 

INTO A DARK
REALM

 

/The Darkwar
Book Two/


/Voyager/

 

An Imprint of HarperCollins/Publishers/
77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

 

www.voyager-books.co.uk

 

Published by /Voyager /2006

1

 

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2006

 

The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work

 

A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

 

ISBN-13: 978 0 00 713377 2

ISBN 10: 0 00 713377 4

 

Typeset in Janson Text by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Grangemouth, Stirlingshire

 

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Limited, St Ives plc

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers.

 

The book is proudly printed on paper which contains wood
from well managed forests, certified in accordance with
the rules of the Forest Stewardship Council.
For more information about FSC,
please visit www.fsc-uk.org

	

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


*ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS*

 

As always, the many mothers and fathers of Midkemia, for giving me a
world in which to tell stories.

To my children, Jessica and James, for keeping me grounded no matter how
crazy the world around us gets.

To my mother for hanging in there.

To Jonathan Matson, again and always.

To my editors, in so many places, for caring about the work.

And to my readers; without you I'd be doing something a great deal less fun.

 

Raymond E. Feist

San Diego, CA July, 2006

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

/This one is for Janny, Bill, Joel, and Steve/

/For sharing their talents/

*
*

 

 

Contents

 

chapter one

	

Chase <#Chase>

chapter two

	

Oracle <#Oracle>

chapter three

	

Aftermath <#Aftermath>

chapter four

	

Nighthawks <#Nighthawks>

chapter five

	

Preparation <#Preparation>

chapter six

	

Honest John's <#HonestJohns>

chapter seven

	

Deathknight <#Deathknight>

chapter eight

	

New Directions <#NewDirections>

chapter nine

	

Roldem <#Roldem>

chapter ten

	

Purging <#Purging>

chapter eleven

	

Delecordia <#Delecordia>

chapter twelve

	

Enemies <#Enemies>

chapter thirteen

	

Change <#Change>

chapter fourteen

	

Celebration <#Celebration>

chapter  fifteen

	

The White <#TheWhite>

chapter  sixteen

	

Lord <#Lord>

chapter  seventeen

	

Warriors <#Warriors>

chapter eighteen

	

Feast <#Feast>

chapter nineteen

	

Kosridi <#Kosridi>

chapter twenty

	

Crucible <#Crucible>

chapter twenty-one

	

Betrayal <#Betrayal>

chapter  twenty-two

	

Revelations <#Revelations>

 


• CHAPTER ONE •

Chase

 

A woman screamed in outrage.

Three young men overturned carts and pushed aside shoppers as they
crashed through the evening market. Their leader - a tall, rawboned
youth with red hair - pointed to the retreating back of their prey and
shouted, 'There he goes!'

Night approached the port city of Durbin as desperate men raced through
the streets. Merchants pulled prized wares from tables as three young
warriors shoved anyone and anything blocking their pursuit. In their
wake they left consternation, curses and threats; all of which they ignored.

The summer heat of the Jal-Pur desert still clung to the walls and
cobbles of the city, despite the slight breeze off the sea. Even the
harbour gulls were content to stand idly by and watch for any morsel
that might fall from a passing vendor's cart. The more ambitious among
them would launch themselves into the air and soar for a moment or two,
hanging languidly on the heat rising from the dock stones, then quickly
return to stand quietly near their brethren.

The evening markets were crowded, for most of the inhabitants of Durbin
had spent the blistering afternoon resting in the shade. The city's pace
was leisurely, for these were the hottest days of summer, and men who
lived on the desert's edge knew better than to struggle needlessly
against the elements. Things were as the gods willed.

So the sight of three armed and apparently dangerous young men pursuing
another, while hardly a remarkable experience in Durbin, was unexpected
given the season and the time of day. It was just too hot to be running.

The man attempting to flee was, from his look, a desertman: swarthy and
dressed in a baggy shirt and loose-fitting pantaloons, a midnight blue
headdress and open robe, his feet clad in low-topped boots. Those who
followed were led by a northerner, probably from the Free Cities or the
Kingdom of the Isles. His ginger hair was uncommon in the Empire of
Great Kesh.

His companions were also young men, one broad-shouldered and dark of
hair, the other blond and of slighter build. They were all sunburned and
dirty and had hard expressions that added years to their appearance.
Their attentions were fixed on their quarry and their weapons were
easily at hand. They were dressed in garb that marked them as men from
the Vale of Dreams - breeches, linen shirts, riding boots and leather
vests instead of robes and sandals. They were most likely mercenaries, a
likelihood accentuated by their grim determination.

They reached a boulevard that led to the docks, and the man fleeing
dodged between merchants, shoppers and dockmen heading home for the
night. The leader of those in pursuit paused for an instant then said,
'He's heading for the grain-shippers' dock.' With a hand gesture he sent
his blond-haired companion up a side street, then motioned for the
darker youth to come with him.

'I hope you're right,' said the shorter man. 'I'm getting tired of all
this running.'

With a quick glance that showed a grin, the leader said, 'Too much time
sitting in alehouses, Zane. We need to get you back to the Island and
Tillingbrook's tender mercies.'

Too out of breath to comment, the shorter youth just made a sound that
clearly indicated he found that remark utterly lacking in humour, as he
quickly wiped perspiration from his brow. He had to hurry just to keep
up with his taller companion. The inhabitants of Durbin were practised
when it came to dealing with duels, brawling, gang wars, riots, and all
other manner of civil disorder. By the time Jommy and Zane reached the
corner around which they had seen their quarry vanish, the alarm had
outstripped them, and the street leading to the docks was almost
deserted. Passers-by, merchants, and seamen bound for nearby inns and
taverns had sensed coming trouble and vanished into whatever scant cover
they could manage. Doors closed, shutters slammed, and those that
couldn't get inside did their best to find shelter.

As Jommy Killaroo kept his eyes on the tiny figure of their fleeing
target, Zane con Doin glanced into every passed doorway, alley entrance
or other cover for potential ambush. All he saw were citizens of Durbin
hunkering down, waiting for the trouble to pass.

Jommy saw their man duck around a corner at the end of the boulevard,
and said, 'Right towards Tad if he's as fast as he usually is!'

Zane grinned. 'He is. Suri won't escape.'

For a month Jommy, Tad and Zane had been on the trail of this man, an
erstwhile trader named Aziz Suri, a desertman from the Jal-Pur who was
reputedly an importer of spices and oils from the Free Cities. He was
also reputed to be a freelance spy, broker in information, trader in
secrets, and a close contact of the Nighthawks, the Guild of Death. One
month earlier, at the Emperor of Kesh's Midsummer's Festival, a plot to
destabilize the Empire and plunge it into civil war had been prevented
by agents of the Conclave of Shadows, and now they were seeking out the
remaining pockets of assassins, to put an end finally to their
centuries' long reign of terror.

Zane struggled to keep up with Jommy. While he was able to run as far as
the taller youth, he was not able to do so at his longer-legged friend's
furious pace, and maybe Jommy was right: maybe he had spent too many
nights in the alehouse. His trousers had been getting tighter of late.

As they reached the end of the street, they came upon the
grain-shippers' docks: a long series of stoneworks punctuated by three
large derricks, fronting onto two massive warehouses. From the far end
of the dock Tad ran towards them, shouting, 'In there!' and motioning
that their quarry had slipped into the narrow passage between the two
warehouses.

Jommy and the two younger boys took no pains to hide their approach, for
after a month in Durbin they knew this area of the city fairly well:
well enough to know that their prey had dashed into a dead-end alley.
When they reached the narrow opening, the man bolted from it, heading
straight towards the harbour. The setting sun glinted red off the sea,
and he squinted and turned his head, raising his hands to shield his eyes.

Jommy reached out and got just enough of a grip on the man's arm for a
second to turn him completely around. The man flailed his arms, tipping
off-balance, as he vainly sought to keep his feet under him. Jommy
reached out again, trying to grab the man's tunic, but only succeeded in
causing him to stumble farther. Before anyone could get hold of any part
of the slender trader, he slammed into the centremost derrick.

Stunned for an instant, the desertman turned, teetered, and then as he
regained his wits, stepped off the edge of the pier.

A cry akin to a dog whose paw had just been stepped on filled the air as
he vanished over the edge. The three young men hurried to the edge and
looked over. Dangling from the derrick rope just above a loose cargo net
was the little trader, hurling invective upward as he glanced down at
the rocks below the jetty. The tide was out, so only a few inches of
water protected the dangling man from serious injury below. All the
shallow-draught barges used to ferry grain to the ships in the harbour
were anchored out in deeper water. 'Pull me up!' he shouted.

Jommy said, 'Why should we, Aziz? You led us a nasty chase through the
entire city of Durbin in this bleedin' heat—' he wiped perspiration off
his forehead and flipped it with his hand at the man to demonstrate just
how out of sorts he was, '—and all we wished for was a short, quiet chat.'

'I know you murderous cut-throats,' said the trader. 'Your dints get men
killed.'

Tad said, 'Murderous cut-throats? I think he has us confused with
someone else.'

Zane drew his belt knife. 'You're confusing us with a different bunch of
murderous cut-throats is my brother's opinion. I'm not /so/ sure.'
Looking at his companions, he asked, 'If I cut this rope what do you
think of his chances?'

Tad leaned over, as if studying the matter, then declared, 'It's no more
than twenty feet to the rocks. I say it's better than even money he only
breaks a leg or an arm or two.'

Jommy said, 'Depends on how he falls. Now, I've seen a bloke pitch
backwards off a ladder once, only the bottom rung, mind you, and he
smacked his head against the ground and broke his skull. Took him a bit
of time to die, then, but he was dead, in the end, and dead is dead.'

'I could cut it and we could see,' suggested Zane.

'No!' shouted the trader.

'Well, the evening tide's coming in,' said Tad to Aziz. 'If you hang
there for another couple of hours, you should be able to just let go and
swim over to those steps over there.' He pointed across the harbour.

'If the sharks don't get him,' said Jommy to Zane.

'I can't swim!' shouted the trader.

'Not a lot of opportunities to learn in the desert, I expect,' observed
Zane.

'Then you're into it up to your neck, aren't you, mate?' asked Jommy.
'What say you we trade a bit? You answer a question, and if I like the
answer, we pull you up.'

'If you don't like the answer?'

'He cuts the rope,' said Jommy, pointing to Zane. 'And we'll see if the
fall kills you, or just ruins your life - whatever's left of it before
the tide comes in and drowns you, of course.'

'Barbarian!'

Jommy grinned. 'Been called that more than a few times since I got to Kesh.'

'What do you wish to know?' asked the desertman.

'One thing only,' said Jommy, losing his grin. 'Where's Jomo Ketlami?'

'I don't know!' shouted the man as he tried to gain purchase for his
feet in the dangling cargo net.

'We know he's somewhere in the city!' shouted Jommy. 'We know he hasn't
got out of the city. And we know that you have been doing business with
him for years. Here's the deal: you tell us where he is, we pull you up.
Then we go find him, get what we want to know from him, and kill him.
You've got no worries.

'Or you don't tell us and we leave you hanging. You might climb up to
the top of this derrick, and get down from there somehow, but even if
you do, we'll just start spreading the word you sold out Ketlami. So
we'll just keep an eye on you, wait until he kills you, and we'll have
him, anyway.' Jommy's grin returned. 'Your choice, mate.'

'I can't!' cried the terrified trader.

'Five imperial silvers he doesn't die when he hits the rocks,' said Tad.

'I don't know,' Zane replied. 'Seems like that's a bit better than even
money.'

'What say you to my five against your four?'

Zane nodded enthusiastically. 'Done!'

'Wait!'

Jommy said, 'Yes?'

'Don't cut the rope, please. I have children to care for!'

'Liar,' said Zane. 'It's well known you tell the girls at the bordellos
you're without a wife.'

'I didn't say I had a wife,' admitted the little man. 'But I do care for
the handful of bastards I've sired.'

'You are the soul of generosity, mate,' observed Jommy.

'There are men who do far less for their get,' replied the dangling
trader. 'I have even taken the eldest into my house to learn a craft!'

'Which?' asked Zane. 'Trading, spying, lying, or cheating at cards?'

'You know,' asked Tad, 'that as we stand here jibber-jabbing, the tide's
coming in?'

'So?' Jommy looked at his friend with a narrowing gaze.

'Well, if we don't cut the rope soon, then the chances are he'll just
drown, and that means the bet's off.'

'Can't have that,' said Zane. He flourished the large hunting knife he
was holding, twirled it like an expert, and began sawing at the heavy
rope that ran up through the block and tackle below the topmost pulley
of the derrick.

'No!' shouted the panic-stricken little man. 'I'll talk!'

'So, talk,' returned Jommy.

'Not until you pull me up!'

Zane glanced at his companions. 'A reasonable request?'

'Well, I don't think he's going to be able to best all three of us,'
said Tad. 'After all, he's an unarmed, skinny little fellow and we're,
what did he call us?'

'Murderous cut-throats,' supplied Zane.

'Pull him up, then,' said Jommy.

Tad and Zed both gripped the heavy crank used to raise the netting, and
turned it. Being well oiled, it moved freely and the little man quickly
rose the dozen feet necessary to bring his head above the edge of the dock.

Jommy had his sword out and pointed to a spot on the dock. 'Put him
there, lads.'

Tad and Zane ceased cranking, set the lock to keep the net from falling
back, and then grabbed the long wooden arm used to swing cargo around.
When they had the trader safely above the docks he let go of the net,
dropping a few feet to the stones.

Before Aziz could think to flee again, Jommy had his sword's point at
the man's throat. 'Now, you were going to tell us the whereabouts of
Jomo Ketlami.'

With eyes downcast Aziz said, 'You must find him and kill him quickly,
and those who serve him, for if any of those . . . murderers linger, my
life is over.'

'That's our plan,' said Jommy. 'Now, where is he?'

'You were mistaken about him still being in the city. He has more ways
through the walls than a sewer rat. There are caves in the hills above
the beach a half-day's ride to the southwest, and there he has gone to
ground.'

'And you know this how?' asked Tad.

'He sent word, before he fled. He has need of me. Without me, he has no
way to send messages to his confederates in other cities on the Bitter
Sea. I am to find my way to those caves in two nights, for he has
messages he must send to his murderous brothers.'

'I think we should just kill him,' said Zane. 'He's in a lot deeper than
we thought.'

'No,' said Jommy, putting up his sword as Tad gripped Aziz by the
shoulder. 'I think we're going to take him back to the inn and have him
sit down with your dad, and we'll let him decide this.' To the trader,
Jommy said, 'It's all the same to me if you live or die, so if I were in
your place, I'd put some effort into convincing us it's better for
everyone involved if you stay alive.'

The man nodded.

'Come along,' said Jommy. 'If you're lying to us, your bastards will
have to learn to fend for themselves.'

'On their heads, I will tell you only the truth.'

'No,' said Jommy. 'It's on your head, Aziz.'

As the sun vanished below the western horizon, the four men moved away
from the docks into the pest hole of a city that was Durbin.

*  *  *

Armed men moved silently through the night. Before them lay a small
cave, large enough to admit one man at a time, half-hidden under an
overhanging cliff, where a knoll rearing up over the beach had been worn
away by years of erosion. Above the cave two archers crouched, ready to
fire down on anyone attempting to exit the cave without permission.

Mist rolled in off the Bitter Sea, and no moon was visible though the
overcast. The night was coal-mine dark and the men surrounding the cave
could barely make out one another in the murk.

Caleb, son of Pug, motioned for his three boys to wait. Behind him his
brother Magnus stood ready to answer any magical onslaught that might be
forthcoming. A dozen other men were also moving to form a semi-circle
around another exit to the cave a hundred yards down the cliff.

The two brothers bore a strong resemblance to one another. They were
tall and slender yet strong, with hair to the shoulders, an almost regal
bearing which they had inherited from their mother, and eyes that seemed
to look though you. The one startling difference was in their colouring.
Caleb had dark brown hair and eyes, while Magnus's hair was the palest
blond, looking white in the sun, and his eyes were the palest blue.
Caleb wore hunting garb, tunic and trousers, knee-high boots, and a
floppy-brimmed hat, while Magnus wore simple black robes with the hood
thrown back.

Caleb had spent most of the night before interrogating the trader Aziz
with the help of his brother. Magnus lacked the special art to determine
if the trader was telling the truth or lying, but the trader didn't know
that, and after a simple demonstration of Magnus's magical ability Aziz
was convinced the magician could parse falsehood from sincerity. Magnus
came back with Caleb before dawn and the two brothers had employed their
respective skills - tracking and magic - to ensure their quarry was,
indeed, inside those caves. Just before dawn, two assassins had exited
the cave and made a quick sweep of the surrounding terrain. Magnus had
employed a spell of levitation to lift his brother and himself a hundred
feet above the knoll, so there was no sign of them when the patrolling
sentries reached the top of the knoll. In the dark even if they had
looked straight upward there was little chance they would have been seen.

A single lookout had been stationed a short distance down the coast to
ensure that no one had fled while Magnus had returned to the City of
Kesh to get Chezarul, an erstwhile trader From the City of Kesh, who was
one of the most trusted agents of the Conclave, and his most reliable
warriors, returning within hours by magic. At dusk they had approached
these caves and taken up position after nightfall.

Their best estimate was that Jomo Ketlami was holed up in a warren of
caves with at least half a dozen assassins, waiting for Aziz to arrive
so the fugitives could arrange safe passage out of Kesh. And given the
events of the past month, these would be the toughest, wiliest, most
fanatical survivors of the Nighthawks.

Since the attempt on the Emperor by the sorcerer Leso Varen, and his
role in leading the Nighthawks, soldiers of the Empire, under direction
from Keshian spies and agents of the Conclave of Shadows, had been
rooting out every last hiding place in Kesh. By imperial decree, these
men were under an order of summary execution.

Similar campaigns had been underway in the Kingdom of the Isles, as well
as Roldem, Olasko, and several of the other larger cities in the Eastern
Kingdoms. The Conclave was certain they had identified every last
headquarters but one: the ultimate source of this murderous brotherhood,
where their Grand Master sat like a giant spider in the centre of a web
that stretched over an entire continent. And the man in the caves just a
few dozen yards away knew where the headquarters for the Guild of Death
was hidden.

Caleb signalled. A sentry standing behind the archers above uncovered a
lantern and the men down the beach slowly entered the second cave mouth.
Magnus had used every art he possessed to determine there were no
magical snares waiting for them. He was less confident about more
mundane traps. The dozen men entering the cave were among the most
skilled agents of the Conclave in Kesh, and perhaps the most experienced
hand-to-hand fighters in the Empire. They expected to give their lives
if necessary, for they were committed to the undertaking of ridding the
world of Midkemia of the Nighthawks for well and good.

Another half-dozen men took up positions before the second cave mouth,
with another pair of archers poised above on the cliffs as well. The
orders were clear: to defend their own lives, but Jomo Ketlami must be
taken alive.

Caleb motioned for his men to move towards the mouth of the smaller
cave, ready to receive anyone fleeing. With hand gestures, barely seen
in the faint lantern light, he instructed them to stand ready, taking up
their positions on either side of the cave. He motioned to the man
carrying the lantern, who shuttered it again, plunging the beach into
blackness once more.

Minutes dragged by slowly, the only sound being the rolling of the surf
and the occasional distant sound of a nightbird. Jommy nodded to Caleb,
who waited on the other side of the cave mouth, then turned to see how
his two younger companions were doing. In the dark he could make out Tad
and Zane huddled against the cliff face behind him, ready. In the months
he had lived with them, he had come to feel a kinship, and he found
himself adopting the role of eldest brother more often than not. Their
family had welcomed him and made him feel at home - even though home was
far from ordinary; but he had come to accept the extraordinary as a
matter of course since meeting Caleb and his adopted sons. He knew he
would die defending them, and knew in turn each would be willing to lay
down his life for him.

Abruptly a shout echoed from within and the sounds of combat followed
instantly.

The first assassin to bolt the cave was met with the flat of Caleb's
blade across his face. Blood fountained from a broken nose as Jommy
clubbed him on the side of his head with the hilt of his sword. Zane
grabbed the stunned assassin by the collar and hauled him out of the way
by main force.

A second assassin saw his companion fall, even if he couldn't see
exactly what occurred in the dark, and hesitated before leaping forward,
sword at the ready. Caleb barely avoided a thrust to his side, his parry
ringing like an alarm. Jommy stepped forward to club the man on the
head. He felt something tug hard at his tunic and realized he had almost
been skewered by another assassin's blade as he crossed before the
threshold of the cave. There was a burning sensation across his lower
back as the swordsman pulled back his blade.

Ignoring the pain, Jommy slammed his hilt into the back of the head of
the man facing Caleb, and in turn felt another burning cut as the
swordsman behind him attempted to disengage his sword from Jommy's tunic.

Caleb reached out with his left hand, grabbed Jommy by the shirt front
and yanked hard, pulling him away from danger. Zane hit the man trying
to kill Jommy as another man leapt past him, attempting to run down the
beach.

'Stop him!' shouted Caleb.

A sizzling sound, like a nearby discharge of lightning, filled the night
and a bolt of energy sprang from Magnus's hand. Blinding blue light
illuminated the cave mouth and beach for an instant as a sphere of
energy sped after the fleeing man, overtaking him in an instant. The man
screamed and fell, his torso contorting in pain as tiny bolts of energy
danced over his torso, a sizzling sound punctuated by crackling adding a
sinister note to the display.

Caleb and Magnus hurried to the fallen man, while the boys and the other
agents of the Conclave subdued the remaining assassins.

'Coming out!' shouted a familiar voice, and a moment later Chezarul came
out of the cave. 'How did we do?' he asked.

Jommy motioned towards the fallen man as Caleb reached him, shouting,
'Light!'

A pair of lanterns, one above them and another a short way down the
beach, were uncovered, and they could see the form of a man writhing on
the sand as the energy display faded from sight. Magnus said, 'Bind him
before I release the spell. He is unable to use any poison secreted upon
him. Search him well.'

Caleb looked down on the man for whom he'd been searching for weeks.
Jomo Ketlami lay in agony, his face contorted. His fists flailed
uselessly in the air, his elbows hard against his sides. His back was
bowed and his legs kicked feebly against the sand. He went through the
man's clothing quickly and found two poison pills and an amulet, the
iron Nighthawk emblem they had come to know so well. He pulled a cord
out of his belt pouch, turned the quivering man over as easily as he
would a felled deer and trussed him up in the same manner.

'Check his mouth,' suggested Magnus.

'Get me a light.'

A lantern was fetched and held above Ketlami's face. Gripping his
captive's jaw with his right hand, Caleb forced his mouth open and
motioned for the lantern to be moved closer. 'Ah, what is this?' he said.

He held out his left hand, and a pair of iron tongs were placed in them.
Caleb deftly reached into Ketlami's mouth with them and yanked out a
tooth. The captive's whimpering increased but otherwise he was unable to
react to the extraction. 'Hollow tooth,' said Caleb. He stood up and
told Magnus, 'You can let him go, I think.'

Magnus released the spell and the captive fell limp for a moment,
panting like an exhausted dog.

As they approached Ketlami, Chezarul said to Caleb, 'Two of them are
dead, one will not live through the night, but three are unconscious and
bound.'

Caleb nodded. 'Check them for poison, as well.' He glanced at Jommy,
'You're injured.'

'I've had worse,' said the young man with a grin. 'Last time I crossed
swords with Talwin Hawkins he cut me three times, and he wasn't even
trying.'

Caleb looked at the spreading bloodstains on Jommy's tunic. 'Get them
bound, boy, or Marie will have my ears.'

Jommy winked at Tad and Zane as they joined the others in standing over
their quarry. 'Your mum does look after me, doesn't she?'

Tad made a wry face. 'I think she likes you best.'

Zane nodded. 'I swear that's true.'

Jommy's grin widened. 'That's because you've been causing her grief your
entire lives. I've only been annoying her for a few months. She'll get
tired of me quick enough.'

Magnus said, 'No doubt,' as he cast a sidelong glance at the tall,
redheaded youth. Jommy had quickly become well liked at Sorcerer's
Island and had easily fitted in with Caleb's adopted family. In a few
difficult spots, he had revealed himself to be tough, loyal and willing
to risk himself for others, yet he never seemed to lose his sense of humour.

Tad moved to look at Ketlami who now lay motionless, moaning and cursing
softly. 'What now?'

Caleb said, 'We need to take this one to Father.' To Chezarul he said,
'Take the three captives back to the city and get what you can out of
them. These should be the last of the Nighthawks in Durbin, but against
the possibility there are stragglers still at large, wring every drop of
truth from them you can. Then see they plague the world no longer.'

Chezarul nodded once, then began issuing orders to his men.

Magnus pulled out an orb and said, 'Boys, stand close.' He stood
directly over Ketlami, while Caleb reached down and gripped a handful of
the man's tunic with one hand, and the hem of Magnus's black robe with
the other. Jommy put a hand on Magnus's shoulder, while Tad and Zane
each stood close behind Caleb.

Magnus depressed a switch on the orb and suddenly they vanished, leaving
Chezarul and his men on the empty beach to clean up the last vestige of
the Nighthawks in Durbin, and perhaps Great Kesh, if they were lucky.

• CHAPTER TWO •

Oracle

The prisoner glared defiantly.

Jomo Ketlami hung by shackles from the stone wall. His clothing had been
cut away, leaving him no dignity, but Pug had judged it necessary as his
dark body was tattooed with arcane symbols, black, white, red, and
yellow, and some of these were wards.

He was a powerfully built man. To the three boys at the back of the
room, he looked strong enough to rip the iron rings out of the wall. His
head was completely shaved and glistened with perspiration. He had a
wrestler's neck and shoulders, and his bare torso rippled with muscle.
His black eyes showed no hint of fear. He snarled as he confronted his
captors.

Half a dozen guards had been stationed outside the door and Magnus stood
watch inside against any magical incursion, either to rescue Ketlami or
to silence him. Caleb and the boys stood against the opposite wall, out
of the way. Two men entered the room.

It was Pug, followed by Nakor.

Magnus asked, 'Where's Bek?'

'Outside, if I need him,' said Nakor. 'He doesn't need to see this.'

Magnus's glance at his brother communicated a silent question: /but
these boys do?/ Caleb nodded once. Magnus studied his brother's face
then returned a single nod. The boys had proven themselves so far,
showing iron will when needed and a fearlessness that was the hallmark
of youth, but which was being rapidly replaced by a more sober
appreciation of the real dangers they faced, youthful bravado becoming
genuine bravery before Magnus and Caleb's eyes. But combat was one
thing, and torture another.

No one spoke for a moment longer, then Ketlami shouted at Pug, 'You may
as well kill me now, magician! I'm oath bound to take the secrets of the
Guild to Lims-Kragma's Hall!'

Pug said nothing, but turned towards the door as two more men entered
the small chamber. The boys moved to the left side of the rear wall,
giving the newcomers room to make their way to where the prisoner waited.

One of the two men wore a black leather hood and a faded tunic covered
in old stains. Tad glanced at his two companions and knew instantly they
all concluded the nature of those stains. The torturer took up a
position before the prisoner, while the second man came to stand beside Pug.

He was a nondescript man of middle height, with no distinguishing
features and brown hair, and he wore the shirt and trousers of a trader
or farmer. His feet were clad in modest leather boots. He stared at the
prisoner, who suddenly turned and locked eyes with him. Ketlami's eyes
widened. After a moment, he closed his eyes and an expression of pain
crossed his face. More perspiration beaded on his forehead and he let
out an animal growl, half pain, half aggravation. 'Get out of my head!'
he shouted, then with an expression of triumph, he laughed and said to
the newcomer, 'You'll have to do better than that!'

Pug glanced at the other man with an unspoken question. The other man
looked at Pug, nodded once, then looked once more at Ketlami.

Pug said, 'Begin,' and the torturer took a quick step forward and drove
his fist straight into Ketlami's stomach. He stepped back while the
prisoner gasped, his eyes watering. After a moment, Ketlami sucked in a
deep breath and said, 'A beating? What next? Hot irons and pincers?'

The torturer struck Ketlami in the stomach again, but this time it was
two quick blows, and suddenly the contents of the victim's stomach
emptied onto the floor.

Jommy's expression was grim as he looked at his companions. All three
boys had been trained in hand-to-hand combat and an early lesson had
been about double strikes to the stomach. A strong man could take a
single blow and not miss a stride, but two quick strikes, the second
coming before his stomach muscles could recover fully from the first,
and he was doubled over, losing his last meal.

Magnus, Caleb, Pug and Nakor stood implacably, watching as Ketlami spat.
The first indignity was but a start in slowly breaking the man down and
learning what they needed to know, the location of the Grand Master of
the Nighthawks.

Everyone remained silent as the torturer struck Ketlami across the face
with the back of his hand. It was an insulting blow as much as a
damaging one, and did nothing more than bring tears to the prisoner's
eyes again and make him even more defiant. Caleb turned and whispered to
the boys, 'It will be some time before he truly begins to feel
hopelessness. He is a strong man: moreover, he's a fanatic.'

The three boys stood quietly, their grim expressions reflecting the
proceedings they observed. The torturer was methodical and appeared to
be in no hurry. He would strike the prisoner repeatedly, then pause, as
if letting Ketlami catch his breath. He struck him in the face, the
torso, the legs.

After nearly half an hour of this slow beating, Jomo Ketlami hung from
his chains, unable to stand. He appeared to be on the verge of
unconsciousness.

'Revive him,' said Pug.

The torturer nodded and moved to the far corner of the room where a
table stood, upon which rested a variety of bags and instruments of his
trade. He opened one of the bags and removed an item, a small vial.
Stepping up to the limp form of Ketlami, he unstoppered the vial,
holding it under the man's face. Ketlami's head jerked back and everyone
heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a faint groan.

'Where hides your master?' Pug demanded.

Ketlami raised his face to face Pug. Both his eyes were swollen nearly
shut and his lip was split. He could barely speak for the swelling of
his mouth, but he still retained a look of defiance. 'You'll never break
me, magician. Kill me and get it over with.'

Pug glanced at the man standing next to him who shook his head slightly.
'Continue,' Pug said.

The torturer returned the vial to his bag and then came to stand before
the prisoner. Ketlami glared at him. The man suddenly brought his knee
up, brutally striking the Nighthawk in the groin. Ketlami collapsed
completely, and hung for a moment from his chains, gasping for air.

And the beating continued.

*  *  *

Well into the second hour, Tad appeared to be on the verge of collapsing
himself. With each repeated blow he would wince visibly. Caleb observed
his adopted son's behaviour, then motioned him to leave the room with
him. With a wave of his hand, he instructed Jommy and Zane to stay.

Outside the door, in a long corridor with guards on either hand, Ralan
Bek was hunkered down with his back against the wall. The strange and
dangerous youth had been given over to Nakor's supervision and seemed
content with the situation.

'Are you all right?' Caleb asked Tad.

Tad took a long breath and let it out slowly. 'Not really,' he replied.
'I've seen a few fights, as you know, but this . . .'

'It's different,' finished his step-father.

Tad took a deep breath. 'I know what he is, but . . .'

Caleb looked Tad in the eyes. 'It's brutal. It's evil, and it's
necessary. You know what he is: he would kill you without a thought;
kill me, your mother, anyone, and then sleep the night like a baby after
doing so. He is not worthy of your conscience.'

'I know, it's just that I feel as if . . .'

Caleb, in an uncharacteristic act, suddenly put his arms around

Tad and hugged him close. 'I know; believe me, I know.' He released his
step-son. 'Something is lost by this, and it is something I doubt any of
us can earn back.

'But those who oppose us mean naught but ill for those we love and they
must be stopped. Now, this is going to take a while longer. If we didn't
have the resources we do, it might take days. But this man will give up
what we wish to know in another hour or two. If you wish, you may remain
out here.'

Tad thought it over for a moment, then shook his head. 'No. Some day I
may have to do this myself.'

Caleb nodded, knowing that both Jommy and Zane would have missed this
aspect of the lesson. 'Yes, more's the pity.'

They returned to the room and found the torturer reviving Ketlami again.
Caleb and Tad resumed their place alongside the others, and Zane
whispered, 'Surely he can't last much longer?'

Caleb whispered in return, 'You will discover that men are a great deal
more resilient than you think if they believe strongly in their cause.
This man is a depraved animal, but he thinks he serves a higher cause,
and that makes him very difficult to break. Talk to Talwin Hawkins—' as
he remembered his own father's stories of his years in a Tsurani labour
camp, '—or your grandfather about what men can endure. You'll be
surprised, I wager.'

For almost another hour the punishment was meted out, then suddenly the
torturer halted. He glanced at Pug, without a word, and the magician
nodded. Pug then turned to the man next to him who made a noncommittal
gesture.

Pug said, 'Give him water,' and the torturer complied, giving the
prisoner a long drink from a copper cup. The drink seemed to restore
Ketlami a little and he spat in the torturer's face. The implacable man
in the black hood merely wiped away the spittle and looked at Pug for
instructions.

Pug asked again, 'Where is your Grand Master?'

'I'll never tell you,' said Ketlami.

The man next to Pug reached over and gripped his forearm. 'I have it,'
he said in a low voice.

'You're certain?' asked Nakor.

'I am certain,' replied the man.

Pug took a deep breath, then looked at Ketlami, whose distorted features
couldn't hide the malevolence of his expression. Pug said quietly, 'Finish.'

With a quick, unhesitating motion, the torturer drew a sharp blade from
his belt and made a single downward cut, sliced through an artery which
fountained blood into the air. Ketlami's eyes widened in shock for a
brief instant. 'What—'

Then his mouth filled with blood and his head fell forward.

Nakor turned to the three boys. 'Sever the blood-flow to the head and he
loses consciousness before he even understands he's been cut. It looks
like butchery, but it's kinder than any other cut I know of.'

Jommy whispered, 'Kind or not, dead is dead.'

Pug motioned for everyone to depart as the torturer began to take
Ketlami's body down.

Seeing everyone leaving the room, Bek stood up and said to Nakor, 'Can
we go now? I'm bored.'

Nakor nodded. 'We will have some bloody work to do soon enough.' He
turned to Pug. 'We will meet you upstairs,' he said, leading Bek away.

The room where the torture had taken place was in the cellar of one of
Chezarul's warehouses on the edge of the City of Kesh.

The now dead Nighthawk had been transported there by Magnus against the
threat of any agents lingering in Durbin. They were nearly certain the
Conclave had destroyed the Nighthawks in Great Kesh, but nearly certain
wasn't absolutely certain.

Pug turned to the man who had stood next to him and said, 'Where?'

'Cavell Keep.'

Pug's expression turned thoughtful, as if he was trying to recall
something. 'I remember,' he said, finally. 'Thank you,' he told the man,
and motioned for him, and the guards, to depart. After a moment only
Magnus, Caleb and the boys remained in the hallway.

'Who was that man, Father?' asked Caleb.

'Joval Delan. Though he is not one of our community, he is someone who
owes the Conclave a favour or two. He's the best human mind-reader I've
ever encountered, but rather than use his ability for a cause, he hides
it except when he exploits it for profit.' He glanced at the back of the
retreating man. 'A shame. He could teach us much. He knew Ketlami would
have strong wards to prevent his mind being read, but that eventually he
couldn't stop himself from thinking about what he wished to hide.'
Glancing at the three boys, he added, 'That was the reason for the
beating. Remember the child's game where you say, "Don't think of the
dragon in the corner?"

'You can force yourself not to think of something for a great deal of
time if you have the training, and the physical and mental resources,
but if you're beaten down enough, what you are trying to hide does
eventually come to the surface of the mind.' To his son he said, 'Which
is why we now know the Grand Master of the Nighthawks hides at Cavell Keep.'

'Cavell Keep?' asked Caleb. 'I know Cavell Town, north of Lyton, but a
keep?'

'Abandoned,' said Pug. 'High in the hills above the highway. From the
distance it blends into the rocks; you'll only notice it from the road
or river if you're looking for it. It's up a draw from the town. You
have to want to find it.

'The last Baron Corvallis refused to live in it ... it's a long story.
I'll tell you about it some other time, but what I know is that the
ancient keep used to guard a fair portion of the trade route between
Lyton and Sloop. Baron Corvallis's daughter married a man from Lyton, a
commoner I believe, and the King let that title fall vacant. The Earl of
Sloop was given that area to rule, despite it being closer to Lyton.

'In any event, the old keep was linked to Nighthawk activity nearly a
century ago, and it was one of my students, Owyn Belfote, and Prince
Arutha's man James who ended that particular threat to the region.'

Pug tapped his chin with his forefinger and considered for a moment.
'They must have decided enough time has passed for them to utilize the
place again, and it's a smart choice: no one goes there, even the
villagers, because of superstition, and it's an inconvenient place to
visit by any measure. As long as people think it's deserted, why bother?'

Caleb said, 'Shall we go to Lyton?'

'No,' said Pug. 'I'm going to give this to Nakor. He's close to Duke
Eric and the Kingdom should handle this final confrontation.' He looked
at Magnus. 'I'm sending you along with Nakor, though, just to make sure
Eric has enough protection against any magic the Nighthawks might still
muster, and you know I'm only moments away if you have need of me. I'll
ask your mother to visit the Assembly and see what progress is being
made with the Talnoy.'

Magnus nodded, smiling wryly. 'We know how much the Great Ones of the
Empire enjoy that.'

Pug smiled, the first time he hadn't looked grim in days. There was some
amusement in his tone as he said, 'They still have trouble with women
magicians in general, but your mother . . . I'll tell her to mind her
manners.'

Magnus's smile broadened. 'And Mother began doing what you tell her to
... when?' Pug's wince showed that his son's barb had hit home. 'Shall I
tell Nakor to make ready?'

'Nakor is always ready to travel; it's a legacy of his gambling days.
Meet me upstairs in a few minutes. I want a word with Caleb and the lads.'

Magnus departed and Pug turned to the boys. 'That was bloody work,' he said.

Jommy glanced at Tad and Zane. 'It was, but he deserved it.'

Pug put his hand on Jommy's shoulder. While not properly an adopted
grandson like Tad and Zane, Pug had grown fond of the brash red-head and
treated him as he did the others. 'No man deserves such treatment,
Jommy.' He glanced at Zane then Tad then returned his gaze to Jommy.
'Some men deserve death for what they've done, but causing suffering,
that harms you rather than the man you make suffer.' He looked from face
to face. 'What makes us better than those we oppose is that we know when
we are doing evil. And it should sicken us. Even if we justify it by
saying we serve a larger good, or that it's necessary.' Glancing at the
door where the torturer was getting Ketlami's body ready for disposal,
he added, 'It's the price we pay and while it's necessary, it does
diminish us.' He looked at each boy in turn. 'Your only solace is
knowing that if you were not part of this, those you love would be at
that much more risk.'

He turned to Caleb. 'I'm thinking you and Marie have not had much time
alone since you've been wed.'

Caleb smiled ruefully. 'A fact she has reminded me of from time to time,
although she hardly complains, Father.'

'Things are under control for a while. I've got Kaspar down in Novindus
with Rosenvar and Jacob, and Nakor and Magnus are going to the Kingdom
to deal with the Nighthawks. Right now, we don't need you.'

Caleb fixed his father with a questioning expression and said, 'And . . .?'

'Why don't you return home and have your mother give you the orb we use
when we travel to our own little retreat? It's not much - an island in
the Sunsets - but there's a small hut, well provisioned, and you can be
alone for a few days.'

'Sounds lovely. What about these three?'

Pug smiled. 'Send them along to Talwin. They can guest at the River
House, earn their keep for a week or two, and improve their swordsmanship.'

Zane grinned. 'The River House!'

Jommy patted his friend hard on the stomach. 'I thought you were going
to lose that?' The River House was the finest restaurant and inn in
Opardum, and arguably the finest dining establishment in the world. Zane
had developed an appetite for fine food since his mother had married
Caleb and he had had the opportunity to sample better fare than he had
known as a child.

'I'll work extra hard, trust me.' answered the stocky young man.

'Well, I'm sure Talwin and his wife will find ample work for you.'

'What of you, Father?' asked Caleb.

'I have a journey I must make, a short one, but one long overdue. Tell
your mother I'll be home in another day or so, but not to wait for me;
she should go to Kelewan and see what the Assembly is doing with the
Talnoy.'

They embraced, and Pug waved goodbye to the four of them, and vanished.

Jommy shook his head and sucked in his breath. 'Crikey, I'll never get
used to seeing people just vanish like that!'

Caleb laughed. 'You'll get used to a lot of things before you're done,
my lad.' He pulled an orb out of his tunic and said, 'We're off home:
then you three are going to Olasko!'

Glancing at the door into the torture room, Tad said, 'I'm glad we're
done with this part of it, that's for certain.'

Without another word, each put a hand on the next man's shoulder, while
Caleb activated the orb, and they vanished as well.

*  *  *

A vast presence was veiled in darkness, its form barely recognizable in
the faint light emanating from a single lantern set within a sconce on
the opposite wall.

A voice spoke without sound: /Welcome, Pug of Crydee/.

Pug smiled as he said aloud. 'I haven't been called that in years,
m'lady.' He knew the presence required no honorific, and that the one he
chose was barely appropriate, yet he felt the need to convey respect.

'As you wish, magician,' said the deep voice. 'Do you wish more light?'

'That would be agreeable,' Pug replied.

Suddenly the room was ablaze in light, as if the sun shone through glass
walls. Pug glanced around, for he had not visited this chamber in years.
It was a cavern, deep beneath the city of Sethanon, where Tomas had
bested a conjuration of the Dragon Lord Drakin-Korin, and Pug and others
had battled to seal a rift that threatened to destroy all of the
Kingdom, if not the world of Midkemia.

The being before him was the body of the great dragon, Ryath, but the
mind housed in it was that of an ancient being: the Oracle of Aal. In
that epic struggle, the dragon had given everything in defeating a Lord
of the Dread, and it had taken magic of unmatched power and skill to
keep a spark of life in the body after the mind and spirit had fled, so
that the Oracle could find a living host. The dragon's natural scales
had been obliterated and a makeshift solution had turned the creature
into a being of unsurpassed magnificence. The great Dragon Lords'
treasure secreted below the city ages before had provided gems used to
repair the damaged scales, forming a creature unmatched in majesty and
power in this world, a great jewelled dragon. Light danced off the
facets of thousands of stones and the creature seemed to glitter as if
moving, even when she rested, motionlessly.

'The cycle of renewal has ended well?' asked Pug.

'Yes,' answered the Oracle. 'The cycle of years has passed and again I
possess all my knowledge.' She sent out a mental call, and a dozen
white-robed men entered the room. 'These are my companions.'

Pug nodded. These men had come to understand the nature of the great
dragon of Sethanon, and had volunteered to give up their freedom in
exchange for a lifespan many times normal, and the honour of serving a
greater good.

For the Oracle was more than a simple seer. She possessed the ability to
see many possible outcomes that might result from a given choice, as
well as alert those she trusted to the approach of grave danger. And she
trusted no one in this world as much as she did Pug. Without his
intervention, the last of the race of Aal - perhaps the eldest race in
the universe - would have perished a century before. Pug inclined his
head in greeting to the Oracle's companions and they returned the honour.

'Do you know why I'm here?' asked Pug.

'A grave threat approaches, faster than you think, but . . .'

'What?' asked Pug.

'It is not what you think it to be.'

'The Dasati?'

'They are involved, and are the primary cause at this point, but there
is a much larger danger behind them.'

'The Nameless?'

'More.'

Pug was stunned. From his perspective, there could be nothing 'more' in
the universe than the Greater Gods. He gathered his wits. 'How can there
be a greater threat than the Nameless?'

'I can only tell you this, Pug of Crydee: across the expanse of time and
space the battle between good and evil transcends all else.

'What you perceive is but the smallest part of this struggle. It is
ageless, begun before the first of the Aal rose from the mud of our
homeworld, and it will endure until the last star is extinguished. It is
part of the very fabric of reality, and all creatures struggle within
that conflict, even if they are unaware of it.

'Some beings live their entire lives in peace and security, while others
struggle without let. Some worlds are virtual paradises while others are
ceaseless wretchedness. Each in its own fashion is part of a much larger
balance, and as such, each a vital battle ground in this struggle. Many
worlds are in balance.' The Oracle paused for a moment, then said, 'Some
worlds are teetering on the brink.'

'Midkemia?'

The great dragon head nodded. 'Your lifetime is long compared to other
mortals, but in this struggle, what will come to this world occurs
within the blink of a god's eye.

'Midkemia has been too long without the influence of the Goddess of
Good. What you and your Conclave have begun has blunted the Nameless
One's efforts for a century and more.

'But he lies sleeping, and his minions are but dreams and memories,
powerful by your measure, but nothing compared to what would be faced
should he awaken.'

'Is he waking?'

'No, but his dreams are more fevered, and his cause is embraced by
another, a being even more powerful and deadly.'

Pug was stunned. He could not imagine any being more powerful and deadly
than the God of Evil. 'What sort of being could possibly . . .' He could
not finish the question.

'The Dark God of the Dasati,' said the Oracle.

*  *  *

Pug materialized in his study. He took one quick glance around the room
to see if he was alone, for his wife often curled up in the corner to
read in peace when he was absent. He was shaken by what the Oracle had
told him. He had thought himself a man of experience, one who had faced
calamitous events and survived, one who had seen countless horrors and
endured, one who had confronted Death in her very hall and returned to
the realm of life. But this was beyond any ability he had to comprehend,
and he felt overwhelmed. More than anything at this moment he wished to
go somewhere quiet and sleep for a week. Yet he knew such feelings were
only the result of the shock he experienced, and would soon pass once he
began grappling with the problems at hand. Ah, but there was the rub, as
the old expression ran: where to begin? With a problem as immense as the
one now confronting the Conclave, he felt like a baby asked to move a
vast mountain with his tiny hands.

He went to a cabinet in the corner and opened it. Inside were several
bottles, one containing a strong drink Caleb had brought to him the year
before. Kennoch whisky: Pug had developed a fondness for it. He also had
a set of crystal cups given to him by the Emperor of Kesh recently, and
he poured a small dram of the drink.

Sipping the pungent, yet flavourful and satisfying drink, he felt its
warmth spread through his mouth and down his throat. He closed the
cabinet and moved across to a large wooden box sitting upon a bookcase.
It was simple in design, yet beautifully carved, acacia wood, dove-tail
and glue, without a single nail of brass or iron. He set aside his drink
and lifted the top, putting it aside, and looked into the box, wherein
rested a single piece of parchment.

He sighed: he had expected to find it there.

The box had appeared one morning, years before, on his desk in his study
in Stardock. It had been warded, but what had surprised him wasn't that
it had been warded, but that it had been warded in a fashion he quickly
recognized. It was as if he, himself, had warded the box. Expecting a
trap, he had transported himself and the box a great distance away from
the Island of Stardock and had erected protective spells around himself;
then he had opened the box, easily. Three notes had been contained within.

The first had said, 'That was a lot of work for nothing, wasn't it?'

The second had said, 'When James departs, instruct him to say this to a
man he should meet: "there is no magic".'

The last had said, 'Above all else, never lose this box.'

The handwriting had been his own.

For years Pug had kept the secret of this box, a device that allowed him
to send notes to himself from the future. Occasionally he pondered the
device, studying it at leisure, for he knew eventually he must unravel
its secret. There could be no other explanation than that he was sending
himself messages.

Eight times in the intervening years he had opened the box to discover a
new message inside. He didn't know how he knew, but when a message
arrived he sensed it was time to open the box once more.

One message had said, 'Trust Miranda.' It had arrived before he had met
his wife, and when he first encountered her, he realized why he had sent
the message. She was dangerous, powerful and wilful, and at the time, an
unknown.

Yet even now he still didn't completely trust her. He trusted her love
for him and their sons; and her commitment to their cause, as well. But
she often had her own agenda, ignoring his leadership and taking matters
into her own hands. For years she had agents working for her in addition
to those working for the Conclave. She and Pug had endured several
heated arguments over the years, and several times she had agreed to
keep her efforts confined within the agreed upon goals and stratagems of
the Conclave, yet she always managed to do as she pleased.

He hesitated. Whatever was in that parchment was something he needed to
know, yet something he dreaded knowing. Nakor had been the first person
he had told of the messages -just in the last year - though the box was
still known only to Pug. Miranda thought it merely a decorative item.

As he began to unroll the parchment Pug wondered, and not for the first
time, if these messages were to ensure that a certain thing happened, or
to keep something terrible from happening. Perhaps there was no
distinction between the two.

He looked at the parchment. Two lines of script in his own handwriting
greeted him. The first said, 'Take Nakor, Magnus, and Bek, no others'.
The second said, 'Go to Kosridi, then Omadrabar'.

Pug closed the box and sat down behind his desk. He read the note
several times, as if somehow he might discern a deeper meaning behind
those two simple lines. Then he leaned back, sipping at his drink.
Kosridi he recognized as the name of the world shown in a vision to
Kaspar of Olasko by the god, Ban-ath; it was one of the worlds upon
which resided the Dasati. Where lay Omadrabar, he had not even an
inkling. But he knew one thing: somehow he had to find a way into the
second realm of existence - to the plane of reality to which no one from
this reality, to the best of his knowledge, had ever ventured. From
there, somehow, he and his companions must make their way to the Dasati
world of Kosridi, and from there to this Omadrabar. And if he was
certain of nothing else, he was certain that this Omadrabar would be the
most dangerous place he had ever visited.

• CHAPTER THREE •

Aftermath

Kaspar reined in his horse.

He fought back worry. This was a hard land and he felt a stab of
apprehension as to what might be waiting for him. He had considered the
little farm something close to a home for months after beginning his
exile in this land, and Jojanna and her son Jorgen had been as close to
family as any people he had known.

It had taken no more than a glance for him to know the farm had not been
inhabited for some time, at least a year from the look of things. The
pasture was overgrown and the fence was knocked down in several places.
Before Jojanna's husband, Bandamin, had disappeared they had raised a
few steers for the local innkeeper. The corn patch and small wheat field
were both choked with weeds and the crops had gone to seed.

Kaspar dismounted and tied off his horse to a dead sapling. The tree had
been planted after he had left, but had since died from neglect. He
glanced around out of habit: whenever he considered the possibility of
trouble, he always made a survey of the surroundings, noting possible
places of ambush and escape. He realized there probably wasn't another
living human being within a day's walk in any direction.

Entering the hut, he was relieved to see no sign of struggle or
violence. All of Jojanna's and Jorgen's personal belongings, scant
though they may have been, were gone. The departure had been orderly. He
had feared bandits or wandering nomads might have done harm to his ...
what? Friends?

Kaspar's life had been one of privilege and power, and many people had
sought him out, currying favours, begging protection, or seeking some
advantage, but until he had been deposited in this distant land by
Magnus, the former Duke of Olasko had few he could name 'friend,' even
as a child.

He had terrorized Jojanna and Jorgen for two days before he could make
them understand he had not come to this little farm to harm them; he was
merely a stranger in need of food and shelter and he worked hard to pay
for his keep. He had negotiated a more favourable trade with a local
merchant on their behalf and had left them in a better situation than he
had found them. When he departed to begin his long journey home, he
thought of them as friends; possibly even more than friends . . .

Now, three years later, Kaspar was back in Novindus. He had been
watching the secret cache of Talnoy, providing a sword against more
mundane threats to the ten thousand apparently sleeping killing
machines, if indeed a machine slept. Two magicians - an older man named
Rosenvar and a youth named Jacob - were investigating some aspect or
another of their nature, following instructions left by Pug and Nakor.

Nakor had briefly returned with his companion, Bek, to inform the
magicians he would be absent longer from his pet undertaking, finding a
safe means of controlling the army of Talnoy. Kaspar found the magical
aspect of these discussions mind-numbing, but he had greeted the news of
the imminent obliteration of the Nighthawks with anticipation.

When Nakor made ready to depart, Kaspar asked him to request someone
come to guard the two scholars as he had some personal business he
wished to take care of in Novindus before returning to Sorcerer's Isle.
Nakor had agreed and as soon as another had been dispatched to guard the
magicians, Kaspar had begun his journey southward.

Lacking the magical devices employed by other members of the Conclave,
Kaspar had to endure two weeks' travel. The closest town to the caves
where the Talnoy were hidden was Malabra, and from there the road south
became more well travelled. He rode his horses to near exhaustion,
trading mounts twice in the towns along the way. Twice more he had
outrun bandits and three times he had endured the scrutiny of local
soldiers, two of the encounters ending in bribery.

Now he felt a sense of futility. He had hoped to find Jojanna and
Jorgen, though he was unsure of what he wished once he found them. He
had been exiled to Novindus as punishment for his part in the
destruction of the Orosini people and his plots against his neighbouring
nations. He had somewhat redeemed himself in the eyes of his former
enemies by bringing word of the Talnoy to the Conclave, and had been
fully forgiven after his role in foiling the Nighthawks' plot against
the throne of the Empire of Great Kesh. But he had a lingering sense of
obligation toward Jojanna and Jorgen, and to Kaspar an unpaid debt was a
canker that became more inflamed as time passed. He wanted to see that
the pair of them were safe, and leave them with enough wealth to ensure
they'd live well for the rest of their lives.

The small purse of coins he carried made him a wealthy man in this land.
He had travelled the roads of the Eastlands before, on foot and by
wagon, and had seen the conditions lingering after the great war of the
Emerald Queen, a land still struggling to recover even thirty years
after the war. Coins of copper were rare, silver almost never seen, and
even a single gold coin was worth a man's life. Kaspar had enough gold
on him to hire a tiny army and set himself up as a local noble.

He left the hut and considered what to do next. He had ridden straight
through the village of Heslagnam as he made his way to the farm, and it
was on his way back to the Talnoy cave. He would reach it after sundown
- it had taken them two days and half a morning to walk there the last
first time he had journeyed there from the farm - and while the inn was
nothing worth noting, it was serviceable, and he had slept in far worse
over the last three years.

He pushed his horse and arrived at the village of Heslagnam shortly
after darkness had fallen. The ramshackle wooden inn was as he
remembered it, though it looked as if it might have had a new coat of
whitewash; in the dark it was difficult to tell.

When no one appeared as he rode into the stabling yard, he un-tacked his
horse and rubbed it down. By the time he was finished, he was tired,
irritated and in sore need of what passed for a drink in this part of
the world.

Kaspar walked around to the front door of the inn, and pushed it open.
The inn was unoccupied save for two villagers who sat at a table
opposite the fireplace and the owner of the inn, a thick-necked man by
the name of Sagrin, who stood behind the bar. Kaspar walked up to the
bull-necked man who regarded him closely.

Sagrin said, 'I don't forget faces, even if I can't recall a name, and
I've seen you before.'

'Kaspar,' answered the former duke, removing his gloves. 'I've got a
horse out the back. Where's your lackey?'

'Don't have one,' answered Sagrin. 'No boys in town. All dragged off to
serve in the war.'

'What war?'

'Who knows? There's always a war, isn't there?' He hiked his thumb over
his shoulder, in the general direction of the stabling yard. 'You can
shelter your horse for free, seeing as I've got no one to care for it,
but you'll have to buy your own feed at Kelpita's store across the way
in the morning.'

'I've oats in my pack. I'll care for the horse before I turn in. What
have you to drink?'

'Ale and some wine. If you know wine, take the ale,' said the innkeeper.

'Ale, then.'

The ale was produced and Sagrin squinted a bit as he eyed Kaspar. 'You
were here, what? Two years back?'

'Closer to three.'

'Can't quite place it . . .'

'If you sit on the floor and look up at me, you might remember,' said
Kaspar. He took a drink. The ale was as he remembered it, thin and
without much to recommend it, but it was cool and wet.

'Ah,' said Sagrin. 'You're the bloke who came in with Jojanna and her
kid. Dressed a fair bit better these days.'

'Right,' said Kaspar. 'Are they around?'

Sagrin shrugged. 'Haven't seen Jojanna for over a year.' He leaned
forward. 'The boy run off and she was nearly frantic and went looking
for him, I guess. Sold off her cattle and mule to Kelpita, then found a
trader heading south - said he'd take her on for a fee.' Sagrin
shrugged, but his tone was regretful. 'She's probably buried under some
rocks a day or two south of here.'

'Jorgen ran off?' asked Kaspar. He knew Jojanna and her son well enough
to know that the boy was devoted to his mother, and he couldn't imagine
any reason why Jorgen would run away from home.

'Some crew came through and word got back to the farm that the boy's dad
was serving with a company of soldiers out of Higara - seems Bandamin
got himself impressed by a company of ... well, they'd be slavers no
matter what they called themselves, but as they were selling those who
were captured into the army of Muboya, they called themselves "recruiters".'

Kaspar remembered a relatively pleasant supper with a general of a
brigade who was cousin to the Raj of Muboya. If Kaspar could find him he
could . . . what? Arrange to have him discharged?

'How goes that war?' asked Kaspar.

'Last I heard Muboya had forced Sasbataba to surrender, and was now
battling some bandit lord named Okanala for control of the next bit of
land he wants.

'I'll give the boy Raj credit though: after his army leaves, the lands
left behind are almost as quiet as they were before the Emerald Queen's
war. Wish he'd send some of his lads up this way to calm things down
between here and the Hotlands.' Seeing Kaspar's mug was empty, Sagrin
said, 'Another?'

Kaspar pushed himself away from the bar. 'In a while. First let me feed
my horse and make sure there's adequate water.'

'Staying?'

Kaspar nodded. 'I'll want a room.'

'Pick any one you like,' said Sagrin. 'I've got lamb on the spit and the
bread was baked yesterday.'

'That'll be fine,' said Kaspar. He left the common room.

Outside the night air was cool; it was winter in this land, but he was
far enough north and close enough to the Hotlands that it never got
truly cold. He went to the stable and got a bucket, filled it at the
well, and made sure the trough was full. He put a nose-bag on his horse
and took some time to inspect the animal. He had ridden it hard and he
wanted to make sure the gelding was sound. He saw an old currying brush
sitting on the shelf next to some worthless old tack, and he picked it
up and started brushing the horse's coat.

As he curried, Kaspar became lost in thought. Part of him had wanted to
return here, to build a new personal empire; but these days the
stirrings of ambitions were muted in his heart. But they were never gone
entirely. Whatever effect the influences of the mad sorcerer Leso Varen
had been on Kaspar, the former ruler of Olasko's basic nature was still
ambitious.

The men who were bringing order out of chaos on this continent were men
of vision as well as desire. Power for its own sake was the height of
greed; power for the benefit of others had a nobler quality he had only
just begun to appreciate as he observed men like Pug, Magnus and Nakor,
men who could do amazing things, yet only sought to make the world a
safer place for everyone.

He shook his head at the thought, realizing that he had no legal or
ethical foundation for building an empire here; he would just be another
self-aggrandizing bandit lord carving out his own kingdom.

He sighed as he put away the currying brush. Better to find General
Alenburga and enlist in the Raj's service. Kaspar had no doubt he would
quickly win promotion and have his own army to command. But could he
ever take service in another man's army?

He stopped, and started to laugh. What was he doing now? He was serving
the Conclave, despite the fact he had never taken a formal oath of
service with any of them. Since bringing Pug and his companions word of
the Talnoy and the threat Kalkin had shown him of the Dasati homeworld,
Kaspar had been running errands and carrying out missions for the Conclave.

Still chuckling as he reached the door to the inn, Kaspar decided that
he was serving this land, as well as the rest of the world, and his days
as a ruling lord were over. As he pushed open the door he thought: at
least life was interesting.

*  *  *

Ten days later, Kaspar walked his horse through the crowded streets of
Higara. The town had changed in the last three years; everywhere he saw
the signs of prosperity. New construction was turning this town into a
small city. When he had last passed though Higara, it had been a staging
area for the Raj of Muboya's army as they readied an offensive
southward. Now the only men in uniform to be seen were the town's
constables. Kaspar noted they wore colours that resembled the regular
army's, a clear indication that Higara was now firmly part of Muboya, no
matter its previous allegiances.

Kaspar found the very inn where he had spoken to General Alenburga three
years previously, and saw it had been restored to its former
tranquillity. Instead of soldiers everywhere, a boy ran out of the
stable to take charge of Kaspar's horse. The boy was roughly the same
age as Jorgen had been when Kaspar had last seen him, reminding him of
why he was making this trek. Putting aside a growing sense of futility
in finding one boy and his mother in this vast land, Kaspar handed the
boy a copper coin. 'Wash the road dirt off and curry him,' he
instructed. The boy grinned as he pocketed the coin and said he would.

Kaspar entered the inn and glanced around. It was crowded with merchants
taking their mid-day meal and others dressed for travel. Kaspar made his
way to the bar and the barkeep nodded. 'Sir?'

'Ale,' said Kaspar.

When the mug sat before him, Kaspar produced another copper coin and the
barman picked it up. He hefted it, quickly produced a touchstone, struck
the colour of the coin, then said, 'This will do for two.'

'Have one for yourself,' said the former duke.

The barman smiled. 'Little early for me. Maybe later. Thanks.'

Kaspar nodded. 'Where's the local garrison these days?'

'Don't have one,' said the barman. He pointed in the general direction
of the south road. 'There's a garrison down in Dondia, a good day's
ride. They pulled all the soldiers out of here when Sasbataba
surrendered. We get a regular patrol up here once a week, and there's a
company of town militia to help the constables if needed, but frankly,
stranger, things around here are quiet to the point of being downright
peaceful.'

'Must be a welcome change,' said Kaspar.

'Can't argue about that,' said the barman.

'Got a room?'

The barman nodded and produced a key. 'Top of the stairs, last door on
the left. Got a window.'

Kaspar took the key. 'Where's the local constable's office?'

The barman gave Kaspar directions and after finishing his ale and an
indifferent lunch of cold beef and barely warm vegetables, Kaspar headed
to the constable's office. Walking the short distance, he was assailed
by the sounds and sights of a bustling trading centre. Whatever the
previous status of Higara, it was now clearly a regional hub for the
expanding territory. For a brief moment Kaspar felt a twinge of regret;
Flynn and the other traders from the Kingdom would have found the riches
they sought in such a place as this. The four traders from the Kingdom
of the Isles had been responsible for Kaspar coming into possession of
the Talnoy, each of them dying ignorant of the part he had played.

Thinking of that infernal device, Kaspar wondered if he should set
himself a limit on how long he'd look for Jojanna and Jorgen.

