"Does she have cause to be?"

Xink had vanished somewhere behind her. There was no one else wearing a University robe to be seen but Honnis. Just these ... soldiers. And the one with the red-gold hair who was surely their leader.

He took a single step her way now, his gait as assured as his voice. She guessed him to be some five tenwinters old, though he was still too far away for a good look. He seemed to exude a robust poise. Yes, a leader surely.

"Maybe she's got a right to her nervousness at that," he said, answering his own question, staring at her a moment across the intervening distance. "You claim she knows nothing?"

"Only the movements and maneuvers of the war that she has successfully predicted for some time now," Master Honnis said with a tinge of his normal peevish self.

A stirring went through the soldiers ranked behind the two older men.

A deep chuckle echoed through the dome briefly. Above, torchlight rebounded among tarnished brass.

"I daresay, elder Master, if I hadn't gone on from this place to truly make something of my life, I imagine you would now be raking me apart for ever daring to leave before achieving Thinker. As I recall, our farewell was ... I'm not sure how to quite put it."

"Enthusiastic?" Honnis ventured.

"Yes. Mutually so. Couldn't wait to get apart from each other."

Praulth watched the exchange, waiting for it—waiting for this night, for everything—to make sense. She wished only that she were still asleep in bed, in the glow of Xink's warmth.

Now the two men were crossing toward her. Master Honnis did indeed appear somewhat flustered, bony fingers tugging at each other. Praulth's gaze was drawn to the other, though. Tall, broad across the shoulders and chest, but some of that size seemed to come strictly from his commanding presence. His face was cut by crags and dressed in a beard of red and gold—and grey too, she saw—but it was a face of authority, even supremacy. Eyes of harsh blue burned from surrounding pouches of flesh. His hair was a mane, thicker and wilder even than Xink's tumbling locks. Five ten winters old? Yes. At least. Likely more. But still a hardy figure.

He and Honnis came to a halt at arm's length.

"Thinker Praulth," said Master Honnis in a formal tone, "this is Premier Na Niroki Cultat of the Noble State of Petgrad—"

"Cultat of Petgrad should, I think, suffice." Those blue eyes—full of command and ruthlessness—measured her. His wasn't a kind face, but looking back into it, Praulth felt some inkling that this man might be honorable.

She uncrossed the arms that she still had folded about her chest. She bowed toward him. "Premier," she said, the first word she'd uttered since leaving her and Xink's quarters. It was chilly enough in here to raise gooseflesh beneath her robe. One or the other of those unbricked archways must lead up to the outside and the open night. Probably they were on the periphery of the campus... some secret place.

Cultat continued to scrutinize her. "You had no expectation of my arrival. You have no idea at all why I am here."

Honnis made a sharp furtive gesture at her to respond. She merely shook her head at the premier.

Cultat gave Honnis a full look, then said, "Master Honnis is quite correct. You have been predicting the movements of the Felk since the atrocity at U'delph. You still believe Weisel is leading his forces toward the city-state of Trael?"

The field intelligence that Honnis provided her now definitely indicated as much, though she had made her forecast much earlier. Apparently this premier knew that. Praulth still didn't know how Master Honnis was so miraculously coming by his facts.

'Taking Trael, as opposed to attacking Grat or Ompellus Prime—both also within striking distance—will drive the Felk deepest into the South. It will effectively open the second half of this war." She spoke almost numbly. She didn't understand what was happening here, and she didn't have the mental energy to try to puzzle it out. Something on a grand scale was occurring, but it was too big for her to see.

The premier's fierce blue eyes studied her. "Why doesn't General Weisel use that transport magic he has at his disposal—attack Trael right now? Why march his army at all?"

"I don't know." This was some sort of test.

Cultat shot another look at Honnis, this one dire.

"Perhaps because Dardas didn't have such magics," Praulth added.

"Dardas?" Cultat spoke the name slowly.

"Weisel is Dardas. His tactics are a flawless match. I could cite numerous examples—"

"That won't be necessary," Honnis interrupted. "The premier was a passable enough student in his day to recall the Northlander's name."

Cultat's eyes burned Praulth once more. He had traveled here to meet her, she realized. Somehow the war predictions she had been making for Honnis—the great assignment he had entrusted to her—had been finding their way to this premier. Petgrad, if the Felk went unchecked, would soon enough stand in the path of Weisel's forces.

Cultat meant to stop him; but the army of Petgrad, relatively large though it was, couldn't hope to meet the Felk. Cultat had to have an edge, an advantage.

He turned slightly, lifting a hand gloved in leather. Immediately one of the torch-bearing soldiers jogged over. Out of a cloak he produced a small sheaf of papers. Cultat took them, then held the papers toward Praulth.

"Look at these, young Thinker. They are our current intelligence of the Felk advancement, collected by an elite Petgrad scouting force. We've had them in the field some while now. Tell me"—his teeth

glinted briefly in that red-gold beard—"does Weisel truly intend to conquer the entire Isthmus?"

Her hand accepted the papers, familiar-looking lines and arrows.

"Premier," she said, "I find it difficult to believe that anyone with the least inkling of a military sensibility could see it otherwise."

Cultat nodded, and in that moment some hint of his true age shone through. "Unfortunately, Thinker Praulth, military minds are in scarce supply ... now that we need them most."

"I believe that Weisel is intentionally trying to provoke resistance," she said. "That was the true purpose of the destruction of U'delph."

"So you concluded to Master Honnis. I would agree with you, though it's not the most sensible act on Weisel's part."

"But Dardas was known to commit such actions."

"Dardas," Cultat breathed grimly. His eyes flickered to the papers he'd passed her. "You can read that well enough?"

Praulth looked at the sheets, which showed the Felk, Trael, and that city-state's outer environs. The torch-bearer remained nearby, throwing more than enough light on the pages.

"Study this here. Now." Cultat's deep voice brooked no protest.

Master Honnis was tugging his fingers once more. She looked first to him, then to the premier.

"I will wait here while you do this," said Cultat. "Tell me, how can we engage Weisel successfully in battle?"

TIME HAD LOST easy definition, but she was done. Had a watch passed or only a few moments? She stood rooted where she'd been standing. The others were still there— Honnis, the premier and his entourage. Xink? She didn't look behind to see if he was still in the domed chamber. She hoped vaguely he was.

Praulth felt herself swaying on her feet. The ground's earthy chill had bled upward to her knees. This was a new task. This wasn't analytical prophecy. She had been told to devise the countermeasures against the Felk. Against Weisel. Against Dardas. This new task was engrossing, challenging, thoroughly satisfying. Without her knowing it, she had been aching for just this sort of work.

She lifted her head, and Cultat was still there, waiting.

"Battle of Torran Rats," she said; then she explained.

'WHAT HAVE YOU to do with it?"