White Moon, Red Dragon

We walk as in a dream. . . .

Soucek stepped down, taking his place behind and to the right of his Master as the senior officers presented themselves. Glancing down, he noticed for the first time that the ground underfoot was hard and glassy where the aerated ice had reformed. Bodies were embedded in it.

As Lehmann went up the line, inspecting the honor guard, he walked over the upturned faces of the dead. Overhead tiny remotes hovered like vultures, catching each word, each gesture, for posterity.

History this was. A turning point. The day the White T'ang came into his kingdom.

Soucek shivered at the thought, a strange thrill of love passing through him. Visak had failed the test, had faltered at the final hurdle, but he had remained true, and now he would live to see his Master crowned, seated upon the dragon throne itself, king of the underworld no more, but king of all.

At the head of the second line Lehmann turned and looked across at him, then nodded. At the signal Soucek went across and, walking behind Lehmann, began to make his way through the crowd to where a platform had been set up. There Lehmann was to address the masses; to rally their spirits before the final attack. Yet even as they passed between the ranks, the deafening sound of cheering rolling on and on, he sensed something was happening. On the platform up ahead a group of officers were gathered about the mobile transmitter, listening anxiously, their faces troubled.

"What is it?" Lehmann asked unceremoniously as he mounted the steps onto the platform.

Soucek, coming up behind Lehmann, saw how they looked to one another, a shock of fear passing among them, then how the most senior of them stepped forward.

"There are rumors, Master. . . ."

"Rumors?"

"Reports . . . from Malaga, Toulon, Taranto . . . and other places."

Lehmann lifted him from his feet, one hand tight about the man's neck. As he did the sound of cheering slowly died, until the whole space between the Cities was silent.

"No babbling, man," Lehmann said quietly, his face only a breath from the other's, his steellike grip almost choking him. "Give me no rumors. Tell me what you know."

He let him fall, then stepped past him, pointing to another. "Tell me what's happened."

"We have been betrayed, Master," the man said, his voice trembling. He fell to his knees, staring up at Lehmann, his eyes wide with fear. "The Mountain Lords have come against us, Master. They have attacked us in the south. Five great armies have come against us." "There are reports?"

"Coming in all the time," another offered, also falling to his knees. "They began twenty minutes back. At first we discounted them. But in the last few minutes—"

"Enough!" Lehmann said, raising his left hand abruptly. He looked to Soucek. "Jiri . . . find out where they are attacking and what strength they have. Then gather my generals south of here, in the captured garrison in Milan. We must hold a Council of War."

"And this, Master?" Soucek said, pointing north, toward what remained of Li Yuan's City.

"Another day," Lehmann said, turning to face the south, his eyes burning coldly in the glass of his face. "First I must give my African cousins the welcome they deserve."

KARR JUMPED DOWN from the cruiser and began to run up the slope of the lawn toward the palace, laughing to himself at the news he brought, imagining the face of his Master when he told him. But as he approached the Eastern Gate, he slowed, hearing bells from within the ancient palace.

Had someone else beaten him here with the news? One of Rheinhardt's young officers, perhaps?

He waited impatiently at the gate while the guards double-checked his ID and ran a hand-held scanner over him, then went through, ducking beneath the low lintel and into the grounds of the inner palace. He expected to hear laughter, the sound of celebration, but there was nothing—only an ominous silence, in which the sound of the bells seemed suspended as if in glass. He jumped down the steps in threes and began to make his way along the path to the center, heading for the Northern Palace, then stopped dead, the breath hissing from him.

From beneath the great arch of the Southern Palace, a procession was emerging, his master, Li Yuan, leading it. Behind him, on an open bier carried by thirty bearers in white silk robes, lay Tsu Tao Chu. His face had been made up as if in the perfect bloom of life, and he wore the dragon robes—the imperial yellow with the nine dragons, eight shown and one hidden. Beneath him the rich furs of the bier were strewn with white petals.

Karr walked slowly toward the procession, then, some twenty ch'i from his Master, fell to his knees, touching his forehead to the earth.

The procession stopped. Li Yuan looked to him, his face ashen. "Is it over, Gregor Karr? Has the White T'ang taken my City?"

Karr lifted his head. "No, Chieh Hsia. We are saved. The Mountain Lords"—he looked beyond Li Yuan a moment, appalled by the sight of the young prince—"Fu Chiang and his cousins . . . they kept their word, Chieh Hsia. They came!"

Li Yuan nodded, but it seemed that even this news had no power to raise his spirits. He sighed heavily, a bitterness in his eyes. "Then my cousin's life was truly wasted, neh?"

"Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan stared at Karr bleakly. "We found him an hour back, in his rooms. He had locked the door, then hung himself."

Karr felt the shock of that pass through him. A Son of Heaven, dead by his own hand. It was hard to believe.

"But your news"—Li Yuan gave him the ghost of a smile—"Your news brings us some comfort in these dark hours. We live to fight on, neh, Gregor Karr? We who survived."

"Chieh Hsia." Karr bowed his head, trying not to think of what he had seen that day—of the levels misting into nothing and the people falling. Yes, he thought. For now we are safe. But for how long? The Seven had gone. Li Yuan alone remained. A single man. A Son of Heaven, true, and yet a single man.

Li Yuan put out a hand, gesturing for him to get up.

"Come, Gregor. Walk with me. The time will come to celebrate your news, but now we must place my cousin Tao Chu beside his uncle."

He paused, gathering his full dignity about him once more, then nodded. "It is time to observe the rituals. Time to grieve the dead and see their souls are welcomed in the other world."

INTERLUDE AUTUMN 2217

The Night-Colored Pearl

The Yellow Emperor went wandering

To the north of the Red Water

To the Kwan Lun mountain. He looked around

Over the edge of the world. On the way home

He lost his night-colored pearl.

He sent out Science to seek his pearl, and got nothing.

He sent Analysis to look for his pearl, and got nothing.

He sent out Logic to seek his pearl, and got nothing.

Then he asked Nothingness, and Nothingness had it!

The Yellow Emperor said:

"Strange, indeed: Nothingness

Who was not sent

Who did no work to find it

Had the night-colored pearl!"

—chuang TZU, Writings xii, IV, sixth century b.c.

THE COCKPIT was packed, all nine of them trying to crowd into that tiny space to watch the screen.

Below them lay Chung Kuo, bright in the sunlight. Ebert, in the pilot's seat, frowned, then spoke to the air.

"What's happened, Master Tuan?"

There was a moment's hesitation, then the old man's voice sounded in the cabin, as if from every side.

"Much has changed since you were last here, Hans. The Seven have become One and the world"—he laughed gently—"Some say the world has shrunk. I see it differently. To my eyes the world is a much bigger place these days."

Ebert stared at the planet below him, shaking his head. The great shapes of white that had once covered every continent had now diminished to a patchwork. In some places—in the Southern continents particularly—it was gone entirely. Only in Europe was the City still dominant, but there, too, it was split—a great jagged line, like a crack in the surface of a frozen pond, running from west to east.

"I didn't realize," Ebert said. "There has been war, neh?"

"War was the least of it," Tuan Ti Fo answered, placing images on the screen before them. "War is but the prelude to disaster. After War there is Pestilence and Starvation, and always, always there's the darkness."

"The darkness?" It was Aluko Echewa who spoke. All about him the young Osu murmured, their discomfort evident. They had never been off Mars until three months back. Now they were to start a new life on the planet below, alone, cut off from their loved ones, preparing the way for others of their kind.

"The darkness within," Tuan answered. "Hatred and fear and evil." Dogo, the strongest and biggest of the young Osu, laughed. "Father Aluko thought you meant us, Master Tuan. With us the darkness is visible, no?"

There was general laughter at that. Eight dark faces grinned, showing pearled teeth like polished stones. But Ebert seemed distracted.

"What is it, Efulefu?" Echewa asked, laying a dark hand on his shoulder. "Why the long face?"

"What happened here"—he looked up at them, real pain in his eyes—"I was much to blame for it. The things I did . . ."

He turned, looking back at the scenes of horror that continued to fill the screen.

"Where should we go, Master Tuan?" he asked. "What does your friend the Machine suggest?"

"We shall go south," Tuan answered. "We shall—"

There was a sharp buzz of noise and then a rapid clicking. |

"What is it?" Echewa asked, leaning forward, suddenly anxious.

"I don't know, I—"

"Leave the cabin," Tuan Ti Fo said faintly, his voice barely audible above the static. "Now, before—"

Ebert was facing the screen as it lit up. The others were more fortunate: they had turned away, making to obey Tuan's voice.

The light from the screen was fierce, like the light from the heart of a sun. It flooded the cabin, seeming to scour every pore, every cell, of their bodies. The Osu were screaming, the pain in their heads—in their eyes—like nothing they'd ever experienced. But their blindness would prove temporary. For Ebert it was different. Ebert had taken the full force of the light. He sat there in the chair, groaning, his face blistered and steaming, his eyes burned from their sockets.

The light faded, the clicking stopped. Echewa, on his knees in the doorway, turned blindly.

"Efulefu? Are you all right?"

Ebert groaned again.

"What . . . what happened?" Echewa asked, beating down his fear.

"What was that?"

"It was a light mine," Tuan Ti Fo answered. "Our presence in its air space seems to have triggered it."

"But I thought ..."

Echewa fell silent. He had thought Tuan's "Machine" would have anticipated such a danger and dealt with it. He'd thought . . .

He swallowed bitterly. "Efulefu?"

"It's okay," Ebert said weakly. Then, strangely, he laughed.

"Efulefu? Are you all right?"

"I'm blind," Ebert said, then laughed again. "I'm . . . blind."

Echewa struggled to his feet, then turned, trying to see, but his eyes were still too painful. All was a blur; a blur of pain and confusion.

"But Efulefu . . . why are you laughing?"

"Blind . . . the Walker in the Darkness, blind. . . ." Again he laughed. Then, just as unexpectedly, he moaned. "Gods . . ." he said quietly. "All those things I did. All those people I hurt. All that darkness . . ."

"Is past now," Tuan Ti Fo said, his voice warm and reassuring in the air surrounding them. "Now sit quietly, Tsou Tsai Hei. The Machine will see you down."

PART 2 SPRING 2218

The King under the City

Here not even the stars can spy us, Not even the moths can alight On our mystery; nought can descry us Nor put us to flight.

Put trust then now in the black-boughed tree, Lie down, and open to me The inner dark of the mystery, Be, penetrate, like the tree.

—D. H. lawrence, The Yew Tree on the Downs

I go new ways, a new speech has come to me; like all creators, I have grown weary of the old tongues.

—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, "The Child with the Mirror," from Thus Spake Zarathustra, 1883

CHAPTER TWELVE

Clay

SEEN FROM AFAR the City was a glacier, its featureless white cliffs thrusting out into the sea, following the contours of the coast. Thorn stood at the prow, one hand shielding his eyes, the other gripping the roof of the steering hut as the boat rose and fell. There was the steady slap and slosh of water against the wooden sides of the boat; a regular vibration in the wood beneath his hand as the engine chugged noisily.

Thorn looked to his side, studying the boatman. He was a squat, broad-shouldered man in his middle years, his neck and arms well muscled. He stared ahead, his rough hands gripping the wheel tightly. His wind-carved, ruddy face was handsome in a primitive way, typical of the men who worked this coast. His hair was short and tightly curled, sea bleached almost to whiteness. Like most of his kind he was reticent with strangers. He had uttered barely a dozen words to Thorn since they had set out from St. Mary's earlier that morning.

Thorn looked away, enjoying the bite of the wind against his face. Ahead the land seemed to grow by the moment, the vast walls of pearled whiteness soaring into the cloudless blue. A rock slid by to his left, like the dark back of an animal. He turned to see it swallowed by the swell.

Slowly the boat came around, its rolling motion exaggerated as it began to run parallel to the coastline. For a while they maintained this course, then the boatman swung the wheel sharply to the right, turning the boat inland once more.

Ahead an arm of rock jutted from beneath the massive walls, dwarfed by them but still huge. The port lay to the far side of the rock, in the bay beyond. A hundred ch'i ahead the sunlit surface of the sea ended in a sharply defined line. Beyond was darkness. Slowly they approached that line. Fifty ch'i. Twenty. Then, suddenly, they were beneath the City's walls, in a still, cavernous place of intense shadow. The wind dropped. The sound of their engine came back to them across the dark water. Thorn turned and saw the boatman glance up at the overtowering walls, then look away with a shudder.

He looked down—the water a glaucous black, like the swollen pupil of a giant eye—and had a sudden sense of its depth beneath the hull.

Up ahead, waves were breaking against the stone, then washing against the shore beneath the wall, all force spent. Closer and closer they came, the sunlight up ahead. Great slabs of rock thrust up out of the sea, jagged and irregular. They passed within a boat's width of them, rounding the headland, then came out into the sunlight again, but it was no warmer. If anything, the wind blew fiercer here, churning the water into spray and making the boat rock steeply, its prow smacking into each wave as its engine revved, fighting the current, drawing closer to the land.

THE HARBOR WAS CALM in the brief afternoon sunlight. Five small craft were secured against the far wall. Once there would have been more. Many more. The cobbles of the jetty were loose, several missing. Empty fishing baskets were stacked against a low wall next to coils of old bleached ropes. Thorn looked about him, noticing how the paintwork on the boats was worn, likewise the tires that were hung as buffers over their sides. Relics, he thought. From a simpler age.

He looked up. Steep streets of old stone houses ended in the blind, unfeatured whiteness of the City. What remained of the tiny fishing port rested in an angle between two of the vast external walls which rose two li into the air on either side of the harbor. Only for these brief afternoon hours was the village free of its oppressive shadow.

"Dyes-kynna?"

Thorn smiled and nodded at the boatman. Yes, he was going down. The old man shrugged and turned away.

"My a-vyn," Thorn said. 1 want to.

The boatman half turned, then shook his head.

A ragged group of locals had gathered on the quay opposite. They stared at him malevolently. Ignoring them, he lifted the heavy pack onto his shoulder and began to climb the path, his right hand on the haft of the dagger beneath his cloak.

He was a small dark-haired man with green eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. He was dressed simply but effectively against the cold. As he walked, his eyes searched the houses up ahead. The old cottages were dilapidated, mostly abandoned. Only those at the harbor's edge were still inhabited. Toward the end he climbed between ruins, the window gaping, roofs collapsed and open to the elements.

He went without hesitation, knowing the way. Others had come before him; traders like himself. He was nearing the entrance when the challenge came.

"Saf yn-nes!"

Stop where you are. He turned to his left and saw them. Two men, one standing in the doorway, glowering at him, the other sat at an empty window, a gap-toothed smile on his face—an old balding man with a wind-tanned face. Thorn addressed him.

"Gwycor," he said, placing his hand against his chest. Trader. Then he nodded toward the entrance. "My a-vyn . . . dyes-kynna. Yn dan cyta." He fumbled with the words, as if they were unfamiliar. I want to go down. Under the City.

The old man scratched the stubble on his chin and considered for a moment, then he leaned forward, his hand extended, palm open. The young man in the doorway straightened.

They were no real threat to him, yet he wanted no trouble. If he wanted to come out this way it might prove awkward later. He reached into his belt and removed two heavy coins. Five yuan each—more than enough to bribe his way in. He weighed them in his palm a moment, then placed them in the old man's hand.

He watched the old man bite at the solid plastic coins, then grunt his satisfaction. He waved Thorn on.

HE STOOD AT THE tunnel's mouth, looking inward at the blackness of the Clay. The air was warm and close, like the air in a small, unventilated room, fetid with animal smells. He reached into his cloak and drew a small strip of tape from an inner pocket then fastened it across his eyes. At once he could see, the uniform darkness resolved into a thousand shades of red, dissolving into black.

Securing the pack about his neck and shoulders he went in.

The land fell away sharply, then rose until it met the floor of the City. That floor formed a lid to the Clay, containing the vast and desolate lands beneath the City. Huge pillars thrust down into the earth, regularly spaced, holding the weight of the City: cold strokes of black against the multitextured redness of the land. The roof was just above him where he stood. On tiptoe he could stretch and touch its smooth, unyielding surface. Beyond was Level One.

Thorn was looking east, toward old Lelant, looking down on a barren, almost lifeless land. Almost. Nothing grew here in the Clay, and yet men still struggled to make a living in this awful place.

The Clay . . . The very words were like a curse.

He rearranged his pack then began the descent, looking from side to side as he went. It was possible that the Myghtem would know of this entrance and have it watched. If so news would get back and they would try to intercept him. He would have to move fast, skirting likely settlements, heading east and then south, until he came to the town where the Myghtern—the great "King under the City"—held his court.

As he made his way down he went over once again just what he knew of this place. Back before the City this place had had a name, Cornwall, but the land, once rich and green, was dust now. No sunlight ever pierced the Stygian gloom and the rain never fell. The air was stale and heavy. There was no doubting it. Two centuries of barrenness had left their mark. These were dead lands now.

Thorn went quickly, his legs moving in an easy, tireless rhythm. He skirted Lelant, then went directly east, meeting no one in that desolate landscape, covering more than fifteen Ji before he stopped. He had three days to get to the town. At most it would take one. That left him two days to find out what was happening before they came.

He had just crossed the old road northwest of Crowan. He stood there, his back to a layered stone wall. Ahead the land rose to the floor of the City in a huge wedge twenty li across. He would have to trace its outer rim north and then sharply south, following the plateau's contours. It would force him into the outskirts of Cambome, but that was preferable to the southern route. That led through Helston, now a dumping ground for City wastes.

He glanced down at the timer inset into his wrist. It was his only link to the outside in this timeless, seasonless place. Two hours had passed. He looked north, using long-sight, searching for activity on the slopes. Still there was nothing.

His luck was too good. Some sixth sense prickled his neck, making him hasten on, climbing the slope toward the Camborne road, then clambering over the wall at a low point where the stone had collapsed.

He looked again. The road was clear for several li ahead, but then it dropped out of sight. He began to walk, wary now, looking from side to side, his hand clutching the knife's haft.

They were waiting just beyond the crest of the road, a dozen of them seated casually, looking toward him as he came up over the top. He turned and saw more of them climb over the wall stealthily and then stand there, cudgels in their hands, blocking his retreat.

There was laughter from front and back. Feral, braying laughter. They had him. Twenty to one. Impossible odds. His hand slipped from the dagger's handle. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands, showing they were empty. Then, smiling, Thorn walked on toward the seated men.

THEY TOOK His PACK, his dagger, then stripped him. He stood there before them, naked, ignoring their mocking eyes. After all, they themselves were scrawny specimens, malnourished and sparsely fleshed.

He saw how their eyes widened, seeing what was in his pack. It was a tiny treasure trove: Above toys, mainly—gifts for the Myghtern. Head-Stims, Enhancers, MedFac Sensorbs. Few of them would make any sense to these savages, even so they were in awe of the Above and its works.

One of them took charge of Thorn's things, snarling as he plucked them from unwilling hands and returned them to the sack. He was some inches taller than the rest and broader at the shoulder, but that said little. Like all here, his frame was small, stunted. Things grew trythro in the Clay. Twisted.

"Gwycor.⁷" he asked, coming up close to Thorn and poking him in the chest. His breath stank. His grimacing face seemed demonic, the eyes two vivid pits of crimson in a mask of red. As in all cases of malnutrition, his head seemed too large for his body, the skull's shape clear through the stretched skin. Thorn looked back blankly, pretending not to understand.

The dayman stared at him a moment longer, insolently studying his features, then turned away. "Map orth caugh," he said loudly. The men nearby laughed shrilly, like jackals baying.

Son of shit yourself, thought Thorn.

The laughter faded and with it came a sudden change of mood.

Thorn saw the transformation in their faces. They were uneasy now they had him. Their heads moved jerkily from side to side, eyes searching the darkness of the nearby slopes. He understood at once. They were intruders here. He frowned, reassessing things. He had thought they were the Myghtern's men.

