"Now," he said. She stood up; the wall was not as tall as she was, and she made it easily. It was wide enough to lie on; she rolled the cloak around her and then dropped off, to be steadied by his waiting arm. "Are the babies inside?" he asked. "When will they cry?"
How did he think she could answer that? She mimed drinking, then sleeping, and he nodded.
"Come along," he said. "We have to get to the car." He took her arm. "Look down," he reminded her. Fuming, Brun looked down at the rough pavement and went where he directed. She didn't want to argue with him in the street, where anyone might see, but she had to convince him about Hazel.
He stopped beside a groundcar parked in a row. He opened the driver's door, and then the back doors popped open. "Get in," he said. She looked him full in the face, and mouthed
Hazel
. He paled. "Look
down
! Get
in
," he said. "Before someone notices."
She slipped into the back seat, and leaned forward, waiting for him. As soon as he closed his own door, she tapped his shoulder. He glanced back.
Hazel
.
"I can't understand you. What's wrong?"
Damn the idiot fool. How had Lady Cecelia kept from bursting? There on the seat beside him were a map and notebook, with a pen. She reached over and snatched at it, wrote GET HAZEL in large letters, and then RANGER BOWIE HOUSE. He read, then paled even more.
"We can't do that! No one can get in there! Dammit, woman, you want off this planet or not?"
She tapped GET HAZEL again, glaring into his face, trying to give him a mind-to-mind transfusion of her determination.
"Who the hell is Hazel, anyway?"
She wrote again: GIRL ON SHIP. GET HER AWAY TOO.
"Can't do it," he said, starting the groundcar. "Now you sit back, and I'll take you where it's arranged—" The barrier between them started to rise; Brun lunged forward, putting her weight on it, and the barrier stopped, its mechanism whining loudly. "Get
back
, you fool." The mechanism that moved the barrier gave a grinding noise and died; the barrier slid back the small distance it had risen. She paid no attention, wriggling over the barrier into the front passenger seat. Up here the windows weren't frosted. The man jerked the groundcar out of its parking space and accelerated. "Gods, woman, if they see you up here—"
She held the paper out: GET HAZEL.
"I can't, I tell you! The five Rangers are the most powerful men in town. Ever since Mitch Pardue got elected Ranger Bowie, he's been angling for the Captaincy. I can't barge in there and get some fool girl. I got you; that's what I contracted to do."
Brun glanced at the groundcar controls, at his movements as he turned, slowed, sped up again, made another turn. Simple enough. After the next turn, she grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard. He yanked back, and stared at her long enough to almost hit another groundcar. "Dammit! Woman! It's no wonder they muted you—Heaven knows what you'd say if you could talk!"
She scribbled rapidly on the notebook. GET HAZEL. IT'S MARKET DAY—SHE GOES OUT. MARKET NEAR RANGER BOWIE HOUSE. She pushed that in front of his face; the groundcar swerved again; she lowered it slightly, so he could read and see over it.
"Can't do it. Too dangerous. I have it all planned out—"
She poked a finger into his ear, hard, and laid the pruning knife on his thigh, pointed where he could not ignore it. The groundcar swerved wildly, then he got it back on his side of the street. "You're crazy, you are. All right, we'll drive past Ranger Bowie house. And the damn market. But you've got to get in the back. If anyone sees—" He glanced at her, and she bared her teeth. "All right, I said. I'll do it; we'll go past. But you're going to get us killed—"
With some care, Brun reversed herself into the back seat, making sure that she had enough weight on the barrier to prevent its coming back up, if the controls weren't actually broken. She laid the knife at the back of his neck . . . it would do no good there, unless it was strong enough to slide between the vertebrae, but she judged it too obvious to hold it to his throat.
"They told me you were wild, but they didn't tell me you were crazy," the man grumbled. Brun grinned. They hadn't known what had been done to her, or they'd have known how crazy she was.