He found the constable's office easily, and pushed open the door.

A young man wearing a tunic with a badge looked up from a table that
served as a desk. With the air of self-importance that only a boy
recently given responsibility could manage, he said, 'What can I do for
you?'

'I'm looking for someone. A soldier named Bandamin.'

The lad, good-looking with light brown hair and a scattering of
freckles, tried to look as if he was thinking. After a moment, he said,
'I don't know that name. Which company is he with?'

Kaspar doubted the boy would have any idea where Bandamin was even if
Kaspar knew that. 'Don't know. He was living outside a village up north
and got pressed into service.'

'Pressed man, huh?' said the youngster. 'Most likely he's with the
infantry south of here.'

'What about a boy? About eleven years of age.' Kaspar tried to judge how
much Jorgen would have grown since he had last seen him, and held up his
hand. 'Probably about this high. Blond hair.'

The young constable shrugged. 'There are lots of boys coming through the
city all the time, caravan cooks' monkeys, luggage rats, homeless boys,
runaways. We try to keep them off the streets as much as we can - some
of them run in gangs.'

'Where would I find such a gang?'

The young man fixed Kaspar with what the former duke assumed was a
suspicious expression, but all it did was make the lad look ridiculous.
'Why do you seek this boy?'

'His father was pressed into the army; the lad came looking for him. And
his mother is looking for both of them.'

'And you're looking for the mother, too?'

'All of them,' said Kaspar. 'They're friends.'

The youth shrugged. 'Sorry, but we only notice those that are causing
trouble.'

'What about the gang of boys?'

'You'll usually find them down near the caravanserai or in the market.
If too many of them gather, we chase them away, but they just gather
somewhere else.'

Kaspar thanked the young constable and left the office. He looked up and
down the busy street, as if seeking inspiration, feeling like a man
crawling across a battle field seeking one specific arrow among the tens
of thousands that had fallen. He glanced skyward and fixed the hour at
approximately half-way between noon and sundown. He knew that the
markets here were busy throughout the day, with no cease in the
afternoon for rest as it was in the hotter parts of Great Kesh. Here the
markets were thronged with buyers and hawkers until shortly before
sundown, then there was a frantic bustle of activity as the merchants
finished for the day. He had approximately two and a half hours before
sundown.

He reached the market and glanced around. The market was haphazardly
organized across a sprawling plaza created more by happenstance than
design. Kaspar assumed that originally there had been one major road
through town - the north-to-south highway that dominated this region.
Somewhere in years past circumstances had shifted the route a hundred
yards or so to the east, and at that point buildings had been thrown up
all around. As a result, a half-dozen lesser streets and a handful of
alleyways led off from this area; the empty space in the middle served
as the market.

Kaspar saw a fair number of children, most helping their families in
booths or tents. There was little order to the market in Higara, save by
common agreement it appeared no one was permitted to erect a tent,
booth, or table in the centre of the square. There a single lamppost
reared up, equidistant from the intersections of side streets forming
the square. Kaspar wandered over to it and saw that it had a usable
lantern hanging from the top, so he assumed it was lit by some townsman
each night, perhaps one of the constables. This was the only lamppost he
had seen in Higara, so he assumed the office of lamplighter was hardly
likely. He noticed faint writing carved into the post: somewhere back in
antiquity a ruler had decided a direction marker had been necessary at
this point. Kaspar ran his hand over the ancient wood, wondering what
secrets of ages past it had overheard whispered below its single lantern.

Leaning against the post, he surveyed his surroundings. Like the
practised hunter he was, he noticed little things that would have
escaped the attention of most others. Two boys hung around by the
entrance to an alley, apparently discussing something, but clearly
watching. Lookouts, Kaspar decided. But lookouts for what?

After nearly half an hour of watching, Kaspar had some sense of it.
Every so often one boy, or more often a pair, would exit from or enter
the alley. If anyone else approached too closely, a signal was made -
Kaspar assumed a whistle or a single word, though he was too far away to
hear. When the potential threat moved past, another signal was given.

Curiosity as much as a desire to chase down information about Jorgen and
his mother impelled Kaspar through the market to the distant alley. He
approached, but halted just shy of where he had seen the lookouts.

He waited, observed, and waited some more. He could sense as much as see
that something was about to happen, and then it did.

Like rats erupting from a flooding sewer during a sudden downpour, the
boys came roiling out of the alley. The two lookouts just ran, in
seemingly random directions, but the dozen or so after them were all
carrying loaves of bread - someone must have found a way into the back
of a bakery and handed out as much fresh bread as he could before the
baker cried alarm. A moment later shouts echoed across the square as
merchants became aware that a crime was in progress.

One boy of no more than ten hurried right past Kaspar, who reached out
and snagged him by the collar of his filthy tunic. The boy instantly
released his bread and threw his arms straight up, and Kaspar realized
he was about to slip right out of the rag he wore as a shirt.

Kaspar grabbed him instead by his dirty long black hair. The youngster
yelled, 'Let me go!'

Kaspar hauled him away down another alley. When he was out of sight of
those in the market, he hiked the lad around and inspected him. The boy
was kicking, trying to bite and strike him with surprising strength, but
Kaspar had grappled with an assortment of wild animals all his life,
including one unforgettable and nearly disastrous encounter with an
angry wolverine. Hanging on to that creature's neck with an iron grip
and holding its tail had been the only thing between Kaspar and being
eviscerated, until his father's master of the hunt could come and
dispatch the animal. He still carried an assortment of scars from that
encounter.

'Stop struggling, and I'll put you down, but you have to agree to answer
a few questions.'

'Let me go!' shouted the dirty boy. 'Help!'

'You want the constable to come and talk to you?' asked Kaspar as he
held his struggling prey high enough that the boy had to dance on his toes.

The boy ceased struggling. 'Not really.'

'Now, answer some questions and I'll let you go.'

'Your word?'

'My word,' answered Kaspar.

'Swear by Kalkin,' said the boy.

'I swear by the God of Thieves, Liars and Tricksters I'll let you go
when you've answered my questions.'

The boy ceased his struggles, but Kaspar hung on. 'I'm looking for a
boy, about your age I'm thinking.'

The young thief fixed his eye on Kaspar and said with a wary tone, 'Just
what sort of boy did you have in mind?'

'Not a sort, but a particular boy, named Jorgen. If he came through
here, it would have been a year or so ago.'

The boy relaxed. 'I know him. I mean, I knew him. Blond, sunburned, farm
lad; came from the north, looking for his pa, he said. Nearly starved to
death, but we taught him a thing or two. He stayed with us for a while.
Not much good with thievery, but a stand-up boy in a fight. He could
hold his own.'

'"Us"?' asked Kaspar.

'The boys and me, my mates. We all hang together.'

A pair of townsmen turned into the alley, so Kaspar put the boy down,
but held tight to his arm. 'Where did he go?'

'South, down to Kadera. The Raj is fighting down there and that's where
Jorgen's pa went.'

'Did Jorgen's mother come after him?' Kaspar described Jojanna, then
released the boy's arm.

'No. Never saw her,' said the boy; then before Kaspar could react he
darted off.

Kaspar took a deep breath, then turned back towards the market. He'd
look to a good night's rest, for tomorrow he would be moving south again.

*  *  *

Another week saw Kaspar leaving the relative prosperity of what, he had
learned, was now being called the Kingdom of Muboya. And the young Raj
had taken the title /Maharajah/, or 'great king'. Again he was riding
through a war zone, and several times he had been stopped and
questioned. This time, he found little hindrance because at each stop he
simply stated he was seeking out General Alenburga. His obvious wealth,
fine clothing and fit horse, marked him as 'someone important, and he
was motioned on without further question.

The village, he was told, was called Timbe, and it had been overrun
three times, twice by the forces of Muboya. It was a half-day's ride
south of Kadera, the Maharajah's southern base of command. After riding
in at dawn, Kaspar had been told that the General had come to this
village to inspect the carnage the last offensive had unleashed.

The only thing that convinced Kaspar the Muboya army hadn't been
defeated was the lack of retreating soldiers. But from the disposition
of those forces still in the field and the destruction visible
everywhere, Kaspar knew the Maharajah's offensive had been halted. At
the very best, the Maharajah had achieved a stalemate. At worse, there
was a counter-offensive coming this way in a day or two.

Kaspar had little trouble locating the commander's pavilion, situated as
it was on top of a hill overlooking what was likely to be the
battlefield. As he rode up the incline, he could see positions to the
south being fortified and by the time he was approached by a pair of
guards, he had no doubt as to the tactical situation of this conflict.

An officer and a guardsman waved to Kaspar and the officer asked, 'Your
business?'

'A moment with General Alenburga.' Kaspar dismounted.

'Who are you?' said the officer, a dirty and tired-looking young man.
His white turban was almost beige with road dust and there was blood
splattered on his leggings and boots. The dark blue tunics of both men
did a poor job of hiding the deep red stains of other men's blood.

'By name, Kaspar of Olasko. If the General's memory is overwhelmed by
the conflict below, remind him of the stranger who suggested he leave
the archers at his rear outside Higara.'

The officer had appeared inclined to send Kaspar on his way, but he
said, 'I was part of the cavalry that rode north and flanked those
archers. I remember it being said an outlander gave the suggestion to
the General.'

'I'm pleased to be remembered,' said Kaspar.

To the guard, the officer said, 'See if the General has a moment for ...
an old acquaintance.'

After a moment, Kaspar was bade to enter the pavilion's main tent. He
gave the reins of his mount to the guard and followed the officer inside.

The General looked ten years older instead of three, but he smiled as he
looked up. His dark hair was now mostly grey, and combed back behind his
ears. His head was uncovered. 'Come back for another game of chess,
Kaspar?' He rose and extended his hand.

Kaspar shook it. 'I wouldn't have expected to be remembered.'

'Not many men give me a brilliant tactical plan and beat me at chess in
the same day.' He motioned for Kaspar to take a canvas seat near a table
covered with a map.

Then the General signalled for his batsman to fetch something to drink.
'Could have used you a few times along the way, Kaspar. You have a
better eye for the field than most of my subcommanders.'

Kaspar inclined his head at the compliment, and accepted a chilled cup
of ale. 'Where do you find ice around here?' he said as he sipped.

'The retreating forces of our enemy, the King of Okanala as he calls
himself, had an ice-house in the village we liberated a few days ago.
They managed to haul off all the stores and destroy anything else that
might have been helpful to us, but somehow I guess they couldn't work
out a quick way to melt all the ice.' He smiled as he took his drink.
'For which I'm thankful.' He put his cup down. 'Last time I saw you, you
were trying to take a dead friend home to be buried. What brings you
this way this time?'

Kaspar glossed over what had happened after the last time they had met
and said, 'The occupant of the coffin got to where he was intended to
be, and other duties have overtaken me since then. I'm here looking for
friends.'

The General said, 'Really? I thought you said when last we met you were
merchants. Now you have friends this far south?'

Kaspar understood the suspicious mind of a general who just lost a major
battle. 'They are from the north, actually. A man by the name of
Bandamin was pressed into service quite far up north - I believe he was
taken by slavers, actually, who were most likely illegally doing
business outside of Muboya with your press gang.'

'Wouldn't be the first time,' said the General. 'During a war, it's
harder than usual to observe the niceties.'

'He had a wife and son, and the son got word that his father was with
your army and came south looking for him. The mother followed the boy.'

'And you've followed the mother,' said Alenburga.

'I'd like to get her and the boy back home to safety.'

'And the husband?' asked the General.

Kaspar said, 'Him, too, if possible. Is there a buy-price?'

The General laughed. 'If we let men buy their way out of service, we'd
have a very poor army, for the brightest among them would always find a
means. No, his service is for five years, no matter how he was enlisted.'

Kaspar nodded. 'I'm not particularly surprised.'

'Feel free to look for the boy and his mother. The boys in the
luggage-train are down the hill to the west of here, over by a stream.
Most of the women, wives as well as camp-followers are nearby.'

Kaspar drank his ale, then stood. 'I'll take no more of your time,
General. You've been generous.'

As he turned to leave, the General asked: 'What do you think?'

Kaspar hesitated, then turned to face the man. 'The war is over. It's
time to sue for peace.'

Alenburga sat back and ran forefinger and thumb along the side of his
jaw, tugging slightly at his beard for a moment. 'Why do you say that?'

'You're recruited every able-bodied man for three hundred miles in any
direction, General. I've ridden through two cities, a half-dozen towns
and a score of villages on my way here. There are only men over forty
years of age and boys under fifteen left. Every potential fighting man
is already in your service.

'I can see you are digging in to the south; you expect a counterattack
from there; but if Okanala has anything left to speak of, he'll punch
through on your left, roll you up, and put your back to the stream. Your
best bet is to fall back to the town and dig in there.

'General, this is your frontier for the next five years, at least, ten
more likely. Time to end this war.'

The General nodded. 'But our Maharajah has a vision, and he wishes to
push south until we are close enough to the City of the Serpent River
that we can claim all the Eastlands are pacified.'

'I think your ambitious young lord even imagines some day he might take
the city and add it to Muboya,' Kaspar suggested.

'Perhaps,' said Alenburga. 'But you're right on all other counts. My
scouts tell me Okanala is digging in, as well. We're both played out.'

Kaspar said, 'I know nothing of the politics here, but there are times
when an armistice is a face-saving gesture and times when it is a
necessity, the only alternative to utter ruin. Victory has fled, and
defeat awaits on every hand. Have your Maharajah marry one of his
relatives off to one of the King's and call it a day.'

The General stood up and offered his hand. 'If you find your friends and
get them home, Kaspar of Olasko, you're welcome in my tent any time. If
you come back, I'll make a general out of you and when the time comes
we'll push down to the sea together.'

'Make me a general?' said Kaspar with a grin.

'Ah, yes, I was the commander of a brigade when last we met,' said the
General, returning Kaspar's grin. 'Now I command the army. My cousin
appreciates success.'

'Ah,' said Kaspar shaking his hand. 'If ambition grips me, I know where
to find you.'

'Good fortune, Kaspar of Olasko.'

'Good fortune, General.'

Kaspar left the pavilion and mounted his horse. He walked the gelding
down the side of the hill towards a distant dell through which wandered
a good-sized stream.

He felt a rising disquiet as he approached the luggage wagons, for he
could see signs of battle all around. The traditions of war forbade
attacking the luggage-boys or the women who followed the army, but there
were times when such niceties were ignored or the ebb and flow of the
conflict simply washed over the non-combatants.

Several of the boys he saw bore wounds, some minor, some serious, and
many were bandaged. A few lay on pallets beneath the wagons and slept,
their injuries rendering them unfit for any work. Kaspar rode to where a
stout man in a blood-covered tunic sat on a wagon, weeping. A
recently-removed metal cuirass lay on the seat next to him, as did a
helm with a plume, and he stared off into the distance. 'Are you the
Master of the Luggage?' asked Kaspar.

The man merely nodded, tears slowly coursing down his cheeks.

'I'm looking for a boy, by the name of Jorgen.' The man's jaw tightened
and he dismounted slowly. When he was standing before Kaspar he said,
'Come with me.'

He led Kaspar over a small rise to where a company of soldiers were
digging a massive trench, while boys were carrying wood and buckets of
what Kaspar assume was oil. There would be no individual pyres for the
dead; this would be a mass immolation.

The dead were lined up on the other side of the trench, ready to be
carried and placed atop the wood before the oil was thrown over it and
the torches tossed in. A third of the way down the line the man stopped.
Kaspar looked down and saw three bodies lying close together.

'He was such a good boy,' the Master of Luggage said, his voice hoarse
from shouting orders, from the battle dust, the day's heat, and
strangled emotions. Jorgen lay next to Jojanna, and next to her lay a
man in soldier's garb. It could only be Bandamin, for his features were
similar to the boy's.

'He came looking for his father almost a year ago, and . . . his mother
soon after. He worked hard, without complaint, and his mother looked
after all the boys as if they were her own. When their father could, he
would join them and they were a joy to know. In the midst of all this—'
he waved his hand in an encompassing gesture, '—they found happiness in
just being together. When . . .' He stopped and his eyes welled up with
tears. 'I asked for the . . . father to be detailed with the luggage. I
thought I was doing them all a favour. I never thought the battle would
spill over to the luggage-train. It's against the compact of war! They
killed the boys and the women! It's against every rule of war!'

Kaspar took a moment to look down at the three of them, reunited by fate
and fated to die together, a long way from home. Bandamin had been
struck a crushing blow in the chest, from a mace perhaps, but his face
was unmarked. He wore a tabard in the blue and yellow of Muboya. It was
faded and dirty and slightly torn. Kaspar saw the man Jorgen would have
become in his father's face. He had an honest man's face, a hard-working
face. Kaspar thought Bandamin had been a man who had once laughed a lot.
He lay with eyes closed, sleeping. Jojanna appeared unmarked, so Kaspar
suspected that an arrow or spear point had taken her in the back,
perhaps as she ran to protect the boys. Jorgen's hair was matted with
blood and his head rested at an odd angle. Kaspar felt a tiny sense of
relief that it must have been a sudden death, perhaps with no pain. He
felt an odd, unexpected ache; the boy was still so young.

He stared at the three of them, looking like nothing so much as a family
sleeping side-by-side. He knew the world spun on, and no one but he, and
perhaps one or two people in the distant north, would note the passing
of Bandamin and his family. Jorgen, the last scion of some obscure
family tree was dead, and with him that line had ended forever.

The luggage-master looked at Kaspar as if he expected him to say
something. Kaspar looked down on the three bodies for another moment,
then put heels to his horse's sides, turned the gelding and began his
long ride northward.

As he cantered from the battlefield, Kaspar felt something inside him
turn cold and hard. It would be easy enough to hate Okanala for
violating the strictures of 'civilized' warfare. It would be easy to
hate Muboya for taking a man from his family. It would be easy to hate
anyone and everyone. But Kaspar knew that over the years he had issued
certain orders, and because of those orders hundreds of Bandamins had
been taken from their homes, and hundreds of Jojannas and Jorgens had
endured hardships, even death.

With a sigh that felt as if came from deep within his soul, Kaspar
wondered if there was any happy purpose to existence, anything beyond
suffering and, at the end, death. For if there was, at this moment in
his life he was sorely pressed to say what it might be.

• CHAPTER FOUR •

Nighthawks

The soldiers moved quickly.

 Eric von Darkmoor, Duke of Krondor, Knight-Marshall of the King's Army
in the West, and Warden of the Western Marches stood behind a large
outcropping of rocks, observing his men moving slowly into position.
Silent silhouettes against rocks bathed in deep shadows cast by the
setting sun, they were a special unit of the Prince's Household Guards.
Erik personally had designed their training as he ascended through the
ranks of the army, first as a captain in the Prince's army, then as
Commander of the Garrison at Krondor, then Knight-Marshall.

The men were once part of the Royal Krondorian Pathfinders, a company of
trackers and scouts, descendants of the legendary Imperial Keshian
Guides, but now this smaller elite company was called simply the
'Prince's Own', soldiers whom Erik called upon in special circumstances,
such as the one that confronted them this night. Their uniforms were
distinctive: dark grey short tabards bearing the blazon of Krondor - an
eagle soaring over a peak, rendered in muted colours - and black
trousers with a red strip down the side tucked into heavy boots,
suitable for marching, riding, or as they were employed now, climbing
rocky faces. Each man wore a simple, dark, open-faced helm, and carried
short weapons - a sword barely long enough to deserve the name, and an
estoc, a long dagger. Each man was trained in a specific set of skills,
and right now Erik's two best rock-climbers were leading the assault.

Erik let his gaze move up to the top of the cliffs opposite his position.

High above them sat the ancient Cavell Keep, looking down upon a path
that diverged from the main draw, a path known as Cavell Run. A small
waterfall graced the rockface near the keep, landing in a pool in an
outcrop halfway up the cliff, then falling again to the stream that had
originally formed the run. As such things are wont to do, the course of
the stream had changed over the years, and some event, geological or
manmade, had forced the stream bed down the other side of the draw,
leaving the original creek bed dry and dusty. That pool was their
destination, for if the intelligence Erik possessed from nearly a
hundred years ago was valid, behind that pool existed a secret entrance,
the keep's original bolt-hole.

Erik had brought his soldiers into Cavell Town before dawn, quickly
hiding them as best he could, a difficult task in a town so small, but
by noon the townspeople were about their business as best they could be
with armed men hiding in every other building. Erik was unconcerned
about Nighthawk spies in the town, for no one was allowed to leave
Cavell that day; his only concern was for someone observing from up
high, in the hills above the town, and he was convinced he had taken
every precaution possible.

Magnus had aided the effort with an illusion spell, and unless any
observer was a highly trained magic-user, the few minutes it took to get
a hundred men into the town would have passed uneventfully. At sundown,
Magnus had again cast his enchantment and the men quickly broke up into
two companies, one heading to the main entrance up Cavell Run, and the
other under Erik's personal supervision heading to the rear of the keep.

The old soldier stood motionless, his attention focused on the
deployment of his men. He was nearly eighty-five years of age, yet
thanks to a potion given him by Nakor, he resembled a man thirty years
younger. Satisfied that things were as they should be, he turned to his
companions, Nakor and Magnus, who stood nearby, while the
Knight-Marshall's personal bodyguard stood uneasily to one side; they
were not entirely comfortable with their commander ordering them to
stand away, as it was their personal mission to protect him at all costs.

'Now?' asked Nakor.

'We wait,' said Eric. 'If they have any concerns about this approach to
their citadel, they should have seen us coming, and if so, they'll
either do something inhospitable or they'll attempt to flee through the
other escape route.'

'Your best guess?' asked Magnus.

Erik sighed. 'I'd hunker down and pretend there was no one at home. If
that didn't work, I'd have a very nasty reception in mind for anyone
attempting to enter the keep.' He waved absently with his hand as he
said, 'We have old records, which even then were not entirely accurate,
but what we do know is that Cavell Keep is a warren, and there are many
places to lie in ambush or leave behind some nasty traps. It's going to
be no walk through the meadow going in there.'

Nakor shrugged. 'You have good men.'

'The best,' said Erik. 'Hand-picked and trained for this sort of
business, but I still hate to put them at risk needlessly.'

Nakor said softly, 'There is need, Erik.'

'I'm convinced of that, Nakor,' said the old soldier. 'Or I would not be
here.'

'How does that sit with the Duke of Salador?' asked Nakor.

'He doesn't know I'm here.' Erik looked at Nakor. 'You picked a hell of
a time to give me this to worry about, old friend.'

Nakor shrugged. 'We never get to pick our moments, do we?'

'There have been times when I think that I might have been better off if
Bobby de Longville and Calis had hanged me that cold, bitter morning, so
long ago.' His eyes looked off into the distance, as the sun disappeared
behind the rocks there. He turned to Nakor. 'Then there are times that I
don't. When this is over, I'll know better what sort of time this is.'
The old man smiled. 'Let's go back and wait a while.'

He led Magnus and Nakor down a narrow path between high rockfaces,
passing lines of soldiers quietly waiting to assault the keep on the
rocks above. At the rear lackeys stood ready with the horses, and behind
them waited wagons with supplies. Erik waved to his personal squire, who
had stayed behind with the boys in the luggage.

The squire produced a pair of cups and filled them with wine from a
skin. Nakor took one, eyebrow raised. 'Serving wine before a battle?'

'Why not?' said the Duke, drinking deeply. He wiped his mouth with the
back of his gauntlet. 'As if I didn't have enough to worry about, you
send me off halfway across the Kingdom to dig out murderers.'

Nakor shrugged. 'Someone has to do it, Erik.'

The old warrior shook his head. 'I've lived a long life, Nakor, and one
more interesting than most. I'd be a liar if I told you I would welcome
death, but I would certainly be glad to be free of my burdens.' He fixed
Nakor with a narrow gaze. 'I thought I was until you appeared that night.'

'We need you,' said the Isalani.

'My King needs me,' said Erik.

'The world needs you,' said Nakor, lowering his voice so that those
nearby would not overhear. 'You are the only man of rank in the Kingdom
Pug still trusts.'

Erik nodded. 'I understand why he chose to separate himself from the
Crown.' He took another drink of wine, and handed the empty cup to his
squire. When the lad made to fill it again, Erik waved him away. 'But
did he have to embarrass the royal personage of the Prince of Krondor in
doing so? Publicly? In front of the army of Great Kesh?'

'Old business, Erik.'

'I wish it were so,' said Erik. He lowered his voice farther. 'You will
know this if you don't already. Prince Robert has been recalled.'

'This is bad,' said Nakor, nodding.

'We've had three princes in Krondor since I gained rank, and I am only
Duke because King Ryan took Lord James with him to Rillanon. My
temporary position has lasted nine years, and if I live long enough,
will probably last another nine.'

'Why was Robert recalled?'

'You have a better chance of uncovering the truth than me,' said Erik.
After a long moment of silence during which he watched the evening sky
darken, the Duke said, 'Politics. Robert was never a popular man with
the Congress of Lords. Lord James is a western noble, which rankles with
many of those who wished to be first among the King's advisors; James is
a shrewd man, almost as shrewd as his grandfather.' He glanced at Nakor.
'There was a name to conjure with, Lord James of Krondor.'

Nakor grinned. 'Jimmy was a handful before he became a duke. I know.' He
glanced up at the soldiers who were now ready, waiting for his signal to
begin the climb. 'Still, we tend to remember the greatness and forget
the flaws; and Jimmy made his share of mistakes. If Robert will not
serve, then who?'

'There are other cousins to the King more able . . .' He looked at Nakor
and his expression was sad. 'It may come to civil war if the King's not
careful. He's directly descended from King Borric, but he has no sons of
his own, and there are many cousins, most of them with a valid claim to
the throne if he does not produce an heir.'

Nakor shrugged. 'I've lived a long time, Erik. I've seen kings come and
go in different lands. The nation will survive.'

'But at what price, old friend?'

'Who is to be the new Prince of Krondor?'

'That is the question, isn't it?' said the Duke, standing up and
signalling to his men to make ready. The sky was sufficiently dark: it
was time to begin the assault on the keep. 'Prince Edward is well-liked,
intelligent, a good soldier, and someone who could forge consensus in
the Congress.'

'So the King will name someone else,' said Nakor with a chuckle as Erik
started forward along the draw.

Erik said nothing, but gestured once and two men hurried out from behind
rocks below the keep, both with loops of cord around their shoulders.
They started to climb the rockface, using only their hands and feet.

Nakor watched closely as the two men disappeared into the gloom above.
They moved silently like spiders crawling up a wall. Nakor knew how
dangerous it was to make that ascent, but he also knew that it was the
only way to get a rope down for the soldiers below.

Turning to Nakor, Erik said, 'I'm thinking Prince Henry will get the
nod, for he can be easily enough replaced if Queen Anne bears a boy. If
Edward sits in Krondor for any length of time, the King may not be able
to replace him with a son in ... a ... few years ...' His voice trailed
off as he watched the men reach the lip of the pool.

Nakor said, 'Odd place for a bolt-hole, over a hundred feet above
ground, isn't it?'

'I imagine the Nighthawks did some work around here some years back. My
men report tool marks on the rockface. There was probably a path down to
the floor of the run that was demolished.' He sighed. 'It's time.
Where's your man?'

Nakor nodded behind them. 'Sleeping, under the wagon.'

'Get him, then,' said Erik von Darkmoor.

Nakor hurried back to the luggage wagon, where the two boys responsible
for looking after the stores from the town waited. They spoke in hushed
tones, understanding how dangerous this mission was; even so, they were
only boys and the waiting was making them restless. Underneath the wagon
lay a solitary figure, who roused quickly when Nakor kicked lightly at
his boots.

Ralan Bek wiggled out from under the wagon, then unfolded himself to
tower over Nakor. The youth was six inches over six feet in height, and
he loomed over the diminutive gambler. Nakor knew he was possessed by
some aspect of the God of Evil, a tiny 'sliver' as Nakor thought of it;
an infinitesimal portion of the god himself, and that made Bek
extraordinarily dangerous. The only advantage Nakor possessed was years
of experience and what he thought of as his 'tricks'.

'Time?'

Nakor nodded. 'They'll be up there in a moment. You know what to do.'

Bek nodded. He reached down and picked up his hat, a hat he had claimed
as a prize from a man he had killed before Nakor's eyes, and he wore it
like a badge of honour. The broad-brimmed black felt hat, with its
single long eagle's feather hanging down from the hatband, gave the
youth an almost rakish air, but Nakor knew that beneath the young man's
convivial exterior seethed a potential for harm, as well as
preternatural strength and speed.

Bek trotted over to the face of the cliff, and waited. A coil of line
was dropped quietly from above, followed a moment later by another.
Soldiers quickly tied heavier rope to the lines, and this was pulled up.
When the first rope was made secure, Ralan Bek unbuckled his scabbard
belt and tied it over one shoulder, so that his sword now rested on his
back. With powerful ease he pulled himself up the rope, feet firmly on
the rockface, as if he had been climbing this way all his life. Other
soldiers followed, but Bek's speed up the rope was unmatchable.

Erik watched him ascend into the darkness. 'Why are you so insistent he
goes first, Nakor?'

'He may not be invulnerable, Erik, but he's a lot harder to kill than
any of your men. Magnus will look out for those guarding the main
entrance to the keep, but if there's magic on this back door, Bek has
the best chance of survival.'

'Time was I would be the first one up the rope.'

Nakor gripped his friend's arm. 'I'm glad to see you've got smarter over
the years, Erik.'

'I notice you're not volunteering to be up there, either.'

Nakor just grinned.

*  *  *

Bek waited, running his fingers over the door's outline. It was a rock,
like the others, and in the darkness he couldn't see the crack his
fingertips told him marked the edge of the entrance to the bolt-hole. He
let his senses drift, for he had discovered early in life that sometimes
he could anticipate things - an attack, an unexpected turn of the trail,
the mood of a horse, or the fall of the dice. He thought of it as his
'lucky feeling'.

Yes, he thought. There was something just beyond this door, something
very interesting. Ralan Bek did not know what fear was. As Nakor had
suggested to him, there was something very different, even alien, about
the young man from Novindus. Glancing down to where the little man
waited with the old soldier, he found he could barely make them out in
the dark. 'Lantern,' he whispered, and a soldier behind him handed him a
specially constructed, small, shuttered lantern. He pointed it at Nakor
and Erik and opened it and shut it again quickly. That was the
agreed-upon signal to proceed cautiously.

Not that Ralan truly understand caution. It was as alien to his thoughts
as fear. He tried to understand a lot of things Nakor talked to him
about, but sometimes he just nodded and pretended to understand the
strange little man in order to keep him from repeating himself endlessly.

Ralan continued to run his fingers along the seam until he determined
that the door was designed to be opened only from the inside. He
shrugged. 'Bar,' he demanded, and a soldier stepped past him and
inserted the crowbar where he pointed. The soldier struggled for a
moment, until Bek said, 'Let me.'

With preternatural power, he forced open a crack, and the door swung
suddenly wide with a protesting sound of twisting metal as an iron bar
was ripped from its restraining mechanism. With a loud clank it hit the
stones and instantly Bek had his sword out and was through the opening.
Unconcerned about the noise, Bek turned towards the soldiers and held up
a restraining hand. 'Wait!' he said in low tones, and then he entered.

The soldiers knew their orders. Bek would enter first and they would
only follow when he gave the order or ten minutes after, whichever came
first. One soldier turned over an hourglass bearing markings, red lines
drawn to indicate demarcations of ten minutes. Erik's hand-picked men
hunkered down before the entrance, along the edge of the pool, listening
to the sound of the waterfall in the darkness.

Bek moved cautiously, ignoring his lack of sight. He stepped lightly as
he progressed, not putting his full weight down until he knew he wasn't
stepping into a pit, or triggering some sort of trap. He knew he could
take a lot of damage - he'd been wounded several times in his short life
- but he had no more appetite for injury than the next man. Besides, if
what Nakor said was true, there should be some fun ahead.

Thinking of the little man caused Bek to pause a moment. Bek didn't like
him; but then again Bek didn't like anyone; he didn't dislike anyone
either. His feelings towards other people were fairly predictable: they
were either allies or opponents -or they were inconsequential, like a
horse or some other animal, sometimes useful, but mostly not worth the
attention. But the little man stirred some strange feelings in Bek,
feelings he couldn't put a name to. He didn't know if it was
familiarity, or enjoyment or what. His pleasures tended to the intense:
watching men bleed and scream, or rough coupling with women. He knew he
liked fighting. The crashing of steel, the clamour of voices, blood and
... death. He liked watching things die, he had decided some time
before. It fascinated him to see that one moment an animal or a man
might be alive, aware, moving, and the next it was lying there, just so
much meat. Not even useful meat if it was a man.

Bek expected to kill some very dangerous men, and looked forward to it.

A faint sound from ahead caused him to forget Nakor and his confusion
over things the odd gambler said all the time. Someone was moving at the
far end of a tunnel and Bek's entire body quivered with anticipation.

He was supposed to go back, but he had lost track of time - how long was
ten minutes, anyway? The other soldiers would come in after him, and
besides, Bek was anxious to be about some slaughter. It had been a very
long time since he'd enjoyed a good fight. Nakor had done something to
him, and often his head hurt when he tried to think about things. But
Nakor had said it was all right for him to kill anyone who was hiding up
in this old keep, except for more of the old soldier's fighters who
might be coming in from the other side.

Ralan Bek found his head swimming, so with a grunt he shoved aside all
thoughts except finding the author of the noise he had heard in the
darkness. He picked up his pace, and almost fell face forward into an
open pit. Only his 'lucky feeling' caused him to pull back at the last
instant.

He took out a small cylinder Nakor had given him, and pulled off the
top. Inside was a bundle of sticks, one of which he pulled out. He
recapped the cylinder and put it back in his tunic, then waved the stick
rapidly in the air, and after a few seconds a tiny flame erupted from
the end. As Nakor had promised him, after the total darkness of the
tunnels, he'd be surprised at the amount of light the small burning
stick could provide.

Bek looked down at a pit that yawned at his feet, and couldn't see the
bottom. He was glad he hadn't fallen, not because he feared injury, but
because he would have had to wait at the bottom until the old soldier's
fighters caught up with him. He didn't know if they'd even notice until
one of them fell in and he didn't relish the notion of one of them
landing on top of him; and he didn't know if they'd bring enough rope to
haul him out.

He took two steps back then with a powerful stride launched himself
above the pit and landed easily on the other side, a dozen feet away
from his take-off. He dropped the flaming stick to the floor, grinding
it under his boot heel.

He paused to see if anyone might have heard his landing, and when he was
certain he had gone unnoticed, he continued down the hall. For an
instant he wondered if he should have left something to warn the
soldiers behind him of the pit. Then he wondered where that thought had
come from; why should he worry if one of the old soldier's men fell into
the pit? This was too difficult to consider now: it was something Nakor
would understand. He had no time to dwell on it.

Ahead he could hear faint voices, and he knew mayhem awaited.

*  *  *

Magnus studied the sky and judged that it was time to move, so he
signalled to two guards to accompany him up the long entryway to the
ancient keep. The road appeared to have not been in use for years, but
Magnus had secretly inspected it at dawn and saw by tiny signs that the
'disuse' had been artfully forged. Someone had been using this road
recently, but endeavouring to keep that fact a secret. That as much as
anything convinced him that his father's faith in Joval Delan, the hired
mind-reader, had not been misplaced. Some local bandit, smuggler, or
gang of errant youths would not have the means or inclination to do so
thorough a job.

The soldiers had been creeping up the draw known as Cavell Run, which
was the only obvious approach to the ancient keep. Magnus was not the
student of things military his father and brother were, but even he
could imagine what a lethal prospect attempting to storm this keep would
present. Only the rumours of demonic possession and a curse, followed by
nearly a century of peace in the region would have kept such an obvious
military asset unused.

Still, he had other concerns, the first of which was to ensure that the
men with him went undiscovered for as long as possible. Magnus was still
young compared to most powerful practitioners' of magic, and he had
inherited certain abilities from his parents. His mother had always
possessed a finer instinct for detecting the presence of magic than his
father, though Pug was better able to determine the nature of a spell or
device once it was uncovered. Magnus had the happy fortune to have
inherited both abilities. And so he sensed and understood at least four
magical traps located between the floor of the Run and the ancient gate
at the top of the ramp.

With the deft moves of a master of his craft, Magnus countered each
spell quickly, allowing the soldiers from Erik's command to approach on
silent feet. If there was a lookout above he would have been hard
pressed to notice the darting grey figures hunched over, moving along
the edges of the roadway in the night's gloom. Small moon didn't rise
for another hour and its light was faint even on clear nights. Tonight
was overcast.

With hand signals, the officer in charge motioned for his men to make
ready. An ancient drawbridge had once covered a gap between the top of
the roadway-ramp and the keep's gate. Now it hung by a single chain,
dangling uselessly on the other side of the gap, an open space too wide
for any man to leap. Signals were passed and from the rear two pairs of
men ran forward, carrying scaling ladders that would serve as bridges
across the chasm. Magnus used his skills to elevate himself and float
above the breach.

He watched the men calmly walking on the ladder rungs, heedless of the
yawning space below their feet. A misstep would send a man tumbling to
his death. Magnus admired their discipline.

Now Magnus cast his senses forward, attempting to seek out more magic
entanglements or lures, and found none. The warder of this keep had been
content to trust to the snares left along the roadway to alert the
residents of the keep to any unwelcome company. He strode forward,
unmindful of any physical danger, for he sensed something in the
distance that caused the hair on his arms and neck to stand up.

He held up his hand and a faint light shone from the palm, illuminating
the killing ground between the now-fallen outer gate, where once a
drawbridge and a portcullis had provided the first barrier, and the
inner doors, which were shut and, Magnus supposed, barred from within.
The soldiers behind him assembled silently. In the eerie mystical
illumination Magnus's pale hair and height gave him an almost
supernatural appearance, but whatever discomfort the soldiers might have
felt being given over to the command of a wizard was not in evidence as
they waited for his instructions.

Magnus closed his eyes to better aid his concentration and envision the
large wooden doors. He reached out with his senses and ran mental
fingers over the surface of the wood, then pressed slowly through until
he could feel the other side. As he did so a picture as clear as if he
were using his eyes appeared in his mind, and he saw the large wooden
bar set in two wooden brackets. He inspected every inch with his mental
touch, then opened his eyes and stepped back. 'There's a trap,' he said
softly to the officer who stood to his right.

'What do you suggest?' the young knight-lieutenant asked.

Magnus said, 'Find a way through that door without lifting the bar.'

He extended his hand and a faint humming could be heard by those
standing closest to him. Suddenly, there was a hole in the bottom of the
gate, large enough for a man to pass through on hands and knees. 'One at
a time,' said Magnus, 'and have no man touch the gate or the walls on
either side.'

The officer passed the word and quickly each man in turn made his way
through. Magnus got ready to control the magic that would be unleashed
should any man falter, but the preparation proved needless. Each man did
exactly as he was instructed.

Then it was Magnus's turn and he crawled through awkwardly, finding his
robe an unexpected impediment. Halfway through the hole he was forced to
lift first one knee, then the other, pulling the fabric ahead of him, so
he could get through without falling on his face.

Chuckling as he stood, he said, 'There are times, and this is one of
them, when I feel the need to question my father as to why magicians are
expected to wear robes.'

The lieutenant revealed himself to be a man of little humour as he
asked, 'Milord?'

Magnus sighed. 'Never mind.' He faced the soldiers. 'Stay behind me
unless I tell you to move forward, for there are forces here that are
more than the bravest man can face without my arts.

'Any man you see who is not Ralan Bek or one of your own, kill on sight.'

Then he turned and walked forward into the darkness, the light from his
hand bobbing like a swinging lantern's.

*  *  *

Bek walked as if strolling down a street, mindless of the darkness.
There was light coming from several distant rooms at the ends of tunnels
which crossed the one he had chosen, but he ignored them, and kept going
straight ahead. He didn't know how he knew, but he sensed that he needed
to move straight from the secret entrance at the rear of the keep to the
innermost chamber, which was probably some ancient great hall or throne
room.

He felt positively buoyant in anticipation of the coming fight. He liked
some of the things Nakor made him do, but he hadn't been in any sort of
combat for far too long. He'd bashed a few skulls in a tavern or two,
but there had been no serious bloodletting since he'd killed that
emperor for Nakor the year before. That had been fun. He almost laughed
aloud thinking of the stunned expressions on the faces of everyone
looking up at where he stood, his sword thrust straight though the old
man's back.

A man wearing black armour but no helm walked around a corner and before
he stopped moving, Ralan Bek had run his sword point into the man's
throat, which was exposed above the cuirass. The man dropped with a
fairly loud noise, but Bek didn't care. Less than a hundred feet ahead
light beckoned and he was anxious to bring havoc.

He strode down the last length of shadowy hall into a high-ceilinged
chamber. It was an old-style keep hall, where in the dead of winter the
family and close retainers of the original ruler of Cavell Keep would
sleep during winter's coldest nights. Once magnificent, the great hall
had fallen into drab disrepair.

The vaulted roof was still supported by massive wooden beams so ancient
they were as hard as steel, but the once whitewashed walls were now dark
grey and high in the darkness above Bek could hear bats fluttering. No
tapestries hung on the walls to shield the inhabitants against winter's
chill in the stones, nor were there rugs on the floor. But a fire burned
in the massive fireplace to the left of the door through which he
entered. Sword drawn and with a maniac's grin in place, he surveyed the
two dozen men resting before the fire.

In the centre of this group sat two men, both in large chairs made in an
older style - a 'u' of wood set on top of another to make the legs, with
a wooden back nailed across the upper half, stuffed with cushions or
furs. The rest sat on camp stools or on black cloaks spread on the
floor. All were dressed in black armour, the hallmark of the Nighthawks,
except for the two men in the centre. One wore a tunic of finely woven
linen and trousers and boots worthy of a high-born noble, though his
clothes hung loosely on this frame, as if he had lost a great deal of
weight lately; the other wore the black robes of a cleric or magician.
The man in the tunic wore a heavy amulet of gold around his neck,
identical to the black amulet Bek had been shown by Nakor. The robed man
wore no jewellery whatsoever. He was thin and there wasn't a hair on his
face or head.

A moment after Bek appeared the eighteen seated men were scrambling, two
blowing bone whistles that sent a shrieking alarm throughout the keep.

The man with the gold around his neck looked harried, and his eyes were
wide as he pointed at Bek screaming, 'Kill him!'

As the first swordsman raised his sword, Bek gripped his own weapon with
two hands, his eyes narrow slits, focusing with keen anticipation on the
coming slaughter. But the robed man shouted, 'No! Halt!' His eyes locked
onto Bek's in wonder.

Everyone, including Bek, froze as the man wove between the swordsmen. He
passed the man closest to Ralan Bek, and came straight towards the young
warrior. Bek sensed some strange power in this man, and his lucky
feeling told him something unusual was about to happen. He hesitated,
then began to swing at the man in the robe.

The man held up his hand, not in defence, but in supplication. 'Wait,'
he said as Bek hesitated again. He reached out slowly, almost gently,
and put his hand on Bek's chest, and said again, 'Wait.'

Then slowly the robed man went to his knees and in a voice that was
little more than a whisper, he said, 'What does our master bid us?'

The man with the amulet looked on in mute astonishment, then he too went
to his knees, followed moments later by every other man in the room.
Another half a dozen men ran into the hall from other parts of the keep,
answering the alarm. Seeing their brethren on their knees, their eyes
lowered, they followed suit.

Bek's sword lowered a little. 'What?'

'What does our master bid us?' asked the robed man again.

Bek tried to puzzle out what to say next, from what he had overheard
Nakor, Pug and the others say at Sorcerer's Isle. At last he said:
'Varen's gone. He's fled to another world.'

'Not Varen,' said the robed man. 'He was highest among our master's
servants.' The man slowly reached out and touched Bek on the chest. 'I
can feel our master, there, inside you. He lives within you; he speaks
through you.' He raised his eyes to Bek's again, and asked once more,
'What does our master bid us?'

Bek had been ready for combat, and this was beyond his ability to
comprehend. Slowly, he looked around the room, rising frustration in his
voice as he said, 'I don't know ...' Then suddenly, he raised his sword
and brought it down, shouting, 'I don't know!'

*  *  *

Minutes later Magnus rushed into the room with a company of Erik's
soldiers at his back, and more Kingdom soldiers entered through the same
door as Bek. All of them stopped at the scene before them. Twenty-six
corpses littered the floor, but there was no sign of a struggle.
Twenty-six headless bodies lay in a wash of blood. Heads still rolled on
the crimson stones and blood-soaked cloaks.

The fire crackled. Bek stood beside it, covered in blood. His arms were
crimson to the elbows and gore was smeared across his face. He stood
like a fiend possessed by madness. Magnus could see it in his eyes. He
was trembling so much he looked like a man about to go into convulsions.

Finally, Ralan Bek threw back his head and gave out a howl which rang
off the stones high above. It was a primal burst of rage and
frustration, and when even the echoes had passed away, he looked around
the room, then directly at Magnus. Like a petulant child he pointed to
the corpses, and said, 'This wasn't fun!'

He wiped his sword on the tunic of a nearby corpse, and sheathed it.
Then he picked up a bucket of water which had been set near the
fireplace to heat and lifted it, letting it wash down over his head,
without even bothering to remove his hat, and then picked up a
relatively clean cloak to use as a towel. Cleaning himself off as best
he could, Bek said in a more controlled tone, 'It's not fun if they
don't fight back, Magnus.' He looked around the room and then said, 'I'm
hungry. Anyone got anything to eat?'

• CHAPTER FIVE •

Preparation

Miranda shouted.

'Are you mad?' she cried far louder than was necessary in the small room.

Magnus watched his mother with guarded amusement as she strode away from
her husband's desk for as far as she could in the small study, then
turned with a dramatic frown. She often would vent loudly over matters
that eventually would end up exactly as his father wished them to be.
But Pug had over the years come to understand that his wife's often
volatile nature required a physical expression of her frustrations.

'Are you mad?' Miranda shrieked for the second time.

'No more than you were to spend almost a half-year shadowing the Emerald
Queen's army down in Novindus,' said Pug, calmly, as he rose from behind
his desk.

'That was different!' shouted Miranda, still not through venting. 'There
was no Pantathian snake priest who could find me, let alone challenge
me, and I'm the one who can transport herself without a Tsurani sphere,
remember?'

Magnus saw his father begin a comment - probably on how Nakor, Pug, and
Magnus were all becoming adept at the skill - but think better of it and
say nothing as Miranda continued.

'You're talking about going to an alien world! Not only an alien world,
but one in a different plane of reality! Who knows what powers you may
have there, if any?' She pointed her finger at Pug. 'You don't even know
how to get there in the first place, and don't tell me you're going to
use the Talnoy on Kelewan to anchor a rift there. I know enough about
rifts to know that you could find yourself swimming at the bottom of
some poison sea, or standing in the middle of a battlefield or any other
number of deadly places! You'd be going in blind!'

'I won't be going in blind,' said Pug, holding up his hands in
supplication. 'Please, we must learn more about the Dasati.'

'Why?' demanded Miranda.

'Because I've been to see the Oracle.' He didn't need to tell either his
wife or son which oracle.

Miranda's anger leeched away as curiosity took over. 'What did she say?'

'They're coming. There are too many uncertainties for her to say more,
now - I will return to her later as events draw closer. But for now we
must learn more of these people.'

'But the Talnoy down in Novindus are warded, as motionless and without
magical presence as they were for the countless years they lay hidden,'
countered Miranda. 'If they're warded, how could the Dasati find us?'

Pug could only shake his head. 'I don't know. The Oracle is rarely wrong
when she speaks of certainties.'

Magnus sensed an argument coming and deftly changed the subject. 'And
again I ask, as I have many times before,' he said, like a patient
schoolmaster, 'who put them there?'

Pug knew the question was rhetorical, since they had several theories
and no facts, but he thanked his son silently for diverting his wife's
ire. Their first thought had been that one of the Valheru, a Dragon Lord
of fabled antiquity, had brought the Talnoy back, but there was no proof
of that. Tomas, Pug's boyhood friend, was imbued with the memories of
one of the ancient Dragon Host, and had no recollection of any of his
brethren returning from their ill-fated raid on the Dasati homeworld
with a single Talnoy as a trophy. They had been too busy trying to keep
those fiendish creations from destroying them; several dragon-riders had
fallen during the incursion into the Dasati realm. In the end, there was
only one inescapable conclusion.

'Macros.'

Miranda nodded in agreement. Her father, Macros the Black, had been an
agent of the lost God of Magic. 'Every time we turn around we bump into
one of Father's schemes.' She crossed her arms, getting a far-away look
as she seemed to remember something. 'I remember ... once ...' She
looked down at the cavern floor, her face revealing flickering emotions
as if what she recalled was painful. 'I spent so many years being angry
with him for abandoning me ...'

Pug nodded sympathetically. He had been with his wife when she had last
been reunited with her father and remembered her poorly-hidden anger at
seeing him after years of estrangement.

He also remembered her grief when he had been swallowed up in the rift
that closed around him as he held the Demon Lord Maarg, giving his life
in a desperate act that saved this world.

Pushing aside her memories, Miranda said, 'But we do end up with another
of his bloody messes, don't we?' Her tone held a hint of affectionate
humour, as well as some bitterness.

Before his mother could get back into another black mood because of his
grandfather, Magnus spoke. 'We know that Grandfather had a hand in
warding off the Dasati rifts from the one Talnoy we found, and his wards
are still in place around the others.'

Both parents regarded their eldest son and Miranda said, 'This we all
know, Magnus. What's your point?'

'Grandfather never did anything without a reason, and everything you
have both told me about him leads me to conclude that he knew, somehow,
that the day would come when one or both of you would discover the
Talnoy, and that leads me to believe he also knew there would be a
confrontation with the Dasati.'

Pug sighed aloud. 'Your father,' he said to his wife, 'knew more about
time travel than anyone. Gods, all of us combined probably know only a
hundredth part of what he knew. What he did with Tomas and the ancient
Valheru, Ashen-Shugar, his ability to understand the time trap sprung on
us by the Pantathians at the City Forever, all the rest of it. I've
struggled to learn as much as I could about what he did, but most of it
remains a mystery. However, in this I agree with Magnus. He left things
as he did in Novindus for a reason, and I believe that reason involves
the Conclave.'

Miranda looked unconvinced, but said nothing.

Magnus said, 'Mother, if Grandfather had not wanted the Talnoy found he
had the magic to bury that cave under a mountain which it would have
taken millennia to uncover. Something vast and dangerous is moving out
there.' He made a sweeping gesture. 'And this thing is coming no matter
what we do.'

'What we can do is try to understand our enemy's nature, to see his
face,' said Pug.

'Well, I'm not ready to agree this is a good plan,' said Miranda. 'But
obviously you two have your minds made up. So how do you propose to get
to the Dasati world, stay alive, and bring back the information, or are
those details too trivial to worry about?'

Pug was forced to laugh. 'Hardly trivial, my love. I plan on looking for
someone who has been to that realm and can, perhaps, guide us there.'

'And where do you expect to find such a person?' asked Miranda. 'Is
there anyone in this entire world who has visited the second circle of
reality?'

Pug said, 'Probably not. But I'm not going to be looking on this world.
I plan on visiting Honest John's.'

Miranda froze for an instant at the mention of the establishment at the
heart of the Hall of Worlds. Then she gave a sharp nod. 'If there's
anywhere to find such a one, that is where I'd start looking, too.'

Magnus said, 'Who will go with you, Father?'

Pug threw a warning look at his son, knowing that this was certain to
set off another round of complaints from Miranda, who even now was
regarding her husband with an expression of curiosity. Pug took a
breath, then said, 'You, Nakor and Bek.'

Instead of the anticipated eruption from Miranda, she merely said, 'Why?'

'Magnus because he is ready and I need someone as powerful as myself
with me - and you need to stay here and conduct the business of the
Conclave, as well as visit the Assembly and see to their progress with
the Talnoy.' He waited, and when she said nothing, he continued, 'Bek
because ... something tells me he is important; and Nakor because he is
the only one who can control Bek. Besides, if anyone can get us out of
an impossible situation it's Nakor.'

Miranda said, 'You've planned this all out, so I suppose there's no
point in continuing to argue about it. I'm not even sure you can find a
safe means to visit the second plane.'

'Still, we must try.'

'When do you leave?' asked Miranda.

'For the Hall? Tomorrow. I still need to do a few things around here
before I go.' To Magnus he said, 'Why don't you see how the boys are
doing in Roldem, then be back here in a day or so to let your brother's
wife know how her boys are?'

Magnus nodded. 'What about the Talnoy down in Novindus?'

Pug paused at the door of the study. 'Rosenvar and Jacob will keep an
eye on things. If anything out of the ordinary occurs, Nakor or myself
can be back here quickly enough. It'll be some time before we leave for
the Dasati world. I am going to make one more quick trip to Kelewan and
see if there's any hint of Varen's presence there.'

'You think he'll be foolish enough to reveal himself?' asked Magnus.

'He's a clever man,' said Pug. 'Brilliant in a twisted fashion, but he's
also driven. His madness has made him more impulsive over the years. The
duration between his attacks lessens each time. He will either do
something rash over there, or he will return to Midkemia. Either way,
eventually we will find him out, and this time he has no easy way to
seize a new body.'

'What about a hard way?' asked Miranda.

'What do you mean?'

'You said he has no easy way to take over a new body. I understand that,
since you destroyed his soul jar, but he still has the knowledge of how
to inhabit another's body, and might there not be other means, perhaps
less convenient, but equally effective?'

Pug said, 'I hadn't thought of that.'

Miranda could barely constrain her smug expression.

'Then we must be both meticulous and stealthy,' said Pug, ignoring his
wife's superior expression. 'I shall make enquiries of some less than
high-born sources in Kelewan, while you see what you can find out in the
Assembly while I travel to the Hall. Trust only Alenca.'

'How can I trust anyone?' asked Miranda. 'After taking possession of the
Emperor of Kesh, I think it safe to argue that Varen can be anyone on
Kelewan, including their Emperor.'

'I think not,' said Pug. 'Consider how he placed his soul jar in the
sewers near the Emperor's palace. I suspect location has much to do with
who he can reach. In any event, without the jar, I think he had to leap
blind and inhabited the body of whoever was closest. As his "death rift"
acted in many ways like normal rifts, I would expect it propelled him to
a point near the Assembly, if not within its halls. As he would have
been a disembodied spirit, the Assembly's usual defences would have been
useless - that's the reason, by the way, I think it unlikely he would
ever be able to occupy a high level cleric oil either world; wards
against spirits are common in temples.'

'Very well,' said Miranda. 'I'll speak with Alenca when I go. Now, one
more question.'

'Yes?' said Pug, obviously impatient to be underway.

'If you're going to visit Kelewan without the Assembly being aware, just
how do you propose to go through the rift without being noticed?'

Pug smiled, and years seemed to fall away from him. 'A trick, as Nakor
would call it.'

He left the room and Magnus started laughing at the consternation on his
mother's face.

Miranda glared at her older son. 'That annoying little man is such a bad
influence around here!'

Magnus laughed even harder.

*  *  *

Pug crept down a side street, his face hidden beneath a deep hood.
Beards were rare in the Tsurani Empire among freemen, being worn for the
most part by those of Midkemian birth and a few rebellious youths. Being
out late at night and sporting facial hair was likely to mean being
stopped by any patrolling city watch, and while his rank as a member of
the Assembly of Magicians meant instant obedience from any soldier or
constable, Pug wished to avoid drawing attention to his clandestine visit.

The domicile he sought was modest, off a side street in a section of the
city of Jamar that was only a slight improvement over the slums and
docks. The houses here were modest, the whitewash traditional to the
Tsurani home kept somewhat clean, and the streets not too littered with
refuse. There was even a street lamp some way behind him.

Pug reached the desired house and knocked loudly on the wooden door.
From within a voice said, 'Come in, Milamber.'

Pug pushed his way into the small house, which was barely more than a
one-room hut, and said, 'Greetings, Sinboya.'

The old man sat on a rush mat on the floor behind a small, low table
upon which rested a single lamp, its flame barely illuminating the room.
A small wood stove in the corner provided heat for cooking - the weather
in the Empire rarely got cold enough for anyone to worry about heating
the house. A curtain sectioned off a sleeping pallet, and a rear door
led to what Pug knew to be a small vegetable garden and an outhouse.

The old man behind the table was rake-thin, looking every minute of his
eighty-plus years of age. His wispy hair was white and his blue eyes
were covered with film, yet Pug knew his wits were as sharp as they had
been thirty years before when they had first met.

'You knew I was coming?' asked Pug.

'I may lack your prodigious powers, Milamber,' he said, using Pug's
Tsurani name, 'but I am a master of my craft, and my spells of warding
are second to none. I can detect the approach of friends as well as
enemies.' There were two porcelain cups on the table and he poured hot
water out of a precious metal pot. 'Chocha?'

'Thank you,' replied Pug.

'Then sit, please.'

Pug sat upon the floor, arranging his travel clothing, a nondescript
light blue robe, over which a hooded cloak had been thrown.

The old man's eyesight was failing, but he was still alert enough to
take notice of Pug's manner of dress. 'Travelling incognito?'

'I do not wish others of the Assembly to know I'm here,' Pug replied.

The wizened magician chuckled. 'You have a colourful history with the
Assembly. I believe you were even once cast out and branded as a traitor
to the Empire.'

'Nothing quite that extreme, but there is a matter of grave concern that
places me at a disadvantage with the Assembly; in short, I can't trust
any member of it.'

'What can I do to help you, old friend?'

'There is now loose within the Empire a fugitive from my world, a
magician of exceptional cunning and danger, and he may be impossible to
find.'

'Already you paint a grave picture,' said Sinboya. 'If /you/ can't find
him, he will be very difficult to find, indeed.'

Pug nodded, taking a sip of his hot drink. The four years he had abided
with the Assembly, being trained as a Great One of the Empire, had given
him a fondness for the bitter brew, which tasted like nothing so much as
a very bitter tea found in Novindus. 'He has the power to possess
another's body and it will be hard even for those closest to the host to
detect him.'

'Ah, a possessor. I have heard tales of such, but so often such tales
are nothing more than that: stories without any truth.' Sinboya was a
magician of the Lesser Path, much like Pug's first teacher, Kulgan, a
magic that Pug was never suited for by temperament until much later in
his education. Pug was conversant in all forms of magic, but unlike
Sinboya he was not a specialist in this area. 'I assume this visit,
then, is not so much for the pleasure of my company, but for what device
or trinket I can fashion for you?'

'I apologize for my failure to stay in touch.'

'Not necessary. If half of what I hear about you through rumour is true,
you are a man in need of twice the hours in the day.'

Pug said, 'I need something to detect necromancy.'

The old magician sat quietly for a moment. 'It is forbidden, as you know.'

'I know that, but some men are driven by more than the fear of being
discovered.'

'It is true that the lure of the dark arts can be powerful. Animation
and control of the dead, the use of others' life energies, and the
creation of false life are abominations in the eyes of every temple; and
magicians at the time of the Assembly's founding feared such men.' The
old man chuckled. 'You'll never hear a Tsurani Great One admit this, but
those of my "lesser" calling can reach levels of power terrible to
contemplate. It takes time to learn either path, but the Greater Path is
the quicker path to power. What few know is that the Lesser Path is the
slower path to greater power. I can create devices, given enough time
and materials, that can do things none of the Greater Path - with you
being the possible exception, Milamber - can duplicate. Give me what I
need, and I can build a box that will hold great storms until opened, or
a flute that can command obedience in a thousand animals at once. There
are many things we of the Lesser Path can accomplish that are often
overlooked by the Assembly.

'What do you wish this device to do?'

'I need something that will identify any significant manifestation of
necromancy, say the seizing of a soul or the animation of the dead.'

The old man was silent for a few minutes, then he said, 'Difficult.
These are subtle manifestations to detect if you're talking about a
single life taken, or a single body animated.'

'Can it be done?'

Sinboya was contemplative. At last he said, 'Of course it can, but it
will take time and I will need help.'

Pug stood. 'I will have someone contact you within a day, and he will
provide you with everything you need. Set your price for the work, and
you will be rewarded, as well.

'The man I seek may be the herald of the gravest danger the Empire has
encountered in its long history.'

The old man chuckled. 'No disrespect, my old friend, but there have been
many grave dangers in our history.'

Pug leaned closer. 'This I know, for we of the Greater Path study the
Empire's history as part of our training. I do not exaggerate this,
Sinboya. This may be the unleashing of the Eater of Souls.'

The old man sat silently as his guest left. The Eater of Souls was a
being of extraordinary power, one of the foundation myths of Tsurani
religion. It was written in the temples that in the last days, before
the destruction of the world of Kelewan, a being known as the Eater of
Souls would appear and begin to harvest the unworthy before the gods
unleashed their final war in the heavens.

As the door closed behind Pug, Sinboya felt an unexpected need to visit
the temple of Chochocan, the Good God, to say a prayer and make a votive
offering, an impulse he had not experienced in fifty years.

*  *  *

As Pug left Sinboya's modest home, he felt a strange sense of
familiarity, a sort of deja vu. He hesitated, looked quickly about, and
after seeing nothing amiss in the darkness, hurried along.

He had cast a rift from a deserted spot on Sorcerer's Island to a place
he knew near the City of the Plains, where the original Tsurani rift
into Midkemia had existed, almost a century past. He had then employed a
trick he had mastered in reaching the Eldar under the polar ice cap of
Kelewan years before: simply transporting himself by line-of-sight, a
method which was occasionally tedious, but ultimately effective.

He needed no such trick to return to the world of Midkemia, only a
deserted place where he might depart undetected. He moved quickly along
the dark street, looking for an alley into which to disappear.

From around the corner, a figure emerged from deep shadow, watching as
Pug vanished from sight. The stocky man in the black robe waited for a
minute, then sighed. 'What were you doing in that little house, Pug?' he
muttered under his breath. 'Well, best go find out, hadn't I?' The man
walked purposefully, using a large staff to bear a little of his weight
when he stepped forward with his right leg. He had hurt his knee a while
back, and found the walking staff a comfort.

