by Doris Egan
Ran sat stiffly on the pallet. I could feel the warmth of his body, and also the tension. Whatever being cantry
tar'meth did, I could tell he wasn't going to let it happen to him.
"Wake up, Tymon," said Stereth's voice. "We're going on an adventure."
I opened my eyes to see his boots near my hand. "It's the middle of the night," I said.
"No better time."
People were starting to move about softly, pulling on their clothes, splashing water on their faces. Des, Lex, and Carabinstereth—the three people who'd been invited up to the glass sheet the longest—were already dressed. Stereth nodded to Lex and he went out, no doubt to open the stables.
"I don't want to go on another cattle raid." My voice sounded like a three-year-old refusing to eat her porridge, but just the same I meant it.
"Fine, Tymon," said Stereth, humoring me.
"I mean it!"
"We're not going on a cattle raid. Satisfied? Now get up."
Even Ran was pulling on a short outer robe, but I sat there. "If we're not going on a cattle raid, where are we going?"
"Wherever we're going," said Des, "you'll be the only one not dressed for it."
"The hell with you," I said, without anger, and began feeling around for my socks.
"You're mean when you wake up," said Des.
A short time later, booted, jacketed, and semi-aware, we were lined up by Stereth for inspection. He shook his head. "What a group. You know, I didn't get these gray hairs back in Tammas District.'
"So you've told us," said Mora.
"It's true. It wasn't until I met you lot that I learned what worrying is. Being Stereth Tar'krim's taken years off my life."
Mora made a rude noise. Although I didn't analyze it at the time, standing there with the band I felt a sense of closeness, the sort of thing Ivorans tell you you're supposed to feel with a family. I didn't know this either, but that kind of warmth was common among outlaws just before a
run. We were all aware that something dangerous was coming, but I wasn't frightened. Well, I was somewhat frightened, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle; my situation seemed humorous rather than desperate. People laugh a lot more before a run, and I didn't know that either.
"Everybody breathe," said Stereth, and there was laughter. I was surprised to realize I hadn't been breathing.
"And don't get too excited," he went on, "because this isn't the main event. It's only a rehearsal."
Gods, I was almost disappointed. What was wrong with me, anyway?
He said, "It's time to fill you in on what we're going to be doing. In ten minutes we're going to ride north to where the Mid-Plateau Road leads into the Shaskala Road. At some future time, two groundcars are going to come down that road from the west. Each car will be carrying anywhere from seven hundred to eight hundred thousand tabals." Seeing the looks of shock on his listeners, he said, "It's the quarterly tax money from the northern farms and ranches."
"Gods, Stereth, are we going to steal that?" The surprise on Paravit-Col's face made him seem about twelve years old.
"Yes."
"But a groundcar—we can't attack a groundcar. We've only got mounts and wagons—and knives—"
Stereth smiled coolly. "And the cars will be armored, too."
"Gods!"
Des spoke up. "Stereth's got this all planned out. It'll work. Would I be going if I didn't think it would work?"
Stereth said, "You all declared yourselves in. I told you it would be more dangerous than the usual run."
Lazarin said, "But groundcars—"
"I anticipate zero casualties from this," said Stereth, in his accountant's tone. "If I'm wrong, if anybody gets hurt, I'll re-open my offer of safe passage to the Deathwell band. Nobody has to go along with it who isn't comfortable." They glanced at each other. "But if I'm right, and we're successful—I don't want to ever hear any opposition from anyone again. We're going to be busy, and I don't have time to spend fighting my own people."
They began to nod. "All right," said Paravit-Col.
"I want your road-oaths on this," said Stereth.
There was silence. Then Carabinstereth said, "You have mine."
"And mine," said Komo.
The other ex-soldiers followed suit, and then the rest of the band.
Nobody asked for mine. I was relieved. My feelings were also hurt.
Outside, the mounts were waiting in the gathering mist. A wagon was ready as well; Clintris climbed to the driver's seat. I heard Grateth's voice say, "What about prisoners? There'll be two men in each car, that's militia procedure."
