Winters struck her, quite ruthlessly. Sleep became unconsciousness. There was no outcry. With silks and girdles he found in the room he bound and gagged her, and flung her light weight over his shoulder. Then he went back the way he had come, silently out of the palace.
It was as easy as that. He had not thought it would be easy, but it was. After all, he thought, men seldom guard against the impossible.
Phobos had gone on its careening flight around Mars, and Deimos was too low to give much light. Now carrying the unconscious Fand, now dragging her across the open spaces, Winters made his way back to the amphitheatre. In and across the tiered seats to the wall. It was a twenty-foot drop, but he made it as easy as he could on her. He didn't want her dead. Then he slid over himself, hung briefly by his fingertips, and fell into cushioning brush.
When he got his breath back he made sure that Fand was not hurt. Then he carried her swiftly into the shelter of the unholy garden. Remembering a particularly dense patch of shrubbery near the central clearing, he made for it and crept thankfully into concealment with the heir of all the Kings of Valkis.
Then he waited.
Her eyes were looking up at him in the dim light, bitter gold above the gag of scarlet silk.
"Yes," he said, "you're here, in the garden of Shanga. I brought you here. We have a bargain to talk about, Fand."
He undid the gag, keeping his hand close over her mouth lest she should cry out.
She said, "There will be no bargain between us, Earthman."