Forsake the Sky

Chapter 1

Frank delivered a final poke to the man-shaped rubber pad that was nailed to the wall—got him right in the throat!—and put down his sword. He unbuttoned his fencing jacket and sat down in a nearby canvas chair. Now where the hell is old Rutledge? Frank glanced at the clock on the wall. He’s ten minutes late.

Frank stood up, crossed to the open window, and leaned on the sill. He watched the littered tide of the Leethee flow past, its blackness highlighted by dancing glints of light cast by the lamps that hung from the tunnel roof. The river was wide through here, and he sometimes saw festive barges and solitary canoes wend their way up or downstream.

The Rovzar Fencing School had been open for almost six weeks. The location was good (Orcrist had helped him find a good river-view building to rent in a respectable neighborhood), and he already had enough students to pay the rent and keep him busy.

Without exception, his students were ranking members of the Subterranean Companions; Orcrist pointed out that there was no reason to teach fencing secrets to strangers.

A chittering screech sounded in the adjoining room, and Frank turned around with a smile as Rutledge entered, carrying his pet monkey on his shoulder.

“Down, Bones!” Rutledge commanded. Bones, a wild-eyed spider monkey, leaped from the lord’s shoulder onto a chair and began gnawing the fabric.

“Damn all monkeys,” growled Rutledge. He shrugged off his velvet coat and took a fencing jacket out of a closet. “You must have washed these, Rovzar! This one seems to have shrunk.”

“It’s possible,” Frank said. It’s not the jacket’s fault, he thought. It’s beer and pork pie that have tightened the fit. “Have you been practicing your on guard?”

“Yes, yes. It’s invincible.” Rutledge flipped a wire-mesh fencing mask over his face and selected one of the practice épées hanging on a wall rack. He flexed the blade a few times and then crouched, the blade held forward and ready. “How’s that?” he asked.

Frank put on a mask and picked up his own épée.

“Not bad,” he said, critically examining Rutledge’s posture. “Let’s see if you can maintain it.”

He saluted, and they began to bout, starting slow and relaxed. Each point hovered around the other man’s bell guard, never getting a clear shot at a wrist or forearm. After a minute, Frank began to let his elbows show beneath, apparently unguarded. He saw Rutledge tense with preparation, and then the lord’s blade flashed out at Frank’s elbow. Just as he saw him extend, though, Frank went up on his toes and straightened his sword arm, catching Rutledge in the biceps with the sword’s covered tip. Rutledge’s sword wavered in empty air.

“That’s a favorite trick of mine,” Frank explained. “Lure him below with your elbow and then go in over the top when he goes for it. You’ve got to be quick, though, or you’ll have a hole in your arm and an opponent who thinks you’re an idiot.”

“Give me a gun anytime,” Rutledge said. “When I was a boy we had guns, you know. Kill a man from across a courtyard! None of this damned personal contact.”

“Yes,” Frank said, “but a gun doesn’t take much skill. Any stable boy could kill you with a gun. But how many people can kill you with a sword?”

“Not many! Especially now that I’m taking your lessons. Your damnably expensive lessons.” Frank shrugged. “How do I compare with your other students, Rovzar? I know Orcrist and a few others are studying your methods. Has Tolley come in?”

“No, Lord Christensen doesn’t think he needs any help. He told Orcrist that the day he goes to a painter for fencing lessons will be the day he sends Costa his two virgin daughters. Not real soon, in other words. Anyhow, speaking honestly, I’d say you’re my most rapidly improving student.”

“No kidding?” replied Rutledge in a pleased tone of voice. “In that case have another try at teaching me that eye shot.”

The next half hour was spent in showing the elderly lord a particularly vicious bind in sixte that, properly executed, landed one’s point forcefully in the opponent’s eye. Rutledge was beginning to catch on, and after Frank had three times taken a blow to his mask he called a recess.

“I pity any sewer vagabonds who try to rob you,” Frank said. He opened a cabinet and took a bottle of cheap vino blanco out of an ice bucket. “Will you join me in some wine, my lord?”

“Good God, yes. Swordplay is dry work.” Rutledge took a glass of wine and gulped half of it right off. Bones climbed up to his belt buckle and made gross smacking sounds, so Rutledge handed the monkey the glass, and the hairy creature drank the rest of it with relish.

“Can monkeys get drunk?” asked Rutledge.

“I suppose so. Want me to give him a glass?”

“Why don’t you.”

Frank poured a third, slightly bigger glass, and handed it to Bones. The monkey took it to a corner to drink, and Frank poured another glass to replace Rutledge’s slobbery one.

“There is a nice feint you can use if your man bends his arm as he retreats,” said Frank, crossing to the windowsill and sitting down on it. “Done right, it puts your point into his kneecap. I’ll have to show it to you next. ”

“Why do so few of your moves hit the body, Rovzar?” asked Rutledge. “Seems to me you’re just wasting time hitting your opponent in the arm and the knee.”

“If your opponent knows anything about swords, you generally can’t get to the body,” Frank told him. “Before your point hits his stomach or chest, his point is buried in your forearm. A full-extension lunge is a beautiful thing to do when you’re practicing in a fencing school, but I’d certainly never do one in an alley against an opponent with an untipped weapon.”

Frank was suddenly aware of breathing sounds echoing softly behind him, from the river. He leaped off of the sill and turned around, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. Peripherally, he saw Rutledge come up beside him and stare wordlessly out.

The river was jammed. Boats, rafts and logs covered its surface, and every floating thing carried silent, staring passengers. Children huddled in blankets in the bows of rowboats, while haggard old men worked the oars; string-tied bundles and frying pans and guitars were roped in piles on rafts that old women paddled along with boards; sunken-eyed men floated past with their arms around logs, their bodies immersed in water up to their chests. None of these drifters spoke, even to each other.

“What in God’s name?” began Rutledge. Bones climbed unsteadily up his master’s leg and perched beside him on the windowsill.

“Who are you?” called Frank to the people on the nearest raft. “Where are you all going?”

A man stood up on the raft. He looked about forty, with brown hair beginning to go gray at the temples; he wore overalls with no shirt under them. “We’re farmers,” he said, “from the Goriot Valley.” The echoes of his own voice seemed to upset him, and he sat down again.

“Where are you going?” repeated Frank.

“To the Deptford Sea,” answered a woman from a heavily-loaded rowboat. “We can’t go overland because we don’t have travel permits.”

“Give us the monkey,” called a boy perched on a log. “We don’t have food. Give us the monkey, at least.”

“Yes, the monkey, give it to us,” came a shout from farther out in the river. In a moment the waterborne fugitives were chorusing madly: “The monkey!” “God save you for your gift of the monkey!” “My boy here hasn’t eaten! Throw the monkey to me!”

Frank looked down at Bones, who squatted drunkenly on the stone coping of the window, blinking his eyes at the clamoring floaters. The monkey’s stomach was jerking up and down like an adam’s apple, and as Frank watched, the beast leaned forward and noisily vomited vino blanco into the water.

“Give us the damned monkey! We’ll have it! You can’t keep it from us!” moaned and wailed the refugees. Frank leaned out and pulled the heavy shutters closed. He latched them, and then slid a bolt through the iron staples.

“Let’s close up shop,” he said to Rutledge. “You were my last pupil of the day anyway.”

They hung up the swords and jackets, blew out the lamps, and locked the front door behind them. The Rovzar Fencing School was in a fashionable understreet neighborhood, so they talked freely and left their swords in the scabbards as they walked. Spicy cooking smells wafted out of restaurant doors, and Frank was beginning to get hungry.

“Have you paid off your bond to Orcrist yet?” Rutledge asked.

“No,” Frank answered, “but with the money I’m making from the fencing classes, I should have it paid off in a month or so.”

“You’ll be getting digs of your own then, I expect.”

“Yes. I've been looking at apartments here in the Congreve district, and I think I could afford to live near the school, which would be handy.”

They rounded a corner and found themselves facing four uniformed Transport policemen, each armed with a standard-issue rapier. Their faces showed tan in the lamplight, proof that they were new to understreet work.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” grinned one of the Transports. “May I see your identification and employment cards?”

“ Since when have they been necessary for understreet citizens?” queried Rutledge with icy politeness.

“Since Duke Costa signed a law saying so, weasel! Now trot ’em out or come along with us to the station.” Each policeman’s hand was on his sword hilt.

Rutledge drew his sword with a salty curse. Frank and the four Transports followed suit simultaneously. One of the Transports lunged at Rutledge, who parried and jabbed the man in the wrist. Bones, terrified, leaped from the lord’s shoulder to the ground.

“Nicely done!” called Frank to Rutledge as two of the Transports centered on him. He feinted ferociously at one, and the man retreated a full two steps. The other man aimed a beat at Frank’s blade, but Frank dropped his point to elude it and then gored the man deeply in the shoulder. The clanging and rasp of the swords rang up and down the street. Frank stole another glance at Rutledge and saw the lord thrusting furiously at one of his opponents.

“Watch your weapon arm!” Frank shouted. “Hide behind your bell guard! Don’t be impatient!” Frank held his two men off by whirling his point in a continuous horizontal figure eight. It was dangerous, but it gained him a breathing space. After a few seconds the shoulder-wounded Transport got angry and ran at Frank in an ill-considered fleche attack; Frank stepped away from the blade and drove his point through the man’s neck. The other policeman was close behind, so Frank hopped backward as he pulled his sword free. Bright red blood jetted as the stricken Transport sank to his knees on the street.

“How goes it, my lord?” Frank called as he crossed swords with his remaining opponent.

“I poked one of them in the belly,” gasped Rutledge. “Be careful ... he’s crawling around in the middle of the street. Don’t let him get you ... from below.”

Frank glimpsed the man, who was on his hands and knees on the pavement, and kept clear of him. Frank tried two feints on his own man, but the policeman was being cautiously defensive—maybe waiting for reinforcements? Frank wondered.

“I can’t quite get that ... six bind,” panted Rutledge. “How do you ... take the blade to start it?”

“Watch,” called Frank. He hopped forward, took his opponent’s sword from below, and then whirled his point in around the other man’s bell guard; he lunged, and the point punctured the eye and brain of the unfortunate Transport.

“Thus,” said Frank, holding the position for Rutledge’s benefit. “Begin it like a standard counter six. And finish with a moderate lunge.”

“I see,” said Rutledge. Frank straightened up to watch his pupil. After a moment the thief-lord leaped forward, caught the man’s blade, and, lunging, spun his point into the man’s eye. The Transport dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Well done, my lord!” Frank nodded. “You see the advantage of practice. Now let’s get out of this incriminating street.”

Rutledge quickly dispatched the wounded policeman, and Bones, who had been sitting on a curb during the encounter, hopped up on Rutledge’s shoulder. Lights had gone on and people were leaning out of windows, but Frank knew none of them would ever tell anything to any authorities. It was entirely possible, in fact, that the local citizenry would dispose of the bodies and weapons, leaving the Transport with, apparently, four more cases of unexplained desertion. Frank and Lord Rutledge strolled away down a cross street as casually as if they were leaving a poetry reading.

Frank escorted Rutledge home and then walked thoughtfully back toward Orcrist’s dwelling. He was upset, but could not precisely say why. The killing of the four Transports tonight seemed stupid—not cruel or murderous, because those four officers certainly intended to do him harm—simply stupid. Why do I feel that way? he asked himself. Actually, it was quite a brave thing, two against four.

Brave? his mind sneered. You and Rutledge are superior swordsmen. You were safe. It wasn’t bravery, it was showing off. You want to know what would have been a brave thing to do? To have pulled the trigger of Orcrist’s gun, that night at the Doublon Festival. To have avenged your father.

All the sour black misery of his father’s death and his own exile rose up and choked him. Tears stung his eyes; he clenched his teeth and drove his fist against the brick wall of Ludlow Alley. He stood there motionless for a full minute, leaning against the wall; then he straightened up and strode off, impatient with himself for having indulged this maudlin side of his nature.

