“Joncaster,” he cried, “Melanie! Come look! It’s a Frangian ship sailing down the coast. They don’t do that! They stay east of the Stone Trail, always . . .”
Joncaster went to the entrance, and except for Genevieve, who was holding the cup to Aufors’s lips, he was joined there by the rest of the group. Intrigued by the appearance of the ship, they moved down to the shore where they stood with the waves washing their toes, shading their eyes from the setting sun and murmuring among themselves. Since the hovercraft behind the ship was low on the water, lost in the dazzle of the sun-splashed waves, they did not notice when the craft left the cover of the ship, slipped across the narrow strip of water to the land, hidden from them by protruding stones.
They were still standing, still watching, when Terceth, Dunnel and the other Trackers arrived, dragging behind them an unwilling Prince Delganor. It was the Prince’s curses that spun them around.
“Well,” said Terceth, upon seeing Awhero and the boy. “We’ve met before, madam.”
“We have,” she assented with some discomfort. “And no reason to meet again, so far as I can see.”
“Happens we’re looking for your son, madam. Or the man you claimed was your son. He left a mystery behind him. One we’d mightily like to solve.”
“Taipa? What mystery to him? Oh, he’s done bit of thievery, but that was just to save baby’s life . . .”
“Where is the child?” asked Dunnel. “I don’t see a child.”
Awhero’s response was aborted by a wail from the cave. She shook her head in irritation. “Up there. I’ll get him. . . .”
But Dunnel was already halfway to the cavern, where he immediately discovered Genevieve and Aufors. His shout brought the others, who arrived to find Genevieve speaking indignantly to him,
“. . . we’re Havenites come to Mahahm to trade for P’naki, which is a medicine against the fevers. This is my husband, Aufors Leys, and he was wounded when he went back into the city to rescue our child.”
“What’s your name?” demanded Terceth from the cave entrance.
“Genevieve, Marchioness of Wantresse,” she said, drawing herself up and glaring at him, the red light of sunset glittering in her eyes. Between him and herself was a roiling of shadows, a vortex of images. Events were spinning out of control. She took a deep breath. There was danger coming. She could only see shadows, but they were full of danger.
“Well, Marchioness. What do you know about long-life stuff?”
She swallowed, saying slowly, “Long-life stuff? I know it is something the Lord Paramount gets from off-planet.”
“The Lord Paramount,” he mused. “And the Shah?”
“I suppose the Shah could too,” she answered. “They use it to keep their subjects in line. If men don’t behave, they don’t live long.”
Terceth seated himself on a stone and crossed his legs, leaning forward intently. “And what do they give for this drug?”
Genevieve shrugged, watching the shadows move and gather. She could say this, which was dark, or that, which was lighter. “Women, it’s said. I thought everyone knew that.”
“And the stuff is called P’naki,” said Terceth, as though thinking aloud, though he watched her closely.
“No, no,” corrected Genevieve. “I’ve taken P’naki myself as a preventive against batfly fever, but only men take the long-life drug.”
This accorded completely with what the Frangians on the ship had said, but it was not what Terceth wanted to hear. He snarled in irritation. “What does it look like, this P’naki?”
Genevieve shrugged. “I don’t think I ever saw it except stirred into fruit juice.”
“Well then, what world does the long-life drug come from?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Do you know, Melanie?”
“I imagine the Lord Paramount and the Shah keep it a secret,” said Melanie demurely, her eyes on her feet.
Aufors moaned, opened his eyes, blinked, and tried to sit up. Genevieve was beside him at once, but so was Dunnel, turning out his pockets and feeling for weapons.
“Prince Terceth,” said Dunnel, drawing the packet from Aufors’s breast pocket, “Here’s more of the stuff he gave you.”