There would not be a serious clash until both sides had completed their infiltration whereby each planned to catch the other off guard, and so precipitate a panic the result of which would be relatively few casualties and a great deal of loot in the form of stampeded or abandoned or lost animals.
These barbarians, Verrill told himself, had a warfare far more civilized than had been that of The War, and also, a lot more sensible—there was a result to show for the effort exerted, and a profit instead of a mutual loss.
He decided to stay with his patient, and then by dint of hard riding join Ardelan's son when there was immediately impending need.
Falana said, "You're making a mistake. Now is your chance."
Just that way: with no build up at all. And she was right, for he needed no explanation of her meaning. He knew all of a sudden that she had tuned in on all his unspoken debates with himself. He and Kwangtan were supposed to be able to talk with the gods. That was pure nonsense. The gift was largely a feminine monopoly. Falana undoubtedly knew all about Linda, instead of merely about the Venusian Domes.
Verrill answered, "I can't rob a patient. If he dies or gets well, then it will be different...."
Falana shrugged, and for no apparent reason, moved a bundle wrapped up in a cape. "Suit yourself, Verrill, but you are letting your luck wear thin. If you want it this way, though, I'll be ready whenever you are."
"You were all ready the other night?"
"Of course. And when the guardsmen caught me, I was scared silly. I don't know what would have happened if that old devil hadn't been at death's door. Now is your chance.... It won't ever be better."
Falana was right, so very right, yet Verrill balked. He mounted up, with his medical kit, and with a pair of pistols thrust into his sash.