Without knocking, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

• CHAPTER SIX •

Honest John's

Pug retreated.

He could see the caravan wending its way along the Hall of Worlds and
knew from experience that anything was possible here. The Hall was the
great thoroughfare between worlds, a place where a mortal man could walk
between planets if he knew the way and possessed the necessary skills,
or power, to survive. He glanced at the doors nearest his position, but
none offered a convenient place into which he could vanish. Two led into
worlds he knew were inimical to human existence, with poisonous
atmospheres and crushing gravity, and the other two led to very public
places of disembarkation. Unfortunately he lacked the means to
anticipate local time for places where appearing in the public square at
noon was a bad idea.

He had no choice but to stand his ground, for advance guards had already
espied him and were hurrying forward, weapons drawn, in case he was some
sort of threat - which he would be should they give him cause.

The guards were human, or at least appeared to be from a distance, and
they came to a position about half-way between the lead wagon - pulled
by something that looked somewhat like a purple needra, the six-legged
beast of burden familiar to Pug from his years on Kelewan. Four guards
were dressed in plain grey uniforms, with small turbans of the same
colour, their only armour golden-coloured chest-plates. They bore black
shields and wicked-looking scimitars. Two of the guards carried some
sort of projectile weapon, Pug judged, for they pointed long cylindrical
tubes mounted on shoulder stocks at him.

Pug stood his ground.

After a moment in which neither side made a move, a short man dressed in
light blue robes and a white turban came forward and stood behind the
guards. He looked at Pug then called out a question.

Pug did not understand the language. The Hall of Worlds apparently gave
access to and from every planet in the universe, or at least that was
the theory. No one had ever found the end of the Hall and news of new
worlds being found was constantly filtering back to Honest John's, Pug's
intended destination. As a result, denizens of hundreds of thousands of
nations could be encountered, all speaking different languages.

There were basically three types of individual one encountered in the
Hall of Worlds, denizens, sojourners, and the lost. The last were
hapless souls who had somehow blundered into an entrance to the Hall on
their homeworlds, lacking any knowledge of what had happened to them, or
how to return. Often they were victims for the more predatory
inhabitants of the Hall. Most who travelled the Hall were, like Pug,
sojourners: merely using it as a means of quick access across a vast
distance. But an entire culture had arisen in the Hall formed by those
who chose to live in it. These were not just humans but all manner of
intelligent species, and they had developed, if not rules, then conventions.

One of these conventions was the Trading Tongue. Pug spoke that language
with some skill and he answered in that: 'Could you repeat your
question, please?'

The little man glanced back at a figure sitting on top of the first
wagon, then returned his attention to Pug. 'I asked,' he began in the
Trading Tongue, 'where are you going?'

Pug pointed ahead. 'That way.'

The little man looked perplexed, then said, 'Where are you from?'

Pug pointed back over his left shoulder with his right hand. 'That way.'

'What is your business?' demanded the little man.

Pug was growing weary of the exchange. He was only five doorways away
from the closest entrance to Honest John's and he was impatient to be on
his way. Trying his best to hide his annoyance, he answered, 'My own.'

'You walk the Halls alone, yet I see no weapons. You are either a man of
great power or a fool.'

Pug stepped forward, and the guards' weapons rose slightly. 'I have no
need of weapons. Now, do you intend to bar my passage?'

'My master seeks only to ensure we move amongst one another with the
least amount of difficulty,' answered the little man with a toothy grin.

Pug nodded. Sweeping his hand across his chest he said, 'Then go that
way, and I shall go this way.'

'How are we to know you will not turn and attack us once we've let you
pass?'

Pug let out a breath of exasperation. 'That's enough.' He waved his hand
and a ripple that was visible in the air swept forward, knocking the six
guards and the little man over. He started to walk past when one of the
guards leapt to his feet, drew back his sword and struck downward. Pug
raised his hand and the sword struck an invisible barrier that sent a
shock up the guard's arm as if he had struck a bar of iron.

One of the men holding the tube device pointed it and released a
mechanism, sending a rapidly expanding net at Pug. He had expected a
missile of some type and the netting caught him by surprise. Suddenly
entangled, he had to pause long enough for other guards to reach him. He
closed his eyes and used the transporting skill Miranda had taught him,
coupled with what he had learned years before from the Tsurani Great
Ones, and picked a place on the floor a dozen paces farther along the
Hall. One moment he was entangled in the net with a half-dozen guards
attempting to pull him to the ground, and the next he stood twelve paces
away looking at the confusion.

Pug turned to the obvious master of the caravan, a richly-dressed fat
man sitting atop the lead wagon who blinked in astonishment as Pug
walked towards him, and said, 'If you would rather I reduce you to
smoking ash, I can do that.'

'No!' shouted the man, holding up his hands in supplication. 'Do us no
harm, stranger!'

'Do you no harm?' asked Pug in an exasperated tone. 'I'm just trying to
walk that way.' He pointed. 'What's the boggle?'

Seeing that the robed man was not continuing the attack, the caravan
master lowered his hands and said, 'My agent acted, perhaps, in haste.
He shall be rebuked. He sought, perhaps, another item of merchandise,
thinking you, perhaps, of some value.'

Dryly, Pug said, 'Perhaps.' He looked down the length of the caravan, a
dozen wagons and a line of individuals following them. 'You're a slaver?'

'Only in the sense, perhaps, you might say ... yes.' He spread his hands
palms up and then said, 'But it is a minor sideline, perhaps a source of
some small income, but not my major trade.'

'And that would be?' asked Pug. He disliked slavers, having spent four
years as a slave on the Tsurani world before his magical ability had
been detected. But there was an unwritten law in the Hall that you
troubled no man's trade without cause. Granted he had been attacked, but
from any slaver espying an unaccompanied individual in the Hall, it was
only to be expected.

The man said, 'I deal in items of rare antiquity, unique magical
devices, and holy relics. Perhaps you are seeking something of the sort?'

'Some other time. I must be off,' said Pug. He looked at the fat trader
consideringly. 'But you might be able to sell me some information.'

Putting his right hand over his heart, the man smiled, bowed, and said,
'Perhaps.'

'Have you traded with anyone who knew the way to the second plane?'

The man's face became a mask of confusion. 'Perhaps I do not speak the
Trading Tongue adeptly enough, stranger. The second plane?'

'The second circle. The second realm. That which lies below?'

The man's eyes widened. 'You are mad, but if such a one exists, seek him
at John's Without Reproach. Ask for Vordam of the Ipiliac'

Pug bowed slightly. 'I was going to John, but thank you for the name.'

'Perhaps we shall meet again ...?'

'Pug of Midkemia. Also called Milamber of Kelewan.'

'I am Tosan Beada. Of the Dubengee. Perhaps you've heard of me?'

'Sorry,' said Pug, as he resumed his walk. 'Good trading, Tosan Beada of
the Dubengee.'

'Good travelling, Pug of Midkemia also called Milamber of Kelewan,'
answered the trader.

Pug gave scant attention to the wagons and forced himself to ignore the
slaves. At least fifty were chained together in a coffle, looking
universally miserable. Most were human, and the rest were sufficiently
human-like to be able to move as one with the humans as they marched.
Pug could have freed them, but at what cost to his scant time? And what
would he do with them? Most would have only the local name for their
world, and the chances were good that none would have even the remotest
idea of where their homeworld's door would be found. Pug had learned a
long time ago that when entering the Hall, it was best to leave all
ethical and moral imperatives at home.

Pug easily reached the nearby entrance to Honest John's. He hesitated
for an instant, for no matter how many times before he had done this,
stepping off the Hall floor between doors always gave him a second of
near-panic. He recognized the glyphs above the doors on either side and
knew he was in the right location. Still, no one knew what happened if
one stepped off between doors - no one had ever done so and returned to
talk about it. He ignored the sudden twinge in his stomach and stepped
down, as if descending a staircase.

Suddenly he was in an entryway, a small room with a false door behind
it. He knew the door was only painted on the wall, but it served to
reassure a certain percentage of the clientele at Honest John's.

A large creature, around nine feet in height, looked down at him with
enormous blue eyes. It was covered in white fur and bore a slight
resemblance to an ape, save for the face which was more canine in a
appearance than anything else. Black patches on the fur would have given
the creature an almost jolly appearance, if it wasn't for its huge claws
and teeth ... 'Weapons?' asked the Coropaban.

'One,' said Pug, producing the dagger he had secreted in his robe. He
handed it over and the creature motioned for Pug to enter. Pug stepped
into Honest John's.

The saloon was immense: more than two hundred yards across, and a
quarter mile deep. Along the right wall ran a single bar, with a score
of barmen. A pair of galleries, one above the other, overhung the other
three sides of the hall. The galleries were cluttered with tables and
chairs, offering vantage points from which those above could gaze down
upon the main floor.

There, every imaginable game of chance was underway, from cards to dice
to games involving wheels and numbers; there was even a small sandpit
for athletic contests and duels. The customers were of every race and
species Pug had ever encountered, and any number that were new to him.
Most were bipedal, though a few had more limbs than usual, including one
creature that looked oddly like a man-sized, skinny dragon with human
hands at the end of its wing-tips. The serving staff hurried though the
throng bearing trays covered with a variety of pots, platters, cups,
buckets, and bowls.

Pug wended his way through the press and found the inn's proprietor at
his usual table. John of Unquestioned Ethics, as he was known on the
world of Cynosure, sat at a table by the near end of the bar which
provided him with an excellent view of the entrance. Seeing Pug
approach, John stood up. His face was unremarkable: brown eyes, an
average nose, and a gambler's smile. He was wearing a suit of shining
black cloth. The trousers broke without cuffs at the top of shiny black
boots with pointed toes. The jacket was open at the front, revealing a
white shirt with ruffles, closed by pearl studs and sporting a pointed
collar, set off by a purple cravat. This ensemble was topped by a
wide-brimmed white hat with a shimmering red silk hatband.

He extended his hand. 'Pug! Always a pleasure.' He glanced past him,
'Miranda not with you?' They shook hands and he indicated that Pug
should take the seat opposite him.

'No,' said Pug, taking the seat offered. 'She has other business
occupying her at the moment.'

'It's been a while.'

'As always,' said Pug, sharing the joke. Time didn't pass in Honest
John's. Those who resided in the Hall were somehow spared the ravages of
time's passage. In this place without days, weeks, months or years, time
was measured in hours, one passing after another, endlessly. Pug wagered
that John had the means to tell him exactly how long it had been since
Pug's last visit, but he suspected it had nothing to do with the man's
memory.

'It's not that I'm unhappy to see you again, but I suspect there's a
purpose to your visit. How may I be of service?'

'I seek a guide.'

John nodded. 'There are any number of competent guides in my
establishment as we speak, and a far greater number who could be here
swiftly if I summon them, but which is appropriate to your needs is
determined by one question: where do you want to go?'

'The Dasati homeworld, in the Second Realm,' Pug said.

John was a man of ageless experience. He had heard almost everything
imaginable during his years in the Hall. For the first time, he sat
speechless.

*  *  *

Miranda walked slowly beside an elderly man in a black robe through the
garden on the south side of the great Tsurani Assembly of Magicians. It
was a beautiful afternoon with a light breeze coming down from the
distant mountains to the north, tempering the usually hot Tsurani day.

The massive Assembly building rose up to dominate the island, but the
shore across the lake had been left untouched and provided a soothing
vista for Miranda's troubled mind. She hated it when Pug was absent.

The elderly magician said, 'As happy as I am to see you, Miranda, you'll
understand that many of my brethren are still ...'

'Old-fashioned?'

'I was going to say "traditionalists".'

'In other words they dislike taking advice from a woman.'

'Something like that,' said Alenca, the most senior member of the
Assembly of Magicians. 'We Tsurani have endured a lot of change in the
last century starting, coincidentally, with our first encounter with
your homeworld; and yet more thrust upon us by your husband, but we are
still a hidebound bunch.' The old man's face was a collection of crags
and ridges, lines and age spots, and only the wispiest echo of white
hair graced his pate, but his eyes were a vivid blue and sparkled when
he talked. Miranda liked him a great deal.

'This business with the Talnoy has become something of a bone of
contention between various groups among us, and word of it has made it
all the way to the Imperial Throne in the Holy City.'

'Someone's tattled to the Emperor?' Miranda raised an eyebrow.

The old magician waved a dismissive hand. 'With something as potentially
dangerous as the Talnoy on this island, you didn't think it was going to
remain a secret from the Emperor for long, did you? Remember, our first
mandate is still to serve the Empire.'

Miranda looked out across the garden at the still waters of the lake. 'I
am not surprised, really. My reason for being here is to see if you've
made any progress.'

'I assume then that Milamber and Magnus are away on some business that
prevents them from coming themselves?'

Dryly, Miranda said, 'You forgot to mention Nakor.'

The old man laughed. 'That fellow amuses me no end.' He took a deep
breath. 'I believe he may know more about the Greater Art than I do,
though he insists there is no such thing as magic and we all do ... tricks.'

'Nakor is a constant source of amusement, yes, but let us go back to the
topic at hand: has the Emperor made any comment about the Talnoy?'

'Other than wanting it gone from our world, no.'

Miranda crossed her arms even though the breeze off the lake was warm.
'Has he made that a command?'

'Had it been, the Talnoy would have been returned to you already,' said
Alenca. He rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation of a task.
'Many of our brethren are convinced we are at an impasse, and the rising
occurrences of random rifts are a cause for concern. One of us is
already dead as a result of one.'

Miranda nodded. 'Pug told me: Macalathana. But I don't know what happened.'

'Some little creature or another came through and, as I understand it,
exploded! If you can believe that.'

'I can believe a lot.'

'Wyntakata, who was with him, was so distraught that he retired to his
estates in Ambolena for nearly a month before returning to us.' Lowering
his voice, Alenca added, 'He hasn't seemed quite right since then, if
you ask me.'

'Is the Assembly going to request we remove the Talnoy?'

'If you can't work out a way to stop these damned rifts, yes,' said Alenca.

Miranda was silent for a moment. She had only visited Kelewan and had no
particular affection for it: the men were too stiff-necked in their
attitude towards women - especially those who wielded magic - the
weather was always too hot, and the cities were too crowded. She gazed
out across the lake to the distant shore and majestic peaks of mountains
- the High Wall - beyond. On the other hand, she had to admit that the
landscape was magnificent. After a long moment of contemplation, she asked,

'How long was the Talnoy here before the reports of rifts began to reach
you?'

'Why, several months, I believe.'

'Then we should take the Talnoy back to Sorcerer's Isle,' said Miranda.

'Why?' asked Alenca.

'Because the rifts are either following the Talnoy to this world for
some natural reason; or some intelligence is manipulating it. If there
is some intelligence behind it, it may take months for it to find the
Talnoy back on Midkemia.' She looked at Alenca. 'I wonder if we might
just drop it on some uninhabited world Pug knows of, and study it there.'

Since this seemed to be a rhetorical question, Alenca did not comment.

'You said one of your members was destroyed by a creature exploding. Pug
was vague on the details; what can you tell me?'

From behind them a voice spoke. 'Better I tell you, Miranda.'

Miranda turned to see a stocky man in a black robe, carrying a staff -
which was unusual for a Tsurani Great One -approaching across the
garden. He had obviously overheard some of the conversation as he
neared. Miranda didn't recognize him, but the man said, 'It is good to
see you.'

'Have we met?' she asked. She was not in the habit of using the
honorific 'Great One', as was common in this society, since she was also
a magic user of great skill.

The man hesitated only for a second; then he smiled. He wore his
grey-shot black hair unusually long, almost to his shoulders, and his
face was cleanly shaven in the Tsurani fashion. 'No, I believe we have
not, but your reputation precedes you. Perhaps it would have been better
if I had said, "It is good to meet you".' He inclined his head,
slightly, in deference. 'I am Wyntakata. I was witness to Macalathana's
death.'

'I would count it a courtesy if you would tell me what happened,' said
Miranda.

'We received a report of a rift sighted by a needra herder a half-day's
journey to the north-east of the city of Jamar, in the centre of the
great grasslands of Hokani Province. We arrived and found a rift no
larger than two hands' span floating perhaps a half-hand's span above
the ground. A small creature stood motionless in front of it. I advised
caution but Macalathana was impatient to examine it; I suppose he judged
it posed little threat because of its size.

'As he reached a point before the creature, it erupted in a powerful
blast of light and flames, incinerating a fair amount of grass around
him. The rift was gone. I returned at once to the Assembly with the
grave news and others returned to collect Macalathana's body.'

Miranda asked, 'Did you get any opportunity to study the creature?'

'No, I'm sorry to say. I saw it only for a few moments, just enough to
see that it was tiny, stood on two legs and did not wear garments or
carry artefacts. It could perhaps have been some sort of wild creature
that blundered through the rift from the other side.'

'That is our current thinking,' said Alenca. 'Unless these Dasati beings
tend to explore in the nude,' he added with a chuckle.

'We have very little information about them,' Miranda said ignoring the
old magician's chuckle. 'But I think that's highly unlikely.' To
Wyntakata, she said, 'Alenca and I were just discussing the possibility
of removing the Talnoy back to Sorcerer's Island.'

'Oh, that is premature,' said Wyntakata.

'Really?' asked Miranda.

'We've had some reports of rifts, true, but I have personally undertaken
to investigate as many of the reported sightings as anyone here—'

'That is true,' Alenca interjected.

'—and I can say with some certainty that most reports have been
inaccurate - sightings of things no more magic than weather disturbances
or a child's kite! The one additional rift I did manage to find was only
the size of my fist, and it endured only for a few minutes once I arrived.

'I am convinced these small rifts are natural by-products of the Talnoy
being here and that there is neither intelligence behind them nor that
they are being utilized by any agency seeking the way to Kelewan. I
think we may soon be able to tell you a great deal more about this
Talnoy and to curtail our investigation now would be a great waste of
the time already invested.'

'I'll relay that to my husband,' said Miranda. Smiling at Wyntakata, she
said, 'I must bid you good day, and return to my home.' To Alenca she
said, 'Would you mind escorting me to the rift?'

The old man inclined his head, and Wyntakata hesitated a moment before
bowing slightly and departing in another direction. As they left the
garden, Miranda asked, 'Wyntakata has, to my ear at least, a somewhat
strange accent.'

'His childhood was spent in Dustari Province, across the Sea of Blood.
They tend to crush certain vowels when they talk, don't they?'

Miranda smiled. 'I have another question.'

'What, my dear?'

'Have you come across any rumours of anyone practising necromancy in any
part of the Empire?'

The old magician's step faltered. 'Why, that's forbidden! It's the one
practice that even in the old times, when our word was as law, could
bring a Great One down. Any hint of it meant a death sentence.' He
turned to look at Miranda as they walked. 'Why?'

'Pug has reason to suspect that you may have one come recently to the
Empire from our world, a necromancer of vast power. He's a grave threat,
and he may be hiding anywhere. But his nature is such that he can not
overlong avoid the practice.'

'I'll ask around.'

'I would prefer it if you didn't,' said Miranda. 'Pug is concerned for
many reasons, which I will leave for him to recount another time. But he
trusts you, and you alone. And the one thing you need to know is that
this person - Leso Varen - has the power to occupy the body of anyone.
We do not understand the mechanism by which he does this, save it
involves necromancy and requires a great many deaths, the more hideous
the better for his dark arts to work. We think he may be trapped here.
If so, we must hunt him down and finally put an end to him.'

'You think he might be here?' Alenca looked around, as if suddenly
fearing that someone might be watching them.

Suddenly Miranda realized she had made an error. 'Perhaps not. His
choice of people to possess appears to be haphazard, but he last
masqueraded as a man of great power. I only ask that you keep this
concern quiet until Pug returns to speak with you at length. Will you?'

'Of course,' he answered as they entered the massive main building of
the Academy. 'We shall continue our work on the Talnoy - and please tell
Nakor when you see him next that I'm still waiting for that idea of his
about how to control this thing without the madness-inducing ring.' He
patted her arm and whispered theatrically, 'I'll let you know if I hear
any rumours ... about the other thing.'

Miranda allowed the familiarity. She wasn't overly fond of Tsurani Great
Ones, but she made an exception for Alenca.

They entered the room set aside for the rift to Midkemia -Pug had
adjusted the Tsurani rift machine so that it could now pick any of half
a dozen Midkemian destinations, not just Stardock any more. She chose
Sorcerer's Island and the two magicians who were detailed to operate the
device quickly made the incantation.

Miranda sighed. Just a few short years ago, as she counted such things,
rift magic had been largely unknown. The study her husband had conducted
for the four years he lived in this very Assembly, as well as work he'd
done in the decades since, had reduced her astonishment to that of
hailing a public carriage in Roldem for a ride from the docks to the
River House.

As she stepped into the rift, she thought it really wasn't surprising:
she had rather more sense of wonder left to her in contemplating an
invading horde of warriors from the second circle of hell.

*  *  *

Pug walked along the upper gallery of Honest John's, seeking out the
merchant whose name he had been given. John had confessed he had no idea
who might be able to breach an entrance into the Second Realm, as Pug
had come to think of that circle of reality, but he suggested there
might be someone who might know someone who in turn might know someone
and so forth ...

The merchant was named Vordam of the Ipiliac, a Delecordian, the trader
mentioned by Tosan Beada. Pug knew Delecordia solely by reputation. The
only remarkable thing about that world was its location. It was as far
from Honest John's as any civilized world, and as such had contact with
even more remote worlds and races that had as yet not become commonplace
in the Hall.

Pug found Vordam's place of business, and as soon as he stepped across
the threshold into the modest shop he knew something was amiss.

Pug had visited two places in the universe that were in it, but not a
part of it. The first was the City Forever, a legendary place built by
no one knew who, which was vast to the point of seeming limitlessness;
and the Garden, which was linked to the City without being part of it.
The other was the Hall, and by extension, Honest John's.

This shop was another, for while it was located within Honest John's, it
also was somewhere else. No sooner had Pug assimilated these impressions
than a being came into the shop from a curtained door at the rear. He
seemed to speak, but Pug realized this also was something illusory, for
there were no words, merely the impression of words.

Magic was a rare thing in Honest John's: there was too much potential
for mischief if magic was left unchecked. There were wards throughout
every part of the establishment to prevent the casual use of magic. This
kept the games of chance honest, the negotiations among merchants
above-board, and bloodshed to a minimum. The exceptions were spells
contrived by John, or others on his behalf: one to let all denizens of
the establishment understand one another (although there were always a
few of the more alien guests whose frames of reference were so different
from the mainstream of sentient beings that only fundamental or
rudimentary comprehension was possible). Another spell provided a
hospitable environment for everyone, despite a diversity of races that
counted a wide range of conditions desirable. The last was a defensive
spell that would, Pug imagined, unleash breathtaking damage on anyone
attempting to harm John or any of his staff. An occasional brawl might
erupt, but no serious conflict had occurred in the Hall in the memory of
the oldest living customer.

But there was something magical about this shop, something beyond Pug's
experience, and his experience was far from limited. The creature
repeated his interrogative, and Pug nodded. 'A moment, please,' he said.
The being was human in general appearance. It was taller than most and
more slender, with arms and legs that were a bit longer than one would
expect on a human. The face comprised a single mouth, a nose above, and
two eyes; but the cheekbones were exaggerated compared to any human Pug
had encountered; and the creature had excessively long fingers. There
was a faint greyish-purple hue to its skin and its hair was a luxurious
black with a violet sheen.

Pug sent his senses quickly outwards, extending them like a mystic vine
that touched the vibration of the room, sensing the difference between
it and the rest of Honest John's. For a moment it was oddly familiar.
Pug struggled to recognize it, then suddenly he remembered: it echoed
the traps set for Tomas and him, decades ago, as they searched for
Macros the Black. Pug stared at the merchant. 'I seek Vordam of the
Ipiliac' The creature, dressed in a plain grey robe with a single white
cord around its waist, pressed its hand to its chest, bowed slightly and
said, 'I am he.'

Pug was silent for a moment as he drank in the harmonics of the
vibrations he felt running through every inch of this shop. At last he
understood. He fixed Vordam in his gaze and said, 'You are Dasati!'

• CHAPTER SEVEN •

Deathknight

The sword slashed downward.

Fifty armoured Riders of the Sadharin shouted and beat steel gauntlets
on their breast plates. The roar echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the
ancient stone Hall of Testing, and the wooden seats surrounding the
sandy floor shook from the demonstration.

Lord Aruke's only surviving son looked down at the man he had just
killed, and for an instant was visited by an alien thought, /What a
waste/. He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his thoughts, then
turned slowly to acknowledge the cheers.

Valko of the Camareen, nursing three serious cuts and an uncountable
number of bruises and minor scrapes, nodded four times, once to each
group of the gathered riders seated above him along each of the four
walls. Then he looked down at the fighter he had killed and nodded
again; a ritual recognition of a fierce struggle. It had been a close thing.

Valko spared a quick glance at the father of the slain warrior, and saw
that he was cheering, but without conviction. Lord Kesko's second son
lay at Valko's feet: had the boy prevailed, two living sons would have
earned Kesko great honour and a higher place in the Langradin. Kesko's
only acknowledged son stood next to his father, and his celebration was
sincere; Valko had eradicated a possible claimant to his father's
favour. Then Valko turned to see two lackeys putting down his varnin, a
neutered male he had named Kodesko, after the great crashing surf at the
Point of Sandos in the westernmost holdings of his father, where Sandos
jutted into the Heplan Sea. His opponent's varnin had died during the
fight, when Valko had cut deep and severed its neck artery. That blow
had given Valko the match, for the faltering varnin had distracted the
rider's attention for the brief moment it had taken for Valko to inflict
the wound that had finally proved the difference.

A healer from the Hall of Attenders - a First Rank Master - hurried over
with his assistants, and began to treat Valko's wounds. Valko knew he'd
lose consciousness soon from blood loss if they didn't staunch the flow,
but rather than show weakness before his father and the assembled Riders
of the Sadharin, he pushed aside the Attender, and turned to his father.
Removing the massive black steel helm, he took a deep breath and
shouted, 'I am Valko, son of Aruke of the House of Camareen!' It took
all his strength to raise his sword above his head with his right arm,
cut as it was below the shoulder, but he managed to produce an
acceptable salute before he let the blade fall to his side.

His father, Lord of the Camareen, stood and pointed at his son, then
slammed his gloved fist against his own armoured chest. 'This is my
son!' he cried loud enough for the assembly to hear it.

Again the Riders shouted their approval, a short, deep 'ha!' and then as
one they turned and bowed to their host. Valko knew that a few of the
most trusted among them would stay to dine with Aruke and his household,
but the others would be on their way back to their own strongholds,
rather than risk being caught on the road by rivals or outlaws.

As his mind began to wander, Valko focused long enough to shout, 'Lord
Kesko. This /thing/ could be no son of yours!'

Lord Kesko bowed to the compliment paid him by the victor. He would be
the first to leave Castle Camareen, for while there was no shame in
having a would-be son killed in combat, it was also nothing to cause
rejoicing.

The Master Attender whispered, 'Bravely done, young lord, but should we
not strip away your armour, you'll soon lie next to the one you killed
on the rendering table.' Without waiting for permission, he instructed
his assistants and the leather straps and buckles were quickly
unfastened and the armour removed.

It didn't escape Valko's notice that while doing so, the Attenders were
providing him subtle support, so that he could remain on his feet as his
father slowly made his way through the riders who lingered to offer
further congratulations. The young warrior was tall by the measure of
his race - a full half-head taller than his father, who stood a full
four inches taller than six feet. His young body was powerfully muscled
and his arms were long, providing him with a deadly reach with a sword,
one he had put to good use against the smaller opponent. He was by the
standard of his race a fair-looking man, for his long nose was straight
and not too wide, and his lips were full without looking feminine.

Aruke stopped before him and said, 'Sixteen times before you claimants
to my house's name have come. You are only the third to survive the
blade challenge. The first was Jastmon, who died at the battle of
Trikamaga; the second was Dusta, who died defending this very keep
eleven years ago. I am pleased to name you their brother.'

Valko looked directly into the eyes of his father, a man he had never
laid eyes on until one week ago this day. 'I honour their memory,' said
Valko.

Aruke said, 'We will have quarters prepared for you, near my own. As
from tomorrow you will begin your training as my heir. Until then rest
... my son.'

'Thank you, Father.' Valko studied the man's face and could see nothing
in it that reminded him of his own. While Valko's face was long and
unlined, noble by the standards of his people, his father's face was
round and creased with age lines and a strange mottling of spots on the
left of his brow. Could his mother have lied to him?

As if reading his thoughts, Aruke said, 'What was your mother's name?'

'Narueen, a Cisteen Effector assigned to Lord Bekar's demesne.'

Aruke was silent for a moment, then he nodded. 'I remember her. I took
her for a week while guesting at Bekar's keep.' He glanced down at
Valko, who was clothed only in a loincloth while the Attenders cleaned
and dressed his wounds. 'She had a thin, but pleasing body. Your height
must have come from her family. Does she still live?'

'No, she died in a purging four years ago.'

Aruke nodded once. Both men knew that anyone who was foolish enough to
be outdoors at the first hint of a purging was weak and foolish, and no
loss. Yet Aruke said, 'Unfortunate. She was not unpleasing, and this
house could use a female's touch. Still, now that you're acknowledged,
some ambitious father will seek to throw his daughters at you soon
enough. We shall see what fortune provides.' Turning away, he added, 'Go
and rest now. I will have you at my table tonight.'

Valko managed a slight bow as his father departed. To the Master
Attender, he said, 'Quickly, now. Get me to my room. I'll not faint
before the servants.'

'Yes, young lord,' answered the Master Attender, and he signalled for
his helpers to assist the new young lord of the Camareen to his quarters.

*  *  *

Valko awoke when a servant gently shook his bed cover, not daring to
actually touch the young scion of Camareen. 'What?'

The servant bowed, 'Master, your father requests you join him at once.'
He motioned to a chair upon which clothing had been draped. 'He bids you
wear these garments, fitting of your new rank.'

Valko got out of bed, barely hiding a wince. He glanced to see if the
servant had noticed his hint of weakness, and saw a blank expression.
The man was young, perhaps a little older than Valko's seventeen years,
but clearly he was very practised in his role as servant in a great
house. 'What is your name?'

'Nolun, master.'

'I will need a body servant. You will do.'

Nolun almost grovelled when he bowed. 'I thank the young master for the
honour, but the Reeve will assign a body servant to you, soon, master.'

'He already has,' said Valko. 'You will do.'

Again Nolun bowed. 'Honour you do me, master.'

'Lead me to my father's hall.'

The servant bowed, opened the door, let Valko move through it, then
hurried ahead to guide him to the central hall of his father's keep. As
a claimant to paternity, Valko had been taken straight to the 'poors',
the quarters reserved for the powerless and those of low enough rank
that offending them was unimportant: useful merchants, Attenders,
entertainers and very minor relatives. Those rooms were little more than
cold cells containing mattresses stuffed with straw and a single lantern.

Valko already missed his new bed, the softest upon which he had ever
rested. In the years of Hiding, he had rarely slept on anything better
than what he had found waiting for him in the poors.

As they rounded a corner, Valko hesitated, then said, 'Nolun, wait.'

The servant turned to see his new young master gazing out of a large
window overlooking the Heplan Sea. Beyond the city of Camareen and its
docks the water sparkled in the night, the energy of the motion giving
rise to a play of colours across its surface the boy had never seen
before. His mother had taken him into the mountains for the Hiding, and
he had only glimpsed the ocean on his way to the city during the day.
The size of this body of water had been impressive when seen from the
peaks and passes of the Snow Wardens, as the mountains were called, but
nothing had prepared him for the sheer beauty of the sea at night.

'What are those small bursts of colour, there, and there?' he asked,
pointing.

Nolun replied, 'A fish called shagra, young lord. It leaps from the
depths ... for no reason anyone can ascertain, perhaps simply for the
joy of it, and the leap disturbs the pattern of the ocean.'

'It is ... impressive.' Valko had almost said beautiful, but it would
have been unmanly to use such a word. He realized Nolun was regarding
him. Shorter than Valko by more than a foot, he was a youth with a burly
build: with a barrel-chest, thick neck and short, heavy fingers on huge
hands. 'Do you fight?'

'When needed, young lord.'

'Are you good?'

For an instant something flashed behind the servant's eyes, then he
lowered his head and said quietly, 'I still live.'

'Yes,' said Valko with a chuckle. 'You do. Now, to my father's hall.'

As they reached the great hall, two armoured guards saluted the new heir
to the mantle of Camareen. Valko ignored the pain in his arm, shoulder
and left thigh and strode across the hall to stand before his father.
Aruke sat at the centre of a long table which was placed before a huge
fireplace and. 'I am here, Father.'

Aruke motioned to an empty chair. 'This is your place, my son.'

Valko walked around the table, taking note of those already seated. Most
were, by dress and badge, functionaries. To his father's left hand sat a
beautiful woman, no doubt his current favourite. Gossip he had overheard
the day before led Valko to believe his father's most recent companion
before this one had vanished, almost certainly a Hiding.

Two other men Valko recognized, though he had no name for them; they
were Riders of the Sadharin, Deathknights of the Order like his father.
These would be trusted allies, bound by mutually beneficial alliances
and trust, or they would have been gone from this hall long before the
sun had set in the west.

Aruke said, 'Bid welcome to our guests, Lord Valin and Lord Sand.'

Valko said, 'Welcome to my father's guests,' and passed behind them to
reach his seat. That neither man turned to watch his passing was an
acknowledgement of trust. A servant pulled out the large wooden chair to
the right of Lord Aruke and Valko sat down.

The Lord of the Camareen said, 'Sand and Valin are my closest allies.
They are two of the three legs of power upon which rests the Sadharin.'

Valko nodded to acknowledge this.

Aruke waved a hand and servants hurried forward to load the table with
their lord's bounty. A whole kapek, head and hooves intact, was carried
in on a spit, sizzling fat cracking through the tough hide, and the two
burly servants who bore its weight looked barely up to the task. As it
was deposited on a large wooden platter in front of him Aruke said,
'Tonight is a good night. A weakling died and a strong man survived.'

The others at the table nodded and muttered words of agreement, but
Valko said nothing. He breathed slowly and tried to keep his mind
focused. His body ached, the wounds throbbed, and his head pounded. He
would just as soon have slept the night through, but he knew that his
actions over this night and the few days that followed would be
critical. Any misstep and he might just as easily find himself tossed
off the battlements as being escorted to the Heir's Ceremony.

As the meal wore on, Valko found some of his strength returning. He
partook only a little of the fine Tribian wine, wishing to keep his wits
and not fall asleep at the table. From the course of conversation it
could be a long night of storytelling.

He knew little about the company of warriors. Like most young males he
had endured the first seventeen years of his life in the Hiding. His
mother had prepared well, so he had no doubt she had planned on bearing
the son of a powerful noble. His education had also shown her to be a
woman of ambition, for Valko could read, do arithmetic, and understand
things most warriors left to Effectors, Attenders, Mediators, Mongers,
Facilitators and the other, lesser castes. She had made sure he was
practised in all manner of study: history, language, and even the arts.
She had driven home one thing above all: beyond the power of the sword
arm lay the power of the mind, and more was needed to succeed than
merely obeying the instincts of the race. His nature told him to be
merciless with the weak, but his mother taught him there were uses even
for the weak, and that by cultivating the weakest rather than destroying
them, some measure of benefit could be discovered. She had said more
than once that the TeKarana was supreme ruler of the Twelve Worlds for
one reason alone: his ancestors had been smarter than everyone else's.

His mother had told him many stories of the great feats held in the
great hall of Lord Bekar where she had been selected by his father to
warm his bed. She had obeyed the strictures of the law, and had made
clear to the visiting noble she was able to bear young, and in a cycle
to conceive. She had ensured that her name was clearly given to at least
three witnesses and had then joined him in his bed chamber.

Suddenly, the meal was over, and Valko realized he had fallen into a
reverie. A quick glance at his father reassured him that he had not been
detected. Drifting off in thought was dangerous; he might not hear
something critical, and he might be thought inattentive.

Aruke rose and said, 'I am pleased tonight.'

This was as close as any warlord could come to giving thanks to anyone
without revealing weakness. Lord Sand and Lord Valin stood and nodded to
their host, and almost in unison said, 'It was my pleasure to be here.'

Quickly the hall emptied until Aruke and Valko were alone, save for a
handful of servants. Seeing Nolun at Valko's elbow, the Lord of the
Camareen asked, 'Are you claiming this one?'

Valko said, 'I claim him as my body servant.'

It was a very slight challenge, one which could serve as an excuse for a
fight - and Valko knew that despite his youth his father was still
powerful and had years of experience - but he was correct in assuming
that his father was merely observing form; he would hardly kill a
surviving son over such a trivial issue.

'Then I acknowledge the claim,' said Aruke. 'Come with me, and have your
thing follow. I wish to speak with you of matters between fathers and sons.'

Aruke did not wait to see if he was obeyed; he assumed Valko would be a
step behind him as he turned and walked from the table to a large wooden
door in the left wall. It was highly polished and in the dim light,
Valko could see that it pulsed with energy. It was an open warning: this
door was magically warded and only certain people could open it without
injury or death.

The lord of the castle put his hand on the door and it opened to his
touch. 'Wait outside,' he instructed Nolun. He removed a torch from a
nearby sconce and led Valko through the door.

Once through, Valko saw they were in a short hallway, at the end of
which waited another door, also warded. Aruke said, as he opened the
second door, 'It is foolish to hide the wards, for I am not setting
traps, and the spellmongers demand ridiculous prices for such niceties.'

At the mention of spellmongers Valko felt a familiar tightening of his
stomach. It was weak, he knew, to harbour fears from childhood, but
stories of evil spellmongers and the mysterious sand wizards had been
the common fodder for night tales before sleep, and his mother had
ingrained in him a healthy distrust of those who could fashion things
from air, by making incantations and waving their fingers in mystic
patterns.

The room was simple, though beautiful, if that word could be safely
used. Beauty was always something to be suspicious of, his mother had
told Valko. It gulled fools into not knowing the true worth of a thing,
for often beauty adorned worthless things ... or people.

Aruke had furnished this room with two chairs and a chest. Even the
stone floor had been left devoid of any item of comfort: no furs, woven
rugs, nor quilt warmed the room. But it was beautiful: every stone facet
had been polished and whatever this strange stone might be, it had the
property of reflecting the torchlight as if a treasury of gems had been
crushed and applied to the surface; every hue at the edge of the visible
spectrum raced across the surface in scintillating sheets of colour. It
hinted of alien energies.

As if reading the boy's mind, Aruke said as he put the torch in a
sconce, 'This room has but one purpose. It is where I keep that which is
most valuable to me.' He waved Valko to the chair nearest the single
window. 'I come here to think, and find the colours of the walls ...
refreshes me. And sometimes I come here with a few others with whom I
wish to speak plainly.'

Valko said, 'I think I understand, Father.'

'It is about being your father I wish to speak.' He sat back and for a
moment seemed to relax.

Valko knew it might be a ruse, a ploy to lure him into an early assault,
for it was not unheard of for a newly-named heir to attempt to seize
power. In some ways that made sense to Valko: this man might be his
father, but until a few days earlier he had been a total stranger, a
shadowy figure whom he could not imagine even after asking his mother
countless questions.

Valko waited.

Aruke said, 'It is our custom to prize strength above all else.' He
leaned forward. 'We are a violent people, and we honour violence and
power above everything else.'

Valko said nothing.

Aruke regarded him. After a while he said, 'I remember your mother vividly.'

Again Valko remained silent.

'Have you had a woman?'

Valko appraised his father, attempting to discern if there was a correct
answer. Finally he said, 'No. My Hiding was in an isolated—'

'I do not need to know where,' his father interrupted. 'No father should
know where his surviving son was hidden and raised. It might be tempting
to eradicate such a place in the next Purging.' Then softly he added,
with something close to a chuckle, 'And if it is a place where a strong
son was raised, that might ... be wasteful.'

Valko blurted, 'As wasteful as killing another man's son who was only
beaten by the scantest margin?'

Aruke's face was impassive, but there was a faint tightening around his
eyes. 'Such a question borders on blasphemy.'

'I mean no disrespect to His Darkness, nor His Order, Father. I just
wondered: what if the youth I killed today was a better warrior than one
who was victor in another match, in another keep, within the Order?
Isn't that a waste of a fine warrior to serve the Order?'

'Mysterious Are His Ways,' intoned his father. 'Such long thoughts are
the thoughts of the young. But it is best to keep them to yourself, or
to speak of them only with those under the seal of silence: your priest,
an Attender, or ...' He laughed. 'Or an Effector like your mother.'

Aruke stared out of the window for a moment at the roiling surface of
the distant sea, and the ripple of scintillating colours that played
across its surface. 'I have been told that there is a realm in which the
sun shines so brightly that without a spell or ward a warrior would burn
up within hours from the heat of it. And that those who live there can't
see the splendours we take for granted.' He looked at his son. 'They see
only colours, but not high hue or low hue. They can only hear waves of
sound in the air, but not the thrum of the God Speak in the heavens or
the vibration of the Whole beneath their feet.'

'I saw a blind man once, serving an Attender.'

Aruke spat and made a ritual sign. 'In such a one's care is the only way
you'd see such weakness. I'm sorry you had to see such a thing at so
young an age.

'The Attenders have their uses, His Darkness knows, and he also knows I
would not be sitting here speaking with you had they not ministered to
me after battle. But this thing they have ... this caring for weakness
... it disgusts me.'

Valko said nothing. Rather than feeling disgust, he was fascinated. He
wanted to know why the Attenders kept such a one alive. He had asked his
mother, and all she would say was 'they find him useful, no doubt'. How
could a blind one be useful? He realized this must be another of what
his father had just called his 'long thoughts', and he had best keep his
own counsel.

Aruke sat back. 'A woman. We must get you one ...' he pondered. 'But not
tonight. You held up well and made me proud, but I've seen enough battle
cuts to know you've lost too much blood to do aught but sleep tonight.
Perhaps in a day or two.

'Your mother was the one who ...' He seemed to get lost in thought. 'She
spoke of things. As we lay side by side after coupling, she'd muse about
... all manner of things. She had a unique mind.'

Valko nodded. 'Even those other Effectors I've met during my Hiding were
nothing like Mother. One said she saw things that weren't there.'
Aruke's eyes widened, and Valko knew he was treading close to a
disastrous mistake; even a hint that his mother was gripped by the
madness could cause his father to order his immediate death. He quickly
added, 'Possibilities.'

Aruke laughed. 'She often spoke of Possibilities.' He gazed out of the
window. 'Sometimes what she spoke of bordered on ... well, let's say it
wouldn't have been good for her to be heard speaking by any of the
Hierophants. A Soul Priest would have cautioned her and bid her repent,
praying for her darkness within to assert itself, but there were things
to her moods and natures that I found ... appealing.' Looking down at
his hands, clasped before him, he said, 'She once wondered aloud what
would happen were a child to grow up at his father's knee.'

Valko's mouth dropped in astonishment, then he shut it. 'Such thoughts
are forbidden,' he whispered.

'Yes.' With a sad smile Aruke added, 'Yet you would know more than I of
your mother's ways. Of all those I have coupled with who have declared
before witnesses to bear me an heir, it is she I recall ... most often.'
He stood. 'I have often wondered what you would be like, whether you
would share some of your mother's nature.'

Valko also stood up. 'I will confess she made me think about things at
times, in odd ways, but I never strayed from His Teachings and ... I
ignored much of what she tried to teach me.'

Aruke laughed. 'As I ignored my mother during my Hiding.' He put his
hand on his son's shoulder. Squeezing it firmly, he added, 'Stay alive,
son of mine. I've fifty-four winters behind me, and while other sons
will appear in years to come, they will be fewer and fewer. And I would
not be displeased if you were the one to take my head at the end, just
as I took my father's. I still remember the pride in his eyes as I swung
down at his neck, while he lay on the sand of the pit.'

'I will not disappoint you,' said Valko. 'Yet I hope that day is years
away.'

'As do I. But first, you must stay alive.'

'Stay alive,' repeated Valko in an almost ritual tone. 'As He wills it.'

'As He wills it,' repeated Aruke. 'What is discussed in here is never
repeated. Understood?'

'Understood, Father.'

'Now go and have your thing escort you to your quarters, and sleep. In
the morning you begin your training to be the future Lord of Camareen.'

'Good night, Father.'

'Good night, Valko.'

Valko left and Aruke returned to his chair. He stared out at the sea and
the stars, fascinated by what he knew of them, and curious about what he
didn't know. He saw the star light pushing through the thick air of
Kosridi. He thought of his third journey to the Capital to present his
son to the Karana, to have him swear allegiance to the Order and the
TeKarana who sat upon an ancient throne worlds away. He thought of his
third day of enduring the Hierophants and their long incantations as
Valko dedicated himself to His Darkness and the Way.

Then Aruke rose and removed a single, very old scroll from the chest. He
opened it and read slowly, for reading had never been one of his better
skills. Yet, he knew every word by heart. He read the words on this
scroll twice, and put it away, wondering as he had, twice before, if
this son was the one in the prophecy.

• CHAPTER EIGHT •

New Directions

Pug waited

After a pause, the merchant said, 'No, sir, but you are not far from the
truth.' He waved Pug over to a small table and two chairs of sufficient
proportion to provide comfortable seating for humans as well as himself.
When he was seated, Vordam went on, 'An understandable misapprehension;
we of the Ipiliac are related to the Dasati.'

Pug was not sure he could read the alien merchant's expressions, but he
thought he saw something akin to surprise on his face. 'I must confess I
never expected to find anyone here at the Inn who would ever have heard
of the Dasati let alone be able to recognize one on sight.'

'I heard a vivid description,' said Pug, choosing to hide his ability to
sense the differences between the vibrations in this room and the rest
of Honest John's. 'For reasons I'm reluctant to discuss at the moment I
would rather not go into why I need information, just that I need
information.'

'Information is always among the most prized commodities.' The merchant
clasped his hands before him and leaned forward on the table, a very
human gesture. 'As to the reasons for your enquiry, that remains your
business, but I feel compelled to informed you that I am bound by
several oaths of privilege regarding the business I do with my clients
here in the Hall.' He nodded once. 'It is, you understand, essential for
staying in business.'

'What is it you do, exactly?'

'I procure hard to find items and other ... things: rare artefacts,
unique devices, lost people, information. If you have something you wish
to find cheaply, I am most certainly not your first choice. If you have
something you are desperate to find, I am almost certainly your final
choice.' He regarded Pug and the magician discovered he was beginning to
understand the Ipiliac's facial expressions. The merchant was curious.

'I need to find a guide.'

'Guides are plentiful, even the good ones. You must need a special guide
if you seek me out. Where do you wish to go?'

'Kosridi,' said Pug.

Pug had no doubt that the expression he read on Vordam's face was one of
surprise, for the merchant's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open.

'You can't be serious.'

'I am. Very.'

For a long moment the merchant sat appraising him, then he said, 'May I
ask your name?'

'Pug of Midkemia.'

A slow nod. 'Then perhaps ...' Vordam considered his choice of words,
then said, 'Perhaps it is possible. Your reputation in the Hall has
grown, young magician.'

Pug smiled. It had been some years since anyone had called him 'young'.

'I knew your mentor, Macros.'

Pug's eyes narrowed. No matter what occurred in his life, he found signs
that his father-in-law's hand was in it somewhere. 'Really?'

'Yes, he had occasion to do business with me, several centuries ago.
When you first arrived in the Hall, in his company and with two others,
your passing was not unnoticed. Tomas of Elvandar caused quite a stir,
you see, as he appeared at first glance to be a returned Valheru, a
potential cause of great distress to several races on many worlds. The
young woman, though remarkable by all reports was, and remains, unknown
to us.'

To the best of Pug's recollection of their travelling back to Midkemia
through the Hall, after rescuing Macros from the Garden in the City
Forever, they had encountered no other person along the way.
'Apparently, you have very acute sources of information,' said Pug. 'Did
you know Macros well?'

The trader sat back further, allowing his left arm to hang over the back
of his chair in a relaxed pose. 'Did anyone? I have not met another like
him, however.'

Pug realized that the merchant was holding something back, something he
was unlikely to divulge until he was ready, so he moved back to the
reason for his visit. 'The guide?'

For a moment the merchant was silent. Then he said, 'It is very difficult.'

'What is?'

'For any being from this plane of reality to journey to the Dasati realm.'

'Yet you are here and claim kinship with the Dasati.'

Vordam nodded, then looked towards the door, as if expecting someone.
Slowly, he said, 'Understand ... great thinkers and philosophers from
myriad worlds have grappled with the nature of reality. How to explain
the existence of so many worlds, so many sentient races, so many gods
and goddesses and, most of all, so many mysteries.' He looked at Pug
directly. 'You are not a man to whom I need describe the nature of
curiosity. So I have no doubt you have often spent time considering
these and other imponderables.'

'I have.'

'Think of everything, I mean /everything/ as an onion. Each layer you
peel away has another layer below. Or if you could start from the
centre, each layer another above. Only it's not a sphere, this
"everything", but, well ... everything.

'I know you to be a man of keen perception, Pug of Midkemia, so forgive
me if I sound like a tedious lecturer, but there are things you /must/
understand before even considering a journey to the Dasati realm.

'Above and below this universe we inhabit exist discrete realities,
those we have knowledge of only indirectly. Much of what we know is
filtered through mysticism and faith, but most scholars, theologians and
philosophers hold that there are other dimensions, the seven higher and
lower levels.'

'The Seven Hells and the Seven Heavens?'

'So many races call them,' answered Vordam. 'There are probably many
more, but by the time one reaches the seventh level of either the
Heavens or Hells there are no frames of references beyond them that ...
well, that make enough sense to bother with. The Seventh Heaven is a
realm believed to be so blissful, so joyous that mortal minds cannot
encompass even the concept of it. The Sixth Heaven is populated with
beings whose brilliance and beauty would bring such wonder and joy to us
that we would die, overwhelmed by happiness from merely being in their
presence.

'According to some accounts,' said Vordam, 'you've had dealings with the
demons of the Fifth Circle, the Fifth Hell.'

'One of them,' said Pug with a grim expression. 'It nearly cost me my life.'

'The Fifth Heaven is its opposite. Those beings are concerned with
matters beyond our ability to apprehend, but they mean us no harm. Yet
to see them would be dangerous in the extreme, so intense is the state
of their being.' He paused. 'Beyond the so-called Spheres, or Planes,
lies the Void.'

'Wherein dwell the Dread,' Pug supplied.

'Ah,' said Vordam. 'Your reputation is not overstated.'

'I have had dealings with the Dread.'

'And live to speak of it. My respect for your abilities grows by the
second. The Dread are anathema to both the Heavens and Hells, as the
Void surrounds them, and would devour them if it could.'

'You speak as if the Void has awareness.'

'Doesn't it?' Vordam asked rhetorically. 'Directly above us, so to
speak, is the First Heaven, as the First Hell is seen to be below us.'
He looked into Pug's eyes and said, 'Just so we have no
misunderstanding, Pug. That is where you wish to travel.

That is the Dasati realm of which you speak. You're asking for a guide
to take you to Hell.'

Pug nodded. 'I think I understand.' His expression was a mixture of
curiosity and apprehension. 'At least in the abstract.'

'Then let me provide you with a less abstract image. You can't breathe
the air or drink the water for more than a little while. The air may act
like corrosive gas and the water like acid. That is an analogy, though
the truth is likely to be far more subtle, for their air may not be
corrosive nor their water contain acid.'

^' I am ... confused,' Pug admitted.

'Think of water running downhill. The higher up the realms we climb,
from the lowest hell to the highest heaven ... all energy, light, heat,
magic, everything, burns brighter, is hotter, is more powerful; and
therefore, all energies flow down from the highest to the lowest. The
air and water of Kosridi world would literally drag all the energies
from your body: you would be like a handful of dry straw thrown onto a
low fire. It would burn brightly for a while, then fade.

'The inhabitants of that realm have an equally difficult time in your
realm, though their problems would be different; they would become
blissful as they drank in all the abundant energies surrounding them,
but after a while, they would be like men who have had too much to drink
and eat, and be overwhelmed by drunkenness and gluttony, barely able to
move until excess caused their death.'

'How then can you, kin to the Dasati, exist here in the Hall?'

'Before I explain that, might I suggest you select your companions who
wish to accompany you and return here with them?'

'Companions?' asked Pug.

'You may be willing to risk going to the Dasati world, but only a madman
would venture there alone.' The merchant regarded Pug with an expression
that could only be called calculating. 'I'd suggest a small party,
perhaps, but a powerful one.' He stood. 'I will explain the rest of this
to you once they've arrived. While you are away, I shall set about
finding you a guide, who will also be your teacher.'

'Teacher?' asked Pug.

With what Pug could only call a smile, an expression another might
regard as a fearful-looking grimace, Vordam said, 'Return here in one
week by your calendar, and all will be ready for your instruction.'

*  *  *

'What instruction, Father?' asked Valko.

Aruke sat back in his chair. They were once again in the room where he
had taken his son to speak after their first supper together. 'There is
a place maintained by the Empire in which we train our sons.'

'Train? I thought /you/ would train me,' Valko said, preferring to stand
by the window rather than sit opposite his father. 'You are an excellent
warrior, one who has ruled his house for twenty-seven winters.'

'There is more to ruling than the ability to lop off heads, my son.'

'I don't understand.'

Aruke had brought two large flagons of wine into the chamber. Valko's
sat untouched on the floor next to his chair. The Lord of Camareen drank
from his. 'I remember emerging from my Hiding. I was at a disadvantage
compared to you, for my mother was not as clever as yours. I knew how to
fight. No one survives living in the Hiding without that, but the
ability to knock someone down and take what you need is only part of
it.' He studied his son. In the few days he had been living here, Aruke
had come to feel a sense of pleasant expectation at seeing the boy. They
had even gone hunting two days earlier and he had found the lad able, if
not polished. Yet he had stood fearlessly before a charging tugash boar
defending his sow and their litter, decapitating the animal with a deft
move that prevented the creature from killing him. Aruke had been
visited by an odd notion: that had the beast killed Valko he would have
felt a sense of loss. He wondered whence that alien emotion had arisen,
and if it was a sign of that weakness which came with age: sentiment?

'This place is called a school. It is not far from here so you will be
able to return to visit from time to time. It is a place where
Facilitators and Effectors will show you the things you will eventually
need to know if you take my head and rule after me.'

'That will be years away, Father, and I hope when I do you will welcome it.'

'If you spare me weakness and prove my line is strong, no man can ask
for more than that, my son.'

'What will I be learning?'

'First of all, the ability to learn. It is a hard concept: sitting for
hours listening to Effectors and watching Facilitators can numb the
mind. Secondly, to hone your fighting skills. I remember how I learned,
as a child, with wooden sticks at first, battling the other boys who
were Hiding. Then the forays into a neighbouring village at night, to
steal what we needed, eventually trading with Facilitators for enough
gold to tray armour from a monger.' He sighed. 'It seems so long ago.

'But no amount of scuffling with older boys, not even your defeat of
Kesko's son, means you're a skilled warrior. You have raw talent, but it
needs refinement before you're fit to ride with the Sadharin.' Aruke sat
back, sipped his wine, and then added, 'And, as unpleasant as it may
sound, a ruler has to know how to deal with the Lessers.'

'Deal with them? I don't understand. You take what you need, or they are
killed.'

'It's not that simple. The Effectors will teach you just how complex
things can be, but do not worry; you appear intelligent enough to
understand. And the Facilitators will show you how to implement what the
Effectors have taught you.'

'When do I go to this school, Father?'

'Tomorrow. You will leave with a full escort, as befits the heir to the
Camareen. Now, go and leave me to my own thoughts.'

Valko rose, leaving his untouched drink sitting by the chair. As the
door closed, Aruke wondered if the boy had somehow guessed the drink was
poisoned or just hadn't been thirsty - he never would have let him die
so early in his education, but a little writhing in pain was a good
point-maker, and an Attender had been standing close by to administer
the antidote.

*  *  *

As the door closed behind him, Valko smiled slightly. He knew that right
now his father must be wondering if he had known the drink was poisoned.
His smile widened. Tomorrow he would start the serious education his
mother had told him about. He looked forward to the day he could send
for her and tell her all that she had taught him had been not wasted.
What she had told him about his father had been true, and what she had
told him about school would certainly be true. Perhaps then she would
tell him the truth about why she had him lie to Aruke about her death.
He put that thought inside, and instead remembered her parting words:
/Always let them underestimate you. Let them think they are more clever
than you. It will be their undoing./

*  *  *

'Instruction?' asked Jommy. 'What for?'

'Because,' answered Caleb, who had just arrived from Sorcerer's Island.

Talwin Hawkins added, 'Pug says you need it.'

Tad and Zane exchanged glances. They knew that Jommy was in a mood to
argue and when he did, he became as stubborn as a mule with its hooves
nailed to the floor. The boys had been enjoying a long stretch of city
life, and all had been both delighted by the distractions and amusements
offered by Opardum, capital of the Duchy of Olasko, now part of the
Kingdom of Roldem.

They sat in the empty main dining room of the River House, the
restaurant Talwin had opened after returning to Opardum. So successful
had the endeavour been - people waited for hours to gain seats - that he
had been forced to expand. He had just purchased the building next to
his and would enlarge his seating capacity by half again. Lucian, who
had been Tal's personal cook in Roldem before joining him in Opardum,
had elected to call himself /chef/, a Bas-Tyran word for a master cook.
He and his wife Magary were celebrated throughout Olasko. The boys
worked as cleaners in the kitchen, occasionally lending a hand as
servers. The best part of the work was the food: there were all manner
of wonderful dishes, and at the end of the day Magary often kept aside
special desserts or other treats boys of their station would never
usually experience, for she had developed a fondness for them.

The boys had come to regard Talwin as something of an uncle, the one who
let you have fun when your father didn't. But that father, Caleb, had
arrived the night before after having spent a few weeks alone with Tad
and Zane's mother, then another week running some errand for his father.

And the boy who had become something of a cousin to them sat quietly
trying not to live up to his name. Laughter-In-His-Eyes Hawkins, as
precocious a seven-year-old as any of them had encountered, was failing
miserably at hiding his glee. Named for his grandfather, the boy was the
eldest of Hawkins' two children, the second being a delightful baby girl
named Sunset-On-The-Peaks.

Jommy shot the boy a black expression, and it tipped the balance:
Laughter could not contain his amusement any longer. 'What's so funny,
Laff?' asked Jommy.

'You're going to school!' whooped Laughter. He had his mother's
reddish-blond hair and his father's features, and his blue eyes held an
evil glint as he grinned at Jommy.

At last Tad said, 'Don't think me stupid for asking, but what exactly is
a school?'

Caleb said, 'You're not stupid for not knowing something. You're only
stupid if you don't ask. A school is a place where students go to study
with a teacher. It's like having a tutor for a lot of boys and girls at
the same time.'

'Ah,' said Zane, as if he understood. He obviously didn't.

'In Roldem they have schools,' said Tal. 'Lots of them, most run by the
various guilds. It's different from in the Kingdom or Kesh or here in
Opardum.' Glancing at Jommy, he added, 'and very different from anything
you knew down in Novindus.'

'We've got schools where I came from,' offered Jommy with a hint of
defiance in his voice, which made it clear he had never heard of a
school before in his life. 'Just never saw one, that's all.'

Their lives since arriving at the River House had been equally divided
between hard work, which none of them minded, and hard play. In the time
the three boys had been together a bond of brotherhood had formed that
had conspired to keep them constantly on the edge of trouble when they
weren't undertaking tasks for the Conclave. When they were, it was
usually under the direction of their stepfather, or one of Pug's
appointed agents. But when left to their own devices the lack of
supervision was decidedly noticeable. On more than one occasion, Tal had
had to intercede with one city official or another on their behalf.

'It'll be good for you,' said Caleb. 'Tal tells me you country boys seem
to find a little too much trouble in the city for my liking. So,
beginning tomorrow you will no longer be working here, but students at
the University of Roldem. You will seem to leave by ship for the benefit
of the thugs and tarts you socialize with, but later tonight Magnus will
take to you Roldem where you will appear to have arrived by a ship
before dawn.'

'Roldem!' said Tad, suddenly enthused. It was, as Talwin opined, the
most civilized city in the world, and as he had undertaken their
education for the last month, his opinion on the matter counted for much
with the boys.

'I thought you said we'd be going to a school,' said Jommy, no longer
hiding his confusion.

Tal laughed. 'It /is/ a school. It's a school where they try to study
everything, hence the name. You will be taught alongside the sons of
Roldem's nobility and those from other nations surrounding the Kingdom's
sea.'

'Sons?' asked Tad. 'No daughters?'

Tal shook his head sympathetically.

Caleb said, 'Father's view on educating women is ... distinctive,
perhaps unique. No, you'll be lodging with boys, most of them a few
years younger than you, but some your own age.'

'Lodging?'

'Yes, you'll be living at the university with other students under the
supervision of the monks.'

'Monks?' asked Zane, his tone showing what the others revealed in their
expression. 'What monks?'

Hawkins feigned a cough to hide his smile. 'Why, the Brothers of La-timsa.'

'La-timsa!' shouted Tad. 'They're ...'

'Strict?' supplied Caleb.

'Yes, they are that,' agreed Talwin.

'Very strict,' responded Caleb, glancing at his friend.

'Some might say a little too strict, though I've never heard of a
student dying from too much discipline,' said Tal.

'They don't drink anything but water,' whined Zane. 'They ... eat coarse
bread and hard cheese and ... boil their beef.' He cast a longing look
at the kitchen door.

'Who's La-timsa?' asked Jommy. 'I get confused by all the different
names up here.'

Tal said, 'I'm not conversant with the names they use down in Novindus
...' He looked to Caleb and shrugged.

Caleb said, 'Durga.'

'Durga!' shouted Jommy. 'They're celibates! They beat each other with
canes for penance! They take vows of silence that last for years!
They're celibates!'

Tal burst out laughing, which set his young son off into gales of hilarity.

'Get whatever you think you need together, then you've got an hour to go
out and say your goodbyes,' said Caleb, laughing with the others. Then
his voice turned serious. 'I'm saying this now, so be clear. The day
will come when you will be standing where Talwin and I stand now, at the
heart of the Conclave. You will not be soldiers, but generals. That is
why you're going.'

