“Let yourselves be placed, and hear me carefully,” he said. “It is of the utmost moment to the cause and everything that you are not caught or even held back. If the guards come aboard, if we are stopped by a galley as we leave the harbor, you are strictly to go down the ladder leftward of this cabin. At its base is a pile of bales of goods, of which one is hollowed out to take a man, with a flap at the edge that can be pulled to from inside. Insert yourself and pull the flap.” (A thrill more of excitement than apprehension shot through Rodvard; the thought of being as important as this to the great enterprise.) He said; “If this ship’s invaded, they will likely have an Initiate or at least one of their diaconals with them, and from the mind of anyone aboard, he will be likely to know where the hiding place is.” Slair grinned. “That has been thought of. No one knows of this hollow but me. I made it and can take care of myself.” Lalette said; “And I; what shall I do?” Slair frowned. “You are a problem, demoiselle. We came for friend Rodvard and his Blue Star, imagining you were still in Dossola, and there’s no preparation.” He put an index-finger on his chin. “You have the Art. Could you not—” She raised a hand. “Ah, no. Never.” (In the flash of her eye Rodvard saw how she was thinking of some witchery on a ship, something terrible and sickening connected with it.) “Of course,” said Slair. “Against an Initiate, it would miss nine times out of ten. And concealment’s a weak resource. No, the problem is one of hiding you in plain sight; that is, to let them look but not know your identity. . . . Ah, I have it; let your hair down and the hem of your dress up to show an ankle; be one of those travelling strumpets who call themselves sea-witches.” Lalette said steadily; “How will this deceive one of the Initiates?” Demadé Slair made a twisting with his mouth. “Why, demoiselle, these Initiates are not magicians; they can read no more than thoughts and not all of those. All women have in them a trifle of the strumpet; you have but to think yourself one, be one with your mind. It would be a rare Initiate to tell the difference.” (Lalette’s mind beat frantic wings; the bars were there again, whatever route she took led to the same cage); (and Rodvard caught enough of her thought to know how deep was her trouble.) “Is there not some better plan?” he asked. “No time; see, the ship is stirring.” Demadé Slair stood up. “So now I must leave you.” The door banged behind him. Lalette said; “This is a second rescue—from one prison to another, each time. I thank you, Rodvard.” (Her eyes flashed a dark color of anger, he knew what was stirring in her mind, but also that if he mentioned it directly, there would be a flash.)