The warehouse belonged to a Mormon merchant who’d traded widely in alum, soda ash and other valuable minerals, and had been built by stripping out everything but the load-bearing concrete members from an office building. The trade had declined in the long destructive war between the CUT and New Deseret, and nearly halted altogether since the Battle of Wendell. He’d turned it over to other uses without a murmur, or any questions, then packed his family and portable wealth and left town in a hurry. The huge first floor stretched empty around them, dusty, smelling of chemicals, with spears of light from the high small windows.

“Lady Astrid, we are extremely sure,” Nystrup said.

He’d gotten a little thinner than she remembered him, from the time the questers passed through the CUT-occupied parts of New Deseret east of here and helped his band of partisan fighters; a leanly fit man in his thirties, fair and with a snub-nose that had been made more snubby sometime in the recent past with a blow. The sixty Mormon guerillas grouped behind him all looked as if they knew their business. Judging from the scars and what she saw in their eyes, Ritva judged that they meant what their leader said. Years spent fighting the CUT forces occupying their homeland had winnowed them with fire.

“We are not engaging in suicide,” he went on earnestly. “That is damnable sin. We are taking on a dangerous mission that we know carries a very high risk of death, for our homes and land and people, and for the Church of Latter-day Saints, and for God, and against the servants of the Adversary. This war must be won, or our families will know only death or slavery. Part of Deseret holds out yet, but more than half is occupied by the false Prophet’s troops, and our refugees here in Boise are treated more and more badly. This . . . this Montival is our only hope. I have met Rudi Mackenzie, and we know that he has been sent as our deliverer.”

Astrid nodded. “Come then,” she said gently. “Now is the time. Operation Lúthien is a go.”

Above them a rope shook. John Hordle came sliding down it with a rattle of equipment, in Dúnedain battle gear with his greatsword slung over his back along with a longbow and quiver. Eilir followed him, similarly clad but carrying the recurve of horn and sinew that most Rangers preferred.

The wind is from the north and rising, she Signed. I don’t like the taste of it, either. I’m afraid that the blimp may go faster than Major Hanks calculated.

Ritva winced slightly. If the rendezvous didn’t go as planned, they died; it was as simple as that.

Alleyne signed from the door: Street empty. Go!