imself expert at piercing the layers of guile that had hidden

Steve's true intentions so well in the past. He had to go. Not only

to protect Clearwater and himself, but also for the sake of the

Federation. He had to find some way to tell them about the Talisman

Prophecy. They knew about wordsmiths, but not about summoners and

seers. Or that Mute magic was not a defeatist rumour but a deadly fact

that could no longer be ignored. It could prove tricky to be the

bearer of news no one wanted to hear. If he did it right, he could

maybe earn ten promotional grades at one jump; if he did it wrong, he

could find himself getting shot on the Public Service Channel for

spreading alarm and despondency.

And there was also the little matter of him getting even with

Lundkwist, Gus White and the others involved in the conspiracy to elbow

him out of the top spot at the Centenary Graduation. Yeah...

'It's getting light. You must go,' she whispered.

'You too..." They held each other tightly in one last desperate

embrace then he began to dress with swift, practised movements.

Something he'd learned during his three years at the Academy.

'The arrowhead - can you prepare it by yourself?."

'Yeah, don't worry,' he murmured, savouring for one last brief moment

the lingering fragrance of her oiled skin, the softness of her hair and

the warmth of her body as she cradled his head between her cheek and

shoulder. He pulled away, took her hands from around his neck, stole a

last quick kiss then pushed her out of reach. 'Go on, get going."

Clearwater shook her head. 'No. It will be safer if you leave

first.

Once you have gone, no one will see me."

Steve was curious to know what she meant, but this was no time for

awkward questions. He peeked through the doorflap. Nothing moved

outside. The place was as quiet as New Deal Plaza during a First

Family Inspirational. He looked back at Clearwater and saw her

rummaging through the pockets of her walking skins.

'I was given something that belongs to you..." She held up the

necklace bearing Steve's dog tag. 'May I keep it?"

'Of course. Here - let me put it on for you." He took hold of the tag

and showed it to her. 'You see these marks? This .one here is my

name. "Steven Roosevelt Brickman"."

'That is good,' said Clearwater. 'It means part of you will always be

with me." She swept her long hair forward over one shoulder and

inclined her head in a quasi-ceremonial gesture.

Steve slipped the chain around her slim neck, adjusted the hang of it

so that the tag bearing his name nestled in the cleft between her

breasts, then smoothed her hair back into place and took her face in

his hands. 'I'll come back. I don't know when, or how, but I'll find

a way. I promise." And he meant it, too. 'Think of me."

'Always,' whispered Clearwater. One half of her could not bear to let

him go; the other, more sensible, half did not believe she would ever

see him again; knew it would be better to wipe out what had happened,

to erase him from her mind. Impossible...

'Ciao,' said Steve, using one of the Mute words for saying 'goodbye'.

Come on, Brickman, he urged himself. Move!

Hit the road! He ducked out under the door flap and turned to pick up

his quarterstaff that he'd left lying alongside the hut. Out of the

corner of his eye he saw something leaning against the left-hand

head-pole. Steve stared at it, then reached out and touched it

gingerly, as if he was afraid it might vanish. It was his air rifle!

The one that Cadillac had torn from the Skyhawk! Seizing it, he ran

his hands over it sensuously, savouring the hard, cold feel of the

barrel cluster, then wiped off the thin film of condensation with his

sleeve and quickly checked the contents of the magazine.

Only three triple volleys. Shit... still, better than nothing.