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Book Information:

Genre: Blend of Science Fiction and Fantasy

Author: Kate Elliott

Name: Child of Flame

Series: Book one in theCaine series

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            MATTHEW WOODRING STOVER



            HEROES DIE

                         A Novel of Caine



      Exclusive Interview with Matthew Woodring Stover(at the end of the book)
                  prologue

with my handon the doorjamb, some buried-alive instinct thumps within my chest: this is going to hurt.

      I take a deep breath and step inside.

       The bedchamber of Prince-Regent Toa-Phelalhon is really pretty restrained, when you consider
that the guy in the bed there rules the second-largest empire on Overworld. The bed itself is a modest
eight-poster, only half an acre or so; the extra four posts—each an overcarved slab of rose-veined thierril
thicker than my thigh—support lamps of gleaming brass. Long yellow flames like blades of spears waver
gently in the breeze from the concealed service door. I close the door soundlessly behind me, and its
brocade paper-covered surface blends seamlessly into the pattern of the wall.

      I wade through the billowing carpet of silken cushions, a knee-high cloud of vividly shimmering
primary colors. A flash of maroon and gold to my left, and my heart suddenly hammers—but it's only my
own livery, my servant's dress, captured briefly in the spun-silver mirror atop the Prince-Regent's
commode of lacquered Lipkan krim. The reflection shows me the spell, the enchanted face I present:
smooth, rounded cheeks, sandy hair, a trace of peach fuzz. I tip myself a blurry wink and smile with my
sandpaper lips, ease out a silent sigh, and keep moving.

       The Prince-Regent lies propped on pillows larger than my whole bed and snores happily, the silver
hairs of his mustache puffing in and out with each wheeze. A book lies facedown across his ample chest:
one of Kimlarthen's series of Korish romances. This draws another smile out of my dry mouth; who
would have figured the Lion of Prorithun for a sentimentalist? Fairy tales—simple stories for simple
minds, a breath of air to cool brows overheated by the complexities of real life.

       I set the golden tray down softly on the table beside his bed. He stirs, shifting comfortably in his
sleep—and freezing my blood. His movement sends a puff of lavender scent up from the pillows. My
fingers tingle. His hair, unbound for napping, falls in a steel-colored spray around his face. That noble
brow, those flashing eyes, that ruggedly carved chin exposed by careful shaving within his otherwise full
beard—he's everybody's perfect image of the great king. The statue of him on his rearing charger—the
one that stands in the Court of the Gods near the Fountain of Prorithun— will make a fine, inspiring
memorial.

       His eyes pop open when he feels my hand grip his throat: I'm far too professional to try to stifle his
shout with a hand over the mouth, and only a squeak gets past my grip. Further struggle is discouraged
by his close-up view of my knife, its thick, double-edged point an inch from his right eye.

      I bite my tongue, and saliva gushes into my mouth to moisten my throat. My voice is steady: very
low and very flat.

      "It's customary, at times like this, to say a few words. A man shouldn't die with no understanding
of why he's been murdered. I do not pride myself on my eloquence, and so I will keep this simple."

      I lean close and stare past my knife blade into his eyes. "The Monasteries kept you on the Oaken
Throne by supporting your foolish action against Lipke in the Plains War; the Council of Brothers felt, on
balance, that you would be a strong enough ruler to hold the Empire together, at least until the Child
Queen reaches majority."

      His face is turning purple, and veins in his neck bulge against my grip. If I don't talk fast, I' have
choked him out before F m done. I sigh through my teeth and pick up the pace.

       "They have discovered, though, that you're an idiot. Your punitive taxes are weakening both
Kirisch-Nar and Jheled-Kaarn— they tell me ten thousand free peasants starved to death in Kaarn alone
last winter. Now you've bloodied the nose of Lipke over that stupid iron mine in the Gods' Teeth, and
you're making noises like you want to fight a full-scale war over two crappy little eastern provinces. You
have ignored and insulted the Lipkan trade delegation and have dismissed the Council of Brothers'
admonitions. They've decided that you're no longer fit to rule, if you ever were.

       They are tired of waiting. They've paid me a great deal of money to remove you from the throne.
Blink twice if you understand."

       His eyes widen stiffly, bug out staring from his head as though he'd make them lidless if only he
could, and his throat works under my hand. He mouths words at me that my poor lipreading skill can't
follow beyond theinitial please please please. He'd like to argue with me, no doubt, or perhaps request
leniency or asylum for his wife and two daughters. I can grant neither; if a war of succession follows this
murder, they'll have to take their chances along with the rest of us.

       Finally his eyeballs begin to dry, and he blinks—once. Funny how our reflexes conspire to kill us,
sometimes. In terms of my contract, I'm to ensure his comprehension; if I'm to do this properly, I should
wait for his next blink. All proprieties should be observed, in the death of a king.

       His gaze shifts minutely—the old warrior is going to make a try forme, a last desperate convulsion
of his will to survive, calling on other, more recent reflexes to rescue him.

      When it's a choice between observing the proprieties and getting caught in the Prince-Regent's
bedchamber, nine infinite floors up the spire of the Colhari Palace, the proprieties can fuck off.

       I jam the knife into his eye. Bone crackles and blood sprays. I use the knife to twist his face away
from me: a bloodstain on this livery could be fatal, on my way out. He flops like a salmon that's found
unexpected land beneath an upstream leap. This is only his body's last unconscious attempt to live; it goes
hand-in-hand with the release of his bowels and bladder. He shits and pisses all over himself and his
satin-weave sheets—another one of those primordial reflexes, a futile dodge to make his meat
unappetizing to the predator.

      Screw it. I'm not hungry anyway.

      He quiets after a year or so. I brace my free hand against his forehead and work the knife back
and forth. It comes free with a wet scrape, and I set about the grisly part of this job.

        The serrated edge slices easily through the flesh of his neck, but grates against his third cervical
vertebra. A slightly altered angle of attack puts the edge between the third and fourth, and a couple
seconds' sawing loosens his head. The copper scent of his blood is so thick I can smell it through the
stench of his shit; my stomach twists until I can barely breathe. I uncover the golden tray that I'd carried
up from the kitchens, gently set the plates of steaming food to one side, and put Toa-Phelathon's head in
their place, picking it up carefully by the hair so that none of the gore that drains from it will stain my
clothes. I replace the golden dome and strip off my bloodstained gloves, tossing them carelessly onto the
body beside the discarded knife. My hands are clean.

       I lift the tray to my shoulder and take a deep breath. The easy part's over. Now I have to get out
of here alive.
      The trickiest part of this escape is the first hurdle: getting away from the body. If I pass the pair of
guards at the service door cleanly, I'll be out of the palace before anyone knows the old man is dead. My
adrenals sing to me a potent tune that makes my hands tingle and raises goose bumps up my back. My
heartbeat thunders in my ears.

     In the upper left corner of my vision, the red Exit Square blinks. I ignore it, even as it moves with
my eyes like an afterimage of the sun.

       I'm only halfway across the room when the service door swings open. Jemson Thai, the master
steward, starts talking before he even clears the doorway. "Your pardon, Majesty," he begins in a hasty
breathless gabble, "but there is a rumor of an impostor among the serv..."

       Jemson Thai takes in the headless corpse on the bed, he takes in me, and his gabble trails into
gasping. His eyes go round and the color drains from his face; his mouth works like he's strangling. close
the distance between us with a long, smoothcroise and kick him in the throat. It drops him like a bag of
rocks, and now he's strangling for real as he tries to breathe around the splinters of his larynx, clawing at
his throat and writhing on the service-passage floor.

       I didn't even tip the tray.

       One of the guards is, will be, easy. With a wordless exclamation he drops to one knee beside Thai
and tries stupidly to help him. What's he think he's gonna do, thump the poor bastard's back until he
coughs up his windpipe? The other isn't in sight; smarter than his partner, he's pressed against the wall of
the service passage, waiting for me.

        Both of these guards wear long sturdy hauberks under their mantles of maroon and gold, with
padded chainmail coifs reinforced by studded steel skullcaps. Toa-Phelathon spared no expense in
outfitting his Household Knights; my knives are useless against them, but hey, that's all right—I'm deep in
it, now.

       The waiting is over. I'm happy again.

       The smarter guard has a brainstorm and begins to shout for help.

        I uncover the tray and gravely regard Toa-Phelathon. The lower third of his flowing hair is soaked
in blood, but his face isn't too contorted; even with the ruin of his eye he's still clearly recognizable. I
thrust the tray through the doorway about chest high; the sight of its cargo cuts off the shouted alarm as
efficiently as an arrow down the throat.

      While the portion of the guard's brain that handles signal processing still struggles to assimilate the
concept of the disembodied head of his king, I skip out into the service passage; I have two seconds,
maybe more, before Smartguard there can use his mind for anything beyond saying, "Huh?"

       The guard on one knee claws at his sword as he surges to his feet. I drop the tray with a clang,
and the head bounces away as I get a hand on the dumb guard's wrist and keep that blade where it
belongs. I follow with a sharp headbutt that rings in my ears with a slapstickbonk; Dumbguard's nose
spreads like deviled ham, and his eyes drift together. I wrap both forearms around his coif and pivot
away from him, twisting him sideways into a hangman's throw that sends him tumbling forward to crash
into Smartguard. The padding behind his chainmail coif didn't give his neck enough support to save him:
his neck bones parted with a sharp pop as I levered him over my back. He twitches out the last of his life
as I leap lightly across Jemson Thai's convulsing body to go over and kill Smartguard.

       That's when Toa-Phelathon gets his piece of me, a bit of petty revenge that must have him
snickering in the afterlife.

      I'm coming down—it's just a little jump—but I've got my eyes on Smartguard, who's disentangling
himself from Dumbguard, and my foot lands on Toa-Phelathon's head.

       It rolls out from under me, and I upend like Elmer Fudd.

        I barely manage to take the fall on my shoulder instead of the back of my neck, and only the
narrowness of the service corridor saves my life: when Smartguard swings his broadsword at my head,
its tip hangs up in the woodwork. I try to roll away, but I come up against Jemson Thai, who's still
choking, and this time Smart-guard gets it right. Instead of swinging his sword, he lunges with a stiff arm
and drives a foot of steel through my liver.

        A sword in the belly is a disconcerting thing: it doesn't really hurt, much, but it's really fuckingcold,
it radiates freezing cold that surges through your whole body and drains the strength out of your legs, like
the brain freeze you get from chewing up an ice cube only you feel it all over, and you can feel the blade
sliding around in there, slicing things up, and frankly, the whole process sucks, if you ask me.

     A couple of pounds of steel in the belly also plays fuckass with the forcepattern of the spell that
makes me look like a teenage eunuch. The magick flickers like a dying CRT, and the discharge lifts hair
on my neck and makes my beard tingle.

       Smarlguard pulls the blade instead of twisting it around in there—a mistake of inexperience that
I'm going to kill him for. It scrapes a rib on the way out, a sensation that's analogous to fingernails across
a blackboard combined with having your teeth drilled without anesthetic; screaming clouds of blackness
bloom inside my eyes. I moan and shudder with pain, and Smartguard mistakes these for death rattle and
convulsion—more inexperience.

       "There, you bastard, an easy death is better than you deserve!" he says.

       Tears well in his eyes for his fallen lord, and I don't have the heart to tell him that I agree with him.
He bends toward me a little as the enchanted disguise finally fades, and his eyes go wide. There's awe in
his voice when he says, "Hey, you could be...you look like, likeCaine! Youare, aren' t you? I mean, who
else would...Great K'hool, I've killed Caine! I'm gonnabe famous!"

       I don't think so.

       I hook my right toe around his ankle to hold his leg while I stamp his knee with my left. It snaps,
loudly, and he collapses into a wailing heap. That's the trouble with chainmail: it's no defense against joints
bending in ways they're not designed to bend. He doesn't drop his sword, though; the kid has heart.

       I come to my feet with an acrobat's kip, tearing something inside my wounded belly. He jabs at me
with the sword—but from the ground he's slow, and it's easy to slap my palms together around the flat of
the blade, kick his wrist, and take it away from him. I flip the sword end-for-end and neatly catch the hilt.

       "Too bad, kid," I tell him. "You'd've been pretty good, if you'd lived."

       I shortarm the swing, and it takes him across the top of the ear, half an inch below the studded rim
of his skullcap. The edge doesn't penetrate the chain coif, but it doesn't have to; I'm good with swords,
and the impact alone is enough to fracture his skull and kill him.

       I pause a bare moment to get my breath and take stock of my situation. I'm bleeding, front and
back where he ran me through, and no doubt internally as well. I figure I've got ten minutes of useful
action before I hit shock. Could be longer, could be a lot less; depends on how much damage that
broadsword actually did and how badly I'm hemorrhaging.

       In that time I must descend eight heavily guarded floors of the Colhari Palace and lose myself in
the crowds of Ankhana's Old Town—all while carrying the head of the Prince-Regent. The alarm's been
raised, and I'm probably bleeding to death, but that's no reason to leave him behind; without the head, I
don't get paid, and besides, carrying a severed head won't make me any more conspicuous than I
already am. With blood running down my legs, I can't bluff, I can't hide, and I'll leave a trail behind
wherever I go. Now I can hear the pounding of booted feet approaching at a run.

       The red Exit Square is back at the upper left corner of my field of vision, flashing on and off.

       Yeah, all right. Time to go.

      I get the rhythm of it and start triggering my blink reflex in synch with the flashing. The service
passage and the dying men around me fade into nonexistence.




       hari michaelson's eyesratcheted open when the Motorola rep swung back the helmet, and he
ground his teeth against the sliding non-pain of the IV needle that the rep's assistant slowly drew out of
his neck. He lifted his hand and hacked a cough against the thick callus that ridged his knuckles, and the
Motorola rep hastily produced a paper cup for him to spit into. He stretched slowly, with much creaking
and joint popping, and sat forward in the simichair, elbows to knees. His straight black hair was glossy
with sweat, and his eyes of the same color were rimmed in red; he turned away from the reps and rested
his face on his hands.

        The Motorola girl and her assistant both looked at him with the kind of hopeful puppy-dog eyes
that sickened him.

        From the depths of an immense, genuine calf-leather lounger, Marc Vilo asked, "Well? How was
it, Hari? What do you think?"

       Hari took a deep breath, sighed it out, scratched his beard, rubbed the sallow scar that crossed
the bridge of his crooked, twice-broken nose, and tried to find the energy to speak. He called this,
privately, his post-Caine shits: a shattering cocaine-crash depression that hit him every time he came back
to Earth and had to be Hari Michaelson again. Even today—not even a real Adventure, only a
three-year-old recording—had been enough to trigger it.

        And let's be honest: There was more going on here than post-Caine shits. There was a sizzling hole
in his guts—like he'd swallowed acid and it had burned its way out through the skin, right alongside the
scar Smartguard's broadsword had left on his liver. Whythis cube, out of all Caine's Adventures? What
in Christ's name was Vilothinking"?
       To bring him here and put him through part ofA Servant of the Empire again—even a small
part—was an exquisite refinement of cruelty, a lemon squeezed into an already-salted wound. It chewed
at him, gnawed that hole in his guts like a little fucking rat.

       Most of the time, he could kid himself along, pretend that he wasn't really hurt, pretend that this
empty burning ache that took over his chest whenever he thought of Shanna was just indigestion, just an
ulcer. Most of the time, he could pretend the pain came from a hole in his guts, instead of the hole in his
life. He'd gotten good at kidding himself: for months now, he'd had himself believing he was getting over
her.

      What the fuck, huh? Practice makes perfect.

      "Hari?" Vilo leaned forward in his lounger, an edge of dangerous impatience sharpening his voice.
"Everybody'swaiting on you, kid. Let's have it."

      Slowly, Hari managed to force words from his throat. "It's illegal, Biz'man. This is illegal tech."

      The Motorola rep gasped like a Leisurewoman meeting a flasher. "I assure you,I personally
assureboth of you, this technology was developed entirely indepen—"

       Vilo cut her off with a smoke-trailingshut up wave of his cigar, a thick black ConCristo almost as
big as he was. "I know it'sillegal, Hari, shit. Am I an idiot? I just want to know if it's any good."

        Mark Vilo was a little salty-haired fighting cock, a self-upcasted Businessman pushing sixty from
the far side, a swaggering bowlegged bastard who was the majority stockholder in Vilo
Intercontinental—ostensibly a worldwide transport firm. He was the lord and master of this sprawling
estate in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristos, and was the Business Patron of the superstar Actor whom
everyone called Caine.

       "Good?" Hari shrugged, sighing. Why argue? "Yeah, you better believe it. Next best thing to being
there." He turned to the Motorola rep. "Your neurochem feed—that's a fake, isn't it?"

      The rep made protesting noises until Hari cut her off with a weary, "Ahh, shut up."

       He was glad, really, that the Motorola rep was an idiot; it gave him something to think about
beyond the cold hurt that lived in Shanna's eyes whenever he pictured her face. It had been months since
he'd been able to even imagine her with a smile.Keep your mind on fucking business, he snarled at
himself. He turned to Vilo and tried to stretch some life back into his voice by flexing his aching
shoulders. "Don't let them shit you, Biz'man. This whole Exit Square business, what do they call that?
Blink in Synch?"

      The Motorola rep offered a glassy, professional smile. "It's only one of the cutting-edge features
that make this unit the best value on the market today."

       Hari ignored her. "So you trigger your blink reflex to exit the program," he went on. "It's not a
mechanical trigger. It reads the impulse as feedback on the inducers; this is wholly owned Studio
technology, and the Studio takes this kind of shit seriously. The neurochem feed is just camouflage.
Nothing's going through that line but the hypnotics—and not much of them, if you want to know: they
pooched the feed. They're playing all the sensation through the same kind of direct neural induction that
the Studio uses in their first-hander chairs—and they've got it turned up too high. The smell, when I cut
off Toa-Phelathon's head? The real thing's not that potent. And they had the adrenal level ja/zed so high I
could barely breathe. Finally, the sword in the guts, ithurt too much."

       "But, but Entertainer Michaelson—" the rep sputtered, exchanging a quick worried glance with her
assistant,"—we have to make itbelievable, you know, I mean—"

       Hari rose slowly; the post-Caine shits made him feel boneless, as if only extreme concentration
kept his head on his shoulders— but a little bit of Caine's edgy threat began to leak into his voice, into the
cold darkness of his eyes.

       He lifted the hem of his tunic to expose the brown lines of the twin scars, front and back, on his left
side below the short ribs, where Smartguard's broadsword had pierced his liver just less than three years
ago. "You see these? You want totouch them? So who should know better? You?"

       "Hari, Jesus Christ, don't be such an asshole," Vilo said. He waved his cigar dismissively at the
rep. "Don't mind him; it's not personal, y'know. He's like this with everybody."

       "I'm telling you," Hari said lifelessly, "they screwed it up. If that sword scraping my rib had hurt as
much when it really happened as it did just now, I'd have spent a couple more seconds stunned. When
something hurts that much, there's not much you can do except moan or scream, writhe around, or pass
right out. That poor bastard guard would have put his next thrust into my throat. All right?"

      He opened a hand toward Vilo and sighed. "You want to invest in proprietary tech, that's your
business. But I'd think you wouldn't want to deal with idiots who can't even tune an induction helmet."

        Vilo grunted. "Invest, nothing. I'm just gonna buy the goddamn thing, Hari; this is a quote-unquote
prototype. Not even a dinosaur like Motorola is gonna freemarket tech that pirates Studio effects. I just
wanted to have one so I can go over cubes on my own time, without blowing a couple weeks on a
first-hander berth." "Yeah, whatever. Do what you want."

       "Hari..." Vilo said mildly, returning his ConCristo to a corner of his mouth. "Attitude."

      It was a mild chill that settled into the silence Vilo's admonition left in its wake, just enough that the
rep and her assistant exchanged a flickering glance—no one actually shivered. Vilo blandly nodded
toward the reps, indicatingput on your company manners, son.

      Hari lowered his head sullenly. "Sorry, Biz'man," he muttered. "I'm out of line. But I've got one
more question—with your permission."

       Vilo gave his lord-of-the-manor nod, and Hari turned to the woman from Motorola. "The cubes
this chair plays—they're not standard Studio-issue recordings. They can't be; standard cubes don't carry
scent or touch/pain data, and I can't believe your in-ducers can read off the neurochem channel and
compensate for time lag and dosage and everything else. You're getting bootleg masters from
somewhere, aren't you?"

      The Motorola rep smiled her best corporate smile and said, "I'm afraid I can't answer that. But, as
guaranteed under the purchase contract, Biz'man Vilo will receive cubes appropriate for this
equipment—

      "That's enough," Hari said disgustedly. He turned back to Vilo. "Look, it's like this. These idiots
have another idiot inside the Studio processing labs who's feeding them bootleg masters. First, that means
that what you'll get is gonna be, most likely,uncut. A two-week Adventure is going to run two weeks in
that chair, just like if you were sitting in the Cavea in a first-hander berth, only worse. This chair doesn't
have twitch-response units, comfort hookups, or an internal food supply. Second, they'll be feeding you a
steady stream of these bootlegs. There'll be records of regular delivery, that kind of thing, and one of
these days, their idiot is gonna get caught. Then before they cyborg him and sell him for a Worker, the
Studio cops will get enough out of him to roll up the whole network, which they'll turn over to their
friends in the government. And these won't be friendly and courteous CID guys knocking on your door,
because this isn't just tech violation anymore. By now, it's about intellectual property, and copyright
infringement, and all of a sudden you're looking at the Social Police. Even you, Businessman, do not want
to get on the short end of the fuckstick with Soapy."

       Vilo leaned back in his chair, snugging his head against its gel-pack headrest. He puffed a couple
rolling mushroom clouds of his stinking cigar smoke, then sat up again, a half grin wrinkling his
crow's-feet. "Hari, you still think like a criminal, you know that? Twenty years later, you're still a street
punk at heart."

      Hari stretched his lips into a humorless smile in response; he didn't know what that was supposed
to mean, and he didn't want to ask.

        Vilo went on, "Why'nt you go on up to the pond and have a drink while I wrap things down here,
hey?"

       There was a time, Hari reflected dully, that to be dismissed like a child, like a little fucking kid,
would have felt like a slap. Now, it produced only a blank amazement that he still seemed to be going
about his business, going on with his life, as though it still had meaning.

      But it was an act, as hollow a pretense as was Caine himself. Without Shanna, the world was
empty, and he couldn't really manage to care about anything at all. He nodded. "Sure. See you there."

        hari prowled thesunlitrocks that surrounded the shimmering pond and the twin waterfalls that fed it.
The pond was a beautiful piece of work: only the faint scent of chlorine and a sneaking conviction that
nature wouldn't have arranged stone and water with so much attention to human comforts betrayed its
artificial origins.

        Hari paced back and forth, sat down, stood up. Once or twice he started out toward the scrub
desert, into the gritty wind and barren mounds of slag and tailings from the surrounding mines. Each time,
he stopped at the fringes of Vilo's artificial oasis, came back, and started the cycle over again. He stared
out at the toxic sludge of the barrens with a kind of wistfulness; he could imagine himself walking among
the heaps, all the way up into the dead rock of the mountains. He wasn't sure that tramping through the
poisoned waste would make him feel any better, but he knew it couldn't make him feel much worse.

      Take it easy,he told himself over and over again.It's not like she's dead. And each time, a dark
whisper in his heart told him that maybe he'd be better off if she was. Or if he was.

        With her death, he could start to heal; with his, he'd be beyond pain.

       What the fuck was taking Vilo so goddamn long? Hari hated waiting, always had. Nothing to do
but stand around and think—and there were too many things in his life that didn't bear thinking about.

       He looked around for something, anything, he could use to distract himself. He even looked up the
wall of the artificial cliffs down which the waterfalls streamed into the pond, thinking that maybe a
fifty-meter free climb up a vertical water-slickened face might be just the thing to lake his mind off
Shanna.

       This had been his tactic ever since the separation: Keep busy. Divert the mind. Don't think about
it. And it was a good tactic, one that worked, day to day. Sometimes hours would pass, days, even a
week, during which he barely thought of her.

       But he'd always been a better tactician than he was a strategist. He won every battle, but on days
like today he couldn't help realizing that he was losing the war.

       Even climbing the fucking waterfall wouldn't help; his experienced eye picked out innumerable
handholds and footholds that could only have been put there by intention. This cliff had beendesigned to
be climbed, and he could go up it more easily than most men could climb a ladder. He shook his head
disgustedly.

      "Hey, Caine!" called one of the girls who swam in the pond. "Want to come in and play?"

       In the pond a couple of the ubiquitous Vilo Intercontinental party girls had been swimming and
splashing and dunking each other. Long-limbed, lean, athletic, with perfect teeth and breasts that were
better yet, their job was to be available to Businessman Vilo's guests. They both were staggeringly
beautiful. Surgical glamour was part of their bonus for their five years' service, at the end of which they'd
be released to seek their leggy fortunes elsewhere. They were playing up for him now, arranging lovely
flashes of thigh and butt, the graceful arc of a well-toned back thrusting a nipple toward the sky; if it
hadn't been so deliberate it might've been appealing.

       Now the one who had called to him slid behind the other and drew her into an embrace; one hand
cupped her breast while the other slid below the water's surface toward her crotch. She bent her graceful
neck to kiss her partner's shoulder, all the while inviting him with her eyes.

       Hari sighed. He supposed he might as well jump in; at least fucking a couple party girls would have
a certain honesty. Unlike the celebrity-hungry women who put themselves in his way wherever he went,
these girls were professionals. There wouldn't be any pretense that they cared about him, or he about
them.

       A few years ago, sure, he would have done it. But now, so late in his life, after he had finally found
someone who had loved him, whom he had loved, who had made truth of the ancient euphemismmaking
love, he couldn't. He couldn't even get interested. Fucking those girls would be like sticking his dick in a
knothole: a complicated, slightly painful way to masturbate.

       A waistcoat-and-cummerbund servant slid silently up beside Hari and offered a tray with a snifter
of scotch. "Laphroaig, right?" Hari nodded and took it. "Uh, Caine?"

      Hari sighed. "Call me Hari, all right? Everybody forgets I have a name."

      "Oh, okay, uh,Hari. I just wanted to say, y'know, I'm a big fan of yours, I even, well, y'know...ah,
never mind."

      "All right."

       But the servant—Andre, Hari thought his name might be—still hovered expectantly at his elbow.
Hari took a slow pull from the snifter and watched the girls swim.
       The servant coughed and said, "I only get cubes of your stuff, of course. I only been a first-hander
once, a few years ago when Biz'man Vilo took a bunch of us for vacation. It was kinda wild, because,
y'know, we didn't first-handyou —that's really expensive— but the guy we did, he was Yoturei the
Ghost. You remember him?"

       "Should I?" Hari said, bored. Why do people think that all Actors know each other?

       "Well, yeah, mean, I don't know. You killed me—I meanhim. In the Warrens in Ankhana."

        "Oh, yeah." Hari shrugged, remembering now the ruckus at the Studio when he'd transferred back
after that Adventure. "He tracked me for a day or two before I caught him. Hell, how' m I supposed to
know the kid's an Actor? He should've had enough blights to stay out of my way."

       "You didn't even remember?"

       "I kill a lot of people."

      "Jeez." The servant leaned closer, conspiratorially, offering a whiff of the red wine that was giving
him the balls to keep talking. "Y'know, sometimes I even dream of being you...being Caine, y'know?"

       Hari grunted a laugh. "Yeah, sometimes I do, too."

       The servant frowned. "I don't get it."

      Hari took another pull from the snifter, warming to the conversation. Even empty chatter with a fan
was better than standing alone with his thoughts.

       "Caine and I, we're not the same person, all right? I grew up in a San Francisco Labor slum;
Caine's an Overworld foundling. He was raised by a Pathquan freedman, a farrier and blacksmith. By the
time I was twelve I was a sneakthief because I wasn't big enough to be a mugger; when Caine was
twelve, he was sold to a Lipkan slaver because the whole family was starving to death in the Blood
Famine."

       "But that's all, like, pretend, right?"

      Hari shrugged and sat down on the rocks, making himself comfortable. "When I'm on Overworld,
being Caine, it seems real enough to me. You train yourself to believe it. Overworld is a different place,
kid. Caine can do things I can't; I mean, he's not a spellcaster, but the principle's the same. He's faster,
stronger, more ruthless, maybe not as bright. It's like magick, I guess. It's imagination, and willpower: you
make yourself believe."

       "That's how the magick works? I mean, I don't really get it, magick, but you—

    "I don't really get it, either," Hari said sourly. "Spellcasters are crazy. They, sort of, hallucinate on
command...Ah, I don't know. First-hand one sometime. They're all fucking bughouse nuts."

       "Well, then, uh—" The servant offered a clumsy boys'-club laugh. "Then why'd you marry one?"

       And, somehow, it always comes back to Shanna.Hari emptied the snifter, swallowed hard, sighed,
and with a blurred whip of the wrist fired the empty snifter over the pond to shatter on the rocks on the
other side, a shimmering crystal shower echoing the waterfall's rainbow spray. Hari rolled his eyes up to
meet the consternation on the servant's face. "Maybe you better go sweep that up, huh? Before the
Businessman gets here."

      "Jeez, Caine, I didn't mean to—

      "Forget it," Hari said. He leaned back on the rocks and laid his elbow over his eyes. "Go sweep."

       Lying there, he could only think of the end ofA Servant of the Empire. He could almost feel
Shanna's lap below his head, almost smell the faint musk of her skin, almost hear her whisper to him that
she loved him, that he had to live.

       The happiest dream he could dream, lying on the rocks beside Marc Vilo's pool, was of lying on
the shit-stained cobbles of a narrow Ankhanan alley, bleeding to death.

      A shadow fell across his face and woke him up.

      His heart leaped, and he started upward, shading his eyes, breathless—

       Vilo stood over him, haloed by the afternoon sun. "I'm goin' into Frisco. Come on, Hari, I'll give
you a lift home."

       vilo's rolls lurchedslightly on insertion into the slavelanes. The Businessman unbelted his pilot's
straps, walked back to the passenger lounge, and poured himself a long shot of Metaxa. He drained a
third of it at a gulp and lowered himself onto the love seat that formed a corner with the sofa where Hari
sat.

      "Hari, I want you to get back together with Shanna," Vilo said.

      Long years of practice in dealing with the upcastes kept Hari stone-faced. He'd anticipated it and
thought he was ready, but the sizzle in his chest told him he'd never be ready for this.

      It seemed like, somehow, she was all around him, like he couldn't turn his head without seeing
something that reminded him of her, like every word spoken in his presence was some kind of a jeering
reminder that he had been tried and found wanting—that, in the end, he just wasn't good enough for her.

      He stared out one of the broad windows that sided the Rolls, watching the snowcapped peaks of
the Rocky Mountains flow past far below. "We've been over this," he said tiredly.

      "Yes, we have. And I don't want to have to talk about it again, understand? You patch things up
with her, and I'm not kidding."

       Hari shook his head wordlessly. He looked down at his hands, folded now between his knees like
a sullen child's, and with a sudden twist popped his knuckles hard enough to make his joints ache. "Can I
have a drink?"

      "All right," Vilo said. "Help yourself."

       Hari went to the bar and kept his back to his Patron while he pretended to scan the liquor display.
Finally he stabbed a code at random, and the dispenser whirred and hummed and burped up some
evil-smelling crimson frozen fruit concoction—and eliminated Hari's last delaying tactic. He sipped it and
made a face.
      "Exactly what is your problem?" Vilo asked. "I think this is the third time I've told you, straight out
and no dodging, that I want you two back together. So what's the holdup?"

        Hari shook his head. "It's not that simple."

       "My ass. The only reason I let you marry her in the first place was she's good for your image. And
mine. I need to soften a little so I can cozy with Shermaya Dole; she's a little leery of selling GFT to me."

      The Doles were a Leisure family, but it pleased Shermaya to dabble in Investing, and occasionally
in Business; she sponsored a number of Actors, including—most prominently—Shanna.

       Vilo took another long pull of his brandy and went on musingly. "Green Fields
Technologies...Y'know, I've been trying to crack into agriculture for five years now, and GFT has some
new synthetic something or other that's supposed to let us recover the Kannebraska Desert for farming.
Dole's worried about the GFT Laborers and Artisans, though; I've almost got her convinced that I j
won't postacquisition downsize at all. Silly bitch. Anyway, I've been talking to her about Shanna, and she
says she won't press for a reconciliation; she's got this thing about letting you two work this shit out for
yourselves. I say, screw that. Dole's a twitch, and a softhearted one, too. She's teetering. I get you back
together with Shanna, it just might trip the wire on this deal. So do it."

      "She leftme, Biz'man," Hari murmured, and was again surprised at the sudden twist of pain that
followed saying this. It always surprised him, every time. "There's not much I can do."

       "Well, what's upher goddamn ass then?" Vilo snapped. "There's probably five billion women that'd
sell both their tits and an ovary to spendone night with you! Jesus Christ!" "The nights weren't the
problem." The Businessman chuckled crudely. "I'll bet." Hari stared down into the creamy crimson head
of his drink. "She, ah...shit. I don't know. I think she figured that I'd be a little less like Caine. It was—"
He took a deep breath. "It was the Toa-Phelathon thing that started it, if you really want to know."

        Vilo nodded. "I do know. That's why I picked that cube for you to audit today."

        Hari stiffened, and muscles at the corners of his jaw suddenly bulged.

       "She left you because you're anasshole," Vilo told him, jabbing his finger at Hari's chest. "She left
you because she couldn't stand living with a homicidal shit-heel who treated her like dirt." A red mist
began to coalesce in Hari's vision. "Inever... " He clenched against his temper and said, "It wasn't about
how I treated her. I treated her like a queen." The glass trembled in his hand and slopped a bit onto the
Rolls' carpet. The spreading stain looked like blood.

        Vilo followed his gaze and snorted. "You can clean that up later. Right now I'm not done talking to
you."

       He drained his glass and leaned forward, creases in his face deepening with his frown. "I know
you're a little wrought up, but you listen now. I want you back together with Shanna, and no fucking
around on this. You do whatever it takes. If she thinks you're too...whatever, you make goddamn sure
that you'reless. You follow? don't care what it takes. You do it." "Biz'man—" Hari began.

       "Don't 'Biz'man' me, Michaelson. I give you a lot of fucking slack. I let you talk up, I let you play
studman for the public, and I give you a lot of fucking money. You start paying back now. You ever
don't feel like it, you just remember that you're not the only motherfucking Actor that fronts for VI." Vilo
sat back to let Hari think about it.

       Hari's ears rang with the tension in his neck. Slowly, carefully, he set his glass down on the bar,
watching his hand all the way. Then, just as slowly and carefully, he turned back to his Patron and said, in
a voice held very soft and very calm, "Yes, Biz'man. All right."

       hari stood bythe tall chain fence that surrounded the grass court behind the Abbey and watched
Vilo lift the Rolls expertly from the lawn, its turbocells rotating toward flight position before it cleared the
trees. He squinted against the backblast but held his position respectfully until the Rolls slid into the thick,
rolling clouds over San Francisco, clouds that now reflected the bloody glow of the streetlights from the
city below.

     He walked to the broad armorglass doors of the sunroom, put his hand on the scanner, and said,
"Honey, I'm home."

       The pause was as brief as money could make it, while the scanner read his palm and matched it
against his voiceprint, then disengaged the security system and magnetically unlocked the door. Actuators
hidden in the walls took up much of the work of opening the seventy-odd kilos of armorglass that made
up the doors; they seemed as light as old-fashioned plexi.

       The lights came on as he entered the sunroom, and the Abbey said to him, "Hello, Hari. You have
fourteen messages."

       The furniture in the sunroom was a beautifully matched set of antique bentwoods; Hari moved
through the room uneasily, touching nothing. The drawing room lit up as he approached the door. He
said, "Abbey: Query. Messages from Shanna?" "No, Hari. Shall I replay messages?" The voice followed
him; the housecomp phased the sound from tiny speakers hidden in each wall to make the Abbey's voice
seem to speak softly from just behind Hari's left shoulder. Shanna had found the placement creepy; she'd
never liked to talk to the house, and she had pestered him to change it until they'd once nearly come to
blows.

      Hari sighed. He stopped on the rose-veined marble floor of the front hall and looked up the wide
empty sweep of the stairs that rose to the second-floor loggia. "Yeah, fine," he said. "Abbey: Replay
messages."

       The nearest wallscreen—the one beside the service elevator behind the stairs—lit up. Hari couldn't
see the face as he turned away and climbed the stairs, but he knew the voice—the deferential whine of
his lawyer. Even though they were of the same caste, both Professionals, his lawyer insisted on
bootlicking; Entertainers have some theoretical social precedence over Attorneys.

       As Hari walked through the echoing halls of the Abbey, each wallscreen behind him flicked off and
the next one ahead flicked on, all showing his lawyer's sweating face as he explained that Hari's petition
to upcaste to Administration had been denied yet again; the lawyer believed that the Studio was blocking
him, because Caine was still so popular that Hari's retirement from Acting would represent a substantial
fiscal burden et cetera et cetera.

       Hari went into the gym and stripped off his Professional's suit and slacks. He didn't have much
interest in what his lawyer had to say; he hadn't really expected to be allowed to upcaste, anyway. The
lawyer's only other news was that Hari's request for an appeal of his father's sedition sentence had been
denied yet again.
        The balance of the messages were of even less interest, from his local Professional's Tribune
asking for his endorsement in the upcoming election, to eight different begging calls from various
charitable organizations, interspersed with requests for appearances and interviews on a number of
magazine netshows. He made a mental note to have the Abbey's secretary subroutine upgraded to
include a precis function; it would be painfully expensive—all AI functions were—but more than worth it,
if it would allow him to avoid hearing their whining voices and seeing their eager, sincere, puppy-dog
eyes.

       Much of his tune at home he spent here, in the gym. The exercise rooms, and the track that circled
the second floor of the Abbey, were the only parts of the Abbey that hadn't been refurnished under
Shanna's direction. Everywhere else, Hari felt like a guest in his own empty house.

        Clad only in his shorts, Hari went to work on the gelbag without putting on gloves or foot guards.
The harder it was hit, the stiffer the gelbag became, up to approximately the resistance of human bone,
then it gave way with a sharp pop. Long before Hari had worked out the pressure of the frustrated anger
that boiled behind his ribs, each blow he struck penetrated deep into the gel with a satisfyingcrack that
sounded a lot like the snap of a human neck.

       His shoulders gradually began to loosen as his body warmed up—with a painful slowness that
forcefully reminded him of the approach of his fortieth birthday, ll only made him hit harder. He barely
even saw the bag, after a while; shifting images of the Toa-Phelathon assassination played tag behind his
eyes.

      That was one of Caine's murders that stayed with him, hung around the back of his head like an
upcaste guest: no matter how sick of him you get, you can't make him leave.

       He couldn't even blame the Studio for it: Caine had taken that job, accepted the Monasteries'
commission, even though the Studio had told Hari that they were leaning in favor of war between
Ankhana and Lipke, Overwork! wars being very good for business, very fertile ground for young Actors
to make their reputations. Hari had gone before the Studio's Scheduling Board to personally argue in
favor of the assassination. He'd argued that the murder of the Prince-Regent would destabilize Ankhana's
federal feudalism; he'd argued that civil wars are bloodier and far more bitter than war between two
empires on opposite sides of the Continental Divide could ever be. He'd never wanted to be proven so
conclusively right. The bloodshed that had followed, as the various Dukes of the Cabinet jockeyed for
power and slaughtered each others' adherents, was appalling even by Overwork! standards. The poor,
bewildered little Child Queen Tel-Tamarantha, in regency for whom Toa-Phelathon had ruled, had
survived her uncle by mere hours; none of the competing Dukes could take the risk that another would
control her, and so the first casualty of the Succession War had been a beautiful, slightly dim-witted
nine-year-old girl.

      Sometimes, now, as he slammed the gelbag with fist and elbow and shin, it was his own face he
imagined on the bag's surface, his own neck that he wanted to hear snap.

      A Servant of the Empirewas unusual for a Caine Adventure, nearly unique. Despite his reputation,
Caine rarely murdered his targets outright, in blood that cold; the audiences didn't like it. They wanted
more action, more risk—some few even liked a fair fight. The murder of the Prince-Regent was still a
popular rental, even now—three years later—largely because of the extraordinary violence of Caine's
escape from the palace. Caine had killed four more men and one woman beyond the two guards, the
master stewhimself, and the increasing desperation of his attempts to get out of the Colhari Palace while
hanging on to consciousness added sus-penseful spice.
        If he had been what he pretended to be, an Overworld native, he would have died that day. Even
the state-of-the-art medical technology of the Studio infirmary had barely sufficed to save his life after his
emergency transfer back to Earth. He'd stumbled into that alley in Ankhana's Old Town as his vision
faded to black, sure that the Studio would leave him there to bleed to death because he hadn't made it
back to his designated transfer point.

      The exception they'd made for him had been approved at the highest level; it had to be. No one
below the Board of Governors, in Geneva, can pass down such decisions. Arturo Kollberg, the
Chairman of the San Francisco Studio, had personally pleaded with them; when Studio CEO Turner
added his voice to the plea, they had finally approved the emergency transfer that had saved his life.

        Emergency transfers are more rare than flawless diamonds. After all, where's the suspense, if
Actors can be pulled back to Earth anytime they get in a little trouble? Even stars of Caine's magnitude
get killed from time to time; it's what keeps the first-banders coming back. You never know if the
Adventure you're passing up might be the Actor's last. Among the Leisurefolk and Investor families that
make up the bulk of the firsthand audience, there's a whole bag of cool derived from having been on-line
with a major star when he or she is violently killed—in real time, seeing what he sees, feeling the life drain
from his body as though it's your own.

       And that's where he'd been, lying among rags and scraps of food, his blood pulsing through his
fingers onto the shit-stained cobbles of an Ankhanan alley, when a shadow had fallen across his face and
woke him up.

         He leaned his forehead against the impact-warmed poly of the gelbag and draped his arms around
it, like an exhausted boxer going into a clinch to hold himself on his feet. The memory had him in its jaws,
now. It shook him like a terrier shakes a rat, trying to crack his spine with the whiplash.

       That filthy little cul-de-sac, and the shadow on his face, opening his eyes to see the haloed
silhouette above him...

       Shanna had stood over him, a full eclipse of breathless horror.

       She'd been in Ankhana on an unrelated Adventure of her own.

       popular environment. The uproar at the palace, the shouts of panicked guards and blaring trumpets
and the massive, desperate manhunt through the streets of Old Town, had drawn Actors like flies to a
three-day corpse, all hoping to inject a little excitement into their second-rate Adventures. Of the
hundreds of men and women in Ankhana who'd been looking for him that morning, only Shanna had
taken that narrow turn into the stinking shadows of the cul-de-sac where he lay, the head of
Toa-Phelathon still held by a snarl of bloody hair in his fist.

       Only Shanna had knelt beside him, had cradled him on her lap, had stroked his hair as light had
faded from his world.

       They had been married less than a year.

       He would have been better off if hehad died that day. Instead, the emergency transfer had finally
been approved, when it was almost too late, bringing them both into a reality far colder than a lonely
death in a filthy alley.

       It brought them to Earth, and to each other.
      She had believed—when they met, as he courted her, even when they married—that Caine was
only an act. She had believed that inside somewhere, within his heart of hearts, he was a fundamentally
good and decent man. She had believed that no one could see in him what she saw, until that morning
when she knelt with his head on her lap.

      When she looked down and saw the old man's head on the cobbles like a discarded ball, ragged
shreds of neck below the bloody ruins of its eye, she finally began to suspect that she was wrong about
him, and the world was right.

       That wasn't the end of their marriage, no: that would have been too easy. Neither of them were
quitters. They hung on to each other like grim death, fighting and making up and fighting again, both of
them pouring their guts into each other, no matter what the cost. It was Shanna, as usual, who had done
the right thing, the smart thing, the practical thing: she had let him go.

       When she left, she took with her everything that had been right with his life.

       He pushed himself off the gelbag and whipped into a side kick that folded it in the middle like a car
around a bridge pylon. He grabbed the bag and tried to rip it off its shock cords; he hammered at the bag
with fists and stiffened fingers, elbows and knees, forearms and shins, toes and heels and forehead. But
no matter how couldn't get at it, not this way. And the anger was only the shield of the pain.

       Finally he stopped, panting. This wasn't what he needed. He knew what he needed.

       He needed to go back to Overwork!.

       He needed to be Caine.

       He needed—finally, inescapably—tohurt somebody.

       And as always, when lacking a better target, he turned on himself.

       He said, "Abbey: Call Shanna. Audio-out only."

       The wallscreen lit up with her face, and the soft green hazel of her eyes stabbed him like a knife.

       This was her message dump, of course; she no more answered her screencalls personally than he
did.

      "Hi there," her image said brightly, cheerfully, sincerely glad-to-see-ya. "I'm Pallas Ril, adventuring
mage. I'm also Shanna Leighton, Actor."

       Shanna Leighton Michaelson,Hari said silently.

       "If you have a message for either of me, start talking."

       His mouth tasted of dust. He could only stare: at the subtle curve of her neck, the line of her jaw,
the thick curls of her short-cut hair. His fingers twitched with the memory of its softness. If he closed his
eyes, right now, he could fill in every line of her body, every faintest freckle.

       /'//change, he told her digitized image, but silently; he knew this was hopeless. Perhaps she'd help
him put up a pretense, just a few days to satisfy Vilo, perhaps she still cared enough for him for that, but
he couldn't even ask.

      It'd hurt too much to be refused, and it'd hurt more if she went along with it.

      She'd claimed, more than once, that their separation was painful for her. He didn't know if that
was true; he didn't know if she still hurt as much as he did. He hoped not.

      And here he was, and the tingling in his hands and the stutter in his chest told him that he'd been
wanting this for a long time. He'd only been waiting for an excuse.

       The pressure from Vilo gave him something to say that would gloss over the unspoken truth: that
no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise, no hour passed in which he did not ache for her. He
didn't know what to say, how to put it that wouldn't sound too cold, that wouldn't sound likeMy Patron
and your Patron have de But he had to say something. He cleared his throat. "Uh, Shanna, this is Hari,
and I've—"

       "One moment," her image told him, and it swiftly morphed into a new view of her, in her rich blue
and steel gray Overworld costume, the one she wore as Pallas Ril. "Congratulations! You've made my
Friends File."

      Friends?he thought.Is that what we are?

      "Being in the Friends File means I can tell you that I'm currently on Adventure, and I expect to be
back on the evening of November . Don't expect a return call before then, and you won't be
disappointed."

        Hari sagged, defeated. He'd forgotten; today's avalanche of memory had buried it entirely. She'd
left for the latest installment of her ongoing Adventure a week ago. He canceled the call with a weary slap
against the wallstud. She wasn't on Earth. She wasn't even in the same universe.

      My life,he thought,is a short dive into deep shit.

       the squeal fromhis wallscreen stabbed him like a knife in the ear. He started upright, head spinning.
He'd been drinking into the late hours of the morning, sitting alone in his empty house, and now his eyes
were crusted shut and he couldn't make sense of that shrieking. He rubbed his eyes until the lids parted
with a dull ripping sensation that brought the taste of blood to the back of his throat, and the brilliant
sunlight that streamed in through his bedroom window threatened to burst his skull.

      What the fuck time is it? Noon?

      "Abbey," he croaked thickly. "Polarizers. Twilight."

      "Please rephrase your command, Hari."

       He cleared his throat and spat a wad of phlegm into the disposall under the nightstand. "Abbey:
Polarize the windows. Twilight."

       As the room gradually darkened around him, he raised his voice so he could hear himself over the
shriek. "Abbey: Query. What is that fucking noise?"
       "Please re—"

       "Yeah, yeah. Abbey: Deletewordfucking. Retry."

       "That noise is your priority alarm, Hari. It indicates a screencall codedExtremely Urgent."

       "Abbey: Query. Which code?"

       "It is the code labeledKing Bleeding Studio Asshole, Hari."

      "Shit." He shook the cobwebs out of his head.King Bleeding Studio Asshole was the label of the
code he'd given to Gayle Keller, the personal assistant of the Chairman of the San Francisco Studio,
Arturo Kollberg. It meant this was bad news. "Abbey: Audio only. Answer."

       The shrieking suddenly cut to creamy silence. Hari said, "Yeah, Gayle. This is Hari."

     "Entertainer Michaelson?" The Chairman's secretary sounded uncertain; like most people, he was
uncomfortable talking to someone he couldn't see. "Uh, Administrator Kollberg wants you in his office
ASAP, Entertainer."

       "In hisoffice?' Hari repeated stupidly. Kollberg never saw people in his office. Hari hadn't been in
the Chairman's office in ten years. "What's this about? My next Adventure isn't until after the first of the
year."

       "I, ah, don't really know, Entertainer. The Administrator wouldn't say. He only told me that if you
asked, I should tell you it's about your wife."

       "My wife?"What isn'tabout my wife? he thought sourly, but that was only his hangover talking.
"What is it? Did something happen?" His heart thumped once, heavily, and kicked into a faster beat. "Is
she all right? What happened?"

       "I can't really say, Entertainer Michaelson. All he said is to tell you—"

        "Yeah yeah yeah," Hari snapped. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, and suddenly he
didn't feel hungover at all. How fast could he shower and dress? No, fuck showering; he had no time.
Brush his teeth? See the Chairman with stale scotch on his breath?Shit, pull it together. "I'm on my way.
Tell him half an hour. Tell him...just tell him I'm on my way."

       day one"Hey, I'm not the only guy who kills people."

       "Nobody said you're the only one, Hari. That's not the point."

      "I'll tell you what the point is. The point is: that's how I became a star. The point is: that's how I
pay for this house, and the cars, and get us a table at Par L'Oeil. That's how I pay for everything!"

      "It's not you who pays for it, Hari. It's Toa-Phelathon. His wife. His daughters. Thousands of
wives, husbands, parents, children. They 're the ones who pay for it. "

      "Hisname is, ah, Ma'elKoth," said Administrator Kollberg. He licked his thick, colorless lips and
went on. "We, ah, believe this to be a pseudonym."
      Hari stood stiffly before the Chairman's massive desk. Inside his head he snarled,Of course it's a
pseud, you moron. Out loud, he said,"'elKoth' is a word in Paquli that means 'huge,' or 'limitless,' and
theMa prefix stands for the nominative case ofto be. It's not a name, it's a boast."—and if you weren't a
fucking idiot you'd know it.

         None of his commentary showed on his face; years of practice kept his expression attentively
blank.

       The wide, rectangular Sony repeater behind the Chairman's desk showed a view that roughly
corresponded to what a window would have shown—the late-autumn sun sinking toward the bay—had
this vaultlike office not been buried deeply beneath the Studio complex.

       This inner office was a sanctum that few ever saw; in the eleven years that Kollberg had been
Chairman, even Hari—San FranCisco's number one star and perennial member of the Studio Top Ten in
earnings worldwide—had been in here only once before. It was small, with curving walls and ceiling, and
no sharp corners; climate control kept it nearly cool and dry enough that Kollberg wouldn't sweat—but
not quite.

       The Chairman of the San Francisco Studio was short and sloppy, not fat so much as soft and
thick. Pale grey strands of hair strung themselves across a scalp pitted with the scars of failed transplants,
and his watery eyes were surrounded by rolls of flesh the color and consistency of spoiled bread dough.

       Hari had seen flesh like that once before, when Caine had liberated some human slaves of an
ogrillo tribe in the Gods' Teeth. The ogrilloi had been breeding them as cattle, underground in their
stinking lair; there were teenage boys there who had never seen the sun—and they'd been gelded to keep
their meat juicy and sweet. Their skin had looked very much indeed like Kollberg's.

         If Hari let himself think about it too much, it could give him a serious case of the shudders.

      Kollberg's star had risen along with Caine's; he'd gotten behind Hari when Hari had pitched the
Adventure that later became known asLast Stand at Ceraeno. That was Caine's big break, and
Kollberg's—withLast Stand, Caine cracked the Top Ten, and Kollberg was the Chairman who had put
him there. Since that time, Kollberg's almost preternatural sense for the rhythms of public taste had driven
San Francisco to its current world prominence; he was popularly considered to be the heir apparent to
Businessman Westfield Turner, the Studio President and CEO. Kollberg, more than any person save
only Hari himself, was responsible for Caine's success.

      Hari despised him with the sort of personal loathing most people reserve for cockroaches in their
breakfast cereal.

       Koilberg had been babbling on about this Ma'elKoth, who called himself the Ankhanan Emperor.
"You might pay a little attention to this, Michaelson," Kollberg was saying. "After all, you put him on the
throne."

       This was vintage Kollberg: the clammy bastard might waste an hour building up to the real reason
he'd summoned Hari. On his way in, Hari had tried the usual downcaste whispering gallery, casually
questioning doormen, security, secretaries—even that smug worm Gayle Keller. Nobody knew anything
about Shanna; whatever had happened, the Studio lid was screwed down tight. Kollberg hadn't so much
as mentioned her name. Hari's palms burned with a suicidal lust to beat it out of him.

         "First," he said tightly, "I didn't put Ma'elKoth on the throne. He did that for himself."
      "After you murdered his predecessor."

       Hari shrugged; he'd had his fill of that subject already this week. "And second, don't do
assassinations anymore."

      Kollberg blinked. "I'm sorry?"

       "I. Don't. Do. Assassinations. Anymore." Hari articulated every word slowly and clearly, skating
on the dangerous brink of caste-violating insolence. "I'll only do straight Adventures, likeRetreat from
the Boedecken."

      Those heavy lips pressed together. "You'll do this one."

      "Are you abetting man, 'Strator?"

     Kollberg's chuckle was as moist as his watery eyes. "Quite, ah, impressive, this Ma'elKoth
is—military sorcerer, fine general. Here, look at this."

       The repeater behind his desk flickered and relit with a computer-stabilized view through some
anonymous Actor's eyes. Hari knew the scene: it was the travertine-faced address deck, three stories up
the sheer wall of the Temple of Prorithun, shining in the rich yellow glare of the Ankhanan sun. The Actor
who'd viewed this had stood with his back to the Fountain—from the angle, he must have been
practically leaning on the statue of Toa-Phelathon—and it was clear from the lower fringe of the view that
the Court of the Gods was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with folk of all description.

      The man who stood on that deck and exhorted the crowd dwarfed the Household Knights who
flanked him; he was as tall as their blood-colored halberds. The fist he shook in anger could have
crushed coal to diamonds.

       He wore some sort of armor that gleamed with the black semi-translucency of obsidian, and to his
shoulders was fixed a cape of pure and gleaming white that spread behind him like the wings of an eagle.
Hair the color of burled maple curled across his shoulders and rippled in some unfelt breeze, and a beard
shot through with bars of iron grey and shimmering with oil framed a face wide-browed and clear-eyed, a
face of obvious honesty and translucent nobility.

       Even without the sound, Hari couldn't look away. When Ma'el-Koth's brow clouded in anger, it
seemed that the sky did as well; when he looked down with love upon his subjects, his face brought light
to them like the first dawn of spring.

       Someone there was subtly manipulating the sunlight, Hari realized; a good illusionist can do it, even
over a substantial area tike this, but making it look as natural as this did—

      Hari grunted, impressed despite himself. "He's good at this."

      "Oh, yes," Kollberg said. "Yes, indeed he is. He's also, ah, rather frighteningly brilliant."

      "Yeah?"

       "It seems, well..." Kollberg coughed into his hand. "It seems that he's independently rediscovered
the police state."
       "Good for him," Hari murmured absently, still watching. He'd glimpsed Ma'elKoth once or twice
before, on victory parades after the stunning campaign that had won the Plains War, but he'd never seen
the man in action. There was something vaguely familiar about him now, though, about the way he
moved, the way he gestured. This would bug him until he worked it out, a little finger poking at the back
of his mind.

       Where had he seen these mannerisms before?

       "...aninternal enemy," Kollberg was saying. "The Nazis had the Jews; the Communists used the
'counterrevolutionaries'; we have the HRVP virus. Ma'elKoth has hit upon, ah, a rather novel internal
enemy. When he needs an excuse to eliminate political enemies, he, ah, well, he accuses them of being 'of
theAte'n'.' "

      Aktiriwas a Westerling word having a number of pejorative meanings: insane, evil, homicidal, alien
baby-eater, and endless variations on that theme.Aktiri are evil demons who take the form of men and
women to deceive honest folk into trusting them so that they can rape and steal and murder with mad
abandon; when slain they vanish in a burst of shimmering colors.

       The word was a linguistic borrowing from English. The early Actors, making the transfers to
Overworld in the cruder, more direct Studio style of thirty years ago, had left a lasting impression on the
culture.

       "A witch-hunt."

       "Aktir-tokar,"Kollberg corrected. "An Actor hunt."

        "Not bad," Hari said. He touched the spot on his skull, just above and in front of his left ear, over
his brain's language center. "The only way to prove you're innocent is to let them dig around in your brain
until they decide they won't find a thoughtmitter. By that time you're dead anyway. Then if your corpse
doesn't slip out of phase, I guess they apologize." He shrugged. "Old news. The Studio's put out a couple
circulars on updated Ankhanan protocols. I'm still not going to kill him for you."

       "Michaelson—Hari, please understand. It's not only that he's actually caught some Actors—no
one very successful, at least not yet— but that he's using theAktir-tokar in a rather decidedly cynical
fashion, to eliminate his political opposition, folk that he knows quite well are entirely...ah, well,innocent''

       "You're talking to the wrong Michaelson," Hari said. "You want my wife."

       Kollberg put a chubby finger to his lips. "Ah, well, yourwife,... mm, in her capacity as Pallas Ril,
she's already taken a certain interest in this problem."

       Just hearing her name finally come out of Kollberg's mouth felt like someone had slipped a needle
into the back of his neck. "Yeah, I heard," he said softly, through his teeth. "She's been doing her Scarlet
Pimpernel act."

       "I feel I must make this entirely clear, Hari. Here at the Studio, we must look to the long term. This
Aktir-tokar business will blow over soon enough, and the Ankhanan Empire will be safe for Actors once
again. Entirelytoo safe, if you see my meaning. If the Empire were to become truly organized, they would
certainly put down the ogrilloi and the human bandits, and kill the dragons and trolls and griffins, possibly
the elves and dwarves and all the other things that make Adventuring entertaining in the first place. Do
you see? If Ma'elKoth is successful, the Empire will be essentially lost to us as an Adventuring
environment. Already, Ankhana itself is hardly more exotic than, say, New York. This, ah,trend cannot
be allowed to continue. The Studio System—and this Studio in particular—has far too much invested in
the Ankhanan Empire. Fortunately, this Ma'elKoth has gathered most of the reins of power to himself;
you could call it a classic cult-of-personality thing. If he is eliminated, the Empire should balkanize in a
very satisfactory way."

      "Shanna's heated up about this; why don't you have her do it?"

     "Oh, come now," Kollberg murmured. "She's a save-the-innocents type; you said so yourself. You
know very well that Pallas Ril doesn't do assassinations."

      "Neither does Caine. Not anymore."

      "Michaelson—"

      "If you have a problem with that," Hari said heavily, "you can take it up with Biz'man Vilo."

       The mention of Hari's powerful Patron didn't make Kollberg so much as blink. In fact, it brought a
faint smile to his rubbery lips. "I don't believe that will be necessary."

      "Believe what you want. Administrator," Hari said. "And you still haven't explained what this has to
do with my wife."

     "Haven't I?" He rose and clapped his hands together, rubbing them against each other with a
mock-regretful sigh. "Perhaps you'd better come with me."

      theO-DEGREEfloor-to-ceiling screen that faced the simi-chair in the Chairman's private box
showed only a uniform grey when Kollberg led Hari inside.Another first, Hari thought, scuffing his
sandals across the burgundy cashmere of the deep-pile carpet.

       The Chairman's simichair was done in walnut and kidskin, filled with bodyform gel and more
comfortable than your mother's arms. Reach-around swingarms held a bewildering variety of
refreshments—from beluga on toast points to Roderer Cristal on tap—for those occasions when the
Adventure feed was directed to the screen, rather than the induction helmet that hung over the back like
the cap on an electric chair.

      Kollberg directed Hari to the chair with a butler's one-hand sweep and said, "Don't bother with
the comfort hookups; this cube only runs twelve minutes. And there'll be no hypnotics. I, ah, assume that
you can tolerate direct induction without any chemical suppression?"

      Hari shrugged. "I've done it before."

      "Fine, then. Please be seated."

      "Are you gonna tell me what this is about?"

      "This cube is, ah, self-explanatory," Kollberg said, his mouth twitching as though he tried to
suppress a smirk. "Please," he repeated, and it was not a request.

      Hari lowered himself into the simichair in the grip of a dizzying sense of unreality. He'd never even
seen the Chairman's private box before; now he was sitting in the Chairman's personal simichair. This
was tantamount to putting on the man's underwear.

        He reached behind his head to grasp the helmet and found that it was already moving into place.
The shields covered his eyes, and he snugged the regulator over his nose and mouth, breathing deeply of
its tasteless, neutral air supply.

      He brushed the arms of the chair with his palms, searching for the tuning switches, but the
Chairman's simichair already had begun the process. Light flared inside his closed eyes as the induction
helmet stimulated his brain's vision center; the shapeless blurs within the light slowly resolved into simple
shapes: lines, squares, circles, gradually gaining depth and solidity as the helmet's feedback circuits
monitored the flow-patterns of his brain activity and adjusted the inducers to fit his individual
characteristics.

       Similarly, the simple bell tone that began faintly in his ears split into chiming melodies that gradually
developed into Bach'sJesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. The melodies expanded into shimmering chords,
added instruments and voices, became the chorale of Beethoven's Ninth; before his eyes was the
late-summer view from atop Copper Mountain in the Rockies. He felt the crisp breeze on his skin, felt
the rough texture of a hemp rope coiled over his shoulder and the pressure of boots, smelled the scent of
the tiny yellow and white wildflowers and the faint musk of the marmots that live in homes on the
mountain.

       At the same time, he was aware of the kinesthesia of being seated in Kollberg's simichair. While
adjusting the induction feed, an ordinary chair would have also been dripping chemical suppressors into
his bloodstream, hypnotic medications that would have dampened his sense of self and opened his mind
to pure experience, unfiltered by his own consciousness. The Chairman's chair was not equipped with a
hypnotics feed; he couldn't afford the luxury of being someone else so completely that his own
responsibilities were forgotten.

       The Rocky Mountains faded into a slow cross-dissolve with a scene already in progress.

       Sight came first, a room flooded with sunlight that is warmer and yellower than the sun of Earth.
Coarse wool blankets over palliasses prickly with straw, and huddled on them a man and a woman who
cling to each other, two young girls beside them, all four wearing what look like beekeeper's nets of some
dull-gleaming metal.

      Scents and sounds followed; smells of distant horseshit baking in the sun and bodies sweating
under armor, the shouts of drovers in tangled traffic and the splash of nearby water, voices—

      "...why? I cannot understand, I have always been loyal,"the man was saying in Westerling, the
predominant tongue of the Empire."You must understand how frightened we all are."

       The simichair was connected to the Studio mainframe, which ran an AI translation protocol on it
so that the sense of the words registered in English. Hari didn't need it; he spoke fluent Wester-ling, as
well as Paquli and Lipkan and smatterings of several other tongues, and the AI's translation differed just
enough from his automatic comprehension to be distracting.

       He ground his teeth and concentrated on the kinesthetics of the Actor he rode.

      Slim, not muscular, but very fit; body armor of light, flexible leather, cape, bracers, boots; perfect
and constant awareness of body position, like that of a dancer or an acrobat—no codpiece on the
armor, nor need of one, none of the male's instinctive and permanent consciousness of external genitals.

      Hari thought,It's a woman, even as he became aware of the pressure on his/her breasts, tightly
constrained by the armor.

         And the package came together: his awareness of the precise curve from breast to hip, the slight
tilt of the head to shift the hair away from the eyes, the rotation of one shoulder in her unmistakable shrug.
Before she ever spoke, before he heard her voice through her own ears, he knew.

      "We're all frightened. But I swear that we can save you, if you 'II help."

      It was Shanna.

       "OFcourse i'll help," he snaps. "Think you I want my wife and daughters given to the Cats?" His
wife flinches; the two girls don't, but they're probably not old enough to understand what that means.

        "Not at all," I tell him through my best smile. It's a good one; he's already softening. "Konnos,
there's no need for you to explain anything if you don't wish to, but I'm wondering how you got this far.
You were denounced four days ago; how have you avoided capture? Anything you feel you can tell me
might help me save others. Do you see?"

        I fold my legs beneath me to sit on the splintery floor. Konnos casts nervous glances at the others
in the room, and I follow his eyes. "You trust me—you've trusted me enough to send for me; I trust these
men. The Twins"—a matched pair of brawny youths, golden haired, with eyes much older than their
faces, stolidly sharpening identical broadswords—"escaped from the gladiatorial pens; you can believe
they have no love for Imperials. Talann, here"—a woman, legs folded in lotus on the floor, muscular
under loose linen tunic and pants, her eyes a manic violet glitter within a ragged halo of platinum
hair—"there's an Imperial price of a hundred royals on her head. As for Lamorak there by the window,
well, you've probably heard of him already."

       Lamorak?Hari thought with an uncomfortable twinge of surprise. Lamorak was an Actor.Son of a
bitch! I knew Karl and Shanna were friends, but...Jesus. How deep does thisgo?

       Lamorak mutters a short phrase under his breath, and I feel the pull of his magick as a small flame
springs from the palm of his hand; he draws it up to the rith-leaf cigarette between his lips, and soon the
sharp scent of burning herb drifts over from the window.*He's showing off,* Shanna's subvocalized
Soliloquy runs,*he should know better than to do a magick here, even a tiny one that probably
can't befell outside this room. *

       The Soliloquy—the tiny motions of tongue and throat that the translation protocol transformed into
quasi-thoughtlike internal monologue—would ordinarily fade behind the screen of hypnotics that would
drip into the bloodstream of a first-hander until it became indistinguishable from actual thought; without
the hypnotics, the Soliloquy was nearly as distracting as the AI's imperfect translation of Westerling.
Pallas'—Shanna's—voice whispered constantly in his ears. Hari shifted in the chair, gritted his teeth, and
reminded himself that this cube only ran twelve minutes. For that long, he could stand anything.

      Lamorak winks and turns back to watch the street, one hand on the leather-wrapped
hand-and-a-half hilt of his sword Kosall. Sun-glow backlights his perfect profile with a golden halo, and
as usual I can't quite get mad at him; it's an effort to turn my attention back to Konnos.

      "I'm not political," Konnos says, pulling the netting away from his face so that he can mop his
mouth with the back of his hand. "I never have been. I'm a scientist, that's all. I've spent my life in
research into the fundamental nature of magick—the nature of reality, because, y'know, they're the same
thing. This netting? Silver, you see? Silver is a nearly perfect channel for magickal force—gold is better,
but I'm only a poor researcher, whatever gold which found its way to my purse always went to feed my
family. But, you see, nearly all charged amulets, floating needles, pendulary indicators—all that run of
seeking items—detect a characteristic pattern of essence that emanates from their targets: the Shell you
adepts like to talk about. These items are charged, after all, by contact with our homes or personal items
that would resonate in our own unique pattern. This silver net turns our patterns in upon themselves,
making us effectively invisible to items of this sort, and it also serves as an admirable defense against
compulsions. In fact, if one can connect the net itself to a Flow source, such as a griffinstone..."

       He keeps babbling, but his words fade behind my admiration for the elegance of his defense.*He's
invented a variant of a Faraday-cage; that means he's been doing some pretty basic
scientific-method-style research. Natives aren 't supposed to be able to look deeper than the
immediate magickal surface of an effect. Our social scientists have been saying for years that tlie
operation of magick stunts the "scientific sense." By that theory, he should only be able to think of
blocking a spell with another spell, instead of taking advantage of a general principle underlying
a whole branch of magick. Hah. I'm impressed.

      *And I'm going to get myself a few of those silver nets. *

       "…of course without the griffinstone they're hardly proof against a determined effort by a powerful
thaumaturge," Konnos continues, "but for that eventuality I have this little friend, right here." He pats the
knob of a polished ivory scroll case that pokes out from a pouch on his belt. "I wrote it myself; I call it
the Eternal Forgetting. It's the most powerful nondetection spell ever devised, but very much a last-resort
kind of thing—

      "Let's hope you don't need it," I cut him off. We might not have time for another lengthy
explanation. "Now, I must ask you to remove the netting. Only temporarily," I add hastily, when he gasps
a wordless protest. "The King's Eyes try to send spies to us from time to time—"

      "I am no spy! Would a spy bring wife and daughters with him to do his work?"

       "No, no, no. You don't understand. I know that you are a good and honest man," I lie gracefully.
"That's not the issue. But there are enchantments that can be put on a man to make him betray himself
against his will, and there are others that may call out to a searching mind to reveal a place of hiding. I
must examine you now, to ensure that none of these have been laid upon you without your knowledge.
Others, who are hunted just as you are, also wait where I am taking you, in a place that have made proof
against all kinds of seeking magick. It is they that I protect by examining you, as well as ourselves."

       Konnos looks at his wife, she looks back at him fearfully, and before either can speak Lamorak
says from the window, "Trouble."

      I'm at his side in an instant; behind me come faint rustlings as Talann and the Twins rise and
prepare themselves.

       The sun-washed street outside looks utterly normal, crowded with ramshackle tenements, its
center still churned mud from the rains two days ago. Traffic is light, mostly on foot, day laborers picking
across the rotting boardwalks toward a chance of work in the Industrial Park across Rogues' Way.

      I frown; what's wrong with this picture? I'm about to ask Lamorak what he sees when I realize
that it's what hedoesn't see that alarms him: our stooges are missing.

      The alley mouth half a block down that should have sheltered a sleepy drunk yawns emptily; the
stoop where a ragged leper should have been sunning himself sports a wetly gleaming splotch of blood.

          My heart stutters. This is bad.

          "How?" I say numbly. "How is this possible? How could they get soclosel"

          No need to say who they are; we both know it's the Grey Cats.

          Lamorak shakes his head and mutters, "Some kind of spell; I don't know. I didn't see a damned
thing."

          "But I should have felt a current in the Flow..."

       "We knew this could happen someday," he says, taking my shoulders and gently turning me
toward him. He looks down into my eyes with that glorious crooked smile. "We knew when we took this
job that we couldn't beat the odds forever. Maybe I can lead them away, give you a chance to get
Konnos and his family out."

          "Lamorak—"

          "No arguments," he says, and stops my mouth with his lips.

        The kiss stabbed Hari like a knife in the balls—not just that Pallas let him kiss her, not just that she
liked it. She wasn't surprised, and she wasn't tentative, and this wasn't even nearly the first time.

          Hari thought in sudden toneless blankness,Lamorak's been jucking my wife.

     Shanna's audience—all her first-handers, every person who would ever rent the secondhand
cube—they'd all know it. They'd all experience it.

          Hari's heart smoked within his chest.

       I push him away gently; his reflexive heroism catches at my breath, even though it's futile—I'm not
ready to sacrifice him uselessly. We'll save heroism for a last resort. I turn to the others.

       "It's the Cats," I tell them shortly, brutally. Konnos and his wife clutch each other, and one of the
girls begins to cry; she sees how frightened her parents are, and she doesn't need to know more than
that. "They've taken our stooges. That means we're already surrounded and they're closing in for the kill.
I'm open to any brilliant ideas."

      The Twins exchange an identically grim glance; they shrug and one of them—probably Dak, he
does most of the talking—says, "We can hold the room—fight them off until the Subjects of Cant can
mass against them."

      I shake my head. "The Subjects aren't ready to come open. And with the stooges gone, they don't
even know we're in here. Talann?"

          She stretches like a cat and pops the knuckles of both hands in swift succession. Her eyes spark
with an uneasily familiar fire. "What would Caine do?"

      I wince. "He wouldn't ask stupid questions," I snap.

        Talann the groupie—at least half the reason she's with me is she hopes she'll meet Caine someday.
Somehow his shadow still darkens my life. Now I know why I recognize that spark in her eye—it's the
look Caine used to get when we were cornered, when the thread of our lives spun through our fingers.
It's the closest he ever came to being happy.

       On the other hand, I do know what Caine would do: attack. Crash their line, somewhere in tight
quarters where they couldn't use their crossbows. Smash through and run like hell—but that would be
almost certain death for Konnos and his family, and protecting them would slow us until we couldn't
protect ourselves. I glance at Lamorak, at the noble resolution on his face as he waits for my answer.
Sure as death, Caine wouldn't sacrifice himself in a gesture like Lamorak proposed—but Caine also
wouldn't stand there and wait for me to give him permission.

       They're all looking at me. For an empty second I wish that someone else would make this
decision.

      "All right," I say heavily. "The Twins and I can hold this room. Lamorak, head east."

      "Over the rooftops?"

       I shake my head. "Through the tenements. Kosall can cut through. Talann, go south into the river.
If you get clear, cither of you, head for the Brass Stadium and tell the—

     "Oh, crap," Lamorak breathes. He's looking out the window again. "I think...Gods, that could be
Berne."

      "Count Berne?" Talann says, her eyes on fire. "Himself?"

      I crowd close to Lamorak and follow his gaze and there he is, leaning insolently against a
grey-weathered wall across the street, holding a flame to a hand-rolled cigarette.

       The recorded chill that Hari felt shooting down Pallas' back at the sight vanished in the surging fury
that blazed up his own spine.Berne. His hands knotted into convulsive fists, and he cracked his wrist
painfully against the simichair's swingarm.Berne, you vicious shit-sack bastard, if I was there...Oh
gods, oh gods, why can't I be there?

       It's Berne, all right; I recognize him instantly. He's not wearing his Court rags, the slashed-velvet
blouse and leggings he's made fashionable again. Instead, he's in scuffed and faded heavy serge that once
was scarlet but now has the patchy strawberry-cream shade of a half-washed bloodstain. His slender,
gently curved sword hangs in its scabbard from a handsbreadth leather belt. The planes of his face are so
sharp they should gleam like metal in the sun, and now his toothy grin cracks them like a mirror.

      My heart plummets; I know him too well. Worse: he knows me.

      It's wrong, I shouldn't feel this way...but right now I really wish that Caine were here.

      "Change of plan," I say quickly, turning back toward my friends, the faces that ride the lives for
which I am responsible. "Lamorak, you and Talann take the Konnosi—" I point at the south wall of the
tiny apartment. "—that way, and down. Stay off the stairs and out of the corridors. The Twins and I will
rearguard the retreat."

      Lamorak stiffens. "Pallas—

      "Doit!"

      He still hesitates for one naked second, and his eyes speak poetry to mine.

       Then he draws Kosall, grasping it by its quillions and clearing the blade from its scabbard before
activating its magick by taking the hilt, and the enchanted blade comes to life, its high buzzing whine
making my teeth ache. Its edges waver like heatshimmer off a sunbaked sidewalk, and I can feel its pull
on the currents of Flow.

       Lamorak stands at the south wall and puts Kosall's point to the wall at head height; he leans on the
pommel, and Kosall slides smoothly through the planks, its whine dulled to a hum. He draws the blade
downward in an arc, not sawing, just pressing it through the wood as though the wall were soft cheese.
With this sword he can cut his way through the tenements all the way to the river, if need be; Kosall can
cut stone, or even steel, given enough time. Time is what I have to provide. Below us, Berne gestures.

      Men in the dove grey leather jerkins and breeches of the Cats stream from alleys and sprint
toward our tenement.

       I take a deep breath, let it trickle out from my lips, and take another; my hands flit over my
clothing of their own will, from pocket to pouch, from scabbard to sheath, checking all of my graven
gems and intricately worked knots of precious metals, my wands and my wires, bits of glass and packets
of powders, while my breath-control technique shifts my vision to mindview.

      In mindview, Berne's Shell—the shimmering aura of life power that surrounds him—is as large and
eyeburning-bright as an arch-mage's, and I fight down a rising panic that would throw me out of
mindview.

     This isn'tpossible; Berne's a warrior, not an adept, he's a Monastic-trained swordsman—he has
no magick.He never did! But now—

        Now, through the tangled ribbons of multicolored light that represent Flow in my mindview, I see
another ribbon, a shaft of power bigger in diameter than my doubled fists. It neither twists nor tangles as
do those of the raw Flow, and its color is the pure crimson of hot steel in a forge. It bathes Berne's Shell,
and it runs straight as a spear from him to the southwest. It vanishes into a tenement there, but mere brick
and wood is no impediment to Flow, and I know what's in that direction. That shaft of power aims
toward Old Town, the island in the Great Chambaygen that is the heart of Ankhana.

         That shaft of power springs from the Colhari Palace. This son of a bitch ischanneling. Nevermind
that it's impossible— he's channeling from bloodyMa'elKoM That explains the magickalcloak that let him
invisibly take our stooges without my feeling the pull of the spell: the power for the spell comes from a
mile away, and it doesn't draw local How at all. As all this runs through my mind I fail to notice Berne
stretch his hands up toward my window until it's almost too late.

        I throw myself back from the window. The entire wall explodes with a splintering roar and a wash
of fire. Even as I sprawl on the floor and cover my eyes against the flames, my other hand seeks out the
miniature shield modeled of faceted quartz in my breast pocket. My hand tingles with the charge it
carries, and mindview shows me the lattice of glowing lines enchanted onto its surface. I force that image
into my consciousness, visualize it so powerfully that I can actually see it filling the yawning gap that was
once the wall.

       Sunlight streams through the ragged hole, and flames lick its edges; the ceiling sags, cracking now
that the wall's support is gone, and on the rooftop across the street, ten Cats swing cocked crossbows
up over the lip of the roof and fire on me.

       Their quarrels sing across the street and stop where the wall once was, quivering as though they'd
struck wood, though the only thing that holds them hanging suspended is my imaginary Shield, which fills
the hole. Four Cats swing down on ropes from the roof of the building—it's a beautifully executed
maneuver that would have brought them gracefully through the hole into the apartment. Instead they hit
my Shield and bounce, though their impact feeds back enough to make me grunt like I've been
gut-punched.

      The Shield looks in mindview like a decimeter-thick matrix of golden force; to them it's a wall of
semisubstantial glass with the texture of vulcanized rubber. Flow streams through the quartz model.
There's plenty of power here, and I can hold this Shield as long as I can keep the visualization going. The
Cats hanging from their ropes outside kick off the Shield to hit it again, and again it hurts.

      At least Berne can't channel another of those firebolts without frying the Cats outside; I take my
time getting to my feet, concentrating on holding the Shield.

      Over my shoulder, through the arch Lamorak cut in the wall, I can see Talann lowering the
younger of Konnos' daughters through a similar hole in the floor. She clenches her fist in the catspaw
"We're okay" sign and beckons for us to follow, then leaps lightly down through the hole.

       ,\ The Twins have been using the planks Lamorak cut from the wall to angle-brace the hallway
door—a dagger pounded into the floor foots the planks, and the tops are wedged beneath the handle.
This might slow the Cats for a few seconds, but no more. "Come on, move it move itmove it\"l yell. I'm
going to have to give up the room, retreat through the cut, and shift the Shield from the outer wall breach
to the cutaway arch, because I can't hold the breach and the door at the same time.

       As the Twins pound the last plank into place, the door and the wall around it explode into smoking
splinters and blow them sprawling across the room. The room fills with choking sulphurous gas, and
through the hole, from the corridor beyond, pour the Cats.

      They come in fighting.

       The jerkins they wear are reinforced with wire, but that is their only armor; their acrobatic mobility
and stunning speed are theirdefenses. They're at their best in small groups on open ground; that's why
I've chosen our battlefield in the most constricted quarters I could find. It may not be enough.

      Berne's bell-toned tenor comes from the corridor outside. "Get the adept! I want him alive!"

       Both Twins are bleeding as they struggle to get up. The lead Cat dives at them and pays for
it—Jak has his broadsword out, and he spears the Cat through the throat. The Cat's impact lays Jak on
his back again, and Dak has to cover him from one knee. Then I see no more because I have problems
of my own.

      A pair of Cats spring forme. I drop the Shield—four more won't matter, in this crush—and draw
the finger-length boltwand from my left wrist sheath. I barely have time to trigger it with a caress of my
Shell before they're on me. A lance of light springs from the end and spears through a knee of one of the
leaping Cats. He goes down in a heap, but the other hits me like a charging bull and slams me against the
wall.

       He slaps the wand out of my hand with the flat of his blade and gives me the pommel hard upside
the head. I roll with it enough to escape a skull fracture, but fireworks shower across my eyes. He pins
me against the wall with his off shoulder and holds the point of his blade against my throat and snarls,
"Now, y'cunt traitor, whatter y'gonna do?"

       He's justified in his confidence; most adepts are helpless in hand-to-hand range, and I'm a small,
slender woman who clearly is no physical threat. On the other hand, when you' ve spent a couple years
married to the man who's popularly considered to be the best infighter alive, you pick up a bit here and
there.

       I bite my tongue, and saliva floods my mouth. I take a deep breath, and spit in his eyes.

        He blinks, that's all—but it's enough. In that bare instant while his eyes close and open again, I lift
a foot, put the edge of my boot on top of his kneecap, and stomp down. Ligaments tear as the kneecap
shifts. The pain is stunning, and while he's deciding whether to scream first and then stab me or the other
way around, I twist out from under his shoulder and dart away; he won't be able to follow.

        The Twins are up and back-to-back; they're breathing hard and bleeding, but five Cats lie draining
their lives onto the floor around them. Dak and Jak grew up in the gladiatorial pens, they've been fighting
as a team since they were six years old: in this kind of crushing close-quarters fight they're unbeatable.

       But now the Cats are backing away from the breach in the outer wall, leaving the Twins exposed
to the crossbowmen across the street—and now the Cats notice that their companion doesn't hold me
anymore.

      It's a second's work to return to mindview; their Shells shimmer around them, and the drifting lace
of Flow fills the room. My hands find a tiny pinwheel, only the size of a copper coin, in a pouch that
hangs from my belt; it's layered of platinum and gold, and the sigils I enchanted onto it glow with the
green of new leaves. The pattern fills my consciousness as I bring the pinwheel to my lips and blow.

       The pattern expands outward from my eyes to layer my Shell, then it reaches to the shattered
planks and splinters that litter the floor, their tiny faded Shells reflecting the life that once flowed through
them. It takes me only a second to link the pinwheel's forcepattern to the faded Shells of the planks, to
forge a sympathetic identity between them and the pinwheel's vanes. The planks lift off the floor, and
when I blow on the pinwheel again, the planks spin.

       Theyspin fast.

        They spin like propellers, like buzzsaws; I wave the pinwheel through the air, keeping it spinning
faster and faster, and the planks match its speed. The link to the pinwheel will keep them spinning; now I
can use my own Shell control to direct their flight.

       I send them whirling into the Cats. The whining roar of the wood mingles with the Cats' cries of
pain and dismay; the larger planks hammer with crushing force, and even the tiniest splinters draw blood.

       "Retreat,you idiots! Fallback\" Berne barks from the safety of the corridor. The Cats scramble for
the gaping hole where the door once was, and I send half the wood roaring after them. The other half I
send whirling toward the opposite roof, to cover the Twins' retreat from the crossbowmen, and for half a
wild, exhilarated second I start to believe we might actually get away.

       The crossbows' flat whacks are barely audible through the roar of the spinning wood. Only two
quarrels make it through the cloud of wood into the apartment—but one of them slams into Dak's shin.
These quarrels mass roughly two hundred-fifty grams of solid forged steel, and they hit like a
sledgehammer; Dak's shin shatters, and he goes down with a cry, clawing at his brother's shoulders. Jak
turns to take his arm and carry him, and that's when Beme dives into the room like a bloodstained
thunderbolt.

       His dive becomes an acrobatic roll, and he comes to his feet with his sword in his hands. I
frantically reverse the direction of the flying wood, but long before I can bring it back into play, Berne
spins and his blade opens a gaping wound across the nape of Dak's neck before the wounded Twin even
knows Berne's in the room. Dak's head flops forward, spraying blood across his brother's face, and Jak
howls like a damned thing, trying to drop his brother and bring up his sword at the same time. Berne's
already reversed his blade for an over-the-elbow backstrike, and he drives its chisel point through Jak's
open mouth and out the back of his head.

      In just over a second, he's killed two of the best swordsmen in the Empire.

      He says, "Shield. Personal."

      As my roaring wood finally spins into him, a globe of semisub-stantial glass has already surrounded
him. The wood batters uselessly against it.

      "You'll have to do better than that," he says. Within the globe, he whips his blade in a short arc that
sprays blood, and smiles.

       I don't answer, instead I send the wood flying out into the corridor among the Cats, then I smash
the pinwheel into the wall at my side, exploding the planks into what I hope is a blinding cloud of splinters
and sawdust. Outside, the Cats respond with a satisfying chorus of shouts.

      Beme looks at me, frowning, then his face clears. "Pallas!" he says with a broad grin of
recognition. "Itis you! Pallas Ril, fuck me if it isn't! Does this mean thatCaine's with you? No, no, I don't
need to ask. If he was, he'd be at your side like a loyal puppy."

      I back away, through the cut into the next room, as he paces toward me.

       "Does this mean you're on yourown"? Is it...is ityou! You're Simon Jester?You ? The Infamous
Simon Jester, the Elusive Thorn in the Paw of the Ankhanan Lion, is Pallas fuckingRil. Fuck me like a
goat."

        He licks his lips. "I'vedreamed" he says, his voice becoming thick and wet, "of meeting you again.
I haveplans for you, Pallas. Who knows? You might even like them. If you like them enough, you might
live through them."

     I hold my tongue and keep backing slowly away; the longer Berne talks here, the farther away get
Lamorak, Talann, and the Konnosi.

      His grin spreads even more. "It might actually be fun to keep you alive. That way you can tell
Caine all about what I did to you."

      I shake my head. "That's pretty weak, Berne. Caine and I—we had a parting of the ways. He
doesn't care what happens to me."

       He nods judiciously. "All right. I'll just please myself, then."

       "Alter you catch me." I follow the words with breath control, shifting back to mindview as my
fingers fumble for the drawstring of a pouch at my belt.

       He snorts. "I've caught you already."

       The polished buckeye that comes into my hand starts to trail smoke and pulls a huge swirling cloud
of Flow as my patterned concentration triggers the enchantment. Berne sees the smoke and gives me a
pitying look. "You don't have to be smart to be a pretty good thaumaturge, but I can't believe you're
stupid enough to think you can hurt me. This Shield is powered byMa'elKoth, you stupid cunt. Nothing
you've got can get through it."

      By way of answer, I flick the buckeye at his feet as though I'm shooting a marble. I can't resist a
cheesy line, Caine style, because my adrenaline's high and I still don't quite believe that I will die here.

       "See you in the fall," I tell him, and then jump down through the hole at my back as the buckeye
erupts into a ball of fire that shatters the floor and blows Berne, Shield and all, out through the breach in
the wall.

      We're only on the third floor; it won't kill him, but the three-story drop to the street might break a
bone or two and shake him up some. And the hole in the floor should slow the Cats a little. I hope.

       land in the apartment below, and pause just long enough to catch a whimper coming from under a
bed in the corner. Some poor guy got awakened out of a sound sleep by fire and explosions and people
cutting through his roof. I shrug; he's as safe under his bed as anywhere else in this building.

      Following through three cutaway walls, it takes only seconds to catch up with the others.
Lamorak's working on the brick wall that adjoins this tenement to the next one south, but it's slow going;
sweat darkens the end of his ponytail. Talann, covering their backs, nods to me. "Where are the Twins?"

      "Dead." I turn back toward the hole I came through and pull another carved shield of quartz out of
a pocket.

       "Dead?" Talann sounds stunned. "Both of them?"

       I don't answer her until I have another Shield in place to seal this hole; even as the Shield resolves
into existence the Cats are dropping through the ceiling in the farthest room and pelting toward us with
swords in hand.

       "Yes," I tell her. "They bought us this time. Let's not waste it."

       Both of Konnos' daughters cling to their mother and sob soundlessly. Konnos shakes his head,
stricken. "I should have given myself up. I should have surrendered. I've brought this upon all of us."

       "Shut up," I tell him. "We're still alive, and we're going to get you out of this. All of you.
Lamorak—how long?"

       Cords bulge in his neck as he forces Kosall through the brick to the bottom of one side of the arc.
"Thirty seconds," he says, hoarse with strain.

      "Make it fifteen. This is my last Shield, and I don't know if I can hold it against Berne."

       Cats pound booted feet and blades against my Shield, and feedback makes me dizzy. A
splintering crash comes from the outer room of this apartment: the Cats have found the hall door.

     Talann draws a pair of long knives and salutes me, wearing a manic grin. "I believe they're calling
my name."

        "Talann—" I begin, but she's already gone into the outer room. It's not for nothing that she idolizes
Caine: in battle she becomes a berserk chainsaw of feet and fists and blades, and the shouts of alarm and
pain from the room beyond confirm that the Cats weren't ready for her. I find myself praying that she kills
a lot of them before they bring her down.

       Lamorak pulls Kosall out of the bricks and kicks the center of the arc. It falls away into a cloud of
dust, and he helps the Konnosi through the gap. He takes my arm and pulls me close. "No more
cutting—you can run straight down the corridor, through to the alley that curves to the river. Go."

      "Lamorak, they'll kill you—

       He shrugs. "It's me, or it's you. You can get the Konnosi away by yourself. I might not." He taps
the cut brick with Kosall. "And this is a gap can hold for a long, long time. If you get to the Subjects,
send a rescue."

      As start to protest, a blazing wash of flame punches through my Shield, and pain scatters ragged
patches of black across my vision.

      Berne is coming.

     My knees buckle, and Lamorak pushes me through the gap. He says, "Please believe that I never
wanted it to turn out this way. I'm sorry, Pallas. And this is where I pay for it."

      "Pay? Lamorak—

       But his back is to me, and his shoulders fill the cutaway arch, and Kosall sings as it shears through
steel and bone. "Go!"

    Konnos and his wife—I'm struck by a sudden absurd embarrassment that I don't even know her
name—wait for me to lead them. "Pick up the girls," I say. "Now we have to run."

       They each gather up one of their daughters and fall in behind me as I race through the apartment
and out into the mercifully empty hallway. It's long and straight and lined with doors. The window at the
end gleams with golden sunlight like the promise of salvation. We run like hell.

      From the window, I look down into the alley below.

      It's full of Cats.
       There must be ten of them at least, two groups of five closing off the visible ends of the alley. Ten
Cats, and I don't have anyone left to fight them with.

        Konnos catches the look on my face. "What? What is it? They'reout there, oh great gods, they
are."

       "Not dead yet." I reach into a pocket on the inside of my tunic and pull out a silver key. It takes
only a second to summon mind-view and pattern my mind to the glowing sigils. I stick the key into the
lock of the nearest door, and the lock snaps open sharply. I pull everyone inside.

        It's a two-room, and it's empty, thank all gods.

     "All right," I say. "We've got a few seconds to figure out what to do next. As long as I do no
magick, no one will detect us in here; they'll have to open every door."

       "Can'tyou...can't you," Konnos' wife stammers, speaking for the first time. "Can't you turn us all
invisible, or something?"

      "Don't be a ninny," Konnos says severely. "A Cloak cannot work when there's no other magic
being done around it. Any device and quite a few people can feel its pull on the Flow."

        "But maybe," say, "maybe a Cloak in conjunction with a powerfulnondetection..."

        His eyes widen.

        "Give me that scroll of yours."

        "But, but—"

       Booted feet batter the floor of the hallway outside. That means Lamorak has already fallen. The
realization stops my breath, and tears begin to well up in my eyes; the burning knife that this drives into
my chest hurts so much that I can't think.

        I shake the tears violently off my face. I'll have time to cry for him later, if I live long enough.

        I reach out and tangle my hand in Konnos' tunic and jerk his face close to mine. "Give it."

      Without waiting for his answer, yank the scroll case from his belt. I give him a shove, and he
stumbles back while I unscrew the bone knob and shake the scroll out into my hand.

        "But, I'm not sure this is—

       "You have a better idea?" I unroll the buttery lambskin of the scroll; the markings on it are painted
in ink of gold, and they instantly burn their way into my brain. I barely have time to summon mindview
and open my Shell before the eldritch chanting begins to spill automatically from my lips. The words ring
in the air, and then there was no more light, no more sound, no more Pallas; there was only Hari
Michaelson sitting in Chairman Kollberg's simichair with sweat pouring from his hairline. The eye shield
was blank before his staring, and all he could hear was the harsh rasp of his breathing and the
trip-hammer slam of his heart against his ribs.
       it seemed likeminutes that he sat rigid and sweating, convulsively digging his fingers into the leather
of the simichair's arms. He couldn't think, he couldn't make himself move to shift the eye shield, he
couldn't swallow past the giant hand that squeezed the breath from his chest.

       "That's, mm, all we have." Kollberg's voice came from somewhere outside Hari's universe.

       This must be what panic feels like,Hari thought disconnectedly.Yeah, that's it: this is panic.

     The induction helmet lifted away, and Hari had nothing to look at in front of him except Kollberg's
moonface with its rubber-lipped smirk.

       "It's, um, pretty, prettyintense, isn't it?"

       Hari let his eyes drift closed. The longer he looked at that smug bastard's face, the closer he came
to felony forcible contact. Koll-berg was an Administrator; while forcible contact with an upcaste man
was no longer a capital crime, it still carried a mandatory downcaste to Labor and five years' commitment
to a public camp. When he was sure he had control of his voice, he said, "Is she alive?"

       "No one knows. The end of that cube marks our last contact. We have no telemetry, nor do we
detect her transponder signature. We, mm, we believe that this scroll, the spell on it, severed the
thought-mitter link."

      Hari pressed his fingertips against his eyelids and watched the phosphenes explode showers of
sparks across his vision. "How long does she have?"

       "Assuming she's still alive—

       "How long?"

       Kollberg's voice became chilly. "Don't interrupt me, Michaelson. Mind your place."

       Hari opened his eyes and leaned forward in the chair. Kollberg stood before him and waited. The
invisible hand that crushed Hari's chest tightened its grip until it nearly strangled his voice. "I apologize,
Administrator."

        Kollberg sniffed. "All right, then. So: this sequence, that you have just second-handed, this
occurred near ten hundred Ankha-nan time this morning. The energy cell in her thoughtmitter carries
sufficient charge to maintain amplitude match for one hundred seventy hours, give or take ten. At the very
least, she has one hundred fifty-seven hours remaining. If she presents herself at a fixed transfer point
before then, well and good. Otherwise..." He let his voice trail away.

       Hari sat motionless, his mind flooded by horrific visions. Amplitude decay is every Actor's
nightmare. Young Actors in training at the Studio Conservatory are shown a series of holos of what is left
of Actors who slip out of phase with Overworld; usually all that returns is a bubbling mass of
undifferentiated protoplasm, or a twisted array of half-crystalline splinters, or something entirely
indescribable—and those are the good ones, the easy ones, the ones that don't hurt you to remember.

       Once in a while, you can recognize one as having once been human.

       Hari asked quietly, "Does she even know she's off-line?"
         Kollberg's rounded shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug. "Frankly, Michaelson, she's most likely
dead."

      "Get me there. I know that city. I can find her."Or her body. Hari forced the thought away by
promising himself that if her body was what he found, he would also find Berne.Let's see you channel,
you fuck. Let's see you channel with my fingers jammed through your eye sockets.

       "I beg your pardon?" Kollberg's eyebrows twitched upward, and his whiny schoolyard-hectoring
tone brought Hari back from his bloody fantasy. "I, ah, don't think I heard you correctly. And I think you
should get up from my seat, now."

       Hari lowered his head and reminded himself that Kollberg held Shanna's life in those soft
corpse-pale hands. He slowly pushed himself up out of the Chairman's simichair and stood, head still
lowered with eyes downcast. He put as much sincerity into his voice as he could shove past the fire in his
chest.

         "Please, Administrator. Can we make some deal? Please send me to Ankhana."

      "That's better. That's, ah, that's what I've been hoping you'd say. Come with me to the Contract
Center."

      hari and kollbkrgnearly filled the soundproof plexi cubicle in the middle of the Contract Center.
Seated outside on tall stools were a pair of Studio Attorneys who were also registered witnesses.
Kollberg fidgeted and played with his notepad while Hari slowly scrolled through the contract. In other
cubicles scattered through the room, lesser Actors scanned standard contracts in the company of other
lawyers.

      The contract spelled out Caine's obligations in the euphemistic terms of "colorfully and
suspensefully attempt to remove the current Ankhanan Emperor from power." Even in its most privileged
and secret documents, the Studio never openly ordered an Actor to kill.

         Hari looked up from the screen. "This doesn't say anything about Shanna at all."

      "Of course not," Kollberg said easily. "You want to go to Ank-hana. We want Ma'elKoth
eliminated; I've already explained why. It's a very straightforward proposition."

      "If you're so hot to have him killed, why don't you just transfer six guys with assault rifles into the
Colhari Palace?"

        "We, er..." Kollberg coughed wetly into his fist. "We tried that; except it was eight, not six. We,
ah, still don't know precisely what happened."

         Hari looked at him, blinked, blinked again, then said, "Oh," and turned back to the contract.

       "Yes, well, after that incident, Ma'elKoth has, mm, done something to the palace. We don't know
what, exactly, but it seems to prevent our scans. Within the palace grounds, we're completely blind and
deaf. Any Actors who get past the gate are cut off until they leave."

       "I see." Hari leaned his elbows on the desk and lowered his face into his hands. "Before I sign this,
I want more information."
       "Certainly everything pertinent will be in your faxpack."

       "I mean, for example, what happened to Lamorak? Is Karl dead?"

       Kollberg lifted his notepad and tapped a query onto its screen. He read its response with pursed
lips and said, "We're not sure. On the basis of Pallas' cube, we assume he was killed."

       "How can you not besurel Did that fucking spell cuthim off too? Can it do that?"

       "As to the effects of this spell," Kollberg said, "there's no way to know. I've queried Archives, and
they have no record of a spell with this effect. That, ah, Konnos fellow, his claim of having originated that
spell must be accepted as genuine. We don't know the operation of this spell; all we can really say is that
it seems to be, ah, singularly powerful. But, mm, that's nothing to do with Lamorak. He was never
on-line."

       "I don't understand."

       "It's a, ah, pilot program of my own devising. I call it the Long Form. Lamorak is on freemod."

        Kollberg rose and began to pace the two steps back and forth he could take within the cubicle.
"Lamorak—Entertainer Shanks— his career hasn't developed to the satisfaction of his Patron. He
volunteered for this Long Form program. Instead of having first-banders coexperiencing his Adventures
in real time, and thus restricting his Adventure to the usual ten-day average, he's had a prototype
thoughtmitter implanted that contains a niicrocube and a graver; it will record his experiences for up to
two months, at which time he'll transfer back to Earth. The cube will then be edited into a standard
second-hander format. This will allow for a much more extended story-arc, and—

      "This isinsane" Hari said. "You're telling me that nobody knows whether either one of them is
evenalive*] GoodChrist, Administrator!"

      Kollberg nodded agreement. "Yes, I know, it's terrible. The real pity is that Pallas' Adventures
have been relatively dull lately—her Simon Jester operation, smuggling fugitives out of the Empire, has
been entirely too easy. As soon as it starts to become interesting,this happens. Terrible."

      "Simon Jester," Hari murmured. A pounding headache built between his temples. Simon Jester
was an imaginary revolutionary in a banned twentieth-century novel. Hari had secret copies of a number
of banned books, and he'd introduced Shanna to the guilty pleasures of reading the works of unpersons
like Heinlein. Those books were banned for a damned good reason—shit, for all he knew, it might have
been Heinlein's libertarian propaganda that started Shanna on this antiauthority fling. If he'd never given
herThe Moon Is a Harsh Mistress, would she still have set herself against the Imperial Government?

         Cut it out,he told himself. Things were bad enough already; he didn't need to invent ways to make
it all his fault.

      He pressed his knuckles against his throbbing temples and said, "So, we know nothing. There's
nothing you can tell me."

       "I can tell you this," Kollberg said, standing over him. "If you want to find out anything, if you want
to help your wife, if you want to go to Ankhana at all, you'll have to contract to eliminate Ma'elKoth."

       "What makes you think I even caw? Administrator, a special ops team with assault rifles couldn't
handle him; what am supposed to do?" Hari said desperately.

       "I have infinite faith in your, ah,resourcefulness."

       "This isn't like going after Toa-Phelathon—have youseen the cube you just showed me? The kind
of power Ma'elKoth must have...I mean, all I can really do is hit people. How am I supposed to counter
that kind of magick?"

       "But youdo have power," Kollberg replied smugly."Star power."

       He sounded like he actually believed Caine could do anything, as long as he stayed in the Top
Ten.

       "Administrator—" Hari fought for words that wouldn't come out hot, for a tone that wouldn't
trigger Kollberg's petty casteism. "Why? Why can't I contract to find Pallas and Lamorak and bring them
out? Why can't I go for Ma'elKoth after she's safe?" The plaintive weakness in his voice nauseated him,
but there was no help for it.

        "For one," Kollberg said mildly, "I don't think youwould go after him, once they are safe. But
more than that, don't you see the kind ofstory this makes? Do you have any idea of the kind of audience
you'll command, going to Ankhana without knowing if your beloved is alive or dead, but sworn to slay
her enemies or die trying? Do you have enough romance in your soul to understand how thisw\\]play '

      "My beloved?" Hari shook his head. "You haven't been keeping up with the netleads on my
personal life."

      "None of thatmatters, don't you see?" Tiny white flecks of foam showed at the corners of the
Chairman's lips, and his hands clutched words from the air; there was a vibrancy in his voice that Hari
had never heard before.

       "You don't understand what your life looks like from the outside. Street-raised Labor boy from the
Frisco slums, rising to the pinnacle of the Studio…you're a vicious and hardened killer whose heart is
finally softened by a refined Tradesfolk debutante with a spine of steel. It's perfection; Icouldn't pray for
a better story. Whatever problems you two have are onlyobstacles, from the public's view. Everyone
knows you'll live happily ever after."

       "If she's not already dead," Hari muttered. The words came out effortlessly; it was remarkably
easy to twist the knife in his own belly.

       "That would be, mm—" Kollberg pursed his lips and chose the word with precision "—tragedy.
But it wouldn't hurt the story. My god, Hari, this could be bigger thanRetreat from the Boedecken —
love, murder, politics...andBerne."

      Kollberg leaned close and lowered his voice to a reverential hush. "Hari, this may be bigger than
Last Stand at Ceraeno ..."

      Hari looked into Kollberg's moist, bulging eyes and knew that there was nothing he could say,
nothing he could do, no leverage he could use except to appeal to whatever stunted sense of decency the
Chairman had left.

       "If I do this," he said slowly, "if I commit to taking Ma'elKoth, I want a commitment from the
Studio, fromyou personally, that the Studio will flood Ankhana with Actors. That you'll use every
resource to find her and bring her out. Please, Administrator?"

      Kollberg appeared to think it over. He stretched his mouth downward and mopped sweat from his
upper lip with two fingers, then shook his head. "No. No, I don't like it. It's a better story if everything
depends on you."

      '' Admini strator—

      "No. It's final. Sign the contract or go home. Your choice."

       Blood hammered at Hari's headache. His vision misted red, and his hand trembled as he brought
the pen to the screen.What choice is there? Even if he'd wanted to refuse, he couldn't; Pallas' voice kept
repeating in his head:

      "He doesn 't care what happens to me."

       Did she believe that? Could she? He kept thinking of Lamorak holding the gap in the wall with
steel and guts. He wanted to believe that he would have done the same, or better—that he would have
gotten her to safety without sacrificing himself. But it Wouldn't have been the same: put his life, and
Shanna's, at risk for some native family he didn't even know? Not fucking likely.

      Caine would have thrown the Konnosi to the Cats without one second's thought.

      But when I thumbprint this contract, I'll be stepping into that doorway right beside Lamorak.

      Kill Ma'elKoth or die trying; the third outcome—to fail and live, or not really to try—would be a
contract violation that could have consequences Hari couldn't even bear to think about.

      /knew what kind of ride this was before I sat down, he thought, and:Will she hurt as much for
me as she did for him ?

      He signed his name on the winking line and held his thumb against the DNA scanner.

       "Ah, good," Kollberg said with deep satisfaction. "The net releases are already prepared, and
you'll be the lead story onAdventure Update tonight. Visit Media on your way out and pick up your
interview kit; we'll put you onDragonTales with LeShaun Kin-nison, and you'd best be prepared. Plan
on transfer at oh eight hundred tomorrow."

      "Tomorrow?But—"But that's eighteen hours, he thought. Eighteen out of Shanna's precious
reserve. Almost a whole day lost.

       "Of course tomorrow," Kollberg said briskly. "Even with the worldwide publicity blitz we're
preparing, it'll take at least that long to pull enough audience to cover expenses. And you are expected to
attend the reception for the subscribers. No need to be on time; let some anticipation build. Shall we say
twenty-one thirty tonight? In the Diamond Ballroom, of course."

      Hari held himself motionless.If I lose her...If I lose her because of this, because of you, you will
be entered on a short list.

      A very short list. Right under Berne.
      He said quietly, "Yes, Administrator. I' be there."

       the sobbing moansfrom beyond the double door slanted up into shrieks of agony with the
relentless regularity of the waves of an incoming tide.

      His Grace the Honorable Toa-Sytell, Imperial Duke of Public Order, sat forward on the edge of a
comfortable chair across the anteroom, elbows on knees and fingers laced together, and looked at the
newly created Count Berne with bland contempt. He tried to ignore the screams that came from the
room beyond; had he not found a scapegoat, those screams could well have been his own.

       Toa-Sytell examined Berne, from his thick brush of platinum hair to the bloodstained leather of his
soft calf-high boots, and tried to imagine what he must be thinking now, as the pair of them waited
outside the Iron Room for the judgment of Ma'elKoth. Count Berne stood at the beautifully glazed
window that filled the wall of the anteroom and chewed at his thumbnail as he stared out overAnkhana.

      The Duke had an intensely detailed and vivid imagination, but of a very literal sort; he had trained
himself not to indulge in fantasy. He could imagine very clearly what Berne saw out that window.

       From this vantage point high in the Dusk Tower of the Colhari Palace, the financial district on the
western tip of the island of Old Town would lie spread below like one of Ma'elKoth's models— baroque
and decorative, backlit bla/ing red by the setting sun. Nearing twilight, the sun would now strike fire from
the slow boil of the Great Chambaygen, hiding the garbage and filth of human waste that Ankhana
poured into it, and would gild the immense anti-ship nets of heavy chain that stretched from the northwest
and southwest garrisons across the channels of the river to Onetower at the westernmost tip of the island.
Bonfires on the Commons' Beach south of Alientown would be flickering like stars on a clear night,
welcoming the throngs of subhuman and semihuman workmen and beggars and street vendors that would
be crowding across Knights' Bridge to beat the curfew. Only purebloods were allowed on the central
island after sundown.

       Toa-Sytell suspected that Berne's thoughts tended toward the east, where a similar flood crossed
Fools' Bridge onto Rogues' Way between the Warrens and the Industrial Park. Those with money would
be turning left to their grimy tenements nestled between the manufactories; those without would be turning
right to take their chances on the streets of the Warrens.

      It was in the Warrens that Simon Jester had once again slipped through their fingers, and neither of
them yet understood how.

      Muscles bulged at the corners of Berne's jaw, and he clutched the scabbard of his sword until his
knuckles popped. Toa-Sytell hadn't seen Berne wear this particular sword before. It was longer than
Berne's usual style, and broader as well, and he wore it across his back with its hilt jutting above his left
shoulder. Berne's usual quality of boneless relaxation was conspicuously absent; Toa-Sytell guessed that
the Count was actually frightened. This was unsurprising, and Toa-Sytell didn't fault him for it. They both
had sufficient reason for fear.

       Berne still wore the bloodstained clothes he'd worn all day, through this dusty and exhausting and
finally futile search. The blood that had dried in a ragged splotch across his chest belonged mostly to that
gladiator brat whose neck he'd sliced in the tenement, although some of it had leaked from wounds his
Cats had suffered.

      None of it was his own, more's the pity.
      "I don't like to be stared at." Berne had never turned from the window, and his normally petulant
tone held a thin edge of danger.

      Toa-Sytell shrugged. "Sorry," he said tonelessly.

      "Keep your eyes to yourself, if you want to keep them in your face."

      Toa-Sytell smiled thinly. "I've apologized already."

       Berne now came away from the window, and his pale eyes burned. "You apologize too easily, you
spineless cocksucker."

      "You're ahead of yourself," Toa-Sytell murmured. His eyes held Berne's, while his fingers
unobtrusively caressed the hilt of the poisoned stiletto that he wore in a sheath strapped to his wrist
beneath his sleeve. "Perhaps if Ma'elKoth judges against me, he'll give me to you. Until then, have a care
with your words, catamite."

       His colorless tone, as much as the words themselves, brought rising purple to Berne's face.
Toa-Sytell was fairly sure that he couldn't survive an attack from the Count; before his ennoblement a
few months ago, Berne had been a notorious freebooter whose swordsmanship was legendary. On the
other hand, with his fingers on the stiletto, he was fairly sure that Berne wouldn't survive it either.

      Some of this assurance must have shown on his face, for Berne chose not to pursue the discussion.
He spat on the pale limestone floor at the Duke's feet and stalked back to the window.

      Toa-Sytell shrugged, and continued to stare.

      The screams built toward a climax.

       Toa-Sytell was a man of average size and average appearance, with one of those blandly regular
faces that one forgets a moment after looking away; only the keen brain behind his forgettable eyes was
extraordinary. He had been in service to the King's Eyes for twenty-three years, in that time rising from
an apprentice shadow-pad to the apex of the organization. Born with the common name Sytell, he had
been privileged to take the prefix after he was ennobled by the late Prince-Regent Toa-Phelathon. In the
yearlong chaos of civil war that followed the murders of the Prince-Regent and the Child Queen, he had
survived by making himself equally indispensable to all sides, never seeking power himself but gathering
resources and men into the agency he led.

       He alone of the Council of Dukes had survived Ma'elKoth's coup with life and power intact; the
new Emperor had been already well aware of Toa-Sytell's value. It was, in fact, at Toa-Sytell's advice
that Ma'elKoth had taken the titleEmperor, the restless and quarrelsome nobility would never have
tolerated a King who bore no trace of royal blood, but an Emperor was a different matter. Perhaps
Emperors werealways commoners who ruled by fiat, backed by a loyal military; who could say
different? Ankhana had no Imperial traditions—the nation had, after all,become an empire largely through
Ma'elKoth's astonishing successes as Toa-Phelathon's most trusted general.

      This transparent rationalization could be used by the nobles to satisfy their liegemen. They didn't
have to believe it themselves; their own cooperation was ensured by the diligence of the King's Eyes.

      Under Toa-Sytell's leadership, the King's Eyes had grown from a simple gang of spies and
informers to a full-fledged secret police with nearly unlimited discretionary powers. Rare was the Duke,
Count, or even provincial Baron who would dare to whisper treason, even to his own wife in the privacy
of their bedchamber; the King's Eyes could see, so it was said, even through the thickest stone.

      But the mere knowledge of treason was never sufficient to quash it. The nobility had traditionally
woven tangled nets of alliances and blood bonds to protect themselves from the power of the Oaken
Throne; to attack any single one would invite full-scale civil war. These alliances had made the nobles
untouchable until Ma'elKoth devised his most brilliant stratagem:theAktir-tokar.

       A Baron who whispered against the Imperial Government now might well find himself denounced
as anAktir. Certainly, the unfortunate fellow's allies would know that the charge was fraudulent, but that
knowledge bought them nothing. The EmpirewideAktir-tokar had spawned such a frenzy of suspicion
and fear that any noble who openly supported a denounced man would face sudden hot rebellion from
his peasants, and not a few of his arms-bearing liegemen. One by one, the nobles fell, slowly, in a
carefully calculated progression; soon, only those nobles who supported Ma'elKoth would remain, along
with the dregs of their fellows, too cowed to give the Emperor so much as a sidelong look.

       Toa-Sytell was not concerned only with the upper reaches of Ankhanan society; he also directed
the Imperial Constabulary and was on his way to running the criminal elements of the Empire as well. He
had already unobtrusively assumed control of the most powerful of the Warrengangs and had his men
busily infiltrating the rest. The King's Eyes were spread throughout the Empire; they reported only to
Toa-Sytell and took only his orders. He could almost certainly have controlled the Empire himself, in
secret; he did not. His ambitions did not tend in that direction.

      The bloody sun sank into the horizon, smearing crimson across Berne's too-pretty face.

       The screams within the Iron Room faded with the light; as the giant brass bell in the Temple of
Prorithun tolled the curfew, the sobbing from behind the door was buried under a new voice, a dark and
savage throbbing that Toa-Sytell could feel vibrating in his guts; the words meant nothing, but the mere
depth of the tone was like a finger that jabbed into the notch of his collarbone. Toa-Sytell shuddered and
made no attempt to listen.

       There was only one man alive that Toa-Sytell feared; but the beings that Ma'elKoth trafficked
with, behind that door, were not men. Nor were they, strictly, alive.

      That voice became difficult to ignore in the silence of the antechamber. Toa-Sytell rubbed his
forearms, to make the hairs on them lie down once again, and spoke mainly from a desire to fill the quiet.
"One of the prisoners—Lamorak—he's been asking for you," he said.

      Berne snorted. "I should think so."

      "Oh?" Toa-Sytell said mildly. "Why is that?" Berne suddenly coughed into his fist and turned his
face away from the Duke. Toa-Sytell waited for him to elaborate, watching him with the unblinking
patience of a snake coiled at the mouth of a rabbit hole.

       The silence, underscored by the voices from the adjoining room, stretched thin. Berne coughed
again. "Well, I have his sword, don't I?"

      "Do you?"

      Berne drew the blade smoothly over his shoulder. Its edges shimmered in the crimson twilight, and
a whining hum came clearly to Toa-Sytell's ears. "The enchanted blade Kosall—you've heard of it?"

      "No."

       "Well, it is. Enchanted, I mean. It's packed to the eyeballs with magick." He held it slanted at
garde to admire it in the fading light. "Cuts through anything. Huh, he nearly killed me with it. He dropped
two of my boys, and when I came against him myself his first stroke sheared my blade in two, a
handbreadth above the guard."

      "How did you take him?"

       "I grabbed this blade with both hands, and held it while I kicked his lamps out." Berne smiled with
adolescent smugness and flexed his fists before him like a stretching cat. He opened his unmarked palms
and turned them toward Toa-Sytell as though to say,See? It cuts through everything—except me.
"Being Ma'elKoth's favorite comes with bonuses."

        "But this is no answer," Toa-Sytell said. "I questioned him, and the other, for hours. Why would he
insist that he will speak only to you?"

     "Maybe it's because I beat him," Berne suggested with a shrug. "A point of honor, betweenmen.
You wouldn't understand."

      "I see," Toa-Sytell said blandly. "It's clear enough that there is certainly something here that I do
not understand. Yet."

      Berne only smirked and whirled the enchanted blade through a complex arc that ended with it
once again within its scabbard. He went back to the window.

       The distant-thunder rumbling of the savage voice faded after a time, and there came an explosive
pop, like a giant's handclap. Ma'elKoth's negotiations were complete.

        Berne came hesitantly to the inner door, a great black slab of cold-worked iron. On that door
hung a massive ring forged in the ancient symbol of the serpent devouring its tail. To lift and drop it would
be a simple thing, a second's work that would produce a resonant clang, but Berne's hand, reaching for
it, trembled like an old man's. He swiftly shot a glance over his shoulder, to see if Toa-Sytell had noticed.

      Toa-Sytell allowed himself another smile.

       A swirling wind came from the center of the closed anteroom as though someone had opened the
window where Berne had stood, as though the calm night outside had become a gale. The wind pushed
the great door smoothly open with a hollow rushing sound like a distant waterfall.

      "Berne. Toa-Sytell."

      The Emperor's voice was richer and more resonant than the temple bell that had recently rung the
curfew. Toa-Sytell never thought to wonder how Ma'elKoth had known they were out here: Ma'elKoth
always knew.

      "Join me, my loving nobles."

      Toa-Sytell exchanged a glance with the Count he despised—a sudden kinship of apprehension
between them—then together they crossed the threshold.

       The Iron Room, in which they now stood, had been built more than a century before, early in the
reign of Til-Menelethis the Golden, the last Ankhanan king to dabble in sorcery. The window-less interior
of the room was plated with interleaved sheets of hammered black iron, the joints worked with binding
runes of silver. Silver runes ringed the doorway and the only two places where the palace's stonework
was exposed: the matching mystic circles, one at the center of the floor and the other on the ceiling
above.

        The room had been sealed by order of the Council of Dukes in regency for Til-Menelethis' heir
after that unfortunate experimenter descended into wailing madness; the Wards had been set by the
legendary Manawythann Greyeyes, and had stood inviolate against all attempts until broken by
Ma'elKoth himself.

       In the northern quadrant of the mystic circle, the naked body of a middle-aged man lay across the
altar of native limestone, now greyed with soot and crusted with ancient brown blood. Toa-Sytell knew
this man, knew him well, had eaten with this man's wife and had patted his children's heads; he didn't
allow himself to think of his name.

       An intricate web of wetly pulsing ropes stretched upward above the man's torso to hang
suspended from a treelike metal rack, the arms of which ended in silver hooks that were driven through
the ropes...But the ropes, they weren't ropes: ropes aren't slick with blood, and they don't twitch with the
rhythm of a slowly beating heart.

       In a single dizzying instant, Toa-Sytell's vision seemed to come finally into focus as he understood
what he saw: these ropes were the still-living guts of the man on the altar, withdrawn through a gaping
slice below his navel and hung from these silver hooks like chitterlings in a smokehouse. Toa-Sytcll's
stomach twisted, and he risked a sidelong glance to see Berne's reaction.

      Berne had leaned forward and to the side, craning his neck for a better view.

       The Emperor stood within the mystic circle, bare to the waist like a wrestler, his hands dripping
blood to the elbow. Ma'elKoth's eyes were as black as a clouded sky at midnight, and they glittered with
indifferent perfection, neither warmth nor chill. He nodded toward the low sofa against one wall, and his
voice seemed to rumble from the roots of mountains. "Sit, while I cleanse my hands."

       They did, and they both watched as the Emperor went to one of the lazily smoking braziers that
provided both reddish light and a juniper-oil scent that nearly covered the sulphurous fecal tang that
always hung in the air within this room. Ma'elKoth stared at the brazier, without word or gesture, and
yellow flame now leaped crackling from it to the height of his head. He thrust his hands within it, and the
flame turned brilliant green around them; the blood on his hands caked, charred, and flaked away.

        The Emperor Ma'elKoth, Shield of Prorithun, Lord of Ankhana, Protector of Kirisch-Nar, Lion of
the Northern Waste and a host of other tides, was the largest man Toa-Sytell had ever seen. Even Berne,
tall by ordinary standards, barely reached Ma'elKoth's stiffly waxed beard. His spreading curls of
chestnut hair gleamed rich red in the light of the flame before him and draped across shoulders like the
rock of the Shattered Cliffs.

       The Emperor worked his hands within the flame. His biceps bulged like barrels, and the massive
swelling muscles across his chest might have been carved of individual stones and joined together like a
puzzle. His growing grin showed perfect teeth as the blood crackled from his fingers. The flames faded
away from his hands, and he brushed them together briskly, scraping away the last of the burned blood.
When he looked down upon his seated nobles, his eyes now shone with the deep blue of a late-summer
sky.

      The Emperor was the one man that Toa-Sytell feared.

      "Do not trouble to report," Ma'elKoth said. "I have tasks for you both."

      "You, ah..." Berne said, straightening, coughing harshly to clear his throat. "We're not going to be
punished?"

      His brows drew together. "Should you be punished? How have you betrayed Me?"

      "I, I ah." He coughed again. "I haven't, but—"

       "But Simon Jester once again escaped," Ma'elKoth said equably. He stepped out of the mystic
circle and over to the sofa, where he crouched before Berne and put a hand on his shoulder like a father
gently correcting his young son.

        "Berne, do you know Me so poorly? Am I a maniac, to punish men for My own failure? Was I
not with you at every moment? I do not yet know what this Simon Jester did, what magick it is that still
dances within us all. If I can neither break nor avoid this power, how should I punish you for that same
inability?"

       Berne looked up, and Toa-Sytell was astonished to see on his face an almost pathetic eagerness
to please. "I only...I didn't want to disappoint you."

     "And that is why you are My favorite Child," Ma'elKoth said warmly. "Here, scoot, both of you.
Let Me sit between you."

       Toa-Sytell hastily shifted to the end of the sofa. This was part of why he feared Ma'elKoth: the
man was as changeable as a summer storm. One moment he could terrify you with a mere glance from
the mountaintop of his regal majesty; in the next he might sit familiarly beside you like a boyhood friend
on the stoop of your house.

        "It is My lust that has undone Me," Ma'elKoth said, leaning forward onto his knees. " have made
this Colhari Palace proof against all magicks that are not of My own making. In the crucible of My desire
to capture Simon Jester, I forged the knife that now trembles within my belly. It was the channel that
joined us, Berne, that was the fatal chink through which Simon Jester's dart has stabbed Me. The Power
that I summoned this eve—to ask what can be done to break this magick—laughed. It laughed at Me! It
said the magick is easily broken, once I lay hands upon its caster."

       Ma'elKoth shook his head slowly, with an inward-looking smile as though deeply amused at this
irony. "Can you feel it? Berne, you met Simon Jester face-to-face—what did he look like?"

      Berne shook his head miserably. "I don't remember. I have tried...I think I may have even
recognized him."

       " know you did," Ma'elKoth rumbled. "Since this morn I have worked to deduce who Simon
Jester must be, based on what I know of whom you know. It cannot be done; each time an inkling
comes, I feel the pubof that cursed magick and the inkling is driven off. I have even tried to use the spell
against itself, working through the alphabet for initials, for names at random, and waiting to see which
trigger the pull—and I find myself, again and again, staring at a sheet full of letters with no memory of
which pulled and which did not. Were I a man given to fury, I would find it infuriating."

       "But you seem, Imperial Majesty," Toa-Sytell said delicately, "almost pleased."

       The smile that Ma'elKoth turned on him held an irresistible heat; despite the Duke's apprehension,
the smile warmed him to his core. "But I am! This isnew, Toa-Sytell. And a challenge. Do you have any
conception how rare it is for Me to be surprised? To be frustrated? This Simon Jester is the most
interesting opponent I have faced since the Plains War. He's outfoxed my entire pack of hounds; the
solution to such a problem is, of course, to find a better hound."

       "Better?" Berne said, frowning.

       Ma'elKoth smiled and engulfed Berne's shoulders with a titanic arm. "Do not take the metaphor
personally, dear boy. I apologize for the misspeech; I should have said, one more suited for this particular
task."

       "And that would be?" Berne said sullenly.

       "Come. I will show you."

      Ma'elKoth rose and entered the mystic circle. Toa-Sytell joined him instantly, but Bcrnc hesitated,
looking at the man who lay stretched across the altar. "He, uh, he looks familiar."

       Ma'elKoth said, "He is. Duke Toa-Sytell, you may explain."

        Toa-Sytell took a deep breath and looked away. "His name is Jaybie. think you've met him once
or twice. He was a captain in the Eyes." Toa-Sytell studiously avoided looking at Jaybie's slow rise and
fall of breath, at the heartbeat that could be seen in the woven net of his intestines. "He is the man who
tipped the artificer, Konnos, that he'd been denounced."

       "Indeed," Ma'elKoth murmured indulgently. "And so I turned his treachery to a useful purpose: the
Outside Powers with which I deal usually arrive hungry. I should be a poor host if I did not offer at least
a...snack, shall we say?"

       Berne nodded his understanding. "He's still alive?"

       "Only his body," Ma'elKoth rumbled. "Now come."

       Once Berne joined them within the circle, Ma'elKoth laid a hand on each man's shoulder and lifted
his eyes to the bare limestone of the ceiling. In no more time than it takes to draw a breath and release it
again, the solidity of the stone misted and faded to a ghost of itself. Through the stone itself Toa-Sytell
could see the roll of oncoming clouds and the first strengthening stars of night.

      An instant later, the floor fell away beneath his feet and the three of them rose in effortless silence
through the ceiling. The stone beneath them regained its substance, and the three men now stood on the
very parapet of the Dusk Tower.

      This was another reason that Toa-Sytell feared Ma'elKoth; it was not only the stunning range of
his power, but that he could summon it without a word, without a gesture, with no more than a thought.
Toa-Sytell knew enough of magick to appreciate the level of concentration required for the simplest
operation; even the finest adept could do only one spell at a time. Most depend on enchanted items to
supplement their abilities. Not so Ma'elKoth; on him there seemed to be no limit.

       It was not the cool of the night breeze that made Toa-Sytell shiver.

      Ankhana lay spread below them like a carpet of jewels, from tiny diamond chips of lamps to
blazing ruby bonfires. The freshening breeze carried snatches of song from alehouses and cries of
newspages as they trailed back to their offices for evening accounting, the savor of meat stewing with
onion and garlic, and the wild clean scent of the grassland that stretched to the sea.

      Clouds built in the west and rolled majestically toward the city as the moon breasted the Gods'
Teeth range far to the east.

      Ma'elKoth spread his arms wide and threw back his head. He lifted his voice above the rising
wind. "I asked of the Power to show Me who can pluck this thorn from My flesh, to show Me the man
who can rid the Empire of this seditious Simon Jester. It dug its answer from the depths of My own
mind—I had known this, without knowing that I knew. Now we ask the wind, and see it written on the
clouds!"

       He pointed at the wall of approaching thunderheads. "Look there, and see the face of My hound!"

       Toa-Sytell followed the Emperor's finger with his eyes, anticipating an image to appear on the
cloud where Ma'elKoth pointed, like a drawing on parchment. The thunderheads rolled and boiled,
swelling and pulsing as though they themselves lived, as though they were slaves cringing under the lash,
and again Toa-Sytell felt that disorienting blur in his vision, that dizzying alteration of perspective as he
realized that there would be no image on the cloud.

       The cloud was itself the image.

       Under the relentless knife of the Emperor's will, the thunder-head that towered above the rest
writhed and carved itself into the face of a man—a face larger than a mountain, framed with a fringe of
beard and short-cropped hair. Its mouth was contorted into a snarl of fury, and lightning flickered within
its eyes.

       Berne breathed, "Fuck me like a virgin goat..."

       Toa-Sytell coughed and said in a thin voice, "You couldn't have drawn a picture?"

       Ma'elKoth laughed like a drunken god. "Power unused is not power, Toa-Sytell. Beautiful, isn't
it?"

       "It's, ah, yes," Toa-Sytell said. "It's beautiful." He could only stare in awe.

       Beme said harshly, "It's Came."

     "Oh, yes," Ma'elKoth rumbled with bone-deep satisfaction. "Oh yes, it is indeed. He shall be in
Ankhana tomorrow morning."

      "Caine the assassin?" Toa-Sytell said, both awe and fear vanishing behind sudden interest. "The
Caine who murdered Toa-Phelathon?"
       He studied the cloud face more intently, now; he had seen crude drawings of Caine in the past, but
this modeling was so lifelike that he felt he might know the man on sight. Even as he looked, the face
dissolved and became once again an approaching thunderstorm.

       "Mmm, yes," Ma'elKoth sighed. "That is another service he has done Me, though not at My
direction. Your task, Toa-Sytell, and that of the King's Eyes, is to find this man and bring him here to
Me. Bend every resource to the task, and know that he may not wish to be found. He has both contacts
and friends here. Perhaps some one or more of them will come to you, if they know—what would make
an enticing sum, without being excessive?—if they know that, let us say, two hundred golden royals await
their word. Also, set the Constabulary on collecting citizens for the Ritual of Rebirth—we may catch him
by accident, where design might fail. I want him within the palace gates by sundown tomorrow."

      "Two hundred royals reward," Toa-Sytell repeated, nodding. "Is he in the city already?"

      "No. I do not know where he may be. But he will be here by two hours after sunrise tomorrow."

      "Prophecy?"

      Ma'elKoth smiled. "Magick. I shall Draw him as a goat draws a panther, and he will come."

      "But—" Toa-Sytell frowned. "—if he is a thousand leagues away tonight—

       "It would not matter if he were a million," Ma'elKoth said. "It would not matter if he were beyond
the walls of Death. You, Toa-Sytell, are a blind man thrust stumbling along the narrow corridor of Time; I
am a god who holds Time within his hand like a child's rag ball. Reality orders itself to My convenience.
If Caine were a thousand leagues away, months ago he would have begun his journey to answer My call.
Should I choose, tonight, not to Draw him...then months ago, he chose to stay where he was. Do you
understand?"

       "Well, actually, no," Toa-Sytell said. "If you, mm,Draw him so powerfully, why must we search
for him like a thief? Won't he come to you of his own will?"

       Ma'elKoth's smile became indulgent. "He may. It may also be that he must be dragged; that is why
I have ordered your task. Either way, he will come; the call will be answered. The mechanism is
irrelevant."

       Toa-Sytell frowned. "If this magick is so potent, why can you not simply Draw Simon Jester
himself?"