At a signal from the leader two men brought forward what Thorn had taken to be cudgels and presented them, groveling cravenly. From a pocket in his ragged cloak the leader took out a small cylinder and pressed the button on its side. In an instant both of the torches were ablaze. The two men stood back, holding them aloft.

Thorn peeled the strip from his eyes and looked. The twin flames burned fiercely, steadily, throwing a warm orange glow across the surrounding fields. From the floor of the City, thirty ch'i overhead, the image of the flames was thrown back at them, as though in a giant, silvered mirror. Thorn looked up and saw the group of them, reflected, inverted in the dust-free surface: dark shapes with double shadows. Looking down he saw the leader anew, in normal vision. Small, dark eyes sat in a gaunt, bloodless face that even the warm flames could not animate—more corpse now than demon.

They set off, heading north on the road, Thorn naked in the midst of them, the torches at front and back. They moved fast, at times trotting, keeping a tight formation that had more to do with fear than discipline. Nearing Camborne they slowed, skirting the ruins cautiously, expecting an attack at any moment. But the torches kept the scavengers at bay.

Past the town they headed north, onto the old coast road, then made a track across an old disused airfield. The old tarmac was cracked and pitted and the men skirted it almost superstitiously. On the far side the land rose almost to the floor of the City. In places they had to get down and crawl, the smooth, geometrically regular surface above, the rough uneven earth below.

And as they journeyed on, so Thorn's conviction grew stronger. These weren't the Myghtern's subjects, these were outsiders. He watched them, sharply attentive now, knowing just how valuable this knowledge was. It meant there was another route into the Clay, another unguarded entrance. He smiled to himself, then straightened as the land began to fall away again.

It was almost four hours before they halted. They were two li southwest of Perranporth, on the floor of a steep-sided valley. The underside of the City, more than two hundred ch'i overhead, reflected the torchlight faintly. Darkness seemed to plug each end of the valley.

How much farther? he wondered, and for the first time began to think that maybe they'd been expecting him.

They rested, binding his hands and feet and placing two guards to watch him. He lay on his side, pretending to sleep, listening to their talk, but it was only idle chatter. There was no clue as to who they were or where they'd come from. One fact alone caught his interest— they were to have a feast that night to celebrate. Which confirmed that this had been planned, his capture anticipated.

When they set off again Thorn could sense the thread of pure fear that circulated among the men, like a live wire joining them. Even the brightness of the torches couldn't drive back that inner darkness. To their north was a densely populated area. South was the Myghtern's capital. Between all was his land, held by his chiefs in his name. These lands were hostile.

They went a long way east then turned north again. They had changed the torches several times, but now the leader ordered them doused. For a time they stood there, huddled in a close group, accustoming themselves to the darkness, then set off again, cutting across a field, avoiding the old roads. This stage of the journey had taken them over five hours but now they were nearing their destination. Thorn could sense their relief. Despite the darkness there was a growing confidence among the men.

They were crossing the ruins of old buildings, picking their way carefully over fallen walls, heading southwest toward the waste. As they neared the coast it grew lighter, imperceptibly at first, but then markedly. It was still dark but the darkness was much softer and he could make out vague shape of gray against the black. There was a predawn sense of impending brightness. For a time he was puzzled, then realized what it was. Light was leaking through the translucent walls of the City.

They moved along the cliffs edge, the vastness of the wall to their right, the trapped sea dark and silent below them, the floor of the City a good hundred ch'i overhead. Echoes sounded eerily in this strange, twilit place, here where the City ended and the sea began. Sound carried back and forth between the still surface of the water and the roof overhead. Between moved the men, in silence, fearful of each small noise that sounded in that emptiness.

Dead voices spoke here. Falling rocks, the steady slop of the current.

They moved on, in single file now, descending, until they came to a wedge-shaped ledge of rock. There, where the wall of the City made one of its great folds, was the entrance.

It was a small, cavelike opening; a mere depression beneath the edge of the City's walls. Large slabs of fallen stone lay to each side of the opening. Pools of water had formed between them. At high tide, he realized this ledge would be underwater, but the rock was kept free of moss or weed.

Two of them went through first, while the others crouched, shielding their eyes, growing accustomed to the brightness. Then, abruptly, they pushed him forward. He ducked under, feeling the smooth, thick edge of the wall with his hand as he edged between the rocks. Then, suddenly, he was outside. Out into freshness, brightness. Brilliant, blinding freshness. Involuntarily he put his hand up to his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, reaching out with his other to keep his balance. A rough and bony hand grabbed his arm, then another. Blind, he was led unceremoniously up a steep slope, then thrown down roughly.

He smiled, feeling grass beneath his naked buttocks. He picked a stalk and put it to his lips. Cool and wet it was. Something living.

He had been inside the Clay less than eighteen hours, yet it had seemed much longer. The absence of light, the fetid stillness—such things played tricks with one's sense of time. Now time ran normally once more. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead, nearby his captors murmured softly among themselves, but beneath all he could hear the regular wash of the sea against the rocks below, the ageless rhythm of the tide. A gust of wind blew coldly across his skin, but he made no move to cover himself. He simply sat there, his head bent forward, his arms folded across his knees, at ease, listening, waiting to see what they would do.

After a while he opened his eyes. From where he sat he could not see much. A thick, rough grass grew on all sides, interspersed with thistle and gorse. The men were nearby. They had changed and put on warmer clothing—patchwork skins of leather and fur and cloth. For the first time he saw them smile, not in mockery but in good humor. They were at ease here in their own place.

Thorn smiled. He knew now where he was. In the old times this had been called Trevelgue. Two, maybe three thousand years before there had been an Iron Age fort here, built on the great hump of rock that jutted out into the bay—a tiny island, linked by a narrow wooden bridge to the mainland. Those days had returned, it seemed. Trevelgue had been resettled, the bridge rebuilt.

THEY LED HIM UP a slope of grass toward a palisade of stone and wood and rusted iron. It was a junk heap of a wall, more a symbol than a genuine barrier. At the gate he turned and looked back, seeing how the City's walls followed the curve of the coast to north and south. This place—this tiny island of earth and rock and grass—was dwarfed by that huge, unnatural edifice.

For the first time since his capture, Thorn laughed.

The guards turned and stared at him surprised. Since his capture he had made no sound, and his bearing had won their respect. He had been proud and uncomplaining in his captivity—a man, for all that he was not of their tribe. But now his laughter changed things. One or two of them squinted at him, suddenly afraid. Their leader came across and pushed him roughly through the gate, making him stumble.

It was their turn for laughter, but this time it was uneasy. This one, they sensed, was different.

Conditions inside the fort were primitive. Simply constructed huts, made, like the palisade, of a ragtag of materials, were scattered about the edge of the central clearing. Small, ill-tended plots lay between the huts.

Thorn looked about him, wondering how old the settlement was. No more than twenty years, that was for certain. It hadn't shown up on the last coastal survey.

As he was led through they came out to stare at him. A ragged, ill-clothed people, the women distinguishable from the men only by their beardlessness, the children often on all fours. Clay, all of them. Deformed by the darkness. Devolved.

The chiefs house lay in a depression at the top of the fortress. It was built lavishly compared to all that lay below it, even so it was a hovel, its cracks filled with lumps of moss.

One mystery was solved, however. From the roof of the chiefs house poked an aerial. Crude, pitted with rust, its anachronistic appearance brought a smile to Thorn's face. A radio. So that was how.

Even so, it asked more questions than it answered. However crude, this was beyond the Clay's capabilities. Such knowledge had been lost to them. This had to be Above work.

He was glad he'd let them take him. Who knew what else he'd find?

The chief stood in his doorway, an ugly smile on his face. About his shoulders was an old and tousled sheepskin, sign of his status. About his neck was a string of small skulls—old, yellowed animal skulls— linked by a leather band. His hair was combed straight back from a high forehead. Dark, thick, greasy hair. He was tall, much taller than any of them gathered there, Thorn included. Too tall to have been bred here, his skin too healthy despite its pallor.

A cast-out. He had found his level here. Become a king of sorts. Lording it over the Clay.

The pack leader took Thorn's sack to the chief and dropped it at his feet, then backed away, his eyes craving the tall man's approval.

"Da," the chief grunted. Good. But he was already crouched over the sack, fumbling inside it, greed and excitement naked in his face. He took things from the pack as if they'd melt, anxious to parade them before his eyes. Thorn watched him, imagining him as he'd been. A petty criminal. A faceless member of the lower levels. A nothing in the great Above. And here a chief.

"Why . . ." The chief pointed at Thorn. You, he was saying. He closed the pack and set it down, then came closer, walking around his naked captive looking him up and down. "Gwycor?" he asked. Then, when he received no answer, he turned to his lieutenant and touched his tongue. "Omlavar?" Is he dumb?

There was an awkwardness in the way he pronounced the old tongue. It was still a second language to him. He turned to face Thorn again, the ugly smile—a sneer of amusement—returning to his lips. "An estren tawesek. . . ."

Stranger than you think, Thorn thought. And for now, quite silent.

The chief studied him a moment longer, a slight indecision in his eyes, then strode past him and stood on the lip of the depression, looking down over the rest of the settlement. He raised his arms high and seemed to punch at the air with his fists. "Prysner dhyn-ny! Gorthewer un golya!"

The prisoner is ours! Tonight a feast!

There was a ragged cheer from the people below, a half-human sound.

Thorn watched them a moment longer, then turned back to look at the rust-pitted aerial. He would destroy that before he went.

THEY PUT him IN A RUDE, low-ceilinged hut at the back of the chiefs house and bound his hands and feet. Lying there, he could hear the chief operating the radio set, sending a message out, then awaiting a reply. It was a long time coming.

He tried to figure out where this crude chain of communications might be based. He could identify two points, but where else? Brittany, perhaps. Somewhere on that coast. Or the Channel Isles. Yes, that was more likely. On Sark or Aldemey. But why? What was going on here?

It was why he had been sent. To find out and report back.

Night came, star studded and clear. From where he lay, Thorn could see the soft, pearled glow of the City beyond the settlement, a band of cold, milky light. It looked cold and alien. How did it make them feel, seeing that each night? Did it make them sense how small they were?— or did they turn their backs on it to face the darkness of the ocean?

The feast began an hour into the darkness. He could hear the babble of their excitement, smell their fires. And something else. Roasting flesh. So there had been other captives here.

The fires crackled, threw up bright sparks into the darkness. Down below, the sea crashed against the rocks. Seabirds called in the dark, troubled by the activity on the great saddle of rock. Thorn lay still, biding his time. There was more to be learned here. Much more. And there was time. Plenty of time for him to find out why he'd been taken.

It was late when they came for him. They were naked, their skins and faces painted, sweat-beaded from the dance. Their eyes seemed wild, unfocused, their breath smelled of crude alcohol mixed with drugs. Above drugs.

They unbound him, then gave him a rough sacking coverall to wear. He tied it at the waist and then stepped outside. Turning, he looked up and saw the brilliant circle of the full moon above the dark ocean. From the base of the cliff far below came the soft rush and break of the waves. Thorn turned his head, looking at one of the men who'd come for him. In the silver light his skin seemed like polished metal, his bare, thin arms like the jointed extensions of a machine. Only the man's eyes seemed alive and vital, the rest was dead. Thorn studied him a moment, then turned away. He had seen how the man's eyes had been drawn by the moon, in awe and fear, as if linking the stranger with its mysterious potency.

They went down into the central clearing. Three fires had been built and the tribe was gathered in a great circle about them. The stacks had been large but now they had burned down and the darkness overhead seemed more immense than ever.

The chief sat on high ground on a crudely built throne. His face and neck were painted black. Only the eyes were contrasted, hexagons of white exposed about the liquid, flame-filled circles of his pupils. His sheepskin was pulled close about him against the night's sudden cold. Even the fires could not dispel that now.

On his head was a crown of twisted metal, and in his hand, grotesque, almost surreal, a blackened arm, the fingers shriveled as if grasping at the air.

So easy to fall. So hard to rise.

He greeted Thorn with a flourish of the blackened arm. "Wolcum, arluth travyth."

Welcome, lord of nothing.

He put the arm to his mouth and bit deep. Then, as he chewed the tough and stringy meat, he spoke again. "Eery wew, goeff!" Worse luck for that! It brought drunken laughter from the darkness about the dying fires.

The chief leaned forward, beckoning Thorn closer. He advanced and, at the chiefs gesture, sat.

"You talk?"

The words were heavily accented. They came like pebbles from his mouth, hard but rounded. It was clear he hadn't spoken English for some time.

"I talk."

The circle grew quiet, listening without understanding. This was mystery to them. Above talk. He sensed the awe in their sudden silence. The moon sat high above the chiefs right shoulder, throwing a fierce silvered light across his black-painted neck. The chief looked out around the circle, then back at Thorn. "Another"—his hand gestured, circling, searching for the right word, then alighted on the charred limb—"Another has need of you."

Thorn frowned. "The Myghtern?"

The chief winced. There was a murmur about the circle, then silence. "Do not . . . talk of that man."

"Why?" he asked. But it was beginning to fit together. After years of petty squabbling the Clay had a scent of power. Real power. Something was happening to wake the Clay. Something important. How important he hadn't guessed until now.

The Myghtern had new friends in the Above. Influential friends.

Friends in Security, in coastal surveillance. Friends who would ignore unauthorized signals on certain wavebands. Friends who would report all movements of traders in and out of the Clay.

"What will happen to me?"

The chief smiled. "Trade you. Rich trade." He nodded ferociously. "The man pay well for you."

This was unexpected. Why should the Myghtern want traders? Was it, perhaps, their skills he wanted? Numeracy? Languages? They were an interface, after all. They linked Clay and Above.

"And my wares?"

The chief glared at him and shook his head. They were clearly no part of the trade. He tapped at his chest with the blackened fingers. "Keep them," he said and smiled. A predatory smile this time, from the part of him that had always been Clay, long before his fall.

HE WOKE WITH THE DAWN. Light entered through the threadbare, hole-pocked cloth that formed one side of the hut, speckling the rough, unpainted wood of the wall beneath which he lay. He turned, listening, immediately awake. Seabirds were calling in the bay, but the sea was quiet. He stretched, easing his legs and arms, feeling the rough blanket beneath his naked thighs and back. The crude wire with which they had bound his wrists and ankles had chafed the skin, but he ignored it, rocking himself up into a sitting position, then edged forward until he could poke his head out of the hut.

It was a bright, clear morning. Long shadows pitted the ground. Somewhere out of sight two men were talking languidly. There was the clink of a spoon against a cooking pot and the smell of wood burning. Otherwise there was little activity in the camp. The two men set to guard him were asleep on the groud close to the hut.

Thorn smiled and leaned back, relaxing. Whatever the Myghtern wanted with him, he would get to where he wanted to be—he would be there when they came. And later, when he had what he had come for, he would come back here and destroy this place.

It was more than an hour before they came for him. They unbound him, then threw the old sackcloth at him, watching as he dressed, surly now that it was time to relinquish him. When he was ready they led him down through the settlement, back to the Claygate. There they waited, on the outside, a guard of twenty warriors, armed with cudgels and flint axes, between Thorn and the gate.

He sat there, watching the Myghtem's men come through; a dozen men, dressed in light armor and wearing cloaks. They were proud, fierce men, but even so they struggled to contain their fear of the outside, keeping close to the rock wall by the gate. Only their leader, a straight-backed man with short dark hair and piercing green eyes, seemed unaffected.

The chief came down to greet them. Without his face paint he seemed much smaller, less impressive. He was broad shouldered but gaunt. Even the sheepskin failed to disguise his emaciation. And as he embraced the leader of the Myghtern's men Thorn could see the reluctance, the uncertainty and distaste, in the smaller man's stiffness. There was no love lost here.

Thorn watched their faces, saw how they held their bodies. Here such things were more telling than words. "Pandra ober mynnes why?"

What do you want? It was blunt, to the point. The newcomer was angry, humiliated that he should have to bargain with this man, and his anger was barely contained. It flashed in his eyes as he uttered the words. Only a pragmatic sense of the situation controlled and shaped his actions. This was awkward for him; he had been beaten to his prize. The chief smiled and opened his hands. "Pandra kerghes why?" What have you brought?

The chiefs eyes narrowed. His shoulders were hunched. Thorn, watching him closely, frowned. Everything was so naked here; so obscenely open. Greed sat like a mask on the chiefs horselike face. "My a-wyn gwele gwycor." I want to see the trader. The chief hesitated, then turned and motioned with his hand. One of the guards reached down and pulled Thorn roughly to his feet, then dragged him forward until he stood before the Myghtern's man. On both sides the warriors tensed, cudgels and short swords raised in case this was a trick.

For a moment the green-eyed man simply stared at Thorn, then he reached out and lifted Thorn's left hand, turning it, studying the palm. He saw a smooth, fine-boned hand, the palm's flesh unblemished, the red weals of the binding rope about the wrist. "Tan!" Here, take!

The chief snatched at the offered gift. It was something small and shiny. Glass and silver flashed in the early morning sunlight. The chief studied it a moment, then gave a howl of delight, holding it up to show the gathered warriors.

It was a valve. A valve for the radio. And there were others in the pouch. It was old technology, two Gentries out of date. Thorn studied the newcomer's face, trying to understand.

The chief passed the valve carefully to his lieutenant, who scurried back up the hill toward the chiefs hut. In a while he was back, breathless, nodding his head, a broad grin on his face. "Ober-s," he said. It works.

The chief had been waiting impatiently. Now he rubbed his hands together and turned to face the newcomer. "Ytho?" And?

For a moment the Myghtern's man said nothing, did nothing, but his face was dark with anger and his nostrils were flared, his eyes wide. Then, abruptly, he pushed back his cloak and put his hand on the handle of his long dagger. "Tra nahen." Nothing more. Behind him his men grew tense, mimicking his stance, prepared to fight.

There was a long, tense silence, and then the chief laughed. It was a false, high-pitched laugh that grated on the nerves.

"Hen yn lowr dhyn, ena." That's enough for us, then.

But Thorn could see how he eyed the long dagger, the belt, the man's fine clothes. It was not enough. Nothing was enough. But it would have to do. The chief gave a curt movement of his hand and Thorn was pushed forward—given over into the custody of the Myghtern's men.

And as he went back into the darkness of the Clay, Thorn smiled to himself. The trader had been traded.

THEY MOVED FAST, in utter darkness, beneath the metal sky, south to the Myghtern's city. It was open, undulating land, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark so it seemed like a journey across a desert on a moonless night. No one spoke. Only the faint sound of their footsteps disturbed the hollow dark. They followed the old road, marching between stone walls that had stood for centuries. As the road began to dip toward the sea, the surrounding land changed. The wilderness gave way to signs of life. Small makeshift huts stood back some way from the roadside. Faces peered at them from above the stonework. The air itself grew heavier, more foul. More and more habitations appeared along the road until finally, as they approached the outskirts of the old County capital, the darkness seemed alive with movement.

At the Trispen crossroads a kind of market had been set up. Ragged stalls offered the flotsam of a past none here could remember. Equally ragged people, their bony limbs poking through threadbare garments, picked furtively at these offerings under the hostile and suspicious glares of the traders.

Thorn's party slowed, seeing the press of bodies up ahead, and then stopped completely. The Myghtern's man called several of his men to him, then sent them ahead to clear a path. That done, they set off again, keeping close to the right-hand wall, short swords drawn.

They were almost through when it happened. There was a scuffle and a brief cry and one of the Myghtem's men went down, hit by a rock. Thorn turned and saw how quickly the crowd surrounded the fallen man, finishing him off. Others of the party had, like Thorn, turned to look back, but a barked order from their leader drew them on.

They pressed on, keeping a tighter formation than before. The road dipped, then slowly rose again. At its crest they had a view of the land below, stretching away toward the sea. Thorn, looking outward, thought at first that he had to be mistaken: the darkness seemed much less intense down there, and below them, directly ahead of them on the road, there were what seemed like vivid patches of brightness. As they descended he realized what it was. Up ahead of them—no more than a Ji away now—torches burned in brackets mounted on high poles, lighting the way down to the Myghtern's city.