When he entered Orcrist’s sitting room he had forced himself to become quite cheerful. He poured a good-sized glass of scotch, took a deep sip of it, and then set it down while he fetched his pipe and tobacco. Orcrist had brought him a can of good tobacco, thickly laced with spicy black latakia, and he was beginning to like the stuff. Now he was even able to keep the pipe lit. Soon the pungent smoke hung in layers across the room as he absorbed himself with a book of A. E. Housman’s poetry.

“Well, Frank!” boomed Orcrist’s voice. “I didn’t expect to see you this early. Didn’t Rutledge show up?”

“Oh, he was there,” answered Frank. “We broke up early, that’s all. It’s been an eventful evening. The Leethee, if you haven’t yet heard, is packed with fugitive farmers from the Goriot Valley, all headed for the Deptford Sea—the south coast, I guess. And then on the way home Rutledge and I were stopped by four Transport cops and we had to kill them all.”

“They were down here?” asked Orcrist. “Understreet?”

“That’s right. Four of them, asking for identification cards.”

Orcrist shook his head. “Something, I’m afraid, has got to be done.”

Frank nodded and put down his pipe. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “The Subterranean Companions are a well-organized group, armed and more-or-less disciplined. What if we recruit and arm a few hundred of these homeless farmers and then overthrow the whole Transport-Costa government?” Orcrist chuckled as he poured himself a scotch. “Overthrow is an easy word to say, Frank.”

“But we could!” Frank insisted. “The Transports are having all kinds of financial difficulties—they couldn’t maintain a long siege. And Costa is no military genius.”

“No,” said Orcrist, sipping his drink, “he isn’t. But I’ll tell you what he is. He’s the blood son of Topo, and that’s what counts. Even if we did, somehow, take over the palace and kill Costa, we couldn’t hold it because we have no one with royal blood to set up as a successor. And that is a prerequisite. The citizens of Octavio may not be fond of Costa, and they aren’t, you know, but they’re bound up by centuries of tradition. They won’t even consider accepting a duke who isn’t of the royal blood.”

“Ignorant cattle,” muttered Frank, aware in spite of himself that he, too, was unable to picture a duke who was not the descendant of a lot of other dukes.

“But,” said Orcrist thoughtfully, “we might figure out a way to keep Munson Understreet, at least, free of Transport influence. I’ll have to bring the matter up at the next meeting. Anyway, stop bothering your brains with politics and go put on a clean shirt. I’ve invited Kathrin Figaro over for a late glass of sherry.”

Frank stood up. “Righto,” he said, heading for the hallway. “Oh,” he said, turning, “I was just curious—I don’t suppose there’s any truth to George Tyler’s stories about being Topo’s son?”

Orcrist shook his head. “Come on, Frank. You’ve heard his stories. George is a good friend, and a moderately good poet, but a prince he is not.”

“I didn’t really think so,” said Frank, leaving the room.

Just as Frank reentered, buttoning the cuff of a new shirt, a knock sounded at the door. Frank threw himself into his chair and snatched up his pipe, then nodded to Orcrist, who proceeded to open the door.

“Kathrin!” he said. “Come in. You remember Frank Rovzar?”

“Of course,” smiled Kathrin as Frank stood up and kissed her hand.

Orcrist took Kathrin’s badger-skin stole and went to hang it up while Frank poured three glasses of sherry.

“There you are,” he smiled, handing her one of them.

“Thank you. Was there a fire in here? I smell burning rugs or something.”

“That’s my new tobacco.”

“Oh? What happened to that wonderful cherry stuff you were smoking before? That smelled delicious.”

“I think he lost his taste for it,” said Orcrist. “Kathrin, tell Frank about your new job.”

“Oh, yes. Frank, I’ve got a job in a dress shop on the surface! I’m a fashion designer. So you see you aren’t the only one around here who can draw.” Orcrist smiled wickedly and winked at Frank. “What were you reading there?” she asked, pointing at Frank’s book.

“A. E. Housman’s poetry,” Frank answered. “Have you ever read any of it?”

“No, but I love poetry. In fact, I wrote a poem last week. Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure,” answered Frank. “Bring it over some time. Would you like some more sherry?”

“No thank you. But I have the poem right here, in my purse.” She rummaged about in the purse while Frank and Orcrist exchanged worried glances. “Ah, here it is.” Then, in an embarrassingly over-animated voice, she began to read:

“Love, called the bird of my heart.

Do you hear it, the sweet song?

The children go dancing through the flowers

And I kiss your eyes like the sun kisses the

wheat.”

After a moment Kathrin raised her eyes. “It’s very personal,” she explained.

Frank caught Orcrist’s eye and looked quickly away. My God, he thought, I can’t laugh! He bit his tongue, but still felt dangerously close to exploding. Picking up his glass, he drained his sherry in one gulp, and choked on it. He coughed violently and thus managed to get rid of the most insistent edge of his laughter. “Are you all right?” asked Kathrin.

“Oh yes,” he assured her, gaspingly. “But some of the sherry went down the wrong way.”

“Well, what did you think of my poem?”

“Oh, well it ... it’s very good.” Behind her Frank could see Orcrist doing bird imitations with his hands. I will not laugh, Frank vowed. “I liked it.”

“I feel poetry should just ... flow from the heart,” she went on. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Precisely,” nodded Orcrist. “Now, I’m an old man and I need my rest, so I’ll be turning in. Why don’t you take Kathrin for a ride down the Timog Canal, Frank? That’d be pleasant, and I don’t imagine any of the Goriot fugitives would have wound up there.”

Frank nodded, grateful that the conversation had been steered away from the subject of Kathrin’s horrible poem. “That sounds good to me,” he said. “Have you ever taken a boat ride down the Timog?”

“No,” said Kathrin. “Is it safe?”

“Absolutely,” Orcrist assured her. “Even if it weren’t, Frank is one of the five best swordsmen in Munson Understreet, and maybe on the whole planet. You’ve got nothing to fear.” He fetched her wrap, draped it about her shoulders, and surreptitiously slipped Frank a five-malory note. Frank got his coat and strapped on his sword and they were ready to go.

“So long, Sam,” said Kathrin as they were leaving. “At least Frank doesn’t run down at ten o’clock.”

“I envy him his youth,” smiled Orcrist as he closed the door.

Chapter 2

A night wind sighed eerily down the length of the Timog Canal, wringing soft random chords from the many aeolian harps and wind chimes hung from the low stone ceiling.

Kathrin leaned on Frank’s shoulder. Frank put his arm around her—it seemed in some undefined way to be expected of him.

Paper lanterns, red, green and yellow, glowed everywhere, casting a dim fantastic radiance. By their fitful light were visible several ponderous, ribbon-hung barges rocking in the water, each one piloted by a tall, hooded gondolier who carried a long punting pole. Frank waved at the nearest boatman and the man pushed his barge to the padded dock.

“Passage for two,” Frank told him, “to Quartz Lane and back.”

“Two malories,” said the pilot. Frank handed him the five and got change. He helped Kathrin aboard, and they sat close together on the wide leather seat in the bow while the gondolier pushed away from the dock. Frank trailed the fingers of his left hand in the cool water, and eventually put his right arm around Kathrin, who obligingly snuggled up under his chin.

Neither of them spoke as the barge drifted down the tunnel; the only sound was the soft bump of the pilot’s pole as he corrected the barge’s course from time to time. As the distance grew between them and the dock, the paper lanterns became fewer; soon they were in total darkness. Then, gradually, dim moonlight began to filter through cracks and holes in the ancient masonry that passed by over their heads, for Timog Canal, in several places, reached the surface, and the roof that had been built over it in such places was in bad repair. Some of the holes were a foot across, and the stars were plainly visible; and once Frank saw, like a thin chalk line across a distant blackboard, the luminous vapor trail of a Transport freighter hanging in the night sky.

Without premeditation Frank leaned over and kissed Kathrin, and was half surprised to find that she didn’t object. Afterward she rested her head on his chest and he thoughtfully stroked her long brown hair.

At Quartz Lane, an abandoned stretch of once stately houses, the pilot laboriously turned the barge around and began working his way back up the slow stream, the thumping of his pole sounding regularly now, like a pulse.

When Frank got back to Orcrist’s place he found a courier nodding sleepily in the easy chair. It was after midnight.

“Are you ... uh ... Francisco de Goya Rovzar?” the courier asked as Frank shed his coat.

“Yes. Why?”

“I have a letter for you from his majesty King Blanchard, and I’ve got to deliver it directly into your hands. Here. Now goodnight.” Abruptly the courier put on his hat and left.

“Goodnight,” said Frank automatically. Blanchard wrote a letter to me! He remembered his only sight of the old king, burly and white-bearded and gruff, at the first meeting of the Subterranean Companions he had attended.

He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

My dear Rovzar; I would be very pleased if you would drop round my chambers on Cochran Street this Thursday for the purpose of discussing and perhaps demonstrating fencing techniques.

I hear from various acquaintances that you are very good.

—BLANCHARD

Well, by God, thought Frank. It’s quite the social climber I’m becoming. I’ll show this to Orcrist in the morning. Right now all I want to do is sleep.

He put the letter on the table and stumbled off to bed. He woke up once during the night when a deep, echoing rumble shook the building; but it had stopped by the time he came fully awake, and so he just rolled over and went back to sleep.

THE next morning Frank put on his smoking jacket and wandered out to the breakfast room. The table was empty.

“Pons!” Frank called hoarsely. “Dammit, Pons! Where’s my breakfast, you lazy weasel?” He knew Pons hated to be yelled at.

Orcrist entered the room. It was the first time Frank had ever seen him unshaven. Something, clearly, has happened, Frank told himself.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“All kinds of things, Frank.” Orcrist sat down and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “There was a demonstration last night on the surface, near Seventh and Shank. Shopkeepers or something, a whole crowd, hollering and demanding that Costa break all connections with the Transport. And from somewhere, God knows where, came flying an airplane with the Transport insignia. The damned thing circled the square where this demonstration was taking place, twice, and then dropped a bomb right in the middle of it.”

“A bomb?” Frank was incredulous.

“That’s right. Wiped out most of the shopkeepers, of course, but more to the point it tore a hole through four understreet levels, and caused collapses in five below that. The Companions alone have lost an estimated hundred members. Pons’s wife was among the casualties.”

“Pons was married?”

“Yes, he was. She went insane about four years ago and was committed. He put her in an old asylum up on Seventh; this explosion shook loose the roof of her cell.”

“Bad business,” said Frank.

“You could say so. Well then”—Orcrist looked up at him—“any news on the home front?”

“Oh, yes! There is.” Frank went into the next room and got the letter from Blanchard. “Look at this.”

Orcrist blinked over the letter for a minute, then put it down. “Not bad, Frank,” he said. “I guess fencing has been your true calling all along.”

“Maybe so.” Frank stepped to the kitchen door. “Wait two minutes and I’ll make some eggs and toast and coffee,” he said.

“Thank you, Frank,” said Orcrist. “Why don’t you throw some rum in the coffee, eh?”

“Aye aye.”

Later in the morning Frank went to see the crater where the bomb had fallen. He approached it from a little alley about two levels below the surface, so that when he stood on the alley’s crumbling lip he could look down into a rubble-and-debris strewn valley in which workmen stumbled about, or up at the blue sky framed by the ragged outlines of the crater. Curls of smoke eddied up from the wreckage below, and fire hoses on the surface streets were sending arching streams of water into the abyss.

SIX men were in Orcrist’s sitting room when Frank returned; they wore muddy jeans and boots, and had a wet, mildewy smell about them.

“Who's the kid?” growled one of them, jerking his thumb in Frank’s direction.

“Partner of mine,” said Orcrist, who strode in from the hallway, knotting a scarf around his neck. “Hullo Frank. We’re going to go drop bricks on a party of Transport sewer-explorers. Want to come along?”

“Sure, I guess so. What is it you’re going to do?”

“Oh, the Transport cops are puzzled by all the underground tunnels this bomb has revealed. They didn’t know the understreet city extended that far. They’d be surprised if they knew how far it does extend! Anyway, they’re sending exploring crews down into the crater to follow any tunnels they find and arrest whoever gets in their way. So we’re going to go impede them.”

“Yeah, I’ll help.”

