Harry frowned, then slowly nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘And I’ve been foolish – but that wasn’t entirely my fault. I hadn’t intended to use the continuum in conjunction with the Gate, it just worked out that way. But my curiosity has worked against me. I had to see what this Gate looked like – see it with my own eyes. And by now there won’t be a man in the entire Perchorsk Projekt who doesn’t know what I look like! The next time I stick my nose in there, be sure someone will blow it right off my face.’
What will you do?
Harry leaned back against the headstone and sighed. ‘I don’t know. But I know I’m tired.’
Go home, said Mobius. Sleep, rest. Things will be that much clearer in your mind when you wake up.
Harry said his thanks, his farewells, did as Mobius advised. He emerged back in Jazz Simmons’s flat in a prone position two inches over his bed, gently fell onto it. Almost before his head hit the pillows he was asleep . . .
18
Zek Continues Her Story
It was deep twilight now. A few birds sang hushed, warbling songs in the grass of the plain; the mountains marched cold on the right flank, dark in their forested roots and gold on their snow-spiked peaks; the tribe of Lardis the Traveller moved silently, no words spoken, with only their natural jingle, the creaking of their caravans and rustle of travois to tell that they were there at all in the shadows of the woods where they skirted the barrier mountains.
It was colder, too, and a racing moon sailed like a pale, far-flung coin on high, calling to the wild wolves of the peaks, whose answering calls echoed down with an eerie foreboding. The sun was a sliver of gold in the south, gleaming faintly far beyond the plain and silvering the coils of winding rivers.
Only Michael J. Simmons and Zekintha Foener spoke, because they were hell-landers and knew no better. But even their speech was hushed. It would soon be sundown, which was not a time for making loud noises. Even strangers could sense that much.
Jazz had built a light-framed travois; he hauled their kit bundled up in skins, carried only his SMG strapped across his back. Zek helped as best she could where the going was rough, but in the main he was well able to manage on his own. In just a few days his trained physique had attained new heights of strength and endurance.
A few miles back they’d picked up the main Traveller party and now Lardis’s tribe was complete. Now, too, the sanctuary outcrop was only a short distance ahead; already its dome was visible, with the sun gleaming on it like some great, fleshless, yellowed skull in the middle distance. From here on, as they went, the Gypsies would cover their tracks, leave no sign to tell that they’d come this way. Oh, the Wamphyri knew their hiding holes well enough, but even so they didn’t care to advertise their presence here.
A few minutes ago Lardis had toiled up alongside Jazz and Zek, said: ‘Jazz, when the tribe’s in and settled down, then meet me at the main entrance. Myself and three or four of the lads, we’ll have a go at learning how to use these weapons of yours. The flame-engine, and your guns.’
‘And the grenades?’ Jazz had paused for a moment, wiped his sweating brow.
‘Eh? Ah, yes!’ Lardis grinned. ‘But bigger fish next time, eh?’ The grin had fallen from his face in a moment. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to use them – any of them. But if we do – the silver-tipped bolts of our crossbows, sharpened staves which we’ve got cached away in the caves, our swords of silver which are likewise hidden, combined with your weapons … if it’s our turn to go, at least we’ll go fighting.’
Then Zek had spoken up: ‘That’s gloomy talk, Lardis Lidesci. Is something bothering you? We’ve just one more sundown ahead of us, and before the next one we’ll be meeting up with the Dweller. That’s what you promised your people. Surely all’s gone well so far?’