"If you hear anything, Phoebe," Vernasaid, trying to hide her concern, "please come tell me."

After the woman had gone, Verna placed her own shield inside the doors, a telltale shield she had devised herself; the delicate filaments spun from the spirit of her own unique Han, magic she would recognize as her own. Should anyone try to enter, they probably wouldn't detect the diaphanous shield, and would tear the fragile threads. Even if they did manage to detect it, their mere presence and the act of probing for a shield would still unavoidably tear it, and if they then repaired the weave with Han of their own, Verna would know that, too.

Hazy sunlight filtered through the trees near the garden wall, infusing the quiet wooded area of the retreat with a muted, dreamy light. The small woodlot ended at a clump of sweetbay, their branches heavy with hairy white buds. The trail beyond meandered into a well-tended patch of blue and yellow flowering groundcover surrounding islands of taller lace-lady ferns and monarch roses. Verna broke a twig off one of the sweetbays and idly savored its spicy aroma as she surveyed the wall while striding along the path.

At the rear of the plantings stood a thicket of shining sumac, the ribbon of small trees placed deliberately to screen the high wall protecting the Prelate's garden and give the illusion of more expansive grounds. She eyed the squat trunks and spreading branches critically; they might do, if nothing better could be found. She moved on; she was already late.

On a small side trail around the back side of the wild place where the Prelate's sanctuary stood hidden, she found a promising spot. Once she had lifted her dress and stepped through the shrubs to reach the wall, she could see that it was perfect. Sheltered all around by pine was a sunlit area where pear trees had been espaliered against the wall. While they were all trained and pruned, one seemed to be particularly suitable; its limbs to each side alternated like the steps of a single-pole ladder.

Just before Verna hiked her skirts up and started to climb, the texture of the bark caught her eye. She rubbed a finger along the top edge of stout limbs, seeing that they were callused and rough. It would appear she was not the first Prelate to want to surreptitiously depart the Prelate's compound.

Once she had climbed atop the wall and had checked that no guards were in sight, she found there was a convenient abutment to a reinforcing pilaster to step down on, and then a drain tile, and then a decorative stone sticking out, and then a low spreading limb of a smoky oak, and then a round rock not two feet from the wall and an easy hop to the ground. She brushed off the bark and leaves and then straightened her gray dress at the hips and ordered the simple collar. She slipped the Prelate's ring into a pocket. As she draped her heavy black shawl over her head and tied it under her chin, Verna grinned with the thrill of having found a secret way to escape her prison of paper.

She was surprised to find the palace grounds uncommonly deserted. Guards patrolled their posts, and Sisters, novices, and young men in collars dotted the paths and stoned walkways as they went about their business, but there were few city people to be seen, most of them old women.

Every day, during the daylight hours, people from the city of Tanimura poured across the bridges to Halsband Island to seek advice from the Sisters, to petition for intervention in disputes, to request charity, to seek guidance in the Creator's wisdom, and to worship in the courtyards all over the island. Why they would think they needed to come here to worship had always seemed odd to Verna, but she knew these people viewed the home of the Sisters of the Light as hallowed ground. Perhaps they simply enjoyed the beauty of the palace grounds.

They weren't enjoying it now; there were virtually no city people to be seen. Novices assigned to guide visitors paced in boredom. Guards at the gates to restricted areas chatted among themselves, and those who glanced her way saw only another Sister going about her business. The lawns were empty of reposing guests, the formal gardens displayed their beauty to no one, and the fountains sprayed and splashed without the accompaniment of astonished gasps from adults or delighted squeals from children. Even the gossip benches sat vacant.

In the distance, the drums beat on.

Verna found Warren sitting on the dark, flat rock at their meeting place in the rushes on the city side of the river, He was skipping stones out onto the swirling waters prowled by one lone fishing boat. Warren jumped up when he heard her approach.

"Vema! I didn't know if you were ever going to come."

Verna watched the old man bait his hooks as his skiff rolled gently beneath his steady legs. "Phoebe wanted to know what it was like to get old and wrinkled."

Warren brushed dirt from the seat of his violet robes. "Why would she ask you?

Vema only sighed at his blank expression. "Let's get going."

The journey through the city toward the outskirts proved as strange as the palace grounds. While some of the shops in the wealthy sections were open and doing a bit of trade with a scattering of people, the market in the indigent section was vacant, its tables empty, cook fires cold, and shopwindows shuttered. The lean-to shelters were deserted, the looms in the workshops abandoned, and the streets silent but for the constant, grating presence of the drums.

Warren acted as if there were nothing unusual about the ghostly streets. As the two of them turned down a narrow, deeply shadowed, dusty street lined with dilapidated buildings, Verna had had enough and finally erupted in fury.

"Where is everyone! What's going on!"

Warren stopped and turned to give her a puzzled look as she stood, fists on hips, in the center of the empty street. "It's Ja'La day."

She fixed him with a scowl. "Ja'La day."

He nodded, the puzzled frown deepening. "Yes. Ja'La day. What did you think happened to all the.." Warren slapped his forehead. "I'm sorry, Verna; I thought you knew. We've become so accustomed to it I just forgot you wouldn't know."

Verna folded her arms. "Know what?"

Warren returned to take her arm and start her walking again. "Ja'La is a game a contest." He pointed over his shoulder. "They built a big playing field in the bowl between two hills on the outskirts of the city, over that way, about… oh, I guess it must have been fifteen or twenty years ago, when the emperor came to rule. Everyone loves it."

"A game? The entire city empties out to go watch a game?"

Warren nodded. "I'm afraid so. Except a few — mostly older people; they don't understand it and aren't too interested, but most everyone else is. It's become the people's passion. Children start playing it in the streets almost as soon as they can walk."

Verna eyed a side street and checked behind, the way they had come. “What kind of game is this?"

Warren shrugged. "I've never been to an official game, yet; I spend most of my time down in the vaults, but I've delved into the subject a bit. I've always been interested in games and how they fit into the structure of different cultures. I've studied ancient peoples and their games, but this gives me the chance to observe a living game for myself, so I've read up on it and made inquires.

"Ja'La is played by two teams on a square Ja'La field marked out with grids. In each corner is a goal, two for each team. The teams try to put the 'broc'—a heavy, leather-covered ball a little smaller than a man's head — in one of their opponents' goals. If they do, then they get a point, and the other team gets to pick a grid square from which they begin their turn at attack.

"I don't understand the strategy, it gets complex, but five-year-olds seem to be able to grasp it in no time."