Piscator, according to the high-in-the-sky Mabruk, was inspecting the rapidly healing cracks in Molly's hide, the ones that had previously led down to raw muscle. Then he was poking around over Left Rear Lower.

"He's testing his weight on it. Hopping on it!" Mabruk sounded alarmed and outraged over the phone.

Ohhhh no you don't. I stomped past Adaobi, over to Left Rear, hung a right turn to head down to Lower. Adaobi watched from the main mass of Molly's vast body. To Adaobi's credit, she was a mix of confusion and horror.

Piscator was indeed bouncing up and down on the burned remains of Molly's left rear leg. His arms were out for balance. It looked like he'd done this kind of things many times. I didn't see how; Winnies, according to my research, didn't lay around in the water. Ever.

"Excuse me sir," I said, with polite words and a terribly rude tone. "Don't do that, please."

He turned to face me, smiling pleasantly. "Just testing the strength of the leg, Mateo."

"Mr. Walsh."

The smile faltered a little. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to show disrespect. We need to know if she can keep up with the herd. We've been delayed by her healing."

"So leave. We'll catch up."

"That wouldn't be necessary if she was healing quickly enough." So pleasant. "You haven't consulted any of us in the Council about this. You've just started without us, and we've got more experience. The herd deserves more respect, don't you think?

"She doesn't need the herd. If the herd needs to leave, it should leave."

"Caravan looks after its own. The herd is very concerned for her; it just won't start traveling if there's an immobilized Winnie. And we've seen evidence of mites, and mites can be a death knell. They spread to the herd."

"Point to a mite."

He looked around. First in a relaxed manner, like he could just pick one up and say: here, right here, and furthermore I'm Tom Bombadil and my boots are yellow. But then he looked around in earnest. No mites. "We still need her to walk, Mateo."

"Lord Walsh."

The smile vanished. "Mr. Walsh, I forgot. I'm so sorry, I know you must be under a great deal of stress, trying to save her when it's just not–"

"You want to put her down."

He snapped to rigid attention.

"You guys get that?" I said to the assembled Walshes.

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"Got it," they all chorused, through my phone where Piscator could hear. His eyes widened.

Piscator found a lump of burned leg, took a seat on it. Removed his goggles. "You have to understand the herd. You don't know how important it is that the group is valued over individuals."

Ha!

"And we've been doing this for a while, Mateo–"

"His Satanic Majesty Pope Walsh the Great, please. And Sliceday was only five years ago, Mr. Piscator sir. Are you telling me that the science of tending Winnies isn't brand-new, that there's nothing to learn? That our efforts to care for her have never been tried?"

"We do have a database of what's effective and what isn't." He looked sad. Like he knew where this was going. Good that we were on the same page. "We know you can't just stick boards onto a leg to make her walk again."

"Tell me more about what you think we're doing."

He frowned. That was pretty much all he'd thought. He hadn't asked about Mabruk's alchemical efforts, about my Runework, about Ruhk's clever bark grafts, about Amalthea's steely armature supports.

He hadn't come here to learn, I realized. He'd come here to deliver bad news. He had no idea how close he was to getting two of my fingers shoved up his nostrils, being carried back to his arty car that way, by his stupid nostrils.

"You made your decision by hopping up and down on her leg," I said.

His garden gnome eyes narrowed. "I know when a Winnie can walk. We know what we're doing, we've been doing it longer than you."

"A difference measured in months. How many have you killed that couldn't walk, Mr. Piscator sir? What kind of council are you on where you value being right over killing someone because they can't keep up?"

Another frown. His eyes searched mine, looking for something. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it. Opened it again: "We know who you are. The level of destruction you leveled on civilization–"

"Now we've arrived at the real pain point. Was your life so wonderful then compared to what you have now?"

LEAVE

He flinched, I did not. It wasn't aimed at me.

"This isn't something we need to fight over," he said, clutching the sides of his head.

"But we're gonna. You sound to me like one of those Covenant assholes, Piscator, you know that? The ones that were going to hurt my friends because you lost your stock portfolio. Were you one of the Haves, or were you one of the Have-Yachts?"

"We don't want to do it. We know it's hard. In the end a Winnie is just an animal. We can get you another–"

LEAVE!

It came from Molly and from me at the same time. I was shouting it. Molly did more damage, though. A single thread of blood stitched its way from Piscator's left eye, ran down the side of his nose.

He met my gaze coldly, still bleeding. "You brought the Covenant leader here. You turned him loose in our city."

My guts clenched.

Without another word, he trudged up Left Rear, got into his flying car. Shouted for Adaobi, who got in with him. The car whirred to life, buzzed away.

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