptly into a broad market square, where 
foodstuffs -- 
vegetables and grains in huge web-paper sacks -- were stacked on 
trestle 
tables. The space was very crowded, men and women alike pawing 
over the 
piled goods. The noise of haggling was very loud, sharp voices 
rising in 
calculated anger. Silence faltered, suddenly afraid of being 
recognized as 
an outsider, and Balthasar gave her a quick, encouraging smile. 
"Don't worry," he said, under his breath. "Who's going to notice 
us, in 
this mess?" 
"No one, you hope," Silence said, but her voice was mild enough. 
The 
Delian seemed able to find his way in this world; she would trust 
him this 
far, at least. 
Balthasar led them along the side of the square, where a line of 
locked 
storage bins formed a sort of narrow alley, mostly out of sight of 
the 
hurrying crowd. One or two of the merchants called after them, but 
no one 
else seemed to pay any attention. Even so, Silence breathed a sigh 
of 
relief as they turned out of the market onto a quiet side street. 
"The first shop should be over there," Balthasar began, and 
grinned. "And 
there it is, Samson Liu's." 
It was not a very imposing building, seen from a distance, just a 
tall, 
windowless rectangle -- brick, this time, rather than the 

ubiquitous 
poured stone -- with a white-painted grille over the door opening 
and 
several more grilles along the front where the windows should have 
been. 
It was no more attractive close up, and Silence found herself 
wondering if 
they were doing the right thing. There was no handle on the doorgrille; 
she reached for the grille itself, and felt the warning tingle of 
some 
kind of defensive field. She drew back instantly, saying in a low 
voice, 
"Careful, don't touch it." 
Chase Mago frowned. "So how do we get in? I don't see a call 
button --" 
A clicking from the grille cut him off, and Silence, standing 
closest to 
the barred doorway, felt the defensive field fade and die. A 
sexless voice 
said, "Enter, please." 
The star-travellers exchanged a wary glance, and then Silence 
reached 
cautiously for the grille, ready to snatch her hand back if the 
field 
reappeared. It did not; the metal of the grille was barely warm to 
the 
touch, and cooling rapidly. Silence took a deep breath, and pulled 
open 
the door. 
The interior of the store was coldly lit, and very clean. It 
reminded 
Silence irresistibly of pictures she had seen of hospices, in the 
days 
before the Art had proved the efficacy of color-therapies. A 
single short 

counter ran the length of one wall; otherwise, the white-painted 
room was 
completely empty. Silence frowned uneasily, and glanced at the two 
men. 
Chase Mago was frowning too, but Balthasar's face was impassive, 
his hands 
tucked deep into the pockets of his trousers. Seeing her look, he 
shrugged, and gave her a lopsided smile. 
There was a clicking sound from behind the counter, and a line 
appeared in 
the white wall. It expanded, became a door, and a small, oliveskinned 
woman stepped through it to take her place behind the counter. 
"Can I help you?" she asked. Silence barely heard the words, all 
of her 
attention focusing on the other woman's bizarre dress. She was 
wearing a 
strange, broad-shouldered coat -- or perhaps it was a gown; the 
counter 
hid her body from the waist down -- that tapered drastically from 
the 
shoulderline, so that she was reduced to tiny, mincing steps, 
tottering as 
though she wore high-soled clogs as well. Great clusters of orange 
and 
blue feathers further extended the shoulder line, and rippled down 
the 
outer seams of the sleeves, suggesting gaudy wings; her face and 
hair were 
striped with the same colors, and she wore a palm-sized medallion 
covered 
with unfamiliar symbols -- also orange and blue -- pinned between 
her 
breasts. She put her hands on her hips then, the feathers 
fluttering 
wildly. 
"What's the matter," she asked, "you Greenies or something?" 

 Silence shook herself, and managed a smile. "No," she said. 
"Sorry." 
The woman grunted disbelievingly, but seemed to accept it. "So 
what do you 
want?" 
Chase Mago cleared his throat. "We want to buy a musical 
instrument," he 
said. "Do you have any?" 
The woman eyed him thoughtfully. "We've got a lot of them," she 
said. "Did 
you have something particular in mind?" 
"I'm looking for a vox humana," the engineer answered. 
The woman shook her head, frowning. "I've never heard of that. Are 
you 
sure it's an instrument?" 
Silence saw the sudden flicker of panic on the engineer's face, 
felt the 
same fear stirring in her belly. They hadn't even considered that 
possibility, that the vox humana would be known by some other 
name. She 
closed her eyes, searching the patterns of the Grand Theater for 
anything 
that might be of use, but found nothing. She opened her eyes 
again, and 
saw the woman behind the counter staring at her, expression 
changing from 
indifference to curiosity. "It's a -- keyboard," the pilot began, 
fumbling 
for a better description, and the saleswoman scowled. Silence 
barely 
managed to bite back the rest of her sentence before she betrayed 
herself 
further. 

 "For God's sake, why didn't you say so?" She reached beneath the 
counter, 
and brought out a squat machine topped by a cloudy glass dome. 
After a 
moment's search, she produced a pair of gold-colored disks, and 
slid them 
across the counter. "That's the catalogue," she said, pointing to 
one, 
"and that's the update." 
"Thanks," Chase Mago said absently, staring at the machine. 
"God." The woman leaned across the counter, twitched the disk out 
of his 
hand, and slid it into a slot in the machine's side. The glass 
dome fuzzed 
and darkened, displaying a holographic image of a glittering pin. 
The 
woman touched a knob on the machine's side, and the image shifted, 
became 
a cube of words, a marker flashing in the center of the array. 
"Where are 
you from, anyway?" 
Silence tensed, weighing her answer, but Balthasar spoke first. 
"You ask a 
lot of questions." 
"Hey." The saleswoman took a step backward, almost falling in her 
tight 
skirt. "No offense." 
Silence smiled at her mockingly, and the other woman moved farther 
away. 
"Yell if you need me," she said, and retreated to the far end of 
the 
counter. 
"Silence," Chase Mago said, softly. "Can you figure out how this 

is 
arranged?" 
The pilot turned her attention away from the saleswoman, focusing 
on the 
image in the dome. The individual words were almost too small to 
read. She 
glanced at the machine's controls -- a pair of buttons, a large, 
unlabeled 
dial, and a well-worn socket-ball -- and touched the upper button 
gently. 
The image swelled instantly, and she snatched her hand away almost 
too 
late. The cubed image completely filled the dome, losing a few 
letters at 
the corners of the structure, but at least she could read the 
individual 
words. 
The pattern that governed the cube was a completely unfamiliar 
one. She 
frowned into it, recalling the techniques of analysis she'd 
learned on 
Solitude Hermae, and chose a line of words at random. Time faded; 
she 
opened her mind as fully as possible, letting the words trigger 
all 
possible connections in her memory. Slowly at first, and then with 
blinding suddenness, she understood. She looked up quickly, and 
saw with 
some shock that only a minute or two had passed. Chase Mago lifted 
an 
eyebrow in question, and she smiled reassuringly, setting her 
hands on the 
machine controls. 
"I understand it," she said, softly, and added to herself, or at 
least I 
understand it well enough to find what we need. It was an 
interesting 

system, though, one that would bear remembering -- something else 
that she 
might be able to sell when they returned to human-settled space, 
something 
the magi could turn into a new mnemonic device, as revolutionary 
as the 
memory theaters themselves. The data, Samson Liu's inventory, was 
ordered 
in three dimensions rather than in the usual two; in this case, 
the two 
horizontal dimensions -- axes? she wondered -- indicated type, 
while the 
vertical dimension was an index of value. She thought that the 
side-to-side axis was the indicator of general item type, while 
the 
front-to-back axis was being used for specific items within the 
class, but 
too many of the actual listings were unfamiliar to her for her to 
be 
certain of that. Still, it was a fascinating system. Her smile 
faded then. 
Of course, if it were to be used on the human-settled worlds, 
they'd have 
to come up with some inexpensive non-mechanical means of 
projecting a 
three-dimensional display.... 
She shook herself, annoyed at having wasted even that much thought 
on 
something so distant, and flicked the socketball. The flashing 
marker 
shifted with it. She maneuvered it quickly to the section she 
wanted and 
paused, studying the controls. The other woman had used the dial 
to change 
images, she thought, and cautiously touched it. It seemed soft 
under her 
hand, and she pressed harder. There was a faint click, and the 
cube of 
words vanished, to be replaced by an unfamiliar array of black 

plastic 
tablets. The printing beneath the image identified it as a not 
particularly expensive set of drums. She frowned, considering, 
then 
shifted the dial to the left. After a few moments' maneuvering, 
controlling her position with it and the socket-ball, she found 
the part 
of the matrix that displayed the voces, and nodded to the 
engineer. 
"Here you are." 
"Thanks," Chase Mago said, and took her place in front of the 
machine, 
murmuring to himself as he studied each of the machines. Silence 
sighed, 
and resigned herself to waiting. She didn't know precisely what 
the 
engineer needed from the vox humana in order to be able to use it 
to 
retune, and didn't quite know what to do to help. She glanced at 
Balthasar, but before she could say anything, a buzzer sounded 
from 
somewhere near the outside door. Silence glanced curiously toward 
the 
saleswoman, and saw her fumble again with something beneath the 
counter. 
The buzzing changed to a tri-toned chime, and a moment later, two 
more 
people entered the shop. 
They were dressed in the same colors as the woman behind the 
counter, the 
boy in flaming neon shades, the girl in more muted tones. Their 
gaudy 
coats had the same exaggerated shoulderline as the saleswoman's 
dress, 
though the girl's was slit front and back for ease of movement. 
The boy's 
coat was quite short, the hem barely falling below his buttocks, 

and 
buttoned close around slender hips. Silence glanced sideways, 
sighing, and 
saw Balthasar's appreciative grin. She kicked him, and he looked 
away. 
If the newcomers saw the movement, they ignored it, crossing at 
once to 
the counter in front of the saleswoman. The boy said something, 
low-voiced, and the girl swung a plastic-covered bundle onto the 
counter. 
Pawning -- or selling -- something, Silence thought, and craned 
her head 
as unobtrusively as she could. At the saleswoman's nod, the girl 
loosened 
the wrappings, but kept the plastic tucked around whatever it was, 
effectively concealing the contents. The boy glanced down the 
length of 
the counter, scowling, and Silence met the look with a blank 
stare. He 
looked away then, still frowning, and said something to the 
saleswoman, 
who shrugged. 
"Not from around here," she said, her voice fading in response to 
a murmur 
from the girl. 
Silence glanced back at the domed machine, now displaying 
something that 
looked like a control keyboard mated to a misshapen harp with 
crystal 
strings. Chase Mago considered it gravely, but looked up as 
Silence moved 
closer. 
"I think this could be what we want," he said. "I need to see the 
internal 
arrangements, though." 

"You don't ask for much, do you?" That was the saleswoman, moving 
closer. 
She reached under the counter for another machine, then slid it 
along the 
counter top toward the waiting couple. 
Silence called after her, "Is that possible?" 
The woman shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. But you'll have to wait." 
"All right." The newcomers were watching them now with open 
curiosity, 
Silence saw, and steeled herself to meet their stares. After a 
moment, the 
girl said something, and they both looked away, but the pilot 
could still 
feel the heat of their interest. Then the saleswoman had taken 
their cards 
and put each one through the reader. The boy nodded, and the 
saleswoman 
swept the bundle under the counter. The boy seemed inclined to 
linger even 
then, but the girl spoke again, low-voiced, and drew him away. The 
buzzer 
sounded behind them as they left. 
"You wanted to see the insides?" The saleswoman had returned to 
the other 
end of the counter, her hands poised over something just under the 
counter 
top. 
Chase Mago nodded, absently, and Silence said, "That's right." 
There was a momentary pause, and then the saleswoman shrugged. Her 
hands 
moved on the hidden controls; there was a distant whirring, and a 
faint 
series of clanks from behind the nearly invisible inside door. 
Silence's 

eyes narrowed in spite of herself. The noises were oddly familiar - 
- and 
then she remembered a spice warehouse on Cibistra, where the 
shielding 
walls, a good meter thick, had hidden a bizarre machine like a 
metal 
lattice, from whose intersection points had hung strange, basketlike 
containers. Her grandfather had made his purchase -- a kilo of 
arianhrodae, to be resold on half a dozen other worlds -- and the 
entire 
structure had clattered into motion, pulleys and wires rearranging 
the 
baskets until at last the container of arianhrodae had dropped 
into the 
spice merchant's waiting hands. It would make sense for Earth's 
natives to 
use a similar system, especially when coupled with the cubic 
index.... 
A door slid open in the wall beside the counter, and a shelf 
extended 
itself, servos whining under its burden. The machine they had seen 
pictured in the dome was waiting there, the thin crystal spines 
above the 
keyboard carefully shrouded in clingfoam. 
"There it is," the saleswoman said, and reached for a section of 
counter 
top. Silence realized instantly what the other woman intended, and 
leaned 
hard against the hidden gate, effectively blocking her escape. 
"We won't hurt it," she said, and kept her position. "You can get 
on with 
your other work." 
For a moment, she thought the saleswoman would protest further, 
but then 
the other woman dropped her eyes and turned away, shrugging in a 

painful 
attempt at nonchalance. "All right," she said. "God, some people." 
Silence held her pose for a few minutes longer, watching the 
saleswoman. 
She was aware of Chase Mago, busy with his palm-sized tool kit, 
and of 
Balthasar's leashed impatience, but she did not dare turn to see 
what was 
happening. Then Chase Mago sighed. 
"No, it won't do. See there." 
Silence risked a quick glance, saw only the tilted casing and the 
engineer's hand pointing to something at the base of the crystals. 
Then 
Chase Mago had closed it again, neatly refastening the catches. 
"You mean after all that you don't want it?" The saleswoman glared 
at them 
from the far end of the counter. 
Silence smiled sweetly at her. "That's right," she said. "Thank 
you for 
your help." 
The saleswoman turned away disgustedly, and did not answer. 
Balthasar 
grinned and gestured for the others to precede him from the store. 
"After 
you, people, after you." 
His smile faded once they were in the street, however, and Chase 
Mago 
shook his head, sighing. Silence glanced around quickly, saw no 
one within 
earshot, and said, "What was wrong?" 
The engineer grimaced. "The active mechanical elements were too 
close to 

the crystal, powered them directly -- in fact, I don't think they 
needed 
the crystals as resonators at all, I think they were just there 
for 
decoration." He squinted thoughtfully into the hazy sunlight. "I 
could 
maybe do something with it, but I'd have to rebuild the whole 
thing...." 
"We'll come back if we have to," Silence interrupted firmly. "For 
now, 
let's see if any of the other places have something closer to what 
you 
need." She glanced at Balthasar. "Where next?" 
"A place called the Fish Pier," the Delian answered, and pointed. 
"That 
way." 
The Fish Pier proved to have no musical instruments in stock, and 
the next 
stop had only a less well cared for version of the instrument 
they'd seen 
at Samson Liu's. As they made their way through the maze of 
streets toward 
the next shop -- a place listed in the directory as Rafaiel's 
Bulletin 
Board, Coffee Shop, and Small Loans Bank -- Silence felt an odd 
chill at 
the nape of her neck. Almost, she thought, as though we were being 
followed. But she had seen no signs of that, only a few 
unremarkable 
pedestrians. She had read, somewhere, that the thing to watch for 
was the 
shoes -- you could vary outer clothing easily enough, but rarely 
shoes -- 
but saw nothing that looked familiar. Still, the nagging feeling 
persisted. 
"Denis," she began. "There's something -- I feel as though we're 

being 
watched." 
The Delian nodded without turning his head, frowning thoughtfully. 
"I 
know, I feel it, too. But, damn it all, I can't actually see 
anybody." 
"Do we head back to the Hostel?" Chase Mago asked. 
Balthasar gave a frustrated grimace. "I don't know -- no. If there 
is 
anybody, let's find them out; if there isn't --" He shrugged. "We 
might as 
well keep going." 
Silence nodded, and, after a moment, the engineer did the same. It 
isn't 
as though there's anything definite, the pilot thought, not as 
though 
either of us -- any of us -- had seen something suspicious. It 
could well 
be that the strangeness of the planet, and of all these machines, 
is 
what's making us nervous. That's probably all it is. The feeling 
faded as 
they walked further, until it was no more than a tickling at the 
back of 
her mind. 
Rafaiel's Bulletin Board, Coffee Shop, and Small Loans Bank was 
located at 
the end of a suspiciously clean cul-de-sac. The building itself 
was almost 
identical to the windowless box that housed Samson Liu's, but 
Rafaiel, or 
whoever actually owned the place, had used neon tubing to sketch 
windows 
on the blank brick facade, and added fantastic neon flowers and 
curtains 

as well. The colors were pale in the sunlight, but Silence could 
picture 
the nighttime splendor. The sign over the open doorway read 
"Rafaiel's" in 
meter-high letters; beneath that were the initials BBC. 
"What, he ran out of room?" Balthasar muttered. 
Silence shrugged. 
"Are you sure about this place?" Chase Mago asked. 
"It was listed as a pawnshop," Silence said. "What do you think, 
Denis?" 
"I say we take a look," Delian answered. 
Silence nodded. "I agree." 
The interior of Rafaiel's BBC was warmly lit, and smelled strongly 
of 
baking bread and grilled meats. Silence swallowed hard, suddenly 
aware 
that she hadn't eaten since breakfast, and looked around for any 
sign of a 
pawnshop. The big, wood-floored room held a dozen, perhaps two 
dozen small 
tables crowded together to either side of a central aisle marked 
out by a 
strip of well-worn carpeting leading to two curtained doorways. 
Only a few 
were occupied right now, most by men and women old enough to have 
retired 
from their work, but a couple of younger men moved along the 
walls, which 
were completely covered in crudely printed handbills. So that's 
the 
bulletin board, Silence thought, and in front of me's the coffee 
shop -- 
but where's the small loans bank? 

 "Can I help you?" A dark-skinned woman ducked through the bright 
blue 
curtain and came down the aisle to meet them, a tray and clickpad 
balanced 
on her hip. "Food, news, or money?" 
"Money, I think," Silence said, and tried a tentative smile. 
"Except we've 
come to buy?" 
The dark woman did not return the smile. "Upstairs, then -- 
through the 
green door." She touched a couple of buttons on her clickpad, and 
turned 
toward the nearest occupied table. 
"Thanks," Silence said, to her departing back, and started down 
the aisle, 
the other star-travellers following. 
The narrow, badly lit stairway led directly into a long room with 
candy-striped walls. More brilliant stripes outlined a set of 
doors and 
hatches at the back of the room. A round counter set toward the 
end of the 
room encircled a column of amber-tinged glass, at the center of 
which sat 
a honey-skinned man with short, greying hair. He lifted a hand in 
greeting 
as the star-travellers emerged into the cool light, and his voice 
crackled 
from a speaker set at the top of his column. 
"Greetings. I'm Rafaiel. And what can I do for you?" 
He knows part of it already, Silence thought, with sudden 
conviction, 
either from the woman downstairs or from the other shops we've 
been to. 

There was something in Rafaiel's slight, superior smile that 
hinted at 
hidden knowledge. 
Chase Mago spoke into her hesitation. "We're looking for -- we 
want to buy 
-- a vox humana." 
"A keyboard," Silence corrected hastily. 
Rafaiel smiled. "Which is it, people, a keyboard or a vox?" 
"You have a vox?" Silence allowed a polite skepticism to color her 
tone, 
and Rafaiel's smile widened. 
"I have four keyboards of the type you've been examining," he 
said. "And 
the vox." 
So he had been in touch with the other shop owners, Silence 
thought. She 
did not dare look over her shoulders at the other star-travellers. 
"If you 
have one," she said slowly, "we'd like to look at it." 
"You're welcome to examine it fully," Rafaiel answered. His hand 
moved on 
the controls beside him. There was a distant clicking noise, like 
the 
sounds Silence had heard in Samson Liu's, and then a door slid 
open in the 
far wall. A plastic-shrouded box was waiting in the opening. 
Silence 
nodded to Rafaiel, but made no move toward it. 
"If you'll permit us?" she asked. 
"Of course." Rafaiel leaned back in his raised chair, obviously 
enjoying 

himself. "Make free." 
Only then did Silence dare to glance at the other star-travellers. 
There 
was no expression on Balthasar's thin face, but she could read an 
unease 
that matched her own in the set of his shoulders. Chase Mago 
stared at the 
wrapped box with open curiosity; feeling her eyes on him, he 
smiled. 
"Let's take a look," he said. 
Unwrapped, the vox humana didn't look at all different from the 
machines 
they'd already examined. Silence bit back an exclamation of 
disappointment, and Chase Mago gave her a quick grin. 
"It's too early to tell, yet," he said softly, and slipped his 
tool kit 
from his pocket. Silence deliberately maneuvered herself to block 
Rafaiel's view as the engineer folded back the stiff protective 
cover and 
slid out the first of his tools. Delicately, he released the 
minuscule 
screws that held the cover in place, and carefully lifted it away. 
Balthasar caught the opposite edge, easing it up and over the thin 
tubes 
of crystal. The interior of the vox was a labyrinth of 
multicolored wires, 
snaking from the keyboards to a central unit that looked to 
Silence like a 
metallic honeycomb. That in turn was separated from the mouths of 
the 
crystals by a wedge of what looked like durafelt. Chase Mago made 
a soft, 
satisfied sound, and carefully lifted the wedge from its seating. 
"This is it," he said, still softly. "Feel that." 

Obediently, Silence put out her hand, and touched a familiar 
roughness. 
"That's durafelt," she said aloud, and the engineer nodded. 
"It's also a real vox humana, and I don't know what it's doing 
here," he 
said, and eased the wedge back into its place. "I want it, Denis. 
This is 
what we need." 
Balthasar nodded, and Silence was not entirely sorry to let him 
assume the 
responsibility of bargaining with Rafaiel. She might be pilot and 
magus, 
but she had never been an independent starship's captain. She 
remained at 
Chase Mago's side, helping him lower the awkwardly shaped cover 
back into 
place, then waited while the engineer tightened the tiny screws. 
She could 
hear, distantly, the rise and fall of Balthasar's voice, and 
Rafaiel's 
machine-distorted answers, but did not really listen. For once, 
the price 
truly did not matter; she could, and would, create more bills to 
make up 
for whatever they spent on this. 
"-- holding it as a pledge," Rafaiel was saying, "and it's only a 
couple 
of days overdue." 
Silence's attention sharpened, and she glanced warily toward the 
central 
column. Balthasar said, "But it is yours to sell." 
"Legally," Rafaiel answered, "but morally...." He let his voice 
trail off 
suggestively. 

"Surely nobody pays your morals," Balthasar said. There was a new 
tension 
in his posture, Silence saw, a controlled anger in the movements 
of his 
hands and arms. She willed him to be careful, not daring to speak. 
"Look," Balthasar said, and kept his voice reasonable with an 
effort, "we 
want to buy the vox. Are you selling?" 
Rafaiel managed to look coy behind the amber wall. "It's a matter 
of my 
obligations," he complained. "I owe it to my business -- to my 
wife and 
children, and to my employees -- to make what profit I may. But 
it's also 
my obligation not to be too hasty in turning my customers' pledges 
into 
credit, when they're only a little late...." 
Balthasar cut through the stream of chatter. "I'm willing to pay 
your 
asking price," he said, firmly, "and a hundred more to salve your 
conscience." 
Rafaiel's eyes brightened -- though not, Silence thought, entirely 
with 
greed. "Very well," he said, "though I must ask you to leave your 
name and 
address, so that if the original owner comes to redeem it, I can 
tell him 
where you've gone. And I would also ask that you seriously 
consider 
permitting him to buy it back from you." 
"Of course," Balthasar said. "We haven't got a permanent address, 
though. 
We're staying at one of the hostels; you can reach us there. At 
the Blue 
Lion; tell him to ask for Garret Kisigi." 

