"The key you gave me," he said hurriedly. "It didn't work."
"I know. I've learned the real key in the meantime—"
The girl whispered swiftly, "Can you use it? Turn the machine on tonight? That's why we came, knowing that any hope of using the machine depends on you, Vawdar!"
The man shook his head. A laugh sat in his throat, almost evil in his bitterness. Against the background of clashing blades and grated oaths, and the rasping breathing of men fighting in the street, it was hollow in despair.
"Tonight? No. And not for many nights after this, and perhaps never. Because, you see—"
A shout hurtled upwards from the throat of a man who was turning into their alley. Men raced behind him, shouting. With his naked left arm, Flane swept the girl behind him, grinning, whispering, "Now they've caught us. Between two gangs, in this alley."
"Can't we reach that gate with the dragons?" said the girl. "We have megathon stallions waiting there. We could go across the desert together, all of us—"
Flane disengaged his blade from the sword of the first meknik, and lunged beneath his guard. As the man fell, Flane shoved him back into the others, working his blade, butchering calmly. In the closeness of the mob who rushed him, there was no room for finesse. He shortened his blade, and stabbed.
"Megathons," Flane whispered to the night. "They are native to the southern regions. One-horned horses."
There was only one city-state of the Klarnva in the south: Moornal. Yet Moornal was remote from Klarn; so remote that, since the Machine went dead, it was looked upon almost as a myth.