If Burke ignored the fact that the apes locked the door to his cabin every night, and that there were bars in front of the only window, sleeping in the tiny cabin was actually really nice.

Okay, so he didn't really sleep much, but that was the same no matter where he was. But when he closed his eyes, and just listened to the wind in the trees, and focused on the smell of fresh wood, he could pretend that he was back on Earth - his Earth - on some fancy holiday in the Appalachians, and there would be fresh coffee in the morning, and pancakes, and...

In reality, they were fed gruel.

In reality, they were shaken awake - not he, he was always awake long before that - by apes rattling the locks at their doors while unlocking them, yanking the doors open, and shouting "Morning workout!" into the cabin. He and the other racers assembled on the field for limbering up and doing stretches, and then the trainers called their racers to them, and they'd disperse over the track, in neat little packs, and start doing sprints, while the trainers simultaneously bellowed commands and tried to sneak peeks on how the competition was doing.

The teams had arrived, one by one, about two weeks before the big race, and their routines were only meant to keep them at their peak level while they were settling in. Burke had learned that one team had been traveling for almost a month; the stadium provided the cabins and the daily training times to prevent appeals that the local teams had an unfair advantage over the travel-weary foreign racers. Everyone was given the opportunity to recover from their arduous journey, and get familiar with the track.

Burke was a pack of one, and his own trainer, and contrary to the competition, he was not at his peak level. As he had told Zana, he had been running long distances back home, and that training was different from that of a sprinter; so he found himself in the ironic situation of having to use Marpo's routine now, which meant he was inevitably thinking about Marpo every morning.

If he hadn't already been frazzled by his latest nightmare, contemplating Marpo made sure his mood never lifted above ground level. Burke noticed that it slowed him down, made his posture sag, and glued his gaze to the ground. He tried to shake it off; but when he looked up, he met the calculating looks of the trainers - all chimps - and quickly cast down his eyes again. If he had to train here, under the scrutinizing glares of the apes, he at least didn't want to see them.

Burke knew that he should fix his eyes on the horizon, or at least on the finish line; Marpo had hammered that wisdom into his head, with the enthusiastic assistance of his riding crop. The memory yanked his head down once again, and his eyes were scanning the ground, the way they shouldn't...

... and that was how he saw the wire.

He only saw it at the very last moment, a thin line stretching across the track, only a few inches above ground. He saw it too late to stop, too late to jump over it; the only thing he could do was to shift his center of gravity forward, bracing himself with his hands, and rolling forward over his shoulder, like he had done when the other racer had knocked him down during his first race.

The dive saved his right foot from being cut off at the joint, but the wire still bit into its bridge like a knife. Burke sat up and inspected the damage.

Blood was running over his foot and soaking between his toes. The edges of the cut were clean, but gaping so far apart that it was clear the blood wouldn't stop on its own. Galen would have to stitch the wound.

Fuck.

At least the rapidly flowing blood would flush out any germs that had clung to the wire. Burke scowled at the damn thing. It hadn't gleamed in the morning light, or he'd have seen it in time. With his luck, it was probably rusty. Good thing he'd been given his tetanus shot before liftoff; he had heard that it was good for at least ten years.

He gingerly crooked his toes. And now for the real test... He cautiously stretched them again, and sighed a relieved breath when they followed his will. At least the tendons were still intact.

But the cut was still bleeding like hell, and he had nothing to bandage it, so that he could at least limp to the inn... but Galen wouldn't be there anyway, he'd be in one of the pubs. Burke felt completely disinclined to limp through all the pubs with his bloody foot to search for the chimp.

A fine master you are, master.

Fuck this, he'd find Al, and Al would get Galen, and Galen would stitch him up, and hopefully admit that there was no way in hell he'd be able to run that damn race, let alone win it.

He slowly came to his feet and gingerly climbed over the wire. That thing wasn't there by accident. Someone had observed which part of the track he had claimed for his morning workouts, and had prepared it for him. Probably one of the trainers; apes were the only ones who could move freely outside the training hours. The humans were shut in after breakfast, and only let out for the training sessions.

That... was the other detail he worked hard to ignore.

Burke limped back towards his cabin... his cage, dammit, no use denying it. He had clean bandages there, and after he had wrapped up his foot as tightly as possible, he sneaked off the racing area before the stewards could lock him in again. His foot was throbbing by the time he turned up at the inn, the bandage soaked.

To his surprise, Galen was there, looking tired and hungover. Burke pondered commenting on Galen's cider consumption, but decided against it. That ape was about to go at him with needle and thread - no need to aggravate him.

Galen flicked a glance at the bloody bandage, cursed, and led him up to their rooms, where he sat him down at the table and had him put his foot on one of the other chairs. "How did that happen?"

"Someone prepared the track for me." Burke quickly filled him in.

"This needs stitches," Galen murmured after unwrapping his foot.

"Figured it would." Burke watched him get his doctor's bag and throw two needles, a generous length of silk thread, and some other instruments into a pot with hot water that was already simmering on the stove. For all his cold and arrogant demeanour lately, Galen was still a damn good surgeon, one of the few who stuck to basic measures of hygiene. Burke was reasonably sure that he'd survive this injury without getting gangrene. You learned to be grateful for a lot of things here.

