Morning had brought an end to the rain, though clouds still clung to the ridge and mist rose from the sodden ground to meet them. Somewhere on the other side of the ridge, the sun might be spearing through that mist, but not here. The prince sighed, punched the button on his breakfast mealpack, and waited for it to heat. He would get his boots muddy again, and they would drag at his feet. . . . He hated mud. This whole expedition looked more and more like a mistake, rather than high adventure. The invitation had specified that they would be here in the dry season, that it could not possibly be compromised . . . and now he was going to be wet, muddy, and in trouble with his father. Not so much for blowing away a few criminals (or rather, one criminal) as for getting caught doing it.
Nonetheless, he set out to do what he was told, and worked his way up the west side of the island. He left his comunit off; he didn’t want to be distracted by whatever might come over it. Twice, he saw something move that wasn’t ID’d as hunter, and shot at it. Once, whoever it was shot back. He found two bodies, both criminals, with the ears clipped. Lepescu’s plan didn’t make sense to him—herding the criminals into the interior ridge and its rough terrain would make a final cleanup harder—but he went along. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. He followed the stream uphill because it was easier to walk that way.
The clatter of rocks falling echoed through the cave; Bubbles was sure it was loud enough to be heard outside. Had the hunters found another entrance? Was Petris trying to find them?
“We have to move,” she said to Raffa. “We might find a better place to hide, and here we’re trapped.”
“Good idea,” Raffa said. “We’ll have to take the candles, and mark our way—”
“We can’t mark it; someone could follow.”
“How could they tell how long ago the marks were made? We can’t just go into the cave and not know how to get out—”
“Right.” Bubbles picked up her pack, and stuffed into it everything of Kev’s that would fit; Raffa would have to carry the rest. The night goggles gave her a blurry picture of the inside of the cave, and she could see a ledge extending along the left wall. Black water lay still and smooth at its edge. She fumbled at the rifle she’d taken, making sure it had a round in the chamber, and slung it on her shoulder. This is an adventure, she told herself. Just do it like you used to, and it will come out all right.
Raffa followed her lead; Bubbles shuffled along wishing she dared light a candle as her vision dimmed. Even with the goggles, she could see very little by the time she came to the first angle of stone that blocked the entrance. She ducked around it, and leaned against the damp wall. Ahead, all was black, utterly black. Water dripped into the central pool in an unpredictable rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, another rock fell. Raffa touched her arm, and she jumped.
“I think it’s safe to light the candles now,” Raffa said. “We’re out of sight of the entrance.”
“But they could reflect on the water,” Bubbles said. “And if we’re the light source, then anyone hiding back here would see us first.”
“Yes, but if we don’t have a light, we’ll step off a ledge somewhere—we can’t just feel our way along.”
“I know.” She took a long breath. The darkness pressed on her eyes, her face; she could almost feel furry hands clasping her. Ridiculous. She’d never been afraid of the dark before. But then she’d never been in this cave before, either. She pushed the goggles up, so that the sudden flare wouldn’t blind her, and scraped the lighter until a spark caught the candle. Dim yellow light flickered around them. She put the candle into its lantern, and four beams made clear the distinction between light and shadow. Raffa’s face, underlit, looked strange and dangerous and oddly exciting. Bubbles pushed that thought away—she had no time for anything but the present crisis. She looked around. They had turned a corner into a rough corridor, low, narrow, and twisting. On the opposite wall, a blurred mark showed, one of Kell’s she had no doubt. It looked like a cartoon sailboat, she had no idea why. She moved the lantern about, looking on all the rock surfaces nearby. Another mark, this one somewhat resembling a tree, near what might be a niche or another corridor, a black gash in the rock. The central cavern’s water extended into all the dark entrances she could see, as if all drained into or from it.
“Boat equals water,” Bubbles said finally. “Water flows downhill, meets the sea—”
“A way out?” asked Raffa.
“We know where the trees are,” Bubbles said. “On top of this cave, and full of hunters.” She turned to continue downward, the way she hoped the boat indicated.
A clatter of rock, clearer now, from the tree-marked gash, and then a splash. And a scream.
“The light!” Raffa said, but Bubbles had snuffed it already. In the darkness, they clung together again, hearts pounding. Bubbles saw red and yellow blotches floating on the darkness, and told herself they were the afterimage of the candle. Irregular splashes continued, coming nearer; Bubbles thought she could hear rough breathing, something that might be boots scraping on stone. She felt Raffa’s warm breath tickling her ear, and Raffa said, “He must have seen the light somehow.”
They must not move. In the dark, they would make the kind of noise he was making; he would surely hear them; he would have one of the weapons with night-sensing equipment. Bubbles realized she’d left the night-vision goggles hanging around her neck while carrying the candle lantern, and pushed them into place, but there was no ambient light to amplify. Thick darkness pressed in on her again. I hate caves, she thought.
“I hate caves!” came a male voice from somewhere in the echoing distance, to the accompaniment of a clatter and splash.
She was never sure which word, which intonation, made recognition sure.
“Ronnie!” said Raffa, not quite aloud. “It’s Ronnie!”
Bubbles concentrated on relighting the candle in its lantern.
He looked like someone who had been at the tail end of a hunt on a muddy day, Bubbles thought. Wet, his clothes streaked heavily with clay, his face haggard with exhaustion, he stared at them, swaying slightly, in the feeble light of the candle lantern.
“You’re not hunters,” he said hoarsely. Stupidly.
“Raffa . . . Bubbles,” said Raffa, her voice warming to a gentle hum that left Bubbles in no doubt of her feelings. “Don’t you remember?” She had rushed to him; she hovered now as though he were a fragile ornament she might break with her gaze.
“Yes . . .” His voice trailed away; he stood there, his hands trembling, and seemed to be near collapse. One of his eyes had a dark stain around it. Bubbles saw raw scratches and scrapes on his hands and face.
“You need to be dry and you need food,” Bubbles said. “Come on, Raffa—get him to dry ground.” He stood in ankle-deep water, with a dry ledge not a stride away—but of course he’d been in the dark the whole time.
It was harder than she had imagined to dry a large, very wet and dirty young man in a damp cave. Once out of the water, he dripped water and mud onto the ledge; she had no dry clothes for him, and nothing to dry him with. Food—the food she had brought along from the first cache—he held in his hand as if he couldn’t remember its purpose.
Finally she and Raffa had to undress him, struggling with the wet fasteners, the uncooperative cloth, and use every scrap of spare clothes to dry him. His skin was cold, as disgusting to touch as meat from a cold locker. He sat huddled, shivering, hardly seeming aware of them. Bubbles heated the food bar over the candle lantern until it sizzled and gave off an oily, heavy smell, then pinched off a bit with her fingers.