FOURTEEN

Anton's boat slipped into the Puldar two hours before dawn, in silence, without lights. Maypong insisted on the precautions. Their craft was only slightly larger than ordinary, to accommodate food and gear and the travelers: Anton, Maypong, and a hoda to paddle.

There was a tension between Anton and Maypong, because of what happened yesterday to Gilar. If he hadn't pleaded with Vidori, the girl would be dead. But now Maypong's cool detachment troubled him. It was the same look he'd seen in his father's eyes when he'd sent Anton's mother outside the compound: cold, walled-up. She's contaminated, boy. You want to die? Yes, was the answer. At the time, he would rather have died than say good-bye …

As they loaded the skiff, Nick had been strangely silent. “You're in charge, Lieutenant,” Anton had said, “if anything happens to me.”

Nick's face was dark. He was still sick, and Anton was worried he had poisoned himself more severely than they'd thought. His tests had come back negative for the virus, and besides, his symptoms didn't match. Zhen had tested for a wide range of infections, and found nothing wrong with him. “Take care of yourself, Nick,” he said. “I need you.”

“Do you?”

Anton couldn't risk losing both officers at once, and as ever, he feared leaving Zhen alone.

“I've said I need you, Nick. Stand by me, man.” But he knew the two men's solidarity was long over.

“For as long as I can, Captain.”

The words trailed after Anton as they entered the Puldar. For as long as I can. And just how long was that?

Now, in the black waters near the shore, they skimmed along, the hoda paddling softly, expertly, under Maypong's instruction to make no sound.

She was a big woman, this hoda named Reen, apparently chosen by Maypong for her strength, to help carry supplies when they left the rivers and began to climb. They'd be gone three days—half the time allotted by the ship's crew. The shuttle would have saved time … but Anton had decided against risking the craft in the rugged uplands, and leaving it unguarded and subject to ransacking from Voi— or, Anton thought, uldia.

For it was clear now that Oleel meant to use their mission as ammunition against Vidori. And though Anton was no admirer of the king, he thought Oleel a worse alternative for the Olagong. She would tip the balance, erase the king's power. Become the One Power. But to accomplish that goal she needed the populace on her side, needed the Dassa to hate what the humans were, and the threat of what they were: free beings, born to bear. Some of the Dassa needed no prodding.

Now, as they turned out onto the River Sodesh, with its clearer view of the night sky, Anton could see one bright star rising just ahead of the sun, the morning star called Quadi's Lantern. They paddled toward it, trying to get far past the Amalang tributary—Oleel's tributary—before first light. In the profound night, the river's presence was sound alone: the rush of river over stone and branch, the rustle of paddle on water. Under the weight of their skiff, they cut a vanishing passage through the water's ink.

Alert for enemies, Anton thought he would relish a meeting with Oleel; a chance to take her down, on a dark river, without politics and tradition to protect her. Without ten thousand Dassa standing behind her, as she mutilated young girls.

In the tepid light of the approaching dawn, Anton saw Maypong in the prow, her back straight and still. One of the ten thousand Dassa who supported Oleel.

Maypong and Reen had spent an hour camouflaging the boat, until it looked like a knot of tangled branches from the last flood.

Anton distributed the gear into three packs. It was slow going, a noisy, crashing effort of finding passage through undergrowth and, worse, over the tumultuous roots of the shallow-rooted jungle trees that, having given up on soil, grew from the sides of the trees downward to whatever nutrients they could find. Away from the cultivated islets of the Dassa, the jungle reverted to its indigenous ways, with wild vines and thickets, the foliage heavy with flowers, dripping colorful sap. Amid the rank plant growth were the ubiquitous gourds large and small, the birthing pouches of the planet's fauna, or quasi-fauna. Part vegetable, part animal … the distinctions were not the same as on earth, Zhen said. They grew from the soil on viny umbilical cords, the seams that would split at maturity evident from the petal-shaped scars. But the gourds were as hard as rock. They sofien, Maypong had told him, when it is time.