 He lies well -- he always has, Silence thought -- but I don't 
think 
Rafaiel believes him. She watched, cold with fear, while Balthasar 
ceremoniously counted out the necessary bills and passed them one 
by one 
through a tiny slot in the amber glass. Rafaiel recounted them 
just as 
ceremoniously, and then bowed to Balthasar. "It's all yours, 
Kisigi." 
The vox was fitted with a carrying strap and a foamfelt collar to 
protect 
the delicate crystals. Chase Mago snapped both into place, not 
hurrying, 
and lifted the vox gently to his shoulder. Silence nodded toward 
Rafaiel, 
still watching from his enclosed column, and started toward the 
stairs. 
The men followed. 
No one in the coffee shop paid any attention as they made their 
way back 
down the aisle toward the main door, though Silence was aware of 
two more 
people in the bright orange and blue livery -- adolescents, again, 
like 
the ones who had come into Samson Liu's -- off to one side, 
scanning the 
notices pinned to the walls. The taller of the two gave the 
star-travellers an incurious glance, and looked away again. 
Silence 
shivered, but could not decide if she was being unreasonable. 
Alone, the 
blue and orange meant nothing -- the saleswoman at Samson Liu's 
had worn 
it, too -- but coupled with Rafaiel's too-great knowledge and the 
sense 
that she'd had all afternoon of being followed, it meant trouble. 
She held 

her breath until they were out on the street, but nothing 
happened; no one 
moved inside the coffee shop. 
"Denis," she said quietly, and the Delian nodded. 
"I saw," he said, and glanced up and down the alleyway. There were 
no side 
streets of any kind, and all the doors were set flush into the 
walls of 
the blank-faced warehouses, but he eyed them suspiciously anyway. 
"We get 
back to the hostel as quickly as we can." 
"I agree," Silence said, and flushed, realizing how relieved she 
sounded. 
"There's one thing, though," Chase Mago said. "No, don't stop, we 
can talk 
as we go -- but this vox, it's a work of the Art." 
Silence hesitated, the danger momentarily forgotten, and had to 
hurry to 
catch up. "How can that be?" she asked. "Earth doesn't use the Art 
for 
anything, especially not for something so trivial." 
The engineer shrugged. "I don't know. But this is a real vox 
humana, 
people, and it's not pre-War, either. I'm almost willing to bet it 
was 
made in the Fringe, maybe even on Sabate." 
Silence eyed the well-padded instrument with more respect. The 
artisans of 
Sabate were famous throughout human-settled space for their 
craftsmanship.... She said aloud, "That doesn't explain how it got 
here. " 
"So somebody's trading with the rest of space," Balthasar said 

impatiently. He paused at the corner of the next street, gnawed 
his lip 
for a moment, then pointed to the left down a wide avenue. 
"From everything the Javerrys said, that's not just illegal but 
literally 
unthinkable," Silence said. "They don't know there's anything out 
there, 
so how could any of the natives trade with it?" 
Balthasar grimaced again. Ahead, the road divided around a wedgeshaped 
building; he hesitated only for an instant before choosing the 
right-hand 
fork. "Come on, Silence, there can't be that many Rose Worlders onplanet 
at any one time. They have to have recruited some help from the 
local 
elites -- and I bet off-world luxuries are a pretty good bribe to 
keep 
them quiet, too." 
Silence made a face at the Delian's back, annoyed at her own 
stupidity. 
What Balthasar had said made perfect sense: the Rose Worlders 
couldn't 
function without some support from the local population, and those 
natives 
in Rose Worlder service couldn't be of much use unless they knew 
at least 
a part of the truth. And the taste of off-world goods -- of the 
things 
only the Art could supply -- would probably go a long way toward 
reconciling them to their inferior position. She had seen plenty 
of people 
like that in the Rusadir and on the Fringe -- for some reason, 
they all 
seemed to work in Customs. 
"I'm a little worried that we had to give that Rafaiel any name," 

Chase 
Mago said thoughtfully. "Even a false one." 
Balthasar shrugged. "I wasn't wild about it, but what could I do? 
We could 
switch hostels, but I don't see it doing us any good." 
Silence said, "We can't get out of the district before the curfew 
anyway, 
but I think we ought to catch the next trans out of here. We've 
got what 
we came for -- haven't we?" She gave the engineer a sharp look. 
He nodded. "Yes. This should be sufficient." 
Balthasar had a discontented look on his face, and Silence 
frowned. "Well, 
Denis?" 
The Delian shrugged. "It just seems a shame, to have come so far, 
and to 
see so little...." His voice trailed off unhappily, and he shook 
himself. 
"No, I know you're right, Silence. But it's hard." 
"Not for me," Silence said, lying only a little, and Chase Mago 
nodded. 
Balthasar managed a twisted smile. 
"All right. But don't blame me if you're disappointed." 
They turned onto a side street -- avoiding the now-empty market, 
Balthasar 
said -- and Silence stiffened abruptly. There was something wrong 
in the 
road ahead, a shadow that had no business being where it was. She 
reached 
into her pocket, fingers curling around the butt of her heylin. 
Its 
touchplate was warm under her thumb: full charge, she thought, and 

kept 
walking. Balthasar had seen it, too; she could tell it from the 
sudden set 
of his jaw and the way he'd jammed his left hand into the pocket 
of his 
jacket, but he kept walking. Chase Mago tugged the vox humana to a 
safer 
position on his shoulder, wrapping his arm protectively around the 
crystals. Silence scanned the street around her, coldly afraid. 
She saw 
nothing -- the warning shadow had vanished, dissolved as if it had 
never 
been -- but the buildings to either side did not quite meet, 
leaving 
crooked passageways between their poured-stone walls, perfect for 
an 
ambush. The buildings themselves were old and abandoned, boards 
tacked 
across their doors and windows, and one or two bore the black 
scars of 
recent fires. 
"Great choice, Denis," she muttered, and was instantly ashamed. 
The maps 
they had consulted didn't give any indication of the status of an 
area: 
Balthasar couldn't have known. 
The Delian turned to face her, scowling, but his words were 
drowned in a 
sudden sliding rumble. It came from behind them, from the end of 
the 
street. Silence swung around, instinctively drawing her heylin. 
The entire 
facade of one of the fire-marked buildings had collapsed, the 
rubble 
blocking the street almost completely. No, she realized an instant 
later, 
not collapsed. It had been brought down deliberately, a neat and 
very 

effective trap. Figures in orange and blue were climbing over the 
piled 
rubble, and out of the broken building. She glanced without hope 
over her 
shoulder, and saw still more of them edging out of the alleys. 
"Oh, fuck it," Balthasar said softly, his heylin cradled in both 
hands. 
Silence lifted hers as well, hoping that the advancing figures 
would 
recognize the threat. Chase Mago swept the vox protectively 
against his 
body, leveling his heylin one-handed. The figures -- they were all 
young, 
mostly adolescents, Silence realized numbly -- stopped when they 
were a 
few meters away, and began spreading out, trying to encircle the 
star-travellers. 
"Oh, no, you don't," Balthasar said, and fired quite deliberately 
into the 
wall just in front of a tall boy in blue feathers. He jerked back - 
- none 
of them had been expecting the heylin's fixed-fire bolts, Silence 
thought, 
with sudden hope -- and the advance halted. She kept her heylin 
levelled 
anyway, pointing it at the nearest of the attackers. 
"Do we try talking?" she murmured. 
Balthasar shook his head, and somehow managed a strained smile. 
"No good. 
This kind don't talk." 
Wonderful, Silence thought. "So what do we do?" 
Balthasar didn't answer immediately, swinging slowly to face the 
direction 
they had been travelling. Very deliberately, he lowered his heylin 

at the 
closest of the figures -- a young woman this time, her hair bound 
up with 
orange and blue beads -- and took two steps forward. The woman 
hesitated, 
then took a slow step back. Balthasar took another step forward, 
saying 
softly, "Follow me." 
The woman leaped backward, shouting, "Fitch!" 
Balthasar cursed and dodged sideways, just avoiding a thrown rock. 
Silence 
fired twice, not bothering to aim, and saw one of the attackers 
fall. Then 
she saw a glint of metal in the hand of a youth at the back of the 
crowd, 
from an object she recognized only too well. The magi's usual 
protections 
were useless against it; her only defense was to use the Art 
before the 
boy could fire. She fired at him, but missed, and saw him dive 
behind a 
pile of rubble. Time slowed; she reached instinctively for the 
planetary 
harmonies, to shape the weapons she needed, but her mind rebounded 
from 
the overlying noise of the machines. It was not as bad as it had 
been in 
other parts of the city -- the buildings here were empty shells, 
the dull 
brick acting almost as a baffle. She let her heylin fall to the 
ground at 
her feet, reaching again, with more care and with more focused 
strength, 
for the harmonies surrounding her. For a fleeting moment, the 
world 
wavered, and then she had it under control, the music vibrant in 
the air 
around her. 

 Already, the boy hiding behind the rubble had levelled his gun, 
was 
shouting for the others to get out of his way. She could feel its 
distortion in the enclosing music. This was no place for subtlety, 
for the 
usual barriers and counter-Words. She spoke a single Word, and a 
tiny 
patch of hell blossomed between her cupped hands, a door into the 
Formless 
potential of the submaterial world. Hastily, she summoned Form, 
the first 
that sprang to mind, the union of fire and air that was the 
lightning 
bolt, then spoke the Words that would direct it to its target, the 
combination of metal and powdered fire that practically shrieked 
its 
menace aloud. There was no time to do more, to shape the bolt or 
to allow 
for displacement. She opened her hands and the lightning roared 
upward, 
air splitting away from its passage. A man's height above her 
hands, the 
bolt divided, became threefold. The three fell together, one 
striking at 
the youth Silence had seen behind the pile of rubble, the others 
splitting 
off to strike guns she had neither seen nor felt. Then the fire 
vanished, 
the air rolling back in a single long peal of thunder. Silence 
swallowed 
hard, looking at the charred corpses, but kept her hands steady 
before 
her, containing and controlling the patch of hell. 
"Let us pass," she said, and her voice was very loud in the sudden 
quiet. 
For a long moment no one moved, the figures in orange and blue 
standing 

frozen in the dirty street. Then, very slowly, one tall boy let 
the chain 
he carried slide, rattling, to the ground. The clatter and splash 
of metal 
seemed almost as loud as the thunder; Silence winced, and kept her 
hands 
steady with an effort. 
"It's her," the boy said, and sank slowly to his knees. 
An inarticulate murmur like a sudden wind ran through the group. 
Silence 
did not dare take her eyes from them to glance at the other 
star-travellers, waiting tensely at her shoulders, but in her 
state of 
heightened awareness she could sense their confusion and wary 
hope, 
feelings that matched her own. 
"No...." The voice, a woman's voice, came from behind Silence. The 
pilot 
turned, not daring to move too quickly, keeping the patch of hell 
steady 
before her. The opening spat and fizzed as the unFormed potential 
struck 
her hastily constructed barrier, sparks rising from and falling 
back into 
an eye-searing disk that was at once all colors and no color at 
all. 
Another awed murmur rippled through the crowd, the sound tinged 
with fear. 
Another youth dropped to his knees, and a girl followed him, 
stretching 
herself face down on the cracked paving. One by one, the others 
followed, 
until only a single woman was left standing. It was she who had 
spoken 
before, Silence knew, but she herself said nothing, waiting for 
the other 
woman to speak. 

 "Silence," Balthasar said, very softly. "Silence...." 
"Shh." Silence fixed her eyes on the standing woman, and lifted 
one 
eyebrow in imperious question. The woman hesitated a moment 
longer, then, 
grudgingly, bent her knee. Silence took a deep breath, and nodded 
to the 
men at her shoulders. 
"All right, let's go," she whispered, and took a step forward. 
"Lady." It was the kneeling woman who spoke, in a harsh, painful 
voice. 
"We repent our sin. Don't leave us, we beg you." 
Silence froze, the words echoing in her mind. Behind her, she 
heard Chase 
Mago's startled gasp, and Balthasar whispered a curse. 
"We will serve you faithfully. We've waited for you loyally all 
these 
years," the kneeling woman went on. "Punish us however you want, 
but don't 
leave us." 
"Who --" Silence began, and then rephrased her question, a vague 
plan 
forming in her mind. "Who am I?" 
"Herself," the kneeling woman answered. "The Empress." 
Abruptly, Silence was seized with the desire to laugh. It was too 
much, 
that these crazy natives should go from trying to kill her to 
kneeling at 
her feet, that they should call her empress. She struggled to keep 
her 
face expressionless, the laughter welling up inside her. 

 "We'll serve you," the kneeling woman said, her voice cajoling 
now. "We'll 
do whatever you want -- look." She reached into the bloused front 
of her 
bright-blue vest, and pulled out a small, glittering disk. "See, 
we've 
done what we were told; we've gathered the forbidden tools. 
Please, stay." 
Silence's eyes narrowed, the laughter draining away. The woman was 
holding 
an old-fashioned astrolabe, the tool port astrologers had used to 
calculate relative planetary positions and the intersecting 
harmonic 
envelopes. Such a thing shouldn't be loose on Earth, especially 
not here 
in the Kills.... At her shoulder, Balthasar said softly, "This is 
beginning to show potential." 
Chase Mago shook his head fractionally, the vox humana still 
hugged close 
to his body. "I don't like it," he said. 
Silence hesitated. She had no doubt that this gang was dangerous, 
and the 
dangers of impersonating a deity were a staple of star-travellers' 
fiction. But the woman had an astrolabe -- carried it in her 
pocket like 
any professional astrologer -- and she promised other items.... 
And, 
almost as important, they could use this gang to protect 
themselves from 
Rafaiel. I've been with Denis entirely too long, she thought, but 
nodded 
slowly. "Very well," she said, and closed her hands over the patch 
of 
hell, whispering the Word that sealed it. "We'll stay with you for 
a
while." 

 "Thank you, lady," the kneeling woman said. She looked up, 
questioningly, 
and Silence realized she was waiting for permission to rise. The 
pilot 
nodded, and the other woman pushed herself slowly to her feet, her 
head 
still lowered subserviently. 
"I'm named Efelay," she said. "What -- how should we call you, 
lady?" 
The pilot hesitated in her turn, wondering if she should invent 
something, 
but then shrugged internally. "My name is Silence," she began, and 
was cut 
off by the sudden awed murmur from the crowd. 
"Haven't they ever heard a virtue-name before?" Chase Mago 
muttered into 
the noise. 
Silence shook her head. "Why should they have?" she answered, 
still 
watching Efelay. The native woman lifted her hands, waiting until 
the 
crowd quieted again. 
"And these others?" She nodded toward Balthasar and Chase Mago. 
Silence hesitated again. If she told the truth, she might be able 
to 
associate the other star-travellers with whatever odd virtue she'd 
acquired; a lie would be pointless, without knowing more of this 
group's 
morals, and difficult to maintain. She said slowly, "They're my 
husbands. 
Julian Chase Mago and Denis Balthasar." 
Efelay nodded, an almost ritual movement. "Then will you come with 

us, 
sieuri?" 
"We will," Silence answered. 
At her back, Balthasar gave a choked laugh, and said, in his 
broadest 
Delian accent, "Gods-consort, are we? What next?" 
Chapter 8 
EFELAY LED THEM THROUGH THE NARROW, EMPTY streets with unerring 
grace, the 
rest of the gang following at a respectful distance. Silence was 
very 
aware of their presence but was equally certain that she had cowed 
them, 
at least for now. As they passed yet another burned-out group of 
factories, these marked with some of the same orange-and-blue 
symbols worn 
by the gang members, Silence wondered again if she was doing the 
right 
thing. Still, they did have the astrolabe, and Efelay had promised 
other 
"forbidden items": even so, Silence kept her inner ear tuned to 
the 
surrounding harmonies, ready in an instant to summon up the powers 
that 
had overawed the gang before. 
They were coming up on another building almost covered with 
orange-and-blue markings, the painted symbols taller even than 
Chase Mago. 
Some were completely unfamiliar, names and slogans written in a 
mixture of 
coine and local orthography; others were distortions of the magi's 
symbols. Silence's eyes narrowed, seeing those. One was a symbol 
of simple 
conjuration, and the double lines of alchemical multiplication 
were 

repeated above and to either side of a boarded-over doorway; 
beyond that 
was a distorted drawing that might have been the sign of 
projection, but 
the simple lines had been doubled and redoubled until the meaning 
was 
completely lost. The pilot frowned. None of the symbols was placed 
properly to call on any power. They were scattered at random, 
almost as 
though a child with a hieroglyphica had been allowed to scribble 
on the 
walls. If this was all the knowledge the gang possessed, she had 
already 
lost her gamble. 
To her surprise, however, Efelay led them past the painted 
building, then 
through an increasingly complicated series of alleys, until at 
last they 
reached a narrow street almost blocked by fallen bricks and wood. 
Efelay 
turned into that maze, walking along the right-hand wall, and 
seemed to 
vanish as she ducked under a massive beam that slanted from the 
ruined 
upper story to the rubble below. Silence checked, startled, and 
Balthasar 
said, "Go on." The gang pressed close behind. 
There was a note in his voice that allowed no argument. Silence 
did as she 
was told, running one hand lightly along the wall. As she reached 
the 
beam, the wall disappeared: there was an entrance hidden there, 
shadowed 
by the beam and the rubble, and further concealed by curtains hung 
to trap 
the light. She fought her way through the heavy fabric, swearing 
to 
herself, and emerged into a narrow corridor where the paint was 

peeling in 
great strips from the walls. Efelay was waiting at its end, at the 
top of 
a badly lit stairway. More curtains shrouded the landing, cutting 
off any 
light from below. 
"Down here," she said, and beckoned. 
Silence followed, glancing back only once to make sure the other 
star-travellers were at her back. The rest of Efelay's people 
trailed 
after, but she ignored them. 
The gang's quarters were well below ground level, and cut off from 
the 
rest of the abandoned building by still more blind turns and 
elaborate 
light traps. The building had probably once been a factory, 
Silence 
thought, with these lower levels once used for transit access or 
for work 
that needed to be shielded from all outside influences, but the 
room in 
which they finally stopped had been changed beyond all 
recognition. 
It was another long room, perhaps three times as long as it was 
wide, with 
poured-stone walls that seemed to exude a damp chill. Silence 
shivered 
once, and disciplined herself to be still. The first two-thirds of 
the 
room was almost empty, dismounted tables and folding chairs, all 
of 
brightly colored plastic, stacked against the walls. The walls at 
the far 
end of the room had been hung with thick curtains painted with 
some of the 
brightly colored symbols that she had seen on the building 

outside. Here, 
they seemed to have been arranged in a more considered order. She 
frowned, 
trying to trace the common theme, and then realized that the 
symbols had 
been ordered according to the ancient -- and anciently discredited 
-- 
zodiacal system. A low platform had been built up within the space 
enclosed by the curtains, its top painted black, and marked with 
more 
silver-grey symbols. From where she stood, it was hard to be sure, 
but the 
pilot thought she recognized a Ficinan-derived schema of the Earth 
system. 
She frowned, confused -- a two-dimensional model was less than 
useless for 
operations of the Art, and not much use for star-travellers, 
either, even 
if the Earth natives knew anything about it -- and Efelay cleared 
her 
throat. 
"If you'll take your place, lady?" 
Silence took a deep breath. This was the moment she had been 
dreading 
since she'd made the decision to go with the gang, the moment when 
she'd 
have to admit that she didn't have any idea what they wanted of 
her. 
Balthasar would bluff, she knew, and bluff magnificently, with no 
more 
information than she had. Or did she know more than she'd thought? 
she 
wondered abruptly. They'd spoken of the empress, as Quin Javerry 
said his 
father had done; predictors did tap into a common, if frequently 
silly and 
ultimately uncontrollable source, and she did know what the elder 
Javerry 

had seen.... She pitched her voice carefully, using the tones 
reserved for 
public -- and therefore impressive -- ritual, and said, "What is 
it you 
want of me?" 
She heard an intake of breath behind her: neither Balthasar nor 
Chase Mago 
had heard her use that voice before. There was a murmur at once 
awed and 
unhappy from the gang members crowding the doorway. Efelay caught 
her 
breath, too, and answered, stammering a little, "To -- to teach 
us, lady. 
That's why you've come?" Her voice trailed off at the end, and 
Silence 
lifted an eyebrow. 
"Is it?" 
Efelay hesitated, but rallied quickly. "So we were promised." 
Silence smiled deliberately. "Are you certain of that?" Without 
waiting 
for Efelay's answer, she swept on, "Think: you saw that I -- we -- 
would 
come here, that I would be, as I am, a magus. You were promised 
nothing 
more." She held her breath again, hoping that she'd guessed right, 
that 
they hadn't seen anything more than the older Javerry. They 
couldn't've 
seen more, she told herself again, but her muscles tightened 
anyway, ready 
to fight or run. 
Slowly, Efelay nodded, and Silence hid her own gasp of relief. 
From the 
crowd behind her came a second voice, a young man's this time. "I 
told you 

that was all, that this didn't have anything to do with the 
teacher." 
In her state of heightened awareness, Silence could hear the first 
stirrings of skepticism in the young man's voice, and braced 
herself to 
meet it. Before she could speak, however, Efelay said, "She knew 
what was 
seen, didn't she?" 
"Yeah, Fitch, you can't argue with that." The voice, too young to 
be 
surely either male or female, came from somewhere in the group on 
the 
stairs, and was echoed by a mutter of agreement. 
"So?" The young man the others had called Fitch was quick to 
answer. 
Silence glanced sideways, and saw him shouldering his way out from 
among 
the others, a tall, skinny youth with the beginnings of a beard 
straggling 
across his jawline. In an attempt to make the fair hairs seem 
thicker, he 
had dyed them blue and orange; instead of making him look 
ridiculous, the 
patchy color somehow added to the menace. 
"Fitch," Efelay said, with new formality, "is our anadvocate." 
Silence nodded, wondering how that concept -- the Contrary, the 
one 
required to speak for the unpopular side -- had survived the 
centuries, 
when so much else had been lost. 
"If she didn't come to teach us," Fitch said, "what's she here 
for?" 
It was a pity, however, Silence thought remotely, that so many 

anadvocates 
seemed to enjoy the job. She could feel the other star-travellers' 
sudden 
tension at her side, and said, "I -- we -- are here for purposes 
of our 
own. That we encountered you I admit is a sort of good fortune. 
You have 
certain things that could help us, and we would be willing to 
trade 
knowledge, teaching, for them. But we were not -- sent -- to teach 
you, 
that I deny." 
Fitch and Efelay exchanged glances, the woman expressionless, 
Fitch 
frowning, and then the anadvocate said, "I accept that." 
Silence heard Chase Mago's soft sigh of relief, but there was 
something in 
Fitch's stance that stopped her from echoing it. 
"But," Fitch said, "if this is just a matter of bargaining, what's 
the 
price for the three of us she killed, and the wounded?" 
Silence raised an eyebrow, hiding the cold fear in her stomach. 
That they 
could escape, she had no doubt -- she could still feel the 
harmonies, 
could still feel the powers waiting within her -- but it could 
cost them 
dearly. She could not defend them all against the gang's 
mechanical 
weapons. "That was fair fight," she said, and smiled. 
There was a long pause, and then, quite slowly, the anadvocate 
nodded. 
"Fair fight," he acknowledged, "but there should be a price." The 
crowd 
murmured in agreement. 

 Efelay clapped her hands, cutting off the noise. "Will you give 
rest?" 
Silence hesitated, not knowing exactly what the other woman meant, 
and 
Fitch said, "The rite thambhor." 
Silence bit off an instinctive refusal. At her back, Balthasar 
said, "Do 
it." 
With an effort, Silence kept her face expressionless, forcing back 
her 
anger. Thambhor was another of the examples the magi on Solitude 
used to 
point out the misuses of the Art, a simple, almost mechanical 
operation 
invested with a significance far greater than its real symbolic 
values. 
Still, she knew what the rite involved, if not the forms of the 
ritual; 
she could do what had to be done. And Balthasar was right; it was 
a small 
enough price to pay to win the gang's support. She took a deep 
breath, and 
said, as calmly as she could, "I'll do it, as you ask, as payment. 
But 
I'll tell you this, also as payment -- as a first teaching. 
There's no 
virtue in this rite, except for the virtue -- no, the necessity -- 
of 
getting rid of the bodies." 
There was a murmur at that, incredulous and tinged with anger, and 
Silence 
bit her lip, afraid she'd gone too far. Chase Mago stirred at her 
side. 
"Or such virtue as imparted to it by the good intentions of 
practitioner 

and witnesses," he said. 
Silence gave him a startled glance -- she hadn't expected that 
particular 
brand of metaphysics from the engineer -- but nodded slowly. 
"Let's go," Efelay said, and pointed toward the stairs. 
The bodies had been left in yet another section of the warren, 
reached 
through another series of stairs and tunnels. Finally they had 
climbed the 
last stairway, and ducked through a carefully arranged light trap 
into a 
small, stone-paved courtyard. Half of its surface was covered with 
rubble, 
narrowing the space even further. In the center, piled awkwardly 
on a 
trestle table, lay the bodies of the gang members killed in the 
attack. No 
one had made any attempt to lay out the charred bodies properly; 
whoever 
had brought them had apparently decided he or she had done enough 
just by 
placing them on the table. Silence swallowed hard, sickened by 
what she'd 
done. She doubted she would have done any better, wasn't sure she 
would 
have done as much. 
The gang had followed her up the stairs, had, without speaking, 
arranged 
themselves around the walls of the courtyard, with Efelay standing 
at the 
far side of the circle. Silence looked up sharply, and Efelay 
said, "Let's 
begin." 
"Let's," Fitch echoed, and Silence was grateful for his acid 
voice. His 

anger steadied her; she put her own guilt and sorrow grimly aside, 
and 
concentrated on the work at hand. This was a work of simple 
dissolution -- 
she would not think of it as thambhor -- an operation controlled 
primarily 
by a world's lunar harmonies, and by the interaction of core notes 
and the 
distant, dissonant music of its moons. On a moonless world, one 
could use 
the music of the system's other planets, though that was a less 
effective 
expedient, and it was often better to use another operation 
altogether, 
but here.... Silence glanced up, and saw Earth's single moon, 
rising 
three-quarters full above the broken roofs of the surrounding 
factories. 
One moon -- the first moon known to human beings, to the first 
magi -- and 
one core harmony, a music that was becoming more familiar to her 
with 
every passing day. She murmured the First Cantation, letting 
herself slide 
into the familiar waiting state. It was becoming easier to block 
out the 
noise of the machines, though there seemed to be fewer of them in 
this 
part of the mainurb; she could feel the core notes almost at once, 
and let 
them rise around her. Then, very cautiously, she damped them down, 
as she 
would damp down the music of the harmonium, and reached instead 
for the 
music of the moon. 
It was there, but very faint, despite the swollen shape in the 
sky. She 
listened for what seemed to be a very long time before she was 
sure she 

had it under control. Only then did she speak the Words that 
brought the 
two harmonies together. There was a sort of sigh in the 
courtyard's chill 
air, a buzzing that was almost like a human music. Faintly, 
Silence heard 
a murmur from the gang members lined up along the walls, and, as 
faintly, 
heard Balthasar telling them to be quiet. 
The buzzing sigh swelled further, the sound taking form, a faint 
silver 
haze, just visible against the dark walls. Silence spoke again, 
shaping 
and directing the controlled dissonance. The haze moved, 
coalescing into a 
silver fog. She gestured, and it moved toward the table where the 
bodies 
lay. Slowly, moving under her direction, the fog formed itself 
into a 
ragged disk, and lowered itself toward the bodies. Tendrils 
formed, 
drooped, and touched the bodies, faint sparks showing here and 
there. 
Silence brought the disk closer, until it touched and enclosed the 
bodies, 
hiding them from sight. The sound shifted, darkened and deepened, 
and then 
returned to what it had been. Silence spoke a final Word, 
releasing the 
controlled harmonies. There was a sound almost like chimes, and 
the 
silvery light vanished. The bodies were gone as well. 
Silence glanced around the circle, feeling the weariness that came 
from 
performing such an operation completely unsupported, but not 
daring to 
acknowledge it yet. "There," she said aloud, "what you asked is 
done." 

