Altai sketched the tent they were in, and a dozen nearby tentsIn two of the circles she drew she wrote a single word: ammunition. Then she put down a pair of wavy lines, running parallel from Vorgens’ tent outward to the edge of the film. Within the lines she wrote safe lane; outside the lines, on both sides, she wrote fire. She looked up at Vorgens to see if he understood. Vorgens nodded, and noticed that her eyes were as black and deep as space itself.
While Sittas continued to chant, Altai gestured toward the wall of the tentThen she touched the stylus on the word fire.
Vorgens shook his head and whispered, “Nonflammable. Will not bum.”
Altai smiled and whispered back, “Thermal grenade. It will bum.”
Vorgens grinned at her. “How soon?*’
“As quickly as possible,” she answered, rolling up the film and tucking it back into her waistband.
They stood up together. Altai was nearly Vorgens’ own height. Sittas finished his chant.
“I hope our prayers are answered,” the priest said.
Vorgens watched the two of them leave the tent. He stood at the entrance as the old man and the girl walked slowly away and finally disappeared behind some of the gaudy Komani bubble-tents.
The Watchman stepped back toward the middle of the tent. Now it’s a race to see who is ready first: Sittas and his niece, or Okatars execution detail.
His answer—several minutes later—was a dull booming sound and the jarring smack of a concussion wave that jolted everything in the tent. Another explosion, earsplitting, knocked Vorgens off his feet and toppled the table next to him. A Komani warrior stuck his head through the entrance as Vorgens was climbing to his feet. Shouts and screams were mixing with a series of explosions and the peculiar whoosh sound of huge sheets of flame leaping slyward. Vorgens could hear men running outside, and saw behind his guard’s back the eery, nickering light that could only be coming from a huge blaze.