“Good. Get a sealskin jacket and boots; there are three branches of the Leethee spewing around down there looking for new channels. And take a good hunting knife out of that closet. There’ll be no room for swords, but there’s always room for a knife.”

Frank quickly slipped into a jacket and boots and put a knitted wool cap on his head. Then, after selecting a sturdy knife, he was ready to go.

The eight of them left Orcrist’s place silently and strode away down the low, torch-lit corridors. Bands of furtive, hurrying men were no unusual sight in the understreet city, and Orcrist and his companions caused no comment. They made their way northwest, filing down narrow walkways, going up and down stairs and walking along the sidewalks of big streets. These were areas unfamiliar to Frank, and he made sure to follow the others closely.

After about twenty minutes of walking Orcrist pulled them all aside into a little yard filled with garbage cans. “We split up here,” he said. “Lambert, you come with me and we’ll circle north and come in from the other side. Poach, you take Frank and go west around the crater. Wister and Colin, try to come up from below. Bob, you and Daryl wait here ten minutes and then go straight in. Everybody got that?”

They all nodded and broke up into pairs. Frank’s partner, Poach, was a weather-beaten, middle-aged man with three fingers missing from his left hand. “Okay, kid,” he said hoarsely, “follow me and do what I do.” He had not looked directly at Frank yet, and did not now—he simply set off down the nearest east-west cross street. The older man had very long legs and a quick pace, and Frank had to trot to keep up with him. An uneven muted roar was becoming audible, and Frank knew it must be coming from the disrupted sections of the Leethee.

After a few blocks they took a right turn, which had them facing north, and Frank saw bright daylight at the end of the street; as his eyes grew accustomed to the glare he saw the jagged, tumbled wooden beams that were silhouetted against the brightness.

“This is it,” whispered Poach. “Move slow and don’t make no noise.” Frank saw that Poach had his knife out, so he took his out too. He looked around, and realized that the last couple of streets had been completely empty. It’s like sandcrabs, he thought. You dig a hole, let the sunlight in, and they all burrow deeper down, back into the darkness.

A harsh voice broke the quiet: “Tommy, get over here. They got more tunnels down here than an anthill.” There were sounds of splashing footsteps and another voice, presumably Tommy’s, spoke. “Captain, the whole floor is swaying on this level, and that damned river is thrashing around only one level below us. I haven’t seen one person yet, and I say we should clear out of this lousy maze.”

Poach made a “wait here” gesture to Frank and set off silently in the direction of the two voices. Frank stood absolutely still in the semi-darkness, clutching his knife and breathing through his mouth in order to hear better. Tommy has a point, he thought absently; the floor is swaying a little. A gray and white cat hurried by nervously, tail held high and eyes darting about. Frank tried to attract it by scratching his fingernails on a wooden gate post, but the cat, not in a playful mood, didn’t stop.

A shrill, jabbering yell was abruptly wrenched out of someone’s lungs a block away. “He’s killing me, he’s killing me, help me for God’s sake!” Frank jumped, dropped his knife, picked it up again, and ran off in the direction of the desperate shouting. More yells echoed up ahead: “Look out, Wister, over your head!” “Not me, idiot!” “Get him, will someone once and for all get him?”

Frank rounded a corner, running as fast as he could, and found himself in the midst of it. Two men in Transport uniforms were down and motionless on the street, and Orcrist was chasing a third, waving his knife like a madman. One of Orcrist’s companions sat against a wall, white-faced, pressing his stomach with blood-wet hands. Two more Transport cops burst out of an alley at Frank’s left, and one of them drove his knife at Frank’s chest. The blade ripped his coat, but missed hitting flesh, and before the man could recover Frank drove his own knife into the Transport’s side until he could feel the fabric of the man’s jacket with his knuckles. The other one clubbed Frank with a blackjack in the left ear, and Frank went to his knees, dropping his knife. The cop raised his own knife, but Poach kicked the man in the stomach and cut his throat as he buckled.

Frank was trying to clear his head and stand up when the angle of the street pavement changed. He had fallen onto a level expanse, but by the time he struggled into a sitting position the street was slanted like a roof. Panicky yells echoed on all sides, so he knew he was not imagining it. The floor is collapsing, he told himself. That’s the only explanation.

With a thundering, snapping crash the ancient masonry of the floor gave way like a trap door; Frank tumbled through a board fence, rolled over a collapsing wall and then plummeted through thirty feet of dust-choked air into deep, cold rushing water. The impact knocked the breath out of him and he was pulled far under the surface by savagely pounding whirlpools and undertows. Rocks and lumber spun all around him in the dark water, buffeting his ribs and back. Very dimly, he thought that he would not survive this. He convulsively gasped water, and then was racked by gagging coughs. Even if he could have mustered the strength to swim, he no longer knew which way was up.

He collided hard with a row of stationary metal bars. It must be some kind of grating or something, jammed across the stream, he thought. I could climb it and maybe get my head above water. Why bother? said another part of his mind. You’ve already gone through all the pain of dying—why not get it over with? You’ve earned your death: take it.

Working by instinct, his mind ordered his arms and legs to pull him upward against the wrenching of the cold water. In a few seconds his head was above the foaming surface and he was retching water, trying with desperate animal gasps to get air into his misused lungs.

He hung there for five full minutes, until the act of breathing did not require all of his concentration. Then he pulled himself along to the right, hoping that this gate, or whatever it was, was braced against the bank; there was absolutely no light, and he had to work by touch. A couple of times he felt the gate slide an inch or two, but it did not pull loose. Eventually he found his shoulder brushing against the wet bricks of a wall—that’s all it was, just a brick wall with the rushing flood splashing against it. There was no passageway, so Frank simply hunched there on his perch of metal bars, with one hand braced against the bricks, and wept into the stream.

After a while he gathered his strength and began inching his way across to the other side, clinging tightly to the bars and trying to keep his body out of the water to avoid the wood and debris that were constantly colliding with the gate. Groping blindly in the darkness, he eventually found a rectangular opening that might once have framed a door. He managed to scramble into it and crawl a few yards up the passageway beyond. Then, free from the danger of drowning, he collapsed on the stone floor and surrendered his consciousness.

SOMEONE was tugging at his hair. “Lemme ’lone,” he muttered. To his intense annoyance it didn’t stop. He dozed, thinking, I’ll just wait till they give up and go away. Suddenly he realized that he was cold, colder than he had ever been. I can’t sleep, he realized. I’ve got to get blankets, fast.

He sat up, and heard a dozen tiny creatures scamper chittering away into the dark. Mice, by God! Eating my hair! “Hah!” he croaked, to scare them. He’d meant to yell, but a croak was all he could come up with. He crouched in the stone corridor, clasping his knees and shivering uncontrollably. I’m naked, he noticed. No, that isn’t quite right. I’ve still got my boots on, and my brass ear is hanging around my throat like a necklace. If there was any light I’d be an odd spectacle.

He vaguely remembered his near-drowning and realized in a detached way that he probably needed first aid pretty badly. He stood up on knees that refused to work together, and staggered up the passageway, arms out before him to feel for obstacles. If I get through all this, he thought, I’ll stay home the next time Orcrist wants to go on an adventure.

JOHN Bollinger was a religious man and took no part in the sinful society of Munson Understreet. He subsisted on fish and mushrooms and lived in a tiny one-room house that had belonged to his father. He had four books—a bible, a copy of Paradise Lost, the Divina Commedia, and Butler’s Lives of the Saints. He always said, even when no one was listening, that to have more books than that was vanity.

He had heard the explosion during the night, but figured it was just a judgment on someone, and he forgot about it. He was looking at the Dore illustrations in his Milton when, the next afternoon, there came a knock at his door.

“Who knocks?” asked John.

There was no answer, aside from a confused muttering.

Rising fearlessly from his table, John strode to the door and flung it open. Confronting him was the strangest apparition he’d ever seen.

It was, as John was later to describe it to his pastor, “the likeness of a young man, naked and blue-colored. He wore curious shoes, and an indecipherable medallion about his neck on a string, and his hair was cut in a barbaric tonsure.”

“What seekest thou?” gasped John.

“Clothes, for God’s sake. Hot soup. Brandy.”

“Aye, come in. Sit down. Of what order are you?”

“What?”

“What order do you belong to?”

“I don’t belong to any order,” Frank said. Seeing the old man frown, he added, off the top of his head, “I’m an independent. Freelance.”

“An anchorite! I see. Here. You can use this blanket to cover your shame. Will you join me in some fish and mushrooms?”

“Will I ever!”

Half an hour later Frank was beginning to pull himself together. The food and strong tea that John had given him had revived him, and he felt capable now of finding his way back to Orcrist’s apartment. I wonder if he managed to survive that street-fall? he thought. The last time he had seen Orcrist, he was chasing that Transport away from the collapsing street.

He must think I’ve had it, though. I’d better get back quick.

“Thank you for your hospitality to a naked stranger,” he said, standing up and wrapping the blanket around himself like a robe. “I will repay you.”

“Don’t repay me,” John said. “Just do the same some day for some other homeless wanderer.”

“You bet,” Frank said, shaking the old man’s hand. “Can you tell me how to get to Sheol from here?”

“We all go to Sheol eventually,” said John with a somber frown, “and we’d better be prepared.”

“I guess that’s true.” Poor devil, he thought. Brain warped from a diet of fish. A lesson to us all. Frank crossed to the door and opened it. “So long,” he said, “and thanks again.”

It was chilly in the tunnels, and Frank was glad to have the blanket. He hurried southeast, numbed feet beating on the cobblestones, and finally did, as John had predicted, get to Sheol, where he turned left. He was wondering what he’d do if some understreet vagabonds were to attack him, because his strength and endurance were very nearly gone. As it happened, though, none did; he wasn’t the type of wanderer that would tempt a thief.

After he’d found Sheol the rest of the trip was easy, and within ten minutes he was turning the emergency hide-a-key in Orcrist’s front door lock. He swung the door open. The front room was empty, so he stumbled to the bathroom and began putting iodine and bandages on his various cuts and gouges.

Nothing seems to be broken, he thought, wincing as he probed a bruise over his ribs. Not obviously broken, anyway. His left ear was swollen and incredibly painful to touch, so he just left it alone. Finally he stood up and regarded his black and blue, bandage-striped body in the full-length mirror hanging behind the door.

Good God! he thought. What’s become of my hair? He ran his fingers through the ragged, patchy clumps of hair on his scalp. This dismayed him more than anything else. Those damned mice ate it! I didn’t know mice did that. What am I going to do? How can I face Blanchard looking like this? Or Kathrin?

He went to his room and dressed. He put on a wide-brimmed leather hat, tilting it at a rakish angle to keep it off his wounded ear. Finally he plodded wearily to the sitting room, poured a glass of brandy and collapsed into Orcrist’s easy chair.

Chapter 3

Frank woke up to the sound of the front door squeaking open and someone scuffing mud off of boots. Frank tried to stand up, but a dozen sudden lancing pains made him decide to remain seated. “Pons?” It was Orcrist’s voice. “Pons?”

“Mr. Orcrist!” Frank called.

Orcrist stepped into the sitting room and stared at Frank in amazement. The older man was still dressed as he had been that morning, and still had not shaved, nor, to judge by his eyes, slept.

“I’ll kill Poach,” he said. “He swore he saw you and about two hundred feet of Henderson Lane fall into the river.”

“Don’t kill him,” said Frank. “That’s what happened. I managed to climb out of the Leethee after about six blocks.”

“Are you all right?”

“No.” Frank took off his hat.

Orcrist raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t you tell it to me from the beginning,” he said, pulling up another chair. As economically as possible, Frank explained what had transpired after Orcrist ran off in pursuit of the fleeing Transport cop. “Did you get him, by the way?” Frank asked. Orcrist nodded. When the story was finished, Orcrist shook his head wonderingly.

“The Fates must have something planned for you, Frank.”

“I hope it’s something quiet. How did the rest of you do?”

“Well, let’s see. Wister and Lambert went into the river with you, and are presumed drowned. Bob has disappeared also. Poach is fine. I’m fine. You’ve lost your hair. None of the Transports seem to have survived.”

“What was the purpose of it? Just to nail some Transport cops?”