Under Maypong's lead, they traveled north, away from the river to the hills. His ears were stuffed with the unceasing jungle clatter, the chirps and scuttling, and the background chitter of insects. It was like the static of the radio when, early that morning, he'd tried to pick out Sergeant Webb's voice, tried to make out the words and the man underneath the words. He didn't know if Webb could speak frankly if there were others with him on the bridge. Anton tried not to take the threatened mutiny as a colossal failure on his part. It could easily have been Captain Darrow in the same position. Couldn't it?

Ahead, he heard Reen splashing through a stream, one of many that had been keeping their boots thoroughly wet. Approaching the stream, Maypong kicked a large branch into the water, using it for a bridge. This action disrupted the nearby jungle growth, setting up a squalling of monkeys, who hurled something at them, pods the size of lemons. Anton saw one creature peering at him from among the tangled roots of a banyan tree. Its face was alight with a vicious intelligence; its ears drooped like mud flaps. A not-quite-monkey A variety of monkey, brought to this planet the same as the Dassa—imperfectly.

He heard Maypong's voice from up the trail. “I know why you are so quiet, Anton. You are thinking that I am a bad chancellor.” As she disappeared down into a gully, he heard her add: ‘And a bad mother.”

Anton crested the hill, noting that Reen was already climbing the next hillside. He wasn't going to touch the subject of mother. Nerves were frayed thin enough.

Carefully, he replied, “Good mother here is different than where I come from.” And good father, good daughter.

As they began to climb, the conversation lapsed. The flat river lands had given way to the low hills of the valley wall. After pausing for a silent midday meal, the three of them continued their climb, slick with sweat and now battling an envelope of gnats, like a new layer of skin.

Maypong stopped to confer with Reen, and then to Anton's astonishment they proceeded to strap Maypong's pack onto Reen's already heavy one. Maypong left to reconnoiter their trail, which would soon split into east and west passages over the valley escarpment.

“Let's wait here, Reen,” he said. The woman could not possibly shoulder that mountainous pack.

Maypong-rah says we must hurry,< Reen signed. To make a camp before sunset. < She signed quickly, challenging his fluency. But Nick's lessons paid off, and he kept up. The woman hoisted the double pack onto her thigh, then bent into the straps, and somehow stood tall. Anton watched her as she set out, a towering backpack obscuring its bearer.

They were following a ridgeline up into more jagged hills. Down in the gully to one side came a rustling movement. Reen had stopped, watching, and Anton, behind her, followed her gaze. A circular portion of the jungle floor trembled, setting up a rustling of fronds and vines.

Reen signed, Woor. The fulva are in woor.<

Peering closer, Anton saw the fulva gourds. They were twitching and bulging on their stems. A snapping noise issued from the circle, and then another, as several of the gourds split. Soon all of them were erupting as the cracks spit out a slick jelly.

Reen signed, They all come at once. Those who eat them can't take them all. Some will escape.<

The first newborn emerged, kicking its back legs free of the gourd. It was a wild pig, with black hairs matted against pink skin. At once, it wobbled to its feet, shaking itself free of the gooey strands. Little teeth glistened in its mouth. It staggered off into the brush, wisely distancing itself from the noisy birthings. No mother to suckle it; therefore the early teeth …

Reen urged Anton to leave before predators converged. Large cats, for instance, by her description.

As they continued up the path, Anton heard the cracking and splitting sounds of birth sacs for several minutes. He tried not to imagine a similar scene with Dassa babies, but the vision came anyway. It was a thought he'd kept at bay for as long as possible. But wasn't it all a matter of familiarity, and custom? What in nature could be so foul that a scientific mind could not accept it?

Plenty, Anton thought, swiping at gnats and hurrying to put the scene behind him.

By late afternoon they had climbed high enough to leave the heat and gnats behind. Here, in a region of steep, green hills, Maypong thought it safe to follow the well-beaten trails. Anton found it a relief to be on a clear trail free of undergrowth, as the three of them walked single file along sinuous paths worn from millennia of Dassa seekers.

