The sky was radiant lavender before she went looking for her troublesome companion. Ratepe had seated himself on the west-facing bole of a fallen tree. Xantcha got no reaction as she approached and was rekindling her irritation when she realized his cheeks were wet. Compleat Phyrexians didn't cry, but newts sometimes did, until they learned it didn't help. "Supper's on the fire."

Ratepe started, realized he'd been weeping, and wiped his face roughly on his sleeve before meeting her eyes. "I'm not hungry." "Still angry with me?"

He turned west again. "The Sea-star's above the sun. The Festival of Fruits is over."

A single yellow star shone in the lavender. "Berulu," she said, giving it the old Argivian name that Urza used. It would be another week before it rose high enough to be

seen from the cottage. "I'm eighteen."

Born-folk, being mortal and having parents and usually living their whole lives on a single world, kept close track of their ages. "Is that a significant age?" she asked politely. Some years were more important than others.

Ratepe swallowed and spoke in a husky voice. "You and Urza don't live by any calendar. One day's the same as the next. There isn't any reason ... I-I forgot my birthday. It must have been three, maybe four days ago. Last year- last year we were together. My mother roasted a duck, and my little brother gave me a honey-cake that was full of sand. My father gave me a book, Sup-pulan's Philosophy. The Shratta burnt it. For them, there is only one book. Or it wasn't the Shratta but the Red-Stripes doing Shratta work who burnt it. It got burnt, that's enough. Burnt and gone." Ratepe hid his face in his hands as memory got the better of him. "Go away."

"You think about them?"

"Go away," he repeated, then added, "Please."

Urza's grief had hardened into obsession. Xantcha understood obsession. Ratepe's flowed freely from his heart and mystified her. "I could roast a duck for you, if I can find one. Will that help?"

"Not now, Xantcha. I know you care, but not now. Whatever you say, it only reminds me of what's gone."

She retreated. "I'll be by the fire until it is good and truly dark. Then I will come back here, if you will not come down. This is wild country, Ratepe, and you're not . . ." The right word, the word that wouldn't offend him, failed to spring into her mind.

"I'm not what? Not clever enough to take care of myself? Not strong enough? Not immortal or Phyrexian? You call me Ratepe now, and you say that you love me, but I'm still a slave, still Rat."

Agreeing with him would start a war. "Come down to the fire. I promise I will not say anything."

Xantcha kept her promise. It wasn't difficult. Ratepe wrapped himself in a blanket and curled up with his back to her. She couldn't easily count the nights she'd spent in silence and alone. None of them had seemed as long. When he stretched himself awake after dawn, Xantcha waited for him to speak first.

"I'm going into the palace when we get to Pincar."

She'd hoped for a less inflammatory start to the day. "No. Impossible. You agreed to stay at an inn with our supplies while I scattered Urza's pebbles in the places where we don't want to find Phyrexians. Your task is to help me find the Shratta strongholds in the countryside once I'm done in the city. We need to know if there are any real Shratta left."

"I know, but I'm going to the palace. Straight to Tabarna, if he's there, whether he's a man or something else. Every Efuand has the right to petition our king. If he's a man, I'll tell him the truth."

Xantcha planned her reply as she set aside a mug of cold tea. "And if he isn't?" She'd learned from Urza, truth and logic were worthless with madmen. It was always better to let them rant until they ran themselves down.

"Then they'll kill me, and you'll have to tell Urza what happe-nen, and maybe then he'll do something."

She grimaced into her tea. "That's a burden I don't want to carry. So, let's assume you survive. Let's assume you're face-to-face with Tabarna. What truth will you tell your king?"

"I will tell him that Efuands must stop killing Efuands. I'll tell Tabarna what the Red-Stripes have done."

"Very bold, but with or without Phyrexians, your king already knows what the Red-Stripes are doing in the Shratta's name."

"He can't..." Ratepe's voice trailed off. He'd seen too much in his short life to dismiss her out of hand.

"He must."

"Not Tabarna. He wouldn't. If he's still in Pincar City, if he's still a man, then he thinks what I thought, that it's all the Shratta. He doesn't know the truth. He can't."

Xantcha sipped her tea. "All right, Rat, assume you're right. The king of Efuan Pincar, a man like yourself, still sits on his throne. He doesn't know that there are Phyrexians among his Red-Stripe guards. He doesn't know what those red-striped thugs have done. He doesn't know that, in all likelihood, the Shratta were the first to be exterminated. If Tabarna doesn't know any of this exists, then who else in Efuan Pincar does? And how has this nameless, faceless person kept your king in ignorance all these years?"

Ratepe's whole face tightened in uncomfortable silence. "No." not a denial, but a prayer, "Not Tabarna."

"Best hope that Tabarna is skin stretched over metal. You'll hurt less, when the time comes, if you're not fighting a man who sold his soul to Phyrexia. In the meantime, until I know where the Phyrexians are and who they are, we will rely on Urza's pebbles and you will stay out of trouble and danger."

Ratepe wasn't happy. He wasn't stupid, either. After a slight nod, he busied himself folding his blanket.

That day's journey was easier and much quieter. Ratepe spent most of their time aloft staring at the horizon, but there were no tears and Xantcha let him be. Most of her journeys had been taken in silence, and though she'd quickly grown accustomed to Ratepe's company and conversation, old habits returned quickly.

She brought them over the Pincar City walls in the darkness between moon set and sunrise six days later. The sky was clear, the streets were deserted, and the guards they could see were more interested in staying awake until the end of their watch than in a dark speck moving across a dark sky. Xantcha decided to risk a pass above the palace. Few things were as useful as a bird's eye view of unfamiliar territory.

A few slow-moving servants were at work in the courtyards, getting a jump on their chores before the sun rose. Sea breezes and frequent showers kept the coastal city livable in the summer, but the air was always moist and if a person had the choice, work was easier done before dawn than in mid-afternoon.

Xantcha was building a mind-map of the royal apartments, servant quarters, and bureaucratic halls when Ratepe tugged on her sleeve and drew her attention to the stables. His lips touched her hair as he whispered.

"Trouble."

Six men, cloaked head to toe but otherwise unmarked, led their horses toward the postern gate-the palace's private gate. Probably it wasn't anything significant. Palaces throughout the multiverse had similarly placed gates because royal affairs sometimes required the sort of discretion that others might call deceit. But while it was still dark they were in no danger of being seen. Xantcha wove her fingers, and the sphere floated behind the men.

The tide was out, exposing a narrow rocky spit between the ocean and the harbor. The not-unpleasant tang of seaweed and salt-water mud permeated the sphere. Xantcha took a deep breath. No glistening oil. Whoever the six cloaked men were, they weren't Phyrexian.

"Messengers," she decided softly and the sphere began to drift backward with the sea breeze.