“No, Frank, not at all. What we did was ... set a precedent. We’ve got to make it clear to the Transports that they are free to lord it topside, but have no jurisdiction understreet. If we can make sure that no Transport who comes down here ever returns topside, after a while they’ll stop coming down.”

“Maybe so.” Frank sipped his brandy. “Is it inevitable that they lord it in Munson?”

“As far as I can see. Are you still thinking of overthrowing the palace?”

“Sure.”

“Oh well. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, and so forth. Would you like a wig? I’m sure I could get one somewhere.”

“No, that’s ... well, yes, maybe I would.”

DURING dinner there was a knock at the door, and George Tyler wandered in, grinning, leading by the hand a woman Frank had never seen. She was blond and slightly overweight; her eyelids were painted a delicate blue.

“Good evening, Sam, Frank,” Tyler said. “This is Bobbie Sterne. We were just ambling past, so I thought we’d stop in.”

“Sit down and have something to eat,” said Orcrist. “Pons, could we have two more plates and glasses?”

“Oh, uh, look at this, Sam,” said Tyler shyly, handing Orcrist a small book bound in limp leather, Bobbie smiled and stroked Tyler’s arm.

“Poems,” Orcrist read, “by George Tyler. Well I’ll be damned. Congratulations, George, published at last! This calls for a drink. Pons! Some of the Tamarisk brandy! Sit down, Bobbie, and Frank, get a chair for George.” Frank fetched a chair from the sitting room and took the opportunity to make sure his hat was firmly on.

“Frank,” said Tyler when he reentered. “You’re limping. And you’ve got a cut over your eye. Did one of your students get vicious?”

“It’s the lot of a fencing master, George,” said Orcrist. “Be glad you’ve got a more peaceful craft.”

“Oh, I am.”

Pons had, zombielike, served the brandy, and Bobbie was tossing it down like beer. Tyler took a long sip and smiled beatifically.

“Ah that’s the stuff,” he said. “I’ll try to publish books more often, at this rate. Say, what do you think of that depth charge last night?”

“Depth charge?” Orcrist asked.

“Don’t play the dummy with me, Sam. The Trans-port used some kind of depth charge to blow out ten levels in the northwest area.”

“George, it was four levels, not ten, and it was a regular bomb. They dropped it on the surface to break up a riot. The only reason it did so much damage is that we’ve dug so many tunnels under Munson that it’s like a honeycomb down here.” Frank could see that Orcrist was controlling his impatience. “I think if anybody stomped really hard on any sidewalk in Munson a couple of levels would go."

“Well, maybe so,” said Tyler, not quite sure of what was being discussed. “If I ever claim my kingdom I’ll do something about it.”

“That’s a comfort,” said Orcrist wearily.

“You think I’ll forget? Just because I’ll be living at the palace again? I won’t forget old friends, Sam. I’ll see to it that nobody stomps on any sidewalks over your place.”

“Is this a limited edition, George?” asked Orcrist, thumbing through Tyler’s book. “It’s very handsomely printed.”

“Oh, yeah, nothing but the best. It’s limited to five hundred copies, and you can have that one. Here, I’ll sign it. I’m not the one to say it, but it’s likely to be very valuable in years to come.”

“I expect it will,” said Orcrist. “Thank you.”

For a few minutes everyone occupied themselves with the dinner.

“You look tired, Sam,” said Tyler, munching on a celery stick. “Been keeping long hours?”

“No longer than usual, George. I must just be—” he was interrupted by a crash from the kitchen. “Would you go see what that was, Frank?”

“Sure.” Frank stood up and walked into the kitchen. Pons lay on the floor, unconscious, bright arterial blood gushing from a long slash that ran from his elbow to his wrist. Blood, spattered on the counter and wall, was pooling on the floor.

“Sam!” Frank shouted. He ripped his shirt off and quickly knotted it around Pons’s upper arm. Then he thrust the handle of a butter knife under the fabric and began twisting it to tighten the tourniquet. At the third twist the blood stopped jetting from the arm.

Orcrist ran in, stared at Pons for a moment, and ran out again. He was back in five seconds with a needle, fishing line, and the bottle of brandy. He poured the liquor all over the wounded arm, and rinsed his own hands in it. He then threaded the needle with the fishing line and began working in the gaping cut. “Got to try to repair the artery, you see, Frank,” he said through clenched teeth. “There it is. Hold the skin there, will you?”

Frank held the wound open while Orcrist sewed shut the cut artery. Everything was slippery with blood and Frank didn’t see how Orcrist could tell what he was doing.

“Okay, let’s sew the slash closed now,” said Orcrist, cutting off the line that dangled from the knot. Frank pressed the edges of the wound together and Orcrist sewed it up as neatly as a seam in a pair of pants. He released the tourniquet, and though blood began to seep out around the stitches, he declared that all was well. He used Frank’s tom shirt as a bandage to wrap Pons’s arm.

“Will that do?” asked Frank.

“Actually, I don’t know,” Orcrist answered. “It looks right to me.”

Frank looked up. Tyler and Bobbie were standing in the doorway, looking pale and queasy.

“How did it happen?” Tyler asked.

“He cut himself, it appears, with that knife over there,” Orcrist said, pointing to a long knife lying next to the stove. “When he fell he knocked over this cart.”

“Good Lord. Should I get a doctor?”

“No, George, I don’t think so.” Orcrist went to the sink and began washing his hands. “I don’t really think there’s anything you can do here, so if you’ll excuse us, Frank and I have a bit of work to do.”

“Oh, sure, Sam. Come on, Bobbie.”

Frank washed his hands; then he and Orcrist lifted Pons and carried him into his room, laying him on the bed. They heard the front door close as Tyler and Bobbie left.

Orcrist, looking eighty years old, Frank thought, sank into a chair. “This has been a day to try men’s souls,” Orcrist said. “You and I seem to have survived. I’m going to bed. We can clean everything up in the morning.”

Frank stumbled to his own room, fell into bed and was plagued all night by monstrous dreams.

AFTER the grisly mopping up was finished next morning, Orcrist left the house for an hour. Frank spent the time reading Housman’s poetry and drinking cup after cup of black coffee. When Orcrist returned he handed Frank a book-sized package. Frank opened it and lifted out the furry object it held.

“What the devil is it?” he asked. “A guinea-pig skin?”

“It’s a wig, and you know it,” Orcrist said. “Try it on.”

Feeling like a fool, Frank pulled the thing over his patchy, bandaged scalp. “How’s it look?” he asked.

“Pull it to the left more,” said Orcrist. “There, that’s good. How’s your ear?”

“It doesn’t hurt as much today. And I think the swelling’s going down. Wait a minute, I’ve got to see how my brass ear fits with this wig.”

Frank went to his room and took his strung metal ear off the bedside table. He put it on over the wig and it fit as well as ever, with the carved ear hanging exactly over the spot where his right ear used to be.

“It’s a perfect fit, Mr. Orcrist,” he said, returning to the sitting room.

“Yeah, you look like your old self. And I guess you can call me Sam, since you’re not a kitchen boy anymore.”

“All right.” Frank sipped his coffee and wondered how one scratched one’s head in a wig. “How’s Pons?”

“He was conscious this morning and I gave him some potato soup.”

“Is that what they give to people who’ve lost a lot of blood?”

“I don’t know. It’s what I give them.”

“Say, Sam,” Frank said, “was it a suicide attempt?”

“I think so. I wouldn’t have sewed him up if I was sure it was.”

“Ah.” Frank stood up. “Well, I’d better be off to the school. I’ve got to start working this stiffness out of me before that appointment with Blanchard day after tomorrow.”

“Okay. I may drop in later. I want some practice on that parry in prime you’ve been trying to teach me.”

“Sure. You can even take over the lessons if I find I get too exhausted.” Frank put on his coat and shoes, and left.

FRANK'S first pupil of the day was waiting in the street in front of the school when he arrived.

“Good morning, Lord Emsley,” nodded Frank as he unlocked the door. “Sorry I’m late.”

“My time is money, Rovzar.” Emsley was a short, surly man with a bristly black moustache and bad teeth.

Once inside, Frank lit the lamps and opened the streetside windows; the window that faced the river he left closed, since there were still a few refugees floating down the Leethee.

“Okay, my lord, take an épée and let me see your lunge.”

Emsley selected a sword and crouched into an awkward on guard; then he kicked forward with his sword up.

“Extend your arm before your lead leg goes,” Frank told him. “Otherwise he sees it coming. Do it again.”

Emsley did it again.

“Arm first, my lord, arm first. And keep your rear leg straight. Do it again. And again. And again. Good. And again. And—”

“Damn you, Rovzar!” Emsley roared. “This is insane! There’s no value in all these ... calisthenics! Do you think it matters in a fight whether my leg is straight or my arm moves first? I’ll tell you what matters: speed! Listen—I’ll lay a wager with you. These ten malories say I can beat you, your style against mine.”

The lord flung ten one-malory notes onto the floor.

“Okay,” said Frank, picking them up and putting them on the table. “You’re on.” Dammit, Frank thought. I can’t fence today. Every muscle in me is tight as a guitar string. But I’ve got to show this blustering idiot where he stands. Let me see, what are his weakest points? He doesn’t parry well in sixte, when I come in over his sword arm. Let’s see if I can do something with that.

“Here,” he said, tossing Emsley a mask. He put one on himself and picked up one of the left-handed epees. God help me, he thought as he pulled on a leather glove. “On guard,” he said. Emsley lunged immediately, and Frank parried it; but his riposte was slow, and the lord parried it without difficulty. Don’t be lured into attacking, Frank told himself. Wait for another one of his stupid lunges.

A heavy knock sounded at the door. “Just a minute,” Frank said, turning and raising his mask. Emsley drove his sword at Frank’s back, and the blade flexed like a fishing pole as the padded tip struck a rib. The breath hissed painfully through Frank’s teeth.

“You owe me ten malories, Rovzar!” crowed Emsley.

“Shut up, you ass,” Frank said. He crossed to the door and opened it, and his heart froze. Three Transport policemen stood on the doorstep, and one of them, a captain, wore an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster.

“Yes, officers?” Frank said.

“Are you Francisco Rovzar?” asked the one with the pistol.

“Yes. Why?” Can I kill all three? he wondered. I don’t like that gun. Emsley will be no help, that’s certain, and I’m not in top-notch shape anyway. Better talk to them.

“Can we come in?” They were already walking in, so Frank nodded and bowed. “We stopped by yesterday, but you weren’t here. We want to ask you about an incident that took place in the street two days ago. Did you see or hear or ... do anything out of the ordinary on that day?”

“Friends of yours, Rovzar?” sneered Emsley.

“Who are you?” asked the captain sharply.

“Christopher Marlowe.”

“Write that name down,” barked the captain to one of the other officers. The man whipped out a small pad and scribbled in it. “Now get out of here, Marlowe. Rovzar, maybe you can explain how it is that four Transport policemen were found killed in the street two days ago.”

“No,” said Frank. “I didn’t hear about it.”

“Well, let me fill you in. They were killed in a swordfight. Your fencing school is less than a hundred yards from the spot, so you’re implicated. We’ve come to take you topside for interrogation. Any objections?”

The captain stood a good distance away, with his hand near his pistol.

“Not at all,” Frank said with a smile. “I assume you’ll provide lunch?” He hung up the sword and mask casually. I could dive through the river window, he thought, but that would be a pretty clear admission of guilt; I’d never dare come back here. I guess I’ll have to kill all three. If they get me topside they’re likely to see my tattoo and remember that Francisco Rovzar who escaped from Barclay six months ago. How long, though, can I keep killing every Transport who wants to question me?

He turned to the officers cheerfully. “Lead the way, gentlemen,” he said. The captain strode out while the other two officers seized Frank by the arms and frog-marched him through the door.

“Take it easy, for God’s sake,” snapped Frank, wincing at the pain in his arm sockets. Four more Transports waited outside in the street, and fell in behind the two who held Frank.

“Only one thing really puzzles me, Rovzar,” remarked the captain over his shoulder as the grim procession set off down the street. “Why didn’t you change your name?”

“Change my name?” panted Frank.

