Macurdy defused the situation. "Is there another stable in town?" he asked.

There was, at the west end. "Well then," he said, "I'll take him there." Macurdy and Varia rode there with Vulkan, who was accepted willingly if warily by the owner-operator. Before Macurdy left, he had the man's promise to groom the boar.

At the inn, Macurdy bought a string bag of chicken entrails and organs for Blue Wing, the great raven's special order. Spreading his big wings, the bird transferred the foodstuff to the roof, to eat them in the lee of a broad, warm brick chimney. It was, he told Macurdy, where he would spend the night.

While paying for a room, Macurdy asked about the baths. "My big bath's dry," the innkeeper said, "and not near enough hot water to fill it. If I'd known you were coming… There's folks would've come to join you in it, ask questions and hear about the war. But I've got three small baths, and enough hot water for one of them." He shrugged. "Not much good for sharing news or gossip-won't hold more than four people-but it's costly to keep water hot in winter. And this winter there's been little traffic, plus what there is don't have much money." He paused thoughtfully. "We heard, a few days back, that the war's over, and it was you that won it. So for you I'll fill one of them free."

"That's generous of you. We'd like that."

"We?"

"My wife and I."

"Together?" The man frowned. "Then I guess you won't want any company. Well…" He let it go at that.

After being shown the bath, Macurdy and Varia went into the taproom for supper. Word of them had spread, and the taproom was packed with folks who'd come in for a pint, to see the Lion for themselves, and ask questions. It took quite awhile to finish supper.

At length Macurdy excused himself, and he and Varia went to their room. There they dug out their cleanest clothes and went to the bath.

The townsfolk, walking home, tended to talk as much about the Lion's beautiful wife as about the Lion himself. A few had seen a Sister before, but this one, they agreed, had to be the loveliest of them all.

41 Hoofprints

The night after his father sent him away, Tsulgax had not camped. He'd kept riding, pressing hard. It was almost the only way he knew to travel when alone. Occasionally he ate saddle rations. He first realized something might be wrong when he came to a wagon train stopped in the road, its voitu commander dead. The mind of its senior hithik officer had been frozen with fear. Would he be blamed? He hadn't been able to decide whether to continue or turn back.

The corpse's grotesque features suggested it had died of something very extraordinary. Tsulgax ordered the wagon master to continue west. The hithu, of course, didn't argue. He gave orders to his trumpeter, the man blew the signal, and the wagons began to roll westward again.

The rakutu encountered another train about sunup. Its voitu had also died the night before. This wagon master had sent several of the escort back to Camp Merrawin with the body, and continued west.

Tsulgax rode on. It was evening when he reached headquarters at Camp Merrawin. There all the voitar had died, all at once, all seemingly in a terrible spasm of pain. Two of the rakutik guard had died at the same time, and apparently in the same way. Both of the dead rakutur, he was told, were cavalry communicators-connected to the hive mind.

Everyone there knew who Tsulgax was-who and whose-and as the senior rakutu, he outranked hithar of whatever rank. Thus he moved into the late General Trumpko's quarters and had a fire lit in the fireplace, while the rakutik lieutenant who'd been in charge briefed him on events.

Not much of it was useful. But there was, Tsulgax learned, a husky guerrilla held prisoner there, unwounded but confused, apparently from a blow to the head. Trumpko had ordered him kept alive for interrogation. Tsulgax had the captive brought to him, asked him several questions, and got no useful answers. He then ordered the man to strip, and when he was reluctant, slapped him with a sound like a pistol shot, sending him sprawling. "Strip him," Tsulgax ordered.

When the man was naked, Tsulgax looked him over coldly. "Tie him to a tree. As he is. Leave him there for an hour, then question him. If his answers don't satisfy you, leave him there till morning."

As the two rakutik guards dragged the half-ylf from the room, Tsulgax examined the man's sheep-lined farmer coat. In his mind, an idea had sprouted. He would, he decided, order the rest of the man's gear brought to him in the morning.

Then he went to the command messhall. Supper had been eaten, and the kitchen and dishes cleaned and put in order. Then the hithik kitchen staff had gone to bed. Tsulgax went to the mess sergeant and physically dragged him out of his blankets. "Stand up!" he barked.

Big-eyed, the man got to his feet, to stand there in his winter underwear.

"I am now the senior officer here. I've been riding for two days and two nights, eating saddle rations. Now I want a real meal. Hot! You have half an hour. If it is unsatisfactory, I will punish you personally."

The sergeant saluted. "Yes, Captain! Right away, Captain!" He looked around at the other kitchen staff, who were themselves out of bed now, and began snapping orders of his own. "Eno! Build up the fire! Oswal, bring the roast from the cold box! Fiskin, bring the pudding!"

Tsulgax turned and stalked from the room.

An hour later he fell asleep at the table, glutted. Informed by the mess sergeant, two rakutur supported him to the commander's quarters and got him into bed. He never knew it.

When Tsulgax awoke, fourteen hours later, he was ready to act. He knew that without the voitar, the hithar would not fight. Under rakutik pressure they might go out to fight, but they'd surrender on contact. He'd always known that, but the knowledge had been meaningless, because the voitar had been there.

Now it was pertinent. And at the same time unimportant to Tsulgax, because his goal had changed.

What he needed now was information. He didn't know how he'd get it, but it would come. He'd go out and let things happen, and it would come.

The mess sergeant was a resourceful man. Months earlier, foraging parties had brought him a number of ducks. He'd had a shed built for them, with nesting boxes and a brick stove. Thus the ranking officers sometimes got eggs for breakfast.

Given Tsulgax's disposition, his breakfast was to be prepared immediately when he got up, and served as quickly as possible. Even if it was nearly noon, which it was. Then he had eggs and bacon to start his day, and hot bread with butter. (The mess sergeant also had a cow shed.)

Not that Tsulgax savored his food. He ate quickly, voraciously, and carelessly. When he'd finished, he tried on the guerrilla's clothing. The breeches wouldn't do; the waist was all right, but they were too tight for his thighs and buttocks. The shirt was snug as well, so he had the commander's orderly-now his orderly-bring clothes from hithik supply. The plain brown hithik uniforms were less distinctive than rakutik uniforms.

The important items were the guerrilla's heavy farmer coat and cap. The cap wasn't designed to accommodate rakutik ears, but it was large enough to serve. His own boots and mittens he kept. They were warmer.

Given his now-assumed role as a guerrilla separated from his unit, a packhorse was an anomaly. He took one anyway. He didn't intend to get any closer to enemy troops than he needed to. And a packhorse would allow him to take an officer's shelter tent, an ax, abundant corn for horsefeed, and three weeks field rations for himself-dried beef, potatoes, bread, and lard.