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tired, tired and sick of the monotony of the almost-void where the only changes were
ones of brightness, a brightness that dimmed as they plodded north.
Maybe she would be more coherent in the morning. She sighed and pressed
CHIP EJECT. Nothing happened. She tried again. Nothing. Perhaps it was the cold.
She took the wristcom off, held it between her palms, tucked her hands between her
legs. While she waited for it to warm up, she breathed deep and slow, concentrating
on finding a still, calm place in her center. She came out of her light trance and tried
the eject button again.
Nothing. She tapped in a request for diagnostics. The chip was still accessible,
but it suggested she take the wristcom to a reliable service outlet, as the port was
jammed. She turned it over in her hand thoughtfully, then requested a chip map. The
chip was almost full. She tried to run an erase, but the jam had triggered automatic
erasure protection. There was room for perhaps fifteen hours of dictation. The
operating memory would add another hour or so.
Fifteen hours was not enough to keep a decent record. Her trip would be useless.
How much time would she lose by going back? She slid her map from its pocket
and studied it. It would take weeks to get back to Port Central, weeks to return here.
Not an option. She tried looking at the problem from another angle: how else could
she record her observations? She had a little paper, not much. Perhaps she could
persuade the women she met to give her cloth, and dyes to use as ink.
A sudden thought occurred to her. She tried the compass. The stones sent
numbers flickering at random; useless. She was alone on Tehuantepec, plateau of
myth and magic, strange beasts and wild tribes, with a malfunctioning compass, out
of range of any communications relay, and with a SLIC that for all practical
purposes was useless. Was this what had happened to Winnie Kimura?
She awoke to dawn and hard-edged thoughts. She was not going to end up like
Winnie. The compass damage might be as temporary as her proximity to the stones.
There was only one way to find out. She slithered from her nightbag. If the damage
was irreversible, then she could probably retrace her path. Even with bad weather, it
should not take her more than twenty days to get back to the valley. She would be
safe there until either a satellite came in range of the new communications relay or the
spring came and she could make her own way back, somehow, to Port Central.
Pella whickered.
She rolled the nightbag into her pack. The sooner she left, the better. She dragged
her pack through the tent flap, stood and stretched, and looked around.
Fear slapped the breath back into her lungs.
She was surrounded by riders on motionless horses. Shrouded in mist, with only
their eyes visible under frost-rimed furs, they looked like apparitions of otherworld
demons.
Marghe lifted her arms to show she was weaponless and walked stiffly toward the
nearest figure. When she stepped within the cloud of breath wreathing the horse, its
rider snapped down her spear. The stone tip brushed the furs at Marghe s belly, and
she realized that stone could kill just as effectively as steel. The rider s eyes were
heavy-lidded and light blue.
The point of the spear did not waver a hair s-breadth as the rider pulled back her
hood to show flame-red braids and cheeks shining with grease.
Stranger, why do you stand in the ringstones of the Echraidhe?
The accent was difficult, but Marghe heard the cool lack of interest in her
questioner s voice and her throat closed with fear.
The penalty for soiling-the stones of our ancestors is death.
The spear moved as the rider balanced it for a belly thrust. Fascinated, Marghe
watched the point pull back for the disemboweling stroke.
Uaithne!
The spear before Marghe hesitated.
I forbid, Uaithne. The voice was low and harsh.
Levarch, she is nothing. A burden.
A woman of middle years kneed her horse forward until she sat eye to eye with
Uaithne. I forbid.
Uaithne shrugged. I obey the Levarch in all things. She shouldered her spear.
Marghe realized she was not to die alone and unremarked in a heap of her own
entrails, and her legs sagged. The Levarch leaned down and supported her under the
arms. She shouted at another rider. Aoife, take up the stranger. Uaithne, bring her
horse and goods.
Marghe hardly had time to understand the Levarch s words. She saw a woman
with dark features and a broken nose galloping at her, and then she was heaved
across the bow of a saddle, bouncing uncomfortably on her stomach and clinging to
the horse s shaggy withers. She could barely breathe and thought she might vomit,
but when she tried to struggle upright, the rider named Aoife thumped her over her
right kidney. She stayed still, lace rubbing against the rough wool saddle blanket.
The riders made swift time over the snow. Marghe hung on, sick and frightened,
eyes closed against the thunder of hooves just below her face.
The day wore on. Shock, cold, and hunger impaired Marghe s control. She could
not maintain an even blood flow around her dangling body and drifted in and out of
consciousness. Once, swimming out of a daze, she struggled until Aoife struck her a
ringing blow to the temple.
The horses slowing roused her. One side of her face was scraped raw. The
horses came to a halt, pawing and snorting, and Marghe heard Pella s distinctive
whicker. Aoife swung down from the saddle.
Marghe lifted her head. There was no thump, no shout of warning. It was almost
dark and she could not see much. She felt a hand on her belt and flinched.
Dismount. Aoife pulled, hard. Marghe slid backward onto her feet and
crumpled onto the snow. She stared at her legs stupidly. Someone laughed: Uaithne.
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