"Thing is," Burke continued, after Galen had returned to the table, "I can't run with that foot shitGalenwhatthefuck?"

Galen had taken a metal stick and was poking into his foot. The pain was so intense that Burke had to grab the edge of the table to prevent himself from grabbing Galen's throat.

"I have to see if the tendons are injured," Galen said evenly, but he put the probe away.

"You could've fucking asked me! I can stretch my toes, everything's a-okay with my tendons! Jesus!" Burke consciously loosened his grip on the tabletop.

"That's good to know." Galen rose and went to take the pot from the stove where his needles and silk threads had been boiling. "It means that you will be able to run that race."

"Thank you for your concern,"Burke muttered.

Galen sat down at the table again, needle in hand. "We have no other choice at this point. The money from your woodcutting employment is sorely missing."

"Maybe you shouldn't have taken me out of the camp then," Burke muttered.

Galen made his first stitch, and Burke held his breath. Galen, his eyes fixed on the bleeding mess before him, didn't notice.

"Perhaps," the chimp murmured, "but I was worried for your safety. Marpo and I didn't exactly leave on good terms."

"Maybe the wire was his idea of payback," Burke suggested.

Galen waggled his head and made the second stitch. "Maybe. Or maybe it was Vilam... a kennel owner who is notorious for taking out the competition before they can outrun his racers. Maybe it was one of the other kennel owners. One of the trainers. A racing enthusiast who has placed his bet on one of the other racers." He looked up at Burke, a wry smile playing on his lips. "I'm afraid the possibilities are nearly endless."

Galen was right, Burke silently agreed. The term 'cut-throat competition' didn't nearly begin to...

He sat up straighter. If that wire had been stretched a bit higher above the track, and he'd run into it, he could've cut his own throat. Still could - there was no reason that whoever had tried to trip him up wouldn't try a second time, once they saw he was still training.

So... am I still training?

He leaned back and watched Galen stitch up the cut, clean it with some tincture that burned like acid, and bandage his foot, all the while trying to decide if he should go on strike or not. He hadn't been asked even once if he wanted to run; and now he had the best argument for bowing out of the whole damn thing that he could wish for.

But that would mean that Al had to sew even more of the damn tool belts and saddle bags, and the poor guy was already sitting over his leatherwork from sunrise to sunset. He only got out when they were doing Tai Chi, and one time, had remarked how good the exercises were for his back. His back, not his leg.

He still didn't want to run for the damn monkeys. But he couldn't do this to Al.

"I'm gonna run cross country from now on," Burke said. "Uphill sprints are the best training anyway. Out there, I can change my route every day - that'll make it impossible for whoever stretched that wire to prepare a track for me again."

Galen pursed his lips, and nodded. "I'll talk to the stewards not to lock you in anymore," he said. "That way, you can move freely in and out of the stadium."The ape leaned back in his seat and regarded him for a moment, and Burke thought he could see a trace of worry in his face.

Or maybe he was just imagining things. Galen was probably just worried about the money that was now in jeopardy.

"Do be careful, Peet," Galen said finally. "I don't think Alan could handle it if something happened to you. Neither could Zana." He turned away and began to pick up the bloody bandage and the used cotton swabs. "And I would greatly regret it, too."

Burke chewed on the inside of his lip and gingerly set his bandaged foot on the floor. He didn't know what to say. That last bit had been...unexpected, to say the least. Maybe...maybe Galen felt a bit guilty that he had given him into Marpo's hands...

Sure. Go on telling yourself he gives a damn about you.

"Yeah, I'd regret that, too," he said finally.

Galen just shook his head. "Don't run for two days, at least. You still have another quartermoon until the race starts. Let it knit up a bit, and always bandage the foot tightly once you start moving it again. You were lucky that the cut isn't across the joint." He rose to throw the bloodied tissues into the trash. "It would perhaps be prudent not to say anything about that incident to Zana. It would just unsettle her."

Burke barely managed not to scoff. Sure, Galen. Wouldn't want to unsettle the one person who was against running me like a racehorse.

Aloud, he just said, "I'll leave that to you. I'm not seeing much of Zana right now anyway."

Galen just stared out of the window without reacting to that; and after a moment of uncomfortable silence, Burke decided to leave him to his thoughts. It was only as he was closing the door that he heard Galen mutter something.

"I'm not seeing much of her anymore, either."

"You accused Olman of smuggling Blaze? Are you out of your mind?"

Zana dropped the crate with Felga's notes on Rogan's table with a louder bang than she had intended. From the neighbouring desk, Junior looked up and glared at her with his typical deadpan expression.

She turned her back to him.

From his seat, Rogan was still gaping at her. "I didn't accuse him of smuggling anything," Zana protested, just as she had done in her head half the night and all morning ever since the timber tycoon had let her know - not too subtly, either - that he was now looking into all of their assumed identities. "I merely mentioned that if someone wanted to produce great amounts of Blaze, they'd find ideal conditions in the woods where Tall Timber is milling about all summer..."