At the bottom of the hill the wide, deep scar of an ancient riverbed cut across the land. The road ran out onto an old stone bridge, gently arching over the gap. On the far side of the bridge twin torches blazed steadily in the windless air. Beneath them was a barricade, guarded by a dozen lightly armored men.

As they came to the bridge the Myghtern's man turned to Thorn and put his hand on Thorn's chest.

"Before we go inside, you must understand how you are to behave. You belong to the Myghtern now. Whatever he commands, you do. You are his creature now. Here that is not so bad a thing to be. It has its compensations. But if you are difficult, if you try to escape, we will kill you."

"I understand."

"Good." The man nodded, but his expression was unreadable, his face a mask of light and shadow.

Thorn studied him a moment. There was something odd about the man. He seemed half finished, yet in some strange way he was more sophisticated than any of these others. His accent was clear, unrounded, not native to these parts, and he spoke English with a clarity and ease that was as surprising as it had been unexpected. Thorn reassessed him, looking at the thickness of his biceps, the musculature of his chest and thighs. He was somehow too well formed, his bones too firm, too straight, to have come from here. Like the chief, he was an outsider.

The man had been looking away from Thorn, calling orders to his men; now he turned back to face the trader.

"I am Tak, the Myghtern's lieutenant. Whatever you want, you come to me. Understand?"

There was a sudden sharpness to his tone that made Thorn look at the words again. Whatever you want, you come to me. What was really being said here? For a moment Tak held his eyes. Then, abruptly, he looked away, turning to give more instructions. On the far side of the bridge there was movement as the barricade was slowly moved back out of the way.

There was a low parapet overlooking the dried-up river. Thorn went across and rested his elbows on it, looking out away from the brightness of the torches, at the old town.

There, in the center of the darkness, it seemed to glow. The silhouette of the old cathedral stood out against that faint illumination, hard edged and dark, its square central tower thrusting toward the City's floor. Thorn looked up. Yes, it was no trick of the eyes—there was something there, like the faint irradiation of a dying fire reflected in the dark undersurface of the City. Or a lamp, shining beneath the water at the bottom of a deep, dark well. He frowned. Another mystery. Another thing that ought not to be here.

Thorn turned. Tak was watching him, his eyes half lidded, as if trying to fathom what he was, what he wanted here. As if he knows, Thorn thought. Or at least, suspects.

Tak raised a hand, beckoning him. "Come, let's cross the bridge. The Myghtern will see you in the morning."

"The morning?" Thorn laughed uncertainly.

Tak turned away and walked out onto the old stone bridge. "You'll see," he said over his shoulder. "This is the city. The Myghtern's capital. You will see many things that will surprise you here."

Thorn glanced up at the floor of the great City, two hundred and fifty ch'i overhead, seeing once more that faint glow in the dark, reflecting surface, then shook his head. He didn't understand. Here there was no day, no morning. Here there was only night—only shadows and darkness.

He felt a firm hand in the small of his back and began to walk, crossing the slightly arched bridge. The City, he thought, wanting to laugh at the absurd grandeur of that term. What a mockery of words they make down here. If they only knew. . . -

The barricade was drawn back. The guards parted, letting him pass. And so he went through, beneath the torches, into the narrow, cobbled lanes of the Myghtern's city.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gods of Bone and Dust

SCAF SAT AT the water's edge, staring out across the violently shimmering bay, the booming noises of the great world filling his head, his body anchored to the earth by fear. He dared not stand, lest he fall, for if he fell he was not sure he would ever get up, not the way he felt right now.

Things loomed. He would focus on something and it would grow large in his vision, taking on a brilliant show of colors, while the smells . . .

He dared to take a breath and felt his head swim at the mixture of strange and powerful scents that flooded his senses.

"Scaf . . ."

He slowly turned his head, making the gargantuan effort only by exerting every last shred of his will. Things pulled at him, demanding him to look, smell, hear what they were. Alive ... it had all come suddenly alive!

His head stopped. Kygek's portly features leapt into view, like a landscape seen through an enlarging glass. Scaf groaned. He could smell Kygek's breath, like an old and rotting corpse.

Kygek tried to speak, but couldn't. It was as if the words terrified him. But words had never frightened Scaf, not even at the start, when they had first come to the Domain, that moonlit night nine years ago. That was why he had been the first to be named by the Master. "Scaf he had been called: "Quick."

Scaf lifted his eyes, moving from the great black lake of Kygek's mouth, spiked with jagged, yellow rocks, past the furred caverns of his nostrils to the liquid blackness of his pupils. Kygek tried again to speak and once more failed, but it didn't matter—the fear in his eyes, the torment there, were eloquent enough.

"No," Scaf said clearly, trying to keep Kygek's eyes from dragging him down into their terrifying depths. Kygek thought they had been poisoned, but the Master would hardly keep them for nine years, feed and clothe them, shelter them and teach them his language, only to poison them like vermin. No. Whatever this was, it had a purpose. There was a reason why the world had suddenly changed.

He pulled his eyes away, slowly, agonizingly turning his head. There was a reason why the water shimmered like a pit of silver snakes; a reason why the trees on the far side of the water leapt at him like hungry animals; a reason why the honeybees burned orange and black in the air surrounding him, why their buzzing reverberated like a power saw inside the echoing cavern of his skull. The Master had done something to them. Not poison, no, but something else. Something that had changed their relationship with the world.

He put his hand before his face and stared at it, fascinated, tracing the lines, the patterns of the flesh, and as he did words came to him from nowhere.

"What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread gra"sp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"

He shuddered, astonished by the sound of his own voice, loud, echoing loud, offering the strange words to the busy air. Those words . . . he'd never heard them before that moment. And yet he knew—knew without asking—that they were not his own.

The Master ... he would have to ask the Master.

Slowly, with an agonizing slowness, he stood. He tried to close his eyes, but it was no good: it was as if his brain refused to let him blank it out. Slowly he turned, his eyes picking their way from object to object like a mountain climber finding handholds in the surface of a cliff. At any moment he might fall.

The water vanished. He let go of a tree and grabbed at a nearby bush. It leapt into view, holding him like a piece of sticky tar. He shook it off and grasped at a low fence.

He was almost there now. His eyes clung to the fence, conscious of the grain of the wood, of the great eyelike whorls, the shining silver head of a nail. Each thing grabbed at him, forcing him to look. Gritting his teeth, he jerked himself free, then turned his body that final, tiny bit.

There!

Scaf could smell Kygek at his feet, could hear his rasping breath beneath him, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere. There, at the top of a brilliant, emerald slope of grass, was the Master's cottage, its walls so white, so powerfully, overwhelmingly white, they hurt Scafs eyes.

He whimpered gratefully.

"Master!" he called, his voice like thunder in his head. "Master!"

Slowly the darkness at the door's edge thickened, widening like a flooding river until, with a suddenness that made Scaf jump, a hand appeared, gripping the wood.

Scaf shuddered, his whole body trembling with a violent anticipation, and then a wave of blackness hit him like a club.

BEN PUSHED THE DOOR open and stepped out into the sunlight. For a moment he stood there, puzzled, then he saw them, down at the end of the lower garden, by the water.

He went down, bending over Kygek to check the pulse at his neck. Kygek stared up at him as he did, doglike as ever, yet there was something new in his eyes; some element of curiosity that had not been there before. The pulse was high but regular. Good, Ben thought and smiled, patting Kygek's shoulder, then turned to the second of them. Scaf was unconscious. Ben knelt beside him, concerned for a moment, then relaxed. The pulse was normal, his heartbeat regular. He had probably just got overexcited, that was all. It was Scaf who had been calling him.

As he leaned back, Scaf moaned and opened his eyes. Seeing Ben, the dayman's large, round eyes widened perceptibly, a look of utter astonishment seizing his face.

Ben smiled. "Is it strange, Scaf? Is it all ... changed?"

"Yes," Scaf said quietly, the word filled with wonder. "Your face . . ."

Ben held himself still, letting the Clayman study the contours of his face. So often he had done so himself, standing before a mirror, a lamp to one side, turning his head so that the shadows fell in different ways. But this felt different. To have another see him as he saw himself . . .

His smile broadened, and as it did Scaf gave a tiny sigh of delight. Then, with a suddenness that was frightening, the dayman's face changed, grew horrified. Scaf was staring past him now, as if there were a demon at his back.

Ben half turned, confused, but there was nothing: only the two remotes that followed him constantly. For a moment he didn't understand, then, with a laugh, he reached up and plucked one of the tiny hovering cameras from the air.

"It's all right," he said, cupping the thing in his hands to show the Clayman. "It's a remote. A tiny camera. It just looks like a bug."

Slowly Scaf s terror subsided. Slowly the light of curiosity returned to his face.

"I—I've never seen it before," Scaf said slowly, his eyes locked on the tiny machine.

"They've always been there," Ben said, picking it up between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. "You've just not noticed it. Like the rest of it. The drug I gave you has heightened your perceptions. Sharpened them."

With an effort Scaf pulled his eyes away from the remote and looked at Ben again, the dark pupils of his eyes as tight as pinheads. "Is this for good?"

"Permanent, you mean? No. It'll wear off in a few hours. But it'll leave a residue. You'll sense things much more clearly from now on. And it ought to sharpen up your thought processes too. And when I give you the second shot—"

"The second?" There was a look of doubt in Scaf s eyes now as if he wasn't sure whether that sounded a good thing or a bad. Kygek, who had been lying there listening to everything, gave a distinct groan. "Don't you want to be better than you are, Scaf?" Scaf s mouth worked impotently a moment, then he shrugged. Ben placed the remote in the air, then reached out to hold Scaf s shoulder. "Of course you do," he said, his voice heavy with reassurance. "You all do. Even Kygek here. It's your destiny."

He squeezed the dayman's shoulder gently, then stood, looking about him. The other two must be somewhere about. Back in the blockhouse, perhaps, lying on their backs in bed, engrossed by the patterns on the ceiling. He laughed, remembering his own first experience with the drug. It had been like a door opening in his head. He had seen . . . darkness. The infinite darkness between the individual atoms. So much space and so little substance. So much . . . nothingness.

Ben looked back at Scaf. It was working. He could see it in their eyes, in the hesitancy with which they now encountered every facet of the world. He had switched them on. For the first time they were alive, truly, vividly alive, the way he himself was alive. He laughed, then spread his arms wide. It was time to further their education.

HE CARRIED THE TWO daymen back to the bunkhouse, one under each arm, then searched nearby for the others, defter he found in the toolshed, crouched in a comer, staring at the objects on the shelf in front of him. Blonegek was in the lane, standing facing the stone wall. Neither had the least understanding of what had happened to them. He brought them back and strapped them in their beds, then returned to the cottage to fetch the lists he'd prepared.

As he made his way out of the study, Meg came from the living room and, closing the door behind her, took his arm, keeping her voice low.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

He smiled at her and reached out to brush her cheek. "It's what I'd always planned. You know that."

"Yes. But why now? Is it because he's here?"

"He" was the man from SimFic who was sitting in the living room even as they spoke.

He shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe it's just time. 1 need to do something new. This . . . well, I've been preparing for this a long time now. You know what they say, as one door closes another opens."

"But what if it harms them?"

His fingers combed the hair behind her ear, then he drew her closer, embracing her. "It won't harm them. To be better than they were, that can only be a good thing, no? We've fed them, clothed them, been kind to them. If they'd stayed in the Clay they'd surely have been dead long ago. No, Meg, I've done them no harm. Nor shall I."

She stared back at him, her dark eyes searching his. "You promise?"

"I promise. Now let me get on. And tell our Mister Neville that I'll be with him in another twenty minutes."

THE STRONG EFFECT of the drug was beginning to wear off. As he unfastened their bindings, Ben whistled to himself cheerfully. It was just as he'd said to Meg. It was time to stretch himself again.

He stood back, watching them sit up, noting how they looked to each other, checking that they were all all right. That concern, which he'd noticed before, was highly developed in the daymen. They were a tight-knit group and even Scaf, the most individual of the four, would rarely act without the approval of the others. The drug had had little effect on that aspect of their relationship. Or so it seemed. It was early days yet, and as the doses continued it would be interesting to see whether the bonds between them would remain as strong.

Scaf was staring at him again, not with the drug-induced intensity he'd shown earlier, but with a curiosity that none of the others seemed to display, even now. The others merely looked down, as if ashamed. Or maybe they were afraid? It was hard to tell. "What is it, Scaf?"

He saw how the others looked up, attentive suddenly, looking to Scaf. For while Crefter—named for his strength—was physically the dominant one, it was to Scaf they looked whenever there was a problem.

Scaf made a tiny shrugging motion, then looked away. "You want to know what's happening—is that it?" He glanced at Ben then nodded.

"I understand. Today . . . well, if I'd prepared you for what was going to happen, you wouldn't have gone through with it. Now that it's happened, you'll be better prepared next time. Maybe you'll even enjoy it."

There was a disgruntled murmur from the others. Ben took a long breath, momentarily irritated by them—by their stubbornness, their intractability. It was as if they didn't want to be better than they were: as if all they really wanted was to wallow in the filth and darkness from whence they'd come.

"This is it," he said, keeping his voice free of any trace of irritability. "Don't you understand that yet? This is what we've been working toward all these years." He held up the printouts he had brought from his study and waved them at the daymen. "Look, I've made lists for each of you of what needs to be done." He began to hand them out. "You'll see here just what needs to be prepared, what packed."

There was general consternation as they studied their lists. Kygek, in his usual fashion, scratched his head. But it was Scaf, as ever, who spoke for them, his long face furrowed deeply.

"But this . . . this is for a journey, Master." He looked up and met Ben's eyes. "Where exactly are we going?"

"Inside," Ben answered, smiling back at him. "Into the Clay."

NEVILLE TURNED FROM the window, looking across as Meg came back into the room carrying a loaded tray. As she set it down, he went across to her, watching as she laid out the cups and then poured the ch'a.

Tea, he reminded himself. Here they call it tea.

Setting the teapot down, she lifted the brimming cup and offered it to him, her dark eyes meeting his for the first time since she'd left the room. Again he felt his stomach clench, his heart begin to hammer. Whatever he'd expected to find out here in the Domain, it wasn't her. He had thought her a fiction—something conjured from Ben's mind, like all the rest of it, but she was real. Real, and quite beautiful.

More beautiful even than the day.

He watched her draw her long dark hair back from her face, then lift her own cup; felt his breath catch as she smiled and sipped.

So simple a thing to do, and yet she transformed it utterly.

"So, Mister Neville?" she said, the unusualness of that word Mister, the strangeness of her accent—so pure and clipped—making him feel, once again, that he had strayed into a dream. "Do you like our little valley?"

Like it? He laughed gently and made a vague gesture with his head. How could one not like it? Why, he had fallen in love with it the moment he had stepped from the cruiser. With it and with her.

He looked about him at the room, at the carved wooden panels of the walls, the dark oak beams, the low ceiling, and the soft furnishings of the chairs, and sighed.

"It's like a dream," he said. "If only the whole world were like this."

"It was once," she said. "Or parts of it."

He stared at her, drawn into her eyes a moment, unable to look away, then broke his gaze, embarrassed, unused to such directness.

She was like her brother in that. Neither of them had learned any of those games one took for granted in the Above: games of face and status. One did not have to look for the motive behind their words, nor for some barbed insult.

"Those men," he said, turning to indicate the window. "Who are they? I thought you were alone here."

"The daymen.⁷" She moved past him, the scent of apple wafting to him from her hair, so fresh and natural. "They came here nine years ago when the valley was invaded. Ben captured them, civilized them."

"I didn't know," he said, moving up beside her to stare out down the garden toward the bay. "Was it frightening?"

"Yes." She turned her face to him and smiled. A smile full of sunlight and roses. "I left, after that. I stayed away from here almost two years, but I had to come back. Ben needed me."

He frowned, not quite understanding what she meant, but sensing the strength of feeling behind her words.

"Your brother is a remarkable man, Nu shi Shepherd. No one knows the inner workings of a man better than he. His self-knowledge is quite astonishing."

His comments brought a strange smile to her features. "Forgive me, Mister Neville, but you're wrong. Ben but guesses at his nature. If he knew, there would be no art, no ... creativity in him. It's that darkness within him he pursues. Those things unknown."

She stopped, turning suddenly. Ben had stolen silently into the room. He stood beside the door, like a piece of the darkness itself, his dark eyes watching them intently.

"I learnt his road and, ere they were sure I was I, left the dark wood behind, kestrel and woodpecker, the inn in the sun, the happy mood when first I tasted sunlight there. I traveled fast, in hopes I should outrun that other. What to do when caught, I planned not. I pursued to prove the likeness, and, if true, to watch until myself I knew."

Neville felt a shiver ripple up his back. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.

"Is that something you made up?"

Ben stepped into the light. "Good God, no. That's Edward Thomas. The Other.' He understood, you see. It's like Meg says. It's the pursuit that matters. The ceaseless search for self."

Neville bowed his head in a gesture of respect, but Ben seemed merely amused.

"You want to know what I've decided, yes?"

"I . . ." Neville hesitated, then smiled, deciding that such directness should be answered in kind. "Yes."

"Then you can tell your Masters that they have a deal."

"I see." Neville nodded, but his surprise was close to shock. What, no haggling? No endless questioning of contractual clauses? Just a straight yes? It was unheard of! "You're sure?"

Ben laughed. "Don't think me naive, Mister Neville. Or may I call you jack? I've studied the contract at length and I know what I've signed." He took the papers from his pocket and handed them to Neville. "If SimFic want something more complex than my signature, I'll provide whatever they want. There's only one condition."

Ah . . . Neville smiled tightly. Here it was.

"I do no publicity."

Neville laughed. "But—"

"My work speaks for itself, or it doesn't speak at all."

Neville hesitated, then bowed his head. "Well, it's strange. The media—"

"Can take it or leave it."

"I see,"

"Make sure you do." Ben lifted the teapot and poured himself a cup, then came across to where Neville and his sister stood. "And make sure your Masters understand as well. What they do with the work is their concern. Mine is to create."

Neville licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. It was as he'd been warned. Ben was one of a kind. Every other artist he'd ever met had been neurotically concerned with every last tiny detail of the promotional strategy, but Ben genuinely seemed not to care.

"Doesn't it worry you?"

"Worry me? Why should it? The sum you've paid me, I'm sure you'll do your best to recoup your investment. And even if you don't, how does that affect me? Will it change what I do next? No. Will it change the work I've already created? No. So why should I be worried?"

"Put that way, I guess—"

Ben reached out, pressing the fingers of his left hand to Neville's chest, the touch firm yet unthreatening.

"Did you like the work?"

Caught in the intensity of that stare, Neville felt transfixed. To answer no seemed impossible, and yet he felt compelled to give more than the stock, expected answer.

"It frightened me," he said. "It was so real."

"Good," Ben said, the slightest hint of a smile in his eyes—eyes which, now that Neville was looking into them, he was surprised to find were green, not dark as he had been picturing them. The dark, vivid green of the trees and grass and hills of the valley. He shivered, then looked down at the hand that continued to press against his chest.

"It's false," Ben said. "The hand, I mean. I lost the original in an accident. A mirror fell on it."

Neville noted the faint rim around the wrist, then looked up again. Ben was smiling broadly now.

"What didn't you like about my work?"

Neville considered a moment, then shook his head. "Nothing. I thought it was perfect. I—"

"No. Perfection . . . that's when it ceases. It's the flaws that make the art. The uncertainties. The gaps. The . . . hesitancies. Perfection. Well, perfection is death."

"And yet you seem to seek perfection?"

Ben's eyes seemed amused by that. "Yes," he said. "I guess I do. Maybe that's why I'm fascinated by the darkness. After all, nothing's more perfect than the dark, no?"

Neville shrugged. He had no view on it. Had never even thought of it. But the mere fact that Ben had spoken of it meant he would now. He knew that: knew it almost as certainly as he knew that he would never see things the same again—not after having experienced Ben's work. No, and nor would millions of others. If what he suspected was correct, Ben's The Familiar would change the lives of everyone it touched. But not yet. First they had to come up with suitable forms of technology that would allow people to experience it in all its glory. Ben's art was so new—so revolutionary—that right now there was not even a means of presenting it. But there would be. And that, too, would change people's lives.

