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The
Scout frowned, looked to Gineah. "Grandmother, I apologize for the
breach of courtesy, but I must speak to Slade in the tongue of his
mother's tent."
    Gineah moved a hand. "Speak,
then."
    Yet, having gained her permission, the
Scout did not at once speak, and when she did, she spoke the
language of home as slowly as if it, too, were uneasy on her
tongue.
    "I had seen your log, and your
determination to gain the sea, were you turned out. Not a bad plan,
in truth, pilot, excepting only that this world lacks those things
which your body must have in sufficient quantity to sustain you. I
have done the scans and can show you the results. Those who are
born to this world, they have adjusted to the lowered levels and
function -- as you see. You, who were bred upon a world rich in
nutrient -- you can only sicken here, and die."
    So, then. Slade took a breath. "Our
daughter will die soon. A few days, now."
    Comprehension lit the Scout's bland
eyes. "You have been giving the child your supplements."
    "What would you?" he said irritably,
the words feeling all odd angles in his mouth. He sighed. "If I
must go, then, allow them to come. My wife, she is -- a Healer of a
sort, and frail. Perhaps home will heal her, too."
    The Scout paused, head to one
side...
    "Slade." Arika was back at his side,
Kisam in her arms. "What does this woman say?"
    "She says that the sea will not aid
us."
    Arika frowned. "The sea? What do the
Sanilithe have to do with the sea?"
    "I thought that the
erifu
of the
sea might bring the child of our tent to health, and
myself."
    She bent her head, her hair falling
forward to shroud their child. "The little bottle," she whispered,
"it is almost empty?"
    He reached out and stroked the hair
back from her face. "You knew?"
    "I woke in the night and
saw you give -- it is a medicine from your mother's tent, isn't it?
She shares the
erifu
of your blood."
    "Yes," he whispered,
stroking her hair. "Arika -- come with me to my mother's tent."
From the corner of his eye, he saw the Scout start, but she held
her tongue. He
knew
the regs forbade just what he proposed. Damn the
regs.
    Arika raised her head, showing him a
face wet with tears. "And then I will die, sooner than my gift
would eat me."
    He glanced to the Scout, saw her
incline her head, very slightly, and lost her face in the wash of
tears. He bent forward and gathered his heart into his
arms.
    "Arika..."
    "No. Slade." Her arms tightened, then
loosened, as she pulled away. "You must take our child, make her
strong, so that she may do the work of our tent -- and yours." She
reached to his face, smoothing away the tears with cold
fingers.
    "It is the trail, hunter. The only
trail that is given."
    He stared at her, unable to speak. She
rose, and he did -- Gineah and the Scout, as well.
    Arika held their daughter out; he took
the small burden, numbly.
    "Commend me to your mother," Arika
whispered, then spun and was gone, out of their tent and into the
night.
    He moved, meaning to go after her --
and found Gineah before him. "I will look after her, Slade. Go,
now."
    In his arms, his daughter whimpered.
He looked down at her, and then to the Scout, standing patient and
silent by the fire.
    "It is time, then. My daughter and I
are ready."
    END
     
     

 
     
     
    A Night at the
Opera
     
    She was old money. He was old
magic.
    Together, they were a force to be
reckoned with on the social circuits of half-a-dozen capital
cities. It was said that they might reverse a fashion, make a
playwright, or declare an early end to a tedious Season. They were
patrons of the arts -- scientific, magical, and creative -- and
stood on terms of intimacy with the scions of several Royal
houses.
    Despite all that -- or because of it
-- they were popular hosts: full of wit and fire, certain to have
an opening night box at the brilliant new play, after which they
would preside over an animated table of friends in a little known
gem of an eatery. It was therefore not at all unusual, when