“Here,” she said firmly. “Eat this.” His mouth gaped; she pushed the food in. His jaw moved a little, and he swallowed.
“I’ll do that,” Raffa said. “You keep watch.” She pulled off her shirt and laid it around Ronnie’s shoulders. He didn’t even glance at her slender nakedness; Bubbles looked away as she stood up.
Keep watch. Fine idea, but how? They needed the candle lantern; it made them visible. They had to talk; it made them audible. Bubbles moved back to the margin of the main cavern, and peeked around. She could just see, with her goggles on, the smudge of light from the entrance, across the water.
An impossible situation. And yet, in the near-silence, with the murmur of Raffa’s voice coaxing Ronnie to eat, with the random tinkle and splash of water drops into the lake, in the almost-darkness, she felt secure. Cupped in some great hand, a feeling she remembered from those camping trips, when she had felt the land under her as a benign presence. Silly, her schoolmates would have said. She had said it herself, of younger girls’ illusions.
Here she felt like herself again. Her real self. Not the mosaic of consensus she was in public, in society. Here she felt connected to the little girl who learned to swim in the waves with the cetes, who learned to scramble up steep rocks, dig holes. The little girl who had been called Bubbles, and had thought of herself as a great hero out of some tale. . . . She felt her face shifting to a grin, felt the pressure of the goggles change with that grin. Such a tomboy, her mother had said . . . her brothers had said. But tomboys grow up.
Not always, she thought. At least not if it meant changing completely. Ronnie’s aunt hadn’t.
“Bubbles—he’s better. Come—”
It had been long enough that she was stiff, but she thought at once that Raffa had forgotten to use her new name, the name she now felt was really hers. This was no time to worry about that—but she wouldn’t forget. She shook herself and retreated to the lantern light, pushing the goggles down. Raffa nestled close to Ronnie; Bubbles thought to herself that he was undoubtedly warm on that side, and suspected that Raffa had done more than lean against him. Ronnie had expression on his face now: misery and worry.
“They got George,” he said. “He was alive then, but—”
“How?”
“They poisoned the water—I don’t suppose you know—”
“Yes,” Bubbles said. “We did. That’s how we found the cave, going upstream to look for safe water.” Ronnie’s voice was still unsteady; she didn’t know if they should press him to talk. Whatever had happened to George must be over now. But he pushed aside Raffa’s arm, and made himself explain what had happened. . . . She wasn’t at all sure he had it straight. How many times had he lost consciousness or fallen asleep? Where had they been, exactly? He had no idea where he had fallen into the cave, except “upstream” from where he’d left George.
“Never mind,” Raffa was saying, trying to soothe him. “You couldn’t help it, and it’ll be all right.”
It wouldn’t, of course. If Raffa thought about it, she’d know. Ronnie surely knew, though he might let himself be comforted by Raffa. Certainly she, Bubbles, knew that everything would not be all right. The hunters might keep George alive, trying to catch the rest, but too many had died already. Too much had happened. However this turned out, things would not be all right, not the way they had been before.
“We have to help George,” Ronnie said, more loudly. He sounded hoarse, as if he were catching cold. “We have to get out of this cave.” He tried to stand up, and Raffa pulled him back down.
“Not until the hunters give up,” Bubbles said. She knew they wouldn’t, but she didn’t want Ronnie yelling and charging around making it obvious where they were.
“They probably took him to Bandon,” Raffa said. “If they didn’t kill him right away.” From her tone, she could no more imagine George dead on the ground than Bubbles could. George would be at Bandon, tied up like someone from an adventure cube, to be rescued later and reunited with his friends. In the cube, she would be the designated girlfriend, the blonde who gave him a passionate kiss as the end music came up.
The problem was that she didn’t want George to die, but she didn’t want to be the designated blonde, either. She was Brun, not Bubbles, and so far Brun wasn’t a designated anything. She put that thought aside to think about later, and with a glance at Raffa set to work to cheer Ronnie up and keep him from doing something rash.
Muddy footprints led to a sheer cliff with water seeping out from under a thick mat of ferns. The prince felt safe, enclosed by the rocky, fern-covered walls, although he realized it could be a trap, too. Someone overhead who happened to see him could shoot him easily. He peered up into the overlapping layers of green, and shivered. He was tired, hungry, and confused. What could have happened? Where were the promised girls?
Wet leaves dripped on his head and neck. It made him feel stupid, as well as tired. In the solitude and silence, he had time to track the feeling back and analyze it. Long ago—it seemed long, anyway—he had been at school with boys who had known each other for years while he’d been isolated at court. Someone had thought it would be fun to play a joke on the prince, to make him late for roll-call and incidentally make him look stupid. Ethar Krinesl, that had been. He had been lured from his bed on a dark, rainy night by the promise of a rendezvous with girls from the neighboring school. . . . He had trekked across the campus to crouch in a muddy ditch, while (he learned later) the other boys had sewn his clothes together so that he couldn’t possibly dress in the morning. And the shadowy figure that had come in the dark, and with giggles had agreed to kiss him, had been Ethar’s older brother Potim. Ethar had had the cube recorder.
Painful as the memory was, it made him feel better. Now he understood what was going on. All the other men were older, and they formed a tight clique. This was a joke; they were testing him. After a time, when they thought he had been sufficiently humiliated, they would come out and take him into the group, as Ethar and his crowd had done. It was annoying, but understandable. The prince was proud of having figured it out, and felt a little superior to the childishness of the older men. They should have realized he would not panic; he had already killed someone and proved himself. They would have swept the criminals from in front of him; they weren’t really risking his death. Perhaps the criminals had never been armed with anything lethal. Not very sporting, perhaps, but prudent.
The girl’s voice completed his understanding. Soft, hardly audible, it could still be nothing but a girl—a girl some distance away chuckling softly at something. That had to mean the original promise held; girls were part of the entertainment here. He looked around carefully. She might be hiding anywhere.
The voice came again, from the rock wall in front of him. He stared, then saw that two big, cleated bootprints lay half under the ferns. He felt himself tingling with excitement. A cave. It must be a cave, full of the girls he’d been promised, hidden away in safety until the dangerous part of the hunt was over. And he’d found them without being shown—perhaps before the other hunters, even. Carefully, he stooped and lifted the mat of ferns, peering into the darkness beyond. Water lapped at his boots; he could see that he stood on the edge of a large pool. He pulled his night goggles out of his pocket and put them on, squinting until he got his head inside where it was darker. A large domed chamber, with smudged reflections off the surface of water as far as he could see. But clearly someone was inside. He smelled cooking food, and again he heard what had to be human voices, distorted by the shape of the cave and the water.