        "That is," Ma'elKoth said, "precisely what I am doing. The less I know of a man—the less of him I
can image within My mind— the longer and more complex becomes the Drawing. Caine is only the
component, the focus, like a bit of crystal or a handful of sulphur. Once have Caine, I will Draw Simon
Jester into My grasp like a woodcock on a string."

      Through all this, Berne had stood with arms folded, staring off out over the city, lips pressed into
the down-curved line of a sulking child's. Now he finally burst out, "And what am / supposed to do?"

      Ma'elKoth turned to his Count, and his smile faded. "Take the day off."

      "What?" Veins pulsed in Berne's forehead, and his mouth worked as though he couldn't decide
whether to burst into tears or leap at the Emperor's throat.

       "Berne, you must," Ma'elKoth said, his tone soothing but never suggesting the possibility of
argument. "I know too well the history between you and Caine; was the cause of some of it. I know too
well that your next meeting may be fatal for one of you. Take the day, relax, enjoy the sun. Go to
Alientown; gamble, drink, and whore. Stay out of the Warrens; he has friends among the Subjects of
Cant, and he'll likely surface there. Forget Simon Jester, forget the Grey Cats, the cares of state. Forget
Caine. If the two of you meet while Caine is in My service, you will treat him with the courtesy due
another Beloved Child of Ma'elKoth."

      "And after?"

      "Once Simon Jester is in My hands, Caine's fate is of little interest to Me."

      "All right," Beme said, breathing deeply but quickly. "All right. I'm sorry, Ma'elKoth, but you
know...you know what he did to me."

      "I know what you did to each other."

      "Why Caine? I mean, what's so special about him?"

      Now Toa-Sytell recognized the tone in Berne's voice, deeper than the petulance that usually
colored it. He thought in wonder,Why, the man's jealous! Although he kept his face carefully blank, he
graved a note on his mental tablet to investigate the possibility of a deeper personal relationship between
Ma'elKoth and his favorite count.

      "I am not sure," Ma'elKoth said. "He's had a spectacular career, certainly."

         He shrugged massively and laid his huge hand upon Berne's shoulder. "Perhaps his peculiar quality
can be summed in this way: he's the only man ever to face you in single combat, Berne, and escape with
his life."

      A smile flickered onto Berne's thin lips. "Only because he can run like a bastard jackrabbit."

       Ma'elKoth took Berne's other shoulder as well, and looked searchingly down into the Count's
face. "I tell you this: you are not that same man. With the Gifts that I have given you, he will not escape
you again."

      Berne reached up to stroke the hilt of Kosall; it answered his touch with a dangerous buzz, muffled
within its scabbard. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

     Ma'elKoth turned his head only far enough to fix eyes grey as steel upon Toa-Sytell. "You have
much work ahead, My Duke. Fare you well."

       Before Toa-Sytell could answer, his feet sank through the stone beneath them. The tower's stone
was still solid beneath Ma'elKoth and Berne; expressionless, they watched him sink. He let out a startled
yelp as he went down, and the last he saw, before the stone closed over his eyes, was Ma'elKoth
gathering Berne's head to his bare chest.

       Whatever force it was that supported him let him down gently into the center of the mystic ring of
the Iron Room. He brushed himself off, slapping imaginary grit from his sleeves while he looked up at the
blank stone overhead.

       He grunted once, softly, and shook his head. He went silently to the altar and looked down upon
Jaybie, the man he'd—in effect— put there. He stared for a long time, watching him breathe; watching
the pulse of his heartbeat in the tangled net of his guts; watching it stutter, race, then slow near to
stopping.

      Jaybie had been his friend—a good friend, a loyal friend. Loyal to a fault: Jaybie had been a friend
to Konnos, too. He had chosen friendship over duty. The choice of a good man.

      The choice of a dead man.

      His loyalty had cost him more than his life. Toa-Sytell could still hear the echoes of his screams,
the agony and terror that had baited the Outside Power, that had brought it close for Ma'elKoth's
binding. He wondered if whatever might be left of Jaybie lay here, within this dying body, or if it howled
in uncomprehending pain in whatever unimaginable hell to which the Power had returned.

       Whatever the truth was, this breathing corpse had served Ma'elKoth's purpose; the Emperor had
no further need of it. Toa-Sytell was not, himself, as good a man as the one who lay before him, but he
was still a man; there was one mercy he could give his friend. The end was near, anyway, but he could
hasten it this much.

      Gently and very precisely, he pinched Jaybie's nose shut while his other hand covered Jaybie's
mouth.

      Jaybie didn't even struggle. His chest heaved once, and again, and shortly he expired without a
sound.

      Toa-Sytell wiped his hands on his breeches and sighed. He had a great deal of work to do.

      Before he left the room, he glanced again at the bare stone of the mystic ring on the ceiling and
once more grunted softly.

      He'd survived the last Lord of Ankhana. He wasn't at all sure he'd survive this one.

       the common folkin the great city of Ankhana, capital of the Empire, rarely look at the sky,
especially after dark. On the north bank of the Great Chambaygen in the Warrens they are, as a rule, too
concerned with who or what might be lurking within the next shadowed doorway or the mouth of a
nearby alley. In Alientown, the wretched subhumans are too drunk or drugged, or too deep within their
particular hustle upon whatever slumming purebloods might be spending the night. In the Industrial Park
that separates the two, the manufactories belch smoke and flame that swallow the stars.

       On the island of Old Town, honest folk are indoors after sundown, unless they're on the Watch.
Constables patrol the streets with lamps that are mainly used to light the cobbles, so that they don't step
in the occasional mound of horseshit that some lazy mucking-crew missed before curfew.

      On the South Bank, where the houses of the wealthy and the noble surround the ducal estates, the
servants are too occupied with their tasks, and their masters sleep the sleep of the just.

       But here and there, folk do look up. A sailor, on a barge moored alongside the steelworks, smells
the oncoming rain and glances at the sky. An elvish whore in Alientown wraps her shawl more tightly
around her thin, translucently pale shoulders, and snarls a human obscenity at the approaching clouds.
Two brothers, teenage sons of the Baron of Tinnara, hoist their pants after the casual rape of a kitchen
girl they caught behind the garden of their father's city home, and stretch their arms in satisfaction over the
bleeding girl. One sees the cloud and nudges the other.

      These and the others like them, who glimpse the snarling face carved upon the thunderhead,
shudder once, briefly, at the omen. An instant later the cloud is just a cloud again, and they shake their
heads and smile at their own superstitious imaginations.

     the cab gleamedin the last of the sunlight, then winked out as it dove into earthshadow and
swooped to a landing at the gate on the edge of the Abbey's airspace. Hari was already there, waiting for
it.

     The door slid open, and Hari stepped in. He took a seat next to the minibar and tried to ignore the
widened eyes and slack mouth of the driver within his armorglass compartment.

       The driver's voice sounded faintly metallic through the speaker. "Holy Christ, it's you! I mean,
you're Caine!"

       Hari nodded. "Yeah. You know where the Buchanan Camp is?"

       "The prison? Sure, Caine. Jesus Christ, I mean, when I got the call, y'know, to the Abbey, but no
name, I thought maybe, but I din't wanna get my hopes up. With no name on the call, maybe you coulda
been one a your girlfriends, like, or just a friend or something, but, holy cock, Caine—wait'll I tell my
kids!"

       "Do me a favor?"

       "Sure, Caine, anything."

       "Shut the fuck up."

       "Well, um...sure, Caine, whatever, you're tired. I understand, no problem. But couldja sign my
book, though?"

       Hari squeezed his eyes shut. "Didn't you hear me?"

      "Come on, just sign the book. It'd mean alot to my kids, y'know, they' never believe I really
metchaif you don't sign it, y'know?"

       "If I sign it, will you leave me alone?"

       "Sure, Caine, anything. It's under the top of the bar, it folds up like the cover of a notepad."

      The cab lifted smoothly into the air while Hari located and signed the cabbie's faded little
autograph book. Hari grunted. It was real paper—must have cost a stack.

       "So, ah, what're you goin' to the Buke for?"

      Hari swallowed anger; to lose his temper here would be humiliating. "Listen. I don't want to talk
with you. I' ve signed your book, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd just be quiet."
      "Sure, whatever." The cabbie turned his head away from the glass, but Hari could still hear him
mutter, "Yeah, what the hole, a fellow gets to be Professional, he forgets where he come from—"

      Hari stared out the window at the sun setting behind the Pacific horizon.Not me, he thought. /
never forget. No one ever lets me forget.

       Storm clouds built themselves to the southwest. The cab lurched a little on insertion into the
slavelanes, and the cabbie leaned back in his chair and stretched. "Hope you don't mind if I watcha little
screen, huh?"

      Hari didn't answer. The cabbie touched a sensor plate, and the windscreen of the cab lit with a
closeup of LeShaun Kinnison's oversharp face on heads-up display. Hari winced—this would be
DragonTales. The cabbie pressed his seat back to half-recline and tucked his hands behind his neck.

       Kinnison's bullshit nodding slopped over with played-for-the-camera sympathy. She was saying:
"...could explain for my viewers what ammod really is, and why Pallas Ril is in so much danger? "

        Hari closed his eyes again as the shot cut to his own face. It was bad enough to have to say the
fatuous crap that the Studio forced on him; it was a level of magnitude worse to have to watch himself
say it.

       "Whoa, Caine! That'syou, there! Hole, right there with LeShaun. She's a honey, huh? Ahoney."

      "She's a fucking crocodile. After the show, I almost had to break her fingers to pry her damn hand
off my crotch."

       "No, come on, really? Right there at the show? LeShaun Kin-nison grabbed your dick?"

       "Shut up."

      "...people in the world who really understand the physics of it, and you might guess I'm not
one of them."

       (Audience laughs)

       "But I can explain it to you—and your viewers—the same way it was explained to me. You
see, Earth and Overworld are the same planet in different universes. Each universe, the whole
thing, sot of vibrates in its own way—what they call the Universal Constan of Resonance. Now, it
doesn't really vibrate, that's just the easies way to think about it. We go from one to the other by
changing ou Constant of Resonance to match the other universe. Is everybody confused yet? "
(Audience laughs)

      Now, on the screen, the shot would show him pulling an antique pocket watch from inside his vest;
he couldn't stand to look. Hari's face burned with humiliation, and he ground his teeth together.

      He could see it in memory: he held the pocket watch by the enc of its chain, its bottom rim
touching the palm of his other hand.

         "Pallas Ril is like the watch, here. My bottom hand represents Earth. See, when the watch is at
rest, it's stable right here on Earth. Now, let's say that Overworld is a different height, see, a higher level
of reality—say halfway between my hands. So, if we want to raise the watch to that level, without
moving my hands, there's two ways we can go about it. One is to shorten the chain, like this.
Simple, isn't it? This is kind oflike freemod—that's short for 'frequency modification,' which isn't
even the right term for it, but anyway...This is what we do for trainees who go to Overworld for a
long time, sometimes years, to finish their training and develop the personas that they hope will
make them stars someday. When they decide to come home, they go to one of our fixed transfer
points, and the equipment there lengthens the chain again. Just like this, see? They're back on
Earth. But there's a problem with this. When you're on freemod, you're just like a native. You're
completely a part of the Overworld universe, andyou 're completely cut off from the Studio. No
first-handers, not even a recording for second-hand cubes. You wouldn 't like that a whole lot,
would you ? We get all the fun, and you can't share it."(Audience roars agreement)

      "Now, ammod—amplitude modification, which isn 't the right term either, but there you go
—that's a little more complicated. It's what happened to Pallas, what happens to me and every
other Actor you ever enjoy."

       Here his wrist snapped in a little arc, and the pocket watch whirled in a circle as centripetal force
drove it up and out to midlevel.

       "See, it's a whole different way of getting to Overworld. To keep the watch up here, I have to
keep spinning it. That's the same as adding energy, you see? That's what we do through the
thought-miner link. The same link that carries our experiences back here to Earth for you to enjoy,
carries energy from the Studio reactor to us, to keep us on Overworld."

      Hari, eyes closed, remembered the veneer of concern on Kin-nison's face as she leaned toward
him, and he remembered his urge to slap her.

      "And so,"she asked,"can you tell us what happens if the link gets broken?"

      Hari had held his hand still then, and he, Kinnison, and the entire audience watched in silence as
the pocket watch spiraled down to his other palm.

      "So, she slides back to Earth."

      Hari had followed the script flawlessly; this was the spot for him to turn grave.

       "It's a lot more serious than that. See, Overworld isn't what you'd call adjacent to Earth's universe.
Just the opposite; it's so similar to Earth because, you might say, it's a harmonic of Earth, like an octave.
There are any number of different universes that lie at energy levels between ours and Overworld's, and
most all of them are so unlike our own that I can't even describe them. Tfiey 're all hostile to life as we
know it. In some, for example, the element carbon, the element that makes up pretty much your whole
body, can't even exist there, by the physical laws. When an Actor slips out of phase with Overworld, it's
death. It's the most hideous death imaginable. Most of them are never seen again. Some eventually slip
into phase with Earth, and it's, well...gruesome. I don't even want to describe it."

      "And this is what will happen to Pallas Ril if you don't find her?"

      His besthardguy voice:"Itmight've happened already."

      The sick twist in Hari's stomach forced his eyes open to see his own face staring back at him from
the heads-up on the cab's windscreen.
      The cab lurched from one slavelane to another, swinging, so that for an instant his projected face
overlay the building storm clouds out on the Pacific.

       "I know that when you slip that helmet over your heads, you are me. You feel what I feel. I know
that you love her, too. And swear to you, that if anything has happened to her, no power in any universe
will save the men responsible. I will make Berne pray for death; Ma 'elKoth will curse the day his parents
met. No one whose hand was in this will escape me. I swear it."

      It was all scripted, all written by the pros from Studio Hype, but at the end it hadn't mattered. That
oath was as honest as any words he'd ever spoken.

      "Hoo, mama," the cabbie chuckled. "Sure wouldn't want you mad atme."

        the attendant heldthe door respectfully, to allow Hari to pass. As he entered the tiny room, Hari
shook the attendant's hand; this bit of upcaste-to-down contact, though unusual, was not unheard of, and
it served to cover the passing of a small packet of pure cocaine from Hari's hand to the attendant's. All
flows of credit were electronically monitored, but cocaine and other stimulants could be purchased legally
by anyone of Professional caste or above; it and other drugs had become the preferred medium of
black-market exchange and were absolutely de rigueur for unobtrusive bribes. Hari always brought a
substantial supply on his visits to the Buchanan Social Camp; a steadily descending series of
bribes—from the Director on down to the Laborers who oversaw the surgically deafened cyborg
Workers that attended the internees—was the only way Hari could buy a chance to speak with his
father.

      The attendant pointed silently to the touchpad on the wall, where Hari would press to signal that he
wished to leave, and then spread his hands, fingers up and out.

      Ten minutes.

      Hari nodded, and the attendant closed the door; it locked with a heavy mechanicalchunk.

      "Dad?" he said, coming to the edge of the bed. "Dad, how are you feeling?"

      Duncan Michaelson lay twisted beneath sheets of sweat-soaked synthetics, his eyes rolling like
misshapen marbles. Veins writhed across his hairless skull; his wasted arms strained spastically against
padded straps, and the soft mumbling moan that bubbled from his lips echoed his perpetual nightmare.

      Dammit, he'd been promised Duncan would beawake.

      Hari shook his head angrily and almost went to the touchpad to signal the attendant, then shrugged
and went to the small window instead. He was paying a lot for this window—a percent surcharge to his
monthly debit. He might as well get some use out of it.

      That monthly debit, which supported the expense of maintaining Duncan in the Buke, was all that
stood between Hari's father and a cyborg's yoke; that yoke, and the Worker's life that went with it,
would have killed Duncan in months even years ago, when he'd been vastly stronger than he was now.

      Hari had been paying to keep him in prison for more than ten years.

      Rain streaked the window, blurring and dimming the grey world outside. A stroke of lightning
shattered a small tree into glowing flinders only a few meters away; the crackle of energy and the
splintering crash of thunder triggered Hari's reflexes, and he dove for the floor with a startled shout. He
rolled into a crouch next to a small desk, shaking his head and disgustedly waiting for his pulse to
normalize.

      On the bed above him, Duncan Michaelson opened his eyes. "Hari?" His voice was thin and
querulous, barely above a whisper. "That you, Killer?"

      Hari steadied himself with a hand on the bedrail and stood. "Yeah, Dad."

      "God, you're getting big, Killer. How's school?"

      "Dad, I..." He pressed his hand to his forehead. "Fine, Dad. Just fine."

     "Your head hurt? I tolja t'stay away from those Artisan kids. Hoods, all of them. I'm a Pr'fesh'nal,
goddammit. Better get y'mom t'stitch that up."

       Hari shifted his hand so that his fingers brushed the ancient ridged scar that twisted just above his
hairline. When he was ten years old, he'd fought a whole gang of older Artisan boys; six of them had
been pushing him and singing one of those tuneless songs that boys can make up on the spur of the
moment. This one, they called "The Crazyman's-Kid."

       A brief smile flickered over Hari's face at the memory—one boy rolling on the ground cupping his
crushed testicles, another howling as he pressed his hand to his face, trying to stem the blood that spurted
from the ragged mess Hari's teeth had made of his nose. For a moment, he wished he was ten again; he
wished he'd gotten a couple more of them before their leader—Nielson, something Nielson—had ended
the brawl with a brick.

      But nostalgic reflection had never been Hari's habit, and this .

       passed swiftly away. His mother had not stitched the gash Nielson'; brick had left in his scalp; by
that time, she'd been dead for thret years.

      And Duncan had been completely fucking bugnuts for twc of them.

      "I will, Dad."

        "That's good..." Duncan's strengthless hand scratched at the straps. "Can you loosen me up? Gotta
terrible itch."

       Hari loosened the straps, and Duncan scratched himself around the edges of the nutrient patches
on his chest. "Oh, that's good. You're a good kid, Hari...a good son. I wish I hadn't...I just, y'know,
could have...I..." Duncan's eyes rolled up under their flickering lids, and his voice slurred back into
throaty, incoherent muttering.

      "Dad?" Hari reached out to his father, to shake him gently. His hand closed over Duncan's
shoulder. He could feel every tendon, every detail of bone and joint; Caine's training rose from his
subconscious and whispered the exact simple twist that would dislocate that shoulder, separate bone and
ligament.

      Hari yanked his hand back as though his father's flesh were hot iron. He stared at his palm for one
long second, as though expecting to see a burn.

       He pushed himself away from the bed and turned again to the window, to rest his forehead against
the chill smooth glass.

       Nearly everyone on Earth knew the approved version of Hari's life, the classic Studio success
story of the tough kid from the Labor ghettos of San Francisco. Only very few knew that Hari hadn't
been born a Laborer. His father, Duncan Michaelson, had been a Professor of social anthropology at
Berkeley, and was in fact the principal author of the standard texts on Westerling and the cultural mores
of Overwork!. Hari's mother, Davia Khapur, had met Duncan when she took his Principles of Linguistic
Drift seminar for her masters in philology. The union of two traditionally Professional families had been
too good to resist, and Hari's earliest memories were happy ones.

       Hari now knew what had triggered his father's breakdown. After Hari had clawed his way up to
stardom, he'd finally been able to afford the medical tests that pinpointed Duncan's progressive neural
degeneration. Duncan Michaelson had an autoimmune disorder that ate away at his synaptic chemical
receptors, essentially causing random short-circuiting throughout his central nervousmatthew
WboDRfNOstoversystem. As one meditech had brutally put it, "Yourfather's brain has spent the
past twenty years gradually fuming to pudding."

       But when it had begun, all those years ago, Hari'd had no idea his father was sick. He'd barely
noticed Duncan's increasing moodi-ness and brooding, lost as he was in the bright world of learning that
a six-year-old Professional child had open to him. He remembered the first beating—the backhanded
slap that had buffeted him across the carpet in his father's study, the hands that had crushed his shoulders
and shook him until his eyes filled with shooting stars.

       He remembered the screaming, back and forth between his parents—shouting filled with names he
didn't know, names that Duncan had been using in his seminars and lectures, names that frightened his
mother until her teeth chattered. Many years would pass before Hari could afford to purchase the
black-market banned books that told him who these names belonged to, names like Jefferson and
Lincoln, Voltaire and John Locke. At the time, all he knew was that his father wouldn't stop talking about
these men, and it was going to get him in trouble.

       He remembered the brisk, businesslike manner of the silver-masked Social Police when they
arrested Duncan. Six-year-old Hari had been long abed, but Duncan's snarl had awakened him; Hari had
watched through the barest crack of his bedroom door.

       Duncan must have been either too proud or already too crazy to lie; after he'd been gone for a
week, more soapies came and moved Hari and his mother into a two-room apartment in the Mission
District Labor ghetto.

       For years Hari had tried to believe that the reason his mother hadn't divorced his father was that
she loved him too much to leave him, even when his madness carried them all downcaste to a Temp
slum. In other families, a divorce would have protected the innocent spouse's caste status. It wasn't until
Hari was a teenager, many years after his mother's death, that he'd realized a divorce wouldn't have
protected her. She hadn't turned Duncan in for sedition; as far as Soapy was concerned, that made her
his accomplice.

      She'd had nowhere else to go.

      His father was allowed to join them only a month later. Their assets had been confiscated, as
Laborers can neither possess nor receive income from Professional work. Neither Duncan nor Davia had
Labor skills; the best they could do was Temp at unskilled jobs. And Duncan grew worse, more erratic,
more violent, more prone to bellowed declamations of the "rights of man."

       Harididn't know what had killed his mother. He'd always of figured that Duncan had beaten
her a little too hard one day, i that some Labor Clinic medical aide had been too zoned on De erol
to give her proper treatment. Hari's strongest memory of i mother was of her lying on her bed in their tiny
apartment, soak in sweat, her palsied hand gripping his without strength. "Ta care of your father," she'd
said, "because he's the only father you ever have. He's sick, Hari. He can't help himself."

      A few days later she died in that bed, while Hari played stickb; a few blocks away. He had been
seven years old.

        Duncan's hold on reality was intermittent. On his lucid days, was almost pathetically kind to his
son, struggling with all h might to be the good parent that he knew in his heart he wasn't.\- did his best to
educate Hari, teaching him to read, to write, and i do simple arithmetic. He managed to scrape together
enough a caine to not only purchase a screener but to bribe a local tech inl illegally hooking it into the
library net; Duncan and Hari sper many hours together before that screen, reading. But those wer the
good days.

       On the bad ones, Hari swiftly learned that he was safer amon, the dregs of the Mission District
than he was with his father. Hai became almost preternaturally sensitive and adaptable; he was abl< to
scent a shift in his father's sanity from upwind and over a hill and he could instantly fall in line and play
along with the delusioi of the day—could make himself see the world the way that Duncai saw it. He'd
been taught early and often that any denial of— deviation from—his father's private reality was a short
road to £ savage beating.

        And he learned to fight back. By the age of ten or so, he'd discovered that the beatings would be
just as bad whether he foughl back or not. Fighting gave him the chance to escape.

       When he could escape, the only place a Labor kid could go was the street. His intelligence and
adaptability let him survive out among the whores and the thieves and the addicts, the upcaste perverts
and the prowling sexual predators. His unhesitating willingness to fight anyone, anytime, any odds, earned
him a reputation for being as crazy as his father, and from time to time it saved his life.

       By the time he was fifteen, he'd had the world pretty well figured out. His father went crazy, he'd
decided, because he kept trying to fool himself. His father'd read books by these guys that he kept
ranting about. They told him that the world was one way, and he wanted to believe them, and so when
the world showed him that it was something else he couldn't handle it. He'd pretended so hard that he
could no longer separate pretense from reality.

       Hari swore a private oath he'd never do that. He'd keep his mental balance by looking the world
straight in the eye, for exactly what it is; he'd never pretend it was different.

       A childhood on the streets of the Mission District had pretty well shattered any illusions he might
have inherited about the sanctity of human life, or the fundamental goodness of people. By fifteen, he'd
already killed two men and had been supporting himself and his father for five years as a petty thief and a
courier for the local black-market dealers.

     It was less than a month after his sixteenth birthday that Hari had contrived to catch the attention of
Marc Vilo; two weeks after that, he' d packed his few possessions and moved out. On Hari's last day
under his father's roof, Duncan tried to open his skull with a pipe wrench.

       Vilo prided himself on the care he took of his undercastes. Unknown to Hari, Vilo saw to it that
Duncan was provided for throughout the next six years as Hari grew, entered the Studio Conservatory,
and spent three years in freemod training on Overworld. When Hari returned to take up his Acting
career, Duncan had been in specialized care for several years. With continuing drug therapy, he was
consistently lucid.

       His only remaining problem was that he' d never learned to shut up.

       Stripped of his Professional privileges, he could no longer legally teach. Instead, he'd gathered a
following of young Labor men and women who met in secret in his apartment for discussions on banned
philosophies culled from Duncan's prodigious memory; they in turn disseminated these antisocial ideas
among their own acquaintances. The soapies had known about this, almost certainly, but in those days
they were somewhat more tolerant. It wasn't until the crackdown that followed the Caste Riots that
Duncan was convicted of sedition and placed under a standing sentence: either permanent restraint in a
Mute Facility like the Buchanan's or the cyborg yoke and life as a Worker.

       In the Buke, nothing Duncan could say or write would ever reach the outside world. The only
human contact he could have was with a surgically deafened Worker who tended his personal needs. He
was allowed full net access, but incoming only. Any personal requests were submitted to the Director by
E-mail on a closed-circuit system designed specifically for that purpose; not only could Duncan not
communicate with the outside world, he could never even converse with the other Buchanan campers.
These rules, though, like all rules, could be bent—or broken—

        for the right price. And these rules made Duncan the safest man on Earth for Hari to talk to. When
the winds that howled through the holes in Hari's life became too bitter, he'd come here for a moment of
stillness, for a moment of peace. The chill glass of the window had grown warm with the heat from Hari's
forehead. "They've really got me this time, Dad," he said softly. "They have really got me by the balls."
Duncan's mumbling had faded away; the only sound Hari could hear above his own breathing was the
pittering raindrops on the window.

        "They're making me kill another Ankhanan king. I barely survived Toa-Phelathon—I shouldn't
have, really. I should have died in that alley. If Kollberg hadn't pushed through the emergency
transfer...And this guy, this Ma'elKoth, he's...he's so...I don't know. I have a bad feeling about this. I
don't think I'm gonna make it, this time."

       It was easier to say when he knew no one was listening. "I think they're finally gonna get me."

        Hari pressed his palms against the glass and stared out at the smoldering embers of the tree. "It's
not like I didn't know what I was getting into. I mean, even at the Conservatory they tell you straight:Your
function in society is to risk your life in interesting ways. But the Adventures, they j ust keep getting
worse and worse; they'retrying to kill me, Dad—each one is a little tougher, the stakes a little higher, the
odds a little worse. From their point of view...I don't know, I guess they have to; I mean, who'd bother
first-handing an Adventure they think'll be easy for me?"

    "Quit, then. Retire." The voice was ragged and thin but unquestionablypresent; at least for the
moment, Duncan's mind was here. Hari turned from the window and met his father's milky stare.

       He coughed into his hand, suddenly embarrassed. "I, ah, didn't know you were awake."
      "At least you'll be alive, Hari." Duncan's voice was barely above a whisper. "That counts for
something."

       "I, ah...I can't do it, Dad. I've already contracted."

       "Forfeit."

       Hari shook his head. "I can't. It's, ah, it's Shanna, Dad. My wife."

      "I remember...I see her with you on the nets, sometimes. Been married...what, a year?" "Three."
"Kids?"

       Hari shook his head silently and examined his knotted fingers. He said, "She's there, in Ankhana."
His breath caught in his throat—why was this so hard to talk about? "They, ah..." He coughed harshly,
turning his face back toward the window. "She's lost on Overworld, and they're gonna let her die there if
I don't try forMa'elKoth."

       For a moment, the only sound was the thin whistle of Duncan trying to inhale.

       "I get it. I caught some of...DragonTales..." Duncan seemed to struggle for breath, for the strength
to put conviction into his voice. "Bread and circuses, Hari. Bread and circuses."

       It was one of Duncan's catchphrases; Hari understood it only abstractly, but he nodded.

      "Your problem," Duncan went on with difficulty, "isn't Over-world, or this Emperor. Your
problem...you're a slave."

      Hari shrugged irritably; he'd heard this many times before. To Duncan's hazy eyes, everybody
looked like a slave. "I've got just about as much freedom as I can handle."

        "Hah. You've...more than you think. You'll win." Duncan sank back into his pillow, exhausted.
"Sure I will, Dad." "Don't...humor me,Hari, dammit..." He spent a few seconds only breathing. "Listen.
Tell you how you beat 'em...Tell you?" "All right, Dad." Hari came close to the bed and bent over his
father. "All right, I'm listening. You tell me how I can beat them." "Forget...Forgetrules..."

       Hari fought to keep his rising exasperation off his face and out of his voice. "What do you mean?"

      "Listen...they think, they think they own you. They think they own all of you, and you have to do
what they say." "They're damn close to right."

      "No...no,listen... your wife, you love her. You love her." Hari couldn't answer, couldn't push
words past the constriction in his throat.

        "That's their hold...their grip. But it's their only one...and they don't know it...they think they're
safe..." Hari stiffened and scowled, but said nothing. "Hari,listen," Duncan whispered, his eyes fluttering
closed. "The smartest...the smartest man in the world once said, 'Anything that is done out of love takes
place beyond good and evil.' You get that? You understand?Beyond."

      Hari sighed. What had he been thinking? That his crazy father might really have advice for him? He
shook his head disgustedly and said, "Sure, Dad. Beyond. I got it." "Tired now. Hrr, sleepy. Mm, Hari?"
"Yeah?"
      "You ever...you ever tell her...about me?"

      The truth is the truth,Hari thought.Look the world in the eye. He said, "No. I've never told her
about you."

       Duncan nodded, eyes closed, his freed hands blindly seeking their usual tie-down positions. "I
wish...I'd like to, after you save her, I'd like to meet her. Just once. On the nets, she seems so nice."

      "Yeah," Hari said, suddenly hoarse. "Yeah, she is."

       the diamond ballroomon the Studio's twentieth floor glittered and shone with scintillant color,
flashing prismatic splinters of light across the faces of Caine's subscribers. Most of them were Leisure
faces, some here with their loyal Investors; few in Business could wield either the cash or the clout to
walk among the elect. Caine commanded the highest subscription rate of any Actor in North America:
one thousand upcaste subscribers paid a round hundred thousand marks each forayear's rental of a
luxury box, with seven Adventures guaranteed—barring the unexpected death or maiming of the star, of
course.

        This was an elite club; the Studio collected a thousand marks per year from ten thousand hopefuls,
merely for the privilege of staying on the waiting list. One of the privileges of subscribing was meeting the
star at pre-Adventure receptions like this one.

     This reception, like so many of them, was done up as a costume ball; the theme this time was "The
Enemies of Caine."

       Hari circulated through the crowd wearing a costume mock-up of Caine's black leathers, playing
at being Caine, growling hard-assed responses to the wet-eyed well-wishers and backslapping advice
offerers.

      Playing at being Caine made this almost tolerable; at least he didn't have to smile.

     Kollberg bustled up to him and took his arm. The Administrator wore the maroon and gold of
Ankhanan royal livery; it took Hari a moment to realize that Kollberg was supposed to be Jemson Thai,
Toa-Phelathon's master steward. Hari had a fleeting impulse to kick him in the throat.

      "You have your speech?" Kollberg asked.

      "Yes."

      "Did you look it over? It's not quite the, ah, usual." Kollberg sweated with his night-before nerves;
something about being among all these upcasters always made him edgy. Hari figured it was because
Kollberg was the only Administrator present; no Administrator would ever be privileged to rent a box for
a Caine Adventure. Everyone in the place was upcaste of him, far upcaste.

      Everyone but Hari.

       Hari looked down at the Administrator's hand, which still held his elbow. If only he really were
Caine right now—Caine would break this fat fuck's arm. He said, "Yes, Administrator. I have it, all
right?" He looked pointedly down at Kollberg's moist hand. "No offense, Administrator—but people are
staring."
       Kollberg let go of Hari's arm like he'd been stung. He licked his lips as he straightened his tunic.
"Well, we're going to be sitting down to eat in about fifteen minutes, and you' ve barely been on the north
side of the room at all."

      Hari shrugged. "On my way."

       He threaded through a clot of Investors all dressed like the Bear Guard of the Khulan Horde; the
two Leisuremen to whom they were attached both wore the skins and winged helmet of Khulan G'thar
himself. He accepted a handshake from some Leisureman under about five kilos of putty; this idiot had
spent probably sixty marks to look like an ogrillo chieftain Caine had killed in the Adventure called
Retreat from the Boedecken —more money than most Labor families get in a week. Hari dodged
around any number of pudgy, slack-muscled Bernes, ducked one creative soul who'd costumed himself
as one of the mantislike Krrx warriors fromRace for the Crown ofDal'kannith, and found himself
face-to-face with Marc Vilo.

        The little Businessman had done better than most: He wore gleaming platemail modeled of
lightweight plastic, lacking only the helmet. He'd sprayed his hair platinum blond. He had a grue-somely
realistic prosthetic that made him look as though his left cheekbone and eye socket were freshly
shattered: bone splinters stuck through the skin and dripped gleaming blood; a half-deflated eye dangled
by the optic nerve.

      Hari admired it with a low whistle. "Marc, that's beautiful. Pur-thin Khlaylock, right?"

       "Bet your ass, son," Vilo said with a broad grin. "Picked him because he's about the only one
who's still alive, and I don't have the figure for Berne. Not that it stopped any ofthem." He snorted as he
gave a nod that included the entire room. "What's the matter, kid? You look like you're not having a
good time."

      "I, ah, guess I'm a little tense, Marc."

      He nodded, absently understanding. "Listen, I got a special guest here I want you to meet. Come
on and...Wait, listen, before we go—that little talk you and I had the other week, about you getting back
together with Shanna?"

      "Yeah...?" Hari said warily.

      "Well, I just wanted to say that this isgreat. This is better than I hoped for."

      A knot tieditself into Hari's stomach. "It's not like I planned it this way."

      "Oh, shit, I know, I know. But this is absofreakinglutely spectacular—I can'tlose, y'know?"

       Hari understood exactly what he meant: he'd heroically save Shanna, heroically avenge her death,
or heroically die in either attempt. No matter what the outcome, it would reflect admirably on his Patron.
"Yeah," he said thickly, "I guess things look pretty good for you."

      "Bet your ass. Here, come on."

      Vilo led him over to where a fiftyish, fleshy Leisurewoman stood amidst a gaggle of admirers. She
wore brown suede chest armor over her steel grey tunic and breeches, and a flowing cape of blue
completed the costume: she was dressed as Pallas Ril.

      Vilo cleared his throat importantly. "Caine, I'd like to introduce you to Shermaya Dole.
Leisurema'am Dole, this is Caine."

       Her eyes lit as she turned, though of course she didn't offer her hand. "Oh, yes, Marc. We've met."

      "The Leisurema' am," Hari said with a slightly stiffbow, "honored Shanna and myself by attending
our wedding."

      "Yes indeed," she said. "If you'd been there, Marc, you'd remember." Vilo's ears turned red. Dole
went on, "Entertainer Mi-chaelson, how are you?"

       "As well as can be expected, ma'am, thank you. And yourself?"

      "Oh, well, you know, I'm terribly distressed about Shanna," she said, one palm pressed against her
ample chest. "Marc was so kind, to invite me to share his box. I so hope that you can find her."

       " intend to, ma'am."

      "And please, Entertainer, please forgive my choice of costume. Marc told me the theme this
evening, and I know," she said, leaning close with a self-conscious giggle, "that Pallas Ril isn't Caine's
enemy; please, how well I know that! But I want to remind everyone what's really important
here—what's really at stake. You're not upset?"

      Hari was astonished at the sudden rush of warmth he felt toward this woman. "Leisurema'am
Dole," he said seriously, "you are maybe the most gracious person I've ever met; it's impossible that your
concern would upset me. I couldn't agree with you more."

      "I only wish that I could do something to actuallyhelp you," she sighed. "Please know that I'll be
with you the whole time; I'll be first-handing in Marc's box, and my prayers will be with you and Shanna.
God be with you, Entertainer."

        She turned away, dismissing him, and spoke over her shoulder to Vilo. "He's sopolite, Marc. I
can't thank you enough. Really,very well behaved."

       Vilo allowed her to take his arm and lead him away. As he went, he shot a look back to Hari, his
eyes alight and his lips silently forming the wordsI'm in.

       Hari forced a smile and a nod, and then the crowd closed in around him again.

       In only minutes it was time for his speech, a brief predinner address. After dinner would come the
nearly endless speeches from Marc Vilo, as his Patron; Arturo Kollberg, as Studio Chairman; and
whatever broken-down retired Actor they'd roped in for this. Hari pulled his notepad out of his front
pocket and tapped open the cover. Its screen lit up with the text of his speech. He made his way to the
west end of the ballroom, where the huge curving staircase provided the dais.

       He mounted the steps and turned to face the ballroom. The lightin subtly changed to get everyone's
attention and to bring a golden glow around him, and concealed shotgun mikes aimed at his face from
across the room. He coughed, and the cough's amplified reproduction sounded like distant thunder.
       A thousand faces and more turned toward him in anticipation. Hari looked out over them, his
stomach roiling: more than a thousand men and women dressed as his enemies. There was only one
missing: among them all, no one had costumed himself as Ma'el-Koth. Hari gave his head a little shake.
The Ankhanan Emperor was too recent; no one thought of him as an enemy yet. He cleared his throat
again, and began. "They tell me this evening's theme is 'The Enemies of Caine.' I'm looking out at you
now, though, and I'm thinking that a better name would have been 'The Victims of Caine.' I don't think
there's ever been a room with so many dead people in it outside of Hell."

      As called for in the script, he paused for his audience's appreciative laughter and scattered
applause.They think they own you.

        Hari felt sweat trickle from his hairline down the back of his neck. "I know that some of you have
first-handed Pallas Ril's Adventures, that some of you feel like it might even beyou over there, lost and
frightened in Ankhana..."

       Shanna, lost and frightened? Who writes this crap?His heart began to boil within his rib cage.

       "...but I swear to you, I'll find her. I'll findyou. And I'll bring you both safely back to Earth."They
think they 're safe.

       The words on the screen blurred. Hari pretended to cough, and he wiped his eyes, squinting at the
screen. "Y'see, these guys in Ankhana, they don't really know what they're messing with. They don't
really know what kind of trouble they're in..." Singing wires stretched themselves tight up the back of his
neck.I've got just about as much freedom as I can handle. Something took over Hari's hands: they
snapped shut the cover of his notepad and dropped it to the stairs. His feet got into the act: before he
completely understood what he was doing, his heel came sharply down on the notepad and cracked the
cover."Fuck this," he said harshly.

         A ripple of murmurs passed over the surface of the crowd. He said, "All night long, I've been
pretending to be Caine. You know, walk around, give you the eye, give you a line or two, a little thrill.
It's all a fucking act."

      He let a little of Caine's blood-hunger leak into his flat-eyed grin. "You want to know what Caine
would really be saying to you, here tonight? You want to?"

       Hari picked out Kollberg's face, pasty and goggle-eyed with panic, shaking frantic negatives. He
saw Vilo, looking dubious, and Dole, squinting as though she couldn't quite see him. Most of the rest of
the faces wore looks of anticipation so intense they might have been lust.

        "He'd say: She's my woman and this is my fight. He'd say: You flock of shit-eating vultures should
get lives of your fucking own."

      He walked down off the stairs and stopped at the edge of the crowd—a mob of the most
powerful men and women on Earth. "Get out of my way."

       They slowly parted for him.

       He walked to the door, and left.

      His boot heels clicked on the marble of the anteroom, and before he could reach the outer door,
applause began within the Diamond Ballroom like the surf of an incoming tide.
      He kept walking.

      Kollberg slammed through the outer doors while Hari waited for the elevator. "Michaelson!" he
barked, a little thinly from shortness of breath. "Don't you move!"

      Hari didn't look at him. He just watched the baroque indicator arrow of filigreed bronze creep
toward the number of the floor.

      "That was not acceptable!" Kollberg said. His eyes bulged, and his face shone with sweat over
strawberry mottling. "I covered you—just barely!—and most of them think this was part of the schtick.
But you're going to march your butt right back in there and pretend it was allajoke, you understand me?"

      "You know what?" Hari said softly, still looking up at the arrow. "We're alone here, Artie. No
guards, no security cameras. No witnesses."

      "What?Whatdidyou callmeT'

      He now met Kollberg's gaze, and Caine looked out from behind his eyes. "I said we're alone here,
you fat fuck, and I know three different ways to kill you that won't leave a mark."

       Kollberg's mouth opened, and a sound came out like air escaping from a balloon. He took a step
back, then another. "You can't speak to me this way!"

      The elevator doors opened, and Hari stepped on board. "Tell you what," he said flatly. "If I live
through this, I'll apologize."

      Kollberg gaped, his hands trembling from the adrenaline that makes rage and terror so much alike.
The doors closed between them, and the elevator carried Hari down to ground level.

       I'II pay for that tomorrow,Hari thought as he paced toward the outside door. He put a hand on
the armorglass, and looked up at the storm clouds that glowed sickly orange from the streetlights below.

      Shit,he thought.Tomorrow, I pay for everything.

      dayTwo "What's wrong with you ? You never even get angry! Even a shout would be better
than this, than this, this calm...

      nothingness,"

      "Come on, Shanna, Jesus Christ. What would shouting prove—who has the loudest voice? "

     "Maybe I'd just like to be able to believe that you have a passion for something besides violence.
Maybe sometimes, I wish I were as important to you as killing people—

      "Dammit, that'snot fair—"

       "Fair? You want fair? Let me quote you: believe injustice, as long as I'm holding a knife at the
throat of the judge.' "

      " What does that have to do with—""Everything. It's all part of the same thing. I suppose I
shouldn 't expect you to understand."

     Atoo-young, too-pretty man with artfully curled hair stares earnestly out from the main screens of
homes all over the world. "For those of you just joining us, this isAdventure Update, your only
Worldwide Twenty-four-hour Source for Studio News. I'm Branson Underwood.

        "Our top story this morning: in less than one hour, the legendary Caine will make the transfer into
the City of Life, the capital of the Ankhanan Empire, on the northwest continent of Overwork!. His
real-life wife, the well-known Pallas Ril, is lost somewhere within the city. The graphic that you see in the
lower left corner of your screens is our best estimate of the number of hours remaining until Pallas Ril's
amplitude match fails and she slips out of phase with Overworld. As you can see, if Caine cannot save
her, Pallas Ril will die, hideously, in one hundred thirty-one hours—only a little more than five and a half
days.

      "Adventure Updatewill run this graphic twenty-four hours a day, as long as we have any hope
remaining, and we will offer hourly updates on Caine's progress in his desperate search.

       "In our next hour, we'll have the tape of LeShaun Kinnison's interview with Caine himself, and let
me tell you, it's reallysomething. But now, we go to our chief analyst for Ankhanan affairs, Jed
Clearlake."

       "Good morning, Bronson."

       "Jed, what can you tell our viewers of the current situation there in Ankhana? How much do we
actually know?"

      "Well, Bronson, more than you might think. First of all, the one hundred thirty-one hours is only an
estimate; a number of factors can affect the phase-locking capability of..."

       And this is barely the beginning.

       the mountain ofstone and steel that was the San Francisco Studio towered above the broad plain
of landing pads and carports. The eagles that circled the mountaintop were the limousines and flying
coupes of the Leisurefolk and Investors, soaring through endless loops of holding patterns.

      The weather had broken overnight. The rising sun painted the polished Gothic arches of the
windows and glittered in the eyes of gargoyles that crouched among the arms of massive flying buttresses.
High granite walls—the first line of defense against under-caste intrusion—ringed the entire compound.

       Outside the iron-toothed mouth of the enormous gate, the hordes of undercastes—the Laborers
and Artisans and even some Professionals who were not too proud to mingle—shifted and stamped and
flowed toward the wide road, restrained by the linked arms of the red-suited Studio Security force who
lined the curbs.

       Within the hour, Caine himself would pass through these gates.

       In the Cavea, the great hall of five thousand firsthand berths, a battalion of ushers fiddled and fitted
and plugged the wealthy clients into their simichairs.

       In the subscription boxes, the Leisurefolk and their guests enjoyed the delicacies and exotic wines
that each box's waiter had to offer and talked about Caine's extraordinary performance at the
Subscriber's Ball. Opinion was divided: most believed that it was a particularly inspired piece of Studio
theatrics, but a stubborn minority maintained that what they'd seen was entirely unplanned— that
somethingreal had happened.

       All agreed, however, that it had powerfully captured their interest. Many had passed a sleepless
night in anticipation, and of those who had slept, many had dreamed of being Caine.

       In the techbooth that overlooked the ebony ziggurat of the Cavea's transfer platform, Arturo
Kollberg snapped useless orders and fumed and brooded on his humiliation the night before, on the brink
of his greatest triumph. It was intolerable, and something had to be done.

      Somethingwould be done, and he would certainly do it.

       This wasn't personal, he assured himself. It wasn't some fit of pique, a need to salve his wounded
vanity. Kollberg thought of himself as a bigger man than that; he'd always understood that his personal
needs must be subordinated to the necessities of his position, and he'd always done so. The humiliation
he'd suffered, the insult to his person, thethreat, was irrelevant; he could let it pass unrequited, if he
chose. That was a matter between Michaelson the man and Kollberg the man; it was personal, and it
could be forgotten.

      The insult to hisposition was another matter entirely.

       That was between Michaelson the Professional and Kollberg the Administrator. To ignore it would
begin to unravel the very fabric of civilization.

      Administrators the world over have two mottoes, two simple principles to guide them in their lives:
Deference to Those Above, Respect from Those Below, and:Service.

        All Administrator children learn early that they are the guardians of society, that they are, in fact,
the axis upon which turns the world. Ranked below them are the Professionals, Artisans, and Laborers;
ranked above are the Businessfolk, the Investors, and the Leisure-folk. Administrators are the center, the
fulcrum, the balance point, and their role is nothing less than the maintenance of civilization.
Administrators take the directions of the upcastes and translate them to reality by their direction of the
downcastes. Administrators allocate the distribution of Earth's dwindling resources. Administrators
manage the enterprises; Administrators promulgate the regulations; Administrators create the wealth that
is the engine of the Earth.

      Administrators carry the world upon their backs and ask for nothing in return.

       One of the most basic skills of the Administrator, an essential element of his education, is the
maintenance of the dignity of his position. The moral authority of an effective Administrator is so powerful
that undercastes—and even lesser Administrators—follow his directives without question; great
Administrators have undercastes that actuallycompete against each other in the performance of their
functions, for no other reward than an approving glance and a firmGood job.

       But when errors and weakness erode the authority of the Administrators, undercastes become
surly and shiftless—sometimes gold-bricking and malingering to the point of sabotage, to where it actually
harms the corporation. This was no myth, no ghost story to frighten Administrator children; Arturo
Kollberg had seen it in action.

      Kollberg was the product of a mixed marriage. His father— a competent if unexceptional
Administrator of a Midwestern hospital—had married below himself, had taken to wife one of the
Professionals he supervised. Kollberg's mother had been only a thoracic Surgeon, and the other
Administrator pups, cruel as children are the world over, had never let him forget it.

       Kollberg's childhood had been spent watching helplessly while the parents of his schoolmates had
risen in status and position, had been transferred away to challenging and glamorous posts all over the
world. Kollberg's father, in his foolish weakness, had condemned himself to the obscurity of his provincial
hospital, largely because he never understood how to keep his undercastes in their proper place. He'd
even allowed Kollberg's mother to continue to work— but as long as she did Professional work, she
could not upcaste to Administration; to come from reduced circumstances was no shame, butto prefer
those circumstances was criminally selfish. She'd gone on performing her surgery, heedless of the damage
this did to the career of her husband and the life of her only son.

       But the blame couldn't be laid entirely on her head. His father had never understood the
importance of dignity, of Administrative image. Fundamentally weak-spirited and easygoing, he'd
preferred to be liked more than respected. He'd never insisted on proper deference; even now, Kollberg
could raise a burning blush of shame when he remembered how his father would let his mother speak to
him in public without use of his courtesy title, how he would let hertouch him in front of other
undercastes.

       Kollberg had defined his life in opposition to his father's. He'd never married, had no interest in
family—in fact, he never intended to marry. A wife would take up too much of his attention, would
interfere with his ascetic devotion to the performance of his duties. He insisted upon—and got—precisely
proper deference from those below him, and he offered precisely proper respect to those above. He
knew exactly where his place was in the hierarchy of reality, and he knew exactly the vector of his life.

      Upward. Slowly, perhaps, but ever upward.

       Through devotion and skill he'd risen throughout his career, from an assistant departmental
supervisor in his father's hospital to his father's own job. One of the proudest moments of Arturo
Koll-berg's life, one of his most cherished memories, was the day he had entered his father's office to
personally hand-deliver the Notice of Forced Retirement. He'd proven what could be accomplished by a
skilled Administrator, and he'd proven that he had every one of those skills, despite his miscegenetic
birth.

       But conquering his father hadn't been enough for him. There was only so far an ambitious man
could rise in the health-care system. Now, twenty years later, he was among an elite of which the average
Administrator could only dream. He'd outstripped every one of his schoolmates, their parents, every
Administrator he'd ever met: he was not only a Studio Chairman, but Chairman ofthe Studio, San
Francisco, the one that had started it all, the one where the first Winston Transfer equipment had been
built by the hands of Jonah Winston himself. This Studio had transformed not only the nature of
entertainment, but the structure of society itself.

       It had been crumbling when he took it in hand, practically a derelict, a joke, a backwater final
resting place of Peter-Principled incompetents. His peers had shaken their heads gravely when they'd
heard of his transfer there, and they'd clucked solemnly about the self-destruction of a promising career.

      They clucked no longer.

       San Francisco was now the jeweled diadem of the whole Studio system, the flagship operation,
the prestige market; San Francisco took in fifty million marks a year from the merewaiting lists it
maintained for hopeful subscribers to its top ten stars.

         And when one speaks of the top ten stars of San Francisco, when one speaks of the top ten stars
of all time, one inevitably comes around to Caine.

       Say what you will about Burchardt, about Story and Zhian and Mkembe, bring up any name you
want; there was only one Caine. Never been anyone like him, probably never will be again; often
imitated, never duplicated. There were any number of conflicting theories about Caine's continuing
popularity, giving the credit variously to his eloquence, to his curious combination of ruthless-ness and
passion, to his peculiar quirks of honor; Kollberg knew all these to be empty rationalization.

      In a word, bullshit.

      There were two reasons that Caine continued to dominate both the firsthand and secondhand
markets. The first was his snarling bare-knuckle brawling.

        Throwing spells is one thing—feeling the power of magick surge through your body. Hacking into
an enemy with a steel blade is something else—something more intimate, more brutal. But even that can't
compare with the erotic power of the snap of bone beneath your bare hands, the smack of flesh on flesh
and the sudden, delirious surge that takes you when your enemy gives that faint sigh—that gasp of the
consciousness of defeat—when his face goes slack and he sees his death in your eyes. It's the fighting
itself that Caine's fans live for, and Caine throws himself into combat with the abandon of a cliff diver: he
springs out into space, to live or die, just for the rush.

      The second reason was Kollberg himself.

        Kollberg hadmade Caine, had managed his career with the sort of personal attention that most
men reserve for their sons. Anyplace on Overworld where a situation was reported that would make a
thrilling backdrop for a Caine story, Caine went. Kollberg had even sent him to places where other
Actors were at work— even when it meant dropping him into their story lines and having him take them
over. Kollberg had been criticized for this favoritism, and he'd been criticized for pandering to the public,
for damaging the stories of the other Actors and destroying their artistic validity. He had answered every
charge with a gesture, a chubby finger pointed straight at the Studio's bottom line. Even the lesser Actors
gave up grumbling; after all, the chance that Caine could show up unexpectedly in their Adventures
boosted the subscription rates for every single Actor in San Francisco.

      But this matter of Caine setting himself against Kollberg, defying him to his face, even threatening
him—this could not be allowed to pass. Michaelson shouldn't even really be considered a
Professional—this current fad for pandering to the egos of Actors had gone too far. Professionals,
indeed. If anything, Actors should be Artisans, at most; their trade was a simple exchange of handiwork
for money. A true Professional is a member of an elite society with a self-enforced ethical code; a true
Professional is accountable for the results of his work.

      Kollberg smiled grimly to himself. Now that would be amusing— if someone held Caine
accountable for his actions, if he ever really had to face the consequences of things he'd done. It was a
happy fantasy, but one he couldn't afford to indulge. Caine was too valuable.

      And really, he reminded himself, it wasn't Caine who had threatened him: it was Michaelson. Caine
was the one who brought all this wealth into the Studio; it was Caine who was Kollberg's greatest
success.
      It was Michaelson he'd find a way to punish.

       hari finished hisworkout with a series of spin kicks against the head-sized holographic target that
danced in the electrostatic mist at one end of the Abbey's gym. Back-spins to both sides, hooking kicks,
side kicks, crescents: Hari spun until sweat sprayed out horizontally from his hair.

       He shook his head and made a mental note to be cautious about his left lead; some change in the
weather had stiffened the old sword cut on his right thigh, slowing him enough that he was only landing
about three in five of his back kicks on the bobbing target. This was a bad trend: he wasn't a kid
anymore, and experience compensates for speed only up to a point.

       He went straight to the screen without bothering to shower. He toweled away most of his drying
sweat while he spent a few minutes with his lawyer, making sure that his affairs were in order, and
especially that the annuity he'd arranged for his father's upkeep was unbreakable. That done, he clicked
off. There was no one else he had to talk to.

       He draped the towel across his shoulders and headed for the vault. The Studio limo would be
landing in fifteen minutes.

      It was time to become Caine.

      The vault in the Abbey's basement drew enough power to light a small town. This vault maintained
an Overworld-normal field that allowed him to store Caine's outfit and weapons so he'd never have to
change at the Studio vault with lesser Actors.

      It was only the size of a small closet: exactly twice as big as he needed.

        With the door open, the empty left side of the vault stared back at him. Occasionally he
entertained masochistic fantasies of buying duplicates of Pallas' costume, just so there'd besomething
there, in place of this mocking emptiness. Sad dreams of a desperate man— he could never hang his own
costume there, just as he still slept to one side of his king-sized bed.

      He pulled out his gear.

       The black leather tunic was faded and cracked—white salt rings of ancient sweat circling the
armpits, rawhide laces stretched and stiff. He put it on the immaculate upholstery of the dressing room
couch, next to the soft black breeches that were covered with slices and tears crudely sewn; the coarse
brown thread showed like old bloodstains against the leather. On the floor he set the pair of supple
boots, cut low to the size of the high-top tennis shoes of a different era.

       He stood naked before the full-length mirror on the outside of the vault door. The flat muscles of
his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the bunched cords of his thighs and arms, all stood out like they'd
been cut into stone. He turned slightly and narrowed his eyes, regarding the slight thickening just below
his waist with critical distaste. Maybe this was an inevitable consequence of pushing forty—or maybe
he'd been slacking. Only the faintest twinge of vanity colored his disapproval; nearly all of it was caused
by the certain knowledge that four or five extra pounds could slow him fatally at the critical cusp between
victory and death.

      He had the build of a middleweight boxer, somewhat tall for his weight. His skin was a swarthy
map of crisscross scars on which could be traced the high points of Caine's career. Here was the
puckered circle of the crossbow quarrel he'd taken at Ceraeno; here was the diamond scar of the sword
thrust through his liver outside Toa-Phelathon's bedchamber. Up at his collarbone was the jagged axe cut
where Ghular Freehammer had nearly decapitated him; there on his back were parallel scars given him
by a puma in the cat pits of Kirisch-Nar. He had a story for every major scar and not a few of the minor
ones; now in the mirror he touched each scar and let each story flood his mind, reminding himself once
again who he was.

       am Caine.

       The big scar, from his right hip down his thigh, the one that slowed those kicks—that one he'd
gotten from Berne.

       He shook off that memory and slipped into his supporter—a leather jockstrap padding a steel cup
sewn within. He pulled on the leather breeches and drew the pair of throwing knives from his thigh
sheaths to test their razor edges against his forearms. He stepped into the boots, and checked the small
leafblade daggers in the ankle sheaths. Inside the tunic were sewn the sheaths for three more
knives—two long ones below the armpits for fighting, and another throwing knife between the shoulder
blades. He laced the tunic up to his sternum and belted it with a supple garroting-rope cored with steel
cable.

       Now again he looked in the mirror, and the image that returned his glare was Caine.

       amstrong. lam relentless. lam inescapable.

       The knots of worry that had tied themselves into his guts slowly uncoiled and fell away; pain and
resentment eased down from his shoulders and rolled off his back. He grunted a grim chuckle at the cold
freedom he now felt. Hari Michaelson's problems, his weaknesses and insecurities, his whole
claustrophobic life, would be left behind here on Earth.

       He let Shanna's image boil to the surface of his consciousness. If she was alive, he would save her.
If she was not, he would avenge her. Life is simple. Life is good.

       amInvincible. lam the Blade of Tyshalle.

       lam Caine.

       in the techbooth,Arturo Kollberg licked his lips and rubbed his hands together. Not only was
every first-hander berth filled, he had already fielded overnight requests from the Studios in New York,
London, Seoul, and New Delhi for satellite simulcasts.

       This Adventure had taken on a life of its own, before Caine could even enter the Studio. This
would be bigger than he'd dreamed. While techs throughout the Studio ran down their flat-voiced
checklists, Kollberg hummed to himself and imagined the titles he might attach to this.Against the
Empire? No, too common. PerhapsSeven Days in Ankhana —but that would only work if Pallas lived
that long.For Love of Pallas Ril—now that, that had a nice ring to it, in an old-fashioned, slightly
overripe sort of way.

       The smile this brought was still on his lips as a tech's colorless monotone reported that the satellite
links checked out perfectly. He pushed himself to his feet and headed for the green room.

      in his privatebox, Businessman Marc Vilo gave one last sidelong glance at Shermaya Dole—of the
Leisure Doles of Kauai,the phrase rolled warmly inside his head—at her torso, at least. Her head was
already concealed beneath the induction helmet, and her hips were covered by the privacy shield of the
simichair's comfort hookups. He'd decided she was really very attractive, in a fleshy sort of way, and he
figured on tearing off a piece of that before the two of them left his box. He'd gotten a tremendous
amount of ass in this room; it almost never failed—first-handing Caine always made them horny. A little
jazz, a little jizz, and she just might sponsor him on an upcaste to Leisure. He smiled as he pulled down
his own induction helmet.

       outside, the murmurof the undercaste mob was joined by the low-voiced growl of the long black
ground-effect limo that swung up the curving drive. The murmur rose, peaking toward orgasm as Security
pressed the mob back from the gate, clearing a path. The limo settled, and the crowd sighed. Actors
almost always flew directly in to the Studio's landing pad; they almost always dodged the crowds and
hurried directly from the landing pad to the Studio's green room; almost all of them did.

       Except Caine.

       Every person in the crowd knew his story, the story of the street kid from the Mission District. He
was one of them—they believed— and he never forgot where he came from, he never forgot his people,
as the Studio marketing flacks relentlessly reminded them. The Studio chauffeur sprang from the front,
but the passenger door of the limo opened before he could get his hand there; Laborers open their own
doors. The crowd held its breath as Caine climbed into view.

      He stood beside the limousine, his back to the gate, surveying the crowd in its sudden silence.
They saw what they believed to be lines of worry in his face; many of them nudged each other to point
out what seemed to be added grey in his hair and beard.

       His stillness held them, and the moment stretched until even the coupes of the last arriving
Leisurefolk seemed to pause in their swooping flight. Then his back straightened and his eyes flashed; his
teeth gleamed through a smile that held neither joy nor humor.

       He slowly raised his knotted fist to them in a gesture older than the Colosseum of Rome.

       The crowd went wild.

       caine strode intothe gaping maw of the gate, and its iron jaws clanged shut behind him.

       God's bloody balls,he thought as he walked toward the main doors. /hate that shit.

       At the Overworld-normal vault, similar to but vastly larger than the one at the Abbey, he was
issued the six silver coins that were Caine's cash reserve.

       Kollberg met him in the green room. Two red-suited secmen stood at attention by the door. "Nice,
ah, timing on the crowd out there."

       "Yeah, whatever."

        "About our, hmm, littledisagreement last night—I understand that you're under a great deal of
stress. As far as the subscribers, well, we'll wait and see, shall we? If it doesn't turn out to be a, mm,
problem, we can forget all about it."

     Caine looked at the pair of secmen, their faces masked by the smoked shields of their helmets.
"Yeah. I can see that you've forgotten already."
       Kollberg harrumphed nervously. "Just a last-minute note or two. Feel free to investigate Pallas'
disappearance a little before you go after Ma'elKoth, to make it look good. No one is to know your
actual mission. And, ah—" He coughed into his hand. "—about Lamorak. If he's not dead—if, for
example, he was captured—you are under no circumstances to attempt a rescue."

      "I'm sure Karl appreciates your concern."

        "Think about it from our point of view. You are a vastly more bankable star; it would be frankly,
ah,silly to endanger yourself for the sake of a man whose audiences have been dropping for three years,
and they were never large to begin with. However, if you have an opportunity to recover his
thoughtmitter without, ah, unduerisk, go ahead. We're all interested to find out how the Long Form
works, and you'd be in line for a percentage of its cube rentals."

      "I'll keep that in mind." He pointed at the clock. "Five minutes."

      "Oh, yes, well, mm, break a leg."

      He nodded. "Probably several."

        in the cavea,the lights dimmed and the mountain scene of the helmet test pattern faded from the
techs' screens. A soundless shadow passed through the ranks of reclining firsthand berths, the figures
they held made faceless by the .blank ceramic shields of the induction helmets. The shadow mounted the
steps of the ziggurat transfer platform and crossed to its geometric center. The massive overhead bank of
the stage lights known as sunbeams flared to life, perfectly framed to the platform's edge. Caine stood,
motionless, in the stark white glare.

      once again inthe techbooth, Arturo Kollberg moistened his already-wet lips.My masterpiece, he
thought. "Engage thoughtmitter."

      A tech stroked a sensor, and the wide, domed screen at one end of the techbooth flickered on,
showing the rising rows of firsthand berths through Caine's eyes.

      "Engaged."

       Another tech frowned at his monitor and reported an unusually high number of adrenal reactions to
the sensory-deprivation sequence. Kollberg himself adjusted the neurochem feed and then thumbed the
microphone sensor.

       "Leisurefolk and Investors," he intoned, his words echoing through the Cavea and into the aural
sensors of induction helmets around the world, "Businessfolk, Ladies and Gentlemen. I am Administrator
Arturo Kollberg, Chairman of the San Francisco Studio. On behalf of the entire Studio System, I
welcome you to the birth of this extraordinary Adventure. And now—brought to you by Vilo
Intercontinental,We Carry the World for You —I give you the Blade of Tyshalle, the Right Hand of
Death Himself..."

      Along, pregnant pause.

      "Came!"

      With his own hand, Kollberg stabbed the switch that fed the holoview from the Cavea into
thousands of induction helmets. The sigh that went up was like the first breath of a hurricane. Kollberg
flicked the mike to inactive.

       "Establish transfer link."

      Beneath the Studio the powerplant hummed. Techs glared at readouts with total concentration.
"Established. We've got an alley in the Warrens. Clear."

      "Good. Whenever he's ready, then." Kollberg patted the tech on the shoulder and left the booth,
heading for his own box.

      on the transferplatform, Caine stood with the focused stillness that implies the capacity for instant
violence. He held this stillness for a long breath before he spoke.

        "I don't have any high words for you," he said slowly. "She's my wife, that's all. I'm going to hunt
down any bastard who even thought about doing her harm, and I'm gonna hurt him till he dies like a dog
in the street. I hope you have fun."

       His hands folded into fists of stone. "I know I will."

       He lifted his eyes to the glass panel that fronted the techbooth high above.

       "Let's do this thing."

       arturo kollberg snuggedhis head against the gelpack in his simichair. The helmet automatically
covered his head, and the preset adjustment instantly matched his field patterns. He breathed out a long
sigh of perfect contentment. He honestly believed he was going to enjoy this.

       an alley takesshape around me. Daylight. Smells—heavy spice, curry and green chilies,
water-soaked charcoal, dung, rotting flesh...To my left there's a weather-bleached wooden bin against
the wall, piled high with body parts that are mostly human, some ogrillo or troll: rat-chewed legs, arms
with fingerless hands, sections of rib or pelvis: leftover scraps from the business alongside, the Zombie
Rent-to-Own. I know this alley; I'm in the Warrens, near the Kingdom of Cant's border with the Face.

       I should say, near where the borderwas, the last time I was in town, almost two years ago. The
politics of territory in the Warrens are fluid, to say the least; in the absence of any outright turf wars
between the various and several Warrengangs, borders are even more imaginary here than they are in the
wider world. Borders in the Warrens are mainly an expression of where, street to street and house to
house, members of a particular Warrengang can do business without getting themselves killed by the
neighboring gang.

      Which isn't so different, really, from the wider world with its nations and principalities, treaties and
surveyors. We're honest about it, here; that's all.

       An enormous slack-jawed dog, filthy brown coat patched with mange, creeps tentatively toward
me, keeping to the morning shadows along the wall. I step politely back to let it pass; damn Warrendogs
carry diseases I haven't even heard of. It looks me over with its one good eye—the other's webbed with
milky cataract— while it considers its options.

       My fingers tingle widi adrenaline as raise my fists.
      This is the best thing about being Caine, by far the best: this almost sexual rush of perfect
confidence, the conviction that I'm the toughest kid on the block. On any block.

         "You want a piece of this, pooch?" I say, showing my teeth. "Come and get it, you wormy sack of
shit."

      I speak in Westerling without hesitation; the Studio-conditioned blocks on my voice wouldn't let
me speak English even if I wanted to.

       The dog decides I'm too much trouble and passes me by for the easier meal at the used-parts bin.
Big damn dog, shoulder as high as my ribcage. The severed arms and legs in the bin squirm and press
themselves blindly away in their imitation of life as the dog roots into them. A low moaning comes from
deep within the pile; some lazy mucker must have left a head attached to a torso. Or maybe there's a live
one in there—a bum snuggled in for the warmth of the decaying flesh around him, or a victim of one of
the Warrens' countless daily muggings. I chuckle, and shrug.

         Time to get to work.

       I stroll out of the alley toward the heart of the Kingdom of Cant, into thebazaar that surrounds the
ancient, crumbling hulk of the Brass Stadium. The sun is brighter here—a richer yellow—and the sky is
more deeply blue; the clouds are more full and whiter, and the breeze that pushes them carries a faint
undernote of green and growing things. It's a beautiful day; I can barely whiff the shit trodden into the
well-churned muck that passes for a street, and the flies, swarming in blue-shimmering thunderheads over
the heaps of random trash, sparkle like gemstones.

      I weave between the pushcarts and the tentstalls, smilingly refusing steaming chunks of river trout
and nets of fruit cunningly displayed to hide the wormtracks and blotches of mold, ignoring vendors of
charms and amulets, avoiding rug dealers and pot sellers. This is my ground; I worked this city and the
surrounding provinces for the first ten years of my career.

         I've come home.

      On walls, here and there, I see the Simon Jester graffito, very much as it was described in the
book Shanna stole it from: an oval for a face, a stylized pair of devil's horns, and a simple curved line to
make his crooked grin.

       None of the beggars look familiar, and I don't see any Knights; where the fuck is everybody? I
stop at a stall half-shadowed by the towering, smoke-etched limestone curve of the stadium wall.

       The sweating vendor bends over the handle of a spit that holds legs of mutton over a bed of
red-black coals. "Leg of lamb, hot mutton," he calls dispiritedly. "Fresh this morning, worm free. Leg of
lamb—"

         "Hey, Lum," I say. "You look a little down this morning. Something wrong?"

        He looks at me, and the heatflush drains out of his face. A second or two later he remembers to
try to smile, but it doesn't last. "Caine?" His voice squeaks a little. "I don't know nothin' about it, Caine.
Swear on myballs, I don't!"

      I reach into the stall and casually hook one of the cooling shanks that hang from the guy ropes.
"You don't know nothin' about what?" He leans toward me and lowers his voice. "Don't play with me,
here, Caine...My woman's got the fever, y'know, and my boy— Terl, you remember?—he's off with the
Dungers, could be dead, I don't know." He's trembling now, casting furtive glances at my expressionless
eyes. "I can't take any more trouble right now, all right? I don't know you, I haven't seen you, all right?
Just walk." "Well," I say flatly. "Aren't you friendly?" "Please, Caine, Iswear —" He flicks sweaty glances
at the oblivious crowd around us. "If you get taken, I don't want you thinkin' it was me turned you in."

       "Taken," I murmur. Well, well, well. I bite a chunk out of the mutton. It's tough as an old boot. I
chew on it to give myself time to think this over, and before I can swallow it I feel someone coming up
too close behind my left shoulder.

      "Trouble, Lum?" the someone says. "This guy giving you hard times?"

       Lum shakes his head, wide-eyed. I've got the newcomer in my peripheral vision now: black
scuffed boots, red cotton breeches, the bottom edge of a knee-length chain shirt painted black, and a
scarred but young-looking hand resting on the hilt of a scabbarded broadsword. One of the Knights of
Cant. Finally. He'll have a partner nearby—they always travel in pairs.

      I tongue the mutton into my cheek and say, "Just passing time. Don't get pissy."

       The Knight grunts a laugh. "That's a kinda fresh answer, there, dinky. I'm gonna have to levy an
insolence tax. Five nobles. Pay up." I wink at Lum, then spin like I'm delivering a backfist. The mutton
shank catches the Knight behind the ear and bends him over. I forehand the meat into his nose; blood
spurts, and he goes straight and then over backward to measure his length in the mud. Lum gasps and
disappears behind his grill, and the thick traffic of passersby transforms into a curious crowd.

      I take another bite of mutton while the Knight shakes his head and tries to get up. His blood
improves the flavor.

      "Here's a hint, big fella," I tell him in a friendly way. "Don't charge what you can't collect. Makes
you look bad. You lose the respect of the crowd."

      His partner charges toward us through the chattering press. I smile and wave to him, and he
scabbards his sword. "Sorry, Caine. New kid. You understand." "Not a problem. Tommie, isn't it?
Yeah, from the Underground Tap. How's business?"

      He grins, pleased that I remember him. "Yeah, shit, I'm all right. You know you're hot?"

      "I'm hearing that word. What price?" "Two hundred. In gold."

      I swallow the second chunk of mutton with difficulty. "A lot of money."

        The kid finally gets himself to his feet and is trying to draw. Tommie clouts him on that same
swelling ear. "Stop it, y'fool. This here isCaine, all right? He's an honorary Baron of Cant. Even if you
live through drawing on him, which you won't, His Majesty'd have your balls for lunch."

        The kid decides he's got better things to do with his hands. "Speaking of that," I say, "I need to
talk to the King." Tommie looks at me, his eyes suddenly clouded. "He's busy right now."

      "It's life or death, Tommie."

      He stares into the distance while he imagines various reactions, weighing the King's anger at being
interrupted against the debt the King might still feel he owes me. Abruptly he makes up his mind. "All
right. Follow me."

      "Hey, Lum? It's all over," I say. He pokes his head up from behind the grill, and I toss him one of
my silver nobles. I'm not a thief. "Your mutton's shit, by the way. Keep the change." He blinks. "Uh,
thanks...I guess."

       Tommie leads me off around the curve of the stadium. The kid follows, pinching his nose shut with
a crusted handkerchief. We stroll out of the bazaar and into the narrow winding alleyways that give the
Warrens its name. I can get only the most occasional glimpse of the sun, but I don't need it to know what
direction we're going: toward the triple border of the Kingdom, the Face, and the Rathole.

      :

      The real business in the Warrens takes place in the heart of eacl gang's turf; the borders are too
vulnerable, too susceptible to sud denly lethal accidents and casual arson. Each border comprises a least
a couple of blocks of no-man's-land, sometimes five or six.

       whose unfortunate residents are usually forced to pay off both sides. The triple borders—there are
four of them; the Kingdom of Cant holds the center of the Warrens, around the stadium—are the poorest
patches of bottom-feeding scum in the poorest part of Ankhana. Often the only shelter is the shell of a
burned-out tenement.

      Many of the residents sleep on the street.

      I like it here. It reminds me of home.

      Tommie stops four paces from the sun-washed mouth of the alley we've been following for a few
minutes now. "This is as far as I can go." He nods out toward the border, then indicates his chainmail,
painted black with the silvered borders of the Knights of Cant. "The kid and me, we're in colors. His
Majesty's running a game out there today, and we'd blunt the hook." I nod my understanding. "Where is
he?" "You can't see him from here. You know the alley between the Working Dead and where Fader's
Whores used to be?"

      "Used to?" A twinge of nostalgia—I' ve spent some happy hours at Fader's. "What happened to
Fader?"

      "She was entertaining too many Rats," Tommie says with a shrug. "She had a fire."

      Life in the big city. "All right," I say. "I'll tell His Majesty you took good care of me."

      "You're straight, Baron. Thanks." Tommie nudges Ills kid partner with a sharp elbow and gives
him aGet with it, idiatlook.

      The kid snorts blood and mumbles, "Thanks, uh, for not killing me, Cai—uh, Baron." "My
pleasure."

       I leave them there and walk out into the sunlight. The buildings that were once in the midst of this
border have burned to low-sloping mounds of rubble, leaving a wide-open area of breeze and sun. A
couple of places around the plazalike clearing hold lounging Rats in their colors of shit: brown and yellow.
That's not unusual—this is their border, after all. A few of the shuffling street-people might be Rats as
well, covert.

       There's a considerable traffic through here: men with sharp prods driving roped-together strings of
zombies from the Working Dead, which is the only thriving business for blocks around. I guess the
owners want to be close to their source of supply. The zombies don't bother me, with their grey-leather
skin and filmed-over eyes. Our Workers are worse, really; with the zombies, you can't see the buried
spark of life—intelligence, will, whatever— that makes Workers so tragically creepy.

       No sign of any Subjects, although you can never really tell. Any of these loafers who are taking the
sun, any of these winos in this alley or the sleepy-faced rith smokers on that stoop, any could be Subjects
of Cant. I can't count on recognizing them—I've been out of Ankhana for a while.

       The alley Tommie directed me to is full of garbage—food scraps, rotting clothes, bits of broken
furniture—and rats, the four-legged kind. There's a leper lying on a makeshift bed of rags, bloody pus
draining from open sores into his ragged patches of yellowed grey beard. I squint at him.

       He says, ''For fuck's sake, Caine, get off the street, you stick out like a fucking boil on my ass."

       "Hey, Majesty," I say as I drift casually into the alley. "How's business?"

       The King of Cant's ravaged face splits open into a grin of unalloyed joy, and mine answers him.
He's just about my best friend on Overworld. On any world. "Caine, you son of a bitch! How'd you find
me?"

     I dig down behind his pile of rags and settle in, my back against the wall. "Your boy Tommie sent
me over. He's a good man. Hey, those are some killer sores."

       "You like 'em? They're yours. Lamp oil with candle wax and bread dough, chicken blood half
curdled with willow bark to keep it from clotting, and some pine gum to hold them on. Look nice, but
they stink like a bastard. What brings you to Ankhana, you shit? Who are you killing?"

       I shake my head and give him a serious look. "It's personal, this time. I'm looking for—"

       "You know there's an Imperial warrant on you?"

       "Yeah yeah yeah, I heard. Listen, I need to find Pallas Ril."

      He frowns. "Pallas?" he says slowly, then he suddenly brightens. "Hey, look there, the boot's about
to drop." He waves a rag-wrapped hand toward the plaza.

       "Majesty, this is important," I begin, but my eyes follow his gesture in time to see a loose zombie
shuffle up to one of the lounging Rats on the far side of the plaza. The Rat gets up to kick the zombie
away, and the zombie suddenly moves a lot faster than zombie really move.

       It grabs the Rat and pulls him close, then steps into a shadi alley mouth like a trick with his favorite
whore; when it lets hi the Rat has a bloodstain spreading below his solar plexus. He c to his knees and
then pitches forward onto his face.

       A very professional job: if you can rip the heart good on first stab, you don't get the messy spray,
and the gut-punchtht companies the stab drives air out of the lungs. He's dead befoi can draw enough
breath to shout. As the zombie shuffles off other man in Rat colors steps out into the dead Rat's place.
      "Smooth, eh?" Majesty chuckles and cups a hand to his ea don't hear any alarum. Got 'em all." I
nod. "What's this about?"

       He smiles. "I got a tip that Thervin Backbiter is meeting a tain captain of the King's Eyes in that
tenement across the way. "You taking him?" Thervin Backbiter is King Rat, the leade the northwestern
rival of the Kingdom of Cant. I know him. I dilike him "Ho»/ lr»n«».«, r>—i------'

      ________, „„, liingm/iii ui v^am. i Know mm. like him. "Hey, long as I'm here, maybe I could do
him for you' Js," Majesty says with a grin, "but not this time. I d<

       ___:*u r» ~ • • •

       * .G-----—

       "Thanks," Majesty says with a grin,uul uui uiis time. di want war with Rats right now—and besides,
you'd have to kill Eye captain too, and nobody needs that kind of trouble. E y'know, I also don't want
Thervin to climb into bed with the £ the Rats've been entirely too frisky lately as it is—if they line some
Imperial backing they'll be out of control. So instead of k ing him, I'm sending a friendly message—all
three of his stooge Three dead men equals a friendly message. That's the kind math I understand.

        "Best part is," Majesty goes on, "he won't even know anythin, happened until he comes out of the
meeting. That's when my fa Rats out there'll give him my regards. He'll hear the word. 'If then a next
time,' y'know?"

       "So who gave you the tip? You got an ear in the Eyes, or in t Rats?"

        His grin turns smug. "Trade secret, buddy-o. Let's say times a good in the Kingdom, and leave it
at that."

        Huh. If times are all that good, he wouldn't be hanging his a out here for on-site supervision, but I
let it go. Why waste brea arguing?

       "Pallas Ril," I remind him. "Where is she?"

       His eyes go vague on me again. "I hear she's in town," he offer "I hear that too. That's why I'm
here talking to you. I also hear she's running a game and some Subjects are playing."

      " don't think so. I'd know about it. Pallas and me, maybe we're not close, exactly, but she would
come to me straight for that kind of help, wouldn't she?"

       "She did."

       He gives me a long look, and his voice cools. "You think I wouldn't tell you?"

       I shrug.

      "Caine, I'm telling you now, all I know is she's in town. I seem to recall some report of
contact—she talked to one of the boys, or something—but nothing serious."

       "Who's Simon Jester?"
     "The guy who's smuggling these poor mopes that Ma'elKoth thinks areAktiril How should I
know?"

       "You lost at least two of your boys about this time yesterday morning, down in Dunger territory by
the river. What were they doing there?"

      "How should I know?"

      "That's twice you asked the same stupid question. They were stooging for Simon Jester, and you
fucking well know it."

     He sits up suddenly and gives me a hard look. "You're working, aren't you? Who's paying? The
Monasteries or the Imperials?"

      "Majesty, I swear to you, my only interest in this is finding Pallas Ril."

      "I heard you broke up." "Is that your business? Where is she?"

     "But—" He shakes his head and looks honestly confused. —what does Pallas Ril have to do with
Simon Jester? Is she working for him?"

       I squint at him without answering. He takes it for a long time, then lowers his face and scratches his
head. "All right, shit. I've been supporting Simon Jester a little. Those boys, yeah, they were stooging.
mean, what's the harm? A little jab in Ma' elKoth's ass, that's all. But I guess the Cats took them; I don't
think any lived." "What's the next leg on the trip out?" He frowns. "I don't know."

      "When's the next time Simon Jester should make contact?" "I don't know." His frown deepens. "I
should know this." "All right, listen." scratch my head in furious exasperation, rub (

      my eyes, and ask, "How'd you get into this in the first place? D you meet, ah, Simon Jester...in
person? Who came to you?"

     Slowly, very slowly, he shakes his head, and his frown clea into something like awe. "I don't
remember..."

      "This is a problem."

       His expression instantly congeals into stony belligerence. "Dor try and make itmy problem, Caine.
I've got too many guys on th street, you'll never—"

      "Relax." At least I'm starting to get a handle on how th damned spell works. Funny that it doesn't
seem to work on me.' believe you."

       Majesty now looks honestly disturbed, and more than a litt frightened. "Are you ever gonna tell me
what's going on? I mec shit, Caine, this is creepy! Am I losing it? I shouldknow this shi It's some kind of
magick, isn't it—somebody fuckinghexed me, what happened, I'm thinking."

      "Yeah," I say.

      "I'm hexed? That's what you're telling me? I'll fucking ki them."
      "Don't take it personally."

       "You say. Nobody puts magick on me, Caine. Nobody. Don they know I'llkill them? Do these
fumbledicks have any clii who they're fucking, here? I've got Abbal Paslava the freakiriSpellbinder
—he'll do these bastards till their dicks stick up the own assholes and they fuck themselves with every
step!"

      I hold up a hand to cut him off. "How's our politics with th Faces, these days?"

      "Not so good," he says, subsiding. "Why?"

      "Hamman's got the best connections into the palace. I have t talk to him."

      "You'll need a damn loud voice. He's been dead a year."

      "You're kidding! Fat Hamman? I thought he was indestructible.

     "Yeah, so did he. Nobody knows who took him, but the sma money's on the new leader of the
Faces—that elf bitch from th Exotic Love in Alientown. Kierendal."

      "The dyke? Holy shit."

       "Yeah, it's bad enough to have to deal with a lapper, but a sub Running a Warrengang? She's
bringing in all kinds of subs—elvei dwarves, sprites, the works. The Faces practically own Alier town,
now. She moved all the fittings from Hamman's old plac( the Happy Miser, over into Exotic Love; it's the
top casino in th Empire, now. Calls it Alien Games. And she is no one to screw with, no pun intended.
Word is, she's got her hooks on Hamman's spellbook, and you know what elves are like—they fucking
invented magick. Hey, isshe mixed in this? Is that mothersucking dyke the one who put magick on me?"

      "How're her connections?"

        He shrugs. "Good as Hamman's, maybe better. He only got the gamblers, mostly. She gets the
gamblers, the addicts, and the perverts who like to wet their wicks in a subhole. Hey, you wouldn't want
to kill her for me, would you? I'd make it worth your trouble."

      I shake my head. "Not today. Listen, I gotta go. I'll be in touch."

      "What, already? It's been two years—you can't catch up a little?"

      "Sorry. I'm on a deadline. And, hey, if I'm as hot as all that— you got a spare cloak, or a cowled
robe or something? Something that'll get me as far as Alientown without being tagged?"

       He points with his thumb. "Take mine. It's behind that broken cabinet. Y'know, it'd help a lot if
you'd just shave. Without that beard, you'd be a different man."

      "That's just it. Sometimes I need to be me."

      He shrugs. I get the robe and shrug into it, and pull the cowl up to shade my face.

      Majesty extends his hand; I take it. He says, "You know my house is open to you. Come by after
the Miracle, any night. You can stay with me."

       "I'll do that. See you."

         I stroll off, whistling like a malingering Laborer until I'm out of the game field; then my face sets and
I start to move with some serious speed. So this is going to be a little tougher than I'd thought; so what?
Here in Ankhana, it's impossible to be depressed.

        The soft west wind blows the smoke and stench of the Warrens off behind me as I head out of the
borderlands toward the Face, and the sun warms the light cloth over the leather on my back. Whores
and beggars look me over as I trot past, maybe si/.ing me for a lift or a strongarm, but I'm moving too
fast; I'm gone before they can make up their minds. I ignore them.

       The fire-gutted rubble of a building provides a shortcut into the Face, the section of the Warrens
that borders Ankhana proper and was once the home ground of Hamman and his Faces; a filthy man
dressed in scorched rags snarls at me from under a tarpaulin stretched between beams that are tumbled
like cornstalks after harvest. Farther back in the shadow behind him a dull-eyed woman cradles a silent
infant at her sagging, empty breast. I smile and shrug an apology for intruding in their home and move on.

     I'm comfortable here, more easy in my heart than any place I've been since I was eight years old.
Maybe after I find Pallas, I'll have a couple of days to enjoy it.

       The warming sun raises a slight prickle of sweat. I itch all over. I smell like a goat.

       Hove this town.

       I'm free.

       kierendal the firstFace looked up briefly from her book at the coded knock on her apartment's
outer door. Tup's tiny doll-sized hands continued to dig into the cords of her shoulders and neck. "Don't
get up," Tup's whistling voice fluted in her ear. "Zakke will get it."

       "That will be Pischu," Kierendal sighed. He'd never intrude, lacking an emergency.

     "Tell him to go away." Tup now added lips to fingers on the nape of Kierendal's neck and drew
warm shivers up from the base of her spine.

       "Mm, stop." Kierendal reached back over her shoulder and drew the lovely little treetopper
forward; Tup rode the palm of Kieren-dal's hand as though bareback on ahorse. Though only twenty
inches tall, Tup was a marvel of feminine perfection; perfect breasts that need never fear the pull of
gravity, flawless skin, golden hair that seemed to shine with a light of its own. She might have been a
beautiful human, were it not for her height, and the large translucent wings that were folded behind her,
and the back-folding thumb of each foot that enabled her race to perch. And charming, too, as well as
incredibly responsive; her nipples hardened as Kierendal watched. She squirmed in a deeply suggestive
way and wrapped her trim and lovely ankles around Kierendal's forearm.

    "No time to play now, sweetling. Business calls. Fly along— and get dressed. Pischu likes his
women tiny, and we don't want to put ideas in his head."

     "Oh, you're terrible." Tup giggled. She spread her wings and flew into the gloom of an inner
chamber, silent as an owl. Pischu coughed from the doorway, "-farmer's cheating again." Kierendal
slowly and lovingly stroked shut the manskin cover of her massive book, and only then lifted her
steel-colored eyes to meet the gaze of the daytime floor boss of Alien Games. The pupils in those eyes
slitted vertically: nighthunter eyes.

       Pischu coughed again and suddenly looked away; Kierendal, as was her habit when studying,
reclined nude on a vast expanse of piled silken cushions. Pischu was one of only three Faces who were
allowed within her chambers, but this privilege didn't ease the man's discomfort. Kierendal enjoyed it;
that discomfort lent an attractive lemony tint to the otherwise bland earth-tones of Pischu's Shell. Like all
of her people, the First Folk, she never needed to concentrate to summon mindview; it was simply
another sense, like smell or taste.

        With heavy brocade curtains drawn closed over the wide windows, her chambers were lit only by
artfully placed lamps that painted rose highlights into her spun-silver hair, and across her lead-white skin.

       She was tall even for a female of the First Folk, who commonly outgrew their males, and so lean
that the articulation of her hip joint could be seen through the swell of her ass as she stretched her endless
legs behind her. She lifted herself up on one elbow to expose the nipples of her nearly absent breasts;
she'd painted her nipples silver this morning to match her intricately coiled hair. The money-colored flash
caught Pischu's eyes, and his face reddened while the lemon shade in his Shell deepened sharply.

      "How bad today?" she asked in a voice husky and languid enough to make Pischu wince.

       "Worse than usual. He's gumming the dice, and he's so damnedclumsy ! Two of
our...guests...have already tipped, and I had to toss them to stop a fight."

      "Anyone important?"

      "No. Both losers, but low rent. They're no loss, but Berne just came in."

      "Berne?" Her thin lips, the color of calf liver, drew back enough to expose her overlong and
oversharp canines. If that maniac caught Janner gumming...

      Berne liked the dice and was a bad loser from the first roll. If he found someone to blame for it,
Janner's head would be rolling across the floor in the fraction of a second it took Berne to draw. And
Janner was the proprietor of Ankhanan Muckers and Manure, one of Kierendal's more profitable
partnerships.

      "I'll deal with it. Is Berne in the pit yet?"

      "Not yet, but it won't be long. He's at the Crystal Bar, chatting on Gala. He still thinks one of these
days he'll get her for free."

      "If he does, he'll be disappointed." Kierendal rose and stretched, arching her back. "Actual
passion interferes with her technique. Zakke?"

      Her stonebender houseboy instantly appeared in the doorway, all broad shoulders and neatly
shaved weak chin; he'd been eavesdropping, as usual—it was part of his job. "Yes, Kierendal?"

       "Tell the kitchen I'll be wanting brunch. Whatever they have that's alive—oysters will do. And a
fresh comb of honey—Tup will be joining me, I think." As she spoke, a mist swirled and coalesced
around her, draping like cloth from her bony arms.
       Zakke nodded and ticked his fingers, making mental notes. He was a sweet boy, really, if not too
bright. And he was very strong and loyal; Kierendal decided impulsively on the spot to finally let him
grow in his traditional stonebender beard to cover that unfortunate chin.

       Now she stood motionless and built her image; it was a simple process, especially now—the page
of Hamman's book she'd studied that very morning had provided an interesting twist in substantiating a
Fantasy. She opened her Shell to the Flow and drew it around her as a lesser woman might draw silk. It
wrapped her lovingly, gently concealing, enveloping, coloring the air in which she stood with sheer and
translucent pastel.

       While her hands pulled the mist into the apparent solidity of cloth, they also stroked her body into
the shape she desired. As she did this, her coiled metallic hair seemed to unbind itself and flow in
beautiful curls—now definitely golden—about shoulders that had a touch of human color to them now,
and a soft roundness that matched the breasts she had massaged into a swelling feminine curve.

       When the process was complete, she still appeared exotic—still obviously of the First Folk,
unquestionably primal, with the slant of her now violet eyes and the pronounced points at the tips of her
ears—but there was a gentle quality of innocence in the fullness of her lips, a softer texture to her
gold-touched cheeks, a sweet arc to her hip that would catch at the heart of any man. She now hid
behind a face that had never been touched by the frown of thought.

       She smiled as she altered the drape of her illusionary clothing with a twist of her mind and a hand
that followed it. It would amuse her to walk naked among her unsuspecting staff and clientele. And it
would amuse her even more that Pischu would have to follow her, knowing she was naked.

      "Well. Let us see if we can convince Lucky Janner that this is not his lucky day."

        Zakke opened the door; Pischu stepped respectfully aside. After only a short walk down two
flights of stairs and along a guarded corridor, Kierendal entered her kingdom.

        Alien Games was a fairyland of vice. Rails of gleaming brass surrounded the gaming pits that
dimpled the floor. Three wide steps of glistening purple-veined marble circled each pit like a bull's-eye.
Swivel-hipped girls and flat-bellied boys—all in scant clothing revealing their astonishing grace and
beauty—ferried trays of cocktails and various other intoxicants over carpets of crushed red velvet. These
servers, human and primal, were no less intoxicating than the contents of their trays, and no less
available—and in some cases, substantially less expensive. Five huge crystal chandeliers held no candles
but radiated a soothing amber light that seemed to have no definite source. Even now, well before noon,
the gaming pits were largely filled with crowds of sweating men and women watching the tumble of dice
or flip of cards with the bloodshot concentration of hungover hawks.

       Those clients not engaged in gambling, or in drinking themselves blind at one of the seven bars, all
watched the show. Up on the narrow thrust stage that projected above the gaming floor, an apparently
human female with a glorious spray of raven hair took well-acted pleasure from a pair of male
treetoppers. Hearing the end of this particular performance, she was already nude and bathed in sweat,
trembling with feigned passion, while the treetoppers swirled around her on the blurs of their diaphanous
wings like oversize hummingbirds. They carried silken cords and trailed them across her body—binding
and unbinding her, slithering knotted silk over the translucent purity of her flesh.

      This "girl" was one of Kierendal's best performers; even now, men and women both were rising
from their seats to take the hands of nearby whores. Kierendal watched the show for a moment, smiling
to herself and shaking her head; if only those guests who'd become so aroused in watching her knew that
she was actually a fifty-year-old ogrillo bitch with flaccid dugs and finger-sized warts all over her body.

      Similarly, the purple-veined marble was in truth splintered pine, weathered to the color of dirt; the
gleaming brass was actually rusty cast iron, and the service staff were pox-raddled and dull eyed, most of
them broken-down ex-whores.

       All this illusion stirred the Flow into fantastic whirls of energy, but did not deplete it; it all was
powered by a single shiny black griffinstone no larger than the first joint of Kierendal's thumb— which,
she reminded herself, she' d need to replace later this month. Kierendal paused in the doorway long
enough to be joined by her three overt guards—massive ogres with unfiled tusks, wearing light chainmail
painted with the scarlet and brass motif of the house and carrying wickedly spiked morningstars slung at
their waists. All of Alien Games' overt security staff were ogres, or their nocturnal cousins, trolls; they
were uniformly stupid, but huge and terrifically strong—and the sure knowledge that troublemakers
would not only be killed but eaten helped Kierendal maintain an orderly business. She had never been
robbed.

        The overwhelming menace of the ogres also allowed her to let her guests go armed, as
disagreements rarely became fatal before the ogres could break them up. And letting men keep their
swords improved the whoring; men are universally friskier when they have their steel penises belted at
their sides.

       She extended her Shell and twitched the Flow in currents toward three of her coverts—two
humans and one fey who were flawlessly impersonating innocent guests. The fey and one human looked
up at what they perceived as her whisper in their ear.At the Crystal Bar, she sent.The one in the
slashed-velvet doublet and shoulder-draw sword is Berne. Get close and stick there. She sent the
other human to stand behind Lucky Janner in the bones pit.

       Even as her coverts approached, Berne pushed himself away from the bar, giving up on Gala for
now; he strode toward the bones pit, the diagonally shoulder-slung scabbard that held a long straight
blade slapping at his back. The coverts were too experienced to announce themselves by a sudden
change of direction, and so Kierendal hurried to reach the pit first, ogres stomping at her heels.

      Janner, the deep, slanting scar across his nose glowing white against a face flushed with victory,
grinned fiercely at Kierendal as she approached.

      "I'b habing a gread day, Kier! Gread! Can'dbelieb id!" Due to the hatchet wound that had
destroyed his sinuses, Lucky Janner perpetually sounded like a man with a severe head cold.

      Kierendal modulated her voice into the aristocratic tones she used for guest contact. "Of course
we are very pleased at your success, Janner. Today, your nickname is well deserved. Can I perhaps tear
you away from the table for a minute? Business of mutual interest...?"

       "Innda minnid. I'b onnda roll."

      Kierendal watched Janner's clumsy gumming of the dice with distaste. What in the world was he
using? Snot?

      Berne glided down the steps into the pit just as Janner made his point. A cold ball gathered in
Kierendal's stomach; Berne walked with the loose-limbed dangerous grace of a puma, and his pale eyes
had the fixed reptilian stare of a reflexive killer. His Shell flickered scarlet and white with barely repressed
violence.

       He'd been created Count only a few months before, but Kierendal's sources informed her that he
was one of the new Emperor's closest confidants—some reports claimed he was Ma'elKoth's personal
assassin—and he was known to command the Grey Cats. Every time she looked at him, Kierendal well
believed the tale that Berne had received Monastic training—his instinctive weight-forward balance and
perfect kinesthetic awareness were both convincing and unsettling. His swordplay was already legendary:
he never wore armor in battle or duel, depending solely on his blade-skills for defense.

      Whatever the truth about him might be, he was unquestionably one of the most dangerous men in
the Empire. It was widely said that no one had ever lived to cross him twice.

       He nodded expressionlessly to Kierendal as he slid into a place at the table; he didn't spare the
ogres even a glance. He laid a stack of royals against Janner's next throw.

      "Play or pass, buttface. Let's go."

      "Buddface...?" The color that rose up Janner's neck was a deeper scarlet than the flush of victory.

       "Has a crack in it, no?" Berne laughed. He was always his own best audience. "Tell you, though, if
my butt was that ugly I'd never get laid again—be ashamed to take my pants off." Now the two coverts
were finally coming down the steps behind him, much to Kierendal's relief.

      "Oh, comb ond," Janner said, a wild look in his eyes, "if your boyfriend realdy loved you, he'd
make allowances..."

      Other men around the table snickered into their hands, none of them foolish enough to laugh
openly. Berne's face froze. He stepped back from the table, his left hand drifting up toward the
hand-and-a-half sword hilt above his right shoulder. Janner squared off, grasping the hilt of the
shortsword at his belt. Berne's Shell had gone crimson—Janner might be dead in a heartbeat.

       "Gentlemen." Kierendal gestured and stepped smoothly between them. Only the barest flicker of
Berne's eyes betrayed the fact that the two coverts at his back each now held the point of a dagger
against his kidneys.

       "Berne, Lucky Janner is an honored guest, as well as a personal friend. You will not kill him within
my establishment." Berne's only reply was to rake the illusionary curves of her body with his eyes, from
knees to neck, with slow and deliberate insult.Mm, she thought.So that's how it is. All right. She turned
to Janner.

        "As foryou," she said in her most scathing tone, "if you must give your life simply to scorea point
off this man, at least be witty enough that I'll get a laugh when I repeat it in your eulogy."

       Janner began to protest; Kierendal ignored him. A sudden clatter near the street door drew her
eyes. One of the new Faces, a stone-bender female she'd recruited since taking over and moving
operations to Alientown, had come sprinting up to the fey who worked in the coat check. With no more
than a thought, Kierendal extended a tendril of her Shell to touch his, drawing only enough Flow to
power the effect, and shifted her consciousness to his body so she could see and hear the stonebender.
He expressionlessly acknowledged her presence with a welcoming swirl of Flow.

      The stonebender's mouth was painted with rich crimson blood that still trickled from her nose,
which looked broken. Her neatly trimmed goatee was caked with clots. Her Westerling was thick with
the accent of the Gods' Teeth. "...askink me which were Kierendal's chamber, which door, which
winder. He wanted se knock codes...he t'ought I was unconscious, so he left and I ran, I ran..."

      "All right, it's all right," the fey said soothingly, his slim hands on her powerful shoulders. "Who was
he? Can you describe him?"

       Here the Faces' training paid off; she had memorized her attacker's appearance even while she
was being interrogated and beaten. "Half again a foot taller san me. Straight black hair, shot grey at
temples. Dark skin, black eyes, mustache and jawline beard. Broken nose, wis a slantwise scar. And
fast. Faster san I've ever seen. He had knives, but he used his fists."

      Kierendal thought,that sounds like Caine, and slowly it dawned on her that it couldbe Caine.
She'd heard about the sudden Imperial bounty on his head, had suspected that he must have been in
town—and only then did she connect the thoughts that swirled around her.

      Caine was asking about me!

       With a gasp she found herself back within her own head; her knees were weak and her bowels
loose. Panic-thoughts yammered a stunning babble: Who could have hired him? The Imperials? No, they
would have sent the Cats for her. The Monasteries, Caine usually worked for the Monasteries, but she
had done nothing to attract their lethal disfavor—had she? No, it must be—ah, it was the King of fucking
Cant\ That bastard! Wasn't Caine supposed to be hooked into the Subjects? But why? Why now? Or
was it the Monasteries after all? Had she told one too many truths about Ma'elKoth?

       Stern mental discipline swiftly mastered her panic; she had more immediate issues with which to
deal. First things first.

        Kierendal prided herself on her ability to think and act in an organized fashion in the midst of a
crisis. In only the time it took to breathe deeply in and slowly out again, she had sketched out the
rudiments of a plan of defense. She once again reached into the Flow and established contact with the fey
in coat check.

       In minutes Alien Games would be surrounded, outside, by an invisible army of Faces in teams of
three, one member of each three either primal or treetopper for swiftness of communication. The pissoir
in the street outside would be covered inside and out, as well as the shaft that sank below it into the
limestone caves that underlay the city. The roofs of the surrounding buildings would be scattered with
Faces either present or in clear line-of-fire with loaded crossbows. Every combat-capable staff member
within the casino would be alerted, and pairs of guards would be placed in every corridor in plain sight of
each other. She'd already rejected the idea of calling the Constabulary; worth more than the
two-hundred-royal reward would be the knowledge of who wanted her dead badly enough to hire
Caine. The coat-check fey met her eyes across the room and nodded his acknowledgment She sent:
"Use her story for the current description. Pass it through the ranks. Keep me informed. I'll be in
my apartment; use the five-code when you knock. Now move!"

      He moved. She let the link dissipate and returned her attention to the immediate events here in the
bones pit.

      Janner was still talking. She had no idea what he'd said, and less interest. She flicked a finger at the
ogre who stood near her right shoulder, and he clamped his massively taloned hands around Janner's
arms and lifted the struggling little man off the floor. "Hey! Hey—!"
      "You're done for the day. Get him out of the pit." The ogre hoisted Janner and ponderously carried
him up the steps onto the main floor. Kierendal paced beside him. "You can'd do dthis!"

       "I don't have time to handjob your wounded feelings," she said, low enough that Berne wouldn't
overhear. "Have a drink at the bar. Grab a bite in the dining room. My treat. Just watch your mouth and
stay away from Berne." " can handle himb—"

       "No, you can't. Shut up." She reached up, took his chin in her surprisingly strong hand, and dug
her fingernails into his cheeks. "And stay away from the dice pit until you learn tocheatpmperfy, you
stupid shit." She waved a hand, and the ogre let Janner go with a shove that sent him stumbling off
toward the Silver Bar. "Kierendalll..."

       Berne leaned motionless on the edge of the knucklebones field, wearing his mocking smile. The
pair of coverts were still at his back, daggers still pricking his kidneys. "Can I move now, Kierie? Do I
stand here all day?"

       She made a sound in her throat that was almost a whine of frustration. "Apologies, Count Berne,"
she said. With a wave of a hand she instructed the coverts to release him.

       He shrugged once, like he was shaking tension out of his shoulders, and then he paced toward her
with that hungry-puma walk ofhis.

       "I have to kill him, y'know," he said easily. "He insulted me, and I'm obliged to pay him out. It's
the, ahh,honor of thenobility. You understand."

      This, at least, she knew precisely how to handle. She took a step to meet him and looked up
meltingly into his eyes. "Please, my lord,"

      she said with her hands resting on his heavily muscled chest, "I would take it as a personal favor if
you could let this pass, forgotten."

        His mocking smile took on a twist of contempt as his arms slid around her slim back and he forced
his lips down onto hers. His tongue pushed into her mouth, probing with slimy insistence, and she knew
well how to pant and squirm as his hand cupped her illu-sionary breast.

      This was insult deeper than the last, but she had once been as good at her former profession as
Berne was at his current one; he never suspected how revolting she found him. When his hand slid
roughly down between her legs, she released the tactile part of her illusion of clothing. He found his hand
pressed directly to the lips of her vagina, while his other felt the smooth and flawless skin of her back.

      He stiffened, then lifted his head and stared down at her with moist surprise. The contempt in his
eyes now mingled with sudden lust—contempt and lust that seemed to feed on each other so that both
grew together.

     "You know what?" he said thickly. "I think I like you after all. I'll do you that favor, this time. Just
remember what you owe me."

      She demurely lowered her head to his shoulder. "Oh, you know us elves—" Using the human slur
name for her people gave her not the faintest twinge. "—we have long memories. Allow me to sponsor
your morning's recreation. Tallin, five hundred for the Count."
      The click of the tiles as the croupier pushed them across the field drew Berne's eyes, but then he
looked back down into hers. "A difficult choice," he murmured.

      "You're very gallant," she said. "Please, enjoy yourself."

      He shrugged. "Another time, then."

      "Of course."

       She turned crisply and headed for the service door as Berne returned to the pit and warmed the
dice. She felt a certain sense of accomplishment: a bit of quick, efficient lick'n'flick to keep Berne happy
and Janner alive? Cheap at twice the price.

      But she had no time to enjoy minor victories.

       Her ogres were close on her heels in a liquid rustle of chainmail; subtle gestures summoned four
coverts and the pair of treetopper showboys, who were now on a break. She stopped in the doorway
and spoke in the clipped, decisive tone of a feya accustomed to obedience, repeating the orders she'd
sent to the fey in coat check.

      "What is it, though?" one of the coverts asked. "Are the Rats coming against us? The Serpents?"

      "Worse." She swallowed through a painfully dry throat. "I think it's Caine. Now move."

      They scattered at a run.

       She rubbed her hands together and found that her palms were damp and her fingers slightly
tremulous. A drink, she decided. That's what she needed, a drink to steady her nerves and smooth her
roiled consciousness, then more time spent in study of the book. She strode upward toward her
apartment, taking steps three at a time, wondering urgently if she had time to charge a Shield.

      She reached the door of her apartments and knocked lightly, twice and then once again, and
waited for Zakke to open the door.

       She knocked again: two, one. The intricately silver-inlaid door had no external keyhole, and she
herself had laid the wards that prevented it from being magically opened. The lazy shit was probably
asleep, and she had no time to waste. She hammered the door with her clenched fist.

       "Zakke, you worthless prick!" Her shout resounded in the empty hallway. "If this door isn't open in
ten seconds you are one dead dwarf!"

       Finally she heard the rasp of the bolt being drawn. When the door cracked open she stiff-armed it
back with a thump and strode into the room, heading straight for her private dry bar next to the huge
stone fireplace. The heavy brocade curtains were tightly drawn, and every lamp was dark; the pungent
odor of smoldering wicks hung heavily in the gloom. "Youwere sleeping, you shit! I'll skin you for this!"

      The closing door cut off the last of the dim light from the corridor. Kierendal, nearly blind until her
eyes could adjust, slammed her shin into an errant footstool hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. She
hopped about on one leg, cursing and trying to keep her balance while holding her throbbing shin with
both hands. "And get some light in here!"
       The only response was the dry, rasping click of the door bolt locking home.

      She stopped. She put her foot down gingerly, testing her weight. There was another smell
underlying the thick smolder and the tang of lampblack: old sweat—a sharp, goaty odor of unwashed
human.

       Kierendal stood motionless, not daring to breathe. "Zakke?"

       "He's out."

       The voice was flat and lethal.

       Every joint in her body turned to water.

       Kierendal, like any primal, had exceptional night vision and could move as silently as a ghost, and
she was in her lair. If this had been anyone but Caine, she might have made a try for him—but he'd been
in here who knew how long, he was dark-adapted and probably ready for anything she could do. And
from the sound of his voice, he was no more than a long stride away from her.

       "Don't take a deep breath," he said softly. "If you do, I'll think you're about to yell. I might kill you
before realize my mistake."

       She believed him.

      "I..." she said thinly, breathing only from the top of her chest, "...ah, you could have killed me when
I came through the door."

       "That's right."

       "Then I'm not your target."

       The darkness gave no answer.

       She could see his outline now, a blacker shadow against the black-shadowed wall. Still she could
not see his Shell—and this absence terrified her. How was she to know what he intended if she couldn't
read his Shell?

       Slowly the glittering points that were his eyes came clear.

       She said, "I've...I know I've said some things about Ma'elKoth, but, but I've done
nothing—nothing that the Monastic Council would want me dead for! Have I? Tell me, you have totell
me! I know the Council supports Ma'elKoth, but, but, they don't have tokill me..."

       His response was a dry, hollow chuckle, then: "I can neither confirm nor deny the presence or
absence of any policy or viewpoint of the Council of Brothers, or the several and individual members
thereof."

       "Then it's the King of Cant, isn't it? I know you're hooked into the Subjects—

       "You have a nice place, here. A lot of knickknacks. Mementos." From the darkness came a slow
scrrt of steel on flint; an amber flame grew from a shoulder-high fist, red-shading a high-cheekboned face
that might have been carved from ice. The flame touched the end of a thin cigar—stolen from her
desktop humidor, like the lighter.

      Now she could see his Shell: it was black, smoke-dark, without any color she could read.

      "Caine..." Kierendal's hoarse whisper sounded to her ears uncomfortably like a plea for mercy.

      "Nice lighter."

      "It was a gift," she replied, a little stronger now, "from Prince-Regent Toa-Phelathon."

       "I know. Says so right on the side, here." He touched the flame to the wick of a lamp on a small
side table, then turned the lamp down to a bloody emberous glow. "We both know what happened to
him, don't we?"

       He pinched the lighter's wick between his thumb and forefinger, and the flame extinguished with a
fading hiss.

       She had never given a lot of credence to the rumors that Caine had been involved in
Toa-Phelathon's assassination; it had smelled of an in-palace affair. Now she believed without question.
In his presence, it was impossible to doubt.

      He pointed to a chair. "Sit down."

      She sat.

      "On your hands."

      She tucked her hands beneath her thighs. "If you're not here for me, what do you want?"

       He stepped around the sofa, only an arm's length from her. He crouched before her and stared
into her eyes. The silence stretched until she had to consciously restrain herself from babbling just to
break it.

       She forced herself to silently return his regard; she studied him with the profoundly detailed
attention that came of staking her life on her ability to observe.

        She found herself comparing him inevitably with Berne: each had made his name and fortune
spilling blood for pay. Caine was much smaller, less heavily muscled, and carried an array of knives
instead of a sword—but the differences went far deeper than that. Berne had a feral quality, a wildness of
lust and dangerous unpredictability that went with the loose and relaxed jointless way he walked and held
himself; he was potently, almost fiercely,alive at all times. Caine, too, had a quality of relaxation, but
there was nothing loose about it; instead it was stillness, a meditative readiness that seemed to flow out
from him and fill the room with capacity for action, as though all around him ghosts of imaginary Caines
performed every movement that was possible within the space: every attack, every defense, every leap
or flip or roll.

      He watched her watch him with concentration that equaled hers, and he was as full of potential
violence as a shining blade fresh from the forge. There was the difference, in a nutshell: Berne was a
wildcat.
      Caine was a sword.

      "You done?" he asked quietly. "Don't let me interrupt."

      Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and she found no humor there.

      He said, "I'm looking for Simon Jester."

       The relief that flooded through her unstrung her nearly as much as had her earlier panic; she had to
struggle not to laugh out loud.

      "You and the King's Eyes. Not to mention the Grey Cats and the entire Constabulary. What
makes you think/know anything?"

      He went on as though he hadn't heard her. "Just about this time yesterday, the Grey Cats ran a
game in the Warrens. How'd it come out?"

      She licked her lips. "Really, Caine, you can't imagine that I have sources within the Cats
themselves—

      " ask you again. I'm not a patient man, Kierendal."

      "I, ah, but—"

      There came the barest whisper of wings, and Caine moved.

        He gave no warning of any kind, no hitch of breath, no preparatory tensing of muscle, not even a
shift of his eyes. Kierendal had been watching for those signals with seamless concentration, those
indicators that any creature gives before violent action. In one instant, he was perfectly motionless; in the
next he spun and his hands blurred and a silvery flash sped through the gloom and struck wood with a
hummingchunnk.

      Tup gave a fluting cry of pain and despair—she hung from the lintel of the doorway, Caine's
throwing knife pinned through one wing. A yard-long birdlance of needle-pointed steel slipped from her
hands and chimed faintly as it bounced on the parquet threshold.

       Kierendal surged to her feet with a cry that was instantly stifled by Caine's hand on her throat. The
thin cigar clamped in his teeth came perilously close to her eye as he yanked her toward him. She
couldn't see what he was doing with his other hand, but she assumed it was something potentially lethal.

      And his Shell still pulsed a smoky, seamless black.

       "You might have difficulty believing this," he said through his teeth, "but I don't want to hurt you.
Or your little friend, there. All I want is to hear what you know about Simon Jester. That's the easy way
to get me out of your living room and out of your life."

       He let go of her throat and the unseen other hand poked her just below the navel, gently but firmly,
not hard enough to hurt but exactly the right amount of pressure to fold her in the middle and sit her back
down in the chair.
      "All right," she said thinly. She couldn't even look at him; her eyes were consumed by struggling,
weeping Tup pinned to the lintel. "All right, but please, first, please get her down from there. She'll shred
herwing—please, you'll cripple her!"

       Caine said, "Hands."

       She hastily tucked her hands once more beneath her thighs. Caine gave her a long look, his lips
faintly compressed; then he breathed a sigh out through his nose and turned to free Tup.

       "Touch me and I'll kill you, you bastard," the little treetopper shrilled. "I'll cut out your eyes!"

        "Yeah, whatever," Caine said. He took her head and shoulders in one hand, her neck between his
first and second fingers; his hand wrapped around to pin her arms but avoided her delicate wings. He
carefully, even gently, worked the knife loose; Kierendal shuddered at the faint squeal of metal in wood
as the blade came free. Tup kicked at his forearm again and again, but he didn't seem to notice. Pale
rose-colored blood leaked from the gash in her wing.

       "One hand," he said, holding the treetopper toward her. "Keep her under control."

       It wasn't until she actually had Tup's firm warmth within her hand that she really believed Caine
was doing this: that it wasn't some sort of cruel trick, that he wasn't pulling the knife from Tup's wing so
that he could snap her neck, or something even worse, something unimaginable.

       She gathered Tup to her breast, and the treetopper bent her head and moistened Kierendal's
nipple with crystalline teardrops. "I'm sorry, Kier, I'm so sorry." She gulped sobs back into her throat.
"He, he came through the window—and Zakke, he killed Zakke..."

      "Hush now," Kierendal told her softly. "Hush, everything's well." She looked at Caine, and her
eyes asked him to make this true.

      He shrugged irritably. "If she's talking about your dwarf, he ought to be just fine, once he wakes
up. He might have a headache for a couple days, but he's alive."

       She met his cold, flat stare with dawning wonderment; perhaps those eyes were neither as cold
nor as flat as they appeared. Perhaps they were only veiled...

      She said, "You're different than I thought you'd be. The stories, they make you sound so...well,
rather—"




       "Simon Jester," he reminded her.

       "Yes." She stroked Tup's curly hair. "That game in the Warrens was expensive: six Cats killed, and
a lot more wounded. I don't know how many of Simon Jester's men might have been killed, but the Cats
captured two of his followers."

      "Two?" Something kindled in his expression, some emotion that Kierendal couldn't name for sure,
because it made no sense; it looked like the wild hope-against-hope of a prisoner expecting a rescue on
his walk to the gallows. "Their names. Who are they? Is one of them—

       He said something, finished the sentence, but she couldn't quite make it out—a sudden current in
the Flow distracted her. She snapped back to herself. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I missed that. Could you
repeat it?"

      "Pallas Ril."

       She frowned. Pallas Ril? Wasn't Pallas Ril some human thaumaturge? What did she have to do
with...whatever they'd been talking about? That current in the Flow was back again, swirling around her,
and she found she couldn't quite remember what the subject had been.

      "I, I guess, I think I heard that she's in town. Is she important?"

       His reply was as solid and definite as a word carved in a slab of granite. "Yes." He leaned closer.
"Is she one of the prisoners?"

      "What prisoners?"

      Caine sighed in a way that hinted he might be struggling to keep his temper, and Kicrcndal's throat
closed with swift new fear. What if she didn't have the information he wanted? What would he do then?

      He said something else, and again she missed it.

      "What?" she asked thinly, flinching against an imagined blow.

       "Those two prisoners the Cats took in the Warrens yesterday, Simon Jester's followers—was one
of them Simon Jester himself ?"

         She shookhcrhcad, praying he'd be satisfied with her half ignorance. "I don't know; all I've heard is
that it's a man and a woman. Perhaps they're not quite sure themselves who it is they've captured; there's
been no announcement from the pages."

      His voice tightened. "Where are they held? The palace?"

      "I think—in the Donjon, below the courthouse."

      "Can you get me in there?"

     She goggled at him, leaning back away from the flame that seemed to light his face from within.
"What?"

      "Come on, Kierendal. BloodyHamman got me into the damned palace; if you're not better at shit
than he was, the Faces would never follow you. Get me in there."

     "I can't," she said. "The palace—that was a long time ago. Things are different, now. And the
Donjon—Caine, it's carved into solid rock. If you have a few hundred royals to spread around in bribes,
we might be able to get you in within a week or two. It's the best I can do."

      His eyes smoldered. "Maybe you can do better with the right kind of encouragement."
       She struggled to keep herself calm. "It cannot be done, Caine. No one has ever been broken out
of that place; the only way is to bribe a judge or suborn the guards. That lakes time, and money." She let
him search her face; she was telling the truth, and soon enough he saw it.

       He looked away from her. His disappointment was so palpable that she almost felt sorry for him.
In some subtle way their relationship had shifted. She found, with surprise, that she was now much less
frightened, and more than a little interested.

      He said, "I don't want to be your enemy, Kierendal. I might need your help, sometime soon. You
should realize that I can repay any favors fivefold."

      "All I want from you, Caine, is the assurance that you'll never trouble me again."

        " could make that promise," he said with a shrug. "But it would be meaningless, and we both know
it. Let me instead offer you a piece of information: somebody high up in the Subjects of Cant is an
informer for the Eyes."

      The lift of her eyebrows was sufficient to feign surprise. "Oh?"

      "Yeah. Here's another: the Subjects are supporting Simon Jester."

      This time the surprise wasn't feigned. "Now," she said, "that Ididn 't know..."

      "I think it was the informer in the Subjects who fingered Simon Jester for the Cats. If you can find
out who it is, I'll more than make it worth your trouble."

      She snorted. "Why don't you ask His Majesty the King?"

      He stared at her, unmoving, unspeaking, as expressionless as a death mask.

      Now it was her turn to look away. She clutched Tup's trembling form more tightly to her chest.

       "I don't have evidence. I don't even really have rumor. All I know is that the Eyes are looking hard
at me, at the Rats and the Dungers and the Serpents, but they seem utterly blind to the Subjects of Cant.
Maybe His Majesty will explain to you why that is."

      "Yeah," Caine said, low and harsh. "Yeah, maybe he will." He said nothing more for a long
moment, then he shook his head with the manner of a man deliberately turning his mind aside from
unpleasant contemplation. He nodded toward the waist-high bronze statue and the darkened votive
candles in the shrine corner of the room. "What's the story with that?"

      Kierendal shrugged. "It's a shrine to Ma'elKoth. What of it? Everybody has them."

      "You worship him? Like a god?"

      "Me, personally? Be serious, Caine."

        He nodded distantly. "Mm, yeah. I'm surprised you'd have one in your house, though. I hear he's a
little down on the subs."

      Subs, indeed—if it weren 'tfor us, you humans would still dress in skins and bay at the
moon,she thought, but she let it pass. She spread her hands and shrugged again. "There's a proverb,
perhaps you've heard it: to get along, you go along."

       His eyes went farther away. "Yeah," he murmured, and said no more.

        Kierendal finally broke the silence. "If you truly wish to make peace between us, you might start
by telling me how you got in here."

       "That's no mystery. Your boy—Zakke, that his name?—he'll tell you all about it when he wakes
up. A third-floor window isn't secure when the alley it opens onto is narrow enough to jump across. You
should have bars put in."

     "I have two men in the opposite apartment." She realized what she'd said, and her eyes widened.
"Maybe I should say, Ihad."

        Caine shook his head. "They're all right. The alarm you put out drew them out of the apartment. I
didn't touch them. They never even saw me."

      She became curiously aware of her own breathing. "Then," she said softly, "you let the
stonebender girl goon purpose —you planned the confusion, to cover you..."

       His answering smile looked as cold as the others, but now Kierendal began to suspect how much
heat the furnace doors of his control held shuttered within. She said, "And you haven't killed anyone..."

       "Not today. Although the only reason your sprite friend's still alive is that I'm a little rusty with the
knives."

       "You leave a lot to chance, Caine."

      "It is better to be rash than timid," he said, his smile becoming oddly distant, "for Fortune is a
woman, and the man who wants to hold her down must beat and bully her." From his tone, he was
quoting someone, although Kierendal had no idea whom.

       "Why, Caine," she said, faux-coy, sensing an opening, "are you making a pass at me?"

       His reply was a derisive snort. "One last question—"

       "I know my reputation," Kierendal said, looking up at him from under her impossibly long lashes,
"but I'm not really homosexual. It's just that I don't enjoy having foreign objects jabbed into my body; I'm
sure you can understand that." She arched her back to give him a good look at her inflated breasts;
maybe he'd be as easy to manage as Berne was, in the end. "This doesn't mean we can't have fun
together."

    "You're right, it doesn't. But there are plenty of other things that do. Last question: that warrant on
me—you've heard about it. What do they want me for? And how did they know I'd be in town?"

        "This is a mystery. The word went out on the street at sundown yesterday, that's all I know. And
that they want you alive."

       "You can't do better?"
       She shrugged and offered him a cynical half smile. "Hey, if you're that desperate, Count Berne's on
the floor right now playing knucklebones. Maybe you could askhim," she said pointedly.

        "Berne?"

       Kierendal's growing insouciance vanished like smoke before a gale; the black and lethal fury that
flooded Caine's face when he spoke that name terrified her more than had his earlier threats. It was as
though all of those ghost-Caines that had filled the imaginary air suddenly turned and whipped faster than
thought back within his body, to make him so ferociouslypresent that he seemed to burn with a scarlet
flame.

        "Berne ishere! Right now?"

      He slowly lifted his hands up before his face and stared at his fingers as they curled into fists, his
eyes burning red in the lamplight.

        "Yeah, maybe Iwill ask him. Maybe I will do exactly that."

       And again without the faintest shift of shade in his Shell, without any hint of anticipatory breath, he
moved: he was gone from the room, an inhumanly swift rush of absence like the darkness that closes in
around a snuffed candle. A briefest flicker of brighter, yellower lamplight—the door opened and closed
with the speed of a single blink.

       Kierendal sat quite still for a long moment, as she tried to catch her breath and stroke away Tup's
trembling.

        "Ihate him," the treetopper said, her voice muffled against Kierendal's breast. "I hope Berne kills
him!"

       "They could kill each other," Kierendal said softly, "and I don't think the world would be any less
for their passing."

        She gently touched the pink-rimmed rent in Tup's wing. "Can you fly?"

       Tup lifted her tearstained face and rubbed at her cheek with a tiny fist. "I think so. I think I can,
Kier, but it will hurt."

      "Fly, then. Go to Chal. He will tend your wing. Have three of your folk fly with the word that
Caine is here: one to the garrison, one to the constable post, and one to Count Berne's townhouse, for
the Cats."

        "You're turning him in? I thought..." She snuffled back more tears. "I was thinking you sortof liked
him."

       Kierendal smiled distantly. "I do. But he's about to reveal himself in my casino, and we can't have
the King's Eyes thinking we' d shelter a fugitive. And the world is dangerous enough already, without men
like Caine in it. Once he's dead, we'll all sleep easier."

        She looked around the room. "Besides, the sonofawhore stole my lighter."

        arturo kollberg squirmedwetly in his simichair.At last, some action, he thought, as he/Caine
skidded down the two flights of stairs and sprinted past the startled guards in the corridor. He/Caine had
gotten enough details from that dwarf whore to know which turns to make, and he was at the service
door before anyone could possibly know he was coming.

       Kollberg's heart pounded with anticipation. Only four hours into the Adventure, and already Caine
was about to confront Berne. It might make up some for the plodding dullness of this first day so far;
Studio-sponsored focus groups had determined that an average of . lethal combats per day was optimum
for a Caine Adventure, and Caine had barely thrown a punch, yet. Dropping the houseboy, knifing the
pixie, big deal. Beating up a whore had a certain old-fashioned charm, but it hardly qualified as actual
combat. ConfrontingBerne, on the other hand...

      He licked his already moist lips and smiled into the face shield.

      Live or die, this was going to be great.

       Ipull the service door closed behind me and lean against it. No one on the crowded casino floor
seems to be paying any attention to me, yet. One of the little leafblades from an ankle sheath should serve
to slow down the guards who are coming after me along the service corridor. I lean casually on the door,
gazing blankly out into the casino, while I work the leafblade into the crack between door and jamb
alongside my thigh; I pound the knife in tight with the heel of my hand. The muffled thudding this makes is
barely audible, even to me, over the music and babble that fills the seething room.

      Damn good business she does here: it's only noon.

      The bones pit, that's what she said. The knucklebones...

       And there he is, warming dice with his breath, his brush-cut hair shimmering above his classic
profile. That's a new sword he's got—Berne never favored the shoulder-draw before; it's slow and
desperately clumsy. And what's with the clothes? A slashed-velvet doublet and magentahose, for shit's
sake.

      The scenarios spin out of my subconscious:

       /walk deliberately, grim as death, across the room; a hush falls as heads silently turn.
Scuttling crablike, gambler's hands scrape coins off tables. Whores slowly take cover behind the
bars.

      Berne knows something's happening—the floor goes too quiet too fast—but he's too cool to
look. He pretends that his attention is on his pass of the dice.

      I stop, ten feet away. "Berne. Long time. I've been looking for you." He doesn 't turn, doesn 't
even blink; of course he knows my voice.

      "I've been waiting for you to find me, Caine. Time for one last roll." He tosses the dice:
snake-eyes.

      He shrugs and draws his sword as my fists come up...

      Or:

      He doesn't even know I 'm there until he feels my arm go around his throat for the choke. He
freezes, knowing I can kill him before he can move. I whisper in his ear: "Funny how shit works out
sometimes, isn 't it? Now, tell me what I want to know, and this won't hurt." And he pretends he doesn 't
know what I'm talking about as his hand creeps toward the dagger in his boot...

       Or:...anything want...

       These sweaty macho fantasies take almost no time: this isn't something my mind creates, these are
scenes that live there, permanently circling just below the surface like curious sharks, waiting only for
features to be painted on the blank faces and names to be wedged into the dialogue. I could stand here
all day. stretching time by enjoying the endless play of ROM scripts patterned into my brain by too many
books, too many films and plays and Adventures andDragonTales teasers—but now a huge shadow
darkens the wall at my right, and I look up into a pair of protuberant yellow eyes that are each the size of
my fist.

        It's an ogre, maybe nine feet of one, and he's got shoulders about equal to my clbow-to-elbow
wingspan. He's wearing some expensive chainmail, a nicely painted hauberk that makes only an autumnal
rustle like dry leaves as he comes up—too close to me. The morningstar in his hand has spikes that are
as long as my little finger and not much sharper.

       He rumbles, deep in his throat, "I'm sorry sir. This area is staff only. You have to move on."

       His breath smells of old meat.

       "All right, I'm going. Don't push." The floor trembles faintly beneath my boots—those guards must
be running right up to the door. The ogre squints at me like he's suddenly remembered my face, and a
breastplate-sized hand lowers like a drawbridge toward my shoulder.

       Guards hammer on the other side of the service door behind me, and their shouts come thinly
through it. This draws the ogre's eyes for the fractional second I need to duck aside from his hand and
run like hell.

       I could make the street door—sunlight shines its golden freedom only twenty meters to my right—

       But, on the other hand, Berne has his back to me.

       I'm nimble enough, even at a flat sprint, to dodge around the bigger men on the floor, and I'm
strong enough to flatten and overrun the smaller. I trail a spreading wake of shouts and confusion, but I've
gone hypersonic, as it were: I outrun the noise of my passing.

      Beme has warning enough only to barely begin the turning of his head before I reach the brass rail
around the bones pit and launch myself over it like a javelin.

       I stiffen my neck in the air and spear him, the top of my head to the side of his jaw. My arms
tangle in his, and we tumble over the bones field scattering gold and dice in all directions. The other
players scatter, shouting incoherent surprise, and the table goes down in splinters. By the time we skid off
what's left of it to hit marble steps on the other side, I can hear the pit boss' silver whistle piping a shrill
alarm that'll bring the ogres at a run.

       I don't care: I landed on top.

       The edges of the steps crashing against his spine had to hurt like a bitch, and his muscles loosen
into stunned slackness. I lock up his legs with mine and get a forearm under his chin to force his head
back and cut off his wind. His eyes go from glaze to focus almost instantly, and he mouths:You, and the
half-buried flicker of fear that passes over his face calls to something elemental inside me, a volcanic
surge up from the base of my spine that thunders in my ears and shades my vision scarlet.

       "You bet your fucking ass it's me."

        I create additional emphasis with a hammer-hand that crushes and spreads his perfect nose wide
across his cheekbones. Blood sprays; it's on my fist, all over his face, it's on my lips, I can smell it and
taste it and I no longer care if I die in the next breath so long as I go to my grave with my teeth in his
throat.

       So I hit him again.

       He struggles beneath me, but I've got him now and there's no way I'm gonna let him go. I slam his
head into the curving step, and again, and again and again; the purple-veined marble is now artistically
spattered with the crimson of Berne's blood.

       But he's still conscious, and now he's smiling up at me with those smeary lips and reddened teeth,
and I have to choose between continuing to beat on him or just cutting his throat because those ogres will
haul me off him in about ten seconds, and having to make that choice brings me back to something
resembling rationality.

       At about this time I realize he's been pounding the side of my head with his doubled elbow. He
can't get any force behind it, lying down like that; he's doing it mostly to distract me from his other hand,
which is sliding up my neck to hook a thumb toward my eye.

       As he swings again I rear back out of his elbow's path and grab his upper arm, twisting him on
around so his back's to me now, pinning his scabbarded sword with my chest. The hair on the back of
his head is matted with blood from a single cut where his scalp split against the edge of the step. I lock
my legs around his again and roll us both over faceup just in time—the pair of ogres, who were winding
up for free shots at my back, lower their morningstars uncertainly.