"That's Ranger Bowie's house," the man said finally. Brun stared, uncertain. It was one of five huge houses arranged around the sides of a plaza . . . in the center was a huge five-pointed star outlined in flowers and grass. Pretty, really, if you weren't trying to escape the place. "Ranger Houston, Ranger Crockett, Ranger Travis, and Ranger Lamar. Ranger Travis is Captain right now. The nearest market to Ranger Bowie's house is down this street . . . the women's service door is right down there, see?"
Brun saw a shadowed gap in the long stucco wall. As they drove past, she could see the door set back from the sidewalk, and the little alcove for the gate guard. They went past one cross street, then another. Ahead, down this street, a rope blocked off traffic beyond the next cross street.
"That's the market—groundcars can't go there. Nor you. Now you've seen there's nothing we can do, we can—"
Brun pressed the tip of the knife just below his ear. With her other hand she scrabbled for the pen and notebooks, and printed, GO AROUND, KEEP LOOKING.
On the third circuit, Brun spotted a woman walking toward Ranger Bowie House, baskets in each hand, still some blocks from it. Something about the quick, short shuffle caught her eye. She tapped the driver's shoulder.
"That her?" He eased the car closer.
It was hard to tell . . . the dark head bent forward, the slim body gliding along with those short, quick steps enforced by her dress. But as the car slid past, Brun caught a glimpse of the serious face, that tucked-in lower lip. She tapped the man's arm again, hard.
"I'm gonna regret this, I know I am." But he pulled the car to the curb and got out.
"You. Girlie." Hazel stopped, eyes on the ground. "You from Ranger Bowie House?" She nodded. "I got business there. Get in back." He popped the rear doors. Brun could
feel
Hazel's confusion, her uncertainty, her near-panic. "Hurry up now," he said. "I don't want to have to tell Mitch you're lazy." She ducked into the car, then, eyes still down. Then she saw Brun, and her eyes widened. Brun grinned. The driver got back in, grumbling, and tried to raise the shield, but the mechanism made only a faint noise and the barrier didn't go up. "Sit low," the driver said, and drove off quickly.
"Brun . . . what . . . where . . . ?" Hazel's voice was soft as mothwings.
Brun mouthed
escape
, but Hazel shook her head. So Brun made a rocket of one hand, and jerked it upward. Hazel stared, then grinned.
"Really?" Hazel almost bounced on the seat with excitement, but her voice was soft. "I was trying to figure a way—I'd found out where you were, an' all, an' I told Simplicity as much as I could without getting in trouble, hoping she'd see you—"
Brun nodded. She mimed the groundcar taking them to the rocket. She didn't know if that was the plan—she still didn't know what the plan was—but surely that was the gist of it. Then she showed Hazel the notebook and wrote: LITTLE GIRLS.
"We can't take them," Hazel said.
YES.
"No—we can't—I already decided that, months ago. They're happy, they're safe, and they wouldn't make it anyway."
Brun stared at Hazel. This . . .
child
had decided? But Hazel's expression didn't waver. She was not just a child.
"We have to," Hazel said. "Leastways—" Brun winced at the local expression. "At least," Hazel corrected, "we have to try. You, for sure. And your babies?"
Brun shrugged, and wrote: CAN'T TAKE THEM. TOO RISKY. TOO LITTLE.
"See? Same with Brandy and Stassi. We can't do it."
The driver spoke up. "Glad one of you's got sense. All right now . . . we got us a little problem. I'd planned to pass Brun off as a man—brought along men's clothes for her; they're under the seat there—but I don't know what to do about . . . Hazel."
Brun mimed a purchase to Hazel, and nodded to the driver.
Tell him
. Hazel looked scared, her mouth pinched tight. Then, in a high thin voice she said, "Brun says buy some."
"Buy some! Buy some, she says. And just how am I supposed to stop and buy some?"
But he pulled over a few streets further on, and made his way to a sidewalk vendor. Brun, peeking over the barrier, saw him choose blue pants, a brown shirt, and high-topped boots like most of the men wore, and a hat. He was back in just a few minutes, and when he started the car again, he threw the clothes over the barrier.