He left and the three boys looked at one another with a shared
expression of resignation. After a minute, Tad said, 'Well, it is Roldem.'

'And they can't keep us locked up in this university all the time, can
they?' asked Zane.

Jommy's black expression suddenly lifted and he grinned. 'Well, they can
bloody try, can't they?' He slapped Tad on the shoulder. 'Come on, we
need to pack, and then there's this one girl I want to say goodbye to.'

'Shera?' asked Zane.

'No,' said Jommy.

'Ruth,' supplied Tad.

'No.' Jommy started walking towards the kitchen behind which their
quarters and belongings waited.

'Milandra?'

'No,' said Jommy as he walked though the door.

Zane grabbed Tad's arm. 'How does he do it?'

'I don't know,' said his foster-brother, 'but it's going to stop once we
get to Roldem.'

Zane sighed. 'I already miss Opardum.'

Pushing aside the door, Tad said, 'You mean you miss the food.'

• CHAPTER NINE •

Roldem

The boys circled slowly.

Jommy, Tad, and Zane waited as more than a dozen university students
approached them. The three foster brothers had walked from the docks
where they were expected to have arrived, though they had been
transported by Magnus at Pug's request to a Conclave warehouse. They
were appropriately dirty and rumpled, so the story that they had spent a
month or more on a caravan and then a week at sea would pass muster.
Each wore a plain tunic and trousers, and had a travel-sack slung over
his shoulder.

They watched as the students fanned out, forming a rough half-circle
before them, looking them up and down as if examining livestock. They
ranged in age from approximately twelve years to roughly the same age as
the three newcomers – though Jommy suspected he'd turn out to be the
oldest student in sight at nearly twenty years of age.

All the students were dressed in the official garb of the university: a
black felt beret wore tilted to the left, a pale yellow shirt, over
which a long blue tabard with white trim along the edges hung, tied
front to back on both sides; yellow trousers and black boots. Each
student carried a black leather pouch in their left hand. From their
dark complexions, several students appeared to be Keshian; from the
varied accents, many were from other nations.

One of the older boys, with dark hair and eyes, his smile bordering on a
smirk, walked up to Jommy and looked him up and down. He then turned to
a disdainful-looking fair-haired youngster at his side and said, 'Who's
this, then?'

'Country lads, obviously,' replied his friend.

'You can tell from the smell of manure.'

Jommy put down his travel bag. 'Look, mate. We just got off a ship after
some rough seas, and before that had a long wagon ride, so let's say
we're not in the best of tempers. So why don't we start the "making life
hell for the new boys" tomorrow? How'd that be?'

The dark-haired youth said, 'This bumpkin wants to postpone our welcome,
Godfrey. What do you think?'

'I think he's being presumptuous, Servan.'

'So, it's presumptuous to want to be friendly?' asked Jommy, rhetorically.

Servan's dark eyes narrowed as he feigned deliberation. After a second
he said, 'No. I don't think so. Let's begin now.' He poked his finger
hard into Jommy's chest. 'Why don't you put down that bundle so I can
start your education right now, peasant, beginning with not speaking
back to your betters!'

Jommy sighed. He took off his bundle slowly, saying, 'So, it's going to
be like that, then, is it?' He put the pack down, and grinned as he
stepped forward. 'See, as a rule I'm as easy going as the next fellow,
but I've been around enough to know that everywhere you go, regardless
of nationality or rank, time of the day, or month of the year—' and he
suddenly threw a straight right punch to Servan's jaw which caused his
eyes to roll up in his head as he collapsed to the ground, '—you find
idiots!'

To the blond-haired boy he said, 'You want any of this, then?'

'No,' said the now-shocked boy.

'Then be kind enough to tell us where the new students go.'

'Brother Kynan's office.' Godfrey pointed at the main entrance to the
university. 'In there, to the right, second door.'

'Thanks, mate,' said Jommy with a smile. 'And when your friend awakes,
tell him no worries. I believe everyone's entitled to a mistake now and
again. So, we can start over fresh tomorrow. But next time he tries to
lord it over us "country lads" I'll really lose my temper.'

Godfrey just nodded.

Jommy picked up his travel-pack and said to his companions, 'Off we go,
then.'

They started across the large courtyard between the main gate and the
huge building that was the Royal University of Roldem, leaving a
muttering group behind as they gathered around their fallen classmate. A
younger student hurried to Jommy's side, looking up with a ferocious
grin and said, 'I'll show you the way!'

'That's a lad. What's your name?'

'Grandy, what's yours?'

'Jommy. These are Tad and Zane.'

The boy looked no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, and had an
infectious smile. His face was freckled and his head was crowned with a
thatch of dark brown hair. His expression bordered on the gleeful.

'You always this happy?' asked Tad.

Grandy shook his head. 'No, only on days when someone hits Servan in the
mouth.'

'Happen a lot?' asked Zane.

'No, today was the first time, but I'll come and watch any time you want
to do it again.'

'Bit of a pain, is he?' asked Jommy, as they mounted the wide steps
leading to the massive double doors.

'More than a pain. He's a bully and ... he's just mean. I don't know
why; he's got everything anyone could want.'

'I'm surprised no one's punched him before,' said Jommy.

'That's probably because his uncle's the King,' said Grandy.

Jommy stopped so suddenly that Zane stepped hard into him, tripping and
landing in a heap. Tad stared at Grandy, his eyes blinking like an owl
surprised by a lantern.

'His uncle, the King?' said Zane, getting quickly to his feet.

'Not properly,' said the boy in a bright tone. 'His father's some sort
of cousin, a nephew to the King's father, the old King, if you see—' his
grin got wider, '—but he refers to the King as his "uncle" and no one's
willing to argue about it. Because he's still a prince and all.'

Jommy stood motionless, then said, 'Stepped into it that time, didn't I?'

'What are you going to do?' asked Tad.

'Well, as I see it, I've either got to make him my new friend, or I've
got to beat him so badly he'll be afraid to tell anyone.'

Grandy laughed aloud. 'I don't think either's going to work. Who's your
patron?'

'Patron?' asked Zane. 'What do you mean?'

'Who got you in to the university?' asked the active boy as they entered
the vestibule and moved towards a large hall running to the right and
left. 'My father's a former captain in the royal fleet, and my
grandfather was the old king's - what the people call the current king's
grandfather - admiral of the Southern Fleet. Both went here, so they had
to take me, as a legacy. When I'm done here, I'm going for the navy,
too. So, who's your patron?'

Tad tried to remember what Caleb had told them to say should anyone ask
this question, and said. 'Well, we're from the Vale of Dreams, so we
know people in both the Kingdom of the Isles and Great Kesh—'

Zane cut him off, saying, 'Turhan Bey, Lord of the Keep, Chancellor of
Great Kesh.' The boys had only met the man once, briefly, less than a
year earlier, when the plot against the throne had been thwarted, and it
was unlikely the Lord of the Keep of Great Kesh could pick them out of a
street gang, but Pug had close ties with the man and he apparently had
agreed to act as sponsor without looking too closely at Pug's reasons.

Grandy laughed. 'Well, that's a high enough personage that Servan will
at least think twice before he complains to his father, or maybe if he
does, his father will think twice before he has someone cut your throat.
Here we are.' Now they stood before a large wooden door to the right of
the hall with a small viewing window in the middle. 'Knock three times,
then wait,' said Grandy. I'll see you later.' He scampered off and the
three newcomers exchanged shrugs.

Jommy knocked three times and they waited.

After a moment the cover on the viewing window moved aside. They saw a
brief glimpse of light and what appeared to be a man's eyes, then the
viewing window closed. The door swung open wide and a monk of La-Timsa
stood in the doorway. He was tall, broad of shoulder and chest, and wore
a light brown robe which reached the floor. The robe's hood was
currently thrown back to reveal an equally massive head, clean shaven in
the style of his order. 'Yes?'

Jommy glanced at his companions whose expressions made it clear they
expected him to do the talking, so he said, 'We were told to come here
... sir.'

The monk said, 'It's "Brother" not "sir" Enter.'

When the three boys were in the room, he said, 'Close the door.'

Zane closed it and the monk sat down behind a large table. 'I am Brother
Kynan, Reeve of this university. You will address all monks as
"Brother", and any priest you meet as "Father". Is that clear?'

'Yes ... Brother,' said Tad. The others echoed him a moment later.

'Who are you?'

Jommy said, 'I'm Jommy, and this is Tad and Zane,' he indicated which
was which. 'We're here from—'

'I know where you are from,' said the monk. His head was dominated by a
massive brow ridge and deep-set eyes which gave the impression that he
was constantly glaring. Or perhaps, thought Zane, he /was/ glaring. 'You
are not what I expected when we received a request from the Imperial
Court in Kesh to admit three "promising young men" in the middle of the
year.' He fell silent as he regarded them.

Jommy was about to say something, when Brother Kynan cut him off. 'You
only speak when you are spoken to, is that clear?'

'Yes, Brother,' said Jommy. His expression showed he was not happy being
addressed in this fashion.

'You will have to work harder than the others, to catch up. Our
education is the finest in the world, so consider yourselves privileged
to be admitted to the university. Here you will study many things:
history, the arts, the revealed truth as given by La-Timsa to her
chosen, as well as military strategy and tactics. Roldem's finest young
nobles study here, preparing to serve the nation in the navy, the
marines, or the royal court, as it is the duty of all who finish their
studies to spend ten years in service before returning to their
families. Many remain in service to the Crown their entire lives.'

Tad and Zane exchanged worried glances, for no one had said anything
about service to Roldem. What they knew about the Conclave didn't
preclude Pug ordering them to spend years in the royal court, or
fighting Roldem's enemies on land or sea; but it would have been less of
a shock had someone mentioned it to them. As if reading their thoughts,
Brother Kynan said, 'Those of you who are not citizens of Roldem are not
given the privilege of serving, but rather are required to pay a large
sum in gold.' He looked Jommy up and down. 'Your looks belie your
station, but that is not at issue. Shortly, you will go see Brother
Timothy, who will take those garments from you and store them. You will
henceforth wear the university's uniform every day from now until you
depart. There is no rank among the students, so no titles are permitted.
You will address one another by name only, and the brothers and fathers
by both their title and name.

Our rules are strict and we do not tolerate disobedience. Now, strip off
your tunics.'

The boys exchanged quick glances, then dropped their bundles and shed
their tunics. 'Kneel before the table,' said Brother Kynan. Again they
glanced at one another. 'Kneel!' shouted the large monk, and the boys
did so.

Brother Kynan strode to the corner of the room and returned with a long
wand of dark wood. 'This rod,' he said as he showed it to them, 'is the
instrument of correction. Any infraction will earn you strokes from it.
The number of strokes will be determined by the severity of the
infraction.' Suddenly, he lashed out, taking Jommy across the shoulders,
then Zane, then Tad. All three boys winced but none of them cried out.
'This is so you know what you face. Are there any questions?'

Jommy said, 'One, Brother.'

'Speak.'

'What is the punishment for striking another student?'

'Ten strokes.'

Jommy sighed then said, 'Well, then, I suppose you'd best lay on,
Brother, as I hit a chap named Servan a few minutes before getting here.'

'Good,' said the monk. He delivered ten hard strikes across Jommy's back
as Zane and Tad stayed on their knees wincing every time the wand fell.
When he had finished, he said, 'Rise and put on your tunics.'

They did as instructed and then Brother Kynan said, 'You're more
intelligent than you look, Jommy. The punishment for not reporting
yourself is double the lashes. You would have had twenty had someone
else told me of your striking Servan.'

Jommy just nodded.

'Go down the hall and at the last door on the left you'll find Brother
Timothy. He will see to your needs.'

Tad and Zane put on their shirts with some signs of discomfort but Jommy
just yanked his on, picked up his bag and left the room. In the hall,
Tad asked, 'Doesn't your back hurt?'

'Of course it hurts,' said Jommy. 'But I had worse from my dad back when
I was younger than Grandy, and I don't like giving his type the
satisfaction.'

'What type?' asked Zane.

'There are two types of men who give out punishment, old son. Those who
know it's necessary and those who enjoy it. Brother Kynan's the sort who
enjoys it. The more you show how much it hurts, the more he enjoys it.'

They reached the door and knocked three times. A voice from within said,
'Don't just stand out there in the rain! Come in!'

Zane glanced around. 'Rain?'

Jommy laughed and opened the door. Inside they found another room,
larger than Brother Kynan's office, but instead of being an austere
workplace it was a veritable warehouse. Along the wall to their left
shelves ran from floor to ceiling and on each rested small wooden boxes,
each with a name and number carefully painted on it. There must have
been hundreds of them, for the room stretched away behind row upon row
of shelves that rose up from the floor to block their view. Two narrow
paths ran between the shelves and the bare right wall and one between
the shelves on the left wall and the shelves they faced. The only other
feature in the room was a small table and chair, occupied by a monk. The
wizened little man was perhaps the tiniest human being any of the boys
had ever seen; the average dwarf would have seemed to tower over him.
His head was shaved like Brother Kynan's, but he sported a full red
beard streaked with grey. The man's eyes were a vivid blue and his face
seemed to be frozen in a perpetual smile. 'New boys!' he announced with
glee. 'I heard we were to have some new boys! That's just splendid!'

Tad said, 'Brother Kynan told us to come here. Are you Brother Timothy?'

'Yes, I am, indeed, that's who I am.' He continued to chuckle. 'Well,
then, let's begin. Off with your clothes.' He stood and scurried down
the left aisle, leaving the boys looking at one another in surprise.

'Perhaps we get uniforms,' said Zane.

'No,' said Tad. 'Really?'

Jommy winced slightly as he pulled off his tunic, and by the time
Brother Timothy returned, carrying three wooden boxes in a stack that
threatened to overbalance with each step he took, the boys stood naked.

Tad said, 'Here, Brother, let me help you,' as he grabbed the topmost box.

'That's fine,' said the monk. 'You each take one.' When they each stood
holding a box - inside which were tunics, trousers, hats and boots, as
well as white linen small-clothes - he said, 'Well don't just stand
there like fools, Get dressed. If something's too big or too small,
we'll sort it out.'

It took only a minute to realize the uniform handed to Jommy was too
small and the one Zane had far too large. They swapped and discovered
both had decent fits. The boots were a different matter and it took the
diminutive monk several trips to the rear of the storage room to find
boots that fitted them. But in the end each of them stood wearing the
identical costume they had seen the others wearing.

Tad suddenly laughed, and Jommy said, 'What?'

'I'm sorry, Jommy, but ...'

'You look ridiculous,' finished Zane.

'Well, neither of you look as if you'll be impressing the girls around
that fountain in Kesh where I met you any time soon.'

Tad laughed even more.

'Girls,' said Brother Timothy. 'Can't be talking about girls, now. It's
not allowed.'

All three stopped laughing and Tad said, 'No girls?'

'No,' said the monk. 'We know how young boys are, yes we do. Just
because we're a celibate order doesn't mean we don't remember, though
it's not a good thing to remember too much. Why, when I was a lad,
before I got the calling ...' He let the thought finish itself. 'No, no
girls. You must study, yes, study, and practise, practise a great deal.
Yes, but no girls.'

The odd little monk seemed to have reached the point of utter confusion
on the subject and Jommy said, 'Brother, what next?'

'Next?' asked the monk.

'What do we do next?' Jommy elaborated.

'Oh, what do you do next!' said the monk, returning to the amused state
the boys had found him in. 'Why, you study, and you practise.'

Tad rolled his eyes, while Zane decided to clear things up. 'He means,
what do we do right now; are we finished here?'

'Yes, yes. You come here when you need supplies, and if you tear a
garment or need new boots - though the Father doesn't like it if you
wear out boots.'

'What sort of supplies?' asked Tad.

'Oh, supplies!' exclaimed the little monk and he was off to the back of
the room once more. A moment later he returned with three of the odd
leather pouches they had seen all the other students carrying. 'Here are
your supplies. These are student purses. Look inside!'

The boys discovered that the purses were basically two soft leather
skins sewn together, one bigger than the other so it created a flap
which folded over, keeping the bag's contents inside. Inside they found
a small knife, a small squat jar with a stopper, a half-dozen quills,
and a sheaf of paper. There were other items wrapped in paper that was
treated with some sort of oil or wax, as well as a small box.

Jommy started to extract the box, but Brother Timothy said, 'Later. You
can look later. I just wanted to make certain I didn't give you an empty
purse. Now, learn to write small.'

'Small?' asked Zane.

'Makes the paper last longer,' replied Timothy.

'Where do we go now, Brother?' asked Jommy.

'Go to the hall of residence. Ask for Brother Stephen; he is the
Proctor.' With a wave of his hand, he said, 'Now, go away!'

'Brother,' asked Tad as they moved towards the door, 'where is the hall
of residence?'

'The residences are in the other wing of this building. Go back down the
hall to the right and at the last door on the left you'll find Brother
Timothy. He will see to your needs.'

They left the room and went back down the hall. At the end of the hall
they came to a room with no door. It was an immense hall, and along each
wall a row of beds jutted out. At the foot of each a wooden chest rested.

Walking down the aisle between the chests was another monk, this one
with no beard. 'You are the new boys.' It was a statement, not a question.

'Yes,' answered Zane, quickly adding, 'Brother.'

'I am Brother Stephen, the Proctor. I am in charge of all the students
when they are not at class, prayer or otherwise tasked by another monk
or priest. Follow me.' He turned and led them to the farthest end of the
hall. He pointed to a single bed on the right, and said, 'One of you
will sleep here.' He then pointed to two beds on the left side of the
room. 'Two of you will sleep there.'

The boys quickly looked at one another, shrugged, and Tad and Jommy went
to the left, while Zane took the right-hand bed. As Zane started to sit
down on it, the monk said, 'Do not sit!'

Zane snapped upright. 'Sorry, Brother.'

'Look inside the chest.'

They did and in each chest they found a boot brush, a comb and a large
coarse linen cloth, as well as a razor and a cake of hard soap. Zane
started to reach into the chest to examine the comb, and the monk said,
'Touch nothing!'

Zane's expression was one of pain. 'Sorry, Brother ... again.'

'Look at how each item is arranged. Each morning you will rise and make
your bed, and go to the bathroom. There you will bathe, clean your hair,
shave your face, and afterwards give your towel to a servant who will
give you a dry one. You will then return here. Your clothing will have
been folded the night before and placed in the chest. You will get
dressed, then replace the other items exactly as you see them. If any
item is incorrectly replaced, you will receive five strokes of the cane.
If any item is missing, twenty strokes. Is that understood?'

'Yes, Brother.'

'You may not sit on your bed until after the evening prayers, for one
hour, before you sleep. If you are found sitting on a bed before then,
you will receive five strokes of the cane.' He looked at the three and
said, 'Now, find the provost and he will further instruct you. His
office is on the other side of the entrance.'

Zane lingered for a moment, staring down into the chest, then he lowered
the lid. As he turned to leave, Brother Stephen said, 'Which of you
struck Servan?'

Jommy turned with a look of regret. 'It was me, Brother.'

Brother Stephen just looked at Jommy for a long moment, said, 'Hmmm,'
then turned and walked away.

As they left the dormitory, Tad said, 'Zane, what were you staring at?'

'I was trying to memorize where everything went. I have no appetite for
that cane.'

'You get used to it,' said Jommy. 'Besides, you'll have an hour before
we sleep tonight to stand and stare down in to it.'

'Oh, right,' said Zane unenthusiastically.

The three boys wondered what it was that their foster-father had got
them into.

• CHAPTER TEN •

Purging

Valko readied himself for violence.

The warrior who faced him was old, his scars looking like badges of
honour, and his bearing revealed he was no elder waiting for a son to
dispatch him to the Dark God's final service. There were many battles
left in this man.

He stood in the centre of a large room, laid out in identical fashion to
the fighting floor in the Hall of Testing in Valko's father's castle,
but many times larger. Five hundred riders could sit in the gallery and
a dozen combats could be waged at the same time. Valko glanced right,
then left, and saw other Dasati youth also ready to fight.

The old warrior was dressed in the armour of the Scourge, almost
identical to that worn by the Sadharin: a dark grey open-faced helm,
breastplate, bracers and greaves, but rather than the tall plume sported
by the Sadharin, his helmet was topped by a spike trailing two long
ribbons of blood-orange cloth. He spoke and his voice was commanding,
though he did not raise it. 'You are going to die.' Several of the other
youths tensed and a few hands gripped their swords. 'But not today.'

He walked slowly before the sixteen young warriors who stood in a
semi-circle, looking each in the eye as he spoke. 'You come to me, here,
because you have survived your first testing. Survival is good. You
cannot serve the TeKarana if you are dead. You cannot father strong sons
and clever daughters unless you survive. And you want strong sons who
will some day stand here to begin their training, and clever daughters
who will hide your grandsons until they are ready for their testing.

'Such is the way of the Dasati.'

'Such is the way,' the young warriors repeated ritually.

'The second most glorious thing you can do is to die bravely for the
Empire, when all else has failed. The most glorious thing you can do is
make the Empire's enemies die for us. Any fool can die stupidly.
Stupidity is weakness. There is no glory in dying a fool.

'Such is the way of the Dasati.'

'Such is the way.'

The old warrior continued. 'I am Hirea, a Rider of the Scourge. Some of
you are sons of the Scourge.'

Several of the young warriors shouted.

'No longer,' said Hirea, his voice rising just enough to communicate his
displeasure at the display. 'You are no longer Scourge. You are not sons
of the Sadharin. You are neither Kalmak, nor Black Thunder; no
Darkrider, Bloodtide, or Remalu stand here. Whatever you thought you
were when you arrived is past. You are mine now, until I judge you fit
to return to your fathers, or you lie dead on the sand beneath your
feet.' He pointed to the sand for emphasis. 'Here you may claim your
heritage as true Deathknights, serving your fathers or the Dark God. I
will send you to either with equal pleasure.' He looked from face to
face. 'Each of you will be paired with another. You will share quarters.
From this moment, that warrior will be your brother. You will gladly
give your life for him, and he for you. If your fathers are enemies, it
does not matter. He is your brother. That is your first lesson.

'Now,' he pointed quickly to the two young warriors at each end of the
semicircle. 'You and you, step forward.' They did so and he pointed to
each. 'Your name!'

Each warrior stated his name and Hirea said, 'You are now brothers until
you leave this place. After that you may feel free to kill one another,
but until then you will die for one another.' He motioned over his
shoulder. 'Stand behind me.'

He repeated this with the next two youths, and the two after that, until
he came to Valko. He was paired with a son of the Remalu, by the name of
Seeleth, son of Silthe, Lord of the Rianta. Valko said nothing as the
remaining warriors were paired up, but he was dubious about his new
'brother'. The Remalu were known throughout Kosridi as fanatics. Many of
their youth gave up the way of the sword to become Deathpriests. To
serve the Dark God was an honour, and no one would say otherwise, but
many felt it a less manly path. Priests died of old age and had no sons
they could acknowledge. Any son of a priest was doomed to be a Lesser.
Any warrior would prefer death to having a child survive to became a
Lesser. Let the Lessers breed their own kind.

Rumour also told that they counted many among the Order of Deathmages.
They were related to powerful lords on other worlds, and were kin to
advisors to the TeKarana himself. Among the families on Kosridi the
Remalu were most hated, as well as the most feared and distrusted.

Seeleth whispered, 'Many of these will die soon, my brother.'

Valko said nothing, returning only a single curt nod.

When eight pairs of brothers stood before him, Hirea nodded and pointed
at the first pair, then let his hand sweep in an arc as he addressed all
of them. 'Each of you has been given a room with two beds,' said Hirea.
'Those of you who were on my left when I called you out, move your
belongings to the room your brother occupies. Dine at the zenith, then
return here for your first training combat. Go!'

The young warriors moved in orderly fashion and soon Valko found himself
alone in his quarters watching Seeleth put his few belongings in a chest
at the foot of the second bed. Valko noted these contained quite a few
mystic items, the sort given to a son by a worried mother. Perhaps
Seeleth's mother had come out of the Hiding to take a place of honour in
his father's court, or had given them to him before he left the Hiding.
But a few of the items looked to be of much darker aspect than mere
trinkets and had the feel of magic to them. Wards? Charms for good fortune?

Seeleth grinned at Valko as he sat on his bed. To Valko he resembled a
hungry zarkis - the feared night hunter of the plains. 'We are going to
do great things, Valko,' Seeleth whispered.

'Why are you whispering?'

'Trust no one, my brother.'

Valko nodded, once. /If that is the case/, he thought, /why should one
trust a ''brother'' who will only be that until we leave? /Seeleth was
apparently a peculiar type. The more he thought about it, the more Valko
thought he might be the sort to become a Deathpriest. 'Let us go to the
zenith meal,' said Valko, rising.

Seeleth stood as well, but stepped close and looked his new 'brother'
squarely in the eyes. This was either an act of confidence or challenge.
As no weapons were drawn, Valko assumed Seeleth was confiding in him.
'We shall do great things,' he whispered. 'Perhaps we shall be the ones
to find and destroy the White.'

'The White are a myth,' shot back Valko. 'To imagine such beings is ...
madness!'

Seeleth laughed. 'Such distress over a myth!'

Valko felt his anger rising. 'We are here to train, /brother/. I care
not for the ambition of a son of the Remalu, nor do I waste time in
fanciful visions of glory quests; they are for children playing in the
Hiding.

'My father commanded me to be here, so I am here. Hirea instructs me to
call you brother, and to die for you if needed. I obey. But don't vex me
with your mind games, /brother/, for I will kill you.'

Seeleth laughed again. 'You answer as would any proper Dasati warrior,'
he said, then left the room in the direction of the eating hall. Valko
stood perplexed for a long moment, wondering what the purpose of all
that had been. The White was an obscene concept, a blasphemy even,
something not spoken of by anyone who wished to survive the harsh
reality of Dasati life. To admit that the White might exist was to admit
the Dark One was not omnipotent. Yet, if such a thing did exist, and if
somehow one could be the warrior to end it, greatness would surely
follow. But how could the White exist unless the Dark God was not
supreme? The very question was an affront to logic. Was it offensive
enough that he could justify taking Seeleth's head without having to
defend himself against Hirea? To kill a Remalu would earn him standing
with his father. He pondered it but an instant, then pushed aside the
question and followed Seeleth to the zenith meal.

*  *  *

It had been a tiny mistake, but one that left a young warrior lying on
the sand with his blood flowing unceasingly through the fingers that
clutched his wound.

Hirea strode over and looked down at the wounded youth. His training
opponent looked down as well, his face an unreadable mask. Hirea turned
to the victor in the match and said, 'Go stand over there.' He pointed
to a spot at the edge of the training floor.

Hirea was silent for a moment. Then he asked, 'What do you need?'

The wounded young warrior could barely speak as he lay curled on the
floor, clutching his stomach. Finally he said, 'End it.'

Hirea's hand shot to the hilt of his sword, and before the other young
warriors could even fully comprehend the motion, the sword came down and
ended the young man's life. Then several of them started to laugh at his
misfortune; Valko and Seeleth were not among them. Looking up at those
laughing, Hirea said, 'He was weak! But not so weak as to ask for an
Attender.' He glanced down. 'This is not funny. It is not worthy of
regret, but it is not funny.' He motioned with his free hand for the
boy's body to be removed, and the two Lessers standing nearby hurried to
pick up the now-lifeless thing and carry it away to the Death Room,
where the Renders would take apart the corpse and harvest all that was
useful. The rest would be mixed in with the livestock feed. In that tiny
way he would still serve.

'Does anyone here not understand?' When no one spoke, Hirea said, 'It is
permitted to ask a question; you will not learn if you stay silent.'

A warrior on the other side of the room said, 'Hirea, what would you
have done had he asked for an Attender?'

Hirea put up his sword. 'I would have watched him bleed to death slowly.
His suffering would have been reward for his further weakness.'

Seeleth said, 'Now, that would have been funny.'

Hirea overheard him and turned. 'Yes, that would have been.' He gave out
a single laugh, a harsh barking sound, then shouted, 'Return to your
places!' To the opponent of the dead man, he said, 'I shall be your
partner in the drill until another dies, then he who makes the kill will
be your new brother.' He faced off against the youth who had just
mortally wounded his brother and said, 'Good kill.'

The youth nodded, not venturing a smile and his nervous expression
showed that he now wondered if he would survive the rest of the day's
training.

*  *  *

The young warriors were roused in the dead of night by the servants. The
Lessers were cautious in rousing the warriors, entering each room
quietly, whispering to the young men then prudently stepping away lest a
suddenly awakened young warrior vent his ire on the nearest target. Yet
the message was heeded: /Hirea says to be ready to ride at once/.

The warriors slept in dark nightshirts in Dasati fashion, but with their
weapons at hand. Quickly servants returned to each room to aid the young
fighters, quickly stripping off the nightshirts, helping them to don a
simple loincloth, foot and ankle wraps and a light undershirt. Then came
padded pants and a light jacket, then armour. Each warrior who survived
training would find a complete wardrobe of garments suitable for every
occasion when he returned home, but during training this was the sum of
their wardrobes: battle dress and a nightshirt. Even during their
lessons with the Eflectors and Facilitators did they wear their armour.

The young fighters hurried to the stable where lackeys had already
saddled the waiting varnins. The mounts pawed the ground and snorted in
anticipation of a hunt. Valko went to his mount, a young female who had
not yet bred, and patted her hard on the neck before springing into the
saddle. The varnin's massive head bobbed slightly in acknowledgement
that her rider was there then she snorted as he took the reins, yanking
once, hard, to let her know he was in command. Varnins were stupid
animals, and one had to remind them constantly who was in control. Great
riders chose males for their aggressiveness, but most riders were on
geldings and young females.

Valko waited while the remaining warriors mounted - ten in all from the
original sixteen. The six who died all deserved their fate, Valko knew,
but something about the death of the last, a youth named Malka, troubled
him. He had been sparring with Seeleth and had suffered a minor wound,
merely a cut to the fleshy part of the forearm, and hadn't even dropped
his sword. As with such wounds, he was permitted the opportunity to
dress it himself. Valko had seen him signal to Seeleth for a pause, and
Seeleth had stepped away, acknowledging the cessation. Malka began to
shift his sword from right hand to left and Seeleth had waited, then
when Malka was least able to defend himself, the son of the Remalu had
struck, a single blow to the neck which killed him instantly.

Nothing had been said. Valko could not imagine Hirea hadn't seen the
kill, for nothing escaped the old warrior's sight. Yet he had done
nothing. Valko had expected Seeleth to be chastised, even killed, by the
old teacher for breaking the rules of the combat, but Hirea had merely
turned his back as if he had seen nothing.

Valko was troubled, but not enough to ask a question. Questions when
they were not expected were dangerous; too many questions meant a
warrior was unsure of himself. Lack of certainty was weakness. Weakness
was death.

Still, he remained troubled; rules were not followed, yet no punishment
was forthcoming. What could be the lesson here, Valko wondered? That
victory negated rules?

Hirea stood up in the stirrups on the back of an old male, as veteran
and battle-scarred as he was. He signalled and the riders left the
stabling area and reined in at the portal of the stabling yard. Hirea
held up his hand for order and then spoke. 'A warrior must be ready to
answer the call at any moment of the day or night. Now we ride!'

The young warriors followed their instructor as he led them down the
long winding road from the old fortress that was now their training
home. In ages past the fortress had belonged to a chieftain of an
ancient tribe, its name now known only to archivists. The shifting sands
that were the foundations of Dasati society had swallowed up another
family. Perhaps a group of families had switched allegiances, abandoning
an allied family to a harsh fate while seeking a more powerful patron.
Perhaps a patron had been deserted by clients who sought more power by
forming new alliances.

Valko realized he would never know unless he took the time to seek out
an archivist, something for which he had little time and even less
inclination. Valko let his senses attune to the night. He preferred the
night: the lack of visible light was more than compensated for by his
ability to see heat and, to a lesser degree, sense motion. Like all his
race he could easily adapt to most environments; even deep, cold tunnels
and caves. As he had spent most of his days of Hiding in such, Valko had
developed an exceptional knack of judging distances and shapes, no
matter how faint, by echoes.

He drank in the landscape as they rode down the trail - the blank,
rolling fields, the distant hills almost imperceptible save for being
slightly darker than the surrounding air. All was a panorama of gloom,
except where tiny hot spots revealed vermin and their predators. A
distant pack of zarkis could be seen chasing a swift prey animal,
perhaps a loper or darter, across a distant field. Dangerous for one
man, the zarkis pack would give eleven riders a wide berth. Years of
being killed by the Dasati had bred a healthy fear of armed riders into
them. But there were other night predators to be wary of: keskash, the
two-legged ambush-hunter of the woodlands who would rush from
concealment and snap a rider off his mount with jaws strong enough to
shred armour. Its hide secreted a film of moisture that evaporated
rapidly, hiding its heat form until it was almost upon its prey.

In the air the night-pouncers circled, their tiny intellect turned
completely to calculating chances of survival as they struck down
various prey, for nothing on this world surrendered its life without a
struggle. Their heat images were hazy, for their large membrane wings
dissipated heat quickly, hiding them from detection, both from those
they sought to consume and from the flying claws, the powerful flyers
who drifted high above them. The claws soared in the upper atmosphere,
at times miles above the surface, until they expelled the gases from
their bowels that gave them buoyancy; then they would swoop down on
unsuspecting targets in the sky or on the surface. Their large wings
would snap open with a crack like thunder as they turned their stoop
into a sudden glide, their hollow pointed claws seizing their prey.
Their powerful wings would beat as they climbed higher into the sky
while they sucked fluids from the bodies of those they clutched in their
talons. Before they reached their soaring altitude, they'd let go of a
dried carcass that would tumble slowly back to the surface. The claws
were powerful enough to seize a varnin and lift it, and those talons
could punch through a breastplate. It was rare, but not unheard of, for
a rider to be snatched from the saddle and carried off.

Valko revelled in the night. Like most of those on this ride, he had
slept days most of his Hiding, venturing out after sunset to steal what
he needed. His mother had told him that once he had sought out and won
his place at his father's right hand, he would come to appreciate the
daylight. He never doubted his mother; she was a woman of powerful
intellect and keen perception, and he had yet to discover that she was
wrong on any subject, but he wondered if he would ever feel completely
comfortable in the harsh day after the concealing night.

He wondered why they were making this sudden night ride, but knew better
than to voice any question. Hirea would tell them what they needed to
know when they needed to know it. The Dasati way was predicated on a
complex set of relationships, and when it was time for blind obedience,
any question would almost certainly get a young warrior killed.

His varnin was huffing as they crested another hill, for these creatures
were bred to charge over short distances at high speed, not for
endurance rides. But no draught varnins had been stabled at the old
castle. Each youth knew the more sedate creature was a poor steed in
battle, but they were preferable for longer rides. Valko concluded that
either dire circumstances had led Hirea to call out the young riders or
he just didn't care if the animals were incapacitated. Valko didn't care
if his mount suffered; he just didn't like the inefficiency of seeing a
good war mount ruined and had no desire to walk back to the castle if it
should fail.

As they started down the hill, Hirea motioned for a halt. Several
varnins were huffing with flaring nostrils and trembling as they fought
to catch their breath. Idly Valko wondered if the varnins and draught
varnins could somehow be bred, resulting in a steed with both endurance
and the requisites needed for ferocity in battle. He took a moment to
save the question to ask a breeder at his father's demesne. Such a steed
would gain the Camareen power, raising their status in the Sadharin, and
perhaps even bringing them closer to the Karenna's court and the
Lagradin, for such a beast would be of great value to the Empire.

Then Valko sensed it. Familiar as his mother's voice, the sense of being
near a Hiding. His mind struggled with conflicting thoughts and
feelings. He saw other young riders also looking agitated and confused.

Mere weeks ago he would have been among those seeking shelter from the
night riders, trying to blend in with the shielding countryside.

He forced himself to think. Why would there be a Hiding here, in low
farmland hills running with zarkis, keskash and other dangers? He willed
his mind to be free from the conflicting desires to hide and to hunt.
There! He saw it. A stream that had cut deeply enough into the wash
below that it was not visible from the road. It would be leading down
from the hills to the east. Whoever was concealed nearby had been driven
down from the mountains above, perhaps a local lord had caught wind of
the Hiding on his land and had been clumsy in hunting down the
fugitives. Or perhaps the fugitives were relocating as a matter of
practice, as his mother had done many times during his childhood -
though his mother never would have led him and the other children into
any position this exposed.

There was a natural wish in Dasati warriors to destroy any potential
young male rivals or females too young or too old to breed. As his
mother had taught him, if warriors were too successful, the race would
perish. Yet if they did not earnestly try to purge the weak, the fate of
the race would eventually be obliteration. His mother was a remarkable
teacher, always giving Valko subjects to ponder. On more than one
occasion she had observed that intelligence had not been a useful gift
from the Dark One and that animals who are more in balance with the
natural order survive at better rates than the Dasati. Only one child in
five survived into adulthood, which is why breeding young had been such
a drive.

Even abstract thinking about breeding while in the middle of a hunt made
Valko's body start to ache. If there was a suitable breeding female
nearby he would take her this night, even if she was a Lesser! It had
been those first such yearnings that had forced his mother to send him
to his father, for once he was able to breed, he was ready for the
testing; moreover, he was a deadly danger to every immature Dasati in
the Hiding. Valko wondered where his mother might be. He knew that as
soon as he had departed, she and the other mothers in Hiding would had
moved to another safe location, perhaps to one of the villages of
Lessers in the high peaks.

Valko shook his head to clear it. This was madness, dwelling on the past
while a purging was commencing! He saw Hirea watching him, for he, alone
among the riders had regained his perspective. He didn't hesitate, but
spurred his still-breathless varnin down the bank towards the stream. As
he suspected, there was someone hunkered below the sheltering overhang
of rocks there. As soon as his varnin's hooves struck the water, they
were off.

He couldn't see features clearly in the dark, but as they moved the
concealing wet mud started to fall off their upper bodies and was washed
off legs and thighs by the water in the stream. There were half a dozen
young and three adult females. He drew his sword and charged. One female
ushered the young ahead of herself while two turned to challenge him.
Suddenly he wished it was day, for he could not tell from their
heat-shape if they were armed. He knew the desperate females would
defend the young with nails and teeth against armour if they must, and
two adult Dasati females were not to be taken lightly by a young warrior.

He was anxious to kill. The demand for blood on his sword pounded in his
ears like an ancient chant, and he realized it was the sound of his own
heart he was hearing.

It would be rash to go straight in, either attacking the first female
with his varnin, while striking at the second with his sword. But he
also knew that whichever one he attacked, the other would almost
certainly leap at him, attempting to pull him from the saddle.

As if coordinating by thought alone, the two females spaced themselves
evenly, forcing him to choose one over another. A the last instant,
Valko took his varnin to the edge of the bank, away from one female and
beyond the reach of the second. He didn't waste a second trying to cut
at her from below, for he knew she would most certainly try to duck
under the sword blow, and might grab his boot and unseat him.

He feigned with his sword and as she started to stoop, kicked her in the
face. Then he leapt down from his mount, landing with his boot heel on
her throat, crushing it. He was close enough to hear the deadly snarl of
the second female who almost certainly knew she was about to die, but
who would do so willingly to save her young. She crouched, and in her
right hand she held a blade.

Valko could hear other riders finally coming down the bank, and he knew
that in a moment they would be past him, attempting to overtake the
other female and the young. His anger at not being in on the killing of
the children fuelled his already considerable bloodlust, so he looped a
lazy blow towards her head, as if he had no regard for how dangerous she
could be with a large dagger. As he expected she ducked easily
underneath it and thrust her dagger at the spot where his neck was
unprotected by his breast plate; but he had only feigned the blow. At
the last moment he turned his blade down, catching the female across the
shoulder, and rather than trying to use force to sever her head from her
neck, he just pulled back hard on the blade, opening up a deep wound in
her neck that started a fountain of blood. She took a staggering step
towards him, then collapsed to her knees.

Without waiting to see her fall forward, he dodged around her. Other
riders sped past him. He reached his varnin, mounted it and was about to
put his heels to its sides when Hirea's voice shouted, 'Valko! Wait here!'

The young fighter reined his mount around, the need to kill still
pounding in his chest. He sat trembling, but obeyed as Hirea said, 'Hold.'

Hirea came to his side, their mounts facing in opposite directions so
they could speak face-to-face. 'How did you know?'

Valko couldn't catch his breath.

'Deep slow breaths, and turn your mind away from killing. You are not an
animal. You are Dasati.'

Valko found it difficult. He wanted nothing more than to ride after the
others, find those in Hiding and slash and hack until the stream ran
orange with their blood. He gritted his teeth.

'Think!' shouted Hirea, one of the rare times he had raised his voice.
'Do not let any part of you overwhelm your mind! Your mind, Valko!
Always the mind first. You are not an animal. Now, think!'

Valko forced his attention to his hand, the one holding the reins of his
varnin. He then concentrated on the trembling he felt in the reins, as
the animal waited for his next command, ready to answer the call to
hunt, excited by the smell of blood in the air. He felt his mind expand
from the attention he paid to the animal, the stream, their
surroundings, to Hirea himself. Finally, he slowly sheathed his sword.

'We had received a message from a trader that he had seen smoke on the
wind at sunset. I was guessing as to the most likely place they might
hide from that tiny piece of information. But you found their exact
location. We should have ridden past and they should have reached that
distant woodland. How did you know?'

Valko spoke slowly, his voice thick with emotion. 'I knew they were down
there.'

'But how? I didn't smell them, for the mud masked the scent, and I
couldn't see them.'

'It is where I would have hidden,' said Valko. 'It is what I would have
done.'

Hirea's old eyes studied the young face, not seeing the features
clearly, but sensing the pattern of blood as it pulsed under the skin.
Valko knew his face must have looked like a burning mask in the night
when Hirea had come to his side.

'You were overwhelmed by the conflict between your training to hide and
your desire to kill, yet you regained control faster than any youth I
have trained.'

Valko shrugged. 'I just did.'

'Ah,' said Hirea. He leaned over and said, 'Listen, young lord of the
Camareen. The Scourge have little concern for the youth of the Sadharin,
but you have ... potential. It is not in your best interest or that of
your family to make that potential too widely known too early in life.
You must learn to walk the thin line between strength and weakness, the
balance that will keep you alive until you find your own place in the
order of the Dasati.

'You have two kills tonight, both adult females in their prime. This is
not an insignificant achievement for a youth. It earns you merit.

'But for you to have overtaken the others and killed more this night ...
that would have been ... remarkable. And being remarked upon is
something you do not wish right now.' Hirea turned his mount slightly,
motioning for Valko to bring his varnin alongside. 'Come, let us see how
the others are doing.'

Valko fell in beside his teacher.

'I can smell the blood and breeding lust in you, young Camareen. If I'm
a judge of such things you will soon be back at your father's castle.'
He leaned over and again dropped his voice. 'But not too soon, as that
would also be remarkable.' He pointed, 'The others are over there. If
any of those children escaped, I will have them walk back to the keep,
leading their mounts, and if they have to fight a pack of zarkis, so be it.

'I am rewarding you,' said Hirea. 'I will send a female Lesser to your
room when we return. You reek of breeding need. I will have her teach
you the Games of Tongues and Hands, but do not couple: you would
displease your father should you begin breeding, even with
unacknowledged Lessers, before I have judged you ready to establish your
place in his house.

'But you deserve acknowledgement for being the first to find the Hiding,
and for the first kill. Share the female with your brother or not as you
wish, but remember, what you did this night was remarkable.'

Valko nodded, realizing that soon he might have to kill this old man.

• CHAPTER ELEVEN •

Delecordia

The vista was amazing.

Pug, Nakor, Magnus and Bek had exited a doorway from the Hall of Worlds,
after following detailed instructions by Vordam and were now standing
upon a peak overlooking the city of Shusar, on the world of Delecordia.
As he had warned them, the doorway used was the less travelled of the
three doors known to connect Delecordia to the Hall, and it was the
least used for an obvious reason; for it exited onto a windswept ledge
with barely enough room for the four men to stand, and only a single
narrow pathway down to safety.

Pug didn't worry about falling; he had enough magical skill to protect
himself and the others, though none of them would likely need his help.
Magnus was better able to levitate and fly than any student in the
history of Sorcerer's Island, Nakor always had a 'trick' at hand, and
while Bek couldn't fly, everything he had revealed about himself gave
Pug the distinct impression it would take more than a tumble down a
small mountain to kill the young warrior.

'Look at that,' whispered Bek. 'That's interesting.'

Nakor was forced to agree. 'Yes, very interesting.'

The sky contained colours they had never experienced, scintillating
rushes of hues across the spectrum that pulsed and glowed for brief
instants, never staying still long quite enough for the eye to apprehend
them. It seemed that every gust of breeze or movement of a cloud above
was outlined in these alien colours. Pug was quiet for a moment then
said, 'I've seen colours like that once before.'

Magnus glanced at the steep mountainside sweeping downward from where
they stood. 'When was that, Father?'

'When I was a boy. During the ride with Lord Borric, when Tomas and I
were travelling with him to warn the Prince of Krondor of the Tsurani
invasion. Beneath the dwarves' mountains we encountered a waterfall with
colours like those. The rocks bled minerals that were made luminescent
from the churning energy of the water, and the light from our lanterns.
I've not seen those colours since, and never this vivid.'

'I like it!' shouted Ralan Bek, as if the point needed to be emphasized
by volume.

Nakor said, 'Really?' Nothing in his experience with the young man had
prepared him to consider he possessed any aesthetic appreciation.

'Yes, Nakor.' Bek looked heavenward, a near rapt expression on his face.
'It's nice. I like the flashes and the way you can see the wind.'

'You can see the wind?' asked Magnus.

'Yes. Can't you?'

'No,' Magnus admitted.

Nakor squinted. 'Ah, now I can see ...' He turned to the two magicians.
'If you try to see through the air, to the space behind it you can see
the pressure of the wind, like water rippling across a smooth sheet of
rock. Try.'

Pug did and after a moment he began to gain a sense of what the two men
had seen. 'It's like heat shimmer on the desert,' he said at last.

'Yes!' said Bek. 'Only it's more. You can see it behind itself.'

Pug's eyes narrowed questioningly as he looked at Nakor who merely shook
his head. 'He sees deeper than any of us.'

Pug decided not to pursue the matter for the moment. The wind was
chilling and the air had a bitter tang. In the distance, they could see
their destination, the city of Shusar. 'Look at the size of it,' he said.

He had spoken at length with Kaspar about his vision on the mountains
called the Pavilion of the Gods, and asked him questions about every
detail. One thing Kaspar had been emphatic about was the enormity of the
Dasati cities.

Pug tried to calm himself, but the entire experience of entering
Delecordia was taking its toll. 'I think this will take some getting
used to.'

'We'd better start down, Father,' said Magnus. 'Vordam's instructions
are helping, but I can feel myself beginning to feel ill. We must reach
Kastor soon.'

Pug agreed with a nod and started walking down the path. 'As soon as we
are able, I'll try a small jump to a visible site, but I suspect I may
not be able to focus my mind correctly. It feels as if I've been given a
sleeping draught.'

Nakor nodded. 'It's interesting here, but not good. We need to find this
Kastor fellow, yes.'

As he had predicted, Pug was unable to effect the spell he used to
travel short distances, willing himself to any place he could see. Nakor
watched him struggle and said, 'Yes, yes, it's as I thought. Stuff here
is different than back home. It's twisted ... wrong.'

'What do you mean?' asked Magnus as they continued to trudge down the
long trail to the road that led to the city.

'I don't know,' said Nakor. 'It's how I think of it. Stuff has rules. It
acts a certain way when you do things do it. You push on the right side,
and it goes left. You push down and it goes down. This world's stuff...
it's as if you push on it and it pushes back, or you press down and it
wants to go left.' He grinned as he added, 'Interesting, and if I had
time, I think I could figure out how to work it.'

Pug said, 'If Kastor can take care of us as Vordam said he could, we
should then have time for you to learn, Nakor. Magnus and myself as well.'

Bek pointed, his hand sweeping in an arc, indicating the entire vista.
'This is a wonderful place, Nakor. I really like it.'

Nakor looked at his young companion. 'How do you feel?'

Bek shrugged as he walked at Nakor's shoulder, down the narrow trail. 'I
feel fine. Why? Don't you?'

Nakor said, 'None of us feels well here, but you do?'

'Yes. Is that wrong?' asked the powerful youth.

'Apparently not,' said Magnus.

The trail broadened as it reached the lower hills. After nearly two
hours of steady walk, they reached the verge of a wide road, almost a
highway, that led to the city. A cart pulled by something that looked a
great deal like a horse, but had broader shoulders and a shorter neck
rolled by, the beast snorting as the driver in the high seat behind
prodded it with a long stick, apparently the item of control. As the
cart passed them, the driver gave them a glance; but if he was surprised
to see four humans standing on the roadside, he didn't reveal any change
of expression.

'I wonder how he gets it to stop,' said Pug.

Nakor said, 'Maybe he just stops prodding it and it stops out of gratitude?'

Magnus laughed just loud enough to cause Pug to turn. His elder son
rarely displayed any sense of humour and on those rare occasions when he
did, it always surprised his father.

They turned up the highway, staying on the verge, as vehicles were a
steady feature of this thoroughfare. Pug had visited other worlds, had
lived on Kelewan with the Tsurani for eight years, and had spent time
with non-human sentient beings, but there was something about this place
that fascinated him more than anything he had ever encountered. This
place and these people were alien in a way he had never imagined possible.

Vordam had been quite precise in all his instructions, and he had
answered a few questions, but only those pertaining to Pug and his
friends reaching the merchant Kastor quickly and efficiently. He had
deferred many questions to Kastor, as if Vordam had reasons for being
cautious that were not apparent to Pug.

The city was magnificent. As they trudged along the road, getting closer
by the minute, Pug could see the stones of the dark wall were slightly
reflective, giving off hints of colour as if light had been broken into
a spectrum, like oil on water. Were there minute crystals in the stone?
Pug wondered.

As they neared the vast city gates, the wonders increased. The stones
were fitted so closely the walls appeared seamless. They towered eleven
or twelve storeys by human standards.

'What sort of enemy were they expecting?' said Pug.

'Oh, maybe they just like really tall things,' replied Nakor as he
drifted over to the left side of the massive entrance to the city. 'Now
this is interesting,' he observed.

There were no gates in the traditional human fashion, but rather a
massive portion of wall was retracted inside, swinging on hinges of
unimaginable design. Nakor laughed. 'They haven't had to use them in a
while.'

A tree of some sort had grown up alongside the wall, blocking the
segment that was retracted. 'That would make closing the gate
problematic,' said Magnus with a smile.

'I think they'd figure out a way,' offered his father as they entered
the Ipiliac city of Shusar. 'That they're peaceful is welcome news.'

'Or they killed all their enemies,' Bek offered.

Pug spared the youth a backward glance and saw him looking around at
everything as if his head was on a swivel, his eyes wide and his face a
grinning mask. 'I like these people, Nakor,' Bek said. 'This is an
interesting and wonderful place.'

Pug didn't have Nakor's appreciation of the way this odd boy thought,
but he knew him well enough to know that this was as close as Bek could
get to exhibiting what others would call joy. Bek lived in a heightened
state of existence, it seemed, his pleasures coming from anything that
offered an emotional peak, be it sex, violence or beauty. Pug wondered,
and not for the first time, why his future self had insisted on the lad
being in this company. Now tiny pieces of a very complex puzzle were
falling into place; of all of them, Bek was the least disoriented and
least troubled by coming to this realm. He actually seemed to be
enjoying it while his three companions were experiencing mounting
discomfort and illness.

If their presence caused any alarm in the Ipiliac they masked it well.
In fact, Pug noticed, most barely spared the four humans a glance.

He was forced to admit that once the alien aspect wore off, the Ipiliac
appeared to be a handsome race: tall, almost regal, their movements
fluid and graceful. The women were striking if not obviously attractive
by human standards. They moved with even more grace than the men, motion
that had an almost seductive quality to it, yet they appeared
unselfconscious as far as Pug could see. There were apparently playful
moments as men and women in the market joked with one another and
shouted greetings. By any measurement Pug could apply, these seemed a
happy people.

By the time they reached the plaza Vordam had described, Pug was feeling
a tightness in his chest, a shortness of breath, and he was starting to
cough. The others, apart from Bek, were also labouring. Pug halted
before a fountain, one which astonished him because of its beauty, a
crystal thing with lights within, and water tumbling in sheets to strike
harmonious sounds each time drops splashed on a crystal face.

'There,' said Pug, pointing. 'The shop with the red door.'

A company of mounted riders was coming through the plaza, all wearing
black tunics trimmed with purple, each with a shield of white on his
back. Each man wore a hat that looked to be made of some felted material
and boots that reached the knees with a high flap folded down in front.
The dashing look was heightened by each man sporting a small chin beard.

They were riding the odd horse like creatures at a posting trot and Bek
laughed like a child. 'Ha! I wonder if they can fight?'

Pug looked at once to see if he intended to test the question, but was
relieved to see him merely watching in open-mouthed admiration. He
motioned for the others to follow him and they moved towards their
destination. Pug spared a look up and down the streets, more to gauge
how the local populace approached these shops: whether they knocked then
entered, were admitted, or were just entering.

Seeing that shops were being entered and left without issue, he pushed
open a shop door. Inside they found nothing that resembled a human shop:
no counters, no shelves, no apparent inventory or even images of
products for sale. Instead there were cushions strewn across the floor
around a large device with several hoses of woven fabric leading from
it. A large bowl topped this apparatus.

An Ipiliac came through a beaded curtain, tall and thin even by this
race's standards. He wore a rippling robe of rainbow colours that
shifted hue as he walked. He paused for a moment, looked from face to
face, then spoke a phrase in an alien tongue. When they didn't respond,
he tried another language, one Pug recognized.

'We are not from that world,' he said. 'We are from Midkemia.'

In Keshian, the entrepreneur said, 'Welcome to my establishment. I
rarely get human clients. You must be the ones Vordam spoke of. How may
I be of service?'

'We seek a guide to the world of Kosridi.'

Now Pug saw surprise on the merchant's features.

'You seek a way into the next realm?'

'Is it possible?' Pug asked.

'Yes, but difficult. However, Vordam would not have sent you had he
thought it impossible. You are beings of considerable strength to have
reached this shop without the aid of powerful magic.'

'Which doesn't seem to work here,' Magnus responded. 'And it is getting
difficult to breathe.'

Nodding, Kastor said, 'I can help.' He vanished into the rear of his
shop, then returned with a small pouch and deposited the contents into
the bowl of the device. Then he added a liquid and almost at once a
light mist appeared above the bowl. 'If you would inhale this mist,
through these hoses I think you will find your breathing difficulties
will be ameliorated.'

Bek said, 'I don't need to.'

The Ipiliac studied the young man for a minute, then softly said, 'I
think you are right.'

Pug hesitated for an instant, as Nakor and Magnus began inhaling from
their small hoses. It was pointless to worry: they had no other choice;
they were here and had to trust this being. Pug inhaled deeply, fighting
back a cough as the pungent mist started to affect his lungs. After
several deep breaths, his discomfort eased.

After one long deep inhalation, Nakor said, 'This is very good.'

Kastor said, 'Forgive me for being direct, but you will discover time is
against you should you decide not to continue onward with your quest.'

'We have no intention of turning back.'

'So you say, but there are many things about the place you seek I am
certain you do not understand, and I will not agree to help you until I
am certain that you do.'

Pug nodded.

'The Dasati will kill you on sight. Simply for existing. They are a race
akin to our own, but driven by realities you can only begin to imagine,
let alone fully comprehend. Everything that is a potential threat is to
be destroyed, utterly, and anything not understood is a threat, and
therefore destroyed.

'In the history of those people, twelve worlds have come under their
dominion. Of these, five were inhabited by other races. In each case,
that world was completely cleansed of its native race: today every
animal down to the lowest insect, every plant, every form of life, is
from the Dasati home world: Omadrabar.'

Pug recognized the name from his own note to himself, but said nothing.
He wanted to meditate on why he must not only do this nearly impossible
thing, but go to the very heart of the most dangerous threat faced by
his own world.

'I take your caution,' said Pug. 'The Dasati are fearsome and deadly.'

'Implacable, my friend. You will never get one to speak with you, let
alone negotiate. So, I must first tell you that to survive for more than
a few minutes on Kosridi will be a far more difficult undertaking than
merely preparing your bodies to endure the state of life on that world.'

'Vordam has touched on the subject,' said Pug. 'He likened it to
throwing straw on a flame.'

'More like a combustible oil,' replied Kastor. 'Analogy aside, let us
argue that you have been trained to endure the state of existence, but
you still must survive the Dasati. To do so will require magic of
staggering proportion, for you will have to appear Dasati in every
imaginable way, not only in likeness, but to senses beyond your own. For
example, they can see your body heat, as I can, and you burn brighter
than they do. So many details must be considered, down to your body
odour and the pitch of your voice. Moreover, this spell must endure not
for mere minutes or hours but for weeks, perhaps even months. In
addition you must learn their language, culture, and behaviour in order
to blend in. And you must be of sufficient importance to avoid ...' He
threw up his hands. 'It is impossible.'

Pug regarded him. 'I think not. I think you know how we can do such
things. You just don't see the profit in it.'

'Not true. For this training I shall demand a price which would appal a
king on your world.' He narrowed his gaze. 'Vordam would not have sent
you had you been without means to pay such.'

'I can provide payment,' said Pug.

Nakor said, 'I am curious. What manner of payment?'

Vordam said, 'The usual. Metals of value: gold from your realm is
especially useful given its non-reactive qualities. Silver for the
opposite reason. Certain gems, again for their utility as well as
beauty. Like many other races, we enjoy items that are unique, or at
least distinctive, objects of art or curiosity.' He looked at Nakor and
said, 'Most of all, I prize information.'

'Reliability and improbability,' said Nakor.

'Yes,' agreed Kastor. 'You understand.' He looked at Magnus. 'Do you?'

'Probably not,' said the younger magician, 'but I am my father's son,
and I go where he goes.'

To Bek, Kastor put the same question. 'And you, young fighter. Do you
understand?'

Bek just grinned, and Pug was struck how young he looked at times. 'I
don't care. Just as long as I can have fun. Nakor said this would be
fun, so I'll go with him.'

'Very well,' said the Ipiliac, rising. 'We begin at once. Before
anything else, we must conspire to find solutions for a myriad problems,
but none so pressing as your ability to breathe the air of Kosridi,
drink its water, and keep your life's energy inside your bodies.'

He motioned for them to follow and led them through the beaded curtain.
In the rear of the building they discovered a hallway that led to a much
larger building: a warehouse filled with row upon row of shelves.

After passing through the warehouse, he led them into a hallway with
doors on either side. At the end of the hall he indicated two doors, one
at each hand, and said, 'Here you will stay. Within the hour I will
return with several draughts, potions, and powders for you to ingest.
Without these you will soon sicken beyond anyone's ability to help you.
Despite these measures, you must be prepared to endure great discomfort
for many days to come. When you have been fully acclimatized to our
world we will begin on four courses of action: we shall prepare you for
your journey to the second realm, which will seem as if you're starting
the entire process over again; we shall begin a reorganization of
thought so that your understanding of magic will allow you to practise
your arts of magic; we shall begin your appreciation of the Dasati,
their language, and beliefs and how to contrive to be like them, so that
they will not kill you; and we shall come to fully understand why you
are undertaking a task of such monumental stupidity.'

Saying nothing else, he departed, leaving the four men alone in the
hall. After a moment, Pug opened one of the two doors, indicating to
Magnus that he should join him, and left Nakor and Bek to enter the other.

*  *  *

After two weeks, the food began to taste normal to them, and the air
smelled sweet. The bouts of stomach cramps, coughing fits, malaise, and
sudden sweating passed. Kastor had arranged for a series of instructions
from an Ipiliac magician, a being named Danko who instantly fascinated
Nakor and who seemed to reciprocate the little gambler's interests.
After an exercise had been concluded, the two would wander the city, Bek
trailing behind, while Pug and Magnus considered other problems to be
anticipated.

Taking advantage of the others' absence, Pug and his son sat talking
about the one question Pug had yet to explain to anyone's satisfaction:
why had they undertaken this journey?

He said, 'Truth to tell, son, I do not know.'

Magnus sat on a sleeping pallet, his legs crossed beneath him, and
smiled. 'Mother would rejoice to hear such an admission.'

Pug had weighed for months whether to tell his family about the notes
from the future, but caution always prevented it. He sighed. 'I miss her
more right now than I can tell you, son. I'd endure one of her tantrums
just to hear her voice.'

Magnus smiled broadly. 'I can only imagine what you'd hear if she heard
you call them tantrums.'

Pug laughed. Then his face returned to an expression of concern.
'Magnus, all I can tell you now is that I know it is imperative we
travel to the Dasati homeworld, to the very heart of their empire, and
that we must do it via a particular world - where I suspect we shall
find the cause of these incursions into Kelewan and the origin of the
rifts - and then we must do whatever we discover needs doing to save our
world and Kelewan.'

'But what I don't understand is why should we be at risk at all? The
Talnoy is safely contained in the Assembly and no more rifts are
troubling Midkemia. Why not destroy the Talnoy? Tomas's memories of the
Dragon Lords say they are not impervious to all harm. Or at least remove
it to some other place, perhaps a deserted world?'

Pug sighed. 'I have considered all that, and more. If we can learn
anything valuable from the Assembly's study of the device it is worth
the risk. I am unwilling to disturb any of the Talnoy still hidden from
the Dasati by the wards in Novindus. If needs be, the Assembly can
remove the Talnoy back to Midkemia via a rift to our island, and your
mother knows what must be done should that be necessary.'

Magnus stood up. 'Let us go for a walk. I feel the need for a change. My
stomach no longer bothers me and this room has become confining.'

Pug agreed and they left the merchant's quarters. They were expected to
be there at sundown when Danko was due to join them for another exercise
in magic. Nakor's observation about 'stuff' in this world behaving
differently had proven apt; once the Ipiliac magician had begun his
tutoring, Pug quickly recognized that everything in this realm followed
different laws of behaviour and required new rules of operation for
magic to work. It was, as Pug had observed after the first lesson, like
learning a new language.

