She looked troubled. “Anything I say would mislead you, milord. We can assume that their troops will be constructs rather than truly living creatures . . . which means they can be anything. Also, anything may be illusion. I told you about the gravity?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Forgive me. I’m tired and my mind isn’t sharp. The gravity varies, sometimes erratically. A level stretch will seem to be downhill, then quickly uphill. Other things . . . any of which may be illusion.”
Rufo said, “Boss, if it moves, shoot it. If it speaks, cut its throat. That spoils most illusions. You don’t need a program; there’ll be just us–and all the others. So when in doubt, kill it. No sweat.”
I grinned at him. “No sweat. Okay, well worry when we get there. So let’s quit talking.”
“Yes, milord husband,” Star seconded. “We had best get several hours’ sleep.”
Something in her voice had changed. I looked at her and she was subtly different, too. She seemed smaller, softer, more feminine and compliant than the Amazon who had fired arrows into a beast a hundred times her weight less than two hours before.
“A good idea,” I said slowly and looked around. While Star had been sketching the mazes of the Tower, Rufo had repacked what we couldn’t take and–I now noticed–put one sleeping pad on one side of the cave and the other two side by side as far from the first as possible.
I silently questioned her by glancing at Rufo and shrugging an implied, “What now?”
Her answering glance said neither yes nor no. Instead she called out, “Rufo, go to bed and give that leg a chance. Don’t lie on it. Either belly down or face the wall.”
For the first time Rufo showed his disapproval of what we had done. He answered abruptly, not what Star said but what she may have implied: “You couldn’t hire me to look!”
Star said to me in a voice so low I barely heard it, “Forgive him, milord husband. He is an old man, he has his quirks. Once he is in bed I will take down the lights.”
I whispered, “Star my beloved, it still isn’t my idea of how to run a honeymoon.”
She searched my eyes. “This is your will, milord love?”
“Yes. The recipe calls for a jug of wine and a loaf of bread. Not a word about a chaperon. I’m sorry.”
She put a slender hand against my chest, looked up at me. “I am glad, milord.”
“You are?” I didn’t see why she had to say so.
“Yes. We both need sleep. Against the morrow. That your strong sword arm may grant us many morrows.”
I felt better and smiled down at her. “Okay, my princess. But I doubt if I’ll sleep.”
“Ah, but you will!”
“Want to bet?”
“Hear me out, milord darling. Tomorrow . . . after you have won . . . we go quickly to my home. No more waitings, no more troubles. I would that you knew the language of my home, so that you will not feel a stranger. I want it to be your home, at once. So? Will milord husband dispose himself for bed? Lie back and let me give him a language lesson? You will sleep, you know that you will.”
“Well . . . it’s a fine idea. But you need sleep even more than I do.”
“Your pardon, milord, but not so. Four hours’ sleep puts spring in my step and a song on my lips.”
“Well . . . ”
Five minutes later I was stretched out, staring into the most beautiful eyes in any world and listening to her beloved voice speak softly in a language strange to me . . .
Chapter 14
Rufo was shaking my shoulder. “Breakfast, Boss!” He shoved a sandwich into my hand and a pot of beer into the other. “That’s enough to fight on and lunch is packed. I’ve laid out fresh clothes and your weapons and I’ll dress you as soon as you finish. But snap it up. We’re on in a few minutes.” He was already dressed and belted.