       My left arm snakes around Berne's face, over his eyes, to pull his head back while my right hand
draws one of the long fighting knives from its sheath along my ribs. I put its point against his external
jugular; it'll take a single second to drive it straight in the side of his neck and slice out though the front,
parting carotids, external and internal jugular, and windpipe. He has no chance to survive, and he knows
it.

       I whisper in his ear, "Tell them to back off."

      "Back off," he croaks. He coughs a wad of blood out of his throat, and his voice gets stronger and
more confident. "Caine's an old friend of mine. We're not really fighting—this is just how we say hello."

       I murmur: "You got a nice sense of humor, for a dying man." The shoulder-twitch of his shrug feels
careless against my chest. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

       He extends his hands blindly in front of him and wiggles his lingers. "Pretty, aren't they?"

       "What happened to Pallas Ril?"
       "Your bitch? How should I know? I've been busy with this Simon Jester asshole."

        "Berne, Berne, Berne," I whisper in his ear like a chiding lover. "There's no reason to lie: Think of
this as a deathbed confession."

        He chuckles. "Then there's also no reason to tell the truth. But I am, anyway. You're not worth
lying to."

       I believe him, even though I have Pallas' memory of their confrontation. I've been figuring that the
outripple of that spell she did—the information threshold that spread outward at whatever-the-hell the
propagation speed of magickal energy is—sort of randomized everyone's most recent memories of
Pallas, or something like that. But Berne and the Cats must have had some contact with her after the spell
was cast—they had surrounded her, after all. If he still can't remember, the spell must still be operating
somehow. And if the spell is still operating...

       Pallas is still alive. She might be one of the captives in the Donjon, after all; but for now, at least,
she'salive.

      This certain knowledge spreads such warm and fuzzy feelings from my heart out into the whole
world that for almost half a second I'm tempted to let him live.

       "Last question: What am I wanted for? And who tipped the Eyes that I was coming to town?"

       His tone is mocking. "That's two questions."

       I don't really need to know these answers badly enough to make listening to his shit worth my
time, so jam the knife into his neck.

       The knife's point skids off his skin as though his flesh has become tool-grade steel.

       Stupidly I try to stick him again in the same place—I just can't believe it didn't work—and when it
skids off again I waste a full second staring like an idiot at this blade that has betrayed me.

       I begin to understand why he's not scared.

       I think I'm in trouble.

       Berne says in a voice bright but silky soft, "And now, for mynext trick..."

       He reaches back and takes my left shoulder with one hand in a grip so crushing it doesn't even
hurt: my whole arm goes numb. Then he peels me off him with irresistible strength—no art involved, just a
long, smooth yank—and he comes to his feet and holds me dangling in the air.

        "I always was better than you," he says. "But now I'm the favorite of Ma'elKoth. He's made me
faster, vastly stronger—andinvulnerable. Ma'elKoth created the spell just for me; he calls it Berne's
Buckler. You like it?"

      I kick him in the face, a short Thai-jab that smacks the ball of my foot into his broken nose, and he
laughs at me. He catches my crotch with his free hand and lifts me flailing up high.

       And he throws me over the heads of the crowd.
       Up, out of the bones pit, arcing high—he must be stronger than the ogres that stand staring dumbly
at my flight. I tumble through the air while people try to duck out of my path.

       My body can sort out the landing on its own; my full attention is consumed with how I'm going to
beat him.

      By the time I crash into a knot of gamblers and we all go down to a surprisingly soft landing, I've
come to a couple conclusions.

       One, strength alone won't help him for shit against my knives, and—

      Two, if this invulnerability of his was all he'd like me to think it is, I wouldn't have been able to
break his nose.

       I can still beat him; I just have to alter my tactics to meet a changed situation. I have a hypothesis
about this magick that protects him—and like any good scientist, I have an experiment in mind to turn this
hypothesis into a theory.

       The people I've landed on thrash away from me in a tangle of limbs, knocking me around a little,
so I'm still fighting to gain my feet as the crowd parts and Berne vaults the rail of the bones pit. He wipes
his bloody lips with the back of his hand and stalks toward me.

       "You're a lucky man, Caine," he says. "I made a promise—

       The best time to catch a man off guard is while he's talking— too much of his attention is on what
he's going to say next. Still on my knees, I cross-draw my throwing knives from the sheaths on my thighs
and flip them both spinning backhand.

        There's no force behind this kind of throw, but force isn't what I need. The one from my numbed
and weakened left goes high, toward his face, and he slaps the whirling blade irritably aside— but it
doesn't cut his hand because that's where he's instinctively focused this defense of his. The other knife,
that's the one that warms my homicidal heart: it hits his leg an inch above the knee, slices his magenta
hose, and cuts the skin beneath.

      It's only a little cut, a thin line of swelling crimson droplets, a hardly noticeable scratch—but he
looks down at it, and I look at him, and when his eyes come back up I see the faintest perceptible twitch
of uncertainty at their corners.

       That unlocks a rushing within my mind, a waterfall of wind like God sucking in an endless breath,
as the entire universe narrows down to Berne, me, and the three meters of open floor between us.

       Island.

       I draw my one remaining fighting knife.

       "He that lives by the sword shall die by my knife," I tell him. "That's prophecy, if you like."

       And I can see something else in his eyes now: the frenzy. He's gone blood simple.

       It's like looking into a mirror.
      He says, inexplicably, "Fuck Ma'elKoth."

      He springs at me, and I leap to meet him.

       He makes the over-the-shoulder draw so fast his hands are barely a flicker of motion. No subtlety
here: he's slicing at the joining of my neck and shoulder. My knife meets his sword in a two-handed rising
parry that forces the arc of his blade over my head. The knife buzzes in my hand, sending unsettling
shock through my arm and shoulder to my teeth.

       I backhand the knife with my right to rake the point across his eyes, and miss by a handbreadth. I
continue the motion into a diving side roll, and Berne comes after me, slashing, the air singing a
tooth-grinding whine as his blade cuts through the carpet and into the floor beside my head as though the
planks are soft cheese. I hook his ankle with my toe and kick his knee; he bends his leg to take it so the
joint doesn't break, but it brings him to the floor.

       I kip to my feet and now I understand why my backhanded slash missed his eyes—my knife is
about five inchestoo short, its blade sheared off three fingers above the guard, bright new steel gleaming
like chrome along the cut edge.

      His sword—sweet shivering fuck, that'sKosall...

       The realization freezes me for a scant second, long enough for him to reach his feet. A smooth
croise brings me into range and I chamber my leg for a side kick to knock him down again—

      And a huge, blunt-clawed hand grabs my arm from behind and yanks me back and up into the air.

      I drop the useless stub of knife and flail desperately—I was so consumed with Beme, I never even
saw the ogre who now holds me—but Berne has the same problem: two of them hold him. One has both
huge hands on his sword arm, and the other holds him tight around the waist.

      And I feel like I'm swimming up to the surface of a dream. What in all gods' names was Ithinking!
Wasting my time here with Berne, maybe throwing away my life—I must have beencrazy —

       Somehow I got sucked down into that feral blood lust again. Shit, that's part of why Pallas left me,
this mindless thirst for death. Master Cyrre, the Abbot of Garthan Hold—almost twenty years ago, he
used to tell me I think with my fists.

      And the sonofabitch isstill right.

      Now Kierendal is coming toward us across the room, the perfect image of icy command. "That's
about enough ofthat" she says. "Now I think we'll all wait quietly for the constables to arrive."

      Berne's eyes meet mine. He's not struggling anymore, and his sardonic grin briefly contracts as he
blows me a kiss and mouthsNext time.

       The ogre lifts me higher and gives me a little shake. My feet dangle an arm's length from the floor,
and the ligaments that hold my shoulder together start to hurt. My head's straight now, though, and
everything's clear—if I get taken by the Constabulary, it won't matter what they want me for. By the time
I can get shit sorted out, I'll be too late for Pallas.
      The ogre gives me another shake, a not-so-gentle warning. "Don't get ideasss," it rumbles wetly,
slobbering around its tusks. "You s'ould know won't mind hurting you."

       "Yeah," I say softly. "Likewise."

      I jack my knees up in front of my chest and then buck like a wild horse, a whip-crack arch of my
back that sends my feet backward into the ogre's midsection. It's like stomping on a stone floor. The
ogre barely grunts, but this wasn't the part that was supposed to hurt.

       kick off its chest and swing up around the pivot of my shoulder joint like a footballer doing a wheel
kick, up and over; I wrap my legs around its head with a wrestler's ankle lock. The ogre snarls and
instinctively turns its head to rip the inside of my thigh with those wicked tusks. One punches through the
leather and into my flesh.

       Thisis the part that is supposed to hurt.

       I twist and drive a handspear past my butt, right into the tearduct at the comer of its eye. Ogre's
eyes are hard-shelled, kind of like a snake's, but they pop out just as easy as a man's. I drive my hand in
there and blood sprays; I scoop its baseball-sized eye right out of its head with a wet ripping sound as
the muscles around it give way. It dangles from its long ropy optic nerve onto the leathery cheek, and the
ogre screams into my thigh, releasing my arm to clap its hands to its face. I untwist my legs and buck
again, and the ogre's tusk tears free of my leg.

       I land clumsily but keep my feet. The swiftness with which scalding wetness spreads down my leg
tells me the ogre nailed me good. It's almost funny—I come through fighting Berne without a scratch and
get the shit ripped out of me by the fucking bouncer.

       The ogre screams like an air horn while it tries to fit its eye back into its socket. The people in the
casino flinch away from me, covering their ears. Berne is struggling now, furiously twisting and snarling
grim threats, but the two ogres holding him show no signs of letting go.

      I shoot a glance toward Kierendal, who looks like she's thinking seriously about casting a spell. I
draw my last throwing knife from between my shoulder blades and show it to her, and she changes her
mind.

       In the brief silence that comes when the ogre stops for breath, I say loudly, "I'm leaving. The first
three creatures—man, woman, or sub—that get in my way, they die. Right here on the floor. Die."

      They believe me. A path clears to the door, and I take it at a dead sprint, out into the sunlight and
the smells of the city.

       Berne's screams of frustrated rage fade into city-sounds behind me.

       Sometimes, y'know, that passion for violence serves me well.

       A squad of constables pounds toward me, far away along Mori-andar Street. I go the other way.
I'm going to need somewhere to go to ground until I can get this wound properly dressed. The Subjects
are out, at least for a while, until I can learn whether Kier-endal's right about Majesty and the Eyes.
Majesty's my friend, but that doesn't mean I trust him.

       The answer's obvious. There's still one place in Ankhana where I can claim Right of Sanctuary. I
just have to live long enough to get there.

       Three paces within a convenient alley, I lean against a clapboard wall to pull the tear in my
breeches closed over the wound and tie a couple loops of my belt around it. This'll do until I can get
stitches and a real bandage. The leg is swelling already, and starting to throb, and I know I'd better keep
moving, get out of Alientown before it stiffens. Looking back along my trail of left-foot prints outlined in
blood, it's clear that I'm losing a dangerous amount, and I'm limping enough to guess that the tusk tore
deeply into muscle.

       On through the alley and along one of its branches to another curving street. Away northwest
along the curve there's another constable squad. This one has fanned out in teams of four, knocking on
doors and entering shops. Only now does it become clear that Kierendal gave me up as soon as I left her
chamber. I should have known. I don't hold it against her—I would have done the same—but it's gonna
make getting out of Alientown kind of a problem.

      I fade back into the alley and take a different branch, picking around piles of garbage. I find a
reasonably sheltered place near the alley mouth where I can watch the street, and I scan the passersby
for humans or elves close to my size, looking for someone I can persuade to donate their clothes to a
hunted man.

      arturo kollberg slappedhis face shield up, away from his eyes. As the induction helmet
automatically retracted, he rummaged through the swingarm pharmacopoeia for a trank and an antacid.
His nerves thrummed like overwound guitar strings. Cainestill hadn't killed anyone, though this
hunted-fugitive-in-Alientown business was promising.

       Caine apparently didn't understand how important it was to make this Adventure a success. Good
God, there were live feeds going out to Studios all over the world! If he continued to lay back like this,
he'd ruin Kollberg's reputation, and with it his chances of upcasteing to Business and eventually
succeeding Westfield Turner as Studio President.

       Didn't Caine reali/e that Kollberg's whole career rode on this?

       Didn't he care?

       At the very least, he could have done that ogre. Christ, he'd alreadymaimed the poor creature;
how much more trouble would it have been to kill it? People—Leisurefolk—around the world had spent
millions of marks to be him while he took some lives; what in the name of God was holding him back?

       Kollberg heaved himself up out of the chair and mopped sweat from his brow. He peered briefly
at the picked-over leavings of the snack foods on the other swingarm, made a face, and decided that he
should eat a real lunch while he had the chance. He keyed the wait service and ordered a cart of
whatever they had that was hot and fresh and could arrive in his private box within five minutes.

     Then he paced heavily around the tiny room while he dictated the nextAdventure Update release.
Though he couldn't control Caine's actions, he certainly could control what the public thought of them.

       that earnest faceon the world's wallscreens says:

      "Well, by the numbers on\heAdventure Update Pallas Ril Life-clock, it's time to get a report on
Caine's progress in Ankhana. Once again, Jed Clearlake."
       "Thank you, Bronson. There's been some action since our last update, in fact. I've received
reports of an inconclusive fight with—can you believe?—Berne!"

      "That would be the swordsman who murdered two of Caine's partners inRace for the Crown of
Dal 'kannith."

      "That's correct. This is a blood-feud that's been running for quite a while. We caught up with Caine
only hours before his transfer into Ankhana, and we asked him about Berne..."

       A shimmering white line crosses the screen in a diagonal wipe to reveal Caine as a talking head
against a neutral smoke-dark background."Berne? " His recorded voice has an odd combination of
cynicism and husky emotion. "Yeah, we have history." A sense of shifting in his chair, a deep breath to
organize potent memory, a hesitation before opening a painful subject—all combine to make a truly
pregnant pause: Caine's a pro, and he does interviews as well as anyone in the business.

      "Laying hands on the crown ofDal'kannith turned out to be a lot harder than anyone expected. My
team—it included Marade and Tizarre, the only two other survivors ofRetreat from the Boedecken,
as well as Pallas Ril —we were turned back twice, with nothing to show for it but wounds and
exposure. Berne, well, he had a team of his own, and they decided that the easiest way to get the
crown would be to take it away from us.

       "I came back from a two-day scout in the mountains, not in a good mood—I'd had to bury a
partner up there. I was carrying a pair of barbed ogrillo quarrels that I'd had to dig out of my
shoulder and thigh with a knife. I was exhausted, I was frostbitten, and I found my camp empty
except for a semiliterate letter from Berne. He wanted me to turn over the crown to his boyfriend
t'Gall; each day I made him wait he was going to torture one of my partners to death.

      "Problem was, Ididn 't have the damned crown.

      "I knew Berne's reputation. I didn't waste any time with the truth.

       "I got my hands on t'Gall and spent a couple hours persuading him to tell me where Berne was
holding my friends. T'Gall didn 't survive the experience. I hit Berne's camp hard and fast enough to free
Pallas, and between the two of us we fought our way out.

      "Ididn't get there in time for Marade and Tizarre.

      "Anybody wants the details, he can rentRace for the Crown of Dal'kannith.It was ugly.

       "Berne is a disease that sickens the world; his breath poisons the air. If I get the chance, I'm going
to do the world a big favor. He's a cancer. I'm a knife. "

       The screen cross-fades to Jed Clearlake's earnest gravity. "And Berne is now, as you may recall,
Bronson, a Count of the Empire and the de facto commander of the Grey Cats, the elite Imperial
special-operations division."

      "That sounds like quite a fight, Jed."

      "Well, Bronson, we have a clip—

      ...and through Caine's eyes the knife skids off skin, and again...The twisting disorientation of being
lifted and thrown...and Beme vaults the brass rail and wipes blood from his mouth below his broken
nose...Caine's Soliloquy: *...like any good scientist...* The cut on Berne's thigh...*He 's gone blood
simple. *

      "He that lives by the sword shall die by my knife. That's prophecy, if you like."

       The image freezes for an extended discussion of magickally enhanced strength and reflexes, and
the curious "Berne's Buckler" effect, and joking references to Caine's either astonishing daring or
extraordinary foolishness in facing an obviously superior opponent.

       "And our latest report indicates that Caine is wounded and on the run in Alientown, the subhuman
ghetto that comprises the red-light district of Ankhana. Studio analysts predict that he'll try to cross
Knight's Bridge into Old Town, and take refuge at the Monastic Embassy."

      "That's an interesting choice, Jed."

     "Well, Bronson, Caine can claim Right of Sanctuary there, seeing as how he's still technically a
Monastic citizen, though he's no longer a sworn friar."

      "But can they actually protect him against the Empire?"

        "A lot depends on just how much pressure the Ankhanans are willing to bring; as you know, Caine
still hasn't managed to discover why they've issued a warrant and a reward for his capture. But I should
certainly say that the Ankhanans willunder no circumstances use force to settle a dispute with the
Monasteries. Whenever this has been tried in the past, the results have been shortterm success, shortly
followed by appalling disaster. As Caine fans will remember, several of his earliest Adventures involved
the Monasteries' complex revenge against those who foolishly violated their sovereignty on one pretext or
another; their standard policy in such matters is to appear to give way, and later inflict the harshest of
punishments. In an area such as the Ankhanan Empire, where the Monasteries have been well established
for hundreds of years, this lesson has been learned the hard way. I don't think that anyone in the Imperial
Government will make that sort of mistake."

      A polished, professional chuckle. "So the Monastics are not quite like, say, Franciscan friars,
tending gardens and healing the sick?"

       "No, Bronson, that's true." An answering chuckle. "While the Monasteries do comprise a 'nation
without borders' not unlike the Catholic Church in the Europe of a thousand years ago, they're not
actually a religious organization.Monastery is the word we use for the WesterlingKhrasthikhanolyir,
which translates roughly as Fortress of Human Future. The Monasteries are centers of learning, primarily,
and serve as schools for the children of nobility and such of the common folk as can pay their fees. They
attempt to spread a familiar philosophy of the brotherhood of man, and that kind of thing. This all sounds
very peaceful, you might think, but remember: they preach the brotherhood ofman, in a world where
there are no less than seven sentient humanoid species and more than a dozen species of sentient
nonhumanoids. They also teach a number of very advanced fighting arts, and several Monasteries are
well known for their schools of magick. The Monasteries are aggressively political, and are certainly not
above toppling a government that they perceive as being dangerous to their long-term goal, which is
nothing less than the survival and dominance of the human race on Overworld. You might recall Caine's
adventure of two or three years ago,A Servant of the Empire, when at the instigation of the Council of
Brothers, Caine assassinated Prince-Regent Toa-Phelathon..."

      Irefuse the offered wheelchair, even though dodging the garrison soldiers' crossbow quarrels on
that dash across Knight's Bridge reopened my thigh, and with each step my left boot squishes blood out
like a sponge. It's an irrational prejudice, I guess, but I'd rather limp exhausted along behind the puzzled
novice who leads me to the infirmary than sit on my ass and leave my progress in someone else's hands. I
walk with my palm brushing the rich paneling of the corridor wall—this gives me support against the
occasional waves of dizziness that seem to be coining with increasing frequency, and it also keeps me
close enough to the wall that my blood won't stain the exquisite Ch'rannthian runner that decorates the
floor.

       Friars, novices, and students all glance at me as we pass, most of them trailing toward the dining
hall for supper. The embassy in Ankhana does a brisk hospital business; there's nothing unusual enough
about a blood-soaked man limping along their halls to draw undue attention. I wonder how many of them
suspect who lam...

      Down in the vaulted bedlam of the infirmary, the Healing Brother's eyes widen when I identify
myself: "Caine of Garthan Hold."

      "Oh, my," he says, lips pursed with prim dismay. "Oh, oh, my. The Ambassador must be—"

      "I claim Sanctuary. I am a Citizen of Humanity and Servant of the Future. I have broken neither
oath nor law. By law and custom, Sanctuary is mine by right."

      The Healing Brother looks decidedly cross. "I'm not sure that I—

      "Horseshit. You know who I am. What are you waiting for, the goddamn secret handshake?"

       Ican read his face like a billboard: he doesn't want to do anything without the Ambassador's
approval, and he'd really much prefer that I have a stroke and die right here before he has to answer me.
But I gave him the formula, and he knows the Law: he doesn't have any choice at all.

      "You are welcome, Caine of Garthan Hold," he says sourly. "The arms of your Brothers enfold
you, and you need fear no prince of the world. You have found safe Sanctuary."

      "Swell. Now who's on call that can sew up this damn leg?"

      "Combat or accident?"

      "Combat. Hey," I say, brightening, "does that mean you've got a Khryllian here today?"

       He nods, his lips going even thinner. "He's donating his services for three days as a minor penance.
Cell three. Await him in meditation."

      "Sure, whatever."

        I limp through the infirmary, enduring glares from the sick and broken people who line the bare
wooden benches waiting their turns; their resentment stings my flesh nearly as much as, oh, say, the
pittering raindrops of a summer shower.

       I pause at the candlerest near the mouth of the corridor and pick out a fresh one, fitting it into a
brass holder with an adjustable oval breeze-shield. The lamp nearby provides flame, and I move off into
the unlit corridor.
      The halls and cells of the Monasteries across the world have no lamps of their own, and often not
even windows. A friar must carry his own illumination, you see, never depend on the efforts of others to
push back the darkness. Symbols, always symbols, to remind us of our Sacred Mission.

       Horseshit.

      There may be, I guess, a few idealists and other gullible types who still believe that the
Monasteries are devoted to the Future of Mankind; the rest of us know that their true function is to
acquire and wield power: naked force, political and otherwise.

      Down through the years, theotherwise has been, occasionally, me. And I'm far from the only one,
nor am I the best or most successful— I'm only the most famous.

       Cell three is a rectangular box, two meters by three and maybe two and a half high. I shut the door
behind me and lean against the wall, slowly sliding down it to lower myself to the chill limestone flags of
the floor without having my leg buckle under me. I set the candle on the floor next to me and look up at
the beautifully detailed low relief that's carved into the cell's end wall.

       Brought to life by the slowly wavering flame of the candle, the limestone eyes of Jhantho, Our
Founder, gaze sadly down at me. His cupped hands cradle the world between them like a thin-shelled
egg of a dragon—something infinitely precious and astonishingly fragile.

        "There was a time you had me suckered, too, you sonofabitch," I say softly. "I remember what it
felt like to believe."

       And in the corner of the cell stands a small bronze of an impressively muscled man with flowing
hair and piercing eyes; the statue's feet are surrounded by offering plates and stubs of candles. Another
shrine to Ma'elKoth, just like Kierendal's, but this one's seen some use.

       This shrine shit is starting to creep me out.

       It's not long before the priest of Khryl shows up. He's probably having a slow day; Khryllian
healing works only on wounds sustained in battle. He clanks in through the door in his full armor—I think
they even sleep that way—and the steel of his breastplate is so incredibly polished that it reflects the
candle flame like chrome.

        We exchange only enough words for him to understand the wound. Although I detect a brightening
of his eyes when I tell him it came from an ogre's tusk, this brightening darkens again when he learns the
ogre survived the encounter.

     He stands tall and stretches his arms wide to pray; the last time a priest of Khryl ever kneels is
when he receives his Order of Knighthood. His chant rings in the tiny cell, on and on.

       It would be easy to envy him his faith, but I don't; that'd be a prejudice left over from my other life.
He doesn't have faith, he has certain knowledge: he feels the power of his god every time he prays. I hold
the torn leather of my breeches wide, for him to lay hands upon my wound.

       The ragged flaps of skin, lipped with yellow globules of fat and strung through with torn muscle,
slowly draw together. Khryl is a god of war, and his healing is intended for use on the battlefield; it is fast
and certain, but savagely uncomfortable. A wound this deep would take a couple of months to heal fully,
and in the meantime it would throb, and itch, and shoot the occasional stinging stitch up the leg. Khryl's
healing takes every scrap of the discomfort of those months and compresses it into five eternal minutes of
agony.

      My vision fades under the onslaught. My ears ring, and I taste blood; it feels like he's poured
sulphuric acid down my crotch and it's eating the flesh through to the bone.

      I probably pass out at least once, maybe twice; it's hard to tell— it never seems to end—I'm
greying in and out, and every time I come back it's still going on.

       When I get back full consciousness, I'm alone in the cell, and I have hazy memories of the priest
taking his leave. There's a jagged V-shape of new pink and puckered scar tissue on the inside of my
thigh. A deep ache in the muscle sharpens instantly when I try to put weight on it, but I get up anyway
and start to stretch it out.

        Fatigue sinks steel hooks into every muscle and drags them toward the floor. I feel like I've been
lost in the desert without food or water for a year or so. What I really need is a side of beef, a gallon of
whiskey, and a bed for about three days; but I lost the whole afternoon dodging the damned constables
and Shanna has maybe five days left to live.

       The constables might have already presented themselves at the gate and been turned back—I
can't have been difficult to track. They'll be watching, but there are ways out of this embassy that the
Constabulary doesn't know about. If I move fast, I should be able to be off the island and back in the
Warrens before the bridges go up at curfew.

      I push on the door, and it barely rattles.

      I push harder. It shifts just enough to let me know it's barred from the outside.

      "Hey!" I shout, hammering on the door with both fists. "Open this fucking thing!"

       "Er, Caine?" The boy outside sounds a little nervous, with good reason. If I could somehow get
into the corridor right now I'd beat him to death on my way out. "I have to keep you here, for just a few
minutes. The Ambassador wants to see you—he, uh, he wanted to make sure you don't leave before he
has a chance to talk with you."

      And there's no point in arguing. The wordAmbassador doesn't suggest the full range of his
powers; in matters concerning Ank-hana, he's kind of a minor pope. This kid out there could no more
disobey the Ambassador than fly to the frigging moon. The cell is now a cell in the other sense as well.

      I sigh and lean my forehead into the cool oak of the door. "He could have asked..."

      "Uh, well...I'm sorry..."

      "Yeah, whatever."

       What would Dartheln want with me? It's not likely to be a friendly chat—we weren't on the best of
terms, last time we met. He'd opposed the Council of Brothers' decision on Toa-Phelathon; the
Prince-Regent had been something of a personal friend.

      Dartheln's a man of principle, though. Despite his personal feelings and principled objections, his
Oath of Obedience had taken precedence: he'd bowed to the Council's orders and given me the full
support of the embassy's resources. I couldn't have succeeded without him. I have a great deal of respect
for him, even though he's never bothered to conceal that the feeling isn't mutual.

       They don't keep me waiting long. When the door swings out, four friars stand outside, and they're
all armed. The short, shoulder-high staves they carry are ideal close-combat weapons, and I wouldn't be
surprised to find that each of these guys is my equal in a fight, or close to it. They relieve me of my last
two knives—the thrower from my back and the little leafblade from my boot. I've got a bad feeling about
this.

      They lead me along the corridor away from the light, so that we won't pass through the common
room of the infirmary. We go up a couple twisting flights of stairs and along another hallway so underused
that we leave footprints behind us in the dust—but only briefly, as the nervous and bemused novice trails
us with a broom.

      They open a small service door for me and bracket me into the room: two ahead and two behind.
The novice closes the door behind us, and before him—he stays out in the hallway.

      I recognize the room, even though the decor has changed: this is the private office, just off the
Ambassador's chambers. Instead of the massive dark wood furniture of the sort produced by the friars at
Jhanthogen Bluff, this room's full of the light, curving, graceful sort of thing produced by the best
Ankhanan craftsmen; every piece gleams, rich veneer layered with transparent varnish.

       And in one corner, candle flames wavering at its ankles and offering plates piled high, is another
shrine to Ma'elKoth.

       The only piece of furniture I recognize is the bulky, scarred old writing table of the sort Exoterics
use for drafting and copying manuscripts. And the man sitting at it with his back to the five of us, though
he's wearing the Ambassadorial robes, isn't Dartheln— Dartheln is a hefty man who'd be nearing seventy,
and is as bald as an egg. This guy's skinny enough that he'd blow away in a high wind, and his head's full
of curly brown hair. He glances back over his shoulder, nods to himself, and lays down his pen.

       "Caine. I've been hoping you'd come here first." His face is familiar—those cheekbones that look
sharp enough to cut cheese— but it's the voice that triggers my memory, even though I haven't heard it in
maybe eighteen years.

      I squint. "Creele?"

      He nods and flicks his wrist toward one of the chairs. "Good to see you. Sit."

       I take the offered chair, more than a little amazed. Creele was a couple years behind me at
Garthan Hold. I tutored him in Applied Legendry and Small-Group Tactics. Now he's the Ambassador
to the Empire.

      Shit, am I that old?

      "How in the name of Jhantho's Fist did you get a post like this at your age?"

      He smiles thinly. "The Council appoints by merit, not age."

       That doesn't answer the question—or maybe it does. The Creele I recall from school was a
natural politician, a master of telling you what you wanted to hear, even then. A manipulative little skunk,
but good company, intelligent and witty; I can remember many hours spent laughing over wine filched
from the hold's cellars.

      It's hard to look at him; my brain keeps trying to see him the way he looked at eighteen. We don't
spend much time in small talk. He knows most of my career already, and I don't have much interest in
his—the unspoken details would be depressingly familiar, the kind of backstabbing politics that drove me
away from the Vows in the first place. And the four staff-armed friars are still here; they're standing at
parade rest in a short arc behind me, which puts a damper on chatty conversation.

      Shortly he gets to the nub. He twists the ring with the Seal of Mastery around his finger to its
proper place, and he puts on his Important Business voice.

      "I don't know by whom you've been hired, and I don't need to know. But you should know that
the Council of Brothers won't tolerate any action against Ma'elKoth, or against the Empire generally."

      "Against Ma'elKoth?" I say, frowning. How does heknow? "I'm not working. This is personal
business."

      "Caine, you might remember I'm not an idiot. We know that Ma'elKoth is not popular with some
rogue elements within the nobility. I know that the Eyes have been anticipating that you'll surface in
Ankhana, and they've issued a warrant for your arrest on unspecified charges. This reads like your
employer is compromised, and they know what you're up to. And here you are. Don't bother to
pretend."

       I shrug. "All right."

         He looks like he's expecting me to continue. I stare at him blandly. He gives his head an irritated
little shake and works his lips like there's a bad taste in his mouth.

       "You should understand that we support Ma'elKoth; we couldn't havehandpicked a better
successor to Toa-Phelathon. He's brought the common folk together like no ruler since Dil-Phinnarthin
himself, and he's solidified the Empire into a stable nation. He's holding the subs at bay on the borders
and controlling the ones within; he's reached an understanding with Lipke that may bring the two empires
together within our lifetime."

       As he speaks, his eyes keep flicking past me toward the shrine in the corner, his gaze drawn there
like a moth to a candle. "Ma'elKoth may be the most important man alive—he may be the man who will
ensure the ultimate survival of ourspecies, can you understand that? He may be able to bring together all
the human lands; if we can stop fighting among ourselves, the subs will never stand against us. We think
he can do it. He's the horse we're riding, and we won't let you cut him out from under us."

       "We?"

       "The Council of Brothers. The whole Council."

      I give him a derisive snort. The Council of Brothers, as a whole, can't decide what day it is. "I tell
you again. My business in Ankhana is personal."

       "If you could onlymeet the man, you'd understand," he says. His eyes spark with messianic
fire—he's a believer. He pushes his hands toward the shrine as though offering worship. "His presence
alone is overwhelming, and the power of his intellect—! The way he's taken the entire Empire into his
hand—

       "By murdering his political enemies," I murmur, and an expression of fleeting satisfaction crosses
his face, as though I've confessed to something.

       Maybe I have.

        Or maybe I'm just contrary, but I can't help it. His tone of uncritical awe makes needling him
irresistible.

      "Enemies of Ma'elKoth are enemies of the Empire," he insists. "They're enemies of humanity.
Should he deal gently with traitors'? Would that make him a better Emperor, or worse?"

       I give him a thin smile and quote," 'Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make
violent revolution inevitable.' "

       He rocks back in his chair. "I thought that might be your attitude. Dartheln said almost the same
thing, only in different words."

       "Yeah, well, he's pretty smart," I tell him. "And he's a better man than you'll ever be."

       Creele waves a weary hand. "He's a fossil. He doesn't see that Ma'elKoth is our chance at the
bold stroke, the final success. He thought we should stick with our tried-and-true methods; now he's
applying his tried-and-true methods to growing corn at Jhan-thogen Bluff."

     I'm becoming acutely conscious of how much time this is wasting. I lean forward and put my
elbows on my knees and give him a pretty fair Earnest Look.

       "Creele, listen. I'm happy for you, getting this post, and I understand your concerns for Ma'elKoth.
But, really, if everything I hear about him is true, he wouldn't be in much danger even if hewere my target.
The truth is, I've heard that my old girl is in town here, and she's in trouble, and I'm trying to find her.
That's my real interest here."

      "You'll give me your word that you will take no action against Ma'elKoth, nor against anyone in his
government?"

       "Creele—"

      "Your word." He's learned the command voice well; his tone makes it clear there's no room to
wiggle.

       You have my word—it's a simple phrase, and easy on the lips; my word is nothing more than what
I am, and it's broken as easily as men are.

       But it's also nothing less than what I am, and it has the same lust for survival that I do. I spread my
hands in a disparaging shrug. "What would my word mean?" A rhetorical question. "It would place no
chains upon my arms that could prevent the raising of my fist."

       "I suppose that's true." He looks tired, as though the Ambassadorial robes drag on his shoulders
like anchors on his spirit. The zealotry that smoldered in his eyes has faded, and his mouth takes on a
cynical twist. "I suppose I would have had to do this, anyway. You're only making it a little easier."
       He rises like an old man, and goes to the chamber door; with a brief glance of something like
regret over his shoulder at me, he shoots the bolt and swings the door open. "Thank you for waiting,
Your Grace. Caine is here."

       Six men in the blue and gold tunics of the King's Eyes' dress-livery file into the room, shortswords
slung at their waists along with identical daggers. As they come in, they crank back the crowsfoot
mechanism on small, compact crossbows and load steel quarrels into the bolts. The seventh is an
ordinary-looking man with mouse-brown hair who wears a stylish burgundy velvet blouse with a baldric
of gleaming white silk. He offers the corner shrine a cursory nod as he clears the door. The slim jeweled
sword that depends from his baldric appears purely ceremonial, and from his hand dangles a bulging
drawstring purse of black velvet—my head-price, no doubt.

      "Creele," I say, "I've said some bad things about you in my time, and thought worse, but I'd have
never believed you'd give me up."

      He doesn't even have the grace to be embarrassed. "I told you," he says, "we're going to help
Ma'elKoth every way we can."

      The man in velvet steps forward. "I am Toa-Sytell, the Duke of Public Order, and you, Caine, are
my prisoner."

      I get out of my chair quickly enough to make the friars behind me heft their staves, and the King's
Eyes close into a defensive screen before their Duke.

       "I don't have time for this."

       Toa-Sytell says blandly, "Your time is mine. I'm pledged to deliver you to Ma'elKoth, and I will do
it."

       I spare him not so much as a glance; my eyes are only for Creele. I step over to him, close enough
to see the soot-clogged pores of his nose, to see the black squid ink caked in the Seal of Mastery.

       " Y'know, there's nothing more dangerous than an intellectual with power," I say in a light and
conversational tone, as though we were back arguing over a jug of wine at Garthan Hold. "He can
rationalize any crime, and he's certainly not going to let abstractions like justice, loyalty, or honor get in
his way."

     Creele flushes, just a little. "Oh, grow up, will you? You knew this could happen; we can't let you
endanger Ma'elKoth."

     "Fuck Ma'elKoth," I say mildly, quoting Berne with a tiny disbelieving smile. "This is between you
and me."

       "Caine—

      "You have violated Sanctuary, Creele. I am Sanctuaried here, and you have delivered me into the
hands of my enemies. You know the penalty. Did you really think I wouldn't kill you for this?"

       He sighs, almost contemptuously, his eyes flicking toward the four friars and the six King's Eyes. "I
hardly think I'm in much danger, Caine, if you know what I—
       The edge of my hand cuts off the rest of his sentence, a forehand chop across the bridge of his
nose. The sudden stunning shock unstrings his limbs and slackens the muscles in his neck. I get my hands
on his head, a sharp twist: his cervical vertebrae separate with a wet driftwood squelch and slice into his
spinal cord. Before anyone else in the room can move, he flops kicking and convulsing to the floor.

      I say into the blank silence, "And here I thought I'd get through the whole day without killing
anyone."

       With a shout the friars' paralysis breaks. They spring toward me, staves raised—and stop before
the dully gleaming pyramidal heads of the Eyes' crossbow quarrels that are suddenly pointed at them,
rather than me.

       Duke Toa-Sytell says, "This man is my prisoner, and I am pledged to deliver him to Ma'elKoth."
His colorless voice leaves no doubt that he'd give the order to fire. "Stand back. A cocked crossbow is a
delicate mechanism; if my men become nervy, one may fire by accident."

       One of the friars, older than the others, maybe even my age, extends his staff horizontally, like a
barrier. "Let us waste no time. You, go to the Healing Brother. The Khryllian may be able to save the
Ambassador's life."

       The younger friar bolts through the hall door, and his footfalls fade away.

       I say, "He won't make it." The older friar meets my eyes, and shrugs. We all stand there for a
minute or two and watch Creele die. In some of my old books, I've read about certain blows that are
supposed to cause instant death—especially one to the nose that's supposed to drive bone splinters from
the fragile sinus into the brain through one of the strongest bones in the human body, the frontal bone of
the skull. This is a puerile fantasy, but sometimes I wish it were true.

        In reality there's no such thing as instant death; different parts of the body shut down at different
rates, in different ways, shuddering and jittering, spasming, or simply relaxing into lifeless-ness. If you're
unfortunate enough to be conscious, it's got to be a pretty hideous experience. Creele is conscious.

       He can't speak, because his larynx shattered when I broke his neck and his lungs are filling with
blood, but he's looking up at me. There's raw terror in his eyes; he's begging me to tell him this isn't
happening, not to him, not now, as he feels himself bounce and shudder, smells his bowels and bladder
releasing. But it's too late, and I wouldn't take it back if I could.

       Sometimes dying men ask, either with words or only with their eyes:Why? Why me? Creele
doesn't ask; he knows the answer. It's because I'm an old-fashioned guy. Toa-Sytell says musingly, "You
are an extraordinarily lethal man. Don't bother to hope that you'll catch me within arm's length."

       I meet his eyes, and we measure each other. His lips show the barest ghost of a smile, and he
glances down at Creele's stilling body. "It's so rare as to be almost unique, to meet a man who lives up to
his reputation. Which do you think is more dangerous: the intellectual—" His gaze flicks up to match mine
once again."—or the idealist?"

       "Don't insult me. Or him."

       "Mm." He nods. "We'll be going, then."
      One of the younger friars speaks, his voice level and in-placable. "You'll never be safe, Caine of
Garthan Hold. There is nowhere you can hide from Monastic vengeance."

       I meet the eyes of the older friar. "He violated Sanctuary. You saw."

       He nods.

       "And you'll speak truth."

       He nods again. "I would not dishonor myself by lying for such a man."

       Toa-Sytell drops the black velvet purse on the floor beside Creele's body. One gold royal
bounces jingling from the purse's neck and rolls in a slow and lazy circle around Creele's head to pass the
feet of the friars. All eyes follow it expressionlessly, and for a moment no one moves as it chimes to rest.

       Toa-Sytell says in that colorless voice of his, "At least he can afford a sumptuous wake..."

       He gestures, and the King's Eyes swing their crossbows to point just above my head, where they
won't kill me if one triggers by accident, and as we leave I can hear the growing clatter of the approach
of the Healing Brother and the Khryllian priest, far too late.

       With Creele dead, no one has the authority to order that a Duke of the Empire and his men be
detained, and so we walk right out of the front gate of the embassy without incident.

       Just outside, they very professionally lay me down in the street to put shackles on my arms and a
pair of bilboes on my ankles. The cobblestones are cold and shining wet. I don't bother to resist. It's
pretty clear that none of them would mind putting a quarrel into my knee if I try anything foolish.
Toa-Sytell himself helps me to my feet, and we set off.

       We walk slowly along Gods' Way toward the Colhari Palace. The moon is rising, casting an
oyster-shell glow over the misty drizzle that nightfall has brought to the streets, polishing the cobblestones
and painting cool moisture across my brow. It's awkward, walking with the bar of the bilboes scraping
between my ankles, and Toa-Sytell holds the chain attached to their end tight in his fist. Nobody seems
to have anything to say.

        I figure it's about fifty-fifty, whether the Council of Brothers will order my death in retaliation for
Creele's. Shit, they should give me a medal. The oaths of Sanctuary are among the most sacred vows a
friar ever takes, and the penalties for violating them usually include death.

       But I'm only rationalizing, inventing defenses before an imaginary Monastic judge.

        The truth is, I would have killed him anyway: for betraying me, for keeping me from Shanna, for
letting the headsman's axe swing closer to her neck.

       No one,no one will do that and live.

       And the glittering arch of the Dil-Phinnarthin Gate looms, gleaming silver through the mist, the
awesome tower of the Colhari Palace rising behind it. Toa-Sytell gives the recognition to an expectant
captain. The gate swings wide, and we walk toward the arch.

       Huh. Well, at least I don't have to spend a lot of time figuring out how to get myself into the
Palace. Maybe I can take this—

      "'strator?mm, 'strator Kollberg?"The voice of ArturoKoll-berg's personal Secretary came over the
screenlink as a hushed, almost reverent whisper.

       Kollberg swallowed—he well knew what that tone probably meant. He swiftly swept his desk
clear of the crumbs of his supper, rubbed a napkin furiously across his mouth, and wiped his hands as
thoroughly as he could. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his stuttering heart. "Yes, Gayle?"

       " 'Strator, on line one, it'sGeneva."

        When Caine had entered the palace grounds and his transfer link had been severed, Kollberg had
had a thousand things to do at once— from ordering adjustments in nutrient drip for the first-handers to
editing decisions on the clip release toAdventure Update, When the cutoff had occurred, the
first-handers all over the world had gone into an automatic sendep cycle, and the Studio comm nexus had
flooded with calls ranging from curious to outright panicky from the technical directors of the linked
Studios around the globe. In the midst of chaos and confusion, Kollberg had forcefully resisted the urge
to handle every problem at once.

       The very first thing he'd done was put in a call to the Studio Board of Governors in Geneva.

       He'd turned to other business while waiting for his call to be returned; it had taken only a bit more
than an hour to mollify the other Studios, get the Caine first-handers into peaceful induced-sleep cycles,
order his own supper, and catch up on some other work— some marketing decisions on two of San
Francisco's lesser stars, and a judgment call on scheduling for an up-and-coming Actress. This was
mostly his way of pretending thatFor Love of Pallas Ril hadn't consumed his entire attention.

       But now his supper curdled in his belly and he tried to shake the tension out of his shoulders. All
for Caine, all for Caine's success. If only Michaelson knew how hard Kollberg worked, what Koll-berg
put himself through to take care of him!

      He keyed line one, and his screen lit with the Adventures Unlimited logo, an armored knight
brandishing a sword, mounted on the back of a rearing winged horse. The screen didn't clear to visual;
when the Board of Governors called, it never did.

       The modulated, artificially neutral voice of the Board started in without preamble. "We are
reviewing your application for emergency transfer authority. There are some concerns that you should
clear up for us."

        The Board of Governors had a shifting membership of seven to fifteen high-ranking Leisurefolk
who were charged with the responsibility of setting policy for the Studio system as a whole. There was
no appeal of the Board's decisions, and there was no politicking or playing one member off against
another when no one outside the Board really knew who was on the Board at any given time; the blank
screen and artificial voice prevented Kollberg from even knowing whom he was talking to. Kollberg was
fairly sure that there was a Saud on the Board right now, as well as a Walton and a Windsor, but that
was useless knowledge: it did nothing to moisten his lips or level his voice.

       He rapidly, almost breathlessly, reeled out his prepared speech. "Based on Caine's experience on
the previous occasion that he entered the Colhari Palace on a mission, I believe that emergency transfer
authority is a reasonable precaution, to protect the life and profitability of a major star. In fact, due to the
severance of his transfer link and loss of transmission, we wouldn't even get the usual death surge in sales
of this Adventure—

       "We have little interest in this Actor's life or profitability. Ou concerns are of matters far more
grave."

       Kollberg blinked.

       "I, ah, I'm not sure that I—"

     "We were assured by you personally, Administrator, that the ter mination of this Ankhanan
Emperor would be nonpolitical."

       He swallowed and said cautiously, "Nonpolitical...?"

       "We've questioned your judgment from the beginning re garding these recent Adventures of Pallas
Ril. Do you understam the danger involved in allowing a heroine to be shown subverting civil authority?
The danger involved inencouraging her fans tc cheer her on as she defies thelawfully constituted
government!"

       "But, but she's, well, saving innocentlives... Surely, that's acceptable subject matter—

      "Guilt or innocence is irrelevant, Administrator. These natives were condemned according to the
laws of their society, and the government that Pallas Ril defies is legally constituted. Do you wish to be
responsible for the actions of her Earthly imitators?"

       "But, but but, I hardly think—"

      "Precisely. You hardly think. It's been ten years since the Caste Riots, Administrator. Have you
learnednothing? Have you forgotten how fragile our social fabric can be?"

     Kollberg hadn't forgotten—he'd lived though those terrifying days huddled in his Gibraltar Homes
condominium.

      A charismatic Top Ten Actor named Kiel Burchardt had inadvertently triggered the Caste Riots
while preaching on Overworld; he played a priest of Tyshalle Deathgod, and the gospel of radical liberty
and personal responsibility he'd preached to foment a peasant rebellion against the robber barons of
Jheled-Kaarn had become the rallying slogans of spontaneous riots in cities across Earth. Disaffected
Laborers turned on the upper castes, the mid-castes, and eventually themselves.

       Fortunately, Burchardt was killed by one of those robber barons while leading an assault on his
keep, and the Social Police rapid-response squads had eventually crushed the rioters, but the Caste
Riots remained a chilling reminder of the mesmeric influence Actors could exert over their audiences.

       "But," Kollberg said, wiping with the back of his hand at the perspiration that bubbled out across
his upper lip, "butshe's failed, you see? And she needs Caine—the completelynonpolitical Caine—to
either rescue her or avenge her death."

       "That was our understanding. But how, then, do you explain this?"

      The Studio logo vanished from the screen, replaced by the face of the Monastic Ambassador seen
from Caine's POV, and Caine's recorded voice came over the speaker. "'Those who make peaceful
revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.

       Kollberg thought,Oh, Christ. Oh my god.

      The logo came back on. "That isdecidedly political, not to say subversive, even treasonous. Do
you know whom he was quoting?"

       He shook his head hastily. "No no no, not at all."

       "Good."

       Kollberg looked down; dark patches of sweat stained his pants where his trembling hands had
rested. He laced his fingers together and squeezed until they hurt. "I, ah, I first-handed that scene, you
know, and I don't believe that Caine meant this as a political—

       "You do understand the pernicious effects of allowing an Actor of Caine's popularity and influence
to turn to politically motivated violence against an authoritarian government? Allowing him in Soliloquy to
self-justify overturning a police state? This has echoes of the Burchardt business; Earthly parallels of this
attitude would be explosive."

       "But, but really—"

       "Caine often swears by Tyshalle, the god whose gospel Burchardt preached."

       Kollberg said nothing; there was no possible reply.

       "Caine has begun to undertake subversive social criticism."

       "What?"

       Once again the screen changed, this time to the scene before Caine's eyes as he walked through
the burned-out borderland of the Kingdom of Cant. Caine's Soliloquy:*Our Workers are worse, really;
with the zombies, you can't see the buried spark of life —intelligence, will, whatever —that makes
Workers so tragically creepy. *

       The logo returned. "Workers are convictedfelons, Administrator, who are cyborged to repay
society for their crimes. This could be interpreted as a plea for sympathy, that death is preferable to life
as a Worker."

       "But the Soliloquy—

       "Death may be better for them; their death isnot better for us. Workers support a substantial
fraction of the world economy."

       "TheSoliloquy," Kollberg said more forcefully, belly quivering at his own boldness, "is purely
stream-of-consciousness; it's part of what makes Caine such a powerful and effective Actor. It reflects
his emotional and preconscious instinctive reactions as well as his rational thought processes—if he must
stop and consider the political implications of his every thought, it will cripple his performance!"

      "His performance is not our concern. Perhaps Actors should be found whoseemotional and
preconscious reactions are more socially responsible."
      There came a pause, and then the neutral voice continued more slowly. "Do you know that
Duncan Michaelson, Caine's father, has been interred in the Mute Facility in the Buchanan Social Camp
for more than ten years? That his crime was sedition? The seed does not fall far from the tree,
Administrator."

       Kollberg's dusty tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and a single drop of sweat rolled stinging
into his left eye. He looked down, squinting against the tear the sweat brought, and bit his tongue hard to
moisten his mouth so he could speak again. "What do you want me to do?"

      "We authorize the emergency transfer. You will find that the emergency key in your Cavea
techbooth is already active. We had considered ordering Caine's immediate recall, but we are not
unmindful of the potential profitability of this Adventure."

       The voice hardened. "There will be no more suggestion of subversion in this Adventure, do you
understand? We direct you to personally monitor every second; delegate all other responsibility. You will
be held personally responsible for the political and social content of this Adventure. When Caine kills
Ma'elKoth or dies in the attempt, it will be the result of apersonal vendetta, do you understand? There
will be no further discussion of political motivations whatsoever. And there will be no discussion of
Caine's contract; the Studio is not in the business of sponsoring assassination. We provide
entertainment, nothing more nor less. Do you understand?"

       "I understand."

       "It is not only yourcareer that's on the line, Administrator. Any serious breach of this directive will
be turned over to the Social Police for investigation."

      The spreading coldness in his chest felt like someone had slipped an ice dagger into his heart. "
understand."

       The screen went blank.

       Kollberg sat staring at the flat grey darkness of the screen for a long, long time. Then suddenly he
twitched like a man jolting awake from a nightmare—Caine might have come back out of the palace
already, might already be on-line, might already be doing or saying or thinking something that would
destroy Kollberg's life.

      He jerked to his feet and brushed crumbs from his blouse; he slicked over his pale hair with the
sweat from his palms and heaved himself toward the door of his private box.

      Michaelson had threatened him yesterday; today the threat came from Caine. It was time,
Kollberg decided, to smack that little bastard's hand.

      Just give me a reason that'll stand up for the Board,he thought.Just one excuse. You 'II see what
you get. You 'II see.

       day three"Sometimes I wonder if you really respect anything besides power. "

       " What else is there ? "

       "You see? That's what I mean, that's a flip, glib, toss-off answer. It's because you don't care about
what I care about. The things that are important, that are really important—

       "Like what? Justice? Give me a break. Honor? Those are abstractions we've invented, to make
the reality of power easier to face, to con people into voluntarily limiting themselves."

      " What about love ? Is that any less abstract than justice ? "

      "Shanna, for Pete's sake—

      "Isn't it funny how we always end up fighting about the abstractions?"

      "We're not fighting."

      "Yes, we are. Maybe we're not fighting about justice and love, but we 're sure as hell fighting. "

        ring upon ringof crumbling stone benches and walkways rose step-built above the bull's-eye of
rain-damp sand in the center; the whole titanic structure might have been a target offered for a game
between gods. The inner wall that separated the sand from the seating had once been three times the
height of a man. Though it was crumbling now with age and the decay wrought by the corrosive coal
smoke from the steelworks in the nearby Industrial Park, on its raddled face could still be seen curved
parallel scars left by the diamondine claws of draconymphs, ameboid chemical burns from the acidic
venom of wyverns' tailstings, and pockmarks left by crossbow quarrels that had struck through the flesh
of fleeing gladiators.

        A third of the way up the arc of the seating stood a ring of pissoirs that had been built an age ago
for the use of long-dead spectators. They were similar to the pissoirs that were scattered throughout the
city, relics of the Brass King, Tar-Mennelekil, who'd nearly bankrupted his nation with his public works.

       The public pissoirs of Ankhana were built above shafts sunk through the limestone that formed the
bedrock beneath the city; within these shafts are three screens of progressively finer bronze mesh to
capture the solid wastes and allow the liquid to drain into the bottomless caverns below the city. A
parallel shaft descends alongside each. The muckers make their rounds about once in a tenday, to collect
the valuable shit and cart it away to Lucky Janner's Ankhanan Muckers and Manure on the outskirts of
Alientown.

        This much any citizen of Ankhana knows; what is less well known among the respectable citizenry
is that concealed doors in these mucker shafts can lead one into those bottomless caverns, through which
one who knows his way can move freely beneath the city.

       It was up from these pissoirs that they came—the deformed, the blind, the crippled, amputees on
their crutches and lepers in their pus-moist shreds of rags. They'd walked through the cloaca of the
Empire to get here, and now the Knights of Cant, who stood in pairs at each pissoir door, swept them
downward through the broken rings of crumbling stone benches with gestures of welcome.

      Happy babble and snatches of song shivered in the night's freshening breeze as the mass of
beggars swarmed down from the pissoirs, scrambling over seats their ancestors could have only gazed at
in envy, never touched—only the landed gentry ever sat so low, so close to the arena. They reached the
high wall that surrounded the arena sand and flowed over it like sheep, like lemmings, like a wave of
ravenous vermin.

      The sand of the arena floor, still damp from the evening's misting rain, now churned beneath
sandals and rope-tied scraps of boots, beneath the iron ferrules of their crutches and the calluses of their
naked feet. For two hundred years this sand had absorbed the blood and shit of mortally wounded
gladiators, ogres, trolls, ogrilloi, and dwarfs; the half-digested bowel contents of gut-slashed lions; the
ichor of throat-cut wy vems and the aqueous humors of draconymphs stabbed through their vulnerable
eyes. For another hundred years it had stood abandoned to squatters, but no more: now oilskin
tarpaulins were pulled off stacked cordwood in mounds taller than a man, and snapping bonfires leaped
toward clouds so low that they reflected a dull orange toward the fires beneath.

       Around the bonfires the cripples danced, for this hulking ring of stone was the Brass Stadium, and
these beggars were the Subjects of Cant, and this night was the Night of the Miracle.

       And among them a presence passed, a ghostly feeling ofhere- ness that could not be explained.

       A leper paused in his grinning tale of a fat purse stolen while its owner handed him a coin; he'd felt
a brush along his own rags, but no one stood beside him. He shrugged and finished his tale. Warm breath
on a blind woman's neck caused her to turn and shift the filthy bandages over her eyes that she might see
who'd stood so close. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head at her active imagination. Once, briefly,
what must have been a trick of the shadows made footprints seem to appear in a clear patch, away from
any feet that could have made them, but the Knight who saw this only sighed—his sharp suspicious
wonder had instantly faded into bored forgetfulness.

        A Cloak is a fiendishly difficult spell to maintain under the best of circumstances; among a
constantly shifting crowd of suspicious and cynical professional thieves and beggars it's nearly impossible.
A Cloak doesn't affect the physical world, it doesn't alter the path of light or prevent its reflection; it
works directly, and solely, on the mind. Holding a Cloak requires that the adept maintain a constant
mental visualization of the surrounding environment, including the positions and postures of every single
person present, saving only himself—in other words, the adept must carry in his mind a perfect image of
the scene as it would lookwithout him there. As long as this concentration is maintained the adept may
still be visible to the eye, but not to the brain: an onlooker is mag-ickally prevented from mentally
registering the sight. It's fairly simple when only one person is there to deal with, not too bad with two or
three.

      In the midst of the Subjects of Cant, no ordinary adept could hope to hold a Cloak. No ordinary
adept would even attempt it—to be an outsider caught within the Brass Stadium on the Night of the
Miracle was certain death, delivered instantly and ruthlessly without trial or appeal of any sort.

       No one of Pallas Ril's acquaintance would describe her as ordinary.

      Forty hours,murmured a tiny niggling voice in some distant and disconnected part of her mind.I've
been on the move for almost forty hours.

        Her teeth felt fuzzy, and her eyes seemed to scrape within her skull every time she blinked, but she
moved silently through the press, listening here, watching there, letting herself drift wherever her feet took
her. It might have been foolish of her to trust these people in the first place, but she was not so foolish
that she didn't realize she'd been betrayed.

      On the Night of the Miracle, all the Subjects of Cant gathered here. That meant that somewhere
within this crowd was the man who'd betrayed her, who'd killed the Twins, and Talann—and Lamorak.
She wouldn't have to kill him herself; she knew that Majesty would be grateful for the honor.

       Unless, a cold internal voice reminded her, the traitor was Majesty himself; she was not so naive
as to eliminate the King of Cant as a suspect simply because she liked him. She needed evidence, she
needed a finger to point out a target, and this need had brought , her here. The nature of the evidence
she' d find, she had no idea.

      A restless, oppressive lust for motion had driven her here, a feeling that something she couldn't see
was gaining on her from behind. She had no real plan; holding a Cloak, which she'd been doing for
several hours now, consumed so much of her attention that she was mostly confined to absorbing sense
impressions for later examination. In what was very nearly a Zen state of meditative awareness, she'd
opened herself to the radical present—and trusted that the moment itself would provide what she
needed.

      The moment provided a drumroll by an unseen hand, somewhere in the northern quadrant of the
stadium seating.

       There a ziggurat stood—nine ascending steps built above the stone benches, culminating in a
massive high-backed throne that was carved from a single block of the native limestone. The drifting lace
of Flow, that filled Pallas' mindview with translucent veins of color, suddenly whirled up toward the
ziggurat and dove down through it. Pallas nodded to herself; inside the ziggurat was where Abbal Paslava
the Spellbinder would be standing, weaving the effects for Majesty's entrance. Caine had described this
to her once, and she knew what to expect.

      Single-foot braziers of bronze flared into sparkshowers with no hand to ignite them. Dense billows
of white smoke poured from the f bronze bowls and down the platform, thickening until they utterlj
obscured the throne.

       The scattered laughter and conversation among the Subjects died swiftly away; lamb shanks and
wineskins were laid respectfully aside. Faces, rosy from the heat of bonfires, turned toward the swirling
cloud. The drumroll stuttered into a marching cadence: down, out of the smoke, strode the nine Barons
of Cant.

      Pallas squinted at them, only half curious; she was familiar with the name and reputation of a
couple of them, but she had no reason to suspect they even knew of her connection to the Subjects.
They took up positions on the lower third of the nine steps, seven men and two brawny women,
grounding the points of their naked blades into the stone and resting their hands upon cord-wound hilts.

       Now the mist began to thin, slowly revealing first the shadowy silhouettes, then the motionless
forms, of the Dukes of Cant arrayed on the third step from the top. Pallas knew both of these men: the
skeletal figure in robes was Paslava, still pulling Flow; on the opposite side stood Deofad the Warlord,
once of the Lipkan Imperial Guard, white-bearded and stolid.

       She had met these two men shortly after approaching Majesty with the concept of the Simon
Jester operation; either of them could be the traitor.

      Then from the thinning mist at the apex of the ziggurat rang Majesty's voice, deep and clear as a
temple bell. Pallas heard no suggestion of strain, of raising his voice to fill the Stadium—the lateral swirl of
Flow that whirlpooled outward from the apex suggested to her that Paslava was tricking up Majesty's
volume.

       He said: "My Children. We gather tonight in this, the discarded arena of empire. And we, too, are
discarded. We are the forgotten, the maimed, the crippled, the blind!"
      The answering choral shout of the Subjects rang from the crumbling walls: "We are!"

      "We are the thieves, the vagabonds, the beggars!"

      "We are!"

      "But we are not alone! But we are not helpless! We are powerful ! We are brothers!"

      "We are!"

      "This Arena of Despair shakes before our brotherhood! The power of our brotherhood transforms
the Arena of Despair into the Stage of Miracles! Here with your brothers, cast off your crutches!

      Cast off your slings, your bandages! Let the crippled walk, let the blind sec! Rejoice! My
Children, you are healed!"

      "WE ARE!"

      And throughout the arena, crutches fell to the damp sand; limbs sprouted from empty sleeves;
milky cataracts popped free from clear and sparkling eyes; and the dripping sores of leprosy peeled off
from smooth skin as the last of the mist cleared and His Majesty the King of Cant sat on the throne in a
coronal halo—a scarlet backlight from braziers that leaped to life above and behind him— as he
motionlessly oversaw the transformation of his subjects.

      Pure theater, Pallas well knew—no real cripple or leper would ever be allowed here—but she
couldn't deny the power of this simple ritual, the rush of joy from every side as all their masks fell away at
once.

       Caine had tried to explain to her how the Subjects were vastly more than a mere street gang, tried
to describe their almost religious devotion to each other, their sense of family, of belonging to something
greater than the sum of its parts; Pallas had seen this devotion in action, but now she was beginning to
understand it. She also understood how this simple ritual made it thoroughly impossible for an outsider to
conceal himself and blend in here, without theuseofmagick.

       And, looking up at Majesty as he descended the ziggurat, smiling and relaxed, bringing his Dukes
and Barons with him to receive tithes at the retaining wall, Pallas had to admit that he knew everything
there was to know about making a star entrance.

       She drifted toward the wall, carefully slipping aside from Subjects moving in the same direction,
and got close enough to overhear as he accepted gifts, money and otherwise, from the Subjects that
trailed past. Three Barons carted the loot away when all was done, and Majesty vaulted lithely into the
arena to mingle and laugh with his people. The Dukes and the Barons all followed him, and soon the
arena had become a sprawling party, as wineskins passed from hand to hand and voices rose in
boisterous song.

       Pallas stayed close by Majesty's side, vaguely hoping for an opportunity to get him alone where
she could speak with him, and so she heard Abbal Paslava's low-voiced warning as he pulled Majesty to
one side.

      "There's magick here; someone other than myself is pulling Flow within the stadium."
       Majesty's answering smile was grimly humorous. "Well, point him out, and we'll spank the naughty
bastard." "I cannot." "I don't understand."

       "Nor do . feel it tug at my mind, but when I turn my attention onto it, it seems to skitter away like a
sun-flash in the corner of the eye. This is definitely cause for concern."

       "Keep working on it. And meanwhile, cover my exit; the tithing took too damned long and I'm late
for a meet."

       "Done." Paslava's head tilted back, and his eyes rolled up; Flow spiraled into his Shell as he pulled
a tiny doll from a pocket and rolled it between his fingers. A tendril of violet power clung to Majesty as
he drifted away, and Pallas followed on his heels.

       Not too closely; many a Cloaked mage has given herself away simply by bumping into someone.
Once or twice she had to move quickly to avoid clumps of Subjects, and each time she stepped clear
Majesty seemed to have inexplicably gained ground, nodding and speaking a word or two here and there
among the Subjects that he passed. He never seemed to move quickly, but somehow she could never
quite catch up with him.

        Even in her dissociated, meditative state, it took her barely a minute to realize what Paslava had
done. This must be a sophisticated variation of the Cloak she herself was under—anyone looking for
Majesty would see him off on the other side of the arena somewhere, always just a bit too far away to
interact with. She tipped a mental nod of professional respect for Paslava's creativity. It was a clever
spell, though she could break it with ease, if she chose.

      Paslava might be clever, but for raw power he was not remotely in her league.

       Breaking the spell, however, would require concentration that she needed to maintain her Cloak.
Instead, she glanced around the arena; as her gaze passed the half-open gate on one of the beast chutes,
Flow swirled more strongly around Abbal Paslava's Shell, and she felt the faintest increase in the tug of
the spell's pull. She needed no more than this, and she let her desire to speak with Majesty draw her
more strongly toward the chute, still drifting— she felt like she was floating, her legs obeying her desire
for direction, but not for speed.

       The darkness of the beast chute closed over her eyes as she moved away from the light of the
bonfires and into the dusty scent of rotting wood and ancient urine. Here in the darkness, in unfamiliar
surroundings, she couldn't visualize accurately enough to maintain her Cloak; it collapsed around her and
she sagged against the wall, suddenly trembling.

       Mindview—the mental state necessary to perceive Flow, to cast and maintain spells—is a
meditative state, almost transcendental. When in mindview, you don't feel tired, you don't feel fear, you
don't feel much of anything at all; you're aware only of your environment and your will, what adepts call
yourintention. For hours, Pallas' mindview had held at bay all the fatigue of protecting the Konnosi and
the exhaustion of two days of running from the Cats, all the fear and horror of the fight, all the
stomach-gnawing grief for the Twins, for Talann and Lamorak, the swelling ache of having led them to
their deaths. But these emotions had circled her like hyenas: they hadn't lost interest, they hadn't gone off
to seek other prey. Their patience was nearly infinite.

      Now that her defense was gone they mobbed her; they sank needle teeth into her throat and
dragged her gasping toward the floor.
      For a moment faces flooded her, driving out all other thought: the terror and desperate hope of
Konnos' two daughters, so much like what she saw on the faces of all thetokali, the hunted, who
huddled together beneath that abandoned warehouse in the Industrial Park, with no one but her to
depend on. The manic confidence of Talann, the grim trust of the Twins...

       And, of course, the face that stung her eyes with a single tear: Lamorak with his gentle smile,
tapping the fresh-cut brick arch with the blade of Kosall."And this is a gap I can hold for a long, long
time."

      Oh, Karl...His name, the name she couldn't say out loud, couldn't murmur in her Soliloquy, the
name that Studio conditioning wouldn't allow her to so much as whisper until she returned to Earth.

      Until she returned to Earth, alone.

      He'd held that arch for perhaps a minute, no more.

       All these hyenas chewed into her belly, but she was an adept: she lived and died by her control of
her mind. It took only seconds for her to strangle these carnivorous thoughts, and soon she pushed
herself upright. There was no forgetting the danger she was in, simply by being here. Now as she picked
her way up the incline, one hand against the crumbling stone of the chute, the images she'd stored from
the Miracle began to organize themselves within her brain.

      *A meet, *she monologued.*A meet during the Miracle. When every Subject of Cant will be
inside the Stadium. The one moment out of the entire week when you can walk the Warrens
without being seen by a Subject of Cant. *

      A pounding rumble like distant surf began to grind in her ears; blood rose into her face, and she
picked up speed.

      *Majesty, I swear...If it's you, Majesty, I swear I'll eat your rotten heart. *

       Her practiced hands flitted unconsciously over the pockets on her tunic and within her cloak,
searching by feel for something that would put her on Majesty's trail without subjecting her to the
foot-slowing necessity of mindview. She had plenty of artillery left, even without the boltwand she'd lost
to the Cats: four of the charged-buckeye fireballs, two hunks of charged amber for Holds, a powerful
Teke and a bladewand, as well as a less aggressive crystal Charm. This Adventure so far had consisted
of mostly running and hiding; her defensive and evasive spells were depleted save only a single
Chameleon, as were her few scrying devices. Without those prepared spells, she'd have to do everything
in mindview—as she had the Cloak—which was dangerous and time consuming, at best.

      When the inspiration came, she smiled to herself and swallowed a chuckle. The solution was so
simple and elegant it was almost funny. She drew out from a pouch at her belt a small faceted chunk of
purple quartz and patterned her mind to the sigils inscribed upon it. It was a process as simple as turning
a key—no need to maintain mindview. The quartz grew warm in her hand, and as she held it out, an
intermittent stripe at shoulder level along the wall began to fluo-resce a dully ruddy magenta, as did faint,
vaguely boot-shaped blotches along the floor. The Cloak variant Paslava had used on Majesty would be
shedding magick continuously until it wore off, like a battery leaking charge—until then, she could use this
simple detection spell to track his footprints and the places he'd brushed his hands along the walls, to
follow his path through this Stygian maze.

      The crystal caused trace magick to fluoresce at a range of only three to four meters; she had no
fear of alerting Majesty, and the trace magick was visibly fading even as she began to follow it. When
necessary, Pallas could move like a river, fast and smooth, and with only as much noise as her
surroundings could absorb and cover. Moving at speed, she cleared the stadium in seconds and glided
onto the streets of the Warrens.

       Blessedly the clouds above parted, and the moon shone through. She could see him now, only
forty or fifty meters ahead of her, moving at a steady lope. He'd picked up a hooded cloak somewhere
along the way, but he must have been telling the truth to Paslava when he'd said he was late—he was
moving too fast to conceal his natural gait, which was as distinctive as his voice. He didn't appear to
worry about being followed; why should he? He'd hear the boots of anyone who' d try to match his pace.

       Pallas smiled grimly as she put away the detection crystal. She slipped off her ankle-high boots
and held one in each hand as she ran after him lightly, springing along silently on the balls of her bare feet,
staying close to the buildings at her side; the hard-packed dirt of Warrens streets was substantially higher
and drier along their edges than in their centers, and the litter of stones, wood scraps, and potshards
tended to drift downhill toward the streets' centers. Along the side, she could sprint barefoot with little to
fear.

        Ahead, Majesty slid into the darkness of a doorless arch. Instead of following him within, she
slipped back into her boots and slowly worked her way around the building. There, near a corner of the
third floor on the far side from the arch Majesty had used, a sliver of lamplight leaked through
weather-sprung shutters, the only light showing on the faces of this darkened hulk.

       Controlling her breathing, she summoned mindview and scanned the twisted alleys around her, the
faces of the buildings and what she could see of their roofs. The tangled lace of Flow drifted undisturbed,
and no aureate Shells larger than those of rats shimmered in the shadows.

      This meant that there were no stooges to watch this place, no guards to protect it; this meant that
secrecy, even from his own men, was more important to Majesty than safety.

       The distant surf of fury that rumbled in Pallas' ears drew closer.

      But she held on to mindview and the surf faded. Of their own accord, her nimble fingers found the
tiny model of a Chameleon in a pocket of her cloak. The beautifully sculpted platinum shone in mindview
with complex whorls of power. These whorls spread into her mind, then downward across her body; to
an observer, her skin and clothing would take on the grey-black moon-dappled appearance of the wall
against which she stood. She paused a moment longer, to fix the image more strongly in her
concentration, then she faced the wall and scampered up it with the ease of a lizard.

       She hung effortlessly from the wall beside the splinter of light, and listened.

       "...before Berne catches him. This is vital," an unfamiliar voice was saying. "Berne has, already,
entirely too great an influence over Ma'elKoth, and I believe that Berne is a deeply sick man—sick within
his mind. It's vital that Berne does not succeed, here, and that I do. Don't try to tell me you're not
involved: three of the five dead lookouts were known Subjects. The other two probably were as well."

        "If I had him to give, he'd be yours, Your Grace." Majesty's voice was oddly humble, even
obsequious. "I don't ask the Subjects for full accountings of their actions, only of their incomes. If some
of them have chosen to supplement their incomes by stooging for Simon Jester, it's really none of my
affair, unless they fail to pay their full tithe. They were my people, though, and I expect compensation."
       *Your Grace? That's probably Toa-Sytell himself!*Pallas monologued, a sickening dread sinking
into her stomach. Suddenly it was all too clear why this particular, private hour had been chosen for this
meet.*So it's him. The King of Cant betrayed us all. I should have suspected: he's Game's best
friend. But...ahh, gods, I was really hoping he'd be innocent. *

       The blood-smeared faces of Dak and Jak, of Lamorak and Ta-lann rose up before her eyes.

       *I could frag them both. Right now. Right here. Trigger a fireball and poke the buckeye in through
this gap in the shutters. I could drop to the ground, be well out of the blast radius. I wouldn 't even have
to hear them scream as they burn. *

      She shook the image out of her head. / //'ved with Hari way too long,she thought. She
understood too well the trap of fury to give in to it here; that it was a righteous fury made it more
dangerous, not less.

       She monologued,*ButIwon't. I'll wait, and I'II listen. If there's killing to be done, I can do it
after I understand what's going on. *

       "I don't think you understand the gravity of this situation," said the unfamiliar voice, as tonelessly as
a man ordering breakfast. "Simon Jester has already embarrassed the Emperor. Not only does he seem
to operate with impunity, even here in the capital of the Empire, but this graffito of his has appeared on
walls within the Colhari Palace itself."

       *Hah. I've become a fad. *

        "I'm doing everything I can, Toa-Sytell. No one seems to know who Simon Jester is, or where
he'll appear next."

       *And I can thank Konnos and his fancy spell for that.*

       "I believe," Toa-Sytell said, "that these accusees are still within the city limits of Ankhana. They
number seventeen men, and many of them have taken their families—as many as thirty-eight persons
altogether. Perhaps your energies may be more profitably spent searching out their hiding place?"

       Pallas swallowed and hooked a buckeye from her hip pocket. She couldn't see the sigils of power
that scribed its surface, not being in mindview, but she seemed to feel them scorching the flesh of her
palm.

       She might have to frag these men after all.

       *Majesty knows where they are; Konnos 'spell wouldn 't have altered that at all. Take two lives,
to save thirty-six. *She drew in a deep breath, preparing physically, while she clamped a mental hand
down upon her emotions.

       Majesty said apologetically, "It's a big city."

       *Hah?*

       He went on, "I'll put my people on it right away, but I can't make any promises. There's lots of
places to hide, and more than a few of them aren't open to the Subjects."
       "Do what you can on this. There is vastly more than money riding on it, as you might understand. If
the Barons of the outlying marches see that defying Ma'elKoth is easily and safely accomplished...I
believe you can imagine the possible consequences."

       "Yeah. Another civil war, we don't need."

      Pallas found herself panting, white-knuckled fingers crushing the buckeye within her grip. What
kind of game was Majesty playing? And she'd almostkilled him, almost killed them both; only by the
grace of some kind god had she waited long enough to hear this last...

      She barely half listened while the two men went on to other, less pressing business, dealing with
the day-to-day politics of the War-rengangs and tidbits of rumor that Majesty had picked up from the
Subjects. This Chameleon that held her to the wall wouldn't last forever; she'd begun to move away when
she heard Majesty say, "One last thing. I need to know what this warrant on Caine is about. What's he
wanted for?"

      Caine ?Pallas' heart thumped painfully in her chest; she stopped moving, stopped breathing, and
squeezed her eyes shut to listen harder.

        "I do not believe that this is any of your concern." Majesty's tone of nonchalance sounded faintly
forced. "He's a friend of mine. I don't want this...arrangement between you and me to get in the way of
that friendship. I also don't want that friendship to get in the way of our arrangement, you follow? I don't
want to turn him in without knowing what he's in for."

      Turn him in? Hari'shere?He's here now? Pallas' mouth went dry and her stomach clenched and
her heart skipped into a triphammer beat. Her fingers tingled uncomfortably, as though she'd just slapped
someone.

       "Don't concern yourself with this. I took Caine into custody earlier this evening, but he's not in any
sort of trouble. Not fromus, at least; although I do believe that the Monasteries might be a wee bit upset
with him. In fact, I've been told in no uncertain terms that Ma'elKoth plans to hire him." "Hire him? For
what?"

      "What else? To find Simon Jester and kill him, of course."Of course, Pallas thought
disconnectedly.Why else would he be here, if not to fuck up my life again ?

       She missed the two men's friendly leave-taking while images and thoughts whirled scattershot
across the surface of her mind. Caine would know, of course—he'd know who Simon Jester was and
where Simon Jester was and where thetokali were—the Studio would have simply shown him her cube.
And she knew, too, that he wouldn't really hunt her down; not even Caine wasthat low. It was clear, it
was all too fucking clear exactly what was going on.

       The Studio had decided she' d bitched it up, this time. They' d decided that she couldn't do this on
her own. They'd decided they could make a bigger bang by sending in The Mighty Caine to save her
useless, incompetent, female ass.

       With Caine to ride in at the last moment and save the day, they'd make a hundred million more
than they would if she somehow managed to pull this off on her own.

      All her stifled rage roared into her chest like a waterfall. Didn't they understand dial this wasn't
some stupidgame! That this wasn't just entertainment? Thatlives rode on this,real lives, lives of real
people who loved and grieved and laughed and bled?

      And he had to be justloving this; she knew that too. Hari must be grinning right down to the scurf
between his toes. She could almost hear his smugly patronizing voice say it:See? You can't make it
without me. Why even try?

       And she heard her own response, too, or rather her lack of one, her inarticulate rage at being
treated like a bit player in her own life, like a sidekick, nothing but a motivation for someone else's
Adventure. They weren't going to give her the chance to have a story of her own.

      The light had gone out behind the shutters.

       She pattered sideways around the building, moving across the wall on all fours at the speed of a
fast walk. Down below her, at the archway where Majesty had gone in, she could see the top of the
hood of his cloak as he stood by the wall. He worked his tinder-box to light a cigar, littlescrrting sparks
drifting down toward the street. No one else was in sight; Toa-Sytell must have left by a different door.

       She waited until the cigar was well lit, then she canceled the Chameleon and fell on him like an old
building.

      Her feet slammed into his shoulders and he went down hard; she bounced off and rolled into a
low, balanced stance. Stunned by the unexpected attack, Majesty couldn't do more than shake his head
dazedly before she put her bare hand against his cheek and said, "You know me."

      This was how Konnos had told her she could cancel the effect of his spell.

       First the haze cleared from his eyes, then she watched amazement grow there as her canceling of
the Eternal Forgetting allowed the different things he knew about her to slowly relink themselves within
his mind.

      "P-Pallas," he gasped, "great stinkingCurse! What did...How did...And Caine...Caine—"

      She crouched over him. "I know all about it. This is a dangerous game you're playing, Majesty."

      "I, I, uh, shit...What did you hit me like that for?"

       "I had to hit somebody," she said. "You were available. Now listen while I tell you what we're
going to do."

      He sat up and began dusting himself off. "You know, I'll take a lot from you. But you've really
pushed this too far. Nobody lays a hand on me—"

      Pallas interrupted him with a forehand slap on his ear. "You mean like that?"

      Half-stunned again, he could only shake his head in disbelief.

       She held her open hand up in front of his face. "You don't like being touched like that? Just
imagine what kind of touch you'll get fromCaine, after he finds out you're in bed with Toa-Sytell when
you're supposed to be helping me."

      She crouched there and let him think about it.
       It didn't take him long. "Hey, uh, hey," he said hastily, "I've been helping you all along; I'm even
juicing Toa-Sytell to keep him out of your way."

       "Maybe I understand that," she said. "You think Caine will?"

       "Well, but, yeah, but...you don't have totell him, do you?"

       "Maybe I don't. But I want you to understand that I'm kind of angry about this."

       He rubbed his ear and slowly nodded. "I guess I can follow that. But it's got nothing to do with
you. It wasn't me that fingered you to the Cats, don't you see?"

     "No, I don't see. What see is that you're holding me in the bag until you get a better price from
Toa-Sytell."

       "Pallas, I swear—!"

       "Don't swear. You know what I've been doing these last forty hours or so?"

       "I, uh—"

        "In between staying a step ahead of the Cats and the King's Eyes and generally trying to stay alive,
I've been examining an innocent family, probing them in some ugly and extremely uncomfortable ways, to
make sure none of them was a spy, or had a telltale planted on them—or in them. The father's name is
Konnos. You'd like him, Majesty. He works for the government." She leaned close and bared her teeth.
"Just like you."

       "Pallas, hey, Pallas—"

       "Shut up." She found herself suddenly short of breath and sweating, and her heart thumped inside
her chest as she imagined pulling the bladewand from her wrist sheath and just slicing his damned head
off. She shivered with cold fury, and she wondered fleetingly if this is how Caine felt, just before he killed
someone. "Itrusted you, Majesty. I trusted you, and you lied to me, and people I care about died."

       "Think about what you're doing, Pallas," Majesty said, licking his lips, shifting his legs to scoot
back from her. "You," she said, "will never lie to me again." "Pallas, really, this isn't necessary—

       "I think it is. have no one left to depend on, Majesty, and I have thirty-six people counting on me
to save their lives. There were some people, three or four, that I knew I could trust. They're dead now.
I'm taking no more chances." She shut her mouth abruptly. Why tell him any of this? She was only talking
to herself, really, trying to justify to herself what she was about to do. i She dipped into a pocket on the
inside of her belt and brought out a prism-shaped crystal of quartz, slightly smaller than one of her fingers.
It rode within a platinum cage, attached to a platinum chain from which it dangled; she twirled the chain
between her fingers to make the crystal spin and splinter off shards of moonlight.

     "Don't do it," Majesty said hoarsely, trying to sound fierce. "Don't put magick on me, Pallas.
Nobody puts magick on me."

       A single breath slid her into mindview and kindled the glow of the force-pattern within the crystal;
the briefest caress of her Shell triggered the Charm. The moonsplinters off the planes of quartz took on a
phantom solidity in mindview; the splinters shot outward, carrying the force-pattern of the Charm like
poison upon a blade. They pierced Majesty's Shell, and the shining net of the Charm spread over his
Shell's dangerous yellow-shot orange like oil poured upon rippling water. One scant breath later, the
shades of anger and fear faded into the greens of serenity and the warm, solid earth tones of absolute
loyalty.

       "You're sure?" she asked lightly, surfacing out of mindview, "It's just a little spell."

        Majesty took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. "All right," he said. "I trust you. Do what you
think is right."

        /deserved that, she thought, wincing. It made her feel a little sick. Forget that she didn't really
have any choice. Forget how many lives depended on her—and on him. She had reached into his heart
and made herself the best friend he'd ever had, closer than a sister, closer than his mother. It was a
terrible thing to do, even to an animal; to do this to a man—how had she come to this, all of a sudden?
The woman she had been, only a few days ago, would never have considered such a thing. She'd
enchanted that crystal against an emergency, a desperate situation, where she'd have no other choice.
Did this qualify?

      She shook herself; she'd worry about hypothetical erosion of her morals after the people in her
care were safely away from Ank-hana. "Come on, Majesty, get up," she said. "We have some work to
do."

       Majesty rose obediently and gazed at her like a loving puppy. "Whatever you say, Pallas."

     the stinging yellowglare of the Ankhanan sun stabbed through Caine's eyelids like the flash of a
bomb and brought him bolting upright out of the chair where he'd finally slept.

        For a second that stretched toward the infinite, he struggled with the gluey mess inside his head,
trying to fit together where he was and what was happening; then his eyes finally focused on the six men
in the livery of the Household Knights who formed a sort of human wall between him and His Grace the
Imperial Duke of Public Order.

      Toa-Sytell stood by the window, his hand still on the curtain that he'd just now thrust aside.
Sunlight streamed past him, filled with swirling motes of dust. "How are you feeling?"

       Caine scratched at his tangled hair. "That depends. Did you bring coffee?"

       "I'm afraid not."

       "Then I feel like shit." Caine squinted at the Duke, who now moved away from the window into
the light. Purplish smears trailed downward from the Duke's eyes, which were themselves bloodshot and
puffy. "You're not looking too well yourself. Late night?"

       "That's not your concern. I've come to take you to the Emperor."

       "We could have done this last night."

       "No, we could not."

       "And the reason for this is—?"
      Toa-Sytell spread his hands. "Ma'elKoth did not choose to summon you until this morning."

      Caine nodded, scratching disgustedly at his beard; keeping others waiting is a privilege of power
everywhere, but he didn't have to like it. In fact, he'd probably be pretty damn angry, once he was fully
awake.

      "You don't think you still need these guys, do you?" he said, waving a dismissive hand at the
guardsmen. "I thought we'd reached a sort of understanding."

      A sere smile barely bent the Duke's mouth. "Perhaps I should be confident that I can depend upon
your good nature; I imagine that Creele was."

       Last night, when Toa-Sytell had cautiously installed Caine in this room in the Colhari Palace, a
room already provided with a generous platter of cold meats, bread and fruit, a carafe of wine, and a
piping-hot bath freshly drawn, Caine had shaken his head and given a bitter laugh. He'd said, "And to
think I just now killed a man for turning me over to you."

      Toa-Sytell, watching from the doorway as Caine's shackles were removed by the King's Eyes
who'd accompanied them, had replied without a hint of humor, "Perhaps you were somewhat hasty."

       While Caine picked at the food, Toa-Sytell had revealed why the reward had been issued, why
he'd been arrested and brought here. The stinging irony of it left Caine speechless.

      The Emperor wanted to hire him to find Simon Jester. Wanted topay him to do what he was
already doing, wanted to offer all the resources of the Imperial Government to help him in his search.

      Creele, all unknowing, had been doing Caine& favor.

       Caine had very slowly and carefully laid aside the sandwich he'd made, swallowed, and said,
"Sure. What does it pay and when can I start?"

      But here was the sticking point: Ma'elKoth wished to personally interview him. Toa-Sytell didn't
know why. Caine was invited to bathe and wash his clothing, and to hold himself in readiness. He'd
eagerly done so, even mending the tear in his breeches from the ogre's tusk; his fingers had trembled,
shook with the anticipation and the astonishment he felt at this swift surge of fortune—palace access, an
excuse to meet privately with his target, and the full resources of the King's Eyes to find his wife.

      Then he'd waited.

      After that, he'd waited some more.

       Alone in the sumptuous room, he'd paced up and down, growing impatient and angry, then furious.
The door was locked from the outside, and when he'd rattled it, the solicitous voice of a guard posted in
the hall had inquired if there was anything he needed. He'd checked the concealed service door,
remembering its location from the week he'd spent in this palace masquerading as a servant before the
murder of Toa-Phelathon, but that too was locked. He could, he had supposed, break a window and
have a chance of escape, but to what?

      He was imprisoned here more by his own wishes, his own hopes and desires, than by the locks on
the doors. This was an opportunity he couldn't bear to let pass.
      His thoughts had twisted around the axis of the female prisoner in the Donjon like a pinwheel in the
hand of a running child. Shanna could be in that cell. She could be safe.

      She could be in his arms within an hour, or less. Because of that spell, it was certainly possible that
Berne could have captured her without understanding who she was, just taken her into custody for her
proximity to the scene, arrested her because she was there. It was possible.

      It was also possible that the prisoner in the Donjon was this Ta-lann woman. Shanna could be
anywhere. It could be she was having a lavish dinner at a club on the South Bank. It could be she was
cornered in an Alientown back alley, fighting for her life against the Cats.

      It could be she was already dead.

      The uncertainty had chewed at him like a rat trapped inside his skull.

      Ma'elKoth had never come, had never sent for him. As the night crept by he had only been able to
pace angrily and watch the level of rose-scented oil in the lamp's base shrink by the millimeter; he'd
counted with the beating of his heart each minute of Shanna's life that he wasted in this room.

      Sometime past midnight he had gotten over any regret for Creele's murder.

       Finally exhaustion had dragged him into a soft overstuffed chair. He had sat, brooding on his
helplessness, until that brooding passed seamlessly into sleep.

       Now he preceded his escorts into the corridors of the Colhari Palace. The six Household Knights
followed him in a shallow arc, and Toa-Sytell came last, his hands clasped behind him and an expression
of thoughtful attention on his face. Their boot heels made no noise on the deep teal runner that half
covered the pale, vaguely peachy marble floor. Toa-Sytell directed Caine verbally— turn here, here
again, take these stairs.

       The stairs were near an open archway that led onto a vertical shaft with oiled ropes at the back
and sides that stretched upward and downward out of sight. Near the arch was a bellpull. Caine nodded
toward this arrangement as they passed. "Too many of us for the Shifting Room, eh?"

       Toa-Sytell replied, "Yes, the ogres on the donkey wheel in the cellar cannot manage more than
three or...But then, you'd know all this, I imagine." In his voice whispered an odd huski-ness, a thickness
of some unidentifiable emotion.

       Caine shrugged and walked on to the stairs. They went down two floors in silence, and along
another corridor, and Caine could now detect a growing carnal scent, a coppery, meat-locker kind of
smell.

       "You and I are nearly of an age, Caine," Toa-Sytell said abruptly. "You cannot be more than four
or five years my junior. Do you have children?"

      Caine stopped and squinted at the Duke over his shoulder. "What's it to you?"

      "Sons are a man's pride, Caine, and daughters are the comfort of his age. I am only curious."

      Caine shrugged. "Maybe someday."
       "I had two. Sons that loved, Caine. Who grew into men of honor, strong and fierce. Tashinel and
Jarrothe. They were both killed, only a month apart, in the Succession War."

      He said this as though he were reporting a rise in crop prices in the markets, but something dark
and potent flickered behind his face.

       Caine's eyes held those of the Duke for a moment, gravely acknowledging his loss.Another knife
aimed at my conscience, he thought. But compared with the other wounds his conscience had taken,
this was barely a scratch.

        Eventually, he dropped his gaze as though ashamed, then turned to walk again.Let him think I
feel it more than I do, if that s what he wants. Let him take what comfort he can.

      And I should remember that Berne might not be my only enemy in the palace.

       Toa-Sytell said, "Your destination is through that archway at the hall's end. Take care not to
speak, or in any way interrupt the Emperor. He's engaged in what he calls his Great Work, and will
address you when and if he so desires."

      "Great Work?" The capitals had been audible in the Duke's tone.

      "You will see. Go, now."

      The bloody scent grew thicker. By the time Caine reached the doorway he couldtaste it, like raw
meat a couple of days old.

        This room had been the Lesser Ballroom in the days of Toa-Phelathon, an intimate space forfetes
of less than a thousand guests. Sunlight strong enough to singe the eyeballs glared in through the huge
windows that dominated the south wall, narrow Gothic-arched windows ten meters high and separated
by sturdy columns of imported granite. The center of the parquet dancing floor had been cut away, and a
shallow bowl half a stone's throw across had been scooped from the limestone beneath.

        The resulting pit was lined with coals that glimmered red and cast a wilting heat, but no smoke or
scent of any kind; supported on legs of brass above it was a massive cauldron, shallow as a stew bowl
but broad enough to swim laps in. The cauldron was tended by pages who raced around its edges,
stirring with long wooden poles held high above their sweat-soaked heads or pouring hods of this or that
into the brew, while pairs of others roamed from side to side, bearing massive leather-lung bellows.
These they rested on the floor and leaned upon with all their weight, to breathe searing yellow life into the
coals below.

       Within the cauldron appeared to be boiling mud, or very wet clay; it was from here that Caine
thought the blood-scent—as well as some bitter, acidic undernote—might be coming. The entire room
rippled and shimmered with heat.

      Barefoot across the surface of the boiling mud walked the Emperor Ma' elKoth.

       His size alone made him unmistakable. Caine stood just within the archway and studied him from
there, mindful of that finger poking at the back his head, that nagging sense of familiarity to the way the
Emperor had moved, had gestured and spoken in the recording Kollberg had shown him.
       The Emperor wore only a kilt of crimson velvet bordered with a weave of cloth-of-gold, and there
was something of the dinosaur, of the dragon, in the slow, majestic grace of his movements, the way he
would flow from pose to pose with evident satisfaction, as though the play of muscle in his massive arms
and shoulders, chest and back, gave him some deeply spiritual joy to be savored; as though it answered
some personal aesthetic need in a fashion as primal as sex. This wasn't it—Caine couldn't find that tug of
familiarity here.

      These movements were as stylized as a bodybuilder's, and as precise as ballet.

       The boiling clay beneath Ma'elKoth spat smoking gobbets up his legs; he paid them no more
attention than he did the breeze from the pages' bellows. His eyes shone pale shamrock green and more:
fluorescent emerald. He raised his hands like a priest extending benediction, and from the boiling clay
there rose a formless mass, still spitting steam and roiling with its heat.

        The mass of clay, a hundred kilos or more, hung in the heat-shimmer, two meters above the
surface, supported only by Ma'el-Koth's will. Pseudopodia squirmed outward from the mass, live limbs
that stretched and seemed to form themselves of their own accord. Clay fell away from the mass,
dropping like fresh shit back into the mud beneath; four of the limbs stretched and thinned while one
contracted, and the mass took on the shape of a man.

       The man-shape looked small, even tiny, beside the Emperor's bulk. It rotated in the air, its features
refining. Ripples and folds of what would represent clothing passed in waves over its surface. Its face
slowly swung through Caine's view; this face had a close-ch'pped mustache and thin jawline beard, a
nose with the slight bend of an old break and a scar across it, and his mouth went suddenly dry.

      He lifted a foot to step forward, to get closer, and Ma'elKoth said, "Please do not move. This is,
you might imagine, difficult."

       He had never even glanced toward the archway. There was no way he could have seen Caine
standing there; not with his eyes, anyway.

      Caine stared at the statue, barely daring to breathe.Tyshalle's bloody Axe, he thought.That's me.

        And by the time this thought was completed, it was true: it was a replica, perfect in every detail
save only that it still had the color of the clay—it even matched his posture in the doorway. It hung in the
air, rotating slowly like a body on the gallows, while Ma'elKoth studied his handiwork. The Emperor's
voice had the warm and distant rumbling tone of a father heard through the walls of the womb. "You may
move now, Caine. Please come in." The pages who scurried around the cauldron, stirring and pumping
the bellows, barely spared him a glance as he entered the room. Caine's step was tentative, and his chest
ached with some emotion that he couldn't at first identify because he really couldn't remember ever having
felt this before—seconds passed before he realized that it was awe.

      This had been the most astonishing display of total mastery he'd ever seen: it was impossible for
him to conceive of a man more completely in control of every clement of his environment.

      And I've contracted to kill this man,Caine thought.I'd better catch him in his sleep.

        Ma'elKoth strode across the boiling surface of the clay, oblivious to the steam and the heat, the
Caine-manikin he'd made bobbing along behind him like a puppy. His smile of welcome warmed Caine
like a shot of whiskey, and he said, "I cannot quite see where this piece fits. What do you think?"
      "Piece?" Caine said hoarsely. What piece? Piece of what? "I don't understand."

       An Olympian chuckle:"Of course not. You look on this—" He nodded toward the clay
statue."—as a finished work of art. To Me, it is only a single piece:of that."

      Ma'elKoth swept up a hand to point behind and above Caine's head. Caine turned and looked up,
and up, and up. His mouth hung openlike a child's does, as hestared up the side of a skyscraper. It
was a face.

        It could only have belonged to a Titan, to Atlas who carried the sky on his shoulders. From just
above the arch to the very ceiling of the ballroom, thirty-five meters above, stretched this Gargantuan
relief of a face.

       It was less than half finished. Some parts were still bare wall; others had the structure of bones
building slowly outward. Only the brow and one eye were truly complete. It was built out of people.

      Like the jigsaw puzzle of an insane god, it had been constructed of human bodies, layered and
pieced and interlaced like corpses in a mass grave; an instant later Caine realized that these weren't
bodies, of course, not actual corpses, but were clay statues like the one of him that floated at
Ma'elKoth's shoulder.

       The sheer immensity of it was staggering; when he thought of how much work it had taken to form
each perfect manikin and fit each into place, when he thought of how much work remained to be done,
that earlier awe swelled into his throat, choking off any real hope that Ma'elKoth was just another
thaumaturge, merely a man of power writ large. Caine could only stare.

      "Do you like it?" Ma'elKoth boomed. "I call itThe Future of Humanity."

       At these words something clicked within Caine's mind, and he saw it: he had an instant's prophetic
vision that built the bones outward, and fleshed them, and painted them with color.

      The face was Ma'elKoth's.

      Caine whispered, "It looks like you."

      "Of course it does. It's a serf-portrait."

       Ma'elKoth's voice came now from just at his side, and Caine turned to find himself
nose-to-collarbone with the Emperor's immense chest. He must have leaped down from the cauldron's
rim as silently as a cat. Caine could smell him: rich masculine sweat over the lavender-scented oil that
gleamed in his hair and beard, and the thick, meaty odor of the clay that caked his bare flesh. Ma'elKoth
showed his perfectly white, perfectly even, and impressively large teeth.

      "All great art is ultimately self-portraiture, Caine."

      There was something so daunting about being within the reach of those bulging arms that Caine
couldn't speak, could only nod in response.

      The Caine manikin was beside him, perfect in height and every feature: Caine looked into his own
eyes modeled in clay, and could see now that even individual hairs were modeled into the beard.
      Ma'elKoth said, "And this is the piece with which I'm working right now, but I cannot quite see
where it needs to go. Every piece must have its own place; every piece must contribute to the whole. I
have been working with this one from time to time for two days now, and I still do not see it. Perhaps
you have a suggestion?"

         Caine shook his head and forced words through his constricted throat. "I wouldn't presume."

         "Just so," Ma'elKoth sighed. "Well, then. If no proper place can be found—

       The Emperor lifted his hand up before his eyes and suddenly made a fist; the Caine manikin
convulsed and squeezed out of shape, squirting its clay-flesh out between the fingers of some invisible
giant.

       For just one instant Caine thought he saw an expression on his face of clay, of some hideous and
inexpressible agony, and then it too was crushed. Another gesture from Ma'elKoth, and the irregular ball
of clay lofted up over the rim of the cauldron like a child's ball to splash down into the clay from whence
it had come.

         Ma'elKoth said, "Any questions?"

         "You," Caine replied slowly, "are not subtle."

      "Subtlety is for the weak. It is a wheedling tactic they use to achieve their desires, when they lack
(he power to do so directly."

         Funny,Caine thought. /can remember saying almost the same thing, more than once.

      A page walked by carrying a large bucket of dark liquid, which he then poured over the rim of the
cauldron. Caine watched him do this, then squinted up at Ma'elKoth.

         "Here's a question: what's this stuff they keep pouring into the clay? It smells like blood."

         "Itis blood," Ma'elKoth replied gravely. "All Great Works are built with blood; did you not know
this?"

         "That's, ah—" Caine cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That's usually just a metaphor."

         "Is it?"

      He rubbed his hands together briskly and suddenly clapped a comradely hand on Caine's back,
hard enough to make him stagger. "Come. I must wash, and you, of course, are hungry and should eat.
We have much discussion ahead of us."

         He strode off through the arch with a swinging gait so fast that Caine had to jog to keep up.

       the breakfast tablelooked to be laid out for a banquet, loaded with everything from vegetable
souffles to stuffed quail. Caine sipped from a tall frost-rimmed goblet of iced coffee and tried not to think
of Greek myths and pomegranate seeds.

      Ma'elKoth lay on a curving couch at the far end of the table, reclining with leonine ease. He'd
made skillful small talk while Caine had sat beside his bath; the three lovely girls who'd shared the bath
with him, scrubbing away the hardening clay, had drawn no more of Ma'elKoth's attention than had the
table alongside the tub.

      Caine hunched over the table so that the hilts of his new knives poked into his ribs; he was acutely
aware of the presence of all seven of these blades. On the stroll from the baths to the breakfast chamber,
Ma'elKoth had suddenly turned to him and said joyfully, "I must beg your pardon for a poor host. I have
only now realized why you seem so uncomfortable and reticent in conversation. Please follow Me."

       The Emperor had led him to the Arms Gallery on the second floor and ushered him into a
bedchamber-sized room whose walls and floor were filled with rack after rack of every conceivable style
of knife, from bent-blades likekhukris to fan-hiltedmains gauche, faztar-like punching daggers,
fanto-style chisel blades, even a few with the foot-long isosceles blade of an Arkansas Toothpick.
"Please," Ma'elKoth had said. "Help yourself."

        Caine had picked up a rippled-blade dress dagger similar to a Florentine flame stiletto and turned
it in his fingers. They were alone, together, in a small room with a thick door, and the place was full of
knives.

      "You know," he'd said, "Creele believed that someone had hired me to kill you. You might be well
advised to keep me unarmed."

       Deep amusement had sparkled within the Emperor's brilliant green eyes. "Am I a fool? You,
Caine, are never unarmed. I could cut your arms from your shoulders, and you would still kill with your
feet. Please, accept My hospitality. It is My Wish that you be completely at ease."

      At ease? In the presence of Ma'elKoth?

      "That's a joke, right?"

      "Of course."

      And so Caine had sat down to breakfast with every sheath full of fresh steel.

      Caine had been waiting all morning for Ma'elKoth to get down to business. Now, finally, he could
wait no more.

       "Duke Toa-Sytell explained what you want of me. I'm willing. I only want to know what resources
I can use, and what you'll pay me."

       He knew he was overplaying, showing too much eagerness, but he couldn't help it and he no
longer cared: that sharp need was there, in his guts, pulling him along. He had to get out of this place, had
to get onto the streets and onto Shanna's trail.

       "Caine, please," Ma'elKoth said languidly from his couch. "It's vulgar to discuss business during a
meal, and bad for the digestion."

      "You're not eating," Caine pointed out.

       "I no longer eat," Ma'elKoth said with a heavy shrug. "Nor do I sleep. In small, peripheral ways
like these, power such as Mine can be a burden."
      So much for catching him napping, or slipping a couple drops of arsenic into his stew,Caine
thought. He let a little of his impatience creep into his voice. "Well, if we're not going to talk business,
why are we wasting our time?"

       "This time is not wasted, Caine. I am using it to study you." Caine carefully set down his goblet; he
didn't want to slop coffee onto the linen tablecloth if his hand should start to shake. "Oh?"

      "Indeed. It was a Power, Caine, that drew your name and image from My mind, a Power from
Outside that answered My query: Who shall bring this pestiferous Simon Jester into My grasp? Initially, I
was inclined to trust this happy accident, that the Power showed me a face I knew so well that Drawing
you here required less than two full days."

       "Drawing me?" Caine said, frowning. "You think I'm here because of some kind of—

       "Let's not quibble, dear boy. I desired your presence, and here you are. These are facts; the
mechanism behind them is irrelevant. Furthermore, while I am gratified that you now feel enough at your
ease to interrupt Me, it is discourteous to do so. Even rude."

       The surface of Ma'elKoth's tone remained light, but subterranean echoes beneath his contrabasso
rumble hinted that some large and hungry creature slept fitfully, down within his chest. He waited,
outwardly calm, staring at Caine with limpid hazel eyes—Hey, Caine thought,weren't his eyes blue,
before? Or green? Momentarily distracted, Caine let the silence stretch to a painful length before coming
back to himself. He met the Emperor's gaze somewhat sheepishly. "Apologies, Imperial Maj—

       "Accepted," Ma'elKoth said briskly. "I do not stand much on ceremony here, as you may have
noticed. Ceremony is for insignificant men who lick others' pretended awe like spittle from their chins. As
I was saying, My original intention of simply allowing you to undertake this task has fallen by the wayside
because I, Caine, am a man cursed with curiosity. I asked the fatal question: WhyyouT Caine spread his
hands. "I'm wondering the same thing myself." "My quest for the answer to this question led Me to
consider your career." Ma'elKoth suddenly sat upright and laid his palms upon the table between them.
His eyes burned. "Do you have any conception of how extraordinary a man you are, Caine?" "Stop,
you'll make me blush."

       "Don't be ridiculous. Of the six crucial turning points of the history in this Empire over this past
turbulent decade, you were a central participantin four of them. The only tangible links between the four
are their magnitude, and the fact that you, personally, affected the outcome."

       "Really?"

      Ma'elKoth ticked them off on his fingers. "One, the assassination of Prince-Regent
Toa-Phelathon—" He held up a hand."—do not bore Me with protestations of innocence—that triggered
the Succession War, which ended in the destruction of the Menelethid Dynasty and My accession to the
Throne. Two, you led the small party of adventurers who, at great personal risk, came out of the
Boedecken Waste with news of the rise of Khulan G'Thar, and his unification of the ogrilloi, in time for
Ankhana to fortify its border cities and raise two armies against his onslaught."

       "That was kind of by accident," Caine said. He and his partners had been looking for artifacts and
treasure among the ruins of an age-old primal metropolis—from the days thousands of years before when
the elves still built and lived in cities—when they'd been captured by a nomadic ogrillo tribe. The bloody
games the ogrilloi had played with them, and Caine's bloodier escape with his two surviving companions,
madeRetreat from the Boedecken still a popular rental, after nearly a decade.
        "Nonetheless. More than a year later, as incompetence among the Ankhanan generals allowed the
Khulan Horde to threaten the very existence of humanity on this continent, it was you, Caine, who
infiltrated Khulan G'thar's personal guard. Not only did you furnish the Ankhanan army with G'thar's
complete order of battle in time for our armies to link with the Monastic Expeditionary Force and meet
the Khulan Horde at Ceraeno, but you reentered the Horde, engaged the Khulan himself in single
combat, and killed him."

       "Single combat," Caine said with a slow smile, "is a little bit of an overstatement. I snuck up behind
him during the battle and stabbed him in the back. The old bastard was tougher than I thought—he broke
my arm with that morningstar he carried for a scepter. can still feel it every time it rains." The warm pride
that snuck into his tone was only peripherally related to Ma'elKoth's praise;Last Stand at Ceraeno was
popularly considered Caine's greatest Adventure.

      Ma'elKoth shrugged. "Details are only trivia. On that particular occasion, you certainly saved the
Empire single-handedly. In fact, as I glean stories and rumors from across the continent, you are involved
almost constantly in great doings of one sort or another..."

       His voice went deadly soft, a silken garrote sliding across a soft throat. "And I wonder how it is
that one man can be so relentlesslyimportant. Curious, isn't it?"

      It's because the Studio sends me where the action is,he thought, and he didn't have a better
explanation. He was painfully aware of how treacherous had become the ground on which this
conversation walked; it had suddenly shifted from dry and pleasant flattery to hungry quicksand.

       How much did Ma'elKoth really know about theseAktiri he hunted so ruthlessly?

        "Now a Power has told Me that you are the only man who can catch Simon Jester. I spent all of
last night attempting to determine why that is so. While you slept, I subjected you to every test at My
command."

       Caine's mouth went entirely dry. "And?" "And I found nothing. Whatever power it is that drives
you to the center of these events, it is not magickal. The only peculiarity I found was the color of your
Shell—it's black, you know, and quite unreadable. This perhaps explains some of your success against
thaumaturges—I know you've killed quite a number of adepts, in your day—and other magick-using
creatures. Must be a substantial advantage, when your emotions and intentions cannot be read."
"Sometimes," Caine said, letting out a long, slow breath. "But this is hardly unique; it is only rare. Lacking
the resources to satisfy My curiosity by Myself, I have come to another course of action: toask you."

       "Because you assume I know."

        Ma'elKoth nodded ponderously. "Indeed. I hope you do; frustration I find intolerable. In My
frustration of last night, I nearly killed you."

       Caine blinked. "Oh?" he said thinly.

        "A spell. A power. I closely considered taking your life so that I could absorb some of the
memories of your departing spirit." "That, ah," Caine said carefully, "seems a little extreme..." "Well, yes,"
Ma'elKoth said with a dry chuckle. "Understandinghow you can catch Simon Jester might have done Me
little good without having you here to perform the task."
       "I guess I still don't understand why you can't find, uh, this guy yourself," Caine said.

       "It is a spell of concealment that Simon Jester has done, that is still in action. I have been able to
analyze its effects, but I cannot counteract it—not yet, perhaps not ever. The Power from Outside told
Me that this spell is easily broken once I lay hands upon its caster. It operates directly on the mind,
splintering off the bits and pieces of knowledge I have about him; it prevents Me from connecting one to
another, or even noticing that a connection is possible. It is infuriating to think that I may already know
who Simon Jester is, and that I'm simply prevented from putting a face to the name."

     Oh boy,Caine thought.Oh, holy shit. It wasn't a flash of inspiration, rather it was more of a slow
dawning: he came to realize that the answer to this question was the same as the answer to the previous
one.

       It's because I'm an Actor.

       Everyone here, the way their eyes would go vague whenever he mentioned Simon Jester, or Pallas
Ril—the reason this didn't happen to him was that in his heart, in his mind, in his cherished dreams of
happiness, there was no Simon Jester. There was no Pallas Ril. There was only Shanna. He didn't love
the abstraction, the Scarlet Pimpernel game she'd been playing; he didn't love the character, the persona
of Pallas Ril. It was Shanna, had always been Shanna.

       Would always be Shanna, forever.

        There was no answer that could be made, even if he'd wanted to. If she'd been his worst enemy
alive, the Studio's conditioning would strangle his voice, even kill him, before the truth of her could pass
his lips. And the closer Ma'elKoth came to the answer of his questions, the closer he came to the truth of
Caine.

       Truth that was, in this case, lethal.

      I'm going to die, here,Caine thought.Eventually, he's going to realize what's going on, what I
am, and then he's going to kill me.

      And even if he doesn 't, I've contracted to take him down. When I try, he 'II snuff me like a
candle.

        Death, like the sun, was something that not even Caine could stare at too steadily; he wondered
fleetingly if Creele and Toa-Phelathon and his countless other victims would be waiting for him, then he
put it out of his mind.

        The best I can hope for is to get Shanna back to Earth alive. Win or lose, live or die, I don't give a
shit so long as she's all right.

       "What is it?" Ma'elKoth asked, leaning forward and studying Caine's face. "You've come to some
realization, I can see it. Tell me. Now."

       "I have," Caine said, "come to the realization that I don't really need to be polite to you anymore."

       "Oh?" Ma'elKoth looked more amused than offended.

       He shrugged, and gave the Emperor a cynical half smile. "If you didn't need me to catch Simon
Jester for you, I'd be dead already. You said so yourself. So maybe I'm thinking it's stupid to worry
about staying on your good side."

      Some of the amusement in the Emperor's eyes began to fade, and his rumble sounded faintly
dangerous.

      "Stupid?"

      "Be reasonable: accept the facts, and let me get on with it."

        "Reasonable, indeed," Ma'elKoth purred. He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his
fingers before his face. " 'The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable man persists
in trying to adapt the world to himself. Thus all progress depends on the unreasonable man.'"

       That's Shaw!Caine thought, thunderstruck. That particular quote was a favorite of
Duncan's—where would Ma'elKoth have come across a quote from an Earth author? And a banned
one, at that...

      "You know," he said carefully, "my father used to say that to me."

       "I know." Ma'elKoth's smile broke like the dawn. "You quoted him to Me once before, and I
never forget."

      This shit has gone far enough,he thought, and said, "All right, I give up."

      "Eh?"

       Caine shook his head irritably. "I've been trying to figure out where I know you from. I mean, I
know your reputation, from the Plains War and the Succession War, and I've seen what you've done
here in Ankhana, but I keep getting the feeling that we've met, that Iknow you. Your manner—the way
you talk, especially, the way every other sentence is some sweeping statement about the Nature of
Reality or something—I know we've met before, somewhere, but I'm damned if I remember. And I'm
damned if I can understand how I could forget meeting a seven-foot, three-hundred-forty-pound adept
who looks like a sculptor's wet dream."

       "Mm, flattery." Caine could feel Ma'elKoth's answering laugh vibrate against his chest. "We do
know each other, Caine. You might say that you met Me in My former life. Once before, I hired you to
do a job of work."

      "Really?"

       "Indeed. And We worked rather closely together for a time. It was, oh, seven years ago, I'd say,
shortly before the Plains War. I hired you to retrieve the crown which once belonged to Dal'kan-nith of
the Thousand Hands."

      Caine stared, openmouthed. "You're kidding."

     The Emperor shook his head smugly. "I am not. You knew Me as Hannto of Ptreia, and I believe
by My rather uncomplimentary nickname 'the Scythe.' "

      "Hannto..." Caine breathed, unbelieving. "You'reHannto the Scythe?"
        The man who'd hired Caine to steal Dal'kannith's crown had been a thaumaturge, all right; he'd
been a rat-faced little weasel with bad skin, maybe ten years Caine's senior. Hannto was fairly adept, but
not spectacular; he specialized in necromancy to support his hobby, which was collecting relics of various
historical figures. The crown was the only surviving relic of the legendary Lipkan warlord Dal' kannith,
who later came to personify their god of war; it had been missing since Jhereth's Revolt, more than three
hundred years before, when Hannto had gotten a lead on its whereabouts. But Hannto...He was nothing,
really; Caine could have broken him in half with one hand—he was known as the Scythe for his
physique, his sunken chest and crooked back.

      And Ma'elKoth was, well...

      He wasMa 'elKoth.

       "I am not," the Emperor said, "Hannto the Scythe. Iwas Hannto the Scythe, some years ago.
Now, I am Ma'elKoth. Emperor of An-khana, Shield of Prorithun, Lion of the White Waste, and so
forth and so on."

      "I can't believe it..."

      The Emperor grinned, obviously enjoying Caine's awe. "What is so difficult to believe? With the
power of the crown—and some few other bits and pieces I'd acquired over the years—I transformed
Myself." He stretched like a sleepy lion. "I made Myself into the man I had always wished to be. Is this
so very odd? Have you, Caine, not done the same?"

      "Maybe," Caine allowed slowly, "but for me the results weren't so, ahh,spectacular..."

       "You're too modest. Your acquisition of the crown, by the way, that's the fourth of those crucial
turning points of the history of the Empire of which I spoke. And the most important, if I do say so
Myself."

       Caine continued to squint at Ma'elKoth, still trying to glimf the whiny, neurotic little necromancer
he'd known, somewhe within mis mountain of granite assurance.

      "What are you? I mean what are you, really?"

     Ma'elKoth spread his hands. "What you sec before you. I ha no secrets, Caine. Can you say the
same?"

      There was no safe answer for this; Caine only continued stare. After a moment Ma'elKoth sighed
and pressed himself i onto his feet.

      "You're done eating?"

       The plate before him had barely been touched. Caine shrugge "I guess I don't have much
appetite."

      "Fine. Follow me."

       Ma'elKoth made for the door. Caine quickly mopped the co ners of his mouth, and then
surreptitiously swiped the napkin ovt the cold sweat that had moistened his forehead.At least I manage
to change the subject.

      He wadded the napkin and tossed it onto his plate. He rose an followed in the Emperor's wake.

       the great hallof the Colhari Palace was vast, a titanic echoin space floored with marble and walled
with travertine. Caine remem bered walking that floor as he'd paced up to the Oaken Throne al most a
decade ago.

       Tel-Alcontaur, the elder brother of TOa-Phelathon, had offerei Caine a barony for his heroism
against the Khulan Horde at Cei aeno. The Studio had had no interest in their fastest-rising younj star
settling down to run a backwater holding on Overwork!, an< furthermore it was traditional for Monastic
citizens to refuse title and decorations offered by temporal monarchs, and so Caine ha( come to
respectfully turn down the old King's offer, a ceremonia formal refusal.

       He remembered how empty the Hall had felt, despite that it hac been packed nearly
shoulder-to-shoulder with nobles and digni taries and officers and prominent citizens of all descriptions.
Th< towering opalescent arches of the ceiling shot back hollow echoes of every sound and made the
place feel empty no matter how crowded it might be.

      The Oaken Throne, where Ma'elKoth now sat, still stood on its broad rectangular dais,
twenty-seven tall steps above the vast floor of the Hall; narrow tapestries with the dust- and
lampblack-smokiness of age still hung between the soaring buttresses, but this was the extent of the Hall's
resemblance to Caine's memories.

      Ma'elKolh had made some changes around here.

       The dusty light from the south windows vanished into the mag-matic glow of twelve bronze
braziers, each wide enough for a tall man to recline within. Coals of the same sort as the ones beneath the
cauldron in the Lesser Ballroom burned there, light and heat without smoke. They did not seem to
consume themselves, but their light was not so steady as that cast by lamps might be; rather it shifted and
pulsed until the shadows it cast seemed alive, and purposeful.

       In the center of the floor a gigantic platform had been built, a square nine feet high and hundreds of
feet on the side; it was draped with enough maroon-and-gold bunting to clothe the entire palace staff.

      Over it all towered a statue of Ma'elKoth, nude, cast in bronze.

      The shining bronze nude stood with arms akimbo and feet spread in a stance of authority and
power, its crotch a meter or so above the level of the platform's floor. Not even the faintest tint of
verdigris dulled the shine of its mighty musculature, and the expression on its face was one of perfect
benevolence and warmth. From his angle, Caine could see that the statue was double-sided, so that there
was another face staring back over the platform.

      Caine nodded to himself; he took the statue's double face as a warning omen.

       Between the legs of the statue was a short, angled slide, also of bronze, that led down from the
platform to a shallow basin at the foot of the steps to the throne. Caine could just barely make out the
shadow of a Herculean penis on the opposite front of the statue; on this side there was only a swollen
fold at the crotch that seemed to be a stylized representation of a vagina.

      He had a feeling that things were going to get weird.
        He sat in a tiny curtained alcove just behind the throne. There were a pair of chairs in this alcove;
Caine sat in one, his eye pressed to a tiny judas gate in the wall at Ma'elKoth's back. Ma'elKoth had
installed him here, explaining that he had no desire to forgo the pleasure of Caine's company simply
because the hour had come for Ma'elKoth to give audience.

        So Caine sat and watched, while delegation after delegation from around the Empire was ushered
into the Great Hall. One spokesman from each group would come forward and mount the steps to the
throne to present their supplication. Ma'elKoth would listen and nod, and when they were finished he'd
direct the delegation to the platform. The delegations would go beneath the platform, and there remove
their clothes.

       Aline of naked men and women, from humble Squires to Dukes of the Empire, climbed the stairs
to the platform.

      They joined the growing crowd there, a crowd of naked shivering men and women of all ages,
who waited and watched— understandably, a little nervously—while Ma'elKoth dealt with each of their
successors.

        Through this all, Ma'elKoth kept up a running sotto voce commentary for Caine's benefit, speaking
of this Baron or that Knight, and the troubles in their lands, their past political connections, their current
ambitions, and what use Ma'elKoth might find for them in his Great Work. Sometimes the conversation
ranged widely, but it always seemed to come back around to Ma'elKoth, to his accomplishments and his
plans.

      Caine suspected that Ma'elKoth held him here, told him all this, largely because Caine had known
the man he'd once been, and thus could appreciate how far he'd come and how much he'd done; the
underlying desire for approval this implied might have been his only human weakness.

      Caine slowly—and uncomfortably—decided that he really, kind of,liked Ma'elKoth. There was
something immensely attractive in his effortless and unlimited confidence; his arrogance was so fully
supported by power that it became almost a virtue. Whenever Caine let himself forget why he was here,
and what he would have to do, his trepidation dwindled and he found himself drawn to the man; not,
perhaps, in the sense of human attraction, of friendship, but rather more in the sense that some men are
drawn to the sea, and others to mountains.

       How could he not like someone who took such obvious joy in simply being alive, in being who he
was?

       "I destroyed the crown, of course," Ma'elKoth was saying. "It was only a key to unlock the gate
that restrained the power I now wield, and I saw no sense in allowing anyone else access to this power.
And I could use this power—" He passed a hand over his robes as though to say,Voila! "—to remake
Myself in any image I chose. First, I made Myself beautiful—recalling how Hannto looked, you might
understand why. Then I gave Myself brilliance, an intellect that borders on the omniscient. Next, I gave
Myself another form of power: nearly unlimited wealth. Latterly, I have become the Ankhanan Emperor:
political power, real authority. But I'm not finished yet."

       "You're not?" Caine asked. "What do you do for an encore, become God?"

       "Precisely."
       And the very next delegation had come from the free farmers of Kaarn; they'd traveled a thousand
miles to ask the Emperor to break the drought that was searing their fields. Ma'elKoth gave his word in
agreement and sent the men to the platform.

        As they walked with stiff dignity under the bunting, Caine whispered, "That's quite a promise."

       Ma'elKoth answered with his infectious Olympian chuckle. "And I'll keep it. I'd be a piss-poor
god if I cannot even make rain."

        "That's a joke, right?"

        "Mmm. Perhaps."

      He spent a moment settling a land dispute between two Kirischan Barons. He did it well, so far as
Caine could see; both Barons appeared satisfied as they ducked under the bunting below the platform.
Then Ma'elKoth returned to the subject.

        "Ironically, it wasthe Aktiri who inspired Me in this."

       Caine was glad to be behind the wall and out of sight; he swallowed and steadied his voice before
he said lightly, "TheAktirfl Aren't you a little old to believe inAktiriT "Mmm, Caine, if you had seen what
I've seen..."

      "I thought," he said carefully, "well, to tell you the truth, I thought this wholeAktir hunt was just a
dodge to wipe out your political opposition."

       "And so it was. I am a tyrant, after all: I hold the throne without any legitimate claim of succession.
I am, in fact, a commoner."

        He settled back into the Oaken Throne and looked darkly out upon his subjects. "Despite My
ability, and My popularity with the common folk of the Empire, the nobility has been arrayed against Me
since the day I took power. Denouncing this Count or that Baronet as anAktir not only destroys the
credibility of his opposition, but it gives Me a perfectly legitimate excuse to have him killed.

       And yes, I thought that theAktiri were no more than stories, convenient phantoms to shade the
features of My enemies. "Until they tried to murder me.

       "Eight men, with weapons such as no one has ever seen, that spit pellets like slingstones in a
stream like rainwater from a gargoyle's mouth; they attacked Me within the very halls of My palace.
Twenty-six of My household died in that attack, only seven of them Household Knights, only three others
of Armiger rank; the rest wereunarmed: servants, men and women, and three pages who were no more
than children."

        Caine winced behind his concealing wall.Eight men with assault rifles...Kollberg, you 're a real
hero.

      "I took six of them alive. Three died in the Theater of Truth, under the care of Master Arkadeil; it
was there that I learned much of theAktiri. They are as human as you are, Caine, as human as I once
was. Some geas of their masters stops their breath if they attempt to tell of their world, but I learned
much from them nonetheless, and more from the other three that I killed with My own hands."
       Learned much?Caine thought. He knew the limits of Studio conditioning very well, the
hand-to-his-throat choking sensation of trying to so much as speak English here on Overworld. The
Studio claimed that it was impossible for an Actor to reveal himself or others as Actors, no matter what
the duress—they would die if somehow they were forced beyond their capacity to keep silent.

       "It was that spell we spoke of, the one I nearly used on you, Caine," Ma'elKoth went on as though
aware of Caine's thoughts. "I developed and refined it in experiments on a number of enemies of the
Empire. When in the mindview trance, holding this spell, I can trap the fading essence of a man's
memories—his soul, if you care to call it that—if his body no longer has the life to hold it within. In this
way I learned much of their world."

        Afreezing hand stroked down Caine's spine.I'm one of the most famous men on that world,
"There, humanity is ascendant. They own the world and have only fading legends of the subhumans. They
all speak a single language, and have magick that would beggar your imagination, Caine, if I were to try
to tell you of it. You would think Me mad."

      He paused, his eyes distant as they ranged over the wonders of this alien world. "And I sought,
among their memories, the reason for humanity's success, there, why they have become so much while
we have remained so little, and I believe that I have found it."

      Caine coughed into his hand to clear his throat. "Oh?"

        "It's ourgods, Caine. The gods who rule us, they hold us back. Even though they are restrained
from direct intervention in human affairs by the Covenant of Pirichanthe, they continue to squabble and
fight through their priests and followers; they spark no end of conflict, wasting forces that should be used
to defend the race. TheAktiri, though—more than four thousand years ago, a small band of desert
raiders on their world originated a stunning idea. They decided that their god was the onlyreal god; all
others were either figments of the imagination or demons that had duped their followers. After two
thousand years, the followers of this One God became evangelical, but not in our sense; they did not
merely persuade folk that following their god would bring them greater happiness or better luck.They
would not allow any other gods to be worshiped. They would often murder the priests, and their
followers, and destroy the temples of competing gods. Over time, these tactics brought success. The
extraordinary thing is,none of these Aktiri were certain that this godhad ever existed —! Do you see? If
so much can be done with a god who may be only anintellectual concept, how much more powerful
would be the concept of a single god whois present, whois potent, who can unite every human soul to
stand against the threats we all face? I am that god, Caine. I have become that god, so that I can save the
human race from extinction."

       I don 'tknow if you 're completely fucking bugnuts, or I am,Caine thought,because I almost kind
of believe you. He said, "Wow."

      "Wow, indeed."

      "Excuse an impertinent question?"

      "I already have. Several times."

     Caine took that for a yes. "Did you become a god because you wanted to save the race, or do
you want to save the race because it gives you an excuse to become a god?"

      Ma'elKoth's laugh boomed out through the Great Hall, bringing startled flinches from the crowd
and most of the guards.

       "This, Caine, is part of why I so value your company. I have pondered that question Myself, from
time to time. I have decided that the answer is irrelevant."

       The next petitioners came up the steps with clear reluctance, and no wonder: as far as they could
see, Ma'elKoth had been muttering S silently for some time, and just now had laughed out loud at a joke
he'd told himself.

       This wouldn't improve his reputation for sanity. He dealt with their request swiftly and neatly, and
as they retreated down the steps he went on.

      "And perhaps the greatest threat that humanity faces today is these selfsameAktiri.'"

      "I, ah..." Caine said. "That's, mm, don't you think that's a bit of an exaggeration?"

      Ma'elKoth turned his massive leonine head to meet Caine's gaze through the judas gate, and his
eyes burned with righteous fury, with hatred so passionate that Caine felt it in his guts.

       "You can have no concept of the evil of these creatures," he said. "They are deadly enemies of
mankind, and of Myself in particular. Tell me—try to guess why they come here, why they kill My people
and try to murder Me, why they rape our women and slaughter our children. Try."

      Caine discovered that he had no voice. His stomach knotted. "It'sentertainment, Caine. They're
worse than demons—even the Outside Powers that prey upon men do so to feed, to sustain themselves
upon our terror and despair; theAktiri do so todivert their idle hours. Justfor fun."

      The loathing in Ma'elKoth's voice hit Caine like a slap. "If that is not evil, I don't know what is."

       Caine coughed wetly and found his voice. "Well, it seems, I mean, you make it sound like, they're
kind of...like gladiators, really."

       "Gladiators do not slaughter children. Gladiators do not murder Kings. And even gladiators I find
disgusting. I have banned such pursuits from the Empire."

       There was a disturbance in the Great Hall below, a murmuring among the naked throng on the
platform and the few remaining delegations on the floor. A door had been thrown open, and striding
toward the throne, boot heels clacking loudly on the marble floor, came Berne.

      A large dove-grey plaster spread its wings across his nose, and both his eyes were shadowed with
purple bruise; this gave Caine a passing warmth inside.

     "Speaking of evil," he said quickly, grateful for a chance to change the subject, "here comes your
newest Count."

      Berne shouldered aside the next delegation and took the steps two at a time. He dropped to one
knee before the throne and spoke with low urgency. "Ma'elKoth, I'm sorry, I know I should have been
here an hour ago, but—"

      Ma'elKoth gave him an indulgent smile. "You are not too late for the Ritual, my lad. What news?"
        "I've found theAktiri," Berne said breathlessly. Caine studied him through the judas gate as he told
Ma'elKoth about it. His source had identified the hiding place of the fugitives—an abandoned warehouse
in the Industrial Park—and the Cats now had the place surrounded. They were waiting and watching, so
far, not wanting to move before they were sure they would snare Simon Jester in their net.

       But Shanna 's in the Donjon already,Caine thought.At least, hope she is —if she walks into that
trap, I don't think I'll be out of here in time to save her.

        And, belatedly:Who the hell is this "source? "

       Watching Berne he found that, for now at least, he felt no burning need to rush out onto the dais
and beat him to death. Maybe being off-line from the Studio, not feeling the pressure to entertain, made
him less reckless; maybe it was a sudden uncertainty, an unfamiliar maybe-I-really-can't-beat-him dread
that dampened the kindling of his blood-lust.

        The hate, though—that still burned hot as ever.

      As Berne finished his tale, the indulgence faded from Ma'el-Koth's smile, and his voice became
paternally correcting. "You have broken a promise, Berne."

       "Heh?" He seemed startled, and puzzled, but then his expression cleared and he touched the
plaster across his broken nose with an apologetic hand. He dropped his eyes and clasped his hands
before his crotch like a repentant schoolboy. "I know. I know I promised, Ma'elKoth, but..."

        "But what?"

        "When he cameat me like that...I lost my temper, Ma'elKoth, that's all. But I didn't really hurt
him."

      That's what you think.Caine's whole shoulder still ached where Berne's preternaturally powerful
hand had gripped it, down to the bruised bone.

     "You will treat Caine with respect and deference while he is in My service. You would regret
making Me remind you again."

        "I'm sorry, Ma'elKoth. I really am." "You will also apologize." "Ma'elKoth—"

        The Emperor's chin lifted a centimeter, and Berne's protest died in the womb.

      He lowered his eyes. "I, ah, I heard you caught him..." "Indeed. In fact, he's watching you now."
Ma'elKolh inclined his head fractionally to his left, toward the judas gate; Berne's eyes followed the
gesture and locked onto Caine's. His lips pulled back from his teeth.

       "He's..." Blood rose up Berne's neck. "Fuck me like a goat. You put him inmy chair?" He
strangled this to a throaty whisper. Caine said with soft mockery, "Hey there, raccoon boy." The bruises
around Berne's eyes blackened against the scarlet that surged into his face, and veins bulged at the sides
of his neck.

     Ma'elKoth said, "Caine, that was childish, and beneath you. Berne, you will apologize." "But—"
"Now."
      Berne could barely push the words out through the clench of his teeth. "I apologize. Caine."

      Caine grinned at him, even though Berne couldn't see his face. "I accept."

       "Caine, you are under an identical restriction. Respect and deference, while you both are in My
service."

       "Sure, why not?" Caine said. "I won't be in your service forever." "That, dear boy, is an open
question. Berne, take your place at the slide. I shall begin the Ritual in very few minutes." "Ma'elKoth—"
"Go."

      Berne turned swiftly and stalked down the stairs. Caine watched him go, then said, "I don't
understand how you can use that sick fuck. He's barely human."

       "Some would say the same about you, Caine." Ma'elKoth waved a hand dismissively. "I have
made him the, so-to-speak, High Priest of the Church of Ma'elKoth, largely because he is efficient. He
will do whatever I ask of him—he would kill his own mother for Me."