“Yeah. Did you think we wouldn’t check? That we don’t keep records? When you jumped over the fence at Barclay and killed those two patrolmen, it was assumed that you’d drowned in the Malachi; but we didn’t throw away your file.”

Frank didn’t answer but cursed inwardly at his foolhardiness. I’ve had it. They’ll ship me off to the Orestes mines, and it will be as if I’d never set foot in Munson Understreet.

A heavy sense of final doom settled over him, and he felt close to tears. He had to forcibly strangle an impulse to beg the captain to let him go.

They turned onto Harvey Way, and Frank knew they must be planning to ascend to the surface by way of the Baldwin sewer. His arms had become numb from his captors’ tight grip, and he realized that the time to make a break for it, if there ever was one, had passed.

They had marched a hundred yards down the lamp-lit length of Harvey Way, the soldiers’ feet clumping in unison like a monotonous military tap dance, when a sharp explosion sounded up ahead and the Transport captain abruptly sat down on the street. Surprised, Frank looked at the man, and saw blood runneling onto the pavement from a gaping wound in the back.

“It’s an ambush!” cried the policeman who held Frank’s left arm, a moment before a slung stone cracked his forehead and he sprawled on the street. The other man released him in order to draw his sword, and Frank fell helplessly forward onto the sitting corpse of the captain. He heard swords clash behind him, but centered his attention on the task of getting his numb hands to pull the captain’s pistol out of its holster. At last he fumbled it out, and rolled over so he could see the fighting. There were four Transports standing in a circle, fighting off about a dozen understreet brigands. Frank waited patiently until he had a clear shot, and then sent six bullets into the desperately tight police formation. By the time the echoes of the last shot had dissipated, several of the brigands had bolted in terror and every Transport was dead.

Frank dropped the empty gun and scrambled to his feet. One of the bandits thoughtfully fitted a stone into his sling, but a voice barked at him from farther up the street: “Drop it, Peckham. He’s one of ours.” Frank turned toward the voice and saw Orcrist step out of a shadowed doorway and wave at him with the tiny silver pistol.

“So it was you they were after, Frank! Come on, all of you! Down this alley here.”

In spite of his dizziness Frank managed to keep up with Orcrist and his unsavory followers. They fled west, through several of the more dangerous understreet districts, to Sheol Boulevard, and soon they were all filing down the dark stairway under the sign that read “Huselor’s.”

Huselor’s was a big, low-ceilinged bar, lit only by candles in glass jars on the tables. The floor was carpeted and the cool air smelled of gin. Orcrist led his band to a long table in the back, and they sat down silently, looking like a committee of especially disreputable senators.

Orcrist handed each of his hired swordsmen a one-malory note and they all stood up and exited, tipping their hats gratefully. Skilled labor is dirt cheap these days, Frank thought. That can’t be a good sign.

When they were alone, Orcrist moved to a much smaller table and waved at a waiter.

“So, Frank,” he said in a low voice. “How is it that those boys were leading you off so heavily guarded?”

“Two reasons. They’re almost certain I helped kill those four cops the day before yesterday, and they know I’m the same Francisco Rovzar who escaped from Barclay six months ago. As that captain said, I should have changed my name.”

The waiter padded noiselessly to their table and bowed. “Two big mugs of strong coffee,” Orcrist said, “fortified with brandy. Do you want anything else, Frank?”

“Maybe a bowl of clam chowder.”

The waiter nodded and sped away. Orcrist sat back with his fingertips pressed together. “That’s bad,” he said. Frank raised his eyebrows, and then realized that Orcrist wasn’t referring to the clam chowder. “I heard, about an hour ago,” Orcrist went on, “that a large band of heavily-armed Transports had been sighted down here, so I very quickly rounded up some rough lads, and even brought my pistol along, to go and ...”

“... set another precedent,” Frank finished. “Right. And it’s a good thing I did. But if they’ve identified you that thoroughly, you can’t relax yet. With the economy as shattered as it is, the Transport is able to buy informers very cheaply, and you never know which alley-skulker might be a spy or assassin.”

“Great,” said Frank wearily.

“It's tricky, but it isn’t hopeless. You’ve got to go underground again—figuratively this time. Change your name, of course, and your location, and you’ll be all right. But you’ll have to move fast.”

The soup and coffee arrived, and for a while neither man spoke.

“I think I’ve got a solution,” Orcrist said, after five minutes of thoughtful coffee drinking. “I own a boat that’s moored in Munson Harbor, just south of the Malachi Delta. It’s very near the mouth of the Leethee, so transportation won’t be difficult. You could live there. It’s got a large dining room below deck that I think you could easily turn into a fencing gym.”

“You think I’d still be able to give lessons?”

“Sure. The lords may complain, but they’ll make the trip. I think they’re beginning to see how much there is to know about the art of swordplay, and how important it is that we learn it before the Transports do. There’s a crisis coming upon us fast, Frank, and we have to be the ones who are ready for it.”

Chapter 4

Frank paused in front of the dark glass of a shop window to straighten his wig and his shirt collar. He grinned at himself and walked on, swinging his leather case jauntily, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the damp cobblestones.

Cochran Street, a tunnel bigger, wider and brighter than any he’d yet seen understreet, lay ahead, and he turned left onto its uncracked sidewalk. The sixth door down wore a polished brass plate on which, boldly engraved, was the single name “Blanchard.” Frank could feel eyes on him, and realized that he had probably been under several hidden guards’ scrutiny ever since he’d turned onto Cochran.

He tucked his light-but-bulky leather case under his arm and knocked at the door. After a moment it was opened by a frail-looking old man with wispy ice-white hair, who raised one snowy eyebrow.

“My name is Francisco Rovzar,” Frank said. “I believe ... uh, his highness is expecting me.” The old man nodded and waved Frank inside.

The floor was of red ceramic tiles, and the starkness of the whitewashed stucco walls was relieved by a dozen huge, age-blackened portraits. Candles flamed in wrought-iron chandeliers that hung by chains from the ceiling.

The old man led Frank down a hallway to a bigger room, high-ceilinged and lined with bookcases. Standing in the center of the room, hands behind his back, stood Blanchard. He wore light leather boots, and his bushy white beard hid the collar of his tunic.

“Rovzar?”

“At your service, sire,” said Frank with a courtly bow.

“Glad you could make it. I hear the Transports are interested in you. You know Sam Orcrist, don’t you? Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, I do, and yes I would.”

“I’m drinking daiquiris. How’s that sound?”

“Fine.”

Frank leaned his sword case against a wall. “Sit down,” Blanchard said, waving at a stout wooden chair in front of a low table. “I'll be back in a second.” He left the room and then reappeared immediately, carrying two tall, frosted glasses.

“There you are,” he said, taking the chair across from Frank and setting the drinks on the table. “You know, Rovzar, I’m glad you’re on our side. Yessir. Our boys were tending to get too smug about their swordsmanship, and now they find out there’s a twenty-year-old kitchen boy who can beat ’em—and give ’em lessons, too.” Blanchard took a deep sip of his daiquiri. “Damn, that’s good. The thing is, you’ve got to be sharp these days.”

“That’s true, sir.”

“You bet it is. I tell you, Rovzar, it’s doggy-dog out there.”

“How’s that?”

“I say it’s doggy-dog out there. The peaceful times are over. Peaceful times never last, anyway. And a good thing, too. They give a man a ... rosy view of life. Hell, you know how I became King of the Subterranean Companions?”

“How?”

“I killed the previous king, old Stockton. I exercised the ius gladii, the right of the sword. It’s a tradition—any member who invokes that right can challenge the king to a duel. The winner becomes, or remains, king. But don’t get any ideas, Rovzar.”

“Oh, no, I—”

“Hah! I’m kidding you, boy. I wish you could have met Stockton, though. A more repulsive man, I think, never lived. Do you play chess?”

“Yes,” answered Frank, a little puzzled by Blanchard’s topic-hopping style.

“Fine!” Blanchard reached under the table and pulled out a chessboard and a box of chessmen. He turned the box upside down on the table before sliding its cover out from under it. “Which side?” he asked.

“Left,” said Frank.

Blanchard lifted the box and chessmen rolled out of it in two side-by-side piles; and the left pile was black.

“Set ’em up,” said Blanchard.

Two hours and six daiquiris later Frank was checkmated, but not before he managed to capture Blanchard’s queen in a deft king-queen fork.

“Good game, Rovzar.” The old king smiled, sitting back. “I’ve got to be leaving now, but I’ll send you another note sometime. Hope you’ll be able to drop by again.”

“Sure,” said Frank, standing up. It was only when he picked up his case that he remembered he’d come to discuss fencing.

THAT night Frank, wearing a false beard, plied the oars of a rowboat while Orcrist sat in the bow with a lantern and gave instructions.

“Okay, Frank, sharp to port and we’ll be in the harbor.”

Frank dragged the port oar in the water and the boat swung to the left, through a low brick arch and out into the Munson Harbor. A cold night wind ruffled their hair, and the stars glittered like flecks of silver thread in the vast black cloak of the sky. The boat rocked with the swells, and Frank was finding it harder to control.

“Bear north now,” Orcrist said. “It’ll be about half a mile.” He opened the lantern and blew out the flame, since the moonlight provided adequate light.

The cold breeze was drying the sweat on Frank’s face and shoulders, and he leaned more energetically into the rowing. Munson’s towers and walls passed by in silhouette to his right, lit here and there by window-lamps and street lights. It’s a beautiful city, he thought, at night and viewed from a distance.

“How’s Costa doing these days?” he asked, his voice only a little louder than the wavelets slapping against the hull. “Does he like being Duke?”

“He’s apparently trying to imitate his father, I hear,” Orcrist said. “Topo played croquet, so Costa does too, and his courtiers generally have the sense to lose to him.” Frank chuckled wearily. “And he’s been seducing, or trying to, anyway, all of the old Duke’s concubines. He pretends to savor the wines from Topo’s cellar, but hasn’t noticed that the wine steward is serving him vin ordinaire in fancy bottles, having decanted the good wine for himself. Oh, and this ought to interest you, Frank: he’s decided he wants his portrait done by the best artist alive, just as his father did.”

“Hah. It’s because of him that the best artist isn’t alive.”

“True. And apparently he’s not settling for second best, either.”

They were silent for a few oar-strokes. “What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“Well,” Orcrist said, “he’s let every artist on the planet try out for the privilege of doing the portrait, but so far he’s sent every one away in disgust once he sees their work. Your father seems to have set an impossibly high standard.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. Art, like a lot of things, is a lost art.”

Orcrist had no reply to that, and just said “bear a little to starboard.” Frank could see the skeletal masts and reefed sails of a few docked merchant ships, and swung away from the shore a bit to pass well clear of them. Distantly from one of the farther ships he heard a deep-voiced man singing “Danny Boy,” and it lent the scene a wistful, melancholy air.

Just past the main basin Orcrist told Frank to head inshore, and in a minute their rowboat was bumping against the hull of a long, wide boat. It sat low in the water; they were able to climb aboard without paddling around to the back of the craft for the ladder.

“Moor the line to that ... bumpy thing there,” Orcrist said, waving at a vaguely mushroom-shaped protrusion of metal that stood about a foot high on the deck. Frank tied a slip-knot in the rope and looped it over the mooring, before following Orcrist into the cabin. The older man had just put a match to two wall-hung lanterns.

“This is sort of the living room,” Orcrist explained; “and you can take that ridiculous beard off now.”

Frank peeled it off. “It pays to be cautious,” he said.

“No doubt. Through that door is your room—very comfortable, books, a well-stocked desk—and down those stairs is the dining room, another stateroom, and a storage room full of canned food and bottles of brandy. Don’t raise the anchor or cast off the lines until I find someone who can give you lessons on how to work the sails.”

“Right.”

“I guess that’s it. There are four good swords in your room—two sabres, an épée and a rapier. There’s a homemade pistol in the top desk drawer, but I’m not sure it’ll work, and it’s only a .22 calibre anyway.

“I’ll bring the rest of your things later in the week. If I can, I’ll bring the swords and masks and jackets from the school.” Orcrist took out his wallet and, after searching through it for a moment, handed Frank a folded slip of thin blue paper. “That’s the lease verification. Wave it at any cops that come prowling about. And here are the keys. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which lock each key fits.”

