Harris asked, “What if they come in a seaplane like we did?”

“What if they do? They land, they taxi toward shore, and we shoot them.” She shrugged as though it were a small concern.

Doc frowned over the map. “Caster, which part is the sacred area?”

“It’s all sacred. But the link with the other world is strongest in the vicinity of the village, centering on the pyramid. You’d have to perform the ceremony here, anywhere within a few hundred paces.”

“That’s encouraging. I’d hate to have to protect fifty square destads of lake and mountain.”

Ish rolled up the map. “So. All questions answered? Good. Everybody go away. Now I can finally get some sleep.”

As Doc turned away to follow the others, she caught him by the collar. “Not you.” She smiled up at him. “I insist on company.”

Harris took a walk around the village, followed everywhere by two children and an old woman who seemed fascinated by his every move but too shy to talk to him.

Though the pyramid and the other buildings on the plaza around it were stone, he saw that the houses of the villagers were not just made of wood—they seemed constructed of living trees. New branches budded from the wall poles driven into the earth. Vines and ferns sprouted out of the thatch roofs. He saw women at work pruning their houses.

Near the village and all around the lake, he could see fields of what looked like tall grass; wind would stir the plants in great rolling waves. These weren’t the sort of fields he was used to from Iowa. They grew up the slopes of the mountains, some at angles of forty-five degrees or more. He saw men working them, pulling waist-high bushes and weeds free and hurling them downslope. He walked alongside the field nearest the village and saw that the tall grass was actually corn—or maize, most likely.

The ground was so warm he felt it through his leather soles, and though the air was thin and cold, the water in the lake stayed comfortable—he dipped his hand into it and decided that it was somewhere around eighty ­degrees.

All through his walk, he heard the screeching from the forest he’d thought must be birds—big, ugly ones from the sound of them. But when he returned to the Frog Prince, Caster told him they were howler monkeys. “Best get used to their noise,” the arcanologist said. “You don’t have much choice.”

Half a bell after the display of roiling water, it happened again. This time Harris sat cross-legged on the dock and watched the whole event, from the first boiling patch to the disappearance of the steam cloud far overhead.

Alastair stepped out of the plane onto the port water wing. “Ladislas is taking first watch, at four bells. I ­relieve him at five bells.”

“I’ll take the watch at six bells, then.” Harris frowned. “Ixyail is a weird one. What was all that talk about bombs?”

The doctor smiled. “It was just talk; she’s very excitable. She actually is a rebel, an enemy of the Aluxian government, and they would arrest and execute her if they knew she were here. But she confines herself to spying and sabotage. No attacks on the innocent.”

“Good. Is Doc serious about her?”

Alastair shrugged. “It’s complicated. But they’ve been friends and lovers for some time.”

“Oh. I just sort of thought, the way he jumps into ­every bad situation that comes along, that he’d have sworn off relationships until he was retired or something.”

“What sort of idiot would punish himself that way?” The doctor looked offended.

“Just a thought. Never mind. I’ll see you at six bells.” Harris rose and breezed past the doctor to return to his bunk.

Three days passed.

Gaby spent some time each day before the talk-box. With each attempt, the use of her ability became easier . . . and more difficult.

It was easier to project herself into the mind and room of Gabrielle. She could do that almost effortlessly. Each time, it took longer for her to feel the pressure that promised pain.

But on the second day, lying in her bunk, she put herself in Gabrielle’s room . . . and could not hear the hiss of voices. The room was peaceful. She never felt pressure behind her eyes. She could not find the Grid.

The next morning, she began experimenting. Her practice went as usual from the lounge of the Frog Prince. But from any other cabin, from outside the plane, she failed to reach the Grid.

“I don’t get it,” she complained to Doc.

He considered for a moment before answering. “Gaby, in uniting you with Gabrielle, it may be that I have ­fatally compromised your Gift. It may be a thing that belongs to dreaming. Giving your waking mind access to it may have damaged it. May continue to do so. It could be a delicate machine, and it may be burning out from overuse or unaccustomed wear.”

“Damn.” She turned her thoughts away from the loss she might be facing. “I heard Duncan a few minutes ago.”

“What was he saying?”

“I only heard a snatch of conversation, very faint. Something about the lake being effectively sealed off, and then a few words about something being in place.” She gave him an apologetic look. “I couldn’t get any more. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re now sure his people are in the vicin­ity. Things could happen anytime now. If you can, keep listening . . . but don’t tire yourself to excess.”

“I won’t,” she lied.

In the darkness of the dock, Harris shivered. He wouldn’t have believed that the air could turn so cold after dark. Every morning when he’d awakened, bowls of standing water had been frozen over the top.

A distant buzz, like an insistent insect, intruded on his thoughts. He stood at the edge of the dock and tried to spot the source of the noise, but all he did see was the sudden flaring of a signal fire atop the mountain peak on the other side of the lake.

A plane, it had to be a plane. He stuck his head through the hatch into the Frog Prince. “Up and at ’em!” he shouted. “There’s a plane coming in!” Then he trotted up the slope to the village and hammered the frame of the curtained doorway to Ish’s hut. “Doc! Incoming!”

By the time he got back to the plane, Doc’s associates were stumbling out of it, some half-dressed, all clutching weapons. They turned in the direction of the noise. The buzzing increased slowly in volume, but still there was nothing to see.

“It’s a Hammerling engine,” Noriko said. “Hear the way it misses? It’s not in good repair.” Harris wondered where Welthow and Ladislas were, but not for long; one engine on the Frog Prince coughed into life, its propeller spinning. A second engine followed.

Alastair cast off the lines lashing the plane to the dock and joined the others. “Get moving,” he said, though the pilots could not hear him. Then something caught his attention and he pointed. “There. Low, at eight bells.”

Everyone looked slightly left of straight ahead.

A triplane—something Harris had never seen outside of pictures in a book. Almost invisible in the faint light cast by the crescent moon, it came at them just feet above the water. Harris winced. The Frog Prince was moving, but couldn’t possibly get clear before—

It opened fire. Angry gouts of flame erupted from the plane. Twin lines of water-spray erupted from the lake’s surface and converged on the Frog Prince.

People scattered, Caster and Noriko leaping into the water. Bullets tore into the Frog Prince and sent wood chips flying. One engine coughed and died immediately. The triplane roared past, a mere six feet above the plane it had just strafed, climbing to keep from slamming into the mountain slope ahead.

Alastair stood and opened up with his autogun. His long burst didn’t seem to affect the attacker. Doc, hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull a boot onto the other, joined his associates.