Dragon Wing - Death Gate CycleVolume1

 Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

PROLOGUE

 "BE AT EASE, HAPLO. COME IN AND MAKE YOURSELF COMFORTABLE. SIT DOWN. THERE  are no formalities between us."

 "Allow me to fill your glass. We drink what was once called the stirrup cup, a salute to your long journey.

 "You like the port? Ah, my talents are many and manifold, as you know, but I begin to think that only time-not magic- can produce a truly fine port. At least that's what the old books teach. I've no doubt our ancestors were right about that ... no matter how wrong they were in other things. There is something about the drink I miss, a warmth, a mellowness that comes with age. This port is too harsh, too aggressive. Fine qualities in men, Haplo, but not in wine.

 "So, you are prepared for your journey? Is there any need or want I can satisfy? Say so, and it's yours. Nothing?

 "Ah, I do envy you. My thoughts will be with you every moment, waking and sleeping. Another salute. To you, Haplo, my emissary to an unsuspecting world.

 "And they must not suspect. I know we've been over this before, but I want to stress this again. The danger is great. If our ancient enemy catches even the slightest hint that we've escaped their prison, they will move land, sea, sun, and sky-as they did once-to thwart us. Sniff them out, Haplo. Sniff them out as that dog of yours sniffs out a rat, but never let them catch a whiff of you.

 "Let me refill your glass. Another salute. This one to the Sartan. You hesitate to drink. Come. I insist. Your rage is your strength. Use it, it will give you energy. Therefore...

 "To the Sartan. They made us what we are.

 "How old are you, Haplo? You have no idea?

 "I know-time has no meaning in the Labyrinth. Let me think. When I first saw you, you looked to be just over twenty-five years. A long life for those of the Labyrinth. A long life, and one that had almost ended.

 "How well I remember that time, five years ago, I was about to reenter the Labyrinth when you emerged. Bleeding, barely able to walk, dying. Yet you looked up at me with an expression-I will never forget it-Triumph! You had escaped. You had beaten them. I saw that triumph in your eyes, in your exultant smile. And then you collapsed at my feet.

 "It was that expression which drew me to you, dear boy. I felt the same when I escaped from that hell so long ago. I was the first one, the first one to make it through alive.

 "Centuries ago, the Sartan thought to defeat our ambition by sundering the world that was ours by rights and throwing us into their prison. As you well know, the way out of the Labyrinth is long and tortuous. It took centuries to solve the twisting puzzle of our land. The old books say the Sartan devised this punishment in hopes that our bounding ambition and our cruel and selfish natures would be softened by time and suffering.

 "You must always remember their plan, Haplo. It will give you the strength you'll need to do what I ask of you. The Sartan had dared to assume that, when we emerged into this world, we would be fit to take our places in any of the four realms we chose to enter.

 "Something went wrong. Perhaps you'll discover what it was when you enter Death Gate. It seems, from what I have been able to decipher in the old books, that the Sartan were to have monitored the Labyrinth and kept its magic in check. But, either through malicious intent or for some other reason, they forsook their responsibility as caretakers of our prison. The prison gained a life of its own-a life that knew only one thing, survival. And so, the Labyrinth, our prison, came to see us, its prisoners, as a threat. After the Sartan abandoned us, the Labyrinth, driven by its fear and hatred of us, turned deadly.

 "When at last I found my way out, I discovered the Nexus, this beautiful land the Sartan had established for our occupation. And I came across the books. Unable to read them at first, I worked and taught myself and soon learned their secrets. I read of the Sartan and their 'hopes' for us and I laughed aloud-the first and only time in my life I have ever laughed. You understand me, Haplo. There is no joy in the Labyrinth.

 "But I will laugh again, when my plans are complete. When the four separate worlds-Fire, Water, Stone, and Sky-are again one. Then I will laugh long and loudly.

 "Yes. It's time for you to leave. You've been patient with the ramblings of your lord. Another salute.

 "To you, Haplo.

 "As I was the first to leave the Labyrinth and enter the Nexus, so you shall be the first to enter Death Gate and walk the worlds beyond.

 "The Realm of the Sky. Study it well, Haplo. Come to know the people. Search out their strengths and their weaknesses. Do what you can to cause chaos in the realm, but always be discreet. Keep your powers hidden. Above all, take no action that will draw the attention of the Sartan, for if they discover us before I am ready, we are lost.

 "Death first, before you betray us. I know you have the discipline and the courage to make that choice. But more important, Haplo, you have the skill and the wits to make such a choice unnecessary. This is why I've chosen you for this mission.

 "You have one other task. Bring me someone from this realm who will serve as my disciple. Someone who will return to preach the word, my word, to the people. It can be someone of any race - elven, human, dwarven. Make certain that he or she is intelligent, ambitious, . . . and pliable.

 "In an ancient text, I came across a fitting analogy. You; Haplo, shall be the voice of one crying in the wilderness.

 "And now, a final salute. We will stand for this one.

 "To Death Gate. 'Prepare ye the way.' "

 CHAPTER 1

 YRENI PRISON, DANDRAK, MID REALM

 THE CRUDELY BUILT CART LURCHED AND BOUNCED OVER THE ROUGH CORALITE terrain, its iron wheels hitting every bump and pit in what passed for a road. The cart was being pulled by a tier, its breath snorting puffs in the chill air. It took one man to lead the stubborn and unpredictable bird while four more, stationed on either side of the vehicle, pushed and shoved the cart along. A small crowd, garnered from the outlying farms, had gathered in front of Yreni Prison, planning to escort the cart and its shameful burden to the city walls of Ke'lith. There, a much larger crowd awaited the cart's arrival.

 Dayside was ending. The glitter of the firmament began to fade as the Lords of Night slowly drew the shadow of their cloaks over the afternoon stars. Night's gloom was fitting for this procession.

 The country folk-for the most part-kept their distance from the cart. They did this not out of fear of the tier-although those huge birds had been known to suddenly turn and take a vicious snap at anyone approaching them from their blind side-but out of fear of the cart's occupant.

The prisoner was bound around the wrists by taut leather thongs attached to the sides of the cart, and his feet were manacled with heavy chains. Several sharp-eyed bowmen marched beside the cart, their feathered shafts nocked and ready to be let loose straight at the felon's heart if he so much as twitched the wrong way. But such precautions did not appear to offer the cart's followers much comfort. They kept their gaze-dark and watchful-fixed on the man inside as they trudged along behind at a respectful distance that markedly increased when the man turned his head. If they'd had a demon from Hereka chained up in that cart, the local farmers could not have gazed on it with any greater fear or awe.

The man's appearance alone was striking enough to arrest the eye and send a shiver over the skin. His age was indeterminate, for he was one of those men whom life has aged beyond cycles. His hair was black without a touch of gray. Sleeked back from a high, sloping forehead, it was worn braided at the nape of his neck. A jutting nose, like the beak of a hawk, thrust forward from between dark and overhanging brows. His beard was black and worn in two thin short braids twisted beneath a strong chin. His black eyes, sunken into high cheekbones, almost disappeared in the shadows of the overhanging brows. Almost, but not quite, for no darkness in this world, it seemed, could quench the flame that smoldered in those depths.

 The prisoner was of medium height, his body bare to the waist and marked all over with gashes and bruises, for he had fought like a devil to avoid his capture. Three of the sheriff's boldest men lay in their beds this day and would probably lie therefor a week recovering. The man was lean and sinewy, his movements graceful and silent and swift. One might say, from looking at him, that here was a man born and bred to walk in the company of Night.

 It amused the prisoner to see the peasants fall back when he glanced around at them. He took to looking behind him often, much to the discomfiture of the bowmen, who were constantly lifting their shafts, their fingers twitching nervously, their gazes darting for instructions at their leader-a solemn-faced young sheriff. Despite the chill of the fall evening, the sheriff was sweating profusely, and his face brightened visibly when the coralite walls of Ke'lith came in sight.

 Ke'lith was small in comparison with the other two cities on Dandrak Isle. Its ill-kept houses and shops barely covered a square menka. In the very center stood an ancient fortress whose tall towers were catching the last light of the sun. The keep was constructed of rare and precious blocks of granite. In this day, no one remembered how it was built or who had built it. Its past history had been obscured by the present, by the wars that had been fought for its possession.

 Guards pushed open the city gates and motioned the cart forward. Unfortunately the tier took exception to a ragged cheer that greeted the cart's arrival in Ke'lith and came to a dead stop. The recalcitrant bird was alternately threatened and coaxed by its handler until it began moving again, and the cart trundled through the opening in the wall onto a smoothed coralite street known grandiosely as Kings Highway; no king in anyone's memory had ever set foot on the place.

 A large crowd was on hand to view the prisoner. The sheriff barked out an order in a cracked voice and the bowmen closed ranks, pressing close around the cart, the front men in dire peril of being bitten by the nervous tier.

 Emboldened by their numbers, the people began to shout curses and raise their fists. The prisoner grinned boldly at them, seeming to consider them more amusing than threatening until a jagged-edged rock sailed over the cart's sides and struck him in the forehead.

 The mocking smile vanished. Anger contorted the blood-streaked face. His fists clenched, the man made a convulsive leap at a group of ruffians who had discovered courage at the bottom of a wine jug. The leather thongs that held the man fastened to the cart stretched taut, the sides of the vehicle quivered and trembled, the chains on his feet jangled discordantly. The sheriff screeched-the young man's voice rising an octave in his fear- and the bowmen swiftly lifted their weapons, although there was some confusion over their target: the felon or those who had attacked him.

 The crudely made cart was strong, and the man inside, though he exerted all his energy, could neither break his bonds nor the wood that held them. His struggles ceased and he stared through a mask of blood at the swaggering ruffian.

 "You wouldn't dare do that if I were free."

 "Oh, wouldn't I?" the youth jeered, his cheeks flushed with drink.

 "No, you wouldn't," replied the man coolly. His black eyes fixed themselves upon the youth, and such was the enmity and dire threat in their coal-fire stare that the young man blanched and gulped. His friends-who were urging him on, though they themselves stayed well behind him-took offense at the felon's remarks and became more threatening.

 The prisoner turned, glaring at one side of the street, then the other. Another rock struck him in the arm, followed by rotting tomatoes and a stinking egg that missed the felon but caught the sheriff squarely in the face.

 Having been prepared to kill the prisoner at the first opportunity, the bowmen now became his protectors, turning their arrows toward the crowd. But there were only six bowmen and about a hundred in the mob, and things appeared likely to go ill for both prisoner and guards, when a beating of wings and high-pitched screams from overhead caused most of those in the crowd to take to their heels.

 Two dragons, guided by helmed and armored riders, swooped in low over the heads of the mob, sending them ducking into doorways and dashing down alleys. A call from their leader, still wheeling high overhead, brought the dragon knights back into formation. He descended and his knights followed him, the dragons' wingtips clearing the buildings on either side of the street by barely a hand's breadth. Wingstucked neatly at their flanks, their long tails lashing wickedly behind, the dragons alighted near the cart.

 The knights' captain, a paunchy middle-aged man with a fiery-red beard, urged his dragon closer. The tier-terrified at the sight and smell of the dragons-was heaving and howling and going through all kinds of gyrations, causing its handler no end of grief.

 "Keep that damn thing quiet!" snarled the captain.

 The tiermaster managed to catch hold of the head and fixed his beast with an unblinking stare. As long as he could maintain this steady gaze, the stupid tier-for whom out of sight was out of mind-would forget the presence of the dragons and calm down.

 Ignoring the stammering, babbling sheriff, who was hanging on to the captain's saddle harness as a lost child hangs on to its newly found mother, the captain gazed sternly at the bloody, vegetable-stained prisoner.

 "It seems I arrived in time to save your miserable life, Hugh the Hand."

 "You did me no favor, Gareth," said the man grimly. He raised his shackled hands. "Free me! I'll fight all of you, and them too." He flicked his head at the remnants of the mob peeking out of the shadows.

 In the wild, these enormous birds are a dragon's favorite prey. Tiers' wings are large and covered with soft feathers and are almost completely useless. They can, however, run extremely fast on their powerful legs. They make excellent beasts of burden and are extensively used as such in the realms of the humans. Elves consider the tier repulsive and unclean.

 The captain of the knights grunted. "I'll bet you would. That death's a damn sight better than the one you're facing now- kissing the block. A damn sight better and a damn sight too good for you, Hugh the Hand. A knife in the back, in the dark-that's what I'd give you, assassin scum!"

 The curl of the Hand's upper lip was emphasized by a feathery black mustache and was clearly visible even in the failing light. "You know the manner of my business, Gareth."

 "I know only that you are a killer for hire and that my liege lord met his end by your hand," retorted the knight gruffly. "And I've saved your head merely to have the satisfaction of placing it with my own hands at the foot of my lord's bier. By the way, they call the executioner Three-Chop Nick. He's never yet managed to sever a head from a neck at the first blow."

 Hugh gazed at the captain, then said quietly, "For what it's worth, I didn't kill your lord."

 "Bah! The best master I ever served murdered for a few barls [1]. How much did the elf pay you, Hugh? How many barls will you take now to restore my lord's life to me?"

 Yanking on the reins, the captain-his eyes blinking back tears-turned the head of his dragon. He kicked the creature in the flanks, just behind the wings, and caused it to rise into the air, where it remained, hovering over the cart, its snakelike eyes daring any of those lurking in the shadows to cross its path. The dragon knights riding behind likewise took to the air. The tiermaster, his own eyes watering, blinked. The tier once more trod sullenly forward, and the cart clattered over the road.

 It was night when the cart and its dragon escort reached the fortress keep and dwelling place of the Lord of Ke'lith. The lord himself lay in state in the center of the courtyard. Bundles of charcrystal soaked in perfumed oil surrounded his body. His shield lay across his chest. One cold, stiff hand was clasped around his sword hilt; the other hand held a rose placed there by his weeping lady-wife. She was not among those gathered around the body, but was within the keep, heavily sedated with poppy syrup. It was feared that she might hurl herself upon the flaming bier, and while such sacrificial immolation was customary on the island of Dandrak, in this case it could not be allowed; Lord Rogar's wife having just recently given birth to his only child and heir. The lord's favorite dragon stood nearby, proudly tossing its spiky mane. Standing beside it, tears rolling down his face, was the head stablemaster, a huge butcher's blade in his hand. It wasn't for the lord he wept. As the flames consumed its master's body, the dragon which the stablemaster had raised from an egg would be slaughtered, its spirit sent to serve its lord after death.

 All was prepared. Every hand held a flaming torch. Those milling about the courtyard awaited only one thing before they set fire to the bier: the head of the lord's murderer to be placed at his feet.

 Although the keep's defenses had not been activated, a cordon of knights had been drawn up to keep the curious out of the castle. The knights drew aside to allow the cart entry, then closed ranks as it trundled past. A cheer went up from those standing in the courtyard when the cart was sighted rumbling beneath the arched gateway. The knights escorting it dismounted, and their squires ran forward to lead the dragons to the stables. The lord's dragon shrieked a welcome-or perhaps a farewell-to its fellows.

 The tier was detached and led away. The tiermaster and the four men who had pushed the vehicle were taken to the kitchen, there to be fed and given a share of the lord's best brown ale. Sir Gareth, his sword loosened in its scabbard, his eyes noting every move the prisoner made, climbed into the cart. Drawing his sideknife, he cut the leather thongs attached to the wooden slats.

 "We caught the elflord, Hugh," Gareth said in an undertone as he worked. "Caught him alive. He was on his dragonship, sailing back to Tribus, when our dragons overtook him. We questioned him and he confessed giving you the money before he died."

 "I've seen how you 'question' people," said Hugh. One hand free, he flexed his arm to ease the stiffness. Gareth, loosening the other one, eyed him warily. "The bastard would've confessed to being human if you'd asked him!"

 "It was your accursed dagger we took from my lord's back, the one with the bone handle with those strange markings. I recognized it."

 "Damn right, you did!" Both hands were free. Moving swiftly, suddenly, Hugh's strong hands closed over the chain-mail armor that covered the knight's upper arms. The assassin's fingers bit deep, driving the rings of the chain mail painfully into the man's flesh. "And you know both how and why you saw it!"

 Gareth sucked in his breath, his sideknife jerked forward. The blade was three-quarters the way to Hugh's rib cage when, with an effort of will, the knight halted his reflexive lunge.

 "Get back!" he snarled at several of his fellows, who, seeing their captain accosted, had drawn their swords and were preparing to come to his assistance.

 "Let go of me, Hugh." Gareth spoke through gritted teeth. His skin was a ghastly leaden hue, sweat beaded on his upper lip. "Your trick didn't work. You won't meet an easy death at my hand."

 Hugh, with a shrug and a slight sardonic smile, released his grip on the knight's arms. Gareth caught hold of the assassin's right hand, jerked it roughly behind his back, and, grabbing his left, bound the two together tightly with the remnants of the leather thongs.

 "I paid you well," the knight muttered. "I owe you nothing!"

 "And what about her, your daughter, whose death I avenged-"

 Spinning Hugh around by the shoulder, Gareth swung his mailed fist. The blow caught the assassin on the jaw and sent him crashing through the wooden slats of the cart. Sprawled on his back on the ground, the Hand lay in the muck of the courtyard. Gareth jumped down from the cart. Straddling the prisoner, the knight stared down at him coldly.

 "You'll die with your head on the block, you murdering bastard. Bring him," he ordered two of his men, and kicked Hugh in the kidney with the toe of his boot. Gareth watched with satisfaction as the man writhed in pain. The knight added grimly, "And gag his mouth."

 CHAPTER 2

 KE'LITH KEEP, DANDRAK, MID REALM

 "HERE is THE ASSASSIN, MAGICKA," SAID GARETH, GESTURING TO THE bound-and-gagged prisoner.

 "Did he give you any trouble?" asked a well-formed man of perhaps forty cycles, who gazed at Hugh with a sorrowful air, as though he found it impossible to believe that so much evil could reside in one human being.

 "None that I couldn't handle, Magicka," said Gareth, subdued in the presence of the house magus.

 The wizard nodded and-conscious of a vast audience- straightened to his full height and folded his hands ceremoniously over his brown velvet cassock; he was a land magus and so wore the colors of the magic he favored. He did not, however, wear in addition the mantle of royal magus-a title he had, according to rumor, long coveted but one which Lord Rogar, for reasons of his own, refused to grant.

 Those standing in the muddy courtyard saw the prisoner being led before the person who was now-by default-the highest voice of authority in the fiefdom, and crowded around to hear. The light of their torches flared and danced in the cold evening breeze. The lord's dragon, mistaking the tenseness and confusion for battle, trumpeted loudly, demanding to be unleashed upon the enemy. The stablemaster patted it soothingly. Soon it would be sent to fight an Enemy that neither man nor even the long-lived dragon can finally avoid.

 "Remove the gag from his mouth," ordered the wizard.

 Gareth coughed, cleared his throat, and cast the Hand a sidelong glance. Leaning near the wizard, the knight spoke in low tones. "You will hear nothing but a string of lies. He'll say anything-"

 "I said, remove it," remonstrated Magicka in a commanding tone that left no doubt in the minds of anyone standing in the courtyard who was now the master of Ke'lith Keep.

 Gareth sullenly did as he was told, yanking the gag from Hugh's mouth with such force that he wrenched the man's head sideways and left an ugly weal on one side of his face.

 "Every man, no matter how heinous his crime, has the right to confess his guilt and cleanse his soul. What is your name?" questioned the wizard crisply.

 The assassin, gazing over the wizard's head, did not answer. Gareth smote Hugh rebukingly.

 "He is known as Hugh the Hand, Magicka."

 "Surname?"

 Hugh spit blood.

 The wizard frowned. "Come, Hugh the Hand can't be your real name. Your voice. Your manners. Surely you are a nobleman! The baton sinister, no doubt. Yet, we must know the names of your ancestors in order to commend to them your unworthy spirit. You will not speak?" Reaching out a hand, the wizard caught hold of Hugh's chin and jerked the man's face to the torchlight. "The bone structure is strong. The nose aristocratic, the eyes exceedingly fine, although I seem to see something of the peasant in the deep lines in the face and the sensuality of the lips. But there is undoubtedly noble blood in your veins. A pity it runs black. Come, sir, reveal your true identity and confess to the murder of Lord Rogar. Such confession will cleanse your soul."

 The prisoner's swollen mouth widened in a grin; there was a flicker of flame deep in the sunken black eyes. "Where my father is, his son will shortly follow," Hugh replied. "And you know better than any here that I did not murder your lord."

 Gareth raised his fist, intending to punish the Hand for his speech. A glimpse of the wizard's face caused him to hesitate. Magicka's brow cleared in an instant, his face smooth as a pail of fresh cream. The sharp eyes of the captain, however, had noted the ripple that passed across its surface at Hugh's accusation.

 "Insolence," the wizard said coldly. "You are bold for a man facing a terrible death, but we will hear you cry out for mercy before long."

 "You better silence me and silence me quick," said Hugh, his tongue running across his cracked and bleeding lips. "Otherwise people might remember that you're now guardian of the new little lord, aren't you, Magicka? Which means you can run things around here until the kid's . . . What? Eighteen? Or maybe longer than that if you can keep your web wound tight around him. And I've no doubt you'll be a great comfort to the grieving widow. What mantle will you wear tonight-the purple of royal magus? And wasn't it strange, my dagger disappearing like that. As if by magic-"

 The wizard lifted his hands. "The ground quakes in fury at this man's blasphemy!" he shouted. The courtyard began to shake and tremble. Granite towers swayed. People cried out in panic, huddling close together. Some fell to their knees, wailing and pressing their hands in the muck and mud, shouting in supplication to the magus to ease his anger.

 Magicka glared down his long nose at the captain of the knights. A punch from Gareth, given somewhat reluctantly, it seemed, in the small of Hugh's back, caused the assassin to gasp and draw a painful breath. The Hand's gaze, however, never wavered or faltered, but remained fixed on the wizard, who was pale with fury.

 "I have been patient," said Magicka, breathing heavily, "but I will not be subjected to such filth. I apologize to you, captain," the wizard continued, shouting to be heard above the rumbling of the ground and the cries of the people. "You were right. He will say anything to save his miserable life."

 Gareth grunted but did not reply. Magicka raised his hands placatingly and, gradually, the ground ceased to shake. People drew deep breaths of relief and rose to their feet again. The knight's gaze flicked aside at Hugh, met the Hand's own intense, penetrating stare. Gareth frowned; his eyes went from the assassin to the wizard, and they were dark and thoughtful.

 Magicka, speaking to the crowd, did not notice.

 "I am sorry, truly sorry, that this man must leave this life with such black spots upon his soul," said the wizard in grieved and pious tones. "Yet so he chooses. All here are witness that I have given him ample opportunity to confess."

 There were sympathetic, respectful murmurs.

 "Bring forth the block."

 The murmurs changed in aspect, becoming loud and anticipatory. People shifted around to get a good view. Two burly wardens, the strongest that could be found, emerged from a small doorway leading to the dungeon of the keep. Between them they carried a huge stone-not the lacy and delicate coralite of which almost everything in the city except the keep itself was constructed. Magicka, whose business it was to know the types and natures and powers of all rocks, recognized the stone as marble. It did not come from this island or from the larger, neighboring continent of Uylandia, for no such rock existed there [2]. The marble, therefore, came from the larger, neighboring continent of Aristagon, which meant that this block had been dug out of the land of the enemy.

 Either it was a very old piece of marble and had been brought over legitimately during one of the few periods of peace between the humans and the elves of the Tribus Empire-a theory the wizard discounted-or Three-Chop Nick, as he was known, had smuggled it over, which Magicka thought probable.

 Not that it mattered. There were numerous diehard nationalists among the lord's friends, family, and followers, but the wizard doubted if there were any who would object to a piece of dung such as Hugh the Hand losing his head on an enemy rock. Still, they were a hotheaded clan and the wizard was thankful that the marble was so covered with dried blood that few of Rogar's kin would recognize the stone. None would think to question its origin.

 The marble block was about four feet by four feet and had a groove cut out of one side that was almost exactly the size of the average human neck. The warders-staggering under the weight-hauled the block out into the courtyard and placed it in front of Magicka. The executioner, Three-Chop Nick, ducked out from beneath the doorway and a tremor of excitement rippled through the crowd.

 Nick was a giant of a man and not one soul on Dandrak knew who he really was or what he looked like. Whenever he performed an execution, he wore black robes and a black hood over his head so that, when passing among the populace on a daily basis, he would not be recognized and shunned. Unfortunately, the result of his clever disguise was that people began to suspect every man over seven footspans in height of being an executioner and tended to avoid them all indiscriminately.

 When it came time to deal out justice, however, Nick was the most popular and sought-after executioner on Dandrak. Whether an incredible bungler or the most talented showman of his time, Three-Chop certainly knew how to entertain an audience. No victim ever died swiftly, but lingered on in screaming agony as Nick hacked and chopped away with a sword that was as dull as his wits.

 All eyes went from the hooded Nick to the black-haired prisoner, who-it must be admitted-had impressed most of those present with his coolness. But all those in the courtyard that night had either admired or actually been fond of their murdered liege lord, and it was going to be a distinct pleasure for them to see his killer die horribly. The people noted with satisfaction, therefore, that-at the sight of the executioner and the bloodstained weapon in his hand-Hugh's face set in masklike calm, and though he carried himself well and forbore to tremble, they could see his breath come quick and hard.

 Gareth grabbed the Hand by the arms and, dragging him out of the wizard's presence, led the prisoner the few steps to the block.

 "What you said about Magicka . . ." Gareth hissed the words in a low undertone, and, perhaps feeling the wizard's eyes boring into his back, let the sentence stand unfinished, contenting himself with interrogating the assassin with a glance.

 Hugh returned his gaze, his eyes black hollows in the flickering torchlit night. "Watch him," he said.

 Gareth nodded. -His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face unshaven. He had not slept since the death of his lord two nights previous. He wiped his hand across his sweat-rimed mouth; then the hand went to his belt. Hugh caught a flash of fire, reflecting off a sharp-edged blade.

 "I can't save you, Hugh," Gareth mumbled. "They'd cut us both to ribbons. But I can end it for you quick. It'll likely cost me my captaincy"-the knight glanced back darkly at the wizard- "but then, after what I've heard, it's likely I've lost that anyhow. You're right. I owe that much to her."

 He shoved the Hand around to stand in front of the block. The executioner solemnly removed his black robes-he disliked having them fouled with blood-and handed them to a young boy standing nearby. Highly elated, the child stuck out his tongue at an unfortunate friend who had been hovering near, hoping for the same honor.

 Grasping the sword, Nick took two or three practice swings to limber up his arms and then indicated, with a nod of his head, that he was ready.

 Gareth forced Hugh to his knees before the block. The knight stepped back, but not far, only two or three paces. His fingers flexed nervously around the knife concealed in the folds of his cape. His excuse was framing itself in his mind. When the blade sank into his neck, Hugh screamed out that it was you, Magicka, who killed my lord. I heard it clearly. The words of a dying man are, they say, always true. Of course, I know that he lied, but I feared the peasants-being a superstitious lot-would take it ill. I thought it best to cut his miserable life short. Magicka wouldn't believe it. He'd know the truth. Ah, well, Gareth didn't have that much left to live for anyway.

 The executioner grabbed hold of Hugh's hair, intending to position the prisoner's head on the block. But Magicka, perhaps sensing an uneasiness in the crowd that not even the excitement of a forthcoming execution could quite banish, raised a restraining hand.

 "Halt," he cried. His robes swirling around him in the chill wind that had sprung up, the wizard walked toward the block. "Hugh the Hand," said Magicka in a loud, stern voice, "I give you one more chance. Tell us-now that you are near the Realm of Death-have you anything to confess?"

 Hugh raised his head. Perhaps the fear of approaching oblivion had finally struck him.

 "Yes. I have something to confess."

 "I'm glad we understand each other," said Magicka gently. The smile of triumph on the thin, aesthetic face was not lost on the watchful Gareth. "What is it you have to regret in leaving this life, my son?"

 The Hand's swollen mouth twisted. Straightening his shoulders, he looked at Magicka and said coolly, "That I never killed one of your kind, wizard."

 The crowd gasped in pleasurable horror. Three-Chop Nick chuckled beneath his hood. The longer this death dragged out, the better the wizard would reward it.

 Magicka smiled with cool pity.

 "May your soul rot like your body," he said.

 Casting Nick a look that plainly invited the executioner to have a good time, the wizard stepped back well out of the way, to keep the blood from spattering on his robes.

 The executioner drew forth a black handkerchief and started to bind it around Hugh's eyes.

 "No!" the assassin shouted harshly. "I want to carry that face with me."

 "Get on with it!" Foam flecked the wizard's lips.

 Nick grabbed his hair, but Hugh shook the hand free. Voluntarily the prisoner laid his head down upon the bloodstained marble. His eyes were wide open, staring unblinkingly, accusingly at Magicka. The executioner reached down, took hold of the man's short braid, and yanked it over to one side. Three-Chop liked a clear expanse of neck with which to work.

 Nick raised his blade. Hugh drew a breath, gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes focused on the wizard. Gareth, watching, saw Magicka blench, swallow, and dart hasty glances here and there, as though seeking escape.

 "The horror of this man's evil is too much!" the wizard cried. "Be swift! I cannot bear it!"

 Gareth gripped his knife. Nick's arm muscles bulged, preparing for the downward stroke. Women covered their eyes and peeped out between their fingers, men craned to see over each other's heads, children were hastily lifted up to get a better view.

 And then there came, from the gates, the clash of arms.

 CHAPTER 3

 KE'LITH KEEP, DANDRAKE: MID REALM

  A GIGANTIC SHAPE, BLACKER THAN THE LORDS OF NIGHT, APPEARED ABOVE THE KEEP'S towers. No one could see clearly in the gloom, but the flapping of huge wings was audible. The gate guards clashed sword against shield, sounding the alarm, causing everyone in the courtyard to turn his attention from the impending execution to the threat above. Knights drew their swords and shouted for their mounts. Raids by Tribus corsairs were commonplace, and one had been expected daily in retaliation for the abduction and subsequent death of the elflord who had allegedly hired Hugh the Hand.

 "What is it?" bellowed Gareth, endeavoring vainly to see what was going on, torn between leaving his post at the side of the prisoner and rushing to the gates that were his responsibility.

 "Ignore it! Get on with the execution!" snarled Magicka.

 But Three-Chop Nick demanded an attentive audience, and he had lost this one. Half of the crowd was staring at the gate; the other half was running toward it. Lowering his blade with an air of wounded pride, Nick waited in hurt and dignified silence to see what all the fuss was about.

 "It's a real dragon, fools! One of ours, not an elf ship. It's one of ours!" Gareth shouted. "You two, keep an eye on the prisoner." The captain raced to the gates to quell the spreading panic.

 The battle dragon swooped low over the castle. A score of rope cables, glistening in the torchlight, snaked through the air. Men leapt from the dragon's back, slid down the cables, and landed in the courtyard. Everyone could see the silver insignia of the King's Own glittering on their panoply, and the crowd muttered ominously.

 Swiftly the soldiers deployed, clearing a large area in the center of the courtyard and placing themselves in position around it. Shields in their left hands, spears in their right, they stood at relaxed attention, facing outward, refusing to meet anyone's eyes or answer anyone's questions.

 A lone dragonrider appeared. Flying over the gate, the small, swift-flying dragon hovered over the circle cleared for it, wings holding it poised in the air while it scanned the area in which it would land. By now its rider's elegant livery, flashing red and golden in the flaring torchlight, could be easily recognized. The people caught their breath and glanced at each other with questioning eyes.

 The riding dragon settled to the ground, wings trembling, its flanks heaving. Flecks of saliva dripped from its fanged mouth. Jumping from the saddle, the rider cast a swift glance around the courtyard. He was clad in the short gold-trimmed cape and red flared coat of a king's courier, and the people waited in breathless anticipation to hear the news he had to impart.

 Almost everyone expected it to be a declaration of war against the elves of Tribus; some of the knights were already looking about for their squires so that they might be ready to muster at a moment's notice. It was, therefore, with considerable shock that those standing in the courtyard saw the courier raise a hand gloved in the finest soft and supple leather and point at the block.

 "Is that Hugh the Hand you are about to execute?" he shouted in a voice as soft and supple as his gloves.

 The wizard strode across the courtyard and was admitted into the circle through the ranks of the King's Own.

 "What if it is?" answered Magicka warily.

 "If it is Hugh the Hand, I command you, in the name of the king, to deliver him to me-alive," said the courier.

 The wizard glowered at the man darkly. Ke'lith's knights looked questioningly in Magicka's direction, awaiting his orders.

 Until recently, the Volkarans had never known a king. In the world's very early days, Volkaran had been a penal colony established by the inhabitants of the main continent Uylandia. The famous prison at Yreni held murderers and thieves; exiles, whores, and various other social embarrassments were shipped off to the surrounding isles of Providence, Pitrin's Exile, and the three Djerns. Life was hard on these outer isles, and over the centuries, the isles produced a hard people. Each isle was ruled by various clans; each clan's lord spent his time either beating assaults off his own lands or attacking those of his neighbors on Uylandia.

 Thus divided, the humans were easy prey for the stronger, wealthier elven nation of Tribus. The elves gobbled the humans up piecemeal, and for almost forty cycles, the elves ruled both Uylandia and the Volkaran Isles. Their iron grip on the humans had come to an end twenty cycles earlier, when a chieftain of the strongest clan on Volkaran married the matriarch of the strongest clan on Uylandia. Rallying their people, Stephen of Pitrin's Exile and Anne of Winsher formed an army that overthrew the elves and hurled them-some of them literally-off the isle.

 When Uylandia and Volkaran were free of occupation, Stephen and Anne proclaimed themselves king and queen, murdered their most dangerous rivals, and, though it was rumored that they were now intriguing against each other, the two continued to be the most powerful and feared force in the realm. In the old days, Magicka would have simply ignored the command, carried out the execution, and done away with the courier if the man proved obstinate. Now, standing in the shadow cast by the pitch-black wings of the battle dragon, the wizard was reduced to quibbling.

 "Hugh the Hand is the murderer of our lord, Rogar of Ke'lith, and it is the king's own law that we take his life in punishment."

 "His Majesty fully approves and applauds your excellent and swift execution of justice within his kingdom," said the courier with a graceful bow, "and he regrets that he must interfere, but there is a royal warrant out for the arrest of the man known as Hugh the Hand. He is wanted for questioning in regard to a conspiracy against the state-a matter which takes precedence over all local affairs. Everyone knows," added the courier, looking directly into Magicka's eyes, "that this assassin has had dealings with the elflords of Tribus."

 The wizard knew, of course, that Hugh hadn't had dealings with an elflord on Tribus. The wizard also knew, at that instant, that the courier knew this as well. And if the courier knew this, then he might know a number of other things-such as how Rogar of Ke'lith had truly met his death. Caught in his own net, Magicka flopped and floundered.

 "Let me see the warrant," he demanded.

 Nothing, it seemed, would give the king's courier greater pleasure than producing the king's warrant for Magicka's viewing. Thrusting his hand into a leather pouch that hung from the dragon's saddle, the courier withdrew a scrollcase. He removed the scroll inside and handed it to the wizard, who pretended to study it. The warrant would be in order. Stephen wasn't one to make a mistake like that. There was the name, Hugh the Hand, and it was sealed with the Winged Eye that was Stephen's device. Gnawing his lip until it was raw and bleeding, Magicka could do nothing but cast his people a much-suffering glance that said he had tried but greater powers were at work here. Placing his hand over his heart, he bowed coldly in silent, ungracious acquiescence.

 "His Majesty thanks you," said the courier, smiling. "You, Captain!" He gestured. Gareth-his face carefully expressionless, though he, too, had followed the unspoken as well as the spoken-came up to stand behind the wizard. "Bring me the prisoner. Oh, and I'll need a fresh dragon for my return trip. King's business," he added.

