A Sudden Wild Magic [070-4.3]

By: DIANA WYNNE JONES

Synopsis:

Magic, Mages and a host of other supernatural phenomena populate this
novel.
 

VICTOR GOLLANCZ

LONDON

 First published in the USA 1992 by Avon Books First published in Great

Britain 1996 by Victor Gollancz An imprint of the Cassell Group
Wellington House, 125 Strand, London we2R OBB

Diana Wynne Jones 1992 All rights reserved.  No part of this
publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or
any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission
in writing from the publishers.

The right of Diana Wynne Jones to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 0 575 06299 1

Typeset by CentraCet Ltd, Cambridge Printed in Great Britain by St.
 Edmundsbury Press Ltd, Bury St.  Edmunds, Suffolk 

The magical
activities of Britain have always been highly organized.

Anyone who doubts this should consider the Spanish Armada and the winds
that so conveniently dissipated it and perhaps further consider why
even the most skeptical of historians accepts this convenient hurricane
so calmly, as a perfectly natural occurrence.  Or the doubter might
also consider why Hitler, or Napoleon before him, never got around to
invading Britain, and why we accept these facts, too, so easily.

A moment's unclouded thought should persuade anyone that these things
are too good to be true.  But of course, no one's thought ;'s
unclouded, for the very good reason that the organization has, for
centuries, devoted itself to clouding it and making sure that most
people perceive its activities as messy, futile, and mainly concerned
with old ladies astride broomsticks.  In fact, the organization is so
ruthlessly secret that even the majority of those engaged in the
various forms of witchcraft are unaware that their activities are being
directed by a ruling council which we shall call the Ring carefully and
secretly selected from the ranks of practitioners all over the
country.

This council has had to work increasingly hard this century.  Its
activities have, more and more, been forced to encompass the whole
world.  Most of its members agreed that this was a natural result of
improved communications.  The only person who disagreed was the one man
of the Inner Ring.

 His name was Mark Lister, and his actual title is a secret.  He made
his living with computers.  It always pleased him that he should work
at something so unrelated to witchcraft, and make good money at it too,
without more than occasionally invoking his powers as magician.

He dressed the part of a businessman, in expensive charcoal grey suits,
kept his pale face meticulously clean-shaven and his pale hair most
conservatively cut, and, since he was of average height and neither fat
nor thin, he looked almost unremarkable.  This pleased him too.  He
made just one concession to his secret activities: he always wore a
wide-brimmed hat as a covert allusion to the Magician in the tarot
pack.  It did not worry him that, apart from the hat, most people found
him both humourless and colourless.  What did worry him was certain
current trends in the world.

Thinking about these trends.  Mark Lister started to feed certain data
to computers in his office.  It was idly done at first, in a spare
moment, just to make him feel he was doing something to control
something that had long gone beyond anyone's control.  The answers he
got back added up to something that so startled him that he set about
designing a special program of inquiry.  When this was done, he stayed
in his office all night to run it.

His absence took careful planning.  His wife, Paulie, was no mean witch
herself, and Mark was not at this stage prepared to trust anyone, let
alone Paulie.  Halfway through the morning he phoned her with his
excuse: an unexpected conference in Birmingham.  This gave him time to
set up a simulacrum of himself and send it to dine with another
colourless simulacrum in Birmingham, in case Paulie or an unknown
 decided to check; and he had the rest of the day to recoup the
considerable energy it took to do that.  In the evening, as soon as his
partners and staff had left, he set to work.

First he had to be spell the office so that no cleaner or security man
would be tempted to enter while he was there, and to make it seem as if
the place were empty.  He had to block telephones and fax machines so
they would not distract him during the more delicate magic to come. All
simple enough stuff, but if what he feared was true, he could not
afford to put a finger wrong.  By the time the office was silent and
looked to any possible observer like the usual empty space lighted by
greenish strip lights he was already shaking and sweating.

He had to compose himself magically, before he started on the complex
of tiny sendings to prevent anyone anyone from noticing the sort of
data he would be receiving.  Since his program was going to access a
number of very secret files, further sendings were necessary to make
what he filched invisible.  He was not going to trust to technology
alone in this.

"And all for nothing if it turns out to be my overactive imagination,"
he murmured.  But he did not think it would, and he cast at his
gentlest, strongest and most careful.

When it was done, he walked about waiting for the excess ambience of
power to die away.  He did not want that to influence the computers.

Even then, after he had at last tapped in the instruction to run the
program, he found he was walking about still, in terror of accidentally
influencing the running of it.  It was absurd.  He had worked with
power ten years now.  He knew how to control it.  But he was still
scared.  He stopped and grasped a tubular steel chair with both hands
not precisely cold iron, he thought ruefully, but it should serve to
negate anything wild he was putting out and stood leaning on it
whenever he was not needing to monitor the program.

Results gathered.  Mark took his hands from the chair, intending to
take printouts before asking for forecasts, and felt the tubular steel
crunch and seem to crumble under his fingers.  He looked down at it
 rather irritably.  And stepped away in dismay.  The steel portions
were reverting to some kind of red iron-bearing sandstone speckled with
crusty black granules.  The plastic of the seat was curling into
feathers of something yellowish and dry, which had a strong chemical
reek.

Rather grimly, he dusted redness off his hands.  The chair was surely
only a symbol of his state of mind he hoped but it looked as if his
worst fears were being confirmed, even before he had asked the final
question.

He asked it.  He took his printouts.  He erased everything and went by
careful, gentle stages back up his tracks, making sure that no trace of
him, magical or technological, remained in any of the places he' had
tapped for data, or in the office either.  Around dawn he picked up his
briefcase and turned to the once tubular steel chair, ready to deal
with that now.  It stood in the middle of the space as an impossible

curved framework of red earth, although the black nodules were now a
pale sickly green.  Mark frowned at them.  Then, as an experiment, he
spread a gently imperious hand toward the nearest green blob.  It
obeyed him by bursting.  Twisting and writhing, it enlarged and threw
out two round green leaves as it grew upon a white thread of stem.

"Hm," he said.  I seem to feel more hopeful than I think.  All the
same, you have to go.  " He gestured again, making it a stiff push from
the elbow, and succeeded in tele porting the entire strange mess from
the office building into the nearest skip, where he felt it crumble
away.  After this he was very weary.  He rubbed his face and longed for
coffee.

"On the station," he decided.  He also longed for his car.  But that
had to be left out in the parking lot in Surrey for verisimilitude.  A
man travelling by train was much harder to trace, too.

In the station buffet, over a large polystyrene mug of coffee, he
allowed himself to wonder whether he had chosen the right member of the
Inner Ring to take his discovery to.  A lot hung on his deciding right.
His first impulse had been to convene the entire Ring, but he still
rejected that idea.  The nine of the Outer Ring were all adepts and
 none of them was stupid, but there were those among them who came from
walks of life that gave them rather too much in the way of downright
common sense.  These few were likely to pooh-pooh every one of his
notions.

He could hear Koppa Taylor or Sid Graffy now: "You can make computers
prove anything!  You only have to feed them the facts you want."

True.  And he had.  Then he knew so little about any of them, beyond
the most obvious things.  Take Koppa, whom he knew best of all the
nine.  All that amounted to was knowing she had been born in California
fifty years ago.  He knew much the same sort of things about the other
eight, and that was all.  Secrecy was important.

Personal details were supposed not to count when they communed together
as the Ring.  Disguises apparently dropped away at the higher levels
where they were At One.  Mark gave a small sarcastic grunt.  If they
were up against what he thought they were, then disguise and shielding
at every level was entirely to be expected.  He could not trust one of
the nine not to be a spy.

That left the inner three.  Damn it, he simply did not want to take his
briefcase full of trouble to the old woman.  He and she thought along
such different lines.  But he tried to leave his personal feelings out
of it and consider them each dispassionately.  Young Maureen?  He
smiled.  Personal feelings were very much there.  Every time he thought
of her, he remembered the exact, scented, animal smell of her and the
long-legged shape of her sharing that bed with him in Somerset.  That
had been some night!  It had almost made up for Zillah.

But he still felt Maureen was too flimsy?  flighty?  There was no exact
word for what he knew of her.  It just meant he was not, after all,
going to consult Maureen first.  He needed a steady mind, and a keen
one.  Amanda?  She had a mind, all right too bloody right she had!  He
found himself wincing at the mere thought of her curiously luminous
dark eyes.  Oddly enough, at forty she was still considerably
better-looking than Maureen and could pass for almost the same age.

 Mark was scared to death of her (in his secret soul where he hoped
nobody knew), and he knew she would either reject his fears out of hand
or pat him kindly on the head and take charge.  So .  The old woman
then," he muttered, and with resignation, got up and bought a ticket to
Hereford.

 It was a muddled old farmhouse with a veranda on the front of it that
somehow melted into a porch with a green door.  A garden spread from it
in successive waves of overgrowth grass first, then longer grass
containing leaves of long-dead daffodils, then bushes, then higher
bushes, several waves of those, including laurels and finally a row of
trees that generally flowered in spring, but were liable to be untidily
in bloom most of the year.  The house was quite hidden from the road.
On the other hand, if you knew where to position yourself in the
garden, you could have an excellent view of the road without anyone
knowing you were there.

The old woman knew exactly where.  She had been sitting there all
morning, at various tasks, with Jimbo scratching diligently beside her
and the cats stalking hither and yon in her orbit.  Around her, the
muddled house seemed to have spread into the grass, manifesting as
flowerpots, tipped-over mugs of coffee, cane chairs, a basket or so, a
colander, a kettle, a few cushions.  All the day's work, the old woman
thought, shunting a row of peas with her broad thumb along their pod
and into the colander.

A car engine caught her ears.

"Ah," she said.

"At last!"  And she raised her head to watch the local taxi decant a
passenger at her decrepit gate.  Her squabby eyebrows rose at the sight
of the pale young man in the sober grey suit who climbed out and turned
to pay the driver.

"It's himV she remarked to Jimbo.

"And here was I expecting someone about that poor girl!  Must have got
my wires crossed.  Do people like me get their wires crossed, Jimbo?
Well, there's a first time for everything, they say.  And whatever he
wants, it's trouble.  The poor boy looks all in."

 She watched him wait for the taxi to drive away and turn to the gate,
carrying that absurd hat he affected.  She watched him have the usual
problems people had with her gate.  She grinned when it finally fell
down flat in the mud and he had to pick it up and prop it on the
bushes.  But the look on his face sobered her as he came on up the
path, still carrying that hat and an expensive briefcase with it.  She
quietly replaced the gate behind him and waited for him to get to the
place where visitors usually found they could see her.

"Hallo, Mark," she said.

"Important, is it?"

"Yes," he said.

"Very."  He stood and surveyed her, a fat and freckled old woman
wearing a red dress and pink ankle socks, squashily embedded in a
floral plastic garden chair and busy shelling peas or something.  Her
hair had been dyed a faded orange and fussily curled.

Her cheeks hung around her lax mouth, white where they were not
freckled, and her garden was strewn with objects and aswarm with cats.
As usual.  He had forgotten all those cats.  The place reeked of cat.
His foot pushed aside a saucer of cat food lurking in the grass, and he
was unable to avoid fanning at the smell with his hat.  And on top of
all this, her name was Gladys.  It was hard to believe she was any
good.

"Expecting me, were you?"

Gladys looked up.  Until you saw her eyes.  Mark emended.  Her eyes
knew most things.

"Expecting someone," she said.

"I've been waiting out here all morning.  It's been trying to rain.
Nuisance."  As if to prove this, a few warm drops fell from the
overcast sky, splashing his hat and pinging on the colander.  Gladys
looked skyward and frowned.  The drops instantly ceased.

"A real nuisance," she said, and possibly grinned briefly.

"What's the matter.  Mark?  You look like death.  Take a seat before
you fall down."

Her fat hand, with a pea pod in it, gestured to the nearest cane chair.
Mark walked over to it and settled himself, creaking, with his hat over
his knees.  Instantly he was in a ring of cats.  They appeared silently
 from clumps of grass, from under bushes and from behind flowerpots,
and sat gravely surveying him, a circle of round green and yellow eyes.
 Her ritual.  He sighed.

"What can I get you?"  she asked.

"Have you had any breakfast?"

"Not really," he said.

"There was no buffet car on--' " They always forget it," she said, 'on
trains out this way.  Jemima, you and Tibs."

Two of the cats disdainfully got up and walked toward the house.

"I've a lot to explain," Mark said.

"So I see from the size of that briefcase," she said.

"Eat first.  Get some coffee inside you at least."

There was, without any apparent disturbance, a wooden tray now lying
beside him on the grass.  On it was a rack of toast flanked by a glass
dish of butter and a jar of marmalade.  A bone-handled knife was laid
carefully across a glass plate on top of a paper napkin with a pattern
of puppy dogs on it.  Beside that was a glass of orange juice, and milk
in a jug that matched the plate.  A mug with the words THE BOSS on it
and a blue steaming coffeepot materialized as Mark looked.  He felt
considerable irritation.

"He'll need a strainer," Gladys said.  As the strainer duly appeared,
propped in a little glass bowl, she added, "They can't remember if you
take sugar or not."

"I do, I'm afraid," Mark said, and tried to suppress his irritation.

He had tried, any number of times, to persuade her that magic was not
just something you used as a home help, and that she had skills too
important to be squandered in this way.  Most of the time Gladys
pretended not to hear.  When she did listen, she laughed and said she
had plenty more where that came from, and besides, it never did anyone
any harm to keep in practice.  She looked at him challengingly now,
knowing just what he was thinking, and he did his best to seem
impassive.  A glass bowl full of sugar cubes came to stand by the milk
jug.

"Eat," she said.

"You need the energy."

 Mark laid aside his hat and wedged the tray across his knees in its
place.  Breakfast, however it arrived, was thoroughly welcome.  As he
buttered his toast, he saw the two cats return and, quietly and
disdainfully, station themselves among the others.  Gladys continued
shelling peas until he was on his second cup of coffee.

Then she looked up again, a sharp, full look.

"Go ahead," she said.

"Would it surprise you," asked Mark, 'if I said Chernobyl was no
accident?  "

"I feel bad about that," Gladys said.

"You know I do we all do.

Damned if I can see how none of us noticed that radioactive stuff until
it was too late to do more than push it off to where there were fewest
people to harm.  " She paused, with her hands on her fat thighs.

"You're not saying that just to make me feel better, are you?  Who'd do
a thing like that?"

"The same people who distracted you with the bombing of Libya," he
said.

"Who'd cause World War Two, or the Cold War, AIDS, drugs, or come to
that the greenhouse effect?  Who isn't interested in our having a space
programme?"

"People," said Gladys.

"This is people.  You don't have to tell me the world's a crazy place.
If it isn't stupidity, it's greed with most people."

"Yes, but which people?"  he asked her.

"Suppose I were to tell you the same people were responsible for all
these things I just mentioned and a great deal more I haven't?"

She was silent.  For a second or so he feared she was rejecting every
word, and he sighed.  She was too old.  Her face was blank.  Her mind
was set.  He should have quelled his fear and gone to Amanda instead.

Then he saw that Gladys's expressionless face was turned toward
something in the grass.  Her lips moved.

"Jimbo," she said faintly, "I'd have to ask three questions, wouldn't I? "

She was talking to that animal of hers.  Some people claimed it was a
monkey.  Others declared it to be a small dog.  Mark himself had never
 been sure which it was.  All he knew was that it was brown and skinny.
When it appeared, it scratched rather a lot as it was doing now.  He
suspected this was a device to stop people looking at it too closely.

"I'd have to ask said Gladys, " Who?  and Why?  and What proof has
he?

Wouldn't I, Jimbo?  And why is he coming here with a tale like this
when the Berlin Wall's down at last, and just as Russia and so forth
start being more friendly?  "

So her mind was working, after her own fashion.

"That's all part of my proof," Mark explained quietly.

"Ask yourself or Jimbo who might want all technologically advanced
nations at peace with one another at the moment when the world's
climate is changing."

"Sounds like a well-wisher," she said.

"Not if you consider that they started the global warming at the
precise moment when we were all distracted by Chernobyl," Mark told
her.

"It's quite a pattern of theirs they lull us, or they distract us until
it's too late and it quite remarkably often seems to be aimed directly
at us, at magic users in this country.  I've got pages of proof in my
briefcase to--' " Printout things!  " said Gladys.

"You know I can't make head or tail of those.  Tell it plain."

Mark creaked about in his cane chair, wondering how to explain.

"Well," he said at length, 'let's begin with global warming.  Do you
know how much of this country will be left if the polar icecaps melt
entirely?  "

"I saw a map on the box," Gladys assented.

"Not much."  In the grass, the skinny animal appeared to paw one of her
freckled bare legs.

"I know, I know, Jimbo," she said.

"He's on to something.  I know that.

It's the Who and the Why that worries me.  Who's going to want the
world at peace while they heat us up until we're all tropical and
flooded?  "

"The same people who wanted a war fifty years ago," Mark said.

"How do you make that out?"  she said.

"War and peace.  That puzzles me.  It doesn't make sense!"

 "It does," he said, 'if you consider all the inventions and
discoveries that came out of the war.  I'm not just talking about
rocketry and nuclear power I'm talking about the seven new forms of
protection the Ring discovered during the Battle of Britain.  I'm
talking about the ways we're going to have to think of now to hold the
water back, not to speak of all the new cooling techniques we'll need
when the world gets hotter.  "

There was another long silence, during which a few more raindrops
pinged on the colander and the breakfast tray.

"Someone using us to learn things," Gladys said.

"That's not nice.  What proof have you?"

Mark reached his pale hand out to his briefcase.

"For one thing, I called up records of all the plans, blueprints, and
prototypes that have disappeared over the last twenty years.  There's a
hell of a lot.

The significant thing is that two- thirds of them vanished so
completely that they've never been traced.  "

"Oh, industry," Gladys said dismissively.

"What about MS?  "

"Exactly," said Mark.

"We don't keep records.  For the important things, we use word of
mouth."

They looked at each other across the littered grass.  The bushes tossed
as if a shiver had run through them.

Gladys levered herself from her plastic chair.

"Up Jimbo," she said fretfully.

"Time I was getting lunch.  This is all too much for me."

It sounded as if she had given the whole thing up.  Mark followed her
anxiously as she lumbered into the house, dutifully carrying the tray
with him.  It was dark and redolent indoors, of herbs, pine, cats, and
bread.  Plants some of them tree-size grew everywhere in pots, as if
the garden had moved in there in the same way that the house had spread
on to the grass.  Mark fought his way under a jungle of tree-tall
plants, which reminded him of the things you might expect to find
growing in a bayou, and found her busy in the elderly little kitchen
beyond.

 "You didn't need to bring that tray," she said without turning
around.

"The cats would have seen to it.  I've only chicken pies today.  Will
that do, with peas?"  Before he could suggest he had only just had
breakfast, she went on, "It has to be one of the Outer Ring, doesn't
it?  No one else knows enough."

"Yes," he said, sliding the tray onto a surface already full of
flowerpots.  Some toppled.  He was forced to enhance the space in order
to make room for the tray.  She's got me squandering power now, he
thought.

"Can I help?"

"No, go in the other room and sit," Gladys said.

"I need to be on my own when I'm thinking."

Mark went obediently, highly relieved that she was prepared to think
about it, and sat on a hard sofa amongst the jungle, staring out beyond
the lozenge-shaped glass panes of the veranda door.  She had let the

rain come down now.  It was pouring outside, steady white lines of
rain, and the room was nearly dark.  The cats were arriving indoors
around him.  The cane chairs were now on the veranda, along with most
of the other things.  Mark sat listening to the rilling hiss of the
rain, and it had nearly sent him to sleep by the time Gladys called him
to lunch.

"You still haven't told me who," she grumbled.

"Has he, Jimbo?  If someone's using us for guinea pigs, I've a right to
know.  Mark."

Mark picked at a large, squashy commercial chicken pie and some
remarkable bullet like peas, sighed, and went with her, for security,
to another level of the continuum, where he gave her his theory.  He
saw her eyes widen in the gloom of the kitchen.

"There's never been any sort of proof of that," she said.

"Eat up.  I don't want to hurry you, but I've got to get to the
hospital.  There's someone needing me there."

He was fairly sure he had lost her now, but he did his best to eat the
pie.  Anxiety caused it to form a hard lump, with corners, in his
 stomach.  He watched Gladys encase herself in a transparent plastic
mac and sort through a floppy purse for money.

"You can come too if you like," she told him.

"I'm still thinking and I'd like you to see this girl anyway.
Coming?"

He nodded and followed her out into the soaking garden, where he was
not particularly surprised to see the taxi that had brought him here
once again drawn up outside the tumbledown gate.  He climbed into it
after her and sat curled up around the square pie in his stomach,
wondering whether to feel hopeful or simply wretched.

 It was clear that Gladys knew her way around the hospital.  She
waddled swiftly ahead, encased in her ectoplasmic mac, down an
interminable corridor and into an elevator.  Mark thought, following
her, that only the raindrops on the surface of the plastic showed that
she was not in fact being manifested by some medium or other.  He was
not surprised when none of the people they passed seemed to notice her.
He was putting out the same kind of Don't see, but with an effort.
Hospitals always bothered him acutely.  They were so full of pain, and
of pain's obverse, cheerful insensitivity or was cruelty the word?

Gladys turned to him in the elevator.  She looked intent and busy,
almost cheerful.

"They brought this girl in around five in the morning," she said.  The
poor thing was hurt bad, and she put out a call.  Only one call.  Then
she stopped and drew everything in as if she'd made a mistake.  Anyway,
she needed everything she'd got just to stay alive with.  Luckily I
managed to hitch on when she called.  I've been monitoring her ever
since, and there's something very peculiar there.  As a matter of fact,
when you turned up, I was sure it was going to be someone come about
her.  You gave me quite a surprise.  I'm not often wrong that way.  "

Mark only nodded.  The elevator shaft was like a section through the
varied pain of the hospital.  The lift carried him past the blinding
worry of a parent, the grinding of a broken bone, the eating acid of an
internal growth, fever dreams, and for a short mercifully short
instant, the vivid agony of a knife slicing anaesthetized flesh.  He
had to fight to shield himself.

It was still as bad when he left the elevator and followed Gladys down
 further corridors where they passed beds.  This hospital was on some
kind of open plan.  Every few yards or so, a corner with windows held a
cluster of beds.  There were wrung faces on pillows.  Women here and
there sat up and, in the concentrated egotism of mortal sickness,
greedily ate chocolates or stared while visitors harangued them.  When
they came to the place Gladys was looking for, that was a corner too.
You could have taken it for a corner where equipment was dumped had
there not been a bed there.  And here was relief.  It was such blessed
silence from the insistent pains of the hospital that Mark did not
understand at once.

Gladys nodded at him.

"Feel that?  Did you ever know such shielding?"

Only then did Mark associate the silence with the bed around which most
of the equipment centred.  Silly of me!  He marvelled that the occupant
of the bed seemed so young and small.  Anyone who could block out that
amount of pain while being so sick as this girl must be a powerful
adept indeed.  He thought he knew everyone throughout the world who had
this kind of strength.  But the thin, scraped face among the equipment
was not the face of anyone he knew.

"Now, who are you, my darling?"  Gladys wondered aloud.  Her fat,
freckled hands fastened on the girl's free arm tenderly, gently.  Her
breathing grew heavy as she concentrated.

"She's come from a long way away," she said.

"Bad, bad.  That car that ran into her crushed her in, all down the
other side, poor dear, and they haven't given her enough painkiller,
the fools.  There.  There, Auntie Gladys has put in a few blocks for
you, my love, so you can spend your strength on getting well."  She
turned over her shoulder to mouth at Mark, "What do you make of the
colour of her?"

Mark considered.  The scraped, half-raw little face had the mauvish
tinge of someone badly in shock.  Carefully avoiding the abrasions, he
put his hand to the sharp, unconscious corner of the girl's jaw.

Mordant blue-grey pulsed from the contact, sickening and strong enough
to make his stomach heave.  He removed his hand.

"She's been poisoned.  It's no kind of poison I know."

 The neither," said Gladys.

"Worse and worse.  Those fool doctors haven't even noticed.  Give me
your hand and we'll see what we can do."

She snatched his hand as she spoke.  For a while they both concentrated
in silence, drawing off the blue-grey sickening waves and feeding them
to whichever of the various sum ps would accept them, drawing again,
casting the venom, drawing until no more would be accepted.

"It was a massive dose, whatever it was," Mark said, 'and it's
antipathetic to most of the usual sum ps

"They did their best," Gladys said defensively.

"So did we.  Let's see if it's helped at all."  She tapped gently at
the girl's skinny arm.

"Wake up my darling.  Auntie Gladys is here.  Gladys is here to help.

Wake up and tell Gladys what needs to be done for you, my love.  "

The girl's eyes had been half-open all along.  Now, slowly, they were
seeing.  A weak but practised consciousness played over first Gladys,
then Mark.

"Friends, dear," Gladys said.

They could tell that the girl knew that.  Her mouth made a mumble.  It
sounded like "Thank goodness!"  But Mark, moving automatically to
another plane of being, interpreted it there and exchanged a look with
Gladys.  The girl had tried to say' Thank the Goddess!  "

"And may She bless you too," he said.

"Where are you from?"

The girl's mouth mumbled again.  Gladys, tenderly holding the girl's
wrist in one hand and grasping Mark's hand with the other, was forced
to join Mark, and both had to move to a more distant plane before the
sounds made sense.  The girl manifested there as a little flame,
flickering and guttering, but somehow fresh and sweet.

"The Ladies of Leathe," the flame fluttered at them.

"I wasn't careful enough and my Lady Marceny found out found out, my
love, my love it wasn't done for the Brotherhood it was wicked, wicked
and I tried to get away and warn you, my love but I think she poisoned
 me and they have traps out I didn't know and I was caught and my love
has no idea I must warn--' " Where were these nasty traps, my love?  "

Gladys asked.  Tell Gladys and she'll take them apart."

Through every band of the Wheel," flickered the flame.

"Between the two of them."

"But where7' Gladys insisted gently.

"Where did you come from, my love ?"

"Neighbours," whispered the flame.  It was down to a weak phut-phut
now.

"Next-door universe the Brotherhood studies yours but it was wicked--'
The guttering light flared desperately.

"I must warn him--' And went out.  On the pillow the eyes were still
half-open but evidently saw nothing now.  A green light that had been
scribbling on a screen drew a straight green line.

"We'd best get out," Gladys said briskly.  They'll be along to see her
any second.  "

They passed the nurse hurrying that way as they went.  Both of them
made very sure they were not noticed either by her or by anyone else
they encountered, until they came to the parking lot, where the taxi
driver was patiently reading a newspaper spread over his steering
wheel.

"Back home?"  he asked Gladys.  That was a quickie.  "

"It takes all sorts," said Gladys.

"And I can't wave a magic wand over all of them."  The driver
laughed.

Mark fell asleep on the way back, into dreams of drugs uneasily seeping
and knives lancing, and did not wake until Gladys was heaving herself
out of the taxi at her tumbledown gate.

"Well, how about that?"  she puffed, somewhat triumphantly, as they
walked up the muddy path.  The only way I slipped up was not seeing you
and that poor girl were part of the same thing!  "

Mark nodded.  It had been proved to him over and over again that there
was no such thing as coincidence in magic, but he still felt a kind of
incredulous excitement, weary as he was.

"You believe me now?"

 "As soon as I set hands on her, I knew she wasn't out of this world.

Didn't you feel the strangeness?  It wasn't just the strange poison
either.  "

Again Mark nodded.  It was easier than confessing that touching the
girl had told him nothing beyond the fact that she was poisoned.


Gladys shot a look at him as she unlocked her green door.

"You're going to lie down and sleep while I look into this.  Where do I
tell Paulie you are?"

"Birmingham," he said.

"The conference took longer than I expected.

But she has to be able to get in touch with me there.  I gave her a
phone number.  I'd better "I'll do it," said Gladys.

"It'll be a bad day when I can't tangle a few phone lines.  She'll get
a hotel receptionist who'll promise to give you the message.  You get
upstairs.  There's a bed for you in the room on the right."

He stumbled his way gratefully up the shallow, creaking stairs, knowing
there was some other anxiety in his mind, but almost too tired to place
it.  Traitors, he thought.  Spies and traps.  That was it.  But he had
warned Gladys.  He could surely trust her to handle it.

He found the room.  He removed his jacket and shoes and fell on the
bed, which proved to be as shallow and creaking as the stairs.  He
slept.

He slept, and the dreams of chemicals and lancets returned.  But after
a while, other things flitted behind those dreams, like birds going
secretly from bough to bough inside the foliage of a tree.  Behind the
machines of the hospital, he had more than one glimpse of a blue
fortress with five sides and odd-shaped towers, and occasionally there
was rolling countryside with a subtly Mediterranean look.

Eventually, as if the leaves dropped one by one from the tree and left
the birds in full view, the hospital images fell away to show a deep
tawny tone.  He was somewhere very high up where everything was this
curious colour.  There he accompanied several other people on what
seemed to be an inspection of their borders and the de fences on those
borders.  He was relieved to find the de fences of Britain standing
 like a wall of amber.  They were unbroken, and yet he had a feeling
something was seeping under them.  But as he tried to turn his
attention to the de fences of Europe and the distant gamboge of America
behind him, he found that the inspection party was moving on, outwards
and upwards on a voyage none of them had ever thought to make before.
They seemed to be driven on by strong anger.  He followed, in his
dream, puzzled, and found that they came to the borders of the

universe.

The dream image of this outer boundary beggared description, since
there were many boundaries, all weaving and writhing and partially
interwoven like thick, honey- coloured rainbows.  Some even seemed to
occupy the same space as others.  The dream was forced to simplify.  At
first it looked like a bucket of water into which concentrated tawny
dye had been stirred.  But when none of the watchers could make sense
of this either, the dream simplified again, and they walked the edges
of fields that were also seashores, stretching from them in all
directions, upwards, downwards, slanting and standing on end, piled up
into the sky, and piled likewise into the transparent amber depths
below.  Mark marvelled in his dream.  He had not known there were so
many.

Most fields ended as simple seashore, though some had low walls with
gates in them, and some hedges or lines of trees.  But the party walked
along its own shore until they came to one that was different, because
it was defended.  In the dream, it was represented as a tangle of
barbed wire all around the amber field.  Though it looked dark and
unnatural enough, there were moments when it took on the look of a
giant hedge of brambles.  Beyond it, a stretch of sand had notices
stuck into it at intervals: beware minefield.  Even in the dream.  Mark
was aware he was seeing an absurd diagram of a threat he would
otherwise not be able to visualize at all.  He, together with the rest
of the party, surveyed the de fences glumly.  There was no way into
that field.  Then his eyes fell on a large pipe, leading under the
 barbed wire from the field where he stood.  In the distance, beyond
the mined sand, he could just see the pipe disgorging a gush of
substance from his own field into that other, defended place.  There
was no doubt that this place was the one he had been looking for.

Meanwhile, someone else in the party was pointing out that the defended
field seemed to have a satellite.  It hung in the distance far out over
the centre of the field.  It looked like a writhing amber lens.

"Laputa," this person said.

"A James Blish city," said someone else.

Mark brought dream-binoculars out and took a closer look at the distant
undulating lens thing.

This was where the blue pentagonal tower was, he discovered, although
now he could see that the structure was in fact more like a walled city
with a flat base, built of some kind of blue stone.  As he swept his
glasses across it, he saw that it was old and that there were people in
it, looking back at him through binoculars not unlike his own ..

 Mark awoke to find Gladys standing panting at his bedside with a
supper of fish and chips.  This surprised him rather more than her
announcement that Maureen and Amanda were waiting for him downstairs.

He struggled up and leaned against the creaking headboard, beset with
anxiety.

"What time is it?  How long have they been here?"

"A bit after midnight.  They both got here around eight," she told
him.

At least three cats were asleep on the bed.  Another was curled up in
his jacket.  He stared at them with undiminished anxiety as he took the
tray and thanked Gladys.

"It's all right," she said.

"I wish you weren't such a worrier, but I suppose it's in your nature.
Nobody knows where they really are."

Probably true, he thought.  Every member of the Ring had carefully
planned emergency arrangements, which they renewed and reorganized
every week like his own conference so that no one in their families
would know where they were.  Neither Amanda nor Maureen could
conceivably be a traitor.  And yet, and yet .. While he ate the
withered and lukewarm fish and chips, his mind played with the idea of
the traitor being one of their immediate families.  Plotting the
pattern of their absences would not help the traitor overmuch it would
merely become obvious that these happened during certain kinds of
crises and at particular phases of the moon unless one or the other of
them had dropped a careless word at home.  Careless words were very
easy to drop to one's nearest and dearest.  Mark himself was always
most carefully circumspect in what he said to Paulie, but she was not
 entirely ignorant.  She attended all the less secret ceremonies with
him.  She knew the office he held.  He hated to think how angry she
would be if she discovered how much of his duties he concealed from
her.  The other three must surely feel the same at least, not Gladys:
as far as anyone knew, she was a widow.  But Maureen ran a troupe of
professional dancers who were almost like a family to her, and she also
had a succession of boyfriends, very few of whom had anything to do
with witchcraft.  The present boyfriend was a rough diamond or, to be
more honest, an unpleasant lout who ran a music shop, and the kind of
fellow who could well be in someone's pay.  And Amanda?  In addition to
an obliging husband most people never saw, she had teenage children
and, someone had told Mark, a sister living with her.  It was surely
too much to expect that Amanda had not dropped a word to her sister
..

All the cats' eyes were on him, accusingly.  He left the rest of the
chips and padded off to the bathroom, where, to his exasperation, the
toilet seat would not stay up.  Another of Gladys's jokes, like her
front gate.  And quite probably, he admitted ruefully, wedging the
thing with the toilet brush, the whole of his anxiety was some kind of
displacement.  Frankly, he was scared stiff of Amanda.  It was the
Aspect of the Mother in her that scared him most though why it should,
when he had no recollection of his own mother, he had no idea.

Amanda was leaning across the kitchen table when he came in, with a
sheaf of Mark's printouts in her hand, talking trenchantly to Maureen.
Upon her, Gladys's dim electric light seemed to play like the white
shaft of a spotlight.  It lit Amanda's hair blue-black, and the
handsome lines of her face clear white.  Her eyes glowed in it,
compellingly.

"So this is what we've got," she said, and her voice was as clear and
compelling as her eyes.

"Another universe, one of many next door to this one, and in it a world
probably much like ours, where they seem to have found some way of
manipulating our world to their advantage.

Their pattern seems to be to orchestrate a crisis like a world war or
 an epidemic; AIDS, I suppose, is a good example and then study what we
do about it.  If we solve the problem, they import our findings into
their world.  "

Maureen, by contrast, was all reds and browns in the light copper hair,
tawny freckles, yellow eyes and a brown jumpsuit clothing her long
body, which was never wholly still.  She writhed from a lotus position
while Amanda was speaking and turned her kitchen chair backwards, to
sit astride it with her freckled forearms on its rickety back.

"Don't forget their little habit of keeping us busy while they set up
their experiments," she said.  That's the thing that really gets up my
nose!  "

"I was coming to that," Amanda replied.

"There's no question but that the pirate universe knows something about
the way the Ring is organized.  Either they tested us out during World
War Two or we gave ourselves away keeping Hitler out.  And since then
they've flung things like Chernobyl at us from time to time to see if
we were still on our toes, and finding we were--' " Just about,"
Maureen commented, hitching her knees under her chin.

"That one was a real closie."

"I know, but we did deal with it," said Amanda, 'and I've no doubt that
gave them the conditions for their latest experiment.  Now they've
handed us global warming, with the superpowers at least at an
understanding, so that they can deal with it, while the Ring here in
Britain is going to have its hands full with the country half
underwater.  That way, they can study how the Ring holds back the
water, and make sure we haven't much left over to interfere with the
technological approach.  My guess is they want both magic and science
out of this one.  " She turned across her shoulder to look at Mark in
the doorway.

"I hope you agree with my summary."

She said it with a strong and kindly smile, including him in the
conversation because she had plainly known all along he was leaning in
the doorway.  He wished she would not treat him so kindly.  It seemed
 to have something to do with the fact that she was both a professor of
theology and a feminist, and it never failed to make him feel
inadequate.

"Perfectly," he said.

It couldn't have put it anywhere near as well.  "

Maureen turned as he spoke and half smiled too, looking up at him under
her eyelids, full of the secret knowledge of that bed they had shared
in Somerset.

"We took a look at this other universe while you were asleep," she
said, and her voice was full of the secret as well.

It did not seem to perturb her that Amanda's brilliant eyes met
Gladys's knowing ones across her, in perfect understanding of that
secret.

It embarrassed Mark.  it  was with you," he said curtly, coming to sit
at the end of the table.

"It seems rather well defended."

"I'll say!"  said Maureen.

"Mile-thick stoppers strewn with traps the whole way round.  I saw it
like a cell wall with hormone triggers against invading
microorganisms."

"It was more like the ramparts of a prehistoric hill-fort to me,"
Amanda observed, 'with sharpened stakes and pitfalls all over it.

There was a culvert under the walls to take in what they learnt from
us.  "

"Funny the way everyone sees things differently," Maureen said.

"It's something I never quite get over at this level.  Gladys said it
was like the barbed wire on the Normandy beaches to her.  Isn't that
right?"  she asked Gladys.

Mark turned to Gladys, startled that he and she had seen so much the
same.

"Or a very thorny wood," she said, dumping on the table a fat teapot
clothed in a striped cozy.

"Anyone but Mark take sugar?  Good.

Well let's get on and decide what we're going to do about these blessed
pirates.  "

There was a short silence.  Maureen's long hands, faintly mauve under
the freckles, fidgeted around a mug with a picture of Garfield on it.

"I'm too mad to think properly," she confessed.

"I just want them stopped."

 "One possible way is to stop their culvert.  I expect we can find it
Amanda pointed out.

"Stuff is bleeding off to them quite fast, and we ought to be able to
trace where it goes."

"Out of the question," said Mark.

"As soon as they realize we've stopped it, it'll be war.  And they'll
fight us with our own weapons, not to speak of their own, which we
don't know about.  I'm willing to bet they'll know as soon as we find
the outlet.  They have to be good to have had us under observation all
this time without our knowing they had."

"Then I'll throw out another thought," Amanda said imperturbably.  She
seldom lost an argument, and never admitted it if she did.

"How about putting up de fences even bigger than theirs?"

"Heavy job," was Maureen's comment.

"Worldwide it might work."

"They see those and it means war again," Mark pointed out.

"Well, anything we do and they notice is going to mean war," Amanda
said in her most brisk and reasonable way.

"Do you want to look into the possibility of rendering our universe
invisible to theirs?"

"Which, if they find us doing, they'll just pirate too," Maureen
observed.

"I'm sure it would suit them very well to be invisible to us.  Not
wanting to be critical, Amanda, but they might even be hoping we'll
think of that."  She turned and stretched her legs the opposite way.

"And," added Mark, 'none of these suggestions help with the greenhouse
effect.  "

"We seem to be stuck with that, even if the pirates did start it,"
Amanda said.

"I'd assumed and since I'm simply throwing out ideas, I'm perfectly
open to criticism, Maureen, though I wish you and Mark could contrive
to be constructive for a change!  - I'd assumed we'd get the pirates
off our backs and then turn our attention to readjusting the climate."
Her hands clenched around her cup fractionally.  She was irritated.

Aware that she despised him.  Mark found himself protesting, "I wasn't
 being destructive, Amanda!  I just wondered if there wasn't a way to
deal with both things at once.  For instance, if we were simply to do
nothing?"

Amanda's shapely black eyebrows came to a sharp point, exactly in the
middle.  An astounded crease grew between them, above her elegant
nose.

"Do nothingi At alii' Maureen took this up eagerly.

"Mark has got a point, Amanda.  You must see that.  If we did nothing
and made sure none of the Rings all over the world did anything, and
just let the climate get hotter and the seas higher, then the pirates
would have to stop the greenhouse effect themselves, don't you see?
It's not in their interests to let everyone here die!"  She was
climbing about all over her chair in her vehemence, beating her mug on
the table and yet Mark was uneasily aware that it was all because the
idea was his in the first place.

Maureen was taking sides like a child in a school playground.  There
was even a faint jeering tone to her voice.

Amanda responded to the jeer.

"Oh, perfect, Maureen!  So we call their bluff.  The only result, as
far as I can see, would be that our world dies and the pirates simply
start exploiting another one."

"I didn't mean Maureen and Mark began together.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!"  Gladys interrupted.

"We're not in business to do nothing, are we, Jimbo?  It's obvious what
we've got to do!  We have to go into that universe and stop those
pirates at their fun and games, for once and for all!"

In the ensuing silence, the creature called Jimbo appeared to climb
into Gladys's lap.  She hugged it and stared at them, a mulish and
stony old woman.

"It's the only thing that makes sense," she said.

"It's the only thing we ought to be discussing."

After another long silence, Amanda said, "I agree.  How do we get
there?  Whom do we send?  And what would a raiding party do when it
gets there?"

Maureen, subdued and still for once, added, "Yes, and how do we keep
what we do secret from these people?  They must have the best
intelligence in the world."

 The discussion that followed this was, to begin with, slow and heavy
and very, very serious.  All four of them were overwhelmed with the
nature of what they were discussing.  This was war, against an enemy
who knew all their weapons, and it made every other war look small and
local and feeble by comparison.  They knew their campaign had to be
careful.  It had to be good.  And it had to succeed.  It was clear to
all four that, if they bungled, the pirates would finish them.

"Come on, come on!"  Gladys said at length.

"You've got to remember this is really no different from the way we
went against Napoleon or Hitler.  It's just bigger and in a new place,
that's all.  We need a smoke screen first.  We're going to need to make
it look as if we're powering up against this greenhouse thing.  That's
what we'll have to tell everyone else we're doing.  It'll be too late
when they find we're using the power another way."

"In that case we'll have to tell the Outer Ring," Amanda stated.

"Yes, we'll be breaking the rules, not telling them," Maureen agreed.

"And--' The Jimbo creature stirred in Gladys's arms.

"Oh, don't give me that!"  she said.

"You young ones!  You're all for breaking the rules when it doesn't
matter, and when it does matter, you don't seem to know how to do
without your precious rules!  One of the things Mark spent all last
night proving is that there has to be an informer pretty high up among
us.  So we have to break the rules.  None of this is to go beyond this
house and the wards I've put around it.  Is that clear?"

"I second that," said Mark.

"You always were rather paranoid.  Mark," Amanda said, but she gave in.
So, after a little squirming and some clamour, did Maureen.

The discussion proceeded much more efficiently after that.  They forgot
how momentous it was to wage war on another world and simply discussed
how to do it.  Breaking into that world was the first major problem.
 The de fences they had all in their different ways perceived seemed
truly formidable.  This had them at a stand for a while, until Maureen
pointed out that the satellite they had all noticed was far more
lightly warded than any other part.

"Could we get in through Blish City somehow?"  she asked.

"It seems to be part of the pirating set-up too."

"Somehow, somehow," Mark said.

"There must be a reason they don't ward it so well.  Can anyone think
why?"

"Well, it can't be there just to make an easy way in," Gladys
observed.

"I sensed a lot of people there."

"So did I," agreed Amanda.

"How is this for a working theory?  Their de fences in the main world
make it quite difficult for them to observe our world as closely as
they want, so they have to build Laputa as a sort of observation
platform.  I saw Laputa myself as a sort of floating island which is
why I called it that, after Gulliver but I suspect it's more on the
lines of a pocket universe."

"I think you may be right," Mark said soberly.

"And if you're right, then they won't need wards on the place, because
that's where the main strength of their witchcraft will be."

"All gathered to spy on us and exploit us," Maureen murmured.

"I think you're right too, Amanda.  "

"So an attack on Laputa ought to devastate them," said Amanda.

"Of course, we'll need to research it more thoroughly, but let's plan
on those lines provisionally.  Now, how are we going to get a strike
force to the place?  Transition between universes is bound to cause all
sorts of problems."

 The discussion continued all that night and went on at intervals over
the next month.  Paulie Lister grew exasperated.

"Conferences, conferences!"  she exploded to her lover.

"Tony, I'm sure Mark's got a new woman, and I bet you it's that Maureen
Tenehan!

He only comes home to sleep!  "

"Why do you let that bother you?"  said Tony.

Maureen's dancers grumbled too.  Maureen, it seemed, had strained a
shoulder and was forced to make frequent visits to the only osteopath
she trusted, who, it appeared, lived in Ludlow.  But as her absences
went on, little Flan Burke began to prove such a good deputy that most
of the troupe foresaw that Maureen would lose her place to Flan and end
up simply teaching the younger dancers.  Maureen's boyfriend took the
view that Maureen was doing it to spite him.

Somewhat the same opinion was held by Professor Amanda Fenstone's
teenage children.  They grumbled to their aunt that Mum's career seemed
to mean more to her than they did.  Why else was she always away giving
lectures ?

Only Gladys was spared human grumbling, and she often came back from
another place to find herself in an accusing ring of cats long past
their feeding time.  For she took to sitting, hour after hour, on the
Normandy beach forest borders of the pirate world, watching through
notional spyglasses for any activity in Laputa-Blish (as it came to be
called).  Her skin grew flabbier and more blotched.  Her feet were
often numb, despite tartan socks and furry slippers, and she was tired.
The other three worried about her.  But Gladys was firm.  This was the
 part of the task that she had set herself.  As she said, she was the
only one among them who was canny enough to watch without letting
LaputaBlish suspect it was being watched.

And her work bore fruit.  One of the first things she was able to
report was that there was always at least one observer in Laputa-Blish
watching Earth.  Often there were many more.  They seemed to sit
regular watches, and whenever the time came around for a group to be
watching Earth, she became fairly sure that at least one was always
focused upon the activities of the Ring.

"Let's give them something to watch then," Maureen said.

"I'll start having everyone power up on the ecology from now on,
something cruel."

"They'll be expecting us to," Gladys agreed, and went back to watching.
As she moved away in her mind, she chuckled.  Maureen was into ecology
anyway.  On the rare occasions Gladys had visited Maureen, she had
found the flat full of tasteful green packages labelled ozone friendly
and ecologically sound.  The toilet roll had had recycled toilet paper
printed on every sheet.  Could one recycle toilet paper?  she wondered,
grinning as she drifted away, and if so, howl During this stint of
watching, she saw Laputa-Blish put out tenuous threads and translate
them down to an earthly plane.  Before she could trace them, they were
gone.  But she was ready for them next time they happened.  She made
one of her rare linkages with Jimbo and let him take her down, right
down to his disquieting native ether.  There she lurked, watching like
a fox in a hole, and found that, as she suspected, the threads
connected with the pirate world itself.  She was lucky.  It was a big
joining that went both ways in all the planes of matter, and it lasted
until her strength was almost gone.

"I think people were going back and forth, or supplies, or both maybe,"
she told Amanda, who came to put a rug around her shoulders and a mug
of tea into her shaking hands.

 "That stands to reason," Amanda said, going back to her careful
checking of Mark's printouts.

"It would be hard to make a pocket universe an entirely closed ecology.
And I suppose the crew has to go on leave sometimes.  Now, if only we
could find out what sort of supplies they need regularly, we'd be home
and dry.  We could send our team in disguised as provisions."

"I'll see what I can get you on that," said Gladys.  Lord!  Amanda made
a lousy cup of tea!  Too intellectual, that was her trouble.  Mind
above tea.

"You really think we're going to have to send people across?"

"Can you see any other way to get close enough to blast them and cope
with all the surprises they're going to heave at us?"  Amanda asked.

"The Trojan horse idea still seems the best bet to me."

"You're probably right," Gladys agreed mournfully.  Probably because
she was so recently out of linkage with Jimbo, she found her mind full
of earthy sadness, playing over all the brightest and best and most
beautiful of the young folk associated with the Ring feisty little Flan
Burke, that lovely boy Tarn, the nice-looking blond fellow who was
Paulie Lister's lover, bossy Roz Collasso, and many, many more.  Any of
these could be chosen as storm troopers bound for Laputa-Blish.  Such a
waste.  Such a shame.  But no point mentioning that to Amanda.

