I tried to straighten out in my mind the implied cross purposes, the wheels within wheels, and gave up. ‘I just don’t get it. Look, Zeb, all this doesn’t have anything to do with me or with Judith. But I know what I’ve got to do. Somehow I’ve got to get her out of here.’
‘Hmm. . . a mighty strait gate, old son.’
‘I’ve got to.’
‘Well . . . I’d like to help you. I suppose I could get a message to her,’ he added doubtfully.
I caught his arm. ‘Would you, Zeb?’
He sighed. ‘I wish you would wait. No, that wouldn’t help, seeing the romantic notions in your mind. But it is risky now. Plenty risky, seeing that she is under discipline by order of the Prophet. You’d look funny staring down the table of a court-martial board, looking at your own spear.’
‘I’ll risk even that. Or even the Question.’
He did not remind me that he himself was taking even more of a risk than I was; he simply said, ‘Very well, what is the message?’
I thought for a moment. It would have to be short. ‘Tell her that the legate she talked to the night her lot was drawn is worried about her.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes! Tell her that I am hers to command!’
It seems flamboyant in recollection. No doubt it was-but it was exactly the way I felt.
At luncheon the next day I found a scrap of paper folded into my napkin. I hurried through the meal and slipped out to read it.
I need your help, it read, and am so very grateful. Will you meet me tonight? It was unsigned and had been typed in the script of a common voicewriter, used anywhere in the Palace, or out. When Zeb returned to our room, I showed it to him; he glanced at it and remarked in idle tones:
‘Let’s get some air. I ate too much, I’m about to fall asleep.’ Once we hit the open terrace and were free of the hazard of eye and ear he cursed me out in low, dispassionate tones. ‘You’ll never make a conspirator. Half the mess must know that you found something in your napkin. Why in God’s name did you gulp your food and rush off? Then to top it off you handed it to me upstairs. For all you know the eye read it and photostated it for evidence. Where in the world were you when they were passing out brains?’
I protested but he cut me off. ‘Forget it! I know you didn’t mean to put both of our necks in a bight-but good intentions are no good when the trial judge-advocate reads the charges. Now get this through your head: the first principle of intrigue is never to be seen doing anything unusual, no matter how harmless it may seem. You wouldn’t believe how small a deviation from pattern looks significant to a trained analyst. You should have stayed in the refectory the usual time, hung around and gossiped as usual afterwards, then waited until you were safe to read it. Now where is it?’
‘In the pocket of my corselet,’ I answered humbly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll chew it up and swallow it.’
‘Not so fast. Wait here.’ Zeb left and was back in a few minutes. ‘I have a piece of paper the same size and shape; I’ll pass it to you quietly. Swap the two, and then you can eat the real note-but don’t be seen making the swap or chewing up the real one.’
‘All right. But what is the second sheet of paper?’
‘Some notes on a system for winning at dice.’
‘Huh? But that’s non-reg, too!’
‘Of course, you hammer head. If they catch you with evidence of gambling, they won’t suspect you of a much more serious sin. At worst, the skipper will eat you out and fine you a few days pay and a few hours contrition. Get this, John: if you are ever suspected of something, try to make the evidence point to a lesser offence. Never try to prove lily-white innocence. Human nature being what it is, your chances are better.’