 Those two words-king's business-could commandeer anything from a castle to a flagon of wine, a roast boar to a regiment. Those who disobeyed did so at their extreme peril. Gareth looked at Magicka. The wizard literally shook with rage, but said nothing- merely gave a swift, short nod-and the knight left to obey the command.

 The courier deftly retrieved the parchment, rerolled it, and slid it back into its scrollcase. As he glanced about idly, awaiting Gareth's return with the prisoner, his gaze alighted on the bier. Instantly his face assumed an expression of deep sorrow.

 "Their Majesties extend their sympathy to Lady Rogar. If they can be of service, her ladyship can be assured that she has only to call upon them."

 "Her ladyship will be most grateful," said Magicka sourly.

 The courier, smiling once again, began to slap his gloves impatiently against his thigh. Gareth was leading the prisoner past the King's Own, but there was as yet no sign of a fresh mount. "About that dragon-"

 "Here, my lord, take this one," cried the old stablemaster eagerly, offering the reins of the lord's dragon to the messenger.

 "Are you certain?" queried the courier, glancing from the bier to the wizard. He was, of course, familiar with the custom of sacrificing the dragon-no matter how valuable-in honor of the fallen.

 Magicka, with a furious snort, waved his hand. "Why not? Carry my lord's murderer away on my lord's most prized dragon! King's business, after all!"

 "Yes, it is," said the courier. "King's business."

 The King's Own suddenly shifted their stance, turning their spears point outward and locking shields to form a circle of steel around the courier and those who stood near him.

 "Perhaps there are some aspects of the king's business you would be interested in discussing with His Majesty. Our gracious monarch will be happy to arrange for the governing of this province in your absence, Magicka."

 The shadow of the wings of the circling battle dragon slid over the courtyard.

 "No, no," protested the wizard hastily. "King Stephen has no more loyal subject than myself! You may assure him of that!"

 The courier bowed and answered Magicka with a charming smile. The soldiers surrounding him remained attentive and on alert.

 Gareth, sweating beneath his leather helm, entered the circle of steel. The captain knew how close he'd come to being ordered to fight the King's Own and his stomach was still clenching.

 "Here's your man," Gareth said gruffly, shoving Hugh forward.

 The courier took in the prisoner with one swift glance that noted the lash marks on the back, the bruises and cuts on the face, the swollen lip. Hugh, his dark sunken eyes seeming to have vanished completely in the shadows beneath his brows, regarded the courier with a detached curiosity that held no hope, only a sardonic expectation of further torment.

 "Cut loose his arms and unlock those manacles."

 "But, my lord, he is dangerous-"

 "He cannot ride like that and I have no time to waste. Do not worry"-the courier waved a negligent hand-"unless he can sprout wings, I do not think he will try to escape by leaping from the back of a flying dragon."

 Gareth drew his dagger and cut the bonds around Hugh's arms. The stablemaster, summoning his helpers with a cry, gingerly entered the ring of steel, removed the saddle from the courier's spent mount, and put it on the back of Lord Rogar's dragon. Patting the dragon's neck, the stablemaster cheerfully passed the reins to the courier. The old man would not see the dragon again; whatever came into King Stephen's hands never left. But it was far better to lose it than be forced to thrust a knife into the throat of a creature who loved and trusted him, then watch its life spill out, wasted on a man dead and gone.

 The courier mounted. Reaching down his hand, he held it out to Hugh. The assassin appeared for the first time to comprehend the fact that he was freed, his head was not on the block, that terrible sword was not about to sever his life. Moving stiffly and painfully, he stretched out his hand, caught hold of the courier's, and let the man pull him up on the dragon's back.

 "Bring him a cloak. He'll freeze," ordered the courier. Many capes were offered, and he selected one of thick fur and tossed it to Hugh. The prisoner wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, reached back and gripped firmly the rim of the dragon's saddle. The courier spoke a word of command and the dragon, with a trumpeting call, spread his wings and soared upward.

 The leader of the King's Own gave an ear-piercing whistle. The battle dragon flew down until the ropes dangling from its back were within the soldiers' reach. Swiftly they climbed back up and took their places on the dragon's large flat back. The dragon lifted its wings, and within moments the shadow was lifted, the sky was empty, night's gray gloom returned.

 In the courtyard below, men glanced at each other in silence, their faces grim. Women, eyeing their husbands and sensing the tense atmosphere, hurriedly rounded up children, sharply reprimanding or slapping those who whined.

 Magicka, his face livid, stalked into the keep.

 Gareth waited until the wizard had departed, then ordered his men to set fire to the bier. The flames crackled as the men and women gathered around and began to sing their lord's soul to his ancestors. The captain of the knights sang a song for the lord he had loved and loyally served for thirty years. When he finished, he watched the leaping, roaring flames consume the body.

 "So you never killed a wizard? Hugh, my friend, you might yet get your chance. If I ever see you again . . . King's business!" Gareth grunted. "If you don't show up, well, I'm an old man with nothing left to live for." His eyes went to the wizard's quarters, where a robed silhouette could be seen looking out the window. Having his duties to attend to, the captain walked to the gate to make certain all was secure for the night.

 Forgotten, an artist bereft of his art, Three-Chop Nick sat disconsolately upon the block.

 CHAPTER 4

 SOMEWHERE, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM

 THE COURIER KEPT HIS DRAGON UNDER TIGHT REIN. GIVEN ITS HEAD, THE SMALLriding dragon could swiftly outfly the larger battle dragon. But the courier did not dare fly unescorted. Elven corsairs often lurked in the clouds, waiting to snap up lone human dragonriders. And so the going was slow. But at length the torches of Ke'lith vanished behind them. The craggy peaks of Witheril soon obscured the smoke rising from the bier of the province's fallen lord.

 The courier kept his dragon flying near the tail of the nightrae- the battle dragon. It was a sleek black wedge, cutting through night's gray gloom. The King's Own, strapped into their harnesses, were so many black lumps upon the nightrae's back.

 The dragons flew over the small village of Hynox, visible only because its squat, square dwellings showed up plainly. Then they passed over Dandrak's shore and headed out into deepsky. The courier glanced up and down, this way and that, like a man who has not flown much before-an odd thing in a supposed king's messenger. He could see two of the three Wayward Isles, he thought. Hanastai and Bindistai showed up clearly. Even in deepsky, it was not truly dark-as dark as legend held night had been in the ancient world before the Sundering.

 Elven astronomers wrote that there were three Lords of Night. And though the superstitious believed that these were giant men who conveniently spread their flowing cloaks over Arianus to give the people rest, the educated knew that the Lords of Night were really islands of coralite floating far above them, moving in an orbit that took them, every twelve hours, between Arianus and the sun.

 Beneath these isles were the High Realm, purportedly where lived the mysteriarchs, powerful human wizards who had traveled there in voluntary exile. Beneath the High Realm was the firmament or day's stars. No one knew precisely what the firmament was. Many-and not just the superstitious-believed it to be a band of diamonds and other precious jewels floating in the sky. Thus, legends of the fabulous wealth of the mysteriarchs, who had supposedly passed through the firmament, evolved. There had been many attempts made by both elves and humans to fly up to the firmament and discover its secrets, but those who tried it never returned. The air was said to be so cold it would freeze blood.

 Several times during the flight, the courier turned his head and glanced back at his companion, curious to note the reactions of a man who had been snatched from beneath the falling ax. The courier was doomed to disappointment if he thought he would see any sign of relief or elation or triumph. Grim, impassive, the assassin's face gave away nothing of the thoughts behind its mask. Here was a face that could watch a man die as coolly as another might watch a man eat and drink. The face was, at the moment, turned away from the courier. Hugh was intently studying the route of their flight, a fact that the courier noticed with some uneasiness. Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Hugh raised his head and fixed his eyes upon the courier.

 The courier had gained nothing from his inspection of Hugh. Hugh, however, appeared to gain a great deal from the courier. The narrowed eyes seemed to peel back skin and carve away bone, and might have, in a moment, laid bare whatever secrets were kept within the courier's brain, had not the young man shifted his eyes to his dragon's spiky mane. The courier did not look back at Hugh again.

 It must have been coincidence, but when the courier noted Hugh's interest in their flying route, a blanket of fog immediately began to drift over and obscure the land. They were flying high and fast and there was not much to see beneath the shadows cast by the Lords of Night. But coralite gives off a faint bluish light, causing stands of forests to show up black against the silvery radiance of the ground. Landmarks were easy to locate. Castles or fortresses made of coralite that have not been covered over with a paste of crushed granite gleam softly. Towns, with their shining ribbons of coralite streets, show up easily from the air.

 During the war, when marauding elven airships were in the skies, the people covered their streets with straw and rushes. But there was no war upon the Volkaran Isles now. The majority of humans who dwelt there thought fondly that this was due to their prowess in battle, the fear they had generated among the elflords.

 The courier, considering this, shook his head in disgust at their ignorance. A few humans in the realm knew the truth- among them King Stephen and Queen Anne. The elves of Aristagon were ignoring Volkaran and Uylandia because they had much bigger problems to deal with at the moment-a rebellion among their own people.

 When that rebellion was firmly and ruthlessly crushed, the elves would turn their attention to the kingdom of the humans- the barbaric beasts who had stirred up this rebellion in the first place. Stephen knew that this time the elves would not be content with conquering and occupying. This time they would rid themselves of the human pollution in their world once and forever. Stephen was quietly and swiftly setting up his pieces on the great gameboard, preparing for the final bitter contest.

 The man sitting behind the courier didn't know it, but he was to be one of those pieces.

 When the fog appeared, the assassin, with an inward shrug, immediately gave up attempting to ascertain where they were going. Being a ship's captain himself, he had flown most of the airlanes throughout the isles and beyond. They had been taking a negative rydai [3], traveling in the general direction of Kurinandistai. And then the fog had come and he could see nothing.

 Hugh knew the mist had not sprung up by chance, and it only confirmed what he had begun to suspect-that this young "courier" was no ordinary royal flunky. The Hand relaxed and let the fog float through his mind. Speculating about the future did no good. Not likely to be much better than the present, the future could hardly be worse. Hugh had done all he could to prepare for it; he had his bone-handled, rune-marked dagger- slipped to him at the last moment by Gareth-tucked into his belt. Hunching his bare, lacerated shoulders deep into the thick fur cape, Hugh concentrated on nothing more urgent than keeping warm.

 He did, however, take a certain grim delight in noting that the courier seemed to find the fog a nuisance. It slowed their flight and he was continually having to dip down into clear patches that would suddenly swirl up before them, to see where they were. At one point it appeared that he had managed to get them lost. The courier held the dragon steady in the air, the creature fanning its wings to keep them hovering in the sky in response to the rider's command. Hugh could feel the courier's body tense, note the darting, shifting glances cast at various objects on the ground. It seemed, from muttered words spoken to himself, that they had flown too far in one direction. Altering course, the courier turned the dragon's head and they were once again flying through the mist. The courier cast an irritated glance at Hugh, as much as to say that this was his fault.

 Early in his life, primarily for his own survival, Hugh had taught himself to be alert to all that happened around him. Now, in his fortieth cycle, such precaution was instinctive, a sixth sense. He knew the instant there was a shift in the wind, a rise or dip in the temperature. Though he had no timekeeping device, he could tell within a minute or two how much time had elapsed from one given period to another. His hearing was sharp, his eyes sharper. He possessed an unerring sense of direction. There were few parts of the Volkaran Isles or the continent of Uylandia that he hadn't traveled. Adventures in his youth had taken him to distant (and unpleasant) parts of the larger world of Arianus. Not given to boasting, which was a waste of breath-only a man who cannot conquer his deficiencies feels the need to convince the world he has none-Hugh had always been confident in his own mind that, set him down where you would, he could within a matter of moments tell where upon Arianus he stood.

 But when the dragon, at the courier's soft-spoken command, descended from the sky and landed upon solid ground, Hugh gazed around him and was forced to admit that for the first time in his life he was lost. He had never seen this place before.

 The king's messenger dismounted from the dragon. Removing a glowstone from the leather pouch, he held the stone in his open palm. Once exposed to the air, the magical jewel began to give off a radiant light. A glowstone gives off heat as well, and it is necessary to place it in a container. The courier walked unhesitatingly to a corner of a crumbling coralite wall surrounding their landing site. Leaning down, he deposited the glowstone in a crude iron lamp.

 Hugh saw no other objects in the barren courtyard. Either the lamp had been left in expectation of the courier's arrival or he himself had placed it there before he departed. The Hand suspected the latter, mainly because there was no sign of anyone else nearby. Even the nightrae had been left behind. It was logical to assume, therefore, that the courier had started his journey from this place and obviously expected to return-a fact that might or might not have much significance. Hugh slid down off the dragon's back.

 The courier lifted the iron lamp. Returning to the dragon, he stroked the proudly arched neck and murmured words of rest and comfort that caused the beast to settle itself down in the courtyard, tucking its wings beneath its body and curling its long tail round its feet. The head fell forward on the breast, the eyes closed, and the dragon breathed a contented sigh. Once asleep, a dragon is extremely difficult and even dangerous to wake, for sometimes during sleep the spells of submission and obedience which are cast over them can be accidentally broken and you've got a confused, irate, and loudly vocal creature on your hands. An experienced dragonrider never allows his animal to sleep unless he knows there is a competent wizard nearby. Another fact Hugh noted with interest.

 Coming close to him, the courier raised his lantern and stared quizzically into Hugh's face, inviting question or comment. The Hand saw no need to waste his breath in asking questions he knew would not be answered, and so stared back at the courier in silence.

 The courier, nonplussed, started to say something, changed his mind, and softly exhaled the breath he had drawn in to speak. Abruptly he turned on his heel, with a gesture to the assassin to follow, and Hugh fell into step behind his guide. The courier led the way to a place that Hugh soon came to recognize, from early and dark childhood memories, as a Kir monastery.

 It was ancient and had obviously been long abandoned. The flagstones of the courtyard were cracked and in many cases missing entirely. Coralite had grown over much of the standing outer structures that had been formed of the rare granite the Kir favored over the more common coralite. A chill wind whistled through the abandoned dwellings, where no light shone and had probably not shone for centuries. Bare trees creaked and dry leaves crunched beneath Hugh's boots.

 Having been raised by the grim and dour order of Kir monks, the Hand knew the location of every monastery on the Volkaran Isles. He could not remember hearing of any that had ever been abandoned, and the mystery of where he was and why he had been brought here deepened.

 The courier came to a baked-clay door that stood at the bottom of a tall turret. He fit an iron key into the lock. The Hand peered upward, but could not see a glimmer of light in any of the windows. The door swung open silently-an indication that someone was accustomed to coming here frequently, since the rusted hinges were well-oiled. Gliding inside, the courier indicated with a wave of his hand that Hugh was to follow. When both were in the cold and drafty building, the courier locked the door, tucking the key inside the bosom of his tunic.

 "This way," he said. The direction was not necessary-there was only one possible way for them to go, and that was up. A spiral staircase led them round and round the interior of the turret. Hugh counted three levels, each marked by a clay door. All were locked, the Hand noted, surreptitiously testing each as they ascended.

 On the fourth level, at another clay door, the iron key again made an appearance. A long narrow corridor, darker than the Lords of Night, ran straight and true before them. The courier's booted footsteps rang on the stone. Hugh, accustomed by habit to treading silently in his soft-soled, supple leather boots, made no more noise than if he had been the man's shadow.

 They passed six doors by Hugh's count-three on his left and three on his right-before the courier raised a warning hand and they stopped at the seventh. Once again the iron key was produced. It grated in the lock and the door slid open.

 "Enter," the courier said, standing to one side.

 Hugh did as he was told. He was not surprised to hear the door shut behind him. No sound of a key turning in the lock, however. The only light in the room came from the soft glow given off by the coralite outside, but that faint shimmer illuminated the room well enough for the Hand's sharp eyes. He stood still a moment, closely inspecting his surroundings. He was, he discovered, not alone.

 The Hand felt no fear. His fingers, beneath his cloak, were clasped around the hilt of his dagger, but that was only common sense in a situation like this. Hugh was a businessman and he recognized the setting of a business discussion when he saw it.

 The other person in the room with him was adept at hiding. He was silent and kept himself concealed in the shadows. Hugh didn't see the person or hear him, but he knew with every instinct that had kept him alive through forty harsh and bitter cycles that there was someone else present. The Hand sniffed the air.

 "Are you an animal? Can you smell me?" queried the voice-a male voice, deep and resonant. "Is that how you knew I was in the room?"

 "Yeah, an animal," said Hugh shortly.

 "And what if I had attacked you?" The figure moved over to stand by the window. He was outlined in Hugh's vision by the faint radiance of the coralite. The Hand saw that his interrogator was a tall man clad in a cape whose hem he could hear dragging across the floor. The man's head and face were covered by chain mail, only the eyes visible. But the Hand knew his suspicions had been correct. He knew to whom he was talking.

 Hugh drew forth his dagger. "A hand's breadth of steel in your heart, Your Majesty."

 "I am wearing a mail vest," said Stephen, King of the Volkaran Isles and the Uylandia Cluster. He was, seemingly, not surprised that Hugh recognized him.

 A corner of the assassin's thin lips twitched. "The chain mail does not cover your armpit, Majesty. Lift your elbow." Stepping forward, Hugh placed thin, long fingers in the gap between the body armor and that covering the arm. "One thrust of my dagger, there . . ." Hugh shrugged.

 Stephen did not flinch at the touch. "I must mention that to my armorer."

 Hugh shook his head. "Do what you will, Majesty, if a man's determined to kill you, then you're dead. And if that's why you've brought me here, I can only offer you this advice: decide whether you want your corpse burned or buried."

 "This from an expert," said Stephen, and Hugh could hear the sneer if he could not see it on the man's helmed face.

 "I assume Your Majesty requires an expert, since you've gone to all this trouble."

 The king turned to face the window. He had seen almost fifty cycles, but he was well-built and strong and able to withstand incredible hardships. Some whispered that he slept in his armor, to keep his body hard. Certainly, considering his wife's reputed character, he might also welcome the protection.

 "Yes, you are an expert. The best in the kingdom, I am told."

 Stephen fell silent. The Hand was adept at reading the words men speak with their bodies, not with their tongues, and though the king might have thought he was masking his turbulent inner emotions quite well, Hugh noted the fingers of the left hand close in upon themselves, heard the silvery clinking of the chain mail as a tremor shook the man's body.

 So it often was with men making up their minds to murder.

 "You also have a peculiar conceit, Hugh the Hand," said Stephen, abruptly breaking his long pause. "You advertise yourself as a Hand of Justice, of Retribution. You kill those who allegedly have wronged others, those who are above the law, those whom-supposedly-my law cannot touch."

 There was anger in the voice, and a challenge. Stephen was obviously piqued, but Hugh knew that the warring clans of Volkaran and Uylandia were currently being held together only by a mortar composed of fear and greed, and he did not figure it worth his while to argue the point with a king who undoubtedly knew it as well.

 "Why do you do this?" Stephen persisted. "Is it some sort of attempt at honor?"

 "Honor? Your Majesty talks like an elflord! Honor won't buy you a cheap meal at a bad inn in Therpes."

 "Ah, the money?"

 "The money. Any knife-in-the-back killer can be had for the price of a plate of stew. That's fine for those who just want their man dead. But those who've been wronged, those who've suffered at the hands of another-they want the one who brought them grief to suffer himself. They want him to know, before he dies, who brought about his destruction. They want him to experience the pain and the terror of his victims. And for this satisfaction, they're willing to pay a high price."

 "I am told the risks you take are quite extraordinary, that you even challenge your victim to fair combat."

 "If the customer wants it."

 "And is willing to pay."

 Hugh shrugged. The statement was too obvious for comment. The conversation was pointless, meaningless. The Hand knew his own reputation, his own worth. He didn't need to hear it recited back to him. But he was used to it. It was all part of business. Like any other customer, Stephen was trying to talk his way into committing this act. It amused the Hand to note that a king in this situation behaved no differently from his humblest subject.

 Stephen had turned and was staring out the window, his gloved hand-fist clenched-resting on the ledge. Hugh waited patiently, in silence.

 "I don't understand. Why should those who hire you want to give a person who has wronged them the chance to fight for his life?"

 "Because in this they're doubly revenged. For then it's not my hand that strikes the killer down, Your Majesty, but the hands of his ancestors, who no longer protect him."

 "Do you believe this?" Stephen turned to face him; Hugh could see the moonlight flash on the chain mail covering the man's head and shoulders.

 Hugh raised an eyebrow. His hand moved to stroke the braided, silky strands of beard that hung from his chin. The question had never before been asked of him and proved, so he supposed, that kings were different from their subjects-at least this one was. The Hand moved to the window to stand next to Stephen. The assassin's gaze was drawn to a small courtyard below them. Covered over with coralite, it glowed eerily in the darkness, and he could see, by the soft blue light, the figure of a man standing in the center. The man wore a black hood. He held in his hand a sharp-edged sword. At his feet stood a block of stone. Twisting the ends of his beard, Hugh smiled.

 "The only things I believe in, Your Majesty, are my wits and my skill. So I'm to have no choice. I either accept this job or else, is that it?"

 "You have a choice. When I have described the job to you, you may either take it or refuse to do so."

 "At which point my head parts company from my shoulders."

 "The man you see is the royal executioner. He is skilled in his work. Death will be quick, clean. Far better than what you were facing. That much, at least, I owe you for your time." Stephen turned to face Hugh, the eyes in the shadow of the chain-mail helm dark and empty, lit by nothing within, reflecting no light from without. "I must take precautions. I cannot expect you to accept this task without knowing its nature, yet to reveal it to you is to place myself at your mercy. I dare not permit you to remain alive, knowing what you will shortly know."

 "If I refuse, I'm disposed of by night, in the dark, no witnesses. If I accept, I'm entangled in the same web in which Your Majesty currently finds himself twisting."

 "What more do you expect? You are, after all, nothing but a murderer," Stephen said coldly.

 "And you, Your Majesty, are nothing more than a man who wants to hire a murderer." Bowing with an ironic flourish, Hugh turned on his heel.

 "Where are you going?" Stephen demanded.

 "If Your Majesty will excuse me, I'm late for an engagement. I should've been in hell an hour previous." The Hand walked toward the door.

 "Damn you! I've offered you your life!" Hugh didn't even bother to turn around. "The price is too low. My life's worth nothing, I don't value it. In exchange, you want me to accept a job so dangerous you've got to trap a man to force him to take it? Better to meet death on my own terms than Your Majesty's."

 Hugh flung open the door. The king's courier stood facing him, blocking his way out. At his feet stood the glowlamp, and it cast its radiance upward, illuminating a face that was ethereal in its delicacy and beauty.

 He's a courier? And I'm a Sartan, Hugh thought. "Ten thousand barls," said the young man. Hugh's hand went to the braided beard, twisting it thoughtfully. His eyes glanced sideways at Stephen, who had come up behind him.

 "Douse that light," commanded the king. "Is this necessary, Trian?"

 "Your Majesty"-Trian spoke with respect and patience, but it was the tone of one friend advising another, not the tone of a servant deferring to a master-"he is the best. There is no one else to whom we can entrust this. We have gone to considerable trouble to acquire him. We can't afford to lose him. If Your Majesty will remember, I warned you from the beginning-"

 "Yes, I remember!" Stephen snapped. He stood silent, inwardly fuming. He would undoubtedly like nothing better than to order his "courier" to march the assassin to the block. The king would probably, at this moment, enjoy wielding the executioner's blade himself. The courier gently drew an iron screen over the light, leaving them in darkness.

 "Very well!" the king snarled.

 "Ten thousand barls?" Hugh couldn't believe it.

 "Yes," answered Trian. "When the job is done."

 "Half now. Half when the job is done."

 "Your life now! The barls then!" Stephen hissed through clenched teeth.

 Hugh took a step toward the door.

 "Half now!" Stephen's words were a gasp, almost incoherent.

 Hugh, bowing in acquiescence, turned back to face the king.

 "Who's the victim?"

 Stephen drew a deep breath. Hugh heard a clicking, catching choke in the king's throat, a sound vaguely similar to the rattle in the throats of the dying.

 "My son," said the king.

 CHAPTER 5

 KIR MONASTERY, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM

 HUGH WAS NOT SURPRISED. IT HAD TO BE SOMEBODY CLOSE TO HIS MAJESTY, TO account for all the intrigue and secrecy. The Hand knew Stephen had an heir to the throne, nothing more than that. Judging by the king's age, the kid must be eighteen, twenty cycles. Old enough to get into serious trouble.

 "The prince is here, in the monastery. We"-Stephen paused, trying to moisten a dry tongue-"have told him his life is in danger. He believes you are a nobleman in disguise, hired to take him to a secret hiding place where he will be safe." Stephen's voice cracked. Angrily he cleared his throat and resumed speaking. "The prince will not question this decision. He knows well enough what we say is true. There are those who are a threat to him-"

 "Obviously," said Hugh.

 The king stiffened, the chain mail clinked, and Stephen's sword rattled in its sheath.

 The courier, with a whispered, "Restrain yourself, Your Majesty!" swiftly interposed his body between that of the king and the assassin.

 "Remember, sir, whom you are addressing!" Trian rebuked.

 Hugh ignored him. "Where am I to take the prince, Majesty? What am I to do with him?"

 "I will provide you with the details," Trian answered.

 Stephen had apparently had enough. His nerve was failing him. He stalked past Hugh toward the door, turning his body slightly so that he avoided touching the assassin. He probably did it unconsciously, but the Hand, recognizing the affront, smiled grimly in the darkness and struck back.

 "There is a service I offer all my clients, Majesty."

 Stephen paused, hand on the door handle. "Well?" He did not look around.

 "I tell the victim who is having him killed and why. Shall I so inform your son, Majesty?"

 The chain mail jingled softly; a tremor shook the man's body. But Stephen's head remained unbowed, his shoulders straight. "When the moment comes," he said, "my son will know."

 Stiff-backed, straight-shouldered, the king walked into the corridor; Hugh heard his footsteps receding in the distance. The courier moved to stand next to the Hand, not speaking until he heard-in the distance-the sound of a door slam shut.

 "There was no call to say that," said Trian softly. "You wounded him deeply."

 "And who is this 'courier,' " returned Hugh, "who hands out the monies of the royal treasury and worries about a king's feelings?"

 "You are right." The young man had turned slightly toward the window and Hugh could see him smile. "I am not a courier. I am the king's magus."

 Hugh raised an eyebrow. "Young, aren't you, Magicka?"

 "I am older than I appear," answered Trian lightly. "Wars and kingship age a man. Magic does not. And now, if you will accompany me, I have clothing and supplies for your journey, as well as the information you require. This way."

 The wizard stood aside to allow Hugh to pass. Trian's manner was respectful, but the Hand noted that the wizard was deftly blocking the corridor down which Stephen had passed with his body. Hugh turned in the direction indicated. Trian paused to pick up the glowlamp, removed the screen, and walked near Hugh, hovering close at his elbow.

 "You must, of course, look and act the part of a nobleman, and we have provided suitable costume. One reason you were chosen is the fact that you are gently born, though not acknowledged. There is a true air of aristocracy about you that is inbred. The prince is highly intelligent and would not be fooled by a clod in expensive clothes."

 After a short walk of no more than ten steps, the wizard brought Hugh to a halt outside one of the many doors lining the corridor. Using the same iron key, Trian inserted it into the lock and the door opened. Hugh stepped inside, and they traversed a corridor that ran at an angle to the first. This corridor was not as well-kept as the former. The walls were crumbling. Footing was treacherous on the cracked floor, and both Hugh and the wizard trod carefully and cautiously. Turning left, they entered another corridor; another left turn brought them to a third. Each successive corridor was shorter than the one previous. They were, Hugh recognized, moving deeper into the building's interior. After this, they began a series of zigs and zags-turns taken seemingly at random. Trian talked the entire way.

 "It was advisable that we learn all we could about you. I know that you were born on the wrong side of the sheets following your father's liaison with a serving wench, and that your noble father-whose name, by the way, I was unable to discover- cast your mother out into the streets. She died during the elven attack on Firstfall and you were taken in and raised by Kir monks." Trian shuddered. "It must not have been an easy life," he said in a low undertone with a glance at the chill walls that surrounded them.

 Hugh saw no need to comment and so kept silent. If the wizard thought to confuse or distract him by this conversation and the circumvolved route they were taking, Trian was not succeeding. Kir monasteries are built generally along the same plans-a square inner courtyard surrounded on two sides by the monks' cells. On the third side were housed those who served the monks or, like Hugh, orphans taken in by the order. Here, too, were the kitchens, the "study" rooms, and the infirmary. . . .

 . . . The boy lying on the straw pallet on the stone floor tossed and turned. Though it was bitterly cold in the dark, unheated room, the child's skin burned with an unnatural heat and he had, in his convulsive struggles, thrown aside the thin blanket used to cover his bare limbs. A second boy, some years older than the sick child, who appeared to be about nine cycles, entered the chamber and stared pityingly down at his friend. In his hands, the older boy carried a bowl of water. Placing it carefully upon the floor, he knelt beside the sick child and, dipping his fingers into the water, dabbled the liquid onto the dry, fever-parched lips.

 This seemed to ease the child's suffering. His thrashings stopped and his glazed eyes turned to see who cared for him. A wan smile spread over the thin, pale face. The older boy, with an answering smile, tore a piece of fabric from his ragged clothes and placed it in the water. Wringing it out, careful not to waste a drop, he sponged the child's hot forehead.

 "It'll be all right-" the older boy started to say, when a dark shadow loomed over them, a cold and bony hand grasped his wrist.

 "Hugh! What are you doing?" The voice was chill and dank and dark as the room.

 "I- I was helping Rolf, Brother. He has the fever and Gran Maude said that if it didn't break he'd die-"

 "Die?" The voice shook the stone chamber. "Of course he will die! It is his privilege to die an innocent child and escape the evil to which mankind is heir. That evil which daily must be scourged from our weak shells." The hand forced Hugh to his knees. "Pray, Hugh. Pray that your sin in attempting to thwart the ancestor's will by performing the unnatural act of healing be forgiven you. Pray for death-"

 The sick child whimpered and stared up at the monk in fear. Hugh flung aside the hand that held him down. "I'll pray for death," he said softly, rising to his feet. "I'll pray for yours."

 The blow of the monk's staff caught Hugh across his upper body. He staggered. The second blow knocked him to the floor. Blows rained down upon the boy's body until the monk grew too tired to lift the weapon. Then he stalked out of the infirmary. The water bowl had been broken during the beating. Bruised and battered, Hugh groped about in the darkness until he found the rag-wet with water or his own blood, he didn't know which. But it was cool and soothing and he placed it gently on the forehead of his friend.

 Lifting the thin body in his arms, Hugh held the sick boy close, rocking him awkwardly, soothing him until the body in his arms ceased to twitch and shiver and grew still and cold. . . .

 "At the age of sixteen," Trian was continuing, "you ran away from the Kir. The monk to whom I spoke said that before you left, you broke into their record rooms and learned the identity of your father. Did you find him?"

 "Yeah," answered the Hand, inwardly thinking: So this Trian has gone to some trouble over me. The magus has actually been to the Kir. He has questioned them, extensively, it seemed. Which means . , . Yes, of course. Now, isn't that interesting? Who will learn more about whom during this little walk?

 "A nobleman?" Trian probed delicately.

 "So he called himself. He was, in reality-how did you phrase it?-a clod in expensive clothes."

 "You speak in the past tense. Your father is dead?"

 "I killed him."

 Halting, Trian stared at him. "You chill me to the bone! To speak of such a thing so carelessly-"

 "Why the hell should I care?" Hugh kept walking and Trian had to hurry to catch up. "When the bastard found out who I was, he came at me with his sword. I fought him-bare-handed. The sword ended up in his belly. I swore it was an accident, and the sheriff believed me. After all, I was only a boy and my 'noble' father was well-known for his lecherous ways-girls, youths, it didn't matter to him. I didn't tell anyone who I was, but let them think I was someone my father had abducted. The Kir had seen to it that I was well-educated. I can sound high-bred when I want to. The sheriff assumed I was some nobleman's son, stolen to feed my father's lust. He was more than willing to hush up the old lech's death, rather than start a blood feud."

 "But it wasn't an accident, was it?"

 A stone turned under Trian's foot. He reached out instinctively to Hugh, who caught the wizard's elbow and steadied him. They were descending, moving deeper and deeper into the monastery's interior.

 "No, it wasn't an accident. I wrested the sword from him; it was easy, he was drunk. I spoke my mother's name, told him where she was buried, and stuck the blade in his gut. He died too quick. I've learned, since then."

 Trian was pale, silent. Lifting the glowlamp in its iron lantern, he flashed it into Hugh's deeply lined, grim face. "The prince must not suffer," the wizard said.

 "So, back to business." Hugh grinned at him. "And we were having such a pleasant chat. What did you hope to find out? That I'm not as bad as my reputation? Or the opposite? That I'm worse."

 Trian was apparently not to be drawn off onto any side paths. Keeping his hand on Hugh's arm, he leaned close, speaking softly, though the only ones to hear them that the assassin could see were bats.

 "It must be swift and clean. Unexpected. No fear. Perhaps, in his sleep. There are poisons-"

 Hugh jerked his arm from the man's touch. "I know my business. I'll handle it that way, if that's what you want. You're the customer. Or rather, I take it you speak for the customer."

 "That is what we want."

 Reassured, sighing, Trian walked only a short distance further, then halted before another locked door. Instead of opening it, he placed the glowlamp on the floor and indicated with a motion of his hand that Hugh was to look inside. Stooping, placing his eye to the keyhole, the assassin peered into the room.

 The Hand rarely felt emotion of any sort, never showed it. In this instance, however, his bored and disinterested glance through the keyhole at his intended victim sharpened to an intense, narrow-eyed stare. He was not looking at the plotting, scheming youth of eighteen who had sprung from Hugh's reasoning. Curled up on a pallet, fast asleep, was a towheaded, wistful-faced child who could not be older than ten.

 Slowly Hugh straightened. The wizard, lifting the glowlamp, scanned the assassin's face. It was dark and frowning, and Trian sighed again, his delicate brows creased in worry. Placing a finger on his lips, he led Hugh to another room two doors down from the first. He unlocked it with the key, drew Hugh inside and softly shut the door.

 "Ah," the wizard said softly, "there's a problem, isn't there?"

 Hugh gave the room in which they stood a swift and comprehensive glance, then looked back at the anxious magus. "Yeah, I could use a smoke. They took my pipe away from me in prison. Got another?"

 CHAPTER 6

 KIR MONASTERY, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM

 "BUT YOU FROWNED, YOU SEEMED ANGRY. I ASSUMED-"

 "-that I was feeling squeamish about butchering a small child?"

 It is his privilege to die an innocent child, and escape the evil to which mankind is heir. The words came to him from the past. It was this dark and chill room, the cracked stone walls that brought the memory back to him. Hugh drove it down into the depths of his mind, sorry he'd recalled it. A warming blaze burned in the firepit. He lifted a coal with the tongs and held it to the bowl of a pipe the magus had produced from a pack lying on the floor. Stephen, it seemed, had thought of everything.

 A few puffs and the sterego [4] glowed and old memories faded. "The frown was for myself, because I'd made a mistake. I'd misjudged . . . something. That sort of mistake can be costly. I would be interested to know, however, what a kid that age could have done to earn an early death."

 "One might say ... he was born," answered Trian, seemingly before he thought, because he cast Hugh a swift furtive glance to see if he'd heard.

 There was very little the assassin missed. Hugh paused, the hot coal held over the smoking bowl, and stared quizzically at the wizard.

 Trian flushed. "You are being paid well enough not to ask questions," he retorted. "In fact, here is your money."

 Fumbling in a purse that hung at his side, he produced a handful of coins and counted out fifty one-hundred-barl pieces.

 "I trust the king's marker will be sufficient?" Trian held it out.

 Hugh, raising an eyebrow, tossed the coal back into the fire. "Only if I can collect on it."