"I'll have a look at the supplies they're getting," she promised.
Disguise the kids as corned beef?  Unless the citizens of Laputa-Blish
turned out to be vegetarians.  That would cause problems.

She was out of luck the next few watches, however.  Laputa-Blish
neither received nor sent anything concrete.  All it did was move.

"Move?"  Mark asked, startled.

"Bless you, they all move, these universes!"  Gladys said.

"Ours wriggles about, and theirs wanders up and over and around ours,
and all the others do it too.  Every time I go, there's a difference.
Cup of tea.  Mark, please."

Mark, who had spent his stint looking after Gladys and laboriously
 exploring ways and means of transferring matter between universes the
pirates had proved it could be done, otherwise he would have despaired
sprang to the kettle, and then stopped.

"What about Laputa-Blish?  Does that move?"

"Yes.  It sort of jostles in a circle around theirs.  The first time I
went back to look for it, I thought it had gone," Gladys confessed.

"But it was just around the back of them after all.  I was in quite a
panic till I realized."

"I'll need its course plotted," he said.

"If it's moving about, our capsule could miss it and simply
disintegrate in the void between.

That void's giving me nightmares anyway.  All sorts of things could
happen to our team there.  I must have a chart of how Laputa-Blish
moves.  "

"You'll get it.  When do I get my tea?"

"Now at once," he said, diving to the stove through the jungle trees.
They kept the kettle perpetually simmering these days.

"Amanda left you some soup in a Thermos.  Want some?"

"Not if it's like her tea," said Gladys.

"It's not.  She said her sister made it."  Mark brought her the soup
with her tea, and she did not refuse it.  As he got back to work, she
said sharply, "Did you feed my cats?"

"They make damn sure I do," he said.  She chuckled.  When he next
looked, she was off again, or perhaps asleep, with Jimbo a dark, leggy,
motionless heap on her lap.  He got down to work again, grateful for
the heavy warding Gladys kept around her house.  Someone kept trying to
contact him.  He was fairly sure it was Paulie.  It was sharp and
possessive and had a female feel to it.  Whoever it was had some
difficulty penetrating Gladys's wards as more than a little nagging
whisper.  At any other time he would have answered at once, just on the
off-chance it was Zillah even though Zillah was never possessive and
had anyway made it plain that everything between them was finished but
not now.  Transfer was fiendishly difficult.  He kept wondering why,
when the pirates could do something of this order, they needed to steal
from Earth at all.

 Gladys burst out laughing.

Mark jumped around to find her leaning back in her chair cackling, and
Jimbo capering around her legs.

"Are you all right?"  he said cautiously.

"Oh, dear me, yes!"  she said, wiping a tear of laughter away with her
blotchy knuckles.

"Oh Lord!  You'll never believe this.  Mark!  I've found out what those
big linkages are.  I was fairly sure they were transferring people, and
they are.  They're women.  Mark girls for the troops!  They just sent
the lot of them back."

"Are you sure?"  he said.  Her earthy cackle unnerved him.  He felt
prudish dismay.

"Of course I'm sure!  Every soul in Laputa-Blish at this moment is a
man.  Think I don't know the difference?"

"Then we've got our strike force," he said, divided between distaste
and relief.

"That's right, dear," Gladys said.

"Trojan women.  Girls for the troops.  Jael smote Sisera sleeping, and
a few Jezebels for luck.  I almost wish I could be going myself!"

Further careful observation confirmed that the resident population of
Laputa-Blish was indeed all male.  Amanda and Maureen gleefully set
about choosing a group of the gifted, committed, and good-looking from
which the strike force could be selected.

"It serves them right," Amanda said, briskly ticking names on her list,
'for confining the use of magic to the male sex.  "

"Oh, but they don't," said Gladys, and her eyes met Mark's.

"That poor girl in the hospital was a proficient, wasn't she?"  :

"We'd better get in touch with her," he said uneasily.

"All in good time.  When she's ready to talk."  Gladys stroked her
animal.

"Jimbo says she's still in shock yet.  He thinks the pirates don't
really understand about rebirth the way we do."

 The High Head of All Horns and King's Vicar on With performed the
final motions that transferred his visitors from With to their homes in
the Fiveir of Leathe.  Instead of doing it with his mind, which was the
usual practice, he drew the symbols of the weave in the air with his
hands and took vicious satisfaction in the way they burned green across
his sanctum.  Ozone crackled from wall to wall.  Those ladies were in
for a rough ride.  Having done this, he sank into a seat, slung his
heavy mitre on to its stand, and loosened his uniform with savage
relief.

Nag, nag, nag!  He could see them now, all the pretty faces gathered
about his conference table, all the expensive and no doubt fashionable
clothes, each one assaulting his nose with her own particular thick
perfume not to speak of assaulting his psyche with their dozen
individual soft accusations.  All claiming he had hurt them, for the
Goddess sake!  Didn't they think he could see into their souls at least
as well as they could see into his?  Hurt, indeed!  He knew them all to
be as hard as nails, each one softly and inexorably set on having her
own way.  Well, they commanded in Leathe maybe, but not here in the
separate small universe of With.

When he learned that this year's high-tide transfers would be bringing
the entire Inner Convent of Leathe to see him, he rightly interpreted
it as another attempt by Lady Marceny to get his soul under her
domination.  Report had it that she, and her mother before her, had
possessed his predecessor in soul and mind too.  The High Head had no
doubt that the report was true.  Marceny was the hardest and most
inexorable of all the women of Leathe.  She possessed most of the power
 in Leathe, but she was not satisfied with that, nor with having made a
vicious puppet out of that son of hers.  Not she.  She wanted With as
well.

The High Head had taken precautions, swiftly.  Not only did he evoke
the strongest possible wards for his own soul, but he made sure that
every soul under his command was equally well protected.  Arth's
citadel had hummed with the application of powers he could feel the
wards pulsing away into the etheric spokes of the Wheel at this moment,
withdrawing now the need for them was over.  Unfortunately, the nature
of the tides between universes meant that the ladies would have to stay
overnight.  The High Head made sure that they only came into contact
with the strongest minds With could muster.  Only those with a truly
armoured integrity were allowed to wait on them.  This went for
personnel from Maintenance Horn to clerks, cooks, and those who waited
at table everyone.  He had even had to debar his friend and deputy, the
Horn Head of Healing, from any dealings with the ladies and give his
duties of attendance to junior mages.  Poor Edward had deep
uncertainties where females were concerned.

"You have surrounded us with woman-haters.  Magus dear," was almost the
first thing Lady Marceny said, opening her blue eyes wide and injured
in his face.

"Why?"

It was the first salvo of the hostilities.  He bowed, smiling.

"Oh, I don't think so, my lady.  Just an average cross-section of the
men.

You're simply sensing the pride we here in With take in keeping to our
Oath.  "

"Really?  You have made such changes since dear Peter's time.  Magus,"
she replied, all honey and perfume and wide, wide eyes.

Thereafter it was assault and battery.  Assault of the soul and battery
of the mind, the High Head thought, running his hands through his hair.
His hair was thinning and caught in strands between his fingers.  He
rather feared it grew thinner every time he had any dealings with Lady
Marceny.  There was something peculiarly avid and hungry in her that
seemed to draw and suck the life out of you.

 Though the conditions of With tended to prolong a man's life far
beyond the usual, he was sure Lady Marceny would have him old well
before even home time.  He sighed.

The first complaint on the ladies' agenda was that there had been so
few results from otherworld.  The High Head was naturally ready with
figures.  He pointed out that a steady stream of innovations was now
flowing between otherworld and the Pentarchy, things both technological
and magical.  Particularly magical, he stressed.  Since his
predecessor, Magus Peter (under prompting from Lady Marceny's mother),
had so cunningly reseeded the otherworld with the principles of magery,
it had responded with a burst of fertility.

The ladies did not deny this.  But the Lady Istoly, who was spokeswoman
for home affairs, said reproachfully that the dear Magus seemed a
little out of touch with the needs of the real world.

"While you live peacefully here on With, the Pentarchy is in ever
greater trouble," she told him.

"I won't bore you with accounts of the other continents, but you do
know do you that at home the Sea of Trenjen has now joined up with
Corriarden Bay in the north, making us into an island continent. Unless
we can find some way to stop the oceans rising, the Pentarchy as we
know it may vanish over the next century or so."

To which Lady Katny added, in dire, deep tones, "Leathe is beginning to
erode."  And Lady Moury spread papers on the table, saying, "I have
here an outline of your plan to perform parallel mageworks on the
otherworld, to cause waters to rise there by affecting its climate, and
thereby elicit a solution to our own flooding.  What became of this
plan, Magus?  Surely we should be getting some results by now?"

In vain did the High Head point out that this was a very large magework
indeed; that although the work had been most satisfactorily performed,
it took time for something that size to take effect; that they were
 even now getting preliminary results-How much time?  the ladies wanted
to know.

"At least a decade," the High Head said firmly.

"A fact which you will find stated in the plan.  Lady Moury."

"But Magus dear," Lady Marceny said, all wide blue eyes again, 'from
our point of view, a decade is what you have now had.  Aren't you
getting any real results at alH' He had defended himself by explaining
such results as there were in detail.  True, there was as yet no
relevant mageworking, but on the technological front, moves were being
charted.  He went on to remind them that, just as time passed at
different rates on With and in the Pentarchy, so it passed at another
rate again in otherworld.

"And," he said, 'of course, you ladies all know that the relationship
between our time and that of otherworld is notoriously capricious
possibly even chaotic.  Sometimes five of their minutes pass to five of
my months and nearly three of your years.  Sometimes they seem to have
had decades in half an With day.  So for all we know, not enough time
has passed yet in otherworld for those in charge of mageworks to have
come up with any answers.  "

"I would have thought that all those observers you employ ought to have
established some kind of ratio between our time and theirs by now,"
Lady Marceny retaliated.

"Are you sure these men are quite competent?"

He bit back his anger and assured her they were.  Only the fact that
they both served the same Goddess kept him civil.  The ladies were
under no such restraint.  They left him in no doubt that they wanted
results and they wanted them now.  \ And it went on like this.  They
wanted him to do this, or that.  He tried to make it plain that
although his function was to serve the Pentarchy, this did not make him
their servant (thank the Goddess!  ), and that he was only answerable
to the king.  But they were used to having menservants and blandly
ignored the king.  And Lady Marceny set continual traps for him.  Over
and over again she wondered aloud whether Observer Horn was quite
 efficient.  Was it worth trying another system?  Was any system that
had to straddle two universes likely to be foolproof?

Each time he restrained his anger and assured her that Arth's method
had stood the test of centuries now.  If he opened himself to rage, he
knew she would have him.  He felt her all the time nudging at his
wards, greedily waiting for him to lose control.  So he did not lose
his temper, much as he felt like screaming and he could cheerfully have
flung her several universes off, or even down to hell band when, during
the best dinner that With could provide, she went back to the subject
of observers yet again.

'I only ask," she said, leaning sweetly towards him across the table,
'because I've been trying a new method of observation for quite a while
now, and I seem to have met with a hitch.  This makes me sure that you
must have your troubles too.  In my case, it's maddening.

Just as I was sure there was something firm to observe, the connection
seems to have been lost.  I must confess that I came to With hoping I
could re-establish it, but I'm still getting nothing.  "

The High Head knew she had her own observatories, but it was unlike her
to be so frank about it.  Why, I believe she really is in earnest!

he thought.  This happens," he said.  I confess to hitches in my time
too."

I hoped," she said, 'that you might be able to advise me of some method
that did not have so many problems."

"Willingly, my lady," he said.

"Suppose you tell me something about your new method and how the hitch
develops, and I will see what With can provide that might help you."

But of course, she would not tell him.  She talked for the next half
hour without saying one thing to the purpose, and he realized that this
was just another attempt to get him off his guard.

Really, he thought, stretching in his chair, he had.  let her bother
him badly, if he found himself reliving the ladies' visit like this!

With discipline enjoined you to banish this kind of obsessive stuff
 with a short meditation followed by a short specific weave.  But he
was simply not in the mood.  The most he could do was to utter his
devout thanks to the workings of the Cosmic Wheel, which had placed him
in With rather than left him on the estate of Lady Istoly, where he had
been born.  If you were born a man in Leathe, you joined the Company of
With and hoped passionately that you would eventually be received into
the Brotherhood.  Otherwise your life was miserable.  And he had been
lucky, one of the fortunate tenth who passed all the tests, and luckier
still to rise to High Head of the citadel.

Which reminds me, he thought.  I have responsibilities.  Better get on
with the work those harridans interrupted.  He swung around and
gestured at his wall.  It responded by becoming a rank of mirrors, most
of them apparently reflecting blue-clothed mages peacefully at work,
though about a third had this reflection covered by a pulsing sigil.
The High Head smiled as he collected these pulsing ones into the main
reflector before his desk and gestured at them to elucidate themselves.
This was a very useful adaptation of an idea from otherworld. Research
Horn was still working to discover what other worlders actually used it
for.

The sigils spread to rows of print, most of them routine reports.

Defence Horn was still having problems with those otherworld rockets.


Housekeeping Horn was inundated, because a year's supply of goods had
come over on the last of the tide.  They requested help from either the
cadets or the servicemen to unload capsules and stow provender.

It would have to be the cadets who did that, because the newest
recruits had been over for two days now and presumably knew their way
around enough to haul goods anyway.  The servicemen had only come over
in the carrier that brought the Ladies of Leathe, and thanks to those
ladies, he had not even seen them yet.  They should be about through
with the rest of their induction by now.  But here was Healing Horn for
which read Edward wanting to see him about those same servicemen.  Not
yet, Edward, for Observer Horn was reporting some considerable etheric
 troubling centred on that spot in otherworld which they had learned to
connect with the most useful mageworkings.  And Maintenance had another
leak in the atmosphere.

Maintenance Horn came first.  That was a cardinal rule.  The High Head

indicated that they had his attention.

It's due to the tides, sir said the Duty Mage, briskly materialising in
the mirror.

"Tides always cause trouble, and this one's bigger than usual, and
there seem to be eddies.  We've thrown up some patching wards, and
they'll hold till tonight, but I'm afraid it's going to take a
full-scale mage- work to get it properly sealed."

"Get Augury and Calculus to give you their best times for the ritual
then," the High Head ordered.

"I'll have fifty mages stand by."

Back to routine, he thought comfortably as the image of the Duty Mage
dissolved.  He called up Ritual Horn and gave them his instructions.

Then he summoned to his reflector the otherworld site Observer Horn was
so excited about.  There was very little going on now.  Hellband!

It was high time something happened there.  The Ladies of Leathe were
not the only ones who were getting impatient.  But the corner of his
eye was catching the winged sigil flashing repeatedly in its mirror
Edward's sigil which meant that his friend wanted him urgently.  He let
Edward know he was free.

"Coming now," said the mirror.

There was a delay while Edward traversed the corridors and ramps.  As a
healer, Edward claimed not to be very adept at projecting to a mirror.
Oh, he could do it right enough, he always said when challenged, but
walking was good exercise, and besides, having walked to where a person
was made him feel as if he was truly meeting him.

The other ways, he said, smacked of illusion.

Equally typically, when Edward actually arrived, he slid apologetically
among the door-veils, ducking his head under the lintel.  He always did
duck, despite the High Head having several times stood him in the
 doorway and proved to him it was plenty high enough.  And he advanced
equally apologetically to put two steaming mugs on the work top

"I thought you could do with some coffee," he said, 'after Leathe first
thing in the morning.  "

"Rather than brandy?"  said the High Head.

"Not straight after breakfast," Edward said, 'though I did consider
beer Oh, blast you, Lawrence!  Why do I never see your jokes?  "

"You usually do in the end," said the High Head.

"So what did you want to see me about?  To make sure I hadn't become a
Leathe puppet overnight?"

Edward laughed.  The High Head was gratified to see that the
possibility had never occurred to him.

"Great gods, no!  No, it's about this year's servicemen I imagine you
haven't had a chance to see them yet.  I'm afraid you're in for a shock
when you do."

"You mean the numbers are down?  I saw that from the list.  What
happened?  My guess is that the Ladies of Leathe quietly slung
two-thirds of them off so that the Inner Convent whom the Goddess bless
could have plenty of space in the transfer carriage."

Edward shook his head.

"No, it's not that.  I talked to some of them, and they all say that
this is all of them there ever were.  I'm afraid it's worse than that,
Lawrence.  It looks as if every single district that owes us service,
in every single Fiveir, has sent the absolute legal minimum, and on top
of that, almost every lad is wrong in some way.  I'd say the Corriarden
district turned out their youth prisons for us.  There's a lad from one
of the north Trenjen places who can barely write his name though he
seems to have the rudiments of magecraft, so he's within the letter of
the law, just.  And as for the rest, I've seldom seen a set of sorrier
physical specimens.  About the only normal one is the son of the
Pentarch of Frinjen, and he's only come because he had to he'd be too
old for next year's batch and he's sulking like an infant over it.  The
rest are frankly demon fodder."

 "What?"  said the High Head.

"Even from the Orthe?  What have they sent?"

"A spavined centaur," said Edward, 'and a gualdian with two left feet."

The two of them looked at each other.  The Other People's of the Orthe
were under the king's direct rule.  Normally they took pride in sending
the best of their youngsters for the year's service on With, and it was
not unusual for them to send several members of all five Peoples.  If
they, too, had dispatched only the very least they were obliged to
send, then things were bad indeed.

"I'm not saying the king's been got at by Leathe," Edward said
anxiously.

"Though he could have been."

"I doubt it."  The High Head got irritably to his feet and strode from
wall to window to wall.

"The king may be as scared of Leathe as the rest of us, but he can hold

his own or he wouldn't be king.  I suppose we can be grateful to His
Majesty for not coming here and giving us a piece of his mind like the
Ladies of Leathe.  Instead, he's simply made it plain that the entire
Pentarchy has lost confidence in With.

Edward, it's not my fault.  I've worked like a demon to pull us out of
the mess Magus Peter left us with.  I've got everything running
smoothly again now this!  What am I supposed to do?  "

"Try to get some results on the latest experiment before the flooding
at home gets much worse," Edward said.

"And drink that coffee since I troubled to bring it."  As the High Head
stared at the mug as if it were an object from otherworld, he added,
"I've got the assorted jailbirds, morons, and cripples lined up in the
exercise hall.  Want to come and give them your induction talk?"

"Give me five minutes," said the High Head.  He picked up the mug and
drank absentmindedly.

"I know I've been telling you all along that I've got a bad feeling
about this flooding project, and I suppose this may be why.  But I have
a horrible sense that there's worse to come.  Do you?"

Edward shrugged.

 "Foreknowledge is not a thing I get much.  Except about death, of
course.  I do feel a certain amount of death coming, I'm sorry to say.
But," he added, sidling his apologetic length toward the doorway,
'that's not unusual for a community the size of With.  I'll have a Duty
Mage put those servicemen through some exercises while they wait.  It's
always possible half of them will die of that.  "

 Bad feeling or not, the High Head got swiftly to work to push his
project onwards.  Using the correct imagery, he bent his mind to the
necessary spoke of the Great Wheel.  There, he deftly and expertly
hooked up the threads of thought belonging to his other-world agents
and led the whole bundle to the specially crafted spindles on his work
top  The spindles spared him trouble by translating to matter again and
giving him the result in his main reflector.

There were a good many agents out there.  They were necessary, not only
for information, but to balance the continuous stream of ideas that had
lately been flowing from otherworld to With and the Pentarchy.  The
High Head, being in a hurry, took most of them into his mirror in
clusters, each twist of thread representing a centre of intelligent
activity in that world.  Most reported, as they had been doing all this
past month, that the effects of Arth's project had been noticed.
Otherworld seemed aware that its climate might be getting hotter and
its seas rising.  But not much was yet being done about it.  Otherworld
ran about wringing its hands and talked of planting appropriate
vegetation or banning certain technology it believed harmful.

For the Goddess's sake!  " the High Head exclaimed.

"What in hell band use is that]' And he sent messages along the
threads.  Get them moving.  Tell them the effect is going to double in
their next decade.

Then he teased out the threads from the Islands.  The magecraft of this
site was usually among the strongest.  With had run various tests
recently and proved it currently to be in excellent working order.

This was why Observer Horn regularly focused there.  The High Head had
great hopes of results here soon.  First he focused again on the spot
 where observers had reported activity, but fine-tune it as he might,
he found he could receive precisely nothing.  Interesting.  Every place
in otherworld normally put out a certain amount of meaningless
activity.

The spokes of the Wheel were full of it, and junior mages had to learn
to tune it out.  But this area was not even putting out that.

Most interesting.  They must be using wards at least of the strength
With had used against Leathe.  Sadly, every single one of his Island
agents was outside this area of silence, but this did not unduly
perturb the High Head.  This was the Islands pattern.  When big
mageworkings were afoot, they always closed down.  Something was really
happening at last!

In strong excitement, he flicked his two most important agents aside
from the cluster.  The first was serving as lover to a female known to
be at or near the centre of any magework performed.  His image
materialized in the reflector much as the High Head had seen him last
on With though this probably had little to do with the way the agent
looked now, and was almost certainly simply the man's image of himself.
Strange transmogrifications befell those who made the transition and
became one with otherworld.  This agent was in his own mind at least
somewhat unshaven, bored, and a little drunk.

"Gods of the Wheel!"  this agent said.

"All I needed was you!  What do you want?"

The High Head indicated he needed anything that might cast light on the
area of silence slightly to westwards of his agent.  Was magework
afoot?

"Do you indeed?"  said his agent.

"Then you're as wise as I am.  It's obvious something's up.  Bloody
Maureen's pretending to have something wrong with her shoulder so that
she can keep going off to that hag's place in Herefordshire, but that's
all I know.  You'd think someone who talks as much as that girl does
would give something away, but not she!  She's also collecting money.
Cash is pouring in from all over the country I'd no idea witches were
good for so much.  But she says it's for her new Green World Campaign
 - products made in conditions that don't hurt the ecology you know the
sort of thing.  They're supposed to be buying a derelict factory
somewhere up in the Midlands.  Then they make green soap.  The gods
know if that's true or not.  I've not been allowed near the factory or
the money, worse luck!"

He was, the High Head indicated, to investigate the factory.

"All right, all right!  I know I should, and I've been trying.  The
bitch keeps putting me off.  If I get you stuff on the factory, can I
get shot of Maureen and come home?  I really hate this world!"

The High Head of With forbore to indicate, even by so much as a flicker
in the most distant spoke of the Wheel, that this agent was not coming
home, ever.  When a man underwent the ritual to make him one with
otherworld, a change happened that seemed to be irreversible but one
could not let an agent know this, naturally.  Instead, the High Head
reminded his agent that he was serving as observer in the field as the
result of misdemeanors as yet un expiated and because agents must be
humoured enquired what exactly was so hateful in his position.

"I have to work in this music shop.  I hate their music!"  was the
reply.

"Let me tell you--' The High Head cut into the stream of complaints he
knew was about to follow by promising that, once the agent had firm
information on the Maureen-female's purposes, the waves of the correct
spokes would adjust themselves so that all would be well.  He was
careful not to promise that the agent could then come home, although he
was well aware that he left the agent with that impression.  Such
prevarications were a regrettable necessity.  He cut the agent off,
still grumbling, and turned to the second one, the one set to monitor
the most important male mageworker.

He had far less hope of anything concrete from this one.  The
inescapable fact that the Brotherhood of With was an all-male company
 made it impossible to place this agent as a lover.  This male
mageworker was decidedly heterosexual.  So the agent had been attached
to the mageworker's female partner instead, which was easy to do,
because on With the agent had been blond, smooth, and handsome.  As the
image formed on the reflector was as handsome as ever, the assumption
was that, whatever this agent had become, it still counted as
good-looking in otherworld terms.

"I'm awfully afraid I can't give you very much to go on yet, sir,
more's the pity," this second agent said.  He was always very polite.

He was one of those who hoped to ingratiate himself in order to get
forgiven and recalled to With .  Poor misguided Brother.

"The woman I watch complains her husband is always away and too tired
to talk when he comes home.  She thinks he's got a new lover."

The High Head requested his agent to play on the female's fears to make
her find out where the male really went.

"Oh, I did, sir," the agent said eagerly.

"It doesn't take much doing, actually she wants to know as much as we
do.  Last time he went, she took rather a risk, to my mind, and tried
tracing him by witchcraft.  But all it told her was that he seemed to
go to that old woman's house in Hereford- shire, and she didn't believe
that for a moment.  It looks as if he's being too clever for us,
sir."

This house in Herefordshire, mentioned by both agents, unquestionably
was the site where Observer Horn had pinpointed the recent activity,
and, the High Head mused, the elderly female equally unquestionably was
the centre of it all.  He had many times attempted to tag her, but she
gave him no hold, no excuse to plant an agent, nothing.  She was wily.
She slipped away from contact.  She was powerful.  There had been one
occasion, when he was a good deal younger and less experienced, when he
had made a rash attempt to broach her consciousness.  She had risen up
in anger, through every band and spoke of the Wheel, majestic and
horrible, and threatened to kill him if he tried that again.  Since
 then he had treated her with great caution.  So if they chose her
house for their activity, what they were doing was very important.

He was recalled from these thoughts by the agent saying piteously,
"Sir?  Sir, I would welcome it very much if I could be removed from
this assignment.  I'm not at all happy in it."

The High Head asked considerately wherein his unhappiness lay.

"It's not just that I have the feeling Mark Lister suspects me, sir.

I think I can handle him.  But I really hate that woman.  His wife,
sir.  I really do!  "

What was wrong with her?  the High Head enquired.

"She's hard and mean and stupid with it, sir.  I think she's probably
the most selfish creature I've ever known.  I'll take any assignment
you care to give me, sir, if only I needn't put up with her anymore.

She makes me ill, sir!  "

The High Head suggested that this seemed to describe all females.  But
since the agent was truly distressed, to the extent that his smooth
face in the reflector was distorting in surges, the High Head made
haste to assure him that he would be replaced as soon as another agent
could be activated.

"Oh, thank you, sir!"  said the agent.

"You don't know how much this means to me!"

Know your men and keep them happy, the High Head thought, in
considerable distaste at himself, as he cut the connection.  That agent
would now obtain him real information, quickly and in quantity.

But since it did not do to play too many games with an agent's
feelings, the man would have to be replaced just as he was likely to be
most use.  Pity.  The High Head sighed as he detached all the threads
of thought from the spindles and left the agents to themselves again. 
He stayed in the Wheel himself, however, for he still had his contact
to make with the third important female.  She was almost as hard to tag
as the old one.  He had discovered she had a life-partner, but, to his
chagrin, the two seemed perfectly faithful to each other.  All attempts
 to plant a lover had been wasted.  He had no success in tagging her
mind, either.  It was not so much that she resisted his efforts as that
she seemed totally unaware of them.  He just slid off the surface of
her mind.

But in the course of his attempts to tag her, he discovered that she
had young.  This was excellent.  None of the young knew very much, but
they served to inform him when the female was moving, and if there
seemed to be any unusual excitement brewing.  They had been most useful
in charting the response to Arth's last big test.  The female had
indeed been distracted by the small act of war With had organized, but
when the noxious fumes had started drifting in from the continent where
the response of mageworkers had been surprisingly patchy the young had
told him that their dam had suddenly become alert and raced off to
cooperate with the old female.

The old one was known to them as "Auntie Gladys."  They seemed to like
her.  They were disposed to like the High Head too.  They thought of
him as "Earth Angel," and they treated him with trust.

Then their usefulness had ended abruptly.  The High Head had moved in
on them as usual one day on a routine check.  And found himself
confronted with a sudden wild magic, passionate and strong.  It was
partly taught enough to be conscious of itself but hardly tamed, and it
flung fluctuations all over the Wheel with a force that a full-blooded
gualdian could hardly have equalled.

"How dare you!"  it blazed at him.

"Get out of these children's souls this instant!"

The High Head had been forced to retreat before the power of its anger,
vainly protesting that he had always treated these young with kindness,
that they liked him, knew him well, named him--' "I don't care what you
think they think, or even what they think!"  the wild magic stormed at
him, and around him, and through him.

"These are my sister's children, and I'm not having you nosing around
inside them!  It's unclean!  And you're not doing it ever again!"


 True to its word, the wild one.  had turned and thrown a rock-hard
protection around those young.  It was like granite.  Powered by anger,
that shielding formed an impenetrable twist right through every band of
the Wheel.  Nothing the High Head knew could have broken it.  He moved
out, chastened.  But shortly he realized that the wild one was not
wholly aware of what she had done.  In her semi-tutored state, she
imagined her warding was inadequate.  She was afraid it would break.

She kept her attention on it and on those young, prowling anxiously
over what she could see of her handiwork, testing its links, watching
for him to try to invade it.

Laughably, she had forgotten to ward herself in the slightest.  The
High Head soon found that, provided he was very cautious and quiet, he
could use the wild one just as he had used the young.  She was a good
deal more informative too, because she was to some extent in her
sister's confidence.  But she was touchy.  She tended to become aware
of him if he tried to direct her thoughts in any way though, so far,
she had never connected his presence with "Earth Angel' and he found it
best to nudge up to her, make the most tenuous of contacts, and then
hope she would think of what he wanted her to.  She very often did. The
hope of a High Magus of With was a powerful thing in itself.

This time, as he made delicate, delicate contact, she was fortunately
musing alone.  There was the usual sadness.  There had been a very
unfortunate love affair.  It was to be supposed that her present
unhappy musings were about that..  the emptiness.  That time there was
nothing there horrible like looking down a long, long well.  But there
was something at the bottom.

He was down there and seemed the way he should be for the first time.

Once I'd seen how he should be, what he let me have was almost as
horrible as the well.  Like a dead thing.  But she was down there with
him.  She did it.  The High Head had not much idea what this was
about.

 He waited.  His subject went on to her mother next.  This was an
equally unhappy topic and seemed to inspire some of the wild rage he
had encountered himself.  I could kill her sometimes.  If she makes
Amanda cry once more, I really might.  Nasty thought.  Stupid, though,
two grown women cringing when the phone rings in case it's their
mother.  She never ought to have had children except she needed
something to hate, and besides, we were both accidents anyway.  Had
Amanda in her teens when she thought life couldn't do that to her, get
her pregnant like common girls and me late on when she thought she was
too old for it to happen.  But I'll kill her if she gets at Amanda once
more for being kind to me, for God's sake!  Poor Amanda when she's got
enough on her plate keeping this country safe ..

Ah here it comes!  thought the High Head..  No, it's the whole world
this time, isn't it?  Or is it the universe?  I get muddled.  Are there
really lots of other ones?  Amanda seems to take it as proved there are

lots.  Or do I mean the cosmos?

Cosmoses?  Cosmodes?  Anyway, lots.  It wouldn't take me long to step
over into one just to get away from the bottom of that well but I don't
think you can do it just like that, and anyway, I don't want to muck up
their greenhouse plans.  And I bet I would.  Born with two left feet,
that's me as Mother likes to point out.  Anyway, they wouldn't choose
me because of Marcus, bless him!  But if I could find out how
I'd-Unfortunately, at this point she became aware of the High Head.

--Oh, bugger!  There's that bloody demon sniffing around again!  I can
feel it.  Out, you!  Get out\ OUT!

Just as if he were a mongrel after scraps!  The High Head retreated
hastily.  Her strength was such that his face stung with it and a vile
vibration shook him from neck to coccyx.  He had to sit still for a
moment, recovering.  But it was worth it!  They knew they lived in a
multi verse though they had showed no sign of knowing that before this.
 As he picked his way through her ramblings, he gathered they were
choosing a team surely of those with the strongest magics and about to
take some action that must somehow involve the whole cosmos.  Blowed if
he could see what action, but other-world could be relied on to take
some bold, wild way perhaps something on the lines of manipulating the
tides between universes?  This could well be it.

Anyway, Observer Horn would soon be able to tell him.  And meanwhile
there were the new servicemen to talk to.  Jovially he picked up his
wand and his mitre and left for the exercise hall.

 The two sparse rows of young men hastily came to attention as the High
Head swept in, smiling, in all the awesomeness of the uniform of his
office.  Blue and silver glittered on him.  The short cloak flared
gracefully off one shoulder, jutting over the silver sword-wand, half
concealing the great moon badge on his chest.  On his head, the great
horned mitre raised him a kingly foot above men of mere mortal stature.
Even the centaur felt this, and shifted his hooves, thinking he was
looking up into a man's face for a wonder, instead of the other way
around.  The High Head of With was a legend to all of them.

Therefore they all looked carefully, trying to see the man within the
legend.

He was tall and moved with a brisk grace which carried the uniform
well.  They understood that grace.  It came from a lifetime of the
exercises they had just been put through.  Most of them were still
panting.  The High Head looked a heavy man, but moved as if he were
not.  They were impressed by that and by the authority living in his
face.  It was a round-featured face, but not fleshy or commonplace, and
seemed genial.  They were impressed that he could smile, and even more
impressed by the way that smile died away as he ran his eyes across
them.  His eyes were remarkable.

Loving Goddess!  the High Head thought.  Edward didn't tell me half of
it!  His eyes raced over spindly legs, narrow chests, feeble chins, at
least one potbelly, a stoop, several thick, brutish faces one with a
broken nose and a lad with glasses.  The only normal one was the short,
square- built young man who had to be the Pentarch of Frinjen's son.
That one wore his new blue uniform quite naturally, as if he were used
 to regalia, and he was the only one not panting.  Quite an athlete
from his build though to judge by his shoulder-length cone of carefully
styled hair and his jaunty little moustache, he tried to conceal the
fact.  The young man's face, as the High Head's eyes met his, was
neutral, not quite casual.  He showed nothing of the discontent Edward
said he felt.  But Edward seldom got men wrong.  I think we may have a
troublemaker here, the High Head thought.  He was speaking his usual
words of welcome as these thoughts went through his head, and would
have been very much surprised to know that the Pentarch's son was
thinking much the same about him.

Ay, ay, I think we have a sticky one here!  Tod thought.  (He had a
whole string of names and titles, including that of Duke of Haurbath,
but he was Tod to himself and his friends.  ) In fact, his thought
continued, our High Head looks a right swine!

"As you know, you'll be here for the next year, training with the
cadets and the regular Brotherhood, eating with us and sharing our
duties.  This, of course, means sharing our rules," said the High Head.
T know the rules have already been read to you, so I won't bore you
with them again.  I would just like to impress on you that these rules
are here to be kept.  "

His eyes passed on to the gualdian lad, standing gawkily beside the
centaur.  The boy looked like the runt of his race, fragile, white,
uncertain.  His new uniform stood around him like a drainpipe he had
got into by mistake, and chin- high though it was, it somehow revealed
that this lad had none of the usual thick body hair.  The High Head's
eyes moved involuntarily to the boy's feet.  Had he two left ones?

Something was odd there.  The boots were huge.  So were the great white
hands.  And gualdians usually ran to thick red or chestnut hair, but
this one's hair was mousy blond, and thin with it.  Perhaps the only
true gualdian feature about the boy was the eyes.  Here their eyes met,
and the gualdian boy's great shining eyes widened and lit with
 amazement as he saw that the High Head had gualdian blood too.

The High Head hastily switched to the centaur instead.  Maybe spavined
was too strong a term.  But the youngster was swaybacked, with the
horse ribs showing.  And the front legs were knock-kneed, each knee
with a large callus showing where they knocked.  The equine coat was a
mealy grey as mousy as the gualdian's hair, and the boy-body as skinny
as the rest.  A charcoal dapple, which ought to have been on the equine
barrel, was splattered across the boy's face and pale hair instead. The
king may have thought this some kind of joke on With, the High Head
thought, but I don't find it funny.  Not funny at all.

"We don't go so far as to ask you to take the Oath we of the
Brotherhood all swear," he was saying meanwhile, 'but we do require
you, while you are in With, to keep to the terms of the Oath as if you
had sworn it.  " Before the uneasy movements of the lads could amount
to a real protest, he went on swiftly, " We honour the Goddess by our
Oath.  We take Her seriously here in With, and we worship Her
regularly.  She rewards us by giving us greater powers than we would
have in the Pentarchy, by which we control the rhythms that hold this
very citadel in place.  So you see that the Oath--' Here the centaur
boy, rendered thoroughly uneasy by finding the High Head staring
straight at him, was unable to control his bowel.  His droppings fell
with a most audible splat.  There was smothered mirth.

The young centaur shifted from hoof to hoof in hideous embarrassment,
and his dappled face was scarlet.  He clearly had no idea whether the
rules required him to clear the mess up, as he would have done
instantly at home, or to go on standing to attention and pretend
nothing had happened.

This was a frequent problem with centaurs.  The High Head solved it by
briskly conjuring the long-handled covered pan and broom from the side
of the room into the centaur's hands.

"There you are, Galpetto.

Clear it up.  "

 The mirth rose to a glad roar, much of it rather jeering, and the
centaur hastened to turn himself around and set to work, looking as if
he wished the floor would open.  No bad thing, the High Head thought.
There needed to be some kind of joke after the solemn talk of Oath,
though this was not quite the joke he would have chosen.

He spoke for a short while longer, outlining the tutoring they would
have, the recreations and the duties.  And it was typical of this
substandard group that none of them were attending.  The joke had been
too much for them.  He could feel their minds wandering, cloacal quips
building up, and, in some of them, a resolve to make a butt of
Galpetto.  Usually the High Head ended his speech with a genial wish to
them to enjoy their year of service.  You may have come here because
you were obliged by law to come, the usual ending went, but there is no
reason why doing your duty should not be fun as well.  Now he found he
had not the slightest desire to say this.


"One last thing," he said.

"I spoke of Oath and I spoke of rules.

When I said you must observe both, I meant it.  May I remind you that
you are under Brotherhood law while you are on With, and the
Brotherhood's punishments for lawbreakers are severe.  If you break our
laws, you will be punished, by us, in our way, and you will not enjoy
it.  "

He swept out, hoping he left them considering this.

 Ill Earth "The capsule's nearly ready," Amanda said, looking up from
the student essay she was marking.

"Do you want to come and see it?"

"Who else is going to be there?"  Zillah asked.  She managed to keep
her manner entirely neutral.  I'm getting good at that, she thought.

"Nobody, I hope," said Amanda.  Zillah relaxed, unhappily, and dabbled
one hand in the large bowl of crumble mix on the table beside her to
show both herself and Amanda she was truly relaxed.  If Mark had been
going to be there, she dared not go and yet the hope, the horrible
hope, attacked her that he might be going and she might have a chance
of seeing him again.  Even after two and a half years, she could not
trust herself.

"Nobody?"  she said.

The sisters were sitting in Amanda's kitchen, a comfortable, light,
spacious room, in which every detail was planned for convenience and
beauty together, and in which every detail was also slightly battered
from having been used by children.  To Zillah's mind, this added to the
comfort.  Without the battering, she was sure the place would have been
as soulless as a magazine advertisement for a kitchen.

Amanda reached for the cup of tea beside her and took off her
glasses.

"Most of the people making the thing can only get there at weekends,"
she said, 'but the ones who live nearest work on it in the evenings
when they get out of their jobs.  I usually drop in by bus on my way to
the university to make sure it's going right and to check the wards on
the warehouse and so forth.  But I make sure to keep my visits as
random as possible.  Today I'm at home.  So I thought I'd go there by
car at a totally different time.  "

 Zillah reached a floury hand for her own cup of tea.

"Security really is that tight then?"

"Lord, yes!"  said her sister.

"All the people working on the capsule think we're taking it up into
space to meet UFOs.  They think we're a bit mad, but they trust us.
Some quite skeptical ones are seriously rethinking their position on
aliens.  And I'm the only one of the Ring who ever goes near the
capsule.  We don't want the pirates noticing we're all interested in a
certain warehouse."

Zillah relaxed further.  Mark was never likely to have been there.  She
let the devastating misery of that discovery ebb away and laughed a
little.

"Isn't the Ring taking a bit of a risk, leaving it to you?

You know what you're like with machinery.  Jerry swears the dishwasher
blew up last time just because you looked at it.  "

Amanda's eyebrows peaked in that stare of hers.  It must terrify her
students!  Zillah thought.

"I was being deliberately negative then, Zillah.  When I monitor the
capsule, I'm entirely positive.  If things blow up when I look at them,
it's because our designer got them wrong.  I know what I'm doing.  I've
studied the plans until I know them backwards."


And really!  Amanda thought as she stared at Zillah, Zillah could be
unspeakably irritating at times.  They were very alike, she and Zillah.
This was probably the reason why they got on so well most of the time
and clashed so furiously for the rest of it.  Zillah had the same clear
features as Amanda, but hers were softer and tawny.  Where Amanda's
hair was straight and raven blacky Zillah's sprang into a cloud of wiry
tendrils, with red lights.  Both had the same strangely luminous eyes,
though Zillah's eyes were blue.  And Zillah had, Amanda was positive,
at least as strong a talent for magic as her own, but Amanda sighed,
and drank tea to cover the sigh.  One of the irritating things was that
she was always having to look after Zillah and always failing.  Over
and over again.  Knowing, from her own bitter experience, what Zillah's
life was like, Amanda had rescued her from their mother as a teenager
 and made sure she went to college.  Result: Zillah dropped out, saying
apologetically that university was not her scene, and disappeared.  A
year later Amanda had found her making baskets for a living somewhere
in Yorkshire and fixed her up with what she herself considered a proper
job in London.

Result: Zillah disappeared and turned up working in a record shop a few
months later, saying she felt that suited her more.  By this time,
Amanda had resigned herself to the fact that Zillah had an extremely
low opinion of her own worth.  Mother's fault.  Amanda let her get on
with the record shop and tried instead to induce her to train that
magic talent of hers.

"It gave me tremendous self-respect," she told Zillah over and over.

"I know you'll find the same.  And what you've got is strong.  But as
it is, it's wild.  You really could do damage, to yourself and other
people, unless you learn how to use it."

Zillah, as always, meekly agreed to Amanda's plans.  For a while she
did study, almost diligently, with a circle of witches in outer London.
Amanda encountered her at one or two ceremonies and felt proud whenever
they met, because a number of people Mark and Gladys among them told
her that her little sister had at least the potential of Maureen
Tenehan.  Amanda harboured fond notions of seeing Zillah selected for
the Ring.  Result: Zillah vanished again, saying she was not sure she
had any talent at all.  When Amanda next traced her, she was eight
months pregnant.  She said, in her usual apologetic way, that she had
decided she needed to be a single parent.

"Oh, don't talk nonsense!"  Amanda had almost screamed at her.

"How are you going to support the child?  Who's the father, anyway?
Can't he help?"

"Not really," Zillah explained.

"He's happily married, and I didn't want to upset him, so I didn't tell
him."


She had obdurately refused to discuss the child's father any further.

Amanda, to this day, had no idea who was responsible for Marcus.  The
only thing to do seemed to have Zillah and the baby to live with her
 own family.  It was lucky the kids liked Zillah and that Amanda's
husband, David, was so easygoing, because there were times when-The
bowl of pastry mix tipped, pivoting sharply on the edge of the table.
Both sisters shouted with one voice, "Don't, Marcus!"  Zillah shot a
hand out and grabbed the bowl.  Amanda, with a swift gesture, halted
the avalanche of dry crumble in midair and guided it back into the
bowl.

"Gladys would approve, but everyone else would call that a waste of
magic," she remarked.

Zillah lifted the bowl high, and Marcus was revealed below the level of
the table, lightly dusted with flour and still with both hands raised
to grab the bowl, gazing at them blandly.

"Little devil," she said.

"Did nobody notice you for five minutes?  Is that it?"  She lifted him
up, absently checking the stout denim seat of him for damp, and dusted
the flour from his hair, which had the same reddish tone as her own.

Marcus gave utterance.

"Bond Jewry," he said, stretching a hand like a plump pink starfish
toward the bowl.


"It's not jelly," Zillah said, translating expertly.

"And you're not having it.  Amanda, if we go to the warehouse, we'll
have to take him too.  Will that be safe?"

"Honestly, Zillah, the way you've got that child warded, I don't think
even Gladys could touch him," Amanda said.

"I doubt if a nuclear missile could."

Zillah checked a need to cry out.  Because he's all I've got!  and also
to explain that most of the protection was so that Mark and therefore
Mark's wife should never know that Marcus existed.

"Well, it's not so much what it might do to him, but what he could do
to it," she said.

"But if you think it's all right, let's go, shall we?"

With Marcus safely strapped into the back seat, Zillah drove fe rally
as she did many things while Amanda crouched down in the passenger seat
and invoked protection from several different pantheons, wishing she
had remembered the way Zillah drove before she suggested this.  Amanda
 did not care for driving herself.  It was useful that Zillah enjoyed
it.  Besides, she had sensed that Zillah was having a resurgence of
unhappiness lately and needed a break.  But this they hunted down a
lorry and overtook it on a bend; luckily there was nothing coming the
other way this was enough to make Amanda wish she had left Zillah by
the wayside two years ago.  If she killed them, what became of the
capsule, of their plans, of the world?

The road opened up straight.  Zillah stalked a motorcycle down it at
ninety miles an hour, only dimly aware of her sister's growing panic.

She always hoped that driving dangerously would take her mind off the
ceaseless tramp of misery inside it, but it did not.  Nor did having
Marcus.  It was not that he was a constant reminder of Mark: he was
another thing again.  When Marcus was born, she discovered it was quite
possible to love two people with the same intensity.  It was as if her
mind opened up another lobe, and there was Marcus in there,
passionately precious.  Alongside him, her feelings about Mark
remained, exactly the same.  They said you got over things in time, but
it was just like her, Zillah thought, to have missed the trick of that
somehow.  Two years had made absolutely no difference.  Maybe it had
something to do with the weirdness and intensity of that moment-She
caught the motorcyclist where the road bent, passing him well over to
the right, and absently dodged the Bedford van coming the other way.
Beside her, Amanda uttered a faint, brave gasp.  Marcus turned his head
calmly to watch the van driver waving two fingers about.  He liked the
way they always seemed to do that.

--the moment when she had seen Mark as a shadowy reflection of himself
at the bottom of a deep well.  And Paulie down there too, drinking him.
The horror of it was that she clearly knew Mark was allowing Paulie to
do this to him.  He was letting Paulie have all the eager, interesting,
vital parts of him the parts that laughed, or cried and Zillah was only
going to be allowed the pale, decorous, serious Mark.  Prim, she had
 often thought, when she first met him.  Priggish was a better word,
she thought now, as old, grey factory buildings began to flash by.

"Next left," Amanda said faintly.  Then the first big gate on the
right.  "

Zillah turned the wheel and they howled left into a side road.  She
slowed to sixty, not to miss the gate.  If ever she could bring herself
to tell Amanda about this vision of Mark in the well, she was sure
Amanda would tell her it was a true Seeing.  Amanda always said
Zillah's talent was enormous, but Zillah had never noticed it herself,
except just that once, when she knew she had seen the most important
fact about Mark there was and-There was gate.  She swung through it.
And there was another car parked just inside it, no time or space to
miss it.

--left him.  Zillah thought that something picked the car up and lifted
it bodily sideways.  At all events, they were stopped, facing the
warehouse, side by side with the other car, and not even scraped.

Just a little shaken.

"I'm grateful to rather a lot of gods," Amanda said.

"Whose bloody car is that?"  Zillah demanded.

"I'll see."  Amanda swept out of the car.  Zillah unbuckled Marcus and
ran after her, carrying Marcus, ready to lend her weight to Amanda's
fury if necessary.  And it might be necessary for once, she saw.  The
warehouse door slid aside under Amanda's angry hand, evidently
unlocked.

"And they took the wards off!"  Amanda snarled.

"Who is this fool?"

They clattered inside, into semi-dark.  Zillah at once felt that, for
some reason, everything was probably all right.  She could see the
capsule, a shrouded, nearly oblong thing almost the size of a bus,
bulking in the centre of the space, and she could tell it had not been
tampered with.  There was more than that.  A kind of strength grew up
around her from the floor.  Doubtfully, she conjectured that this
warehouse had been chosen because it happened to have been built over
some place of power.  She felt quite unworried as she followed Amanda
around to the far side of the capsule.

 A limber brown-clothed figure swung its long legs down from the crate
it had been sitting on.

"At las tV " Maureen!  " Anger, relief, and surprise made Amanda's
voice turn high and chilly.

