CHAPTER ONE

Just across the chasm from the town of Zog a bunch of

wild brats with crossbows - and poisoned arrows, to

add to the general sense of fun - had given us quite a

run. We'd barely gotten away from them with our skins

whole.

There had been constant storm damage blocking the

roads, continuous sullen clouds, and a threatening

mutter of sentient-seeming thunder.

I had a huge, aching lump on my forehead from not

being quick enough ducking into the wagon during the

hail storm four days before. Hail the size of goose eggs!

Add to that the remains we kept finding along the

way, more and more of them as we went farther north.

Human remains, mostly, and the yellow dream crystals

that had killed them.

Throw in the fact we'd been driving two days and

nights without sleep, dodging shadow, which seemed

to be everywhere.

Then season the whole horrid mess with a harsh

scream as a night bird plummeted across the moonlit

sky screeching, 'Lovely dead meat, not even rotten yet!'

I understood it as easily as though it had been

shouted at me by some old dame in the underbrush.

The bird's cry said 'human meat,' not some luckless

zeller killed by a pombi's claws. I put my hand over

Queynt's where they lay on the reins.

He snapped out of his doze, immediately alert, as I

reached beneath the wagon seat for my bow. 'More

trouble ahead,' I said wearily, nocking an arrow.

Queynt yawned, giving my bow a doubtful look.

Though he had been teaching me to shoot with the

stated intention of providing for the pot, my inability to

hit anything smaller than a gnarlibar had become a

joke. They had begun to call natural landmarks that

were suitably huge a 'good target for Jinian.' The

problem was that I couldn't shoot anything that talked

to me. Oh, if someone else shot it, I could eat it, and if

something came at me with unpleasant intent, I was

able to kill it readily enough no matter what it was

saying. Bunwits and zeller and tree rats, however, were

safe from my arrows so long as they said good morning

politely. I hadn't discussed this with Queynt, though I

thought he suspected it.

He glanced down, then back into the wagon where

his Wizard's kit was. I knew he was considering getting

out his own bow or taking time to set a protection

spell, evidently deciding against it. We'd learned to

trust the instincts of Yittleby and Yattleby in times of

danger, and neither of the two tall krylobos pulling the

wagon seemed overly disturbed. Their beaks were

forward, their eyes watchful as we came around a curve

at the crest of a hill, but neither of them showed any

agitation. We came out of the jungle at the top of a

long, sloping savannah, dotted with dark, crouching

bushes and half-lit by a gibbous moon. I could see all

the way to the bottom of the hill where the forest

started again and two twinkling lanterns, amber and

red, moved among the trees near the ground. That had

to be Peter and Chance. They'd been riding ahead and

had evidently found something, disturbing the bird at

the time. Queynt clucked to the krylobos, and we

began the slow descent toward the lanterns with him

looking remarkably alert for such an old man.

Vitior Vulpas Queynt is over a thousand years old.

Everything I have learned about him indicates this is

really true and not some mere bit of rodomontade. He

hadn't made a special point of claiming to be that old,

mind you; it simply came out as we went along. Peter

and I had met him a couple of years before, or rather,

he had picked us up on the road - he and his

remarkable tall-wheeled wagon and the two huge birds

that pulled it. He had picked us up and made use of us

and we of him, all in a fit of mutual suspicion, and

when it was over we found ourselves quite fond of one

another. And the birds, too, of course. Krylobos are

very large - tailless, as are all native creatures of this

world, with plumy topknots and somewhat irascible

tempers. They like me since I can talk to them, and I

like them because they dislike the same things I do.

Bathing in very cold water, for example. Or eating fruit

that isn't quite ripe. They don't have teeth to set on

edge, but the expression around their beaks is quite

sufficient to evoke sympathy.

Which is beside the point. Queynt has a fondness for

fantastical dress and ornamental speech and enjoys

being thought a fool. He says he learns a great deal that

way. He is an explorer at heart, so he has said, and

exploring is what he and Peter and Chance and I had

been doing for some time. He is the only person to

whom Chance has ever given unstinting admiration. So

Peter says, who has known Chance far longer than I.

This admiration is more understandable in that

Vitior Vulpas Queynt and Chance much resemble each

other. Both are brown, muscular men who look a little

soft without being so at all. Both are jolly-appearing

men who seem a little stupid and aren't. And both have

quantities of common sense. As for the rest of it, Queynt

is a Wizard of vast experience and education, while

Chance is an ex-sailor with a fondness for gambling

who was hired to bring Peter up safely and did so -

more or less. Both of them have had a certain tutelary

role in our lives. Peter's and mine, and truth to tell, I

like them both mightily. Even on an occasion like this,

when weariness made it hard to be fond of anyone.

We approached the lanterns. A faint sweetish smell

told me everything I wanted to know about it before

we got there. More dream crystal deaths.

Before we ever started on this trip - after the Battle of

the Bones on the Wastes of Bleer it was, when we were

all remarkably glad merely to be alive - I had known

about dream crystals. My un-mother (the woman who

bore me but did not conceive me, if that makes sense)

had had at least one. It had led her into ruin and ended,

I supposed, by killing her. My much hated enemy,

Porvius Bloster, had had one, and it had done him no

good at all except to make him exceed his limitations

and bring destruction upon his Demesne. Even girls at

school had had dream crystals, assortments of them,

like candies. I had known what they were in a casual

way, known enough to stay away from them and

mistrust those who used them, but it was not until this

trip that I had seen them in general use. Misuse.

Whatever. It was not until this trip I had seen them

killing people by the dozens. There, that's plain

enough.

The current situation was a case in point. It was

another of those pathetic encampments we had seen

entirely too many of during the past season.

One couldn't dignify the structures even as huts.

They were the kind of shelter a bored child might build

in a few careless moments; a few branches leaned

against a fallen tree - its trunk loaded with epiphytes

and fogged by a dense cloud of ghost moths - and a

circle of rocks rimming a pool of ash. And the corpses.

Three of them this time; man, woman, and baby.

Starved to death, from the look of them, and with food

all round for the picking or digging - furry, thick-

skinned pocket-bushes full of edible nuts, a northern

thrilp bush - smaller fruit, and sweeter than the south-

ern variety - table roots just beside the tiny stream.

'Hell,' I said to Queynt, disgusted. 'I suppose they've

got those yellow crystals in their mouths, like all the rest.'

Half-right. In the lantern light we could see the male

corpse had one on a thong around his neck; the female

had one in her mouth, having sucked herself to death

on it. Their bodies were still warm. The baby was cold,

probably dead of dehydration after screaming his lungs

out for several days trying to tell someone he was

hungry and thirsty and wet.

Chance and Peter were dismounted by the corpses.

Peter gave me a troubled look, knowing I'd be upset by

the baby. Chance eased his wide belt and mused, 'I

suppose we could dig them in, though there seems

little sense to bother.'

At first we'd stopped to bury the human dead along

the road, but they had become more and more numer-

ous as we came farther north. There had soon been too

many to bury, but it still bothered me to let the babies

lie. 'I'll bury the baby,' I said in a voice that sounded

angry even to me. 'Let the others alone.'

Queynt shook his head, but he didn't argue. All the

babies reminded me of one I'd taken care of in a class

back in Xammer. The one in Xammer had the same

baffled look when he fell asleep that many of the dead

babies did, as though it had all been too much for him

and he was glad to be out of it. I wrapped this one in

our last towel, reminding myself to buy towels the next

time we got to any place civilized - if there were any

place civilized in these northlands. I'd used up our

supply burying babies and children.

Queynt said, 'Jinian, if you're going to go on like this,

I'll lay in a supply of shrouds. It would be cheaper than

good toweling.'

I flushed, getting on with the half-druggled grave I

was digging with the shovel we used for latrine ditches.

'I know it doesn't make sense, Queynt, but otherwise I

get bad dreams.' He already knew that; we'd discussed

it before.

There's a city somewhere ahead,' said Peter, trying

to change the subject. 'I can hear it.'

It wasn't surprising. He had Shifted himself a pair of

ears which stood out like batwings on either side of his

head. Probably hadn't even realized he was doing it. I

turned away to hide the expression on my face - he did

look silly - only to see Queynt touching his tongue to

the crystal the dead man had had around his neck.

Even though Queynt had told us over and over he was

immune, seeing him do that made me shudder. I was

going to find out about that alleged immunity sooner

or later, but so far he hadn't explained it. Now he saw

me shiver and shook his head at me.

'We have to know, girl!'

Well, he was right. We did have to know. Those louts

outside Zog had had crystals hanging around their

necks, too. Reddish ones. Queynt hadn't had a chance

to taste one of those, but then he hadn't needed to. It

was evident what dreams of violence and rapine they

were breeding in the brats. Along with everything else,

they had been chanting a litany to Storm Grower while

they tried to kill us. We'd been hunting Storm Grower

for some seasons now, and hearing the name in this

context made the hunt seem even more ominous than

we'd already decided it was.

Queynt nodded at me about this yellow crystal,

telling me it was like the others we'd found beside the

dead bodies along the road. Anyone touching it to his

tongue would be utterly at peace, in a place of perfect

contentment with no hunger, no thirst, no desires.

Someone sucking a crystal like that wouldn't hear a

baby crying or the sound of their own stomach scream-

ing for food. Someone sucking on that dream would lie

there and die. And there were hundreds along the road

who had done just that - families, singletons, even

whole mounted troops, dead on the ground with the

horses still saddled and wandering. We'd found one

pile of small furry things which Queynt believed were

Shadowpeople, though the carrion birds had left little

enough to identify. All with yellow crystals in their

mouths, their hands, or on thongs around their necks.

We hadn't found a single one on anyone still living.

When the grave was filled in, I pulled myself up on

the wagon seat again. Queynt nodded sympathetically

as we started off into the gray light of early dawn.

'Someone's getting rid of excess population,' he mum-

bled. 'Dribs and drabs of it.'

'What I can't figure out is how and why certain ones

are so all of a sudden excess! We've found dead

Gamesmen and dead pawns, young and old, male and

female. All with these same damn yellow things. The

crystals are all alike, same color, same size. Someone

has to be making them!'

'You've mentioned that before, Jinian. Several times,

as I recall." He sighed, yawned, scratched himself. 'You

know, girl,' he drawled, going into one of his ponder-

ous perorations, 'though we may conjecture until we

have worn imagination to shreds, theorize until our

brains are numb with it, baffle our knowledge with

mystery and our logic with the futility of it all, until we

find out where they're coming from, anything we guess

is only hot air and worth about as much.' He fell into a

brooding silence as we rattled on with the krylobos

talking nonsense to one another and Peter and Chance

riding just ahead. So we had ridden, league on league,

hundreds and hundreds of them, ever since leaving the

lands of the True Game. Some days it seemed we'd

been riding like this forever.

I could see Peter's animated profile from time to

time as he turned to speak to Chance. His face was

bronze from the sun. He'd grown up, too, in the last

few seasons. The bones in his cheeks and jaw were

bold, no longer child-like, and there was a strong

breadth to his forehead. It was his mouth that got to

me, though, the way his upper lip curved down in the

center, a funny little dip, as though someone had

pinched it. Every time I saw that, I wanted to touch it

with my tongue. Like a sweet. No. Not like a sweet.

Well, I needed comforting, and seeing him there

within reach, within touching distance, made me want

to yell or run or go hide in the wagon.

Sometimes I wished that the way I felt about Peter

was an illness. If it were an illness, a Healer could cure it.

As it was, it went on all the time with no hope of a cure.

Every morning when the early light made sensuous

wraiths of the mists, every evening when the dusk

ghosts crept into erotic tangles around the foliage (see,

even my language was getting lubricious), I found

myself thinking unhelpful thoughts that made me

blush and breathe as though I'd been running. I fur-

nished every grove with likely spots for dalliance, and

lately I'd taken to crossing off every day that passed,

counting the ones that remained until the season my

oath of celibacy would be done.

Queynt had been watching me; I caught his kindly

stare and blushed. 'Troubled about your oath?" he

asked me sympathetically.

He caught me unaware. One of the things that

bothered me about Queynt was his habit of knowing

what I was thinking. He wasn't a Demon. He had no

business just knowing that way. 'Yes.' I turned red

again. It wasn't any of his business, and yet. .. 'By the

Hundred Devils and all their pointy ears, Queynt, I

can't understand the sense of it. They said it was to let

me study the art without distractions, but I'm not

studying the art! I'm traveling. Trying to keep my skin

whole. Trying to locate Dream Miner and Storm

Grower and find out why they want me dead. Praying

Peter keeps on being fond of me at least until the oath

runs out. Celibacy doesn't seem to make a lot of sense!'

'Oh,' he said mildly, 'it does, you know. If you

examine it. For example, you've been doing summons,

haven't you?'

Well, I had, of course. A few. I might have called up

an occasional water dweller to provide a fish dinner.

Or maybe a few flood-chucks, just to help us get

through some timber piles on the road. I admitted as

much, wondering what he was getting at.

'Well, if you've been doing summons, have you ever

stopped to think what an unconsidered pregnancy

might do to the practice of the art?'

An unconsidered pregnancy - or even a considered

one - was about the furthest thing from my mind at the

moment. But this was something not one of the dams

had mentioned to me, not even the midwife, Tess

Tinder-my-hand, who would have been the logical one

to do so. My jaw dropped and I gave him an idiot look.

'Well, let's say you're pregnant and you summon up

something obstreperous in the way of a water dweller.

Then you go through the constraints and dismissal, but

the water dweller considers the child in your belly was

part of the summons. That child has neither con-

strained nor dismissed. So, time comes you give birth

to something that looks rather more like a fish than

you might think appropriate. Recent research would

indicate a good many of the magical races are the

results of just such Wize-ardly accidents.'

'Mermaids? Dryads?'

'Among others, and not the most strange, either.

Have you ever called up a deep dweller?'

I had heard them laugh a few times during bridge

magic but had never called them. Murzy had told me

to be careful, very careful, with them. I shook my head

again.

'I have. Pesky, mischievous creatures, but more than

half-manlike, for all that. If it weren't for their fangy

mouths, you'd think them children. I shouldn't wonder

if that race came from some magical accident during

pregnancy. Not that deep dwellers are common.'

All of which was something to think about. I snapped

my mouth shut and thought about it.

I'd never really understood the reason for the oath -

three years of celibacy (virginity in my case) sworn

when I was just fifteen. I'd done it, of course, because

they wouldn't let me be in the seven otherwise, and if I

weren't in the seven, I couldn't go on studying the art.

At that time, the art was just about all I had to care

about except for the seven old dams themselves. Well,

six and me.

So, I took the oath, and got initiated, and learned

some fascinating things, all a good bit of time before

Peter came along. When he did come along, however,

the oath began to feel like a suit of tight armor. There

was it, all hard and smooth outside, and there was me,

all sweaty and passionate inside. And that's the way this

trip had gone, with me being hard and cold half the

time and hiding in the wagon the rest of the time,

afraid of what might happen if I came out. I didn't

wonder that Queynt could see it. No one could have

missed it.

Peter came galloping back, head down, looking

thoroughly tired and irritable. 'More trees down. A real

swath cut up ahead. We'll need to find a way around.

No possible way of getting through it.'

When we arrived at the tumble, it was obvious he

was right. Seven or eight really big trees, fallen into a

kind of jackstraw mess, their branches all tangled

together. Lesser trees were fallen in the forest, the

whole making a deadfall that we could have scrambled

through if we'd had a few extra hours with nothing

better to do and hadn't minded leaving the wagon

behind.

Off to the right the forest thinned out a little. There

were wide-enough spaces between the trees to get

down into a meadow, and the meadow looked as

though it stretched past the obstruction and back to the

road. Chance was at the edge of the open space,

beckoning.

Queynt krerked a few syllables to Yittleby and Yattleby,

they turning their great beaks in reply. He had said,

'Can you handle this?' and they had replied, 'Why even

ask?' He had picked up a few words of the krylobos*

language over the years. I wasn't always sure that he

knew what he was saying.

It was first light, still very dim. I got off to walk beside

the wagon as it tilted from side to side over the road

banks and through the scattered trees. Watching where

I was walking had become a habit, and when I saw it I

stopped without conscious effort, hollering to Queynt,

'Shadow! Stop. Look there.'

Unlike the rivers of dark we had seen flowing along

the road farther south, this patch was a small one, the

size of an outspread cape. It lay under a willow copse,

directly in my path, easy to miss in this half-light.

When we'd started this adventure, traveling along

the shores of the Glistening Sea among the towns of

the Bight, we'd seen shadow piled on shadow. We'd

taken refuge in the wagon more than once when we'd

encountered great swatches of it creeping and crawling

about us in the forests and chasms. In comparison to

that, this little patch was almost innocent looking.

'What's holding you?' asked Peter, riding down

behind us.

'Shadow.' Queynt was laconic about it. Though he

claimed to have seen it seldom before we started our

northern trip, he had accustomed himself to the sight

better than I. Shadow never failed to give me a sick

emptiness inside, a fading feeling, as though I had

become unreal. I had been shadow bit once, in

Chimmerdong. As they say, once bit, twice sore.

'Well.' He sat there for a moment, staring at it, shifting

from haunch to haunch, looking cross the way he does

when he's hungry. 'It doesn't look any different from

any other we've seen. Are you going to sit here all

morning looking at it, or can we go around it and get

back to the road?' Peter was, as usual, impatient.

There was no reason to watch it. Shadow seldom did

anything. When it was angered, and as far as I knew no

one knew what made it angry, it attacked. Otherwise, it

simply lay. Anything that stepped into shadow, of

course, would be better off dead sooner than it died.

Moved by a fleeting curiosity, I took off one boot and

set my bare foot on the ground. There was a tingle

there, very slight, which meant there was a remnant of

the Old Road buried deep beneath us. I'd had the

suspicion for some time that the shadow gathered

mostly where there were remnants of the Ancient

Roads, though I had no idea what it meant. Seeing

Queynt's curious gaze focused on me, I flushed and

put my boot back on.

We led the birds around the shadow patch, though I

think they were fully capable of avoiding it on their

own, and then back up through the meadow to the

road once more, where the stack of shattered trunks

was now blocking the way behind us. Since hearing

those Zoggian brats chant their litany to Storm Grower,

I had a pretty good idea where this kind of damage

came from - not that we could verify it. Ever since we'd

first seen this random destruction, we'd asked about it.

Those we'd asked didn't answer. Since we had no

Demon with us to read minds, we had given up asking,

but we hadn't given up wondering. We went on, with

me still suspiciously looking for shadow as we rattled

along the road.

'There's the city Peter heard,' said Queynt.

We had topped a rise and looked down into a green

valley, a city cupped at the center. The place was

crowned with ostentatious mansions, much carved

stone and lancet windows and so prodigious a display

of banners - which were either excessively pink or

blushed by the sunrise - some festival must have been

in progress. I sighed. Towns of any kind seemed to

mean trouble recently, and I was too tired even to fight

for my life.

'I wonder if there's an inn with a good cook!'

'Burials make you hungry, do they?'

I swallowed my protest. Fact was, they did make me

hungry. As did traveling, practicing the wize-art, talking to

animals, or virtually anything else one wanted to men-

tion. 'Good appetite, long life,' I said sententiously.

'I suppose you're right.' He sighed, peering down at

his own round belly. 'My appetite is very good, and I

seem to have lived some time.'

'Which is a story you have promised to tell me,

Queynt. About long life, and immunity to crystals, and

things.'

'Ah, well, Jinian. Sometime.'

'I'll make you a deal, Queynt. You tell me about you

and the crystals after breakfast, and I'll tell you some-

thing you don't know.'

'It's a long, dull story.'

I snickered. Queynt didn't tell dull stories. Oh, he

could be dull, but if he was, it was for a purpose. At

storytelling, he was a master. I said, 'I presume as

much, and we haven't time now, anyhow. The city will

be all around us shortly. But when we find lodging? Is it

a promise?'

'You won't let me alone until I do. You're a pre-

sumptuous chit. A nuisance. Still, there's no real reason

not to tell you, and it may gain me a little peace.'

I held out my hand to clasp his, making a bargain. I'd

wanted to hear that story for a long time, but Queynt

always seemed to evade telling me about it.

A difference in the sound of the wagon wheels rang in

my ear. Paving. The talons of the krylobos scraped upon

cobbles. Beside the wagon a sign. BLOOME WELCOMES

YOU. Another, only slightly smaller. SHEBELAC STREET.

CHAPTER TWO

We rode on Shebelac Street, paved as far as the eye

could see with glistening cobbles, shiny as turtle backs

from the night's rain. At either side were high, carved

curbs, and above that, slabs of walk-stone, embellished

with an incised serpent's twist, to make them more

interesting to walk on, I suppose. On either side of the

walks, the houses and shops of the outskirts of Bloome

were still quiet against the jungle in the dawn time, not

bursting from doors and windows with banners and

bells and drums as they would on the morrow.

It took us very little time to learn that five days before

had been the procession of Jix-jax-cumbalory and that

tomorrow would be Finaggy-Bum. It took us no time at

all to learn that today the procession route would be

announced, and every house and shop holder attentive

in the forum to know whether he would need to

spend the night getting ready or might sleep for once.

Those along the Forum Road, Tan-tivvy Boulevard and

Shebelac Street had given up sleeping long since. All

processions came to the Forum along one of those

three and left by another of the same. A one-in-three

chance of sleeping the night before procession meant

less and less as the season picked up speed. Five days

hence, we were told, would be Pickel-port-poh, with

Shimerzy-waffle three days after. The cloth merchants

would rise early. The banner makers not long after.

Tent and marquee manufacturers would be in their

shops even as we rode. As I say, we were soon to learn

all this. And more.

And in the high mansion upon Frommager Hill,

reached from the Forum by the twisty peregrinations

of Sheel Street, Dream Merchant's man Brombarg -

whom we were shortly to meet - woke in an unusually

foul temper. Time had come to make a decision. Time

to go on or get out, one or the other, and he couldn't

make up his mind. If he decided to retire, he'd need a

naif to lay the job off on, and there weren't any

strangers in Bloome to choose from.

He rose, fuming, yawning, scratching his crotch with

erotic insistence. (I am not certain about this, but it

seems in character.) The festivals of Finaggy-Bum and

Shimerzy-waffle! Merchants' men were always elected

on the one and sworn in on the other. He could wear

the pink vertical for the election. No one had seen it

yet, and hideously hot and uncomfortable though it

was, it was the most stylish thing he possessed. And it

was pink! It would be at least a season before the

fashions would swing back to anything comfortable to

wear, and it might be forever before there was any

other acceptable color. Damn the machine. Couldn't

afford the fine if he was judged to be far out of fashion,

either. Being Dream Merchant's man took every coin

he could lay hands on. (It did, too. The poor fellow had

next to nothing of his own.)

Still scratching, he leaned from the westernmost of

his tall, lancet windows. From this tower he could look

across the city walls to the jungle, brilliantly, wetly

green in the morning light, swarming with birds. From

here every street in Bloome was clearly visible. Only

the huddle of servitors' huts along the walls themselves

could not be seen, they and the prodigious mill that

rumbled on the eastern border of the town, shivering

the ground in a constant hyogeal vibration.

Sheel Street sinuated down Frommager into the

Forum. He followed it with his eyes, imagining himself

on a capacious horse riding there. Down Sheel, across

the Forum, into Tan-tivvy and along that, titty-tup, titty-

tup, all the way to the city edge and away northwest.

Leaving it. Dressed in a simple shirt, mayhap, with

trousers that fit. A cape to keep off the storm and a hat

to shelter his eyes. 'Oh, by all the merchants in Zib,

Zog, Chime, and Bloome," he moaned. 'But I am sick of

this.' And he was. He would leave it in a minute - if

they would only let him!

A distant movement caught his attention.

There. Entering the city along Shebelac, which ran

south, far south, becoming merely a track at the base of

the mountains if one went far enough. What in the

name of five foul fustigars was that? A wagon drawn by

birds? And two riders alongside on great southern

horses.

Sweating with sudden excitement, Brombarg moved

toward his closet. Day before procession he could get

away with something fairly simple. He dressed quickly,

knowing he had to get to them before anyone else did.

Them, of course, was us, riding down Shebelac in

the early morning. Chance and Peter kept their eyes

busy looking at the houses and shops while I yawned

and struggled to stay awake. The two days without

sleep, mostly on the run, was taking its toll.

'Years since I've been here,' Queynt said, looking

about him with interest. Three, four hundred, maybe.

Cloth-manufacturing town, as I remember. It isn't

much bigger. They used to have a special kind of

wineghostGood merciful spirits of the departed.

What's that?'

Queynt drew up the reins, and the tall, dignified

birds halted as one, their long necks bent forward to

examine the creature that had come into the road at

the distant corner and was now plodding toward them.

'Gods,' I murmured sotto voce. 'A madman,

perhaps?" At that first instant, I really thought it was,

and my hands started for my bow.

But Peter shook his head. 'A player, maybe. The

town shows signs of festival. Costume booths on every

corner. Banner wires across all the streets."

Trust you to notice such a thing." I gave him a

relieved and adoring look - remembering too late to

make it merely friendly - and he flushed with pleasure,

pushing back the ruddy wave of hair that seemed to be

always draped across his forehead. I went on hurriedly,

'I did see the streets were freshly swept. Look at those

trews!'

We examined the trousers together, equally interested,

unequally appalled. I didn't care that much about

dress, quite frankly, and was simply dismayed at the

thought of wearing any such thing. As a Shifter, however,

Peter was professionally intrigued, busy calculating

how the vast protrusions were kept afloat. The man

coming toward us seemed to have a huge hemisphere

of fabric around each leg, which bulged forward, back,

and to either side like halves of a monstrous melon.

From the back of his shirt, five vasty wings exploded,

their inclined planes just missing the edge of his huge,

circular hat brim. Glitter shot from his hands; more

glitter from the throat, where some seal of office - a

plaque of jet picked out in brilliants - hung on a

lengthy chain. Only the boots seemed rational, and

even they were topped with a fringe of chain that

swung and tinkled as he walked.

'He comes,' intoned Queynt, 'robed in glory.'

Tinsel, I thought. Robed in tinsel. As a student in

Vorbold's House I had learned to distinguish quality,

and there was no quality in this apparition. The materials

were sleazy. The seams were crooked, gaping, shedding

frayed thread from the edges.

'I greet you, strangers,' puffed Brombarg, horribly

out of breath. The balloon pants were hell to walk in;

he had forgotten that. (A perennial optimist, Brom. He

did tend to forget unpleasant things.) 'Welcome to

Bloome.'

Peter and I bowed politely. Both of us had been

school-reared for sufficient time to make courteous

behaviour almost second nature. Chance and Queynt

were subject to no such disadvantage. In any case,

Chance wouldn't have submitted to mere courtesy.

'What in the name of Seven Hundred Devils are you

got up as?' he demanded.

Heaven smiles on me, thought Brombarg. A naif has

come to save me. 'Clothing, stranger,' he said. 'We're

having a minor festival, and we all dress a bit ...

fantastical during it.' (I can tell you what he was

thinking. Later it became more than obvious.)

'There,' said Peter. 'I knew it.'

I had seen lies before, and I knew one had just

crossed Brombarg's mind, though his lips might have

told most of the truth. Still, I smiled with a kindly

expression. 'We'll need costume, then, if we decide to

stay.'

'Not obligatory.' He waved a coruscating hand,

throwing sun-sparkles into my eyes. 'Certainly more

fun, wouldn't it be? But no need to go to any trouble.

I've a wardrobe full of festival dress. You're welcome to

it. And to the hospitality of the mansion. Yonder.' He

gestured again, upward at the looming bulk of the walls

upon Frommager Hill. 'A short way up Sheel Street.'

Then you are?' I pursued the point, catching

Queynt's skeptical look. He was no credulous youth to

believe everything he heard. Chance, neither, who was

still staring at the apparition before them, breathing

heavily through his mouth as though to taste what it

might be. 'You didn't tell us your name.'

'Auf!' Dramatic blow to the forehead to illustrate his

own stupidity. 'Dream Merchant's man. Brombarg.

Everyone calls me Brom.'

'Dream Merchant's man? I don't think I know the

title." Still smiling, though inside every fiber quivered to

alertness. A solid lead to the Dream Miner, perhaps? I

knew Brom wouldn't take offense at a woman. Queynt

was keeping still. He knew what I was trying to find out,

though Peter didn't, shifting on his horse impatiently as

he was. Well, poor man, he had been riding all night.

'Ah . .. why, there used to be a Merchant's man in

each town hereabouts. Cloth Merchant's man in

Bloome. Pottery Merchant's man in Zib. Metal workers

were over in Thorne, and so on. Merchants' men did

the job of managing the towns - you know, Zib, Zog,

Zinter, Thorpe, Fangel, Woeful, Chime, and Bloome.'

He chanted this last like an incantation, grinning and

sweating the while. 'All the towns need someone to

see to the garbage, you know, and to the streets and the

fire brigade. So, when the Dream Merchant set up in

Fangel, he took over all the old Merchants' men and

made 'em Dream Merchant's men. Different title but

same duty, you know.' The man was a fountain of

inconsequential information.

'Dream Merchant?' Queynt was smiling, quiet, non-

threatening, helping me out. 'That's one I haven't

heard before.'

'Would your invitation include breakfast?' This Peter,

breaking our concentration, changing the subject. 'I'm

starved.'

Sighs all around. I was peeved at the interruption,

thinking it too soon to put ourselves in the man's arena;

Queynt likewise; Chance and Peter both hungrier than

consonant with good sense and relying, as usual, on

Peter's Shifter Talent to get them out of trouble that a

little patience might have avoided. Brombarg grinning,

turning to lead us up Sheel Street. Windows beginning

to open, now, and him in a hurry to get us high above

the town before someone said or did the wrong thing.

Yittleby and Yattleby, the two giant krylobos who

drew the wagon, turned to one another, then to

Queynt. 'Krerk whittle quiss?'

I heard the question conveyed in this wise. 'This

man is dishonest, friend-humans. Do we follow him or

kick him to death?'

'Follow,' I said to them in a croaking whisper. They

whistled a few choice phrases and nodded plumes at

me, argumentative but obedient. Queynt cast me a

sidelong look. Perhaps I wasn't fooling him. Perhaps he

knew what my Talent was, though I had not told him.

Peter had already dismounted to walk beside Brom-

barg. 'What is the nature of your festival, Merchant's

man? Is that the correct title?"

Brom nodded, puffing. 'We are a festival-ridden city,

my friend. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?'

'Peter. Just that. We don't much use other titles.'

Brom smiled more widely. In his experience, those

who had tides used them, and those who had none said

they didn't care for them. So, likely these were insig-

nificant creatures of a certain eccentricity. (He had begun

to patronize us.) The birds, for example. Now there was

a team worth having. (This was evident from his expres-

sion.) He revised his earlier vision to include himself on

Queynt's wagon seat, riding titty-tup down Tan-tivvy

toward away. (Extrapolation, but not unjustified.)

'The lady's name is Jinian. Beside her is Queynt, and

the other one is Chance.'

'And you come from?'

'Far away,' said Queynt firmly. To the south.'

Brom smiled more widely yet. No titles, no place of

residence. Drifters. Tra-la. He did not notice my eyes

fixed upon him from behind, like a gimlet into a hole,

no longer smiling. 'As to our festival, it is the festival of

Finaggy-Bum, during which are processions, bands,

feasting and gaiety, dancing in the streets, and fire-

works at dusk. And,' he said with a sidelong, sly look,

'the determining by the Cloth Merchants' Council of

who should be Merchant's man for the next year.'

He must have been disappointed that we showed no

interest in this topic. Instead, Peter changed the subject

once more. 'Are there many Gamesmen hereabout?'

We had seen none of the familiar Game garments

among those on the streets.

'Gamesmen? From the True Game lands? Oh, no,

young sir, indeed not. It seems their Talents are some-

what muted in these Northern Lands. Was a Tragamor

came through only a season ago told me he could not

Move a filled cup off the table here in Bloome.'

'Krerk,' said the left-hand krylobos, most probably

Yittleby. 'Liar.'

'I know,' I agreed. Still, there were very few Games-

men about. Either they did not come here, or did not

stay here, or ... Or they stayed here in some other

guise than their own.

'Keraw whit,' agreed the birds.

The way up Sheel Street was lengthy because of its

many turnings as it wound back and forth across the

hill. There were wagons everywhere, transporting bolts

of cloth, mostly of a vile, organic pink color. There

were more costume shops, and here and there a booth

blazoned, NEWEST CRYSTALS: NEW FEELINGS; NEW

TALENTS: NEW WORLDS OF SENSATION, with a

display case of dream crystals glittering inside, green

and violet and amber orange. I didn't see any of the

reddish ones we'd seen at Zog or any of the piss-yellow

ones we'd found on the corpses, but every other color

was shown.

Large, ornate houses stood on either hand, most of

them in some state of disrepair, sounds of occupancy

beginning to be heard in the street, 'Morning, Brom,'

said one gatekeeper curiously, leaning on his broom as

he spoke. His hat was two armspans tall, with a ruff of

feathers at the top, and his trousers were made up of

narrow ribbons wound 'round his legs, ending in a

kind of obscene pink tassel over his crotch. 'Visitors?'

'Visitors.' Brom waved offhandedly, not stopping.

'Hungry visitors, Philp. Can't stop. Have to offer some

breakfast before they fall flat.' Then, as the road turned

to come back above the sweeper, 'Nice fella, that. Cloth

merchant. 'Course, most of us in Bloome are, come to

that.'

We approached the portal and were admitted to the

courtyard through a narrow door set in the greater

one. Queynt unharnessed the birds, refusing the assist-

ance of a rat-faced stableman, and left them to guard

the wagon. We hadn't walked twenty paces down a

corridor after Brom when a terrified squeal from the

courtyard brought us back. The rat-faced man lay

supine beside the wagon, a large bird's foot planted on

his belly. 'I was just having a look at the wagon, having

a look, that's all.'

'I wouldn't,' said Queynt cheerfully. 'The birds don't

like it.'

Brom's face was not quite as cheerful as he led us the

rest of the way to the dining room. He left us there

while he spoke to certain kitchen people, obtaining

enough reassurance from that to regain his grin by the

time he returned. 'Breakfast coming,' he said. 'Baths if

you want them. Then - why, then I can lend you some

clothes to wander about town, if you like.' He seemed

almost to be holding his breath as he awaited our

response.

'Perhaps after we've eaten,' I said firmly, in a don't-

contradict-me voice. 'We'll talk about it then. And we

would appreciate a bath, if you don't mind.' Thinking it

would be the one way we could get off to ourselves.

Which I, but only I, achieved after refusing an

officious offer of service from a chambermaid. Brom

accompanied the men to their bath and stayed with

them. Peter told me later he thought Brom would

probably have washed their backs for them given half

an opportunity. They came back for me when they

were clean and brushed, and without ceremony I

invited Peter and Queynt inside, saying, 'Excuse us a

moment, Brom. There are a few things we need to

discuss ..." waving him away with Chance, hearing

Chance's voice start up immediately.

This is a city worth seeing, sure enough, friend

Brom, but let me tell you about the city of Cleers. Well,

now...'

'For heaven's sake, Jinian. What's the matter?' Peter

knew from my expression I was bothered.

'I have a notion of trouble, and the man's a liar.'

Queynt was examining the room for hidden panels

or grills. 'What do your notions tell you, friend Jinian?'

'Hints only, but worth considering. Whatever the

Merchant's man is up to, it isn't what he says he's up to.

I suggest we go wary, Peter, wary.'

'Seems a nice-enough fellow.'

'I'm telling you.'

'I hear you. Seems determined to get us to wear his

old clothes, doesn't he?'

"That, yes. Among other things.'

'You think he's connected to this Dream Miner

nemesis of yours?'

'Could be.'

'A lot of villainy to lay on one strangely dressed

fellow.'

'I know. He may not be involved at all, but he's

mighty sweaty and eager over something. It's that

which bothers me. He's trying to use us for ends of his

own, all excited over some possibility or other. Go

wary, folk. That's all. Don't eat anything I don't.' I laid

down my hairbrush.threw my hair over my shoulder,

and led the way to the door. 'I thank him for the bath,

at least. It's been a while.'

I scarce knew myself these days, so breezy and casual

I'd become. It was the only way I could manage to get

along with Peter, I'd found. Intensity itched at him, and

since my celibacy oath prevented our being . . . well,

closer than mere friends, it was better not to itch at him

with things he could do little about. So, I'd adopted

this manner, this easy loquacity, which sometimes

rubbed me raw. Now, for example, all I wanted to do

was huddle in the room with the others discussing all

the possibilities and deciding what to do next. It's my

basic nature to be a long thinker and slow mover; it's

more Peter's nature to push at things and see what

happens, getting himself out of scrape after scrape by

pure intuition and flashes of sudden, inspired fire.

Queynt merely watches a lot of the time, humming to

himself often, as though he were invulnerable and it

didn't matter what we do. He did so now, probably

wondering what Brom planned to give us for breakfast.

While in the bath, I had wrought a small spell over my

lips, Fire is sparkening, setting them to burn if they

touched anything unhealthful. So, I tried the sliced thrilps

in syrup, finding them delicious, and the whipped eggs

and sliced, smoked zeller, finding them likewise, the

menfolk politely letting me eat first. Seemingly, I had

worried over nothing. That is, until I raised the teacup

and felt more than a natural heat from its steam. I

coughed.

This tea,' I said, allowing my voice to complain a

little. 'It has an odd smell, friend Brom. Acrid. Some-

thing I've smelt before but don't remember where. I

think it must have become spoiled somehow. Here,

smell it?' Holding it out to him so that, perforce, he

must sniff at it and make up a puzzled face. 'Yes? I

thought so. I have some lovely stuff we bought in

Zinter, and I'll just whip into your kitchen and brew

some for us all.'

Brom did not drink the tea he had sniffed, nor did he

insist the others do so, regarding me glumly when I

returned with a steaming, well-rinsed pot.

Tour kitchen help seem oddly depressed, Brom. Is it

all these festivals? Hard on kitchen people, I've always

thought.' Passing clean cups. Seeming to pour it around,

filling Brom's cup, chatting the while in that casual,

wordy way that cost me so much effort. Peter was

looking at me with his face squeezed up, two vertical

lines between his eyes. He knew I was up to something.

Brom drank. We seemed to drink. Brom's face cleared

like a misted window under the caress of the sun.

'Oh, that's very good!' And it was, for that which had

gone into his cup, and only into his, was a Wize-ard

brew that guaranteed both calm and truth a good deal

of the time. Bless herbary. It's so useful.

'Why do you want us to wear your festival clothes?' I

asked him in a friendly voice.

'They're out of fashion,' he said, suddenly desirous

we should understand. 'Last year's. Last season's. So, if

you wore them, the arbiters might pick you up, you

know, and sentence you to service for being out of

style. They might elect one of you to be Merchant's

man. Then you could deal with the garbage and the

roads. And the Cloth Merchants' Council, and the festival

board. And the distribution of the crystals. More cloth

coming every day, all to be made something of before

tomorrow. More crystals arriving every day from

Fangel and all to be sold before the next lot conies. I'm

tired of it all. I want to ride away, down Tan-tivvy, you

know, titty-tup, titty-tup, going north.'

'Oh, I see. You were sentenced to the duty for being

unstylish? Well, why haven't you become stylish?

Surely they could find someone less stylish than you?'

'Bribes,' he muttered. 'They bribe the costume makers.

My outfits are never right. Never. Too big, too small,

too red, too green. Whatever.'

'And you can't bribe the costume makers?'

'With what?' he cried, anguished. 'Being Merchant's

man takes every coin. Who pays for the street sweepers?

Eh? Who pays for the parade horses, the musicians? All

of that falls on Merchant's man. And nothing coming in

but taxes on cloth, and that never enough!' He put his

head between his hands with a gesture of despair.

'What would happen to you if you simply went

away?' asked Queynt, tapping his glass with a fork to

make a tiny, jingly sound in the room, an obligate to

Brom's moans.

'Death. Death sudden and horrible. So they say.

Merchant's man who's derelict in his duties or goes

without leave is taken by the shadow. So they say. I

don't know. So far it hasn't been bad enough to risk it.'

Me, eyebrows halfway to my hair, nostrils narrowed

in disbelief. 'So what was in the tea you gave us, Brom?

Not healthful stuff, that.'

'Zizzy stuff was all. No worse than a bottle or two of

wineghost to make you happy with life. So you'd wear

the clothes and not realize how old-style they were.

Oh, Devils and dung-lice, I've done it now, done it, and

no other naifs coming to town soon enough. Finaggy-

Bum tomorrow, and that's the last chance, for after that

I've been summoned to Fangel. I've no time. No time.'

'Shhh.' Me once more, sorry for this unfortunate,

ineffectual fellow. Poor thing, caught in some trap or

other. Well, he bore the name of dream and dream we

sought. 'We'll stay a while,' I said. 'Perhaps we can

think of a way to help you.'

'You're crazy,' Peter said to me affectionately. I knew

I was a sometime enigma to him, the oath standing

between us like a perforated screen, half hiding, half

disclosing, driving him wild sometimes, wanting to see

what was really there. He was not sure of the true

shape of me, even now, even after months of traveling

together. This was merely one of my new insanities.

'Quite crazy. You go "round and 'round.'

' 'Round and 'round,' said Chance, making hypnotic

circles with his head.' 'Round and 'round. If the rest of

you are as near to sleep as me, you're talkin' through

your ears. I'm for findin' a bed.'

'As we all should be.' Peter dabbed his mouth with

the napkin and rose from the table. 'We've been riding

all night, after all, and lucky to do so. I thought we

never would escape those brigands on the slopes

above Zog.'

'Children,' said Queynt sleepily. 'Mere children."

'Children with crossbows,' said Peter. 'And poisoned

arrows. Deadly children. Thank you, Jinian, for the

whatever-it-was-you-did! I thought we'd die there, late

supper for the owls.'

'It was nothing.' I shrugged. It had been the hiding

spell, Egg in the Hollow, done masterfully quick in

time to save our lives, a good deal more than nothing,

but Wize-ards didn't talk about that. 'Come, Brom.

Take us to a room we may share for sleeping. We'll

keep watch, as we would in any unfriendly territory,

but that won't stop us trying to help you.'

The man's face, as he rose, was a study in halfness.

Half disappointment we had found him out. Half hope

the finding out would come back to his own advantage.

CHAPTER THREE

Brom gave us his own rooms in the tower, trying to

court our favor, I suppose, but kindly meant for all that.

There was an inner room with a wide tied, which the

menfolk allotted to me, and an outer room full of great

soft couches, which they took for themselves, barricad-

ing the outer door against intrusion with several items

of furniture. Perhaps we were overly cautious, but I had

no quarrel with the barricade. More than once on this

trip we'd been awakened to danger in the middle of

the night.

Then Queynt got out one bottle of wineghost and

Chance another. Queynt, I knew, would try to give me

at least two glasses. He found me very funny when I

had had several. 'Serious as an owl when sober, silly as

a duck when zizzy,' so he said, pretending to think it a

good thing for me to be unserious from time to time.

