Implied Spaces by Walter Jon Williams Page A

the main track up the canyon.”
    Aristide looked at Grax. “Perhaps we should take this path.”
    Grax looked at the outlaw. “Is it suitable for our mounts?”
    “You may have to lead them up a few steep places, but you shouldn’t have any real trouble.”
    And so it proved. Grax’s force—now augmented by the rear guard, who opted for glory and loot rather than the more tedious prospect of rejoining the caravan—ascended the enemy ridge unopposed, and found a narrow valley behind, pleasantly shaded by aspen. Birds sang in the trees overhead; butterflies danced beneath the green canopy. A brook sang its way down the valley, and the party crossed and re-crossed the water as they advanced.
    There was fresh dung on the trail, which proved that they were on the track of the outlaws. The valley was ideal for an ambush, and Grax kept his scouts out. They saw nothing but a small, wary deer—they took a shot, and missed.
    The trail rose from the valley floor and up a stony ridge. The party dismounted and led their mounts along the steep, narrow trail. From here it was a constant climb, on foot or mounted, along one slope or another. The terrain varied widely: sometimes they were in little green valleys filled with trees and flowers; on other occasions they were on rocky slopes as dry as the desert plateau beyond the top of the pass.
    At one point, as the party rested and refreshed themselves while the scouts examined the next ridge to make certain there was no ambush, Aristide offered his captive a drink from his water bottle. He considered the outlaw’s physique, his length, his breadth of shoulder, his well-developed muscles.
    “How old are you really?” he asked.
    The young man laughed. “I was sixteen when I left the Womb of the World. I’m not sure how long ago that was—eighteen months, maybe.”
    “Had you always intended to be an outlaw?”
    The bandit gave a rueful grin. “Songs and stories made the life seem more exciting than it is. I’d thought it would be more fun.”
    Aristide gave an amused smile. “I’ve heard that from someone else recently.”
    “I hadn’t intended to become the slave of a group of killer priests, that’s for certain. But when I saw what their men did to Black Arim—he was our gang’s leader—I joined right up. And once I met the priests, I was too frightened to run away. Especially after what I saw them do to a couple fellows they called ‘deserters.’”
    “Do the priests have names?”
    “Not that I’ve ever heard. They speak to us in the common tongue, but they have a language of their own when they don’t want us to understand what they’re saying.”
    “Which is most of the time, I suppose.”
    The outlaw nodded. He looked over his shoulder to make certain no one was listening, then leaned close to Aristide and spoke in a lowered voice.
    “How about cutting these ropes and letting me run for it?” he asked. “I’ve cooperated, and I promise to give up the outlaw life once I’m away from here.”
    Aristide considered this proposal. “I think I’ll wait to see whether your information is correct.”
    “No offense,” the bandit said, “but in a few hours you’ll all be dead. I’d like to be well away from here before that happens.”
    The swordsman smiled. “I guess you’ll have to take your chances with us. Want some more water?”
    The bandit accepted another drink. The scouts on the ridge ahead appeared, and signaled that it was safe. Aristide helped the bandit back onto his mule, made sure the ropes were secure, and mounted his own horse. The small army continued their long climb.
    Four turns of the glass later, they entered a small, shady valley fragrant with the smell of pine. “The Temple’s just ahead,” the young outlaw warned. “Past the trees, and up a slope.”
    Aristide rode ahead to deliver this news to Grax, whose own captive had been mute in the hopes that the column would just blunder into the bandit nest.
    “Ah,” Grax said