"What the hell are you doing?  We nearly hit your damn car!  You know
perfectly well that none of the rest of you are supposed to come
here."

Maureen shrugged.

"Where's the harm?  This place is warded sky-high and I just had to
consult you over our final list for people to go.

Whatever time they go, it has to be soon.  Don't you understand?  And
I've got teams training in separate batches all over the country.

None of them know if they're going or not, or anything about what
they're really going for, and it's not fair on them or their families,
Amanda.  It's putting me under a lot of pressure, not being She stopped
as she saw Zillah behind Amanda and continued looking at Zillah over
Amanda's head, meaningfully.

Zillah lowered Marcus to the floor.  She did not like Maureen, and she
knew Maureen did not like her.  This could be rather unfortunate.

"I still fail to see why you had to come here," Amanda said.

"You could have phoned me, or consulted one of the other two.  They

both know all the people as well as I do."

"It's your baby you made the first selection," Maureen said, strolling
back and forth with her hands in the deep brown pockets of her coat.

"And Gladys isn't doing anything but watch Laputa-Blish these days.
Mark's up to the armpits calculating those tides Gladys found and
matching them with sidereal tables, trying to find us a window."  Her
eyes flicked across to Zillah.

"I went and tried to see Mark twice, as it happens.  The first time all
we did was have this long, long argument, because he said it wasn't
possible for them to go at full Moon, and I said it had got to be."

She knows!  Zillah thought.  She fancies Mark herself and she's letting
me know.

"I managed to persuade Mark in the end," Maureen continued, 'but it was
so late then, I had to leave.  The second time I went, that wife of his
 was there, and it was all cuddle up, cuddle up, and she wouldn't let
me have a moment alone with him--' She stopped as Marcus plodded
forward and stared up at her.  He pointed with a starfish finger.

"Do bitch," he stated.

"What?"  Maureen's head jerked downwards, and she bent over him like a
vulture.

"He says you're a witch," Amanda translated hastily.

"It's amazing how they know."


"Oh," Maureen said.

It became imperative to Zillah to get away from Maureen.  She scooped
Marcus up and carried him away through the porthole-like door of the
capsule.  Inside, it was suddenly all right again.  Immense safety had
been built into the thick walls of the thing strong Amanda safety,
which reminded Zillah of Amanda's house, particularly of her beautiful,
battered kitchen.  There were no windows.  The only light came from the
round door.  Soothed and calm and quiet, Zillah carried Marcus along
the central gangway, hearing nothing but the metallic ring of her
footsteps and seeing nothing much but bent, wriggly reflections of
herself and Marcus in the silver metal welded over the walls, ceiling,
and floor.  The thing had been a bus once.  The seats were now reduced
to twenty or so.  The rear end was partly blocked off with more silvery
metal, and Zillah conjectured that the machinery she could dimly see
through the places where the metal was missing had to be a life-support
system.  At the front end, the drivers' seats faced television screens
instead of windows, and there were controls of a sort, though not many.
Zillah paced back and forth.  As she went, she detached a long, coiling
gingerish hair from her head and then quietly removed a short, fine one
from Marcus.  Why she should do this, she had no idea.  When she had
both hairs, again impelled by reasons she did not understand, she
tucked both, the long and the short one, well down inside the
upholstery of a seat near the back.

 Meanwhile, Maureen said ferociously to Amanda, "Why is she here?  How
much have you told her?  You talk about me breaking security, but
honestlyV " Don't be stupid!  I've only told her the most general
outline," Amanda said with equal ferocity.  A certain amount of guilt
lay behind her fierceness.  While she had not given Zillah any real
details, she knew she had talked to her more than she should.  It had
been so hard, never telling David or the children anything about this
other, hidden side of her life; and when Zillah came to live with them,
who knew all about this hidden side, the relief of having someone to
talk to had certainly led Amanda to say far more than was quite
discreet.

"I've told her almost nothing!"  she snapped.  Tar less than you did by
babbling about windows at full Moon!  And what do you mean about Gladys
not listening to you?  "

"That was a smoke screen, you idiot!"  Maureen retorted.

"Besides, she didn't listen much."

"But what about the attack-magic?  It doesn't matter how many teams you
select, if they're going to arrive in LaputaBlish without anything to
And don't you ever mention Laputa-Blish in front of Zillah again!  All
I've told her is that there are hostile magicians in the next universe.
I haven't said a word about where!"

Maureen shrugged.

"I assumed you'd told her the lot.  All right.  You needn't glare.  And
Gladys has got the attack- magic ready.  She's calling it virus-magic
that was Mark's idea and they're both dead chuffed with it actually,
and they say it'll go through Laputa-Blish like wildfire as soon as it
touches anyone there."

"Good," said Amanda.  Both were cooling down a little.  Both found
themselves looking around and behind them.  Their anger had been
interacting with the delicate magics of the capsule.  They could feel
it building elemental things that could be disastrous.  They smiled at
each other, like bared teeth.

"Well, let's have a look at that list," Amanda said.

"Okay."  Maureen plunged a hand into her pocket.  Before she took the
 list out, she said, "I'm sending Flan Burke.  I can't really spare
her, but I think the team needs her vitality.  And I think Roz Collasso
will have to go.  I hate the woman, personally, but you can't deny
she's got a strong character.  Then Tarn Fairbrother is a must Tarn?"
exclaimed Amanda.

"He's a man!  It's unlike you not to notice, Maureen!"

"Jesus, Amanda!  You are a prig!"  Maureen said heatedly.

"We discussed it.  I thought even you agreed that an all-male world is
likely to have a fair share of gay men.  I'm sending two of our
best-looking boys.  Even you must have noticed that Tarn is bloody
good-looking!"

This was hopeless.  Around them on the dim floor, dust was beginning to
rise in little dancing fountains.  Maureen's copper hair and Amanda's
straight black locks were lifting, and there was a smell of ozone.

"Maureen," Amanda said decisively, 'you'd better get into your car and
trail us back to my house.  We'll discuss the list there.  If we argue
anymore here, this capsule's going to be possessed.  " And, so that
Maureen should have no chance to argue, Amanda strode to the open door
of the capsule, calling ringingly for Zillah.

"Sorry I spoke!"  Maureen muttered, plunging her hand back into her
pocket, where the typewritten list was already half-materialized.

"Back into hiding for now.  Mother knows best!"

Amanda took the wheel this time and drove slowly and considerately in
front of Maureen which probably made Maureen even madder than she was
already, Zillah thought.  Maureen drove a fast car, new and expensive.
Zillah could tell she hated crawling.  Zillah sat in the back seat of
Amanda's car, because Marcus seemed to want her there, and kept her
thoughts carefully on Maureen raging in third gear behind.  It served
to push that curious, primitive piece of magic she had performed in the
capsule right down to the bottom of her mind.  It was necessary not to
know about that, though she had no idea why.  She wished that the sight
 of Maureen's furious face could push the misery out of her mind too
but nothing did much for that.  And I'm so sick of it!

Zillah thought.  I'd like to be shot of it for good, though that's a
sort of death, and not fair on Marcus.  She found her mind repeating
this.  A sort of death .  a sort of death .  Anyway, back to Maureen. I
think she's a bitch.  Swaggering into the warehouse and behaving as if
she's in charge of the whole operation.  Thinks she's plenty officer
quality, doesn't she?  I can just see what it would be like if she
really was in charge.  Zillah let her mind run on this.  It was better
than thinking of death.  Maureen strutting, sauntering, hitching her
long, limber legs about, taking all the best men for her own use ..

It was during this flight of fancy that the High Head of With made his
routine, delicate contact.  He smiled.  Then he hooked Maureen's
boyfriend out of the ether and told him to get off his haunches and get
to work on Maureen.

 Mark found a window for the next full Moon.  It was a very small one,
but it would serve, provided everything was synchronized to the second.
Laputa-Blish would then be, as far as Gladys could tell, at a high
point in one of its eccentric, wobbling circuits of its parent
universe, and slightly inclined towards Earth.  In this position, the
capsule could clear the pirate de fences and reach Laputa-Blish without
spending too long in the dubious interstitial stuff between universes.
That was important.  The moment it left Earth's universe, the circles
of magic users sending it would lose touch with it.  It would have to
rely on its own in built de fences and no one wanted it to have to do
that for too long.

According to Mark, who had been strenuously calculating for most of a
month now, the window was all right, but the other influences were
iffy.  Much that was good was streaming in the inner spheres, but there
was strong, obscure opposition too.

"Perhaps we should wait for a more favourable Moon?"  he said
doubtfully.

The others vetoed this.  There was, no one quite knew why, a general
feeling that it was now or never.  Mark, even as he gave in, admitted
to having the feeling too as if the pirates were breathing down their
necks and would read over their shoulders what they were doing if they
left the attack to wait any longer.

Gladys and Maureen, with occasional crisp interventions from Amanda,
devised a very strong double ritual, whose purpose was cleverly hidden
from all but the four of them.  After that, as Gladys said, they had
reason to be glad that the Ring was so well organized.  The Outer Ring
accepted the ritual without question and went to work on the mass of
 detailed arrangements whereby it was distributed and timed to
synchronize all over the country.  Gladys, as always, gave marvelling
chuckles.  The groups of magic users were so various.  The circles of
serious, educated witches were only a small part of them, and to them
the word could be handed down openly; but there were hereditary covens,
who required secret negotiations; groups of amateurs who thought they
were playing independently at magic, who needed to be nudged to do the
right thing at the right time;

spiritualists to be hinted at to meet and perform a specially adapted
rite, which they did not see as a rite at all; individual magicians who
did not know they were being organised;

prayer groups, mediums, dowsers, meditators, and also numbers of people
who imagined themselves to be charlatans and cheats, all of whom had to
be induced to put forth power in a certain direction at the same time;
and last but not least, there were the several mighty Orders of trained
magicians, who needed very careful handling indeed.

A few of these did acknowledge the authority of the Ring, but most
regarded themselves as independent priest hoods and would have been
utterly outraged to know that the ritual they had ordained for the next
full Moon was not ordained by their own need and will.

"Bless their hearts," Gladys chuckled, when the last major Order made
it known it had decreed a Grand Rite for that night.

"They do know their job, those Outer Nine."

The real disappointment was that there had not been time to organize
witchcraft in the rest of the world.  Only where some of the great
Orders were international was there any hope of cooperation.  The
witches of the continent had already planned a propitiation of their
own.  Australia and New Zealand were working on the rising sea.  Asia
gave vague answers which were not easily understood.  The witches in
America replied regretfully that they were having hell's own job
holding down a major earthquake, but assured the Ring of their
goodwill.  Africa did not reply at all.

"Damn!"  said Maureen.

"I wish we dared explain what we're really trying to do."

 "Most of them are using power that night anyway," Gladys said, 'and
that should help.  Goodwill is a power on its own.  Don't fuss,
Maureen, and have you got down the exact minute we want each of those
Names said?  Well, don't look like that!  I only asked.  "

"I'm sorryV Maureen said irritably.

"I've a lot on my mind, what with Flan leaving to go on the capsule.
Joe's behaving strangely too.  I'm under a lot of pressure.  I--' She
was interrupted by Amanda telephoning to say that there was a hitch in
the capsule's directional jets, and could someone get hold of that
strange girl who had worked on the French space programme, quickly
please!

Zillah felt the mounting excitement, although she knew nothing of the
details.  It's going to take off at full Moon, she thought, quite
calmly, and then I shan't have this misery anymore.  On the rare
occasions when she let herself think of those two hairs she had planted
in the capsule, it seemed to her that they were designed to carry her
unhappiness out of this world with them.  In fact, it was as if her
misery were already there, installed in those two hairs.  She cooked,
cleaned Marcus and the house, washed clothes for Amanda and her
children, shopped for socks for David, and talked cheerfully with
everyone, all without the dark background of misery she had been used
to for so long.  A sort of death, she thought, by substitute.  She felt
rather empty.

The night before the launch, those who had built the capsule tested
everything carefully and packed up their tools for the last time.

Each in his or her way gave it a blessing.  Some simply patted the
stained metal skin.  Some said things like, "You're awful, but I love
you!"  or "Hope you make it, bus!"  Others were more serious.  One
prayed.  Another poured champagne from a mini bottle.  Then they
departed, to journey to the various sites of power where they had to be
tomorrow.

Amanda kept vigil there, just in case.

In the morning the finally selected team arrived, eighteen of them,
 very cheerful and healthy, with their bags, lunch packs, woolly hats,
and knapsacks.  None of them knew quite what to expect.  The rumour
most of them believed was that they were to storm a monastery in
Greece.  Most of them were very surprised to see who the others were.

"Well, fancy you as a shock trooper!"  Roz Collasso said to Tarn
Fairbrother.

They were even more surprised when Amanda locked the warehouse door and
told them why they were there, adding that none of them were to leave
the building from then on.  They saw the point of that.  It would be
fatal if the pirates were to learn of the plan now.  Besides, they were
all dedicated.  Each of them had, at Gladys's special request, made
their wills before they set out.  But they still did not quite believe
it, and they spent a lot of time laughing.  Tarn doing his gay walk
made them fall about.

Sobriety set in during the early evening when someone suggested that

the capsule ought to have a name.  Somehow, discussing what name made
the whole thing seem more real.

"It used to be a bus."

"What does that make it?  The Magical Mystery Tour Coach?  Hold very
tight, please, for your tour of the multi verse

"Call it Omnibus."

"Try again!"

"Well, omnibus does mean everything."

"Sky-High Bus?"

"What about the Flying Coach?"

'/ know!  " said someone.

"The Celestial Omnibus!"

That name pleased them all, so they christened it with coffee, unaware
that it had already been done with champagne, and ran through yet again
the routine for using the virus-magic when they got to LaputaBlish.

A little before moonrise a motorcyclist roared up to the warehouse door
and, when Amanda opened it, carefully handed her four packages, two
blue and two red.  Gladys had insisted on there being four.

 "The two halves have to stay apart until the last minute," she had
said.

"It's too potent to handle any other way.  And just two packets is
daft.  I'm going to send a back-up pair."

Amanda gave a telephone number to the motorcyclist, and he roared away,
first to phone through a code word and then to join his own coven.  The
packages Amanda gave to Helen, Judy, Francine and Laura, all of whom
were stable, proficient adepts who were unlikely to panic.  After that,
she had to leave herself, locking the door behind her, to fling herself
into her car and to drive in a manner not so unlike Zillah's to a
secret site of great power about forty miles away.

Her going was the signal for the storm troopers to climb into the
Celestial Omnibus and sit there, tense and ready.  Judy and Lynn
settled at the controls, and Roz stood by the door to seal it.  Tam and
Sony tested the oxygen supply yet again and found to their relief that
it still worked.  After which they only had to wait.

By this time, not only were innumerable apparently unconnected small
groups gathering in rooms all over Britain, but dark-clothed persons
were assembling in stone circles, woods, and other places of power from
Land's End to John o' Groats, whispering and occasionally flashing a
flashlight to make sure that things were where they should be.  Lights
were not supposed to be shown at this stage.

The Moon rose as Amanda arrived at the secret site.  It gave her enough
light to see Mark in the pale majesty of his robes, preparing to begin.
Paulie was with him.  She had chosen glittering black robes.

Well, she would, Amanda thought.  Maureen was there, in white and
green, looking very lovely.  And there stood Gladys, bulging out of a
disgraceful maroon Burberry, with Jimbo scratching himself in the grass
at her feet.  Nothing would ever persuade Gladys to dress up, but
Amanda sometimes suspected her of dressing down.  There, too, were the
nine of the Outer Ring, who had arrived commendably promptly,
considering they knew nothing of how tight the schedule really was.

 /!  do think we should tell them what it's all about," Amanda had
objected when they were discussing the schedule.

"Afterwards," Gladys said with great firmness.

"The traitor's in there with them.  We don't want to give her or him a
chance to ruin everything."

The four of the Ring drew together to begin.

"Christ!  I'm nervous!"

Mark whispered.

"Suppose the capsule just vanishes into the void!"

"Or blows up," said Maureen.

"Hush.  It'll get there," said Gladys.

Amanda said nothing, but her private fear was that the Celestial
Omnibus would still be there in the warehouse when she unlocked the
door in a few hours' time.  But the ritual had started.  Almost at the
same instant, other groups joined in all over the country.  Amanda felt
the building of power as she carefully cleared her mind.

Zillah, at home in Amanda's house, felt the build of power as a great
void, waiting to be filled.  In some strange way, she was the void, and
ached with it.  Then, as the first Name was spoken, nearly in chorus,
from the lands all around her, it brought her a sudden vision of Mark.
He was not as she usually remembered him, but dressed in robes with the
Moon shining pale on his hair.  Idiotically, this hieratic image
carried with it an acute sensory memory.  Mark's body hair.  Mark had a
surprising amount of hair on his body for such a pale, slender man, and
it was not fair, like his hair, but dark like his eyebrows, and all of
it kitten- soft.  Remembering the feel of it gave Zillah a scathing
wrench.  The misery was back, thundering in her head, worse than
ever.

"Cut it outV she said aloud, because it made her furious not to be able
to forget.  And her furious exclamation made her see what she had to
do.  She had to cut it out properly, make it a sort of death, the
biggest and cleanest break possible.  Only that would lance the boil.

Call it what you like, only stop it.

 She wrote as much on the back of an envelope for Amanda.  Then she
went upstairs and picked Marcus up out of his crib, he mumbling
sleepily and slobbering a little against her neck.  She stood with him

in her arms, facing the direction she sensed the capsule to be in.

The rituals were building now, and she could feel the power.  It was as
if she stood in a large, faintly glowing space, where, twining towards
her, she could see two misty filaments of her own hair and of Marcus's.
She waited.  Power grew.  It grew in Zillah, too, rising to surround
and fill her, as it always seemed to do when she had real need.  She
had so much, in seconds, that she knew she could do whatever there was
need for.  She could choose not to do this.  But she chose.  She hooked
the two filaments to her with a little finger, which was all she could
spare from holding Marcus, and made them draw her in.

There was so much power there that it was easy.  Quickly, coolly,
without stress, like sliding around a half-open door, she found
herself, still holding Marcus, standing in the aisle of the capsule,
quite near the back.  Behind her, the metal that held the machinery was
now a complete silvery wall, with a sound like an electric fan coming
from it.  The space in front of her was full of people, many of whom
she did not know.  They all looked very tense.  Marcus felt something
had happened and sleepily uttered a small enquiring noise.

Several heads turned.  Zillah slipped into an empty seat quickly and
apologetically, like someone arriving late in church, and drew the
sense of her own insignificance tightly around herself and Marcus.

She was nothing, nothing to bother about at all.  It was something she
had often found useful, this sense of not being worth anyone's trouble.
It worked again here.  The heads turned away.  Nothing there after
all.

Outside, the gale of power being raised was translating into a physical
wind, beating around the warehouse, causing hair and robes to stream,
 all over the country.  The Names had mostly been spoken.  The time was
coming when something should happen if it was going to.

The Celestial Omnibus jerked.

T think we're away!  " whispered someone.

Nothing else.

It isn't going to work!  Zillah thought.  What a fool I shall look! Oh,
go, go, go, go!  She pushed, urgently and wildly in her mind, at the
solid lump of the bus.  Again some wild part inside her rose to her
need.  She felt it flare around her as she pushed.  But this tin box
full of people was so heavy!  Oh, go, go, go, go!  she told it.

Then came the heart of the ritual.  Lights blazed in many hundreds of
circles, and fire streamed in high places.  Inside the capsule, there
was a sudden definite sense of floating, almost of weightlessness.

"This is itV someone said.

As the last great effort went out, Gladys, wearing her Aspect of the
Old Woman, turned to Amanda in her Aspect of the Mother and gave a
slight nod.  The effort was double- phased.  The first was intended to
send the capsule off and there was not a soul participating who did not
feel that something had moved, been sent, gone and the second phase was
to raise the Great Wards around the British Isles and if possible
around the world.  Mark felt the Wards of Pridain rise.  He, too,
nodded at Amanda.  Now nothing of evil intent could penetrate the
country; but no one could tell if the world was warded.  It had never
needed to be done before.

 It was an exhausting night.  Maureen was tottering with weariness by
the time she climbed the stairs to her London flat.  Dawn had come
already.  Unnatural-seeming sunshine filled the street.  A few hours'
sleep, Maureen thought, setting her keys into the locks with unsteady
hands, and she might be all right for dance practice this evening.  It
ought to be all right.  Her weariness was mostly the weariness of
elation.  That great gale of power that had lifted the capsule and the
wards together kept blowing through her mind, exultingly.  What a
feeling\.  It was the feeling that she dwelt on, though it had been
good, too, arriving at the warehouse to find the capsule gone.

Maureen was rather pleased that she had had the forethought to visit
the place when the capsule was still there.  She at least knew that
there had been something there to vanish.  It was not so with the nine
of the Outer Ring.

They had gone there in a procession of cars.  The nine had been very
annoyed.  And hurt.  And incredulous.  Poppa's strident voice still
rang in Maureen's ears.  Why had they not been told?  What traitor? 
They were welcome to take her to any sphere of truth they pleased, and
they would see she was At One with the Ring.  Et cetera.  And to be
shown an empty warehouse convinced nobody of anything.  Maureen kept
remembering Paulie standing beside Mark in a white fury.  Luckily
Amanda had had the sense to take some photographs of the capsule, but
what with Amanda's total incompetence with a camera and the emanations
of power in the warehouse, the prints she handed around were both
blurred and crooked, and they mollified no one.  Amanda had further
 irritated Maureen by the way her head went up and an expression of woe
and worry kept crossing her face whenever she thought no one was
looking.  Amanda thought something had gone wrong.  Did she now? 
Amanda would claim this special sensitivity and most of the time when
Maureen checked up on her worries, she found Amanda was just making a
great fuss about nothing.

In the end Maureen left Mark and Amanda to deal with the Outer Ring and
drove home.  She absolutely had to sleep.  Not even a cup of cocoa
first.  Just fall into bed.

She opened her door into a blue cloud of cigarette smoke.  The curtains
of her living room were drawn and the lights on.  Faugh.  And there was
bloody Joe sitting on her sofa leering at her with a can of beer in his
hand and a loaded ashtray between his feet.  He's been drinking again,
she thought.  She hadn't the energy to cope.

"Out," she said, holding the door open with one hand and gesturing with
the other.

"Come on.  You're going.  I need to sleep.  How did you get in here
anyway?"

He shook his head.

"No.  I'm not going.  Neither are you.  We're staying here together."

"Don't give me--' Maureen was beginning, when the door moved heavily
under her hand and shut itself with a dull boom.  She whirled toward
it.  There were wards down on it, preventing her from touching it.

Strong wards, weird ones, ones she did not know.  She whirled back.

Joe continued to grin.  There was something odd about his face.

"You won't find you can break those wards.  They're the wards of With.
I've got them all around this flat.  Nobody's going in or out, and
nobody's going to hear any kind of call you make for help.  So you
might as well tell me all about this project of yours now.  It'll save
us both a lot of trouble."

I don't believe this!  she thought.  She was so tired.

"What the hell are you talking about?"  As she spoke she realized he
was right about the wards round the flat.  She could feel them hemming
the place in, thick and heavy and strange to her.

 Joe stood up.  He was thickset, black-haired and with black stubble on
his chin, but he was not as drunk as she had assumed.

Perhaps not drunk at all.  She wondered how she had ever fancied him.

"This project of yours he said.

"I waited until you'd done whatever it was, because I knew you'd be
easier to catch then.  Now I want you to tell me exactly what you've
been doing so that I can report to the High Head."

"You're raving," said Maureen.

"No way," he said.

"And don't try any tricks with witchcraft.  I learnt my mageworking on
With, and I know things you've never even dreamt of."

"The same goes for me!"  she snapped.

"You've no idea of half the things I know!"  And, as he took a heavy
step toward her, she added, "And don't think you can overpower me
physically, either.  I'm a professional dancer, remember.  I'm much
stronger than I look."

Joe gave her a look of contempt that somehow deepened the strangeness
she had seen in his face.

"I know that.  I came prepared to wait it out.  Look.  Take a look."
The sharp smell of his sweat mingled with the smoke-fug as he moved
sideways away from her, always making sure not to turn his back, she
noticed, and kicked open the doors to the kitchen and the bathroom.

Maureen moved, equally warily, to the centre of the room.  She was so
tired that she seemed to be functioning on animal instincts alone.

Her main feeling was exasperation and outrage.  The kitchen was piled
with boxes of groceries.  She could see fruit, vegetables, potato
crisps.  The bath was full of packs of lager.  How typical of Joe!

"See?"  he said.

"We'll be quite comfortable while we wait for you to tell me.  I got
all this stuff mostly so that you'd see I'm in earnest.  But it would
be much easier if you'd tell me everything straightaway."  Still
keeping himself facing her, he retreated sideways and settled himself
back in the corner of the sofa.

"Well?"

There were reserves of strength in everyone, Maureen told herself.

 She ought still to have a charge of power from the ritual too.  She
drew on both, or tried to, and told herself she felt better for it.
Tiss off," she said.  I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do," he said.

"You've just performed a very big ritual of some kind.  I want to know
what it was supposed to do.  The real world needs to know.  They sent
me over here to find out what you were doing, and find out is what I'm
going to do.  I don't want to be stuck in your stinking world for any
longer than I have to be."

He's a spy from the pirate universe, Maureen thought.  She was beyond
either surprise or alarm.  The thought came to her simply as a sort of
summing up of all the things she had seen since she first unlocked her
front door.  She thought of the capsule.  It might be in Laputa-Blish
by now, or it might not.  No one knew how long a transition between
universes should take, or even whether they had got the transition
right.  Even assuming the very best, that the capsule had got there
almost instantly and the team had succeeded in entering that fortress,
the virus-magic needed time in which to take effect.  They had had six
hours.  They needed at least six more.  I'll just have to wait it out,
she thought.

"Damned if I tell you anything," she said.

"Really?"  Joe said.

"You have to sleep sometime.  I can work on your head then."

"So do you have to sleep," she said.  But her spirit sank.  She was so
weary.  There was a sort of hollow weakness under her breastbone that
she suspected was despair.

"It seems to be deadlock," she said, and seated herself grimly facing
him at the other end of the sofa.  He gazed at her jeeringly.  And she
realized what the odd thing was about his face.  There were all sorts
of foreign thoughts in it.  She could see the alien consciousness
behind his face pushing the features she had thought she knew well into
a completely new shape.  She tried to tell herself that this did not
scare her not at all.  She was just so tired.

 IV

 With Tod was not happy.  It did not make him feel any better to know
he had not expected to be happy in With.  He was only there because his
father had insisted on it.

"It's your legal obligation, I'm afraid, son," the Pentarch told him.

/! wouldn't bother you with it if it wasn't.  Hated my stint in the
place.  Stupid rules and out-of-date notions.  They say it's even more
of a back number these days.  Lost its point, to my mind, as soon as
all the new technology came in.  But the law still says that the heir
to a Pentarchy has to have his year in With.  If you don't, you don't
qualify as my heir, son, and the king could roll me up as well as you.
He might, too.  I've had several polite inquiries from the Royal Office
about you.  You'll have to go.  "

Tod liked and trusted his old father.  He got on with him, even though
the old man behaved like a swine to Tod's mother.  So he did not make
the fuss he might have done.  He gave up his lovely, happy, easygoing
life his expensive car, his good-looking girls, his racing and antiques
collecting, his first-class food he was an adult, for the gods' sake,
and could afford to have these things!  and entered the austere regime
of With without doing more than grumble savagely to himself.

Now, nearly two months later, Tod kept wondering how his father had
been able to stand it, even as a young man.  Poor old August!  he kept
thinking.  How had he stood the soldierly bunk rooms, for a start?  Not
to speak of the food.  Drink forget it!  Anything but weak pass et beer
was against the rules because it disturbed the vibes, so they said.
There was a rule against almost everything enjoyable on these grounds.
It irked Tod almost to fury at times, even though he had been prepared
for it.

 What he had not been prepared for was to find his fellow servicemen
were with two exceptions complete louts.  Stupid louts, too.  That had
surprised Tod, because he had heard that only the best young men
qualified for With.  But these were not only stupid, but the kind of
louts who resented Tod for his high birth and got at him for it
whenever they could.  They did not seem to grasp that Tod's birth was
nobody's fault, or that Tod could have melted them to little pools of
body fat if he'd wanted.  So far Tod had refrained from doing anything
to them.  But it was severe temptation all the more so because the
servicemen were never out of one another's company.  The cadets and the
qualified Brothers kept themselves priggishly separate and would barely
speak to Tod and his like.

Well, that was no loss.  Except that it probably made the days in With
even more boring though nothing could be more boring than the mageworks
servicemen were required to perform.  Take this very moment.

They were all ranged along the wide window of the lowest observation
room, sighting the specula for patterns in the ether.  This was
something Tod had been trained from the cradle to do, like almost
everything else in the curriculum.  Old August, having made sure that
his son indeed carried the birthright, had had him tutored by experts
from the moment he could walk.  But nobody took any notice of that.

The reverse, in fact.  Their Mage Instructor, a po-faced fellow called
Brother Wilfrid, told Tod on the first day, "We're going to treat you
just like everyone else."  When people said that, in Tod's experience,
they meant worse than everyone else and so it had proved.  Brother
Wilfrid, just like the louts, resented Tod's birth and smugly punished
him for it.  While the louts struggled with mageworks that ought, in
more intelligent hands, to have been at least slightly interesting. Tod
was stuck with base calculus and childish observations like the ones he
was making at the moment.  These were so easy that Tod could do the
whole thing in his mind without the help of specula.  He could even
 spot a growing disturbance in the ether, off to one side, troubling
several bands of the Wheel, which nobody else seemed to have noticed.
He was going to have to render himself odious to the louts by pointing
it out soon.  Brother Wilfrid would, of course, regard this as showing
off.

Tod sighed, and bent over the instrument he did not need.  Dreary,
boring days of schoolboy exercises and mass rituals, and still ten
months to go.  The rituals were perhaps not as bad as Tod had expected.
This latest High Head little as Tod liked him seemed to have done quite
a bit of work bringing the ritual side of things up-to-date, even
though he had done nothing at all to change the archaic rules of the
Brotherhood.  Take the celibacy rule, now.  That was idiotic, because
no one had any chance to break it.  Tod had expected to find that
particular rule the hardest of all, but in fact, without any girls
passing daily before him, he found he missed them far less than he had
supposed he would.  It was not as if he had left behind someone he was
passionately in love with that would have hurt.  No, the irksome part
of that rule was the inevitable advances one got from mages and
brethren alike.  Ridiculously, Tod had not been prepared for that; but
he had, from very early on, learned to carry in his aura the message I
am heterosexual at all times, day and night.  It was a pity Philo, the
gualdian boy, could not seem to learn to do that too or maybe Philo's
incredible politeness stopped him anyway.  Tod suspected that Philo was
building up a horribly large list of senior folk out to get him, either
because Philo had politely told them no, or because they were scared
rigid that Philo was going to report the passes they had made to higher
authority.

All right.  Tod thought.  So I'm not the only one having a hard time. I
still don't have to like it.

He had been rather thrown together with Philo and Josh, the centaur
lad.  They were the three different ones, and they were all finding it
tough here.  Poor Josh he went around perpetually bewildered.  Up to
now.  Tod had not realized how much centaur magework and teaching
 differed from human.  The With system was human-based, and Josh could
not grasp it at all.  Everyone thought he was stupid.  The louts made
fun of him all the time.  They were laughing at Josh at the other end
of the room at the moment.  It sounded as if there was another
practical joke starting.

Ah gods!  Tod thought savagely.  This was all I needed!  He had many
times tried to conjecture why in hell spoke name the law required him
to come to this armpit of the universe.  It was a very archaic law. The
only modern justification he had been able to come up with was that all
this adversity was supposed to toughen his soul.  To Tod's mind you did
not make a soul tough by walking all over it:

you just made dents.

And all the time he had this nagging anxiety.  The time rate was so
much slower in With that nearly three years would pass before he could
get home, years in which his father would get even older.

August Gordano was not young: he had been nearly sixty when Tod was
born.  Tod was terrified he would get home to find his father dead.

Then ..

Yells and laughter erupted at the other end of the room.  Tod looked.

There was poor Josh inside a ring of louts, the ringleader as usual
being Rax with the broken nose.  Josh was standing helplessly up to the
withers in a pile of horse manure or it looked like horse manure, but
it was evidently as hard as concrete.  Josh was trying to buck his way
out, but much to the mirth of his tormentors, the stuff was holding him
fast.  As Tod looked, someone took the joke further, picked up a ball
of the stuff and flung it at Josh.  Josh was quite unprepared.  He
screamed and put both arms over his face.  The next second he was being
pelted, bowed over, with blood streaming down his face.  It looked as
if one of his eyes was smashed.  Tod left his instrument and ran.
Philo, who was nearer, ran ahead of him.  Tod shouted to him not to,
but he saw Philo plunge up the pile of concrete dung and try to spread
himself out in front of Josh.  Tod heard the thud of concrete hitting
his body.

 "Right!  That bloody does it!"  Tod said.  Still running, he called up
his birthright.  It was intensely strong, here in With , as they had
warned him it would be.  He took hold of the big, dynamic rhythms of
the citadel and used them to thrust Philo away to the far wall.  Then
he hurled that concrete dung in all directions in a near-explosion,
scoring a hit on a lout with almost every ball.  Josh burst loose from
the pile and staggered about with his hands to his face, only
half-conscious.  Tod took further energies, formed them into spears of
healing, and beamed them at Josh in strong thrusts.  But at this point
the other servicemen turned on Tod in a pack, and he had to leave off
to defend himself.

He didn't dare kill them.  He fought them instead.  He felt like a
fight anyway.  He made sure each one he hit got a fair voltage of
electricity with the blow.  For a joyous few seconds he was inside a
pandemonium of fighting bodies, blows, screams, and swearing, with
stinking cobbles rolling about underfoot and electricity crackling and
arcing all over the place.  Then, as was to be expected.  Duty Mages
and Senior Brothers stormed into the room from all directions.

A fair amount of stasis was cast.  Tod could have broken it, had he
tried, but someone had hit him in the stomach the instant before, and
he did not feel like trying anything just then.

When he felt more himself, he was as he supposed he should have
expected being blamed for everything.  Rax had run the street gangs of
Praslau before coming to With.  He was an expert in shifting blame.

Besides, after the healing Tod had thrown at Josh, nobody thought there
was too much wrong with his eye, and Philo, though dazed, was only
bruised.  They were marched off to Healing Horn.  Tod, licking a
swelling lip, had to stand and endure a po-faced lecture from Brother
Wilfrid.  He stood.  He endured, wondering anxiously throughout whether
he had been in time to save the sight in Josh's eye, and controlled his
temper while Brother Wilfrid lectured on about the damage done to the
vibrations of With.  Tod might have got away merely with that lecture
 had not Brother Wilfrid then said, "And thanks to your folly and
aggression, Galpetto could well lose an eye " I saved his eye, you
fool!  " Tod roared at him.

"Don't give me that po-faced rot!"

Brother Wilfrid's breath went in.  His eyes and his mouth became
vicious lines.

"You don't speak to people like that here.  No one here is your
servant."

"No, thank the Goddess," said Tod.

"If you were my servant, I'd sack you for sanctimonious stupidity. Plus
incompetence."

That did it.  Tod was marched off in disgrace before the High Head
himself.  And naturally the system was that Brother Wilfrid nipped in
through the veil and had his say before Tod got near the High Head.

"Well, what have you got to say?"  the High Head asked.  He was in worn
blue fatigues at that moment, and his office was spread all over with
tide charts, but Tod found him unexpectedly impressive even so.

"As what I've got to say is probably the opposite of everything Brother
Wilfrid told you," Tod said angrily, "I think I'll pass on that."

The High Head surveyed Tod's incipient black eye and swollen lip, his
disordered hair and aggressive anger, and tried to conquer his
prejudice against Tod and be equitable.

"Servicemen are always brawling," he said.

"I'm prepared to believe your cause was just.  But you're not here for
fighting, or the damage to the centaur's eye."

Tod ground his teeth audibly at this.

"You are here for causing acute disturbance in every band and spoke of
the Wheel.  Can't you feel what you've done?  If not, look."  The High
Head gestured to his large mirror, which was boiling and tumbling with
the mixed rainbows of a large cosmic disorder.

"You did that, Gordano, by raising wild magic."

The injustice of this was almost too much for Tod.

"With respect, sir, I did not do any such thing.  First, I did not use
wild magic, because I have been very well trained from as far back as I
 can remember.  What I did was to draw on my birthright in the ways I
have been taught.  Second, sir, that cosmic storm was brewing at least
an hour ago.  I saw it on the speculum quite clearly."

Then why did you not report it?  " asked the High Head.

"Because I assumed Observer Horn is full of highly trained Brothers who
would report it long before I did," said Tod.

"There is no need to be insolent," said the High Head.

"Yes there is," said Tod.

"If I speak normally in this damned joyless place, some po-faced prat
ups and tells me I'm being insolent.  So if I'm insolent, it ought to
work the other way round.  Sir."

They stared at each other with considerable dislike, while the High
Head wondered which of twenty scathing things to say.  And which of
thirty condign punishments to order.  None of them seemed nasty enough
for this nasty piece of work, who could nearly put a serviceman's eye
out and then show no contrition whatsoever, who refused to acknowledge
he had caused a cosmic storm, who The upper off-centre mirror spoke,
blazing the sigil of Observer Horn.


"Sir, there appears to be a supply capsule out of control outside the
atmosphere."

The Observer sigil was almost instantly joined by sigils in every other
mirror.  That of Housekeeping blazed, Defence, Maintenance, Observer
again.  Healing, Calculus .. Each sigil brought a new voice, speaking
in crisp sequence.

"Housekeeping here, sir.  There's a capsule outside the air that's
definitely not one of ours."

"Defence Horn, requesting permission to explode a strange capsule, sir.
We divine some kind of foreign life aboard it which could be
dangerous."

"This is Maintenance, sir.  There's a capsule plunging straight at our
atmosphere.  If it gets any closer, it could breach us, sir."

 "Sir, we are now in contact with a mind in distress inside the
supposed supply capsule.  Person seems human and says the controls
don't answer."

"Healing, Healing.  Be wary.  There are dead humans aboard a capsule
outside.  Be wary.  It could be plague."

"Calculus Horn reports, sir, with some shame, that the cause of the
current cosmic storm appears to be a rogue capsule that entered With
from elsewhere in the multi verse some twenty seconds ago."

"Ritual Horn, sir.  Be wary.  Alien magework is affecting our efforts
to damp the storm."

Tod gazed from sigil to sigil, almost admiringly.  What a display of
order and efficiency.  No sigil occupied a glass already in use by
another.  The voices spoke precisely in turn.  It was all so cool that
he had to force himself to realize that this must be an emergency, that
there must be people in bad trouble outside the citadel.

The High Head snapped an order to Defence Horn to hold off their attack
for a while and drew in the air the symbol for the emergency rescue of
a transport.  As artificial elementals sped howling down the corridors,
screaming their orders to the heads and other ranks of the Horns
involved, he swung around to Tod again.  What those people out there
thought they were doing in this capsule, he had no idea, but Edward's
message had not been lost on him.  Corpses.  Possibly plague.

Good.

"Gordano, you go to the upper rescue port and tell them to put you into
a safety suit.  I want you to be first man to board that capsule.  Your
punishment is to deal with whatever you find inside it."

 They had not expected the weightlessness.  It happened after the
second heavy jolt.  Zillah found herself rising above her seat and
grabbed for Marcus as he floated away from her, still asleep.  The
space ahead of her was full of floating bodies, lying in the air at all
angles, some threshing about, some clinging to seats.  Something was on
fire down there, in four different places.  People were making frantic
efforts to beat flames out with hands that suddenly worked to different
rules, and rebounding to the ceiling which was now a side wall to
Zillah with the force of their efforts.

T told them I told her so!  " Roz Collasso was crying out.

"The place does have de fences They've gone and burnt our virus-magic!
Now what do we do?"

Along the sideways ceiling Zillah had an upside-down glimpse of Judy's
arm, ridged with straining tendons, shaking and shaking at the woman
beside her.  It was Judy's voice doing all the screaming.

"Something's wrong with Lynne!  Somebody help me!  None of these
controls workV A small, energetic person swooped down to Judy.  Flan
Burke, Zillah thought.  Judy's screams redoubled.

"Flan, Flan, Lynne's dead\ I don't know what to do\ Somebody hell!"
There was the sound of a smacking blow.  Flan's body came arcing up
again with the force of it.

"Shut up, Judy!"

The fires must have gone out.  The metal space was murky with smoke,
and a lot of people were coughing, including Judy, who was coughing and
sobbing together, but there were no flames anymore.  Everyone was
sinking slowly towards what had been the right-hand wall.  Some small
pull of gravity seemed to be coming from there.

 "We're falling," said the big black girl, among coughing and
retchings.

Tailing where7' demanded Roz.

Judy's voice was now low and grinding.

"How the hell should J know?

You can hit me all you like.  Flan, but it won't do any good.  This
screen's no use at all.  Look, if you don't believe me!  "

Among the crowding bodies, Zillah had a slowly rotating view of a
screen over the two empty drivers' seats, alight with meaningless
coloured whorls.  Whatever they were receiving, it was not in the usual
manner of VDUs, but in wide-spaced, wavy bands which changed width
perpetually.

"And our viruses are gone," Judy said dully.

"And we don't know where we are."

"What do we do, supposing we are in Laputa-Blish?"  asked a girl with a
stiff, gangly body.

"Do what we came to do without the virus, of course, you stupid bitch,"
Flan Burke said as she rotated, knees to chin, through Zillah's view.
She looked both fierce and comfortable.

"Do you think we came for a holiday?"

Tian's right," Roz proclaimed.

"We mount an attack regardless."

The walls, seats, and ceiling had been rotating spirally about them as
they talked, spinning everyone into a kind of plait along the length of
the Celestial Omnibus.  Now the motion changed again.  Zillah found
herself falling, gently and inevitably, together with half the floating
company, toward the rear of the capsule.

"What's going on now?"  someone squawked from the other end of the
aisle.  That aisle now stood up from Zillah like a tube, and people
hung there at the other end with outspread arms, inexplicably.

"Rotation, that's all.  We must be flipping over and over.  Gives us
gravity at both ends."

Whoever said that must be right, Zillah thought, as her feet landed on
the silvery wall that concealed the life support.  She could hear it
 hissing beyond the metal.  She hoped it was meant to hiss.  It sounded
nastily like a gas leak.  She had a vivid vision of the capsule turning
over and over in space, perhaps endlessly.  She had been mad to bring
Marcus.  He was stirring and mumbling against her shoulder, disturbed
by the hissing and the changes of gravity perhaps also by Zillah's own
rising panic.  In a moment she was going to be screaming like Judy, and
that would wake Marcus.

She soothed him and she rocked him, trying to throw her panic into the
distance, out, away, into whatever appalling emptiness surrounded the
capsule.  Marcus calmed.  He slept steadily again.  Zillah tried to
convince herself that she was calm, too, by turning to the young man
who had landed curled up on the backrest of the seat sticking out of
the wall beside her.  He was nice-looking.  She did not know him well,
but she thought his name was Tarn Tarn Fairbrother, or something like
that.

"Excuse me," she said.  '\ know it seems silly, but I only got here at
the last minute.  What is the attack Roz and Flan were talking about?

Can you put me abreast of the plans?  "

Tarn did not answer.  This puzzled Zillah at first.  It took her a
long, difficult minute to realize that Tam was dead.  So was everyone
else at this end of the capsule.

 Tod was given an all-over gossamer-thin suit with snickering
suction-soles.  The soles were the only things that impeded him as he
walked into the big, transparent bubble of the rescue port.  The rest
of the suit was Arth's secret, some kind of time-tested magework that
allowed a man to breathe and move normally while protecting him from
vacuum, germs and even fire.  Exploring it as he walked.  Tod thought
it was simply a hundredfold thickness of any mage's usual protective
circle in which case, it must have taken years to make.  However it was
done, it was a wondrous efficient thing.  The High Head may have
intended this as a punishment, but Tod felt like a schoolboy on a
treat.  He stared out and around into the cerulean blueness beyond the
port's bubble and finally detected the silvery flash-flash of the rogue
capsule turning over and over as it fell toward the citadel from about
the ten o'clock position.

This is something like!  " he murmured.  Up till then he had hardly
believed there really was a capsule.

It was coming fast, too, enlarging rapidly as he watched it.  Behind
him, safe inside the walls, a monitoring mage murmured reports of what
he was able to gather from the shocked minds inside the thing.

Another, from Calculus, spoke crisp figures about speed, position, and
deflections due to the storm the thing itself was arousing.  Some other
higher Brother was relaying orders to ranked mages from Ritual Horn,
who were supposed to apply the brakes to the hurtling object.

Tod could also hear various kinds of rescue teams gathering in the
bubble at his back, but they kept away from him because, of course, he
was in disgrace.

"Now!"  said the higher Brother.  Tod felt the force go out.

 They had done it, too!  The rotating silver shape swept to one side
and whirled out of sight beyond the blue wall of the citadel.  But they
had cut it fine to Tod's mind.  The thing had surely all but impinged
on the nearly unseeable veil that held Arth's atmosphere.  Still, why
grumble?  They had deflected it.  Now presumably they had to slow it
down enough to manoeuvre it into the funnel of veiling that led to the
rescue port.

 It was close and fuggy inside the Celestial Omnibus.  That hissing,
Zillah thought.  We're all going to die.

A voice spoke, from somewhere in the central part where no one could
go.

"Be calm," it said.

"Please attend."

It was a deep male voice that struck ringing echoes from the walls in a
way none of their own voices did.  Marcus stirred at the sound of it
and came awake quite peacefully.  Even Judy stopped whimpering.

"I speak for the Brotherhood of With," the voice continued.

"Have no fear.  The Goddess has permitted you to enter With .  Our
skills will bring you safely to the citadel.  Be calm and you will
see."

The accent struck Zillah as Scottish at first, but it also had a burr
to it that suggested Cornwall.  Whatever, the deep, measured speech was
decidedly soothing.  Thank you!  Bless you!  she thought.

And thinking that, she found she could see the citadel the voice spoke
of, in a sort of round white view port that floated just in front of or
maybe just behind her eyes.  Marcus had no doubt that the sight was in
front of him.  He stretched out a starfish hand and made his pigeon
noise.  The place building?  lay below like a toy, an improbable blue
castle sprouting hornlike turrets in all directions from a flat base.
Turrets and the central block had windows of all sizes, but there
seemed to be no doors.  Some of the turrets supported open gold devices
like crowns, multiple ladders, and many-petalled flowers.

A babble of exclamations greeted it from down the front end of the
Celestial Omnibus, and Judy's voice demanding, "What is it?  What are
you all looking at?"

 He means just what he says the voice Zillah thought.  If you don't
panic, you can see.  Poor Judy.

She watched the castle enlarge with incredible swiftness.  We are going
fast.  Will they ever stop us?

The thought had hardly entered her mind before something caught the
Celestial Omnibus and steered it sharply away sideways.  Gravity
altered too, not so sharply, but inexorably.  Zillah found herself able
to stagger forward up the aisle and guide herself and Marcus into a
seat not quite halfway along.  Behind her, bodies of people she did not
want to look at subsided to drape over seat-backs or flop into the
gangway.  Up front.  Flan and Roz were forcing Judy into a seat.

None of this interfered with the vision of the castle.  They were
sweeping over it, above it, and down the other side.

"They've put us in a braking orbit, I think," the gawky girl said very
coolly from up front.

Must be that, Zillah thought, watching their dive to the flat base of
the building and around underneath it.  But here something decidedly
odd happened.  Instead of finding the Celestial Omnibus speeding along
above the flat base, which surely ought to have appeared as a large
disc, there was the merest blink of darkness, after which they were
soaring up past the great blue walls of the fortress on the other side.
It was as if the castle had no bottom at all or one only a few feet
across.  There were exclamations from everyone about this, and then
further exclamations as they all realized they were now much nearer the
fortress and travelling at less than half the speed.  As they swept
over and above the multiple turrets this time, they were near enough to
see several gardens, some in deep wells between turrets, and others
niched high in among complex horn works A great open space appeared,
beside the central block, and a tiny group of people hastening across
it, who looked up and pointed.  Then they were going down again, past
blue walls and a hundred windows of many shapes.


