'Empire sends forth from a creeping root. Shoots strings at every joint, as it runs, stalks, branches. Until the confronting tangle might present, through distance or difference, a plant entirely other than the last.'

Scant starlight picked out the cockpit's sharper details. Fran spoke with a weary irritation that colored her closer than daylight.

Balthier was just as tired. But it was his nature to provoke.

'It is another sort. Distinctly, I thought. Archadian Empire behind us. Rozarrian Empire before us. A rather different lot of bush, in my expert topiarist 's opinion.'

Fran looked at him scornfully. 'Another sort, nothing different from the former. Only the flowers are a different colour.'

They resumed contemplation of their difficult position. Silver caught on the fluttering flags of countless circling airships, which could have, at a stretch, resembled a scattering of flowers.

'Shall I pluck you a bloom?'

'Better not. A rather lethal blossom, Empire, whatever the colour. Purges a land very violently, when taken inwardly.'

'Still. One might suggest the distillation useful for ridding one of cultural conflict, ex-girlfriends and overpopulation.'

'Temporary measures only,' Fran muttered. 'Poor application leaves foul scars. Needs an abler hand to correct it than most poor skypirates have.'

He saluted, with less irony than he had intended. 'Point duly noted. So, let's grease our way past this second unlikely thicket, shall we?'

Balthier let the Maenad idle in her low strata of sky while he contemplated solutions, of which there appeared to be one.

'Bastards,' he said.