He felt the pressure on his chest cease. Ben stepped back, giving him a nod. "You must excuse me now, Jack Neville, for I have work to do. But come again, please. We must talk at greater length."

Neville smiled and bowed his head, then watched Ben turn and leave the room. When he had gone, he let a long breath escape him and turned, looking to Meg again. While Ben had been there he had almost forgotten her, but now he was gone. . . . "Would you have more tea, Mister Neville?"

"Jack," he said, emboldened by her brother's friendliness. "Please, call me Jack."

BEN PULLED THE CURTAINS TO, then sat behind his desk, watching the screen. A hidden camera perched high in the corner of their quarters gave him a view of the four daymen. They were sitting on the bottom bunks, two to each side of the stone gangway, their heads leaning in close as they talked.

Ben pushed the slide to maximum. At once the sound of their voices filled the room.

". . . that's as may be," Crefter said angrily, "but the Clay! It's too risky."

"That's right," Blonegek said, coming in on Crefter's side. "It's much too dangerous."

"But it's where we're from," Scaf answered them reasonably. "And this is what we've been trained for."

"Were we ever given a choice?" Kygek asked. "Do you forget those early days?"

Scaf shook his head. "I remember it well, Kygek. Yet it was necessary. We were wild, remember? Little more than animals. What we are now ... all that is down to the Master. We would be nothing without him."

Crefter made a small noise of dissent, yet it was clear Scaf s words had had some effect. Even so, the thought of going back into the Clay was clearly disturbing them, for they returned to it immediately.

"I would do anything for him," Blonegek said. "You know that, Scaf. But this . . ." He physically shuddered. "It makes me uneasy. The dark . . . I've come to hate the dark."

Scaf nodded, then rested his hand on Blonegek's shoulder.

"Can't we talk to him," Blonegek asked, "—persuade him not to go inside?"

Kygek laughed. "Persuade the Master? How? He's set on this. Couldn't you see that? His face—"

"His face was like the shining moon," the normally unpoetic Crefter said, surprising them. "I'd never seen . . ."

He fell silent and dropped his head, abashed.

Scaf looked from face to face. "If that's how we all feel, I'll talk to him. Tell him—"

"Tell him what?" Kygek asked, his face sneering. The drug, which had given Scaf insight and Crefter poetry, had darkened Kygek's natural cynicism. Only Blonegek seemed vaguely what he'd been, but then, there had been so little of note in his character to begin with. Blonegek was a born follower.

Scaf looked at Kygek and smiled. "I'll tell him we won't go."

Both Crefter and Blonegek made noises of surprise, while Kygek simply stared, open mouthed.

"But you can't," Crefter said. "He's the Master."

"No?" Scaf looked about him. "Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"But what? Either we go or we don't go. It's that simple, neh?"

Yet it was clearly far from simple. From the looks on their faces Ben could tell they were really torn by this matter.

"How do you feel, Scaf?" Crefter asked after a while.

"Uneasy." Scaf sighed, then studied his hands as if he were seeing them anew. "Given the choice, I would prefer not to go back inside. I have nightmares."

There were nods at that. In the shadows of his room Ben sat back a little. He hadn't known.

"So what are we going to do?" Kygek asked.

"Simple," Scaf answered. "We have a vote."

"Vote?" Blonegek stared blankly at Scaf. To either side of him Crefter and Kygek shrugged.

"It's easy," Scaf said. "First I ask all of you if you want to stay here. If you do, you put your hand up. Then I ask all of you if you want to go inside. If you do you put your hand up."

"What if you want to do both?" Blonegek asked.

"You won't. That's the point. And whichever idea gets the most hands up for it, that's the course we'll choose. Okay? Right. Then let me ask you if you want to stay in the Domain."

Kygek's hand went up at once, Crefter's following it hesitantly a moment later. Blonegek stared from one to the other of them, then, frowning, put up his hand. Last of all, Scaf raised his.

"That's settled, then," he said.

"Aren't you going to ask the other question?" Blonegek asked.

"There's no point," Scaf said, with infinite patience. "We all want to stay."

"Ah . . ." Blonegek said, but there was still confusion in his face. And Ben, watching, realized he would probably have to give him a barrelful of the enhancement drug before it made any difference.

Scaf, however . . . Well, already he was displaying some interesting traits. Before the treatment his leadership had been of a passive, reluctant sort, but now he was coming out of himself.

Ben watched Scaf stand, steeling himself to come up to the cottage and speak to him, then leaned forward and switched off the screen. It was time to deal with them. Time for drastic measures.

THERE WAS A KNOCK on the cottage door. Ben opened it and looked out into the garden. Scaf stood there, the other three at his back. He shuffled awkwardly, tugging at the sleeve of his jerkin, then opened his mouth to speak.

"What is it, Scaf?" Ben asked, preempting him. "Is something troubling you?"

He could see how Scaf wanted to withdraw. If he'd been alone, he would probably have stepped away, murmuring something like "It's nothing, Master." But he was conscious of the three behind him, and of the plan he'd drawn up for them, and so he stood his ground, and, swallowing, began again.

"It's about the Clay, Master."

Ben smiled. "You don't want to go, is that it?"

Scaf s eyes widened, then, made speechless by Ben's anticipation, he nodded.

"You'd better come in," he said. "There's something I have to show you."

Scaf hesitated. He had never been inside the cottage: none of them had, not since the very early days, and then they had been punished— and punished severely—for stepping inside the Shepherd family home.

"Come on," Ben said, standing back to let them pass. "I order you. And you three. Come on now, this is important."

He led them along the shadowed corridor and into the dining room, then across to the door that led down into his secret workplace, unlocking it, then leading them down the steep, narrow flight of steps.

Here he did his work. Here were a thousand secrets that were kept from the world. As they stepped through between the crowded racks, they stared about them, eyes wide in wonder. It was a treasure trove of technological marvels, most of them beyond the comprehension of the Claymen. But one thing, standing there in the space between the end shelves, they did understand. It was a dayman, like themselves. As they approached, the dayman removed his hat and bowed to them. , "Good day, my friends. I've been expecting you."

Ben, who had stepped to the side, looked back at them and smiled.

"This," he said, "is Genna."

"Delighted to meet you," Genna said, stepping forward to shake their hands; and as he did he named them. "Scaf. Crefter. Kygek. Blonegek."

Ben watched, noting their reactions; how, like animals, they surreptitiously sniffed the stranger, their senses fully alert.

"Well, my dyvrow," he said, using the old Cornish for exiles, "it's time you understood how things stand. You had a vote, neh? You decided."

All four of them looked away, abashed, yet there was something defiant in the way Scaf stood there.

"Genna, come here!"

The Clayman turned and, taking four steps, stood before Ben.

"Give me your knife," Ben ordered, his voice neutral, his eyes perfectly calm.

Genna did as he was told.

"Now roll back your sleeve and hold out your arm."

Genna took off his jacket and threw it down, then ceremoniously rolled back his sleeve and held out his arm, as if he knew what was to come.

Ben slipped the knife into his belt, then took a hypodermic gun from his shirt pocket, and, holding it against Genna's bared upper arm, fired it—once, and then again.

The others were watching intently now.

Ben threw the gun down, onto Genna's coat, then took out the knife again. Its razor-sharp edge flickered in the lamplight. Ben hesitated, waiting for the drug to take effect, then, grasping Genna's arm firmly, dug the point in and scored a line all the way down his arm from inside the armpit to the wrist. Blood welled in the gash and ran.

The Claymen gasped.

"Watch," Ben said, throwing the knife down onto the jacket, then began prizing open the gash with his fingers, opening up the wound as one might prize open a fig.

There was another gasp. A low moan of fear from the watching Claymen. Wires showed, and metal struts. The Clayman, Genna, was a machine. Or, at least, his arm was.

Ben stooped down and wiped his hands on the jacket, then picked up the knife and, ripping open Genna's shirt, began to cut into the chest. Genna shuddered but stood still, as if mesmerized by what was happening to him.

Ben cut and pulled, then stood back, letting them see. More wires.

More plastic and metal. Blonegek fell to his knees. After a moment Crefter and Kygek joined him. Only Scaf still stood.

"You understand now?" Ben asked, the power and authority in his voice like that of a young god. "I made you. Sinew and bone, I made you, here in my workshop."

"No," Scaf said, frowning; the effort of denying his Master costing him a great deal. "I have memories. Memories of a time before we came here."

"I gave you them," Ben said.

Scaf shook his head, but even as he did, Ben spoke again.

"What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"

Scaf stared at him, horrified.

"Remember?" Ben asked. "Do you remember asking yourself where that came from? Well, Scaf, it came from me. I gave it to you. Like all your thoughts and memories. Because I made you. Every last bit of you."

A shudder went through Scaf, like a sudden surge of power, and then, bowing his head, he knelt.

And so it's done, Ben thought, moving between them and touching each one's head, as if blessing them. A few wires, a simple speech program, the subliminal seeding of a few lines of poetry, and they believe.

Lies. He had lived all his life among lies and fictions. Why should this be any different? And yet he felt a sudden disappointment looking at them, kneeling there, worshiping him as a god—strong because so unexpected.

He looked at the machine, standing there staring ahead sightlessly, and frowned. To make machines think they were human—that was nothing. But to make humans think they were machines . . .

"Okay," he said, shrugging off the mood and clapping his hands. "Let's get packing. I want to be gone from here before sunset."

THE PILLAR STOOD in an open space at the end of Boscawen Street in the heart of the Myghtern's city. It was as broad as a dozen men and reached up at least three hundred ch'i, disappearing into the floor of the Above. In the darkness it had seemed more a shadow than a solid thing, but now its blackness was breached and light spilled from the open gate, revealing sleek, curving surfaces of silvered metal.

Five men came down the steps, suited up, their faces obscured by wraparounds, their shapes silhouetted against the brilliant light. Two made to go ahead, but the others paused, looking about them. All this was new to them. The illuminated fronts of the old Georgian-style houses, the unlit streetlamps, the cobbled surface of the street. They looked at it all in awe, surprised despite their expectations, then moved on, urged by the first of them.

GENERAL RHE1NHARDT sat on the far side of Haavikko's desk, looking through the latest reports. Li Yuan had asked him to investigate the operation as a matter of urgency, so here he was, unannounced. Finished, he closed the file and looked up. "So what's the state of play? Have we heard anything?" "Nothing yet, sir," Haavikko answered, trying not to let the General's stare unnerve him. "We've fifteen operatives in the Clay—twelve on the Mainland and three in the Western Isle—but as yet we've heard nothing from them. However, as the last of them only went in a few days back, it's not a cause for worry."

Rheinhardt nodded. "And the other line of inquiry? The merchants? Where have we got to there?"

That was how this operation had begun, with a tip-off from a merchant. Someone had contacted a Junior Minister, who had put him on to Haavikko's office. The man had spoken of sinister goings on in the Clay—of deals and unauthorized visits. Haavikko had arranged to go and see the man, but when he got there he had found him dead, his throat cut, his rooms ransacked, and anything that might have given them a clue was missing.

It might have ended there, only Haavikko's natural curiosity led him to investigate the movements of the man, and he had found two gaps in the camera record—two periods when the merchant was nowhere in the Northern Enclave. He hadn't gone out by any normal exit from the City, therefore he must have gone down. Down, into the Clay.

"It's a long job, sir. We don't really know where to look, who to investigate. None of the man's business colleagues were involved, nor, it seems, were any family contacts. All we can really do is work through the list, hoping to get lucky."

Rheinhardt considered that, then shrugged. "Was there no club the man attended? Somewhere he might have . . . well, met people? This ... I can't believe it's random."

"That's if we're right, sir. That's if there is anything to be found down there."

"So? Did he go to any clubs?"

"Not regularly, sir. He went to brothels occasionally. Aside from that ..."

"Have you investigated that angle?"

"Sir?"

"The brothels?"

"I . . ." Haavikko made as if to consult the file, but he knew the answer. "No, sir."

"Well, get onto it at once. And, Major Haavikko?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You have two days to get a result. Understand? Li Yuan wants this matter sorted out by Friday morning. He wants a report on his desk first thing, in time for the Council of Ministers that afternoon."

"I . . ." He swallowed, then bowed his head. As Rheinhardt stood, he, too, stood, clicking his heels, then remained there, head bowed, while the General put on his gloves and, without another word, left the room.

He sat, breathing easier once more. "Shit . . ." he said quietly, then leaned forward, pressing the summons button. At once the Duty Captain appeared at the door.

"Sir?"

"John? Get the full team in here now. It looks like we might be going in. Li Yuan wants answers, and he wants them fast."

DARKNESS. It beckoned him like a lover.

Ben stood amid the ruins of the old village, looking about him. Through the heat-sensitive glasses he wore he could see the figures of his daymen, moving like bright red demons in that suffocating darkness, the RadMark identification symbols vivid on the backs of their suits.

This was Lamorna, an old smuggling village south of Penzance on the southernmost tip of ancient Cornwall. They had come into the Clay some twenty minutes back, following tunnels groined into the rock five hundred years before. From here it was a twenty-five-mile march to the Myghtern's capital, but Ben was in no hurry.

"Crefter!" he called, hearing his voice echo back at him from the ceiling overhead, and knowing that already word would be going out that there were intruders in the Clay.

Crefter came across, doglike in his obedience, the heavy pack strapped to his back. Ben turned him and activated the tracer. At once the screen lit up, glowing red and black. It, too, showed heat-sensitive images, relayed to it from the four remotes Ben had with him. Only one was presently active, hovering directly over his head, programmed to stay there come what may. The other three sat in their slots at the top of Crefter's pack.

Ben unslotted the first of them, tapped out its induction sequence, then threw it into the air. At once it sped off north. It would go ahead and find a perch in the Myghtern's town from which to send back its images. The other two would be their eyes as they made their way through this dark and deadly place.

He activated them and sent them ahead, then gathered his daymen about him. All four carried packs. Kygek had the guns and ammunition, Blonegek the food, Scaf some basic medical supplies and a spare remote, as well as various things for trade, should the need arise.

He turned Kygek and undipped one of the five heavy-duty lasers from his back and handed it to him, then took the others and distributed them, checking the charge on each before he gave them out.

Their faces stared at him expectantly: skeletal faces of red and black. He smiled and pointed up the dusty hillside. "Up there," he said. "Crefter, you'll walk in front of me. Kygek, go ahead ten paces. Blonegek and Scaf, you cover the rear, left and right."

He had had them practice it in the field before they'd flown out, but here it was different. Here it was dark . . . and dangerous.

They began to climb, the ceiling of the Above seeming to come down to meet them. At the top the land leveled out and Ben paused.

"Scaf," he said, summoning the dayman to him, "do you see them?"

Scaf came across, then looked about him nervously. "See who, Master?"

"The dancing maidens. Take off your glasses a moment and look!"

As Scaf removed his glasses, Ben fired his laser at the ceiling overhead. For a few moments the whole place was lit up vividly, revealing that they stood in the midst of an ancient stone circle, the stones like the irregular teeth of a giant.

Scaf gasped in awe. Such places were sacred among the Claymen. He fell to his knees.

"Bones and dust," Ben said, laughing, the darkness enveloping him once more. "That's all the old gods are now, bones and dust! First the Christians came and built their churches on the old sacred sites, and then the Chinese came and consigned it all to darkness and oblivion. Now only devil men live here. Devils and their king. The Myght-ern . . ."

He could sense their unease at the word. King under the City, he called himself, as if he ruled it all, when in fact all he ruled was this tiny corner of the darkness. A king of scampering mice and insects!

Ben smiled. That was why he'd come. To catch the king and take him back to his own Domain. And that was why he had needed his Claymen. To carry his prize back through the dark.

He had ventured into the Clay once before, five years ago: had taken the trail up to Totnes, a journey of five miles, accompanied by an armed patrol. But it was only last year, when he had sent one of his remotes deep into the Clay, that he had discovered the Myghtern's town, and, at the heart of it, the Myghtern himself.

"Move on!" he called, tapping Crefter, then clipped the laser to his chest again, freeing his hands to maneuver the remotes.

THREE HOURS LATER they were on the outskirts of Camborne, more than half their journey completed. Ben had made regular stops to check the land ahead, knowing they would be watched, seeing from time to time a flash of red among the stones, but still no attack had come.

The Claymen were nervous. He could sense how the time had dragged for them, so that this journey seemed not a matter of hours but of days. Now, as he rested, he gathered them close about him, offering a few words of reassurance while they ate.

That done, he crouched behind Crefter, studying the screen. The lead remote had reached the Myghtern's town and was perched on a roof, looking out over the New Bridge. He moved it on, searching the lamplit streets, then stopped, focusing in as six figures—five tall, one small as a child—stepped from a doorway and made their way down a street.

He watched a moment, then switched to one of the two surveillance remotes, searching the surrounding darkness.

Insects, attracted by the warm glow of the screen, fluttered around him. He crushed one between his gloved fingers and let it fall, then cracked another against the screen, wiping it afterward.

Nothing, he thought, beginning to be suspicious. It was almost as if someone was letting him come on, deeper and deeper into the Myght-ern's realm. He had expected to be attacked—to have to use the lasers—but this waiting . . .

He stood. They would need to be extra vigilant from here on, for the attack would come. Somewhere between here and Truro the Myght-ern's men would try to stop him. There were three places they could try—three bottlenecks where the land rose to meet the ceiling and only a narrow passage led through. By taking the northern route he would avoid two of those.

He lifted his mask and sniffed the darkness, hearing the fluttering of insects in the air around him, and felt a shudder ripple through him. For months now he had dreamed of being here; had pictured it in his mind. And now here he was, embedded in the dark, hours from safety, with only his own skills between him and certain death.

He replaced his mask, then went among them, touching their shoulders. It was time to move on.

THE DOOR WAS OPEN. A broad flight of steps led steeply down. The passageway was dark but at the bottom, some twenty ch'i below, a faint light showed a wet, uneven surface.

"Here?" Hastings seemed surprised, but the small man, Tak, merely nodded and began the descent.

They were big men and Tak, among them, seemed like a child in stature. At the bottom a passageway stretched away into the earth. A light shone dimly from the ceiling about thirty ch'i along, but after that there was only darkness. Tak led the way and they followed.

Past the light he looked back and saw Franke pass beneath the rounded yellow lamp. Briefly there was gold in the silver of his hair, gold like cloth on his broad shoulders, then darkness. Tak narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, then turned and went on.

The darkness ended in a second door. They stood before it, the three newcomers uncertain, the sound of their breathing filling the narrow space. Tak stepped forward and lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it fall. It made a deep, hollow, echoing sound in the darkness.

Silence, and then the door eased slowly back. A big, thick wooden door. And as it opened a dull redness leaked out into the passageway, sketching them in its pallid color.

Beyond was a hall. Vast, high ceilinged, its true dimensions lost in the dim redness.

"Gentlemen . . ."

A tall, almost spectral figure stepped from the shadows and stood before them. He was taller than Tynan, but thin and angular, his arms and legs somehow too long, his face too narrow.

They knew at once what he was. A "sport"—a product of the Gen-Syn vats. Nothing natural bred like that, not even in the Clay.

The creature ushered them through. Behind him four hugely muscled men pushed the door shut on its silent hinges, then slid home well-greased bolts. Inside the air was filled with spices.

"This is our host," Tynan said, his hand resting lightly on the long, thin forearm of the GenSyn sport. "His name is Barrett. Whatever you want, ask him. He can arrange most things." He paused and leaned toward them. "Here anything is permitted."

The boyish smile was frightening. In the distance—in a second chamber—could be heard faint cries of torment: voices stripped of everything but pain.

Tak turned, saw Hastings looking down at his hands. His eyes were troubled. Beyond him stood Franke. Franke's eyes were different: they burned with eagerness—with an intense, unnatural desire. Tak turned back. Nolen was watching him, a half smile on his face.

"And what do you desire, little man? Or did they make you free of that?"

