Back at the inn Callie took the bath she’d been anticipating for days and found it singularly disappointing. Since the inn had no bathrooms, she used a wooden tub set up in the room Rowena and Garth were sharing. The water, left over from Rowena’s use, was tepid and scummy, the soap reeked of lye, and the small scrap of toweling was rough and already well dampened. Because there was no conditioner for her hair, she had to untangle the snarls with her fingers before she could use the wooden comb she’d borrowed from one of the tavern girls. By the time she finished, Callie was seriously considering Rowena’s suggestion to cut it off. But she’d spent six years growing it, and Garth insisted they would be home in a month—she’d been here five weeks already; surely she could stand another four.
Back in the common room, smoke already hung in the rafters, and the evening’s revelry was well under way. Men lined the wooden bar, jostling one another as they hoisted mugs of beer or tossed off shots of hard liquor. Some were eating, while others gambled at craps and poker and pool, underdressed women hanging over their shoulders. Callie spied the shaggy head and huge body of a fellow Outlander named Lokai among the men at the bar. Thor’s bald dome gleamed beside him. For days the pair had talked of nothing but whiskey and girls—they were the last two she wanted to join right now. She didn’t recognize anyone else, though, and for a moment she was back in Tucson, standing on the brick veranda of her sister’s foothills home, surrounded by glittering, laughing yuppies who moved around her as if she didn’t exist. No one glittered here, and these rough men and women were a far cry from her sister’s high-class friends, but the same sense of being conspicuously alone writhed in her belly. Maybe she should go back upstairs. Or out to the stables.
“Callie!” Garth’s voice pierced the low rumble of conversation. “Over here.”
It was like being thrown a life preserver.
He was holding court at one of the plank tables at the back, with John, Whit, LaTeisha, and three strangers attending him.
“Where’s Rowena?” Callie asked, squeezing into the space John made between himself and LaTeisha.
Garth shrugged and planted his right elbow on the table in front of the brawny man sitting across from him. “Ready?”
The black-haired stranger planted his own elbow and clasped Garth’s hand. E-cubes piled the planking beside them.
“Did they have another fight?” Callie asked as the two began to push against each other.
LaTeisha glanced around at her. “Row and Garth? Yeah.”
At the table’s end the two men grunted, strained, and sweated while the others cheered them on. His arm muscles bulging and quivering, Garth seemed about to lose when suddenly he shoved his opponent’s hand to the planking and ended the match. John banged the table and hooted as Garth pocketed the cubes with a grin. Scowling, the loser declined a rematch and went to console himself at the bar.
The aproned innkeeper arrived, a brooding man with a silver diamond tattooed into his forehead and a gold ring in his nose. Wordlessly, he laid out bowls of stew and dense black bread. He returned with mugs of ale and scowled when Callie asked for water instead.
The stew was lukewarm, greasy, and unpleasantly spiced, the meat gristly, the potatoes hard, and the bread so dense she could hardly chew it.
“Who do they get to cook this stuff?” LaTeisha complained. “The mules?”
“Keep your voice down, Teish,” John warned. “Remember Logantown?”
“Look at this.” She gestured at the pile of gristle she’d accumulated beside her tankard. “Half of it’s not even edible.” She picked up the bread, broke off a piece, and frowned as she pulled the two portions apart with exaggerated slowness to reveal the hair connecting them. “It is the mules!” She threw the pieces into the stew bowl and stood. “I’ve got some jerky in my pack. Besides, all this smoke’s giving me a headache.”
Callie managed to force down half her portion before the stew’s cool greasiness overwhelmed her. As she pushed the bowl aside, a shout of laughter erupted from the crowd at the bar where Lokai and Thor were apparently engaged in a drinking contest.
“They’re doing it again,” Whit rumbled in his deep voice. He had twisted around on the bench to see what was happening.
Garth shoved the last of his bread into his mouth. “They’ll pay in the morning,” he mumbled around it.
“And so will we. In lost time.”
Garth glanced at him awry. “Do you want to try and stop ’em?” With a sigh, Whit turned back, pulling at the strap of his eye patch. “Let’s just hope they don’t tear the place up like last time,” John muttered.
“They do and they’re staying behind to work off the damages.” Garth pulled a draught from his tankard. “I already told ’em that.” He wiped his mouth, then set the vessel aside and laced his fingers on the planking. “So, Callie girl, you gonna sign on at the temple?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He waved a hand. “They’re all cowards up there. Suckers who’ll be here for life.”
“The guy said they’re transporting a couple people to the Gate tomorrow night,” Callie said. “That they get messages back from those they transport.”
“And you believed him?”
She fingered her tankard of water. “He has as much proof as you.”
“I’ve got a map.”
“Which may or may not be legitimate.”
“Whoa-ho, Garth,” John crowed, rocking back on the bench. “This lady don’t care whose toes she steps on.”