      "Yeah? You think he had a mother?"

      Ma'elKoth chuckled. "Come now, Caine. I confess it: he was not My first choice. You were."

      "Hah?"

       "Oh, yes. I was hoping I could find you in person; the Drawing that I have lately done upon you
consumes entirely too much of My all-too-limited time and attention. Berne has proven an acceptable
substitute. Ever since the business with the crown I have been most impressed with your tenacity and
resourcefulness—not to mention your ruthlessness. I hope, even now, that you, Caine, will become My
most trusted companion. You can hardly refuse ennoblement now, after all; I daresay the Monasteries
can have little claim on your loyalties, not after last night."

      This would be a very bad idea.

       "So, you want to give me Berne's job, huh?" he said, trying to change the subject and still sound
like he was considering it. "In a way, you already have. He's hunting Simon Jester, right?"

       ' 'Oh, you won't be taking over for him, Caine. I want you to operate independently. I have found
that two agents, working separately— even in competition—toward the same end, achieve that end
much faster and more reliably."

      "Yeah, kind of like..." Caine's voice trailed away. —like me and Berne inRace for the Crown of
Dal'kannith, he finished silently.

      He said, "You've always worked this way, haven't you?"

      "That did not sound like a question."

       Caine swallowed anger. "It wasn't. You did that to me, before. The crown," he said evenly. "He
was working for you, wasn't he, working for you the whole time...You hired Berne at the same time you
hired me."
      "Mm, not so. I hired him after your initial attempt had failed."

      "You know what hedial You know what that pig-fucking shit-sack bastarddid to me?"

      "I know what you did to each other."

      "But you got the crown, and that's all you cared about."

       "Precisely. I know you find this upsetting, Caine, but I know also that had you been in My
position, you'd have done exactly the same. Which, in the end, is more important, the power itself, or the
method used to acquire it?"

       Ma'elKoth smiled indulgently. "That's a rhetorical question, dear boy. Now, be silent. I have only
three more delegations, and then I shall begin the Ritual."

      "What's this ritual?"

      "You'll see. They bring Me greater gifts than mere tribute or taxes, and the Ritual is how I accept
them. Hush now."

        He dealt with the last three delegations neatly, justly, and with dispatch, and when they had left
their clothes beneath the platform and joined the nervous crowd atop it, Ma'elKoth gestured, a lazy wave
toward a captain of the Household Knights. The captain saluted, then turned and issued crisp orders to
his squad. Some of them mounted the platform to chivvy the naked throng into a rough square, while the
others opened a smaller door and led in more naked men and women.

      Caine guessed that whatever this ritual was, there was a specific minimum number of people
needed for it: these newcomers looked like they could very well be unwilling volunteers, just terrified
townsfolk press-ganged in here to fill out the numbers. The echoes grew in the hall as they all tried at
once to ask each other, ask the Knights, and ask the waiting delegations above,What the fuck is going
on?

      Ma'elKoth stood, and the babble took on a frightened edge. He raised his arms.

      Silence dropped like a bomb.

        An electric tension built in the hall, a yellowish breath-catching shimmer in the air like the light
before a summer storm. Into the silence, into the tension, Ma'elKoth began to speak. His voice rolled out
like thunder to match the lightning that shone from his eyes, long sonorous phrases metrical and
unpredictable together, a slowly developing and growing rhythm like the plainsong of the elves: a long
verse to love, to brotherhood, to hearth and family, the meter seeming to time itself to the beat of Caine's
heart, its sweeping rhythmic power washing away the individual words. Caine couldn't follow the words,
not exactly—they skittered away across the surface of his mind—but they hooked images out of the
depths: his mother's lap warm beneath him, the sweet huskincss in her voice as she read to him from a
book spread wide before his uncomprehending eyes, the dry strength of his father's hand on his arm as
he frantically tried to balance on his first bicycle. He found unexpected tears stinging his eyes for what
he'd left behind, and for the incredible promise of what he might find ahead.

       Ma'elKoth's upraised arms came to sway, gently at first, oak boughs in a freshening breeze, then
they stroked the air like the wings of an eagle swimming majestically upward into the limitless sky. He
turned first one way, then another, then his stance shifted and Caine's breath left him.
      The Emperor began, incredibly, to dance.

      To only the spare, resonant music of his own voice, Ma'elKoth danced: a slow and powerful
eurythmy of impossible grace, moving with the invincible elegance of a kabuki demon.

       Caine knew enough of magick to have a fair notion of what was going on; with effort he tore his
eyes away from Ma'elKoth. He was able to do so, he guessed, only because the ritual was directed not
at him, but at the crowd on the platform. The guards below, he noted, kept their faces carefully averted;
the crowd on the platform swayed in openmouthed awe, perfectly in time with the irresistible surge of
Ma'elKoth's dance. They began to moan softly, unconsciously, low and potent chords that beat in
counterpoint to his rolling voice.

      Ma'elKoth's gestures became broader, his steps more sweeping, his voice charged with cresting
energy until it hummed like a dynamo, everything building toward a shattering climax—and then he
suddenly, shockingly, stopped.

       Into the stunning silence a beat continued, a nearly subaural iambic rumble; Caine closed his eyes
and filtered out the surge of blood in his ears. He listened:a 'fum, a 'fum, a 'fum...

      Breath.

      It was the breathing of the hundreds of people on the platform, sighing in perfect synchronization.

     When Caine opened his eyes again, Ma'elKoth was looking at him over one massive shoulder.
The Emperor's lip quirked toward a wry half smile, and one eyelid drooped in a sly, sidelong wink.

      Some undetermined time later, Caine remembered to start breathing again.

       Ma'elKoth turned back toward the mass of naked people, who waited openmouthed in
spellbound anticipation.

      "These are the words you shall say to bind your souls forever to Mine:

      By this, my heart's blood, I am baptized a Child of Ma 'elKoth.

       I serve the dream of One Humanity with all my heart. pledge the service of my body and my
eternal spirit to the Justice of Ma' elKoth, the True and Living God, the Father Almighty.

      By this passage to a new life, lam Reborn. I am Reborn without stain or allegiance save to the
Holy Church. I proclaim now and forever that there is no God but Ma 'elKoth, and I am his living Child."

       The guards on the platform passed out tiny golden cups to the throng, who accepted them
mechanically. The straight handles of the golden cups had been sharpened into blades, and with these the
soon-to-be Children of Ma'elKoth each opened a vein in his or her left wrist and caught the sluggish,
brightening blood as it flowed down their wrists.

       And shortly the guards pulled a man from the mass, and there was no blood on his wrist.
Ma'elKoth nodded, as though to himself, and beckoned for them to bring him forward. "You have not
offered blood," he said. "Will you not swear?" The man had the shaved head of a priest and the bearing
of a warrior. He stood naked and unafraid, not deigning even to struggle against the grip of the guards.
      "My Lord Emperor," he replied, "I serve Rudukirisch Storm-god, as I have since my naming day.
No power can induce me to deny Him, and His glance shall strike lightning death against any who would
do me harm."

       "Yes, yes, yes," Ma'elKoth said testily. He glanced over his shoulder toward Caine and muttered,
"This happens from time to time, in the random sweeps. It's convenient, in a way."

       He turned back toward the platform and spoke with his usual resonance. "I understand your
reluctance, but I do not permit it. You shall be killed."

       The priest shouted some words in a Kirischan dialect that Caine didn't speak, and a sudden clap
of thunder sounded outside, while within there came a blinding flash of light; when Caine's vision cleared,
the Kirischan priest gleamed with fantastically baroque armor, and he held in both hands a warhammer
with a haft nearly as long as he was tall.

       The Household Knights who'd held his arms stretched their lengths upon the platform, and smoke
rose from their armor. The priest glowed with power—a crackling aura of blue-white lightning that
stretched upward and outward into a flailing serpentine lash of electricity, casting reddish shadows across
the faces of the spellbound throng.

      "Now, learn what it means to anger the God of Thunder! "

      "Yes, yes," said Ma'elKoth, sounding eager. "Get on with it, then."

        The priest extended his hammer toward the throne, and the lightning lashed out. Ma'elKoth made
no move or gesture of defense, raised no spell of warding. The lightning scorched a smoking hole in the
breast of Ma'elKoth's robe; the robe itself caught fire with more than natural intensity. Even through his
little spyhole, Caine could feel the heat baking his eyes as the robe flared up around the Emperor.

       Then it had burned away, and amidst its ashes stood Ma'elKoth, bare chested and barefoot, only
a pair of leather kneebreeches protecting his modesty.

      He had not so much as blinked.

      Cords rippled in his forearm as he lifted his open hand toward the ceiling, then closed it as though
grabbing power from above. He stroked his fist toward the priest below as though cracking an invisible
whip.

       The priest lifted his warhammer to ward the blow, and his lightning shield flared bright with his
god's defense. All his priestly power, his devotion to his god, his courage and his god's love for him made
no difference whatsoever: when whatever power Ma'elKoth had summoned struck him, the warhammer
that he held, the very symbol of his faith, exploded in his hand like a short-fused grenade.

       Blood fountained from the shattered stump of his wrist, and the shards from the hammer ripped
through his flesh like shrapnel. Household Knights closed in around him, and they pulled him out of sight
on the other side of the statue.

        "Your courage earns you this honor," Ma'elKoth boomed. "You shall smooth the way for the
faithful."
        Blood now began to drip from the statue's stylized vagina, and Caine caught a glimpse of the
priest's legs as the Knights apparently upended him as though to force him headfirst into the statue's belly;
there must have been some kind of a channel cut through the torso of the statue, and the blood must have
been the priest's. The legs moved out of sight, and Caine heard a muffled grunt. Then the priest's head
and shoulders emerged downward from the statue's vagina and he stopped there, held suspended while
his blood flowed down his face and dripped onto the bronze slide beneath.

       A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing the dark brown dress of an Ankhanan midwife stepped out
from beneath the platform; in his hand was a short straight sword, thick bladcd and single edged, and on
his face was a smile of sexual anticipation.

       It was, inevitably, Berne.

       The priest caught sight of him and shouted, "I confess the power of Rudukirisch! I confess—

        His cry was cut off by the silver arc of Berne's cleaver. The blade sheared into his neck, crunching
through vertebrae and slicing out the other side. Berne cleared the blade of blood with a single,
professional flick of the wrist as the priest's head, mouth still wide open, tumbled onto the slide in a
shower of blood and rolled down into the basin. His heart, far above, pumped furiously, fountaining
crimson jets from neatly severed arteries, and it seemed a very long time until the fountain tapered to a
trickle. Whatever held the body released it, and it slid smoothly down the blood-slick slide and lay limp in
the basin.

       And through this all, the spellbound crowd on the platform watched silently.

        Now the Knights herded them into a queue at the statue's side, and they each willingly followed in
the priest's path, pausing briefly to pour the small cups of their own blood over their heads, intoning their
oath and then sliding headfirst into the statue's belly and out through its vagina, down the slide and into the
basin, from whence other guards would lead them away to wash away the blood and bandage their
wrists.

      Occasionally, for no reason and with no signal that Caine could see, one of them would be caught,
head down; Berne's blade would flicker, and another head and body would enter the basin separately.
The twitching bodies were left there, a grisly cushion for the living ones that followed.

      Ma'elKoth stepped away from the pile of ashes that had been his robes and seated himself again in
the Oaken Throne. He sighed and said meditatively, "Well, then, what do you think?"

      Caine was mesmerized by the endless flow of men and women down the slide. "It's, ah, pretty
gruesome, isn't it?"

       "As is any birth," Ma'elKoth said.

     "How do you decide who lives and who dies, down there? Who decides who gets caught and
chopped?"

       "Each decides for himself," Ma'elKoth said, and now a smile grew slowly across his face.

       "What do you mean?"

       "I won't tell you."
      "Huh?"

      "I spoke clearly enough. It is not for you to know, not yet. If you survive it, you'll understand."

      "If I survive it? You're gonna make me go through that?"

      Ma'elKoth answered with only a smile.

       "How will you approach your quest for Simon Jester?" he asked thoughtfully. "I am certain you've
already given this question some thought."

      "Some," Caine said. He'd spent all of the night before thinking about it and had come up with a
plan both simple and elegant, perfectly in character and, he hoped, daring enough to be irresistible. "I
want to break your prisoners out of the Donjon."

      "Oh?"

       "One of the accomplices of Simon Jester that Berne captured chances to be an acquaintance of
mine, a minor adept named Lamo-rak. You get me into the Donjon, and I break him and the other one
out. That should be enough to get me close to Simon Jester."

      "How did you know of this? That this Lamorak is in our custody?"

      "You're not the only one with sources," Caine said, hoping that Ma'elKoth wouldn't press.

       Ma'elKoth's mind was working along other lines. "I see problems with this. Isn't it somewhat
extreme? Won't Lamorak be suspicious, to be suddenly rescued? Are the two of you so close that he
will believe you'd risk your life for him?"

       "Oh, he'll believe it, all right."Not that it matters a damn if he doesn 't. "We're close enough.
And I'll tell him straight off that I'm doing this to get next to Simon Jester."

      "And for what?"

      Caine glanced down toward the ongoing ritual, where Berne had once again just neatly
decapitated someone.

      "To get a shot at Berne."

      "Mmm," Ma'elKoth said, thinking about it. "Mm, I thinkl see."

      "Lamorak is Berne's prisoner, right? The whole operation against Simon Jester is Berne's baby.
Breaking him out will be a major embarrassment, and will put me in with Simon Jester, the perfect place
for me to lay a trap to draw Berne out where I can kill him."

      Ma'elKoth chuckled. "And it will make a substantial addition to your legendary career. No one
has ever escaped from the Imperial Donjon; if there is a man alive that folk will believe could do it, it
would be you."

      "Nobody will dream I'm working for you; shit, nearly everybody in town knows there's a warrant
out for me. Just give out that I got away from Toa-Sytell and the Eyes.""Will you be working for Me?"

        A cold hand reached into Caine's chest. "Of course I will. What's that supposed to mean? After all
this, you don't trust me?" "I remember..." Ma'elKoth mused, "I remember a Caine who'd rather kill a man
than lie to him..."

         "Killing's simpler," Caine said, with a thin laugh that tried to sound hearty. "You do it, it's done, it's
over. A lie is like a pet—you have to take care of it, or it'll turn on you and bite you on the ass." "Are you
still that Caine?"

       He made his voice as flat as his thumping heart would let him. "I'm as honest as circumstances
allow." "Hmpf. A truthful answer, that. Very well. Remove your clothes." Something seemed to catch in
Caine's throat; all he could say was "Hah?"

       "You cannot serve Me in body unless you serve Me in heart, Caine."

       The Emperor waved a lazy hand down at the platform. Below, pages in livery ladled blood out of
the basin into bronze bowls— the same bowls Caine had seen them carry in the Lesser Ballroom, to mix
into the clay of the Great Work, and his stomach twisted.

     What did you think, you fucking ninny,he snarled at himself.Where did you think that blood
came from?

     He said, "You seriously expect me to go down there and put my neck within reach of Berne's
sword?"

        "I do. If you do not trust Me, Caine, how am I to trust you? Pledge yourself to Me, place your
faith in My justice, and serve Me now. Or deny Me this honor, and never serve Me again."

      It wasn't even really a choice. Echoing inside his skull he heard Shanna's words:He doesn't care
what happens to me. And this might be his best, his only chance to save her life.

       There was no reason to hesitate. "Yeah, sure," Caine said. "Let's do it."

       the river bargewas every bit as disreputable as its captain, a grizzled old rummy with drooping red
eyes and a permanently dripping nose, but when Pallas inspected the barge's bilge, a dark dank space full
of an eye-watering stink of urine and decay—like a dead turtle sun-baking in its shell for four days while
being pissed on by a succession of tomcats—she found something that made her smile: a little horned
face with the familiar sly grin, scratched into the sloppily pitched bulkhead recently enough that the wood
exposed beneath still showed blond.

       She jerked a thumb at it. "Simon Jester," she said. "You know, you can buy some trouble, flying
that particular flag."

      The captain wiped his nose on the back of his grimy hand. "Can't say as anyone'd find me
responsible. I crew this thing temporary, y'know? Can't say who mighta scratched the little face."

       "I'd bet there's any number of things you can't say," Pallas ventured.

       The captain shrugged. "I mind my manners, if that's what y'mean."
      "I'd bet you can't say why that scratching's a couple of weeks old, and it's still there."

      "You'd lose that one, girlie," the captain growled. "Gave passage to Baron Thilliow, him of Oklian,
and his whole family, fifteen year ago and more, when days was better for us both. And he was a good
man, and no bloodyAktir, no matter what th'Emperor says. Nothing against th'Emperor; I figure there's
some as is tellin' him some lies, and puttin' good folk to the axe, and I'd just as soon Simon Jester gets
'em away as see 'em dead. And that—" He reached up and touched the crude little carving."—that's just
to remind me, that's all. Don't really mean nothing."

       Pallas extended her hand, and a shining gold royal appeared between her thumb and first finger.
She flicked her hand and another appeared, then another flick and another coin. They gleamed like the
sun in the steady lamplight.

      She'd gotten his attention with the first one; by the time the third appeared, it was all he could do
to keep the drool behind his lips.

      A, AJ.

        "You can use these for provisions. Forty people for a week. Don't buy it all in one place. Use the
rest to crew up. Whatever money's left over, keep for your trouble."

      "I, ah..."

      Flick. Now there were four. "This charming little family has relatives downstream. Forty of them.
One for each of my friends who'll be riding here in your bilge, provided they make it safe and healthy
down to Tinnara, plus a few extra. A gratuity for exceptional service."

       He mopped at his face furiously, until the grease and dirt on the back of his hand was streaked
with snot. "That's, ah, that's tricky work. Maybe a bit more up front would, ah, steady my nerves...?"
"You'll have to trust me," she said with a quick shake of her head. "We'll have to trust each other. If I
don't come through with the gold, there'll be forty people wandering around Tinnara that'd be worth a
noble or two apiece to any Eye or army officer." "Fortyroyals, though..." he murmured. "Could really fix
up m'old lady, here, get a real crew again..." "We'll call it a deal, then." She handed him the four royals.
"We will, that," he said, and followed her up the ladder into the warm afternoon sunlight. "Gimme two
days to crew and provision, and get your friends here by midafternoon on the second—we'll wanta be a
few miles downstream by sundown." He accompanied her to dockside and held out his arm to help her
up the ramp.

      "Do you," he murmured softly, hesitantly, with a furtive look around at the busy docks to make
sure no one was within earshot, "d'you really work for the Jester? Is he really, y'know, reallyreal?"

      "Yes," she said. "Yes, he's really real."

      "Is he really wantin' to bring down Ma'elKoth, like they say?"

       "No. No, that's not it at all," she said gravely. "He's only trying to save some lives. These people
aren'tAktiri, Captain. They're just people, innocent people, who have to get out of the Empire, or they'll
be killed. Killed because Ma'elKoth doesn't like them."

       "Well, then..." He dropped his arm and looked at the deck beneath his feet, then spat into the
sluggish brown waters of the Great Chambaygen. "Well, then, power to the Jester. And power to you,
lady."

      Pallas forced a little smile and touched him on the shoulder. "We both thank you. Look for me in
two days."

      She walked away along the docksidc, past the steelworks and the long rows of warehouses that
accepted river cargo from all across the Empire.

       This should be easy; she'd seen no flicker of betrayal on the captain's Shell, and even though she'd
never tried to move this manytokali at one time before, she was confident.

       This spell of Konnos' had become so incredibly useful—she could pack all thirty-six of thetokali
into the bilge and Cloak the whole lot of them. Any suspicious Imperial, even an adept, would see only
dirty water and black-pitched wood, and the Eternal Forgetting would prevent this hypothetical
suspicious adept from connecting any pull he might feel with the possibility of a Cloak. To make it work,
she'd have to ride with them all the way to the coast to get them past the toll points on the river, but that
was all right.

         She could use the rest.

       The important thing, right now, was that she coulddo it, she'd get them safely out of the Empire by
herself, and those greedy bastards back at Studio Scheduling could just screw themselves.

       And when this was over and she was back on Earth, she and Hari were going to have a little talk
about staying the hell out of her life. She should never have let him talk her out of filing divorce; this
separation was foolish. It wasn't doing either one of them any good, just drawing out the pain, that's all,
their own little improvised Death of the Thousand Cuts. She should have trusted her instincts and gone
for the clean break, all at once, like ripping away a bandage.

         Or amputating a limb.

      And that's what this really was, she told herself, this ache that seemed to poke low into her belly
when she thought of him looking for her, when she thought of how she would ditch him and head
downriver: phantom-limb pain. There had once been a part of her that had tied her to Hari's life, that was
now cut away; the twinges she felt from it once in a while were only psychological revenants of the
amputation.

       And Hari was part of why it was so easy to be ruthless with the King of Cant; Majesty was one of
Caine's best friends. He made a pretty good surrogate when she couldn't hit back at Caine directly. As
she'd continued to use him, though, she'd surprised herself with a growing sense of contempt; she'd
caught herself thinking that this man was only a thug with a gimmick, after all, really just a street punk like
Hari once was—but Hari had grown into something more, she'd grant him that much. Hari or Caine,
neither would have let anyone treat him like she'd treated the King of Cant; Caine would have gone for
her throat the second he caught a glimpse of the Charm crystal.

       On the other hand, she wasn't blind to herself: she knew that part of her contempt for Majesty was
a reflexive self-justification for using him so badly. But still...

      Caine had a peculiar integrity, a stubborn attachment to his self-respect, however misplaced it
might be. Integrity wasn't a word that came to mind when one thought of Majesty; the man was a weasel
on two legs. Useful, even necessary, but a weasel nonetheless.
       As twilight drifted down through the deepening blue of the sky, she made her way toward the
warehouse beneath which she'd hidden thetokali. Her mind wasn't on the crowds that thickened around
her as curfew neared and folk of all descriptions flooded across the bridges from Old Town; she was
absorbed with the melancholy realization that even now, she still compared every man she met with Hari.

       Shaking her head sadly at this sentimental foolishness, she walked into the expanding shadows of
the Industrial Park's side streets.

        She rehearsed for the millionth time all the reasons that they would never be able to work it out, all
the fights and the jealousies and suspicions. They should never have married in the first place; they'd been
great as lovers, their affair was passionate, tempestuous, consistently unpredictable, thrilling—but all the
things that had made them great lovers made them shitty as husband and wife. Opposites attract, but
similarities bind. They were the opposite poles of Acting, for one thing. She'd gone into Acting in the first
place because on Overworld, she could have the kind of power that would be forever denied her by her
Tradesman subcaste in Earth's remorselessly rigid social system: the power to help people, to make a
real difference in people's lives, apositive difference. She could truly say that her career had helped make
Overworld a better place, and she was justly proud of it.

      Caine, on the other hand, was just in it for the blood.

      She saved lives; he took them.

      And his Adventures outsold hers three to one.

      In her honest moments, she was able to admit that this was part of the problem, too. She wasn't
proud of it, but she couldn't deny it, either.

        She sighed and tried to haul her attention back onto the problems at hand. She'd deal with Caine
later, when he could no longer be avoided. It was the fatigue, the endless hours of running and hiding and
fighting, that made it nearly impossible for her to keep her mind on business; but now, as she neared the
bolt-hole where she'd stashed thetokali, a lapse in concentration could be fatal.

       Thetokali were hidden beneath the rotting, treacherous floor of a fire-gutted warehouse; it stood
in a block with a number of other warehouses in states of similar disrepair. Dry spots here and
there—where slanting remnants of charred rooftops leaned against a sturdy wall to keep off the
rain—had become shelter for a number of families of squatters.

      She'd posted no stooges here who might betray it, had left no sign. The dry, cavelike basement
here was her third fallback; she'd prepared it with the help of the Twins and Talann and Lamorak,
enchanting sigils across the walls and doors to divert seeking items and other magick of that sort. Majesty
himself, in disguise, had helped her move the supplies inside; though he despised physical labor, her
Charm had ensured that he'd work without complaint and would die before he gave up its location. Pallas
believed that everyone else who knew of its existence was dead.

       The entrance was concealed within a former interior office; getting to it required threading through
a maze of collapsed walls and treacherously rotten flooring. At the last moment she turned aside instead
of entering, drifting past its charred facade as though still lost in thought.

      Something was wrong here.
       The trickle of day laborers heading home was steady as ever, no more nor less than usual.
Glancing at their faces and clothes gave Pallas no explanation for her sudden nerves, but she trusted
those nerves, her instincts; they were all she had left to save her life.

     She found a solid-looking piece of wall to lean casually against and scanned the street.What's
wrong with this picture?

      There was no smoke.

       The squatters...There were two families in particular, one across the street in what once had been
a grain store, and one further down in a former smithy. Now, here, at twilight, they both should have had
small, protected fires burning, heating up whatever scraps they had scrounged for their dinners. The
intermittent, almost daily rains that came with late autumn in Ankhana would have dampened all the scrap
wood there was to be found—but there was no smoke.

      It might be nothing. They might both have moved on to some drier and more windproof shelter.

      Or: they might be tied down, even dead, while Grey Cats crouched beside them, watching her
through fire-sprung chinks in their borrowed walls.

       Not for nothing did they identify themselves with cats; they might have been there for hours, slowly
creeping into position, watching intently for any sign of movement around the mouse hole where thetokali
huddled. But they couldn't know that both these families cook at twilight.

       She kept moving, kept drifting, until the spire of the Colhari Palace swung into view through a gap
in a collapsing wall. She breathed herself into mindview, and the twisting lace of Flow filled her vision,
slowly stirred by the dim Shells of the passing townsfolk. She saw no beam of channeled Flow from the
Palace, but this was no assurance that she was safe; the Cats themselves wouldn't attack her on sight,
having no idea who she was, but if Berne was here with them...

       The Imperials knew that Simon Jester was a thaumaturge; this was proven by the spell that
frustrated their search. In seeking to trap him, Berne and Ma'elKoth wouldn't hold that channel open; it'd
be like sounding a trumpet and waving a flag to any adept in mindview.

       But Berne, he had reasons to pounce on her unrelated to his hunt for Simon Jester. If he was
there, coiled to spring from one of those buildings, and he saw her on the street and recognized her, his
own cupidity, his lust for blood, for any way to injure her or Caine, would probably drive him to—

       And there it was: from the spire of the Colhari Palace that shaft of crimson power sprang to
instantaneous life.

      She had only seconds to live.

      Surrounded. Alone. The Subjects would help her if they knew she was in danger, but there were
no Subjects here to be found.

      Alone, but not helpless.

      If Caine were here, he'd quote Sun Tzu: "On deadly ground:fight"

      From a pocket at her breast, her hand pulled a lovingly carved model of itself in miniature: a tiny
hand of the same glittering quartz she used for her Shields.

      The lines of power shone upon it and spoke to her mind.

     The shaft of channeled Flow ran straight as the beam of a laser from the palace to the crumbling
warehouse across the street: there was no way Berne could hide from her.

       The lines scribed upon the hand of quartz spread like a net, spun like a whirlpool, a massive vortex
of Flow that made her flesh shimmer with power. No matter how much power Berne channeled from
Ma'elKoth, he was himself no thaumaturge: without mindview, he had no way of knowing the depth of
trouble he was in right now.

      On her lips was a feral grin that Berne would have recognized, as she extended her hand and
made a fist, and the invisible force of herTeke crushed the building like an eggshell.

        It fell in upon itself with an avalanche roar and a spreading cloud of choking dust. If Berne wanted
her, first he'd have to dig himself out.

       The flat whacks of firing crossbows sounded from all around her, but Pallas was already moving,
diving away deep into the screening dust. Quarrels sang by her,spanged off cobblestones and thrummed
quivering in wood. Shouts and screams from the city folk filled the air as they scattered, running for their
lives.

       Pallas rolled to her feet and flicked her hand, doing the same trick she had for the captain of the
river barge; instead of coins, what appeared between her fingers were her charged buckeyes— one,
two, three, four.

       Blood hummed in her ears, and a savage exaltation filled her chest. Teeth gleamed through her
happy snarl as she triggered a buckeye and fired it along the street with her Teke, directly into the
building from which most of the crossbow fire had come. Flame roared out though shattered windows;
the building front crumpled and collapsed.

      That,she guessed,should be enough to get their attention. She turned and sprinted away at a
dead run, heading toward the Warrens.

      Come on come on come on, move it, you bastards,she chanted inside her head.It 'II take all of
you to make sure I don't get away.

      Come on!

      And come they did, breaking from cover—ten, fifteen, thirty hard-eyed men in grey, running
behind grimaces of fury, pursuing at a ground-eating lope as she led them away from thetokali and into
the Kingdom of Cant. Behind her, the building she had crushed, the building she had brought down on
Berne's head, began to pitch and heave and bulge in the middle like a caterpillar carcass birthing a brood
of wasps.

      Berne was coming.

      She put her head down and ran.

      day four"You have no principles at all."
      "That's bullshit and you know it."

        "No, it's true. You 're a contrarian. You have to have your own way, but you define it by what
people tell you not to do. The problem is that underneath all your macho crap there's this sneaking
suspicion that everybody else is right. It has nothing to do with principle—you reject authority because
it's fun to break rules. You're like a little kid, being naughty with a grin on his face. "

      "Do we have to talk about this now? "

      " You 're not for anything, you 're just against everything."

      "I'm/or you."

      "Stop it. I'm serious. "

      "So am I."

       sergeant habrak hadbeen in the Ankhanan Army for more than twenty years, so he instantly
recognized the look in Berne's eyes as the Count came to the steel bars of the gate; he'd seen it too many
times on the faces of officers about to order suicidal charges, on foot soldiers who'd been pushed to the
point of bloody mutiny, on peasants about to run screaming against ranks of armored Knights, scythes
and pitchforks upraised to avenge rape and slaughter. The sergeant sprang to his feet, fumbling for the
jingling hoop of keys at his belt.

       Berne rasped, "Open this fucking gate before I cut it down." "Only a second, m'lord, only a
second." Habrak managed finally to shove the key into the lock, and he swung the gate back. Berne
stalked past him, and Habrak coughed wetly: the Count stank, reeked like a closed stable on a hot
summer's day—and what was this filth that caked the heavy strawberry serge he wore? He looked—and
smelled—like he'd spent the night rolling inmanure —!

       At Habrak's cough, Beme stopped and looked back over his left shoulder, his face bisected by
the long diagonal hilt of his shoulder-slung sword.

      "You got a problem?" Beme asked, his voice low and lethal. "Maybe yousmell something?"

      "Oh, oh, oh, oh no, no, my lord. Not at all."

      "That's peculiar, considering I'm covered with shit."

      "I, ah, ah, my lord, I—"

      "Never mind. Open the fucking door."

      "Your, ah, your weapon, er Count..." Habrak said hesitantly.

      "Don't even think you're going to disarm me, Habrak. Not tonight."

       Habrak, like any sane man, was bone-deep leery of Count Berne's erratic temper and lightning
blade, but he'd been sergeant of the guard here in the Imperial Donjon for five years, and he felt he was
on firm ground. "This is, er, standard procedure, m'lord. Security."
       "You think one of your starving pukes down there is going to take this sword away from me?"

       Either answer to a question like this was liable to hook more trouble, so Habrak sidestepped. "The
Emperor hisself leaves his weapons here with me, before he goes through that door. It's by his word that
only the guards bear arms in the Donjon. If y'think he's wrong, y'oughta take it up with him."

      Beme gave in with a snarl, unbuckling the sword belt and throwing it into Habrak's hands as
though daring the sergeant to drop it. Habrak, gratefully, clung to the scabbard like a leech and gingerly
hung it on the rack behind his desk.

       "And you'll be wanting a lamp, if y're going past the Pit. Patrol snuffs the last torch at midnight."

       Berne looked, if it were possible, more angry now than when he'd entered. He took a lamp in his
white-knuckled hand and waited by the door. He stared downward as though he could see through the
door, down through the living stone from which the Donjon had been carved, and there found the face of
a man he despised.

       Habrak unlocked the door and held it for him as Beme descended the long, narrow shaft of
stairway, down deep into the darkness. The hot reek of fermenting shit and unwashed bodies, air that
had been breathed too many times by men and women with rotting teeth and decaying lungs, boiled up
out of the stairwell in Berne's wake; Habrak was as glad as ever to shut that door and move away from
it, back to his desk.

        The Imperial Donjon of Ankhana lies in a series of tunnels cut into the limestone of Old Town
beneath the courthouse, excavated over decades by teams of convict stonebenders. The central common
room, known as the Pit, had been shaped from a natural cavern three stories high; twenty feet above the
floor, it is girdled by a ledge that forms a natural balcony, which is patrolled by guards bearing crossbows
and iron-bound clubs.

       The Pit is always crowded with men and women awaiting trial— some for months, even
years—and those convicts who have already been sentenced, who are awaiting transport to a frontier
garrison or the eastern mines. It is the only area that is permanently lit, its ceiling blackened by decades of
smoking lanterns. Sloping tunnels carved into the living rock radiate outward from the Pit's balcony like
spokes in a wheel, at intervals connected by narrow crossways. These tunnels lead to the private cells,
which are inhabited by minor nobles and members of Warrengangs and any others who have the money
or influence to bribe their way out of the Pit, and only those.

     Solitary confinement is a luxury in the Imperial Donjon; prisoners who cause trouble are
condemned to the Shaft.

       The Donjon is a place of deep shadow and bad air; the bitter, bloody smells of despair and
brutality thickly struggle with the reek of human shit and rotting flesh. The sole entrance or exit is the
single flight of stairs down which Beme now strode, from the courthouse cellar to the Pit balcony; a
prisoner in the Imperial Donjon has as much chance ol'escape as does a damned soul in Hell.

      Suspicious, hard-eyed guards squinted at Berne as he stalked past them around the arc of the
balcony; they trusted no one but each other. He spared them not even a passing glance.

      The doors to the private cells carried two locks: heavy beams mounted on pivots, and smaller
keyhole locks. The beams could be swung swiftly into place to bar the door against a prisoner's rush; the
keyhole locks were there against the occasional prisoner who did manage to get free of his cell, to
prevent him from running along the corridors freeing others faster than the guards could put them away
again.

     Berne had his own key to the door he wanted. He turned it and slapped the beam to vertical,
yanked the door open, and went inside.

       This cell was well appointed; by the standards of the Donjon, it was sumptuous: a feather bed with
clean sheets and a blanket, a small writing desk, a comfortable chair, even a rack of books to pass long
hours of waiting. The cell was clean, and on the desk lay a tray covered with the remnants of a pork
shank, some potato, and a bit of gravy-soaked bread. The prisoner on the bed stirred reluctantly out of
sleep, drawn up toward consciousness by the noise of the door and the sudden light of the lamp that
Berne now set on the desk.

      The prisoner rolled over and shaded his bleary eyes. "Huh? Berne?"

       "You haven't been giving me the whole story, Lamorak," Berne said. He shifted his Buckler to his
feet, short-stepped, and kicked Lamorak's bed to splinters.

       Berne's foot exploded through the mattress, and a blizzard of swirling chicken feathers filled the
cell. The kick slapped Lamorak bodily into the air, his arms flailing helplessly. Berne's hand struck with
the speed of a stooping falcon and snatched Lamorak's ankle.

      He held Lamorak out, head down, at arm's length and struggling. This strength, this power that
Ma'elKoth granted him, he reveled in it. Being able to lift a bigger man, straight armed and one handed,
and never feel the strain—it shortened his breath, and brought living heat to his crotch.

      "Just imagine," he said thickly, "what a kick like that will do to yourhead."

     "Berne, Berne don't..." Lamorak said, arms crossed in front of his face in futile defense—those
muscular golden arms would splinter more easily than the bedslats had.

      "Can you smell me?"

      "Berne...Berne, calm down..."

       With a flick of his wrist, Berne battered Lamorak against the stone wall of the cell. Lamorak left
skin and blood behind, smeared across the stone, and rose-white bone peeked through where the impact
had split the flesh over his elbow. Lamorak grunted, but did not cry out. For a long count of ten the only
sound within the cell was the drizzle of his blood pattering onto the floor.

      Berne said, "Let's try this again. Can you smell me?"

      Lamorak nodded with difficulty, his face becoming puffy with blood. "What...what happened?" he
asked hoarsely.

      "What part does Pallas Ril play in this?"

      "Berne, I..."

      Berne flicked him against the stone again, this time face first. Lamorak's scalp split at the hairline,
and blood slicked down into his long, golden hair.

       Berne didn't have time to play at this; the rock of the Donjon impedes Flow. Though Ma'elKoth
had gifted him with the splinter of griffinstone that he carried on a chain about his neck to power his
strength in situations like these, down here it would not do so for very long.

       "How many times will you make me ask this question?"

       Lamorak said something that Berne didn't quite catch; his mind had drifted away to the humiliation
of the beating his Cats had taken at the hands of Pallas Ril and her goat-fucking beggars.

       After the shocking indignity of having a building knocked down on his head, digging his way out
had taken him only a minute; with his superhuman strength, he had shrugged aside foot-thick beams the
way an ordinary man would handle bundles of straw. Raging, he'd led the Cats charging after her,
through the streets of the Industrial Park and into the Warrens.

       And the beggars had thrown shit at them.

      There was no one to fight, no one to kill, just clods of flying shit spattering them from all directions.
Soon the Cats were entirely disorganized, chasing after this beggar or that as they disappeared into the
crowded maze of backstreets without a trace.

       Ma'elKoth had refused Berne's call for firebolts to scatter the crowds. "Wanton slaughter in the
streets of the capital is counterproductive. Perhaps your attention would be more valuably spent
ensuring that the Aktiriyou located do not escape while you are chasing about the Warrens."

        Cursing, Berne had sprinted back to the abandoned warehouse and broken into the cellar, ready
to kill them all on the spot—but the cellar was empty. They'd gone, somehow, in the bare quarter hour
their bolt-hole had been unwatched. It was as though Pallas Ril had led the Cats away to accomplish
exactly this. If, that is, theAktiri had ever been there in the first place. But she was involved, here,
somewhere, somehow, in with Simon Jester, and now so was Caine, and Berne was not fool enough to
believe in coincidence.

      Perhaps Simon Jester...perhaps he wasCainel Berne's mind boiled; Lamorak dangled forgotten
from his fist. It was possible, he decided, all too possible. Never mind that he was no thaumaturge—he
had Pallas Ril for that. It even made a certain hideous amount of sense; Caine was notorious for
burrowing his wormy way into the confidence of his enemies—look at what he'd done to Khulan G'thar...

       And Ma'elKoth had invited him into the palace, had fed and armed him, had seated him inBerne's
chair ...!

       Caine had to die.

       Right now. Tonight.

       "It's useless," Lamorak was saying miserably.

       "What?"

       "Why won't you understand me? Why can't you hear what I'msaying to you?"
      Berne's mouth twisted with revulsion as he looked down. "The way you whine, it makes me sick.
They weren'tthere, you stupid goatfucker. TheAktiri were not in the warehouse cellar. Either you lied to
me, or you truly don't know, and either way you're no fucking use anymore."

       "I'mtelling you," Lamorak said, clutching for Berne's knee. "Berne, Iswear to you, I don't know
what's going on, but I'mtelling you Pallas Ril..."

        Berne lost the thread of his meaning again, imagining the smooth humming slide of Kosall into
Caine's body. Where would he cut Caine first? Sever a leg? Perhaps only take an ear? Maybe a low
stab, into his groin—Berne felt stirrings in his own as he imagined this. Maybe he'd finish it off by jamming
Kosall up Caine's ass until the point came out his mouth..."...our deal," Lamorak was saying. "Berne, we
have a deal." Berne shrugged and opened his hand. Lamorak barely got his arms around his head in time
to avoid braining himself on the stone floor. Berne watched dispassionately while Lamorak slowly picked
himself up.

      "Tell you what," Berne said. He held out the key to Lamorak's cell. "I'll give you a chance. Jump
me, take this key, and I'll let you go."

       "Berne—"

       Berne pivoted into a low-line roundhouse kick that brought his shin against Lamorak's golden thigh
with crushing force. Lamorak's femur snapped with a wet, meaty pop and he fell to the floor, clutching his
broken leg and biting his mouth to hold in a scream.

       "Too late," Berne said. "Had your chance. Sorry."

      He dropped to one knee and rolled Lamorak roughly onto his stomach; Lamorak groaned as
Berne forced his legs apart, using his strength to spread the thigh muscle that cramped hard around I his
broken bone. Lamorak's breeches tore like tissue beneath his fingers.

       "Don't,"Lamorak pleaded, hoarse with the strain of holding in a scream. "For the love of god..."

      "Which god?" Berne asked, digging his fingers into Lamorak's ass cheeks, but then he stopped,
and he sighed. This wasn't what he needed. This wasn't even what he wanted.

       He wanted Caine.

     And Pallas Ril. Together. Strapped to the tables in the Theater of Truth, their eyelids pinned back
by Master Arkadeil's silver needles, so that each must watch what he did to the other.

      Sadly, this was not to be: he'd better kill Caine tonight. That slippery little goatfucker was just too
dangerous to leave alive.

      Berne left Lamorak lying there on the floor of the cell, his face white with pain and shock. He
locked the door behind himself.

       On his way up into the night-darkened courthouse, he stopped at the upper gate to retrieve his
sword. He buckled it over his shoulder and said to the sergeant, "Habrak. Send a man to Master
Arkadeil. I want Lamorak in the Theater of Truthtonight. If you hurry, Arkadeil can use him as the
subject for his midnight instructional. Tell him to try to find out what he can about Simon Jester, but it's
not too important—I don't think Lamorak really knows anything he hasn't already told. Tell Arkadeil to
take his time, enjoy himself, and there's no need for Lamorak to live through it."

       Habrak saluted. "As the Count orders."

       "You're a good man, Sergeant."

      He left, pausing only a moment in the courthouse above to dismiss the Cats who had accompanied
him; he needed no entourage to protect him on these streets.

        He left the courthouse and stopped in the street to inhale the night. A great breath of darkness
filled his chest and teased his lips toward a curving grin.

       He spread his arms, smiling up at the brilliant stars. This was his favorite time of day, this still
emptiness of midnight; the sleepy hush that spread its blanket over the city, the crystal chill in the air, all
the city folk behind their shutters, dreaming of the day. They slept secure in the knowledge that nothing of
any importance in their lives could happen from midnight to dawn.

       They were wrong, of course; especially tonight.

       Bernecould happen.

       He hooked his thumbs behind his belt, ambled down the street, and thought about it.

       He picked out windows as he went along, picturing the solid citizens that slept behind them. Those
shutters there, with the patch of silvery weather stain—behind them, he decided, could be a young family,
a serious-minded tinker from the smithy down the street, his lovely young wife who took in washing for a
couple silver a week, and their precious daughter, now turned six. Maybe her birthday is tomorrow;
maybe she lies in bed right now with her eyes open, breathless, praying to the gods for a real dress this
year.

        Getting in would be easy. With his enchanted strength, he could leap to that window from here;
with Kosall he could slice away the hasp. A warm squirming began in his belly—he could see, as though
they lay before him now, the restless stir of the tinker's wife as Berne slipped into their bedroom; he
could see the slow dawning of light in the tinker's eyes, only a glimmer that would fade swiftly away as
Kosall silently drank his life; he could feel the frail terror of the wife's heart beating against his chest as she
tried to pull her hips away from him, as he fucked her in the pool of her husband's blood.

        And the little girl, the daughter—orphaned at such a tender age, in such a brutal way. He could see
the approval on the faces of the respectable townsfolk as he offered to adopt her. He was nobility, after
all; no one would think to deny him. And she'd be his, all his, to raise and to train, to perfect her body
and her mind, to bend her body beneath his, to enter her virginity with his power as he finally revealed to
her how her parents had died...and her arms would snake around his back, and she'd whisper in his ear,
"I know...I've always known...I've always loved you, Berne..."

       Berne chuckled and shook his head. He would do no such thing, tonight.

       The point was that if he wanted to, he could.

       Tonight, he'd let them go. Another night, he might make another choice.

       He felt good, now,really good, for the first time since, oh, since he'd killed those two gladiator
brats in the Warrens. He felt free, and full of light.

      It was because he'd finally made the decision: he'd decided to go ahead and kill Caine. Only now
could he feel how much Ma'el-Koth's command to spare the life of that treacherous little snake had
weighed upon his spirit; he recognized the weight by its absence.

       :o Oh, Ma'elKoth would be angry, sure, at first—no one likes to be defied—but in the end, he'd
forgive Berne, even thank him.

       He always did.

      Ma'elKoth always forgave, always accepted, always valued Berne for precisely what he was. He
asked only that Berne exercise restraint, never asked that he change. This was the difference between
Ma'elKoth and every other living being that Berne had ever known.

       Ma' elKoth loved him.

       Berne stretched like a cat, and his loosening joints shifted and popped beneath his skin. He
grinned into the moonlight, measuring the towering black-shadowed wall that enclosed Old Town. In the
next breath he burst into a sprint along Ten Street, the wind of his passing sizzling in his ears. Twenty
paces from the garrison stables he bounded into the air, his enchanted strength sending him soaring up to
the stables' roof; then without even a pause he sprang upward again, to the rooftop of the officers'
barracks and from there to the top of the wall. A triple bound had taken him up ten times the height of a
man.

      Standing openly upon the battlement, he threw his arms wide and shouted, laughing, "Lord, my
aching balls! /love being me!"

        A pair of nervous sentries from Onetower, the massive keep that defended the downstream point
of the island, came toward him hesitantly with leveled crossbows. "Don't move!" one of them called.
"Identify yourself!"

        In answer, Berne unslung Kosall and laid it on the battlement. "I am Count Berne," he said, "and
this is my sword. Don't touch it while I'm gone."

        With that he threw his arms wide once again and leaped high into the air, an arc of perfect grace as
he dove toward the Great Chambaygen; he shifted his Buckler into his hands as he cut the water and slid
into its depths with barely a ripple. The stones and mud at the river's bottom bothered him not at all, and
he passed a happy interval playing in the water, letting the river wash away the shit that had caked his
clothes and the last of the knots of anger that had tied themselves in his back.

       This was the great gift of Ma'elKoth. Nothing was denied him, He did as he chose, when he
chose, and there was no one with the power to say him nay. Only Ma'elKoth himself could stop him—
and he never did. He looked upon Berne's excesses as a proud father looks upon the exuberant youth of
his favorite son—with tolerance, and only occasional gentle correction.

        Berne's real father, a dour and ascetic Monastic official in a small southern town, had raised Berne
with the kind of iron hand only a fanatic can wield. His father had been posted there, in a tiny backwater,
at the behest of the moderate Jhanthite faction that had, in those days, largely controlled the Council of
Brothers; they'd wanted him far enough away that his extremist views wouldn't trouble their relations with
the subhumans.
       Berne had been raised to be his father's weapon in the war against the subs, trained from birth to
be the perfect warrior—but somehow, in all those years, his father had never bothered to ask what
Berne wanted to do, if hewanted to be the ultimate weapon.

      Berne had always known what he wanted to do.

       He wanted tolive, really live, to fight and screw and eat and drink and gamble and do every single
thing he could cram into one lifetime. He knew well that this was the only life he'd ever get, and he was
determined not to miss anything.

       At the age of seventeen, he'd finally shown his father how well his training had worked. He beat
the old bastard into unconsciousness, took the old man's sword, all his gold, a jug of wine, and his best
horse and headed for the city. He'd quickly discovered that there were few men who'd even care to
stand against him with a blade, and nearly none that could survive to the count of ten; he'd never had any
difficulty putting his hands on money.

      It had been a good life for more than ten years, but the one he had now was better.

       Now, as he splashed within the waters of the Great Chambaygen, he wondered idly if his father
knew of his service to Ma'elKoth, wondered if his father appreciated the irony. After all, now that he
served Ma'elKoth, he fulfilled his father's dreams for him better than he ever could have if he'd followed
his father's path. Berne wondered if his father would think it funny; Berne surely did. He could raise a
chuckle just thinking about it.

         He went to the wall and pulled himself up out of the water, climbing the wall easily, fingers and
boot toes finding the mortared joins between the stones. When he reached the battlement, both sentries
still lingered, nervously standing watch over his sword. Berne thanked them with a grin for guarding it as
he slung it on; then he shrugged and untied the purse that hung from the sword belt. Why not? He tossed
a golden royal to each of them; as they fumbled eagerly for the coins—more than a week's salary
apiece— he gave them a lazy salute and jumped back off the wall, retracing his upward path from
rooftop to rooftop and finally to the street.

       He hummed happily, tunelessly, as he jogged toward the Colhari Palace. He played out the
scenario in his mind:

       /swear, Ma 'elKoth, he just came at me. It was like the other day inside Alien Games. went
to his room to make peace, you know? That's all. I even brought some brandy, a couple of
cigars...And he berserked on me. I had tokill him —ifwas him or me, Ma'elKoth, I swear it!

       Easy. Neat and clean. Even as Berne was, himself, now—clean. Still kinda horny, though—shame
that there's no way he could justify fucking Caine's corpse. He rubbed the front of his breeches as he
jogged along—mm, homy indeed, homy enough that maybe he should do something about it before he
went after Caine. His story would become vastly less convincing if he stood before Ma'elKoth with an
enormous erection.

      And then the gods gave him a gift: as he paced past the mouth of an alley, he heard the familiar
sucking hiss of a whore's come-on. Standing within was a thin, frail-looking elvish girl clutching a tattered
shawl around her translucent shoulders.

      Berne gave her a friendly smile. "Missed the curfew, did you?" She nodded submissively and
looked up at him from beneath long silver lashes. "I must leave the street. Give me shelter for the night,
and I will teach you—" She rotated her hips suggestively. "—primal secrets..."

        "All right," he murmured, "but show me some here, first." He joined her in the alley, and when he
left, sated, only moments later, her broken corpse still twitched like the legs of a half-crushed spider on
the cobbles behind him.

      Therewas a curfew, after all, and as a Count of the Emperor, it was his duty to enforce the law.

       Then to the palace, for a quick change into dry clothes; he sent a servant for a jug of good brandy
and a box of cigars—these would be the peace offering that would buy his way into Caine's room for the
kill.

      Humming to himself, he tripped cheerfully along the halls to the chambers that had been set aside
for Caine. His hand was on the very grip of Caine's door when Ma'elKoth Spoke to him.BERNE.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

      Berne winced; this Speaking—Ma'elKoth's ability to roar into the mind of any of his Children,
anyone who'd gone through the Ritual of Rebirth—thundered inside his head like the voice of a god and
made his skull feel as though it might burst at the next word. He barely managed to hang onto the jug of
brandy.

      "Nothing," he said to the empty air. "I'm visiting Caine. You know, to make peace—

      WHY IS LAMORAKIN THE THEATER OF TRUTH?

       Berne pressed the heel of a hand against his eyes, as though to keep them from popping out of his
head. "I, ah, just wanted to get rid of him, you know? He's no use to us anymore—why spend the money
to feed him?"

    THE MONEY IS NOT YOURS TO SPEND OR SAVE; NOR IS LAMORAK USELESS.
EVEN AS WE CONVERSE, CAINE IS WITHIN THE DONJON TO PRETEND HIS RESCUE
AND THAT OF THE WOMAN, AND THUS ENTER THE CONFIDENCE OF SIMON JESTER.

      "Enter the confidence...?" Berne stared at the closed door in front of him and thought as fast as his
blade had ever moved. "Ma'elKoth, I can countermand the order—on horseback I'm only five minutes
away."

     NO. LETHIMDIE. TO REVERSE YOURSELF WOULD CAUSE SUSPICION AMONG
THE GUARD, AND POSSIBLY WITH LAMORAK HIMSELF. SIMON JESTER HAS SOURCES
EVERYWHERE; NO ONE MUST SUSPECT OUR PLAN. THE WOMAN WILL BE
SUFFICIENT—BUT BERNE, KNOW THAT I AM MOST DISPLEASED WITH YOU.

      "Ma'elKoth, I'm sorry, please..." Berne murmured, but the Presence was gone from his mind.

      Berne took a deep breath and carefully set the brandy and the cigars down at the threshold of
Caine's door; then he burst into a sprint and ran like the wind, leaping down stairs and skidding around
corners, racing to the small stable where the Household Knights kept their steeds.

      He couldn't tell Ma'elKoth what he suspected, what heknew, about Caine—Ma'elKoth was
obviously infatuated with the fucking little snake—but Berne could, right here and right now, save the
Empire.

      He couldget Caine: get him killed without a drop of blood on his own hands.

       That was the unfortunate part, that he'd have to leave Caine's death to someone else, but in times
like these, all true patriots must be prepared to make sacrifices.

        He wasted no time saddling his horse, just buckled on his bridle. A golden royal apiece bought him
the silence of the guards at the Dil-Phinnarthin Gate, and Berne galloped bareback off toward the
courthouse.

        So Caine dies at someone else's hand, so what?With any luck at all, Berne would get to do Pallas
Ril in a day or two— this would be a satisfying consolation prize, much more satisfying than that elvish
whore.

      With Pallas, he could take his time and really enjoy himself.

        " 'strator? 'strator!" A tentative hand on his shoulder prodded Arturo Kollberg awake. He batted
at it gummily, smacking his lips against the ashtray taste in his mouth." 'Strator, Caine's back on-line!"

       "Whuh—?" With a buzzing, humming rush, the world flooded back into Kollberg's brain. The
-degree point-of-view screen that formed a wall of the techbooth spread before his eyes; he'd fallen
asleep here, in the stage manager's command chair, waiting for Caine to emerge from the Colhari Palace.

       "Zhe hurt? H'longza been?" He shook his head sharply and massaged his face with both hands,
trying to drive alertness in through the skin.

      He was acutely, painfully aware of the diode-lit fist button of the active emergency transfer control,
shining there on the console before him like a radioactive toadstool; he was painfully aware of the
responsibility it implied.

      "No, he doesn't seem to be hurt," one of the techs replied. "It's been a few minutes short of
twenty-seven hours. He's on foot, heading west along the backstreets of Old Town. He is, ah, has
apparently been rearmed, somehow, and he's carrying a heavy coil of rope slung across one shoulder."

      "Get them up, then!" Kollberg barked. "We've got a hundred and fifty thousand first-handers in
sendep all over the world! If something happens, and they allsleep through it —!"

      There was no need to complete the implied threat; every man in the techbooth understood. For
minutes, the only sound was the muted thuttering of fingertip keystrokes and the whispering rumble of
Caine's Soliloquy.

       "For Christ's sake, somebody get me some coffee." Atech bolted out of his chair and scrambled
toward the urn while Kollberg scanned Caine's telemetry with a critical eye: Caine's adrenal production
was soaring, and though his heart rate was barely above one hundred, it was climbing steadily. He clearly
wasn't injured—he moved smoothly through the backstreets, easily slipping into deep shadows to avoid
the passing constable patrols.

       The tech pressed a cup into his hand, and Kollberg sipped the scalding coffee expressionlessly.
This coffee was hardly enough for his needs: he couldn't take the chance of drifting off again. He
scribbled a brief note on the armpad linked to the chair's electronics and clickedsend. In five minutes or
so a Studio porter would arrive at the techbooth with the carton of amphetamine sulphate that he
normally kept by the simichair in his private box.

       Caine's soliloquy ran continuously as he artfully filled in the story line for the missing twenty-seven
hours. Kollberg nodded his admiration for Caine's technique; the man really was brilliant at this. He knew
he'd been off-line, and now he wove the story in images so vivid that the first-handers would almost
believe they'd gone through those experiences themselves, while at the same time maintaining a sense of
free-associating disorder to uphold the illusion that the Soliloquy was actual thought.

       So...he'd massaged Ma'elKoth into hiring him to find Simon Jester; this was lovely irony. It would
let Caine save Pallas and kill Ma'elKoth virtually simultaneously, provided Caine wprked the plot with the
sort of skill Kollberg knew he had. But what was he up to now?

       Caine's POV flickered dizzyingly as he scanned the street before gliding across Noble's Way in
the black moon-shadows under Knight's Bridge. He still filled in back-story, with some babble about a
giant statue and a blood oath, but he hadn't yet breathed a word of why he was creeping into the west
end of Old Town at twoa.m.

      It was a suspense technique, an old one, one that Caine would have learned at the Studio
Conservatory, and it was certainly working on Kollberg. He chewed on a comer of his lower lip and
wiped sweat from his palms onto the arms of the chair.

       Caine's POV crept toward a hulking structure that loomed as a barely blacker shadow against the
thin, moon-silvered overcast, a blocky building taller than the sheer curtain wall that surrounded Old
Town.

      "What is that?" Kollberg murmured. "Where's he going?"

       One of the techs checked Caine's telltale on the virtual map. "I'd have to say that's the courthouse,'
Strator. God only knows what he thinks he's going to do there."

        Even as Kollberg frowned his agreement, Caine reached a corner of the courthouse and slid along
it into ink-painted shadow: his fingers and toes found the mortared cracks between the huge limestone
fascia, and he climbed the wall with the ease and speed of a man going up a daylit stair. In slightly more
than a minute he gained the guardwalk that surrounded the courthouse's sloping roof and crouched there
in the shadows while he caught his breath and counted chimneys in Soliloquy.

      *One two three up, two over, there it is.*

      The chimney Caine watched now belched a thick, white, steam-laced smoke that caught a reddish
glow from the lantern of an approaching guard.*That puff of steam came from a cauldron of gruel
being dumped on a cookfire about sixty meters straight down, * Caine monologued.

      Sixty meters? Kollberg frowned, puzzled. The courthouse was barely half that tall.

      *Now,for the guard. *

       The guard had no chance. He rounded the curve of the guard-walk and never saw Caine slip over
the wall behind him and overtake him on cat feet. To Kollberg's surprise, Caine didn't cut the man's
throat; instead he unstrung the guard's knees with a silent and efficient elbow to the neck, just below his
helmet's back rim. The guard pitched forward while Caine caught the lantern in one hand and the guard
himself with the other; he lowered them both to the guardwalk in absolute silence. Before the guard could
recover himself enough to so much as moan, Caine had looped his cord belt around the guard's neck in a
simple garrote; in seconds, he silently strangled the guard into deep unconsciousness.

       Another twenty seconds were required to bind and gag him, then Caine padded up the slope of
the roof toward the chimney he'd picked out.

        *The King's Eye who dumped that gruel is the only man down there who knows something's up,
and even he doesn 't know what it is. All he knows is that Toa-Sytell wants to question the prisoner who
preps the morning meal, and that Toa-Sytell wants that gruel dumped on that fire. That's all he knows;
that's all he needs to know. *The rest of it, I'm handling myself. *

       On reaching the chimney, Caine pulled from his belt a bar of blackened steel with a long, long
hank of coiled rope tied to a notch in the middle. He laid the bar across the mouth of the chimney and let
the rope uncoil into the choking smoke-filled darkness below. He pulled out a pair of thick rawhide
gloves and slipped them on as he climbed into the chimney.

       *Fifteen minutes until the trusties who do the morning cooking arrive. Fifteen minutes to get two
friends out of durance vile. Longer than that, and I blow the game—which might cost me my life, but
that's not important. If I screw this up,Pallasdies down here. *

       He leaned out from the chimney for one last good breath, inhaled, then held it and slid down the
rope fast enough that the gloves smoked and began to burn the palms of his hands.* 've gotta get this
right the first time. * Lamorak, Kollberg thought in sudden panic.Lamorak's down there —he's
going for Lamorak and Pallas! But no, he wouldn 't waste his time on Lamorak, would he ? He 'd
best not. Didn 't I warn him about that?

       His fist twitched and raised unconsciously over the emergency recall switch; an effort of will was
required to lower his fist without striking. He couldn't do it, not yet, not without justification; his dealings
with Lamorak were somewhat too delicate to bear the weight of an emergency recall—the Board of
Governors might not approve.

       As Caine slid down into the smoldering embers of the cookfire in the cramped, darkened kitchen
of the Imperial Donjon, Kollberg's eyes were fixed on the pulsing toadstool of the emergency recall
switch.

       This was no longer a matter ofif, he realized—only a question of when.

       talann struggled upfrom twisting fever dreams, some of the clouds clearing from her mind, and
returned to the world of darkness and pain.

       She couldn't recall how long it had been since her last interrogation; didn't know how many days
she'd been chained here, naked skin rubbing raw against the chill limestone floor. Iron shackles bolted to
the floor encircled her ankles; a length of rusted chain joined her wrist manacles to the same floor bolt,
too short a length to allow her to stand erect or lie flat. Wetness and soft slime beneath her told her that
she'd again voided her bladder and bowels while she'd slept, curled fetally around her restraints; her
sense of smell had long ago overloaded and could tell her nothing.

       Gasping, she pulled herself into a sitting position. Her various pains announced themselves gleefully
in ascending ranks: torn flesh where the iron manacles cut into her wrists and ankles, the oozing sores
across her buttocks and flanks that lying in her own filth had opened, the carelessly stitched sword cuts
she'd taken from the Cats, now swelling with angry infection, and the sledgehammer of fever that
pounded dizziness into her brain. She suspected that the pulpy swelling over her right ear, souvenir of
being clubbed into unconsciousness with a steel pommel, probably concealed a skull fracture.

       Great Mother,she thought, half in prayer,don't let me end like this.

       The interrogations, she'd done right. She was sure of that. She'd held the line, held her tongue,
kept to her ideals: they hadn't been able to pry so much as her name out of her. They'd even dragged her
away from the Flow-choking walls of the Donjon, to the palace, and the Emperor had interrogated her
personally.

       She had felt the prying fingers of his will struggling for a grip on the doors of her mind; but she'd
resisted as the abbey school had taught her, concentrating her entire meditation-sharpened attention on
her surroundings, counting wood grains in the molding of the door, the iron-grey hairs in Ma'elKoth's
beard, listening for the melody in the buzzing wings of a trapped housefly.

        After Ma'elKoth understood her strategy, his own had shifted, and he had magickally dimmed her
senses, leaving her blind, and deaf, without smell or taste or kinesthesia, floating in endless featureless
nothingness, with only the pressure of his questions beating like surf upon the seawalls of her mind. Still
she had resisted, filling her consciousness with nursery rhymes and scraps of song and half-remembered
recitations of Monastic history.

      After this had come again the easier task of resisting pain—once again to the Theater of Truth and
Master Arkadeil's silver needles.

       '.

       Even then, she might have broken and told them the truth, but t truth could not have helped her.

      The truth was that she had no idea who Simon Jester might t what he looked like, or what his
plans were.

       She had a vague sense that she had known these answers as i cently as a few days ago, but now
they had slipped from her mil like water through cupped fingers. All she remembered was stickii close to
Pallas Ril, because she had been Caine's woman, becau her life was linked with Caine's, because Talann
knew, in her me passionate heart of hearts, that someday she herself would gr Caine's hand, would catch
his eye, would fight by his side and pe haps, in dreams so precious that she could only peer at them from
distance and then flick them aside, perhaps lie in his bed.

      Now, lying in a pool of her own filth on the jagged floor of h cell, watching the colors in her eyes
explode in fantastic geom tries against the blank darkness, she struggled to believe that th would still
happen, that this was still in her future.

       That she still had a future.

      She fought to believe that her story, the song of her life, wouldn end with a fading whimper in this
endless night.

       Unknown. Unsung.

       Dead.
       Eyes open, or eyes closed? She could no longer tell, and it n longer mattered. She summoned
again her favorite memory: tc years ago, when she'd been an adolescent page running message for Abbot
Dartheln on Thorny Ridge above the great battlefield c Ceraeno, through those three days when the
combined might c Ankhana and the Monasteries strove, outnumbered, against the ii finite savage warriors
of the Khulan Horde and was losing,had lo. the battle, and desperately tried to organize a retreat in good
orde She would never forget the surge that had slammed up her spin when a shout of dismay had risen
from the vast ranks of the Hordi and she had looked down to the battlefield to see the huge banner c the
Khulan himself burn with smoking yellow flame.

       Among Talann's gifts was extraordinary vision; like an eagl< she could see—even from a mile or
more away—the black clothe and fringe of beard on the man who held the burning banner up fc a
moment longer, then cast it down to the mud-churned earth at hi feet. She had watched breathlessly,
mesmerized, her duties foi gotten, as the Bear Guard closed around him like the jaws of dragon, and a
tear had tracked through the dust of her cheeks for the death of this unknown hero—but an instant later,
she saw him again, still alive, still fighting, cutting through the finest warriors of the Khulan Horde as the
prow of a warship cuts through waves.

        She'd seen him only once more, a month later, when she'd stood in the company of the Ankhanan
Abbot to watch Caine make his formal refusal of the Barony offered him by King Tel-Alcontaur. He'd
moved stiffly, still hampered by slow-healing wounds he'd taken in the battle, a splint on his left arm.
Dartheln hadn't missed the look on her face as she'd watched; he'd smilingly offered to introduce her, and
later after the ceremony he'd made his offer good.

       Caine had gravely gripped her hand as a comrade in battle, and had listened with solemn attention
to her stammered words of admiration. But there were hundreds of folk more important than she was all
waiting to do him honor, and as he walked away he' d dragged her heart along with him.

      Since that day she'd lived her life in emulation, refusing the offers of Monastic posts, requesting her
Release from Obedience, traveling in search of adventure, endlessly honing her skills so that someday,
when she met him again, they could meet as equals; so that she would be worthy of the respect he had
generously granted her so long ago.

      She'd reached an age now to be embarrassed by the adolescent passion of this dream, but she'd
never been able to bring herself to leave it behind—she summoned it to comfort her in her darkest hours.

       She had never even approached an hour so dark as this one.

      So lost was she in dreamlike contemplation of an impossible future that she only barely noticed the
scrape of the bar to her cell being shifted. It was a series of scratching clicks that caught her attention: this
was not the sound of a turnkey.

       Someone was picking the lock.

      And she heard the door open, and in the dim and distant light that leaked all the way from the Pit,
she saw the silhouette of a man as he slipped inside her cell; and after the scratch of flint on steel and a
shower of sparks, a lantern was gently puffed to life.

       Talann's heart stopped, and her vision swam.

       He wore the loose robe of a trusty instead of his customary black leathers, and his face was caked
with soot, but the fringe of beard and the slight angle of the broken nose were exactly as she had seen
them in ten years of dreams. And she knew that this was a dream, that this could only be a fantasy, that
she'd finally lost her senses.

      But if this had been a dream, he would have gathered her into his arms; he would have whispered
her name as the shackles fell away. Instead, as the light grew in Talann's tiny cell, Caine looked like he'd
been clubbed.

      He stared at her with shock and loathing, and some kind of stunned disappointment. Then he
shook his head and covered his eyes with his hand, resting his forehead against the webbing between
thumb and forefinger.

       "You'reTalann," he murmured hoarsely. "Of course. It would have been too easy."

      Her heart sang; these puzzling words and wounding expressions meant nothing beyond one simple,
surging fact. She said, "Caine— you remember me..."

        "Hah?" His head jerked up, and his eye fixed hers with a penetrating stare—an instant later he
grimaced and began rummaging within the trusty's robe that he wore. "Yeah, that's right," he muttered. "I
remember you." "And I'm not dreaming. I'm not. You've come to rescue me." Across his half-averted
face flickered the shadowplay of a conflicted interior struggle; it came to some resolve when he found
what he'd sought within his pockets. When he spoke to her again, he looked her full in the eye, and his
face was grim and set.

       "Yeah. Yeah, you better believe it. I'm gonna get you out of here."

      He held out a shallow ceramic pot only slightly larger than the circle of his thumb and forefinger, its
wide mouth stoppered by a piece of cork. "Grease your wounds with this, and eat a little. It'll take away
the swelling and relieve some of the pain. Don't use too much—Lamorak might be in worse shape than
you are."

       She held the pot while he picked the simple locks of her manacles and shackles; then she swiftly
followed his instructions. Whatever magick powered the ointment seemed to be a potent one: almost
instantly the redness and swelling of the infected sword cuts began to recede, and she could literally feel
the fading of her fever.

       "This was," she said, rubbing a last bit of the ointment onto the torn flesh of her wrists and ankles,
"not exactly the way I'd imagined meeting you again. I'm not the kind of girl who needs to be rescued
very often..."

       This sounded bad, and the hollow laugh that she forced to follow it sounded worse, but thankfully
Caine barely seemed to notice. He pulled the trusty's robe off over his head, revealing his familiar
knife-studded costume of leather, and tossed the robe to her.

       "Dress. We have less than ten minutes to spring Lamorak and get out of here."

     For a bare instant she lost herself in the blessed feel of clothing once again covering her body.
"Thank you. Mother'sCurse, Caine, can't even—

      "Save it. We'll have time for speeches after we get out of here; shit, you can give me a testimonial
dinner. Let's go get Lamorak."
       "Lamorak," she said slowly. "Do you know—"that he's screwing Pallas Ril? her mind finished,
but she couldn't say it aloud, not to his face, not here.

      "What?"

      "—where his cell is?" she amended hastily. "I haven't seen anyone—did anyone get away?
Pallas—did she make it? Is she well?"

        "Yeah, I...ah, I guess so," he said, looking like his stomach suddenly hurt him. "So far. Come on,
let's go."

       But instead of opening the door, Caine's fingers opened, and the lantern clattered to the floor; an
animal snarl scraped up his throat as his hands went to his head. His face twisted into a rictus of agony,
and he doubled over an instant before he collapsed against the wall, clawing at it for support; his
fingernails scraped across the limestone, and he crumpled to the floor.

     kollberg leaped boltupright from the stage manager's chair, chins quivering. "What in Christ's name
wasthat!"

      "I don't know, sir," said one of the frantic techs, "but it must hurt like hell. Look at this!"

      Caine's brain chemistry had gone berserk, and his pain-response telemetry was off the scale; it
was incredible that he was even conscious. On Soliloquy there came only a low back-of-the-throat
moan.

      "Is it some kind of seizure?" Kollberg barked."Somebody tell me what's going on! "

       Another tech looked up from his keypad screen, shaking his head. "For that, sir, we're probably
going to have to wait for Caine."

      And then Caine's Soliloquy came back on-line with a phrase that shot ice into Kollberg's chest.

      ^Everyone seems to want me to let Lamorak die. *

       berne thundered upto the courthouse at a full gallop, and even as a young and nervous sentry
unshouldered his pike and snapped at him to halt and declare himself, he swung from the saddle and
stalked toward the sentry like a hunting wolf.

      "Look at me. You know who I am, don't you?"

      The sentry nodded mutely, eyes wide.

      "I'm giving you agift, soldier. I'm handing you a promotion."

      "My lord?"

       "You haven't seen me. We've never met. This is what happened here tonight. As you were pacing
your post, you heard a sound—a muffled cry, the thud of a falling body, it doesn't matter. Make
something up. All you have to do is go to your watch commander and get him to send men to check
every sentry. Understand?"
      The sentry nodded, wide eyed.

      "One of your men is probably dead, now, as we speak. The man that killed him is in the Donjon."

      The sentry frowned. " don't understand. If he's in the Donjon, how could he—

       Berne cuffed him on the side of the head hard enough to make him stagger. "He's not aprisoner,
you idiot. He's helping a prisonerescape."

      "Escape?That's impossible!"

      "Only if you make it so, soldier. If this man is caught and killed, I'll beyout friend, you follow? You
understand what it can mean for a common soldier to have, for a friend, a Count of the Emperor?"

      Ambition seemed to light the sentry's eyes from within, and again he nodded.

      "But if anyone ever learns I was here tonight, I'll be your enemy.

       You might understand what that means, too." "I wouldn't know you if you bit me, m'lord." Berne
patted him on his reddening cheek. "Good lad." The sentry clattered off, and Berne remounted his
blowing horse.

      He wanted to be back at the palace before this particular kettle exploded.

      this was thethunder that threatened to burst Caine's skull:

    I APOLOGIZE FOR THE SHOUT, DEAR BOY; THE ROCK OF THE DONJON IMPEDES
FLOW, AND SO IMUSTROAR.

    FORGET LAMORAK. HE IS IN THE THEATER OF TRUTH, AND YOU CANNOT
REACH HIM IN TIME. IF YOU CAN BRING OUTTHE WOMAN, SHE MIGHT SUFFICE.

      OTHERWISE, RETURN AND WE SHALL DEVISE A NEW AND BETTER STRATAGEM.

       The Presence was gone from his mind as thunderously as it had appeared. Caine remembered
what Kollberg had said in the greenroom before his transfer, remembered as clearly as if he was hearing
it now for the first time."And, ah, about Lamorak. If he's not dead —if, for example, he was
captured—you are under no circumstances to attempt a rescue."

      He couldn't look at Talann, couldn't stare into those deep violet pools of her eyes.

      He coughed once, harshly, and monologued,*Everyone seems to want me to let Lamorak die.
*

       He thought,Kollberg, you cocksucker, though his Studio conditioning prevented him from
bringing the words to his lips.If there's any way, any way I can show people what you are, you just
better fucking watch out.

      Caine said, aloud, "How do we get from here to the Theater of Truth?"
      talann's eyes gowide: violets blooming at twilight. "I, I, I'm not sure," she stammers. "Ah, are you,
are you well?"

       I rest my aching head against the cool limestone behind me and try to look calm and
confident—must have scared the shit out of her, when I collapsed like that. Sure as death scared the shit
out of me.

      "Have you been there? The Theater of Truth?"

      She nods uncertainly and can't meet my eyes. "That's where Lamorak is?"

      "Yeah, well, his cell was empty when I got there," I lie smoothly. "Unless you think he's having
dinner with Ma'elKoth, the Theater of Truth is about the only choice."

       She runs grimy fingers into her matted, greasy hair. "I don't, I don't really know how to get there.
When they took me, they tied a sack over my head. I couldn't see." And we've only got about five
minutes left. So there it is, something snarls in the back of my mind. You win, Ma'elKoth. You win, you
other, you grey-fleshed flabby maggot of a man whom I cannot name. You win. Lamorak dies. Game
over.

       I don't know how that spell works, I don't know if anyone could hear Ma'elKoth's voice roaring
into my mind to say that Lamorak lies in the chamber of horrors, that he's too far away and too well
guarded. Not a medieval torture chamber, oh, no; a very modern, very clean and efficient torture
chamber, run by a Lipkan expatriate whose very name has become a byword for conscienceless
brutality. And yet, something wet and sticky squirms in my chest, telling me it's easy to leave him. Easy,
simple. He's been fucking my wife.

      Leave him, let him die. There's no chance to save him. My hands are clean.

      Even Pallas wouldn't fault me for this.

      I push up to my feet, swaying a little, my head still ringing from Ma'elKoth's roar.

      "How do you feel? Can you run? Can you climb? The rope out of here is a hundred and fifty feet.
Can you do it?" "Caine," she says feelingly, "to get out of here, I can do anything." "Stay two strides
behind my right shoulder, and keep up. You're Monastic, right? You can friarpace?"

       She nods. Within her filth-streaked face, her eyes shine with a hero-worshiping promise of a
knight's reward. This time it's me that looks away. "Let's go, then."

       I close the door behind us, swing the bar into place, and we run. Friarpace is a form of meditation
as well as a method for moving fast over uncertain terrain. We bend forward from the hips and hold our
backs straight, running flat-footed while bringing our knees straight up toward our chests with each stride.
The arms go limp at the sides, not pumped for balance, and the hands arc kept curled hi three-finger
shape. I watch the floor three paces ahead in the muted gleam from a bare crack in my lantern's cover. I
breathe slowly and steadily—three steps in, three steps out—feeling the universal breath like a current
that carries me along. A good pacer can run at marathon speed through a woodland and never tire, never
stumble on uneven ground, never trip on a root hidden in underbrush, and make very little noise. In abbey
school, we'd open each fighting day with a three-mile friarpace into the forest; the gouges and ridges of
unevenly cut limestone down here are no danger, even in the dark. Talann keeps up without difficulty.
"Where are we going?"
      "Shut up."

        I count side passages as we pace, chanting our path under my breath as a mantra.Straight
straight right straight left straight straight right —as each leg or turn passes I cut it from my chant.
None of the passages down here are quite straight, and some of them curve much more than is apparent
as we move along them. I spend substantial concentration on this; if I miss one, we're fucked. Even as it
is, we're cutting the timing too damned close.

      When my chant reduces tostraight, right, stop and hold out an arm to catch Talann at my
shoulder.

        "Around that corner," I say, low, "there's a door with no bar on it. That's the mess. We go in there;
there's a rope tucked up inside the flue. It'll take us right up to the courthouse roof, but we have to hurry.
If the day cooks show up and relight the fire, we'll smother, Understand?"

      She nods, frowning. "But...where's the Theater of Truth?

      What about Lamorak?"

      I shake my head grimly. "We can't help him. There's no time. If he'd been in his cell..."

       She seems to shrink a little, to collapse in on herself, and she looks away. "So we have to leave
him," she says hollowly. "There's nothing you can do?"

      She wants me to tell her she's wrong; she turns back to look at me with so much nakedly
worshipful hope in her eyes it makes me want to belt her.

     "That's right—" A horrible thought leaks into my brain. "You, ah, you and Pallas, you have a
meetpoint? You know, a place you can link up if you've been separated?"

      She squints at me. "Of course we do. Why should you ask? Didn't Pallas send you?"

     "No. It's a long story." I breathe a little easier—it would have been too harshly ironic to leave
Lamorak down here and later discover he was the only one who knew where to find Pallas.

      But somewhere, deep in my guts, I feel an unexpected twinge.

      It's not just that I know Lamorak, that I even kind oflike the guy— it feels like, I don't know,
disappointment?

      I see it now: I washoping Lamorak was the only one who knew the rendezvous.

       I'm looking for an excuse to rescue him. We shouldn't even be having this conversation. I should
have taken her into the kitchen and up the chimney and worried about this shit once we were out of
danger.

      Ma'elKoth told me to let him die; that other maggot gave me the same order.

      Everyone wants me to let Lamorak die. A pretty smart guy said to me the other day:"They think
they own you. They think you have to do what they say." And, y'know, thereis one other way out of
here...I set the lantern on the floor and reach for Talann's arms in the deep shadows. Her face seems to
glow, faintly; back over my shoulder a hundred paces or so is the torchlight and the constant
prisoner-mumble of the Pit. Her breath catches in her throat, and her eyes shine.

      "You go up that rope," I tell her. "You find Pallas Ril and say these words to her: Caine says
you've been off-line for four days. She'll know what to do."

      Her eyes narrow, and she gets a hardass set to her mouth. "Tell her yourself."

      "I hope I'll get the chance."

       She takes a step back and frees her arms from my grip with an efficient crossblock, her palms
striking my wrists. It leaves her in balanced guard stance, from which she jabs a finger at my face. "Don't
even think you're going to try this without me." "Talann—

       "No. Lamorak is my companion—and my friend. If you say there's no chance, I'll go up that rope
right behind you. If you're making a try, I'll be at your side."

       I study her for a long moment while I entertain a fantasy of beating that hardass look right off her
face. Screw it. From the fierce confidence in her eyes, and the memory of the solid cables of muscle in
her arms, I might not be able to do it. And, y'know, I can'tforce her up that rope. Besides, I might need
the help. She can read my decision in the shift of the curve of my silhouette.

       "How do we find the Theater of Truth?" "That's the easy part. We grab a guard and hurt him till he
gives us directions. Come on."

      "Now,before consciousness fully returns, we make a final check of our equipment. Any gaps in the
cage or your suit can have devastating consequences, particularly as—as we are pretending in this
case—we have no idea as to the specific abilities of the subject under the question."

      Awareness unfolded in geologic time, a coral island rising beneath a black ocean. Unfocused,
undefined discomfort resolved into thirst—desert-parched mouth, mummified tongue, scurf like
sandstone baked onto the teeth.

        "Adepts—thaumaturges, whatever—present their own peculiar difficulties in interrogation. Many
can partially or completely block the pain responses of their bodies; we are forced, therefore, to deal
with them on an emotional level,apsychic level, if you will. Rushall, are you listening? Adepts are
extremely difficult to acquire; you should pay attention. To continue: Revulsion and horror are potent
tools, but alone they are rarely sufficient. Perhaps the most powerful tool in the process of progressive
degradation is the subject's own imagination. It is this which we must always seek to stimulate."

      Restraint—straps cutting cruelly into flesh of wrist and ankle and neck, further straps around knees
and hips.

      My neck,came the thought.I'm the one feeling this.

       A slight shift toward a more comfortable position produced a searing shout of pain from the left
thigh, and the instinctive mind-view response to block the shuddering agony brought him up to full
awareness.

      Even as light returned to his eyes, Lamorak remembered who he was.
       An instant later, he realizedwhere he was.

     His heart began to pound drumbeats that pulsed from his toes to his throat; it tossed him out of
mindview, back into the sea of pain.

       "Observe his eyes. See the focus return? This indicates that we may now make our first incision."

       The man who stood over him, dispassionately lecturing in Lipkan-accented Westerling, wore a
curious costume over his long, gaunt frame: a one-piece suit of bulky, loose-fitting cloth— like a
beekeeper's—networked with fine-drawn silver wire. A large hood covered his head, leaving his features
dimly visible through a fencer's mask of silver mesh. In one gloved hand, a tiny scalpel gleamed. The
apparatus to which Lamorak lay bound seemed to be some sort of table, or raised bed, covered with
layers of cloth and cunningly jointed or hinged so that his back was supported in a position midway
between reclining and sitting upright; he had an ideal view of the knife as its gentle stroke parted the cloth
of his breeches above his uninjured right thigh.

       "Hey," he croaked, "hey, you don't have to go to all this trouble, you know? I'm no hero—just
ask, huh?" His jaw worked strangely, and his mouth stung—still swollen and pulpy from being slammed
against the wall of his cell and from the kicking the guards gave his head when they came to carry him
away.

      The man in the beekeeper suit gave no sign that he'd heard. He sliced the cloth crosswise around
Lamorak's knee and again up near enough to his groin that Lamorak flinched involuntarily as his scrotum
clenched around his testicles.

       "Master Arkadeil?" came another voice. "Why isn't he gagged?" "A fine question," replied the knife
wielder dryly. "You must allow the subject to speak, even to scream, regardless that nothing he says will
have any effect on the interrogation. This is to balance the essential helplessness of his position; this
slightest ray of hope that something he may say will earn him mercy prevents withdrawal into despair,
keeps his intellect present and active. This is vital, particularly to help counteract shock in the later stages
of the questioning, hi this way, you draw the subject into willing participation in the process: his hope
becomes your ally. Understood? Fine. You may even ask him a question from time to time. For
example—" He bent his hooded face toward Lamorak."—are you thirsty? Do you need water?"

      "Water this," Lamorak croaked, and tried to spit on him, but his mouth was dry as dust. He
assayed a weak smile. "How about a beer?"

       "Fine, that's fine." Master Arkadeil turned back to his audience. "You see? Nothing more than this
is required."

       A ring of tripods bearing lamps with white pottery reflectors surrounded the small circular stage on
which the apparatus stood; they cast a strong yellow light and left the rest of the room in shadow.
Beyond, he could vaguely see a double handful of seated men on raised benches around the stone floor;
they all seemed intent on Arkadeil's lecture. Behind them, more rows of benches climbed toward the
shadowed ceiling.

     A lecture hall,Lamorak thought; it reminded him of the classrooms at the Studio Conservatory.
Halfway between a lecture hall and an operating theater.

       He looked within himself next and was pleased to find no stirring of panic. He decided he was
handling this pretty well, so far—but it could be that part of his confidence was Ms inability to believe
that this was actually happening, that he really was strapped to a table in the Ankhanan Donjon, about to
be used as a medical cadaver in a class for apprentice torturers. Unreality, a sense of dissociation,
pervaded the scene for him, like he was second-handing somebody else's Adventure.

       He kept searching, down within his mind, for any hint of a belief that he would die here, and was
again pleased to find none. He was persistently, endlessly aware of the recording device within his skull,
and he had a morbid fear of looking like a coward—this had driven him to take greater and greater risks
to prove himself throughout his career, and he'd done some spectacular things; if the Studio had only put
the kind of cash into marketing him as they had, well, Caine...

      "Remember," Arkadeil said, "the key isprogressive degradation; therefore, we begin with the
smallest incision." The knife descended onto Lamorak's thigh just above the knee. "Please don't move,
Lamorak. Any movement of the treated areas will only make the cut ragged and more painful. All right?
Very well."

      "You don't want to do that," Lamorak said confidently and shifted his awareness to mindview. He
intended to enforce this suggestion with a substantial nudge at the torturer's psyche; it'd play like nitro on
the cube.

       He saw none of the dangling strands of color that were his mind's metaphor for Flow, but then, he
hadn't expected to: three days of futile experiments in his cell had vanquished that hope. This was part of
what rendered the Donjon impenetrable, even to adepts: the minerals deposited in the limestone
interfered with Flow, and what little that leaked through was diverted and consumed by the endless
fantasies and prayers for freedom of the hundreds of prisoners. Thaumaturgy of any real power was
impossible, down here. He knew, however, that the power he needed for such a little nudge he could
generate in his own Shell.

       The spiny flame-orange matrix of his Shell flared bright, and his vision faded as he fed what power
he had into it; he held it prepared as he searched for the Shell that would deh'mit the outskirts of the
torturer's mind.

       He found nothing there; Arkadeil's hooded form was as blank as a marble statue's.

        He struck anyway, visualizing a thick-jointed insectile arm whipping out from his Shell and
anchoring itself to the fencer's mask that covered Arkadeil's face. He tried to force it through the silver
net, into the torturer's brain, but some sort of shield appeared, a scarlet counterforce that glimmered
along the mesh that covered the queer beekeeper's suit.

        Lamorak poured power into his assault, hoping to overcome this resistance with sudden effort.
The scarlet field only flared brighter, matching his power, even as his spiked Shell leached color, fading
like fallen leaves bleaching in the sun, going yellow, then grey, and finally shredding like cobwebs in the
wind.

       The curved edge of the scalpel bit into his flesh, not deeply, a shallow slice about halfway around
his knee. Arkadeil used a fabric pad from his nearby tray to swab away the welling blood.

       "That didn't appear very painful," one of the observers said.

        "It isn't," Arkadeil replied. "The scalpel should be extremely sharp—obsidian is ideal, if quality
steel is unavailable. This slows and sometimes eliminates the onset of shock."
      I'm still woozy from the kicks in the head,Lamorak told himself as Arkadeil brought the knife to
the upper portion of his bared thigh.That 'all; I've just gotta keep trying. It 'II wear off.

       He began again to gather power, but the icy steel of the scalpel sliding easily through his flesh
gnawed at his concentration as Arkadeil made his second cut parallel to the first. The sensation— not
very painful, as Arkadeil had said—made his skin crawl, and he spent some attention building a grey mist
in mindview that fogged his perceptions, a filmy translucent wall behind which he could prepare his
attack.

       Arkadeil's third cut was a long vertical slice that connected the centers of the other two. He set the
scalpel down in his tray and took up a larger knife with a more pronounced curve, and another item that
looked like a pair of fryer tongs.

     He said, "It is at this point that you should allow the questioning to begin," and Lamorak's stomach
plummeted, dragging him sickeningly down out of mindview.

      That's a flensing knife. He's going to skin me.

       Arkadeil used the tongs to lift a corner of skin at the intersection of the cuts and began to work the
knife beneath it with long, slow strokes. The skin came up easily, exposing twitching red muscle fibers
and the butter-colored globules of subcutaneous fat.

       Lamorak fought down panic and slowed the sputter of his heart. Something came back to him,
faintly and foggily, something about Shanna, and Konnos, and the silver nets he had his family wear over
their heads. He should have paid more attention at the time, been less concerned with posing in the
sun-glow and more interested in what Konnos was saying, but it was too late now.

       He cast his eye toward the students, but knew this would be hopeless—even if his suggestion
could be made strong enough to influence one or two of them against their teacher, the others would
restrain them. /should have stuck with thaumaturgy, he thought bitterly.

        He'd given up the study of magick in favor of swordplay shortly after his first transfer to
Overwork!, on the theory that the Adventures of swordsmen were more viscerally exciting and did very
well in the long-term secondhand market; so now he was left with only a fading store of minor tricks and
a lot of smooth bulging muscles that did him no good at all.

        He wondered how long he could keep it up, this good front, this heroic face he showed; in the
end, who would care? If he died here, the cube and graver in his head would be lost. The only people
who'd know if he died well, or screaming and whining like a coward, were the people present now, here
in this room, and none of them gave a shit one way or the other.

       He tried to summon mindview for another assault on Arkadeil, but the easy slide of the flensing
knife through his flesh shredded his concentration. And he knew, too, that it was hopeless—the torturer
must have some Flow source inside that suit, powering the counterforce that resisted his attacks, and
nothing he could do would affect Arkadeil in the slightest.

      He couldn't seem to breathe, couldn't swallow past the panic that clawed at his throat, couldn't
even maintain the block that dulled the pain from his leg.

      Arkadeil now had peeled back both flaps of skin, and he turned to his students. "Here, you are
faced with a choice. If you are pressed for time, you may gradually slice away the muscle, being careful
to avoid the major arteries and veins, of course. This requires a certain amount of expertise, and I
recommend finding otherwise valueless individuals upon which to practice, as a mistake here can allow a
subject to bleed to death with dismaying speed. Progressive crippling of this sort is crude, but the
psychological effect can be potent. Given time for greater subtlety, there is a simpler technique that, in the
end, can be extraordinarily effective."

       He lifted a piece of folded parchment, displaying it for their view. "Collect the eggs of any small,
swarming insect—certain varieties of wasp are ideal, as are some spiders, and even flies or cockroaches
will do in a pinch."

       Lamorak said thickly, "Oh, god," and he hacked a convulsive retch that slammed agony through
his broken leg again.

      "Simply sprinkle these eggs directly onto the muscle, and sew the skin over them, thus," he said,
matching action to words. "In a few days, as the eggs begin to hatch, your subject will literally beg to tell
you everything you want to know." He swiftly finished sewing the flaps of skin with coarse black thread,
then wiped his' hands.

       "Now," he continued briskly, taking up the scalpel once again, "let us move to the consideration of
similar techniques as they apply to the intestinal cavity."

      Isuck on the knuckle I'd split on the guard's cheekbone, warm copperwire taste of blood on my
tongue, while I peer around the corner at the two crossbow-armed guards lounging outside the door
down the hall, and I try to remember why I decided to do this foolish, foolish thing.

        Those guys have been here for a while; they're not even chatting anymore. Now one of them slides
down the wall to settle his butt on the floor. A single lamp hangs from a peg driven into the stone over the
lintel.

       Talann whispers at my shoulder. "What's wrong?"

       Without looking back at her, I hold two fingers where she can see them.

       "We can take them," she tells me.

      Which is true. The problem will be noise. The problem will be getting within arm's reach of them
without eating a couple pounds of steel.

      L'audace, toujours I'audace.I think that's Napoleon. Doesn't matter—he could have been talking
about me.

       "Wait here."

      I take from her hand the iron-bound club, heavy as a mace, that we took off the guard we left
gagged and tied within an empty cell. Neither of us had any use for his armor, which wouldn't have fit
anyway.

       "What about your throwing knives?"

       I shake my head. "It's too far, and they're in armor—I'd have to take them in the throat, and at this
range I couldn't be sure of dropping one even if I hit him."

       "I can do lots of impressive things," Talann offers.

       "Yeah, sure. Just wait."

      "Caine," she says, taking my shoulder with a warm hand. "A couple of your knives. Please. If this
doesn't work—if we don't make it—don't leave me unarmed. I, I can't go back to that cell..."

       The image of her chained naked in her own shit rises vivid enough to make me wince; I can still
smell it on her. I pull the pair of throwing knives from their thigh sheaths and offer them to her without a
word. She takes them with both hands together like she's accepting a communion cup. Her attitude has
something of awe in it; taking my knives has a significance for her that I don't understand, and I don't
have time to wonder about it.

       "Now don't move. The way you look, no offense, but if they see you it'll blow the game."

       "I'm not an idiot," she tells me.

       May Tyshalle grant that this be truth.

      I step out into the corridor and start for the two guards with a measured pace. As their heads
swivel toward the sound of my boot heels clicking on the limestone, I say with just the right tone of
predatory authority, "Is there areason that a pair of posted guards are lounging on their fatbutts?"

       The one on the floor scrambles to his feet, and the other pushes off the wall; they both come to
attention. They try sneaking looks at me as I approach, but the shadows are still too deep back here for
them to see more than my general outline. I say silkily, "Don't even think about eyeballing me, you lazy
sacks of shit."

       I can see the door between them now: it's closed, and solid, with no viewport. Good. Both guards
are bareheaded: a man in armor can get uncomfortably hot, even in the cool of the Donjon. Their steel
skullcaps are on the floor beside their feet. All I have to do is get close enough to swing this club, a quick
horizontal forehand bash to the first guy's head, continue the motion into a spin, peg the other guy before
he realizes what's happening—

       One of the guards unslings his crossbow and cranks the crows-foot back to cock it.

       My throat clenches, but I never break stride. "What do you think you're doing?"

      The guard slides a quarrel into the groove. "General Order Three, sir," he says apologetically.
"You're out of policy."

      I keep walking. The crossbow comes up. Now the other guard is toying uncertainly with his bow.
Go with it: audacity, always audacity.

      "And what'syour problem?" I snarl. "Why isn't that weapon cocked, soldier? Where's your
quarrel?" "Sorry, sir, sorry," he mumbles, fumbling with the crowsfoot. Ten more strides, that's all I need.
"Present for inspection."

       It almost works—the fumbler stretches his crossbow out, but the other swings around and levels
on me in a smooth motion that speaks of long practice.

       "You're out of uniform, sir. How are we to know you're not an escaped prisoner?" Five more
strides.

       "What did I tell you about eyeballing me?" Now the other guard levels as well. He sniggers. "Yeah.
How was we to know?" Fuck. This is a stupid way to die. They expect me to bluster or back off: that's
my edge. The guard is saying, "Step back or I'll shoot," even as I come up to him and slap his bow down
and to the side with the palm of my left hand. The bow triggers at the motion, and the quarrelspannggs
off stone as I quickstep to his left, to keep his armored body between me and the fumbler's bow, and
overhand the club to crunch down on the top of his head. I pivot on my left foot and kick his collapsing
body toward the fumbler, but the fumbler skips back and keeps hold of his bow. I know with sickening
certainty that it's only a heartbeat until he shouts an alarm, and a heartbeat later that steel broadhead will
leap from his bow and slam into my body. At this range it'll go right through me, and I can't get there
before the shot.

       I throw the club at him to spoil his shot, but he ducks it; I spring up into a leaping side kick, hoping
to take the quarrel in the meat of a leg and praying that he'll miss my balls, but even as I'm going up
something whickers by my head, brushing my hair, and the hilt of a dagger blossoms from the notch of his
collarbone.

       His eyes go wide, and his brows draw together; he drops the bow, and my side kick nearly takes
his head off before the bow hits the ground. The quarrel falls from its groove as the bow triggers
harmlessly with a flat whack. The back of the guard's skull makes a wet crunch on the stone floor.

        And I pause for a moment's astonished wonder that I'm alive.

         I pull my knife from the guard's throat and wipe it on his breeches as Talann runs lightly toward
me. The lips of the wound bubble and shift ever so slightly in and out with his whistling breath, driving
little rivulets of blood across the exposed cartilage. A little blood sprays up across my face and tickles as
it drips into my beard. I turn him over on his face so most of the blood will drain onto the floor: he might
not drown.

      I silently hand the knife back to Talann when she arrives—she's a lot better with it than I' ever be.
She grins at me. "Told you I can do impressive things."

      "I've never seen anything like it," I tell her truthfully. Never mind that it almost took my ear off.
"That was a spectacular throw. You saved my life."

        "We can call it even, then, shall we?"

        I take her hand in a comrade's grip, and her eyes glow. "Yeah. We can."

        She coughs and turns away, blushing a little, looking down at the guards. "Better cut their throats,
huh?"

        I shake my head. "I think they'll sleep till we're out of here. With those cracked skulls they might
never wake up, anyway, but let's give them the chance. They're not badguys, y'know, just soldiers doing
their jobs."

        She squints at me consideringly. "You're a little different than I imagined you'd be."
       "You're not the first person to tell me that. Can you shoot as well as you throw?"

       She shrugs. "Probably."

       "Grab those bows, then, and let's get on with this."

       While she gathers up the crossbows, cocks and loads them, I can't help but appreciate the very
interesting streamlined curves that fill the trusty's robe I gave her. I remember how she looked through
Pallas' eyes, but Pallas doesn't have the hormonal responses to make that memory as compelling as this
experience—and, y'know, there are few attitudes as seductive as uncritical adoration.

       I turn away and pull the lamp down from its peg. "Ready?"

      "Always." She holds a crossbow in each hand like twin pistols of a gunslinger, and her grin reminds
me of mine.

       "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

       "Would you believe me if I said this is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream?"

       I hope the question's rhetorical; silently I snuff the lamp and plunge the corridor into darkness. I set
the lamp on the floor and ease the door open by feel, just a crack, and look down into the bowl-shaped
Theater of Truth.

       Down in the center of the bowl, Lamorak lies strapped to a table on a platform surrounded by
what look like limelights. A tall man in some kind of weird coverall and mask is slicing into Lamorak's
belly with a scalpel; there's another wound on his right thigh, an ugly I-shaped thing stitched shut with
coarse black thread, and his left thigh is swollen up like a fucking blimp.

      Ten men sit on benches down there, their backs to me, and hang on the masked guy's—this must
be Arkadeil—every word.

       He says, "Now that we have exposed the abdominal wall, we again face several choices. Insect
eggs are appropriate here, and are recommended, in fact, unless one has had substantial surgical
experience. Opening the wall here is extremely tricky—a slight nick in the small intestine can release
digestive acids into the abdominal cavity. While death of this sort is satisfyingly painful, it can come too
swiftly for effective interrogation, and we are again faced with the specter of our greatest enemy: shock.
On the other hand, if you do feel competent to open the abdominal wall, there is a variety of wasp whose
larvae are particularly suited to this area. You will find details on collecting these in your notes. Please
review them while I open the muscle."

       I grind my teeth together against the rising bile that scorches the back of my throat. "It's a class. It's
a fucking torture seminar."

       "Lamorak's in there?" Talann whispers at my shoulder. "How does he look?"

       "Bad. That left thigh looks like trouble. Is there another door?"

       "I didn't see one—I don't think so."
       "All right. I'm going in. You drag the guards inside and hold the door. Anyone comes up the
corridor, shoot him."

          "With pleasure. What are you going to do?"

          I take a deep breath, let it out slowly.

          "Improvise."

       I slip through the door and stroll down the broad flight of steps carved into the limestone, past
curving rows of benches, thumbs hooked behind my belt, ambling along as though I've got all the time in
the world. The students down there seem to be wearing only fabric, no armor or even leather in
evidence, and no weapons, by Tyshalle's grace. Lamorak must have glimpsed my movement— with a
gasp, he tears his eyes free of their hypnotic fixation on the glittering scalpel and meets mine, staring in
blank wonder.

          Arkadeil turns and follows his gaze, his face invisible behind the shimmer of silver mesh.

          "May I help you?" he asks politely.

          "Sure," I say in a friendly tone. The students jump at the sound of my voice. "One second, all
right?"

      I stroll down the last couple of steps, down past the students, who still sit and wait obediently and
expectantly for their master to explain this interruption.

     It'd be swell if I could stroll right up to Lamorak's side, but Arkadeil is smart and wary, and
Lamorak himself blows the game: a tear leaks down his face and he croaks, "Caine—my god, Caine..."

          Idiot. I should let him die.

    Arkadeil puts the edge of the scalpel against the twitching flesh above Lamorak's carotid artery.
"Mmm. Caine, is it? An honor. I presume you're here about this one?"

      I stop and spread my empty hands. "We can negotiate, Arkadeil. I've heard you're a reasonable
man. A simple swap: your life for his."

          "I think not." He waves a gloved hand at his students. "Restrain him."

        Fabric rustles behind me, and I turn to face the students at my back. They shift restlessly, looking
at the floor, the walls, each other, anything but me, and you can read the strength of my legend in their
downcast eyes.

       Several of them have more guts than brains, and they force themselves to unsteady feet,
tentatively, each trying to time his rush so that he won't be the first one to reach me.

       "Courage is admirable," I tell them, smiling through the guard's blood that still trickles down my
face, "but it is not a survival trait." "Comeon," one of them says urgently, though he's holding himself
entirely still. "He can't take us all at once..." And he's right, of course. A couple more stand up
uncertainly. I show them as many teeth as will fit in my widest wolf grin, my bestFuck with me, I dare
you expression. "That's what the boys outside thought," I remind them."They were in armor. With
crossbows, and clubs.They were professional soldiers." I give them a moment to think this over. The
students' eyes fix on me like jacklighted deer. I open my arms as though I'm offering them a group hug. "
Where'syour armor, kids?" Nobody answers. "Now sit down."

      They sink back onto the benches like sandbagged sailors. I turn back to Arkadeil, fold my arms,
and wait.

       "All right, then." Arkadeil's words are calm, but his voice is tight with tension. He stands on the far
side of the table, and now a thin line of blood trickles down Lamorak's neck from the scalpel's pressure.
"I don't imagine that you can be persuaded to give yourself up, but if you do not leave immediately, you
will be rescuing a corpse."

      "Caine..." Lamorak says hoarsely, his eyes rolling white, "make him kill me. For god's sakemake
him kill me\"

       "Oh, relax, you big baby. I'm the only one around here allowed to kill people."

       "I do not bluff, Caine," Arkadeil says.

       I shrug. "Cut his throat and there's nothing to stop me from tearing your head off."

       "Then we are at an impasse. Time, however, is on my side." "You're not the only one with an ally.
Talann: in the shoulder."Whack! without hesitation; she must have been aiming already, clever girl. The
students all jump and cry out as the quarrel pounds into Arkadeil's shoulder joint and flattens him like a
hammer blow. The scalpel chimes prettily as it skitters across the stone. Arkadeil writhes on the floor,
clutching at the quarrel's steel vanes and keening a high, disbelieving whine.

       "I could," I say generally toward the shadows above, "really get used to having you around."

       "Hey, likewise," she replies softly, then shouts, "Move and you get the next one through the skull!"

       Arkadeil slumps, surrendering. I step up to the operating table and start to unbuckle the restraining
straps. As soon as he gets an arm free, Lamorak clutches at my hand with desperate strength, and his
eyes overflow with tears.

       "Caine, I can'tbelieve it..." he whispers. "They sent you for me, right? They found out I was down
here and they sent you to get me out?"

        He can't say whothey is, cannot speak the name, and neither can I; but I can still tell him the brutal
truth. "No."

       "No? What do you mean, no?"

      "I was ordered to let you die. The only reason I'm down here is I need you to get me to Pallas Ril.
Think about that the next time you put on that armor and sling your sword. Speaking of your sword,
Berne has it, did you know that?"

         He doesn't seem to hear me; he's still lost in the cold concept of our mutual employer having so
little regard for him that they wanted him tortured to death.

       "My god, my god, I've gotta get out of here..."
      I free the last strap. "Let's go, then."

      He looks at me blankly. "My leg—I can't walk. My leg's broken."

     "Broken?" I repeat stupidly. Lamorak is a big man, and I'm a small one—he outweighs me by
maybe twenty-five kilos, and Ta-lann's smaller than I am.

      How in the name of every bleeding god am I going to get him out of here?

      kollberg gnawed ona knuckle. He couldn't believe Caine would be sostupid, couldn't believe he
would risk his precious, extraordinarily lucrative life for Lamorak, and especially couldn't believe that
Caineleaked out in dialogue what should have been a privileged backstage communication.

       He was beginning to believe that the Board of Governors might have been right about Caine all
along: the man might be actively dangerous. He was certainly behaving very strangely, taking
unaccustomed risks, foolish chances, being uncharacteristically reluctant to exercise his primary
talent—killing people—and now, leaking backstage orders to the public!

      Kollberg's fist had come very close to stroking the recall there, very close indeed; the last thing he
wanted half a million first-handers to take away from this Adventure was some knowledge of how little
an Actor's life was actually worth.

       Well,he decided,let it play out. Lamorak was crippled, and Caine was too pragmatic to give his
own life for another's; Lamorak would almost certainly die here, and the death of an Actor is a sure
boost in the secondhand market.

       And Caine's references to him, personally, he merely noted with what he thought was admirable
dispassion: Kollberg thought of himself as too professional to allow being called aflabby grey-fleshed
maggot to affect his judgment. The amphetamines had something to do with this, perhaps; he was not
unaware of the chemical elevation of his mood. This latest insult he simply, almost lovingly, filed on his
growing mental tally sheet, every entry of which chewed away at the nether regions of his pride.
Sometime soon, perhaps very shortly indeed, he and Caine would settle up.

      habrak stared ingrim dismay and gathering anger at the tangled, soot-blackened rope tied to the
notched steel bar. The sentry who'd brought this to him and laid it on his desk stood stiffly and spoke of
how they'd found their comrade bound and gagged on the roof alongside the guardwalk. "They were
untying him when I left. I don't think he saw anything, and I thought it was more important to get this to
you immediately."

      "You did it right, pikeman."

     If he really had a bit of brain,Habrak thought,he 'd have left the rope in place and taken each
man as he climbed out of the chimney.

      But, as it was, these intruders, these lawless scum—whoever they might be—who had crept into
the Donjon,his Donjon, they were trapped. They were trapped, and he could take them.

       "Assemble the guards without alarum," he growled. "We'll file down and search every inch. Our
friends down there might not yet know we're on to them. Tell the boys not to worry about saving them
for questioning. Anyone who's not a guard and not in a cell or the Pit, I want himdead. Shoot him down.
No mercy."

         He rose and reached for his weapons. "I want a whole pile of bodies, you understand? A whole
pile."

        "!t might bedifferent, had you not shot me," Arkadeil pants with pain-thinned blandness, "but with
this wound, no one will believe you are in my custody, and I daresay I haven't enough value as a hostage
that a guard will let you pass to spare my life."

         "I'm not planning to spare your life," I tell him. "Shut up."

      "Caine," Lamorak breathes thinly, as he ties what's left of his blouse around the smile of the
skin-deep slice across his belly, "make him take off his hood."

         "Don't bother me right now."

       Ten very nervous students sit on the lowest bench, trembling and licking their sweaty upper lips. I
point at the biggest, strongest-looking one. "You. Come over here."

       "Me?" He presses a palm to his chest, looking around and halfheartedly pretending that I'm
pointing at the guy next to him.

         "Come on, move it."

         "Hey, why are you picking on me? I didn't do any—

         "Talann," I say sharply, "shoot this dumb son of a whore."

       He springs to his feet like an overwound jack-in-the-box and flutters his hands in the air. "Don't!
Don't! All right!" He scurries over to me, wearing a smile of eager helpfulness frozen into a twisted rictus
of fear.

         "What's your name?"

         "Ru-Rushall, if it please your—

     "Shut up. Lamorak—" I turn and offer him my arm."—I give you Rushall to be your trusty steed.
Come on—I'll help you mount up."

         Lamorak squints at him, then shrugs and summons a sickly smile. "Beats walking, I guess."

         "P-please..." Rushall stammers.

         "I said shut up," I remind him. "Horses don't talk. Turn around."

      Rushall continues to whimper wordlessly under his breath, but he accepts Lamorak's weight
obediently enough. They both grunt— Rushall in effort, Lamorak in pain.

       "Make Arkadeil take off that hood, Caine," Lamorak repeats with effort. "Then maybe I can
help...otherwise, deadweight..."
      His color is bad, corpse-pale and slightly green, and he looks like it's an effort to hang on to
consciousness. He's fighting shock with long, slow breaths—the son of a bitch must be tougher than I
thought. Even so he looks like he can't spare the effort to explain, so I don't ask. I go over to where
Arkadeil huddles on the floor.

      "All right, you heard him. Take it off."

      He flinches away from me and wraps his good arm around his head to hold the hood where it is.
Rather than argue with him, I give a sharp, spiral twist to the vanes of the quarrel that sticks out of his
shoulder; the steel vibrates in my hand as it grinds bone inside his shoulder joint. He howls and lets go of
the hood to grab at my arm; I pull the hood off his head with my other hand.

       He has the craggy, high-cheekboned face of a Lipkan noble and stringy hair now matted with
sweat, as grey as his pain-blanched cheeks. He pants through clenched teeth that seal the whimpers
inside his chest: he's holding on to Lipkan honor as best he can.

      Lamorak says, "Stand up."

        Now, it's damned clear to me that Arkadeil has no intention of cooperating in any—but son of a
bitch, stand up he does, slowly uncoiling spidery limbs until he comes to his feet. I glance over my
shoulder at Lamorak and now I understand. His surfer-perfect face wears a familiar expression: the
transcendent concentration ofmindview.

      "The source for your suit," Lamorak murmurs. "Give it to me."

       Arkadeil's good hand slips robotically down through the neckline of his beekeeper's suit. Glassy
eyed, he speaks without any seeming awareness of his hand's action. "You cannot imagine that you will
escape..."

       He goes on in this vein while his hand brings out a tiny, glossy black stone about the size of a pea.
F ve seen ones like it before: it's a griffinstone.

        You find them in the crops of the draft horse-sized bird-beasts; they can store an immense amount
of magickal energy. Unlike dragons, who can tap Flow as directly as any human thaumaturge or primal
mage, griffins are wholly dependent on the power of the griffmstones they carry in their muscular
flightcrops. Lacking griffinstones, they're every bit as clumsy and helpless as you might expect from a
half-hawk, half-lion abomination of nature; with them, they become swift flyers and fearsome
predators—and the targets of stonehunters, who have trapped them nearly to extinction. That makes
griffinstones exceedingly rare and hideously expensive, even tiny ones like this.

       Arkadeil steps mechanically over to Rushall and Lamorak and puts the griffinstone into Lamorak's
outstretched hand. A smile spreads over Lamorak's face, and his eyes drift closed in what might be
mistaken for sexual pleasure.

      "All right," he murmurs. "We can go now."

      "You heard the man," I say to Rushall, nodding toward the stairs. "Giddyap."

       By the time we reach the top of the stairs, Rushall's already panting under Lamorak's hundred
kilos; a bad sign. I step over the two unconscious guards—both breathing, so far—and nod to Talann.
      "Let's get out of here. We can bar the door from outside."

      "Wait," Lamorak gasps thinly. "Wait one second."

      "For what?"

      By way of answer, Lamorak lifts the fist in which the griffin-stone is clenched, and his eyes drift
closed again. "Pick up the scalpel," he says clearly, and far below us on the platform in the middle of the
Theater of Truth, Arkadeil does.

      "Thine eye offends thee," Lamorak says, with venom in his voice more potent than I've ever heard
from him. "Pluck it out."

      With robotic lack of reaction, Arkadeil drives the scalpel deep into his left eye.

      Talann gags and says thickly, "Mother!"

      "Fucker," Lamorak says, his teeth showing yellow and savage. "That'smotherfucker."

       Blood and thick, clear fluid stream down Arkadeil's cheek as he saws the scalpel back and forth
within his eye socket. Rushall moans in terror and revulsion.

      "Mmm," I say thoughtfully. "Remind me to stay on your good side."

        Once out in the corridor, we bar the door behind us. While Lamorak is busy producing a flame to
light the lamp, Talann leans close. "Can we haul him up that rope?" she says, low, nodding at Lamorak.
"He'll never climb it."

      "We're not going up the rope." I nod back in the direction from which we came. "That's gone—the
daycooks'll be in there by now, with guardsmen to watch them. But there's another way out of here."

      "There is?"

      I grin. "What, you thought I wouldn't have a fallback? Am I an amateur?"

      "How do we get there?"

      <

      "Well, y'know, that's the trick. We have to go through the Pit. "Through thePitT" Talann goes
goggle-eyed. "Are youinsane "No choice," I say with a shrug. "Our way out? It's in the Shaf Lamorak
and Talann exchange a grim look, and Rush: blanches—they all know the Shaft's reputation. Lamorak
clench the griffinstone, and Rushall calms; we put the lamp into his so: fleshed grip. "Follow me."

      We head off along the corridor, and a four-man guard ur swings into view around a corner ahead.

       In the instant of recognition it takes for the guards to register presence, Talann has already leveled
one of her bows. The guai who opens his mouth to shout"Don't move —" takes her quarr right into the
back of his throat.

      It strikes through his spine and bursts out the nape of his neck, s the impact doesn't knock him
down: he stands, swaying, dead c his feet. The other guards fire wildly in their alarm, and their qua rels
strike fire from the limestone walls. Something smacks th side of my right knee hard enough to buckle it,
making a noise lik a slap of raw meat on a wet butcher block. They're shouting ft help as they duck back
around the corner to reload, and the leadc finally topples on his face, twitching.

       I start to sprint after them and my leg gives way, sending m sprawling. Talann's right with me: she
leaps over my head while hold on to my knee, finding blood there that leaks through my fin gers. She
bounds like a gazelle toward the corner. Only one fool hardy guard manages to recock before she gets
there, but she' ready for him as he swings back around the corner, and she neve seems to miss.

       Even as he brings his bow down into line, Talann springs into tht air and fires, using the smooth arc
of her leap to make her hands a; steady as if she stood still. She's maybe three meters from the guard
when her quarrel takes him in the heart. From this range, hi; armor can't even stop the vanes: the quarrel
punches right througl his hauberk to vanish inside his chest.

       She drops the bow and makes the comer without slowing, brushing past the guard who makes
thick choking noises deep in the back of his throat. Around the corner, the guards' shouted alarms
become shouts of alarm, and the wet bone-on-bone music of close combat swells, just out of sight.

        Now I find out what's wrong with my knee: on the floor, close enough that I almost fell on it, is a
steel crossbow quarrel, its point bent and blunted. One of the wild shots from the guards must have hit
me on the bounce. Even blunted and with much of its force dissipated against the limestone floor, it hit the
bone of my knee like the blow of a mace. My whole leg is filled with numb tingling, and I can't feel my
toes—probably chipped the bone. This is gonna hurt like a bastard in a few minutes. If it got in under my
kneecap...I don't want to think about it.

       This may not be my best day.

      There's no time to find out how badly I'm injured. I'll worry about it after I'm sure I'm gonna live
through this.

      The sounds of combat cease abruptly, and a second later, Talann comes back around the comer,
looking pleased with herself.

       "Are you hurt?" I ask her.

       "Caine," she says seriously, "I'm just wanning up."

       She can do lots of impressive things, she'd said.

       "You are really something," I tell her weakly.

       She shrugs and gives me a smile I'd have to guess would be dazzling if her face weren't smeared
with shit.

      Still no feeling in my right foot, though little white-hot needles are starting to prick my calf. "Help
me up," I tell her. "I'm not sure I can walk, yet."

       She takes my hand in hers, weapon to weapon, and lifts me to my feet with easy strength. The
look in her eyes goes through me like a spear. When was the last time my wife looked at me like that?
        This is something I can't think about right now.

      The side of my knee is pulpy and swelling already, making sausage skin out of the tight leather of
my breeches—nothing feels broken in there, but between the numb tingle and the swelling, nothing feels
much of anything in there.

        Better keep moving and hope for the best.

        Talann slips a muscular shoulder into my armpit and helps me along. Rushall and Lamorak still
stand swaying in the middle of the corridor; Lamorak's barely hanging on, head drooping like a freighter
pilot's at the ass end of a two-day run.

        Shouts that answer the alarms of Talann's recent victims come from ahead of us, toward the Pit.

        Talann glances from Rushall's blankly sweating face to my knee. "We can't outrun them."

       "No shit. Lamorak, we need some help, here." I take his shoulder and shake him gently. "Come
on. Stick with us, man. We're about to have guards crawling all over us. Can't you do something to draw
them off?"

        His eyes barely focus. "N'much. Mmm, pretty useless...swordsman, y'know...shitty adept..."

        I take my arm off Talann's shoulder and whack him a stinging open-hand slap to the side of the
face.

       "Wake up! We got notime for this, you whining sack of shit! You pull it together—or I just cut
your throat right now and we take our chances without you."

      His face seems to clear, and a half smile bends his lips. "Easy to be tough...unarmed man with a
broken leg...A'right, I got something."

       He shakes his head sharply, struggling to keep his focus. "But you gotta look after, uh, after my
horse, here—I can' t hold him and do...other shit at the same time."

       "No fear." I draw one of the long keen fighting knives from the rib sheath within my tunic as the
pale cast of thought returns to Rushall's face. I show him the knife's chisel point.

        "Think of this as a spur. Don't make me dig it into your flanks, huh?"

     Rushall wheezes something incomprehensible, and we limp away, deeper into the Donjon,
accompanied by the rising sound of boots clattering toward us.

        They're between us and the Pit, and so we try to swing wide. Lamorak mutters "Corner" from time
to time and we turn; when one of the clattering patrols sees us, they insensibly point in the wrong
direction and hustle off down other corridors at right angles to the one we're in. Whatever kind of illusion
it is Lamorak's running, it's obviously working.

       Now at various places around the Donjon we can hear them shouting to and at each other:
conflicting orders and argument over which way we went. It's working swell, but there's too many
fucking guards down here—they're everywhere, and Lamorak's grip on consciousness is loosening.
       Now and again one of the rushing patrols points at us. They see us instead of his illusion, once
even firing on us, before Lamorak's head jerks up like a narcoleptic marionette's and the guards mill in
confusion for a moment before stumbling off the wrong way.

      And the prisoners are into the act now, wakened by the yelling. They amuse themselves as
prisoners will, by imitating the shouts of the guards— "This way! That way! The other way! Have you
looked up your ass?"— and by simply howling wordlessly to drown all voices in a rising surf of noise.

      We turn aside again and again, dodging back from advancing groups, and finally, blessedly,
around the curve of a corridor appears the steady light of the torchlit Pit.

      I douse the lamp Rushall carries. In the yellow-rose glow from the Pit, his face is grey and
slack—shit, he looks worse than Lamo-rak. His chest heaves, and tears stream down his face.

      I can't,he mouths again and again, and:Don't kill me. It's possible to feel some sympathy for the
poor bastard until I remind myself what he was studying to become.

       I motion for them to wait here, and I slide along the curving wall, limping up to the corridor mouth
to get a look.

         I don't like what I see.

      The door to the Shaft is all the way on the far side of the Pit, across the thirty-endless-meter
diameter—a long, long walk around the perimeter balcony—and only a few steps from the
verdigris-caked double doors that lead up the steps to the courthouse.

       Standing by those double doors are nine very alert-looking men in full armor with crossbows at the
ready, with the hip-height stone wall of the balcony rail for cover, and with, no doubt, orders to hold that
door with their lives.

         mutter, softly enough that no one can hear, "We are lip-deep in shit."

         Is it too late to change my mind about this stupid escape thing?

       But, y'know, I'm an optimist, and I can look on the bright side: at least we don't have to cross the
Pit floor below, with its surging mass of jeering, hooting prisoners. And better a quick death, choking on
the blood that fills your lungs from a crossbow through the chest, than to be delivered alive into the
Theater of Truth.

         I slip back into the darkness to rejoin the others.

         "Talann, you remember what I told you before, what you have to tell Pallas Ril if I don't get out of
here?"

       Her face hardens, and she shakes her head stubbornly. "No. No, I don't, and don't waste your
breath telling me again. We all make it or none of us do."

      Idiot child. "Lamorak, listen to me." His eyes are glazed, and he seems to be looking at something
deep within the stone over my head. I shake him until his consciousness swims up into view.

         "Lamorak, goddammit, you have to tell Pallas she'soff-line, understand? When you meet Pallas,
tell her she's off-line."

       • "Pallas?" he murmurs thickly. "Caine...shit, Caine, I'm sorry..."

     He's in a world of his own. "No time for that, now. Listen to me: Pallas dies in three days, or
maybe less, maybe only two. You hear me? Pallasdiesl"

       Lamorak frowns, leaning his head on the back of Rushall's shoulder; I think some of this is drifting
into view through the fog in his mind. But now Talann stares at me with an uncomprehending squint.

       "What do you mean, Pallas dies in three days? Is she hurt? Poisoned? What does 'off-line' mean?"

       I bite down on my desperation and speak through clenched teeth. "Talann, I swear to you, if
there's ever a way for me to explain this to you, I will. But not now. For now, just accept my word."

       "I do, but—"

       "Fine then. Lamorak, you got it? You have to tell her she's off-line."

       His brows slowly draw together. "Off-line...Pallas is off-line? Bleedinggod, Caine...she'lldie —!"

        "Yeah." Now she has two chances: if either one of them makes it, she might learn it in time to get
to a fixed transfer point and live. "All right, follow me."

       I lead them up toward the mouth of the corridor; we all stop just barely far enough in the shadows
that the guards on the balcony opposite can't see us.

       "All we have to do is get to the Shaft door," I tell them, pointing.

       Talann's face hardens as she looks out there, but she says nothing. She understands as well as I do
the brutal tactical reality of rounding that long open curve of balcony. I pull her back so that I can instruct
her out of Rushall's hearing. We don't have to go far— it's loud as a fucking nightclub in here.

        "Once we're through that door, we're home free. At the bottom end of the Shaft there's a sump,
just a hole in the stone that they drop bodies down. It's a long drop, but the bottom is full of a couple
yards of shit and composting corpses on a ledge, and an underground stream flows right by there. That's
how we get out. Understand? Jump in and don't swim; just hold your breath and let the current carry you
while you count to sixty, like this: one-ankhana two-ankhana three-ankhana. Then swim for the side—the
stream is narrow, just swim hard and you'll bump into stone eventually. Keep hold of Lamorak—he can
make a light. You'll be in the caverns under the city. If I'm with you, everything will be fine—I know
those caverns. If not, keep moving upward and calling out; you should be able to meet up with the
Subjects of Cant—they use the caverns to move around under the city." "How do you know all this?"

       Ma'elKoth showed me a map, that's how, an emergency fallback in case something went wrong at
the kitchen. I give her a grim smile. "I know a lot of things about this city. It's practically my hometown."

       We go back up to where Rushall leans weakly on the wall, sagging under Lamorak's weight.

       "All right," I tell them, "here we go." Rushall whimpers, tears leaking steadily from his eyes. "Relax,
kid. Once we're inside the Shaft, we won't need you anymore. And we won't have any reason to hurt
you, all right?"
      He nods uncertainly, not really reassured. "Lamorak, we need something from you again here,
something to keep those guards busy while we cross the Pit."

      His breath rattles in his throat for a second or two before he whispers his answer, barely audible
above the roar of jeering prisoners. "...I, I got nothing left, I think...Caine, sorry..." Fuck. Yeah, that
would have been too easy. "All right," I repeat, "let's try it this way. Hands and knees. Stay below the
balcony wall and get as far as you can."

       "Call that a plan?" Talann says. "Ever try crawling in a robe?" "Deal with it. You lead. Give me
those bows, I'm bringing up the rear."

       She hands me the crossbows and the two quivers and begins knotting her robe up around her
hips. Rushall whimpers, "I can't do it. Please. I can't make it."

       "...can crawl," Lamorak offers dully. "Don't need nun for that..."

      "No you can't and yes you do. Andyou —" I point a crossbow at Rushall. "—I'm not interested in
your problems. You start to feel too tired, just imagine how you'll feel with this quarrel sticking out your
asshole. Move."

       Rushall flinches away from me with more energy than I've seen since I chose him for this job, and I
turn to Talann. "When you get to that door, don't wait for me, just open the damned thing. I'll be right
behind you."

     They set out with painful, nerve-racking slowness, creeping into the light. I hang back in the
shadows, pressed against the wall with a bow in each hand, and watch the nine guards across the Pit.

         Three minutes, that's all I ask. Tyshalle, if you're listening, if you're there, give me three minutes and
I'll get us out of this.

     Talann's already out of my line of sight, and Rushall's right behind her, crawling close to the wall,
Lamorak riding him like a baby chimp clinging to its mother's back.

       I hold the crossbows upright, pointed vertically on either side of my head. Their weight makes my
shoulders start to ache, and when I shift my balance a knife of pain jabs into my right knee. I hope to god
I can run. I start a breathing routine and dull the pain with one of the meditative control disciplines I
learned all those years ago at the abbey school.

       The Shaft door stands closed and silent. As soon as that door starts to move or the guards give
any sign of alarm, I'm gonna jump out, fire both bows to get their attention, and sprint for it. Maybe I'll
get lucky and drop one. A target moving at the speed I can run, across the thirty meters of the Pit's
diameter, will be nearly impossible to hit.

        Or, I should say, at the speed I could run this morning. My knee feels like it's being slowly crushed
in a vise. I only hope none of these guys can shoot like Talann. No sign of alarm, yet. This is going to
work. We're going to make it.

       And I, I confess, am loving this.

       This is what I live for. This is why I am what I am. There is purity in violence, in the desperate
struggle to pull life from death, that surpasses any philosopher's sere quest for truth.

        All bets are off, now, all rules suspended: no more grey-scale wandering through the moral fog of
real life—this is elemental, black and white, life and death.

      And even life, even death: they have little meaning for me now. They are only outcomes,
consequences, vague peripheries. The violence itself consumes me, even in anticipation. When I step out
from my cover, stake my life and the lives of my friends on my gift of slaughter, the caustic tide of
mayhem will wash me with grace: a saint touched by his god.

       Rushall interrupts my poesy by suddenly standing: he pops up behind the wall like a paper target in
a shooting gallery. He's holding Lamorak's arms to keep the swordsman on his back— Lamorak looks
like he's out cold. Faintly over the din I can hear Rushall's panicky scream:

       "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I've got one! "

       Did I say we're lip-deep in shit? Make that: up to the eyeballs.

       I spring out onto the balcony—I'd shoot that cocksuckcr if I could be sure of missing
Lamorak—and level my bows on the guards across the Pit. They have no such reservations; even as I'm
bringing my bows into line, eight of them fire. Some miss, but about five quarrels slam into Rushall's chest
and drive him spinning back against the wall. He slides to the floor with Lamorak beneath him.

        I fire both bows from the hip. One quarrel strikes fire from the balcony wall as it glances upward,
and the other takes a guard in the ribs. At this range, chainmail is no protection: the quarrel chops in till
it's stopped by its vanes, and the guard sags against the bronze doors—which are opening!— and now
even more guards press through—

        I duck behind the balcony wall to recock and reload, and one of the guards blows some kind of
brief tattoo on a bugle that echoes through the Donjon.

       This is about to get kind of hairy.

       I have to run the opposite way, draw the guards off, but even as I'm uncoiling to stand, something
snaps past my head and something else hammers my shoulder from behind. I roll with the impact, and a
red-smeared crossbow quarrel clinks to the floor at my feet, even as I spin and see for the first time the
four guards pounding up the corridor I was just in.

      Fuck going the other way—I'm not feeling heroic enough to get pincered on this balcony just to
provide a five-second diversion.

       Two of the guards sprint toward me along the corridor walls; the other two stop in the middle of
the corridor and take aim on my head.

        I drop my bows and shoulder-roll to my feet, simultaneously drawing the little leafblades from my
ankle sheaths and flipping them both backhand down the corridor. There's no force behind the throw, but
it's enough to make them flinch and duck and spoil their shots.

      I sweep up my bows and toss them over the balcony rail and follow them with the quivers. A
bloodthirsty roar goes up from the Pit as a couple of prisoners find themselves unexpectedly armed. Then
without hesitation I skip forward to meet one of the charging <
      guards and grab his armor at the collarbone. I fall to my back anc plant a foot in the pit of his
stomach, kick him into the air, and he sails right over the rail and falls wailing into the Pit.

       I continue the roll and let it bring me to my feet. The othei charging guard has skidded to a stop out
on the balcony, and now he looks like he's not at all sure he wants to deal with me by himself. He says,
"Hey, wait—" as I jump at him and smear his lip; with a stiff jab.

       In the instant that he blinks, I wrap my forearms around his head and twist around for the
neck-breaking hangman's throw. He clenches his neck enough to save his life, but the leverage sends him,
too, over the rail to join his comrade among the prisoners below. He and his partner both had crossbows
dangling from theii baldric-slung shoulder straps.

       Now fourprisoners below are armed.

       The two still in the corridor struggle with their bows; one doesn't even have it cocked yet, and the
other is hastily trying to fit a quarrel into the groove, hands jittering with adrenaline. I show them my teeth
and beckon, and they exchange a worried glance.

      I start toward them along the corridor, and their nerve breaks: they turn and bolt. The instant their
momentum is taking them away from me, I spin and sprint back out onto the balcony, heading for Rushall
and Lamorak.

       More quarrels snap past me, two or three coming close enough to sting me with stone splinters
they strike from the wall, one tugging at my leathers as it grazes my ribs. The guards across the Pit are
busy with the bowmen downstairs: this flight of quarrels must have come from someone else, new guards
answering the trumpet blast, but I don't have time to turn and look.

       My shoulder seems to be working well enough, despite the spreading slimy warmth from the
wound. The quarrel must have missed the bone, slicing instead through my trapezius next to my neck,
missing my spine by maybe two inches. Every step sledgehammers a railroad spike into the side of my
right knee.

     round the curve, and Talann's on the floor, keeping her head down as she fights to disentangle
Lamorak from Rushall.

       "Go go go! "I shout."Get the door; I'll bring him! "

        Her head comes up at my shout; she nods and back-rolls away to her feet. Two guards across the
Pit track her with their bows as she runs.

