novel from his pack. He opened the pages carefully; the rain had forced its way into the pack, and the book was lumpy and swollen. The Child’s History had fared no better.
“Someone must keep the flies from the meat while it dries, Liv. Would you mind at all taking the first shift? . . .”
Liv spent the remainder of the afternoon standing on the edge of the steep slope, swatting at flies with a pine branch. Her feet were blistered, and she shifted her weight uncomfortably. Her nerves flared and jangled and ached dully, and she could think of little else but her nerve tonic. There was no hope of obtaining more of it while they remained on their westward course. There were substitutes for it that could be extracted from certain herbs, but she had only the haziest idea how. In any case, she recognized none of the strange plants that grew out on the edge of the world. They seemed made according to no settled or sane rules of botany.
For instance—among the trees from which she’d cut firewood for their meal, there had been a growth of bristly greenish black weeds; and she’d been deeply disconcerted, on bending down for closer inspection, to see the leaves and petals surrounded by twitching black segmented legs like those of flies, or bees; as if the distinction between animal and vegetable was not yet clearly or regularly observed out here. She had very much disliked the way the green flowers turned slowly toward her.
Liv told herself to be strong: to maintain, by force of will if necessary, her reason. She swatted the branch back and forth, back and forth, and watched the dull meanderings of the flies. After a while, she forgot herself in the work.
Creedmoor fell asleep over his novel. Twice, he lurched up and fired a shot that claimed an animal in the scrub nearby. The first was a white rabbit; the second was rabbit-eared but otherwise mostly doglike. He cleaned and stripped them, too.
Shortly before he fell asleep for the last time, he looked up and waved to catch Liv’s attention.
“Yes, Mr. Creedmoor?”
“I forgot to tell you. That old madman who pissed on you this afternoon is none other than the General Orlan Enver, architect and hero of the Red Valley Republic, greatest of the great men of Western history.”
He grinned broadly and his eyes twinkled. He seemed to have hugely enjoyed revealing that secret.
Then he leaned back and fell asleep for good and was soon snoring like an Engine.
The General was asleep, too. Liv regarded him with astonishment.
The stars came out. They were different. A spiderweb of light hung over the western edge of the world. One bright star shot and burned out, then another; then a third; then the web dissolved into darkness.
In the morning, they went down into the valley.
CHAPTER 29
THE VALLEY
—Creedmoor.
—Yes?
—You talk too much to the woman. You should not have told her who the General is. We ordered you not to.
—Too late now. And how else can she do her job?
—And you let her poke around in the General’s mind. If she succeeds, you know you must kill her.
—I understand your position.
—In the end, you must kill her.
—Suppose I refuse? I’m not saying I will or I won’t. But if I did. What then?
—You are increasingly rude and arrogant. We should renew your respect for your masters.
—But you need me whole and healthy and fleet of foot.
—For now. Creedmoor, we must leave you for the time being. There are deliberations under way in our Lodge. We are making alternative plans. In the event of your failure. It is . . . difficult. Painful. Frightening. It demands our attention. We can leave you with strength; you will not have our wisdom.
—Somehow I’ll manage without your wisdom, then.
—You have your orders. Flee west. Do not think we are not watching you.
Creedmoor suddenly lifted his head and smiled at Liv.
“Courage, Liv. All will be well. We must go on alone as best we can.”
They walked down the dry riverbed. It was their second day in the valley. The narrow corridor stretched through the hills and farther into the distance than Liv could see. She’d learned to tell by the sun that they were heading roughly westward.
“Above all, I regret the loss of our horses,” Creedmoor said. “Noble beasts, the both of them. But the important thing is that there are no roads out here, and we’ll avoid the plains, and so our pursuers’ vehicles will be