Magoo grinned. “Outta sight!”
“Here’s how it is,” said Logan. “Macey flips. We go in across the tent and pull it after us. When we hit their perimeter, Macey should kill four, five just like that. We grab assets, then eliminate. Result, a raid put down to the Mothers, and we have the gear to go tribal. As the Ninth, there will be no abort; but if we louse it up, survivors cut ass out on their own. Questions?”
“We hit this village,” said Buzzard.
“Correct.”
“And they don’t know it’s us.”
“They know,” said Logan. “But that’s all.”
“Children. Women.”
“Wise up,” said Magoo.
“I told you,” said Logan, “we’re fighting a different war.”
“I can’t do that cold,” said Buzzard.
“You won’t be cold,” said Magoo.
Macey could hardly walk. Logan and Face took an elbow each to steady his trembling. Logan held the sword.
“You’ll be OK soon, kid. This is the worst. You’re with your mates.”
The village was only an enclosure on a long, low mound above a stream.
“How’s that water?” said Logan.
“Clear,” said Face. “Bog the other side. I suggest we hit near the gate.”
“Agreed,” said Logan, and settled Macey on the ground, with the sword hilt between his hands, like a child with an unknown toy.
“Why don’t we try it easy, first?” said Buzzard. “Like ask them to let us in.”
“You crazy?” said Magoo.
“No, but Macey is. And when he turns on, he ain’t exactly quiet, neither.”
“Right,” said Magoo.
“Surprise is all we got,” said Face.
“They don’t know that,” said Logan.
“I’ve been in,” said Buzzard. “They don’t want trouble, but they’re sure scared.”
“And they don’t come more dangerous than them,” said Face.
“Go talk to them,” Logan ordered Buzzard. “Say we’re a patrol and we’ve a wounded man. That’ll cover Macey. But don’t let them open the gate. Say there’s Mothers about.”
“You may not be fooling,” said Magoo.
“Go with him,” said Logan, “and as soon as Macey’s across them thorns, you and Buzzard drag the tent over. It’s deployed?”
“Yessir.”
They went through the forest towards the camp.
Face twisted a harness round Macey’s shoulders, holding him upright against a tree. Logan worked the leather down to Macey’s elbows. “Keep close behind that trunk,” he said.
“You bet,” said Face.
“What you want for light, kid?” said Logan. “There’s a moon.”
“No!” Macey struggled.
“Steady,” said Logan. “Not yet. We gotta have light. Stars OK?”
“Yes.”
“Well, look there, kid. If that ain’t old Orion up in the sky. Can you see his belt? Three bright stars. Which of those pretty little stars are you going to be?”
Voices, not loud, came from the camp.
“Take no notice,” said Logan. “You choose yourself a pretty twinkling star on Orion’s belt. OK?”
“OK.”
“Which one?”
“—Mintaka.”
“Mintaka. Right. Now you keep watching old Mintaka, and see that son of a bitch don’t run away.”
Logan took out of his cloak a small wheel from a horse trapping. It was held between two prongs like the rowel of a spur.
“You keep looking at Mintaka: and catch hold of that sword now.”
Face gripped the harness and pressed his head and body against the opposite side of the tree. Logan spun the wheel, flickering starlight. He stroked the rim with an accustomed measure, evenly turning the spokes, their invisible shadows glimmering Macey’s eye.
The voices at the camp argued, but there was no alarm.
“Go, Macey. Mintaka, baby. Go, kid.”
Macey shook.
“Go, baby, go.” The hand caressed, the wheel spun. “Go, baby.”
Face frowned at Logan, puzzled.
“Mintaka. Mintaka. Stay loose, kid. You gotta go.”
Macey’s eye was open. Logan stopped speaking. The sound between them was the thin ring of the wheel.
“Mintaka, baby.”
Macey sagged in his harness, his head drooped.
“I can’t make it.” He was crying. “I can’t flip.”
“Get down with the others,” Logan said to Face. “Be ready.”
“But he’s—”
“Get down.” Logan twisted the harness into his own hand, and put the wheel away. “Get down.”
“Sir, he ain’t safe for one man.”
“I’m ordering you.”
Face backed off until he was clear.
“What is it, kid? You want to try the moon?”
“The moon’s axe edge,” sobbed Macey.
“Yeh! Those are your words, kid! You’re remembering!”
“I am the one the moon’s axe spares—”
“Great! Great!”
“No, sir. I can’t flip with no axe, no smooth hard axe. Not now.”
“But it’s safe, kid. Stay loose. You’ve got the axe from way back.”
“It don’t talk to me no more.”
Logan bit on the harness, his look upon the glow of the camp. Macey’s head was young.
“You ain’t gonna flip?”
“Not really, sir.”
“OK,” said Logan. “No Ninth. No brilliant mates. Finish.”
“I ain’t brilliant now, sir. Not any more.”
“You ain’t. You ain’t brilliant, kid. You’re blue and silver.”
Macey screamed.
“Blue and silver, blue, silver.”
Macey screamed again as each word tore him. Logan felt the strength and agony in the harness.
“Go, baby, bluesilver blue silver!”
He watched the sword, ready for spasm.
“Bluesilver, bluesilver, bluesilver, red, baby!”
Macey was rigid against the tree. His arms brought the sword up in front of him, pointing at the camp.
“Yeh,