This time I gave him no room to get started. 'We

have a bargain,' I announced. 'You are to tell me about

your long life and what you learned from the Eesties.' .

'Arum, ah, oh,' he mumbled, 'but that would be a

bore for the others."

'Oh, not a bit of it,' said Chance. 'I've wanted to

know about those rolling stars all the years of my life,

ever since my own mother told me tales of them at her

knee. Wonderful things they are, and a wonderful tale

it is, I'm sure. Tell away, Queynt, and I'll keep your

glass filled.'

He muttered a bit, but with us all set against him, he

couldn't refuse. He settled down with a full glass. The

rest of us gathered around, and he began.

'It was shortly after I'd put brother Barish to sleep in

that cave along with his Gamesmen, most of a thousand

years ago, give a hundred or so. He had arranged to be

wakened every hundred years, and I was supposed to

meet him - supposing I lived that long, which wasn't at

all certain. We'd extended our lives quite a bit by then,

but I was doubtful I'd meet him more than once, if

that. So, having put all my kith and kin into storage, so

you might say, I went looking for something to do with

myself.

'There were many stories about the rolling stars.

People had seen them, particularly back in certain parts

of the Shadowmarches. They were said to be thick

there, so thick that the people left their farms. Not just

a few people, but many. A veritable flood of people

coming out of the north, frightened and hungry.'

His voice lost its usual pompous, theatrical tone and

fell into the rhythm of the storyteller, dreamy and

possessed. We did not interrupt him, listening with our

mouths open and glasses largely untouched at our

sides. They said that nothing prospered there ...'

Nothing prospered in the Shadowmarches. Crops

withered or were eaten by beasts. Domestic zeller

broke the fences and wandered away or went mad and

attacked the herdsmen. Rank growths sprang up along

the streams, poisoning the water. Noises in the night

woke the inhabitants from deep, drugged sleep, and

the dawn came through greenish mists with a sharp,

chemical smell.

And there were sightings of the rolling stars. Great

wheels rolling on the hills, spinning discs down the

river valleys, the smell of burned air and hot metal.

Vitior Vulpas Queynt heard all this as rumor in the farm

town of Betand, a day's travel south from the ancient

city of Pfarb Durim and as close to nothing as a town

could be, a few implement merchants huddled along

one dirt street together with one general merchandiser,

one farmstock merchant selling both hybrid and this-

world livestock and crops, two inns, and five taverns.

Don't forget the taverns, said Queynt to himself as he

came into the Blue Zeller to stand a moment waiting

for his eyes to adjust to the dark. No matter what world

one came to rest on, there were always taverns, and

those taverns were always dark. A re-creation of the

primeval cave, Queynt thought. Smoky, as from camp-

fires, with rituals as old as time. Probably earliest men

crouched in a place not unlike a tavern, fortifying

themselves with something brewed or distilled, getting

ready for the hunt. Man did not seek to return to the

womb, as some alleged. He sought to return to the

cave. Drier than a womb. More congenial.

Though not always. The Blue Zeller did not look or

sound congenial. The place was almost empty except

for a depressed-looking couple against the far wall on

either side of a sleepy child.

'Got run out of the Marches," said the barman, Guire,

nodding in the direction of the family. 'Lost everything

to the rolling stars.'

'I didn't know it was the stars causing the trouble,'

Queynt remarked in his usual uninterested voice. The

way some people were feeling lately, it didn't do to

take any position very strongly.

'If not them, then what?' brayed the woman, thin lips

drawn back over stained teeth. 'You never see anything

but them! Them and dead stock. Them and dead crops!

You never hear anything but their music - singin' wild

in the hills.'

Queynt commiserated. 'Things are better in the

south. If you're set on farming, why don't you try west

of the Gathered Waters. I just came from there.'

'No stock left,' grumbled the man. 'Nothing left.

Horses died.'

'Horses don't like it here much anyhow,' Guire

remarked, wiping the bar in an immemorial gesture.

'And there's nothing local to cross 'em to. Still, the

animal market says they've got a new strain's more

likely to make it.'

'My dad's dad said it was a damn fool world didn't

have some kind of draft animal on it,' the woman

bleated. She did not seem to be able to speak softly.

'Nothing but pombis to eat your stock. Nothing but

warnets to run you out of your house.'

'If you decide to try south,' Queynt said, 'I'd be glad

to lend you enough to stock up for the trip.'

He did not expect them to thank him, and they did

not. Both ignored the statement, peering at each other

as though for some confirmation of a closely held

suspicion. Queynt did not repeat the offer. They would

think it over, and the town was not so large they could

lose him in it. He turned back to his beer.

'What about those wild Talents,' the woman

shrieked. He wondered if she were deaf, pitching his

answer very softly to find out.

'What about them, ma'am?'

'We heard they was profligatin' down south. More

all the time. Traggymores. Flickers. Dragons and all

that. Freezin' out the common folk.' She had heard

him. The shriek was simply a harpy's cry for notice.

'It's not that bad,' he assured her, lying only a little. It

wasn't bad, quite, though it was getting worse. At first

the Talents had been interesting and, if not benign, at

least not overtly harmful. Lately, though, there had

been more and more births of Gamesmen, the name

they had chosen for themselves. Not exactly a game, he

thought. Talents were not easy to handle. Someone

needed to start some schools for the youngsters, teach

them some rules or something. He made a mental

note.

The towns around the Gathered Waters need food,'

he said. 'The Talents leave the farmers pretty much

alone.' Which was more or less true. Gamesmen would

be fools to meddle with the farms. Though Queynt had

yet to see the limit of their foolishness. Some of the

things the new race of Gamesmen did were not only

unbelievable but childishly silly and cruel. There's lots

of good land west of the Lake, and plenty of it left. The

farmstock market in Laketown sells on credit, too. I'd

recommend you go there and give it a try."

There. He'd given them his best advice. He finished

the beer and left, hearing them coming after him

before he was halfway down the short street.

'Sir! Sir!' Her voice like a whetstone, he thought,

wondering how the man and child could bear it.

Maybe they were deaf. 'We'd be mighty grateful for the

loan you offered.'

'You'll go south?' He kept his face neutral, still. No

loan would help them if they were determined to

return to the northlands.

'South,' the man agreed in a toneless mumble. 'We

won't need so much, actually. We do have one good

milk zeller left.'

He gave them money. 'When you have prospered,'

he said, 'you are to make this amount available to

someone else in need. It is a trust, you understand?'

The woman turned away, eyes wary as a flitchhawk's,

but the man gave him a straight look. 'I take it as such,

sir. Don't mind her. We left two children buried there,

north.' He put his arm protectively around the woman

and they went down the street, the child silent as a

shadow at their heels. Queynt stared after them, not

the first he had met, not the first he had sent south with

enough to buy food and little more. And still he did

not know the truth of what was happening there, in the

Shadowmarches. He would not know, until he went

himself.

He went afoot, trusting no horse - new stock or old

- carrying only a few odds and ends and what he

needed to eat to supplement stuff taken from the wild.

At one time, he thought sardonically, he would have

distrusted anything resembling a hunch, but he was in

the grip of a hunch when he walked alone up into the

Marches. It was the woman's plaint about music in the

hills that had set him off, and he thought much about

that remark during his travels. When he had come past

the farthest reach of the attempted settlements, he

found a tall rocky hill and camped himself on it in a half

: with its back to the wind.

cave'

It was a high, lonely moor he sat upon, the stones at

his back raising themselves like the heads of questing

beasts toward the lowering sky. Low, woody plants

carpeted the hills, amber and wine, bronze and green.

At the bottom of the hill, the forests began, twisted and

low in a furry mat like the pelt of some great beast,

wide swamps of darkness lying beneath the trees. And

over all a shrill, keening wind, coming and going like a

visitant ghost.

Queynt smiled, well pleased. He took the bait he had

brought out of its careful zellerskin wrappings, an

ancient instrument, one brought from the former

world, a thin column of old wood with double reeds

to blow through and a plaintive, importunate voice,

unlike any in this world. The thing made a sorrowful,

interlocutary cry, which would, he felt, summon any

creature with a grain of curiosity in its bones - or

whatever passed for bones with northern creatures.

Waiting for a caesura in the wind, he played. While

no great shakes upon the instrument, still he had a feel

for it when he stuck to easy things, and the simple

melodies winged out from the height like native birds

seeking nests. A few quiet elegies and nocturnes were

what he knew best. When he had finished, the hills

around sank into waiting silence.

It was the third day he was there - playing each day a

bit at dawn, noon, and dusk, sitting in the meantime

quietly over a steaming pot of grain and broth, mostly

native stuff  that he heard a phrase from one of the

elegies come fluttering at him out of the shadows along

the hill. It was almost the sound of his double reed, but

not quite, and the phrase was followed by a tiny

spitting sound which could not be other than an

expression of artistic annoyance.

In a moment the unknown singer tried again, closer

this time, but still not exactly. Queynt set the reeds

between his lips, gave a faintly expository warble, then

played the melody into the waiting air once more.

A small creature, virtually invisible in the dusk, came

out upon the hillside before him and sang. It had wide

ears, huge eyes. From either side of its face soft, flowing

whiskers swept back to join its shadowy mane, and

needle teeth glimmered in the half-light. It had the

flattish star shape of all the tailless, backboneless crea-

tures of this world, yet with legs, arms, and head that

parodied humankind. It stood there and sang.

By the time full dark had come they had progressed

to the point that Queynt dared assay a contrapuntal

arrangement. The shadow voice dropped into silence.

Queynt played the first part again, encouragingly, taking

up the counterpoint when the singer began again. After

several false starts the singer got the idea and they

proceeded through the composition, harmonically inter-

twined. During this concert, Queynt was conscious of a

soft gabble, interrupted by fragments of song, as

though the audience were explaining to one another

the intricacies of this new - obviously new - kind of

music.

So, he thought with satisfaction, they are musical but

did not know harmony. What an interesting gift to

have given them. He set his instrument down, put a

few more sticks on the fire, and settled himself to await

developments. There were none. There was only a

softly retreating murmur interspersed with fragments

of melody. After some time, he sighed and settled

himself to sleep.

The following night they progressed further. Not

only did the singer keep strongly to the melody, but

the harmony was picked up by other voices in the

woods. By the end of the evening Queynt was sure he

heard one flutelike voice in an original harmonic line

high above the rest.

On the third night they sang and Queynt listened

ruefully, wondering if he would ever touch his own

instrument again. When they had finished, he felt a

small hand tugging at his own to put something in it.

There were half a dozen jewels there, bright blue and

faceted. He held them, admiring them, surprised when

the same tiny hand took one from him and pressed it

to his lips. His sucking reflex took it in, fondling it with

his tongue.

When he came to himself again, the fire was burnt to

ashes, only a few coals blinking at him from slow,

basilisk eyes. Nothing was left of the jewel. It had

dissolved into him, permeated him. He could feel it

moving in his veins, a flow of quiet certainty. Beside

the dead fire crouched the singer. When it saw he was

awake, it pointed to the pouch at his belt, to his hand.

The jewels he had held had been put away. Finger on

lips, the creature shushed him. Secret. Secret gift. Not

to be mentioned. Then it summoned him with flicker-

ing fingers. Queynt packed up his few belongings and

followed.

Though he was an experienced woodsman, a good

tracker, an excellent navigator, he was never able to

find the place again. Sometimes, remembering it, he felt

there had been some large, brilliant curved structure in

the background. Other times he remembered only

forest and rock. Whatever the setting may have been,

he was sure of one thing. The Eesties.

'The singers call us Eesties or Eeties, which in their

language means "bone music" or "bone song" or some

other such phrase. Call us something similar if you

like.'The star stood to speak with him, tall upon two of

its points, the other three moving as though blown by a

harsh wind. Later he recalled it as having had a face

painted at its upper end, but the voice spoke as much

inside Queynt's head as in his ears. He did not find this

surprising. What he did find surprising was the tone of

irritation, of an angry contempt that hid something

deeper and more vital. 'Why did your like come to this

world?'

Queynt spoke of several ships that had fled to this

world in recent centuries, his own group only one

among many, and of the wars and destruction they had

fled from.

'You have fled from destruction, yet brought it with

you? Like a. beast which flees from the plague it carries?'

Since this was what Queynt himself had thought

many times, he could only agree.

'We try to flee. We, some of us, do not want such

violent things, do not want conflict. So we try to run.

But I suppose we do bring some of it with us.'

'Like the little singers, the Shadowpeople. They,

too, desire holiness. They, too, have little talent for

it.' The creature's irritation seemed exacerbated by this,

a scarcely veiled hostility that did not at first threaten

force, but rather seemed to imply anathema, a casting

out. It was as though the Eesty tolerated Queynt's

presence at all only with difficulty, and now the men-

tion of his yearnings for peace infuriated it. It was then

Queynt thought he identified what lay beneath the

anger, beneath the contempt. Guilt. This being, what-

ever it truly was, was guilty of something, and that guilt

ate at it like a cancer. He did not know how he knew

this. Later, he realized the crystal he had taken had

enlightened him in ways he was scarcely aware of.

'We want you to go hence,' the creature told him.

'Go away, to some other world. This one does not

need you. You do an evil thing here.' It moved away in

a flutter of ribbons, leaving a stink of hatred behind it.

Queynt could not understand what the evil was they

were trying to communicate. The concepts swam in his

head, half-formed, vertiginous edges of ideas which

touched and darted away, only partly seen. A word.

'Bao.' Or maybe 'Bah-ho.' It had no meaning for him. In

it there were Eesties, Shadowpeople, birds, beasts, trees,

long white roads under a scarlet sun, stars spinning

upon them in a constant glittering flow. Disruption. He

tried to explain that the ships were gone, disassembled,

that mankind could not leave. The Eesty went angrily

away.

It tried again later. 'Badness is being done. (Most

desirable of all things) is being destroyed.'

Again he struggled with the concept. Humans were

doing something wrong. He could not tell what it was.

Not a matter of breaking a taboo, not a matter of

destroying some holy site. More than that. They were

doing this (had done this?) evil by merely existing.

Then why did the creature feel guilt? What was it

hiding?

Then there were three of the Eesties, not now

merely questioning him but examining him as well,

looking into him as though digging some root crop,

plunging through him to leave disruptive pain behind.

One of them had his pouch, was looking through it.

They saw the blue gems.

Fury. Anger. Hot, hideous, destructive. The air blazed

around him, fire hot, making him fear for his life until a

great cry came from somewhere, from some other Eesty,

perhaps, a warning, a threat? The creatures were all

around him, whirling in a frenzy of hatred, frustrated

hostility, desire to kill. Queynt fell to the ground,

covered his neck with his hands, curled upon himself

knowing he was to die then, there, in the instant.

Against that anger was no possibility of reprieve. Even

through his fear he heard the cry come again, louder,

more impassioned, a kind of agonized command.

Another of their kind had come and made them stop.

'Ganver,' someone whispered. 'Ganver.'

Then it was all over and he was alone upon the

hillside, unchanged, totally changed. He had failed, but

so had the rolling stars; they had exhausted one

another in their mutual failure.

He had understood almost nothing. How could he

have understood its frustration, its anger, perhaps its

fear? The bright images swam in his head like fishes,

but he had no hooks with which to catch them. There

was an understanding that evaded him, a sense of

incompletion.

The singers came back for him, sadly, patting him on

his bruised places and offering herbal teas and poultices.

He came down out of the hills, sometimes playing for

the Shadowpeople, sometimes listening as they sang

for him. To accompany their singing they had only

drums. When he returned to a town where there were

craftsmen, he had bells made, and silver flutes, taking

them into the Marches as gifts for the Shadowmen ...

'And now, a thousand years later, I sit in a tower

room,' he said, 'in a strange city telling the story to

Jinian Footseer, watching the wrinkle between her

eyes deepening like a crevasse. You will be a quizzical

oldster, Jinian. What deep thoughts has my story raised

in you?'

I was fingering the star-eye that hung about my

throat, which had hung there since I had received it

from Tess Tinder-my-hand when I was only a child. I

had always thought of it as an Eesty sign. Now that

Queynt had told me his tale, I was not sure it was an

Eesty sign at all. The Eesties he described were not

what I had thought then. They were not what Mavin,

Peter's mother, had thought them, either. A mystery

there. I asked him, 'But if they hated you, why have you

lived so long, Queynt?'

'Something to do with the blue crystal, I think. When

I left the Marches, I knew I would live a very long life.

No. That's not quite right. I was conscious of death

being remote, put it that way. The blue gem did that. It

imposed a kind of understanding upon the fiber of

oneself.

'I said to Peter once they would likely do the same

for him. I think they would do so for any of us. If

whatever makes the gems could only make enough of

them to go around, to make everyone understand

what I did ..." I recoiled at this, but he did not see me. I

could not bear the thought of being compelled by

some outside force. I rebelled against it. He went on,

That is why I am immune to other crystals, I suppose.

The pattern of the first one, the blue one, is too well set

in me to be disrupted.'

He sighed then, taking the pouch from his belt and

pouring the crystals into his palm. "There are enough

here for you to have one, and Peter."

I thrust out my hands, warding him away. 'No! No,

Queynt. Not for me. And I would nope Peter would say

no as well. I do not like the thought of compulsion.'

He shook his head at me. 'Not compulsion, Jinian.

Information, more like. It is as though I had been given

a map which showed both the good roads and the

swamps. Is it compulsion to avoid the swamps if one

knows they are there?'

I thought he was sincere, but still I would have none

of it. Compulsion is always said to be something else.

'Kind of you, Queynt, but no.' Changing the subject, 'It

is noon. We have been riding for two days without

sleep. If you wish to drink and tell tales, do so, but

quietly. I'm going to sleep.'

Which I did, lying awake only a little time thinking

about Queynt's story and that strange word or meaning

the Eesties had used. Bao. Bah-ho. I knew I would

think of it at more length another time.

CHAPTER FOUR

I woke with a start to a cacophony of shouts, thuds,

and explosions. Among these louder sounds were

Chance's whuffing complaint at being wakened and

Queynt's calm voice going on in one of his loquacious

monologues.

'... when one is having the best rest one has had for

ages, something eccentric in the way of barbaric

behavior breaks loose outside one's window, and the

peace of the evening is disrupted ..." It was disrupted

further by more violent blows on the door and another

explosion from the street below.

'Friends, visitors!' Brom's voice, frantic with a mixture

of frustration and panic. The fireworks shop on Shebe-

lac Street has caught fire and is going up all at once. Let

me in. You have the best windows!'

Furniture-moving sounds came from the neighbour-

ing room, the barricade being removed. I rose, albeit

reluctantly, leaning out of my own window to watch

bouquets of rockets blooming across the darkening sky

above a volcano of spouting scarlet. Whistles and sirens

competed for attention. Figures as dark and tiny as ants

ran to and fro before the leaping light.

It was night. We had slept the day away. I rummaged

in my pack for something to wear, taking what was on

top, one of the voluminous smocks they wore in the

purlieus around Zog. Pulling the soft, bright fabric over

my head, I went into the other room.

Brom hung half-out the window, hitting his fist on

the sill in an agony of amused apprehension. 'Oh,

what a mess! It's funny, you know, but it isn't funny at

all. At dawn tomorrow comes Finaggy-Bum - not a

major festival, but one that deserves some effort for all

that - and there won't be a rocket left. The revelers will

be so disappointed.'

'Revelers?' asked Queynt. 'Who are the revelers?'

'Why, Queynt, those for whom the festivals are held,

surely. Those from the towns of Zib and Zog, Chime

and Woeful. Those from the villages and farms around

Thorpe. Those travelers from no settled place. We do

all we can here in Bloome to attract them, though there

are those who say our festivating so to excess has

lowered our custom rather than raising it..."

'Customers? For?'

'Well, originally for anything at all made of cloth, sir.

We're a cloth-weaving town, after all. More recently for

the dream crystals as well. What else have we to sell?

Why else am I Dream Merchant's man?'

'Would some of these be yellow crystals?' I asked.

'Yellow as piss, about the size of my thumb-tip?'

'They would not,' Brom said in an offended voice.

They would be green ones, some large, some small.

And amber-brown ones as big as my ear. And little red

ones. Those yellow crystals were never intended for

commerce. Dream Merchant sent a man here from

Fangel. He told me to keep an eye out, confiscate any I

found. Which I did. Told me to destroy any I found.

Which I would have done. Save for that damned

Oracle. Took the sack I put them in. Took them all.

Stole them.'

'Would dais "Oracle" be a strange creature in a fancy

robe?' I asked. 'With a painted face, and full of emphatic

language?'

Brom assented at once to this description. 'Oh, he

came here, all ribboned up like a Festival Horse,

wandered around Bloome, full of amusing stories. So, I

invited him here to amuse my ... my friends. When

every day is festival it's hard to come by any genuine

amusements. He was gone the next day, and so was the

whole sack of yellow crystals meant for the disposal

pits. And since, then I've been hearing troubles from

. every side. People who should have come to Bloome

to take part in festival, who should have come to buy

costumes, come to buy good crystals, dead along the

road! Dead! What good will that do commerce? I ask

you! Bad enough that half the roads are ruined.'

For a moment, when it seemed he knew something

about the crystals, I had been almost ready to fly at him,

dagger in hand (and no small weapon, but the Dagger

of Daggerhawk which needed only to touch in anger to

cause death). Now I took my hand out of my pocket.

The Dagger was in its holster high upon my thigh. It

was seldom far from my reach, but Brom did not seem

worth the use of it. Besides, what he had to say was

interesting.

I said casually, 'And what has destroyed half the

roads, Brom? Come. Tell us.'

He choked. I saw him struggling not to speak. He

had been told not to speak? Threatened, perhaps?

Whatever it had been that kept him silent was no

match for the truth tea we had given him.

'Storm Grower,' he mumbled, making two syllables

out of it, the last one a growl.

'Why? Why is that, Brom?'

'Does ... does that when she's angry. When people

don't... do what she wants. Oh, don't make me speak.

She'll kill me, truly she will. Or Dream Miner will. Or

the Merchant. He's their son, you know. So he says. I

don't believe it, but so he says.'

'So you are not responsible for ruining roads or

distributing yellow crystals. None of it.'

'None of it but doing my job,' he sulked. 'And that's

no more than anyone would do. All I really want to do

is go away.'

'How was it you had the things in the first place?'

asked Peter, watching the man through narrowed eyes.

'Where did you say you got them?'

They came in a shipment from the Dream Merchant

in Fangel, as all of them come. Neatly packed in boxes,

a dozen to the box. They come to me from the district

headquarters, in Fangel. They come to Fangel from the

Dream Miner, I suppose. How these yellow ones got in

with the others, no one says. No one tells me anything.'

'And the Miner gets them where?' pressed Queynt,

eager to learn something real after our long search.

'Why, I suppose he digs them up! I've seen Dream

Mines. Well, no, I saw one. A little one, just outside

Fangel. Nice old fella there, him and his wife, they

watch the place. He digs them up with a shovel and a

pick, just like you'd dig for anything.'

An idea nicked through my head, one of those

quick, glittering ones that go before you can grab it.

Something to do with mines and crystals. I sighed.

'There for a moment, I thought I had something. By

the Hundred Devils, Queynt, but this whole business

gets stranger and stranger.'

There's nothing we can do about it now, Jinian,' said

Peter, doing what he too often did, coming close to

me, putting his arm around my waist, his hand flat

against my side, burning there with an aching heat. I

took a deep breath and moved away, choking back a

desire to return the caress.

'I suppose you're right. But still, I'd like to know

more about these mines.'

'Well, of course,' said Brom. 'If you'd like to come

with me to Fangel, you could see the one I saw for

yourself. But if you come with me to Fangel, you

wouldn't be staying here in Bloome, and I'd still be

Merchant's man.'

I returned to the other room as Chance said, 'And

why're you goin' up to Fangel, friend Brom? Is it a city

worth seein'?'

There's to be a great reception there for the delegation

of the Duke of Betand on his way north,' came the

answer in a dull, uncaring voice. 'Him and his new

allies. The Ogress, Valearn. The Witch, Huldra. There's

another Gameswoman, too, but her name I can't

remember. All the Merchants' men have been sent for.'

I turned, suddenly alert, seeing Peter stiffen as well.

He had responded to the first name mentioned; I to

that of Valearn. Queynt, too, had suddenly grown very

quiet. 'Huldra?' he said. 'Peter, I seem to recognize that

name from conversations I had with Mavin. Isn't that

the twin sister of your old friend Huld?'

'Gamelords,' Peter hissed. 'I thought that family done

with. Is there no end to them?' He began to enumerate

them, coldly ticking them off with his fingers. There

was Huld's father, Blourbast the Ghoul. Huld killed

Blourbast, and Mavin saw him do it. Then Mavin

herself killed Pantiquod the Harpy, Huld's mother, and

that other harpy, Foulitter, Huld's half sister. All that

was long ago, before I was even born. Then I came

along to fall victim to Huld's son-thalan, Mandor. He

died by his own act, though Huld held me at least

partly responsible. I thought all were gone but Huld,

and him we did away with on the Wastes of Bleer. That

should have been an end to it! Now we hear there's

another one yet alive? That Huld had a twin?'

That and worse,' I said from the doorway. 'You also

did away with King Prionde on the Wastes of Bleer. But

he had a sister-wife, Valearn. Their son, Valdon, was

killed by the Faces some eighteen or nineteen years

ago, so Mavin told me, though it is unlikely they ever

knew Mavin's part in that..."

'My mother seems to have confided greatly in you

both,' said Peter, not altogether pleasantly.

'Peter, before we began this journey, you may recall

that you and I and Mavin and Himaggery and a great

mob of people all traveled together to Hell's Maw, a

trip of some days' duration, during which time I got to

know her rather well. She told me her life's story, as

she would have been glad to tell you if you'd ever

taken time to sit down and listen. I continue: Out of

grief, it is said, Valearn turned Ogress and feasted upon

the children of our region. Those of us from the lands

around the Stonywater in the south were warned to

fear her more than her late husband, the King. And

now these two are allies with the Duke of Betand? I

heard of these dangerous alliances in Xammer!'

(Actually, I had heard of them at the Citadel of the

Wize-ards, but that was no one's business but mine.)

'Now, what is going on here? What is the reason for

these alliances?'

Brom was looking from one to another of us, his

worried face growing more haggard with each word he

heard us say. 'It would be more likely for the Cloth

Merchants' Council to award you ten thousand bonus

points than for me to know anything about that, lady.

Do you think the Dream Merchant consults me? Do

you think he asks a Merchant's man, "May I take an

ally?" He sends us crystals to sell, and sometimes he

summons us up to Fangel for some do or other, and

that's all I know about the monsters you're talking of.

And I'm supposed to go be part of a welcoming

deputation!' He sobbed. 'I would as soon walk into a

gnarlibar's jaws.'

'Ah, well,' I said comfortingly. 'It is the Merchant's

man who is to go, is it not?'

'I. Me. The Merchant's man, yes.'

'And on the festival of Finaggy-Bum, tomorrow, the

arbiters of Bloome will select their Merchant's man?"

'From among the least stylish, yes. But you have

found me out. You were not naifs at all. My chances of

laying the job off on one of you are next to nothing.' So

saying, he burst into angry tears, letting them flow

down his face and into his beard without bothering to

wipe at them at all. The truth tea had this effect of truth

telling even upon emotions. Chance patted the fellow

on the shoulder, commiserating, while Queynt tried to

hide his smile.

'I think we may assure your stylishness tomorrow,' I

told him. 'And one of us will wear your old clothes,

friend Brom, thus guaranteeing that it will be one of us

who goes to Fangel as Merchant's man of Bloome.' Of

course, which one of us it would be was another

matter.

'One of us, then,' I said to the troupe. 'Whoever

wishes to act the part?'

'I,' said Queynt. 'Peter and Chance may be known to

Huldra or Valearn. You traveled in the High Demesne,

didn't you, my boy? Some three or fours years ago?'

'We did, yes. But I never saw Prionde's wife. Chance,

did you?'

'I didn't see any such lady. Oh, there was talk of a

wife hiding somewhere in a tower, but I never saw

her.'

'Still, she may have seen you. You, Jinian, will be

needed for something else. Therefore, it must be me.'

Queynt smiled again, posturing. 'I will make a very

good Merchant's man.'

'We are not too different in size,' said Brom. 'The old

things would fit you. But... but no matter what we do,

it may be the Cloth Merchants' Council will still hold

me to the position. They've said I'm not bad at the job.

Or maybe they just hate me. Oh, it may be hopeless!'

'We will see to that,' I promised him. 'Do they meet

at any given time and place?'

They will meet tonight," he answered. 'In the loft of

the weaving mill.' He turned away, his face working,

murmuring as he went, 'Think of it. Riding out of

Bloome. Titty-tup, titty-tup, along Tan-tivvy Boulevard.

Not to Fangel. No. West, I think. Or even south. Titty-

tup, titty-tup.' He went down the corridor, galloping as

though he had a hobby between his legs, lashing one

thigh with an imaginary whip.

'Mad,' said Queynt almost affectionately. 'Quite

mad.'

The great mill of Bloome crouched upon the eastern

edge of the city, a heaped monstrosity, glaring bane-

fully through a hundred eyes, growling and munching

as it ate the provender brought by the citizens, spewing

out its cloth in endless lengths to be rolled into bolts

and carried away. Day and night those who were not

involved in the festivals of Bloome were involved in

feeding the mighty machine or carrying its excreta away.

Just now all the shoulder-high slots in the courtyard

were vomiting fabric of an excruciating pink color into

waiting wagons. A bored knife man stood to one side,

ready to cut the weave when each cart was full, and

around him the drivers sat, some drinking, some

playing at dice, some half-asleep.

From this cluttered courtyard, a narrow door opened

upon an even narrower iron stair, which twisted its

skeletal length upward through roaring, dust-filled spaces

to a loft. This space, tall as a church, was lit by grimed

windows and a few scattered bulbs whose filaments

alternately glowed and dimmed as the mechanicals

below grumbled and howled. There, at a broken-

legged table, the Cloth Merchants' Council of

Bloome sat upon rickety chairs at its interminable

meetings. It was here they were assembled while the

fireworks shop burned on Shebelac Street, unable to

hear the sirens for the endless growling of the looms

below.

If one looked out the dirty windows by daylight, one

could see the hoppers at the rear of the building where

the carts lined up each day to dump weeds and trees,

trash and old furniture, last night's costumes and

banners and tents into the huge, shaking hoppers. The

hoppers emptied into a steel enormity where no man

had ever gone alive and from which only fabric

emerged at the other end. There were only two rules of

life so far as the Cloth Merchants' Council was con-

cerned. Never let the machine run out of stuff to

weave. Never run out of ways to use the weaving up.

The machine had run out of raw materials only once.

Bloome had learned then that the machine had its own

ways of collecting materials if it was not sufficiently fed.

Babies, geese, fustigars, tame zeller, houses, people -

the machine did not discriminate. Since that time

(called The Exemplary Episode' in the minutes of the

council) the machine had not been allowed to run dry.

That was practical politics, that rule.

The other rule was religious.

Bloome had been a cloth-making town as long as

anyone remembered. The mill had always been there.

It was assumed to have been put there by a god or by

the ancestors, either to be equally revered. Since

neither god nor the ancestors did things without pur-

pose, the cloth, arriving in quantities ever greater and

always far more than could be used in Bloome, must

have a purpose. It had been up to the people of

Bloome to find it.

They had found it at last, after many trials. Festivals.

At first only once or twice a season, later six or eight

times a season, most recently every few days. Every few

days a new festival, to deck the city with new banners.

Every few days a new festival, requiring new costumes

for residents and visitors alike. Every few days a new

festival, with new tents and marquees to be sewn. And

in the quiet times between, weary cleanup crews

laboured to gather the materials to take to the hoppers

again. A precarious balance, but better than another

'Exemplary Episode'.

I'm not selling

the pink stuff,' said a banner maker,

who, as he often mentioned apropos of nothing,

had been a member of the council for fifty years. 'It

won't go. They don't want it. Everyone is sick to

death of it.'

'Bonus points,' remarked a heavyset, dark-skinned

woman, scratching her nose and making notes at the

same time. 'We'll award bonus points for pink. The

way we had to do with the puce chiffon three years

ago. Machine made it for two seasons, and we couldn't

give it away.'

'How about lining the streets with it? We did that

once, I remember. In my mother's time.'

Trouble is, the stuff tears so. Shoddy. You'd have half

Bloome tripping and rolling around on the cobbles.

No, we'll award bonus points and double to tent

makers if they'll quilt it in layers. Next?'

'Arahg,' growled the long-faced banner maker, refer-

ring to his notes. 'Everyone's running out of thread.

Machine hasn't given us any thread for three seasons.

We're going to have to set up to ravel if we don't get

some soon."

'We saved out a thousand bolts of that loose, blue

stuff last year,' said the heavy woman. 'The thread pulls

right out. No weave to it to speak of. We can put the

children on it.'

'Going to look like hell,' growled the banner maker.

'So what else is new?'

The door opened to admit a wizened man in a

violently striped cloak, notable for its inclusion of the

pink stuff in wide, bias-cut borders. 'Evening,' he said.

'Mergus. Madame Browl. Gentlemen. Sony I'm late.

Stuck around my front door for a little extra time

tonight waiting to see if Brom's guests came out. I think

he may have found a naif

'Evening, Philp. I didn't know anyone came to town

today. Why, when there was no festival?"

'Wasn't till early this morning. Don't think they came

for festival. Four of 'em. Wagon with birds pulling it.

Haven't seen anything like that before. Two older

fellows. One young one, one girl. Brom got to 'em

before anyone could stop him. They didn't exactly

look simple. Brom may have a time with 'em.'

The problem is,' said Madame Browl, scratching her

nose once more, 'whether we want to let Brom off the

platter. He's been a good Merchant's man, all things

taken into account.'

'Gettin' restless, though.'

'Well, restless is one thing.'

'Mad is the other. Don't want him doing anything

silly. We had one once who did, remember?'

'Tried to blow up the machine, by Drarg. Got a

hundred or so of us killed.'

'Still, I'd be disinclined to let Brom go. A visitor

simple enough to accept the honour might be too

simple to do the work!'

'Might have been an honor once,' said Mergus, the

droopy cheeks of his long, lined face wobbling as he

spoke, one tufty eyebrow up, the other down in a hairy

(diagonal that seemed to slide off his face near his large

left ear. 'Since the Dream Merchant's been in on it, it's

less so.'

'Dream Merchant only took advantage of the fact

we've flocks of revelers,' said Philp. 'The Merchants'

men in Zinter and Thorpe have to distribute crystals,

too. We're not the only town with the burden.'

'Not the only town under threat from storm, either.

We haven't been hit by wind or hail yet, but there's

towns farther north that have!' Madame Browl growled

at them, looking from face to face. 'Towns that com-

plain learn to regret it. I say we do whatever's needed

to keep things peaceful and running, and Brom's not

been bad at that.'

'Still,' said Philp, 'there was a time the Merchant's

man of Bloome worked for the Cloth Merchants'

Council of Bloome, not for some foreigner. Makes it

hard to hold him accountable.'

'Come, come,' huffed Mergus. 'We hold him

accountable enough. Except for a day or two a year

when he's off to Fangel or a few days when the

emissaries from Fangel come here, he's biddable

enough. I vote we keep Brom in the job, no matter he's

been tryin' to bribe the costume makers to get him off

the hook.'

High in one shadowed corner of the room, a slithery

shape that had been extended over a roof beam

withdrew itself into a ventilation duct, slithering out

again some distance down in the building with me in

its dusty coils. Peter and I had heard all we needed to

hear.

'Well?' asked Queynt.

'They're not inclined to let him off,' said Peter,

brushing the dust off his slithery skin even as he Shifted

back into a shape closer to his own. 'Funny thing. They

don't seem to be in control of the weaving machine.

All these festivals? Just to use up fabric.'

'Ah,' Queynt said, scratching his head with one

finger. 'What happens if they don't use up the cloth?'

Two of the oldsters were mumbling about the

machine seeking raw materials on its own. The way

they figure, they have to use it up so they can feed it

back in.'

'It seems to be religion,' I said. They're predisposed

to believe that the cloth has to be used for something.'

'Ah. Well then, we'll have to take that into account. If

the problem has emanated from a religious source, the

solution will have to come from some similar source.

What do you think, Jinian? If it's me to be the naif, then

it's you to be the plenipotentiary. From whom will you

say you have been sent, do you think?'

'A god, perhaps. There's less chance of controversy

that way. If I represent myself as coming from an

ancestor, someone is likely to ask which ancestor, and

that might lead to endless conversation. Who do they

worship here? What gods are given houseroom?'

'Few or none,' said Chance. 'I trotted up and down

half a dozen streets, in and out of a dozen taverns or so.

They swear by no gods I know of, though they swear

often in a cowardly craven manner by the wind and the

hail.. .'

'By Storm Grower?' I asked him.

'Never. They swear by the wind and the hail, and

then they spit, thus, to drive the evil away. Oh, and

sometimes they swear by Great Drarg, Master of the

Hundred Demons.'

'Great Drarg of the Hundred Demons,' I mused.

There's something I can use. Well. No time like the

present.' And I went off that weary climb up those

long, metal-echoing stairs to the room where the

council met, leaving Peter to scramble into the ventila-

tion ducts once more.

I could read their faces well enough. The Cloth

Merchants' Council of Bloome had probably not been

interrupted in living memory. Never by a stranger,

certainly. Still, they were impressed by my demeanor,

by my hauteur, my poise.

'Good citizens,' I said. 'Council members of the

town of Bloome. I have arrived today as plenipoten-

tiary of Drarg, Master of the Hundred Demons, sent to

beg your pardon and ask a small boon on Drarg's

behalf

The voice I used was one learned from my Dervish

mother, Bartelmy of the Ban. It was a cold voice,

without edges, which left nothing of itself lying about

to be picked at by the argumentative. The best Madame

Browl could do was stutter, 'We ... what have we to do

with ah... Drarg?'

'Nothing, madame, save that his minions have been

trifling with you. You have here a certain great machine

established by your ancestors. Is that not true?'

They nodded that it was true, very true. Since they

were sitting on top of it, it would have been difficult to

deny.

'And this machine has a voracious appetite which

cannot be stayed? Ah, yes. So we have been informed.

Such was the work of the Demons. My master's apolo-

gies. He has sent me to rectify matters.'

'You mean ... you mean the mill isn't supposed to

be fed - isn't supposed to run ... all the time?'

I allowed frost to creep into my words. 'Have I not

said as much?'

They nodded, shook their heads. Had this person

said as much? Had she? Perhaps she had.

'While my master is unable at the moment to correct

the actions of his minions (he is far away on pressing

business), he has directed me to take measures to

alleviate your troubles. Measures which will allow the

citizens of Bloome to sleep, to dream, to cook good

food, to make love. Ah' - I changed the voice to one

lyrical and romantic, lush as a summer meadow - 'to

enjoy all life's pleasures.' It became cold once more.

'Drarg wishes the boon, of course.'

'Boon?' Philp trembled. 'What boon would that be?'

'Simply to release your current Merchant's man from

his position. It is not fair that he be kept in his job

longer. He has suffered much, as indeed so have you

all.' I stared around the table, meeting incomprehen-

sion on some faces, distrust on others, hope on a few.

'How do you say, council members?'

Madame Browl found her voice again. 'If you can do

as you say, ah ... Your Excellency? Your Worship? If

you can relieve us of the constant necessity to feed the

mill - oh, yes, we would grant any boon. Provided no

blasphemy takes place. No heretical notions?'

'None. On the festival of Finaggy-Bum tomorrow,

pick yourselves a new Merchant's man. There is an

excellent candidate, one Queynt, among the visitors.

As soon as that is done, send carpenters and metal

workers to me where I reside at Brombarg's house.

They will be given instruction.'

I turned, wishing for some glorious gown and high

headdress to punctuate this speech and make a dramatic

exit. Well, the smock from Zog would have to do. It

was certainly unlike anything being worn in Bloome. I

let myself out, not pausing to listen to the babble

behind the door. Peter would be hearing it all from the

ductwork, anyhow.

'Done?' I asked him when he returned below.

'Done! Half of them don't believe you, but they're all

willing to give it a try. There are one or two say they'll

hunt Brom down and kill him if you're lying, and

another few who talk of putting you into the hopper if

you're leading them a fool's track. All told, however, I

think they're peaceful enough. For now.'

I nodded, thinking very hard. This put a serious

expression on my face, and Peter did what he always

did when I got that expression. He reached for me.

That particular expression, he had told me, reminded

him of Jinian when he had first met her, so serious, so

determined, like a belligerent child, set upon knowing

everything there was to be known. That particular

expression turned his stomach to jelly, so he said, and

he could no more stop himself reaching for me than he

could have stopped eating ripe thrilps. He flexed an

arm to draw me closer mere in the dusty, roaring

room, me all unprepared for his lips on mine and the

warmth of his body pressed tightly to my own.

I trembled, adrift, unable and unwilling to do any-

thing at all except drift there in his arms while the hot

throb of my blood built into its own kind of ending. I

was saved by an urgent summons from Queynt, a clatter

of feet coming down the stairs. Peter tried to hold my

hand, but I drew it away, suddenly so distressed I

couldn't speak. It wasn't fair of him to do that. Not fair.

I had talked to him about it. He knew well enough

what gaining the wize-art meant to me. I felt tears

beginning to burn, half frustration, half anger. Oh, why

couldn't he ...

Fuming, I slipped down the stairs after the others,

reaching the bottom only moments before the council

members erupted into the street. Peter was looking for

me, but I slipped away from him. He was doing this

more and more frequently, as though to make my own

body betray me. As though to test whether I would

choose between him and my Wize-ardry. He simply

wasn't content any more to let patience solve the

matter.

My knees were weak. I could hardly breathe. I was

angry, and sorry to be angry, and wanted to run after

him, and wanted to run away. Things couldn't go on

like this. Once we had taken care of the matter of

Brom, something would have to be done about it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Early in the morning, Brom was valeted by the three

men. They dressed him in pink vertical, lacing and

buttoning, rigging the internal bones and stays that

held the unlikely garment aloft, trying vainly to keep

their faces straight. There was as much of it above his

head as there was from head to foot. That part above

his head was decked with such unlikely ornamentation

as to cast doubt upon the humanity of the wearer, and

the part below his head was of sufficient discomfort as

to deny whatever humanity existed. It took some time.

I watched for a while, disbelieving any of it, then went

to the tower room where I could be private and laid

two spells upon him.

First I laid Bright the Sun Burning, a beguilement

spell. No one looking at Brom that day would consider

him any less than stylish. He would gleam like the sun

itself, making a warm space in any perception, a

suffused glow like a little furnace. And, lest that percep-

tion wane as the day passed, I laid Dream Chains to Tie

It, a keeping spell - though I had a devil of a time

finding a live frog and finally had to summon one from

the garden window. There were other and more

esoteric uses for Dream Chains, but Murzy had always

taught that the tool might be turned to the task if the

Wize-ard willed. When it was all done, I tested it by

going down and asking Chance how he thought Brom

looked.