 This time, when they came up the other side after the blink of
blackness, the Celestial Omnibus was virtually crawling.  Now they were
being manoeuvred.  The force that had sent them into that swift orbit
had them again.  This time it pulled.  The Celestial Omnibus turned
nose forward toward the vast building and jogged docilely inward.

Vast, Zillah thought, was too mild a word.  The thing on a tower she
had thought was like a golden flower must have been nearly a quarter of
a mile across.  It now slightly resembled a radio telescope dish.

The multiple ladders on a more distant tower proved to be a structure
several times the size of the Eiffel Tower.  The walls of the out
jutting horn-shaped tower they were approaching were built of square
blocks of bluish stone that were each nearly the size of a house.  Some
of the windows were enormous.  A slight shiver blurred her view as she
wondered if the burring voice had belonged to a giant.

Now they were approaching a medium-enormous bubble like window.

They have to be friendly after this," Roz said.  Don't they?"

"As long as they don't find out where we come from," Flan answered.

"Let's hope they believe our story."

 Nice work.  Brothers!  Tod thought, as the battered metal thing glided
to a joggling halt between calipers that were the wrong shape and size
to hold it.  Whoever had made the object, on the other hand, had not
done nice work at all.  He could see welded plates starting apart all
over it.  More ominously, atmosphere was steaming in white clouds both
from the rear and from the hatch, or door, in one side.  The thing
looked as if it had never been meant to withstand the forces between
the worlds.

Tod sensed barriers go up behind him.  The Brothers were protecting
themselves and the rest of the rescue team from whatever was steaming
out of the capsule.  After that, veiling fell over capsule and calipers
together, isolating Tod in with it.

"Can you manage to open that door, serviceman?"  a telepathic voice
inquired coldly.

No, Duty Mage, I am but a poor fool from the Pentarchy and only a
seventh child at that.

"I'll have a try, sir," Tod replied.  Up with the old birthright
then.

It took only the slightest shift of the Wheel to spring that leaking
hatch cover right out and send it spiralling down the citadel wall
below.  As it clanged loose.  Tod found himself gagging in the air that
gusted forth.  Someone had thrown up in there.  Someone else was
definitely dead.  The rest had sweated like pigs.  The veiling over his
face cut none of that out at all.  Why can't they design it like a
Frinjen wet suit?  he wondered as he climbed inside.

"Here comes the help!  Anyone home?"

He met a chorus of thanks and relief.  Two women thrust a third at him,
who was blubbering and weeping.

"Can you help Judy out?  She's gone to pieces."  Tod helped her to the
 platform with a will.  Hysterical and red-eyed as she was, the girl
was a good-looking blonde.  Tod had not had his hands on a blonde for
two months now.  He discovered he missed the feeling after all.  And
missed brunettes too, he thought, as Roz and Flan jumped to the
platform after Judy.  The tall one in boots looked a bit masterful and
strident, but the little 'un struck him as a sweetie.  What fun!  And
what an embarrassment for the Brothers!

Tod was grinning, despite the stench, as he jumped up inside again and
helped another woman down this one a thin, staid creature who said
gruffly, when he asked her, that the name was Helen.

"And I'm Roderick.  Call me Tod," he said.  He turned to help the next,
who was shaking all over, and found her, to his perplexity, to be an
Azandi.

"Hey!  What are you doing here, my lady?"  he asked.

"Wish the hell I knew, man," she answered, in an accent that was most
definitely not Azandi.

"If I'd known this was going to happen, I'd have stayed safe in London.
I'm Sandra.  And the rest are dead.  The crossing killed them. Believe
me."

She was right there.  Just beyond the hatchway, the corpse of a
good-looking boy lay half-across that of a comely young woman.  Tod
stepped over them and took a look along the capsule to make sure.  And
found Sandra had made a mistake.  The best-looking one of all an
absolute wow- wow!  was coming slowly down the metal gangway carrying
an infant.

"Not dead after all then?"  Tod said to her.  The infant responded with
a broad, companionable smile.

"Ike boo how," it remarked.

Zillah saw with interest that this cheerful young man, whose face gave
her a feeling it was encased in an invisible nylon stocking, only
hesitated an instant before correctly translating Marcus.

"Like the blue house, do you, laddie?  Well, that makes one of us. Your
son, is he?"  he asked Zillah.

 She nodded.

"Marcus.  I'm Zillah..  We were up the other end."

There was more to it than that, Tod suspected.  Why, he hadn't even
seen her until she was most of the way down the gangway.  Nor, it
seemed, had the other women.  When Zillah climbed out through the
doorway, she was greeted with astonishment.

"Good Lord!  It's Zillah and Marcus!"

"Zillah, what the hell are you doing here?  Why are the others dead7' "
Who is she?  "

"Zillah Green, Helen she's Amanda's sister."

Zillah mumbled some reply, sounding so embarrassed that Tod turned away
to the nearest corpse and began hauling it along the floor.  But a man
does not have six elder sisters for nothing.  He did not make nearly as
much noise dragging the dead young man as the castaways thought.  He
clearly caught the rapid whispering between the two brunettes and
Zillah.

"Look, Zillah, how much do you know?"

"Well, the outline What killed them?  I don't know--' " Not the cover
story and all that?  "

"Obviously she doesn't.  Suppose they question us?"

"They're bound to.  Zillah, keep quiet and play dumb, there's a
love!"

"We'll talk a lot.  You just follow our lead."

Ay, ay!  Tod thought, backing from the door with the dead young man's
ankles in his hands.  What are you up to, sisters?  If you're up to no
good in With, then that's fine by me.  I won't say a word to stop
you!

It amused him the way they all sprang to help him, to allay his
suspicions just in case he had heard anything.  Flan and Roz jumped to
the corpse's arms, while Helen and Sandra raced inside to collect the
girl.  Zillah put Marcus down beside Judy.

"Marcus, look after Judy.

Mum's got to go and help.  Judy, have a go at holding Marcus he's
 awfully comforting to hold.  " As she climbed into the capsule, she
asked Tod, " Are you all on your own?  Isn't there anyone else in this
castle to help you?  "

Tod shot a look at the dark, filmy screen between them and the
Brothers.  They were all watching in there, and it looked as if they
were now doing some kind of decontamination work.  They were not going
to risk plague.  The platform was alight with small flashes, each
representing the death of a microbe.

"Oh, I'm in disgrace," he said cheerfully, struggling rather to drag
the dead young man to one side, out of Judy's line of sight.  He did
not look plague-ridden to Tod's eye, but why crossing to With should
have killed such a healthy specimen was beyond Tod to say.

Here the Brotherhood condescended to lower the weight of things out on
the platform.  The heavy bodies suddenly became quite easy to handle.
Tod found he could manage the next on his own, and Judy, sitting
cross-legged with Marcus in her arms, was hanging on to the child as if
she thought he might float away.  In fact, had it not been for the sad
gruesomeness of the work which Tod saw was upsetting all the women he
would have enjoyed himself.  Here were six new people to talk to, and
females at that with all the while the chuckle welling up inside him at
how wonderfully awkward this was for With.

But of course, it was over quite soon.  Five minutes' hard work
later.

Tod's suit became a fizzing scintilla of dying germs.  Oh, so they did
get around to me!  he thought angrily.  Simultaneously the dark screen
cleared and busy, blue-clad Brothers rushed forth to deal with the
capsule.  Others swiftly shrouded the sad row of corpses, speculating
in murmurs as to whether the cosmic storm or oxygen-loss could have
killed them.  Tod and the living ones were ushered through ranks of
staring mages and goggling cadets, to where the High Head was standing,
cloaked and mitred and stately.

The look on the High Head's face, Tod thought he would never forget.

It was almost horror, as the High Head realized all the survivors were
women.

 Tod was told to take the party straight to Healing Horn.  Our High
Head wishes for time to think, he told himself in considerable
amusement as he led the women there.

He was quite right.  The High Head was forced to retreat to his
workroom and think furiously.  What do you do with six women (and one
infant) of uncertain origin and social status, when you are an all-male
community under Oath of Celibacy?  The worst of it was that the
problem, however he solved it, would be with him for the best part of a
year.  The tides that permitted travel between With and the Pentarchy
were two months past.  The next were eight months off.

Otherwise the High Head would cheerfully have decanted his unwanted
guests to the Orthe and let the king deal with them.

There was always otherworld, of course.  The ritual for sending people
there was at everyone's fingertips.  But these people had already burst
from another universe into this one, and a lot of them had died
inexplicably on the way.  A second transition would probably kill the
survivors.  Pushing them off to otherworld was the equivalent of
allowing Defence Horn to explode the capsule when it first appeared as
well as a waste of a perfectly executed rescue operation.  And the
Goddess had permitted these women to come here.

This was a strong consideration.  The High Head, although he presided
daily at the most reverent worship of the Goddess, took a wholly
pragmatic view of Her some might even say cynical.  She was the Power
in the Wheel upon which With drew: therefore, you did not run counter
to this Power.  And the rogue capsule had passed through several
hundred subtle and strong de fences set up in the name of the Goddess,
 designed to keep hostile intruders out.  It followed that the
intruders who survived were under the protection of the Goddess and
harmless to With.  It was in Arth's best interests to treat them
politely.

On the whole, the High Head favoured pitching the women back to
wherever they had come from as soon as possible.  There were, however,
two difficulties about this.  First, as in the case of otherworld, was
the Law of Altered Reality.  This stated that the changes brought about
in a person in order to permit him to pass from one universe to another
were particularly in the case of worlds of high reality like With and
its parent the Pentarchy so great as to allow a person only one such
transition.  In other words, these women might be stuck here.  Going
back might kill them in the same way that sending them to otherworld
might.  But, since the hasty scan the High Head had made while the
women were in front of him suggested they were as human as he was, he
had hopes that he might find a way around the Law.  It was just
possible they came from a universe of equivalent reality to With.  This
was his main reason for shunting them straight off to Healing Horn.
Edward was presumably checking on the women's humanity at this moment.
If it tallied enough with Arth's standard, they could be returned
whence they came.

This brought him to the second difficulty.  Where exactly were they
from?  The High Head was not sure he followed or quite trusted the
explanation given by the one who called herself Roz Collasso standing
very straight and speaking with brave schoolgirl openness that they
were a sports team from somewhere called Middle-Earth who had been on
their way to compete in the Highland Games by strato cruiser They had,
claimed this Collasso, hit sunspot turbulence and found themselves in
With in free fall.  The High Head doubted this.

Even allowing for the fact that the woman was in shock, his study of
suns had never come up with a similar accident, and her manner had too
much in common with that of one of his cadets trying to conceal the
 truth from a Duty Mage.  He intended to question them separately until
he got at the truth.

But what was he to do with them meanwhile, until he found out?

The measure of the difficulty was Brother Dewi, Horn Head of
Housekeeping, and his assistant Brother Milo, standing in his outer
office waiting for a decision.  It was unprecedented.  Housekeeping
prided itself on knowing the precise social status of every visitor to
With and providing accommodation for that visitor's exact rank and
degree without ever consulting anyone.  But Brother Dewi had no idea
what these women were.  Nor had the High Head.  All he could tell
Brother Dewi after his brief survey was that, although one woman had
the black skin of a highborn Azandi, neither she nor any of the others
merited being housed in the Rooms of State where the Ladies of Leathe
had spent the night.

He had no wish anyway to treat these women as important.  Even though
the Goddess had allowed them to reach With , strong twinges of
foreknowledge suggested to him that they meant trouble, and his impulse
was to lock them up, away from everyone else in the citadel.

But With had only three solitary-confinement cells.  It would mean
draining a fish-cellar for them.  Besides, this was the sort of
solution one would expect of otherworld all With knew that otherworld
locked refugees up as a matter of course.  With could not do that. With
was dvilized.

Edward's sigil appeared in his glass at last.  Thank the Goddess!

"Just my first impressions, you know," Edward said in his most
apologetic way, 'but I'd say these er people are every bit as human as
we are.  The black one has nearly all the Azandi traits, and some of
the others test out as quite markedly gualdian specially that very
pretty one and her little boy.  "

Tine," said the High Head.

"Then we can send them back where they belong before long."

 "What do you want me to do with them when I'm through?"  Edward wanted
to know.

Gualdian traits did not mean gualdian status.  The decision was not all
that difficult after all.

"Put them in the servants' hall attached to the Rooms of State.  They
can sleep and eat there.  It's convenient for Kitchen."

Feeling considerable relief, he gave the same order to Brother Dewi.

 "I saw a centaur," said Flan.

"I know I did.  Just after that Tod boy took his skin off."

"Don't be silly."  Roz glanced at Judy.  Judy was sitting quietly in
one of the few hard, upright chairs, which were all the furniture the
room had, and she seemed calm enough.  That doctor fellow, even though
he seemed to be scared stiff of all six of them, had worked wonders
there.  Now it looked as if Flan was going bonkers too, and that could
set Judy off again.

"You can't have seen any such thing."

"Centaurs are a physical impossibility.  I read it somewhere," Sandra
said.

"Hey!  Is that why they're all so respectful of met Do they think I'm a
physical impossibility too?"

"Perhaps black women are, in this universe," Roz agreed repressively.

"But centaurs can't exist anywhere."

"I tell you I saw one," said Flan.

"You saw someone riding a horse, maybe," Helen suggested pacifically.

"They must ride horses all over the fortress.  Why else do they have
ramps instead of stairs?"

"For centaurs, of course!"  Flan said angrily.

"Why would anyone ride a horse in the sanatorium, idiot?"

Zillah, who was sitting against the wall trying hopelessly to amuse
Marcus in this bare blue hall, said, "Flan did.  see a centaur.  I saw
him too."

No one gave her much heed.  She was an outsider among them.  Roz looked
at Judy and at Flan, then expressively at the other two, and changed
the subject.

"Odd, wasn't it, how that doctor fellow never really came near us?  But
he saw my bad tooth and spotted Sandra's allergies."

And cured Judy, Zillah thought, by tentatively touching her head.  And
 there had been a centaur, but it had only appeared near the beginning
when the doctor's assistants were all down the other end of the room
somehow causing warm water to gush out of the ceiling.  The chief
doctor Edward, he'd said his name was had been trying to shepherd them
all down that way to have a shower behind chastely thick veiling.
Zillah followed the others.  But Marcus had rushed the other way,
shouting, Teh awe!  " and she turned and chased him.  That was how she
had seen the centaur tiptoeing as far as knock-kneed horse legs could
tiptoe around the corner from another part of the health centre.  He
looked pale, and he had a dressing over one eye.  Tod had seemed
delighted to see him.  Tod had been in the act of removing his all-over
invisible covering Zillah had been glad; by then she had been wondering
if the sort of squashed look to his face was some kind of deformity and
he had flung it aside in order to seize the centaur by both hands.

"Josh!  Did they save that eye?"

"Oh yes it's really only a cut," the centaur replied, in a wholly
human, though rather resonant, whisper.

"Tod, I heard you got all the blame.  What's going on?"

Here, however, Edward had approached, causing the centaur to back
hastily out of sight and Tod to look nonchalant.  Edward, it seemed,
wished Marcus to have a shower on his own and not with Zillah and the
others.  As soon as Marcus grasped this, he clung to Zillah's leg and
protested lustily.  Zillah pleaded.  Edward replied that Marcus was
male, and therefore it would be unseemly for him to stand in a shower
with six naked females, and he tried to drag Marcus off her.

"Oh, look he reV Zillah shouted, flaring up.

"He's only twoV She saw Tod shoot a sharp look at her and step
forward.

"Excuse me, Horn Brother," he said with crisp politeness, 'but the
little fellow's still only really a baby far too young to be separated
from his mother and in a strange place and all.  "

 It had seemed reasonable, and yet Zillah had been sure something very
strange was going on.  While Tod spoke, she felt as if the whole angry
tangle of her feelings were being deftly sorted into a strong and
orderly chain, stretching down from somewhere far, far overhead, and
that this chain was then being firmly bound around Edward.  Edward's
look of bewildered hauteur bore out this feeling, particularly when it
turned to alarm, possibly even fear.  At any rate, his small, pale
features reddened slightly, and his eyes were as wide and hurt as
Marcus's.

"All right then," he said.

"If that's the way it is, I've no option.  The child shall stay with
his mother."

I like Tod, Zillah thought gratefully.  Tod's strange help stopped her
feeling quite as lost as she might have done.  She had made her
complete break.  She and Marcus truly were in quite another universe,
she had no doubt of that.  But, in her usual un foreseeing way, she had
not bargained for being alive and having to live in this universe.

Maybe she was in shock.  It had been plain terrifying in that
capsule.

She felt she ought to have been dead from whatever it was killed all
the others at her end of the capsule.  Now she had a dreamy, raw,
invalid feeling, like you do when you have passed the crisis in a bad
illness but are still far from well.  Frankly, she had no idea what to
do next.

This citadel was causing some of her disorientation.  It was queer the
way it was all blue, inside as well as out.  The floors throughout were
of ribbed rubbery stuff which was not rubber it had a smell more like
stone.  The walls were those huge blue blocks.  They had been led
through passages and under veiled archways of queer proportions but
many different shapes.  Veiling seemed to be used for doors everywhere.
And it was all blue, blue, blue, and brightly lit, including the mad
Escher-like ramps.  On a ramp, bringing up the rear with Marcus, Zillah
had looked up at the top of Tod's head, or at Roz standing out at right
angles into space at the front of their group.

After that it had been ramp after ramp, with everyone at crazy angles,
 all blue, but without ornament, chaste and bare.  Not a trace of
decoration anywhere.  It was, to look at, a serious, clinical place.
The cells they were to sleep in were monastic.  Yet this was what was
muddling Zillah for no reason she could see, the fortress was not cold
or joyless.  If the place were a person, Zillah would have said it was
itching to spring up and do a mad dance, because it was full of health
and delighting in that health, but it seemed to have been too well
trained or severely brought up to do anything so frivolous.  Perhaps
repressed was the best word for it.

There I go, fantasizing again.  Trust me!

Her companions seemed to be fantasizing too.

"All these men!"  Flan was saying, stretched on her back on the ribbed
floor, grinning like a hyena.

"Some of them real good- lookers too!  Did you see that little dark
medical one?  Yumyumohyum!"

There were two in those short-horn things,7 Sandra concurred.

"You know when we first got inside.  I can't wait to get to know either
of them!"

To which Judy, looking much more her normal self, added, "You can't
have Edward.  He's mine.  I love him.  He's so shy."

"Pleasure with business!"  chuckled Flan, kicking her legs up.

"Talking of business," Zillah said, 'will you fill me in on the
Highland Games story a bit?  I don't want to say the wrong thing.  "

"Zillah, for goodness' sake!"  said Roz.

"Walls have ears.  Put a sock in it huh?  Now, I tell you who I'm going
after," she told the others, 'because I always make straight for the
top, and that's the great panjandrum himself the one with the big
horns!  "

"You mean the High Head," said Helen.

It was at this moment the High Head chose to sweep through the veiling
at the door.  Zillah was hard put to it not to laugh.  Roz, caught with
her hands to her head to illustrate the horns she meant, pretended
hastily to be stretching.

 Flan rolled into a ball and bounced to her feet.  The rest just looked
guilty.

"Good evening," said the High Head.  He spoke with the same pleasant
firmness he used to the Ladies of Leathe.  Judging by what he had
overheard, what he had to say decidedly needed saying.  /!  hope you
are settled in comfortably.  These are only temporary quarters I want
you to understand that.  We will do our best to get you home.  I came
to assure you of this.  Or, failing that, we'll send you over to the
Pentarchy in a few months' time when the tides are right, where you'll
be much more at home.  But until then you will, of course, be guests of
the citadel, and there are one or two things I have to make clear to
you about With .  "

Looking along their faces, he had a sense of dejd vu.  This felt just
like his speech to the servicemen, except none of these women struck
him as second-rate.  They all gave him a sense of quality.  But what
was the same was that they were all he knew it potential troublemakers
including the child, who was raising his voice in some kind of
complaint.

"Please silence your infant," he said politely.

Zillah's face flushed all over.  There was a sense of anger.  Of
powers.  But the child stopped his noise.

"Thank you," he said.

"Now, With and its Brotherhood were founded a thousand years ago on the
king's orders, for a double purpose: first, so our charter states, to
protect the Pentarchy and, by our researches, to strengthen the
realm;

and second, to provide the young men of the five provinces with proper
teaching in magework.  This citadel was made so that the Brotherhood
could employ its arts in peace and seclusion, and a very holy ceremony

was performed to create it.  A piece of the Sanctuary of the Goddess
was raised and moved to this place, which afterwards became With.  Now,
you will understand from this that With is in a special position: not
only is it in existence solely by favour of the Goddess, but it is also
at once very potent and very fragile.

 We in With have to be very careful that, while we take advantage in
our mageworks of the special vibrations of this citadel, we do not in
any way unbalance them.  If we did, With would be destroyed.  For this
reason, all of us in Arth--' He paused impressively.  They were
listening patiently, waiting for him to stop.

"All of us in With," he repeated, 'take solemn vows of total celibacy.
The Goddess exacts extreme penalties from those who break those vows.
Now, you are all women.  I must therefore ask you to understand, and to
respect the oath we take.  " Ah, that got to them!  They were looking
alarmed shocked, in fact and impressed.

"I believe you take my point," he said.

"Thank you.  Someone will be along with food for you shortly."

He swept out.  He did not hear Flan say, "Obvious, isn't it?  Work on
these vibrations with a bit of kamikase sex, and who needs
virus-magic?"

"Tantric," agreed Roz, and cackled hilariously.

 The food was appalling.  What was not tasteless and tough, swimming in
some weak liquid, appeared to be some kind of cereal large, off-white
mounds of it that looked like rice but, as Flan said, tasted like
overcooked potato.  They were none of them hungry after their
experiences.  Most of them could not eat it.  Marcus deliberately
overturned his bowl on the floor and smacked the resulting sloppy heap
severely and often.

"Ardy poo/ he stated.

"Dummy ay."  No one asked Zillah to translate.

But after a night under one thin blanket on a hard wooden bed, every
one of them was ravenous.  They were given a jug of brown liquid that
possibly partook of the nature of both tea and coffee, and, to their
dismay, the cereal again, this time cold but fried.

"Oh, loo ky loo ky said Flan.

"Potato Krispies!"

"Snap, crackle, sug/ Zillah agreed.

"And I like my popcorn hot," Roz said morbidly.

"Is this drink toffee or kea, or neither?"

"Cooking's not really my scene," Sandra observed, 'but it wouldn't take
much to make me go in that kitchen and try.  Even I could do better
than this.  "

"You wouldn't be allowed," said Roz.

"This is the way they mortify their flesh for the Goddess.  This is not
food, it's religion, friends."

"Not religion magic," Helen said in her quiet way.

"Oh, you mean we're supposed to transmogrify it into bacon and eggs
like they all do?"  said Flan.

"Abracadabra kippers\ No, still the same old ardy poo/ Zillah was not
surprised that Marcus spat the stuff out.  She was scooping it off the
 floor when they were summoned by two solemn young mages.  They go in
pairs, to chaperone one another," Flan said in a stage whisper.  Both
young men went scarlet, but pretended not to hear.  They guided the
party decorously along corridors and dizzy blue ramps to the outer
office of the High Head.

There an elderly mage told them to wait.  The High One wished to ask
each of them some questions.

The High Head meanwhile was looking at the full report Edward had
handed him over breakfast.  All the survivors were in good physical
condition, it seemed, but none, except for Flan Burke, appeared to be
athletes.  The child was healthy too, but Edward was at a loss to think
what sport a child so young might compete in.  So was the High Head. He
intended to find out.

He had them in one by one, starting with Judy.  Edward had stated that
she was the least stable and most likely to give the real truth if
pressed.  But Judy simply and doggedly repeated the story Roz had
given, and then burst into tears.

"All my friends are dead!"  she sobbed.

"And I don't know why.  Lynne just died.  She was talking to me, and
then she was dead just like that!"

The High Head was not used to people crying.  He got the woman out of
his room as fast as he could and called in Roz.

It was a trying half hour.  Why don't I like this woman?  the High Head
kept thinking.  She stuck long legs in high boots out across the floor
of his office with a confidence that would have reminded him of Leathe
had it not also seemed so masculine.  If he had let her, she would have
got up and strode about.  He judged it prudent to keep her seated, but
her aggression still came out Leathelike in strident little phrases
tacked on to the end of everything she said.

"Tossing the caber is immensely satisfying to a woman but female
satisfaction will be outside your experience, I imagine," she remarked;
and later, "Female athleticism is largely a matter of mind and
emotions, you know.  Muscle tone isn't hugely important to us.  But I
don't expect an all- male community to grasp this sort of fact."

 He knew she was lying, over these Highland Games of hers and almost
everything else, but there was in her aura a background of sincerity
almost as strident as the rest of her, which he was at a loss to
account for.  Somewhere, at some level, Roz cared deeply about what she
was saying.  It kept reminding him she was alien, with alien notions of
truth.  There was magecraft in her aura too, though not much of it, and
that little as alien as the rest of her.  That did not surprise him,
since she reminded him of Leathe anyway;

but, annoyingly, that and her sincerity kept her mind warded from him.
He looked her in her frank and selfconfident face and thought of
cracking her open with raw power.  That would destroy her mind, and one
did not do that to a guest under the protection of the Goddess.  A
pity.

The last ten minutes of the interview was rendered even more trying by
an uproar in the next room, where Marcus was becoming steadily more
unhappy.  The High Head shielded and warded and blocked, by every
method he knew, and the child seemed to slide his noise past everything
put in its way.  Irritably the High Head realized that he had better
see this infant next or it would disrupt every interview until he
did.

There was a time in my life when I contemplated being gay Roz announced
through the din.

"Do you know the term?  It means homosexual."

The High Head had had enough.

"I'm not interested in the history of your life.  Go to hell band Lady
Collasso," he said cordially.

"Kindly go away.  I will see the small child next."

He made the last two sentences per formative rather forcefully.  The
mages in the outer office responded.  Roz, without quite knowing how,
found herself walking forth from his office into the outer room, with
the curtain wall folding and dilating about her to let her out and to
let Zillah and Marcus pass her on their way in.  She directed a look at
 Zillah to Play dumb!  and wished there had been more time to brief the
woman.  The others, waiting in the outer office on high stools,
evidently felt equally anxious.

This was not lost on the High Head.  The veiling of that entry was
designed to give him sight of such things.  But he was mostly taken up
with exasperation.

"When I said I would see the child, I meant the child on its owner Lady
Green."

"I think I'd better stay with him," Zillah answered diffidently.

"He's a bit difficult when he's upset like this."  In her arms, Marcus
turned wide, accusing eyes on the High Head and was shaken with a huge
gasp of a sob.

It was, the High Head recognized, primitive magic he was up against,
the bonding between a mother and a small child.  It was something he
had only read about up to now, and he was astonished at its strength.

Zillah, for all her apologetic manner, was immovable.  It had nothing
to do with her own magic gifts.  He had Edward's report to show him
these were strong indeed.  According to Edward, this woman had actually
adapted young Gordano's birthright for her own use and held Edward
pinned to her desire.  These were not gifts you meddled with lightly.
He sighed and gave in.

"Little boy, what is your name?"

Marcus looked up under his mother's chin, a stormy blue glare, and gave
another body-shaking sob.

"Barker."

Odd name.

"And where do you live?"  asked the High Head.

Tdanda how," said Marcus.

"Dilly bool."  He turned his face away.

"And how did you travel here?"  persisted the High Head, with a strong
sense of getting nowhere.

"Bud," said Marcus, with his face pressed into Zillah's shoulder.

"Jidey bud.  Didden lie bub.  Go bub.  Doe lie did how.  Wan hoe, wan
hoe, wan hoe, Dinah!  Wan gorblay, wan bregia, wan barber day wan doadV
By this time he was bawling desolately again.

"Dinah, I need

DOAD!  "

"There, there, honey," Zillah said, rocking him.

 There was a sort of helpless concern to her rocking the boy, and a
meekness before fate the High Head had read this described but he
nevertheless discerned that her meekness was a blind.  The wretched
woman knew he could not make head or tail of the infant.  She was
trying not to laugh.

"What is wrong with him?"  he said, giving in again.

"Why is he crying?"

Zillah swallowed.  She was rather good at concealing her frequent
unseemly need to laugh, and she was fairly sure this High Horns had not
noticed.

"He's hungry," she explained.

"He was frightened in the capsule, and this place is strange, and he
doesn't like the food we were given."  She added, in her usual
placatory way, "I'm afraid."

The High Head saw a way to break this partnership without a clash of
mageworks.

"In that case we must find him something to eat.  If I get someone in
from Kitchen, would the child consent to go there while I ask you a few
questions?"  It was not the way around he wanted things, but the other
way was hopeless.

"I think well, he might," Zillah conceded.

"Good."  The High Head gestured, crisply and precisely.  Marcus took
his head out of Zillah's shoulder and gazed with tear-filled but
interested eyes at the sigil of Housekeeping forming in the air, then
dissolving to that of Kitchen, but he hid his face convulsively again
when the sigil gave way to the flesh-and-blood figure of Brother Milo,
with a list of stores in his hand.

The High Head explained.  Brother Milo nodded and seemed rather
relieved that this was all the High Head wanted of him.  He held out
his free hand to Marcus.

"Coming with me, sonny?  Come with Brother Milo and we'll find
something to eat."

It was not as simple as that.  The High Head contained his exasperation
while Marcus hid his face again and Zillah placed him on the floor and
then knelt down to explain that the kind man would find Marcus some
toast, and that Mum would stay here for just a bit, and Marcus would be
 happy with the kind man.  Then there was further delay while Marcus
turned and examined Brother Milo, with his thinning hair and wiry body,
and while he made up his mind that maybe he rather liked the way
Brother Milo's face hung in nervous folds like brackets around his
mouth.

Finally, with some condescension, Marcus held out his hand for Brother
Milo to take and trustingly vanished with him.

Zillah gave a little sigh.  It was not relief.  She hoped High Horns
did not realize how much she had spun all this out.  She was dreading
this interview.  No one had told her what she was supposed to say.

Luckily, the High Head was too inexperienced in the ways of children as
far as- he knew, Marcus was the only child ever to visit With to do
more than conclude that Zillah was an overprotective mother.

She was bound to be, he thought irritably.  Love beamed from her
aura.

Here he realized, with something of a jolt, that Zillah was the one
whom the Goddess had been most concerned to protect in that madly
plunging capsule.  He looked at her in this light, wonderingly but
warily.  She was, he had to admit, very comely not in the highly
wrought cosmetic fashion of the Ladies he was used to, but in a direct,
untreated way which, again he had to admit it, spoke directly to the
austerities of his soul and no doubt pleased the Goddess too.

But she was also tiresomely humble and probably very devious.  He told
her curtly to sit down.

Tell me the reason for your journey in that capsule.  "

"It it was on the way to the Highland Games," said Zillah.  This at
least she knew to say.

"But you were not taking part in those games yourself," guessed the
High Head.

"That's right."  Zillah found she had agreed before she was aware.

Panic.  She sat twisting her hands between the knees of her jeans and
wondered what the hell to say she had been doing.  Inspiration flashed
through her thank the Lord!

 "But it was a charter flight, you know, and Marcus and I got the two
spare tickets at the last moment because I - er had to get away The
High Head watched the power rise around her to answer his suspicions
and was not surprised that the Goddess had singled this one out.  This
woman was important.  He began to suspect that whatever business the
occupants of the rogue capsule had been on, it concerned Zillah and her
child somehow.  Maybe they were her bodyguard.  Yes/ that might fit.
Roz would lie to protect her.  Well, that was no concern of his, so
long as it did not threaten With.  But he needed to be sure.

"Had to get away?"  he asked, using the time-honoured technique of
simply throwing the remark back.

"Oh yes," Zillah invented.

"The courts had given me custody of Marcus, but his father wants him.
He was threatening to kidnap Marcus, so I had to get away quickly to
somewhere where he wouldn't find us.7 " Where is that somewhere?  " the
High Head inevitably asked.

Zillah wished she could remember whether Roz had named a place.

"Lyonesse," she said desperately.

"Near where they hold the Highland Games."  And, striving for local
colour, she added, "Logres is near there too, just down the road from
Camelot.  Marcus's father wouldn't dream I'd gone there.  Camelot's
politically unsound."

"And Marcus's father is who?"  came the next question.

Oh my God!  Zillah thought.

"Someone very important whose name I'm not at liberty to reveal."
Which, she thought, was not so far from the truth.

A ring of truth there, thought the High Head.

"Where--' Brother Milo rematerialized in the middle of the room, still
holding Marcus by the hand.  Saved by the bell!  thought Zillah.  Tears
were rolling dolefully down Marcus's cheeks.

"What is it, Marcus?"

The High Head lifted his chin and expressed his irritation in a
venomous look at all three.

"Why are you here again, Brother?"

 Brother Milo was harassed.

"I do beg your pardon, sir.  The little fellow is getting very upset.
I'm afraid none of us can understand what he's asking for.  He keeps
saying he wants damages."

Zillah bit the inside of her cheek in order not to laugh.

"Damages?"  the High Head said irately.

"Damages, sir," said Brother Milo.

Both of them looked at Marcus.  Marcus was exasperated at their
stupidity.

"Damn bitches," he enunciated, his whole body shaking with the effort
to communicate.

"Damn damn bitches."

The High Head's astonished face turned first to Brother Milo, then to
Zillah.  -She unclenched her teeth from her cheek.

"He's asking for jam sandwiches," she said, rather impressed to find
her voice was quite steady.

The two mages of With stared at her much as they had stared at
Marcus.

"Could you perhaps explain what a sandwich is, my lady?"

Brother Milo asked helplessly.

"You take two slices of bread," said Zillah.

"You do have bread, do you?"  Both nodded.

"Then you spread butter on each slice and a lot of jam on one Do you
have jam?"  They looked blank.

"Marmalade?

Preserves?  " Zillah asked, beginning to see how Marcus had become so
upset in the kitchens.  They looked enlightened at 'preserves."  They
nodded.

"Then you put the two slices together and give it him to eat," she
explained patiently.

"Oh!"  said Brother Milo and looked at the High Head, who said almost
simultaneously, "Oh!  She means a but tie or that's what we used to say
in Leathe.  Didn't you call them that in Trenjen?"

"No, sir.  We used to call them slathers," said Brother Milo.  Jolly
with relief, he looked down at Marcus.

"Come on, my fine fellow.  You shall have a red slather and a yellow
one and see which you like best."

"Dyke dead buds," Marcus announced confidently as he was led away into
nothingness.

The High Head took a second to recover from all this.

 Zillah looked up at the thick-framed window while she waited.  He's
not so bad, she thought.  Just not got a clue about toddlers.  They all
seem to mean well here I don't understand it.  Amanda was sure everyone
in this place was out to destroy the Earth.  I'd expected to find a
whiff of downright evil somewhere at least, and nothing's even
sinister.  If you look at him without that costume.  High Horns is more
like the director of a big company, or perhaps a cardinal one of the
worldly ones.  I'm sure he thinks of himself as a good man.

Through the window, apart from the corner of a blue tower, she could
see only clear pale blue sky.  No birds of course.  Insects?  How do
they pollinate those gardens I saw?  Come to think of it, what do they
use for a sun?  I must find out.  And how funny that they didn't know
what a sandwich was.  At this point she remembered that sandwiches were
the invention of the Earl of Sandwich, who ate them rather than leave
the gaming table for a meal which surely had to be something entirely
local to Earth.

So much had her confidence been restored by the incident with Marcus
that she said, before the High Head could ask her further awkward
questions, "Please could you tell me why it is we both speak so much
the same language?  We don't even come from the same universe."

He answered with surprising readiness, "It's fairly simple.  This
cluster of worlds develops in parallel, with parallel influences this
applies to many other things beside languages.  It is clear that you
come from a world in this cluster, or we would not be able to
understand one another."  He was happy enough to explain.  It was a
surprise he could almost say a treat to deal with a woman who was
simply asking for information, as a cadet might do, instead of using
questions to trip or manipulate like the Ladies of Leathe.

Zillah realized she had stumbled on a way to divert him whenever his
questions became too difficult.  Thereafter, whenever she needed time
 to think (what kind of place had she implied Logres was?  ), or when
he pressed too hard (why did he keep asking what kind of work she did?
), Zillah simply asked the High Head some of the things she genuinely
wanted to know.  She learned in this way that plants had to be
pollinated by hand or by magecraft, depending on type; that Arth's
light source was a small star, maintained by mageworks and veiled by a
special ritual each evening;

that atmosphere was contained in a mage-net; that most research in With
was directed toward otherworld, because it was a debased image of the
Pentarchy; and that the starchy potato-rice was called pass et

Here the High Head confounded Zillah by projecting, with a gesture, a
dazzle in the air like a Rorschach blot.  She blinked at it.

"This is a map of otherworld," he explained.  He was perfectly aware
that she kept trying to divert him, and it amused him.  He simply
answered her questions and went on.

"I'm showing you otherworld first because it's one of the three main
types of land distribution in this cluster of universes.  Look at it
carefully and tell me whether it in any way resembles your own
world."

"It's a map7' It resembled to Zillah more the lights and lungs of an
animal hung in a butcher's shop.

"Sorry.  It means nothing to me."

Another gesture.  The butcher's shop dazzle was replaced by another,
mostly a large pear shape with a crab wedged against it, trying to eat
it.  Zillah was already shaking her head when she recognized a sort of
Africa in the pear shape.  And could the crab be a version of
Australia?  Antarctica?  High Horns was using some form of
map-projection that was squashed and sideways and alien to her, and
showing her a world not really anything like Earth, but The moment she
saw this, Zillah realized what the butcher's shop had been.

Earth!  My world!  The one he calls otherworld and a debased version
and they all do research on!  It had all been there, dangling and
sideways, Europe, Asia, Greenland, the Americas, Africa, and Australia
 masquerading as the meat hook.  Now she understood what Amanda had
been talking about, and the reason all the other women were here. Guilt
flooded her, along with shock and anger.  How could she have been such
a fool as to blunder in on what had to be a commando action?  How could
the mages of With so coolly tamper with Earth?  How dared they?

To cover up her feelings, she kept shaking her head.  The High Head
dismissed his second projection with something of a showman's gesture.
He was unable to resist the flourish because, if her world was like
neither of these, it had to be even closer to his own than he had
realized.  The pear and the crab vanished, and with panache, blue on
white like the United Nations!  Zillah thought two new shapes came to
hang in the air.  The larger, if you stripped away out jutting lands
like Britain, Spain, Greece, India, Japan, and then tilted the whole
lot downward, was not so unlike Europe and the bulk of Asia.  The
smaller was somewhat like North America, if you turned it sideways and
south.

That's it," said Zillah.  This projection was almost saying Choose
me!

anyway.

Then we must be very near neighbours," said the High Head, rejoicing.

It should be simple to get these castaways home before long.  He used
his sword-wand as a pointer.  This larger blue mass is the Pentarchy,
where everyone on With was born, and this other is Azandi.  If your
home looks anything like this, it must be quite close.  "

Zillah could see the idea pleased him.  She could not think why.  Her
mind was still roaring with shock and anger, which she knew he would

notice unless she was careful.  She could feel her hands shaking.  She
tried to disguise her feelings as excitement.

"Well, fancy that!"

Lord, how artificial that sounded!  She clasped her hands together and
clamped them between her knees to stop them shaking.  She leaned
forward as if eagerly.  And spoke almost at random.

"I'd never have believed it never for a moment!  because my world is so
much more creative than yours."

"How do you mean?"  asked the High Head.

 He was offended.  Zillah realized that her anger had fooled her and
somehow slipped out sideways.  She bit the tip of her tongue.

Otherwise she was going to give the obvious answer: Because your world
sponges on mine.

"Well I suppose I meant well, this fortress is so bare.  Don't any of
the mages paint or sculpt or compose music or anything?"

"If we do," the High Head answered austerely, 'it goes into our work.

Magework is creative and leaves us little room for hobbies.  " He was
taken aback.  Zillah's power had risen about her until she appeared to
him to be enfolded in golden, feathered flame.  He could not understand
why a trivial thing like artwork could be that important to her.  But
there was no accounting- for alien ideas.  His main thought was that he

had been right about Zillah: she was the important one among the
castaways, and it behoved him to treat her with respect, or her world
might become a hostile force on the Pentarchy's doorstep, " Why," he
asked, with as much courtesy as he could muster, 'does this trouble you
so much?"

There seemed no way on but honesty.  Zillah blurted, "It it seems so
sterile.  And I get the feeling that this fortress needs something more
creative."

"Ah no," the High Head politely corrected her.

"What you have sensed is that all With, and particularly the citadel,
is precariously balanced.  It certainly has needs.  Our work is
performed very carefully to supply the needs without upsetting the
balance."  He stood up to show the interview was at an end.

"Any extra activity music, artwork, and so on would influence the
vibrations in a way that might destroy the balance."

Zillah wanted to say that in that case, they should redesign the whole
thing anything to show she was at odds with him without giving away the
real reason why she was so angry but he was showing her to the wall, or
door, or whatever, bowing her out and asking for Helen.  All she
managed to say was, "How do I find Marcus?"

"The child will be brought to you," he said.

 Then Helen passed her and disappeared, and she was in the anteroom
under the severe eyes of the elderly mage.  Roz looked the old man in
the eye and demanded, "How much longer do we have to kick our heels in
here V He pursed his old lips and did not answer.  It was obviously a
battle that had been going on for some time.

 By the time it was Flan's turn to be interviewed, the High Head was in
no good mood.  Zillah's accusation had eaten away at his serenity.

Helen did not help by sticking doggedly and colourlessly to the
Highland Games story.  When faced with projections of the three worlds,
she pointed to the second the one Zillah had thought of as the pear and
the crab, and known to With as Postulate and declared the whole party
came from there.  Insipid liar, the High Head thought.  Postulate and
its people were known to With.  The two universes guardedly traded
objects of magecraft, talismans from Postulate for specula from With,
and its mauve- skinned traders in no way resembled these female
castaways.  Sandra he treated with respect, as a quasi-Azandi, and was
puzzled to find she seemed to think he was mocking her in some way. She
claimed otherworld as her home, and he could tell it was a random
guess.

So then he came to the small, chirpy woman with the bright, dark eyes,
determined to discover why they were all so intent on concealing their
origin.

Flan's chirpiness was verging on bad temper by this time.  Waiting
about always gave her a headache.  Or maybe it was Roz, sniping away at
that old man.  Poor old fellow, in his slightly shrivelled blue
uniform!  You might as well make rude remarks to a Chelsea Pensioner
because of your income tax.  Flan herself wanted to get at High
Horns.

She wanted to get on with the job they had come to do.  But careful!

she warned herself.  He's quite capable of locking us all up.

The Highland Games?  " she said.  Curse Roz for landing them with that
stupid story!  Amanda had invented a perfectly reasonable tale of a
 strayed strato-cruiser, and bloody Roz had to go and embroider it!

"Oh yes, Roz tosses the caber, all right.  It's a dirty great tree and
she staggers around with it.

Me, I'm a dancer.  The Games has every kind of competition you can
think of.  I'm in the Eisteddfod section, which is singing and dancing
and weaving, but if you could have talked to the others on the
Celestial the strato bus you'd have found every kind of competitor.

Pity they're dead.  " To her annoyance.  Flan found she choked up here
and tears came to her eyes.  Poor Tarn.  One of the nicest boys you
could hope to meet.

"Healing Horn will, of course, be examining your dead companions," the
High Head told her.

"What do you meanT Flan squawked.

"Autopsies?  Oh, well, I suppose we'd have done just the same at home.
But I hope you'll have the decency to tell us tell us why they died."
She choked and broke off again.

"Of course," he said.

"Was Zillah Green a competitor too?"

"Zillah?"  Flan found she was furious with Zillah.  What did she think
she was doing, bringing not only herself but her baby along on what she
must have known was a dangerous mission?  Flan had been simmering about
this from the moment on the rescue platform when she had realized
Zillah had got herself on the Celestial Omnibus; but now she was so
angry that, for a moment, she wondered whether to say Zillah was a
pole-vaulter and get High Horns to make Zillah prove it.  No.

Zillah undoubtedly must have told him something.  Flan did her best to
make it awkward for her.

"Oh no, Zillah just came along for the ride because her husband was
competing.  He's a pole-vaulter."

To her annoyance.  High Horns simply accepted this, with a bit of a
look as if it confirmed something someone else had said, and then went
on to show Flan three sets of floating coloured shapes he said were
worlds.

"Worlds?"  said Flan.

"I never saw a world that shape.  Worlds are round where I come from.
But if it makes you happy, this one."  She pointed to the one that
struck her as strangest.

 Otherworld.  The High Head tried to suppress his annoyance.  Another
transparent lie.

"Very well.  As you probably realize, I have a pretty fair idea of what
your party was doing by now."  He was glad to see that this terrified
her.

"What is that?"  Flan asked.  She was so scared, her voice almost
went.

"You were escorting one of your number to a meeting of great magical
importance.  I do not think your arrival here was a simple accident.  I
suspect some enemy on your own world tried to eliminate you all."

There was a short silence while Flan wrestled with both relief and
incredulity.  The High Head watched red turn to white in her face, and
then the pallor change to a surge of red, and believed he had struck
home.  Eventually Flan gave a short, wild cackle of a laugh.

"Oh no!"

she said.

"Oh no, what we were really doing, of course, was coming to attack and
destroy your citadel."  Hearing herself say this, she wondered if she
had gone mad.

She could barely credit her ears when High Horns laughed too.

"Indeed?  Sarcasm apart, what was your meeting about?"

I don't believe this!  Flan thought.  I must be in shock.  She heard
herself say solemnly, "That's something I'm not at liberty to say."

And as if that were not enough, she heard herself adding, "But I don't
doubt you could read my mind if you wanted to."

He looked decidedly shocked.

"Great gods, I wouldn't dream of that!

There are very strict laws against reading the mind of a fellow human.
But," he said, standing up to show her the interrogation was finished,
" I wish you could all bring yourselves to be a little more open with
me.  You must see that it is very difficult to restore you to your own
world when we don't know which it is.  "

Flan leapt to her feet too.

"But we don't know either!"  she babbled.

"I thought you knew that.  We just call it the world you know, the way
 one does and none of us have the slightest idea how to tell you where
it is, because none of us has ever been outside it before, and we don't
even know what it looks like."

She had no idea if he believed her or not.  She tottered forth through
the veiling of the wall with a feeling of having diced with death and
unexpectedly won.

 The preliminary reports from Calculus Horn came in later that morning,
and they were somewhat confusing.  It seemed that With had arrived at a
node of fate which, although only a minor node giving rise to
low-probability outcomes, prevented a fully satisfactory long-term
forecast.  Calculus had attempted long-term casts, but these were
woolly.  Two suggested disaster.  On-e of these gave With as completely
destroyed by the castaways, and the other suggested far reaching
changes; but since all eleven of the other casts gave the situation as
largely unchanged by the refugees.  High Brother Gamon had written off
the two minority casts as the lowest probability and ticked the
majority reading.  Looking them over, the High Head had no hesitation
in countersigning Brother Gamon's conclusions.

When it came to short-term readings on the castaway party itself, the
confusion was even greater.  Every single reading was different.  Most
balanced out into precisely nothing.  Looking along the charts, the
High Head saw love, success, and stability jumbled with death,
disaster, and change in both major and minor readings.  This looks like
the Powers of the Wheel saying, "pardon us, what was your question?" to
me," he said wryly.

"My opinion too," said Brother Gamon.

"If you take the disaster to refer to whatever accident befell that
capsule, then there is nothing to suggest that their stay in With will
be anything but peaceful and happy.  But of course, I shall have to
take detailed individual readings on all the survivors before I can be
quite sure."

"Start those as soon as you want," said the High Head.

"Meanwhile, for horoscope purposes, look at all the close analogues to
 the Postulate worlds, and if those don't fit, try analogues to ours.

It's going to be one or the other.  As soon as you get a match, tell
me."

