"Good," Anjemalti said and stood, stamping his feet into his boots. He plucked a cloak from the bench, swung it around his shoulders and twisted the brooch shut. "Then let us begin."

  * * *

  The night was far advanced, but their way was well lighted by the servants of the Telios. The drained Vornet ship was merely an easy stroll down the hillside in the coolness, even for one recently wounded. Gem used the Trident as a staff, as was his habit, and reviewed the instructions he had gained for its proper use.

  As he understood it, the Fearstone was the key to communication with the Trident. He had a moment of disorientation and nearly stumbled on the stony path as Shilban's voice chided him out of the night: "Sarialdan isn't alive, it's just a dumb transmitter. All it does is transmit fear, boy. Just fear."

  But First of the Telios had taught him that Sarialdan transmitted more than fear. Transmitted, in fact, the whole range of emotive energy. Gathered it, refined it and released it encoded along the various paths swirling around the Trident's length, opening and closing synapses, tripping switches in sequence, to produce a predictable outcome.

  All that was needed was practice.

  First of the Telios had also taught him that the Trident had become less and less effective over the years. The wise had understood that this indicated a lessening of the quality of those who Sought. But here came Gem ser Edreth, with a Trident made whole, capable again of miracles—she had thanked him for showing her this lesson. She had requested, diffidently, that he allow the singers and the scribes to hear the way of the Trident's mending, so that, if any damage should occur in the future . . .

  Gem put that thought away; concentrating instead upon the technique she had given him to clear his mind and smooth his emotions. He must see himself standing at the center of a great peace, so the instructions went, with all of his inner resources spread before him, yet apart from him. He must see his emotions—his anger, his love, his fear—as tools to his hand. Interfaces, he had translated for himself, as the wristlet was the interface between his thought and the spiders' actions.

  Still, the spiders had never, for all their faithful service, sent their own thoughts and necessities back along the line to the mind of their creator.

  "It speaks," he had said to First of the Telios when she came to him.

  She had bowed her head. "I had heard that it was sometimes so, Trident Bearer. But not always. You are indeed among those Chosen for greatness."

  Of the mechanism by which it spoke, of the probability of its speaking, she had no wisdom. The old tales told of the Trident speaking, but only the Trident Bearers had ever heard it.

  "Delightful," Gem had murmured then, and directed her to teach him what she did know, which, in its way, was considerable. Gem only hoped, for Corbinye's life, that he had learned enough to do what must be done.

  * * *

  Gem walked up the ramp, leaning heavily on the Trident now, nodded to the Bindalche standing guard at the gaping hatch, and hesitated, caught by the one who stood to the right, flowers and feathers braided into his hair, a wide belt hung with amulets 'round his waist.

  "You are the chief now of Tremillan Tribe?" he asked.

  The other laid his hand flat over his heart, "I am Ven Cabrise EnTallia, Trident Bearer," he said warily. "I thank you for your notice."

  "No trouble," Gem said. "Ven kelBatien Girisco was a great chief. I honor her sacrifice for her people."

  In the flickering torch light, the man's face altered, wariness melting. "I will tell the singers so, Trident Bearer." He hesitated, then added, "Joy to you."

  "And to you," Gem returned and stepped into the ship.

  Torches had been set here and there on the silent bridge, casting dancing shadows. Out of kindness for First Telios and Witness, following him into what must seem to them unrelieved blackness, he plucked one of the torches free and bore it with him down the narrow companionway, past crew quarters, galley, gym and finally into the doc's office. There he pulled a fire extinguisher from its bracket and set the torch in its place, so that the dancing light illuminated all corners of the tiny space—more or less.

  He found the emergency generator, bent to get a grip on it—and suddenly gasped as his wound protested. Straightening, he set the Trident on a convenient cot and beckoned to Witness.

  "Help me with this."

  First of the Telios bridled. "Shlorba's Eyes is bound to watch, and to recall truly for the Telios."

  "Yes," said Gem, mustering what patience he could, "and as soon as he helps me hook up this generator, there will be something for him to witness."

  "It is not done—" First Telios began, and then clamped her mouth as Witness strode past her and went to the Trident Bearer's side.

  "Where must it be, Anjemalti?"

  "There." The Trident Bearer pointed. "Cable's not long enough to reach from here."

  Shlorba's Eyes bent, grabbed hold of the built-on handle and heaved, a moment later placing the generator in the spot the Trident Bearer had indicated.

  "Thank you," said Gem calmly and yanked out a cable, clamped it into place on the healing unit, pulled out another cable and seated it, then bent and flipped several switches set in the face of the generator. He walked over to the cot where he had laid it and picked up the Trident, but he did not immediately go back to the generator.

  Instead, he leaned across the cot, catching First Telios' eyes with his. "Understand this: If that generator comes to life, send for Corbinye immediately, place her within the larger unit and seal the door. Wait until a chime sounds and then help her out. Do this first, even if something should seem to have happened to me or to the Trident. Do you understand me?"