Stereth's voice came back: "If one or two are quick enough to surrender, we'll hold them for ransom. Otherwise, it's too dangerous. We'll kill them as swiftly as possible."
I dropped hold of my mount's lead and it stepped back, startled. Somehow I'd only been anticipating danger to myself.
No, I thought. No. I can't take any more responsibility like that. I just can't.
I was halfway back to the fort when Des caught up to me. "Sweetheart, what's the matter?"
"I can't go."
Some of the others were joining us. Carabinstereth and Mora, Lex and Lazarin appeared out of the mist. I could just make out Stereth behind them. Ran was nowhere to be seen, and I found myself hoping he hadn't chosen this minute to try an escape, because it would really be just too much for me to deal with right now. Of course, Ran would never have ridden off and left me there, but I was too keyed up to be thinking properly.
"I can't go," I said again. "I'm sorry."
"What's the problem?" asked Des.
"I'm an Athenan scholar," I declared, reverting to the only classification from my past that I'd ever consciously chosen. "I don't kidnap people for money, and I don't kill them."
Nobody told me I was being an idiot. They all just looked at me, and several of them turned to go about their business. As he was attaching a knife sheath to his belt, Des
clapped me on the shoulder. "Everybody has these minutes, Tymon. But don't live in the past. It won't get you very far." And he went back to his mount, as though the matter were ended.
Ran was here by now. Stereth waved to the others and they went away, but he stayed. Stereth came over to me and said, "Have you ever killed anyone?"
I suppose I could have lied, but I nodded.
"A stranger? Or someone you knew?"
"A friend."
Ran glanced at me, but said nothing. Stereth grinned and rested one gloved hand heavily on my shoulder. "You were born to the Sector," he said. He pulled me back toward the riders. "Come on, I'll help you up."
And then I was riding numbly out into the damp night mist.
It rained twice on the way there, which seemed odd to me for the time of year; but then, the plateau is an odd place. Southward, in Cormallon, we would be coming on high summer. Blue flowers called herox came out around now, and the fields would be full of them. Or so I'd been told. I'd never seen Cormallon at that particular time; I'd planned to see it this year. In the capital, Trade Square would be slowing down during the noon hours, and anybody who could create some kind of shade with cloth and sticks and the sides of carts would be doing it. And Shaskala would only be saved from complete incineration by its altitude.
But on the top of the plateau, protected by layers of cloud, we could still wear jackets most of the day. A lot of the others managed to get sunburned anyway; Des had, working on the roof. Deceitfully, though, it still felt cool, and the constant wind blew through us all, and the rain fell. Twice.
I didn't want to be here any more. I didn't want to be at Cormallon, either. I wanted to be by myself somewhere, in a little house with a comfortable outlander-style chair on a porch, and no commitments for as far ahead as I could see. Not on Athena; the gods knew not on Pyrene. Was there anyplace I did want to be?
"Right here," called Stereth, pulling us all up short.
There was a grove of twisted trees on a hillside, dense bushes all around;
practically a jungle, for the plateau. I slid down carefully and tied my mount at a tree trunk. I don't dislike large animals, but they make me nervous. I prefer the predictability of mods to native creatures—it's a pity humans don't come in the modified variety. And thank the gods I wasn't required to deal with horses, the old-fashioned kind that Ran's family liked. I would have disgraced myself long since.
The mist was lifting somewhat. Stereth's glance went around the band in a quick circuit; everyone accounted for. I didn't doubt he'd know at once if we came up short. Then he took us to the hilltop under the two moons and gestured, as though offering the kingdoms of the world.
What we saw was a dingy little road, suitable for sturdy groundcars if they weren't too large. Probably the most traffic it ever saw was the occasional mount or wagon, or a half-dozen steermods being led to market. For someone with my background, it was hard to accept the huge people-less expanses of space on this world. "Rehearsal time," said Stereth. "The cars will be coming from that direction. Tymon, Komo, and Cantry will be here with me in this grove. Most of the rest of you will be in that stand of trees on the far hill—Carabinstereth will be in charge. Walk over there, get used to what you can see and where you'll be. Des, you'll supervise the road crew. Pick whomever you want to help. If Lex has a suggestion to make, you'd better listen to him. Your life will be in his hands."