 Puffing on the pipe to keep it lit, the Hand accepted the money and inspected it carefully. The coins were genuine, all right. A water barrel was stamped on the front, a likeness (though not a good one) of Stephen's head adorned the back. In a realm where most things were obtained by either barter or stealing (the king himself was a notorious pirate whose ravages committed among the elven shipping had helped him win his throne), the "double barl" coin as it was called was rarely seen, much less used. Its value was exchangeable in the precious commodity- water. [5]

 This job would make Hugh's fortune. He would never have to work again, if he chose. And all for killing one little kid.

 There is an abundance of water in the Low Realm-those isles in the heart of a perpetual storm known as the Maelstrom. But no dragon has yet been found who will fly into the Maelstrom. The elves, with their magical, mechanical dragonships, are able to sail the storm-tossed route and consequently hold a virtual monopoly on water. The prices the elves charge- when they'll sell it to humans at all-are exorbitant. Therefore, the raiding of elven transport ships and of water storage ports is not only financially lucrative for humans, it is a matter of life or death.

 It didn't make sense. Hugh balanced the coins in his hand and stood looking at the wizard.

 "Very well, I suppose you must know something," Trian admitted reluctantly. "You are, of course, familiar with the current situation between Volkaran and Uylandia?"

 "No."

 On a small table stood a pitcher, a large bowl, and a mug. Tossing the money on the table, the assassin lifted the water jug and, pouring its contents into the mug, tasted it critically. "Low Realm stuff. Not bad."

 "Water for drinking and washing. You must at least appear to be a nobleman," returned Trian irritably. "In looks and smell. And what do you mean, you know nothing of politics?"

 Casting off his cloak, Hugh leaned over the bowl and plunged his face into the water. Laving it over his shoulders, he picked up a bar of lye soap and began to scrub his skin, wincing slightly when the lather stung the raw lash marks on his back. "You spend two days in Yreni prison and see how you smell. As for politics, they have nothing to do with my business, beyond providing the occasional customer or two. I didn't even know for certain Stephen had a son-"

 "Well, he does." The wizard's voice was cold. "And he also has a wife. It is no secret that their marriage is strictly one of convenience, to keep their two powerful nations from going for each other's throats and leaving us at the mercy of the elves. The lady would like very much, however, to have power consolidated in her hands. The crown of Volkaran cannot be passed on to a female, and the only way Anne can take control is through her son. We recently discovered her plot. My king barely escaped with his life this time. We fear he would not a next."

 "And so you get rid of the kid. That solves your problem, I guess, but leaves your king without an heir."

 Pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, Hugh stripped off his pants and splashed water abundantly over his naked body. Trian turned his back, either from modesty or perhaps sickened by the sight of numerous weals and battle scars-some fresh-that marred the assassin's skin.

 "Stephen is not a fool. That problem is being resolved. When we declare war upon Aristagon, the nations will unite, including the queen's own. During the war, Stephen will divorce Anne and marry a woman of Volkaran. Fortunately His Majesty is of an age that he can still father children-many children. The war will force the nations to remain united despite Anne's divorce. By the time peace comes-if ever-Uylandia will be too weakened, too dependent on Stephen to break the ties."

 "Very clever," Hugh conceded. Tossing the towel aside, he drank two mugs of the cool, sweet-tasting Low Realm water, then relieved himself in a chamber pot in a corner. Refreshed, he began to look over the various articles of clothing that were folded neatly upon a cot. "And what'll make the elves go to war? They've got their own problems."

 "I thought you knew nothing of politics," muttered Trian caustically. "The cause of war will be the . . . death of the prince."

 "Ah!" Hugh drew on the underclothing and the thick woolen hose. "All very neat and tidy. That's why you must trust the deed to me, rather than handle it yourself with a few magics in the castle."

 "Yes." Trian's voice broke on the word; he nearly choked. The Hand paused in the act of drawing a shirt on over his head to give the magus a sharp glance. The wizard kept his back turned, however. Hugh's eyes narrowed. Laying the pipe aside, he continued to dress himself, but more slowly, paying keen attention to every nuance of the wizard's words and tone.

 "The child's body must be found by our people on Aristagon. Not a difficult task. When the word goes forth that the prince has been taken captive by the elves, there will be raiding parties sent to look for him. I will provide you with a list of locations. We understand you have a dragonship-"

 "Of elven make and design. Isn't that convenient?" Hugh responded. "You had this well-thought-out, didn't you? Even to the point of framing me for Lord Rogar's murder."

 Hugh pulled on a velvet doublet, black, braided in gold. A sword lay on the bed. Picking it up, examining it critically, Hugh slid the blade from the sheath and tested it with a quick, deft flick of his wrist. Satisfied, he replaced the blade and buckled the sword belt around his waist. He slipped his dagger into the top of his boot.

 "And not only framing me for murder. Maybe committing the murder, as well?"

 "No!" Trian turned to face him. "The house wizard murdered his lord, as you, I gather, have already guessed. We were on the watch and merely took advantage of the situation. Your dagger was 'appropriated' and substituted for the one in the body. The word was whispered to that knight friend of yours to the effect that you were in the neighborhood."

 "You let me lay my head on the blood-slimed stone, let me see that maniac standing above me with his dull sword. And then you save my life and think that fear alone will buy me."

 "It would have another man. With you, I had my doubts and-as you may have gathered-I had already expressed them to Stephen."

 "So I take the kid to Aristagon, murder him, leave the body for the grieving father to find, who then shakes his fist and vows vengeance on the elves, and all humankind marches off to war. Won't it occur to someone that the elves aren't really that stupid? They don't need war with us right now. This rebellion of theirs is serious business."

 "You seem to know more about the elves than you do your own people! Some might find that interesting."

 "Some might, who don't know that I have to have my ship overhauled by elven shipbuilders and that its magic must be renewed by elven wizards."

 "So you trade with the enemy-"

 Hugh shrugged. "In my business, everyone's an enemy."

 Trian licked his lips. The discussion was obviously leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, but that's what happens, thought Hugh, when you drink with kings.

 "The elves have been known to capture humans and taunt us by leaving the bodies where they may easily be discovered," Trian said in a low voice. "You should arrange matters so that it appears-"

 "I know how to arrange matters." Hugh placed his hand on the wizard's shoulder and had the satisfaction of feeling the young man flinch. "I know my business." Reaching down, he picked up the coins, studied them again, then dropped two into a small inner pocket of the doublet. The remainder he tucked away carefully into his money pouch and stored that in a pack. "Speaking of business, how will I contact you for the rest of my pay, and what assurance do I have that I'll find it and not a feathered shaft in my ribs when I return?"

 "You have our word, the word of a king. As for the feathered shaft"-now it was Trian who experienced satisfaction-"I assume you can take care of yourself."

 "I can," said Hugh. "Remember that."

 "A threat?" Trian sneered.

 "A promise. And now," said the Hand coolly, "we'd best get going. We'll need to do our traveling by night."

 "The dragon will take you to where your ship is moored-"

 "-and then return and tell you the location?" Hugh raised an eyebrow. "No."

 "You have our word-"

 Hugh smiled. "The word of a man who hires me to murder his child."

 The young wizard flushed in anger. "Do not judge him! You cannot understand-" Biting his tongue, he silenced himself.

 "Understand what?" Hugh flashed him a sharp, narrow-eyed glance.

 "Nothing. You said yourself you have no interest in politics." Trian swallowed. "Believe what you want of us. It makes little difference."

 Hugh eyed him speculatively, decided that no more information would be forthcoming. "Tell me where we are and I will find my way from here."

 "Impossible. This fortress is secret! We worked many years to make it a safe retreat for His Majesty."

 "Ah, but you have my word," Hugh mocked. "It seems we're at an impasse."

 Trian flushed again, his teeth clenched over his lip so tightly that, when at last he spoke, Hugh could see white marks upon the flesh.

 "What of this? You provide me with a general location-say the name of an isle. I'll instruct the dragon to take you and the prince to a town on that isle and leave you. That's the best I can do."

 Hugh considered this, then nodded in agreement. Knocking the ashes from the pipe, he tucked the long, curved stem with its small rounded bowl into the pack and inspected the remainder of the pack's contents. He evidently approved what he saw, for he cinched it tightly.

 "The prince carries his own food and clothing, enough for"- Trian faltered, but forced the words out-"for a ... a month."

 "It shouldn't take that long," said the Hand easily, throwing the fur cloak over his shoulders. "Depending on how close this town is to where we're bound. I can hire dragons-"

 "The prince must not be seen! There are few who know him, outside of the court, but if by chance he were recognized-"

 "Relax. I know what I'm doing," Hugh said softly, but there was a warning in the black eyes that the wizard thought best to heed.

 Hugh hefted the pack and started for the door. Movement glimpsed from the corner of an eye drew his attention. Outside, in the courtyard, he saw the king's executioner bow in apparent response to some unheard command and then quit his post. The block alone remained standing in the courtyard. It gleamed with a white light strangely inviting in its coldness and purity and promise of escape. The Hand paused. It was as if he felt, for a brief instant, the invisible filament, cast out by Fate, wrap itself around his neck. It was tugging him away, dragging him on, entangling him in the same vast web in which Trian and the king were already struggling.

 One swift, clean stroke of the sword would free him. One stroke against ten thousand barls. Twisting the braid of his beard, Hugh turned to face Trian.

 "What token shall I send to you?"

 "Token?" Trian blinked, not understanding.

 "To indicate the job is done. An ear? A finger? What?"

 "Blessed ancestors forfend!" The young wizard was deathly white. He swayed unsteadily on his feet and was forced to lean against a wall to retain his balance. And so he did not see Hugh's lips tighten in a grim smile, the assassin's head incline ever so slightly, as if he'd just received an answer to a very important question.

 "Please . . . forgive this weakness," Trian muttered, brushing a shaking hand across his damp skin. "I haven't slept in several nights and . . . and then the dragon ride up rydai and back again in such haste. Naturally, we want a token.

 "The prince wears"-Trian gulped and then, suddenly, seemed to find some inner reserve of strength-"the prince wears an amulet, the feather of a hawk. It was given him when he was a babe by a mysteriarch from the High Realm. Due to its magical properties, the amulet cannot be removed unless the prince is"- here Trian faltered once again-"dead." He drew a deep, shivering breath. "Send us this amulet, and we will know . . ." His voice trailed off.

 "What magic?" Hugh asked suspiciously.

 But the wizard, pale as death, was silent as death. He shook his head, whether physically unable to speak or refusing to answer, Hugh couldn't tell. At any rate, it was obvious he wasn't going to find out any more about the prince or his amulet.

 It probably didn't matter. Such magically blessed objects were commonly given to babes to protect them from disease or rat bites or keep them from tumbling headfirst into the firepit. Most of the charms, sold by roaming charlatans, had as much magical power in them as did the stone beneath Hugh's feet. A king's son, of course, was likely to have a real one, but Hugh knew of none-even those with true power-who could protect a person from, say, having his throat cut. Long ago, so legend told, there had been wizards who possessed such skill in their art, but not now. Not for many years, since they had left the Mid Realm and gone to dwell on the isles that floated high above. And one of these wizards had come down and given the kid a feather?

 This Trian must take me for a real fool. "Pull yourself together, wizard," said Hugh harshly, "or the kid will suspect."

 Trian nodded and gratefully drank the mug of water the assassin poured for him. Closing his eyes, the wizard drew several deep breaths, centered himself, and within a few moments managed to smile calmly and normally. Color returned to his ashen cheeks.

 "I am ready now," Trian said, and led the way down the corridor to the chamber where the prince lay sleeping.

 Inserting the key in the lock, the wizard silently opened the door and stepped back.

 "Farewell," Trian said, tucking the key into the breast of his doublet.

 "Aren't you coming? To introduce me? Explain what's going on?"

 Trian shook his head. "No," he said softly. He was, Hugh noted, careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, not so much as glancing into the room. "It is now in your hands. I'll leave you the lamp."

 Turning on his heel, the wizard practically fled down the corridor. He was soon lost in the shadows. Hugh's sharp ears caught the sound of a lock click. There was a rush of fresh air, swiftly shut off. The wizard was gone.

 Shrugging, fingering the two coins in his pocket with one hand, the other reassuringly touching the hilt of his sword, the assassin entered the chamber. Holding the lamp high, he shone it on the child.

 The Hand cared nothing for and knew less about children. He had no memory of his own childhood-little wonder, it had been brief. The Kir monks had no use for the state of blissful, carefree childish innocence. Early on, each child was exposed to the harsh realities of living. In a world in which there were no gods, the Kir worshiped life's only certainty-death. Life came to mankind haphazardly, at random. There was no choice, no help for it. Joy taken in such a dubious gift was seen to be a sin. Death was the bright promise, the happy release.

 As part and parcel of their belief, the Kir performed those tasks which most other humans found offensive or dangerous. The Kir were known as the Brothers of Death.

 They had no mercy for the living. Their province was the dead. They did not practice healing arts, but when the corpses of plague victims were tossed out into the street, it was the Kir who took them, performed the solemn rites, and burned them. Paupers who were turned from the doors of the Kir when they were alive gained entrance after death. Suicides-cursed by the ancestors, a disgrace to their families-were welcomed by the Kir, their bodies treated with reverence. The bodies of murderers, prostitutes, thieves-all were taken in by the Kir. After a battle, it was the Kir who tended to those who had sacrificed their lives for whatever cause was currently in vogue.

 The only living beings to whom the Kir extended any charity at all were male children of the dead, orphans who had no other refuge. The Kir took them in and educated them. Wherever the monks went-to whatever scene of misery and suffering, cruelty and deprivation, they were called upon to attend-they took the children with them, using them as their servants and, at the same time, teaching them about life, extolling the merciful benefits of death. By raising these boys in their ways and grim beliefs, the monks were able to maintain the numbers of their dark order. Some of the children, like Hugh, ran away, but even he had not been able to escape the shadow of the black hoods under whose tutelage he had been reared.

 Consequently, when the Hand gazed down at the sleeping face of the young child, he felt no pity, no outrage. Murdering this boy was just another job to him, and one that was likely to prove more difficult and dangerous than most. Hugh knew the wizard had been lying. Now he only had to figure out why.

 Tossing his pack on the floor, the assassin used the toe of his boot to nudge the child. "Kid, wake up."

 The boy started, his eyes flared open, and he sat up, reflexively, before he was truly awake. "What is it?" he asked, staring through a mass of tousled golden curls at the stranger standing above him. "Who are you?"

 "I'm known as Hugh-Sir Hugh of Ke'lith, Your Highness," said the Hand, remembering in time he was supposed to be a nobleman and naming the first land holding that came to his mind. "You're in danger. Your father's hired me to take you to someplace where you'll be safe. Get up. Time is short. We must leave while it is still night."

 Looking at the impassive face with its high cheekbones, hawk nose, braided strands of black beard hanging from the cleft chin, the child shrank back amidst the straw.

 "Go away. I don't like you! Where is Trian? I want Trian!"

 "I'm not pretty, like the wizard. But your father didn't hire me for my looks. If you're frightened of me, think how your enemies'll feel."

 Hugh said this glibly, just for something to say. He was prepared to pick up the kid-kicking and screaming-and carry him off bodily. He was therefore somewhat surprised to see the child consider this argument with an expression of grave and keen intelligence.

 "You make sense, Sir Hugh," the boy said, rising to his feet. "I will accompany you. Bring my things." He waved a small hand at a pack lying next to him on the straw.

 It was on Hugh's tongue to tell the kid to bring his own things, but he recalled himself in time. "Yes, Your Highness," he said humbly, bending down.

 He took a close look at the child. The prince was small for his age, with large pale blue eyes; a sweetly curved mouth; and the porcelain-white complexion of one who is kept protectively within doors. The light glistened off a hawk feather hanging from a silver chain around the child's neck.

 "Since we are to be traveling companions, you may call me by my name," said the boy shyly.

 "And what might that be, Your Highness?" Hugh asked, lifting the pack.

 The child stared at him. The Hand added hastily, "I've been out of the country many years, Your Highness."

 "Bane," said the child. "I am Prince Bane."

 Hugh froze, motion arrested. Bane! The assassin wasn't superstitious, but why would anyone give a child such an ill-omened name? Hugh felt the invisible filament of Fate's web tighten around his neck. The image of the block came to him-cold, peaceful, serene. Angry at himself, he shook his head. The choking sensation vanished, the image of his own death disappeared. Hugh shouldered the prince's pack and his own.

 "We must be going, Your Highness," he said again, nodding toward the door.

 Bane lifted his cloak from the floor and threw it clumsily over his shoulders, fumbling at the strings that fastened it around his neck. Impatient to be gone, Hugh tossed the packs back to the ground, knelt, and tied the strings of the cloak.

 To his astonishment, the prince flung his arms around his neck.

 "I'm glad you're my guardian," he said, clinging to him, his soft cheek pressed against Hugh's.

 The Hand held rigid, unmoving. Bane slipped away from him. "I'm ready," he announced in eager excitement. "Are we going by dragon? Tonight was the first time I'd ever ridden one. ' I suppose you must ride them all the time."

 "Yes," Hugh managed to say. "There's a dragon in the courtyard." He lifted the two packs and the lamp. "If Your Highness will follow me - "

 "I know the way," said the prince, skipping out of the room.

 Hugh followed after him, the touch of the boy's hands soft and warm against his skin.

 CHAPTER 7

 KIR MONASTERY, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM

 THREE PEOPLE WERE GATHERED IN A ROOM LOCATED IN THE UPPER LEVELS OF THE monastery. The room had been one of the monks' cells and was, consequently, cold, austere, small, and windowless. The three-two men and one woman-stood in the very center of the room. One man had his arm around the woman; the woman had her arm around him, each supporting the other, or it seemed both might have fallen. The third stood near them.

 "They are preparing to leave." The wizard had his head cocked, though it was not with his physical ear he heard the beating of the dragon's wings through the thick walls of the monastery.

 "Leaving!" the woman cried, and took a step forward. "I want to see him again! My son! One more time!"

 "No, Anne!" Trian's voice was stern; his hand clasped hold of the woman's and held it firmly. "It took long months to break the enchantment. It is easier this way! You must be strong!"

 "I pray we have done right!" The woman sobbed and turned her face to her husband's shoulder.

 "You should have gone along, Trian," said Stephen. He spoke harshly, though the hand with which he stroked his wife's hair was gentle and loving. "There is still time."

 "No, Your Majesty. We gave this matter long and careful consideration. Our plans are sound. We must follow through on them and pray that our ancestors are with us and all goes as we hope."

 "Did you warn this . . . Hugh?"

 "A hard man such as that assassin would not have believed me. It would have done no good and might have caused a great deal of harm. He is the best. He is cold, he is heartless. We must trust in his skill and his nature."

 "And if he fails?"

 "Then, Your Majesty," said Trian with a soft sigh, "we should prepare ourselves to face the end."

 CHAPTER 8

HET, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

 AT ALMOST PRECISELY THE SAME TIME HUGH LAID HIS HEAD ON THE BLOCK IN KE'LITH, another execution-that of the notorious Limbeck Bolttightener-was being carried out thousands of menka [6] below on the isle of Drevlin. It would seem at first that these executions had nothing in common except the coincidence of their time. But the invisible threads cast by that immortal spider, Fate, had just wrapped around the soul of each of these oddly disparate people and would slowly and surely draw them together.

 On the night that Lord Rogar of Ke'lith was murdered, Limbeck Bolttightner was seated in his cozy, untidy dwelling in Het-the oldest city on Drevlin-composing a speech.

 Limbeck was, in his own language, a Geg. In any other language in Arianus, or in the ancient world before the Sundering, he would have been known as a dwarf. He stood a respectable four feet in height (without shoes). A full and luxuriant growth of beard adorned a cheerful, open face. He was developing a slight paunch, unusual in a hardworking young adult Geg, but that was due to the fact that he sat a great deal. Limbeck's eyes were bright, inquisitive, and extremely nearsighted.

 He lived in a small cavern amid hundreds of other caverns that honeycombed a large mound of coralite located on the outskirts of Het. Limbeck's cave was different in certain respects from those of his neighbors, which seemed fitting since Limbeck himself was certainly an unusual Geg. His cave was taller than the others, being almost two Gegs high. A special platform, built of knobwood planks, allowed Limbeck to climb up to the ceiling of his dwelling and enjoy another of the cavern's oddities-windows.

 Most Gegs didn't need windows; the storms that buffeted the isle made windows impractical, and in general, the Gegs were far more concerned with what was going on inside than outside. A few of the city's original buildings-the ones that had been built long, long ago by the hallowed and revered Mangers-had windows, however. Small panes of thick, bubble-filled glass set into recessed holes in the sturdy walls, the windows were perfectly suited to a lifetime of battering wind, rain, and hail. It was windows such as these that Limbeck had confiscated from an unused building in the center of town and transported to his cavern. A few turns of a borrowed bore-hoogus created the perfect-size openings for two windows on the ground floor and four more up above.

 In this, Limbeck established the major difference between himself and the majority of his people. They looked only within. Limbeck liked to look without-even if looking without only brought visions of slashing rain and hail and lightning or (during those brief periods when the storms subsided) the vat-things and hummer coils and blazing bluezuzts of the Kicksey-Winsey.

 One other feature of Limbeck's dwelling made it positively unique. On the front door, which faced the interior of the mound and its interconnecting streets, was a sign with the letters WUPP painted in red, marching along boldly at a definite uphill slant.

 In all other aspects, the dwelling was a typical Geg dwelling- the furniture was functional and made out of whatever material the Gegs could find, there were no frivolous decorations. None could be found that would stay put. The walls and floors and ceiling of the snug cavern shook and quivered with the thumping, throbbing, whumping, zizzt, crackle, and clanging of the Kicksey-Winsey-the dominant feature, the dominant force on Drevlin.

 Limbeck, the august leader of WUPP, did not mind the noise. He took comfort in it, having listened to it, albeit somewhat muffled, in his mother's womb. The Gegs revered the noise, just as they revered the Kicksey-Winsey. They knew that if the noise ceased their world would come to an end. Death was known among the Gegs as the Endless Hear Nothing.

 Wrapped in the comforting banging and drumming, Limbeck struggled with his speech. Words came easily to him. Writing them down did not. What sounded fine and grand and noble when it came out of his mouth looked trite and pretentious when he saw it on paper. At least it did to Limbeck. Jarre always told him he was far too critical of himself, that his speeches read just as well as they sounded. But, as Limbeck always replied with a fond kiss on her cheek, Jarre was prejudiced.

 Limbeck talked aloud as he wrote, in order to hear his words spoken. Being extremely nearsighted and finding it difficult to focus properly when he wore his spectacles, Limbeck invariably took them off when writing. His face pressed close to the paper, his quill scratching away, he got nearly as much ink up his nose and down his beard as he did on his speech.

 "It is therefore our purpose, as Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity, to bring to our people a time of good living now, not sometime in a future that may never come!" Limbeck, carried away, banged his fist on the table, sloshing ink out of the inkwell. A small river of blue crept toward the paper, threatening to inundate the speech. Limbeck stemmed the tide with his elbow; his frayed tunic soaked up the ink thirstily. Since the tunic had long ago lost any color it might have once possessed, the purple splotch on the sleeve was a cheerful improvement.

 "For centuries we have been told by our leaders that we were placed in this realm of Storm and Chaos because we were not deemed worthy to take our place with the Welves above. We who are flesh and blood and bone could not hope to live in the land of the immortals. When we are worthy, our leaders tell us, then the Welves will come from Above and pass judgment on us and we shall rise up into the heavens. In the meantime, it is our duty to serve the Kicksey-Winsey and wait for that great day. I say"-here Limbeck raised a clenched and inky fist above his head-"I say that day will never come!

 "I say that we have been lied to! Our leaders deluded! It is easy enough for the High Froman and the people of his scrift to talk of waiting for change until Judgment comes. They do not need a better life. They receive the God's payment. But do they disperse it equally among us? No, they make us pay, and pay dearly, for our share that we have already earned by the sweat of our brow!"

 (I must pause here for cheering, Limbeck decided, and put a blot that was supposed to be a star to mark the place.)

 "It is time to rise up and-" Limbeck hushed, thinking he heard a strange sound. Now, how anyone could hear anything in this land, other than the noise of the Kicksey-Winsey and the buffeting and roaring of the storms that swept daily over Drevlin, was a mystery to the Welves who came monthly for their shipment of water. But the Gegs, accustomed to the deafening noises, minded them no more than the rush of air through the leaves of a tree would bother an elflord of Tribus. A Geg could sleep soundly through a ferocious thunderstorm and start bolt upright at the rustle of a mouse in his pantry.

 It was the sound of distant shouting that aroused Limbeck's attention and, stricken by sudden consciousness, he peered up at a timekeeping device (his own invention) set in a hollow of the wall. A complex combination of whirly-wheels and spokey-spikes, the device dropped one bean every hour on the hour into a jar below. Each morning, Limbeck emptied the jar of beans into the funnel above, and the measuring of the day began again.

 Leaping to his feet, Limbeck peered nearsightedly into the jar, hastily counting up the beans. He groaned. He was late. Grabbing a coat, he was heading out the door when, at that moment, the next line in his speech occurred to him. He decided to take just a second to record it and sat back down. All thoughts of his appointment went clean out of his mind. Ink-bedaubed and happy, he once more lost himself in his rhetoric.

 "We, the Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity, advocate three tenets: The first, all of the scrifts should come together and pool their knowledge of the Kicksey-Winsey and learn how it operates so that we become its masters, not its slaves. [Blot for cheering.] The second, worshipers quit waiting for a day of Judgment and start to work now to better the quality of their own lives. [Another blot.] The third, worshipers should go to the Froman and demand a fair share in the Welves' payment. [Two blots and a scribble.]"

 At this juncture. Limbeck sighed. He knew, from past experience, that his third tenet would be the most popular with the young Gegs impatient over serving long hours for inadequate pay. But of the three, Limbeck himself knew it to be the least important.

 "If only they had seen what I saw!" Limbeck mourned. "If only they knew what I know. If only I could tell them!"

 The sound of shouting broke in on his thoughts again. Raising his head, Limbeck smiled with fond pride. Jarre's speech was having its usual effect. She doesn't need me, Limbeck reflected, not sadly but with the pleasure of a teacher who takes pride in seeing a promising student blossom. She's doing fine without me. I'll just go ahead and finish.

 During the next hour, Limbeck-smeared with ink and inspiration-was so absorbed in his project that he no longer heard the shouts and therefore did not notice that they changed in tone from cheers of approval to roars of anger. When a sound other than the monotonous whump and whuzzle of the Kicksey-Winsey did finally attract his attention, it was only because it was the sound of a door banging. Occurring some three feet away from him, it startled him immensely.

 "Is that you, my dear?" he said, seeing a dark and shapeless blur that he assumed was Jarre.

 She was panting as if from an undue amount of exertion. Limbeck patted his pocket for his glasses, couldn't find them, and groped with his hand over the table. "I heard the cheers. Your speech went well tonight, I gather. I'm sorry I wasn't there as I promised, but I got involved . . ." He waved a vague and ink-splattered hand at his work.

 Jarre pounced on him. The Gegs are small in stature, but wide of girth, with large strong hands and a tendency to square jaws and square shoulders that give a general overall impression of squareness. Male and female Gegs are equally strong, since all serve the Kicksey-Winsey until the marrying age of about forty years, when both are required to retire and stay home to bear and raise the next generation of Kicksey-Winsey worshipers. Jarre was stronger even than most young women, having served the Kicksey-Winsey since she was twelve. Limbeck, not having served it at all, was rather weak. Consequently, when Jarre pounced on him, she nearly carried him out of his chair.

 "My dear, what is the matter?" Limbeck said, gazing at her myopically, aware for the first time that something was the matter. "Didn't your speech go well?"

 "Yes, it went well. Very well!" Jarre said, digging her hands into his tattered and ink-stained tunic and attempting to drag him to his feet. "Come on, we've got to get you out of here!"

 "Now?" Limbeck blinked at her. "But my speech-"

 "Yes, that's a good idea. We shouldn't leave it behind for evidence." Letting loose of Limbeck, Jarre hastily caught up the sheets of paper that were a by-product (no one knew why) of the Kicksey-Winsey and began stuffing them down the front of her gown. "Hurry, we haven't much time!" She glanced around the dwelling hastily. "Is there anything else lying around that we should take?"

 "Evidence?" questioned Limbeck, bewildered, searching for his glasses. "Evidence of what?"

 "Of our Union," said Jarre impatiently. Cocking an ear, she listened and ran over to peer fearfully out one of the windows.

 "But, my dear, this is Union Headquarters," began Limbeck when she shushed him.

 "There! Hear that? They're coming." Reaching down, she picked up his glasses and stuck them hastily and at a precarious slant on his nose. "I can see their lanterns. The coppers. No, not the front. The back door, the way I came in." She began to push and hustle Limbeck along.

 Limbeck stopped, and when a Geg stops dead in his tracks, it is almost impossible to shift or budge him. "I'm not going anywhere, my dear, until you tell me what's happened." He calmly adjusted his spectacles.

 Jarre wrung her hands, but she knew the Geg she loved. Limbeck had a stubborn streak in him that not even the Kicksey-Winsey could have knocked out. She had learned to overcome this on former occasions by moving fast and not giving him time to think, but, seemingly, that wasn't going to work tonight.

 "Oh, very well," she said in exasperation, her eyes darting constantly to the front door. "We had a big crowd at the rally. Bigger than anything we'd expected-"

 "That's marvel-"

 "Don't interrupt. There isn't time. They listened to my words and-oh, Limbeck, it was so wonderful!" Despite her impatience and fear, Jarre's eyes shone. "It was like setting a match to saltpeter. They flared up and exploded!"

 "Exploded?" Limbeck began to get uneasy. "My dear, we don't want them to explode-"

 "You don't!" she said scornfully. "But now it's too late. The fire's burning and it's up to us to guide it, not try to put it out again." Her fist clenched, her square chin jutted forward. "Tonight we attacked the Kicksey-Winsey!"

 "No!" Limbeck stared, aghast. So shaken was he by this news that he sat down quite suddenly and unexpectedly.

 "Yes, and I think we damaged it permanently." Jarre shook her thick mane of short-cut curly brown hair. "The coppers and some of the clarks rushed us, but all of our people escaped. The coppers'll be coming to the Union Headquarters in search of you, my dear, and so I came to take you away. Listen!" Sounds of blows could be heard hammering on the front door; hoarse voices were shouting to open up. "They're here! Quickly! They probably don't know about the back-"

 "They're here to take me into custody?" Limbeck said, pondering.

 Jarre, not liking the expression on his face, frowned and tugged at him, trying to pull him back up on his feet. "Yes, now come-"

 "I'll stand trial, won't I?" he said slowly. "Most likely before the High Froman himself!"

 "Limbeck, what are you thinking?" Jarre had no need to ask. She knew all too well. "Punishment for hurting the Kicksey-Winsey is death!"

 Limbeck brushed this aside as a minor consideration. The voices grew louder and more persistent. Someone called for a chopper-cutter.

 "My dear," said Limbeck, a look of almost holy radiance illuminating his face, "at last I'll have the audience I've sought all my life! This is our golden opportunity! Just think, I'll be able to present our cause to the High Froman and the Council of the Clans! There'll be hundreds present. The newssingers and the squawky-talk-"

 The blade of the chopper-cutter smashed through the wooden door. Jarre turned pale. "Oh, Limbeck! This is no time to play at being a martyr! Please come with me now!"

 The chopper-cutter wrenched itself free, disappeared, then smashed through the wood again.

 "No, you go ahead, my dear," said Limbeck, kissing her on the forehead. "I'll stay. I've made up my mind."

 "Then I'll stay too!" Jarre said fiercely, entwining her hand around his.

 The chopper-cutter crashed into the door, and splinters flew across the room.

 "No, no!" Limbeck shook his head. "You must carry on in my absence! When my words and my example inflame the worshipers, you must be there to lead the revolution!"

 "Oh, Limbeck"-Jarre wavered-"are you sure?"

 "Yes, my dear."

 "Then I'll go! But we'll spring you!" She hastened to the doorway, but could not forbear pausing for one final glance behind her. "Be careful," she pleaded.

 "I will, my dear. Now, go!" Limbeck made a playful shooing motion with his hand.

 Blowing him a kiss, Jarre disappeared through the back door just as the coppers crashed through the splintered door in the front.

 "We're looking for one Limbeck Bolttightner," said a copper, whose dignity was somewhat marred by the fact that he was plucking splinters of wood out of his beard.

 "You have found him," said Limbeck majestically. Thrusting out his hands, wrists together, he continued, "As a champion of my people, I will gladly suffer any torture or indignity in their names! Take me to your foul-smelling, blood-encrusted, rat-infested dungeon."

 "Foul-smelling?" The copper was highly incensed. "I'll have you know we clean our jail regular. And as for rats, there ain't been one seen there in twenty years, has there, Fred?" He appealed to a fellow copper, who was crashing through the broken door. "Ever since we brought in the cat. And we washed up the blood from last night when Durkin Wrenchwielder come in with a split lip on account of a fight with Mrs. Wrenchwielder. You've no call," added the copper testily, "to go insultin' my jail."

 "I ... I'm very sorry," stammered Limbeck, taken aback. "I had no idea."

 "Now, come along with you," said the copper. "What have you got your hands stuck in my face for?"

 "Aren't you going to shackle me? Bind me hand and foot?"

 "And how would you walk? I suppose you'd expect us to carry you!" The copper sniffed. "A pretty sight we'd look, haulin' you through the streets! And you're no lightweight, neither. Put your hands down. The only pair of manacles we had busted some thirty years ago. We keep 'em for use when the young'uns get outta hand. Sometimes parents like to borrow 'em to throw a scare into the little urchins."

 Having been threatened with those manacles often in his own turbulent urchinhood, Limbeck was crushed.

 "Another illusion of youth fled," he said to himself sadly as he allowed himself to be led away to a prosaic, cat-patrolled prison.

 Martyrdom was not starting out well.

 CHAPTER 9

 HEX TO WOMBE DREVLIN, LOW REALM

 LIMBECK WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO THE FLASHRAFT RIDE ACROSS DREVLIN TO THE capital city of Wombe. He had never ridden a flashraft before. Nobody in his scrift had, and there were more than a few mutterings among the crowd about common criminals getting privileges to which ordinary citizens weren't entitled.

 Somewhat hurt at being referred to as a common criminal, Limbeck climbed up the steps and entered what resembled a gleaming brass box fitted with windows and perched on numerous metal wheels that ran along a metal track. Taking his spectacles from his pocket, Limbeck hooked the frail wire stems over his ears and peered at the crowd. He easily located Jarre among the throng, though her head and face were hidden in the shadows of a voluminous cloak. It was too dangerous for any sort of sign to pass between them, but Limbeck did not think it would hurt if he brought his thick fingers to his lips and blew her a small kiss.

 A couple standing alone at the far end of the platform caught his attention and he was astounded to recognize his parents. At first it touched him that they would come to see him off. However, a glimpse of his father's smiling face, half-hidden by a gigantic muffler he had wound around his neck to ensure that no one knew him, made Limbeck understand that his parents had not come out of filial devotion but probably to make certain they were actually seeing the last of a son who had brought them nothing but turmoil and disgrace. Sighing, Limbeck settled back in the wooden seat.

 The flashraft's driver, commonly known as a flasher, glared back at his two passengers, Limbeck and the copper who accompanied him, in the only compartment on the vehicle. This unusual stop in the station of Het had put the flasher way behind schedule and he didn't want to waste any more time. Seeing Limbeck start to stand up-the Geg thought he saw his old teacher in the crowd-the flasher threw both sections of his carefully parted beard over his shoulders, grasped two of the many tin hands before him, and pulled. Several metal hands sticking up from the compartment's roof reached out and grabbed hold of a cable suspended above them. An arc of blue lightning flared, a whistle-toot shrilled loudly, and, amidst crackling zuzts of electricity, the flashraft jolted forward.