In the plaza they encountered another of the Ipiliac festivals in
progress. Pug had been amused to discover that these people had many
such events, some commemorating holy events or dates of historic
significance. This one seemed to have something to do with food, as
small cakes were being thrown to the crowd from those in the procession.

Pug snatched a muffin-sized confection out of the air and nibbled it.
'Not bad,' he observed, handing half to Magnus, who held up his hand to
decline the offer.

They walked the plaza, venturing a little way down the main boulevard,
still amazed at the scale of the Ipiliac city. Buildings rose up a dozen
storeys, all smoothly faced with matching stone. There was nothing of
this city that remotely resembled any human city that either father or
son had visited, none of the slap-dash construction seen in the Kingdom,
nor the accommodations to the weather seen in the Hotlands of Kesh,
where houses were squat dark havens from the day's heat; nor Kelewan
where buildings were uniformly painted white to reflect the sunlight,
and manors were built with wood and paper, sliding walls to accommodate
breezes, and many fountains and pools.

Down one side street a small parade approached: a woman of wealth riding
in a sedan carried by burly - by Ipiliac standards - bearers. Magnus and
Pug stepped aside as the regal woman passed, bedecked in what could only
be called a provocative fashion: a slender girdle studded with jewels
from which hung the lightest of skirts, leaving very little to the
imagination, and a top consisting of complex beadwork which shifted and
moved with tantalizing glimpses of bare skin beneath. Her black hair,
the most common hue among these people, was piled high on her head and
gathered in a ring of gold, falling down the back of her head like a
horse tail, and she wore gems on every finger.

As she moved away, Magnus observed, 'This acclimatization we are
undergoing has an interesting effect, Father. I found that female
attractive.'

'They are a handsome race, once you get used to their alien appearance,'
observed Pug.

'No, I mean attractive in a way that I might find a human woman
arousing. Which is strange.'

Pug shrugged. 'Perhaps, perhaps not. I found the elf-queen to be
beautiful by any standard, yet it was not a genuine physical yearning;
but Tomas was smitten long before he transformed into what he is today.

'Maybe it has something to do with the changes we are subjecting
ourselves to, or maybe it is merely a case of you having a more
encompassing view of beauty than your father.'

Magnus said, 'Perhaps. I wonder who she might be. Were we in Kesh, I
would think she was a member of the nobility or a minor royal. In
Krondor, a courtesan to some man of wealth.' He shook his head in
resignation. 'Here? Can we learn enough about the Dasati in ... anything
approaching a reasonable time to survive a visit to their world?'

Pug sighed. 'I think I can say with some conviction we will, but as to
how I come to believe that ...' Once again he wondered about telling his
son about the messages from the future. 'Let us say I believe this
journey is less dangerous than it looks.'

Magnus was silent for a minute, then he said, 'You have to stop treating
me like your son, Father. I am, and have been for years, your most
gifted student. I am nearly as powerful as you or Mother in several
skills, and I suspect I may some day outstrip you both. I know you're
trying to protect me—'

Pug cut him off. 'If I was trying to protect you, Magnus, I'd have left
you back on the island with your mother and brother.' He looked around,
as if trying to frame his thoughts and choose his words carefully.

'Don't ever claim that I'm trying to protect you, Magnus. I've kept
silent a dozen or more times when you've gone in harm's way and every
fibre in me screamed to send someone else. You may be a father some day
and when you are, you'll understand what it is I'm saying. If I merely
wanted you to be safe, you wouldn't be here.

'You lost a brother and sister you never knew, but I lost children I
loved as dearly as I love you and Caleb.'

Magnus stood with his arms crossed and stared down at him, and for an
instant Pug saw his wife in his son, both in his stance and expression.
At last Magnus sighed. He looked Pug in the eye and said, 'I'm sorry,
Father.'

'Don't be,' said Pug, gripping his arm. 'I appreciate your frustration.
There isn't a day that goes by when I don't recall my own as I grew into
my power, and I will remind you that your growth has been far more easy
than my own.'

Magnus smiled warmly. 'I realize that.' He knew that his father had
struggled while training under his original mentor, the old Lesser Path
magician Kulgan, because at that stage in his life, Pug had been a
natural adept of the Greater Path, a distinction which was no longer
significant, but had very much been so when he was a boy. And after that
came four years spent as a slave, then another four training with the
Assembly of Magicians on Kelewan. By comparison, Magnus's training had
been positively idyllic.

'Still,' continued Pug, 'it remains to be seen exactly how we are going
to survive the coming journey.'

A voice from behind, speaking unaccented Keshian, said, 'Exactly the
question you should be asking.'

Pug and Magnus had not noticed the speaker approach, so they both
reacted quickly, assuming positions that could be only called defensive:
weight distributed evenly, knees slightly bent, and hands near the
daggers in their belts. Neither felt competent enough to attempt a
magical defence yet.

'Be at ease. If I wished you dead, you would both already be dead,' said
the speaker, a tall Ipiliac with the most human-looking face either had
seen so far, made so in part by deep-set eyes and a heavy brow of bushy
black hair. He wore his hair down to his shoulders, another unusual
feature among these people as most men trimmed theirs at the nape or
higher. His face was lined, suggesting his age to be past his prime, but
his eyes were alert, his gaze scrutinizing, and his bearing and clothing
could only be called a warrior's: quilted gambeson jacket, a crossed
leather harness bearing several weapons, and breeches and boots,
suggesting he was a rider.

'I am Martuch,' he said calmly. 'I am your guide. I am of the Dasati.'

• CHAPTER TWELVE •

Enemies

Miranda threw a vase.

Exasperation overcame self-control and she needed to vent her
frustration. Instantly regretting the act - she liked the simple but
sturdy pottery - she reached out with her mind and stopped the ceramic
vessel scant inches before it reached the opposite wall, preventing it
from shattering. She willed it back to her hand and replaced it on the
table where it had stood a moment earlier.

Caleb entered just in time to witness the display. 'Father?' he asked.

Miranda nodded. 'I miss him, and it makes me ...'

Caleb grinned, and for a moment she saw her husband's smile.
'Impatient?' he offered.

'A wise choice of words,' she said. 'Is there news?'

'No, not from Father or Magnus, nor do I expect any soon. But we do have
a message from the Assembly requesting your appearance at your earliest
convenience.'

Miranda did a rough calculation in her head and realized it was
mid-morning on both worlds, for the uneven days caused long periods
where mid-afternoon on one would be the middle of the night on the
other. 'I'll go now,' she told Caleb. 'You're in charge until I return.'

Caleb held up his hands. 'You know many of the—'

'Magicians don't like it when you're in charge,' she finished. 'I know.
And I don't care. This is your father's and my island, and that makes it
your island when we're not around. Besides Rosenvar is still in Novindus
with the Talnoy, Nakor and your brother are with your father, so that
means you will just have to cope with any petty annoyance that comes
along. If a dispute arises, settle it, or at least postpone resolution
until one of us is back.

'Beside, my son, I may not be long on Kelewan.'

'I can only hope,' said Caleb.

As his mother walked away, she turned and said, 'Any word from the boys?'

Caleb shrugged. 'They don't have the ability to communicate quickly,
Mother. I've asked a couple of our agents in Roldem to keep a watch when
they can, but how much trouble can they be in surrounded by an entire
university of La-Timsan monks?'

*  *  *

'You are in /so/ much trouble,' said Zane.

'So much,' echoed Tad.

Jommy shot them both black looks as he stepped out onto the practice
floor. The students were training with swords, and while Jommy knew how
to club a man with the hilt, cut his throat after kicking him in the
groin, and every other dirty trick Caleb had been able to teach him,
this was tournament sword fighting, with rules, a Master of the Sword to
observe they were followed, and his opponent was Godfrey, Servan's
closest ally, and from the way he held his weapon, he was no stranger to
the practice floor.

Jommy tugged at the tight collar of his jacket as the Master of the
Sword motioned for the two opponents to come together at the centre of
the floor. The rest of the class watched quietly, all of them under the
supervision of half a dozen monks.

The Master of the Sword spoke just loudly enough for his voice to carry
over the muttering of the boys without yelling. 'This practice is to
demonstrate the counter-strike.' He turned to Jommy and said, 'As
Godfrey is the more experienced with a sword, you shall launch an
attack. You may choose any line, high, middle, or low, but light or no
contact only. Is that clear?'

Jommy nodded and returned to where his two foster-brothers stood. Tad
handed him the helmet, a basket face-mask sewn to a cloth back. He
lowered it over his head and took the starting position.

'Start!' commanded the Master, and Jommy hesitated, then launched a high
blow, attempting as best he could within the rules to take Godfrey's
head off.

Godfrey easily beat aside the strike, extended his arm, and delivered a
hard touch to Jommy's chest; then as he withdrew his sword, with a flick
he struck the only exposed part of Jommy's body, the back of his hand.

'Ow!' Jommy shouted, dropping his sword, to the obvious delight of the
other students who laughed loudly.

'Pick up your sword,' the Master said.

'He did that on purpose,' Jommy said accusingly as he knelt to pick up
his weapon.

Godfrey removed his helm and grinned at Jommy with contempt.

With disdain, the Master of the Sword said, 'It's a poor swordsman who
accuses an opponent as a means of disguising his own shortcomings.'

Jommy stared for a long moment at the Master of the Sword, then said,
'Right. Let's do it again.'

He removed his own helm, walked to Zane and handed it to him, ran his
hand through his damp hair, then nodded once as he retrieved his
headgear. Putting the helm back on, he turned to face Godfrey.

Tad said, 'I don't like that look.'

'Remember what happened the last time we saw it?'

'That tavern in Kesh?"

'Yes, where that soldier said that thing to the girl—'

'The one Jommy had taken a liking to?' Tad finished.

'That's the one.'

'That wasn't good.'

'No, it wasn't,' agreed Zane.

'This can't be good,' said Tad.

'No, it can't,' agreed Zane.

Jommy walked to the centre. The Master said, 'Again,' and directed the
two combatants to their position. 'On the last pass,' he said to the
observing students, 'this lad—' he pointed at Jommy,'—over-extended his
attack, putting himself off balance, off-line, and leaving himself open
to a simple beat from his opponent's sword, which put him further
off-line and left him open for the counter-blow.' He glanced at the two
opponents and said, 'Begin!'

Jommy came in, exactly has he had last time, repeating every move until
the moment when Godfrey beat aside his blade. Rather than extend his arm
fully, Jommy circled his blade around Godfrey's so his hilt was inside
the other boy's, forcing Godfrey to try his own circling move,
attempting to catch Jommy's blade, and again force it to the outside.

But instead of making another circle, Jommy raised his blade as if
saluting, an unexpected move that caused Godfrey to falter. That was all
the time Jommy needed. But instead of retreating a step to give himself
room and re-establish his right-of-way, required before a touch could be
claimed, Jommy just cocked his elbow and drove his sword hilt into
Godfrey's face with as much force as possible.

The practice helms were designed to ward off a sword's tip or edge, not
withstand a full-on blow from an angry youth of considerable size and
strength.

The face-mesh folded and Godfrey went to his knees, blood flowing from
under the mask. 'Foul!' cried the Master of Swords.

'Probably,' said Jommy. 'But I've seen worse in a fight than that.'

The Master of Swords looked at the senior monk in attendance, Brother
Samuel, who managed to control any impulse to laugh that visited him. A
soldier in the Army of Roldem before receiving the call to La-Timsa's
service, Samuel was in charge of the students' martial training. Jommy,
Tad and Zane had taken an instant liking to the man, and he seemed to
enjoy their rough-edged approach to the subject. While the three boys
might be far behind the others in matters of history, literature,
philosophy and the arts, it was clear their previous 'education' had
included a fair amount of hand-to-hand combat and swordplay. They might
not be duellists, but they were fair brawlers. Brother Samuel tilted his
head and arched his eyebrows, as if to say to the Master of Swords,
'you're in charge: you deal with it.'

'This is the /Masters' Court/!' he said, as if that explained
everything. 'These lessons are to perfect the art of swordsmanship.'

'Then I won,' said Jommy.

'What?' The look on the Master of Swords' face was one of incredulity.

'Certainly,' said Jommy, putting his own helmet under his right arm so
he could gesture with his left hand.

'That's outrageous!' shouted Servan.

Jommy took a deep breath, and in a tone used by those talking to little
children or very stupid adults he said, 'I /knew/ you wouldn't
understand, Servan.'

To the Master of Swords he said, 'My opponent was trying to establish a
line of attack that would make me step back while trying to disengage
his blade, correct?'

The Master of Swords could only nod.

'So, if I did that, he'd have pushed my blade to the outside and lunged,
and unless I was a lot faster than him - which I'm not - he would have
touched me and I'd have lost. Or he would have beaten it to the inside,
made a quick follow to re-establish his line and probably get
right-of-way before me, and another touch. One more touch, he wins the bout.

'On the other hand, it I punch him in the face, and he can't win off a
foul, we have to start again, and maybe this time I win.'

'This is ...' words seem to fail the Master of Swords.

Jommy looked around the room and said, 'What? Isn't that the way it's
supposed to work after a foul?'

The Master of Swords shook his head. 'The bout is finished. I declare
Godfrey the victor.'

Still nursing his bloody nose, Godfrey hardly looked the winner. He
glared at Jommy who merely smiled at him and shrugged.

Brother Samuel instructed the boys to change back into their uniforms:
today's lesson was over. Servan whispered something into Godfrey's ear
while the injured boy glared at Jommy.

Brother Samuel walked past each boy in the class in turn, offering an
observation or two on their fighting styles and when he got to the three
boys from Sorcerer's Island, he said, 'Tad, well done. Quickness is a
good advantage. But be a little more cautious in trying to anticipate
your opponent's next move.' He looked at Zane and said, 'You need to
anticipate more. You're too cautious.'

Then he looked at Jommy and said, 'I'd never take you to a tournament,
boy, but you can stand on my left at the wall, any time.' He winked and
walked away.

Jommy smiled at his foster-brothers and said, 'Well, it's nice to know
someone appreciates my better qualities.'

Zane looked past Jommy to Servan and Godfrey. 'He may be the only one.'
He dropped his voice. 'You're on your way to having a couple of very
powerful enemies, Jommy. We're not always going to be at university and
a relative of the King may have a very long reach.'

Jommy sighed. 'You're right, but I can't help myself. It's like those
Bakers' Boys down in Kesh - bullies just make me want to start cracking
heads. Probably comes from being the smallest lad in my family.'

Tad's eyes widened. 'You were the smallest?'

'Downright puny,' said Jommy as he pulled his uniform tunic on over his
head. 'My older brothers, they were big: strapping fellows.'

Zane looked at Tad. 'It boggles the mind.'

'Come on,' said Jommy as he finished dressing. 'We need to get back to
the others.'

The students followed Brother Samuel back to the university, where they
returned to their other classes. For the three boys from Sorcerer's
Island, that meant returning to the modest study room put aside for them
in which to meet their tutor, Brother Jeremy, who was attempting to give
them a fundamental grounding in mathematics. Zane took to it naturally
and couldn't understand why Jommy and Tad seemed to have such difficulty
with something he found surprisingly simple.

After two hours of maths tutoring, it was time for the evening meal, a
meal that was conducted in silence, as the students dined with the
monks, and occasionally one of the priests of La-Timsa. Breaking fast
and the midday meal were noisy and as lively as a hall full of boys
could be, but the only sounds to be heard during the evening meal were
the clatter of dishes being moved around the table, and the sound of
knives and spoons against crockery.

Jommy couldn't speak, but nothing prevented him from nudging Zane, who
in turn nudged Tad. Jommy indicated with a slight tilt of his head that
someone special was sitting at the head table. The man was a tall, older
cleric: from his robes a priest of some important rank. His eyes seemed
fixed on the three boys from Sorcerer's Isle. The cleric's stare made
Jommy very uncomfortable and he quickly dropped his gaze to his plate.

At the end of the meal, the students had specific duties until their
free hour before they turned in, but rather than go to the kitchen where
they were required this week, the three boys were approached by Brother
Stephen. 'Come with me,' he said, turning his back and walking away
without waiting to see if they followed.

The boys followed the Proctor until they reached his office. Entering
it, they found the cleric who had sat at the head table, waiting. He
motioned for them to shut the door; then he sat behind Brother Stephen's
desk. He inspected each boy in turn, then finally said, 'I am Father
Elias. I am the abbot here at the university. While it may not appear
such, this school is, in fact, an abbey.

'You three have managed to somehow get on the wrong side of some very
powerful people. I've been fielding many enquiries about you, including
one from a deputy to the King himself, regarding the reasons why you're
here, why a Keshian noble of considerable influence with the Emperor and
his brother would sponsor you, and a host of other, difficult and
awkward questions. Suffice it to say I've had some very annoying
exchanges of messages over the few weeks since you've arrived.'

Jommy looked about to speak, then remembered he wasn't permitted to
without permission. The abbot saw this and said, 'You have something to
say?'

'Yes, Father.' He felt silent.

'Then say it, boy.'

'Oh, well, then ...' Jommy began. 'Father, we didn't come here looking
for trouble. It was waiting for us when we got here. I don't know if
it's just one of those things, or if someone decided it was fair game to
start in on us before we'd even set foot inside this building, but the
truth is we'd have rather walked in, made ourselves known to Brother
Kynan, and obeyed the rules as best we could.

'But Servan has decided that it's his life's work to make our every day
miserable, and while I'm inclined to be easy-going, I just don't see how
I can ignore this for ... however long it is we're supposed to be here.'

'How long you remain here is one of the things we're going to talk
about.' The abbot's dark eyes narrowed slightly as he studied each face.
'Tell me what you were told to expect here?' he asked, directing the
question at Jommy.

Jommy said, 'Father, truth is, we weren't told very much, just that we
were to come here from—'

'I know you came from Olasko, that colourful tale about the caravan from
the Vale of Dreams notwithstanding. I also know you didn't come by ship.'

'—from Olasko,' Jommy continued. 'We were just told to get ready, come
here, and learn whatever it was we were taught.'

The abbot was silent for a minute, drumming his fingers on the table in
an absent-minded gesture that set Jommy's teeth on edge. Finally, Father
Elias said, 'We have a special relationship with your ... mentors.'
Again he studied their faces. 'While we don't entirely accept that all
their aims are in concert with our own, we do accept that they are an
agency for good, and as such are to be given the widest possible
latitude in matters of trust.' He sat back and stopped drumming, for
which Jommy was grateful. 'I suspect if I were to mention a man named
Pug, you boys would never have heard of him.'

Tad shook his head as did Zane, while Jommy said, 'Can't say I have,
Father.'

The abbot smiled. 'Very well. We'll continue with the charade, but like
so many things involving the man you've never heard of - whom I believe
to be your adopted or foster grandfather if I have the story right -
we'll continue to let things remain shrouded in shadow.

'But here is what he should have told you, or at least Turhan Bey should
have told you: this is the finest institution of its kind in the world,
in many ways unique, and here we train the sons of Roldem, and the rest
of the world, to be leaders. Most of our young men enter the navy - we
are an island people - but some enter service in our army or in other
capacities. We do not discriminate against boys who are not from Roldem.
Some of the finest minds serving nations who at one time or another were
our enemies have studied here. We teach them because people do not fear
things they are familiar with. We are certain that over the years
powerful men have been sympathetic to Roldem because of the time they
spent here, and that has tipped the balance in our favour against war,
or simply made them more prepared to listen to us.

'Toward this end, you will be given the same education as the other
boys, and no matter how long you are here - a week, a month, or a year -
you will master the subjects before you each day. Moreover, you will
cease this endless hostility with the other boys. So, I am making some
changes. You will all be moved into senior boys' quarters. Three to a
room is the usual rule.'

The news surprised them. The senior boys were the ones who were expected
to end their studies within the coming year, or promising younger lads,
like Grandy, who were thought to benefit from spending time in the
company of older students. They grinned at each other; but their joy was
to be short-lived.

'You two,' Father Elias said to Tad and Zane, 'will share quarters with
Grandy.' Zane exchanged glances with Tad.

'And you, Jommy,' the abbot went on, 'will be joining Servan and Godfrey
in their quarters.'

Jommy could barely suppress a groan. 'Father, why not just hang me?'

The abbot smiled slightly. 'You'll adjust. You all will, because as of
today, if one of you earns punishment, all six of you will be punished.
If one of you is to be given the cane, all of you will. Is that clear?'

Jommy couldn't speak. He just nodded.

'Good, then be off and move your possessions. Your new assignments are
in Brother Kynan's hands, and he will not brook your being late.'

The three boys nodded, said, 'Yes, Father,' and left the room. In the
hall, Jommy took two large strides, stopped, put out his hands and
looking upward made a sound of pure aggravation. 'Argghhh!'

*  *  *

Jommy pushed open the door and saw three faces look up in surprise.
Grandy grinned, Godfrey scowled, but Servan jumped up as if he'd sat on
a blade and said, 'What do you think you are doing?'

With an insolent grin, Jommy said, 'Seeing if this is the right room.'
He made a show of looking around and said, 'Yes, it is.'

Grandy looked over his shoulder at the two older boys, seeing their
distress at the intrusion, and his grin broadened. 'Hello, Jommy. What
are you doing?'

'Moving in,' Jommy said, turning and hauling in his own trunk. 'You're
moving down the hall with Tad and Zane. Better get a shake on.'

Grandy said, 'Really?'

'On whose authority?' shouted Servan.

Jommy pulled his trunk across the threshold. 'Father Elias, I believe
was the name. You met him? He's in charge.'

Servan said, 'Who?'

'Father Elias, Abbot of this—'

'I know who he is!' shouted Servan, jaw jutting forward as he strode in
Jommy's direction.

'Now, now,' said Jommy, raising his right hand. 'Remember the last time?'

Servan hesitated and stopped. 'I'll go see about this.'

'Have a good time,' said Jommy cheerfully as the young nobleman pushed
past his new roommate.

'Better get going,' said Jommy to Grandy.

'Wait,' ordered Godfrey.

Grandy hesitated, and Jommy said, 'Get along. It's all right.'

Grandy started to get up to grab his trunk, when Godfrey said, 'I told
you to sit down!'

Jommy took one menacing step toward Godfrey and said, 'And I told him it
was all right!'

Godfrey sat down, his eyes widening.

Grandy dragged his trunk from the foot of his bed and out of the door,
and Jommy pulled his into the now-vacant space. He looked at Godfrey and
said, 'So bed-sitting is all right in this room?'

Godfrey jumped up as if burned. 'Only when the door is closed!'

Jommy grinned. A few minutes of silence was ended by Servan's return. He
pushed past Jommy and said to Godfrey, 'We're stuck with him.'

Jommy closed the door, walked over to what was now his bed, sat down and
said, 'Fine, then. What do you want to talk about?'

*  *  *

Miranda walked purposefully down the hall, ignoring startled Tsurani
magicians as she swept past them. Reaching the door leading into the
room where the Talnoy was kept for study, she walked in to find four
Great Ones of the Empire studying the device.

'You broke it?' she asked unceremoniously.

Alenca turned with a wry smile. 'Miranda! How lovely you look.'

'You broke it?' she repeated.

He waved his hands slightly. 'No, we didn't break it. My message said it
suddenly stopped working.'

Miranda moved past the old magician and his three companions to the bier
upon which the Talnoy rested. She didn't need to touch it to know that
something about it had changed. It was a subtle change, imperceptible
except to the keenest magical sensitivity, but it was ... as if
something wasn't there.

'It's empty,' she said. 'Whatever was inside before is now ... gone.'

'That is our conclusion,' agreed Wyntakata. He gestured with one hand
while holding his staff with the other. 'We were trying a new set of
wards - constructed by a group of the most gifted Lesser Path magicians
in the Empire - and gave the creature a simple instruction so that we
could see if the ward shielded it ... and it didn't move. Every test we
can apply says that whatever the motive power was before, it's now absent.'

'The soul is finally gone,' said Miranda softly.

Alenca looked doubtful. 'If, indeed, a soul was the power within, then
it is gone.'

Miranda said nothing of the other Talnoy still motionless in a cave in
Novindus. She sighed, as if disappointed. 'Well, one good thing; I
suspect we can now stop worrying about rifts from the Dasati world to here.'

'Would that this were true,' said Alenca.

A magician Miranda knew only by sight - Lodar - said, 'We had a report
this morning, after we had discovered the Talnoy was inert, and we sent
two of our members to investigate, as we usually do.'

Alenca said, 'They returned telling of a terrible sight; a portion of
woodlands was ... bare, every last living thing sucked into a
newly-established rift. We had to send Matemoso and Gilbaran to close
it. They were tested to the utmost before they could shut it down.

'But the most perplexing thing was that it was a rift back to the Dasati
world, and the energy being sucked through the rift - which was about
the size of your body - was a wind fierce enough to topple a grown man.'

'No,' said Miranda slowly, 'that's not what's perplexing. What's
perplexing is how a rift /from/ here to the Dasati world could open.
Because the original one usually comes from there to here, not the other
way around. Which means it's half of a pair ...' She turned and gripped
Alenca by the shoulder. 'There's another one that you haven't found, and
it's out there somewhere. You must find it!'

• CHAPTER THIRTEEN •

Change

Valko struck hard.

His opponent staggered backwards, off balance, and Valko lunged. He got
both arms around his opponent's waist, picked him up, took two quick
steps and slammed him into the wall, driving his shoulder into the
helpless man's stomach. Air exploded out of the trainer's lungs and
Valko thought he heard ribs cracking.

He let go, stepped back, and as his opponent began to fall to his knees,
Valko brought his right knee up hard and fast and struck him full in the
face, shattering what was left of an already bloody nose.

'Enough!' shouted Hirea.

Valko halted, fighting down the urge to step on his opponent's neck,
crushing it and taking the young man's life. He looked at the remaining
warriors, who were watching him in cool appraisal. He knew what each and
every one was thinking, even his 'brother', Seeleth: /Watch closely; you
may have to kill this Valko some day/. The fight had been taxing, though
the outcome had been in no doubt from the start; Valko had known he was
faster and stronger, and after the first minute, he had known he was
smarter. For the briefest of instants, now, he felt a sudden fatigue, a
fatigue beyond what was to be expected from this sort of exertion.

Hirea came to stand next to him. 'This is training, not the arena. He
may be a /vashta/ at this moment, but he's an experienced enough brawler
to teach most of you a thing.' He glanced around at the other nine
riders, each waiting his opportunity to grapple with the chosen
opponent. 'That will be enough for today. Retire to your quarters and
contemplate your errors. Take no pleasure from your successes. You are
still children.'

The remaining nine warriors rose from their kneeling positions around
the combat grounds and as Valko moved to join them, Hirea said, 'Wait a
moment, Valko.'

When they were alone he said, 'When Faroon put his hand on your upper
arm, you did something to break the hold. Show me.'

Valko nodded and waited. Hirea grabbed the young fighter's left arm, and
not gently, and without thought Valko reached up with his left hand,
taking a very painful handful of skin on the back of Hirea's right arm,
pulling down forcefully. With his right hand, Valko formed a dagger of
fingers and jammed them hard into the right side of Hirea's neck,
stepping behind Hirea's left leg with his own, and suddenly the old
instructor was on the sand, looking up at a cocked fist pointed at his
face. 'Hold!'

Valko stepped back. Hirea said, 'No new warrior has ever come to us
knowing fast-hand combat techniques, and even those who I've trained for
years in the Scourge cannot do what you have done so quickly and
easily.' The old fighter got up to his feet, and demanded, 'Who taught you?'

'My mother,' said Valko. 'She made it clear to me there could be times
during the Hiding when a warrior might come across me while I had
nothing to defend myself with but my open hands.'

Without warning, Hirea drew his sword and swung a looping overhand swing
that would have taken Valko's head from his shoulders, had the young
fighter not stepped inside the blow. Had he stepped away or tried to
duck, the strike would have crushed his shoulder or head. Valko hooked
his left arm up under Hirea's shoulder, stepped behind his right leg
with his own, and slammed the palm of his hand into the older fighter's
throat as hard as he could, driving him to the ground. Valko knelt as
Hirea went down and at the last instant, as his knee touched the sand,
he stood up and put his left foot on Hirea's sword hand. With his right,
he raised it to crush the old man's throat.

'Hold!' Hirea managed to choke out, holding up his left hand, palm up in
a sign of supplication.

Valko hesitated, then forced himself to speak calmly as he nearly hissed
his words. 'Why? There is training, old man, and there is killing. Why
should I not take your head now? Are you weak and begging for /mercy/?'
He spat out the last word for the obscenity it was.

'No,' said the old man. 'But if you wish to live, hear me out.'

Valko reached down and took the sword from Hirea's hand.

He put the point to the old man's throat and with his left hand,
motioned him to rise.

'There are only a few in the world who could have done what you did.
Name your mother.'

'Narueen. A Cisteen Effector.'

Hirea ignored the blade at his throat. 'No, she was not.' He looked
around to ensure no one could hear them. 'What I tell you means both our
lives are forfeit should any other hear us. Your mother, whatever her
true name might have been, was Bloodwitch. Only a handful of people can
teach what you've learned, and only one band of women in the Twelve
Worlds are counted among those: the Orange Sisterhood.'

'They are a myth ...' Valko studied the old man's face, and added, 'like
the White.'

'Many truths are hidden by myths, young warrior.' Hirea glanced around
one more time. 'Now, heed me closely. Speak of this to no one. There are
secrets you may not even know you know, and there are those who would
peel your skin from your body in tiny strips to get to those secrets.

'I will send you to your father, soon - you could have taken my head
today; there is nothing more I can teach you -but we shall speak of this
again before you go; there are things I must ask you and things I must
tell you.' He turned away, ignoring the sword at his throat. 'Should
anyone, especially Seeleth, ask why I kept you behind, just tell him we
were correcting a flaw in your footwork. Now, go to your quarters and
clean up.' He pointed to the prone figure of his still-unconscious
training assistant and said, 'Faroon may be as stupid as a vashta, but
right now you smell like one.'

Valko reversed the sword and returned it to his teacher. 'I'll say
nothing of any of this. But it was hard not to take your head, old man.'

Hirea laughed. 'You may still get the chance. I have no living son, and
some day, soon perhaps, I may seek you out to put me down: my bones
begin to feel the cold and my vision isn't as keen as when I was young.
Now go!'

Valko obeyed. Hirea might have been his victim today, but he was still
his teacher and as such must be obeyed. But what he had said troubled
the young fighter, who walked slowly back to his quarters, wondering if
the old man had been right about his mother. She was certainly unlike
other women, and many of the things they had spoken of when alone were
forbidden. Could she have been Bloodwitch? That fabled sisterhood had
been banned by the TeKarana himself. Every member was to have been
hunted down and executed without hesitation. They were declared
blasphemers by His Darkness's Highest Priests, and their teachers were
declared an anathema.

Suddenly, very tired, Valko thought, /Mother, what have you done?/

*  *  *

'Caleb, what have you got us into?' Tad said as they clung to the side
of the cliff face.

'I don't think he can hear us,' shouted Jommy over the wind.

Zane said nothing as his teeth were chattering and he hung on to Tad's
tunic to keep him from falling.

'Move up!' shouted Servan. 'You've got to go up, first, then down!'

Jommy nodded, and said just loud enough for only Tad and Zane to hear,
'I hate that he's right.'

'Well, stop worrying about that, and start worrying about getting Grandy
down,' said Tad.

Jommy nodded then climbed over Tad's position on the narrow ledge, and
came down between him and Zane, who moved slightly to let him get settled.

Six boys were perched upon a mountain a half-day's ride from the city of
Roldem. The exercise had been designed to train them to work as a group
in difficult circumstances, in this case climbing to the top of a rocky
crag without the aid of ropes or tools. They were just a few yards shy
of the peak when an unexpected squall blew out of the north, unleashing
torrential rains and a brutal wind.

Five of the six boys were in reasonable situations, hunkered down
against the rock face, in a good position to wait out the storm, which
should pass within an hour or two, but Grandy was in trouble.

The smaller boy had been nearly blown off the face of the mountain by a
sudden gust of wind as he traversed along a ledge in their attempt to
get back down the mountain. He had slid down to a shelf of rock a few
yards below the others, and now he clung to it with the tips of his
fingers and terror-inspired determination.

Servan had quickly organized the others. 'Jommy, lie flat against the
rock face, then let Zane, Tad and Godfrey lower you down to where Grandy
can grip your hands!'

'Why are you the only one standing around?' shouted Jommy.

'Because of the four of us, I'm the weakest,' Servan replied: which was
true. A very good swordsman, he lacked the physical strength of even
Godfrey, who was a good deal weaker than the three robust young men from
Sorcerer's Isle.

Jommy was left with no reason to complain: Servan was being honest and
putting his personal vanity aside in trying to get Grandy to safety.

A hundred feet below them, two monks were desperately trying to get up
the face of the wet rocks to aid them, but they were having even less
success than the six boys, since they were wearing sandals and long robes.

Jommy half-slid, and was half-lowered down the rock, water sheeting
along the surface and granting him little to hold on to. 'Hang on
tight!' he shouted to Tad and Godfrey.

Godfrey and Tad each held a leg, while Zane, the stockiest and strongest
of the three, lay back with his full weight while he hung on the backs
of their tunics. Jommy reached down and got one hand on Grandy's shirt,
and shouted, I'll pull you up!'

'No!' shouted Servan. 'Grab him, hang on tight, and we'll pull /you/ up!'

The odd chain of boys inched back up the mountainside, when Grandy was
gripped by sudden panic and tried to climb up Jommy's arm. Jommy felt
his grip on the boy's shirt loosen, and he tried to turn, not realizing
he was only barely being held by Godfrey and Tad. Their grip on his legs
began to slip, then failed; first Tad lost his hold, then Godfrey.
Within an instant, Grandy was climbing up to a place of relative safety
while Jommy twisted in place, his legs swinging past his head, and found
himself suddenly sliding down the rocks, feet first, clawing for any
handhold. Servan sat down hard and let himself slide after Jommy, then
he rolled, ignoring cuts and bruises from the rocks, and turned himself
head first, nearly diving down the side of the rocks. He managed to
reach out and grab Jommy's tunic collar.

Zane managed to grab Servan's leg as he slid past. The boy shouted in
pain as his hip was almost dislocated by Zane's actions. Jommy reached
up blindly and found his hand seized by Servan. 'Don't let go!' he shouted.

Servan said, 'I won't!'

Forcing himself to calmness, Jommy shouted to Servan, 'What now?'

Grimacing in pain, the royal cousin's eyes never left Jommy. 'I can't
move. Use me like a rope and climb over me.'

Jommy used all the strength in his left arm to heave himself up. He
reached with his right hand, grabbing the belt on Servan's trousers.
Feeling, around with his right toe he got a scant purchase in a crevice
and hauled himself up. Then he let go with his left hand and reached
high to get a strong grip on the fleshy part of Servan's right thigh,
pulled once more and felt Godfrey's hands on his shoulders, helping him
to the ledge.

As soon as he was safe, Jommy turned and helped Zane pull Servan back up
to the ledge. The six boys sat panting with exertion, terror and pain,
freezing in the driving rain on the ledge. Jommy looked at Servan.
'You're mad, mate, you know that?'

Servan said, 'I don't like you, but that doesn't mean I want to see you
dead.'

'I don't like you either,' said Jommy. Servan's face was cut, his cheek
swollen and from the way he rubbed at his right shoulder, he might have
dislocated it. With the rain pelting down Jommy couldn't tell, but he
thought Servan's eyes swollen from tears, probably from the pain. 'But I
owe you my life.'

Servan managed a faint smile. 'A bit of an awkward situation, isn't it?'

Jommy said, 'Doesn't have to be. I don't know why you felt the need to
lord it over us when we first arrived, and right now I don't care. You
saved my life: I was sliding down this mountain and there was no way I
was going to stop till I hit the bottom. So, if anyone asks, I'll be the
first to say you're no coward. A madman, maybe, but no coward.'

Suddenly Servan smiled. 'Well, I couldn't let you fall after you almost
killed yourself getting my cousin.'

'Cousin?' asked Tad. He looked at Grandy. 'He's your cousin?'

Grandy, teeth chattering with cold, said, 'Yes. Didn't I mention that?'

'That makes you another of the King's nephews?' asked Tad.

'No,' said Servan. 'That makes him the King's son. Grandy's older
brother is Crown Prince Constantine of Roldem. Which means that some day
he's going to be the younger brother to the King.'

'Damn me!' said Jommy. 'The people you meet.'

Suddenly, Servan started to laugh. The sound was so genuine - a release
of tension and fear - that the other boys could not help themselves, and
joined in.

Brother Thaddeus, the monk who was attempting to reach them, found a
safe ledge a dozen yards below them and shouted, 'Wait there! Brother
Malcolm is hurrying back to the university. He will bring Brother Micah
back. Stay there and hang on!'

The boys huddled closer in the rain. Micah was not properly a monk of
the Order, but a Lesser Path magician who resided on the grounds of the
university. His many talents included control over the weather.

By the time Micah arrived, the boys were thoroughly miserable, shivering
uncontrollably and hardly able to move. Micah chanted a spell to lessen
the severity of the storm, creating a large pocket of more clement
weather around the boys. The sphere of the spell was nearly a hundred
yards in all directions, so that within it the rain fell like a gentle
spring fall, rather than this unexpected squall.

With the torrent abated for a few minutes, Brother Thaddeus clambered up
the rock face so he could help the boys get down to the wider ledge
below. From there it was a relatively easy trail down to the foot of the
mountain, a mere three hours' walk under normal conditions. As they made
their way down the slippery trail, Jommy turned to Grandy and said, 'Why
did you never mention you're the King's younger son?'

Grandy, shivering and looking the worse for his ordeal, said, 'If you've
noticed, no one at the university talks much about family. It's
considered rude. We're all students.'

Jommy nodded, though he didn't understand. In the time he had been at
the La-Timsan university a few idle remarks had been made about this
student or that student being the son of a noble or rich merchant, but
as he thought about it, he realized no one had come out and said whose
father was whose. Grandy had been the exception when he mentioned that
Servan was a cousin to the King's family.

Jommy felt confused. Exhausted, battered, and totally confused. From the
look on the faces of his foster-brothers, he could tell that Tad and
Zane were feeling equally out of their depth.

He saw horses waiting at the bottom of the trail. At least they wouldn't
have to walk back to the city. And when they were there, there would be
dry clothing and hot food.

As they reached better footing down the trail, they picked up speed, and
when they were near enough to smell the damp scent of horse hair and the
pungent smell of the wet woods, Jommy looked again at Servan. He was in
no frame of mind to puzzle out exactly what kind of fellow the young
royal really was, but he was determined that things would not return to
how they had been before. He saw Godfrey limping, and without saying a
word, he slowed a little, moved in next to him, and slipped the boy's
arm over his shoulder, helping him take the weight off his injured ankle.

*  *  *

Valko stood silently with the other nine surviving young warriors as
Hirea and another older warrior motioned for the youngsters to line up.
When everyone was in place, Hirea said, 'There is more to bringing
honours and glory to your empire, your society and your father's name
than being a mindless killer.

'Good killing is an art and nothing brings more pleasure than watching
an artful killer dispose of a weakling. Nothing, that is, save the art
of mating.'

A couple of the young men laughed.

Hirea said, 'I do not speak of lying with a female, you stupid tavaks!'
The field animal he called them was well known for being both sexually
active and incredibly stupid.

Now several of the warriors looked confused. A few had taken females
while in the Hiding. It was one of the signs that a young male was
nearing the time of testing. When the competition among the boys in the
Hiding became too violent, their mothers attempted to get them back to
their fathers' domains.

Hirea laughed. 'Are there any among you whose mothers have returned with
you to your father's keep, castle or estate?'

Two young warriors held up their hands.

He pointed at those two. 'They are fortunate. They have clever mothers,
as well as strong fathers. Their mothers were unforgettable. Their
fathers wanted them to return, perhaps to sire another son.

'Some of you had to remind your fathers just who your mother was.' He
shook his head as he looked down. 'It is the nature of the Dasati that
ideal pairings are rare, but they are desirable, not only for the chance
for superior offspring, but because an ideal pairing makes a man's life
more bearable, more pleasurable.'

He motioned to the man at his side. 'This is Unkarlin, a rider of the
Bloodguard.' He turned to him and asked, 'How many surviving sons and
daughters are in your household?'

'I am the third son, and fifth of seven children.'

'From the same mother?'

Unkarlin inclined his head in assent, and several of the young warriors
made noises of astonishment. Two, even three offspring from the same
parents was not unheard of, but seven! It was heroic!

'Thus are dynasties born!' shouted Hirea. 'When your sons kill their
enemies and claim spoils, then riches, then estates, Lessers and more
riders come into the family! This man's family is partially responsible
for the Bloodguard's power and success. Consider your fathers and how
many kinsmen ride with him. How many uncles and cousins count you in the
Sadharin, Valko?'

In the weeks he had spent with his father before coming to Hirea for
training, Valko had learned these details. 'My father is eldest in the
Sadharin, Hirea! He counts a younger brother, and four lesser cousins in
the riders. From them I have twenty-seven cousins and sixteen lesser
cousins.'

'How many riders in the Sadharin?'

'Ninety-seven, fifty lords.'

'Out of fifty lords of the Sadharin, Valko counts forty-nine as
kinsmen!' He looked around the room. 'You can hardly have stronger ties
than that!

'But to breed that sort of strength, to have that power to call upon,
you must pick wisely who you bed, young fools! There are women you will
desire until your body aches for them, but they are a waste of your time
and seed. Even if you have a powerful son with a Lesser, he is still
Lesser born. If you have a son from a warrior family, but it is a weak
family, without strong patrons or blood-ties, what do you gain? Nothing.
They gain by joining your line, but it drags you down.

'You need to seek out equals, or if you are clever enough, if you have
something unique in you—' here he seemed to stare directly at Valko,
'—then you breed upward. Any man who can bed one of the female kin of
the Karana, no matter if she is the ugliest female you have ever beheld,
then do so, and if you keep her until she is with child, pray that child
is a warrior of the first renown, for then shall you have ties that will
make your enemies tremble at the very thought of you.

'Then can you rise above the politics of your nation, even the politics
of your world, and become a force within the Twelve Worlds.' He paused
as he saw he had each young warrior listening raptly.

'But it all begins with having the sense to know that mating is an art.'

Now the warriors were ready to understand their next task, thought
Valko. He had appeared as interested as the next student, but nothing
Hirea had said was new to him. His mother had spoken with him on such
topics for hours.

He knew that to waste time with a female of any rank less than his own
was the height of foolishness, unless it was to bind a vassal, perhaps a
lord with no surviving sons, for lands and livestock had more value than
sons from lesser houses. But he would focus on trying to rise in status.
He knew that his mother expected him to advance quickly, and within ten
years to be Lord of the Camareen; and to have powerful sons within
twenty years, with links forged to powerful houses.

Valko understood only part of his mother's plan. That she had a plan, he
had no doubt, for she had raised no fool for a son. He knew that
somewhere, sometime she would reveal herself to him again, and then he
would learn exactly what was behind his training.

'Now,' said Hirea, 'we are going to a festival, in the city of Okora.
There you will meet daughters and household females of rich and powerful
men. Choose wisely, young warriors, for these shall be among the first
to send you sons, sons who will return to your father's houses in years
to come, and who those sons shall be is up to you.'

Silently, Valko thought, /Only in this one thing. After that, it is the
mother who moulds the child/.

*  *  *

Pug strained against the urge to do something, anything, but willed
himself to be as motionless as possible. They sat in a circle, Magnus to
his right, Nakor to his left, Bek next to Nakor and opposite Pug, the
Dasati named Martuch.

Martuch had spoken to Pug and Nakor on several occasions over the
previous two days, asking questions that were clearly related to this
undertaking, as well as seemingly making conversation about the mundane.
Aspects of human existence fascinated him as much as everything Dasati
fascinated Pug and Nakor; but without a frame of reference, it was
difficult for Pug to put a name to his attitude towards the guide. If
asked, he would have been inclined to say he found him to be an
agreeable companion.

Martuch said, 'Be still, my friends. It is better that way. The more you
struggle, the more uncomfortable the change.'

They were in the second week of practising magic in the city of Sushar.
Martuch was, apparently, a practitioner of many trades, and magic was
among them. He explained that on the Dasati worlds, 'spellmongers' were
considered commoners of a trade no more elevated than that of a smith or
carpenter. But he had reassured them that once they had mastered their
arts on Delecordia, those arts would work on the Dasati worlds.

He had still not agreed to guide them. He had said he would give his
decision when the time came, but as of yet he had said neither yes nor
no. What he was seeking to understand about Pug and his companions
wasn't clear, but he seemed in no particular hurry to come to a decision.

'You must be patient,' said Martuch. 'When this process is complete, you
will be able to breathe the air, drink the water, eat the food of the
Dasati, and to all appearances be Dasati. There is a glamour we shall
employ that will make you seem one of us, though you will probably
elicit odd glances from a Deathpriest if you happen to encounter one
closely - I would avoid this, if I were you. In this one thing you have
an advantage: the Ipiliac magicians are superior to the Deathpriests in
that our magic does not depend entirely on necromancy. By various arcane
means, we can ensure that your disguise bears close scrutiny.

'But that is the least of your worries. For in temper and nature you are
as alien to the Dasati as they are to you, and there are a thousand ways
of being, looking at life, and proceeding in the affairs of the everyday
that will be lost upon you. Some you may learn quickly, while others
will always elude you.'

He looked from face to face. 'We are a race of warriors, and I mean that
without boast. It is not as if we are the only warrior people to exist;
however, we are a race bred to struggle. We kill our young males, did
you know that?'

Pug remembered a comment made by Kaspar. 'I had heard something like that.'

'Any boy may grow to be a threat, a rival, and as such must be
obliterated before they can reach that state of existence.'

Nakor looked fascinated by this. 'How then did you endure as a race?'

'By being dangerous, even as a child. By being wily. By having mothers
who dedicate themselves to sheltering their children until they are old
enough to protect themselves.

'You will learn more about the Hiding and other things that are taken
for granted among my people, but not all at once. For now, let us
concentrate on how to keep you alive more than an hour once you set foot
on any of the Twelve Worlds.'

'Not every member of your people can be a warrior, surely?' asked Magnus.

'No, there are warriors and their consorts, and their children and
lesser brothers and sisters. That rank is not clearly labelled, much as
you might think of the citizens of your nation as being "normal" while
everyone else you meet is an "alien".' He looked from face to face. 'On
my world you will be the aliens, so it is best if we find you a role
that is somewhat suspect to the Dasati to begin with. Do you have any
healing skills?'

Nakor said, 'I have some knowledge of herbs and how to dress wounds.'

Pug said, 'On my world, healing is done by chirurgeons and clerics, but
I have some basic knowledge.'

'Then you shall be members of the Guild of Attenders.'

'Attenders?' asked Magnus.

'Everyone not part of the ruling class are known as "Lessers", said
Martuch. 'Attenders are especially despised because of their impulse to
take care of those not of their immediate family.'

'Yet you endure their presence?' asked Pug.

'Yes,' said Nakor. 'Because they are useful!'

Martuch smiled, and for a moment Pug felt there was a glimpse of
something behind the stern exterior. 'Yes. You grasp the concept.

'Those you fear, you placate. Those who might be a threat, you destroy.
But those who are neither fearsome or threatening, but who may be
useful, you keep around. You make them clients and protect them from
other rulers who might take a notion to obliterate them.'

Martuch waved his hand in a circle in the air. 'Beyond these walls lies
a city which has much more in common with your worlds than with mine.
While the people here are distant kin to mine, they have lived long
enough in this twisted space, this place half-way between the first and
second planes, that many of our ... ways, are forgotten.

'Here you have merchants and traders and entertainers, much as you do on
your world. By our standards, these distant cousins of our are carefree
to the edge of madness - those of your world are surely mad.'

Pug said, 'So much to learn.'

Bek finally spoke. 'I don't understand any of this. I just want to do
something.'

'Soon,' said Nakor, placating the restless young man.

Martuch said, 'Bek, we are done for now. Why don't you go outside and
get some air?'

Bek looked at Nakor who nodded, and after the young man left, Nakor
said, 'Why did you want him to leave?'

'Because so much of this is lost on him, yet in many ways he is more
like a Dasati than any of you can imagine.' He looked at Nakor. 'He
follows you?'

'He will do what I tell him to do, for at least a little while longer.'

'Keep an eye on him.' To Pug he said, 'Why did you bring him?'

Pug said, 'I was told to.'

Martuch nodded, as if that was all he needed to know. 'He may be important.'

Nakor looked at Magnus, then said, 'I need to ask you something, Martuch.'

'What?'

'Why are you helping us, without knowing our intent?'

Martuch said, 'I know more than you realize, Nakor the Isalani. Your
coming was not unheralded. We received word some months ago that someone
from the first plane of reality would be seeking access to my world.'

'Word?' asked Pug. 'From whom?'

'I only have a name,' said the guide. 'Kalkin.'

Pug sat stunned. Even Nakor's eyes widened. Magnus was the first to
speak. 'It doesn't mean it /was/ Kalkin, or Ban-ath. Just someone using
that name.'

'But who would know?' asked Pug. 'Who besides the innermost circle of
the Conclave even knows of Kaspar's vision on the roof of the Pavilion
of the Gods?'

'And that, my friends, is why I may help you, if you show you're able to
endure what needs to be done to get you to the Dasati worlds. For
whether or not you're aware of it, we play a game of gods, and the
stakes at risk are far more than you can begin to imagine. It is not
only your world that lies at risk; it is my world as well. Vast danger
is circling: entire nations may die.'

• CHAPTER FOURTEEN •

Celebration

Pug lashed out.

Martuch put his hands up and a shimmering disc appeared in front of his
crossed wrists, a virtual shield of energy. The blue energy dart Pug had
cast was deflected harmlessly into the sky.

Pug, Nakor and Magnus had met earlier that afternoon with Martuch, who
had escorted them to a relatively deserted meadow in the hills a short
walk from the city. Pug observed that there were acres of cultivated
land everywhere, but no farms.

'It is not our way,' Martuch had responded. He went on to explain that
farmers were a caste of workers who laboured for associations of
cultivators, millers, grain and produce exporters and who lived in
clusters of rooms in large buildings he called 'apartments'. They drove
wagons out every morning and returned at sundown. He said it was a
legacy of their Dasati heritage, for on the Twelve Worlds strength in
numbers was not merely a catchphrase, but an axiom to live by: the packs
of predators on the Dasati worlds were such that a farm family alone in
a small house would not survive a year.

The other thing Pug noticed was his use of the term 'our way'. Whatever
else he might think about the Ipiliac, he considered them one with the
Dasati.

'Magic is often thought of as just another tool to the Dasati,' said
Martuch, 'which of course means another weapon.

'I think once you comprehend the intricacies of working with magic in
this environment, your mastery of the subject will make you supreme
among magic users, Pug.' To Nakor and Magnus he said, 'Probably all
three of you will rank highest.

'But do not underestimate the ferocity of those who you may encounter. A
half-dozen Deathpriests may not equal you individually, but as a group
they will overwhelm you. They are fanatics by your measure, as is every
man, woman, and child in that realm.

'They live by a standard that can not even be called a "code" It is a
set of unthinking responses honed over millennia of living in a world in
which hesitation means obliteration.' He looked at the three magic-users
and said, 'If you think, you die.'

Magnus said, 'You depict a grim reality.'

'It is all they know. It is not grim to them, for they are the living,
ergo, they are the survivors, the victors - even the least among them -
and in that they take pride and satisfaction. The lowest of the Lessers,
given the meanest tasks to perform, can feel superior to the failed son
of the TeKarana himself. It is a sense of place you cannot begin to
appreciate.'

Nakor said, 'I gathered as much hours ago, Martuch. What I would like to
know is how you came to be different from your brothers?'

'That is something for another time, but that time approaches. I have
decided today to let you know my choice: I will guide you where you wish
to go. And, moreover, I will give you my pledge to do all in my power to
bring you home again.'

'Speaking of which,' said Magnus, 'after we endure all these changes,
how will we survive when we go home?'

'In good order, I should think,' said Martuch. 'It is the nature of the
differences between the second and first plane of reality that as soon
as you return home, you will start to revert to your old state. You may
wish to take to your beds for a few days, and you'll no doubt feel like
dying, but you will not. Think of it as a particularly bad flux or the
result of far too much drink the night before, only far more worse,
lasting a week or so. Then it will pass.

'There is an elegance in the order of nature, a stately progression of
the universe which suggests that things should stay where they belong.
As you seemed determined not to, the universe is inclined to forgive you
and take you back once you return.' He squinted at Pug, a habit Pug had
noticed usually meant he was very curious about whatever it was he was
questioning. 'So, may I now know the reason you wish to venture
somewhere no sane member of your race would ever wish to go?'

Pug glanced at Nakor, who nodded assent once. To Martuch he said, 'What
do you know of the Talnoy?'

Martuch's eyes widened. 'First, that you should not even know that word,
let alone what it is. Second, that it is a ... blasphemy. Why?'

'We have one.'

Now Martuch looked openly shocked. 'Where? How?'

'It is the reason we must go to the Dasati world,' said Pug. 'I will
tell you everything in time, but for now understand that it is the
presence of the Talnoy on my world that is the cause of our concern.'

'Well it should be, human,' said Martuch. 'It is a thing to cause fear
in even the bravest Dasati hero of yore, a monstrosity from the
bloodiest days in the long and murderous history of my people.' He
paused, then said, 'This changes things.'

'How?' asked Pug. 'You're not changing your mind?'

'No. To the contrary, I am now even more determined to take you where
you wish to go. I was correct in telling you that you play the Game of
Gods, but now you play at a much higher stake than you ever imagined.

'But I must go and speak to someone, and he will in turn speak with
someone else. When we have conferred I will return and when I do, we
shall sit and talk of things no mortal, human or Dasati, should ever
have to imagine, let alone face.' He looked around, as if suddenly
concerned about being overheard. The gesture was almost humorous given
their present location, but the implication was not lost on Pug. 'I will
return as quickly as I can. It should be obvious that you must say
nothing of this to anyone else, not even to Kastor. Now, let us get back
to the city and I will be off.'

Pug and the others exchanged glances, then followed the obviously
agitated Dasati.

*  *  *

Valko did not enjoy the festivities. They were odd and troubling to him,
though his mother had described such social encounters before. It was as
if he possessed an extraordinary ability to see what others could not,
or perhaps had more ease in ignoring what blinded or gulled others. This
was what his mother had called the 'social warfare' of the Dasati.

As Hirea had predicted, most of his fellow student warriors were making
tavaks of themselves, save for Seeleth, who like Valko had retreated to
a corner of the room to watch and appraise.

Several females had already made overtures to him, younger daughters of
minor warriors, and one remarkably beautiful daughter of a Lesser
Facilitator who specialized in wholesale arms and armour. Her father was
an insect from what Valko could tell, but a very successful insect. And
his daughter was extraordinarily attractive and using her beauty like a
battering ram against a city gate. Valko had no doubt that given enough
wine, several of his more foolish trainees would come to blows over her,
perhaps even shed blood. Valko watched the way she moved, the way her
otherwise very proper attire clung to every curve of her body
suggestively, and the way she smiled. He reckoned she was easily the
most dangerous person in the room.

He considered what Hirea had said earlier about the relationships
between families and clans, houses and dynasties. He also remembered
what his mother had taught him in contradiction to the conventional
wisdom: that mating with a minor warrior's daughter was not necessarily
a bad thing, if that coupling produced a successful offspring who might
bind that warrior and his family to you as a vassal. Breeding 'up' was
not the only way to success, she had taught him. Breeding 'down' to
secure a broad foundation could bring many swords to any cause you took up.

In fact, he considered, looking around the room, there didn't seem to be
much opportunity to breed up. Only one young female appeared to come
close to Hirea's requirements, and she was surrounded by five of his
companions.

Seeleth came to his side. 'You do not seek to couple tonight, brother?'

Valko cast him a sidelong glance and shook his head. He saw that Seeleth
had elected to wear the badge of Remalu on his armour. There was no
prohibition against it, and Valko could have chosen the Camareen badge
or the badge of the Sadharin. He chose neither. But to choose to reveal
his society badge rather than his kinship badge, to name his father's
associations rather than his family, that was strange. Valko was tempted
to ask about it, but as with all things regarding Seeleth, he thought
silence the better course. Valko had decided the opportunity for a
mating for advantage was slim, and he thought Hirea knew this. The old
warrior stood near the table of his host, listening to whatever
conversation was underway, but his eyes were constantly seeking out his
charges around the room, weighing their behaviour.

Valko knew that as the night wore on his comrades would get drunk and
make foolish choices. What he didn't know was if this was something
expected and that he should do the same, or whether it was something to
be avoided. On one hand he did not wish to squander his time and energy
on anything that was not advantageous, but on the other hand, he was
mindful of Hirea's warning not to become too distinctive.

Weighing that choice, he said to his companion, 'And are you not seeking
a female, "brother"?'

Seeleth grinned like a hungry zarkis. 'There is none here worthy of my
attention, in truth. Don't you think so?'

Valko glanced sidelong at him, then turned his attention to the floor.
His decision had been made. 'I think that female talking to Tokam might be.'

'Why? Her father is a lesser knight.'

'But her mother is the younger sister of someone placed high in the
Bloodguard, Unkarlin.' Before Seeleth could speak, Valko stepped away
and moved purposefully towards the female. She was attractive and he
could feel his pulse starting to rise as he anticipated the possibility
of coupling with her or battling with Tokam for her. He knew he would do
neither, but by appearing to show interest, he acted predictably enough
to avert any suspicion should he be observed, and he avoided wasting his
time on a female who really wasn't ideally placed and therefore, in the
end, a waste of time.

He glanced at Hirea, and saw the old warrior was watching him as he
approached the pair who were speaking lowly, apparently lost in
conversation. Could that be a hint of approval he saw in the old man's eyes?

Valko decided they must have that private talk, and soon.

*  *  *

Tad fidgeted, Zane stared, and Jommy grinned. The reception at the
palace was nothing 'modest' by the boys' standards. At least two hundred
courtiers stood along either side of the long carpet leading to the
throne, and along the walls two dozen royal guardsmen, the King's First
Dragoons, stood at attention in full gear - short round white fur cap
with a black scarf that fell from the crown to the left shoulder,
cream-coloured jackets with red piping, black straight-legged trousers
tucked into knee-high black boots.

The boys were likewise turned out in their finest clothing, which they
had to hurriedly purchase once the summons to the palace arrived. The
monks were not happy to see their orderly schedule disrupted, but even
the High Priest of La-Timsa couldn't ignore a royal summons.

Jommy, in particular, preened like a bantam rooster, wearing his first
really fine jacket, of green corduroy with golden buttons worn open, a
shirt Tad thought silly, but was now the fashion in Roldem - white linen
with big ruffles down the front - tight black trousers and ankle-high boots.

Zane didn't like the boots, for as he observed, they were useless for
anything that required real boots, but were not as comfortable as slippers.

Now the boys stood ready to be presented to the King of Roldem.

Servan appeared at Jommy's shoulder and whispered, 'This is what you get
for saving a prince's life.'

'If you'd warned me,' said Jommy, not losing his grin, 'I'd have the
little rotter still sitting up there.' Servan smiled and looked away.

Servan and Jommy had not become friends, but they had reached an
accommodation. Servan and Godfrey had become civil with the three boys
from Sorcerer's Isle, and Jommy had stopped hitting them.

The Royal Master of Ceremonies struck the floor with the heel of a heavy
wooden staff and the hall fell quiet. 'Your Majesties!' he announced,
'My lords, ladies, gentlemen, and all others assembled! Sir Jommy, Sir
Tad and Sir Zane of the Royal House of Kesh!'

'"Sir"?' said Tad. 'When did that happen?'

Servan whispered. 'Well, they had to think of something to make you
sound important. Now walk over to the King, bow the way I showed you,
and don't trip!'

The three boys walked down the long carpet to the designated spot, six
paces before the thrones, and bowed as they had been shown. Sitting on
twin thrones were King Carol and Queen Gertrude. Standing at the Queen's
side was a little girl of no more than eight or nine, Princess Stephane,
and at the King's right hand stood three sons: the Crown Prince
Constantine, a lad almost the same age as the three boys themselves;
Prince Alber, a boy two years his junior, and of course Prince Grandy,
who grinned at his friends. Constantine and Alber wore uniforms of the
Royal Navy, while Grandy wore a simple tunic, as long as you considered
that simple included gold threads and diamond buttons.

The King smiled and said, 'We owe you a great debt, my young friends,
for saving the life of our youngest son.'

The three had been told not to speak until asked a direct question, but
Jommy couldn't help himself and blurted out, 'Not to dispute the honour,
Majesty, but your son was really in little danger; he's an enterprising
lad who can take care of himself. He was just in a spot of discomfort.'

For a moment the court fell silent, then the King laughed. Grandy rolled
his eyes, but grinned at his classmate.

'As much as it pleases us to think our youngest boy can take care of
himself, as you put it, we know from what was reported to us that his
life was at risk and moreover you put yourself at even greater risk to
save him.

'Therefore, it is with pleasure that we reward you with the following.'
He waved to the Master of Ceremonies, who stepped forward.

'Henceforth,' cried the Master of Ceremonies, 'let it be known
throughout the realm of Roldem that the three men presented here today
shall be Knights of the Royal Court, vested with all the privilege and
honour pertaining to that rank, with the gratitude of the court, for
their heroic act in saving the life of our beloved son, Grandprey.
Moreover they shall carry the title of Knight of the Royal Court
throughout their lives. So proclaimed this day, by royal decree.'

Tad whispered, 'Grandprey?'

Zane glanced at the boy who looked skyward, as if to say he didn't pick
his name, his mother did.

The boys said nothing else, while the royal court applauded politely.
The royal family, however, seemed quite genuine in their warmth and
thanks, which Jommy assumed meant that Grandy had given a colourful
account of their heroics on the mountain.

The King stood up and descended the three steps to stand before the
boys, while a page in royal livery appeared at his side, holding a large
tray. The tray was covered in white velvet, upon which rested three
golden pins with the royal crest of the nation on them. The King took
the pins from the tray and personally pinned them on the collar of each
of the three boys in turn, and then stepped back.