      I shriek"Stay down!" but before they can fire, a pair of flat whacks sound from the Pit floor.
Quarrels zip past their heads. They jerk back, and both their shots go wild.

      The others by the courthouse door return fire down into the Pit. All have to worry about is the four
guards that come pounding toward me, now joined by the two I'd chased off earlier.

       I have fifteen seconds before they get here.

        I grab one of Rushall's limp arms and try to drag him off. Lamorak shrieks in sudden agony—that's
all right, at least he's awake—and Rushall jerks convulsively and moans; even with five quarrels in the
chest it'll take him a minute or two to die.

      I see the problem: they're pinned together by a quarrel that had struck through Rushall's chest just
below the collarbone.

       The racing guards are forty feet away, then thirty.

       I wedge a toe between Lamorak's chest and Rushall's back; all three of us cry out as I summon a
burst of hysterical strength and yank Rushall upward, lifting him in my arms like a sleepy child. Blood
pumps from Lamorak's belly and from a deep ripped-edge puncture next to his right nipple.

       "Run you worthless fuck get up and run!"I scream, and encourage him with an ungentle tack in the
ribs as the six guards come thundering up behind me. Lamorak rolls over, groaning and starting to drag
himself away on his hands and one good knee.

       I spin to meet the guards with Rushall still struggling in my arms and throw him bodily into the
leader. They meet with a solid thump, Rushall screaming and clawing frantically, clutching at the cursing
guard to recover his balance. Their struggle brings them against the retaining wall; they tip, locked in a
lover's embrace, and tumble to the Pit floor. Howling prisoners swarm over them.

     The remaining five guards skid to a halt and spread out, lifting their clubs to guard position and
moving to flank me.

       I could run now; I could get away and leave Lamorak to crawl and be taken—these men in
chainmail could never catch me, even half gimpy as I am. Instead I wait for them in an open stance, fists
up with fingers forward, presenting the meat of my forearms to absorb the coming blows of iron-bound
clubs. Crossbows fire somewhere, and men scream in pain.

       Past the closing guards can see corridor mouths vomiting reinforcements onto the balcony as more
patrols answer the alarm.

       I wait, forcing air in and out of my lungs.

       My soul sings poetry within me.

       Their eyes flicker to meet each others', preparing to strike.

       I attack, letting go of conscious thought.

       I spring to one side of the nearest with a passing-leg, and he folds around the impact of my shin,
gasping, even while my fingers stab for the eyes of another. I shift my balance and side kick a third
stumbling back over the wall into the Pit, before I spin and slice the edge of my palm against the base of
the skull of the first. He drops, twitching spastically.

       I'mwinning.

       Just as I feel the first swelling surge of victory, one of the bastards pegs me from behind, not
squarely but solidly enough to drive the breath from my lungs and buckle my knees: icy fire spreads from
the point of impact above my kidney.

       Another swings his club at the joining of my shoulder and neck, and I barely get my hands up in
time to take it on the outside of my left forearm and the palm of my right hand. The club blasts the feeling
out of both of them and crashes through my guard, on target, but instead of breaking my neck it only
strikes meteors through my swimming head.

       I snarl at the pain and slap his jaw with my doubled elbow, turning in time to duck under the
follow-up of the guard behind me. From my bent-over position I hammer an uppercut into his armored
groin—which only makes him grunt, but it lifts him up onto his toes—I grab his belt with my numb fingers
and yank him forward and down on top of me in time to shield me from the down-stroke of the other. I
can feel its impact through his chest, but it's not enough to take him out through the padding under his
armor, and now the one whose eyes I poked is blinking like he can see again, and I am in deep, deep
trouble.

      I can't say exactlywhy I thought I could handle five armed and armored men—

      There is, y'know, a history of insanity in my family.

        I heave and roll out from under the guard; as he struggles away from me one of his boots whacks
me in the eye hard enough to shoot more stars through my vision. I keep rolling while my head slowly
clears—if I stop moving, they'll beat me to death in a second or two. When I can see again, the first thing
I see is a shiny black pebble on the floor about six inches from the end of my nose.

      I get my hand on it as the three guards advance on me, clubs up for the kill. A quick glance
back—there's Lamorak, only five or six meters away, wheezing and dragging himself along, still maybe
ten meters short of the door.

      "Lanwrak!"I holler. "Catch this fucking thing and give me a hand here!"

        He looks behind, and shoot the griffinstone at him like a marble. It skips and skitters along the
floor, then it hits a crease on the rough-cut stone and bounces wildly into the air.

      I track the stone with my eyes, the guards above me forgotten.

      Lamorak squints like he can't see it, like he's lost it in the uncertain torchlight.

       His palsied hand wavers—Where is the damned thing? Did it go over the fucking wall?—and it
drops right into his palm.

      His fingers close around it, and that dreamy sexual smile comes back to his face.

      He says clearly, "Kill them before they kill you."

      I know better than to think he's talking to me. I back-roll to my feet, away from the guards, as one
of them pivots and swings his club like a baseball bat into the unprotected face of the man beside him.
Bone disintegrates under the impact, and the man flips over like a pancake, dead before he hits the floor.

       He swings on the other one, who's still too startled to defend himself, and drops him too. Then he
races away from me to meet the charge of the ten or twelve guards that are thundering toward us.

       Lamorak has to concentrate to keep this going, so I scramble over behind him and lift him with my
arms around his chest. Ten meters is all that's left between us and escape. No one's shooting at us; they
all seem engaged in the exchange between the guards and the prisoners in the Pit. I look ahead—
       Talann has the Shaft door open.

       It opens out onto the balcony; she's holding it wide to use it like a tower shield, closing offhalf of
the balcony so that the guards on the other side can come at her only one at a time. The robe I gave her
is painted crimson; no way to tell how much of the blood is hers.

       I drag Lamorak toward her; now I'm wheezing and limping and this is taking forfuckingever.

       Our tame guard goes down under a hailstorm of iron, a couple of the advancing guards stopping to
stand over him and beat him until they make porridge out of his head. Lamorak is trying to take over
another one, but his breathing is ragged and he's lost a lot of blood and the effort is too much for
him—more blood bursts from his nose in a bright crimson spray; he sags in my arms.

      The guards sprint toward us, more and more seeming to join them with every step. I look over my
shoulder—we're almost there.

       :

        As I drag Lamorak to the doorway, Talann is using the two knives gave her in a very complex
infighting style that looks vaguely likewing chun, a flurry that not only slices the wrist tendon of the
guard's club hand, but ends by driving a blade up through the soft undersidt of his chin.

       She kicks his twitching corpse back into the arms of the man behind him, and we're through the
door. I drop Lamorak like a sack of meal and grab the back of her robe, yanking her backward intc the
Shaft. She whirls on me with a shout and recognizes me barely in time to stop the flashing arc of her
blade a couple of inches from my eyes.

       I step past her and haul the door shut, bracing a foot on the wall beside it to hold it closed against
the pull of the guards outside.

       "Don'twait for you?" she says breathlessly. "You'll be rightbehind meT "No fucking lip out of
you," I tell her.

      With the door shut, there's only a thin line of torchlight leaking beneath it for illumination. They pull
a couple times, hard enough that I feel something pop in my wounded shoulder. "What now?" "Wait."

        I let go of the door and shift my weight onto the balls of my feet while I draw one of my long
fighting knives. This time, when they pull on the door, it swings wide, and I lunge like a fencer, stabbing
the chisel point into the mouth of the nearest guard, splintering his teeth and slashing sideways to part his
cheek back to the hinge of his jaw. He jerks backward and falls, howling. I slam the door shut again and
hold it.

       "Now," I say softly, "we just have to wait for one of them to get a bright idea..." "What idea?"

       Through my hands I can feel the grindingchunnk as somebody slides the heavy bar into place.
"That one. They' ve barred the door from outside. They figure we'll be here when they're ready— they've
got problems other than us, right now."

      The heavy door cuts almost all the noise from outside along with the light; now soft, despairing
voices from below begin to ask each other if they can tell what's going on.
        The throwing knife from between my shoulder blades will serve perfectly. I pull it out and feel for
the crack of the door, slip the blade within it, and pound it home with the pommel of my fighting knife. It's
just like pennying shut a door in the apartments where I grew up. It won't stop the guards when they
come for us, but it'll slow them down and give us a little warning—we'll hear them pry it open.

      I pull Kierendal's lighter from the pocket inside the waistband of my breeches and thumb it alight.
From the darkness beyond the tiny pool of wavering light it casts, eyes peer uncertainly back at us.

      "What's happening?" somebody whispers. "You're not guards— have you come for me at last?"

       Talann's breath catches, and I put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't answer. There's nothing we can
do for these people. To speak to them will only give them cruel hope."

       And the smell comes to us: bitter sweat and shit and the sweet rot of gangrene, the thick reek of
gas escaping from bloated corpses below, a dizzying stench that burns my throat and slaps tears into my
eyes. I hand Talann the lighter.

      "Lead the way. I'll carry sleepyhead, here."

      In the glow, Lamorak looks even worse, and the blood that once had pumped out from his chest
wound now only flows sluggishly. I don't know if he's going to survive. Shit. At least I got him out of the
Theater of Truth—that should count for something.

      "Hang on, you bastard," I mutter as I slap some of Ma'elKoth's unguent on the chest wound;
maybe it'll slow the bleeding, anyway. I sling him up into a fireman's carry that makes my own wounds,
shoulder and knee, announce their presence loudly. "Hang on. I don't want to have to look Pallas in the
eye and tell her you died down here. She'll never believe I didn't kill you myself."

       We move down the long, long step-cut slant of the Shaft. The floor is slick with the condensation
from the breath of hundreds of gasping prisoners, and now Talann reaches the first of them, all with one
wrist chained to the wall above their heads.

        The Shaft is maybe five meters across, just wide enough that the prisoners chained in an endless
double row down along its walls can't reach us as we walk down its middle. All are naked, clothed only
in their own filth and the filth of those upslope.

       Prisoners in the Shaft are unchained only if, through some extraordinary mercy, they are to be
released from the Donjon. They are kept here, fed a minimal diet, and kept chained to the wall until they
die. Their wastes flow downhill, to the sump that is our destination, so the prisoners below are bathed
constantly in the shit and piss from those chained above. Rarely—perhaps once a month—

      the guards come in here to unchain the corpses and flush the Shaft with barrels of water. The
corpses, too, are rolled downhill into the sump and left there to rot.

      Our tiny bubble of light reveals men and women in misery so abject that they've become objects,
not even animal, only bundles of shattered nerves and gangrenous sores that have no purpose left beyond
experiencing the slow, shit-filled slide down to death.

      Even Dante would swoon, here; Talann can barely take it. Her shoulders tremble, and sometimes I
can hear a faint sob and a murmured prayer that the Great Mother have pity and release these souls from
life.

       Y'know, I admire Ma'elKoth, I really do—but if I ever start to actuallylike the man, all I'll have to
do is remind myself that he runs this place, and he could change it if he chose.

        On the other hand, I guess it's not that different from being bom into a Labor slum. Shit, as they
say, flows downhill at home as much as here—and in the Shaft, it doesn't take as long to kill you.

       The growing ache in my chest, that's the strain of carrying Lamorak. The tears, they're from the
stench. And the sickening, retching revulsion in the pit of my stomach—

        A squeal of hinges from above, and far, far back I can see a pinprick of light. We're out of time.

        "I see it!" Talann breathes hoarsely—and she's looking ahead, downhill. She must mean the sump.

       "All right. When you get there, don't even slow down. Douse the lighter and hold it tight in your
fist. Until Lamorak wakes up, that's all the light we've got. When you hit bottom, move to one side as fast
as you can; Lamorak and I will be right behind you."

       We reach the sump: it's nothing more than a ragged natural fissure in the stone of the floor. Faintly
up it comes the slap of water on rock.

      Loud voices and the clatter of boots come from above. It won't be long before the guards are in
crossbow range despite the low ceiling: crossbows have an extremely flat trajectory.

        Talann's vividly violet eyes hold mine for a moment across the flame of the lighter, then she snuffs
it; blackness so deep you can taste it surrounds us.

      Her hand touches my arm, and on my mouth comes the quick brush of her lips; then a rushing
absence fills the space where she had been.

        It seems like a sizable bite of eternity before I hear her call faintly from below. "Go!" is all she says.

      I take a deep breath and shift Lamorak's weight on my shoulders; it takes every milligram of
courage I possess to step from the stone and plunge into space.

     We fall and fall and fall and bounce from stone and slide across shit-slickened rock: nothing can be
seen—how far to go, how far we've come—we bounce and tumble and fall some more—

        And land, driven deep into a soft pile that makes wooden splintering crackles beneath and around
us.

     I dig my way out of it, trying not to think about what's smearing in and around the open wounds on
my shoulder and knee.

        "Talann?"

        She strikes the lighter. My god, I hope I don't look as bad she does. It's impossible to say what it
is that layers and cakes every inch of her body because my sense of smell shorted out a couple of
minutes ago up in the Shaft. The pile in which we lie is an unknowable number of corpses, layered with
an unconscionable amount of human waste.
       Hah, I can take it; landing here isn't that different from the end of the Ritual of Rebirth.

        By the light of the tiny, smoking flame we manage to locate Lamorak. The underground river is
only a couple of meters away. That's what's kept this pile from swelling until it choked the sump: some of
it is always washing away when it gets too high.

       Lamorak is out cold; there's only one thing left to do. I take off my cable-cored garroting belt and
tie one end tight around Lamorak's upper arm, the other tight around my own.

       "Remember," I tell Talann, "don't swim until you count to sixty."

       "One-ankhana, two-ankhana," she says. "I remember."

       "Go, then."

      She snuffs the lighter and slips noiselessly into the water. I get both hands over Lamorak's mouth
and nose, pinch them both shut, and follow her.

       The water cl oses over my head like a blessing of the Mother, and I float in total darkness, without
sensation, almost without thought except for the slow beat of the seconds I count in my head. If I were
less exhausted, if the water were not so cool and soothing on my wounds, I might be tempted to panic,
but as it is, I have no energy left for worry.

       Seconds pass more swiftly than the beat of my heart.

        I start to suspect that I've been trying too hard, that all my struggle and worry is a mirage, a dream,
that I could be happy to simply float along in my life as I float here.

        How long has it been? I've lost count, and I don't care anymore. Struggling to hold my breath is
too much work, and I know that pretty soon I'll let it bubble out between my lips. I'll breathe in water,
and it'll be as cool and soothing in my lungs and on my heart as it is on the leaking hole in my shoulder.

       Now a point of light joins the shimmering phosphenes in my vision, and a familiar voice calls my
name. I wonder if this is the tunnel they all talk about, if that voice might be my mother's, until a powerful,
calloused hand clamps my wrist and hauls me gasping up out of the water.

     The lighter sits on the stone bank by the stream, and Talann belts me on the side of the head.
"Wake up, damn you!"

       I shake my head sharply and remember what's going on. "All right. All right, I'm back now."

       Talann treads water beside me. "You're sure?"

       The lighter gives me something to swim toward, and by way of answer I make for it with a strong
sidestroke, Lamorak trailing limply by my belt.

       It takes Talann and me a couple of minutes to pump the water out of Lamorak's lungs and breathe
life once again into his nostrils. Once he's breathing normally, we let ourselves collapse side by side on
the stone.
      "We made it," Talann murmurs. "You did it, Caine. I can't believe we really made it."

      "Yeah," I say. Talk about passing through the belly of the beast...

       "Yeah, we made it, but we have to keep moving. One or two of those guys might have the guts to
follow us."

      "In a minute or two," she says, putting a warm hand softly on my upper arm.

      The water washed away the filth that smeared her features, and she's really spectacularly beautiful,
and she worships me.

      "No," I tell her. "Now. Come on, get up. The oil in that lighter won't last forever."

      She pushes herself into a sitting position. "You can be a real bastard, you know that?"

      I shrug. "That's what my mother always said. Now move."

       toa-sytell consulted histally sheet, checking his addition one last time before speaking. "My best
preliminary estimate—that is, without knowledge of the current status of the guards and prisoners who
were still alive when taken to the infirmary—is that twelve guards were killed, with fifteen more wounded
in varying degrees of severity. Fourteen prisoners died in the riot that accompanied the escape, and eight
more were wounded severely; fifty-six slightly injured. One of Arkadeil's apprentices was killed, and
Arkadeil himself is half blinded and may not regain full use of his arm."

       The stone rail of the Pit balcony creaked under the massive hands that gripped it; Ma'elKoth's
beard shifted as muscle bulged at the corners of his jaw, and a cracking sound came from deep within the
stone as his grip tightened.

       "Their wives, their children—they thought it would be safe for them to raise families, detailed here
at the Donjon, away from the fields of battle," he rumbled, deep within his throat. "They must be
pensioned, each and every one. None shall ever know want due to My misjudgment."

       Ma'elKoth had insisted on coming personally to the Donjon to view the carnage with his own
eyes. "It is not good," he'd said to Toa-Sytell in passing, "for even God to sit removed from the pain of
His Children; they too easily become abstract, and vague. I must taste the fruits of My commands, all the
more so when that fruit is bitter unto death."

       By the time the three of them had arrived, the riot was long over. Surgeons had been moving about
on the Pit floor, tending to the deep puncture wounds and limbs left shattered by the impact of steel
quarrels. Ma'elKoth's first order upon his arrival had been to carry the wounded prisoners up to the
infirmary alongside the guards; he, himself, had followed.

      With Toa-Sytell at his side and Berne trailing behind with cynical reluctance, Ma'elKoth had
stopped at the bedside of each wounded man, spoken with each, and summoned his power to stroke
away the pain of every wound with the warm paternal pressure of his enormous hands.

      He opened the Imperial treasury to recompense two of the warrior-priests of Khryl, hastily
summoned from their beds at their small sanctuary on Gods' Way. Toa-Sytell had watched the creases of
em-pathetic pain deepen across Ma'elKoth's brow as he came upon men with limbs shattered beyond
hope of even magickal repair; he saw crystalline tears swell in the Emperor's coal black eyes as he
blessed each of the dead.

       "Not even I, Emperor and God, can see beyond this portal," he'd murmured, unaware that
Toa-Sytell could overhear. "I wish you well, each of you, on your journey, or the peaceful slumber of
oblivion, whichever you encounter."

      When they had returned to the Donjon, the only remnants of the riot still visible from the Pit
balcony were the pools of clotting blood on the floor.

      "Quite a piece of work," said Count Berne, sounding bored. He leaned against the balcony rail at
Ma'elKoth's side opposite from Toa-Sytell, with his back to the Pit while he examined his fingernails.
There was an edge to Berne's nonchalance, though; Toa-Sytell sensed that Beme overplayed it, just a bit,
and he wasn't sure why.

      "Caine's turned out to be an expensive indulgence, don't you think?"

      Ma'elKoth's only answer was a subterranean rumble from the bottom of his chest.

      Toa-Sytell coughed pointedly, and then said, low enough to be heard only by the Emperor and his
Count, "I have not yet determined what, precisely, went wrong. The sentry from the rooftop guardwalk
was found much more swiftly than can be accounted for by the normal routine of foot patrol. Does the
Emperor wish me to pursue this, as a line of investigation?"

       As he spoke, he kept his eyes on Berne, not Ma'elKoth, and so he caught the subtle flicker in the
Count's eyes, the tiny crack in his mask of unconcern. So, indeed: he knew already where such an
investigation would lead.

       But Ma'elKoth shook his head shortly. "No. You must bend all your efforts as you would a bow,
with shaft aimed directly at recapturing Lamorak and the woman, and Caine. Anything less would be
unconvincing to Our enemies; Caine must be given every chance for success."

       Berne glanced to his side and found Toa-Sytell staring at him; their gazes met for a brief, significant
moment beneath Ma'elKoth's chin. Berne forced a friendly, slightly sheepish smile, which Toa-Sytell
returned with a bland /'//be watching you stare. Berne shrugged and went back to cleaning his nails.

      "What if," Toa-Sytell asked slowly, "what if we catch him?"

      "I surmise, in that event," Ma'elKoth replied, "that a substantial number of your men will die."

       He shook his leonine head in sad disbelief, looking down on the clot-dulled surfaces of the blood
pools that scattered across the Pit and on the balcony itself. "Twenty-seven men and women killed.
Twenty-five wounded, maimed, some crippled. More strokes added to Simon Jester's bloody
account—an account that I must share against My Will."

      "The Emperor will pardon my saying so," Toa-Sytell murmured, "but that seems to be an inevitable
consequence of associating oneself with Caine."

      The Emperor nodded slowly, lowering his head as if in prayer. "Yes. And I knew this when I
sought him." He released a long, slow sigh. "Twenty-seven dead...such boundless slaughter."

      He lifted his eyes as though looking at something deep within the stone, or something far beyond it.
      "Caine could hardly cause more damage if he were, himself, anAktir."

     always clean, alwayscrisp, brilliant white teeth gleaming within his polished smile. "This is
Adventure Update, your only Worldwide Twenty-four-hour Source for Studio News. I'm Bronson
Underwood.

       "It's now noon, Ankhana time, and this is our latest update from the Studio on Caine's progress in
his desperate search for his missing wife, Pallas Ril. As you can see by the Pallas Ril Lifeclock graphic in
the corner of your screen, our best estimate leaves her with less than eighty hours remaining, plus or
minus ten hours— perhaps as much as nearly four days, or as little as less than three. The entire world
waits breathless, hoping and praying that Caine can find her in time. Here's Jed Clearlake."

       "Thank you, Bronson. Our report from the Studio this hour has Caine still holed up in the Warrens
with the native woman Talann and Lamorak—that's the Actor, Karl Shanks. The Imperials are engaged
in a manhunt on an unheard-of scale, flooding the city with troops, searching door-to-door for the
escaped prisoners. It's making Caine keep his head down, and I can't imagine he's very happy about it."

      "I'm sure he isn't. What's the status on the search for Pallas Ril?"

       "As you might recall, Bronson, Caine organized last night's unprecedented escape from the
Imperial Donjon, at extreme personal risk, in hopes that one or both of Pallas' companions could lead
him to a prearranged rendezvous with Pallas herself. This hope has been dashed by the extreme nature of
the Imperial response, making it simply too dangerous for them to move about the city. The rumor is that
friends of Caine are checking the meeting places even as we speak."

      "And, I'm told, the situation there is interesting, politically." "Politically?""Sexual politics, Jed."

       "Oh, yes—" a dry chuckle "—well, yes, indeed. Most of the world knows by now of the
astonishing measures Caine took last night to save Lamorak's life. Caine and Lamorak are in real life
quite good friends—I don't know if you know that, Bronson. What our viewers might not know as well is
that Lamorak and Pallas Ril are also good friends,close friends; perhaps very close friends indeed." "I've
heard some rumors..."

       "They're not only rumors, Bronson. It's been kind of an open secret for some time, now. The
question is, how much of this doesCaine know? The Studio isn't saying. I think the question on
everyone's mind is: what will Caine do when he finds out?"

      "That's a good question, Jed—interesting for us. For Lamorak, I'd guess, it's rather terrifying."

      "Well, Bronson, as they say, Lamorak's made his bed, and now he has to lie in it." Another dry
chuckle. "From Studio Center in San Francisco, I'm Jed Clearlake."

       "Thank you, Jed. In our next hour, we'll have a Studio expert on—are you ready for
this?—'chaotic perturbation in multidimensional superstrings' here, live, to take your calls. He'll be
explaining why we have such a large margin of error in our estimated Pallas Ril Lifeclock, and he'll be
answering your questions about the Winston Transfer. I'm Bronson Underwood. Stay with us."

       arturo kollberg stuffedanother cake roll into his bulging cheeks and glared at the huge, curving
POV screen. Every time Caine glanced away from the sunlit street outside to the ragged straw-leaking
pallet on which Lamorak lay bundled in dirty blankets, the chant inside Kollberg's head gained force,
became a mantra, an incantation.

      Die, you bastard, die. Die, you ratfuck, die die die.

       But he wasn't dying. When Caine and Talann had finally hauled him up out of the caverns, he was
unconscious and shivering in deep shock; he should have died a long time ago. But they'd kept him
warm, and now from time to time he woke up and they'd feed him warm broth provided by the Subjects
of Cant. He'd pulled magick of some kind or other to help himself recover; they'd even managed to splint
his leg while he used magick to dull the pain and relax the convulsive cramp of his thigh muscles around
the tearing ends of bone within.

       His leg swiftly and efficiently set, Lamorak had claimed he'd be able to walk with a crutch by
nightfall, and then he'd promptly fallen back asleep. Caine and Talann and the amateur surgeon from the
Subjects of Cant had taken advantage of his unconsciousness to unstitch his thigh and wash the insect
eggs from the wound with the strongest brandy they could find, then resewed it and stitched together the
deep slash across his abdomen, as well.

      Anger had taken Kollberg wholly as he'd watched this, and he knew he couldn't let the negative
emotions rule his judgment; he swallowed another capsule of amphetamine and stuffed his mouth with
sweets before the drug could kill his appetite, and he began to feel a little better.

       And through it all the chant had rung in Kollberg's brain, losing all sense, a meaningless singsong
collection of syllables that would have, if there was any justice in the universe, driven the breath from
Lamorak's lungs and stopped his treacherous little heart.

        Whenever the glowing mushroom of the emergency transfer switch crept into the bottom of his
peripheral vision, his chest tightened and his teeth clenched. He wasn't helpless here, he kept reminding
himself. Caine's little crack comparing the Shaft to a Labor slum had been nearly pointed enough to
justify yanking him.It's timing, y'see, that's what's important now, he told himself.Timing is
everything.

      "majesty's on hisway," the kid says, and he sounds a little awed, "I never seen Majesty comeout
for somebody..."

       I look away, out the small window; I don't want to admit that I don't remember his name. From
where I sit, here on the sharp terminus of sun and shadow, I can see the spot in the bazaar where I
leveled this kid with a mutton leg a couple of lifetimes ago, there by Lum's shack in the curving shade of
the stadium wall.

      "What about Pallas?"

     'Nobody knows where she is, Baron. Tommie 'n' me, we went there, an' nobody's there. I mean,
we waited and everything, and Tommie's still there, but I don't know."

        A glance at Talann where she sits on the floor near Lamorak's pallet, a glance that she returns with
an irritable shrug. "It's the only one I remember. I can't help it."

       No, she can't. It's amazing that even one meet point leaked through the shield of enforced
forgetfulness of that goddamn spell. She's been getting more and more cranky ever since I explained
what Pallas did, and I don't blame her.
          "Yeah," the kid says, "nobody's seen her since the big shitfight yesterday."

          "You'veseen her?"

      Something that's been squeezing my chest suddenly lets up. I can breathe now, and I gasp, "Is, is
she well? Was she hurt? How did she look?"

        He grins at me. "Pretty damn good, considering half the damn Grey Cats were chasing her down
the street. That's when the shit-fight started."

          "The shitfight?"

          "Yeah, Baron, sorry, thought you knew."

        And he tells a pithy tale of Pallas taking on the entire Grey Cats in the Industrial Park; he makes it
sound like she blew half the place up in the process of leading them toward the Warrens, and he proudly
recounts how he himself had been there, had answered the call, and had personally thrown a wet clod of
shit that splashed the face of Count Berne himself.

        I can't help but laugh as the kid mimes Berne's astonished outrage at this maltreatment; the story
kindles an unexpectedly warm feeling toward this kid—my god, my god, how I wish I'd been there to
see it. He plays up to my reaction, doing the take over and over again, broadening it each time, until
finally I wave him to stop. Even the idea of Berne taking a fistful of shit in the face stops being funny
eventually...well, after the hundredth time or so...

        And there's maybe a little twinge here, a thumb in my ribs beneath my laughter, a ghost of a stab
that she's handling everything so well without me. Maybe I've been nursing an ignoble hope that she can't
make it without my help, that she needs me more than she's ever admitted. Maybe it stings a little, that
she's put herself up against Berne, who nearly killed me, and Ma'elKoth, who could crush me like a
housefly in his fist, and she's holding her own. She's free and effective, and the refugees she's hiding are
still out there somewhere. If it wasn't for this unexpected side effect, I'd have no reason to be here at all.

       "You have any idea how she ended up taking on Berne and the Cats?" I ask. "I mean, how it
started? Why she was there in the Industrial Park?"

          He shrugs. "I dunno. I think somebody told me something...nah, I don't remember. Not important,
is it?"

      "I guess not. Thanks, kid. Do me a favor: Get back downstairs and keep an eye open for
Majesty."

        The kid thumps his mailed chest in that silly-ass salute the Subjects favor, then coughs and rattles
the hilt of his shortsword, checking that the blade's loose in its scabbard; then finally, having thought of no
further excuse to remain in my presence, he turns on his heel in a sloppy imitation of a military about-face
and hustles out of the room. I listen to his boots clomp away on the soft and sagging dryrotted floor, and
try to remember what it was like to be that young.

          It's hopeless: that was too many lives ago. I go back to looking out the window.

       Over by the stadium a regular army platoon of heavy infantry fans out, sweating under their
cuirasses, looking pissed and mean. They're arresting passersby at random, questioning them, sometimes
slapping them around. Heavy clouds move toward the sun, up from the western coast: it's going to rain,
again, which should do wonders for the soldiers' moods. Go from sweat-boiling miserable to drenched
and chilled and miserable, and have an endless supply of commoners to take it out on—it's a soldier's
dream.

       "Thereis one thing I remember," Talann says slowly, after a while and in a tone so excruciatingly
casual that it makes me think she's been working on exactly how to say this for a couple of hours at least.

      "About Pallas. In spite of this whatever-it-is spell. I remember how close she'd become with all of
us. How much she cared for us—especially Lamorak."

     I've been gut-punched by experts, y'know, once even by Jerzy Kupczin, who was, at that time,
heavyweight champion of the world. This doesn't hurt much more than that did.

       Is there anyone who doesn't already know about them?

       I take a long time answering, a long time to look down at Lamo-rak's face, still surfer-perfect even
under the swellings and the bruises. His face is all I can really see of him; it pokes out of the blankets he's
wrapped in, eyeballs twitching spastically behind closed lids; he bubbles a moan and twists within his
dream, and I wonder if he's dreaming about the Theater of Truth.

       I hope so.

       "Yeah," I say. "She's real caring, that way."

      "I know she'll be really, really grateful for what you've done." She's drifting toward me. "Especially
for Lamorak."

       Now I spend another long minute or two staring at Talann, now only an arm's length away.
Cleaned up and dressed in the same style of loose cotton tunic and breeches that she wore when I saw
her secondhand, she's one of the most spectacular women it's ever been my pleasure to meet.

        Even if the cotton of her clothing were heavy enough to leave much of anything to the
imagination—which it isn't—I had plenty of time back in the Donjon to appreciate the smooth curves of
her form, the play of muscle in her legs and ass. Her platinum hair shines now, stripped of grease and
filth, and forms an aureole of sunlight that perfectly frames the gentle curve of her cheeks and her jaw,
lightly frosted with down. She's so beautiful, and so courageous, with the singing dash of a real hero, and
so impossibly skilled that she must have a dedication to her arts of fighting that far surpasses my own. I
could reach out and touch her now, brush along her jaw with my fingertips, and draw her to me.

        Her violet eyes are deep enough to swim in. As I watch her, she takes a slow breath, gently
arching her back in a motion that's almost imperceptible, to bring her nipples rubbing gently across the
shirtfront and draw my eyes.

       I've seen it done better—but right now I can't seem to remember when.

     She's fishing, just tossing out a line to see if anything rises to nibble. That's what this shit about
Lamorak is, too, slapping the water to beat a fish toward her nets, and I guess I'm an idiot.

       I must be an idiot, because don't want to be caught.
       "Drop it," I tell her. "I know all about it."

       Her eyes go wide. "About—?"

       "Lamorak and Pallas. I know what's between them."

     She looks stunned. "Youknow! Then why did you—how could you...I mean, Lamorak and Pallas,
and what you've done..."

      A very, very strong man who is somehow small enough to fit inside my skull begins to pound on
something behind my eyes. He's using a morningstar.

       "Can we not talk about this, please?"

       "Is it...? I mean, Caine, please, I'm sorry to pry, but—are you and Pallas done, then? Is that past?"

       The guy in my head trades in the morningstar for a chainsaw, and it snarls in my ears. "She thinks
so."

         "Caine..." The hand she lays on my shoulder, alongside the bandage strapped crosswise over my
trapezius, is warm and strong, and the squeeze she gives seems to reach down into the muscle and start
to loosen its knots. I meet those violet eyes of hers and...She's not making a pass at me, that's not what
this is. This is something far more seductive and lethal than a subtle offer of sex. She's offering me
understanding.

       "It must hurt."

       I deliberately mistake her meaning. "No, the river washed it clean. I don't think it'll infect."

      This doesn't fool her at all. She settles back into a Warrior's Seat, legs doubled beneath her, and
watches me with otherworldly calm.

       I shrug, and pain stabs through my wounded shoulder—it hurts a lot more than I was pretending. I
spend a couple of breaths summoning the Monastic version of mindview, the control disciplines. The guy
with the chainsaw in my head wanders slowly away— even though I can still feel him in there, off in the
distance but still inside my skull—and the pain ebbs from my shoulder. I spend most of my attention on
massaging my swollen knee and wishing for an ice pack. By concentrating on that wound, I can talk
about my other, more serious one.

       "What's between Lamorak and Pallas, that's their business," I say, low. "It's got nothing to do with
me."

       Talann manages to look skeptical without altering her expression.

       "No, it's true," I insist. "It doesn't matter."

      Her voice is as warm as an arm around my shoulders. "But, Caine, itdoes matter. It's eating you
up. Anyone could see that."

       "It's their business," I repeat. "How I feel about Pallas, that's my business."
          "Then, for you—" The curves of her face seem to sag, just a little."—for you, it's not past."

      My head feels as heavy as a wrecking ball. "No, it's not past. It'll never be past. I've made
promises, Talann, and I keep my word. Till death do us part."

      She doesn't know the reference, of course—marriage in the Empire is more a business deal than a
sacrament—but she gets the message, nonetheless, and she shakes her head in wonder and
disappointment.

          "What kind of man will go so far—nearly get himself killed again and again—to save the life of his
rival?"

          A fucking idiot, that's what kind.

          "It's sort of difficult to explain."

       She places her hands on mine, covering them there on my injured knee, and waits until I have no
choice but to meet her eyes. Deep inside them something is dying, like the last fading scraps of a dream
you can't quite remember when you wake up, and she says, "I hope Pallas Ril understands what an
extraordinary man she is throwing away."

       Now I have to laugh; it's the only reaction possible, short of outright tears. I feel the laugh inside,
but I have to force it a little to get it to come out—a bitter chuckle.

          "Oh, she understands well enough, I think. That's part of the problem: she understands too well."

       I guess there's not much she can say to that, because she doesn't say anything, just sits beside me
on the floor and silently watches me work on my knee.

      Time passes swiftly in meditation: the angle of the sunbeam through the open window deepens
perceptibly. After a while, I'm convinced that the swelling is receding—the pain certainly has— and I
swim back up to the surface of my consciousness to find that Lamorak is awake and eating some solid
food.

       He looks at me from under his brows, oddly shy. "You, ah, washed out my leg, I guess. I can see
in mindview that the, uh, the eggs are gone. Thanks." He looks deeply, inexpressibly uncomfortable. I
hope it's from guilt.

          "Ah, and, ah, thanks for saving my life. I owe you."

       Yeah? I snarl within my head. Pay me back by staying the fuck away from my wife! But instead I
say aloud, "You owe me shit. If it wasn't for that last surge on the Pit balcony, I'd be rotting down the
sump right now. We'll call it even."

          He looks away. "We'll never be even."

       There's some sort of harsh self-loathing in his voice, and a large, petty part of my soul grins wide
to hear it.

          "Have it your way, then."
       Thunder rumbles, not so distant; I wince. It reminds me of Ma'elKoth's voice. The first swollen
raindrops beat staccato time on the windowsill, and I close the shutters. I can feel the impact of the rain
through the wood, a tiny fractal drumroll like the footsteps of scattering rats.

       Within half an hour Majesty arrives. He slips in through the door, alone and strangely furtive,
shedding his wet cloak as he comes. Talann rises, smoothly uncoiling into a fighting crouch— she, of
course, has no idea who he is, and she's not taking any chances. I slow her with a hand on her arm and
nod to him.

      He looks us over, breaking into that wiseass half grin of his, and shakes his head. "Hot
staggering./wc£, Caine, you sure know how tostirtheshitpot."

       "It's a talent. Talann, meet the King of Cant. Majesty, this is Talann, a warrior and companion to
Pallas Ril."

      He looks her over with naked appraisal before extending his hand in greeting—his appreciation of
feminine musculature is every bit as developed as my own. When I introduce him to Lamo-rak, Majesty's
wiseass grin returns.

       "Aren't you the guy that used to carry Kosall? You know Berne's got your sword?"

      Lamorak winces, nodding, and Majesty goes on with a low whistle of mock sympathy. "Boy, that
must sting. Kinda like gettin' your dick pulled out by the root, huh?"

       We make small talk about the manhunt and the general uproar in the city, and of course he's got to
hear the story of our escape from the Imperial Donjon. I have a really hard time keeping my impatience
under control; wasting time on jibberjabber, when I'm this close to finding Pallas, is just about more than
I can take.

        Besides, hearing the story of my heroic rescue reminds me exactly how I got into the Donjon in the
first place, the metaphoric woods through which my backtrail leads, and I can't think about that too
much. If either one of them finds out I've been hired by Ma'elKoth—

       I'm not sure I'd live long enough to explain.

       And I wouldn't worry about this so much if Majesty would quit sliding me those significant looks,
like he knows something I don't.

      Finally, as Talann drags out the fight on the Pit balcony, I can't take it anymore. "Listen, is this
important?" I ask. My tone leaves no doubt about my opinion on this question. "I have to find Pallas.
Today. Now."

       "This is a problem," Majesty says. "I'd like to find her myself, but I can't put the Kingdom on it."

       "Youcan 'ft Majesty, we've been friends how long—?"

      He waves off my rhetoric wearily. "It's not that, Caine. When the Cats hit her yesterday, they were
waiting for her outside the spot in the Industrial Park where she had thetokali hidden—"

      "They—she's—" I sputter. "YouknowT "About Simon Jester and this Eternal Forgetting?" He
gives me a patronizingWhat am I, an idiot? look. "Of course. Am I not the King of Cant? Though,
y'know, I am curious about howyou don't seem to be affected..."

       "It's a mystery," I tell him flatly. "All right, go on. The Cats were waiting for her outside thetokali's
bolt-hole."

       "Yeah, that's right. I figure the way they found her there is the same way they found her here,
three-four days ago. Somebody gave her up."

       My heart thumps once, heavily, within my chest. "A Subject?"

       He nods. "Gotta be. Nobody else could have known. My source in the Eyes has no fucking
clue—whoever it is deals straight to Beme and the Cats. Paslava, Deofad, one of the Barons, I
don'tknow. None of the rank and file would have the knowledge to sell, y'know? No stooges at the
bolt-hole; she doesn't trust 'em anymore."

       "That's why you're walking alone."

     "Better believe it. We're gonna have to move you, and I'll need the names of every Subject who
knows you're here. If the Cats come here looking for you, that'll narrow the field a little."

       "When you find him," I say thickly, "you make sure he lives until I get my hands on him. Will you
do that for me?"

       He lifts his shoulders. "No promises. I'm a little irked my own self, you might imagine. Giving her
up like that...If I get my hands on that cockknockcr—"

       His fingers flex expressively, and blood surges into his face, pushing out veins twisting around his
eyes. I squint at him. Something has changed since I talked with him day before yesterday. Then, this
business-was just a little jab in Ma 'elKoth 's ass. Now it's deadly serious, and more; he looks like he's
ready to spit lava.

       "Just get me to her, Majesty. That's what's important right now."

       His clouded eyes turn on me with knife-edged suspicion. "Important why?"

      I never really noticed before how small and piggy his eyes are. The veins around his eyes swell
more, as though rage is pushing them closed. "Hey, Majesty, this is me, huh? Get a grip."

        "Yeah—" he says slowly, color slowly leaking out of his face. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry. But she
don't need your help, Caine; shit, I'm pretty sure she invaded the Miracle the other night and got away
with it."

       "Really?"

       "Mm. Some kind of Cloak—and then a Cloak that cloaks the Cloak, know what I mean?"

     I spent almost a year and a half in Battle Magick at the Conservatory before my transfer to
Combat, and I understand immediately. Not even an adept can find her, because he can't track her
pull—probably an effect of the Eternal Forgetting.

       My first honestly happy smile in days grows across my face.
       Everyone stares at me. Majesty says, "What? What is it?"

       "I," I say cheerfully, "know exactly where she is."

       "'strator, it's that Entertainer Clearlake, fromAdventure Update. He wants to put a live feed on
the net—of the reunion." "Tell him, ah...no, tell him no. The answer is no." Arturo Kollberg gnawed the
corner of his thumbnail as he watched. Caine, ever the professional, ever conscious of dramatic
necessity, insisted that Lamorak and Talann accompany Majesty and himself, despite the increased
danger of discovery and capture. Arrangements took some minutes—a horse had to be brought for
Lamorak, as well as heavy cloaks and hats for all against the rain that sluiced the alleys of the Warrens.
They couldn't risk the caverns, for security reasons; too many Subjects would be down there taking
shelter from the rain.

        A team of strikers was assembled, twelve Subjects of Ca whose job it would be to fan out ahead
of and behind the party, distract and otherwise interfere with any soldiers who showed i terest in the
group. They'd be sticking closer than such teams us ally do, because the rain had become so heavy that
visibility w little more than ten or fifteen meters, but that would also lirr the activity of the searching
soldiers; in all, the rain was a substa tial advantage.

       Kollberg had alerted theUpdate staff, of course, only seconi after Caine announced he now knew
where Pallas was. This Clea lake boy, he had good instincts; the scene unspooled in Kollberg mind: the
anticipation, the approach, the first look, the meeting i their eyes, a line of dialogue—and cut.

      Cut before the kiss, just before the first touch—it would play al solutelynuclear. It coulddouble
the advance orders for seconi hand cubes...

      Risky—it'd be damned risky, with Caine acting up, with tl Board of Governors' hot breath on the
back of his neck. It'd tal the kind of personal initiative rarely seen in Administration, tl kind of daring, the
boldness that bespeaks—even in his mini Kollberg could only whisper the word—a Businessman.

       The speed sang in his veins, whispering reassurance:Go for i take the plunge, get it a//...

       On the -degree POV screen, Caine's party had now crosse Rogues' Way, heads down into the
slant of the driving rain. Kol berg might have only a minute to make up his mind—but if Cair could hold
off for, say, ten minutes—long enough for word I spread through the programming centers of the
net—everyor would want a piece of this feed,everyone, all over the world . Why simply offer, why just
throw the feed out ontoAdventui Update?

       They' d pay,all of them would pay. They' d go for it en masse lik a swarm of lemmings; how
could they affordnot to? No chann< could afford to be the only one in a market who's not showin Caine
and Pallas live. Licensing fees—the licensing fees for thes few minutes could pay the overhead for the
whole bloody Adver ture, withmillions left over!

       Once his decision was made, Kollberg wasted no time in ordei ing the Studio comm nexus cleared
for incoming traffic. A hundre marks per second? A thousand? He let the boys down in Marketin settle
on a price that would make program directors gnash thei teeth and tear their hair but stop short of
actually fainting dead away; then he cleared a line to theAdventure Update office.

       "Give me Entertainer Clearlake," he snapped. "This is B— Administrator Kollberg."
      But not for long; I can feel it: not a mere Administrator for very much longer.

       the voices thai'speak from five billion wallscreens across Earth use tones of urgency that are
usually reserved for declarations of war. Nearly all of the voices speak English; the few remaining ethnic
channels that struggle for market share in their isolated backwaters are too poor to pay the Studio's
per-second asking price. The words spoken by these disembodied voices vary from channel to channel,
but their meaning is identical:You must watch this. You must care about this. Nothing else in your life
is as important as this.

       And that face, his beautiful, earnest, clean-cut, honest face with the locked-down hair and the eyes
with the glycerin glitter. Behind that face there's an emotion so powerful it defies expression, some
combination of religious exaltation and bone-deep smugness: /am here. know. But you will know only
what choose to tell.

       And there is a power in him; he blazes with it: a furnace of energy that pours into him from the
eager eyes of the ten billion people who look at his faceright now.

      "Live, from Studio Center in San Francisco, I'm Jed Clearlake."

       when majesty says,"This is it," shouting to be heard over the waterfall sizzle of rain on our hats, my
heart stammers.

      Can I really be this close?

      The broken hulk of the warehouse looms shadowy in the fade-to-black grey-scale of the
downpour, and a door gapes darkness. A chill river runs down my spine and empties along the leg of my
breeches. I look up at Lamorak on the horse and at Talann, who's kept a hand on the horse's bridle
throughout this furtive walk:

      they're only ghostly silhouettes. I lean close enough to Majesty's ear that our hat brims overlap,
providing a handbreadth of sheltered air through which to speak.

       "Pull your boys in," I tell him. "Best to keep all your strikers here until Pallas is ready to move—we
can't have one of them talking about this to the wrong guy."

       He gives me that sidelong look again, the way you check something out of the corner of your eye
to see if it looks the same as it did full-on, but then he nods.

        "Way ahead of you." He lifts his hand overhead and swings his arm in a long arc to call the strikers
in. I can't believe they can see it, but shortly men begin to appear, shuffling shapes with shoulders
hunched against the rain. "But, I'm tellin' you, we've watched this place. Tommie's here right now. Shit,
Berne himself was followed back here; he went inside to search, right after the shitfight. She's not here."

       I allow myself a knowing smile. "You don't know her like I do. She had thirty-tome people here,
set up with food and water, a place to sleep and a place to crap. She's not going to abandon all that, not
when she has nowhere else to go, no one she can trust. The best place to hide is where the hunters have
already looked." I look around: a dozen Subjects now surround us. "Let's go in."

       I lead; Talann follows, drawing Lamorak's horse; Majesty pauses for one last head count before
bringing all the Subjects in behind us. Once inside, Majesty directs us through the maze of tumbled,
half-charred beams, back to an interior office from which emanates the cheerfully rosy glow of a small
campfire:

       Built in the center of the floor, out of scraps pulled from the walls, invisible from outside, the fire's
keeping the chill off Tommie. He straightens from his squat when he sees me. "Hey, Caine! What're
you—" Then he sees Majesty behind me and straightens farther to do the chest-thump salute to me and
then to his king.

       " 'Sno sign of Pallas Ril, if that's what you're after," he says. "Didja bring anything to eat?"

       "Where were they, a basement? Where's the door?"

       "Right there." He points. "But..." Now through the empty doorway he can see Lamorak on his
horse, which snuffles irritably at the fire, and Talann, and the other Subjects, and he shakes his head in
wonder. "Outa all you bastards, nobody's got nothing to eat?"

      By this time I've taken Tommie's lamp and lit it with a splinter from the campfire. I pull open the
door and start down the squealing stairs; Majesty's right on my heels. I can't breathe—surging adrenaline
makes my whole body thrum like a plucked bowstring.

      I made it. I made it in time, with time to spare. I can't believe I'm really here, really doing this. My
stomach churns in time with my spinning brain, and we finally reach the basement floor.

       "See?" Majesty says. "Nobody here."

       The floor is stone; it slops with a handbreadth of water that gleams black in the lamplight as it
swirls around my boots. Old broken crates and stacks of mossy lumber lie scattered across it, and the
combined deepwood smell of mildew and rot plugs my nose like a cork. It's a big room, five-meter
ceiling in places brushed by the mountains of old crates, sagging and waterlogged. I move deeper into the
room, sliding my feet and feeling my way carefully under the concealing water. There are no doors,
beyond the hole cut for the stairwell.

       Majesty, out of sight behind me, says, "Dammit, Caine, bring that light back over here. This place
is crawling with rats."

       Yeah, that's all that seems to live here. I can see their tiny red lamps of eyes staring at me out of
the shadows, and once in a while see their sinuous backs writhing through the water past my feet.

       "Come on, Pallas," I say loudly. "Quit screwing around. We need to talk."

      "Give it up, Caine," Majesty tells me. "There's nobody here—shit! Fuckin' rat came halfway up
myleg ! Will you come back here with that fuckin' lamp?"

       Could I have been wrong about this? Impossible—this is exactly what Pallas would do.

       Isn'Ut?

      "Goddammit, Pallas, you haveno idea what I went through to get here." A whiny edge of
desperation creeps into my voice, against my will. "Drop the damned Cloak. I havenews from home"

       That's a code phrase that every one of us knows.
     And a wave passes over and through me, a ripple through my mind, and now I can suddenly
remember that I'm not alone.

         As though from the bottom of a deep, deep well I can hear Majesty's gasp.

     It's dreamlike—it's exactly like one of those dreams where you're out in public and you all at once
remember that you've left your pants at home; this remembering comes in a surging rush, as though I've
had my eyes closed and was pretending so hard that I ^ was alone that I'd made myself believe it, but
now my eyes havi opened, and this recking basement room is full of people.

       It seems like they're everywhere, perched on the crates andtin roof timbers, men and women with
children clinging close by theij hips; they wear clothes that run from the sumptuous brocade ofz merchant
prince to the filthy, stained rags of a street beggar. But all of them are dirty, faces smeared by days
without water enough to wash; all of them are silent; all of them watch me with eyes round in
apprehension.

       There's a little group that I recognize, a man and wife with two daughters: it's the Konnosi. I nearly
nod in recognition before I remember that though I know them, they've never met me. I find myself
deeply, inexplicably glad that they've made it, that Konnos' funny self-important researcher act has not
vanished from the world, that his wife is still loyal and his daughters still lovely beneath the marks of their
ordeal.

         And—she'sJiere.

       She's standing on a ledge of packing crates high above me, her arms folded over her breasts, one
trim leg forward and her hips slightly cocked to emphasize the curve of her slim waist in a way that makes
me ache to hold her. Her cloak drapes back over her muscular shoulders, and she gives her head that
single toss, to swing the spray of her hair back out of her luminous, bottomless eyes—and y'know, she
doesn't look happy to see me at all.

         "God damn you, Caine," she says distinctly. "What will it take to finally keep you the hell out of my
life?"

      "cut!" koli.berg shrieked,surging up from the stage manager's station. "Cut cutcm/!" The techs in
the booth stabbed at switches, and instantly one reported that the worldwide live feed had ceased.
Kollberg fell back into the chair, trembling with victory.

        Thatwas perfect. That was better than he could have dreamed. Good god, he couldn't have had a
better teaser for a marketing campaign if he'd written it himself.Will Pallas survive? It wasn't yet certain.
Can Caine save her? No way to yet tell.What will it take to win her back? It was anyone's guess.

      He eased deeper into the chair, twitching in every muscle, squirming in a sort of sexual afterglow.
Perfection.

        majesty babbles something,off on the other side of a stack of crates—he's out of sight near the
stairs. I struggle with a swelling roar in my ears, a thousand petty echoes of my voice, whining in righteous
outrage: After all I've done for you, this is haw you treat me.

         "I meant it, Pallas." I keep my tone pretty level, I think. "About the news from home. We need to
talk."
       She sneers back at me with undisguised hostility. "I know why you're here, Caine, and you can tell
those greedy bastards that I'm handling things just fine, thank you. I don't need your help. You can go
home."

       We both know which greedy bastards she's talking about. "It's not what you think—

       "Then I suppose I should feel lucky to have you here to set me straight. Go on, Caine, tell me what
I should think."

        It'd be easy, so easy and seductive, to let that tiny, searing spark of anger behind my ribs flare up
to full life, to dive right back into the shouting, the name calling, the snarling toe-to-toe gut ripping that
poisoned the final months of our marriage. In a way, she trained me for it: at first, it was a problem that I
never raised my voice; only later did the problem become that we raised our voices too often.

      Now I hang on, hold my temper with both hands: this is her life at stake. My wounded pride is
meaningless here.

        "Please," I say simply, setting the lamp on a nearby crate to empty my hands. "Please, let's not
fight. Five minutes alone, to talk. Then I'm gone."

     The hard-set lines of her face soften for a moment: she was winding up for a brawl, and my
preemptive surrender has taken her off guard.

      She looks down at me from her high perch surrounded by thetokali. For an instant feel her really
see me; for just that one precious moment when our eyes meet she's looking atme, instead of looking at
the mental image of me that she carries in her head, the image that's sullen and cynical, that casually
homicidal villain who's caused her so much pain.

       We both carry those images, those built-up mental constructs. I think we've spent so long talking
to ourselves, inside our own heads, arguing with an imaginary Caine, a fictitious Pallas, that we've virtually
forgotten the reality that hides behind them.

       Yet, here we are, and I can read inside her eyes. can see that there's still something there when she
looks at me, and she must see the same, that it doesn't have to be over for us. Her lips part as she takes
a breath to speak—

      A voice from behind those crates, from out of sight at the stairs, comes hoarsely. "Hey, Pallas. Bet
you never thought you'd seeus again." Lamorak.

       I can't see him, but she can from her high perch, and her face lights with a radiance that I haven't
seen there in years. Her lips move, she mouths part of a name that her conditioning won't let her finish,
that my conditioning won't let me repeat—it begins with aK.

       "Lamorak!" she cries. "Oh great god, Lamorak!" She scrambles down off the crates and splashes
joyfully toward him. "And Talann, you'realive, I can't believe it!" She's forgotten I'm even here.

      There is a happy buzz among thetokali, and many of them move toward the stairs, crowding
toward the returning heroes. The basement echoes with splashing and happy babble, and I stay put for a
bit.

       I stand there with water lapping up the sides of my boots and stare at the deserted crates around
me, and I listen to them all. I don't think I can stand to watch this part, the part where she falls into his
arms and covers him with kisses.

       So I wait, and I wait, and the longer I wait the more pathetically ridiculous I feel, like an
adolescent sulking in a corner at a high school dance. Only a couple of minutes pass before I can't take it
anymore; besides, seeing her in another man's arms is something I'm gonna have to get used to, sooner or
later.

       With effort, I join the others. move out of the darkness, into their circle of lamplight.

       Many of thetokali are crying. Many of them try to keep a hand touching Lamorak or Talann, as
though ensuring that these are not ghosts, not apparitions that will disappear as soon as their backs are
turned. Pallas is between them; Talann is at her side, but Pallas' arms are around Lamorak's shoulders,
there on the stairs, where he sits with his broken leg out before him.

       I can't help thinking, can't help remembering that in the Theater of Truth, in the Donjon, during the
whole escape, he never once asked about her. Not once. From Talann, it was one of the first things out
of her mouth:Did Pallas send you ? Is she well ? Did she escape? Not Lamorak.

      I wish there were some way I could tell Pallas that without making myself look like a petty, jealous
asshole—which, of course, is exactly what I am.

      Pallas now looks at me with shining eyes and speaks in a breathy voice. "Is this true? You broke
them out of the Donjon? Alone? You?"

      I shrug. "It was the only way I could think of to find you." Well, sort of; but the truth would serve
nothing, here.

      Lamorak murmurs: "He saved me, saved my life over and over. There were plenty of chances; he
could have left me behind and no one would have blamed him. Not even me."

       That's a painless display of nobility for him—scraps from a rich man's table.

        Pallas gazes adoringly into his eyes; then she suddenly glances at me as though she's only now
remembered that I'm in the room. She starts to blush as she delicately disentangles herself. Seeing her
effort to be considerate of my feelings hurts as much as seeing her arms around him did.

       "Caine—I'm sorry, I...Well, you know. I thought—

       "Yeah, I know what you thought. Forget about it. Any other time, you'd have been right."

       "So, mm..." She leans forward uncomfortably. "So there really is news from home?"

       "Yeah," I say simply. "You're off-line."

        All right, I admit it: it's a childish thing to do, but I'm tired of screwing around. I'll lether invent the
lie to explain to the natives whatoff-line means.

       She couldn't look more stunned if I'd beaned her with a rock. Her face goes white, then red, then
white again.
      She stammers, "For, for how long?"

      "About four days."

       She takes in this information slowly and chews it over in her mind, and she's thinking about
something that I have a feeling I'm not gonna like. She stares through me, at some internal scene beyond
this basement, then glances at Lamorak, then at me, and it's me to whom she speaks. "You're right. We
do need to talk. The three of us."

       together we halfcarry Lamorak back up the stairs, leaving Talann staring mournfully after us. That
red surge climbs back into Majesty's face as he watches us go, and his eyes go toward slits until a quiet
word from Pallas sets him at ease. We go out past the Subjects, who are cheerfully chaffing Tommie for
being fooled, and move deeper into the ruins of the collapsing warehouse.

        I've got my good shoulder jammed up hard into Lamorak's armpit; Pallas carries the lamp and
helps him along from the opposite side; and I try nor to think about the acid disappointment that's eating
the pit of my stomach.

      Looks like she won't even give me the chance to talk to her alone...

       We find a sheltered spot, away from gaps where the drumming rain pours through the roof, and
Pallas sets down the lamp. The floor is a jackstraw nimble of rot-eaten support members, and the place
reeks with the chemical stench of wet charcoal. As we try to gently lower Lamorak to a seat on a fallen
timber, he inadvertently grabs my injured trapezius. I wince and grunt, and Pallas looks at me, our faces
only a foot apart, close enough that she should somehow sense my ache to touch her..."You're hurt."

       "Crossbow," I tell her with a shrug. I know she hates this macho downgrade of pain, but it's a
habit; I can't help it. "Through and through, missed the bone. Not serious."

      A silent moment cuts deep with sudden, overpowering shame. I can read her eyes: she can't
decide how much concern to show. She doesn't want to be cold, but she also doesn't want to encourage
me. She can't find anything to say, and it stings me at least as much as it does her, so I let her off the
hook.

      "What's up with Majesty? Since when is he your guard dog?" "I, ah—" She shrugs and looks
away; she can't meet my gaze as she says this. "I wasn't sure I could trust him. There was too much at
stake—"

      "What'd you do, lay in a Charm?" I ask disbelievingly.

      Her voice is very, very small. "I had no choice."

       "Sure you did," I tell her. "It'sMajesty who doesn't have a choice." The small spark of anger in my
chest is suddenly fanned by memories of countless self-righteous lectures from her. "Shit, you used to tell
me /was the one with no principles."

       "You know, you're right, Caine," she says, heat banishing the shame from her voice. "I should have
done it your way, andkilled him."

      "Pallas—"
      "You know the difference? You want to know the difference?" She gets right in my face, snapping.
"A Charmwears off- —in a couple of days, he'llget over it. How long does it take to get over being
dead! I found out he's hooked up with Toa-Sytell himself. What would .you have done?"

       Majesty, in bed with the Eyes? So Kierendal was right...My voice is quiet and calm, and all I say
is, "Oh?"

      But she knows me too well; her quick anger flees, and she sags tiredly. "Don't do it, Caine. I need
him, you understand?"

      From this range, I can sec the red twist of arteries in her eyes, the purple swipes of fatigue beneath
them. Her cheeks are sinking into her face, making her eyes larger and more luminous. She's so
exhausted she can barely see, and I don't want to fight anymore.

       "When was the last time you slept?"

      She shakes her head irritably. "I get an hour or two here and there. I'll be ready to move thetokali
tomorrow morning; I'll have plenty of time to rest after that." She settles back a little; we're so used to
shouting at each other that the anger fades as quickly as it grows. "You look like you could use a nap
yourself."

        I look at Lamorak and find on his face a frown of disbelief that mirrors my own. We both start to
talk at once, because neither of us can believe that she meant what we just heard her say: tomorrow?
Move thetokalil What is she, nuts?

      "Stop it." She takes off her cloak, folds it into a cushion, and seats herself on it on the floor. "I've
been off four days, that's what you said, right?"

       "Yeah..." I say reluctantly. I don't want to give her any rope, here.

       "So, even allowing for uncertainty and a pretty big margin of error, I have at least twenty-four
hours left. That'll be enough to get them out of the city, and well on their way down to the coast."

       "That's cutting it awfully close," Lamorak says doubtfully.

       "Too damn close," I say. "You've cut it too damn close already. What if something goes wrong?
What if you'recaught, this time? What if you're the one-in-a-million statistic that breaks the lower edge of
the boundary? Don't you remember what—" My conditioning locks the words in my throat.
"—what...it...willdo to you? How are you gonna feel when everything starts to halo out? How long do
you think you'll stay conscious?"

      I spread my hands, wishing I could find a way to express the throttling horror I feel. "How much
time will you have to scream?"

        "There are thirty-six people in there," she says patiently, but with the calm finality she's always used
to settle arguments. It's herMy mind is made up, don't waste your time voice. "Innocent people, who
will be put to death if I don't save them."

       "Fine. Save them. But save themon-line. Shit, that's what you get paid for, isn't it?"

       "You think I do this formoney!"
       For an instant there's a fresh spark of anger in her eyes—like she's about to step up and start
swinging—but then she lets it go. "Caine, you know me better than that." She opens her hands wearily. "I
don't even know if I can do it—get back on-line. It's the spell, isn't it? The Eternal Forgetting?"

       I nod. "They think so."

      "I can cancel it one person at a time. I touch them and tell them they know me, like I did just now
with Talann. But who do I touch to get back on-line?"

       Me!shouts a primitive part of my brain.Touch me! But that's just wishful thinking.

     "Break the spell," I tell her. "Cancel the whole fucking thing, and the sooner the better. Nobody
knows how much time you have left."

       She shakes her head. "I can't do that. The Eternal Forgetting is the only thing that's keeping me
effective. It conceals the pull of my magick, lets me walk Cloaked past the best adepts on the planet.
And Bemeknows me, and he knows I'm Simon Jester. I drop the spell, and he and Ma'elKoth suddenly
know exactly whom they're looking for. How long do you think I could hide from Ma'elKoth once he
knows who I am?"

       "Longer than you're going to live if youdon't drop the spell!"

       "But more than my life is at stake, here," she says calmly.

       "What if they figure a way to counter it? Ma'elKoth's so far beyond brilliant, he's terrifying. You
think he'll never find a spell defense that works? Then while you're still expecting this Eternal Forgetting to
protect you—

       "I'm not worried about that," she says with a quick shake of her head. "The man who wrote this
spell also invented what's probably the only real defense against it—he's down in that basement right
now, Caine. I don't think he's planning to sell his new invention to Ma'elKoth."

       "A defense?" Lamorak says. He's got a funny look on his face, like he's suddenly really interested
but for some reason is pretending this is just idle curiosity. "What kind of defense?"

      "Those silver nets Konnos was using to conceal his family from seeking items," Pallas tells him.
"You remember, just before—

      "/remember," I cut in forcefully. "And you know what? It's not a new invention. Ma'elKoth already
has that technology. Fucking Arkadeil was wearing awhole suit of that silver mesh while he tortured
Lamorak. Tell her."

       He gives her a pale, shamefaced look; I guess he doesn't really like thinking about the Theater of
Truth. "It's true," he says. "Nothing I could do got through it."

      She nods grimly, her eyes fixed on some internal truth. "Not surprising. Konnos freelanced for the
government from time to time."

       The bottom of my throat burns like I've swallowed acid. "You're going through with it anyway."
     "They still haven't made the connection," Pallas says. "They don't realize that it might be a defense;
maybe it'll take them another day to work it out. I only need twenty-four hours. It's worth the risk."

         "Are younutsT'

         "Thetokali —" she begins.

         "I don't give a rat's ass about thetokali —

         "You never did. I would never expect you to. That's part of the problem."

         The burning in my throat forces its way up into inarticulate snarls. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!"

     I stomp around a little bit and bite down hard on my temper. Finally I feel like I can speak again.
"Lamorak,you talk to her. Anything I tell her, she wants the opposite, no matter what."

       "Caine, you know that's not true. That's just childish," she says, and Lamorak frowns like he's
been thinking hard enough to hurt his pretty head.

         "Caine, I, ah…" he says, his voice low and slow. "I'm sorry. I agree with Pallas."

         "What?"

      "She has to follow her heart, don't you see?" he says virtuously. They exchange a puppy-dog look
that makes me want to slap them both. "I support her. I'll help. No matter what."

        I lower myself onto the floor, slowly; I'm afraid my head will explode if I move too fast. The
stabbing bitterness churns in my stomach. I can't believe it. I can't believe that after all I've gone through,
I'm still going to lose her.

         Because Iknow, y'see, I can feel it—this is her last chance.

      Theaffair, her thing with Lamorak, that I can handle. As long as she's alive and happy, I can handle
it. What I can't face is the thought that she will be gone, snuffed out of the world, that I'll never see her,
hold her, stroke her hair, smell the delicate scent of her skin, ever again.

         Pallas says, "This is screwing up your Adventure, isn't it?" That suspicious tone is back in her
voice.

         I lift my head to meet her eyes. "I don'tfollow."

       "Bullshityou don't. That's why you're upset," she says, jabbing an accusing finger at my face. "They
sent you here to rescue me, and I don't want to be rescued, and it's going to screw with your profit
margin."

       I sit still for a moment, searching for the flame of anger her tone should have kindled inside my
chest, but it's not there.

         Ashes, only ashes and bitter defeat.

         "Pallas, you can believe me or not, it's up to you," I say heavily. "They didn't send me here to
rescue you. They'reallowing me to rescue you, like in myspare lime. If anything, they'd prefer that you
die—it'll make the story a hell of a lot more dramatic."

      She leaves Lamorak's side for a moment. Something in my tone has caught her, and she knows,
whatever my many faults may be, I'm not a liar. She crouches just out of arm's reach, and her brows
draw together.

      "You should explain that," she murmurs.

       I shrug and shake my head dismissively. "You ever wonder...Do you ever wonder why it is you're
fighting so hard to bring down a government that—in broad outline—is kind of like our own?"

      She looks puzzled. "I'm not bringing anybody down. I'm just trying to save some lives."

      "You're embarrassing Ma'elKoth: making him look like a fool.

       His hold on the nobility is based almost entirely on fear of his near omnipotence. But everyone can
see that he can't catch you."

       Now she frowns, disturbed. "I don't want to topple Ma'elKoth. If anything, he's right"—a twist to
her mouth, parody of a smile— "theAktiri are the greatest threat the Empire faces. He's got the wrong
Aktiri, that's all."

       I shake my head minutely, slowly, and I can't hold in the bitter laugh. "If only I could tell you how
right you are."

     "I don't get you," she says, frowning, puzzled. Then her face clears to understanding, then to
wonder, and passes through to wide-eyed horror.

      She whispers,"You?"

       Stupid, stupid, stupid. I'm a fuckingidiot —I can never seem to remember howsmart she is. A
cascade of denials tumbles through my brain, but none of them can make it to my lips before she reaches
out with a tentative hand that holds warm and dry on my wrist, a touch that goes through me like a
lightning stroke and stops my mouth, stops my breath, my heart.

      "Caine..." she whispers. "My god, Caine—tell me I'm wrong. Tell me that's not what's happening."

      "That's the deal," I say miserably. "That's what I owethem, for the chance to come here. For the
chance to save you."

       She looks stunned, sickened, horrified beyond words. "Another Succession War...and that's the
best you can hope for; that's what happens if by some vanishingly small chance you don't die a hideous
death...Caine, I'm not worth that—"

       I summon the courage to lay my hand over hers and squeeze. "Yes, you are. You're worth
anything."

       And there are tears in her eyes, and I wish I had the words to tell her how precious she is to me;
she shakes her head, denying it, denying me, denying the infinite value of her life.
      "But this is the last one, win or lose, live or die," I tell her. "I fought it—I'm trying to leave that
whole part of my life behind, butthey won't let me..."

       "You waited too long," she murmurs. "They'll never let you."

      Lamorak has been looking from her face to mine and back again, and finally the truth has
percolated through the pudding he uses for a brain.

      "You've contracted onMa 'elKothT he breathes. "Fuck me like agoat... You don't have a
chance!"

        And he's right, of course. I agree with him completely, but I can't tell him so, because right now,
looking at his bruised and battered face, something has shattered an ice mirror inside my head. Its pieces
rain tinkling around me, glittering and shining and chilling my back and making the hairs stand up on my
arms. The pieces are falling into a new picture, a new mirror that shows a truth I hadn't seen before, and
each piece falls into place with a click like the tumblers turning inside a lock.

       Fuck me like a goat—it's a common enough exclamation of dismay, or incredulity, I suppose, but
I've heard it recently.

       From Berne.

       Click.

       Majesty's voice is inside my head now, repeating,"Somebody gave her up..."

       Louder, more resonant:click.

       Anotherclick, from Pallas' memory that I share: Lamorak at the window, sun glow backlighting his
perfect profile as he lights a smoke with just enough pull to be felt outside—asignal. And then his own
words:Please believe I never wanted it to turn out this way. I'm sorry, Pallas. And this is where I
pay for it.

      And then one more, one that echoes like a boulder down a well, like the final steel-into-wood
chock of a guillotine's drop. Ma'elKoth himself rumbles up from the deepest depths of my chest: /have
found that two agents, working separately —even in competition—toward the same end, achieve
that end much faster and more reliably.

       Click.

       I look into the eyes of this dead man, and say, "You. It's you."

       He stiffens; he can see his death on my face, and he doesn't even know why.

       "Caine, uh...Caine?" he says. "Mm, Pallas, what's—'?"

      She tries to hold on to my hands as I pull them free and stand. Her words come from impossibly
far away. "Caine? What's wrong?"

       Her voice is buried by the winds that howl from the abyss in the center of my spirit; their roaring
fills my head, presses outward until the entire universe breathes hatred.
        I take a step toward him, and I try to bring my voice back from beyond the edge of the world to
tell Pallas. have to tell Pallas—

      "It's Lamorak."

      My voice is a passionless, mechanical rasp of cinder blocks; no shout, no scream, no howl of rage
could ever approach what I feel.

      r Any chance of expression is snuffed like a candle's flame by the hurricane in my head.

      "He's the one. He's the one that—

       But now chromatic, crystalline halos limn Lamorak's face, and the timber on which he sits, and the
lamp, and the walls, and Pallas' panicked reach as she extends her hands to me. I turn and I leap for her,
to touch her, to complete the circuit, a last desperate attempt to bring her with me, and my outstretched
hands pass through her translucent, insubstantial chest, and I fall, gasping and retching out my anger,
alone on the transfer platform of the Cavea, in the Studio, in San Francisco.

        Icrouch there on my knees, fingernails clawing at the seamless flat black plastic, smooth and cool.
I'm shaking too hard to try to stand, but I can lift my head, lift my eyes past the row upon row of
first-banders, faceless behind the blank plastic masks of their induction helmets, up to the mirrored
shimmer of the techbooth panels.

       I am in agony, and now, at last, here on Earth, where my conditioning does not block my tongue, I
can give a name to my pain. It is the only word that can pass my lips:

      "Koll—"

       "—berg," hari finished,full of that indefinable sense of loss that comes from ending an Adventure on
the transfer platform, as the senselink was cut off, as he once again became alone, no longer the source
of experience for millions. But the loss was a familiar one, and it sank almost without a trace into the
ocean of his impotent fury, as all his raging hatred turned and coiled and stabbed him through the heart.

     So close—he'd beenso close. If he hadn't pulled away from her, if he hadn't started toward
Lamorak, if he'd beenhalf a second faster in his reaction, if his stiffened knee hadn't slowed him—

      She'd be here, beside him, now.

      She'd be safe.

       The bitter wound of this knowledge consumed him: he'd held her life in his hands, and he'd
dropped it. For long seconds he couldn't think, could hardly see, could only experience the taste of
ashes, the astonishing pain of failure.

       All his wounds dragged at him as he struggled to stand: the deeply bruised shoulder joint from
Berne's crushing grip; his swollen, fiery knee; the ragged hole in his trapezius that sent fingers of fever
toward his neck; the stretched-tight new scar of the healed rip on his inner thigh; the innumerable aches
and pains and bruises from being tossed through the air and beaten with iron-bound clubs. Of them all,
the one that stripped the most strength from his knees and pressed the breath from his lungs was the knife
of regret that lodged in his heart and pounded in time with his pulse.
     Only later, slowly, gradually, did the questions start to come muttering through the haze of pain:
How did he get here? Why in God's name did they recall him?

       What the fuck is going on ?

       Actors arenever recalled in the middle of Adventures; it just isn't done. Shit, Kollberg had needed
special authority from the Board of motherfuckingGovernors to recall him at the end ofServant of the
Empire —what could possibly justifythisl Why let him try in the first place, if they weren't going to let
him win?

       He looked up at the blank spreading looking glass of the tech-booth wall high above, and opened
his hands. He wanted to shout, to rage, to roar defiance, but all that could come from his chest was a
ragged whisper.

       "Why did you do this to me?"

       the techs inthe booth sat at their stations but only stared, silently wide-eyed. Not one was brave
enough to say a word, to ask any of the questions or make any of the remarks that were in all their
minds.

       "That," Kollberg said distinctly, "was a malfunction. Am I understood? Amalfunction. You know
your jobs. Do them."

       Slowly the techbooth came back to life as one tech, then another, then all of them turned to the
tasks of closing down the transfer mechanisms and bringing the first-handers up out of senselink.

       Arturo Kollberg cradled his list to his soft and rounded chest, the fist that he had bruised on the
emergency recall switch. He was painfully aware of how little sleep he'd gotten, the
amphetamine-masked exhaustion that was the result of the state of continuous nervous excitement of the
past three days, especially this last twenty-odd hours since Caine came back on-line.

       He'd been drowsing in his chair despite the drug, almost dozing off in the afterglow of the
successful live feed, when he'd been yanked bolt upright by Caine's line abouttoppling a government so
much like our own. He'd struggled heroically against the fog in his brain as he listened with growing
incredulity to the conversation that followed, and he cursed himself for inattention, for waffling. He'd left it
too long, let too much go out. By the time his horror finally overcame his natural inertia and he'd slapped
the switch, it was too late.

      There should be a feeling of triumph, here, however petty that triumph might be—he'd finally
gotten that bastard, finally showed Caine and Michaelson both who was really in charge around
here—but instead there was a taste of dust in his mouth and an uneasy griping in the pit of his stomach.

       He knows. Caine knows.

       He looked down through the one-way glass at the transfer platform as Michaelson, below, lifted
his eyes toward the techbooth.

       He's looking right at me. But… that's ridiculous. How could he know I'm up here in the booth?

       One of the techs whistled to himself, low and slightly awed. "He looks kinda angry."
       Another tech forced a weak chuckle. "It's a whole different feeling when he's looking that way at
you, isn't it?"

       Kollberg huffed a sigh through his nose and thumbed the key to connect his intercom mike to the
Security office.

      "This is Kollberg. Send a riot team to the Cavea. Full gear."

        This was one of the reasons that Actors were never to be transferred in the midst of an Adventure:
any emotions Caine was feeling right now would be chemically echoed in the bloodstreams of the five
thousand first-handers. Even the tranks that were being fed through their simichairs' neurochem drips
didn't entirely eliminate the possibility of trouble.

      $

      And then there was Michaelson, who wasn't getting any tran-quilizers at all.

      Even as Kollberg finished speaking, Michaelson pushed himself upright and began to walk slowly
and carefully down the long flight of steps at the side of the ebony ziggurat of the transfer platform.

       Kollberg pressed his lips together and tapped his fingers against one another in series:
index-middle-ring-little, over and over again, obsessively focusing on the inaudible four-beat drumroll.
He'd have to say something, do something that would keep Michaelson on the platform, at least for the
couple of minutes it would take for the secmen to arrive in their cardinal red body armor, with their
stickyfoam and power rifles loaded with gelslugs.

       He keyed the mike for general address, and his amplified voice boomed through the Cavea.
"Michaelson? Er, Caine? Please stay on the platform. We've had a transfer malfunction. We're trying to
correct it right now; there's a chance we might be able to send you back immediately."

      That should handle him; Kollberg turned his attention to his real problems. First, he'd have to find
some way to mollify the chairmen of the linked Studios around the world; they would probably all call en
masse to shout and scream and variously vent their outrage at this interruption of Caine's Adventure.
Kollberg expected these calls to begin any second, but this wasn't his biggest problem.

       He was also expecting—dreading would be a better word—a call from the Board of Governors.
He'd have some explaining to do. Even the thought of dealing with that blank screen and digitally
modulated voice twisted his guts into knots that seemed to tie his throat closed as well. He needed that
confidence back, that rush he'd had with the live feed; it seemed now that he'd crashed as far as he'd
risen. With trembling fingers, he opened the carton and pried out another capsule. He turned away from
the techs and dry-swallowed it painfully.

      "Uh, 'Strator?" one of the techs said dubiously. "You might want to look at this."

      "I hardly have time..." Kollberg began irritably, but his voice trailed off to silence and his mouth
went suddenly dry as he automatically followed the line of the tech's pointing finger.

      Far down below in the Cavea, Michaelson was sprinting up the long slope of the center aisle,
heading for the door. This could be a problem.
      But problems were what he was paid to handle. With only an eyeblink's hesitation, he keyed his
mike for Security.

     "This is Kollberg again. Detail three men from the riot team to meet me at my office.Not in the
Cavea,not at the techbooth, at myoffice, do you understand?"

     His assistant would have already left for the evening; they'd have the kind of privacy Kollberg
wanted for what was to come.

       "And not regulars. Specials. I want threespecials at my office, and three more specials up here at
the techbooth. Order them to take custody of Hari Michaelson and escort him to my office. Authorize the
use offeree."

        He turned to the curious techs and looked into the growing apprehension on their faces. "When
Caine gets here—and he will, ah, make no mistake, this is where he's coming—tell him I'm expecting him
in my office. Nothing more, nothing less. Three secmen will shortly arrive to take him there. It would be
best, in fact, if you speak with him very little. I believe that he's, ah, planning to hurt someone. Don't let it
be you."

       With that, he waddled toward the techbooth door as fast as his jiggling thighs could carry him.

      hari looked upat the blank mirrored surface of the techbooth as the echoing hollow words died
away and realized that through this particular looking glass, he could find some answers.

       With the thought came instant action: he sprang off the transfer platform and hit the floor running.
The five thousand first-handers who filled the Cavea didn't so much as twitch as he passed, still locked
deep in the chemical slumber of the sendep cycle that would gradually bring them back to themselves.

       Tuxedoed ushers scattered at his approach, and the broad double doors at the Cavea's rear
boomed back against the marblepaneled walls when he crashed through them. His injured knee
screamed at him with every step, and his shoulder burned, and neither pain could register through the
greater pain that squeezed his heart.

        An alarm Klaxon blared as he slammed the crash bar of a service door, and the corrugated steel
of the tech stairs rang under his boot heels. The long twisting spiral was tall enough to have him breathing
hard before he reached the serviceway that circled the Cavea. F below the alarm still hooted.

       He burst through an unmarked door into the sterile monochr matic compartment of the techbooth.

      Four men in tech whites stared at him, frozen in their chaii They all had that pinched, flinching look
of physical fear, but noi of them seemed surprised to see him. One of them lifted his hanc palms out.

       "Hold it!" he said, and patted the air as though Hari were ; angry dog who could be stopped with a
strong tone. "It was a teci nical malfunction, all right? Amalfunction."

     "You don't lie even as well as I do." Hari paced toward hir "What happened? Why was I pulled?"
He came closer and bar* his teeth. "If you start talking before I get within arm's reach, won't hurt you."

       "Chairman Kollberg," the tech squeaked, then coughed and starte again. "Chairman Kollberg is,
ah, expecting you in his office—"
       "He called down here to tell you that?" Hari leaned on the bac of the empty swivel recliner at the
stage manager's station—an registered that the leather was warm. "No...He was here, wasn he? He
wasn't talking from his office...He wasright here."

        The warmth on the leather that he felt now, it had come froi Kollberg's soft, moist flesh. The idea
of it caught in Hari's throa and he pulled his hand away with a grimace of revulsion. He sa\ the
mushroom-shaped fist button of the emergency recall switch £ the top of the panel in front of the chair. It
was dark now, dead, bi in his mind Hari saw it glow red, saw Kollberg's round and sweat fist slap down
on it. For a moment he entertained a crimson fantas of ripping Kollberg's fingers off that hand one by one
andjammin them down his throat; he shook his head sharply to drive the imag away, but it came leaking
back. "In his office, huh?"

      "And, uh, uh, Caine? He's already, uh, already called Security-called them before he left here.
They're supposed to escort yoi down there."

      Hari nodded. "Yeah. He would."

       He understood that the nervous tech was trying to help by tellinj him this, trying to keep him out of
trouble. He also understood tha it was far too late for that. "Thanks anyway," he said, and left. They were
waiting for him in the hall outside. Three secmen, Studio Security in full riot gear: cardinal-colorec body
armor of carbon-fiber ceramic backed with Sorbathane, mirrored antilaser face shields locked down on
their helmets, canisters of stickyfoam at their belts, Westinghouse power rifles with hundred-round
hoppers of gelslugs held diagonally across their chests.

      They moved with the robotic lockstep precision of Workers.

      There were recurrent rumors that the Studio numbered some of the cyborged felons among its
Security force. They made up for their lack of higher cognitive function by their perfect obedience; they
could not even consider refusing an order.

       When Hari stepped out, one of them said, "You will come with us," in a flat, emotionally dead
voice, and Hari suddenly lacked the energy to invent a reason why he should resist. He shrugged and
kept walking; the secmen fell into step around him, flanking him to the sides and behind.

       The secmen herded him out of the service corridors to the gilt-filigreed door of the Chairman's
private lift and keyed a code on a view-blocked pad. The elevator carried them down the long,
ear-popping descent to Kollberg's subterranean office.

      It was cool here, far, far down below the tower of the Studio. Hari remembered the last time he
was here, a lifetime ago, how it was almost cool enough to keep Kollberg from sweating—but not quite.
The thought of even looking at Kollberg's grey, doughy face made the whatever-it-was he'd eaten last,
back there in the Warrens, rise up in his throat.

     The door to the inner office stood open, and Kollberg's voice came from within. "Michaelson.
Come in. Don't bother to sit."

       The secmen didn't follow Hari through the door, but there were three more inside, as
indistinguishable as cars from the same plant.

       Kollberg sat behind his desk, looking—if possible—more repulsive than usual. The dim light from
the night skyline that showed on the repeater gave his pale flesh a greenish cast and highlighted the dark
shadows under his eyes. His jowls hung slack, and there was a bitter twist to his bloodless reptilian lips.
Not even Kollberg, Hari noted, was sleeping well these days.

       "I just got off the screen with the Board of Governors," Kollberg said, "and I am in, ah,trouble."

      Hari felt a surge of gratification—the bastard wasn't going to get away with this, after all—which
was instantly dispelled by the Chairman's next words.

       "I am in trouble because I didn't recall yousooner. I was there, in the techbooth. It was my fist on
the emergency transfer switch. That responsibility was put into my hands directly from the Board of
Governors themselves, and now my career trembles on the brink of disaster becauseI was too lenient. I
let you go too far."

      Hari was acutely aware of a flesh-crawling feeling on the back of his neck, which probably came
from the muzzle of a power rifle being aimed there by the silent secmen behind him; it was this that
stopped him from going over the desk at Kollberg's throat.

       "Maybe you could explain that to me, Administrator," he said tightly, chewing on the courtesy title.

      Kollberg steepled his fingers in front of his face. " 'Those who make peaceful revolution impossible
will make violent revolution inevitable,' " he said distinctly. "Do you know whom I'm quoting?"

       Hari frowned. "Kennedy—John Kennedy, one of the leaders of the old—

       Kollberg's hand slammed down on his desktop with sudden violence.

      "No, you slack-jawed piece of Labor trash! I'm quotingyou!" Hari stood dumbfounded while
Kollberg recounted his recent conversations with the Board of Governors; the Chairman grew angrier
and more impassioned, coming to his feet, waving his hands and spraying spit.

       "...and finally,in what was probably thestupidest single act I've seen you perform in your entire
long career of stupidity, you come out and tella hundred and fifty thousand first-handers that the
Studio, Adventures Unlimited, anentertainment corporation, has ordered you tomurder the head of
stater All the hurt, all the anger he carried within, boiled until his chest might explode. They'd pulled him,
they'd killed Shanna, over hispolitics.

       For their image.

      The cords in Hari's neck pulled his head down irresistibly, like a maddened bull's, and all he could
say was, "It was the truth."

       "The truth!" Kollberg snorted contemptuously. "If you're so concerned with truth, why don't you
tell your Ankhanan friends who you really are? Why don't you tell Talann how you found her in the
Donjon? Don't whine to me abouttruth, when everything you've built your life on is lies!"

       "All right," Hari said. His voice had that cinder-block rasp in it again. "I won't. You just tell me one
thing. When that all came out, all the shit about my contract, I was sitting there,holding her hands."

       He was panting now, with the effort required to restrain his killing rage.

       "If you'd pulled me then, the transfer field would have automatically extended, and she'd have
come with me. She'd be here now. Why did you wait?Why didyou fucking wait?"

       "Don't shout at me," Kollberg said coldly. "Remember your place. I have had my fill of your
insolence and disrespect. Raise your voice again and I'll have the secmen shoot you. Understand?"

      Hari ground out, "Why did you wait?"

      "I said, do youunderstand!"

      Hari forced a "Yes" through his clenched teeth.

      "Yes, what?"

      "Yes, Administrator, I understand."

     "Very well, then. The answer is simple. You are contracted to kill Ma'elKoth; once that is done,
you may save your wife, or not, at your, ah, leisure. Not before."

      "That's the price, then. That's the real deal."

       "Yes. And, furthermore, if you wish the cooperation of this Studio, I expect you to confront and
slay Ma'elKothoutside the Colhari Palace. The twenty-seven hours you spent out of contact are
troublesome enough by themselves. If the climax occurs, ah,offstage, so to speak, we won't get any
cube sales or rentals whatsoever. Any more inflammatory remarks along the way, and please believe that
I won't hesitate to recall you again. If necessary, I'll have you tried for sedition."

      The rage drained out of Hari as though a sluice gate had opened in his heart, and Caine looked out
from behind his eyes.

      "Maybe I should just kill you. Maybe if I kill you, I'll get a better deal from the next Chairman."

      "Don't waste my time with empty threats," Kollberg said. "You'll do nothing of the kind."

      "That's what Creele thought."

      "Eh?"

      "Ask me a question, Administrator. Ask me how I knew those King's Eyes weren't going to shoot
me on the spot, shoot me down like a mad dog when I killed the Monastic Ambassador. Go on, ask
me."

      Kollberg sat perfectly still. "Ah—

      "I didn't," Hari said flatly. "Think about it."

       The Chairman's eyes slowly widened, and his lips smacked as he started to speak, stopped
himself, started again, but he couldn't decide what to say as it slowly dawned on him that he really cot die
here, in his office, right now.

     "You think about that," Hari told him. "You think about that h fore you decide you can sacrifice
Shanna's life for better rating for your fuckingmargin —
       Hari's voice trailed away as he heard the words that he had ji spoken.

       He stood on the carpet, blinking.

       For the second time in half an hour, that crystal shower tinkl< around him, and the pieces clicked
into a new picture.

       The Long Form. Lamorak on freemod, cut off from Studio mor toring. Lamorak the traitor. And
Kollberg had said somethin something about Shanna's Scarlet Pimpernel act working too we being too
easy...And the sudden insistence on rank, standard uj caste bullshit to avoid giving a straight answer to a
straight que tion: Why had he waited untiljust then to hit the switch? What w; the final straw?

       What had he been about to do?Tell the truth about Lamorak.

      And the only way that the truth about Lamorak could hurt tl Studio, could hurt Kollberg, was if he
was acting according to tl terms of his contract.

      If someone hadordered him to give her up. "Oh, my god," Hari whispered in awe. "Oh, my
fucking bleedin god."

       All this brutality. All this pain. The fear, the loss. All th suffering—not only his, but Shanna's, the
tokali's, Talann's, th dead Twins, even Lamorak's torture—it all began here. In this fice. Behind this
desk. Within the squirming maggoty brain of thi evil, evil man...

        "She was right," he breathed. "Shanna was right. It's all abov profit margins. About ratings. She
didn't pull enough audience, s you had her sabotaged. You had her betrayed so that I'd have to g for her.
You could make it a global event. You. Not Lamorak. You. Hari felt a twisting in his guts, a shimmering
in his limbs: Cain coiled there, inside him, hungry, aching for blood. "What are you babbling about?"

      "What did you offer him? I've known Karl for ten years; whe could you offer him that would make
him do this?"

       Kollberg pressed the meat of his lips together into a rumpled liver-colored asshole. "Michaelson, I
don't know what you'ri talking about, but I strongly suggest that you do not repeat any of these wild
accusations outside this office. The Board of Governors wants youcyborged, Michaelson, for merely
making passingcomments; it is only my, ah, myintercession that keeps you alive and free. Should you
speak such treasons in public, I would not be able to protect you."

      And then it was too late: Caine surged up his throat and took possession of his brain, and he
leaned forward onto the desk and bared his teeth.

      "Kollberg," Caine said, "I'm not gonna kill you. I'm not gonna kill you, because that won'thurt
enough—

       He would have gone on to list the ways that he would inflict pain, to demonstrate them one by one
by one, but Kollberg suddenly dove below his desk, shrieking, "Shoot him shoot himshoot him !" and
the whine of the power rifles in the hands of the forgotten secmen behind gave him only a quarter
second's warning before gelslugs poured from their muzzles like water from a firehose and pounded him
into scarlet unconsciousness.
        talann had away of blushing that began with a tiny kiss of rose high on her arched cheekbones,
then spread like the dawn around her eyes and down her neck. Her uncharacteristically shy smile, and
the way she almost-but-not-quite pulled her hand from Majesty's grasp, and her artfully artless answers
to his questions, soon had the King of Cant wondering just who was seducing whom, here.

       He was only killing time, passing the night in idle byplay, but the longer he wheedled Talann the
more interested he became—and more suspicious that she was playing his game better than he was. An
enchanting woman, taken all in all, and by all accounts a devastating fighter, nearly equal to Caine—some
said better than Caine. The longer they spoke, the more Majesty found his attention drifting off into
daydreams of what his life might be like with a Queen of Cant by his side, a Warrior Queen, feared by
his enemies but beloved by his Subjects...

      Fine as she was, though, she was, of course, no Pallas Ril.

      He caught himself drifting off again. No question about it, he was losing—and, after all, wasn't this
no-longer-casual byplay between them a kind of infighting in itself? And this was a fight where losing
might be more fun than winning.

       His idle fantasies of family life scattered abruptly when Pallas came back alone. She appeared at
the top of the stairs, backlit by Tommie's campfire.

      "Majesty—can you get a couple of your boys up here to help Lamorak?"

      "Sure," Majesty said reflexively, then he frowned up at her. "Where's Caine?"

       Silhouetted by the firelight, the expression on her darkened face could not be read, but in her voice
was a troubled, uncertain note. "He's gone."

      Majesty and Talann said together, in almost identical tones of dismay, "Gone?"

      "He justleft!" Majesty said, rising, disentangling his hands from Talann's. "You let him go?"

       Talann also rose beside him, taking on a look of bruised disbelief. "What happened? What did you
say to him?"

        "Nothing." Days of exhaustion leached all the color from her voice. "I didn't say anything. He came
to deliver a message. He did it; then he left. I couldn't have stopped him." "I thought—" Talann began. "I
thought..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head silently; she sank back down to her seat on the
stairs and rested her chin on the heels of her hands. Talann looked blankly out over thetokali and the
Subjects on their crate-built nests.

        Majesty barely spared her a glance—that was fun and all, but this was business. He came up the
stairs, took Pallas' arm just above the elbow with a firm hand, and gently pushed her away from the
stairwell.

      Over at the campfire, Tommie and another Subject still warmed their hands. Majesty said, "Didn't
you hear the lady? Go get Lamorak. Now."

        With under-the-breath muttered protests at the unfairness of life, the two rose. Pallas pointed them
in the right direction, and they slipped off into the darkness. As soon as they were gone, Majesty turned
fiercely to Pallas.
       "For fuck'ssake, Pallas!" he hissed. "Have you lost your sense? How could you let him walk out of
here? Itoldyou what Toa-Sytell said—!"

       Pallas' eyes had a distant, almost haunted look, lines of deep thought etched around them, as
though it was a great effort to pay attention to what Majesty said to her, as though he was only a
distraction, an irritation.

       "Toa-Sytell was wrong."

       "How do youknow! How do you know Caine isn't running to the King's Eyes right fucking now?"

       "I know."

       The calm of her utter certainty slowed him, but it didn't stop him.

     "Howdo you know? mean, I know it's not like him, but you and Lamorak...Jealousy can make a
man do funny things, Pallas. We'd better move thetokali, y'know, just to be sure."

      Her attention seemed to return from very far away, and she looked deeply into his eyes. "We don't
have to move them. Caine won't betray us; he can't."

       "Yeah, well, it's all very fine for you to have that kind of trust in him, but this ismy butt, too—

        She shook her head and gave a soft, bitter laugh, as though at a private joke that was more painful
than it was funny.

       "Trust has nothing to do with it. Besides, he left an hour ago. If he were going to the Eyes or the
Cats, they'd be here by now."

       "Shit, I'd never have brought him here in the first place if I thought you'd reallybe here. You can't
take that kind of chance."

      She placed a comradely hand on his shoulder. "Majesty, you did right, believe me. In fact, you
saved my life tonight. Tomorrow at dawn, I'll ferry thetokali out of here, and all will be well."

       She let her hand fall and drifted away from him, down the stairs, deep in her private thoughts.

       Maybe allwillbe well, Majesty thought as he watched her back sway tiredly down the steps.

       Maybe it will. But if it isn 't, Caine had better have some fucking convincing answers. Some things
are too low to stand for, even from a friend.

       day five"What's so wrong with wanting to help people? " "Nothing's wrong with it; there's
just no point. You risk your life for a wet-eyed thank-you and a hug. It's stupid." "It's my life."

       "No, Shanna. It's our life, remember? That's why we got married."

       "Oh, right—I knew there was a reason, I just forgot what it was."

       "Shanna, dammit—"
      "No, Hari. No. Marriage is supposed to make you more than you are. It's supposed to add
something to your life, not take it away. You want me to be less, you want me to be more like..."

       "Go on, say it. Go&n."

       "All right, I will: more like you."

       " That shit flows both ways, Shanna."

       "Maybe it does. Maybe that was my mistake from the very beginning. should have known better."

      Asdawn layered the Ankhanan sky with crimson and pale rose, the low-lying mist that rises from
the Great Chambaygen every morning began slowly to recede, traces dissolving in the warming air.

      Most of the workmen, the stablehands and the copy clerks, all those who were employed in Old
Town but could not afford to live there, walked through the swirling mist toward Fools' Bridge with
breeches tied tight at the calf and trouser legs laced closed at the ankle.

       This was a fashion dictated by necessity, for also through that swirling mist scampered other
inhabitants of the capital city, nocturnal citizens returning to their dens for the day, far more numerous
than the human inhabitants. And anyone who'd done the Rat Dance as a panicked rodent clawed and bit
its way up the inside of one's pants leg had no desire to repeat the experience.

       One particularly large and lean rat with patches of grey at the sides of its muzzle crouched by the
notch where the single-leaf bascule of Fools' Bridge would descend. It watched the dawn ceremonies
with glittering eyes that held more than rodent intelligence.

       This was far out on the arc of the span over the river, over the slow-rolling oily water, glossy black
in the growing light. The rat watched the bridge captain stride out alone behind the reinforced crenels
atop the Old Town gatehouse, diaphanous robes of translucent aqua flowing over his uniform.

        The bridge captain wore these robes twice a day, at dawn and sunset, when he made ritual
obsequies to the legendary river god Chambaraya. At dawn, he poured out oil from a golden cup to ask
the river god's permission to lower the bridge; at dusk, the cup held wine, in thanks for permitting the
day's traffic.

       The bridge came down; the rat twitched back from its path, but as soon as the bridge settled into
place, the rat streaked for Old Town. Its movements were somewhat hampered by two thin leather
thongs like bootlaces that strapped a small packet of oiled paper to its back; the rat nearly perished
beneath the boot of a startled soldier who stomped at it as it passed, but it escaped and vanished into the
alley behind a nearby stable.

       There it paused, as though uncertain of how to proceed; that eerie look of unnatural intelligence
was enhanced by the way it sat up on its haunches and rubbed at its face with its front claws, the way
some men do when deep in indecisive thought. The rat, however, was neither indecisive nor, actually,
thinking; what little intelligence the rat had currently snarled in the back of its brain stem and lusted to
chew through the leather thongs that strapped the packet to its back.

       The thought, and the indecision, belonged entirely to Lamorak.
        just before dawn,she'd kissed him good-bye. She planned to ferry thetokali to the river barge in
groups of four or five, the largest that she felt she could safely Cloak and still move swil through the
streets. She'd nodded and stroked his cheek when told her howhe wished he could be with her, how he
felt his pi; was on the street to help protect them, protect her, if only it was for this damned leg...

       And when she turned away from him, when she climbed I stairs toward the street, that troubled,
half-haunted expression h stolen over her face, the same one she'd worn in unguarded rr ments ever since
Caine's disappearance the night before.

       It stung him, that look; he knew he was losing her. She'd se him in the same room with Caine, side
by side, sized them up, a somehow he'd come up short. Again. He didn't understand couldn't understand
it. Why would a woman—or anyone, for tt matter—prefer a sullen, scowling murderer like Caine to his
o\ sparkling eye and heroic dash? But there it was: it was happen! again like a recurring nightmare.

      Somehow, even now, everyone in his life was conspiring make him feel second-rate. Stupid bitch.

       He'd seen trouble coming last night when she'd made him st in that dripping frigging room
aboveground and waste a good ho trying to figure out why Caine had been suddenly pulled. And si
particularly pricked away at what Caine had been about to say-she simply refused to leave it alone. What
was he about to sa; What was he about to do? What, what, what, why, why, which—( and on until
Lamorak was ready to slap her.

      Some women, the only way to shut their mouths is to put yoi dick in them.

       He knew damn well what Caine had been about to say, and knew even better what Caine had
been about to do. And he kne that, unarmed and with his leg busted, all he could have done rig then was
roll over and wait to die. He knew better than to thir Caine would have mercy on him just because he
couldn't defer himself.

        It was galling, too, that everything had been so carefully planno so well thought out, well
concealed, and Caine had jumped right the truth without any evidence at all. He'd never be able to prove
fucking thing. There'd be no court on either world that would a< cept his unfounded hunch as evidence.
Crap, forget court; it wasn even, strictly, illegal. But none of that mattered; Caine wouldn trifle with any
sort of legal authority, with any sort of official procedure at all beyond a swift flurry of his slaughtering
fists.

       This had been much on Lamorak's mind overnight as he'd sat high up above the waterlogged floor
in a nest of empty crates that several of the gratefultokali had constructed for him. He'd spent the night
working on his leg, pulling Flow and visualizing carefully the layering of calcium across the break, knitting
the splintered ends together. He hoped that by the time Caine made his next entrance, his thigh might be
strong enough to bear his weight and give him a fighting chance.

      Not that he had any intention of fighting.

       It came to him, in one of his frequent periods of rest, that exactly as he was using his
once-despised magick to heal his broken leg, he was also using this same ability to heal his broken life.
He'd never quite understood how he could have gotten to be thirty-four without becoming a major star;
he'd been so sure, as a boy, as a student at the Conservatory, as a novice Actor on freemod, that he'd
someday be recognized as one of the legendary greats, that his name would be entered on that tiny list
alongside Raymond Story, Lin Zhian, Kiel Burchardt, Jonathan Mkembe...
        Hari Michaelson's name was on that list, or so people said. Lamorak couldn't see it, couldn't
understand how Caine's career continued to soar while his own languished; Lamorak had found himself
at thirty-four, when most Actors begin to make plans for retirement, without ever having cracked the Top
One Hundred. Caine was what, thirty-nine? Forty? But Caine would never retire, not so long as his every
Adventure landed in the Top Ten as though it grew there. His career had become self-sustaining, feeding
on his past successes, to where it no longer mattered if his Adventures were any good or not. People
paid and paid and paid, just to be Caine one last time—who knew how long he could keep it up? Who
knew what Adventure would be his last?

      Who, Lamorak often wondered, really gave a shit?

      Just when another man might have become oppressed by a growing sense of failure and
inadequacy, Lamorak had instead become aware that the reason behind his continuing disappointment
was marketing—or rather, lack of marketing.

       Caine got the best Adventures because the Studio executivesexpected him to have the best
Adventures, and so they were willing to put out more effort, more money, more promotion to keep him
up in his lofty position. All Lamorak needed was a break, one big shot, one opportunity to show the
Studio and the public his real .< qualities.

       He was angling for precisely that: his shot. His big break. Although as an Entertainer he was
nominally a Professional, t was only a provisional recaste; on the day he retired, gave up bei Lamorak
and became, finally and for all time, merely Karl Shan he would reassume his true caste, his birth caste of
Business, could retire tomorrow and take a position with the family busine SynTech, the electronic
chemicals giant, and make five times me money than any Actor, even Caine. But that would mean leaving
show business. That would mean admitting that his father, the spineless flatter was right. That his brothers
were right, and his mother. They'd said he'd never make it as an Actor. It would mean going on knees to
his grandfather, the old bastard who still perched on Sy Tech like a senile dragon on his mound of gold,
to beg for a chan to prove himself a real Shanks.

       However much he might despise his family, it didn't stop hi from using their powerful upcaste
connections to pressure tl Scheduling Board. He had the Board thoroughly cowed; they we only a pack
of butt-covering Administrators, after all. But ev< with bigger, more frequent Adventures, he still didn't
commai the kind of promotional budget—and, hence, public following—th Caine did.

       Ironically, it was the one man most responsible for Caine's succei who'd come to Lamorak with a
plan and an offer: Arturo Kollberg."Do this one little thing for me," he'd asked."Spice up Pallc Ril's
Ankhanan operations enough to get Caine involved, and /'take you under my wing the way I did
him. I made Caine what he I but he's become increasingly sullen and troublesome. I can mak you
what Caine is, and you won't treat me and the Studio with di: respect and attitude. You 'II know
how to repay me: with loyalt with courage and honor..."

      And if Caine ever understood what Lamorak was really up t( down deep, that what he was really
doing washelping Pallai career —and at great personal risk, I mean, look at this leg, looki how he'd
been nearly tortured to death because he'd been doing hi part to turn a mundane, run-of-the-mill
Adventure into somethin exciting and memorable—why, Caine wouldthank him. They'both thank him.
But no, instead of gratitude, Pallas was running ol with her damnedtokali and fantasizing about her
husband, an Caine wanted to kill him and cat raw bloody chunks of his flesh. It was all so fucking
unfair...

      But he knew how to get back at them, he knew how to pay them out for making him a loser:
magick. That's what was making the difference now; that's how he could make them regret their
disrespect. He was more adept than either of them suspected, and he was going to use this hidden skill to
make sure, once and for all, that everyone concerned got exactly what was coming to them— especially
himself.

      Once this was over and he was back on Earth, his career would really kick into high gear.

       He couldn't think about this too much, the images and the fantasies of finally getting the respect he
deserved: they were too potent, they intruded too much into his minutc-to-minute consciousness. So he
held them tenderly at the rear of his mind, carefully foggy and unformed. They lurked behind everything
he thought or did and whispered heart-swelling endearments to him—faint and ghostly mumblings that
Lamorak never analyzed, because he wouldn't let himself listen hard enough to really understand them.

       They murmured that Caine's time was past, that it was right Lamorak should step up to take over
for him. They murmured that Pallas had been only using him, after all, and that even the love she had
pretended to feel for him would vanish without a trace as soon as they transferred back and she audited
Caine's Adventure. They whispered that Caine had been lying in the first place: Pallas wasn't off-line.
That was ridiculous. He was only jealous, because his star was fading while hers was on the rise. Came
was trying to destroy Pallas' Adventure, even as Lamorak worked so hard to make it brilliant.

      And the final, most potent whisper, least rational and buried the deepest: They were in it together,
against him. Caine and Pallas had concocted this whole fantastic plan to make him expose himself, to
draw him out where they could humiliate him before the world and destroy his last chance for happiness.

       All of these back-of-the-head whispers combined into a powerful feeling of justice—a conviction
that he'd really thought this whole thing through and what he was doing was not only necessary, but was
right.

      He'd begun to deal with what he privately termedthe Caine Problem last night, after he and Pallas
had come back alone from their conference. After Lamorak had been settled into his nest and

      Pallas had gone off somewhere to brood by herself, the King Cant had climbed up next to him and
begun half-casually que tioning him about Caine.

      Lamorak realized with growing delight that the King—howev reluctantly—suspected Caine of
working for the Imperials!

       Once he understood, it was simple to inflame those suspicioi while appearing to attempt to allay
them. The way Caine hi vanished—as Lamorak was forced to put it, "He didn't explai he just left without
a word"—made everything all the bette Lamorak knew that not only could he get away with betrayir
Pallas and thetokali, but he'd be able to pin it all on Caine.

       Majesty half believed it already, against his will; that Char Pallas had laid on him made him
fanatically, paranoically prote live of her. He'd take any Imperial interference as proof that Cair had
betrayed them.

      The evidence of the morrow would remove all doubt.

       And so when Pallas Ril left that morning, a half hour befoi dawn, with her fourtokali in tow,
Lamorak had set to work withoi the faintest twinge; with, in fact, a swelling sense of righteousne; and
delight in his own skill and imagination.
        It was a tricky business: finding a way to ensure that the Gre Cats would interfere at the docks
without exposing himself one again to Berne's lunatic temper. The solution that Lamorak h upon not only
satisfied that requirement, but there was a certai sense of tradition to it as well, a sort of metaphoric
lightness th; lent an additional air of conviction to his assurance of success.

      Rats were everywhere in this warehouse; the paper, the oil, an the knife to cut the strips of leather
were easily obtained from th Subjects of Cant with the explanation that he needed them for th healing
magick he planned to do on his leg. Knowing nothin about real magick, the superstitious mopes hadn't
even raised a eyebrow.

       He found himself a secluded compartment in which to wort and Talann was more than happy to
guard the door and ensure tha he would not be disturbed. It was the work of mere minutes to pul enough
Flow to trap the will of a suitable rat, which he then sen scampering off toward Old Town. He had to
stay there and main tain mindview, continuing to pull in order to keep the rat under con trol, but even that
was no danger. If Pallas returned and inquirec about the Flow currents swirling toward his compartment,
Talani and the Subjects would tell her he was still working on his leg.

       It was perfect; it was easy. The indecision that he faced once the rat had crossed the bridge was
not a hesitation to betray—he was simply trying to decide which would be the quickest, safest route to
the headquarters of the Grey Cats.

        the rat scuttledalong Gods' Way with a back-humping lope. It stayed just far enough beneath the
boardwalk to be in shadow, dodging curses, horses' hooves, and the occasional boot or hurled brick; the
hazards of this open route were much easier to avoid than the dogs and feral cats that prowled Old
Town's smaller streets and back alleys. It barely escaped the steel-bound wheel of a nobleman's carriage
as it sprinted past the Colhari Palace onto Nobles' Way, then south off Old Town, across Kings' Bridge
to the South Bank.

      The closest the Grey Cats came to an actual headquarters was the walled compound of the
townhome that Ma'elKoth had granted to Count Berne as part of his ennoblement. The rat slipped easily
between the iron bars of the gate and ran for the house. All the doors and windows were rpread wide,
and men lay here and there sprawled in the elbow-to-eyes posture of hungover slumber.

       One of them happened to lift his head. Rubbing sleepily at his face, he spied the rat. The Cat
jerked awake with a yip of surprise that brought other heads up with dismaying speed and alertness.

       The rat did not see Berne anywhere among them—perhaps an upstairs bedchamber? It dashed for
the stairs. Despite what appeared to have been some sort of drunken revel the night before, the Cats
were awake in an instant with mocking shouts like huntsmen whose dogs have started a fox.

       A thrown daggerthrummed into the floor only inches in front of the rat's nose, causing an abrupt
change of direction. Suddenly the air was filled with a rain of steel, hacking into the floor, the walls,
chipping large chunks from the hand-carved woodwork of the banisters—all to the sound of the Cats'
delighted laughter.

      The rat scampered this way and that, still trying for the stairs, and when a pause came in the
shower of daggers—perhaps they'd thrown them all?—it sprinted once again for the bottom step.
Something heavy struck it in the spine and drew a line of ice across its back; its hind legs twitched
convulsively, beating against the floor, and it twisted and squealed and bit at the knife that had struc
through its haunches and pinned it to the floor.
       All semblance of intelligence fled; now there was only its lastir stinctive desperation to wound what
had killed it, its attempt t leave a mark of its life behind it when it passed.

      one of theCats bent over the dead rat and squinted Wearily at th oiled-paper packet before slicing
through the leather thongs tha held it in place. He examined it against the morning light. "Wha do you
make of this?"

      The other Cats gathered round.

      He unfolded the paper packet and read:

      Simon Jester moves theAktiri today on a downstream barge for Teranafrom the Industrial Park
docks. A full hood of silver net, draped over your head, will defeat the spell that hides them all.

      His eyes went wide, and his heart surged. "Where's the Count?' he snapped. "Who knows where
Count Berne spent his night?"

       Instead of answering his question, the others babbled questions of their own: The message on the
paper, what had it said? Whom was it for? Who'd sent it? He waved the paper over their heads.

    "Someone has given us Simon Jester once again;,this time we must not fail! Ride to Onetower;
command them to stand ready at the antiship nets—and find the Count!"

     toa-sytell was summonedfrom his breakfast by a breathless page instructing him to attend the
Emperor immediately.

       He had no need to ask where the Emperor might be; at this time of the morning the Emperor was
invariably in the Lesser Ballroom, constructing the Great Work. Art, he had always said, is done best
from dawn to noon, its power rising with the sun; done after noon it becomes decadent and reducing,
draining power from the artist to replace what it should get from the fading sun above.

       In the Lesser Ballroom, Toa-Sytell found Berne already in attendance. The Count wore his fighting
clothes, the formfitting tunic and pants of patchy strawberry serge. His stolen blade was shoulder-slung.
Instead of his usual hungover surliness at this hour of the day, Berne looked rested and ready for action.
The glitter in his eyes spoke of an excitement that, for him, came only from the prospect of slaughter.

       The Emperor stood beside him, at the cauldron's rim, clay drying and cracking on his crimson kilt.
Barefoot and bare chested as he always was when working here, flushed with the heat of the coals that
kept the clay boiling, muscle rolled like boulders beneath his skin as he extended his hand to Toa-Sytell.

      "Come, My Duke. What make you of this?"

      He pressed a fold of paper into Toa-Sytell's hand, but Toa-Sytell's eyes were caught by the
manikin that bobbed gently in the steam-misted air, hovering forgotten over the boiling clay of the
cauldron.

      It was of Caine, yet again; Ma'elKoth had spent all the time allotted for his Great Work yesterday
attempting to fit Caine into the gigantic puzzle-piece sculpture, trying innumerable postures and
expressions, but finally coming to frustrating failure. Now he must be trying a new strategy, for this Caine
manikin was vastly larger, perhaps seven feet tall, matching the Emperor's own stature.
        Toa-Sytell frowned. This seemed faintly blasphemous, somehow, though he couldn't put a reason
to his feeling. A fundamental prag-matist, he had long ago accepted his inability to appreciate art, but it
was disturbing that Caine had come to occupy so large a place in the Emperor's thoughts in so short a
time.

       Toa-Sytell looked down at the paper in his hand and read there the message of Simon Jester's
intention to move theAktiri, and of the hood of silver net.

      "Who is the writer?"

      "Lamorak," Berne said tightly. "I know his hand."

      "Hmpf." He turned the paper over; the back was blank. He shrugged.

      "You don't look surprised."

       Toa-Sytell permitted himself a razor's edge of smile. "I've known for some time that Lamorak had
been, before his capture, your source close to Simon Jester. My impression, however, was that you have
had some, mm, falling out. Breaking his leg, ordering that he be tortured to death—these are not signs of
a close working relationship."

      Berne spread his hands. "He'd outlived his usefulness."

       Toa-Sytell lifted the note consideringly. "Apparently not. Though if I'd used a source as you did
him, I would never trust his word—"

      "We do not."

       Ma'elKoth's distant thunder cut off all possibility of discussion. The Emperor laid massive hands on
the shoulders of his two servants.

        "We cannot deduce what profit Lamorak can hope of this; we must assume that it is part of some
tactic. Berne and his Grey Cats will pretend to be taken in by it; they will watch, and search the barges."

      "What of this silver hood?" Toa-Sytell asked. "It seems that I've heard some rumor of such a
thing—

       "Mmm, yes. Master Arkadeil from time to time employed a certain artificer, Konnos by name,
who constructed some of his equipment for the Theater of Truth. The most recent such piece was a suit
made entirdy of fine-worked silver mesh that would supposedly render him immune to any of the subtler
magicks accessible to a Donjon-bound thaumaturge: an expensive piece of work, for which Arkadeil
paid, I believe, by having Konnos denounced as anAktir."

      The Emperor sighed heavily. "I Myself considered this creation to be of limited utility—anyone
wearing it is cut off completely from Flow, and hence is essentially powerless. I may have been too hasty:
My feelings were prejudiced by My own strengths. I have ordered several full-sized versions of this silver
net constructed, after which I shall conduct My own experiments. For the nonce, I have sent to the
Donjon for Arkadeil's suit, which can be cut into material suitable for three or four hoods, in addition to
the one that is already part of it. We shall test Lamorak's message in action, as soon as the hoods are
ready."
     Toa-Sytell nodded up toward the oversized manikin of Caine. "What word do you have fromhtml
What does he think of Lamorak's message?"

        Ma'elKoth wheeled on him; the hand upon his shoulder became a grip of iron that lifted him into
the air. Sudden fury twisted his beautiful face into a demon's mask, and his eyes flared scarlet as the rising
sun.

        "I do notknow\" he roared, so loud that Toa-Sytell's ears felt as though they'd been pierced by
knives. He felt the actual heat of Ma'elKoth's gaze upon his skin. All the breath left his lungs along with
the strength from his limbs. He hung like a hare in the jaws of a lion.

      Throughout the Lesser Ballroom the pages jumped at the crash i of the Emperor's voice and
exchanged fearful glances; no doubt every sleeper in the Palace awakened in panic as though from a
nightmare. Toa-Sytell had a sudden feeling that across the city, throughout the entire Empire, every man
and woman and child ] who had undergone the Ritual of Rebirth paused as the routine of their lives was
suddenly interrupted by a rush of indefinable unease. He felt that every Child of Ma'elKoth had a
premonition of some unforeseen disaster.

      An instant later Toa-Sytell was returned to his feet. The crushing grip on his shoulder had become
a warm and fatherly hand of support to steady him until he could once again stand.

        "You have My apology, Toa-Sytell," Ma'elKoth said softly and ; calmly, though echoes of that
titanic fury still hummed beneath his i tone. His chest expanded near to bursting and fell again in a long, j
long sigh. "The Work goes poorly, and My temper is short."

       The Duke said nothing, still slowly recovering from the scorching i rage with which he'd been
struck. Like a child feeling a parent's fist for the first time, he couldn't quite sort through his emotions: he
was hurt and frightened and ashamed and uncertain what to say or what not to say.

      Tiny beads of sweat prickled out all over his body, sweat that only peripherally related to the
Lesser Ballroom's saunalike heat, and even Berne looked shaken.

       "Observe." Ma'elKoth turned away from them, so that neither could see his face.

        "When Berne first came to Me this morn, I attempted to Speak to Caine, to get his word on this
missive. If he is still in Lamorak's company, Caine would be able to confirm this report or tell Me of its
falsity. At the very least, I would have a vastly clearer vision of what is happening. Observe the result."

      The outsized manikin rose higher over the rim of the cauldron, drifted toward the three, and
descended to the floor nearby.

      Ma'elKoth extended his right hand as though offering benediction, his outspread fingers shading
the manikin's face from the morning sun. An in-drawing tension, as though the palace itself held its breath,
and the air around Ma'elKoth heatshimmered with power.

       "Caine..."

       The word echoed within Toa-Sytell's head like a whisper cave, but the manikin remained mere
blank and lifeless clay.
       Always before, the posture, attitude, even the spirit of the ta would come to animate the manikin
through which the Speal took place. Ma'elKoth spoke to it, and it would answer as thouj were the very
man to whom he Spoke. Now, though, now...Sytell squinted and moved closer, bending his neck to look
up the manikin's face of blood-worked clay.

       There was something indefinable missing here, something yond the obvious lifelessness of the
Speaking's inexplicable fail Some quality of life, of truth, of implicit motion was missing fi this figure. The
manikins of which Ma'elKoth constructed Great Work always carried an impression of immanent activit)
not-too-deeply buried life, as though they might move and sp and laugh and love as soon as one turned
one's eyes away—but Caine looked as dead as a discarded doll. Though each indivic feature appeared
as perfect as one would expect, some incffc crudity of their combination made it merely a large hunk of
Cai shaped clay.

     "You can see," said Ma'elKoth, deep in his chest, "that this g beyond a simple refusal to answer.
Somehow, somewhere, Cain beyond the reach of My voice."

       "But how can this be?"

     "I am surrounded by mystery. Why can I not penetrate magick that beclouds Simon Jester's every
move? Why is Lar rak so eager to betray that he will forgive a sentence of dea Where is Caine?"

       "You think maybe he's dead?" Berne asked hopefully.

      Ma'elKoth snorted contemptuously. "Have you noeyes?" manikin swung around the Emperor to
bob pugnaciously ahi span from Berne's nose.

       "This is not the face of a corpse! This is the face of a man wnever was ! Caine has been wiped
from existence as though he wi a phantom of our collective daydreams. I will know how. I v know why. I
will bend My magicks to this end, but Caine has, in i past, proven too slippery for such a grip."

      The manikin suddenly jerked high over the cauldron's rim a splashed down into the boiling mud as
though tossed by a carel< giant. Ma'elKoth stood between his two nobles and cracked knuckles like a
wrestler.

       "Berne, take your Cats to the barges. Perhaps the note is a diversion, a bait; if Simon Jester thinks
we have bitten, perhaps he will move openly elsewhere. Or perhaps the note is honest, and we will take
him today at the river. Toa-Sytell, you will place every man, woman, and street-child ever associated
with the King's Eyes on alert. I wish to know everything that happens in this city today. Everything. And
youpersonally" Ma'elKoth leaned close to the Duke, his breath hot and bloody, "will turn your whole
attention, Toa-Sytell, to discovering where in the world a man can go that he cannot hear My voice,
where it is that My will does not extend. This is, at the very least, equal in importance to the capture of
Simon Jester; it is vital to the return of My serenity."

       He turned away and vaulted up over the cauldron's rim, walking barefoot across the liquid surface
of the boiling clay. He raised his arms, and a new figure arose from the mud, forming again into a man,
ten, twelve feet tall. As his will began to sculpt its broken nose and fringe of beard, he turned his face
toward Toa-Sytell one last time: his eyes smoked emerald fire, and his voice scraped and rumbled like a
mountain avalanche.

       "Find Caine."
      "ANDyou know, I can't figure out if he planned it this way, or not. I can't even figure out if it
matters one way or the other;"

     Because standing still hurt too much, Hari Michaelson sat by the small square window on an
uncomfortably hard examining stool.

       His right arm was strapped to his chest to partially immobilize his ventilated trapezius. The wound
could not be visibly treated beyond debridement and crude stitching; use of advanced medical technology
would cause a continuity flaw when he transferred back to Ankhana. He'd taken several injections of
timed-release universal antibiotics and had a week's supply of pinhead-sized analgesic caps slowly
dissolving within the muscle. His left shoulder and his knee both ached fiercely from the beating they'd
taken as well as from the steroids that had been pumped into both joints; and even though an
anti-inflammatory had been injected into each one of the innumerable purple-black bruises from the
gelslugs that had hammered him into unconsciousness, his entire torso was strapped with surgical tape to
help keep down the swelling.

       When he returned to Ankhana, he'd be able to explain away the bruises as battering from the fall
down the Shaft sump. It was a good story: the media believed it already, and so did the meditechs who'd
treated his wounds.

       He stared at the rolling lines of raindrops that slid vertically down the windowpane as though his
future could be read there.It always seems to rain, when I come here, he thought.

      "I don't see how it could be going any better for him," he said. "He even opened my infirmary
room to the media—they were on me from the instant I opened my eyes. In the cab, on the way here, I
couldn't find a channel that didn't have a story about me on it. If they didn't have one of my quotes, they
had an interview with the meditech, or they had retired Actors offering odds on my Final Confrontation
with Berne, or some flack from Studio Marketing talking about the record advance orders for the
secondhand cubes, or some other asshole claiming to know something about the 'malfunction in 'he
Winston transfer mechanism.' "

       He set his left fist on the glass and leaned on it, examining the folds of skin on his thumb and
forefinger, the thick pads of callus across his knuckles.

       "Some guy in Chicago managed to get an interview with Shanna's parents. They, y'know, they—"
He had to cough away a sudden huskiness in his throat."—Alan and Mara can't get seats, y'know? They
don't get their next-of-kin comps because this is my Adventure, not Shanna's. They're Trade, y'know.
They can't afford a first-hander berth. Shit,I'd give them the money, but I didn't even think of it, and
they're too proud to ask me...So this Chicago asshole, he's asking for donations, a worldwide sympathy
plea to get the Leightons on-line for the rest of my Adventure. Doing well, too, they say—makes you
wonder who's gonna keep the leftover profits."

       Once he'd managed to fight his way free of the media feeding frenzy at the Studio infirmary, Hari
hadn't even bothered to do a fly-by on the Abbey: he knew damned well the place would be shoulder to
shoulder with news crews. Marc Vilo wouldn't return his calls: he'd left the Studio the night before, while
Hari was still unconscious in the infirmary. Hari guessed he'd probably had his usual luck with Dole and
was currently happily humping away at some Leisure tail. And Vilo would have only been good for
shielding him from the press. Even with Vilo, Hari couldn't have spoken what was in his heart, couldn't
have said the things that he needed so desperately to say.

       Many of these words, these thoughts, were dangerous; he needed to say things that could get him
cyborged if they were repeated to the Social Police. Vilo couldn't protect him, and Hari wouldn't put his
Patron in that position.

       So he went to the one place he could always go, turned to the only man who could safely hear
whatever he needed to say. He went to the Buchanan Social Camp, to the Mute Facility, where nothing
he said could possibly be taped, or even overheard, and told it all to his crazy father.

      "How could he have put it all together soneatly! I mean, was he planning this when he sent
Lamorak to betray her? When he approved her Adventure in the first place? How far back does it go?
Back to Toa-Phelathon? What does he care about more, eliminating Ma'elKoth or getting the ratings?"

      Duncan Michaelson had lain nervelessly in his bed, listening to Hari in silence broken only by his
occasional rasping cough. Veins twitched across his forehead, and as always Hari couldn't tell how much
Duncan could understand until he spoke.

      "Does...does it matter?"

      Hari looked at his father's pale and ghostly reflection in the rain-streaked window. "No, I guess it
doesn't. I'm dead either way."

      "Not..." Duncan coughed harshly, convulsively, his mouth filling with phlegm. Hari came to his side,
loosened the straps that held his wrists, and pulled out a paper handkerchief for his father to spit into. He
wiped Duncan's lips gently.

      "...not dead,"Duncan murmured painfully. "You're winning..."

        What 're you, nuts ?Hari barely kept the reflexive words from his lips, and he had to fight down a
bitter laugh.

       "Winning? Dad, I'm barelywalking. Shanna dies in two days. She's in love with the bastard who's
going to kill her, and I'm getting crushed between the Studio and the fucking Ankhanan Empire. Even if I
can get back to Shanna in time, even if I live that long, she doesn'twant to be saved..."

      "What, what about..." The effort of speaking seemed to be exhausting him."...what about
Kollberg?"

      Hari lowered his head. "He's too smart for me, Dad. He's been two steps ahead of me the whole
way." His fingers laced together and twisted, cracking his knuckles in a machine-gun stutter.

        "When I woke up in the infirmary, it took me half an hour to really believe that I'd been about to
kill him. It took me anotl hour to get over failing."

      "Stupid...stupid kid. Didn't I tell you...didn't I tell you what your problem is?"

      "Yeah, whatever. You're always telling me what my problem I'm a slave, right?"

      A thin and bloodless smile stretched Duncan's withered li "Not anymore..."

      "What do you mean?"

      "He...Kollberg, he's not smarter than you, Hari. Very f< people are...He just...He goes for what
he wants, y'know? H always shaving the odds, always taking another baby step towe where he wants to
go, even when he doesn't know how it'll all p together in the end...When you do that long enough, ha
enough, eventually things fall into place and...and you look liki genius, when you never really planned
anything..."

       "I still don't get—"

      "Linen."Duncan's trembling hand gripped Hari's wrist wi surprising strength. "You do the same;
you always have. Cai does it; so do you. When Caine wins, that's how you do it eve time. You inch
toward daylight, and then when it comes togethi you take it all, one fast move puts it all together—right?"

       Hari frowned. "Well, yeah, I guess—"

       "That's how you'll beat him."

       Hari narrowed his eyes, suddenly thinking hard.

      "See?" Duncan went on. "...not a slave. You're thinking . how you can beat him. A real slave can't
eventhink like that-slavescan't fight back; they won't let themselves fight back.I doesn't own you...in
your mind. You can fight him now. You'iwon."

       "Hardly—"

        "No no no.Think. I couldn't teach you much, but I tried at lea to teach you tothink. Beat
Ma'elKoth—there'll be other Ma'e Koths. There'll be other Kollbergs. You've already beaten tl worst
enemy you'll ever have—that voice in your head...It tel you the fight's already over...whispers there's
nothing you ca do...If you beat that voice, it's a victory that can't be taken froi you. You might die, but
you'll die fighting."

       Or I might end up here, in the next room in the Buke,he though Duncan had taken his own baby
steps, had beaten that voice—an had been crushed like a roach under a boot heel.

        Hari sighed and shook his head. "I haven't beaten it, Dad. I'm trying, but so far I haven't been able
to lay a fist on it."

     Duncan's eyes drifted closed, and he allowed himself a rusty chuckle. "You will...Identify the
enemy—it's half the battle...Take that step, Hari. Take that first step, and then just don't stop."

       "Easy for you to say," Hari muttered under his breath, looking away. "It's over for you. You lost a
long time ago."

     "Nothing's over," Duncan said. His brain might have been out of order, but there was nothing
wrong with his ears. "And I haven't lost yet. I'm still in there pitching, Hari."

      Hari stared at his father's ruined face, at his withered smile that showed a gentle confidence that
was so out of place, so ludicrous from this shattered straw man, that it defied argument.

       "Still taking those baby steps, kiddo," Duncan said, wiping phlegm from his lips with a crippled
hand. "I took another one, just now."

       hari spent hoursin Duncan's room that day; he had nowhere else he needed to be. Kollberg had
already scheduled his return to Ankhana for tomorrow morning, and Hari had only a single Studio
obligation in the interim, a follow-up interview with LeShaun Kin-nison onDragonTales.

       They had much to talk of, father and son. Hari had heard other men speak of finally coming to
know their fathers as men; for those other men, this slow process had begun in their twenties. Duncan's
madness, Hari's career—any number of things had stripped this opportunity from Hari's life. Nothing he
could do or say would bring it back, but that day he felt as though he made a beginning, like he began to
have the faintest glimmer of how Duncan's students must have felt about him thirty-five years ago.

       He knew, too, that a beginning was all he could ever have; he'd waited too long. Duncan was too
far gone in his cycle of madness.

       They tried to spend the day discussing Hari's problem, exploring options for getting Hari and
Shanna out from under the hammer that poised trembling over their heads. Hari used up a lot of favors
that day, promised kilos of cocaine, to keep himself within the room, to keep the attendant passing by
with his occasional injections.

       Duncan cycled in and out of lucidity according to a very delic; balance of his medications; much of
the time Hari spent in tl room was taken up with Duncan's fantasies of a different time, the years before
and just after Duncan's downcasteing, wh Hari's mother still lived, when they were still a family. Dune
would grill Hari on his geometry lesson or send him to the be room to check on his mother's fever. Hari
found it frightening easy to slip back into that dream-surfing process of riding the a vancing wave of
Duncan's fantasy, to be precisely what Dune expected him to be.

        Duncan mentioned the same thing, in one of his lucid cycli "You're so good at playing along,
Hari—seamlessly, faultless good...I know I beat that skill into you with my fists, before yi were big
enough to fight back—I remember that, sometimes . It's made you wealthy, and famous—but now it's
going to get yi killed. Sec, you're so good at being what they want you to be tt nobody remembersyou
don't have to do it. Not even you. You' fooled them all into thinking that youare Caine; you've evi
fooled yourself. You don't have to solve every problem with yo fists, Hari. That'sCaine's way. That was
Caine, down there in tl Chairman's office. The Chairman hurt you, and your reaction w to beat him to
death with your bare hands—but that wasCaine's i action because Caine doesn't have any other option.
It's the on problem-solving strategy he has."

      "What else is there?" Hari sighed with a weary shrug.