 The brass box rocked and swayed back and forth, the hands above them that clung to the cable sparked alarmingly, but the flasher never seemed to notice. Grasping another tin hand, he pushed it clear to the wall and the vehicle picked up speed. Limbeck thought he had never in his life experienced anything so marvelous.

 The flashraft was created long ago by the Mangers for the benefit of the Kicksey-Winsey. When the Mangers mysteriously disappeared, the Kicksey-Winsey took over the operation and kept the flashraft alive just as it kept itself alive. The Gegs lived to serve both.

 Each Geg belonged to a scrift-a clan that had lived in the same city and had worshiped the same part of the Kicksey-Winsey since the Mangers first brought the Gegs to this realm. Each Geg performed the same task his father performed before him and his grandfather before him and his grandfather before him.

 The Gegs did their work well. They were competent, skilled, and dexterous, but unimaginative. Each Geg knew how to serve his or her particular part of the Kicksey-Winsey and had no interest in any other part. Further, he never questioned the reasons for doing what he did. Why the whirly-wheel had to be turned, why the black arrow of the whistle toot should never be allowed to point to red, why the pull-arm needed to be pulled, the push-arm pushed, or the cranky-clank cranked were questions that did not occur to the average Geg. But Limbeck was not an average Geg.

 Delving into the whys and wherefores of the great Kicksey-Winsey was blasphemous and would call down the wrath of the clarks-the ecclesiastical force on Drevlin. Performing his or her act of worship as taught by the scrift teachers and doing it well was the height of ambition for most Gegs. It would gain them (or their children) a place in the realms above. But not Limbeck.

 After the novelty of moving at a terrific rate of speed wore off, Limbeck began to find riding in the flashraft extremely depressing. The rain dashed against the windows. Natural lightning-not the blue lightning created by the Kicksey-Winsey-streaked down from the swirling clouds and occasionally fought the blue lightning, causing the brass box to buck and jolt. Hail clattered on the roof. Lumbering around, beneath, above, and through huge sections of the Kicksey-Winsey, the flashraft seemed to be smugly exhibiting-to Limbeck, at least-the enslavement of the Gegs.

 The flames from gigantic furnaces lit the oppressive and everlasting gloom. By their light, Limbeck could see his people- nothing more than squat, dark shadows against the glowing red- tending to the Kicksey-Winsey's needs. The sight stirred an anger in Limbeck, an anger that he realized remorsefully had been banked and nearly allowed to die out as he'd grown absorbed in the business of organizing WUPP.

 He was glad to feel the anger again, glad to accept its offer of strength, and was just pondering on how he could work this into his speech when a comment from his companion brought a momentary interruption to his thoughts.

 "What was that?" asked Limbeck.

 "I said, it's beautiful, ain't it?" repeated the copper, staring at the Kicksey-Winsey in reverent awe.

 That does it, thought Limbeck, thoroughly outraged. When I come before the High Froman, I will tell them the truth. . . .

 . . . "Get out!" shouted the teacher, his beard bristling with rage. "Get out, Limbeck Bolttightner, and never let me see those weak eyes of yours in this school again!"

 "I don't understand why you're so upset." Young Limbeck rose to his feet.

 "Out!" howled the Geg.

 "It was a perfectly sound question."

 The sight of his instructor rushing at him, upraised wrench in hand, caused the pupil to beat a swift and undignified retreat from the classroom. Fourteen-turn Limbeck left the Kicksey-Winsey school in such haste that he didn't have time to put on his spectacles, and consequently, when he reached the red creaking cog, he took a wrong turn. The exits were marked, of course, but the nearsighted Limbeck couldn't read the writing. He opened a door he thought led to the corridor that led to the marketplace, got a blast of wind right in the face, and realized that this particular door opened on Outside.

 The young Geg had never been Outside. Due to the fearsome storms that swept over the land on the average of one or two an hour, no one ever left the shelter of the town and the comforting presence of the Kicksey-Winsey. Rife with tunnels and covered walkways and underground passages, the cities and towns of Drevlin were constructed in such a way that a Geg could go for months without ever feeling a raindrop splash on his face. Those who had to travel used the flashraft or the Gegavators. Few Gegs ever, ever walked Outside.

 Limbeck hesitated on the doorstoop, peering nearsightedly into the windswept, rain-drenched landscape. Though the wind blew strongly, there was a lull between storms and a feeble gray light was strained through the perpetual clouds-as close as Drevlin ever came to basking in the rays of Solarus. The light made the ordinarily gloomy landscape of Drevlin almost lovely. It winked and blinked on the many whirling and pumping and turning arms and claws and wheels of the Kicksey-Winsey. It glistened in the clouds of steam rolling up to join their cousins in the skies. It made the dreary and drab landscape of Drevlin, with its gouges and slag heaps and pits and holes, seem almost attractive (particularly if all one could see was a kind of pleasant, fuzzy, mud-colored blur).

 Limbeck knew at once he had taken a wrong turning. He knew he should go back, but the only place he had to go was home, and he was aware that by now word of his getting kicked out of Kicksey-Winsey school would have reached his parents. Braving the terrors of Outside was far more attractive than braving the wrath of his father, and so Limbeck, without a second thought, walked Outside, letting the door slam shut behind him.

 Learning to walk in mud was an experience all in itself. On his third step, he slipped and plunked down heavily in the muck. Upon rising, he discovered that one boot was firmly mired, and it took all his strength to tug it out. Peering dimly around, Limbeck concluded that the slag heaps might provide better walking. He slogged his way through the muck and eventually reached the piles of coralite that had been tossed aside by the strong digger hands of the Kicksey-Winsey. Climbing up on the hard, pocked surface of the coralite, Limbeck was pleased to note he was right-walking was much easier up here than in the mud.

 He guessed, too, that the view should be spectacular, and thought he really should see it. Pulling out his spectacles, he hooked them over his ears and gazed around.

 The smokestacks and holding tanks, lightning-flinging arms and huge revolving wheels of the Kicksey-Winsey thrust up from the flat plains of Drevlin; many of them towering so far into the sky that their steaming heads were lost in the clouds. Limbeck stared at the Kicksey-Winsey in awe. One tended, when one served only one portion of the gigantic creation, to concentrate on just that one part and lose sight of the whole. The old saying about not seeing the wheel for the cogs came to Limbeck's mind.

 "Why?" he asked (which was, by the way, the very question that had caused him to be thrown out of school). "Why is the Kicksey-Winsey here? Why did the Mangers build it, then leave it? Why do the immortal Welves come and go every month and never fulfill their promise to lift us up into the shining realms above? Why? Why? Why?"

 The questions beat in Limbeck's head until either these resounding whys or the wind rushing past him or the act of staring up at the gleaming structure of the Kicksey-Winsey or all three together began to make him dizzy. Blinking, he took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Clouds were massing on the horizon, but the Geg judged it would be some time yet before another storm swept over the land. If he went home now, a storm of a different sort would sweep over him. Limbeck decided to explore.

 Fearing he might fall and break his precious spectacles, Limbeck tucked them carefully into the pocket of his shirt and began to make his way across the slag heap. Being short and stocky and deft in their movements, Gegs are remarkably surefooted. They clump across narrow catwalks built hundreds of feet above the ground without turning a hair in their beards. Gegs desiring to go from one level to another will often catch hold of the spokes of one of the huge wheels and ride it up, dangling by their hands, from the bottom to the top. Despite the fact that he couldn't see very clearly, Limbeck soon figured out how to traverse the cracked and broken piles of coralite.

 He was just moving really well and making some headway when he stepped on a loose chunk that tilted and threw him sideways. After that, he had to concentrate on watching his footing, and it was undoubtedly due to this that he forgot to watch the approach of the clouds. It was only when a gust of wind nearly blew him off his feet and drops of rain splattered into his eyes that he remembered the storm.

 Hastily Limbeck pulled out his spectacles, put them on, and looked around. He had traveled quite a distance without knowing it. The clouds were swooping down on him, the shelter of the Kicksey-Winsey was some distance away, and it would take him a long time to retrace his route among the broken coralite. The storms on Drevlin were fierce and dangerous. Limbeck could see blackened holes blown in the coralite from the deadly lightning strikes. If the lightning didn't get him, there was no doubt that the giant hailstones would, and the Geg was just beginning to think that he wouldn't have to worry about facing his father ever again when, turning completely around, he saw a large Something on the fast-darkening horizon.

 Just what the Something was, he couldn't tell from this distance (his spectacles were covered with water), but there was a chance that it might offer shelter from the storm. Keeping his spectacles on, knowing that he would need them to help locate the object, Limbeck tottered and stumbled over the slag heap.

 Rain began pouring down, and Limbeck soon discovered he could see better without spectacles than he could with them, and pulled them off. The object was now nothing but a blur in front of him, but it was a blur that was rapidly growing larger, indicating he was getting nearer. Without his spectacles, Limbeck couldn't see what it was, until he was actually standing right in front of it.

 "A Welf ship!" he gasped.

 Though he had never seen one, the Geg recognized the ship instantly from the descriptions given by those who had. Made of dragon skin stretched over wood, with huge wings that kept it soaring in the air, the ship was monstrous in both appearance and size. The magical power of the Welves kept it afloat, carrying them from the heavens to the lowly realm of the Gegs below.

 But this ship wasn't flying or floating. It was lying on the ground, and Limbeck, staring at it nearsightedly through the driving rain, could have sworn-if such a thing were possible for a ship of the immortal Welves-that it was broken. Pieces of sharp wood jutted up at odd angles. The dragon skin was torn and rent, leaving gaping holes.

 A bolt of lightning striking quite near him, and the resultant thunder, caused the Geg to remember his danger. Hurriedly he leapt into one of the holes that had been torn in the side of the ship.

 A sickening smell made Limbeck gag.

 "Ugh." He grasped his nose with his hand. "It reminds me of the time the rat crawled up the chimney and died. I wonder what's causing it."

 The storm had settled in; the darkness inside the ship was intense. The lightning strikes were almost continuous, however, providing brief flashes of illuminating light before the ship was once again plunged into pitch-darkness.

 The light didn't help Limbeck much. Nor did his spectacles, when he finally remembered to put them on. The interior of the ship was strange and made no sense to him. He couldn't tell up from down or what was floor or wall. Objects were scattered about, but he didn't know what they were or what they did and was reluctant to touch them. He had a fear, in the back of his mind, that if he bothered anything the strange craft might suddenly rise up and fly off with him. And though the thought of such an adventure was somewhat exciting, Limbeck knew that if his father had been mad before, he would positively foam at the mouth to hear that his son had in any way annoyed the Welves.

 Limbeck resolved to keep near the doorway, holding his nose, until the storm ended and he could find his way back to Het. But the whys and whats and wherefores that were continually plunging him into trouble in school began buzzing in his brain.

 "I wonder what those are," he muttered, staring at a number of fascinating-looking blurs lying scattered about on the floor just a few feet in front of him.

 Cautiously he drew nearer. They didn't look dangerous. In fact, they looked like . . .

 "Books!" said Limbeck in astonishment. "Just like the ones the old clark used to teach me to read."

 Before Limbeck quite knew what was happening, the "why" was propelling him forward.

 He was very near the objects and could see, with growing excitement, that they were books, when his foot struck against something that was soft and squishy. Leaning down, gagging at the foul smell, Limbeck waited for another lightning flash to show him the obstacle.

 It was, he saw in horror, a bloated and decaying corpse. . . .

 "Hey, wake up," said the copper, poking Limbeck in the side. "Wombe's the next stop."

 CHAPTER 10

 WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

 AN ORDINARY FELON ON DREVLIN WOULD HAVE BEEN BROUGHT BEFORE HIS LOCAL Froman for judgment. Petty thefts, drunk-and-disorderlies, the odd brawl-these were considered to fall under the domain of the head of the defendant's own scrift. A crime against the Kicksey-Winsey, however, was considered high treason and therefore the defendant was required to go before the High Froman.

 The High Froman was head of the most important scrift in Drevlin-at least that was how his clan viewed themselves and that was how other Gegs were expected to view them. It was their scrift which was in charge of the Palm-the hallowed altar where, once a month, the Welves descended from the heavens in their powerful winged dragon ships and accepted the homage of the Gegs, given in the form of holy water. In return, the Welves left behind "blessings" before they departed.

 The capital city of Wombe was very modern, compared to other cities on Drevlin. Few of the original buildings constructed by the Mangers remained standing. The Kicksey-Winsey, needing to expand, had leveled and built over them, thus destroying much of the existing housing of the Gegs. Nothing daunted, the Gegs had simply moved into sections of the Kicksey-Winsey that the Kicksey-Winsey had abandoned. It was considered quite fashionable to live in the Kicksey-Winsey. The High Froman himself had a house in what had once been a holding tank.

 The High Froman held court inside a building known as the Factree. A huge structure, one of the largest on Drevlin, the Factree was made of iron and corrugated steel and was, so legend had it, the birthplace of the Kicksey-Winsey. The Factree had long since been abandoned and partially demolished, the Kicksey-Winsey having fed parasitically off that which gave it birth. But here and there, standing silent and ghostly within the eerie light of the glimmerglamps, could be seen the skeleton of a clawlike arm.

 The Factree was a sacred and holy place to the Gegs. Not only was it the Kicksey-Winsey's birthplace, but it was in the Factree that the Gegs' most hallowed icon was located-the brass statue of a Manger. The statue, which was the figure of a robed and hooded man, was taller than the Gegs and considerably thinner. The face had been carved in such a way that it was shadowed by the hood. There was a suggestion of a nose, and the outlines of lips and prominent cheekbones and the rest blended into the metal. In one of its hands the Manger grasped a huge, staring eyeball. The other arm, held in a crooked position, was hinged at the elbow.

 Standing on a raised dais next to the statue of the Manger was a tall overstuffed chair. It had obviously been constructed for those built along different dimensions than the Gegs, for its seat was some three Geg-feet off the floor, its back was nearly as tall as the Manger, and it was extremely narrow. This chair was the High Froman's ceremonial sit-up-high, and he squeezed his large body into it on occasions of state. He overlapped the sides and his feet dangled well above the dais, but these minor detractions in no way reduced his dignity.

 The Froman's audience sat cross-legged on the concrete floor beneath the dais or perched on ancient limbs of the Kicksey-Winsey or stood around on the balconies overlooking the main floor. On this day, a considerable crowd had jammed into the Factree to witness the trial of the Geg who was a reputed troublemaker, the leader of an insurrectionist, rebellious group which had finally gone so far as to inflict injury on the Kicksey-Winsey. Most of the night scrifts for every sector were present, as were those Gegs over forty who were no longer working on the Kicksey-Winsey but were staying home raising young. The Factree was filled over and beyond capacity, and those who could not see or hear directly were kept informed of the proceedings by the squawky-talk-a sacred and mysterious means of communication developed by the Mangers.

 A whistle-toot, blowing three times, called for relative silence. That is, the Gegs kept quiet, the Kicksey-Winsey didn't.

 The proceedings were interspersed with whoosh, thump, whang, zizzt, occasional sharp cracks of thunder, and howling gusts of wind from Outside. Being accustomed to these noises, the Gegs considered that quiet had descended and the ceremony of Justick could be commenced.

 Two Gegs-one's shaved face painted black, the other white- stepped out from behind the statue of the Manger, where they had been standing, waiting for the signal. In their hands they held between them a large metal sheet. Casting their stern gazes over the crowd to see that all was in order, the two Gegs began to vigorously shake the metal, creating the effect of thunder.

 Real thunder was not in the least impressive to the Gegs, who heard it every day of their lives. Artificial thunder, reverberating through the Factree over the squawky-talk, sounded eerie and wonderful and drew gasps of awe and murmurs of approval from the crowd. When the last vibrations of the quivering sheet had faded away, the High Froman made his appearance.

 A Geg of some sixty turns, the High Froman was from the wealthiest, most powerful clan in Drevlin-the Longshoremans. His family had held the title of High Froman for several generations, despite attempts by the Dockworkers to wrest it from them. Darral Longshoreman had given his years of service to the Kicksey-Winsey before taking over the duties of his office upon his own father's death. Darral was a shrewd Geg, nobody's fool, and if he enriched his own clan at the expense of others in Drevlin, he was merely carrying on a time-honored tradition.

 High Froman Darral was dressed in the ordinary working clothes of the Gegs-baggy trousers falling over thick, clumping boots, and a high-collared smock that fit rather tightly over his stout middle. This plain outfit was incongruously topped by a crown of cast iron-a gift from the Kicksey-Winsey-which was the High Froman's pride (despite the fact that after about fifteen minutes it gave him a pounding headache). Around his shoulders he wore a cape made of large and ugly bird feathers-the feathers of the tier-(a gift from the Welves), which signified the Gegs' symbolic desire to fly upward to heaven. In addition to the feathered cape, which appeared only at trials of Justick, the High Froman had painted his face gray, a symbolic blending of the black and white faces of the Geg warders now standing on either side of him and designed to prove to the Gegs that Darral-in all things-was neutral.

 In his hand, the High Froman held a long stick from which dangled a long, pronged tail. At a signal from Darral, one of the warders took the end of this tail and inserted it reverently and with muttered words of prayer to the Manger into the base of the statue. A bulbous glass ball affixed on top of the stick hissed and sputtered alarmingly for an instant, then sullenly began to glow with a bluish-white light. The Gegs murmured appreciatively, many parents drawing the attention of children in the audience to similar glimmerglamps that hung upside-down like bats from the ceiling and lit the Gegs' storm-ridden darkness.

 After the murmurs again died down, there was a brief wait for a particularly violent whoosh-whang from the Kicksey-Winsey to subside; then the High Froman launched into his speech.

 Facing the statue of the Manger, he raised his flashglamp. "I call upon the Mangers to descend from their lofty realm and guide us with their wisdom as we sit in judgment this day."

 Needless to say, the Mangers did not respond to the call of the High Froman. Not particularly surprised at the silence-the Gegs would have been tremendously astounded if anyone had answered- High Froman Darral Longshoreman determined that it was his duty by default to sit in judgment, and this he did, clambering up into the seat with the assistance of the two warders and a footstool.

 Once he was wedged into the extremely uncomfortable chair, the High Froman gestured for the prisoner to be led forward, inwardly hoping-for the sake of his squeezed posterior and his already aching head-that the trial would be a short one.

 A young Geg of about twenty-five seasons who wore thick bits of glass perched on his nose and carried a large sheaf of papers, stepped respectfully into the presence of the High Froman. Darral stared-narrow-eyed and suspicious-at the pieces of glass covering the young Geg's eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what the samhill they were, but then it occurred to him that Fromans were supposed to know everything. Irritated, the High Froman took out his frustration on the warders.

 "Where's the prisoner?" he roared. "What's the delay?"

 "Begging the Froman's pardon, but I am the prisoner," said Limbeck, flushing in embarrassment.

 "You?" The High Froman scowled. "Where's your Voice?"

 "If the Froman pleases, I am my own Voice, Yonor," said Limbeck modestly.

 "This is highly irregular. Isn't it?" asked Darral of the warders, who appeared perplexed at being thus addressed and could only shrug their shoulders and look-in their face paintincredibly stupid. The Froman snorted and sought help in another direction.

 "Where's the Voice for the Offense?"

 "I have the honor of being the Offensive Voice, Yonor," said a middle-aged Geg, her shrill tones carrying clearly over the distant whumping of the Kicksey-Winsey.

 "Is this sort of thing-" the Froman, lacking words, waved a hand at Limbeck-"done?"

 "It is irregular, Yonor," answered the Geg, coming forward and fixing Limbeck with a grim, disapproving stare. "But it will have to do. To be honest, Yonor, we couldn't find anyone willing to defend the prisoner."

 "Ah?" The High Froman brightened. He felt immensely cheered. It was likely to be a very short trial. "Then carry on."

 The Geg bowed and returned to her seat behind a desk made out of a rusting iron drum. The Voice of the Offense was dressed in a long skirt, and a smock tucked in tightly at the waist [7]. Her iron-gray hair was coiled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and was held in place with several long, formidable-appearing hairpins. She was stiff-backed, stiff-necked, stiff-lipped, and reminded Limbeck-much to his discomfiture-of his mother.

 Subsiding into his seat behind another iron drum, Limbeck felt his confidence oozing from him and was suddenly conscious that he was tracking mud all over the floor.

 The Voice of the Offense called the High Froman's attention to a male Geg seated beside her. "The Head Clark will be representing the church in this matter, Yonor," said the Offensive Voice.

 The Head Clark wore a frayed white shirt with a starched collar, sleeves whose arms were too long, breeches tied by rusty ribbons at the knees, long stockings, and shoes instead of boots. He rose to his feet and bowed with dignity.

 The High Froman ducked his head and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. It was not often that the church sat in on trials, rarer still for them to be part and parcel of the Offense. Darral might have known his self-righteous brother-in-law would be in on this, since it was a blasphemous crime to attack the Kicksey-Winsey. The High Froman was wary and suspicious of the church in general and his brother-in-law in particular. He knew that his brother-in-law thought that he himself could do a better job running the nation than he-Darral. Well, he wouldn't give them an opportunity to say that about this case! The High Froman fixed Limbeck with a cold stare, then smiled benignly at the Prosecution.

 "Present your evidence."

 The Offensive Voice stated that for several years the Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity-she pronounced the name in severe and disapproving tones-had been making a nuisance of themselves in various small towns among the northern and eastern scrifts.

 "Their leader, Limbeck Bolttightner, is a well-known troublemaker. From childhood, he has been a source of grief, sorrow, and disappointment to his parents. For example, with the aid of a misguided elderly clark, young Limbeck actually learned to read and to write."

 The High Froman took advantage of the opportunity to cast a reproachful glance at the Head Clark. "Taught him to read! A clark!" said Darral, shocked. Only clarks learned to read and write, in order that they could pass the Word of the Mangers in the form of the Struction Manal on to the people. No other Gegs, it was assumed, had time to bother with such nonsense. There were murmurs in the courtroom, parents pointing out the unfortunate Limbeck to any children who might be tempted to follow his thorny path.

 The Head Clark flushed, appearing deeply chagrined at this sin committed by a fellow. Darral, grinning despite his pounding head, shifted his pinched bottom in the chair. He did not succeed in making himself comfortable, but he felt better, having the satisfactory knowledge that in the contest between himself and his brother-in-law he was ahead one to nothing.

 Limbeck gazed around with a smile of faint pleasure, as if finding it entertaining to relive the days of his childhood.

 "His next act broke his parents' heart," continued the Offensive Voice sternly. "He was enrolled in Prentice School for Bolttightners and one infamous day, during class, Limbeck, the accused"-she pointed a quivering finger at him-"actually stood up and demanded to know why."

 Darral's left foot had gone numb. He was endeavoring to work some feeling into it by wriggling his toes when he heard that tremendous why shouted by the Voice of the Offense and came back to the trial with a guilty start.

 "Why what?" asked the High Froman.

 The Offense, considering she had made her point, appeared taken aback and uncertain how to proceed. The Head Clark rose to his feet with a supercilious sneer that promptly evened the score between church and state. "Just 'why,' Yonor. A word that calls into question all our most cherished beliefs. A word that is radical and dangerous and could, if carried far enough, lead to a disruption of government, the downfall of society, and very possibly the end of life as we know it."

 "Oh, that why" said the High Froman knowingly, frowning at Limbeck and cursing him for having given the Head Clark an opportunity to score a point.

 "The accused was thrown out of school. He then upset the town of Het by disappearing for an entire day. It was necessary to send out search parties, at great expense. One can imagine," said the Voice feelingly, "the anguish of his parents. When he wasn't found, it was believed that he had fallen into the Kicksey-Winsey. There were some who said at the time that the Kicksey-Winsey, angered at the 'why,' had seen fit to deal with him itself. Just when everyone believed he was dead and all were busy planning a memorial, the accused had the audacity to turn up alive."

 Limbeck smiled deprecatingly, and appeared embarrassed. The Froman, after an indignant snort, returned his attention to the Offense.

 "He said he had been Outside," said the Voice in hushed and awe-filled horror that carried well over the squawky-talk.

 The assembled Gegs gasped.

 "I didn't mean to be gone that long," Limbeck put in mildly. "I got lost."

 "Silence!" roared the Froman, and instantly regretted yelling. The pounding in his head increased. He turned the flashglamp on Limbeck, nearly blinding him. "You'll get your chance to speak, young man. Until then you'll sit quietly or you'll be taken from the court. Do you understand?"

 "Yes, sir. Yonor," Limbeck answered meekly, and subsided.

 "Anything else?" the High Froman asked the Offense peevishly. He couldn't feel his left foot at all, and the right one was beginning to tingle strangely.

 "It was after Limbeck's return that the accused formed the aforementioned organization known as WUPP. This so-called union advocates, among other things: the free and equal distribution of the Welves' payment, that all worshipers get together and pool their knowledge about the Kicksey-Winsey and so learn 'how' and 'why-' "

 "Blasphemy!" cried the shuddering Head Clark in hollow tones.

 "And that all Gegs cease to wait for the Judgment day and work to improve their lives themselves-"

 "Yonor!" The Head Clark leapt to his feet. "I ask that the court be cleared of children! It is appalling that young and impressionable minds should be subjected to such profane and dangerous notions."

 "They're not dangerous!" protested Limbeck.

 "Hush up!" The Froman scowled and gave the matter some thought. He hated to concede another point to his brother-in-law, but this did offer an ideal way to escape from his chair. "Court recessed. No children under the age of eighteen will be allowed back in. We'll break for lunch and return in an hour."

 With help from the warders-who had to literally pull him free-the High Froman heaved his bulk out of his chair. He removed the iron crown from his head, rubbed life back into his tortured posterior, stomped on his foot until he could feel it again, and breathed a sigh of relief.

 CHAPTER 11

 WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

 COURT RESUMED, MINUS CHILDREN AND THOSE PARENTS WHO WERE FORCE TO STAY home and take care of them. The High Froman, with a resigned and martyred expression, put on his crown and once more wedged himself into the torturous chair. The prisoner was brought in, and the Voice of the Offense concluded her case.

 "These dangerous ideas, so seductive to impressionable minds, actually swayed a group of young people as rebellious and discontented as the accused. The local Froman and the clarks- knowing, Yonor, that young people are by nature somewhat rebellious, and hoping that this was just a phase through which they were passing-"

 "Like pimples?" suggested the High Froman. This brought the desired laugh from the crowd, although they seemed somewhat uncertain about chuckling in the presence of the frowning Head Clark, and the laughter ended in a sudden spate of nervous coughing.

 "Er . . . yes, Yonor," said the Voice, resenting the interruption. The Head Clark smiled with the patient air of one who tolerates a dullard in his presence. The High Froman, seized with the sudden urge to throttle the Head Clark, missed a considerable portion of the Offensive Voice's speech.

 "-incited a riot during which the Kicksey-Winsey, Sector Y-362, sustained minor damage. Fortunately, the Kicksey-Winsey was able to heal itself almost immediately and so no lasting harm was done. At least to our revered idol!" The Offensive Voice rose to a screech. "What harm may have been done to those who dared do such a thing cannot be calculated. It is, therefore, our demand that the accused-Limbeck Bolttightner-be removed from this society so that he can never again lead our young people down this path that can only take them to doom and destruction!"

 The Voice of the Offense, having rested her case, retired behind the iron drum. Thunderous applause reverberated throughout the Factree. Here and there, however, came hisses and a boo, which caused the High Froman to look stern and brought the Head Clark to his feet.

 "Yonor, this outburst only goes to prove that the poison is spreading. We can do one thing to eradicate it." The Head Clark pointed at Limbeck. "Remove the source! I fear that if we do not, the Day of judgment that many of us feel to be at last close to hand will be postponed, perhaps indefinitely! I would urge you, in fact, Yonor, to prohibit the accused from speaking in this assembly!"

 "I don't consider four hisses and a boo an outburst," said Darral testily, glaring at the Head Clark. "Accused, you may speak in your own defense. But take care, young man, I'll tolerate no blasphemous harangues in this court."

 Limbeck rose slowly to his feet. He paused, as if pondering a course of action, and finally, after profound deliberation, laid the sheaf of papers down on the iron drum and removed his spectacles.

 "Yonor," said Limbeck with deep respect. "All I ask is that I be allowed to relate what happened to me the day that I was lost. It was a most remarkable occurrence and it will, I hope, serve to explain why I have felt the need to do what I have done. I have never told this to anyone before," he added solemnly, "not my parents, not even the person I hold most dear in all the world."

 "Will this take long?" asked the Froman, putting his hands on the arms of the chair and endeavoring to find a certain amount of relief from his cramped situation by leaning to one side.

 "No, Yonor," said Limbeck gravely.

 "Then proceed."

 "Thank you, Yonor. It happened the day I was thrown out of school. I had to get away, to do a lot of thinking. You see, I didn't consider that my 'why' had been blasphemous or dangerous. I don't hate the Kicksey-Winsey. I revere it, truly. It fascinates me! It's so wonderful, so big, so powerful." Limbeck waved his arms, his face lit by the holy radiance. "It draws its source of energy from the storm and does it with incredible efficiency. It can even take raw iron from the Terrel Fen below and turn that iron into steel and mold that steel into parts so that it is continually expanding. It can heal itself when it is injured.

 "It accepts our help gladly. We are its hands, its feet, its eyes. We go where it can't, help it when it gets into trouble. If a claw gets stuck on Terrel Fen, we have to go down and shake it loose. We push bleepers and turn whirly-wheels and raise the raisers and lower the lowers and everything runs smoothly. Or seems to. But I can't help," added Limbeck softly, "wondering why."

 The Head Clark, scowling, rose to his feet, but the High Froman, pleased to have an opportunity to gain one on the church, regarded him with a stern air. "I have given this young man permission to speak. I trust our people are strong enough to hear what he has to say without losing their faith. Don't you? Or has the church been derelict in its duties?"

 Biting his lip, the Head Clark sat back down and glared at the High Froman, who smiled complacently.

 "The accused may proceed."

 "Thank you, Yonor. You see, I've always wondered why there are parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that are dead. In some sectors it sits idle, rusting away or getting covered over with coralite. Some parts haven't moved in centuries. Yet the Mangers must have put them there for a reason. Why? What were they supposed to do and why aren't they doing it? And it occurred to me that if we knew why the parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that are alive are alive, and if we knew how they were doing it, then we might be able to understand the Kicksey-Winsey and its true purpose!

 "And that's one reason that I think all the scrifts should get together and pool their knowledge-"

 "Is this leading somewhere?" asked the High Froman irritably. His headache was starting to make him nauseous.

 "Er, yes." Limbeck nervously put his spectacles back on. "I was thinking these thoughts and wondering how I could make people understand, and I wasn't paying much attention to where I was going, and when I looked around, I discovered I had wandered completely outside of the Het town limits. Quite by accident, I assure you!

 "There weren't any fierce storms in the area just then, and I thought I'd take a little look around, sort of distract myself from my trouble. It was difficult walking and I guess I was concentrating on keeping my footing, because suddenly a storm struck. I needed shelter and I saw a large object lying on the ground, so I ran for it.

 "You can imagine my surprise, Yonor," said Limbeck, blinking at the High Froman from behind the thick glass lenses, "when I discovered that it was one of the Welves' dragonships."

 The words, echoing from the squawky-talk, resounded in the Factree. Gegs stirred and muttered among themselves.

 "On the ground? Impossible! The Welves never land on Drevlin!" The Head Clark was pious, smug, and self-satisfied. The High Froman appeared uneasy, but knew-from the reaction of the crowd-that he had allowed this to proceed too far to stop now.

 "They hadn't landed," Limbeck explained. "The ship had crashed-"

 This created a sensation in the court. The Head Clark leapt to his feet. The Gegs were talking in excited voices, many shouting, "Shut him up!" and others answering, "You shut up! Let him talk!" The High Froman gestured to the warders, who shook the "thunder," and order was resumed.

 "I demand that this travesty of Justick stop!" boomed the Head Clark.

 The High Froman considered doing just that. Ending the trial now accomplished three things: it would rid him of this mad Geg, end his headache, and restore the circulation in his lower extremities. Unfortunately, however, it would appear to his constituents as if he had caved in to the church, plus, his brother-in-law would never let him forget it. No, better to let this Limbeck fellow go ahead and speak his piece. He would undoubtedly string together enough rope to hang himself before long.

 "I have made my ruling," said the High Froman in a terrible voice, glaring at the crowd and the Head Clark. "It stands!" He transferred the glare to Limbeck. "Proceed."

 "I admit that I don't know for certain the ship had crashed," amended Limbeck, "but I guessed that it had, for it was lying broken and damaged among the rocks. There was nowhere to go for shelter except inside the ship. A large hole had been torn in the skin, so I entered."

 "If what you say is true, you were fortunate that the Welves did not strike you down for your boldness!" cried the Head Clark.

 "The Welves weren't in much position to strike anyone down," returned Limbeck. "These immortal Welves-as you call them- were dead."

 Shouts of outrage, cries of horror and alarm, and a muffled cheer rang through the Factree. The Head Clark fell back into his seat, stricken. The Offense fanned him with her handkerchief and called for water. The High Froman sat bolt upright in shock and managed to wedge himself firmly and inextricably in his chair. Unable to rise to his feet to restore order, he could only wriggle and fume and wave the flashglamp, half-blinding the warders, who were attempting to pull him free.

 "Listen to me!" Limbeck shouted in the voice that had quelled multitudes. No other speaker in WUPP, Jarre included, could be as compelling and charismatic as Limbeck when he was inspired. This speech was the reason he had allowed himself to be arrested. This was, perhaps, his last chance to bring his message to his people. He would make the most of it.

 Jumping onto the iron drum, scattering his papers beneath his feet, Limbeck waved his hands to attract the crowd's attention.

 "These Welves from the realms above are not gods, as they would have us believe! They are not immortal, but are made of flesh and blood and bone like ourselves! I know, because I saw that flesh rotting away. I saw their corpses in that twisted wreckage.

 "And I saw their world! I saw your 'glorious heavens.' They had brought books with them, and I looked at some of them. And truly, it is heaven! They live in a world of wealth and magnificence. A world of beauty that we can only begin to imagine. A world of ease that is supported by our sweat and our labor! And let me tell you! They have no intention of ever 'taking us up to that world' as the clarks keep telling us they will, 'if we are worthy'! Why should they? They have us to use as willing slaves down here! We live in squalor, we serve the Kicksey-Winsey so that they can have the water they need to survive. We battle the storm every day of our miserable lives! So that they can live in luxury off our tears!

 "And that is why I say," shouted Limbeck over the rising tumult, "that we should learn all we can about the Kicksey-Winsey, take control of it, and force these Welves, who are not gods at all, but mortals, just like us, to give us our proper due!"

 Chaos broke out. Gegs were yelling, screaming, shoving, and pushing. Appalled at the monster he'd unwittingly unleashed.

 The Froman-finally freed from his chair-stomped his feet and pounded the butt-end of his flashglamp on the concrete with such ferocity that he yanked the tail free of the statue and doused the light.

 "Clear the court! Clear the court!"

 Coppers charged in, but it was some time before the excited Gegs could be made to leave the Factree. Then they milled around in the corridors for a while, but fortunately for the High Froman, the whistle-toot signaled a scrift change and the crowds dispersed-either going to perform their service for the Kicksey-Winsey or returning home.

 The High Froman, the Head Clark, the Offensive Voice, Limbeck, and the two warders with smeared face paint were left alone in the Factree.

 "You are a dangerous young man," said the High Froman. "These lies-"

 "They're not lies! They're the truth! I swear-"

 "These lies would, of course, never be believed by the people, but as we have seen this day when you recite them, they lead to turmoil and unrest! You have doomed yourself. Your fate is now in the hands of the Manger. Hold on to the prisoner and keep him quiet!" the High Froman ordered the warders, who latched on to Limbeck firmly, if reluctantly, as though his touch might contaminate them.

