Once she’d asked Skortov why sentries were posted outside the barracks door. It was standard for Tiger barracks, he said. To Varia it was apparent that he’d never before wondered, and it seemed to her that something was lacking in the Tigers—this clone at least—lacking in either their genes or their training or both. They ought to wonder about anything as pointless as that.
Winter’s occasional snows and ice storms ended, and spring flowers bloomed. In the nearby human community, oxen pulled plows through wet soil, followed by the plowmen, and by crows that feasted on the worms and grubs exposed. On the shrubs, buds swelled and broke. Her head was shaved again. Trees began to green, lilacs bloomed, and Varia began to plan how she’d equip herself and get over the palisade. Once outside she’d have to improvise, steal a horse or maybe just walk. Afoot she’d leave a harder trail to follow.
She didn’t deceive herself that her prospects were good. Guards would be sent after her, perhaps even Tigers, and if she were caught . . . Thinking of that, she almost changed her mind. If she stayed, she told herself, surely she’d get pregnant before too much longer. Then she’d will sixlings, be moved out of the Tiger barracks and in with her clone. Sarkia would be pleased with her, perhaps let her work in the crèche, or the ceramics shop.
It was that thought that renewed her resolve. She realized she didn’t want to live with Liiset, who’d abandoned her. And especially she didn’t want to please Sarkia. It was Sarkia who’d told Idri, “Do what you will with her.” In effect, who’d caused that terrible night. She should have known.
Or had she? Did she use Idri to do her evil, the evil that Idri was so attracted to, then step forward to rescue the abused? Gaining the victim’s gratitude and devotion, even adoration? The thought was like a blow to the stomach.
No, she’d definitely go, at an hour that would give her a long start. About midnight, for like all her clones, she could see in the dark like a cat. A night of hard rain would be best; it would wash out her trail. Then she’d have to keep ahead of any tracker sent after her. It was Tomm who frightened her most, Sarkia’s best tracker. She’d heard he could follow a psychic trace as readily as tracks; she’d have to cast a web of confusion whenever she changed direction or paused to rest.
And move fast; that was important. Stay off established trails, head north and west, make her way to Ferny Cove, and go through the gate to Curtis. They’d go somewhere far from Evansville. To Oregon, a land of fertile valleys. They’d talked about Oregon before.
But she’d have to avoid recapture, or God only knew what Sarkia might have done to her. She wondered if she could survive a week like that first night.
Over the next weeks she varied the time she left for her morning duties. Normally she started for the kitchen just before the twelve to three sentry got off, but now she sometimes left just afterward, when the three to six sentry was on duty. That way if she didn’t show, each would assume she’d leave, or had left, on the other’s watch, and she wouldn’t be missed until the cook and her assistant arrived at the kitchen about five-thirty. Cook would no doubt be furious, assume she’d overslept, and send the guard running to have her wakened. There’d be confusion then, and a search would hardly be started much before seven.
The last half of May was unusual, rainless. Finally, on the first of June, late evening brought thunder and wind. Near midnight the rain began, beating on the roof.
And suddenly fear stuck the breath in Varia’s throat, for this was the time, if it was to be. For several long minutes she listened to the drumming. At last, pushing out of her paralysis, she put her boots and breeches on, and the leather belt she’d asked Skortov for. Then, from beneath her mattress, she took a stolen meat knife sheathed in a tough oven mitt she’d taken. Fumbling, hands trembling, she strung it on the belt through the slits she’d cut. Finally she put her shift on over it, hiding it.