 "It's done," Efelay agreed, and, after a moment, Fitch nodded, 
too. 
"It's done." 
"And our bargain?" Silence asked. "My teaching in exchange for the 
use of 
your -- what you call your forbidden tools?" 
There was another, shorter pause, and then Efelay nodded. "It's a 
bargain, 
lady Silence." 
"It's a bargain," the anadvocate echoed. 
The gang provided them with a pair of rooms in one of the factory 
outbuildings, in a section set well apart from the gang's other 
holdings, 
and not too obtrusively guarded. The gang controlled the usable 
parts of 
at least four such structures, each one linked to the main 
building 
through a maze of tunnels. The tunnels had to antedate the 
abandoning of 
the factory, Silence thought -- the gang didn't have the technical 
or 
mechanical skills to dig so deep in the Kills' unstable soil -- 
but she 
could not figure out the tunnels' original purpose. They were 
convenient, 
though, allowing the gang to move from one part of the factory to 
another 
without being seen, and adding an additional layer of insulation 
against 
both mechanical sensors and the more sophisticated questers 
available to 
the Rose Worlders. 
After the first few days, the gang was scrupulous in allowing them 

the 
appearance of privacy, though Balthasar swore they were still 
being 
watched. Silence did not doubt him: whatever else they might be, 
the gang, 
and Efelay in particular, was not noticeably naive. As an 
experiment, 
Silence enclosed their rooms in an aphonic ring; when none of the 
gang 
members mentioned the creation, she sealed off the space with a 
simonist 
lock, keyed only to the star-travellers. Its presence was 
unmistakable, 
unlike the ring's, and she waited nervously for Efelay or Fitch to 
comment 
on it. Neither mentioned it, however, and the pilot allowed 
herself to 
relax a little. 
Efelay allowed the star-travellers access to the gang's collection 
of 
"forbidden tools" almost at once, and when Silence said she needed 
materials she had left at the hostel, sent a couple of gang 
members to 
fetch the carryalls. Looking at the materials the gang had 
collected, 
Silence was very glad she had a few things of her own. The gang's 
collection of tools was a very mixed bag, ranging from useful 
items such 
as the astrolabe to a child's toy, a Ficinan model of the Earth 
system 
enclosed in a sphere of crystal. The planets, surrounded by haloes 
of 
colored light representing the planetary harmonies, moved 
soundlessly 
along their orbits, the lights fuzzing and blending as the planets 
moved 
from opposition to conjunction. Silence appropriated that at once 
as a 
useful tool for her teaching, leaving the engineer to explore the 

rest of 
the cache. 
She discovered almost at once that she had no talent for teaching, 
lacking 
the ability to restate a paradigm in order to make it 
comprehensible. To 
her surprise, however, both Balthasar and the anadvocate Fitch had 
that 
knack, and were able to translate for her. Her more complicated 
explanations tended to be filtered first through the Delian, and 
then 
through Fitch, who worked and reworked Balthasar's version until 
Efelay 
and a dark youth named T'la, who seemed to be the most naturally 
talented 
of the group, understood. 
Taken as a group, the gang knew a surprising number of individual 
facts -- 
among other things, they believed in what Fitch described, with a 
sardonic 
grin, as the "UFO heresy," that space travel is or was once 
possible, and 
that there were other intelligent beings on unnamed other planets, 
which 
made it easier for the star-travellers to explain the Rose 
Worlders' 
domination of Earth. They also had learned, from samizdat, the 
crude, 
hand-printed booklets that circulated at astronomical prices among 
the 
Kills' underworld, a surprising assortment of workable and 
unworkable 
operations. However, they lacked both an organizing principal and 
an 
awareness of the importance of such a principal. Silence, trying 
to take 
them through what she remembered of the Trivium as she had been 
taught it 

on Solitudo, was continually sidetracked by questions about the 
more 
sophisticated applications of the Three Arts, and frustrated by 
her own 
inability to explain why the basic structure was so important. 
"Why don't we just write it all down, and then look it up when we 
need 
it?" a skinny boy -- Larabee, his name was, Silence remembered, 
after a 
moment's thought -- complained. It was at least the fourth time 
that day 
that someone had made the same objection. Silence took a deep 
breath, 
fighting back her anger. 
"Because you may not have the books with you, or have time to look 
it up," 
she said, shortly, falling back on the one explanation that seemed 
to 
carry some weight with the Earth natives. There was more to it 
than that 
-- a written chart was static, unable to express the multiple 
nexuses, the 
subtle and shifting connections between categories, all of which 
were 
governed by explicit symbolic rules. On Solitudo, she had learned 
those 
rules by rote, memorizing both those lists and the elaborate 
ordering 
methods, systems far more complicated than the comparatively 
simple rules 
for piloting, simply because she had been told to do it, because 
that was 
the way the Art was learned. She had been rewarded by the 
wonderful moment 
when everything suddenly became clear, the almost-epiphany when 
the 
systems began to function as they should, leading her mind 
automatically 

through the required conjunctions. She had tried explaining that, 
once, 
and Balthasar had done his best to translate, but even he hadn't 
fully 
understood. Silence had admitted defeat, and looked instead for 
the 
practical explanations that seemed to convince the students. 
"But doesn't it take time to remember all that?" someone else, a 
girl this 
time, asked from the back of the group. 
Sometimes, Silence thought, I'd almost believe the magi when they 
say 
women don't have the right sort of mind to appreciate the Art. She 
controlled her anger, and said, "No. The more you learn -- the 
more you 
know, the faster it gets." 
The girl scowled, and Fitch said, "Like a computer, sort of. The 
better 
you know the system, the faster you find things?" He looked at 
Silence 
with a sudden smile, pleased with the metaphor. 
Nothing like a computer, Silence thought, with a shiver of 
distaste. A 
computer is non-thought, anti-thought; what it creates destroys 
the Art. 
... She put aside that knowledge with an effort, forced herself to 
contemplate the metaphor itself, as a metaphor, without the 
emotional 
resonances. After all, she herself had learned to use the 
information 
systems at the transport stations -- which were computers -- by 
making use 
of the techniques she had learned on Solitudo to analyze 
unfamiliar 
symbolic languages. Still, the equation of computer knowledge with 
the 

symbology that was the basis of the Art disturbed her on a very 
deep 
level. To make that association seemed somehow dangerous, inviting 
the 
computer's anti-thought to invade the Art at its most basic, and 
thus most 
vulnerable point. Fitch was waiting for his answer, the smile 
fading a 
little. Silence sighed. "Yes, that's true to a certain extent," 
she said. 
"But remember what I told you about computers before. They can't 
be used 
around the workings of the Art -- they're like all mechanical 
creations, 
except worse. So it's a dangerous way to think of it, Fitch, even 
if it's 
true." 
"But if it's just a metaphor," Larabee began, and Silence glared 
at him. 
"Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you? Metaphors are 
real." She 
bit back the rest of her outburst, and went on, more calmly, 
"Metaphor is 
simply one class of symbol, do you see that? And symbols are the 
basis of 
the Art; symbols are the way we manipulate reality, and therefore 
symbols 
are -- must be -- real, too. Think about that for the rest of the 
day, 
understand it. We'll talk more about it tomorrow." 
She pushed herself to her feet before anyone could protest at the 
abrupt 
ending, and stalked off toward the room where Chase Mago was 
working. She 
ignored Efelay's voice behind her, soothing and dismissing the 
others. 
After a moment, she became aware of Balthasar's presence at her 

elbow, and 
slowed apologetically. To her relief, however, the Delian didn't 
mention 
the day's lesson, saying instead, "How's Julie doing with the 
vox?" 
Silence shrugged. "How would I know? I think he's still sorting 
out what 
works from the mess they've collected." She still sounded sour, 
and knew 
it. She glanced sideways with a half-smile of apology, and 
Balthasar 
nodded. 
"Frustrating, I know. But it buys us time -- and the use of their 
toys." 
Silence smiled fully then in spite of herself. "Don't you feel 
old?" 
Balthasar grinned back. "Not me." 
Silence snorted, and then they had reached the painted curtain 
that 
covered the door of the gang's treasure room. The curtain was the 
result 
of the pilot's first attempt to teach the gang an elementary 
manipulation, 
before she'd realized how fragmentary their knowledge really was. 
She 
lifted her hand, feeling the warding music imprisoned in warp and 
weft, 
held by the painted pattern, and pushed it aside to step into the 
enclosed 
space. Chase Mago had set up a sort of workshop here, covering the 
walls 
and the floor and ceiling with crudely made baffles, but Silence 
could 
feel the leashed music trembling in the air around her. If the 
shielding 

ever failed, or if she and the engineer had been less skillful 
than they'd 
thought in preparing the baffles, the Rose Worlders could hardly 
miss the 
site. And the Rose Worlders did keep a watch for such things; she 
had 
learned that much in her time with the gang. Quin Javerry had been 
right; 
the Rose Worlders had attacked the farm because they'd discovered 
the 
senior Javerry's successful experiments. The farm, unshielded and 
set far 
away from the urban areas that might have provided some disguising 
dissonance, must have sung on their screens like a half-tuned 
keel. 
Silence winced, and put the thought aside. 
Chase Mago had sorted the gang's collection of "forbidden tools" 
into 
several different categories, and objects were arranged along the 
walls 
and across the single work table in a complicated pattern. Most of 
the 
items had been set in a pile at the back of the room as useless. 
Silence 
recognized a ring from an orrery among the debris, and a couple of 
frayed 
strings that might once have belonged to a magus's monochord, but 
most of 
the things were no longer identifiable. What could the scraps of 
black 
cloth have been? she wondered. Durafelt, or some other material 
for 
baffles? She stooped to touch it, but felt only ordinary cloth. 
The engineer grunted his agreement, and Silence looked up quickly. 
"I'd like to know why they brought it, too," Chase Mago went on. 
"Hell, 
I'd like to know why they got most of this stuff, never mind 

where." 
Balthasar laughed. "You can't expect them to tell you where they 
got it, 
Julie. They've got their trade secrets." 
"I'd like to know -- I need to know what some of this is." Chase 
Mago 
gestured to a handful of clear tubes spread out on the main table. 
They 
glittered and sparked in the glow from the fixed-fire lamp Silence 
had 
rigged for the work space. "Those, for instance. I could maybe use 
them 
for a tuner, but I haven't the faintest idea what the tolerances 
might be 
-- from the look of them, they could be anything from ship's parts 
to 
something out of a homunculus, for God's sake. And I don't have 
enough of 
them to test them out -- half of them are flawed anyway, and by 
the time I 
knew what I had, I'd've smashed them all." 
He stopped, glaring at the other star-travellers, and Silence said 
quickly, "I think we might be able to take Efelay into telling us 
what 
these things were being used for when they acquired them." 
"If they know," Balthasar said. He leaned against the worktable, 
and 
picked up one of the thin tubes. He held it under the light, 
turning it so 
that reflected lights danced across the peeling walls. Chase Mago 
gave an 
exclamation of annoyance, and took it away from him. 
"Do you want the counter-clash to shatter it? Leave my things 
alone." 

The Delian shrugged, and looked at Silence. "I just wonder how 
much of 
this they're buying on the darkside, getting it third- or fourthhand 
from 
people who don't know what it is, either." 
Silence shook her head. "Not too much," she said, thoughtfully. 
"To make 
it worth buying, someone must know something...." Her voice 
trailed oft" 
as she glanced at the objects littering the room. "No, that's not 
necessarily so, is it? There seems to be a market for anything the 
Rose 
Worlders use." She shook herself. "Still, why don't we try asking 
it that 
way, Denis? Put it as needing to know what things were being used 
for, not 
where they got it." 
"We can try," Balthasar said, "but I'm not hopeful." 
"It would be a help," Chase Mago said, with thinly disguised 
impatience. 
"We'll try," Silence said, and touched his shoulder gently. 
The engineer made a face, shrugging a little, but did not turn 
away. 
Before he could say anything, however, the bells sewn to the 
inside of the 
door curtain chimed, and one of the younger gang members stuck his 
head 
into the workshop. 
"Sorry, guys -- sieuri, I mean -- but Efelay wants to see you 
right now, 
all of you. She says it's important." 
Silence exchanged quick glances with the other star-travellers. It 
wasn't 

like Efelay to interrupt them -- and it wasn't like her to 
overestimate a 
thing's importance, either. "We'll come. Where is she?" 
"In the Out," the boy answered. "I'll take you." 
The Out was the surviving half of a building set somewhat apart 
from the 
rest of the factory used by the gang. There was no tunnel leading 
from the 
last of the linked buildings to the Out; instead, the startravellers 
followed their guide up a narrow stairway to a smelly, halfcovered 
alley. 
It was the first time in several days that Silence had been 
outside, and 
she found herself glancing rather wistfully at the hazy sky. 
The boy led them through a low arch half hidden by a carefully 
arranged 
pile of rubble, then through yet another series of light traps and 
into a 
narrow, badly lit hall. The walls were scribbled with more of the 
gang's 
orange and blue symbols, the symbols they used, Silence realized, 
to mark 
their "public" buildings, the one from which they confronted 
strangers. 
The hall ended abruptly in a curtained doorway. The boy paused 
there 
briefly, then swept the curtain up and back. Silence took a deep 
breath, 
suddenly aware of the theatricality of the gesture, and made her 
entrance. 
The room was crowded, perhaps a third of the gang gathered in its 
center. 
Efelay turned as the star-travellers entered, and beckoned for 
them to 

join her, saying, "Lady Silence, I think this is a matter that 
concerns 
you." 
"Oh?" The pilot came forward warily. The walls, painted with the 
overlapping orange and blue designs for perhaps three or four 
meters, only 
accentuated the height of the ceiling; it was like walking into 
the bottom 
of one of the crystal tubes that controlled Solitudo Hermae's 
atmosphere. 
The gang made way for her, and closed in again behind the startravellers 
as they passed. 
Efelay and Fitch were standing together at the center of the 
circle, 
staring thoughtfully at the man whose arms were pinioned by two 
more gang 
members. He stared back with a sort of frightened determination, 
licking 
at the blood that trickled from his split lip. He was young, 
Silence saw, 
not much older than most of the gang members, and handsome in a 
nervous, 
feral way. He wore a short, brocaded coat that glittered with 
multicolored 
metallic threads, and a brightly feathered mask lay crumpled at 
this feet. 
Rich boy, Silence thought, but then she saw the worn workcloth 
trousers, 
and the coat's carefully mended seams. Not rich, then, but 
fashionable 
beyond his means, and in a way she hadn't seen before. 
"Lady Silence," Efelay said again. "This -- person says he has 
business 
with you." 
The prisoner took a half-step forward, and was hauled back by his 

guards. 
"You're the ones who bought my vox?" he said, and winced as the 
words 
jarred his cut mouth. 
"Your vox?" Chase Mago said involuntarily. 
Silence gestured for him to be quiet. "We bought a vox, from a man 
called 
Rafaiel." 
"That was mine." There was a desperation in his voice that had 
nothing to 
do with the gang surrounding him, and Silence's attention 
sharpened 
further. 
"I need -- I want it back," the young man continued. "I'll pay you 
what 
you spent, and then some -- or whatever you want. But I want my 
vox back." 
"I say we put him down the shaft," Fitch said, and nodded toward a 
gaping 
doorway at the far end of the room. Silence saw the prisoner 
twitch, but 
he kept his eyes focused on her face. 
"That vox had to have come from off-world, Julie?" she asked, 
keeping her 
voice low. 
The engineer nodded. "It isn't old enough to be pre-War," he 
answered, in 
the same soft tone, "and it couldn't've been made here. Not 
without magi's 
help, anyway." 
Silence nodded, as much to herself as to Chase Mago, and the 
prisoner 

said, "Then you'll let me have it back?" 
"Maybe." Silence paused deliberately, studying the young man. He 
was 
afraid of the gang, she knew, could read that in every movement of 
his 
body, but there was something else driving him -- someone of whom 
he was 
more afraid, perhaps? It was impossible to be sure, and she put 
that 
question aside for the moment. "Where'd you get this vox?" 
The young man jerked in his captors' hands, and Silence's eyes 
narrowed. 
That was not the question he had been expecting, of that she felt 
sure. 
"Answer me," she said, and put compulsion into her voice. It 
wasn't a 
technique that often worked, and she was not surprised when the 
young man 
shook his head convulsively. 
"I can't," he said, and shook his head again. His voice wavered as 
he 
added, "Surely it's not important?" 
That was the textbook counter to an attempt at compulsion, Silence 
knew, 
the attempt to distract the questioner, to postpone the next 
question in 
order to allow one to rebuild one's defenses. An off-world vox, 
and 
knowledge of off-world techniques.... 
"I still say we ought to drop him down the shaft," Fitch said 
again. 
"Not yet," Silence said, with deliberate menace, and raised her 
left hand. 
Slowly, exaggerating each movement, she began to sketch the 

outline of a 
geas, the pentagram first, and then the warding crescents. She 
glanced at 
the prisoner -- he had paled even further, and he was sweating -- 
and 
started to close the geas. The young man threw himself violently 
backward, 
almost dragging the guards down with him. They hauled him upright 
again, 
swearing, and one of them punched him hard in the stomach, 
doubling him 
over in their arms. Silence murmured the Words that dismissed the 
geas 
half-formed, and waited until the prisoner had his breathing under 
control 
again. 
"So," she said, and smiled thinly. "You recognized that, too. 
Where did 
you learn it -- the same place you got your vox?" 
The young man hesitated, trembling, and Silence lifted her hand 
again. 
"Yes," the prisoner said quickly. "Yes, that's right." 
"Where?" Silence asked. 
"From -- a friend," the young man answered, and flinched, 
anticipating a 
blow that did not come. 
"He sleeps with the Unionists," Efelay observed. 
"Does he, now?" Balthasar murmured, and Silence couldn't check her 
own 
satisfied smile. A connection with the Unionists -- with the Rose 
Worlders 
-- recognition of a geas in formation, and a real vox humana.... 

"The vox came from off-world," she said aloud. "Who gave it to 
you?" 
The prisoner flinched again. "He'll kill me." 
"We'll kill you," Efelay said, dispassionately. 
"Answer me," Silence said, and lifted her left hand again. 
The prisoner pulled away, and the guards dragged him back. 
"Don't," he 
said, and took a quick breath. "He works on the Island, that's 
all, just a 
friend." 
Silence shook her head. "I can read you," she said, and the young 
man made 
a face. 
"He works on the Island," he said again, and added, sullenly, "His 
name's 
Radan." 
"Kennet Radan?" Efelay said sharply, and Fitch whistled. 
"We've caught us an interesting fish this time." 
Radan? Silence thought. She glanced at Efelay, not wanting to ask 
aloud, 
and the gang leader shrugged. 
"Kennet Radan is a Unionist functionary, mid-rank or better -- his 
title's 
havildar, I think." 
The young man made a slight, involuntary movement, and Silence 
nodded to 
herself. "Havildar" was an old, old word, dropped from all but the 
most 
formal hierarchies within a century of the War's ending. Even the 

Hegemony 
no longer used it, except as an honorific. Once, however, it had 
signified 
the second most powerful post within a government department, a 
position 
that did not change with party or dynasty, but was held by a 
professional 
bureaucrat. All things considered, she thought, I doubt an Earth 
native 
could rise much higher -- and I'm quite sure no Rose Worlder would 
give a 
native a vox humana. She glanced at Balthasar and saw him smiling, 
the 
calculation obvious in his face. 
"All right," she said slowly. "What's your name, anyway?" 
The prisoner did not answer, but Fitch said, "He calls himself 
Mikajaa. 
He's a musician, of sorts." 
"Mikajaa, then." Silence nodded. "I'll name a price for returning 
your 
vox. I want to see Radan." 
"Silence?" Chase Mago's voice was frankly appalled. 
The pilot glanced at him, unsmiling. "Don't you see? He can get us 
a tuner 
-- if he got this Mikajaa a vox humana, he can get us a tuner, and 
you 
won't have to fool around with these bits and pieces." She looked 
back at 
the prisoner. "Because if he doesn't get us a tuner, we can 
destroy him 
without ever harming ourselves." 
"Wait a minute," Efelay said, her face hardening abruptly. "We had 
an 
agreement." 

 Silence turned to the other woman, cursing her own unguarded 
tongue. "I 
don't see that this affects it," she began. 
Fitch cut in. "This wasn't part of the bargain, messing with the 
Unions 
directly." 
Silence lifted an eyebrow in calculated disdain and said to 
Efelay, "This 
is our best chance to get the thing we need -- the tuner -- 
without having 
to take all of the tools you've collected. I'm offering exactly 
what I 
offered before; it's just your part that's changed -- become 
easier, I'd 
say." 
Fitch frowned at that, but Efelay gestured for him to be quiet. 
"What 
exactly do you want?" 
"Your support -- your backing -- when we meet Radan." 
Efelay nodded. "For your teaching," she said, "We'll do it." 
Mikajaa took a deep breath, and capitulated. "All right. I can 
take you to 
him." 
"Oh, no," Balthasar said. "Neutral ground." 
"The Earth-born don't leave the island," Mikajaa answered. He 
licked 
nervously at his bloody lip, and jerked his head at Efelay and 
Fitch. "Ask 
them, if you don't know yourselves. If he -- if I -- betrayed you, 
you 
could still ruin him." He grimaced bitterly. "You'll get your 

chance to 
talk to him. He'll probably like it." 
Silence nodded. It seemed logical enough -- if I were the Rose 
Worlder in 
charge of the local help, she thought, I wouldn't let them out of 
my 
sight, either -- and Mikajaa was being right about his chances of 
betraying them. The only way to stop them from telling any captors 
what 
Mikajaa's patron had done was to kill them, and it was highly 
unlikely 
that the musician would be able either to do it himself or to 
arrange 
their deaths before one of them could tell the Rose Worlders just 
what was 
going on. It was a risk worth taking, if it would get them a real 
tuner, 
and get them off Earth that much more quickly.... She nodded 
again, 
decisively. "We'll do it," she said aloud. 
"Silence," Chase Mago said again. "I can retune with what we've 
got." 
"And how long will it take you?" Balthasar retorted. "She's right, 
Julie." 
"There's more involved here than just retuning," Silence said. She 
hesitated, then added, "Aili, remember?" She willed them to 
understand. 
Whatever happened with their contract or with Aili, once the 
Hegemon 
understood that Earth could be taken from the Rose Worlders' 
control, 
there would be an invasion, and the more information they could 
provide, 
the less chance there would be of being dragooned into the 
invasion fleet. 
All around her, the gang members did their best to look as though 

they'd 
heard nothing, but she was not deceived. She lifted an eyebrow at 
the 
anadvocate, who had the grace to blush and look away. 
The engineer sighed. "All right." 
"Some of us will go with you part of the way," Efelay said. "Just 
to keep 
him honest." 
Silence considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Up to the 
bridges, 
then." 
"It'll be a pleasure," Fitch said, and gestured to the youths 
holding 
Mikajaa's arms. They released him, and the musician stooped 
quickly to 
recover his broken half-mask. 
"One thing, Mikajaa," Silence said, and the musician straightened 
warily. 
"Do the bridge Watchers scan for weapons -- off-world weapons," 
she added, 
and saw Mikajaa wince at her casual mention of forbidden topics. 
"Answer the Lady," Fitch growled. 
Mikajaa nodded reluctantly. "They scan for everything," he said, 
after a 
moment. 
Silence glanced at the other star-travellers. "Better leave the 
heylins, 
then." She held out her hand. 
Chase Mago slipped his heylin out of the pocket of his coat 
without 
protest, but Balthasar hesitated. "Do you think that's wise?" 

 "Wiser than trying to sneak them in," Silence answered. The Delian 
made a 
face, but handed over the heylin. The pilot put her own heylin 
with the 
others, and frowned down at the piled weapons. She could sense the 
leashed 
fire in their chambers, and the distant harmonies of the planet: 
carefully 
but quickly, she wove the two together, sealing the heylins in a 
shell of 
frozen air. When she had finished, they seemed to float a few 
centimeters 
above her hands, the seal invisible but tangible. She offered the 
creation 
to Efelay, who took it warily, shivering as her hands touched the 
invisible solidity. 
"I've sealed them because I don't want anyone trying to use them 
and 
getting hurt," Silence said. They all knew that was not the whole 
truth, 
but Efelay nodded anyway. 
"We'll keep them safe," she said. 
"Thank you," Silence said, and turned her attention to the 
musician. He 
was wiping the blood from his mouth with the sleeve of his 
undershirt, but 
stopped, feeling her eyes on him. 
"A warning, Mikajaa," the pilot went on. "You know what I am -- 
I'll know 
if you're trying to betray us, and I'll stop you." She sketched 
the 
opening gesture of a geas in the air between them, and saw the 
musician 
flinch away again. 

"I understand," he whispered. 
"Good," Silence said coldly, and suppressed the sudden feeling of 
guilt. 
She had been under geas herself; she should know better than to 
use those 
tactics.... I haven't put him under geas, she told herself firmly, 
and I 
won't, if I can frighten him without it. That's all that matters, 
getting 
him to cooperate. She looked at her husbands, reading her own 
determination in their faces. "Let's go." 
It was a long walk to the bridge that linked the Kills to the Rose 
Worlders' main holding on Man's Island itself. One spur of the 
elevated 
train ran there, of course, but Balthasar vetoed that, for fear 
Mikajaa 
would find some way of alerting the Transit Authority. The 
musician looked 
sulky at the suggestion, but said nothing. Instead, Fitch led them 
through 
the uncrowded streets, occasionally pausing to point out some 
local 
landmark. Balthasar listened closely, obviously plotting escape 
routes, 
and Silence was just as glad to let him deal with it, and with the 
other 
gang members who were following a distance behind, ready to 
intervene if 
they were attacked. Instead, she watched Mikajaa, trying to read 
the 
thoughts behind the handsome face. The musician was more than he 
seemed, 
of that she felt certain -- for one thing, she could not imagine 
taking 
the risk of revealing any part of the Rose Worlders' secrets to 
someone 
who was nothing more than a convenient bedmate -- but she couldn't 
be sure 

what he was or just how much he did know. He would have to be 
watched 
closely once they came into the Rose Worlders' domain, she 
decided, and 
marshalled all her powers. Once they were across the bridge, 
everything 
would depend on her. 
"We're coming up on the Rosemont," Fitch said over his shoulder. 
He slowed 
down as they approached the next cross street, coming to a halt in 
front 
of a barred store window. "I don't think we should go any farther. 
" 
Balthasar nodded. "All right. What's beyond here?" 
"More stores, houses, a couple of blocks of that," Fitch answered, 
"and 
then the Rosemont. You just follow this street and it'll bring you 
right 
up to the approach." 
"Wonderful," Chase Mago muttered, and made a gesture of apology. 
"Sorry, 
Fitch, no insult intended." 
The anadvocate shrugged. 
"Thank you, Fitch," Silence said. "We'll go on alone from here." 
"I'll have T'la wait for you, here by the fountains," Fitch 
answered, and 
turned away. 
"Fountains?" Silence said, and then she saw, between two houses, 
the 
entrance to a sort of courtyard. A stone basin was just visible 
between 
the walls, though no water played over its dusty surface. "Oh, I 

see." 
Fitch lifted his hand in farewell, and was gone. 
Silence turned back to study the musician, who returned her stare 
with 
outward calm. "You understand what you have to do," she said. 
Mikajaa nodded. "It's my own neck, and Radan's," he said. "I'll 
tell them 
you're part of a band; that'll be good enough." 
"It had better be," Balthasar said, with silken menace. 
The musician gave him a baleful glare. "Do you think I want to get 
killed?" 
"We're trusting not," Silence said. "Come on." 
The street curved gently as they approached the Rosemont, then 
widened 
into a sort of plaza. The open space was paved with square tiles 
of some 
dark-grey stone; beyond it was a low, white-painted fence, 
reaching only 
to the middle of her thigh. A grass-covered hill rose gently 
beyond that, 
sweeping up to support the massive pillar of the bridge. There 
were no 
pedestrians in sight: clearly this was an area that ordinary 
people 
avoided. Silence frowned thoughtfully, studying the arrangement. 
It was 
significant, of that she felt sure, each element a part of some 
hidden 
schema, but she was not certain of its purpose. Or rather, she 
corrected 
herself, she could guess it had protective intent, but she wasn't 
certain 
of its precise function. The stone looked familiar, though -- like 

the 
treated chips of slate the magi used to animate their Watchers, 
she 
thought suddenly, and her attention sharpened. That slate was far 
from 
inexpensive, or easily made; no one would use it for paving 
without very 
good reason. 
Frowning, she whispered the Words that allowed her to see the 
patterns 
imposed by the Art. For a moment, she saw nothing, but then a web 
of 
twisted lines became visible, floating just above the surface of 
the 
slates. She studied it dubiously, her steps slowing, but saw no 
traps 
concealed in its convoluted surface. It was a variation of the 
same 
schemae that created the Watchers, a warning device, and nothing 
more. 
Even so, she found she was holding her breath as she stepped onto 
the dark 
stones. 
The moment that her foot touched the first slate, a door slammed 
open in 
the base of the bridge piling. Even though she'd been expecting 
something, 
Silence jumped, startled, and glanced quickly at her companions. 
Balthasar 
smiled back at her, one hand resting on Mikajaa's shoulder in a 
seemingly 
friendly gesture. The musician's face was impassive. After a 
moment, 
Balthasar released him, still smiling, but kept close to the 
younger man's 
side. 
Two men were waiting in the doorway, rifles lowered at the ready. 

Seeing 
that, Silence frowned and said, "Are they always this suspicious?" 
Mikajaa nodded. "Oh, yeah. They don't really like having the Earthborn 
on 
the Island -- if they could put us anywhere else, they would. But 
don't 
worry, I can get us through." 
"I see." Silence studied him warily. This was the first time 
Mikajaa had 
volunteered information, and also the first time he'd referred to 
himself 
as one of the "Earth-born." I wonder, the pilot thought, does that 
refer 
to any native, or just to the ones who serve the Rose Worlders? 
And if 
it's the latter, have we been -- very neatly -- manipulated? 
There was no time to pursue the thought. They had reached the 
bottom of 
the little hill, and Mikajaa stopped at the opening in the fence, 
nodding 
to the man who came down the hill toward them. The guard nodded 
back 
politely enough, but his face was closed and wary. 
"Papers?" 
Silence pulled her own folder carefully from her pocket, and the 
others 
did the same. The guard scanned them without haste, and then 
handed 
Mikajaa's folder back to him. 
"I know you," he said. "What about the rest of you?" 
"They're friends of mine," Mikajaa said. "Part of the band. Mir 
Radan 
wanted to meet them." 