  She gave him back, stare for stare. "I understand your words," she said coldly.

  "Will you obey them?" Gem asked softly, wondering at the note of danger that made the softness hard.

  Credit her for toughness and a long life lived imposing her will upon others strong-willed as she. First of the Telios did not drop her eyes. But she did lick her lips. "I will obey them," she said and Gem nodded.

  "I am happy to hear you say so," he said, still with that deadly softness; then he turned back to the generator.

  He took the stance that had become most natural to him, since First Telios had not been able to teach him one better—Trident-end braced against the deck between his boots, both hands wrapped just below the Fearstone, fingers entwined. He leaned on it slightly, because he was so tired, and looked at the generator between the wickedly sharp tines.

  He took a deep breath and strove to clear his mind, to set aside his irritation with First of the Telios, his worry for Corbinye, his terror that this might not work, that she would die after all, in spite of the best he could do. He, who had killed her once already.

  Deliberately, he shut each of those concerns off, making his mind a clear white space, where he seemed to hang, weightless, the universe narrowed to the generator, seen between the barring of the tines.

  Within the white space of his mind, he spoke: I want that operating.

  It seemed to him that his words echoed, as if they went far beyond himself and his mind, into a region unthinkably vast.

  Faintly, really much too faintly for it to be more than the trickery of one's own tired ears, he heard a trill of laughter. Then nothing.

  Frustration spiked, and fear of failing. He felt the Trident warm in his hands, saw Sarialdan glow to surly life—and deliberately closed his eyes, breathing deeply and evenly, clearing his mind of everything. He must consider his emotions tools, so First of the Telios had taught him. But what did he know of emotion? It had been Edreth's care to show his apprentice the path around such things, so limiting to a thief's success.

  Never give your name to the roomgirl. Never, never ask hers. Keep all at arm's length, or further. Trust no one. Reserve your care for your craft and for your spiders. A thief is always outside—an intelligent observer—aloof, uninvolved. . ..

  "Corbinye," Gem whispered, unaware that he spoke aloud. "Linzer. Shilban. Edreth. Edreth, you lied. . .." For what but love explained sacrifices made on behalf of a child not of his body, the son of his soul, the heir of all his worldly goods? What but love had forced Edreth into that last mad scheme, when he might as easily have followed his own advice, stayed aloof and turned his wayward 'prentice loose. . .. The scheme where he had taken his death, yes, and never a word of blame . . .

  The Trident had warmed his fingers to the point of discomfort. He gripped it tighter, seeing only the past, where Edreth was busy weaving protections around the only thing he had ever loved, striving to make it invulnerable. . ..

  Gem gasped, shuddering as the tears came, bent his head—and felt the flare of heat, saw through closed eyes the flare of light—

  And heard, in the sudden, fire-shot darkness, the hum of a generator, coming to life.

  * * *

  Ria had her walkabout and Milt had woken from his nap. They'd wandered down to the canteen and puzzled out the sequence for drawing rations, and they'd dawdled over the meal, talking some, and then not, with the din of the life support system all around.

  Ria finally pushed back from the table and looked at the kid, seeing her worries plain in his eyes.

  "Let's find comm," she said. "See what's taking Dez all year."

  "All right," said Milt and came with her, down the rickety halls to the core, and up a couple levels to dead center.

  Ria grunted satisfaction and hit the prime chair, fingers flashing over the antiquated board, calling up the lights. Milt wilted into the assistant's chair and leaned back, watching her and surreptitiously wiping the sweat off his lip.

  "Out line?" Ria muttered to herself, and a second later: "got 'er. Now for beam-adjust. And now for Dez." She punched the buttons with assurance, taking a tick to send Milt a grin.

  The line crackled live and Ria sang out their ID and their position, adding a: "So, Dez, what's keeping the party? You fall asleep?"

  No answer.

  Milt stiffened at that, and Ria frowned. "Must have wrong line," she muttered and went through the routine again, running the translations in her head.

  "Yo, Dez! InRing crew three-three-six on GenShip attention required quicktime! Get us outta here, man. Vacation's over."

  Only line-crackle came back to them. Milt ran a shaking hand over his face, fingertips coming away wet.

  "Try General Alert," he said, but Ria's fingers were already on the board, slapping up the emergency numbers, chanting the Company's Mayday with the precision of a prayer.

  The lines buzzed empty.

  Ria sat back hard in her chair, staring at the old board, seeing the places where the metal was worn dull, and where toggles had been replaced with wood, rather than plastic; the places where the colors had worn right off, so you needed to know the drill by rote. . ..

  "They did it," the kid whispered next to her. "They've got the Big Ship."

  "Shit," said Ria, and bit her lip, thinking about a long, mostly misspent life. Thinking about ending it here, on a ship so old it gave her the spooks. . .. She put her hands on the arm rests and levered herself out of the chair.

  "Where're you going now?" asked Milt.

  "Engine room," Ria said grimly. "Going to see if we can get this buggy moving."