For a moment all eyes were on him. Tak smiled and bowed. "Nothing here, sir. Nothing you'll find in these chambers."

Nolen nodded and was about to say something more when Tynan interrupted him hastily. "No need to rush matters, gentlemen. First a few drinks. Then Barrett will see each of you privately. After all, discretion is needed in these matters, no?"

Deng Liang laughed, but the others were silent, thoughtful.

"Come, then," said Tynan, looking from one to another. "Whatever you want. My treat."

And at his side Barrett smiled, his mouth a slit of darkness, his eyes two moist points of redness. "Yes, come."

IT WAS A LARGE, dark room. The walls were bare and there was a musty, unpleasant taste to the air. In the corner was an old bed, the brass pots spotted with corrosion, the blankets bleached by age, worn almost to shreds. Hastings stood there, alone in the cool silence, looking about him. A crude electric light-bulb suspended from the ceiling illuminated the room, casting his shadow, sharp edged and unfamiliar, whenever he moved.

In one corner, set into the wall, was a set of wooden cupboards. He went across and opened them. Inside the shelves were empty, the walls bare but for some old traces of paint. A blind-eyed insect scuttled for its hole, twelve legged, its shell casing a perfect white. In one corner, high up so that he had to stand on tiptoe, was an old web, its strands broken. Tumbled at the bottom, like a discarded wrapping, lay the dried husk of a spider. How long had it been there? he wondered. How old this room? Four centuries? Five?

He closed the doors and turned, facing the room again, sensing the great age of this place beneath the old town. All of this so different from what existed in the Above. And then the thought hit him again: this was to be his place. Down here, among the dead men. For a moment his lips formed the shape of his distaste, then he shrugged and went over to the bed. He stood there, looking down at the blanket, trying to make out the faded pattern. It looked like roses. . . .

Behind him the door opened. He turned and saw it was Barrett. The sport smiled ingratiatingly and came into the room. With him was a frail-looking young girl. Barrett held tightly to her arm with one claw-like hand as he edged closer to Hastings, bowing grotesquely.

"As you wished, Master. A young woman. Clean. Very clean, I assure you. From the Myghtem's own household. His brother's daughter."

Hastings looked past the creature at the girl. Her hair was dark but lank, as if it had not been washed in weeks. She was thin to the point of emaciation and her breasts were undeveloped, giving her a boyish look. She shivered as she stood there, her eyes downcast. Looking at her, Hastings felt both revulsion and pity: these and a strange, previously unexperienced sense of desolation. He could see her hopelessness so clearly, as if through her eyes.

He waved Barrett away, then, when he had gone, went over to the girl. The top of her head barely came to his chest. He placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the bones beneath the thin cloth—so fragile, it seemed he could snap her with the smallest effort. Placing one hand beneath her chin he lifted her face and looked at her.

In other circumstances it would have been quite beautiful. The lines of her cheeks, the shape of her mouth, suggested what might have been, but paucity of diet had blunted the edge of her beauty. There was something both childish and ancient about her face: an innocence allied with the most profound experience. Her skin was rough, unhealthy, her neck marked by scars. Even so, it was to her eyes he found himself drawn, for her eyes were dark like his. Dark and beautiful, like mirrors to his own.

For a moment he looked away, thinking of the women he had loved in the Above. Cold, imperious women, their beauty cut like crystal, the expression in their eyes as distant as far galaxies. How he had suffered for such women. How vainly had he pursued them. He grimaced and held the girl tighter, then turned and led her to the bed.

They undressed and lay on the bed, on top of the thin and faded blanket. Beneath his weight the springs of the old mattress groaned and gently gave. Naked beside her he was aware even more of the contrast between them. His own body was so firmly fleshed, the muscles honed, his broad chest covered by a fine down of golden hair. Hers was white fleshed and undernourished, the ill-developed body of a child.

Her face was closed against him, her eyes averted. For an instant he didn't understand, then recognized what it was. She was ashamed. For her this was agony.

He felt a hot flood of compassion wash over him and reached out to draw her to him and hold her against him. He wrapped his arms about her, like a father comforting his child, one hand smoothing the back of her neck. For a long time he was content to lie there, simply holding her, feeling the faint trembling in her limbs grow still, her breathing normalize. Then he moved his head back and turned her face gently to look at her. For a moment she looked back at him, curious, her eyes searching his as if to understand him. But when he smiled she looked away quickly.

"Don't be afraid," he said, concerned, but then realized that his words meant nothing to her. Softly he laughed and, still curious, she turned to look at him again, her dark eyes shining in the pallid wasteland of her face. Again he smiled, feeling something more than pity, something greater than compassion, for her. Those eyes. So beautiful.

And as he looked her face changed, mirroring his own, smiling back at him, then pressed close to kiss.

Later, when he woke, he felt confused, the starkness of the unshaded bulb making him shield his eyes with one hand. Then he remembered and turned slightly, looking down at the sleeping figure beside him. In sleep she was more a child than ever, one hand raised to her mouth, the fingers gently curled, like a young animal, curled up beside him, trusting. And as he looked at her he felt something he had never experienced before. Not love, nor desire, but something more fragile and delicate than either—tenderness. It was like a barb in his gut, making him want to cry out. Not pain, nor happiness, but something in between. A sense of how frail, how vulnerable, she was. He reached out to touch but hesitated, letting his hand make a vague motion in the air, tracing the blunt lines of her wounded face, realizing how ugly she was—like a gelded, sickly boy-child. And yet not ugly at all.

He sighed and looked away. It was time to be getting back.

AHEAD THE LAND rose to meet the floor of the Above. Only at one point, in a narrow dip between the rock face and the road below, was there room to pass, and then only at a crouch.

Ben let out a breath, then sent the remotes through.

The town was below them, beyond the gap, less than a mile away now. Ben looked about him, seeing how the four daymen stood there, cradling their lasers, their heads turning, searching the darkness all around them.

Behind them, less than half a mile back, were two, maybe three, hundred of the Myghtern's men, while ahead . . .

Ben watched the screen as the first of the remotes threaded its way slowly through the gap, hugging the ceiling. As it emerged he caught tiny glimpses of red—evidence of men hiding behind rocks—but they were at a distance; closer at hand the land was empty.

Strange, he thought. Himself, he would have circled the gap.

He switched to the second remote, then had to shield his eyes as the screen flared with a sudden, intense light.

He cried out, the afterimage of the explosion imprinted on the back of his eyelids even as the sound of the detonation rumbled through the Clay.

Blinking, he switched back to the first remote, but the screen was blank. The remote . . . somehow they'd destroyed the remote.

Even as the thought struck him there was a second flash, a second rumbling detonation.

"Stay," he said to Crefter, putting his hand on his shoulder as he moved past him. Then, crouching next to Kygek, he pointed to the gap-

"Go through," he said. "Blonegek will cover you."

Kygek glanced around at him, then, after a moment's hesitation, nodded. Ben turned, calling up Blonegek.

"Follow Kygek in," he half whispered. "Keep five paces back. If anyone goes for Kygek, blast them, okay?"

"Okay," Blonegek answered. Then, at a dogtrot, both men headed for the gap.

Ben watched, biting his lip. It was over. It had been over from the moment they had targeted the remotes. If they had the technology to do that, then they could pick off five intruders easily enough. Besides, the remotes had been their eyes—now they were blind. The advantages were all now with their enemies.

He sighed, sad that for once nothing would get back. For him to die, and for it not to have been recorded, that was a great disappointment.

Ben turned, looking to Crefter and Scaf, then, standing, he signaled for them to follow him. Pressing the tracing signal at his neck, he moved toward the gap, his laser searching the darkness up ahead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The King under the City

IT WAS MORNING in the Myghtern's city. Thorn stood at the open casement window, looking out across the ancient town. High above him the floor of the Above was _____ bright with reflected light. In the street below, a line of lamps blazed in the darkness of the Clay. The cathedral was below him to his right, the river a long, dark scar beyond.

"Are you ready?"

Tak stood behind him in the wood-paneled room. He had come in without a sound; stealthily, like a shadow.

Thorn turned and nodded. "Where are we going?"

"You have an audience. But first the Myghtern wishes you to see his city."

The room in which they stood was bare but clean. Everything was in a state of good repair. The wood of the walls had been scrubbed and polished; the bunk was old but sturdy and the pure white sheets were laundered. A newly woven mat covered the bare-board floor.

Thorn looked to Tak. "Okay. Let's go."

Outside, in the narrow alley, Thorn stopped and looked up at the wall-mounted lamps. "Morning," he said softly, then laughed. Beside him the Myghtern's man smiled tightly, then beckoned him on.

The alley opened out onto a broad main street. BOSCAWEN STREET, a sign halfway up the wall read. He stood at one end of it, looking west, the cathedral's spire jutting up above the buildings to his right. At the far end of the street, straight ahead of him as he looked, a giant silvered pillar rose straight out of the earth and soared to meet the floor of the Above some two hundred ch'i overhead. There were few people on the street—far fewer than he'd expected—and those who were scurried away quickly at the sight of Tak.

He walked slowly down the broad street, looking from side to side at the elegant Georgian buildings, Tak silent beside him. He already knew there was something wrong here—something out of place—but the feeling grew in him until he stopped and looked back, trying to fathom what it was. There was glass in the windows. Doors in the frames. Good, solid doors. He looked up. The old slate roofs were in good repair, the guttering mended. And the huge, twelve-paneled window frames were painted.

Thorn went across and ran his finger along the edge of one shop window. Yes, paint.

He looked through the glass, saw goods laid out on a trestle table. It was a shop. He almost laughed. A shop! In the Clay! Then he shook his head, frowning. None of this belonged here.

He walked on, quickening his pace. Behind him he heard Tak grunt, then follow.

Where the street opened out onto a square Thorn stopped, looking across at the pillar. There was a broad flight of steps at the base of the pillar and above the steps, clearly evident in the lamplight, the outline of a gate.

He stood there a long while, staring at the pillar. A gate. Here, at the very center of the Myghtern's capital. A gate!

Tak came up and touched his arm. "Seen enough, trader?"

Thorn nodded. More than enough.

"Then let's go down to the Chapter House. We'll make you presentable before you meet the Myghtern."

Thorn tore his attention from the pillar. Tak was smiling broadly—a proprietorial smile compounded of pride and delight at Thorn's evident surprise.

"Come, then. The Myghtern awaits you."

They walked down through the old county capital toward the cathedral. There, beside the huge nineteenth-century building, was the Chapter House.

"Here," Tak said, businesslike now, leading him through a side door and down a narrow flight of steps. They went through an old oak doorway and into a long, low-ceilinged room where three old men— none of them bigger than a child—sat at a long bench sewing. They looked up briefly, then returned to their work. Electric lamps burned in the ceiling overhead.

"The Myghtern is a mighty ruler," Tak said with a fierce, defiant pride. "You must come to him in silks, not rags."

Tak opened a cupboard door to his right and took several outfits from the rail, handing them to Thorn. "One of these should do."

Thorn looked at the garments draped over his arm, surprised by their lavishness. Velvets and silks. Leather belts and silver buckles. There was wealth here: more than simple commerce could account for. He glanced up at Tak.

"Try them on," the small man urged. "Quick, now. The Myghtern is waiting."

Thorn set them down on the bench, then quickly slipped out of the rags he was wearing. Moments later he stood there, dressed like an ancient courtier in crimson, mauve, and green. Tak nodded, satisfied, then went to the cupboard again, reaching up to pull down a big crimson-colored box.

Thorn went very still. It was not what the box contained, but what was embossed into the side of the box. That motif—the Han symbol Peng surrounded by the letter C—was the trademark of a company that dealt with only the elite of the Above—the "Supernal" themselves. Tak smiled and handed him the thigh-length kid leather boots.

"Take great care of these, trader. They are only loaned to you, not given. All here belongs to the Myghtern."

Thorn pulled them on, then stood before the mirror Tak held up for him, seeing how the clothes transformed him. As if he had stepped back a thousand years or more. Tak laughed and showed his perfect white teeth.

"Now then, trader. It is time."

The mirror was set aside. Tak straightened his own clothes and then turned to face Thorn again.

"Speak only when you are spoken to. And bow before the Myght-ern's throne. Raise your head only when he commands. Otherwise, do what he asks and all will be well."

Thorn nodded.

"Good. Then follow me."

AT THE FAR END of the long throne room, on a raised platform, sat a giant of a man. His hands, resting on his knees, were broad and long. Heavy rings sat on the thick knuckles of his fingers: black rings of iron, like the rings the T'ang above were said to wear. On his brow rested a massive crown. A crown of iron, rough cast and ugly, but suggestive of brutality and power. Long, jet-black hair fell in waves beneath the crown over broad, oxlike shoulders. He wore a polished metal breastplate and at his belt hung a huge broadsword.

Thorn advanced toward the Myghtern. Then, as he'd been told, he stopped and knelt, bowing deeply, his eyes averted.

"Get up, trader. Come closer."

The words were in old Cornish, the voice deep and low, like the voice of the earth itself. Thorn looked up, meeting the eyes of the Myghtern.

Dark eyes, intensely black. Fierce, insolent eyes, unaccustomed to looking away. They seemed to pierce the trader, then relinquish him, as though they had—in that single instant—penetrated to the core of him. Thorn shivered. It was like looking into a foreign country: into a place that was primal and savage and vividly alive.

"I am the Clay," said the Myghtern in a voice that seemed to roll like thunder and fill the room, "Everything beneath the solid sky is mine. All lands, all men. And now you, trader. You, too, are mine."

The Myghtern stretched his hands, as if they were pets resting in his lap. Hands that could crush a skull or bend a bar of iron.

What do you want me for? thought Thorn. Why send your man to fetch me? And, more important, Who told you I was coming?

The Myghtern cleared his throat and seemed to sit more upright on his throne. His fingers tightened about his knees.

"How do you like my city, trader? Does it impress you?"

Thorn let the words of the old language flow easily from his tongue.

"It is a marvel, Master. I have seen nothing to compare with it in all my travels."

The Myghtern lifted his chin and stared down at Thorn. Then he gave a short grunt of laughter and leaned forward conspiratorially. "It is not finished yet. But in time . . ."

Thorn took the opportunity to study the Myghtern's face. It was not a face as other faces, more a landscape. Deep furrows surrounded each eye, like rivers running to the twin lakes of those black, fathomless pupils. His cheeks were ruddy as if lit by some inner fire, and the bottom half of his face was covered by a thick and curly beard, dark tangles of wiry hair glistening in the lamplight. The nose was blunt and wide, yet handsome. Like the chin it suggested strength and a will of iron. Yet the mouth was softer, suggestive of good humor, perhaps even of compassion. Full, sensuous lips peeled back in sudden laughter to reveal strong teeth, like the teeth of a predatory animal. Looking at him, Thorn wondered how the Clay had ever bred such a magnificent creature.

"You will work for me, trader. Use your skills for me."

"My skills?"

The Myghtern smiled broadly. The appeal of the man was intense. Good humor flowed like waves from him. Such power and such warmth. Such overwhelming charm. Thorn found himself smiling.

"You are a trader?"

Thorn nodded.

"Good." The smile remained but changed. It was suddenly more calculating. "The five who are here. Would you know them if you saw them?"

Thorn hesitated. Five ... He kept his face controlled, but his mind was racing. His information had been vague. A date. A place. Nothing more. "The five . . . ?" He frowned, his expression of incomprehension only half an act.

The Myghtem studied him a moment, fixing him with his gaze, then relented. "From the Above."

Thorn mimed sudden understanding. "It is possible," he said, after a moment. "I know many among the Above." That much was true. There was no one of importance among the elite whose file he had not studied and assimilated. If they were who he thought they were then he would certainly know them.

His answer seemed to satisfy the Myghtern; his hands lifted from his knees and went to his face, the long fingers pushing into the thick blackness of his beard, forming a cage about his chin. For a time he was silent, staring out past the trader thoughtfully. Then he stood and came down the steps, standing there close to Thorn, almost three cfi'i his superior in height.

"Listen to me well, trader. There is something I want from them. Something they are reluctant to give me." He walked past the smaller man, then turned. His fists were clenched now. The shape of his mouth had changed, losing its softness. When he spoke again his lips formed a harsh, animal snarl. "But I will have it. Or I will send them from here. You understand?"

Thorn looked at the richness of the Myghtern's robes, the perfection of his metal breastplate, and understood nothing. The farther in 1 get, the more 1 see. And yet the more I see, the less sense it all makes. He looked up, meeting the Myghtern's fierce dark eyes, and bowed his head in affirmation. As if it were all clear—clear as daylight—when really all there was was darkness.

HAAVIKKO ROLLED OVER and opened his eyes, stared at the illuminated figure on the bedside clock, and groaned.

He looked up, seeing the figure silhouetted in the doorway and knew he'd not dreamed it. His equerry really had woken him at three forty-five in the morning.

"Whaa?"

"A call's come in, sir. Top priority."

Haavikko sat up and put his feet on the floor, trying to gather his senses. He had been dreaming of the girl again, and of the old woman who had used to run the House of the Ninth Ecstasy. Mu Chua, her name had been. He had been sitting in a room with her, talking, as real, it seemed, as this.

"Who is it?" he asked, standing up and walking across to the corner sink. "Li Yuan? The General?"

"No," the young cadet said, as Haavikko poured water from the jug into the bowl. "It's from the Western Isles, sir. A young lady."

He set the jug down and turned. "A what?"

"That's right, sir. But the codes check out. Her message has a top priority rating and she says that she'll speak to no one but the Commander of Security for the Western Isles."

"I see." He sluiced his face once, twice, a third time, then reached blindly for the towel and dried himself. "And am I to call her back?"

"She's holding, sir. I said you were asleep, but she was very insistent. She said if she couldn't speak to you she would go to the T'ang direct."

Haavikko raised an eyebrow. "Then I had best speak to her. Did she give a name?"

The equerry shook his head.

"Then you're as mystified as me, neh, Lieutenant Pace? Okay. Hurry back and tell her I'm dressing. That I'll be with her in ... oh, in a minute or so. And, Pace . . ."

"Sir?"

"See if you can get me some fresh ch'a. An oolong, if the mess serves it." "Sir!"

He went to the locker in the corner and took a fresh uniform from the rack, then slipped it on. Standing before the full-length mirror he studied himself, then combed his fingers through the rough bristles of his hair. Old, he thought, you're beginning to look old. Then, with a nod to his image, he went out, heading for the Operations Room.

Operations was almost empty. There were a dozen men at most scattered about the huge chamber. Several hundred more slept close by, ready to be called were there an emergency, but little usually happened at this hour—at least, nothing that a handful of men couldn't cope with.

He went between the rows of desks and machines and climbed the eight steps up to the central podium. There, at the very center of it all, was his desk. He sat, facing the big screen, bowing his head in greeting to the young dark-haired woman whose face filled it.

"Nu shi . . . how can I help you?"

"Major Haavikko," she said, clearly recognizing him even if he did not recognize her. "My brother went into the Clay yesterday evening, at Lamorna, south of Penzance. I understand he was heading northeast toward Truro. A few hours back he activated the tracing device he was wearing. That means he's in trouble."

"Your brother . . ." Then, suddenly, he understood. "Your brother Ben, you mean? Ben Shepherd?"

She nodded, her eyes deeply troubled. "You have to send someone in to get him out. He's in trouble. I know he is."

"I understand, Nu shi Shepherd, but it's not quite as easy as that. The Clay—"

"You have to send someone," she said, as if she hadn't heard what he'd said. "And you have to send them now. If he's killed—"

Haavikko raised a hand. "Okay. I'll do what I can, and just as soon as I can. But I have to get permission. There's something happening, you see—"

She leaned toward him, her eyes piercing him, her voice insistent now. "You have to act now, Major Haavikko. There isn't time, don't you understand? They might have captured him. Why, they might be torturing him, even now."

He made to object—to point out that they simply couldn't know— but the seriousness of her demeanor nipped his objections in the bud. "I'll do what I can," he said. "And I'll do it at once. More I cannot promise."

