“My dear old friend Nods,” it began in a clear, quirky handwriting, narrow and clear as print.
Rigo read it all the way through in mounting disbelief, then read it again. “There is plague here, as there is everywhere else…. It is not our desire that information about the cure be widely disseminated … wiping out the heathen to leave worlds for Sanctity alone to populate …”
“Rigo.”
He turned to find her at his side. “Marjorie! They said you were with Stella.” She looked very pale. Very tired.
“I stopped in her room. I couldn’t really see her. She’s boxed up in a huge Heal-all. Rillibee stayed there with her.”
“How is she?”
“The doctor says she hopes for recovery. She was careful not to say full recovery. I gather some things were destroyed.” Marjorie rubbed at her eyes.
He stood stiffly away from her, aware she had not reproached him and yet feeling reproached. He did not want to talk about their daughter, not yet. The paper cracked in his hand, reminding him. “You must look at this. The head of the Friary came to see me to ask about the plague. This thing fell out of his pocket.” He thrust the letter at her.
She read, read again, turning a white face toward him at last. “Sanctity won’t spread the cure even if we find one?”
“You read what I read. The man who signed that letter is the new Hierarch. Uncle Carlos may have been an apostate, but he wouldn’t have been capable of this!”
“What are we going to do?”
“All I’ve done so far is wish I hadn’t told the man anything. I don’t know what to do next!”
She touched him gently on the shoulder. “One thing at a time, Rigo. That’s all any of us can do.”
“Very well. One thing at a time. There’s an immediate threat from the Hippae at the tunnel. We’ll probably end up having to kill all those damned Hippae….”
“No!” she folded the letter and put it carefully in a flapped pocket of her jacket. “No! We can’t kill them all. Not even most. They become other creatures. Important creatures. The foxen, Rigo. They’re an intelligent race. Even the Hippae themselves are intelligent, in a way.”
“We’re going to have to kill some,” he objected, thinking that Marjorie did not sound like herself. “No matter what they become. If we don’t, we die ourselves. We have to make Commons secure from them, or everyone here will die, just as the Arbai did.”
“Kill some,” she agreed. “Yes. It will be necessary. But the fewest possible That’s what I came to tell you. I heard what you said about enticing them away. We must use the horses.”
At first he wanted to laugh. When he had heard what she had to say, he wanted to cry. He objected, and she looked at him in firm decision, unlike herself. He could offer nothing better. Moved from mockery to despair, he stumbled out of the Port Hotel to make the preparations she had convinced him were necessary. Aircars could not get into the forest where the tunnel ended. At any threat from above, the Hippae would merely retreat into the swamp or the tunnel or both, as they had retreated from the aircar when Rigo had been wounded. If men were to destroy the tunnel, the Hippae would have to be enticed away. The Hippae hated the horses. They would use the horses.
“At least…” he said to himself, trying to laugh, “at least I’ll never have to wear those damned bon boots or those fat-bottomed pants again!”
Not long after dawn they assembled in the great hay barn where the horses were stalled. They met without many words. What words had been necessary had already been carried from each to each, and they were all tired of words. Tired of words, afraid of action, yet determined nonetheless.
Rigo, pale but resolute, was saddling El Dia Octavo. Marjorie had chosen Don Quixote. Tony took Blue Star, and Sylvan, Her Majesty. Irish Lass, they had regretfully decided, was not quick enough. That left only Millefiori.
“I wish we had someone,” Sylvan said, looking at the mare.