He discounted otherworld and its analogues.  Flan and Sandra had so
plainly been lying.  All in all, he sent Brother Gamon forth with
considerable optimism, both of them confident that the castaways' home
universe would be discovered in the next day or so.  And as far as
early readings could be trusted, it looked as if these people were
pretty harmless to With.  You only had to compare these readings with
the sharp indications of disaster read on the Ladies of Leathe, to see
how little there was to fear.  Tentatively he ordered that vigilance on
the party be relaxed.  He would be interviewing them all again anyway
tomorrow.

This done, he turned to Edward's preliminary report on the dead in the
capsule.  So far, Edward was puzzled.  All seemed to have died of total
heart failure, without any evidence of violence, at almost the same
instant.  Edward conjectured that this instant of death was the moment
when the capsule broke through into With and encountered the first
wards.  He simply could not account for the fact that death had been
selective.

The High Head's decision was conveyed to the castaways along with an
execrable lunch.  Two young mages arrived carrying a large platter
mounded with pass et which steamed overcooked vegetable scents and
seemed to have uncertain- looking dark gobbets embedded in it.  While
they placed this unsavoury heap on the only table, the higher mage who
chaperoned them stood tapping his boots with his stick officer's baton?
wand?  none of the women were sure which it was and gazing at some
point above all their heads.

"Vigilance upon you is relaxed," he announced.

"You will not any longer be closely watched, and you may go anywhere in
the citadel within reason.  You will be told if you overstep the
bounds.  And you will be careful not to interrupt any mage in his
work."  So saying, he summoned the two young mages with a flick of his
 stick and departed, conveying them before him with the tip of it
pointed at their backs.  It was as if the young men were marched off at
gunpoint.

As the doorway folded shut, feelings inside the room were divided
between suspicion that this announcement was a trick to get them to
talk, and disgust at the nature of the lunch.

"At least we can talk about this food," Flan said.

"What are those horrible-looking black bits?"

"Burnt meat," said Sandra.

Helen put forward a long-fingered hand and squeezed one of the gobbets
in a cautious finger and thumb.

"Oh, don't!"  Zillah said.

"It looks like a slug."

This earned her a startled look from Judy and a reproof from Roz.

"There's no need to be disgusting," Roz said.

"Well, Helen?"

"Someone burnt the meat and then soaked it in water to make it soft, I
think," Helen said.

"It may be the way they do things here."

None of them could manage much of the stuff, and Marcus refused to eat
anything at all; although this, Zillah suspected, was because he had
spent most of the morning eating bread and jam.

"Oddie dugV he shouted.  Encouraged by Flan's shuddering laughter, he
threw a handful of black gobbets across the room.

"Marcus has it right," said Flan.

"Ardy poo for breakfast and oddie dug for lunch.  What a gift with
words your child has, Zillah."  She might be angry with Zillah herself,
but she did not feel Roz had the slightest right to treat Zillah so
peremptorily.  Having, she hoped, made that clear, she said, "Well,
Roz?  What say we test out this permission to go anywhere we like?"

"Suits me," said Roz.  The two of them departed without another word.

The veiling of the door opened to let them through without any
difficulty, and no mage appeared, either to stop them or escort them.

Sandra said unbelievingly, "It looks as if that mage meant what he
 said.  In that case, I know what I'm going to do.  I'm going to find
their kitchens and I'm going to tell them a thing or two."

"I'll come with you," Helen offered quietly.

"Suppose we take the plate of stuff back with us?  That will give us an
excuse to go there."

Sandra thought this was an excellent notion.  The two of them set off,
carrying the large platter between them, with everyone's forks stuck
into it at random and Marcus's handful of gobbets reposing on top.

This left Zillah with Judy and Marcus.  We're the two shell-shocked
ones, Zillah thought, looking at Judy sitting very upright against the
wall.  Judy's eyes filled with tears from time to time.  Otherwise
there was almost no expression on her slightly droll face.  She looked
like a sad Pierrot.  Zillah did not feel like crying.  It was more that
she had a blank, disconnected feeling, rather light and feverish the
way she had always thought a person might feel if they were coming
around after a lobotomy.  She simply could not get used to the fact
that she was not missing Mark any longer.  By coming here, she had put
it out of her power to hope, and her misery was gone.  Oddly enough, it
did not seem to make her feel relief.

But there was Marcus to look after.

"Do you want to go for a walk, Marcus?"  Zillah said dubiously.  As far
as she could work out, he should have been resting or was it getting
ready for bed?  She felt more than a little jet-lagged herself.  Every
rhythm in her body was telling her that, though it was afternoon in
With, it was quite another time on Earth.  If Marcus was feeling the
same, he would be restless and irritable.

He agreed, "Awk," at once and held out his hand to be taken.

"I'll come too," Judy said, somewhat to Zillah's surprise.

The three of them went out through the almost unfelt folds of the
doorway into the blue corridors beyond.  Judy said nothing and seemed
to rely on Zillah to choose a direction.  Zillah let Marcus tug her the
way he wanted to go.  She rather thought he was making for the
kitchens.

 If he was, Marcus had made a mistake.  He stumped doggedly up one of
the circling ramps, towing Zillah, with Judy sleepwalking behind, and
plunged through a wide area of veiling at the top.  The brightness and
blueness on the other side made Zillah blink.  There was a smell of
asepsis.  In great busy quiet, mages in pale blue gowns were working
beside a sort of bier on which lay a young man with a handsome,
friendly face, evidently dead.  Because his fair hair was trailing
backward, it took Zillah a second to recognize Tarn Fairbrother.

Marcus knew him at once.

"Dib!"  he cried in desperate sorrow, and advanced with one hand out
and his face crumpled for crying.

"Dib dead!"

The tallest mage whirled around.  Before Zillah could move, he had
fielded Marcus with large, gentle hands hands from which a blue
shimmering stained with blood rapidly disappeared as they met Marcus
and turned him back toward Zillah.  I don't think this is quite the
right moment to bring the child in here," he said, looking down on her
with awkward shy firmness.

Zillah recognized the curiously small, boy like face of the head
doctor-mage.  What was his name?  Edward.  He was nice and he seemed to
like her.  This made her feel truly bad about bursting in here.  I'm so
sorry.  Marcus just just brought us here.  I didn't know I didn't
realize you'd be doing autopsies.  I'll I'll take him away at once. "

for now.  You're welcome to bring him back in a day or so," Edward
said.  He made it sound as if it were all his fault.  Then, as Zillah
started for the door with Marcus, and Judy turned dumbly to go with
them, his large hand fell on Judy's shoulder, stopping her.

"She'd better stay," he said.

"She needs more healing than I knew."

Before Zillah was aware, she was out on the ramp again without Judy,
rather taken aback at the power of this medical mage.  At another time
she might have been almost destroyed with embarrassment blundering in
on an autopsy like that!  but Marcus claimed her full attention.

 He was very upset.

"Dib!"  he said desolately, over and over, as he stumped downward.

Zillah had not realized even that Marcus knew Tarn, and she certainly
had had no idea that he liked Tarn enough to give him a special name.

As far as she knew.  Tarn had twice, but only twice, briefly visited
Amanda, but evidently that had been plenty of time for him to make a
hit with Marcus.

"Dib's all right," she explained as they stumped she knew not whither,
except that Marcus firmly led her downward.

"He doesn't hurt, Marcus.  It's like being asleep, only better," she
said, and found herself saying all the things adults do say to a child
confronted by death.  And they were so inadequate.  Marcus had known
instantly that Tarn was dead.  He always knew so much more than she
gave him credit for.

They came down to another wide veiling, blue fluting filling a sizable
archway, which gave way into a sudden open space.  Zillah was relieved.
Here was something that might distract Marcus.  The large, open square
she had seen from the orbiting capsule stretched in front of them.  It
was possibly a parade ground, for it was nothing but a stretch of
gravel with one carefully tended strip of grass around the perimeter.
Here, sure enough, Marcus forgot his sorrow and ran gleefully out into
the large, sandy space.  Zillah followed, pretending to chase him "I'll
catch you, I'll catch you!"  to keep his mind on other things.  She had
to quell an attack of some kind of agoraphobia as she ran.  Blue sky
was overhead.  The blue buildings around the square, reduced by
distance to the height of cottages, might have concealed landscape
beyond, except that she knew they did not.  The blue sky was all there
was beyond them.  She had to keep her eyes on Marcus's small trotting
figure, and even that became the centre of vertigo.  For a moment the
whole flat space swung upside down, and Marcus was trotting across a
ceiling.

It was a parade ground.  With immense relief, her eye caught a
 disciplined group of blue uniforms over in the right-hand corner. They
were just breaking ranks after some kind of exercise and streaming
toward another of those veiled archways.  Some were detaching
themselves in twos and threes and making for other exits.  The sight
helped a little.  She now saw everything at a steep slant.  No, it was
worse.  She was absolutely going to fall.  But Marcus had changed
direction and was now running toward three of those detached figures,
arms stretched out, for some reason in an ecstasy of delight.  Zillah
swerved after him.  Her knees bent and she had to restrain an urge to
trail her knuckles along the gravel.

"Ort!  Ort!"  Marcus was shouting.

It was the centaur again, now wearing a smart blue jacket on his human
torso.  The degree of illusion in this place became apparent when
Marcus pounded up to the centaur and his companions in remarkably few
strides. Or maybe the centaur moved swiftly to meet him.

"Ort!  Ort!"  Marcus cried, relief and joy all over him.  Zillah
realized that it was in hopes of meeting the centaur again that Marcus
had gone to that medical place.  Perhaps he had even been afraid that
the centaur was dead too.

The centaur reached down and swung Marcus up level with his face.

"How did you know I came from the Orthe?"  he asked, through Marcus's
squeals of pleasure.  He was quite as delighted as Marcus.  His pale,
mottled face was shining.

Zillah, as she sloped up, decided it would not be tactful to point out
that Marcus had been saying something else.

"You've got it wrong.  Josh," Tod said, with his arm affectionately
over the centaur's flank.

"The little fellow was actually calling you a horse."  Josh laughed.
Tod nodded cheerfully at Zillah.

"Nice to see you again.  What's wrong?  This place giving you the
slopes ?"

Zillah came upright again in the greatest relief.

"Yes, but I'm all right now."  Tod had made it all right, by being so
normal.

 "It does that to me too," said the third one of the group, leaning on
Josh's other side.

"All the open places give me the slopes.  That's because space really
is bent here, you know.  The more of it you can see, the more it
shows."

Zillah looked at him with interest.  He was not as odd as the centaur,
but she could not help feeling he might in fact be even odder.  He
looked human, skinny and fair, but there was a sort of inner shining to
him, and his eyes were tremendous as were his hands and feet.

Like an undernourished version of Michelangelo's David, she thought.

"Let me introduce," said Tod.

"The fellow keeping Josh upright on the other side is Philo.  He's a
Peleisian gualdian, if that means anything to you.  The centaur is
Horgoc Anphalemos Galpetto-Cephaldy, or Josh to his friends."

"Pleased to meet you, lady."  Josh deftly swung Marcus around to sit
astride his back, where Marcus nestled against the blue jacket looking
blissful, while Josh held out a large, pale hand to Zillah.  It was
warm when Zillah took it, horse- warm.  The young-man-seeming part of
him was all over larger than human.  It would have to be, she thought,
to match the horse part.  The patch that had covered his eye the day
before was gone, showing healing cuts above and below, although the
cuts were hard to see for the big liver coloured horse-mottle that
crossed his face and spread into his hair.

"I'm glad you're better," she said.

"I'm fine," he said, 'thanks to Tod.  "

Philo came forward and held out a hand almost as big as the centaur's,
but not as warm when Zillah grasped it.  He seemed shy.  But when
Zillah smiled, he smiled too and his smile was big and sly and
confiding.

"We should add that Tod's full name is Roderick Halstatten Everenzi
Pla--' " No, don't!  " Tod said, wincing.

"Tod will do."

"He's heir to a Pentarchy," Josh explained.

"It bothers him."

Since it evidently did bother Tod, Zillah said to him, "How come you're
the only person in this place who understands what Marcus says?"

 /!  have six elder sisters," Tod said wryly.

"My parents kept grimly on until they got the required boy-child. Apart
from being brought up in a houseful of hysteria and general henpecking,

this means I have nephews.  And nieces.  Dozens of them. Some of my
earliest memories are of having to understand baby talk so that I could
tell the little bleeders that I was their uncle and they couldn't have
my toys."

They began to walk as Tod talked, to another of the archways, all in a
group in the most natural way.  It was clear all three young men
assumed Zillah was one of their number.  And she was too, in some
strange way, she thought, looking up at Josh's laughing face and over
at the prattling Tod.  Something eased within her.  She had friends.

This was something she had seldom found possible before.  She had never
been able to fall easily into a relationship, the way other people
could yet here she was, chatting away as if she had known all three of
them for years.  She felt as if she had known them for years.  Each of
them felt familiar:

Josh's awkward strength, Philo's shyness and sweetness, Tod's
insouciance.  She smiled at Philo, and in the most natural manner, he
came around Josh to lean against her.

 Roz halted in a large unveiled archway and struck an attitude, feet
apart, hands on hips.  She felt good.  Every line of her said Woman!

And it worked.  Without her needing to project her presence at all, the
heads of the blue-clothed mages bending over their work in the room
beyond were turning toward her, one and one, then hurriedly and
guiltily turning away.  She could almost see the flickers of lust
playing across them.  Good.  This was doing what she had come to do.

After a moment, one of the higher brothers hastened across to her,
self-consciously adjusting his short-horned headdress.

"Am I somewhere I shouldn't be?"  Roz asked as he opened his mouth to
speak.

He shook his horned head and looked flustered.

"Not at all.  This is Observer Horn.  Where did you wish to be?"

She knew this was not what he had been going to say.  He had meant to
turn her out.  Good.

"Mind if I look round then?"

"Not at all, not at all.  Let me show you around."  He led the way
toward the rows of busy mages.  Roz followed, stalking high, knowing he
was conscious of every movement she made behind him.  She felt like the
cat that had the cream.

 Sandra and Helen, bearing the large platter towards where they thought
the kitchens were, were intercepted by two mutually chaperoning young
mages.  Politely, deferentially, they told Sandra her presence was
required in Calculus Horn.

Sandra popped her eyes at Helen.

"Okay.  Sure you can manage this plate-thing on your own?"

"Of course," Helen said quietly.

"I'm far stronger than I look.  Which way are the kitchens?"

The way was pointed out.  Helen arrived there to find the place in that
afternoon lull that occurs in all kitchens.  She set the platter of
half-eaten food carefully on the nearest table and surveyed the long,
vaulted chain of rooms.  Ovens she located, pans, work surfaces.

The business of cooking varied very little from world to world,
evidently.  This place reminded her of a monastery kitchen she had once
visited.

Having acquainted herself with the various arrangements, she walked
quietly to the far end, where dishes were being washed by two
weary-looking young mages.

"Do you two do the cooking here ?"  she asked them.

"We're only cadets, ma'am," they told her, 'on scullion duty.  Brother
Milo's in charge.  Do you want him?  "

"Not yet," Helen said, thoughtfully.

"What's being planned for supper?  Do you know?"

Passet casseroled with lamb, she was told, with baked pass et on the
side.  When she inquired how it should be made and for how many, they
looked somewhat blank.  They were only cadets.  The mysteries of
cooking had been withheld from them.  But they were ready enough to
talk.  There were, after all, two of them and they felt they were
 chaperoned.  And Helen's looks had a cool angularity that amounted
almost to gawkiness, and almost but not quite to un attractiveness
People always assumed she was a virgin.  She carefully accentuated this
quality for the benefit of the cadets.

They felt she was safe, even if she was a woman.  Besides, she was kind
enough to help with the dishes.  While she did so, they explained, more
and more eagerly, that cadets with less than average ability were sent
to work in the kitchens and that this made them feel slighted, the more
so in that almost none of the mageworks such as those were that were
used in the kitchens had yet been shown to them.

"It's not so much magework," Helen said carefully, 'as artistry that
one uses in cooking.  Would you like me to show you what I mean?  "

Would they!  But what on?

"We could always make a start on that casserole."

They liked that idea.  Brother Milo would doubtless commend their
zeal.

Shortly they were scurrying about fetching ingredients from great
cupboards primed with stasis spells.  Helen learnt that the magecraft
which prevented food from decaying was simple and easy to operate.  It
had to be, she was told, because so many people handled the food.  In
one cool corner of her mind she toyed with the idea of simply breaking
those spells and then putting blocks on against anyone renewing them. A
suicidal act like this whole foray was, she suspected.  Soon everyone
in the citadel would be down with dysentery or starving.  She dismissed
the notion.  It was not creative, it was too easily detected and,
besides, she liked to cook.

Meanwhile the two boys had heaped the long tables with daunting
quantities of provisions, very short on the meat, despite the quantity,
and as usual high on the pass et Helen surveyed it, stretching and
flexing her thin fingers.  When she had talked of artistry, she had
been quite sincere.  What she had in mind was very artistic indeed, not
 exactly a weaving, more an insidious campaign to bend the inhabitants
of the citadel to the ways of Earth.  It would not be as swift as
virus-magic, but it ought, in the long run, to be just as effective.
And it suited her better, as one whose gift for witchcraft had always
been bound up with practical things.  In the meantime, the food itself
should divert attention from what she was doing surely someone in this
citadel would appreciate better food!

The first art lies in the choice of herbs," she told the cadets.

"What herbs are there?"

There were gratifying ranks of them, under stasis in glass jars.

Clearly the cooking in With had not always been so plain.  Not all the
herbs had names Helen was used to, but touch and smell told her which
was which of the ones she knew, and which of the unknown ones might
prove useful as well.  And, thank goodness, there was masses of
garlic.

As she worked, the older kitchen staff began to filter back from their
rest period.  With quiet, cool requests for this or that, she soon had
them busy too.  When Brother Milo came back on duty, he was outraged to
find his entire staff hard at work and supper well under way, all at
the command of this long, calm, gawky young woman who smiled coolly at
him.

"I'm showing them the way we cook in my world," Helen said.  Her
composure was wholly unruffled by her instant recognition that Brother
Milo was going to prove her chief difficulty.

"It seems to have ended up as cooking supper.  I hope you don't
mind."

Brother Milo did mind, but he could hardly throw good food away and
start again at this hour.

 "What I want to know," said Sandra, 'is why you're all being so polite
to me!  "

High Brother Gamon bowed yet again.

"We think of you as Azandi, ma'am," he explained.

"Azandi is the other continent of our home world.  The people there
look like you.  They inspire respect."

"Whatever for?"  said Sandra.

"They are," Brother Gamon told her ruefully, 'somewhat dangerous
adepts, even the least of them.  "

Sandra began and then bit back just barely an angry description of the
status of black women on Earth.  This was a mission, for God's sake! It
might still be possible to do what they had come to do, and she had not
been chosen for stupidity.

"Explain.  I think it might be a bit like that where I come from."

"Azandi specialize in types of mageworkings that we have never
succeeded in mastering," the man in the horned headdress explained.

"They can handle the hidden side of the Wheel.  This naturally makes

them, in addition to other things, experts in divination.  Since we in
Calculus, in our laborious way, work at divination too, this is bound
to make us treat someone of your appearance most respectfully."

"Oh," said Sandra.

"Ah."

"Though I hasten to add that we pride ourselves on treating all ladies
with respect," Brother Gamon added.

What a windbag!  Sandra thought.

"Okay.  So what do you want to do with me?"

"We're about to try various techniques to discover the whereabouts of
 your homeworld and how soon you may safely be conveyed back there.
There is no need to feel the least alarm, ma'am.  A full birth
horoscope is, of course, impossible at first, but we are drawing up one
for the exact moment of your arrival in With.  And we shall scry in
various ways, based on information Observer Horn imparts we shall need
your age in years, months, and days for all this, a hair of your head,
your hand on one or two implements of calculation, and we should like
you to cut the cards for our readings of--/ At last the man had got to
something Sandra knew about.

"Cards?  You mean tarot?"

"What is that?"  he asked.

"Atala is our usual system, but we also use--' " Show," Sandra said
imperiously.

"Cards."

He led her to a velvet-covered table.  Sandra swaggered after him,
acting what she hoped was an arrogant Azandi as hard as she knew how.

I have power.  I work the hidden side of the Wheel.  I am arrogant.

Bloody hell, I feel like Roz!  She looked haughtily down her nose as
Brother Gamon spread a pack of cards on the velvet with an expert sweep
of his palm.  Hm.  Quite like tarot really.  The old, really weird
decks.  Sandra picked up what seemed to be the Magician.

"What do you call this?"

"The Archmage.  That is a most potent and revealing card, which--' "
Piffle.  Weak and ordinary but then he's only one of the unnumbered
trumps: all those count low.  " Sandra sensed gasps from all over the
great room.

"Honest.  Does he count high with you then?  He counts low with me,
where I come from.  It seems to me you ought to read me the way it goes
in my country, or you'll get it all wrong.  Want me to show you my
way?"

There was a long murmur of assent.  Mages left what they were doing and
drew in around the velvet table.  Sandra kept as sober as a judge, but
inside she was doing her grin-and-hug-yourself-Sandra.  She loved
 fooling people.  Here we go then.  Back-to-front tarot.  This should
mess them up some.  After that I'll have a go at upside-down
horoscopes.  I'll never get a better chance at sabotage, not if I look
all over this mad blue building for a month!

 Flan had wandered into a tine of Ritual Horn.  But I'm still not sure
how we got from there to here!  she thought as she swung and bent and
sidestepped in front of a grave, dark young mage, who most faithfully
echoed what Flan did.  Except he's so good-looking.  Perhaps that had
something to do with it.

"From the waist, now!  That's better!"  she told the young mage.  Dip
arm, dip arm and up.  As far as Flan could recall, she had happened on
this dance room, with its smooth blue floor and full-length mirrors on
two walls, to find a Brother Instructor attempting to put a team of
mages through some kind of movement routine.  Swing around and swing.
What the purpose of the routine was.  Flan still had no idea, but she
had hung around at the door fascinated at first, then disapproving,
then exasperated.  Most of them were so bad at movement.

The Instructor didn't seem to have much of a clue either.

"You in the second row red hair you're still missing the beat!

One and two and, one and two and!  That's better!  " Somehow, with her
total exasperation, the professional had arisen in Flan and taken over
completely.  She remembered herself suddenly in the middle of the room,
clapping for attention.  Music came jangling to a startled halt, faces
had turned, gaping.  That was awful, people, just awfulV Flan had found
herself telling them, in the full, carrying voice of a dance teacher.

"You can all do much better than that.  I'll show you.

Let me just get these shoes off my feet..  " And then she had shown
them how and worked them and worked with them.  Faces by now shone with
sweat.  The Brother Instructor's face was twisted and gasping.

Honest!  He should be fitter than that.  He didn't know what work
was!

 Tomorrow she was going to take them all back to basics, but now it was
probably time for a little simple yoga.

"All right, people.  You can rest.  You have the makings of a good
dancer," she told her handsome mage.  His grave face lit with a
besotted smile.  She knew that if she'd asked him to lick her toes, he
would have lain down on the floor and done so.

But Brother Instructor was bustling up to Flan, limping a little and
very angry.

"My good woman, it is not our purpose here to dance.  This is a Ritual
of the Goddess."

"Then you should dance," Flan told him.

"She likes it.  Anyway, dancing is the basis of all good movement,
whatever you think She wants.  All right, people, if you've got your
breath, we'll have a little yoga now."

 As two dozen mages tried to force their unaccustomed legs into lotus
position, the High Head received an urgent summons from Edward.

"Couldn't it have waited until I met you at supper?"  he asked as he
arrived in Healing Horn.  One of the women, the blonde hysterical one,
was lying on the outermost bunk, pale and comatose.  Though the High
Head was sure she was unconscious, her presence made him uncomfortable.
He was not used to the outline of breasts on a sleeper under a
blanket.

"No, it couldn't be then," Edward said, in his most apologetic way.

"It had to be here."  He was hovering beside a more distant bunk that
reeked of stasis magework, and he seemed to be concealing something in
one hand.

"She's in healing trance," he said, seeing the High Head's attention on
the woman.

"I didn't realise how upset she was when her friend died.  My fault.
But I think I've discovered the reason for those deaths now.  Will you
come over here?"

The High Head approached the further bunk and found himself staring
down at a true corpse, a fair young man lying lifeless and, oddly
enough, looking in death much less deathlike than the unconscious
woman.  A nice young lad.  The pity of this death wrung him, like a
pain in his chest.

"Look at him carefully," Edward said.  The High Head did not want to,
but for Edward's sake, he looked.  Does he remind you of anything?  "

Edward asked.

"Death," said the High Head.

"Life.  Waste."

"No, I meant does he make you think of anyone?"  Edward said.

"Anyone you know?"

Now Edward mentioned it, the face of the dead lad did seem familiar, a
 little, but the High Head could not, for the life of him, place the
face.  Was it Edward as a youngster?  No.

Edward's face was longer and his features smaller.

"Not that I can think of, I'm afraid."

"Then does this ring a bell?"  Edward said.  Eagerly, precisely, he let
unfold the thing in his hand.  It was an irregularly shaped sheet of
purplish plastic probably the backing from a dressing with random holes
cut in it.  Edward spread this with great care over the right half of
the young corpse's face.

"Now look."

Suddenly the young man was mottled with purple dapples that extended
into his hair.

"Great Goddess!"  said the High Head.

"The centaur Galpetto!"

"Yes," said Edward.

"And no proper cause for death.  He's the centaur's analogue in
whatever world they come from, and I'm afraid the two of them couldn't
exist together in the same universe.  The centaur was nearly killed at
about the same moment that capsule got into With.  I'm willing to bet
that the analogues of all the other corpses had bad accidents at that
instant too.  I'm going to tell her."  He gestured toward the
unconscious woman.

"It might make her feel better about her friend."

The High Head had certain difficulties with some of this.

"But most of the corpses are women, aren't they?"

"Yes.  Their analogues will be people over in the Pentarchy, I think,"
Edward said.

Not a good thought.

"I'd always supposed With was better separated from the world than
that," the High Head said ruefully.

"So had I, but I think we must be more closely connected than we'd
realized," Edward said.

"Anyway, this means I can enter the correct cause of death in my
records."

 Supper that night was unusually and surprisingly good.

 VI Earth and With T cancelled the milk said Joe.  Maureen jerked
awake, very much amazed that he had attacked her only with this.

"But there's enough milk in the fridge to keep us going," he said.

"Do you want some cocoa?"

"No," she said, and yawned ostentatiously.  She needed to yawn anyway,
so the only thing to do seemed to make it look like boredom.  She was
so tired.

"And of course, I cut off the telephone," Joe continued, 'though not
physically.  Don't imagine British Telecom's going to come here wanting
to repair it.  No one's going to find anything wrong with it, but
anyone who tries to get in touch with you is going to get wrong numbers
unless they persist, in which case they'll get your answering machine
with your voice saying you'll be away for a while.  "

Maureen blinked at him.  He was lounging at the other end of her sofa,
creasing the chaste oatmeal cushions with his weight and looking
extremely smug.

"Very clever," she said, 'to think of taking all the obvious
precautions.  " She could not understand why he had not attacked her
while she dropped off into a doze there for a moment.  Or she met his
eyes.  They were heavily, almost pruriently surveying her.  Could it be
that what she had here was a hunter getting a buzz off entering into
the feelings of his prey?  She thought so.  It would be just like Joe.
He wanted to play cat and mouse for a while.  If so, could she use it?
Keep him occupied while she counter-attacked or called for help.  There
were several Names that should answer her call.

"Don't even think of it," said Joe.

"I've got it fixed so that not even your pet entities are going to hear
you.  Take a look."  He gestured with his can of lager.

Maureen looked.  He had brought his wards to visibility:

 there was no doubt that he was a truly skilled operator.  They hung
all around the room, tenuous as cobwebs, roiling a little like clouds,
and hard as concrete.  She reached up to the nearest.  Her fingers met
a chilly hardness that she knew she had no hope of penetrating while
Joe was awake and aware.  She trailed her fingers across its rough, icy
surface and thought.  He had to sleep, too, in the end.  She only had
to wait it out.  She only had to wait until the raiding party released
that virus-magic into Laputa-Blish, and then Joe's precious bosses
would all be disabled, and anything Joe learned would be no use to
anyone.  It would give her great pleasure to tell him that when the
time came.  So, how long before it came?

Maureen let her hand trail back into her lap, hopelessly.  Keeping the
look of blank dismay on her face, she felt for her precognitive powers
and let them fill her, gently and surreptitiously.  What she found
chilled her worse than Joe's clammy wards.  It had gone wrong would go
wrong.  There was would be death.  Future or present death, she had no
means of knowing because this was the fact that truly dismayed her
there was a time difference between the two worlds.  The difference
might be years, or months or only minutes.  It was not regular.  Now
she saw this, Maureen remembered Gladys muttering something about time
not running the same in Laputa-Blish.

She had not paid much attention then.  Gladys had muttered in her most
senile manner, something about "Long or short, short or long, who
knows?"  and nobody attended to Gladys when she went like that.  Now it
occurred to Maureen that this was a mistake.  When Gladys was acting
fretfully gaga, it could be that she was functioning at a level none of
the rest of them could reach.

Death, delay, things gone wrong but still a blink of hope.  Someone was
or would be still trying, though Maureen could also see opposition and
great evil from a quarter no one expected.  This could ruin everything:
 it would certainly cause further delay.  Good God!  It could be that
she would be shut up with Joe, never daring to sleep, for the next
year!  There was no question of waiting it out.  She would have to
defeat him, and soon.

 And how was she to do that when she was so goddamn tired7 Gladys paid
off her faithful taxi driver and shambled up her path, muttering
fretfully in the foggy white of coming dawn.  Tired, Jimbo.

I'm too old for this all-night ritual stuff.  " Around her were the
mushroom scents of wet garden.  Things grew.  A trill of birdsong swept
across the trees.

"Thanks," Gladys muttered.

"Pretty.  Too tired to appreciate."  Jimbo clinging to her skirt was as
draggled as she was.

She stumbled over him slightly as she went into the house, which was
unusual; but then an unusual effort had been put out by both of them.

And the capsule had gone off safely and the Wards of Britain were up,
so it had been worth the effort.

"Tea," she mumbled, shuffling among the jungle plants to the kitchen.

"Hot.  Wet."

She had it brewed.  She had her hands wrapped around the warm belly of
the mug.  She was sniffing its fragrance and putting it to her mouth to
drink when the phone rang.

"Curse.  Thought I'd disconnected."  She took the tea with her and
shuffled off to hunt through the jangling jungle for the phone and
answer it.

It was Amanda's voice, high with agitation.

"Zillah's gone!  She hasn't slept in her bed.  So's Marcus.  Gladys,
she's taken Marcus and gone\ I can't feel where she is.  All I get when
I try for her is nothing.  Gladys, where is she?"

Gladys held the tea mug against her ear, warming it against Amanda's
insistence.

"Lovely bell-like voice," she muttered.

"Clear and high.

Like a damned carillon or an alarm clock.  "

"Oh, sorry," Amanda said without much contrition.

"You must be so tired after last night but, Gladys, can't you try for
Zillah?  Can you get any idea where she is?"

 "Just a moment."  Gladys sighed and took a warm, warming gulp of tea.
Zillah.  Amanda's younger sister, the one with the little boy Mark's
child, Gladys had always suspected.

"Damn it, Amanda, I only met your sister twice."  Reddish hair.  Sense
of unrealized abilities about her that could be even stronger than
Amanda's.  In fact, Gladys recalled, where Zillah's abilities were
concerned, the sky was the limit, if only the silly girl could bring
herself to realize it!  At least someone with that kind of strength
ought to be fairly easy to trace.  She drank more tea and put her mind
to it.  The trace was there.  It led "Oh, all the powers, Amanda!

She went in that capsule and took the child!  "

A sharp silence on the other end was followed by an even sharper cry of
horror.

"Gladys!  Are you sure?  Are you still in contact with the capsule?"

"No."  Gladys sighed again and tried to explain.

"They went out of contact as soon as they crossed over, Amanda.  All I
know is that the trace leads to the capsule and stops."

"But she was inside the capsule the other day and so was Marcus.

Mightn't that be what you're feeling?  I mean, she definitely wasn't
there, or in the warehouse, when I left the team there.  I know she was
at home with Marcus.  I could feel.  There was no way for her to get
there.  The team wouldn't have let her on board if she did go there.
"

Hope, Gladys thought, was a heavy thing and would do no good here.

"Amanda, I'm sure.  I don't know how Zillah did it, but that is what
she did."

"Really sure?  Gladys, please try and trace her further!  I have the
strongest precognitions of disaster for the capsule anyway!"

So had Gladys.  Some of the foreknowledge was, to her regret, the
result of calculations she wished she had not had to make.

"I can't try to trace her now.  For one thing, I'm tired to death.  For
another, I know I was lucky to make contact with the Laputa-Blish thing
anyway.  I got in on them when they were exchanging messages and people
with their home universe, and I'm going to have to wait for them to
 start doing that again before I can see anything clear about our folk.
Don't worry.  I'll keep trying.  I'll let you know as soon as I find
them again."

"And can we fetch her back?  Gladys, I don't know what Zillah thought
she was doing, but if she did go there!-Gladys, she hasn't a clue
really.  She didn't know it was supposed to be an attack."

"Well, obviously, or she wouldn't have taken Marcus.  Amanda, do try to
get some sleep.  There's nothing you can do until we know more."

It took a while to persuade Amanda.  Gladys put the phone down at last
and made her way back to the kitchen, rolling like a badger from foot
to foot out of weariness.

"Nothing we can do," she repeated to herself, pouring more tea.  It had
gone strong and orange and tepid by then.  She drank it all the same,
full of guilt and sorrow.  Cats were appearing, on windowsills, on the
draining board, out of cupboards, treading warily with sympathy.

"Don't tell Amanda," she said to them guiltily.

"Nothing we can do."  It was something Maureen had accepted but then
Maureen was like that but they had both tacitly agreed that there was
no point in telling Amanda that the only way for the raiding party to
get back was to force the inhabitants of Laputa-Blish to tell them how.
Which meant they had to win first.

Now, with this feeling of disaster she had, winning did not seem
likely.

"Did it ever?"  she asked Jimbo, crouching beside her aching feet.
Never had she felt so weary and old.

"I'll get on to it first thing tomorrow," she said.

"Not now, not now."


 For two days, life on With proceeded in its usual pattern, apparently
undisturbed by the survivors from the capsule.  The capsule itself had
been consigned to Housekeeping and Maintenance, who could use the
metal, and it was almost as if the women had always been there.  When
the High Head, as part of his routine duties, sampled the vibrations,
they seemed normal and healthy.  There was, it was true, the occasional
accelerando in the rhythms, in which everything seemed to pulse several
degrees faster, but he was able to discount that.  A small tide was
coming up, when communication would once more be possible between With
and the Pentarchy, and these sudden quickenings were quite often
associated with tides.  The High Head was able to discount the
phenomenon in fact, he would readily have forgotten the tide if he
could, since the opening would certainly bring renewed demands from
Leathe to hurry up the work in otherworld.  And here was a mystery. The
experiment had succeeded: he was sure of it.

Otherworld had done its usual lateral thinking and taken action of some
kind, quite recently too.  But of his three main sources, only one was
reporting, and that in the vaguest terms.  The agent watching the young
female had cut off completely.  And, to his exasperation, so had his
wild native contact.  He had to conclude, after unprofitable hours
spent trying to raise both, that otherworld had become aware of them
and taken steps to silence them.  It was imperative to get another
agent on the scene as soon as possible.  But this was going to take
time and planning.

Meanwhile, the women seemed to be settling down to wait for With to
send them home as if With could, when they were all so ignorantly vague
 about where they had come from!  At least they were causing
surprisingly little trouble.

There had been one complaint, from Brother Instructor Cyril of Ritual
Horn, that the woman Flan Burke had attempted to undermine his
authority.  But when the High Head asked High Brother Nathan to
investigate, Nathan reported that Brother Cyril now unreservedly
withdrew his complaint, saying that the young woman was sent by the
Goddess to perfect Her rituals.

If the High Head was inclined to think Brother Cyril's retraction was
rather suspiciously fulsome, his doubts were set at rest when he
interviewed Flan.  He questioned the women once a day at first, trying
to sift their vague answers for clues to their home universe, though he
became increasingly sure that he was going to have to rely on Calculus
to find it.

"Brother Cyril and I had what you might call an eyeball- to-eyeball
confrontation," Flan told him.

"And," she added cheerfully, 'he came around to my point of view.  "

As for the others.  Brother Gamon of Calculus Horn soon asked for
permission to interview Sandra himself so as not to interrupt the work
he was doing with her.  He fancied he was close to discovering a new
and improved procedure.  Observer Horn made a similar request about
Roz. She was, they said, giving them some aspects they had found they
were missing up to then, and they wished to continue working closely
with her.

Very commendable, the High Head thought, although he wished the other
one whose name he always forgot Helen, that was it had not decided to
work closely with Kitchen.  Mealtimes were steadily becoming a
distinctly sensual experience.  The High Head, who preferred to eat in
the same way that one stoked an engine, and then forget the matter,
found this distracting.  It surprised him that so few Brothers agreed
with him.  Even Brother Milo raised no objection.

He said, rather obscurely, that Helen was a challenge to himself and
his Oath.

 "Don't you at least..."  the High Head asked Edward, as the two of
them breakfasted on little fish from the reservoirs, mushrooms, and
honey pancakes, 'don't you at least miss pass et for breakfast?  "

"No, I don't," Edward said heartily.

"I don't mind if I never taste the stuff again."

The High Head sighed and stared at the blue wall of his private dining
room.  It was becoming clear to him that he must be the only person in
the citadel who actually liked pass et

"How is the woman you had in the trance?"  he asked, to change the
subject.

"Coming along very nicely."  Edward poured himself more of the
excellent coffee the best thing, in his opinion, that ever came out of
Azandi.

"As soon as she came out of shock, I discovered she was a natural-born
healer.  So of course, I asked her to stay and help us in Healing Horn.
But," he added, with an odd, wistful little smile, "I'd still much
rather have had the pretty one."

"Zillah," said the High Head.  There was somehow no doubt which woman
Edward meant.  He knew a sudden surge of annoyance, even actual anger,
that Edward had presumed to want Zillah, when it ought to be obvious
she was was what?  In some discomfort, the High Head realized that he
had been, in some odd way, regarding the woman Zillah as his.  He
seemed he could not think how to know her extremely well, in a special
way, and he was certainly not going to let any other Horn Head take
over the job of interviewing her.  No, this was absurd.  He should not
be thinking this way.  He had better let someone else (provided it was
not Edward) speak with her in future.  But he still thought he should
ignore Brother Wilfrid's complaint that Zillah was harming the
vibrations by corrupting the servicemen.  Brother Wilfrid was, in his
way, a fanatic.  Nor was there anything amiss with the vibrations.

"I do, of course, lock their quarters with the strongest possible wards
every night," he said, possibly changing the subject again.

"I'm sure," Edward said rather dubiously, 'that is very wise.

 The women knew perfectly well they were locked in at night.


"I can tell a ward when I see one," Roz said, 'even if I hadn't tried
to get past the veiling and found I couldn't.  " She paced up and down
past the rows of sleeping cells.

"What I don't know is if they listen in on us or not."

"Oh, they don't," Judy told her.

"I asked Edward, and he was shocked I thought they would."

"You askedr Roz said.  'youoo/!"

"Why not?  He's nice.  In fact," Judy said, with rather tremulous
defiance, 'he's so innocent, I feel a beast most of the time, knowing
I'm here to undermine him.  "

"We're not here to be nice!"  Roz said disgustedly.  She marched to
stand looming over the others as they sat about on the floor.

"Okay.

So we're here trying to do the best we can without the virus-magic.

It's obvious from what we've all heard them say that the best way to
undermine this place is to spoil the vibrations by getting as many of
them as possible to break their Oath.  I've been working on that
principle anyway.  I'm up to twelve.  Two High Brothers and ten
mages.

How about the rest of you?  Sandra?  Flan?  "

"Who made you leader?"  muttered Flan.  She hugged her knees and rocked
like a Kelly clown.  This gave her repeated little sights of the smug
smile playing over Roz's face.  Confronted by that smile, she had not
the heart to add Brother Instructor Cyril to Roz's string of scalps.

The look on the man's face when she kissed him to shut him up no, it
was too much.  And then Alexander, the dark young mage, was something
very special.  But Roz was impatiently tapping a foot.  So what could
she say, except that her movement class somehow doubled every time she
 went near Ritual Horn?  And dozens of other brothers crowded hopefully
in the veiling of the doors.

"Dozens," she said.

"Yes, but how many?"  Roz demanded.

"I've lost count," Flan said airily, 'except that they're queuing up.
"

"You can't have managed more than fifteen in the time," Roz said
suspiciously.

"Let's call it fifteen.  Sandra?"

Sandra seized gratefully on Flan's lead.

"They're queuing up for me too, Roz."  Something surely was going to
happen with High Brother Gamon soon; though, windbag as he was, it was
going pretty slowly so slowly that she didn't kid herself that the
other mages in Calculus had not made bets on whether it would happen at
all.  And Sandra was enjoying it, in a way she had never enjoyed it
before.  He was so courteous, so considerate.  It was courtship, that
was what it was, in the old-fashioned sense, and all the while there
she was sabotaging his divinations.  It was a shame.  Sandra was aware
that she might be beaming and that her eyes were a trifle misty.

"Say fifteen," she said hurriedly.

"Forty-two," said Roz.  She was looking rather less smug, now it seemed
that Flan and Sandra had both exceeded her score by three.

"Helen?"

Small, wry brackets grew around Helen's mouth.  She was well aware that
Flan and Sandra were at least exaggerating, and she thought she
understood why.  She supposed she ought to shut Roz up by explaining
what she was doing with the food, but she was fairly sure that Roz
would dismiss it as too slow.  Roz's mind was not adapted to fine
tuning of this kind.  And Helen was absolutely certain that Roz would
not understand for a moment the way she had chosen to distract Brother
Milo from what she was really doing.  She had seen at a glance that
Brother Milo was incorruptible.  So she had told him that she had come
to Kitchen to seduce him.  Brother Milo had at once, and with great
glee, dropped all his complaints about her lavish cooking and dared her
 to try.  As far as he was concerned, Helen could do what she liked to
the food as long as he kept his Oath.  By now they were locked in this
slightly strange contest, in which Brother Milo had to win without
suspecting that Helen was letting him win, while Brother Milo tacitly
ignored the fact that Helen was now ruling Kitchen.  But Roz would
certainly think this was just silly.

The brackets deepened round Helen's mouth as she considered what to
say.

"You have to remember we're all quite busy most of the time," she said,
with her mind on the bustle in the long chain of rooms, the heat, the
smells, and attacks of hysteria from Brother Feno or Brother Maury, one
them chasing a cadet with a ladle, and everyone else in fits of
laughter.  Flan looked at her with respect and wished she had thought
to say that.

"Say six," Helen said judiciously, and allowed her mouth to spread in a
wry smile.  Why was it, she wondered, that a great long creature like
herself always, unfailingly, fell for small men like Brother Milo?

"Forty-eight," said Roz.

"Judy?"

Judy coloured up.

"Just the one.  And," she added tremulously, 'that's all there's going
to be.  "

While Flan, Sandra, and Helen carefully kept their faces noncommittal,
Zillah looked from one to the other and began to feel as desperately
innocent as Edward, or even Marcus.  Marcus probably luckily, given the
nature of Roz's interrogation was fast asleep across Zillah's legs,
clutching his new bag of toys.  While Zillah had simply been enjoying
herself, it seemed that the rest of them had been making a cynical
attack on the virtue of the citadel.  Well, it stood to reason.  They
had come here to make an attack of some kind.

But it made Zillah see that she was a complete outsider here.  And I
bet Roz doesn't even bother to ask me!  she thought.

Sure enough, Roz said, "Grand total of forty-nine!  Not bad for two
days.  If we keep this strike rate up, enough mages will have enough
fun to spoil every vibration going.  A week ought to bring the fortress
down."

"Oh, but it won't," Zillah said.  Five faces turned her way, Roz's
 irritated, the others surprised, questioning and perhaps even faintly
pleased.  She tried to explain.

"It likes fun the citadel, I mean.  Can't you feel?  People keep
repressing it, and it's just sort of itching for something to enjoy."

Roz turned away.

"Do try not to talk nonsense, Zillah.  You just don't have the training
the rest of us have had.  Everyone knows this is a serious, evil
place."

Zillah was somewhat consoled for this snub by Flan, who rolled over to
whisper, "I like fun too.  But don't tell teacher."

 Tod found himself with sudden, immense popularity.  Every serviceman
and nearly every cadet was overnight his firm friend.  Tod was
amused.

The speed of it amused him.  So did the various approaches.  Cadets in
their second year, who were total strangers, came up to him with the
serious, haunted look of those who were having strong second thoughts
about being mages at all, and either chatted about Frinjen or offered
to help with Tod's work.  Cadets in their first year bought Tod drinks
at the buttery With pass et beer, as Tod informed Zillah, was far worse
than the food and tried to find out from him what might please Zillah.
So did nearly all the servicemen except Rax.  Rax, being Rax, simply
asked what Tod would take for giving him an hour alone with Zillah.

To everyone except Rax, Tod said that Zillah would like toys for
Marcus.  He told them this because it displeased him that Zillah had
apparently rushed aboard that capsule without even thinking that Marcus
might need something to play with.  It was one of several faults Tod
found in Zillah.  But to Rax, he said in a dark whisper, I don't advise
it.  She's worse than the Ladies of Leathe.  Five minutes with her
could well blow your mind it comes close to blowing mine, and I've got
my birthright to help me!  "

This, he thought ruefully, could almost be true.  Whatever peculiar
magecraft it was that Zillah possessed, he sensed it was very strong
indeed.  He was glad that she chose to exercise it so seldom.  And
anyone would defend Zillah from a lad like Rax.  But he sometimes
wondered why he held the rest off her.  It was pure dog in the
manger.

That first afternoon when Zillah had been so pleased to see him.  Tod
 had had great hopes.  Then, the next day, he had come upon her sitting
in a blue window embrasure, looking out into Arth's blue empty sky, and
realized that his hopes were just wistful phantoms.

One glance at her sad profile, and he had known there was a wall around
Zillah and that someone else was inside the wall with her.

"Did you come here to get away from someone?"  he had asked her, almost
literally out of the blue.

"Yes," said Zillah.  The sadness of that one word was terrible.

"Then you've come to the right place," Tod answered cheerfully,
watching his hopes swirl away down an imaginary plug hole

"You've got Josh and Philo and me to take your mind off it."

He did wish she had not given him that particular grateful, friendly
smile.

All the same, he and Philo and Josh spent every available spare minute
with Zillah.  When Marcus was not too restless, she sat in on classes
with them, despite Brother Wilfrid's sour looks, and seemed surprised
at how much she learned even when she had to carry Marcus out halfway
through most of the time.  This was another thing about Zillah that
irritated Tod.  She was so plumb ignorant of magework.  It was almost
as if she refused to learn on purpose, and possibly encouraged Marcus
to make a noise so that she could leave.  He allowed that this was
partly due to lack of confidence someone, way back in Zillah's history,
had evidently sapped her confidence pretty badly but he also suspected
it was due to arrogance.  In some secret place in her mind, Zillah felt
she had no need to learn.

Josh had detected this too.  Centaurs had somewhat the same
arrogance.

"Come on.  Admit it.  You're proud of not knowing," Josh said to her.

And Zillah laughed guiltily, proving Josh right.

Tod knew he was finding faults in Zillah as a defence against falling
in love with her.  It was not only her looks.  She was such good
company too.  They wandered about the citadel, talking of everything
 under three suns, and Tod found himself prattling to her as he had not
found himself able to prattle since he left home.

"What is pass et Zillah asked.

All three of them groaned.

"A grain, lady Philo told her.

"I'm told the centaurs used to live on it."

"Only when desperate," Josh protested.

"It grows dreadfully easily, particularly in the north of the
Pentarchy," Tod prattled.

"It used to be what poor folk had to eat.

