“Right. Raise your voices. Yell and scream, and someone may call the police or whatever the Guernesi call them.”
“The Gard,” Borhes said, but more softly.
“Whatever. Listen, Borhes, this has gone on long enough. Raffa saw you—she’s going to start thinking and doing, a very dangerous combination. She probably thinks you’re Gerel, and if she knows the king’s here, she’s going to think it’s a conspiracy to regain the throne—”
“What? That’s crazy!”
“No crazier than what you’ve done. It’s what any person would think, believing that Gerel, who’s supposed to be dead, and the king are in the same place. She’s going to put that alongside our disappearance, and think we’re either dead or being held by the king and Gerel—or their supporters.”
“I haven’t seen her again,” Borhes said. George shrugged as well as he could.
“She’s not stupid, Bor. She can recognize danger when she sees it. And she can act. So the smartest thing for you to do is enlist us as allies—let us run some interference for you.”
“As if we could trust you!” Andres and Borhes exchanged glances and glared at their captives.
“It’s probably hard for clones to trust anyone outside the clone cluster,” George said. “Especially with the life you had. But someday you’ll have to, and you know us better than anyone else so far.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“What I said before. Get new identities. Simple disguises to start with, maybe, but probably plastic surgery or biosculpts later. Change your names legally. I’m sure the Neurosciences people will help.”
“But—we can’t go out until—”
“Oh, come now! This isn’t an adventure cube thriller. Wait until dark. Take a private cab. Call the Institute from here and make arrangements.” The clones looked at each other but said nothing. Ronnie held his breath. Would this work? “Or,” George began, and Ronnie wanted to smack him. Why couldn’t he be still a little longer? “Or, you could let one of us out to arrange disguises, transportation, even check at the Institute and make sure the king isn’t hanging around the front door. Find the back door.”
The clones laughed. “I don’t think so,” Andres said. “The other—perhaps you’re right; it does make sense to disguise ourselves and take other names. One of our therapists at the Institute did suggest that, but it seemed unnecessary then.”
“One thing to consider,” George said. “The king may not be the only one who wants to find you. If someone did want to set up a contender for a future throne, your tissues would be helpful. With or without your cooperation.”
“Well, we certainly can’t trust you,” Andres said. Then he pulled Borhes to the far side of the room, where they whispered in rapid Guernesi.
The outside felt large and dangerous; Ronnie was surprised to find himself flinching away from the bustling crowd on the sidewalk. He had loathed that small cramped room while he was in it, but now it seemed a safe haven. He understood why the clones were reluctant to go back out.
When he came to the street market, he half-hoped to see Raffa there. He bought himself a fruit pastry with the last coin in his pocket and ate it as he walked. No one seemed to notice him; no Raffa appeared, nor did the king. He wondered if Raffa had come across the king—he hoped not. That would really confuse things.
At a public combooth, he stripped his messages at the Travelers’ Directory. Eleven from Raffa, all with a reply code. He punched it in, and listened to a series of unmelodious buzzes and hisses, until a message came on: “Please leave a message,” followed by the three bleeps the Guernesi used to signal readiness to record.
Ronnie cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. “Hi, Raffa—it’s Ronnie. What are you doing here? Did your parents change their mind about the engagement? I’ll call again later.” He hoped he would. He hoped anyone intercepting that message would hear only a young man in love. He hoped she was all right.
Some dim memory of spy adventure stories suggested that he shouldn’t use the same booth for all the calls he planned to make. He walked across the street to another one, and called the Neurosciences Institute. The clones had told him which extension to ask for. The name they’d given him was out to lunch, though. He could leave a message or call later, he was told. He chose to call back. In the meantime, he could find out if the king was using his own name.
Raffa threw her packages on the table, and started to stretch out for a nap—then saw the blinking light on the comconsole. A message? Could it possibly be Ronnie and George? Her heart pounded; she took a breath and told herself to be calm. When she flicked replay and heard Ronnie’s voice, her vision dimmed for a moment and her heart pounded. The message was almost over by the time her vision cleared . . . and the idiot hadn’t left a reply code. Rage replaced whatever strong emotion had just swept her—she didn’t stop to think about it. The comconsole could capture the calling number and display its location; she looked at that, at the time the message had been left, and forgot about the nap.
She was two blocks away when it occurred to her that this might not be a wise move. Perhaps Ronnie hadn’t left a reply code because there were problems. Perhaps—she kept walking. Perhaps if she was quick enough, he would still be there.
The booth he’d called from, on the corner of Osip and Dixha, contained a thin woman and three active preschoolers, clearly a triad. Raffa looked around, ignoring the crafts, the food booths, and spotted another cluster of combooths on the far side of the market.
And there he was. Unharmed. Angled away from her, talking—his free arm moved, gesturing—and she was suddenly angry enough to wring that handsome neck. She strode across the market, ignoring everything, until she was right behind him. She could hear nothing—the Guernesi combooths had enviable privacy shields—but he had not blanked the booth visually. Raffa moved around until she could see his face . . . she wanted to see his face very badly, especially when he caught sight of her.
He turned paper white and grabbed at the booth rail. His lips shaped her name, then he held up a hand. He glanced away briefly, as if something said to him required a change in attention, then ended the connection and shot out of the booth as if kicked. “Raffa! How did you—I mean—Raffa!”
She had been prepared to give him a stony glare and a crisp demand for information, but his hug was more frantic than possessive. And it felt good.
“I was so worried,” she said, feeling her anger leak away, to be replaced by first relief than a wave of pure physical passion. Her legs felt odd; the ground seemed very far away. “I was afraid you were in trouble—you’ll never guess what I’ve seen.”
“Oh?” He was looking past her now, scanning the crowd as if he expected someone.
“Where’s George?” Raffa asked. “We need to warn him—did you know the ex-king was here?”
“Uh . . .”
“And the prince. Gerel, who was supposed to be dead? He’s not. I saw him. I think the king is in league with his son to take over the government again.”
“The king is not in league with his son. Gerel is dead.”
“But I saw him—and he recognized me and took off—”
“That wasn’t Gerel.” He was still looking beyond her, as if he expected to see someone he recognized.
“It was. I’m not blind, Ronnie—don’t think you can treat me like a little idiot.” She wanted to grab his chin and make him look at her, but a lifetime of prudence prevented her.
“You’re not blind, but that wasn’t Gerel.” Now he looked at her, but not with the look she wanted. “Think, Raffa—what have you seen since you’ve been here?”
“Clones,” Raffa said. “Gerel’s clone? Has the king come here to get another son, take over the government?”
“Not with them—him—” Ronnie smacked himself on the forehead. “Blast it . . . I’ve already screwed up. No, it’s not the king, or not exactly. The clones are from before, when Gerel was still alive. They doubled for him.”