'I thought it was enough to make a pombi laugh,'

Chance said, walking around Brom and looking him

over from top to bottom. 'It looked like pure foolish-

ness on the hook. Now - well, it has a kind of majesty

to it, don't it?'

I nodded, contented. It was probable the council

members would keep their agreement with me, but

why have the town buzzing about their reasons for

letting Brom go? If the town talked, some rumor might

reach Fangel. No. Let the matter be self-evident. Brom

had become stylish enough to escape, and a naif was

present to take over the job.

At the end, Queynt could not bring himself to wear

Brom's cast-off things. Instead he burrowed into the

wagon and found those garments he had been wearing

when he first met Peter and me, wildly eccentric

clothing that was certainly not in fashion. Then Queynt

and Brom swaggered into the street, a colorful exercise

in contrasts. It would have been difficult to say which

of them looked more ridiculous.

Chance disappeared into the town with a few

innocuous words. Seeing his compact form disappear-

ing down Sheel Street, I shook my head over the fate of

the gamblers of Bloome. Peter dozed in the garden, the

warmth of the sun provoking dreams - probably erotic

- that made him twitch and mumble in his sleep.

Looking down on him from a window, I could almost

tell what he was dreaming of, as though I could read

his mind. I frowned and bit my lips. There were only

two seasons of my oath to run, but while I had kept

that oath to the letter, the spirit of it had been lost long

since. It was impossible to concentrate on the art - or

on anything else - with Peter around. The more casual

I tried to be, the closer he came. There were a dozen

things one might do; putting a spell on him came first

to mind. A distraint. That same spell I had used on

Brom, Dream Chains. I still had the frog. It would do

Peter no harm. He wouldn't even be aware of it.

No! I couldn't do that. I couldn't compel him to do

anything, or not do anything. Not ever. I would rather

have lost him, or so I thought then, than do anything to

put him under compulsion. No matter how tempting it

might be.

And it was very tempting. I could only distrain his

touching me. Nothing else. And only for a short time. I

could still allow affectionate speech, companionship.

And yet - if he couldn't touch me when he willed,

something would have been taken from him. As some-

thing must have been taken from Queynt when he was

given the blue dream crystal by the Shadowpeople.

Though he denied it, I thought it must be so. It was

unlikely he had not been changed by it. So he was

compelled, whether he knew it or not, by something

or someone outside himself.

And yet, being honest about it, I'd met him after he'd

tasted the thing, not before. So how could I say

whether he was changed by it or not?

I sat upon the windowsill, looking out over the town

with its crumbling towers, its moldy roofs, the streets

clean swept and shining for festival, the lower walls

painted and gleaming, and all above the street level

falling to dust and decay. The vibration of the mill

shook the stone I was sitting on, a ceaseless quivering, a

gentle dust of mortar from between the stones, a

constant reminder the mill was there. The people of

Bloome had made an uneasy peace with the mill, but I

was going to change all that. Compellingly. But that was

Game, of a sort. Compulsion was allowed, in Game.

Barish, for example! He had arranged for himself to

be put to sleep, to sleep for a thousand years or so. And

while he slept, one hundred thousand great Gamesmen

were to be abducted and frozen into sleep like his own.

Compelled. For some misty idea he had about a better

future world. An idea so misty that he and Himaggery

had done nothing but argue about it constantly before

we left and were probably still arguing about it. Mean-

time the hundred thousand rested beneath the moun-

tain, still frozen. Compelled.

Everyone else did it! So why did it bother me so?

Besides, there were situations when it seemed right.

If I had come upon that man and woman outside

Bloome, for instance, sucking upon their piss-yellow

crystals and lying there in their own stink. If I had

compelled them, even against their wills, to give up the

crystals and live again, wouldn't I have been their

friend?

A better friend, perhaps, than their own inner spirits,

who had let them die? Or was the right to die part of

one's own right? If so, was it everyone's right, or only

the right of some? A child, for example. If a child risked

its life foolishly, without knowing what it was doing,

shouldn't one save that child by compelling it to forgo

the risk? Or a stupid man, perhaps one besotted?

Though if one were to follow that argument, it was

probable the besotted one got that way of his own will

and had been told often enough the dangers of it. Or

true naifs, simpletons, those who would never learn

the ways of the world, the eternally surprised, the

perpetually astonished? Should they not be compelled,

for their own good?

When one played Game, there were rules - oh, often

disobeyed, but still acknowledged. If one compelled

outside of Game, then what was it one was doing? If

one seduced, which was another kind of compulsion?

'Saving one's life, perhaps,' I mumbled, remember-

ing too well what I had had to do to the centipig in the

Forest of Chimmerdong. 'Saving someone else's life.'

Or, said some deep voice, saving something more

important than life itself.

I remember putting my head down on the stone,

wishing Murzy were there to give me some advice. It

would be so easy to hold Peter at a comfortable

distance, just for a time. Surely there were rules! Surely

there were answers!

Well, Murzy wasn't there, so it did no good to wish

it. I gave up the whole matter and went to find myself

some breakfast.

The delegation from the Cloth Merchants' Council

arrived a little after noon bearing Queynt on their

shoulders and hailing him as the new Merchant's man.

He already wore the sparkling seal of office, the letters

'DM' entwined in gems upon jet. Brom, sneaking along

behind so as not to draw any attention to himself,

stayed only long enough to divest himself of the pink

vertical and get his horse out of the stable. It seemed he

had been packed long since, for the merchants had

scarcely begun advising Queynt of his future duties

before the titty-tup of Brom's horse's hooves was

fading down Sheel Street.

'The garbage schedule tomorrow,' Madame Browl

was saying in a firm voice. 'First thing tomorrow!"

'Not tomorrow,' said Queynt. 'Tomorrow the Mer-

chant's man is summoned to Fangel. Brom told me so.

I leave tonight.'

The council members scowled at one another, robbed

of their opportunity to show authority immediately

and thus, some seemed to feel, robbed of it perpetually.

'Well then, when you return. As soon as you return.'

Queynt had no more intention of returning than I

did, but he agreed amicably and things went on

pleasantly thereafter as they discussed the matters of

garbage and machine-feeding detail and the mainten-

ance of the fire brigade. In the midafternoon the

festival ended - early, because there would be no

fireworks - and soon after that, the workmen I had

asked for arrived. Peter and I went off with them to the

great mill while Chance and Queynt prepared to

depart. There was something in my boot, and as I

stopped to empty it, I heard the two of them behind

me.

'What's she up to, that girl? Lately she's seemed

troubled.' Chance was a dear to care like this. Though

he never seemed to be taking notice, nothing really

escaped him.

'She has power, Chance. Power she may use, if she

will. Power she fears using unwisely and thus fears

using at all.'

'Looked on Barish, didn't she?'

'Yes. Yes, she looked on my brother, Barish, and

what Barish did. Jinian sees the implications of that, I

think. She does see things like that.'

'But Barish took the hundred thousand for some-

thing greater. So you said.'

'Oh, yes. And now he must try to answer the

question I've been trying to answer for these hundreds

of years, Chance. The question those hundred

thousand will ask when they wake. The question Jinian

is trying to answer. Is there anything greater?'

And there it was, of course. That was the thing that

had been bothering me, and it didn't help greatly to

know that many others had wrestled with it as well.

We went out onto the dusty cobbles of Sheel Street,

littered with torn banners and tangled worms of confetti.

Birds quarreled in the gutters over spilled confections.

Wagons were moving from comer to corner while

weary crews filled them with the festival flotsam. Down

the hill we went, twisting and turning to arrive at the

yard before the mill. We got to work, Peter and me and

a dozen carpenters and metal workers, toiling away on

the roof.

When Queynt and Chance arrived in the wagon,

each endless length of pink cloth that had spewed

from the front of the building was drawn up like a great

fustigar tongue, licking the nose of the mill.

Chance was astonished. 'Now, by all my grandma's

teacups, what're they up to?'

'Rollers, I should imagine," said Queynt. 'Drawing

the stuff up the front, and across the top, and down the

back into the hoppers. Saves all that using up in

between.'

'Well, why didn't the silly Bloomians think of that?'

'Religion, I imagine, friend Chance. Religion serves

to prevent thought in many cases, and I'd say it had

done so here. They started with the presumption that

anything as complex as the mill must exist for a good

reason. Then they spent all their time inventing a good

reason - and some god to be responsible for it - rather

than looking for a sensible solution to their problem.

Jinian has merely substituted Drarg for whatever other

deity they had involved.'

'Clever,' mumbled Chance. 'Only I don't think she'll

let herself enjoy it. By night she'll be worrying whether

it was the right thing to do.' He leaned back to watch

the carpenters where they hammered away on high

and saw that I'd been listening. He merely winked at

me. Chance wasn't at all shy about his opinions.

There was a cheer from the roof as the first of the

cloth reached the hoppers in back. Queynt clucked to

Yittleby and Yattleby, who strode off around the building

to the rear. Wide bands of pink descended in a steady

flow to disappear into the huge, shaking hopper.

Queynt got down from the wagon and came to meet

me as I came down the ladder.

'They're going to have to add some trash now and

then, you know,' he told me. The cloth alone won't be

enough.'

'It won't? I thought if everything that came out went

back in ..." In fact, I had been rather proud of thinking

this up, and his corrections made me peevish.

'Not quite. It uses up some, you see. During the

weaving. Better tell the workmen, or it may not work

right.'

He strode back to the wagon, pausing to take a bow

to the group of council members who had just come

around the corner of the building. Madame Browl was

staring upward, face creased in concentration. Mergus

frowned, at first unable to believe what he saw. Others

murmured behind them, Philp among them.

'An excellent solution,' said Queynt in a loud,

definite voice, winking in my direction. 'Drarg's repre-

sentative is to be congratulated.'

'But, but..." Madame Browl seemed about to

object.

'No longer the endless round of festivals!' cried

Peter. The people of Bloome may sleep of a morning.'

'No more uncomfortable clothes,' cried Chance,

getting into the spirit of the thing. 'No more being

bedeviled by the Hundred Demons!'

'No more banners,' someone cried from the rooftop.

'No more pink stuff!' cried someone else.

At the reference to the pink stuff, there was a general

cheer, under the sound of which Madame Browl's

disapproving voice fell silent.

'Leaving already, are you?' Philp asked Queynt, staring

suspiciously at the great birds the while.

'Drarg's ambassador will ride with me to Fangel,' he

replied in an innocent tone, bowing in my direction. 'It

seemed impolite to delay her. Inasmuch as she has

helped Bloome so immeasurably.

'Well. Be sure you get back promptly. This' - he

gestured at the mill - 'is going to cause upheaval. Half the

people in town won't know what to do with themselves.

Do we go ahead and arrange for Pickel-port-poh? I ask

you, do we? And Shimerzy-waffle?'

'Oh, I would,' said Queynt. 'Definitely. However, as

Merchant's man, I'd suggest Bloome should start looking

into handlooms for your weaving. No reason you can't

use some of the stuff from the mill, here, if it ever

produces anything you want, but for real quality, one

wants the handwoven stuff That will provide jobs for all

those ousted as hopper fillers, and it will be better quality

than you've had for centuries. That, in turn, should

increase custom. No reason you can't still sell costumes,

and have processions. And fireworks. The fireworks

factory should be half-rebuilt by the time I'm expected

back. I'm sure the Cloth Merchants' Council can hold

things together while I'm in Fangel.' And thereafter, I

thought to myself. And thereafter.

I came to the wagon, walking in my best plenipoten-

tiary manner.

'Madame.' Queynt bowed.

I gave them all a haughty look before climbing to the

seat. 'When Drarg returns, he will see to turning the mill

off for you, though I am bound to tell you he may not

return for several hundred years.' Then I waved at them

all in an imperious manner while Queynt krerked to the

birds and took us off.

Peter and Chance mounted up and plodded behind

the wagon. 'We could've got one night's sleep,' com-

plained Chance. 'Before settin" out again. Those were

good beds there in the mansion.'

'I think our Wizards are on the track of something,'

said Peter a little sullenly. He was cross and irritable,

overtraveled, underslept, underloved. With a sudden

clarity I realized that if I was finding our relationship

difficult, Peter was finding it damn near impossible,

and this threw the whole matter into confusion again.

If he felt grumpy and uncivil about it, well, so did I.

We followed on Brom's track for the first part of the

way, back up the twists and down the turns of Sheel to

the Forum Road, thence northwest on Tan-tivvy until it

came to a crossing some way out of the town. Painted

signboards pointed the way to a dozen places, east to

Omaph and Peeri and beyond them to Smeen. Northeast

to Jallywig and the unexplored depths of Boughbound

Forest. Northwest to Luxuri and the Great Maze.

South, the way we had come, to Zib, Zog, Zinter,

Chime, and Thorpe. North to Woeful and Fangel.

The way from Zinter to Bloome had been river

bottom, a flat road and an easy one, which went on

through Bloome to Luxuri through the warm, moisture-

laden airs of the jungle. The northern road to Woeful

climbed abruptly out of this basin onto a narrow ridge-

back above the trees. We looked down onto a steaming

roof of vegetation, where flocks of bright parrots

screamed their way toward the setting sun. The road

stretched upward, no end to the slope in sight, and after

some leagues of it, the krylobos decided abruptly that

they had had enough for one day. They communicated

this fact by squatting and waiting to be unharnessed.

They never stop unless there is water near,' com-

mented Peter. 'I'll find it.' He set off down the western

slope, listening as he went. In a few moments he called

out, returning shortly thereafter with a full bucket. 'A

spring,' he said. 'Running into a lovely, cool basin.

Supper first, then cold baths if anyone wants.'

'How far to Fangel?' I asked.

'A long day,' replied Chance. The fellas I talked to

usually make it in two, stopping in Woeful for the

night, but that's with a late start. I figure we can make it

in one.'

"The fellas?' inquired Peter. 'What were you up to,

Chance?'

The round, brown man shrugged elaborately in

response.

'Well, we have to know what's goin' on.'

There wasn't a small game, was there?' Peter asked.

'Might have been,' Chance replied with a complacent

expression. 'Looky here.' He squatted at the side of the

wagon, spreading the contents of his pouch on a flat

rock. Coins, large and small, silver and gold. A piece of

worked gold - half of a lacy brooch. And an amethyst

dream crystal, larger than others we'd seen, of a curiously

muted color, as though a shadow lay across it.

They gamble with crystals? As though they were

coins or gems?'

This one fella did. I said no to him twice, told him I

didn't want it. Fella insisted. Said it was valuable, not

like any others we'd ever seen.'

'You won, of course.'

'No reason not to.' He shuffled his loot upon the

stone, running it through his fingers. 'Wonder what

good it is?'

Before I could move to stop him, Queynt reached

for the stone and touched it to his tongue. Truly, I did

move to stop him, warned by something, perhaps by

the shadow that seemed to lie across the color in the

stone. I was too late.

It was as though he had turned to lava, a kind of

liquid stone that surged slowly beneath the skin,

changing him as one watched, but so slowly one could

not see change from moment to moment, could not

say, 'See, see what just happened,' for nothing just

happened. His face changed, and his body, not as a

Shifter changes, but as water in a bucket changes,

sloshing to and fro, returning always to the shape of the

container. I couldn't keep myself from screaming, a

little high-pitched shriek of horror that brought Peter

to us at once.

Queynt was weeping, huge tears welling from both

eyes to make long dust tracks down his broad face, and

he making no effort to stop them or wipe them away,

meantime shrieking a high, lifeless sound like a knife

upon a whetstone. His eyes were distant, unfocused,

his breathing shallow and slow. The hideous shifting

under his skin went on for a moment longer, then

stopped slowly, like a tide ebbing away as he sagged

onto the ground, the thin, shrieking sound going on

and on, endlessly. The amethyst crystal dropped into

the dust. I seized it and put it away, where it could do

no more damage.

He had showed me the blue crystals he carried,

those few the Shadowman had given him in the long

ago, the ones he had offered to me. They were in his

pouch, and I burrowed for it, trying to move his heavy,

shrieking body aside, finally dragging it out and pour-

ing the contents into my hand, three of the small blue

crystals he had shown us in the tower of Bloome.

I didn't know what to do! Surely these had some

curative properties if one of them had kept him alive

for a thousand years. There was nothing else to try. No

wize-art could be used against the totally unknown,

and I could not taste the amethyst crystal to see what

horrible thing in it Queynt had encountered. Peter read

my terrible doubt and indecision and said, 'Do it,

Jinian. Something awful has him. Anything's better

than this ..." as he helped me get one of the blue

stones into Queynt's mouth.

For a time nothing changed. Then the thin, tortured

shrieking ended, the tears stopped flowing, and he

looked more or less like himself. We held him

between us, warming him. After a long time he spoke

in a distant, windy voice not like his own.

'I thought I was immune.' The words were said so

slowly I had to recapitulate the sounds to understand

them.

'What was it? What did it do?'

He could not or would not answer. He could not or

would not say anything. We sat beside him, watching

his face. After a time, his eyes closed. After a longer

time, he began to breathe as though he were asleep.

We wrapped him warmly. After a long time, we left

him there. The two krylobos had come nearby during

his shrieking, and they sat by him, keeping him warm.

We prepared a meal, laid out our blankets, fed the

birds, who were up now, striding nervously back and

forth, staring at Queynt from the sides of their eyes,

muttering bird talk that I could not really understand

because they didn't understand it. I took it to be some

kind of rote-learned ritual or invocation.

We ate. Chance took a bowl of broth to Queynt and

spooned it into his mouth, whispering to him the

while. I think Queynt slept then. Later, when we were

all almost asleep by the coals of the fire, he began to

speak, little more than a whisper, so we had to strain to

hear him.

'I thought I was immune.

The blue crystal I was given so long ago - oh, it does

not seem long sometimes, but now it seems an eternity

since that happened. The blue crystal - often I tried to

tell myself what it had done to me. All I could think of

to describe it was to say I had swallowed a map.' He fell

silent again, as though thinking what he might say next.

I sat up, seeing the fire reflected from Peter's eyes

where he sat half against a wagon wheel.

'Perhaps it was not a map or not only a map, but a set

of instructions, a guide in cases of perplexity, a set of

consistent directions to be used in all eventualities.' He

struggled up on one elbow, reaching for the water jug.

I gave him a drink, hushing him. 'No, no. You worry,

Jinian, that the crystal took my will from me. It did not.

If one has a map which shows two routes going to a

place, one a good road, the other through a swamp,

does it destroy one's will to know the swamp is there

and reject that direction in favor of the better road? You

are not sure. You would like all choices to be equal.

Only if all choices were equal could one be sure one

had free will. Otherwise ... otherwise ..." He pushed

himself up, half-sitting.

'Otherwise one always wonders if someone else is

pulling the strings. However ... however, I had swallow-

ed the map and it was part of me. From that time to this

I have never felt anyone else pulling the strings. Inside

myself the map was clear. Avoiding the swamps was

simple good sense. Avoiding accident. Avoiding death.

Avoiding pit and dragon, both. So. I wandered the

world of my map .. .

'Which, like most maps, did not specify a destination.'

I could hear him breathing, deep, fast breaths as

though he fought to climb some great height.

'A destination?' I asked at last, prompting him.

'Most maps are tools one uses as an aid in journey-

ing. They do not usually give a destination.'

'And the other crystal?' asked Peter hesitantly. "The

amethyst crystal? Did it show a destination, Queynt?'

'A wrong one,' he sobbed. 'Yes. A wrong one.'

'Shhh,' I said, putting my arms around him, cradling

him to me as though he were a child. 'Shhh, Queynt.

Tell us. What do you mean, a wrong one?'

'It summons to another place. Not on the map I was

given at all. To some horrid cavern beneath the earth

where monsters roar in the dark and all dreams are

murdered.'

'Summons you, Queynt? Against your will?'

'Not against my will, child. Making it my .will to go!

That's the horror of it! But bless you, child, the blue

one is there as well, saying, No, not the right place, not

the right thing to do.' He could not say any more.

Perhaps he would not say. I sat there cradling him well

into the night, he still crying without a sound and Peter

sitting by, the fire making mirrors of his eyes, glowing

disks turned in my direction. At last Queynt slept.

'Well, Wize-ard?' said Peter.

'I won't let it happen,' I said. 'I will prevent it.'

'What will you do to save him?'

'I don't know, Peter. I don't know. Whatever it is is

inside him. Perhaps by morning it will have worn off.

Perhaps it's addictive, as the yellow ones were. We

must watch him, protect him. But I don't know what

I'll do if he isn't well by morning. I haven't any idea at

all.'

It was some time before we slept.

I woke Chance early, while it was still dark, whisper-

ing to him, 'I need to know what was said about that

amethyst crystal, the one Queynt tasted.'

'What was said? Little enough, girl. Let's see, there was

five of us gaming. Man named Chortle, two brothers

from a place somewhere north of Bloome, man named

Byswitch, and me. Byswitch had most of the coins and

the big crystal. Said it was new, no one had anything

like it, very unusual. Said I ought to try it. Share it with

my friends. Just came, he said, from That Place.'

That place?'

'I don't know. That's what he said. "That Place north

of Fangel where the Dream Miner is."'

'Would you say - Chance, would you say the fellow

lost it easily?'

'Didn't put up much of a fight, that's true. We gave

him a chanst to get even, but he wasn't up to,much.

Said he had a woman waiting for him.'

'Who lost, besides him?'

'Nobody much. All the rest of us was more or less

even.'

'So he lost, you won, and nothing else much changed

hands?'

'You're thinkin' it was a plot? Thinkin' I was supposed

to bring that thing where Queynt could get it?'

'Queynt, maybe. Or Peter. Or me. Or all of us.'

'More likely Queynt, I think. He's been around long

enough to attract attention. You, girl, you're practically

brand new.'

I didn't talk with Chance further about the Dream

Miner. So far as we all were concerned, it made little

difference which of us was the intended victim.

Perhaps any of us would have served. If Queynt had

not been to some extent immune, perhaps all of us

would have been.

I lay down, only for a moment, to wake much later

with the sun a handsbreadth above the eastern moun-

tains. Queynt was sitting up, staring at his hand from

which the two remaining blue crystals winked and

gleamed like eyes.

'Two,' he said, noticing that I was awake. 'I have two

left.'

'And the other?'

He shook his head. 'Like being drunk. I can see the

map I have carried for this thousand years: forests and

roads. Sparkling. Whizz. Dart. All speed and sureness.

Mmmm. Cities, full of Full of people. Not quite.

There's a white road leading to a good place ... an inn.

A place to rest. And over that is another, dark and

hideous, and yet seductive. Leading to that terrible

place. Buried down. Oh, too deep. Too deep.'

'Are you going to take another of the blue ones now?'

I'm going to wait to see if the other wears off,' he

replied with great dignity. 'It is less demanding already

than it was last night. Foolish of me to have done that. I

was so sure I was immune. Why should I not be?'

'Because the crystal you tasted had been sent particu-

larly for you,' I said. 'I think. Designed for you.

Designed to get through whatever immunity you might

have. Hell, Queynt, you've been wandering the world a

thousand years. You think nobody knows about you?

You think nobody knows about the blue crystal? We

can't be the only ones you've told. You must have had

wives. Lovers. Friends, at least. You must have got

drunk sometimes and talked about things.'

He flushed. 'Perhaps I have. Long ago. The Eesties

knew I had it, of course. And perhaps there are Seers

and snoops in various guises all around us. Why me?'

'Why any of us?' I asked. 'Perhaps it was designed for

any of us or all of us. Why? Why did Porvius Bloster get

an order to do away with me from Dream Miner and

Storm Grower - it's no fiction, I saw the parchment

myself, read the writing on it. I didn't even know such

a thing as a Storm Grower or a Dream Miner existed.

So, if it is nothing in my past, our pasts, then it is

something in our future. Perhaps some Seer has told

these two, whatever they are, that in the future some-

thing will happen which involves one of us, or all of

us.'

'I thought your search for these creatures might be a

foolish one,' he said. 'I did not even think they existed.

Now we are sure they exist, perhaps it would be wiser

not to seek them!" He sighed. 'Though perhaps we will

learn more in Fangel.'

Queynt shut himself in the wagon that morning. I

did not ask him what he was doing. The art is a secret

art. Each Wize-ard had his own solitary ways. I know

he worked to do what I could not do for him, protect

himself. He did not ask about the amethyst crystal, and

I did not tell him it was hidden away in a pouch

beneath my skirts. Besides the crystal, it held the locket

with my Wize-ard's fragment in it and a lock of Peter's

hair. Since Shifters could grow hair as they pleased, of

any kind and color, I had never been sure why this

sentimental gesture had occurred to me. Nonetheless,

I carried it just as I carried the star-eye around my neck,

as a symbol of what I was and what I intended.

It was a steady climb from the campsite to the city of

Fangel. We passed the trail to Woeful at midmorning

and stopped only briefly at noon. We walked a good

part of it to save the krylobos and by late afternoon

could see the walls of the city on the heights above us.

We were no longer alone on the road. Other wagons

and riders had filtered in from the east so that we were

hard put to it to find a space for ourselves and the fire.

We camped on a rocky shelf separated from the height

by a tangle of steep roads and paths with no wood

nearer than the jungle far below. A charcoal vendor

moved among the wagons, doing brisk business, and

we bought a sack to warm our supper over.

'When are the Merchants' men due in the city?' I

asked Queynt.

'Tomorrow, I think. About noon. The Dream

Merchant will meet the various Merchants' men in the

residence, according to Brom, to be given their instruc-

tions. Merchants' men change frequently, he said. No

one will wonder that I have a face new to them.'

'If it is new to them,' grumbled Peter. 'Let us hope

none of them have seen you before.'

'Well, I must take the chance of that. However, the

rest of you may do better. Remember those half veils

the people in Zinter wore? I bought some when we

came through there, along with several sets of their

black dress. It occurred to me then we might need a

disguise somewhere along the road. All three of you

can be travelers from Zinter. They're known to be

belligerent when bothered, like those from Zib and

Zog, so the likelihood is you'll go untroubled.'

'And when does the delegation from the south

arrive? The Duke and his unlikely allies?'

'Also tomorrow, I think. It gives us little time to look

around."

I had been somewhat distracted by my own

thoughts, but this mention of the Duke reminded me

of something, and I asked if Brom had said anything

about the location of the crystal mines near Fangel.

'Where are they? How can we get there?'

Peter stood thinking for a moment, turning to look

up at the town above us. 'Near here, I think. Chance?

Brom said the .mines were just below Fangel, didn't

he?'

Chance went on stirring the pot as he tried to

remember. 'I didn't pay that much attention, to tell the

truth. No. Wait. He said there was an old fella lived

there, remember? While we were dressin' him up. He

talked about it.'

'Buttufor,' said Queynt. 'Gerabald Buttufor and his

wife, Jermiole. Guardian of the mines. Right?"

'Where?' I was cross with myself for being impatient

with them, but I was impatient with them, though

there seemed to be no reason for it. 'Come on, where?'

'Well, while the pot boils, we'll see if we can find

out.' Peter stalked away among the wagons, asking

questions, smiling, chatting, playing the good fellow,

Queynt off in the opposite direction doing the same.

They returned almost simultaneously with the same

story.

'Down that southernmost path. Not far. We can go

now, if you like. Food will stay warm on the fire.

I did like, leading off in the direction they'd indicated

with a haste almost frantic. Curiosity, yes, but not only

that. Something more than that. Since Queynt's dis-

astrous accident, it had become very important to me

to learn everything I could about the dream crystals.

We came to a small house at the edge of a pit, two

old folk sitting on the stoop, he with a pipe of some

sweet-smelling stuff, she with a mug of some kind of

happiness, chirruping like a tree frog in the evening.

'Well, and well, visitors, travelers, folks bound for Fangel.

Come to see the mine? Not much going on here any-

more, not since the crystals started comin' up spoiled,

but you're welcome. You're welcome.' Nodding like a

little doll, smiling at the shadows: I realized with a start

she was blind.

'You folks like a tour?" Gerabald Buttufor heaved

himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. 'Noticed

two or three nodules this mornin', "bout ready to bust.

Interestin' to see. Can't use the crystals. Like Jermiole

says, all spoiled now. Can't say why. Don't know why.

Are, though. All spoiled.'

Queynt passed coins into the old man's palm. 'We'd

like to see it. Lucky we got here before dark.'

'Oh, you could'a seen it after, as well. Nodules get all

hot and feverish, shine like little moons, they do. Get

along down here.' He led us, stumping along with the

cane, down a twisting path into the declivity. The sides

and bottom of it were pitted with rounded scars, as

though from a shower of great stony hail or meteors.

He went along a path, stopping abruptly beside a fist-

sized dome of stone.

'Here.' He tapped it with his cane. It rang, twang-

ingly, a harsh, ugly sound. 'Good crystals don't even

sound like that. Used to like the sound of the good

ones. Now you watch." He struck the stone again,

sharply, several times in one place. The cane was shod

with iron. The ugly sound repeated, but on the last

blow the rock broke.

Fragments flew, disclosing the center. Like an egg, it

held a yolk, a yellow crystal swimming in silvery liquid

that oozed over the broken edge of the stone and into

the ground. Peter leaned forward.

'Don't touch it!' I cried, seeing what it was.

That's right, lassy. Not many know that unless

they've worked the mines. Can't touch the crystal milk,

boy. That's what we call it, crystal milk. Burn you right

through to the bone.'

I had last seen similar stuff in a great pool deep in the

Citadel of the Sevens; I carried a fragment dipped in

that pool as one of my most cherished things. It had

been approached with great care and considerable

reverence when I had seen it, enough so to make me

wary of it. 'May I borrow your cane, friend Gerabald?' I

dipped the iron tip in the liquid to hear the same high

singing I had heard in the Citadel of the Sevens, far

beneath the surface of the earth. I clutched the pouch

containing the locket, disbelieving. So! That most mar-

velous and esoteric stuff was, in fact, well known

elsewhere.

'How do you get the crystal out?' I asked.

'Why, that's no trouble.' He bashed away at the stone

once more, breaking it so that all the liquid ran away,

raking the crystal out onto the stone. 'Soon as it dries,

you can pick it up. Don't taste it, though. It's one of the

death ones.'

The others wandered off, but I waited while it dried,

while the evening came on, bending at last to pick it

up, piss-yellow and deadly as poison. I crouched over

the empty shell, rising at last in some puzzlement.

'Peter,' I called, seeing him turn and move toward

me with more eagerness than I needed. 'Lean down

here,' I whispered. 'Shift your eyes. I can't tell, it's too

dark, but isn't there a kind of channel or duct at the

bottom of this hole?'

He stretched out on the stone, taking the opportun-

ity to put one arm around me as he stared into the

hemispherical hole. Shift eyes, Shift nerves behind

eyes, peer deep. Even in the deepening darkness he

could see it. 'Yes. A twisty little duct, leading down into

the earth. You want me to look at some of the others?'

'Please. Do. See if they're all alike.'

He wandered away, keeping his face with its oddly

Shifted eyes turned from the loquacious old man who

was lecturing Queynt and Chance on the intricacies of

dream mining.

'Sometimes there'd be a dozen little ones in one

nodule, sometimes only one. Used to be pretty green

ones in this mine, good ones, too. Happy stun, no

death dreams; forests and birds mostly. I 'member one

was about flyin'. Oh, me'n Jermiole shared that one,

flew all over. Mountains, valleys. One great chasm we

saw all full of cities built on tree roots, if you could

believe that. Great groles down in the bottom of it, too,

and up on top the hugest beasts you've ever seen. Saw

parts of the world never knew were there. Well, p'raps

they aren't, if you take my meaning. In the crystal they

were, sure as certain.'

'Were a lot of these yellow ones dug out of here and

put into commerce?' I asked Gerabald.

'None from here. Fella used to work here dug up the

first one, tasted it  well, we almost always did, you

know. Didn't know what to ask for 'em until you tasted

'em - and we found him four, five days later where

he'd wandered off to, deader'n a baked bunwit, half the

crystal still in his hand. Well, if that wasn't enough,

came some ijit through here a few days later, didn't ask,

didn't tell anybody, and dug a bunch of 'em, gave 'em

to his entire party, parents, children. They must've

shared 'em around, cause we found 'em all gone. That

was enough, let me tell you. We never sold another

from this mine after that.'

'If we've seen a lot of these on the road, then, they

must have come from somewhere else?' I asked.

The old man stumped over to me, looked up at me

with rheumy eyes, whispered, 'Way I hear it, lassy,

they're coming up ever'where. Used to be a mine over

near Smeen, nothin' but pure greeny-blue crystals.

Most greeny-blue ones are the best kind. Make you

healthy, they do. Long-lived. Me'n Jermiole'r more

than a hundred ten, you know that? We just go on,

cheerful as tumble-bats from the ones we used to get

fifty, sixty years ago. Well, that mine's nothin' but these

yallery things now. So I hear. Sad, too. I've got a few of

those old ones left, but sad to think there'll be no

more.' He stumped away again.

That was more than merely troublesome. It was

scary. Peter came up behind me, began stroking my

back. All I wanted to do was turn around, but I gritted

my teeth and told my belly to stop melting in that

ridiculous way. 'All of them,' he said, continuing the

stroking. 'All of them have that little tube coming up

from deep in the earth somewhere."

Gerabald Buttufor looked back at me, calling loudly,

'Better throw that yallery thing away, lassy, pound it up

to powder. Dangerous, those are.'

'I know.' Who knew better than I? No one else had

buried more of the victims than I had. Still, the thing

went in my pouch. Sometimes one had need for

dangerous things. This crystal was one. The idea I had

just had was another.

CHAPTER SIX

As soon as it was light, Queynt arrayed himself quasi-

fantastically as suited a Merchant's man from Bloome.

He wore the seal of office, the plaque of jet with the

letters 'DM' picked out in brilliants in a circle of

multicolored gems. We three others put on the black

garb from Zinter that Queynt had provided from his

costume store. I considered it inauspicious clothing

while accepting that nothing could be more anony-

mous. A stretchy black garment covered the body

and head with a half veil over nose and mouth. Over

all this went a voluminous cloak, dark as midnight,

with one stripe, the color of dried blood, running

from throat to hem. The cloak had a larger, metal-

lined hood hanging at the back to be used in case of

hail. The people of this region were preoccupied

with the possibility of storm, and we were beginning

to understand why.

There were no boots among Queynt's provisions,

so we wore our own, decorated with new ornaments

to make them look foreign and strange. I chose a pair

of gilt snakes for the outside of each boot: Peter

chose salamanders and Chance a pair of Basilisks. At

the sight of these last, I couldn't help shuddering.

'What's wrong?' Peter came to my side with a

concerned expression.

'Nothing much. It's those Basilisks on Chance's

boots. Made me think of Dedrina Dreadeye. Dedrina-

Lucir's mama.'

'Lucir? That was the one who tried to kill you?'

'Yes, she tried, but I succeeded. I killed her, and

I've walked in fear of the Basilisks' vengeance since.

Dedrina Dreadeye is still alive; sometimes I remember

that and it makes me go all over cold. Porvius Bloster

came northward, I remember. Likely his sister

Dreadeye did, too. I keep expecting to encounter

her, or him, or both.' I wandered toward the rocky

edge of the shelf we had camped upon, stood look-

ing toward the eastern horizon.

'We've seen no sign of her, or him.' He stood

beside me, giving me lecherous looks. No. I thought

of them as lecherous. Perhaps he intended them only

to be admiring.

'True. I'd feel happier if we had - if we knew, for

instance, she was headed off in some specific direction,

preferably away from us. Ah, well. Not important

now. What is important is Queynt. How's he feeling?'

'Seems in good spirits. Asked me what we'd done

with the amethyst crystal.' He turned to look back at

the wagon, where Queynt and Chance seemed

engaged upon wheel repair.

'What did you say?"

'Told him I hadn't seen it since the event.' He

moved toward me with a purposeful leer.

'Peter,' I begged weakly. 'Don't.'

'Peter, don't!' he mimicked savagely. 'Gods, Jinian.

I've had enough of "Peter, don't."'

'You know why. It isn't that I want to say it! It's that

you'll never listen.'

'I've listened long enough. You're not studying the

art now. The seven aren't here. But you're here, and

I'm here, and all this going on about your oaths is

meaningless. I know you love me - want me. Unless

you've changed completely since the Wastes of Bleer.

I remember a certain night there. If we'd had a little

more time, the oath wouldn't have mattered then!'

'You know I haven't changed. But we thought we

were going to die then.'

'I know. And we could die tomorrow. Which

makes this oath business even more stupid. Well,

Jinian, love, I'm not going to go on like this .. . ' He

had the look of a man who had spent a restless night

of frustrated desire and was determined it should be

the last.

What I might have said was stopped by Queynt's

voice.

'Time to move," accompanied by a bugling cry

from the krylobos.

I'm not going to go on, Jinian,' Peter repeated in a

thick, passionate voice, pulling the veil up over his

mouth so all I could see was the determination in his

eyes. 'If we're to travel together, we're going to have

to be together. I can't take much more of this.'

He strode off, not waiting for me. Chance was

already on the wagon seat. Queynt was mounted. 'So

far as Fangel is concerned,' Queynt said, 'I am a mere

Merchant's man. You three black-cloaked Zinterites

are the owners of this strange equipage. We travel in

proximity, but not together. Isn't that so?'

We started off, Peter riding close beside the wagon,

Queynt slightly after. Others from the campsite

creaked into motion as well, a fragmentary snake

crawling toward Fangel.

The city lifted its roofs before us. Its towers bore

long black pennants, like great tattery bats flitting

silently above the hill. There was no sound from

Fangel, not the creak of wagons nor the sounds of

commerce, no vendors' shouts, no children's laughter.

A silent city, it poised above with expectant gates like

open mouths.

It had no smell, Fangel, no woodsmoke, cookery,

market goods, people-cum-animal smell. If there had

ever been a kindly stench of people there, the jungle

wind had blown it away. Now was only the graveyard

odor of stone and dust.

Outside the open gates a troop of guardsmen stood,

each arrayed with the Dream Merchant's insignia,

looking us over with long, calculating stares.

'Business?' asked one, leaning on the wagon step.

'On our way to Luxuri,' said Chance. 'No real

business in Fangel.'

'Turn aside to Dungcart Road, to your left outside

the walls.'

'We heard there was a procession. Thought we'd

go in to see that.'

'Procession this afternoon. In that case you can

park the wagon off the avenue in the park. Leave

before dark. No fires in Fangel. No rooms, either, and

no food served after dusk, so don't think of staying.

We've plenty of room in the prison for vagrants who

remain after dark.'

Chance clicked to the birds and they moved

through the gate. 'Friendly,' he remarked. 'A real

friendly place.'

Behind us we heard the guard saying to Queynt,

'Business?' and Queynt's reply. 'Merchant's man

from Bloome, summoned for the reception.'

We dawdled, letting Queynt pass us. High walls

enclosed the street, blank walls marked again and

again with the linked letters of the Dream Merchants.

Above the featureless walls jutted ornamented facades

of great houses or blank sides of long unwindowed

buildings.

'Factories?' I wondered. 'Warehouses? Is this a

manufacturing town, then? At this height?'

The streets were empty. No person walked there;

no curious head protruded from a convenient win-

dow. Our scanty caravan wove through the city to a

central park, a place of mown grass, trees, and wide

basins of polished stone in which water lay quiet.

Even here there was no smell, as though the trees had

been made of some inorganic material, the water

poured from some sterile vat. Across a wide avenue a

twisted metal fence made a barrier between the park

and the much embellished walls of the residence. As

we watched, the doors of this ornate building swung

wide to emit a voluminous, almost architectural

robe. A square head protruded from the neck of it,

close-clipped no-color hair, a promontory of nose

overhanging a clifflike upper lip beneath which the

mouth writhed wave-like around fallen stones of

teeth. Thtrike,' said the mouth in a sibilant shout as

the robe gestured with practiced drama.

'Gods,' mumbled Chance, looking at the gong they

were about to strike. 'Look't the size of that thing.

Hold your ears!'

The warning came barely in time. An earth-shaking

'Bong!' set up a trembling reverberation throughout

the city, the very ground shivering beneath us, the

sound seeming to gain strength as it continued,

permeating the buildings with an inexorable message.

'Bong!' again, and yet again. Then a slow falling into

momentary silence, broken at once by other sounds.

Doors opening, people speaking, carts moving out of

warehouses and onto the streets, a child screaming

laughter, fountains suddenly splashing. Somewhere a

band started to play.

It had been like a stage set on which the curtain

had suddenly gone up. It was unreal. I did not believe

it.

Queynt sat on his horse only a little way from us.

'The man in the robe was the Dream Merchant,' he

remarked. 'Brom described him to me. The gong

could be a kind of curfew, to keep everyone off the

streets at night.' He did not sound convinced of this.

Across the avenue the guardsmen opened the iron

gates and propped them wide as the Dream Mer-

chant retreated into the residence. Waiting beside the

convoluted fence was a bulbous, beak-nosed man

displaying a seal of office much like the one Queynt

wore. He raised his hand to Queynt, beckoning.

'Merchant's man? New at it? From Bloome? Ah. I'm

here from Woeful. We can check in with the Dream

Merchant now if you like. I'll show you the way.'

Queynt dismounted, tied the horse to a convenient

tree, and walked through the gates with the other

Merchant's man, leaving the three of us to ourselves.

'I smell food,' said Chance. 'No inns, but lots of

food carts. Suppose I get us some breakfast.'

'Do that,' said Peter. 'Meantime I'll take a short

prowl around and see what's to be seen. Jinian?' He

invited me with a gesture.

I didn't want to go anywhere. If truth were told, I

wanted to get out of Fangel, the sooner the better.

The silence before the gong went; the lack of smell to

it; the way the people moved; everything about it

gave me the shakes. 'No. It'll be easier for you to go

here and there without me. I'll keep an eye on the

wagon while you two roam about.'

He turned away with rejected sulkiness, moving

into the gathering crowd that was assembling to stare

at the krylobos.

'Aren't they pretty things,' gushed a lady of Fangel,

got up herself as a pretty thing, all ruffles and bows.

'Great beauties. What do you feed them?'

Not of a mood to be tactful, I said, 'About a twenty

weight of raw meat a day, including the guts.'

The lady made a moue, tossed her head. 'So savage!

And where are you from? I have not seen garb like

that before.'

'From Zinter. It is the usual dress there. Our people

have a dislike of displaying their faces.' I tried to look

the woman in the face, tried to make eye contact.

Each time I came close, her glance slid away as

though greased. Her expression was not unkind, and

yet there was something about her that set my skin

aprickle.

'Is it a Games dress of some kind?' She evidenced

no particular interest in my answer, but I didn't like

the question.

'No, madam. It is the ordinary dress of our people.'

She posed, simpered, displaying her own face in

several well-practiced expressions. On her bodice

she wore a jet plaque with the letters 'DM' picked out

in brilliants.

'How exotic. Do you allow others to know your

names?'