They left the wide trees of the lower slopes and entered a land of squat, frondy bushes and mosses. They could see across the narrow valley to the side of the next hill, lush with green.

Following the switchbacks along the mountainside, they soon brought out warmer clothes, then climbed toward clouds hugging unseen peaks. Now fully enveloped in the fog, Anton could see no farther than Reen, who followed Maypong.

At a switchback bend, he found Maypong sitting on the trail. She was taking off her boots.

They had hardly spoken for hours. It was a bad silence, and one Anton both wanted and didn't want to repair. He watched as she handed her boots to Reen, who strapped them onto Maypong's pack.

“Maypong-rah?”

She rose, lifting an eyebrow at him.

“Why are you taking off your boots?” The trail was rock-strewn, and he hoped her boots weren't a bad fit, because she would need them.

“To walk barefoot,” she answered, slipping her arms into her pack and shouldering it.

“Barefoot? The path is rough, Maypong-rah.”

Reen was watching them from the lead position, frowning at Anton. They were both frowning at him. Just what wasn't he getting here? “Maypong-rah, is there something wrong with your boots?”

“No.”

“Then why aren't you wearing them?”

“One doesn't, in cloud country.”

Anton quelled a growing sense of annoyance, trying to keep a reasonable tone. “I am wearing boots; Reen is wearing boots. One does.”

Finally, Maypong met his gaze. “Not if one is seeking … peace, you might say.”

“Peace?”

“Yes. A peaceful heart.” She noted his look of consternation, and added: “Seekers who come here with a storm inside will walk cloud country without boots. It is our custom, Anton.”

He gazed at her, sorting it. “Storm …”

“My daughter,” she whispered.

They faced each other on the path. Words came to mind, and evaporated. She couldn't walk the path barefoot, not carrying a heavy pack, perhaps not at all.

He was looking at her, trying to sort his emotions. The one clearest to him was relief. The woman felt something.

“Maypong…”

She stopped him, shaking her head. “This is what I will do. Since we come to cloud country, I must.” Her eyes glittered with flat light reflected from the haze. “For Gilar, yes?”

“I shouldn't have criticized.”

“It is not for you, Anton. It is for me.”

The import of this was now becoming clear. He turned to Reen. “Put your pack down, Reen, please. We're not moving for now.”

He was blocking Maypong's path. Her feet were bound in woven stockings. They wouldn't last ten minutes. “Maypong-rah, Gilar's circumstance isn't your fault. There's nothing you can change.”

“No. But when my feet bleed, I will be able to cry”

Looking into her eyes, he saw how her placid face held a lock on tears. He should have known why it had to in the

Olagong. Gently, he said, “Maypong-rah, why didn't you tell me what you planned to do?”

She blinked, saying, “Would you have taken me up-country if you had known?” When he hesitated, she said, “Then you would never get here. Taking the hidden ways, the side ways, was necessary. Who knew the route—who that you could trust?”

He took a deep breath. He turned to look at Reen, who was still watching him. “What will persuade her, Reen?”

Reen softened a notch, signing, Nothing.<

He turned back to Maypong. His heart felt like it was developing a cleft, a ravine. He must turn back, for her sake. But he couldn't, for the mission's sake.

Seeming to read his mind, she said, “I will walk on with you or not with you, Anton.”

He knew that look in her eyes, and didn't doubt her. “Take off your pack then, Maypong-rah.”

To his surprise, she obeyed, lowering the burden to the ground. Anton looked up at Reen, who was already coming forward. The hoda knelt on the trail and started removing the pack's contents, distributing things into the two remaining packs. That done, Reen hid the empty pack in a mass of vines.

“Maypong,” Anton said, forgetting the honorific, forgetting his recent bitterness toward her. “I'm sorry that I thought you hard.”

She stood before him. “I am hard.”

As they started forward again, Maypong in the center, he could only watch her bare feet, and wince as she kept pace with Reen.

