But they had more pressing matters than the fate of mankind to deal with: how to stay alive while hauling along the beautiful but hefty Riba. They made ten miles that day, something of a tribute to Riba’s willpower, as the most strenuous work she had done in her life before this was to raise a piece of fried chicken to her lips or turn over on a massage table to have rich foams and unguents stroked into her smooth skin. Needless to say, this determination on Riba’s part was not much appreciated by the three boys. Exhausted, she fell asleep on the ground as soon as they stopped for the night. Then as they ate the dried meat prepared by Kleist, the boys discussed what to do with her.

“Let’s leave her here and run away,” said Kleist.

“She’ll die,” said Vague Henri.

“We’ll leave water. Let’s face it,” said Kleist, scanning her overfed body, “it’ll be a long time before she dies of starvation.”

“She’ll die anyway if we move at this rate, and us with her.” This time it was Cale who spoke, not so much forming an argument as pointing out a simple fact.

Vague Henri tried flattery. “I don’t think so, Cale. Look, you’ve fooled them completely. They already think we’re miles away. They’ll probably think we had help to get away that easily.”

“Who the hell would help us against the Redeemers?” said Kleist.

“What does it matter? They think we’ve got away. And we have. They’re not going to realize for a long time how we did it, if they ever do. We can afford to go slowly.”

“It’s a lot better if we don’t,” said Cale.

“They’ll catch us at this rate,” said Kleist. “It’ll take more than a trick and some badger shit to keep them off our trail.”

“We’ve gone through all of this to save her. We can’t let her die now.”

“Yes, we can,” said Kleist. “The kindest thing is to cut her throat while she’s sleeping. Best for her and us.”

Cale let out a brief sigh, not especially regretful.

“Henri’s right. What’s the point if we let her die now?”

“What’s the point?” shouted an exasperated Kleist. “The point, stupid bastards, is that we get away. Free. Forever.”

The other two said nothing. It was true enough.

“Let’s vote,” said Vague Henri.

“No, let’s not vote. Let’s use our brains.”

“Let’s vote,” said Cale.

“Why bother? You’ve made up your minds. We keep the girl.”

There was a bad-tempered silence.

“There’s something else we should do,” said Cale at last.

“What now?” groaned Kleist. “Go and find enough goose feathers to make that fat beezle a mattress?”

“Keep your voice down,” said Vague Henri. Cale ignored Kleist.

“We have to decide who’s to do it if the Redeemers catch us.”

It was an unpleasant thought, but they knew he was right. None of them wanted to be taken alive back to the Sanctuary.

“We’ll draw straws,” said Vague Henri.

“There isn’t any straw,” said Kleist, miserable.

“Then we’ll draw stones.” Vague Henri searched for a minute and came back with three stones of different sizes. He showed the others, who nodded their agreement. “Smallest loses.” Henri put the stones behind his back and then held out his left hand, fist clenched in front of him. There was a pause-suspicious as always, Kleist was unwilling to choose. Cale shrugged and held out his hand, palm up, eyes closed. Without letting Kleist see, Vague Henri dropped the stone, and Cale closed his fist around it. He opened his eyes. Then Henri brought out the remaining two stones, one in each fist. Still Kleist was wary of making a decision in case he should, in some way he couldn’t quite put his finger on, be taken advantage of.

“Get a move on,” said Vague Henri, unusually irritable. With great reluctance Kleist tapped Henri’s right hand and closed his eyes. Now they all had one stone each.

“On a count of three. One, two, three.”

The three boys opened their fists. Cale was holding the smallest stone.

“Well, at least you know it’ll be done properly.”

“You needn’t have worried, Cale,” said Kleist. “I wouldn’t have had any problems slotting you.”

Cale looked at him, but the trace of a smile was still there.

“What are you doing?” Riba had woken up and had been watching them. Kleist looked over at her.

“We’ve been discussing who we eat first when we run out of food.” He looked at her meaningfully, as if to suggest that the answer was pretty obvious.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Vague Henri. “We were just deciding who’d take the first watch.”

“When is it my turn?” said Riba.

All three of the acolytes were surprised at the defiant, even irritable note in her voice.

“You need all the rest you can get,” said Vague Henri.

“I’m ready to do my share.”

“Of course. In a few days when you’re more used to this. For now we need you as rested as possible. It’s best-you can see that.”

It was, of course, hard to argue.

“Would you like something to eat?” said Vague Henri, holding up a piece of dried rat. It did not look appetizing, least of all to a girl raised on cream and pastries, chicken pie and delicious gravies. But she was very hungry.

“What is it?” she said.

“Um. Meat,” said Vague Henri vaguely.

He moved toward her and shoved it under her nose. It smelled very much as a dead rat might be expected to. Her delicate nose wrinkled in involuntary disgust.

“Ugh, no.” Though she quickly added, “Thank you.”

“Going without for a bit won’t do her any harm,” muttered Kleist under his breath, but loudly enough for the girl to hear. Riba, however, was not aware that she was in any way less than perfect. She had been told so all her life, and as a result Kleist’s remark, although she was aware it was hostile, conveyed no specific insult to her at all.

“I’ll take first watch,” said Cale, and with that he turned and walked to the top of a nearby scab. The two remaining boys lay down and within minutes were asleep. Riba, however, could not settle and she began to sob quietly. Kleist and Vague Henri were dead to the world. Cale, however, on the top of the scab, could hear the sound of her crying and considered it carefully before finally she too fell asleep.

The next morning the boys woke at five as usual, but there was no point in striking camp, such as it was. “Let her sleep,” said Cale. “The more rested she is the better.”

“Without her we could be eighty, perhaps a hundred, miles from here,” muttered Kleist. A knife thudded point-down at his feet.

“I took it from Picarbo. Cut her throat, if you like. Anything, so long as you stop whining.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not angry at all. Kleist stared at Cale, eyes cold and full of dislike. Then he turned away. Vague Henri wondered if he had really been ready to kill the girl or perhaps use the knife on Cale-or whether he just liked having something to complain about. Cale, at any rate, was wise enough not to imply any kind of victory when he spoke again.

“I’ve an idea. Perhaps we can make use of the problem with the girl.”

Kleist turned back, sullen-but he was listening. “If we can’t put distance between us and the search parties to east and west of us, it’s best if we track them to make sure we don’t cross them by accident.”

He bent down and picked up the knife and started drawing in the sand. “If Henri and the girl move south in a straight line and don’t do more than twelve miles a day, then Kleist and me will always know where you are, pretty much. Kleist goes west, I’ll go east, and find the two nearest search parties.” He gestured to the straight line he’d drawn for Henri and Riba. “If we think they’re going to hit the search parties as they zigzag, then we return and take them off in the other direction.”

Kleist looked thoughtful as well as dubious.

“Suppose you come back and take them off somewhere. How am I supposed to find you when you’re not at the meeting point?”