When there was a pass et famine, that was real famine.  So the
government tried to prevent famines by putting up a reward for growing
pass et that was a few hundred years ago, and naturally no one ever
remembered to repeal the law.  There's always a huge pass et mountain.
They make a lethal spirit out of it in Trenjen.  But until I got to
With, I always wondered what they did with the rest of it.  Now I know.
They just send it all here.  "

There are grain cellars full of it,7 Josh said, pointing downward.

"We'll show you if you like," Philo offered.

"Oh, would you?"  Zillah said.  Her delight at the thought of going
into the bowels of the citadel was so sincere that Philo wrapped his
arms around her.  Philo was one of those who was always embracing
people he liked.  This was what had caused him such trouble with the
Brotherhood.  But Tod suspected, from the look on Philo's face, that it
was not just friendship where Zillah was concerned; and he had a notion

that Philo had discovered, like himself, that Zillah was only open to
friendship.

No one else in the citadel believed it was just friendship.  Philo and
Josh were petitioned as often as Tod was for Zillah's favours.  With
was filling with rumours and randy stories.  Chief among them was one
which Tod thought might be fact that the woman in boots had slept with
every soul in Observer Horn and was open to any other offers.

There was known to be some kind of bet on over the black girl in
Calculus, and though the stories varied about the small, lively woman,
 there were jokes about the way Ritual Horn literally danced attendance
upon her.  Meanwhile Maintenance had opened a book upon the virtue of
Brother Milo and the High Head.  You could only get 21 on the chances
of Brother Milo, but they were offering 100-1 that the High Head would
not keep his Oath until the end of the week.  There was some bitterness
about the way the High Head seemed to exploit his position.  He kept
calling the women to his room.  Zillah confirmed that she had been
called in twice, and she confessed to Tod that High Horns terrified
her.

"You're not the only one," Tod said.  I do dislike that man.  " And he
went off to collect toys for Marcus in a sack that Josh had filched
from Healing Horn.  Tod called it the Charity Bag.  He took it around
with them and watched with pleasure as it filled with mascot dolls,
cubes and prisms and other hardware from Observer and Research, a
wonderful model train made by a lonely Brother, a boat, and wax images
from everywhere.  It gave him enormous pleasure to watch Marcus tip
them all out, crying, " Ooh!  Doy!  "

Tod turned to Zillah.  There.  You see?  I'm a truly expert uncle.  "

By the third day, all of them except perhaps Marcus were sick of the
blaze of attention.  Instead of attending a parade in the square where
Zillah got so giddy.  Tod planted Marcus and his Charity Bag on Josh's
back, Philo took Zillah by the hand, and they all descended the ramps
into the lower parts of the citadel to show Zillah the stores.  Tod saw
afterward that he should have persuaded Josh at least to stay for the
parade.  A solitary centaur is noticeable, present or absent.  But at
the time they thought no more about it than to laugh with guilty
pleasure.

"Playing hookey," said Tod.

"I used to be an expert at it.  Life in this citadel takes me right
back to school."

They went slowly.  The blue ribbed surface of the lower ramps was steep
for Josh's hooves, and the light, away from living quarters, was kept
 dimmer.  When they reached the first of the huge grain cellars, there
was hardly light enough to see the mountain of pass et heaped up into
the distance.

"It looks almost like wheat," Zillah remarked.

"Bed," Marcus announced.

"Quite right, infant," Tod agreed.

"It smells vile.  Just look at it all!  Enough to feed a thousand
Brothers for at least a year, even if they ate nothing else which they
almost didn't until that life-saving Helen person got into Kitchen."

"They grow mushrooms in it when it goes bad," Josh said.

"And then it smells even worse," Tod said, starting to move on.

Philo, however, hung back at the grainy foot of the mountain, sniffing
wistfully.

"It reminds me of home," he said.

"I was forgetting you came from the Trenjen Orthe," Tod said.

"Rather you than me!"

"I wish I was back there," said Philo.

He sounded so yearningly homesick that Zillah asked sympathetically,
"What is the Trenjen Orthe?"

"My bit of the Pentarchy," said Philo.

"The Fiveir of Orthe is all over the place."

"In order to understand our friend," Tod prattled, leading the way on
down the next ramp, 'you must realize that the Pentarchy consists of
five onetime kingdoms, or Fiveirs, now united into one.  These are
Frinjen, Trenjen, Corriarden, the Orthe, and Leathe.  Apart from
Leathe, each Fiveir is governed by its own Pentarch one of these is the
old buffer who happens to be my father.  The king governs the whole
country, but he is also Pentarch of the Orthe which is quite a job,
because, apart from a lump in the middle of the continent, the Orthe is
scattered over everywhere else but Leathe, in lots of little enclaves.
I think it's wherever the Other Peoples happened to live.

Philo's lot of gualdians who no doubt had their reasons chose to take
up their abode in the north and put up with the weather and the pass et
so that became part of the Orthe, instead of being part of Trenjen. "

 "But I'm from central Orthe/ Josh said, following Tod downward with
braced hooves and little mincing steps, 'which is much more sensible.

Most of my people are.  "

"Sensible?  Or just from the Centre?"  Tod called back.

"What exactly makes you a gualdian?"  Zillah asked as she and Philo
followed Josh.

Tt's hard to explain.  I'm not typical," Philo replied.

"Most of us have a great deal of body hair in fact, the usual way to
tell a gualdian-human cross is that they look rather furry."

"Not our beloved High Head, though," Tod shouted up irrepressibly.

"Unless he shaves all over daily, that is.  He's vain enough.  He
might."

"No, but you can tell he's a cross from the eyes," Philo said.

"That's the main sign usually."  He turned his great wide eyes toward
Zillah.  She looked at them closely.  In the dimness they seemed very
penetrating and luminous, as well as large, but they looked like human
eyes to her.  So, come to think of it, did High Horn's eyes.

"But most of the time," Philo went on, nuzzling closer to Zillah as his
way was, 'it's quite hard to tell, particularly with gualdian women.
And look at me.  The only hair I have is on my head, and I was born
with these enormous hands and feet.  My parents took one look at me and
consulted the Gualdian.  And he said, a bit helplessly, that it was to
be hoped that I'd grow into something special which I didn't.  But I
think they kept on hoping.  It was the Gualdian who sent me over to
With.  Maybe he thought they could bring something out in me.  "

"Did they?"  Zillah asked.

"No," said Philo as they rounded the ramp into the next level.

"As if With could bring anything out in anyone!"  Tod said.

"The Gualdian must be senile to think it could.  Here, Zillah, we have
the first of Arth's main reservoirs.  Enough water to last the citadel
for years.  And, since the Brotherhood sometimes amazes the rest of the
 Pentarchy by being practical from time to time, they use their
reservoirs to breed fish in Zillah was already staring at a high glass
wall behind which, in night like gloom, swam a shoal of small silver
fish.  Other bigger fish stirred in the dimmer distance.  The lighting
down here was just bright enough for her to see their five twilit
reflections murkily mirrored in front of the fish, Philo all hands and
feet and clinging, limber movements; herself and Tod both neat and
quick; and Josh's great silver body, which seemed to draw all the light
to itself and focus that light on the small, vigorous figure of Marcus
on his back.

Marcus liked the glass surface and the fish.  He made Josh go close so
that he could push the boat from his Charity Bag across it.

"Voom-voom," he murmured, happily ignoring the fact that his boat had
sails.

At intervals along the glass wall were curious faucets, which Tod
explained were fish traps.  You drew the fish into them by magework.

"I'd show you, if I only knew what we'd do with the fish once we got
it," he said.

"But no one's going to notice if we pinch some mushrooms for Josh on
the next level."

"I'd kill for fresh mushrooms!"  Josh told Zillah.  He moved slowly
along beside the glass for Marcus to push his boat.  It was warm and
secret there, with only the half-seen fish and their own reflections,
and it made Josh as confidential as Philo.

"It was the same for me," he said, 'as it was for Philo, really.  They
said a weedy centaur with knock knees has no excuse for existing unless
his natural magecraft is something unusual.  Mine isn't but I'm sure
that's why the king ordered me to With.  I was lined up with rows of
really good specimens, and he chose me.  He said he expected great
things.  "

"Only after your year's up," said Tod.

"This place is inimical.  I wish I was anywhere else most of the time.
The only good thing to happen here is Zillah."

 Zillah laughed, but she had never been able to handle compliments, and
she had to change the subject.

"Is the king the same as the Gualdian?"

"Good gods, no!"  the three native Pentarchans cried out together.

Philo explained, "The Gualdian is only for gualdians."

And Tod added, "Clan chief, sort of.  The king is for everyone.  He's
an odd fellow, our monarch, very modern type.  Wears thick glasses and
likes to trot out shopping with a string bag.  To look at him, you
wouldn't think he had an ounce of birthright."

"But he must have," said Josh, 'or he wouldn't be king.  "

"At least," Philo said, with his chin resting on Zillah's shoulder,
'our Gualdian looks the part.  "

"And renowned for his silver tongue," said Tod.

"They say he once sweet-talked an archangel or was it Asphorael?  into
fetching his newspaper every day!"

Philo shot straight beside Zillah.

"That's a lie!"  She could feel his body almost twanging with anger.
And though there was no apparent change to that body, in the glass of
the reservoir, Philo's reflection blurred.  It seemed to be flaring and
shimmering around the edge.  Was this what made him gualdian and
different?

"You still haven't said," she interrupted hurriedly, 'what makes a
gualdian a gualdian.  How would I tell a gualdian woman, for instance?
"

"She'd be stunningly beautiful for a start," Tod said, and Zillah had
no idea if he knew how offended Philo was.

"One of my uncles married a gualdian lady, and she's still stunning,
even though my cousin Michael's the same age as me.  Otherwise you'd
think she was human.

She's not the kind to go round telling everyone she was born with
second sight.  She--' Tod had known, Zillah saw.  Philo forgot his
anger and inquired with great eagerness, "Which branch of us is she?"

Josh winked at Zillah.

"Now, that's typical gualdian.  Family, family."

"Frinjen," said Tod.  Town-gualdian from the estate at

"I

 Haurbath.  But you might just know her.  Her family has estates in the
north too.  Hang on a moment.  With all this glass to reflect off, I
can easily project you a likeness.  " He stepped back and drew upon his
birthright.

To Zillah, still wondering at the way everyone here took magework so
much for granted, it looked as if Tod shook his shoulders a little and
then possibly thought hard.  Josh shifted a hoof, sparing it, quite
unconcerned.  Even Amanda, Zillah thought, never took witchcraft so
calmly, and it had been part of her life for twenty years now.

"Look there," Tod said, pointing.

An image grew in the glass, brighter than their own reflections and
somewhat above them.  It was the head and shoulders of a radiant woman
with long black hair and the most striking dark eyes all so dense and
real that the shoal of pinkish fish swimming behind the image was all
but hidden.

Marcus's hand became a starfish, pointing.

"Badder!"  he shouted.

Zillah, equally astounded, first looked around to see if Amanda was
standing somewhere behind and above, and then, finding nothing but dark
blue wall, had to struggle with tears.  Oh Lord, I miss Amanda!

Why did I leave?  That really might be her.

Philo added to her shock by saying, "Oh, Amanda.  She's my second
cousin.  Is she really your aunt?"

"By marriage," said Tod.  The way he said it made it clear to Zillah's
shocked, heightened senses that this Amanda had somehow conferred an
honour on Tod's family which surely, unless she had gravely
misunderstood, was itself one of the highest in the land simply by
marrying into it.

"She's been a widow for years," Philo said, as if this excused the
lady.  This made Zillah struggle to replace Philo and perhaps the whole
gualdian race with him in a social bracket above Tod's.

"Yes, but she just remarried, did you know?"  said Tod.

"I did.  The second man was not gualdian either," Philo answered, with
unmistakable strong disapproval.

 Marcus all this while continued to bawl, "Badder!"  at the bright
image.  Josh swivelled his torso around in the way that was natural to
a centaur but which made Zillah's vertebrae ache every time she saw it,
and silenced Marcus with a small shake.

"What's the matter with him?"  he asked Zillah.

The tears in her eyes ran off down her cheeks.  Her voice cracked as
she answered.  That that lady's the absolute image of my elder sister.
She she's called Amanda too, would you believe?  "

Something belligerent vanished from Tod, and so did Philo's stiffness.
They both turned to Zillah.

"Oh, great Goddess!"  said Tod.

"Analogues!  What a pity my Amanda doesn't have a sister, or you might
get to meet yourself."  Philo, seeing Zillah's tears, started to put
his arms around her.  Tod pushed his reaching hands aside.

"No, you clinging vine!  It's my turn this time."  He wrapped his own
arms around Zillah in a hearty embrace.

"It's quite all right," he prattled.

"You're the sister of my favourite aunt or you would be if she had one.
Don't cry.  Please.  I'll take you to see her as soon as this horrible
year's over and we can get on a transport."

Distress, homesickness, the relief of being comforted, caused Zillah to
put her head on Tod's shoulder and cling to him.  Her tears leaked into
the prickly blue cloth of his uniform.  The warmth of him suffused her.
She had not felt this warm since Marcus was born as if she had been
perpetually two degrees in arrears.

Tod found her frank leaning on him a decidedly sexual experience.  Her
body was the most satisfying shape to have his arms around and to have
pressed against his.  At the edge of his senses, he noticed Josh moving
away with Marcus, probably so that Marcus should not be upset by his
mother's misery.  Philo followed him, shrugging, rather annoyed.  Tod
waited until both his friends were out of sight on the next downward
ramp and then fell to comforting Zillah like anything.

 Though he was quite aware that comforting was all Zillah would let him
do, this did not stop him kissing her ear and her cheek, and then
moving her around, gently but forcibly, so that he could at last kiss
her mouth.

He had reached this stage, and the image of Amanda that had caused the
kiss had faded away Tod having forgotten entirely by then how he came
to start when Brother Wilfrid advanced down the ribbed passageway,
accompanied by his own righteously triumphant reflection in the glass
of the reservoir and, with a flick of sanctimonious fingers, froze
Zillah and Tod in place while an image of them was transmitted to the
mirrors in the office of the High Head.

/! knew this was what I would find!  " said Brother Wilfrid, and his
voice trembled with what Zillah and Tod both detected to be a variety
of unhealthy emotions.

 The High Head felt put upon.  Breakfast had been too rich.  Maybe it
was the nagging of an overtaxed stomach, or maybe genuine anxiety, but
he knew today that things were not right in the citadel.  Those
quickening vibrations bothered him.  If they had been caused by the
onset of the tides, they should have stopped when the tides began, late
in the watches of the night.  But the tides now ran full, message
channels were open to all parts of the Pentarchy, and the rhythms still
continued to quicken.

He was inclined to blame it all on their six unwanted guests.  The
sooner they could all be sent back wherever it was they came from, the
better it would be for everyone.  But Observer and Calculus Horns,
though professing to be hard at work, were producing only increasingly
obscure and contradictory results.  As for the women, he began to
suspect that Flan and Helen at least had unexpectedly expertly shielded
minds.  All they gave him was the same inane story.

Zillah now seemed a dangerous mystery.  Her child well, he had long ago
given up there.

To add to his troubles, Edward, on whom he was accustomed to rely for
sane and self-effacing advice, seemed thoroughly out of sympathy with
any of his worries.  Take breakfast that morning.  The two of them had
as usual arrived in the spare blue room to find it reeking of coffee.

Edward had sniffed the stuff as if it were nectar, poured himself a
great mugful and announced, Tt's even better than yesterday!  Goddess,
it's years since I tasted good coffee!  " After this he had eagerly
snatched the silver cover off the heated dish on the table to reveal a
great mound of buttered mushrooms, nine-tenths of which he had eaten as
if he actually enjoyed the things.  Then he had set about the hot
 bread, wrapped in a crisp blue napkin.

"Reprimand Brother Milo?"  he said, with evident astonishment, when the
High Head suggested it.

"Why?  He's working miracles!  Try some of this ginger conserve."

Nor did Edward seem to feel any urgency about the women.

"They're doing no harm," he said, and then, leaning forward eagerly,
with his face slightly flushed, "Besides did I tell you the live ones
have rather interesting physiology.  I haven't by any means got all my
results yet, but it's beginning to look as if all of them have what
we'd call gualdian blood.  The pretty one Zillah would probably count
as eighty percent gualdian in our terms.  That's quite unusual, you
know or it would be in the Pentarchy.  Gualdians make a great thing
about the purity of their race, but the fact is that they've been
interbreeding with humans for centuries.  You hardly get one who's as
purebred as he likes to claim.  In fact, the nearest thing to a
purebred gualdian I've ever come across is that latest serviceman
what's his name?  - Philo, and I think he may be some kind of
throwback.  He doesn't look like modern gualdians at all."

And to the High Head's suggestion that half a dozen well- shielded
alien gualdians might be more than enough to disturb the vibrations of
With, Edward simply laughed and advised his friend to centre himself.

The High Head had no leisure to do that.  Once in his office, he found
his daily routine constantly interrupted by urgent calls from the
Pentarchy.  Everything poured in with the tide.  Trenjen reported that
the pass et crop had failed and required an instant review of expected
climate changes for next season's planting.  The King in Council sent
majestic formalities and, embedded in them, a disturbing request to
With to match the observation made by the Orthe surveyors which
suggested that the energy flows of the Pentarchy were becoming
seriously deranged.  And of course, there was Leathe.  Leathe Council
came on the ether several times in the persons of various High Ladies
wishing to know if there was any progress yet in the experiment with
otherworld.

 The High Head answered the ladies politely and wished he knew too.  It
nagged at him increasingly that he must plant another agent there, and
soon; and, since otherworld seemed to have located at least two of his
best, this agent would have to be both exceptional and cunningly
planted.  But naturally he did not betray this anxiety either to the
ladies or to Lady Marceny.  Lady Marceny wanted to know as badly as the
rest probably more so, because her aim was transparently to get him to
tell her ahead of the rest of the Pentarchy.  She gave strong hints
that she might impart the secret of her private experiment with
otherworld in exchange.  But since she left the talking to that
wretched son of hers, the High Head doubted if she had any such
intention.  What Lady Marceny knew, she always kept to herself.  This
was just as well, because the High Head knew he would have been sorely
tempted by now. He looked with disfavour at the vitiated face of her
son in his mirror and promised him results soon.  Rumour had it that
the young man was half-gualdian, but if so, his mother had put him
beyond sympathy.

To meet the various demands of the Pentarchy, he was forced to draft
more mages to Observer Horn, rearrange schedules, interrupt and curtail
routine rituals he worked through lunch, dourly ordering himself a
plate of the parched pass et he so sorely missed.  It came with honey
on the side, which he ignored with contempt.  His temper was already
very badly frayed when the news came from Brother Wilfrid.

He stared at the simulacrum of Tod embracing Zillah.  Behind them a
small, lazy shoal of fishes swam, fluttering gauzy fins, opening
foolish mouths, and for a moment the fish seemed to have all his
attention.

He pulled himself together and gave the required orders.

"Bring the serviceman here at once, and use the strongest mages for the
guard.

Remember the man has Pentarch birthright and could be dangerous.  Keep
the young woman apart.  I'll see her when I've dealt with the
serviceman.  "

 That Zillah could stoop to make love to Tod really hurt.  The High
Head was not aware of hating Tod particularly, but he saw with
passionate relief that here was his chance to get rid of him in a way
most profitable to With.

The real stumbling block was the inevitable reaction from the Pentarch
of Frinjen.  The High Head was careful to keep abreast of affairs at
home.  He was well aware that Tod's father, August Gordano, despite
being a fool, had, if he chose to use it, enormous clout in the
Pentarchy.  Even Lady Marceny referred to August as 'that bluff old
sweetie' and seemed surprisingly to value his opinion.

Furthermore, Roderick Gordano was Frinjen's only son.  Even With was
not free to deprive a Fiveir of its sole heir.  That would bring the
king in, heavily, on Frinjen's side.

With thoughtful eagerness, the High Head contacted Records Horn and had
them send the Gordano family tree through to his main mirror.  It was
headed by August wed Amy Adonath and followed by no less than six
daughters preceding young Roderick into the world.  The High Head
shuddered a little at such crude persistence.  The good Amy must be
nothing more than a brood mare.  He moved the display with a gesture,
searching for males to whom the birthright could also descend.  Five of
the daughters had sons, any of which were likely but Pentarchs never
did favor the female line.  The High Head was in sympathy with that,
though he could at a pinch argue-Ah!  This was better.  Going back a
generation, August's father had married twice.  One son survived from
this second marriage (though with the symbol alongside his name that
suggested dubious personal morals).  The younger son of this marriage

was long dead, having wed a gualdian woman.

Interesting.  His son, however, survived: Michael Gordano, born within
a month of Roderick.

That settled it.  Tod had a cousin supremely well qualified to hold the
birthright.  August Gordano could shout all he liked, but no one could
 say With had left Frinjen without an heir.  With had its laws. Gordano
had been caught breaking them.  No one could bully With into false
leniency.

He banished the display as Brother Wilfrid entered, breathless but very
ready with his version of the matter.

"And that's about the size of it.  High One.  I've known all along the
fellow was subversive.  He's been brought up to think himself entirely
above the law and for that we should pity him, of course but his total
levity is all his own.  He regards With as a joke.  High One.  As for
that unclean woman!"

The High Head looked into Brother Wilfrid's pale face and saw it
quivering with prurient hate.

"Centre yourself, Brother Instructor!"

Brother Wilfrid did so or at least contrived to control himself a
little with obvious effort.  The centaur and the gualdian servicemen
are down there, too, somewhere, sir.  We don't know their exact role in
the affair, but they certainly connived at it.  They missed parade
without excuse and are now hiding.  We're looking for them now.  "

"Scared, I suppose," said the High Head.  In the normal way, a centaur
and a gualdian would form a powerful combination.  But he thought of
the pallid horseman, birth marked and knock-kneed, and skinny Philo
with those enormous hands and feet not those two.

"Send them to me as soon as you find them.  I'll see Gordano now."

Before Tod was marched in, the High Head made efforts at least as
strenuous as Brother Wilfrid's to centre himself.  He thought he had.

Therefore it was quite a surprise to him that the mere sight of Tod's
jaunty figure and cool gaze brought him ablaze with anger though why
the anger should be accompanied by deep hurt puzzled him more than a
little.

"Well, serviceman," he asked, 'what have you to say for yourself?  "

"Nothing," Tod said frankly.

"I was doing what I was doing, and Brother Wilfrid came along and saw
me, and that's all there is to it, really."  There seemed very little
 else he could say.  But he did not deceive himself that his frankness
pleased the High Head.  He could feel anger beating off the man, like
the heat when you open an oven.  He saw that the result of this anger
would be an even heavier penance than he had been expecting: fasting,
compulsory prayer, maybe a very stiff term of solitary confinement or
perhaps worse.  There were whispers, he remembered, of extremely
horrible punishments of a secret nature but here Tod found he had lost
all desire to speculate and simply composed himself to receive whatever
it was.

The High Head thought.  You think your birth makes it impossible for me
to touch you, don't you?  Tn short, you admit to being taken in
Oathbreaking.  "

The angry grind in his voice caused Tod to jump slightly and find he
was not as composed as he thought.

"Only after a fashion, sir.  With respect, I'd like to point out that
as a serviceman, I haven't taken any Oath to break."

"But you were made aware that you are legally required to follow the
laws of With during your year of service, and that the Oath is an
important part of those laws," the High Head stated.

"You must also be aware that your sensual dallying has seriously
disturbed the rhythms by which With survives."

Damn it to hell spoke I only kissed her!  Tod thought.  For a base
moment he thought he would tell the High Head some of the rumours that
were going around about the woman in boots and she could be disturbing
the vibes, even if only half of it was true but the next moment he
rightly concluded that the angry High Head would only see that as a
whining attempt to incriminate others.

"No," he said.

"At least, I suppose the rhythms must be wrong if you say so."

"I have," said the High Head, still in the flat, grinding voice of
anger, 'heard enough.  And since you come before me without the
slightest sign of contrition, your punishment will be the utmost
 reserved for those who trouble Arth's fabric in this way.  You will be
banished to otherworld ' Tod looked up, astounded.

"But / " Silence," said the High Head.

"I'm well aware that you are heir to a Fiveir and consider yourself
immune to punishment, but I have acquainted myself with your family
tree, and I know you are not the only heir.  You have a cousin and four
nephews who can easily take your place.  Am I not right?"

"Yes/ but," Tod said feebly, "I was only going to say this will kill my
old father, sir."

"You should have thought of that before," the High Head told him, with
considerable triumph.

"It is now too late.  Your banishment begins as soon as the necessary
ritual transposes you.  And, since you are so amorously inclined, I am
going to place you in otherworld as the lover of a certain female.  You
will use your relationship with her to obtain information which you
will then pass on to me.  The weave of the ritual will leave your mind
linked to mine so that you may do this.  Have you understood?"

Tod nodded, although in fact his mind seemed barely able to grasp more
than the sounds the High Head was uttering.  He could scarcely think.
Feeble little phrases rotated in his head: It's not fair I only kissed
her He can't do this It's not fair Around and around.  His mind seemed
to have given up.  Dimly he wondered if the swine in front of him had
put some kind of clamp on his intellect.

"Right," said the High Head.

"High Brother Nathan will instruct you further in your mission, and if
you have any questions when you get to otherworld, the present agent
can answer them."  He turned aside and summoned High Brother Nathan by
sigil.  When the Horn Head of Ritual duly appeared, somewhat flushed
and dishevelled, the High Head said, "Take this man away and prepare
him for immediate transposition to replace agent Antorin.  I'll be
along in ten minutes precisely to officiate."

 He turned back to Tod and gestured.  It gave him strong satisfaction
to watch Tod's trim figure be snatched away backward out of his
presence, with the most uncharacteristic expression of stunned dismay
on his face.  So satisfied was he that he did not realize until Tod was
gone that he had not, as he always did with his agents, privately told
him the lie that he could come back if he behaved himself flawlessly.
He found he did not care.  He could dangle that bait when Gordano
reached otherworld.

"And he can't come back!"  he said aloud.  That broke through his
self-possession a bit, I'm glad to see!  "

He turned again and summoned Zillah.

She was ushered in, looking distressed and puzzled.

"Look," she said.

"I don't quite understand--' " Silence!  " he snapped at her, and it
pleased him that she stopped speaking and quivered as if he had hit
her.

"While you are here in With, you are subject to Arth's laws, and you
have just seriously transgressed these laws."

Zillah was as incredulous as Tod.  She could not bring herself to take
this seriously.

"Oh, come!"  she said, tremulously half smiling, "Tod was only--' " I
told you to be quietV the High Head more or less roared at her.

Zillah quivered again and pressed her lips together.  She could see he
was in a rage, and she hated people to rage at her.  She drew into
herself, shrinking into a corner of her mind and pulling strong walls
around the corner, as she used to do when Mother screamed at her, while
she tried to understand why he was so angry.  When she thought of the
boasts Roz and the others had made, she could not believe it was simply
because Tod had kissed her.  She was hurt, because she had thought
until now that High Horns, though frightening, was a fair man.

The High Head glared at her, breathing heavily, and promised himself he
would break down the wards he saw her building, just as he had broken
Tod's composure.

 "You--' The room filled with call-chimes, and the master mirror lit
with the sigil of the double rose, the call sigil of Leathe.

Leathe had yet more to say.  It caught the High Head off balance.  He
was still trying to turn his mind from Zillah, and sign the call to the
outer office on Hold, when the double rose vanished and the face of
Lady Marceny's nasty son filled the glass instead.

"Good morning.

High Head of Arth/ The High Head whirled on the mirror.

"Oh, what is it now7' The young man was not in the least perturbed.  He
smiled maliciously.

"Caught you at a bad moment, have I?  Well, this won't take long.  It's
only an ultimatum."

"Ultimatum?"  repeated the High Head.

"What are you talking about?"

Behind his back, Zillah leaned forward, staring, frozen into a stiff
bend, with the word "Mark!"  on her lips, frozen too.  She knew it was
not Mark.  It had to be another analogue like Tod's image of Amanda.

But God!  He was like him, whoever he was!  This man seemed younger
than Mark, in spite of bagging under his eyes and seams on his cheeks,
and where Mark was clean shaven, this one sported a little curl of
moustache and a small, pointed beard.  Rather like a goat, Zillah
thought dispassionately.  Unlike Mark again, this one's face was full
of malicious glee, with a suggestion of much greater viciousness hidden
behind the satyr's smile.  But the voice was identical and somehow the
very differences in him served only to show how like Mark he was.
Zillah's frozen heart banged until her chest ached with it.  And the
misery of her loss poured through her again like a flood through a
lock-gate.  It had only been in abeyance after all.

"Ultimatum ;s the word," the face in the mirror agreed.  His hand, long
and elegant and white, and very like Mark's, appeared and gave the
little beard a mischievous tug.

"There's been a great deal going on here in the three days since I last
spoke to you.  Magus.  The upshot is that we in the Pentarchy are going
 to give you six weeks six of our weeks.  Magus to get some results. If
you don't have something to stop this flooding by then, With is going
to be discredited and disbanded."

"Nonsense," said the High Head, pulling his mind around to the point.

"Leathe has no right in law to threaten With.  Go and tell your mother
that she's making a fool of herself."

"Ah, but it isn't just Leathe."  The young man chuckled no, giggled,
Zillah thought, like a particularly vicious schoolboy.

"This is the whole Pentarchy, High Head.  The Ladies have consulted
with all the other Fiveirs.  Frinjen and Corriarden joined us at once
they're both getting swamped.  Magus, while you sit in your fortress
doing nothing and Trenjen came in when the Orthe did.  The king agrees
with us.  Magus.  If you don't make a move, he'll use his powers."

"Oh indeed?"  said the High Head.  This had to be a bluff.

"Then why haven't I heard from the king direct?"

"I'm sure you will," answered Lady Marceny's son.

"But you know how slowly Royal Office moves.  Red tape.  Protocol.
Leathe decided to give you advance warning so that you can get a move
on now."

"My humble thanks," the High Head retorted.

"Now, do you mind leaving me in peace?  I happen to be very busy."

"But certainly," said the young man and vanished from the glass.

His insolence, the High Head thought, was beyond even Tod's. Goddess!

How he hated the ruling class!  He turned back to Zillah, fueled with
additional anger and prepared to break her.  To his further annoyance,
she was staring at the master mirror with eyes that had become wide and
large.  Around them the rest of her face seemed pinched in and
bluish-white, as if she were suddenly near death from exposure.

"Who was that?"  she said.

"On the screen."

"Only the chief Lady of Leathe's despicable son," he said.

"I'm told it's not really his fault he's like he is.  His mother has
steadily perverted him from the cradle up."

 "What's his name?"  Zillah asked, in a strange, breathless, unhappy
way.

"Herrel - Herrel Listanian, I suppose he'd take his mother's name since
the gods alone know who his father was, though it's rumoured the poor
wretch was a gualdian The High Head stopped himself, exasperated.  What
was it about Zillah's peculiar powers that always caused him to be
sidetracked into patiently answering her questions?

No more.

"Let us now return to yourself and the way you broke the law," he said
coldly.

"Arth's laws were not made lightly, you know.

By your amorous seduction of young Gordano, you have seriously
imperilled the stability of the citadel.  I explained this when we
first took your people in and yet you still behave like a whore!

What are you a rutting bitch?  "

Zillah had gone back to her first meeting with Mark, the night when he
dropped in to speak with someone in the witchcraft circle in Hendon.
She had been so bored with them by then.  Then she had looked up and
there was Mark, speaking in his serious, confidential way with what was
his name?  Never mind.  It was as if the sun had come out.

In the same dispassionate way she had noted Herrel's beard just now,
she had noted then that Mark seemed very repressed, probably rather a
prig, and realized that it made no difference at all to what she
wanted.  She remembered the artless, almost greedy way she had made
sure she was included in the party that went to the pub afterward.

The first opportunity she got, she asked Mark back to her bed- sit with
her .  "Yes, I think you're right," she said, and looked up at the High
Head almost judiciously.

"There are times when I seem to behave like that as if I can't help it.
If I could hate myself for it, I would, but I can't.  You're quite
right to call me names."

He gaped at her.  Once more she had contrived to send this interview
down the wrong track.  It was typical of her.  Ridiculously, he had an
 urge to leap to her defence and assure her she was not a whore at all.
Nor a bitch.  Oh women!

"Well," he said, after a pause, 'as you seem to have a proper sense of
contrition, you had better go away and er think about it.  But
remember: if you do anything like this again, you will be in very great
trouble indeed.  "

What got into me?  he wondered as Zillah passed through the veils of
the doorway like a sleepwalker.  He shook himself and stalked off to
Ritual Horn to supervise Tod's departure.

 /!  must go said High Brother Nathan, mopping his flushed face.

"So must you.  There's going to be a ritual."

Flan watched him attempt to push the streaks of grey hair back over the
bald centre of his head.

"One I can't see?"  she asked, composedly zipping herself back into her
trousers.  On the whole, she was rather sorry about the interruption.
True, Brother Nathan had shamelessly blackmailed her.  He had found her
near as dammit undressed with Alexander in this very same gallery and
swiftly made his bargain.  He had not needed to say much.  The sight of
Alexander's face when Brother Nathan said the word 'punishment' had
been enough for Flan.

She would have agreed to anything.  And she had gone to the assignation
with clenched teeth, only to discover that Nathan could be quite sweet
after all.  And the poor old soul was in a real dither now.  I'm
getting quite soppy!  Flan thought.

"No, you can't see you mustn't be seen!"  he said.

"Goddess, girl!

It was only the merest luck the High Head didn't have most of you naked
in his mirror!  "

"All right then," Flan said equably.

But High Brother Nathan had had second thoughts, evidently not
unconnected with the unfinished business between them.

"On the other hand," he said, firmly smoothing grey strands of hair to
his scalp, "I don't see that it would do any harm for you to watch,
provided you keep well out of sight behind the wall of the gallery.  It
wouldn't do at all for the High Head to see you were here."  He shook
his uniform straight and picked up his headdress.

"I'll see you," he said, hurrying toward the doorway at the side of the
gallery.  There he paused, artistically.  Flan, who knew a studied
 movement when she saw one, wondered.  What's the old villain up to
now?  Brother Nathan turned around.  This ritual," he said, 'is to
punish a serviceman, as it happens.  It's the same punishment I
mentioned to you in connection with Brother Alexander.

Though, of course, we both know Brother Alexander to be blameless,
don't we?  "

You old bastard!  Flan thought.  More blackmail!  She had no desire at
all to see anyone punished, least of all in the way that had brought
that look to Alexander's face.  As soon as Nathan's stout figure had
faded through the veiling.  Flan dived after him, only to find herself
brought up short with such force that she was bounced back into the
gallery.

"Bastard!"  she shouted.

"Blackmailer!  I'll give you female harassment!"

She would have shouted a great deal more, but by then feet were
hurriedly and hollowly shuffling in the great rituals room below.

Evidently when the High Head ordered a sudden ritual, people jumped to
it.  Not knowing whether or not the High Head was there in person.

Flan decided not to draw attention to herself.  But she was still
damned if she was going to watch this ritual.  After plunging twice
more at the veiling without the slightest effect, she sat down on the
raked steps of the gallery with her face obstinately between her fists.
Out of sight below her, objects clanged, feet continued to shuffle, two
voices called off lists in a low murmur, and she could sense the room
filling up.  This ritual was big.

Incense or something abruptly clouded the air, thick and sharp as
woodsmoke pine smoke.  Flan thought.  By this time she was feeling more
than a slight tug of curiosity.  She had spent the last two days
professionally trying to improve the way these mages moved, and yet she
had still no idea what the movements were needed for.  When music
struck up, the wa very jangly sort favoured by With, she yielded to her
curiosity.  Just one look, she told herself.  She bounced to her feet
and ran downwards to crouch by the balustrade at the edge of the
gallery.

 She got there just as the High Head swept into the room through the
archway opposite.  Flan dared not move.  His eyes were moving all over,
now high, now low, checking up on everything, and the look on his face
scared Flan.  She stayed in a crouch, with her chin on the plain cold
stone of the coping, and cursed Brother Nathan all over again.  At the
same time, she was frankly fascinated.

She was looking down into blueness, a hundred or more blue-uniformed
mages in a blue stone room clouded with rising blue smoke.  The
nacreous metal of the incense holders ranged in a double star around a
space in the centre was the only thing that was not blue, apart from

hands and faces.  Around the central space, the Brothers were standing
in a complex zigzag pattern, some facing the centre, some lined up
sideways to it.  As the High Head raised his sword-wand, they sang,
long bass notes that vibrated through Flan's knees on the floor and her
chin on the coping, while the musical instruments, still out of sight
underneath, jangled a bewildering shrillness around the song.  The
effect was to make Flan decidedly dizzy, and for the first time, she
found she was ready to credit all this talk of vibrations in With.

She did not at first notice the young man being hustled through a
narrow corridor between the standing mages.  She saw him only when the
blue-clad men leading him thrust him out into the star-space in the
middle and hurriedly retired.  Even then she had trouble recognising
him.  He seemed dazed and his face was slack.  As he staggered into the
very centre of the space.  Flan saw that he was the young fellow who
had been so cheerful and kind when they first arrived.  Zillah's
friend.  She forgot the name.  She wondered what he had done no, that
was silly.  It was just a question of who with.  Zillah?

The mages began to move.  Again Flan became fascinated.  Each line of
men took its own path of difficult curves and strange zigzags, wheeling
smartly at the corners, emerging from the complex of movement at the
edges to gesture, bend, and sidestep, then plunging back into what
 seemed a living, walking maze.  They were making.  Flan was astonished
to see, actual, living sigils of power on the floor of the room.  Signs
she knew well and signs she had never before seen formed before her
eyes, were marked by the deep notes of the song, ratified by the
gestures of those mages at the edge, and then re-formed to a new sign.
No doubt to the mages down there it was just a muddled sort of dance
they had to learn, but from up here she could see lines and patterns of
pure power.  She could also see, quite as clearly, the mages who
slipped up and muddled a gesture or muffed a turn, as many did.  They
were so slack.  Tomorrow she would The young man in the centre fell
heavily to the floor.  Flan looked at him almost irritably, for
distracting her from the faults of the dance.  But what she saw
stretched her eyes wide and kept them that way, strained open and
staring as if they would never shut again.

Blood ran from a knuckle she did not know she was biting.  He was
melting.  No, changing.  Under her stretched eyes, he rose into grey,
jellylike hummocks, heaving and mounding and shifting, trickling
pulpily, until he was a big, slug-coloured shape like a frog or a toad,
except that, like a slug, the surface of him ran with some kind of
slime, glistening stickily in the blueness.

The creature lay humped and pulsing faintly while the dance went on
around it, quicker now, with fewer pauses between the deep, sung notes.
Smoke gusted upwards and stung Flan's staring eyes.  Her hair moved and
crackled, and she smelled ozone mixed with the smoke.

Through the blue wreathing haze, she saw the reptile shape writhe.

The slime on it was oozing to big, frothy bubbles, which burst and
re-formed and burst again.  It flung one desperate paw-thing out as it
writhed, clutching for a hold on the smooth flagstones.  God, he was in
agony!  It was like pouring salt on a slug.  He was twisting all
over.

He was gone.

Just like that, there was an empty, stained space on the floor.  Oh my
 God!  What a way to kill someone!  Flan's legs jumped straight, ready
to carry her away, quick.  She knew she was going to throw up.  But the
ritual was by no means over.  Like the rituals she had taken part in at
home, it had to be wound down.  She was forced to wait there, retching,
gulping against her bloodied knuckle, while the lines of power were
drawn in reverse, and the music stopped and each mage relaxed and
turned to his neighbours, chatting, laughing a little, as if this were
all in a normal day's work.  Normal!  By Flan's watch, the entire
ritual had taken a bare twenty minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.
She scrambled up and ran.  When the veil still did not let her through,
she was sick on the veil, uncaring, and it parted with a shiver as if
it were disgusted.

Flan bolted forth and ran again.


 Zillah went like a sleepwalker through bare blue halls and down
impossible ramps.  Marcus, she could feel, was a long way below and
quite safe.  She would go there presently.  For now her mind was
straining to contain that dissolute image in the High Head's mirror.

When she tried to put Mark as she had known him beside this other, this
Herrel, it seemed almost more than she could do.  Mark's image, like a
pale moon, would keep sliding behind Herrel's bearded face, and only
appearing dimly through.  She supposed it must be that they were both
only half the person they should be.  Mark was all solemnity,
seriousness, and responsibility, and the face in the mirror had nothing
but humour, wickedness, and sly malice.  Both half the person both
halves of a person.  Well, there was no knowing about analogues, of
course, but if you thought of them as identical twins Analogues were
like twins in a way twins brought up apart from each other the same
person put in a different environment, so that different aspects of his
personality were enhanced.  No, because it was known that identical
twins turned out quite alike all the same.  With these two, Zillah
thought that each must have repressed at least half of himself.  Mark
certainly had.  Zillah bitterly recalled her vain search for humour in
Mark the sheer fun that instinct told her was really part of Mark's
character and her frustration when he seemed to be constantly
withholding it from her.  With Herrel, she suspected she would search
equally vainly for any kind of seriousness but it must be there!  Yet
now Zillah could not rid herself of a feeling that there had never been
any humour in Mark to find.  She was sure of it, having seen this
Herrel as if she had stumbled on the missing half of Mark.

 At this, it came to her like a bolt of electricity, Why not7 The
question jolted her out of her sleepwalking state.  She looked up and
around the curved blue corridor where she found herself, to find it
ringing faintly, as though the bolt of electric thought had somehow
struck it physically.  She could smell ozone.

And here, around the corner, just as if the striking bolt had called
her up.  Flan Burke came hastening.  Or maybe a better word was
fleeing, or scuttling.  Flan's face was pale, and her manner
uncharacteristically dithery.

"Oh, thank God!"  she said.

"Zillah!  I thought I felt you around.  Zillah, something awful's
happened to your friend I've just seen the nastiest little ritual he
was your friend I mean that dapper little fellow with the slightly
smart-ass air you know--' Tod," said Zillah.

"You mean Tod?"

"Yes, I think I mean him the other one you go round with apart from the
centaur boy and the kid with big feet--' " Yes.  Tod," said Zillah.
Flan's eyes had dark bags under them and she reeked of sweat.  What was
the matter with her?

"Yes, well.  High Horns and my Ritual boys have just disappeared him,"
Flan said.  She gulped back a retch and leaned against the wall,
shaking.  Her teeth chattered.

"It was awful.  They dragged him to the middle he was looking
absolutely stunned I don't know what they did to him not before, I
mean.  The ritual was all living lines of power I saw that and it was
quite short really it just felt like several lifetimes.  But, Zillah,
first he sort of changed he kind of melted into something grey and
lumpy and slimy and they boiled him I knew it hurt and then he went. He
wasn't there anymore, Zillah.

Then they all packed up as if it was all just one more job in the day
and left.  After that I didn't care if High Horns saw me.  I ran.  But,
Zillah, what did they do ?  "

"I don't know."  Anger scoured Zillah - a different form of
 electricity.  So High Horns had punished Tod.  He has punished Tod and
turned me loose with just a caution!  The injustice of it filled her
with rage, and the clean blast of that rage seemed to make a whole lot
of things clear to her.  She had wondered that this place did not seem
evil.  Now she knew that evil was here.  How stupid how innocent of her
not to have remembered that evil seldom appeared to be evil!

"I'm sorry.  Flan," she said.

"I've got to go.  I must find Marcus."

"Go?"  Flan wailed.  She did not want to be left alone.

"Can I come with you?"

"No, you stay here and go on spoiling the vibrations," Zillah said.

"From what High Horns said, the place is practically rocking on its
moorings.  Push it right over.  Have fun.  Now I have to go."  She
sprinted away down the nearest ramp with a speed that surprised Flan.

"Damn!"  Flan said, sinking to a crouch against the wall.

"Have fun, she says!  I could cry.  I want to go home.  I think I hate
magic."

Zillah ran.  She fastened her mind on that place where she had always
been conscious that Marcus was and continued downwards towards it, ramp
after ramp.  She was aware, as she ran, that this did seem like her
usual habit of ducking out as soon as things got nasty.  But it was
not, not this time.  Perhaps all the other times she had ducked out
were simply a preparation for this time.  She could do nothing about
Tod, not here, not now, but she could help his friends, and after that
she could go on to fight her own battle.

Down she went, where the lights got dimmer.  Among the pat-pat of her
own feet, she heard the beat of others.  Brothers in search parties
seemed to be everywhere.  Blue uniforms hurried past below the next
ramp.  There were more in the distance at the end of a corridor.  A
further ramp down, blue uniforms milled in a storeroom beside her.

They bothered Zillah not in the slightest.  She was somehow aware that
there was a path, twisting and intricate, between all these searchers,
 and timed to miss every single one, and she took that path.  It led
her, a breathless ten minutes later, to a corner behind a deep fish
reservoir where Philo and Josh lurked with Marcus.

She heard Philo's whisper before she saw them.

"No, it's only Zillah, Josh."  She rounded a corner and found them.
Josh was backed right into the corner, more or less wedged into a space
only just big enough to contain him, with Marcus crouched between his
front legs and Philo behind, right underneath.  They all relaxed as
they saw her.

"Dare Dinah dum!"  Marcus proclaimed.  The tone of his voice was I told
you so!

"What's happened?"  Philo whispered, peering out above Marcus.

"The place is full of Brothers hunting for us.  Are we in big
trouble?"

"I think you may be," Zillah said, and she told them what Flan had told
her.

Their faces twisted into almost identical worried horror.  They were
quite at a loss.  Philo crawled out from under Josh and mechanically
planted Marcus on Josh's back.

"Goddess!"  he kept whispering.

"We are in trouble!"

Josh protested, "But I've never heard no one ever said anything about
that kind of ritual!"

"But it's what they meant," said Philo, 'when they talked about
punishments.  "

"Then what shall we do?"  said Josh.

"What I'm going to do," said Zillah, 'is to leave With.  There's
someone I've got to see, over in your main world.  Why don't we all go
there?  "

Josh and Philo looked at each other and then back at Zillah.

"Zillah, I don't think you understand," Josh told her kindly.

"There's no way to get to the Pentarchy except by personnel carrier
when the big tides are running and the next tides aren't going to be
for months."

"Not to speak of the fact that Josh and I would be breaking the law if
we go back before we've served our year out," Philo added.

 "But if you stay--' Zillah began.  There was no point in going on.
Along with the mere words, Flan had put into Zillah's mind a strong
image of what she herself had seen Tod melting into something alien and
obscene.  It was as if Flan had not been able to help conveying it.
Zillah knew that both Josh and Philo had received that image in turn,
from her.  What Zillah found almost impossible to convey to them was
the fact that the twisting, intricate path she had seen leading to
Marcus was still with her.  It led on from Marcus to Herrel.  But it
was such a strange and delicate thing that there was no image of it
that she could convey.  It would be like asking them to look at an
invisible thread.  She simply knew it could be travelled.

And she could only try to explain.

"Have you been right under this citadel?  I mean, when your carrier
brought you here, did it orbit the place the way our capsule did?"

"No.  It came straight to the entry port," said Philo.

"What do you mean?"

"We went up the walls on one side, and over the middle and down the
other side," Zillah explained.

"And you know how wide the citadel looks as if it ought to have a flat
base miles wide underneath?

Well, it hasn't.  We went right underneath twice, and each time there
was just a blink only an instant before we were rushing up the other
side again.  I think the fortress narrows to a point there.  High Horns
I mean your High Head told us that the place was made out of a piece of
ground that belonged to the Goddess.  And I think that just there, just
at the narrow point, it could still be joined to your world anyway, I
know it ought to be.  "

Philo and Josh looked at each other again, with a slow, stunned sort of
hope growing through their anxiety.

"Josh," said Philo, 'how do you stand with the Goddess?  I've never
dared ask, but I hope I haven't offended.  It may depend on that,
whether we--' He was interrupted by the echoing shuffles of a search
party descending the nearest ramp.  Josh started into motion with a
 cur vetting leap that threw Marcus forward against his torso.  Zillah
saw his arms come back to steady Marcus as he vanished into the dimness
ahead.  Philo seized her hand, wrapping it completely around with his
own hand, and they sprinted after Josh together.  Behind them, there
was silence.  The search party had stopped moving to listen, in order
to locate the sounds of their feet.  Zillah and Philo both ran on
tiptoe to cut down the noise, but they both knew they were being heard.
They dared not stop.  Josh was moving so fast, ahead in the dimness,
that they had to keep running or lose him.