 The Head Clark had recovered sufficiently from his shock to appear smug and pious again, this expression mingling with righteous indignation and the certain conviction that sin was about to be punished, retribution exacted.

 The High Froman, walking somewhat unsteadily on feet to which the circulation was only now returning, made his way with aching head over to the statue of the Manger. Led along by the warders, Limbeck followed. Despite the danger, he was, as usual, deeply curious and far more interested in the statue of the Manger itself than in whatever verdict it might hand down. The Head Clark and the Voice crowded close to see. The High Froman, with many bowings and scrapings and mumbled prayers that were echoed reverently by the Head Clark, reached out, grasped the left hand of the Manger, and pulled on it.

 The eyeball that the Manger held in the right hand suddenly blinked and came to life. A light shone, and moving pictures began to flit across the eyeball. The High Froman cast a triumphant glance at the Head Clark and the Voice. Limbeck was absolutely fascinated.

 "The Manger speaks to us!" cried the Head Clark, falling to his knees.

 "A magic lantern!" said Limbeck excitedly, peering into the eyeball. "Only it isn't really magic, not like the magic of the Welves. It's mechanical magic! I found one on another part of the Kicksey-Winsey and I took it apart. Those pictures that seem to move are frames revolving around a light so fast that it fools the eyes-"

 "Silence, heretic!" thundered the High Froman. "Sentence has been passed. The Mangers say that you shall be given into their hands."

 "I don't think they're saying any such thing, Yonor," protested Limbeck. "In fact, I'm not certain what they're saying. I wonder why-"

 "Why? Why! You will have a lot of time to ask yourself why as you are falling into the heart of the storm!" shouted Darral.

 Limbeck was watching the magic lantern that was repeating the same thing over and over and did not clearly hear what the High Froman had said. "Heart of the storm, Yonor?" The thick lenses magnified his eyes and gave him a buglike appearance that the Froman found particularly disgusting.

 "Yes, so the Mangers have sentenced you." The High Froman pulled the hand and the eyeball blinked and went out.

 "What? In that picture? No, they didn't, Yonor," Limbeck argued. "I'm not certain what it is, but if you'd only give me a chance to study-"

 "Tomorrow morning," interrupted the High Froman, "you will be made to walk the Steps of Terrel Fen. May the Mangers have mercy on your soul!" Limping, one hand rubbing his numb backside and the other his pounding head, Darral Longshoreman turned on his heel and stalked out of the Factree.

 CHAPTER 12

WOMBE, LOW REALM

 "VISITOR" SAID THE TURNKEY THROUGH THE IRON BARS.

 "What?" Limbeck sat up on his cot.

 "Visitor. Your sister. Come along."

 Keys jangled. The closer clicked and the door swung open. Limbeck, considerably startled and extremely confused, rose from the cot and followed the turnkey to the visitors' vat. As far as he knew, Limbeck didn't have a sister. Admittedly, he'd been gone from home a number of years, and he didn't know all that much about rearing children, but he had the vague impression that it took a considerable length of time for a child to be born, then be up walking about, visiting brothers in jail.

 Limbeck was just performing the necessary calculations when he entered the visitors' vat. A young woman flung herself at him with such force that she nearly knocked him down.

 "My dear brother!" she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with more attachment than is generally displayed between siblings.

 "You've got till the whistle-toot blows the next scrift change," said the turnkey in bored tones as he slammed shut and locked the closer behind him.

 "Jarre?" said Limbeck, blinking at her. He'd left his spectacles in the cell.

 "Well, of course!" she said, hugging him fiercely. "Who else did you think it would be?"

 "I... I wasn't sure' Limbeck stammered. He was extremely pleased to see Jarre, but he couldn't help experiencing a slight twinge of disappointment at the loss of a sister. It seemed that family might be a comfort at a time like this. "How did you get here?"

 "Odwin Screwloosener has a brother-in-law who serves on one of the flashraft runs. He got me on. Didn't it make you furious," she said, releasing her grip on Limbeck, "to see the enslavement of our people exhibited before your eyes?"

 "Yes, it did," answered Limbeck. He was not surprised to hear that Jarre had experienced the same sensations and thought the same thoughts he had during the flashraft journey across Drevlin. The two often did this.

 She turned away from him, slowjy unwinding the heavy scarf from around her head. Limbeck wasn't certain-Jarre's face was pretty much a blur to him without his spectacles-but he had the feeling that her expression was troubled. It might be, of course, the fact that he was sentenced to be executed, but Limbeck doubted it. Jarre tended to take things like that in stride. This was something different, something deeper.

 "How is the Union getting along?" Limbeck asked.

 Jarre heaved a sigh. Now, Limbeck thought, we're getting somewhere.

 "Oh, Limbeck," Jarre said, half-irritable, half-sorrowful, "why did you have to go and tell those ridiculous stories during the trial?"

 "Stories?" Limbeck's bushy eyebrows shot up into the roots of his curly hair. "What stories?"

 "You know-the ones about the Welves being dead and books with pictures of heaven in them-"

 "Then the newssingers sang them?" Limbeck's face glowed with pleasure.

 "Sang them!" Jarre wrung her hands. "They shouted them at every scrift change! Those stories were all we heard-"

 "Why do you keep calling them stories?." Then, suddenly, Limbeck understood. "You don't believe them! What I said in court was true, Jarre! I swear by-"

 "Don't swear by anything," Jarre interrupted coldly. "We don't believe in gods, remember?"

 "I swear by my love for you, my dear," said Limbeck, "that all I said was true. All those things really happened to me. It was that sight and the knowledge it brought-the knowledge that these Welves aren't gods at all, but mortals just like us-that gave me the inspiration to start our Union. It's the memory of that sight which gives me the courage to face what I am facing now," he said with a quiet dignity that touched Jarre to the heart.

 Weeping, she threw herself into his arms again.

 Patting her comfortingly on her broad back, Limbeck asked gently, "Have I hurt the cause a great deal?"

 "No-o-o," hedged Jarre in a muffled voice, keeping her face buried in Limbeck's now-tear-sodden tunic. "Actually, uh . . . You see, my dear, we let it ... urn ... be known that the torture and hardship you suffered at the hands of the brutal imperialist-"

 "But they haven't tortured me. They've really been very nice to me, my dear."

 "Oh, Limbeck!" cried Jarre, pushing away from him in exasperation. "You're hopeless!"

 "I'm sorry," said Limbeck.

 "Now, listen to me," Jarre continued briskly, wiping her eyes. "We don't have much time. The most important thing we've got going for us right now is this execution of yours. So don't mess that up! Don't"-she raised a warning finger-"say anything more about dead Welves and suchlike."

 Limbeck sighed. "I won't," he promised.

 "You're a martyr for the cause. Don't forget that. And for our cause's sake, try to look the part." She cast a disapproving eye over his stout figure. "I believe you've actually gained weight!"

 "The prison food is really quite-"

 "Think of someone besides yourself at a time like this, Limbeck," Jarre scolded. "You've got only tonight left. You can't look emaciated by that time, I suppose, but do the best you can. Could you manage to bloody yourself up?"

 "I don't think so," Limbeck said abjectly, aware of his limitations.

 "Well, we'll have to make the best of it." Jarre sighed. "Whatever you do, try to at least look martyred."

 "I'm not sure how."

 "Oh, you know-brave, dignified, defiant, forgiving."

 "All at once?"

 "The forgiving part is very important. You might even say something along those lines as they're strapping you onto the lightning bird."

 "Forgiveness," muttered Limbeck, committing it to memory.

 "And a final defiant shout when they shove you off the edge. Something about 'WUPP forever . . . they'll never defeat us.' And you returning, of course."

 "Defiance. WUPP forever. Me returning." Limbeck peered at her myopicalty. "Am I? Returning?"

 "Well, of course. I said we'd get you out and I meant it. You didn't think we'd let them execute you, did you?"

 "Well, I-"

 "You're such a druskh," Jarre said, playfully ruffling up his hair. "Now, you know how this bird thing works-"

 The whistle-toot went off, its blast resounding through the city.

 "Time!" shouted the turnkey. His fat face pressed against the iron bars of the door to the visitors' vat. He began to rattle the opener in the closer.

 Jarre, a look of annoyance on her face, walked over to the door and peered through the bars. "Five more tocks."

 The turnkey frowned.

 "Remember," said Jarre, holding up a formidable-looking fist, "that you'll be letting me out."

 The turnkey, muttering something unintelligible, walked away.

 "Now," said Jarre, turning around again, "where was I? Oh, yes. This bird contraption. According to Lof Lectric-"

 "What does he know about it?" demanded Limbeck jealously.

 "He's with the Lectriczinger scrift," replied Jarre in lofty tones. "They fly the lightning birds to harvest lectric for the Kicksey-Winsey. Lof says that they'll put you on top of what looks like two giant wings made out of wood and tier feathers with a cable attached. They strap you to this thing and then shove you off above the Steps of Terrel Fen. You float around in the storm and get hit by hail and driving rain and sleet-"

 "Not lightning?" asked Limbeck nervously.

 "No." Jarre was reassuring.

 "But it's called a lightning bird."

 "It s only a name."

 "But with my weight on it, won't it sink instead of fly up into the air?"

 "Of course! Will you stop interrupting me?"

 "Yes," said Limbeck meekly.

 "The contraption will begin to fall, snapping the cable. The lightning bird will eventually crash into one of the isles of the Terrel Fen."

 "It will?" Limbeck was pale.

 "But don't worry. Lof says that the main frame is almost certain to withstand the impact. It's very strong. The Kicksey-Winsey produces the wooden sticks-"

 "Why, I wonder?" mused Limbeck. "Why should the Kicksey-Winsey make wooden sticks?"

 "How would I know!" Jarre shouted. "And what does it matter anyway! Now, listen to me." She put both hands on his beard and tugged until she saw tears in his eyes, long experience having taught her that this was one sure way of getting his mind off its latest tangent. "You'll land on one of the islands of the Terrel Fen. These islands are being mined by the Kicksey-Winsey. When the dig-claws come down to dig up the ore, you must put a mark on one of them. Our people will be watching for it, and when the dig-claw comes back up, we'll see your mark and know which island you're on."

 "That's a very good plan, my dear!" Limbeck smiled at her in admiration.

 "Thank you." Jarre flushed with pleasure. "All you have to do is stay away from the dig-claws so that you won't get mined yourself."

 "Yes, I'll do that."

 "The next time the dig-claws come down, we'll make certain that a help-hand is lowered." Seeing Limbeck look puzzled, Jarre patiently explained. "You know-one of the claws with a bubble clutched in it that carries a Geg down to the isle to free a stuck claw."

 "Is that how they do it?" Limbeck marveled.

 "I wish you'd served the Kicksey-Winsey!" Jarre said, tugging on his beard in irritation. "There, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." She kissed him and rubbed his cheeks to erase the pain. "You're going to be all right. Just remember that. When we bring you up, we'll put it out that you were judged innocent. It will be obvious that Mangers support you, and that therefore they support our cause. We'll have Gegs flocking to join us! The day of revolution will dawn!" Jarre's eyes gleamed.

 "Yes! Wonderful!" Limbeck was caught up in her enthusiasm.

 The turnkey, nose thrust between the bars, coughed meaningfully.

 "All right, I'm coming!" Jarre wound her scarf back around her head. With some difficulty, muffled by the scarf, she kissed Limbeck a final time, leaving fuzz in his mouth. The turnkey opened the door. "Remember," Jarre said mysteriously, "martyred."

 "Martyred," Limbeck agreed good-naturedly.

 "And no more stories about dead gods!" The last was said in a piercing whisper as the turnkey hustled her away.

 "They're not"-Limbeck began-"stories."

 He said the last with a sigh. Jarre was gone.

 CHAPTER 13

 WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

 THE GEGS, A VERY GENTLE AND GOOD-NATURED PEOPLE, HAD NEVER, IN THEIR ENTIRE history (that they could remember), been to war. Taking another Geg's life was unheard-of, undreamt-of, unthinkable. Only the Kicksey-Winsey had the right to kill a Geg, and that was generally by accident. And, although the Gegs had execution down on their lawbooks as a punishment for certain terrible crimes, they couldn't ever bring themselves to actually put another one of their fellows to death. Therefore they dumped it in the laps of the Mangers, who weren't around to protest. If the Mangers wanted the condemned to live, they'd see to it that he lived. If they didn't, he didn't.

 Walking the Steps of Terrel Fen was the Gegs' term for this method of ridding themselves of undesirables. The Terrel Fen are a series of small islands that float beneath Drevlin, revolving downward in a never-ending spiral until they eventually vanish into the swirling clouds of the All-dark. It was said that in the ancient days, just after the Sundering, it was actually possible to "walk" the Terrel Fen, the islands being close enough to Drevlin that a Geg could leap from one to the other. The ancient Gegs presumably forced their criminals to do this very thing.

 Over the centuries, however, the islands had gradually been pulled deeper and deeper into the Maelstrom, so that now one could-during pauses in the storm-only vaguely make out the shape of the nearest island drifting down below. As one of their more ingenuous High Fromen pointed out, a Geg would have to sprout wings in order to survive long enough for the Mangers to judge him on the way down. This led, quite naturally, to the Gegs thoughtfully providing wings for the condemned, which led to the development of the "bird contraption" that Jarre had described.

 "The "Feathers of Justick" was its formal appellation. It was made of the finely shaped and neatly trimmed wood pieces spit out by the Kicksey-Winsey for use in the lectriczingers.

 The wooden frame, four feet wide, had a wingspan of about fourteen feet. The frame was covered with a woven material (another product of the Kicksey-Winsey) that was then decorated with her feathers, held in place by a sticky substance made of flour and water. Ordinarily, a strong cable attached to the lectriczinger allowed it to zoom up into the heart of the storm and harvest lightning. But, of course, it couldn't very well do this with a two-hundred-rock Geg weighing it down.

 During a lull in the storms, the offending Geg was taken to the edge of Drevlin and placed in the center of the Feathers of Justick. His wrists were strapped securely to the wooden frame, his feet dangled out over the back end. Six clarks lifted the contraption and, at the order of the High Froman, ran with it to the edge of the isle and cast it off.

 The only Gegs present to witness the execution were the High Froman, the Head Clark, and six minor clarks necessary to send the Wings of Justick into the air. Long ago, all Gegs not serving the Kicksey-Winsey had attended executions. But then had come the sensational "walking" of the notorious Dirk Screw. Drunk on the job, Dirk fell asleep, and didn't notice the tiny hand on the whistle-toot attached to the bubble-boiler waving at him wildly. The resultant explosion parboiled several Gegs and- what was worse-seriously damaged the Kicksey-Winsey, which was obliged to shut itself down for a day and a half to effect repairs.

 Dirk, though severely steam-burned, was taken alive and was sentenced to Walking the Steps. Crowds of Gegs came to witness the execution. Those at the back, complaining that they couldn't see, began to push and shove their way to the front, with the tragic result that numerous Gegs standing on the edge of the isle took unexpected "walks." The High Froman banned all further public viewing of executions from that time forward.

 On this occasion, the public didn't miss much. Limbeck was so fascinated by the proceedings that he completely forgot to look martyred, and highly annoyed the clarks, who were strapping his hands to the wooden frame, with his endless string of questions.

 "What is this stuff made from?" Referring to the paste. "What holds the frame together? How big are the sheets of fabric wrapped around the frame? Do they come that big? Really? Why does the Kicksey-Winsey make fabric?"

 Finally the Head Clark, in the interests of protecting the innocent, decreed that a gag be placed in Limbeck's mouth. This was done, and the Feathers of Justick was ready to be cast off into the air without ceremony at the hurried command of the High Froman, who-crown on his head-had a splitting headache and wasn't able to erjoy the execution in the slightest.

 Six stout clarks grasped the main-frame section of the Feathers and hoisted it up over their heads. At the signal from the Head Clark, they broke into a lumbering run, dashing down a ramp, heading for the edge of the isle. Suddenly and unexpectedly, a gust of wind caught the Feathers, snatched it from their hands, and lifted it into the air. The Feathers bucked and lurched, spun around three times, then crashed down to the ground.

 "What the samhill are you doing out there?" shouted the High Froman. "What the samhill are they doing out there?" he demanded of his brother-in-law, who-looking harassed-ran to the edge to find out.

 The clarks extricated Limbeck from the broken lectriczinger and brought him, dizzy and spitting feathers out of his mouth, back to the starting platform. Another Feathers of Justick was procured-the High Froman fuming at the delay-and Limbeck was strapped on. The clarks received a stern lecture from their superior about the need to hold on tightly to the frame, and then they were off.

 The wind lifted the Feathers at just the right moment and Limbeck sailed gracefully into the air. The cable snapped. The clarks, the Head Clark, and the High Froman stood at the edge of the isle watching the feathered contraption glide slowly outward and sink slowly downward.

 Somehow or other, Limbeck must have managed to yank the gag from his mouth, because Darral Longshoreman could have sworn that he heard a last "Whyyyyy?" trail off into the heart of the Maelstrom. Removing the iron crown off his head, he fought back an impulse to hurl it over the edge of the isle, and-heaving a vast sigh of relief-returned to his home in the holding tank.

 Limbeck, floating on the air currents swirling him gently round and round, twisted his neck to look at the isle of Drevlin above him. For many moments he enjoyed the sensation of flying, circling lazily beneath the isle, peering up at the coralite formations that appeared unique from this viewpoint-much different than when seen from up above. Limbeck wasn't wearing his spectacles (he had them wrapped in a handkerchief tucked safely away in a pocket of his trousers), but having been caught in an updraft, he found himself swept quite close to the bottom of the isle and therefore had an excellent view.

 Millions and millions of holes bored up into the interior. Some were extremely large-Limbeck could easily have sailed into one if he had been able to manage the wings. He was quite startled to see thousands of bubbles drifting out of these holes. They burst almost immediately when they hit the open air, and Limbeck realized in a flash that he had happened on a remarkable discovery.

 "The coralite must produce some sort of gas that is lighter than air and so keeps the island afloat." His mind went to the picture he'd seen on the Eyeball. "Why would some islands float higher than others? Why would the island that the Welves live on, for example, be higher than ours? Their island must weigh less, that's logical. But why? Ah, of course." Limbeck didn't notice, but he was rapidly descending in a spiral that would have made him dizzy if he had thought about it. "Mineral deposits. That would account for the difference in weight. We must have more mineral deposits-such as iron and so forth-on our island than the Welves do on theirs. Which is probably why the Mangers built the Kicksey-Winsey down here instead of up there. But that still doesn't explain why it was built in the first place."

 Moved to write down his latest observation, Limbeck was irritated to find that his hands were tied to something. Looking to see what, he was recalled to his current interesting, if desperate, situation. The sky around him was growing rapidly darker. He could no longer see anything of Drevlin. The wind was blowing harder and had taken on a distinct circular motion; the ride was growing considerably more bumpy and erratic. He was tossed this way and that way, upward and downward and around and around. Rain began to pelt down on him, and Limbeck made another discovery. Although not as momentous as the first, this one had rather more impact.

 The paste solution holding the feathers to the fabric dissolved in water. Limbeck watched in growing alarm as, one by one and then in clumps, the tier feathers began sliding off. Limbeck's first impulse was to loosen his hands, although what he would do when his hands were loose wasn't exactly obvious. He gave a violent tug at his right wrist. This had the effect-and a startling effect it was-of causing the contraption to flip completely over in midair.

 Limbeck found himself hanging by his wrists from the rapidly defeathering wings, staring down at his feet. After the first moment of sickening panic subsided and Limbeck was fairly certain he wasn't going to throw up, he noticed that his situation had improved. The fabric, now missing most of the feathers, billowed out above him, slowing his rate of descent, and though he was still getting tossed around considerably, the motion was more stable and less erratic.

 The laws of aerodynamics were just beginning to emerge from Limbeck's fertile mind when he saw, materializing out of the storm clouds below him, a darkish blob. Squinting, Limbeck ascertained at length that the blob was one of the islands of the Terrel Fen. It had seemed to him that when he was among the clouds, he was drifting down very slowly, and he was astonished to note that the isle appeared to be rising up to meet him at an alarming rate of speed. It was at this point that Limbeck discovered two laws simultaneously: the theory of relativity being one, the law of gravity being another.

 Unfortunately, both laws were driven clean out of his head by the impact.

 CHAPTER 14

 SOMEWHERE, UYLANDIA CLUSTER, MID REALM

   THE MORNING LIMBECK WAS GLIDING DOWNWARD INTO THE TERREL FEN, HUGH AND the prince were flying dragonback into the nightside somewhere over the Uylandia Cluster. The flight was cold and cheerless. Trian had given the dragon its directions, so that Hugh had nothing to do but sit in the saddle and think. He could not even tell what track they were flying, for a magical cloud accompanied them.

 The dragon would occasionally dip down below the cloud to get its bearings, and then Hugh tried to glean, from the softly glowing coralite landscape moving smoothly beneath them, some idea of where he was and where he had been. Hugh had no doubt but that he'd been double-crossed, and he would have given half the money in his purse to know the whereabouts of Stephen's hideout in case he decided to complain about his treatment in person. It was useless, however, and he soon gave up.

 "I'm hungry-" began Bane, his childish high voice splitting the still night air.

 "Hold your tongue!" snapped Hugh.

 He heard a swift intake of breath. Glancing around, he saw the boy's eyes widen and shimmer with tears. The kid had probably never been yelled at in his entire life.

 "Sound carries clearly in the night air, Your Highness," said the Hand softly. "If someone is following us, we don't want to make it easy for him."

 "Is someone following us?" Bane was pale but undaunted, and Hugh gave the kid credit for courage.

 "I think so, Your Highness. But don't worry."

 The prince pressed his lips tightly together. Timidly he slid his arms around Hugh's waist. "That doesn't bother you, does it?" he whispered.

 Small arms tightened around Hugh, he felt a warm body nestle against his, and the child's head rested lightly on his strong back. "I'm not afraid," Bane added stoutly, "it's just nicer when you're close."

 A strange sensation swept over the assassin. Hugh felt suddenly dark and empty and abhorrently evil. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the impulse to free himself of the kid's touch by concentrating on their immediate danger.

 Someone was following them. Whoever it was, he was good at it, too. Twisting around in the saddle, Hugh searched the sky, hoping that their shadow-fearful of losing sight of them-might grow careless and show himself. Hugh saw nothing, however. He couldn't even have told exactly how he knew they had company. It was a prickling at the back of his neck, instinct reacting to a sound, a smell, something glimpsed from the corner of the eye. He quietly accepted the warning, his one thought: Who was trailing them and why?

 Trian. There was that possibility, of course, but Hugh discounted it. The wizard knew their destination better than they did. He might have been following them to make certain the Hand didn't attempt to subvert the dragon and make off with it. That would have been foolish in the extreme. Hugh was no wizard, he knew better than to meddle with a spell, especially one laid on a dragon. Ensorceled, dragons were obedient and tractable. Break the enchantment, and they regained their own will and intelligence and became totally erratic and unpredictable. They might continue to serve you, but they might also decide to make you their evening repast.

 If it wasn't Trian, who was it?

 Someone from the queen, no doubt. Hugh cursed the wizard and his king long and hard beneath his breath. The bungling fools had let slip their plans. Now, undoubtedly, Hugh had to contend with some baron or earl attempting to rescue the child. The Hand would have to rid himself of this nuisance, which meant laying a trap, cutting a throat, hiding a body. The kid would probably recognize the man, know him to be a friend. He would grow suspicious. Hugh would have to convince the prince that the friend had been an enemy; that his enemy was truly his friend. It looked to be a lot of bother, and all because Trian and his guilt-ridden king had been careless.

 Well, thought Hugh grimly, it'll cost them.

 The dragon began spiraling down, without guidance from Hugh, and the Hand guessed that they had reached their destination. The magical cloud disappeared and Hugh glimpsed a patch of forest, dark black against the blue-glowing coralite, and then a large cleared area and the sharply defined and delineated shapes that were never found in nature but were created by man.

 It was a small village, nestled in a valley of coralite and surrounded by heavy forests. Hugh knew of many such towns that used the hills and trees to hide themselves from elven attack. They paid the penalty by being well off the major airlanes, but if it came to a question of living well or living at all, some people gladly chose poverty.

 Hugh knew the value of life. Measuring it against good living, he considered them fools.

 The dragon circled the sleeping village. Seeing a glade in the forest, Hugh guided the beast to a smooth landing. As he unpacked their gear from the dragon's back, he wondered where their shadow had set down. He did not spend much time considering the question. The Hand had laid his snare. It required only baiting.

 The dragon left them immediately after it was unloaded. Rising into the air, it disappeared above the treetops. Casually, taking his time, Hugh shouldered the packs. Motioning to the prince to follow, he was heading off into the woods when he felt a tug at his sleeve.

 "What is it, Your Highness?"

 "Can we talk out loud now?" The child's eyes were wide.

 Hugh nodded.

 "I can carry my own pack. I'm stronger than I look. My father says someday I'm going to grow up to be as tall and strong as he is."

 Stephen said that, did he? To a kid he knew would never grow up. If I had that bastard in front of me, it'd be a pleasure to twist his neck.

 Silently Hugh handed Bane the pack. They reached the edge of the forest and plunged into the deep shadows beneath the hargast trees. Soon they would be lost to sight and hearing, their feet making no sound on the thick carpet of fine dustlike crystals.

 The Hand felt another tug at his sleeve.

 "Sir Hugh," said Bane, pointing, "who's that?"

 Startled, the Hand glanced around. "There's no one there, Your Highness."

 "Yes, there is," said the child. "Don't you see him? It's a Kir monk."

 Hugh halted and stared at the boy.

 "It's all right if you don't see him," added Bane, shifting his pack to lie more comfortably across his small shoulders. "I see lots of things other people don't. But I've never seen a Kir monk walk with anyone before. Why is he with you?"

 "Let me carry it, Your Highness." Hugh took the pack from the prince and, propelling the child in front of him with a firm grip of his hand, resumed walking.

 Damn Trian! The blasted wizard must have let something else slip. The kid had picked up on it and now his imagination was running wild. He might even guess the truth. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. It only made the assassin's job that much more difficult-and therefore that much more expensive.

 The two spent what was left of the night in a water harvester's warming shed. The sky was lightening; Hugh could see the faint glimmer of the firmament that presaged dawn. The edges of the Lords of Night glistened a fiery red. Now he could determine the direction in which they were moving and could at last orient himself. Inspecting the contents of his pack before leaving the monastery, he'd ascertained that he had all the proper navigational equipment-his own having been taken from him in Yreni prison. He removed a small leather-bound book and silver baton topped by a quartz sphere. The baton had a spike on the end and Hugh shoved it into the ground.

 All such sextants are of elven make-humans possessing no mechanical magic skills. This one was practically new and he guessed it was a trophy of war. Hugh gave the baton a tap with his finger and the sphere rose into the air, much to the delight of Bane, who was watching in wide-eyed fascination.

 Scarcity of water in the Mid Realm means that much of it must be harvested from plant life. Water farmers raise such water-producing plants; water harvesters go foraging for the liquid.

 "What's it doing?" he demanded.

 "Look through it," Hugh offered.

 The prince hesitantly placed his eye level with the sphere. "I just see a bunch of numbers," he said, disappointed.

 "That's what you're supposed to see." Hugh made a mental note of the first number, turned a ring at the bottom of the baton, read off the second, and finally a third. Then he began flipping pages in the book.

 "What are you looking for?" Bane squatted down on his haunches to peer over Hugh's arm.

 "Those numbers you saw are the position of the Lords of Night, the five Ladies of Light, and Solarus, all in relation to each other. I find the numbers in this book, match them with the time of year, which tells me where the islands are located at this particular moment, and it should tell me within a few menkas where we are."

 "What funny writing!" Bane turned his head nearly upside-down to see. "What is it?"

 "It's elvish. Their navigators were the ones who figured all this out and came up with the magical device that takes the readings."

 The boy frowned. "Why didn't we use something like that when we flew on the dragon?"

 "Because dragons know instinctively where they are. No one's sure how, but they use all their senses-sight, hearing, smell, touch-plus some we probably don't even know exist to guide them. Elf magic won't work on dragons, so they had to build dragonships and they had to make things like this to tell them where they were. That's why"-Hugh grinned-"elves consider us barbarians."

 "Well, where are we? Do you know?"

 "I know," said Hugh. "And now it's time, Your Highness, for a nap."

 They were on Pitrin's Exile, probably about 123 menkas backtrack [8] from Winsher. Hugh felt more relaxed, once this was in his mind. It had been unsettling, not being able to tell up from down, so to speak. Now he knew and he could rest. It wouldn't be full light for another three hours.

 Rubbing his eyes, yawning, and stretching, like a man who has traveled far and is bone-tired, Hugh-shoulders slumped and feet dragging-marched the prince into the shed. Seeming half-asleep, the assassin gave the door a push to close it. It didn't shut all the way, but he was, apparently, too tired to notice.

 Bane took a blanket from his pack, spread it, and lay down. Hugh did the same, shutting his eyes. When he heard the child's breathing fall into a slow and steady rhythm, he swiftly twisted, catlike, to his feet and crept silently across the floor of the shed.

 The prince was already fast asleep. Hugh looked at him closely, but the boy did not appear to be shamming. Curled up in a ball, lying on top of his blanket, he would freeze in the chill predawn air.

 Fishing another blanket out of his pack, Hugh tossed it over the kid, then moved silently back to the opposite side of the shed, the side near the door. He slipped off his tall boots and laid them on the floor, carefully arranging them so that they were turned sideways, one resting on top of the other. He dragged his pack over and laid it just above his boots. Removing the fur cloak, he wrapped it in a ball and placed it next to the pack. A blanket, spread over the cape and pack, left the soles of the boots showing. Anyone looking in from the doorway would see the feet of a blanket-wrapped man fast asleep.

 Satisfied, Hugh drew his dagger from his boot and squatted down in a dark corner of the shed. Eyes on the door, he waited.

 Half an hour passed. The shadow was giving Hugh ample time to fall into deep sleep.

 The Hand waited patiently. It wouldn't be too long now. Day had dawned fully. The sun was shining. The man must fear they would waken and start on their way again. The assassin watched the thin ribbon of gray light streaming in through the partially shut door. When that ribbon began to widen, Hugh's hand tightened its grip on the dagger.

 Slowly, silently, the door swung open.

 A head thrust inside. The man looked long and carefully at the supposedly slumbering figure of Hugh beneath the blanket, then turned the same careful scrutiny to the boy. Hugh held his breath. Apparently satisfied, the man entered the shed.

 Hugh expected the man to be armed and to immediately attack the dummy of himself. The assassin was disconcerted to see that the man carried no weapon in his hand and was padding soft-footed over to the boy. It was just to be a rescue, then.

 Hugh leapt, wrapped an arm around the man's neck, and put the dagger to his throat.

 "Who sent you? Tell me the truth and I'll reward you with a quick death."

 The body in Hugh's grasp went limp and the assassin saw, in astonishment, that the man had fainted.

 CHAPTER 15

 PITRIN'S EXILE, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM

 "NOT EXACTLY THE SORT OF PERSON I'D SEND OUT ON A MISSION TO RESCUE MY SON from the hands of an assassin," muttered Hugh, stretching out the comatose man on the floor of the shed. "But then, maybe the queen's having trouble finding bold knights these days. Unless he's shamming."

 The man's age was indeterminable. The face appeared careworn and haggard. He was bald on the top of his head; wispy gray hair hung in a long fringe around the sides. But his cheeks were smooth, and the wrinkles around the mouth came from worry, not age. Tall and gangly, he appeared to have been put together by someone who had run out of the correct parts and been forced to substitute. His feet and hands were too big; his head, with its delicate, sensitive features, seemed too small.

 Kneeling beside the man, Hugh lifted a finger and bent it back until it almost touched the wrist. The pain was excruciating, and a person feigning unconsciousness would invariably betray himself. The man didn't even twitch.

 Hugh gave him a sound smack on the cheek to bring him around, and was about to add another when he heard the boy coming up to his side.

 "Is that who was following us?" The prince, keeping close to Hugh, stared curiously. "Why that's Alfred!" The boy grasped hold of the collar of the man's cape, jerked his head up, and shook him. "Alfred! Wake up! Wake up!"

 Bang! went the man's head against the floor.

 The prince shook him again. The man's head bumped the floor again, and Hugh-relaxing-sat back to watch.

 "Oh, oh, oh!" Alfred groaned each time his head hit the floor. Opening his eyes, he stared dazedly at the prince and made a feeble effort to remove the small hands from his collar.

 "Please . . . Your Highness. I'm quite awake, now . . . Ouch! Thank you, Your Highness, but that won't be necess-"

 "Alfred!" The prince threw his arms around him, hugging the man so tightly he nearly smothered him. "We thought you were an assassin! Have you come to travel with us?"

 Rising to a sitting position, Alfred gave Hugh-and particularly Hugh's dagger-a nervous glance. "Uh, traveling with you may not be quite feasible, Your-"

 "Who are you?" interrupted Hugh.

 The man rubbed his head and answered humbly, "Sir, my name-"

 "He's Alfred," interrupted Bane, as if that explained everything. Noting from Hugh's grim face that it didn't, the boy added, "He's in charge of all my servants and he chooses my tutors and makes certain my bathwater's not too hot-"

 "My name is Alfred Montbank, sir," the man said.

 "You're Bane's servant?"

 " 'Chamberlain' is the correct term, sir," said Alfred, flushing. "And that is your prince to whom you are referring in such a disrespectful manner."

 "Oh, that's all right, Alfred," said Bane, sitting back on his heels. His hand toyed with the feather amulet he wore around his neck. "I told Sir Hugh he could call me by my name, since we're traveling together. It's much easier than saying 'Your Highness' all the time."

 "You're the one who's been following us," Hugh said.

 "It is my duty to be with His Highness, sir."

 Hugh raised a black eyebrow. "Obviously somebody didn't see it that way."

 "I was mistakenly left behind." Alfred lowered his gaze, staring fixedly at the floor of the shed. "His Majesty the king flew off so quickly, he undoubtedly overlooked me."

 "And so you followed him-and the boy."

 "Yes, sir. I was almost too late. I had to pack some things I knew the prince would need, which Trian had forgotten. I was forced to saddle my own dragon, and then I had an argument with the palace guards, who didn't want to let me leave. The king and Trian and the prince had disappeared by the time I was through the gates. I had no idea what to do, but the dragon seemed to have some notion of where it wanted to go and-"

 "It would follow its stablemates. Go on."

 "We found them. That is, the dragon found them. Not wanting to presume to thrust myself into their company, I kept a proper distance. Eventually we landed in that dreadful place-"

 "The Kir monastery."

 "Yes, I-"

 "Could you get back there again if you had to?"

 Hugh put the question casually, easily, out of curiosity. Alfred answered, never dreaming his life hung in the balance.

 "Why, yes, sir, I think I could. I've a good knowledge of the countryside, especially the lands surrounding the castle." Lifting his gaze, he looked directly at Hugh. "Why do you ask?"

 The assassin was tucking the dagger back into his boot. "Because that's Stephen's secret hideout you stumbled across. The guards will tell him you followed him. He'll know you found it-your disappearance clinches it. I wouldn't give a drop of water for your chances of living to a ripe old age if you went back to court."

 "Merciful Sartan!" Alfred's face was the color of clay-he might have been wearing a mask of silt. "I didn't know! I swear, noble sir!" Reaching out, he grasped Hugh's hand pleadingly. "I'll forget the way, I promise-"

 "I don't want you to forget it. Who knows, it might come in handy one day."

 "Yes, sir . . ." Alfred hesitated.

 "This is Sir Hugh." Bane introduced them. "He has a black monk walking with him, Alfred."

 Hugh stared at the child in silence. No expression shifted the stone facade of the face except perhaps for a slight narrowing of the dark eyes.