 The guard lifted an eyebrow, and flipped through the papers again, 
scanning each set of ident stamps in turn. After what seemed like 
an 
interminable tune, but was probably only a minute or so, he 
shrugged and 
handed them back to Mikajaa. The musician, face still carefully 
impassive, 
handed them to their owners. "Do we pass?" he asked. 
The guard hesitated, and then sighed. "Yeah, go ahead. You'll be 
red-stamped at the other end of the bridge. Mikajaa can tell you 
what that 
means." 
"Thanks," Silence murmured, and the others echoed her. The guard 
did 
something with the control box at his belt, and nodded. Mikajaa 
stepped 
carefully through the opening, and the guard beckoned to the 
star-travellers. 
"One at a time, now," he said. 
Silence stepped through the opening first, and felt the tingling 
of a 
leashed newtonian field. It came from the fencing to either side, 
she 
realized, and shivered. Anyone attempting to cross that ordinarylooking 
fence would be immobilized by the field -- would be torn apart, if 
the 
power input were high enough. She glanced at the other startravellers, 
wondering if they'd felt it, too. Chase Mago lifted an eyebrow as 
he 
stepped through the gate, but Balthasar, as always, was 
unreadable. 
"This way," Mikajaa said, and pointed to the open door. 

 A spiral stairway led up through the center of the pillar. There 
were 
guards at the top and bottom, but they made no move to stop the 
newcomers. 
Silence could feel their eyes on her, curious and appraising, and 
wished 
suddenly for a veil. Lacking that, she met their stares as calmly 
as she 
could, and hoped they would attribute her nervousness to ordinary 
fear. 
The bridge itself was surprisingly narrow, barely wide enough for 
two 
groundcars to pass abreast, and quite empty of traffic. There was 
no 
provision for vehicles, either; in fact, the paving was 
deliberately 
ridged in a pattern designed to disrupt a hoverfan. Silence 
stumbled on 
the first of the ridges, and swore irritably. 
"Over here," Mikajaa said. 
There was a smoothed path through the ridges, after all, small 
enough to 
force them to walk single file. Mikajaa took the lead, and Silence 
fell in 
behind him, wishing she had been able to bring her heylin. Still, 
she 
consoled herself, at this distance the Art would be able to 
control him. 
The bridge seemed very long. To either side, support-steel cables 
dipped 
and rose between the twinned towers, smaller cables connecting 
that broad 
coil to the platform of the roadway. The water was very blue and 
choppy, 
the surface broken up by hundreds of little waves that appeared 

and 
vanished abruptly. There was no particular pattern to their 
movement, no 
current visible in the water. Silence studied it curiously. Some 
of the 
water would be coming downriver, mingling here with the tide from 
the 
great ocean that lay to the east. She thought she could pick out a 
brownish tinge to the water to her left, but it might have been 
only the 
reflection of the buildings lining the shore. She sighed and 
looked away. 
As they approached the bridge's central tower, Silence became 
aware of a 
faint sighing, like the noise of wind through narrow-leaf marryns. 
The 
sound grew stronger as she came closer to the tower, becoming more 
like 
running water, or the noise of a distant fire. 
At her back, Chase Mago said, "Do you hear -- ?" 
"I hear it," Silence said, and touched Mikajaa's shoulder. The 
musician 
did not turn. 
"There's some kind of guard field coming up," he said. "It's 
normal." 
"I don't like it," the engineer muttered, but said nothing more. 
Silence shivered, and felt the hairs on her arms rise slowly. 
Whatever the 
field was -- not another newtonian field, that much she knew, but 
she did 
not recognize the schema -- it was very powerful. The dull, 
rushing noise 
seemed to come from the clear air to either side of the tower, not 
from 

the tower itself. It grew still louder as they came within a few 
meters of 
the structure, and Silence caught herself glancing back, looking 
for the 
approaching wind. She controlled herself angrily, forcing herself 
to 
consider it as an academic problem, even as Mikajaa said, "Relax." 
"You'd better be right about this," Balthasar said again, and 
Silence 
could hear the fear beneath the threat. 
"It feels like --" she began, and stopped abruptly, remembering 
that the 
Rose Worlders would have listeners set up along the span of the 
bridge. 
"Oh, I know, it's all right," Balthasar said, but he did not sound 
appeased. 
"Relax," Mikajaa said again. 
Then they had reached the tower. Silence could feel the leashed 
power, far 
greater than anything she had handled. Even on the Earth-road, 
when she 
had manipulated those magnificent symbols, she had been assisting 
an 
existing process, channeling power into a path for which it 
already had an 
affinity. Whatever formed the basis of this field was unstable, 
barely 
controlled by the strict bonds laid upon it. The pilot could feel 
its 
restlessness, could almost hear, beneath the rushing noise, a 
voiceless 
moaning, something demanding to be free. She could almost smell 
sulphur, 
the most common by-product of working with the submaterial, and 
held her 

breath as she stepped under the tower's arch. 
The noise eased slightly, and the feeling of tension faded. She 
glanced 
over her shoulder, and saw what seemed to be a wall of fog, 
filling the 
space between the towers and curving across the water to either 
side. That 
explained the instability, at least: the magus who had built the 
barrier 
had created it so that it was invisible from the outside, all the 
visual 
clues to its existence confined inside it. That sort of trick was 
inherently unbalanced, expensive and difficult to maintain -- but, 
Silence 
thought, probably the only way the barrier could be created 
without 
betraying its origins. 
Man's Island itself loomed ahead, very green after the pouredstone 
buildings of the rest of the mainurb. Silence smiled in spite of 
herself, 
but Balthasar said sourly, "Very pretty." 
Chase Mago laughed, but Silence nodded, the smile fading from her 
face. 
The careful landscape was too pretty, too perfect to be trusted. 
She 
looked more closely, and began to see the pattern hidden in the 
apparently 
random arrangement of the long buildings, the overlapping fields 
of fire 
from the fantastically decorated towers to either side, and the 
hedges and 
trees placed to herd invaders into certain specific areas. She 
couldn't 
tell exactly what would be hidden there, but she was certain she 
didn't 
want to find out directly. 

 There was another guard post at the end of the bridge. This time, 
their 
papers were checked at the top of the spiral stairs, and again at 
the 
bottom, before the guard captain nodded reluctantly. At this 
gesture, a 
second guard came forward with an oddly shaped vial fitted with a 
wide 
nozzle. "Hold out your hands." 
Mikajaa did as he was told, and the star-travellers copied him. 
The guard 
touched a button on the side of the vial, and Silence felt her 
hands 
bathed in a damp, invisible mist. 
"That's the red stamp," the guard captain said. "If you enter any 
restricted areas -- they're clearly marked as forbidden -- the 
stain will 
show, and alarms will sound. The penalties for trespassing begin 
with 
death." He sighed. "I suppose Mir Radan knows what he's doing," he 
said, 
and handed the ID folders back to the musician, who distributed 
them 
without speaking. "But you're responsible for them, Mikajaa, 
remember 
that." 
"I know," Mikajaa said, and made a face. "I'm not likely to 
forget, am I?" 
Silence tensed at that, bracing herself for betrayal, but the 
guard 
captain laughed and motioned them through the gate. The startravellers 
followed Mikajaa across an immaculately groomed lawn, and then 
through a 
series of interlocking gates, half living tree and half metal, 

until they 
finally reached a low-lying building. Mikajaa paused in the shadow 
of the 
overhanging doorway, fumbling in the pocket of his brocaded coat. 
Silence 
eyed him warily, and Balthasar said, "Lost your keys?" 
The musician glanced angrily at him, but said nothing. Instead, he 
pulled 
out a paper-thin disk a little smaller than a woman's hand and 
slipped it 
into an almost invisible slot beside the door's lock mechanism. 
There was 
a distant chime, and a hatch slid back to reveal a small screen 
and 
keyboard. The screen was blank, but Mikajaa studied it for a 
moment 
anyway, his head tilted to one side, before typing in a quick 
series of 
commands. Silence, watching shamelessly over his shoulder, 
recognized the 
access and inquiry codes for the Hegemony's most common control 
system, 
and filed the information for later use. After a moment, the 
screen 
flashed a curt message, "entrance permitted," and the door 
unlocked itself 
noisily. Mikajaa pushed it open, motioning for the others to 
precede him 
into the building. 
"After you," Silence said, firmly. The musician shrugged, and did 
as he 
was told. When nothing happened, the star-travellers followed. 
The doorway opened onto a sort of low balcony that overlooked a 
sunken 
reception room. Silence caught her breath, recognizing goods from 
across 
human-settled space -- handwoven rugs from Athlit laid over a much 

larger, 
darkly patterned carpet, a crystal carved in the shape of a 
Sareptan 
orchid, an immense platter that seemed to have been made from a 
single, 
meter-long piece of cloud-agate -- and Mikajaa said, "This way." 
"So you were right about this Radan importing things," Chase Mago 
murmured, and the pilot nodded. 
"I hope I'm right about the rest." She followed the musician down 
the 
short ramp into the reception room, feeling her feet sink deep 
into the 
carpet's thick pile. A faint, cinnamony scent rose from it: 
chamaas, she 
realized, and whistled softly. 
"Come now, sieura, I didn't think you'd be impressed." 
The voice, with its perfectly accented coine -- the coine of the 
star 
lanes, not of Earth -- came from the left. Silence controlled her 
first 
reaction, made herself turn slowly to face the stranger. A man was 
standing in a door set just beyond the ramp, hidden from above by 
a
carefully placed painted screen. He was not a particularly big 
man, a 
little above medium height, with greying hair and a strong, rather 
fleshy 
face. He was wearing a floor-length scarlet coat covered from hem 
to knee 
with gold embroidery: in the old days, Silence remembered, that 
had been 
the mark of a havildar. 
"Sieur Radan," she said, and was pleased that her voice remained 
steady. 

"Sieura -- Silence? Surely that's not your only name." Radan 
stepped into 
the room, and Mikajaa came forward quickly, easing the coat from 
the 
havildar's shoulders. He slipped it onto the t-shaped stand that 
stood in 
one corner of the room, and returned with a crystal goblet, which 
he 
handed to Radan. 
"It is my name," Silence said, and smiled. 
"As you wish." The havildar gestured to the carved chairs that 
stood at 
studied intervals across the room. He had been wearing a plain 
tunic and 
workcloth trousers beneath the robe of office, Silence saw -- an 
interesting affectation, she thought, as she seated herself in the 
chair 
closest to the door, but not necessarily significant. ' 
"I'll stand," Balthasar said, with a grin, and leaned against the 
back of 
the pilot's chair. Chase Mago settled himself on the floor beside 
Silence 
without a word. 
"Drinks?" Radan asked, and nodded to Mikajaa. The musician came 
forward 
with a tray on which stood four glasses. Silence took one, but did 
not 
drink. After a moment's hesitation, the other star-travellers 
copied her. 
Mikajaa retreated noiselessly to the table that held the liquor. 
Radan sipped thoughtfully at his drink, watching the startravellers 
over 
the rim of his glass. Silence met his stare with all the innocence 
she 
could muster, and after a moment, the havildar smiled. "I've been 

expecting you, sieura." 
Silence smiled back. "I know," she lied. She heard Chase Mago stir 
slightly, and willed him not to give her away. "It seemed -- 
useful to 
make your acquaintance." 
Radan's smile widened. "Useful to me, certainly," he agreed. 
"Possibly," Silence said. 
Radan shrugged deliberately. "The crew of the foreign spaceship -- 
forgive 
me, the starship -- that broke through the barriers and then 
vanished 
could be extremely useful to me. You are that crew, are you not?" 
His tone implied certainty, rather than any real doubt. Silence 
nodded 
slowly. "We are." This time it was Balthasar who shifted in 
protest; the 
pilot put out her hand, not looking at him, and gestured for him 
to be 
quiet. 
Radan smiled again. "My -- employers -- are most anxious to 
'contain the 
contagion, ' as they put it." 
"It's a bit late for that," Balthasar muttered. 
"Obviously they would be," Silence said. "After all, they've been 
controlling the Earth-road for -- how many years? They hardly want 
to lose 
their monopoly now." Radan started to say something, but Silence 
continued, riding over the havildar's words, "I confess I'm 
surprised you 
haven't turned us over to your masters -- employers. I should 
think you'd 
be in need of proofs of loyalty." 

 "How so?" Radan frowned. "Oh, the vox." 
Silence gestured to the other off-world goods decorating the room. 
"And 
all of this." 
"Ah, well, that's permitted -- an acceptable perquisite of the 
position, " 
Radan said. 
When your position's weak, Silence thought, attack. She nodded 
toward 
Mikajaa. "And him? I'm surprised he's been allowed to see so 
much." 
"Perhaps it is something of a gamble," Radan admitted, "but he is 
a useful 
agent. As you've seen." 
So it was all staged, the pawned vox and everything that followed, 
Silence 
thought. Except the gang: I'm reasonably sure Radan has no control 
there. 
She said, "Indeed. I think we've made our points, Sieur Radan. 
We're 
mutually vulnerable." 
Radan nodded. "We are." 
When he said nothing more, Silence sighed, "You brought us here, 
havildar. 
What do you want of us?" 
Radan set his goblet aside, and the pilot braced herself. "Your 
star-ship," the havildar said. "All our reports indicate it was 
rather 
badly damaged before we lost it, and I frankly have to assume that 
your 
presence here confirms that --" 

 "We could be coming to overthrow the Rose Worlders," Balthasar 
said, and 
Radan shook his head. 
"Three of you, alone? I hardly think so." 
"Your estimate is a little low, havildar," Silence said, smiling 
to hide 
the cold knot of fear in her stomach. Radan was guessing entirely 
too well 
for her comfort. 
Radan smiled again. "If you say so, sieura. Nonetheless, I do 
think the 
reports -- visual as well as sensor scan -- of extensive damage to 
your 
ship are quite accurate." He leaned forward slightly. "I would be 
willing 
to help you make your repairs -- for a price, of course." 
"Oh, of course," Balthasar said. 
"We might be willing to not tell the Rose Worlders just what 
you've been 
doing," Silence said, deliberately misunderstanding. 
Radan laughed. "That would hardly be to your advantage, sieura, 
really. " 
He sobered quickly. "What I am offering is access to off-world 
equipment, 
things that will make your repairs much easier. In exchange, I'd 
ask your 
help, sieura, in one thing." 
"And that is?" Silence asked. 
"Help me to destroy the barrier enclosing Man's Island." Radan's 
lined 
face was completely serious now. "That's always been the crucial 

thing. 
I'm not a magus -- none of the Earth-born are allowed to learn the 
Art -- 
and it will take a magus's power to break through that field. You, 
sieura, 
are the first magus to reach Earth in hundreds of years who is not 
one of 
them. I want your help." 
Silence blinked, startled by the sudden passion in the havildar's 
voice. 
"What good will it do to destroy the field?" she asked, buying 
time. "I 
understood the central control point was on another island, I 
forget the 
name." 
"Ice Island," Mikajaa said, softly. 
Radan made an impatient gesture. "Since the eruptions started 
again last 
year -- it's a volcanic island, sieura -- most of the operations 
have been 
transferred here. As to what good it will do.... We've been 
waiting for 
this chance for quite some time." 
Silence nodded to herself. A number of things were being suddenly 
made 
clear. She said, slowly, "So you have something planned --" and 
Radan cut 
in quickly. 
"Which, frankly, does not concern you." 
"But it does," Balthasar said. "Very much so." 
Radan frowned. "I can offer you the off-world -- non-mechanical -- 
tools 
you need to make repairs," he said again. "Whatever you need, I 

can get 
for you -- if you'll do this one thing." 
Chase Mago stirred for the first time since he'd entered the 
reception 
room. "But can you?" he asked softly. "Not that I doubt your word, 
of 
course, but if you rebel and lose -- I assume that's what you're 
intending 
-- I don't see how you can help us." 
Radan murmured some answer, but Silence wasn't listening. A plan 
was 
forming in her mind, one that could -- would -- solve all their 
difficulties; one that would get them safely back out into humansettled 
space, and at the same time help Aili and possibly even break the 
Rose 
Worlders' hold on Earth itself, all with one simple move. Or 
relatively 
simple, she amended, the elation fading a little. But if I can 
persuade 
Radan, I think Aili and I between us can do the rest. She said 
aloud, 
interrupting the havildar, "Sieur Radan, your plan won't work, no 
matter 
how much support you have among the other Earth-born." 
"Why is that, sieura?" There was an edge to Radan's invincible 
courtesy 
this time, and Silence chose her next words carefully. 
"Even if you succeed in taking over Man's Island, and I admit you 
could 
probably do that, if I destroyed the barrier for you, you won't 
beat the 
Rose Worlders." Radan started to say something, and the pilot held 
up her 
hand. "Please, sieur Radan, hear me out. I don't know how much you 
know 

about star travel --" 
"A little," Radan murmured, and gestured in apology. "I beg your 
pardon, 
please continue." 
Silence said, as if he hadn't spoken," -- or the precise reasons 
that 
Earth hasn't been visited by people from outside the Rose Worlds. 
In 
brief, the Rose Worlders have set up siege engines that block the 
Earth-road, and we are the first to figure out how to break 
through that 
interference. Now that we know how to do it, of course, others 
will 
develop the same techniques -- especially since we're acting as 
agents for 
his most serene majesty the Hegemon. His majesty has been at odds 
with the 
Rose Worlds for some time." She took a deep breath, measuring the 
dawning 
comprehension on Radan's face. "If you were willing to cooperate 
with his 
majesty, to coordinate your rebellion with an attack by his 
fleet.... It 
would certainly increase the odds of your success." 
Radan was watching her closely, and Silence made herself meet his 
gaze 
without flinching. After a moment, the havildar said, "And how 
will this 
fleet get past the -- siege engines?" 
Silence took another deep breath, steadying herself. When she 
spoke, her 
voice was coldly calm. "I will destroy them." 
She heard a soft gasp from Chase Mago, but did not glance in his 
direction, fixing her eyes instead on the havildar. Very slowly, 
Radan 

nodded. "And can you promise me this alliance?" 
Silence shook her head, and Radan's eyes narrowed. "I can't," the 
pilot 
said. "But there's someone on-planet who can." 
"Aili --" Balthasar bit back the word almost before he'd finished 
speaking, and shook his head in apology. 
"Forgive me, sieura," Radan said, "but how do I know this person 
has the 
authority to make this bargain?" 
"Aili -- the Princess Royal," Silence said coldly, "is the 
Hegemon's 
oldest -- only legitimate -- child." 
Radan said nothing for a long moment, staring into space. "I'll 
want to 
speak with her myself," he said at last. 
"That can be arranged." Silence met his searching look blandly, 
and after 
a moment, the havildar looked away. 
"When?" 
Silence shrugged. 
"We'll contact you," Balthasar said. 
Radan smiled thinly. "I'd prefer a little more in the way of 
guarantee." 
"We are, as you pointed out, mutually vulnerable," Silence said. 
"Surely 
that's enough for you." 
Radan sighed. "I gather it will have to be." He straightened 
abruptly. 

"I'm intrigued by your proposal, sieura -- sieuri -- but, as I 
said, I'll 
want to meet your princess before I commit myself to anything." 
"How can we contact you?" Silence said. 
"Through Mikajaa," Radan answered. The musician looked up sharply, 
his 
mouth opening as though he'd protest, but the havildar ignored 
him, and 
the younger man subsided. "He has a drop-box at a bar called the 
Elite, 
which he will check daily." He glanced at Mikajaa, who nodded 
unhappily. 
Radan turned his attention back to the star-travellers. "Will that 
suffice?" 
"Yes," Silence answered, and pushed herself to her feet, setting 
aside her 
untouched drink. The other star-travellers copied her. Chase Mago 
drew 
himself up to his full height, and Silence was very grateful for 
his 
massive presence. 
"Mikajaa will see you back to the Kills," Radan said. 
Balthasar started to protest, but Silence shook her head at him. 
"That 
will do," she said, and managed a chill smile. "Thank you for this 
meeting, sieur Radan." 
The havildar bowed with almost courtly grace. "I'm delighted to 
have met 
you, sieura." 
Outside the low building the air was sticky, but Silence found 
herself 
shivering despite the heat. She forced herself to relax, to think 
of 

nothing at all, and the shivering lessened. By the time they'd 
reached the 
bridge, she had herself under control; by the time they reached 
Rosemont 
on the far side, she was almost calm. 
"So," Balthasar said, as they reached the edge of the slate plaza 
and 
stepped into the shadow of the street. "I think you've gone far 
enough. " 
He was looking at Mikajaa, who stopped warily, just out of reach. 
"You know where we're going," Silence said, almost gently, weaving 
a
subtle thread of compulsion into her words. "You don't need to 
follow." 
Mikajaa made a face -- clearly, the pilot thought, my spells don't 
have 
much effect on him -- but backed away from Balthasar's advance. 
"All 
right, I won't follow." 
"Better get moving, then," the Delian said. 
The musician hesitated a moment longer, then turned away, picking 
up speed 
as he moved down the street. Silence watched him out of sight, 
then 
glanced back at the others. "Thanks for backing me up." 
"You're out of your mind, you know," Balthasar said, but he was 
grinning. 
"If this works...." 
"If," Silence said, grimly. 
"Can you really destroy the siege engines?" Chase Mago asked. 
The pilot hesitated. That had been the biggest uncertainty in her 

plan, 
but, in theory at least, there was no reason that the engines 
could not be 
shattered from Earth. "I think so," she said, and was not 
convinced. She 
made herself speak more firmly. "I think I can." 
The engineer shook his head, but said, "If anyone can do it, 
Silence, you 
will." He glanced at Balthasar. "This still feels like one of your 
ideas, 
Denis." 
The Delian laughed. 
"Be grateful for it," Silence said, and glanced around again. 
Mikajaa was 
long gone -- she could not feel his presence anywhere nearby -- 
and the 
shadowed street was empty. She sighed, and nodded in the direction 
of the 
fountains where T'la was waiting. "Let's go." 
Chapter 9 
T'LA WAS SITTING ON THE EDGE OF THE BROKEN fountain, idly tossing 
chips of 
stone at a flowering weed. He looked up as the star-travellers 
appeared at 
the head of the alley, and smiled. 
"I'm glad you made it." 
So am I, Silence thought, but said only, "Sorry to have kept you 
waiting." 
The boy shrugged. "No problem." 
They returned to the gang's headquarters by a different, more 
direct 

route, and T'la, after a low-voiced conversation with the girls on 
guard 
duty at the main entrance, took them through the maze of tunnels 
to the 
painted basement room where they had first confronted Efelay. The 
gang 
leader was waiting there, sitting cross-legged on one of the 
dismounted 
tables, Fitch at her side. They looked up eagerly as the startravellers 
appeared, and Efelay said, "Did you get what you wanted?" 
Silence nodded, and seated herself on a table opposite the gang 
leader. 
"What can you tell me about Kennet Radan?" 
Efelay shrugged, and glanced at Fitch. "You know more than I do," 
she 
said. 
The anadvocate made a face. "What do you want to know? He's one of 
them 
--" 
"Them?" Chase Mago asked. He leaned against the painted wall, 
apparently 
at ease, but Silence could see the tension in his movements, and 
was not 
deceived. 
"The Unionists," Fitch said. "The ones who run things." He paused, 
looking 
back at Silence. "What do you want to know?" he said again. 
"Who is he, where does he come from, what has he done?" Silence 
answered. 
"Anything you can tell me about him." 
"All right." Fitch nodded. "It isn't much, though. He's a Unionist 
from 

way back. I don't know where he comes from, or anything like that, 
but he 
started out here as a recording sergeant, and gave everybody a 
whole lot 
of trouble." 
"Recording sergeant?" Balthasar asked. 
The anadvocate nodded again. "You know, the person in charge of 
keeping 
track of everybody in a district. He started out in the Kills, and 
did 
such a good job that he got promoted, taken into the hierarchy. 
He's been 
on the Island ever since -- they say he's real important, but not 
the top 
man." 
Silence nodded. That fitted in well with her own perception of the 
situation: Radan was intelligent, ambitious, extremely competent -- 
and he 
could never rise beyond his present position, simply because he 
had had 
the misfortune to be born on Earth. "Is he -- reliable?" she said 
aloud. 
Fitch shrugged. "Define reliable." 
"They say," Efelay began slowly, "they do say he had a deal with 
Rafaiel, 
back when they were starting out. And he hasn't done Rafaiel dirty 
yet, 
for all that everybody knows Rafaiel's a technologist, and that he 
runs 
their organization." 
"What do you mean by a 'technologist'?" Silence asked. 
Efelay grinned. "They don't believe in the Art," she said. "They 
think 

that their machines're going to save everybody." 
"Well, of course Radan -- or the Rose Worlders -- wouldn't crack 
down on 
them," Chase Mago said. His voice held the startled note of sudden 
revelation. "The more machines there are, and the more complicated 
the 
individual machines are, the less chance there is of somebody 
stumbling 
onto any of the important discoveries." 
That made a good deal of sense, Silence thought, was a very clever 
way to 
control Earth's natives, but it was hardly important at the 
moment. Before 
she could say anything, however, Fitch frowned. 
"Rafaiel's not just a technologist," he said. "Or at least he's 
becoming 
something else. His people don't talk as much about it as they 
used to, 
anyway. I mean, it's almost like he's using that for cover." He 
looked up 
sharply, his face lighting with sudden knowledge. "And he's still 
in 
contact with Radan. I know that for a fact." 
Is he, now? Silence thought. That cast a new and interesting light 
on both 
Radan and Rafaiel, and on the pawned vox.... "Can you find out any 
more 
about him -- about Rafaiel's connections with the Island?" she 
said aloud. 
"I can try," Fitch said, and Efelay corrected him. 
"We can do it." 
"Thanks," Silence said. She glanced at her husbands, and pushed 
herself to 

her feet. "The more we know about him, the more we can do." 
"But what are you doing?" Efelay asked. 
Silence smiled. "I intend to break the Rose Worlders' -- your 
Unionists' 
-- hold on Earth," she said. Without waiting for an answer, she 
turned and 
stalked toward the stairs that led to the tunnel that would take 
her back 
to her quarters. Balthasar and Chase Mago followed close at her 
heels. 
Once they had reached the outbuilding, and the aphonic ring was 
safely 
sealed around them, Silence dropped into the most comfortable of 
the 
chairs the gang had provided, sighing to herself. Balthasar threw 
himself 
down on the wide bed, kicking off his shoes. Only the engineer 
remained 
standing, staring soberly at the others. 
"Is it really fair," he said at last, "to tell these kids that?" 
Silence looked away, ashamed, but Balthasar said, "Well, it's the 
truth, 
isn't it? If what I think she's planning works, we will break the 
Rose 
Worlders' hold." 
"It's a pretty Delphic truth," Chase Mago said. 
Silence sighed. The engineer was right: even if she were able to 
put 
everything together, persuade the Hegemon to send his fleet to 
secure 
Earth and persuade Radan to cooperate with him, it wouldn't free 
Earth. It 
would merely result in an exchange of masters, and that was wrong, 