That night, the three of them huddled together on a small ledge some distance from the trail. Anton kept guard, thankful for his weapon, but knowing it might mean little against greater numbers. Occasionally Maypong, her feet torn and swollen, moaned softly, despite the healing mud that Reen spread on them. With the moon new, darkness was absolute, but he could feel the fog against his face.

At dawn, after a cold meal, they climbed back to the path and trekked on. Whatever clues or ruins Anton hoped for were—if present—doubly obscured, first by clinging vegetation and second by fog as thick as burrs. If there were caves they would be invisible, unless the Restorations laser survey revealed some promising site. At last radio contact, it had not.

As they resumed their hike, Maypong's feet blistered and broke. She hobbled, but silently. They were all silent now, speaking when necessary in sign language. Above them, the path switchbacked to the crest and then down again, Maypong signed, forming a nonending path throughout the maze of the uplands. Below them, down a hugely steep ravine, the sound of a stream gurgled at them. At one point they passed a rope bridge that spanned the near gorge, a spider's thread gluing one hill to the other.

Rounding a switchback, he saw Maypong pointing down the valley, where a tear in the fog revealed a patch of neon green on a hill where the sun set the hillside alight. As Anton squinted, he saw a line of people winding their way up a switchback trail. They were uldia, by their dress. Fog re-formed under their path, making it look as if they were treading clouds, gray angels in an altered heaven.

Walking meditation, < Maypong signed.

The line of women snaked along the path, barely an undulating ribbon at this distance. If it was wisdom they wanted, Anton figured they'd be walking a long time. Seeing them put him more on edge. Maypong had said there would be other travelers here, and that some might not be seeking wisdom.

As they ascended their own path, he tried not to stare at Maypong's feet. She allowed one blister, the worst one, to be bound with a cloth, but now the cloth fluttered free, useless. Tearing his eyes from the sight of her bare feet, he squinted at the hillside. It was furry with green; there was nothing but green, though he scanned every hump and protrusion for signs of a vanished race. He conjured up every manner of thing—phantoms of mausoleums, stone tablets, hidden doors—only to find, when sweeping the moss away, that what he had uncovered was yet another branch or rock. There was nothing here. He queried Maypong and Reen. Are there features, here, something notable, perhaps named among the Dassa? No, it is all the cloud hills, Anton. Are there caves? No, only cloud hilb. What is the bridge called? Cloud bridge.

There was blood on the path in places. Maypong-rah,< he signed several times, go back. Reen and I will do this trek.<

Always her answer was the same: nothing. Tied to Reen's pack, Maypong's leather boots flopped in the swaying gait of the hoda. It was awful, and inevitable. He felt so ignorant of the Dassa, and their predecessors, these Quadi who left no footprints.

The sound, when it came, was like a stone dropped onto porcelain.

There was a large arrow embedded in Reen's temple. She lay sprawled on the path, twitching.

Anton was crouching, swinging his pistol up and down the path. Maypong whispered, “Below us.”

He heard the cracking of branches. People climbing toward them. “This way,” Maypong whispered, urging him down the path, the way they had come. “The bridge.” He glanced down at Reen, now lying still. Blood streamed out where the arrowhead exited the right eye. He squatted and, snapping the ties, yanked Maypong's boots from the pack. Then he rushed to join Maypong, who was already sliding down the hillside. She had left the path, heading into the rear flank of their pursuers.

Voices on the slope. The close-packed flora distorted distance—the voices sounded as if they were a hand's breadth away. Maypong was moving fast, trading silence for speed, and Anton followed, gun at his hip, needing both hands to grasp roots and vines as he went down, unless he wanted a much faster descent. She waited for him in a little gully, lying in the mud, pressed close to the hillside.

He lay on top of her, concealing her brighter garment with his green fatigues.

She whispered next to his face, “I'll lead them away Go down the trail, cross the bridge, and then bear southeast as much as the hills allow. Thankfully, you will find the Sodesh.”