"See that you do," she said, with all the sternness and authority of an empress. "And, Major Haavikko ..."

"Yes, Nu shi Shepherd?"

"Let me know what's happening, won't you?"

"Of course."

He cut the connection and sat back, considering what he should do. Rheinhardt wouldn't welcome being woken for this. Knowing the old man's habits, he wouldn't have got to bed before two, and to wake him now . . .

No, he would have to carry the responsibility for this himself. Sighing, he leaned toward the screen.

"Captain Thomas?"

At once the face of his Duty Captain appeared before him. "Sir?"

"Wake the elite squad. I've got a job for them."

BEN GROANED and tried to turn onto his side, but it was impossible. The thick chains that fastened his legs to the wall were too short, too inflexible, to let him move. He tried to raise his hand to scratch his chin and again found his movements restrained by chains.

He relaxed back against the wall, ignoring the itch. Across from him, at the normal standing height of an Above male, was a narrow skylight: through its bars light filtered into the cell from the street-lamps outside. In that faint illumination he could make out the shapes of two of his daymen. They lay against the wall, shadows within shadows.

It had been no contest. There had been more than two dozen of the Myghtern's men waiting for them on the other side of the gap, armed with lasers and canisters of disabling gas. Quickly overcoming Ben's small party, they had delighted in kicking and beating them even as they bound them, then they had dragged them through the dust to the gates of the town before throwing them into this filthy, stinking cell.

He rotated his chin, feeling how sore it was, then spat, tasting blood in his mouth.

"Master?" came a voice from close by. "Are you awake?"

"I'm awake. What is it, Scaf?"

"Are you . . . hurt, Master?"

He almost smiled. After all he'd done—after all the danger he had put them in—Scaf was still concerned for him.

"I'm not sure," he said truthfully. To be honest, he felt numb in places. Whether that was the cold of the cell, an aftereffect of the gas, or whether he was hurt much worse than he felt, was hard to tell.

"I think my left leg is broken," Scaf said after a moment. "I can't feel anything in the foot and when I try to move it . . ."

Ben heard the wince and wished he had his infrared glasses still, so that he could see.

He closed his eyes, conscious for once of the force that drove him: of that blinding compulsion in him to see, to witness, and to describe. So pure that at times it leeched anything human from him, refining him to a cold observing point behind the camera's eye.

Only now, bereft of light and of the tools of observation, could he see it.

I am driven, he thought. And I cannot help it. There is no "I" in me to control the process, only the cold force of my being—the gift my "father" Amos gave me: the "gift" they call my genius.

"Don't move," he said to Scaf, feeling a strange compassion for the dayman. "It only makes it worse."

There was silence for a time, and then Scaf asked, "What do you think will happen to us?"

"Maybe they'll use us. Make us work for them."

"Ah . . ."

There was a groan from the far side of the cell. Another of them was waking, Crefter by the sound of it.

"Crefter? Are you all right?"

The dayman coughed, then began to heave.

Ben looked down, breathing through his mouth, the acrid stench of sickness filling the tiny cell.

"It's okay," he said reassuringly. "It's the gas that's done it. It has that effect."

"I'm sorry," Crefter said miserably, wiping his mouth. "I feel so bad. And my arm . . ."

There was the echoing tread of footsteps in the corridor to Ben's left, the rustle of keys, then the sound of one being fitted into the lock.

Ben turned his head, watching as the heavy door eased back, the light from a hand-held oil lamp flooding the cell. Two men stood there: a big, swarthy man in a leather jerkin and a smaller, neater man—a typical Clayborn—dressed in fine silks.

"Who are you?" the small man asked, looking to Ben, his English heavily accented.

"I'm Shepherd," Ben answered.

"And the others?"

"They are my men. Servant."

There was a whispered exchange, and then the big man came across. He leaned over Ben a moment, seeming to study his face, his foul breath playing in Ben's nostrils; then, just when Ben expected him to do or say something, he moved on, crouching over the unconscious figure of Kygek.

"Eva!" the one at the door said impatiently. Him!

At once the jailer slipped one of the keys into the iron cuff on Kygek's left wrist and unlocked it, then moved busily about him, unfastening the rest. That done, he lifted Kygek onto his shoulder and carried him out, ducking beneath the door.

"Where are you taking him?"

The small man stopped, staring back at Ben, his dark eyes studying him a moment. Then, without a word, he turned and slammed the door shut, leaving them in darkness.

TAK WALKED BACK down the corridor, then reached up and hung the oil lamp on the hook beside the door. Shepherd, he thought, remembering how the young man had said it, as if he ought to have known; but the name meant nothing. Not yet, anyway.

He went inside, watching as Ponow fastened the unconscious man to the bench. There were many strangers in the Clay right now, some by invitation, others—like these men—for reasons of their own.

Tak edged past the bench and went through into the tiny office on the far side of the cell. There, on a wide, long shelf, were the objects they had taken from the men. Some of them he recognized, like the screen; others, like the tiny sphere, were mysteries. He sat, studying the sphere, rolling it about in his palm, then set it down again. It had felt warm, almost alive, to the touch.

And the big man, Shepherd—what did he want in the Clay? Why had he come here, armed with lasers, surrounded by his men? Had he come to meet the others? Or was he a free agent, wanting to muscle in on whatever deal was being struck down here? So much was happening right now, it was hard to tell. Tynan might know, but Tak didn't want to ask Tynan. Not yet. Not until he had exhausted other avenues.

There was a noise from the other room, the sound of the prisoner waking. Tak listened a moment, then, knowing what must be done, he went through to begin the interrogation.

IT WAS EVENING. The lamplight had faded and darkness lay like a lid of stone above the silent town. Thorn stood on the steps of the hall, staring out into the blackness, thinking. "What is it, trader?"

Tak stood close to him on the steps. Once again he had come upon him silently, unnoticed. Thorn turned. Though Tak was only an arm's length from him he could make out only the vague outline of his form. His face was totally obscured, "Just wondering."

Tak came closer until he stood almost face to face with Thorn in the darkness. Thorn could feel his breath upon his cheeks. Clean, unadulterated breath. Thorn laughed softly.

"What are you, Tak? And what are you doing here?"

Tak was silent. Thorn could sense him, only a breath away, watching his face, trying to penetrate the layers of darkness that hid what he was from normal sight. At length the smaller man laughed. Thorn felt Tak's hand on his upper arm.

"Just a man, trader. Like you." The hand dropped away. "Come. Let's go inside. We have work to do, you and I."

Inside the benches were set up for a feast, a dozen of the Myghtern's men—minor chieftains and retainers—to each table. Their raucous chatter filled the old hall. Overhead the huge oak beams of the rafters were strung with electric bulbs. On the walls hung ancient shields bearing the arms of the families of the old county.

Thorn walked down the aisle, between the heavily laden tables, no longer surprised by the richness, the variety of food on display. At the top table he stopped and bowed low before the Myghtern. The hall had gone quiet. All eyes were on Thorn.

"Welcome, trader. Come up here, beside me."

He went up and sat to the right of the Myghtern. Below him in the hall the talk had resumed, heads had turned back. Thorn looked down the length of the hall and saw Tak standing by the door, staring out into the dark.

The Myghtern turned to him, his face set, determined. "They will be here soon, trader, so let me make this clear. I want to know them. Everything about them. Understand?"

Thorn nodded. The nearest table on the right was empty, he noted. "These five . . . you know none of them?"

The Myghtern smiled. "Two of them. The others . . ." He drained his cup and set it down. "They want things from me. Certain agreements. They will no doubt try to placate me. What they want"—he laughed, then his face grew serious again—"it is important to them. Very important."

Thorn watched him as he turned away and poured himself more wine. How important? he wondered. More important than what the Myghtern wanted?

At the far end of the hall Tak moved back suddenly, addressing someone in the darkness outside. Beside Thorn the Myghtern stiffened and leaned forward. The hall had grown quiet once again. All eyes had turned to stare at the five silver-suited figures that had come into the hall.

"The first man," the Myghtern said quietly, "the hawklike one with the dark hair. Who is he?"

Thorn was quiet a moment.

"Well? Do you know him?"

"I know him."

He knew all five.

"His name is Edward Tynan. In the Above he's a powerful man. Like the man beside him, Franke. They were both Representatives in the great House that once governed the Above. Nowadays Tynan runs his own trading Company."

The Myghtern laughed. "Like you, then, trader."

Thorn smiled tightly. It was all a matter of scale. Apart from Li Yuan there were only a few dozen men on the planet richer than Edward Tynan. His company transported more than thirty percent of all the goods that were manufactured in the orbital factories back to the North European Enclave. He was considered one of the pillars of the new establishment. What, then, was he doing here? What could a man like Tynan hope to get down here that he couldn't get Above?

Thorn studied the others. Rutger Franke was Vice-President of SimFic, the up-and-coming entertainments company. He wasn't in the same league as Tynan. Not yet, anyway, for financial sources predicted that SimFic was the Company to watch, and Franke held a substantial block of shares. William Nolen, next to him, had no Company behind him, but that hadn't held him back. He had used a massive inheritance to carve out a successful career in public relations. There was no one who was anyone in the Above who wasn't in his circle. That he was here—linked to the presence of Tynan—suggested that whatever was going on was wide scale and involved some of the most powerful people in the Enclave.

He watched as Tak turned and began to lead the five down the aisle toward the Myghtern. They came like kings, Tynan and Franke leading, Hastings, Nolen, and Deng Liang last.

Deng Liang was an aristocrat. That is, he was a member of one of the Twenty-Nine, the "Minor Families," so called, who had once helped rule the great empire of Chung Kuo. Even now, when their power was but a shadow, they were still "above the Above," not subject to the same laws and strictures as the common citizens of the Enclave. For Deng Liang, fifth son of Deng Shang, to be here was not merely surprising but astonishing. It would be difficult to convey to the Myghtern what it suggested. And as for Hastings . . .

Thorn had received the update on Hastings only days before setting off for the Scillys. The death of the great physicist had come as a sad surprise to many, for he had been an articulate spokesman for his kind: a fearless advocate of change and a vociferous opponent of many of Li Yuan's new laws. His presence here—alive—made some kind of sense of this strange gathering. Or the beginnings of sense . . .

They stopped half a dozen paces from the Myghtern, Tak moving aside with a bow, leaving them to face the Myghtern alone. Thorn spoke hurriedly to the Myghtern, whispering to his ear, telling him who each was and what his status was in the Above, leaving out any mention of Hastings's reported death.

"Wolcum, Tynan. Wolcum oil," the Myghtern said, smiling broadly, his whole manner genial and welcoming.

"I see you have a new man," Tynan said, pointing at Thorn. "A new tongue, eh?"

The Myghtern looked to Thorn, who quickly translated what had been said. It was clear that Tynan had been a test which he had passed. So now he was the Myghtern's man. Like Tak. The Myghtern's ear, his tongue. Behind the expressionless mask of his face Thorn smiled. It was better, far better, than he could have hoped for.

THE SCREAMING had stopped now. In the darkness of the cell Ben let a long breath escape him, then touched the tip of his tongue against the inside of his upper lip. It felt tender and swollen and one of his teeth was loose, but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

And when my turn comes, he wondered, will 1 cry out the way they have? Will I, too, jibber like a madman and plead for mercy?

He didn't know. In fact, the very thought of it made his stomach clench with fear. But above that fear—riding it, almost—was his curiosity.

Meg's right, he thought, and almost smiled, picturing her face before him in the darkness. There's part of me that's mad. Mad as the proverbial hatter.

Beside him, Scaf shifted in the darkness and made a small noise of discomfort. Ben looked to him, making out the vague outline of the Clayman. Scaf had borne this well, considering. Kygek, Crefter, and Blonegek had been taken already. His turn was next.

Unless they take me. But that's not their scheme. They'll find out what all these "lesser" creatures know before they question me.

He shifted uncomfortably, the chains chafing his wrists, then stretched his neck. How many hours had passed? Two? Three? And the signal? Was that still going out?

He touched the stud at his throat and winced. One of them had hit him there and twisted the delicate implant. If it was broken . . .

If it was broken, then no signal was being sent. And if no signal was being sent, no one would come. And even if they did, they would not be able to find him.

Lost, he thought. I am lost.

He sighed, then spoke. "Are you afraid, Scaf?"

There was silence, then. "Yes, Master. And sad."

"Sad?"

"That it has to end now. I was . . . hopeful."

"Ah . . ." In the darkness Ben frowned; but for once there was nothing he could do. This, then, was how it felt. To be fated. To be without control. He nodded slowly, understanding. This was how it felt.

"Scaf?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Thank you. And, sorry. This was my fault."

Unexpectedly, Scaf laughed. "You didn't plan it very well, did you, Master?"

"No, I ..." He laughed, suddenly feeling much better.

"In fact," Scaf said, his voice dark with intelligence, "you fucked up pretty badly. The Mistress will be very angry with you."

"She will, won't she?"

"But she won't give up. She's like you in that."

In the darkness Ben nodded. It was true. Maybe the signal wasn't damaged. Maybe someone was coming for him, even now. He had only to hold on; to buy himself some time until they came.

Maybes and ifs, he thought, then, angry with himself for being so negative, began to sing.

"In diesen heil'gen Hallen Kennt man die Roche nicht, - . Und ist einMensch gefalien, • . Fuhrt Liebe ihn zur Pflicht.

Dann wandelt er an Freundes Hand Vergnugt und froh ins bess're Land"

"What is that?" Scaf asked.

"Mozart," he answered, hearing the glorious music in his head. "It's from The Magic Flute."

"I ... I seem to know it."

"Yes," Ben said. "I gave it to you."

Again there was silence. Then: "Did you really make me, Master?"

Ben took a breath. "No. You were born, Scaf, like other men."

"And the memories?"

"Some are real, some implants. The poetry and music . . . those things I gave you."

"I see." There was no anger in the words.

"Scaf?"

"Yes, Master."

"You were the best of them. You know that, don't you? I could have made you something . . . well, something special."

Scaf sighed, hearing the door clank open at the far end of the corridor and footsteps approach. "And now it ends."

Bear up, brave Scaf, Ben thought, but could not say the words. It was not the moment to say something so trite, so ...

The door eased back, light filling the cell. Scaf looked up at him and smiled.

"It's okay," he said. "You gave me life, Master. And a chance." Ben swallowed, watching as the jailer crouched over Scaf, then, not knowing what else to do, began to sing again.

The big man turned, glaring at Ben, and swung his arm, the back of his hand connecting with Ben's cheek. Yet even as he did, Scaf, free now, pulled himself up and, taking a single, agonizing step on his broken leg, launched himself at Ben. The jailer roared and pulled him off, but in that brief instant Scaf had passed something to Ben.

The cell door slammed, the blackness once more enclosed him. His cheek stung like it was on fire. But now he had hope. Hope like a beacon blazing in him.

He turned the object Scaf had given him between the fingers of his right hand, recognizing it and blessing the dayman for his foresight. It was a remote control unit. The unit that operated his artificial hand.

Slowly, careful not to drop the unit, he began, moving his hands as close together as the chains permitted, so that he could unfasten the flesh clips just below the raised line of his left wrist. And as he worked, he softly sang the last two lines of Sarastro's song:

"Wen sokhe Lehren nicht erfreun, Verdienet nicht ein Mensch zu sein."

THE WORST thing was the waiting, the feeling of impotence as he stood there in the dark behind the door, listening to Scaf s screams.

He had tried to think of other things—to think forward and plan what he would do—but that dreadful sound destroyed the very thread of thought. And then silence—a silence more awful than any he had known.

Was Scaf dead?

He waited, listening, then heard the door clank open and the two men come out. There was a brief exchange, then footsteps—away this time, climbing the steps up to the street. Then, after a pause, the heavy footsteps of the jailer came toward him.

He stepped back, prepared now, the loose chains at his feet clinking softly against the stone floor.

There was the sound of the bolt being drawn; slowly the door eased back. Ben watched the jailer move past him, into the cell, then gasp, astonished to find him gone. He began to turn, but it was too late. Even as he made to lunge at Ben, Ben's hand—detached, floating in the air above the jailer—fastened itself about the man's neck with the force of a vise.

Slowly, his eyes bulging, the man went down onto his knees, his hands struggling vainly to pull away Ben's hand. Ben watched, his eyes taking in everything, his mind burning with a hatred he had never thought possible.

Slowly he increased the pressure, his real hand aching with the effort, until, with a resounding crack, the bones of the jailer's neck popped and shattered and he fell.

Ben shuddered, then released the tension in his fingers. At once the hand released and floated slowly up. He watched it, then looked back at the jailer's dark, distorted face. His tongue was thick in his mouth, his eyes like tiny marble spheres.

Time. Time was of the essence now. Quickly he stooped and took the keys from the man's belt, then, letting the hand float on before him, he went out into the corridor, his chains clanking.

His luck held. There were no guards. Setting the control box down, he sorted through the keys, trying them one by one until he found the one that turned the lock.

He pushed the door back, his reluctance for once greater than his curiosity, then groaned. Scaf lay there on the bench, his chest pinned open, his eyes burned from their sockets. Ben stepped up to him and winced. His testicles had been mutilated and his legs and arms burned a dozen or twenty times. His fingernails had been pulled off and there were tiny cuts all along his inner thighs.

Ben shuddered and made to turn away, then heard the faintest groan from the dayman.

Alive? Was he still alive?

He clanked over to the top of the bench and leaned close, putting his hand above Scaf s mouth to feel for a breath.

Yes! But it was the faintest trace. He turned, looking about him, then realized. Of course, he had the keys! Fumbling through them, he found one tiny key that clearly matched the locks at each corner of the bench. He moved around, unfastening them, hearing Scaf groan again, as if he were coming back to consciousness, but listening all the while for the return of footsteps.

How long did he have? How long before someone came to check?

He stared at his own chains, wondering if he should take the time to unfasten them and cast them off, then decided he didn't have the time. Lifting Scaf, he balanced him on his shoulder, then went out into the corridor again.

The steps . . . they were the only way out. But what if there was a guard at the top? He took a calming breath, then began to climb the steps.

At the top step he paused, listening again, but he could hear nothing through the door. Slowly, expecting the worst, he put his shoulder to the door and pushed.

Outside a row of ancient gas-lamps punctuated the darkness of the street. Ben hesitated, looking about him, then realized where he was— recognizing it from the probes he'd sent in earlier.

He turned, heading left toward the New Bridge, surprised by how heavy Scaf was. If he didn't find shelter soon—somewhere to hide Scaf s body while he worked out how to get out of there—they were done for. Besides, their escape would be noticed before long, and then . . .

Ben stopped and turned, hearing an unexpected sound from down the street—the sound of laughter from inside one of the big houses farther down . . . the Mansion House, it looked like.

A feast, he realized. They were having a feast!

He hobbled on, clinking with each step. There were steps beside the bridge, leading down. On the far side a guard walked through a patch of light, then merged with the shadows again, some thirty yards distant.

Ben hesitated, then went down the steps, coming out onto the footpath and ducking beneath the low arch.

Slowly, mindful of his injuries, he set Scaf down. "It's all right," he whispered reassuringly, wishing he could give him something to ease the pain. "We'll be out of here soon. Just wait for me here. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He touched Scaf s forehead tenderly, feeling the burning fever there, then moved back, knowing he had to do something about his chains, or they'd quickly be discovered. Valuable seconds passed as he searched among the bunch for the right key, then, fumbling, he unfastened the cuffs, taking care all the while not to make any sound that might betray their position.

Any moment now, he kept thinking, imagining the small man returning to find the empty cell, the jailer dead. Yet still the streets were silent, still they were empty.

He shivered, then, setting the last chain down, picked up the control again. At the top of the steps he stopped, looking toward the gate, checking the guard was in his post, then he ran on, tracing his steps back to the cells.

His hand ... it was here somewhere. He looked around, then looked up and saw it. It had floated up halfway to the roof. He smiled and slowly brought it down.

One more thing, he thought, slipping the control into his pocket, then plucking his hand from the air. One mare thing and then we're gone from here.

BEN CROUCHED THERE, still as a gargoyle on the roof, looking down through the skylight at the scene below.