A half smile of approval lit Garth’s face. “I like a woman who speaks her mind,” he drawled.
Something in his manner sent the blood rushing to Callie’s face. He leaned toward her. “You gonna stay tomorrow and watch ’em?”
Callie dropped her gaze to her tankard, unnerved by his amused expression. Maybe it wasn’t approval—maybe it was mockery.
He laughed. “No? Then I’d say you didn’t believe the guy.”
“I don’t know what I believe,” she said. “Maybe none of you is right. Maybe the answer’s somewhere else entirely.”
After a brief silence, Garth said, “Well, at least you know we weren’t lyin’ about the Gate and the cliff.”
She continued to focus on her tankard, drawing lines up its battered side in the condensation. Across the table Whit drained his own vessel, then wiped the foam from his beard and mustache. He turned to Garth. “So what do you propose to do about this man in Hardluck? The one the innkeeper told us about.”
“I don’t like Hardluck,” Garth said. “It’s a vile little town, and they trade in slaves. Most of ’em are half Trog already.”
“True, but they oughta know better than anyone about a route up the canyon. And Callie’s right. You don’t have much proof that map’s legitimate.”
Garth launched into a defense of his map and his judgment, and Callie’s thoughts returned to the dilemma that had ripped at her all day—had ripped at her, in fact, since the day she’d met Pierce. Who should she believe? Nobody knew anything. The manual was no real help. And and she was tired and frustrated, and maybe a night’s sleep would clear it up. While the men continued their debate, she stood and slipped away.
Garth caught her at the door. “You aren’t turning in already, are you?”
The crowd pushed him so close she had to tilt her head back to see his face. His breath stank of beer.
“I thought I’d take a walk,” she said.
“Dangerous place for an evening walk. Want some company?”
She glanced over his shoulder, feeling trapped.
He cocked his head. “No, huh?”
“I need to sort things out.”
“Maybe I could help.”
“I doubt it.”
His grin flashed in the dark nest of his beard. “You oughta come with us.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only way out. Because we need people who can keep their heads when things get hot.” He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “Because I like you.”
His touch, his nearness, and the dark intensity brought the blood to Callie’s cheeks again. Confused and a little afraid, she backed away. “I . . . that’s nice, Garth. But I need time to think.”
“Suit yourself.” He sauntered back to his table.
The stables were blessedly quiet, redolent with the odor of alfalfa and manure and damp leather. Light poured through the big loft door above, washing over the tack and stalls across from it, and deepening by contrast the shadows beneath it. The stall she’d staked out for herself hid in that shadowy underloft, but someone was already in it. Two someones, in fact. Callie backed away, embarrassed, and stopped beside the loft ladder. Dare she try to climb it? Almost any height could trigger her phobia, but this was just a little ladder, with the wall beside it for support. True, it was almost vertical . . .
She swallowed on a dry mouth.
The activity in the stall grew frenzied. Then, from outside, Callie heard a pair of slurred voices—men from the tavern. Had they followed her? Probably not, but she’d rather they not find her here.
She eyed the loft again. It was the best choice. And it’s high time you conquered this stupid phobia.
With her gaze fixed upward, Callie climbed one careful rung at a time to the top, where sweet hay piled in silhouette against the brilliance of the open loft door. Here, though, the ladder stuck up past the floor. To get off, she’d have to step around and over it, with nothing to hold on to while she did.
Outside, the men’s voices approached. Her stomach churned. Her wrists felt weak. Heat flashed across her back and shoulders. Gritting her teeth, she ascended another rung, bending double to keep hold of the ladder.
The fear burst out of nowhere, sweeping over her in dizzying waves, turning her legs to jelly.
Just move through it. You’ll be okay. But she couldn’t let go of the ladder. Already the ground was pulling at her, drawing her like a great magnet.
She was choking. Sweat slicked her palms, and her arms jittered to match her legs.
If you don’t go now, you won’t go at all. Now, move.
She lurched forward, planted a foot on the loft’s edge, and let go. For a moment she teetered on the brink. Then the ground spun up at her, and she flailed backward—
Someone reached out of the darkness and jerked her to safety. She fell with him into the hay, smelled a familiar musky odor, felt the hard muscles of his chest and arms, and pushed away, her panic shifting focus. He backed off, a shadow crouching against the light.
“Are you all right?” It was Pierce, which part of her had known the moment he’d grabbed her.
“I’m fine.” Even her voice shook.
“I thought maybe you were—”
“I’m not drunk!” All at once she was angry—at him, at herself, at the drunks outside, at Garth, at the aliens, at the whole situation. None of it was fair, none of it was right, none of it should be. She wanted out. And there was no out.
Loud voices pierced her frustration. The drunks were blundering into the stalls below, repelled each time by indignant occupants. They seemed to think this outrageously funny, and at last, roaring with laughter, they staggered back into the street.
