“Now,” he said. She stood up; the wall was not as tall as she was, and she made it easily. It was wide enough to lie on; she rolled the cloak around her and then dropped off, to be steadied by his waiting arm. “Are the babies inside?” he asked. “When will they cry?”
How did he think she could answer that? She mimed drinking, then sleeping, and he nodded.
“Come along,” he said. “We have to get to the car.” He took her arm. “Look down,” he reminded her. Fuming, Brun looked down at the rough pavement and went where he directed. She didn’t want to argue with him in the street, where anyone might see, but she had to convince him about Hazel.
He stopped beside a groundcar parked in a row. He opened the driver’s door, and then the back doors popped open. “Get in,” he said. She looked him full in the face, and mouthed Hazel. He paled. “Look down! Get in,” he said. “Before someone notices.”
She slipped into the back seat, and leaned forward, waiting for him. As soon as he closed his own door, she tapped his shoulder. He glanced back.
Hazel.
“I can’t understand you. What’s wrong?”
Damn the idiot fool. How had Lady Cecelia kept from bursting? There on the seat beside him were a map and notebook, with a pen. She reached over and snatched at it, wrote GET HAZEL in large letters, and then RANGER BOWIE HOUSE. He read, then paled even more.
“We can’t do that! No one can get in there! Dammit, woman, you want off this planet or not?”
She tapped GET HAZEL again, glaring into his face, trying to give him a mind-to-mind transfusion of her determination.
“Who the hell is Hazel, anyway?”
She wrote again: GIRL ON SHIP. GET HER AWAY TOO.
“Can’t do it,” he said, starting the groundcar. “Now you sit back, and I’ll take you where it’s arranged—” The barrier between them started to rise; Brun lunged forward, putting her weight on it, and the barrier stopped, its mechanism whining loudly. “Get back, you fool.” The mechanism that moved the barrier gave a grinding noise and died; the barrier slid back the small distance it had risen. She paid no attention, wriggling over the barrier into the front passenger seat. Up here the windows weren’t frosted. The man jerked the groundcar out of its parking space and accelerated. “Gods, woman, if they see you up here—”
She held the paper out: GET HAZEL.
“I can’t, I tell you! The five Rangers are the most powerful men in town. Ever since Mitch Pardue got elected Ranger Bowie, he’s been angling for the Captaincy. I can’t barge in there and get some fool girl. I got you; that’s what I contracted to do.”
Brun glanced at the groundcar controls, at his movements as he turned, slowed, sped up again, made another turn. Simple enough. After the next turn, she grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard. He yanked back, and stared at her long enough to almost hit another groundcar. “Dammit! Woman! It’s no wonder they muted you—Heaven knows what you’d say if you could talk!”
She scribbled rapidly on the notebook. GET HAZEL. IT’S MARKET DAY—SHE GOES OUT. MARKET NEAR RANGER BOWIE HOUSE. She pushed that in front of his face; the groundcar swerved again; she lowered it slightly, so he could read and see over it.
“Can’t do it. Too dangerous. I have it all planned out—”
She poked a finger into his ear, hard, and laid the pruning knife on his thigh, pointed where he could not ignore it. The groundcar swerved wildly, then he got it back on his side of the street. “You’re crazy, you are. All right, we’ll drive past Ranger Bowie house. And the damn market. But you’ve got to get in the back. If anyone sees—” He glanced at her, and she bared her teeth. “All right, I said. I’ll do it; we’ll go past. But you’re going to get us killed—”
With some care, Brun reversed herself into the back seat, making sure that she had enough weight on the barrier to prevent its coming back up, if the controls weren’t actually broken. She laid the knife at the back of his neck . . . it would do no good there, unless it was strong enough to slide between the vertebrae, but she judged it too obvious to hold it to his throat.
“They told me you were wild, but they didn’t tell me you were crazy,” the man grumbled. Brun grinned. They hadn’t known what had been done to her, or they’d have known how crazy she was.
“That’s Ranger Bowie’s house,” the man said finally. Brun stared, uncertain. It was one of five huge houses arranged around the sides of a plaza . . . in the center was a huge five-pointed star outlined in flowers and grass. Pretty, really, if you weren’t trying to escape the place. “Ranger Houston, Ranger Crockett, Ranger Travis, and Ranger Lamar. Ranger Travis is Captain right now. The nearest market to Ranger Bowie’s house is down this street . . . the women’s service door is right down there, see?”
Brun saw a shadowed gap in the long stucco wall. As they drove past, she could see the door set back from the sidewalk, and the little alcove for the gate guard. They went past one cross street, then another. Ahead, down this street, a rope blocked off traffic beyond the next cross street.
“That’s the market—groundcars can’t go there. Nor you. Now you’ve seen there’s nothing we can do, we can—”
Brun pressed the tip of the knife just below his ear. With her other hand she scrabbled for the pen and notebooks, and printed, GO AROUND, KEEP LOOKING.
On the third circuit, Brun spotted a woman walking toward Ranger Bowie House, baskets in each hand, still some blocks from it. Something about the quick, short shuffle caught her eye. She tapped the driver’s shoulder.
“That her?” He eased the car closer.
It was hard to tell . . . the dark head bent forward, the slim body gliding along with those short, quick steps enforced by her dress. But as the car slid past, Brun caught a glimpse of the serious face, that tucked-in lower lip. She tapped the man’s arm again, hard.
“I’m gonna regret this, I know I am.” But he pulled the car to the curb and got out.
“You. Girlie.” Hazel stopped, eyes on the ground. “You from Ranger Bowie House?” She nodded. “I got business there. Get in back.” He popped the rear doors. Brun could feel Hazel’s confusion, her uncertainty, her near-panic. “Hurry up now,” he said. “I don’t want to have to tell Mitch you’re lazy.” She ducked into the car, then, eyes still down. Then she saw Brun, and her eyes widened. Brun grinned. The driver got back in, grumbling, and tried to raise the shield, but the mechanism made only a faint noise and the barrier didn’t go up. “Sit low,” the driver said, and drove off quickly.
“Brun . . . what . . . where . . . ?” Hazel’s voice was soft as mothwings.
Brun mouthed escape, but Hazel shook her head. So Brun made a rocket of one hand, and jerked it upward. Hazel stared, then grinned.
“Really?” Hazel almost bounced on the seat with excitement, but her voice was soft. “I was trying to figure a way—I’d found out where you were, an’ all, an’ I told Simplicity as much as I could without getting in trouble, hoping she’d see you—”
Brun nodded. She mimed the groundcar taking them to the rocket. She didn’t know if that was the plan—she still didn’t know what the plan was—but surely that was the gist of it. Then she showed Hazel the notebook and wrote: LITTLE GIRLS.
“We can’t take them,” Hazel said.
YES.
“No—we can’t—I already decided that, months ago. They’re happy, they’re safe, and they wouldn’t make it anyway.”
Brun stared at Hazel. This . . . child had decided? But Hazel’s expression didn’t waver. She was not just a child.