It was a small hall, sparsely furnished, yet the grandeur of the man seated on the old carved throne was undiminished. I was right, Ben thought. He is a magnificent beast. He watched the Myghtern lean toward the men and speak, his words barely reaching Ben except as faint reverberations in the air. Without a probe it was hard to make out what was going on, yet one thing had struck Ben instantly — something no remote had ever really captured — and that was the power, the sheer charisma of the man.

That's why I had to come, Ben thought. That's why I had to see him for myself. To see him on a screen was one thing, but to see him like this . . .

There was a noise behind him in Quay Street, a cry and then run-

ning footsteps. Ben turned slowly, holding on tightly to the brick para-

pet, and looked.

The commotion had been from near the cells. As he looked, two men ran across to the open doorway, one of them speaking hurriedly to the other and then gesturing down into the darkness below. Out! Ben thought. I must get out.

He made his way across, half crawling, picking his way hand by hand along the old timber roof. On the far side a fire ladder went down to a flight of steps. He went down quickly, his footsteps echoing, hoping no one would be drawn to the noise. But there was shouting now from the other side of the Mansion House — that was where it was all happening. If he were to slip down Enys Quay he could be out of there before they knew.

The tiny lane was dark and empty. He ran down it and then turned left along the footpath.

There were guards on the New Bridge, but they were looking west, to Boscawen Street. Ben ran on, praying they'd not turn and see him, then ducked down under the parapet.

Scaf lay where he'd left him, unconscious, his breathing shallow.

Lifting him up onto his shoulder, Ben climbed down into the river's dried-up channel and walked across, picking his way carefully.

Overhead, on the bridge, one of the guards called out, his voice loud in the darkness, asking what was going on. A voice answered him. A prisoner had escaped. The jailer, Ponow, was dead. A search was on. Guard the gate! Ben heard them turn and run back to their posts and cursed silently.

Laying Scaf on top of the bank, he scrambled up after him. Close by was a tall mesh fence—electrified by the look of it—while to his left, some thirty or forty yards off, beside the old Round House, was the gate. The mesh fence ran to the gate and beyond. The gate was the only way out.

He unlatched his hand again and laid it next to him, then took the control box from his pocket.

How do I do this? he wondered. With two hands it would have been difficult enough, but with one and carrying Scaf . . .

He laughed. "Nothing ventured . . ."

Gripping the control between his teeth, he lifted Scaf once more, balancing him like a sack on his shoulder, then took the control and pointed it at his hand, lifting it into the air.

Then, the hand floating slowly along in front of him, he stepped up onto the bridge and headed for the gate.

DENG HANG pulled off his boots and threw them into the corner of the room. He sat facing the others, smiling broadly.

"He can drink, that one! But he'll be sorry in the morning, when he comes to deal with us."

Tynan was standing nearby, gazing thoughtfully at one of the shift-prints on the wall. At Deng Liang's comment he looked across at the young man and shook his head.

"You're more drunk than him, young Liang. Why, I've seen the Myghtern drink twice as much and be sharp as a knife the morning after. Don't underestimate him. To become a king here is not easy. One is not bom to it, as Above. And to stay king, as Morel has done • • . well, that is something else altogether! In the Above he would be—"

"A king," said Hastings, seating himself beside Deng Liang. "He's astonishing, don't you think? Like an animal. An animal that thinks."

Deng Liang broke into laughter again. It was true what Tynan had said: he was drunk.

"That may be so," Nolen said guardedly. "But he thinks he can ask what he wants from us."

Hastings smiled, ignoring Nolen's hostility. "Well, can't he? Hadn't we already agreed that he could have whatever he asked for?"

Nolen made to answer, but Tynan touched his arm to silence him. "Whatever he wants," Tynan said. "Providing we get what we want in exchange."

"He's not stupid," Hastings added, watching Nolen turn away and leave the room. "Uncultivated, perhaps, but no fool. And that man of his—the one he calls trader—he seems sharp enough."

Franke stepped forward. "Tak says he's new here. A stranger to the Clay."

Tynan waved the matter aside. "Look. We give the Myghtern what he wants and we take what we want in return. Simple as that. Rutger will speak for us."

Franke had been elsewhere most of the day, arranging things, so Tynan said. Hastings leaned back and yawned. He was feeling good. Things weren't so bad here. And the girl . . . He had bought the girl that morning. She would be his. He would feed her well and look after her. He rubbed at his arm. It was still feeling a little sore from the injections they had had that morning. He looked up at Tynan and smiled.

"I wonder what it is he wants? To what lengths does his imagination stretch, do you think?"

"It has a ceiling, I'm sure," Franke said, making them all laugh. "I wonder what it's like," Hastings said after a moment, "not seeing the sky, the stars. Year after year. Only the dry, unchanging dark."

"You'll know soon enough," Tynan said, then, in a softer voice. "And don't worry about Nolen. He'll be all right."

Hastings hadn't been worrying, but he nodded anyway. He didn't like Nolen. Though they had many things in common, there was something about the man that got under his skin. He yawned again and wondered vaguely why it was that he so often liked his enemies better than those who were supposed to be his allies. There again, did one have any choice in the matter? Li Yuan's laws existed, preventing them from living a full, free life. What did it matter that he liked Li Yuan? Li Yuan and his laws were inseparable. One could not remove one without the other. .,'..-

His hands were tied, the course of his life dictated by circumstances, and it was no good wishing otherwise. Even so, the thought of working with the Myghtern—with someone he for once admired—was a pleasant one.

Beside him, Deng Liang leaned forward, frowning. "What's that?"

They listened. Somewhere outside, in the Myghtern's town, sirens were blaring. It ws a strange, unexpected sound. Hastings stood, looking to Tynan, but Tynan shrugged.

At the far end of the room the inner door of the air lock hissed open. Tak stepped inside.

"What's happening?" Tynan asked.

"It's nothing, gentlemen," the small man said reassuringly. "A prisoner's escaped, that's all. We'll soon have him locked up again. But until we do, the Myghtern has requested that you stay here. There's a guard on the outer door, so you're perfectly safe."

Hastings, who had come across, met Tynan's eyes, a query in his own as to whether this might not be some kind of ploy on the Myghtern's part, but again Tynan made a shrugging gesture.

"And if you don't find him?" Nolen asked, coming up behind them.

"Oh, we'll get him," Tak said, smiling tightly. "Why, he'd need to be some kind of sorcerer to get out of the Myghtern's city right now."

it's NO GOOD, Ben thought, setting Scaf down, I have to rest. At his own estimate he had walked almost four miles, yet for all his attempts to keep some kind of track on where he was, he had to admit that he was lost.

He leaned over Scaf, listening for a breath, then, when he could hear nothing, put his fingers to Scaf s neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but faint. Far fainter than it had been. If he did not get help soon, Scaf would die. But where would one find help, here in this endless darkness? His only hope was to get to the seal. To somehow find a way back to the Domain.

Ben crouched, looking about him. His eyes had slowly become accustomed to the darkness. Even so, it was hard to discern between shadow and substance. So often his eyes had tricked him, making him think something—someone?—was there, when there was nothing. He had been right to think of this place as a giant "shell," for his brain, denied its usual visual stimulus, had begun to create its own pictures—

painting illusions on the blackness. In that regard the Clay was a giant desert, filled with its own mirages.

Down here, he realized, one came to trust other senses than sight— one's sense of hearing, particularly.

There was a sharp click!—the sound a stone makes when it falls against a hard surface. He waited, tensed, listening, then turned back and lifted Scaf onto his shoulder once again. As he did, the dayman stirred and murmured something.

"What?" Ben asked as quietly as he could, placing his cheek against Scaf s face.

"Leave me," Scaf said, quietly yet distinctly. "Alone you'll make it.

With me—"

"No," Ben whispered, and began to move again, picking his way blindly, his feet finding their way slowly, deliberately, across the uneven surface. He felt Scaf shiver, the movement rippling through his body like the wind through a rag, and felt his determination harden. They would get out. They would.

"I'm no good anymore," Scaf said after a moment. "I'm blind, and my legs—"

"That doesn't matter," Ben whispered. "We can replace all kinds of things these days. Eyes, legs. I'll make you as good as new."

"And the memories?"

Ben's legs moved slowly through the dark, separate, it seemed, from this thinking self. For a moment he conceived himself as some kind of piston-driven machine, filled with fuel, pumping its way slowly, inexorably through an eternity of darkness.

"That's for you to choose," Ben said finally. "Whether you want to keep them or not."

But Scaf was sleeping again.

Ben walked on, his legs pumping wearily through the endless dark.

THE FOUR OATEMEN knelt before Tak, their heads lowered abjectly. They had failed in their duty and now they must pay the price. Tak's men formed a great circle about them in the High Cross, the cathedral towering over the scene. Tak waited angrily, gun in hand.

"Mes y gwyryon!" one of the guards insisted, his eyes pleading with Tak. But it's true! "An jevan tewlel hus ha y luf nyja y-ban ha dyswul an hespow . . . crakkya a'n gwelen!" The demon cast a spell and his hand floated up and undid the great locks . . . snapped them like twigs!

Tak's anger boiled over.

The gunshot sent a ripple of fear through all those watching. The three kneeling men hunched into themselves, whimpering.

Tak walked down the line. "Liars!" he screamed, firing point-blank at the second man. "Fools!" Again a shot rang out. "Incompetents!"

The gun clicked, empty. Tak glared at the man, then, throwing the gun away, drew his dagger and, grabbing him by the hair, slit his throat.

He stepped back, looking about him. There would be no more talk of demons and spells. Above technology, that was all this was. Yet he knew his men were scared. He had seen what had happened to the jailer, Ponow, and knew that dozens of his men had seen it too. Whoever—whatever?—did that had superhuman strength. And the great locks on the gate . . . there was no doubting that they had been snapped. But that was not the point. He could not let the rumors get out of hand, nor his men succumb to fear. He must control them, and the only way to do that was to make them more afraid of him than of this "sorcerer" Shepherd.

He turned. A messenger had come.

"Pandra vyth gwres?" What now?

The messenger's gap-toothed mouth opened in a wide smile. "Ny trovya pystryor!" We find wizard!

"Prysner," he corrected him, then, "Py plas?" Where?

"Holya!" the messenger answered, turning away. Come! "Ny settya an jevan!" We've surrounded the demon!

TAK LOOKED THROUGH the heat-sensitive glasses and smiled. Shepherd was at the bottom of the valley, trudging along the bed of a dried-up stream, the wounded servant on his shoulder.

How strange that he should do that, thought Tak. From what he'd heard life was cheap in the Above; almost as cheap—so Tynan said— as here. Such a man as Shepherd could buy a hundred men, surely? Unless he, Tak, had overlooked something.

They had got nothing torturing the men: nothing, that was, about why Shepherd was here, in the Clay. It seemed he had not confided in his men. Yet he must have wanted something, or why take the risk?

Tak frowned, then put the glasses down. Turning, he signaled along the line of men. It was time to take their captive back.

BEN STOPPED AND TURNED , astonished. High above him and to either side, where there had been nothing only a moment before, were now two straggling lines of lights. Slowly, even as he watched, they approached, spreading out to encircle him.

Lamps, he realized, noting the ghostly presence of men behind the lights. They're carrying lamps.

He sank to his knees, resting Scaf on the ground beside him, then looked up again.

So this is it.

After what he'd done to the jailer he didn't expect any mercy from them. The best he might hope for was a quick death; the worst—well, Scaf could tell him what the worst was.

He watched, observant to the last, a camera eye, seeing the swaying lamps come on toward him. Two flashes from a laser and even that would be denied me, he thought, knowing how easily a good marksman could burn away his cornea. It would take but an instant.

Briefly he closed his eyes, swallowing, and as he did light flooded his head. For a moment he thought it had happened and waited for the explosion of pain at the nerve ends. But there was nothing, only the sense of being washed in brilliant light. Light, and the howling screeches of the daymen.

Ben turned, wincing, into the light. At the head of the valley, less than two hundred yards from where he knelt, a searchlight rotated slowly, focusing its powerful beam on the hillside, picking out a hundred fleeing figures.

He shielded his eyes with his right hand, then turned, looking back up the hillside. Only one of the daymen remained now, his hands on his hips, staring back defiantly, then he turned and walked away.

Ben shuddered, then stood and slowly turned, raising his hands.

A voice from within the light boomed out. "Ben? Ben Shepherd?"

He closed his eyes, surprised by the wash of relief he felt, the sheer joy at hearing his own name.

"Yes," he said quietly, knowing they could not hear him. "It's me, Ben Shepherd, back from the dark."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Dark Angel

THORN STOOD BESIDE the Myghtern's throne as the five were brought before him. He had spent a good part of the night and the first few hours of the morning briefing the Myghtern, yet he felt fresh, energized by the thought of the encounter.

He watched as they came down the long room toward the Myghtern; saw how they stood there, unbowed, before him, meeting his primitive fierceness with their own high arrogance.

"We have brought you a gift," said Hastings, stepping forward.

The Myghtern turned to Thorn, not understanding. He whispered in the big man's ear. "Present . . ."

The Myghtern turned back, smiling, and beckoned Hastings on. "Kerghes!"

Hastings looked to Thorn. "What did he say?"

"He said you should bring it."

Hastings turned and signaled for the gift to be brought forward. One of the Myghtern's stewards advanced, carrying a box draped in black cloth. He bowed, averting his eyes from his master, handed the gift to Hastings, then backed away. Hastings stepped forward onto the lowest of the steps that led up to the throne.

"With our deepest respect and best wishes, King Moyha."

Thorn translated, amused that the five did not know that Moyha was not his name, merely another part of his title—"Grandest." Like many barbarian chiefs he chose the most grandiloquent of titles— Myghtern Moyha—"Grandest of all Kings." Though maybe, for once, there was an element of truth in it, for was a king to be judged merely by the size of his domain?

He stood aside, watching as the Myghtern removed the cloth. Beneath it was a delicate golden cage and inside the cage a small black bird: a tiny thing, as black as nothingness itself, yet its eyes were golden, like polished orbs.

"A gift from the Above," Tynan said, smiling tightly as Thorn translated.

The Myghtern studied the bird a moment, then turned and handed it to Tak, who stood close by. When he turned back his face seemed grimmer. His hands gripped his knees tightly. He was anchored like a rock in his throne, his hugely muscled arms like something carved from oak. Slowly he surveyed the men before him, his eyes moving from one face to the next, then, one by one, gesturing at each with the index finger of his right hand, he named them.

"Fran-ke. No-len. Ha-stings. Ty-nan. Deng Li-ang." He nodded to himself, then turned to Thorn, giving a short bark of laughter. "Gowek . . . mes cref." Liars . . . but strong.

Thorn returned the Myghtern's smile, wondering if any of the five had bothered to learn anything of this bastard language, but he doubted it.

He stepped forward, standing between the Myghtern and the five. "I speak for the king," he began, seeing how Nolen and Tynan smiled at that. Unpleasant, ironical smiles. "He has told me what to ask from you, and what to give. You will deal with me." Hastings stepped back, looking to Tynan.

"You know who we are," Tynan said coldly. "You therefore know what we represent . . . the power we hold in our ten hands. What you have to understand is just what, together, we might achieve."

Until that moment Thorn had been guessing—toying with half-truths. Now, suddenly, he saw it whole. In that image of the ten hands he pictured what the connection was. No, not a single connection, but a web. A tightly woven web of connections. He listened, alert now. Whereas only moments before he had understood little, now he had it all. He needed only verbal confirmation.

"The Dispersion," he said calmly, confidently, as if he knew it for a fact. "You are all agents of the Dispersion."

Tynan smiled tightly. "Dispersionists. But tell the king this. Tell him he can have what he wants. Within limits, of course."

Thorn stared back at Tynan a moment, fixing him, then shook his head. "The Myghtern wants something else. Something you might think twice about giving him."

Tynan frowned, but it was Hastings who spoke next. "What does he want?" he asked, stepping up alongside Tynan.

Thorn felt the presence of the Myghtern in his throne behind him. Felt the power emanating from him; the raw, primal power of the man.

"He wants a wife. A bride from the Above."

Franke laughed contemptuously. "Impossible! Absurd!"

Thorn waited a second, then began again, speaking slowly, each word deliberate now. "He says that you will do this for him or he will drive you from his kingdom."

Nolen made to speak, then closed his mouth with a snap. He turned and looked to Tynan, who shook his head, but Hastings put his hand on Nolen's arm.

"Think. Just think before you say anything. And, Rutger . . . please, let me handle this."

There were exchanged glances, then Tynan gave Hastings a curt nod.

"He is determined," Thorn said, observing all. "He wants nothing else."

"For now . . ." Franke began, then fell silent as Hastings turned, a flicker of anger in his eyes.

"Tell him we are . . . reluctant, but . . ." Hastings sighed. "Thorn, you must know how things are. No woman from the Above would come down here. Not for any price. This place . . ." His eyes revealed the depths of his distaste. "It stinks. It's foul here, yes, even here where there's carpet on the floor and finery on the walls. It's . . ." He shrugged, unable to express the degree of his disgust.

"And yet you five are here. You want something." Thorn looked from face to face. "He means what he says. He'll arm the Clay against you if you deny him this."

Hastings nodded. "Okay. We agree. But it will take time. We cannot just buy a bride."

"Ten days," Thorn said. "That's all he gives you. Ten days."

"It's enough," said Tynan, winking at Nolen beside him.

Thorn turned, facing the Myghtern again. "Ya," he said.

The big man smiled, but his hands still gripped his knees, as if in torment. "Dres'n benen," he said. "Y'ethom dhym a."

The Above woman. I need her.

The audience was at an end. In the cage the bird turned on its perch, fluffing, out the darkness of its tiny feathers. And its golden eyes saw nothing.

MAJOR AXEL HAAVIKKO had set up his mobile operations room in the lower garden. His men were camped in the fields close by, their tents in neat rows facing the bay.

While Haavikko spoke to his General, Ben stood in the doorway of the half-track, listening in.

"But we have to go in now, sir, before they can prepare against us. If what Shepherd's told us is correct, all that's standing between us and his headquarters is an electrified mesh fence."

Rheinhardt stared back at his Major uncompromisingly, his close-shaven head giving him the appearance of a sophisticated thug.

"I have to disagree with you, Major. If we go in now we could ruin it all. Shepherd saw your operative, you say?"

"Yes, sir. The one called Thorn. He was standing beside the Myght-ern, it seems."

"I see. Then it's imperative that we give Thorn time to get out of there. No? He's been at the thick of it, after all. He'll know what's going on. And it's important that we find out exactly what's been happening down there. In the circumstances I order you to hold off for forty-eight hours. If the situation changes come back to me for orders, Major. I want no maverick operations."

Haavikko's face showed nothing of the disappointment he felt. "Sir!" he said, bowing toward the screen as it went blank.

"You think he's made the wrong call, don't you?" Ben said quietly.

Haavikko hesitated, knowing that Ben was an adviser to Li Yuan, then gave the barest nod.

"Why?"

Ben's directness surprised Haavikko. He shrugged and looked away, as if he wasn't going to answer, then met Ben's eyes again.

"Because they're warned now. Forty-eight hours . . ." He shook his head. "In forty-eight hours they could pack it all up and move out. It's what SimFic used to do under Berdichev. They were running all manner of illicit operations and by the time we'd get permission to hit them, they'd be gone."

"And this . . . this smells the same?"

Haavikko nodded and then grimaced. "No maverick operations, eh?

Why, it's so-called maverick operations that have saved us all these years. If we'd stuck to what the General decided, we'd all be dead."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Speaking off the record, I assume?"

Haavikko's expression hardened, realizing what he'd been saying. "Of course? . . ."

"And what if, as Li Yuan's Chief Adviser and therefore General Rheinhardt's nominal superior, I was to order you back into the Clay ... to recover some property I left there. How would you feel about that?"

Haavikko stared at him a moment, then grinned broadly. "Why, I feel I would be compelled to accept your instructions . . . sir."