      "Plenty. There's plenty. Dammit, you're too smart to kid you self this way. You've been taken by
your own con, Hari. The who world thinks that Caine is all of you, and you've let them talk yc into
agreeing. But it's not true. It never was true. Aren't you the who's supposed to be looking the world
square in the eye?"

      Hari shifted uncomfortably. "That's the general idea—

        "Well, it's crap. You're pretending to beless than you ar You're pretending the world is worse
than it is. You're kiddir yourself just as much as any Pollyanna optimist does. You kno what it is? It's an
excuse to lose. And you can't afford it. Not th time. The stakes are too high."

       "But what am I supposed to do about it? I mean, reallydoT Ha said tiredly. "I'm fucked from every
direction."

      "First, quit whining. Then quit kidding yourself. Let th Chairman, let the Emperor, let everybody
think that Caine who you are—just don't letyourself think that. That's your edg People have been
watching you almost twenty years, and nobody knows yet how smart you really are. Take those baby
steps, Hari— inch toward daylight. Trust that if you just don't quit, eventually you'll find yourself on the
pivot, you'll be in a spot where one bold stroke will lock everything down. You know your enemy, but he
doesn't know you. Kollberg thinks that as long as you can't get your hands on him, he's safe."

        "Dad...you, uh..." Hari said, shaking his head. "You make it sound so simple..."

       "Maybe it is," Duncan rasped. "Hey, being crazy doesn't automatically make me wrong." He rolled
his head sideways on the pillow, so that he could look out the window.

        He said distantly, "And a man...a man can be excused...taking a certain amount of pride in his only
son."

       Hari swallowed hard and blinked past the sudden heat at the corners of his eyes. "Well," he said,
"I guess the first thing I need to figure out is who might take my side in this, who's big enough that the
Studio can't just step on them."

      They'd talked for a long time more; it was midafternoon before Hari left. From the cab on his way
home, he keyed Marc Vilo's private number, and this time the stubby Businessman answered.

        "Hari! What news, kid?"

        "Marc, I need a big favor."

      "Anything, kid, anything. You really pulled it through for me. She signed over Green Fields this
morning—

        "Is she still there?"

        Vilo shook his head. "Back to Kauai. Why?"

        "That's the favor," Hari said. "I need an audience with Sher-maya Dole."

      "That's not a big one, kid," Vilo said with a broad grin. "This's one old widder lady that's real
happy to oblige, you follow?"

        Hari took a deep breath.Inch toward daylight, he thought. "How about this afternoon?"

      berne's strawberry sergestood out among the grey leather of the Cats. They gathered within the
bridgehouse on the Old Town side of Knights' Bridge, nearly two hundred men of closely matched height
and build, the entire capital detachment.

       Gone was the horseplay and revelry that characterize nights; every man in the room wore a face of
deathly det tion. Every man in the room knew that they were about to action against Simon Jester; every
man in the room felt th( the six men who'd been slaughtered in the failed raid les; week ago; every man in
the room had lost a comrade, a frie Every man in the room swore in his heart that he'd be th avenge
them.

       Behind Berne stood what he'd decided to call his Cats four of his bravest, steadiest men wearing
flat caps drapt veils of silver netting. The procedure he'd improvised to t vantage of Lamorak's tip was
simple: One Catseye would; pany each pride, and he'd describe to the pride alpha at each and every
person he saw. If the tip was true, and this rendered a man immune to Cloaks and other mind-alterinj
icks, eventually one of the Catseyes would begin to di people and things that the alpha beside him could
not see. clement and capture could then begin according to their st procedures.

       "The Emperor wants the thaumaturge alive; everyone el die," Berne said simply.

        This particular instruction had been carefully planned; he be able to say truthfully to Ma'elKoth that
he didn'torder ; sacre. If the boys got a little out of hand, well, that was under able, considering the losses
and humiliations inflicted on the past week. It wasthe frustration, don't you see? And ange those boys
lost friends this week, and I guess they just had to out on somebody...He was thinking specifically of
Caine ing, praying deep in his heart that Caine would somehow be He thought, privately, that the reason
Ma'elKoth couldn't! to Caine was that Caine had truly gone over to Simon Je; perhaps was himself
Simon Jester—and had somehow d himself with this same magickal fog that still frustrated the peror. He
planned to keep one Catseye by his own side; he dre effacing Caine while the power of Ma'elKoth filled
his chest very brink of shattering orgasm...

      And maybe Pallas Ril would be there, as well. She'd esc him in the Warrens, humiliated him and
his men, but toda> maybe, he'd take her. Take themboth.

        This sweet mirage drifted shimmering at the fringes of his and brought a faint curve of smile to his
lips, even as he issued instructions to the Cats.

      "Guard the Catseyes: Simon Jester will go for them with everything he's got. If a Catseye falls—"
Berne swept his men's grim, set faces with a smoldering glare. "—the man at his side will take his veil,
and become the new eyes of his pride. There will be no escape for Simon Jester, not this time. To live, he
must defeat us all in open combat."

      He flicked his gaze to a corner of the bridgehouse wall, to where a horns-and-grin graffito of
Simon Jester had been scribbled in red chalk. He had, in fact, secretly scratched it there himself, only a
few minutes before the Cats had assembled, with precisely this moment in mind.

       "Lookat that," he said darkly, reaching over his shoulder for the hilt of Kosall. "Look how he
defies us. Look how he laughs."

       He slowly pulled Kosall from its scabbard. When he grasped its hilt, its high whine vibrated in the
teeth of every man in the room. He extended the blurring edge of the blade to tap the stone where the
graffito lay, as though taking its measure.

       "This is our response."

       A flick of Berne's powerful wrist snapped Kosall in a sizzling arc around its point as he lunged into
the wall, adegage that sliced a cone of shining rock from the limestone; it slid free. Berne tapped it
spinning into the air with Kosall's flat, then caught it neatly in his left hand. He held it up, so that the
assembled Cats could see the face of Simon Jester upon it.

       He said, "This."

       An act of will summoned his enchanted strength, and he crushed the cone of rock within his fist
with a sound like cracking bones, crumbling it to gravel, to dust that he allowed to trail between his
fingers and trickle to the floor.
         The Cats greeted this display with a fierce stillness, a silence that was far more profound than any
cheer.

         He said, "The tale of Simon Jester ends today, in defeat and bloody death. To your places."

      As the Cats assembled in their prides and filed silently from the bridgehouse, every man of them
swore in his heart to make Berne's vow become truth.

      "aaah, lady?" thebarge captain's whiskey rasp came from out of sight beyond the hatch at the
ladder's top.

         "Y'might wanna come up here and look at this..."

      Pallas pushed herself to her feet, aching in every joint. When the barge captain saidlady, he was
always talking to her. Everyone else washey you, even Talann; he'd told them outright that he didn't want
to know any names.

      The newly hired crew had done a fine job on the bilge, flooring it with layers of open-worked
shipping pallets, to make a slatted floor eight inches above the slop that still covered the bottom. They'd
scrubbed the bulkheads and hung lamps from pegs and generally made it temporarily comfortable.

      Several of thetokall were tall enough to knock their heads on the beams that supported the deck
above, and even the shorter ones felt oppressed and confined by the low ceiling; there was very little
moving about. Thetokali sat huddled into their family knots, here and there, and they all looked at her
with wide, frightened eyes.As usual, muttered some weary and resentful part of her brain.

      As soon as she climbed the ladder, they'd start asking each other what was happening, spinning
ever-more-alarming fantasies about what might be going on in the daylit topside world; eventually, one of
them would summon the courage to brace Talann about it. Talann would assure them that all was well,
and they'd return to their family knots, and the whole process would begin again.

      She'd Cloak-walked Talann with the last of them from the warehouse in the Industrial Park an
hour ago. Lamorak had decided to stay with the Subjects, and that was all right with her. Majesty and
the Subjects could take care of him, hide him, and protect him from the Imperials better than she could.
Now they waited only for the barge's turn to slip from the docks and head downriver. The captain had
bribed the dock boss to move them up the queue, and they had less than another hour to wait.

       All Pallas wanted was to get thetokali out of town and well on their way downriver. Then she
could leave the barge, walk back into the city, find a way to cancel the Eternal Forgetting, and get herself
on-line, safe from amplitude decay. She would come back to the city just in case the Studio had
prepared an autotransfer protocol, waiting for her transponder signature; she didn't want to be
unexpectedly transferred out in full view of thetokali, the crew, andTalann.

       Then she'd see what she'd see; if the Studio chose not to pull her, she'd make her way back to the
barge—a fast horse would catch it in less than a day—and ensure thetokali made it safely to Terana. If
she found herself suddenly back on the transfer platform in the Studio, well, she'd deal with that when she
got there. At least she'd be able to call Hari and find out what in the name of god was going on.

      His sudden transfer last night had wakened terrifying images of what might happen to her—and it
was a mystery that chewed on the fringes of her consciousness.
       Why would the Studio have pulled him in the middle of an Adventure? It didn't make any sense.

       And that long moment of stillness, that slow count of ten where he'd sat without so much as a
twitch of his finger...She'd seen that from him before—the catatonia of thought so consuming that he
didn't have enough brain capacity left over to remember to breathe. What had come to him, then? He'd
looked straight at Lamorak and said, "You. It's you," with another look on his face, one Pallas had seen
only a few times before: his soul-extinguishing rage that brought instant, reflexive violence.

       It was the look she'd seen on his face the night he'd come for her at Berne's camp, back inRace
for the Crown ofDal'kannith. When he'd loosed her bonds and helped bind over the burns and salted
cuts of Berne's amusements, she'd whispered, "Take me out of here." When he looked at her wounds,
then at the flayed corpses of Marade and Tizarre, still lying in the tent with her, then out through a slit in
the tent flap at the men who had done (his to all of them, sitting around their campfire, drinking and
laughing among themselves, that was the look his face had worn.

       He'd looked at Lamorak the same way he'd looked at Berne that night, and she didn't know why.

       But she didn't have time to think about it much. Time pressed on her from all sides: how little of it
she had, to move thirty-sixtokali out of Ankhana, to find a way to save her own life. She'd already spent
far too much of her limited time thinking about Caine, about the last look on his face when the crystalline
prismatic shimmer began to halo his body.

       It stuck with her, and she couldn't shake it; she kept coming back to it in unguarded moments.

      It stuck with her because he'd been in his killing zone sumed by that berserk fury that seemed
sometimes to rule h the state of mind where nothing mattered to him but Woo pain. But when the world
had begun to halo out, in that half si he had to act, hedidn't attack. There wasn't any time to thi consider
consequences, to weigh a choice.

       His reflex had spun him away from killing and back towai She knew what he'd been trying to do
when his hand stretched toward her: extend the transfer field, take her will back to Earth and safety. It
shook her; it really did. It didn't image of him at all. It made her think that maybe he was char a little,
slowly and gradually in her absence; it made her thin maybe it'd be worth her trouble to get to know him
again.

       She fought these thoughts, recognizing them for the succub were, seductive fantasies that could
lead only to more heartThat was past, she told herself again and again.I'm over him.

        Beneath the layers of her resentment, she'd often felt a sne; envy for his ability to surrender himself
to bloodshed. There be something deeply free abouthating so much, having so i anger that consequences
became irrelevant, the way he hated B After all, she'd suffered more at Berne's hands than he h wasn't
him who had been bound in that tent, watching fr being tortured to death, feeling Berne's loathsome
caress bet the kiss of hot coals and the icy pain of needle and knife ed wasn't him hunted through the
streets, hiding in basement membering the swift and efficient slaughter of Dak and Jak. B was the one
who could forget everything, drop his whole life instant for a chance to hurt Berne—or really, any of the
ene he'd made over his career.

        She'd always been the mature one, the dedicated one, the who could put her personal feelings
aside, the one who had he orities straight: save the innocents; protect the children; hold think, plan,
strategize until her brain went numb.
      This came partly from the voluntary discipline of her art; e live thaumaturgy was as precise as
mathematics, and like m; matics it required a certain coldness of mind, a detachment. Bu had a
not-too-deeply buried desire—once in her\ife,just onct let it all go, to cut loose the way Caine did.

       All of these thoughts swirled and colored each other as mounted the ladder, passing through her
brain in seconds, ch£

       each other in the confused and feverish way that comes with bone-deep fatigue. So when she
stepped out onto the sunlit deck and saw the antiship nets being cranked slowly up from the river's
surface, dripping weeds and slime, she couldn't really register exactly what was happening, or why it was
important.

       The upper rim of the antiship nets stretched in a deep catenary across the river from the titanic
windlasses, down-geared and ratcheted, atop Onetower and the northwest garrison on the downstream
side, and from Sixtower to the northeast garrison at the easternmost tip of Old Town, almost out of sight
around the curve of the island. The nets were made of huge steel links, each one nearly six feet long and
as thick as Pallas' arm, bent to join with each other like the rings in a shirt of chainmail. They sealed off a
stretch of river docks and the barges and boats moored there along the whole curve of the bank opposite
the towering limestone walls of Old Town, including the barge on which she stood.

       For the moment, though, Pallas could only feel the blessing of sunlight and a fresh breeze; ever
since her encounter with the Cats two days ago, she hadn't been outside in daylight without being
Cloaked, separated from her sensations by the focused concentration of mindview.

      The two poleboys—ogre brothers, each a great hulking hunchbacked brute over eight feet
tall—leaned on their twenty-five-foot river poles, staring silently west toward Knights' Bridge. In the
wheelhouse, the pilot—human, but ugly enough to be part ogrillo— stared in the same direction, and the
two human bilgeboys peered out from a gap in the deck-lashed stacks of cargo crates.

       The captain nodded toward the high-arching span of Knights' Bridge while he pretended to light a
long-stemmed pipe.

       " 'S not just the nets, lady. I'm thinking, that up there might be trouble for us."

      That up there—Pallas could barely make it out with a squint; the captain must have exceptional
eyesight—was two men standing at the center of the Knights' Bridge arch, leaning on the stone rail to
look out over the river, the sun very nearly at their backs. In the glare, she had difficulty defining what it
was about them that disturbed her so much. One had something on his head, some kind of hat, or a
hood, and the other—

       A tendril of cloud passed before the sun, and in the sweep of shadow, she could see that the other
man wore a shirt of faded and blotchy strawberry and had something that looked like the hilt sword
sticking up over his left shoulder.

       And he seemed to be staring directly at her.

       A shock went through her, from the top of her head in a v down to the soles of her feet. She froze
for an endless second fore reason took over. There was no way he could pick her out, ognize her from
that distance among this crawling mass of b and barges along the busy dockside. On the other hand,
there no reason to dawdle up here in plain view.
       Now, too, she could see men in grey leather fanning out am the dockworkers and the rivermcn.
They seemed to come f everywhere, casually half stealing into view simultaneously f doorways and alleys
all along the dockside.

       "Chi'iannon's Grace," Pallas muttered. "There must be a\ dredofthem."

       She turned to the captain. "Keep the crew calm," she s "Think of this as just another inspection. I'll
Cloak the passen below, exactly as we did for the inspection this morning. The look around; they won't
find anything; they'll go away."

       He shook his head dubiously, sucking on the pipe stem. "Dui lady. My boys, they're good boys.
I'd put 'em against any b; crew; I'd put 'em against most river pirates. Nobody can ask 'ei stand against
Grey Cats."

      "It won't come to that," she said, putting a reassuring hanc his arm. "Tell your boys to play dumb;
you go on and yessir-n the Cats until they're sick of your voice. I'll handle the rest."

      She swung back down through the hatch before the cap could render another objection. The
huddled knotsoftokali be raised apprehensive eyes to her with unspoken questions. She li her hands.

      "It's another inspection, that's all. We'll do this exactly like last one, all right? Everyone stay still
and quiet while I Cloak) and we'll send off these inspectors none the wiser. It's best tc ready, though.
Everybody find a comfortable spot and lie down, on. It'll take only a few minutes; try to relax. In less
than an b we' be on our way downstream to safety."

      She paused for a moment and waited and watched until thekali slowly began to arrange
themselves. Lying down was b when she was doing something so complex as a mass Cloak, sud
movement in her eye plane could distract her.

       Talann sat below her on the stairs, sunk in some kind of brc study, resting her chin on her hands.
She'd been listless and uncommunicative ever since Pallas had returned last night from her talk with
Lamorak and Caine.

       Pallas sat down beside her and murmured, "I need you alert and with me, Talann. It's the Cats."

       Talann looked at her blankly, light only gradually returning to her eyes. "Sorry?"

       "The Cats, Talann. And I'm exhausted."

       Her gaze gradually sharpened. "Is Berne out there?"

       "Yes, he is," Pallas said slowly, with a growing frown. "Why?"

      "He fought Caine—he fought Caineagain, just two or three days ago, in a brothel in Alientown.
The Subjects were talking about it last night. Caine lost. Again."

        "Let me tell you something," Pallas said sharply. "Facing Berne and living through it? wouldn't call
that losing."

       "He ran," Talann said, staring off into some private distance.
      "So did I."

      "Well, but you're..."

      "What? I'm what?" Unaccountable anger harshened her voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

      "Nothing," Talann murmured. "It's not the same."

      Then she mumbled something under her breath, something that Pallas couldn't make out,
something that she wasn't supposed to hear, but somehow she understood the indistinct mutter all the
same: But I wouldn't run...

       It was all too clear that Talann was going through some kind of adolescent crisis, and for a brief
moment Pallas actually imagined herself talking to the young warrior about it. This distracted sullen-ness
and resentment—this had something to do with Caine, and with Pallas herself, and with Caine's
disappearance. They'd spent a whole day together, alone except for the intermittently conscious
Lamorak...

      The thought slid into her mind like a hot needle:Did he sleep with her?

      But this came only from fatigue and the pressure of fear, a mind trick to avoid thinking about the
approaching Cats; she shook it off and forced herself to concentrate on the immediate problem.

       "Listen," she said. "Don't even think about Beme. Help me keep everybody quiet, and for the love
of Chi'iannon don't do anything stupid. Don't forget what we'rehere for, all right? We're not here to kill
Cats; we're not here to fight Beme. We're here to save the lives of these people." She nodded toward a
far corner c bilge, where Konnos and his wife tried to quiet their yoi daughter, who had become
restlessly hyperactive, spurred b tension and the inactivity.

      Talann stared at them silently, stared past them, beyond the "I know it. Don't worry about me."

      Pallas took her at her word. With a final, comradely squee Talann's shoulder, she stepped to the
corner of the bilge and into the Warrior's Seat position that Hari had taught her. Thi not quite as
comfortable as her accustomed Lotus Seat, the' rior's Seat had the advantage that one quick surge of the
dou legs beneath her wouldpop her to her feet, already in a figl stance.

       She began the slow pattern of circular breathing that brough to mindview. All of her worries, her
doubts, and her fatigue slouj from her spirit like dry leaves stripped by an autumn breeze, now she began
the long and intricate process of erasing her m< image of each person in the bilge. One by one they faded
fron consciousness, each of thetokali, then Talann, finally even her and then she wiped away the
provisions, the ragged palliasses shipping pallets that made the dry-slatted floor, then the lamps hung from
the pegs on the walls, as well as the light they cast.

       And as her final touch, which would have been far bey one skill of a lesser adept,she added to the
scene: scuffed the walls' mental grime, raised the level of black wastewater, and imaged of unidentifiable
flotsam bobbing on its surface. '

       This last was to discourage the Cats from coming down ladder for a closer look. This water would
look real, but there no way she could disguise the feel of the dry pallets benea man's boots. If one of
them came down the ladder, the game w< be up, and they'd have to fight their way out.
        Time passed unnoticed in mindview, and the level of concer tion she required to maintain a Cloak
of this complexity prevei her from any more than barely registering the sounds of voices of boot heels on
the deck above. She knew that the Cats were h that even now the barge captain was muttering with his
best j tense of simpleminded helpfulness, but she couldn't spare eno attention to comprehend the words
they spoke.

        A shaft of light speared into her Cloak as the hatch opened, she was ready for that. Her
disciplined mind automatically mmatthew woodrtng stover <

        the necessary adjustments of light and shadow, and added a glittering reflection from the surface of
the illusionary water. Even in mindview, she felt a certain pride at the quality of this illusion. It was
unbeatable.

      A pair of heads appeared, silhouetted against the afternoon sky; one of them wore some kind of
hood, made of metallic-looking netting, and she heard a gasp that came from down here in the bilge itself.
She knew the voice: Konnos.

       What in the name of god could have startled Konnos so much that he'd give them all away?

      There was no way to tell if the Cats could hear it as well—they were up in the breeze and the
dockside noises—but now the bareheaded Cat said something, and the one in the hood replied. Both
heads withdrew, and the hatch started to swing closed...

       And Talann streaked up the ladder and threw herself against the descending hatch.

       The sudden motion startled Pallas out of mindview. What was that lunaticdoing!

       But now memory surged back, and she understood what the Cats had said, the words whose
meaning hadn't penetrated mind-view:"Nothing. It's empty and it smells bad." And the reply from the
one in the hood:"It's full of people ..."

       Talann hit the hatch door like a locomotive, hammering it open, ripping it from the grasp of the
startled Cats. She reached up through the open hatch and tangled her fists in the leather collars of the two
Cats, then kicked off from the ladder and let herself fall into the bilge, her sudden weight pulling both of
them in after her.

       The bilge rang with shouts and screams of alarm as thetokali wailed with a single voice. Talann
released the falling Cats before she landed, then skipped back to let them fall in a heap at her feet. As
they struggled to disentangle themselves from each other, Talann spun and cracked a heel kick into the
back of one's head; he went down twitching. She jumped high and landed with the heel of one foot on
the side of his neck. He flopped like a landed fish as he died.

       The hooded Cat came rolling to his feet, and Pallas' startled paralysis broke. Even as he drew his
sword, she popped out of the Warrior's Seat into a fighting stance and smoothly slipped her bladewand
from its sheath along her wrist; a simple twist of her mind triggered it.

       For the brief second of its existence, the blue-white energy of a bladewand is as irresistible as
Kosall; a stroke of her hand sent the bladewand's immaterial edge through the Cat's wrist. His swore and
the hand that had held it fell together to the slatted floor, and; crimson jet fountained from the stump of his
wrist as he howled ir disbelief.
      Talann lunged past him, snaked her arm around his neck as shf passed, as though to put him in a
headlock. She planted her feet locked her hands together, and twisted, cracking the stunned Cai like a
whip. His neck snapped loudly, audible even over the terrified shouts of thetokali.

      The bladewand's energy flickered out, and Pallas said numbly. "You killed them both..."

      Talann offered her a feral grin so much like Caine's that it hurt her heart. "You had a better idea?
What now?"

      Pallas shook herself and answered, raising her voice to be heard over thetokali.

      "How many of them are already aboard?" "Couldn't tell. A lot. Does it matter?" "No. If we stay
down here they'll shoot us like rats. We fight." She looked at the metal netting that covered the face of
the hooded Cat and understood its significance. "My Cloaks have just become obsolete."

      Talann spread her hands. "Whenever you're ready." Booted feet pounded on the deck above,
approaching. Pallas turned to thetokali. "All of you: stay here andstay down ! I don't know what's going
to happen; whatever it is, it'll be extreme. Find something to hold on to."

      Talann said, "They have the hatch surrounded—they're just waiting for one of us to put our head
up." Pallas nodded. "That's what I'm counting on." A flick of her wrist produced one of the last two
buckeyes she had. Talann's eyes lit with fierce delight. "Stand back."

       The lines of power inscribed upon the buckeye's surface spoke to her mind, and she touched them
with a tendril of her Shell. The buckeye began to trail smoke through her fingers, and she lobbed it gently,
underhand, up through the hatch. It triggered five feet above the deck with an earshatteringboom and
blew the deck around the hatch to smoldering flinders; the ladder fell in splinters to the floor. Where the
hatch had been was now a smoking hole about six feet in diameter; the waiting Cats would now be
scattered across the deck, some unconscious, others madly rolling and slapping at themselves to put out
the flames that clung to their leather clothing.

      "There'll be others, and crossbow fire as we come up," Talann said.

      Pallas nodded. "You'll have to draw fire till I get clear." Pallas made a stirrup of her hands, and
Talann understood instantly.It's almost like working with Caine, Pallas thought.As though we 've been
doing this for years.

        Without another word, Talann sprang into Pallas' hands; Pallas continued the momentum with all
the strength in her own legs. She heaved upward while Talann leaped again, and Talann shot up through
the hole onto the deck, rolled, and came up running.

       Pallas came right behind her, jumping up to catch at the smoking rim of the hole, pulling herself up
and out to roll to her feet, so fast and smooth that the smoldering wood could do no more than singe her
palms. She dove toward some of the cargo crates lashed to the deck, going over one scorched and
unconscious Cat. The whacks of firing crossbows seemed to come from everywhere and were echoed
by the loud splintering thumps of quarrels slamming into the deck and the crates around her. Pallas found
cover among the crates and cautiously poked her head up.

       Talann fought hand to hand against two Cats on the foredeck, springing, leaping, and tumbling to
avoid their slashing blades, slicing back at them with the pair of knives she always carried behind her belt.
She was safe enough from the crossbow fire for now— the Cats wouldn't take the chance of shooting
their comrades—but more Cats sprinted toward the barge along the wharfside. Pallas triggered her final
buckeye and slung it overhand toward them without a second thought. It was her last, but they wouldn't
know that, and caution would slow them down.

       The fireball exploded above them, flattening three or four and sending a couple tumbling into the
river. The other approaching Cats scattered toward cover.

       We 're about as trapped as you can get,Pallas thought. She might be able to escape—especially
with Talann along to cover her back— but she was the only hope of thetokali. If she could cut away the
ropes that moored the barge to the docks and somehow get the barge to swing out into the current,
they'd eventually drift against the downstream antiship net, which she could probably, maybe, cut through
with the bladewand, given enough time. She didn't have a lot of hope for this plan; this would be a long,
slow drift in the gish current, and she'd have to hold off the Cats the whole wa and pass right under
Knights' Bridge.

      Where Berne stood.

      First things first. She had to get the scorched Cats off the b They'd be swiftly recovering from their
shock and even sh« Talann together couldn't deal with that many Cats in close < ters. A quick scan of the
deck visible from her position foun two ogre poleboys squatting behind a stack of crates not far t right.

      "Hey! You two!" she shouted. "Pick up the guys that are c and toss them overboard!"

       One of them shook its massive head. "Not. They s'oot uz,"; plained in a growl that mushed around
the curved tusks that tnided upward from its lower jaw.

      "I'll take care of the crossbows," Pallas snapped. "Move!"

       They both shook their heads stubbornly and hunkered d even lower behind the crates. Pallas
swore. She once again duced the bladewand and triggered it. A handbreadth plar shimmering blue-white
force sliced through the crate just al one of the ogre's heads.

      "Do it or I'll kill you right now!"

      They flinched, and their leathery faces went pale: they beli her. They started to scramble out from
around the stack.

      Now Pallas had to keep her end of the bargain.

        She breathed herself into mindview, and the shouts of the b faded. In her powerful imagination, she
structured a shining la of golden energy, one huge and powerful and curved arounc entire barge. It was
far larger than anything she could have cha into a crystal; the quartz would have shattered under the strai
holding so much power. It had to bemore, it had to be stroi larger, to hold against the crossbows, against
the fists and feet o Cats; she pulled Flow far beyond her capacity, far beyond \ she'd ever dreamed
possible, far beyond the point where anc adept would have charred his brain and fallen dead on the spot
smoke leaking from his nostrils.

       She drew Flow into a towering whirlpool of force that pa into her and through her and powered
this enormous shield wit energy beyond any she'd ever controlled. Suddenly her mind\ shifted; it was as
though she stoodoutside herself, looking on.
       She saw the rigidity of her body, the frown that concentration twisted into her brow, and the titanic
energy that flowed through her. A sense of wonder, of awe that was almost religious, entered her along
with the Flow. Fatigue and ultimate necessity had combined to thrust her upward into a higher level of
consciousness, where she could sluice power through her body to energize the Shield but leave her mind
free to look on with a curious sense of release, with what was almost an indifference to the
consequences, to the outcome of the battle.

       The purity and beauty of the Shield; the ease with which it absorbed the flight after flight of
crossbow quarrels; the astonishing grace of Talann's combat as she dispatched first one Cat, then the
other; the slow, twisting arc of the wounded and unconscious Cats that the ogres tossed spinning into the
Great Chambaygen; all these combined into an intricate dance that began with the quantum buzz of
electron shells within the atoms that made up her body and extended outward to the mighty sweep of the
galactic arm, to the endless dance of the galaxies themselves about the core of the universe.

       This transcendent blossoming of awareness carried her away; her consciousness vanished within
the universal dance and swung there for an instant eternity. She might have hung there forever, blissfully
one with the infinite, but she was brought back to herself by a white-hot surge of feedback through her
Shield.

      Instantly the barge and the river and the wall of Old Town reassembled in her vision, and
everything was washed with flame. The flame vanished from the surface of her Shield, but it clung to the
decks of the barges nearby, and the crates stacked on the pier. Around the barge, everything burned.
The scarlet shaft of power that sprang from the arch of Knights' Bridge and terminated within the Dusk
Tower of the Colhari Palace answered her instant question.

      It had been a firebolt. From Berne. From Ma'elKoth.

      Her Shield had held.

        Yesterday—even this morning—a surprise like this might have dropped her from mindview, but
she was far beyond that, now.This must be what Caine feels, she realized, this serene confidence that
his art is perfect, this release from fear of the outcome, this knowing that any result, even death, has a
beauty of its own.

      Another firebolt followed, a roaring shaft of flame that speared through the air above the river and
splashed across her Shield.

        All the troops that watched this battle from the fortified walls of Old Town, all the laborers and
common folk who had peerec Industrial Park windows, everyone save the Cats themselves found this
fight to be vastly more dangerous than it was taining. Helmeted heads vanished behind the crenels atop
the and the streets and alleys that led away from the wharf wen denly crowded with fleeing townsfolk,
shoving and tramplinj other in their sudden terror.

      This firebolthurt, and she knew that for all her newfound p she couldn't hold this Shield forever.
She couldn't match Ma'e strength-for-strength—not yet, maybe not ever.

      They had to move.

      Another shattering roar, and even the sun dimmed behii fury of the flames that hit her Shield. How
could he attack si again and again? She could hold her defense no longer. Blac danced within her eyes,
and her Shield scattered like cobwi the wind. Talann was at her side, to catch her as she crumpled Pallas
clung to her. "Seconds—we have only seconds befc kills us all."

      Talann shrugged and bared her teeth. "What would Caine he were here now?"

       Pallas looked gratefully up into Talann's vivid violet eye drew strength from the solidity of the arms
that supported her "He'd buy me some time," she answered, "but—

       "Done," said Talann, and before Pallas could say another Talann whirled and sprinted across the
deck of the barge sprang onto the pier and across it to the burning deck of the opposite, then curved for
shore, outracing the flames. Cats a to meet her across the docks, but she slanted away from sprinting
with incredible speed along the riverside, west tc Knights' Bridge.

      Pallas reached for that inexhaustible source again and p< herself into the Flow, building another
Shield to defend the against the firebolt she knew was coming. She layered it up self, thicker and thicker,
angling it toward the span of bridg> the firebolt that came next battered it into nonexistence and bl away
her consciousness.

       When her eyes opened, she picked herself up and knev she'd been down only a second or two.
She caught the last gli of Talann as she vanished into the mouth of an upsloping str the west end of the
wharf, and Pallas knew where she was hea the center arch of Knights' Bridge. Pallas sighed out a prayer
that wished her luck and the blessings of every good god.

       Her Shield had done its work: the barge still floated unhurt. Now to get the thing moving out into
the stream...

      She looked around, leaning on the crates around her against a wave of dizziness; none of the crew
were anywhere in sight, and she didn't blame them. She only hoped that none of them had gone
overboard. She might need them, later.

      The Cats who watched the barge from the wharf were in no hurry to attack; some of their number
had raced off in pursuit of Ta-lann, and the rest had no desire to get caught on the fringes of one of
Berne's firebolts. They contented themselves with firing a crossbow quarrel at her now and then. Pallas
once again drew her bladewand. She kept under cover behind the crates as she slashed at the ropes that
moored the barge to the pier; they parted silently.

       But how was she to move the barge out into the current without the help of the poleboys? Even if
they would help, could she protect them from the quarrels of the Cats if Ma'elKoth and Berne kept
scaling up the power of their Shield-breaking firebolts?

      She refused to give up; she refused to allow thetokali to die here.

       Now, far to the west, another figure raced out up the curve of Knights' Bridge, a figure with
platinum hair and the lithe grace of a thoroughbred, a figure that ran headlong toward Berne. Tears swam
in Pallas' eyes.

      Talann was buying her this time with her life. She wouldn't waste it.

      She began once again the circular breath control that would draw her into mindview.

      I will find a way.
        Asberne watched her run, he knew her: she was that wild-ass bitch his boys had taken with
Lamorak, the one Caine had helped escape from the Donjon. When she pulled away from the pursuing
Cats and vanished up one of the streets that sloped from the riverfront to the city above, he pounded his
fist on the bridge wall in front of him and cursed savagely enough to make the Catseye beside him flinch.

       The Cats had overcommitted; every one of those bloodth fucking idiots down there wanted to be
in on the kill. They'd k reserve to seal the wharf, and now that wild-ass bitch was goii get away.

      Something sizzled in the back of Berne's head when he ren bered seeing the smooth curve of her
muscle, her golden stretched out nude on Master Arkadeil's table. For a long moi he struggled with a
compelling temptation to leave the bridge chase her himself. The sweetness, fantasy rich, of catching h the
crook of an alley, alone, of bending her over against the r< brick of a manufactory's rear wall...

       Arkadeil had pincushioned her with his silver needles; M Koth himself had put her to the question
with all the power c mind. To neither had she given so much as her name.

      Berne knew beyond doubt that she'd give him that, and moi She'd give him everything.

      The heat that came to his groin as he imagined it nearly pi him from the bridge.

       But down there on that boat was an enemy thaumaturge o credible power; he couldn't know for
sure, but he dared to that this was indeed Simon Jester. Neither he nor Ma'elKoth truly expected this
dock sweep to work, but when that Shield gone up—that huge fucking thing the size of the Temple of fuc
Dal'kannith —when it had held againstthree of Ma'elKoth's bolts, Berne knew that his place was here.
Ma'elKoth woulc cept no excuse for another failure.

      After all, half the dockside was on fire down there; he' d dan well better catch anAktir or two to
blame it on. With all the and explosions and battles and failed raids of the past week,i hanans were
becoming more afraid of their government than oAktiri.

        And that weasel-dick Toa-Sytell would be right there at M Koth's side, whispering in his ear,
telling him how Simon Ji should be left to the King's Eyes, that the Cats would be better in the hands of
someone else, someonecompetent...

     No, Berne would stay on this bridge until his Cats well and cornered andtook whoever that was
down there.

       A flicker of blue-white force caught his eye, and now the rocked slowly away from its mooring.
Berne smiled and mutt under his breath, "And just where do you think you're going, p Louder, distinctly,
he said, "Ma'elKoth."

      AMWITH YOU, BERNE.

        And he was: the Presence, the jittering, buzzing power that filled every crack in Berne's soul, the
melting edge of explosion like trembling on the verge of orgasm hummed in Berne's ears and stretched an
irresistible smile across his teeth.

      "Another firebolt."

      BERNE: THE POWER THAT I DRAW FROM MY BELOVED CHILDREN FOR THESE
FIREBOLTS IS EXTREME. THE LAST ONE ALONE TOOK THE LIVES OF EIGHT OF MY
WEAKENED CHILDREN. USE THEM WISELY.

      "Iwill," he said through his teeth, on fire with power. " will. Ineedh, Ma'elKoth, they're getting
away."

        VERY WELLAnd the jittering buzz smoothed, then swelled into creamy heat and seemed to lift
him to his toes. The Catseye at his side stepped unobtrusively away. He felt tiny flames course over his
skin, flames that did not burn but caressed him like a lover's fingertips. The barge still rocked
ponderously at its pier, moving away by inches, and no Shield was in evidence. Berne raised one fist to
the sky and extended the other toward the barge.

       " Yesss," he hissed, withholding his power for this last sexual instant. "Oh, oh yes..."

       "My lord Count!" The harsh cry of the Catseye at his side drew his eye, and he barely managed to
halt the stroke. The Catseye swept his hand up to point to the north, along Nobles' Way, the road that
divided the Industrial Park from Alien town.

       Along it, sprinting toward him, ran that wild-ass bitch.

       Ten Cats broke into view in pursuit, pounding after her. Even as Berne watched, four of them split
to the roadside, stopped, and fired crossbows. The wild-ass bitch seemed almost prescient, the way she
jigged at exactly the right instant to make the quarrels pass in front of her; she came on, hardly having
broken stride, and even the six Cats behind her who had not stopped were losing ground.

        The power throbbed inside him, and he raised his fist to strike fire along the street and roast her in
her own juices. But Nobles' Way was lined with townspeople, fearfully crowded against storefronts, but
still there, still watching; and there was a knot of them around one or two who must have been hit by the
errant quarrels and were down on the street. And Ma'elKoth became furious when innocent citizens
were harmed.

       His instant's hesitation on seeing this, on thinking this, cost him his shot. She'd already sprinted up
the long arching span of Knights' Bridge. Behind her, in his literal line of fire, were the pursuing Cats.

       He cast a glance back toward the barge. No Shield was up—the enemy thaumaturge was
probably unconscious from feedback through his broken Shield—and he could see his Cats cautiously
advancing from cover to cover toward it. They'd reach it long before it rocked clear of the dock; why not
indulge himself?

       He said to the Catseye at his side, "Take her, Mikli. Don't kill her, just take her."

       The Catseye smiled through his silver netting as he drew his sword. "My pleasure, my lord Count."
He slipped the hood off his head and gave a happy sigh.

       He stepped out onto the middle of the bridge to wait for her, balancing his weight forward with his
knees slightly bent. Mikli was a superb swordsman; he'd always been lightning fast and very precise, and
for the past few months, Berne had personally overseen his training. Berne had no doubt that Mikli would
perform exactly as ordered.

      The wild-ass bitch never slowed. She sprinted straight for him as though she planned to run him
down. At the last instant Mikli slipped to one side and cut at the back of her neck as she passed,
swinging with the flat of his blade for the quick knockout. Once again, her almost prescient reflexes saved
her: she threw herself under his strike into a dive roll that brought her to her feet with her back to Mikli,
only a couple of paces from Berne.

      She gave him a grin that held no hint of reason. "First him," she said to Berne, violet eyes burning
with manic fire. "Then you. Don't go anywhere."

      "And miss this?" Berne said with an answering grin, keeping his eyes on her so as not to warn her
of Mikli's swift approach at her back. "Never."

      She lifted her hands as though to show Berne the pair of knives that she held reversed, their blades
along her forearm; then she whirled and cut at Mikli's leg as he fired a side kick at her spine.

       Her knife-edged forearm parried the kick, but the wire that reinforced Mikli's leather leggings
turned the blade. He followed with a slanting neck cut that she blocked with the knife along her left
forearm as she stepped into him and sliced down with her right, hooking hi s sword wri st between the
blade and her forearm. A push with her left while she pulled with her right twisted the sword out of his
grasp, but she paid for it: Mikli was too experienced to try to hang on to the sword. Instead he let it go
and slammed his doubled elbow into the side of her head.

       She rolled with the blow, letting it drive her to the ground; then her legs shot out and tangled
Mikli's ankles, and he fell. As he twisted to turn the fall into a roll, the wild-ass bitch backhanded the
point of a knife deep into the base of his skull.

         It went in with a crunch; bone and ligament crackled as she twisted it out, neatly severing Mikli's
spine.

      He spasmed on the ground, flopping spastically, moaning, "No...no..." as the light slowly faded
from his eyes.

      Berne watched this for a cold moment before he pushed himself off the wall and reached over his
shoulder for Kosall.

         "Y'know, little girl, I'm starting to think you might be good enough to dance with me."

       She slipped her knives back behind her belt and picked up Mikli's sword as she rose. She nudged
his body with her toe. "I'd imagine he'd agree with you, if he could. So would my last four dance
partners, back down there on the boat."

      "Five?"Berne said, eyebrows lifting, pretending to be impressed as his juices began to flow, his
heartbeat picked up, and heat gathered in his loins. He pulled Kosall free of its scabbard by the quillions,
and only then did he activate its magick by grasping the hilt; a second later its humming vibrated up his
arms and into his teeth.

         "Five of my boys alreadytoday!"

       She looked upon this weapon with respect, but no surprise: she must have known already he
carried this sword. She nodded toward the other Cats, her pursuers, who now had arrived at the center
span.

         "Want to go for ten? Fifteen? Want to bet I can't kill every single one of them?"
       Berne shook his head and lifted a hand to hold them back. "You already know there's no way for
you to get off this bridge alive," he said slowly, his voice thickening with lust. "So I'm not just gonna kill
you. You're ready for that, guess. Instead, I'mgonna/wcfcyou. Right here in the middle of the bridge, for
everyone to watch. I'm gonna bend you over this wall and fuck you. And when I'm done, each one of
them—" He nodded toward the waiting Cats."—get turn. Then, if you're still alive, maybe we'll give you
to some oft passersby, y'know? The bridge traffic. What do you think abo that?"

         She shrugged carelessly. "You have to beat me, first."

         He matched her shrug. "Yeah, all right. You know, I never d get your name."

         "No reason to tell you now," she said. "You won't live loi enough to use it."

         "Come on, then," he said. "Whenever—"

       She sprang at him, her neck cut so fast he barely saw the blai move. He made no attempt to parry,
just shifted his Buckler to pr> tect the joining of his neck and shoulder. Her borrowed sword rai as
though she'd struck metal, and her eyes widened.

         He shifted his Buckler to his hand and grabbed her blade. SI tried to yank the blade away, to slide
it slicing through his fingei but his magickally strengthened grip held it as though it had bet driven into
stone. He laughed and cut at her arm with Kosall. SI released the blade in time to save her arm and
dropped into a bad roll away from him, coming to her feet and staring with widens eyes out of which that
manic confidence swiftly drained.

       Berne flipped her sword into the air and sliced it in half with stroke of Kosall. The pieces rang on
the limestone and skittered awa "Tell me," Berne said in his richest, oiliest voice, "are you star ing to think
you might have made a mistake?"

      in mindview, pallashad examined and discarded options wit computerlike speed and dispassion.
Only seconds passed until sh knew beyond all doubt that nothing in her experience could sav thetokali
—and the barge crew, for whom she'd also now becom responsible—from this trap.

      She didn't have it, and that was all. No spell, no trick, no powe she had or had ever held at her
command could save them. Thi knowledge did not bring dismay, though, or fear, or sadness: it ha entirely
the opposite effect.

         It brought clarity and perfect freedom: the freedom one can onl; feel on the very knife edge of
death.

       The fear, that familiar paralyzing apprehension, would hav come from seeing only one chance, one
slim opportunity to escape if everything came together just right. A choice between two chances, equally
slim, would have been even worse; then she would have been in terror of making a tiny mistake that
would cost the lives she had sworn herself to save. Having no chance at all—that allowed her the
ice-and-high-mountains freedom to do exactly what she chose, with no attachment to the outcome.

         If all paths lead equally to death, what's left to direct you at the crossroads except pure whim?

     With a mental shrug, she settled on a course of action based solely on a childish, fairy-tale
metaphor: cats hate to get wet.
        Seeking a way to move the barge out from the dock, to make them swim for it, she sent a tendril
of her Shell downward, into the river. She felt the life there, felt it pulse into her Shell; the tiny flickering
aurae of crayfish, sluggish rivercats, gleaming, thick-bodied carp. And she felt something else, faintly, like
a bare, fading echo of memory, something that seemed to link all those Shells together, as though it were
a field upon which they all played.

       Pallas sought that echo, diving deeper into mindview, no longer merely visualizing her Shell but
inhabiting it. That same sense of letting go, of releasing her attachment to her body, came instantly and
easily now; she shifted beyond her physical self, became a matrix of pure mind, patterned by her body
but no longer bound to it, a matrix tuned to the pulse of Flow itself.

       Down within the river, everything she found was Flow.

       Flow proceeds from life: it powers life and is powered by life, and here in the river, everything
lived. As she sought the echo, the field, she seemed to move downward, ever deeper, not in the physical
sense of farther under the water, but deeper than the Shells of the carp and the crayfish, deeper than the
murky green aura of the trailing weeds, down and down and down, not below butthrough...

      Through the moss and the algae, through the protozoans, through the bacteria and the most basic
molds themselves, she went farther and farther without finding what she sought. Her consciousness
expanded, questing outward, following the dimly sensed links back up—

       Another level of Flow lived here.

        Behind and below was a slower, deeper pulse, far beyond the busy foreground of species'
competition. Far, far deeper than the clash of Shells as a carp takes a newt, far deeper than the silent
struggle between two varieties of river weeds fighting for the same stretch of sandy bed, this was Flow of
a sort she'd never dreamed existed. Tentatively, she tuned her Shell to its pulse, surrendering herself into
its powerful rhythm.

       Wonder wheeled inside her with the majestic spiral of a galaxy.

       The whole river was alive.

        She'd found the Shell of the Great Chambaygen itself, the life aura of the entire river system from
its farthest springs high in the Gods' Teeth to its mighty delta at Terana on the western coast. This Shell
swelled with not only what lived within the river itself, but its entire watershed: the grassy plains it
meandered through, the forests that drank from it and returned their rich soil to it, the whole ecosystem
that supported it and was in turn supported by it.

       The staggering power of the life it contained threatened to burn Pallas' brain within her skull, and
would have, had she struggled against it. Instead she relaxed; she surrendered; she sought her own place
within that life and found it. The jewel of her consciousness hung there, fit with perfect inevitability into
precisely the place where it belonged, slowly turning, regarding the life of the river wilh awe.

       For there was more than life here: there was Mind.

       And there was Song.

       The river sang its life, from the freshening trickle of snowmelt in the summer of a geologic age ago,
from the bubble of a mountain spring to the soft crackle of corn growing in the night, the crash of an oak
toppling with roots undermined by the river's flow to the roar of a vernal flash flood, the whisper of reeds
and the rustle of cattails in the backwaters; birdsong was there, from ducks and geese, herons,
kingfishers and cranes; the splashing flutter of fish, the flashes of color in the muscular arc of trout and
spawning salmon, the slow patience of a snapping turtle waiting in the mud.

       The river sang of men, too, poling their boats along its banks, sang of the primal folk who spoke to
it with songs of their own in days of old, of the stonebenders who dammed and diverted its waters to
power their mills.

      And it sang of Ankhana, the massive boil that straddled its middle, the aching running sore that
poisoned it for miles downstream.

       And now into that song came a new note, a strengthening; the song shifted from the murmur of a
lonely under-thc-brcath sighing to the warm, pure notes of the old singer who's suddenly found that he
has an unexpected audience. Note slid against note, the echoing call of a distant moose blending with
playful chirps of young otters, underscored by the splash of a sudden autumn wind across a ripple...and
became charged with meaning.

     No words flowed in this song; none were required. Melody became meaning, and meaning
became Song.

      /KNOW YOU, PALLAS RIL, AND YOU ARE WELCOME IN MYSONG.

      Where Pallas hung, she had neither breath nor mouth, but from within her came a melody of
answer:Chambaraya...

    MENNAMEMESO, AND IMAGINE THAT THEY KNOW ME. JOIN YOUR SONG TO
MINE, CHILD.

       And song poured from her, an effortless counterpoint that became perfect harmony. Here within
the song there was no dissembling, no hiding or shading the truth of her; everything that she was flowed
into the river's song, and the river knew all of her. Chambaraya took all her strength, all her weakness,
the shameful tangles of her jealousies and pettiness, the purity of her courage, and accepted them all with
the same perfect serenity.

       There was no judgment here,could be no judgment: all was one single current from the mountains
to the sea.

       In her song was the melody of her need, of the desperation that had driven her to dive so deeply
and search so far. The river did not understand why men wished to hurt her, did not understand even
why she feared them; death and life were both parts of the same endless wheel, out of one cometh the
other, everlasting. Why should she resist returning to the earth from whence she came?

      But she asked, nonetheless:Please, Chambaraya, save us. Show yourpower.

     ICANNOT/WILLNOT. THE COVENANTWITH THE LESSER GODS, THAT DAMMED
JERETH GODSLAUGHTERER'S REVOLT, CHANNELS ME AS WELL.

        Lesser gods?she thought, as though to herself, but within the song nothing separated her from the
river, nor it from her; there were no private thoughts, nor need of any.
    YOUR GODS: WHO REQUIRE THE WORSHIP OF MEN: WHO CONCERN
THEMSELVES WITHMORTALAFFAIRS: WHO ARE SMALL ENOUGH TO SUFFER
BOREDOM AND PLAY GAMES OF POWER TO RELIEVE IT.

       Pallas understood with perfect clarity; Chambaraya was far beyond any concern with the lives of
individuals. To the river, a human life was no more than the life of a single minnow in a flashing
school—but also, no less. To the river, life is life. What could she offer, what could she do to persuade
the river? All that it needed, it had already, in perfect sufficiency.

      The Covenant of Pirichanthe had bound the gods outside the walls of time, limiting their actions to
providing their priests with power and occasional guidance—and perhaps that was an answer.

     From deep within her self came her offer:Make of me your priest. Grant me some small
measure of your power, andl shallbe yourvoice. I shall teach men the proper respectforyou.

    I NEED NO VOICE: THE RESPECT OF MEN IS WITHOUT MEANING: THIS REQUEST
HAS NO MEANING. A SONG DOES NOT ASK ITSELF FOR POWER.

       A song does not ask itself for power...She was the song; asking the river for power was like
requesting of her hand that it make a fist. It had been only the vestiges of her human viewpoint that had
created this separation, this I and Thou, this conversation of Pallas Ril and Chambaraya as two separate
beings.

      While she was in the song, her need, her will, her fierce devotion to the lives that were in her
charge, these were all in the song as well, threads of its most basic melody. With this realization, her final
remnants of separateness, of personal identity, blew away like cobwebs before a storm.

       She herself was the only part of the river that could suffer this desire...but there were no parts
here. All was one, was wholeness. Her desire became the river's.

      While she was in the river's song, she was the song, she was the river, and her will touched its
waters with power unimaginable.

        She surfaced within herself and regarded this single tone within her song: one small grace note with
its curling spray of hair, with this cloak of blue and clothes of grey. It seemed very small, and somehow
distant, but very present as well. She felt the lives within the barge with the same sense that felt an early
snowfall high in the Gods' Teeth, with the same sense that felt the death struggle of a trout and a carp in
the Teranese delta. She saw that the danger that threatened these trembling humans was purely local;
moving the barge would remove the danger, and moving the barge was no effort at all—it was precisely
her nature.

       Was she not a river?

       She breathed in, and the flow from mountain to sea stilled along its span entire.

       She breathed out, and power gathered beyond any dream of resistance.

       the wild-ass bitchdrew her knives and came at him again, flourishing them in an intricate flurry,
blank translucent concentration on her face. Berne let her come, waiting; when she came within Kosall's
reach he cut at her head. She slipped beneath the stroke— for all his magicked strength, Kosall was a
large and rather un-wieldly weapon.

       As she drove in under the cut, Beme whipped a straight-leg roundhouse kick at her ribs while
holding his Buckler across his solar plexus to stop her knife thrust. Her point slashed through his shirt and
skimd across his skin, and his roundhouse crumpled her like a doll, lifting her off her feet and sending her
rolling across the bridge.

      She rose unsteadily, blood on her lips. His kick had probably ruptured something in her
midsection. But she offered a grin that displayed her bloody teeth, and she pointed to his leg.

      "You're not invulnerable," she said.

      Berne looked down. She'd cut his leg, the leg he'd kicked her with, with the other blade. The cut
was shallow, only a skin-deep slice: his serge breeches soaked up the blood that seeped into them.

      "Maybe not," he replied, "but I'm a long fucking way closer to it than you are."

      Now for the first time, he advanced, attacking, slashing. She was a ghost, even injured: with more
than human speed and grace she slipped away and around every stroke, never parrying, never blocking,
avoiding Kosall's irresistible edge by inches.

       It became a dance, a whirling ballet, and sweat began to prickle across Berne's forehead and
shoulders. She'd lean back to let Kosall sizzle past the end of her nose, then whip forward, both knives
slashing, to score another thin line of blood across Berne's body before he could recover for the
backstrike. She was the most extraordinary fighter he'd everseen, let alone faced, but skill is only one
element of battle. Her skill wouldn't save her forever—the internal injury that brought a trail of blood
down her chin to her chest would tire her, and slow her. Berne had no doubt of the outcome.

       It ended with unexpected swiftness. Practically in midlunge Berne saw her concentration slip, saw
her mouth drop open and her eyes go wide. He leaned into the lunge, and sweet release flooded his body
as Kosall's thrumming blade entered her belly through the golden skin just below her navel, thrusting in to
the very hilt. She said, "Oh, Great Mother..."

       Berne pressed his body against her slackening flesh, and he kissed her on her bloody lips, savoring
their soft fullness and the copper taste of her blood. Then he stepped back and twisted Kosall's hUt so
that the blade sliced outward through her side, opening a massive, gaping wound, from which spilled her
uncoiling intestines.

       She gasped and fell to her knees. Berne stepped back, panting, and watched her fingers gingerly
explore the huge extent of the mortal wound, this incredible gape that split her front to back, watched her
follow the ropes of her guts out onto the dirt and grit of the bridge span. Her face was utterly blank with
disbelief.

      "Never thought it could happen to you, huh?" Berne said hoarsely, breathless. "Sony I won't get to
fuck you. Don't really like 'em cold, y'know? But this, this was almost as good."

       He thought for a moment she was going to say something to him, but then he realized that she
wasn't looking at him, hadn't been looking at him from the moment he' d stabbed her. She lookedbehind
him, over his shoulder, east along the river. Beme turned to follow her gaze, and his breath stopped.

      He thought,Fuck me like a goat.
        Coming toward him, along the river, thundered a wall of green-foaming water a hundred feet high,
a titanic wave that bore before it boats and crates and the bodies of men. Berne looked up, and up,
unable to comprehend the enormity of the catastrophe that rushed down upon him. The sun struck gold
on the unutterable mass of water that still grew as it approached, not yet cresting. High up upon its face
rode the river barge, sliding down the face of the wave yet borne up by its rolling progress—and high
above the river barge, standing like a god at the very crest of this mountain of water, stood a lone figure,
a woman...

        Pallas Ril.

        His reaction was instant: he knew he'd never make it if he tried to clear the bridge. There was no
time.

        He said, with perfectly enunciated calm, "Ma'elKoth."

        I AM WITH YOU, BERNE.

       High above him, on the crest of the wave, Pallas Ril rode toward him—without any sign of a
Shield.

        Berne said, "I'll take that firebolt, now." Flame burst from his skin, and he lifted his fist.

       she sang inher mind, without words, without images: pure melody and pure desire. She sang a
wave that would carry the lives within that barge far, far to the sea in a single wave, a roiling sweeping
falling that would strike bottom only in the Teranese harbor.

       And men fired upon her as she rode the crest of this wave, but their target was only a single note
of an eternal song. The song had a life of its own that would not allow her harm. She lifted her arms, and
water sprang up around her as though it were castle walls. Quarrels plunged bubbling into these walls,
lances of air that trailed to nothing.

        Far, far below she saw Beme, and Talann's body beside him on the bridge. The westering sun
struck off the face of the wave that reared high above him, reflected from it and lit his face as though with
fire; she saw the pulse of the channel that linked him to the Colhari Palace, and felt the surge of Flow.

        His firebolt clawed toward her.

       She could not match their power, even now; but matching power with power was no longer
required. A shrug of melody, a twitch of rhythm raised a mighty arm of foam to take the bolt. It exploded
into hissing steam, a warm twisting cloud of purest white that broke around her and below her as she
soared ever higher on the crest.

       Knights' Bridge trembled as the wave approached, and shattered when it struck. With a thunder
that shook the Cyclopean walls around the whole of Old Town, the wave rolled on, carrying the barge
and half a dozen smaller vessels high over the top curve of the antiship chains, and sent them spinning
downstream for freedom.

        I did it,Pallas thought.I did it, and that second's thought brought her back to herself—

        Standing at the crest of a wave two hundred feet high, looking down on the rooftops of Ankhana,
looking down even upon the Colhari Palace itself, looking down at incredible destruction along the wharf
from the very edge of Fool s' Bridge to the ruin of Knig Bridge: ships and boats overturned, splintered
against each oil dozens of men in the water, some struggling, some only floai facedown; front walls of
warehouses all along the riverfront sta in, water still pouring out from them; fish flopping desperatel) the
dockside...

       She cried out involuntarily at the sight of the shambles she made. In that instant of shocked
immobility, as the wave starta fall and she came down with it, an unknown bowman fired weapon from
the city wall, and his quarrel slammed into her ch shattering a rib and spearing into her lung.

       She fell in a dream, tasting blood dial bubbled up her thi along with her breath. Her hand lazily
investigated the steel flan of the quarrel that were stuck hard up against her light leather b< armor.

       I'm hit,she thought numbly.I'm hit, and:I did it.

      This was all she could think during the long tumble to the ri below; when she reached bottom, the
impact with the roiling w; snuffed her consciousness like a fist on a candle flame, and knew no more.

        the uniformed laborerwho piloted the smooth-humming ca apparently did so simply by shifting a
floor-mounted lever: f ward for go, back for stop; otherwise, the car directed itself. yond this shifting of a
lever, the Laborer's only duty seemed to to stand at attention and hold himself smilingly available for po
conversation with his passengers.

       Neither of his passengers was interested in talking: Marc \ had the upcaste ability to make himself
selectively blind to anyc below Professional, and Hari passed the ride concentrating o: meditative cycle of
breath, hoping that he could loosen the knot his stomach and swallow the acid tension at the back of his
thro<

       Marc had picked up Hari in his own Rolls. He had chattered w bluff good-fellowship across
nearly a quarter of the Pacific Oce nattering on and on about his acquisitions and under-the-table de<
about undercutting this competitor and putting a regulatory squet on that one. As the cloud-topped
islands came into view, thouj his chatter had gone hollow, and finally stopped. Despite his presumed
affair with Shermaya Dole, no one was entirely at ease while approaching the airspace of a Leisure
compound—and the Doles were one of the original First Families.

       Hari took the blessed silence as a gift. Had he always found Vilo this tiresome, and somehow
managed to repress his irritation all these years? Did the man never think of anything beyond his balls and
his bank balance?

      It wasn't until the Rolls was spiraling in for a landing at the Kauai carport that Vilo even thought to
ask why Hari had asked for this interview.

       His tone made it clear that this was a courtesy question, the way a man might give a distracted pat
on the head to his dog in passing. How important, really, could anything be that would come out of the
mouth of a downcaster? The question, even the entire trip to Kauai and the interview itself, was an
indulgence, and Vilo probably expected Hari to squirm like a happy puppy at this show of avuncular
affection.

        If so, he was disappointed. As the Rolls settled onto the grassy landing field, Hari had given him a
flat stare and answered the question through his teeth.
      "I'm gonna ask her to find a way to get Arturo Kollberg's dick out of my ass."

       Before Vilo could come up with a response, a uniformed attendant had stepped out of nowhere
and undogged the Rolls' hatch from outside. He'd ushered them out and across the lush grass of the
landing field. Hari had had time to get only a breath or two of the rich, floral-scented air, only a glimpse
of the riot of greens that climbed the ridge of mountains before him, before a section of volcanic stone at
the edge of the field swung back, and the attendant led them inside to the waiting cabin.

        The cabin moved on a computer-directed path through tunnels cut into the earth, cut through the
rock of the ridges and up the mountains. Since the days of Shermaya's great-grandfather, machines more
complex than a bicycle had been forbidden in the interior of Kauai. Surface transport within the Dole
compound was by horseback. But this was mostly make-believe, a show of back-to-nature simplicity,
that let the Doles and their guests pretend to enjoy the raw outdoors without sacrificing the full comforts
of a modern home. On Kauai, all those comforts and then some were there. An entire subterranean town
complex spread like cancer through the bones of the island, thousands of servants and technicians and
eve imaginable luxury, carefully concealed but omnipresent.

       During the smooth, silent ride to wherever the hell it was thatdc awaited them, Hari managed to
quiet his nerves a little bit by o serving Vilo's. The stumpy Businessman shifted uneasily in his se chewing
on the end of his unlit cigar, glancing at Hari from tl corner of his eye and glancing away again. Clearly,
he'd sudden become very unsure that bringing Hari here was a good idea, but also clearly felt he couldn't
say a damn thing about it, not in front theservant —God only knows what kind of rumors would spread.

      When the cabin hummed to a stop and the doors opened, Vi leaned over to Hari and glared at
him, his face as full of threat as loaded pistol.

       Very softly, almost whispering, he growled, "You behave you self, Hari, and I'm not kidding," then
rose and stepped out of tl cabin, his face clearing with practiced swiftness into a lickspitt grin. Hari
shrugged, sighed, and followed him.

      He stepped out into a rainbow.

       The door had opened from a mossy stone outcrop onto a broa ledge, two-thirds of the way up the
wall ofa mist-bottomed canyoi The opposite wall of the narrow canyon seemed close enough t touch.
Everywhere he looked there swarmed foliage of unimagir able variety, a vertical rain forest of every
conceivable shade c green, shot through with ropes of brilliant flowers and punctuate with the iridescent
shimmer of tropical birds that flitted back an forth among the vines.

      High above the ledge where he stood, another outcropping di vided a waterfall, so that a pair of
hushing streams fell to either sid and a sun-prismed spray filled the air.

       Only when Dole herself rose from behind a twisted knee-heigh juniper, wearing loose-fitting
clothing that was smeared with green; and browns, and calling out a hearty "Marcus! Over here!" did Har
notice that the ledge on which they all stood had been landscaped a: a Japanese garden. Carefully
cultivated dwarf shrubbery clumsily accented an array of colored stones and a trickling watercourse tha
must have sprung from underground pumps.

     Dole beckoned to them with a pair of sap-stained garden shears "One of my projects," she called,
waving the shears at the garder around her. "What do you think?"

      Hari again trailed in Vilo's wake, his wounds making him move stiffly and slowly, and listened
silently to Vilo's effusions about the garden. The Businessman sat on a rock near where Dole had once
again knelt to hand-trim a bush, as near as he dared without risking her dignity with uninvited contact.
Hari stood a respectful distance away and waited to be acknowledged.

      Dole's cheeks colored at Vilo's praise, and she waved away his enthusiasm. "Well, you know, one
must keep busy. It's work that makes you happy, you know—I've never understood why our Laborers
seem to dislike it so. Entertainer," she said, waving Hari closer. "How do you like my garden?"

      It's a thumb in the eye of this place,Hari thought, but he said respectfully, "Your entire home is a
garden, Leisurema'am."

       "Ah, a diplomat. Come, sit with us." Once Hari had painfully settled in next to Vilo, she went on. "I
was so enjoying your Adventure, Entertainer. You'll be continuing tomorrow, in the morning? Yes, and
I'm sure Marcus will squire me once again; I am so looking forward to a successful conclusion. I've been
dreadfully worried about Shanna, you know."

       "Yes, ma'am," Hari said. "Me, too."

        Inch toward daylight,he thought. "I'm not sure that they'lllet me succeed," he went on. "That's, uh,
that's kind of why I asked to be allowed to come here and talk with you."

       "Oh?" she said with a polite lift of the brow.

      "Yeah, it's a pretty tough spot," Vilo put in. "Especially now that Berne has all these magic powers
and that sword and everything. How do you think you're gonna handle him?"

      Hari shook his head. "I'm not talking about Berne. Him, I'm hoping not to handle at all. It's the
Studio. Theywant Shanna to die. It'll make a better story."

       "Hari—! JesusChristl" Vilo said, choking on his cigar.

      "Entertainer," Dole said severely, "that is a very serious charge. If believed, it could harm their
business; repeating it in public would leave you open to downcasteing for corporate slander."

       "Even if it's true?"

       "Especially if it's true. In corporate slander, truth is not a defense. Besides, I hardly think—"

      "Thattechnical malfunction," Hari interrupted her desperately, "the one that pulled me out last
night—it wasn't a malfunction at all. I had this from Kollberg's own mouth. I was too close to saving
Shanna, and they pulled me. Deliberately. Kollberg himself hit the switch."

       "I can't behearing this," Vilo said, jerking to his feet. "Don't you understand that what you've just
told me is a legitimaterate secret^ Do you have any idea howcompromising this is I have to either
report you or face accessory charges—!"

       "Oh, Marcus, sit down," Dole snapped. "Stop fluttering, ing said here need ever leave this place."

       "I notice," Hari said, "that you haven't said you don't belie\ "I, ah..." Vilo shifted uncomfortably,
then finally droppe down onto his rock. "Well, shit—your pardon, Maya. Evei knows the Studio, kind of,
ooches things around, to make t! ventures more exciting."
       "And that is," Dole pointed out, "a perfectly legitimate bi practice. Shanna is under contract to the
Studio, as are you, tainer. If the legitimate pursuit of their business requires th; send you to your death,
they are perfectly within their rights contract law. It's no different than if I ordered one of my pi fly into a
storm; if he is killed, that is simply a consequence employment, and I am not criminally liable. Any
grievance be addressed in civil court."

      "Iknow all that," Hari said. "I know that legally there's no can do to stop them doing whatever they
want to her. That's came to you. I know you care about Shanna. I came to ask yc beg you, if
necessary—to intervene for her."

       "Oh, for Christ's sake," Vilo said. "You think the Leisurei has nothing better to do than—

       "Marcus, please." Dole turned to Hari, a look of well-inten helplessness on her face. "I'm sorry,
Entertainer, but I doi lieve that there's very much I can do."

       "He—Kollberg—he sent Lamorak over there withorders tray her. He sent someone he knew she
trusted. Lamorak'; tipping off the Grey Cats at every turn. And you know wh; cause she wastoo good
at this—she's too smart, too skille was going to be able to save all these people without taking a risks,
without any big battles, without any innocents being ki and Kollberg wouldn't have been able to sell
enough s< fucking-hander cubes!"

       Hari trembled with the effort of keeping his fury under a"Us fucked her: he sent Lamorak there to
betray her, for nc reason than a few extra marks."

       "Well, that's reprehensible behavior, certainly, but still. was that it? Right before you were pulled?"

        She leaned forward, her face lighting with more interes he'd yet seen from her. "You realized that
Lamorak was the traitor, and you were about tokill him! My goodness. That wouldn't have been a very
fair fight."

        "I don't care much about fighting fair," Hari said. "I'll settle with Lamorak later. What I care about
is saving Shanna's life."

      "Oh, well, I too, of course, but I still don't see any way I can intervene. They've done nothing
wrong."

       "They've done nothingillegal," Hari said. "They've done a lot that's wrong."

       "From your point of view, certainly, I can understand."

       "Couldn't you just—leanon him a little?"

       "I'm sorry?"

       "Put some pressure on Kollberg. Make him behave."

       Dole spread her hands. "I don't think so. There's very little pressure I can bring. The Studio is a
public trust," she said simply. "It was created to be immune to outside pressure. I'm sorry."

       Hari hung his head, but at his thighs his fists clenched spasmodically. Caine snarled within the
tightness that bound his chest, and for a wild half instant he teetered on the verge of snapping and
slaughtering them both.

       He ground his teeth and tried to remember that these were not his enemies. His chest burned; he
couldn't stop remembering that if he tuned inAdventure Update right now, he could watch the seconds
tick away on the Pallas Ril Lifeclock.

      There had to be something,had tobe...

       "Wait a second," he said, lifting his head. "You're Shanna's Patron. She's the spokesman for three
or four of your companies. That makes her a, ah, a corporatesymbol, right?"

      "Yes..." Dole said dubiously.

      Vilo shook his head. "I don't see what that has to do with anything."

      Suddenly Hari was on his feet, his eyes alight, his hands grabbing inspiration from the air.

       "But, but, but—don't youget ill That gives herintrinsic value to the companies she represents,
value that maybe could be legallyseparable from her employment as an Actor."

      Vilo frowned skeptically. "You're going to go after the Studio throughtrademark law?"

       "Why not?" Hari said. "Why not? By intentionally planning her death, Kollberg is deliberately
infringing upon her value as a spokesman, isn't he? The loss of consumer identification, from shifting to a
new spokesman, that could translate to actual damages—

      "It'sridiculous," Vilo said. "It's never been done. Shit, i if it worked, a precedent like that could
destroy the whole St system—I mean, even scheduling an Actor on a few safe, be Adventures would
reduce his value as a spokesman and ati mark..."

      But Hari had no attention to spare for Vilo's objections; his br had stopped in his throat as he
watched the play of expres across Dole's smooth and kindly face.

      There was doubt there, certainly, but she was thinking about and she was slowly coming toward
some kind of decision.

       "It is," she said suddenly, reaching out for Hari's hand, "brilli So what if it's never been done?
Arturo Kollberg is deliberatelducing the income of a noncompeting business, and from an mune position,
as an officer of a public trust. I should be able tc a cease-and-desist on him before the close of business
today."

       She rose and laid a hand upon the arm that was bound to H; chest for a moment, and then drew
him, astonishingly, into a hi Hari and Vilo gaped at each other over Dole's shoulder until released him.
Tears shone in her eyes.

      "I knew you really loved her," Dole said. "I knew it wasn't an act. I could feel it. Thank you so
much for finding a way to lei help you save her."

    Hari's whole body tingled, partly from the sheer height f which she'd stooped to touch
him—Leisure to ex-Labor— partly from an early intimation of victory.
       Dole's face now hardened. "And I tell you something elsi we can find any hard evidence, any
evidenceat all that will st up in court, I swear to you that I will not rest until that vile man is crushed. He
will not live to try this again with some else. That won't be easy; you know their files and procedures
sacrosanct—

       "I know," Hari whispered, because he could not trust his voInch toward daylight.

       "I'll find something. You'll see. Somehow, I'll get what' need."

       "I know you will."

       Dole now turned away and spoke to the air. "Robert." Mist jet out from concealed vents in the
rock face, and intersecting las formed a full-animation holosculpture of her majordomo. "Madam?"

       She began issuing instructions to be channeled to the D Family's vast galaxy of lawyers. Hari and
his Patron were forced to wait while she made her plans and arrangements. A couple of times during
those minutes Hari caught Vilo staring at him through narrowed eyes, a sort of newly appreciative squint,
as though he was having difficulty reconciling what he saw with what he'd expected to see.

       Hari answered this stare with an expressive shrug.

       Dad was right,Hari thought.I don 'thave to solve every problem with my fists.

       His father had told him to inch toward daylight, but some inches are longer than others.

       daySix"Hari? Hari, wake up. "

       "Hurr...?"

       "Hari, I've been thinking. I can't do this anymore. "

       "Shan...can't do what? It's four o'clock, for Cl sake. Can't this wait till morning? "

       "I don't like who I am with you, Hari. Do you under, that? Can you?"

       ' 'I don't understand anything at this time of the morning "Hari, I want a divorce."

      ankhana went tobed with terror and disbelief, but the < fled during the night: at dawn, only terror
remained—sloi the kind that feels like icy teeth chewing on your bones.

       There was no one in the city who did not know of the dockside, no one who did not have a friend
or.family memi had been there, who had seen it with their own eyes. Some nected it to the recent
explosions in the Industrial Park; it that a day did not pass without a pitched battle somewhei streets of
the capital.

       Those citizens brave or desperate enough to risk these this morning did so with frequent
over-the-shoulder glance strolled or hurried depending on how near they chanced a sheltered doorway
or narrow alley down which they co should battle suddenly erupt.

       Ankhana was a notoriously violent city, but even here th always been limits: a brawl might end in a
stabbing, or tl stables might clash with a stonebender gang in Alientowi pitched battle in the streets was
far beyond the pale.

       Fear was fueled by a problemof scale, as well: jets of fire a thousand yards long, the whole
dockside burning, that monstrous wall of water—it was insane, incomprehensible. Who could possibly
be safe, even in their own homes behind Old Town's massive walls, when such things can occur in broad
daylight?

       When Ma'elKoth had begun his campaign to cleanse the Empire of theAktiri, only the most
childishly superstitious of his subjects had believed that such beings existed. But asAktiri were
discovered, slowly, here and there in places of responsibility throughout the Empire, even among the
nobility, this disbelief had turned to a sort of nervous suspiciousness.

        Neighbors and acquaintances suddenly became conscious of each other's peculiarities—the sort of
little quirks of personality and behavior that had seemed harmless before, but now appeared inexplicable
and more than a little sinister. After all, how was one to know who might secretly be anAktiri Rumors
began to circulate of certain touchstones that would cry out when pressed to anAktifs, flesh, of
characteristic witch marks that could be found upon anAktir's body. Tales were told of men who woke
and found anAktir in bed beside them in place of their beloved wives—the substitution having taken
place under a new moon at midnight—talesof Aktiri curses, of poisonings and massacres and more.
Each was more extreme than the last, as though truth could be found only by topping what people
thought they knew. Everyone felt in their secret hearts that the worst was yet to come, and so each
fanciful escalation was taken as hard evidence of how bad things would eventually get.

       There were conflicting stories about the proper way to destroy anAktir. Some held that a simple
ash-wood stake through the heart would suffice; others claimed that its lips must be sewn shut over a
mouthful of copper coins, and then its severed head must be buried facedown at a crossroads. Most
agreed that to burn theAktir alive on a pyre of wood soaked with oil that had been blessed by a priest of
Prorithun would serve as well as any other method.

        Out in the provinces, these and many other techniques were widely experimented with on any
number of the usual outcast folk—old solitary widows, eccentric men who kept to themselves at the edge
of this or that village, all the folk of this sort—and all were found to work quite well.

       Later, stories began to filter into the cities of wealthier, more prosperous peasants being accused,
and even some gentlefolk, small landholders and the like. The cityfolk nodded wisely to other at these
tales of provincial superstition and speculat often correctly—that the accusers in these cases somehow e
up in possession of the executedAktir's land and goods.

       Only later did it occur to these worldly-wise city dwelle wonder how the sum of their own little
quirks and pecadillos n appear to their neighbors; only later did they wonder how nerable they
themselves might be to false accusation; only late they begin to eye their more prosperous neighbors,
wondering vulnerablethey might be, as well.

       These screws of tension had been driven tight into the hea the Empire for months now, even while
most of the citizens Empire only reluctantly, halfheartedly believed thatOns Aktiri v any more than a
ghost tale to frighten children. Many of the zens listened with a sort of sneaking approval to stories of
slippery rebel Simon Jester, who seemed to effortlessly defy constituted authority of the entire Empire;
Simon Jester had come something of a folk hero, a cunning rogue who could thi his nose at the power of
Ma'elKoth himself.
       Anyone in Ankhana who still felt that way need only pa a moment and cast a glance at the
wreckage of Knights' Brie or pay a copper coin to a page of theImperial Messenger-Ni to hear a recital
of the names of the innocent dead along dockside—a hundred men and more. Sailors, dockers, warehoi
men, and clerks wiped from existence without warning. A kitchen tale, Simon Jester was entertaining, but
as a real, power implacable foe of the Empire, he was terrifying.

      These liveried pages also gave an account of how the th maturge who'd caused such unimaginable
destruction had b captured by the heroism of Count Berne. The pages who wore green and gold of the
competing news service,Colin's Pages t Current Events, gave a somewhat different story—of the mar
manship of an unknown bowman and the escape of a boatload accusedAktiri downriver. The army had
sworn to take them, I thus far they remained at large.

       Suddenly theAktiri had becomereal to Ankhana in a way tr had never been before. TheAktiri
really were out there, as po erful and terrifying as even the wildest stories had ever claim them to be. Not
off somewhere in some distant land across the si not in the provinces, not even in some other great city
on the : side of the Empire, butright here, right now.

        Those citizens who were given to prayer now prayed for Ma'elKoth, prayed to their gods to
protect their Emperor and strengthen his mighty arm in his death struggle with the unholyAktiri. Many
more of the citizenry found themselves kneeling uncomfortably, unused to the position, before the statues
in their small household shrines; instead of praying for Ma'elKoth, they prayedto him. The Beloved
Children of Ma'elKoth had no other shield.

      The object of their prayer was busy this morning. He had forgone his daily morning's ritual of
constructing his Great Work; instead he paced to and fro beside the bloodstained limestone altar in the
Iron Room.

       Some of the blood on the altar was fresh: it leaked through the neatly tied bandages that covered
the sucking chest wound of Pallas Ril, who was staked spread-eagled across the coffin-sized stone.

      The interrogation progressed very slowly indeed; Arkadeil was in no condition to work and
Ma'elKoth felt he couldn't trust any of the apprentices in a matter of such delicacy.

      His own techniques lacked, perhaps, the elegance and refinement of Arkadeil's art, but he felt sure
they would prove equally effective, in the end.

        the mob ofdowncasters surged against the Studio gate and splashed back upon itself like a wave
against a seawall. This incoming tide of desperate fans was vast—doubling, tripling the record numbers
the Studio had expected. They were packed shoulder to shoulder over the surrounding right-of-way,
pressed back to the walls of distant buildings. An excited secman, standing atop the gate in the light of the
rising sun, babbled into his comlink that he was sure there must be more than two million people outside
waiting for Caine's arrival.

        This was only a mild exaggeration; the secman had overestimated the size of the crowd, but not by
much.

        They were all to be disappointed: Caine was already inside.

       His blood-crusted black leathers had been carefully removed from his battered, unconscious body
in the Studio infirmary and stored overnight in the Studio ON vault. Hari had arrived by cab long before
dawn, and it was down in the vault that Kollberg found him.
       The vault, with its Overworld-normal field, conferred almost perfect privacy. Its Ihick walls were
innately soundproof, and the slightly altered physics within its field prevented electronic eavesdropping.

     Kollberg posted two of the riot-armed Worker secmen at the vault door on his way in. He kept
two more with him, with careful orders to hold their power rifles at the ready between him and
Michaelson and to shoot without warning if Michaelson made the slightest move to attack.

      Michaelson had become so unstable that all of Kollberg's precautions were predicated on the
assumption that Michaelson would become psychotically violent at the first opportunity. Kollberg had
made the mistake the other night of being in the line of fire; only the shield of his heavy desk had saved
him from injury. This was a mistake he did not intend to repeat.

        The safest option, of course, would have been to avoid Michaelson entirely, to have someone else
deliver the greenroom instructions, but Kollberg knew well that the safest option is often not thebest one.
The instructions he must give were of a delicate nature; the fewer people who knew about them, the
better. This was why he'd chosen the Worker secmen instead of drawing his guards from the more
flexible and responsive Laborers: testimony by a Worker was meaningless in any court.

       Furthermore, he'd been up all night basting in his own juices, in a fury after a curt screencall from a
Dole Family lawyer—imagine, a Professional allowed, even encouraged, to disturb an Administrator at
his home! The man's tone was so clearly insolent that Kollberg had immediately filed a countercomplaint
with the Social Police, but that had done little to ease the acid ball in his belly.

     Between this disturbance, the brutal stress of preparing the climax of this Adventure, and the
amphetamine he'd taken to give himself the energy to get everything done, he hadn't slept at all.

        And he couldn't let an incident like this pass unanswered. No matter how big a star Caine might
be, Michaelson was still only a Professional, and he could not be allowed to one-up his betters. In fact,
this incident bothered him more than Michaelson's attempt to lay hands upon him; the attempted violence
was merely an outgrowth of Michaelson's increasing instability, while this ridiculous legal maneuvering
was clearly a calculated insult.

      When Kollberg entered the vault behind the lockstepping Workers, Michaelson stood nearly
naked before the dressing mirror. Caine's leathers hung from a peg nearby, and the surgical tape that had
bound his torso lay in scissor-cut tangles on the floor behind him. He wore only his leather jockstrap, and
he watched himself in the mirror as he flowed through a series of complex stretching exercises, scowling
and wincing at the aches and pains these produced.

       He looked worse than Kollberg felt. Despite the antibiotics, the crudely stitched wound in his
shoulder flared an angry red, and his back swelled with the neat blackened discs of gelslug bruises,
clustered around a larger, ragged one tinged with red, left by a Donjon guard's iron-bound club. Another
red-purple bruise swelled at the outside of his bandaged right knee, and even Kollberg's untrained eye
could see the stiffness in each of his movements. From the pasty look of his hollowed cheeks and the
shadowed smears beneath his eyes, he'd missed some sleep himself last night.

     In the mirror, his reflected eyes met Kollberg's without so much as a glance at the armored
secmen.

       "Kollberg," he said flatly. "You don't want to be in here, right now."
      "That's AdministratorKollberg, Michaelson," he replied with a tight smile.

      Michaelson's expression didn't change. "Fuck you, shitheel."

      A cold tingle shot through Kollberg, as though he'd touched a poorly grounded terminal.

       He bunked once, twice, then took a deep breath and answered calmly. "I'll have my due respect
or I will have you broken for caste violation."

      "That is your due respect, you flabby sack of shit. Do whatever you want."

      Kollberg glanced at the cyborgs between them. "Or I could simply have you shot."

      Michaelson shrugged. "Then what do you tell the Leisurefolk— what is it, a million of them,
now?—that' ve already paid to be me this morning? Never thought that making me such a big star would
whip around and bite you on the ass, huh?"

       Kollberg nodded to himself; he should have seen this coming. "I came here this morning to, ah,
outline for you the ground rules of this Adventure. I have already spoken with the Board of Governors on
this matter, and they concur. The emergency transfer switch will remain active. At the first suggestion of
seditious commentary, will be recalled, and the Adventure will be terminated."

       Michaelson made no response. He stared into the mirror will expression of peculiar concentration;
he seemed to be watching hands, his fingertips, as they lightly brushed first one, then anotht the numerous
scars that patterned his body, kneading each in tun "Seditious commentary," Kollberg continued, "will
include reference to your contracted goal of the assassination of Ma'elK When you face him, it will
appear to be the resultof a perse vendetta, do you understand? Any reference to this being at direction
of the Studio will result in your immediate recall."

        As if in answer, Michaelson's hands stroked the flattened < monds of scar tissue, front and back,
left by a long-ago sw< thrust through the liver.

      "If you make any reference to Lamorak as the betrayer of Pa Ril, whether you connect it to his
contract—to the Studio—or i you will be immediately recalled."

      Michaelson ran his fingers over a jagged scar across his col bone.

      "If you make any reference to your mistaken idea that Pa Ril's difficulties are in any way related to
any policy or directive the Studio, you will be immediately recalled."

      Michaelson's hand ran up a long, keloid-knotted scar on right thigh.

        "If you are recalled for any of these reasons, you will not be turned to Ankhana. Your wife will be
left to fend for herself. press will be told that the transfer malfunction seems to refl some peculiarity of
Ankhana itself, and it is too dangerous for) to return. Any public contradiction of this story will result in
y< being broken back to Labor and put out to work in the Temp slu where you came from."

       Michaelson slowly pulled on his leather breeches, then slipp into the blood-crusted jerkin and
laced it up to his chest, touchi each knife in its sheath as he did so.

      "When you confront Ma'elKoth, you will do sooutside the C hari Palace. The Studio has invested
far too much in this Adventi to have its climax occur offstage. At this confrontation, you will move him
from power or die in the attempt. If either of these con lions are violated, on your return you will face
downcasteing ; slander and corporate espionage." Kollberg smiled broadly, showing his teeth. "Your silly
lit cease-and-dcsist order contains information that the Dole Family could have gotten only through you;
it's prima facie evidence of corporate espionage.own you, do you understand? I can break you any time
I want."

      Michaelson pulled on his low boots of soft black leather without response.

      "I said, do you understand?"

      "I understand." Michaelson's voice was low and flat, almost a growl; this certainly wasn't the tone
of submission that Kollberg looked for, the tone he demanded.

      "Don't think that Shermaya Dole can protect you, not from the Studio; she can't," Kollberg said.
"Don't expect her to even try."

      "I don't."

       Now, for the first time, Michaelson turned away from the mirror and met Kollberg's eyes
face-to-face, and a cold shiver started in the Administrator's belly.

      Michaelson said, "Who do you think is going to protect you?"

      Kollberg's eyes bulged. "Have you heard a word I'vesaidT he spluttered.

      "Yeah. Now listen to these words: there is nothing you can do to save your life."

      "What?" This was incredible; this was intolerable! Had Michaelson forgotten to whom he was
speaking!

       But as Kollberg looked into Michaelson's expressionless black eyes, he realized he was no longer
talking to Hari Michaelson.

      This was Caine.

       "You crossed a line," Caine said. "You crossedmy line, and I'll see you dead for it. No one uses
Shanna like this and lives. Even if Iwin: if I survive, if I bring Shanna back, if I kill Berne and Ma'elKoth
and god knows who else, come back to Earth with no harm done to live happily ever after; even then,
there is no happy ending for you. Enjoy these last days of your life, Kollberg. You don't have many left."

      Kollberg could only stare, his mouth opening and closing with the moi st silence of the last gasps of
a beached fish.

       Caine stretched one last time, and his joints popped like faroff gunfire. He cracked the knuckles of
both hands, one by one. "There's about fifteen billion marks' worth of audience out there waiting for me
right now," he said. "You'd better get out of my way."

      hair that gleamslike metal under the floodlights, lips wet something like lust:

      "Welcome back toAdventure Update. I'm Bronson Ur wood. Our top story this morning is once
again the Adventui the Decade. Bloody but unbowed, Caine returns to Ankhar very few minutes from
now, for a final desperate attempt to his wife from the horrors of amplitude decay. As you can see the
Pallas Ril Lifeclock graphic in the corner of your screen, w timate that she has less than thirty-six hours
remaining. Howt due to chaotic uncertainty in phase locking, amplitude decay o theoretically begin within
the day. Whatever the true limit is, i is v;ry short indeed.

      "Pallas Ril's predicament, and Caine's heroic attempts rescue, have captured imaginations
worldwide, and the Studic not been slow to capitalize. Here with that side of the story, from Studio
Center in San Francisco, is our chief corresponc Jed Clearlake."

         "Good morning, Bronson."

         "Good morning, Jed. This is quite an event, isn't it?"

       "Bronson, it's like nothing I've ever seen before. I've been i ering Ankhanan operations for
Adventure Update for a few y now, and I guess you've realized that this is the biggest thin ever come
out of San Francisco. The numbers released by Studio this morning are nothing short of staggering. The
prev record for first-handers on-line for a single Adventure—whicl you know, was set only four days ago
at the outset ofFor Lo\ Pallas Ril —has been shattered more than tenfold this mom Public demand for
access to Caine has led the Studio sys worldwide to cancel the majority of their other ongoing Adi cures,
preempting them to provide firsthand seats for this one Caine prepares to make his transfer this morning,
official coi have his firsthand audience atone point six million. Assuming we do, that these are nearly all
Lcisurcfolk and Investors, should understand that more thanseventy percent of Caine's po tial audience
will be on-line. More thanone billion people havs ready placed advance orders for the secondhand
cubes. Thi more than the Adventure of the Decade, Bronson. This is the si of the century."

       "Impressive numbers, Jed, impressive indeed. Does the Sti plan to share any more live feed with
us, over the course of this extraordinary event?"

      "I've been in contact with Studio Chairman Arturo Kollberg's office, and all they're saying is that
we should hold ourselves ready. So I'm guessing all signs are good, Bronson."

        "Thank you, Jed. We'll be back with you in a moment. Now we go to Chicago, where Jessica
Roan has caught up with Pallas Ril's parents, Alan and Mara Leighton, as they enter the Chicago Studio
to firsthand this incredible Adventure. Jessica?"

         "Good morning, Bronson..."

         And the whole world waits, and squirms, and drools like a glutton smelling a feast.

      the studio's personneltracking system located Kollberg as soon as he left the ON vault, and the
nearest wallscreen flashed at him and loudly announced, "Administrator Kollberg! Urgent message from
Professional Mona Carson!"

      Professional Carson was the San Francisco head of Studio Legal; this could only mean a serious
problem. Kollberg muttered a curse and wiped his sweaty palms on his smock before he responded.

         "Go."

         The screen lit with Carson's bird-boned face, her delicate brows drawn together in a worried
frown.
       "Administrator, Caine's and Pallas Ril's Patrons are both up in the Cavea's techbooth right
now—and they've brought the Social Police. Please confirm receipt of this message, and then meet me
there ASAP."

       Kollberg felt like he'd been sandbagged; he was about two rungs on the caste ladder too low not
to go weak in the knees on hearing that soapies were waiting for him. For a moment, the hallway seemed
to spin around him, and he was afraid he might faint.

       The dizziness passed, and he fumbled in the pockets of his smock for the carton of speed, shaking
out another capsule and dry-swallowing it painfully before sending the Worker secmen back to their
racks. It wouldn't do to arrive with secmen in tow; it'd make him look suspiciously frightened.

      He glanced at the wallscreen and ordered his private lift, then'.

      strode toward it as forcefully as he could manage, as though by pretending confidence, he could
generate some.

      Carson was waiting for him at the techbooth door when he came puffing up.

       "There's nothing I can do about it, Administrator. They hit us with a surprise injunction, and the
Social Police have a proper warrant: our public-trust exceptions are unbreakable, but they've dodged
around them. I have Legal on their way to court already for a temporary restraining order, but they're
ready for us, and they'll make us argue it out. It'll take hours to get them out of here, at best."

      "This is about that damned ccasc-and-desist, isn't it?"

      Carson nodded. "They've brought the soapies to enforce compliance."

       Kollberg smacked a soft fist against his palm, and hairs began to stand up along his arms: he was
getting a surge from the amphetamine already.

      "Damn them. All right, I'll take over here. You keep working on it."

      "I will, but I'm up against Dole Family lawyers..."

       She didn't need to say any more; Kollberg understood perfectly. "We'll make the best of it, Mona.
Don't give up."

      She nodded, then left with a promise to keep up the fight. Kollberg took a moment to inhale
deeply several times and smooth his smock before he opened the techbooth door and stepped inside.

        Shermaya Dole sat in his chair at the stage manager's station, holding court among the dazzled
techs like a queen. They'd never been this close to Leisurefolk before, and they were stammering and
falling over each other, blushingly obsequious.

        Standing at her side like a prince consort was Marc Vilo, and behind them stood a pair of soapies
in their sky blue jumpsuits and their silver-masked helmets.

        Kollberg pasted a smile across his meaty lips and said, "Leisure-ma'am Dole, Businessman Vilo,
it's an unexpected honor to find you in my techbooth."
       Vilo snorted, openly contemptuous, and Dole said, "Marc, please. Be gracious." She sat a little
straighter in his chair and spoke regally.

       "Administrator. I'm sorry that we must meet again under these...adversarial circumstances. I hope
that you understand that none of this—" She waved a finger at the soapies behind her. "—is directed at
you personally. They are only here because of some disturbing reports that are becoming common
knowledge on the nets, and I feel that must take steps to protect the interests of the Dole Family and our
undercastes."

       "Common knowledge on the nets?" Kollberg said with a pretense of polite surprise. The upcaste
bitch was trying to slip Michaelson off the hook, and there really wasn't much he could do about it, here
and now.

      "Oh, yes. And while I understand that the Studio's records and contracts are sealed, any
observations made by social enforcement officers will be legally admissible as evidence."

       "You seem very well informed on Business law," Kollberg murmured.

       She shrugged coquettishly, a gesture Kollberg found gruesome in a beefy woman nearing middle
age. "I have my little hobbies," she said. "One must keep busy, you know. Now, I believe we must be on
our way. Marc is squiring me once again in his private box, and Caine will be mounting the transfer
platform at any moment. Thank you for your time, Administrator, and I do apologize for the
inconvenience. Come, Marc," she said, rising, and they left without another word.

     Kollberg eyed the soapies; they hadn't moved, and he felt a little queasy about sitting in the stage
manager's chair with these blank silver faces peering over his shoulders.

       He turned to one of the wide-eyed techs. "Two chairs for the Social Police. Now."

       The tech scurried off.

      "We'll stand," one of the soapies said. They stood close enough together that he couldn't tell from
which one the digitized voice had come. "When we feel the need to sit, we'll sit. Now get on with it."

      Kollberg coughed into his fist and settled tensely into the chair, painfully aware of hidden eyes
behind him.

       "All right," he said tightly. "Fine. Signal the greenroom and tell Caine he's on in five."

        the closet thatmaterializes around me is barely larger than a coffin, and it leans at a crazy angle: it's
set into a wall that's in the midst of a monthlong slow-sagging process of falling over. A little grey
cloud-light leaks in from a rent above my head, and the reeks of moldy plaster and wet charcoal.

       I put my shoulder against the moist and swollen wood door opposite the hinge side; it squeals
briefly, muffled like a in a burlap sack, then sticks fast. All right. Screw being sneaky.

      I brace my back along the angle of the wall behind me ani the door sharply in the middle. The
sodden, rotting wood more than it breaks, separating with a shriek of rusty nails, step out into the ruins of
the same Industrial Park warehouse which I'd been recalled.
        Roof tiles litter the puddled floor around me, and shreds ceiling drape like the long arms of a dying
willow. The thick f curves of steel-grey clouds press low above me, and the rema recent rain still drip
through the holes in the roof. In with th comes the clop of iron-shod hooves on paved streets outsid( the
occasional shout or snarled exchange of curses from passi I lift my arms and turn my face up into the pale
light; I brea Ankhana and breathe it out again, waiting for that swift ru freedom that Adventuring always
brings. It won't come.

        All I feel is weight, dragging at me, pressing on my should though those clouds above are stones
that I carry on my back, nagging, gnawing awareness of the tick of each passing secor That freedom, it's
gone, and I'm starting to suspect it'll nev turn. They've stripped it from me...

       My father would say: freedom that can be taken away was i real in the first place, and maybe he's
right. Maybe that fra was always only a figment of my imagination—but it was ar sion I cherished.

      Shattering an illusion is the insult we never forgive. I shake my head and set off, picking my way
through the d( threading deeper into the ruins. I'll pick up the trail at the j where I lost it; though she told
me she would be gone by now, is no better place for me to begin my search.

     The little sheltered office area is empty save for the dead co; Tommie's campfire, and the
basement door stands open. I gl down the steps—most of the water seems to have drained < should
maybe go down for a last look around.

       But the creaks and groans of the settling warehouse becomt a little too insistent.

       <

       I'm not alone, here.

       I fade silently against the wall, alongside the only door. Busting that closet door must have made
enough noise to draw watchers in to investigate; these are no innocent explorers. No honest man moves
with this much care for silence.

       A hoarse voice barely whispers from the other side of this wet-dough wall of plaster at my back.

       "Caine? Baron, is that you in there? It's Tomrnie."

       They've got me boxed. "Yeah, Tommie, it's me. What's up?"

       He steps into the doorway, relief painted across his cheerfully ugly face.

       "Was hoping it was you, Baron. Figured it was—figured you was the only guy could get in here,
past the dozen Subjects we got watching this place."

       I take the undeserved compliment with a shrug. "Watching for what? Where is everybody?"

       He shakes his head, and his face darkens.

       "It's bad, Caine. Pallas is shot and taken by the Cats, and that fighting girl with her, that Talann?
She's dead."

       He sees something in my face that makes him spread his hands apologetically. "Berne emptied her
guts all over Knights' Bridge."

       Ahh...

       God, I'm old.

     That's all I can think for long seconds, all I can feel, every god damned day of my life piled onto
my back.

      You have to be young to take shit like this. You have to still be young and adaptable, and full of
optimism. You have to still believe in happy endings, to believe that suffering has a point, that death is not
a meaningless extinguishing of consciousness.

       You have to be young enough to still hope that shit happens for a reason.

      So maybe they get their wish, all those executives who put me here. Maybe there's nothing left for
me but revenge.

       The weight of days presses me down like I'm slowly being flattened under God's own millstone. I
slide down the wall to sit on the floor; I search within the sick emptiness in my guts, looking for my anger.

       If I can recover the rage that has always lived there, it'll put enough strength back into my legs that
I can get up and walk again. But I find only ashes.

        Tommie says, "And the King wants to talk to you. We been waiting here since yesterday. Tell you,
I din't think you'd come back here, but Lamorak said y'would. He was pretty sure, I guess and here you
are."

       Lamorak...

       Still here, of course, still under the protection of the King of Cant...

     Ahh, there it is, a spark kindling among this bitter ash, starting to trail smoke down there around
my heart.

      When I look up at Tommie, there are more Knights behind him—a lot of them. Naked blades
gleam dully from their fists. My lips press through a thin smile. "Thanks, Tommie."

       He frowns, puzzled. "For—?"

       "For giving me a reason to get up."

      I suit action to the words, and he steps back, taking a short coil of rope from one of the other
Knights.

       "Why so many of you? Majesty think I'd fight?"

      Tommie twists the rope between his hands. "Aw, nah. 'S to keep each other honest, y'know? The
King ain't the only one wants to talk to you. The Eyes bumped your bounty a bunch and all. With us all
together like this nobody can turn you in and collect."
      "Did they? I hadn't heard."

      "Oh, yeah. Thousand royals..."

       His gaze and voice go off to some distant place, some fantastic realm where they belong to a man
a thousand royals richer; then he comes back to himself with an apologetic cough. "I'm, ah..." He clears
his throat. "I'm supposed to bind your hands."

      I show him my teeth. "You'll die trying."

      "Baron, c'mon, it's nothing personal..."

      "I'll explain it to Majesty. He'll understand."

      "Won't try to escape, will you? Hate to have to cut you."

      "Escape?" I snort a cold laugh. "You're taking me right where I want to go."

      arturo kollberg broodedin his seat, the faceless soapies still staring over his shoulders. He barely
watched Caine's progress. He rose out of his chilly self-contemplation only when Tommie led Caine into
view of the tumbled wreckage that had been Knights'

      Bridge and the soldiers who still picked over the shattered dock-side, searching for survivors.

     "Pallas did this? " Cairn,half whisperedin awe."Shitabrick...Where did she get this kind of
power? "

      "Barge got right away,"Tommie told him.

      "Yeah, I'll bet."

      To judge from its aftermath, the battle had obviously been spectacular, extraordinary—and
Kollberg hadn't had an on-line Actor there, not one. No one had it on cube.

      It might as well have never happened.

      This did nothing to improve his mood.

       He composed and dictated the press release right there in the techbooth, all the while keeping the
red glowing emergency transfer switch in his peripheral vision. The huge curved POV screen now
showed Caine hiking through the caverns beneath Ankhana under! the guard of the Knights of Cant.

       Kollberg was pleased with himself, pleased that his press release flowed out smoothly. He let the
public know Pallas Ril had been captured in a calm and level voice that held no hint of his fury within.

        In the very few minutes that had passed since the confrontation in the vault, his shock at
Michaelson's naked threats had transformed to cold rage. They were all after him, all of them: Caine,
Lamorak, Pallas, Dole and Vilo, and the damned soapies behind him. But he didn't have to lie down and
take it.

      He wasn't helpless, here.
       He resolved, right here and now, that Michaelson's career was over. Two can play thatIt's too
late game. If given the slightest, faintest ghost of an excuse that would pacify the Board of Governors,
he'd take away Michaelson's whole life.

       Where would his arrogance be then? How tough would he sound, begging for work on a Temp
netboard? Take away his money, his home, his friends...And, of course, the cut that Kollberg relished in
imagination the most: he dreamed of being present, watching Michaelson's face, while Pallas Ril slipped
out of phase with Over-world and went to her hideous screaming death.

      He only hoped that Michaelson lived that long. It'd be a bloody shame if he died on Overworld
before Kollberg got his chance to crush him.

      it's a longclimb up the mucker-shaft ladder from the ca\ to the pissoir, and Tommie holds the door
for me when I ste] into the pale, cloud-filtered light.

      "On the sand," he says curtly; it gives me a twinge. I've s( couple Subjects called onto the sand for
King's Court. It a badly for them, both times.

      "You sure you can't tell me what this is about?"

     He shrugs and shakes his head grimly. "Would if I could. So Tommie and the other Knights follow
me down over the cut rows of weathered stone-cut benches, into the deep bowl o Stadium.

       Majesty's already there, up on what used to be the royal da the midst of the seats at the south end,
on the comfortably c stuffed old armchair he calls his throne. Deofad's on one sid< On the other, in the
place of the absent Abbal Paslava, sitsl£ rak. His splinted leg—a splint that I bound to that leg with my
hands—is thrust out stiffly before him.

        I let my gaze skate off his surface. A lingering glance w yank me toward him, helplessly berserk:
I'd go for his throat li wolverine. As it is, I can feel him there, even with eyes averted, his presence as
though he burns with a fierce actinic light scorches my face.

       The Brass Stadium...It's always unsettling to be here in < light, to see its shabby disrepair under
the unforgiving sun. memories of this place are of bonfires and dancing, good food endless drink, the
backslapping fellowship that was the most p erful glue binding me to the men and women that use this pi
memories of a sense of belonging, a sense of family—the fai that I've never had.

       But the Kingdom of Cant is a night family; now here in the i light, deprived of the seductive
glamour of firelight and friends the house we shared is as depressing as a flop in a Temp slum, rings of
benches that rise above me are stained and broken, sand in the arena is still damp from the
rains—blackened here there by the abandoned humps of bonfires and littered with mu bones, apple
cores, fish heads, cherry pits, and mounds of less i( tifiable detritus. A few large and tardy rats scavenge
fearlessl the growing light. They dodge the hooked beaks of squabb" 'M-JTTHi'U' W(X>DRING
STOVER gulls and the straight ones of crows that croak and hop aggressively at the gulls, the rats, and
each other.

       The birds lift off in a parti-colored cloud as I vault the ragged arena wall and alight on the sand.
One bloated rat that's too fat to waddle out of my way gets a sharp kick that sends it rolling across the
sand, writhing with a high thin squeal.
     The dozen or so Knights of Cant who brought me here follow me down onto the sand, and
Tornmie steps forward at a sloppy attention to begin the ceremony. He intones: "I bring before the
assembled Court of Cant the Honorary Baron—"

      "Shut up," I tell him, and enforce this advice with a sharp slap to the back of his head. He stumbles
forward a step or two, then wheels on me, his face ablaze with embarrassed anger.

       "Caine, dammit, you can't just—

       I ignore him, lift my face to Majesty and the Court.

       "Save the horseshit, Majesty," I say, full-voiced. "I'm here. Tell me what you want of me without
the fucking make-believe."

      From the Knights around me come the sharp steel-on-steel scrapes of blades being drawn, but
Majesty lifts a restraining hand.

     "All right," he says thickly. He leans forward, his face suffused with blood. "All right, you bastard.
Where did you go the other night? When you left the warehouse, where did you go?"

       "None of your business." Shit, I couldn't tell him if I wanted to.

       I can see where this is leading. I glance around at the Knights who cage me, estimating my chances
of fighting my way out.

       "I'vemade it my fucking business, you shit," Majesty barks. "I think you went straight to the Cats."

     "You're out of your head." I'd tell him who the traitor really is...but I can't. Not yet. "Can you see
me walking in to shake hands with Berne?"

       He comes up out of the chair with a snarl of rage and raises his fist as though he would smite me
with a thunderbolt if only he could.

       "/know you work for Ma 'elKoth, you pigfucker! You hear me? Iknow\"

        In the silence that follows his shout can be heard the wings of the gulls, startled off again, and faint
street sounds from the Warrens beyond the walls. The Knights around me look away, wincing. They
might not ever have seen Majesty this far out of control; I never have. But I've been bellowed at by
bigger voices than he can command, and it takes more than rage to impress me.

      "Yeah?" I answer quietly. "Maybe you might want to explain here who it was that would've told
you that?"

      His eyes bulge, and he makes a faint choking sound in the back of his throat. He sure as death
doesn't want to let gruff old Deofad and these Knights hear how he's been in bed with the King's Eyes.

       Lamorak murmurs something in a voice too low for me to hear; my lipreading skills are pretty
rudimentary, but I catch the wordsquestion andanswer. Majesty doesn't seem to hear him, but now he
says, "I'm asking the questions, Caine. You're answering them. You got that?"

       I pause for one calculated second to make sure he knows I've heard and understood him, then I
say, "Is Pallas alive?"

       Majesty says through his teeth, "Maybe I'm not making myself clear-—"

       "Tommie, here, says Pallas was shot yesterday, and taken by the Cats. Is she alive?"

       "How should I know?"

        "Screw the games, Majesty. You and I, we both know how you should know. You want me to
spell it out?"

     He wavers for a second, and I wonder if he's about to just sayfuck this noise and have the
Knights cut me down. He looks away.

       "Yeah. She's alive."

       All right, all right, huh. I can breathe again, and some of those days that burden my shoulders
brighten and relax. Now I only need to figure out something to do about it.

       "What are you doing to rescue her?"

      Now he looks startled, as though the thought of a rescue had never entered his head. What in hell
has happened to that Charm of hers? Has it worn off already? "Well, I, ah, I mean, the word is
Ma'elKoth's holding her himself, interrogating..."

       I let a little of the furnace in my chest leak into my voice. "You son of a whore, you're more
interested in pinning this horseshit onme than in saving herlife\ What the fuck iswrong with you?"

      Y'know, come to think of it, that's a good question...This isn't like him, Charm or no Charm. If
nothing else, Majesty is a reasonable man, pragmatic, a planner. And he's known me for years. He
knows goddamn well I'd cut off my own balls with a rusty knife before I'd do anything like what he's
accusing me of.

       Another question slowly filters through the solid bone that I use for a brain: if he really wants the
answers he's going after, why doesn't he turn Lamorak loose on me with that Dominate of his, try to
force the truth out of me?

      Lamorak murmurs something else. I catchtrust andbusiness first, and Majesty says, "I can't trust
you with any plans until we settle this business first."

       Son of a motherfucking shit...

       I get it.

       I understand now.

       Lamorak hasn't turned that Dominate on me becausehe can only do one spell at a time.

       So much for the voice of reason.

       Okay, maybe I don't have to solve every problem with my fists...but every once in a while, a
situation arises that is substantially improved by the judicious application offeree.

      Majesty was saying something that I missed, and now everyone's looking at me like they' re
waiting for an answer. I shake my head and say, "Sorry—my mind was wandering. What was that?"

        He begins, "I said—" I miss the rest of it again, because as soon as everyone looks back at him for
his reply I whip into a spinning kick that brings my heel against the cheekbone of the Knight at my right
rear flank hard enough to snap bone and flip him into the air. He lands half against the Knight beside him,
and they both go down.

       Ten more to go.

       But I don't need to drop them all to escape the arena. For half a second nobody moves while they
comprehend what it is I've just done. Tommie recovers faster than the others, but he's also the only one
who doesn't have a sword in hand. I jump him as he claws at its hilt and get one hand on his wrist. A
sharp twist and a blow from the other hand breaks the bones of his forearm. It's a more difficult
technique than breaking the elbow, but I like Tommie, and I don't want to cripple him.

        He howls as jagged bone rips through his flesh, and his knees go slack. I shift my weight and slam
my forearm up into his armpit, then twist like a tennis champion delivering a backhand smash. Tommie
tumbles into the other Knight right in front of me, spraying blood into his face from that forearm. They fall
in a tangled heap.

      The other Knights hesitate. Nobody wants to be the first one to get within my reach, and I don't
blame them. I take advantage of their eyeblink of indecision to run like hell.

       A quick leap over Tommie and the guy he's struggling with, and I've got a straight shot right at the
dais. My wounded right knee snarls at me as I sprint. When I get to the nine-fool-high arena wall, the
knee makes its displeasure fully felt by buckling exactly whenI need it to leap.

      I barely manage to avoid braining myself when I crash into the wall. I don't have time for another
attempt: the Knights are right on my ass.

       The lead Knight tries to slow his headlong charge when he sees me whirl back toward him, but it's
too late. I skip out to meet him and foot-sweep his ankle while slapping a backfist into the nape of his
neck. He goes headfirst into the pockmarked limestone wall and collapses to his knees.

       The other Knights fan out to try to come at me from a couple directions at once. The stunned
Knight shakes his head dazedly. He's on his hands and knees at the base of the wall, so I use him like a
footstool: I jump up onto his back, and before he understands what's happened I jump off again. The
two-foot advantage this gives me is more than enough to let me catch the rim of the wall and haul myself
smoothly over.

      "Get him kill him!"Lamorak shouts, and the edge of panic in his voice brings my blood up like the
surge of a tidal bore.

       I gain my feet in the lowest ring of benches. Deofad towers over me, his enchanted blade Luthen
upraised and glowing like a bar of steel white-hot from the forge.

      I have no desire to try conclusions with this tough old bastard, so I throw myself sideways into a
shoulder roll as his blade descends to strike searing sparks from the stone. I come to my feet out of
swordreach and bound up the bleachers toward Majesty and Lamorak. Majesty comes down to meet
me, foolishly: he customarily goes unarmed, and if Lamorak wasn't controlling him, he'd know better than
to come at me barehanded.

        When he closes with me, I let my knees bend and drop my shoulder to catch him under the ribs,
letting his momentum flip him off his feet and over my back. He tumbles down the steps, and I keep
moving.

      While he's trying to rise behind me with the anxious help of Deofad, I reach my objective.

      Lamorak's face is as white as a toadstool.

      "Caine..." he whispers, and that thousand-yard stare of mind-view steals into his eyes. "Don't—'

      "Shut up."

      My right hook catches him precisely on the hinge of the jaw, just in front of his car, and the joint
breaks under my knuckle with a deeply satisfying crunch.

       "Stay with me, Lamorak." I shake some light back into his eyes by a handful of his shirtfront. "I'm
not through with you yet. Try another spell. Go on. Try."

      He puts his arms up to shield his head and averts his eyes so he won't see it come. "No..." he says
though his numb mouth. "No, pleass—y'broche m'zhaw, shit."

      I raise my fist and give myself a slow count of ten to think up one reason why I should let him live.

       I'm up to eight when Majesty bellows, "Caine,stop! Everybody slop!Nobody fucking mover In
the long silence that follows, I keep my eyes on Lamorak. If he starts to summon mindview, I'm gonna
pop him.

       Behind and below me, men curse in low voices as they pick themselves up and gingerly explore
the extent of their wounds. Lamorak cups his broken face with both hands and avoids my eyes.

      Majesty says, low and close behind my shoulder, "You mind telling me what thefuckjust went on
hereT Lamorak flinches back from what he glimpses in my eyes. I mutter, "How much do you
remember?"

      "All of it, Caine, shit. I just couldn't stop—and, you know, it made perfect sense at the time.
Fuckingcreepy, is what it was."

       He steps around to where I can see him and lowers himself onto the bench beside Lamorak,
staring into his face with aggressive concentration. "You wouldn't mind borrowing me one of those big
knives of yours, would you?"

       I shake my head; I've come to a sudden decision. It's a hunch, a feeling, irrational but powerful.
"Let him live."

      "Yeah, right."

      "Please. As a favor to me."
      "I don't get it," Majesty says. "I thought you guys were friends. Why would he want to do this to
you? And why are you gonna let him get away with it?"

       I look down at Lamorak, and now he looks back at me. I give him a faint lift of my brows, a
minute nod toward Majesty, aDo you want me to tell him? kind of look. His eyes plead with me, and I
shrug carelessly.

      "The other night, remember we had that long talk?" I say slowly. "Pallas told him she's coming
back to me. He took it badly."

       "Yeah, no kidding."

       Lamorak's eyes bulge in disbelief. "You..." he sputters. "A Thazza//e!He,he—"

       I say, "Thought I told you to shut up." My swift side J spreads his nose with a crackle of smashing
cartilage and boui his head off the front edge of the stone bench behind him. His e roll up and he sags,
blowing blood bubbles through his open out cold.

       Great GreyGod, that felt good. For one long moment I strug with a nearly overwhelming lust to
just go ahead and finish h but I master it. Barely.

       "Do me this favor. Hold him for me. Lock him in that apartm where you met us after we came out
of the Donjon—but make s no Subjects are within the sound of his voice."

       "No shit. All right. But when you're done with him, he's mir "Yeah, whatever."

       Majesty grunts and pushes himself to his feet. "What are gonna do about Pallas?"

       "That's the attitude I've been waiting for." No way to tell if I question comes from Majesty's own
heart or if Pallas' Charn still operating. Y'know, in the end, I guess it doesn't really mat "I think it's time
for you to come open."

       He squints at me warily. "What do you mean?"

       "I know what you want, Majesty. It's not here in the stadium, not in the Warrens. You're playing
for higher stakes than that."

       "I don't know what—

      "Horseshit. You didn't risk the whole Kingdom of Cant to si port Pallas' Simon Jester act out of
the goodness of your heart. ^ don't give a rat's ass, one way or the other, about theAktiri ori of the rest."

       He doesn't answer me, just stares grimly down upon his wounc Knights in the arena.

      "I know what you had in mind," I tell him. "I know that} planned to roll up Simon Jester's network
and sell them to King's Eyes. What were you playing for, a tide? Or just ord from Toa-Sy tell for the
Eyes and the Constabulary to look the ot way while you operate in the city? Maybe some covert
Imperial tion against the other Warrengangs?"

       When he turns to me, his eyes are bugged as though my ban around his neck. His mouth works,
and only a strangled croak denial can come up his throat.

       He flinches away from the hand I put on his shoulder, but a give him is a friendly squeeze. "It's all
right, Majesty. I'm not " , , Caine, I swear, she said shedumped you — thought you'dthank me…"

      "Yeah, well, shit's never quite that simple, is if?"

       "But it'sdifferent now," he insists. "After I got to know her...Shit, Caine, I'd never do anything to
hurt her. Never."

       "I'm giving you a chance to help her. You help her, and I'll help you. You get it? I'lloutbid
Toa-Sytell. You'll get more from helping Pallas than you ever could from betraying her. You do this for
me," I say slowly, convincingly, "and I'll put Ankhana into your hands."

      He turns to me, and there's a glimmer of ambitious lust in his eyes. I have his full attention.

      "Do what for you?"

        " need so much going on in the streets that Ma'elKoth can't spare any attention trying to figure out
what F m up to, you follow? I want ariot. Not a little disturbance in the Warrens, understand? I want the
Constabulary, the King's Eyes, even the bloody army all tied up trying to get things under control. I want
the city in flames."

      "You're asking a lot. You're asking more than a lot. It could expose the whole Kingdom."

        "Listen, you don'thave a lot of choice. I mean, Pallas can't hold out under interrogation forever.
When Ma'elKoth breaks her, he's gonna learn who's been bankrolling her operation. He'll have the
goddamnarmy in here to mop you up. It spun out of your control the instant Pallas was taken alive. It's
too late to roll up her network or whatever because Ma'elKoth is going to do that without your help, and
then he will fall on you like the wrath of a god, and that's no fucking exaggeration. You have tohit first.
You have to hit now. It's your only chance, Majesty. Like the saying goes, opportunity is a nettle—grasp
it boldly, or get stung."

        He stares consideringly into the middle distance, and I give him the space of a breath or two to
think it over.

       "We can set fires," he says finally, "but that won't be enough. The kind of riot you want has to get
plenty of support from the straights. It has to be self-sustaining after my boys start it up. People need to
be angry, and afraid—

      "That's easy," I tell him. "They're already afraid. Ma'elKoth's got them all whipped up with his
Aktir hunt. Turning fear into anger is the easiest thing in the world."

      "Yeah? How?"

      This part, at least, already have figured out.

       "We can beat on Ma'elKoth with his own stick. Ma'dKoth-spread my hands like I'm preparing a
conjuring trick. "—isthem"

      Majesty frowns, and I grin at him.
      "He's anAktir himself," say. "The wholeAktir hunt is a d( a cover, a
point-at-you-so-nobody-looks-at-mecon."

        Majesty's eyes go wide, and his hand clutches blindly a sleeve. "Hot staggering/«cfc..." he says
breathlessly. "Is ittt "Does it matter? When you tell a story loud enough and enough, a story that plays
right into people's worst fears o trayal, it grows its own truth."

       "But, but...Could it actuallybe? I mean, if there was si thing asAktiri ...It'd make sense; it'd make
perfect sense. It together just right...With some kind of proof, some kind o! dence, you could bring him
down all at once. The nobles hate anyway; they'd turn on him in a light breeze. The army wot; fight for
him...But without it..."

       I can see now what I have to do.

        This is gonna hurt like a bastard. This is gonna hurt for yeai But a choice between my integrity and
Pallas' life is no cl at all.

       I clasp his shoulders with both my hands and gaze into his with every ounce of level, direct,
plainspoken sincerity\ muster.

       "All right, Majesty," I say slowly. "It's true. Think abc Ma'elKoth came out ofnowhere during the
Plains War. Ho\ you look like that, be that size, have that face and that kind c power, without anyone
ever hearing a whisper of your name you're what, forty ? Wherewas he all those years? How in the of
every living god did he end up Emperor less than five yean he dropped out of the fucking sky? Where did
he come Where are his boyhood friends? Where's\asfamilyl There's answer: no family, no friends, no
history. He's anAktir, Mi He's one of them."

       "I can see it," he says softly. "Tyshalle'sBlood. can see i I'd needproof, Caine, something I can
take to the nobles, them rise against him."

       I say, with the perfect conviction of an honest man: "I'll g your proof."

      His eyes go vague, looking past me. He's looking at the view of the Great Hall of the Colhari
Palace, as seen from the seat of the Oaken Throne.

       "Put that evidence in my hands, and you'll have your riots."

       I shake my head. "It'll take a couple of days. We need the riotsnow. Two days from now Pallas
will be broken or dead, and Imperial troops will be camped all over the Warrens. The whole Kingdom
will be wiped out. We have to hitnow, today, within the hour. Act boldly, act now, and you win it all.
Fire those riots, and you'll have all the proof you need within two days. I swear it."

       He looks into my eyes, searching for truth that he's not gonna find there. I look back at him,
trading more than ten years of friendship, trading all the trust I've earned at his side for one massive act of
betrayal.

       By the time he finds out I'm lying, Pallas and I will either be home, or we'll be dead.

     Even if it's wearing off, the residue of the Charm will make him inclined to help, but his natural
pragmatism tells him he'll be wasting the lives of his men in a lost cause. He balances on the knife edge
between them, teetering.

       He weighs our years of friendship and trust for a long time. He weighs his mental image of my
reputation—Caine would rather kill a man than lie to him—then finally he nods, sharply, as he falls
from the edge of the knife into the abyss below.

      "All right," he says firmly. "I believe you. The riots will start within the hour."

      I can only nod.

      I look down at Lamorak's unconscious face, which seems to sneer back at me with malicious
contempt.

      Goahead and sneer, asshole, I mutter inside my head.I never claimed to be any better than
you in the first place.

        "Burn the whole city," Majesty muses, shaking his head in slow disbelief. "That's pretty extreme for
the life of one woman."

      "Fuck the city," I tell him. "I'd burn the world to save her."

      That, at least, is not a lie.

       the word wentout like an impulse through the nerves of a human body, a body whose head was
the Brass Stadium in the Warrens. A Knight patrolling the border with the Face spoke with family of
leprous beggars. One of the beggars ambled onto Rogues Way and had words with a pack of
dirty-faced street urchins. On of the children skipped into the Industrial Park to find a playmat who
picked up pocket money paging forColin's Pages and Cui rent Events. The page spoke to a workman
lounging with his mate in front of Black Gannon's Charcoalers at the corner of Lacklan and Bond. The
workmen scattered through the dockside. One c them murmured to a carter who carried the word with
his good across Fools' Bridge and onto the island of Old Town.

       They knew the drill, these clandestine Subjects of Cant: each c them spoke with at least three
others. Within the hour, a beggar a Nobles' Beach on the south bank of the Great Chambaygen said t< a
passing patron," Y'know what I think? I think Ma'elKoth pushe alittle too hard on thisAktir thing. You
ever wonder where hecam, from? You ever wonder if maybe he'scovering something up Thieves fall
out; that's what / think."

        Almost the same words could be overheard in taverns and inn from the Snakepit to the Financial
Court. Most who heard then scoffed. It was inconceivable. It was ridiculous. But when they'i laughingly
tell their friends of this outrageously silly rumor they '< overheard, there was someone in nearly every
group who couli say with an honest frown, "Well, dunno. I heard it somewhen else already today. Maybe
there's something to it. I mean, you gott admit it's notimpossible... "

      The story took on a life of its own, though it might very wel have died a natural death in a day or
two. A few days of calm am quiet lets sudden fears relax and outrageous rumors dissipate.

      But only an hour past noon, on that short autumn day, flame licked up the back of the Nobles'
Playhouse on the south bank Even as a bucket brigade engaged that fire and began to quiet it roar, an
apartment block half a mile away burst into flames. Half ai hour later a stable burned in the shadow of
Thieves' Bridge. B; that time, the bridge captains had already begun detailing regula troops to fight the
fires and sending requests to the garrisons fo replacements.

       By midaflernoon, soldiers were spread throughout the capital sweating and red faced from the heat
of the scattered fires the; fought. More than a few of them griped to each other that"the Em peror can
send rain to save a few peasants 'crops in someprovina a hundred leagues away, but he can't
spare even a squall to put out these damned fires ? Maybe he wants the damned city to bum."

      The captain at the gatehouse of the shattered Knights' Bridge pulled his men off their salvage duties
and sent every one of them to help; he led them personally. He was overheard to observe to his aide as
they quickstepped across the island, "There's a bad smell to this, a bad one for sure. This'll be worse
before it's better, no mistaking."

      No one in the city needed to be told this; they could feel it for themselves.

      The entire city drew in a breath of fearful anticipation, and held it for the shout that everyone knew
would come at nightfall.

       kierendal saw thecurrent in the Flow a full minute before the knock came on her apartment door.
This current resembled not at all the stringy lace of the pull of a thaumaturge; this was something vast and
turbulent that seemed to organize all the Flow around her into something oceanic, something tidal; the
current that rolled through her walls seemed only the tiniest portion of some unimaginable leviathan.

       Perched on the back of the chair behind her, braiding Kierendal's fine silver hair, Tup sensed her
mistress's tension through her tiny fingertips. "Kier? Is something wrong?"

       "Get Zakke. He's in his room." Kierendal uncoiled from the chair like a releasing spring, her long
pale limbs stretching into an arc as graceful and as tense as a bent longbow. Her money-colored eyes
looked far beyond the walls. "Wake him up and both of you take cover. Something's about to happen."

      "Kier—"

      Kierendal whirled on her tiny companion. "Don't argue! Go!"

       Tup's bandaged wing didn't allow her to fly, but her arboreal people were also as agile as
monkeys. Infected by the urgency in Kierendal's voice, she scampered and sprang from the back of the
chair to a sofa, then skittered across the carpet and through an inner door.

       Kierendal draped a robe over her angular form, afraid to spare the concentration she'd require to
hold an illusion of clothing. She extended her Shell and tapped into the rushing pressure of thiscut rent,
gasping as power entered her like a rough lover. It had rious flavor, this Flow—one that she couldn't
quite identify felt she should somehow recognize...

      She put these thoughts firmly aside and patterned the Flow her powerful mind; when the knock
came in one of the F; codes, she was ready for anything.

      She reached out with an imaginary hand, and Flow flicked the door bolt and opened the door.

      In the hall, their Shells lemon with nervous energy but ove with amethyst triumph, stood a pair of
her coverts, one humai the other stonebender. "Pardon, Kierendal," the human said, we caught this one
coming in the back, and we thought you n want to talk with him."
        Between them, his hands bound by manacles of steel am Shell pulsing dangerously with lethal ebon
life, stood Caine.

       His Shell was vastly darker than it had been before: he barely visible within the midnight shadow
that surrounded Kierendal's mouth opened in silent awe as she saw the shift i direction of Flow: it moved
toward Caine, as though he hir were a thaumaturge of godlike power. It didn't pass into him would an
adept; it swirled and eddied around him and beat against the incoming currents. She could see that he
wasn't doi purposefully—he wasn't even in the mindview trance that hui needed to perceive and direct
the Flow. What, then, could this "Security's gettin bettar, nah Kier?" the stonebender "Caught un dis time,
didna we?"

      "Don't be idiots," she snapped. "Cease this ridiculous act, C Show them."

     Within his cloud, Caine shrugged, and the manacles dro clattering to the floor. The two coverts
jumped like they'd goosed and went for their weapons. Caine raised his hands.

      "Do we talk? Or do I break your puppies, here?"

        "Leave him be," she ordered. "Caine, come inside. You guard the door. And do a better job of it,
this time."

      Caine stepped casually within, his half smile blurred by the ra Flow that whirled around him. He
closed the door behind hir and leaned against it. Those shadow forms were back again, t ghostly Caine
doubles that his every motion seemed to sp; He was so utterly prepared for any possible action that the j
doubles took on a solidity in the Flow around him. She coul<

      them now, vague shifting patternings of force, where before she had only imagined them.

       "Stay there," Kierendal told him sharply. "This is a new day, Caine, and I am ready for you. Any
threatening move will be your last."

      He spread his hands. "Don't come all hostile, Kierendal. I'm here to apologize. let them take me so
I wouldn't have to hurt anyone on my way in."

      "Apologize?"

      "Yeah. Busting up your place like that—belting your houseboy, knifing the little treetopper..."

       Kierendal squinted. His expression was half hidden by the ghost-Caines around him; she couldn't
decide how sincere he might be. "Money is love, Caine," she said. "If you meant it, you'd say it with
gold."

      "I plan to."

      "You cost me five hundred royals."

      One black-brushed eyebrow arched. "That's a lot for a broken table and an cyepatch."

      "That's how much I'd fronted to Berne. After your...departure...he cashed out and left."

      "I'll double your money back," Caine said with an easy shrug. "Turn me in."
      For a long frozen moment Kierendal could only blink. Had she heard him correctly?

     Caine went on. "I'm serious. You know my new head-price. Send a runner to the Eyes, and I
wouldn't be surprised if Toa-Sytell himself shows up to put the gold in your hand."

      "I don't understand."

      "Look, somebody's gonna collect that money. Might as well be you, huh?"

      "What kind of game are you playing?"

      "That's not your business. You want the money or not?"

       "What Iwant," Kierendal found herself saying with unexpected heat, "is some damned idea what's
going on."

      Caine grinned at her. "Don't we all?"

        "My agents report that there are fires all over the city; that everywhere they turn someone's arguing
over whether or not Ma'el-Koth's anAktir —a rumor I hear was started by the Subjects ofCant, by the
way. And everyone says there's a riot heating to a rising simmer. Yesterday, a human thaumaturge raised
the whol bloody Great Chambaygen to half drown the dockside and wip out Knights' Bridge—something
that I would have sworn was im possible.And I hear that this thaumaturge, who has more powe than any
human has a right to, turns out to be your old girlfrien Pallas Ril. Now you show up at my place, asking to
be turned ove to the King's Eyes. Why do I get the impression that this is all cor nected, somehow?"

      "You have good sources," he said impassively. She waited fo him to offer more, but he might as
well have been carved fron stone: he didn't even blink.

      "Why do you want this?"

       "I have to get into the palace." He winced as though at a suddei shooting pain. "Ahh, bad pun,
sorry." At her blank look, he shoo] his head irritably. "Forget it. You don't have to understand. Yoi want
the money?"

      Kierendal hissed frustration through her overly sharp teeth. "If don't?"

       Caine's words were throwaway casual. "Then I go someplao else." But the Flow that boiled
around him darkened and roilei alarmingly, and Kierendal suddenly wondered why she'd resista the idea;
she'd never been averse to easy money. Watching th< Flow pattern itself around him, she found herself
suspecting tha by far the safest course was simply to do whatever Caine wanted Opposing power of this
magnitude might crisp her like a moth in i candle flame.

        "All right," she said quickly. "I'll send the runner, and I won' ask any more questions. Someday,
you'll sit down and tell me th< whole story."

      "Yeah, whatever."

      "There are," she said carefully, "powers at work in your life that beggar my imagination. I see them,
a small part of them, but don't understand them. You are at the nexus of forces beyonc comprehension."
         He gave her a cynical, knowing smile. "Everybody is, Kierendal We just don't notice, most of the
time."

         "I pity anyone who gets in your way."

         "Yeah, me too. Let's do this, all right? I don't have all fuckinj day."

      when he heardBerne enter the room behind him, Toa-Sytell turned away from the window only
long enough to acknowledge the Count's presence with a cold flat stare, then turned back.

        This window overtopped not only the Sen-Dannalin Wall around the Colhari Palace, but the
intricate spires of the neighboring Temple to the Katherisi; it commanded a fine view of the western reach
of Gods' Way. Close enough to be visible below the glare of the sinking sun, an iron-caged carriage
drawn by four black horses rolled slowly through the heavy traffic. With Knights' Bridge destroyed, all
the poor folk and subhumans that resided on the north bank were forced to crowd toward Fools' Bridge
to beat the curfew at dusk. The day was unseasonably hot, and ending far too swiftly; it was clear to
Toa-Sytcll's eye that there was no way for all these folk to crowd out of Old Town before nightfall.
Fights had already broken out in several places along Gods' Way alone, as a swearing townsman had his
foot trodden upon one too many times, as another took one loo many elbows in the ribs, as another took
a gentleman's whip across his face for blocking the path of a horse. The few constables in view looked
nervous and harried. The army should have been out, helping to maintain order, but most of the available
troops were occupied fighting the fires scattered across the city, which sent thick smothering coils of
black smoke toward the cloudless sky.

         Berne spoke from behind him. "Not here yet?"

