"I am broadcasting a combined fractal signal on visible frequencies of radiation."

The answer had made no sense. "Why can't other people hear you?"

"They are not equipped to receive."

That was kind of a restatement of the question, he thought. How will I get anywhere if I don't know what to ask?

He thought for a moment, shrugged, and said, "Who made you?"

"Ho, traveller! Well met on the road to Iapysia!"

For just a split second he thought the knife had said that. Then Jordan looked behind him. A large covered wagon drawn by two horses was coming up the road. Two people sat at the front. The driver was waving to him.

Suddenly very self-conscious, he slipped the knife into his belt. He knew the gold gauze was sticking out at his collar and waist, but there was no time to do anything about that.

"Uh, hello." The man's accent had been foreign. He was middle aged, almost elderly, with a fringe of white hair around his sunburnt skull. He was dressed in new-looking townsman's clothes.

The other passenger was a woman. She looked to be about Jordan's age. She was dressed in frills and wore a sun hat, but her face under it was tanned, the one whisp of stray hair sunbleached. She held a embroidery ring in strong, calloused hands. She was scowling at Jordan.

"Where are you bound, son?" asked the man.

Jordan gestured. "South. Iapysia."

"Ah. So are we. Returning home?"

"Uh, yeah."

"But you accent is Memnonian," said the old man.

"Um, uh. We have houses in both countries," he said, mindful of the Boros example. He was itching to listen in to the voices again; he had to know if his dialogue with the knife had alerted the Winds. At the Boros manor, the whole landscape had come alert, almost overwhelming his senses. That wasn't happening now. But he couldn't be sure without checking.

"My name's Milo Suneil," said the man. "And this is—"

"Excuse me," gritted the young woman. She stood abruptly and climbed into the covered back of the wagon.

"...My niece, Tamsin," finished Suneil. "Who is not herself today. And you are?"

"Jordan Mason." He affected the half-bow that the highborn Boros had used on one another. It was harder to perform while walking, though.

"Pleased to meet you." There was a momentary silence. The cart was moving at just the pace Jordan was walking, so he remained abreast of Suneil. From the back of the wagon came the sound of things being tossed about.

"Calm weather, for autumn," said Suneil. Jordan agreed that it was. "Clouds moving in, though. Not good—clouds could hide things in the sky, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"News travels slowly, I see!" Suneil laughed. "You're dressed like a highborn lad, surely you've heard the news about the destruction of the Boros household!"

"Ah, that. Yes. I did hear about it," he said uncomfortably.

"I'm itching to find out what really happened," said Suneil. "We've had ten versions of the story from ten different people. When I saw you walking by the road, coming from the direction of the estate, I thought, could it be? A refugee from our little disaster?"

Jordan, unsure of himself in this situation, merely shrugged.

Suneil was silent for a while, staring ahead. "The fact is," he said at last, "that my curiosity has gotten the best of me. If we were to run into someone who actually knew what had happened at the estate—or Winds forbid, someone who was actually there!—then I might be inclined to give that person a ride with us, provided they told their story."

"I see," said Jordan neutrally.

"My niece has sprained her leg," added Suneil. "And I'm not as young as I used to be. We'll need someone to gather firewood, the next day or so."

Jordan was very surprised. People didn't trust strangers on the open road. Then again, one never travelled alone, either.

Do I look that harmless? he wondered.

"It's all right," said Suneil reasonably. "I'm not a Heaven hook, nor am I in league with them. I just deduced that you were at the Boros place, because you're walking from that direction, and you're dressed well, except for the mud stains and wild hair. Actually, you look like you fled somewhere in a hurry. We've passed a couple of people who looked like that—only none would talk to us."

Jordan eyed the cart greedily. He was very tired. A few days ride in return for some carefully edited storytelling couldn't hurt anything. In fact, it might be the only way he'd get to Iapysia.

"All right," he said. "I'm your man."

Tamsin cowered back into the wagon. Uncle must be insane! He was picking up strange men on the highway—they were sure to be robbed and raped by this crazy person who talked to himself and had gold cloth stuffed in his shirt.

She felt the wagon dip deeply as the man stepped up onto the front seat. Then it commenced rolling forward. She sat down on a bale of cloth, disconsolately picking at her embroidery. Finally she threw it on the floor.

Some days were fine. Today had started out that way. Some days, she could wake up in the morning, and clouds would be just clouds, water just water. She could actually smell breakfast as she cooked it, and feel hungry. Some days she could listen to Uncle's plans, and tease into life a small spark of enthusiasm that he seemed to know she had. She could look forward to being an ingenue at Rhiene or one of the other great cities of Iapysia. So there were days when she practised her curtsies, her embroidery, and recited the epic poems Uncle had coached her in.

And then there were days... Her hands trembled again as she reached down to massage her leg. She couldn't remember why she had been running—all she remembered was the overwhelming bleakness of the landscape. Bare trees, yellow grass. Cold air. Her own thoughts and feelings were inaccessible to her. One thing was sure, she was certainly not looking where she was going that morning. No wonder she'd sprained her leg.

Sometimes the tiniest little annoyance would set her off in a fit of temper that made her Uncle's eyes widen in disbelief. Once it was because she had dropped a stitch! He did nothing to calm her down, but let her play it out. Afterward, she was always listless and ashamed.

I will not explode, she told herself. Even if Uncle is trying to get us killed.

They were talking up there—chatting like old friends. Of course, he did that with strangers all the time, but it was normally when they stopped at roadside markets or near towns. Uncle was an insatiable vessel for news, and these last two days he had been stopping everyone for information about the horrible incident at the Boros estate. It just wasn't like him to pick people up off the road to talk.

Tamsin gritted her teeth and glared at the canvas flap. It was true an extra set of hands would be good right now. Rationally, she understood it. It didn't stop her seething.

She sat in the dimness for a while, arms crossed, trying not to think. Thinking was bad. It led to things worse than anger.

This will all end soon, she told herself. When we get to Rhiene everything will be different. Meanwhile, she would have to make adjustments, and test her patience. So, after a little while, she adjusted her hair, planted a smile on her face, and opened the front flap of the cart's canopy.

"Hello," she said brightly to the startled young man who was in her seat. She held out her hand. "My name's Tamsin. What's yours?"

Calandria May slung the bag of potatoes over her shoulder, and made her way out of the market. The place was still buzzing with talk of the Boros catastrophe; the consensus was that the Winds had finally gotten around to punishing the family for unspecified past excesses. Attendance at church here in the town of Geldon was decidedly up.