So here it was. 'Jambal,' I replied. There are many

spells, seizings and sendings that can be done against

those whose names were known. Silly to suspect this

stupid-looking woman of any villainy. Silly. Why then

did I suspect it? 'My name is Jambal.'

'I am happy to meet you, Jambal. My name is

Sweetning Horb. I live over there"  she pointed at

one of the high-walled mansions along the avenue -

in Horb House. Perhaps you will come to dine with

us?1

'Alas, lady, no. We are expected in Luxuri and will

leave before long.' Thank all the gods.

'All honor to the Duke of Betand. Hail Huldra. Hail

Valearn. Hoorah for Dedrina Dreadeye. What a pity

you must leave so soon.'

I heard the name but did not. Dedrina Dreadeye.

Frozen with shock, I was still alert enough to see that

Sweetning Horb wore a dream crystal about her

neck. It was a pinkish stone set in a gold bezel.

Nausea struck at me; it was hard to raise my hand to

stop her, but I managed to put a hand on the

woman's arm. 'Please, who are these people you

exclaim honor upon?'

'Honor? Upon whom, Jambal?'

'You said, "Honor upon the Duke of Betand."'

'I did? Well, undoubtedly he is an official visitor

worthy of honor.'

'But who is he?'

'But my dear, I haven't the least idea. I must run.

Lovely to have met you, and your huge savage birds.'

I was given no time to recover. An oldster with a

raffish beard stood importunately before me demand-

ing to know the names of the birds.

Yarnoff and Barnoff,' I said at once, trying to keep

from shaking. 'Yarnoff is the female.'

'And where were they captured, madam? I am zoo

keeper for the city of Fangel and would be glad to

know where a specimen could be acquired. Honor

to the Duke.' He wore the jet badge, the pinkish

crystal.

'It is my understanding they were taken as chicks

from the mountains above the Southern Sea.

However, since they came into my care as adults, I

cannot vouch for the truth of this." All lies, good safe

lies.

'All honor to the Duke of Betand. Hail Huldra. Did

I understand you to say they are fed raw meat?' When

I nodded, he went on, 'From my own experience, I

would counsel the addition of cooked grain. I have

been told that krylobos in the wild do eat grain, and it

might be their health would suffer from a diet of

meat alone ..." He took his crystal in one hand and

licked it reflectively.

'Idiot,' commented Yittleby to Yattleby. 'I'd feed

him stewed grain. Actually, Jinian, a few ripe thrilps

wouldn't be amiss ..."

'Hail Valearn,' said the man, looking at me earnestly.

'Hoorah for Dedrina Dreadeye.'

'I'm sorry,' I replied. 'I didn't hear. What was that

you just said?'

'That their health might suffer from a diet of meat

alone.' He licked the crystal again.

I shivered deep inside, trying to keep it from

showing. 'Whether it would or not, sir, they must be

fed now. Will you excuse me?' Then, almost silently,

'Yittleby, couldn't you two clear the area somewhat?'

Yittleby charged the onlookers with a hungry cater-

waul. Yattleby began to kick, missing his targets but

only slightly. The oglers drew back in dismay, some

reaching for the pinkish crystals that all of them

wore. Some sucked upon them, seeming not to

notice that they did so.

The krylobos don't like crowds,' I called, voice

cracking. 'Stand well back.'

Now, I said to myself, it will be only a matter of

moments before someone appears at my side with a

pink crystal and insists I have a taste of it.

It was Chance who appeared, however, bearing

fragrant meat pies and pastries. 'All honor to the

Duke of Betand,' he remarked. This place is enough

to give you the grues. I've decided my name is Biddle,

by the way.'

'Thank the gods you were cautious. I'm Jambal. I

hope to hell Peter had sense enough to -'

'Don't worry about him. He's all right. Tell you

something interesting, though Jin . .. Jambal. There

was a fella over there on the street in Tragamor dress.

First Gamesman I've seen since we left Zinter. Came

in on a wagon just behind us. Well, he was picked up

by some woman dressed up like a Festival Horse, all

ruffles, and before he could get two steps away from

her, she'd given him a dream crystal right off her

neck.' Chance wiped his brow as he set the food out

on the wagon seat and cocked his head to the bird's

uproar. 'Lemme get those birds some food and I'll

tell you the rest.' He went to the rear of the wagon

where the meat stores were kept.

I sniffed at the food ravenously. Seemed all right,

but just to be sure I murmured a renewal of the Fire

Is Sparkening spell, which would warn if anything

unhealthful were encountered. I was halfway

through a savory meat pie when Chance returned.

'So, like I was sayin', this flouncy high-nosed dame

gave him this crystal, right off her neck. Then she

teased him into tasting it. Well, that's all right, just a

taste doesn't usually - you know. But it was like those

yellow ones, Jin . .. Jambal. He tasted, then he took

off his helm and left it lying, and as he went off with

her over there, he was sayin', "All honor to the Duke

of Betand." Now, I ask you!'

So this was why they had seen no Gamesmen.

Gamesmen were particularly targeted to be supplied

with crystals. And once given them, it seemed they

were not only full of praise for the coming visitors,

but also forgetful of their own status. Praise for the

visitors did not so much distress me. The mention of

Dedrina Dreadeye did, however, coining as it did out

of the blue. Down the avenue we could see a tall

black form returning. Peter.

He arrived somewhat breathlessly. 'Hail Dedrina,'

he whispered. 'Have you heard?'

'Could anyone not hear? You didn't tell anyone

your name, did you, Peter?'

'Nobody asked. I was moving too fast to get into

conversation. Good idea not to, though. I'll be

Chorm.'

'Jambal,' I announced. 'And he's Biddle. I wonder

if Queynt -'

'Queynt will take care of Queynt. He got along for

some thousand years before you came into his life.

Sometimes you sound like his mother. And mine.'

He sounded grumpy again, still, very much like

someone working himself up to some irrevocable

pronouncement. Sensibly, I said nothing. Across the

way the doors of the residence opened and Queynt

emerged, along with his beak-nosed new acquaint-

ance. They came across the avenue. 'Ah, the travelers

from Zinter. May I introduce you to the Merchant's

man from Woeful. Ballycrack Willome. My fellow

travelers from Zinter. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your

names?' His eyebrows waggled caution at us.

'Jambal,' I said, bowing. 'Biddle, there with the

birds. And this is Chorm.'

'I am gratified to know you,' said Willome. 'All

honor to the Duke of Betand.'

I looked at his chest. Yes, he wore one of the

pinkish crystals. And so did Queynt.

'Hoorah for Dedrina Dreadeye,' Queynt said softly,

shaking his head at me. 'We are so looking forward to

the procession and reception.'

'The procession will enter Fangel shortly after

noon,' announced Willome. 'We Merchants' men

and you other visitors will cheer and exclaim with

delight from the park here. Residents of Fangel will

cheer from their windows or the streets. The Duke of

Betand with a great retinue will arrive. Also the

Witch, Huldra. The Ogress, Valearn. Both with their

followers. And the Basilisk, Dedrina Dreadeye,

recently allied with them.'

'How exciting," commented Peter, one hand on my

shoulder to stop my shaking.

Queynt went on, 'When the honored guests have

arrived, the Merchants' men are invited into the

residence grounds for the reception. After which we

must take our latest shipment of crystals and get back

to our own towns, eh, Willome? Hail Huldra. Hail

Valearn.'

'All honor to the Duke of Betand,' intoned Willome.

'Will you all excuse me while I get some breakfast?'

Belching gently, he moved away through the crowd,

somewhat lessened since the birds' threat upon the

spectators.

'I keep expecting someone to show up and force

those things on the rest of us,' I said. 'Queynt, you

didn't-'

'Calm down, girl. No, I didn't. Though it was

chancy there for a moment. A little sleight of hand

and enough sense to mimic what was going on

around me seemed to do the trick. I'm using the

name Abstimus Baffle, by the way. One of my oldest

noms de guerre.' Seeing our puzzlement, 'Never

mind. A phrase from a former life.

'Now, I think they will not force anything on you as

long as you attract no more attention than our krylo-

bos friends have already done. The pink crystals are

only temporary, only for this event. They will be used, I

suppose, so long as the Duke and his entourage are in

Fangel. Since you are to be gone before dark, it is not

necessary to "crystallize" you, so to speak. I, on the

other hand, will be attending the reception and must

be relied upon to act correctly. So.'

Peter was astonished. 'Do you mean to tell me that

they have given those foul things to an entire popula-

tion in order to assure the Duke gets welcomed

appropriately? What do they do between visits? The

people, I mean? And where do they get the crystals?

Do they really come from mines?'

'Why should there be a town here at all on this

sterile height?' I asked. There's no water. There's no

agriculture to support the population. No reasonable

explanation why commerce should center here. But

it is a fortress easy to control. The population has to

be engaged in the crystal commerce somehow. Or in

something we can't even imagine. I'll tell you, this

place makes me crawl.' I stared out at the street

where the populace moved, buying meat pies and

fruit, hot sweet breads and sugary candies, confetti

and flags, moving and talking as real people move

and talk, and yet every other breath stopping to put

the pinkish crystals to their mouths, moving then

again, to spew, 'All honor to the Duke of Betand,'

without knowing or caring what it meant.

'Still, we're here,' murmured Queynt. 'Let not the

time pass us by. Peter, learn what you can, will you,

my boy? And you, Chance. Meantime avoiding those

crystals as though they were Ghoul Plague! We

should all be back here shortly after noon when the

procession arrives.'

Obediently we scattered, Queynt and I staying

together as we walked the streets of Fangel. All the

large, blank-faced buildings opened off secluded

courtyards, and these courtyards had guards posted

outside them. 'By noon,' murmured Queynt, 'Peter

will have investigated a dozen places in as many

shapes, I doubt not. You may be right about their

crystal factories, though the probable methodology

escapes me.'

'I envision it having something to do with that silvery

stuff the crystals grow in. Crystal milk, Buttufor called

it.'

'Is it the wize-art tells you this, Jinian Footseer?' He

sounded amused.

'It is my troubled heart tells me this, Queynt. That

and what I saw at that little mine outside town.'

Before I could go on, we were accosted.

'Jambal! Are you enjoying Fangel? Sweetning Horb,

remember? We met this morning! Oh, my, have you

left those great brutal sweet birds alone? Oh, tisk,

they'll eat half the populace by the time you get back.

I hope you tied them tightly!'

'I did, yes. May I present Abstimus Baffle, Mer-

chant's man from Bloome. We traveled more or less

adjacent from Bloome. Abstimus Baffle, Sweetning

Horb.' I stepped back to let Queynt take over, which

he did, bearing the woman off on a flood of words

that put the quantity of her own to shame. I didn't

follow them. All day my discomfort had grown, my

skin crawling in a spontaneous writhe of escape,

convinced that someone was watching me. It was

impossible to go on moving and acting as though

nothing were wrong. I turned back to the wagon.

'Was a twit here, Jinian,' said Yattleby. 7 stomped

him, only a little. Tried to poison us each with some

pink thing.'

'The whole town's a trap,' I mumbled. 'Keep

watch, will you. I'm going to sleep in the wagon. I'm

exhausted.'Peter had not been the only one to spend

a troubled night.

I fell into sleep as into a pit, disturbed by pertinent

dreams of crystals and mines and dead bodies along

the road, wakening when the others returned along

about noon.

'The lady wanted to be sure I shared the town's

need to honor the Duke,' Queynt confessed. 'I came

very close to tasting this pretty pink crystal, friends,

though I managed to avoid it with a minor Wize-

ardry. They are persistent here.'

Peter was very white-faced and not in a mood for

this jocularity. 'Jinian was wrong,' he said. The build-

ings I could get into are all full of people. Laid out on

the shelves like so many sacks of grain. Children.

Men. Women. And creatures, lizardy things. Furry

things. Asleep, I think. When the gong goes, some of

them must get up, but the others just stay there.

There's nothing in those houses but storage. And all

of them have crystals in their mouths.'

'Gods!' I had not even imagined this. 'What do they

have the look of, Peter? An army, perhaps?'

'Could be.' He pursed his lips, thinking, making

quirky wrinkles around his eyes. 'Come to think of it,

most of those on the shelves are fighting size - big.

Men or other things, both big. Some smaller ones,

but I'd say nine out often could be warriors.'

'Gamesmen?'

'It would explain where they'd all gone.'

That was a disquieting thought. We didn't have time

to worry over it, however, for there was a trumpet blast

that spun us around facing the avenue. Heralds rode

toward us, horns in hand, tabards gleaming. 'All those

within sound of my voice give ear! All those give ear!

His Grace, the Glorious Duke of Betand. Her Highness,

Valearn, Queen of the High Demesne. Her Worship,

Huldra, Heiress of Pfarb Durim. Her Eminence,

Dedrina, Protector of Chimmerdong!'

'Heiress of Pfarb Durim,' stuttered Peter. 'Still

claiming the city, is she? Not damn likely.'

'Protector of Chimmerdong,' I snarled obstinately,

even while my body melted in a sweat of terror.

'Over my dead body.'

There was no time to say more. The first of the

procession was passing, a sonority of trumpets, a

frenzy of drums, so loudly bellicose as to drown all

other sound and all thought. Then striding banner

bearers, then muzzled pombis shambling in forma-

tion with small, frightened shapes tied to their backs.

'Shadowpeople!' hissed Peter. 'And not here of

their own will.'

A huge cage on wheels with a gnarlibar inside,

asleep: twelve chained krylobos who screamed such

a cry as could have been heard in Schooltown far to

the south when they saw Yattleby.

'Rescue! Rescue!' they cried.

'Wait! Wait!' cried Yattleby in return, a vengeful

shriek. 'We will!'

Several of the guards along the route turned at this,

scowling. 'Hush,' I hissed at them in their own

language. 'You will betray your purpose.' The great

bird subsided, his anger shown only by the huge

toenail tracks he was scratching in the earth. 'Shhh,' I

said again.

'All honor to the Duke of Betand,' piped Queynt,

giving us cautionary looks out of the sides of his eyes.

'All honor to the Duke of Betand!' He waved his fists,

smiling as the cart came toward us on which the

corpulent hulk of the Duke rode, canopied with silken

draperies and jeweled like a Tragamor's helm. He

bowed from side to side, waving a puffy, negligent

hand. Behind him marched his retinue, and behind

them a line of captives in chains, both men and

women. Most carried treasure on display. One stalwart

couple carried a huge woven basket between them.

Just behind them was a young woman in rags,

carrying a child. She was a pretty thing, little more

than a child herself, and I was about to say something

to Peter about her when he made a strangled cry.

'Sylbie!' he shouted, so loudly that the chained

young woman heard him and turned searching the

crowd. Her face was very lovely, though tracked by

tears. The child she carried had a wave of ruddy hair

across its forehead. 'Sylbie,' Peter said again, a guttural

snarl. 'That bastard broke his bond.'

The marching woman was not the only one who

had heard. So had the Duke. He heaved his bulk

upon the cart, trying to see who had called out, spoke

sharply to one of his guards, who spurred away from

the procession and into the park.

'Happy he'll be,' Queynt caroled in frantic rhyme

with Peter's exclamation. 'Happy he'll be. All honor

to the Duke of Betand.' He had made his voice sound

almost like Peter's.

The guard stopped, came forward more slowly.

'What's that you're yellin', Merchant's man? Some-

body's name?'

'No one's name. No, only a fervent wish for the

Duke's happy future, Guardsman. All honor to the

Duke of Betand!' This was echoed by the others in

our group, and the guardsman galloped back to his

place beside the Duke's cart. We saw him speak, saw

the Duke heave himself up to cast a smiling wave in

our direction as the cart turned the corner to circle

the park. 'Gods,' murmured Queynt.

'Don't scare me like that again, Peter. Thank all the

gods you've got that veil over your face. Who in the

name of all that's holy is the girl?'

Peter didn't answer. Only his eyes showed above

the veil, the skin around them very red, then very

white. I watched him with a sick, sinking feeling.

'Someone you knew?' I prompted him.

He nodded. 'Someone . . . ah, someone I met in

Betand. When I went through there some - oh, it

would be almost three years ago.'

I had judged the baby the woman was carrying to

be about two. So.

'You said the bastard broke his bond. You meant

the Duke?'

'He was set on having Sylbie for himself- set on

having her dowry, at any rate. I did the town a

considerable service while I was there. In payment,

he was to let Sylbie choose her own husband. I don't

know what he's done to her, but she was a wealthy

girl when I left Betand.'

Wealthy and pregnant, I said to myself. Queynt

threw me a sidelong glance as though he read my

mind.

Peter was still worrying at it. 'If she's a captive in

the Duke's train, he's done some foul thing. He was a

mean-spirited bastard in Betand. It's unlikely he's

changed.'

'If she is a friend of yours,' I said in a voice as calm

as a glacier, 'then we must rescue her. Her, and some

Shadowpeople, and several krylobos. It seems we

have our night's work cut out for us.'

'Where'll all that mess be stayin'?' asked Chance.

'Inside the residence grounds?'

'There's a large guest compound there,' said

Queynt. 'Together with barns and dormitories. I saw

it this morning. I'll try to get a better look during the

reception. Gods, Jinian, you mean to try getting the

krylobos out, and the Shadowpeople, and the girl

and her baby?' He popped his eyes at me in pre-

tended astonishment.

'Well, Queynt, I don't think Yittleby and Yattleby

will give you a choice about the krylobos. Either we

do it or they will. In case you hadn't noticed, Yattleby

is about to take on the Duke of Betand and all his

retinue, all by himself. He won't restrain, so I

wouldn't try it. As for the Shadowpeople, I've wanted

to meet them ever since Mavin told me about them.

And the girl? Well, I think that's Peter's baby she's

carrying, so we have no choice there, either. Wave,

now. Smile. Here comes Huldra!' Amazed at my own

chilly calm, I waved.

And there was a cavalcade of mounted drummers,

beating an erratic thunder on great copper tubs,

followed by a high, black cart with the still-faced

Witch upon it, long dark hair curling around a

white, red-lipped face with eyes that burned. The

dangerous, watching feeling I had been having all

day suddenly intensified like fire. It burned. There

was a seeking feeling in the air, as though a creeping

tentacle reached toward us. Peter turned to one

side, hiding even his eyes. The invisibly flaming

hunter passed with the creaking cart, turning the

corner to continue the procession. Some kind of

seeking spell. I shivered.

Next a row of fan-horns, shattering the air with

dissonant blasts to announce Valearn, gray hair stand-

ing in great spikes around her ravaged face, eyes like

dead coals, black and lightless, and the skeletons of

children rattling on the wheels of her wagon. It

should have sickened me. Instead, I felt anger, hot

and horrid. Queynt put a hand on my arm, hissed at

me.

Then came a row of men bearing huge wooden

spirals that emitted a blood-chilling hiss when stroked,

endless and chilling. Dedrina Dreadeye, mounted

upon some great lizardish form that none of us had

seen before, its monstrous tail heaving back and forth

as it waddled down the avenue, head swinging left

and right, as did its rider's, left and right. At her side

on a blindfolded horse rode Porvius Bloster, looking

old and ill. This time it was I who turned my face

aside. I felt the Basilisk's attention on the crowd. She

looked exactly like Dedrina-Lucir except for age, and

seeing her was like peering back into time. I had

already killed three who looked like this. Daughter

and two sisters of this one. I had killed them with the

Dagger of Daggerhawk Demesne. On my leg, that

same Dagger burned and throbbed.

The head of the procession had come around full

circle and moved into the grounds of the residence,

musicians, guards, and animals moving off to the left,

honored guests to the right. The girl and her child

went to the left. I asked Queynt, 'Do we have a better

chance during the reception, Queynt? Or after it,

when all visitors are presumed to have left Fangel?'

'After, Jinian. After,' he whispered. 'My suggestion

is that you depart northward now. I am expected to

leave by the south gate when this affair is over. Is

there a path from north to south outside the walls of

this place?'

'Dungcart Road,' answered Chance. 'Along the

western wall. Shall we wait for you then, Queynt?

Outside the north gates?'

'Wait for me there. Except you, Peter. You might

slip along Dungcart Road and offer me help, if needed.

Hard to say how many there'll be in company when

we leave. I'll have to get away from them somehow.'

Thus quickly were we determined. Two of us three

putative Zinterites began hitching the birds while one

talked with highly irritated krylobos. 'We'll come

back, Yattleby,' I kept saying. 'If we stay now, it will

attract attention, and some of your kin may end up

getting killed. If we leave, they'll all go to sleep

thinking there's no danger. Wait until dark. Come on,

now. Take the harness and quit kicking. We won't

leave your kinsmen - ah, kinsbirds behind.'

Eventually the giant bird agreed, though I knew

very well he wouldn't go far from the walls. His eyes

were red and furious. I had never seen them like this

before. He was too angry even to talk to me.

Queynt went to the residence, nimbly bowing and

smiling, full of quirky gestures and fulsome words,

echoing the universal greeting. 'All honor to the

Duke of Betand.' I know from him what he learned

there and will tell it here.

Inside the gate he encountered Willome once

more, and they made their way to the tables where

liquid refreshments were provided. 'Will we be

introduced to the guests 01 honor?" Queynt asked

offhandedly, seeming to pay attention only to the

spitted chime birds he had been offered.

Willome shook his head. 'I think not. Hoorah for

Valearn. They have not done so on any occasion

heretofore. We are here to fill the grounds, I think. As

is proper.' He bit a crisply toasted bird in half,

spluttering bone fragments in all directions. 'Hail

Huldra.'

'Hail Valearn,' said Queynt. 'I must find a place to

relieve myself.'

' 'Round back,' said Willome. 'Near the stables.'

But it was to the residence itself that Queynt

repaired, carrying with him, so he said, the worried

look of a man seeking a necessary with a view to

immediate utilization. He carried the expression only

so far as the deeply carpeted corridor leading to an

ornate audience chamber he had located from out-

side. Here, sheltered from the glow of midday but

visible to the mob on the terraces, the guests of

honor and their more highly placed attendants

eddied to and fro in a swirling slosh of sidling

waiters. Here, hidden from observation behind

heavy portieres of gold-crusted velour, Queynt came

to rest, poised on one foot to flee if necessary, ears

pricked and one eye applied to a judiciously located

crack between the hangings.

The Dream Merchant, seen only at a distance that

morning, was less than a manheight away, his long

face still as a carving, the looming upper lip immobile

as stone, undisturbed by the words that sprayed from

its foot.

'Well, Betand! Tho you have come to Fangel at

latht.'

'Well, Merchant! So I was invited at last. Little

wonder I came.'

'Invited for what, I wonder. Has the Backleth

Throne determined upon thome action? Ah?' The

Merchant regarded his guest with suspicion. Thtorm

Grower and Dream Miner, my lovely parenth? Have

they told you why you are thummoned?'

The Duke belched lovingly, threw bones over his

shoulder which struck the hangings before Queynt's

nose, almost startling him into betraying movement.

'Have they told me? Come now, Merchant. Do they

write me letters? I got this!" And he waved a bezel-

mounted crystal in the Merchant's face. 'This. As did

those three crones with me. Give it a lick and you'll

know everything I do. We're off to That Place, higgy-

piggy, as may be, and Devils take him who lingers. I

am much bewitched in this endeavor, may I tell you,

Merchant, with three such ugly dams as you have yet

to dream ill of. I will tell you that Valearn is enough to

give a child nightmares for all his life, whether she

threaten to eat him or no, and the lovely Dedrina

does the same for me.'

'And yet, even in thuch company, you go?'

'Do you hear me preaching rebellion? There is

profit in following the Backless Throne. They suggest

this alliance, and so we ally. I do well by the Throne

and they by me. I have always felt well paid.'

'And you are taking all thith entourage with uth?'

'Unlikely, Merchant. That lizard of Dedrina's is

only something Huldra called up and will as easily let

go. The others ... well, when I go hence tomorrow

night, I will leave most of the traps and booty here in

your charge until I return.'

'Not in my charge, Betand. I am to go with you. I

am thummoned ath well.'

'We will be six, then. Valearn will go, and that

Witch, and the serpent queen, Dedrina Dreadeye,

with her lackadaisical brother, Bloster. He wants only

a minor catastrophe to kill himself over, so depressed

he is. Well. We will go and find out what's wanted

and then return.'

'I take it you have not been there before,' said the

Merchant, sulky and offended at the Duke's offhand

tone.

'If you knew what you will find there, you would

thound leth casthual. I have not been there for a very

long time, but I do not ekthactly look forward to the

vithit.'

'So much the better for us, to have your company.

Though I am told some visitors don't come out as

well, I suppose we need not fear that. So long as they

need us to distribute the crystals they send.'

'They require enough of that,' he replied sulkily.

'More and more crythtalth, more and more every

theathon.'

The Duke turned at this, piggy eyes burning into

the Merchant's face. 'And what do the new ones

require, Dream Merchant? More of the same? A little

perversion there? A little treachery here? Self-interest

in odd quarters? Subversion and deceit? Or is there

something new?'

.'They will tell uth when they are ready for thome-

thing new. They thay they are not ready for the latht

thingth, not yet. And I mutht thit here until they are.'

They were interrupted by the close approach of

another guest, that woman who had been so curious

upon the streets of Fangel. She simpered toward the

two men, curtsying ana nodding like some doll on

springs, face creased like a nut in a hundred

sycophantic puckers.

'Sweetning Horb, Your Grace. I've been busy

among the visitors to Bloome, as I was bid. I thought

you might want word of them - though there's little

enough to tell.' The three drifted away from the

portieres, leaving Queynt straining his ears. He could

hear only fragments. 'Say they're Zinterites ... got

their names in case you want them ..."

Queynt watched as they turned away, then drifted

out onto the lawn once more, thoughtful, breaking

his concentration from time to time only to utter the

obligatory 'Hail to Valearn.'

Meantime, we three had departed through the

northern gate, where the guardsman referred to a list,

checking us off as we went. They were careful to be

sure all visitors who came in also went out. It made

me nervous, this great care. What had there been in

Fangel we had not seen? 'Pleasant journey,' the guard

wished us. 'Hail to Huldra.'

'Hail to Huldra,' snarled Peter, no happier than

were the krylobos.

Poor thing. Wasn't he caught in a dilemma? It was

Sylbie, and he had no doubt of it. It was his baby, and

he'd no doubt of that, either. Perhaps he had even

known that she was pregnant when he'd left Betand.

Evidently he had taken some steps to provide for her,

yet here she was, unprovided for. 

And here was Jinian. Not saying anything.  He

watched me from the corner of his eye. I didn't help

him, though it would have been kind to do so. He

knew I had not missed any of it and knew well what

he was thinking.

'Oh, shit,' said Peter, muttering. 'Pombi piss. Hell

and damn and may the Hundred Devils dine on my

gizzard.' He did not need to have invoked them.

Seemingly he was feeling as though they already were.

The road continued upward for a short distance

before entering the jungle which had climbed to

meet it. Out of sight of the walls of Fangel it began its

twisting descent toward Luxuri. Here we left the

wagon, unhitching the birds.

'I think reconnaissance,' I said to Peter, keeping

things quiet and emotionless. 'They took the captives

off to the left after they were inside the gates. Also,

we will need something to cut chains if we're to free

the birds.'

'That's my metal saws,' said Chance. 'All neat and

nice in the tool box, sharp as a file can make 'em. You

goin' to have a look around?'

'Yes,' said Peter in a surly voice. 'Julian. Jinian?'

'You'd best go,' I said. Now wasn't the time to talk

about it. Or perhaps it was, but I wasn't willing to do

so.

He went. Under cover of the jungle he laid the

Zinter clothing aside and changed it for a fustigar's

hide. Once at the walls, he would change again. For

now, however, he gave his soul some peace by

growling hugely, setting up echoes that ran along the

distant valley.

'He's upset some,' said Chance.

That was his baby with the girl,' I said calmly.

'Well, happen I know a bit about that. It wasn't any

love affair, if that's what you're thinkin'. He did it to

remove a curse from the city of Betand, and that's the

truth.'

'Unlikely.' In a fatalistic mood, I was not allowing

myself to accept logical explanations.

'I don't care how unlikely, it's true. Some Necro-

mancer or other had raised up the spirit of someone

yet unborn and set it to haunt the city. So, all the

travelers had to beget when they went through.

Tryin' to get the unborn born as fast as possible, that's

what they were doin'.'

'He remembered her name.'

'Well, it wasn't that long ago and likely it was his

first time, lassy. That kind of thing sticks with you.

Mine's name was Barbra. Barbra Queet. She ran an

alehouse in Sabistown, beside the Southern Sea. She

took pity on a lustful young squinch with two left feet

and 'nitiated me. Ever' now and then I say a prayer-

like thank-you for Barbra Queet.'

I did not reply. It was not from lack of sympathy,

but from seeing likely what was going to happen. It

could hardly fail to happen. Not given Peter, as Peter

was, and me as I was, and Sylbie - heretofore

unknown but now known all too well. 'Never mind,

Chance. I'm not blaming him for anything. I've got to

go settle the birds down.'

'Why don't you just say "talk to 'em,"' said Chance,

miffed. 'We all know you can.'

I know that I flushed. There were no secrets. Silly

to imagine there could be.

Dusk was falling when we saddled the birds.

'Slowly,' I counseled both Chance and Yattleby. 'We

want to arrive outside the northern walls under cover

of darkness, not fly over it while it is yet daylight.'

We got there shortly after dark, well enough, only

to wait about in increasing impatience and worry,

waiting for Peter and Queynt. By the time they

arrived, it was almost midnight.

'Gamelords, what a mess,' moaned Queynt. 'There

were a full dozen of us left the southern gates all at

once, and nothing would do but that we travel

together. Willome had a grip on me like a vice. I tried

everything I could think of to break up the group.

Finally, Peter had to Shift to gnarlibar shape and

stampede the horses. Mine went with them, but I fell

off. Luckily. I don't think they'll be back to look for

me.'

'Had to take on bulk to make the gnarlibar,' said

Peter, 'and it took me a while. Before that, I did find

out where the captives are, though. Sylbie's in a kind

of dormitory right against the residence walls, along

with some other captives. The krylobos are in a barn

alongside that. The Shadowpeople are in the barn,

too, in a cage. The krylobos are the only ones

chained up, but it's the kind of chain that runs

through a metal loop on a metal cuff, so we'll only

need to cut one link. That'll leave them with the cuffs

on, of course, but we can deal with that later.'

'Did you get a chance to speak to her?'

'Sylbie? No. I was in the shape of a snakey thing, and I

didn't want to scare her to death. She has no idea I'm

a Shifter. When I knew her, I barely knew it myself.'

We stood there, looking at the walls, no one

moving, as though we were all equally reluctant to go

over. 'Queynt and me can take care of the north gate,'

said Chance at last. 'You do the rest, and we'll have it

open by the time you get back.'

We agreed. It seemed the best plan.

Yittleby and Yattleby bounded over the wall. Peter

Shifted into a huge, spidery shape with long, taloned

feet and lifted the rest of us over. Queynt and Chance

sneaked away into the darkness toward the north

gate as we crept through the silent streets to the

residence. Something about those streets set my

teeth on edge, no less in the dark than it had in

daylight, a kind of watching terror, as though some-

thing hugely ominous were held on a fragile leash

which might break at any moment. Do you know that

dreadful dream feeling? Walking up by the lair where

the dragon is probably asleep. Stepping through the

swamp while the Basilisks are probably away. In

Fangel I always had the feeling that probably some-

thing awful was about to get loose.

When we reached the residence it was dark in

most of its windows; only a fugitive glow betokening

some servant up late on the business of fires or

breakfast. I needed no help to get over this wall. It

was mere decoration. Evidently the city of Fangel

relied upon its crystals and its curfew. Otherwise,

except at the gates, it did not post guards at night.

Otherwise, I amended to myself, it does not seem to

post guards at night.

There was one, however, lounging sleepily against

a doorpost. Yittleby stepped forward without a

sound and brought her beak down on top of his

head. He slumped silently onto the stones. Peter

leaping to catch his sword before it made a clatter.

Inside was a babble of bird talk.

'Krerk,' said Yattleby to his kin. 'Be quiet.'

We pushed open the heavy door, hearing the rustle

of feathers, the harsh scratching of talons upon the

boards of the floor.

'Please tell them who we are,' I asked Yattleby.

'And what our needs are in this venture.'

'Krerk, gargle, quiss,' said a voice from the dark.

'Why don't you speak for yourself, girly-person?'

'You might as well,' krerked Yattleby. 'They can

hear you anyhow.'

'We are releasing some prisoners, yourselves

among them,' I said. 'You can help us if you will by

remaining together and quiet and assuring that we all

get out safely.'

'Whirfle krerk. Will you release the little people?'

'The Shadowpeople? Yes. Of course.' I had already

heard a line of plaintive melody which located the

cage of the Shadowpeople for me. The latch was tied

down outside the reach of the captives, but Yattleby

reached over my shoulder to make short work of it.

The tiny forms went past us in a scurrying cloud,

calling songfully as they fled into the night. 'Lolly

duro balta lus lom. Walk well upon the lovely land.'

Peter was busy with the chain. 'Krerk quiss?' the

birds demanded urgently.

'I'm sorry?' I turned to Yattleby. 7 didn't under-

stand that.'

'Whistle whistle krerk quiss. Rrrr.' What was this

they were telling me? I turned to Peter in astonish-

ment. 'Did the Shadowpeople make a song for your

mother?'

'They did, yes. When she was very young. It was at

the time of the plague in Pfarb Durim.'

I turned back to the birds. 'Krerk, Mavin Many-

shaped, quiss rrr quiss.' This went on for some time.

They say,' I told Peter, 'that there are two human

people among the captives who came looking for

Mavin Manyshaped. The Shadowpeople heard them

say her name. We saw the people in procession.

Carrying a huge basket.'

'Friends?' asked Peter doubtfully.

'Someone Mavin knows. Or someone who knows

her. I don't think we dare leave them, just on the off

chance'

'All right, all right. Will the krylobos help us?"

'Yes. They'll help us. Out of curiosity, if nothing

else.'

'Quiss rrr,' said Yittleby. 'Out of wonder at a

person who can talk their language.'

Peter was halfway through the heavy link, watched

with intense interest by fourteen pairs of krylobos

eyes, fourteen great beaks hung above his head like a

threatening crown. He cut through with a muffled

exclamation, and the krylobos began to pull the

chain through the links of their leg irons, freeing

themselves in moments. They stalked out into the

paved court.

'Next door,' Peter whispered. Here there were no

guards at all, but the door was securely locked. Peter

remedied this with one tentacular finger. We pulled

it open, the birds standing about outside like so many

great sentinels.

'Sylbie?' Quiet into the darkness.

'Who is it?' Plaintive.

'Peter,' he said. 'Ah - Nobody. Do you remember

Nobody from Betand? When we broke the curse?'

'Peter?' Wonderingly.

'Are you tied or chained?'

'No. No, I'm coming.' A glad bleat of words.

'Is someone here looking for Mavin Manyshaped?'

I called softly into the dark.

'Here.' A woman's voice, deep and humorous.

The person with me is Mavin's son.'

'Ah.' The woman laughed, 'Come, Roges. It seems

we have once again encountered a doer-good and are

being rescued.'

They came into the half-light of the courtyard,

Sylbie staggering under the weight of the child, one

shoe half-off, flinging herself into Peter's arms with

glad tears and he patting her there, soothing her,

while I tried not to see him do it. The woman and her

companion still carried the great basket between

them.

'What's in it?' I asked. Treasure?"

'In a manner of speaking,' said the woman. 'At

least, it is something we should not leave behind.'

She took a deep breath. 'My name is Beedie. Who-

ever you are, I thank you. Now, how do we get out of

here?'

The Shadowpeople had already fled. However,

with five people, six counting the baby, and fourteen

birds we were still a mob. Burdened by the basket,

the two strangers could not be expected to move

very fast. The dilemma was solved almost before I

thought of it. Yittleby and Yattleby stepped to the

basket, each bending to take one handle, then moved

into the night in their usual unvarying stride. The

other krylobos spread at either side like skirmishers,

and we went over the wall into the silent street.

I reached out to take the baby. 'Let me have him,' I

said. 'You fix your shoe, or you'll trip before we're

halfway there.' The child snuggled into my arms,

reaching to pat my face. Tears burned in my throat. I

had had dreams, betimes, of carrying Peter's child.

Needless to say, I had not dreamed it like this. Peter

went ahead, half carrying Sylbie by one arm.

The streets echoed, footfalls magnified into

approaching hordes that dissolved at each intersec-

tion into silence. Despite this, every building seemed

to watch, to be intent upon us. The jeweled insignia

of the Dream Merchants peered down from every

wall. I squeezed eyes half-shut, concentrating. Some-

thing in those buildings was watching, not yet moved

to intervention - but soon. I could not make an

effective protection for us unless I knew what to

protect against, but nothing betrayed itself. No crea-

ture could be seen. We were almost at the north gate

when the alarm bell rang, breaking the silence with a

hideous insistence.

'Run,' cried Peter, setting his own command in

action, swooping Sylbie into his arms and lengthen-

ing his legs all in one movement. I felt myself seized

from behind by my belt: I squeezed the baby tightly

with one arm and grabbed the bird's neck with the

other as one of the freed krylobos deposited me on

its back and began to run. I gritted my teeth, thrust my

legs in front of the stubby wings, gripped the baby as in

a flitchhawk's talons, and prayed we would not slide

off. Beside me, Beedie and Roges had been uncere-

moniously mounted in the same fashion. We dashed

down the street, the gate appearing impenetrably

shut. Just as we came close we saw one of the mighty

halves standing sufficiently ajar to let us through.

'Krerk quiss rrrr, quiss!' I screamed. 'Someone pick

up those two men!' Then we were racing away up the

long road toward the jungle as a flight of arrows

struck the gate at our back. Something had wakened

at last. Another flight whistled through the opening,

shrilling above our heads to rattle upon the stone. I

could hear Chance cursing and knew he had been

wounded. I didn't hear Queynt's voice at all.

We came to the wagon. 'I think we may expect

pursuit,' said Peter breathlessly. 'You, Jinian, take

Sylbie and the baby and these people in the wagon.

Take Queynt, too. He's been knocked silly. Chance,

get the horse and go with them. If Yittleby and

Yattleby will pull and one or two of their friends will

go along as guard, perhaps the others will stay and

help me?'

I croaked this request in bird talk, voice breaking.

The stalwart man and woman seemed accustomed to

this speed of activity; at least, they were holding up

the harnesses for the krylobos as though they had

done it a thousand times. There was much krerking

among the freed krylobos, then the matter sorted

itself out. The wagon was moving speedily down the

western road, past the fork that would have taken us

to Boughbound Forest. Chance rode before us, dab-

bing at his shoulder with an already blood-drenched

rag. Just behind us were two additional krylobos, one

of them a giant of his kind, larger even than Yattleby,

and behind us on the road something huge and furry

was beginning to form itself.

'What's happening?' begged Sylbie in a small voice,

looking back. 'What's he doing?'

'He's a Shifter,' I said flatly. '.He's Shifting himself

into something very huge and horrible to turn back

any pursuit that comes after us.'

'A Shifter?' The offended tone made me quite angry.

'A Shifter, yes. And you'd better pray, little girl, that

he Shifts monstrously, or you may be back in the

Duke's clutches by morning.'

'I didn't mean it like that,' Sylbie whispered. 'I was

just so surprised. I wouldn't ever say anything bad

about Peter.'

'Never mind. There'll be time to sort it out tomor-

row, if we're still able to sort anything out. You go

back there and sit down. All of you. Keep quiet. Keep

out of my way. Right now, I've got to concentrate on

driving.'

Liar. Liar. No one needed to drive Yittleby and

Yattleby, who would find any road needful, any

hiding place needful by themselves. Liar.

I didn't care. At the moment all I wanted to do was

forget that Peter or Sylbie or Sylbie's child had ever

existed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first of the sendings came on us just before

dawn.

I was nodding on the wagon seat next to Chance.

He had tied the horse to the wagon and taken time to

bandage himself with much cursing and help from

the strangers, Beedie and Roges, friends of Mavin

Manyshaped from far over the Western Sea, so they

said. They had been useful in bandaging, useful in

watching, and had offered to drive if I needed help,

which I had refused, preferring to keep busy or at

least appear so.

Yittleby and Yattleby had passed the time in con-

versation with their kin, a bird tribe now mightily

angered at the Duke of Betand. 'Yerk quiss krerk,'

conveyed fury and the details of their capture.

'How did you folks get picked up?' asked Chance

of Beedie and Roges.

'We came into Hawsport on a ship,' said the

woman, 'asking in the port where we might find

Mavin Manyshaped. We had gems to pay our way

and buy information. A black-haired eel of a man

attached himself to us, saying he knew where to find

Mavin. The next thing we knew, we had been dragged

off to Betand, where we were questioned at length

about the source of the gems. The Duke's people

didn't seem to be interested in anything but that.

When we told the sleek one he could find the mines

three years' journey west and oversea, he cooled

somewhat, but made no offer to release us.'

'You don't think it was using the name of Mavin

that got you into trouble?' I'd been worrying over

this.

'Not then. Though when we spoke of her later, in

our captivity, it seemed to stir the little furry folk.'

They fell silent. Sylbie and the baby were asleep.

Far off on the eastern sky lay a thin greenish line

heralding light.

It was then the sending came.

It came shrieking down the trail far behind us,

clearly visible over the trees at the top of the slope as

it cast back and forth like a scenting fustigar, a blue,

skull-jawed haze with a voice that shattered the dawn.

The voice cried, 'Jambal!' and then again: 'Jambal.'

Birds fled from dark foliage, screaming terror. In the

underbrush small movements ceased. Yittleby and

Yattleby stopped, frozen, turning their long necks to

see what came.

'Gods,' I hissed. 'I should have been prepared for

this. Quick, Chance, get out of those Zinterite

clothes.' I was ripping the black clothes off, shouting

hissing directions to Beedie meantime. 'There's a

sack of straw back in the wagon somewhere. Find it.

No, it's bigger than that. That's it. Here, stuff this

garment with enough straw to make it shapelike. Tie

the hood on top. Here's the veil. Pin it. Cloak over

the whole thing. Paper. Paper. Gods, Queynt, where

did you put the paper? ..." Stumbling over Queynt's

unconscious form, I fumbled on the shelves. 'Here.

Now - hell, give me a piece of that charcoal.'

I muttered a likeness spell, half stuttering in my

haste, then leapt half-naked from the wagon to fasten

the dummy high upon a branch. I labeled it with the

torn paper, hastily scrawled in charcoal with the

name 'Jambal,' and left it dangling in the dawn wind

as the blue haze circled down toward it, shrieking

triumphantly, 'Jambal.'

We fled, leaving the haze to eat the straw manikin

with great munching, masticating noises and cackling

screams.

'By the Lost City,' murmured Roges, 'what was

that?'

