Ortega shook his head slowly from side to side. “No, not anywhere. Ten to one he moved from Ambreza into Glathriel as quickly as possible. He knows the territory well. I think he is the Markovian who designed that particular race. They’re still pretty primitive, but that would give him an advantage. Get some dye to make himself a little darker, like the people of Glathriel, some native dress, and he’d fit right in. Lie low until his people could help him out. He’d be conspicuous on the move, remember. He’ll need help, native help—or native-looking help anyway. That’s our only ace in the hole. Our only one. He couldn’t prepare much in advance. Once in, he’d have to hide and wait.”

“He seems perfectly capable of hiding out indefinitely,” the Czillian noted with unmasked appreciation.

“Hiding out, yes,” the Ulik agreed. “But he can’t hide out. Not indefinitely. Sooner or later he’s going to have to come out of his hidy-hole and move. At the very least he’s got something like eight hexes to traverse—well over three thousand kilometers. And we can be sure he’ll take anything but the direct route. The only thing he has in his favor now is that we have no idea to which Avenue he’s going, or when, or how.”

“The only thing,” Gramma repeated sarcastically.

“Once he starts to move, he’s playing my game,” the snake-man continued, oblivious to the other’s tone. “Only trouble is, he knows that as well as I do —and he’s been a step ahead of us all the way.”

“What do we do in the meantime, though?”

“We put people on all the key agents, the ones who came through first. Mavra Chang in particular —she’s the best he’s got, possibly the most dangerous woman I’ve ever known. And she thinks like him. Beyond that, I think we must convene an emergency session of the council—North as well as South.”