Jommy glanced over to where Servan stood. The young man motioned for
them to bow, so Jommy did so, followed at once by Tad and Zane. The King
returned to his throne and said, 'A reception will begin as soon as
today's court is adjourned.'

Servan motioned for the boys to return the way they had come. They bowed
as they stepped backwards, turned arid walked to the entrance of the hall.

Once outside, Servan and Godfrey approached and Servan said, 'Well, that
was good. You didn't trip, though keeping your mouth shut does seem a
problem for you, doesn't it?'

Jommy had the good grace to look embarrassed. 'Well, I know, but it
wasn't that difficult a situation, and you took a lot more risk saving
my arse than I did with Grandy. They should have been giving you the
honour.'

Servan shrugged. 'Well, I won't argue with you, but remember, they don't
hand out honours for saving thick-headed peasant boys. Besides, I'm
already a Knight of the Court.'

'What was all that, about, then?' asked Zane.

Godfrey said, 'What it means is you're knights until you die, but you
can't pass along the title to your sons. They'll be peasants like you.'

Zane rolled his eyes. 'Fine.'

Tad laughed. Their relationship with Godfrey had also changed to one of
guarded tolerance, if not friendship.

'Come along,' said Servan. 'You need to be at the reception before the
royal family makes its entrance. Try not to spill wine on your new
clothes. The gods know when you're ever going to dress this well again.'

Jommy clapped his hand on Servan's shoulder, just hard enough to make
Servan's knees buckle ever so slightly, a semi-playful gesture. 'You're
an intolerable twit. And just when I was beginning to think you were a
tolerable twit.'

Tad, Zane, and Godfrey all laughed.

They entered the royal reception hall - a vaulted ceiling with
floor-to-ceiling glass walls, through which a brilliant afternoon sun
shone. The court was in full attendance, and Jommy nudged first Tad,
then Zane at the number of pretty girls in attendance.

'Girls!' Zane said just loud enough for a few nobles nearby to overhear,
causing a few odd glances and a few amused expressions.

'Behave,' said Godfrey. 'These are the finest daughters in the Kingdom
and you're ill-educated louts.'

Tad said, 'That's ill-educated lout knights, thank you very much.
Besides, who helped you pass that examination on geometry yesterday?'

Godfrey looked slightly embarrassed, but he said, 'Very well. You're
well-educated louts.'

'Well-educated lout knights,' corrected Jommy.

The banter ceased when they reached their destined position, the centre
of a circle of large round tables, each well laden. Servers waited
nearby to ensure that the nobility of Roldem and honoured guests
wouldn't have to actually secure their own food and drink.

The royal family entered and everyone bowed. When the King reached the
three guests of honour, he signalled to the Master of Ceremonies who
slammed his staff on the stone floor. 'At their Royal Majesties'
pleasure, you are welcome!'

At once servers began loading up plates and filling cups. The boys had
been instructed not to take any food or drink until after they left the
King's company. Tad and Jommy waited, while Zane watched with
badly-hidden alarm as the contents of the tables rapidly diminished.

The King spoke: 'Your modesty does you well, youngster, but never argue
with a king in public when he's handing out rewards.'

Jommy blushed. 'My deepest apology, Majesty.'

The King motioned with his right hand and a page appeared with a tray,
upon which sat three small pouches. 'The offices you've been granted
come with some minor properties attached, from which you'll derive an
annual small stipend. This is your payment for this year.'

He looked at a royal courtier who stood nearby, and the man said, 'A
hundred sovereigns, Majesty.'

The King nodded, picked up one bag and handed it to Jommy, then the
other two to Tad and Zane. 'Your annuity can be picked up at the royal
treasury each year on this date.'

The boys were speechless. A hundred Roldem sovereigns was worth well
over three hundred common pieces of gold in the Vale of Dreams where
they were raised. It was an income to match that of Miller Hodover at
Stardock Town, the richest man Tad and Zane ever knew. Jommy had never
known anyone who earned that sort of income. All three had the same
thought at the same instant: they were rich!

The King said, 'Go and enjoy the attention. It's back to university for
you this evening, and as I understand it, the monks are hardly impressed
by titles and wealth.'

The boys bowed and retreated a step, then turned and moved into the
crowd. Servan and Godfrey joined them, as Grandy made his way over to
the five.

'Grandprey?' asked Tad.

Grandy shrugged. 'My mother's grandfather's name. I wasn't consulted.'

Jommy affected a bow. 'Your highness.'

Grandy said playfully, 'Sir Jommy.'

'Speaking of names,' said Servan. 'Just what sort of name is "Jommy"?'

Jommy shrugged. 'It's a family moniker. I'm really Jonathan, but my next
older brother was a baby and couldn't say it, so he called me "Jommy"
and it stuck. No one calls me Jonathan.

Food appeared, carried by pages, and each young man helped himself to a
plateful and a cup of ale. 'Enjoy,' said Servan. 'For at sundown, we're
back to the tender mercies of the Brothers of La-Timsa.'

'Yes,' said Tad, with a smile, 'but until then we have food, drink and
pretty girls to flirt with.'

Jommy's head came up like a startled deer. 'Girls!' he said as he
glanced around the room. 'Damn me, and I'm now a knight!'

The other five boys laughed. Jommy grinned, and said, 'Until this
morning I was a peasant lad with little to offer, but as of now I'm a
handsome young knight with prospects, who happens to be a close friend
of a royal prince. Now if you hooligans will excuse me, I'm going to see
how many girls I can impress before we get dragged back to the university.'

'That's "Sir Hooligan", to you,' said Tad, but he handed his
barely-started platter to a nearby page.

Zane started wolfing down the food and through a stuffed mouth said,
'I'll catch up to you in a minute!'

Zane finished the last bite then hurried off after his foster-brothers.
Godfrey glanced at Grandy and Servan. 'May the gods protect the
daughters of Roldem.'

Servan chuckled. 'You've known those girls all your life, Godfrey. Feel
sorry for the boys.'

Grandy laughed aloud.

• CHAPTER FIFTEEN •

The White

Valko raised his sword.

From the distant parapet of the family castle, his father returned the
salute, welcoming a surviving son home from training. Hirea rode at
Valko's side. With training over, he had simply informed the son of the
Camareen he would travel with him to his father's estates, then move on
to his own home, Talidan, a town closer to the mountains to the east. At
a suitable distance behind them rode Hirea's two retainers.

As they rode together, Hirea said, 'It is time for plain speaking, young
Valko.'

'The talk you spoke of that afternoon on the training floor,' countered
the young warrior, 'the one for which I waited in vain?'

'Such is the nature of time and circumstances,' said the old teacher. 'I
have little to say, and your father will tell you more. For the time
being let me tell you that your mother hid things from you to prevent
you from betraying her or yourself before this day. She and I have met,
and she is a remarkable female, This is what we need you to know:
everything you have been taught by your mother is true; everything
you've been shown since you emerged from the Hiding is false.'

Valko's head snapped around. He stared at the old man. 'What ...?'

'The bloodlust we feel at certain times, the urge to kill young, all of
this is false. All of this has been forced upon us, but it is not the
true Dasati way.'

Valko's mouth hung open. No wonder the old warrior hadn't been able to
tell him this in a public place. His heart beat wildly.

'Your father will have more to say to you soon. Speak to no one about
what I've just said, and do not ask me more,' said the old teacher.
'Here we part ways, but believe me when I tell you the next day is
crucial to your survival. When we meet again, you will understand why
I've been so circumspect.' He waved once towards the distant castle, in
salute of Valko's father, then turned his varnin away from the cut-off
road to the castle and motioned for his two retainers to follow him,
leaving Valko alone on the road.

Valko watched them go, nonplussed. He thought about the dire things
Hirea had said. /The next day is crucial to your survival ... /He
wondered what this meant. Certainly a returning son, tested and now
trained, might prove a danger to his father, and Valko was probably a
more dangerous opponent than any his father had faced in years, but he
also knew that his father was probably the most dangerous foe he would
face any time soon. Hirea might be a fine instructor, but his prime days
were past; Aruke still was a swordsman to be feared.

Valko rode at a sedate pace, not wishing to appear too anxious. He
reached the gate of the castle, noting that both doors had been thrown
wide for his return. He appreciated the gesture. Usually only one door
would be opened for a single rider.

Inside the castle's main yard, he saw his father standing on the
balcony, looking down at him. A Lesser, his father's estate manager,
approached with eyes downcast and said, 'Master Valko, your father
wishes you to retire and rest. He will see you in his private chamber
after you've eaten.'

Dismounting, Valko asked, 'I'm not dining with him tonight?'

'No, master,' said the man with a slight cringe, as if expecting
punishment for bearing what might be considered ill-tidings. 'He has
other concerns for the moment, but wishes to see you as soon as
circumstances permit. Food shall be brought to your room.'

Valko decided not to pursue the matter with the servant. He didn't
relish dining alone: time spent with the other nine surviving warriors
in training had given him an appreciation of company, something he had
lacked for most of his childhood.

He let the Lessers take away his mount, and slowly walked into his
father's great castle. Like all things Dasati, there was an assumption
imbuing the style of the architecture that bigger meant more powerful.
He realized that years of adding to the building, extending the coverage
of the outer wall, and additional housing for retainers and Lessers, as
well as housing for the other riders of the Sadharin should they be in
residence, had created a position which was difficult to defend. As he
entered the great double doors that dominated the courtyard below, he
realized he could come up with at least three, if not more, sound plans
to besiege or storm his father's estate.

He determined that when he ruled, his first order of business would be
to correct these oversights and shortcomings of design.

He walked through the vast halls and everywhere he looked he saw nothing
but Dasati tradition: massive, graceless columns, smooth walls with
precisely-fitted stones stretching as far as the eye could see, which
meant there were many blind spots along the walls because of the lack of
archers' ports. It would by no means be easy to take this ancient
castle, but it was far from impossible. As he mounted the stairway to
the family quarters he decided that his best course of action would be
to simply mount more guards and look-outs on the walls at strategic
locations.

He reached his own quarters and wondered if every son saw his father's
castle as both a place of haven and a prize to be taken. Pushing open
the door, he found that his father had had his rooms refurbished. The
simple bed he had last slept in here had been replaced by a large bed
piled high with furs which dominated the room. Where there had been a
plain chest in which he had kept his armour there was now an ornately
carved blackwood chest and a mannequin upon which to place his armour.
Brightly coloured tapestries adorned the walls, adding warmth both for
the body and eye.

Lessers hurried in to help the young warrior remove his armour and
others carried in a large tub in which he could bathe. He quickly
stripped off his armour, realizing that he was sore, tired, and in need
of the bath.

As he settled into the hot water, servants instantly set about applying
sweet-smelling unguents to his hair and they started to wash his body
with soft cloths. Valko had never been afforded such luxurious treatment
in his life, and barely knew how to react.

After he had bathed, a selection of richly-appointed robes were
presented, and he chose a dark blue one with white piping and abstract
designs in golden thread that were very pleasing to his eye.

As the tub was carried away, food was carried into the room on a large
table shouldered by four male Lessers. Upon it was a wide variety of
fare, and several wines and ales.

Valko found himself ravenous from the long ride, and set to without
hesitation. As he ate, the servants retired, leaving him with one
attendant, a young female of unusual beauty, who waited, silent and
patient until he had finished eating. Then she said softly, 'I am here
for my young lord's pleasure. I have been instructed that I may not
declare so that should I conceive, the child will have no right to claim
kinship.'

Valko studied the young woman, and realized that as much as he desired
to couple with her, his father's odd behaviour and Hirea's warning
weighed on his mind. Finally he said, 'Not tonight ... what is your name?'

'Naila, my lord.'

'I may send for you tomorrow night, but right now I need rest.'

'As the young lord wishes.' She bowed, then asked, 'Do you wish me to
leave or stay?'

'Stay while I finish eating, and tell me about my father's household.
What has occurred during my absence?'

'I'm sure there are others better able to tell you than I.'

'No doubt,' said Valko, indicating with a pat of his hand that the girl
should sit next to him. 'But until then, I would prefer to listen to
your words. Certainly you have eyes to see and ears to hear; what have
you observed while I was away?'

Not entirely sure how to answer, the Lesser woman began to recite a long
litany of castle gossip, rumours and speculation, most of which Valko
found innocuous and boring. But once in a while she said something that
piqued his interest, and after a few questions, she yielded up a few
useful facts.

On balance, he considered, this was a far more profitable encounter than
any mere coupling. He ignored his body's demand to take the girl, and
kept asking questions late into the night, long after he finished eating.

*  *  *

The knock came in the middle of the night. Jommy was the first to rouse,
as the door opened and Brother Kynan entered. 'Get dressed. Be silent,'
he instructed the three young men.

Jommy glanced at Servan who shrugged. Godfrey blinked like a man coming
out of a stupor.

By the time they were dressed, they discovered Tad, Zane and Grandy
waiting silently outside the door, under the monk's watchful gaze. He
held a finger to his lips then motioned for the six students to follow him.

They managed to reach their destination, the Proctor's office, without
uttering a word, but once through the door, Godfrey couldn't restrain
himself. 'What time is it?' he whispered to Servan.

Servan's eyes widened slightly in warning, but a voice from within the
dark room said, 'An hour after midnight, I should think.'

Father Elias opened a shuttered lantern, and revealed himself behind the
Proctor's desk. 'Wait outside, Brother, if you please,' he said to
Brother Kynan.

Kynan nodded once and left the room.

The abbot stood and said, 'From what I've heard, it appears you six have
sorted out your differences. Is this true?'

Jommy exchanged glances with Servan and nodded once, and Servan said,
'Yes, Father. We've come to an ... accommodation.'

'Good. I was hoping for friendship, but I'll settle for a respectful
truce. Now, the reason you're here is for me to say goodbye.'

The boys looked at one another, and Jommy said, 'Father, are you leaving?'

'No, you are,' the abbot said. 'There are things I am not free to tell
you, but this you can know now.

'You six are knights of the Roldemish Court, and as such you have
certain duties as well as the privileges that came with your rank.

'You also are six gifted young men with bright futures.'

To Grandy, he said, 'You above all the others, my prince, have greater
responsibility and a higher duty.'

Jommy began to look uncomfortable and this didn't escape the abbot's
notice. He smiled. 'Fear not, young Jonathan. I've had discussions with
Turhan Bey regarding your future. He has agreed to your next assignment.'

At the word 'assignment' Jommy, Tad and Zane all got tense. The abbot
hadn't said in so many words that these instructions were from the
Conclave, but he might as well have done.

'You are all going to serve in the army for a while.'

The students displayed varying degrees of disbelief.

'The army?' said Grandy.

'Your father has two sons in the navy already, young prince. Roldem
needs generals as much as she needs admirals, and you have done well.'
To Jommy, Tad and Zane, he said, 'You three have done especially well in
the short time you've been here, despite your lack of any previous
education.

'It wasn't necessary for us to turn you into scholars, just make sure
you were a little more refined when you left us than you were when you
arrived. Your training in the army is another such exercise, where you
will learn the military mindset and how to recognize true leadership.

'Towards that end, you are all commissioned as junior lieutenants in the
First Army, the King's Own. A wagon awaits you outside, where you will
be taken to the docks, where you will find a ship waiting to take you to
Inaska. It seems some robber baron or another from Bardac's Holdfast has
invaded Aranor, seeking to take advantage of the somewhat chaotic
situation there since we annexed Olasko into the Kingdom.

'You're going to be fine young officers and help General Bertrand drive
these raiders back across the border.' He bowed his head. 'May La-Timsa
protect you. Long live Roldem.'

'Long live Roldem,' Servan, Godfrey and Grandy responded, while the
three boys from Sorcerer's Isle weakly joined in at the last.

Outside the door Brother Kynan was waiting for them. He showed them down
the hall to the stabling yard, where a wagon waited.

'What about our things?' Servan asked.

'You will be given everything you need,' answered the taciturn monk, and
when the six boys were in the wagon, he motioned for the driver to set off.

*  *  *

Pug awoke with a start in the small room in the back of Kastor's shop.
Something was different: was it something outside? He couldn't hear any
sound that should have awakened him. It was dark and no one else moved,
though Bek occasionally tossed in his sleep, from dreams he never could
remember.

Then Pug realized the difference he sensed wasn't anything outside, but
rather from something inside. Inside himself. He had changed. He stood
up and went to the window and looked out.

Suddenly he was seeing this world as a Dasati would see it! He didn't
have words to describe what he witnessed. There were colours beyond the
spectrum of violet and red, shimmering energies that now were visible;
they were breathtaking.

In the night sky he saw stars that would be invisible to human eyes,
their presence revealed by energies no man of Midkemia could apprehend.
They were without light, but he could see their heat, so many miles
distant that no number could encompass it.

Suddenly a voice from behind him said, 'It's amazing, isn't it?'

Pug hadn't heard Ralan Bek stir, let alone wake and come to stand behind
him. The fact that he couldn't detect the youngster's presence any more
disturbed Pug. He kept his surprise under control and said instead,
'Yes, it's amazing.'

'I'm not going back,' said the young warrior.

'Where?'

'To our world, Midkemia. I ... don't belong there.'

'You belong here?'

Bek said nothing for a while, staring up into the sky, then at last he
said, 'No. Not here, either. I belong in the next place, where we're going.'

'How do you know that?' asked Pug.

'I don't know how,' Bek replied. 'I just know.'

Pug fell silent. He watched Bek gaze at the sky for a moment longer,
then he returned to his pallet. Lying there in the dark, while Bek gazed
out of the window, Pug wondered at his own mad plan. He knew it was his
own, because those messages had all been in his handwriting, and for
nearly fifty years not one had proven to be bad advice.

At times he wondered at his own cryptic style, the lack of information
beyond a simple injunction or instruction. He knew he would think he had
a good reason in the future to be cryptic, even if it frustrated him now
... He felt the urge to groan aloud. Time paradoxes made his head swim.

He lay abed until dawn, wrestling with a hundred doubts, and a hundred
more demons of the mind.

*  *  *

Valko awoke instantly. Someone was speaking. The voice was soft and
unthreatening. He turned, to discover it was Naila. She had not left his
side but had talked with him, then lain next to him as he drifted off
into slumber, holding him as his mother had held him when he was a
child. He had found the experience surprisingly pleasant and reassuring.
'Your father summons you,' she said quietly.

He donned his robe and followed her, until she paused outside the door
that led to his father's private chamber. She knocked once then, without
seeking Valko's permission, she hurried away, as if she had been
instructed to do so.

The door opened, but instead of his father, another man waited there.
Valko's hand went to his waist reflexively, but his armour and arms were
bedecking a mannequin in his quarters: he was dead should this man prove
to be an enemy.

But the man at the door made no threatening gestures. He merely waved
Valko in saying, 'Your father awaits.'

Valko knew he had no choice but to enter. If it was destined that he
would die here and now, he was helpless to postpone the inevitable.

Inside the room, four chairs had been arrayed in a semicircle facing a
single chair. Three of the chairs were in use, Aruke occupying the one
directly opposite the solitary chair. Next to him sat a man in the garb
of a Deathpriest. From the markings Valko assumed him to be of high
rank. On the other side of Valko's father sat Hirea, who ventured the
slightest of smiles as Valko's face betrayed his surprise. The man at
the door was unknown to him, but dressed as a warrior, like his father,
in armour and carrying a sword.

'Sit,' commanded his father, indicating the empty chair opposite him.

Valko did as instructed, and remained silent. The other warrior took the
remaining seat, and Aruke finally spoke. 'You are at a crossroads, my
son.' Slowly, he drew out his sword and placed it on his knees. 'One of
us will die tonight.'

Valko jumped out of the chair and picked it up, ready to use the clumsy
weapon as a last resort. The Deathpriest waved his hand, and suddenly
Valko felt his body's strength begin to leach away. In a few seconds, he
could not hold up the chair and it fell from his hands. The Deathpriest
gestured and the boy's strength started to return.

'You cannot withstand us should we wish you dead, young warrior. But
know it is our sincerest wish you stay alive.'

'How can that be?' asked Valko, leaning on the back of the dropped chair
as he waited for his full strength to return. 'My father says one of us
will die tonight. He cannot mean he feels his age and wishes an
honourable death so soon.'

'He means exactly that,' said the Deathpriest.

Aruke again waved Valko to take his seat, and reluctantly the young
fighter sat down. 'What you will hear tonight began centuries ago,' he
started. 'On a day not unlike this, one of my many greatgrandfathers was
brought before his father in this very room, where four men sat, much as
you see now. He was told things which he could barely credit, yet when
the night turned to dawn, he was still alive and fully believed
everything he had been taught. So it has gone for generations, for deep
within the history of the Camareen lies a secret. It is a secret you
will either keep within you for years to come, or take to your grave
this night.

'I sat where you sit now, many years ago, as my father and his father
before had done. We sat, we listened, we could not believe what was
said, but when all was said and done, we came to understand. And when we
understood, our lives were forever changed.

'Moreover, each of us has taken a pledge and embarked on a journey, from
that ancestor to myself. My journey still takes place this day.'

'Journey?' asked Valko. 'To where?'

'To a place within the soul,' said the Deathpriest.

Valko's mind immediately turned calculating. His mother had warned him
against listening to the Deathpriests, for they were highest in the
regard of the Dark One, after the TeKarana. As such, they could decree
that any deviation from accepted behaviour could be labelled blasphemy
and bring instant destruction; although his mother had cautioned him
that as often as not such accusations had more to do with property,
rank, an old blood feud, or over a female advantageous to an alliance,
and little to do with doctrine.

The Deathpriest read something in Valko's expression, for he said, 'I
know your mother warned you against listening to those of us in the
Brotherhood. But put aside what you think you know, and learn.'

'How do you know what my mother warned me of?' asked Valko, alarmed.

Aruke laughed. 'Because your mother is one of us, and if she could be,
she would be sitting in the fifth chair. She is with us in spirit, if
not in mind and body.'

Valko didn't understand, but he knew down to his marrow that for the
next few minutes his life would be in the balance.

Aruke looked first to one side, then to the other, and the three men
with him all nodded. 'My son, since long before you were conceived,
plans were in place that required one such as yourself to be created.'

Valko wondered at the choice of the word 'created', but chose to remain
silent.

'Like my father before me, I was raised with a single purpose, a purpose
which I hope will be fulfilled this night.' He fell silent, either
waiting to see if his son had a comment or question, or simply to gather
his thoughts. 'You will either understand this or not and upon your
understanding both our futures rest.

'Everything you know about our people, the Dasati, is false.'

Now Valko could not resist the urge to speak. 'False? What do you mean?
In what way?'

'In every way,' said his father.

The Deathpriest spoke next. 'I am Father Juwon. As a child I knew I had
a calling beyond that of being a warrior. When I returned to my father's
estate and bested everyone he sent against me to test me and won, I
left, seeking the nearest abbey.

'There I trained until I was elevated to the rank of lector, and then to
deacon. At last I reached ordination as a priest, and am now High Priest
of the Western Lands.

'But even from the first I knew my calling came not from the Dark One,
but from somewhere else.'

The hair on the back of Valko's neck rose, for surely this highly placed
Deathpriest could never utter such blasphemy? There was no other source
for a calling, save the Dark One. That is what everyone he had ever
known had said ... everyone but his mother.

Valko said nothing.

The armoured man said, 'I am Denob, of the Jadmundier. I trained with
your father, alongside Hirea. The three of us were chosen by fate to
become as brothers, though this was not obvious to us at first.' He
looked at Hirea.

'I have seen into you, young Valko,' said the old training instructor,
'deeper than you think. I have also spoken to your mother, and she told
me what to seek within you.

'I have not found you wanting.'

'When we fought, and I bested you with my bare hands, why the
deception?' cried Valko. 'Why did you act as if you didn't know my
mother, and then tell me she was a Bloodwitch?'

Hirea smiled. 'Have you thought upon what I said?'

'Yes,' said Valko. 'I have.'

'And your conclusion?' asked the Deathpriest.

Valko was silent for a moment. Then, in a low voice, he said, 'I believe
my mother is a Bloodwitch.'

'Then you've taken your first step,' said his father. 'When your mother
and I coupled, it had been decided long before we had met that we should
conceive a special child. Generations of Dasati were coupled and their
offspring united in turn, in order that one day you would sit in that
chair.'

'Auguries and portents had set us all on this path years ago,' said
Father Juwon. He leaned forward and looked Valko directly in the eyes, a
challenge in any other circumstance. 'You are that special child, and
the prophecy has begun.'

'What prophecy?' Valko asked.

The Deathpriest sat back and began speaking, as if reciting a familiar
old liturgy. 'In the beginning there was a balance, and within that
balance all things resided. There was pleasure and pain, hope and
despair, victory and defeat, the beginning and the end, and between them
all things lived, bred, and died, and the order of things progressed as
they should.

'But one day a struggle began and after epic battles and horrible
sacrifice, the balance was destroyed.'

'I don't understand,' said Valko. 'What balance are you speaking of?'

'The balance between evil and good,' said the Deathpriest.

Valko blinked. 'I don't understand those words.'

'The words are lost because the basic concepts were lost,' said Aruke.
'Why do you think Attenders take up healing?'

Valko shrugged. 'They are weak. They are ...' He let the thought trail
off, for in truth, he had no understanding of why Attenders chose the
lives they did.

'Why would any sane being choose a life of being despised by those they
serve?' asked Hirea. 'They could just as easily be Mongers, Facilitators
or Effectors. But instead they pick a trade that, while useful, earns
them continuous contempt. Why?'

Again, Valko could not express a reason. He just had a deep feeling that
something was wrong.

'They endure what they endure, because they are good men and women,'
said Father Juwon. 'They are good because they elect to help others,
just for the satisfaction of healing, of helping, or repairing damage,
of putting the needs of others ahead of their own.'

'I don't understand,' said Valko, but instead of a defiant tone, his
tone was quietly reflective, as if he really did wish to comprehend what
was being said to him. Deep within, he knew he was beginning to understand.

'In ancient days,' said the Deathpriest, 'there were two driving
impulses within every man, woman, and child: the impulse to take what
you wished, regardless of cost to others, to see and grab, to want and
to kill, to live without regard for others. To live this life, there
could be no progress, no growth, nothing but endless bloodshed and strife.'

'But that's how it has always been,' said Valko.

'No!' said Aruke to his son. 'The four of us here are living proof it is
not always that way. Each of us would willingly lay down his life for
the others.'

'But why?' asked Valko. 'He is a Jadmundier—' pointing to Denob. 'Hirea
is of the Scourge, and he?' indicating Father Juwon, '—is a Deathpriest.
You have no bond or loyalty to one another, no social alliances, no
pacts or obligations.'

'Not true,' answered his father. 'Though Scourge might fight alongside
Sadharin, or against Jadmundier, we three are as brothers.'

Father Juwon said, 'This is the other driving impulse: the drive to band
together, to share burdens, and to help one another; it's the very thing
we now hold in contempt, yet some of us still feel it, or no one would
ever become an Attender or Facilitator. Why choose a life that heaps
scorn and hatred upon you?'

Valko now looked defeated. 'I don't understand.'

Aruke said, 'It's called "enlightened self-interest", my son. It's why
warriors can put aside differences and aid one another, because it is to
our mutual benefit. And we four, here in this room, are but a few of
many who have come to understand that our people have become lost
without the second impulse, the impulse to care for others. The only
place in our people where that impulse is still pure is with a mother
and her child. Think of your mother caring for you all those years in
the Hiding, and wonder why that is the only time we Dasati exhibit that
trait.'

Valko said, 'But you four have found it?'

'We have a higher calling,' said Aruke. 'We serve a different master
than the Dark One.'

'Who?' cried Valko, now sitting forward on his seat.

Aruke said, 'We serve the White.'

*  *  *

Valko was stunned. The White was a tale told by mothers to frighten
their young. Yet four men - three warriors and a Deathpriest - sat
before him telling him they served a myth.

Silence dragged on, then Aruke said, 'You say nothing.'

Valko chose his words carefully. 'What I have been taught, above all
else by my mother, is to question everything.' He shifted his weight in
his chair, as if trying to make himself more comfortable as he wrestled
with such difficult concepts. 'Until this moment, had you asked, I would
have said what I assume every warrior of the Dasati would say: the White
is a myth. It's a tale concocted by Deathpriests to keep the faithful in
their place, or a fable created by the TeKarana's ancestors to give
weight to the claim that his line was chosen by the Dark One to protect
His Darkness's people from the harshest of light. Or perhaps simply a
tale handed down from our ancestors that means nothing.

'It is said that the White is a being who lures the unfaithful into
insanity and makes the weak perform irrational acts that mark them so
that all Dasati can see their contamination. It is said that even to
think overly long upon the White is dangerous. For me, the White always
signified madness.

'Until tonight, I would not have believed such a thing as the White
truly existed. Yet here you sit thus avowing, so I should assume that
the four of you are mad, claiming as you do to be in the service of
something that does not exist outside of myth.

However, nothing I've seen in Hirea indicates irrationality, nor in you,
my father.

'So I am forced to assume that the White is real and that the world is
not what I have been told it is.'

Aruke sat back positively beaming with pride. He glanced at Father Juwon
who said, 'You reasoned that well, young Valko. Assume the White is
real. What do you suppose it is?'

Valko shook his head. 'I doubt I can even guess.'

'Guess,' commanded his father.

'The White is not a being,' Valko began slowly. 'Or there would have
been more ... believable stories. Witnesses, testimonies and the like.
It would have to be immortal, for the legend has existed for centuries.
I have never once heard of anyone who even knew anyone who had seen a
manifestation of the White, so it cannot be a person or a being.'

Father Juwon nodded with approval.

'So,' continued Valko, 'it must be something abstract.' He looked at the
four men, 'Perhaps a society, like the Sadharin or the Scourge.'

Aruke nodded. 'It is, but it is more.' He looked at Hirea.

Hirea said, 'I've watched you, young Valko, and I've seen you kill, yet
you take no pleasure in it.'

Valko shrugged and said, 'I ... no. I do not. I feel ...'

'What do you feel?' asked Denob.

Valko said, 'I feel a sense of ... waste. Even when I become enraged, or
feel the hunger to spill blood, when it's over I feel ... an emptiness.'
He looked at his father. 'The young warrior I fought on my day of
testing, Lord Kesko's son... I have seen those who would not stand
against him victorious in the training arena. It was chance that had him
face me. Had he faced another, he would be serving his house and the
Sadharin this very day. There is no advantage, but chance, and chance
... it evens out eventually, doesn't it?'

Father Juwon nodded. 'It does. We lose many fine young warriors to mere
chance, and keep lesser warriors alive.'

'It is a waste,' Valko repeated.

'It is wrong,' said Aruke. 'If you can come to understand this thing,
then I am content to die this night.'

'Why should you wish to die tonight,' asked Valko. 'Why should either of
us die? Is it because of this ... secret you carry? I can scarcely
believe it, but if you say the White is who you serve, then I will serve
with you. You have much to teach me, Father, and there will be many
years before I take your head.'

'No, you must take my head tonight.'

'But why?'

'So that when dawn comes, you will be Lord of the Camareen. You must
install your mother as ruling female of this house and begin to sire
sons. Your mother will pick those females who will give you strong,
well-connected sons.

'And you must come to understand many things that I cannot teach you.
Your mother must; for a time of change is soon upon us, and you must
remain for many years the Lord of the Camareen, and come to fully
understand your fate.'

'What is my fate,' asked Valko. 'That I must hear this and ... believe it?'

'Your mother will tell you all, and she will be here within two days,'
said Aruke. 'But before I go, I reserve the pleasure of telling you what
you must know.

'You build an alliance unlike any seen since the Days of Forging, and
you or your heir must take that alliance and ride across the Star Bridge
to Omadrabar, and there you must do a thing that has never been done in
the history of the Dasati.

'You must take the head of the TeKarana. You must destroy the Empire of
the Twelve Worlds and save the Dasati from the Dark One.'

• CHAPTER SIXTEEN •

Lord

Aruke made ready to die.

Valko again voiced his objection. 'This is wasteful, and unnecessary.'

'You are young,' said Father Juwon. 'You are powerful, talented, and
perceptive beyond your years, but you are inexperienced.'

Kneeling before his son, Aruke said, 'Listen to them. Father Juwon will
remain here, as your "spiritual advisor", and Hirea and Denob will visit
regularly. Others will make themselves known to you.

'But it is to your mother you must look first, and then to Father Juwon,
for they will be your heart and mind until you have matured to fulfil
your destiny, my son. You must be the ruling lord of the Camareen, not
any man's son. It is vital that you rise quickly, and that all recognize
you, for a great struggle is coming, and you must be ready when it
arrives. Your mother will be a fine mistress of this castle - it is to
my everlasting sorrow she was never here long during my tenure as ruler;
she taught me more than I imagined possible to learn from a female, and
I regret that I will not see her again - and with a prelate as powerful
as Father Juwon acting as your personal advisor, you will begin with
great prestige and influence.

'They will guide you, keep you safe from those who will seek to crush
you, and shield you from those who wish to pull you down from below.'

He looked at Father Juwon, and nodded. 'I am ready.'

Father Juwon looked at his old friend, then at Valko, who saw a sheen of
wetness in the Deathpriest's eyes. An open display of weakness from a
Deathpriest? This, as much as anything he had heard, proved that what he
had been told was true, or that it was at least the truth as these men
knew it.

The High Priest of the Western Lands said, 'We are so far from the
light, we who serve the White, that we do not even have a name for the
One we seek to worship. Somewhere lost in time that being lived, and
somewhere we pray goodness abides, until such time as the way is made to
return it to our lost people. But we still wish for our brother that
being's mercy and know that this sacrifice is all that can be asked of
any man.' He looked at Valko. 'Make it swift, and with honour and respect.'

The Lord of the Camareen presented his sword hilt-first to his son and
Valko took it from him. He took a deep breath, and then in one swift
motion he brought it down in a slashing blow, cleanly severing his
father's head from his shoulders.

Orange blood fountained up in a spurting arc as Aruke's head rolled
across the floor and his body crumpled. Valko stood over his father's
body, generations of Dasati breeding causing a feeling of triumph to
rise up in him. He was now Lord of the Camareen! He was now ... then
another feeling intruded: a dark, cold sensation in the pit of the
stomach, far more chilling than the mere sense of wastefulness he had
felt before when seeing someone needlessly die. It was a lonely thing, a
dull ache of the heart, and he had no name for it. He looked at Juwon
with a silent question in his eyes.

'It is called sorrow,' said the Deathpriest. 'What you are feeling in
your heart is called sorrow.'

Valko felt moisture gather in his eyes, and a cold grip seized his
heart. He looked at the three remaining men in the room and said,
'Surely this cannot be what you seek to serve?' His voice was thick with
unfamiliar emotions.

'It is,' said Hirea, also betraying sadness at seeing his old friend
dead. 'Dying for a noble cause doesn't lessen the loss, my young friend.
Your father was my oldest companion and the only brother of the heart I
have known. I will think of him every day for the rest of my life.'

A single tear ran down Valko's cheek. 'I cannot welcome this,' he said.

Father Juwon put his hand on the young lord's shoulder. 'You must. It is
what will save you. And it will save our people. I know it is a great
deal to understand, but in time you will. Just know that the most
difficult task is now behind you.'

Looking down at the body of the man he barely knew, Valko said, 'Why do
I feel such ... sorrow? I ... he was a stranger.'

'He was your father,' said Denob. 'In ages gone by he would have loved
you as your mother has.'

'Can that be?'

'It is what we fight for,' said Juwon. 'Now, let us go forth and
announce to the household that you are now the Lord of the Camareen,
then send word to the courts of the Sadharin and the Karana. Then make
this house ready for your mother, for she is sorely needed here, my
young friend.'

Valko let his father's sword fall from his fingers. Staring at the
headless corpse, he nodded. Yes, more than anyone, his mother was needed
here.

*  *  *

In the distance the sounds of heavy siege engines being hauled over a
ridge by mules echoed through the woodlands. Teamsters cracked whips and
shouted at the fractious animals who laboured to get their burdens up a
trail never intended for such use.

The wagon containing the six young knights of Roldem jostled and shook
as it seemed to hit every rock, fallen branch and rut in the trail,
ensuring that the passengers were completely road-sore and bruised by
the time they arrived. They had taken a fast cutter from Roldem to the
inland port of Olasko Gateway. From there they had gone by riverboat up
to the town of Far Reaches, which nestled in a triangle of land formed
by the confluence of two rivers, the Lor and the Aran, which formed the
borders between the Duchy of Olasko, the Principality of Aranor, and the
disputed lands to the south, which were claimed by no fewer than six
different nations. To say the area was a trouble spot was an
understatement, and since Kaspar's overthrow a few years earlier, things
had become even more unsettled.

'Here you go, young officers,' said the driver, a cheerful little man
named Alby, who puffed furiously and constantly on a pipe filled with
the cheapest, most foul-smelling tabac. The cheerful teamster also had
the annoying habit of talking all the time and not listening to a thing
that was said by the boys, including two orders by Prince Grandy to stop
smoking the tabac. To the best of their ability to judge, the boys
concluded minutes after the ordeal began that Alby must be as deaf as a
tree stump.

Barely able to move, they managed to get out of the wagon, and when all
six stood firmly on the ground, Jommy said, 'Thanks for the ride.'

Without looking back, Alby said, 'You're more than welcome, young sir.'

Grandy said, 'You can hear?'

'Of course I can, young sir. Why did you think otherwise?'

'Because I ordered you to cease smoking that foul weed hours ago.'

The old man looked back and grinned. 'And I'm supposed to listen to a
pup knight-lieutenant? This army's run by generals and sergeants, young
sir. Best you learn that straight away. Have a good day.' He flicked the
reins and his horses moved along, leaving six bruised and annoyed young
officers standing before the command tent.

Looking at the guard, Servan said, 'We're to report to General Bertrand.'

'Sir,' said the guard, disappearing into the large command tent.

In a moment a familiar face appeared between the tent flaps as Kaspar of
Olasko stuck his head outside to see who the new officers were. He
smiled and said, 'Wait a minute, lads.'

'Kaspar,' said Tad.

'You know him?' asked Godfrey.

'That's the former Duke Kaspar of Olasko,' said Zane. 'I wonder what
he's doing here.'

'I expect we'll find out soon enough,' said Servan.

As Servan predicted, a short time later Kaspar came out of the command
tent in the company of a burly older man wearing a dirty, bloodstained
tabard with the royal crest of Roldem on it. His hair was dishevelled
and matted, as if he had recently removed his helmet. He looked at the
six boys and said, 'Gentlemen, welcome to the war.'

The boys saluted as they had been instructed, and it was Grandy who
spoke first. 'How can we serve, General?'

General Bertrand smiled, his black beard parting to show even white
teeth. 'Just don't get yourself killed, Highness, for a start. I have no
idea why your father approved this notion to put you in harm's way, but
if you're here to serve, then serve you will.

'Kaspar of Olasko is acting as a consultant on this march, as he is very
familiar with the surrounding countryside.'

Kaspar said, 'I used to hunt around here.'

'Sir,' asked Tad. 'What are we to do?'

'Why, you are to observe, and learn,' said the General. 'And eventually,
to lead. But for now, I need to know who among you is the fastest runner?'

None of the boys felt particularly swift after the long ride in the
bouncing wagon, but without hesitation both Jommy and Godfrey said, 'Tad.'

The General nodded, and handed a rolled-up parchment to Tad. 'Up that
trail and over that ridge, past where we're pulling up our siege
engines, you'll find a company of infantry under the command of a
Captain Beloit. Give these to him and wait for his reply. Now off with you.'

Tad hesitated for an instant, then saluted, and ran off.

Kaspar said, 'The rest of you come with me.'

When they were a short distance from the command tent, Kaspar stopped
and said, 'We're at the end of routing some infantry from Bardac's who
thought they'd raid down here and maybe even carve out a little private
barony. As long as you follow orders, you should be safe, but don't
assume for a moment there's not danger behind those trees.' He looked at
Grandy. 'Especially you, young prince.' He shook his head. 'Last time I
saw you I think you were cutting teeth.'

Grandy tried to look serious, but failed.

Kaspar said, 'Stay close to the command tent until I get the General to
assign you to whichever companies need a raw lieutenant who has no idea
what he's doing, and then we'll send you along.' He looked around, as if
anticipating danger. 'Those dogs from Bardac's do have a company of
light cavalry out there somewhere, and we have no idea where, so stay
alert, because if those bastards show up, it's going to become very busy
around here very suddenly.' He noticed they weren't carrying weapons.
'Whose notion was it to order you six into combat without weapons?'

They all exchanged glances, and Jommy said, 'Father Elias said we'd be
given what we needed when we left the university. I guess he neglected
that part of things.'

Kaspar shouted to a nearby guardsman. 'Take these young officers to the
quartermaster's wagon!' To the five remaining boys he said, 'Each of you
get a sword and an officer's breastplate. If they've got riding boots
your size, trade in those gentleman's dainties you're wearing; if they
don't, you'll have to make do with those. Some horses are being brought
up from the remounts and should be here before sundown. You can each get
yourself a ride then.'

The boys tried a collection of awkward salutes, and Kaspar had to
restrain himself from laughing. After they were on their way down the
hill to the provisioned wagon, Kaspar groaned to himself, 'Pug, what are
you thinking?'

*  *  *

Miranda could barely contain herself. 'What is your father thinking?'
she demanded of Caleb.

Her younger son sat on a divan in his parent's private quarters in the
villa on Sorcerer's Island, and held up his hands in surrender. 'I've
never been good at anticipating the reasons why either of you do the
things you do, Mother.'

Miranda paced. 'I've got a dead Talnoy in the halls of the Assembly, and
we think there's a rogue rift somewhere on the planet that the most
powerful magicians on two worlds can't seem to find. Your
foster-children are off with Kaspar playing soldier, and your father is
... somewhere.'

Caleb said, 'What would you like me to do?'

Miranda heaved a sigh and sat. 'Just ... listen.'

'I can do that,' said her son with a rueful smile. He knew how frantic
his mother became when his father was out of reach. She didn't mind most
of the things he went off to do, no matter the danger, as long as he
could be contacted. It gave her the sense of reassurance that she seemed
to need.

'Would it do any good to point out that Father is probably the most able
man on two worlds to be where he is?'

'But there's so much back here that could use his attention,' she said,
knowing as she said it that it was a petty complaint.

'And on Kelewan.'

'Like finding Leso Varen?'

She nodded. 'He's learned from his past mistakes, apparently. There's
not been even the faintest whiff of his evil magic that anyone, Great
One or Lesser Path, can detect. Fortunately, the Tsurani abhorrence for
necromancy should make it easy enough to find him should he start
murdering people for their life force.'

'Unless he's decided to take another tack.'

'Such as?'

'If he's duplicated his ruse in Kesh, and has insinuated himself within
a high-ranking family, or even the imperial family, he could cause a
great deal of harm that way.'

Miranda said, 'Let him try. Since the reforms of the last two emperors,
the Game of the Council is about as deadly as a tussle between two
underweight kittens. There hasn't been a political murder in ten years,
and no outright armed conflict between clans or families in fifteen.
It's become more sedate over there than it is here.'

'Still,' said Caleb, 'it might be the thing for you to return to Kelewan
and turn your abilities to finding Varen. You've not encountered him—'

'I was on the Island when he struck!' she reminded her son.

'And I was about to say, "except for that one time on the Island, but
that makes you more likely to recognize him than anyone on Kelewan".'

'I could have been standing next to him, Caleb, and not known him. There
may be some ... quality of magic he uses that your father would
recognize, but as for having any sense of him while standing and talking
...'

'Perhaps there's another way.'

'What?'

'Ask around. Look for things that might give you a hint, such as who has
been absent from the Assembly at odd times.'

'There are over four hundred members of the Assembly,' Miranda reminded
her son. 'Accounting for the comings and goings of men who are used to
having their every whim obeyed without question may prove a little
difficult.'

'Then ask if anyone has been behaving oddly. Father says that it takes
someone occupying another's body a while to adjust.'

'He's right,' said Miranda, as she stopped her pacing as something else
struck her. 'My father had books on necromancy which are right here on
this island.'

'Then might I suggest you consult them, for if you can't find the man,
perhaps you can find the magic.'

'You've given me an idea,' said Miranda, quickly hurrying out of the room.

Caleb looked at the door his mother had just used and said quietly,
'You're welcome.'

*  *  *

Pug stood waiting as the Dasati Martuch stood next to Magnus, with a
priest of some sort from a local temple on the other side of him. They
were learning the dominant language of the Dasati, using 'tricks' Nakor
had employed before - a type of magic Pug had witnessed during the
Riftwar used by an Ishapian priest named Dominic. The local priest was
necessary because Nakor's command of his 'tricks' was still tentative at
best and would take more refinement before he would risk anything
dealing with the mind.

All Pug knew was that it had taken the better part of an hour, but he
now spoke fluent, idiomatic Dasati; and he had a throbbing headache.
Magnus looked as if he was going to throw up his lunch.

'The discomfort will pass,' said Martuch.

The only one who appeared completely untroubled by the experience was
Bek, who now seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of moving on to
the second plane of reality.

Martuch said, 'Before we depart, there are things you must know for the
journey, and things you need to know for when we arrive.

'Delecordia is a world that has somehow reached a balancing point
between the first and second realms of reality. There have been many
theories and speculations by great minds among the Ipiliac, but no one
knows how, why, or when it happened. Nor do we have any knowledge of any
place like it.'

'The Hall's a big place,' said Nakor with a grin. 'You'll find another
one, some day, I bet.'

Pug knew better than to bet against Nakor.

Martuch went on, 'The people you see here are descendants of refugees.
Ages ago when the ancestors of the current TeKarana rose to pre-eminence
among the Dasati, there was a worldwide war and those who opposed his
reign fled here. The details are lost in antiquity.' He looked around.
'The Ipiliac are people you could reason with, find common ground with,
come to terms with, but we Dasati are less like the Ipiliac than you are.'

He studied Pug. Pug endured the gaze and understood. 'You fight every
moment you're here, don't you?'

'More than you will ever know. It takes constant effort not to draw a
sword and start a slaughter. The Ipiliac and other races are what I was
taught to abhor: lesser beings, weaklings not worthy of existence.' He
sighed. 'In time, I have been told, the straggle will be less overt,
less conscious, and I believe that to be so.' He ventured what Pug had
come to understand was a Dasati smile. 'I've gone entire minutes without
wanting to take your heads, of late.' Then his tone turned serious.
'When we leave here, it will be unlike anything you've experienced, for
there is no "door" into a Hall in the second realm, or at least no one
has found anything like the Hall in the lower realms of reality.'

Pug interrupted. 'How do you know that?'

'In good time,' said Martuch, holding up his hand. 'There will be time
for answers to such academic questions when we get to our destination.'
He glanced around, and said, 'Right now, we need to concentrate on
survival. Remember this: there is no escape. There is nowhere to which
you can flee. Once you are on Kosridi, you are stuck there. And there
you must remain until your mysterious mission is over. And always, every
waking moment, you must remember that the most dangerous person among
the Ipiliac is less of a threat to you than the gentlest soul among the
Dasati.

'You are disguised as Attenders, which is both a risk and safety. Their
moral position and impulse to help others makes them despised among most
Dasati, yet it will help you mask any blunders you might make.' He held
up his hand. 'I caution you, say or do nothing unless we speak first.
There are countless ways you can get yourself killed, and I can not
protect you until we reach our safe haven.

'I will be a warrior, a Rider of the Sadharin - that is one of the
societies of warriors I've mentioned to you. You are under my protection
because I find you useful, but should you make any blunders, I will be
expected to kill you as quickly as a stranger might, so heed my warning:
/if I must, I will kill one of you to save this mission/. Do we
understand one another?'

They looked at each other, and Pug knew what Magnus was thinking: that
Martuch would have his hands full killing any of the four. No one said a
word, just nodded in agreement.

'Lastly, speak to no one, under no circumstances, unless I instruct you
to. We shall travel by thought alone to the world of Kosridi, and to the
castle of an ally a few weeks' travel from the capital city. We shall
rest there, and there you shall hone your deception, learning to be
Dasati from other Dasati besides myself. After that we will travel to
Kosridi City and take the Star Bridge to three worlds, until we reached
Omadrabar.' Looking at Pug, he said, 'I trust by the time we do, we will
both have a clear idea of what this mad quest is, and how it will
benefit both our causes.'

Silently Pug thought, 'We can only hope.'

• CHAPTER SEVENTEEN •

Warriors

Jommy waved his sword.

From down at the bottom of the hill, Grandy returned the signal. The
boys had been given a relatively safe post, overseeing a company of
wounded soldiers behind the lines. Jommy, Servan and Tad were up on a
ridge, scouting the best route out of the area of main conflict, while
Grandy, Zane and Godfrey were down below with the three wagons of
injured men. A few walking-wounded hobbled along beside the wagons,
which were slowed enough by terrain for them to keep pace. They were
wending their way through an alpine meadow cut by several game trails.
The afternoon sun had turned the day warm and bright, but riddled the
landscape with deep shadows, and keeping the slow-moving wagons on the
correct path down the mountain was tricky. Without the three boys
scouting ahead, the wagons could easily have wandered down a dry wash
leading nowhere. Jommy knew that once over this last ridge it was a
straight run down a trail that would take them to the waiting riverboats.

The conflict had reached a crescendo about five miles to the north-east,
as General Bertrand's and Kaspar's forces had brought the infantry from
Bardac's to bay. The invaders had holed up in an old frontier fortress,
now half destroyed by the elements. Roldem's siege engines, two small
trebuchets and two large ballistae, were being brought up to reduce the
other half of the fortress to rubble. Of the Bardac cavalry, no sign had
been seen, and speculation had run through the camp that they were
already back across the border into the Holdfast.

Servan turned to Jommy. 'Once we're over this ridge I think we should
see a fairly quiet run down to the river. The boats should still be
there—' Suddenly he stopped.

Jommy heard it at the same instant. 'Horses!'

Neither boy had to be reminded that all the Roldemish cavalry was up at
the front, providing a screen for the siege engines. Jommy was off down
the hill, a half step behind Servan, and a step ahead of Tad who looked
surprised to see his two companions racing down the hill. Then Jommy's
shout penetrated, and Tad heard the sound of hooves on the rocks down a
long draw.

Grandy, Zane and Godfrey had heard it as well. The injured men who were
able to were helping the others out of the wagons. Any man caught in the
open wagons when the cavalry struck would be dead.

Four archers and two swordsmen had been detailed with the six young
officers, and before Jommy could even think to consider what to do,
Servan was giving orders. 'You, you, and you,' he said to the first
three archers, pointing at each one in turn. 'Up on those rocks and
shoot at the first head you see coming up that draw, man or horse, I
don't care.' To the fourth archer, he said, 'I want you over there—' he
pointed to an outcropping that rose up to the defender's right, '—and
see if you can discourage them from turning towards you.' To the two fit
guardsmen and the other boys he shouted, 'Unhitch these wagons and turn
them on their sides! Let's go!'

Jommy saw no sense in debating who was supposed to be senior, for he had
no idea what to do, and at least Servan had the men following orders.
The young cousin to the Prince shouted, 'Any man who can wield a weapon,
behind the wagons. The rest of you, up this trail—' he pointed to a game
trail leading off over the ridge, '—and hide as best you can!'

Those who could helped those who couldn't move by themselves up the
trail. A half-dozen wounded men joined the archers and the swordsmen.

Servan grabbed Grandy and said, 'Head up the trail with the wounded.'
When the Prince hesitated, he shouted, 'Go! Protect them!'

Grandy nodded and did as instructed. Jommy knew he offered as much
protection as a squirrel, but the order gave the boy a sense of purpose
and saved his pride.

The wagons had been overturned and Jommy saw that everyone was ready as
could be; and the freed horses were now scattering through the woods.
'Get ready!' he shouted, shifting his weight and looking to see where
the charge would come from.

Then suddenly the air was full of war cries and arrows.

The three archers peppered the first riders, emptying at least four
saddles, and when they tried to turn, the fourth archer killed the first
two men who left the line of attack.

Those behind lowered themselves over the necks of their mounts and
charged the wagons. Jommy judged them a rag-tag outfit, mostly
mercenaries from what he could see, no uniforms, no organization. He
knew that if they were offered an avenue of escape they'd take it, so he
ran to stand next to Servan and said, 'If they break for the north, let
them go.'

'Let them go?' said the young noble.

'Yes! These are swords-for-hire and will not die in a lost cause.'

Then the riders hit the wagons. Jommy saw Tad whirl and cut a rider from
his horse, while Zane leapt up from his crouch behind one of the wagons
to pull a Bardac man from his saddle. As Jommy expected, the riders
needed less than a minute to get around the sides of the three
overturned wagons, and now he faced two armed riders trying to turn in
behind the defenders.

The wounded men were putting up the best fight they could, but Jommy
knew they were overmatched. The archers would quickly run out of arrows
and had no swords or shields, just trench knives. Jommy picked the
closest rider and struck hard at the man, who caught Jommy's blade on
his own. The man quickly began the short chopping blows favoured by
cavalry that prevented an infantryman from getting in too close, and
Jommy was forced to retreat. Another rider came at Jommy from his left,
and the boy spun, bringing his sword around quickly as he ducked. The
rider's sword passed harmlessly over Jommy's head, but Jommy's blade bit
deep into the rider's leg. The man shouted in pain and couldn't keep his
saddle with only one good leg.

Jommy saw the now riderless horse turn and without thought he made a
two-step dash and leapt into the saddle before the first rider could
turn and come at him. Jommy was a good swordsman, and a good rider, but
he had never fought from horseback before, not even in practice. He knew
from what Caleb, Kaspar and Talwin Hawkins had told him that an
experienced warhorse would know what his rider wished because of leg
pressure, but Jommy had no idea if this was an experienced animal or
not; and he was not its usual rider. He quickly took the reins in his
left hand and raised his right just in time to block a blow from the
first rider.

Jommy lashed out with his right hand, a sweeping sideways blow that
almost took him out of his own saddle. And the horse turned in place!
His leg pressure on the horse's left, along with the slight tug on the
reins had caused the mount to follow the natural movement of Jommy's
blow. He put his heels to the horse's barrel and was off, after the
first rider. The man turned just as Jommy caught up with him and
suddenly there was a tall red-headed rider swinging a murderous blow at him.

The man tried to lean back in the saddle, but he overbalanced and in
that instant, Jommy had him. Jommy recovered from his forward sweep and
dealt the man a lethal backhanded sword blow that took him completely
out of the saddle.

Jommy turned his mount and saw that Servan, Tad, Godfrey and Zane were
being hard pressed by half a dozen riders. Jommy charged.

He rode his horse like a madman, forcing the frantic animal to slam hard
between two mounts. He ignored the rider on his left, hoping he wouldn't
lose his head for doing so, and leapt from the saddle, dragging the
rider on his right off his horse.

Suddenly Jommy was rolling on the ground, gouging, kicking, kneeing,
biting, punching with the hilt of his sword, for he had no room to swing
the blade. Horses were whinnying in alarm and stamping all around him,
and the boy and the man he battled with rolled wildly. Jommy prayed he
didn't get stepped on by a frightened horse.

He slammed the hilt of his sword into the man's jaw and saw the man's
eyes lose focus. Jommy hit him again and the man's expression went
slack, but only for an instant. He was an experienced warrior and no
matter how strong Jommy was, the man had probably endured worse. The man
shook his head to clear it and was about to draw back his own fist when
a boot toe struck him in the temple. His eyes rolled up into his head.

A strong hand grabbed Jommy by the back of his uniform tunic and hauled
him to his feet. Zane let go and said, 'Glad you could join us.'

Jommy turned and struck a blow at a rider who was trying to get away.
The riders withdrew, heading up the north trail as Jommy had suspected
they would.

He shouted, 'Let them go!' and then realized no one in this little
company was in any shape to give chase. Jommy let the sword slip from
his fingers and sat down hard on the ground, whatever strength he had
left flowing out of him like water out of a cracked gourd.

Servan sat down next to him. 'That was a close thing.'

Jommy nodded. 'Very. You did well, the way you got everything organized.
Very impressive.'

'Thanks,' said Servan.

Tad hurried over. 'I'm going after Grandy to see if he's all right.'

Jommy nodded and Godfrey said, 'I'll go with him.'

Servan said, 'I watched you when you rode your horse into the fray, you
madman. You almost lost your head pulling that man from the saddle. The
rider on your blind side barely missed you.'

'Well, you know what they say, "a miss is as good as a mile".'

'They do say that, don't they?' Servan smiled and then laughed. 'And the
way you were rolling in the dirt. The biting, kicking, all that. Did you
actually try to chew off his ear?'

'You bite anything you can,' said Jommy. 'It takes his mind off killing
you.'

Servan laughed. 'I take your meaning now.'

'About what?'

'That practice bout, back at the Masters' Court. When you punched me in
the face.'

'My meaning?'

'About how you do whatever you need to do to win,' said Servan.
'Duelling doesn't seem like much preparation for what we just went through.'

'I don't see any wounds on you, so I reckon you did well enough.'

Again Servan laughed. 'True. Is it always like this?'

'What?'

'This feeling? I'm almost giddy.'

Jommy nodded. 'Sometimes. You're damn glad to still be breathing. Not
like those blokes.' He pointed to a half-dozen corpses nearby. 'It can
make a man downright silly.'

'Ah,' said Servan leaning back against the overturned wagon.

'Other times it makes you so sick to your heart you're certain you'll
die from the ache,' said Jommy, remembering the torture of the captured
Nighthawk Jomo Ketlami. He lowered his head for a minute. 'But most of
the time you're just so tired you can't move.'

Servan took a deep breath. 'We'd better get these boys organized.' He
stood and turned to offer Jommy a hand up.

The larger boy took it and when they were standing face to face, Jommy
said, 'One thing.'

'What?'

'About that bout at the Masters' Court. So, then ... what you're saying
is, I won?'

Servan laughed, and put up his hands. 'No, that's not what I'm saying.'

'But you just said ...' began Jommy; but the royal cousin turned his
back and started giving orders to the men.

*  *  *

Valko stood motionless for a moment, then moved to the huge window
overlooking the courtyard. His mother rode in on the back of a small
varnin, dressed as he remembered her during the Hiding. He didn't know
what he expected, perhaps to see her in some regal court attire, or
being carried in a palanquin carried by Lessers. She dismounted and
handed the reins to a lackey then quickly entered the keep.

Valko left the rooms he was using while his father's quarters were being
made ready for him. He had chosen to remove all the personal items,
having a bitter taste still from the killing. It had been nothing like
the triumph he had imagined when he was a child, a moment of glory as he
began building his own personal empire.

His mother entered the long hall leading to his father's quarters, and
Valko called to her. 'Mother, over here!'

She hurried to him, looking exactly as he had remembered her. She was
tall, commanding, and still beautiful, with only a touch of grey at the
temples as her still-dark hair fell to her shoulders. He understood why
many men desired her, but now he understood why he was her only child.
It had all been part of a plan.

Her eyes were the most intense Valko had ever seen and her gaze filled
him at once with a giddy feeling and dread. She was his mother, and the
love between mother and son was unique among the Dasati. She would have
died a hundred times over to save him.

She embraced him, a gentle hug which lasted an instant, then said, 'We
must be alone.'

Valko indicated the quarters he had set aside for her, next to those
used by his father. 'I will be taking the lord's quarters tomorrow,' he
said as he walked her to her rooms.

She looked at him again, appraisingly, but said nothing until they were
alone and the door closed. As he was about to speak, she held up her
hand for silence, and years of obeying her took over and he went
motionless. Those hand gestures had saved him in the Hiding more than
once. She closed her eyes and muttered words he couldn't understand,
then she opened them again.

'We are unwatched.'

'So it's true. You're Bloodwitch.'

She nodded. 'I am pleased to see you alive, my son: it proves my
feelings for you; moreover, it means you have become the man I prayed
you would become.'

'Prayed? To whom? Certainly not to His Darkness, from what I was told.'

She nodded, indicating he should sit in a chair by a dressing divan. She
looked around the room, nodding her head in approval. The walls were of
black stone like the rest of the castle, but Valko had ordered two women
Lessers to bedeck it in a fashion suitable for the women of the Karana's
household, and they had seen to it. The most beautiful tapestries in the
castle had been moved to cover the walls, a richly woven rug made from
ahasan wool lay across the floor, and her bed was piled high with rich
furs. Scented candles burned and there were pots of flowers set around
the room. 'I like how you've welcomed me, my son.' She sat on the bed.

He nodded. 'You are my mother,' he said, as if that explained everything.

'And you are my son.' She studied his face. 'You are also the son of an
extraordinary man.'

Suddenly Valko felt an odd choking sensation in his chest. 'I know,' he
said. 'And why do I feel this ... strange ... pain inside... I don't
know what to call it, when I think of Aruke.'

'It's called regret,' she said. 'It is one of many feelings long lost to
the Dasati.' She looked out of the window at the setting sun, glinting
off the sea. 'You asked to whom I prayed. We have no name for that
force, save "the White". We do not even know if it's a god or goddess.'

'I thought they all were destroyed by the Dark One in his rise.'

'So the Deathpriests would have you believe. It is the opposite of
everything embodied by the Dark One.'

'So many questions ...' began the young warrior.

'And we have time, but first there are things you must know to stay alive.

'The White is used as a children's bedtime tale, to frighten and gull,
to lure Dasati everywhere into thinking it a myth of no significance,
something you outgrow. This serves to make most Dasati disbelievers, and
this ploy is far more effective than simple denial.

'Long ago the Bloodwitch Sisterhood ranked equal to the Deathpriests in
Dasati society. The Deathpriest served all the gods, not just His
Darkness, and the Sisterhood was more concerned with nature and the
forces of life. Blood is not just something seen when you spill it on
the arena sand, or on the battlefield, but the very stuff of life,
pulsing through your veins. It embodies all the things that stand in
opposition to the cult of the Dark One, and when he achieved primacy
among the gods, we became anathema and were banished.

'The Bloodwitch Sisterhood has existed in secret for centuries, my son.
We have served as best we can to stem the Dark One's might.'

'To me, it seems you failed.' He sat back on the chair. 'I know I am
young, Mother, but I remember many things you taught me during the
Hiding, and now I realize that you've given me many pieces to a puzzle.
When they were put together one way it seemed one picture, but put
together another way...'