“No. You're coming with me.”

“We have no time, Anton. Cross the bridge, now.”

“No.” He held her firmly, making his point with the tension of his body. “I'm not going without you.”

She nodded then. They began to descend again, riding on their backs part of the time when it was so steep they were practically standing up. Then, skidding onto the trail, they rushed down it, with the noise of their pursuers still bright in the foliage. Anton ran with his pistol drawn, as Maypong rushed headlong in front of him.

The rope bridge was much farther than he remembered. Shouts rang out behind them. He guessed there were about a dozen of them, and there were men among them, not just uldia, or so he guessed from their voices. Maypong ran, heedless of her torn feet, and dangerously, with her long knife drawn, ready to turn and fight. At the next bend she pointed with her knife toward the gorge, but it was so full of fog, he couldn't see anything. She had seen the bridge, however, and now they ran faster, just centimeters from the steep plunge to the river.

It was then that a hole appeared in the clouds, and he glimpsed the bridge: a filament in midair.

Maypong led him down a side path where they came upon the near end of the bridge, anchored by great spikes in a rare use of metal. The ropes were frayed and rotten; Anton thought the bridge had long been abandoned.

“Hope for clouds,” Maypong whispered, staring at the bridge.

“They'll follow us,” Anton said, turning sideways to listen to the voices, coming faint and loud as the canyons echoed and disguised sounds.

“Hope for clouds,” she repeated.

They crouched, looking down a three-hundred-meter drop graced with jagged rocks and seeping water. Behind them, they heard voices. Maypong stiffened. Dassa were coming down the path, having figured out where their prey had fled.

“Clouds, clouds,” Maypong whispered, like a prayer, from a woman who never prayed, who never conceived of such a thing. Clouds, clouds. Anton took up the chant in his mind. He didn't think the bridge could hold one person's weight, much less two.

A branch snapped nearby. Anton caught sight of hair caught up in a disheveled bun, its red tint flashing in the tatters of the sun … His heart thrummed in his chest, his hand gripped the pistol, safety off. Beside him, Maypong didn't breathe or tremble. The Dassa passed within two meters of them, then responded to a hail from the path and crashed away.

It was then that the cloud country returned to its usual form and the fog closed all gaps, rolling up from the gorge, swirling over the world.

They went for the bridge.

Anton held Maypong firmly by the elbow, forcing her ahead of him to forestall the plan he knew was in her mind: to make him cross alone. The thought nagged that he should let her save him, that it wasn't merely his life that mattered, it was the mission, and he was all that held it together, with Nick faltering, and Zhen a lousy leader in every way, and Sergeant Webb in over his head. He could accept Maypong's allegiance. He had accepted it; had let her step into danger as his chancellor, making her daughter a pawn in Oleel's hands. He had let her suffer in every way, and never questioned that it was his due, treating her as a servant, because he needed her; the mission needed her. He needed her to remain on this side of the span, so that the fraying bridge could hold.

But he pushed her forward onto the bridge.

The bridge consisted of two thick ropes forming the main girders and rope sections connecting them, to walk on. Despite the rope railing on both sides, the entire construct was more air than substance. He stepped forward, off the ledge of ground, onto the cloud bridge, blocking Maypong from moving past him. With little choice, she moved out farther onto the squeaking net of the bridge. To better distribute their weight, he followed some meters behind her.

The fog was so thick he could see nothing but his hand on the rope. The squeak of the rigging—the only sound except for the distant hiss of the river—scratched loudly in his ears. Maypong had disappeared ahead of him, but he sensed her by the quivering strands of ropes, the interplay of his footsteps and hers, seesawing the bridge. Then, for a moment, he thought he discerned the buttery yellow of her jacket, like a flame in front of him, and he set his eyes on that, feeling with his feet for the next rope to stand on.