And that had been enough to incite Olman's wrath, and now he was sniffing out her secrets, and if she didn't act quickly, he would nail her (and Galen, and her humans, and Mothers, she had been out of her mind) quicker than she could nail him.

"You did accuse him of cooking Blaze right under my nose," Rogan said dryly. "Thank you for that declaration of trust in the town guard's ability and dedication to upholding the law."

"Honor where honor is due," Zana said pointedly, and sat down. "Where do you think Vilam gets his supply for killing off the competition?"

Rogan splayed his fingers and smiled frostily. "And how do you know that Vilam did such a thing?"

Zana gestured at the crate. "It's all in there."

The constable flicked a glance at it. "Let me guess - Felga's notes."

"She did investigate the goings-on at the races," Zana argued. "And she collected a lot of witness statements..."

"Alta." Rogan sounded tired. "Unless those witnesses make those statements to an officer of the watch, and later to a judge, they are nothing but gossip that Felga collected. Granted, she was very good at collecting gossip and turning it into sensational stories for her paper. That was her job. But it's nothing that has any bearing on her murder case."

"She was investigating Vilam, specifically," Zana insisted. "And she uncovered a lot of illegal activities - things that would've ruined him financially. I learned that he was already struggling anyway, ever since Levar's racers had started winning almost every race. Don't tell me money isn't a strong motive. Or freedom, because once Felga would've taken this to court, he'd have been in jail for illegal possession and use of Blaze, and for fixing races..."

"Yes, he had good reasons to hate Felga," Rogan interrupted her. "Almost everyone had, in this town. I know you doted on her for some reason, but believe me, Felga had a talent for alienating people. I never understood why Halda stayed so doggedly at her side, I always thought she maybe profited somehow from her... but that's beside the point. There's one thing you need to understand." He leaned forward and locked eyes with her.

"Motive is... suggestive. Without a motive, you don't have a murder, you have a fatal accident. But motive isn't evidence - a lot of people have reason to kill someone, but never do, thank Cesar. If you want to prove that someone committed a crime, you need to present physical clues." He leaned back in his seat. "Like that bandage that left a thread in the victim's fur. Face it, Alta - I have evidence. All you have," he gestured at the crate, "is hearsay."

"I'm sure you'd find plenty of evidence against Vilam, if you only bothered to look for it," Zana countered, embarrassed at being dismissed so casually. "Felga wrote that he was threatening racers, trainers, even the racing stewards, for getting specific racers to win. And not even his own racers, which suggests that he did it for someone else. I find it odd that nobody seems to care much about that practice. It seems to defy the whole purpose of the sport."

Rogan shifted in his seat. "Alright, I'll go down to the stadium and have a look," he muttered. "But even if I find evidence that Vilam was fixing races, or killing off humans, that still won't connect him to Felga's death. He has an alibi, in case you've forgotten, and it has been confirmed by Olman's staff."

So he had checked on Vilam's alibi. Zana felt a tiny spark of satisfaction that Rogan had at least taken her seriously enough to do that much. "If Olman supplies Vilam with the drug, he'd have reason to give him an alibi," she said, determined not to let Vilam off the hook. "He wouldn't want Vilam to spill the beans in exchange for a lighter sentence. So when you find the evidence, you might want to check that alibi again, because it's the only thing that saves Vilam from suspicion."

"If Olman supplies him with Blaze," Rogan repeated, a trace of exasperation in his voice. "And where is your evidence for that? And before you lead me to a field of Horny Goat weed - he has a licence to cultivate and sell the herb to apothecaries and herbalists. It's all perfectly legal."

"Of course it is," Zana deadpanned. "And of course he'd never tolerate anyone else romping through his fields and stealing tons of the herb he wants to sell, to cook Blaze. And with his company working in the woods almost year round, he'd also have no idea where in the wilderness they'd hide those drug cooking sites."

"Right," Rogan said. He stared into the distance for a moment, chewing on his lip. "You know," he said abruptly, "I did a bit of investigating, too; since Felga and you were so successful with that activity, I thought I might try it myself." He smiled a little ironic smile at her. "And I did find something interesting. Did you know that Felga planned to sue Levar?"

Zana shook her head, too stunned to think of a comeback to Rogan's needling about her attempt at investigating this case.

"She did," Rogan said, watching her face. "I saw the written complaint. If she had succeeded, Levar would've gone to jail, and would've lost his kennel over the damages. Guess who was planning on buying up his property?"

"Felga?" Zana whispered.

Rogan shook his head and smiled. "Close. Her charity. What an irony, huh, to expand the shelter by repurposing a former kennel? But what's even more interesting is the reason she sued him." He nodded towards the crate with the scrolls. "I'm a bit surprised that you didn't find anything about it in her notes."

"There wasn't anything about Levar in Felga's notes," Zana said numbly. "Not a single scroll."

"Ah. Well. As you know, absence of evidence isn't evidence of absence. What Felga intended to bring before the court," Rogan said, "was Levar's use of Blaze on his racers."