'A sending,' I panted. 'Sent by that Witch, Huldra,

I've no doubt. It seeks an entity named Jambal. The

entity named Jambal is hanging on that tree. That's all

Jambal was, thank all the old gods, a costume, a bit of

playacting. Luckily. If it had my real name, I'd be

Witch's meat by now.' I flushed, began to look for

shirt and trousers, only then conscious that I was

shivering in my smalls. 'Hurry up, Chance. They'll be

hunting Biddle next.' And to Beedie and Roges, 'Get

Queynt's clothes off him, too. They may not connect

him to us, but best we be ready if they do."

The dummy labeled 'Biddle' was mounted high on

a branch before the next sending announced itself, a

purple haze with Demon's face and banshee voice,

howling the jungle silent in its wake. I didn't remem-

ber the birds until this sending fastened itself with

hideous voracity on the strawman; then I remem-

bered my own voice saying, 'Yarnoff and Barnoff,' or

some such fool thing. They, too, had been named to

a resident of Fangel. I chattered in krylobos, yelling at

them when they refused to understand. It was the

huge stranger krylobos, stepping forward to krerk at

Yattleby in tones of unmistakable mastery, who pre-

vailed. Sulkily, they tugged plumes from each other's

topknots, a, few feathers from wings, legs and breast.

Soon there were feather tufts mounted high, labeled

'Yarnoff' and 'Barnoff,' while I was frantically won-

dering if it mattered whether I had put the right

feathers with the right names.

It was not done too soon. Wraiths red as hot iron

came screaming from the sky to settle upon the hasty

bundles. If we had delayed a moment, we would

have delayed too long.

'Now what?' begged Beedie, pale as milk. 'We have

no such things as these in the chasm.'

'What chasm is that, lady?' asked Chance, breathing

heavily. He had not liked the look of those wraiths

and was eager to talk of something else.

'In the chasm where we live, on the great root cities.'

'Great root cities,' I said distractedly. 'Are there

things like groles there? Great things like huge

worms?' And on being told there were, I was con-

firmed in an earlier supposition and saddened

thereby.

'I ask again,' said Beedie, amazed at this easy

change of focus. 'What now?'

I rubbed my head wearily, trying to remember.

'Well, now the Witch will be told by her wraiths that

they have found and eaten the ones she sent them

after. If she is not too clever, that will be enough. If

she is very clever and does not mind the time it takes,

she will examine the wraiths for blood scent and,

finding none, know she has been tricked.'

'At which,' came Queynt's heavy, pained voice

from the wagon, 'she will be very annoyed. You

should have put some fresh meat in the dummies,

Jinian.'

I was ashamed to have forgotten it. There was no

excuse for it except funk, fear and funk from a

growing supposition that something was terribly

wrong. 'I forgot.'

'Well, you had little time to do anything. Sorry I

was of so little help.'

'Any meat? Why not blood of your own?' Roges

asked.

'Because that would feed the wraith and lead it

directly to the source,' said Queynt. 'No, any non-

human meat would do. It is a clever Witch indeed

who can tell the difference between man blood and

zeller blood by smell. Of course, Huldra may be that

clever. We know almost nothing about her, including

the source of her animosity.'

'Let us take her animosity as proven, Queynt,

without worrying about its source.'

'Not only hers,' he said. The Dream Merchant spoke

to the Duke concerning Storm Grower. They travel to

meet with Storm Grower and the Dream Miner, who

also have animosity toward you. I wonder why.'

'Before traveling to the north with you, Queynt, I

had heard the name twice. Once in Chimmerdong

Forest, when Porvius Bloster said the order to kill me

had come from "them, the Dream Miner and Storm

Grower". Then again on the Wastes of Bleer, Sorah

the Seer said something to Peter about a Storm

Grower. It made little enough sense, then or now.

"Shadowmaster. Holder of the key. Storm Grower.

The Wizard holds the book, the light, the bell."Make

what you will of that, Queynt. It meant nothing to

me.'

'I make nothing of it yet. Nonetheless, there is a

Storm Grower, and a Dream Miner, both somewhere

together. And tomorrow the Duke goes there with

his ghastly maidens.'

I tried to make sense of this. 'Oh, Queynt, I am too

tired to think! I wish Peter and the other krylobos

would come tell us pursuit has been sent aside.'

Privately I was thinking it was not a long leap of

suspicion from Jambal to Jinian, if the Witch knew

Jinian existed. If the Witch cared. If the Witch were a

creature of the Dream Miner. If. If. If. Perhaps

another sending would come before long.

As though summoned by my thoughts, a cry from

the forest brought an answer from Yattleby. 'Pursuit

ended. Peter comes.'

'We can stop,' I said thankfully, reaching for the

reins. 'We can stop,' I krerked to the birds.

We did stop, gratefully, waking Sylbie and the baby

in the process but otherwise much gratified to be

able to stretch, walk about, go into the woods to

relieve ourselves.

'Doe see birs!'demanded the baby.

'What's his name?' I asked, in a fatalistic mood.

'Bryan,' said his mother, surprisingly. 'It was my

older brother's name. He had hair just this color. My

mother always said I should name my first child after

my brother, if it was a boy. This is Jinian, Bryan. Can

you say Jinian?'

So much for Peter's inherited red pate! I stood by as

the baby did go see the birds, seeming totally

unafraid of the great creatures. 'This one is Yittleby,' I

instructed. 'That one is Yattleby.'

'Yilby,' crowed the baby. 'Yalby.' He had a fine

grasp of infinitesimal distinctions, this one. 'Jinny,' he

went on, giving me an effulgent smile.

'He's very friendly,' murmured Sylbie apologetically.

'My mother always said I was, too, as a baby.'

'A charming child.' I was cool, not very amused at

myself for being so.

A disruption in the underbrush announced Peter.

He came out dressed in his own Shifter fur and

carrying the Zinterite garments. 'Damn,' he said

when told of the wraiths. 'I liked those clothes.

Besides' - hopefully - 'I didn't tell my name to

anyone."

'I did,' I apologized. 'Unfortunately. Sorry, Peter,

but it'll be safest if you hang them.'

'What was the name we used for me?' he won-

dered aloud. 'I've forgotten.'

'Chorm,' howled a hungry wraith voice, far back

up the trail. 'Choooorm ..."

'Oh, yes,' he said, scrambling for the straw sack and

the upward trail all at once, while I mumbled the

likeness spell for the fifth time. When he returned he

was paler. 'Nasty thing, that was. All greenish and

flapping. Gamelords, but I'm glad I hadn't met a

Witch before.'

'You did,' corrected Chance. 'We met one together

on the road to Xammer. Before we met this Wizard,'

indicating me, Jinian, with his elbow.

'Well, that one was nothing much. All Beguile-

ment, as I recall. Nothing compared to this Huldra!'

'Huldra may have a Witch's Talent,' said Queynt,

'but mere Talent would not enable her to send these

wraiths. No, she's studied the arts. Not wisely, but

deeply in a narrow way. Found some corruptible

Wizard, most likely, and bought the secrets from him."

'Did I hear Chance say you're a Wizard?' asked

Beedie curiously, eyes turned weighingly on me.

'Yes. Of a sort. A very young one,' I admitted.

'Can you do ... things like that? Like those blue

things?'

'I could, yes. Likely I wouldn't. There's a blood

price for doing things like that. One I wouldn't want

to pay, but that someone like Huldra wouldn't mind

paying. For each wraith she sends, someone dies. It is

lifeblood which empowers the creatures. To Huldra,

the life of a pawn or, follower would be nothing. Her

whole family was like that, starting with Blourbast, so

I understand.'

'Bloody intentioned,' agreed Peter. Though some-

times they hid it for a time, to further their own aims.'

He was remembering the time at Bannerwell when

he had been almost convinced - for a very short time

- of Huld's honor.

Sylbie and Bryan returned .from their bird watch-

ing. Bryan staggered to Peter and climbed onto his

knees. Peter patted the child awkwardly as he

blushed deeply. 'Tows!' the baby demanded ve-

hemently. Tows!'

'Baby wants his trousers,' said Sylbie. 'I had to take

them off him. They were wet and he was getting

peevish. We were so long in the wagon, and I had no

others to bring.'

'Well, now,' said Roges heartily, 'that's easy to

remedy. Let's see if the wagon master keeps needle

and thread and whether there is such a thing as a

raggedy shirt no one needs any longer ..." He picked

Bryan up, jogging him expertly, and went to query

Queynt where he lay beneath a tree.

'Roges misses ours,' said Beedie. Though none of

them are babies anymore. The youngest is eight by

now, five when we left.'

'Where is he? she?' I wanted to know.

'She. Our first girl. We named her after Mavin.

She's home in Bridgers' House, being spoiled rotten

by my Aunt Six. We talked of bringing her, but the

journey was so chancy.'

'How did you meet Mavin?"

'Oh, Jinian, that's a story for a week in the telling.

She came flying from far over the sea, down into our

chasm in the shape of a great, white bird. Just take it

she saved my life, more than once, and did a great

good to our part of the world, too. When this came

up, well, we couldn't know what to do about it,

could we, down in that great chasm with no contact

with the outside? There seemed only one thing to do:

bring it to the only outsider we knew well and

trusted.'

This thing?'

Beedie looked at Roges, and he at her. 'That man is

Mavin's son,' said Roges, indicating Peter. 'And these

others are his friends. Some others ought to know,

Beed.'

'True. Others ought to know.'

She went to the basket, then, taking the cover off

and removing some leafy wrappings from within. 'It

may be,' she said, pointing to the basket, 'that this

was the reason we were kept captives by the Duke.

He may have intended our friend here for his zoo.'

'I aaam huuungry,' puffed a small voice from

within. Pleeeez foood.'

'Do you have any meat?' asked Beedie, her voice

concerned. 'He hasn't been fed for several days.'

We gathered around the basket to peer within,

seeing only a formlessness there, a roiling shininess.

'How much do you want?" asked Chance.

'A chunk, about head-sized.' She spoke into the

basket. 'Meat coming, Mercald-Mirthylon.' When

Chance brought it to her, she lowered it into the

basket and put the lid back on. 'It will only be a

minute.'

Roges was busy with needle and thread and an old

shirt of Peter's, jouncing Bryan on one knee the

while. 'Not a pretty sight, watching them eat, so we

don't. I suppose, from their point of view, watching

us eat could be mighty unaesthetic, too. I'd better

warn you, don't touch what's in the basket. It will eat

you as quickly as it will that meat, not intentionally

but uncontrollably. That's how it got the name of

Mercald. Mercald was a friend of ours, a priest, and

he thoughtlessly laid hands upon it.'

Beedie nodded. 'We call the race "the Stickies".

They are sticky on top and dissolve anything that

touches them. In their native chasm land, they live on

insects and plants and small fish which brush against

them. Or larger things, if such are unwary. And if a

Sticky eats something with a mind, then the mind

becomes part of it, too. So, we have a creature here in

this basket who has eaten two living men - one

named Mirtylon many hundreds of years ago. One

only twenty years ago or so, named Mercald.' She

looked around at the circle of disbelieving faces.

'Well, you shall hear for yourself

She removed the lid from the basket and turned it

on its side. The moist shininess within rolled out

onto the earth, settling itself into a thick disk,

rounded upward at the centre, from which an ear

and a small trumpet gradually extruded themselves.

'How do you do." It puffed. 'I am gratified to meet

you, Peter, Mavin's son. (Puff.) I knew Mavin. She was

very wise. Wiser (puff) than I.' There was then a

strange, strangled sound, and after a time we realized

the thing was laughing.

'Jinian, you are very brave. (Puff.) I heard the

sending screaming. Most frightening. (Puff.) Sylbie

and the baby we knew already from the procession.

(Puff.)' The trumpet collapsed into the general shini-

ness, which quivered for a time before the vocal

apparatus extruded itself once more.

'I feel much stronger, thank you. (Puff.) I am happy

to meet Chance and Queynt. (Puff.) Also the birds. I

was a birder priest. Birds are (puff) messengers of the

Boundless. (Puff, puff.)'

Though I didn't understand this at all, I translated it

for the benefit of the krylobos and was rewarded by

an incredulous hoot.

'Well, perhaps they have not (puff) been taught of

(puff) the Boundless.' The windy voice sounded sad.

'Tell them about the discovery, Mer-Mir,' said

Beedie. 'You can talk about religion later.'

'Yes. Ummm. While wandering deep in chasm

(puff) found tunnel leading deep. (Puff.) Took others

and formed expedition. (Puff.) Tunnel went very

deep. Fires there. Pools of strange stuff. Silver. Thick.

Very poisonous. One of us was dissolved (puff) in it.

Near the pool were scattered blue crystals. Many.'

'They brought a lot of them out to us,' said Roges,

trying his handiwork on Bryan, who crowed delight-

edly. 'How they got in and out of there, I'll never

know.'

'Very difficult. Took much time. Effort. (Puff.) But

we had touched the blue crystal. (Puff.) Once we had

touched it, we had to bring it out. (Puff.) Touched it.

Knew we had to. (Puff.)'

They touched it with themselves, absorbed some

of it, and it turned out to be message crystal.' Beedie,

striding about the clearing, swinging her arms,

stretching.

'Message crystal?' These words were like the ring-

ing of an alarm bell. Everything inside me sat up to

take notice of the world. 'Message crystal?'

'The things you call dream crystals, we call message

crystals. In our land we have a necessary tool, the

root saw. The teeth of the saw are made from jewel

gravel, hard jewel gravel from the bottom lands,

glued to a flexible band. The saw makers buy the

gravel from traders, so much a weight, and among

the real gems are often tiny pieces of message crystal.

When we were brats, we would "borrow" the gravel

from the saw makers so we could suck through it for

message crystals. Unsanitary, as my Aunt Six would

say, but you know how disgusting children are.'

'What kind of messages?' I begged, sure that I

already knew. 'What did they say?'

'Oh, pictures, mostly. Dim, dreamy things. The

messages weren't intended for us, you know. Now

that I've been to the bottom lands, I can guess some

of them were messages to the great bottom worms.

Locations of vines to eat. New hot springs with

special minerals to cure skin troubles. I found one

crystal once that must have been intended for a bird,

full of flying, strangeness, lands and valleys below,

and a queer town with funny doors, wider at the top,

and a lovely tall tower. It was a tiny crystal. It

dissolved in a minute, but I've remembered it for

years.'

'The city you saw might have been Pfarb Durim,' I

told them. 'It has odd doors like that. Lots of places

used to have doors like that. Gerabald Buttufor once

found a flying crystal, too. He said it was full of great

cities built on roots.'

'Our cities are built on roots,' said Roges, amazed.

'Think of that! Messages concerning your cities on

our side of the world, and messages concerning our

cities on yours. Well, it's all one world, after all.'

'Excuse me,' puffed the thing from the basket. 'But

we have to tell Mavin (puff) about it.'

I said, 'I don't understand this necessity. Is there

some astonishing message in the crystals?'

'Astonishing?' Beedie thought about this. 'No,

Jinian. Not astonishing. The only astonishing thing is

that we haven't had this message before. You must

see for yourself She burrowed deep into the small

pack she carried, came up with what appeared to be a

small, rough block of wood. 'We couldn't bring very

many because of the weight. We got out of the chasm

in a balloon made of flattree leaves, and weight was

crucial. If we carried them openly, we were afraid

they might be stolen. So, Roges made this.' She

pressed the wood along one of its sides, sliding a thin

slice away to reveal a cubby hidden inside, tipping it

to drop something into my hands. A small, bright

blue crystal. Taste it.'

I recoiled. I'm sure my face was flaming. 'I ... I

can't.'

'Let me,' said Queynt. 'I'm already overdosed on

the damn things it can't hurt me worse than I already

am."

'It won't hurt you,' said Roges, shocked. 'I've tasted

it, and Beedie. All of our children. Almost everyone

in the chasm by now, I imagine.'

I didn't object. He took the thing from my hands. I

couldn't watch him. In a moment, however, he gave

it back to me and spoke in a puzzled voice.

'I can't taste anything, Jinian. It must be identical to

the one the Shadowpeople gave me all those years

ago. Why are you so nervous about it?"

I tried to laugh. 'Probably nothing. Nerves. The

wraiths have put my skin on backward. Put it down

to some personal quirk, Queynt.' I held the thing but

did not taste it. 'If you are agreed that it should be

taken to Mavin, then take it. And if you believe it

should be taken quickly, then take it quickly. If it will

undo some of the evil those yellow crystals are

causing, then do it, soon as may be.' I turned the blue

crystal in my fingers, passed it from one hand to the

other. I thought I knew without tasting it what the

intent of it was.

Queynt gave me one of his odd, concentrated

looks. I stared him down, not letting him see how

troubled I was. I could have been wrong. I wanted to

think about it more. This time I couldn't be breezy

and quick. This time I wanted to crawl in a hole and

think, and sleep, and think some more. I put the

crystal in my pouch. Beedie had others. I might have

need for this one.

The baby, newly trousered, staggered toward

Peter's lap and almost fell into the fire in transit.

Under cover of this confusion, I leaned near the

strange being - very careful not to touch it - and

asked, 'Mercald-Mirtylon, in the cavern where the

blue crystals were, was there any evidence of any

living creature?'

'(Puff.) Nothing there at all. Stickies were the first

(puff) and probably only. Very hot. (Puff.) Not good

for living things.'

'Do you think the blue crystals had been there long?'

'Very long. They were (puff) far from the white

stuff. At the edges of the (puff) cavern. Only yellow

crystals near the white stuff (Puff.) I think, very old.'

I thanked the creature, remembering at the last

minute not to pat it, which would have been my

instinctive gesture of thanks with most beasties.

The baby had been rescued, had gained Peter's lap

and plumped himself down there, chattering in

sleepy infant talk which even my language Talent

could not follow. Sylbie came to curl beside Peter

and the child, inserting herself neatly under Peter's

arm so that he held her, perforce, without actually

having reached for her. Still, he did not draw away.

He looked up to catch my gaze, flushed in half guilt,

then gave me an unrepentant stare as though to say,

'Well, you won't and she will, so gaze me no gazes,

Jinian Footseer.'

'We must sleep,' I said carefully, keeping my voice

expressionless. 'All of us need sleep."

As I moved about the clearing, preparing for the

night, I stopped beside Queynt. His eyes were still

red, and there was a great lump on his forehead, but

he looked otherwise his own indomitable self.

'These crystals the visitors believe are so important -

perhaps you have known their contents so long you

have not really thought about them, Queynt? Perhaps

you have not considered the implications - if, for

example, everyone had had one.'

He seemed surprised at this. 'Well, yes, Jinian.

That's possible. In which case, someone new, some-

one like Mavin or Himaggery is needed to make a

judgment. To consider, as you say, the implications."

I stared at him, willing him to pay utmost attention.

'A bit farther down the hill, Queynt, there is a fork in

the road. The southmost road leads down to Luxuri

and thence to Bloome again. From there it is not far

to the Great Road which comes north from Pfarb

Durim. And on that road, the journey to the Bright

Demesne should not take long - or no longer than

any such journey will take. If you can get there, and if

you can get Himaggery and Barish to quit calling

meetings to discuss the hundred thousand, perhaps

they would consider what the true meaning of the

blue crystals may be. Perhaps Barish would do it for

you?"

'I can ask him,' he said.

'It's important enough to go, and quickly."

There was no point in further talk. No sense in

worrying them with questions that could not yet be

answered. We arranged ourselves for the night. To

rest, if that were possible. Roges lay looking at the

dark. Beedie close beside him. The creature was back

in its basket. Peter had stretched himself out on a

blanket by the fire, with the baby beside him, and

Sylbie lay against Peter, half-curled around the baby.

Peter slept, one arm across the child, the hand

touching Sylbie's breast, and she not moving away

from this touch. I, wandering late, saw this. Well,

where else would Sylbie sleep except beside the one

among them she knew as a friend?

I lay down away from the fire, able to see the

flames as they undulated against the black of the

forest yet unlit by them, lost in a pocket of darkness

as in some secret closet, spying upon the outer world

as through the keyhole of that closet, closed about

with baffled jealousy coupled with the anxiety that

my suspicions had aroused. If they were true, did it

matter what Peter did?

None of them saw. All the myriad clues were there

in front of them, and none of them saw. Not even

Queynt. Queynt, who should have seen long ago on

the Shadowmarches, when he was given a blue crys-

tal by a Shadowman and interviewed by the Eesties.

Oh, yes, Queynt should have seen then. But he did

not. Only I believed I saw, from this cavern of quiet

darkness.

And I could be wrong.

But if I were right, could I do anything useful if I

stayed here? Where Sylbie was and Peter's child? I

thought of the baby, opening each day with his

bubble sounds, crowing like some cock-bird from

his basket, pure joy unalloyed. Could I accept that,

not grieve over it, and get on with what must be

done? Even if I could accept it, what good could I do

here? Could I think of staying only to stand between

Peter and Sylbie and the child? Would Jinian take a

parent's love away from a child? Jinian, who knew

well enough what it meant to be the victim of an

abductor of love, a robber of faith? Should I do to

another what Eller of Stoneflight had done to me?

There was an easy way to do it. Jinian could go into

these dark woods and gather the needful things:

sixteen herbs and earths, and those easy to find, not

scarce in any land, not difficult to locate even in the

dark. A torch would be enough light. Her own senses

would serve without any light at all. To make a love

potion. To guarantee Peter loved Jinian, not Sylbie

but Jinian, not the crowing child but Jinian. A simple

thing, taking only from now until dawn. And then

she could bring him his tea and sit by him looking

into his face while he drank it...

There was a pig that had loved me in the Forest of

Chimmerdong, loved me well, unable not to love

me. So would Peter be unable not to love me. And if I

were a monster, he would love me still. And if I were

Valearn, Ogress of Tarnost, still he would love me.

And I, knowing that, would feel - what would I feel?

If crystals could compel without blame, could not

one small Wizard? And if what I feared was true, who

would be alive to judge me for it? And if what I feared

was true, what time would there be for any alterna-

tives? And if what I feared was true, what point in

refusing to taste the blue crystal and verify what I

believed?

Except that if I knew, I might be too terrified to act.

But as long as there was doubt, however small, then

action could take place.

Exactly.

Even if I did it totally alone, I had to do something.

This was the lesson of Chimmerdong.

So, not the sixteen herbs and earths. Not the liquor

of love, the efficacious potion. Not love at all.

And not a patient traveling with them, either,

coming between them, becoming less myself with

every passing hour as I sought to become whatever it

was he loved, forgetting my oath, changing myself to

the needs of love rather than being true to myself and

doing what must be done. Not jealousy.

And not the mere running off in a huff, to sulk in

some distant place until the world was changed. Not

anger. No. Not love, not jealousy, not anger. Duty

instead. The lesson of Chimmerdong instead. I

would need to depart, but depart to some purpose.

I sneaked from my pocket of darkness to gather the

things any traveler would need. Quiet as shadow I

drifted into the forest, up along the hill, back toward

Fangel. Morning would take me far enough from this

place that they could not find me, even if they

looked, which they would not. The need for them to

move southward was too imminent, too persuasive.

Pray Queynt understood this. A man as perceptive as

he must understand it. Pray they did not delay.

And I would do what I had to do. This was to find

the Dream Miner and this companion, this Storm

Grower, and see if they knew why the foul yellow

crystals were being spread across the world. And, I

reminded myself, learn why they wanted me dead.

Behind me, a log broke among the flames, shower-

ing sparks, shattering into coals. An omen. Even the

hottest fire would break and cool in time. It was a

better hope than nothing. I moved into the night,

pacing leagues back toward Fangel between myself

and the sleepers.

It was again near dawn the final sending came, high

in the eastern sky, a pale gray blot white-fanged

against the dark, the voice a howl of wind from

between the stars. 'Jinian,' and again, 'Jinian.'

So, whoever it was in Fangel had found me out, put

two and two together to come up with six; put

Jambal and Biddle and Chorm in a pot to pour out

Jinian. Was it Huldra behind this sending? Or Dedrina

Dreadeye? Or Bloster? Whichever, this one would

not be put off with strawmen.

There were defenses against sendings. Defense was

a paltry game that waited upon others for its inten-

tions. I was too tired and angry for defense. There-

fore, let the forest beware!

I left the trail, moving into the forest. Then.

The amethyst crystal from my pouch. Set upon a

stone. Then Music and Meadow to bring an innocent

creature near, to wring its neck quickly so that it died

without fear or pain. Unjust to use its blood so, and

yet I could not use my own. Bright the Sun Burning

set upon crystal and blood. Dream Chains to Bind It

to hold an image there.

'Oh, here I am, Sending,' I sang in the false light of

predawn, dancing widdershins about the crystal on

the stone, blood on the stone, song on the stone,

herbs and twigs on the stone. 'Here am I, Sending,

deep in amethyst halls, deep in crystal silences,

within, hidden within. "A twig of red rowan, a sprig

of midnight tree, a leaf of web willow, shall summon

you to me." Come, Sending, to find Jinian where her

blood leads you. Come, Sending, and feast where

your hunger waits.'

'Jinian,' the sending called, spiraling down from

the empty sky. 'Jinian,' in a husky, hungering voice

which raised bumps on the skin as a cold wind

might. 'Blood,' it called, rejoicing. 'Blood.'

Down to hover above the stone. It did not see as

others saw, did not perceive as others perceived. It

was both sent and summoned, and the blood led

into another place. Into which it went, all at once,

like a wisp of smoke drawn into a chimney, and then

Jinian gathered the last of her strength to do Dream

Chains once more, quickly, holding the wraith where

it was, within the crystal, where it could not get out.

And when it was done, she fell on the earth like a

felled sapling, unconscious, limp, all strength gone

and drained away, the place cold as a glacier around

her. 'She,1 not I, for I was far away already, lost in

some inner maze without any way out. On the stone

the amethyst crystal burned, trembling. Around her,

me, the dark changed slowly to day.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I was awakened by something, then lay for a long

time on the cold earth wondering if me and I and

whoever had reassembled themselves to be a person

again. Where that person might be was another

question which took some time to settle. I was near

the trail that led from Fangel, hidden from it by a

slope and a line of trees, and there were voices

coming from the trail. I had lain there for about a day.

I felt fairly weak, without much will or ambition, but

otherwise normal. Beside me on the stone the

amethyst crystal rocked as though inhabited - which

it was in a sense  and I put it in my pouch rather

unwillingly before crawling into the trees to see who

came forth from the city into the dusk.

It was the Duke of Betand, traveling from Fangel

with far less panoply than when he had entered. His

allies and the Dream Merchant traveled with him,

escorted only by Porvius Bloster and a few Armigers

and Tragamors, men evidently not corrupted by the

crystals, for they went in alert watchfulness as outriders

of the small procession. Huldra and Valearn had left

their high-wheeled carts; Dedrina, her huge crocodile.

They, like the Merchant and the Duke, were

mounted on stocky ponies and wore sensible travel-

ing garments. The air of menace that accompanied

them was as great as when they had entered the city,

however, and it brought me alert among the under-

brush, suddenly threatened and vigilant.

There was Valearn, the Ogress. All the fears

aroused by nursery tales were made immediately

manifest, swarming in the shadows, wakened more

by this one danger than by the presence of others,

equally perilous. In her lands of the High Demesne in

the south she had walked the woods alone, garbed in

ragged robes with the staff of an old mendicant,

seizing children who wandered by themselves, leav-

ing their bones half-gnawed for the were-owls to

finish. She had not troubled adults, only children.

Them she had sought relentlessly, the child from the

cot by the window, the babe from the blanket by the

fire, the toddler snatched from a mother's arms. But,

only children. Only children. I told myself this, more

than once, assuring Jinian the child that she was too

deeply buried in Jinian the Wize-ard for Valearn to

find her, ever. Jinian the child was not so deeply

buried inside me that she did not doubt this. We all

doubted it together.

I waited until the troop had moved almost out of

sight, then laid a hiding spell, Egg in the Hollow, that

I might not be seen by them, that I might most

assuredly not be seen by Valearn. It was all very well

to assure oneself that the child one had been was

outgrown. Such children had a habit of coming back

at odd moments, moments that might prove unprop-

itious indeed.

I did not think of Sylbie's baby, and Peter's. Sylbie

and the baby should have been far on the southern

road by then; why think of them in connection with

Valearn?

The rest of the night was spent in scrambling down

long dark roads the way I had come twice in recent

days. A drift of krylobos feathers beneath a tree, a

scatter of straw, confirmed the location. Here the

sendings had come.

The allies were not so far ahead I couldn't hear

them talking. 'Clever,' drawled Huldra, seeing these

telltale signs by torchlight. 'Clever little bitch. She

sent my creatures back to me full of straw and

quills, them that cost good blood to send, back

with nothing but trash in them. Save one which

came back not at all.'

'You think it's that Jinian?' Bloster, sounding as

bedraggled as he looked. The one the Backless Throne

wanted killed, the one who destroyed Daggerhawk

Demesne?'

'You don't know that she destroyed Daggerhawk,'

said Dedrina Dreadeye. The Seers have not verified

it.'

'I know it," he said obstinately. 'Even if the Seers

said she had not, I would know it.'

'What ith thith girl? Thome great Afrit full of mighty

powerth? Thome twinned Talent or other?' The Mer-

chant did not sound really interested.

'She's the cause of my losing my captive,' snarled

the Duke, trying to ease himself in the saddle. 'You

may lay money on that.' He was too fat to ride in

comfort; he and the pony suffered equally upon the

road.

'And why doeth the Backleth Throne take an inter-

etht in her?' the Merchant asked.

'I was never told,' said Porvius, aggrieved. 'Only

that the Throne wanted her dead. As do 1.1 had her in

my hands, like an egg between my fists. I was only

concerned with her brother then; him I hated. But if

I'd killed her when I had the chance, we'd not be

homeless, traveling on the charity of our friends.'

'Scarcely charity,' hissed Dedrina. 'We pay good

coin for our keep, brother. Cease your whining. If

you have energy to spare, remember you are a

Tragamor and spend it smoothing this road. It is

unpleasant to travel full of bumps as it is.'

Talents don't work well this far north,' he said, in

the petulant tone of a child. 'I have not the strength

even to Move gravel.' Oh, how far Porvius had fallen,

into this meekness, this whining infancy.

'Keep silent, then, lest you waste what little power

you have!' They rode on, becoming less loquacious

as the hours passed. Near dawn they paused; and I

was ready enough that they do so. I was wearier than

the distance would explain. Following, keeping quiet,

finding the trail in the dark, worrying that I might be

about to step into shadows, all had been an exhaust-

ing effort. The fact that I did not step into shadows,

that none of us did, should have told me something. I

was preoccupied with other thoughts, however, and

did not learn from what was not there.

We had come to a small village. The Merchant called

it Bleem. While the guards were left to camp in the

forest as best they might, preparations had been made

for the others to spend the night under roof. Some-

one's house had been vacated and made ready for the

group with a supper laid upon the table and the beds

prepared with fresh straw. So much I learned from the

lean-to at the back, where an old wagon lay half against

the warm chimney, making a nest for me to supper in. I

could hear them through the wall.

Moreover, I could see out the open end of the

shed well enough to observe the comings and goings

of the people there. There was no rejoicing among

them, certainly. I had seldom seen such a whipped-

fustigar crew, their jaws dragging halfway to their

bellies and more of the women crying into their

neckerchiefs than not. I still had the hiding spell on

me, so I left the cozy nest and went among them.

Curiosity, I suppose. There was something about

them that teased at me.

There were two men standing at the well, one a

fairly well-set-up middle-aged fellow, the other

slightly older. He was lecturing the younger man,

beating his fist upon the well coping, tears running

down his face like a river.

'I say we can't go on, Dolcher. We can't. You know

that. First it was just a few zeller off to Morp. Then it

was a few zeller plus a few old people. Now it's all the

oldsters and most of the zeller and half our children.

By all the old gods, they'll have your son next. This

time it's my Zenina they've chosen to take, and your

boy was to wed her this season. Next time him. The

time after that, what? There's none of us left..."

'Servants,' whispered the other man. 'They want

our young ones for servants, that's all. When they've

served a few years, they'll be home again.' His gray

face belied this.

'Man, are you blind? Why take our oldsters if they

want servants? They took Granny Zeeble, and she so

trembly the children had been calling her Feeble

Zeeble for ten years. They took your own father, who

hadn't walked a step without two canes for seven

seasons. Hush. Here's the wife.'

A woman approached them, one of the weeping

ones. 'You can't let her go, Vorge. You can't let

Zenina go. The time's come to say no. We've given

enough.'

'Well, well,' the younger man said, patting her

clumsily on the shoulder. 'That's what we've said to

them at Morp, Lina. We sent that message only

yesterday.'

'But he's here. The Dream Merchant. They say he's

their son. Talk to him. Beg him. Make him understand.'

'Now, Lina. We've sent the message already. I

wouldn't want to get them upset.'

'If you won't, I will.'

The man called Vorge shook his head, wrung his

hands. 'It would be better if you did, Dolcher. You're

village chief. It would be more natural.' The old man

shook his head. 'We've got to do something.'

Two of them went away. Dolcher stood at the well,

one hand dragging into a bucket of water, lifting it to

drip the water into the well, listening to the slow

plop, plop. I examined his face; hopeless. Something

was tugging at my memory about Morp. I'd heard the

name somewhere.

I wandered through the village. There were empty

houses, small places falling to ruin, empty stables. Of

all the people left in the place, Vorge was about the

oldest. So, the oldsters had been sent - where? And if

not as servants, as what? Around the village stretched

the small fields; between the houses were the gardens.

Ill tended. As though the people could not spare

attention for them. It had the look of a settlement

upon its last breath.

Dolcher still stood at the well. At last he shook his

head and went to the house occupied by the Merchant

and his group. I slipped back into the lean-to, my ear

against the wall.

'Well, fellow, what do you want?'

'May I speak to you, Your Reverence?'

Thpeak. You are thpeaking. Tho thpeak.'

'Your Reverence, they've come from Morp, from

the Backless Throne again. They want our young

people, sir.'

'Tho?'

'We can't send our young people, sir. They're

needed for the crops. For raising the zeller. The

Throne wants the zeller, too.'

'Let me underthtand thith. You are refuthing to do

the Throne'th will?'

Silence. I could visualize what was going on. Grovel-

ing. Fumbling for words.

'No, sir. Not the Throne, sir. Just Morp. Morp isn't

the Throne, and they don't understand ..."

'I hope you have not thaid thith to anyone!'

'We did send a message, sir.'

'Fool. Then why are you thtanding here? Get under

your roof. Pray you do not all die.'

The door slammed. I slipped out to watch Dolcher

staggering away from that door, reeling from sorrow

and apprehension. Over his head I could see the sky,

boiling. It had an unhealthy look. Suddenly I remem-

bered what I had heard about Morp. A charnel town.

A town of butchers. Through the wall came exclama-

tions from the group there.

'The idiot hath refuthed the Throne. Yethterday he

did it. Morp will have complained to the Throne.

Thtorm will come. We will be fortunate to ethcape

with our liveth.'

Back outside I went. Yes, storm boiled over the

western horizon. Black cloud, drooping at the bottom

like great pustulent udders. High-piled, running

toward us with the inexorable flow of lava. I got

myself back into the lean-to and under the wagon

just as the first drops of rain hit.

It was a punishing storm. First rain and wind,

tearing at the structures of the place, removing roofs

and shutters, sending them flying like pennants into

the east. Then hail, piercing what the rain had left.

Then greater wind. And with it all, a screaming sound

of fury. Time and another time, dark as night. Howl-

ing rage. The roof of the lean-to went, but I remained

half-dry beneath the wagon. I had anchored it as best

I could with stakes driven in during the first roaring

moments.

I lay flat, empty, the storm driving out all thought.

There was no village. There was no life. Only this

horror of falling water, this terror of screaming wind.

One might as well die. I knew they were dead, I was

dead. No point in being alive in this.

And then, after a forever time had passed, it was

over. They had given the best house in the place to

the Merchant, and now it stood alone. From inside it

I could hear snoring. The Merchant and his guests

were asleep. Among the sodden ruins the people of

Bleem struggled into the light. There were no fields

left, no gardens left. I went out into the woods, took

away the hiding spell, and came into the village from

the other side. Dolcher was there, standing dazed in

the midst of the ruin, staring with empty eyes at the

punishing sky.

'Dolcher,' I said. He had been deafened. It was

hard to make him aware of me. 'Dolcher. Listen to

me. Take all your people, now. Right now. What little

they can carry, nothing else. No wagons. Nothing else.

Go. Go that way, back toward Fangel, around the city,

not through it, and then south. You hear me?"

'Who are you?' He looked at me, not really seeing

me. 'Who are you?'

'It does not matter who I am. I am here with a

message for you, to help you. Storm Grower will kill

you all. You cannot pacify Storm Grower. Only when

you are all dead will she rest. So, you must leave here.

Go quickly. Go far. Find caves to protect you from

hail. Forests to protect you from sight. Go. And go

before those in the house waken.' I used every

persuasive trick of voice I could manage, setting

several small compliance spells on him meantime.

Not enough to draw interest, just little ones. When I

went back toward the lean-to, he was in motion,

staggering, bleeding, crying, but in motion.

It did not take them long. The longest time was spent

simply in getting their attention. Once they under-

stood, they moved quickly, as quickly as people can

who are half-drowned and totally beaten. There were

some dead. They laid them out in one of the wrecked

houses and set fire to it. It bled smoke into the sky,

smoldering. Then they went as I had suggested. Back

toward Fangel, a sad, straggling procession. The last

of them wended over the hill out of sight sometime

before the Merchant woke.

He came to the door, opened it, stared out into the

shambles. I had restored the hiding spell and was

sitting on the well coping. He did not see me.

'Hey,' he shouted. 'We will have our breakfatht

now!'

Needless to say, there was no response. He cursed

for a time, which woke the others, and they came out

of the place together.

'Storm Grower?' asked Betand. 'Did she not know

we were here?'

'I doubt they thought of it," sulked the Merchant.

'We will find no thuthtenance here. Let uth depart.'

'What was all this about?'

The people objected to the levy from Morp. It ith

Morp which provideth provender for Thtorm

Grower and Dream Miner.'

Provender was one way of putting it.

Huldra came into the light, blinking, snarling.

'How much farther? You have been to That Place

before, Betand. How much farther is it?'

'I haven't been there,' he said in astonishment.

'What made you think I had? No. I have been near

there once or twice. The Merchant knows. He has

been there.'

'I don't know,' the Merchant said. 'I have been

there many timeth, but each time there hath been a

guide.'

'Then how do we know where we are going?'

'There will be a guide thith time ath well.'

My ears pricked at this. What kind of creature could

serve as guide to the Dream Miner? Premonition

stirred, and the Dagger of Daggerhawk burned with

sullen fire, as though it had ears of its own. I tried to

ease it on my thigh and bit back a curse. I was wearing

loose trousers with tight cuffs, almost a pantaloon, a

very sensible garment for this kind of scrambling

travel, but there was no slit in the pocket through

which the Dagger could be reached. There was no

time to remedy the situation. They were going off

into the forest to find their guards.

The Tragamors had Moved themselves a cave large

enough to protect them from the storm. They were

unharmed, perhaps even slightly amused to have had a

better night than those they guarded. This was my own

conjecture, from the few words I overheard as we

went downward in the early light, the horses' hooves

making soft plopping noises in the dust of the narrow

trail, the troop almost silent except for occasional

exclamations when low-hanging branches buffeted

them. The voice that greeted them startled them all,

and me as well, though I realized I'd been half

expecting it. My old friend the Oracle. I sneaked

forward through the underbrush to get a clearer view

of it. Somehow I had known it would be the Oracle.

It stood half-concealed behind a leafy branch, only

its painted face and one hand clearly visible. 'Oh, my,

isn't this a fine array of Talent and perspicacity to

bring before the Backless Throne. How marvelous

Dream Miner will find you all, how intrigued the

Storm Grower will be. I have waited for you for

simply days.'

'Nonsense,' grated Huldra. 'We are here on the day

appointed.'

'One anticipates so! One cannot wait\'

In this sober light of early day, I was struck by the

artificiality of the creature, by a certain surreal quality.

I had been too ill in Chimmerdong to notice much,

but I wondered at myself for not having seen this. It

still wore the hooded robe of straps, bright-colored

ribbons that moved and swayed, hiding its form. It

turned its face away as it spoke, and I strained eyes to

see it. Had its mouth moved when it spoke?

The question went unanswered as the Oracle swept

away in a flurry of ribbons. It went through the trees,

appearing now and then upon the trail, the ponies

following from point to point. Within a few turns it

led them aside from the main trail into a twisting

path. Patches of shatter-grass and startle-flower grew

across it, growing evidence it was seldom used.

'Do you bring us to the Throne by some servants

entry?' the Duke demanded. 'Is this the honor done

the Duke of Betand?'

'Oh, Duke, my love, be not offended. There are

only three entries to the Backless Throne! One from

the center of the Great Maze, and we have not the

time to take that path. One from the charnel houses

outside Morp, where pro vender for the Great Ones is

prepared, and we have not the stomach for that one.

And this one. Of the three' - the Oracle giggled in a

shrill mockery of amusement - 'this is the safest.'

Morp? Again Morp. I thought the people of Bleem

had done well to escape when they had. I doubted

their young had been useful as servants. Morp had an

evil reputation. There was an entrance there. So. And

another entry from the center of the Great Maze. I

made a mental note, hanging back at a turn of the

narrow path, waiting for them to get farther ahead.

The way ended at a tunnel mouth, a gaping hole

between two tumbled pillars that once had been

carved in the likeness of some great beast. I identified

claws, horns, a vast bell-shaped ear. Obviously this

route had been more used in ancient times, and I

wondered why it had fallen into such neglect, but

this question, like others, had no time for considera-

tion. The Oracle had plunged into the darkness.

'Leave the guards to guarding, good friends. Come

along I We are no doubt eagerly awaited!'

Well, I had half anticipated some such problem

when the hiding spell was set; now I reinforced it,

binding it more closely about me. When I drifted

from the trees and among the surly Tragamors and

Armigers, they noticed me no more than they did the

wind. Though I had taken little enough time," the

others were far ahead, down distant turnings of the

tunnel way.

Since that time I have often pondered over my heed-

lessness. I think it was the label set upon Huldra that

did it. She was a Witch. Wize-ards had nothing to fear

from Witches. They were a minor Talent, no more, and

nothing to worry us. Never mind that sendings had

come from her; never mind that Queynt had taken the

trouble to point out she had more than mere Witch's

Talent to her; still I thought of her as a Witch. This is the

trouble with too much Schooling. One learns to man-

ipulate the labels in a way that the Gamesmistresses

approve, and one doesn't realize that things do not

always act in accordance with the labels in the real

world. One doesn't realize that the labels, come to that,

are often wrong.

Be that as it may, and even though I knew better, I

had taken no steps beyond a simple hiding spell -

there are a dozen forms of Egg in the Hollow, and I

had used the easiest - to protect myself. It worked

well enough against the guards, and I didn't think

beyond that. Ahead of me were the ones I followed,

and that is all I was thinking about.

