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Show to be sure. "Let us hie ourselves to the HuntStall," Dr'Anya said, and the two got out of the car, Dr'Anya palming it locked for good measure. They walked together across the square-skirting a clutch of muttering and squawking reds-toward that one and only mountain outfitters in Brighton-on-the- Plain. "That was easy enough," said Janni. She was laying out the supplies they'd bought at the HuntStall in the private dressing room in back-leather jerkins and leggings, thick, soft, calf-length boots, wide belts, short- and longdoublets, and two small-charge animal stunners. Lying across the one chair in the room were furred and hooded cloaks for them both, equipped with matching masks. Janni's was dusty rose, Dr'Anya's blue-the colors of the Tartar's needlelike peaks. The cloaks and masks were protection against two things: the howling winds that came screaming down from the sheer cliffs on the Tartars-at a force enough to take off the skin of one's face-and the huge SaurianLynx, whose poor eyesight was fooled by the camouflage. "Aye," said Dr'Anya, fitting two charges for the aircar into the package of food for their mountain trip, "They question not, here at Brighton." She pulled the twine up tight around the bundle and laid it aside. "Always did I come through here, thou seest, on my interviewing trips." She pulled off her plisson, longdoublet, shortdoublet, tunic, and jerkin, in that order, and slipped the heavy leather clothing on in their place. "The Doctors are not expected to go through the Tartars," she said, 143 |