They ran, guided by the soft beat of Josh's hooves and the occasional
faint glimpse of his white whisking tail.  Behind them they could hear
the pursuit closing in a multiple rubbery hammer of feet.  Philo was
gasping before long.  Zillah guessed that fear was making him
hyperventilate.  She grew increasingly anxious.  Josh was not on the
path she could see so clearly, and they were deviating more from it
with every second.  She wanted to shout to him about that, and about
Philo, but she dared not let the pursuit guess they were in trouble.

Then, to her immense relief.  Josh accidentally cut back into the right
path by swinging down a ramp, and they caught him up at last.

It was so dark down this ramp that Zillah could only see Josh because
of the pallor of his coat.  He seemed to have his knock knees braced
while his hind legs nervously trampled, and he had been forced to spare
a hand from Marcus to hold himself up with against the wall.

This ramp was unusually steep.  Zillah put a hand out to brace herself,
too, and found, to her surprise, that the barely seen wall was rough
and de wed with water.

Thilo/ Josh said, sliding awkwardly downwards, 'put a whole heap more
protection round us quick.  They're doing some kind of strong location
magework on us.  "

Philo's hoarse breathing slowed down and he whimpered slightly with
some kind of effort that Zillah could not detect.  But she felt the
result almost at once.  In the same soft, yearning way that Philo liked
 to wrap his arms around her, something seemed to wrap all four of them
in.  The dark and narrow ramp went suddenly safe.  They crept downwards
in a calm stronghold, pillowed by something intangible and rather
sweet.

Marcus felt it and immediately became very jolly.

"Dart," he remarked loudly.

"Diting.  Ort go dlidderdlidder."

"Hush, love," Zillah said.

"Doesn't matter," Josh panted.

"Philo's good at this in short bursts.  They've lost us completely
again."

Zillah wondered how Josh knew.  The result, for her, of whatever Philo
was doing was that she lost even the faintest sounds from the pursuers.
It was like having her head wrapped in a bolster.  They slid slowly
downwards into what seemed a wormhole that grew darker with every step,
and warm and wet.  All she could hear was Philo's breathing and the
somewhat frantic scraping and back pedalling of Josh's hooves.

They rounded yet another corner, and Josh did not go on.

"Dop!"  Marcus announced.

"What's the matter?"  Philo asked.

"I don't know," said Josh from below.

"There doesn't seem to be anywhere to go to."

Zillah found this hard to believe.  No one would carve a ramp out of
stone that led nowhere.  The path she could see in her mind lay clearly
onwards down there, below Josh's braced hooves.  Perhaps it was too
narrow for a centaur.  Then they were stuck.  She unwound Philo's hand
from hers, put her back against the rough and curving wall, and pushed
past Josh.  Dark as it was, she could feel that the passage continued
to spiral down beyond him, and it was no narrower than before.

"See?"  said Josh.  She could feel the panic behind his voice.  He
would have to back himself upward, and he was not sure he could.

"We're stuck\' " Nonsense!  " said Zillah.  In a surge of irritation at
Josh's pointless panic, she snatched the hand he had braced against
 the wall and hauled him forward.  He came with a startled trampling.

"Hey!"  Philo called from above, panicking too.  In his distress, he
lost his hold on whatever was wrapping them in, and the dark wormhole
instantly became a noisy, sinister little trap, filled with echoes,
scufflings, the trickle of water, and the roaring of an unfelt wind.

Zillah found herself suddenly terrified, and furious with the pair of
them.  They were being such wimps'.  "Hang on to his tail, you fool!"

she screamed at Philo, and "Come on!"  at Josh.  She heaved angrily on
his hand.  Power rose at her need, and wrapped her round.

In another trampling rush, during which the unfelt wind rose to become
the roaring of a gale, the three of them staggered on down and were
then, abruptly and briefly, weightless in a vortex, which caught them,
whirled them, and then, with shocking suddenness, shot them forth into
blazing light.

 VIII

 Earth There was a way, Maureen thought.  Her eyes were closing, and
pricking from the smoke with which Joe was filling the flat.  She could
turn her own tiredness to her advantage use it, in fact if only she
could get Joe off guard.  Then she could sleep as long as she liked.
She promised herself sleep, held it out as a reward to herself for
doing just this last extra piece of hard work.  The trouble was, it was
mental work.  Even wide-awake, that was the kind Maureen was least
adjusted to.

She rubbed her eyes to stop the pricking.  Held out the reward.
Sleep.

Carrot to donkey.  I can't think why you do this dirty work," she told
Joe.

He stopped in the act of stubbing his latest cigarette into the loaded
ashtray.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I can't think how they induced you to come here and spy.

You've told me how you hate it.  And I know nothing would induce me to
go to your place and pretend to be something I'm not.  "

He looked at her suspiciously, but she had put just the right amount of
contempt and boredom into her voice.  He laughed.

"You'd do it, all right, if you had no choice.  They made sure I had no

choice, didn't they?"

"How could they?"  Maureen wondered.  Her manner suggested he had to be
lying.

"You're at least as powerful a magician as I am and you know I'm not
one to be caught easily.  You had your work cut out to set this up, and
I wouldn't be here if I hadn't been tired to death."  She pretended to
think.

"You mean they caught you when you were tired too?"

"Of course not," said Joe.

"They caught me with a woman."

 She laughed, lightly and incredulously, and admired herself for how
well she did it.

"Cloak and dagger!  Incriminating photos!  I don't believe it!"  God,
this was hard work!

"That's not how they do things on Arth/ Joe said, with equal
contempt.

"Mind you, it was a put-up job, I'm sure of that now.  There were these
two girls who came over with the embassy from Leathe.

Antorin and I were both fresh from Oath you won't know what that means,
but you can take it from me you feel well, caught boxed up before
you've had a chance to look around and we were the two who were told
off to guide the party.  And I still don't know how they worked it, but
it wasn't long before there was only these two and us two.  Fresh young
things.  Both swore they were scared to hell spoke of all the
mageworkings going on in Leathe and said they hardly knew any magecraft
themselves.  We believed them.  We were fools, but Oath takes you that
way.  You realize it's too late and you wish you'd stayed quietly at
home in the Pentarchy.  "

He was distracted.  Behind him, on the arm of the sofa, the
half-extinguished stub end smoked in the ashtray, a thin, irritating
wisp.  Maureen kept her eyes on it.  Concentrated on it as an
annoyance.

I wish he'd put it out properly!  It kept her awake.  It also kept a
trivial idea at the front of her mind in case he started to notice what
she was doing.  Very slowly, she started to edge her mind forward to
his.

"Oath?  What Oath?"

"You swear celibacy.  It makes sex illegal," he said irritably.  His
eyes were fixed on misery a universe away.

"I see now I was never cut out for it.  I fell for that girl I was like
a rutting bull well, you know how I get and I swear to the Goddess I'll
never forget until I die the way they all came bursting in, her Lady,
my High Brother loads of people and the High Head walking through the
lot of them.  You feel a right fool.  You want to be sick.  And of
course my sweet little girl who doesn't know any magecraft obliges them
all by holding me helpless just as I am.  If I ever get back, I'll find
her and I think I'll kill her."

 Maureen's mind continued to stalk forward, softly as a cat.

"And what happened?"  she said, still with her eyes irritably on that
rising trickle of smoke.

Trial," he said.

"Dragged in and both told we'd earned the death penalty.  That was
true.  Then the High Head visits me in the death cell I never heard
what happened to Antorin, maybe they killed him and he tells me I could
commute my death sentence to exile, by coming here and serving the
Brotherhood another way the way I seemed to be good at, he points out
if I wanted."  He laughed, staring into the distance.  Maureen crept
on.  Sleep soon.  Soon now.

"You know, I was disgusted!  I refused.  I said I'd broken Oath and I'd
rather die.  Would you believe that!  So he went away.  Then he came
back and said if I behaved well and got him the information he wanted,
With wanted, then I'd be allowed to come back he'd reinstate me in the
Brotherhood."

"So you agreed?"  Maureen said, inching on.

"Life is sweet," Joe said.  Maureen, as she crept, spared an
exasperated little thought for the way Joe always had to speak in
cliches, even when he was sincere.  Go on, go on talking, she
thought.

Nearly there.  Then sleep.

"Yes," he said.

"I agreed.  They put me through the transmutation ritual and I arrived
here.  And I did my best to be obedient.  It was better than being
executed, even working in that music shop.  But if you ask me Hey! What
are you doing?"

But Maureen was there.  Her mind sprang and leaped on his and twined
with his and dragged him down with hers like a nixie, wrapped tight
together.  Sleep, sleep, sleep.  On the sofa, both their bodies lapsed
slightly and remained utterly still, barely breathing.  After a while,
the burning cigarette end smothered in the rest of the ash and went
out.

 Gladys had sensed that things had gone wrong.  Next day, when she
attempted to trace Zillah, she realized how badly.

She withdrew her mind from With and considered.  The deaths of some of
the party, she and Maureen had agreed, were probably inevitable.  It
had seemed likely that there would be analogues of one or two of the
strike force in the pirate universe, aJid most theories held that two
versions of the same person could not exist in the same space.

"Though I did hope it would turn out to be like twins," Gladys remarked
to Jimbo, as usual, crouched by her feet.

"No reason why not, on the face of it."

What shook her was the evident number of the dead.  She had simply not
been prepared for two-thirds of them to die.  The virus-magic well, she
had no hopes for that really.  It stood to reason that those wizards up
in Laputa-Blish had ways of protecting themselves from outside magics.
She had made them as a psychological device mostly, so that the strike
team would not think it was being sent without a weapon.  And now, not
only were they without a weapon, but both boys and eleven girls were
dead.  Thirteen analogues.

T never bargained for that number," she told Jimbo.

"It means that the place must be more like here than we'd realized. But
thirteen, Jimbo.  I feel so responsible."

Most dreadfully did she wish that there had been some way of telling
who had an analogue in the pirate world and who had not.  But when they
were selecting the team, neither she nor Maureen could think of any way
of finding out.  And now what could six girls do in a world let full of
mages?  Except there were not six.  When she looked for Zillah, Zillah
 was gone.  Not dead.  Just not there though there were traces enough
to show Gladys that Amanda had been right.

Zillah had gone with the strike force, even if she was not with them
now.

"It's too bad!"  she said to Jimbo.

"She took that child, and that child's not safe at all.  Silly,
irresponsible girl.  What do I do about that, Jimbo?"

There was no response from Jimbo.  She got the impression he was rather
carefully keeping quiet.  She considered some more.

"It's like this," she said.

"Am I, or am I not, making allowance for it being what I want to do?
Come on, Jimbo.  You know me.  Shall we take a hand ourselves?"  She
found she was grinning as she spoke.  The same grin was resonating off
Jimbo too, purring and fibrilating through her.  Jimbo liked a joke and
a bit of excitement as much as she did.

"And why not, Jimbo?  Someone has to take a bit of thought for that
poor child but the truth is, I've been so envying those girls.  What
did you say?  Yes.  Well.  If there turns out to be another Auntie
Gladys over there, it's just too bad, isn't it?"

She heaved out of her chair and shuffled among the jungle for the
phone, where she dialed a number in Scotland.

"Aline?"  she said, when it was answered.

"It's me.  It's that emergency at last.  I'm going to have to ask you
to have the cats for me."

While she spoke, the cats began gathering in a circle around her,
staring accusingly.

"Well, cancel it then," she said.

"I'm not having you go off and leave them.  They'll feel strange.  And
they know.  They're all here now except that Jellaby.  She knows too,
but she's hiding.  Just a moment."  Gladys broke off to make a brief
mental search around the house.  Ah.  Under the spare bed.  After a
struggling moment, tortoiseshell Jellaby landed in the midst of the
other cats, glaring, distended and angry.

"Stupid," Gladys said to her.

"Aline's nothing like the vet's."  To the phone she said, "That's all
of them now, and you'll find they're no trouble.  They all look after
themselves, except they can't open tins.  I'll send the cat food up
 with them.  And you know what to do about the message, don't you?
Thanks.

Bye.  "

This important matter being settled, Gladys shuffled to the strangely
empty kitchen to pick up her fat black handbag.

"There's no point in travelling anything but light," she told Jimbo,
who still scuttled at her heels, 'but I still don't trust that place to
make a proper cup of tea.  " She took up her box of tea bags and
emptied two-thirds of them into the bag.

"Amanda's going to need the rest when she comes," she murmured,
snapping the handbag closed.  It was one of those that shut by twisting
together two knobs the size of marbles.  She stood considering what
else she needed.


"Nothing for Maureen she's not coming here at all," she muttered.  Then
the grin spread on her face again.

"And why not?"  she said.

"It'll be far more fun if I dress up in style."

She shuffled out of the kitchen and upstairs to her dark and cluttered
bedroom, where she opened cupboards and chests and proceeded to array
herself.  She put on first a wondrous cocktail dress dating from the
twenties (which had belonged to her great-aunt:

Gladys was by no means as old as she liked people to think), an
extraordinary creation of limp blue chiffon covered with swags and
dangles of glass beads all over.  The beads clacked gently with her
every movement.  To this, after some thought, she added a white feather
boa and a flame pink scarf for warmth.  To her head, with some puffing
and critical grunting, she attached the crown like headdress that
reputedly went with the dress.  Apart from further blue beads, its
chief feature was a curling blue feather somewhat crimped with age
which rose from the centre of the creation in the middle of her
forehead.  With this nodding over her face, she bent to consider her
feet.

Her normal tennis shoes did not seem to conform with the rest of her.

"Got to be comfortable, though," she observed, 'and warm.  And look
expensive.  "

Bearing these criteria in mind, she fetched out and laboriously trod
 into her most treasured footgear a pair of large white yeti boots. She
had never worn them much because she had always feared that someone had
killed and skinned at least four Persian cats to make those boots. But
there was a time and a place for everything.  She looked at herself
critically in the mirror.

"Yes, I know, I know," she said to Jimbo, who appeared to be crouched
on her bed, probably surveying her finery with considerable
astonishment, 'but I don't want anyone to take me too seriously, do I?
You should know all about that.  Besides, you may be all right, but I
need to take my mind off that other Auntie Gladys over there.  "

It only remained to consider what was the best way to take.  Gladys
half closed her eyes, cocked her feathered head on one side, and
contemplated the de fences surrounding the pirate universe.  The window
Mark had found was no longer available to her.  But there was one spot
in the de fences she had had her eye on from the beginning.  A careful
person could use that spot, provided she had Jimbo to help.  The
plainest way to use it was to summon her faithful taxi and have it take
her to the nearest place of power.

"No, no," she said irritably.

"Too much hassle, too obvious, too easily traced, and it's not fair to
mix Jim Driver up in this anyway.

I'll have a go at getting in from the garden, Jimbo.  All we need is a
wood of some sort.  "

She gathered Jimbo in her arms and went downstairs, where twilight had
arrived at midday with low, bruised clouds and a storm building.

"Hm/ Gladys said as she hid the key in the usual place.

"Something is brewing isn't it?  This looks like a disturbed storm to
me.  But it can wait.  Amanda can probably see to it when she gets
here."

 Tod came to himself.  He was sick, disorientated and rather cold. Some
of the chill seemed to be due to the garments his uniform had been
transmuted into, which left his arms largely bare and struck him as
decidedly tight in the crotch, as well as inadequate for the climate of
wherever this was.  He seemed to be lying face downwards on cold,
varnished boards listening to the chilly patter of rain.  There was a
pair of shoes hazily within his line of vision, and he wondered
querulously why.  As he turned his face to focus on them, the shoes
moved an impatient sideways shuffle.  A man's voice from above them
said, "Are you with me yet?"

Tod groaned.

"Oh, probably," he said.  He sat up, considerably increasing his
wretchedness.

He was in a cheerless alien room.  Everything in it was like the
contents of rooms he was used to, in that he could recognize a sofa, a
table, a cooking stove (Why?  Did aliens cook in their living rooms,
the way all the shops in Leathe sold lipstick?  ), a yellow mat on the
varnished floor, and a chest of drawers; but each item was subtly and
distressingly different in its proportions, its colour, and the
substance of which it was made.  It all added up to something that
seemed to belong to another dimension entirely which, he realized
miserably, was exactly what it did.  He thought he might be going to be
sick.

To take his mind off it, he raised his eyes from the impatiently
shuffling shoes to the man who was wearing them.  He was fair-haired
and a total stranger.  He was wearing what Tod recognized as an alien
version of a sober formal suit, and his blond hair was cropped in a
manner that even Brother Wilfrid would have found excessive, since it
 left the man only with an interesting golden wave drooping across his
forehead.  Despite this, he was undeniably good-looking.

Behind him was the window against which the rain pattered.

"Who are you?"  Tod said.  At the sight of that cold, wet window, his
teeth began to chatter.

"I was Brother Antorin - I'm called Tony here," the other answered.

"Drink this."

Tod bent dubiously over the mug that was thrust into his chilly
fingers.  To his surprise, it contained coffee coffee thin and un
fragrant and no doubt subtly shifted from the drink he knew, but
drinkable all the same.  He drank, and his teeth clattered on the
rim.

"Where is this?"

Tengford, Surrey in what you call otherworld," Brother Tony replied.

"These are my lodgings, but they'll be yours from now on.

The High Head tells me you'll be taking over from me.  I've been posted
to Hong Kong instead, thank the Goddess!  It looks as if all my
obedience has paid off at last.  What's your name?  You're new since my
time in With.  "

"Tod," said Tod.  Shaken though he was, he did not want to antagonise
this Brother by confessing he was heir to a Fiveir.

"Lucky," said Brother Tony.

"I'm fairly sure that's a name here too, so you won't need to get used
to a new one.  Now, what else do you need to know?"

Probably everything.  Tod thought.  At the moment all he could think of
was how wretched and how cold he was.  Anxious inspection showed him
that his feet were in light, laced shoes, but at least they were still
feet.  The crotch- clutching lower garments were heavy blue cotton,
inside which his legs were icy, but still legs; and above those he
proved to be wearing a short-sleeved yellow thing of much thinner
cotton.  Below the little sleeves every hair on his arms stood up with
chill, but he still recognised his own arms when he saw them.

Funny.  On With they had given him a distinct impression that he was
about to be changed into something quite other.

"Have you," he said, 'anything warm I can wear?  "

 "I expect so Brother Tony went and rummaged in a lower part of the
chest of drawers, saying over his shoulder, " You'll find the climate
in this sector averages a good ten degrees below what you're used to
unless you're from North Trenjen, of course.  That's one of the many
reasons why I'm so glad to be going to Hong Kong.  Here.  This should
do.  "

He tossed Tod a heavy woollen floppy thing made of grey-brown knitting.
The maker of it had industriously twisted the stitches into an ornate
plaited pattern.  It looked ethnic.  After turning it around several
times.  Tod discovered it had sleeves.  Possibly it was a wool-work
smock frock When Tod put it on, it came nearly to his knees, but at
least it was warm although he had a shamed moment when he was glad his
parents could not see him in it.

"It's called a jumper," Brother Tony told him.

"The people here have queer names for things, but they're actually much
more like real people than the experts of With seem to think.  Are you
feeling better now?  We've not got much time if I'm to show you the
ropes before my flight leaves."

Tod stood up cautiously.  The ethnic garment showed no signs of
jumping, and to his increasing relief, the messages coming through from
his body seemed to be all the usual ones.  His left big toe cracked
when he put his weight on it, the way it always did, and the ragged
edge of his top back tooth caught his tongue in the usual way.

His hands putting the empty mug back on the alien table were his own
square hands though they trembled a bit and his height in relation to
Brother Tony was what he expected: quite a bit shorter.

Brother Tony looked at him critically.

"You look rather foreign at the moment," he said.

"We'd better get your hair cut and perhaps shave off that moustache
too."

Tod located a mirror over a white sink-thing.  Despite the rainy
dimness of the light, it was himself looking back out of it.  He had
seldom been so glad to see anyone.

 "Oh no," he said.

"My hair stays as it is all of it.  I want to recognize myself when I
see me Brother Tony did not argue.

"Well, I've only got a couple of hours," he said, stooping and picking
up a bundle of booklets and papers that had been on the floor beside
Tod, 'but you'll find you'll want to rethink that hairstyle after
you've been here a day or so.  These are yours.  They came through with
you.  Arth's getting quite good these days.  They're all here credit
cards, bankbook, insurance, chequebook, and they even remembered a
driving licence.  You're better off than I was.  I had to get most of
this stuff for myself.  What do they mean by putting you down as
Roderick Gordano?  "

"Because that's my name," Tod said.  He took the bundle from Brother
Tony and sorted through it bemusedly.  Otherworld script was balder
than that of the Pentarchy, but much the same.  Someone had scrawled
his name on the various cards and documents without even attempting to
imitate his signature.  He was going to have to learn to forge his own
name.  And on such a lot of things.  Tod had often complained about the
number of documents he was required to carry about at home, but they
were not a tenth of these.

"My friends call me Tod," he explained to Brother Tony.

"Great.  Well, I don't have time to be friends, Roderick," Brother Tony
said briskly.

"My job is just to make sure you've got it straight in your head what
you're here for before I leave for Hong Kong.  How much were you
told?"

What had that sod the High Head said?

"I'm supposed to be the lover of some female and report back what she
says."

"That's right as far as it goes," Brother Tony said.

"Actually, Paulie's the wife of the equivalent of the High Head here in
this country, and you're supposed to report about him.  Paulie's very
communicative you'll see but Mark's a complete clam.  Doesn't let his
own wife know what he's up to most of the time, and quite possibly
misleads her when he does tell her.  Paulie and I both know he's been
 up to something lately, but that's all we know, and that's all I've
been able to tell the Head.  Did he our Magus explain that the ritual
gives him a thread to your spoke in the Wheel, so that he comes through
direct to your mind?"

Tod shook his head, or nodded.  He could not remember.  All he knew was
growing rage.  How had With the right to do this to him?

"Well, he does," said Brother Tony.

"It can be damned awkward if he comes on at the wrong moment.  What
else did he tell you?  Did he explain that if you behaved yourself and
reported faithfully, they'll bring you back to With when you've worked
out your sentence?"

Tod shook his head.

"No?  I suppose they left that up to me to explain.  He's told me that
often enough and I assure you.  Brother, it pays to be as obedient as
you damned well can.  Look at me.  I asked to be relieved here, and
they sent you almost at once.  My sense is that I'll be fetched home
after this stint in Hong Kong.  I've behaved myself, see."

Tod nodded glumly, wondering why Brother Tony seemed so joyous at this
idea.

"So if you're ready," Brother Tony said, "I'll take you out and make
sure you know where everything is."

"Out?"  Tod looked at the window, where raindrops were now pattering
less fiercely, but still pattering.

"Won't we get wet?"

Brother Tony laughed.

"Takes getting used to after With, doesn't it?

Don't worry.  You can wear this.  " He unhooked a limp blue garment
from a hook behind the door and flung it to Tod.  It seemed to be a
waterproof jacket.  Tod put it on and wrestled with the unfamiliar zip,
while Brother Tony took up a smart gabardine raincoat from a nearby
chair and put that on over his suit.  He picked up a shiny leather
grip.

"Ready?"

Tod gave the zip up as hopeless.  The garment was too big anyway.  He
gathered it around him and followed Brother Tony through the door and
down some dingy stairs.

 "I'd introduce you to the landlady, but she's out at the moment,"
Brother Tony said over his shoulder, 'but you can take it she'll accept
you as the new lodger without question.  Arth's quite good at that kind
of thing.  " Outside the front door of the house, he ceremoniously
handed Tod a small, flat key.

"There you are.  It's all yours now."

While Tod worked the key into the tight pocket of the cotton trousers.
Brother Tony led him briskly down a street lined on both sides with
striped brick houses, small, stingy and ugly.  The fact that the rain
was now passing into weak, watery sunlight only seemed to make the
dwellings look more dismal.

"This is the shabby area," Brother Tony told him blithely.

"You'll find it's all you can afford.  Costs are high here."

They rounded a corner into a larger road.  Here the buildings were
larger and flat-faced and full of windows, and constructed either of
raw red brick or raw grey concrete.  The place was full of people and
traffic, but Tod found he could only concentrate on the buildings.

Seldom had he seen anything more ungracious.  He thought of the small
Residence he had inherited in Haurbath, and of the town beyond it, all
of it quiet, old, and beautiful, and was stabbed through and through
with the homesickness he had somehow managed to avoid on With.

"Is otherworld all like this?"  he said miserably.

"Most of the towns.  It's a crowded world," Brother Tony said.

"Some of the countryside is almost worth looking at, but of course,
they build on more of it every year.  No idea of space."

"Oh," said Tod.  Almost he could have believed he was simply in a bad
dream, except that the rain had left the pavement full of puddles, and
his canvas shoes were now soaked until his toes squelched.  They
reminded him at every step that this was no dream.  And if he was
tempted to imagine still that it was a dream, there was Brother Tony's
trim and cheerful figure beside him, dressed like the smartest of the
passers-by, to make sure he knew it was true.

 Tod himself looked like the shabbiest of the males who passed.  As for
the females, Tod found he was too depressed even to be astonished at
the short skirts the young ones wore.  Bad.  Female legs usually
interested him rather a lot.

"Hope you don't mind my asking Brother Tony said confidentially, 'but
what exactly were you sent over for?"

"Eh?"  said Tod.

"Oh, I kissed a woman."

"Really?"  said Brother Tony.

"They're punishing just for that now, are they?  Where was she from?
Leathe?"

"No, she was from here, I think," Tod said.  Looking at the style of
the females they passed had made him quite certain of this.

"Here?  Otherworld?  Come off it!  She couldn't have been!  They don't
know about With here, let alone how to cross over!"

Tod had transferred his attention from the pedestrians to the traffic
and was watching cars rushing through sprays of water from the wet
road.  The cars, he thought, were probably the only things worth
looking at in this place.  Although none of them was as handsome as his
own wonderful old beloved Delmo-Mendacci, some of them were almost
comely.  He wondered if the controls for driving them were anything
like the same.  But Brother Tony's incredulous outcry recalled him to
what he had just said.  He had spoken without thinking, and yet, now he
considered, he knew it was true.  He had all along picked up from
Zillah pictures of a world he knew was this one.

Hm, he thought.  And a great deal fell together in his head most of
what the women might have been doing in With, in fact, although he
found he was still a little puzzled about what Zillah herself was doing
there.

"I was joking," he said, and hastily laughed.

"She was from Leathe, of course."  One of the things that fell together
in his head was that Zillah's safety depended on his not letting With
know where she came from.  This was going to be a little difficult if
the ritual had indeed given the High Head a thread through into his
mind.

 To his relief.  Brother Tony laughed too.

"Leathe from whence all our troubles come!"  he said.

"Are you quite sure you don't want a haircut?"

They were level with a large window behind which several young men were
having things done to their heads by other young men.  The aim seemed
to be to get their hair to stand upright.

"Yes, I am sure, thanks," Tod said firmly.

"Then we'd better get to the bank before it shuts," Brother Tony said.
He led Tod to an establishment a few doors on, where he showed him how
to obtain money and pay it in.  Tod looked at the small wad of blue
papers he received.  Money?  Astonishing to think With was able to do
this.  It didn't do to underestimate the power of With.

"And this is how you use a cash point Brother Tony instructed.  Tod
watched and nodded.  His head felt far too full of new things.

But there was more.  Brother Tony marched him into a side street lined
with more of the windowed buildings and showed him a glass door leading
into a concrete place called Star House.

"This is where you'll be working."

"Working?"  said Tod.

"Yes, you have to earn the money to live, you know.  It's not
difficult.  It's only a firm of accountants.  Get there just before
nine on Monday today being Friday, of course and go up to the fourth
floor to Garter and Sixsmith and just walk in.  You'll find they'll
accept you as my replacement as soon as you give your name.  Have you
got all that?"

"Fourth floor at nine on Monday, Gutter and Sicksmith," Tod repeated
like one hypnotized.  He had never, ever in his life, worked for wages.
Perhaps the gods had decided it would be good for his soul.  He knew
numbers of people, back in the Pentarchy, who did work.  His cousin
Michael did.  But Tod had never, ever had the slightest curiosity to
know how it felt.

"Right.  Then we'll go and get the car," Brother Tony said.

"Car?"  Tod felt a certain brightening.  There was a car went with
 this?  His eye fell on a vehicle standing by Star House, large and
sleek and grey, clearly a thing of power and beauty, and otherworld at
once seemed a slightly better place.

"Yes, I'll be leaving it with you," Brother Tony joyed Tod's heart by
saying.

"It belongs to With and I can't take it to Hong Kong anyway.

This way.  "

They went briskly around a few more corners, and Tod's step was nearly
as jaunty as Brother Tony's, until they came into the other end of the
road from which they had started.  It was lined with cars, parked
closely on either side.  Halfway down the line.  Brother Tony stopped
and felt for keys.  Though none of the cars near was as beautiful as
the grey one, there was a red one and a white one which were trim and
passable.  Tod's spirits were quite high until he saw the car which
Brother Tony was actually unlocking.  Up to then, his eye had passed
over it because he had not thought it was a car.

It was small.  It had a domed top, like the head of an amiable but
stupid dog, and a curious posture, down at the front and up at the
back, as if the stupid dog were engaged in sniffing the gutter; and to
make it more remarkable, it was not one colour but several random ones.
The domed top was orange.  One flimsy-looking door was green.

The down- bending bonnet was sky-blue.  The rest was a rusty sort of
cream.  It was like a jester or someone's idea of a joke.

"This," Tod said, 'is a car?  "

"Yes," Brother Tony answered, flinging wide the green door of the
motley monster.  He threw his leather bag in upon a smart pile of
luggage on the rear seat.

"It's a Deux Chevaux.  That means two horses, by the way.  Get in."

But it's not even one horse!  Tod thought, dubiously opening the other
door, which was pink and appeared to be made of tin.  It bent about as
he moved it.  He climbed in upon a seat made of the cloth they wiped
dishes with in the kitchen of his Residence in Haurbath and gingerly
sat.

"Watch carefully," Brother Tony was saying.

"You'll have to drive it back here.  So watch the way too."

 "Where are we going?"  Tod asked.

To meet Paulie.  The ritual will transfer her affections to you as soon
as she sees you, don't worry," Brother Tony said cheerfully.  I just
have to bring you together."

With seemed to have thought of everything.  Tod sat in wordless misery
watching his companion insert a key into the shaky fascia of the little
monster.  In response, the monster growled and produced a tinny
chugging which caused it to shake all over.  Loose metal flapped.  Tod
shut his eyes.  Then forced them open again because he was supposed to
watch.

A few seconds were enough to show him that the controls were identical
to those of his own superlative DelmoMendacci.  He wondered if one was
not borrowed from the other, and if so, which world had borrowed from
which.  He was inclined to think otherworld must have stolen the idea
of cars from the Pentarchy.  This thing Brother Tony was driving was so
clearly a debased copy of a dim notion of a car.

It went with the same disgraceful chugging with which it had begun, in
what was probably a westerly direction, slowly and with obvious effort,
towards the outskirts of the town.  Tod hoped they were going right
beyond the town, but those hopes were dashed when they had chugged into
a wider, quieter neighbourhood and Brother Tony announced they were
nearly there.  Fawn-coloured houses, these were, or delicately reddish,
standing individually at the back of little pieces of grass and
driveway, each one a slightly different shape from its neighbours to
show that it was the residence of persons who could afford to choose.

With the verve of long habit.  Brother Tony swung the wheel of the
motley little monster to chug down the sloping driveway of the most
fawn-coloured house of the lot.  The little piece of grass in front of
its clean new prim facade was adorned with sparse mauve-flowering
bushes.

"Here we are," he said, and before Tod could move, he was hauling his
smart luggage out of the rear seat.  Having done this, he presented the
keys of the sub car to Tod.

"She's all yours."

 Leaving his luggage in the driveway, he went with jaunty steps to the
front door which was labelled with a tastefully crooked 42 and pushed a
button there.  Tod could hear the result inside.  Ping-pong it went,
dulcetly.  Tod stood on the doorstep, resigned, as little tripping
footsteps approached the door inside.

The woman who opened the door was plump and about Tod's own height.

Her hair was most carefully done in a sheeny, close-fitting way, with
burnished fair highlights evidently applied afterward.  Her face was
exquisitely made- up, and the same care had been applied to the rest of
her.  The triangle of skin revealed above her bosom by her long floral
robe was soft and white; the hand that held the door was equally soft
and white, adorned with oval shiny pink nails and gold rings with
diamonds in them; her small feet in high-heeled floral mules were as
soft and white as the rest of her visible skin.

Tony?  " she said.  Immaculate black eyelashes lay wide around her eyes
as she stared at Tod.

Brother Tony leaned over Tod's shoulder.  Taulie, let me introduce my
good friend Roderick," he said, and clapped Tod on the shoulder he was
leaning over.  I just know the two of you will get on like a house on
fire.  Now I must fly taxi's here."  He retreated briskly and picked up
his luggage.  Tod looked around to see him climbing into a square, high
black vehicle which had drawn up beyond the drive.

"Where's he going?"  Paulie said not unreasonably.  Tod thought.

"Hong Kong, I think," Tod said.

"Oh."  The lash-rimmed eyes turned back to Tod.  Paulie's carefully
pink mouth smiled.  Behind that, she had an air of being slightly
bewildered.

"Well, won't you come in, Roddy?"

With knew its stuff.  Tod reluctantly advanced into a small, shiny
hallway as Brother Tony's taxi pulled away, where he stood smelling the
several perfumes emanating from Paulie.  She had certainly been
 waiting, all prepared to meet Tony, he thought while she was shutting
the front door, but she was accepting a scruffy-looking substitute
without a blink.  Fear and hatred of With grew in him.  She led him
into a sitting room as carefully decorated as she was herself with not
a shiny cushion nor a little brass ornament that Was not evidently
placed exactly so.  She induced him into a soft clean chair and sat
beguilingly on a tuffet at his knees.  Tod's misery increased.

"Do you want a drink, Roddy?"

"No, thanks."  It was not that he did not like plump women.  Tod told
himself.  His taste ran to all sorts.  But this Paulie's plumpness had
a solid, sorbo-rubber look to ^ and looked hard to dent.  As one who
had had his arms around Zillah only yes, it really was only a couple of
hours ago!  Tod felt decidedly off plumpness.  But there was more to it
than that.  Paulie was so carefully got up, perfumed and coiffured and
jewelled.  He found he kept remembering the time, a year or so ago,
when he had accompanied his father on a state visit to Leathe.  The
Ladies who had met them there were all equally carefully dressed and
perfumed and lacquered.  And they had talked to him in the same soft
high, charming voices that Paulie was using at this moment.

"Tell me all about yourself, Roddy."

One of the Ladies of Leathe Lady Marceny it was had said almost exactly
that, in the same sweet, condescending tone, and Tod had been very
scared indeed.  Afterward August Gordano had opined that he was quite
right to be scared.

"Always trust your instinct, boy, where those kind of women are
concerned.  If they notice you, they want something.  They eat men for
breakfast and never forget it!"  While Tod did not give this Paulie
credit for being quite as dangerous as Leathe, the memory of Leathe
came to him so strongly with her that it made him thoroughly Uneasy.
And it was fairly clear to him that she, too, ate men for breakfast. He
understood now why Brother Tony \vas so cheerful about going
elsewhere.

"All about myself," he said.

 "Well, actually I'm an exile from a pocket universe called With where
all the residents are mages.

Most of them are in the business of spying on you people, as a matter
of fact, but not being able to get a really close view, they sent me to
be a spy in your midst.  My real home--' He stopped because Paulie was
swaying about with laughter, her arms plumply clasped around her
knees.

"Oh, Roddy!  Tony told you to say that, didn't he?  He spun me just the
same yarn when I first met him!

Tell me what you really do before you make me die laughing!  "

And not even original!  Tod thought sadly.  Paulie's laughter, he
noticed with foreboding, had served to unwrap the floral gown from
around her.  At the top, a good deal of plump black bra was showing,
and below, much of a smooth white leg.  Depression seized him, because
these sights were not without their effect.  His recent brush with
Zillah had most strongly reminded him that he was missing women
badly.

"The truth is that I work at Sick and Guttersnipe, just like Brother
Tony," he said.

"Oh, is he your brother?  You don't look a bit alike!"  Paulie leaned
forward, and more plump things showed.

"Now you tell me all about yourself," Tod said hastily.

"Nothing to tell really," Paulie said lightly.  He could tell her
lightness hid deep discontent.

"I'm just a housewife married to a computer expert.  Mark's in
computers now, though when I first met him, he didn't seem to be
anything.  A friend of mine American found him wandering around London,
and he didn't seem to know who he was, even, beyond his name.  Koppa
thought it was drugs, though I still think it was something more
interesting than that.  Anyway, she took him in I was sharing a flat
with her then, so we both looked after Mark until Koppa moved out.  I
tell you, I looked after that man like a mother and taught him magi
well taught him all sorts of things, everything I knew really, and I
was even fool enough to pay to get him retrained in computers.  You
 know, Roddy, I've done every240 thing for that man, given up luxuries
and the best years of my life, and he's given me nothing in return.
Nothing!"

"He married you, didn't he?"  Tod said.

"Only when I asked him!"  She leaned toward him.

Tod leaned defensively back.

"And this looks to be a nice house."

"It's a nice prison!"  Paulie declared.  She smiled, still leaning
forward, with her chin almost on Tod's knees.

"But you won't want to listen to my troubles, will you?"  Her hands
came out and clasped Tod on either side of his head, a grip hard to
break.

"A nice boy like you, Roddy, doesn't want words.  You want action." She
stood up, arched over him, and the floral gown fell apart.

Here we go!  Tod thought resignedly.

But it seemed they did not.  His hands had barely grasped the proffered
plumpness when it was whisked away from between them.

Paulie was suddenly standing a decent three yards off, not a hair
disarranged, and was swiftly retying her gown.  Tod was gaping at her,
as much injured as relieved, wondering what kind of teasing this was
supposed to be, when he was aware of footsteps in the hallway.  His
head shot around he was sure he looked the picture of guilt and he saw
a pale and serious man entering the room.

"Maureen's still not called me back," the man said as he came.

"I've called her answer-phone six times now.  I suppose she's still
asleep."

"Hallo, Mark love!"  Paulie cried out.

"You're back early, aren't you?"

Mark, in a measured way, laid his broad hat on a table and removed the
spruce raincoat he was wearing over his dark suit.  Not till then did

he look at his wife.  Giving her time to get her sash tied.  Tod
thought, uneasily recognizing the signs.  Tod himself got to his feet,
but was ignored.

"Yes, I am a little early," Mark said, 'but there's no need to be so
surprised.  I did warn you.  I hoped you'd be dressed.  Do you spend
all day in your dressing gown?  "

"It's a housecoat," Paulie said petulantly.

 "I've told you before.  And what do you mean, you warned me?  Was that
phone call about Amanda fussing supposed to warn me?  I thought you
meant she was coming to supper."

/! made myself quite clear," Mark said, mildly, but with an air of
speaking through clenched teeth.

"I wish you'd listen.  Amanda's sister has gone missing, and Amanda was
in such a panic when she realized that she asked Gladys to find her.
Now she knows she shouldn't have asked, because Gladys is old and tired
out, so she's asked us to go with her and help Gladys.  If we all " But
you were on about supper and Amanda pre cogging all sorts of dire
stuff," Paulie interrupted.  She was standing very upright and
carefully straightening the bow of her retied sash, as if the annoyance
in her voice had nothing to do with her body.

"How am I supposed to sort all that out?"

"You only hear what you want to hear," Mark observed, with the same
teeth-clenched calmness.  To Tod, listening, it was as if neither Mark
nor Paulie was able, for some reason, to show the anger they felt.

What stopped them, he had no idea, but whatever it was, he had a
growing feeling quite apart from the awkwardness of his own situation
that it was strange and wrong and terrible.  Tod had been in this
situation once or twice before.  He had also, many times, stood in the
margins when his numerous brothers-in-law quarrelled with his sisters.
But he had not felt so threatened by anything since he spent that time
in Leathe.  He could not understand it.

"I told you," Mark went on, in the most calm and domestic way, 'that I
am worn-out too, and I asked you to drive us both to Herefordshire
because I'm tired enough to have an accident.  I thought you agreed.

The idea was that you'd have some food ready to take because you know
how I hate Gladys's pies and we'd pick it up and be on our way.  I'm
ready.  I left the car running.  And I find you aren't even dressed.
"

"You may have had all that clear in your head," Paulie retorted,
motionless as a statue, 'but you didn't make it clear to me.  I don't
 read minds.  Mark.  If you'd made yourself clear, I wouldn't have
invited Roddy round.  Mark, this is Roddy/ Mark turned to Tod and
looked at him, truly.  Tod thought, as if he had not noticed him until
then. Tod's sense of danger increased tenfold.  The feeling of Leathe
grew. Mark was, as most men were, considerably taller than Tod, and
Mark was, after all, the husband Tod had been about to injure which was
awkward and put Tod at a disadvantage enough but, as Mark's grey,
dispassionate eyes met his, Tod saw that the man was also a powerful
mage.  It was enough to make Tod, by reflex, call up his birthright. 
To his slight surprise, the birthright was half-roused already, waiting
for his call. Maybe the feeling of Leathe, lurking between these two
people, had been enough to trigger it.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"  Mark said.

"Oh, I doubt it," Tod replied merrily.

"I'm a total stranger in these parts.  I--' " Roddy is Tony's brother,"
Paulie interrupted.

"You remember Tony, Mark?  I've just been telling Roddy how Koppa and I
found you wandering around London and took you in."

That, Tod thought, was unnecessary.  It was the remark of a complete
bitch.  His birthright felt Mark wince at it, though Mark gave no
outward sign.  The man was probably bleeding inwardly from a thousand
such snide, wounding things.  A great desire came upon Tod to be away
from all this, out of the cloying poison of Leathe, not have anything
more to do with these people.

"If you don't mind," he said firmly, "I'll be getting along now.  Nice
to have met you Paulie Mark."

Neither of them suggested that he stay.  Neither even made a polite
noise.  They were locked in combat with no time to spare for Tod.

"Well.  Good-bye," Tod said.  He left them standing there and got out
of the house with long strides.  His birthright told him that, in order
to do so, in order just to make it through the front door, he went
 bursting through wards and barriers of truly formidable magework.  The
space in front of the house door was blocked now by a car that was
presumably Mark's.  More barriers.  Tod burst those too, dodged around
the car, and fled to the pavement at the head of the short drive, where
he stood breathing deeply and trying to recover what With and
otherworld between them had left of his poise.

The footpath, and the road with it, was slightly raised above the
ground where the houses stood.  It was as if Tod were for a moment
standing with his legs astride on top of otherworld his birthright
tended to give him this effect when it was roused.  Now it served to
show him that he had had enough of the place.  He hated everything he
had seen here, and Paulie most of all.  There was no way he was going
to do the High Head's bidding and become Paulie's lover.  He would be
sick.  He was sick.  He had to swallow.  The homesickness that had
overcome him in the centre of town rose up in him and clamoured.

"Damn it all to hell spoke Tod said.

"I'm going home."

To make this quite clear to himself, he fished the key to Brother
Tony's lodgings from its tight pocket and deliberately dropped it down
a grating at his feet.  Some kind of drain, he supposed.  As the key
clattered away, he felt nothing but relief.

"That settles it then," he said.

Nobody had told him the thing was impossible.  Nobody had even told him
he was forced to serve out the rest of his service-year here though the
High Head had evidently intended that.  But the High Head had clearly
forgotten the little matter of Tod's birthright.  Tod had forgotten it
himself.  Brainwashed by With, he thought.  With preferred not to know
about magework outside its own control, and Tod had tried to be a good
citizen of With.  He was a little astonished at himself now.  He had
tried to be good.  They would not let him.  So he had better go home
and put himself under August Gordano's powerful protection.  August
would fight tooth and nail for his heir if necessary.

 When he thought about it.  Tod was slightly ashamed of running and
hiding behind his daddy's coattails.  He always was when he did it, but
it never stopped him doing it.  And to justify him on this occasion,
there was the peculiar business of Zillah and his realization that she
came from this place.  If that ritual really had given the High Head a
line through to Tod's mind, then the sooner he got where this
information was not available to With, the better.  But let's see.

Tod let his birthright gather and then reached out and examined this
thread.  Reaching into the Wheel was curiously difficult to do.  Either
he was out of practice or otherworld was not a place where magework
came easy.  But the thread existed, all right.

Tod recoiled as the High Head himself took up the thread and came
through to Tod's mind.  Damn.  So delicately set up, I jogged the
swine's mind.  Your report please, agent.  Tod had the sense of another
day at least having passed in With time did indeed run strangely
between universes and the High Head well rested but slightly irritable
from a rich breakfast, and exceedingly worried behind that in a way he
was careful to keep hidden from Tod.  Whatever this worry was, it
served to distance Tod's affairs.  The High Head was now able to regard
him as just another agent in the field.

My report?  There was no reason in any world to tell the sod the truth.
Tod instantly set about misleading him.  Contact has been made, sir,
satisfactorily to both parties, and I've also become very friendly with
the husband.  By the way, sir, the man has powers rather in excess of
yours.  Tod had no idea if this was the case, but he saw no harm in
unsettling With a bit.

I suspected as much, the High Head's thought came, heavy and irritable.
5o what's he up to?

Something very crucial, Tod thought back glibly.  There's a being
 called Gladys I haven't met yet, who's even more powerful, and we're
all just off to do important magework with her.

I'll let you know what when I've seen it, sir.

Good work, agent.  The old female is of great interest to us.  Was
there any mention of another called Amanda?

I don't think so.  Tod lied, while his mind made rapid connections.

Mark had been talking about her Zillah's sister.

When you do come across her, I'd like a report on her too.  My usual
source on her is temporarily out of action.

Of course, Magus, Tod thought unctuously, while vowing that no one who
was an analogue of his favourite aunt was ever going to be given over
to With.

To his relief, the High Head dropped the thread then.  Tod felt him
turn to pick up another, belonging to some other poor Brother in the
field.  He felt unclean.  Hateful to have that fellow in your head. But
quick.  Now, while the swine was complacently turning elsewhere. Tod
reached into the Wheel again and carefully, delicately, nipped that
thread apart.  The effort left him quite unusually drained, but it was
worth it.  Let the High Head try looking for him now.  The next thing
was to consider the best way to get home before the High Head started
looking.

Tod raised his birthright in a new direction and was more than a little
daunted to find how well defended the Pentarchy was it was as if a
great thorny wood filled with booby traps grew between here and there.
But the luck of the Fiveirs was with him.  His mind's eye caught what
looked like a possible way through, accessible from here.

The real problem was the strange difficulty there seemed to be in
mageworking.  Tod felt exhausted just looking.  He began to see that
otherworld was in fact much less benevolent to magecraft than his own
world.  Perhaps that was the main difference between them.  In order to
get through that wood, he was going to need to be in, or near, a place
of power.  He ignored the weariness and searched for such a place.

There was none near.  The nearest he could feel was miles away, north
 and west of here.  That was all right.  He had transport, courtesy of
With.  He jingled the car keys in his pocket and looked down the
driveway with disfavour.  There stood Brother Tony's motley little
monster, nose-down beside Mark's sleek grey job.

Mark's was a real car.  It might not have been in the same league as
the beloved DelmoMendacci, but it was a good, classy vehicle all the
same.  The contrast was pitiful.

Tod walked slowly down the drive, tossing the keys of the sub car in
his hand.  He was between the two cars when he realized that the engine
of Mark's car was running.  So quiet!  Marvellous.  Of course.

Mark had said he'd left it running.  And considering the barriers of
magework around it, there was probably no fear of someone making off
with it.  But Mark must, all the same, be incredibly heavily engaged in
that family row of theirs, not to have come out to remove the keys,
just in case.  Tod himself would have done that first thing.

Mark would get around to it any second now.  In which case-Tod did not
hesitate.  There was absolutely no moral struggle.  He simply jammed
his own keys into the ignition of the motley sub car and slid behind
the wheel of Mark's real one.  An exchange, if not a fair one.  Wards
and barriers fell apart around Tod like so many cobwebs.

