Me an Tracker forge ahead, closin in on Lugh. He’s bin holdin fast as leader fer some time. I noticed he wouldn’t yield to Tommo a little while back. I s’pose he’s makin some kinda point. What that might be, I ain’t got time to consider.

Lugh! I keep my voice low as I pull alongside him. We’re nearly there, I says. I’ll take it from here.

He throws me a glance. His beauty’s whitewashed by the moon. His birthmoon tattoo stands out darkly sharp. High on his right cheekbone, jest like mine. Put there by Pa to mark us as special. We two, rare Midwinter twins. The boy made of daylight, gold as the sun, child of our mother’s heart. The girl, me, dark as the night-time, bein in her brother’s shadow. You’d hardly take us fer kin, Lugh an me, let alone think we shared our mother’s womb.

Fall back, I tell him. I’m leadin us in, you know that.

He don’t acknowledge me. Jest stares straight ahead, with his chin set to mulish. He starts to speed up. So I do too. Before I know it, we’re racin each other. Neck an neck. I glare disbelief at him. Cut it out, I says. C’mon Lugh.

He makes no answer. He’s pushin hisself. Breathin hard. Nostrils flared. Jaw clenched. But he’s bin flat out runnin too long.

With a shake of my head, I kick up my speed. Fine! I says. Be like that!

I pull away easy. We leave him behind, me an Tracker. I glance back. He’s stopped. Bent double with his hands on his knees. His chest heaves as he pulls in air. Ash, Creed an Tommo hafta swerve around him.

What a time he picks to lock antlers. I’ll hafta have speech with him later. Fer now, that problem’s parked. Now, we got a bridge to blow.

We crouch behind a cluster of rocks, well up the hill above the bridge. We git our breath back as we take in the lie of the land. Tracker flops between me an Ash, his tongue hung out to cool.

Nero sails down onto my head. His claws needle my scalp. As I pick him off, I see the tiny scroll of cherrybark tied to his right leg. It’s a message from Jack. Outta sight of th’others, I untie it. It might be somethin I need to know right away. He’s scratched a pyramid on the bark. No, not urgent. He’s changed our meet place fer tonight. He’ll see me at Irontree. I tuck the scroll in the small leather bag at my waist.

I train my long-looker on the bridge an terrain all around. It’s jest like Jack drew fer me, with a stick in the dirt. An how I drew it fer my crew as we stepped through this op. To a tee it’s how he said it ’ud be. He’s a good detail man, Jack, that’s fer sure.

They’ve built on the iron remains of a old Wrecker bridge. Added some wood support struts an a new bridge deck an beams. Plain an sturdy, forty foot from start to finish, it spans the steep gash of a rocky ravine. The Eastern Defile. It’s a savage axe-slash in the body of the earth. In its belly, far below, runs the wrath of fast water. A thread of river, silver in the night, fumes an foams as it bucks its way downhill.

Ash gives a low whistle. Hope you got a head fer heights, she says to Lugh. If you wanna trade jobs, my offer’s still open.

What? You don’t think I’m up to it? he says.

She blinks at his chippy tone. Don’t git the hump, she says. You know I jest like blastin things.

Specially if it’s built by the Tonton, says Creed.

Slaves, you mean, she says. They’re the ones buildin New Eden.

Okay, I says, let’s run through this one more time. I tap Tommo’s arm. Jest barely touch him. He looks at me. Tommo, I says, advantages.

His dark eyes glitter, unreadable in the night. There’s a mocky little smile on his lips. No cloud, he says. Sharp moon. Small bridge. Quick job. Okay? His rough voice lays down each word over-slow, over-clear.

Heat scorches my cheeks. Of late, he’s bin makin like I talk down to him. Which I most absolutely do not. Maybe a deaf boy shouldn’t fight from the front. Ike used to worry about that. But Tommo don’t ask fer no quarter fer his deafness. He don’t need none. We fought our way outta some real tight spots an Tommo ain’t never let us down. Not once have I treated him special. So it stings that he makes like I do. He knows it irks me. That’s why he does it.

Good, I tell him. Okay, disadvantages. Creed?

He scans the road. That’s our main problem right there, he says.

While he talks, I start takin what I need from my sack. A shrill tin whistle on a cord that I hang around my neck. Our emergency signal. Two blows means split up, run, meet at the rendezvous. Next, the blastpack. Like a brick in size an weight. Wrapped in oiled cloth, the long nettle fusecord in a tidy bundle.

Our sightlines ain’t good, says Creed. Tommo an me’s only gonna have a clear view a hunnerd foot this side, not more’n seventy on the far side. Eh, Tommo? Tommo nods agreement. If anybody was to come around these hills, says Creed, they’d be right on top of us an that means quick decision time. Shoot or don’t shoot.

The narrow dirt road runs from west to east. It hugs the curve of the hills an sweeps into our view at the last minute. Jest like Creed called it.

Yer informant, says Lugh. They’re absolutely sure the Tonton don’t patrol this far out?

Positive, I says. But we stay alert an keep cool heads. An that means all of us, Creed.

What? he says. I’m some kinda hothead? I’m like ice.

Ash, I says, you an Tracker’s our early warnin system. Where you gonna stand lookout?

She’s usin her own long-looker to con the hills all around. She points to the scrubby hogback ridge that runs along, high behind us. There, she says, no question. It’s the highest point around.

Okay, Tracker’s with you, I says. Good luck. Go on, boy, go with Ash.

He hesitates. Obedient, but torn. He’s a one-woman wolfdog. Mercy’s dog when I met him. Then somehow—many days distant from his home—I found him. Rather, he found me. An he claimed me fer his.

Tracker, go, I says.

As he sprints off with Ash, Creed an Tommo take their position behind the rocks. Advantages, disadvantages, the best spot fer lookout, we knew it all before. We talked an walked this entire op agin an agin, but this is the real thing. To repeat everythin now that we’re here sets it in our eyes an minds. I shove three small birch torches in the back of my belt an tuck the blastpack unner my arm.

You sure that thing packs enough power? says Lugh.

I’m sure, I says. Slim knows what he’s doin. Okay, this is it. We’ll work fast as we can.

We gotcha covered, says Creed. He’s all business now, hard-faced an sharp-eyed as him an Tommo load their bows.

Lugh an me hurry down the slope. Nero flies ahead of us. We hit the road, run the few foot to the bridge an scramble down the rocks. It’s dark unnerneath the bridge. A strong smell of fresh-cut wood. As Lugh shrugs off the rope he’s bin carryin, I lay down the blastpack an light a torch with a spark from my flint an steel. I hold it high so’s we can see the structure.

It’s simple. Like a flat roof held up by a peaked roof. The two main girders left from Wrecker days—iron, dead straight, a foot wide—they ram deep into the sides of the Defile. From there, they rise at a angle to meet at the middle of the bridge deck. There’s one vee of new wood struts on each girder. No surprises. It’s all jest as we espected.

I dare a glance at the canyon below. An I wish I hadn’t of. I look away quick. The Defile plunges dizzily, steeply down to the deathly rage of the river. I light Lugh with the torch as he loops his rope around the girder, jest at the point where it spears into the side of the ravine. He ties it off with a slipknot. I light th’other two torches from the first. Then I stick all three into the rocks so’s the unnerside of the bridge is lit.