too. 
Still, the more contact Earth had with the rest of human-settled 
space the 
better; the more chance there would be of the planet's obtaining 
real 
freedom.... The argument was not entirely convincing, even to 
herself, and 
she looked away again. On the other hand, she -- they -- didn't 
have a 
great deal of choice. No, she told herself firmly, that wasn't 
true at 
all. There would be no hiding behind that excuse. She could have 
avoided 
meeting with Radan, could have made Chase Mago build his tuner 
from the 
bits and pieces owned by the gang; it would not have been easy, 
but it 
certainly wouldn't've been impossible. She had chosen, 
deliberately and on 
her own, to play for higher stakes, to try to get the materials 
that would 
let them get off-world more quickly. She would have to take the 
consequences of her decision, and do whatever she could to see 
that things 
were at least no worse on Earth once the Hegemon's forces had 
arrived. 
"I don't think it will be worse," she said, half to herself, and 
Balthasar 
frowned. 
"Don't think what will be worse?" he asked. 
Silence looked instead at Chase Mago. "I don't think I'm doing the 
wrong 
thing," she said. "Even if the Hegemon does take over here, he's 
still 
better than the Rose Worlders -- and once the Earth-road is 
generally 
known, which it will be, very quickly, there'll be even more 

options 
available. I don't think I'm wrong." 
The engineer sighed. "I hope you're right," he said. "I just hope 
you're 
right." 
Balthasar gave the pilot a wary glance. "Just what is it you have 
in mind, 
Silence?" 
"Exactly what I told Radan," the pilot answered. "I want to use 
Aili to 
contact her father --" 
"How?" Chase Mago interrupted. 
"Through the ship's systems, I suppose," Silence answered, "or 
even 
through the Rose Worlders' devices, if Radan has that kind of 
access. Once 
we've made contact, the Hegemon can bring his fleet in to support 
Radan's 
rebellion." She looked from one man to the other, from Balthasar's 
expression of thoughtful consideration to Chase Mago's frown of 
distaste, 
and burst out, "Good God, aren't you tired of being acted upon? 
I'm 
finally in a position to do something, and by God I'm going to 
arrange 
things my way for once." 
Balthasar grinned. "All right, I'm with you," he said. "Hell, why 
not?" 
"Julie?" Silence fixed her eyes on the big engineer. 
Chase Mago said nothing for a long moment, then, slowly, shook his 
head. 
"I don't like the Hegemony," he said at last. Balthasar started to 

say 
something, and the engineer held up his hand. "I know, Denis, it's 
not the 
same people who destroyed Kesse, not precisely. I know it's 
irrational -- 
but I don't particularly like handing Earth over to the government 
that 
did that." 
"We never had much choice about that," Balthasar said, but gently. 
"The 
Hegemon was going to profit by it one way or another." 
"I know." The engineer shook his head. "I said I was being 
irrational." 
"I think," Silence said slowly, "I think it makes a difference 
that Radan 
will be involved, practically in charge of the rebellion here. 
He'll be 
able to treat with the Hegemon as something like an equal, which 
is 
something we can give him, and something he couldn't've done on 
his own. " 
"I know," Chase Mago said again. He sighed. "You're right, 
Silence. We'll 
do it your way." 
"Thanks," Silence said. 
There was a moment's pause, and then Balthasar pushed himself up 
off the 
bed. "Right," he said, a little too loudly. "Let's get 
communications set 
up." 
The engineer nodded, and reached for the bag he'd left standing 
against 
the wall. Working quickly, he assembled the disguised bits and 

pieces into 
the communications unit, and, a little gingerly, keyed on the 
power. The 
tiny unit whined softly, but the crystal-lined dish remained 
clouded. The 
engineer made a face and adjusted the controls. Still nothing 
happened. 
"Wait a minute," Silence said, and murmured the Word that 
dissolved the 
aphonic ring. 
Chase Mago grunted. "That's better," he said, "but not wonderful." 
Silence leaned over his shoulder. An image was beginning to take 
shape in 
the dish. Isambard's features, backed by the familiar shapes and 
colors of 
Recusante's bulkheads, came clear, distorted only a little by the 
dish's 
curve. More annoying -- more disturbing, Silence thought -- was 
the haze, 
like a fog of tiny crystals, that washed back and forth across the 
image, 
threatening now and again to obscure it completely. "Can you do 
anything?" 
she asked aloud. 
The engineer shook his head. "It's the machines." 
Silence sighed, and leaned closer to the dish, staring into its 
foggy 
depths. She thought she could see Marcinik, standing behind the 
magus's 
shoulder, but Aili was nowhere to be seen. "Isambard." 
"Silence." The magus bowed slowly in acknowledgement. 
"Everything's well 
here." 

"And here," the pilot answered. "Something important's come up." 
In the background, she could see Marcinik stiffen warily, but 
Isambard was 
less easily perturbed. "Indeed?" 
"Is Aili there?" Silence asked, playing for time. "This concerns 
her, 
too." 
"I'm here." The faint voice, heavily overlaid with the whispering 
of the 
fog, a noise softer and more distorting than true static, came 
from the 
corner behind Isambard. 
Silence took a deep breath, bracing herself for the questions she 
knew 
would follow. "We've made contact with someone -- an Earth native 
in the 
Rose Worlders' service, here on Man's Island. He already has some 
plan to 
overthrow the Rose Worlders, and wanted my help. I suggested that 
he ally 
with the Hegemon, through you, Aili, and that you -- that we all 
work 
together to get rid of the Rose Worlders." 
"Do you think that's wise?" Isambard asked. 
Marcinik said, in almost the same instant, "But there's no way of 
knowing 
if his Majesty would agree...." 
"Of course he would," Balthasar muttered, and Silence waved for 
him to be 
quiet. 
"I think it would be pretty foolish of him not to take advantage 
of the 

chance of creating a friendly local government," she said to the 
dish, and 
Marcinik nodded. 
"Can we contact him?" ; 
"I think so," Silence began, and Isambard cut her off. 
"The ship's equipment is certainly capable of making such a 
transmission, 
and I believe it could be adjusted so that a brief message could 
even be 
sent without betraying the location of the sender." 
"Or there's a chance we could even use the Rose Worlders' own 
facilities," 
Silence said. "If Radan -- that's the native; his name's Kennet 
Radan -- 
has access to the communications facilities on the Island." 
Marcinik nodded, accepting the technical decision, but said, "I 
wonder 
what this Radan wants from his Majesty?" 
"I don't know," Silence said. "I thought it would be better if 
Aili dealt 
with that." She paused, and then said, "Are you willing to do 
this, i your 
Serenity?" 
There was a brief pause, the fog whispering across the face of the 
- dish, 
and then Aili's voice said, "Oh, yes, I'm willing." 
There was something in her tone that made Silence look up quickly, 
a note 
of calculation and of decision. Before she could say anything, 
however, 
Aili went on, "I think my father would accept it, too -- as you 
said, 

Silence, he'd be a fool not to." She moved suddenly out of 
Marcinik's 
shadow, to lean over the dish, her veil held automatically in 
front of her 
face. "I'll talk to him, and to this Radan." 
"It'll take time to get to the mainurb," Marcinik said. "How do we 
find 
you once we're there?" 
Isambard shook his head. "That will not be necessary," he said. 
"There is 
a quicker way." 
Silence made a face. "The janus gate," she said, and the other 
magus 
nodded. 
"It will be a strain on you, Silence, you will have to hold it by 
yourself, at the end, but it is not impossible." 
"We'll do it," Silence said, before she could change her mind. She 
glanced 
over her shoulder, but the other star-travellers were already 
moving away 
from the dish. "Be ready to help them through the gate," she said, 
and 
Chase Mago nodded. Satisfied, Silence looked back into the dish, 
and saw 
Isambard lift his hands, beginning the first part of the schema. 
She took 
a deep breath, and curled her own hands into the answering 
position, as 
though she cupped an invisible cylinder that rose from the edges 
of the 
dish itself. 
"Are you ready?" Isambard asked. 
Silence took a second deep breath, calming and controlling 

herself. She 
knew the schemae for the janus gate well -- it was the first 
operation she 
had ever had participated in, when they had been trapped on Mersaa 
Maia. 
There would be no difficulty in forming the gate, only in finding 
the 
sheer physical strength to hold it open alone while Isambard 
passed 
through it. But she would find it, somehow. She nodded. "I'm 
ready." 
"Excellent." Isambard paused for a long moment, visibly calling on 
his own 
rituals to calm and center his power. "Then let us begin." 
"Let's begin," Silence echoed. 
Isambard spoke first, intoning a chain of sound that made the air 
thicken 
even at a distance. Silence spoke the confirming phrase, and felt 
the 
common air of the room thicken even further, the heat rising as 
new forces 
were set into motion. Isambard spoke again, Words of Earth and Air 
that 
framed a space above the dish, gave solidity and Form to the shape 
Silence 
had imagined. She answered with the Words that locked that Form to 
her own 
power, and thought she could see the shaped air like a ghostly 
shadow 
rising from her cupped hands. It was very hot in the room now, the 
power 
they had summoned hovering just outside the mundane world, held 
only by 
barriers that they themselves had weakened. The janus gate was a 
manipulation of purgatory, similar to but in the end very 
different from 
the act of piloting, capable of joining two places on the same 

landmass of 
the same planet. The power involved was tremendous, and the 
possible 
danger if they lost control of the confining Forms was very high. 
Silence 
was sweating heavily, but could not spare a hand to wipe her face. 
Isambard spoke again, and she answered; the skeleton of the gate 
was 
complete, waiting for the power to be channeled through it. 
"Now," Isambard said, and gestured, reinforcing that movement with 
a Word 
like a crack of thunder. 
Silence copied him, and felt the power blossom beneath her hands, 
scorching her palms. She blinked, but held steady, colors 
fountaining 
between her hands, to pour and reform into something resembling 
recognizable images. Slowly, the wavering shapes steadied, until 
she was 
looking directly into Recusante's common room. She spoke the 
schema's 
final phrase, and felt the image lock firmly into place, the 
immense power 
of purgatory contained for now by the structure of the gate. 
"It's done," she said, and Isambard nodded. The older magus looked 
almost 
as tired as she already felt, and the operation was not even half 
over 
yet. Silence shivered, and forced herself to concentrate. 
"Now, your Serenity," Isambard said. 
Aili moved warily toward the opening defined by the gate, still 
holding 
her veil across her face. Chase Mago stepped forward promptly, 
offering 
his hand in support. The Princess Royal reached through the gate 
and took 

it, and then, with no apparent hesitation, stepped over the gate's 
high 
threshold and into the little room. Marcinik followed, declining 
any help 
from Balthasar. The colonel's face was pale, the very lack of 
expression 
betraying his unease. 
"Are you ready, Silence?" Isambard asked again. 
The pilot nodded. 
"Then I will transfer full control to you," Isambard answered. "We 
will do 
this in stages, as it was made." 
Silence nodded again, soothed by the magus's steady voice, then 
braced 
herself. 
"First, the threshold," Isambard said. 
Silence closed her eyes. She controlled most of that already, its 
solidity 
a comfort against the shift and flux of purgatory contained within 
it. 
Slowly, as Isambard relinquished his hold, the shadowy threshold 
took on 
weight, became not a comfort but a burden, sliding away from her. 
Frightened, she reached out for it, caught and held it. When she 
was sure 
that she had stopped its fall, she eased it cautiously back into 
the 
structure they had so laboriously prepared. It clicked back into 
place, 
but the sense of weight remained, the feeling that she had to work 
to keep 
it there where it belonged. 
"The sideposts," Isambard said. He released his hold very slowly, 

but even 
so, Silence had to struggle to keep them from tilting out of true. 
She 
could feel the heat rising again as she fought to control the 
unwieldy, 
invisible mass, heat that was another manifestation of the 
dissonance she 
could almost hear. At last, she had both columns under control, 
but she 
could feel her muscles trembling under the strain. 
"The keystone," Isambard said, and Silence took a deep breath 
before she 
nodded. She could feel the keystone's heavy form already, a 
massive, 
triangular block poised, point downward, between the pillars above 
her 
head. As the older magus released his hold on it, Silence could 
feel the 
stone beginning to slip, grating against the pillars. The nonsound 
rasped 
at her nerves, flared like a sudden fire in the air above her. She 
fought 
it, sweating, and managed to stop the downward slide, but the 
stone was 
still out of true. The gate could not be used without danger until 
the 
Form was corrected. She ground her teeth together and, with her 
last gram 
of strength, pushed the invisible stone back into place. 
"Now," she gasped, and Isambard nodded. He rose stiffly to his 
feet, and 
stepped ungracefully through the opening, almost stumbling over 
the high 
threshold. Chase Mago steadied him, but the magus waved him away. 
"Dismiss it," he said, and his voice was almost gentle. "But 
slowly. 
Easily." 

 Silence released the breath she had been holding, and felt the 
entire 
structure tremble. Only a few more seconds, she promised herself, 
only a 
little longer. The janus gate had to be dismantled in much the 
same way 
that it had been constructed, or the pent-up energies would 
dissipate all 
at once, with an explosive force. She spoke the Words that damped 
down the 
conflicting harmonies, closing the opening into purgatory. 
Recusante's 
familiar common room faded, became merely an image, and then 
vanished 
altogether. Then, cautiously, she called up Words of Unmaking, 
directed 
them at the keystone. Its weight faded, and then vanished. 
Unbalanced, the 
pillars wobbled; she controlled them, and, once they were steadied 
again, 
dismissed them as well. The threshold remained, a great weight in 
the air 
before her. She dismissed it, too, and sat staring at the 
unpainted floor. 
Exhaustion swept through her; she closed her eyes, and felt 
familiar arms 
around her, lifting her gently. She turned toward the embrace, and 
let 
herself fall into sleep. 
She woke in her own improvised bed, her husbands to either side of 
her. 
The cool light of dawn was filtering in the room's single window, 
and she 
blinked up at it, momentarily disoriented. The janus gate had 
exhausted 
her more than she'd realized; she'd slept through the end of an 
afternoon 
and at least one night. Cautiously, not wanting to wake the 

others, she 
reached beneath the pillows for Chase Mago's chronograph, and 
touched the 
button that activated the date display. By its reading, she'd 
slept 
through the next day as well. Startled, she slid the chronograph 
back 
under the engineer's pillow, and wondered what to do next. She was 
fully 
awake at last, though she thought she could remember waking 
briefly at 
some earlier time, and ravenously hungry. Sighing, she eased 
herself free 
of the blankets. Balthasar shifted, and opened his eyes. Silence 
made a 
face -- the Delian was never at his best on waking -- but, to her 
surprise, Balthasar managed a smile. 
"Glad to see you awake again," he murmured. To his left Chase Mago 
stirred, but did not wake. 
"You're cheerful," Silence answered, reaching for her clothes. 
Balthasar's smile widened. "There's a lot going on," he said, and 
pushed 
himself out of bed. 
Oh, wonderful, Silence thought, but said nothing. She finished 
dressing, 
and went on into the outer room, where the food was kept. 
Balthasar 
followed, shrugging on his heavy jacket. 
"I'll take care of coffee," he said, and stooped to adjust the 
antique 
machine. 
Silence let him fiddle with it, turning her attention to the coldstorage 
chest that held the supplies. There was woven-paper bag full of 

the hard 
round rolls the gang favored, and a tub of the soft cheese that 
went with 
it. The pilot busied herself with those, and by the time she had 
finished, 
Balthasar had poured two mugs of the steaming coffee. They ate 
without 
speaking, Silence concentrating on the sheer physical pleasure of 
eating. 
She finished three of the chewy rolls before finally leaning back, 
satisfied. 
"So what is happening?" she asked. 
Balthasar looked up with a quirky smile. "You know, Aili really is 
something else," he said. "We told her what you had in mind, and 
she 
really seemed to like the idea. She asked us to set up a meeting 
with 
Radan as soon as possible --" 
"And did you?" Silence asked. 
The Delian nodded. "We -- actually one of Efelay's kids -- left a 
note for 
Mikajaa like he said to, so we should be hearing something soon." 
"What does Isambard think of the idea?" Silence asked, and was 
surprised 
at the sudden anxious fear in the pit of her stomach. 
Balthasar sobered. "He agrees, the siege engines can be destroyed, 
but 
he's not so happy about trying to destroy that barrier. He wants 
to talk 
to you about it first, anyway, or maybe even see it for himself, 
before he 
says anything." 
Silence frowned. "That doesn't make sense," she began -- surely 

the 
barrier surrounding the island was a less massive creation than an 
engine 
capable of blocking a star road? -- and Balthasar shrugged. 
"It doesn't to me, but I'm not the magus." 
"I'll talk to him," Silence said, and sighed. "When do you think 
we'll 
hear from Mikajaa?" 
"Who knows?" Balthasar answered. "Fitch has been watching him, and 
he 
says, Mikajaa checks his drop box regularly every evening. We 
should hear 
sometime today. " 
"Where are the others, anyway?" the pilot asked. 
"Efelay put them in a couple of rooms next door," Balthasar began, 
but 
before he could finish, there was a tapping at the main door. 
Silence made 
the gesture that dissolved the lock, and the door swung open. 
Isambard, 
impeccable as always in his black robes, stood in the doorway. 
"I'm glad to see that you're finally awake, Silence," he said. 
The pilot made a face, but managed to answer politely enough, "I 
feel much 
recovered, thanks." 
Isambard moved into the room and seated himself, stiffly, in the 
only 
chair. At Silence's frown Balthasar grimaced, and poured a third 
cup of 
coffee for the older magus, who accepted it with only a nod of 
thanks. "We 
need to discuss the details of this plan of yours," he said, and 

sipped at 
the scalding liquid. 
Silence bit back an annoyed response. After all this -- I brought 
him 
here, held open the gate for him, and what do I get out of it? she 
thought. Nothing, not even thanks -- which is as usual, she added, 
so why 
am I surprised? She said only, "Denis tells me you're worried 
about the 
barrier around the island. I'd've thought the engines were more 
difficult." 
"I expect they will be," Isambard answered, "at least in the sense 
that 
they require more strength -- more power. But I do not know the 
schemae 
involved in creating this barrier of yours. Describe it for me." 
It's not my barrier, Silence thought, and saw Balthasar scowling, 
ready to 
speak. That was enough to restore her sense of priorities. She 
shook her 
head at the Delian, and said, "I didn't recognize any particular 
schema. 
I'm certain a direct link to the submaterial was involved, 
probably as a 
power source, and the Art was employed to hide the visual spectrum 
of the 
field from an outside viewer. That's all I know." She was pleased 
at the 
professionalism of her voice, and realized suddenly that she 
shouldn't be 
angry at the magus's apparent unconcern. He was simply treating 
her as he 
would treat any other magus. It was not that he didn't care, but 
that he 
assumed he didn't need to care. It was a startling thought, 
pleasing and 
frightening at the same time. 

 "It sounds rather like one of the Alaruan branch schemae," 
Isambard said, 
and Silence dragged her attention back to the business at hand. 
"The Rose 
Worlders always favored his work." 
"Can it be broken?" Silence asked. 
"Oh, yes, 'Anything that can be created can be destroyed,'" 
Isambard 
quoted. 
"Like the siege engines?" Balthasar asked. 
Isambard gave him a rather annoyed glance. "Especially the siege 
engines, 
Captain Balthasar." 
Before he could continue, there was another knock at the door, and 
it 
opened to admit Aili and Marcinik. The colonel in particular 
looked tired 
and ill-tempered -- the result of dealing with Balthasar, Silence 
wondered, or just of having been cooped up aboard Recusante with 
Isambard 
for so long? To her surprise, however, Balthasar did not make any 
of his 
usual challenging remarks, mutely offering coffee and rolls 
instead. 
Isambard waited with ostentatious patience until the newcomers 
were 
settled, and then continued his lecture. 
"The siege engines are an unnatural blockage, Captain. 
Metaphysically 
speaking, that road should be open -- it wants to be open, one 
might even 
say. After all, it was the first star road to be discovered, and 
because 

of that it is still the Form on which all other roads are founded. 
All 
these other open roads create a tremendous and constant pressure 
on the 
engines, forcing them to expend a great deal of power to keep the 
Earth-road closed. We will be able to use that strain to shatter 
the 
engines." 
"So if we can just repair the ship," Silence began, and Isambard 
shook his 
head. 
"The engines can more easily be destroyed from here -- from the 
surface of 
the planet, don't you see?" 
"No, I don't," Silence snapped, and bit off the rest of her angry 
words. 
Nothing would be gained by losing her temper now, she told 
herself, and 
forced herself to remain calm. 
Isambard sighed. "In a sense," he began, in the tones reserved for 
his 
more important lectures, "the ancients were right. Earth is the 
center of 
the universe, because it is the place where human beings first 
evolved. No 
matter how far into space the species has spread, it remains tied, 
physically and metaphysically, to the planet which gave it birth." 
He 
glanced expectantly at Silence, who nodded, curbing her annoyance 
at being 
lectured in front of the others. 
"I see," she said, when it became clear that something more was 
expected 
of her, and dredged up a bastard-latin phrase she had stumbled 
across 

during her first weeks on Solitudo Hermae. "Not umbilicus 
universi, but 
umbilicus universi nostri -- not the navel of the universe, but 
the navel 
of our universe." 
Isambard was nodding eagerly. "Precisely. And the choice of the 
word 
'navel' is equally significant, because it points up the nature of 
the 
metaphysical tie." He paused, as though he'd lost track of what he 
was 
saying, and resumed after a moment in a less elevated voice. "We 
are at 
the center of that metaphysical universe, and we are trying to 
restore 
things to their natural state: that will multiply the effects of 
our 
operation by --" He paused again, but shook his head. "I can't 
calculate 
the precise order of magnitude without more study, but certainly 
by a 
significant amount." 
Silence took a swallow of her cooling coffee, trying to figure out 
exactly 
what this would mean for the workings of the Art. Certainly, being 
at the 
center of the human universe hadn't been much help in overcoming 
the 
effects of the machines that filled the planet -- or had it? she 
wondered 
suddenly. She had been able to compensate for the interference 
rather 
better than she'd hoped.... 
"Sieuri?" The voice came from outside the door. Silence thought 
she 
recognized it as belonging to one of Fitch's runners, and 
gestured. The 

door swung open, and Isambard frowned. 
"That is a rather frivolous use of the Art, surely." 
"It was necessary to maintain our privacy," Silence answered, 
rather 
sharply. 
The girl in the doorway cleared her throat. "Excuse me, sieuri, 
but Fitch 
says he's got Mikajaa, if you want him." 
"We do." Balthasar pulled himself to his feet. "Better wake Julie, 
Silence." 
"I'm awake." The engineer appeared in the inside doorway, 
fastening the 
clasps of his coat. "Did you say Mikajaa was here?" 
The runner nodded. "Yeah. He's in the Out." 
"Sorry to interrupt breakfast," Balthasar began, and Marcinik 
nodded, 
setting aside his mug. 
"We'd better go." 
"Wait." That was Aili, and Silence gave her a rather startled 
glance. "The 
rest of you go ahead," the Princess Royal continued. "Arrange to 
meet with 
Radan today, if you can -- I'll leave the details to you, you know 
the 
area best. But I have some things I need to discuss with Silence." 
Marcinik started to protest, but seemed to think better of it as 
Aili 
shook her head slightly. Silence frowned. "Are you sure, your 
Serenity?" 

"It's important," Aili said, firmly. "Please." 
The pilot hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged. "All right, 
the rest 
of you go ahead. We'll join you when we can." 
Balthasar raised an eyebrow, obviously ready to argue, but Chase 
Mago took 
him by the shoulder and turned him forcibly away. The others 
followed, 
leaving the two women alone together. 
Aili waited until the door had closed firmly behind them before 
she spoke. 
"I want to be sure I understand the implications of this," she 
said, 
putting aside her veil in the gesture that indicated a desire to 
be 
completely clear, "and what you want from me." 
Silence paused, still frowning. It seemed simple enough, she 
thought, and 
said, "To put it bluntly, this is my price for getting you 
declared his 
heir. I want you to call in the fleet -- can you do it?" 
Aili nodded. "I can. Yes, I can convince him to send a fleet, if 
Radan can 
convince me that he will support -- that his people and his 
rebellion or 
whatever it is can support -- our attack. I owe my father's people 
that 
much." 
There was something in her voice that kept Silence from speaking. 
After a 
moment, the Princess Royal sighed and continued, more slowly, 
"It's -- my 
question is, what will happen when Earth is freed?" 

"Will it be freed?" Silence muttered. 
Aili went on unheeding. "With the Earth-road open, and Earth 
restored to 
its proper place at the center of our universe, won't the person 
who 
controls Earth control that universe?" She fixed Silence with a 
sudden 
fierce stare. "I want to be that person." 
The pilot froze. She had not thought of that possibility, had not 
considered anything beyond the metaphysical implications, the 
impact on 
her Art. Once stated, however, the political possibilities became 
frighteningly -- possible. That might explain why the Rose 
Worlders had 
blocked the Earth-road, she thought, remotely. The Rose Worlds, 
the worlds 
of the ancient Ring, were even more closely bound to Earth than 
the rest 
of the planets in human-settled space -- the fact that the Rose 
Worlds, 
and only the Rose Worlds, could be reached by means of the 
portolan was a 
clear demonstration of the metaphysical link. If Earth were free -- 
if 
Earth's goods and knowledge could be traded freely, as they once 
had been, 
unmediated by the Rose Worlders -- then the Rose Worlds themselves 
would 
become little more than a suburb of Earth itself. Who would go to 
the Rose 
Worlds, when he could come to Earth? 
She shook herself away from that line of thought, forcing herself 
to look 
again at Aili's question. It was more than possible -- it was even 
likely 
-- that the person who controlled Earth would also come to control 
all of 

human-settled space. Which answered Chase Mago's fears of the 
Hegemony's 
taking over Earth, she thought, but doesn't make me any happier. I 
definitely don't like the idea of Radan running everything, and 
I'm not 
sure Aili could take and hold that kind of power. She looked again 
at the 
princess royal's face, and was no longer unsure. There was a 
strength 
behind the conventional beauty, a strength and a wisdom beyond 
Aili's 
years, an almost frightening awareness of self and of others. 
Silence 
shivered, and looked away. 
"Whatever I do," she said, "you'll try it." 
Aili nodded. "Yes." 
Silence took a deep breath. "Better you than anyone else I've 
seen," she 
said, in an attempt at a lighter tone. 
Aili nodded, quite seriously. "Yes," she said again. "I think so." 
The confidence in her voice made Silence raise her eyebrows a 
little, but 
she nodded anyway. "Then you'll bargain with Radan?" she asked. 
"You seem to think he's trustworthy enough," Aili answered. "But 
I'll want 
to see for myself." 
"Then we'd better join the others," Silence said. 
Aili nodded again, drawing the veil across her face. "Let's go." 
The Out was less crowded than before, the extra gang members who 
had been 
hanging about to help intimidate the prisoner dismissed to other 

business. 
A wooden barrier had been pulled across the open elevator shaft, 
but 
Mikajaa, standing again in the middle of the room, had positioned 
himself 
so that he could keep an eye on it. Silence nodded a greeting to 
Efelay, 
who was sitting cross-legged on a table at the far side of the 
room, and 
wondered suddenly just how Balthasar had explained the others' 
arrival. 
Efelay smiled in response, and the pilot decided it didn't really 
matter. 
After all, she thought, they seem to be accepting it. 
"So this is the woman?" Mikajaa's voice was a little shaky, 
despite the 
bravado of his words. 
Fitch stared speculatively at him, flick-knife open in his hands. 
Balthasar said hastily, "Her Serenity the Princess Royal." 
There were whispers from some of the gang members at that, their 
faces 
startled and impressed rather than disbelieving, and Efelay said, 
"Hush 
up." 
Mikajaa eyed the princess royal warily, obviously taken aback by 
the veil. 
Silence didn't bother to hide her grin, and saw the musician 
flush. "They 
tell me you want to see Mir Radan," he said. 
"Yes." Aili's voice was cool and pleasant, but her tone brooked no 
argument. "You're the one who arranges this?" She allowed a faint 
note of 
doubt to creep into her words, and Silence grinned again. 
To his credit, however, Mikajaa did not rise to that bait. "That's 

right. 
When?" 
"As soon as possible," Aili answered. Her voice sharpened on the 
next 
word. "Today." 
Mikajaa made a hissing sound between his teeth. "I don't think I 
can 
manage that --" 
"Radan said you could," Silence pointed out. 
Mikajaa gave her an unfriendly glance. "If you wanted to go to him 
on the 
Island, sure. But they said you didn't want to." He nodded toward 
Balthasar and Marcinik. 
"That's right," Silence said, and kept her face expressionless. 
She felt 
distinctly foolish, and knew that he had intended to make her feel 
so. 
"How soon, then?" Aili asked, and the pilot dragged her attention 
back to 
the matter at hand. 
Mikajaa shrugged. "Tonight, maybe, if he can get away." 
"I think he'll want to," Silence murmured, and the musician made a 
face. 
"We'll assume he can," Aili said. She looked at Efelay and then at 
Balthasar, including them in the question. "Where shall we meet 
with him?" 
"There's a bar called the Elite," Mikajaa began, and Fitch cut in. 
"Not on your life." 

