“How considerate of you to leave my name out of it!” Martinez exclaimed, with what he hoped was an expression of transparently false bonhomie. “But you needn’t in the future—I’m sure you couldn’t change Lord Tork’s opinion of me in the least.”

Foote only lifted one supercilious eyebrow. Martinez turned to look at Foote’s companions, who were watching the two with expressions ranging from wariness to thoughtful surprise.

“I won’t keep you from your friends any longer,” he said, and released Foote’s hand. Foote flexed the hand and massaged it with the other. Martinez looked from one face to the next.

“Take care with your formulas, now,” he said, “or you may find Foote giving them to all sorts of people.”

Then, with another smile and a wave of the Orb, he turned and walked away.

Given the wide social rounds of the officers, he knew that their exchange would circulate throughout the Orthodox Fleet in days.

Revenge might at best be a petty emotion, he thought, but at times it was a strangely satisfying one. And in something called the Orthodox Fleet of Vengeance, it seemed to have the blessing of higher authority.

The funicular creaked as the strain came on its cable, and Sula’s seat swayed on its gimbals. As the train rose, it passed between the gun emplacements—turrets of heavy, near-impenetrable plastic—that had been placed on the terraces on either side of the terminus. The barrels of antiproton guns thrust from the turrets, ready to turn any attacker into a scattering of subatomic particles.

Sula left the car at the upper terminus and stepped out onto the flagstone terrace. A blast of wind scoured her face. One of the turrets squatted, featureless and ugly, on the terrace before her. It was barely large enough to contain the gun, its crew, and the rotating mechanism. Stubby little ventilators protruded from the top, along with periscopes and antennae. There was a low Naxid-sized door in the back, and it was closed.

Naxid guards dashed about, legs churning, or stood in the lee of the turret, sheltering from the wind. Sula pretended to adjust her long scarf, then took her shopping bag and headed into the city.

Satchel charges, she thought. Deliver enough kinetic energy to the turrets and anything inside was going to get scrambled whether the turrets were breached or not. Unfortunately, the sensitive antiproton ammunition might get scrambled as well, and the result would be an explosion that…well, whatever else it might do, it would at least solve her problem.

Still, it would be nice if they coulduse those guns.

She wondered when the gun crews got their meals. Surely the doors would open then.

But even if the antiproton guns were disabled or captured, there was no practical way to get a large force up that slope. It was too steep, and her people could climb only slowly and be exhausted by the time they arrived. Plus, any defenders at the upper terminal of the funicular could hold off an army with small arms.

Any large force would have to come up the switchback road on the other side of the acropolis, a route that had its own problems, not the least being that it would be under fire every step of the way.

These calculations spun through her mind as she walked across the High City, emerging by the Gate of the Exalted, marked by the two pillars where the switchback road entered the plateau, a place guarded by another pair of antiproton guns in turrets. Looking to the other side, she recognized the large barrel-vaulted edifice of the Ngeni Palace, with the terrace behind and the banyan that overshadowed PJ’s cottage.

From PJ’s, she thought, she might be able to view the defenses, see when the guard changed and when meals arrived.

Besides, she was freezing.

PJ brightened when she arrived on his doorstep, and he offered her tea and soup.

“I wish I could contribute more,” he said as he watched her eat. “I’m not giving you much information these days. My clubs are almost empty—more servants than members. Everyone who could leave has gone.”

“You’re still very well placed here,” Sula said. “Any information you provide is valuable.” Her attempts to boost PJ’s morale had become so standardized that she could practically recite the lines in her sleep. “I’m counting on you,” she added, “to stay in the High City and keep your ear to the ground.”

“I’m a good shot,” PJ said hopefully. “I could move into the Lower Town and become an assassin.”

Sula mopped the last of her soup with her bread. The soup was flavored with lemon and saffron both, an unusual but in this case successful combination.

“You’re useful here,” she said.

“For what?” PJ said darkly. “You can buy soup in a restaurant.”

“You have binoculars, I assume.”

“Yes. Naturally.”

“I want you to keep an eye on those antiproton guns at the Gate of the Exalted. Check regularly. Find out when the crews are changed, when they’re fed. When the doors in the turrets are open or closed.”

PJ’s look was intense. “You’re thinking of attacking them?”

“I’m thinking I’d like to have a pair of antiproton guns, yes. Or at least the ammunition.”

Her action team had been trained on the weapons, and the stay-behind force under Fleetcom Eshruq had some in inventory, but Sula hadn’t known where, and presumably they’d been captured by the Naxids.

Perhaps the four guns on the High City were the ones that the secret government had once owned. It was only right to take them back.

“Oh, PJ, another thing,” Sula said. “You don’t happen to know any expert mountaineers, do you?”

PJ’s first report was astoundingly detailed. It seemed to Sula that he must have been checking the batteries every half hour, and stayed up all night to make observations. He’d caught the shift changes, mealtimes, the number of guards, the number of officers, and the type of transport that moved them to and from their barracks.

Sula had begun visiting the High City regularly to observe the two turrets overlooking the funicular, but her data only confirmed PJ’s, and in the end she saved herself the commute and assumed the two gun batteries were on the same schedule.

When the cold wind finally spent its last strength howling around the eaves of the High City, she found the answer to the question of when the turret doors were opened—in good weather. The turrets were small and cramped, and the crews much preferred being out of doors, at least when an autumn wind wasn’t blustering around the gray granite battlements of the acropolis.

“So we set the attack on a nice day,” Sula said at a planning meeting. “All we need is to glance at the long-range forecast.”

“We can probably manage that, princess,” said Patel with an easy smile. “It’s climbing that damned rock I’m worried about.”

They were holding the meeting in Patel’s hotel suite, sitting around an elegant chrome-rimmed table that seemed strangely at home with the fussy laquered cabinets, the collected bric-a-brac, and the bright bouquets of fragrant flowers. The room, with its oddities and perfumes, appeared to be a perfectly suitable environment for a man who had offered to fight for love.

“I wish we could rehearse the climb somehow,” Julien said. “We’ve not only got to get ourselves up that cliff, but our gear.” He gave a tight, uncomfortable grin. “And I don’t much like heights.”

It was clear that no frontal assault on the acropolis could possibly succeed. The positions that controlled the two gateways to the High City—the funicular and the switchback road—could only be taken from behind, and that meant first sneaking a force onto the acropolis.

Getting an army up the cliff was a task that would have been impossible in peacetime, when the long granite bulk of the High City was illuminated by brilliant floodlights that would have pinned any climber to the cliff. After the destruction of the ring, the electricity shortage had turned the floodlights off. Even most of the streetlights on the High City were dark, so the area was full of shadows.