 Alfred, flushing red, reached out his hand and smoothed Bane's golden hair. "What have I told you, Your Highness?" said the chamberlain, gently rebuking. "It is not polite to tell people's secrets." He glanced apologetically at Hugh. "You must understand, Sir Hugh. His Highness is a clairvoyant and he has not quite learned how to handle his gift."

 Hugh snorted, rose to his feet, and began to roll up his blanket.

 "Please, Sir Hugh, allow me." Leaping up, Alfred sprang to snatch the blanket from Hugh's hand. One of the chamberlain's huge feet obeyed him. The other seemed to think it had received different orders and turned the opposite direction. Alfred stumbled, staggered, and would have pitched headfirst into Hugh had not the assassin caught his arm and shoved him upright.

 "Thank you, sir. I'm very clumsy, I'm afraid. Here, I can do that now." Alfred began struggling with the blanket, which seemed suddenly to have gained a malevolent life of its own. Corners slid through his fingers. He folded one end, only to unfold its opposite. Wrinkles and bumps popped up in the most unlikely places. It was difficult to tell, during the ensuing tussle, who was going to come out on top.

 "It's true about His Highness, sir," Alfred continued, wrestling furiously with the strip of cloth. "Our past clings to us, especially people who influenced us. His Highness can see them."

 Hugh stepped in, throttled the blanket, and rescued Alfred, who sat back, panting and wiping his high domed forehead.

 "I'll bet he can tell my fortune in the wine lees, too," Hugh said in a low voice, pitched so that the child wouldn't hear. "Where would he get that kind of talent? Only wizards beget wizards. Or maybe Stephen's not really this kid's father."

 Hugh shot this verbal arrow aimlessly, not expecting to hit anything. His shaft found a target, however, burying itself deep, from the looks of it. Alfred's face went a sickly green, the whites of his eyes showed clearly around the gray iris, and his lips moved soundlessly. Stricken, he stared speechless at Hugh.

 So, thought the Hand, this is beginning to make sense. At least it explains the kid's strange name. He glanced over at Bane. The child was rummaging through Alfred's pack.

 "Did you bring my sweetmelts? Yes!" Triumphantly he dug the candy out. "I knew you wouldn't forget."

 "Get your things together, Your Highness," ordered Hugh, throwing his fur cloak over his shoulders and hefting his own pack.

 "I'll do that, Your Highness." Alfred sounded relieved, glad for something to occupy his mind and his hands and keep his face averted from Hugh's. Out of three steps across the floor, he missed only one, which brought him to his knees, where he needed to be anyway. With great goodwill he set to do battle with the prince's blanket.

 "Alfred, you had a view of the landscape when you traveled. Do you know where we are?"

 "Yes, Sir Hugh." The chamberlain, sweating in the chill air, did not dare look up, lest the blanket take him unawares. "1 believe this village is known as Watershed."

 "Watershed," repeated the Hand. "Don't wander off, Your Highness," he added, noticing the prince starting to skip out of the door.

 The boy glanced back. "I just want to look around outside. I won't go far and I'll be careful."

 The chamberlain had given up attempting to fold the blanket and had at last stuffed it bodily into the pack. When the boy had disappeared out the door, Alfred turned to face Hugh.

 "You will allow me to accompany you, won't you, sir? I won't be any trouble, I swear."

 Hugh gazed at him intently.

 "You understand that you can never go back to the palace, don't you?"

 "Yes, sir. I've set fire to my bridge, as they say."

 "You haven't just set it on fire. You've cut it from the bank and dumped it down the gorge."

 Alfred ran a trembling hand over his bald pate and stared at the floor.

 "I'm taking you with me to look after the kid. You understand, he's not to go back to the palace either. I'm very good at tracking. It would be my duty to stop you before you did anything foolish, like trying to sneak him away."

 "Yes, sir. That's understood." Alfred raised his eyes and looked directly into Hugh's. "You see, sir, I know the reason the king hired you."

 Hugh flicked a glance outside. Bane was gleefully throwing rocks at a tree. His arms were thin, his throw clumsy. He continually fell short of the mark, but patiently and cheerfully kept at it.

 "You know about the plot against the prince's life?" Hugh questioned easily, his hand, beneath his cloak, moving to the hilt of his sword.

 "I know the reason," repeated Alfred. "It's why I'm here. I won't get in the way, sir, I promise you."

 Hugh was confounded. Just when he thought the web was unraveling, it got more tangled. The man knew the reason, he said. It sounded as if he meant the real reason! He knows the truth about the kid, whatever that is. Has he come to help or hinder? Help, that was almost laughable. This chamberlain couldn't dress himself without help. Yet, Hugh had to admit, he'd done an extremely efficient job of tailing them; not an easy matter on a dark night made darker by enchanted fog. And, at the Kir monastery, he had managed to conceal not only himself but also his dragon from a wizard's six senses. But someone that skilled in tracking, hiding, and tailing had fainted dead away when he felt a knife at his throat.

 There was no doubt this Alfred was a servant-the prince obviously knew him and treated him as such. But whom was he serving? The Hand didn't know, and he meant to find out. Meanwhile, whether Alfred was truly the fool he appeared or a cunning liar, the man had his uses, not the least of which would be to take charge of His Highness.

 "All right. Let's get started. We'll circle around the village, pick up the road about five miles outside it. Not likely anyone around here would know the prince by sight, but it'll save questions. Has the kid got a hood? Get it on him. And keep it on him." He cast a disgusted glance at Alfred's satin-coated, knee-breeched, beribboned, and silk-stockinged finery. "You stink of the court a mile off. But it can't be helped. Most likely they'll take you for a charlatan. First chance we get, I'll bargain with some peasant for a change of clothes."

 "Yes, Sir Hugh," Alfred murmured.

 Hugh stepped out the door. "We're leaving, Your Highness."

 Bane danced up eagerly and caught hold of Hugh's hand. "I'm ready. Are we going to stop at an inn for breakfast? My mother said we might. I've never been allowed to eat at an inn before-"

 He was interrupted by a crash and a stifled groan behind him. Alfred had encountered the door. Hugh shook the boy's hand free. The child's soft touch was almost physically painful.

 "I'm afraid not, Your Highness. I want to get clear of the village while it's still early, before people are up and stirring."

 Bane's mouth drooped in disappointment.

 "It wouldn't be safe, Your Highness." Alfred emerged, a large knot forming on his glistening forehead. "Especially if there is someone plotting to ... uh ... do you harm." He glanced at Hugh as he said this, and the assassin wondered again about Alfred.

 "I suppose you're right," the prince said with a sigh, accustomed to the problems of being famous.

 "But we will make a picnic under a tree," added the chamberlain.

 "And eat sitting on the ground?" Bane's spirits lifted, then fell. "Oh, but I forgot. Mother never allows me to sit on the grass. I might catch a chill or get my clothes dirty."

 "I don't think that this time she will mind," Alfred replied gravely.

 "If you're sure . . ." The prince put his head on one side and looked intently at Alfred.

 "I'm sure."

 "Hurrah!" Bane darted forward, skipping lightheartedly down the road. Alfred, clutching the prince's pack, hurried after him. He'd make better time, thought Hugh, if his feet could be persuaded to travel in the same general direction as the rest of his body.

 The assassin took his place behind them, keeping both under careful surveillance, hand on his sword. If Alfred so much as leaned over to whisper into the kid's ear, that whisper would be made with his last breath.

 A mile passed. Alfred seemed completely occupied with the task of staying on his own two feet, and Hugh, falling into the easy, relaxed rhythm of the road, let his inner eye take over guard duty. Freed, his mind wandered, and he found himself seeing, superimposed over the body of the prince, another boy walking along a road, though not with cheerful gaiety. This boy walked with an air of defiance; his body bore the marks of the punishment he had received for just such an attitude. Black monks walked along at his side. . . .

 . . ."Come, boy. The lord abbot wants to see you."

 It was cold in the Kir monastery. Outside the walls, the world sweat and sweltered in summer heat. Inside, death's chill stalked the bleak hallways and kept court in the shadows.

 The boy, who was not a boy any longer, but standing on the threshold of manhood, left his task and followed the monk through the silent corridors. The elves had raided a small village nearby. There were many dead, and most of the brothers had gone to burn the bodies and do reverence for those who had escaped the prisonhouse of their flesh.

 Hugh should have gone with them. His task and that of the other boys was to search for charcrystal and build the pyres. The brothers pulled the bodies from the wreckage, composed the twisted limbs and staring eyes, and placed them upon the heaped oil-soaked faggots. The monks said no word to the living. Their voices were for the dead, and the sound of their chanting echoed through the streets. That chant had come to be a music everyone on Uylandia and Volkaran dreaded to hear.

 Some of the monks sang the words:

 . . . each new child's birth, we die in our hearts, truth black, we are shown, death always returns . . .

 The other monks chanted over and over the single word "with." Inserting the "with" after the word "returns," they carried the dark song full-cycle.

 Hugh had accompanied the monks since he was six cycles old, but this time he'd been ordered to stay and complete his morning's work. He did as he was told, without question; to do otherwise would be to invite a beating, delivered impersonally and without malice, for the good of his soul. Often he had silently prayed to be left behind when the others went on one of these grim missions, but now he had prayed to be allowed to go.

 The gates boomed shut with an ominous dull thunder; the emptiness lay like a pall on his heart. Hugh had been planning his escape for a week. He had spoken of it to no one; the one friend he had made during his stay here was dead, and Hugh had been careful never to make another. He had the uneasy impression, however, that his secret plot must be engraved on his forehead, for it seemed that everyone who glanced at him kept looking at him with far more interest than they had ever before evinced.

 Now he had been left behind when the others were gone. Now he was being summoned into the presence of the lord abbot-a man he had seen only during services, a man to whom he had never spoken and who had never before spoken to him.

 Standing in the chamber of stone that shunned sunlight as something frivolous and fleeting, Hugh waited, with the patience that had been thrashed into him since childhood, for the man seated at the desk to acknowledge not only his presence but also his very existence. While Hugh waited, the fear and nervousness in which he'd lived for a week froze, dried up, and blew away. It was as if the cold atmosphere had numbed him to any human emotion or feeling. He knew suddenly, standing in that room, that he would never love, never pity, never feel compassion. From now on, he would never even know fear.

 The abbot raised his head. Dark eyes looked into Hugh's soul.

 "You were taken in by us when you were six cycles. I see in the records that ten cycles more have passed." The abbot did not speak to him by name. Doubtless he didn't even know it. "You are sixteen. It is time for you to make preparation for taking your vows and joining our brotherhood."

 Caught by surprise, too proud to lie, Hugh said nothing. His silence spoke the truth.

 "You have always been rebellious. Yet you are a hard worker, who never complains. You accept punishment without crying out. And you have adopted our precepts-I see that in you clearly. Why, then, will you leave us?"

 Hugh, having asked himself that question often in the dark and sleepless nights, was prepared with the answer.

 "I will not serve any man."

 The abbot's face, stern and forbidding as the stone walls around him, registered neither anger nor surprise. "You are one of us. Like it or not, wherever you go, you will serve, if not us, then our calling. Death will always be your master."

 Hugh was dismissed from the abbot's presence. The pain of the beating that followed slid away on the ice coating of the boy's soul. That night, Hugh made good his plans. Sneaking into the chamber where the monks kept their records, he found, in a book, information on the orphan boys the monks adopted. By the light of the stub of a stolen candle, Hugh searched for and discovered his own name.

 "Hugh Blackthorn. Mother: Lucy, last name unknown. Father: According to words spoken by the mother before she died, the child's father is Sir Perceval Blackthorn of Blackthorn Hall, Djern Hereva." A later entry, dated a week after, stated: "Sir Perceval refuses to acknowledge the child and bids us 'do with the bastard as we will.' "

 Hugh cut the page from the leather-bound book, tied it up in his ragged scrip, snuffed the candle, and slipped out into the night. Looking back at the walls whose grim shadows had long ago shut out any of the warmth or happiness he had known in childhood, Hugh silently refuted the abbot's words.

 "I will be death's master."

 CHAPTER 16

 STEPS OF TERREL FEN LOW REALM

   LIMBECK REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS AND FOUND THAT HIS SITUATION HAD IMPROVED, going from desperate to perilous. Of course, it took him, in his confused state, a considerable amount of time to remember just exactly what the situation was. After giving the matter serious thought, he determined he was not hanging by his wrists from the bedposts. Wriggling and grunting at the pain in his head, he looked about him as best he could in the gloom of the storm and saw that he had fallen into a giant pit, undoubtedly dug by the dig-claws of the Kicksey-Winsey.

 Further examination revealed that he had not fallen into a pit but was suspended over a pit-the giant wings having straddled it neatly, leaving him dangling down below. From the pain, he deduced that the wings must have inflicted a smart rap on his head during the landing.

 Limbeck was just wondering how he was going to free himself from this awkward and uncomfortable position when the answer came to him rather unpleasantly in the form of a sharp crack. The weight of the Geg hanging from it was causing the wooden frame to break. Limbeck sank down about a foot before the wings caught and held. His stomach sank a good deal further, for-due to the darkness and the fact that he didn't have his spectacles on-Limbeck had no idea how deep this pit was. Frantically he attempted to devise some means of escape. A storm was raging above, water was pouring down the sides of the pit, making it extremely slippery, and at that moment there was another crack and the wings sagged down another foot.

 Limbeck gasped, squinched his eyes tightly shut, and shook all over. Again, the wings caught and held, but not very well. He could feel himself slowly slipping. He had one chance. If he could free a hand, he might be able to catch hold of one of the coralite holes that honeycombed the sides of the pit. He jerked on his right hand . . .

 . . . and the wings snapped.

 Limbeck had just time enough to experience overwhelming terror before he landed heavily and painfully at the bottom of the pit, the wings crashing down all around him. First he shook. Then, deciding that shaking wasn't improving the situation, he extricated himself from the mess and peered upward. The pit was only about seven or eight feet deep, he discovered, and he could easily climb out. Since it was a coralite pit, the water that was streaming into it was draining just as swiftly through it. Limbeck was pleased with himself. The pit offered shelter from the storm. He was in no danger.

 No danger until the dig-claws came down to mine.

 Limbeck had just settled himself beneath a huge piece of torn wing fabric, to protect himself from the rain, when the terrible thought of the dig-claws occurred to him. Hastily he leapt to his feet and peered upward, but couldn't see a thing except for a black blur that was probably storm clouds and flashes of fuzzy lightning. Having never served the Kicksey-Winsey, Limbeck had no idea if the dig-claws operated during storms or not. He couldn't see why they wouldn't, yet on the other hand he couldn't see why they would. All of which was no help.

 Sitting back down-being careful to first remove several sharp splinters of wood and drop them down the holes of the coralite- Limbeck considered the matter as best he could through the pain in his head. At least the pit offered protection from the storm. And, in all probability, the dig-claws-which were huge, cumbersome things-would move slowly enough that he would have time to get out of the way.

 Which turned out to be the case.

 Limbeck had been squatting in the pit for about thirty locks or so, the storm was showing no signs of abating, and he was wishing he'd had the foresight to stuff a couple of muffins down his pants, when there was a large thump and the pit in which he was sitting gave a tremendous shudder.

 Dig-claws, thought Limbeck, and began to climb up the sides of the pit. It was easy going. The coralite offered numerous hand- and footholds, and Limbeck reached the top in moments. There was no use putting on his spectacles-the rain streaming over the glass would have blinded him. And he didn't need them anyhow. The dig-claw, its metal gleaming in the incessant flashes of lightning, was only a few feet from him.

 Glancing upward, Limbeck could see other claws dropping out of the sky, descending on long cables lowered from the Kicksey-Winsey. It was an awesome spectacle, and the Geg stood staring, headache forgotten, his mouth gaping wide open.

 Made of bright and shining metal, ornately carved and fashioned to resemble the foot of some huge killer bird, the dig-claws dug into the coralite with their sharp talons. Closing over the broken rock, the claws carried it upward as a bird's claw grasps its prey. Once back on the isle of Drevlin, the dig-claws deposited the rock they had mined from the Terrel Fen into large bins, where the Gegs sorted through the coralite and retrieved the precious gray ore on which the Kicksey-Winsey fed, and without which-so legend had it-the Kicksey-Winsey could not survive.

 Fascinated, Limbeck watched the dig-claws come smashing down all around him, biting into the coralite, digging down deep, scooping it up. The Geg was so interested in the procedure- which he'd never seen-that he completely forgot what he was supposed to do until it was almost too late. The claws were shaking free of the coralite and starting to rise back up when Limbeck remembered he was to put a mark on one of them to let Jarre and her people know where he was.

 Broken bits of coralite, dropped out of the rising claws, would serve as a writing tool. Grabbing up a chunk, Limbeck made his way through the driving rain, stumbling over the rock-strewn ground, heading for one of the claws that had just come down and was burying itself in the coralite. Reaching the dig-claw, Limbeck was suddenly daunted by his task. The claw was enormous; he'd never imagined anything so big and powerful. Fifty Limbecks would have fitted comfortably inside its talons. It shook and jabbed and clawed the surface of the coralite, sending sharp shards of rock flying everywhere. It was impossible to get close to it.

 But Limbeck had no choice. He had to get near. Gripping his coralite in one hand and his courage in the other, he had just started forward when a bolt of lightning struck the claw, sending blue flame dancing over its metal surface. The simultaneous thunder blast knocked Limbeck off his feet. Dazed and terrified, the Geg was about to give up in despair and run back to his pit- where he figured he would spend the remainder of a short and unhappy life-when the claw came to a shuddering stop. All the claws around Limbeck stopped-some in the ground; others hanging in midair on their way back up; others with talons wide open, waiting to descend.

 Perhaps the lightning had damaged it. Perhaps there was a scrift change. Perhaps something had gone wrong above. Limbeck didn't know. If he had believed in the gods, he would have thanked them. As it was, he scrambled over the rocks, chunk of coralite in hand, and cautiously approached the nearest claw.

 Noticing lots of scratch marks where the claw dipped into the coralite, Limbeck realized that he would have to make his mark on the upper part of the dig-claw, a part that didn't sink into the ground. That meant he had to choose a claw which was already buried. Which meant there was every possibility that it would start up again, yank itself out of the ground, and spill tons of rock down on the Geg's head.

 Gingerly Limbeck touched the side of the dig-claw with the coralite, his hand shaking so that it made a ringing sound, like the clapper of a bell. It didn't leave a mark. Gritting his teeth, desperation giving him strength, Limbeck bore down hard. The coralite screeched over the metal side of the claw with a sound that made Limbeck think his head would split apart. But he had the satisfaction of seeing a long scratch mar the claw's smooth unblemished surface.

 Still, someone might take that one scratch for an accidental occurrence. Limbeck made another mark on the claw, this one perpendicular to the first. The dig-claw shivered and shook. Limbeck dropped his rock in fright and scrambled backward. The claws were functioning once again. Pausing a moment, Limbeck gazed proudly on his work.

 One dig-claw, rising into the stormy sky, was marked with the letter L.

 Dashing through the rain, Limbeck returned to his pit. No claws seemed likely to descend on him, this time at least. He climbed back down the sides and, reaching the bottom, made himself as comfortable as possible. Pulling the fabric over his head, he tried not to think about food.

 CHAPTER 17

 STEPS OF TERREL FEN, LOW REALM

 THE DIG-CLAWS CARRYING THEIR ORE LIFTED BACK UP INTO THE STORM CLOUDS, ON their way to the Drevlin dumps. Limbeck, watching them ascend, pondered how long it might take them to unload the coralite and return for more. How long would it take someone to notice his mark? Would someone notice his mark? If someone did notice his mark, would it be someone friendly to his cause or would it be a clark? If it was a clark, what was the clark likely to do about it? If it was a friend, how long would it take to attach the help-hand? Would that happen before he froze to death or died of starvation?

 Such gloomy wonderings were unusual to Limbeck, who was not, ordinarily, a worrier. His disposition was naturally cheerful and optimistic. He tended to see the best in people. He held no malice toward anyone for his having been tied to the Feathers of Justick and tossed down here to die. The High Froman and the Head Clark had done what they considered to be best for the people. It wasn't their fault that they believed in those who claimed to be gods. It was no wonder that the Froman and his followers didn't believe Limbeck's story-Jarre herself didn't believe it either.

 Perhaps it was thinking about Jarre that made Limbeck feel sad and discouraged. He had fondly assumed that she, at least, would believe in his discovery that the Welves weren't gods. Limbeck, huddling, shivering, in the bottom of his pit, could still not quite accept the fact that she didn't. This knowledge had nearly ruined his entire execution. Now that the initial excitement was over and he had nothing to do but wait and hope things went right and try not to notice that there was an incredible number of things that could go wrong, Limbeck began to reflect seriously on what would happen when (not if) he was rescued.

 "How can they accept me as their leader if they think I lie?" Limbeck asked a stream of water running down the side of the pit. "Why would they even want me back at all? We've always said, Jarre and I, that truth was the most important virtue, that the quest for truth should be our highest goal. She thinks I've lied, yet she's obviously expecting me to continue as leader of our Union.

 "And when I go back, then what?" Limbeck saw it all clearly, more clearly than he'd seen anything in years. "She'll humor me. They all will. Oh, they'll keep me as head of the Union - after all, the Mangers have judged me and let me live. But they'll know it's a sham. More important, I'll know it's a sham. The Mangers haven't had a damn thing to do with it. It's Jarre's cleverness that will bring me back, and she'll know it and so will I. Lying! That's what we'll be doing!"

 Limbeck was growing increasingly upset. "Oh, sure, we'll get a lot of new members, but they'll be coming to us for the wrong reasons! Can you base a revolution on a lie? No!" The Geg clenched his thick wet fist. "It's like building a house on mud. Sooner or later, it's going to slip out from under your feet. Maybe I'll just stay down here! That's it! I won't go back!

 "But that won't prove anything," Limbeck reflected. "They'll just think the Mangers did me in, and that won't help the cause at all. I know! I'll write them a note and send it up with the help-hand instead of going myself. There are tier feathers lying around. I can use those as a pen." He jumped to his feet. "And silt for ink. 'By choosing to stay down here and perhaps dying down here' - yes, that sounds well - 'I hope to prove to you that what I said about the Welves was the truth. I cannot lead those who do not believe me, those who have lost faith in me.' Yes, that's quite good."

 Limbeck tried to sound cheerful, but he found his pleasure in his speech rapidly draining. He was hungry, cold, wet, and frightened. The storm was blowing itself out, and an awful, terrible silence was descending over him. That silence reminded him of the big silence - the Endless Hear Nothing - and reminded him that he was facing that Endless Hear Nothing, and he realized that the death of which he spoke so glibly was liable to be a very unpleasant one.

 Then, too, as if death wasn't bad enough, he pictured Jarre receiving his note, reading it with pursed lips and that wrinkle which always appeared above her nose when she was displeased. He wouldn't even need his spectacles to read the words of the note she'd send back. He could hear them already.

 " 'Limbeck, stop this nonsense and get up here this instant!' Oh, Jarre!" he murmured to himself sadly, "if only you had believed me. The others wouldn't have mattered-"

 A bone-jarring, teeth-rattling, earth-shaking thud jolted Limbeck out of his despair and simultaneously knocked him down.

 Lying on his back, dazed, staring up at the top of the pit, he thought: Have the dig-claws come back? This soon? I don't have my note written!

 Flustered, Limbeck staggered to his feet and stared up into the grayness. The storm had passed over. It was drizzling rain and foggy, but it was not lightninging, hailing, or thundering. He couldn't see the claws descending, but then, he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. Fumbling for his spectacles, he put them on and looked back up into the sky.

 By squinting, he thought he could just barely distinguish numerous fuzzy blobs materializing out of the clouds. But if they were the dig-claws, they were far above him yet, and unless one had come down prematurely or fallen-which seemed unlikely, since the Kicksey-Winsey rarely allowed accidents like that to happen-the dig-claws couldn't have been the cause of that tremendous thud. What, then, was it?

 Hurriedly Limbeck began to climb the sides of the pit. His spirits were rising. He had a "what" or a "why" to investigate!

 Reaching the rim of the pit, he peeped cautiously over the edge. At first he saw nothing, but that was because he was looking in the wrong direction. Turning his head, he gasped, marveling.

 A brilliant light, shimmering with more colors than Limbeck had ever imagined existed in his gray and metallic world, was streaming out of a gigantic hole not more than thirty feet from him. Never stopping to think that the light might be harmful or that whatever had created the humongous thud might be lethal or that the dig-claws might be slowly and inevitably descending, Limbeck clambered up over the edge of the pit and made for the light as swiftly as his short, thick legs would carry his stout body.

 There were numerous obstacles blocking his path; the surface of the small isle was pockmarked with holes dug by the claws. He had to avoid these, as well as heaps of broken coralite dropped when the dig-claws carried the ore upward. Making his way up and over and around these took some time, as well as considerable energy. When Limbeck finally reached the light, he was out of breath, both from the unaccustomed exertion and from excitement. For as he drew nearer, Limbeck could see that the colors in the light were forming distinct patterns and shapes.

 Intent on the wonderful pictures he could see in the light, Limbeck stumbled almost blindly over the rocky ground and was saved from tumbling headfirst into the hole by tripping over a chunk of coralite and falling flat on his face at the hole's edge. Shaken, he put his hand to his pocket to feel if his spectacles were broken. They weren't there. After a horrible moment of panic, he remembered that they were on his nose. Crawling forward, he stared in amazement.

 For a moment, he couldn't see anything but a brilliant, multicolored, ever-shifting radiance. Then forms and shapes coalesced. The pictures in the light were truly fascinating, and Limbeck gazed at them in awe. As he watched the constantly shifting and changing images, that portion of his mind which continually interrupted important and wonderful thoughts with mundane matters such as "Mind you don't walk into that wall!", "That pan's hot!", and "Why didn't you go before we left?", said to him urgently, "The dig-claws are coming down!"

 Limbeck, concentrating on the pictures, ignored it.

 He was, he realized, seeing a world. Not his own world, but somebody else's world. It was an incredibly beautiful place. It reminded him some, but not quite, of the pictures he'd seen in the books of the Welves. The sky was bright blue-not gray-and it was clear and vast, with only a few puffs of white sailing across it. Lush vegetation was everywhere, not just in a pot in the kitchen. He saw magnificent structures of fantastic design, he saw wide streets and boulevards, he saw what might have been Gegs, only they were tall and slender with graceful limbs . . .

 Or had he? Limbeck blinked and stared into the light. It was beginning to fragment and break apart! The images were becoming distorted. He longed for the people to come back. Certainly, he'd never seen anyone-not even the Welves-who looked like what he thought he'd glimpsed in that split second before the light winked out, then blinked back on, and shifted to another picture.

 Trying to make sense of the flickering images that were beginning to make his eyes burn and ache, Limbeck pulled himself farther over the lip of the hole and saw the light's source. It was beaming out of an object at the bottom of the hole.

 "That was what made the thump," said Limbeck, shielding his eyes with his hand and staring at the object intently. "It fell from the sky, like I did. Is it part of the Kicksey-Winsey? If so, why did it fall? Why is it showing me these pictures?"

 Why, why, why? Limbeck couldn't stand not knowing. Never thinking of possible danger, he crawled over the edge of the hole and slid down the side. The nearer he drew to the object, the easier it was to see it. The light pouring out of it was diffused upward and was less brilliant and blinding approached from this angle.

 The Geg was, at first, disappointed. "Why, it's nothing but a hunk of coralite," he said, prodding chunks of it that had broken off. "Certainly the largest hunk of coralite I've ever seen-it's as big as my house-and then, too, I've never known coralite to fall out of the sky."

 Slithering closer, displacing small bits of rock that skittered out from under him and went bouncing down the side of the crater, Limbeck drew in his breath. Delighted, awed, and astounded, he immediately squelched the mental prod that was reminding him, "The dig-claws! The dig-claws!" The coralite was just a shell, an outer covering. It had cracked open, probably in the fall, and Limbeck could see inside.

 At first he thought it must be part of the Kicksey-Winsey, and then he thought it wasn't. It was made of metal-like the Kicksey-Winsey-but the metal body of the Kicksey-Winsey was smooth and unblemished. This metal was covered with strange and bizarre symbols, and it was from cracks in the metal that the bright light was streaming. And it was because of the cracks-or so Limbeck reasoned-that he couldn't see the complete picture.

 "If I open the cracks wider, then perhaps I could see more. This is really exciting!" Reaching the bottom of the crater, Limbeck hurried toward the metal object. It was about four times taller than he was and-as he'd first noticed-as big as his house. Gingerly he reached out his hand and made a swift tapping motion with the tips of his fingers on the metal. It wasn't hot to the touch-something he'd feared due to the bright light pouring from it. The metal was cool, and he was able to rest his hand on it and even trace the symbols engraved there with his fingers.

 A strange and ominous creaking noise sounded above him, and that irritating part of his brain was shrieking at him something about dig-claws coming down, but Limbeck ordered it to shut up and quit bothering him. Putting his hand on one of the cracks, he noticed that the cracks ran all around the symbols but never intersected one. Limbeck started to tug at the crack to see if he could widen it.

 His hand seemed reluctant to perform its assigned task, however, and Limbeck knew why. He was suddenly and unpleasantly reminded of the fallen Welf ship.

 "Rotting corpses. But it led me to the truth."

 The thought passed through his mind swift as a heartbeat, and, refusing to let himself think about it further, he gave the metal a good hard tug.

 The crack widened, the entire metal structure began to shiver and tremble. Limbeck snatched his hand away and jumped backward. But the object was only, apparently, settling itself more firmly into the crater, for the movement ceased. Cautiously Limbeck approached again, and this time he heard something.

 It sounded like a groan. Pressing his ear to the crack, wishing angrily that the creaking sounds of the dig-claws descending from the skies would cease so that he could hear better, Limbeck listened intently. He heard it again, louder, and he had no doubt that there was something alive inside the metal shell, and that it was hurt.

 Gegs, even the weak ones, have a tremendous amount of strength in their arms and upper body. Limbeck put his hands on either side of the crack and pushed with all his might. Though they bit into his flesh, the metal sides split wide open and the Geg was able, after a brief struggle, to squeeze inside.

 The light had been brilliant out there. In here, it was blinding, and Limbeck at first despaired of seeing anything. Then he detected the light's source. It was radiating outward from the center of what the Geg had come to think of-by past association- as a ship. The groaning sound came from somewhere to the right, and Limbeck, by using his hand as a shield, was able to block out most of the light and search for whatever it was that was in pain.

 Limbeck's heart jumped. "A Welf!" was his first excited thought. "And a live one at that!" Squatting down beside the figure, the Geg saw a large amount of blood beneath the head, but no signs of blood anywhere else on the body. He also saw-rather to his disappointment-that it wasn't a Welf. Limbeck had seen a human only once before, and that was in pictures in the Welf books. This creature looked something like a human, yet not quite. There was one thing certain, however. The creature, with its great height and thin, muscular body, was definitely one of the so-called gods.

 At that moment, the screaming warnings in Limbeck's brain became so insistent that he was forced-reluctantly-to pay attention to them.

 He looked up through the crack in the ship's structure and found himself staring into the wide-open maw of a dig-claw, directly above him, and descending rapidly. If Limbeck hurried, he could just manage to escape the ship before the claw smashed into it.

 The god-who-wasn't groaned again.

 "I've got to get you out of here!" Limbeck said to him.

 The Gegs are a softhearted race and there is no doubt that Limbeck was moved by unselfish considerations in determining to risk his own life to save that of the god. But it must also be admitted that the Geg was moved by the thought that if he took back a live god-who-wasn't, Jarre would have to believe his story!

 Grasping the god by the wrists, Limbeck started to pull him across the debris-strewn floor of the shattered ship, when he felt-with a shiver-hands grasp him back. Startled, he looked down at the god. The eyes, almost covered in a mask of blood, were wide open and staring at him. The lips moved.

 "What?" With the claw's creaking, Limbeck couldn't hear. "No time!" He jerked his head upward.

 The god's eyes glanced up. His face was twisted in pain, and it was obvious to Limbeck that the god was holding on to consciousness by a supreme effort. It seemed he recognized the danger, but it only made him more frantic. He squeezed Limbeck's wrists hard; the Geg would have bruise marks for weeks.

 "My...dog!"

 Limbeck stared down at the god. Had he heard right? The Geg glanced hastily around the wreckage and suddenly saw, right at the god's feet, an animal pinned beneath twisted metal. Limbeck blinked at it, wondering why he hadn't seen it before.

 The dog was panting and squirming. It was stuck and couldn't free itself, but it didn't appear to be hurt and it was obviously trying, in its struggles, to reach its master, for it paid no attention to Limbeck.

 The Geg looked upward. The claw was coming down with a rapidity that Limbeck found quite annoying-considering how slowly they had descended the last time he'd seen them. He looked from the claw to the god to the dog.

 "I'm sorry," he said helplessly. "There just isn't time!"

 The god-eyes on the dog-tried to wrench his hands from the Geg's grip. But the effort apparently taxed the god's remaining strength, for suddenly the arms went limp and the god's head lolled back. The dog, looking at its master, whimpered and increased its efforts to free itself.

 "I'm sorry," Limbeck repeated to the dog, who paid no attention to him. Gritting his teeth, hearing the sound of the claw coming closer and closer, the Geg pulled the body of the god across the debris-strewn floor. The dog's struggles became frantic, its whimperings changed to yelps, but that was only- Limbeck saw-because it was watching its master being taken away and it couldn't get to him.

 A lump in his throat that was both pity for the trapped animal and fear for himself, Limbeck heaved and pulled and strained and finally reached the crack. With a great effort he dragged the god through. Depositing the limp body on the floor of the crater, Limbeck threw himself down beside the god just as the dig-claw smashed into the metal ship.

 There was a shattering explosion. The concussion lifted Limbeck off the ground and slammed him back into it, driving the breath from his stout body. Small bits of shattered coralite fell down around him like rain, the sharp edges biting painfully into his skin. When that ceased, all was quiet.

 Slowly, dazedly, Limbeck lifted his head. The dig-claw was hanging motionless, probably injured in the explosion. The Geg looked around to discover what had happened to the ship, expecting to see it a mass of twisted wreckage.

 Instead, he didn't see it at all. The explosion had destroyed it. No, that wasn't quite right. There were no pieces of metal lying about; no remnant of the ship remained. It wasn't only destroyed, it had vanished as though it had never been!

 But there was the god to prove that Limbeck hadn't lost his mind. The god stirred and opened his eyes. Gasping in pain, he turned his head, staring about.

 "Dog," he called feebly. "Dog! Here, boy!"

 Limbeck, glancing at the coralite that had been blown to smithereens in the blast, shook his head. He felt unaccountably guilty, though he knew there'd been no way he could have saved the dog and themselves.

 "Dog!" called the god, and there was a panicked crack in the voice that made Limbeck's heart ache. Reaching out his hand, he started to try to soothe the god, fearful that he would do himself further injury.

 "Ah, dog," said the god with a deep, relieved sigh, his gaze fixed on the place where the ship had been. "There you are! Come here. Come here. That was quite a ride, wasn't it, boy?"

 Limbeck stared. There was the dog! Dragging itself out of the broken rock, it hobbled, limping on three paws, to its master. Its eyes shining brightly, its mouth open in what Limbeck could have sworn was a pleased grin, the dog gave its master's hand a lick. The god-who-wasn't relapsed into unconsciousness. The dog, with a sigh and a wriggle, sank down beside its master, laid its head on its paws, and fixed its intelligent eyes on Limbeck.

 CHAPTER 18

 THE STEPS OF TERREL FEN, LOW REALM

 "I'VE COME THIS FAR. WHAT DO I DO NOW?" Limbeck wiped his hand over his sweating forehead, rubbed his fingers under the wire rims of the spectacles that kept slipping down his nose. The god was in pretty bad shape, or so Limbeck thought, being uncertain as to the physical properties of gods. That deep gash on the head would have been critical in a Geg, and Limbeck had no choice but to assume it was critical in a god.

 "The help-hand!"