Fortunately, there were no side ways, no mazes to

confuse. One way, one way only, the dust of the

tunnel clearly marked by their footprints. I sped after

them, risking a wize-art light from fingertips to show

the way. I heard their voices, extinguished the light,

slowed to their pace. Now they were dawdling,

moving without haste.

'Is this the way guests of the Throne are greeted?'

Huldra, more than merely annoyed. Sharply irritated;

perhaps suspicious. 'Hauled through dusty tunnels,

league on league?'

'Oh, lovely one, why say guests'? Are there guests

honored in the great audience hall? Do plenipoten-

tiaries arrive with their steeds all caparisoned, bringing

gifts from potentates afar? Guests? Did you imagine

you were asked as guests1.'

'What then?' Dedrina, stopping dead at the center

of the tunnel. 'If not guests, what?'

'You should not imagine these are my words, dear

friends, not my language at all -1, who am the perfect

fount of diplomacy - but if asked - as indeed I have

been  I would wager the word used by Storm

Grower would be "lackey". Dream Miner might say

more than that, though both grow laconic with the

passing centuries. Still, "lackey" will do.'

'Lackey!' The Duke spat. 'I have long been a faithful

friend of the Backless Throne!"

'You have long' - smiled the Oracle - 'been a well

paid puppet. Ath hath the Merchant here,' in bitter

mockery of the Merchant's lisp. 'Come now. It is not

wise to linger. Should Storm Grower grow impatient,

we all know what consequence might follow.'

This was sobering. For the first time, I began to

worry. I had assumed what the Duke had assumed:

he and his party were guests and would be treated

with some degree of courtesy. If they were at risk,

then so was I.

They wound deeper under the earth, down twist-

ing ways. Above us, I later learned, the Great Maze

stretched its illimitable hedges; around us worm

holes opened into the tunnel, admitting odors of

swamp and jungle, hill and moor. They had walked

half a day away with me scurrying in their wake when

I began to hear the sound, the susurrus of the sea, the

ebb and flow of waves upon a shore.

Waves.

Not quite. Not quite that ebb and flow. Two

rhythms, rather, running almost counter to one

another. One slightly slower. And with the sound the

movement of air, laden with that same sweetish-foul

stench we had smelled too often upon the road.

Dead things. Decaying things.

Huldra made some expression of disgust. The

Merchant said something to her that made me shud-

der, something to the effect that it would be wisest

not to notice the smell of anything she might soon

see. They had fallen silent, so I slowed my pace,

peering carefully around each corner before sliding

around it into the next stretch of rocky corridor. Still

that wave sound. The stench stronger. Still those

ahead moving in the wake of the Oracle, now taking

no notice of either smell or sound.

They came to an open area, perhaps two man-

heights from floor to roof, that roof supported by

several dozen great, rough-hewn pillars, irregularly

set, much as though the diggers had left a pillar

whenever they felt like it rather than by any plan.

Beyond this hall of pillars was a much larger space.

There was light there, though not much, and the

sound of vast emptiness swallowing up the footsteps

of the troop. They moved to the left among the

pillars, and I to the right, keeping a pillar between

myself and them. By this time the sound was enor-

mous, great heavings of air which I felt gust past me

in first one direction, then another.

The hall of pillars ended in a gallery, a wide shelf

curving high around one side of the greater space. A

low parapet of stones set in mortar edged it. The

others were looking over this parapet at whatever

was below. At one point the parapet was broken as

though something had struck it; the stones were

tumbled inward upon the shelf. It was here I

stretched myself, hidden from the others both by my

spell and by the stones, looking out into the cavern.

It was lit from above by a few worm holes piercing

the stone. Dust swam in these beams of light, fugitive

shining specks to speak of the day. At the center of

the cavern a great pile hid the opposite wall, a

monstrous, fantastic pile, twisted into organic forms;

prodigious legs, monstrous warty arms, folded stone

almost like gigantic faces; great jutting plinths of nose

above twisted strata of lips. Wrinkled runnels of

water-deposited stone above seemed to form gigan-

tic cheeks and eyelids.

Which opened.

I was clinging for support to a block of stone while

an enormous eye peered into my own. It did not

blink or change expression. Only gradually, as my

heart slowed, did I realize it didn't see me.

The others were at a point far to my left, some-

what around the curve. I could see them easily. The

Merchant stood at the center of the group, his long

face as impassive as the stones. On one hand were

Valearn and Dedrina. Porvius stood somewhat

behind them, his face down. The Oracle was some

little distance from them, waving and bowing as it

made introductions.

'Dream Miner. Honored sir. Storm Grower. Mon-

strous madam. I bring you once again your servant,

Dream Merchant of Fangel. Also, those you have

summoned. Betand. Valearn. Huldra. Dedrina. Fop,

cannibal, crone, and lizard. An assortment, madam

and sir.'

The huge stone lips writhed, revealing themselves

as flesh capable of great, slow words, like rocks

rolling together in avalanche. 'If you say "cannibal" as

a term of derision, Oracle, you would be wise to say

rather less. Some of us eat what we will. So far as we

are concerned, Valearn may eat what she likes.'

'Come a little closer!' Another voice, one seeming

to come from the opposite wall, enormously boom-

ing, higher in pitch. Hearing it, all those present

squirmed, feeling the words as an assault. I saw them

bend a little, twisting, trying to shed those words.

'Come a little closer so I can see.' The voice was full

of wind, horrid and cold. 'Only a little closer.'

'Careful,' said the Oracle, laughing. 'I would not

recommend that any of you leave this gallery. If you .

come within reach of the mighty madam or the

honored sir, they may eat you. They cannot help it,

poor dears. They are always hungry.'

They moved down the gallery, however. I didn't

need to follow them. I could see the source of the

other voice well enough from where I was, though it

had its horrific head turned away from me. It was

another giant, seated behind the first and faced in the

opposite direction, a female, perhaps, though what I

could see of the huge face had no delicacy to it and

was as obdurate as the first. If they had been standing,

they would have been ten manheights tall. They were

about seven manheights tall, seated as they were back

to back upon a colossal pillar.

'The Backless Throne,' I said, surprised into utter-

ing it half-aloud.

Across the cavern on the gallery the Oracle turned

in my direction. It had heard me! Through all that

ebb and surge of mighty breathing, it had heard me. I

lay quiet, not moving so much as an eyelid, letting

the surge of air wash to and fro. With all the echoes in

this chamber, it could not be sure. So I told myself.

So I assured myself, sweating, swallowing, trying to

get my heart back where it belonged. After a time, it

turned back to the others, ribbons quivering as

though in laughter, poised in its eternal mockery.

I slipped back into the hall of pillars and worked my

way toward them, pillar by pillar, keeping stone

between. The damned Oracle might see through my

spells -1 thought it might see whatever it pleased, quite

frankly - but it was not likely to see through stone.

'Storm Grower, mighty madam, may I present your

servants.' The Oracle bowed, gesturing to all those on

the gallery. 'Your most obedient servants.'

'By all the gods,' said Huldra, amazed. 'What are

you?'

'Oh, do not be offensive,' said the Oracle. 'Giant

madam may be most: annoyed.'

'I am not offended,' said Storm Grower in that

voice of horrible wind. Her left arm came up, slowly,

like a tree rearing skyward, bent, straightened, its skin

like a lava flow, cracked deep, soiled with the dirt of

centuries, its huge fingers like scaly pillars with nails

twisted and ragged, slowly, slowly, then snapping

toward the parapet with lightning motion, missing the

parapet by less than an arm's length so that Huldra

stumbled back with a screaming curse, tripping over

Bloster and falling full length upon the stones.

Laughter then, monstrous laughter, as though vol-

canoes amused themselves. The left hand did not fall

but stayed where it was, twisting and twisting as though

to wring a neck. 'I am always glad to educate lesser

creatures. I am a giantess, sweet Huldra. Born with my

brother many centuries ago in the monster labs of the

humans. Reared there for a long, long time. Fled from

there by my own courage and resourcefulness ..."

'And mine,' rumbled Dream Miner. 'You were not

alone.'

'Never alone.' The other laughed, shifting to dis-

play the obscene flaps of filthy flesh that bound them

together, shoulder to shoulder, rib to rib, buttock to

buttock. 'No, never alone.'

'Grown to great size and power over the centuries,'

thundered Dream Miner. 'Grown to a size and power

capable of revenge.'

'Handicapped somewhat in that their great size

prohibits mobility,' chanted the Oracle. 'Otherwise,

most puissant, most powerful."

Storm Grower twisted her fingers once again, and a

lightning bolt nicked from the air to the gallery where

the Oracle stood, missing it by a finger's width.

'Subside, beribboned jester, painted riddler. You are

useful, but you try our patience."

'Try our patience," agreed Dream Miner. 'Take

those with you elsewhere for a time. We will tell

them of our will later. Now we have other matters to

see to. Besides, I am hungry."

The Oracle led them away. There were a number of

lighted tunnel openings from the gallery, and into

one of these the troop went, shuffling, seeming both

fearful and angry. There was no point in following

them. They would be returning. There was a narrow

crevice to one side of the hall of pillars, one about my

size. I decided to explore it, finding that it climbed

upward and outward toward the cavern and it had a

window in it, a place where the stone had broken.

From this vantage point, I could look over the para-

pet and down into the cavern. I could see Dream

Miner's feet - not a sight to inspire confidence or

good appetite - and a part of the floor of the cavern.

To either side, right and left of the giants, low, long

archways curved like bows led off into the darkness.

From the archway at Dream Miner's right, several

dozen long poles protruded into the cavern, their

nether ends hidden in the darkness.

Dream Miner reached for one of these. His mon-

strous arm descended toward the rocky floor; the

flesh between the two giants stretched, revealing its

leprous, mottled surface, full of crusty sores and

small, scurrying vermin; his hand grasped the pole

and dragged it forth. Its end was burdened with the

body of some large food beast, perhaps a giant zeller.

This spitted beast was thrust into the giant's mouth

and half bitten from the pole, the pole withdrawn

like the stem of some obscene fruit. It made two

mouthfuls for Dream Miner, two huge, bloody

mouthfuls gulped down with much gnashing and

masticating.

I put my face into the stone, unable to watch it.

Until this moment I had not seen his monstrous

nakedness. He was so stonelike, so monumental, that

one did not think of it as flesh. The act of eating,

however, with all its gustatory noises, the stinking

belch that filled the cavern, the rubbing of the

behemothian stomach - all this, all at once, horrify-

ing and sickening both.

Worse was to come.

'Pass me one,' blared Storm Grower. 'Pass me one

as well.'

'You don't need it,' he bellowed. 'You live off my

gut as well as me.'

'We live off our gut, monster. I have a tongue to

taste food as well. Pass me one.'

'Get your own, Cloud Teaser.' He set himself,

grunting, not giving way as the flesh between them

stretched. A lightning bolt flicked him on the ear and

he bellowed, jerking upright. Storm Grower took

advantage of this to pull out a pole of her own, this

one decked with the body of a man. I stuffed my

hand into my mouth to keep from crying out, for the

body was not dead.

'Not fresh,' she complained in her giant's rumble.

Stones quivered from the roof far above, and a

sprinkling of dust fell upon them. 'Not fresh enough.'

'Keep your voice down, idiot. You'll have us buried

alive. And what do you mean, not fresh? I saw it

squirm.'

'Barely. Been there too long. Mostly dead. I like "em

lively, Miner. Lively. So they tickle on the way down.'

'I'll tickle you if you don't keep your voice down.

You're bringing rock on our heads.'

'Time this cavern was opened to the sky, brother.

Time to get the moles in again.'

'Time enough for that when we've done with our

plans for mankind, sister. Soon, now. Call the creatures

back. Time to dispose of them. And keep your voice

down.'

Still the caverns quivered at her call, a vasty bellow-

ing as though some cataract rumbled far beneath

them, summoning the Oracle's return. When it came,

it brought the Merchant with it, but only him, to

stand as they had before at the gallery edge.

'Well, my son,' bellowed Storm Grower. 'Have you

done our will?'

'I put the powdered crythtalth in their wine at the

rethepthion, if thatth what you mean.'

'All of them? Huldra? Valearn?'

'All of them. They didn't know it wath there. They

thtill don't. Tho far ath they know, they follow you of

their own free will. Jutht ath I do.'

'Ah. Well and good, my boy. Well and good.'

'Tho, now I've done it, I want you to tell me.'

'Tell our great boy what? What would he like to

know?'

'When I'm going to grow. When will it be? I am no

bigger than ten yearth ago.'

'Ah, well, when do you think it will be, Miner?

When was it we began to grow?'

'Not much for the first hundred years. We were no

bigger than he when we escaped. After that, some-

time. And mostly in the last hundred. You'll be

mobile a while yet.'

'I want to grow."

'What's this? The power you have in Fangel isn't

enough for you?'

'I want to grow. I want to bring down the thky, ath

you do. You have no idea what impertinenth I mutht

put up with. They do not fear me ath they ought.'

'Tush, my boy. Nothing. Mere nothing. You have

your city, your servants, your hunters. You have your

warehouses full of creatures ready to come out and

do your bidding when we empty the world of men!

You have your army laid away for the coming day.

You have a city full to come out and play at the sound

of your gong. What more would a boy want? Ah?'

And the monstrous face broke in a cavity of laughter,

laughter that did bring rocks down upon their heads

and made the Merchant dance back into the tunnels

to escape being crushed. I was safe enough where I

was, wondering if this madman was truly their son

and, if so, how such a monstrous thing might have

been accomplished.

'Enough,' snarled Storm Grower at last. 'Be on your

way out, my boy. Wait for the others at the entrance,

they'll not be long. We have one or two small items

of business."

The Oracle led him away, very silently for the

Oracle, usually so full of quips and speeches. For a

time the cavern was full of breathing noises, then the

Oracle returned with the others. All of them.

'We have summoned you for a reason,' said Dream

Miner in an insinuating whisper. 'The time has come

for one of our most-hoped-for projects to reach

fruition. We must depend upon you for the next

stage, but we know we can do so, for the rewards are

great."

'Let us talk of those rewards,' drawled the Duke.

He was standing well back from the parapet, well out

of reach. 'They have not been inconsiderable in the

past, but let us talk of them further.'

'Ahhh,' hissed Storm Grower. 'Let us rather talk of

punishments when our will is not done, for those are

severe. I was limited in my range at one time, Betand.

At one time I could bring storm only upon those

places near to me. Then I began to grow, greater and

more great. Over eighty years ago I began to reach

out, and out, beyond this very world. It was I who

tumbled a moonlet from the sky onto the Wastes of

Bleer, I who wrecked Dindindaroo and all the lands

between, foiling the works of Wizards and men. I am

no longer limited in any way. As the disobedient

people of Morp have found to their dismay. And

' those of Thorpe and Woeful. So will those of Betand,

or of the High Demesne.'

'Tsk,' said the Oracle. 'We need not speak of

punishments, lady. These good people are eager to

help you.'

'Hear us, then. In our caves here we have prepared

a new crop of crystals. They are of a lovely amethyst

color. Those who take them will be our slaves. They

will find their way here, eager to do our will. It is our

desire that they be widespread among the lands of

the south. There are Demesnes there which we need

to have under our sway. You will be our agents in this

matter.'

'Where do you want them distributed?' The Duke,

sulky, not liking this. His notion of the fitness of

things was suffering. Punishments were not a proper

thing to have discussed. Still, for some reason, he did

not seem inclined to rebellion. I thought I under-

stood this. They sought their own advancement

through following the giants and were as much the

lackeys of these great beings as the Oracle had said.

Storm Grower was continuing. 'Firstly in the Bright

Demesne, to a Wizard called Himaggery and one

called Barish. I have ended their works before, but

they have had the luck of man and may yet bring

something from it. They are contentious. Ambitious.

So far, all they do is meet and plan and devise

processes while time spins away, and it is likely they

will not need my crystals to spoil their future. They

may do it for themselves. Still, why should we risk,

eh? Give one also to a Shifter there called Mavin. And

in Schooltown to Mavin's brother, King Mertyn.

Those first. Those most importantly. They are

engaged in a project we do not wish to see fulfilled.

They would raise the hundred thousand frozen

Gamesmen, the great Gamesmen, those who lie in

the ice caverns near the place we were born. We do

not wish those great Gamesmen raised. Let them lie,

let them lie, until time spins out and the world cools.

Let no man come near that place.

'Thus, when you have given crystals as well to all in

Schooltown and the Bright Demesne and to those in

Xammer, and Dragon's Fire, and the other Demesnes

in that land, and particularly among the Immutables -

they are governed by a man called Riddle. Him first,

then all others, being sure to include a man named

Quench - I say when this is done, then go to the

caverns I have spoken of, destroy those who sleep

there, and guard the place until we tell you a guard is

needed no more.'

'We are your willing servants,' said the Duke.

'You are what you are, Betand. And what you are is

not quite good enough. Do not fear. You will enjoy

being our servant. Enjoyment is built in.' Dream

Miner laughed, a hugely hideous laugh that shook

the rock walls, causing me to tremble to the floor and

lie there curled against the wall, hoping it would not

fall. This, however, is a negotiable point. If you can

do us a small service we have previously mentioned,

you will earn your freedom of the crystals.'

'Any service is too small to convey our gratitude,'

Huldra, bowing, smirking. 'The Oracle has told us

what is needed. We will be glad to comply.'

'We won't discuss it here,' snapped Storm Grower.

'What we may discuss is the yellow crystals.'

I got up from the floor, pricked my ears, and

listened. Yes, yes, the yellow crystals.

They must be stopped!'

'Stopped! I thought they were yours?' The Duke,

much surprised. 'I thought you had dug them.'

The cavern rumbled as the giants shifted upon the

Backless Throne. Discomfort there, so I thought,

some vast distress. What was it?

Dream Miner, rumbling like a forest fire. 'We have

dug no crystals for fifty years. Until then there were

many we could use, many we could change to suit

ourselves. Our moles dug them in the deep mines

and brought them here.' He gestured to the low arch

at his left. 'And here we changed them, corrupted

them. We would look into the crystals to see what

message they carried, and then we would corrupt

that message. It is easy. Easy when one knows how.

As we knew how.'

Storm Grower, flicking tiny bolts of lightning

around the cavern, playing, fitful gusts of wind teas-

ing at the garments of those on the gallery. 'As we

knew how. Some we used to corrupt Pfarb Durim,

ancient city of your kin, Oracle. And Hell's Maw,

which lay at its feet. And those who dwelt there.

Some we used to move Huld - this should interest

you, Huldra - into bringing forth the great army of

bones upon the Wastes. He would not have done it

had we not moved him. That was a favourite project

of ours.'

'He failed,' Huldra said, her voice dead. 'He died

there.'

'He failed because someone opposed us. Some

deep dweller brought forth by a girl, a creature called

Jinian. A girl we were warned about in advance by

our Seers. The girl you were supposed to have

disposed of for us, Basilisk.'

Dedrina Dreadeye looked coldly into the giant's

eyes. 'We attempted to do so. I sent my own daughter

to take care of it.'

'It was not taken care of. You, Bloster, hiding there

behind your sister. You had her in your hands.'

'That was before,' he mumbled. 'I didn't know you

wanted her dead, not then.'

'Perhaps not. And let us speak of you, Ogress. We

had another favorite project here in the northlands.

We were using your son, Valdon'

'Do not speak of my son,' she shrieked. 'My beauti-

ful son. Valdon the glorious, the perfect boy. Do not

speak of him.'

'Do not tell us not to speak.' The lightning played

at Valearn's feet, making her dance. 'We speak of

whom we will. Valdon, for example, stupid Valdon,

proud Valdon, sucked dry by the Faces his own

servant had set in the Lake. Oh, we have seen it all,

our Seers have seen it all. We know. We know. So

Valdon failed us and we have you, Valearn. And

Bloster and Dedrina-Lucir failed us, but we have both

Bloster and Dedrina Dreadeye. And Huld failed us,

but we have his sister, Huldra, as well. So. We will not

fail again, will we? Though our strategy in these

northlands has failed somewhat heretofore, it will

not fail again. Not here. Not anywhere.'

Silence. The threat was palpable. Even where I

crouched, far across the cavern, I could see the sheen

of sweat on Betand's face, the sick slackness of

Valearn's jaw.

'Never mind,' said Storm Grower. 'Past is past. But

tomorrow is ours, and we cannot brook delay or

opposition. And we cannot use crystals which are

dug from the mines, for they are all yellow ones, and

the yellow ones we cannot change. We are forced to

grow our own, but that does not stop the yellow

ones being spread about upon the earth.'

'What should they do about it, Great Ones? You

have not told them how they can serve you.'

'Find where they are coming from. Find whatever

Wizard or Magician is responsible for them. Come

and tell us. Whoever is making these yellow crystals

must be sought out, caught out, destroyed! See to it!"

The Oracle bowed. To me the gesture looked

mocking, sinister, as though the Oracle, had it willed,

could have answered many of the questions the

giants were asking. Seemingly, however, the giants

found no fault with it.

'Go, now. We are weary of you,' rumbled Dream

Miner.

'Beware my lightning,' whispered Storm Grower.

'If you think of disobeying. Beware my hail.'

The troop I had followed came toward me along

the gallery, moved into the hall of pillars. I crawled

down to the entrance of my rock cleft, waiting until

they had passed. The Oracle was still standing at the

parapet, around the curving cavern. I heard the giant

ask if all had been prepared and heard the Oracle say

yes, it was all in readiness, these words almost in

whispers, and then the Oracle swept by in a flutter of

ribbons and all of them moved through the hall to

the tunnel mouth from which we had come.

I did not think.

This is true. My head was full of giant talk, conjec-

ture, ideas, theories. I wanted only to get out of there,

out into the clean air once more. Behind me the great

surge of breathing faded as we turned one corner,

then another...

Into blinding light and a chanting voice and a

smoke that sent me reeling. A fire, a caldron, Huldra

there with the smoke pouring forth, the others half-

hidden in it, and the Oracle somewhere nearby.

Huldra's voice. 'Disclose by the Deep Powers.

Disclose by the Shadow's dark. Disclose by the

Night's teeth. Smoke surround, dark betray, blood

holdfast.'

They saw me! All of them but one were turned

toward me, eyes upon me, avid and victorious, not

moving, not needing to move, for there were other

things swarming around me, binding me, while the

smoke held me fast and I could not move. Porvius

Bloster lay upon the stone, a knife deep in his back. It

was his blood that held me. His life.

The words came as though in a dream, from some

distantly echoing place. 'Let me have her,' begged

Dedrina.

'No,' the Oracle said, looking in my direction.

'Such is not what the Great Ones prefer.'

'Ah, but let me have her, Oracle. I will dispose of

her well enough. For my daughter's sake, whom she

killed, though we have never proved it. For my

sisters' sake. This one did us great harm, took from us

a great possession. Let me have her.'

'The Great Ones have their own ways. You have all

done your part. Well done, I should say, particularly

Huldra. You will all be rewarded for it.'

'I will have her as my reward. Her and what of

mine she carries.' Dedrina was persistent.

'The Great Ones intend that you remain free as

your reward. I may, of course, go back and ask them.

If you would prefer.'

'Shut yourself, woman,' demanded the Duke.

'Leave well alone. You'll have your avengement.

She'll not live long, and she'll not leave here, ever.'

'Ah.' The Basilisk seemed in agony, dimly per-

ceived through the veils that were settling around

me. 'So, so, let it be.' She seemed deep in thought,

turning to the Witch as though for guidance.

Huldra turned her back, but not before I saw the

gleam of triumph in her eyes, not before I heard the

words, 'Vengeance is sweet, Jinian Footseer. So dies

the killer of my brother and the beloved of my son's

killer.'

I hadn't killed Huld, not really. Peter had. Still, I

supposed I was responsible for it, in a way. 'You

didn't give a damn about your brother,' I tried to say.

I said nothing. Lips and tongue did not obey. No part

of me would move.

They went away into darkness then, Jinian Footseer

became someone else. I, the observer, floated in the

air somewhere, uninvolved, yet unable to escape.

Where Jinian went, I would have to go. Something

was dragging her through the rocky corridors. They

came through beams of light from above, and I saw

they were Oracles, six, eight, a dozen of them. Surely

not. The smoke must have disturbed my reason. Still,

they looked very much like Oracles. The same shape,

size, costume. The same painted faces. The same

napping ribbons. They slipped in and out of vision,

finally fading into darkness.

There were creatures. Moles. Not gobblemoles

with their clean velvet skins and little pink feet. No,

other moles, ragged creatures with fangs and hands

and half-blind eyes, which dug and dragged and

dropped Jinian in a corner, where her eyes stared,

unable to shut. Creatures from Morp, Jinian thought.

From the charnel house at Morp.

There were people in the place. Someone came to

peer down at Jinian. This is the one,' she said. 'This is

the one I have Seen.' I looked up into a gauze mask

painted with moth wings. A Seer, leaning forward to

finger the little star-eye pendant Tess Tinder-my-

hand had given me when I was a child. A Seer in this

place, speaking as though her gauze mask were thick

as a curtain, sound-deadening. Though I did not

seem to be present, still something within me heard

and remembered. 'This one wears the star-eye, Rid-

dler. Here on her breast. She has worn it since a

child. It was given her by a Wize-ard. And it was given

to the Wize-ards by those you know. It has power,

Riddler. I would advise you to take it from her.' Even

in my weakness, something within me rebelled at the

thought they would take my star-eye from me.

'Why take it?' Laconic, a voice I knew. 'The old

ones, Ganver and the rest, they pretend it has signi-

ficance. Oh, I recall that pretense, Seer. In my youth I

was shown many things. "Watch and learn," they said

to me. "Bao," they said to me. So I watched, but it was

only nonsense. They showed me this and showed

me that, but it meant nothing. It was only pretense,

done to mystify us young ones and keep us subser-

vient. The sign has no power. It is nothing. A symbol

only; a symbol of our degradation. If it had any

power at all, it would be the power of our people,

not hers. She could never learn to use it.'

'You've been playing with her, Riddler. Playing.

Games. Oh, I can See, See what you've been doing.

Games. Risky Games. You gave her the Dagger.'

'Why not?' it asked in a bleak, careless voice, full of

malice and yet without emotion, as though its evil

were an abstract thing, intended but not felt. 'I created

it out of my anger. I gave it to Daggerhawk Demesne,

saying it came from them*' And he gestured back,

toward that place where the giants were. 'In time I

grew annoyed at Daggerhawk Demesne and wished

to remove my gift from them. So I played with them,

with her. Why not play with her, with any of them? A

moment's amusement at least?

'Am I not protected by your Seeings, Seer? You

looked into the future and Saw her fall into our

hands. You Saw she could not use the Dagger against

me. Now. Why should I not play with her? Why not,

Seer? Are you saying now you did not See what you

told me?'

'No,' the Seer mumbled. 'I Saw as I told you. And

yet the place I Saw her was not like this. The time was

not this time. Do you not fear, Riddler? Fear she may

yet find the book and the light? Fear she may yet find

the bell?'

The words held association for me. They circled

into my dizzy fog and whirled there, like moths made

of light, and I remembered Sorah the Seer upon the

Wastes of Bleer saying, The Wizard holds the book,

the light, the bell.' What Wizard was that? Was it

Jinian?

The Oracle paid no attention, made no answer.

She-I was dragged away again, seeing things at the

edge of vision, as through a cloud. Glass jars, vats, tall

vats full of the same silvery stuff that had filled the

pool of the sevens. Crystal milk. Wires hanging down

inside the vats, and on the wire crystals growing.

Green ones. Amber. Red. Amethyst. All with that

shading across them, dimming the color. From the

tops of the vats the wires ran out along the walls.

Where? Where do they go?

The moles have picked Jinian up again, tugging her

along, head bumping on the stone. They are dragging

her along the wall of the cavern, near the giants' feet,

just out of reach. See the fingers reaching for her, just

out of reach. High against the cavern roof are great

caps where the wires go. That's where the wires go,

into the caps, and the caps on the giant heads and the

thoughts of the giants flow down into the vats and

crystals grow. There. In the crystal milk.

Darkness and pain.

Then only darkness.

I came to myself at last, knowing nothing except

that a very long time had passed. All of me was

present in one place. I wanted to giggle about that

and couldn't. Someone had put a gag in my mouth.

Light.

Low, at the level of my eyes where I lay. Dim. A

long, bow-shaped arch between the place where I

was and some other place. Out there the dim light

swam and blurred. Things were moving between me

and the source of the light. I slipped away, faded into

black, realizing how uncomfortable I was. Something

hard and curved was pressed into my back.

When I came back, the light was a little brighter. I

could see what lay to one side. A pole. A long pole,

extending outward through the window into the

light. There were a pair of hoofed feet in front of me.

There was something tied to the pole. Something

dead.

I could move, some. I twisted my head, trying to

roll myself on the curved surface. It shifted, rolled.

On the other side, another pole, something tied to it

as well. This body was human. The feet were on a

level with my eyes. I pressed a trembling hand to my

mouth, realizing for the first time that my hands were

free.

The gag first. It came loose after a time, some wad

of filthy stuff. I spat it away, blacked out for a

moment, then came back to begin a frantic explora-

tion of the ropes that bound me to the pole I was on.

No knots. Two heavy ropes bound below my

breasts. Two around my thighs. I could move my

arms, my lower legs, but it did no good. I was lashed

to the pole.

My pack! In it the things needed to lay some spell

upon the ropes, some freeing magic. It had been a

little pack. When Huldra's smokes had caught me, it

had been on my back. I raised my head, twisted,

trying to see, sorry I had looked. The poles stretched

away on either side, each with its burden. Not many.

Half a dozen or so. Against a far wall was a pack-

shaped blot, put where I could see it, where I could

know where it was without reaching it.

There was a fine cruelty in that. The Oracle,

perhaps. It felt like a thing the Oracle would do.

I lay back, breathless, screams trembling at the

edge of my throat. I could feel them gathering there,

like birds, fluttering in panic. They were ready to

come out, fly out, shriek their way into the cavern's

quiet.

Quiet. Too quiet. An expectant quiet.

Perhaps that is what they were waiting for. To hear

me scream. It was obvious they intended to eat me

but had not done so at once. Why?

Vengeance, Jinian, I told myself. They want to hear

you scream, girl. Want you to struggle. Cry out. Beg.

They will eat Jinian then. But not until then. Perhaps.

So she would not scream. Would not let herself make

any sound.

Out of this frantic fear I heard an old voice, long

remembered, harsh as a slap across the face.

'Enough, Jinian. Consider water.' Murzy's voice,

coming clearly even through this hysteria and fear. So

I took a deep breath and considered water. The dams

had always suggested this as a way of recovering calm

and good sense. I considered water in all its aspects,

raging and still, bringing myself at last to a kind of quiet.

Outside the low archway, in the light, something

moved from right to left. By raising my head from the

pole I could see its shadow. There was something

Familiar in that shadow.

'Our vengeance approaches,' rumbled the voice of

the Dream Miner. 'Are you content at that?"

'Who can say?' the answer came, a whisper,

something familiar about that voice. 'Who can say if

we will be content?'

'You have planned it. These hundreds of years,

you've worked at it, as we have. It was you who

began it.'

'And yet, who can say we will be content? Some of

us think not.'

'Faugh. Some of you are witless fools, hiding in

your graves like rotten nuts in their shells.'

'Still, they are some of us. We feel their absence,

Giant One. As you might feel Storm Grower's absence

if she were reft from you.'

'In which I would delight,' came the other giant's

voice. 'I would walk the world in joy."

'You could not walk the world at all,' said the

Miner. 'Nor could I. We have grown too great for our

bones to carry us. Never mind.' The great voice

paused, then continued speaking to the smaller crea-

ture, whatever it was. 'No, never mind. Vengeance

will come from here, at last, as it was begun a

thousand years ago when you gathered up all the

blue crystals and brought them here.'

'Which some of us have since regretted.'

'Fools. Hadn't you suffered enough at men's

presence?'

'We thought so, then.'

'And now?'

'Some of us still think so. Though we may find our

vengeance bitter.' There was a titter then. High-

pitched; the sound a bird makes in the night when it

only dreams of singing.

'It wearies me,' whined Storm Grower. 'Send it

away. Then give me one. I'm hungry.'

There was a great huffing sound, as of lungs com-

pressed. Into the light came great groping fingers.

One of the poles was pulled outward into that light

and the munching sound began. Another pole follow-

ed. And then two more. Chewing, swallowing noises, a

scream. One of the poles had carried live meat. Now

there were only three left. The ones on either side of

me and the one I was lashed upon.

I began to rip at my clothing. Perhaps they had left

me the Dagger. If I could get to the Dagger, I could

cut the ropes. It took only a moment to find what a

vain hope that was. The scabbard lay at the back of

my thigh, tight between my leg and the pole, bound

there.

The Seer. She had seen me falling to the Oracle.

She had seen the Dagger being of no help to me. Of

course they had left it. As they had left my pack, out

of reach. Out of hope.

I fumbled at my waist, trying to find the cord on

which my pouch was hung. It was tangled deep in the

fabric of the pantaloons, lost in them, which was

probably why I had it still on me. If they had seen it

or felt it, they would have taken it.

I worried it out at last, opening it to pour the

contents onto my chest. The amethyst crystal in

which Huldra's sending was trapped. The yellow

crystal from the mines outside Fangel. The blue one

Beedie had given me. A few restorative herbs. A tiny

bottle of scent, shaped like a frog. A lock of Peter's

hair. My fragment from the well of the sevens. I lay,

head up, looking down at these few things. After a

time I returned all but two of them to the pouch,

shoving it inside my shirt.

The munching had stopped and the breathing

sounds from the cavern had become louder, slower,

as though the giants slept. Soon this breathing was

succeeded by snoring, great rumbling sounds, rhyth-

mic as tides.

I braced my feet and 'arms against the rock on

either side of the pole and pushed, trying to drag it

back, out of the light. It moved a finger's width.

Again. Again a tiny movement. I timed the pushes to

coincide with great snores. Once again. And again.

Over and over, endlessly, exhaustingly. I was wet,

even in the clammy cold of the cavern, soaked with

the sweat of this effort. Push, and push again. The

creature on my left was almost even with me now. I

reached out to touch it. My fingers were a hand's

width from the thing's mouth. I needed its mouth.

Push again. The snores stopped. A giant mumbled

in his sleep. A giantess answered in hers. Again the

breathing of sleep. Push, and push again. My legs felt

as though they had been dipped in fire. I could reach

the thing's mouth.

I took the amethyst crystal in one hand, reaching

out. I was trembling. My hand was slick with sweat. I

dropped it, dropped it, rolling about on the stony

floor.

Tears then, silent and bitter and exhausted. And

after the tears some measure of resolution. I rolled as

far to my left as I could, explored the floor with my

hand. It could not have gone far.

Fragments of rock. Bits of bone. Things filthier than

these. And then the hard, faceted shape of it in my

fingers. I brought it back to my chest, wiped the

fingers dry, tried again.

I reached out and thrust it into the mouth of the

dead thing next to me.

Push, push again. The human corpse on the other

side was farther back. Twice I had to stop to rest, the

second time using some of the restorative herbs from

the pouch, which left a bitter taste in my mouth but a

painful clarity of mind. Then push and push again,

and the yellow crystal in the corpse's mouth. It was a

corpse. It was dead. I wept at this, too. I had been

wondering what I would do if it were alive.

I peered down between my feet. The end of my

pole still lay outside the window, in the light. With

the last of my strength I pushed once more, seized a

rock behind me over my head and pulled as well,

seeing the end of the pole slide under the arch, into

the shadow, into the room where I lay. So much for

that.

I let the swirling darkness swallow me up. Just for a

time, just for a bit of rest, to wake thinking of the

Oracle, perhaps having dreamed of the Oracle. Oh, I

knew the creature now for what it was. Not a simper-

ing, harmless creature. No. No. Full of malice and

ancient guile. The true source of the evil in the north.

The Oracle, not the giants. They were too simple. All

their cleverness came from the Oracle. I prayed it had

gone away. I prayed it had not stayed to see my end.

'Aaaangh,' came a whining rumble from the other

room. 'Aaangh. Give me one. I'm hungry.'

'Get it yourself. I'm tired of giving you. Get it

yourself.'

The sound of lightning. A frying noise. Complaint,

monstrous hairy fingers groping at the window.

There's only two here.' Voice like thunder. 'Where's

the other one? The fun one? The one that was

supposed to be here. You there, minions. You from

Morp. Provender!'

Chewing, masticating noises. At the far side of the

low room, a scurrying as some large furry creatures

moved in and out of the light, moving poles, tying

bodies to them. They did not come near me. I made

not a sound. This had an air of calculation about it.

The giants would not eat me until they had wrung the

last shred of agony and apprehension from me. I

played dead. Let them think I had fainted, or slept.

Then an anguished howl, the howl of a tornado, of

a hurricane. 'Ouuuuugh, pain. Brother. Ouuuuugh,

pain. I have got a pain in my gut.'

I caught my breath. Across the dim room the furry

shapes stopped what they were doing, froze in place.

The howl was immobilizing, terrifying. It rang

through the cavern, blasting at the stones. Dust fell.

Gravel rolled.

Oh, she should have a bellyache indeed, should

Storm Grower. She had Huldra's sending in her belly,

dissolved out of the crystal that had held it, a vora-

cious sending ready to eat its way out of its fleshy

prison. It should find enough in Storm Grower to fill

it. I wondered briefly what Huldra would think when

it returned. This made me want to giggle hysterically,

and it was all I could do to bite down hard on a finger

and keep silent.

'Hush,' breathed Dream Miner. 'You are disturbing

me. I want to ... want to ... sleep. Peace. Content-

ment. How sweet. I did not know how sweet.. .'

She had the amethyst crystal. But he had the yellow

one. He desired sleep. Peace. Contentment. I hoped

it would last for some time. This would solve the

problem of being eaten, but I was still firmly lashed

to the pole.

'Ooooogh, pain.' A sizzle of lightning ricocheted

from the floor into the room where I lay. In the flash I

saw one side of the room disappear in a sapphire

glow. In the after-image I thought I saw a small form

leaping there. Perhaps more than one.

Wind began to blow. Wet wind, clammy with fetid

smells in it. The pain the giantess felt was being

translated into storm. 'Ouuuugh, pain. Dream Miner.

Wake. How can you sleep? Wake. I'm dying.' There

was disbelief in that voice, horror and anguish. 'I'm

dying and you sleep!'

'Lolly lolly alum baff?' sang a quiet voice. '-Is the

Wizard girl in here?'

'Here!' I cried half-hysterically.' Who's there?'

'Proom,' answered the small voice, approaching.

'Come to help you if you need help in return for the

help you gave our people in the town.'

He was not alone. Others of the small people had

joined him; still others were gathered at the far wall

in an excited horde, busy with something.

'What did you do to the giants?' He seemed to

know I had done it, though that was far from

obvious, given my condition.

'I fed them something bad for them. She may die of

it, maybe not. He may die of it, maybe not. They are

very big and what I gave them was quite small.'

'Then we had best hurry.' He knelt at my side, busy

with teeth and knife. I felt the rope loosen, then give,

as I struggled to sit up while he worked on the ropes

around my thighs. When he had done, I stood up,

wavering on my feet, almost falling.

' We will lead you out!'

'In a moment. First. . . first I should be sure they

do not recover.' I stumbled to the pack where it lay

against the wall, falling over bodies of men and

beasts, to stand over it panting. What could I use? No

missile I could control would be large enough. There

were two or three very complicated spells that might

be useful. End and Beginning. That would take all day,

and in the other room Storm Grower was summoning

up such a storm as might kill us all. Lightning flashed

around us, in and out of the room. No time for that.

No, no, not that. No window magic usable in such

circumstances. Gamelords, what? Rain splashed

wildly around us. Water.

'Proom, is there a river near? Any water? Anywhere

near?'

'Under us, yes. lean hear it.'

Of course. There had to be a river there to carry

away the filth of the giants, else they would have long

since drowned in their own excretions. That was it.

I burrowed into the pack, laying out the few things

needful. I did the gestures twice and didn't get them

right either time. My shoulders kept going into

spasms. Oh, gods and Gamelords, but I prayed the

one I was about to call upon would remember. A

boon a d'bor wife had offered me. The d'bor wife,

rather. One of the old gods, perhaps. At least some

thought so. A boon. Call on me, she had said. Call on

me. I bowed my head, thought of water for a few

moments, got myself together, and then tried it again.

'All things of the sea are yours, great and small, of

river and lake, of pond and stream. I call upon you,

d'bor wife, for the boon you promised me.'

Nothing. Only the raging of Storm Grower from

the outer cavern, the stertorous breathing of Dream

Miner. Nothing.

And then a rivulet running beside my feet, corning

from a gap in the wall. Rock breaking free to make it

larger. A moist echoing space full of the sound of

waters. Salt. The smell of tidal flats. The cry of gulls

and the crash of waves in my ears. And with all this

the harsh music of a well-remembered voice.

'What would you have, Jinian Footseer?'

'I would have this cavern flooded, d'bor wife.

Filled from top to bottom so that those creatures

within may be drowned.'

'So be it, Jinian. I will fulfill the boon I promised

you.'

The Shadowperson had been standing beside me,

watching me, seemingly unafraid. Well, this was

Proom, Mavin's friend. Proom, Peter's guide. He had

seen strange and mighty things before, this one.

'Out,' I said to him. 'We've got to get out, and all your

people as well.'

'No,' he cried, anguished. ' There are things here

we must take.'

Things he must take? What? There were no victims

left. He pointed to the far wall, where his people

were dashing about, calling to one another.

'Too late!' I pointed at the roof. A stream had

broken through and was flooding down onto the

sapphire heap where the Shadowpeople were at

work. In the intermittent flashes, I saw what it was. A

pile of blue crystals, a hill of them, millions. A shout

of dismay was all I had time for, echoed by the little

people. Then we were all running up the twisty stone

corridors toward the light. Behind us the storm raged

and the water rose.

When we came into the light, it was into the heart

of the storm. Hail fell around us in great, white

boulders, and the wind raged against the night,

throwing huge trees across the sky like arrows. We

crouched in the entrance to the cavern, me, Proom, a

dozen of his people bent protectively over their sacks

of crystals, all staring with disbelief into the night.

Storm Grower did not die easily. For hours the

storm raged. Toward morning it began to wane.

Then, as we watched in fear, a fog spewed from the

hill above us and took the form of the sending;

screaming with laughter, it dwindled into the east.

'Is she drowned?' asked Proom. 'Is the great giant

Deviless drowned for all?'

'I think so. Drowned or eaten. One or both.'

'Then perhaps it is a good trade. Long and long ago

did great Ganver send me seeking these things. Blue,

he said, as a summer sky. A great thing of Lorn, of the

land our parent, a great thing misused and betrayed

and hidden away.

' "Find them, Proom," he told me. "Go into the

world and find them where they have hidden that we

may undo the wrong which had been done." So I

sought, long and long but fruitlessly, and returned to

my people to find they had been abducted by Blour-

bast the Ghoul. Then was the song of Mavin made.

She was a young girl then. And now you come. And

you are the friend of Peter, Mavin's son.'