She nodded and said, 'A sage insight for one so young. You are the one
expected, Valko of the Camareen. For generations the Bloodwitch
Sisterhood has been waiting for one such as you, for there is a
prophecy, one which no one outside the Sisterhood knows fully. Those
like your father and Hirea and Denob who serve the White, they only know
part of it. You shall be the first outside the Sisterhood to know it
all.' She paused, as if thinking of the best way to begin, then looked
at her son and smiled briefly.

'In ages past a balance existed, and all things were as they were meant
to be. But to sustain that balance, a struggle was required, for as with
all struggles, the balance would shift from time to time.

'When the forces of the Dark One rose, they were opposed by those who
worshipped gods and goddesses whose names are now lost to us, for even
knowing their names is forbidden.

'At the time of the Great Purging, every Dasati was given the choice to
worship the Dark One or die. Many chose death because they knew life
under the Dark One's supremacy would be a life of hopelessness and despair.'

Valko interrupted. 'But the Dark One has always been supreme ...' He
hung his head. 'I spoke rashly.'

'It is what you were taught. And there were things I could not share
with you while you were in the Hiding, against the risk you might say
something to another child. So ingrained are these beliefs there were
mothers who would have sacrificed their own children to alert a
Deathpriest to what is considered blasphemy.'

Valko stood and walked to the window, shaking his head.

'We have much to discuss and much for you to learn,' his mother said.
'In a week's time you must invite the whole of the Sadharin here to
celebrate your ascendance as Lord of the Camareen. Between then and now
you must come to fully understand what it is you must do over the next
few years. For you have an opportunity never afforded any Dasati since
the dawn of our race.'

Valko looked away from the window, his expression troubled. 'This
prophecy you spoke of?'

'Yes, my son. I will give it to you in detail, that and many other
things you must learn. For if the prophecy is true, and we believe it
is, soon change will come to the Twelve Worlds and we must be ready. We
know one will rise to challenge the Dark One, and he will be known as
the Godkiller.'

Valko's face drained of colour. 'Am I ...'

'No, you are not the Godkiller, my son. But you must prepare the way for
the Godkiller.'

'How am I to do that?'

'No one knows.' She rose and came to stand beside Valko as the sun sank
behind dark clouds hovering over the horizon. 'Today was a beautiful
day, but I think it will rain tomorrow.'

'I think so, too.' He looked at her. 'What shall I do until I know my task?'

'Play the role fate has given you, as Ruler of the Camareen. I have sent
word and sisters of mine will be slowly making their way here, some
young and beautiful, some with young and beautiful daughters. All will
be wise and all will know more than any other woman you will meet.

'You will father many sons, Valko, and know there are other sons of the
Sisterhood who are rising to rule in their fathers' stead, and when the
time is at hand, when the Godkiller appears, we of the Sisterhood, and
the men we love, we shall all rise up and destroy the Deathpriests and
the TeKarana and his twelve Karanas and we shall free the Dasati people.'

Valko felt overwhelmed. His mind could barely encompass such a concept,
let alone embrace how it could be achieved. The boy fresh from the
Hiding, the child within, knew the TeKarana was supreme among mortals,
blessed by His Darkness, and his armies ruled the Twelve Worlds, and had
crushed a dozen more over the centuries. This Empire had existed for
more than a thousand years ...

He put his arm against the wall and rested his forehead on it for a
moment. 'It is all too much.'

'Then we shall go slowly, my son. We shall dine and speak after supper,
and then have a good night's sleep.'

Valko took a deep breath and his head came up and he looked at his
mother. 'There is one thing I would like to know now, Mother.'

'What is that?'

With an odd sheen in his eyes, Valko said, 'Tell me about my father.'

• CHAPTER EIGHTEEN •

Feast

Grandy laughed.

The Prince of Roldem was drunk. It was the first celebration of any sort
at which he had been permitted to eat and drink like his elders. And for
a boy of fourteen a little ale went a long way.

The others were all two to three years his elder and the three boys from
Sorcerer's Isle had been drinking like men for nearly two years. So
they, along with Servan and Godfrey watched the young prince with
thinly-veiled amusement. Grandy had been safe from most of the conflict
that afternoon, but Servan's order for him to guard the fleeing wounded
had given him a sense of participation far in excess of his real
contribution. Still, he celebrated the routing of the invaders from
Bardac's with as much gusto as the most battle-hardened soldier in the army.

They sat around a campfire a short stroll from the General's tent,
listening to the stories being told by the veterans of the short assault
on the old fortress. The commander of the Holdfast Brigade saw the
inevitable before him after the first flight of stones from the
trebuchet collapsed one of his key defensive positions, and sued for
surrender. As was the case with such quick and relatively easy
victories, the stories got funnier as the night wore on and the ale and
wine flowed. Eventually, the last of the veterans got up, leaving the
boys to amuse themselves.

Kaspar had helped General Bertrand negotiate the terms of the surrender,
and the defeated invaders were now camped a half-mile up the road under
guard. They would begin the long march home, without weapons or anything
else the victorious soldiers could liberate from them, and their
officers would be held for ransom to defray the cost of defending Aranor.

Roldem's newest province had long historical ties to Roldem, the
principality having been part of the Kingdom before in ages past, but
the speed of response had taken the invaders by surprise. Kaspar knew
Bertrand, for he had served under the current Knight-Marshall in
Opardum, Quentin Havrevulen, a man Kaspar had hand-picked to run the
army when he had ruled Olasko.

Kaspar came out of the General's tent and walked over to sit down on a
log next to Servan. 'Quite the little feast you've got going here,' he
observed.

Jommy laughed, obviously intoxicated. 'The provisioner brought along
enough food for a month, Kaspar. He didn't want to lug it all back to
Opardum, I guess, so he's cooking everything.'

'Just as well,' said the former duke. 'Much of this would be simply
thrown out back—' he was about to say 'home', as the capital of Olasko
had been his home all his life, but it hadn't been for nearly three
years, so instead he said, '—there.'

Kaspar looked at the six boys from university. 'You lads did well,
today,' he said. 'Those bastards that hit you were a bunch of strays in
a bad mood and looking to punish someone before they got run back across
the border. You killed six of them, wounded another half-dozen and took
the fight out of them.' He smiled at Servan. 'And the best part is you
didn't lose a man. You've got two more with light wounds than you did
before, but otherwise, it was a capital job.'

Jommy said, 'That was Servan. He organized everything, on the spot, like
he'd been doing it all his life, Kaspar.'

Servan said, 'Everyone did their part. They jumped right to it and stood
firm.'

'Well, it's good, because we're going to have need of field commanders
and soon.'

'Why?' asked Godfrey. 'Is Roldem going to war with Bardac's?'

Kaspar shook his head. 'No, my young friend.' He looked out into the
darkness and there was a sadness in his eyes. 'Soon everyone will be
going to war.'

Godfrey looked as if he was going to ask another question, but a warning
look from Jommy made him fall silent. Kaspar said, 'When I was a boy, my
father brought me here to hunt. I've been back several times.'

'It must be strange to return,' said Tad. 'I mean, with you not being
Duke any more.'

Kaspar smiled. 'Life has a habit of making changes without consulting
you, Tad.' He looked from face to face. 'We make plans, but fate doesn't
always listen to what we want.' He stood up, and looked at the beaming
face of the young prince. 'And you, young sir, are going to have a very
rough morning tomorrow if you don't stop drinking ale. May I suggest you
drink some water before retiring?' Without waiting to hear the Prince's
answer, Kaspar returned to the General's tent.

Jommy yawned and said, 'Well, we should probably bed down, as we'll be
up early and on the march.'

Godfrey watched Kaspar disappear into the General's tent. 'I wonder what
he meant, "everyone will be going to war"?'

Zane looked at Tad, who in turn look at Jommy. Jommy shrugged, and
suddenly it was silent, with Grandy sitting with a grin, looking up at
companions suddenly gone quiet with concern. His grin faded, and finally
Jommy looked down, put his hand on the Prince's shoulder and said,
'Let's get some water in you, youngster. Kaspar's right. You're going to
be a sick puppy come morning if we don't.'

Without any further conversation, the other boys bedded down as best
they could around the campfire while Jommy led Grandy off in search of a
large bucket of drinking water.

*  *  *

Valko stood at the head of the table while the Riders of the Sadharin
pounded their gloved fists on the ancient wood, shouting their approval.
The new Lord of the Camareen had invited the other leaders of his
society to a feast commemorating his rise to power.

Narueen had been very precise in instructing her son on the proper order
of things once his father's body had been placed in the vault of his
ancestors. A formal message was sent to the Karana in Kosridi City
announcing his ascension to the mantle of the Camareen and begging
acknowledgement, which she assured him was a formality only. Then
messages had to go to every blood relative listed in the Hall of
Ancestors, again a formality, and then the invitation to the Sadharin,
which she made clear was far more than a formality. For the brotherhood
of the Sadharin was more than mere family: it was a battle society that
could influence imperial policy, even shift the balance of power between
factions, topple clans, and destroy families. Narueen had already named
four riders who had daughters who would make favourable matches. This
very night Valko had to choose one to bear him his first child. Narueen
had whispered in the darkness, before the morning sun arose, and the
plans were now in motion. The Bloodwitch Sisterhood had arts unlike any
other, and she would determine if there were sons or daughters born to
the young Camareen lord. Two sons, she had told them, within a month
would be conceived, then two daughters.

Their Hiding would be unlike any known in the history of the Dasati, for
special arrangements had been made to include sympathetic Attenders,
Bloodwitch sisters and a few trusted warriors, which would ensure that
the location of this Hiding was never discovered, never purged. Within
twenty years, a dozen strong sons and daughters would present themselves
at Castle Camareen, and Valko's ascendancy would begin.

Valko rose and shouted, 'Long live the Sadharin!'

The fifty lords of the Sadharin pounded the table even harder, hooting
their war chant. Lord Andarin of the Kabeskoo shouted, 'Long live Lord
Valko!'

Valko picked up his flagon of wine and drained it. His mother had made
sure it was heavily watered, for while every other lord of the Sadharin
was falling drunk, she wanted her son to keep his wits about him.

At the tables below the massive wooden board that served the lords of
the Sadharin, the wives and daughters sat observing their men with
amused interest. More than one daughter tried to catch the eye of the
young lord.

But Valko had eyes only for his mother, as she moved gracefully among
her guests, ensuring that each was well cared for. She paused behind
Lord Makara's daughter, and let her hand fall to the girl's shoulder.
Valko betrayed nothing, but he knew that this was his mother's clear
instruction as to who he would bed tonight. He considered the girl. She
was comely and regarded him with blatant hunger; he knew that she would
rejoice should he allow her to declare. Her father would welcome
becoming more closely allied with the rising young lord, for he would
think of Valko as his client, though soon enough he would realize that
the reverse was the case.

Valko looked around the room and smiled. The diners were becoming more
raucous by the minute. He drank in their approbation and rejoined in his
own youthful strength. Much of what his mother had taught him began to
fade as his Dasati nature asserted itself, and he took a long drink from
his flagon. He wanted wine!

As he turned to order another pitcher brought to the table, a gentle
hand on his wrist restrained him. Somehow his mother had read his mood
and anticipated his lost focus. 'It's time for the entertainment, my
son,' she said in tones soft enough that none but he could hear.

Valko gazed at her for a moment, then nodded. 'My lords!' he shouted.
'For your amusement!'

The doors to the hall were opened and a dozen servants hurried in,
bearing a huge earthenware pot. A struggling youth was carried in, bound
hand and foot. Valko grinned as he announced, 'This youth sought to
reach his father's castle, to challenge for a place within his
household, and was caught last night in a vadoon snare!'

This announcement brought gales of laughter, for the stupid herbivore
was easily caught - its primary value was as a source for fur, and its
destruction of fruit trees was a nuisance for orchard-owners. The youth
would have to have been very inattentive or very stupid to blunder into
such a snare.

'Let me go!' he shouted as he was placed within the pot. He was ready to
fight with his bare hands and feet if given the chance, but servants
forced him downward, so that his knees were folded up under his chin. As
hard as he might struggle, it was a position impossible to change
without help, help no one was going to offer.

Valko shouted. 'You are an animal! Too stupid even to fight for your
place among men. You will die like an animal!'

The youth began shouting, a series of enraged snarls and inarticulate
screams. The guests at the feast laughed, for his frustration and rage
was comical in its impotence. Valko signalled, and servants began
pouring buckets of water over the youth's head. He spat and bellowed,
and the laughter in the room mounted.

'In olden times,' said Valko, 'it was considered amusing to place a
weakling in cold water, then slowly bring it to a boil.

'Now we need no fire, for there are agents that will do the same without
heat.' He motioned and two servants emptied the content of the two bags
into the water and stepped back.

The reagents began to react and the water began to bubble. The defiant
youth's shouts quickly turned from rage to agony.

Some of the mixture splashed on to a servant standing too close, and he
clawed at his eyes in pain.

The guests began to laugh uncontrollably. The louder the prisoner
screamed, the more the guests became lost in paroxysms of hilarity. The
lad splashed liquid up on his own shoulders, neck and face and blisters
and reddish-orange wounds began to form.

The screaming lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, and when the prisoner
neared death, Valko could see the guests rising from their seats,
staring with avid hunger. The women were ready, Valko could see, many of
them running hands up and down their own bodies, and many of the men
were showing obvious signs of lust.

His mother had been right. A single death, arranged at the proper
moment, was more effective than the random slaughters usually
orchestrated for these events. Watching half a dozen Lessers trampled by
animals or eaten by starving zarkis caused too much distraction, but one
death, artfully done, brought intense focus.

Valko signalled to a servant. 'Ask Lord Makara's daughter if she would
join me.' The servant ran over to the indicated girl and whispered to
her. Her head came around and her eyes were alight with hunger as her
hands clutched at the fabric of her dress. Valko knew that if he wished,
she would let him take her right now in front of the assembled company.

Several of the lords of the Sadharin had left the head table and were
standing close to females they would bed tonight. Valko considered a
great number of declarations would occur and in years to come, many sons
would arrive at castles as a result of tonight's mating. Only Valko, his
mother and a handful of the Riders of the Sadharin knew that every match
was orchestrated by the Bloodwitches, and that every child born of
tonight's mating who survived their Hidings would become servants of the
White.

Thoughts of the White were difficult to entertain while caught up in the
blood and lust of the moment. Valko smiled as the youth's last breath
left his body and declared, 'Weakling.'

His mother whispered, 'He did not seek to cross Camareen lands, my son.
He sought to come to this castle. He was Aruke's son. He was your brother.'

Valko felt an odd chill rise up within and his head snapped around. He
locked eyes with his mother and at that moment his feelings were so
confused he didn't know if he could keep from striking her. Yet her soft
touch made him focus. 'Had you done anything other than what you did,
you would have appeared fatally weak to your guests: you would have
shown everyone that you are not worthy to rule the Camareen. Just know
the price of what you do. You have just begun the struggle, my son, and
the pain you now feel will return, many times in the years to come.' She
caressed his cheek as she had when he was a baby. 'Go now,' she
whispered. 'Put aside all thoughts of pain and suffering, blood and
death. Go, make a powerful son this night.'

Valko forced his confusion aside, left the table and found the girl
waiting for him at the door leading from the hall to his quarters. He
put his arm around her waist and embraced her, violently, hungrily, and
without tenderness. Then he took her hand and led her to his bedchamber.

*  *  *

The dinner was strange. Pug sat at the head of the table, Martuch across
from him. Ipiliacs dressed in odd clothing moved silently around him,
placing dishes and removing them, filling flagons and cups without a word.

Martuch insisted they dine this way every night for a week before
leaving, for it was, he said, the best way in which they might become
more attuned to all things Dasati.

'This food is not exactly what you will eat on Kosridi, but it is close.
Enough so that if you're served a common dish you will not react to it
in an unexpected fashion.

'Those serving you are acting in the fashion of Lessers, so watch them.
You will almost certainly never find yourself at a table such as this,
for this is how the warriors dine. The only time men and women dine at
the same table is if they are alone, perhaps after coupling.'

Pug nodded. Martuch had been an exemplary teacher, his mind a repository
of a million details of Dasati life. Pug could not imagine anyone better
suited to prepare them for this expedition.

For weeks they had been practising the language, and a convincing story
- that they were three Attenders, serving Martuch; and the young warrior
Bek was the son of a distant noble in a minor society who was making a
pilgrimage to the TeKarana's city of Omadrabar, which was not unheard
of, especially if the young warrior was inclined towards becoming a
Deathpriest. For in Omadrabar was the great temple of the Dark One,
where Martuch claimed the living god resided, and from where all power
emanated.

Pug worried about Bek, though Nakor said the young warrior would be kept
under control. He seemed a different being here on Delecordia, and Pug
wondered what change arriving on the second level of reality would bring
about. He was becoming Dasati in many ways. He had to only be told once
what was expected of him, and he complied, flawlessly.

Nakor had indicated from the first that he suspected that something
alien, dangerous, maybe even something linked to the Nameless One,
resided in Bek. But perhaps that darkness came from the Dark God of the
Dasati. Pug hated that there were so many unknowns, yet he trusted that
at least he must survive, or how would he otherwise have sent back the
messages?

His big concern was for Magnus and Nakor, for he knew in his heart that
Lims-Kragma's bargain with him, when he lay near death in her hall, was
not an idle threat. He would watch everyone he loved die before him,
including his children. But every day he prayed that this day would not
be the day on which that pain began. Now, he wondered, was he fated to
lose his son and Nakor on this mad mission?

Pug put aside his misgivings, knowing the worry over something he could
not control was a waste of energy, both mental and emotional. Every
member of the Conclave knowingly agreed to go in harm's way, risking
their lives for a greater good. Even so, being aware of that didn't
lessen Pug's concern.

Martuch would play the young Bek's mentor, a warrior pledged in alliance
to Bek's mythical father. Dasati alliances were so complex, so
multi-level in nature, that no one other than a Facilitator who worked
at the Hall of Ancestors could possibly recognize every named lord,
family, clan or battle society.

On that subject, Pug said, 'Martuch, you said you will be a Rider of the
Sadharin. Is this a true position for you or a pose?'

The old warrior nodded. 'I am of that society. You will find that among
Dasati warriors, it is well respected and has a long and glorious
history. It also numbers amongst its members many who are sympathetic to
our cause.' He reached for a pomba fruit, tore it open with his thumbs,
and bit deep into the pungent flesh. 'The agents of the Dark One would
like nothing better than to know this, Pug. To reveal that any of the
Sadharin are sympathetic to the White would guarantee its utter destruction.

'The TeKarana, in distant Omadrabar, might order the destruction of an
entire region on Kosridi just to ensure that the "infection" was
completely obliterated. Thousands would die.'

'The White?' asked Pug. 'Who or what is the White?'

Martuch said, 'It is a long story, or rather a series of long stories.
But this you should know: in lost antiquity, there were two forces that
ruled our universe, the Dark and the White.'

'Ah,' said Nakor. 'Evil and good.'

'So you call them.' Martuch shrugged. 'I still wrestle with the
concepts, though I have accepted them as true. All our lives we hear of
"the White" as if it is a thing to be feared, a disease within the body
of Dasati society, and more than once my mother scolded me as a child in
the Hiding with warnings that if I was disobedient I would go to the White.'

He laughed as he remembered. 'What would she think now?' He put down his
knife and said, 'The White is an organization, but it is also a belief,
a fervent hope, that there is more to existence than mindless slaughter
and the Purgings. We have little of what you would think of as civilized
ways - music, art, literature - things the Ipiliac take for granted, and
I suspect you humans do as well. When I first encountered a book that
wasn't religious doctrine or a cautionary fable of the Dark One's power
I could scarcely believe my eyes. What madness would possess someone to
sit and put meaningless words on paper for the entertainment of others?
And music that is not battle songs or temple hymns. The Lessers have
their work chants, but music that is there to be listened to for
pleasure alone? Strange.

'I was sent here to learn these things, Pug, and as the Dasati best able
to communicate with you, I was given the task of being your escort.'

Again, Pug had a tantalizing suspicion that there was more to it than
Vordam merely finding a guide for them. 'Who sent you?'

Pug had asked that question before, and again got the same answer. 'Many
things will be made known to you, but not that, not now.' Martuch's tone
left no doubt the subject was not going to be discussed.

'Understood,' said Pug. Nothing about the Dasati were half-measured, he
had concluded. They were the most dangerous mortal beings he had ever
encountered. Not only were they faster than humans, more vicious than
hunting trolls, and as courageous as the bravest Tsurani warrior; they
possessed a mind set that could only be called murderous. Death was
their answer to most social problems, and Pug wondered how such a
society could come into being, or survive.

He remembered Nakor had often remarked that evil was by definition mad,
and if that was true, the Dasati were the maddest beings in two
universes. From what he had been told by the oracle, and what he had
been able to glean from Martuch's talks, this society had not always
been this way. The rise of the Dark God of the Dasati was shrouded in
antiquity, confused by myth and legend, but it had occurred relatively
late in this race's history. Until then, they had been much like the
Ipiliac: complex, mostly peaceful, and productive.

Pug said to Martuch, 'In our history we have a time known as the Chaos
Wars, when mortal beings and lesser gods rose against the greater gods.
It is a time lost to us in history, but we know a little of it. Was the
rise of the Dark One after such a conflict?'

'It was,' said Martuch. 'Winners write history, it is said, and the
Deathpriests make no differentiation between canon and history. His
Darkness's scriptures are history as far as we are concerned.

'The only reason I know of these differences is the Ipiliac records
which go back to before their flight from Omadrabar.'

'I would like to see those records, if time permits.'

'It does, and it would be a wise use of your remaining time.'

'How is it you came to Delecordia?'

'That is a story for another time, to be told to you by another. But
this much I am willing to share: until twenty-five years ago by your
reckoning of time, I was much like any other young Dasati warrior. I had
survived the Hiding, found my way to my father's castle, and killed in
the Testing Hall to earn my place in his service. I was welcomed into
the Sadharin and did all that a proper Dasati warrior could do. I hunted
down children during the Purging, killed females who tried to protect
them, mated with females for political advantage, and was always ready
to answer the Karana's call to arms.

'Twice I helped crush rebellions, or so they were called by those who
sought their enemies destroyed; and three times I served in campaigns
against rival battle societies. Six great wounds I bear on my body and
more light ones than I can number, but I had no doubt at my supremacy.
Sons came and survived, and I found a female who pleased me enough that
when our son arrived, I called her to join our household. We had what
you would call "a family". That concept does not exist in the Dasati
mind, but that is what I was: a happy family man in my world.

'Then something happened and life as I knew it changed. I would never
again be able to judge myself by the standards of my race, and since
that time I have worked to change my people.' He looked off into the
distance, as if remembering. 'My female - wife if you will - misses me
as she often reminds me. My sons do a reasonable job of ruling our small
estate, and we live in a time of relative peace.' He put down the peel
of the fruit he had eaten and wiped his hands on a cloth. 'Things are as
they should be in the Dasati Empire,' he said with a wry, bitter tone.
'The only people to die are the innocent.'

Pug said nothing.

Martuch chuckled. 'Do you know that in the Dasati language there is no
word for "innocent"? The closest we have is "unblooded", meaning someone
who has yet to take a life.' He shook his head as he reached for a wine
cup. 'To have innocence, you must explain the concept of "guilt". That's
another word we do not possess. We speak of "responsibility". I think
it's because the guilty are already dead ... inside.' He stood up.
'Excuse me. I've had too much to drink.' To Pug he said, 'The archives
are down the street outside, to our left. It is much like the other
buildings, but there is a blue banner showing a circle of white hanging
above the entrance. Go there and whatever you wish to see will be shown
to you. I will return in the late afternoon tomorrow. I bid you good
night.' And with that, he left.

Magnus turned to his father. 'Strange.'

'Yes, very,' said Pug. 'From the Dasati point of view ...'

'You are weak and deserve death,' said Bek, matter-of-factly.

'My father is hardly weak,' said Magnus. 'None of us are.'

'I don't mean you or your father,' said the young fighter. 'I mean
humans. You are weak and deserve death.'

Pug took note that Bek spoke of humans as 'you' and not 'we'. He glanced
at Nakor who shook his head slightly.

Magnus said, 'Father, I think I will retire. I wish to meditate for a
while before sleeping.'

Pug gave his assent and the younger magician left the room. The servants
stood waiting, and Pug realized they would not leave until the table was
vacant. He signalled to Nakor who said, 'Bek, let us go for a walk.'

Ralan Bek stood up smartly. 'Good. I like walking in this city. There
are so many interesting things to see, Nakor.'

Pug and Nakor got up and followed Bek out of the door into the early
evening air. Pug took a deep breath and said, 'I guess we are completely
adapted, for now this smells much as the air would in Krondor or Kesh.'

'Better,' said Nakor. 'Not as much smoke and rubbish.'

Walking down the street, Pug said, 'The Ipiliac are more fastidious than
humans, from everything I can see.'

'Yes,' said Bek. 'This is a very nice city. It might be fun to see it burn.'

'It might not,' said Nakor quickly. 'One fire is pretty much like another.'

'But think how much bigger the fire would be, Nakor.'

Pug said quietly, 'Maybe it's a bit of Prandur inside?' making a
reference to the fire god, known as 'the Burner of Cities'.

Nakor chuckled. 'Bek, would you like to see something new? Something
marvellous?'

'Yes, Nakor, I would. This is a very interesting place, more than most
I've been, but lately I've started to get bored with all the sitting
around and talking.'

Pug glanced at Nakor who motioned for him to wait. 'You can go visit the
archives tomorrow. This is something you should see, too.' They walked
through the city, nodding politely to citizens who passed by, getting
only the occasional odd glance; Martuch and Kastor had both mentioned
that visitors from other worlds were a rarity on this world. They
reached the eastern gate of the city and Nakor pointed. 'Up that hill.'

Pug said, 'What are you taking us to see?'

'Wait,' said the little gambler, with a delighted glint in his eye.

They climbed the hill and then Pug and Bek saw what Nakor had led them
to see. Far in the distance a shimmering line rose up out of the east,
rising into the night sky to vanish into the distance.

'What is it?' asked Bek.

'The Star Bridge,' Nakor answered. 'Martuch told me we might see it on a
clear night. That city is Desoctia, and the Ipiliac use that bridge to
travel to a world called Jasmadine. It's the same magic we will use to
travel between the Dasati worlds, I have been told.'

'How far is that city?' asked Pug.

'About two hundred miles if you flew there.'

'Then that bridge must be very big,' said Bek.

'Or very bright,' said Pug.

They stood silently for a time, merely watching the distant shimmer of a
bridge of light that would take them into another realm of reality.

• CHAPTER NINETEEN •

Kosridi

Martuch raised his hand.

All eyes turned to him. The four humans and the Dasati warrior stood in
the middle of a large vaulted chamber, in a place Pug could only think
of as being like his Academy on Stardock, a place of study and learning.
He had visited it, along with the archives in the last few days,
learning as much as he could about the Dasati - which proved to be
little, as most Ipiliac history seemed to deal with their history since
reaching Delecordia.

The bits he had read were not heartening, as the Ipiliac perspective on
the Dasati as a whole was what one would expect from a vanquished people
speaking of their oppressors. Even so, Pug felt they were as ready as
they would ever be to make this incredible journey.

The room was a hall used for meetings and social gatherings and big
enough, he had been told by the Ipiliac wizard who was accommodating
this move to the second realm, that they could do this in private and
without distraction. Pug, Magnus and Nakor had listened eagerly to the
wizard as he described what he would do to aid their journey, but even
Pug felt he barely understood the arcane arts employed.

Martuch spoke. 'In a moment, the transition will begin. It will be
unlike anything you have experienced, if you're lucky. I have made this
transition a dozen times and each time I swear it will be my last. Are
you ready?'

Pug stood with his arms linked to Nakor's, who in turn had linked his to
Bek's. Magnus stood on his father's other side, one arm through his
father's and the other through Martuch's. Martuch had warned they would
be transitioning through a realm he thought of only as 'the grey', and
that every sense would be confounded. The passage lasted brief moments,
but felt as if time had stopped.

The Ipiliac wizard who had been summoned to oversee this transition had
also taken great pains in informing Pug, Nakor and Magnus about what to
expect. Bek was unconcerned and ignored the warnings. He seemed excited
to be finally going to 'the next place'.

Pug took a deep breath, then said, 'Ready.'

Martuch nodded once to the wizard and he raised his staff above his
head, in the final incantation of a spell he had begun almost an hour
earlier.

Suddenly the room around them vanished. Pug tried to take in a breath,
knowing that there was no air here, for he recognized this place! He was
again in the place between! It was where Macros the Black had taken him
when he had closed the first rift from Tsurani, at the end of the
Riftwar. He knew exactly why Martuch had warned him. Pug reached out
with his thoughts and quickly sheltered his companions as Macros had
sheltered him.

/Father/, came Magnus's thoughts. /Where are we?/

/We are in the space between moments, my son. We are in the very stuff
of the universe, between those strands that Nakor calls 'stuff, in the
void itself/.

'You can speak,' said Nakor. 'Though I can see nothing.'

Pug and the others suddenly appeared, and Martuch said, 'How ...?'

'I have been here before,' Pug said. He turned to Magnus. I was taken
here by your grandfather. This is the realm of the void, where the gods
fought in the Chaos Wars.'

Martuch said, 'It has never taken so long ...'

'Perhaps it is because there are five of us,' suggested Bek, apparently
fascinated by the total lack of any reference beyond them. The void was
a sweeping nothingness: no light, no sound, no sensation.

'I thank you for this, Pug,' said Martuch. 'The passage has always been
cold and painful.'

'It will not be pleasant when we arrive,' responded the magician. As if
to prove the point of his words the transition to the second plane of
reality was wrenching. The sensation was akin to having every particle
of mind and body ripped apart. As Pug felt himself drawn into the Dasati
world, something flickered past his field of vision. He tried to follow
the movement, but he was physically yanked away from the void, and
suddenly he was standing on a stone floor, in a room of black stone. He
was on Kosridi.

*  *  *

Pain ran up and down every nerve of his body, leaving Pug standing and
panting as if he had run a long race. Everyone was there, linking arms
as they had been on Delecordia.

Pug staggered a little when he let go of Nakor and Magnus's arms. 'There
was ...' he started.

'What?' asked Nakor, his expression one of unusual concern.

'Something ...' said Pug. 'I'll speak of it later.'

He turned his attention to his surroundings and had to blink several
times, as if there was something wrong with his eyes. Then he realized
that even more than on Delecordia he was seeing things the human mind
was not conditioned to see. Shades of colour and pulsing energies were
everywhere. The room in which they had appeared was finished in the
black stone he had seen on Delecordia, but here any change appeared to
make it shimmer with colour. The effect was almost overwhelming.

Then he realized they were not alone. In the room two figures waited, a
man and a woman. Regal was the only word that Pug could conjure to
describe the woman. Her high brow and straight nose gave her a striking
look, despite her alien features. Her eyes were almost feline in shape
and her lips were full.

The man was dressed in a warrior's armour, though something about his
features led Pug to think of him as young. The woman looked at Magnus
and her eyebrows rose slightly. She said, 'This one looks almost like a
Dasati, my son. He is even handsome. Pity he's not a warrior.'

Pug looked at his son and realized that the glamour was upon them. He
could see both Magnus as he knew him and a Magnus who looked Dasati, as
if two images were laid one on top of the other. He could see that
Magnus's height, slender features and long nose would be appealing to
these people's sense of beauty.

The young man stepped forward and said, 'I am Lord Valko. This is my
home. You are welcome, though I will confess it is difficult not to kill
you. There is something about aliens being here that offends me. I will
try to control this repulsion.'

Pug glanced at Martuch who said, 'Consider that as gracious a welcome as
you will ever receive to a Dasati estate, my friend.' He turned to
Valko. 'I am Martuch, Lord of the Setwala. I ride with the Sadharin.'

'Welcome, Rider of the Sadharin!' said Valko, in what Pug took as a
genuinely warm greeting. They embraced each other with ritual
backslapping and a gripping of each other's right wrist in their right
hand. Then the young lord of the castle cast his eyes on Bek.

Ralan Bek stood with his head lowered, looking out from under his heavy
black brows. His eyes burned like coals with the reflected firelight,
and his face was set in an expression that could only be called hungry.
He said, 'Martuch, can I kill him?'

Bek had been dressed as a Dasati warrior, and rehearsed in his role.
Martuch shook his head. 'He is our host, Bek.'

As if he had spoken these words all his life, Ralan shouted, 'I am Bek!
I serve Martuch of the Setwala and ride with the Sadharin!' He grinned
like a demented wolf as he pointed to Valko. 'My master says I must not
kill you, or take that woman behind you. I will honour his wishes and
control my desire.'

'Is this one mad?' asked Valko.

His mother chuckled. 'He lacks manners, but he plays the part of a young
Dasati warrior well.' She patted Valko on the shoulder. 'Most of the
young men in the Hiding didn't have me as their teachers. His behaviour
will serve these ... persons, well.'

Pug understood her choice of words. Dasati meant 'people' but the word
she used was obscure. Not quite Lessers, but certainly not Dasati.

'It is the middle of the night,' said Valko. 'Do you need rest?'

'No,' answered Martuch, 'but we are in need of information. There is far
more at stake here than we imagined.'

Pug took this to mean the Talnoy. No further discussion of the creation
had been forthcoming, and when he had attempted to broach the subject,
he had been rebuffed.

'Let us retire to a private room where we may discuss all that needs to
be addressed,' said the woman.

Valko looked uncomfortable, and Pug was amazed at how quickly he had
come to read Dasati facial expressions. He knew their training on
Delecordia was partly responsible; but the rest was the result of the
artful spells the Ipiliac wizard had used.

The young Lord of the Camareen said, 'It's just that ... they look like
Lessers, yet I must treat them like guests!'

He said it in such a way that Pug suddenly understood the implied
insult. But the youth's mother replied, 'Do not be deceived by
appearances. Each of these ... persons is a master of great power, or
they would not be here. Each is more powerful than the most puissant
Deathpriest. Remember that.'

Without further word, Valko turned and walked, as if expecting everyone
to follow him without question. Pug glanced at Martuch who indicated
that he would follow with Bek behind him, and then the lady of the
castle. Pug understood that it was imperative that they begin adopting
their roles in this society.

To whatever gods could overhear him, Pug made a silent prayer that they
might all survive this journey.

*  *  *

Nothing they had done on Delecordia prepared Pug and his companions for
the experience of Kosridi. Even in the relatively sheltered castle of
Lord Valko, the alien sense of this reality was nearly overwhelming. Pug
ran his hand over a table and marvelled at the feel beneath his
fingertips; it was wood, much like any dark, close grained wood that
might be chosen by a furniture maker back in Midkemia, but it was not
wood in any sense of what was real to Pug. It was the flesh of a thing
that served the same purpose as a tree in this realm, just as the stones
were something akin to granite and feldspar, dark flecked with colours,
but here the stone had energies still trapped within, as if the making
of it deep beneath the mantle of this world had never quite finished.
And it hungered. Touching the table, Pug could feel it wanting to drain
the energy of his body through his fingertips.

'Amazing,' he said softly as they waited in the chamber set aside for
them by Lord Valko and his mother.

Martuch said, 'Yes, I had much the same reaction when I first went to
Delecordia. When I visited my first world through the Hall, I almost
couldn't move for the wonder of it. From our point of view, Pug, your
reality is so terribly bright and warm. It's almost too much unless you
have the ability to focus. It can be like trying to listen to one
conversation in a large hall full of many people speaking. It can be
done, with concentration at first, then it becomes more easy.'

'Martuch,' asked Nakor. 'Why would anyone from this world wish to invade
the first plane?'

'Why does any person, people, or nation do something we might consider
mad?' He shrugged. 'They have their reasons. Is that why you are here?
You fear an invasion of your world by the Dasati?'

Pug said, 'Perhaps. We are partially driven by that concern. We would
just as soon discover we are incorrect and that your race is not a
threat to my world.'

'Perhaps it is time for a little more plain speaking,' said the Dasati
warrior. He was sitting on a stool, still dressed in his armour, while
the others rested on a pair of divans replete with cushions. Bek sat
staring out of the window, as if he could not get enough of the vista
outside. Pug understood the fascination. The changing hues of the night
as they became day provided a constant play of energies that were
seductive to the eye. Even the tiniest detail of this realm could
captivate the imagination. Earlier, Pug had caught himself being
mesmerized by the view. In its alien way, it was beautiful, but Pug had
to constantly remind himself that their adjustment to the Dasati plane
of existence was illusory, and that even the most common thing they
encountered could be dangerous, even lethal. Pug turned his attention to
Martuch. 'I would welcome that.'

Martuch said, 'First, you must not mention the Talnoy on your world
until you meet the Gardener.'

'Gardener?' asked Magnus. 'It is a name, or a title? In our world, that
word is one who tends ... plants, in a garden.'

'It is the same here,' said Martuch. 'It is a name we have for him so
that others may not know who he really is.'

'Who is he?' asked Nakor, coming to the point.

'He is our leader, for lack of a better word, but rather than me telling
you about him, Narueen should; she has met him. I have not.'

'He's your leader, but you haven't met him?'

'It is complicated. For years there have been among the Dasati those who
could not bring themselves to embrace the teachings of His Darkness as
being the totality of knowledge. Among your people I imagine there are
those who question authority and challenge convention.'

'Absolutely,' said Pug, glancing at his son. 'It regularly occurs at the
end of childhood. Ask any human parent.'

Magnus smiled slightly. He had been headstrong like his mother as a
child, and when he had begun his training under his father, there had
been many arguments between them before Magnus came to understand his
father's wisdom, as well as his knowledge.

'We have no childhood, as you do,' said Martuch, 'so I will accept you
understand my meaning. Those who question the teachings of the Dark One
are put to death. So, those who have doubts learn quickly to keep quiet.

'But there have long been factions within our society, the Bloodwitch
Sisterhood being the most ... "notorious" or "infamous" would be the
words in your tongue. They were rivals to the Deathpriests for
centuries, each having their own influence. There was a balance.

'Then the Hierophants and priests began to fear the Sisterhood and, with
the blessing of the TeKarana, named them apostate and had them hunted
down and destroyed. A few escaped and kept the ancient lore alive, and
now they have reappeared among us, though for most people they are
beings of myth and legend.

'And there have been men, such as myself, who had no reason to question
the order of things, but who did.' Martuch looked out the window, past
Bek. 'This is a strange place to you, my friends, but to me it is my
home. Here everything is as it should be, while your worlds are ... odd
and exotic. But even while this is my home, I sensed there was something
wrong, something out of balance. It was a chance that made me who I am
today.'

Martuch returned to his stool and sat down. 'I have seen worlds in the
first plane, Pug. I have seen men step on insects, without thought, a
habit perhaps, or a deeply ingrained abhorrence of vermin.

'That is as close as I can come in explaining to you how we Dasati males
react when we see children. When I first saw males and females of other
races carrying their children, holding them, going through crowded
markets and leading them by their tiny hands, I could scarcely credit my
senses.

'I don't know if I can make it any clearer, but it was as repellent to
me as any perversity you can imagine witnessing in public.

'A mother scolding her child for wandering off in a crowd, that I could
comprehend, for our mothers defend us to the death during the Hiding.'
He paused. 'But when I saw a father lifting his child, merely to make it
laugh ...' He sighed. 'It troubled me more than you can begin to
comprehend. It nearly made me physically ill.

'I think you might understand if you were suddenly whisked by magic to a
place where you could observe a Purging. To see grown men in armour
riding through the night, crashing through thickets in the woodlands,
charging through camps of terrified children and enraged mothers, many
of whom throw themselves on the points of spears and swords to permit
their little ones a slight chance at survival, well, all the time the
warriors were laughing and joking as babies died ... what you might feel
seeing that is how I felt watching a man kiss a baby's cheek.

'And yet, deep within, I knew the wrongness was not in that father and
child, but in me and my race.'

'How did you come to this insight?' asked Nakor. 'And how did you first
get to the first circle?'

Martuch smiled, and looked at Nakor. 'All in good time, my friend.' He
stood again and paced, as if trying to organize his thoughts. 'The first
time I felt the wrongness, as I think of it, was during a great purge.

'Word had reached the riders of the Sadharin that a Facilitator - a
trader, actually - had seen smoke at sunset in a deep woodland only a
half-day's ride from this very castle.

'The mountains to the east of here begin with a series of foothills, and
there are many caves and ancient mines in the region. It would be
impossible for an organized force to explore every one in a year, let
alone find moving camps of females and young.

'We rode at sundown so that we could strike the camp in the dead of
night, and by the time we reached the camp, we could smell wood smoke on
the air, and hear the soft sounds of mothers crooning to their young.

'We became filled with bloodlust, and wished to do nothing more than
cleave and rend and trample these /things/ beneath the hooves of our
varnins. One female must have been alert, for we heard a warning scream
moments before we overran the camp. Our women are clever, and dangerous
when protecting their young. Several pulled warriors out of their
saddles with their bare hands, dying to keep their children safe. One
warrior had his throat torn out by a woman's teeth.

'I killed three females that night, to allow one of my brother riders to
regain his mount, and when he had, the camp was empty. In the night I
could hear the sounds of screams and cries, and the wailing of children
cut off by the sound of swords striking flesh coming from all around me
in the night.

'I could feel blood pounding in my ears, and my breathing was heavy. It
is much the same feeling as we get when we are ready to couple. In my
mind the pleasures are equal, making life or taking it.

'I rode into the underbrush around the camp, and when I had entered a
thicket, I sensed something. I looked down and crouching under a
low-hanging branch was a female, holding her young son. I never would
have seen her had I kept riding or had I not looked down at that exact
moment. She would have been behind the searches and could have made her
way to freedom and safety but for chance.'

Martuch stopped his pacing and look at Pug. 'Then the amazing thing
happened. I drew back my sword and made ready to kill the female first -
she was the danger - and then the boy. But rather than leap to protect
her child, she held him tightly to her chest and looked at me, eye to
eye, Pug. She stared at me and said ... "Please".'

Pug said, 'I take it that was ... unexpected.'

'Unprecedented,' said Martuch, sitting on his stool once more. '"Please"
is a word a Dasati rarely hears, except from a Lesser saying, "if it
pleases you, master" or a warrior or priest saying, "this was pleasing",
but as an entreaty, no, it is not our way.

'But something in that woman's eyes ... there was strength and power
there: this was not the pleading of a weak woman, but an appeal to
something more profound than mindless killing.'

'What did you do?' asked Magnus.

'I let them go,' said Martuch. 'I put up my sword and rode off.'

Pug said, 'I can't begin to understand what that must have felt like.'

'I scarcely understood myself,' said Martuch. 'I rode after the others
and by the time dawn arrived thirteen females and twenty-odd children
had been butchered. The other riders laughed and joked on the way back
to the great hall of the Sadharin, but I kept my own counsel.

'I had no sense of achievement or pride. I realized at that moment that
I had changed within, and that there was nothing glorious in
slaughtering those who were far less able to defend themselves.

'A woman with a knife is to be treated with respect, but I was mounted
on a war-trained varnin, wearing full armour, carrying a sword and a
dagger, and had a war-bow on my saddle. I should feel a sense of
accomplishment because I killed her? I should feel triumph in
slaughtering a child whose only defence is teeth and nails?' He shook
his head. 'No, I knew there was something terribly wrong.

'But like many who come to this insight, I assume the wrongness was
within me, that I had lost sight of His Darkness's truth, so I sought
out a Deathpriest to counsel me.' Martuch looked at Pug with a
half-smile. 'Fate conspired to bring me to a man named Juwon, a
Deathpriest of the highest rank outside the Inner Temple, a High Priest,
one who has jurisdiction over all this region of the Empire.

'He listened to my story, and later confided in me that the standing
order in the Dark One's service is that any who comes with the doubts I
expressed is to be instantly confined, interrogated, then put to death.
I just happened to have confided in the highest-placed prelate in the
region, who also worked secretly on behalf of the White.

'He listened, bid me keep silent on this matter, but asked me to return.
We sat together many times, for hours, over a period of months, before
he took me aside and said my calling was to serve the White.

'By the time he revealed this to me, I had already come to the
conclusion that there was far more to this than my mere hesitation over
killing one woman and one child. Since then I have spoken many times to
him, to Narueen, and other wise men and women, to priests, Bloodwitch,
and others. I have come to see so much more than I was taught as a boy.'
Martuch leaned forward. 'That is how I came to serve the White. More, I
have come to love the White, and hate everything about His Darkness.'

'How did you get to the first plane of reality?' asked Nakor.

'I was sent by the Gardener.'

'Why?' asked Pug.

'He is the one who works most closely with the White,' said a female
voice from the door. 'We do not question his orders. If he tells us to
go to another reality, Martuch, or I, or any other serving the White
will go.'

Pug turned, and instantly stood, lowering his gaze to the floor. Magnus
and Nakor were only a moment behind.

'Quicker,' said Narueen as she entered the room. 'A second's hesitation
will make you remarkable. Remarkable Lessers are dead Lessers. Remember,
Attenders are useful, but also despised for their helping ways.'

Pug stood motionless, and she came to sit on the spot on the divan he
had just vacated. 'Sit beside me,' she said to him, and then to the
others, 'you may drop your pose. It will almost certainly be the last
chance to do so, and there is much we need to discuss before you leave.'

'Already?' asked Pug.

'Yes,' said Narueen. 'I received word that something extraordinary may
be taking place on Omadrabar. High Priest Juwon has been called to the
Court of His Darkness, and if they are calling in the priests from the
outer regions, then this is a meeting of importance.'

'Any idea why?' asked Martuch.

'When a Supreme Prelate dies, and there's a need to anoint his
successor, this type of convocation is usual; but there has been no word
of his illness. Besides, news of his untimely death would have
accompanied any such order. In the past, the Supreme Prelate might
convene such an assembly to announce new doctrine; but Juwon would know
about such a theological movement in the hierarchy of the church.' She
shook her head slightly: a very human gesture. 'No, it must be something
else.' She looked at Pug. 'We always fear discovery. But one advantage
we have is that the servants of the Dark One have no desire for the
populace to know we are not a myth, that we exist.

Pug asked, 'When you say "we", do you mean the Bloodwitches or the White?'

'Both,' she replied, 'for in my mind the Bloodwitch Sisterhood and the
White have been one for many, many years, long before we realized we
served that force which stood in opposition to the Dark One.'

'Martuch told us the story of his sparing a woman and her son, do you
know it?' asked Nakor.

Narueen nodded and her expression was revealing, the closest of a show
of emotions Pug had seen from her. 'I know it well, for I was that woman
and Valko was the boy I held. We had ventured out of the caves a short
distance away and were cooking. Our fires were lit too early, obviously.
The children were fractious, Valko was teething and angry. The cooling
breezes of the evening soothed him.'

'Why did you simply say, "please"?' asked Magnus.

She sighed. 'I don't really know. An instinct that let me see something
inside him. He was a vital warrior, the sort of man women seek out to
father their children, at the height of his power. He had his blood lust
up and was ready to kill, but there was a ... look to him, something
around the eyes under that fearsome black helm that made me just ask him
to spare us.'

'And so lives change,' said Martuch. 'Valko doesn't know the story, and
I would appreciate it if you didn't tell him yet. He will learn it soon
enough, but what you must know is that our young Lord of the Camareen
came to his office just this week. He beheaded his father only six days
before you arrived. The celebration of his accession was two nights ago.
Had we arrived then, most of us would likely be dead by now.'

Pug said, 'I often wonder at these small coincidences in life: that
something that appears nothing more than a chance, but in the end turns
out to be vital.'

Nakor had been unusually silent throughout all of these discussions,
content to watch and listen. He reached into his bag and pulled out an
orange.

Pug's eyes widened. 'How did you do that?'

Nakor's ever-present bag had a small permanent two-way rift in it, which
allowed him to reach through and pluck oranges and other items off a
table in a produce shop in Kesh. By any magic Pug knew, it couldn't work
here.

Nakor just grinned. 'Different bag. Looks the same, but it's not. I just
put some oranges in it. This is the last one.'

He dug his thumb into it and peeled the skin, then took a bite. He made
a face and said, 'Horrible. I guess how things taste to us has changed,
too.' He put the orange back in the bag and said, 'I'd better get rid of
this somewhere along the way.'

'Yes,' said Martuch, rising and holding out his hand. 'I'll see to it. I
wouldn't want you to have to explain to a Deathpriest how you came by a
fruit from the first plane of existence.'

Nakor handed over the fruit and turned to look at Bek who was sitting
quietly, looking out of the window. 'What is it you find so fascinating,
Ralan?'

Without turning, Bek said, 'It's just that I really like it here, Nakor.
I want to stay.' He turned and his eyes were shining with emotion. 'I
want you to fix what you did to me, that day outside the caves, because
I think here I can be ... happy. This is a good place, Nakor. I can kill
and make people cry, and everyone thinks it's funny.' He looked out of
the window again. 'And it's the most beautiful place I've ever seen.'

Nakor went to the window and looked out. 'It's unusually clear, today—'

The way his voice dropped caused Pug and the others to look at him.
'What is it?' asked Pug.

'Come here,' said Nakor.

Pug looked out past his two companions. The daylight of Kosridi had
taken some getting used to, as there was little visible by Midkemian
standards, but Pug had found that once his eyes had adjusted to a much
broader spectrum, what Nakor had called 'the colours beyond violet, and
under red', he could see a profound difference between night and day on
this world. With the sun above, he could see heat and energy and more
detail than at night. But even then, he saw far more with his 'Dasati
eyes' as he thought of his new vision than he ever would have imagined
possible. And he understood why he hadn't seen apparent signs on
Delecordia or here: it had taken him a while to apprehend the energy
signatures used on the stone above doors to indicate the purpose of the
building.

Today was 'bright' as there were no clouds in the sky, and the sun shone
down. Pug could see the rolling vista of the town beyond the castle, and
the ocean below that. Then it struck him that there was something
familiar about what he was seeing.

Nakor said, 'I've only been to a place like this once before, years
before when Prince Nicholas had to sail after—'

Pug cut him off. 'It's Crydee,' he said softly.

'It looks a lot like Crydee,' said Nakor.

Pug pointed out to the south-west. 'There are the Six Sisters.'

Narueen said, 'That is what those islands are called.'

Pug said, 'We're in Crydee.' He looked out again and said, 'This town is
built... well, it's Dasati, all one continuous series of interlinking
buildings, like the Ipiliac, but there, that bit of land jutting out
north of the harbour ... that's Longpoint!'

'What does it mean?' asked Magnus.

Pug turned and sat down on the window-seat next to Bek, who still stared
outside. 'I don't know. In one sense, I guess it means we're back home,
just on a different plane of reality.'

Pug began asking Narueen and Martuch questions about the geography of
the region and quickly came to understand that Kosridi was Midkemia,
only on the second plane of reality. After nearly half an hour of this,
Pug said, 'Why would everything else be different, but the physical
environment be the same?'

'A question for philosophers,' said Nakor. He grinned, 'But I do like a
good question as much as I like a good answer.'

'So many mysteries,' said Magnus.

'We leave tomorrow for the city of Kosridi, by wagon,' said Martuch.

Pug placed the capital of this world roughly where Stardock would be on
Midkemia, and asked, 'Wouldn't it be faster to travel by ship?'

'It would,' answered Martuch, 'if the winds were favourable, but this
time of the year we'd be beating against them the entire way. Also,
there's a series of dangerous places along the coast - I'm not a sailor
so I don't know what they're properly called - rocks below the water
where you can't see them.'

'Reefs,' said Pug, 'in our language.'

Narueen said, 'In any event, once we reach Ladsnawe, we can take a swift
ship across the Diamond Sea to the river leading to Kosridi.'

Pug considered, and realized that the Bitter Sea was roughly diamond
shape on the map. 'So, how long?' he asked.

'Three weeks, if we encounter no difficulty. We have already sent swift
messengers ahead to carry word of our coming, so we will find safe haven
along the route every night.'

'We have so many more things to discuss,' said Pug.

'We will have time. Everything we do is overseen by the Gardener. You
will travel with a surrounding cocoon of people who will protect your
secrets, even if they themselves do not know what those secrets are. Act
your part and all shall be well. We shall have time, ample time, trust me.'

Narueen stood and pointed to Magnus. 'You must come with me.'

Magnus appeared torn for a moment between curiosity and his wish to
appear the obedient servant, then he rose, bowed his head, and followed
Valko's mother. Pug looked over at Martuch who stood with a faint smile
on his face. 'What's all that?' he asked.

'She will take him to her bed tonight,' said Martuch. 'For a Dasati he
is very handsome. Many women will wish to couple with him. I realize to
your people our ways seem brazen and without ... what is that word you
humans use to explain your odd behaviour?'

Nakor said, 'Morality?'

'That is the word,' said Martuch. 'We have none of that when it comes to
breeding.'

'But can he ...?'

'I am no expert,' said Martuch, 'but I believe the essentials are
basically the same, and while Narueen is indulging in some gratuitous
pleasure, she's also ensuring that your son doesn't end up dead before
we reach our goal.

'I do not overstate. He is very handsome, and many women will wish his
company. And a few men, I expect. If he doesn't understand his role, how
he must obey, when he can decline, or what to expect, you might never
see him again.' He pointed to Bek. 'Likewise, I will have Lesser come to
his bed tonight.'

Lowering his voice, he added. 'I think he will have no problem
convincing a Dasati woman he is a warrior.'

'I'm married,' Pug said quickly.

Martuch laughed. 'Do not worry, friend Pug. By Dasati standards you are
far too short and homely to attract that sort of attention.'

Nakor said, 'I like girls.'

Martuch laughed even harder, shook his head, and left the room.

• CHAPTER TWENTY •

Crucible

The rain pounded down.

Six miserable junior knight-lieutenants of the army of Roldem hunkered
down under the pitiful shelter of a canvas ground-cloth which had been
hurriedly erected as a make-shift tent. The rain had been unceasing for
three days now and they were chilled to the bone, footsore, and couldn't
remember the last time they had slept.

After returning from the conflict with Bardac's Holdfast, the six had
received instructions to head downriver to Olasko Gateway with the first
and third Olaskan infantry, and report to General Devrees's staff. The
boat ride had been uneventful and the boys had been full of their own
sense of achievement. The veterans in the first and third put up with
the boys' boundless optimism. They had seen it before and knew it
wouldn't last.

Especially Sergeant Walenski, the senior sergeant given command of the
first and third. The two units had been depleted below half the normal
complement since the overthrow of Kaspar's rule three years before. They
had been operating as a combined unit since, and Roldem seemed slow in
assigning new recruits to the old Olaskan army.

The first and third had been ordered to help sweep the border with
Salmater. The problem was chronic: the southern-most province in Olasko
was a cluster of hundreds of islands, the home of pirates, smugglers,
outlaws of every stripe, and a highway for raids into the region. Roldem
had decided on a show of force and a warning to anyone else in the
region who might wish to go adventuring in their two newest provinces.

'Why did they have to pick the rainy season?' asked Jommy, as he sat
shivering under the tarp. All six wore the uniform of the Army of
Roldem: dark blue tunics, dark grey trousers, and a belted tabard. Each
had been given a conical metal helm with a nose guard. Grandy's was the
smallest they could find and it was still slightly too large.

'To make sure we appreciate every possible aspect of the experience?'
suggested Godfrey.

Tad said, 'Well, at least it's not a cold rain.'

'And the rain keeps the mosquitoes from biting,' Grandy offered.

'Ever the optimist,' said Servan. He reached out and rumpled Grandy's
already wet head and said, 'It's good we have at least one of those
around here.'

Zane said, 'I just wish they had something for us to do.'

Jommy said, 'Be careful what you wish for ...' He hiked his thumb and
everyone looked to see where he pointed. Sergeant Walenski was climbing
the short trail from where the General's tent sat to where these most
junior of officers huddled.

He came to stand before them and saluted in just a slow enough fashion
to communicate clearly what he thought of these six 'children' who had
been deposited in his care. 'If you young gentlemen would be so kind,
the General would like a word with you.'

Jommy and the others came out from under the shelter and as the others
followed, he said, 'I don't suppose you've had any luck in finding us a
proper tent, now, have you Sergeant?'

'Sorry to say, no, sir,' he responded. The sergeant was a short,
lantern-jawed man, who effected a large moustache that flowed out and
curled up at the ends. He was still mostly dark-haired, but had just
enough grey shot through to show his age. He had been a soldier -
corporal, then sergeant - in the army of Olasko for twenty-five years
and had little patience with junior officers, especially boys plucked
from university who, from his point of view, were sent to play soldier
while real men fought and died. He had been as close to insubordinate
and insulting as he could get without actually breaking military
protocols, but the boys had no doubt that he had rather these six
lieutenants were anywhere in the army but here. 'Sorry to say the
provisioner has not received any more supplies from Opardum ... /sir/.'

Jommy threw him a sidelong look. 'Well, thank you for the effort,
Sergeant. I'm sure it was heroic.'

'We try our best, young sir. Now, if you don't mind, the General is
waiting.'

The boys trudged down the muddy hill to the command tent. As they passed
a series of wagons, Jommy halted. 'Sergeant, what is that piled up on
the second wagon there?'

The sergeant made a show of squinting at the wagon. At last he said,
'Why, I do believe that's a stack of tents, sir. I guess some came in
that I missed.'

Glaring at the sergeant as he walked past him to enter the General's
tent, Jommy said, 'I hope you don't miss the enemy when they turn up.'

The General's command tent was a large pavilion which housed a table
with a set of maps on it, a pair of canvas-and-wooden chairs and a
simple sleeping mat. Everything was damp or soaked depending on where in
the leaky pavilion it rested. 'Miserable weather, isn't it?' said the
General.

'Sir,' agreed Jommy.

'We've got a report of some smuggling down near a place called Isle
Falkane on this map.' He pointed to it, and the six young officers
gathered around. 'I'm in a bit of a predicament. We've also received a
report that Salmater has mounted an expedition that's coming across the
border somewhere in this vicinity. So, I've got to keep most of the
first and third intact, but I want you six lads to take a company of
twenty men down to this island and see if there's any truth to the
rumour. I don't want you to go looking for a fight; the sight of more
than two dozen soldiers should be enough to send them scurrying off.

'I just don't want any problems on my south flank if Salmater does mount
an offensive here.' He glanced at the six boys and said to the Prince,
'No disrespect to your family, Highness, but what are you doing here?'

Grandy shrugged. 'My brothers are both in the navy, sir. I guess my
father decided it was time for me to start my military education.'

'Damned funny choice,' muttered the General. 'Still, it'll do you no
good getting you killed. My aide got punctured by a smuggler's arrow,
and when you get back, I'm detailing you to my command. The rest of you
will be spread out among the first and third. I'll have a platoon
designated for each of four of you, and the fifth will be working here
at headquarters with the Prince.

'Now, meet your squad down at the dock and start rowing.'

Jommy took one last look at the map, as did Servan, both fixing the
location in their minds. Then they saluted and left. Outside the tent
they found the sergeant waiting for them. 'Sirs?'

'I expect you know the orders, already, Sergeant,' said Servan. 'Is the
squad assembled?'

'Yes, sir, it is,' he said, still managing to make 'sir' sound like an
insult.

They followed him down to the dock where a riverboat was tied up.
Another half-dozen bobbed up and down as the rain-swollen river rushed
south-east. Twenty soldiers waited there, sitting on sodden bales of grain.

Jommy looked at Servan and said, 'Oh, the gods wept.'

Servan sighed. 'Every malingerer, malcontent and thief in the army.'

'Ah, it's a good bunch of boys we have for you young officers,' said
Sergeant Walenski. 'They've just had a bit of trouble, and I'm sure you
six fine young officers will sort them out.'

Jommy looked at the twenty drenched men, as they sat staring at the six
knight-lieutenants. Those that weren't scowling at them were appraising
them and the rest were doing their best to look indifferent. All were
dressed in the standard uniform of the Roldem army: blue gambeson
jacket, grey trousers, boots, a yeoman's helm, and carried a sword and
shield.

'Get to your feet!' shouted Walenski. 'Officers!'

The men made a show of getting to their feet as slowly as possible, a
couple whispering and laughing.

Jommy said, 'Right, then.' He took off his helmet, unbuckled his sword,
said, 'Sergeant, if you don't mind,' and handed it to him.

'Sir?' The Sergeant was taken aback.

Jommy turned to Servan and the others. 'Give me a bit of room, if you
would.' He then took one step forward and unloaded a punishing blow to
the point of the jaw of the biggest soldier in the group, knocking the
man completely off his feet, sending him flying backwards into the two
men behind him, who also fell down. Jommy then turned to Sergeant
Walenski and said, 'Sword, please, Sergeant.'

The Sergeant handed it back, and Jommy re-buckled it while the two men
who could got up; the one Jommy hit was still unconscious. Jommy
retrieved his helmet, put it on, and turned to the soldiers. 'Right,
then. Any question about who's in charge here?' When there was no
answer, he raised his voice. /'Get on the boat!'/

'You heard the lieutenant! Get on the boat!' shouted Sergeant Walenski.
'You two, pick up that man and drag him!'

The twenty soldiers hurried to do as ordered, and as the six officers
followed, the Sergeant said, 'A moment, sir,' to Jommy.

Jommy halted and the Sergeant said, 'If you don't mind the opinion, with
a little work you have the makings of a fine sergeant, some day. It's a
pity to see you wasting all that talent as an officer.'

Jommy said, 'I'll keep that in mind. And, Sergeant?'

'Sir?'

'When we get back, our tents will be ready, won't they?'

'You have my guarantee, sir.'

'Good,' said Jommy, joining the others on the deck of the riverboat.

Servan said, 'Jommy, one thing.'

'What?'

'That first day at the university?'

'Yes.'

'When you hit me? Thank you for going easy.'

Jommy laughed. 'No worries, mate.'

*  *  *

Pug watched in wonder as the boatmen poled up-river. Throughout the
entire journey he had felt a terrible mix of the familiar and the alien.
Although once they had realized that this planet was identical to
Midkemia knowing where they were became relatively easy.

Pug's library held the most complete collection of maps in the world,
and while some were out-of-date, and most incomplete, the collection had
afforded him as good a view of the geography of the world as any one man
could have. Nakor and Magnus had also reviewed most of the maps while on
Sorcerer's Isle.