LIKE ALL ABOUT HIM, the Myghtern dreamed of light; of an open sky and a small round sun that shed its warmth on bare flesh.

"But you've seen it, surely? There are ways out of here."

The big man placed one of his huge hands beneath his thickly bearded chin. "No," he said fiercely. "It would only anger me."

But that was not entirely true. Thorn knew what it really was—he had seen it in the Myghtern's warriors that time when they had come to the settlement for him. Like them, the Myghtern was afraid. Afraid of the open sky and its terrifying brightness. Dreams were enough for him.

And among those dreams, the dream of a beautiful Above wife. A straight-boned woman the equal of himself, not some scraggy, breastless woman of the Clay, deformed and stinking-breathed.

Dreams. And as below, so Above. The five from the Above—they, too, had their dream: a dream of the dispersion of humanity among the stars. A dream as old as the idea of space technologies itself. Of leaving the teeming, overcrowded earth and finding other planets. A dream of freedom from the tyranny of the Seven—or of the One Man who remained, Li Yuan.

A dream—and a conspiracy. Five men, planning something here where no eyes could spy on them. Here, beneath the T'ang's great City.

But soon he would know; would see with his own eyes just why these men had come here to bargain with this barbarian chief.

FOR AN HOUR or so Thorn was left to his own devices. Tak had seemed distracted earlier. Something had happened; something he '{ didn't want to mention, not even to the Myghtern. But when Tak called on him again he seemed transformed, reenergized somehow.

"What's happened?" Thorn asked as they made their way down Boscawen Street to the Mansion House.

"It's Jackson," Tak said, beaming. "He's back. I didn't expect him for days yet, but he's here." "Jackson?"

Tak glanced at him. "You'll see. He's been to Africa. Africa . . ." He said the word softly, reverently, as if it were a dream. "So what does Jackson do?"

"He arranges things. Acts as a kind of go-between. The five who are here . . . that's his doing. But he's not their agent, nor the Myght-ern's, come to that."

Thorn nodded, loath to push this line of questioning too far, lest Tak get suspicious. But for once Tak seemed happy to volunteer information.

"He's been here a long time now. Two years by his own reckoning. All this"—Tak indicated the refurbished street—"it wouldn't exist without him. He made it possible. In return the Myghtern grants him favors." "Favors?"

Tak nodded. "He has some land, east of here." Thorn slowed as they came to the steps and looked at Tak. "He must be a great man, this Jackson."

"Oh, he is," Tak said, the certainty in his voice making Thorn wonder what Tak's relationship to him was. Then, unexpectedly, Tak stopped and turned to him, holding his arm. "I've misread you, Thorn. I thought . . . Well, let me be frank with you. Jackson warned me that there were intruders in the Clay. Operatives, he calls them. When I had news of you I thought you were one of them. Yesterday, however, I took a prisoner. A big man, built like one of the Above. But he wasn't . . . well, he wasn't real. I didn't understand it at first, but Jackson explained it to me. My men thought he was a wizard, but he wasn't, he was just artificial. His hand . . . well, he detached his hand and used it to escape. And then, when I pursued him, his Above masters came for him in one of their half-tracks and rescued him." Thorn nodded, stunned by Tak's outpouring. "I see." Tak squeezed his arm. "It's all right. No harm was done. All he saw was the inside of a cell. But you . . . well, I must apologize to you, Thorn."

"There's no need," he said.

"Oh, there is. But come now, let's go inside. Jackson's waiting for us."

Jackson was standing with his back to Thorn when he entered, talking to the Myghtern. Tak touched Thorn's arm, indicating he should stay, then went across. For a moment Tak exchanged words with both men, then, with a pleasant laugh, Jackson turned to face Thorn.

Thorn stared at that face and felt the shock of it judder through him. DeVore ... he was looking at DeVore!

Letting nothing betray the fact of his recognition, he stepped forward to greet the man, bowing, then looking to Tak as if for a lead.

"So you're the trader, huh?" Jackson said, his behavior so pleasant, so at odds with what Thorn knew of the man, that his head swam at the great gulf that lay between the two. Why, this man was responsible for thousands, no ... millions of deaths.

"My name is Thorn," he said, lowering his head, relieved to note that there was no sign of suspicion in DeVore's eyes.

"Well, Thorn, I understand you've done a good job for my friend the Myghtern. He's been in need of a good translator for some while. I do what I can, and Tak here struggles manfully, but from what I've heard you have a talent for it. Stick with it, Thorn, and you'll be well rewarded. Things are changing down here. Civilization's coming to the Clay!"

Thorn nodded and smiled, as if pleased by what DeVore had said, but another part of his mind was furiously considering what this meant. If DeVore was here . . .

He had to let someone know, and the sooner the better. Everything else he'd seen and heard down here was as nothing beside that single, solitary fact. DeVore . . . DeVore was behind it all!

Good, he thought. But how am I to get away?

He could not just walk away. At least, not yet. Not until after the feast.

"Are you coming to the feast, this evening, Shih Jackson?"

DeVore smiled back at him. "I am afraid I can't. There are things I have to do. But if you'd be my guest this afternoon, Shih Thorn? My friends from the Above want to see what their money has paid for."

"I'd like that," Thorn said, surprised by the invitation.

"Good." DeVore reached out and held his shoulder. "Then meet me at the High Cross two hours from now. And wear some stout walking boots, Shih Thorn. You'll have need of them."

MORE TROOPS HAD BEEN arriving all morning, landed from huge assault carriers on the new strip the Security engineers had laid in the upper meadow. They had pitched their tents in the lower fields, their glossy black half-tracks—new machines used normally for the defense of the Plantations—lined up along the upper edge of the strip. Ben stood with Haavikko in the lower garden, watching the activity in the fields surrounding the cottage. Everywhere you looked there were signs of hurried preparations. Equipment was being unpacked, weaponry stripped down and cleaned. Soldiers drilled, or washed, or simply took the opportunity to rest before the attack that evening. At the upper end of the field to the left of the cottage a huge mess tent had been set up. Soldiers in their shirtsleeves queued to go inside, joking among themselves in the sunlight.

Ben sighed and looked to Haavikko. "It's a wonderful sight, don't you think, Major?"

Haavikko nodded, but he was uncomfortable in Ben's presence. The intensity of the young man was hard to get used to. And when he looked at you.

Ben smiled thoughtfully, the tiny remote that always hovered about him drifting slowly to one side. "Sometimes I wonder how it must have been in the old days, before the City. To see an army of a million men on the battlefield. Now, that must have been a sight!"

Haavikko looked down. "I've seen half a million lined up ready for battle. In West Africa. In the campaign against Wang Sau-leyan. And I've seen corpses stacked ten deep, six wide for half a li. The stench!" He grimaced.

"You don't like war, do you, Major Haavikko?" Haavikko looked up, meeting Ben's eyes directly. "No. I've no love of it, if that's what you mean. I've had too many friends killed or badly wounded to be fond of so-called glory. But it's a necessity of our world, and I'll not shirk my duty."

"And yet you seemed keen earlier when I agreed to countermand the General's orders. . . ." "That's different." "Why?"

Haavikko drew himself up straight. Ben might be his nominal superior, but he did not like this line of questioning.

"War—I mean war like we saw it in Africa—may not be a pleasant thing, but at least there's some element of honor in it. All this skulking in the darkness . . . that's a weasel's game!"

Ben laughed. "So you mean to cleanse the Clay?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Why? Because the Enclave was their last hope. If it fell, then the darkness would be everywhere, and that could not be tolerated. To root out every last trace of opposition was his task, almost his obsession now.

"Because I must," he answered, damned if he'd justify himself any further than that. But Ben seemed to accept his answer, or perhaps sense his reluctance.

"Even so, Rheinhardt will be angry, don't you think?"

Rheinhardt . . . He sighed and looked down, disturbed. Rheinhardt did not understand. He lacked the proper sense of urgency. Like all of the older generation, he was complacent: he did not see just how fragile their existence as a society was.

He feared for the years ahead; feared for them in more than a personal sense. For himself he cared little; had cared nothing, in fact, since the death of his sister, Vesa. No, his was a generalized fear: a fear for Humankind itself. Life here on earth was tenuous at best. Destroy the North European Enclave and there was the distinct possibility of radical ecological destabilization.

R.E.D. It was the doomsday scenario, the one all his colleagues in the service talked of constantly; the final kicking away of the props of terrestrial existence.

"What will your soldiers use?" Ben asked.

"Pardon?"

"To cleanse the Clay?"

"I thought we'd use flamethrowers. We've some of the hew high-powered models."

"Won't that be dangerous? There's not much air in there as it is, and those things devour oxygen."

"True. But my men will be wearing breathing masks and carrying their own air supplies. Whether we bum them out or simply suffocate the bastards, it's all the same to me, as long as the job gets done. Minimal casualties, that's my prime directive."

"Maybe so, but I'd prefer it if you didn't use flamethrowers in there."

Haavikko frowned. He was happy to take generalized instructions from Ben, but if he was going to interfere in operational matters, then he might as well report back to Rheinhardt. "Why?"

Ben's eyes met his and held them. "Because I want something."

"What?"

"I want their king, the Myghtern. Alive if at all possible, but if not, well, I'd like his body at the very least, not some charred remnant."

Haavikko nodded, trying to keep the distaste he felt from showing in his face. "Are you sure?"

Ben straightened up, mock military for a moment, affecting Rheinhardt's voice with a frightening accuracy. "That is an order, Major Haavikko."

Haavikko bowed his head. "Then I shall ensure it receives priority, sir!''

Ben walked past him, then stopped, looking up the slope of the lawn toward the cottage.

Haavikko studied him a moment, trying to figure him out. "Forgive me for asking, but why do you want him?"

Ben half turned toward him. "Do you believe in vividness, Major?"

" Vividness?"

"Yes, vividness. It's the force that lies behind things. What the poet Dylan Thomas once called 'the force that through the green fuse drives the flower.' We can't see it, not normally, but sometimes—just sometimes, mind—it shows itself, in an event, or occasionally—very rarely—in a person. The Myghtern ... he has vividness. I saw it at a glance. And I want him, even if it's only the shell of him. The rest . . . well, the rest I'll fill if I have to. It'll be my greatest art. To recreate him. To make him real for others."

Haavikko stared at him, astonished, wondering for a moment if it were true what they said and Ben Shepherd really was mad. Then he turned and looked back at his men, busy in the fields nearby.

What do you make of this? he wondered, his eyes traveling among the familiar faces. To be here in this valley, on this afternoon.

It was strange. Stranger than anything he'd ever known.

He let out a long breath, calming himself, forcing himself to bite the bullet, then turned, facing Ben again. "If it makes you any happier, I'll order the men to use their flamethrowers only as a last resort."

"Good. And the Myghtern?"

"I'll send a special squad to try and capture him."

"Good. I'm delighted you've seen reason."

Haavikko hesitated. "If that's all, I think I'll go now. Please, thank your sister for the tea. It was most pleasant." He bowed, feeling suddenly awkward, as if he'd outstayed his welcome.

Ben stared at him, an unexpected hardness in his face.

Again Haavikko felt himself at a disadvantage. Sometimes it was as if Shepherd were on a whole different level from himself. As if there were things he'd misread entirely.

"We go in at dusk," he said. "I think the men should rest until then."

Ben smiled, all charm again. "Of course. And come again some time, Major Haavikko. Please, call on us again."

THEY GATHERED in the High Cross, beside the cathedral; Tak, Thorn, the five from the Above, DeVore, and two of his henchmen.

Hastings and the others were suited up—sleek, elegantly silvered suits, gusseted at the neck to take a helmet. They carried simple guns, holstered at the waist: primitive weapons, not lasers. Old models that worked on explosive principles. Thorn smiled on seeing them, knew that it was all of a pattern, deliberately old fashioned, like the valve, the electric bulbs—all of it an elaborate charade to fool the Myghtern.

They went east, out past the sewage dump at Malpas—a vast reservoir of waste, contained within the old Fal's course. Twenty U south it stretched, and each year its level grew higher: a rich soup of effluence pumped down from the City. Life swarmed on the shores of this great lake of shit. A twisted, stunted form of life, admittedly, yet life.

Map orth caugh, Thorn thought, remembering what the old man had said when he'd first come into the Clay. Pile of shit! It was a truth down here, not an insult.

They crossed the clogged tributary at Tresillian, DeVore leading the way. From there the road headed northeast between stone walls, rising and then falling sharply, the roof of the Above sometimes close, sometimes far above, but always there, enclosing everything like the lid on a giant grave. That and the utter darkness.

The road was newly surfaced. Thorn bent down and examined it, trying to pick at it, then realized what it was. Ice! They were walking on ice, the multipurpose polymer used throughout the Above!

After Grampound the road went down again and Thorn could see a glowing trail stretching away into the distance—dim but definite.

Then, as they came to it, he saw the wire fencing either side, the warning signs. Electrified cables ran the whole length of the mesh and there were guards at the gate—heavily armed Security types, blunt faced and anonymous looking.

The gates hissed back and they went inside.

"Right now our main problem is distribution," DeVore said, turning to face them all. "Eventually, however, we'll cut an entrance overhead and ship the stuff direct into the City."

Thorn listened, not sure what "the stuff precisely was, but knew that whatever it was, it wasn't legal.

Past the fence the road ran straight, newly laid, like an ancient railway track. In places it cut straight through the hillside, in others it was built up, soaring over valleys on earth embankments. All of it spoke of years of planning and execution. Two years, Tak had said. Thorn nodded to himself and walked on, hurrying now to catch the others.

At the crest of the hill they had stopped, looking down into the wide and ancient valley of Treviscoe. Coming alongside them, Thorn gave a tiny laugh, unable to believe what he was seeing.

The building filled the center of the valley. It seemed alive, glowing a muted gold against the velvet blackness, ten levels high, each hexagonal slice smaller than the one beneath, so that it had the appearance of an ancient zigurrat.

Thorn turned, meeting Tak's eyes, then walked on, following the others out onto the great bridge of ice that linked the hill to the topmost level of the building.

THE BIRD SAT on a perch of silvered wire. In places it had shed its feathers and the sore-pocked flesh showed through its ragged plumage. It was a songbird, but it sat there quietly, its eye dull, its beak scaled with a flaky whiteness. Wires ran from the back of its skull to a unit set into the wall behind the cage.

Its cage was one of many in the room, stacked in tiers from floor to ceiling. One came down into the room from above, let down on a platform through the ceiling.

It was a silent room, filled with the sour scent of chemicals. There was something horribly unnatural in that stillness. Thorn stood beside the cage, staring in at the wasted creature.

"What's wrong with it?"

DeVore turned then came across. "Ah, that one." He smiled, the light of pride in his eyes. "One of our more interesting experiments. He dreams, you know."

Thorn looked at the pitiful thing and frowned. "Dreams of what?"

DeVore consulted the computer clipboard in his hand, then answered. "That one dreams of being an eagle. A hunting bird. Of swooping on its victims and carrying them away in its talons."

From time to time the bird twitched, but that was its only movement. Its eyes were empty, it shredded wings were furled.

"It's an extension of the HeadStim principle. We feed the new information into the brain, ousting the old." DeVore smiled then put his fingers through the bars to groom the bird. It seemed entirely unconscious of his touch. "We wanted to see how effective it was. How far into a dream state these creatures could be induced to go."

Thorn stared at him, puzzled. "How can you tell?"

DeVore smiled tightly. "Watch."

He reached beneath the cage and moved his hand across. At once the wires retracted from the bird's head and snaked back into the wall unit. The bird stumbled, then collected itself on its perch. Its eyes, previously dull, were now alert. Its head came up sharply, turning to stare at them. But that first, sharp, instinctive motion gave way to confusion. It went to open out its massive wings and found only the ragged, malformed wings of a songbird. It opened its beak to screech its hunting cry but uttered only the shrill notes of its kind.

The bird twitched, its eyes blinking rapidly. And slowly it began to tremble, its whole body shaking violently. In less than a minute it was dead.

DeVore turned, facing him. "We've found that it takes less than a week to create a situation in which the bird has lapsed totally into its new reality and cannot tolerate the old. That reaction is typical. The creatures would rather die than return to what they were. It's as if they switch themselves off."

"I see. And you plan to use this on humans one day?"

DeVore smiled, his eyes sharp. "Nothing so crude, Shih Thorn. But yes ... someday."

In his mind Thorn was adding piece to piece, evaluating all he'd seen that afternoon: bacteria that could evolve and eat away the brain-stem; chemicals that could be laced into the human bloodstream and activated by the presence of excess sugar in the blood, forming a po-

tent explosive mixture; aggression drugs; acids that reacted only with calcium; and now this—this tinkering with reality in the brain itself. He could make only one thing of it all. Terrorism. A subtle, insidious form of terrorism. What they had built here in the Clay was a complex of research laboratories designed to promote the ultimate downfall of Li Yuan and the North European Enclave.

Revolution, that was what it was. A direct assault on the Families and all they stood for. Against containment and the last remnants of the City-State.

"Come. We're finished here," DeVore said, motioning that he should step back onto the platform. Thorn turned, looking about him one last time, then did as he was bid. In a moment they were back in the central room.

DeVore bowed to him politely, then left to rejoin the others. As he did, Hastings came across.

"You're a strange one, Thorn, aren't you?"

Thorn shrugged. "I don't know what you mean." But it seemed that Hastings wanted to explain something to him, for when he spoke again it was in a low, confidential tone, as if he didn't want the others to hear.

"If there was any other way, I'd take it, believe me, but Li Yuan leaves us no option. The City is enough for him. Social order, that's all he seems to want. But we need more than that, don't you see that, Thorn?"

Hastings's eyes looked away, as if searching the distance. "I want what Mankind has always wanted. New worlds. Fresh islands of being. New ways of living. I want it like . . ." His hands clenched and there was a look of pure need in his eyes, in the set of his mouth. For a moment he seemed to teeter on the edge of something, then he drew back. He laughed softly and looked at Thorn again, a wistful smile on his lips. "It seems so little to ask."

Dreams, Thorn thought. Must we always murder for our dreams? "So many years we've been trapped here, festering away in the levels of the City. For centuries now we've been dying on our feet, watching it all fall apart, piece by piece. For centuries we've shut out the stars and denied our rightful place out there. But we need to grow. We need to venture outward. It's either that or we'll die. You can see that, Thorn, can't you?"

Thorn stared back impassively. It was a pretty speech, but such dreams were dangerous, for to make such dreams come true millions, maybe tens of millions, would have to die.

"War," Thorn said. "That's what you're talking about. A War against Li Yuan."

Hastings looked back at him, his eyes pained, then nodded. "If that's what it takes."

"Well, Shih Thorn, what do you think?"

Thorn turned from contemplating the wall hanging and met DeVore's eyes. He realized they were alone. "The others?"

"They've gone to eat. I thought we ought to talk."

"I see." Thorn licked his lips. "I've been impressed by what I've seen."

"Impressed?" DeVore echoed the word flatly, his smile fixed momentarily. "You seemed . . . well, unsurprised."

"I've heard . . ." he began, then realized what he had been about to say.

"You've heard what?"

"Nothing. It's just ..."

DeVore moved his head back slowly, as if to see him better; or like a snake, about to strike.

"You know me, don't you?"

Thorn weighed the alternatives a moment, then nodded. "First time I saw you. It's just that I wasn't sure. I'd heard you were dead. But the rumors . . . Some said you were on Mars. Others, well, others said you'd changed your form."

"And you? What did you think?"

He gambled on a lie. "I thought you'd be here. It's why I came."

DeVore's eyes held him a moment, then slipped aside. His face made a tiny shrugging motion. There was a mild amusement in his eyes now and in the corners of his mouth. "You were talking to Hastings just now. What did he say?"

Again those brown eyes met his then slid away.

"He seemed . . . concerned. He was trying to convince me of the rightness of all this."

"And you? What do you think?"

Deeper and deeper.

"I am a revolutionary. It's my trade. Up Above one cannot move for spies and secret service agents. But down here"—he let his eyes glow with a revolutionary fervor—"down here a man can be free to determine his own destiny."