      Toa-Sytell twitched his chin vaguely toward that approaching carriage. "On his way. It's a long
way around, you know," he murmured blandly. "Perhaps you hadn't heard that Knights' Bridge is
down—?"

         For once Berne didn't rise to the bait. He said only, "Ma'elKoth wants him in the Iron Room."

         "I'd like to see him in the Iron Room myself," Toa-Sytell muttered.

         "Any idea where he's been?"

        The Duke shrugged irritably. "He fell off the world. Then, this afternoon, he fell back on. Beyond
that, I cannot say."

        He sighed within himself, waiting for Berne's needles to begin their pricking. He couldn't even
retaliate: Berne's Cats had donetheir job. Even though theAktiri had escaped, Ma'elKoth knew where
they were and could reach out his hand and take them when he chose, and the thaumaturge who had
protected them was eve now on the altar of the Iron Room.

       The King's Eyes, on the other hand, had uncovered no trace c Caine. It had been left to the elvish
whoremistress of Alien Game to do his job for him. Berne was far too childish to resist such a opening,
he believed, but now the Count surprised him. He too a place at the window beside Toa-Sytell, leaning
with his palm on the sill and staring blindly out over the crowds that packe Gods'Way.

         "There aren't any words..." Berne near-whispered. "There jus aren't any words to say how much I
hate that man."

       Toa-Sytell stared at Berne's profile—no longer flawless with th swollen bend of his broken nose,
his face painted bloody rose b; the setting sun—and was astonished to find within his breast; sudden flash
of sympathetic fellow feeling. "Perhaps Ma'elKotl will let you kill him, now."

       "I hope so. I hope so. But..." He turned to Toa-Sytell ani shrugged fluidly. "I don't know. I'm
worried, y'know? I have feeling that there's too much going on that I don't know about, have a feeling
things are out of control. Not just for me: for us. Fo everybody."

       Toa-Sytell studied him for the millionth time, but it seemed a though he'd never really seen Berne
before. Berne had com< through the destruction of Knights' Bridge without so much as ; bruise—only a
few now neatly stitched scratches from the knive of that girl he'd killed—a reminder of the power of
Ma'elKoth tha defended him, a reminder that here was the favorite of the Em peror. His masculine
beauty, his powerful build and pantherisl grace, all these were familiar to Toa-Sytell; new to his searchin;
eye was this unexpected depth of concern for Ma'elKoth, perhap: concern for the Empire itself.
Yesterday, even this morning, Toa Sytell would have wagered his immortal soul that Berne was inca
pable of the very feeling that he now fleetingly displayed.

       He had, during this week, wondered how much of Berne's hatrec for Caine might spring from
jealousy, from the fear that the assassir might be replacing him in Ma'elKoth's personal affections. Now
he wondered how much of his own contemptuous malice towarc Berne might have been prompted by
the same petty emotion; aftei all, until Beme had been created Count and given command of tht Grey
Cats a few months ago, Toa-Sytell himself had been the Emperor's closest advisor and confidant.

      How peculiar,he thought,that I, who make a profession of knowing the minds of men, should
be such a mystery to myself.

      "I have felt this, even as you have," Toa-Sytell said, coming to a sudden decision. "Berne, we have
never been friends. I do not believe we ever will be. What I do believe is that we have spent too much
time and energy bickering and backstabbing each other— jealous like rivals in romance—and the rift
between us has given aid to the enemy. We each serve the Emperor in our own way; let us try to be
content with that. Let there be peace between us."

      He held out his hand. Berne stared at it as though it were some alien thing, then shrugged and took
it.

      "All right," he said. "Peace."

        Berne turned again to the window, staring moodily toward the sliver of sun still visible above the
horizon. "But we have to do something about Caine. I thought, y'know, I thought that him disappearing
like that...Well, I thought if he ever turned up again, Ma'elKoth would just let me take his head. But when
I told him that sub bitch in Alientown had claimed his head-price, he laughed—that kind of rich-uncle
laugh he has, you know what I mean—and told me to have him sent to the Iron Room, alone, as soon as
he arrives. I think Ma'elKothlikes him, y'know? And maybe it's more than that, too. There's something
between them that I don't understand, something deep."

       Toa-Sytell nodded. "I agree. I recall Ma'elKoth saying only last week that he'd give Caine to you.
I believe he meant it at the time, but now I do not think he'll ever do it. Have you watched him at the
Great Work?"
      "All the different Caines he keeps trying to fit in there?"

       "Yes. Since that night on the Dusk Tower, images of Caine have been his only subject. The first
evening Caine spent here, Ma'elKoth spent the entire night examining him magickally. Since then, his
obsession has only grown. Caine has taken over nearly his entire attention; it's excessive, and
inexplicable."

      "I should have killed him at Alien Games," Berne said distantly, staring out the window.

      "I agree," Toa-Sytell said. "But it is too late, now. We must find some way to break this mesmeric
hold he has upon Ma'elKoth. To do that, we must discover what it is. How much do you know of
Caine's past?"

      Berne shrugged. "Only the same stories that everyone knows. But I'll tell you where to go for
more: the Monasteries."

      ^ "Really?"

       "Yeah. You know my father's Monastic? An Exoteric. W they're a little crazy about records. They
write everything dowi mean,everything."

      "Yes, I've heard that," the Duke mused. "They'd let me i amine these records?"

       "Not ordinarily, no—they're supposed to be secret. But, y'km the Monasteries might be a little
perturbed with Caine right now.

       Toa-Sytell leaned against the window to look down into courtyard's thickening twilight as he
thought about this. Far bek five heavily armed Household Knights stood at ready whili King's Eye
unlocked the cage door of the iron carriage. Torcl flared around the courtyard in the gloom. The tiny
figure of Ca stepped nonchalantly out into the shadow of the Sen-Danna Wall, apparently unmindful of
the manacles on his wrists and i steel bilboes that held his ankles.

      "Any number of people," Toa-Sytell murmured thoughtful "seem to be a little perturbed with
Caine. Come. We'll await him the Dusk Tower."

      at dusk, acompany of mounted constables started to sidest their horses west along Gods' Way,
pushing against the rear ran of the crowd to force it along from behind. Voices were heard mutter and
complain. Why should they be forced off Old Town ji because it was getting dark? Whose rulewas that,
anywa Ma'clKoth's? Why were these vicious bastardspushing so hard'

       The street, already crowded, swiftly became choked. Childi cried out, crushed between larger
adults. Men and women shout at the mounted officers toease off, people are getting hurt, but t
constable captain was as nervous as any. He wanted the trouble tl he knew was brewing to boil over on
the north bank, not here in own district. He ordered his men to press harder. The sooner t streets of Old
Town could be cleared of this rabble, the better.

      It wasn't long until the crowd began to push back.

      The horses came to a stop against a solid mass of livii resistence—human, stonebender, and primal
bodies forced t gether until they might as well have been fused into a single c ganism. An ogre pried up a
cobblestone with its long hooked clai and shied it at the captain, missing widely but giving the rest of the
surging crowd an idea.

      Rocks began to fly, and the mounted constables now unlimbered stout clubs that rose and fell
upon heads and shoulders with cracks like drumbeats.

      Someone in the crowd shouted, "Why you beating onus? Why aren't you off protecting us from
the damnedA ktiriT Someone else answered him, "They takes their orders from the damned Aktiri
themselves, that's why! Why not put assfuckMa'el-Koth to the question, eh?"

      The captain snapped swift orders that this treasonous agitator was to be arrested at once, but no
one seemed to have seen him. Now other voices joined a growing chorus."Aktiri Aktir! Put Ma
'elKoth to the question! "

       The first two speakers, the questioner and the answerer, were Subjects of Cant. They elbowed
their way toward the mouth of a nearby alley, well satisfied with their work, encouraging the crowd that
they shoved through with a simple chant:"Ak-tir, Ak-tir!" Voices echoed them, then took over of their
own accord as the two slipped away.

      The chant of the crowd grew, swelled dangerously:"Ak...TIR! Ak...TIR!" and they pushed against
each other's backs, surging against the line of horses, forcing them to retreat step by step along
Gods'Way.

      Once the crowd realized that it had the power to move in this direction, it became unstoppable.

        The captain could have pulled back his troops in an orderly retreat and maintained some control of
the situation. He could have ordered his men to attack full force, slain a few in the crowd with club and
sword, and perhaps broken the rising spirit. He did neither. Young and inexperienced, he dithered,
shouting at his men to hold the line, for it seemed to him that he had no other option. Retreat equaled
disgrace, and he felt he could not order his men to slaughter the folk they were sworn to defend. He
hesitated, and was lost.

       One of the constables was suddenly pulled from his horse; he vanished under the fists and
pounding feet of the crowd around him. A roar went up like a great carnivorous beast giving tongue at
the scent of blood.

       A simple shift in perspective, an epiphanic flash of a shared singleness of purpose, and the crowd
was no longer a crowd, was no longer a mass of individuals who chanced to stand together on this street
on this day. Each man, each woman, dwarf and elf, ogrillo am sprite, had all become single cells in some
massive hive mind, al most a single organism—an organism that was hungry.

       In seconds another constable was down, then another. And thei the company had broken, and
they turned to flee under a pursuin; hail of flying cobblestones and jeers.

       When full darkness fell, the mob owned the street. The flames o buildings would be its sun, and the
stores of the rich would be it: table.

      It was hungry, and it had all night in which to feed.

       Twohousehold knights pushed him ahead of them into the Shifting Room, and one of them yanked
the bellpull for the nintl floor before joining the others within. A whip crack came faintly uj the shaft,
followed by a slow-oiled creak of rope as the ogres belov pushed against the donkey wheel and the
Shifting Room begai to rise.

       Caine rode it silently, hands clasped behind his back, avoiding the eyes of the soldiers around him.
For their part, they watchec him intently, occasionally licking nervous sweat from their uppei lips, hands
moist on the hilts of their scabbarded shortswords. The) knew him by reputation and were taking no
chances. Once he janglec the chains of his manacles, just to watch them jump; they did no disappoint
him. He chuckled dryly, without humor.

      He felt too old to laugh.

       Old and frightened: not for himself, not fear for his own life He'd always known he'd die on
Overworld. He'd had a few days tc get used to the idea of dyingsoon, dying now, dying like Talann like
the priest of Rudukirisch at the Ritual of Rebirth; dying because he was utterly overmatched.

      He was afraid he was going to screw up, somehow.

      On the sand at the Brass Stadium he could act without hesitatior because he'd seen his goal before
him, solid in front of his eyes and the path between where he was and where he needed to be was
physical, was an actual expanse of dirt and stone.

       But now, though his goal burned like the sun before his eyes— Shanna, safe on Earth—the path
from here to there was only a thici fog of possibility. He was vastly too far from his goal to choose the
safe path toward it, and deep within his chest he knew that there was only one that threaded through to
Shanna's life, one among a million choices. Even that single safe trail was lined with quicksand and pits full
of sharpened stakes, and it was patrolled by monsters that hungered for her life.

      Inch toward daylight,he told himself, along with his other subsurface mantras:Pretend you know
what you 're doing. Never let them see you sweat.

       The thick-beamed ninth floor slid down across the doorway of the Shifting Room and stopped;
two more Household Knights met his keepers at the door. The first soldier to get out had to step up, but
the room lifted a few inches when each man left it. By the time Caine came out they had to help him
down. The steel bar between the bilboes that held his ankles wouldn't let him take that large a step.

      They exchanged passwords with the guards who stood by the door to the Dusk Tower, then
stooped to remove the shackles from his legs. It was a long climb up spiral stairs.

       Going up with two soldiers in front of him and two behind, Caine slowly became aware of a smell
up there, an electric scent of charged metal that brought a bitter tang to the back of his throat. As they
came closer to the top, to the open door, he also caught a whiff of sulphur and decay, like a corpse half
mummified by the fumes from a volcanic fissure.

      Two men stood in the room at the top of the stairs, sidelit by a languidly wavering lamp flame,
watching him approach: Toa-Sytcll and—

      "Hey, Berne," Caine said, faking cheerful mockery. "I wondered what the smell was."

      "Keep laughing, goatfucker," Berne replied evenly. "Your turn'll come."

      "That's what my mother always said."
      Toa-Sytell spoke colorlessly to the lead soldier. "Unbind his hands."

      The soldier frowned. "You're sure—?"

      "Ma'clKoth wills it so. Free him and go."

        The soldier shrugged and unlocked the manacles, then he and the others trooped away down the
stairs. Caine listened to them go while he made a show of picking the shreds of skin off his wrists, where
they'd been scraped by the manacles' rough edges.

      "Where have you been, these past two days?" Toa-Sytell demanded.

      Caine ignored him, walking to the window and peering out. Clouds had come in with the twilight,
and now they took on a ruddy glow from the fires beneath. Far-off shouts came clearly on the wind, and
in some of them he could hear the faint chant"Ak-tir...Ak-tir..."

       The Subjects were holding up their end of the bargain; if only he could find a bare chance to hold
up his own...

      "Nice view," he said.

      "I want ananswer" Toa-Sytell said, with more heat than Caine had ever heard from him.

        Caine turned and sat against the windowsill, regarding the shadowed, backlit faces of his enemies.
"Here's news, Duke. I don't have to tell you shit. You can get your answers from Ma'elKoth, if he feels
like giving them."

       Berne took a step forward, his hand creeping up his chest toward where the hilt of Kosall
projected above his shoulder. "You little fuck. I should kill you right now."

      "You look kinda stiff, Berne. Did Talann cut you a couple times?"

      Berne's pale eyes darkened dangerously, but his voice came out light. "Was that her name? She
died before she could tell me. Her last words were 'Please, please, Berne, fuck me like an animal.' "

       Caine shook his head and fought to make his snarling bared teeth look like a smile. "You're such a
baby. It's a shame I can only kill you once."

        Berne took another step forward. Caine grinned and lifted his hands, turning them this way and
that as though displaying jewelry. "Too late. You should have done me while my arms were still tied. You
might have had a chance."

        He poised himself bonelessly against the windowsill. One wild lunge from Berne, and Caine was
fairly certain he could topple the sonofabitch right out the window at his back.Let's see how that
Buckler of yours works when you hit the street at terminal velocity.

       Toa-Sytell laid a gently restraining hand on Berne's arm. "Answers from Ma'elKoth?" he said.
"Are you saying that Ma'elKothknows! That my search has been a, some kind of a, anentertainment! Is
this merely for amusement, or part of some larger game?"

      Hey, why not?Caine thought,confusion to the enemy. "Don't get pissy, Toa-Sytell. God, you may
have heard, moves in mysterious ways."

       "He's playing you," Beme said. "Ma'elKoth doesn't work like that. He's always been straight with
us, and you know it."

      Caine looked from one to the other.Beme and Toa-Sytell have suddenly become an "us"?

      That alone was enough to twist his stomach even tighter.

       He nodded toward the massive black iron door that dominated the north wall, its cold-worked
surface incised with gleaming silver runes. "Ma'elKoth's in there?"

      Berne smirked. "He's not the only one—

      Toa-Sytell hissed him to silence. "Let him learn for himself."

        Caine's mouth went dry and chill as though he breathed a wind across an arctic desert. Blood sang
in his ears. "Pallas..." he murmured, and for the stretching eternity between one thundering beat of his
heart and the next, all the rational parts of his mind were driven offby the bloody imagery of half-forgotten
tales of the Iron Room.

       There wasn't a tavern in Ankhana, maybe not one in the Empire, where you couldn't raise a
pleasing shiver and goose bumps on a warm night just by mentioning its name. The knots in his guts
would have been far less tight if he'd learned they'd put her in the Theater of Truth.

      On the other hand, the thought of walking in there himself didn't bother him at all, not if going there
gave him the shadow of a chance to help her.

      He pushed himself off the sill, but Berne and Toa-Sytell together blocked his path to the door.

      "When Ma'elKoth desires your company, he will summon you," Toa-Sytell said.

      Caine replied, "You want to get out of my way."

       "Wait till you're called," Berne said, stepping close to tower over Caine. "He doesn't like to be
interrupted."

       Caine looked up into Berne's ice blue eyes, close enough that with a simple twist of his head he
could sink his teeth into the swordsman's throat. Though the old familiar fury still burned within his chest
and the diamondine lust to tear Berne's limbs ragged and spurting from his body had not slackened, he
was a world away from doing anything as reckless and stupid as he had on the gaming floor at
Kierendal's. Instead he found within himself a cold and level purity of intention: everything for Shanna.

       "Funny how things change in just a couple days," he said ally. "I can imagine a future in which
you're still alive tome Berne."

      Berne snorted contemptuously, his breath heavy with "Just stay away from that fucking door."

       Caine leaned to one side to frown at the door around Be shoulders. "What, that one?" He flicked
a humorous glance ways at Toa-Sytell, reached out, and tapped lightly with tw gers upon the Duke's
chest.
       "Hey, Toa-Sytell. Thought you told me once that I shoi bother to hope that I'd ever catch you
within arm's length."

      For one brief second, Toa-Sytell stiffened, remembering Cr< death in the Monastery. In that
second Caine was able to straigh him out of the way and slip past Berne's shoulder.

      He reached the door and grasped the enormous Ouroboro; of the knocker, lifting it with a grunt of
effort—

      "Caine,don'tl" Berne gasped from behind him, an unexp note of honest panic in his voice that
sparked, for Caine,; smile.

       He grinned back over his shoulder: Berne and Toa-Sytell stood where they'd been, faces
identically pale, their hands ou ploringly as though they'd stop him if they dared, but feared to i a sudden
move that might startle him into letting the knocker fa "You don't know..." Toa-Sytell said hoarsely, "you i
knowwhat might be in there —!"

      "Shit," Caine said with a laugh. "All right, relax, you bigbi I won't knock."

      Instead, he yanked the door open.

       The smell from within was all blood and old shit, washed c with salt water, and sharp cedar from
the coals that smolder the braziers. The high-ceilinged room was broad enough to t back an echo from
the scrape of Caine's boots, but when M Koth rose and turned majestically toward the door, the room
sF like a receding dream, as though there was no place within i yond the reach of the Emperor's arm.

      "Caine. Come in. Shut the door behind you."

      Caine flicked a shrugging glance back at the two behind Berne and Toa-Sytell each managed to
look awestruck and vaj alarmed and deeply suspicious all at once.

      He winked at them and went in.

      the door's slambehind him made the whole room ring like a gong.

      Ma'elKoth drifted toward him, a human thunderhead. "I have been awaiting your return."

        He wore a veil, a drape of some kind of mesh that covered him from head to foot like a kid
playing ghost with a sheet over his head; from the lower hem of this mesh sheet hung four large, irregular,
shiny black rocks that looked like griffinstones. Beneath the transparent mesh he was naked save for the
tight leather knee breeches that he'd worn beneath his robes for the Ritual of Rebirth. Sweat glistened
across his breathtaking musculature as though he'd been oiled like a bodybuilder, and it darkened the
ends of his bristling beard as well as the lower third of the mane of chestnut hair that curled to his
shoulder blades.

       "I will be interested in some answers from you, Caine," he said, and there remained no trace of his
usual paternal indulgence. If distant thunder could be made into precise words, broken into clipped and
overarticulated speech, it would have the impersonal, dispassionately threatening sound of Ma'elKoth's
voice.
       "Pallas Ril is your lover. Pallas Ril is Simon Jester."

       The Emperor towered over Caine like a mountain poised on the brink of avalanche. His mask of
calm began to break, cracked from the inside by the swell of outraged veins in his massive neck. "You
will regret having deceived me, Caine."

      Caine barely heard this threat. It had no meaning for him, could have no meaning. Beyond the
Emperor, a slim form, bound nude upon the table-sized block of bloodstained limestone, held the
universe's hope of meaning upon its still and silent breast.

       Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the circle of grey-brown exposed stone of the ceiling above
her. Her hands had been tied together stretched above her head; her ankles were tied similarly, by ropes
that looped through heavy iron rings on the floor nearby. Her body was mottled with bruise, so many
small insults upon her precious flesh that they'd blended together into one. Linen that once had been white
stretched tight across her chest; it was now crusted with brown, shading to wet-gleaming crimson. But
mostly what held Caine was her eyes, those eyes—

      They were open and they did not blink, and he could not make himself care what Ma'elKoth might
be about to do to him.

       It seemed that he stood there forever, motionless, timeless, t able to think, unable to breathe. Even
his heart paused for eternal instant while he lived wholly through his eyes.

       And thenher chest rose, slowly, gradually; when it fell aga Caine felt the dawn of a new day. With
her breath, his own i turned, and the world began to make sense once again.

     "But first," Ma'elKoth said, so close now that Caine could smi corruption on his breath, " will
knowwhere you have beenl"

      Caine shook himself back to the present. "What are you, n mother?" he said, trying for the cheerful
mockery he'd used wi Berne. A flash of movement gave him barely enough warning begin to roll with it
as Ma'elKoth's open hand slapped him spi ning irresistibly, tumbling and skidding across the iron floor.

       Holy shit,he thought dizzily as he tried to unravel the stunnt tangle of his limbs and reach his feet.
This is a problem...

        Ma'elKoth pounced on him like a hunting cat. The Emper yanked him into the air by huge handfuls
of his leather jerkin ai shook him the way a terrier shakes a rat to snap its spine. Evei single one of
Caine's wounds screamed pain at him, and the sho of agony seemed to clear his mind.

       All at once, he became aware of a number of things:

       One: He was about to die, here. If Ma'elKoth didn't get an ai swer that satisfied him, he'd beat him
to death with his bai hands—and there was no answer that Caine could give.

       Two: Ma'elKoth was using his bare hands not merely from rag but becausehis magic was
inaccessible. The net—this was silvi mesh that he wore over his head, just like the suit Arkadeil ha worn
in the Theater of Truth, just like the veils that Konnos had ii vented. It must be cutting him off from the
Flow. This was how\ knew who Pallas was and knew that she was Simon Jester: tf silver net protected
him from the Eternal Forgetting.
      Three, most important, dizzying, staggering in its implication Cut off from the power that made him
what he was, Ma'elKol was vulnerable.

       Caine could kill him.

       Right now. Right here.

       He'd never get a better chance.

       Even without the knives that the Household Knights had conn; cated, despite the enormous power
of the sheerly physical sort hel within Ma'elKoth's massive body, despite being a foot and a ha shorter
and about half the weight of this man-god, Caine had a chance, had a good chance.

       Maybe his only chance.

       Right now.

       Ma'elKoth shook him again—the room spun and jittered crazily around him—and roared into his
face. "Where? Answer me! Where have you been?"

       "All right," Caine said, "all right—"

        Ma'elKoth shifted his grip to hold him in the air by only one hand, while he drew back the other in
a fist the size of a catapult stone. Caine got his own hands, both of them, up in front of his face in time to
absorb some of the thundering force of this punch. Instead of breaking his neck, it only shot stars through
his vision. A hot rush of blood filled his mouth from his smashed nose and teeth-cut lips.

      "Ma'elKoth, stop!" Caine said with as much force as he could press through his half-stunned slur.
"You'll kill me...and thenyou 'II never know —'

      Ma'elKoth held him there, his feet dangling loosely below him; his mighty chest heaved like a
bellows as he worked air in and out through teeth clenched so tightly that scarlet patches overlay his
bulging jaw.

      "Itrusted you, Caine," he ground out. "I do not give My trust lightly to any man. I will have My
answer, or I will have your life."

       Caine met his smoldering gaze with a flat stare of his own. "Put me down."

       Ma'elKoth's face went from red to white with rage. For a long moment Caine's life teetered on a
knife's edge, but Ma'elKoth suffered from a curse that plagues all brilliant men: he had to know.

      Slowly, struggling with his anger, he lowered Caine to the iron floor; slowly he opened the fist that
held Caine's jerkin.

       "Speak, then."

       Caine pretended to straighten his clothing; he pretended that wiping the blood from his lips really
mattered; this gave him the space of two breaths to rake Ma'elKoth with his eyes, deciding where to hit
him first.
       His knee, the joint vulnerable behind the tight leather; his bulging groin; the nerve cluster behind his
solar plexus—? No: the bare hint of skin-covered cartilage that showed between the cabled muscles of
his throat. A handspear or a phoenix fist, either one, quick and sharp. Even if the larynx didn't break, the
muscles around it would clamp down in reaction: he wouldn't be able to y alarm. Then it would be flesh
against flesh, bone against bone against man: on those terms, Caine would not allow himself tc Ma'elKoth
would die before the altar on which he'd Pallas Ril.

      And yet, poised here on the cusp between killing and c knowing full well that if he did not attack,
Ma'elKoth wouk him no other opportunity, looking up into the rage-poisoned of this giant man-god,
Caine thought inexplicably of H coming upon Claudius the King at prayer:Now might I do i now he is
a-praying...

      Images cascaded through his mind: the fight, the death of IV Koth, freeing Pallas Ril, opening the
door of the Iron Roon find Berne and Toa-Sytell outside, whom he cannot kill before shouts alert the
Household Knights at the foot of the s Ma'elKoth is not the Wicked Witch of the West, that his retc
would cheer his death and let his killers go merrily on their wa was loved. He was revered...

       He was, in fact, a damned good Emperor.

      And he's one of the few men I've ever met that I respect,( thought,and one of the fewer still that
kind of, even, admire.

        A good man? No, clearly not; but then, neither was Caine he well knew it. But Ma'elkoth was
better than most; intellect honest, at least, aware of his own brutality, and with the good i subjects at
heart...

      Kill him now, kill him here, what happens? Ma'elKoth Caine dies, Pallas dies, maybe Berne,
maybe Toa-Sytell, m hundreds of thousands more in the Second Succession Wai will surely follow. Who
wins?

       The Studio wins: a massive, destructive civil war is exactly they've been hoping for.

       Kollbergwins.

       That, Caine decided, was not an acceptable outcome.

        His father had told him to forget the rules. He'd shrugged i He'd never paid much attention to rules
in the first place. But he found that therewere rules he'd lived by, rules that had i Caine what he was,
patterns of behavior, trip wires of whk wasn't even aware. Now it came as a startling revelation:

       Maybe I don't have to kill him.

       Not only did he not have to kill Ma'elKoth here, he didn't to kill him at all. That was a Cainc
pattern: when threatened, kill. But he could choose not to be a slave to his own past.

       Maybe here in the prison of the Iron Room, he'd found another kind of freedom.

       Everyone thinks Caine is all of me; that's my edge.

      Step outside the Caine patterns—he'd already begun. Maybe if he stayed outside, circledaround
them, so to speak, used the patterns themselves as a weapon—those patterns that determined what
friends and enemies both expected of him, what they thought he was capable of—he could have it all.

         Why settle for less than everything?

      Save Shanna. Save himself. Pull the King of Cant out of the shit-hole he'd dumped him into. Get
Kollberg. And screw the Studio: save the Empire from another Succession War.

       He saw a chance, a vague and misty path through the fog, so dangerous that the mere thought of it
stopped his breath. But he'd already started along that path—he'd been pushing through it blindly, picking
his way among the pits and the mires—and now the sun had risen within him, and the fog had begun to
bum away. He saw that he wasalready doing it right: he was already on a path that led to everything, if
he only had the guts to risk it all. The slightest hesitation, the vaguest stirrings of fear, and he'd be lost.
The demons that patrolled this path would close in and rend him at the first hint of uncertainty, but he
didn't mind that at all.

         There was one Caine pattern that he'd never change: when in doubt, go for it.

         A wild grin took over Ms face.

       "You know what?" he said brightly into the teeth of Ma'elKoth's expectant fury. "I don't think I'm
going to kill you."

       Ma'elKoth's eyes widened, then his brows drew together. "Of course you won't. What makes you
think you could?"

         "Let me put it this way: I'm hoping I won't have to."

         "No games, Caine. I am waiting for your answer."

       "You've been here all day, haven't you? Must be frustrating, questioning her with that net over your
head. No wonder you're in a temper. Kind of funny, if you think about it: With the net, you can't use your
magick to force the answers out of her. Without the net, you can't remember what questions you want to
ask, or even why you' ve tied her up here. So, what are you left with? Pain? You know in advance that
won't mean much to an adept."

         Ma'elKoth grunted. "I haven't touched her. The bruise from her capture."

         A knot loosened in his chest. "Then what's wrong with her said. "Why does she just stare like
that?"

         "Caine, I am a patient man," Ma'elKoth rumbled dangerc "but not today."

         "Yeah, no shit. Me neither. Listen, if you keep that net might just go ahead and beat you to death."

        One eyebrow lifted, and a corner of Ma'elKoth's mouth qui fury had become amusement without
transition. "Oh?"

        "Yeah. You know I can; I mean, for all your size and stre you're no warrior. Without your magick,
I'll drop you like a b rocks."

         "You would never escape the palace."
       Caine shrugged. "I've done it before."

       Ma'elKoth pursed his lips while he considered that.

       "Just so," he said at length. "And why is it that you tell me tl "Making a point, Ma'elKoth."And
getting your attentio where I've been. "If I meant you harm, I could have your life. F now." He opened
his hands, showed them to Ma'elKoth in a ture of innocence. "I also want you totake off that net."

      "And why is this? Do not hope that this spell that protects lover will win her release. I may forget
why she is bound here, will not forget the use of this net, and that by putting on this net learn the identity
of Simon Jester."

      "Nah, nah, nah, that's not it at all. First, she's not my lover, dumped me months ago. Second, she's
not Simon Jester—m the sense of being the mastermind who's protecting the enemii the Empire."

       "Come now, Caine. Berne himself—"

       "Is an idiot, and you know it. Heassumed she was; she n bothered to correct his mistake. She's
protecting the real one."

     "Hmpf." Ma'elKoth looked away now, then back. "At one t he thought that the real Simon Jester
wasyou."

       Caine snorted. "I'm not that smart. Neither, obviously, is he. I can tell you who is."

       Ma'elKoth folded his massive arms. "And?"

       The lie came out smoothly, without hesitation. "It's the Kin Cant."

       "Impossible," Ma'elKoth said instantly. "Duke Toa-Sytell"Has been completely fooled. I have it
from the mouth of Majesty himself."

       "But...but..." Ma'elKoth frowned, sputtering.

     Caine almost laughed out loud; he'd never imagined he'd see the Emperor at a loss for words. "Do
you want to know what they're doing right now? Take off the net."

       "I don't see—

       "Of course you don't," Caine snapped. "You've spent the whole fucking day in a room with no
windows, a room that makes everybody crap their pants just thinking aboutknocking to tell you what's
going on outside! And then you can't feel anything in the Flow because you've buried your head in this
damned net of yours. You want to be a god to your Children, Ma'elKoth? Well, there's thousands of
themscreaming for you as we speak. You want to step outside andlook? Half your fucking city's on
fire right now!"

       "Fire?" Ma'elKoth said, sounding suddenly young and vulnerable, like a small boy caught half
asleep. As though they moved of their own volition, his hands lifted and caught at the netting from the
inside, pulling it down over his head, taking long strands of his curling hair with it, dragging them across
his face, ripping the hairs from his head with faint tearing sounds that Caine could barely hear but that
must have buzzed like harsh static inside Ma'elKoth's skull.

       When it came free he cast the net blindly aside. He lifted his head like a hunter who's heard the
far-off call of his prey, and he froze in that position as though he'd been turned to salt.

      He said once, softly, "Ahhh..."

      Caine took a breath, then another. Ma'elKoth wasn't moving, wasn't even breathing: he stared into
some impossible distance, his face as blank as a river-smoothed stone.

      For a long moment, Caine was held every bit as tightly as Ma'elKoth; then he forced himself to
look away, forced himself to turn and move, to walk over beside the altar upon which Pallas Ril was
bound.

       Her eyes stared wide and vacant; they looked as empty as Caine's chest felt, hollow and lifeless.
Dried blood crusted her nostrils, and her hair was matted, still tangled with twigs and scraps of weed
from the river. His hand went to her face, to gently pull a weed from her hair, but some savagely cynical
part of his brain sneered at him,Sure, you can touch her now, now that she's tied down. He jerked his
hand back, his face heating up with unaccountable shame.

        "Pallas..." he murmured, softly so that Ma'elKoth migh hear, and he lowered his head over her to
ga/.e into her empty < "Pallas, where are you?"

       At his words, her chest filled as though with an incoming and she inhaled consciousness along with
her breath.

      "Caine..." she said. In her voice were distant inexpres echoes of meaning, far beyond anything he'd
even attempt to i pret. "You're so alive..."

      His eyes stung madly. "I don't understand—

     "I'm safe, Caine," she said, barely audible, looking at hi) though from far, far away. "I cannot be
harmed...Save yourseli "Pallas..." he said helplessly.

      As the light faded once more within her eyes, she said fai " understand now, so many things...We
should have been pier...I'm so sorry for your pain..."

        She returned to whatever mysterious place within herself i which she had just come, and she took
all of his heart with her.

      /swear to you that will make it right. All of it. I swear.

      He could only stand and stare, immobile, frozen with agoni dreams of happiness, until a step came
behind him and Ma'elK< monstrous hand closed on the back of his neck like the jaws dragon.

      "What have you DONE? "

       The weight of the Emperor's arm forced Caine to his ki beside the altar. The power of his grip
strangled Caine's v( "Ma'elKoth...what...?"

      "My Children scream in pain and fear; they writhe in panic bleed out their lives in misery and
terror; andyou have done th Maybe I should have killed him while I had the chance, C thought with
a sickening lurch.

      And then, belatedly:How does he know?

       He tried to struggle, to speak and deny the truth, but Mi Koth's grip had crushed the speech from
his throat and blockei blood flow like a garrote; the room darkened around him.

        "Their torment echoes within My heart; it tears like sa' talons into My belly. I brought this upon
them, I, I who would from the Tree of Gods for them! This has happened becau brought you to
Ankhana, because slaughter follows you as in tably as crows pursue an army. , who knew this, Drew you
to city to rid Me of a minor irritant, something less than a thorn, than the prick of a spider's bite, and now
I am undone..."

       His voice scaled down from apocalyptic fury to a kind of puzzled anguish, and his glorious eyes
filled with gemlike tears. "My people cry out to Me to save them, to ease their suffering. Others plead
with their lesser gods, but to whom do I turn? To whom? I have set Myself among the gods, and now
there is no one upon whom I can call to bear witness to My pain."

      The hand released his neck, and Caine collapsed bonelessly, sucking in great gulps of air while the
room brightened within his eyes.

       He understood now: Ma'elKoth didn't know of Caine's direct involvement, here. This was some
sort of metaphorical responsibility; Ma'elKoth seemed to think that Caine had caused this simply by
being here, and Caine didn't see any reason to correct this delusion.

       Towering above him like the titanic icon in the Great Hall, the Emperor raised a fist as though to
crush Caine like a roach and lowered it again. His face sagged into painful loathing, as though Caine were
a mirror in which he saw himself and could not bear the sight. "I will make of Myself something worse
than you, if I slay you for this, My crime," he said.

      Caine pushed himself back up to his knees, waited another moment for the spinning in his head to
subside, then rose and dusted himself off again.

      The trick to handling this guy,he thought,is to keep him so pissed he can't think straight. All the
brains in the world do you no good if you 're too angry to use them.

      "What I want to know is," he said deliberately, "when did you turn into such a whiner?"

     Ma'elKoth's mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes bulged like the veins in his neck. "You
dare?"

     "I dare fucking near anything," Caine said. "That's why you need me. Why don't you stop
whimpering anddo something?"

      "Do—?" Ma'elKoth said, while lightning flickered within his eyes. "I will show you what I can do."

      Ma'elKoth reached for Caine with such smooth inevitability that he couldn't even think of dodging
the Emperor's grasp. His fingers once again closed upon the front of Caine's tunic and lifted him into the
air.
       Y'know,Caine thought numbly,I'm getting pretty damn sick and tired of being manhandled
like this.

      Ma'elKoth raised his eyes to the ceiling and gestured with his free hand; then without warning his
knees bent and heleaped, springing upward as though Caine's weight and his own bulk had no meaning
to him, upthrough the solid stone of the ceiling.

        Caine flinched involuntarily as the limestone rushed down toward his head, but he passed through
it as though it were nothing more than thick pale mist, up into the smoke-reeking air of the city's night.
Ma'elKoth set him gently on the once-again-solid stone beneath him; they now stood together atop the
Dusk Tower of the Colhari Palace.

        From the city around them volcanic columns of smoke and ash boiled upward, straight toward the
clear, still stars—stars that faded one by one behind the thickening pall, until the only light on the streets
of Ankhana was a frenzy of nightmare orange cast by the flames of burning buildings.

      "Not the faintest breath of breeze," Ma'elKoth growled to himself, "and still it spreads. Still it
grows."

       "Yeah, no kidding," Caine said dryly. "Did you think any of those areaccidents!"

      Ma'elKoth drew himself up, and his chest expanded as though it would burst. Something wild and
elemental entered his eyes; they cast a light that Caine could see upon stone around him, green as
sunshine through an emerald.

       "Do they think I'll stand idly by and let them burn My city?"

      Before Caine could answer, Ma'elKoth raised his hand to the heavens as though grasping power
from above. Caine had seen this gesture before in the Great Hall, and he threw himself out of the way as
Ma'elKoth's fist stroked forward. Thunder cracked around them so loudly that the very stone trembled
beneath their feet.

      Far, far away, at the easternmost tip of Old Town below Six-tower, the flames that leaped from a
huge building suddenly stilled— snuffed as though they had never been; not even smoke rose from its
hulk.

      Christ Almighty,Caine thought, shaking his head against the ringing in his ears that was nearly as
loud as the thunder had been. He couldn't evenimagine the mechanism behind this feat. Nothing he knew
of magick would allow it.

       Does he have any limits at all?

       As Ma'elKoth once again lifted his hand to the sky, Caine said, "That's kind of stupid, don't you
think?"

     The Emperor wheeled on him, his hand still upraised, and his glare smoked green. "Have a care,
Caine—

      "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Threaten me some other time, all right? Think about what you'redoing,
Ma'elKoth! Are you planning to stand up here all night and throw power around fornothing! An hour
from now,less probably, every fire you snuff will be burning again, bigger and better than before."
        His hand slowly lowered and the light in his eyes began to fade. "This is true. This is too true; I
attack a too-limited area of the problem. Astorm,'" he said desperately, "a storm is the answer, a
thunder-head to douse the fires and drive the rioters indoors, but...but I have sent the weather to Kaarn.
It will takehours to call a storm...And meanwhile Ankhana burns; cannot snuff the fires while I call the
storm, and I cannot call the storm while I..." His voice trailed off; Caine could almost feel sorry for the
man, for the real anguish he so obviously felt.

      "Yeah, too bad. I got news for you. That's not the worst of your problems."

      "There'smorel"

       Caine nodded. "See, you're only looking at the outside. All you're seeing is the results. You have
to look deeper for the causes. You know where these riots come from?"

      "From, from, I suppose from fear—

        "That's right," Caine said. He squinted out over the city and took a deep breath to time the pause
just right.

      "Fear that you're anAktir."

      He swung his gaze back toward Ma'elKoth, letting it sink in.

     The Emperor looked like he'd been clubbed. Some constriction of the throat allowed him only a
monosyllabic gasp. "How?"

      "You did it to yourself," Caine explained, trying not to look like he was enjoying this. "YourAktir
hunt has your people terrified. You did such a good job, whipping up fear of theAktiri, that it was pretty
simple to twist that around into fear ofyou. I'm telling you, it's the King of Cant behind it all."

      He squinted at the Emperor's face, trying to read comprehension behind the pain. Was he getting
through to him? He had to deliver this information now, while it still had value as intelligence; the King's
Eyes would be reporting all this within hours, and then it would be too late.

       "It's easy to spread a rumor in this town: at least half the beggars in Ankhana are Subjects of
Cant," he went on. "And it's no wonder people believe it. YourAktir hunt has trained people to be
suspicious of anything that is unusual or inexplicable about their neighbors, trained them to be constantly
on the lookout forAktiri. Am y'know, there's a lot of stuff about you that people find a litt creepy."

      Was he buying it?

      "But this isabsurd —!" Ma'elKoth insisted. "Why would I, wh have done so much...?"

      Caine reached out and laid a hand on the Emperor's sweat-slk arm. He looked into Ma'elKoth's
eyes and shook his head pit; ingly. "You're looking at itrationally, Ma'elKoth. You're lookin for a
reasonable answer to an unreasonable situation. You'll nev< get there from here."

      "But surely, eventually, they'll remember—"

      "Yeah.Eventually. But by that time, the city's in ashes, an every last surviving noble is openly at
war with you. The who! Empire goes down in flames. The way I see it, you have on chance. Break the
Kingdom of Cant. You have maybe twenty-foi hours, no more."

        Ma'elKoth's hand blindly sought Caine's and engulfed i "Twenty-four hours..."

       "You have to stop himnow, before it gets out of control. Yo have to stop him before the nobles
get into the act."

       "I will. Iwill stop him. I will flood the city with troops; I'll bur the Warrens to the ground if I must.
This should have been don years ago."

        "And you'll fail." Caine licked blood from his lips and force down a creeping smile.

      It wasn't so different from fighting, what he did here on thi tower—combat of another sort,
perhaps, but still combat. He wa fighting for his life, for Shanna's life, and for Majesty's. Hours age he
had thought he was betraying his best friend; now, if he coul only swing Ma'elKoth in the right direction,
he would reverse tha betrayal. He'd make every lie he had told Majesty into the truth.

        He had to keep Ma'elKoth away from the military solution fo one simple, awful reason: it would
work.

      Think of this as combat,he told himself. His usual tactics wouli serve him as well here as they did in
hand-to-hand. Attack attacl attack—come at your target from every possible direction anc press until his
defenses overload. Never give him time to recove his balance: never give him time to counter.

       Looking at this like a fight gave him confidence. He knew tha every solution Ma'elKoth offered
was only a parry, a block, anc like their combat equivalents these parries and blocks created other
openings through which he could strike. An all-out military assault on the Kingdom of Cant would
certainly succeed; Caine had to ensure it wouldn't be attempted, at least not yet.

       "You can't catch the King with the army," he said. "The Subjects of Cant are masters of the
caverns under the city. There're miles of them, y'know. At the first hint of military response they'll go
underground—literally—and it'll take days, maybe weeks to root them out. You don't have that much
time."

     "I do not need it," Ma'elKoth said. "I can Draw this man as I Drew you, Caine. I will put forth My
power—

        "Yeah? If it's so easy, why couldn't you findme this past day or two?"

     A vein pulsed in Ma'elKoth's forehead. Muscle bulged at the corners of his jaw, and he made no
answer.

        "I'll tell you why," Caine said. "I was with the King of Cant."

      "Where?Where was this? Where were you?" Ma'elKoth lunged and once again those gigantic
hands shot out to grab him, but this time Caine slipped aside and skipped behind the Emperor's rush.
Ma'elKoth wheeled on him, and Caine stepped back with his hands up.

      "Now just fuckingstop it," Caine said. "You don't want to put your hands on me again,
Ma'elKoth. I've been very understanding so far, but don't push me. You're starting to make me angry."
      Ma'elKoth drew himself up. "You will give the answers I require or I shall teach you what anger is,
Caine."

         "Guess I should have known better than to expect an apology, huh?" Caine said without humor.
"It's like this: you know how the rock around the Donjon impedes Flow? All the rock beneath the city
acts the same way, and the Subjects know it—that's why they use the caverns. The King of Cant's house
thaumaturge, Abbal Paslava, is a sharp character—a lot of this has been his idea from the first—and he's
found some caves that are so deep that Flow never touches them at all."

       "The power of My will, foiled by mererock'? I don't believe it."

       "No? Then how come you couldn't find me?" Caine said simply.

       Ma'elKoth scowled and didn't answer.

       "It's this simple: the only way you will root Majesty out of those caverns is by brute force, and you
don't have time. Go for him now with the army and you're throwing away the one real advantage you
have right now:He doesn't know what you know. He doesn't know that you know he's Simon Jester,
that he's behind the who thing. It's your shot, Ma'elKoth. It's your big chance. You have I bait him out."

         Ma'elKoth looked out over his city, and its fires burned withi his eyes. "But how? How can I do
this in time?"

       Caine chuckled. "That's the easy part. You have Pallas Ri right?"

     Ma'elKoth turned to him, frowning, his eyes clouded one again. "Pallas Ril? Yes...yes, she is here.
What has she to do wit this?"

       "There's no way to explain it, Ma'elKoth. You'll just have t trust me on this. She's in this up to her
neck. She was capture while helping theAktiri escape, remember?"

       "Yes, ah, yes. This is the action of that spell...I feel its pull—

       "Anyway, listen, this doesn't matter. I'll tell you what doe; Majesty is counting on that spell to
frustrate your interrogation. H has no way of knowing that you've got a way to beat it with th< silver net
of yours."

       "Right, yes, the net—

       "You're still the Emperor. When you talk, people will lister You have all the pages of theImperial
Messenger-News to carr your word. You can summon the storm. Save the city. Then £ dawn, you send
every page and crier out with this call: At noor you will answer your critics. You will show who the evil
genius be hind our current troubles truly is. And you'll do it this way: At hig] noon, you'll take Pallas Ril
out into public somewhere—say, th new stadium, Victory Stadium on the south bank, where thousand
upon thousands of your citizens can bear witness—and you'll d that spell on her, the one that you used on
theAktiri that you cap tured within the palace. You'll kill her and magickally capture he memories. You're
doing it publicly so that everyone can see. Yoi have nothing to hide, right?"

       "But, but what good will this do...?"
       "None at all. You won't learn anything that you don't alread; know,but Majesty doesn't know
that. See? He'll have to act t< cover himself. He can't afford this kind of exposure. If he's pub licly
associated with theAktiri, the nobles won't rise with him, ani none of this comes off. You load the crowd
with Grey Cats ii civilian dress, and they take him when he moves."

       "You think he'll try to rescue Pallas Ril?" Ma'elKoth askei skeptically.

       "Shit, no," Caine said. "She's not even really the bait. You arc."

       "Ah..." Ma'elKoth's eyes went distant again. "Ah, I think I begin to understand..."

       "He's not interested in her at all. Oh, sure, he'll kill her if you give him the chance. But what he'll
really go for is the chance to killyou."

       "Will hehave a chance, Caine? Is this Paslava a thaumaturge of Pallas Ril's strength?"

       "Maybe, but I'll handle him tonight. Listen, I have a better idea," he said, as though it had only now
occurred to him. Caine knew Ma'elKoth would think of this on his own soon enough; he might as well
bring it up himself and score another point or two. "Why put yourself in danger at all? You're too
important to the Empire to do anything reckless. You can do those substantial illusions—
Fantasies—can't you? Like what's her name, that elf dyke who runs the Faces?"

       "Kierendal," Ma'elKoth said musingly. "Yes...yes, I believe I can."

      "Then there's no real reason for you to expose yourself at all. From right here on the Dusk Tower
you could create an illusion of yourself and make it move and speak and breathe just like the real thing.
You'd never be in the slightest danger. You could do the whole operation as a Fantasy. Shit, you don't
even need Pallas there: you can project an illusion of her, too. That wouldn't be too complicated for you,
would it?"

       Caine watched the wheels turn within Ma'elKoth's mind as he imagined the event from every
possible angle and through every conceivable outcome. "No," he said slowly. "No. Pallas must be in the
stadium in truth; there is a limit to what even I may convincingly accomplish with an illusion. The play of
light and shadow, the touch of a breeze in My hair, even My voice. Heard only with the mind, it must
perfectly counterfeit what would be heard by the ears. We can afford no slip; the slightest flaw would
signal Our ploy to Our enemy."

      "No, you can't," Caine said, his voice low and desperate. "You can't put her there. It's too
dangerous. Please."Please, he thought,don't throw po' li'l me into that briar patch... "I can help you,
Ma'elKoth. I can make this work for you. But if there's any danger to Pallas, we have no deal."

       Ma'elKoth stepped close to Caine to tower over him and gaze down deeply into his eyes. "So. In
the end, it comes down woman."

       Caine didn't answer; he didn't trust words to come i through the hammering of his heart.

       "I have nearly killed you twice within the hour," Ma'e murmured. "The King of Cant is, or was, one
of your friends. He has made you an honorary Baron of Cant, she you, shared bread, wine, and perhaps
his inmost thought! you betray him to me—for a woman. For Pallas Ril."

       "You have her. I want her," Caine said hoarsely. "Wh< works, you won't need her anymore. Give
her to me."

        "Why? You said that you are no longer lovers."

       "That was her choice, not mine." Caine squared his she and looked up into the Emperor's face
with level frankness.' her, Ma'elKoth. I always have. Alive, there's a chance change her mind about me."

       He let the truth of his words carry him away; if Ma'elKot that truth in his face, it would paint over
the cracks in his lies "Even after you have betrayed the King of Cant?"

        "Yeah. Even then. He betrayed her, first." Caine steppet and wrapped the truth around himself like
a flag. "She was nt this to be against you, Ma'elKoth. She never opposed the gi ment. She never hurt
anyone until the Cats started pouncing everywhere she went. All she wanted was to save the lives ol
innocent people."

        "None too innocent—" Ma'elKoth began, but Caine cut hi "Bullshit. She's not political, all right?
Whatever reasoi had for starting this whole thing, those people aren'tAktii know it, and so does she.
She's a...a, well..." Caine co through a sudden thickening in his throat. "She's a hero, Koth. Areal hero,
not like me—or you either, no offensi couldn't stand off and let innocents be killed, and that's th reason
she's involved in this in the first place."

        "Mmm," Ma'elKoth rumbled. "If she is such a hero, he she come to be the lover of a man like
you?"

        Caine shook his head and looked away. "I don't know. P she thought she could save me, too..."

       He realized that Ma'elKoth had led him off his thread,; forced his mind back onto the business at
hand. "The point the King of Cant saw an opportunity to strike at you throuj; through yourAktir hunt, he
saw a chance to bring down your house. She wouldn't go for it, not at all. That was never why she was in
this game in the first place. They quarreled, and she threatened to expose him. That's why he gave her up.
He couldn't betray her through Toa-Sytell—that would reveal his complicity. So he had Lamorak do it."

     Ma'elKoth's brows lifted. "Indeed? Lamorak has been in the pay of the King as well as the Cats?
How very enterprising."

      "Didn't you wonder why he blew the riverboat to you after you nearly had him tortured to death?"
This was a risk, but only a slight one; Caine was almost positive that it was Lamorak who had brought
the Cats to Knights' Bridge.

        "Yes," Ma'elKoth said slowly, "yes, I did. Now many things begin to come clear..."

       "You screwed Majesty's plans for real when you took her alive. That was one outcome he hadn't
planned on. To kill her himself would have been too raw for the rest of the Kingdom. They still have
some illusions of honor. He was gonna let Berne do the job for him, but Berne fucked it up. Pallas is still
alive. That's why he's had to move. That's why the riots, the story about you being anAktir. He has to hit
you hard before you break her, so that by the time you know who to hit back at, it's too late. You get it,
now?"

      "I see..." Ma'elKoth mused. "And once my illusionary Emperor has apparently slain Pallas in the
stadium, any of her surviving enemies will believe her dead, thus protecting her from reprisal."
       "Exactly," Caine said. "And we can go off and live happily ever after."

       "But if the King of Cant is her enemy, why does she still protect him then? Why does she resist
Me?"

       "She's a hero," Caine said simply, his mouth dry. "She can't do anything less. That's why I love her.
If you want my help, keep her here in the palace, out of danger."

       "I have explained to you the difficulty with this," Ma'elKoth began, but Caine cut him off with a
slash of his hand that was all too close to a killing strike.

        "Don't bitch to me about your problems," he said. "You're the one who wants to be a god; are you
telling me you can't do a simple fucking illusion to save your empire?"

       The Emperor scowled darkly. "You doubt My power?"

       "You 'rethe one with doubts," Caine countered.

       The Emperor's eyes went vague, his thoughts drifting noontide in a sunlit arena on the south bank.

     "Perhaps it can be done," he said at length. "Difficult; n< possible. No mortal could hope to
accomplish such a feal teresting challenge. But I can take no chance with Pa power has become extreme.
Without My will to block her, find a way to pierce My wards and reach the Flow once m<

       Caine shrugged. "Put her in the Donjon."

       Ma'elKoth frowned musingly. "I suppose—"

       "It's the safest place," Caine said easily. "And the rock\ her from pulling Flow."

       "Yes..." Ma'elKoth said slowly. "She can be kep Donjon safely enough, I believe."

      You just keep on believing that.He'd given in too easily he had other plans for her.That's all right,
Caine thought!

      Ma'elKoth's eyes focused on Caine once again. "It done. Even if the Fantasy fails, little will be lost.
No mattei come, I will still have the huge public forum in which to ac King of Cant; the risk is small.
Caine, have underestima You are thoroughly brilliant."

      The consideration in the Emperor's features hardened solve. "We shall do this thing. It will be a
simple matter to to 'lose' the apparent corpse of Pallas Ril before it is burn find another corpse of strong
resemblance to consign to th Caine, you have My gratitude. Once this affair is compl shall have more:
you shall have a title, and lands, and vass; your bidding. And you shall have the life of Pallas Ril."

       Holy shit,Caine thought in wonder.I did it. This might vicaine stood close to the altar where
Pallas was boun Ma'elKoth spoke to Toa-Sytell and Berne. He wished im] that there were something he
could do for her, right here a some way that he could, at least, cover her naked body. more for his own
comfort than for hers: she was far away that distant mystic place of her own, utterly dissociated frc went
on around her.

       He watched the eyes of Toa-Sytell and Berne as Ma paced around the Iron Room, issuing his
orders. Berne flicking wetly to Pallas' naked, bruised body tied to the altar. Once when he caught Caine
looking at him, he slowly and with obscene deliberation ran his tongue around the rim of his lips.

        A sole regret burned within Caine's stomach: his plan included no opportunity to personally murder
that sick motherfucker.

       Toa-Sytell's eyes, however, remained fixed on Ma'elKoth's impossibly beautiful face. Behind the
Duke's habitual mask of polite blankness lurked concern that bordered on fear. When Ma'elKoth
revealed that the true enemy was the King of Cant, blush flooded the Duke's face. "I don't believe it," he
muttered. "I don't believe it for one second."

       The Emperor rounded upon him. "Belief is not required of you, Toa-Sytell. Obedience, however,
is."

      "But, but...you don't understand!" Toa-Sytell stammered. "What word do you act upon but
Caine's? Have you forgotten the destruction that follows him everywhere? Have you forgotten the
Donjon? Have you forgotten theSuccession War?'

      Ma'elKoth stepped to him, towering over him, his face darkening as though a cloud had passed
before the sun.

      "I have not. Take care thatyou do not forget: I am Ma'elKoth. The Empire is Mine to risk, should
I choose. As is this city; as is your life, Toa-Sytell."

       The Duke didn't flinch, but he could not abide the Emperor's gaze. As soon as he dropped his
eyes, though, Ma'elKoth relented, laying an avuncular hand on Toa-Sytell's shoulder. "I understand your
concern, My Duke, but you should also recall that the destruction attendant upon Caine's presence has
always redounded to My benefit. It was the Succession War that brought Me to power; the slaughter in
the Donjon has brought Me to the brink of victory over My most troublesome adversary. I do not ask
you to place trust in Caine's word, but rather in My judgment."

      Berne stepped forward, a half sneer on his face as he chewed the inside of his lip. "And where'
Caine be during all this? Ask me, I'd lock him up here where you can keep an eye on him."

        "I did not ask you, Berne." Ma'elKoth bent down and lifted the net from where it lay piled on the
iron plates of the floor. He wrapped it about itself with a flick of his powerful wrist—the griffinstones
knotted into its hem gave it plenty of heft—and he tossed it as a bundle to Caine. "Caine has a part in
this, as well."

       Caine caught the net in one hand and tied it into a bundle as he spoke. "The one sticky point in the
plan is Abbal Paslava.

       They call him the Spellbinder—he's sort of the house wi: the Kingdom—"

       "We all know who he is," Toa-Sytell cut in dryly.

      "Well, he's a problem. He's a specialist in illusions and that. He might be able to detect
Ma'elKoth's Fantasy some even dispel it. That would blow the game for real."

       "And what do you intend to do about him?"
      Caine hefted the netting. "Kill him. It'll be easy enou trusted there, remember? I get him off alone,
throw this net < head so he can't defend himself, and one breath later our prc solved. I know more than a
few ways I can kill him that won a mark. Paslava's not a young man; if I tell Majesty that denly collapsed
and died in my arms, everyone will believe Berne directed his appeal to Ma'elKoth. "How do we kn he'll
do what he says? Why take the chance of letting h Ma'elKoth, I'm telling you—"

       "Fear not," Ma'elKoth rumbled. "I have taken Caine's n and not found him wanting: he will be true.
Toa-Sytell, y give the necessary orders for all other arrangements; yo complete authority in this matter.
Berne, you will have tl ready and present. Once the King of Cant is in My hands, i raise the matter of
Pallas Ril."

       Play it out,Caine thought. "Ma'elKoth, you promised—'

       "I did not. My word was given conditionally:once this a complete. Nothing is complete until I
have determined to M faction that Pallas Ril is no longer a threat to the Empire, dusk falls tomorrow, if
the city is calm again, I shall contin examination. If I can make certain that your tale is true, she released."

       "Released?" Berne looked stunned. "You can't!"

       "I can. I wifl. Caine, you have much to do. Go with Toa and arrange to escape from the iron
carriage as you are trans to the Donjon. You are to be convincing, but—" thunder ga upon the Emperor's
brow "—kill no one. Reserve your sla for Our enemies, and you shall be rewarded. Take the lives loyal
soldiers, and you shall be punished. Am I understood?' Caine shrugged irritably, snowing plain
displeasure. ' whatever."

        "Go then, all of you. I also have much to do; must su back the storm from Kaam to save the city.
It will be work ol hours, and then I must prepare the Fantasy for the morrow. G The three men
exchanged a glance: Caine's was grim, Toa-Sytell's bland, and Berne's openly venomous. Caine took a
deep breath and reluctantly headed for the door. It required a physical effort for him to step away from
Shanna's side. He set his teeth and didn't look back.

      Toa-Sytell beat him to the door and pulled it open for him. As they both stepped into the entry
room, Ma'elKoth rumbled behind them, "Berne, bide a moment."

       Caine turned back instantly. The image of Berne left behind in the Iron Room with Shanna while
Ma'elKoth wandered off to do his weather magick was so sickeningly potent that he couldn't help
himself. Ma'elKoth made an absent flicking gesture from across the room, and the door clanged shut in
his face.

       He stood for a moment, staring at the silver runes that spidered across the Ouroboros knocker,
trying to breathe, trying to recover his mental balance.

       "Caine."

      Toa-Sytell's voice had an unfamiliar intensity. When Caine looked back over his shoulder at the
Duke, Toa-Sytell's normally bland face had gone white with suppressed fury.

       "You've made me play the fool once before, Caine," Toa-Sytell hissed, "and a hundred thousand
people died in the Succession War—including my sons. I know you, Caine, and I will not be made the
fool twice. I do not know how it is that you've gulled Ma'elKoth, but I tell you this: I am not deceived. I
am watching you, Caine, and at the first hint of treachery I will see you dead."
      Caine met his fury with bared teeth. "You're just pissy 'cause I do your job better than you do.
Majesty conned you exactly the same way Lamorak conned Berne."

       "Be warned, Caine—

       "Y'know, if I were you, I'd be paying less attention to me, and a little more to covering your ass,
Toa-Sytell," Caine said, conspicuously backing off from the confrontation, becoming almost friendly. "I'm
going to give you some advice, Duke. Not because Ilike you, you understand, but because I think that
fundamentally, you're a decent man. You should be remembering who your friends are. You should be
thinking about what you'll do if Ma'elKoth falls."

       "He will not fall, not while I live," Toa-Sytell said.

      "Don't make that promise. If Ma'elKoth goes and you go with him, who would that leave in
charge? At least until somebody kills him and takes over?"

       :

       Toa-Sytell frowned; then his eyes widened and he started to j a little pale. A moment later he
shook his head and murmure "But...but no one would followhim; he's only a Count—he hi no authority,
no real power..."

         Caine offered an openly cynical smile. "Hey, there are people i the world who just need someone
to tell them what to do, an they're not particular who it is."

       Toa-Sytell looked grim, but then he shook that distressing imag out of his head. "But Ma'elKoth
will not fall. He cannot fall."

       "Don't bet your life on it He's been acting a little strange latel; don't you think? These sudden rages,
this obsession with me, wit where I've been, what I'm doing. I'm starting to think he might b cracking up."

       Toa-Sytell narrowed his eyes, and his gaze became distani Caine could see that he'd been thinking
along these lines already.

       "Sure," Caine went on, "we'll handle this particular threat tc morrow. But I think you can already
see that Ma'elKoth isn't un touchable. If we can see it, so can his enemies."

       "Caine—"

        "I'm sorry about your sons, Toa-Sytell. I know it doesn't mea much at this late date, but I swear to
you that nobody knew how ba the Succession War was going to be. The Monastic Council wouli never
have sent me in here if they'd thought it would get like that, don't want to see another one any more than
you do, all right Think about it. Someone has to be in place to keep order if Ma' elKotl goes down. I
can't think of anyone who'd do a better job than yoi would."

      Muscles bunched at the corners of Toa-Sytell's jaw and relaxei again, and slowly his vision
regained its focus. "Come. We mus arrange your escape."

       "Ican't believe you're trusting him," Berne said, pacing furi ously, stabbing at the air with his
stiffened hand. "And I can't be lieve that you're going to let her go! After what she did to me? D< you
know how many of myiroys she's killed?"

       "Hush, dear boy," Ma'elKoth rumbled. "Recover your center, do not trust Caine. Nor will Pallas
Ril be released. Her feat at th<

      docks—" A fleeting shadow crossed his perfect features."—I Myself might not be able to surpass.
She has become a Power; vastly too dangerous to be allowed to live."

       "But you told Caine—"

        His massive shoulders lifted and fell again. "She, after all, sutlers a sucking wound to her chest. Life
will slip away from her soon enough, I think; she shall live only until We have no further need of Caine."
He smiled into his beard. "It may be instructive to perform that pretended spell on her in truth, instead..."

       "Need him forwhatl Why did you let him go?" Berne's voice took on a rising, petulant edge. "Why
won't you let me kill him?"

       "I may do that, even yet." Ma'elKoth laid a hand on Berne's shoulder. "The tale he brought to Me
is a convincing one; it fits every fact, and he had an answer for every question. This alone would make
Me suspicious: only fictions tally so neatly. Life is less orderly."

      He turned majestically, a ship of the line tacking against the wind, and drifted over to the altar. He
looked down on the still, blank face of Pallas Ril, and his hand extended to absently stroke her eyelids
closed.

      "And I have reason to doubt the word of Caine already," he went on. "His plan, however, suits
My purposes so well that I wonder at it: a tremendous gain for no risk at all. It may be that he is true. I
accept the possibility, but I do not rely upon it." He looked up, and the sleepy cast of his musing cleared
from his face; he fixed Berne with a stare of sudden intensity.

        "Give me your knife." Ma'elKoth held out his hand; Berne pulled his dagger from its sheath and
handed it to Ma'elKoth without hesitation. The dagger was dwarfed by Ma'elKoth's hand as he raised it
to the level of his eyes; it looked like a pocketknife. "The net that I gave to Caine—as I lifted it from the
floor I put my mark upon it."

       His eyes glowed green. He smothered the dagger in his fist, staring at it with transcendent
concentration. The dagger shone with the emerald reflection of Ma'elKoth's eyes. When the light faded
from his face, the dagger still glimmered faintly. He handed it back to Berne, who cradled it gingerly,
savoring the remnants of Ma'elKoth's touch in the warmth of its hilt.

      "Point this dagger toward Caine, and it shall grow warm within your hand and shine green to the
eye. Follow him, and learn his purpose. Take a team of Cats with you. If you should see a chance ^ to
capture or kill the King of Cant or any of his followers, take it Do not follow too closely. I cannot spare a
Cloak, as all My ener gies must bend toward calling the thunderstorm."

      "I'll do it, Ma'elKoth," Berne said, clutching the daggc as though it were the symbol of his oath.
"You know you can coun on me."

      "I do know that, Berne. I rely upon it." Ma'elKoth turned away and Berne's gaze slid onto the
naked body of Pallas Ril. The vacan look in her eyes, the bruises that covered her slim form, the
bloodstained bandage that bound her breasts, even the chains that tiec her hand and foot to the
altar—Berne had never seen anything sc erotic in his life. He wanted her so badly that it squeezed the
breatf from his lungs.

       "Ahh, Ma'elKoth?"

       "Yes, My son?"

       "When you're done with Pallas, can I have her? I mean," he said hastily, "I caught her, after all. It's
only fair."

       "Mmm, yes. Yes, it is: only fair."

       "caine's back on-line."

       Kollberg came bolt upright like a hound scenting game. "How long was he off?"

       "One hour, seven minutes, Administrator."

      "Perfect, perfect." He leaned forward with a glance at the soapies; they'd finally sat, a couple of
hours ago, in the chairs he'd provided. Neither one was moving. For all he could tell, they might be fast
asleep.

       The POV screen at the end of the techbooth was lit with the view inside the iron carriage. No
Soliloquy, yet. Caine spoke offhandedly with a man Kollberg recognized as that Toa-Sytell guy, the
Duke. There were two other men inside the carriage; they wore the uniforms of Household Knights.
Caine kept glancing out the barred window at the fires on the streets and the people that ran back and
forth—some armed, many bleeding, some carrying boxes and barrels and jugs, some savagely attacking
the thieves to steal their loot for themselves.

      "This is good," Kollberg whispered. "They're taking him right through the middle of the riot. I'm
loving this...Damn, Caine, I knew I could count on you. Iknew it."

       Kollberg giggled out loud at the blank shock and horror on the faces of the Household Knights
when Caine's manacles dropped off. He produced a tiny blade from somewhere, a small hooked knife
that he held to the throat of the Duke.

       "Kill him,"Toa-Sytell snarled."Never mind me. Don't let him get away! That's an order! "

      " Yeah, go ahead,"Caine told them."Then who 'II be left alive to tell Ma'elKothit was an
order? You think he 'II believe you?Open the damned door and step aside. "

       The Household Knights were in no mood to take chances with their lives. They opened the door,
and Caine dragged Toa-Sytell backward into the riot. The Knights who rode guard on the carriage
shouted in surprise as the two tumbled to the street, but they were no more adventurous than the ones
inside. Caine and his hostage were able to back into a nearby alley.

       "Is this far enough ? "Toa-Sytell asked softly.

       "Yeah, /practically grew up here. They 'II never catch me. "

       "All right."Toa-Sytell suddenly started to struggle and shout. He wormed his way loose from
Caine's grip, yelling for the Knights. Caine kicked him to the ground. He stood over him with the knife
raised, long enough for the Knights to see him there as they charged toward him from the carriage, then
turned and fled into the red-shadowed darkness of the alley.

       Kollberg chuckled to himself as Caine dodged through the riot. All his jitters, all his bitter
determination to destroy Caine, all the back-of-the-neck pressure of the soapies in the booth, all was
forgotten. This was shaping into a spectacular Adventure.

      No corner of Old Town was calm that night; from everywhere came shouts, sounds of fighting,
and the splintering crash of breaking glass and pottery. Trust Caine to find a way to stir things up— that
was, on reflection, perhaps his greatest talent. He skipped around a storefront where an embattled
platoon of regular infantry struggled to hold off a mob of several hundred rock-throwing citizens; even as
he passed, someone set fire to the building where the platoon had made their fort.

        Caine slipped inside a nearby pissoir and startled a miserably squatting townsman when he
splintered the mucker-shaft door away from its locking hasp with a strong side kick. He slid down the
mucker-shaft ladder and found the concealed door at the shaft's base that let him into the caverns below
the city. A moment of digHEROEsDiE ging in a pocket produced Kierendal's lighter; its wavering flame
provided enough illumination for him to keep a steady pace.

        He filled in backstory as he walked silently through the caverns, rolling out imagery with his usual
skill. There was an odd note to it, though, and Kollberg sat up straighter and cocked his head like a
spaniel, trying to listen more closely, trying to determine what the unfamiliar element was. Something just
slightly strained, a tiny bit stilted...Ahh, that was it.

      Kollberg smiled satisfaction to himself. Caine was overcontrol-ling his Soliloquy. That's what had
caused the change. He must be making a conscious effort to leave out anything that might be
controversial, so of course it didn't flow with his usual free-associating style.

       Kollberg smiled in spite of the lessened quality of the entertainment: he smiled because he had
Caine running scared.On the other hand, he thought,he might be leaving out something else, aswell...
Where had that thought come from? Did he really think Caine was concealing something? What could he
possibly be hiding? Kollberg smiled at himself again: this was purely the natural paranoia of the
perfectionist.

       Here and there in the caverns, the flicker of firelight reflected on rock came distantly to Caine's
eyes. He circled wide of several such places where the murmur of distant voices blended with the blurred
plash of water, seeping through the limestone and dripping into pools below. He crept past a couple
more where going wide would have taken him into unfamiliar places. In the knotted three-dimensional
maze of caverns below the city, a wrong turn could possibly have required hours or days to correct.
Finally he came upon one toward which he walked boldly. Three men who looked like beggars and one
in the painted mail of a Knight of Cant lounged around a small fire built on the naked rock.

      They didn't seem overly concerned at Caine's approach. He identified himself and exchanged brief
recognition signals with them, and they nodded him along on his way. As he passed he said softly,"Could
be unfriendlies on my tail. Be wary. You might even want to clear out."

      The Knight rose to his feet with confident ease, one hand on the hilt of his shortsword. "Want
them stopped? "

      "No. I don't want anybody hurt. Just be alert, is all."
       He left them there and found a mucker shaft nearby; he climbed out of the caverns through a
pissoir and into the firelit night of the Industrial Park.

        He kept as close to the shifting blue-black shadows as he could and still move at speed. The
streets could be deserted at one moment, then an instant later flood with shouting, struggling, looting
mobs. At the mouth of an alley he tried to duck into, he was accosted by a pair of men brandishing
broadswords."Declare yourself!"

       "Declare myself what? "

       A sword point came perilously near his throat."Are you for the Emperor or the damned Aktiri?"

       "Loyalists, huh? You boys are in for a bad night, I think. "

       While the loyalist tried to decide which side that meant Caine was on, Caine leaned around his
point, grabbed his wrist, and twisted the blade out of his hand. His weight already shifted, he was able to
stop the shout of the other with a whipping heel to the jaw. He let the momentum of the kick carry him
around in a tight circle that ended by braining the first loyalist with the flat of his own blade. The blade
quivered in his hand and sprang back straight, not bent: a decent grade of steel."Huh," he said."Not
bad."

       He held on to the blade as he dodged into the dark-shadowed alley away from the downed
loyalists, even as they gathered breath to plead for their lives.

       He loped through the streets, avoiding trouble and skirting crowds of any size or description, and
finally arrived at a darkened apartment block that looked vaguely familiar to Kollberg. A quick glance at
the on-screen telemetry assured him that this was Caine's destination: his adrenal production had soared,
and his heart rate was ramping up toward redline. A door hung slack from a single hinge. Caine went in
and up two flights of darkened stairs.

      At their top he called out a soft repetition of the recognition signal he'd given to the Subjects in the
caverns and got a low-voiced response from the shadows beyond. He stepped out into the hall to find
two Knights.

       "Majesty sent me. He wants you both back at the stadium right now."

      The Knights exchanged a dubious glance."I, uh, Idunno," one of them said. "We 're supposed to
stay here unless Majesty tells us personal, y 'know? "

       "He's a little busy right now. Maybe you 've noticed? "

       "Sorry, Baron,"the other said."He was pretty clear on this."

       '

       Caine sighed and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "/right. It's like this. I need to have
a talk with our boy Lamorak there. This 'II be the kind of talk that you don't want to be witness
to, you follow? Head back for the stadium and just pretend you b lievedme about the phony
message. Majesty 'II understand."
       "But, but don't think—"

      "I'm telling you, Majesty will understand. He wouldn't expe you to, like, give yourliveshere," he
said with a significant twite of the naked blade he held. He paused a moment to make sure the
understood him perfectly."You follow?"

       They exchanged another long look and decided that absentin themselves would be the better part
of discretion, but Kollberg wa no longer paying attention.

      Lamorak,he thought, oddly calm and obscurely pleased by hi unexpected serenity.This is the safe
house in the Industrial Park.

      He made a fist and held it upraised, trembling above the emei gency transfer switch; the chubby
underside of his fist reflected ai ominous red in the switch's glow.

       One slip, Caine. Just one—and it doesn't even have to befron you. Let Lamorak so much as hint
at a confession, and my fist shal fall like the Hammer of God.

        His liver-colored lips quirked at the image, and he squirmec briefly in the stage manager's chair,
settling his weight in to gel comfortable—but he couldn't, not quite. He itched, here and there; he felt like
ants crawled on his skin; and he couldn't seem to relax his shoulders or slow the sudden racing of his
heart.

       Just a little while longer,he told himself.It won't be long now.

        whenIopen the door, he's at the window, staring out, the light from fires in Alientown dancing red
across his battered profile. As he starts to turn toward me I spring across the floor and lunge like a
fencer; my fleche stops with die broadsword's point a finger breadth from his throat. He freezes in the act
of rising from his chair. I guess that splinted leg of his can now bear some weight.

       "Don't say a word," I tell him softly. "I'm not here to hurt you."

      Slowly he takes his weight upon his arms and lowers himself back into the chair. Some thoughtful
Subject has immobilized his broken jaw with a large bandage knotted on top of his head; he looks like a
cartoon baby with a toothache. "Y'not?"

      I sigh deep and long, then reverse the sword and offer him the hilt. "No. Try that Dominate,
though, and I'll break another bone in your face, you got it?"

      He reaches tentatively for the sword, like a child for candy that it fears will be snatched away.
Once his hand closes on the hilt, most of the tension drains out of his shoulders and neck. The relief that
smooths his face is so strong I can almost feel it myself.

       "Caine...Caine, I—"

      "I know all about it." I turn away to light a lamp and set it so its glow will be visible outside. "We're
gonna have words, you and me, back home, but that's not important now. I know what you've done, and
I know why."

       His eyes bulge, and the sword point twitches up toward my face as his other hand takes the hilt as
well. "I, I, but I—'
       "You don't have to say a word. I'm telling you, I know, and I understand."

       His lower lip quivers. "I never meant for anyone to get hurt—

       "I know. Lamorak, believe me, I know what it's like—the kind of pressure they can put on you.
I've been there, all right? I've done the same, and I didn't like it any more than you do."

       Now his eyes start to moisten, and the revulsion in my chest nearly chokes me with the effort to
keep it off my face and out of my voice. "Her career..." he whines. "Her Adventure—

      I cut in strongly. "The only thing that matters now is prying her loose from Ma'elKoth, all right?
Help me now. Help me save her, and nothing else matters. I'll even make sure that Majesty doesn't kill
you for what you did to him."

       "Caine...Caine, that was—

     "I'm telling you, Lamorak, Iunderstand." What a fucking whiner. "I scared you back in the
warehouse the other night. You thought I was going to kill you."

       I give him a shrug and a moderately sheepish half smile. "And I was. Without the recall, you'd be
dead, but hey, that was temper, y'know? Once I had time to calm down and think it over, I understood.
Listen, we don't have any more time to waste on this. I need your help."

       "For what? I mean, anything,anything I can do, to make this right, Caine."

       I show him the net, and his eyes fasten on the griffinstones in its hem with naked lust. "I'm running a
deep game on Ma'elKoth, an I think the Cats might be tailing me magickally. I need to know, on way or
the other; if so, I need to know if the tag's on me, on m clothes, this knife, this net...You get the picture. I
can't have ther following me everywhere; it'll blunt the hook."

       "Tailing you?" he says, alarmed; his gaze skates nervously baci toward the street outside.

       "Relax. They're not close. They don't have to be, if there's a taj on me."

      "How would they tag you? Where did you get this net?" "Ma'elKoth." I chuckle dryly. "Ironic,
huh? This morning yoi tried to get me killed by making Majesty believe that I wa; working for
Ma'elKoth—and I was. I am. Or, at least, Ma'elKoth thinks so."

      "Damn,Caine..." Lamorak says in a tone of awe. "Damn...' "The point is, I have Ma'elKoth
convinced that Majesty is Simon Jester, and that he can draw Majesty and the whole Kingdom out of the
Warrens by performing a sort of public ritual on Pallas, where he'll magickally wrench the true identity of
Simon Jester out of her in front of twenty thousand people at Victory Stadium."

       "But why would Majesty—?"

       "He wouldn't. But I've got Ma'elKoth thinking that Majesty and the Kingdom will be on hand to
take a shot at killing him, so Ma'elKoth and Berne are going to load the crowd with Cats and King's
Eyes and soldiers in mufti, to lay in wait for him—but Majesty and the Kingdom won't be anywhere near
the place." "So what's the point?"
        I show my teeth. "The point is, Ma'elKoth won't be there, either. He's going to run the ritual by
remote control, using a Fantasy, to keep himself out of danger. Now, the reason for all these riots today
is that Majesty and I, between us, have half the city thinking Ma'elKoth'sanAktir. Put twenty thousand
people in that stadium, and let them watch while I drape that piece of silver netting over Ma'elKoth's
illusionary double."

       It takes him a second or two, but then his eyes widen and his mouth hangs slack. "Mygod... " he
murmurs. "My bleeding god...The net cuts off the image from the Flow, so it fades and vanishes exactly
likeon Aktir issupposed to..." "Yeah," I say warmly. "Nice, huh?" "All the Cats, officers of the army,
thousands of citizens—"

      "All the King's horses and all the King's men. Yeah. Ma'cJKoth's government goes down in
flames. It'll be a matter of hours until he's besieged in the Colhari Palace."

      "Caine...it's brilliant. It could actually work."

      "It's going to work. I have a couple more arrangements to make, and everything will be in place."

      "What about P-Pallas?"

      "She's as safe as possible, right now. Once the fighting starts, I can get her out."

      "Out of the VictoryStadium! How do you figure?"

      "She won'tbe in the stadium; she'll be in the Donjon."

      "Holy shit—"

        "Yeah. It's the only place Ma'elKoth can keep her, where she can't pull enough Flow to blow his
lights out."

      "But...you think you can bring her out?"

      I give him a solid nod. "I know the way in," I remind him, raising my right hand. "In all the
confusion, it shouldn't be too difficult. And to get out, all I need is to get within arm's reach."

       He gives me a sharply speculative look that the bruises from his broken nose and jaw make kinda
comical; I beckon to him. "Now, come on. She's running out of time. So get started. Check me over and
find the tag."

     I keep a close eye on him as he breathes into mindview. If he tries, even now, to turn that
Dominate on me, he's a dead man; I'll find a different way to make this work.

       A minu te or two of under-breath murmuring as he examines me, then he nods and looks up, his
eyes clear of mindview. "You were right. It's this net. They can track it somehow. I don't know the spell,
but there's definitely some sort of patterned power here, not just the leak-over from the griffinstones."

      Huh. Ma'elKoth must have tagged it in the instant that he picked it up, before he tossed it to me.
He's pretty smooth, that one.

      Come noon tomorrow, I'll show him whatreally smooth looks like.
       I step over to the window and peer out. can't see anyone outside watching the place, but if they're
there they can see me. "Thanks, Lamorak. I gotta go now, but I won't forget this. I'll square things with
Majesty, all right? He won't lay a finger on you."

         "Caine, I..." He sounds all choked up. "Thanks, uh, thanks for not killing me, y'know?"

         "Don't mention it. We get back home alive, maybe I'll ge a ring somewhere and take it out on you
then."

         "It's a date." He holds out his hand, and I force myself to without breaking his wrist.

         "See you later." I bundle up the net again and go.

       the dook explodedin a shower of splinters. Lamorak, from his chair with a shout through his
tied-shut teeth, ai blade snapped up to guard; without hesitation he lunged frc splinted leg, and the first
Cat through the door took a foot through his thigh.

       Lamorak was a fine swordsman, able to compensate for h: mobilized leg and recover his balance
before the followinj could swing past his falling comrade. But even as Lamorak wl his broadsword back
up to guard, another Cat crashed throug window at his back and kicked him in the spine with stur force.
He spun hard to the floor but held on to his blade, rolling his back and hacking at the legs of every Cat in
range. He nothing: there was nothing to say. With grim, silent desperatio fought for his life.

       The blade's edge hit a leg that it didn't cut, that made the b spring back and ring like a bell, made it
sting Lamorak's hand, a leg in grey leather; a leg in heavy serge that once was red, but now faded to the
blotchy shade of an old bloodstain. Lamorak his breath, and for an instant his grip slacked; before he
could m the blade again, a boot heel came down hard on his wrist, and matching boot kicked his sword
away.

         He looked up without hope, even the grim determination to vive bleaching from his face.

         "Berne..." he murmured. "Berne, don't..."

         "Don't speak," Berne said, his amusement colored with deeply isfied malice. "I heard about your
little trick with Master Arkadcil.

      He reached back over his shoulder and pulled free Kosall. whine sighed a freezing breath up the
back of Lamorak's necl Berne took its hilt and whirled it singing through the air. "^ know, I never really
properly thanked you for the gift of Kos Sure did a job on that fighting girl of yours: spilled her guts all
oKnights' Bridge. I hope you weren't too attached to her."

       He dangled the blade point downward over Lamorak's crotch. "You think if I drop it, its magick
will fade before it cuts off your dick?"

         "Berne, wait, Berne—

      "Shut up. I don't have time for your treacherous little cock right now. I have to keep up with
Caine."

         "Berne," he began again, but the Count wasn't listening; easily, casually, he reached over and
tapped Lamorak's mouth shut with the flat of Kosall's humming point, and held it so. The blade's song
made his teeth buzz and fuzzed his hearing like a storm wind.

        "Carry this sack of shit back to my place—no, don't. If he can fight, he can fucking well walk.
March him back and lock him in the den .I'll make time for him later." He looked down at Lamorak, and
his smile pulsed wide into a grin, growing like a stiffening penis. "Mmm, yeah. I will make time. And, if he
tries to talk to you? Kill him."

      He pursed his lips and made a smooching noise. "It's all the same to me, so long as I make it back
before you're cold."

       He spun Kosall back into its scabbard and stalked off before Lamorak could summon the words
to stop him, stepping over the Cat who sat pale on the floor, clutching his spurting thigh. "Pero, tie off
Finn's leg before he bleeds to death, huh?" he said, and was gone.

      The other Cats he' d cut had only scratches, the wire that reinforced their leggings having mostly
withstood his weakened blows. Without bothering to bandage them, the Cats prodded him to his feet at
sword point and marched him, limping and in great pain, out the door. He drew breath to speak, not to
Dominate, just to beg them to carry a message to Beme, that things were not as they seemed—

        "Don't," said the Cat behind him and enforced this order with a jab of a sword point hard enough
to slice skin over Lamorak's kidney. "Talk, and you don't live to cross the river, get it?"

       Lamorak started to answer, caught himself, and nodded miserably. The Cat jabbed him again, and
he lurched forward toward the stairs.

       the king ofCant, attired in a fashionable slashed-velvet singlet and satin pantaloons of matching
silvery grey, strolled through the crowd around the knucklebones pit that dimpled the floor Alien Games,
one hand on the decorative scrolled hilt of tht blade at his belt. He shifted and bumped around shouldei
miring the magnificent dark walnut of the dice table, its burled maple inlay that caught the light like
brushed gold what must have been several coats of buffed lacquer. "Nic muttered under his breath.
"Wonder how she got it here so heard Caine busted the shit out of her old one."

       "Thisisthe old one" came the whispered reply from inch hind his ear. No one in the push of the
crowd around the boti could have heard it; and no one in any of the pits, at any of the on the stage, or
seated for dining could have seen the mar spoke.

      "It is magicked, even as am,"whispered Abbal Paslava walked at his king's shoulder, fully Cloaked
and using a p; crystal-lensed Truesight spectacles to pierce the illusion of lence. "Everything here is
magicked; this is why I need fear n tection of my Cloak's pull. This room, this entire building Flow
constantly. Nothing in this room is truly as it appears."

      "Huh," Majesty grunted, a grim smile baring his teeth, eluding the customers."

       No windows allowed moonlight onto the gaming floor, wh view of the sky might have reminded
the gamblers of the hour: passed in the outside world, but the ruddy glow of burning b ings angled
through the street door. Alien Games was crowdec tonishingly so considering the rioting that still flared
here and i across the city. WelJ-dressed South Bankers mingled with tri< of workmen coming off shift in
the Industrial Park; for some pleasures of drink and dice come before all else, even safety.

      Far from diminishing these pleasures, the riotsadded sc thing, a certain zest in the cast of dice or
the slap of a card. Ever seemed to laugh a bit louder, talk a bit more. Here and there ac the floor, knots
of spontaneous dancing would suddenly brcai and just as suddenly fade. The riots outside gave the eveni
gaming a festive, insular atmosphere, a carnival spice, as the nothing done here tonight could have any
relation to everyday a sense that here was a small island of brightly indecent pleas in the midst of a huge
and bloody ocean of night.

      There were a few faces, here and there, that the King of Can! not recognize. He mentally
estimated their number, coming up \ a total of only fifty or so. Of these probably fifteen were covert
guards in Kierendal's employ—human Faces.

       He ambled off the gaming floor to one of the bars, passing an appreciative hand over the glossy,
hard wax finish. "Y'know, it's a shame that I didn't come here before," he murmured. "This woulda been
a nice place to relax, once in a while."

      "Pity,"came the whispered reply.

      "Yeah. Don't know what you got till it's gone, huh? And, y'know? I'm kinda looking forward to
meeting Kierendal. Should have paid a call under social circumstances."

      "Too late now."

      "Yeah."

       He beckoned to the bartender, a short and slender elf, ageless as they all were, who mixed drinks
and measured narcotics with a speed that made him seem to have an extra arm or two. The elf narrowed
his eyes at him, a fleeting frown passing across his feathery, translucent brows; then he stepped lively
toward Majesty, his face now a mask of neutral cheerfulness.

      "Does he see you?" Majesty muttered.

       "No,"Paslava whispered,"but he may see an odd eddy in the Flow around you. He will know
there is magick at work here."

      "Hey, so what?" Majesty said. "That's not a secret."

       The bartender leaned on the back rail in a friendly fashion and gave him a professional smile. "First
time in AG, sir?"

      Majesty nodded. "You have a good eye."

        The bartender took this as a given. "It's what I do, sir. You look like an alcohol man, am I right,
sir? I have a very fine Tinnaran brandy, if you're interested?"

      "Mmm," Majesty said, pretending indecision, "not exactly what I had in mind..."

       The bartender nodded back over his shoulder at the rows of bottles and phials and baskets of
herbs stacked up behind him. "If you want to try something and you don't know its name, feel free to just
point. If you'd like something you don't see here, please ask and I'll bet I can get it for you."

      "Bet? For real?"
       The bartender's grin became more honestly friendly. "Why not? This is a gaming establishment, sir.
Shall we say, for a royal?"

       Majesty gave him an ugly grin. "Sure, all right. I'd like a skinny fucking elf bitch dyke, about this
tall. Goes by the name of Kierendal."

       That trace of a frown flitted across the bartender's brow again, as his smile congealed into a flat
chilly stare. "Be assu that she is already on her way, sir," he said coldly. "And you n find it wise to
reconsider your tone."

       "Yeah? Or what?"

       "Or the fellow behind you might open your skull—to adj your attitude from theinside, sir."

       Majesty turned to find himself nose-to-sternum with a ch roughly the size of a river barge, and he
slowly lifted his head ui he stared up into the protuberant fist-sized yellow eyes of a trol nocturnal cousin
of the ogres that worked here in daylight hoi Those huge lambent eyes spread a rich golden cast onto the
bra capped tusks that thrust up through slitted gaps in its upper lip. troll wore chainmail painted in the
scarlet and brass motif of Alien Games uniform and carried a morningstar the size of M esty's head. It
snorted down at him, its breath the exhalation c late-summer slaughterhouse.

       "Yeah," it rumbled thickly. "Adjust y'attitude."

       "You're ugly, and you stink," Majesty said precisely, "am think you should be falling down, now."

       "Huh,"the troll huffed, blowing a blinding gust of stench ii Majesty's face. "I don't think—'

      Its voice cut off an instant after Majesty heard the faintest whispers, the rustle of the cloth on
Paslava's sleeve as the Cloak thaumaturge reached past his ear and touched the troll with a sp that
caused all of its skeletal muscles to lock into maximum cc traction. Majesty fancied he could hear the
creaking of the beas oversized joints as they took the stress; the troll swayed like an i moored statue.
Majesty placed a palm flat on the creature's dies'

      "I repeat," he said, with a gentle shove that sent the troll toppli like a felled oak. It hit the floor with
a thunderous crash that dn every eye in the room.

       Majesty grinned into the sudden silence, waiting only a seco or two for the last faint pitter of dice
and clatter of numbei wheels to fade away. "I'm here to see Kierendal. Anyone else w; to get stupid with
me?"

       Paslava whispered behind his shoulder:"She's coming."

       "Where?"

       "/can't see her. I can feel her. She's here."

        Three more liveried trolls converged on their fallen comra with the ponderous threat of warships at
full sail. They stoppec pace short of the one on the floor, their massive backs forming a wall against the
crowd that pressed curiously around, and each held in his two clawed hands a morningstar with a haft as
long as Majesty was tail. They glared at Majesty, growling low thunder-rumbles, but made no further
move.
       As though an invisible door opened edge-on in the air, a slender female elf stepped from nowhere
into view. She bent down and stroked the face of the fallen troll, and the creature relaxed into
unconsciousness with a sigh like a fresh-bunged keg of beer. She straightened and stepped around her
fallen bouncer, coming near enough to Majesty that he could smell the curious spice of whatever
unnameable dish she'd been eating.

       She was taller than Majesty, and she hadn't troubled to put on her human face. Her halo of
platinum hair framed features that were purely alien: huge golden eyes slittcd vertically, high chiseled
cheekbones that swept back to ears as pointed as the carnivore teeth that gleamed through her
pack-hunter's fighting grin. "Why have you come here? Why do you assault my staff? Why shouldn't I kill
you for this?"

      "I am the Ki—

      "I know who you are, cock. Answer my question."

      Majesty was tempted, just for a moment, to match her aggressive tone, but instead he only
shrugged and offered her a friendly smile. He'd have a chance to play interpersonal power games on their
next meeting; for now, he had to tend to business.

       "Your problem, Kierendal," he said slowly, "is that you're not Warrens. You run a Warrengang,
sure, but you'renot from there; you don't know how things are done. If you have a problem with one of
my people, you come to me, we work something out. That's how things are done. You don't give them
up to the Imperials. That's how wars start, y'know? People get hurt. Places get burned."

      "This is about Caine?"

       "Your fuckingass," Majesty said. "That's what it's about. Caine is aBaron of Cant, you stupid
bitch, and you sold him to the Eyes for a lousy thousand royals. I'm cutting youslack for this, you
understand? Instead of slashing your fucking dyke throat and torching this shit-hole with you and
everybody else in it, I'm going to let you slide a little, because I figure you don't know any better."

      "You don't understand—

      "You're the one who doesn't understand!"Majesty roared her down. "Yougot five minutes to get
your people and your customers out of this fucking whore palace. After that, it's gonna be too and they're
gonna die in the fire, you follow?"

      "If you would only listen to reason," she said mildly, stretch forth a gently supplicating hand, her
palm turned up, her finj curving in a precisely defined pattern.

      Paslava whispered,"Spell."

     Kierendal went on, "We don't have to be enemies. Caine ca to me asa favor, he owed me some
money, and this was his wa) paying it back. Let's work something out, can't we? You and I?'

        "Some sort of Charm, "Paslava whispered."I grounded it oj Majesty met Kierendal's yellow
stare; her expression never tered, only momentarily froze as she watched her spell fail.

      "We might have had a chance to work out something, I gues Majesty said. "Too late now.
Anybody ever tell you what I do people who try to put magick on me?"

      Kierendal drew herself up, and her gown swirled around her li smoke. "Then the time for
explanations has passed," she said.

      Paslava whispered,"She's signaling with Flow."

      The charged silence in Alien Games suddenly sparked with t scrape of weapons being drawn from
scabbards. Every bartenc bore a club, every waitress a knife. Some of those unfamiliar fac among the
customers now grinned as they moved through t crowds, advancing on Majesty with swords in hand.

        He took all this in with a bored glance and gave Kierendal a co temptuous snort. "Rookie," he
said, then raised his fist and shoute"One!"

      Fully a third of the sumptuously dressed South Bankers slid da gers from their sleeves as they
drew pragmatic, razor-edged swon from scabbards that had appeared purely decorative. Now all tl
armed waitresses, bartenders, and covert guards had at least thn blades leveled toward their throats, and
six men with knives stoc at the backs of the three armed trolls.

      Majesty chuckled. "That's half of us," he said warmly. "Wanr go for Two? And maybe you can
guess what Three's gonna be."

      Kierendal's eyes blazed. "You invite a massacre."

      "Yeah. But it's your call," he said. "Nobody has to get hurt."

      She measured him for a moment, and Majesty sighed to himsel She was going to cave. He was
almost sorry; he kinda liked h« style.

      "Another signal,"Paslava murmured.

      Now a new rhythm underscored the restless silence: thumps c window shutters closing and
scrapes of doors being barred. The distant shouts of rioters faded to muffled mumbling as the building
was sealed.

     "Now. Have your people sheathe weapons and exit through that door," she said, pointing. "If
anyone starts anything, I shall burn this placemyself."

      Majesty clenched his jaw to keep from nervously licking his lips. "Horseshit."

      "Perhaps. But imagine a fire in this crowded building: Imagine flames raging up the velvet; imagine
burning beams crashing down from the ceiling. Imagine a fire when there is only a single door, and far too
many people need to use it. My staff knows other ways out of this building. Does yours?"

        That pack-hunter smile was back around her wickedly sharp teeth. "As you said, it's my call—but
I raise, instead. Bet or fold, cock."

       For the space of one long indrawn breath, Majesty could think of nothing to do. He couldn't back
down, not in front of his men, but he saw in Kierendal's eyes that he couldn't push her. This was a bluff,
he told himself. Ithad to be a bluff: Some of the men in this place were real South Bankers. If a few of
them died in an arson fire, her business would never recover—not to mention that one or two might be
minor nobility, which would put her in line for hanging.

      But he couldn't count on it.

        As he looked at her skeletal grace and her razor grin, he became acutely aware of howinhuman
she was; he had no way to gauge how crazy she might really be. What should have been a simple, safe
little object lesson in manners had inexplicably escalated wildly toward a holocaust.

        As though Paslava could read his thoughts, he whispered,"She is aware of me; there will be
little I can do that she cannot counter."

        Majesty nodded, as though to himself, and gave a chuckle that sounded far more confident than he
felt. "All right," he said with an appreciative smile, "I apologize for calling you a rookie."

      "You're most gracious," she sneered. "Now get out."

      "It's not gonna happen," Majesty said sadly. "Caine was a Baron of Cant, and you gave him up."

      "At his ownrequest" she said through her teeth.

      "I wish I could believe you." Majesty looked around the room and shook his head. "You also
should be thinking, here, that your boys and girls are outnumbered two or three to one. If shit starts fly,
most of them will die here. Secret exits or not."

       Her head came up like a cat's, as though she heard the scratch rat claws in the walls; her eyes lost
their predatory focus, lookii past him, through him, as though he wasn't there at all.

      Got her,he thought. "You're not bad at this, Kieren-dolly," said kindly. "You just gotta understand
that when you get in pissing contest with giants—" He laid a pious hand upon h chest."— you're gonna
get wet."

       She gave no sign that she heard him; instead, she stared glassi over the knots of armed and
nervous folk who crowded the gamir floor, past the massive trolls that made a wall at her back. Everyor
in Alien Games returned her stare: Face, Subject, and civiliai Each was suspended on a knife edge of
action, a balance as dange ously unstable as a cocked crossbow, waiting for the slightest sig or word
from either of them. Swords trembled in sweaty hand and folk on both sides shifted their weight, seeking
the best pos tion to fight or run. She murmured, in a voice so subdued that eve Majesty, a bare pace
away, could barely make out the words, "N wonder all this spins out of control..."

      Majesty scowled at her; he didn't like this at all. What in fuc was she looking at?

      "Something is happening."Paslava's whisper sounde vaguely awed.

      "Yeah, no shit," Majesty said from the side of his mouth. Hair prickled along his arms and up the
back of his neck; his heai pounded, and icy sweat trickled down from his hairline. He sud denly felt like
someone had dosed his wine with rushweed: th floor seemed to rock just a bit under his feet. His head
buzzed; it fe) kind of carbonated, like fresh beer. He didn't know what he migh do in the next second—if
he would launch himself at KierendaT throat, burst into tears, or drop his tights and crap on his boots
"What is this? Is this some kind of attack?"

      "Idon't know,"Paslava whispered. "Idon't think so. It's sonii kind of Flow effect; I can see
dark currents drifting in from all di rections.There! Over there!" he nearly shouted, forgetting himself
forgetting to whisper, forgetting that Majesty could not see whicl direction his Cloaked finger was
pointing.

      The excitement in his voice could not be told from panic, and it Majesty's growing confusion, that
was signal enough. He drev breath to cry the attack, to bring it all down, to let the slaughter begii just
because straight-up bloodshed would be so much easier than this stretching, twisting, edge-of-the-cliff
windmill-the-arms shit.

       Kierendal reached for him and caught his elbow in an astonishingly powerful grip."Don V. " she
said urgently, pleadingly. "Don't—he s here."

         Majesty tried to yank his arm away, but found her grip was not so easily broken. "What? Who's
here?"

         "Weapons down!" she cried. "Everybody, put them away!"

      From the direction of the single unbarred door came a splintering of wood and the sound of bone
meeting bone through intervening layers of flesh.

     "What? What?" Majesty couldn't seem to make sense of what was happening. Who was fighting?
What was Paslava talking about? Who was Kierendal trying to say was here? "What—?"

         "Majesty, tell your mento put their weapons down] Do it!"

         "Ah—

         "Yeah, do it," somebody said in Caine's voice. "Let's everybody play nice, huh?"

       Majesty turned. Caine stood in the far doorway. His battered black leathers looked even dirtier
than usual and shadows dark as bruises ringed his eyes, but it was unquestionably Caine.

         "But—but—" Majesty sputtered, gaping, "but you werearrested!"

       "That's right." He walked slowly onto the gaming floor, limping, heavily favoring his right leg. "And
there's a lot of people out looking for me, right now, so I'd appreciate it if nobody left this place. Can the
two of you manage that?"

      "I, ah...yeah. Yeah, sure," Majesty said stupidly, then he raised his voice. "Hear that? Nobody
leaves. Nobody."

         Caine kept on limping toward them, fixing Kierendal with a searching look. "And you?"

       She pulled her head back, the whites of her eyes showing around her golden irises like a spooky
horse. "We were quits, Caine. Even. You said you would leave me alone."

      She 'IIface down a hundred fifty Subjects of Cant without blinking,Majesty thought with a puzzled
frown,but Caine shows up and she's about to piss herself.

         At his shoulder, Paslava whispered,"It's Caine."
      "What am I, an idiot?"

      "No—that Flow effect. It's Caine. He 'span of it, somehow."

      Caine said, "I can make it worth your while."

      "Another thousand royals?" Kierendal snorted and waved her hand at the roomful of armed men.
"You see what the last one almost bought me."

      "How about an alliance with the most powerful Duke under the new Emperor?"

       "What?" Majesty said, for what seemed like the thousandth time. Too much was happening, too
fast; he couldn't make sense of any of it. "What new Emperor? What Duke? If you' re handing out
alliances with Dukes," he said, "don't you think you should be thinking about your old friends, first?"

       " am." Outwardly, Caine seemed grim as a hangman, but behind his flat black eyes danced some
secret glee. "You're the Duke I'm talking about. You will be."

      Majesty and Kierendal exchanged equally dumbstruck looks.

      "But..." Majesty struggled to sort through the hundred questions that crowded his brain, to find one
or two that would be most pertinent. "But how can I be a Duke—? And no, fuck that; start with how you
managed toescape."

      Caine grinned at him, and his teeth seemed edged with fresh blood. "Two questions, one answer: I
gave you up to Ma'elKoth. I told him you're Simon Jester."

      "You what?"The room seemed to darken and rock dizzily around him.

      "Sure," Caine said. "Why not?" He leaned close to the King of Cant, peering deeply into Majesty's
eyes as though cryptic runes might be read there. He said with slow, deliberate precision, "That's how
you will help me save Pallas Ril."

        "Pallas..." Majesty murmured. Of course he would; nothing was more important than Pallas Ril 's
life, than her happiness. Majesty felt as though he was awakening from a dream: what foolishness had he
been undertaking here, picking a fight with Kierendal, whilePallas was in danger? He passed a hand
before his eyes and fervently thanked his every god that Caine had come along in time to remind him of
what wasreally important...

       Whatever Caine had been looking for, he apparently found, though this finding seemed not to
please him. His mouth twisted briefly, a spasm of nauseous distaste. But an instant later his face cleared,
as though he drove some evil thought from his mind by force of will.

      "So, Kierendal," he said cheerfully. "Who's a guy have to maim to get a drink around here?"

       The bartender who Kierendal summoned looked at Majesty and said in thai infuriatingly superior
tone that is acquired by a lifetime in fine food service, "You, sir, owe me one royal."

      "BuTit'snotproof," Kierendal says stubbornly. "It's a trick, not real proof."

      Sometimes, the toughest part of a revolution is deciding to start one.
      "But it's agood trick. A good trick is better than proof," I say with an easy grin. I nod toward
Paslava. "Ask him."

       Paslava doesn't wait for Kierendal's question. He leans forward and clasps his skeletal hands
judiciously on the tabletop near his mug of beer, and the table lamp's flame paints deep shadows in the
hollows of his cheeks. "It's true. With twenty thousand witnesses, Ma'elKoth will never be able to deny,
never be able to explain. It will shatter the morale of the army; without the army to keep order, control of
the city—and the Empire—falls into the hands of the first man prepared to grab it."

         They exchange looks, lust sparking to life behind their eyes. Here in Kierendal's sitting room, the
air is still as a tomb's; the flame of the lamp might as well be cut from shining glass. My faked ease is
getting to them; infected by my perfectly feigned confidence, they're starting to believe that toppling
Ma'elKoth might be doable, after all, and thepure possibility makes it nearly irresistible.

       The riots were one thing—they're self-sustaining now. When the riots are crushed under the
military's heel and the main agitators are arrested, none of them will be found to be Subjects of Cant. This
is something else: they'reseeing it now, in their minds, in their hearts; they're seeing the Empire without
Ma'elKoth, the array without leadership, Ankhana without law.

       It pulls them like a river's current, like the gravity of this world. The four of us, sitting around an
ordinary dining table—an icon of Ma'elKoth watching us from the corner shrine—could take down the
Empire.That lust in their eyes, it's the same hunger that drives a kid to smash his only new toy on his
birthday afternoon; it's the same hunger that drives riots in the Temp slums, where we torch our own
homes and dance around the flames; it's the same hunger that drives a conquering army to loot and bum.

      Sometimes, we destroy simply because we can. Because, when you come right down to it, it's the
kind of fun you just can't get anywhere else.

       Don't get me wrong. I don't disapprove of that lust.

       In fact, I'm counting on it.

     Majesty leans forward to weigh in. "Then why put troops there at all?" he says. "We'll need every
man we have to hold the city once the fighting starts. Why risk every Knight and half of the Subjects?"

       I settle for being cryptic. "Chaos creates opportunity."

       He doesn't give up that easily. "But opportunity forwhat?"

        Every time Majesty's natural pragmatism surfaces, all I have to do is reach out and tap on his
weakness, that trump card that always seems to be there in my hand, no matter how many times I play it.
"I told you before," I tell him. "I'm going to rescue Pallas Ril."

       His eyes glaze over a little bit; the Charm still has him, even if it's fading. "But how?"

       "I can't tell you that."

       "Why not?"

       "Because I can't." That'd give too much away to you viewers back home. "What this does for me
is gives me a smaller, more concentrated version of the riots. I need someone to keep the Cats and the
constables off my ass while I save Pallas. The rest is all gravy. The revolution? That's just the come-on,
to give you a little something for your trouble."

       He winces. "The Cats—

       "No, youwant them there," I say significantly. "All of them, or damn near, all gathered into one
place."

       "Waiting for us."

      "Sure. Waiting for a small, elite strike team. With the whole Knights of Cant in the stadium, you
can bury them."

       "Bury them under piles of our own bodies," Majesty grumbles.

      "Youhave to deal with the Cats," I tell him flatly. "The Cats are the best troops in the Empire—not
just man-to-man, but running small-unit tactics, too. Everybody's afraid of them: shit, they can hold the
army together by sheer terror, if they want. Nobody wants to cross the Cats."

       "Especially not me," Majesty agrees grimly.

       "On the other hand, they might not even fight."

     Majesty shakes his head. "You don't know them. The Ma'elKoth bit won't break their morale;
Beme has them believing they're more than human."

     I turn to the Spellbinder. "Yourspecialty is crowd control, isn't it? You can whip up some sort of
magick that'll take the heart right out of them."

      "In theory," Paslava says slowly. "But don't have that kind of power, to search them out in a huge
crowd and hold their spirit down—especially not if Ma'elKoth smells what I'm up to."

       I chuckle. "How much power do you need?"

       I dip two fingers into the thigh sheath where one of my throwing knives used to be and come up
with one of the griffinstones from the hem of the net. I flip it skittering across the table, and Paslava's hand
strikes like a rattlesnake; breath leaves his lungs in a long hissing sigh as he holds the griffinstone up and
regards it in the lamplight with naked, wet-eyed lust. Kierendal's eyes widen, glittering in the lamplight,
and flick from the stone to me with pure golden envy.

       "Ahh," Paslava says with breathless reverence. "Ahh...I've never evenseen one this size. It's
flawless. It's beautiful."

       "Will that do it?" I ask, knowing the answer.

       "Oh, yes," he says. "This will do it very well, indeed."

      "We never get our men into the stadium," Majesty interrupts gruffly. "They hardly look like real
South Bankers, and there will certainly be a weapons search at the gates."
       "You can do it," tell Kierendal. "You can do an illusion that'll hold up just fine." I pull another two
griffinstones out of the thigh sheath. "With a little sliver knocked off one of these on every Subject to
power them, you can put illusions on them that'll hold till next week."

      Paslava's mouth drops open. In a second or two he'll be drooling on the table. Kierendal reaches
toward them with a tentative hand, and she sighs like in sexual afterglow when I put them into her palm.

       "Here's your alliance. The Snakes, the Dungers, and the Rats aren't going to fade away. When the
government goes down, you're gonna have to fight them—and they'll be recruiting deserters from the
army, you can bet. With the Faces and the Kingdom of Cant together, the other Warrengangs won't have
a prayer." I smile cynically. "They won't have aprayer toMa 'elKoth."

      "What about Berne?" Majesty asks. "So what if Ma'elKoth's not there? The kind of power Beme
throws around these days, he can turn the battle by himself."

       "Don't worry about Berne. He won't show up."

       "No?" He makes a face. "What, he's gonna be taking a snooze after kicking your ass again?"

       I let him see all my teeth. "A long snooze. A permanent snooze."

       "I don't like it," he says decisively. He pushes himself up from the table. "It doesn't make sense."

      "It can work," Paslava interjects, each of his eyes reflecting an image of the griffinstone he twirls
between his fingers. "We can do this."

       "Sure we can," Majesty says, "but whatthen! Who's gonna rule the Empire?Us?" The derisive
edge in his voice makes it all too clear what he thinks of this idea. "Who's to say whoever ends up in
charge won't beworse"? And the Cats might be monsters, but they're still Imperial troops. You're asking
me to commit the Kingdom of Cant to open rebellion—toregicide, for shit's sake— becausesomebody
has to storm the palace and kill that bastard; he's too powerful to leave alive. And who else is there but
us? Whoever winds up on the throne willhave to wipe us out just to keep the Ma'elKoth loyalists happy;
otherwise they'll start working on their own revolution as soon as shit calms down."

        "Majesty, Majesty, you forget: you'realready committed," I say. "If Ma'elKoth lives out the day,
he'll have your balls in his teeth by sundown."

       "I should kill you for that," he says grimly.

     "Too late, buddy. It won't help you any, and you know it. Besides, didn't I promise to make you a
Duke? All you need is an Emperor who owes you a big favor."

       "And you've got one in your pocket?"

       "No," I say with a grin, "but you do."

       "Huh?"

      "Sure. Toa-Sytell," I offer, then grin into the deathly silence that greets my suggestion. Majesty's
eyes bulge with the effort of restraining a curse, and he glances around the small back room as though to
make sure we are still alone. Kierendal nods in grim self-satisfaction at this confirmation of her long-held
suspicion. Paslava's mouth drops open.

      "Am I the only one who doesn't know about this?" he says incredulously.

      Majesty shakes his head at him. "I'll explain later."

      "You'd better," his thaumaturge says feelingly.

        I go on. "Think about it. You need somebody you can trust. Despite the Kingdom's loyalty,
despite the position you've held in this city all these years, you're a commoner. Your kingdom is one of
spirit and devotion, not of birth. The nobles won't follow you. Toa-Sytell, on the other hand..."

      Majesty's eyes go distant and calculating. "I see it."

       "He was created Duke by Toa-Phelathon, the last legitimate ruler of the Menelethids. That makes
him a Duke for real, in the eyes of the nobles; they might deny tides conferred by Ma'elKoth, but not by
their beloved Prince-Regent. Toa-Sytell also controls the King's Eyes. You want to run the Empire, you
need him."

      "Who says I want to run the Empire?"

       "Screw running it," tell him. "When shit blows up, all you have to do is come to Toa-Sytell with an
offer of support. The Kingdom of Cant will be the only real, organized troops that can keep order in the
city. By being the first to come to his side, you could make him pretty grateful; I should think he'd express
his gratitude with a title—maybe even a Dukedom and a seat in the Cabinet. Say, maybe, Commerce
and Taxation?"

      That cold calculation in his eyes starts to ring up stacks of gold coins.

      I go on. "I mean, you guys already have a relationship, right? You trust each other?"

       "More or less," Majesty allows. "But Ma'elKoth—holed up in the Colhari Palace, he could stand a
year's seige..."

       I lean forward and let all the easy humor drain out of my eyes, let my face go as passionless as an
ice sculpture. "You can let me handle that."

      Majesty gives me a frankly scornful look. "You?"

      "I've done it before."

      "So, let's see if I've got this plumb," he says sarcastically. "These are your plans for tomorrow: Get
up, have breakfast, kill Berne, sneak into Victory Stadium and discredit Ma'elKoth, grab some lunch,
sneak out of Victory Stadium and into the palace, kill Ma'elKoth, sneak back out of the palace again,
have dinner, maybe a couple of drinks, go to bed. Is that about it?"

      "Roughly," I tell him. "You forgot one thing."

      "What, your afternoon nap?"

      "No." I reach out with my words to tap that trump on the table one more time. "I'm going to rescue
Pallas Ril."

       Her name siphons the color out of his face, and his eyes drift closed.

       While the Charm keeps him off balance, I hook him and reel him in. "The point is that Toa-Sytell is
a fundamentally decent guy with a stake in keeping things calm. He has both power and a repui for
ruthlessness. He's exactly what you need to keep the Ei from dissolving into civil war; on the other hand,
he can't hoi city without you until he brings the army to heel. He'll need y much as you need him. He's
perfect."

       "He's also devoted to Ma'elKoth," Majesty points out.

      I grin. "I think we'll take care of that part of the problei morrow. He's devoted to the throne, not
the man."

       "God damn you, Caine," he says. "God damn if you don't it figured to the butt end. Paslava?"

       The thaumaturge can barely tear his gaze away from conten tion of the beauty of the griffinstone in
his hand. When he doe; eyes are pools of fiery possibility. "We can do it," he says.

       "Kierendal?"

       Unnoticed, her face and form have shifted throughout this < versation; her eyes have shaded from
gold to hazel, and platinum hair to a dirty blond that borders on chestnut; the h lines of her razor
cheekbones have softened into an easier, n human oval. She gives Majesty a look that makes the air
betw them smoke, just a little. "I can help," she says slowly, in a hi voice that reminds me, inescapably, of
Pallas. What is she plaj at? Can she read the Charm on him, somehow?

       What she says next removes my doubt. "I'm with you, Maje but we must...cement our alliance, in
a more, mmm,/rmal w; and her tone is suggestive enough that she's givingme a hard-o can only imagine
the effect she must be having on Majesty.

      He looks like he's been sucker-punched; a moment passes wl he remembers that there are other
people in the world. He redd« coughs, and looks at me, shaking his head. "And you get oui this...what?
The gratitude of a new Duke? But you don't ereally care about that, do you?"

       I shrug. "No, not really."

       "You're telling me," he says slowly, "that you're bringing do the Empire just to get a shot at saving
Pallas Ril?"

       "That's what I'm telling you."

       "All right," he says, suddenly grinning like a maniac. "I'm in.

       I almost gather him into a hug before I remember myself a settle for sticking out a hand.

       He takes it. "And thanks. I mean, reallythanks, Caine."

       "For what?"
       "For giving me a chance to help you save her. That means a lot to me."

       "Yeah," I say, feeling just a little sick. "I knew it would."

       A long, slow, mediative silence drifts into the room like a shadow of tomorrow's war. All we can
do, for this eternal instant, is sit and contemplate the enormity of what we have decided, here tonight.

       Finally, Paslava breaks the silence with a cough.

      "And I am also curious," says Paslava, "about this silver net of yours. I would like to examine it,
with your permission."

       "That, ah, that won't be possible until tomorrow. I stashed it."

       "Do you think that wise?" Paslava asks with a sudden frown of alarm. "The success or failure of
this entire plot depends upon that net! If it is stolen, or lost—!"

      "It's perfectly safe," I reassure them with a secret smile. "You'll get a chance to look it over
tomorrow. For tonight, I, ahh, have somebody watching it forme."

       cursing silently, bernerappeled down the natural chimney to the very limit of the torchlight above
and peered down into the black abyss below him. How deep did this fucking shaft go? How in fuck's
sake did Caine get down here without leaving a rope behind? And why was he hiding out down here?
How did he evenbreathe down here in these reeking goatfucking fumes?

       Before continuing down, he wrapped his wrist in the rope and used his now-free hand to draw the
dagger Ma'elKoth had mag-icked for him. He swung it in a short arc, and sure enough its green glow
was strongest still when it pointed straight downward. In fact, it was brighter than he'd yet seen it.

       Bright enough, it was, to illuminate the bottom of the chimney only a few feet below and the
untidily piled net that lay on the rock as though it had been carelessly tossed there.

      Berne's curses were no longer silent; they echoed off the stone loudly enough that the Cats waiting
above startled like spooked horses.

       Caineknew, somehow that slippery little fuck knew, and he'd ditched the net on purpose. Berne
released the rope and dropped the rest of the way, taking the shock of landing with a slight his
strengthened legs. He bent to pick up the net, then hcsitai changed his mind. He grunted to himself, then
swarmed b the rope to the torchlit cavern above.

      "You four," he snapped, picking them out at random fin followers, "you're staying here. He'll be
coming back fc Don't interfere with him. As soon as he shows, one of you co me at the Colhari Palace.
The others, follow him. Don't know you're there; if he makes you, he'll make you dead."

       "The palace? You're not going home?"

        "Probably not tonight," Berne said with a grimace that rel a sharply twisting knot of apprehension
in his guts. " have tell Ma'elKoth that we've lost Caine."

       lamorak sat ata broad scarred writing table in the d Berne's house and stared out the window at
the approaching s a massive wall of cloud that blocked the polar stars. Ligh speared almost continuously
in the north, and the thunder wa; enough already to rattle the windows. Big freaking storrr as he'd ever
seen, but he watched it with only a scant corner i attention.

      What it really came down to, see, was survival, he told hir Sure, he didn't want Pallas to die, but
having Pallas alive wouldi him any good if he wasn't around to enjoy her, right? And Cair Well, fuck
Caine. Caine knew that Beme and the Cats were fc him, and he'd led them right there to Lamorak's
room. Caine mij well have locked him into this den personally.

       Lamorak cherished no fond illusions or hopes of mercy Berne. His only hope was to buy his
freedom, to get himselfi very least out of the Cats' clutches and into the care of the Consl lary or the
King's Eyes—and to do it before Caine stirred the pot tomorrow. Even if Berne himself died in the
inevitable ri the stadium, the Cats would cut his throat before they'd let hir No: he had only one chance.
He had to make a deal while t was still a deal to be made.

         He couldn't speak to his guards; they'd been well prep against him. Instead, he ransacked the den
until he found a she lambskin parchment and a pen. A few minutes' further search found an ink pot that
still sloshed faintly when he shook it. He wrote:

      Berne:

       You left before I could tell you. I have news to sell, news of Caine that may save the Empire, if
you act upon it. Come with Duke Toa-Sytell or the Emperor himself to guarantee my freedom, and I will
reveal all of Caine's sinister plot. You will not regret it.

      Urgently, LamorakHe folded the parchment and wrote on the outside:

    Give this message to Count Berne, and he is sure to reward youHe held it in his hand for a
moment, weighing it briefly; it was no heavier than any other parchment, and it meant nothing at all.

       He hobbled to the locked door and slid the parchment beneath it. Somebody should find it there
by morning. He turned and leaned a moment to rest against the door before the trip back to the chair at
the writing table. Outside, lightning flared and thunder crashed. The first scattered drops of rain mixed
with a spurt of rattling hail clattered against the window. The rising wind howled like wolves in the
wilderness.

      Going to be one big bastard of a storm,he thought.Glad I'm not out in it.

       day seven"Do you, Professional Hari Khapur Michaelson, this woman, Professional Shanna
Theresa Leighton, t your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to I honor, and cherish forever, for
richer, for poorer, in sick and in health, to cleave to her only all the days of your until death alone doth
part you?"

      "Ida."

      the thunderstorm batteredAnkhana from midnight hour before dawn, breaking windows and
cracking doors, roof tiles off houses like a fisherman scaling a trout, kicki trees like an angry child
stomping through his mother's gar The blinding downpour drove the mobs shivering to she streets
belonged to the army. Between the smothering rain military bucket brigades, the fires were soon brought
under The riots, though, weren't over: this was only a pause, a the breath between inhale and shout. All
over Old Towr sheltered spot was filled with North Bankers caught in las initial chaos. Men and women,
primals and stonebenders, and trolls huddled in shattered storefronts or stretched out overhanging eaves.
Plenty of whiskey was still to be four passed hand to hand among drowsy folk who waited with; sullen
excitement for the end of the rain.

      The army and the Constabulary were still too busy fighti and their own internal dissensions to
engage in street swe mass arrests; everyone knew that more trouble lay ahead.

       Runners from theImperial Messenger-News- had bra storm to summon every one of the pages
that theIMN cm hammering on their doors and yanking them from beds in the middle of the night. By the
time the storm ended, they were all assembled and had received their instructions. When the first rosy
glow pinked the summits of the eastern mountains, they streamed forth to take positions throughout Old
Town and many more waited patiently on the ways for the bridges to lower at sunrise.

        When the uppermost spires of the Colhari Palace were kindled by the first rays of the morning sun,
bells began to ring all over the city, from the mighty brass clang out of the Temple of Prorithun to the
intricate silvery chiming of the Katherisi's carillon, from the crash of shields struck by swords in the
Sanctum of Khryl to the hand bells of theIMNpages. An instant later the bells were joined by all varieties
of horns, from simple bugles to the massive three-manbruhti atop Victory Stadium. The skull-splitting
cacophony kicked citizens from their beds and drove them to their windows; it shocked dozing rioters
scrambling from their improvised bedrolls and brought every soldier to attention.

       The pages roamed the streets, swinging their bells and calling out their news. They did not wait for
the coin and the nod that is usually required to get a story: this was an Imperial Announcement and was
free to all.

        The Emperor enjoined his citizens and Beloved Children to stay at home and remain calm, to hold
fast to their faith in him. This day was declared a holiday; no store would open and no business would be
conducted. The streets were ordered to be vacant until midmorning. From midmorning until noon, all who
wished could make their way to Victory Stadium on the south bank, where the Radiant Emperor would
greet his subjects and allay their fears. All were welcome, all would be safe, and the Emperor would calm
every heart and answer every doubt.

      The Subjects of Cant were still out in force, under orders to keep the pressure on. The rain had
forced some changes of plan. The fires that began now started fromwithin the still-damp buildings—
from their dry interiors—and there were, perhaps, not quite so many. Nonetheless, a pall of grey-black
smoke soon struggled with the lingering clouds above.

       The army also took advantage of the curfew, reasoning that all honest folk would obey the
Emperor's order and stay indoors: all the troops that could be spared from fire fighting were organized
into small units of ten to fifteen, and they roamed the streets at random in search of looters. Some were
arrested; many mor surrounded and beaten to death.

        The army took some losses as well, though; the looters be| ganizing into larger bands for
self-protection, and many of bands were well armed, especially in Alientown. There was standing, almost
traditional bad blood between the humanoii the authorities there. Much of that bad blood soon flowed th
the gutters.

       And a new story was on the street this morning, a fresh i about theAktiri that afflicted the Empire.
It spread from riot bartenders, from stevedores to carters, and it was muttered, pered, and argued over
wherever a knot of citizens might g The tale was of a magickal net whose merest touch would si; most
evilAktir and send it screaming back to the hell from wl it came.
       Also, in the new light of dawn:

       A Grey Cat, lounging at the far end of a long upstairs hall, i folded slip of parchment lying on the
floor in front of the dooi been set there to guard.

      In a cautiously neutral-ground room filled with the accc ments of the most luxurious bedchamber
imaginable, Majest] Kierendal gazed upon each other. The dawn light sparkled lik< in Kierendal's eyes;
Majesty's smile had the sleepy satisfactic a well-fed lion's.

       Berne reclined in the palace bedchamber he maintained watched his twin nude valets. The brother
and .sister—both musky with the sweat of sex and marked with bloody stripes le the switch with which
Berne still toyed—brushed his slas velvet tunic, making fearful glances back over their shoulders I sure of
his approval. He watched closely for the slightest flaw, tunic must be perfect before he would set them to
shine his be today would be a formal occasion, and he intended to look his Ma'elKoth stood alone in the
Lesser Ballroom and starec at the Great Work. The room was silent around him; no clay be in the
cauldron nor coals glowed beneath it. He had no leisure art this day. He squinted at the emerging
structure of the face he'd built there, seeing something new in it, something he'd n< intended—seeing one
of those artful accidents that give great w( their rife.

       It was to have been a model of his own face, but now, as looked at it, he realized that without
altering the existing structure one whit, a mere change of intent could make the Great Work into
thefaceol'Caine.

       toa-sytell rubbed hisgritty eyes and snuffed the lamp at his elbow. The window at his back in the
scriptorium of the Monastic Embassy had an eastern exposure, and the rising sun was vastly easier on his
eyes than the lamp had been. He grimly tried to bring the tiny letters on the page before him into clear
focus.

       He shook his head, surrendering. He rose and stretched, and his spine popped in a wave from his
neck to his waist. He sighed and crossed his arms to rub his aching shoulders. He'd been at this all night
and still had more questions than answers.

        He'd gone to the embassy directly after Caine's arranged escape. He'd had some difficulty getting
in; the embassy was designed and built to be a fortress in the middle of the city, and it was buttoned up
tight against the riots. But eventually, his calm-voiced reasonableness got him not only inside, but into the
presence of the Acting Ambassador. This man he recognized: the Acting Ambassador was the
grim-voiced older friar who'd been present at Caine's arrest and the murder of the previous Ambassador.
The Acting Ambassador had become deeply thoughtful when presented with Toa-Sytell's request.

       "Our records are our own," he'd said slowly. "But here there are some special circumstances. The
matter of Cainc has been brought before the Monastic Council, but it is too early for a decision. It is
possible that his death will be ordered; it is nearly certain that he will be cast out from Brotherhood, if not
actually outlawed. I think that perhaps I may be forgiven for opening his record to unsworn eyes."

      "You have them? You have themhereT Toa-Sytell had asked, surprised. "I'd thought we'd be
forced to send for them to, to, er..."

       "Garthan Hold," the Acting Ambassador had supplied absently. "No, his records are here. After
the Battle of Ceraeno, Caine's transfer to Ankhana became official, and his records were forwarded
here. They may not be entirely up-to-date, but if you will wait in the scriptorium, they will be brought to
you."
        Toa-Sytell had bowed his thanks and done as the Ambassad had suggested. Shortly two novices
had arrived, each bearing massive leather-bound book. One of them was full, and the otf had been filled
to a third. The Duke was astonished—how coi one man have done so much in a single short life?

       Through his night of study, his astonishment had only grow Caine had been everywhere, had done
everything; he had an uns> tling tendency to abruptly appear in the middle of important evei with little or
no explanation of why he was there or even how he made the journey. In between these battles and
assassinations a adventures so incredible that Toa-Sytell dismissed most of th« as fantasy, he didn't seem
to be anywhere at all. He had no fix home; there were no records of him spending any significant amot of
time at any Monastery after he'd completed his novitiate and Garthan Hold nearly twenty years ago.

       His youth was equally puzzling. He'd arrived at the gates Garthan Hold with a tale of having been
born to a Pathqu freedman and sold to a Lipkan trader as a body servant during t Blood Famine—but it
was recorded that he spoke Pathquan w an accent that no one had ever been able to identify. No
attempt contact his family was recorded; the Abbot at Garthan Hold had; sumed the story was
fabricated, that Caine was an escaped slave a runaway serf of one of the local nobles. The Abbot had
though significant that Caine displayed no particular aptitude, liking, understanding for either horses or
ironwork—seeing as how I supposed father allegedly was a farrier and the village blacksmi Toa-Sytell
began to understand the Emperor's fascination w this man; Caine was like some force of nature, some
wind or stoi that would suddenly appear and blast the land for miles about, th vanish again. No one knew
where he came from, no one knt where he went: his only tracks were the indelible scars he left the lives
that he touched.

      And Caine was more than this, more than a mere elemen power—the elements, after all,
Ma'elKoth had shown he cot control to a nicety. Caine was like a griffin or a dragon, a supreme
dangerous animal that could be befriended but never tamed. At a moment his thin veneer of humanity
could burst to reveal howli destruction within.

       Thin veneer of humanity...It was true that there was somethi not quite human about him: his
astonishing luck, his pretematu confidence, the way he could come from nowhere and go at will, as
ifbymagick...

      Like anAktir.

      Toa-Sytell froze in midstretch, his mouth open to yawn—but his breath stopped in his lungs as
though the air had become stone.

      Like anAktir...Toa-Sytell himself had said it, again and again, reminding himself and others of the
destruction and death that followed Caine wherever he appeared. Even Ma'elKoth had said it, down in
the Donjon as he leaned on the rail around the Pit balcony:Caine could hardly cause more damage if
he were, himself, an Aktir.

      The truth had been there, before their eyes; every one of them had looked right at it but had
refused to see.

       There was more than this—small coincidences of timing, tiny reactions that had seemed
inexplicable then, but now made sense. Toa-Sytell needed none of these.

      Heknew.
       He knew beyond the possibility of doubt, he knew with the faith of a saint: Caine was anAktir.
Caine intended the destruction of Ma'elKoth, of the Empire, of all that was good in the world. Caine had
to be stopped. He had to be killed.

       One convulsive gesture—his fist smacked down upon the open page. He stood for a moment,
breathing hard, thinking. Then he turned away, leaving the books open on the table, and he ran from the
room as though pursued by wolves.

      Berne,he thought, running.I have to find Berne.

      the pallas rilLifeclock graphic had ticked a steady yellow at the comer of theAdventure Update
transmission for six days. At dawn it clicked over to scarlet and pulsed bloody light from wall-screens
across the Earth.

      That meant, explained the perpetually smiling Bronson Underwood, that Pallas Ril had entered the
margin-of-error range on the phase-locking capability of her thoughtmitter. The time she had remaining
was no longer possible to predict.

       This announcement was followed by an extended feature on amplitude decay, including
never-before-released images of the remains of the very few Actors who had suffered this fate and left
any remains to be viewed. The unconscionably hideous nature of these images provoked a storm of
protesting screencalls to Studio Central; but even larger was the flood of calls requesting that the feature
be replayed, so that people who'd missed it the first time could record it properly on their home
netplayers.

      The Studio staffers who fielded the calls smilingly apologized: the feature would not be replayed,
but copies were available for a low, low, one-time-only discount price...

       toa-sytell wasted noprecious time searching for Berne himself. After warning the Acting
Ambassador—and receiving full assurance that in the unlikely event that Caine presented himself for
Sanctuary he'd be not only denied but detained—Toa-Sytell and his small contingent of personal guards
galloped straight for the palace office of the King's Eyes. There he spent only very few minutes quietly but
forcefully giving a precisely detailed set of orders.

        He defined Caine as an immediate threat to the Empire and the primary target of the King's Eyes:
every Eye in the capital was to drop his or her business to search for him. Toa-Sytell himself dictated the
updated description, and he sent politely worded orders to the commanders of the Constabulary and the
capital detachment of the army requiring their assistance. Caine was to be taken, no matter what the cost.
If he resisted, he was to be killed—a shoot-on-sight order was permissible, at the commanders'
discretion.