They had taken a trail over what would have been the Grey Tower
Mountains, along the river called Boundary in Crydee. The ride through
the forests and over the north pass evoked strong memories in Pug, from
the time he and his boyhood friend, Tomas, had ridden with Lord Borric
to warn the Prince of Krondor of the coming Tsurani invasion.

But now the trees were alien, almost like pines and balsams, but not
quite. The birds were all predators, even the Dasati equivalent of
sparrows, and only the size of the rider deterred the birds from attacking.

Nakor had observed that eons of learning who was food and who was hungry
had created a murderous, but balanced world. As long as you were
vigilant, you survived.

Once over the mountains, they came to a port that didn't exist on
Midkemia: a large town called Larind here, but Pug knew the place, as it
was close to the Free City of Bordon in his world. The town was a
smaller version of the Ipiliac city: a series of interlinked buildings,
as if the need for community against all the hostile forces of this
world had created a group approach among a society that was murderously
individualistic. Nakor expressed more than once along the way that he
would love to stay and study these people. Magnus had observed that the
Dasati would probably love to study him.

From there they sailed across the Diamond Sea - the Bitter Sea on
Midkemia - and to the city of Deksa, where Port Vykor resided back home.
Pug regretted that their course had taken them just out of sight of
Sorcerer's Isle - or whatever it was called on this world - for he would
have liked to have seen this otherworld version of his home.

Now they were on a large boat - what would have been called a keel boat
back home, though it was longer than the Midkemian version, but with the
same mode of propulsion: a team of men, six on each side of the boat,
who planted poles in the bottom of the river and 'walked' towards the
stern of the boat. In fact, they were standing still and the boat was
moving under their feet, but the illusion was the same. When they
reached the stern, they pulled up their pole, effortlessly shouldered it
and walked towards the bow where they planted their poles and started
again. It was a slow, but effective, mode of transportation and
certainly meant they were more likely to arrive at their destination
rested than if they had been in a bumpy wagon. Pug had not asked why
magic hadn't been employed to get them to their destination. He assumed
there must be a good reason.

On Midkemia the Sea of Dreams, which was really a very large salt-water
lake than a true sea, was bordered on the north by the Kingdom city of
Landreth, and on the south by the Keshian city of Shamata. Here the
entire eastern half of the sea, on both shores, was occupied by the
great city of Kosridi, the capital of this world.

They were still miles from their destination, but they could see signs
of civilization on the north shore as the boat left the river and
entered the lake. The polemen pushed out as deeply as they could, then
put their poles in cradles along the roof of the centre cabin and raised
the single sail. The boat was not really designed for sailing, but a bit
of a breeze would get them wallowing along as best it could for a few
hours, and eventually they would reach the nearest dock in the city.

The sound of bowstrings humming alerted Pug to the fact that another of
this world's water-dwelling predators had come to close to the boat. He
glanced over to see something large, black and serpent-like slip back
below the chop. Within seconds the water began roiling as other
predators swarmed to the scent of blood in the water.

'Mustn't go swimming,' Nakor said with a chuckle. The short gambler
tended to find everything amusing, and Pug was relieved, for he was
feeling quite enough worry for the entire group.

Given the Dasati habit of having all farms cultivated by a workforce
that lived within the walls of the nearest city, Pug could only conclude
that the city of Kosridi must be huge, larger than the city of Kesh or
perhaps even the enormous Holy City of the Tsurani, Kentosani. Over a
million people lived in that city, but judging from the signs of
civilization rising up on all sides, Pug assumed that the capital city
of this planet was at least three times as large.

Martuch said, 'We'll dock soon. We must ride the rest of the way.'

Pug nodded, preoccupied. He had been reassured that everyone on this
boat had been selected for their ability to be both blind and deaf, and
the captain was secretly a member of the White: no one aboard should be
a danger to them.

Bek had been playing the role of Martuch's protégé to perfection. His
ability to subsume himself into the Dasati mindset frightened Pug, as
did Nakor's blind faith in his ability to control the youth. What Bek
really was, who he was, and how he got to be this way were questions Pug
had pondered since first meeting the young warrior. Nakor didn't have to
tell him there was something unusual about him, for from the first Pug
could sense the alien presence within him, and the yet-to-be-unleashed
power. Nakor's description of the fight between Tomas and Bek had
surprised Pug at the time; Tomas was undoubtedly the most dangerous
mortal with a sword on the entire planet, but now that Pug had time to
study Bek, he suspected that the day would come when Ralan Bek would
surpass Tomas of Elvandar as the single most dangerous being on Midkemia.

If they ever got back to Midkemia.

Pug had asked Martuch how that was to be arranged, and the often
taciturn warrior had merely said it was all arranged. But something in
his tone left Pug wondering if he really thought any of them would
survive whatever lay ahead of them.

They reached the docks as sundown approached, and by the time they had
secured what passed for horses - varnin - Martuch said, 'I know an inn
we can use. It will take us the better part of the day to reach the Star
Bridge, so we'll rest in the city tonight.'

He assumed the role of Dasati warrior and motioned for Bek to follow.
Neither paid any attention to the three Lessers who trailed behind them.
Pug, Nakor and Magnus would walk behind their master's mounts, and Pug
prayed everyone remembered his part, for now they were no longer in the
relative safety of Lord Valko's castle.

Pug had wondered about that young Deathknight. Pug sensed that Valko was
fighting a battle inside himself, and prayed his mother retained her
influence over him. So many things about these people were repellent:
but he reminded himself that this wasn't just an alien culture, it was
an alien reality, and that similarities between Dasati and human were as
often as not coincidental, and nothing more.

Magnus followed Nakor, who stayed close to Bek's mount, the better to
monitor his behaviour. Pug was last in line.

Kosridi City was everything he had imagined from Kaspar's description of
what he had seen in Kalian's vision, and more. The city walls were
massive, perhaps twenty storeys high in places, with gates that required
a gigantic mechanical engine to open and close them. Pug could not even
imagine those gates being shut by the labour of the heaviest draught
animals. Either powerful magic was employed, or another source of power
he didn't understand, because nothing he had seen humans devise would
move those gates, short of a thousand men pulling on the ropes for hours
on end.

They entered the city and Pug tried to etch every detail he could into
his memory, yet so much of what he saw was inexplicable to him. Women
swept along in groups of four or five, apparently shopping in stalls,
merchants and stores.

He struggled to remember that these very same females, apparently
carefree now, would the rest of the time be fugitives harbouring
children from the very fathers and lovers in their lives who were trying
to kill those children.

Pug found his mind swimming, and turned his attention away from these
contradictions. He should know better than to attempt to force his own
interpretation on what he saw. Just look, he chided himself. Just look,
observe and evaluate later.

A group of four men in black robes with a circle of white around the
waist and a line of white running down the front and back, were walking
purposefully through the crowd. 'Praxis,' said Martuch. Pug knew the
word meant 'standard behaviour or practice', but here it was an
organization of laymen working for the Dark One's church. They were
tasked constantly to remind Dasati citizens of His Darkness's presence,
and to report any sign of blasphemous behaviour.

At a busy intersection, the two riders were forced to move slowly past a
gathering of men and women who were listening to a man on a wooden
stand. A lector was preaching to the Lessers, and his message was that
every member of Dasati society had a role to play, and that it was their
task to live their lives as joyously as they could in His Darkness's shadow.

Pug saw rapt expressions on the faces of those listening and again
wondered how these people thought. It was clear that Martuch had grown
and changed, and even the Lady Narueen, as Pug thought of her, seemed
sophisticated enough for them to have a common basis for dialogue. But
young Lord Valko could barely abide the sight of the human visitors,
despite their Dasati appearance through magic, and Pug knew that he was
sympathetic to their cause.

What would the average Dasati in the street think should the glamour
fail and the humans be revealed? Pug had no doubt the most likely answer
was that the four of them would be swarmed over and torn limb from limb
by the bare hands of the Dasati Lessers long before any warriors could
reach them. Whatever thought Pug had cherished that this world might
have something in common with his own had been dispelled the morning of
their departure, when he had seen a Lesser cook and her helpers fight
what appeared to be domesticated barnyard fowl so she could get eggs for
breakfast. Even the chickens here put up a fight, Nakor had observed.

They wended their way through the busy city, every sight and sound a
distraction. Pug was forced not to stare, and had to prod Nakor several
times for gawking.

Eventually they reached the inn where Martuch had said they would be
safe as long as they maintained their pose as Lessers, and were quickly
taken away from Martuch and Bek, to the quarters out at the back for
servants of travelling warriors.

It was a barracks where three other Lesser men and a single woman were
resting, while two other women were tending cooking fires. From the look
of things, Pug realized they were going to have to manage on their own
for food, but before he could tell Nakor and Magnus to dig rations out
of their travel bags, one of the women cooking said, 'Two sus each for
food. And another su if you wish something other than water to drink.'

Pug reached inside his bag, pulled out nine coins and put them on the
table, unsure if he was supposed to say anything. He suspected 'thank
you' would earn him nothing but trouble.

The woman scooped up the coins and put them in the purse that hung from
a woven cord belt which cinched together her dress. Pug sat quietly down
near the table, watching as they prepared a meal.

The two Dasati women were chattering about things for which Pug had no
frame of reference, until he realized they were gossiping about a woman
who wasn't present. The other three Dasati in the room were servants of
others staying at the inn, and Pug decided that watching them for leads
might be useful.

When food was placed on the table, the three Dasati who had arrived
before Pug and his companions stood and took full bowls off the table,
then returned to where they were resting. Pug nodded once to Nakor and
Magnus, and they followed his lead.

As they sat eating, one of the Dasati women who had been cooking kept
staring at Magnus. Pug leaned over and whispered to Magnus, 'You never
said anything about your encounter with Narueen.'

Magnus looked down at his bowl. 'And I won't.'

Pug said, 'Difficult;

'More than ...' He smiled slightly. 'There are things a son doesn't want
to share with his parents, even a father as ... widely travelled as you.'

Suddenly Pug understood. The experience hadn't been entirely unpleasant
for Magnus, and that disturbed him.

Magnus swallowed another mouthful of the stir-fried vegetables and a
grain like rice with some sort of meat in it, and finally said, 'And,
please, say nothing to Mother.'

Pug stifled a laugh.

Everyone ate in silence. Pug wondered if there was going to be a problem
with women and Magnus. They just wanted to be ignored, but apparently
Narueen was correct in her observation that Magnus was unusually
handsome by Dasati standards. Unwarranted attention was unwelcome. Pug
knew that he or his son could bring this entire inn down around the ears
of anyone who might threaten them without difficulty. They could create
enough confusion to escape. But escape to where? Pug wasn't entirely
sure what this mission was, except to find out as much about these
people as possible. So far he still had found no reason why these people
would wish to invade the first plane of reality, beyond Nakor's
oft-aired thesis that evil is by nature mad. On the other hand, Nakor
also observed that even if evil was mad, it could act with purpose. That
had certainly been proven repeatedly in the case of Leso Varen.

That made Pug think of Varen hiding somewhere on Kelewan, and that in
turn made him miss his wife. He wished he had the means to speak with
her, if only for a moment, just to know she was well. And ask her if
there was any hint of Varen anywhere within the Empire of the Tsurani.

*  *  *

Wyntakata hobbled along as quickly as he could, attempting to keep up
with Miranda, who was impatiently walking towards a hill overlooking a
deep ravine. 'Please,' he said, and when she turned, he pointed to his
staff. 'My leg,' he added.

'Sorry, but you were the one who said this was important.'

'It is, and I think you'll appreciate why I asked you to come alone with
me. But I am not a well man, and a little more leisurely pace would be
welcome.'

Miranda had received his message only hours before, and ignoring the
time difference - it was just before dawn at Sorcerer's Isle, but late
afternoon on this part of Kelewan - she had come at once.

They were moving across a meadow towards the hill, and when they reached
the bottom, Wyntakata said, 'Another moment, please.' He paused to catch
his breath, then said, 'You'd think with all the power ... well, maybe
one day we can do something about getting old.' He chuckled. 'It's odd,
isn't it, that this man you're so eager to catch can move from body to
body ... a type of immortality, really.'

'From one point of view, I suppose so,' said Miranda, impatient to see
what it was she had been summoned here to see.

The stout magician caught his breath and said, 'Let us go.' As they
trudged up the hill, he said, 'Did you hear, old Sinboya was found dead
last week?'

Miranda stopped. 'You knew him?'

'How could you not?' Wyntakata stopped for a moment, puffed, then said,
'He was perhaps the finest artificer of devices alive. Many of the
Assembly had employed him to make his toys, useful as they were.'

Reaching the ridge, they could see down into a small valley, a half-mile
depression between two rows of hills. Below them in the valley was a
dome of energy, black as night and yet scintillating with colours, like
irridescent oil floating on the surface of water. Miranda instantly
recognized it as a barrier of some type; though what it was keeping in,
she could only guess.

Wyntakata said, 'I hear Pug visited Sinboya just before his death.'

Miranda hesitated for an instant, then said, 'He hadn't told me.'
Instantly, she knew she had been lured into a trap: the magician had
referred to her husband as 'Pug' rather than his Tsurani name, Milamber.

She turned to gather energy, but suddenly a pain shot through her and
her mind went numb. It was as if someone or something had sucked the air
from her lungs, the blood from her veins, and all rational thought from
her mind in an instant. She looked down and saw a faintly glowing
latticework of lines in the soil beneath her feet. This spot had been
the trap. The ward she stood upon negated her power and had stunned her
like a blow to the head. She tried to move, and found her body disobedient.

Wyntakata smiled unpleasantly. 'Your mistake was assuming that your
fugitive would conduct himself here as he did on your world, Miranda.

'You see,' said the man she knew now must be Leso Varen, 'you were so
intent on looking for signs of necromancy that you neglected the
obvious. These people—' he patted his rotund waist, '—are such powerful
practitioners of magic that I could conduct myself as I saw fit and no
one would notice, as long as I observed a few proprieties. "Your will,
Great One," is such a wonderful phrase. I fly to "my" estates, and say,
"I would like a meal", and people jump to getting it done. It's a great
deal like being a king of a tiny little kingdom, really.

'These people do appreciate power. But they are nothing, compared to my
new friends.'

Miranda fell to her knees, weakening by the minute. Wyntakata held up
his hand and made a signal. He knelt, awkwardly, holding on to his
staff. 'It's really too bad that I didn't have any say in whose body I
grabbed, but this won't be my host much longer. I must confess I've been
so busy since I found the first Dasati rift that I really haven't had
time to make a new soul vessel. I plan on taking care of that as soon as
possible, once I find a safe place to practise necromancy again without
having a hundred angry Great Ones descending on me.' He glanced at the
dome. 'I think it won't be too long before they're far too busy to worry
about me.'

He reached out and took her chin in the cup of his hand. Her eyes were
losing focus as he said, 'My goodness, but you are an attractive woman.
I never really noticed that. I think I found you off-putting at first
because you are so ... determined. You walk around with that frown and
your eyes ... glaring. I see why Pug fell in love with you, though I do
find I prefer women who are more ... submissive. But it would be fun to
nail you to a wall and see how determined you remained while I did
things to you with all the toys the Tsurani. have invented for
interrogation. They have quite a collection in a museum at the Assembly,
you know.'

Someone was coming up the hill behind her, but Miranda was too stupefied
to move, let alone turn and look. Leso Varen used his staff to push
himself to his feet as powerful hands gripped her shoulders and pulled
her upright.

'I'd like you to meet two new friends of mine,' said Varen, 'These are,
if I have it right, Desoddo and Mirab.'

Miranda was jerked around and found herself looking into the face of an
alien, a being with a slender skull, greyish skin and black eyes. 'They
are what the Dasati called "Deathpriests", and they are going to have a
lot of fun with you, I think. Pity I won't be there, but I have other
matters to arrange.

'You see, my new friends and I have come to an understanding. I'm going
to help them seize Kelewan, and in exchange, they're going to help me
conquer Midkemia. Isn't that a wonderful arrangement?'

Without a word, the two Dasati Deathpriests jerked Miranda around and
began to drag her downhill towards the black energy dome. As she fell
into unconsciousness, the last thing she heard was Varen humming an odd
little tune.

*  *  *

'Oh, damn,' said Tad as he peered over the rise.

'Yes,' whispered Servan. 'Damn, indeed.'

'What are we going to do?' asked Zane, from a few feet behind.

Jommy squatted. The four of them were hunkered down below a rise and at
the bottom waited the twenty soldiers - now all grudgingly obedient -
Grandy, and Godfrey.

'How fast can you get back to the General?' asked Jommy.

Tad thought. 'I can run to the boat. That should take no more than a
half hour. If I go across the river, then run up the shore - that's got
to be faster than rowing against the current - four, maybe three and a
half hours if I can do it without stopping.'

Tad was unquestionably the best runner among the six boys, perhaps the
best in the entire Roldemish army. 'That will get you to him before
nightfall. If he sends sixty men by boat at night, they can be here
easily before sunrise. So all we have to do is keep them from moving
before tomorrow.'

He glanced over the ridge one more time to look at the enemy and ducked
back down. The Salmater offensive wasn't coming across the river where
the General expected it; it was coming across the river here. Once that
force was moving into Olasko proper, finding them among the hundreds of
islands would be as big a problem as dislodging them once they were
found. But if they could be kept on this beach, even for a few hours
tomorrow, they could attempt a retreat back across the river. With sixty
fresh soldiers holding this ridge, and the promise of more arriving soon
after ...

'How do we keep them from going around us?' Jommy asked Servan.

He motioned for the other boys to shimmy down the side of the ridge and
at the bottom he said, 'If they think we're only holding this ridge,
they'll flank us to the south. So, we have to make them think we've got
soldiers everywhere.' He glanced upward. 'Wait a minute.' He crawled up
on his elbows to the ridge, looked at the deploying Salmater soldiers,
then headed back down again.

'They are still unloading,' said Servan. Looking at the afternoon sun,
he said, 'I don't know if they're going to try to march across this
island and set up on that next one over there—' he pointed to a distant
island separated from the one they were on by a broad, shallow rill from
the river, '—or camp here for the night. If they think they're
undiscovered, they may not be in a hurry.'

Jommy looked at Tad. 'You'd better be off, no matter what. Tell the
General to come down fast with every man he can spare.' As Tad started
to move, Jommy reached out and grabbed his arm. 'Hey, tell the boat crew
to head downstream. If they scout around the north side of the island, I
don't think it would be a good thing for the boat to be seen. Have them
hide somewhere.'

Tad said, 'I've got it.'

'And keep from getting killed,' said Zane.

Tan grinned and ran off without another word.

Jommy turned to Servan and said, 'So, how are we going to make them
think there's an army over there if they decide to move?'

Servan said, 'I have no idea.'

• CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE •

Betrayal

Miranda awoke in pain.

The two figures above her were speaking, but she could not understand
what they said. Not only was the tongue foreign to her, but her senses
were dulled: it sounded as if they were talking under water. She was
tied to a table of some sort, unable to move anything but her head, and
that only slightly.

She tried to breathe, but the effort taxed her: her lungs hurt as if she
was suffering from too little air. She tried to focus her mind, to
gather together enough energy to free herself, but something was making
concentration difficult.

'She awakes.' She didn't need to know who spoke. The voice was that of
Leso Varen, now in the body of the Tsurani magician Wyntakata.

The figure closest to her bent over her and spoke, in the Tsurani
language, but with a strange accent. 'Do not move,' he instructed her
calmly and without menace. 'You will feel pain for a while. It will
pass.' He stood back up and motioned around him. 'This place is suitable
for both our races, but you will need time to adapt.'

'What do you want here?' she asked, finding it difficult to speak.

'If I may?' Varen's voice came from just outside her field of vision.
Then his face was hovering over hers. He spoke in the King's Tongue,
which made Miranda certain he didn't want the Dasati Deathpriests
understanding what he said. 'It's simple, really. The Dasati are a race
of children, in a way; if you can imagine a few million two-year-olds
running around with very sharp blades, powerful death-magic, and an urge
to break everything in sight.

'But like toddlers everywhere, if they see something pretty and shining,
they want it. And to them, the worlds of the first realm of reality are
very pretty indeed; much brighter, much shinier than their worlds. So,
in a short while there will be thousands of very tall children in armour
running amok through this lovely empire shouting, "Mine! Mine! Mine!" as
they kill, pillage and burn. Isn't that wonderful?'

'You're insane,' Miranda choked out.

'Almost certainly,' said Varen. He looked over to the two Deathpriests,
and said, 'But compared to them, I am the soul of reason. You will long
for these moments we've spent together when their priests are working on
you.' He looked at the two Deathpriests and said, 'I've finished now.'

Miranda saw one of the two tall Dasati prelates put out his hand,
placing something over her nose and mouth that was pungent and bitter,
and suddenly she was swallowed up by darkness.

*  *  *

Some while later, Servan said, 'I have an idea.'

'Good,' whispered Jommy, 'because I certainly do not have one.'

'Take a peek and tell me what they're doing now.'

Jommy crawled up to the ridge and looked over. The Salmater forces were
dressed as mercenaries, a ploy they had utilized on previous raids into
the region, according to the General. But just one look at the way the
camp was organized told Jommy all he needed to know.

He scrambled back down the slope and said, 'They're pitching camp.
They're here for the night.'

'Good,' said Servan. 'Follow me.'

He made his way to the base of the slope and motioned for the men to
follow. When he was certain they were far enough away from the new
Salmater camp, he said, 'There are about two hundred regulars from
Salmater over there. And there are twenty-five of us.'

'So let's get out of here,' said one of the soldiers.

'That's exactly what I want you to do,' said Servan. 'But I just want
you to wade across that shallow there and lie low out of sight until
morning.'

'What then ... sir?' asked another soldier.

'When you hear shouting, I want you to rush to that beach over there,
making as much noise as you can, but don't come across. Stir up as much
dust as possible and run up and down the beach.'

'Huh?' said Jommy.

'The sun will be coming up right behind them,' said Servan, pointing
east. 'If the Salmater sentries top that rise, they'll be blinded by the
morning sunlight, or they'll only see shadows, and dust and men moving.
They won't have any idea how many of us are here.'

'And what will we be doing while all this is going on?' asked Godfrey.

'Running around and making them think there are three different armies
bearing down on them.'

Jommy said, 'And how are we going to do that?'

Servan knelt. He drew with his finger in the soil. 'Here's the ridge.
We're on the other side of it.' He pointed. 'I'll take Zane. We'll head
down south of them.' He touched a spot south of the line and west of it.
'You and Godfrey go up here to the north.' He glanced around. 'Stay back
in the trees. Run around and shout orders. Make it sound like squads are
coming at them from all sides.'

'That isn't going to keep them fooled for long,' said Jommy.

'It doesn't have to. We just need to make them think about not moving a
while, until the General gets here with the first and third. If we can
get them to just dig in a little, kill an hour or so, that should do it.

'When a company of real soldiers comes charging out of those north
woods, and if we've done enough noise-making, those lads on the other
side of the ridge should beat a fast enough retreat home.'

Jommy said, 'Well, as long as the General doesn't linger over his
breakfast, we have a chance.' He let out a long breath. 'I hope this
works, because I'm here to tell you I can face two men, maybe, but eight
to one?'

Grandy said, 'What about me?'

'You,' said Servan, 'are to go across with these lads and make sure they
do as they are told.' He looked at his cousin a moment, nodding once and
said, 'Go along.' To the soldiers he was sending to the next island, he
said with careful emphasis, 'Make sure the /Prince/ stays safe.'

As if the point was made, the solder nearest said, 'Yes, sir.' He
saluted once, smartly, and hurried off, Grandy at his side.

'Was that wise?' asked Zane when they had gone.

'Those lads are troublemakers, but not deserters,' said Servan. 'If they
had been, they'd have been long gone by now. They'll take care of
Grandy. It's one thing to be a foul-up in the army, quite another to get
a royal killed.'

Jommy said, 'I hope you're right.

'Well, let's find a bit more cover for the night.' He motioned to
Godfrey and said to Zane and Servan, 'See you tomorrow,' and started
north, keeping low behind the ridge.

Servan said, 'Tomorrow,' and turned south.

*  *  *

It was still dark when the call came. A breathless Lesser working for
the innkeeper shook Pug, Nakor and Magnus awake. 'Your master calls.'

They dressed quickly, ignoring the still-sleeping Dasati on the floor.
The travellers had been given rolled mats of rushes to sleep upon, using
whatever they had with them for blankets and pillows. It had been a cool
night, but not too uncomfortable.

Once in the courtyard, they found Martuch and Bek waiting, Bek looking
skyward over the roof of the building Pug and his companions had exited.
Pug looked over his shoulder to see what had the youth transfixed, and
he almost stumbled at the sight.

Magnus whispered, 'Amazing.'

Nakor said, 'Now that is something to see.'

Rising up into the heavens was a pillar of light. It was far enough from
where they stood to look slender, but Pug had no doubt it was massive.
It rose apparently straight up into the night sky, pulsing with energy.
The colours slipped subtly from blue-green to blue-purple and back, a
slow shift through that spectrum. What appeared to be tiny bits of white
energy flowed up and down its length.

'The Star Bridge,' said Martuch. 'It is now sending people to the
homeworld.'

Pug knew that meant Omadrabar, the original Dasati home-world.

'We must go. It will only be operating for the next two hours. I have
secured our travel.' He leaned forward. 'So far, you have managed not to
do anything foolish, but from this point forward, be even more alert.

'Nothing you have seen will prepare you for the TeKarana's world.'

He turned and motioned for them to follow, Bek one step behind him, the
others trailing in a line, eyes down, hurrying to keep up with the two
warriors.

They walked, Pug assumed, because the distance was not far from where
they stood, and because varnin would not be taken on the Star Bridge.
But Pug found himself rethinking this assumption as they walked briskly
for nearly a quarter of an hour. They had traversed street after street,
passing through massive plazas, all starting to show signs of life for
the day to come. Lines of carts were moving along the streets, most
empty from having unloaded the night before, and now heading out of the
city to the distant farms and herds to pick up the next load of produce
and meats needed to feed a city of millions.

Hundreds of Lessers hurried along, each engaged in a task considered
beneath the notice of the warriors, but vital in its own way to the
continued wellbeing of the city. Pug wondered if there was some way to
reach them, to educate them in the potential of living in a society
where the ability to murder wasn't the ultimate skill ... Again, he
chided himself, he kept thinking of these people as human in some way,
despite all evidence to the contrary.

They continued to walk, and the Star Bridge loomed larger by the minute.
It now appeared to be a huge tube or column, mostly transparent, but
with a shimmering, pulsing nebula of light hugging the surface. Sparks
of white energy twinkled along its entire length. As they approached the
great central plaza, a deep thrumming sound accompanied by a tingling in
the soles of the feet manifested itself, and Pug could sense energy on
an enormous scale.

To Magnus he whispered, 'If they can harness energy like this  ...'

Magnus nodded. His father didn't have to finish the thought. /If they
can do this, how would we ever stand against them? /For as powerful as
Pug and Magnus might be, together, along with every student in Stardock
and Sorcerer's Isle, they could never build a thing on the scale of this
Star Bridge. The idea that somehow it spanned the space between worlds
was even more impossible for Pug to fathom than the concept of rifts
tearing holes in the fabric of space.

They reached a low fence of iron or some other dark metal, and a very
ornate gate through which a long line of people moved in an orderly
fashion. This was the only time Pug had witnessed warriors and their
ladies standing behind Lessers, for it was clear that everyone was lined
up in order of arrival. Martuch put Bek and the others in line and
walked to the gate where he presented a parchment to a pair of men in
black robes, with a golden eye embroidered on their chests. Hierophants:
those Deathpriests who were responsible for the secrets and mysteries of
the order. Pug sensed that meant they were the Lesser Paths, so to
speak, of these people, for this Star Bridge was a great engine, no
matter how fantastic it looked.

Nakor whispered, 'This is a very impressive trick.'

Pug touched him lightly on the shoulder to remind him to be silent.
Martuch returned and spoke as if only to Bek, but loud enough that the
others could hear. 'Everything is in order. We leave now.'

They followed the line in front of them. When they reached the gate, Pug
noticed that the two Hierophants were making each person pause for a
moment. As Martuch and then Bek walked to the base of the column of
light, Pug was held a moment, then heard one of the two dark-robed
priests say, 'Step on quickly, step off quickly.' Then with a firm push
they sent him along.

Pug hurried to keep the same interval with Bek he had before, and saw
the young warrior step into the light. As Pug reached the boundary he
hesitated for only an instant, but in that moment he reached out with
his senses and caressed the Star Bridge.

He staggered a step, and only managed not to fall by an act of will he
had not been forced to utilize in years. This /thing/, this Star Bridge
... He could not encompass it. His mind rebelled.

Then he was inside. For an instant it was as if he was once more in the
void, for his senses were taken from him, then abruptly he was speeding
through another place, a dimension of alien beauty and unnameable
sensations.

For a brief moment, Pug felt a part of this plane of reality, and felt
there was an order to it, a system that he might understand if he could
but linger and ponder it. Then, suddenly he was standing on solid
ground, looking at Bek's retreating back. He remembered the warning to
step off quickly and did so, and wondered what would happen had he
waited until Nakor appeared after him. Probably something unpleasant.

He heard his two companions walking behind him. He wanted to glance
back, but the images that flooded his senses now made him not just
cautious, but fearful. For if Delecordia hadn't fully prepared him for
the shock of going to Kosridi, then Kosridi had done nothing to prepare
him for what was now before his eyes on Omadrabar.

*  *  *

Miranda regained consciousness to find that her arms and legs were still
bound, but not as tightly as before. She appeared to be in a bed
chamber, tied by cords to four posts of a bed. A Dasati sat upon a stool
near the bed, regarding her with cold, black eyes.

'Can you understand me?' he asked, and Miranda's mind wrestled with his
words, for while she didn't understand the words, the meaning came to
her. He was employing a magic unknown to her, but it was effective.

'Yes,' she said, and found she could barely speak. Her lips were parched
and her throat dry. 'Could I have some water?' she asked, too sick and
tired to display what would have been appropriate rage. Her head pounded
and her body throbbed, and try as she might, using every mind skill and
incantation she knew, she could not focus her thoughts nor find any
sense of energy around her. The entire flow of magic was alien. It was
impossible for her to come to grips with it.

The Dasati on the stool wore a black robe with a red death's head on the
chest and an ornate purple trim around the hem, sleeves and hood. The
hood was back, so Miranda could see his face.

She had no frame of reference for what Dasati were supposed to look
like. She studied his features and found that they were not too unlike a
human's, with two eyes, a nose and mouth where she would have expected
them to be. The chin was long, the cheekbones high, and the skull thin,
but apart from the grey cast to this man's skin, he was not that alien
in appearance. Certainly he looked a great deal more like her than the
Cho-ja magicians at Chaka-hal did. But she knew for a fact that the
Cho-ja magicians were far more like her than this creature.

'Varen says you are dangerous,' said the Dasati, and again Miranda felt
his words in her mind as much as heard them. 'I do know how you could
be, but I will not underestimate the possibility.' He stood up and
towered over her as she lay helpless on the pallet. 'We shall study you,
for if you are dangerous, and there are more like you on the world of
Kelewan, we need to prepare for encountering such as you.

'It is His Darkness's pleasure that we take your world from you.'

Without another word the Dasati left the chamber, closing the door
behind him. Miranda's mind raced; for while she had difficulty focusing,
she knew Pug's worst fears were being realized: the Dasati were
invading, and soon. If not Midkemia, it would be Kelewan; and she had no
doubt they would not stop there. She examined her surroundings as best
she could. She was in a room without windows. There was a torch in a
sconce in the wall, no table or chair, one bed and one stool.

And she was tied firmly. Every time she tried to focus her energies, to
use any of a number of spells to free her bonds or move to another
location, her mind felt numb, as if something was interfering with her
abilities. Perhaps they had drugged her.

She was considering what might be causing her lack of focus when she
drifted off to unconsciousness again.

*  *  *

Jommy lay against a slight rise in the woods to the north of the
encampment, watching while the hours dragged on. Their sentries were
alert and posted far enough away from the camp-fires that Jommy couldn't
see what, if anything, was occurring around the fires. The sounds that
carried through the night were of men talking, at their ease, not
worried in the least about being discovered.

Jommy glanced over to where Godfrey was hiding behind a tree. In the
pre-dawn darkness, he could barely make him out.

Jommy sniffed, his nose starting to run with the damp and cold. It would
be a steam bath when the sun came up, but right now he was shivering. He
wondered how Grandy was doing. Then he wondered, again, what Grandy was
doing here.

'What are any of us doing here?' he whispered to himself. Since meeting
Tad and Zane in Kesh, Jommy had found himself more-or-less adopted into
a family that had its share of adventures and wonders - which included
magicians living on an island, fighting assassins, travel everywhere in
the world - but some of the things he was asked to do just didn't make
much sense.

Still, it was better than farming, or working a teamster's wagon, and he
knew what they were doing was important, even if he didn't understand
half of what it was. He really liked Tad and Zane, as much as if they
were his brothers - although remembering his older brothers and how they
used to regularly smack him around, he amended that to he liked them
better than his brothers; and while Caleb wasn't his dad, he treated
Jommy the same as he did the others.

But what were they doing in the south of Olasko playing at soldiers? And
why send a boy like Grandy along?

He was sure there was a reason, and he thought it had to do with
Kaspar's remark the other day: that soon everyone would be going to war.
Even so, they were not Roldemish, so why this army? Why now?

Jommy put aside his concerns, for the moment, as dawn was on its way,
and with it, he hoped, General Devrees along with about sixty regular
soldiers. Jommy glanced eastward, hoping for a sign of the rising sun.
He had no idea of the time, and he wondered how much longer they'd be
forced to wait.

A sound from behind him caused Jommy to turn and start drawing his
sword. But a soft voice said, 'Don't.'

He found one of the men Servan had detailed to go with Grandy standing
behind him, a sword pointed at him. Glancing over at Godfrey, he saw
another soldier had him at sword's point as well. The soldier held out
his left hand and Jommy slowly handed him his sword. When the man had
it, he tossed it aside. 'Move,' he instructed.

Slowly Jommy moved from out of the trees and saw about sixteen men
walking towards the camp with Grandy being escorted by two men with
hands clamped firmly on his shoulders. 'Hello, the camp!' one shouted.

Instantly guards from Salmater were shouting alarm, and the Roldem
soldier who had shouted, said, 'We're seeking parley!'

By the time Jommy and Godfrey reached the campsite, the full contingency
of two hundred men were up, armed, and ready for a fight. Servan and
Zane were herded in from the south. The leader of the Salmater force
looked around and said, 'What is this, then?' He was a tall, dark-haired
soldier, experienced from his appearance and an officer from his bearing.

The soldier who was leading the Roldemish contingency said, 'Look, I'll
be quick. There's a Roldem general with a strong force heading down this
way to thump you. We want no part of it. We're all Olasko men and hate
having to serve in their army. We fought them at Opardum and we're not
going to put up with wearing these Roldem monkey jackets any more.' As
if to demonstrate, he started stripping his tunic. He was a stocky,
blond-haired man with a couple of days of grey whiskers and a sunburnt,
leathery face.

'You've got an army heading this way?'

'Yes,' said the soldier, throwing his jacket on the ground. 'We want to
go to Salmater with you.'

'Why would we take you with us? We're going to be lucky to keep our
heads once I report this raid as a total failure.'

'Not a failure,' said the soldier. He motioned and Grandy was pushed
forward. 'This here is the son of the King, Prince Grandprey, out
larking about, learning to soldier. Think of the ransom.'

'Prince?' said the officer. 'You expect me to believe that the son of
the King of Roldem is mucking about in these islands?'

'Look,' said the Olaskan soldier. 'What have you to lose? If I'm lying,
cut my head off back in Salmater. If I'm telling the truth, you're a
hero and your king gets to dictate terms to Roldem.'

'Or bring the entire Roldem fleet down on us,' said the officer.

'But that's for your court and the court of Roldem to argue, isn't it?
Here's what I know. They're expecting something big and the army is
being pulled back to Roldem. That's why they haven't replenished the
depleted Olasko divisions. My lads and I want nothing to do with that
bit. We're Olasko men and we'll stay hidden in these islands if we have
to, but if Roldem is expecting a war with Kesh or someone else, let
someone else fight it. But if a big war is coming, the King of Roldem
will just pay the ransom and be done with it, right?'

'What about the rest of these boys?'

'Officers, so they say. Might be worth something. These two—' he pointed
to Zane and Jommy, '—got something to do with the court down in Kesh,
and this other one—' he pointed at Servan, '—is the Prince's cousin. The
other lad's his friend.'

'Bring them all,' said the officer. 'I'll let the generals sort it out
back in Micel's Station.'

'You'll take us, then?' asked the blond soldier.

The Salmater officer said, 'What would I do with traitors? Kill them!'

Before the soldiers from Roldem could react, the Salmater raiders were
on them, cutting throats and running them through with swords. When
twenty dead or dying men lay in the sand, the officer shouted, 'Break
camp! I want everyone back across the border by sunrise!' To Grandy and
the others he said, 'Nobles or not, if you give me any trouble you'll
end up like them.'

Four guards stood watch over the six boys while the raiders got ready to
leave. Jommy looked at Servan and saw that bravado had gone out of him.
Godfrey and Zane looked frightened, and Grandy was shivering from fear
as much as from the cold.

All he could hope for was that Tad got through and was leading the
General and men from Roldem down the river right now, and they'd get
here before the Salmater raiders got back across the border. He glanced
to the east and saw the sky was lightening.

*  *  *

Pug tried not to gawk, as it was clear that most Lessers kept their eyes
down and attended to their own business. Nakor didn't seem to care,
looking up at the lofty towers that rose hundreds of feet into the air.
'How do they climb those?' he asked.

Magnus said, 'Probably they have some device inside to lift and lower you.'

Omadrabar City was impossible to make sense of in human terms, thought
Pug. There were no slums, no run-down sections of the city, no poor
quarters, nothing remotely to indicate the class of citizen that one
would find in every human city on two worlds.

Here, every building was connected by bridges that arched over wide
boulevards or canals, or streets that went through tunnels in the middle
of massive structures. Pug could only estimate, but in human terms it
would probably take thousands of years to build a city like this, and he
couldn't begin to imagine anyone in human history could ever have
imagined a city as a single, interconnected structure.

They rode past one of the few open park areas, which was simply a plot
of land left undeveloped, where trees and what appeared to be short
ferns rather than true grass grew. Pug realized this passion for single,
related structures, was probably triggered by the same drive that linked
all social and political structures together within this culture.

Pug turned to his companions and said softly, 'Will we ever understand
these beings?'

Nakor grinned, and even with his Dasati glamour on, it was clear to see
he was delighted. 'Probably not, but we should be able to reach a
mutually-beneficial accommodation if we can contact the right people.'

'And who are they?' whispered Magnus.

Nakor shrugged. 'The ones we are with now, we must hope.'

From the Star Bridge they had walked to where a wagon had waited,
escorted by four hand-picked warriors of Martuch's society, the
Sadharin. Even in this alien world Pug didn't have to be told something
momentous was taking place.

Everywhere they went large numbers of armed men, Deathpriests and wagons
were on the move. It was as if this city was making ready for an
invasion, but that was impossible.

This was the Dasati homeworld and no enemy existed within any imaginable
distance.

Yes, Pug knew from his experiences during the Riftwar and the Serpentwar
that invaders could reach anywhere with the right magic, but to attempt
invade this world ... This wasn't a world of millions, like Kelewan; it
was a world of billions. Moreover they were Dasati, a race where the
warrior class consisted only of the survivors; the toughest, most
dangerous men on this world. Each had been tested repeatedly by the time
they were fifteen years old. And there were so many of them. This city
alone was home to seven million people, according to Martuch, over a
million of them warriors, members of a thousand battle societies. That
was more than the entire population of the Kingdom of the Isles, and
almost as many souls as resided in all of Great Kesh.

Souls, wondered Pug. Do these Dasati have them? If it hadn't been for
the letters he had sent to tell himself to come here, Pug would have
felt completely overwhelmed. He was riding in a wagon with his son and
Nakor, on a world populated by billions of beings who would happily kill
him as a minor part of their day's business, and he had no idea what he
was doing here. Somewhere on this world was an answer, even if Pug
didn't know the question at this moment.

One thing he would like to know, however, was why such a level of
mobilization was apparently underway on Omadrabar. From what Pug had
been told and what he had seen of the Twelve Worlds, the Dasati had no
enemies left. One of the mandates the TeKarana had given the Order of
Hierophants was to find more worlds to conquer. Martuch and Pug had
spoken several times of the conditions within the Dasati realm, and yet
nothing had been said about plans for mass travel beyond it.

They entered through a large gate into a relatively small yard above
which rose a building - or another section of wall and bridges as Pug
thought of them - that was Martuch's home on Omadrabar.

Pug waited as Martuch instructed his men to secure the house, though he
wasn't sure if 'house' was the proper term. It was more a series of
large apartments that were embedded into the wall of the city. Or
rather, one of many walls in the city.

Pug's senses were reeling. Of all the worlds he had visited, none were
as alien as Omadrabar. Delecordia had some elements in common with the
first plane of reality, and the people were more pacific. Kosridi was an
echo of Midkemia, and that had given him a sense of the familiar.

This place, though, was a different matter. The scale of things, the
pace of life, the complete lack of anything familiar: he had no frame of
reference for any of it. He had thought his introduction to the Tsurani
culture, including the slave camps in the Great Swamp of Szetac
Province, had been difficult. At least the Tsurani were human, and had
families they loved. They prized heroism, loyalty and sacrifice. He
didn't even know if the words the Dasati used for these concepts
existed. He searched to express the concepts in a different way, and
could only come up with bravery, fidelity and selflessness.

Pug, Nakor, and Magnus were given a single room in which to wait, and
Martuch made it clear to the Lessers in his household that they were to
be ignored. No one was to speak to them, nor were they to be given any
tasks.

Hours dragged by and finally they were summoned to Martuch's private
quarters, a huge series of rooms overlooking the central plaza of this
region of the city.

They entered a room and found Martuch waiting with three others. Narueen
and Valko stood near the door, the young warrior looking different to
how Pug had ever seen him: tentative, unsure, perhaps even intimidated.

The figure standing next to Martuch was tall, with dark hair and a
beard. He appeared to be Dasati, but there was something about him ...
Pug felt his world suddenly contract, as if his senses were betraying
him. Before him stood a being who could not possibly exist. He was a
Dasati, but he was someone well known to Pug.

That man stepped forward, and in a very familiar voice, speaking the
King's Tongue, he said, 'Here I am called the Gardener.' He came to
stand before the three visitors. He looked first at Pug. When he came to
Nakor he nodded once, and Nakor stood in open-mouthed shock.

Then he stood before Magnus. 'Is this my grandson?' he asked.

Pug looked up into that Dasati face and whispered, 'Macros.'

• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •

Revelations

Jommy struggled.

His arms had been bound behind him and he and the other boys had been
marched to the three boats pulled up on the shore. They were narrow
boats which looked more like a ship's longboat than a true river craft.
Jommy supposed they could have sailed up the mouth of the river, for
this section of the river was broad and slow-flowing, so it would only
take a few minutes to row across the shore.

The border between Salmater and Olasko was about a mile to the
south-west of the river, so there was still a possibility of Roldem
forces overtaking the raiders before they were back home. At least Jommy
prayed there would be. Once he and Zane were interviewed the chances
were good he would be disposed of: princes and nobles might fetch
handsome ransoms, but the sons of farmers on the other side of the world
were unlikely to be considered worth the bother.

As the last of the raiders approached the boat, a sentry on the ridge
above them fell over. For a moment, Jommy and the other boys looked
confused, as did the soldiers nearby, then suddenly they heard it: the
whistling of arrows flying through the air.

'Down!' shouted Jommy and they flattened themselves, trying to keep
below the gunwales. Three raiders had been detailed to watch the five
boys in the boat; but they were also hunkering down and trying to see
where the arrows were coming from.

'Push off!' shouted the raiders' commander, and two of the raiders slid
over the gunwales. They had started pushing the boat into the river when
one took an arrow in the back for his troubles. The other tried to
clamber over the side and Jommy kicked him as hard as he could in the
face. The man's eyes went unfocused and he fell into the water.

The one guard remaining in the boat drew his sword and raised it to
strike Jommy, but Zane leapt up and shouldered him from behind. The man
fell forward on top of Jommy and suddenly there was a writhing mass of
bodies in a boat that was starting to drift downriver.

The guard tried to roll off Jommy, turning to find Zane landing on top
of both of them. Zane head-butted the man while Godfrey bit his arm
hard, and Jommy tried to move enough to breathe. Following Zane's
example, Servan head-butted the man as well, and he slumped into
unconsciousness.

'Thank the gods they're not wearing helmets,' said Zane.

'Get his knife,' said Servan.

Zane felt around behind him and managed to pull the dagger from the
man's belt.

'Will you please get off me,' said Jommy, barely able to draw breath.

Zane held the knife behind him, while Godfrey positioned himself to get
his bonds cut. 'Ow!' said the young noble. 'Hold that thing still.'

'It's a boat. It rocks!' said Zane. 'It's not my fault!'

'Get off me!' Jommy pleaded.

Finally Godfrey got his bonds cut, as well as his lower arm. He cut
Zane, Servan, Grandy and Jommy loose, and they threw the unconscious
soldier overboard.

Jommy sat up and took a deep breath. In the minute they had been
struggling to get free, they had drifted a hundred yards down the river
and were moving out towards the centre of the current, picking up speed.

'Where are the oars?' asked Servan.

'Still back on shore,' said Jommy looking around.

'Over we go,' said Zane, jumping into the water. He started swimming to
the eastern shore. The others followed reluctantly: five drenched young
officers came ashore almost out of sight of combat.

'Hurry,' Servan instructed, motioning them to move off the shore and
into the trees. 'In case someone's coming after us.'

They got into the tree line and started back upriver. The sounds of men
and combat reached them, and they ventured to look, but the site of the
conflict was on the other side of a ridge. They reached an overhanging
outcrop of rock that served as a barrier and Jommy said, 'I'll take a look.'

Still dripping, he scrambled up the rock-face and pulled himself up. In
the distance he could see boats from Salmater still on the shore and a
veritable wave of soldiers from Roldem running down the beach beyond, as
well as sweeping up over the ridge to the east. 'Come on!' shouted
Jommy, climbing back down. 'We've got them!'

He led the boys out of the trees and onto the shore and they started
running towards the conflict. By the time they came into view the
remaining Salmater forces were surrendering, standing there with their
hands in the air, swords reversed, not putting up any resistance.

General Devrees approached the boys. Relief was etched on his face.
'Highness!' he exclaimed. 'You're safe!'

Tad came over to the boys, grinning. They were obviously exhausted, but
he was happy to see his friends alive.

Grandy said, 'I'm glad to see you, General.'

'When this young man came running into our camp, I immediately ordered
the entire first and third into a forced march.'

Servan said, 'Sir, you didn't think much of my idea of sixty men by boat?'

'It was a nice plan, if I didn't mind losing half the forces down here;
but when I heard that I had just sent two members of the royal court
into a full-scale Salmater raid ... I didn't relish the idea of
explaining to either of your fathers—' he looked significantly at
Grandy, '—especially yours, Highness, that I'd let their sons get
killed. Our intelligence was faulty; I thought I was sending you lads as
far from the real action as possible, not right into the teeth of the
incursion.' He shrugged.

'We should certainly see an end to Salmater raids once word gets back to
them we're willing to defend Olasko as if it's Roldem soil.'

'General, did you capture their leader?' Grandy asked.

'I think so,' said the General, leading the boys to where the Salmater
prisoners were being guarded. 'See what you think.'

The prisoners sat on the ground, glaring at their captors.

Grandy looked from face to face then pointed to one man. 'Him.'

The General motioned for the prisoner to be brought forward. The young
prince stared at him, then said to the General. 'This man killed twenty
soldiers in cold blood.'

'They were deserters,' shot back the captive.

'Then they should have been left for Roldemish justice,' said Grandy. He
looked at the General and said, 'Hang him.'

'I'm a prisoner of war!' shouted the Salmater captain as two Roldemish
soldiers grabbed him, thrust his arms behind him and tied them.

'You wear no uniform,' said the General. 'As far as I can tell, you're a
common bandit. If his Highness says you are to be hanged, then hanged
you shall be.' The General nodded to Sergeant Walenski who motioned for
a group of soldiers to follow him into the trees. One carried a coil of
rope.

'What about these others?' asked the General.

The young prince said, 'Send them home. Have them carry word that Roldem
now regards these islands as being as sacred as the soil under my
father's castle. Olasko is now Roldem, and we shall defend it to the
last drop of our blood.' He turned to the General and said, 'I will ask
my father to start recruiting to replenish the first and third and bring
the garrison at Opardum up to full muster. We must ensure that this sort
of thing stops.'

With a slight smile, the General said, 'Highness,' and motioned to the
soldiers. 'Escort these men to the boats and let them go home.'

The soldiers did as ordered.

Servan moved over to his cousin. 'That was ... impressive.' 'Yes,'
agreed Jommy, then he added, 'Highness.' All five boys looked at the
young prince who now suddenly appeared years older than he had
yesterday. Grandy looked at his friends. 'I think it's time for us to go
home now.'

He turned and walked away, following the General, and after a moment's
hesitation, his friends trailed after him.

*  *  *

Miranda returned to consciousness and found herself on a bed, untied.
She sat up and breathed deeply. Her chest hurt, but she could breathe
without pain, and her mind was free of the clouding sensation that had
gripped her the last time she had awoken.

She looked around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She was no
longer in the bedchamber where she had been tied up but instead appeared
to be in something akin to a tent. However, when she touched the walls
she felt hardness, like smooth stone, beneath her fingertips.

Suddenly a figure appeared before her - a Dasati in a black robe, but
with a different device on his chest: a circle of yellow. She could see
through the figure, so she recognized it for what it was: a sending.
Trying to ascertain what she could and couldn't do, she reached out
mentally and found her magic worked, but in a strange way.

'You are conscious,' the figure said, and she realized that he was
speaking the Dasati language, which she now apparently understood. 'You
have been here for three days. We have ensured that you may eat, drink
and breathe without suffering. We have let you ... regain your powers,
but within limits.'

Miranda tried to will herself back to the Assembly of Magicians, for she
was the unquestioned mistress of that ability; but nothing happened.

'It has taken some work on our part,' said the Dasati image, 'but your
power only works within the confines of this room.

'The creature who brought you to us says that you are a powerful
practitioner of magic and we can learn much by studying you. We have
watched you for some time now, Tsurani woman. It seems that your
warriors are as children; but we do fear your black-robed ones.'

The figure vanished and a voice said, 'Rest. Many tests are coming. If
you co-operate, you shall live.'

It left unsaid what would happen if she failed to cooperate.

*  *  *

Nakor said, 'This is really interesting.'

Pug could scarcely credit his senses. The Dasati who stood before him
was Macros the Black, one-time owner of Sorcerer's Isle and Miranda's
father. He probed with his own magical senses and ascertained this was
not an illusion or some disguise glamour: this man he thought he had
known /was/ a Dasati. The last time Pug had seen him was battling a
demon king on the Saaur world of Shila as a rift closed. 'You're dead,'
said Pug.

'I was,' said Macros. 'Come, we have a great deal to discuss and little
time in which to discuss it.'

Without apology or explanation for the others, Macros led Pug out of a
door into a small garden which was hidden from all eyes behind massive
walls. Macros looked up and said, 'This poor little plot of soil only
gets an hour or so of light, when the sun is directly overhead.' He was
speaking the language of the Kingdom of the Isles, Pug's native tongue,
and Pug realized that whatever he was about to say, he was taking every
precaution not to be overheard.

Pug looked at the Dasati standing before him and said, 'I can think of
nothing intelligent to say to you. I am completely confused.'

Macros motioned to a bench. 'Meditation is not a Dasati trait, so I had
to have this space created to my own specifications.'

Pug was forced to smile. The bench looked exactly like one in the garden
at Villa Beata. 'How is this possible?'

'I angered the gods,' said Macros, sitting down on the bench. Pug joined
him. 'I fought Maarg with every magical weapon at my disposal while you
attempted to seal the rift between the fifth circle and Shila.' He
sighed. 'Obviously you succeeded, or you wouldn't be here.' He looked
down. 'Some of my memories are still denied me, Pug. I do remember the
first time we met, for example. I also remember the last time I met
Nakor, but I don't remember the first time I met him.

'I don't remember much about my wife, or daughter, though I know I have
one.'

'My wife, Miranda,' said Pug.

Macros nodded, and looked out at the wall opposite where he sat. There
was pain in his eyes and Pug said, 'This is your punishment for angering
the gods of Midkemia?'

'Yes,' said Macros. 'I fought Maarg, and suddenly the pain stopped and I
was speeding towards a white light. Then I found myself before
Lims-Kragma.' He paused, then asked, 'You've visited her?'

'Twice,' said Pug. 'A vast hall full of catafalques?'

'Endless, in every direction, and the dead would appear, rest for a
while, then stand and walk to join a great line, where Lims-Kragma would
judge them and direct them to the next turning of the Wheel of Life.'
Macros sighed. 'But not for me.

'I appeared before her but I will spare you every detail of our
exchange. I was, as you know, a vain man, given to a sense of my own
importance. I thought my own judgment was better than any other's.'

Pug nodded. 'More often than not, you were right. Tomas never would have
endured the transformation of the Dragon Lord's armour had you not taken
a hand, and who knows where I would have ended up.'

'That was a minor transgression,' said Macros. He sat back, then said,
'I tried to become a god, remember?'

'Your attempted ascension when Nakor found you?'

'Yes, when I sought to hasten the return of Sarig, the lost God of Magic.'

'And for this you are punished?'

'More than anything, the gods hate hubris. They may urge us on to do
great things, Pug, but without our worshipful devotion to them, they
wither away. How would we worship them if we became like them?'

'Ah,' said Pug.

'Here's what you must know. Everything else can wait for another time.
The Dasati have found Kelewan.'

'The Talnoy,' said Pug.

'That name is best not mentioned, for reasons I'll explain in a moment.'

Macros paused as if gathering his thoughts, then said, 'It's all
connected, Pug. All the way back to the beginning.

'You've heard tales of the Chaos Wars, correct?'

'Tomas has memories, Ashen-Shugar's memories,' said Pug.

'Does he remember the triumph, when the Lifestone was hidden, and the
Dragon Horde was banished from Midkemia?'

'Yes, at the end of the Chaos Wars. He's told me the story. It was
something we discussed before his son Calis freed all the trapped energy
from the Lifestone?'

'Ah,' said Macros. 'I have no memory of that. That's good. One less
thing to worry about. But what you should know is that that wasn't the
end of the Chaos Wars, Pug.' He looked at his heir. 'The Chaos Wars
never stopped. The Riftwar and the battle with the demons on Shila and
the invasion of the Saaur and the war of the Emerald Queen; all were
battles in the Chaos Wars. And the most desperate struggle is yet to come.'

'The Dasati?'

'Yes,' said Macros. 'This world had its own Chaos Wars, or something
much like them, but in that struggle one god emerged victorious over all
the rest. That god is now simply known as His Darkness; but he is the
Dasati god of evil. Look around you, Pug. This is what Midkemia might
become in a thousand years if the Nameless One ever gains supremacy in
Midkemia.'

'Incredible,' said Pug.

'The Dasati were not always as you see them, I believe. I will say that
even at their best they would be unwelcome guests in Midkemia, for many
reasons, not the least of which would be their ability to simply wilt
grass by standing on it for too long a period of time.

'Moreover, they are aggressive to the point of making mountain trolls
look mild-mannered.' Macros chuckled. 'Some of the things I do remember
from my previous life ...' He sighed.

'When I was reborn, I was allowed to keep some memories, enough so that
I had a frame of reference for the work I need to do.

'I am the Gardener. I am tending a very delicate, very vulnerable flower.'

'The White?'

'Yes, the White. Nothing ever dies, Pug. It just changes. Nothing is
destroyed. It is just changed to another state, from matter to energy,
energy to mind, mind to spirit.

'It's vital you know that, because when this is over, you're going to
feel a great sense of personal loss, I fear.'

Pug said only, 'So I have been warned.'

Macros stood and began to pace. 'Long ago, when this world's Dark God
rose to permanence, the other gods were hunted down and imprisoned.
These people, the Dasati, were warped and changed and perverted until
all memory of good as we know it was lost.

'That is what the White does, it nurtures little pockets of good where
it can. We have obvious members, like the Attenders who are despised for
their tiny impulse to care for others, and some not so obvious members,
including highly-placed Deathknights and a few prelates among the
Deathpriests.'

'Macros, I came here because there is a threat to Midkemia. What is it?'

'There is no rational reason in two universes for the Dasati to wish to
invade the first level of reality, Pug. You know that.'

'Nakor is of the opinion that evil is by nature insane, even if it acts
with purpose.'

'In our realm ...' Macros stopped. 'In your realm, that is most
certainly true. Here?' He shrugged, a very human gesture.

'I have only been a Dasati for thirty years, Pug, as best I can judge -
the time difference is difficult.'

'You've been gone closer to fifty,' said Pug.

Macros looked tired. 'I came to consciousness as a young Dasati boy,
ready to do battle to claim his father's honours. For nearly a year I
watched from within another's mind, and then gradually we blended, and
his nature was subsumed into mine.

'I know relatively little of what the gods of Midkemia are capable of
here. Which is why you are here, as their agents. But somehow an evil
trick was played—'

'Ban-ath,' said Pug. 'Kalkin.'

'The Trickster?' Macros nodded. 'Yes, this sort of thing is what we
might expect. I am Dasati, yet I am human. I have the mind of Macros the
Black - who was I might I say with some lack of modesty - one of the
most powerful beings in Midkemia; yet here I found myself barely more
than a boy, and most of my powers were gone.'

'But not all of them?'

'No. I've regained some of them, and retrained myself. It took all my
abilities to hide that fact, or I would have become a Deathpriest, or a
corpse.

'I've recruited others like myself; like Martuch, my first student and
my best. Even though he is nearly ten years older than me, he looks to
me for guidance. And he is the first Dasati who ever displayed what I
would call compassion.'

'The story of Lady Narueen and Valko.'

'Yes,' said Macros. 'He is the one who with the help of an Ipiliac
wizard readied us for this journey. When he contacted me, I had many
questions, and some will have to wait, but first and foremost I must
know: did you find the Talnoy?'

'Yes, we found them all.'

'Good, for here is the important part of what is coming.

'The Dark God is seeking to find his way into the first plane of
reality, to extend his domain. The first rift into Kelewan was an
accident, and the Deathpriests are not the researchers that you or the
Tsurani are, but they persevered, using the experience of each rift
formed to refine and improve their search for a way into the first
circle. The Deathpriests sent ... scouts, little homunculi, with wards
to provide energy to stabilize their rifts. They were all closed, but
one. Someone on the other side helped them, if you can imagine anyone
mad enough to do such a thing.'

'Leso Varen,' said Pug with a sinking feeling. 'He's mad enough.'

'Tell me of him later. Now the Dasati have a foothold on Kelewan. The
massed might of the Assembly may hold them at bay for a while, Pug, but
eventually the Dasati will sweep into the first circle of reality and
overrun that world; then they will find Midkemia, and from there, who
knows how many other worlds?

'The balance between the first and second plane of reality is already
tipping - Delecordia shouldn't exist, at all, but it does. If the Dark
God of the Dasati reaches Midkemia, the balance will be destroyed. The
first and second planes of reality will collapse into ... something
else, and billions will die.'

'I'm not sure I fully understand, Macros. The Dasati are already there.
The Dark God's agents have reached Kelewan. So if this dire event was to
happen, wouldn't it have happened already?'

'You don't understand, Pug. The Dark God isn't a spiritual abstraction
who can manifest his or her persona for a short period of time, like
those you've encountered on Midkemia.

'The Dark God is a monstrous being living in a vast hall at the heart of
this world. He is an eater of souls and the devourer of hundreds of
sacrifices every day. He is real, corporeal, and he lives to destroy.'
He looked at Pug. 'I have agents in high places, but not enough. I
believe the Dasati are mustering for an invasion. There is much going on
in this city and across the Twelve Worlds that tells me a massive
mobilization is about to commence.'

Pug nodded slowly.

Macros sat down next to him. 'The Talnoy. What do you know of them?'

'Tomas remembers Ashen-Shugar facing them, when the Valheru tried to
raid into the second realm. We were told by Kalkin that they contain the
spirit of a Dasati who had been murdered in order to provide life energy
to make it a killing machine.'

'Partially true,' said Macros. 'What should be obvious, but perhaps
isn't, is that all Dasati magic is a form of necromancy. All their
energy comes from killing. If you remember what Murmandamus did during
the Great Uprising, that was but a hint of what the Dasati achieve every
day.

'Thousands of children are killed in purges every year, and that energy
is seized by Deathpriests when they can, and those souls are
imprisoned.' Macros paused. 'But the Talnoy are not what you think.
There are "Talnoy" in the service of the TeKarana and his princes, the
Karanas, but they are there to keep the battle societies in check. They
are really hand-picked soldiers in false armour, and they only appear on
specific days for special events.'

'But the ones on Midkemia?'

'Those were hidden there. They are the real Talnoy.'

'Who hid them?'

'That is a mystery. If I knew in the past, I do not seem to know now.
Perhaps that memory will return. Or perhaps we will find out in the
future, but for the moment this is what you must know about those
creatures: the Talnoy are not machines powered by the spirits or souls
of slain Dasati. They are slaves, confined in bondage that has lasted
millennia; for the spirits that inhabit them are not Dasati, but rather
are the ten thousand lost Dasati gods.'

Pug was rendered almost speechless. 'Gods?'

'Like the Midkemian gods, they do not die easily. And even when they are
dead, they seem intent on not staying that way.

'There are many hours ahead in which we can speculate, but for now this
is what I believe: the Dark One wishes to get to Midkemia for the sole
purpose of destroying them, and he will think nothing of obliterating
the entire planet to do so.'

Pug whispered, 'And we must stop him.'

Macros nodded. 'Yes.'