“Okay. Why don’t you ... bring Kathrin along with you sometime?”

“I will.” They wandered out onto the deck again. The moon was sitting low on the northern horizon now, magnified and orange-colored by the atmosphere. “Morning isn’t far off,” Orcrist said. “You’d better get some sleep.” He lowered himself over the side into the rowboat. “Untie me there, will you, Frank? Thanks.”

He leaned into the oars, and soon Frank could neither see nor hear him. Frank went below and checked the swords for flexibility and balance—the best one, the rapier, he laid on the desk within easy reach—and then went to bed.

THE next few weeks passed very comfortably. Frank read the books in the excellent ship’s library, gave more expensive fencing lessons to many of the thief-lords (although Lord Emsley, by mutual consent, was no longer one of Frank’s students) and frequently, wrapped in a heavy coat and muffler against the autumn chill, fished off the boat’s bow. He often spent the gray afternoons sitting in a canvas chair, smoking his pipe and watching the ships sail in and out of the harbor. He had twice more played chess and consumed daiquiris with Blanchard, and been assured that it was “doggy-dog” out there. Orcrist was a frequent visitor, and Kathrin Figaro came with him several times. She found Frank’s exile exciting, and had him explain to her how he would repel piratical boarders if any chanced to appear.

“You should have a cannon,” she said, sipping hot coffee as they sat on the deck watching the tame little gray waves wobble past.

“Probably so,” agreed Frank lazily. “Then raise anchor, let down the sails and embark on a voyage to Samarkand.” His pipe had gone out, so he set it down next to his chair.

“I hear you’ve become good friends with King Blanchard,” Kathrin said.

“Oh ... I know him. I’ve played chess with him.”

“Maybe when he dies you’ll be the King of the Subterranean Companions.”

“Yeah, maybe so.” Frank was nearly asleep. “Where’s Sam?”

“Down in the galley, he said. He’s looking for a corkscrew.”

“Well, I hope he finds one. Want to go for a swim?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

THREE miles away, in the low-roofed dimness of Huselor’s, two men sat at a back table over glasses of dark beer.

“The thing is, dammit, we’ve got to keep it in the family. This kid’s a stranger, untried, inexperienced.”

“I’m not arguing, Tolley,” said the other. “I just don’t see what can be done about it right now. You could kill him, I suppose, but he’s made a lot of powerful friends; maybe if you make it look like the Transports had done it....”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ve got to get this ... Rovzar kid out of the picture one way or another, though. What you heard can’t be true—but if Blanchard is thinking of naming Rovzar as his successor, then the kid’s got to go. I’ve spent years paving my way to that damned subterranean crown, and no kitchen-boy art forger is going to take it from me.”

“You said it, Tolley,” nodded Lord Emsley. “This kid is the fly in the ointment.”

Lord Tolley Christensen stared at Lord Emsley with scarcely-veiled contempt. “Yeah, that’s it, all right,” he said, reaching for his beer.

ORCRIST stepped onto the deck, a corkscrew in one hand and a bottle of rose in the other. He dropped into a chair next to Kathrin and began twisting the corkscrew into the top of the bottle.

“What have you got there?” demanded Frank. “Vin rosé," Orcrist said. “A simple, wholesome wine, fermented from unpretentious grapes harvested by great, sturdy peasant women.” He popped out the cork and pulled three long-stemmed glasses out of his coat pocket. When he had filled them he handed one to Kathrin and one to Frank. All three took a long, appreciative sip.

“Ah,” sighed Orcrist. “The workingman’s friend.”

“The salvation of the ... abused,” put in Frank.

“The comforter of the humiliated.”

“The mother to the unattractive.”

“The ... reassurer of the maladjusted.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Kathrin impatiently. “You’re both idiots.”

For a few minutes they all sat silently, sipping the wine and watching a fishing boat make its steady way toward the jetty and the outer sea.

“The guide of the lurching,” said Frank. Orcrist laughed, and Kathrin threw her glass into the sea and stormed into the cabin.

“The girl’s got a horrible temper,” Orcrist observed. “Only when she’s upset,” objected Frank.

Orcrist and Kathrin left late in the afternoon. Frank waved until their skiff disappeared behind the headland to the south, then went below and fixed himself dinner. He heated up some tomato soup and took it on deck to eat, and then lit his pipe and watched the seagulls hopping about on the few rock-tops exposed by the low tide. When the sun had slid by stages all the way under the horizon he went below to read. He sat down at his desk and picked up a book of Ashbless’s poems.

An hour later he had lost interest in the book and had begun writing a sonnet to Kathrin. He painstakingly constructed six awkward lines, then gave it up as a bad idea and crumpled the paper.

“Not much of a poet, eh?” came a voice from the doorway at his left. Frank jumped as if he’d been stabbed. He whirled toward the door and then laughed with relief to see Pons standing there.

“Good God, Pons! You just about stopped my heart.” It occurred to Frank to become angry. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

Pons took his left hand out of his coat pocket—he was holding Orcrist’s silver pistol. “I followed Sam here,” he said in a toneless voice. “I’m going to kill you.”

Just what I needed, thought Frank, a maniac. He wondered if the gun was loaded—Orcrist had fired it during that ambush a few weeks ago, and he might not have reloaded it. Of course Pons wouldn’t know it had been fired.

“You’re going to kill me? Why?” Frank furtively slid open the top drawer of the desk.

“It’s because of you that I’ve got to kill myself.”

“Well, that’s real sharp reasoning,” said Frank, gently feeling around in the drawer with his right hand. “It wasn’t me that put your wife in a second-rate asylum with cheap ceilings.”

“It was a good asylum!” Pons said loudly. “Your bomb killed her.”

No point in using logic with this guy, Frank told himself. He’s gone round the bend. At that moment the fingers of his right hand closed on the grip of the small pistol Orcrist had told him would be there. He curled his first finger around the trigger and slowly raised the barrel until it touched the underside of the desk-top. He moved it minutely back and forth until he figured it was pointed at Pons’s chest.

“And you’ve got to die for it,” Pons said, raising the silver gun.

Frank pulled the trigger of his own gun. There was a muffled bang and smoke spurted out of the drawer, but the bullet failed to penetrate the thick desk-top. Pons convulsively squeezed the trigger of his gun, and the hammer clicked into an empty chamber. For a moment both men stared at each other tensely.

Frank started laughing. “You idiot,” he gasped. “Sam fired that gun a long time ago.”

Tears welled in Pons’s eyes and spilled down his left cheek. He flung his useless gun onto the floor and ran out of the room. Frank heard him dash up the stairs and out of the cabin; there were footsteps on the deck and then, faintly, he heard the sound of oars clacking in oarlocks.

Perhaps I wasn’t as sympathetic as I ought to have been, Frank thought. Oh well; at least I didn’t kill him. I’m glad it worked out as painlessly as it did. He thoughtfully closed the still-smoking drawer and picked up his book again.

THE sun had climbed midway to noon when Frank’s first pupil arrived the next day. Frank sat smoking in a canvas chair by the rail and watched Lord Gilbert’s body-servant maneuver the skiff alongside Frank’s boat.

Lord Gilbert was a good-natured, very fat man, whose most sophisticated fencing style consisted of taking great, ponderous hops toward his opponent and flailing his sword like a madman with a fly-swatter. Thirty seconds of this always reduced him to a sweating, panting wreck, and Frank was trying to teach him to relax and wait for his opponent to attack.

“What ho, Lord Gilbert!” called Frank cheerfully. “How goes life in the rabbit warrens?”

“Most distressing, Rovzar,” Gilbert puffed, clambering over the gunwale. “Transports keep coming understreet, and getting killed, and are in turn followed by meaner and more vengeful Transports.”

“Well, doubtless they’ll run out of them eventually.”

“Doubtless. And now hundreds of homeless Goriot Valley farmers have settled, or tried to, understreet, and you know how crowded we were even before.”

“True. What you ought to be doing, though, is training all those farmers in the arts of warfare, and then you should weld them and the understreet citizenry into an army to wipe out the Transports with.”

“Yes, you’ve been advising that for some time, haven’t you? But a farmer is only a farmer, Rovzar, and you can’t really beat a plowshare into much of a sword.”

“Oh well. Speaking of swords, let’s go below and see how your parries are coming along.”

“Another thing happened, last night,” said Gilbert, stopping short. “Orcrist’s servant. Pons, died.” Frank stopped also. “He did? How?”

“He walked into one of the methane pits near the southern tunnels and struck a match. I just heard about it this morning.”

“Poor bastard. He never was a very pleasant person, but. ...”

“You knew him, I see!” grinned Gilbert. “Come on, show me those parries.”

Frank worked for two hours with Gilbert, to almost no avail. Finally he advised the lord to carry a shotgun and sent him on his way. Cheerful always, the lord shook Frank’s hand and promised to practice up on everything and come back soon.

At about two in the afternoon another boat, wearing the insignia of the harbor patrol, pulled alongside. A tall blond man in a blue uniform climbed onto Frank’s desk. “Afternoon,” he said to Frank. “Are you the owner of this craft?”

“No sir,” said Frank. “I’m leasing it.”

“And what’s your name?” The man was leafing through papers on a clipboard he carried.

“John Pine,” said Frank, using the name he and Orcrist had agreed on.

“I have a Samuel Brendan Orcrist listed as the owner.”

“That’s right. He’s leased it to me. Wait here and I’ll get the papers for you.” Frank hurried below, found the blue slip and brought it to the man.

The officer looked at it closely and then handed it back. “Looks okay,” he said. “Just checking. Thanks for your time. Be seeing you!” He climbed back into his own boat, got the small steam engine puffing, and with a casual salute motored away across the basin.

WHEN Orcrist visited Frank again, late one afternoon, he brought an ornate envelope with “Francisco Rovzar, Esq.” written in a florid script across the front.

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“It’s an invitation to a party George Tyler is giving in two weeks. It’s in honor of his book being published, I guess. He’s invited all kinds of artists and writers, he tells me. More importantly, there’ll be a lot of good food and drink.”

“Do you think it’d be safe for me to attend? Where’s it being held?”

“In George’s new place, a big house about fifteen levels below the surface, near the Tartarus district. Yes, it ought to be safe enough; the Transports never venture that deep, and no informers will be specifically looking for you, I don’t think. Just call yourself John Pine and all will be well.” Orcrist poked two holes in a beer can and handed the foaming thing to Frank. “I’d say you could even bring a young lady if you cared to.”

“Good idea. Would you convey my invitation to Kathrin?”

“Consider it conveyed.”

It was windy, so they took their beers into the cabin. “Oh, I’ve got something of yours, Sam,” Frank said. He went into his room and came back with the silver pistol. “Here.”

Orcrist took it and looked up at Frank curiously. “I noticed it was gone. Where did you get it?”

“Pons brought it here, the night he blew himself up. He tried to shoot me, but there was no bullet in it.”

“Poor old Pons. Then he went straight from here to the methane pits, eh?”

“I guess so.” Frank sat down and picked up his beer. “He said it was ‘my’ bomb that killed his wife.”

Orcrist nodded. “Did I ever tell you about the time I took him along on a robbery?”

“No. You said you ... gave him a chance to prove himself under fire, and that he didn’t do well.”

“That’s right. It was about a year before you came bobbing like Moses down the Leethee. Beatrice, his wife, had already cracked up and been committed by that time, of course. Anyway, I decided to take him along on a raid on the palace arsenal; several of the understreet tunnels, you know, connect with palace sewers. Pons was extremely nervous and kept inventing reasons why we should turn back. Finally he worked himself into a rage and turned on me. He accused me of being in love with Beatrice and of blaming him for her crack-up.”

“What made him think that?"

“Oh, it was absolutely true, Frank. I was in love with her. I don’t know why it was him she married— sometimes I think women secretly, unspokenly prefer stupid, mean men. But all this is beside the point. I called off the robbery then; it was clear that we couldn’t work together. And that’s the entirety of Pons’s criminal career.”

“How did he become your doorman?”