Des spoke in a businesslike manner, far from his usual fooling around. "Grateth, Komo, Sembet, Sokol—give me a hand. Get shovels from the wagon." I turned to look at the wagon, now fully visible in the clearing air. Good heavens, was that the bathtub loaded on back?
It was. Des' crew gathered their shovels and he led them down to the road. They started to dig.
Several hours later the following things had been accomplished: People had been moved back and forth all over the hills and the road; Lex na'Valory had had three major arguments with Des and any number of minor ones; and a large hole about one meter deep had been dug across the
middle of the road. There were also a dozen individual and collective briefings that I hadn't been included in.
A blanket supported by skinny branches was stretched over the hole and dirt and pebbles were layered on top of it. A side hole had also been dug out from the north wall of the pit, more or less grave size. It wasn't level with the bottom, but about two hand-widths above it. There was a separate access from above. Des, I saw, took a keen interest in everything relating to this pit. He even laid himself out in the side grave for a moment.
I didn't know what was going on in the grove across the road. The wagon and its contents had disappeared, and a gulley that led down the hillside had been widened. Sembet walked up and down this gulley a few dozen times before disappearing back into the trees.
Lex na'Valory had been given custody of the single light-rifle. I questioned the wisdom of that, but I questioned it silently, to myself. I was always polite to Lex—you never knew what would set him off.
Stereth saw me watching the most temperamental member of the band as he walked from one spot to another on the hill across the way, and he must have read my expression. "Lex is the best marksman in the Sector," he said.
"Lex?" I'd never thought about his past. I'd rather imagined him springing full-grown and borderline psychotic from the army stockade.
"You're a worrier, aren't you?" said Stereth kindly. "Lex will do his part. Relax."
I would have been a lot more relaxed honeymooning in Shaskala while on a routine case, and whom did we have to blame for that? I didn't say it, though. After all, Stereth had been trying to reassure me.
We broke at dawn for breakfast: Bread, cold meat, and beans from last night's supper, washed down with clean water from the canteens. Afterward, Des said, "Are we finished? Have we practiced everything?"
"We've practiced everything," agreed Stereth.
"Does this mean we can go home and sleep now?" I inquired.
"This means we should all go and position ourselves," said Stereth. "The cars will be coming through in about an hour."
The urge to sleep vanished totally. Stereth certainly knew what to say to get the adrenaline pumping.
I said, "I thought this was a rehearsal."
"We've rehearsed," he said. "Now we need an audience."
Des grinned, and I looked at him resentfully. Under pressure his physical cowardice seemed to disappear. Not mine, frankly. I try not to make a pest of myself about it, but I may as well be honest in these pages.
Cantry joined Stereth and me on our hilltop, and the others vanished into the grove across the way—except for Des, who lowered himself into the grave.
"What is he doing?" I asked Stereth.
Sembet came down the gulley and was now obligingly pouring more dirt over the access to Des' hole. He stamped on the dirt when he was through. Now the only way out for Des was through the main pit.
I said, "Stereth?"
"He'll be all right."
So we sat there and waited. Cantry was her usual silent self. For all I know she may have been a chatterbox when alone with Stereth, but she said nothing while I was there. As I found out later, she must have had a lot on her mind then.
Three-quarters of an hour later I heard the sound of the groundcars. Stereth took Cantry's hand. He said, "Ready?"
I glanced over at them. He wasn't addressing me. Can-try's eyes were shut and she was pale even for a fellow barbarian.
"Stereth—" she said.
"You can do it." He moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, as though he could physically transmit his own certainty.
Another minute. I could see the cars now: Dull metallic gray, with the gold insignia of the provincial militia.