The musician shrugged again. "The fountains?" 
Balthasar glanced at Fitch, who shrugged. "It's all right." 
Aili said, "Are there other objections to it?" She looked to 
Efelay. 
"Sieura?" 
The gang leader looked up quickly, startled and pleased by the 
coine 
title. "The fountains is like a park, sort of. We can watch you 
there, no 
problem." 
"Then that will do," Aili said, and looked back to Mikajaa. "When 
will 
your master be free?" 
"He should be able to make it by ten," Mikajaa answered. "If it 
doesn't 
work out, I'll pass the word through Liu's." 
"You'll come here and tell us," Balthasar corrected. 
For a moment, Silence thought the musician would refuse, but then 
he 
nodded sullenly. "All right." 
"If you don't come," Silence said, "and if no one's there, we'll 
assume 
Radan doesn't want to cooperate with us." She paused, watching 
Mikajaa's 
face, and saw that the musician understood. 
"I'll let you know," he said again, and Efelay slid forward off 
the table. 
"See him out, Fitch," she said. The anadvocate pushed himself to 
his feet, 
the flick-knife vanishing from his hand. Mikajaa followed him 

without a 
word, or a glance at the other gang members closing in behind him. 
Silence 
stared after him, wondering again if they should trust him, or 
Radan. This 
time, at least, they did have other options -- but none as good, 
she 
reminded herself. Besides, it hardly seemed likely that the 
musician would 
be able to set up a meeting on such short notice, or that Radan 
would be 
willing to allow it. There would be time to think of alternate 
plans. 
To the pilot's surprise, however, Mikajaa did not reappear to call 
off the 
meeting. She said as much to the others, sitting around the low 
table in 
the rooms that had been given to the new arrivals, and Marcinik 
grunted. 
"He wouldn't dare not come." 
"We have something he wants," Aili amplified gently. "He'll be 
there." 
Silence nodded, but privately she still had her doubts. Even so, 
she 
returned to the room she shared with Balthasar and Chase Mago and 
made 
herself lie down for most of the afternoon, just in case. She felt 
fully 
recovered from forming the janus gate, but there was no point in 
taking 
chances. The more rest she could get, the better. In the quiet of 
the 
closed room, she soon lost herself in waking dreams. 
"Silence?" Balthasar was standing in the doorway. 
The pilot shook herself fully awake, and sat up. "What is it?" 

 "Fitch says it's time to go." Balthasar held out a heavy dark-blue 
jacket 
trimmed with a single, palm-sized cluster of orange feathers. "You 
might 
want to wear this -- it'll make you look like one of them." 
Silence took it, belting it securely around her waist. Balthasar, 
too, was 
wearing the gang's colors pinned to the shoulder of his work-cloth 
jacket, 
and she wondered momentarily if the gang had managed to find 
something 
that would fit Chase Mago, or if the engineer had had to resort to 
the 
clip-on badges. She shook the thought away, and said, "I'm ready." 
Balthasar nodded. "Isambard's staying here," he said. "But the 
rest of us 
are going. And Efelay's sending some people to escort us." 
"Good," Silence said, and meant it. The more protection the 
better, in the 
Kills' unfamiliar streets. 
As Fitch had promised, it wasn't very far to the fountains. 
Perhaps a 
dozen gang members walked with them for most of the way, moving 
surprisingly quietly through the dark streets. However, as they 
approached 
the entrance to the park, a filigreed metal arch spanning the 
width of the 
street, Fitch gave a low-voiced order, and the gang members melted 
away 
into the shadows, leaving the anadvocate alone with the startravellers. 
"They'll be keeping an eye on us," Fitch said. "No point in 
upsetting this 
Radan if we don't have to." 

 "Good enough," Balthasar said. 
Silence said nothing, eyeing the empty gateway. Everything was in 
shadow 
beyond the metal arch, though she could just make out the outline 
of low 
trees. In the distance, she could hear the faint sound of running 
water. 
Nothing else seemed to be moving in the darkness. 
Beside her, Marcinik stirred uneasily. "Lights?" 
"I brought a hand torch," Fitch said, and reached into the pocket 
of his 
long coat. "Here." He held out the long cylinder, adjusting the 
screw so 
that the tube cast a soft wedge of light across the paving. The 
colonel 
took it thoughtfully, sweeping the beam across the entrance. For a 
long 
moment nothing happened, and then there was a movement to the left 
of the 
arch. Mikajaa stepped out of the shadows and beckoned without 
speaking. 
"Here we go again," Balthasar murmured, and Chase Mago grunted his 
agreement. Silence said nothing, concentrating instead on the 
harmonies of 
the world around her. There were more machines here -- she could 
feel 
their presence even though most of them were not in use, a sort of 
distracting tension in the air around her -- but the park itself 
seemed 
clear of their influence. Overhead, the waning moon was just 
visible 
between the towers of two nearby buildings, its distant music 
offering 
neither help nor hindrance. The pilot shivered, then braced 
herself to 

follow the others. 
Once past the gate and the encircling line of trees, the park was 
quite 
small. The noise of falling water was suddenly very loud. Silence 
looked 
toward it, and caught her breath in pleased surprise. The 
fountains from 
which the park had taken its name rose in the center of a paved 
circle, a 
three-tiered pyramid in the center, with smaller basins set at 
each of the 
compass points. A tiny stream wound between them, very dark in the 
moonlight; the same light glittered from the droplets falling from 
the 
central pyramid, turning them to strands of light. 
Radan was sitting on the edge of the basin that surrounded the 
pyramid. At 
the star-travellers' approach, he rose easily to his feet, tilting 
his 
head to one side in thoughtful appraisal. He was wearing ordinary 
workman's clothes, a patched leather jacket over work-cloth 
trousers, and 
looked, Silence thought, like nothing so much as a common dock 
worker. It 
was a clever disguise, nothing like the magnificence they might 
have 
expected of one of the Rose Worlders' servants. She held her 
breath, 
hoping Aili would recognize the intelligence behind the craggy 
face and 
the rough clothes. 
"So," Radan said. Mikajaa moved to join him, fading into the 
shadow of the 
central fountain. "You're the princess the sieura told me about." 
"I am she." Aili stepped forward into the light from Fitch's 
torch. She 

had exchanged her veil for a feathered half-mask borrowed from 
Efelay, and 
the dark blue plumes nodded in the light. A triple strand of 
pearls fell 
from the mask, further hiding her face. Radan studied her 
curiously, and 
Silence thought she read a touch of uncertainty in his stance. 
"She tells me you'd be willing to act as a go-between to the 
hegemon, " 
the havildar said, after a moment's pause, and nodded toward 
Silence. 
"Not precisely," Aili answered. Silence could almost see the thin 
smile on 
the other woman's face. "I'm willing to act as his 
representative." 
"Can you?" Radan straightened slowly. "What precisely is your 
authority?" 
"I am the princess royal," Aili said. "Until my father names 
another heir, 
I am the next in line for the throne." 
Silence hid a smile. While what Aili said was quite true, it 
failed to 
mention that the hegemon wanted his son to inherit, not his 
daughter -- 
but then, the pilot thought suddenly, neither the Rose Worlders 
nor 
Earth's natives seemed to restrict their women as much as the 
Hegemony 
did. 
"But does that give you the right to act as his representative?" 
Radan 
continued, with a slight smile of his own. 
"I'm here, am I not?" Aili countered. "And I can bring his fleet 

here, to 
support you -- if you can convince me that I will not be bringing 
them 
into a hopeless fight." 
Radan's smile widened reluctantly. "I have things in hand here," 
he 
admitted, "which I believe will succeed." 
Aili started to answer, but her words were cut off by a sudden 
noise from 
the park wall, toward Silence's left. The pilot swung toward it 
instinctively, and saw Balthasar's heylin ready in his hand. 
Marcinik 
dropped into a fighting crouch, his heylin drawn as well. 
"Silence!" It was Fitch's voice, coming from somewhere near the 
gate. "Get 
out, you're --" 
He was cut off, but the pilot was already moving. She gestured, 
spoke a 
single Word, and felt hell open between her hands. She cupped that 
power, 
framing the phrases that would shape it to her needs, but left 
them 
unfinished, ready to be triggered by a single Word. Figures moved 
suddenly 
in the shadows, stepped out onto the pavement with lowered rifles, 
and a 
voice called, "Put down your weapons!" 
The voice was vaguely familiar, Silence thought, and frowned at 
the 
irrelevant thought. The other star-travellers hesitated, and the 
voice 
called again, "Drop them, I said." 
Reluctantly, Balthasar stooped and set his heylin on the stones at 
his 

feet. After a moment, both Chase Mago and Marcinik copied him, the 
colonel 
taking a single quick step forward to place himself between Aili 
and the 
nearest gun. Silence stood quite still, her cupped hands, helped 
by the 
darkness, concealing the roiling patch of hell. Out of the corner 
of her 
eye, she saw Mikajaa draw back toward the fountain, into the 
deeper 
shadows, and held her breath, hoping he'd escape. 
"Mikajaa," the voice said. "Don't try it." 
The musician froze, and the voice added, "Put your gun down." 
Mikajaa 
hesitated, and then, very slowly, slid a gleaming gun -- it looked 
like a 
heylin, but lacked the bulbous charging chamber near the butt -- 
from his 
coat pocket and laid it on the edge of the fountain. 
"Rafaiel!" That was Radan, his voice harsh with anger. "What the 
hell do 
you think you're doing?" 
"What do I think I'm doing?" the voice mimicked. Rafaiel stepped 
out of 
the circle of the trees, rifle cradled loosely in his hands. "What 
are you 
doing, Kennet? We had an understanding, remember?" He raised the 
rifle 
until the barrel was centered on the havildar's chest. 
Radan did not flinch. "We still do, as far as I'm concerned. 
What's your 
complaint?" 
Rafaiel nodded toward the star-travellers. "Making a deal without 
me, 

that's what. I don't like it, Kennet, I don't like it at all." 
"You'd've been informed when the time came," Radan said. "It was 
your 
safety I was thinking of." 
"Bullshit," Rafaiel answered. "What are these, more of your 
foreign -- 
excuse me, off-world -- wizards?" His voice was thick with 
contempt. 
"Don't start that technologists' crap again," Radan said, and 
Rafaiel cut 
him off. 
"You've fooled me once too often, Kennet. Not again." 
This has gone far enough, Silence thought. She opened her hands, 
and spoke 
aloud the Word that completed the schema. Rafaiel's people turned 
toward 
her, just as lightning exploded upward from between her hands. 
There had 
been time, this time, to control and modify her attack; the bolts 
were 
more light and sound than unbound elemental Fire. They curved 
down, 
dividing as they fell, to strike the lowered rifles, knocking most 
of them 
from their owners' hands. Thunder rolled through the park. 
"If you're a technologist, Rafaiel, I suggest you reconsider your 
position," Silence said, into the sudden quiet. She lifted her 
hands, 
displaying the opening into the submaterial world, at the same 
time 
whispering a Word that set up a crackling dissonance along its 
outer 
edges. A few of Rafaiel's people stepped backward, in spite of 
themselves, 

and she thought she heard someone whisper, "The empress...." 
So that story's gained currency even with the technologists, she 
thought. 
She said, "We came here to reestablish contact with a lost world; 
we will 
do that, one way or another. This man --" She nodded toward 
Radan." -- 
says he wishes to be free of the Rose Worlders. Are you with us, 
or 
against us?" 
There was a long pause, and through it the pilot could hear the 
noise of 
the fountains, and, beneath that, nervous mutterings from 
Rafaiel's 
people. She thought she heard, as well, faint scufflings from 
behind them, 
and hoped that, if it were Fitch and the rest of the gang, they 
would hold 
off just a little longer. Still Rafaiel said nothing, and, after a 
moment, 
Radan said, "I was counting on you, Rafaiel." 
Rafaiel gave him a rather bitter glance. "You might have warned 
me." 
Radan shrugged. "I admit my error." It was a formula, but Rafaiel 
nodded 
slowly. 
"All right. What's in this for me and mine?" 
"Is this your army?" Aili asked coolly, looking at Radan. 
The havildar gave her a harassed look. "I was expecting their 
help, yes. " 
"And who are you?" Rafaiel demanded. 

Aili turned her masked face toward him. "I am the princess royal." 
Silence held her breath, but there was something in Aili's voice 
that cut 
off the technologists' comments. 
"An off-worlder," Rafaiel said again. "And you'll break the 
Unionists?" 
"If we come to some agreement," Aili answered. 
Rafaiel hesitated, biting his lip, then nodded. "I want to sit in 
on the 
discussions," he said. "Will you come back to the BBC? We can talk 
there." 
Silence started to refuse, but Radan spoke first. "What guarantee 
do you 
offer, after all this?" He gestured to Rafaiel's men. 
"My word to you," Rafaiel answered, and, after a moment, Radan 
nodded. 
"I'd accept it," he said. 
"I'm not entirely sure we can," Marcinik said, and Balthasar 
nodded, a 
lop-sided grin on his face. 
"We accept," Aili said firmly. Silence felt the Delian's eyes on 
her, and 
nodded. She was not completely happy with the idea, but she 
thought Aili 
knew what she was doing. 
"Fitch!" she called, and heard a rustling in the underbrush. "Are 
you all 
right?" 
There was more rustling, and the anadvocate appeared from behind 

the 
fountain, his own gun swung casually at his side. At his 
appearance, 
several of Rafaiel's men reached for their rifles, but Rafaiel 
gestured 
for them to stop. 
"We're O. K.," Fitch said. There was a cut on his forearm and a 
bloody, 
scraped patch on the side of his face, but he moved easily enough. 
"Come with us," Silence said, and the anadvocate nodded. 
"We'll be with you," he said, with meaning, and the pilot smiled, 
knowing 
that her intent had been understood. 
"Then we'll do as you say, Aili," she said aloud. 
They made their way to Rafaiel's BBC through the back alleys, 
following 
the technologists' leader through the maze of streets. As they 
went, 
Silence glanced once at Fitch, and saw that the anadvocate seemed 
perfectly calm. The other gang members were following them, then, 
she 
thought, and in that moment Fitch saw her eyes on him, and nodded. 
She 
smiled back, grateful for the reassurance, and turned her 
attention to 
memorizing the route. 
They entered the BBC through a side door, by a stairway that led 
down into 
a dimly lit basement. Silence caught a glimpse of the lights of 
the coffee 
shop, heard snatches of conversation and music, but then Rafaiel 
had said 
something to the burly man who seemed to be his lieutenant, and 
the lights 

and sounds vanished. The pilot stood very still, letting her eyes 
adjust 
to the new darkness, and felt something touch her arm. She 
started, and 
Balthasar said, very softly, "Julie and I are right beside you, 
with 
Marcinik and the princess." 
Silence tensed -- they were expecting trouble, but why? -- and 
then the 
basement lights flashed on. She blinked, and felt Balthasar's hand 
relax. 
The room was almost square, the walls painted stark white, the 
floor just 
a naked slab of poured stone. The only touch of color was a fabric 
screen, 
patterned in abstract, multicolored stripes, that was folded back 
against 
the rear wall. It was intended to conceal a white-painted door. 
Even as 
Silence looked that way the door opened, and the dark-skinned 
woman who 
had been in charge of the coffee shop when the star-travellers had 
first 
come to the mainurb came into the room. She stared at the 
strangers, 
frankly curious, and Rafaiel beckoned to her, saying something in 
a voice 
too soft for the pilot to overhear. The dark woman nodded, and 
disappeared 
through the doorway again. 
"Get the tables set up," Rafaiel went on, more loudly, "and then 
you can 
head upstairs, Jaan." 
The burly man nodded, and moved toward the wall to the left of the 
screen. 
There was a compartment set into that space, Silence saw, cleverly 
camouflaged. Jaan set his hand in a slight depression at the 

center of the 
door, then yanked it open. Several of Rafaiel's men moved to help 
him set 
up the trestle table and the breakdown chairs. 
Almost as soon as they'd finished, the dark woman returned, 
carrying a 
heavy tray; she was followed by a young man who held a shiny 
coffee 
service. At Rafaiel's nod, they set their burdens on the table, 
and 
vanished again. Jaan and his men followed more slowly, Jaan 
glancing 
unhappily over his shoulder. Rafaiel ignored him, and gestured 
toward the 
table. 
"Please, people, have a seat. There's coffee, and food if you want 
it." 
Silence chose a place toward the end of the table opposite 
Rafaiel, 
suddenly aware that she was very hungry. Aili took her place at 
the foot 
of the table as though by unquestioned right, Marcinik settling 
himself at 
her right hand. Rafaiel had already claimed the head of the table, 
and 
Radan grinned. He took the chair that stood in the center of the 
right-hand side, Mikajaa hovering at his shoulder, and glanced 
benevolently from side to side. Balthasar and Chase Mago seated 
themselves 
beside Silence, and, after a moment, Fitch settled reluctantly to 
Chase 
Mago's right, just below Aili. 
"Coffee?" Rafaiel asked, and Radan nodded. 
"Please." 

Mikajaa moved to intercept the offered cup, and Silence saw 
Marcinik give 
a wry smile. If the food or drink were poisoned, there was nothing 
even 
Mikajaa's devoted service could do to stop it. The coffee service 
and the 
tray of food -- a selection of the little sandwiches offered in 
the coffee 
shop -- made the rounds of the table. Silence took her share 
eagerly, 
ignoring the other star-travellers' nervous looks, and ate without 
hesitation. There had been no time to poison the food; if 
anything, they 
should be wary of the coffee -- it was far easier to poison a 
drink. 
"Well, people," Rafaiel said. "I think we have some things to 
discuss." 
Radan nodded. "You and I had an agreement," he said. "The lady --" 
He 
gestured to Aili." -- has an offer that may improve our chances." 
"Not precisely an offer," Aili said, as all eyes turned to her. 
Silence 
saw the beads move as the princess royal drew a long breath, and 
then the 
other woman had begun to speak, once more outlining who she was 
and what 
she hoped to do. She speaks well, Silence thought. Someone, 
somewhere, 
taught her the basics of public speaking -- but then, the pilot 
added to 
herself, I saw myself that that kind of knowledge can come in 
handy, in 
the Women's Palace. It wasn't all that surprising, when you come 
to think 
of it. 
"In brief," Aili finished, "I now need from you some guarantee -- 

no, 
better, some proof -- that this plan of yours, whatever it is, can 
work. 
As I've said before, I can't risk my father's men without some 
chance of 
winning." 
Rafaiel looked stubborn, but the havildar nodded again. "That 
seems 
reasonable." Rafaiel started to protest, and Radan gestured for 
him to be 
quiet. "As I said before, there've been troubles with the Ice 
Island as a 
central depot, and most control functions have been removed to 
Man's 
Island until they -- these Rose Worlders -- can find some other 
remote 
area on which to build their capital. Because the Earth-born were 
never 
allowed on the Ice Island, there's been nothing we could do to 
break their 
hold, but now, with the facilities suddenly at hand --" He stopped 
abruptly, made himself continue in a less passionate voice, "This 
is our 
first, and possibly our last chance to seize control of the 
planet. There 
aren't many Rose Worlders in residence, perhaps a thousand or 
less, 
scattered across the world. There are more potential rebels in the 
Kills 
alone." He nodded to Rafaiel. "With his help, and with the help of 
some of 
the other gangs -- yes, I was planning to contact your Efelay, boy 
-- I 
could overrun Man's Island before anyone could move to stop me." 
"Except for the barrier," Silence said. 
"Except for the barrier," Radan agreed. "I had intended to gain 
access to 

its control point myself, and deactivate it -- I believe I could 
have 
stretched my authority that far -- but that was a risky activity. 
Better 
still to find a magus who could destroy it from the outside." 
"So that's why you went through that whole charade," Rafaiel said, 
and 
made a gesture of apology. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt." 
"Precisely," Radan said. He looked at Aili. "I think my plan would 
have 
succeeded anyway. With your magus's help, I can almost promise 
it." 
The princess royal glanced at Marcinik, who nodded slowly. "They 
aren't a 
bad fighting force," he said. "If they cooperate." 
Radan smiled. "They will." 
After a moment, Rafaiel nodded. Fitch said, with a touch of 
belligerence, 
"If Silence says we should, all right." 
"Then I think we have a bargain," Aili said. 
"One thing disturbs me," Radan said. "How do you propose to 
contact your 
father?" 
Aili smiled. "I rather thought you might be able to help us there, 
Sieur 
Radan, given your various contacts." 
The havildar said nothing, clearly rather startled by the idea, 
and 
Silence saw suddenly that the princess royal was holding her 
breath. Then, 
slowly, Radan began to laugh. "Very well -- your serenity? I think 

it can 
be managed." 
"Excellent," Aili answered. Only the slight movement of her hand 
against 
the tabletop betrayed her relief. 
"What do you intend?" Marcinik asked. 
Radan gave him an appraising glance. "To be frank, I'm not 
entirely sure. 
It depends on what you need." 
"What can you give us?" the colonel replied, grinning. 
The havildar shrugged, his eyes flickering toward Rafaiel. "I have 
-- 
contacts -- outside the Rose Worlders' control," he said 
cautiously. "I 
also have access to the off-world transmitters." 
Rafaiel looked up sharply, started to say something, and then 
closed his 
mouth again, scowling. There was something there, Silence thought - 
-
distrust of the off-worlders, or annoyance with Radan for not 
revealing 
that secret sooner -- but she could not be sure just what. 
"If you'll give me your message," the havildar went on, "I can see 
that 
it's passed along as intended." 
Aili hesitated, and the pilot could read a sudden uncertainty in 
the other 
woman's face. She was being asked to commit herself completely, to 
trust 
someone whom she had no real reason to trust, and didn't like it. 
I don't 
blame you, Silence thought, but we haven't got much choice. If we 

use 
Recusante to try and reach one of the relays, we're almost certain 
to lose 
the ship -- and there's no guarantee we'd get through. 
"Your contact's reliable, I assume," Aili said, and waved aside 
Radan's 
answer. "No, of course he is, it was a foolish question." She 
sighed. 
"I'll give you the message." 
"Then we're decided?" Radan asked, and the princess royal nodded. 
"We are agreed." 
Chapter 10 
THERE WASN'T MUCH TO BE SAID AFTER THAT, AND THE meeting broke up 
quickly. 
The star-travellers made their way back to the gang's quarters 
just ahead 
of the curfew, and paused just inside the main doorway while Fitch 
gave 
low-voiced orders to the group who'd accompanied him. The girl who 
was his 
apparent second-in-command nodded once, and vanished, drawing the 
others 
away with her. Fitch sighed, and looked at Silence. 
"You'd better come with me," he said. "You'll want to tell Efelay 
what 
you've been planning." 
There was a bitterness in his voice that made the pilot hesitate, 
suddenly 
aware of how much she'd counted on the gang's support, when she 
had no 
real right to speak for them. That kind of misjudgement might be 
enough to 
destroy her precarious hold over them, already undermined by her 

admission 
that she wasn't the empress, or, rather, that the empress was not 
quite 
what they had been expecting.... She shook the thought away, and 
said, 
"There wasn't time to consult with you. I'm sorry." 
"You kind of took us for granted," Fitch said, and sighed. "But 
you're 
right, and I know it. Anything's worth it, if we can just drive 
them off." 
To Silence's surprise, Efelay accepted the gang's place in the 
scheme 
without protest, and agreed to put her people under Radan's orders 
when 
the time came to attack the Island. Aili and Marcinik busied 
themselves 
with composing the message to the hegemon, debating the 
effectiveness and 
importance of each phrase. Radan's access to the transmitters was 
limited, 
and there was less of a chance that a short message would be 
noticed and 
questioned; each word had to bear the maximum information 
possible. Most 
of the text, of necessity, was taken up with the description of 
the 
Earth-road: without that key, the hegemon's fleet could not hope 
to reach 
Earth in time, even if the magi had no difficulty in destroying 
the siege 
engines. Silence reluctantly recast the image from her Gilded 
Stairs into 
the symbolic language of the guilds, and gave the description to 
Aili. 
That was her own greatest gamble, the pilot knew, and her greatest 
fear 
was that the hegemon, having been given both the description of 
the 

voidmarks and the promise that rebels would move against the Rose 
Worlders, would simply ignore their appeal for support, and move 
in only 
after their attack had failed. But Adeben Kibbe was an honest man, 
she 
told herself grimly. He would not betray either his daughter or 
the people 
who had won him his throne. 
She paused abruptly, staring into space. It had been she who'd 
beaten the 
old hegemon's fleet during Adeben's invasion of Asterion, and 
Adeben knew 
it. She had his formal admission of that debt, and his promise to 
pay it, 
signed and sealed before witnesses. The charter was sitting in 
Recusante's 
strongbox even now, and there was another copy somewhere in the 
records 
house on Asterion itself. Maybe she could use that to secure the 
hegemon's 
cooperation. "Aili?" 
The princess royal, bent over her books at the far end of the 
room, looked 
up sharply. "What's wrong?" 
"Nothing's wrong," Silence said, and controlled her voice with an 
effort. 
"I've just thought of something, that's all. The charter his 
majesty 
signed, back on Asterion. Can you use that, make sure everyone 
knows he's 
bound to help us?" 
Aili smiled rather shyly. "I'm afraid I already mentioned it," she 
said. 
"And I left instructions with my agents, too, as insurance. I hope 
you 
don't mind." 