       Ma'elKoth would be furious, Toa-Sytell knew; but his loyalty was not to Ma'elKoth personally.
His duty was to the throne, to the Empire, and he knew in his bones that the Empire would never be safe
so long as Caine lived.

      When he inquired for Beme, he learned that the Count had returned in the early darkness this
morning, had spoken briefly with Ma'elKoth before retiring, and was now enjoying a late breakfast in his
palace apartment. Toa-Sytell went straight there.

     On his way up, he had time to marshal his thoughts, to arrange his evidence and organize his
argument. He expected Berne to deny this revelation out of sheer contrariness, and Toa-Sytell was
determined to overwhelm any resistance with a flood of facts.

      Moving at a near run even within the palace, he nearly collided in the corridor with a grim-faced
Grey Cat who hurried away from Berne's apartment. When Toa-Sytell burst into Berne's outer chamber,
the Count was at table in his silken lounging robe. He smirked up at Toa-Sytell and began to offer the
Duke a place, but Toa-Sytell waved him off. "I have no time for this," Toa-Sytell said. "I must find Caine.
We must find him."

       Berne's fine-drawn brows pulled together. "Oh? That might be a problem..."

       "Itcannot be a problem. Berne, he'sone of them. Caine is anAktir."

      Berne stared up at the Duke for one long second of stillness, then the corners of his mouth quirked
toward a smile that grew into a grin.

      "All right..." he said, considering. He mopped his mouth with a linen handkerchief, and some
inexpressible energy drew him to his feet and lit his face with joy. "Allrightl"

       Toa-Sytell was astonished. "Youbelieve me?"

     "Of course I believe you," Berne said happily. "I don't care if it's true or not; I still believe it.
Because this means we have to kill him. Right now."

      He snapped his fingers. A young valet appeared in the bedroom doorway, carrying an array of
formal wear draped over his arms. "I was," he said, "preparing to dress already."

       While Berne selected clothing and donned it, he related to Toa-Sytell how he'd been given the
task of following Caine and how Caine had slipped him.

       "But," he said, showing as many teeth as could fit into his grin, "one of my boys handed me this,
just now, before you came in." He flipped a folded sheet of lambskin parchment at Toa-Sytell, who
caught it neatly, unfolded it, and read the message in Lamorak's spidery hand.

       Toa-Sytell's face lit up. "You have him!"

       "Yeah, Caine led us there. I'm guessing he anticipated Ma'el-Koth's tag, and it was Lamorak who
identified it on the net. He's smarter than he looks."

       "Which one?"

       "Both of them. Come on, let's go see what he has to tell us."

      "Ma'elKoth," Toa-Sytell said. "We should see him first—he should know this. We need to tell him
before we go."

       ^ "Fuck that." Berne shook his head and ticked his points off will raised fingers. "One, he's busy
preparing that illusion, and if we in termpt him it could blunt the hook. Second, he's in the Iron Room If
you want to break in on him there, well, be my guest, but don'i expect me to be standing behind you.
And last, if we tell him this.he won't believe it. He's known Caine for years—longer than have. Even if
he does believe us, like as not he'll make up some excuse to order us to leave Caine alone. You know
how he is—he'll probably think it's moreinteresting if Caine's alive, or some fuck-me-in-the-ass thing
like that. Better we find Caine and kill himfirst, don't you think?"

       Toa-Sytell compressed his lips and nodded. "I agree. Give me five minutes to assemble an escort."

       "Fuck the escort, too."

       "The streets still aren't secure—

      "Sure they are: you're riding with me." Berne slid his arms through the harness that held Kosall's
scabbard, then fastened the rope-worked silver buckle across his chest. His fingertips brushed the hilt,
and Kosall answered with a buzzing rattlesnake's threat inside its steel scabbard.

       "We don't need an escort. Let's go."

      toa-sytell studied lamorakminutely while he listened to the traitor's tale. Lamorak's features
appeared so open despite the swelling of his broken jaw and the crust of blood below his pulpy nose;
Toa-Sytell could see that without these injuries he'd be ruggedly handsome. His was a face to inspire
almost automatic trust.

       Toa-Sytell found him fascinating in an abstract sort of way. A man's features follow his character
closely, as a common rule. Toa-Sytell found it extraordinary that he could find no hint of weakness in
Lamorak's, no clue to the void where the man's spine should be.

       When they'd entered the upper-floor den of Berne's townhome, Lamorak had flinched like a guilty
puppy; he cringed whenever Beme stepped close to him and twisted to keep his splinted leg as far from
the Count as possible. He'd refused to speak until Toa-Sytell had given his personal guarantee that
Lamorak would be taken from the hands of the Cats. Even after having received it, he spoke hesitantly
through his tied-shut teeth, a guilty flush on his beardless cheeks. Toa-Sytell squinted at him, absently
stroking the hilt of the poisoned stiletto concealed in his sleeve.

       Outside the door, Berne had warned him: "Lamorak's a crappy thaumaturge, but he has one trick
that he does well enough to be dangerous. It's a Dominate. Watch for it."

       Watch he did, but he saw no hint that Lamorak summoned power of any kind. A moment later all
of these considerations were driven aside as Lamorak revealed the climax of Caine's insidious plan.

      Lamorak stammered out his betrayal, wincing now and again when the linen strips that bound his
jaw cut into his swollen cheek, when his eagerness to prove the value of his news made him forget his
wounds.

      "...and, and then, you see, all he has to do is throw the net over the illusion, and the net cuts it off
from Flow. It'llvanish, don't you get it? Twenty thousand people will see Ma'elKoth disappear exactly
the way theAktiri are supposed to. It'llbe proof. Ma'elKoth will never live it down."

      "That net, that goatfuckingnet!" Berne snarled. Veins twisted in his neck. A chair that got in the
way of his furious pacing exploded to splinters under his kick. He wheeled on Lamorak. "What about
Pallasl How was this supposed to help him rescue Pallas?"

      "It wasn't," Toa-Sytell said, rising. "Don't you see? He doesn't care about her. Pallas is a blind, a
decoy.Caine is the danger. The Empire has been his target from the beginning."
       "I don't believe that," Berne said. "You don't know what he's gone through for her."

       "But it's all agame for them," Toa-Sytell insisted. "Don't you remember? Ma'elKoth learned this
from the ones he captured in the palace. It's a game, a play, just astory for them somehow.
Entertainment. We suffer and die for the amusement of theAktiri."

      "Entertainment or not, he'll still try for her—" Berne went on, but Toa-Sytell lost the thread of what
he was saying. He once again stared at Lamorak.

      From the instant Toa-Sytell had spoken the wordgame, Lamorak had stared first at him, then at
Berne, in eye-bulging panic. His lips hung slack as a blubbery child's, and a guttural sound of breathless
choking came from his throat.

       "What is it?" Toa-Sytell asked. "Lamorak, what's wrong?"

       Lamorak waved him off with a trembling hand. "I, I, nothing, I just, I can't—

       '

      Berne sneered contemptuously. "He's about to piss hims isn't he? Aren't you a little old to be afraid
of Aktiri?"

      "I, no, I—" Lamorak's chair scraped backward; he was Win trying to press himself back with his
good leg.

        "No, it's more than that," Toa-Sytell said, stepping close. "I seen this before. It's like a sickness.
Some men fear spiders in I way; another man I once knew could not even mount a steplad for his fear of
falling."

        "Yeah?" Grinning, Berne suddenly jumped at Lamorak £ grabbed his shoulders. He hauled him up
out of the chair, holdi him off the floor and shaking him like a child.

      "Are we a littlescared, then? Have a littleproblem with this He laughed drunkenly. "Say it with me:
Caine is anAktir. Go (say it\ Caine isan Aktir."

       Lamorak shook his battered head wordlessly, struck mute w terror.

       "Berne," Toa-Sytell said with a hand on his arm, "this serves purpose. He can't help himself."

       Berne turned only his head toward the Duke. The look on face was that of a puma challenged
over its kill. "Take your hai off me if you want to keep it attached to your wrist. He'll say it, I'll pull his
fucking arm off."

       Lamorak moaned as Beme pulled him close and shook hi again. "You think I can't? You think I'm
notstrong enough? Say Caine is anAktir. Say it."

       Lamorak's eyes rolled like those of a horse caught in a barn & His face went red, then purple.
"C...C..." he forced out throuj his teeth, choking, "C-Caine..."

       Toa-Sytell felt a chill flame climb his spine. His mouth droppi open, then closed again, and opened
to say, "Berne, wait! Hecat say it! Don't you see he's trying?But he can't! Remember th spell, the one
that blocks the tongues of theAktiri? Remembe You must have heard Ma'elKoth speak of it—!"

     Berne frowned at him; for a moment Lamorak dangled fo gotten from his fists. "I don't see what
you mean."

       "Don't you?Lamorak is one of them! He can't tell us that Caii is anAktir becausehe knows it's
truer "I'm nor!" Lamorak said shrilly. "Iswearl I'm not, I swear i It's not true, it's all a lie, I—

       "Shut up," Berne said absently, emphasizing the order with shake that snapped Lamorak's head
back. Without transition he'd become calm and bonelessly relaxed, with a sort of luxurious satisfaction
like sexual afterglow.

      "Well. How about that? Fuck me like a virgin goat. Thieves fall out, they say."

      Toa-Sytell nodded grim agreement. "They do say indeed. Do you understand what this means?"

      Berne shrugged. Lamorak whimpered, and Beme slapped him with stunning force on the
purple-black swelling over his broken jaw. "Quiet."

      "It means we've found atest. Set him down in that chair." Berne did so.

      "Take his hand," Toa-Sytell said.

       Lamorak tried to cower away, but Berne's strength was irresistible. "Now," Toa-Sytell said, "pull
his ringers off one by one until he repeats the phrase, ' am anAktir.' My guess is, he'll lose all ten."
Lamorak began to howl, his screams muffled and distant behind his teeth, even before Berne twisted and
yanked his smallest finger from his hand. The bones crackled like crumpling paper, and the flesh tore with
a sound like the ripping of heavy cloth. Berne tossed the finger over his shoulder like a gnawed-clean
chicken bone. Blood sprayed his grin, and he licked it from his lips.

       Toa-Sytell stepped in and tied his belt around Lamorak's wrist, tightening it until the crimson spray
trickled to a sluggish drip.

       "Why don't you just go ahead and say it?" Berne asked. "I can do this nine more times without any
trouble at all. It's easy enough to say, no? I am anAktir. I aman Aktir."

       Lamorak shook his head and drew breath to speak, but Berne covered his mouth with his bloody
hand. "Think about what you're gonna say, Lamorak. Anything that comes out of your mouth that's not
lam an Aktir is gonna cost you another finger."

      He took his hand away. Lamorak said nothing, only looked a silent plea at Toa-Sytell. The Duke
shrugged—Lamorak would be of little use to anyone if he was in deep shock or dead from blood loss.
"We've learned what we need to know here, Berne. Now we must take Lamorak to Ma'elKoth. This is
a way we can prove to him the danger of Caine. With the evidence of Lamorak, Caine's true nature no
longer rests on speculation."

       Berne nodded. "You go on with that. Some of the boys can escort you. Me, I'm thinking that for
his plan to work, he needs thatnet. I posted four men to watch it and follow him when he corr for it. They
might know where Caine is right now. I'm gonna and ask them."

      He reached back over his shoulder and touched Kosall's bro quillions as though he caressed a
lover's thigh. "If I can catch hi can solve all our problems with a single stroke."

     "Time grows short," Toa-Sytell said with a nod toward the risi sun, now high above the rooftops.
"Waste none of it."

       Berne held out his blood-soaked hand. "Good luck wi Ma'elKoth."

       Toa-Sytell shook it without hesitation. "Luck to you, Ben And good hunting."

       kierendal could feeleach blink as though the leading edges her eyelids were dusted with broken
glass. Cautiously, extendi her Shell wide and deep so that the pull would be difficult to dete she allowed
fatigue-suppressing energy to trickle in from the Flo She'd have plenty of time to rest once this show was
over.

        Beside her, the King of Cant stared out the window at the crow below. His Shell swirled with
silver that glittered with rosy, daw colored highlights. Some of those highlights, no doubt, spra from his
appreciation for the face and form she presented to hi: Over the past night and day, she had tuned the
illusion of her a pearance in careful, gradual increments—shading her hair towa curls in richer shades of
chestnut, her eyes toward hazel, layer! her skeletal flanks with the look and feel of lean tawny muscle,
capture just that hue in his Shell.

        Any man is easier to control when you can lead him by his die "Those guys, there, they're ours,
aren't they?" Majesty's voi thickened with excitement. "Gods, those too,they could be ou See them?
Didn't you do a couple with the plumed cap and tigl look?"

      Kierendal twisted to glance lazily out the window, not really i terested in the thronging crowds
massing to file into Victory Si dium. For her, the real action was taking place right here in tl room with
Majesty.

       "I don't know," she said. "They could be. I did so many, real that I can't remember them all."

       "And you can't tell, right? You can't look down there and tell which are ours? Even though you did
the spells yourself?"

       Kierendal shrugged. "The griffinstones power the illusions; they draw no Flow. Undetectable."

       "Good thing, too. Fucking body searches—without yourmagick I don't think we'd get a toothpick
in there." When he looked at her, the thrill in his eyes made him almost attractive. "You sure you don't
want to join me? Gonna be a rucking spectacular show."

       Kierendal smiled like a cat. "I'm a lover, not a fighter."

       She had no intention of being anywhere near the stadium at noon.

       If she could help it, she never wanted to be that close to Caine again.

      The energy that surrounded him, that oceanic, tidal current of Flow that somehow followed
him—she couldn't tell what it was, or how he did it. She was fairly certain that he had no idea of the
power that rolled through his life. Perhaps it was a human thing; perhaps, as a species, they had more
power below the surface of their consciousness than did any primal mage, and she had only become
aware of it through her close study of Caine's oddly black Shell. That power seemed to grow on him, to
gather into itself, doubling and redoubling like a river piling up behind a weakening dam. She had some
clue what effect it might have when released: she had seen the hints of it during the standoff with Majesty
at Alien Games.

      It would be chaos. Pure destruction.

      She suspected that it was that dark current in the Flow that had so nearly escalated the situation at
AG out of anyone's control; she suspected that Caine, by his very existence, piled up potential forces like
snow and rock in the Gods' Teeth. Where peace had reigned for years, one shout from Caine might bring
down an avalanche.

       She had no intention of being downslope from him. Not this time. No point in trying to explain this
to Majesty. He'd never believe her. Besides, if he died today, she'd have a fair chance at gathering
whatever survived of the Kingdom of Cant under her hand. On balance, of course, she'd prefer that he
lived, and that Caine's plan went perfectly; she was well on her way to permanently cementing her
relationship with Majesty.

       Speaking of that,she thought, glancing at the entourage of mingled Subjects and Faces that littered
the rest of the room. "I think," she said slowly, "that we should empty this room, so we can, mmm,
negotiate some more."

       The hand that she laid on Majesty's arm was warmer tha human's, and it sparked some answering
heat in his smile.

      "I'm not sure we have time," he answered.

      Three minutes at most,she thought, but kept that thought off face. "Mmm, if you say so." She
sighed as though disappoint his attention had already been drawn away by the scene outsi "Where are
your Dukes?"

       "Deofad's already inside the stadium. Paslava...well..." turned to her again, and his grin got wide
and slightly malicio "Paslava'll be here later. Right now, he's got some business in i caverns."

      arturo kollberg moppedsweat from his upper lip and lean close to the chairscreen's mike to half
whisper hoarsely, " » dammit! No feed, not now."

       The VP for Marketing frowned a Businessman disapprothrough the screen at him. "They're all
over me on this, Art. Th want another feed, just like the other day." He lowered his voice a whisper. "I've
just heard from the Board..."

      Kollberg twitched involuntarily—that ants-on-the-skin feeli was back again. He glanced over his
shoulder at the two soap! Their face shields seemed to be directed at the phosphene kaleic scope of the
POV screen, but he had no way to know for sure.

      " You'lljust have towait" he insisted. "All of you, you'll have wait.Nothing's happening right
now, for Christ's sake!" His e> bulged and he spoke through teeth clenched so hard his jaw ht
"Nothing's happenedfor hours] He'sasleep, allright!"

       "Jesus, Art, calm down. Okay, he's asleep. No problem. Bu want an assurance that we'll get a
feed for the big blow-off, yea This thing he's supposed to be pulling on Ma'elKoth—wewe this live on
the net. That Clearlake guy, the Board's very up on hi right now. They want him hosting."
       Kollberg's hand trembled as he wiped perspiration back into t thin strands of hair that were
already pasted down with his swe "You'll kill our cube sales. You know that, don't you? That's t climax
of the whole damnedAdventurel Caine's thebest at this— you know he is. I've been running Caine's
Adventures for fifteen years. This is histrademark. He's pulling everything together for this show at the
stadium. It's all going to happen at once. Put it out live and everyone in the world will know how it comes
out!"

        "We're okay with this. The Board's okay with this, Art. The fees for the feed will cover any drop
in the cubes—and we're projecting that any drop will be minimal. This is acollectible, Art. Especially if
he dies."

      it was hearingdistant voices speak the nameCaine that brought Pallas drifting upward like a bubble
through the layers of Cham-baraya's song. There was no knowing how long she had let the currents of
song carry her gently away from the awareness of her body; her last clear memory was of speaking to
Caine, here from the body that was tied upon the altar.

       He shone like a star,she thought. There was some power within him, something not
Flow-based—but perhaps Flow-related— some dynamic energy of life that had called to her within her
river dreams. It hadn't come from the Flow or from any outside source; the very room had heated up at
his entrance as though he carried a furnace within his chest. How could she never have seen this before?

       Had it never been there?

       All of their struggles, all the wounds inflicted and taken on both sides, his endlessly simmering
anger, her tangled envy, all seemed so distant, so trivial. She couldn't comprehend, from this perspective,
how they could have made each other so unhappy.

        There is nothing easier than happiness; it's the feeling that comes when you're open to the life that
flows through you, when you know that you are the river and the river is you. She and Caine, they had
somehow never found that. Cut off from each other, cut off from themselves, they had clutched at their
lives, had scrabbled for them like misers hugging gold, pretending that life itself could be hoarded, or
spent. Ridiculous. No wonder they couldn't live together.

       If only she could tell him that, somehow get through tc him how easy it is to be happy.

         She knew that she didn't have much time, that this I dying, that the life she had borrowed through
thirty-three leaking out through the hole in her lung. This prospect d tress her. It was nothing more than
the little rivulet calle< Leighton, called Pallas Ril, slowly drying as its water retun river. She only worried
about Caine; she hoped that she a life inside this body long enough to speak with him one las She wished
she could ask the river how much time she but that way was blocked for her. She could still hear could
still let the mingled melodies float her away. No wall or steel or magick itself could sever this link, which
was a part of her as her heart and her spine, but some immateri; prevented her from adding her own
voice to the sor drawing its power through herself.

     She knew from whence that barrier came: from the sam as the voice that now said,You cannot
ask Me to accept thii proof.

      Him, she could see without opening her eyes: a gigantic Kharybdis of Flow, sucking energy in from
every directio ing it to power his massive body and to light his extraordina The Iron Room rang with its
echoes, and every stone of the Palace resonated with the beat of the Emperor's heart.
        She knew, vaguely, of the fires and turmoil, of the riots fighting in the city outside. From her
vantage it seemed tha Koth's distress was not the product of the chaos, but was it; His internal furies had
somehow broken out, spilled over, the disorder as though the city itself was an extension of hi; She
would need her eyes to see the others, but she wasi that level yet—still rising, registering now the beats of
li and the pain that came of struggling to breathe. They cont speak of Caine, though—spoke in voices
that she knew.

       And they named him as an Actor.

      She knew in a disconnected way that this was a bad thin would be a problem. As her attention
gradually sharpe heard more of some plan of his they'd discovered, of a si and griffinstones, some plan to
paint Ma'elKoth in the coloAktiri before thousands of his subjects.

       Ma'elKoth's voice now came to her in tones of weak self-doubt and inner pain unlike any she'd
heard from him.

       Is it possible? I cannot comprehend the depths of...No, no, it cannot be! This is impossible! My
entire career...My rise to the throne, all planned, all the work of anAktir...

       /cannot believe it. I do not believe it.

       As Pallas' consciousness rose to the surface, she recognized the voice of Toa-Sytell, every bit as
neutral as it had been that night she'd overheard him with Majesty.

       "It is an unconscionable risk. You must cancel the ceremony."

      "Cancel? Now? My Children enter the stadium already; to cancel the ceremony would be an
admission of guilt; the result would be the same in the end."

      His voice became thready with unaccustomed self-pity. "To be tumbled with one swift stroke from
the mountaintop unto the depths of a dung heap. Had the other gods hated Me from birth they could
hardly have used Me worse. To believe that it could have beenplanned from the very beginning, that
seven years ago Caine brought Me the crown of Dal'kannith to start Me along a path to bring me here,
where with one stroke he can shatter the Empire itself...Can hebe that brilliant? Can he be so far beyond
even Me? You—you know him. You are his companion; you have brought Me this news. Speak, now.
Tell Me the truth of this man."

      Pallas wondered fuzzily,Is he talking to me? Does he think I'll start talking now just for
asking ? He can'tforce my voice by torture or magick, and so he's decided to be polite?

       A rustle of footsteps, the half-tearing sound of stressed cloth, and she opened her eyes.

       Ma'elKoth faced three-quarters away from her. The oiled muscles in his bare back were rigid as
stone. His fist held the tunic of a man, held this man high in the air. Pallas had a vague flash of memory, of
Ma'elKoth holding Caine in precisely this fashion—but this wasn't Caine.

      This man had a broken leg tied to splints with dirty linen, had manacles on his wrists and a bloody
bandage tied around one hand, had knotted linen tying shut a painfully swollen, purple-black jaw, his
nose equally swollen and spreading blackened rings of bruise around his eyes.
     Not until he spoke did she recognize him. "I don'...I can'...All I know I already tol' you..."
Lamorak said miserably, his eyes wet and blinking.

       /held this man in my arms, she thought, marveling.Kissed him, made love with him. And now I
can't remember why…

       But her Olympian perspective made everything clear. Looki back, the answer became obvious:
She'd turned to him because wasn't Caine, because he was Caine's opposite in every way. T< and
blond, beautiful to look upon and clearly heroic,a good man every sense of the word, caring and
compassionate, romantic a brave.

       And hollow inside. A beautiful shell, fragile as a blown egg.

       This was the final opposite: Caine, at least, was all of a piec What you saw was what you got.
That's why Caine would ne\ break the way Lamorak had so clearly broken: he was solid, throu and
through.

        "This, then, is what shall be done," Ma'elKoth said, turning on again to Toa-Sytell, who stood with
respectful stillness neart Lamorak dangled trembling from his fist, forgotten. "I am Ma'< Koth. I do not
run. I do not hide. If Berne cannot recover the nel will meet Caine face-to-face upon the arena floor."

       Toa-Sytell looked alarmed. "Ma'elKoth—

     "No. If I cower within My palace, Caine's plan succeeds. I sh; reverse this with a single stroke of
my own: /will truly be there."

         He opened his fist, and Lamorak dropped clattering to the floor, have never been comfortable
with the idea of employing a Fantasy would be a fake, a pretense, and I do not lie to My Children. I shall
i this ritualin truth. I shall take these lives upon the arena floor. I sh have the memories of Pallas Ril, and
of you, Lamorak, however d tasteful it may be to absorb such revolting worthlessness."

        He stepped close to Toa-Sytell and looked down upon his Dut "Continue the search for Caine. If
he can be taken before the ritu do so. If he must be killed, so be it. I suspect, however, that you w not
find him. He's too resourceful; too ruthless. But I am more th he is. I am Ma'elKoth. Whatever happens,
I shall be ready."

       He clasped his mighty hands together and twisted them agaii each other, popping his knuckles like
a string of firecrackers.

       "I shall be ready, and I shall kill him with My own hand. Ai then I shall havehis memories, as well."

      All the rich and boundless energy that had drained from voice before had now rushed back; the
maelstrom of Flow that f him gathered unimaginable power.

       "Then all questions shall, at last, be put to rest."

       Oh, Hari,Shanna thought, as her eyes drifted closed. The dec of this body she could accept with a
certain equanimity, but t new star that had shone within Caine was so unexpectedly lovely, a surprise of
beauty: a perfect rose in a wasteland.

       /'//hold on. I'll find a way. To warn you. To help you. Somehow.
       I can live that long, I think.

       berne clenched histeeth and resisted the urge to cut his way through the surging crowds.

       The curfew had lifted at midmorning, and it seemed that the whole city had streamed onto the
streets. More than one citizen received a bone-crushing kick from Berne's horse, a spirited animal that
disliked breasting through the crowds. It rolled its eyes toward anyone approaching its flanks or rear, and
Berne let it have its head a little—a few bleeding townsfolk flat in the street behind him went a long way
toward clearing a path before him.

       Finally he struggled through to the pissoir closest to the shaft where he'd left his Cats to watch the
net. He loose-tied the horse at the post outside, looping the reins through the topmost hook. The lock on
the mucker-shaft door squealed and snapped with a simple twist of his wrist. A moment's work with flint
and steel lit the lamp that he took from a peg just inside the door; he strapped the grip to the outside of
his hand and went down the ladder into the darkness. He curled his lip against the smell as he sloshed
through the puddled urine across the pissoir's shaft base; he ducked through the cavern entrance and
moved at a fast crouch until he could stand upright again.

        Soon he edged along a ledge midway up the curving wall of a gallery that disappeared into
darkness below him and fought off the temptation to take the shortcuts that seemed to offer themselves.
He kept exactly to the route he'd marked on his way down here before—he well knew that the easiest
thing to do in these caverns was to get irretrievably lost and wander until the oil in the lamp died. He
clambered down a narrow shaft to a lower cavern. For a moment, he thought he glimpsed lamplight
reflecting from rock somewhere ahead. Tiny stalagmites broke away under his boots and skittered loudly
across the stone, and the light went out before he could be sure it had ever been there.

      He shook his head. He'd told those idiotsNo lights. They had i each other for company in the
darkness, and any lamplight wou warn off Caine.

        He arrived at the spot, the broad bowl-shaped depression wi the well to one side, and looked
around. No sign of his boys; nodded approval to himself—they were properly remaining cove until sure
of his identity. "All right, boys. It's me. Come on there's a change in our plans."

        And he stood there, listening to the fading echoes of his voice ar the lonely plash of millennial water
seeping through the limestone With a sudden curse he remembered the dagger that Ma'elKo had
magicked for him, that still rode his hip in its leather sheath. F drew the knife; the green light from within
the blade was fair barely visible in the glow from his lamp. As he swung it around arm's length, he found
that it only barely brightened—while pointir diagonally up and away.

       "Bastard," he muttered. "Bastard. He's already been here."

      His boys should have left some sign of which way they'd gon He couldn't just follow the dagger,
not down here. As he circled tl chamber, he passed the mouth of the well—the vertical shaft whei the net
had been—and from its mouth breathed the smell of sh and rich metallic blood.

      Berne let his eyes drift closed as he stood at the rim of the we! He didn't have to look down there
to know what he'd see: the pile bodies of his four Cats.

       But if they were dead, whose lamp threw that light he'd seen?
      He spun, trying to whirl away from the well's mouth, but it w; already too late.

      He got no warning at all. No scrape of boots, no breath of breez nothing except silent and invisible
hands striking his back at h center of balance while an invisible tether held his ankles. Befoi he could
understand what was happening, he found himself fallin headfirst down the well, tumbling as he bounced
from wall to wal crashing into the yielding cold-meat bodies of his men.

       Light flared in the chamber above him, and five heads becarr visible as men above peered down
the shaft at him.

       Slowly, Berne disentangled himself from the nerveless claspin limbs of the corpses, picked himself
up, and made a show of brusl ing dirt and blood from his clothing, all the while digging his fe< around to
find stable footing on the stone below the bodies.

       "I am Abbal Paslava," said one of the men above. "Men call m the Spellbinder. I thought you might
be interested to know who has killed you, Berne."

      Berne bent his neck to look up at him and nodded with an expression of professional appreciation.
"Good trap, Abbal Paslava the Spellbinder. Nicely done, indeed. Now I expect those men with you will
be shooting me with crossbows, or dropping rocks on my head, or something like that." Berne chuckled
warmly. "This was Caine's idea, wasn't it?"

        "Why yes, in fact, it was," Paslava said with a broad malicious smile. "He told us of your magickal
enhancements, and he decided that this would be the best way to kill you, to draw you down here into
the caverns where your magick will not function. Not your strength, not your invulnerability, and most
especially: not Kosall. With a griffinstone pulled from the net your men so thoughtfully kept watch over
for us, I have more than enough power down here to slaughter you."

      "A good trap," Berne repeated. "He's smarter than I thought he was. But there's something Caine
doesn't know."

      "Mmm," Paslava hummed judiciously. "Caine said you would try to bargain for your life. What
information do you have that could possibly be of greater value to us than your death?"

      "Information?" Berne laughed out loud. "I'll give you information," he said, as he reached back
over his shoulder and drew Kosall.

      Once the blade cleared the scabbard, he took its hilt, and Kosall whined to tooth-grinding life.

      Paslava's eyes bulged.

        Berne grinned and waved up at him with the humming blade. "You're not the only one with a
griffinstone."

       Paslava shouted,"Shoot! Shoot him now!" but before the Knights of Cant with him could bring
their bows to bear, Berne bent his knees and sprang out of the well with a single leap. The Knights all
ducked as he shot upward like a quarrel from a crossbow's slot. He arced high over one ducking Knight
and split the man's skull from base to crown with a single backhanded swipe of Kosall.

       He somersaulted in the air and landed gracefully poised. The dead Knight collapsed slowly to his
knees, then tumbled forward into the well behind him.
       He turned and leveled the blade at Paslava while the other Knights scrambled back and went for
their swords.

      "Come on, then," he said cheerfully. "Fight or run. You're dead just the same. I don't have all day."

        Berne did not consider himself an intellectual, or even an intelligent man; he preferred to leave
thinking to men who were good at it, like Ma'elKoth or Toa-Sytell. Nonetheless, a question of the sort
that he generally didn't bother to consider sparked within his brain as he killed first one, then another of
the terrified Knights of Cant. By the time he casually, rather distractedly slaughtered the third, this
question had acquired real significance: it was a puzzler, and he suspected that its answer was somehow
vital in a way he could not, yet, understand.

       So it was that when he pounced on the fleeing Paslava and sliced the thaumaturge's leg off
precisely through the middle of his knee joint—so that Paslava tumbled to the ground in a screeching
spray of blood, skidding his jetting stump along the jagged limestone— Berne did not finish him
immediately.

      Instead, he seized the thaumaturge by the thigh on his half leg, his strengthened grip cutting into the
muscle until the arterial spray of blood diminished to a trickle. He lifted Paslava into the air, head
downward to keep his blood pressure up so the wounded man wouldn't faint.

      Holding him out at arm's length, Berne frowned into the Spellbinder's upside-down eyes. "So tell
me, before you die," Berne said slowly, with a growing premonition that things were somehow going
hideously wrong, "exactly how Caine knew I'd be coming down here to get that net."

     well before noon,Victory Stadium was full, dangerously full. A close-packed sweating mass of
humanity squatted on stone benches and crouched in the aisles. Some stood in knots around the closest
man with a jug. Many struggled in disorganized masses at the doors of the grandstand pissoirs.

      The Imperial official in charge of the stadium, himself sweating and wringing his hands, told the
Commandant of the constables to shut the gates. Then he turned to kneel in front of the small icon of
Ma'elKoth that stood in the corner of his office to pray that there wouldn't be a riot.

      When the constables swung closed the public gates, the crowds outside recoiled upon themselves
Eke worms encountering hot brick; a ripple passed outward from the stadium to the farthest reaches of
Games Way and the street that joined it, Long Way, as people began to reverse direction to fight back
against the press of bodies behind them.

      A reinforced cavalry brigade began driving the commoners off Nobles' Way and away from
Kings' Bridge: soon Ma'elKoth himself would travel this road.

       high above thecity in the Iron Room, Pallas Ril had paid little attention to the Household Knights
that draped a linen shift over her and transferred her manacles from the altar to a jointed frame of
oak—no more attention than she had paid to Lamorak's single miserable plea for forgiveness. They were
bound identically under the thoughtful supervision of Ma'elKoth himself. A silver net had been tied over
Pallas and her frame entire; this had at last captured her attention, as the twisting lace of Flow vanished
from her mindview. Now when she looked upon Ma'elKoth, she saw only a man of great size and
surpassing beauty, instead of-the godlike whirlwind of power that had stood at the altar's side for two
days.
          Cut off from the Flow, she tumbled out of mindview and groaned weakly at the pain that chewed
at her.

       The Household Knights carried the frames upon which she and Lamorak were bound as though
they were stretchers, down and down and down the endless flights of stairs to the front courtyard of the
Colhari Palace. There a huge processional was being organized-hundreds upon hundreds of Knights and
musicians and acrobats, pretty girls with garlands of fresh flowers, strong young men with baskets of
sweets and pastries to throw to the crowds. The centerpiece of the parade was an enormous open
wagon. It was hung with flowers until its frame could not be seen, and upon it were bolted a pair of
freestanding iron racks. The jointed frames upon which Pallas and Lamorak were bound were swiftly
unfolded into wide X shapes and hung upright upon the racks.

       Being vertical for the first time in two days caused Pallas to nearly black out; as her vision dimmed
and the scene swam in the brilliant sunlight, she saw Ma'elKoth leap lightly from the ground to the center
of the wagon. The paraders around him, the Knights, everyone present in the courtyard or looking down
from the windows cheered—a happy racket that he acknowledged with a sweeping bow and a grin that
brought more cheers and applause.

       Even without mindview, Pallas could see how he fed on their love, how it elevated him far above
the concerns of mortality. His doubts and grim determination of this morning had vanished without a
trace; here in the presence of his Children, Ma'elKoth rivaled the sun itself, all power and supernal
beauty.

       She looked over at Lamorak, at his battered body crucified like her own, his eyes closed on his
private misery. She looked down at herself, at the linen shift that was already showing crimson stains of
the blood that leaked through the crusted bandage around her chest, then again at Ma'elKoth, who now
waved for the gates to be thrown back. She tried to summon mindview, to recover some of the serenity
that had sustained her in the Iron Room, but the pain in her wrists and ankles, the agony of drawing each
breath into her punctured lung, the tumult around her, all combined to prevent her from reaching that
sanctuary.

          She was alone, without even the faintest beat of life's song to comfort her.

      The gates swung wide, and Ma'elKoth's face seemed to cast a dazzling light of its own. The
waiting crowd outside answered his appearance with a full-throated roar.

       high in thestands within the stadium, the King of Cant looked down. Over a thousand Subjects of
Cant were seeded through this crowd—every man, woman, and youth of them armed. They would fall
upon the Grey Cats like an avalanche. Even now, as he sat with his palms pressed together between his
trembling knees, the Faces were spreading through Old Town, taking strategic positions to cover a
retreat, if a retreat became necessary. It wouldn't, though: this Majesty knew beyond doubt.

          There would be no retreat.

       By nightfall, he would hold this city in his hand, ready to deliver it to Toa-Sytell—in return for, ah,
certain considerations...

        The tremor in his knees and the fluttering in his guts, these had nothing to do with fear: they were
pure anticipation. Only one thing troubled him as he squinted upward to check the near-vertical angle of
the rising sun.
     Where in fuck is Paslava? He should have been here half an hour ago. If he's not around to do his
crowd-control stuff, a lot of people are going to get hurt.

      From outside, far beyond the walls of the stadium, he heard the voice of crowds that roared like
an approaching hurricane.

       toa-sytell met theparade at the south end of Kings' Bridge. A handful of King's Eyes forced a path
for him through the crowds, and the Emperor paused in his joyous acceptance of his Children's adulation
long enough to wave him aboard the wagon. He clambered up and stood close to Ma'elKoth's side,
yelling at the top of his lungs to be heard over the crowd that Caine was nowhere to be found. Every
person who' d entered the stadium had been searched, and every man who answered Caine's general
description had been detained. Toa-Sytcll himself had looked over the detainees, and Caine was not
among them. Caine had not entered the stadium, and there was no way he could get in, now that the
gates were sealed.

     Ma'elKoth bent his neck to look down on his Duke. Sudden silence surrounded them, though
Toa-Sytell could see that the crowd lining the streets still shouted as lustily as ever.

      The Emperor smiled and said gently, "You misspeak. You mean to say: Caine has not entered the
stadium since your search began. Mark Me: he will be there."

       "all right allright allrightallright," Arturo Kollberg muttered, chewing the words around the ends of
his nail-bitten fingertips, still in his mouth. His heart beat double march time against his ribs, and blood
sang in his ears. His face felt swollen, bloated with the pressure inside his brain, and it glowed with the
same malignant flush of rose as the fist button of the emergency transfer switch.

      After two swift glances, one over each shoulder, back at the impassive mirror masks of the
soapies, he again faced forward and checked Caine's telemetry as it scrolled across the darkened POV
screen.

      "All right," he said again. "He's awake. He's moving. He's making a move. Start the feed."

       even the small-market,ethnic-language channels buried in the non-English-speaking backwaters of
the world carried Jed Clear-lake's summation of the tale; their poor advertising revenues did not give
them the funds necessary to carry the live feed itself, but they could go this far. They would break into
their programming at intervals with whatever updates became available.

       Clearlake's summary was a model of clarity; other broadcasters could only helplessly envy his
characteristic blend of emotional intensity and suave good nature, his air of being on the inside, of being a
player.

      "Now, after this message, we'll return withCaine: Live\"

      The following message was from the Studio itself, sixty seconds of opportunistic self-promotion,
worldwide and free. Their slogan,Adventures Unlimited: When you need to be somebody else faded
slowly from screens around the world; then the feed began.

      And the world ground to a halt.

       Foot traffic was gridlocked in Times Square as shoulder-to-shoulder pedestrians stared up at the
ring of Jumbotrons. Tokyo was in a similar state; London, Johannesburg, Kabul, New Delhi...Those
citizens fortunate enough to be carrying handscreens stopped in their tracks to watch, and all the others
rushed to their homes, to taverns, to storefronts where at least they could look at the pictures. Trading on
the commodities and stock exchanges was suspended; air traffic was maintained only in the
computer-directed slavelanes.

       Nearly every breathless human being on Earth heard Caine's Soliloquy:

       *Seems like I spend most of my life climbing up out of other peoples'shit.*

      the toilet seatmakes a dimly backlit ring above me as I clamber up the side of the shaft, get my
hands on it, and quickly chin myself to get a look around. The latrine is empty, as I expected it would be;
the Eyes who searched this place were too fastidious to climb down into the shaft—it figures that they
wouldn't spend more time here than absolutely necessary.

        I push the seat up and pull myself out of the toilet. It's a struggle not to groan out loud when every
single one of my injuries acutely reminds me of its presence—from the fever that's scratching my eyeballs
all the way down to the bone bruise that stiffens my right knee.

        Tyshalle's Bloody Axe, I'm a wreck. Spending a few hours sleeping in petrified shit at the bottom
of a latrine shaft didn't realiy agree with me.

       Could have been worse: if Ma'elKoth hadn't banned gladiators, there might have been guys using
this shitter while I was down there.

      Daylight leaks in through the vents at the joining of wall and ceiling, and the rising thunder of the
crowd's roar tells me that Ma'elKoth will be coming through the outside gates anytime now.

      Those vents up there perforate thfrarena wall. The gladiator latrine is right next to the glory hole, to
handle the nervous bladders and spastic sphincters of men walking out to die. I spend a nervous moment
myself when I go to the doorless arch and peer out into the glory hole itself.

      It's empty, thankfully, and dark—an iron door closes it off from the gated shaft that leads to the
arena—and I go back to the vents, jump up, and chin myself to look out. I don't have to worry about
making noise; with twenty thousand Ma'elKoth fanatics howling over my head, could set off a bomb in
here and attract less attention than a fart in a brothel.

       The arena wall's about three feet thick here; I wriggle headfirst into one of the vents to get a decent
view. I have to struggle to hold down some incipient claustrophobia—I can feel the weight of the stone
an inch above the back of my head, and my elbows brush stone on either side. I'm in black shadow cast
by the noonday sun, invisible.

      The mouth of the vent frames the golden glare of sun off sand. Across the arena the bright holiday
clothes of the spectators—

       shoulder to shoulder in the stands—make a splintered mos random color that shifts and ripples like
a patchwork flag.

      I spend one more moment looking out at the crowd. Soi them are nervous, some seem angry,
some of them look sine happy.

       A lot of them will be dead within the hour.
       My field of view no doubt includes any number of Grey C mufti and probably more than a handful
of disguised Subjei Cant. I'm not worried about them; they're all here to fight.

       I wonder, though, if any of the civilians out there had a prer tion, a queasy feeling about coming
here today. I wonder how i won't be surprised when the shit explodes, how many will feel a sickening
stomach-drop of recognition, how many will die\ knew I should have stayed home echoing in their
heads.

       I wonder how many homes will echo with keening for the tonight.

       Y'know, if the situation was opposite, if someone I loved because some guy did what I'm about to
do, I wouldn't rest Fd hunted that man down and killed him with my own hands.

      But: if I could buy Pallas' life with the deaths of every ; woman, and child in this stadium, I'd do it.
Cheap at twici price. Even so, I'd be inclined to haggle—in fact, today I'mg> drive a hard fucking
bargain.

       Maybe I'm getting thrifty in my old age.

      The roar that rocks the stadium notches up another five dec or so, cutting short my seesaw of
second thoughts.

       Ma'elKoth has arrived.

       He's brought a whole parade, hundreds of revelers in hoi costume; they come dancing onto the
sand, casting sweets coins up into the grandstands as they circle the arena, urging crowd to join them in
the singing of Ma'elKoth's anthem, "Kir Kings." There are a few pretty girls among them, but most oft
seem to be men—not young men, either. I can pick out weath creases beneath the holiday face paint,
and behind the smiles the cold eyes of career soldiers, veteran killers.

       So: he's ready.

       Good.

       The crowd isn't really going for the song. The voices that do in are nearly drowned by the
ever-increasing general roar.

       And then the Rose Parade wagon rolls across my black-frai field of view.

       It moves without visible means, powered by Ma'elKoth's will alone. That's him, there in the
middle—the one who looks like a hero of legend, a god from myth, standing like the figurehead of a
battleship as it rolls to the center of the arena floor, fists on his hips, head thrown back. And for those of
you who are new to this story, the fellow at his side—the one looking very natty indeed in the ruffled
doublet and pants side-buckled down to his thigh boots—that's Toa-Sytell, the Duke of Public Order,
for which read "head of the secret police." Very competent. Very dangerous. His face is characteristically
blank as he scans the stands.

       He's probably looking for me.

       He shouldn't be here; I was hoping he'd know better. If he gets killed today, Majesty and the
Kingdom are deep in the shitter.

      Yeah, oh well—too late now to worry about Majesty. I have other business. Business up there on
that wagon with Ma'elKoth.

      Hard as I try not to let myself register the twin X-shaped frames on either end of the
flower-decked wagon, there they are; I can't look away. From one, Lamorak hangs limply, head down.
He looks like he's already dead, which would be a pity.

       I'd hate for him to miss this.

       From the other, inside a drape of silver net, hangs my wife.

        A chill opens in my belly, like Fve swallowed ice, a freezing void that spreads to my chest, to my
arms and legs, to my head. In that icy emptiness it seems that I'm watching myself lie here, hearing myself
think. I can't feel my heartbeat, just a sizzling hiss behind my ribs that crackles in my ears like lightning on
a radio.

        Pallas has her head up. She looks alert and worried: she's a long way from that private mystic
bolt-hole where she'd kept herself safe. The shift of white linen that covers her is stained with a crimson
trail from her ribs down her left leg. Her blood drips from her heel into the flowers below her feet.

       That rack she's hanging from—that's going to be a problem. Somehow I didn't expect to find her
crucified...

       Maybe I didn't think this through quite as well as I could have.

       No Berne, though: that means his body's cooling at the bottom of that well in the caverns even
now. Shame I couldn't be there myself to watch the light go out of his eyes—but I can settle for knowing
I've outlived him.

      Ma'elKoth lifts his bridge-girder arms, and silence bursts from him like the shock front of an
explosion, as though God has reached down and spun the volume dial on the world.

       He begins to speak to his assembled Children.

       I guess that's my cue.

       I pull myself scraping forward and roll headfirst out of th My hands grip its lower rim so that I can
flip neatly forwa land on my feet.

      There's no hesitation now, not even time for a slow There's no profit in any second thoughts: there
arc no chok to make.

       I hook my thumbs behind my belt and stroll out across the floor.

       And this is it.

       I'm here. On the sand. In my last arena.

       Twenty thousand pairs of eyes swing curiously towarWho's that idiot in black ? What's he doing
here ?

       And hundreds of thousands more, all of you here with me my skull, all of you who think you know
what I'm about Maybe I've got a couple surprises for you, too.

       A few of the costumed mock revelers see me now and still selves, hands drifting toward folds of
clothing for the we concealed there.

        I keep walking toward them, slowly, offering a friendly gri The golden sand of the arena crunches
as it shifts slightly my boot heels. The sun is hot, and it strikes a reddish glow on upper reaches of my
vision, where it glistens in my eyebrows All my doubts, all my questions fly away like doves inc jurer's
trick. Adrenaline sings in my veins, a melody as fai and comforting as a lullaby. The thunder of blood in
my ears all sound except for the slow, measuredcrunchch...crund my footsteps.

      Toa-Sytell sees me now; his pale eyes widen and his r works. He tugs on Ma'elKoth's arm, and
the Emperor's swivels toward me with the slow-motion menace of the tur a tank.

       As I walk toward him, my chest swells with some incxpli emotion; I'm nearly there before I can tell
what it is.

      It's happiness, I guess.

      I am, right now, as happy as I will ever be.

      I look up at Pallas and find her eyes on me, full of horror.

       I acknowledge her with a droop of my eyelids that is aln bow, and I mouth the only words I can
give her: /love you.

        She's trying to say something back to me, something about Ma'el-Koth. I can't read her battered
lips, and I won't have the chance to figure it out.

      It's time for the killing to begin.

        the commander ofthe northwest garrison had only just lain down, heading for a richly deserved nap
after thirty solid hours on his feet. He was stretching his exhausted body on an obscenely comfortable
pallet in a back room, his eyes drifting closed, when the entire building trembled and shook as though
struck by a giant's fist.

        Outside his room, men shouted in confusion and terror. He scrambled to his feet and staggered to
the peg where his scabbard hung on the wall. He clawed numbly at the hilt of his sword, but before he
could draw, the door burst squealing around the bar that locked it and fell in rattling splintered fragments
to the floor.

       The man who stood panting in the doorway was covered in moist and clotted blood, as though
he'd been swimming on a slaughterhouse floor. His eyes burned fiercely within his red-smeared face. As
he gasped for breath he snarled: "Call your men...all of them. And I need...a horse. Yourbest fucking
horse. Now."

     Slowly the commander's fatigue-dazzled brain registered who this was, and he stammered, "I, ah,
CountBerne —! Count...my lord Count, you'rehurt!"
      Berne's teeth were nearly as red as his bloody lips. "It's not my blood...you stupid...sack of shit.
Get that horse. And sound the alarm. Every man, every fucking trooper, I want thewhole shit-eating
army at Victory Stadiumright fucking now!" "I, ah, my lord Count, I don't understand—" "You don't
have to understand. Just do it. He talked; I knew the sonofawhore would talk."

      Beme strode into the room and took the commander's shoulder with a grip powerful enough to
make the commander wince as the joint popped. "All your men, all the men from the other garrisons. Get
them to the stadium and arresteveryone. Anyone who offers resistance, kill them."

      "But, but, what's going on?"

       Berne leaned close, and his eyes smoldered. The commander nearly choked on the rich meaty
scent of blood on his bi "FuckingCaine —the whole goatfucMng thing's asetupl"

      Without effort he lifted the commander off the floor and sn into his face. "Now do I get that horse
and those men, or do your fucking arms off?"

       far below, hewas only a stick figure in black, a sharp contra the golden sand and the brightly
costumed revelers, but to Maje; eye he was unmistakably Caine. The slight, unconscious swaj the flash of
teeth in the swarthy face, the leisurely walk that c out and stretched the awesome silence of the Stadium.
Too now for Paslava to arrive, Majesty thought, his heart sprinting His white-knuckled fingers dug
painfully into his tremt knees. Without Paslava, this was going to be bloody, but there no going back, not
now, not when victory wasthis close...

       He caught the eye of Deofad. The grizzled warrior sat twi rows away, and he returned Majesty's
look of sizzling anticipat Majesty mouthed,Ready?

      Deofad's reply was a barely perceptible nod.

      Majesty lifted one finger and held his breath.

      Now, everything waited for Caine.

       Alanguid wave of the Emperor's hand parts the sea of revel and they allow me to pass. I don't
have to look back to ki they're closing in behind me, but that doesn't matter. All counts is how close I can
get before the shitpile explodes.

       Slowly, with the same kind of deliberation my father used to when he'd take off his belt to beat
me, I untie the silver net from waist and coil it around one fist.

       "What news, Caine?" Ma'elKoth booms with hokey feig surprise. Whatever his other talents might
be, the sonofabitch: can't act. Toa-Sytell at his side watches me expressionlessly, hand stroking his other
wrist up the sleeve of his blouse. Pa croaks some unintelligible raven sounds, her breath stolen by
punctured lung.

       I stick my free hand through the garlands of flowers that hang over this huge wagon to get a grip
on its wooden underframe, then climb up aboard.

       Now the silence from the crowd is no longer enforced by Ma'elKoth's magick: everyone stands,
and stares at me. This is obviously not part of the show.
      Boy, are they wrong...

      "I can see through the eyes of this image," Ma'elKoth says, "and speak with its voice. Why have
you come here, Caine?"

       I get up onto the platform and uncoil the net. From outside the stadium, a thousand voices shout in
distant confusion and outrage, overscored by the sound of brass trumpets. Toa-Sytell turns his shoulder a
bit toward me, his hand still up his sleeve. Pallas croaks again, and now I can understand her. "...it s a
trap..."

      I smile up into her black-ringed desperate eyes. "Yeah, I know."

     The Emperor towers over me, a mountain of meat; I can smell the oil that curls his hair and
smooths his beard, hear the faint rustle of his kilt as he steps close.

      "I ask again, why have you come here?"

       If he bent his neck another inch, if I stood on tiptoe, I could kiss him on the lips. The cold hollow
that has opened around my heart spreads to my arms, to my legs; I've cycled between exhilaration and
dread so many times in these last seconds that emotion has become abstract; I can no longer feel
anything except a chill empty stillness. I look deep into his bottomless eyes.

      "I'm here to save my wife."

      "Your wife?" A certain mild astonishment enters his face. "You never told Me you were married."

      "There's a lot of things I haven't told you."

       Now that I'm here, now that I'm committed, I'm inexplicably reluctant to begin. I've aimed the gun,
but I can't seem to pull the trigger. As long as I draw this moment out, Pallas and I, we're Schrodinger's
cat, equipoised between life and death, and my first move will collapse our wave function into history.

      "Indeed," Ma'elKoth murmurs smugly. "Like, for example, that youareanAto'r"

     An invisible hand closes my throat. Even if I were cool enough to take this in stride, which I'm not,
my conditioning won't let me answer. I settle for a small smile that might look confident.

      "What are you waiting for?" Ma'elKoth says. "Here is My image. The net is in your hand...Second
thoughts? Now. \ you face the moment to strike at God?"

      I force words through my half-choked throat. "You know w dead spy is, Ma'elKoth?"

      "A dead spy?"

      "Yeah. It's a name a writer from back home gave to the guy you feed false intelligence to, when
you know he's gonna be tured by the enemy. When they break him and he talks, he them exactly what
you want them to know. He thinks it's the n See?"

      Ma'elKoth's lips quirk oddly, and a glow enters his eyes. "La rak..." he murmurs.
      Rather than being dismayed by this concept, he's clearly ami and appreciative. His amusement
grows as he murmurs down chain of reasoning.

      "Of course. That's why you do not strike with the net..." know I am present in truth, not in image.
You planned things How else could you draw us both out of thepalace, which is fended againstAktiri
magick by the power of My will?"

       Lamorak makes a choking sound from up there upon his crc "You knew. You did this to me —/ "

      I nod up at him. "Yeah. I was counting on you. Shit, Lamor Just the other day I killed a better man
than you'll ever be for doi less than you did. Did you really think I'd let you live?"

       Now, all I have to do to make this work is get Pallas down that cross. Toa-Sytell is sidling closer
to me, his hand still up sleeve—on a weapon, of course: he's too freaked to be subtle.

      "But what now?" Ma'elKoth murmurs. "You are here in I midst of My power. How can you
possibly hope to escape?"

       He rumbles on in this vein, but I lose the chain of his won I'm looking up into the light of the only
eyes that have meaning me now.

       Even the most flexible thinker in the world takes time to shift paradigm. When I walked out upon
the sand of the arena, all Pall could think of was the appalling danger to me—that horror h shouted from
her eyes. She'd given up on herself, and by the tim climbed up onto the wagon, she'd given up on me,
too; insk where it counts, she'd left us both for dead.

      But she's too smart, the life within her is too powerful. This the point of my pointless jabber with
Ma'elKoth: it gave her time adjust. Now, as I pull the griffinstone from my pocket, holding it by my side
where she can see it but Ma'elKoth and Toa-Sytell can't, when I look up and with my eyes I askher Are
you ready?, I see a response that is fierce and potent and still somehow serene.

       Her answer:When you are.

       Ma'elKoth is still talking, burbling on with the cheery unconcern of a whodunit fan mulling over the
clues. When I turn back to him, he's saying "...and why carry this net, when you knew it would be
useless?"

       "Oh, that." I give him a cold chuckle. "It's not useless. It's the signal for the Subjects of Cant to
attack."

       "What?"

       While he's parsing this revelation, I whip the net over his head. He bats at it with condescending
annoyance, but it drapes over him nonetheless. Toa-Sytell lunges at me like a fencer, in his hand a dull
flash of steel. I twist away from the blade and stamp the side of his knee; it breaks with a dull crunch, and
he pitches toward me, grunting in sudden agony. The revelers below the wagon draw their blades and
charge as I skip away from Toa-Sytell—and Ma'elKoth's arms reach toward me within Ihe net.

       I smile at him. "Didn't I tell you about putting your hands on me?"

       He's not thinking about what he's doing, not registering that the net cuts him off from his magickal
defenses.

       My smile grows to a wild grin as I haul back my leg and kick the Emperor in the balls.

       His testicles squish against my instep, and his eyes bug out like baseballs jammed in the sockets,
and his jaw drops open as all his breath leaves him in a whoosh, and the look on his face makes me laugh
out loud.

        While he's still bending over, his hands twitching blindly toward a clutch at his injured groin, while
he's stuck in those timeless seconds between impact and discovery of how sickeningly intense the pain
will become, I whirl away from him and leap onto Pallas' cross. I tangle my fingers in the silver net that
covers her and haul myself up, and we come face-to-face for an eternal instant.

       My eyes ask another question, and she says "Yes."

      I kiss her, once. Our mouths meet hungrily through the net. I have lived every day of my life only to
bring myself here to this moment, and it's been worth every second.

      I press the griffinstone between the strands into the palm of her upraised hand. Her fingers close
around it, and I speak against her lips.

       "What do you need?"

       Tears surge into her eyes. "Buy me time."

       "Done."

       Quarrels snap past my ears as I drop back to the wagon's pla form. I feel an instant's sickening
conviction that Pallas has bee shot, but a glance upward shows the net sprung outward, tight ove an
enormous sphere of semisubstantial glass with Pallas at it center. She's gotten a Shield up, and the
quarrels bristle from it surface. But even with the griffinstone, she can't do two magick at once, can't hold
the Shield and get herself off the rack at th< same time.

       I need to buy her a break.

      Down here beside me, Ma'elKoth snarls wordlessly from hi; knees. His face strains purple as he
claws at the net over his head. ] chamber for a kick, but then change my mind and drop my foo again.

       Some things cry out to be done by hand.

       I lean into an overhand right.

       My chest expands with raging joy as my knuckles smear his perfect nose sideways onto his
perfect cheekbones and his eyes cross and flood with the pain. My blood's up and I'm gonna kill him
now while I have the chance, but an icicle spears into my left thigh.

      It's that little fucking knife of Toa-Sytell's. He's a lot tougher than he looks, still going for me,
dragging a shattered knee. He looks up at me with an expression of savage completion on his face: he's
done what he needed to do with his life and he's ready-to die.

       That expression makes no sense; it's barely even a flesh wound. I pull the stiletto out of my leg like
a splinter and toss it away—and let him have a roundhouse in the side of the head hard enough to kick
the light out of his eyes, but not to kill him. He flops bone-lessly onto his side, still semiconscious—heis
tough—and I make sure of him by dropping to one knee and slicing the edge of my hand to the base of
his skull.

        Quarrels still fly, but none come close to me here—they're shooting from the seats, and they can't
take the chance of hitting Ma'elKoth. He's getting a grip on the net, now. I have to finish him and damned
fast, too. Any second those mock revelers are gonna be all over me.

      Trumpets blare, too close by. The gate, the gate on the tunnel that leads outside, it'sopen —!

      Shit. It's the cavalry.

       Half-armored lancers flood through the gate at a gallop and fan out across the arena floor. Sunlight
splinters from their steel-bladed spears, except for one group—five of them riding behind an unar-mored
man who's covered with blood, who waves a bastard sword as lightly as a conductor's baton.

      Our eyes meet across the sand, and Berne shows me his bloody teeth.

      And now fingers of liquid fire spread through the large muscle of my left thigh, and I understand
where that mysterious look of satisfaction on Toa-Sytell's face came from.

      The little cocksucker poisoned me.

       With a dull ripping sound like the tearing of flesh over bone, Ma'elKoth shreds the net and casts it
aside. He comes to his feet in a surge like a tidal wave. I leap into the air, chambering my leg for a side
kick at the point of his chin, but the purple blood is draining from his face. His magick is back and he's
already too fast for me: his huge hand strikes like a snake and wraps my ankle before I can fire the kick,
and he slams me down to the wagon hard enough to splinter its bed.

     Meteors shoot across my vision and I can't breathe. Ma'elKoth picks me up by the ankle, so that
my head dangles near his knees.

      He purrs, "Now, you will learn what it means to trifle with My wrath."

      This isn't working out quite as well as I'd hoped.

      But there comes a shout like the end of the world, and the wagon bucks as though it's alive.
Ma'elKoth staggers.

       His hand opens and I fall. For one brief instant the air is filled with metallic snicks and clacks:
Ma'elKoth's belt buckle springs open, and the manacles that hold Lamorak to the cross over my head
burst wide and he falls toward me. Throughout the stadium pieces of armor fall as their buckles unclasp;
even locked doors slam open and gates bend wide.

       The wagon bucks again, and this time I can see it's not the wagon that's moving—it's thewhole
fucking stadium. Horses stagger and men fall and screams rend the air—fading behind the grinding roar
of the earthquake.

      Pallas floats above us, hanging in the air five feet above the cross on which she'd hung. She is the
only motionless thing in the pitching world. She extends her hands, and the linen shift that covered her
burns away in a flash of pale fire, a fire that bums ever brighter until can't look at her, burns to a pure
white streaming light that melts the last remaining shreds of the net that had restrained her power. The
grinding roar of the earthquake gets louder, beating against my ears, rhythmic—

       And becomes a Voice, as though the world itself speaks to us.

    "HARM MY HUSBAND, LITTLE MAN, AND I WILL TEACH YOU TRULY WHAT IT IS
TO ANGER A GOD. "

      every tech inthe booth was on his feet, eyes riveted to the POV screen. Arturo Kollberg was right
behind them, breathless, trembling.

       "Jesus stinking Christ on astick] That'sPallasl The earthquake, the voice...Mygod, if I'd known
she'd show this kind of power, I'd never have..."

       He felt a presence behind his shoulder. Kollberg bit off the sentence, wincing, suddenly aware of
the chill sweat that trickled between his shoulder blades down the curve of his spine.

       A digitized voice said flatly, "You would never have what?"

        He flicked a glance at the soapy's mirror mask; a iisheye-distorted image of his own
black-bagged, red-veined eyes leered back at him. He licked his lips and tasted the salt sweat that had
moistened them. The speed muttered in his veins and leaked into his head until he thought his skull might
burst like an overblown balloon.

      "I'd, ah, never have let her take on a mission of such, ah, limited audience appeal. I'd have pushed
for something, ah, more, you know, bigger, more like, well, more likethis... "

      Impossible to tell if that satisfied the mirror-masked face or not. This was a nightmare, and he
couldn't wake up. He wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his jumpsuit and prayed that Carson would
come through with her restraining order before something really damaging slipped out.

      Damn that Dole cunt,he prayed to a god in whom he did not believe.And her lawyers, and her
damned soapy goons, and Marc Vila, and damn the frigging Studio too while you 're at it, and yes,
most of all: damn Caine.

       Kollberg's rolling eye fixed upon the emergency recall switch.

       Especially Caine.

       everything was goingwrong.

        Majesty had stayed at his vantage in the upper reaches of the grandstand. He'd signaled the attack
when Caine threw the net. Loyal old Deofad had gone diving onto the arena floor, his enchanted blade
Luthen upraised and shining like a bar of white-hot iron in his fist. He had already cut down one man to
spill out his life onto the sand and was fighting another before any of the Subjects following reached the
sand behind him. None of them saw Majesty's frantic wave of negation, nor heard his throat-clawing
screams of"No! Come back!" when he saw that Caine's lunatic plan had failed. Ma'elKoth wasreally
here, and though he was currently occupied with killing Caine, it was all too clear that this was the time
for all prudent folk to be finding an exit.
       Then the gates had opened, and the Ankhanan Horse Guards had thundered in. Deofad could still
be seen down there, his blade scattering gouts of molten steel that it cut from the lancers' armor—but the
lancers charged, spearing Subjects and mock revelers alike. And the earthquake began, and that awful
voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

       He kept his head, Majesty did, in the midst of the screaming, staggering townsfolk around him. He
kept his eyes open for a chance to get away, looking away from Pallas Ril, who shone like the sun.

       A shadow fell across him, and the heat of the sun vanished. Curving within this huge shadow that
painted the stadium in dark greens were twists of purest gold, like the sun seen on the bottom of a
rippling pool of clear water. He couldn't understand what cloud could cast this sort of shade, and he
looked up—

       And saw the river, up over his head.

        the most frighteningpart of this is that Ma'elKoth isn't afraid. He looks up, shading his eyes against
the stinging actinic light that streams from Pallas' nude body, and he grins the grin of a rich kid on
Christmas. There is some deep sexual anticipation in his voice.

       "Chambaraya, I take it? I had always thought that you were a myth."

       The Voice that answers him shapes itself of birdsong, of cracking stone and splashing water, of the
very shouts of the fighting itself that storms around us.

       "NO MYTH, LITTLE CODLING. STAND AWAY FROM CAINE, FOR HE IS OURS."

       Chambaraya? My mouth flops open a little wider. The freakingriver god!

      "Stand away? Most assuredly," Ma'elKoth responds with silken courtesy. He steps back from
where I lie helplessly watching, and he dusts his hands like a workman finishing a well-done job.

     "I have been waiting for the Old Gods to come and stand against Me. I had been hoping for
someone more...impressive. But you will do."

       Pallas closes her fist, and the flowers that garland this wagon suddenly writhe to life—snaking over
and around Ma'elKoth, pinning his arms to his sides, wrapping his neck. Even the wooden platform
beneath his feet squirms and shapes itself to manacle his ankles. For a moment he tests his purely physical
strength against them, his robes rippling with the play of parahuman muscle. They creak but hold him fast.
He looks down at the riot of flowers making a jungle of his massive body, and his grin spreads.

       He shrugs, and thunder rolls.

       He laughs, and the sun goes dim.

      He lifts his head, and lightning spears from the darkening sky, crackling energy that transfixes him;
flames explode from his body, igniting the wagon, charring the vines to blackened ash in the blink of an
eye.

      The thunderclap that follows blows away my hearing, and Ma'elKoth stands triumphant amidst the
flames.
      He raises his fist, in that gesture I remember from the Ritual of Rebirth in the Great Hall. I roll
away, shouting a wordless warning for Pallas.

        Ma'elKoth's fist strokes outward. A blast furnace ignites the air with a shattering roar, a shaft of
power that strikes my wife full upon the breast—and she opens her arms to receive it as a flower opens
its petals to the sun.

     Her laugh is full of alien power. She points north, over the wall of the stadium, angled high into the
noonday sky.

       A pulsing crystalline mountain rises there, blocking half the sky, emerald with algae and sparking
with the silver-mailed flickers of darting fish. The river itself is spillingupward against all reason—

      It shapes itself higher, and higher yet, a globe the size of a village growing upon its end. Then the
globe unfolds, like a flower, like a starfish—

       It's a hand.

       The Hand of Chambaraya descends upon the stadium. All around us fighting men, seasoned
veterans of a hundred battles, cast aside their weapons and throw themselves to the ground, covering
their eyes and screaming like children. Civilians clutch each other and wail. And I...I can't look away.

       What has Pallas become, that she can do such things?

       The hand is the size of a battleship, a freakingaircraft carrier, and it closes upon us. The flames of
the burning wagon hiss and boil through it, sending a cloud of bubbles skyward. For a long, astonishing
instant I am underwater, face-to-face with an equally astonished carp that's bigger than my head. Then
the surface leaves me, lying here upon the smoking dripping reeking ruin of a wagon, wet through, with
the poison still spreading through my fiery leg.

       High, already so high above that the sun glares through it, the hand holds Ma'elKoth within its
watery grip—it's a globe of water again a hundred meters through—I can barely see him deep within its
center.

       Sudden steam bursts boiling around him as he spreads his arms and begins to burn.

       He hasn't given up yet, and I'm not all that sure thai Pallas— Chambaraya, whatever—I'm not sure
they can beat him.

       I'm not sure that anybody can.

       I roll over, coughing out a throatful of thick greenish water, and find myself staring into the ruins of
Lamorak's face. We've really done a number on him, over the past few days—broken leg, broken jaw,
shattered nose that has his eyes nearly swollen shut. Those swollen eyes meet mine and begin to drift
hopelessly closed; if I choose to take his life right now, there's not a goddamn thing he can do about it,
and he knows it. He's letting go of consciousness because he knows me too well to waste his breath
begging.

       "Stay with me, you worthless sack of shit," I snarl, twisting my fingers into the bandage that ties
shut his jaw. The sudden sharp pain of the linen cutting into his swelling brings him back, and his eyes roll
like a spooky horse's.
       <

       "Stay with me. I want you awake for this." "Wha...but, but Caine..."

      I'd love to lie here for another day or two, but I drag myself t< my feet. My poisoned thigh has
gone numb around the woun< now, and a creeping wave front of fire enters my pelvis.

       I've got maybe five minutes to live.

      I stumble overToa-Sytell's unconscious body—hope he drowned the sneaky little shit—and barely
make it to the X-shaped framework that Pallas had hung from.

       She's up there, over my head, shining like the sun.

       She's the only light left in the stadium. Black clouds have come out of somewhere—huge rolling
granite boulders of storm clouds licking the sky with tongues of lightning.

       All I have to do is get to her, get my hands on her, and I can save us both, but she is far out of my
reach, floating, borne up by the air itself—

      I shout her name, over and over again, but winds have come, gale winds that rip the sounds from
my mouth and cast them carelessly away. She can't hear me; she'll never hear me. Maybe, maybe if I
climb the rack, I can balance on the top, and jump—

       Both my legs are killing me, my right knee and my burning left thigh. I groan as I pull myself up
onto the cross...and that's when I see Berne.

       He's down on the arena floor, shouting and cursing and kicking the soldiers that cower on the
ground around him. I can read his twisted lips, screaming for somebody tojust shoot that fucking bitch,
but none of the men nearby have bows and none of the bow-armed Cats that still struggle with Subjects
here and there in the stands can hear him.

       He lifts his head, and the light from her body blurs his face into featureless white, and he's
calculating something. He reaches a decision, and Kosall comes up like his cock, his legs bend—

       And he leaps.

       So do I.

       He shoots upward like an arrow. I jump up and out to intercept him, with all my failing strength.
I'm starting fifteen, twenty feet above him, but it doesn't matter, it's not enough, I'm too late, too slow. I
stretch forth my hands...and my fingers find his boot top as he soars past me, and I hang on.

      The opposing angles of our momentum jerk us into a crazy tumble in the air. I fall down, down,
and down, losing my hold on him as we twist apart, and the sand slaps all breath from my lungs.

      I can only lie there, limbs twitching like a dead man's, while I try to drag air into my chest. Even as
it comes in a great whooping gasp, Berne looms over me, backlit by the lightning-shot storm clouds
above us.
         "What the fuck," he says, raising his voice above the wind. "I'm nothing if not flexible. You first,
then."

         He lifts Kosall and regards its shimmering edge. "Y'know, I've been waiting a long time for this."

       "Yeah, me too." I hook his ankle with my instep and stamp the side of his knee, but he's seen that
one and it nearly costs me my leg. He bends the joint to absorb the impact, slicing down toward my thigh
with Kosall, and I only barely throw into the back-roll in time. I go over my back to my feet while he's
pulling an arm's length of Kosall out of the sand.

      I back away from him, glancing at the ground around my feet so that I don't trip over one of the
cowering soldiers. He comes for me, stalking cat-footed, holding the blade loosely canted at a high angle
between us. The smile on his face looks like what people must see on mine before I kill them.

         It's not much fun from this side.

        Thunder cracks over our heads, and the flashing glare of lightning above tells me that the other
fight, the important one, is still going on: Pallas and Ma'clKoth, duking it out in front of twenty thousand
terrified witnesses.

         Nobody's watching Berne and me. Nobody cares about this dirty little grudge match.

         No blaze of glory for me.

        He's vastly stronger than I am, inhumanly fast, his technique and balance are better than mine, and
he has a sword that'll cut through anything. Not to mention that this Buckler thing of his makes him
virtually invulnerable.

         I'm gonna kill him anyway.

         I have to. Because Pallas has no attention to spare for him, and there's nothing but me between
them.

       I glance around, and he comes for me in a lightning lunge, covering three meters in less than an eye
blink; Kosall's point sizzles through my tunic, parting the leather without resistance, as I twist aside barely
in time. I take his wrist lightly as he passes me, pulling him along to draw his balance, and then clothesline
him wi forehand chop at his throat.

       He drops his chin and takes it on the mouth—I don't even d blood—but his boots skid on the wet
sand and he goes down on back. No point in trying to take advantage: I can't hurt him anc can muscle
out of any pin. I whirl away and run as fast as limping legs can carry me.

         "Hey, Caine?" he calls mockingly from behind me. "You u to be able to outrun me!"

       And he's right on my ass already. I can hear his booted lope, I'm almost there, almost to the spot
I'd found with that ri glance. His Monastic training saves my life—as he swings for back of my neck, he
exhales a sharpchuff, like aki-ya. I dive ini forward shoulder-roll. Kosall hisses through the space that
neck just vacated, and when I come up, the net is in my hand.

         Berne stops and cocks his head, still smiling. "What do > think you're going to do with that?"
       "Recognize this, Berne?" I say. "This is the one four of y< boys died watching."

       "So?"

        I draw a long, chisel-bladed fighting knife from its scabb; below my armpit. "So I've been saving it
to kill you with."

       He snorts. Lightning flares and thunder crashes.

       "Come on, then."

       Soldo.

       I don't cast the net over him, as I did to Ma'elKoth. Berne i born fighter, a natural warrior, and I' d
never catch him like that, stead I use his incredible reflexes against him: snap the net lik whip at his head.

       He disdainfully blocks it with Kosall, but he hasn't carried t blade very long, not long enough to
retrain himself: he blocks i net with Kosall'sedge. It slices right through, so instead of wr; ping around the
blade, about half the net splashes across his face, that half-second reflexive blink, I lunge with the knife.

       He knows how I fight. He knows I favor the heart, and so I si away from it—that's where he will
have focused that Buckler his. Instead lowline him and shove a foot of cold steel through groin right into
his hip joint.

       The hilt vibrates against my palm as the blade grates on boi Berne gasps and gives a lover's low
moan. I jam the knife in deep right into the joint. As his superstrength muscles clamp down around the
injury, I wrench the knife downward, leaning on it withall my weight. The hilt snaps off in my hand.

       He looks at me in white-faced astonishment: he can't believe how badly I've hurt him.

     I drop the hilt with its stub of blade. I reach inside my tunic for my other fighting knife and between
my shoulder blades for my wedge-pointed thrower.

       And Kosall flashes down toward my head.

       I throw myself to the side out of its path, but I feel an impact on my boot as I dive away: half my
boot heel and a thumb-sized chunk of my own heel are sliced away in a fraction of a second. I scramble
back, and Berne comes for me, snarling his agony with every step.

      I can't believe he can evenstand, let alone walk, and now, beyond reason, he breaks into a
running fleche —!

     Again I throw myself sideways and roll away. My god, my god,that was my best shot. Any
normal man would have fainted from the pain, and this would have been over...

       "Run, Caine," he rasps, hoarse with agony. "I can still catch you. I can still kill you. Go on, run."

      I believe him. Despite the knife blade scoring the bones and slicing the cartilage in his hip
joint—causing what kind of pain I can't even imagine—he doesn't seem slowed at all.

       I'm gonna have to take him inside.
       I stand and wait for him.

       Kosall is a heavy weapon, and Berne's magickal muscles don't entirely compensate; swinging a
blade that size shifts your balance in ways that have nothing to do with strength. He's not lunging this
time—maybe that knife blade in the joint has that much effect.

      He slides his feet forward, keeping his weight perfectly centered as he lifts the blade in a short
semicircular arc.

      "That fighting girl, that friend of Pallas'," he says, straining fora conversational tone, "she was better
than you are."

       I shrug. "She was worth both of us, Berne."

       "Pretty, too. Did you fuck her?"

       I let him think it's working, the cretin: I force heat into my voice. "You sonofabitch, I'll—

       And that's all I have time for as he comes for me again. He thought he was taking me off guard,
but in fact it's the other way around. I slip Kosall's lethal humming edge and step into him, knife blades
reversed along my forearm. There are a couple that you just can't learn in abbey school. One of them is
kali. Suddenly I'm close enough to kiss him. As he tries to stej and slice with the sword, I stay right with
him, my body agair blocking at his wrist with the blade of my knife while the oth slices at his neck. His
Buckler turns my blade from his neck, t other cuts deep into his arm.

        He snarls into my face, but he's nothing if not adaptable. M try the same trick again, only this time
at his face and his he£ the death stroke, he drops Kosall and gets his hands in close, t the cuts on his
wrists. We stand nose to nose for one eternal se while our hands fly in lethal flurries; blood sprays, and it'
mine, but he's faster than I am and he slips a short hook ont side of my head that shoots stars across my
vision, follows it w twisting roundhouse knee to my side that breaks a couple ribs dull internal pops, and
the next thing I know he's got hold o head and he's gonna break my neck. He's too fucking stroi can't
hold him but there's Kosall upright in the sand—I gel hand on the hilt and feel the buzzing tingle. I can just
barely dr across his foot, and his toes fall away, and I'm flying one way w Kosall goes another.

      Flying, tumbling through the air, I land skidding through the s He cast me aside like a bored child
throws a doll.

      I struggle up, coughing blood—the sharp ends of those brc ribs must have ripped into my
lung—but he's not coming after He's got Kosall again, and his back's to me because he's limp over
toward Pallas.

        She shines above us, a star against the storm, the center < firestorm of lightnings and energy bolts
that fly freely, seemin from all directions. Berne, Tyshalle damn his rotting heart, somehow matured
enough to get his priorities straight.

       Once she's gone, I'm no threat at all.

       He's too strong; he's too fucking good. Nothing I do seem; matter to him.

       I couldn't beat him on my best day.
       I have one trick left, an old one from my childhood, from k before there was a Caine, from a
bootleg video my father show me once. It's just that I was really hoping wouldn't have to do tl Ahh, what
the hell: after this one, I won't be in any shape to ca anyway.

        I drag myself to my feet, my feet that seem a mile below me now. can't even really feel them as
Toa-SyteU's poison spreads through my body. I draw my last two knives, the little five-inch leafblades
from my boot tops, and check my grip on them. I hold them as tight as I can, the one in my right tanto
style, the other reversed, its blade flat against my forearm.

       This had better work.

       I have to lean forward to get myself moving, because my legs seem to belong to somebody else.
Whoever he is, though, he's still letting them operate instinctively to keep me upright. As I lean farther and
farther forward they finally break into a clumsy, lumbering run.

        Even over the earthshaking roar of the battle above our heads, he hears my boots on the sand at
the last second. He whirls, instinctively leading with Kosall's point, which enters my belly as smoothly as a
hot knife into butter.

      It slides in just below my navel, and he continues the thrust until its humming point comes out the
middle of my back.

       It doesn't hurt, but it's very uncomfortable, a buzzing ache I can feel in my teeth.

       He's killed me.

        Our eyes meet. His face goes slack in astonishment: after all these years, he can't believe he's
finally done it.

       For one stretching second, his mind whirls back through every time he's dreamed of this, a
cascading flutter of his dreams of revenge. In that slack instant I lean forward, forcing my body onto the
blade until its hilt at my stomach stops me, and I stab him below the solar plexus.

       My knife doesn't go in as smoothly as his sword did, but we stand there, locked together, our
blades within each other's bodies. I work the blade, sawing upward to slice muscle, using the feel of the
knife to search for the beating of his heart. Suddenly the blade locks in place; I can no longer move it at
all—he's shifted his Buckler down into his torso. Our eyes meet again, for one last instant, because he
knows he's about to die.

       The other leafblade, held reversed in my left, I windmill overhand into the top of his head.

        The blade crunches through his skull into his brain. The bone crackles as I jerk the hilt back and
forth, taking Berne's life, all his memories, his hopes, his dreams, his lusts, and his joys and twisting them
into scrambled eggs.

       An instant ago he was a man. Now he's just meat.

      His eyes roll up and he convulses. He finally releases Ko: hilt as he falls at my feet, and the buzzing
blessedly stops.
      I stand in the middle of the arena, the sword sticking througl I try to step away, just a few steps,
anything to get me away so I don't die on top of Berne, but I can't feel my legs at all anymc can't tell if it's
from the poison in my bloodstream or if Kosall • through my spine.

       My knees buckle, and I twist toward the ground.

       Spine, I guess—the buzzing in my teeth said it hit bone in tl I splay my arms so that I fall faceup. A
foot and a half of Kos forced out of my belly by the impact with the sand.

       Pallas' star still shines above me, and it's all right.

       I don't mind so much, so long as I go out with her light beinj last in my eyes.

       the techbooth stillthundered with the sounds of the b playing out on the POV screen, but within, all
was still.

      Kollberg tried to control his shaking, but he couldn't. His wl body trembled and itched, and one
eye winked spastically.

       "My god, my god," he kept repeating, over and over again. did it. He finally did it."

      One of the techs murmured, "I've never seen anything lik This ought to be the biggest seller since
the Caste Riots. The bigever."

       Another tech, of a more thoughtful bent, murmured in n what a privilege it was to be present, how
he'd be able to tell grandchildren that he sat in the booth and watched Caine die.

      Of everyone there, it was—surprisingly—Kollberg who pra for Caine to hold on, to keep drawing
breath.

       His reasoning was simple: Pallas still fought Ma'elKoth in skies over the Stadium. If Caine died too
soon, he wouldn't r any recording of the outcome.

       The subvocal murmur of Caine's Soliloquy whispered in techbooth's speakers.

       */understand now. I know what he meant. My father told that knowing the enemy is half the
battle. I know you, now. Tl, right.

       *It'syou.*

       Kollberg blanched at the words. It was as though Michaelson spoke directly to him. He mopped
his mouth with a trembling hand and eyed the emergency recall switch. He could do it; he could pull
Caine right now, out of the middle of the battle, and he'd goddamn welldo it, even now, if he got the first
hint that Caine was straying into forbidden territory.

       But an instant later he made himself relax. How much could Caine really say? His conditioning
would stop his mouth before he could say anything really damaging. He squirmed in his chair, trying to get
comfortable, trying to find a position from which he could give Caine's death the attention it deserved;
he'd been waiting a long time for this, and he intended to enjoy it.

       in the skiesabove Victory Stadium, two gods met in battle.
      The water of the river discomfited Ma'elKoth only in that it interfered with his vision. Within the
sphere, he called upon the love of His Children and stretched forth his hands, and lightning from the sky
danced to his gesture. The fire of his body boiled the river around him, sending clouds of white upward to
meet the rolling grey above.

       A holocaust of lightning and fire together struck that small part of the Song of Chambaraya that
was the body of Pallas Ril and passed through as though her body were a lens, striking outward at
Chambaraya itself—and harmed the god not at all. Fish died, trees withered, grass burned black away
from its bank; an otter and its family choked and died in a boiling pool, and a scalded deer fell into the
current. In all, the extreme power of Ma'elKoth could not affect Chambaraya as much as could a single
brushfire, or an early frost below the mountains.

      Pallas sang with the Song, and the Song flowed through her, and the Song was her; she was
transparent to the Song, just as she was to the power of Ma'elKoth.

        And through her, Chambaraya struck back: not with fire, not with lightning, but with the power of
the life that it served.

       Boils festered instantly upon Ma'elKoth's perfect skin, and al-gaes flourished within his lungs.
Leprosy ate away his flesh. The tiny symbionts that still lived deep within his guts suddenly grew and
grew, swelling his belly, swelling his chest, and would < tainly have burst him from within—but
Ma'elKoth, like Ch; baraya, was as much an idea as an entity. The powerful love tha drew from the lives
of his Children burned within him; soon guts, his skin, his lungs, his blood, all were as sterile as the faci
the moon.

       As the two gods strove together, they conversed. Ma'elKo voice was a choir of thousands, from
the cries of newborn babie the whimpering rattle of consumptive old men:Why do You strike at My
Children? By this you know you can weaken f shake the earth, topple their buildings, flood their
homes. Isnot, where Your true power lies ?

    The answer came in the roar of a waterfall, the trumpeting geese, the ice crack of a shifting glacier:
THEY HAVE NOT C FENDED ME.

       And Ma'elKoth understood: Pallas Ril was more than a sim conduit for the power of the god. Her
will colored its Song; tl were one...

       He didn't have to defeat Chambaraya, only Pallas. Conce that would be less than dust motes to
the river might loom large deed for the woman through which its power flowed.

       Come then, you and I. Let Us finish this.

      He spread wide his mighty arms and poured power at her; fire, nor lightning, nor wind, but power.
Pure power, raw Flow t he drew from the lives of His Children, focused and sluiced i her without end.

       She accepted it all. It passed into her and through her, and a came, she felt within it the source
from which it sprang: she felt lives of the Children of Ma'elKoth, one by one, wink out like fi flies in the
frost.

       Nowthat it's too late, now that I lie here dying on this bkx stained sand, I finally get it.
       I understand, now.

     I understand. I know what he meant. My father told me thai know the enemy is half the battle. I
know you, now. That's right It's you.

       All of you who sit in comfort and watch me die, who see the twitch of my bowels through my own
eyes: You are my enemy.

        Corpses lie scattered around me, gleanings left in a wheat field by a careless reaper. Berne's body
cools beneath the bend of my back, and I can't feel him anymore. The sky darkens over my head—but
no, I think that's my eyes; Pallas' light seems to have faded.

       Every drop of the blood that soaks into this sand stains my hands and the hands of the monsters
that put me here.

       That's you, again.

       It's your money that supports me, and everyone like me; it's your lust that we serve.

       You could thumb your emergency cutoff, turn your eyes from the screen, walk out of the theater,
close the book...

       But you don't.

       You are my accomplice, and my destroyer.

       My nemesis.

       My insatiable blood-crazed god.

       Ah, ahhh, Christ...ithurts.

       within the song,Pallas's heart broke. As the power of Ma'el-Koth flowed into her and through her,
she knew the men, the women, the children whose lives were snuffed by its drawing, knew each and
every one of them as a mother knows the lives she brings forth from her body. Each death lashed her
with the world-ending grief of a mother who watches her children die, one by one by one.

       Perhaps if they had come in a mass, she could have borne it; a single shattering extinction could
have blended these people into some huge and abstract mass, a Stalinist statistic; but instead she knew
the individual tragedy of each and every one.

      Her soul sagged beneath the weight of clasped and loving hands, and sudden weeping, and
despairing last glances exchanged through closing eyes.

       What had brought her here was her devotion to innocent lives; the inmost core of her being was
the defense of innocence; to withstand this grief would have required that she be someone other than
Pallas Ril, other than Shanna Leighton.

        Even the aeonic serenity of the river could not carry away this pa Though she knew it would cost
her life, and Hari's, she could n allow this distant and passionless slaughter to continue; their t\ lives for
thousands—thousands that were as close to her as fami thousands that resided permanently within her
heart. This was bargain that she was prepared to make.

       Slowly, with searing regret, she muted her melody within the Son Ma'elKoth sensed the change
within the Flow, and his atta< dwindled as the water of the river deposited him upon the sand the arena.
It withdrew, flowing away along its bended arm abothe stadium wall, and returned to its place within the
banks.

      Pallas stood facing him, across the blood-soaked sand.

      "You win," she said simply. "I surrender."

      He sprang forward and seized her, holding her limp and ui resisting arms in his mighty hands. He
looked down on her wi disdain.

      "Compassion is admirable, in mortal man," he said in tones a most kindly, but then his voice
sharpened into cutting contemj: "In a god, it is avice."

      She made no answer.

      He looked about himself, compressing his lips as he surveye the carnage and the men and women
who now began fearfully I look up. He raised his eyes to the heavens, and the skies cleared an the sun
shone down brilliantly upon the earth.

      "This has been no more than a delay," he said. "An amusing d version, but the end is the same."

      He hummed to himself, distractedly muttering, "Now, where i Caine?"

      She saw him first, lying with back bent over a corpse that coul only be Berne's. A double span of
Kosall stuck out of his belly lik Excalibur in the stone.

      She felt that sword stroke herself, punching into her guts, an her breath left her.

      Ma' elKoth followed her eyes and hummed his satisfaction. "Sc he lives yet. Excellent."

      Through the tears that flooded her vision, she saw: Kosall's hil shifted back and forth, swayed
above his body in a hitching, ragge< rhythm that could only be Hari's breath.

     Ma'elKoth's grip was oddly gentle as he dragged her across thi arena to where Caine lay, and the
noonday sun was warm on he river-moist skin. He cast her to the sand beside the corpses.

      Hari's eyes rolled toward her. "Pallas," he murmured faintly. "Dark...It'scold..."

      His arm twitched, lifting his wrist an inch from the sand, dropping it again. "Take...take my hand..."

       Pallas held his hand; she folded her legs beneath her and cradled his precious head on her lap. "I'm
here, Caine. I won't leave you." Her tears had dried; they had come from the stinging realization that he
was still alive—that at least she'd have a chance to say good-bye. Now as she knelt upon the sand with
his wet hair cold on her bare thighs, she had no tears, no agony of grief, only a deep, calm melancholy.

      She had been here too many times in her career, had held the hands of too many dying men; she
had only the acute perception of something unique, a single irreplaceable life, leaving the world; and the
world becoming less, in its absence.

     I believed he was indestructible,she thought, gently stroking his beard.Everyone did. But
wherever it is he goes to, I'll be with him soon enough.

      I'm sorry, Hari,she thought and could not say.If I'd had strength like yours, we wouldn 't be
here now, soon to die.

        "Ahh-hh," Ma'elKoth said abruptly, above her, a hitch in his voice that approached a sob. She
looked up. His face was tragic, skin still flecked with the marks Chambaraya had left there, blood that
streamed from his broken nose painting scarlet into his beard. "Ah, Berne," he murmured. "Ah, My Child,
you deserved better." He became aware of her regard and mastered himself instantly, drawing up to his
full height.

        "Now." He walked in a slow circle around Pallas and Caine, and his hands worked, clenching to
fists and opening again. "Now," he repeated. "Now, indeed. I shall learn..." His eyes clouded.

        "The mystery of Caine," he muttered softly. "How you have held Me, these past days. When I
Drew you here, you Drew Me; you reversed My grip and used it to chain My own hands. But now, it is I
that have you, again, and I shall have you wholly, as I did your foulAktiri servitors. I shall extend My
power and taste your mind as it fades within your dying brain, as a hound might scent a passing breeze. I
shall read your memory as though it is a book; I shall have every bit of you. I shall know the truth, and
that truth shall break your hold forever. "It shall make Me free."

       I "Lll..." Hari said, cords bulging in his neck as he struggled t speak against some unimaginable
resistance. Ma'elKoth steppe closer and leaned down politely to hear.

      "Yes?"

      "Lll-Llllamorak..."

       "Mm, yes," he said, straightening. "Yes, indeed. Thank you foj reminding Me. Lamorak is himself
one of you vileAktiri; his memories are likely instructive, as well."

      He scanned the arena, looking almost cheerful. "Now, where has he gotten himself to?"

       The Emperor strode off across the field of corpses and moaning wounded. A lancer officer who'd
managed somehow to keep hold of his horse cantered up to him, asking for instructions—Pallas couldn't
hear what orders he gave. The officer in turn relayed orders to his men. Through the broad tunnel gate
now marched a column of armored infantry bearing pikes and crossbows. The lancer officer gave them
instructions as well. They spread out across the arena, helping the wounded, and up into the grandstands,
keeping order, disarming demoralized combatants, and keeping the terrified citizens in their seats.

      Hari's back arched once. His eyes rolled and he forced out words once more.

      "Lamorak," he said clearly, "is the one who betrayed you to the Cats."

      what?"

      Arturo Kollberg's voice cracked like a whip.
       "That bastard!" he raged. "That slacked-jawed piece of Labor trash.'How dare her He stood in
front of his chair and shook his quivering fist at the POV screen.

       "You rottenshitl This is going outlive!"

      The techs stared at him, at the sweat that poured down his face, at the white foam that flecked the
corners of his rubbery lips. A digitized voice said from behind his shoulder, "Why so upset,
Administrator?"

       "I, ah, ah, nothing..."

       If only this buzzing in his head would subside, let himthink!

       Was there anything else Michaelson could say, anything that his conditioning wouldn't prevent—oh
god, the Board of Governors were watching thisright now —could he say anything that would implicate
the Studio?

       His skin crawled with trembling, and large muscle twitches began to distort his face. He stared at
the red glowing recall switch as though it were the muzzle of a gun pointed at his forehead.

       pallas gazes downat me out of the gathering darkness. "Yes, Caine. I know."

       The world blinks—I think I passed out for a little bit. We're still here, though, still in the arena.

       It didn't work.

       I came all this way...I gave my life to reach this instant...

       And it didn't work.

       I guess should have known better than to think that sack of maggots would keep his word.

      It's getting cold,really cold, freezing for this time of year in Ankhana. I try again, searching for the
words that'll bring us home.

       "Hehad to," I push out."Orderedto... contract, his contract..."

       "Shh," she says, stroking my hair. "It's all right. Shh."

       It'snot all right, it's—

       Darkness.

       I swim back up into the world of light again.

       We're still in the arena.

       I should just let this go.

      If anyone had ever asked me how I wanted to die, I'd have told them: exactly like this, with my
head on her lap and her hand stroking my hair.
      Something's going on, here, though.

       It's gotten quiet, and it seems that we're in some kind of spotlight. Lamorak's here, right beside
Pallas. Ma'elKoth's got all three of us together for this. There's Ma'elKoth; he's talking to the people in
the grandstands...That rolling, reassuring thunder of his beautiful voice...

      Darkness, and when the light comes back he's beside me,right here beside me. His voice is warm
and gentle, and he's telling me to just let go, to relax and let it go.

      He stops talking. His face blanks out into that thousand-yai stare of mindview.

      The spell!

      I remember now...I remember the spell.

      And strength comes into me from somewhere.

      Fuck letting it go.

      Never surrender.

      Never.

      I roll back my head and search the murk. "Lamorak…Lamorak—"

      Pallas leans close, an angel from a fairy tale. "Shh, Caine, know. It's all right."

      "No..."

      I gather more strength, I focus it. Concentrate. When I concen trate I can move my hands—don't
need to be strong, but I have tc be able tomove, do it all with surprise...

      "Lamorak...Lamorak, please, I have to tell you..."

       His broken face resolves out of the gloom; I whisper nonsense tc make him lean closer, closer.
That's right, you shit, right there...

      "Lamorak...no Iron Room...no Theater of Truth...you have to take care of Pallas..."

      "It's all right, Caine," he says. "I will. I promise."

     "Promise, do you?" The surge of adrenaline clears my vision and pours strength into my arms.
"How do you figure tokeep that promisewithout your fucking head!"

      His eyes go slack in surprise. In a single unstoppable instant, I place one hand on the hilt of Kosall
above me to awaken its sizzling magick while I tangle the fingers of the other in Lamorak's long blond hair
and yank his neck against Kosall's edge.

      His head comes off,zzzip, like a sheet of paper torn from a notepad.
        Blood fountains; Pallas jerks beneath me and cries out; Lamorak's mouth works soundlessly; he
stares at me in horror, still alive within his brain.

         I flip his head like a soccerball, right into Ma'elKoth's lap.

      Ma'elKoth grasps the bloody head instinctively. His whole body jerks, his eyes go wide, and a cry
of shock and despair bursts from his lips.

         Not Ma'elKoth's shock, nor his despair, but Lamorak's.

     "My name," Ma'elKoth gasps, his eyes still wide and blank. "Karl Shanks, my name is Karl
Shanks! I'm Lamorak..."

         "Lamorak," I snarl with all the sharp strength I have left,"who ordered you to betray Pallas Ril?
"

         "Kollberg," he says, dazedly but clearly. "Chairman Administrator Kollbcrg..."

         Before the words can even fully leave his lips, the halos of crystalline rainbow color outline the
world.

         And in the half second of recall, I reach out—

         And take Ma'elKoth's hand.

       kollberg's fist slammeddown again on the recall switch, and again. His screamed"No! No! No!"
kept time with the impacts; he beat the switch until his flesh tore, and his blood sprayed the interior of the
techbooth.

      The tech flinched away from him and stared. The two soapies exchanged a blank, mirror-masked
glance. " think we've seen enough," one of them said.

      "But it's alie" Kollberg said with wild desperation, "Iswear it's a lie! He can't prove it, he can't
eventestify]"

      One of the soapies seized his wrist. "You recalled Pallas Ril in front of native witnesses; by
exposing her as an Actor, you' ve willfully damaged her career. You're under arrest."

     He tore himself free and jumped to the techboard, stabbing at the mike switch. "Michaelson!" he
howled. His own voice echoed back through the booth speakers: Caine was still on-line, down in the
muddle of bodies that lay on the transfer platform.

         "!' see you dead for this! /'//see you dead."

       As the soapies finally restrained him and dragged him away, he heard Caine's Soliloquy whispering
in the booth.

         *Yeah. And pretty soon, too, I guess.*

      the harsh, unforgivingstage lights that frame the transfer platform break into a prismatic halo
through Ma'elKoth's mane. Silhouette that he is, cannot see the expression on his face, and I'm glad of it;
the choking horror in his voice is bad enough as he looks out at the row upon row of faceless induction
helmets, the reclining zombied sweep of first-handers that are stacked to the ceiling of the Cavea.

         "Your world,"he whispers."Oh, abandoned gods, you've brought me to your hideous world..."

       And this is not an instinctive xenophobia, not the helpless terror of an unsophisticated native; it's
not the alienness of Earth that is choking him.

         It's thefamiliarity.

         He spoke in English.

      These are Lamorak's—Karl's—memories he's correlating within his massive brain; he sees that his
world, Overworld—that place of brutality and pain and sudden death—is the dreamed-of, soughtafter
paradise of this one, where now he's trapped.

         I've brought him with me into hell.

         I cannot imagine the horror he must be feeling, and I can't bring myself to care very much.

       Kosall, quiescent now and probably forever, still sticks up out of my belly. Berne's corpse lies on
the transfer platform beneath my legs.

         I won.

         He bends his mighty neck to look down on me, on us.

         "You have destroyed me. Why, Caine?"

         His heartbreak cracks in his voice."Why have you done this tome?"

         I shrug. It hurts. "Because you had the bad luck to be on the wrong side of Pallas Ril."

      There's a slam in the back, high up. It's the doors to the Cavea. The medics' crash cart is coming
for me; some on-the-ball tech had the presence of mind to call them.

         Warm salt rain splashes lightly upon my cheeks; it's Shanna's tears.

         "Hold on," she says. "Please hold on."

         I try to squeeze her hand, but the darkness is closing in again. "Don't leave me."

         "I won't. I swear."

      Ma'elKoth sounds lost and helpless and very, very young. "What comes next? What will become
of me?"

         I don't answer; that's not my problem.

         I guess I'm still on-line; nobody's thought to cut the feed. You're all coming down with me, into the
night.
      Shanna bends close and puts the warmth of her cheek against the chill of mine. She whispers in my
ear,"Hold on, Caine."

      "Fuck Caine," I tell her painfully. I fight off the darkness for one closing line: "Forget that asshole.
Call me Hari."

       And the shuttering night turns slowly to dawn, and I inch toward daylight.

       once an hour,worldwide:

       The hair, of course, is perfect, and the chiseled cheekbones hi a Leisureman's tan—but there is a
hint of cold desperation in delicate, semivisible tracery of lines around the glycerine eyes, £ the lips that
part over the polished teeth have a faint, barely h; detectable twist of bitter self-contempt.

       "Hello, I'm Bronson Underwood. For the past ten years, I' brought you the best of Studio action
from all over the world, as I hostof Adventure Update. Today, and for a short time only, I proud to
bring you this special offer, direct from where it all beg; the San Francisco Studio of Adventures
Unlimited:

       "For Love of Pallas Ril,the Limited Edition Boxed Set."

       The eyes go glassy and the smile sets like gelatin as he numbc the special features of the Limited
Edition Boxed Set: excerf fromRace for the Crown of Dal-Kannilh andServant of the E> pire;
several hours ofThe Pursuit of Simon Jester, leading up to tl Eternal Forgetting; deep-background
interviews with Caine, Pall, Ril, and Ma'elKoth himself, speaking on both his own behalf ar
thatofLamorak; "...and, direct from the Confidential Archives of the San Frai cisco Studio,exclusive to
the Limited Edition: 'When the Lift clock Stopped!'

       "You remember that incredible instant, when Caine brought hi beloved out of the blazing noon on
those arena sands, back t Earth, back to safety. You saw it live; you may have even experi enced it as
Caine.

       "Now, it can touch youall over again... for in that instan 'When the Lifeclock Stopped,' the
recording of Pallas Rilstartei once again.

       "This special offer willnot be repeated; this Limited Editior Boxed Set is youronly opportunity to
receive this precious moment.This is your only chance to step inside the heart of Pallas Ril, as she
kneels upon the transfer platform, saved from certain death by the only man she has ever truly loved. This
is your only chance to see what she sees, feel what she feels, as her tears touch the face of her fallen
hero."

       The eyes seem to recede, just a little; perhaps dust has settled upon them. The smile becomes
fixed, as though the lips have been stapled to the teeth.

      "And to commemorate this incredible offer, in honor of this extraordinary Adventure, if you order
beforemidnight tonight, you will also receive the Special Edition Personal Pallas Ril Lifeclock!

      "Calibrated by Studio scientists usingyour personal actuarial data compiled from the global
medical database, including data from as many assix generations of vowr ancestors, the Special Edition
Personal Pallas Ril Lifeclock will accurately number the hours of vottrlife! This handsome unit fits
attractively on a nightstand, on an office desk, even a kitchen table..."

       The advertisement, which runs until most of the world has forgotten why they should care who any
of these people are, includes a subtitled disclaimer:Special Edition Personal Pallas Ril Life-clock is
not intended as a predictive tool.

       For Entertainment Purposes Only.

       epilogue

there came aday when Hari woke up and found Shanna sitrJ his bedside.

       He lay on his gelpack pillow and gazed at her through half-op eyes while awareness leaked into his
brain with the morning lig She sat staring idly out the window, toward the clouds, to the ocean, high over
the shantytown of media vans that investe hospital like the siege engines of an Overwork! army. She was
her cheeks still hollowed and her eyes dark, and she still carrie left arm stiffly at her side—and Hari
thought he'd never seen thing so beautiful in his life.

       He didn't speak, for fear that the sound of his voice might d the dream.

      She coughed a little, with wet discomfort, when she felt his ga: her. She smiled and touched her
ribs where the quarrel had sma through them into her lung. "Pneumonia," she said apologeticall He
ventured a tentative answering smile. "Yeah, me too—t I caught it in here, though."

       "I, ah..." she began, then said, "How, how are you? I mean She nodded vaguely toward the
gunmetal bulk of the Ml unit that covered him from thighs to ribcage; she didn't really \ to look at it
directly.

      Hari shrugged and patted its side. "I don't know. Not so bi guess. They're telling me I should get
some feeling back in my within the next couple of weeks. They're gonna hook up on those
computer-bypass things so that I'll be able to walk in a or so, by pretending to wiggle my toes or
something, even ii regen doesn't take..."

       He sighed in a deep breath for courage, sighed it out ag "Mmm, they say I'll probably walk with a
cane for the rest of life; I told them I knew that already," he offered with a crooked smile.

       She turned away, toward the window again, and lowered her head. "Yeah," he murmured, "bad
joke, I know." "Oh, Hari, I'm so sorry— "Stop it," he told her. "Don't even start." "Your career—

      "Fuck my career. All I—allCaine ever wanted to do was to die in your arms. That's his happy
ending, and it's good enough forme."

       He rolled his shoulders forward and back again and wished the thousands of hairlike probes that
ran through his skin from the MRNS unit to his severed spinal cord would let him shift his hips—he was
getting a hell of an ache.

       "And I got out of it alive. How many living retired Actors do you know?"

       Her voice was barely a whisper. "You've given up so much for me..." "Nah." "Hari—"

       "I didn't do it for you—you should know me better than that by now. I did it because a world
without you in it is one I'm not all that interested in living in, y'know?"

      He slapped the cold side of the unit. "My legs? My career? Cheap at twice the price. You're
worth ten of me."

       She said softly, still looking away, "I used to think that, too..." And the hand that squeezed his
heart wouldn't let him think of anything to say.

       later, she asked,"Have you been following the trial?"

        "Are you kidding? Watching that rotten fuck go down in flames is several of the high points of my
life. Hand me the remote—let's see what they're up to now." He keyed the pad, and the screen above his
head lit up with a scene outside the San Francisco Corporate Court. One of a long line of limousines
disgorged a knot of Attorneys who circled their client like bodyguards, even though not one of them was
as tall as their client's shoulder.

       "Hey, that's Ma'elKoth," Hari said. "I guess they're gonna let him testify after all."

        His Attorneys held off the mob of reporters so that h mount the steps, then he turned and favored
them with a sn seemed to brighten the sunlight. He wore an immaculately suit of an appropriately classic
Eurocut double-breasted st emphasized the enormous breadth of his shoulders. The colored weave set
off his richly burnished hair, which w drawn back into a conservative pony tail.

        Clean-shaven now, with the noble jut of his jaw, with tt brow above his clear and serious eyes, he
could only be b when he turned to the tapers and rumbled, "My interest he see justice done. Arturo
Kollberg robbed me of my throne ai spired against my life, as well as the lives of Pallas Ril and Only the
truth, ugly as it may be, can serve to guard society; such crimes."

       The cameras followed him on his stately march in courthouse.

       "Amazing how well he's adapted," Shanna murmurei sounds like he's running for tribune."

       "I'd vote for him."

       "I suppose I would, too. You think the Studio will ever go back to Overworld?"

      "Doubt it. I can't imagine he'd want to—the way I took h branded him as anAktir. He wouldn't
have much of a life."

      "He doesn't have much of a life now. He can only leave t vault for a couple of hours at a time. To
have come so far, h spend all his time watching the net."

       "He had a head start," Hari said.

       She dropped her eyes.

       "You notice?" he went on. "He's got Karl's accent."

       "Hari—"

       "I'm not gonna apologize for that. I've done some shitty in my life, but that wasn't one of them. It
was better than served, and you know it."

      "Yes, I do know it," she said faintly. "You...you just h understand that it's a little hard for me.
There was a time v thought I loved him; no matter what I know about him nothing changes that..."

       That fist within his chest came back and squeezed his he; couldn't look at her. "We're not gonna
live happily ever aft we/'

       "I don't know, Hari. I really just don't know."

       days passed. visitorscame and went, interviewers, most of whom wanted to know how Caine had
managed to execute his be-wilderingly complex plan to such a nicety; none of them believed him when he
said that he didn't know either, that he just kept inching toward daylight till he finally made it.

      Marc Vilo called every day to check his progress; he remained blindly certain that Caine's career
was not over, as though with his billions he could buy new legs for his pet star.

       Some news of Ankhana leaked through from various Actors around the Empire; the story was that
the King of Cant and his Subjects had saved Duke Toa-Sytell's life at the stadium that day when
Ma'elKoth had been revealed as anAktir. With Kierendal's Faces, they held the city and were gradually
gaining the loyalty of the military. In light of this, much of the nobility was pledging fealty, and it looked
like the Empire would stand with Toa-Sytell in control.

      It was impossible to get more details than this because the Empire had become, for Actors, very
dangerous indeed. Toa-Sytell carried on Ma'elKoth'sAktir-tokar with a vengeance. A number of Actors
had been caught and executed.

       Hari appreciated the cold irony; the Studio conditioning that was intended to prevent them from
betraying themselves or others was the very means by which they were caught.

       From there in his hospital bed, Hari watched in quiet exultation as the Interim Chairman announced
over the nets that the Studio was suspending Ankhanan operations until a solution could be found.

      Arturo Kollberg was hung out to dry by the Studio; the official line was that this had all been his
own rogue operation. Down-casted to Labor,he was moved to a Temp block not far from where Hari
grew up.

       Hari had won; Caine had won.

       They'd killed him, but it didn't matter; he'd beaten them all.

       Then, one day, Shanna came back.

      "congratulations, administrator michaelson,"was the first thing she said. " hear your upcaste came
through."

      Hari shrugged. "Hello to you, too. Yeah, the Studio got behind me, and they pretty much get what
they want."

       "The Studio?" she said, looking puzzled. "Why would they want you upcasted?"
         "Because they offered me Kollberg's job."

         She went absolutely blank. "I don't believe it."

       "I didn't either, but when you think about it, it makes ; sense. I'm the most famous man on the
planet, right now though I'm—I was—only a Professional, I could cause the a shitload of trouble. I'm
virtually untouchable, and I coi some stories. I could deliver the knockout to follow up th< eye they got
from the Kollberg business. So they want to ki in the system."

         "They really think you could do them that much damage'

         He spread his hands. "Hey, I've toppled one government; this month."

         "You don't seriously think—

       "Well, maybe not. All I can say is, they better not piss me Her face had become more full, and the
shadows had peared from under her eyes. She suddenly seemed vastly i fortable; she made tentative /
think I'd better leave moveme "What's wrong?" he asked.

         "Hari,I...Idon'tknow.That'sgreat,yournews,yourupca all that, but I...Maybe I'd better just let this
go."

         "What? Let what go?"

         "I don't want you to think this has anything to do wit upcaste—

         His heart leaped into his throat, and blood sang in his ears what? Come on, you're killing me:
Talk."

     She hand-combed her hair away from her eyes and tuj gaze into the misty distance outside the
window; she spok tantly, with obvious difficulty.

         "There at the last, I was a god," she began, and sighed as she didn't know how to continue.

         "I remember..." Hari said softly.

       "And, you know, it wasn't really me—I mean, it was me me, but I was also him, it, Chambaraya. I
was only a little the god, but at the same time I was all of it, and I know th making very much
sense...Words are kind of inadequate, I the only way you could really understand is if it had happ< you."

       "You miss it, don't you," Hari said. This wasn't a questi truth of it was all too clear, and it stabbed
him inside.She's I me again, he thought.Leaving me for the love of the river.

     "Yes. Of course do. But I'mhere now, and this is where to be. I need to be where I am, and
whatever I'm doing, that's what I need to do. Do you understand?" "Not really..."

      "You saw the power," she said, "but power has nothing to do with being a god. They, the gods,
theylook at things differently. To join with Chambaraya, all I had to do was see the world the way it
does. And when the world looks different, it's because you'vebecome different—you're not the same
person that saw it in the old ways."
       She spread her hands, shaking her head with a weak smile of surrender. "I can't seem to get close
to the point."

       She rose and paced about the room; Hari's gaze followed her helplessly.

       "You know, the gods don't understand us, either," she said. "Mortal folk are as much a mystery to
them as they are to us. And what they understand least, what they just can't figure out, is why we choose
to be miserable. It seems to them that weinsist on being unhappy...When I was with Chambaraya, it
seemed that way to me, too, and I couldn't understand it any more than the river could."

       She straightened. Hari could see the faintest tremor in the hand that smoothed the seam of her
tunic. She breathed deep, as though drawing in courage from the air.

       "I've been giving this a great deal of thought, looking it over from every side I can find," she said
hesitantly.

      Hari squeezed his eyes shut. /don't need to hear this. "You're going to be going home soon."
"Yeah...?" was the best he could force through his closing throat.

        "I'd like to...I'd like to be there, when you do. And after." He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe,
couldn't even blink. She sat down and once again turned away. "Businessman Vilo, he's got this
simichair...He and Leisurema'am Dole, are, well, y'know, and so I've...Over the past week, I've been,
sort of, first-handing your Adventure." "Shanna..."

      "I understand so many things, now. And, and Hari? Through it all, through everything, the
separation, everything, I never doubted that you loved me. I guess I just thought you had to love memy
way —or something equally petty and stupid. I don't know. I guess it's not important, now."

       "I, I..."

       "I don't know if we can make anything work between us. I really don't know. I'm not the same
woman you man different things are important to me, now. And you 're not the man, either. Maybe,
maybe we could...get to know each again. Youthink? Becauselove you, and I want to try to t gcther,
again. I want us both to try to be happy."

       "Shanna, my god, Shanna..."

       And as he reached out to take her hand, a team of doctors w crashcart burst through the door of
his room; his telemetry ha off six different alarms.

       days later, whenthe doctors had been satisfied and he loaded into the levichair that would be his
mobile home for the few months, he held her hand and gazed into her eyes and thouWell, shit, this is all
right: in the end, I even get the girl.

       She walked beside his humming chair as they left the hos] and entered the open air.

      The sky arched high overhead, and the shining golden sj of an approaching cab arced down
toward them.

      He looked up at her. "You really think we can make this wor "I hope so," she said. "After all, I
promised I'd never leave ) And promises are important."
       "Yeah," he said, "yeah, they are...Y'know, you just remim me of another promise I made."

      When the cab landed, she helped negotiate the loading of chair inside. He leaned forward, tapped
the CANCEL RUN k and told the driver to enter a course for the Buchanan Social Car "The
Buchanan?" Shanna asked. "Why are we going to Buchanan?"

        Hari smiled, just a little; his heart was too full for anything bigg The greatest joys are expressed in
the stillest, smallest, quietest wa; "There's someone that I want you to meet."




A Conversation with

MATTHEW WOODRING STOVER



 MATTHEW WOODRING STOVERlives in Chicago, Illinois, where he works as a bartender at a
private club in the United Center, home of the Bulls and the Blackhawks. In previous incarnations
he's been an actor, a theatrical producer, a playwright, a waiter, a barista (okay, what the heck is
a barista?), a short-order cook, a telemarketer of fine wines, and a door-to-door vacuum cleaner
salesman. With his partner, noted painter and up-and-coming fantasy author Robyn Fielder, he
was cofounder and codirector of the Iff Theater. In addition to being a recreational marathon
runner and amateur kickboxer, Stover has studied a variety of martial arts, including the
Degerberg Blend, tae kwon do, aikido, English boxing, English quarterstaff, the Filipino sword
arts (kali/escrima/amis), savate, and muay thai (reviewers, take note!). Somehow amid all this
exhausting activity he finds time to write fantasy novels —three to date—with more on the way.



       Q: Tell us a little about how you became a writer...and why an SF writer.

       A: Two words: Robert Heinlein. I readHave Space Suit—Will Travel when I was about twelve,
then got aholdof Glory Road, and my fate was sealed. From Heinlein to early Zelazny to Fritz Leiber to
Evangeline Walton; they got me started, and I've never stopped. Much of my life has been an obsessive
inquiry into philosophy, mythology, magic, religion, and the concept of the Hero (in the Joseph Campbell
sense). SF—fantasy—is the only branch of literature that lets you look at all of those at once. As to "how
I became a writer," I did it on the Ray Bradbury plan: a thousand words a day, six days a week, rain or
shine, even if you have to throw it out because it's so bad that burning it would violate the Clean Air Act.

       He claims that by the time you've written a million words, you s to have some idea what you're
doing. He's right.



Q: Your first novel,Iron Dawn,was published in . Its seqi Jericho Moon,in —which is also when was
pi lished. Three novels in two years—all of exceptional quality, i you an incredibly quick and
prolific writer? Do you work on i ferent projects simultaneously, or do you have a lot of mate)
stockpiled from over the years ? In other words, should I just slit wrists now?

        A: Save your wrists: it was pure stockpile. May the gods witni my wish that I really could write
that fast. I wroteIron Dawn and early ' . sent it off unsolicited and unagented, straij to the slush pile.
While I was waiting for a response, I wroteHen Die (which is actually a massive revision of an earlier,
vas longer, completely unpublishable book). In late ' —through t kind intervention of a perceptive
editor—I finally got a great age and he hadIron Dawn sold at auction within about a month. By tl time,
was finished—but my editor at Roc Books ( fered a contract for a sequel, at which I promptly jumped;
Jerici Moon was a story I'd been wanting to write for a long time, f had to wait forJericho Moon, which
I finished in ear '...and then there was a long round of revision onHeroes Di So, actually, these three
books took me five years to write—eig years, if you count the three I spent working on the early version
i. The "three books in two years" is entirely an optic; illusion.



 Q: Whew! It just wouldn 't be fair for you to be so good and sofas Your answer will be of special
interest to aspiring writers, I thint because (if I've understood correctly)Iron Dawnwas discovere in the
slush pile by an editor who then pointed you toward an agen What advice would you give to
writers looking to break into th field in terms of agents, editors, and submissions? A: I think the
ideal way to get an agent is exactly the way I did it: recommendation from an editor who'd like to buy
your scripl Agents tend to be vastly interested in projects where a sale is more or-less guaranteed. In my
case, the wise and perceptive editor pro vided me with a list of agents she knew represented my kind o
fiction. The best advice I can offer to aspiring fiction writers in an)

       field is to read two books:Zen in the Art of Writing, by Ray Bradbury, andWriting to Sell, by
Scott Meredith. Between the two, they'll tell you just about everything you need to know. As far as
advice specific to the fantasy field goes, well, that's obvious: the easiest way to break into fantasy fiction
is to write a novel about an Innocent Adolescent Who Suddenly Develops Powers and Now Is Destined
to Defeat the Dark Lord, Save the World, Cure Dandruff, and Wipe Out the Scourge of Acne.



 Q:Iron Dawnreceived an unusually strong response for a first novel. What sets that book and its
sequel apart? A: I can't really say what sets those books apart. All I can tell you is what I like about
them—and that would begin with the characters. That's how I start a book: I get interested in a
character, and I try to pull together a story that will show that character to his/her advantage. In the case
ofIron Dawn, I became fascinated with a character that my partner, Robyn Fielder, had developed, this
female Pictish mercenary named Barra. I had been developing an idea for a historical fantasy based on
the premise that Homer'sIliad was history, rather than fiction, and when Robyn started telling me about
Barra, I just fell in love. She became the axis of the book. All three of the heroes are outsiders,
expatriates in a foreign culture, and Barra is the most alien—a female warrior from the far side of the
world, a land so distant that most people think it mythical—but she is also the most at home. She's the
inside-outsider, the link between the various cultures that interpenetrate the story. She speaks the
language, she knows the city, she has an adoptive family that lives there; it's her fierce passion to defend
her adopted city that drives the plot. I'm really only interested in people who have that kind of passion,
that fierceness; there are plenty of others who write about pure-hearted knights and Innocent
Adolescents Who Are Destined, et cetera. Which brings me to the other thing that I like about my first
two books: they're not about the conflict of Light Against Darkness, or Good versus Evil. They're about
people trying to protect their homes, their families—and they're about Barra, who has an unfortunate
tendency to get emotionally involved in the jobs she takes on. The whole concept of Good and Evil as an
abstract moral dichotomy doesn't appear in historical thought until Zoroaster, five or six hundred years
after these books are set. Barra herself puts it this way: "One of the things I've learned in all these years is
that just because someone's your enemy, he's not automatically a man."



 Q: That was one of the things I liked most about:y focus on characters and situations of a certain,
shall we say, nu complexity all loo rare in fantasy. Is this your strength as a writ A: I don't really
know what my strengths as a writer might judging from my mail and the reviews I get, the things I think
good at are often not what people like in my work. So let's just this: I'm thorough, I love my characters,
and for me, evil is entii a matter of perspective. Everyone's a good guy, in his or her c mind; even serial
killers, Nazi concentration camp command and "ethnic cleansers" the world over don't think of themsel as
evil.



 Q: Well, unless of course they get a big kick out of defining tht selves that way! Hitler never thought of
himself as evil fo, second; on the contrary. But there are men and women, I belie who consciously set out
to embrace and embody an idea of e 'It's better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven, 'as someone said...

         A: But now you're shifting into aberrant psychology, as oppo; to metaphysics. You quote from
Paradise Lost —in that wo Lucifer is a tragic hero, a magnificently flawed character. A what's his flaw?
Basically, he refuses to Do What He's Told which, to a more modern sensibility than Milton's, is hardly a
fl; at all. In fact, given the history of the twentieth century (i.e., I Nuremberg trials: "I was only following
orders"), it's a positi virtue. What I'm trying to get at with that element of my work this: reality has no
moral dimension.

        Morality is an arbitrary human creation that supports cultui specific social orders. Not to say it's
not useful, even necessary, b to pretend that it derives from supernatural authority is childis 'This is wrong
because Daddy (God, Jesus, Mohammed, pick or make up your own) says it is." Similarly, to pretend
that b havior we don't like in others (or desires and drives we've be< taught are bad in ourselves) is the
result of some supernatural fon of evil is just a way to shift the blame: "The Devil made me do it.

       Outside of the wackos who use evil as an excuse to justify the actions, those embracing "evil" are
usually defining evil as oppos tion to a specific social code; it's an act of rebellion—and they'i actually
rebelling not against God, or Truth, or Justice, or whatever but against society's restrictive view of what
these things have to be. Chat with a Salanist sometime; most of them are really nice folks.



 Q: What writers have influenced you most? You've already mentioned Heinlein and Leiher; put me in
mind of Michael Moorcock as well. Not just the sword and sorcery aspect of it, but the science fictional
idea—well, more science factional now thanks to quantum theory—of a multitude of realities
harmonically related to varying degrees.

        A: Michael Moorcock is one of my heroes, naturally; the decadence and moral ambiguity that runs
through the Elric stories...Kierendal (and her brothel) in is pretty much a direct nod to Moorcock. Fritz
Leiber—it's no coincidence that my first novel,Iron Dawn, is set in Tyre, which was the setting of
"Adept's Gambit," the only Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser story (as far as I remember) to be set on Earth
rather than Nehwon. Roger Zelazny— the original versionof , all those years ago, was inspired by
Zelazny'sIsle of the Dead... and, of course,Nine Princes in Amber. Stephen Donaldson's Covenant
books were a powerful influence; I read them back in college, and they were my first look at the
possibilities of really adult fantasy. He showed me how a fantasy hero can be a long way from
conventionally heroic but still capture the imagination and emotion, so long as he or she cares. Outside
the genre, I guess my greatest influence would be Joseph Conrad. He convinced me that you don't really
find out what you're made of until you discover that there are no rules; my characters usually find
themselves, at one point or another, in situations where the boundaries they've set for themselves break
down. They have to act—and usually, act fast—without recourse to the structure of behavior that they
have relied upon to carry them through their lives. The characters who win are the ones who are flexible
enough thinkers to find right action in a moral vacuum.

       As far as the quantum mechanical part of it goes, well...let me put it this way: a few years ago,
when I was first reading Michio Kaku'sHyperspace, I looked up at Robyn and said, "Holy crap! You
won't believe this: Overworld is theoretically possible!"



Q: How would you describe?

        A: It's a piece of violent entertainment that is a meditation on violent entertainment—as a concept
in itself, and as a cultural ob sion. It's a love story: romantic love, paternal love, repres homoerotic love,
love of money, of power, of country, love trayed and love employed as both carrot and stick. It's a book
al all different kinds of heroes, and all the different ways they die. a pop-top can of Grade-A
one-hundred percent pure whip-ass.



 Q: Yee-hah! Makes me want to read it all over again! How m of your experiences as an actor and
playwright, as well as an tial artist, informed the events and characters ofHeroes? A: There is a kind of
creative tension between Hari Michaels the actor, and Caine, the character he plays, that I touch upon in
novel. I was a stage actor; when you play a character night a night, it begins to infect your offstage
personality. Not in the cli sense of the actor who gets "lost in the role" but in a subtler v You entrain your
reflexes with the character's mannerisms, for ample, and you might find yourself standing like the
character, j turing like him, even using his voice without really thinking ah it. When a character you are
playing also reflects something fun mentally true about yourself, you can find yourself reacting stinctively
from that character's point of view—thinking like character. This is what has happened to Hari; part of
his struggl the novel is to find a way to break out of Caine's self-destruci patterns without losing the
positive parts of that persona. Ont the lessons actors learn is how incredibly powerful "make-belie can
be. That's what acting is, after all. As a playwright, you that there is no feeling in the world worse than
to-be sitting in house at one of your own plays and discovering that you've the audience. You can always
tell—when people start to bored the theater is suddenly filled with subtle creaks of pec shifting in their
seat, coughs, sniffles, the crackle of after-dinr mint wrappers...That's why the book is structured as an
adv ture novel. has been described in print as "energeti "vigorous," "hard-hitting adventure," even a
"furious, gory ha em-up." All true. If you want to keep your audience's butts nai to their seats, the story
has to move.

       I've been studying various martial arts intermittently for aim twenty years; I've done dozens of
styles without ever becom really proficient in any of them. In the process, I've accumulate vast theoretical
knowledge of personal combat—and I've don little fighting, in the ring and out of it. I know what it feels
lik<

      get my ass soundly kicked; I also know what it's like to fight someone who's a lot better than I am
and beat him anyway. Part of what I wanted to achieve with Caine is to get across that feeling; Caine is a
long way from the Bruce Lee/Remo Williams/Sir Lancelot myth of the invincible martial arts superman.
Everything Caine does in is real-world fighting; every move he makes can be duplicated by a reasonably
skilled fighter. He's not the best fighter in the world—he's not even the best fighter in the book. But
there's a lot more to combat than skill.



 Q; Is the caste-ridden capitalistic society of actor Hari Michael-son 's world something you see as
possible in our own ?A: In a word, yes. Hari Michaelson's Earth is the triumph of American capitalism,
stripped of its egalitarian pretense. Don't get me wrong; I like capitalism. But any social system becomes
pernicious when taken to unchecked extremes, and Americans are extremists by nature. We have to
push the envelope. The novel postulates a catastrophic event a couple of hundred years in the past (that
is, in our near future) that essentially frees the multinational corporations from even the shadow of
governmental control. The resulting society is caste-based because that reflects the curious psychological
phenomenon of the industrial age: You Are What You Do. Caste systems are by far the most stable form
of social organization—the members of each individual caste have a vested interest in maintaining the
status quo. The upper castes can depend upon the lower to participate in their own oppression. This
particular system also holds out the old capitalist dream of self-improvement: it is possible to buy one's
way upcaste. No one wants to rock the boat and screw up their chance of someday joining the ruling
classes. Of course, these days it looks like the catastrophic event might have been superfluous. All you
really need to bring about this future is a few more years of the Republican Congress.



Q: Perhaps the Republican Congress is the catastrophic event.A: Hey, what are you trying to do, get us
both audited?



 Q: The Overworld—Caine's world—is a wonderfully realized creation. There's a complexity and
sophistication to your portrayal ofAnkhana's inhabitants, their cultural practices and beliefs, their
private fears and desires, that, once again, reminded me of Moorcock and Leiber. Even magic is
treated with the same gritty realism as, say, Caine's fight scenes. In fact, in many ways the Ovei
seems more real than the "underworld" that is home to Can the other Aktiri.

        A: Overworld is a step closer to the fundamental reality o tence; the whole concept of Acting, in
the book, is to give th< ence the feeling of having been to a place more raw and excitiri their everyday
reality. I'm hoping to give the reader an analogc perience. And yes, Ankhana—especially the
Warrens—owes; its feel to Leiber's Lankhmar.

       Q: How exact are the parallels between Overworld and i world? When I first looked at a map of
the city, a nagging fami convinced me that I was looking at the Overworld equivai Paris. Are there
analogues of places, of people? Could Caii example, meet an aspect of himself?A: The parallels are more
metaphoric than actual; even the raphy has only rough similarities. For reasons that will ever become
apparent, Caine won't be meeting aspects of himself unique. Ankhana's resemblance to Paris is pretty
much a ma story mechanics (the island enclave of human rulers, the rivi separates the wealthy from the
ghettoes that hold the poor a nonhumans being the central spine of the city, et cetera). came about
because I originally conceived the plan of th while readingThe Hunchback of Notre Dame', you might
alsc noticed a certain similarity between the Night of the Miracle iroes Die and Hugo's Heart of
Miracles...Hey, if you're j steal, steal from the best.
 Q: Can you talk a bit about actors and Aktiri? There are si mirror images all through the book—ideas of
reflection, rev opposition, splitting in two...

       A: Let's just say that a lot depends on your point of view, wonder how Han Solo must look to,
say, the wives and moth those Imperial Troopers he so casually slaughters? As far as imagery goes, I'm
really not comfortable talking about my i literary devices and stuff like that. Some things are harmed h
posure. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain...



Q: Will there be a sequel? If so, what can you tell us about it hoping we 'II see more of Ma 'elKoth...

       A: Yes, not much, and you will. All I can say is that the seque be an entirely different animal from;
I' m using many of the same characters to look at a very, very different group of interconnected themes,
from the clash of individualism versus social responsibility to the essentially chaotic (in the sense of chaos
theory) nature of reality. But there will still be a fair amount of serious butt-kicking, and several brutal
murders...—SCANNER’S NOTE: THERE IS A SEQUAL TO HEROES DIE, CALLEDBLADE
OF TYRAL , AND ANOTHER NOVEL OFCAIN IN THE WORKS.



Q: You mentioned earlier that your stories begin with characters. Do your characters, as you come to
know them, suggest the themes of your books, or do you consciously set out to examine certain themes?

       A: Some of both. It's a little difficult to describe. They feed off each other: Characters suggest
themes—in fact, most of the viewpoint characters in carry their own individual themes—but themes also
alter characters. As I play around inside the characters' heads, whatever I happen to be obsessing about
that week tends to be reflected somehow in their personalities or their histories, but each character is also
a kind of perceptual filter; I could never use Caine, for example, to address a theme of overcoming
timidity and self-doubt, or dealing with shyness or any of that kind of thing. Those emotions are too alien
to him.



Q: I was fascinated by the magical force of Flow and its relationship to the wave functions of quantum
physics; i.e., a link between the science of one world and the magic of the other. Is that something else
you plan to explore ?

       A: Flow is a fantasy expression of the Earthly concept of the Tao—which can be interpreted in
many ways, as a metaphoric representation of the force described as the GUTE: the Grand Unified
Theory of Everything. It is the fundamental force, of which electromagnetism, gravity, et al., are the
differentiated expressions. It is also—in the Teilhard de Chardin sense—the consciousness of the
universe. On Overwork!, "energy" is equivalent to "mind"; since matter is a form of energy, everything in
the Overwork! universe partakes to some degree in the Universal Mind. If you read much Eastern
philosophy—or much in the Western mystical tradition— you will have recognized this idea already. So,
yes, there is a direct relationship between the way the physical laws operate in the two universes. This
becomes a crucial element of the sequel, as we discover that there are some forms of magic that will
operate even on Earth, and some forms of technology that work perfectly v Overwork!...
Q: Any chance we 'II go further afield than Earth and Oven There must be an infinite number of alternate
Earths reacha means of the technology that sends Hari to Overworld, or by (perhaps even magical)
means.

       A: There must be...and not only other alternate Earths. Thf ston transfer technology seems to be
able to transfer a person spatial coordinate on Overworld...and Einstein contends ago (and Hawking
confirms) that duration—Time—is only a spatial dimension...



Q: And who's to say that Hari's Earth isn't itself the urn stage upon which otherworldly actors are
performing?A: Who's to say our Earth isn't?