Stereth spoke in his usual cool voice. "They're half a mile away, at the bend in the road. Gray with gold markings."
Cantry's face was clenched like a fist. The cars came closer. I didn't understand how the pit could help; the first car might go in, but the second would just stop and two men with light-rifles would get out. And that was only if the pit had any effect at all—a sturdy groundcar designed for this terrain would probably just climb up on its own.
Then the other car would circle the hole and they'd continue on their way, leaving us behind like a pack of fools… please the gods. At least nobody would fire on us then.
I'd heard Stereth tell Des earlier that no one had ever attacked a tax shipment before. He'd said it as though it were to our advantage, but I took it as evidence of good sense on the part of the rest of the world.
"Almost," said Stereth. "Almost… now. Now."
I saw the lead car swerve abruptly, half up onto the grass. Then the driver brought it back to the center of the road— beyond the pit. So much for Stereth's strategy, whatever it was.
"Good," said Stereth. "Perfect, sweetheart, you were perfect."
Cantry's eyes opened and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Stereth kissed her cheek without taking his attention from the road.
The second car, seeing no obstacle, continued down the center. When it hit the pit it dropped suddenly, as though a lift had miraculously appeared in the earth. Simultaneously, I saw that the color of the gulley on the other hill had changed from brown to gray.
"What the hell—" I said.
"Quick-set," explained Stereth, not looking at me either. His eyes were bright behind the spectacles.
Mixed and released from the giant bathtub, I realized, finally making the connection. My mind clicked on a bright image of the outlaws straining as they tipped it over at the head of the gulley. It would be timed to harden within seconds, no doubt… if they did it correctly.
The car in the pit roared and butted against the side. Quick-set now covered the bottom of the hole. The lead car, seeing what was happening, had stopped and was backing up. The car in the pit tried to exit a second time, but didn't have quite enough momentum. It moved farther back for a third try.
The doors on the lead car opened and a man in the gold vest of a part-time
militia officer got out. He began walking toward the pit. Probably he intended to offer a tow if the other car couldn't get out on its own. Nobody had ever tried to attack a tax shipment before; he must have thought
this was just some huge pothole left by the recent rains in a road that was poorly placed between two hills.
His chest exploded. I jumped. Lex, I realized. On the other hill, with our sole light-rifle. A warning shot hit the open door of the car at almost the same instant.
The door slammed shut and the first car began to leave the scene. Grateth told me later that the drivers are responsible for what money they carry; this one was speeding off to cover his ass and protect his life at the same time. His superiors would be angry at a militia officer being killed, but they wouldn't blame the other driver for that. They'd only blame him for losing the money.
The car in the pit had stopped moving. So this was why Stereth had arranged whatever he'd arranged to let the first car past: His opposition was now halved. So was the money, but no doubt he'd taken all that into account in his businesslike way.
But where did this get anybody? What could we do to that elephant-hide vehicle anyway? Stand around outside it like the beseigers of an ancient city, with our pitiful knives and light-rifle, waiting for the occupants to get hungry? All the drivers had to do was stay inside and wait for help.
"Fifteen seconds," said Stereth under his breath.
Grateth also told me that the one overwhelming paranoid fear everyone who drives an armored vehicle has is of fire. Of being trapped in that thick metal tomb while burning to an agonized crisp. It's an understandable fear, since every armored driver who died within a car has died of extreme heat—it's about the only thing that will get through the skin. The car survives, but the people don't; the doors fuse shut.
Des waited a full fifteen seconds in his grave. Then, hoping very strongly that the quick-set had indeed hardened, he rolled out into it. The wheels of the groundcar were firmly stuck, but there was enough room to crawl under the carriage to the two bottom sensors. Bits of quick-set clung to him as he wriggled through. He kept flicking them off. At the left and right front corners of the undercarriage were two red lights, both glowing in operational mode. Des pulled out the hotpencil I'd seen him take on back at the fort, screwed the bottom, and watched as the top turned white with heat. He took a match out in his other hand