As the silence returned Pierce stood and crossed to the back of the loft, where a rectangle of light flooded through the open doors. He sat down, his back to her, only a portion of his profile visible. She followed him to the middle of the loft and eased onto the straw, hugging her knees to her chest, but he ignored her, lost in one of his moods. She began to feel more than a little foolish.
Presently he stretched back in the hay, cradling his head in his hands, and her attention was arrested by the silvery light that bathed him. The Arena had no moon, and Manderia had no electricity. So where was the light coming from? The Gate?
Feeling a tingle of wonder, Callie stood and edged toward the opening, stopping with her feet just inside the light. Outside, Manderian rooftops tumbled toward the gleaming hulk of the city wall, the Inner Realm cliffs towering darkly beyond. The rim itself, however, remained blocked by the loft door’s lintel, so she slowly squatted into the light.
The Gate was breathtaking. Its bright, clear radiance shimmered against the velvet night. Now blue, now gold, now silver, it flowed with intertwined rivers of light that waxed and waned and waxed again. Pierced anew by the inexplicable longing, she ached to be near it, to touch it, to feel its glory on her face.
We intend this for your benefit, Alex had said. For the first time she could almost believe it was true.
She didn’t know how long she crouched there and wasn’t aware of sitting down until she found herself beside Pierce in the straw. When she glanced at him, he was watching her.
The pale light softened his features and turned his eyes dark. His gaze flicked back to the Gate, and she saw in him a yearning that echoed her own.
“That was you I saw at the temple today, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t move, hands still cradling his head, eyes still fixed on the Gate’s arches. “Yeah.”
She waited. He did not continue.
“So are you thinking of signing up with Mander?”
“Thinking of it.”
Chills flooded her. “Don’t tell me you believe the Manderians are right.”
“Okay.”
Confused into silence, Callie toyed with the straw at her feet.
“I hear it’s not unpleasant,” he added after a time.
“But the manual doesn’t say anything about terms of indenture.”
“No.”
“So it’s got to be fraudulent.”
“Only if you believe the manual.”
“If you take the manual out, nothing about this makes any sense.”
“Nothing makes sense, anyway.” His eyes met hers significantly. “And if you think the manual’s so important, why did you let the mites have it?”
She frowned and examined her bootlaces. It had been almost two weeks since they’d taken it, and she still wasn’t sure if she regretted that or not. A sudden rainstorm had caught the Outlanders by surprise, thoroughly drenching them. It was two days before they had time and opportunity to air everything out, and like the others, she’d emptied her pack, scattering its contents across grass, bush, and rock. For the first time in weeks, she’d actually held the manual, sodden and bedraggled after the rain.
She recalled thinking how much her attitude toward it had changed, how much she’d once risked—unknowingly, to be sure—to save it, yet somehow she still hadn’t managed to give it even a good skimming. Guilt suggested she had time that very afternoon while they waited for everything to dry, but then John had suggested a target shooting contest, and she couldn’t say no—didn’t want to say no, truth be told. She’d left the manual lying open on a rock to dry, and when she’d returned hours later, it was gone. She hadn’t even seen them take it.
If anything, her reaction had been more relief than regret, though her sleep had been troubled that night. But surely if the manual held answers, her companions would’ve found them long ago. Why torment herself over the loss of something that really didn’t matter?
And Pierce was right—manual or not, nothing in their situation made any sense.
“Has it occurred to you,” he said, “that they might not intend for us to leave?”
“Then why put us here?”
“I don’t know.” Pierce sat up, stuck a straw in his mouth, and gazed at the Gate. Callie watched him covertly. Somewhere out in the city a tomcat yowled.
“Maybe they’re testing us,” he said at last. “Maybe they’re planning to invade the Earth and want to learn about the opposition.”
“Maybe they’re hoping to contact us peacefully and want to find out if it’s possible.”
He huffed softly. “Or maybe it’s all a show and we’re the entertainment. An alien version of Roman bread and circuses.” The straw twirled slowly between his lips. “You’re too new to know how they play with us, offer us hope only to snatch it away.”
“Those are pretty grim thoughts, Pierce.”
“Yeah, but it makes the prospect of living in Mander under bondage considerably more appealing than mucking around in the Inner Realm.”
She looked at him sharply, surprised again. “You think Garth’s wrong?”
He snorted. “Aliens set up this arena. They traveled umpteen light years to snatch us off the Earth and bring us here. You think we’re gonna escape on our own?”
He had a point.
“Are you going to back out, then?”
Silence answered her at first. Muffled voices drifted up from below. A mule stomped and snorted. At length he sighed and tossed the straw away. “Probably not.”
He settled back and went to sleep. For a long time afterward she sat staring at the living Gate and the dark cliff and the sleeping city, wondering, come morning, what she was going to do.