A mist fell on his face. He had become an initiate, traversing the air into a country of clouds. There might be answers where they were going, or death, or nothing at all. But suspended here, over the gorge, there was only Maypong, a melting golden spot before him. He followed her, leading with his heart. How wrong he'd been if he'd thought that he was fated to love the king's daughter. All along, it was to be a woman more common than that, yet more noble. And he thought that it was not a matter of chancellor and captain for Maypong, and never had been. Vidori hadn't commanded her to die for him, just to teach him.

The rope split beneath his foot.

He plunged down, through the hole, his hand slipping from the rope railing, holding on now by his fists, grabbing one of the great ropes. His feet dangled into the valley, kicking air.

Slowly, he raised his knees and bent his body forcing his legs over the great rope, one of the large ones. If it broke, it would bring the whole bridge down. Grappling, he hoisted himself forward, until he lay prone on the sideways ladder, his heart thudding enough to vibrate the web of the woven bridge.

“Anton?” came her voice, full of fear.

“I'm all right,” he said. His stomach was still flailing down into the chasm, but the rest of him abided. “Keep going.” He pulled himself upright.

Staggering on, one rope at a time, he could see Maypong, far ahead of him, dancing from one rope to the next.

Oh, that was bad. He could see her.

The clouds had begun to evaporate.

A shout went up from the hillside behind them. Anton rushed forward, heedless of footholds. He heard Maypong urging him on, and then the report of a gun. The attackers had abandoned the silence of arrows.

There was yet a third of the way to the end of the bridge. Maypong was almost completely across, rushing wildly, the ropes swaying …

“Anton!” cried Maypong. “They are cutting the bridge!”

He sped onward, claiming the rope rungs with feet that calculated the intervals, thinking that if the bridge gave way on one side, he'd become a wrecking ball on the end of a crashing pendulum, smashing into the hillside.

Maypong was on the hillside now, reaching out for him, to help him if he got close enough.

“Get down,” he shouted, as bullets sliced by.

And then one of the great ropes gave way, and the pathway skewed to one side. He now clung to the side railing, one foot on the remaining great rope. He turned sideways, creeping along the remaining strand, as the day brightened around him, and the hole in the clouds seemed to follow him like a spotlight.

Her hands were three meters away. She stood in the rain of bullets, reaching for him.

The bridge fell.

As he felt it give way, he leapt forward, propelling himself headlong toward the valley side. And she caught him, hands latched onto one forearm, dragging him as he scrambled against the crumbling hillside.

And then he was next to her, lying on the solid ground, the bridge dangling down the steamy gorge.

He laughed. Holding on to Maypong, he laughed. She pulled him into the cover of the undergrowth.

“There is something funny, Anton?” she asked irritably. A bullet sliced into the mud nearby.

He nodded. “Yeah, there is.” As she helped him sit up, he said, “They just shot themselves in the foot.”

“How do you know whose feet are shot?”

“Never mind. I just mean they can't follow us now.”

“That's very true.” She looked over at him. “Maybe that is funny, as you said.”

“Well, let's get out of here.” They climbed up to the path, the ever-looping path of the region. The gunfire now fell well short of them, and they rested a moment.

“One thing, though, Anton.” She was looking across the valley. “Did you see who is following us?”

Yes, a group of men, about ten of them. He stopped to squint across the gorge, just thickening again with fog. On that far hill he saw a very tall man with a bun on top of his head. Surrounded by men in tunics. Not uldia. They were judipon.

So, he wondered, did you come with or without Homish's knowledge? He waved.

Nirimol was staring in his direction, but didn't acknowledge.

Anton turned back to his companion. “Here, take these,” he said. “They almost strangled me.” He handed Maypong the boots that he'd tied around his neck for the climb across the bridge.

Maypong gazed at them.

“We're going home now, Maypong. I can't get there if you're going to fall down on the job.” She frowned at the dropped honorific. “Can I just use your name? If I love you, can I call you Maypong?”

Her eyes softened. After a pause, she said, “If you want.”

“I want.”

She nodded like a queen granting a momentous favor. Then she sat on the muddy hill and strapped on her boots.