“He had no money or friends, so I offered him the job and he took it. He and I had been friends before, you see.” Orcrist’s beer was gone, and he got up to fetch two more cans.

Chapter 5

Frank and Kathrin walked up the gravel path, their way festively lit by lamps behind panes of colored glass. Kathrin wore a lavender, sequined gown that emphasized her slim figure, and Frank wore a quiet black suit with newly-polished black boots. A dress sword hung at his belt in a decorated leather scabbard, but in the interests of security and anonymity he had left his bronze ear at home, and simply combed his newly-grown hair over the spot where his right ear should have been.

Tyler’s house was a grand gothic pile, the roof of which merged with the high roof of the street. It looked as though it should have been a long abandoned shrine of forgotten and senile gods, but tonight its open windows and door spilled light and music into the street and up and down the nearby tunnels.

Tyler had been told about Frank’s exile-status by Orcrist, so when Frank and Kathrin appeared at the door he introduced them to everyone as “John Pine and Kathrin Figaro.” Frank then led Kathrin through the press of smiling, chatting people, shaking hands with several. They found space for the two of them on an orange couch. He immediately took his pipe, tobacco pouch and pipe-tamper out of his pocket and laid them out on the low table in front of him.

“I sense wine over there to the right,” he told Kathrin. “Shall I fetch you a glass?”

“Sure.”

Frank ducked and smiled his way to a little alcove in which sat a tub of water and ice cubes surrounding at least a dozen wine bottles. He spun them all this way and that to read their labels before selecting a bottle. He uncorked it, found two glasses and made his way back to the orange couch.

“There we are,” he said, filling the two glasses and setting the bottle in front of them.

Kathrin sipped hers and smiled happily. “I think it’s wonderful that you know a famous poet, Frank.” Frank was about to make some vague reply and remind her that his name tonight was John, when a well-groomed, bearded man leaned toward them from Kathrin’s side of the couch. “How long have you known George?” he asked.

“Oh, about six months,” answered Frank. “I’ve never read any of his poetry, though.”

“He is the major tragic figure of this age,” the bearded man informed Frank.

“Oh,” said Frank. He took a healthy gulp of his wine and tried to imagine amiable, drunken George as a tragic figure. “Are you sure?”

“You must be one of George’s ... working-class friends,” said Beard, with a new sympathy in his eyes. “You probably never have time to read, right?” He leaned forward still farther and put a pudgy hand on Frank’s knee. “Can you read?” he asked, in a voice that was soft with pity.

“Actually, no,” said Frank, putting on the best sad expression he could come up with. “I’ve had to work in the cotton mills ever since I was four years old, and I never learned to read or eat fried foods. Every Saturday night, though, my mother would read the back of a cereal box to me and my brothers, and sometimes we’d act out the story, each of us taking the part of a different vitamin. My favorite was always Niacin, but—”

The bearded man had stood up and walked stiffly away during this speech, and Frank laughed and began filling his pipe. He gave Kathrin a mock-soulful look and put his hand on her knee. “Can you read?” he mimicked.

“You didn’t have to lie to him, Frank,” she said. “Sure I did. And my name is John, remember?” He struck a match and puffed at his pipe, then tamped the tobacco and lit it again. “I hope the Beard of Avon there isn’t representative of George’s friends.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Kathrin. “He looked sort of ... sensitive, to me.”

Tyler himself came weaving up to them at that moment. “Hello, uh, John,” he grinned. “How do you like the party?”

“It’s a great affair, George,” Frank answered. “By the way, I hear you’re the tragic figure of this century, or something.”

“No kidding?” George said delightedly. “I’ve suspected it for a long time. Here, Miss Figaro, let me fill your glass. Well, see you later, Fr—John, I mean. I’ve got to mingle and put everyone at ease.”

“Yeah, give ’em hell, George,” said Frank with a wave. Kathrin got up, spoke softly to Frank and disappeared in the direction of the ladies’ room. Frank sat back, puffing on his pipe and surveying the scene.

The room was large and filled with knots of animatedly talking people. Bits of conversations drifted to Frank: “... my new sonnet-cycle on the plight of the Goriot farmers ...” “... very much influenced by Ashbless, of course ...” ”... and then my emotions, sticky things that they are ...”

Good God, Frank thought. What am I doing here? Who are all these people? He refilled his wine glass and wondered when the food would appear. There was a napkin in front of him on the table, and he took a pencil out of his pocket and began sketching a girl who stood on the other side of the room.

When he finished the drawing and looked up, the food had appeared but Kathrin hadn’t. He looked around and saw her standing against the far wall, a glass of red wine in her hand and a tailored-looking young man whispering in her ear. A surge of quick jealousy narrowed Frank’s eyes, but a moment later he laughed softly to himself and walked to the food table.

He took a plate of sliced beef and cheese back to his place on the couch; he had such a litter of smoking paraphernalia spread out on the table that no one had sat down there. When he was just finishing the last of the roast beef, and swallowing some more of the wine to wash it down, Kathrin appeared and sat down beside him.

‘‘That’s pretty good, Frank,” she said, pointing at the sketch he’d done earlier. ‘‘Who is it?”

“It’s a girl who was standing over—well, she’s gone now. You’d better jump for it if you want to get some food.” He decided to give up on John Pine.

“I’m not hungry,” Kathrin said. “Did you see that guy I was talking to a minute ago?”

“The guy with the curly black hair and the moustache? Yes, I did. Who is he?”

“His name’s Matthews. Just Matthews, no first name. And he’s an artist, just like you.”

“No kidding? Well that’s—” Frank was interrupted then by Matthews himself, who sat down on the arm of the couch on Kathrin’s side.

“I’m Matthews,” he said with a bright but half-melancholy smile. “You are ...?”

“Rick O’Shay,” said Frank, shaking Matthews’s hand. “Kathrin tells me you’re an artist.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, here,” Frank said, pushing toward Matthews the pencil and a napkin. “Sketch me Kathrin.”

“Oh no,” said Matthews. “I don’t simply ... sketch, you know, on a napkin. I’ve got to have a light table and my rapidograph and a set of graduated erasers.”

“Oh.” A good artist, Frank thought, should be able to draw on a wood fence with a berry. But he knew it wouldn’t help to say so. Matthews now leaned over and began muttering in Kathrin’s ear. She giggled.

Frank knocked the lump of old tobacco out of his pipe, ran a pipe cleaner through it, and began refilling it. I’ll be damned if I let them run me off the couch, he thought. A moment later, though, Kathrin and Matthews stood up and, with a couple of perfunctory nods and waves to Frank, disappeared out the back door of the house. Frank lit his pipe.

“Not doing real bloody well, are you lad?” asked Tyler sympathetically from behind the couch.

Frank shifted around to see him. “No,” he admitted. “What’s out back there?”

“A fungus and statuary garden. Lit by blue and green lights.”

“Oh, swell.”

“Well, look, Frank, as soon as I oust my rotten half-brother from the palace, I’ll have Matthews executed. How’s that?”

“I’ll be much obliged to you, George.” Frank got up and wandered around the room, listening in on the various discussions going on. He joined one, and then got into an argument with a tall, slightly potbellied girl when he told her that free verse was almost always just playing-at-poetry by people who wished they were, but weren’t, poets. Driven from that conversation by the ensuing unfriendly chill, Frank found himself next to the wine-bin once again, so he took a bottle of good vin rosé to see him through another circuit of the room. The glasses had all been taken and someone, he noticed, had used his old glass for an ashtray, so he was forced to take quick furtive sips from the bottle.

He saw Kathrin reenter the room, so he dropped his now half-empty bottle into a potted plant and waved at her. She saw him, smiled warmly, and weaved through the crowd toward him. Well, that’s better, thought Frank. I guess old Matthews was just a momentary fascination.

“Hi, Frank,” said Kathrin gaily. “What have you been up to?”

“Getting into arguments with surly poetesses. How about you?”

“I’ve been getting to know Matthews. It’s all right with you if he takes me home, isn’t it? Do you know, under his sophisticated exterior I think he’s very ... vulnerable.”

“I’ll bet even his exterior is vulnerable,” said Frank, covering his confusion and disappointment with a wolfish grin. “Does he wear a sword? Matthews, there you are! Come over here a minute.”

“Frank, please!” hissed Kathrin. “I think he’s my animus!”

“Your animus, is he? I had no idea it had gone this far. Matthews! Borrow a sword from someone and you and I will decide in the street which of us is to take Kathrin home.”

Frank was talking loudly, and many of the guests were watching him with wary curiosity. Matthews turned pale. “A sword?” he repeated. “A woman’s heart was never swayed by swords.”

“I’ll puncture your heart with one,” growled Frank, unsheathing his rapier. A woman screamed and Matthews looked imploringly at Kathrin.

“Frank!” Kathrin shrilled. “Put away your stupid sword! Matthews isn’t so cowardly as to accept your challenge.”

“What?” Frank hadn’t followed that.

“It takes much more courage not to fight. Matthews was explaining it to me earlier. And if you think I’d let a ... thief and murderer like you take me home, you’re very much mistaken.”

Everyone in the room had stopped talking now and stared at Frank. He slapped his sword back into its scabbard and strode out of the room, leaving the front door open behind him.

“HEY, ROVZAR!”

Frank opened his eyes.

“Dammit, Rovzar, where are you?”

Who the hell is that yelling? Frank wondered. It didn’t sound like police, but it might well bring some if it didn’t stop. Frank rolled out of bed, slid into his pants, grabbed his rapier and stumbled bleary-eyed onto the dazzlingly-sunlit deck. A snub-nosed, insolent-looking young man stood by the stem, dressed in close-fitting tan leather.

“Who the hell are you?” Frank croaked.

“I’m a courier. You’re Rovzar, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, here,” the courier said, handing Frank a wax-sealed envelope. “Get some coffee into you, pal,” he advised. “You look terrible.” The young man hopped over the side into his own boat and began rowing away, whistling cheerfully.

Frank sat down on the deck and broke the seal. The letter, when unfolded, read: “Vital meeting of SC Tuesday at 9:00. Important announcement. Mandatory attendance unless specifically exempt by a reigning lord.—BLANCHARD.”

Frank read it over several times and then stuffed it into his pants pocket. Coffee, he thought. That's not a bad idea. He picked up his sword, stood up, and made his unsteady way down the stairs to the galley.

“WHAT I heard was true I tell you, this is it.”

Lord Tolley Christensen bit his lip, frowning thoughtfully. “That isn’t certain, Emsley. Don’t jump to conclusions.” He stared again at the paper that lay on the table in front of him—it was a duplicate of the one Frank had received that morning. “Blanchard has got an ‘important announcement’ to make tomorrow. It might be anything—the Transport, the Goriot fugitives, the depression—it isn’t necessarily the naming of his successor.”

Emsley lit a cigar. “Yeah, Tolley, but what if it is? And the successor he names isn’t you, but Rovzar?”

“You’re right,” Tolley admitted. “We can’t risk it. Rovzar’s got to be killed.”

“Do it carefully, though,” Emsley said. “You’ll be a prime suspect, and if Blanchard thinks you did it he sure won’t make you his successor.”

“Blanchard won’t have time even to hear about it, I think,” said Tolley with a cold smile. “Have you heard of the ius gladii?”

“The what?”

“Never mind. Get out of here, now, and let me think.”

TUESDAY night was racked with thunder and rain. Frank stood on the deck under the overhanging roof of the cabin and stared out into the thrashing gray rain-curtains for some sign of the bow-light of Orcrist’s rowboat. The deep-voiced harbor bells and foghorns played a sad, moronic dirge across the water, and Frank’s shivering wasn’t entirely due to the cold, wet wind that whipped at his long sealskin coat. He waved his flickering lantern, hoping it would be seen by Orcrist.

Finally he heard “Ho, Frank!” from the darkness, and a moment later saw the weak glint of orange light wavering toward him through the rain. Frank swung his lantern from side to side. “This way, Sam!” he called.

A few minutes later Orcrist’s boat was bumping against the bow. Frank climbed in, holding his oiled and wrapped sword clear of the splashing, three-inch-deep pool of water in the scuppers. He thrust it inside his coat and then took the oars and began pulling for the Leethee. The rain was whipping them too fiercely for speech to seem like a good idea, so the two men simply listened to the occasional thunderclaps and watched the rain stream off their hat-brims.