I apologized to him, wearily, sincerely. 'I'm sorry. I

didn't see the crystals were there until after I'd called

for the boon. I didn't know you were looking for

them.'

'Who would have thought to look in the lair of the

giants? Who would have thought the evil ones would

have brought them there?' He sighed, calling to his

people. The storm had almost abated. 'I must take

these to Ganver. Farewell, Jinian, Peter's friend.'

'A moment, Proom,' I begged him. 'Will you leave

a few of the crystals with me?' He assented, pouring a

small heap of them into my hands. Then he and his

people ran off into the morning, leaping over the

fallen trees, flitting like birds into the shelter of the

forests - that of it which was still standing. There

were a thousand questions I could have asked. A

thousand answers he could have given me. I could

talk to them. Mavin couldn't. Queynt couldn't. But I

could. A thousand questions, Jinian, I told myself. At

least that. But those I should have asked them of were

gone.

CHAPTER NINE

I had no need to choose which way to go. The

Duke's party had gone back to Fangel, obedient to

the instructions of the giants. Those instructions,

once set in motion, would not have been stopped by

the giants' deaths. So, one must go to Fangel once

more, brave that strange city once more, see what

could be done to stop the amethyst crystals going

south.

I wished for some way of getting there more

quickly. If I had only been a Shifter. Or if Peter were

with me.

'If wishes were geese, we would all have feather-

beds,' I told myself sternly. 'Come, girl, what is the

matter with you?'

The matter was I was exhausted, hungry, battered,

worn. I knew the feeling well. I had felt it before in

Chimmerdong and was too experienced in it to give

it houseroom. I will eat as I go, I told myself. I will rest

when I must. My body did not believe these promises,

but the rest of me calmed down somewhat. I took

time to fish out the Dagger of Daggerhawk and slit a

seam from the pocket with it, returning it to a more

sensible location, cursing all the leagues I had not

needed the thing and could have had it in my hand,

only to have needed it the one time it could not be

reached.

I climbed upward from the entrance to the cavern,

over tortuous drifts of fallen timber, through slides of

mud and rock, around piles of hail so high they

looked like snowdrifts, wondering how long I had

spent in that underground warren. How far ahead of

me were the Duke and Valearn and Huldra? Huldra?

Huldra. A shiver down the spine. A hard clutch at

the stomach, pain behind the throat. It was Huldra

who had caught me in the cavern. Huldra who had

been ready for me, expecting me. How?

There had been a Seer, of course. I vaguely remem-

bered seeing a Seer. A Seer in the employ of the giants.

Somewhere down in that underground warren right

now there was a Seer, perhaps more than one, alive

or dead, who had seen Jinian's part in the battle on

the Wastes of Bleer. And likely that same Seer had

seen Jinian following the Duke of Betand into the

cavern of the giants?

Likely, yes. And once seen, the vision had been

used to trap me. When the Oracle had taken them

aside, he had told Huldra of it, told her to make

herself ready. Those spells had been rehearsed

beforetime. The ingredients had been laid ready to

make the paralyzing smoke. Certain creatures had

been posted in readiness to bind me.

I dimly remembered Dedrina demanding to have

me for her own. The Oracle had said no. No. The

giants had wanted me for another purpose. To feel

fear, panic, pain, humiliation. Was it indeed the

giants who wanted me for that? Or had they been led

to that thought by the Oracle itself?

I reflected on this. How they must have hated

mankind, mankind who had created them so mon-

strously, no less monstrously than the pig I had met

in Chimmerdong. How they must have fumed and

plotted through the centuries; how they must have

welcomed the power that came to them, slowly, the

hateful destruction moving out from them like a

cancer. What did they desire in the end? That all men

should be enslaved? That, at least. That all men be

made as horrified, as panic-stricken, as humiliated as

they themselves had once been? Oh, yes. They would

have left me tied to a pole a long time. Long enough to

wring every drop of agonized apprehension from me.

But, as it happened, they had left me a little too long.

Huldra believed I was dead.

Still, Huldra was more than a Witch.

And I had seen Huldra's sending go screaming

back to her, out of that dripping cavern. What might

Huldra learn from that?

'I hope it drops a washtub full of blood on her," I

muttered, too tired to ill wish more usefully. 'She'll

be there in Fangel. Likely she is able to unspell any

spell I set. Unless I can come up with something

she'd have no knowledge of at all. Oh, Jinian, why

did you decide to be a Wize-ard?'

There was no answer to this. The Jinian who might

have answered had crawled between two sheltering

trees and had fallen asleep.

I woke some hours later, feeling more hopeful,

able to go on. I went past the place Bleem had been.

There was nothing left of it but trash, and the rem-

nants were awash in shadow. Where did it come

from? Where had it come from so recently? Where

had it lain, waiting? At least those poor unfortunates

had had a chance to escape. I wondered if they had

made it to safety. If any place could be called safe in

these days. The farther I went, the fewer trees were

fallen, the fewer landslides in the path. Storm Grower

had not reached far with her destruction; she had

probably been unconscious much of the time. I tried

to feel some pity, could not.

The way became easier, drier. I passed a scattering

of krylobos feathers.

'Back and forth," I groaned aloud. 'Back and forth.

Like some backlewheep, bat, bat, bat.'

'Jinian?' The voice was disbelieving.

'Who?' I demanded, putting my back to a tree.

'Who is it?'

'Jinian?' No mistaking the joy in it this time. 'It's

Peter!'

Something large and furry slid down the tree,

encompassed me in an enormous embrace, half

smothered me before beginning to Shift into a Peter

shape. 'I thought you were lost forever." He kissed

me; I so surprised I could do nothing about it. He

shook me. I did nothing about that, either.

'What are you doing here?' I demanded. 'You're

supposed to be on your way south, taking the blue

crystals to Mavin!"

'They're going. Queynt and Chance are taking them,

with those two from oversea and their monster in the

basket.'

'But you ..."

'But I wasn't about to lose you, stupid girl. I love

you, Jinian Footseer. After we found you were gone, I

sat there for hours trying to convince myself it was all

for the best. You're not easy to get along with, you

know ..."

'I'm not easy! I'm not!'

'That's what I said, you're not. Neither am I, but we

both knew that to  start with.  It doesn't matter,

though. I love you, and that's all. I'll just have to make

the best of it.'

.    'But. . . but. ..'

'I know. It would have been easier to just let you

go. I know why you went. At least partly. It was my

fault. Some of it. But what decided me was thinking

about Mavin and Himaggery, you know. They love

each other and always have. The first time I ever

heard my mother say his name, I knew she loved

him. The first time I ever saw him look at her, I knew

he loved her. She risked her life to save him, you

know. Risked mine, too, come to that, though I was a

bit too undeveloped to know anything about it. But

he never really said the right things to her. And she

never said the right things to him. And so they spent

most of their lives apart and the time they spent

together they spent righting with each other. So, I

said no. I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't just let you go,

and when I found you I wouldn't sit around saying

nothing. Even if I said all the wrong things and had to

take them back.'

'Sylbie,' I said stuttering. 'The baby.'

'Oh, well, yes. There is that. Stupid girl left the

wagon and followed me. I didn't catch her at it until it

was 109 late to send her back. Then the first time I

Shifted she went all hysterical.'

'But she .. . it's your baby."

'Yes. It's my baby. Which was begot, you might say,

in pursuance of duty. Now I'm not going to do what

Mavin would, which is not talk about it. And I'm not

going to do what Himaggery would, which is talk

about something else. You've got to understand

this . . .

'It was in Betand. They called it "the City That Fears

the Unborn". Some Necromancer had come there,

got drunk, and summoned up a ghost. Instead of

being a ghost of something dead, though, it was the

ghost of someone unborn. So, every visitor to the city

had to beget if at all possible in order to get the

unborn born as soon as possible. You understand?'

'I don't understand what an unborn could do to

send a whole city so silly.'

'Well, Jinny, you're going to have to take my word

for it. The howling alone would have driven you

crazy. It was a real haunting, no mistake about it. Half

the people in the town had lost their minds. Well, so

there I was, riding up to Betand, all innocence, trying

to find out something about where Mavin was, and

the next thing I knew I was in this room with Sylbie,

having been instructed to beget. She was crying and

carrying on, and I was scared to death. See, I'm being

honest. If you don't like that, tough.

'It was more Trandilar who did it than me. I didn't

know anything about sex at all, Jinian. Not a shred. I

knew it would be awful, so I summoned up Trandilar,

and she actually did all the lovemaking and so forth.

Of course Sylbie fell for that. Who wouldn't? I would

have myself. Trandilar is - well, you know what

Trandilar is. So, we begot a baby, which was what we

were supposed to do. As it happens, it's likely the

very baby who was haunting Betand. At least, so Dorn

said when we put the haunting down. He's turned

out to be a very nice baby, but I don't love Sylbie, I

never did. It would be very easy to love the baby, and

that would be pleasant, but not if it means giving up

Jinian. If we can work out something including Jinian

and the baby, very good. What I got to thinking was,

suppose the baby turns out Shifter? Sylbie will fall

apart.'

'She really had hysterics when you Shifted?'

'Full-fledged, whooping and screaming hysterics.

All I did was a snakey little thing to get to the top of a

tree, and it set her off.'

I had seen some of Peter's snakey little things and

was not entirely unsympathetic with Sylbie. 'Where is

she now?'

'She's up this trail, a league or so. In a cave which I

dug for her - took pombi shape to do that, and she

didn't like that, either - until I could get back. She's

got food and water.'

I sighed, sagging back into his arms. It would be

nice just to stay here, close held. Spend.the night,

perhaps, cuddled in furry arms in the hollow of a

tree. Too much had happened. Too much was going

on.

Too much was going on. Exactly. I drew him down

beside me and told him the tale.

'Giants? I never dreamed there were real giants.

And Proom?' he whispered when I had done. 'Really,

Proom? He's like some kind of fairy godmother

following my family around. Mavin, then me, then

you. Gods, those amethyst crystals. We've got to

warn them. They have no idea.'

'None of them have any inkling at all. Not Himag-

gery, nor Mavin, nor any of the rest of them. But

there's more to it than that."

I told him then what I suspected. What I'd been

worrying over in my head ever since we saw the little

crystal mine outside Fangel and talked to old Buttufor.

'I'm afraid it's true, Peter. Everything the giants said

only confirmed it. Up until then, I thought they

might be responsible for those yellow crystals, but

they're not. They were as frightened by them as I am.'

His face was as drawn and hopeless as I'm sure

mine had been many times in recent days. 'What can

we do?'

'I don't know. It may be too late to do anything,

but we have to try. That was the lesson I learned in

Chimmerdong, Peter. No matter how hopeless it

looks, you still have to try. I got a few more of the blue

crystals from Proom. You'll have to take them south

with you. Warn Himaggery and Mavin and all the

rest. Then suggest to them in the strongest possible

way that they stop arguing and get the hundred

thousand out of the cavern. And when each one

wakes, he or she must have a sliver of this crystal in his

mouth. If the ones I have here aren't enough, then

more must be found in Beedie's land. Perhaps Mavin

can get them, and perhaps some of her kindred

would help.'

'You're going with me.'

'It would slow you down. I hope you can take

some shape that flies, for that's what's needed now.

You've got to go south. Gamelords, how I prayed for

a Shifter outside that cavern.'

'I can't leave you.'

'You have to leave me. The warning must be

brought to our people, Peter. As soon as possible,

delaying for nothing at all. I'll meet you when you

return. Ah. Where? Listen, if you follow this trail

down to the northwest, past where the village of

Bleem was, you'll come to a trail leading north. The

trail forks. The right-hand one goes to the giants, and

the left-hand one goes up over the mountain by a

huge red pillar of stone. I'll meet you there, by the

red stone, with or without Sylbie. I'll go get her.

Maybe I can find someone to take care of her and the

baby, bring them south to Mavin. If not, I'll keep

them with me, but they should be taken farther from

Fangel. I don't like the idea of the baby that close to

Valearn.'

He wasn't listening. But then, he hadn't been

reared on nursery stories of Valearn. 'I don't want to

leave you! I'll carry you with me.'

'I don't want you to leave me. But you can't carry

me and Sylbie and the baby without wasting time,

and we can't just leave them here alone.' Briefly I let

myself melt against him, let all the turbulent feelings I

had quelled for season after season burgeon between

us until a new kind of storm began to batter at me,

melting me. 'I don't want you to leave me. And

whichever of us gets to the pillar first is to wait for the

other one - forever, if need be. I don't want you to

leave me, but I have to ask you to.'

'Jinian, I swear by all the gods and most of the new

ones, if we get out of this ..."

'Yes. Now go.'

I didn't watch him, not out of any sense of dismay

at the changes, but simply because I was crying and

didn't want him to see. I heard odd sounds, a

strangled cursing, and then the irregular beat of

wings. When I turned at last it was to see a black-

winged form staggering across the sky. Evidently

Peter had not recently practiced wings. The thing

looked more like a dragon than a bird, and it was not

built for speed. Even as I watched, however, the

black silhouette elongated, became more slender,

more streamlined. It plunged out of sight against the

southern clouds.

So much for that. I dried my face, noticing in

passing that all my hermitish notions seemed to have

left me. So much for the lonely life, then. If there

were any future, I would spend it with Peter.

If there were any.

I plodded a league away, seeking the cave, calling

softly when I should have been near it, and only after

wreathing the area with Inward Is Quiet, a pacifying

spell when done in the passive mode, to be sure no

one lurked there with evil intent. No response. I

walked another league, repeating the call. Nothing.

Now seriously worried, I returned the way I had

come, this time casting back and forth either side of

the trail. Halfway to the place I'd met Peter, I found it,

a cave well dug in sandy soil, half-hidden behind a

fallen tree. And tracks around it. Boots. More than

one pair. Two parallel lines, where someone's feet

had been dragged. The soil still moist. It had not

happened long before. A baby nappy drying on a

branch. It, too, still damp. Half-hidden under a stone,

the baby trousers Roges had sewn, their bright

checks showing up against the dun earth.

I didn't need window magic to peer into the past and

learn what had happened. Huldra had been watching,

through a Seer, perhaps. Through a sending, perhaps.

Or perhaps Valearn herself had hired some Rancelman

to help her find the food she yearned for. It did not

matter which. More than one person had come here

to drag Sylbie and the baby away. Up the hill a way

were the tracks of horses, not on the trail. That's why

I hadn't seen them as I searched. They did not join

the trail to Fangel for another league beyond.

Weariness left me. I went at speed through the

waning day, forgetting the ache in my legs. At sunset

the trail left the forest, sloped downward along the

meadow toward the walls of Fangel. When dark

came, the city would lie in a cataleptic sleep; watch-

ers would watch, but they would not be the people

of Fangel. Huldra? Valearn? Perhaps the Duke of

Betand?

There was no spell I could cast that Huldra might

not be able to counter. Worse, if I used any spell at

all, anyone competent in the wize-arts could smell it

out. My use of the arts would say 'Jinian' as loudly as

the Fangel curfew gong. The only advantage I had

was that they all thought I was deaa.

I sat, arms wrapped around knees. Shortly it would

be night. If Sylbie was to be saved, it could not be put

off until the morrow. On the morrow there might be

no Sylbie, no child. The walls of Fangel loomed, the

gates still open but shortly to close. I dared not use a

spell, not the least one in my art, for Huldra was there

and watching, there and waiting. Huldra might have

learned much from the return of her sending. Full of

Storm Grower's blood and d'bor wife's water, it

might have had much to tell her.

So. Get in. Without a spell. Without being seen.

There were wains moving in and out of the north

gate when I arrived, hay wains, others that had been

loaded with meat and vegetables for the markets and

were now returning empty. My hair was thrust up

under a cap, my face dirtied, my clothes stained. I

walked beside a horse, talking to it, it obligingly

hiding me from the wagoner who drove, my face

further hidden behind a sheaf of fodder I had picked

up along the way. The team hid me not only from the

driver but from the guards as well, troubled enough

by this great load of hay arriving so late.

'Business?'

'Oh, come down from it, Gorbel. You know my

business. I've got a load of hay for the residence

stables, and I'm late enough without all this.'

'You're almost too late. Word runs there's a hunt

tonight. Get in and get out.'

'I'd 'a been in and out except for a broken wheel.

Don't shut the gate 'til I'm through. Won't be long.'

When the wain turned into a side street, out of

sight of the gate, I slipped away into an alley. The late

afternoon light made cold blocks of shadow in the

streets. People were leaving the park, the alleys.

Doors were shutting. A food cart still plied along one

alley; I hid my face behind a meat pie, working my

way toward the center of the town.

From there one could see in all directions down

radiating avenues, almost to the wall.

I ensconced myself in a deep doorway, black with

shadow. After a time I heard the distant creaking of

wheels as the last wagon went out through the gate.

The gate closed with a metallic, clamoring echo.

Nearby, at the residence, the great gong rang its

tremorous demand upon hearing, shattering into

silence.

The streets were empty. On the western horizon

the sun sank in a swollen ball, leaving a stripe of red

like a bloody sword upon the horizon. Dusk came,

then the rushing dark, then the first light of the full

moon setting alternating blocks of gray luminescence

and ebon shadow, long diagonal lines of black slant-

ing down the sides of walls and into the street to

make hard-edged crevasses of dark. I walked from

light to dark to light again, no less conscious of being

watched in the darkness than I was in the light. And

yet, it was almost an impersonal watching. A machine

kind of watching.

High on the walls the twined letters of the Dream

Merchant's monogram glittered and twinkled, little

gems gleaming with a light of their own. It was a

machine watching! Up there on the walls were eyes.

But who observed what the watchers saw? Was there

some deep den in this place where human observers

crouched, seeing through these glittering eyes? I

thought not, sensed not. The city of Fangel watched

for itself, but what it watched for or why it cared, I

did not know. There was undoubtedly some action

that would bring out the denizens of this place.

Briefly I wondered what would happen if one rang

the great gong now, in the middle of the night. The

idea sent horrid premonitory shivers down my spine,

a kind of visionary grue, as though a door had

opened into some unpleasant future.

I shut down the thought, crept around a corner,

paused within sight of the residence, its serpentine

gates now opened wide.

Somewhere in the city a pombi roared and was

answered by another, a howling, grumbling tumult

that waxed for a time, then waned into silence. There

were beasts loose in the city. And hunters. What had

the guard at the gate said about a hunt tonight? For

whom? By whom?

Somewhere a baby cried, shockingly close, and a

woman's voice hushed it. Echoes from this, from one

side, from the other. No direction. I sought the loca-

tion frantically, running back the way I had come.

Nothing. Nothing but the sound of my own steps

magnified. Nothing but the sound of laughter. Laugh-

ter. Somewhere. Nasty, chuckling laughter, a sound

that reveled in its hunt, in its prey.

Valearn?

Footsteps, not my own. I shrank against the wall,

into a hollow there where a heavy door barred entry

to the courtyard beyond. Out in the street a skulking

figure walked from shadow to shadow, its long staff

tickling the stones with a small clicking, barely audible.

Again a pombi roared, closer this time, perhaps

only a street away. The skulker turned, mouth

stretched wide in a gape of surprise, Ogress fangs

exposed to the moon. Yes. Valearn!

She moved too fast for me to follow her. One

moment she was there, the next moment gone.

Again the baby cried, was silent.

So. The Ogress was hunting the baby. Sylbie was

fleeing from the Ogress. The pombis would eat either

the Ogress or Sylbie, though it seemed the Ogress

might not have known of their presence. And Jinian

. . . What are you doing? I asked myself. You're not

being useful here!

Light and shadow. A sound of something panting, a

massive body running, scratch of claws upon the stone,

heavy lungs heaving as the thing went past. I expelled

my breath, tried to melt into the stones, thanking

whatever gods there were that I smelled only of

greens and hay. That had been something larger than

a pombi. I remembered the caged gnarlibar in the

procession and cursed silently. What kind of zoo was

loose in the streets? How many hunters were there?

Now a horn. A horn and the sound of hooves, far

away. An echoing clatter in the hard streets. It was to

be a drive. The game was to be driven into the

hunter's claws. Or the hunters upon the game? Or

both against the wall for the amusement of whoever

was coming?

Enough of this. Risk or no risk, I had to find Sylbie

and the baby. Huldra or no Huldra, I had to use the

art. I fled along the streets, seeking. Somewhere

should be something besides blank, closed walls. A

window that could be used for window magic, to

make a summons. Even a room, an enclosure, a

corner of a courtyard.

Everything closed tight, obdurate walls towering

over my head, stone streets, black and gray, the

moon swimming in silence, far off the horn and

nearer than that the howling of things abroad in the

night. A chuckle again, echoes, how near? Valearn.

The distant hunt was circling the walls. The sound

had come at first from the south, but now it extended

east and west from there, a circle growing. As soon as

I realized this, I knew what they were doing. They

would circle the walls, then drive in along each

street, ending at the residence, with all driven before

them to a bloody conclusion there. Valearn could

merely have waited to have Sylbie driven into her

hands.

Again the chuckle. Waiting was not Valearn's way.

I ran quick footed down that street, around the

corner. I thought the baby noises had come from this

direction. Nothing. Gamelords. I was planning what

of the art to use. Assuming that Valearn had none.

Assuming that Huldra was elsewhere, with the hunt,

perhaps, not hanging around the next corner waiting

to sniff me out.

Abruptly, I saw it. There in the wall next to me was

a grill, a rare, narrow window in the wall that sepa-

rated courtyard from street. I grabbed the bars with

both hands and went up it like a thrisbat, up and over

the wall and down the other side. Unseen, one

hoped. Unseen. I was in a barren little court, barred

door at my back, barred gate to one side, grill before

my face, blank wall to the other side.

I could not lay a hiding spell on Sylbie if I didn't

know where she was. Or, truth to say, I could, but it

would have taken too long. Each uncertainty one

added into a spell made it take that much longer. All I

could use was her name and the baby's name, very

important, true, but without knowing where she was, a

hiding spell wouldn't do. Besides, Egg in the Hollow

wouldn't cover the baby's crying. There was another

one I should have learned, one Cat was going to

teach me. Damn. Too late. No point thinking about it

now. It had to be something else. With the grill

before me, I could do window magic. Summoning.

Them to me. Or something else to Fangel, to confuse

the issue.

Which made me think of what Queynt had said

about not being pregnant when one did summons.

Which made me remember what he had said about

summons resulting in mermaids and dryads. Which

made me remember the deep dwellers.

Mischievous. Pesky. And childlike.

Valearn sought children.

So. There were only two things I needed that I did

not have in my pack, and I found both in that barren

little courtyard. Luck? Perhaps. I set them out on the

sill, where the iron bars were anchored in the stone,

starting the summons silently. Music and Meadow.

The bars were perfect for this window magic because

it established that those summoned were barred

from me. If the window had been an open one, I

would have hesitated to try it.

I called them up, those near, those far, those within

sound of my voice, those within the intent of my

action. Deep dwellers. By Bintomar. By Favian. By

Shielsas. By Eutras. By the scent of this herb, by the

sound of this bell, by the color of this stone. By the

flame I flicked from a fingertip, by the winding of a

hair. Dwellers of the deep, all you childlike creatures

of the depths, come up, come up and into Fangel,

where Valearn who loves children awaits you.

The first sign I had that something had heard me

was the rattle of a cobble in the street. I peered

between the bars, quickly brushing the necessaries of

the spell into my pack. I didn't want the dwellers

even looking for me. I had used Valearn's name, and

that was where they should be going.

The cobble rattled again, heaved up, banged upon

another to reveal a cavity below out of which a pair of

luminous eyes stared at the walls of Fangel. What

came out of the hole did look childlike. Short.

Slender. Large headed. Arms and legs nicely propor-

tioned. There were not children anywhere with such

teeth as those the dweller had, however. When the

thing smiled, the grin split its head in two and both

halves of the grin were fang-fringed and eager.

Now, quickly, protection from these specific crea-

tures for the baby and Sylbie. That was a simple

distraint, done in a moment. It wouldn't keep the

dwellers away from the girl, but it would keep them

from harming her. And they would find her. I was

certain of that.

Up and over the wall once more. Follow the trail of

forms pouring out of the earth where they went

sniffing, seeking, like hounds upon the trail. They

called to one another, chuckling, a pleasant chuckle,

not like Valearn's. I remembered hearing them, long

ago, when Murzy first did bridge magic over Stony-

brook. Almost, one would like to pat them on the

head. One did not, wary of those teeth.

A calling from this one to that one, running feet,

taloned toes scraping upon the stones. I looked back.

They were still coming up out of the hole. I frowned,

reviewing what I'd done. It had been a rather unlimited

summons.

Chatter of voices; baby cry again, fretful. I went

toward it, through the crowded dweller forms to find

Sylbie crouched against a wall, baby tight held against

her, just getting ready to scream. They weren't

menacing her, just looking at her, but she was ready

to scream anyhow.

'Don't,' I said. 'Get up from there and follow me.'

I turned on the dwellers. 'Valearn,' I hissed. 'By the

stone, by the hair, by the bell, by the flame, by the

scent of the herb, find Valearn.' They chittered at me,

mockingly, knowing well enough what they were

here to do and that it suited them marvelously, but

still taking time to make a bit of deviltry over it.

Pesky, as Queynt had said.

'What are they?' shrilled Sylbie, barely able to

stand.

'Never mind what they are. You and I have to get

out of this city. Away.'

They're hunting me. With horses, the Duke said.

And with strange creatures he wakened up, like

people only not. Like lizards. Like frogs. And when

they catch me, they'll kill me.'

'Very probably. Which they will do if you insist on

standing here talking. There's worse than the Duke

abroad. The Ogress is looking for Bryan, there. She

wants to eat him.'

This was perhaps the only thing I could have said

to get her moving. Threats to herself paralyzed her.

Threats to Bryan mobilized her. Ah, motherhood.

Nature is quite wonderful.

We went back the way I had come, back to the

grilled courtyard. I found it by following the line of

dwellers, who were still coming out of the hole in the

cobbles, single file, seemingly in endless numbers.

One or two of them said 'boo' at me as we went past,

but I spat a spark at them and they let us be. I went

over the wall, unbarred the gate, and let Sylbie in,

barring the gate behind her. With any luck at all, the

hunt would go by us. Sylbie sank to the floor, sagging

there like a bundle of laundry. The baby seemed to

have gone to sleep, and I fervently hoped he stayed

that way.

I hung in the grill, watching the dwellers pop out of

the hole, one after another like so many corks. Far off

something screamed. Pombi, I think. There was an

avalanche of laughter, dweller laughter, so they'd

found some mischief to get up to.

Horns again. Hooves at the end of the street I was

watching. I pulled a scarf to hide my face, leaving one

eye to peer with.

There at the end of the street came a mounted

man, the Duke of Betand, perhaps, or even the

Merchant himself. And to either side walked big men

in remnants of Gamesmen garb, Tragamors without

their helms, with only arms telling what they were.

Elators. Armigers. Blind-eyed, marching as in sleep.

And scaly creatures out of nightmare, armed with

whips. The whips were being dragged, slithering on

the stones. It sounded like a convention of serpents. I

dropped to the floor, crawled over beside Sylbie, and

put my arms around her. Whatever else happened, I

didn't want her to yell.

I needn't have worried. No one could have heard

her if she had screamed her head off. The dwellers

had discovered the hunter. The scaly creatures had

discovered the dwellers. What had begun in black,

mysterious silence under the swimming moon went

on in a tumult of sound such as I had never heard and

do not wish to hear again.

Laughter, screams, curses, whip cracks, snarls,

shouts, horses neighing and screaming, hooves clatter-

ing on stone, growling, more mocking laughter,

shrieks, howls, and all the time more dwellers popping

out of the hole in the ground. Queynt had said they

were not common. I mink Queynt must have been

mistaken.

None of which was helping us escape from Fangel.

I had hoped the dwellers would keep Valearn busy

and the hunt would pass by. Neither had happened.

They all met in a general confusion, much of it

outside the grill, and there was no possibility of

getting through that mess. Moreover, the noise had

wakened the baby.

So, I said to myself, on the verge of hysteria, why

don't we make it a really good mess? I fixed Sylbie

with a hard, hypnotic eye and said, 'Can I depend

upon you to stay right here until I return for you?' She

nodded fearfully and I took it (the more fool I) for

agreement. 'Don't move,' I said. 'I'll be back shortly.'

Up the wall once more, this time to perch upon

the top, well above the melee below. The wall

stretched for a long block toward the residence, and I

ran along its top, unnoticed by any of the participants

in the brouhaha. At the corner, two dwellers were

strangling a lizard man, and I thanked them for the

courtesy as I jumped off the wall and went past. The

next street was fairly empty. A pombi was trying to

play bakklewheep with two dwellers in the middle of

the block, they evading him and he getting angrier

about it by the minute. He was too busy to notice me.

Next block was the residence itself, still dark and

silent. The great gong hung in its usual place, the

striker beside it, and I put every measure of strength I

had ever possessed into hitting it, not once or twice

but three horrendous times.

Lights came on. Doors opened. People poured out,

just as they had done on that morning we had arrived

in Fangel. Food carts, guardsmen, populace, more of

the lizard warriors, more of other kinds of things, too.

Though their responses were fairly limited by the

crystals they had been given, the populace had not

been prepared for lizard men or any of the other

creatures that swarmed from the Merchant's ware-

houses. They ran screaming through the streets, their

voices betraying terror even as their words did honors

to Betand, to Huldra, to Dedrina Dreadeye. They had

no other words to scream with and were forbidden the

safety of their houses by the tyranny of the gong.

Better than I had hoped, great mobs of them made

for the gates. Of course. When the gong rang, the

gates were always open. Good. Now back to Sylbie.

I ran openly in the street. There were so many

creatures running, people and monsters both, that I

was merely one of a throng that spread in every

direction, like an anthill that had been overturned.

One block, two, down toward the grilled win-

dow ...

To stop, horrified. No. Furious. The gate into the

little courtyard was open. Sylbie had unbarred the

gate and left.

I found her two streets down, toward the gates.

Unfortunately, Valearn had found her first.

Valearn had the baby. Sylbie had Valearn by one

leg. There were a dozen deep dwellers fastened onto

Valearn at various points. Valearn was paying no

attention. Her fangs were bared and she lowered

them to Bryan's throat. . .

And all that had gone before became as nothing.

There was no baby in her hands. There was a boiling,

formless, gorbling cloud, a keening scream of rage

and hatred battering her with its sound, its horrible

sound, driving her before it like some farm zeller

while she screamed in genuine horror, Valearn the

Ogress, victim of what she had sought.

I sagged on the stones beside Sylbie, trying to hold

my splitting head together against that sound, mouth-

ing, 'What in the name of all old gods? ..." There was

a break in the howling.

The unborn,' she whimpered. 'It's the unborn. It's

Bryan. He went back to being what he was before. He

was frightened. I told her not to frighten him.'

'You knew he would do that?'

'He does that. Whenever he gets angry. Or doesn't

get fed on time. Or gets too wet.'

'You hadn't seen fit to mention it.'

She arranged her dress and looked at me with

honest-seeming eyes. 'I didn't think it was impor-

tant.' Little liar.

'How long will he stay that way?'

'I imagine until he kills Valearn. She bit him.'

'And then?'

'And then he'll find me, wherever I am.' Was there

a note of satisfaction in that?

'Outside the walls?'

'Of course. He may be very temperamental, as my

mother would say, but he's quite bright. He'll find

me.'

Then let's go, Sylbie. Let's leave Fangel to its own

mighty troubles.'

Which we did. On the south side of the city there

were wagons parked that had been waiting to enter

Fangel on the morrow. I made arrangements with a

wagoner and his wife to take Sylbie south, all the way

to Zinter. 'From there,' I told her, no longer worrying

about her safety. 'From there, keep going south. Here

are enough coins to pay your way. Don't waste them.

Get to the Bright Demesne, south of Schooltown, on

Lake Yost. Once there, ask for Mavin. That's Peter's

mother. I think she'll want to meet her grandson.'

Two of a kind, I thought.

'I was waiting for Peter.' Shyness personified, sweet

little look out of the corner of her eye.

'Don't, Sylbie. Peter's a Shifter. I think it probable

that Byran is, too. This manifestation of his is strange,

but it fits with being Shifter. Shifter young need to be

reared by their own. I know Bryan comes back to you

now, but when he begins to change into snakey

things' - why did I enjoy seeing her shudder at the

thought? - 'he'll need some older Shifter to control

him and teach him. I'm sure if we put our heads

together, we can come up with a better plan for you

than just waiting for Peter. I hope that doesn't make

you too unhappy."

'He was different once,' she said, a dreamy look in

those violet eyes. 'In Betand, he was wonderful.'

'That wasn't really Peter,' I said brutally, telling her

who it really was.

Trandilar! But she's . . . she's ..."

'Trandilar is the great Queen of Beguilement. She's

female, and who would understand better what

some young female would enjoy? It wasn't Peter.

Now, can I rely on you to go with these people, or

will you do something stupid again?'

She nodded. It was a real nod, I think. 'I'll do what

you say, Jinian. Tell Peter .. . tell him I decided it

wouldn't work.'

'I'll do that.'

I trusted that little nod not at all. I watched from

the forest until the wagon left in the morning. Both

Bryan and Sylbie were aboard.

CHAPTER TEN

There were many dead in Fangel. The Merchant was

one, the Duke of Betand another. The pombis and the

gnarlibar had been less successfully hunted than they

had planned. I found Valearn's body just down the

street from the place she had bitten the baby. Her neck

was broken, it appeared. There was no sign of Huldra.

Nor of Dedrina Dreadeye. On reflection, I thought it

likely they had left Fangel before the confusion started

and were on their way south with the crystals they had

been told to distribute. Of all in that group, those two

were the most dangerous, and I regretted that they still

lived.

There was great disorder in Fangel. The dwellers had

gone back to their depths, but there were bodies

everywhere, and roaming beasts, and those strange

creatures that had come out of the Merchant's ware-

houses. The city was not likely to survive. It had no real

reason for being. Already the wagons that had been

assembled to enter the gates were turning away. They

would find other customers.

I went to the residence. It was luxurious and spacious

and empty. I knew which room Huldra had occupied

by seeing how it was littered with bits and pieces from

her spell casting and from the great flood of mixed

blood and water on the floors. Her sending had

returned, but Huldra had been gone. She did not

know, then, that the giants were dead.

Looking the rooms over, I shuddered. I knew what

some of the litter was for, and it was the kind of stuff

that the seven would repudiate, always; Still, it was best

to know how deeply into the art she was. The answer:

deeply indeed. She knew things I did not. Of that I was

sure. I picked up what food was available in the place

and went out the northern gate. It stood open and

unguarded.

A day traveling once again the same old way. Around

ever-deepening masses of shadow, down toward

Bleem. I didn't go into the village, though I did speak to

a herdsman on the road to tell him Storm Grower was

dead. If there were any left there or any who had

returned, let them enjoy that news. The next day I got

to the red pillar of stone. I had seen it from the valley

before. Up close it was even more imposing, an obelisk

that pointed a long black finger of shadow down into a

little valley, much damaged by storm but with a small

lake sparkling at its bottom.

The evening was spent thinking before the fire,

pulling the shreds of evidence together. I stared for a

long time at the blue crystal. I didn't taste it, just stared

at it. There was no one near to make demands upon

me. No rescuing to be done, no sneaking or slying. No

great white roads to be repaired. Merely quiet in the

evening with the fire making small scrolls of smoke,

ephemeral writing upon the slate of the sky, meaning

flowing into meaning and mystery into mystery.

And, on thinking it over, I decided I had been right.

Right all along. Everything I had told Peter was true. All

the evidence pointed in one way and one way only. I

felt as I had felt so long ago, traveling toward Bleer with

Peter, when he put the clues to a mystery in my hands

and asked me to make sense of it. Now, as then, all the

pieces were in my hands, or in my head. The great

flitchhawk who had granted me a boon in Chimmer-

dong, and the d'bor wife, and the gobblemole. The

story of Little Star and the Daylight Bell. The Oracle.

The Eesties. Yellow crystals and blue, separated by a

thousand years of time, more or less. What was a

thousand years, after all? Even to Vitior Vulpas Queynt

it was a mere lifetime. My illness in Chimmerdong. The

diagnoses of Bartelmy of the Ban, the Dervish, my

mother. All these. And they did make a kind of

horrible sense. No matter how I turned them, there

was no other explanation. Only this one.

So. Could anything be done?

If anything could be done, who would do it? Not

one young Wize-ard alone, surely. It was all very well

for Bartelmy of the Ban, my mother, to set me a gigantic

task in Chimmerdong, saying it was mine and none

other's. No one's life had hung on that. Had seemed to

hang on that, I amended. If I had failed, things were no

worse. Though I had succeeded, were they any better?

But this. This meant an ending. For all of us. For

everything. Tree and flower, hill and road, sea and

shore, man, woman, child, all beasts, all birds, all fishes.

And though I might do what I could alone, surely it

would be better if a disciplined body of persons were

to work at it as well.

So. I thought about that for some time. Finally, I

resolved upon a sending. Not an eater of blood, like

Huldra's, but a seeker of persons. It did not take a

blood sacrifice, at least not much of one. A few drops

of my own, was all. I sent it out into the world to seek

Bartelmy of the Ban. She had said we would meet

again. Why not now? Now, when I needed her. The

sending pulled at me. I was like the reel on a fishing

pole; it was the line with the hook; and it pulled at me,

reeling out and out and out until there was nothing left

of me at all. Only the line, spun into the world, far, far

beyond any place I could see. I lay upon the ground,

close-wrapped in my cloak, and let the line spin out.

For a very long time, I knew nothing. Then the line

reeled in, restoring me to myself. The hook had caught

something. I lay on a long bank above a length of flat

that could only be a buried stretch of road. Down this

flat the Dervish came, a whirling silver cone balanced

on its tip, blurring with motion, settling before me into

a still column of fringed quiet.

'Jinian, Dervish daughter," it said.

'Bartelmy?' I replied from the ground. It had not

sounded exactly like Bartelmy and yet almost like.

'No. She is not far from here. I was closer, however. I

am one of her near kindred, alerted to expect your

coming.'

'Even I did not know I would be coming this way.'

'Still, Bartelmy had thought it likely. When your

sending came, we were not surprised. A Seer's vision,

perhaps.'

Murzemire Hornless, I thought. Who had not been

distressed at my going into the north. Was it because

she had known what would happen? Had she known

why I would leave the others?

'You say you expected my coming. Have you plans

concerning me?'

'Not plans precisely, since we do not know why you

have come. Provisions, certainly, for one not exactly a

Dervish. A rare thing among us to provide for one

outside our company.' The Dervish gestured off down

the flat stretch. 'If you are strong enough to rise and

walk?'

I struggled to my feet. The line had been reeled in,

but I was still weak enough to stagger.

'Heat food for yourself I can wait.'

The Dervish not only waited, but helped me by

gathering sticks for the fire and talking gently about

trees and clouds while I ate. Much refreshed, I buried

the fire and stood ready to walk beside the Dervish,

who surprised me by walking beside me, stride on

stride. It noticed my surprise. 'We walk, sometimes.

Sometimes we eat, drink. Rarely, we sleep.' It made a

sound, almost like a chuckle.

'You astonish me,' I murmured. That sounded

almost like laughter.'

'We even laugh, sometimes. Bartelmy is among the

most serious of us. She finds little to laugh about. I can

find it amusing to walk beside a Dervish daughter who

is no Dervish, who is a Beast-talker, so I am told. Speak

to that owl yonder and tell me what it says.' The

Dervish gestured and I saw a tiny dot upon a branch, so

far at the limit of vision it could scarcely be seen at all.

It was too far to speak in its language, so I spoke to it

silently and it replied in muted tones which floated

toward us on the wind. 'It says, "Good day,"' I said. 'As

would any polite and sensible beast.'

The Dervish laughed again, a very small sound, but

unmistakably amusement.

'Where are we going?'   ;

The pervasion of the Dervishes is nearby.'

'What is your name?'

'Cernaby of the Soul.'

'What do they mean, your names? Bartelmy of the

Ban? What is that? Of the Soul? What sense does it

make?'

'If you have ever lain beneath Bartelmy's Ban, you

would know. As for me, I can see souls, Dervish

daughter. As you would see a flame burning. I see

yours now, hot and red with angry pity. It must itch

you, burning like that.'

This surprised me, sure as I was I had achieved a kind

of balance. 'I suppose yours are never like that.'

Cernaby did not answer, merely turned to lay her

hands upon my eyes, like a mask. I could see through

them to the flames that surrounded her, blue as the

noon sky, cool and limpid as water. I looked down at

myself to see my hands and arms, blossoming with

heat. 'You can dim it,' the Dervish whispered. 'Watch

it, concentrate upon it, think of it turning orange, then

yellow, then green. Finally blue, blue as water.' She

laughed a little. 'As your dams of the seven would say,

"Consider water."'

With Cernaby's hands across my eyes, I could do

nothing else. The flames upon me leapt and danced as

I watched them, thinking them faded, thinking them

cooled. At last they were green as grass upon me, only

an occasional flicker of yellow lighting the edges of the

flames. I could cool them no further than that. Cernaby

took her hands away and I blinked up at the evening

stars. I had not been conscious of the time passing. 'It

will come easier next time,' said Cernaby. I felt a little

calmer, that was all, together with a little core of anger

at her having wasted so much time.

We walked farther then, along the winding flat

among the jungle trees, then up a rising trail that wound

above the trees toward two pillars of stone high upon

the ridge. We looked down to our left to see mighty

hedges, solid as walls, twisting, turning, winding upon

themselves as far as I could see.

'The Great Maze lies below us,' said Cernaby, 'league

upon league of it, from the mountains to the sea. When

last the band marched here, it spent ten years marching

through the edges of the Maze. It is said there are cities

in the Maze lost from all outside contact for millennia.

It is said no man knows the extent of it or the way to its

center.' She pointed to this impenetrable wall of foliage

below the trail we were on. That is the edge of it."

'What is it, exactly? I had always thought it was roads

with walls or hedges, full of misleading turnings."

Cernaby again made the sound of quiet amusement.

'More than that, Jinian. Men can climb walls, cut

through hedges. We will go a little way in and I will

show you.' Along our trail several little paths went

down the slope into openings in the hedges. She spun

down one of these. I followed.

A narrow door was cut into the solid green. A

narrow path stretched inward. Cernaby stood upon it

at some small distance, where it made a turning. 'Here,'

she called. 'Come to me here.'

I took a step.

Onto the rim rock of a high cliff, so near the edge I

staggered back in fear. Below me lay a shadowed bowl

of green. The dawn, or sunset, was on my face and on

the rock at my feet. From above came a shrieking, a '

banshee howl, mightier than any number of voices. I

looked up to see a dart of silver falling, bellowing as it

came, downward and downward, the sound shivering

the rocks on which I stood so that I fell to my knees,

hands over ears, watching in amazement as the thing

landed in the bowl, as a door opened in it and something

strange came out. Strange? So I felt, and yet it was

obviously human. Nothing strange about it? Why this

feeling of intense curiosity, this thought of weirdness?