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  It was a four day walk to the Grotto of the Telios, though Finchet thought Borgin Vo Riss and his group of hearties could have quartered the time, left on their own.

  Still, they set an old man's pace, and after the first day Finchet was glad of it—and glad of the Grounder custom that dictated he be waited on by those younger. There was no wood-chopping and assorted camp tasks for him, though Veln drew a man's share of those.

  The boy brought him a horn cup, full to the brim with water, and Finchet had seen enough of the land by now to know how great a gift that brimming cupful was.

  "Thank you," he said and took a sip of the tepid liquid before asking, "You doing well, are you, young Veln?"

  The boy grinned at him out of a grimy, exalted face. "Well and more than well, Uncle. Have you ever dreamed of such a place?"

  "No," said Finchet, with perfect truth, and took another sip, holding it in his parched mouth before swallowing. "You still have the Book?"

  Veln looked, Finchet thought, a little hurt. "Of course."

  "That's fine," he said. "You keep that close, hear me? If something untoward comes my way, you get the Book to the Captain. That's my rede."

  The boy straightened, face losing a little of its heedless joy. "Yes, Uncle."

  Finchet smiled and reached out to grip the thin young arm. "You're a good lad. Go on with the rest of your chores, now."

  He was left then, with his water and his thoughts, but not for as long as that. Another shadow found him where he sat on a rock out of the way of the bustle of mid-day camp and he looked up to see Borgin, hands clasped diffidently before him.

  " 'day to you, lad."

  "Fine day to you, father," the warrior said in the gentle voice he reserved for Finchet and for his chief. He hesitated. "It is permitted that one sit and converse?"

  "Sit away," Finchet returned, waving a hand at the various rocks nearby.

  Those, however, would have put Borgin on a level with the old one. He made one of the complicated hand-signs he was prone to and sat himself down on the ground.

  Looking up at Finchet he said, "We will be with the Telios this evening, father. But I feel you should know that it is likely that Shlorba's Eyes—Witness for the Telios, your friend—may not be with them. His duty is such that he may, indeed, be very far away."

  "Your chief told me that," Finchet said unworriedly. "We'll take the chance of him not being to home. Mayhap his folk will know how to get a grip on him. Unless you're thinking the Telios won't let us in."

  Another flash of those big fingers. "The Telios gladly house any seeker. It is my duty to say that, though we come to the Telios this evening, your seeking may not yet be done."

  "Understood. The Crew's been seeking for centuries, so the logs say. Reckon the boy and me can seek a little while longer."

  "The old one is wise." Borgin bent his head, looked up. "What shall become of the growing things?"

  "Good question," Finchet said and then stared off into the never-never, rubbing his fingers absently down the satin finish of the cup.

  He came to himself with a start and glanced down at the warrior, patiently waiting. "Land hereabouts is dry," he offered.

  "Old one, it is so."

  "Been that way since when, you know?"

  "Since The Combine came and broke the backs of the Bindalche," Borgin said in a flat voice, as if it were something he had by rote, "hurling us down into barbarism and building the Dam to be Hated upon Traitor's Point, just beneath the polar ice cap." He blinked and added in a more normal tone. "The Telios will know more, father. I have only the tales."

  "Hm. Saw that dam on the way in. Better for everybody, she was gone. . .."

  Borgin looked up, pure joy in his eyes. "The old one will show us the way to kill it? To free the land and renew the Bindalche?" He came to his knees, yanked the big knife out of his belt and laid it flat across Finchet's knees. "I am yours!"

  "No," said Finchet firmly, "you aren't. Bless you, child, I'm no Captain. You want to be swearing knife service, you wait 'til you talk to Captain Kristefyon—he's the one for knowing how to go on with things and how to get broke mended. Now take that up and put it away. I'm too old a fellow for such foolishness."

  Borgin looked crestfallen, but he picked up his knife and stowed it and sat back on his heels.

  "Father?"

  "Eh?"

  "How shall I find this—Captain Kristefyon? If he is so great a chief as you say, I will cede him the use of my blade."

  Finchet sipped the last dregs of the water gratefully and put the cup aside. "We're hoping to find him with Witness for the Telios," he said slowly. "He's the one who needs to decide about the green things, too, see it? Hoping he'll be in shape to decide it soon. Though, truth said, he's a bit fond of chancy adventures. If we find him dead, then we're on our own, for the Garden will never lift again, that's certain."

  The other man frowned. "Why does your Captain travel with Shlorba's Eyes, O aged one?"

  "Because my Captain is promised to carry around something called a Smiter or a Trident and where he goes—"

  "So goes the Eyes of Shlorba," Borgin breathed reverently. "Your Captain is Trident Bearer, old one?"

  "Just said so, didn't I?"

  "Indeed, indeed, you did!" Borgin leapt to his feet so suddenly Finchet flinched on his rock. But the warrior simply stood for a moment, back bowed, face tipped open to the sky, arms outstretched. The moment passed, and he was as suddenly bent forward, hands moving incomprehensibly.