The boat lurched its laborious way around the ship basin and then turned in. After some searching, they found the arch of the Leethee mouth. When they’d rowed a hundred feet or so up its length they took their hats off and Orcrist began bailing the water out of their boat with a couple of coffee cans. The Leethee was deeper and faster than usual, and Frank was soon sweating with the effort of making headway.

“How well do you know Blanchard, Frank?” It was the first thing either of them had said since Frank had entered the boat.

“Oh, I don’t know. I drink and play chess with him. Mostly he tells me stories about his younger days. Why do you ask?”

“Your acquaintance with him seems to have caused some jealousy in high circles.”

“Oh?”

“That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. Take that side-channel there, it’ll avoid most of this current.” Eventually they pulled up to an ancient stone dock and moored their boat in its shadow. “Nobody’s likely to see it here,” Orcrist whispered. “Come on—up these stairs.” Frank buckled his sword to his belt and followed the older man up the cracked granite stairs, slipping occasionally on the wet stone surfaces.

The steps led up to a long, entirely unlit corridor, down which they had to feel their way as slowly as disoriented blind men. At last they reached another stairway and found at the top a high-roofed hall lit by frequent torches, and they were able to move more quickly.

“Say, Sam, I’ve been meaning to ask you: was the Subterranean Companions’ meeting hall ever a church? It sure looks like it was.”

“Didn’t you ever hear the story about that, Frank? There was a—”

A sharp twang sounded up ahead and an arrow buried half its length in Orcrist’s chest. Frank leaped to the wall and whipped out his sword, and two more arrows hissed through the space he’d occupied a moment before. Orcrist fell to his knees and then slumped sideways onto the wet pavement. Six men burst out of an alcove ahead and ran at Frank, waving wicked-looking double-edged sabres. Fired to an irrational fury by Orcrist’s death, Frank ran almost joyfully to meet them.

He collided with the first of them so hard that their bell guards clacked against each other, numbing the other man’s arm; Frank drove a backhand thrust through the man’s kidney. Two more blades were jabbing at his stomach, and he parried both of them low, then leaped backward and snatched up the fallen man’s sword. Two of the thugs were trying to circle around him, so Frank quickly leaped toward the other three with an intimidating stamp, his two swords held crossed in front of him. All three men extended stop-thrusts that Frank swept up with his right-hand blade, clearing the way for a lightning-quick stab into the throat of the man on the far left; whirling with the move, Frank drove his blade to the hilt into a would-be back-stabber’s belly. The other man’s blade-edge cut a notch in Frank’s chin, but Frank’s right-hand sword pierced him through the eye.

Frank backed off warily to catch his breath. Barely five seconds had passed, but four of his opponents were down, three dead and one slumped moaning against the wall. Drops of blood fell in a steady rain onto the front of Frank’s dress shirt. The two remaining ambushers approached Frank cautiously, about six feet apart. The man on Frank’s right was leaving his six-line open.

Frank tensed; very quickly he leaned forward on his lead leg and then kicked off with his rear leg in a rushing fleche attack that drove his blade into the man’s chest and snapped it off a foot above the bell guard. He spun to meet the remaining man, whose point was rushing at Frank’s neck, and parried the thrust with his right-hand blade. Frank then drove his shortened left-hand sword dagger-style upward, with a sound of tearing cloth, into the man’s heart. After a few seconds Frank’s rigid arm released the grip and the body dropped to the pavement.

HODGES stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. The hall was full tonight—more members had shown up than he had known there were. Shouts and whistles and a low roar of talking were amplified in the cathedral-like hall until people had to cup their hands and shout to be heard.

Hodges glanced to his right into the sacristy and saw Blanchard, his hair and beard newly combed, give him a nod. Hodges banged on the speaker’s stand with a gavel, but to no avail. He gave it a stronger blow and the head flew off into the crowd. Somebody threw it back at him and he had to leap aside to avoid being hit. He could be seen to be mouthing words like “Shut up, dammit, you idiots!” but in the general roar his shouts couldn’t be heard.

Blanchard strode out onto the platform carrying a ceremonial shotgun, and fired it at the ceiling, where a few other ripped-up areas provided reminders of times in the past when this had been necessary. The sharp roar of the gun silenced the crowd abruptly, and the bits of stone and shot whining around the hall were all that could be heard.

“All right then,” Blanchard growled. “Let’s get down to business. The first thing we’ve got to get straight is—”

“The question of your successor!” called Lord Tolley Christensen, who stood up now from his fourth-row seat.

“What’s the problem, Tolley?” asked Blanchard quietly.

“There’s no problem, sire. I’m just invoking a precedent—one you’re familiar with yourself.”

“That precedent being ...?”

“The ius gladii.”

Hodges stared at Tolley in amazement, and there were shocked gasps from those thieves who knew what was being mentioned.

“All right.” Blanchard raised his voice so that everyone in the hall could hear him. “Lord Tolley Christensen has invoked the ius gladii and challenged me to a duel. The winner will be your king. Here, two of you move this table out of here. Hodges, get my sword.”

Lord Emsley stood sweating in the vestibule. He had posted six experienced, expensive killers in each of the three corridors Rovzar might have taken to get to the hall, and he had little doubt that Rovzar would be killed. Also, he had great confidence in Tolley’s swordsmanship—still, he’d be happier when this evening was over.

Blanchard and Tolley now faced each other on the wide marble speaker’s stand. They drew their swords and saluted; then they took the on guard position and cautiously advanced at each other.

Tolley tried a feint-and-lunge, Blanchard parried it and riposted, Tolley extended a stop-thrust that Blanchard got a bind on, Tolley released, and they both stepped back, panting a little. The assembled thieves growled and muttered among themselves.

Tolley hopped forward, attacking fiercely now, and the clang and rasp of the thrust-parry-riposte-cut-parry filled the hall. Tolley had Blanchard retreating, thrusting savagely and constantly at the old king. Finally a quick over-the-top jab hit the king in the chest; Tolley redoubled the attack and drove the blade into Blanchard’s heart.

Angry yells came from the crowd as the old king fell and rolled off the back of the platform, and several of the thieves leaped up, waving their swords. Hodges, looking grim, raised his hand.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he said in a rasping, levelly controlled voice. “Tolley Christensen is the King of the Subterranean Companions. The only way to dispute that is to challenge him to a single combat. Are there ... any members who want to do that?”

There was silence. Lord Tolley’s swordsmanship was almost legendary.

“I’ll challenge him,” came a voice from the vestibule. All heads turned to see who spoke, and Tolley’s eyes widened when he saw Frank Rovzar standing in the doorway. Damn that inefficient Emsley! Tolley thought furiously.

Frank shoved the gaping, pale-faced Lord Emsley aside and strode up the central aisle to the altarlike speaker’s platform. As he approached he saw Tolley smile—he’s noticing my bloody shirt, Frank thought. Good; I hope he overestimates the injury. He swung up onto the platform and nodded politely to both Tolley and Hodges.

“Did you hope to become equal to him by killing him?” he asked Tolley with a wild, brittle cheerfulness. “It didn’t work—you’re still a Transport-loving slug whom I wouldn’t trust to clean privies.” Frank knew Tolly hated the Transport as much as anyone, but wanted to enrage him. He succeeded, especially when many of the thieves in the crowd snickered at Frank’s words.

“Ordinarily, Rovzar,” Tolley said through clenched teeth, “I’d scorn to smear my sword with the watery blood of a kitchen boy. Since you’re such an offensive and conceited one, though, I’ll make an exception.”

Hodges stood up and faced Frank. “Do you mean,” he asked wearily, “to invoke the ius gladii against his majesty here?”

“Yes,” said Frank politely. Cheers sounded in various parts of the hall. “Nail the bastard, Frank!” someone shouted.

Tolley, thoroughly angered, raised his sword and whistled it through the air in a curt salute. Frank unsheathed his own sword, the rapier Orcrist had been wearing, and saluted courteously.

“Go to it, gentlemen,” said Hodges, sitting down.

Frank relaxed into the on guard position, with his sword well extended to keep a comfortable distance. He met Tolley’s gaze and smiled. “It was you who hired those six bravos to kill me, wasn’t it?” Frank asked softly, with a tentative tap at Tolley’s blade.

“Emsley hired them,” replied Tolley in a likewise low voice. “I told him to. I guess the idiot hired inferior swordsmen.” Tolley tried a quick feint and jab to Frank’s wrist; Frank caught Tolley’s point and whirled a riposte that nearly punctured Tolley’s elbow. They both backed off then, measuring each other.

“They weren’t inferior,” Frank said. “If they hadn’t killed Orcrist before turning to me, they’d have earned whatever Emsley paid them.”

Tolley backed away a step. “They killed Orcrist?” he asked, beginning to look a little fearful.

“That’s right,” said Frank.

Tolley took another step back, lowering his point— and then leaped forward, jabbing at Frank like an enraged scorpion. His blade was everywhere: now flashing at Frank’s throat, now ducking for his stomach, now jabbing at his knee. Frank devoted all his energy to parrying, waiting to riposte until, inevitably, Tolley should tire. He retreated a step; then another; and then felt with his rear foot the edge of the marble block. Desperately, he parried an eye-jab in prime and riposted awkwardly at Tolley’s throat, leaping forward as he did it. Tolley backed off two steps, deflected Frank’s thrust and flipped his blade back at Frank’s face. Frank felt the fine-whetted edge bite through his cheek and grate against his cheekbone.

He struck Tolley’s blade away and forced himself to relax and stay alert, to resist the impulse to attack wildly.

“You’re on your way out, Rovzar,” grinned Tolley fiercely. Frank drove a most convincing-looking thrust at Tolley’s throat—Tolley raised his sword to meet it—and Frank ducked low, still in his lunge, and punched his sword-point through Tolley’s thigh. He whipped it out and, grinning, threw aside the older man’s convulsive riposte.

“Cut your throat, you bastard, and save me the trouble,” hissed Frank.

Tolley stole a glance downward and paled visibly to see the widening red stain on his pants. Frank threw a quick thrust at him and cut him slightly in the arm. Blood was trickling down Frank’s cheek and neck, and when he licked his lips he caught its rusty taste.

Tolley ran at Frank now in a fleche attack; the thrust missed, but Tolley collided heavily with Frank and they both pitched off the platform. As they rolled to their feet on the floor, Frank jabbed Tolley hard behind the kneecap, and the lord cried out with the pain.

“Damn you!” the older man snarled, aiming a slash at Frank’s head. Frank ducked it and Tolley swung backhand at him again. Frank jarringly caught the sword with the forte of his own and half-lifted, half-threw Tolley away from him.

"It’s time for the finish, Tolley,” Frank gasped. Sweat ran from his matted hair and dripped from the end of his nose. “Have you ever seen the Self-Inflicted Foot Thrust?”

Tolley said nothing, but lunged high at Frank, hoping to catch him while he was still talking. Frank carefully took Tolley’s blade with his own, whirled it up and then whipped it, hard, down.

Tolley crouched amazed, staring at his foot, which was nailed to the floor by his own sword. Derisive laughter sounded from all sides. Frank drove his own sword with savage force into Tolley’s stomach. “This is for Orcrist,” he grinned. “And this,” he said, with a punching slash that opened Tolley’s throat, “is for Blanchard.”

Tolley’s spouting body arched backward and sprawled, arms outflung, on the floor. His sword still stood up from his foot like a butterfly-collector’s pin.

Frank sank exhausted to his knees and panted until he’d begun to get his breath back. A minute later he stood up, pushed his bronze ear back into place and vaulted onto the platform.

“I present King Rovzar of the Subterranean Companions,” Hodges called loudly. “Are there any further challenges?”

There were none. Lord Rutledge began clapping, and in a moment the entire hall echoed to the sound of applause and whistling. Frank grinned mirthlessly and raised his bloody sword in a salute. Nobody who’d known him a year ago would have recognized as Francisco Rovzar this savage figure standing above a multitude of cheering thieves, his uneven black hair flung back and his face a gleaming mask of sweat and blood.