'Jinian,' I heard the voice. 'Turn to your left and walk

toward that midnight tree, the first one. Go behind it.'

Cernaby's voice. 'Jinian!' Commanding now. Obediently,

I turned and made my way to the midnight tree,

outpost of a grove. I moved behind it...

Onto the Wastes of Bleer. It was as I had seen it last,

barren and cold and dry. Full of thorn and devil's

spear. Heaped with wind's bones, which were not

wind's bones at all but the bones of the ancient

creatures of this place. Coming toward me out of the

eastern sky was a glowing ball of flame. No sound, only

this ball, hurtling toward me. 'Jinian. Quickly, to your

right, and down into that little empty crevasse.' I did

not like the look of the doom approaching so made

quick work of the directions; half a dozen steps to my

right and down ...

Into a hall, vast and gray, where my footsteps echoed

whispering down corridors of pillars. From a high

window came a crowd roar so threatening I turned

instinctively to flee. 'No!' cried the voice in warning.

'Turn again. The other way! Beside the pool.'

Resolutely I turned back, stumbling across a fallen

pedestal, kicking a silvery lamp that lay there in my

path. I caught myself. Another pedestal lay across the

way, the book it had held flung against the far wall. I

walked beside the low coping of a pool, coughing as a

fitful draft blew smoke into my eyes, so that I stepped

blindly...

Onto a road. Cernaby was beside me. 'Here,' Cernaby

said, stepping in a certain direction. I followed. We

stood outside the Maze on the path we had left only

moments before. High on the ridge the tall stones

brooded above us.

'What is it?' I asked. 'I can't believe it!'

'Who can? One time long since, Mind Healer Talley

came here to confer with the Dervish paramounts. She

spent long hours within the edge of the Great Maze and

left at last, saying the places within it were memories.'

'Memories?'

'She did not explain. We did not ask, for at that time

we were greatly concerned with another thing. The

Maze, we then felt, was not the greatest mystery of

Lorn. There are many things about Lorn we do not

understand.'

'Lorn, Cernaby? Is that what this district is called?'

'Lorn. The world. This world. We took it from the

language of the Shadowpeople, whose word for the

soil is "lorn".'

I realized suddenly it was so. What had the little

people called to me when I'd released them in Fangel?

'Lolly duro balta lus lorn.' Walk well upon the lovely

land. I turned to examine the leafy walls of the Maze

behind me. 'You say the band marched through that?

How could they?'

'They hired a guide. The only guide. They put on

blindfolds and marched to the music. They didn't turn.

At night, the guide would stop them in some relatively

safe place until the morning, when they were blind-

folded again. It's the only way.'

'But you

'But I know a few short ways in and out. Not to the

center. No one does, except the guide. Perhaps not

even the guide. No, I know only a few short ways.'

'How aid you learn them?'

'Oh, step on step. One step in, turn and take one

step, take that step back. Turn and take another. Take

that step back. And again. Each time returning to the

same place, building the chain longer with each try. In

that first short chain you walked, there are many other

ways out to other places.' Cernaby made the amused

sound once again. 'I don't know what good it does to

know that. Except to show a Dervish daughter what to

be wary of.'

'Who is the guide?' I already knew but wanted it

verified. Who else could it be?

'Bartelmy tells me you have met it. It calls itself the

Oracle.'

'The Oracle!" I spat. 'It has probably had no time for

guiding recently. It is too busy giving comfort to giants

and distributing death crystals to the unwary!'

'We know of the death crystals. One more reason

why we are gathered in the pervasion now, to talk of

this.' We went up the last little way to the ridge. At either

side the great stones peered down at us, an electric tingle

between them. Had I been alone, I don't think they

would have let me pass. Cernaby stopped, looking

downward. 'And we have arrived at the pervasion.'

We looked down on a long clearing through which

the road ran, bulging at the center into a wide oval,

then narrowing once more to continue over the next

rise. To either side were small houses. No, I thought

after a moment, not really large enough to be houses.

Small, one-room places perhaps two manheights

square, neatly made, but little more than sheds. They

reminded me of the small outbuildings in which

domestic zeller are shut at night to protect them from

prowlers.

Outside each of these stood a Dervish, still as a tree.

'What are they doing?' I asked.

'Thinking. Practicing. Becoming.'

'How long will they stand like that?'

'Some days, perhaps. Some for a season. Or until the

next obligatory takes place in which they must join.

There is an obligatory going on now in the next node.'

The Dervish led on, between the rows of silent figures.

I sensed that the very air around her was under

tension. It vibrated like the string of an instrument, full

of silent harmonics. I could hear them, could have

sung them had I the voice for it, and it seemed that the

soil sang in this same way. Soil. Trees. Air. We moved

over the next small rise.

Again the road bulged into an oval, paved space, this

time occupied with silent ranks of Dervishes, all mov-

ing together like a wind-waved field of grain.

'An obligatory,' whispered Cernaby.

Below us the Dervishes spun and stilled, advanced,

retreated, twisted with outstretched arms, then fell into

pillar quiet. From somewhere music came, at times

insistent, at others almost lost among the sounds of the

trees. It was the previous music made manifest, and it

was some time before I realized it came from the

Dervishes themselves.

They dance their dedication,' whispered Cernaby.

She laid her hands over my eyes, revealing the pure

blue flames in which the Dervishes moved. It

reminded me of something, an elusive thought that

came and slipped away.

'Shhh,' whispered Cernaby. 'They are almost at an

end. We will wait until they finish.'

The dance went on for some time, making me

wonder when it had begun that so long a time was

considered 'almost at an end'. Still, my impatience

faded as I watched. The surging movement was hyp-

notic, relaxing, like watching waves move around

rocks on a quiet shore. This relaxation troubled me.

Deep inside, I chafed against it.

At last the music faded into silence, the dance into

immobility. This, too, was part of the obligatory, for

they stood still in silence for some time before the

Dervishes moved away toward their huts.

'It is likely Bartelmy has arrived,' said Cernaby. 'We

will go to her cell. We have arranged it so that you may

stay there as well, though this is never done once a

child is past babyhood.' That sound of amusement. 'We

are a solitary people. Perhaps we have carried our

reclusion too far.'

Bartelmy was waiting for us beside one of the white-

painted huts, a silver pillar beside the weathered gray

of the door. She said, 'I said I would come to you, and

you to me. So we have come. Welcome, Jinian

Footseer.'

'Call her rather Dervish daughter,' said Cernaby, a

note of admonition in her voice. 'She calmed herself

into the green, Bartelmy, and stood for Haifa day of the

obligatory."

'Would we have expected less?'

'Yes, considering how she was reared. I was doubt-

ful, Bartelmy.'

'I was not.' The pillar turned a little, as though to

examine me more closely. I heated a bit at this, at their

talking of me as though I could not hear them.

I smiled nonetheless. 'Is this to be another game with-

out a name, Bartelmy? Like the one in Chimmerdong?'

The pillar shook itself, a negation. 'No, Jinian. Except

that you are one always eager for answers, and there

are not always answers. If we have an answer, we will

give it to you. If we do not give it, you will know we do

not have it to give."

They did not know I had come to give them

answers. Not yet, though. 'You expected me!' It was

half a challenge.

'Murzemire Homloss told me long since you would

come here at this time. Yes. We expected you.'

'But you do not know why I came?'

'No. Murzemire saw you. She saw Storm Grower.

She saw Dream Miner. She saw shadow. She saw the

Daylight Bell, broken. And when she had seen all this,

she told us it might mean nothing much.'

Cernaby laughed. 'Nothing much.' I realized the

laughter had grief in it. Perhaps they had seen some-

thing of the truth. 'Nothing much.'

The words spun among us in the quiet clearing,

without reverberation, without echo, and yet without

end. 'Nothing much.' Said humorously. Said without

consequence. Said without anger. Said in the blue, my

heart said; said in the blue they so much cultivated. In

me fury bloomed like red flowers. 'Nothing much.'

This calm interchange had the very flavor of Dervishes

in it. I shook away the spell the dance had put me

under, demanding concentration from myself. It

would not do to fall under their sway, their patience,

their strangeness. There was too much patience among

Dervishes. The time for patience had passed.

I had not planned what I did next. I had never done

it before. It came out of my belly, out of my lungs, my

heart, all at once full blown. Before I knew what I was

doing, my hands were out and I was making that

gesture which the seven called 'Eye of the Star'. It was

an Imperative. It allowed no choice. Though I did not

know its meaning - might never, so the seven had said

- I put all my fury behind it, all my red flame. I felt it

going out of me like a shout, a summons, a demand.

They stared at me from behind their fringes. Had

anyone ever evoked the Eye of the Star upon them

before? There was only one spell stronger than this;

one I would probably never know enough to use.

'Nothing much?' I said. 'A little more than that, I

think. Storm Grower sat in a cavern making moonlets

fall upon this world, destroying cities. Dream Miner sat

there as well, corrupting the messages of the world

into filthy intent and evil consequence. Hell's Maw was

his doing, and the corruption of Pfarb Durim, and they

only a few among many. Even now his will speeds

south to be spread among our kindred there. The

giants are dead, but their evil lives.

'Knowing nothing of this, I came north. I came, to be

with Peter. Nothing seemed as important as that. As we

traveled, we began to find dead people, men, women,

children, even babies, all along the roads, all with

yellow crystals hung upon them or sucked away to

shards. Peter saw it, but it did not seem to tell him

anything. Queynt saw it. Him, it troubled, but he did

not see in it what I did.

'We came to Bloome, and Bloome led us to Fangel,

where the Dream Merchant was - with guests. Huldra.

Valearn. Dedrina Dreadeye. And with captives. Sylbie, a

girl Peter had known in Betand, and Sylbie's baby,

Peter's baby. And two people from far over the West-

ern Sea, people Mavin Manyshaped had known years

ago. Beedie. Roges. And with them a creature so

strange I can scarcely believe it..."

'Come inside,' said Bartelmy with enormous effort. It

took much for her to break the Eye, but she did it.

'Cernaby also. We will forget the eremitic laws. We will

sit together, drink together, talk together..."

The pillar that was Bartelmy was shivering in the

effort of control. I knew why. Dervishes were not

constrained by others. I had evoked the star-eye upon

her. I was being allowed this presumption only

because I was Bartelmy's daughter, but if we went

inside, all urgency would be set aside. Oh, I longed to

be patient, quiet, to put decision aside, to take time ...

I made the gesture again, even stronger. 'There is no

time,' I said in my Dervish voice, cold and demanding.

From the edges of my eyes I saw a multitude gathering

about us, a thousand silver pillars upon the hillside,

turned toward me. There was fury there, barely with-

held. They had felt my summons. Their resentment

was a palpable menace. Bartelmy wanted to save me.

Too late. I could not be saved.

I said, 'All the time we might have spent talking has

been wasted away. Listen to me, Dervishes! The piss-

yellow crystals come out of this world - this Lorn, as

you call it. A kind of milk secreted in pockets of stone,

and out of this milk a crystal grows. Little tubes run

from the crystal pockets down into the earth, deep into

the rock. The giants beneath the earth sent their

messengers out to find who made these things. We

have traveled league upon league wondering who

made these things. You nave gathered here to discuss

who it is who makes these things.

'They are not made!

'They are not made by man or by any other creature.

They come from the world itself. The woman from

over the sea calls them message crystals. The little old

man at the crystal mine says there are no more blue

ones, no more green ones, only these yellow ones,

only these death ones.'

'We know.' Bartelmy's voice, hushed hesitant, plain-

tive, beating my will away. Was she begging for my life

from her kin? 'We would talk of this matter, Jinian.

Consider it."

' There is no time to consider it! When Beedie told

me what the crystals are called over the sea, I knew

then. These are not dreams which the world dreams.

These are messages which the world sends. To itself.

To all parts of itself. To bunwit and tree rat, to gobble-

mole and d'bor wife. To Shadowman and gnarlibar,

krylobos and pombi. To Eesties. To mankind. And

there is only one message now. Death. Peace and a final

contentment and death.'

She cried at me with the last of her strength. 'Why

does the world want its creatures dead? We have

known this for some time. But we do not know why.'

'Listen to me!' I stamped my foot in my frenzy then,

knowing I must be blazing red to their perception,

seeing them shiver in an agony of what? Anger? 'Listen.

You're not understanding me. The messages are not to

the creatures. The messages are to all parts of itself.

'Do not ask me why the world wants its creatures

dead! Ask why it wants itself dead!'

Stillness then. A thousand Dervish pillars standing

around me, not moving. The fringes did not shiver but

merely hung, still, as though extruded of some hard

metal. The anger was gone as suddenly as it had come.

Nothing moved, and yet I felt something go out from

them, a hard blow, a wave of... something. Pain? No.

More a question. I looked up to see them there in their

thousands. I stood at the center of an ominous circle,

so silent, so utterly silent.

I made the gesture of release.

'Itself,' said Bartelmy at last. 'Sisters. Dervishes. Could

we have been mistaken?'

'Mistaken?' A breath. A sigh.

'Mistaken?' I demanded. 'Mistaken in what? What

have you done?'

'Not done,' breathed Cernaby. 'Been.'

'Long ago,' said Bartelmy, 'far in the past, there were

creatures who ran the roads of Lorn. Looking deep into

the past, we have seen them.'

'I saw them, too,' I said impatiently. 'When I looked

into the past in Chimmerdong.'

'But those creatures run the roads no longer. Not

since we came. Lorn cries for this journey to be made,

this endless journey.'

'The blind runners do it,' I said. 'All the time. Every

year.'

'Not correctly. Not as it should be done. They

cannot. The roads are broken. And they are still too

near to ... to humanity.'

'And you are not?'

'We have bred ourselves for centuries to run the

roads of Lorn as we believed another creature did

before us. We have believed this to be Lom's will. But if

this is Lom's will, then Lom would not will to die. If

Lorn wills to die, then what does Lom will for us?'

To die also,' I said flatly. 'I don't know what you

Dervishes have been up to all these centuries, Bartelmy

of the Ban. I don't know what Barish thought he was

doing fooling around with that hundred thousand

Gamesmen under the mountain. I don't know what

any of us thought we were doing. All I know is that

every sign points to this world wishing /tse7/dead.'

'But this must be recent...'

'Not all that recent, no. Within old Buttufor's life-

time, certainly. He can remember the crystals coming

out blue and green when he was young. He is over a

hundred now. But it has not been long.'

'Why? Why?'

'Listen to me,' I said again. 'I'm not going to waste

my time asking why. I've been thinking about this for

days now. In Bloome I thought about it. Outside

Fangel, it seemed sure. After leaving the others, I did

nothing but think about it. If a person wished himself

dead, we would assume he was sick. Injured, perhaps.

Well, we know well enough this world is injured. You

told me that, Bartelmy. It was you told me to fix the

roads in Chimmerdong. Was that only an exercise?

Some kind of lesson you wished me to learn? Or did it

mean something?

'And if it meant something, then why are you here?

Why are you doing your dances when there are roads

broken everywhere? Why are we wondering why the

world wishes itself dead when we are doing nothing to

heal it?'

'How do you know this?' A sigh again. Was there a

hint of anguish in it? Of injured pride?

'I know it because I am Dervish born, Gamesman

reared, wize-art trained. I know it because I am Jinian

Footseer and have run those roads while you all were

studying to do so. I know it because I have seen all its

signs and portents across all the lands, seen the clues to

it where I have walked and ridden, heard its voice in

the quiet reaches of the night. I know it because I

know it.

'I know it because logic tells me it must have hap-

pened. A world, this one, Lorn, which has existed for

untold time, which is in balance with itself, which is

healthy, which sends messages to all parts of itself in

order to stay in balance, to stay healthy. Messages to

groles and Shadowmen and Eesties. And into this world

comes man, the destroyer, for whom no message has

been made.

'What then? What does logic say must have happened?

It says that Lorn must have made a message for men

and about men. A blue crystal, telling men their place

in this world. Showing them the balance. And the

message was sent.

'But evil walked upon the roads of the world, evil

and envy and pride. Evil which did not want man in

this world at all. Evil which believed man would die if

deprived of the message meant for him. Not knowing

Lorn would die, instead. So the message meant for man

was stolen away, taken into deep caverns and hidden

there, where no creature might receive it.

'Except Queynt, who was given the message by the

Shadowpeople in the long ago.

'Except a few, here and there, who found it without

knowing what they found.

'Except the people of a chasm far over the sea, who

found it, knew what they had found, and brought it to

Mavin Manyshaped, their friend.

'Except for Jinian, who took that message and carried it

with her and carries it now!'

I staggered. Suddenly my legs wouldn't hold me and

I plopped to my knees, shaking. 'A message meant for

me. And you. And every human person here. And for

all other creatures as well.'

I had given almost all of them to Peter, retaining only

eight or ten. I took one of the small blue crystals out of

my pouch, almost dropping it from trembling fingers. I

passed it first to Bartelmy. 'There isn't much of it. Make

it go as far as you can ..."

'Hold!' The voice hummed from the back of the

throng, a reverberating, gonglike sound. 'Hold, Bartelmy

of the Ban! I, Marno of the Morning, speak. You hold a

crystal in your hand. Has Jinian Footseer tasted it?'

'I have not.'

'Then why should we?" The voice was cold and

scornful. My heart sank beneath the weight of it.

'I will if you wish. I have not.'

'Why have you not?'

'Because I know what it says. And I am vain and

proud and would do the message's will of my own

will, knowing I do it of my own sense and intelligence,

without compulsion. But if I cannot gain your under-

standing in any other way, I will taste it.'

Taste it, then!'

'No!' This was Bartelmy, in a voice that ached. 'This is

a Dervish daughter. My daughter. If she would do a

thing of her own will, is there any Dervish would say

her nay? And if I would do a thing of my will, is there

any Dervish who will deny me? So, what I do, I do of

my own will.' The crystal disappeared beneath the

fringes of her veil and in a moment reappeared to be

thrust into Cernaby's hand.

It passed from there beneath the concealing fringes,

here and there, mouth to hand to hand to mouth, from

one silver pillar to another. Some refused it. Most

tasted it. I gave them all the others but three. Fringes

shook, quivered, bodies turned. One reeled into

another. Some cried out. Then stillness. The Dervishes

were there in their thousands, assembled rank on rank,

and the rear ranks quivered now as the remnant of the

crystal passed.

'How long?' asked Bartelmy. 'How long, Jinian?'

'How long? How long ago did this world send us that

message? You guess, Bartelmy. Soon after we came here,

I would suppose. If we came here a thousand years ago,

perhaps a few hundred less than that. More or less.'

'And who robbed us of it?"

'I don't know. I suspect, but I don't know. A race of

creatures, ambitious, proud, who did not want this

man on this world. A race of beings who sought to

drive me away, who gathered the message crystals up,

every one, and who took them to the cavern where the

giants dwelt. Some creature which hated man.' I could

not identify that creature. I suspected. Only suspected.

'Is it too late?'

'It may be. I suppose we could give up with good

grace. Lie down and die. Disport ourselves for a time,

like lice on a corpse. Or go on dancing while the

shadow comes. The shadow is part of this, I'm sure.

You've seen it Bartelmy. I've seen it. Perhaps all you

Dervishes have seen it. It flows now, from somewhere,

like a flood. Where is it coming from?' Silence greeted

this, but they did not disagree. 'Of one thing I am very

sure. If this world dies, we will not survive it long, but

we might play while there is time.

'Or we might try, whether it is too late or not. Try to

get the roads fixed. Try to get some runners on them.

Yourselves, since that's what you've been breeding for.

What race ran these roads before we came?'

'Eesties. We have seen so with the deep look.'

'Eesties? Really?' This did surprise me. 'I thought it

might be Shadowpeople.'

'No. Eesties. We look into the past and see them

spinning upon the roads, spinning into the ancient

cites. They spin. As we do. Those odd doors in Pfarb

Durim? Larger at the top? They are Eesty doors. It was

an Eesty city. All across the world there are ruins with

those doors.'

'That's why you're Dervishes. You copied them.'

'We tried. It is said one of them helped us originally.'

'You copied them, but then just sat about waiting?'

'We thought ... we thought the day would come.

We were holding ourselves in readiness for the day.'

'The day when someone else would fix things?'

'The day things would be fixed, somehow. Yes.' A

collective sigh. Then, 'Jinian, why was it you who saw

this?'

I considered this. How had I known it? How did

anyone know things? 'I don't know, Bartelmy. There

always has to be someone to see things first. By the

time Queynt gets to Himaggery in the south, others

may have seen. Surely - oh, surely you will not merely

stay here in your pervasion and let it happen.'

'What can we do?'

'Mavin told me you have powers. You changed

Himaggery into a beast one time.'

'We made him think he was.'

'Then you can make Tragamors and Sorcerers

think they are road builders. You can make Demons

think they are hunting fustigars to seek out whoever

robbed us of the message. You can make Healers

think they are Lorn fixers. I don't know. You can do

something !'

'If there are more of these crystals across the sea,'

said Cernaby, 'they must be brought here. Shared out.'

'Better late than not at all,' came a voice from the

ranked multitude. 'Better a tardy lover than a lonely

bed.' A quiver of what could have been laughter ran

through the ranks. Laughter? I was shocked at this,

realizing only later that it was the laughter of despair.

'You can help Himaggery decide how to get west

over the sea and back again. It took Beedie and Roges

three years, and we don't have three years to spend.

Mavin flew there, Beedie said. Which means Shifters

can fly there and bring crystals back. Oh, Dervishes, I

beg you . ..'

'You need not beg,' said Bartelmy. 'I told you once to

stop crying and get to work. I will not wait for you to

say the same to me ..."

'Mother,' I said, shivering at the sound of the word in

my mouth. 'Mother. Do not take time to confer. Can

you truly set your patience aside?'

'When we must. Yes, Jinian. When we must.'

They went. I was not sure which way they went,

except that in a few moments all were gone. Beside me

the door to the hut stood open. Within were two

narrow beds, a table with two chairs. A cupboard. They

had indeed set their laws aside and prepared for my

visit. I sat at the table, laid my head upon her arms, and

wept as I had not wept since Chimmerdong, weariness

mostly. Sadness, perhaps. And after weeping I lay upon

the narrow cot and slept.

When I woke Cernaby was standing in the doorway.

'I waited,' said the Dervish. 'We wanted to know

what you were going to do next, and Bartelmy thought

you might need one of us to carry a message some-

where, to someone.'

'Where are the others?'

'Some have gone south to others of our race. Some

to find Queynt and the rest and be sure they reach the

south safely. Some into the Shadowmarches in search

of the Shadowpeople, though it may be we will need

Mavin to help in that search. Some to the caves where

the hundred thousand lie. A few to the giants' cavern to

see whether any of the blue crystals remain there when

the waters drain away. Some to carry messages among

those others, to keep us all informed.'

I stared at her incredulously. 'So quickly! I did not

think it possible.'

'We are not benighted, Jinian. If we have had any

fault, it has been too much pride. We had a revelation

from our founder. We had Seers' visions which we

misinterpreted. We had what we thought was the

answer and we troubled to look no further. Who ever

believes that time will end before one's solution can be

put into place?'

I laughed, coughing. 'Give me a moment, Cernaby.

You have moved faster than I can.'

I rose, walked around the room, found bread in the

cupboard, ate some of it with a cup of water from the

pitcher on the table. 'It seems I am part of this matter.

Not of my own doing, but merely because Murzemire

Hornloss saw me involved in it. If for no other reason

than that, I must play out that part.'

I thought long on this. Then, 'Cernaby, my thanks.

No. This is one of those games without a name and

which I keep getting involved in. Let me play it out, I

do not think your presence will matter. Though I

would welcome your company, perhaps your com-

pany is not what is most needed. I would rather you

carry a message for me. To Murzy - Murzemire Horn-

loss. Tell her what we found. Tell her to raise the

sevens. In all my dreams I can think of only three forces

in this land unified enough to do anything sensible: the

sevens, the Immutables, and the Dervishes. Himaggery

and Barish will argue. Mavin will go kiting off on her

own wild way. The pawns? Well, what powers have we

left them that would make them useful now? Peter has

destroyed the Magicians. Beedie's people are far away.

So. Go to the Immutables, and carry the word to

Murzemire with my love.'

Cernaby did not linger. There was no sentimentality

among the Dervishes, there was little enough senti-

ment. When she was gone, I was alone in the pervasion

with only my thoughts for company. I went through a

number of the huts, packing what food I found. There

was not much. Evidently the Dervishes lived on air, or

sunlight. It would not have surprised me much to learn

this was true. When I had repacked everything, as

tightly and neatly as possible, I went back the way I had

come. Wherever I was going next, I wanted Peter with

me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I arrived at the pillar of red stone. Peter wasn't there. I

didn't really expect him. It would have taken some

time for him to get to the Bright Demesne - assuming

that's where everyone was, which might not be the

case - and convincing them of anything might take

longer. Unless he'd simply put the crystals in their

soup. Which I abhorred philosophically but thought

might be pragmatically justified. As long as it wasn't me

it was done to.

Since it was possible I might have a long wait, I made

a good camp, summoning up a few flood-chucks to

help me with it. They explained they were very busy

cleaning up the storm damage, and I explained that I

understood all that, but I needed a camp nonetheless.

We bowed to one another and said it all once again.

Finally we compromised on a tightly woven hut

thatched with reeds on the shore of a nearby lake. They

threw in a latrine as lagniappe. We bowed again,

satisfying one another with our mutual respect, and

then I gave them one of the blue crystals, which they

shared before moving away very thoughtfully into the

woods. I had not even taken time to consider before

giving them the crystal. It seemed right they should

have it.

I needed the hut to keep the shadow out as I had

needed a house long ago in Chimmerdong. Shadow

had lain deep on Chimmerdong, and I'd learned of its

evil ways at first hand, getting myself shadow bit in the

process. It lay thickly now in these northlands, flowing

from somewhere in an unending flood.

Even if there had been no shadow, a hut would have

been a comfortable thing to have. Though Storm

Grower was dead, it might rain. There were pombis

rambling about in the wood. I might have to wait a very

long time. Forever, if necessary, I think we had said. So.

I would wait. And watch.

Each day was spent wandering, looking, finding

different lookouts from which one might spy upon the

world. Each vantage point was more depressing than

the last, for there were great swatches of forest dying,

strange stinking smokes rising from far valleys. One day

I thought of going back to the cavern of the giants but

did not. Funk, I think. I couldn't face it. My imagination

told me too vividly what I would find there.

Having rejected that idea, I decided to visit the ridge

above the Great Maze. Since it was a high point, I could

see a long way from there. It occurred to me I might

see Peter returning.

It wasn't far, actually. Less than a half day's scramble.

It was saddening to look down into the empty perva-

sion, and the hill wasn't as lofty as I remembered it.

Still, it gave a good view out over the Great Maze and

the lands sloping down to the sea. I scouted around in

the pervasion, robbing a few huts of their stale bread -

it wasn't bad dipped in tea - and a pot to boil water in.

Somewhere between Storm Grower and Fangel, I'd

lost mine.

I built a small fire at the foot of one of the stone

pillars, brewed some tea, and set myself to watch the

southern sky.

Birds. Clouds. Nice white ones, for a change. Sitting

there with the fragrant breeze in my face, it was hard to

believe that the world was dying beneath me. Grasses

nodded; small things crept about making nests. It

didn't feel dead or dying, and yet I knew it was. The

more I thought about it, the more I wanted Peter, and

the less likely it seemed he was going to come. The sky

was empty.

I looked down for a while, to rest my eyes.

I saw it coming out of the Great Maze.

It came from the Maze itself. There was a movement

at the edge of the Maze, a puzzling kind of change. I

stared at it. The hedge of the Maze was no different.

Nothing was entering or leaving it. And yet...

Something had changed. There was a new configura-

tion of light. Something shifted. For a time I gazed at it,

uncertain, and then it moved. The shadow. Flooding

out of the Maze and flowing downward, along the trail.

An endless gray tide, covering the world.

From the Maze? Why from the Maze?

I spent a few minutes in futile cursing, then headed

back for my camp. I'd have to find out as much as

possible, before Peter came. He might drop directly

into it. Be frozen, as Himaggery had been before

Bartelmy had rescued him. Oh, by the Hundred Rotten

Devils, I sighed, why now?

Finding out anything would be like playing with an

avalanche, rather. Toying with an angry dragon. I had

talked long with Mavin. I knew what the shadow could

do. Still, one had to know, as Queynt would say. One

had to know.

Back at the hut I considered the matter. What was

there around me that still retained some integrity? The

forest was smashed, riven, and storm-wrecked. The

very mountains were torn. About the only thing

around that looked whole was the lake we had built

the hut beside, a charming little oval of shallow water,

set in reeds, decked with lilies, full of fish and small

plopping things. Though the forested banks were

reduced to rubbish and the lake itself muddied from

landslides upstream, still it had a certain immaculate

charm left about it.

The hut had one window, which I used for the

window magic. As in Chimmerdong, I hung my

blanket before it to serve as a curtain. Then I called up

the lake.

I don't know quite what I expected. Some bubbly

shape, perhaps, with fish for eyes. Some reedy thing

with lilies in its hair. What came was a rounded silver

dart, not unfishlike in shape, curved on every side and

reflecting the interior of the hut like a mirror so that I

saw a hundred Jinians in its sides. It did not bubble; it

did not splash. It spoke as running water speaks, a

quiet burble, a ruminative sibilance. 'What would you,

Jinian Star-eye?' it asked me as I was shutting the

curtain.

The giants are dead,' I told it. 'I expect you already

knew that.'

'We did. Yes.' Expressionless. That fact meant little to

it, I thought.

It made me dizzy to look at it. I stared into the fire,

instead. It kept shifting, never alike for two instants. 'I

have seen the shadow flowing from the Maze. I

thought it might come from there for some reason.'

'You thought your being here might evoke it? That

your summons might interest it?' It still seemed very

little concerned. Instead it was detached, remote. 'No.

It does not concern itself with you now, Jinian Star-eye.

It grows as the algae grows when lakes and rivers have

died. It grows without thought, without care, and will

die in its time without grief. When everything dies, so

then will the shadow die as well.'

'I am told,' I said carefully, 'that the shadow can seek

a certain person.'

'It can be sent to do so,' sighed the lake. 'Of itself, it

does not seek. It grows in the Maze and flows from

there. Whenever the destruction is remembered, more

shadow flows ....'

'Destruction?'

'Of the Daylight Bell.'

I thought about that. At the moment it didn't make

much sense to me, but I didn't pursue it. 'Then the

only reason it's flowing out of the Maze now is that the

Maze is full of it? No other reason?'

'No other reason. We are too near, too small, to

concern those who sometimes send it.'

'Chimmerdong concerned it.'

'Chimmerdong was mighty, once. Boughbound was

mighty, once. And the Glistening Sea and the Southern

Sea and the River Ramberlon, which you call Stony-

brook. If we live, call us up again, Jinian Footseer, and

we will tell you the names of all the mighty who once

gloried in the world.'

'If we live. If the shadow does not catch me.'

'You know,' it whispered to me. 'You know. They

may send it after you, human-girl, but they have not

done so. Yet.'

It left me then. I had not had the foresight to realize

the hut would be very wet when it left. That night I

slept beneath the stars, nervously.'

Peter returned in the morning. He woke me where I

slept, rolled in my cloak.

'There was a flood in your hut?' he asked in a

despondent voice. 'I thought maybe you'd drowned.'

'Peter, what's the matter?'

He hugged me sadly, almost absentmindedly. 'Oh,

Jinian, from worse to worse yet. Himaggery and Barish

were arguing when we left there two years ago. While

we've been away it went from argument to open

animosity, and from that to a split at the Bright

Demesne. Barish is for raising all the hundred thousand

at once to make what he calls "massive changes", not

that he's raised even one of them yet. Himaggery wants

them raised a few at a time to make what he calls,

"balanced programs". Mavin got disgusted with them

both and left. No one knows where she is. Mertyn

went back to Schooltown.' He seemed about to weep.

'Shh, shh,' I hushed him. 'Bad enough, my love. But I

know you. I know my sly, snakey Peter. What did you

get done?'

'I talked to Barish and demanded that the old Wind-

low part of him listen to me. He heard the warning. I

said it over and over until he really seemed to have

heard it. Then I put a blue crystal in his tea.'

'I thought you would.' I wanted him to know I did

not disapprove. Himaggery and Barish were stubborn,

pombi-proud idiots. Heaven save me from male Wize-

ards who want to play politics. 'And then?'

"Then I told Himaggery he owed it to me as his son

to listen to me. Which he agreed to. I warned him.

Then I put a blue crystal in his wine.'

'Ah.'

'Then I left. I made a stop in Schooltown. Mertyn did

believe me and he will send word to Mavin - some-

where, somehow, if he ever figures out where she is

and though no one knows how long it will be before

she gets the message, if she gets it at all. The two of us

together went to see Riddle and Quench in the land of

the Immutables. I gave crystals to each of them. I was

sure the Immutables would be immune, just as they

are to Talent, but they weren't. None of them doubted

me.'

I cursed. 'Doesn't it prove what I said, Peter? Only

three disciplined forces in the world. The Immutables;

the Dervishes; the sevens.'

'Well, we've got three alerted. A Dervish arrived

about the time I left Schooltown. Don't ask me how

she got there that fast, because I flew the whole way.

She said her name was Cernaby and to tell you your

message had gone to the sevens.' He sighed, stretched

out beside me, and pulled half my blanket over him. I

didn't even worry about his closeness. Oath or no

oath. It just wasn't that important anymore.

'What did you do with the other crystals? You had

several dozens of them?"

'Gave them to Riddle and Quench and Mertyn. One

for Mavin, when they find her. Six to be sent by trusted

messenger to the others of your seven in Xammer - if

they are still there ..."

This astonished me. I had not thought of it myself,

but Peter had. He continually surprised me by being

more thoughtful and intelligent than I expected him to

be. He didn't notice my surprise but went on.

'The others they will use as they see fit. I told them

what you said about the hundred thousand good

Gamesmen who are still frozen under the mountain.

When I left them, Quench was talking with Cernaby

about starting the resurrection, Barish or no Barish.

Quench has the resurrection machine, you know. It's

his people who fixed it, and they were the ones who

were going to do the work anyhow, if Barish ever got

around to it. The problem is, of course, that Quench

hasn't enough of the crystals to be sure all of the

resurrectees are given them, and you said that was

important.'

'I think it's important. Why bring them back at all if

not to help? Otherwise, they only return to die with the

rest of us. I would have thought Barish would have

started bringing them back to life by now, Himaggery

or no Himaggery.'

He turned toward me, laying an arm across me,

tugging me close. 'He'd rather argue than do. I think

the mixture of Windlow into him has immobilized

him. He still remembers what he planned to do once,

but with Windlow inside his head he sees all the flaws

in his original plan. I felt sorry for him.' He breathed

very deeply in my ear. I lay very quietly, not discourag-

ing him. If something was going to happen between us,

I was not going to talk about my oath. What did

happen between us was a gentle snore. So much for

breaking my oath to make love beside the limpid

waters. I laughed at myself and fell asleep.

When he wakened, I told him what I had learned

about the shadow. Peter had heard Mavin's story of the

shadow. 'It lives in the Great Maze?'

'So the lake creature said. It lives in the Great Maze,

among the memories of the world.' I did not realize

what I had said until I had said it. Cernaby had told me

that.

'Among the memories of the world? Jinian. We store

our memories in our minds.'

'In our brains,' I corrected him. 'The mind is some-

thing else. It, too, lives in the brain, but it is something

else. So I was told long ago by a Healer who saved my

life. Peter, if the shadow lives in the brain of Lorn, of

the world, then is the shadow part of this world, or is it

something else? Something from outside? As we were

from outside? As mankind was from outside? Did we

really bring some plague with us? Queynt talked with

Eesties who alleged so. Were they right?'

'We could go in the Maze and find out,' he offered. I

laughed, then told him only a little about my short

journey through a shallow edge of the Maze. He gave

me disbelieving looks. 'Wasn't there a guide?'

The Oracle. The Oracle who almost got me killed at

Daggerhawk. The Oracle who trapped me and gave me

to the giants. That Oracle?'

'We could tie it up. You could put distraints on it.'

'We could tie it up. I don't think that would work,

but we could try. Distraints, however? I don't think so,

Peter. I think anything I know, the Oracle knows

something stronger. It's a kind of evil Devil. A kind of

dancing mischief maker. All full of - puffed-up anger

and pride and envy. Some kind of trouble-god. And

there isn't only one of it. I thought I was dreaming in

the cavern, but the more I think about it, the more sure

I become that it was all true. I saw many of them in

there. Oracles and Oracles. One, perhaps, as the leader,

but followers without number. And oh, Peter, but I am

afraid of them.'

He was listening to me, concentrated upon me,

looking deep into my eyes. 'You know what you're

implying, Jinian. You don't say it, but you must know

it.'

'That they're the ones who hid the blue crystals. The

ones who took them all instead of seeing they were

distributed all around the world. Yes, I'm sure they did

it. The Oracles.'

It was out. Said. It rang true. Who else would have

assembled them in the cavern of the giants? Who else

would have taken them? Who else would have dis-

played such warped hatred for mankind? Oracles. Who

never told the whole truth. 'Oracles The very father

and mother of liars,' I said. 'Not trustworthy as guides,

Peter. Truly not.'

'I can see you thinking, Jinian Footseer. You're

thinking about going into that Maze, guide or no guide.

No matter what it's like.'

I couldn't deny it. I'd been thinking about it for days.

How to get in. How to find my way in. How to test

whether my art worked there, and if so, how. How to

use it, then. How to find the place the shadow lived. If

Lom was dying, wasn't it possible the shadow was

killing it, no matter what the lake had told me? Oh, I

thought about it. At various times I had thought about a

whole seven going in. Or maybe a group of Dervishes.

Each time, something within me said, No. Not great

armies, just one or two people. That's all.

'Yes,' I admitted. 'It seems someone will have to.

Everything that can be done on the outside is being

done, except one thing.'

'And that is?'

'Going to Beedie's land and getting the crystals that

are there. Mercald-Mirtylon said there were many.

They only brought out a few. Since I made that mistake

at the cavern, calling up the boon too quickly, the ones

in Beedie's chasm may be the only ones left. I was

depending on Mavin to do that.'

'Mavin will, when they find her.'

7/they find her. If they find her in time. If she agrees

to go. If she gets there. If she gets back.'

'I see. You want me to go.'

'Someone has to. I can't. I'm no Shifter.'

'Jinian. Oh, Jinian, I'm not nearly the Shifter Mavin is,

either. You may not know that, but in Shiftery, experi-

ence counts. Mavin was much older than I when she

flew the Western Sea. Stronger. She had more experience

with the forms, with the quick changes. My pride

suffers to have me say it, Jinian, love. But I'm not sure

I'd make it, Jinian Footseer.'

I hadn't known. He always seemed so confident.

Then I remembered that clumsily staggering form that

had left me a few days before, wobbling across the sky,

and I wanted to cry. Wings, I suppose it took years to

really get accustomed to wings.

And it dropped into my head like a stone into a pool.

Wings. The great flitchhawk of Chimmerdong owed

me a boon. The last one of the three great boons I had

earned in Chimmerdong. And if any creature alive in

this world had wings, it was he.

There was no reason to wait, so I didn't. Peter and I

sat beside the fire, and I called him. I let Peter see me

do it; that was against the rules, but I did it anyway.

'The ways of the sky are yours, treetop and cloud,

sunlight and starlight, wind and rain. I have need of

these and call for a boon.'

We sat quietly for a time until he arrived. On all

previous arrivals, I had been buffeted by the huge

feathers. This time Peter was in the way. He stood up to

it no better than I ever had. It sent him sprawling.

'Your eyes are like moons, flitchhawk,' I said. 'Have

you seen much of the world in the last two years?'

He perched on the ground, a monumental thing, his

beak like the curved roof of a tower, his legs like

obelisks, wings out like the boughs of mighty trees,

shading us against the sun. When he looked down at

me, I felt very small, and yet that gaze was no less

friendly than it had ever been. He answered me.

'Destruction and wrack, Jinian Dervish daughter. High

winds and low. Chimmerdong lives yet a while, but

elsewhere the green of life dims to gray. I have swum in

clouds, waiting for your call.'

'I want you to take my love over the sea, flitchhawk.

Far over the sea to a great chasm, where he must gather

crystals as blue as your skies and bring them to Mertyn

and Riddle and Quench.'

'Is this the boon you would ask?"

'It is,' I said.

'No,' said Peter. He strode from beneath the great

wing to stand facing the flitchhawk, unafraid of it, his

face quite calm and adamantly strong.

'No?' The great bird flexed its feathers, letting the

light shine through them. We stood in its dappled

shade.

'When I said no, I meant that it wasn't quite right,'

Peter said. 'Not quite what was wanted. You see, I must

stay here. Otherwise Jinian will go into the Great Maze

without me, and if I cannot be with her to help her and

protect her, then I do not care if Lorn dies. If I do not

care, I could not do the job well over the Western Sea.'

'So you don't want me to take you,' the flitchhawk

murmured, raising those wings.

'No. We want you to go instead. The crystals are

blue. They lie at the bottom of the great chasm. The

Stickies will bring them to you if you ask. Beedie's

people will help you if you ask. Birds are holy to that

people. Messengers, so they say, of the Boundless. If

you will go now to the south where Beedie and Roges

are, they will direct you.' He said this all in a rush, never

taking his eyes off the flitchhawk, and I could not stop

him.

'And is this your wish, Jinian Star-eye?' The wings

were fully raised, high.

I didn't even take time to think. 'Yes,' I cried.

The wings came down, a huge buffet of air knocked

us to the ground, the flitchhawk lifted away, circled,

higher and higher, and we saw him turn away south, in

the direction Beedie and Roges and Queynt and

Chance had gone.

I was crying. Not sadly. Not happily, either, come to

that, but out of a certain fullness inside me. 'We may

never come out of the Maze, you know,' I said to him.

'I know,' he said. 'That's why I couldn't let you go

alone.'

We stayed there that day. Resting a little. Talking of

things long gone. Not that we had lived so long as to have

many such things, but those we had were precious. I

talked about the girl in the window of Schooltown

who called up her love and gave him a slice of hot nut

pie. He told me of seeing a girl at a banquet in Xammer

and never being able to forget her after that. We were

not even tempted to make love. Something sadder and

higher had us by the throats, and we slept in one

another's arms, needing nothing more than that.

And in the morning we left the little hut by the lake

and went up the trail to the Great Maze. Somewhere

inside it lay all the answers to all the questions we had

ever asked. We stood a long time hand in hand above

it, readying ourselves. I knew what we must look for in

that Maze. A book. A light. A bell. Twice now, Seers

had Seen those things as having meaning for me, for us,

and if they existed in this world, then Lom should

remember them.

The little path Cernaby had shown me lay below us.

Beyond those first few rooms? Cells? I did not know

what we would find.

And there were no answers where we were. Peter

kissed me. I heard him sigh, two sighs, both of us.

Then we went in.

THE END