 Silence shook her head, startled and a little annoyed by the other 
woman's 
action. But then, she told herself, Aili knows more about politics 
than I 
do; there's no shame in that. "It's just as well," she said aloud. 
"Good." 
Aili gave her an appraising glance, but Marcinik called her name 
from the 
doorway, interrupting whatever she might have said. Silence gave a 
sigh of 
relief -- she didn't really want to admit her momentary jealousies 
-- and 
turned back to her work. 
The magi faced two major projects, though Isambard hoped to 
develop some 
device, a variant of a siege engine, perhaps, which Radan could 
use to 
destroy the barrier. If not, he said, one of them would have to 
remain 
behind to manage the operation. Silence guessed which of them that 
would 
be, and, though she admitted the logic of Isambard's argument -- 
she was, 
after all, the less experienced magus -- she very much wanted to 
be a part 
of the greater operation. 
Twice already in the five days since their meeting with Radan, 
Mikajaa had 
taken the magi to half-hidden lookouts, one on the cliffs behind 
the 
Kills, the other on a low bluff just south of the Rosemont, from 
which 
they could study the barrier. They could get closer, the musician 
had said 
sourly, but he did not recommend it. Isambard, apparently 
oblivious to the 

young man's dislike, had said he could make his observations well 
enough 
from a distance. He was back at the bluff right now, Silence knew, 
still 
studying the barrier, while she finished transcribing the 
voidmarks for 
the Earth-road. 
She sighed, trying to concentrate on the work in front of her, but 
it was 
a merely mechanical task, and she found her thoughts wandering 
instead to 
the siege engines blocking the Earth-road. She wondered which of 
the 
schemae they could use -- perhaps something based on the laws of 
sympathy 
would be best, would let them use the natural harmonies to 
greatest 
effect? She closed her eyes, a vague image taking shape in her 
mind. If it 
were a matter of sympathy, maybe the best model to use would be 
something 
based on an orrery. In modern terminology, of course, an orrery 
was merely 
a physical model of a star system, articulated so that the planets 
and all 
the other subsolar bodies moved appropriately, but the original 
orreries 
had been models of Earth's system. They could use the orrery as a 
type -- 
as a Form -- to compel the larger system to return to its proper 
harmonies.... 
"Silence." Isambard spoke from the doorway, interrupting her train 
of 
thought. "Have you finished the transcription?" 
The pilot shook herself and nodded, putting aside the vague plans. 
"Here 
it is." 

 "Excellent. Her serenity is waiting for it." 
Silence made a face, but collected her papers and rose stiffly to 
her 
feet. "I'll take it to her, then." 
"Captain Balthasar can do that," Isambard answered. Silence saw 
the 
Delian, standing in the hallway behind the magus, roll his eyes in 
disgust, and did not hide her sympathetic grin. 
"Thanks, Denis," she said. 
Balthasar took the slip of paper with an unwilling smile. "I'll 
find you 
later," he said, and disappeared. 
Silence stood looking after him, trying to suppress her feeling of 
disappointment. At the moment, she would far rather be with her 
husbands, 
not continuing the day's work. She glanced toward the single 
window, and 
saw that the sun had already set. "Do you need me, Isambard?" 
"Yes." The older magus seated himself at the table, wincing as 
though he 
were suddenly very stiff. Silence frowned but said nothing, and, 
after a 
moment, Isambard went on, "I want to discuss with you the methods 
we shall 
use." 
Silence sighed, but nodded and reseated herself. "All right." 
"I have been studying the barrier," Isambard said, "and I believe 
I was 
correct in my first assessment. I am almost certain it is indeed 
based on 
one -- the third, in fact -- of the Alaurae branches, and 

therefore I am 
confident that I can destroy it. There is, however, a difficulty." 
"I'm not surprised," Silence murmured, and added, more loudly, 
"What do 
you mean, difficulty?" 
"The Alaurae branches are all based on a rather crude application 
of sheer 
power," Isambard answered. "When the Form of the barrier is 
altered, that 
power must be contained, and at once, or its release will 
devastate the 
surrounding areas. That is obviously undesirable." 
"Obviously," Silence said. When the magus did not go on at once, 
she said, 
"Which means -- ?" 
Isambard sighed. "I cannot build an engine to destroy it. I must 
do it 
myself." 
"You?" Silence frowned, warily, looking for the hole in the 
argument. Was 
she going to get to take part in the destruction of the siege 
engines, 
after all? She put aside her excitement, and said, as calmly as 
she could, 
"That's going to create a problem with the timing, isn't it?" 
"Perhaps not." Unaccountably, Isambard looked away, and Silence 
felt a 
sudden touch of fear. Something was wrong -- she had never seen 
the other 
magus look so uncertain, or so old. 
Isambard sighed again. "I must make a confession," he said at 
last, "one 
that is painful to me." He paused, bowing his head, and the pilot 

sat very 
still, not wanting to disturb him further. After a moment, 
Isambard lifted 
his head, and continued in a steady voice. "I do not know how to 
destroy 
the engines on the Earth-road; I have no vision or schema to guide 
me. And 
I do not know if I am capable of managing such a powerful 
operation 
anymore. If you have either the knowledge or the strength, I beg 
you to 
inform me." 
Silence sat frozen, appalled by the old man's words. Not long ago, 
she had 
thought that she would give anything to become a greater magus 
than her 
teacher, and to force him to admit that fact. Now that it had 
happened, 
she wanted to run, to run away both from the terrifying 
responsibility and 
from the pain in the older magus's eyes. Why is it always me? she 
wondered 
again, and forced the thought away. It was on her shoulders now -- 
this is 
why, she thought bitterly, this is why they tell you never to wish 
too 
much for anything. You may get it. She had wanted just to be a 
part of the 
destruction of the siege engines, not to have to do it all 
herself. Then 
she saw the matching bitterness in Isambard's face, and put those 
thoughts 
aside. 
"I'd given the operation some thought," she said, choosing her 
words with 
almost painful care. "But I'd very much appreciate your advice." 
She 
waited until the older magus nodded before continuing. "I thought 

the laws 
of sympathy seemed to be what was needed, and that we might shape 
an 
orrery -- a real orrery, a model of this system as it should be, 
and use 
that, somehow." She had been talking almost at random, trying to 
put words 
to the vague picture she'd developed earlier. Now she saw 
Isambard's 
expression sharpen, and braced herself for his response. 
To her surprise, however, the older magus nodded, a smile 
spreading slowly 
across his face. "Yes, of course, I should have seen it. Oh, God, 
the 
advantages of a pilot's training!" He calmed himself with an 
effort, and 
went on. "But the orrery must not be tuned, Silence -- or, rather, 
it must 
be deliberately mistuned to match the notes of the engines. And 
then, when 
the engine is brought into tune --" 
Silence nodded, caught up in the same sudden excitement. "The 
siege 
engines, the ones blocking the road, will shatter. The whole 
system will 
be brought into its proper alignment." 
"Yes!" Isambard's delight faded as quickly as it had appeared, to 
be 
replaced by a more sober assessment. "You are possibly the most 
talented 
student I have taught, Sieura Doctor. I congratulate you." The 
words were 
spoken with unconcealed bitterness. 
As you said, Silence thought, I was trained as a pilot; it's easy 
for me 
to make those connections. She started to say as much, then 

stopped. It 
would sound too much like an apology, as though she did not 
properly value 
her own hard-won skills. She said, instead, "It can't be done 
inside the 
mainurb." 
"No." Isambard's momentary jealousy vanished again, his mind 
already 
grappling with the practical aspects of the problem. "Perhaps this 
Radan 
knows of someplace suitable." 
"Probably," Silence answered. "We can ask him when Marcinik 
delivers the 
message." 
Once again, they met in the room beneath Rafaiel's BBC. This time, 
it was 
well after curfew -- Radan had not been able to leave the island 
any 
earlier -- and Silence could feel the tension in the escorting 
gang 
members as they made their way through the streets. Radan was 
there before 
them, as she'd half expected he would be, but the pilot was 
startled to 
see signs of strain in his face. He managed a smile as the startravellers 
made their way down the narrow staircase, but it faded quickly. 
"Is anything wrong?" Silence asked, tensing. Only she and Marcinik 
had 
come to the meeting this time, escorted again by Fitch, and she 
wondered 
for a brief moment if she'd made a bad mistake. 
Radan shook his head. "No, sieura, nothing's wrong. We've just 
been rather 
busy, that's all." 

 Marcinik's eyes narrowed. "Why?" 
Radan lifted an eyebrow, and Silence cursed the colonel's 
bluntness. After 
a moment, however, the havildar relaxed, and said, "Truthfully, 
I'm not 
sure. But it has nothing to do with us, in any case." 
"I hope so," Marcinik said, and pulled the message disk from his 
pocket. 
"Here it is, as promised." 
Radan took the transparent case, turning it thoughtfully in his 
hand 
before tucking it inside his battered jacket. "I'll see that it's 
transmitted," he said. "How long after it's received do you expect 
your 
fleet?" 
"As we agreed," Marcinik said, "eight weeks, local." 
The havildar nodded. "We'll be ready." 
Silence stepped forward. "So should we be, but there are some 
things we 
need from you." 
"Whatever I can offer," Radan answered, but his face was wary. 
Silence hid a grin. "Doctor Isambard has decided to remain here in 
the 
mainurb to deal with the barrier for you. I'll be handling the 
siege 
engines." Marcinik gave her a quick, startled glance at that, but 
she 
ignored him. "To do it, though, I'll need someplace safe outside 
the 
mainurb -- someplace away from mechanical influences. Can you do 
that?" 

 Radan paused, visibly considering the question. "You don't ask the 
easy 
things, do you, sieura doctor?" He sighed, chewing thoughtfully on 
his 
lower lip. "Possibly -- yes, I think I can arrange it." He gave a 
fleeting 
smile. "One of the perqs of my position -- I'm technically the 
owner of 
several tracts of farmland in the exurb; it's a way of calculating 
compensation for my services. It's crawling with machinery, of 
course, but 
all that could be deactivated -- if that would be sufficient, 
sieura." 
"Wouldn't that be noticed, if you turned all the fanners off?" 
Marcinik 
asked, before Silence could say anything. 
"I can cover that," Radan said. 
"How large an area are we talking about?" the pilot asked. 
"Around five hundred hectares," Radan answered, indifferently. 
Silence nodded, impressed in spite of herself. "That should be 
more than 
enough room," she said, "but how're we going to get there?" 
The havildar smiled. "If either of your husbands can fly a 
mechanical 
flyer," he began, and Marcinik cut in. 
"If they can't, I can." 
"Then I'll get you one -- we'll call it an inspection trip; we run 
them 
often enough, and that'll help cover any anomalous reports from 
that part 
of the exurb." Radan nodded, almost to himself. "Mikajaa can go 

with you, 
handle the communications." 
The musician, waiting quietly in the corner until now, made a 
noise of 
protest, but the havildar ignored him. "Is that agreeable, sieura 
doctor?" 
Silence paused, looking for any holes in the plan, but could find 
none. 
"That'll do." 
Neither Balthasar nor Chase Mago offered any objections to the new 
plan, 
and even Isambard was dourly approving. As Silence had more than 
half 
expected, Balthasar admitted to knowing how to handle a mechanical 
flyer 
-- they were in limited use on Delos, outside the port areas -- 
and 
Mikajaa made arrangements to escort them to the landing field, on 
the 
western edge of the mainurb. Aili and Marcinik would remain in the 
Kills 
with Isambard, to coordinate the operation. Silence packed her 
belongings 
for what she hoped was the last time, and then turned her 
attention to 
helping Chase Mago tune the communications board he'd improvised 
from the 
gang's collection of miscellaneous material. At last they had it 
adjusted 
to the tuning of Recusante's portable board, which they would 
leave with 
Isambard. The next day, as dawn was breaking, they made their way 
through 
the slowly brightening streets toward the tube-train station. The 
streets 
were more crowded than Silence had ever seen them. She said as 
much, 

yawning, and Balthasar shrugged. 
"Day shift, on its way to work," Fitch said. He and T'la had 
insisted on 
accompanying the star-travellers to the field, to provide what 
protection 
they could. Silence was not entirely happy with the idea -- two 
young men, 
one of them little more than a boy, were hardly much protection, 
and the 
bright gang livery drew more attention than it was worth -- but 
there had 
been no way to refuse, and she did her best to hide her unease. 
"Factory workers?" Chase Mago asked. Of the five, he was easily 
the most 
alert, apparently unaffected by the early hour. 
Fitch nodded. "Yeah. They make computers, things like that." He 
made a 
face. "Just what we need, more mechanics." 
He sounds like one of us, Silence thought, and hid a smile. 
They caught the tube-train from the Kills' only station. It was so 
crowded 
in the car that Silence found it difficult to breathe. She fixed 
her eyes 
on the monitor, trying to ignore the mob around her, and was very 
glad 
when the symbols for the terminus appeared in the screen. She 
shouldered 
her way out of the car after the others, and stood for a 
bewildered moment 
on the busy platform before Fitch caught her arm. 
"This way." He pointed up the moving staircase, and Silence 
followed him 
obediently, clutching her bag close against her side. Balthasar 
and Chase 

Mago moved with them, efficiently shepherded by T'la. The 
anadvocate led 
them back to the plaza Silence remembered from their arrival in 
the 
mainurb, where he vanished briefly, to return a moment later with 
three 
booklets of tickets. 
"Returns, too," he said, with a grin, and Balthasar nodded 
approvingly. 
"Good thought." 
Instead of taking them back to the circular northern platform by 
which 
they'd arrived, however, Fitch led them through a purple-bordered 
archway 
that bore the sign "Eastern Suburban Transit" and down a badly lit 
tunnel. 
The embarkation area at the end of the tunnel was smaller than the 
northern line, containing only five or six platforms. Strings of 
silver 
capsules were drawn up to each platform, and Fitch paused for a 
moment to 
consult the main notice board. 
"The nonstop leaves from platform two," he said after a moment. 
"You're 
going to Nexa; it'll be the second stop." 
Balthasar nodded, but Silence frowned. "I thought you said it was 
a
nonstop?" 
"Mostly." Fitch held out the ticket booklets. "It only stops at 
the big 
suburban stations. But the one you want is Nexa." 
"All right," Silence said, and took the booklets from his hand. 
"Thanks, 

Fitch. This has been a help." 
The anadvocate shrugged, and for a moment Silence thought she saw 
him 
blush. "Be careful, Lady -- Sieura -- all of you," he said, and 
T'la 
echoed, "Please." 
"We will," Silence said, but they'd already turned away, and a 
moment 
later the crowd swallowed them. The pilot stood looking after 
them, 
feeling unaccountably lost, though she could not have said for 
certain 
why. 
Chase Mago touched her shoulder. "Come on," he said gently. 
"Platform 
two?" 
Silence nodded, and shook away the strange sense of loss. "Over 
there." 
They found an empty car without too much trouble, and settled back 
on the 
padded benches to wait for the departure. Silence dozed, and was 
awakened 
by the sudden swaying as the trans jerked into motion. She glanced 
automatically at her husbands, and saw the same mix of emotions, 
fear and 
excitement and a certain amount of relief, in both their faces. 
She 
smiled, and, reluctantly, Balthazar smiled back. 
"I guess it's almost over," he said, and Silence nodded. 
"I guess so." 
It was not that long a ride to Nexa, but it seemed to take 
forever. The 

trans passed over kilometers of the heavily settled country that 
seemed to 
characterize the mainurb, and then, very slowly, the buildings 
began to 
thin out and patches of unused land began to appear. By the time 
the trans 
stopped at the first station, labelled Valon, the land was little 
different from the land around Diesmon. It was another half hour 
to Nexa, 
according to the announcer's rich voice, but even so Silence 
started to 
gather the bags together. She stopped, flushing, as Balthasar 
grinned. 
"Eager?" 
The pilot glared at him, and Balthasar made a gesture of apology, 
the 
smile fading. "Sorry. So am I." 
The Nexa station was very like the terminus at Diesmon, except 
that its 
single narrow platform was situated between two sets of tracks. 
Balthasar 
opened the capsule door, and they clambered out onto the metal 
flooring. 
Sunlight was pouring down the central stairway, and the startravellers 
made for that, unspeaking. Silence could feel the tension settling 
in her 
shoulders, and tried to relax, but could not. If Mikajaa weren't 
waiting 
for them, if things had somehow gone wrong, and this were a trap -- 
and 
even if it weren't, she thought, greyly, she still had the siege 
engines 
ahead of her. She shook herself, hard; the fear retreated, but it 
remained 
a cold presence at the back of her mind. 
Mikajaa was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, lounging 

with 
apparent insouciance against one of the pillars that supported the 
station's roof. He nodded a greeting as they approached, but said 
nothing. 
Balthasar grinned and said, with silky menace, "Hello, Mikajaa." 
"There's a car waiting," the musician said. "Over here." 
"Stop it, Denis," Silence said. There was no point in antagonizing 
their 
only contact. Balthasar made a face, but nodded reluctant 
agreement. 
Mikajaa led them down the long, open-sided station -- there was a 
surprising amount of traffic, enough to make the star-travellers 
inconspicuous among the crowd -- then out into the sunlight and 
across the 
hard-formed parking area to a battered four-wheeled runabout. 
Machines 
like it had been banished from most of the human-settled worlds 
for 
generations, but Mikajaa pointed to it with some pride. 
"Here we are, people." 
Silence struggled to hide a grin, and saw Chase Mago's eyebrows 
lift as he 
examined the dented frame. The engineer said nothing, however, and 
Silence 
breathed a sigh of relief. 
Somewhat to her surprise, the runabout worked smoothly, the closed 
compartment comfortable despite the faintly unpleasant smell of 
the 
engine. Mikajaa handled it easily, swerving to avoid the patches 
of broken 
pavement. To either side of the road stood clusters of buildings, 
interrupted periodically by empty, neglected fields. One more sign 
of the 
Rose Worlders' insistence on Earth's natives staying in the urban 

areas, 
Silence realized. On any world in the Hegemony or in the Fringe, 
someone 
would have claimed those lots, used them either to supplement diet 
or 
their prestige. 
As the runabout drew closer to the airfield, the clusters of 
buildings 
thinned out even further, until there were perhaps two or three 
buildings 
to every kilometer. Even out here, far from Unionist supervision, 
the 
buildings huddled together, with great stretches of open space in 
between: 
the prohibition had bitten deep. 
The airfield itself wasn't much, just a paved runway and a single 
low 
hangar. The flyer had been wheeled out onto the pavement by the 
fueling 
stand, but there were no attendants in sight. No one appeared when 
Mikajaa 
pulled the runabout to a careful stop behind the hangar, and 
Silence 
frowned. 
"Where is everybody?" Balthasar asked, before the pilot could say 
anything. 
"Off duty, if they followed orders," Mikajaa answered. He shut off 
the 
runabout, and then tucked the control key carefully beneath the 
driver's 
seat. "Radan didn't want you to be seen, if we could help it." 
"That makes sense," Chase Mago said, and pulled the startravellers' 
bags 
from the runabout's luggage well. 

The flyer was small, compared to the ones Silence was used to, and 
very 
noisy. It was not the ordinary, almost musical sound of a 
harmonium 
magnified through a sounding keel, either, but the coughing roar 
of a 
machine. The pilot winced, and pressed herself back against the 
padded 
seat as Balthasar ran the engine up to its full power, wishing 
there were 
some other way to reach the farmland. 
The noise lessened once they were in the air, however, or at 
least, 
Silence thought, she became more used to it. She leaned forward, 
peering 
curiously out the little windows. They were flying below the thin 
cloud 
cover -- below the Unionists' sensor net, Mikajaa had explained -- 
and she 
could see the occasional opening in the forest that might have 
been a 
settlement like the Javerrys' but was more likely just a natural 
clearing. 
After perhaps an hour's flying, they crossed a low mountain range 
and 
turned fractionally south, heading out over empty country that 
became 
progressively flatter as they moved farther west. There were no 
settlements at all here, just acre upon acre of cropland, broken 
here and 
there by a flash of silver or the bone-white scar of a paved 
airstrip. 
Those were the repair stations for the AFMs, Mikajaa explained; 
the 
airfields were there so that flyers could land to collect the 
harvest. 
Once or twice, Silence thought she glimpsed the outline of ruined 
buildings, half hidden beneath the sea of grain, but the flyer 
passed over 

them before she could be sure. It wasn't impossible, she thought. 
Emma 
Javerry had said that all this land had once been heavily settled. 
She 
shivered at the thought of those massive relocations, and looked 
away. 
They landed at Radan's holding a little after sunset, the flyer 
slanting 
down onto the paved strip that was the only sign of human activity 
for 
hundreds of kilometers in any direction. Silence climbed out into 
the 
purple twilight, stiff from the hours of travel, and stood staring 
at the 
sea of vegetation surrounding her. It was some sort of grass-like 
grain, 
growing almost as high as her waist, an oddly bright yellow in the 
fading 
light. Behind her, the flyer's engine coughed a final time and cut 
out, 
leaving an almost painful quiet. 
"Over here," Mikajaa said, and Silence jumped. The musician was 
standing 
in the doorway of a metal-sided building, little more than a large 
shed. 
There was a second shed behind it, round-roofed -- the machineshed, 
Silence guessed, and shivered again. In their own way, she 
thought, the 
AFMs were worse than the homunculi. He beckoned again, 
impatiently, and 
Silence moved to join him, Chase Mago and Balthasar trailing 
behind her. 
The interior of the shed was very dark. Mikajaa fumbled 
impatiently with 
the control box just inside the door, and the lights came on at 
last, 

throwing a cold glare across the single room. The place had never 
been 
intended for long-term visits, Silence saw at once, looking at the 
stacked 
cots and the crude mechanical kitchen. The only new-looking piece 
of 
equipment was the control console that filled one entire wall. She 
stared 
at the lights blinking on and off across the multiple boards, and 
Mikajaa 
crossed to stand in front of the least complicated of the control 
panels. 
"I'm letting Radan know we've landed," he said, and touched a set 
of keys. 
After a moment, one set of lights turned green, and then a single 
light -- 
the channel indicator, Silence guessed, though she could not be 
sure -- 
turned from red to orange. Mikajaa nodded to himself, and lifted 
the 
headset that hung beneath the board. "Mir Radan," he said, and the 
orange 
light turned green. "Mir Radan, we're here." 
"Acknowledged." Radan's voice was faint, choked by static. "Go 
ahead with 
the plan." 
The light flickered out before Mikajaa could answer, and the 
musician 
nodded to himself. 
"What now?" Chase Mago asked. 
"You heard him," Mikajaa answered. "We shut down the machinery." 
Without 
waiting for a response, he moved to the main console, pulling a 
tattered 
notebook from the pocket of his coat. He flipped through its pages 

until 
he found the reference he wanted, then stood for a moment, 
studying the 
controls. Silence saw him take a deep breath, then reach for the 
first set 
of switches, flicking them off in a steady pattern. For a long 
time 
nothing happened, and then Balthasar whistled sharply. 
The pilot turned. Balthasar was standing by the shed's rear 
window, 
staring out into the gloom. "Look at this," he said, and pointed. 
Silence 
moved to join him, and the engineer followed, warily. 
Outside, in the almost-darkness, the AFMs were moving. The machineshed 
door had opened, and the machines were rolling toward it, to 
vanish into 
its unlit depths. Some of them Silence recognized -- tillers, 
another that 
was probably a harvester, its cutter bar cocked up behind it like 
a
scorpion's sting, a little wheeled platform that carried the tank 
and 
bellows-pump of a duster -- but most were alien, their functions 
unguessable. They moved almost noiselessly, the clank of their 
tracks and 
the rattle of the unsecured equipment almost inaudible through the 
walls 
of the shed. 
"What the hell powers them?" Chase Mago murmured, almost to 
himself. 
"Solar cells," Mikajaa said from behind them, and they all jumped. 
"Storage batteries at night." 
The wave of machines was slowing already, Silence saw, and she 
frowned. 

"Surely that isn't all of them." 
Mikajaa shook his head. "Not nearly. They'll be coming in all 
night, to 
here and to the other depots. By morning, though, they'll all be 
shut 
down." 
And I can get to work, Silence thought. I just wish to hell I knew 
exactly 
what I was doing. She turned away, sighing, to look at the stacked 
cots 
and the crusted kitchen. "Let's get settled, then." 
By morning, as Mikajaa had promised, all the AFMs had returned to 
their 
depots and the control console had gone dark. Silence stood for a 
long 
while, staring out into the brilliant sunlight, trying to decide 
what she 
should do next. She was vaguely aware of the others, watching her 
out of 
the corners of their eyes while they pretended to be busy with 
other 
things, but she put them out of her mind. Isambard had said that 
her idea 
would work -- that she could use the Form of an orrery to destroy 
the 
siege engines -- but she still was not fully certain how she 
should 
construct the schema. She closed her eyes, and whispered the first 
cantation, letting the local harmonies wash over her. For the 
first time 
since she'd come to Earth, there was no machine-made dissonance to 
interfere with the planetary music; the harmonies were at once 
unknown, 
and strangely familiar. It was like the Earth-road, she realized. 
There 
was a peculiar tightness to the music. And that, she told herself, 
would 

only work for her plan. 
She turned away from the window, smiling distractedly at the 
others, still 
watching from beside the darkened console. "I'm going out, to get 
started," she said, and saw Balthasar take a deep breath. 
"Is there anything we can do -- ?" he began, and Chase Mago laid a 
hand on 
his shoulder, cutting off the rest of the sentence. 
"Good luck, Silence," he said. 
The pilot nodded her thanks, and pushed through the shed door. 
Outside, 
the air was already very warm. She stood for a moment, squinting 
into the 
sunlight, then turned slowly, feeling for the harmonic lines. The 
two 
sheds, and the pavement of the airstrip itself were badly sited, 
lying at 
an angle to the music around them. She frowned, and started away 
from the 
airstrip, skirting the machine shed by a wide margin. 
She walked west for perhaps two hundred meters, until she was free 
of the 
last traces of mechanical influence. She knelt in the center of 
the grain, 
the ground still damp with dew beneath her, and felt the stalks 
close in 
around her, hiding her completely. Julie will worry, she thought, 
and then 
shut the irrelevant thought away. She knelt there for a long time, 
listening to the faint, unfamiliar sounds of insects and birds, 
then 
slowly put those things aside, groping instead for the deeper 
music of the 
planet itself. Those harmonies swelled around her, enclosing her, 
until 

she felt that music deep within herself, stripping away the armor 
she had 
fashioned for herself against the dissonances of the mainurb, 
leaving her 
open to the music of the planet's core. Beneath that harmony, she 
could 
hear another, more distant dissonance -- the natural dissonance 
caused by 
the clash of the other systemic harmonies, solar, lunar, 
planetary, 
against the dominant music of the world. She listened for a long 
time, 
until she was certain she understood it fully, and then, 
cautiously, 
reached beyond it to the super-material. 
She chose the Form of the circle first, because it was the 
easiest, and 
brought it into existence, laying the harmonies against it and 
bending 
them to her will until at last she had a solid wall of sound, 
enclosing a 
space perhaps fifty meters in diameter. She spoke the Words that 
fixed 
that creation, and saw the grass within the circle shiver, bending 
toward 
her as though a wind were blowing from the invisible wall toward 
the 
center. She spoke again, and the grasses disappeared, leaving 
freshly 
plowed dirt beneath her feet. She touched it, feeling the rich 
loam 
crumble in her hands, and felt, too, the distant music of the 
planet. She 
could still smell the vanished grass, a strong, green scent, but 
even as 
she recognized it, the odor faded. She stood for a moment, 
surveying her 
handiwork, then spoke softly. The Words dismissed the created 
barrier but 

retained it in potential: she would need that wall again, when she 
began 
to create the orrery itself. 
She sighed, studying both the land and its reflected harmonies. 
The proper 
material for an orrery was metal -- metal considered as one Form 
of 
elemental Earth, the Form most responsive to harmony -- but there 
was very 
little metal in the land beneath her. She could create it, of 
course, fuse 
some compound from the raw soil beneath her, but that would take 
time, and 
a great deal of power. She had neither to spare. She made a face, 
then, 
shaking her head at her own stupidity. There was metal and to 
spare back 
at the sheds, as long as the AFMs could be broken down into their 
component parts, and purged of the inescapably mechanical. If they 
could 
be purged, she added to herself, trying to control her rising 
excitement, 
but she could see no reason that they couldn't be. She looked up, 
trying 
to judge the time -- to her surprise, the sun had slipped halfway 
down the 
western sky -- then, sighing, started back toward the sheds. 
The others were waiting by the machine sheds, idly examining one 
of the 
AFMs, but they looked up quickly at her approach. "How did it go?" 
Chase 
Mago asked, at last. 
The pilot nodded. "Well enough," she said. "I still think it can 
be done." 
"Well, that's a relief," Balthasar said, but he was smiling. 

