"Hope it was worth it."
They took another twenty paces in silence.
He thought he heard a sniffle. "You want to talk abou-?"
"No!"
They caught a road at dawn, and Valentine stopped and unrolled a map. As they tried to guess their whereabouts, she was as calm as though they'd spent the last few hours berry-picking. Valentine couldn't help thinking that she'd killed the three Overland men for touching an old wound. A woman like Duvalier might attract male attention anywhere they went. A reaction like that in the wrong place-
His mind went back to when he had first met her. The shapeless old coat, the dirt, the half-starved flesh. Was she at war with her own looks, as well as Kur? He wondered if he was chasing the Twisted Cross under the guidance of a woman who was, to use Bone Lombard's phrase, of "disordered mind."
He couldn't think that. He'd lose hope. She'd just reacted. She wasn't disordered. Disordered wouldn't find the General and then get them home again safe.
Duvalier found them a little town the next day, and they walked in with a tale of stolen horses. They didn't get so much as a suspicious glance when they said they had business south. There was a truck loading for a southbound trip to Manhattan, Kansas; the driver was making notes as townspeople listed their needs. The Cats needed a quick ride, so they entered Kansas in the back of a diesel truck baby-sitting a load of eggs.
The driver was glad to have them. If there was anything besides eggs in the back-for instance, black market clothing or jewelry, the driver hinted-it might be a good idea to have a uniformed Trooper visible riding shotgun.
Duvalier had a contact near the truck's destination.
"Who?" Valentine asked as Duvalier did everything but lick her lips in anticipation.
"A friend."
She described her contact as they rattled south in the back of the carbon-spewing truck, which due to some idiosyncrasy in its suspension shimmied side to side like a duck shaking its tail feathers.
"Roland Victor is an odd sort of black marketeer. Lots of contacts in the Militia; Roland's so well connected, he might as well be part of their logistics support."
Valentine didn't hear her refer to other men by their first names.
"He deals in items appealing to Kansas Society's women, but ninety percent of his clientele is men. He's also something of a loan shark. I think every Militia officer above the rank of lieutenant owes him money or a favor. He gets clothes, jewelry, wines, chocolates, teas, and almost any kind of luxury you can think of, little favorites that powerful men like to give to their whores after giving the wife a new apron for her birthday. He's not the sort of man you invite to your daughter's wedding, but when you and your brother officers are planning a binge, he's the one to see for a case of Canadian whiskey. You wouldn't think wealth meant anything anymore, but it does to Roland."
"Know him well, do you?"
"He has very good manners, and he has a lot of-what's the word, style?-no, call it class. He plays he's a baron and looks the part. You're going to have to see him to believe it."
"I suppose he knows better than to paw at you."
Her eyes pleaded with him as much as her voice. "Drop it, Val. Please? I'm sorry about back there in the train, okay. Cross my heart."
"We got away. I'm ready to forget it."
"Start trusting me again. You've been all stiff and watchful lately."
"I don't mean to be. Sorry."
"Buddies, you know? Like before?" She held out her hand, turning her palm up so he could see the scar she'd made at his Cat invocation.
He shook it, their common wounds touching. But it was still hard to meet her eyes. He'd found a soft spot in a woman he'd come to respect as he respected only a handful of other teachers in his life: the Padre, Eveready, Captain LeHavre. He relied on her, and up until the incident on the train, would have gladly followed her into any danger.
He sneered at himself: Who was he to judge? Had he always made the perfect decisions?
The Kurians would have relished the moment. Sworn allies suspicious of each other despite the danger all around. They would have gladly sacrificed the Overland guards to set a pair of Cats against each other. He had to quit letting his sensibilities do the enemy's work for them.
By the time they reached Manhattan, Valentine knew as much about Roland Victor's operation as Duvalier did. She explained that his couriers always showed a V somehow when in public. For example, the driver of the truck they had swayed southward on had a pocketknife open in a V shape resting on his dashboard. Victor had his own network, which extended to Canada, the Mississippi, and down into Mexico-a web of friends of friends of friends who specialized in the underground trade the Kurians didn't bother to suppress, as long as it was furs instead of firearms.
The driver had his own legitimate market to visit at a Militia camp, so they had to travel on foot the last few miles. They walked through the empty husk of learning that once was Kansas State University. They saw crates being taken out of a from a three-story hall, with new bars on the tall windows, but most were burned-out shells.
"Just warehouses now," Duvalier explained as Valentine instinctively counted trucks and guards.