 Limbeck jumped up and, with a backward glance at the comatose god and his very remarkable dog, the Geg scrambled up the side of the crater. Reaching the edge, he saw all the dig-claws hard at work. The noise was ear-splitting-gouging and scraping, creaking and screeching: all very comforting to the Geg. Looking up quickly, ascertaining that there were no more dig-claws coming down, Limbeck crawled out of the crater and ran back to his own pit.

 It was logical to assume that whatever WUPP Geg found the L mark on the dig-claw would send down the help-hand to the same location or as near as he or she could get. Of course, there was every possibility that no one had seen the L, or that they couldn't get the help-hand ready in time, or countless other dire Occurrences. Running along, tripping and stumbling over the heaps of broken coralite, Limbeck tried to prepare himself to accept without disappointment the fact that no help-hand would be there.

 But it was.

 The wave of relief that broke over Limbeck when he saw the help-hand sitting on the ground right near his pit nearly drowned the Geg. His knees went weak; he grew light-headed and had to sit down a moment to recover.

 His first thought was to hurry, for the dig-claws were about to rise again. Staggering to his feet, he headed back for the crater at a run. His legs informed him in no uncertain terms that they were on the verge of rebellion against this unusual amount of exercise. Pausing a moment for the pain to subside, Limbeck reflected that he probably didn't have to hurry after all. Surely they wouldn't bring up the help-hand until they were certain he was in it.

 The pain drained from his legs but seemed to take all his strength with it. His limbs felt six times heavier than normal, and in addition, instead of his legs supporting him, Limbeck had the distinct impression that he was dragging them along. Wearily, stumbling and falling, he made his slow way back to the crater. He slid down the sides almost reluctantly, certain that, in his absence, the god-who-wasn't had died.

 The god was still breathing, however. The dog, huddled as closely as possible next to its master's body, had rested its head on the god's chest, its eyes keeping watch over the pallid, blood-covered face.

 The thought of dragging the god's heavy body up out of the crater and across the cracked and pitted landscape sank Limbeck's heart and left his spirits as heavy as his legs.

 "I can't do it," he muttered, collapsing next to the god, his head resting on his propped-up knees. "I don't think ... I can even make it back . . . myself!"

 His spectacles steamed up from the vast heat he had worked up. Sweat chilled on his body. Adding another blow to his already numb mind and body, a rumble of thunder indicated a storm brewing. Limbeck didn't care. Just as long as he didn't have to get to his feet again.

 "But this god-who-isn't will prove you were right!" nagged that irritating voice. "At last you will have the power to persuade the Gegs that they've been deluded, used as slaves. This could be the dawning of a new day for your people! This could start the revolution!"

 The revolution! Limbeck lifted his head. He couldn't see a thing, due to the mist over his spectacles, but that didn't matter.

 He wasn't looking at his surroundings anyway. He was back on Drevlin, the Gegs were cheering him. What was even more beautiful, they were doing as he advised.

 They were asking "why"!

 Limbeck could never afterward clearly recall the next harrowing span of time. He remembered that he tore up his shirt to make a crude bandage to wrap around the head of the god. He remembered glancing askance at the dog, being uncertain how the dog would react to anyone moving its master. He remembered that the dog licked his hand and looked at him with its liquid eyes and stood aside, watching anxiously as the Geg lifted the limp body of the god and began hauling him up the side of the crater. After that, Limbeck remembered nothing but aching muscles and sobbing for breath and dragging himself and the body a few feet, then collapsing, then crawling forward, then collapsing, then struggling on again.

 The dig-claws went back up into the sky, though the Geg never noticed. The storm broke, increasing his terror, for he knew that they could not hope to survive its full fury out in the open. He was forced to remove his spectacles, and between his myopia, the blinding rain, and the gathering gloom, Limbeck lost sight of the help-hand. He could only keep traveling in what he hoped was the general direction.

 More than once, Limbeck thought the god was dead, for the rain chilled the body, the lips turned blue, the skin ashen. The rain had washed away the blood, and the Geg could see the deep and ugly-looking head wound, a thin trickle of red oozing from it. But the god still breathed.

 Perhaps he is immortal, Limbeck thought dazedly.

 The Geg knew that he was lost. He knew that he had traveled halfway across this blasted isle at least. They had missed the help-hand, or perhaps the help-hand, growing tired of waiting, had gone back up. The storm was worsening. Lightning flared around them, blasting holes in the coralite and deafening Limbeck with the concussive thunder. The wind kept him flattened to the ground-not that the Geg had the strength to stand. He was about to crawl into a pit and escape the storm (or die, if he was lucky) when he noticed blearily that the pit he was contemplating was his pit! There was the broken wooden frame of the wings. And there was the help-hand!

 Hope lent the Geg strength. He made it to his feet. Buffeted by wind, he nevertheless managed to drag the god the last few remaining feet. Lowering the god to the ground, Limbeck opened the door to the glass bubble and looked curiously inside.

 The help-hand had been designed to allow the Gegs to come to the assistance of the dig-claws, should that be necessary. Occasionally a claw got stuck in the coralite, or broke, or malfunctioned. When this occurred, a Geg entered the help-hand and was lowered down onto one of the isles to effect repairs.

 The help-hand looked like what it was named-a gigantic hand made of metal that had been severed at the wrist. A cable attached to the wrist allowed the hand to be raised and lowered from above. The hand was slightly cupped; thumb and fingers forged together, it held in its secure grip a large protective glass bubble in which rode the repair Gegs. A hinged door allowed entrance and egress, and a brass horn, attached to a tube that ran back up the cable, permitted the Gegs to communicate with those above.

 Two stout Gegs could fit comfortably inside the glass bubble. The god, being considerably taller than a Geg, presented a problem. Limbeck dragged the god over to the bubble and thrust him inside. The god's legs hung out over the edge. The Geg finally fit in the god, tucking his legs up so that the knees rested against his chin and folding his arms over his chest. Limbeck climbed in wearily himself, and the dog jumped in after. It would be a tight fit with all three of them, but Limbeck wasn't about to leave the dog behind-not again. He didn't think he could stand the shock of seeing it come back from the dead a second time.

 The dog curled itself up against the body of its master. Limbeck, reaching over the god's limp form, struggled against the roaring wind in a futile effort to shut the glass door. The wind whipped around to attack from another direction, and suddenly the door slammed shut on its own, throwing Limbeck back against the side of the bubble. For long moments he lay there, panting and groaning.

 Limbeck could feel the hand rock and quake in the storm. He had visions of it breaking, snapping off the cable, and suddenly the Geg wanted only one thing-to get off this rock. It took a supreme effort of will to move, but Limbeck managed to reach over and grasp the horn.

 "Up!" he gasped.

 No response, and he realized that they must not be able to hear him.

 Drawing in a lungful of air, Limbeck closed his eyes and concentrated all his waning strength.

 "Up!" he yelled so loudly that the dog sprang to its feet in alarm, the god stirred and groaned.

 "Xplf wuf?" came a voice, the words rattling down the tube like a handful of pebbles.

 "Up!" Limbeck shrieked in exasperation, desperation, and sheer panic.

 The help-hand gave a tremendous lurch that would have knocked the Geg off his feet had he been on them. As it was, he was already scrunched up against the side to allow room for the god. Slowly, with an alarming creaking sound, swinging back and forth in the gale winds, the help-hand began to rise into the air.

 Trying not to think what would happen now if the cable snapped, Limbeck leaned back against the side of the bubble, dosed his eyes, and hoped he wouldn't be sick.

 Unfortunately, closing his eyes made him dizzy. He felt himself spinning round and round, about to fall into a deep black pit.

 "This won't do," said Limbeck shakily. "I can't pass out. I've got to explain to them up above what's going on."

 The Geg opened his eyes and-to keep from looking out-set himself to studying the god. He had, he realized, thought of the creature as male. At least it looked more like a male Geg than a female Geg, which was all Limbeck had to go on. The god's face was rough-cut: a square, cleft chin covered with a stubbly growth of beard; firm lips, tightly drawn, tightly closed, never relaxing, appearing to guard secrets that he would take with him to death. A few fine lines around the eyes seemed to indicate that the god, though not an old man, was no youngster. The hair, too, added an impression of age. It was cut short-very short-and though matted with blood and rain-soaked, Limbeck could see patches of pure white at the temples, above the forehead, and around the back where it grew at the base of the neck. The god's body seemed made of nothing but bones and muscle and sinew. He was thin-by Geg standards, too thin.

 "That's probably why he's wearing so many clothes," said Limbeck to himself, trying hard not to look out the sides of the bubble, where lightning strikes were making the stormy night brighter than any day the Gegs, in their sunless world, ever knew.

 The god wore a thick leather tunic over a shirt with a drawstring collar that encircled his throat. He had wrapped a strip of cloth around his neck, the ends tied in a knot at the base of his throat and thrust into the tunic. The shirt's long, full sleeves covered his wrists; drawstrings held them fast. Soft leather trousers were tucked into knee-high boots that fastened up the sides of the legs with buttons made of what appeared to be the horn of some animal. Over all this, he wore a long collarless coat with wide sleeves that came to the elbows. The colors of his clothes were drab-browns and whites, grays and dull black. The fabric was well-worn, frayed in places. The leather tunic, trousers, and boots had softened around the body, fitting it like a second skin.

 Most peculiarly, the god wore rags around his hands. Startled by this, which he must have noticed, but hadn't thought about until now, Limbeck looked at the god's hands more closely. The rags were skillfully applied. Wrapping around the wrist, they covered the back of the hand and the palm and were twined around the base of the fingers and thumb.

 "Why?" Limbeck wondered, and reached forward to find out.

 The dog's growl was filled with such menace that Limbeck felt the hair rise on his head. The animal had jumped to its feet and was gazing at the Geg with a look that said plainly, "I'd leave my master alone, if I were you."

 "Right," Limbeck gulped. He shrank back against the side of the bubble.

 The dog gave him an approving glance. Settling itself more comfortably, it even closed its eyes, as much as to say, "I know you'll behave now, so if you'll excuse me, I'll take a short nap."

 The dog was right. Limbeck was going to behave. He was paralyzed, afraid to move, almost scared to breathe.

 The practical-minded Gegs liked cats. Cats were useful animals who earned their keep by catching mice and who took care of themselves. The Kicksey-Winsey liked cats, at least so it was supposed, since it had been the creators of the Kicksey-Winsey- the Mangers-who first brought cats down from the realms above to dwell with the Gegs. There were, however, few dogs on Drevlin. Those who kept them were generally the wealthy Gegs- such as the High Froman and members of his clan. The dogs were not pets, but were used to protect the wealth. Gegs would not take each other's lives, but there were a few who had no aversion at all to taking each other's property.

 This dog was different from Geg dogs, which tended to resemble their owners-short-legged, barrel-chested, with round, thick-nosed, flat faces . . . and an expression of vicious stupidity. The dog holding Limbeck at bay was sleek-coated and slim-bodied. It had a longish nose, its face was exceptionally intelligent, and the eyes were large and liquid brown. Its fur was a nondescript black with patches of white on the tips of the ears, and white eyebrows. It was the eyebrows, Limbeck decided, that made the dog's face unusually expressive for an animal.

 Such were Limbeck's observations of god and beast. They were detailed, because he had a long time to study them during his ride in the help-hand back up to the isle of Drevlin.

 And all the time, he couldn't help wondering: What? . . . Why? . . .

 CHAPTER 19

 LEK, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

 JARRE WAITED IMPATIENTLY FOR THE KICKSEY-WINSEY TO SLOWLY AND LABORIOUSLY wind up the cable from which dangled the help-hand. Occasionally, if some other Geg happened by, she would pull her scarf low over her face and stare with intense and frowning interest at a large round glass case in which lived a black arrow that did practically nothing all its life but hover uncertainly between a great many black lines all marked with strange and obscure symbols. The only thing the Gegs knew about this black arrow-known fondly as the pointy-finger-was that when it flopped over into the area where the black lines all turned red, the Gegs ran for their lives.

 This night the pointy-finger was behaving, giving no indication that it was about to unleash blasting gusts of steam that would parboil any Geg caught within reach. Tonight everything was fine, just fine. The wheels were turning, the gears shifting, the cogs cogging. Cables came up and went down. The dig-claws deposited their loads of ore into carts pushed by the Gegs, who dumped the contents into the gigantic maw of the Kicksey-Winsey, which chewed up the ore, spit out what it didn't want, and digested the rest.

 Most of the Gegs working tonight were members of WUPP. During the day, one of their crew had sighted the dig-claw with Limbeck's L on it. By extraordinary good fortune, the claw belonged to the part of the Kicksey-Winsey located near the capital city of Wombe. Jarre, traveling-with the aid of WUPP members-by flashraft, had arrived in time to meet her beloved and renowned leader.

 All the dig-claws had come up except one which appeared to have broken down on the isle below. Jarre left her supposed work station and came over to join the other Gegs, peering anxiously down into the gap-a large shaft that had been bored straight through the corahte isle, opening out onto the sky below. Occasionally Jarre glanced around nervously, for she wasn't supposed to be on this work crew, and if she was caught, there would be a lot of explaining to do. Fortunately, other Gegs rarely came into the help-hand area, doing so only if there was trouble with one of the claws. She looked up uneasily at the carts being rolled around on the level above her.

 "Don't worry," said Lof. "If anyone looks down here, they'll just think we're helping to fix a claw."

 Lof was a comely young Geg. He admired Jarre immensely and hadn't been exactly deeply grieved to hear of Limbeck's execution. Lof squeezed Jarre's hand and seemed inclined to hang on to it, but Jarre needed her hand herself and took it back.

 "There it is!" she cried excitedly, pointing down into the gap. "That's it!"

 "You mean that thing that just got struck by lightning?" asked Lof hopefully.

 "No!" Jarre snapped. "I mean yes, but it wasn't hit."

 They could all see the help-hand, clutching its bubble, rising up out of the gap. Never before had it seemed to Jarre that the Kicksey-Winsey was so slow. Several times she wondered if it hadn't broken down, and looked at the giant winder-upper, only to see it crankily winding away.

 And, at length, the help-hand rose up into the Kicksey-Winsey. The winder-upper screeched to a halt, the gap closed beneath the hand with a rumble, floor plates sliding across to provide safe footing.

 "It's him! It's Limbeck!" exclaimed Jarre, who could see a blurry blob through the glass of the bubble that was streaming with rain.

 "I'm not sure," said Lof dubiously, still clinging to a fragment of hope. "Does Limbeck have a tail?"

 But Jarre didn't hear. She rushed across the floor before the gap had quite closed all the way, the other Gegs hastening after her. Reaching the door, she began to yank on it impatiently.

 "It won't open!" she cried, panicked.

 Lof, sighing, reached up and turned the handle.

 "Limbeck!" shrieked Jarre, and jumped inside the bubble, only to tumble out again with undue haste.

 There came from inside a loud and unfriendly-sounding wuff.

 The Gegs, noting Jarre's pale face, backed away from the bubble.

 "What is it?" questioned one.

 "A d-dog, I think," stammered Jarre.

 "Then it's not Limbeck?" said Lof eagerly.

 A weak voice came from inside.

 "Yes, it's me! The dog's all right. You startled it, that's all. It's worried about its master. Here, give me a hand. This bubble's a tight fit with all of us in here."

 Tips of fingers could be seen waggling from the door. The Gegs glanced at each other apprehensively and, with one accord, took another step back.

 Jarre paused expectantly, looking for help from each Geg in turn. Each Geg, in turn, looked at the winder-upper or the munching-chopper or the rumble-floor-anywhere but at the bubble that had wuffed.

 "Hey, help me get out of this thing!" shouted Limbeck.

 Her lips pursed together in a straight line that boded no good for anyone, Jarre marched up to the bubble and inspected the hand. It looked like Limbeck's hand-ink stains and all. Somewhat gingerly she grasped hold of it and tugged. Lof's hopes were dashed, once and for all, when Limbeck-face flushed and sweating-appeared in the doorway.

 "Hullo, my dear," said Limbeck, shaking hands with Jarre, completely ignoring, in his distraction, that she had held her face up to be kissed. Stepping out of the bubble, he immediately turned back around and appeared to be entering it again.

 "Here, now help me get him out," he called from inside, his voice echoing weirdly.

 "Who's him?" asked Jarre. "The dog? Can't it get out by itself?"

 Limbeck turned around to beam at them. "A god!" he said triumphantly. "I've brought back a god!"

 The Gegs stared at him in amazed and suspicious silence.

 Jarre was the first to recover her power of speech. "Limbeck," she said sternly, "was that really necessary?"

 "Why, uh . . . yes! Yes, of course!" he answered, somewhat taken aback. "You didn't believe me. Here, help me get him out. He's hurt."

 "Hurt?" demanded Lof, seeing, once more, hope glimmer. "How can a god be hurt?"

 "Aha!" shouted Limbeck, and it was such a mighty and powerful "Aha" that poor Lof was blown off the track and was completely, finally, and forever out of the race. "That's my point!" Limbeck vanished back into the bubble.

 There was some difficulty with the dog, which was standing in front of its master and growling. Limbeck was more than a little concerned at this. He and the dog had developed an understanding on the ride up in the bubble. But this understanding- that Limbeck would remain unmoving in his corner and the dog wouldn't rip out his throat-didn't seem likely to be useful in placating the animal and persuading him to move. "Nice doggy's" and "There's a good boy's" didn't get him anywhere. Desperate, fearful his god would die, Limbeck attempted to reason with the beast.

 "Look," he said, "we don't want to hurt him. We want to help him! And the only way we can help him is to get him out of this contraption and to a place where he'll be safe. We'll take very good care of him, I promise." The dog's growling lessened; the animal was watching the Geg with what appeared to be wary interest. "You can come along. And if anything happens that you don't like, then you can rip out my throat!"

 The dog cocked his head to one side, ears erect, listening intently. When the Geg concluded, the dog regarded him gravely.

 I'll give you a chance, but remember that I still have my teeth.

 "It says it's all right," shouted Limbeck happily.

 "What says?" demanded Jarre when the dog, jumping lightly out of the bubble, landed on the floor at Limbeck's feet.

 The Gegs instantly scrambled for cover, dodging behind those parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that seemed likely to be proof against sharp fangs. Only Jarre held her ground, determined not to desert the man she loved, no matter what the danger. The dog wasn't the least bit interested in the quivering Gegs, however. Its attention was centered completely on its master.

 "Here!" panted Limbeck, tugging at the god's feet. "You get this end, Jarre. I'll take his head. There, carefully. Carefully. That's got him, I think."

 Having braved the dog, Jarre felt equal to anything, even hauling gods around by their feet. Casting a withering glance at her cowardly compatriots, she grasped hold of the god's leather boots and tugged. Limbeck guided the limp body out of the bubble, catching hold of the shoulders when they appeared. Together the Gegs eased the god onto the floor.

 "Oh, my," said Jarre softly, her fear forgotten in pity. She touched the gash on his head with a gentle hand. Her fingers came away covered with blood. "He's hurt awfully bad!"

 "I know," said Limbeck anxiously. "And I had to handle him kind of roughly, dragging him out of his ship before the dig-claw smashed him to bits."

 "His skin's icy cold. His lips are blue. If he were a Geg, I'd say he was dying. But maybe gods are supposed to look like that."

 "I don't think so. He didn't look like that when I first saw him, just after his ship crashed. Oh, Jarre, he just can't die!"

 The dog, hearing the compassion in Jarre's voice and seeing her touch his master soothingly, gave her hand a swipe with his tongue and looked up at her with pleading brown eyes.

 Jarre was startled at first at feeling the wet slurp, then relaxed. "Why, there, don't worry. It's going to be all right," she said softly, reaching out and timidly giving the animal a pat on the head. He suffered her to do so, flattening his ears and wagging his bushy tail ever so slightly.

 "Do you think it will be?" asked Limbeck in deep concern.

 "Of course! Look, his eyelids are moving." Briskly Jarre swung around and began giving orders. "The first thing to do is get him someplace warm and quiet where we can take care of him. It's almost time for scrift change. We don't want anyone to see him-"

 "We don't?" interrupted Limbeck.

 "No! Not until he's well and we're ready to answer questions. This will be a great moment in the history of our people. We don't want to spoil it by rushing into anything. You and Lof go get a litter-"

 "A litter? The god won't fit on a litter," Lof pointed out sulkily. "His legs'll hang over the edge and his feet'll drag the floor!"

 "That's true." Jarre wasn't accustomed to dealing with a person whose body was so long and narrow. She paused, frowning, when suddenly a clanging gong sounding very loudly caused her to glance around in alarm. "What's that?"

 "They're going to be opening the floor!" Lof gasped.

 "What floor?" inquired Limbeck curiously.

 "This floor!" Lof pointed at the metal plates beneath their feet.

 "Why? Oh, I see." Limbeck looked upward at the dig-claws that had dumped their load and were being readied to descend into the gap to fetch up another.

 "We've got to get out of here!" Lof said urgently. Sidling up to Jarre, he whispered, "Let the god stay. When the floor opens, he'll drop back into the air where he came from. His dog too."

 But Jarre wasn't paying attention. She was watching the carts trundle along overhead.

 "Lof!" she said excitedly, grabbing hold of him by his beard and yanking-a habit she had acquired when dealing with Limbeck and one she found difficult to break. "Those carts! The god will fit inside one of those! Hurry! Hurry!"

 The floor was beginning to vibrate ominously, and anything was better than having his beard pulled out by the roots. Lof nodded and ran off with the other Gegs to acquire an empty cart.

 Jarre wrapped the god snugly in her own cloak. She and Limbeck dragged him away from the center of the floor, as close to the edge as they could possibly get. By this time, Lof and company had returned with the cart, rolling it down the steep ramp that connected the bottom level with the one above. The gong sounded again. The dog whined and barked. Either the noise hurt its ears or it sensed the danger and was urging the Gegs on. (Lof insisted it was the first. Limbeck argued it was the second. Jarre ordered them both to shut up and work.)

 Between them, the Gegs managed to drag the body of the god into the cart. Jarre swaddled the god's injured head in Lof's cloak (Lof seemed inclined to protest, but a smack on the cheek delivered by a nervous and exasperated Jarre brought him around). The gong sounded a third time. Cables creaking and screeching, the dig-claws began to descend. The floor rumbled and started to open. The Gegs, all but losing their footing, lined up in back of the cart and gave a great heave. The cart leapt forward and rolled up the ramp, the Gegs sweating and straining behind it, the dog running around their feet and nipping at their heels.

 Gegs are strong, but the cart was made of iron and quite heavy, not to mention that it had the added weight of the god inside. It had never been intended to travel a ramp used mainly by Gegs, and it was far more inclined to roll down the ramp than up it.

 Limbeck, noting this, had vague thoughts of weight, inertia, and gravity and would have undoubtedly developed another law of physics had he not been in dire peril of his life. The floor was gaping wide open beneath them, the dig-claws were thundering down into the void, and there came one particularly tense moment when it seemed that the Gegs couldn't hold on and that the cart must win and end up carrying Gegs, god, dog, and all into the gap.

 "Now, once more, together!" grunted Jarre. Her stout body was braced against the cart, her face fiery red from the exertion. Limbeck, beside her, wasn't much help, being naturally weak anyway and further weakened by his grueling experience. But he was valiantly doing what he could. Lof was flagging and seemed about to give up.

 "Lof," gasped Jarre, "if it starts to roll back, put your foot under the wheel!"

 This command from his leader gave Lof, who was naturally flat-footed but saw no reason to carry it to extremes, extra incentive. Strength renewed, he put his shoulder to the cart, gritted his teeth, shut his eyes, and gave a mighty shove. The cart surged forward with such force that Limbeck fell to his knees and slid halfway down the ramp before he could manage to stop himself. The cart popped over the top of the ramp. The Gegs tumbled, exhausted, to the floor of the upper level, and the dog licked Lof's face-much to that Geg's consternation. Limbeck crawled up the ramp on his hands and knees and, reaching the top, sank down in a swoon.

 "This is all I need!" Jarre muttered in exasperation.

 "I'm not hauling him around too!" protested Lof bitterly. He was beginning to think that his father had been right and that he should never have involved himself in politics.

 A vicious tug on his beard and a sound smack on the cheek brought Limbeck to semi-consciousness. He began babbling something about inclines and planes, but Jarre told him to keep quiet and make himself useful by picking up the dog and hiding it in the cart with its master.

 "And tell it to keep quiet, too!" Jarre commanded.

 Limbeck's eyes opened so wide that it seemed they might fall out of his head. "M-me? P-pick up th-that-"

 But the dog, seeming to understand, solved the problem by jumping lightly into the cart, where it curled up at its master's feet.

 Jarre took a peep at the god and reported that he was still alive and looked somewhat better now that he was wrapped up in the cloaks. The Gegs covered his body with small chunks of coralite and various debris that the Kicksey-Winsey let fall from time to time, tossed a gunnysack over the dog, and headed the cart for the nearest exit.

 No one stopped them. No one demanded to know why they were shoving an ore cart through the tunnels. No one wanted to know where they were going or what they were going to do once they got there. Jarre, grinning wearily, said it was all for the best. Limbeck, sighing, shook his head and pronounced this lack of curiosity a sad commentary on his people.

 CHAPTER 20

 LEK, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

 IN THE LABYRINTH, A MAN MUST HONE HIS INSTINCTS TO A FINE, SHARP POINT, ASsharp as any blade of knife or sword, for the instincts, too, are weapons of self-preservation and are oftentimes as valuable as steel. Struggling to regain consciousness, Haplo instinctively kept himself from revealing that he was conscious. Until he could regain complete control of every faculty, he lay perfectly still and unmoving, stifled a groan of pain, and firmly resisted the overwhelming impulse to open his eyes and look at his surroundings.

 Play dead. Many times, an enemy will let you alone.

 Voices swam in and out of his hearing. Mentally he grasped at them, but it was like snagging fish with bare hands. They darted among his fingers; he could touch them but never quite catch hold. They were loud, deep voices, sounding quite clearly over a roaring thrumming that seemed to be all around him, even inside of him, for he could swear he could feel his body vibrating. The voices were some distance away and sounded as if they were arguing, but they weren't being violent about it. Haplo did not feel threatened and he relaxed.

 "I've fallen in with Squatters, seemingly. . . ."

 ". . . The boy's still alive. Got a nasty crack on the head, but he'll make it."

 "The other two? I suppose they're his parents."

 "Dead. Runners, by the looks of them. Snogs got them, of course. I guess they thought the kid too little to bother with."

 "Naw. Snogs don't care what they kill. I don't think they ever knew the kid was there. He was well-hidden in those bushes. If he hadn't groaned, we never would've heard him. It saved his life this time, but it's a bad habit. We'll have to break him of it. My guess is the parents knew they were in trouble. They clouted the kid a good one to keep him quiet and hid him away, then tried to lead the snogs away from him."

 "Lucky thing for the kid it was snogs and not dragons. Dragons would've sniffed him out."

 "What's his name?"

 The boy felt hands run over his body, which was naked except for a strip of soft leather tied around his loins. The hands traced a pattern of tattoos that began at his heart, extending across his chest, down his stomach and legs to the tops of his feet but not the soles, down his arms to the back of his hands but not the fingers or the palms, up his neck but not on the head or face.

 "Haplo," said the man, reading the runes over the heart. "He was born the time the Seventh Gate fell. That would make him about nine."

 "Lucky to have lived this long. I can't imagine Runners trying to make it, saddled with a kid. We better be getting out of here. Dragons'll be smelling the blood before long. Come on, boy. Wake up. On your feet. We can't carry you. Here, you, awake now? All right." Grabbing him by the shoulder, the man took Haplo to stand beside the hacked and mangled bodies of his parents. "Look at that. Remember it. And remember this. It wasn't snogs that killed your father and mother. It was those who put us in this prison and left us to die. Who are they, boy? Do you know?" His fingers dug into Haplo's flesh.

 "The Sartan," answered Haplo thickly.

 "Repeat it."

 "The Sartan!" he cried.

 "Right, never forget that, boy. Never forget. . . ."

 Haplo floated again to the surface of consciousness. The roaring, drumming sound whooshed and thumped around him but he could hear voices over it, the same voices he vaguely remembered hearing earlier, only now there seemed to be fewer of them. He tried to concentrate on their words, but it was impossible. The throbbing pain in his head stamped out every spark of rational thought. He had to end the pain.

 Cautiously Haplo opened his eyes a crack and peered out between the lashes. The light of a single candle, placed some-where near his head, did not illuminate his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, but he could manage to make out that he was alone.

 Slowly Haplo lifted his left hand and was bringing it near his head when he saw that it was swathed in strips of cloth. Memory glimmered, shining a feeble ray of light into the darkness of pain that surrounded him.

 All the more reason to rid himself of this debilitating injury.

 Gritting his teeth, moving with elaborate care so as not to make the slightest sound, Haplo reached across with his right hand and tugged at the cloth covering the left. Wrapped in between the fingers, it did not come completely loose but gave way enough so that the back of the left hand was partially exposed.

 The skin was covered with tattoos. The whirls and whorls, curls and curves, were done in colors of red and blue and were seemingly fanciful in nature and design. Yet each sigil had its separate and special meaning, which, when combined with other sigla that they touched, expanded into meaning upon meaning. [9] Prepared to freeze his motion at the barest hint that someone was watching him, Haplo raised his arm and pressed the back of his hand upon the gash in his forehead.

 The circle was joined. Warmth streamed from his hand to his head, flowed through his head to his arm, from his arm back to his hand. Sleep would follow, and while his body rested, pain would ease, the wound would close, internal injuries would be healed, complete memory and awareness would be restored on his awaking. With his waning strength, Haplo arranged the cloth so that it covered his hand. His arm fell limply, striking a hard surface beneath him. A cold nose thrust into his palm ... a soft muzzle rubbed against his fingers. . . .

 Spear in hand, Haplo faced the two chaodyn. His only emotion was anger-a fiery, raging fury that burned up fear. He was within sight of his goal. The Last Gate was visible on the horizon. To reach it, he had only to cross a vast open prairie that had looked empty when he reconnoitered. He should have known. The Labyrinth would never let him escape. It would hurl every weapon it had in its possession at him. But the Labyrinth was smart. Its malevolent intelligence had fought against the Patryns for a thousand years before a few had been able to gain the skills to conquer it. Twenty-five gates [10] Haplo had lived and fought, only to be defeated in the end. For there was no way he could win. The Labyrinth had allowed him to get well into the empty prairie without so much as a single tree or boulder on which to set his back. And it had pitted him against two chaodyn.

 Chaodyn are deadly foes. Bred of the insane magic of the Labyrinth, the intelligent giant insectlike creatures are skilled in the use of all weapons (these two were using broadswords). Tall as a man, with a hard black-shelled body, bulbous eyes, four arms, and two powerful back legs, a chaodyn can be killed- everything in the Labyrinth can be killed. But in order to slay one, you have to hit it directly in the heart, destroying it instantly. For if it lives, even a second, it will cause a drop of its own blood to spring into a copy of itself, and the two of them, whole and undamaged, will continue the fight.

 Haplo faced two of these, and he had only one rune-marked spear and his hunting dagger left. If his weapons missed their mark and wounded his opponent he would face four chaodyn. Missing again, he would face eight. No, he could not win.

 The two chaodyn were moving, one drifting off to Haplo's right, the other to his left. When he attacked one, the other would strike him from behind. The Patryn's only chance would be to kill the first outright with his spear, then turn and fight the other.

 This strategy in mind, Haplo backed up, feinting first toward one, then the other, forcing them to keep their distance. They did so, toying with him, knowing that they had him, for chaodyn enjoy playing with their victims and will rarely kill outright if there is a chance they can have some sport.

 Angered beyond rational thought, no longer caring whether he lived or died, wanting only to strike out at these creatures and, through them, at the Labyrinth, Haplo called on a lifetime of fear and despair and used the strength of his rage and frustration to power his throw. The spear flew from his hand; he shouted after it the rune calls that would send it flying swift and straight to his enemy. His aim was good, the spear tore through the insect's black carapace, and it fell backward, dead before it hit the ground.

 A flash of pain shot through Haplo. Gasping in agony, he wrenched his body aside and whirled to face his other foe. He could feel his blood, warm against his chill skin, flow from the wound. The chaodyn cannot use the rune magic, but long experience battling the Patryns has given them the knowledge of where the tattooed body is vulnerable to attack. The head is the best target. This chaodyn, however, had stabbed its sword into Haplo's back. Obviously the insect did not want to kill him, not yet.

 Haplo's spear was gone. It was hunting dagger against broadsword. Haplo could either run in under the chaodyn's guard and strike directly for the heart or he could risk a throw. His knife- used for skinning, honing, cutting-did not have runes of flight inscribed upon it. If he missed, he would be weaponless and probably facing two foes. But he had to end the battle soon. He was losing blood and he lacked a shield with which to parry the chaodyn's sword blows.

 The chaodyn, realizing Haplo's dilemma, swung its huge blade. Aiming for the left arm, the insect tried to cut it off- disabling its enemy but not yet killing. Haplo saw the blow coming and dodged as best he could, turning to meet it with his shoulder. The blade sank deep, bone crunched. The pain nearly made Haplo black out. He could no longer feel his left hand, let alone use it.

 The chaodyn fell back, recovering, getting itself into position for the next strike. Haplo gripped his dagger and fought to see through a red haze that was fast dimming his vision. He didn't care about his life anymore. His hatred had gained control. The last sensation he wanted to feel before his death was satisfaction in knowing he had taken his enemy with him.

 The chaodyn lifted the blade again, preparing to launch another torturing blow at its helpless victim. Calm with despair, lost in a stupor that was not entirely feigned, Haplo waited. He had a new strategy. It meant he would die, but so would his foe. The insect arm swung back, and at the same moment, a black shape leapt out from somewhere behind Haplo and launched itself straight at the chaodyn.

 Confused by this sudden and unexpected attack, the chaodyn glanced away from Haplo to see what was coming at it, and, in so doing, shifted the angle of its sword thrust to meet this new foe. Haplo heard a pain-filled yelp, a whimper, and had the vague impression of a furry body falling to the ground. He didn't pay any attention to what it had been. The chaodyn, lowering its arms to strike at the new threat, had left its chest exposed. Haplo aimed his dagger straight for the heart.

 The chaodyn saw its danger and attempted to recover, but Haplo had come in too close. The insect creature's sword sliced into the Patryn's side, glancing off his ribs. Haplo never felt it. He drove his dagger into the chaodyn's chest with such force that they both toppled over backward and crashed to the ground.

 Rolling off the body of his enemy, Haplo did not bother to try to stand. The chaodyn was dead. Now he, too, could die and find peace, like so many others before him. The Labyrinth had won. He had fought it, though. Even to the end.

 Haplo lay on the ground and let his life seep out of his body. He could have tried to heal himself, but that would have required effort, movement, more pain. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to hurt anymore. He yawned, feeling sleepy. It was pleasant to lie here and know that soon he wouldn't have to fight ever again.

 A low whining sound caused him to open his eyes, not so much in fear as in irritation that he wasn't going to be allowed to die in peace. Turning his head slightly, he saw a dog. So that Was the black furry thing that had attacked the chaodyn. Where had it come from? Presumably it had been out in the prairie, perhaps hunting, and had come to his aid.

 The dog crouched on its belly, head between its paws. Seeing Haplo looking at it, the dog whined again and, dragging itself forward, made an attempt to lick the man's hand. It was then that Haplo saw the dog was hurt.

 Blood flowed from a deep gash in the animal's body. Haplo recalled vaguely hearing its cry and the whimper when it fell. The dog was staring at him hopefully, expecting-as dogs do- that this human would care for it and make the terrible pain it was suffering go away.

 "I'm sorry," Haplo mumbled drowsily. "I can't help you. I can't even help myself."

 The dog, at the sound of the man's voice, feebly wagged its bushy tail and continued to regard him with complete, trusting faith.

 "Go off and die somewhere else!" Haplo made an abrupt, angry gesture. Pain tore through his body, and he cried out in agony. The dog gave a small bark, and Haplo felt a soft muzzle nudge his hand. Hurt as it was, the animal was offering him sympathy.