Silence smiled back at him. "I'll need your help -- all of you," 
she 
began, and the engineer cut in quickly. 
"Anything we can do, of course." 
"The AFMs," Silence said. "I need the raw metal, to cast the 
orrery." 
Mikajaa frowned. "Each one of them has a computer aboard," he 
began. "I 
don't see how --" 
"I need the raw metal," Silence said again. 
Chase Mago nodded. "I see. Yes, I think we can rip out all the 
computer 
components -- will that be enough, or will the internal structure 
have 
been warped?" 
"I don't think so," Silence answered. "Once the components have 
been 
removed, I should be able to reshape it all right." Mikajaa still 
looked 
confused, and she elaborated, "The computers are antithetical to 
the Art. 
We have to take them out -- and preferably get them away from 
here, though 
that's not absolutely vital -- before I can get to work." 
The musician nodded slowly. "I think I understand." 
They spent the next four days disassembling a medium-sized tiller. 
Mikajaa 
proved invaluable at this, as he was able to point out minuscule 
components that the star-travellers might otherwise have missed, 
and the 
work progressed quickly. By mid-morning on the fifth day, all the 
irrevocably mechanical bits and pieces had been pulled out of the 

AFM, and 
the shell stood empty, waiting. Silence studied it, hands on hips, 
wondering if it wasn't too late to begin the work of 
transformation that 
day. She shook the thought away -- if she allowed herself to delay 
now, 
for no better reason than fear, she would never finish -- and 
said, "I i 
think that does it." 
Chase Mago nodded, wiping his arm across his sweating face. "I 
don't see 
anything else that has to come out." 
Balthasar grimaced. "I suppose this means we have to move it out 
to that 
space you cleared," he said, and Silence nodded. 
"That's right. And we'd better start now, before it gets any 
hotter." 
The tiller was one of the smaller AFMs that ran on wheels rather 
than on 
tracks, which made it somewhat easier to move. Even so, and 
despite the 
fact that most of the heavy engine had been removed, it took all 
of their 
strength to push it into the circle Silence had cleared. The four 
sat on 
the ground for a long time after they'd gotten the AFM past the 
perimeter, 
panting, unable to say a word. Silence could feel her heart 
pounding, 
could feel the pain of a wrenched muscle in her shoulder. 
"There's got to be a better way." That was Mikajaa, sprawled flat 
in the 
dirt just beyond the gutted machine. He sounded completely 
exhausted, and 
Silence felt a pang of guilt. 

 "I'll try to come up with something," she began, and Chase Mago 
shook his 
head. 
"No," he said, "leave that to me. I've got a couple of ideas I can 
try. " 
"A little late with them, aren't you, Julie?" Balthasar grumbled, 
but he 
was the first to push himself to his feet. "We'll let you get on 
with it, 
Silence." 
The engineer groaned as he stood up, then turned to pull Mikajaa 
to his 
feet. "Good luck," Chase Mago said, and, after a moment, the 
musician 
hesitantly echoed him. 
Left to herself, Silence sat for a moment longer, gathering 
strength. When 
at last she felt fully recovered, she pushed herself to her feet, 
and 
turned to study the mass of metal. In its present state, it was 
useless to 
her; it would have to be transformed, and then reshaped into the 
various 
parts of the orrery. There was enough raw metal in this machine to 
form 
the centerpiece and the first ring. Well, then, she told herself, 
get on 
with it. 
She took a deep breath, and spoke the Words that recalled the 
barrier, 
sealing herself off from the fields around her. The harmonies with 
which 
she would be working were dangerously powerful, could poison the 
land 

itself if she let her control slip. This way, at least, any errors 
would 
harm only herself. She felt the barrier close in around her, the 
air 
taking on the faintly lifeless quality that she associated with 
the 
isolation rings on Solitude Hermae, where she had first learned 
the Art. 
Unpleasant though it was, the familiar feeling steadied her, and 
she 
regarded the stripped machine with more confidence. This would be 
a
two-stage operation: first the metal would have to be transformed 
from its 
present, common state to a compound more receptive to the Art, and 
then 
that new metal would have to be forged into the orrery's 
centerpiece. The 
latter was easy; it was the transformation that worried her. 
She took another deep breath, putting aside her doubts. Metals, 
compounded 
as they were of elemental Earth, the least volatile of the major 
elements, 
were notoriously difficult to work in the first stages of 
transformation, 
but once the original Form had been broken, were surprisingly easy 
to 
reshape. She fixed her eyes on the AFM, barely aware of the way 
the sun 
glinted off the unpainted surface, or of its heat against her 
back. She 
concentrated instead on the weight of the metal, on its solidity 
and its 
essential Form. When she was sure that the present Form was fixed 
in her 
mind, she spoke the Words of the first step of transformation. She 
felt 
heat flare in her mind, matching the sun's heat on her back; felt 
the same 

heat reflected from the AFM. This was calcination, the necessary 
death 
that bound the metal to its present state, and prepared it for the 
changes 
that were to come. 
The heat rose, driving her back a step or two. She winced, but 
kept her 
eyes on the AFM. Outwardly, it was unchanged, but she could feel 
the heat 
rising within it, feel the first impure elements stir and shift, 
loosened 
from their place in the metal's structure. Then the AFM's outline 
seemed 
to waver, to loosen. Instantly, she spoke the next Words, 
banishing the 
heat, to leave the AFM shimmering in the sunlight, its outline as 
vaguely 
unstable as if she were viewing it through imperfect glass. She 
spoke 
again, and felt the metal solidify under the lash of the heavy 
syllables. 
Now, however, each lesser element was separate from the others, 
ready to 
be manipulated. She paused, gathering strength, watching the fixed 
metal 
for any signs of instability, then spoke the Words that opened a 
door into 
hell. 
There was no true sound in answer, but she felt a kind of thunder 
shiver 
in the thick air. The patch of hell, roiling with the non-color 
that was 
all colors at once, grew between her hands. She whispered the 
phrases that 
controlled and shaped it, but did not stop its growth. The opening 
grew 
larger, shimmering like a silver platter; under her sure touch, it 
grew 

larger still, until it lay like a flat lake between her and the 
AFM, a 
shallow disk easily large enough to contain the entire machine. 
She spoke 
the Words that fixed it, then, and turned her attention to the 
AFM. 
The machine seemed unchanged, the uncanny heat gone from its 
frame, but 
Silence could feel the difference in its response to her commands. 
She 
lifted her hands, balancing her awareness of the chaotic energies 
of hell 
against the arrested movement of the AFM's metal. With infinite 
care, she 
sent the disk of hell drifting away from her, until it hung 
suspended just 
above the AFM. Bracing herself, she lowered her hands, bringing 
the disk 
down over the machine. 
Even though she had been expecting it, the explosion of released 
energy 
rocked her back on her heels. She swore, and swallowed the words 
unspoken, 
afraid of upsetting the delicate balance of forces around her. The 
disk 
sank lower, concealing and consuming the AFM. She fought to 
control the 
process, venting the unnatural energies back into the submaterial 
where 
they belonged. This was perhaps the most dangerous part of the 
transformation: the violent dissolution, followed by the digestion 
of the 
lesser elements into the chaotic state that was potentially any 
element, 
releasing its parts unevenly, throwing off dangerous bits and 
pieces of 
near-elemental matter. Those particles were inherently unstable, 
short-lived, but in their brief existence were capable of invading 

the 
more ordinary compounds, translating them into deadly poisons. 
The disk sank lower still, until it had completely consumed the 
AFM, and 
its strange surface seemed to float only a few centimeters above 
the 
ground. There was a platform of stability here, and Silence seized 
it 
gratefully, wiping the sweat from her face. One more step, she 
told 
herself, one more step, and you're halfway there. She took a deep 
breath, 
and spoke the next Words. 
There was another quivering in the air around her, a sense of 
shifting, 
but nothing else happened. She frowned, and spoke again, 
reinforcing her 
first command with a Word of even greater power. There was a 
groan, a 
sound deeper than the deepest notes of a ship's harmonium, and a 
noise 
like something tearing. Very slowly, a shape began to rise from 
the disk 
of hell. Silence spoke again, quickly, using Words that were the 
reflections of elemental Earth, and the shape stabilized into a 
dark, 
shimmering cube that hung just above the surface of the disk. 
Silence sighed in relief -- she was halfway finished now; she had 
broken 
the metal down to its elemental form, and now needed only to 
recast it 
into something more useful for her purposes -- and dismissed the 
opening 
into hell. The cube remained in the air before her, a dark, oilybrown 
shape that sang with a power all its own. She tilted her head to 
one side, 

studying it a moment longer, then spoke the Words that began the 
next 
sequence. The surface of the cube shifted, darkened, then began to 
bubble 
gently. Wisps of matter rose from it like steam; she spoke again, 
softly 
now, and those wisps dissolved into the materials of common air, 
harmless 
and even beneficial. She spoke once again, drawing on the Form of 
the 
tetrahedron, dividing the interior volume from the planes of the 
surface. 
At another Word, those planes hardened, became a barrier between 
the 
near-elemental Earth within and the contaminating common air 
around it. 
She paused again, breathing hard. The final three stages were the 
most 
difficult, primarily because the process proceeded so quickly once 
it had 
been initiated. She closed her eyes, visualizing first the 
completed 
orrery and then the specific pieces she would forge from this 
transformation, then spoke the Words that divided the substance 
within the 
cube from its Form. She could feel the surge of power, the rising 
music, 
not dissonant but not harmonious, either, and chanted the next 
phrase, the 
Words that were the schema, the definition, of the metallic 
compound 
illarion, the metal from which an orrery should be created. She 
could feel 
the substance shifting toward the metal, first a few tiny 
fragments 
bonding to form a lesser element, then another, and then those 
lesser 
elements shifting and reforming, joining one to another in an 
ever-increasing reaction that changed the Formless substance into 

a
defined metal. She spoke again, phrases that shaped and defined 
the first 
parts of the orrery, tuning it to the true notes of the system 
around her, 
and felt the still-malleable metal changing state within the cube. 
She 
spoke a final Word, and the cube split open, to reveal the sunsphere 
in 
its stand, and the ring-and-ball of the first planet. She gestured 
hurriedly, using the last of the rapidly dissipating energies to 
shift the 
newly made structure into the center of the ring, and then stood 
for a 
long moment, looking at it. I did it, she thought, and smiled. 
Around her, 
she could feel the last energies ebbing gently away. She waited 
for them 
to fade, listening to their soft reflection in the incomplete 
orrery. This 
part, at least, was properly in tune; the rest would be made 
deliberately 
out of tune, to allow her to break the engines, but this was 
perfect. She 
smiled again, savoring her success, then sighed, and turned to 
dismiss the 
barrier. She called up the last of her strength, and threw a 
shield of 
illusion around the circle, hiding it from any passing flyers, and 
then, 
fighting off the waves of exhaustion that suddenly threatened to 
overwhelm 
her, started back toward the sheds. 
Over the next weeks, she performed that operation eight more 
times, 
casting each of the planetary rings. As the rings grew larger and 
more 
complex, it became harder to manipulate them; she had to struggle 
to force 

the unwieldy masses to take on the Forms she wanted. The 
deliberately 
dissonant tuning caused difficulties, too, and she had to cast a 
series of 
stasis fields to keep the disharmony from destroying the halffinished 
structure. At night, the buzzing of those fields haunted her 
dreams. Chase 
Mago and Balthasar, and even Mikajaa, did all they could to help, 
but 
there was little they could do, and Silence felt herself becoming 
remote 
from them, lost in a sort of waking dream. Things were progressing 
as 
planned in the mainurb, she gathered from the conversations she 
occasionally was aware of hearing, and Aili was making herself 
more than 
useful coordinating the various groups' activities, and mediating 
among 
their conflicting interests, but beyond that point she barely 
listened. 
She was too busy with the delicate process of creating the 
imperfect 
orrery to spare much thought for mere politics. 
And then the last ring was in place. The dissonances were finally 
internally consistent, and she released the stasis fields with a 
sigh of 
relief. The tension, the nagging, sour sensation in the back of 
her mind, 
vanished, and she started back to the sheds feeling more alert 
than she 
had in days. Chase Mago greeted her with a smile and a nod, his 
eyes wary, 
but Balthasar grinned openly. 
"It's finished, is it?" he asked. "Not before time, either." 
Silence frowned, suddenly aware that she had lost all track of 
time. "When 

is it?" 
Balthasar's grin widened. "If everything's gone according to plan - 
-" 
"There's no reason to think it hasn't," Chase Mago interjected. 
"-- the Hegemon's fleet will start the final leg tomorrow," the 
Delian 
finished. 
"Oh, my God." Silence froze, putting a hand over her mouth. If it 
had 
taken another day -- if she had waited any longer, or hesitated, 
or taken 
any steps over, the orrery would have been finished too late. She 
shook 
herself, pushing away the fear. She could not dwell on what might 
have 
happened; the orrery was finished, and she was ready to perform 
the final 
operation. 
As if he'd read her doubts, Mikajaa said, "You are ready, aren't 
you?" 
The pilot nodded, biting back a slightly hysterical laugh. "Oh, 
yes." She 
saw Balthasar's lifted eyebrow, and smiled. "Well, yes, Denis, I 
would've 
liked a day or two to rest, but it's no problem. Don't worry." 
"But I do," the Delian said, surprisingly, then shrugged. "Like 
you say, 
there's no choice." He looked from Chase Mago to Mikajaa, who was 
waiting 
beside the communications console. "What now?" 
It was the musician who answered first. "I'll tell Radan we're 
ready. " 

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the control board and 
began 
flipping switches. 
Chase Mago said thoughtfully, "The plan so far has been that we'll 
coordinate the destruction of the siege engines with Isambard's 
attack on 
the barrier. Is that still true, and, if so, how do we know?" 
Mikajaa looked up from the flickering lights. "Radan will signal 
us when 
the barrier's down. Then I guess whoever's watching the console 
can signal 
Silence." 
The pilot nodded. "That's simple enough," she said. Privately, she 
wished 
that the siege engines could be controlled from Man's Island -- 
but it was 
a waste of time to wish that her enemies had been stupid, she told 
herself 
angrily. Of course they cast the engines to be independent, just 
in case 
there ever was a rebellion on Earth. Whatever else they might be, 
the Rose 
Worlders were not fools. 
"Everything's set," Mikajaa reported, a few moments later. 
"They're 
planning on attacking just before dawn, just before the curfew 
lifts. Is 
that all right with you, Silence?" 
"That's fine," the pilot said quickly, before she, could change 
her mind. 
The actual time made very little difference to her. The orrery was 
already 
set to the approximate planetary positions relative to Earth; she 
could 
make whatever final adjustments were needed in the morning. 

 "You should get some rest," Chase Mago said gently, and Silence 
nodded 
again. 
"I will," she said, without much hope. 
Somewhat to her surprise, however, she slept heavily, and 
Balthasar had to 
shake her awake to give her her breakfast. Silence sipped 
cautiously at 
the dreadful coffee and stared at the wall in front of her, trying 
to 
clear her mind. In theory, at least, the operation was not that 
complex. 
As Isambard had repeated from the beginning, the siege engines 
imposed an 
unnatural dissonance on a system meant to be in harmony; the 
orrery was 
merely a tool to correct the situation. Still, the siege engines 
were very 
powerful -- she could still remember the stresses that had 
destroyed the 
Bruja, and had almost destroyed Recusante; it would take a 
corresponding 
strength to overcome them. 
"It's time," Chase Mago said, at her elbow. 
Silence forced a smile, suddenly afraid. She was still relatively 
untried.... She pushed that thought away violently. She could not 
afford 
that kind of weakness, not today. She had thought of the 
operation; she 
would see it through. "I'm ready," she said aloud. 
"Is there anything we can do?" the engineer went on. 
Silence shook her head. "Once you've given the signal, stay 
inside, that's 

about it. I don't think there's any danger, but I'd rather not 
have to 
worry about you." 
Chase Mago nodded, and the pilot reached for the magus's supplies 
Isambard 
had so carefully packed for her before she left Recusante. The 
only thing 
she needed from it today was the simple pitchfork, but she stopped 
abruptly. She only needed it to set the base notes, and there were 
better 
ways to do that. "Julie," she said aloud, "would you do me a 
favor? Let me 
borrow your pitch pipe." 
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she cringed, expecting 
a
refusal. An engineer's pitch pipe was the main tool of his trade, 
as 
personally valuable as a pilot's starbooks; Chase Mago wouldn't 
want to 
give it up, especially not for something as uncertain as this 
operation. 
To her surprise, however, the engineer reached into his shirt 
without a 
second's hesitation, and brought out the silvery egg. "Good luck," 
he 
said, and put the cord around Silence's neck. 
The pilot touched it wonderingly, and managed a tremulous smile. 
"Thanks," 
she whispered, and impulsively threw her arms around him. 
"Thanks," she 
said again, and found herself close to tears. 
"Hey," Balthasar said, and put his arms around them both. "It's 
time to 
go." 

Silence nodded, fighting to get herself under control, and pushed 
herself 
away. "All right." 
"Good luck," Balthasar said again, and gave his slow, lopsided 
smile. "So 
this is it." 
"This is it," Silence said, and smiled back. 
"We'll fire one of the flyer's flare-lights when the attack 
begins, " 
Chase Mago said. "You can't miss that." 
"I'll be watching for it," Silence said, and stepped out into the 
predawn 
chill. 
The light was still dim, but strangely clear, a few stars still 
showing on 
the western horizon. The dew was heavy in the thick grass, and 
Silence was 
soaked to the knees by the time she reached the clearing. She 
shivered, 
wishing she had thought to bring dry clothes, but then put that 
concern 
aside, and walked slowly around the orrery, checking one last time 
for 
defects. The dissonance was there, clearly audible in the way the 
concentric rings rang softly to her footsteps, but it was an 
intentional 
dissonance, not destructive. She stood for a moment longer, 
looking 
through the great silver rings, each one carrying a sphere that 
was a 
symbol of one of the first system's planets, to the larger central 
sphere 
that was the symbol of the sun. When the light hit it, she knew, 
it would 
gleam gold, the sun's metal, but for now it was just a slightly 

darker 
shape among the rings. 
She looked toward the east then, past the dark shed, light glowing 
in its 
windows, toward the distant horizon. It was already growing 
lighter there, 
the sky fading toward sunrise. She shivered again, but knew this 
time it 
was tension, not the chill. Soon, now, she thought, very soon.... 
Something moved by the sheds. She reached hastily for the pitch 
pipe 
dangling at her breast, but then curbed her impatience. She had to 
wait 
for the attack to begin on Man's Island, or she would almost 
certainly 
have to contend with extra interference, as the controllers there 
sought 
to drive her away from the siege engines. Even with the attack, 
she might 
have to face them, but, with any luck, Radan's agents would keep 
the Rose 
Worlders too busy for them to worry about anything but saving 
their own 
skins. 
A light flared above the shed, rose and blossomed into a hundred 
stars. 
She stared for a moment, then realized abruptly what it was. The 
signal 
had been given; it was time to begin. She took a slow, deep 
breath, 
steadying her nerves, then lifted the pitch pipe to her lips. She 
sounded 
the first note, a low, dark note like the tolling of an immense 
bell, then 
spoke the Words that chained it to the outermost of the nine 
rings. She 
could feel the metal resisting, and spoke again, reinforcing those 

Words 
with other, more commanding sounds. With a strange, groaning noise 
the 
ring shifted, the metal realigning itself with the new, more 
perfect note 
she had sounded. 
Silence stood for a moment, assessing the new internal harmonies 
she had 
created, and then sounded the second note. The first note still 
sounded, 
but more distantly; the second note cut through it as though it 
had not 
been there. The next ring resisted, too, but then adjusted itself. 
The two 
correct notes blended into a sound that Silence recognized as the 
basis of 
the music she had heard when she finally travelled the Earth-road. 
The 
dissonance at the center of the orrery rose slightly, humming like 
a swarm 
of insects. Silence gave it a wary glance, ready to hold it static 
if she 
had to, but the humming stabilized at its new level. She waited a 
moment 
longer, and sounded the third note. 
As she moved inward toward the sun-sphere, the rings' resistance 
increased. At the seventh ring, the Earth-ring, her note evoked a 
strange 
brassy cry, so weirdly tuned that she had to put both hands to her 
ears, 
the dissonance lashing at her. She shouted into it, binding it to 
her 
will, and, after a moment in which the entire universe seemed to 
hang 
suspended, the metal shifted, obeying her command. She stood for a 
moment, 
shaking, and felt the tension of the last two untuned rings, like 
a 

physical presence in the air around her. The combined music of the 
other 
rings surrounded her as well, a note almost too deep for human 
hearing, 
yet still somehow strangely muted. The dissonance of the remaining 
rings 
and spheres seemed to drown that perfection. She listened, 
wondering if 
the Rose Worlders were somehow affecting her operation, but could 
feel no 
signs of outside interference. She took a deep breath, and sounded 
the 
eighth note. 
The sound seemed to hang in the air after she had lowered the 
pitch pipe, 
swelling toward some unimaginable climax. Hastily, she shouted the 
Words 
that turned it toward the proper ring, and felt that ominous 
pressure 
recede. No, not ominous, she corrected herself instantly, less 
threatening 
than unimaginably powerful. She sounded the next note, directing 
it to the 
last of the planetary rings, and felt the same power loom for a 
moment 
before her commands diverted it. That left only the sun-sphere, 
and the 
final operation itself. 
The sun was rising now, its light glinting from the rings, which 
seemed to 
float along the central axis. It glowed from the sun-sphere as 
well, 
turning the metal to gold. All the conditions were right, Silence 
knew, 
and sounded the final note. It rose from the pipe, took on 
substance and 
weight, became visible as a spark of sun-colored light that soared 
through 

the orrery's rings to strike the central sphere. Silence braced 
herself, 
ready to speak the Words that would turn the orrery into a 
sympathetic 
model of the first system, and light exploded from the sun-sphere. 
It 
flashed outward, and with it came music. The sound was 
terrifyingly 
perfect, balanced between the notes of the sun and planets that 
blended 
into a systemic music that could never be forgotten, and the music 
of 
heaven itself, of the realm of Form beyond the material. The wave 
of sound 
struck Silence, knocking her backward onto the cleared ground. For 
a
moment, she was aware only of pain, an agony like nothing she had 
ever 
imagined, and then the ground seemed to shift, or perhaps it was 
she who 
moved, and she hung gloriously suspended in the heart of the 
music. 
She could feel it striking through her body, and through the core 
of Earth 
itself, waking the same glad echoes at its center; she felt the 
same notes 
reach up through the envelope of air and out into the vacuum of 
the first 
system, encompassing each planet in its course. Almost in passing, 
she 
felt the siege engines shriek and die, but it hardly seemed to 
matter, 
compared to the wonder of the music. The entire system sang with 
it, in 
perfect tune for the first time since the Millennial Wars, but the 
music 
reached still farther, resonating through purgatory until it 
seemed that 
all of human-settled space was encompassed in that song. And still 

the 
music continued, pulling away from her comprehension toward 
something that 
lay beyond the borders of the universe. She strained after it, 
fought to 
follow, but the music was failing now, or she was failing, the 
magnificent 
harmony slipping from her grasp. She thought she cried out, a wail 
of 
despair and loss, but the song had passed beyond her reach. She 
fell, and 
thought she wept. 
And then she was lying in the shadow of the broken orrery, staring 
up into 
blazing sunlight. She moved her head cautiously, and winced at the 
pain in 
every limb. 
"Silence?" That was Chase Mago's voice, thick with relief. The 
pilot 
turned her head, grimacing as the muscles of her neck protested 
the 
movement, and looked up into the engineer's familiar face. There 
were 
tears in his beard; she reached to touch them, frowning in 
concern. 
"Are you all right?" the engineer continued. Behind his shoulder, 
Silence 
could see Balthasar. There were tears on the Delian's face as 
well, and 
her frown deepened. 
"I'm fine," she said, and started to push herself up into a 
sitting 
position. The new pains in her arms and back made her swear, and 
she was 
grateful for the engineer's supporting arms. "At least, I think I 
am, " 

she amended. "I feel as though I've wrenched every muscle in my 
body. " 
The memory of the magnificent music was already fading to a 
bearable 
level; had she been able to remember it more clearly, she knew, 
she would 
not be able to bear its loss. She looked around deliberately, 
forcing 
herself to concentrate on mundane things. The sun was almost 
directly 
overhead, she realized, and the concerns of the morning came 
rushing back. 
"The engines were destroyed," she said slowly -- somehow, she 
could not 
take credit for the effects of that glorious harmony -- "but did 
the fleet 
get through? What happened?" She clutched the engineer's arm in 
sudden 
panic. 
"It's all right," Balthasar said quickly. "Radan's people took the 
island, 
just the way he planned, and the fleet's through. It's moving insystem 
right now, and Aili's talking to it." He grinned suddenly. "The 
last 
Mikajaa heard, she was telling his most serene majesty where to 
get oft7." 
The smile faded a little. "Not that we were paying a whole lot of 
attention. We didn't dare move you, until we knew what had 
happened." 
"Sieura!" 
That was Mikajaa's voice, and Silence shifted in the engineer's 
embrace to 
stare blearily at the young musician. 
"You're all right, I'm glad." Mikajaa seemed to see the other 
men's stares 

for the first time, and blushed faintly. "I thought you'd want to 
know," 
he went on after a moment speaking now to all of them. "The 
hegemon's 
agreed, her serenity will have Earth -- I don't know how she 
conned Radan 
into that --" 
"Practice," Silence murmured, and saw Balthasar nod in wry 
agreement. 
"Whatever," Mikajaa said. "And some prince -- Azarian, or 
something like 
that -- will inherit the Hegemony." His tone made it clear that he 
didn't 
understand how that was part of the issue. 
Silence nodded. "So we've fulfilled our contract, too," she 
murmured. 
"Were we mentioned at all?" Balthasar asked, and Chase Mago 
laughed. 
"You're getting conceited, Denis." 
Mikajaa grinned. "Not really, considering. Yes, you were. The 
hegemon 
wants you to enter his service, and so does her serenity. They're 
both 
offering you just about anything you could want." 
Silence nodded again, smiling. "I don't know about you two," she 
said, 
"but my vote's for Aili." 
"Let's see what she's offering," Balthasar demurred, and the 
engineer 
reached up to grab the slighter man's collar. 
"It's two to one, Denis," he said firmly. "We'll stay." His 

determined 
expression softened slightly, and he released the Delian. "Think 
of it, 
man, we'll be based on Earth." 
Balthasar smiled reluctantly. "All right," he said, "you win." 
Silence relaxed slowly, leaning back into the engineer's arms. 
That was 
enough of a decision for now, she thought, smiling. There would be 
other 
decisions later, details to be settled -- she still owed Efelay 
what 
knowledge she could share, and the Javerrys too deserved whatever 
help she 
could give -- but for now, it was enough. She, and Balthasar, and 
Chase 
Mago, were free, truly free, for the first time since they had met 
-- 
better than free, she thought suddenly, and better than just 
surviving. 
Whatever happens now, we're at the center, the center of humansettled 
space. We'll be a part of it, of this new time that's beginning. 
Her smile 
widened, as she stared into the blue of Earth's sky. That should 
be enough 
for anyone.