"You change now, both of you. Put your dresses under the seat. I'll get rid of 'em later. You'll have to cut your hair, but not here—mustn't leave hair in the car. I've got knives for both of you."
As the car sped on, over the streets and then into the countryside on a roughly paved road, Brun and Hazel struggled with the confined space in the back seat, each other, and the clothes they had to get off and put on. Brun, having more to take off, went first; Hazel helped her bind her breasts as flat as she could. Then Hazel, and Brun tore a strip off the bottom of her dress to flatten Hazel as well. Getting into the long pants while trying to stay low, out of sight of passing groundcars, meant lying across the seat—and each other. Hardest to put on were the boots—stiff leather on feet that had been bare for more than a year. It would all have been funny if they hadn't been so afraid of being caught, and they actually did giggle when they finally stuffed the hated dresses under the seat. Brun felt it had been worth it already—she had not laughed, really laughed, since her capture, and even though she could make no sound, the laughter eased her. Hazel tucked her hair up, and jammed the hat on her head; Brun pushed her hat down on top of her head.
Hazel, Brun thought, looked like a real person again. She sat leaning forward now, eyes sparkling with excitement, her face no longer obscured by hair. Her clothes fit a little loose and the sleeves of her shirt were up the wrist a little, as if she had almost grown out of them. Hazel looked at her, smiling, and then lifted Brun's hat to push her hair more firmly under it. Brun felt that her own pants were bulky and too loose—but anything was better than that clinging skirt.
Their driver glanced back. "Not likely to be seen, out here," he said. "You do look different, I'll say that. You aren't embarrassed to wear men's clothes?"
Brun shook her head.
"Well, that's good, because they're gonna be looking for two women in dresses, not two men. Remember now, you have to walk like men—big steps—and look other men straight in the eye. We—they—don't like shifty folk. Now I'm gonna let you off up here in about a mile—" Whatever distance that was . . . Brun still hadn't figured out feet and inches and ells. "And then you'll have to hike over them hills—" He pointed at a line of hills ahead. "Soon's you're out of sight, you got to cut your hair
real
short, like no woman would. So you can take your hat off without bein' spotted as women. You take your hat off to womenfolk, even though they aren't supposed to look at you—it's polite. And men'll see you."
The map he gave them, along with a canteen and a packet of food, was supposed to guide them on the next stage. Brun looked at it and grinned in relief. Someone had marked it in standard measurements, not this planet's idiot miles. Someone had also printed, in a hand she thought she knew,
Brun—we're here.
From the pulloff, a trail led up into the hills. A signpost had a string of names on it; Brun ignored them. After a few wavery strides, her legs remembered how to stretch, and she found her balance in the ridiculous boots. Hazel staggered once, grimaced, but moved up beside her.
They were out of sight of the road in less than a hundred meters, and into thick scrub. Brun made scissor movements next to her head, and Hazel nodded. They slipped off the trail and into the head-high bushes, to do some barbering.
Brun made it clear, with gestures, that they must catch the hairs they cut off. She had no idea what to do with them, but they weren't going to leave them around as obvious trail markers. As her hair came off, as the wind reached her scalp, she felt her brain cooling, felt the lessons she'd been taught in the Fleet escape and evasion course coming back to her. She twisted the cut hanks of her own hair into a roll of the appropriate size, put it in one of the spare socks, and stuffed it down the front of her pants. Hazel goggled, then choked back a laugh that was half shock. Brun shrugged, and swaggered a few steps.
We're men; we need men things.
Hazel had less hair for hers, but she was younger anyway. And it did make her look more like a boy.
She struggled up the trail in those ridiculous boots . . . she'd have been more comfortable barefoot but men didn't go barefoot. Stupid people, she thought. Only really stupid people would assign footgear on the basis of gender rather than use, and choose these blistering boots for walking somewhere.
Hazel would have talked, but Brun waved her to silence. Voices carried, in the open, and Hazel's soft voice wasn't very boylike. Brun didn't know if she could do a boy's voice, and didn't want to find out she couldn't.