 And then Haplo, glancing over half-irritably, half-comforted, saw that the injured dog was struggling to rise to its feet. Standing unsteadily, the dog fixed its gaze on the line of trees behind them. It licked Haplo's hand once more, then set off, limping feebly, for the forest.

 It had misunderstood Haplo's gesture. It was going to try to go for help-help for him.

 The dog didn't get very far. Whimpering, it managed to take two or three faltering steps before it collapsed. Pausing a moment to rest, the animal tried again.

 "Stop it!" Haplo whispered. "Stop it! It's not worth it!"

 The animal, not understanding, turned its head and looked at the man as if to say, "Be patient. I can't go very fast but I won't let you down."

 Selflessness, compassion, pity-these are not considered by the Patryns to be virtues. They are faults belonging to lesser races who cover for these inherent weaknesses by exalting them. Haplo was not flawed. Ruthless, defiant, burning with hatred, he'd fought and battled his way through the Labyrinth, solitary and alone. He had never asked for help. He had never offered it. And he had survived, where many others had fallen. Until now.

 "You're a coward," he said to himself. "This dumb animal has the courage to fight to live, and you give up. What's more, you will die owing. Die with a debt on your soul, for, like it or not, that dog saved your life."

 No tender feeling caused Haplo to reach across with his right hand and grasp his useless left. It was shame and pride that drove him.

 "Come here!" he commanded the dog.

 The dog, too weak to stand, crawled on its belly, leaving a trail of blood in the grass behind.

 Gritting his teeth, gasping, crying out against the pain, Haplo pressed the sigil on the back of his hand against the dog's torn flank. Letting it rest there, he placed his right hand on the dog's head. The healing circle was formed; Haplo saw, with his fading vision, the dog's wound close. . . .

 "If he recovers, we'll take him to the High Froman and offer him proof that what I said was true! We'll show him and our people that the Welves aren't gods! Our people will see that they've been used and lied to all these years."

 "If he recovers," murmured a softer female voice. "He's hurt really bad, Limbeck. There's that deep gash on the head, and he may be hurt someplace else too. The dog won't let me get close enough to find out. Not that it matters. Head injuries as bad as that almost always lead to death. You remember when Hal Hammernail missed a step on the pussyfoot and tumbled down-"

 "I know. I know," came the discouraged reply. "Oh, Jarre, he just can't die! I want you to hear all about his world. It's a beautiful place, like I saw in the books. With clear blue sky and a bright shining light beaming down, and wonderful tall buildings as big as the Kicksey-Winsey-"

 "Limbeck," said the female voice sternly, "you didn't happen to hit your head, did you?"

 "No, my dear. I saw them! I truly did! Just like I saw the dead gods. I've brought proof, Jarre! Why won't you believe me?"

 "Oh, Limbeck, I don't know what to believe anymore! I used to see everything so clearly-all black and white, with clean, sharp edges. I knew exactly what I wanted for our people- better living conditions, equal share in the Welf's pay. That was all. Stir up a little trouble, put pressure on the High Froman, and he'd be forced to give in eventually. Now everything's a muddle, all gray and confusing. You're talking about revolution, Limbeck! Tearing down everything we've believed in for hundreds of years. And what do you have to put in its place?"

 "We have the truth, Jarre."

 Haplo smiled. He had been awake and listening for about an hour now. He understood the basic language-though these beings called themselves "Gegs," he recognized the tongue as a derivative of one known on the Old World as dwarven. But there were a great many things they said that he didn't understand. For example, what was this Kicksey-Winsey that they spoke of with such reverent awe? That was why he'd been sent here. To learn. To keep eyes and ears open, mouth shut, and hands off.

 Reaching down on the floor beside his bed, Haplo scratched the dog's head, reassuring the animal that he was well. This journey through Death Gate had not started out exactly as planned. Somewhere, somehow, his liege lord had made serious miscalculations. The runes had been misaligned. Haplo had realized the mistake too late. There had been little he could do to prevent the crash, the resultant destruction of his ship.

 The realization that he was now trapped on this world did not unduly worry Haplo. He had been trapped in the Labyrinth and escaped. After that experience, on an ordinary world such as this, he would be-as his lord said-"invincible." Haplo had only to play his part. Somehow, after he'd done what he came to do, he would find a way back.

 "I thought I heard something."

 Jarre entered the room, bringing with her a flood of soft candlelight. Haplo squinted, blinking up at her. The dog growled and started to jump up, but it lay still at its master's stealthy, commanding touch.

 "Limbeck!" Jarre cried.

 "He's dead!" The stout Geg came hurrying anxiously into the room.

 "No, no, he's not!" Sinking down beside the bed, Jarre reached out a trembling hand toward Haplo's forehead. "Look! The wound's healed! Completely. Not...not even a scar! Oh, Limbeck! Maybe you're wrong! Maybe this being truly is a god!"

 "No," said Haplo. Propping himself up on one elbow, he gazed intently at the startled Gegs. "I was a slave." He spoke slowly in a low voice, fumbling for words in the thick dwarven tongue. "Once I was as you are now. But my people triumphed over their masters and I have come to help you do the same."

 CHAPTER 21

 PITRIN'S EXILE, MID REALM

 THE JOURNEY ACROSS PITRIN'S EXILE WAS EASIER THAN HUGH HAD ANTICIPATED. Bane kept up gamely, and when he did tire, he tried very hard not to show it. Alfred watched the boy anxiously, and when the prince began to show signs of being footsore, it was the chamberlain who announced that he himself could not proceed another step. Alfred was, in fact, having a much more difficult time of it than his small charge. The man's feet seemed possessed of a will of their own and were continually going off on some divergent path, stumbling into nonexistent holes or tripping over twigs invisible to the eye.

 Consequently, they did not make very good time. Hugh did not push them, did not push himself. They were not far from the wooded inlet on the isle's edge, where he kept his ship moored, and he felt a reluctance to reach it-a reluctance that angered him, but one for which he refused to account.

 The walking was pleasant, for Bane and Hugh, at least. The air was cold, but the sun shone and kept the chill from being bitter. There was little wind. They met more than the usual number of travelers on the road, taking advantage of this brief spell of good weather to make whatever pressing journeys had to be made during the winter. The weather was also fine for raiding, and Hugh noted that everyone kept one eye on the road and one on the sky, as the saying went.

 They saw three of the dragon-headed, sail-winged elven ships, but they were far distant, traveling to some unknown destination on the kiratrack side. That same day, a flight of fifty dragons passed directly overhead. They could see the dragonknights in their saddles, the bright winter sun gleaming off helm and breastplate, javelin and arrow tips. This detail had a wizardess with them, flying in the center, surrounded by knights. She carried no visible weapons, only her magic, and that was in her mind. The dragonknights were headed toward the kiratrack as well. The elves weren't the only ones who would take advantage of clear, windless days.

 Bane watched the elven ships with wide-eyed, openmouthed, boyish awe. He had never seen one, he said, and was bitterly disappointed that they didn't come closer. A scandalized Alfred had, in fact, been forced to restrain His Highness from pulling off his hood and using it as a flag to wave them this direction. Travelers along the road had not been at all amused by this stunt. Hugh took grim delight in watching the peasants scatter for cover before Alfred managed to put a damper on His Highness's enthusiasm.

 That night, as they gathered around the fire after their frugal meal, Bane went over to sit beside Hugh, instead of his usual place near the chamberlain. Squatting down, he made himself comfortable.

 "Will you tell me about the elves, Sir Hugh?"

 "How do you know I have anything to tell?" Hugh fished his pipe and the pouch of sterego out of his pack. Leaning back against a tree, his -feet stretched out to the flames, he shook the dried fungus out of the leather pouch and into the round, smooth bowl.

 Bane gazed not at the assassin but at a point somewhere to Hugh's right, over his shoulder. His blue eyes lost their focus. Hugh thrust a stick into the fire and used it to light his pipe. Puffing on it, he watched the boy with idle curiosity.

 "I see a great battle," said Bane dreamily. "I see elves and men fighting and dying. I see defeat and despair, and then I hear men singing and there is joy."

 Hugh sat still for so long that his pipe went out. Alfred shifted position uncomfortably and put his palm on a hot coal. Stifling a cry of pain, he wrung his injured hand.

 "Your Highness," he said miserably, "I have told you-"

 "No, never mind." Casually Hugh knocked the ash out of his pipe, filled it, and lit it again. He puffed on it slowly, his gaze fixed on the boy. "You just described the Battle of Seven Fields."

 "You were there," said Bane.

 Hugh blew a thin trail of smoke into the air. "Yes, and so was nearly every other human male near my age, including your father, the king." Hugh took a long drag on the pipe. "If this is what you're calling clairvoyance, Alfred, I've seen better acts in a third-rate inn. The boy must have heard the story from his father a hundred times."

 Bane's face underwent a swift and startling change-the happiness dissolved into stark, searing pain. Biting his lips, he lowered his head and brushed his hand across his eyes.

 Alfred fixed Hugh with an odd look-one that was almost pleading. "I assure you, Sir Hugh, that this gift of His Highness's is quite real and should not be taken lightly. Bane, Sir Hugh does not understand magic, that is all. He is sorry. Now, why don't you get yourself a sweetmelt from the pack."

 Bane left Hugh's side, going over to the chamberlain's pack to find his treat. Alfred pitched his voice for Hugh's ears alone. "It's just . . . You see, sir, the king never really talked that much to the boy. King Stephen was never quite ... uh ... comfortable in Bane's presence."

 No, Hugh mused, Stephen must not have found it pleasant to look into the face of his shame. Perhaps, in the boy's features, the king saw a man he-and his queen-knew all too well.

 The glow of the pipe died. Knocking out the ashes, Hugh found a small twig and, splitting the end with his dagger, thrust it into the bowl and attempted to clean out the blockage. He cast a glance at the boy and saw Bane still rummaging through the pack.

 "You really believe this kid can do what he claims-sees pictures in the air-don't you?"

 "He can!" Alfred assured him earnestly. "I have seen him do it too many times to doubt. And you must believe it too, sir, or else ..."

 Hugh, pausing in his work, looked up at Alfred.

 "Or else? That sounds very much like a threat."

 Alfred cast his eyes down. His hurt hand nervously plucked the leaves off a cupplant. "I ... I didn't mean it-"

 "Yes, you did." Hugh knocked the pipe on a rock. "It wouldn't have anything to do with that feather he wears, would it? The one given him by a mysteriarch?"

 Alfred went livid, becoming so pale Hugh was half-afraid he might faint again. The chamberlain swallowed several times before he found his voice. "I don't-"

 A snapping branch interrupted him. Bane was returning to the fire. Hugh saw Alfred cast the boy the grateful glance of a drowning man who has been tossed a rope.

 The prince, absorbed in enjoying his sweetmelt, didn't notice. He threw himself on the ground and, picking up a stick, began to poke at the fire.

 "Would you like to hear the story of the Battle of Seven Fields, Your Highness?" Hugh asked quietly.

 The prince looked up, eyes shining. "I'll bet you were a hero, weren't you, Sir Hugh!"

 "Begging your pardon, sir," interrupted Alfred meekly, "but I don't take you for a patriot. How did you chance to be at the battle to free our homeland?"

 Hugh was about to reply when the chamberlain winced and hurriedly jumped up. Reaching down on the ground where he'd been sitting, Alfred picked up a large piece of broken coralite. Its knife-sharp edges sparkled in the firelight. Fortunately, the leather breeches he wore, which they had purchased from a cobbler, had protected him from serious harm.

 "You're right. Politics mean nothing to me." A thin trickle of smoke curled up from Hugh's lips. "Let's just say that I was there on business. . . ."

 ... A man entered the inn and stood blinking in the dim light. It was early morning, and the common room was empty except for a slovenly woman scrubbing the floor and a traveler seated at a table in deep shadow.

 "Are you Hugh, called the Hand?" the man who had entered asked the traveler.

 "I am."

 "I want to hire you." The man plunked a bag down in front of Hugh. Opening it and sorting through it, Hugh saw coins, jewelry, and even a few silver spoons. Pausing, he lifted out what was obviously a woman's wedding ring and looked at the man narrowly.

 "That comes from a number of us, for none was rich enough to hire you himself. We gave what valuables we had."

 "Who's the mark?"

 "A certain captain who hires himself out to the gentry to train and lead foot soldiers in battle. He's a bully and a coward and he's sent more than one squad to its doom while he's stayed safe behind and collected his fee. You'll find him with Warren of Kurinandistai, marching with the army of King Stephen. I've heard they're headed for a place called Seven Fields, on the continent."

 "And what's the special service you require of me? You and"-Hugh patted the money sack-"all these."

 "Widows and kinsmen of those he last led, sir," said the man. His eyes glinted. "We ask this for our money: that he be killed in such a manner that it will be obvious no enemy hand touched him, that he knows who has bought his death, and" -the man carefully held out to Hugh a small scroll-"that this be left on the body. ..."

 "Sir Hugh?" said Bane impatiently. "Go on. Tell me about Seven Fields."

 "It was back when the elves ruled us. Over the years, the elves had grown soft in their occupation of our land." Hugh gazed at the smoke curling upward into the darkness. "Elves consider humans to be little better than animals, and so they underrate us. In many ways, of course, they're right, and so you can hardly blame them for continuing to make what seems to be the same mistake over and over.

 "The Uylandia Cluster, at the time they ruled it, was divided into bits and pieces, each small bit ruled nominally by a human lord and in actuality by an elven overlord. The elves never had to work to keep the clans from uniting-the clans did that quite well themselves,"

 "I've often wondered why the elves didn't demand that we destroy our weapons, as was done in centuries past?" interjected Alfred.

 Hugh, puffing on the pipe, grinned. "Why bother? It was to their advantage to keep us armed. We used our weapons on each other, saving the elves a lot of trouble.

 "The plan worked, so well, in fact, that the elves shut themselves up in their fine castles, never bothering to open a window and take a good look at what was really transpiring around them. I know, for I used to hear their talk."

 "You did!" Bane sat forward, blue eyes glittering. "How? How did you come to know so much about elves?"

 The ash glowed red in the pipe, then dimmed and faded. Hugh ignored the question.

 "When Stephen and Anne managed to unite the clans, the elves finally opened their windows. In flew arrows and spears, and humans with swords scaled their walls. The uprising was swift and well-planned. By the time word reached the Tribus Empire, most of the elven overlords had been killed or driven from their homes. The elves retaliated. They assembled their fleet-the greatest ever seen in this world-and sailed for Uylandia. Hundreds of thousands of trained elven warriors and their sorcerers faced a few thousand humans-without our most powerful wizards, for by then the mysteriarchs had fled. Our people never stood a chance. Hundreds were slaughtered. More taken prisoner. King Stephen was captured alive-"

 "It was not his wish!" cried Alfred, stung by the sardonic tone in Hugh's voice.

 The pipe gleamed and dimmed. The Hand said nothing; Alfred was goaded by the silence into continuing talking, when he had never meant to speak. "The elven prince Reesh'ahn had marked Stephen out and ordered his men to take the king unharmed. Stephen's lords fell at his side, defending him. And even when he stood alone, he fought on. They say there was a ring of dead around him, for the elves dared not disobey their ruler, and yet none could get close enough to take him without being killed. Finally they rushed him en masse, bore him to the ground, and disarmed him. Stephen fought bravely, as bravely as any of them."

 "I wouldn't know about that," said the Hand. "All I know is that the army surrendered-"

 Shocked, Bane turned to face him. "You must be mistaken, Sir Hugh! Our army won the Battle of Seven Fields!"

 "Our army won?" Hugh raised an eyebrow. "No, it wasn't the army who won. It was one woman who beat the elves-a minstrel called Ravenlark, for, they said, her skin was black as a raven's feathers and her voice was like that of a lark singing to welcome the dawn. Her lord had brought her to sing his victory, I suppose, but she ended up chanting his death song. She was captured and taken prisoner like the rest of the humans. They were herded together on a road that ran through the Seven Fields, a road littered with the bodies of the dead, wet with their blood. They were a pitiful lot, for they knew the fate that awaited them-slavery. Envying those who had died, they stood with heads bowed and shoulders slumped.

 "And then the minstrel began to sing. It was an old song, one everyone remembers from childhood."

 "I know it!" Bane cried eagerly. "I've heard this part."

 "Sing it, then," said Alfred, smiling at the boy, pleased to see him happy again.

 "It's called 'Hand of Flame.' " The boy's voice rose shrill and slightly off-key but enthusiastic:

 The Hand that holds the Arc and Bridge,

 The Fire that rails the Temp'red Span,

 All Flame as Heart, surmount the Ridge,

 All noble Paths are Ellxman [11].

 Fire in Heart guides the Will,

 The Will of Flame, set by Hand,

 The Hand that moves Ellxman Song,

 The Song of Fire and Heart and Land:

 The Fire born of Journey's End,

 The Flame a part, a lightened call,

 The sullen walk, the flick'ring aim,

 Fire leads again from futures, all.

 The Arc and Bridge are thoughts and heart,

 The Span a life, the Ridge a part.

 "My nurse taught it to me when I was little. But she couldn't tell me what the words meant. Do you know, Sir Hugh?"

 "I doubt if anyone does now. The tune stirs the heart. Ravenlark began to sing it, and soon the prisoners lifted their heads proudly, their backs stiffened. They lined up into formation, determined to walk to slavery or death with dignity."

 "I've heard it said the song is elvish in origin," murmured Alfred. "And dates back to before the Sundering."

 Hugh shrugged, uninterested. "Who knows? All anyone cares about is that it has an effect on elves. From the sound of the first few notes, the elves stood transfixed, staring straight ahead. They looked like men in a dream, except that their eyes moved. Some claimed they were 'seeing pictures.' "

 Bane flushed, his hand tightly grasping the feather.

 "The prisoners, noticing this, kept on singing. The minstrel knew the words to all the verses. Most of the prisoners were lost after the first, but they kept up the tune and joined in strong on the chorus. The elves' weapons fell from their hands. Prince Reesh'ahn sank to his knees and began to weep. And, at Stephen's command, the prisoners marched away as fast as their feet could carry them."

 "It was to His Majesty's credit that he didn't order a helpless enemy slaughtered," said Alfred.

 The Hand snorted. "For all the king knew, a sword in the throat might have broken the spell. Our men were beaten. They wanted only to get out of there. The king had it in his mind, so I've been told, to fall back on one of the nearby castles and regroup and strike again. But it wasn't necessary. When the elves came to their senses, the king's spies reported that they were like men awakened from a beautiful dream who long to go back to sleep. They left their weapons and their dead where they lay and returned to their ships. Once there, they freed their human slaves and limped home."

 "The beginning of the elven revolution."

 "Supposedly so." Hugh dragged slowly on the pipe. "The elf king proclaimed his son, Prince Reesh'ahn, a disgrace and an outlaw and drove him into exile. Reesh'ahn's now stirring up trouble throughout Aristagon. There've been attempts made to capture him, but each time he's slipped through their fingers."

 "And with him, they say, travels the minstrel woman, who- according to legend-was so moved by the prince's sorrow that she chose to follow him," added Alfred softly. "Together they sing the song, and wherever they go, they find more followers." Leaning back, he misjudged the distance between himself and the tree trunk and whanged himself on the head.

 Bane giggled, then clapped his hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry, Alfred," he said contritely. "I didn't mean to laugh. Are you hurt?"

 "No, Your Highness," Alfred said with a sigh. "Thank you for asking. Now, Your Highness, you should be going to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

 "Yes, Alfred." Bane ran to get his blanket from his pack. "If it's all right, I'm going to sleep here tonight," he said. Looking up at Hugh shyly, he spread his blanket out next to the assassin's.

 Hugh rose abruptly to his feet and walked over to the fire. Knocking the bowl of the pipe against his hand, he scattered the ashes. "Rebellion." He stared into the flames, keeping his eyes averted from the child. "Ten years have passed and the Tribus Empire is as strong as ever. Their prince lives like a hunted wolf in the caves of the Kirikai Outlands."

 "The rebellion has at least kept them from crushing us beneath their boot heels," stated Alfred, wrapping himself in blankets. "Are you certain you'll be warm enough that far from the fire, Your Highness?"

 "Oh, yes," the boy said happily, "I'll be next to Sir Hugh." Sitting up, clasping his small arms around his knees, he looked up at the Hand questioningly. "What did you do at the battle? . . ."

 ". . . Where are you off to, captain? It seems to me the battle's being fought behind you."

 "Eh?" The captain started in fear at the sound of a voice when he had figured himself to be alone. Drawing his sword, he whirled around, and peered into the brush.

 Hugh, his weapon in hand, stepped out from behind a tree. The assassin's sword was red with elven blood; Hugh himself had taken several wounds in the vicious fighting. But he had never for one moment lost sight of his goal.

 The captain, seeing a human and not an elf warrior, relaxed and, grinning, lowered his sword, which was still clean and bright. "My lads are back there." He gestured with his thumb. "They'll take care of the bastards."

 Hugh, eyes narrowed, stared ahead.

 "Your 'lads' are getting cut to ribbons."

 The captain shrugged and turned to continue on his way. Hugh caught hold of the man's sword arm, jerked the weapon from his hand, and spun him around. Astounded, the captain swore an oath and lashed out at Hugh with a meaty fist. The captain ceased to fight when he felt the tip of Hugh's dagger at his throat.

 "What?" he gabbled, sweating and panting, his eyes bulging from his head.

 "My name is Hugh the Hand. And this"-he held up the dagger-"is from Tom Hales, and Henry Goodfellow, and Ned Carpenter, and the Widow Tanner, and the Widow Giles . . ." Hugh recited the names. An elven arrow thudded into a tree nearby. The assassin didn't flinch. The dagger didn't move.

 The captain whined and squirmed and shouted for help. But there were many humans who were shouting for help that day, and no one answered. His deathscream mingled with many others.

 Work completed, Hugh left. Behind him, he could hear voices raised in song, but he paid scant attention. He was imagining the puzzlement of the Kir monks, who would find the body of the captain far from the field of battle, a dagger in his chest, and in his hand the missive, "No more shall I send brave men to their deaths." . . .

 "Sir Hugh!" The small hand was tugging at his sleeve. "What did you do in the battle?"

 "I was sent to deliver a message."

 CHAPTER 22

 PITRIN'S EXILE, MID REALM

 THE ROAD HUGH FOLLOWED WAS, AT THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY, A BROAD, clear stretch of highway. They met numerous people on their way, for the interior of the isle was well-traveled. As they neared the shore, however, the road narrowed. It was rough and ill-kept, littered with splintered branches and broken rock. The hargast trees, or crystaltrees as they were sometimes called, grew wild in this region and were far different from the carefully cultivated "civilized" trees grown on the hargast farms.

 There is nothing quite so beautiful as an orchard of hargast trees-their silver bark gleaming in the sunlight, the carefully pruned crystalline branches clinking together with musical sounds. The farmers work among them, pruning them, preventing them from growing to the outlandish size that obviates their usefulness. The hargast tree has the natural ability not only to store water but also to produce it in limited quantities. When the trees are kept small-about six to seven feet in height-the water they make is not used to enhance their own growth and can be harvested by driving taps into the trees' bark. A full-grown hargast tree, over a hundred feet tall, uses its water itself. Its bark is too thick to tap. In the wild, the hargast's branches grow to tremendous lengths. Being hard and brittle, they break off easily and shatter when they hit the ground, scattering lethal shards of sharp crystalline bark. A hargast forest is a dangerous place to traverse and consequently Hugh and his companions met fewer and fewer people on the road.

 The wind blew strongly, as it always does near the coastline; currents of air sweeping up from the underside of the isle eddied and swirled among the jagged cliffs. Strong gusts caused the three to lose their footing, trees creaked and shuddered, and more than once they heard the ringing, shattering crack of a falling tree limb. Alfred grew increasingly nervous, scanning the skies for elven ships and the woods for elven warriors, although Hugh amusedly assured him that not even the elves bothered with this worthless part of Pitrin's Exile.

 It was a wild and desolate place. Cliffs of coralite jutted into the air. The tall hargast trees crowded close to the road, cutting off the sunlight with their long, thin leathery brown filaments. This foliage remained on the tree during the winter and only fell off in the spring, prior to growing the new filaments, which would suck moisture out of the air. It was nearly noon when Hugh, who had been paying unusual attention to the trunk of every hargast tree growing close to the roadside, suddenly called a halt.

 "Hey!" he shouted to Alfred and the prince, who were trudging wearily ahead of him. "This way."

 Bane turned to stare at him questioningly. Alfred turned-at least part of Alfred turned. His upper half swung around on Hugh's orders, but his lower half continued acting on previously given instruction. By the time all of Alfred managed to obey, he was lying in the dust of the road.

 Hugh waited patiently for the chamberlain to pick himself up.

 "We leave the road here." The assassin gestured toward the forest.

 "In there?" Alfred peered with dismay into the tangle of underbrush and densely packed hargast trees, standing unmoving, branches clinking together with an ominous musical sound in the swirling winds.

 "I'll take care of you, Alfred," said Bane, taking hold of the chamberlain's hand and squeezing it tightly. "There now, you're not scared anymore, are you? I'm not scared, not at all!"

 "Thank you, Your Highness," said Alfred gravely. "I feel much better now. However, if I might venture to ask, Sir Hugh, what necessitates our going this way?"

 "My airship is hidden in here."

 Bane gaped. "An elven airship?"

 "This way." Hugh gestured. "And be quick about it." He cast a glance up and down the empty road. "Before someone comes along."

 "Oh, Alfred! Hurry, hurry!" The prince pulled at the chamberlain's hand.

 "Yes, Your Highness," answered Alfred unhappily. He set his foot into the mass of last spring's rotting filaments on the roadside. There was a rustle, the underbrush leapt and quivered, and Alfred did the same. "What . . . what was that?" he gasped, pointing a trembling finger.

 "Go!" grunted Hugh, and shoved Alfred ahead.

 The chamberlain slid and stumbled. More out of terror at falling headlong into the unknown than out of agility, he managed to stay on his feet in the thick undergrowth. The prince plunged in after him, keeping the poor chamberlain in a constant state of panic by descrying snakes beneath every rock and log. Hugh watched them until the thick foliage had blocked them from his sight-and him from theirs. Reaching down, he picked up a rock and removed from beneath it a sliver of wood, which he thrust back into the notch that had been made in the trunk of a tree.

 Entering the forest, he had no trouble finding the two again; a wild boar blundering through the thickets could not have made a greater clamor.

 Moving with his accustomed soft-footed tread, Hugh was standing right beside them before either of the two was aware of him. Purposefully he cleared his throat, figuring that if he didn't give some indication of his presence, the chamberlain might drop dead from fright. As it was, Alfred nearly leapt from his skin at the startling sound, and almost wept with relief when he saw it was Hugh.

 "Where . . . which way, sir?"

 "Keep going straight ahead. You'll strike a cleared path about twenty feet further."

 "T-twenty feet!" Alfred stammered. He gestured at the thick brush in which he was entangled. "It will take us an hour to get that far, at least!"

 "If something doesn't get us first," teased Bane, round-eyed with excitement.

 "Most amusing, Your Highness."

 "We're still too close to the road. Get moving," commanded Hugh.

 "Yes, sir," muttered the chamberlain.

 They reached the path in less than an hour, but it was hard going nonetheless. Though brown and lifeless in the winter, the bramble bushes were like the hands of the undead, reaching out with their sharp nails to tear flesh and rend clothing. This deep in the forest, the three could hear quite plainly the faint crystalline hum caused by the wind rubbing against the hargast branches. It was much like someone running a wet finger over a crystal glass, and had the effect of setting the teeth on edge.

 "No one in his right mind would come in this accursed place!" grumbled Alfred, glancing up at the trees with a shudder.

 "Exactly," said Hugh, and continued to beat a path through the brush.

 Alfred walked ahead of the prince and held back the thorny branches so that Bane could pass through them safely. The brambles were so thick, however, that this was often not possible. Bane endured scratched cheeks and torn hands without complaint, sucking his wounds to alleviate the pain.

 How bravely will he face the pain of dying?

 Hugh hadn't meant to ask himself the question, and he forced himself to answer it. As bravely as other kids I've seen. Better to die young, after all, as the Kir monks say. Why should a child's life be considered more precious than a man's? Logically, it should be less so, for a man contributes to society and a child is a parasite. It's instinctive, Hugh supposed. Our animal-like need to perpetuate our own kind. This is just another job. The fact that he's a child shouldn't, won't matter!

 The bramble bushes gave way eventually, with a suddenness for which Alfred was evidently unprepared. By the time Hugh reached him, the chamberlain was lying sprawled facefirst on a narrow space of cleared ground.

 "Which direction? That's it, isn't it?" cried Bane, dancing around Alfred in excitement. The path led only one direction. Deducing that it must lead to the ship, the prince bolted down it before Hugh could answer his question.

 Hugh opened his mouth to command him to come back, then shut it abruptly.

 "Oh, sir, shouldn't we stop him?" queried Alfred anxiously as Hugh waited for the chamberlain to drag himself to his feet.

 The wind whipped around them, shrieking and moaning, drivingtinybits of stinging coralite and hargast bark into their faces. Leaves swirled at their feet and the crystalline tree branches swayed above their heads. Hugh stared through the fine dust to see the boy running headlong down the path.

 "He'll be all right. The ship's not far from here. He can't mistake the trail."

 "But . . . assassins?"

 The child's fleeing his one true danger, Hugh said silently. Let him go. "There's no one in these woods. I would've seen the signs."

 "If you don't mind, sir, His Highness is my responsibility." Alfred was edging his way down the path. "I'll just hurry after-"

 "Go ahead." Hugh waved his hand.

 Alfred, smiling and bobbing his head in servile thanks, broke into a run. The Hand half-expected to see the chamberlain break his head at the same time, but Alfred managed to keep his feet under him and pointed the same direction as his nose. His long arms swinging, hands flapping at his sides, he loped down the path after the prince.

 Hugh lagged behind, deliberately slowing his steps, pausing, waiting for something uncertain and unknown. He'd felt the same when a storm was approaching-a tension, a prickling of the skin. Yet there was no rain smell in the air, no acrid whiff of lightning. The winds always blew high along the coast-

 The sound of the crack splitting the air was so loud that Hugh's first thought was of an explosion, his next that elves had discovered his ship. But the subsequent crash and the shrill, agonized scream, cut off abruptly, informed Hugh of what had really happened.

 He felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

 "Help, Sir Hugh! Help!" Alfred's voice, blown apart by the wind, was barely heard. "A tree! A tree . . . fallen . . . my prince!"

 Not a tree, thought Hugh. A branch. Most likely a big one, from the sound. Sheared off by the wind, it had come crashing down across the path. He'd seen such a thing many times before in this wood, narrowly missed being struck himself.

 He did not run. It was as if the black monk at his shoulder laid a restraining hand on his arm and whispered, "There is no need for haste." The shards of broken hargast branch were sharp as arrow points. If Bane was still alive, he wouldn't be for long. There were plants in this forest that would ease the pain, put the boy to sleep, and, though Alfred would never know it, speed the child to an easy death.

 Hugh continued walking slowly down the path. Alfred's cries for help had ceased. Perhaps he'd realized how futile it was. Perhaps he'd discovered the prince already dead. They'd take the body to Aristagon and leave it there, as Stephen had wanted. It would appear as if the elves had badly abused the boy before killing him, and that would inflame the humans. King Stephen would have his war, much good it would do him.

 But that wasn't Hugh's concern. He'd take the bumbling Alfred along to help, and at the same time worm out of the chamberlain the dark plot he was undoubtedly aiding and abetting. Then, with Alfred in tow, the Hand would communicate with the king from a safe hiding place and demand his fee be doubled. He'd-

 Rounding a bend in the path, Hugh saw that Alfred hadn't been far wrong when he said a tree had fallen. A huge limb, big as most trees itself, had cracked in the wind and split the trunk of the ancient hargast in two when it came down. The tree must have been rotten, to have separated like that. Coming nearer, Hugh could see within what was left of the trunk the tunnels of the insects that had been the old tree's true killer.

 Though it was lying on the ground, the limb's branches that had remained intact towered above Hugh. The branches that had struck the ground had shattered and cut a wide swath of devastation through the forest; its crystalline remains completely obliterated the path. The dust it had raised still hung in the air. Hugh searched among the branches but could see nothing. He climbed over the split trunk. When he reached the other side, he stopped to stare.

 The boy who should have been dead was sitting on the ground rubbing his head, looking dazed and very much alive. His clothing was rumpled and dirty, but it had been rumpled and dirty when he entered the forest. There weren't, Hugh noted, his eyes scanning the boy, any shards of bark or filaments in his hair. He had blood on his chest and on his torn shirt, but nowhere else on his body. The Hand glanced at the split trunk and then turned his measuring gaze on the path. Bane was sitting squarely in the spot where the branch must have fallen. He was surrounded by the sharp, deadly shards.

 Yet he wasn't dead.

 "Alfred?" Hugh called.

 And then he saw the chamberlain, crouched on the ground near the boy, his back to the assassin, intent on doing something that Hugh could not see. At the sound of a voice, Alfred's body twitched in startlement and he jerked to his feet as though someone had yanked him up by a rope attached to his shirt collar. Hugh saw now what the chamberlain had been doing. He was binding a cut on his hand.

 "Oh, sir! I'm so thankful you're here-"

 "What happened?" Hugh demanded.

 "Prince Bane has been extremely fortunate, sir. A terrible tragedy has been averted. The branch came crashing down, just barely missing His Highness."

 Hugh, watching Bane closely, saw the puzzled glance the boy gave his chamberlain. Alfred did not notice-his eyes were on his injured hand. He had been attempting, without much success apparently, to wrap a strip of cloth around the wound.

 "I heard the boy scream," Hugh said.

 "Out of fright, sir," explained Alfred. "I ran-"

 "Is he hurt?" Hugh glowered at Bane, pointed to the blood on the child's chest and the front of his shirt.

 Bane peered down at himself. "No, I-"

 "My blood, sir," interrupted Alfred. "I was running to help His Highness and I fell and cut my hand."

 Alfred exhibited the cut. It was deep. Blood was dropping onto the broken remnants of the tree limb. Hugh watched the prince to gauge his reaction to Alfred's statement, saw the boy's frowning gaze fixed intently on his chest. Hugh looked to see what had captured the boy's attention, but saw only a smeared patch of blood.

 Or was it? Hugh started to lean down, examine it closer, when Alfred, with a groan, toppled over and collapsed onto the ground. Hugh nudged the chamberlain with the toe of his boot, but got no response. Alfred had, once again, fainted.

 Glancing up, Hugh saw Bane trying to wipe the blood off his skin with the tail of his shirt. Well, whatever was there was gone now. Ignoring the comatose Alfred, Hugh faced the prince.

 "What really happened, Your Highness?"

 Bane gazed up at him with dazzled eyes. "I don't know, Sir Hugh. I remember a cracking sound, and then"-he shrugged- "that's all."

 "The branch fell on top of you?"

 "I don't remember. Honest."

 Scrambling to his feet, moving carefully amidst the shards that were sharp as glass, Bane brushed off his clothes and started over to help Alfred.

 Hugh dragged the chamberlain's limp body off the path and propped him up against a tree trunk. A few slaps on the cheeks and he began to come around, blinking up at Hugh dizzily.

 "I'm . . . I'm most sorry, sir," Alfred mumbled, attempting to stand and failing miserably. "It's the sight of blood. I never could stomach-"

 "Don't look at it, then!" Hugh snapped, seeing Alfred's horrified gaze go to his hand, his eyes start to roll back in his head.

 "No, sir. I ... won't!" The chamberlain squeezed his eyelids tightly shut.

 Kneeling down beside him, Hugh bandaged the hand, taking the opportunity to examine the wound. It was a clean, deep slice.

 "What cut you?"

 "A piece of bark, I think, sir."