The car smelled clean and new.  Bliss.  The seat adjusted to Tod's
shorter build with a sigh of power.  It took him a second or so to
discover how to get reverse, but he was backing smoothly up the drive
by the time Mark arrived at the front door.  Seeing the sober, pale
figure emerge and stand aghast.  Tod gave him a cheerful wave as he
swooped backwards into the road.  Then he put the lovely car into
forward gear and surged away.

 It could not really be sleep, not if she was to hold Joe for the
length of time they might need in Laputa-Blish.  Maureen continued to
drag downwards, into a place she had only heard of and never yet
experienced, deep in the ether.  Down and down.

Some time later they were hanging, still tightly wrapped together, in a
place full of whorls of feeling and shadows of colour where everything
seemed a sick sepia to the taste, and motes like sticky dust rained
into their hearing.  Things wrong and bad lurked in the corners of the
senses, or made little scuttling rushes, trailing gelatinous
disturbance over the floor of the mind.  Some of the things Maureen had
an image of just such a disturbance, with too many legs, nestling in
the lap of a fat old woman, which was surely wrong, and bad.
Nightmares, she thought.  Perhaps this was a mistake.

Joe roused when she did they were that closely involved.  Oddly enough,
he finished the sentence he had started when she caught him.

"If you ask me, that was a con job too.  I don't think they can bring
me back.  What did you want to bring us down here for?  This is a very
bad part of the ether."

"I know," she said, or rather communicated, being bodiless here.

"But tell me a better way to hold you.  I had to get some sleep."

She could feel panic writhe in him and be controlled.

"It'll be more than sleep you'll get unless you know the way out.  Our
bodies could starve to death.  Do you know how to get out?"

"No," she confessed.


"I was desperate " You never think, do you?  You're worse than I am.  "
She felt him consider.

"I had lessons in this.  I should remember.

 Yes.  The first thing to do is we make ourselves bodies here, or we
lose what little we've got left.  Come on, woman, concentrate!  Imagine
you've got your usual body.  "

Maureen did so.  Joe's carefully controlled panic assured her it was
urgent.  She pushed her answering panic away and thought of herself,
her body, as she knew it.  Long legs, slender, shapely back
particularly nice firm buttocks thin, strong arms, small breasts, her
neck, the sweet line of jaw, her hair, which she loved for its colour,
her own freckled, wide-eyed face.  Toes.  Long fingers.  Elegant flat
belly.

And it came into being, nebulously, as she succeeded in visualizing it.
Joe also assumed a form, almost at the same time, but she noticed that
he had edited himself so that he no longer had that heavy, coarse look
to his face.  She could see little else but his face, for they were
still entwined, because that was how their minds were, arms around each
other, leg wrapped into leg, as closely as lovers.

"You've made yourself prettier," he told her.

"Your face usually looks much more like a camel's."

"So have you.  You usually look like a thug," she retorted.

"What now?"

"Unwrap me."

"No way!  You'll scoot and leave me here."

"You're dead right, you bitch!  Unwrap, or neither of us moves."

"Stuff that!"

It was another deadlock.  They hung there in the senseless sepia
nowhere, gazing each over the other's shoulder at scuttling whorls of
nightmare.  When a disturbance came uncomfortably close, one or the
other would push or pull or tug sideways, and their combined bodies
would drift away in a new direction.  It was timeless.  They could
already have been there twenty years.  Our bodies are probably long
dead, Maureen thought.

"Of course they aren't.  You never did have a sense of time!"  Joe
snapped at her.

 My thoughts are not private anymore, Maureen realized.

That's your own stupid fault Hurl's balls!  Look out!  Upwards!  "

Maureen looked and found a huge and regular disturbance approaching.

Overhead, the fabric of everything was dented and pounded inward, as if
a company of four-legged giants were marching towards them across a
hammock made of thin veiling.  The sepia was trodden to sick pink in
bulges.  And whatever the giants really were, they were striding
straight for their two en wrapped nebulous bodies.

Both pushed and pulled frantically to get out of the line of advance,
but the striders seemed to sense their presence and altered their
course to follow.  Closer and closer, until Maureen caught a whiff of
their nature something wild, but harnessed by a malevolence that had
its origin in this place.  Closer still.  The malevolence almost
unbearable, right on top of them.  As the leading monstrous dent came
bulging down upon them, Maureen freed her arms, scarcely knowing what
she did, and pushed, hard and desperately.  Joe's arms were free too.

He stretched up and heaved at the thing's underside.  Between them,
they caught the strider at one side.  That seemed to unbalance it.  It,
and the bulges that followed it, appeared to stumble and tip, and then
veer ever so slightly.  Maureen tilted her head and watched the whole
train of striders pace off into sepia distance at an angle to the two
of them.

As the striders went, a vision came to Maureen, not of this place, and
not of anything she knew.  Things were striding in the vision, too, but
these things were metal towers, giant-sized, that were marching over
grass against a stormy sky.  As they strode, the metal things trailed a
wild, unharnessed malevolence that seemed akin to the striders, but
with that they also trailed arcing, crackling blue violence.  Killing
violence.

She threw her arms around Joe again, not holding him now, but hugging
him for what comfort she could get.

"What the hell were those?"

 He was scarcely articulate and clung to her as hard as she clung to
him.

"A sending bad one really strong ye gods!  Wild magic the size of it!
right down through half the Wheel How have we made someone that
angry?"

 "Your lover," said Mark, 'has just stolen our car.  " Paulie, now
hurriedly dressed in stretch-nylon trousers and an Arran sweater,
paused in filling the thermos.

"He is not my lover.  I never saw him before today."

Mark discerned that she was telling the truth.

"Then why did you have him in the house?"

"He's Tony's brother I told you."  Before Mark could make any comment
about Tony, Paulie swung to counterattack, with the thermos clutched to
her sweater as if it were her injured name.

"You watched him steal the car, and you didn't try to stop him!  I

suppose it didn't occur to you that you're the most powerful magician
in this country.  You could have stopped him in his tracks if you'd
thought to use your power."

"I did think," said Mark, 'and I did try.  Whoever he is, he turns out
to have more power than I have.  By some way.  He brushed me off like a
fly along with all the wards on the car.  "

"But he's only smallV Paulie said naively.

"Though I suppose he is chunky."

"Size doesn't enter into it," Mark said contemptuously.

"Some children have more power than you do."

"Then I suppose you'd better call the police," she said.

"I already have," Mark replied.

"They may just catch him but what's really worrying me is that I
mentioned Gladys in front of him, and I can feel him heading her way.
Do you know anything at all about him what his intentions are, or
whether he's into the black stuff in any way?"

Paulie put the thermos to her mouth in dismay.

"No.  I told you.  I only just met him."

 Then we'd better follow him said Mark.

"Quickly.  Get that food and come along."

"How?  Do we hire a car?  Or walk?"

"As he's had the extreme generosity to leave us a Deux Chevaux in
exchange for the BMW, we might as well use the thing," said Mark.

"Oh, not that car!"  Paulie said as she turned away to the fridge, thus
inadvertently admitting to more knowledge of Tony than she had ever
admitted before.

Mark pretended not to hear, in order not to have to remind her that she
always said of Tony, "I hardly know the man I don't even know what car
he drives!"  He hurried about finding biscuits and apples and adding
them to the basket of food on the counter.  And he felt cold and lonely
and empty.

Five minutes later, locking the house and making sure the wards of
protection were back in place, he wondered why he was bothering.  The
house was a heartless shiny box.  He did not care if someone broke
in.

He did not care if he never saw it again.  But he supposed Paulie would
mind, and so he made it safe, meticulously.

Paulie meanwhile inserted herself into the dishrag seat behind the
wheel of the motley car, bemoaning her fate.

"This is an awful car.

Mark, even awful for a Deux Chevaux!  " She turned the key and wailed
as the thing began to chug and clatter.

"Christ!  Pieces are falling off, Mark!  Next door's looking at us I'm
ashamed\ Where to, if it will move?"

"Make for Herefordshire the usual way.  He's still heading there."

Paulie slammed the little monster into reverse and went grinding

backwards up to the road.  She made further piteous cries as soon as
she got it into forward gear.

"God, Mark, we'll be lucky if this gets us to Gladys by tomorrow!  It
won't go above forty!  I'm not sure it's intended to!"

"Just keep going," he said patiently.

 "Your acquaintance doesn't know we're following him, and he may not
hurry.  He thought too little of me to notice I got a link to him."

"I don't understand how you can be so calmV Paulie said.

"When I think how much that car of ours cost V She repeated these
remarks at intervals over the next thirty miles.

The little car got caught in the beginnings of rush hour, and it took
them an hour to cover that much.  Mark sat with his arms folded and
endured.  Most of the time he was wondering, and not for the first
time, why he had come to marry Paulie when he disliked her so much.

He could not remember ever liking her.  But she had looked after him in
those early days, and it had seemed quite natural, as if she were what
he was used to .  And from there to Zillah, who was and always would be
the only one he wanted.  Up to now he had not dared to let himself
consider how easy it would be to find her.  He had not even dared to
ask if Zillah was indeed the sister Amanda had living with her, though
he had suspected it for some time.  Somehow he had known it would do no
good.  For no reason that he could fathom, Zillah had closed him out,
dropped the bar on him as if he were a game of pool in a pub, and he
knew she was not about to reconsider.  But now it was out in the open.
Amanda, in her agitation, had said Zillah's name on the phone.  He
could let himself think of her and of her habit of ducking out and of
Amanda's precognitive fear that Zillah was in deep trouble.  If he
could find her and rescue her, then he might for the first time have
some hope .

The little car chugged on like an ineffectual terrier running at a rat
hole.  An hour later, luck turned Mark's way.

"Ah!"  he said.

"Your friend's stopped.  He's run out of gas.  I was hoping for
that."

Paulie put her foot down.  The small monster roared.

"Tinker with our car then.  Make sure he can't start it again."

Mark sat back after five minutes of effort.

"No good.  He's got protection on it I can't break."

 "We'll never catch up!"  Paulie wailed.

"Oh, I hate this car!"

Five minutes later.  Mark said, "He still hasn't gone on.  We may be in
luck."

"Probably seducing the cash girl," said Paulie.

"I hope she gives him

A IDSV

For whatever reason.  Tod remained stationary for the next hour and a
half.  By this time, Paulie had entered straight roads in the chalk
country, which she knew well.  And the little car seemed to have warmed
to its work.  Though its sloping hood showed a tendency to rise and
then clang back into place, like a terrier snapping at flies, and its
parti-coloured wings kept up a continuous rapid flapping, as if it
entertained the illusion that flight was a possibility, it attained
sixty miles an hour and kept that speed up.  Mark watched a stormy
yellow sunset gather among big indigo clouds against the wide western
horizon and began to think they might actually catch the man.

He blocked out a buzzing headache, which was probably due more to the
gathering storm than to the noise of the little car, and concentrated
on drawing in all the power he could muster.  He was going to have to
use Paulie's power, too, in order to defeat Tod.  This part of England
was a network of old, strong places.  Mark could draw on those, but by
the same token, so could Tod.

It puzzled Mark that someone of this man's power had not made himself
known before.  It was as if a sudden wild magic had come into their
midst from somewhere else entirely.  And he could not understand his
own reaction to it.  Why had he.  Mark, who was normally secretive and
circumspect to a degree that irritated everyone, not only Paulie, even
himself at times, felt compelled to babble of Gladys and Amanda in
front of this man?  When he saw the fellow cheerfully stealing his car,
he had felt a jolt of horror that had nothing to do with the theft.  He
had known his nemesis.  He had known that if he could not stop this
rogue magician reaching Gladys, he.  Mark, was finished.  And that was
hard to understand too.

 Tod was moving again, though not so fast.

"We^e closing on him Mark told Paulie.  She nodded.  They roared along
a nearly empty road that seemed at the top of the world.

"Do I need lights yet?"  she said.

"I've no idea how they go on."

The yellow sunset was being sucked away inside the advancing storm
clouds, leaving a twilight trying on the eyes, grey road merging into
grey-green downs on either side.

"I'll get them on for you," Mark said.

He was leaning forward, fiddling with a knob that turned out to be the
heater, when Tod suddenly and inexplicably swung northwards, perhaps
mistaking the route.  Mark sprang upright.

"He's turned off!  We can cut him off!  Take the next right.  Here this
one!"

Paulie swung the wheel.  The little car dived around and plunged into a
narrow road running uphill.  It was going too fast.  Paulie's effort to
brake sent it into a series of skids, swooping from hedge to hedge,
wilder and wider, as Paulie lost her head, swore at Mark, and turned
the wheel against the skid.  They ended nose-down in a ditch at the top
of a hill.

"You stupid wimpV Paulie said.

"This is your fault.  What did you have to shout at me to take this
road for?"

Mark cursed.  He could feel Tod accelerating away into the distance.

They disentangled themselves from the tilted seats and climbed out into
a half-dark landscape bare of anything but a line of pylons against the
sky.  A keen wind moaned through the hedges, flapping hair and
plastering trousers to legs.

Paulie shivered.

"This beastly little car!  The steering's shot to blazes.  Is it badly
broken?  I'd hope it was, only that'd mean we'd be here all night."

Mark squelched down into what proved to be a very muddy ditch and took
a look.  The motley car had both front wheels and its snout plunged
 into the mud, a terrier digging out a rat, but he could see no obvious
damage.  Lucky Deux Chevaux were so light.  /!  think if we both got
down here," he said, 'we could lift Paulie said, " Mark!  " She sounded
calm, but there was a strident note of panic underneath.

"Mark, something very odd is happening."

"What?"  he asked, heaving at the buried bumper.

"Those pylons," she said.

"They moved they're moving nowV The wind took her voice.  Mark could
not believe what he thought he heard her say.  He stood up irritably.
The line of pylons, dark against the lead-dark sky, stretched away out
of sight over the hilltop.  They were just pylons skeleton steel towers
with stumpy arms at the top to carry the cables standing like a row of
stiff giants across the fields.  But as Mark looked, ready to ask
Paulie not to add to their troubles by imagining things, he saw another
pylon rise into sight from behind the hilltop.  What?  he thought.  His
eyes shot to the nearest, half-way across the field on the other side
of the road.  And he saw it take a waddling stride nearer, and
another.

Behind it, the whole line of tall metal towers swayed in unison as they
strode, and strode again.

He watched without believing it for a second.  Then it got through to
him that a line of metal monsters and they seemed to be bearing God
knew how much voltage of live cable was steadily and unstoppably
marching towards him.  He leaped around the car's buried bonnet, seized
Paulie, and dragged her away down the road.  He felt the foremost pylon
turn slightly to reorientate on him as he ran.

"Down!"  he yelled at Paulie.

They dived into the ditch together, treading on each other, wet to the
knees, almost waist-deep in mud as they crouched around to watch the
nearest metal giant arrive in the road in one clanging, swaying stride.
Mark could feel it search for him.  Not Paulie, for some reason, just
him.

"Protection," he said.

"Put up protection for both of us.  I can't.

They're homing on me.  "

 Paulie was uttering small, yammering sounds of terror, but she did her
best.  With his senses heightened by fear, Mark saw the warding grow
around them in a gentle blue haze, glowing faintly in the half-dark. In
the road the foremost pylon took another crashing stride and then
stood, towering, at a loss.  With the same heightened senses.  Mark
felt the strength and nature of the sending that activated it.  God in
heaven!  It was wild magic.  Someone hated him enough to harness that
which no one should have been able to control at all.

Turn it turn it away!  " he whispered.

'\ can't it's wild it's strongV Paulie whimpered.  He could feel her
pushing-weakly, so weak against the mighty thing, and wished he dared
help.  But he knew without a shadow of doubt that if he used the
slightest power himself, those things would know and home in on it.

Clang.  Paulie's push had been enough to start the thing moving
again.

Or perhaps it was the pressure of the pylons advancing behind.  The
line continued stalking forward, curving slightly now from its former
course, striding solemnly and mindlessly across the road, through the
hedge, and on downhill.  The first passed twenty yards away, the second
ten.  The third tower strode straight upon the motley car with an
appalling tinny rending, and swayed, held up only by the cables strung
from its stumpy arms.  This brought the rest striding so near that
Paulie and Mark both lay flat, faces in their arms, feeling the earth
vibrate, the crunch of tarmac torn from the road, and the wail of wind
in struts and cables.  With that was mixed the acid-blast of magic full
of violence and hatred, which in turn mingled with heat and thick fumes
as what was left of the motley car caught fire and blazed against the
hedge.

They've stopped," said Paulie.  They've lost you."

Mark risked standing up.  The blazing car cast orange light along the
ditch, showing it steaming, and it was hard to see beyond.  He could
just pick out the line of giants standing slanted downhill towards the
 main road.  One stood like a sentinel against the fading light of the
sky not far away.  They're waiting," he said.  Thanks for turning
them."


"I had help," Paulie said gruffly, 'but I don't know whose.  Why is
Roddy after you like this?  "

"No idea."  It took a mere flick of power to trace Tod, and Tod was, to
Mark's surprise, very far away and quite unconcerned with Mark.

Then why ?


The nearest pylon lurched and began to advance on Mark.

"Oh God!  They found you again!"  Paulie staggered up.  Mud sucked and
she exclaimed with disgust.

"Sorry, Mark, but I'm off.  They're after you, and you can cope on your
own."

Mark caught her arm as she set off downhill.  He needed her for
protection.  It shamed him, but he dared not let her go.  Their whole
marriage was like this.

"Don't be a fool.  No one's safe from the wild magic.  There's a small
stone circle quite near.  It's strong.  It might help."

Her eyes rolled sideways to the metal giant.

"Which way?"

He pointed, and they fled that way, leaving the car burning, bursting
through rolls of smoke, clumsily jumping the torn-up tarmac and then
the broken hedge.  They ran, panting and choking, up beside the
deep-gouged tracks the advancing pylons had made in the turf.  Paulie
stumbled trying to look back.  Mark jerked her upright, wrenching his
arm.  The foremost pylon was looming past the flames, towing a crescent
of more distant striding giants with it.  Paulie's breath came in
shrieks as they reached the top of the hill, and Mark could barely
breathe, but neither dared slow down.  They careered down the slope
beyond, mostly rough grass, and crashed through the narrow end of a
black, spiny coppice.

Below them lay a small meadow, hard to see in the near- dark, with the
white ribbon of a hedged lane, and a gate into the lane beyond that.

The small stone circle was a warm emanation in the centre of the
meadow, faintly seen beside the dark blot of a parked car.  They pelted
for the ring of stones, invoking imploring assistance if any was to be
 had, and threw themselves within it, each clinging to a separate stone
and heaving for breath.

That car," Paulie gasped.

"Could we?"

Above came crashing as the first pylon marched into the coppice.

Mark looked at the dark, deserted car.  A BMW.  He looked again,
unbelievingly.  It was his own car.  He could sense it, feel the
habitual little protections he always used around it in traffic.

Beyond it, the gate was shut.  There was no sign or feel of Tod
anywhere near.  With the warmth of the stone under his hands and its
safety suffusing him, he was free to see that the things waddling down
the hillside at him had nothing to do with Tod.  They were a sending
from quite another quarter.  The unknown was angry and drawing on an
associate who came from somewhere very dark and low indeed.

Mark was sprinting towards the car as soon as he saw this.  It was a
godsend too good to be true there had to be a catch!  Christ, I hope he
left the keys in it!  At the very least, it was bound to be locked. But
when he seized the handle, the door opened.  When he grabbed for what
he knew would be an empty keyhole, his hand encountered the dangling
tab of his own keys.  Thank God!  He hurled himself into the seat and
thrust it back to its usual position, turning the keys as he did so. 
And another miracle the engine purred, and the petrol gauge swung
around to full.  He almost blessed Tod.

"Get that gate open!"  he bellowed to Paulie.

Paulie ran again, a weary, rolling trot, as soon as she heard the
engine.  She dragged the gate wide and left it that way, regardless of
cattle.  Mark threw the door open for her as he bumped past into the
lane.  Somehow she scrambled in and somehow she got the door closed as
he accelerated back to the main road.

"Don't ever let me in for anything like that again!"  she sobbed.

 The pylon halted in front of the stone circle like a cat faced with
water.  But the line was pressing downhill on either side of it. 
Slowly it moved again, sideways, giving the circle a wide berth, and
seemed to set off striding mechanically.  It had reached the lane when
it stopped, and stood trailing cables, as the sending left it and moved
on after its object.

 It was an awful journey.  They could feel the sending pursuing them,
taking on other forms as it came.  The storm howled around the car,
purposefully, and brought rain increasingly heavy as night fell.  Once
a tree came down in the road just after they had passed it.  Mark had
to ask Paulie to keep up constant protection, and she was soon tired
out and angry.

"Must we go all the way to Gladys's?"  she demanded.


"Yes," he said.

"Even if I hadn't promised Amanda, that house is the one place I know
that can keep out this sending."

Paulie could not argue with that.  When they finally arrived under
Gladys's storm-torn trees to find another car parked on the verge and
the gate fallen down, she refused to move.

"I'm past caring about any of you," she said.

"Leave me be."  Mark had to drag her out of the car.

"I just want to lie down and sleep\' she wailed as he hauled her
through the pelting rain and up the muddy path.  But she cheered up at
seeing dim lights coming from the house.

"There!  She's perfectly okay in spite of all your fussing!"

When Mark tremulously clattered at the ring on the veranda door, it was
opened by Amanda.  She was carrying an oil lamp, which she held high to
see who they were.  She seemed pale by its light, and her eyes very big
and dark.

"Good Lord!"  she said.

"You two look as if you've been through it!"

"We have," Mark said.

"Let us in and shut the door quickly.  There's a sending after me.  And
is there any coffee?  Paulie's about had it."

Amanda stood back to let him guide Paulie through to a seat in the
jungle room and then shut the door both doors with firm claps.

There was a sense of something wrong.

 Mark realized that the dim light in the room came from a row of
candles on the mantelpiece.  He could have done without the shifting,
clawing shadows they made among the jungle.

"The power's out again," Amanda explained, casting more shadows, huge,
walking ones, as she came back with the lamp.

"That figures," Mark said, thinking of the pylons.

"Oh, does that mean there's nothing hot to drink?"  Paulie moaned,
putting her draggled head in her muddy hands.

"No.  She's got those gas cylinders," said Amanda.

"The kettle's just boiled, but there's only tea bags."

"That'll do," said Paulie.

There was still a sense of something not right a sort of silence and
emptiness that was there in spite of the frustrated storm roaring
around the house.

"What's wrong?"  Mark asked.

"Maureen?"

"Gladys," said Amanda.

"Vanished.  And she seems to have taken the cats.  Have you noticed
there isn't an animal in the place?"

That was it, of course.  Mark had never known this house without the
soft prowling of cats and usually the rhythmic scratching of the beast
Jimbo too.  If Gladys had removed her animals, she had indeed gone.

"Didn't she leave a message?"

"No.  I've only been here half an hour, but I've looked everywhere I
can think of," said Amanda.

"There's nothing, unless you know any secret place--' " Oh, damn that!
Let's get warm and dry first!  " Paulie cried out.

"Yes, yes, of course."  Mark seized one of the candles and forced
himself to hurry about looking for dry clothes, while Amanda lit a fire
and made tea.

Half an hour later, they were feeling much better.  Mark had discovered
various strange garments thrown around the bedroom that seemed to
belong to Gladys.  He selected a flowered kimono for Paulie and got her
 into it.  For himself he found a gown of scarlet flannel, which
Amanda, with great surprise, identified as a Cambridge doctoral gown.
Now he and Paulie sat side by side drinking tea and staring into the
fire, looking as if they were taking part in some new ritual.  The
sight amused Amanda.

She was sitting on the hearth, being too tense to take a chair.

"What happened to you?"  she asked.

Mark started to tell her, but Paulie, as she so often did, interrupted
him.

"Where's Maureen?  I thought she'd be here too."

"No idea, and she's not answering her phone," Amanda said.

On cue, the telephone rang, hidden somewhere in the jungle.

"That'll be Maureen, I bet."  Amanda leaped up and made the usual
search among the plants.  When she located the phone and answered,
however, it proved to be yet another puzzle.

"It's for you," Amanda said, holding the receiver out through the
leaves toward Mark.

"Sounds Scottish."

"But no one knows I'm--' Mark began.  Then he remembered that there was
both a sending and a rogue magician abroad, and simply and grimly took
the phone.

"Mark Lister here."

The voice was female and, as Amanda said, slightly Scottish.

"Mark Lister, are you?  I'm sorry to seem to doubt you, but I'll have
to ask you to identify yourself by your title.  I was told to do that,
you see."

"Told?  Who told you?"

"My mother.  She told me particularly that I--' " Your mother?  I'm
sorry.  I think you may have the wrong--' "My mother," said the woman,
'is Mrs.  Gladys Naismith.  "

"Gladys!"

"That's right.  I'm her daughter.  Aline McAllister, and I live in
Dundee.  I have a message for you from my mother if you can prove you
have the title to it.  The secret title, mind.  She was most

particular."

 "If you really need Mark gave in and gave her his full titles.

Thank you said Aline McAllister.

"She said you would be in her house before midnight, and I see she was
right as usual.  She sent the message up with her cats, you know.  I
have them all here.  Making fifty-two, along with my own, I may say.
Dearly as I love my mother, we do not get on, and this is why.  Long
ago I told her that only in a real, genuine crisis will I do any other
thing for her, and this is what I get.  Fifty-two cats.  So you may
take it the message is urgent.  This is it.  I am to say that my mother
has gone after Zillah, partly because of the child, but mainly because
you and all the rest of British Witchcraft are in serious danger.  In
order to find out the nature of the danger, you would do well to
consult the girl she and you visited in hospital.  End of message.  I
hope you have it.  It's clear as mud to me."

"I - I have it," Mark said.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank my mother's cats," said Aline McAllister, and
rang off.

"Who on earth was that?"  Paulie said as he came out through the
jungle.

"Gladys's daughter," he said.

"With a message from Gladys."

"What?"  exclaimed the other two.  Amanda added, "I never knew she'd
been married or or Anyway, how extraordinary!"

"The poor girl must have had a terrible childhood," Paulie said
feelingly.

Mark was inclined to agree.

"She said they didn't get on."

Amanda gave that stern little frown of hers.

"Never mind that.  What was the message?"

Mark told them and astonished them a second time.

"Gone after Zillah!"  said Paulie.

"Why should that make a crisis?

That girl is always dropping out.  She's probably just joined a squat
somewhere.  "

Amanda frowned again.

"What is this danger?  Where is this girl who'll know?  In hospital?"

 "No," said Mark.

"She's dead."

"Dead!"  shrilled Paulie.

"Gone after Zillah, and she tells you to consult a dead girl!"

"How long ago?"  Amanda asked intently.

"About six weeks now," said Mark.

"Gladys is right.  She should be over the shock now."

"Or she could be dissipated," said Paulie.

"Gone after Zil !"

"Shut up, Paulie!"  Amanda snapped.

"Be helpful or be quiet.  Mark, we'd better get in touch with her at
once, don't you think?  What was her name?"

"We never found out," Mark explained.

"The hospital had no idea, and she didn't " And you don't even know her
name!  " Paulie said disgustedly.

Amanda stood up and advanced on Paulie like an avenging queen.

"Paulie " She's tired and overwrought," Mark said hastily.

"No she's not," said Amanda.

"No more than I am.  My sister is missing, and I spent the whole
sleepless night receiving warnings in every conceivable way, and yet I
can still behave reasonably!  Paulie is just strutting into the centre
of the stage in her usual selfish way, and you.  Mark, are conniving
with her to let her.  As you both always do.  Paulie, you behave or
I'll -make you!  This is serious."

They stared at her like injured children, such was her majesty.  At
length, Paulie whispered, "Sorry."

"Good," said Amanda.

"Now, Mark, what made Gladys think you'd be able to contact this girl's
soul?"

"Because she was desperate to tell me something when she died," he
admitted.

"I'm sorry it was so peculiar that I've rather avoided thinking about
it, but I should have told you.  Apart from anything else, she was
probably from the pirate universe.  Gladys was sure she was.  I think
that was what made Gladys see I was right."

 "Then," said Amanda, 'let's get on with it.  Are you helping, Paulie?
Good ~ get over there then.  Mark, you take the north and do the
invocation.  How many candles?  "

"Just one in the middle," said Mark.

There were few other questions.  They all knew what to do.  Shortly,
with the solitary candle casting dark leaf-flickers over ceiling and
faces, and gusting occasionally from the wind that still roared
outside, they stood in three-quarters of a circle, and Mark, standing
with his back to the fire so that the glow of it shone red through his
gown, spread his arms and began the strange, simple call that summoned
a dead soul.

By fire and flete and candlelight, to hearth and house and warmth, he
called, and called three times.  The sound of the wind dropped away.

None of them heard anything but the light breathing of the others and
the gentle whickering of the candle flame.

He spread his arms to call her to earth and air and flame, but she was
there already.  She had been yearning for the call.  Her gusty voice
filled the room.

Oh, I'm so glad!

They had all expected her to manifest, if she was visible at all,
somewhere among the plants where they had left space for her to come,
but she manifested instead in the middle, hovering over the candle like
a tall, streaming nimbus, causing the skin of them all to prickle with
the haunting energy of her.  She had not been, perhaps, very beautiful
in life, but she was beautiful now.  She had.  Mark remembered,
manifested like a flame at her death.  She was all flame now.

I knew you'd call, her voice gusted.  J waited.  I had to tell you.  I
knew you didn't know.

"Which of us are you speaking to?"  Amanda asked quietly.

The man I came to this otherworld to find, she said.  The one who
called me.  Herrel Listanian.

"His name is Mark Lister," Paulie said.

"You mean he's an analogue?"

 No, the gusty voice insisted.  The man who called is Herrel
Listanian.

Paulie drew breath to argue.  Amanda's eyes caught the candlelight and
glinted off the substance of the ghost as she stopped Paulie with a
look.

"Please explain," she said.

His name.  His mother gave him a new name when she broke him in half
and sent this half here to otherworld, the dead girl gusted.  forgive
me.  I helped her.  I thought it would save him.  But she used both
halves as her puppets just as she always did.  Mark could feel her
presence orientate on him.  The candle flame streamed toward him,
imploringly, and guttered with the flickering voice, forgive me.  I
helped put you here to spy for her, and now I can feel her pursuing you
with a sending.  You must have disobeyed her.  Forgive me.  The only
good that came of it is that she stopped punishing you like this for a
while.

"His mother is who?"  Amanda asked.

Marceny, chief Lady of Leathe, the reply came, but the candle flame
still streamed toward Mark.  She sent you to rule the magework here and
tell her what you knew.  I helped because I thought it would save you.
It was done for pity and love.  Forgive me.

"How would it save him?"  said Amanda.

To have the best half of yourself free, the voice gusted pleadingly.

And you were free, and I saw you didn't know.  So I had to come to tell
you, to atone, but I died too soon.  Forgive me.  Let me go.

Mark could hardly move.  His face, and his tongue, were stiff, but he
managed to croak, '\ forgive you," and the words of release.

She gave a small, gusting sigh.  The nimbus faded away, and the candle
flame burned straight.

"Mark!"  squawked Paulie.

Amanda gave her another quelling look.

"Who was she, Mark?"

"Colny Ventoran, my mother's best assistant," he answered without
thinking.

 "She always was rather an intense little He stopped, seeing the way
they were both looking at him.

"Then you're from the pirate universe?"  said Amanda.

/! rather fear I must be he agreed.

 IX

 With and Pentarchy "You what7' said Edward.

"Come from otherworld Judy repeated, speaking very muffled, with her
head down to twiddle the tapes of her medical gown.

"We all do the whole capsule did."

Edward, as always, did not react in any way she expected.  Instead of
demanding to know more, exclaiming, repudiating her or racing off to
inform the High Head, he simply turned away to the blue embrasure of
the window, where he stood gazing out at the blank blueness and tapping
the fingers of his large, agile right hand on the sill.  Judy waited,
long, long minutes.  Before the wait was over, she was fighting herself
not to say in what she knew would be a girlish whine Don't you love me
any more now?  Edward had this ability to make her behave and feel like
an insecure schoolgirl.  Perhaps, she thought, this was because it was
what she was deep down and naturally.  Before she knew Edward, she had
never, not once, felt natural with any man.

She managed not to speak and was glad she hadn't when Edward turned
back to her with a look of mild exasperation.

"This just shows," he said, 'how important it is to keep questioning
our reasons for believing things.  It's particularly important with
traditional doctrines.  Here were we in With all assuming, without
question, that otherworld is a debased copy of ours, and the
inhabitants of it some form of reptile and why?  Because some High
Brother or Head Magus made inadequate observations centuries ago and
decided it was so.  And we acted on this assumption, and did our
experiments, and never once thought to examine otherworld as we examine
 other universes.  And now you tell me that you're as human as I am.
Judy, I'm ashamed for With and for the Pentarchy I truly am.  "

Judy stared at him, feeling that radiance was breaking out all over
her.  She had hardly dared to believe that even Edward would take the
news this way.

"Edward, you're amazing."

Edward put a hand on each of her shoulders and gripped with the gentle
grip that Judy, from the start, would have walked through fire for.

"Why have you only told me this now, though?"

She hung her head again.  This was the question she could not answer
honestly.  How could she tell him that this was the result of agitated
planning in the women's quarters?  Roz demanded action.  Flan and Helen
wanted firm news about Zillah.  Knowing Edward, Judy could not believe
there were any hidden horrors in With and said so, whereupon Flan, to
everyone's surprise, burst into tears, and Roz loudly expressed her
contempt of both of them.  And Sandra surprised Judy, and Roz too, by
telling Roz to shut her mouth until she knew what she was talking
about.

"See here, Judy," Sandra said, 'something's wrong.  No one's seen
Zillah or Marcus since yesterday, and no one will talk about them.
Everyone's suddenly busy with rituals all the time, and they're
beginning to look funny at me in Calculus.  Suppose they found out
about us?  We need to know.  Edward is High Horns's friend.  You go and
ask him about Zillah and see what else you can pick up while you're at
it.  You have to.  It's urgent.  " The rest had agreed though Judy felt
that there was no need for Roz to add, " If you can conquer your
passion enough to remember your mission, that is.  "

Because of what Roz said, Judy resolved in this newly discovered
schoolgirl way of hers that she would only ask Edward if she gave him
important information herself first.  That made it fair.  And it did
seem, from what the others said, that it was only a matter of time
before someone in With guessed where the women were from.  But not
 being able to tell Edward any of this, she hung her head and told him
something else that happened to be true.

"Because I love you.  I didn't want to be under false pretences any
more."

Edward kissed her.  It was reverent and wondering.  He had told her
that if he had even suspected what it was like to love a woman, he
would never have thought of joining the Brotherhood.

Eventually, still not feeling honest, Judy said, not sounding as casual
as she would have liked, "By the way, have you any idea where Zillah
and her little boy have got to?  Nobody seems to know."

The slightly austere look Judy had dreaded seeing came over Edward's
face.  Much of it was guilt.  He had once quite lustfully thought of
Zillah before he came to know Judy.  That felt like retroactive
infidelity now.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about that," he said.  As far as
he knew, Zillah, Josh, and Philo were still wandering about in the
depths of With, somehow parrying all the magework used to find them.
The only other explanation for their disappearance was, he had agreed
with the High Head, plain impossible.  So search parties were still
looking.  And for fear of the alarm and despondency it might spread, he
could not tell Judy what havoc the truants seemed to be working upon
the fundamental rhythms of With.  But being reminded by this of his
friend and his duty, Edward added reflectively, "I suppose I must tell
the High Head that you all come from otherworld."

"Oh, need you?"  Judy said.  She must, after all, have been relying on
Edward not to react like any other High Brother, she saw.  Roz was not
going to forgive her for this.

"I do need to," he said.

"With has been labouring under false assumptions for centuries.  The
Magus will be glad to put that right."

Glad, Judy thought, was not a word anyone but Edward would have chosen.
In a dither of panic, she said, "When when are you going to tell
him?"

 "Oh, when I next see him, I suppose," Edward said vaguely.  It had
occurred to him, too, that glad might not properly describe his
friend's reaction.  He might find Judy snatched away from him.  Perhaps
it would be better to wait until the vibrations settled down and
Lawrence was in a better humour.

"I shan't see him until this evening anyway," he said, consoling
himself and Judy.

 To Zillah, it felt as if they all spilled out feet-first as though
With were a giant helter-skelter.  So strong was this impression that,
when the light ceased to dazzle her, she looked upwards, expecting to
see With hanging above like an enormous blue tornado, or at least the
twisted tail of it joining them to wherever they were now.

Blue was certainly what she saw, but it was the clouded blue of sky
appearing through dark, shiny leaves.  Among the leaves were small
white flowers and round golden fruit.  They were in a grove of fruit
trees, and the light was, in fact, only bright after the darkness in
the base of the citadel.

"What did you do?"  Josh asked.  He was collapsed on the grass with all
four legs folded.  Deep dents in the soft turf showed where he had
landed and staggered before folding.  Even so, he was keeping a firm
arm around Marcus, who was struggling to get himself and his bag of
toys off Josh's back.

"Daddle," Marcus announced.

"I didn't do anything," Zillah said.

"Yes you did," said Philo, who was clinging to the nearest fruiting
tree.  He looked as if he might fold like Josh without it.

"I never felt power like it!"

"Daddle!"  insisted Marcus.

There was a small lake, or large pool, of an extraordinary fresh
blue-green in the centre of the grove.  A play of mounded water and
white bubbles near the middle showed where the pool was being fed
constantly by a spring.  Zillah could not blame Marcus for wanting to
paddle.  It was hot in this grove.  But the whole of it had a look that
was somehow special.

 "Better not, Marcus," said Philo.

"This all belongs to the Goddess."

Over the days of their acquaintance, Marcus had decided Philo was the
wise man of the party.  He did not protest.  He nodded gravely at
Philo.

"Dow?"

Zillah helped Marcus slide down off Josh.

"Have either of you any idea where we are?"

"It feels like the Pentarchy," Philo said decidedly.

"But how far south or north we are depends this hot, it could be summer
in central Trenjen or winter in south Leathe.  These orange trees don't
give much away.  If only we knew what season--' " Spring," said Josh.
He pointed to where, between two orange trees, some small blue-grey
irises were flowering.

Philo stared at these in some perplexity.

"Do those only come up in spring?  It was spring when I left for With.
It ought to be summer if--' " Or we've been away a whole year," Josh
suggested.

"I think we'd better go and ask someone in a roundabout way, of course,
or they'll realize we've broken the law."

With Zillah and Philo each hauling on an arm, Josh struggled to his
legs and they went cautiously out of the grove.  At the far end of the
pool, the water ran out in a stream over a carefully built small wooden
lock, and a path led beside the stream, out of the grove and into
sunlight strong enough to dazzle them all again.  They halted
nervously, shading their eyes.

There was a woman a few yards downstream.  She was coming towards them
on the path, halting from time to time to test the carefully turfed
banks of the stream with a long tool.  She was an idyllic sight.  Long
coal-black hair blew in the breeze around her shoulders, and her faded
blue-grey gown was blown to outline her figure.  She was a beautiful
woman, disturbingly familiar and strange at the same time.

She looked around, seeing them, and Zillah could have sworn for a
moment that it was Amanda staring at them.

 Marcus had no doubt.  With a loud shout of "Badder!"  he set off down
the path toward her as fast as his legs could take him.

"Badder!  Badder!  Badder!"

Zillah set off after him, and Philo with her.  Analogue of Amanda or
not, the woman was a total stranger and might not care for a small boy
hurling himself upon her.  A dirty small boy.  The pyjama suit Marcus
had been wearing all their time in With was grey at the knees and rear
and splotched down the front.  The real Amanda would have found it bad
enough, let alone this unknown image of her.

The woman, however, darted to meet Marcus even faster than Zillah ran
after him.  She reached him fractionally first and swept him gladly up
in one arm.  The bag of toys thumped to the ground and came open,
spilling everything over the path.  Zillah and Philo stopped, for fear
of treading on Marcus's treasures.

Doy!  Doy!  " Marcus draped himself desperately over the woman's arm.

I'm so sorry," Zillah said as she stooped to gather the toys up.

"Leave those," said the woman.  It was an absolute command.  Her voice
was high and chilly, and nothing like Amanda's.

Zillah slowly stood up, staring at her, wondering how she could ever
have taken her for Amanda.  Her hair was not even very dark, and
arranged in careful gleaming tresses which the wind had scarcely power
to move.  Her dress was indeed blue-grey, but it was of satin as stiff
as her tresses, in a high-fashion mode that Zillah thought as
displeasing as it was strange a matter of two huge puffed panniers
descending from the woman's armpits around a tight whale- boned bodice
that spread into a hooped divided skirt.  Against it, Marcus looked
even filthier.  The kicking cloth feet of his pyjama suit were black
and shiny as leather, except where one toe was coming through.

With a fleeting wonder as to however this woman managed to pee in such
a dress, Zillah looked into her face.  It was nothing like Amanda's,
 being pretty and heart-shaped, with faint, hard lines of age to it. It
dismayed Zillah utterly.  It was the woman's eyes, which were dark
blue.  They were eyes that greedily, urgently, and softly sought out
what was valuable and vulnerable in Zillah and drank it in, without
giving anything back.

Mother's eyes, Zillah thought.  You could easily mistake such eyes for
those of a kindly student of humanity, unless you knew Mother.

"Perhaps you'd better give me my son," Zillah said.  Marcus was still
reaching and crying after his toys, and Philo, after one startled look
at the woman, was doggedly picking them up.

"I will not," said the woman.

"Gualdian, I said to leave those."  The thing in her right hand, which
Zillah had taken for a tool, was actually a long rod rather like a
sceptre, with a strange, ugly little head grinning from the end she
held.  When Philo took no notice of what she said, she reached out and
tapped him with the rod.  Philo cried out and dropped the toys.  For a
moment he seemed unable to move.  When he did move, it was to clap one
hand to the shoulder she had tapped and turn his face up to the woman
in horror.  He was whiter than Zillah had ever seen him.  His eyes had
gone enormous.

Marcus saw it and was shocked into silence.  Great tears rolled down
his face.  Seeing them and seeing Philo, Zillah stepped forward in an
excess of anger and wrenched Marcus away.

"You've no right to do that!"

Marcus's tears had splotched the woman's gown.  She let him go with a
shudder.  I have every right," she said.

"I am Marceny Listanian, and you are trespassing on my estate.  You
used unwarranted power to come here, too.  I warn you that we do not
treat such things lightly in Leathe.  You are all under arrest.  Tell
that centaur to come out of the grove at once."

Zillah whirled around to find a number of men and several women, who
all wore versions of the hooped and panniered costume, hurrying toward
them.  They must have been concealed behind the trees of the grove.
 Now they were jumping the irrigation ditches that crisscrossed the
flat field in order to spread out and surround Zillah and Philo.  Josh
was between the last two trees on the path.  All his hooves were braced
and he was holding on to the trees as if some compulsion were forcing
him forward.

"Stay where you are.  Josh!"  Zillah shouted.

Josh did not reply, but he slowly retreated backwards, handing himself
from tree to tree, until he was out of sight in the grove.

Somehow, Zillah had no doubt that he was safe there.  She turned back
to find that the rest of the people had arrived around them on both
sides of the stream.  The women were of all ages, and all, without
exception, finely dressed and coiffured.  Their perfume blew on the
warm wind in muggy waves.  The men mostly wore old-looking, rustic
breeches and shirts, but there were one or two among them dressed in
bright garments almost as fine as the women's.  One in parti-coloured
red and yellow, like a jester, caught Zillah's eye as he leaped easily
across a little ditch and came to stand on the other side of the
stream.

She knew him at once.  It was like a shock whether of horror or joy,
she did not know to see him real and warm and moving, and in that silly
jester's suit, so like Mark and so utterly unlike.  He knew her too. He
stopped dead and they stared at each other over the stream.

His shock and concern, his unbelieving glance at Marcus, made him for
an instant look almost like Mark.  Then his jauntily bearded face moved
back into the cynical laughing shape which, she saw sadly, was habitual
to it.

"Well now.  Mother," he said.

"What do you want done with these people7' " Bring them to me in the
small audience hall," the woman in blue-grey replied.

"And the centaur too, if you can get him out."  Saying which, she
turned and walked away along the stream.  After she had gone a few
yards, her figure appeared to ripple.  She became transparent and,
quite quickly, melted out of sight entirely.

The rest seemed to relax a little as soon as she was gone.

 Two of the men got Philo to his feet, and Zillah could not help
noticing they handled him carefully and tenderly, as if they had more
than a notion of how he was feeling.  Philo was still very pale, and he
did not seem to be able to use his right arm.


"You may as well pick those up," Herrel said to one of the girls,
pointing to the toys strewn in the path.

"Why?"  she said irritably, glancing at Marcus.

"It's only a boy child."  But she and another woman got down among
their billowing satins and started collecting toys.

Two other women, both older, took Zillah's elbows and urged her along
the path.  Zillah resisted.  Marcus was leaning over her shoulder
reaching for his toys.

"Doy!"  he said urgently.

"And someone had better go and see if they can tempt that centaur out
from under the Goddess's skirts," Herrel said.

"You Ladny and Sigry you'd be best at it."

Zillah felt both the women holding her stiffen.  One said acidly,
"Don't you speak to me like that.  I don't take my orders from you."

"Don't you indeed?"  said Herrel.

"How shocking of me to suggest you might!  All right.  Sigry, take
Andred and our sweet Aliky and see what you can do about my mother's
orders."

One of the girls who had been collecting toys nodded and handed the bag
into Marcus's eager fists.  She even gave him a pleasant smile as she
did so.  She and the other older woman, together with one of the
better-dressed men, set off toward the grove, calling out, "What if he
won't come out?"

"Besiege him," said Herrel and leaped across the stream.

The woman called Ladny immediately flounced around and marched away
along the path.  From the way Herrel leered derisively at her stiff
satin back, Zillah suspected that Herrel had got rid of her on
purpose.

She became sure of it when they all moved off downstream and Herrel
contrived to walk beside her, so near that she could catch the faint
 characteristic smell of him Mark's smell.  It made her shake all over.
She could scarcely carry Marcus, who was anyway writhing violently
about in her arms to embrace his rescued toys.

"I'll carry him if you like Herrel said.

"Will he come to me?"

Feeling as if she could barely move, so conscious was she of Herrel
beside her, Zillah twisted her head to look at Marcus.  Some of his
writhings, she found, had been in order to get himself into a position
from which he could perform a grave inspection of Herrel.

"Ike bad," he remarked to her.

"Airy bay."

"Yes, I think so," she said, and was surprised that her voice came out
cool and normal.

"Here, then, fellow."  Herrel took Marcus out of her arms, making a
somewhat clumsy job of the transfer.  She could feel him shaking too.

Under cover of their manoeuverings, he whispered, "What in hell spoke
name made you come here7 You were safe.  You'd left me him."

It was in a way incredible, that this man she had never met should
whisper to her in Mark's voice of things that had happened in another
world.  But even while she was feeling this amazement, Zillah was
whispering back, "Because I couldn't help it, as soon as I knew.  I had
to.  Fetch Mark back.  You need him."

Herrel all but lost the bag of toys, but rescued it with a raised
yellow satin knee, while he whispered, "I don't know how to!  For the
gods' sake, don't say a word to my mother!  She'd kill!"  After which
he contrived to gather up both Marcus and the bag and hoist them to his
shoulder, remarking in a normal speaking voice, "So you think I'm a
nice man, do you, fellow, hairy face and all?"

"He must be the only person in the Pentarchy who thinks that then,"
observed one of the women coming behind.

It showed Zillah that they could easily have been overheard.  Herrel
had taken a great risk.  She blazed with joy that it was this important
to him still, after she had walked out on Mark that way, without even a
 word and this joy mixed and warred confusingly with fear and dismay,
and her guilt at bringing Josh and Philo into this.  It was her fault.
She was sure of that.  In some way, getting them all out of With, she
had been homing on Herrel, instinctively.  She had only to think of the
woman Marceny to see that this had been a disastrous thing to do.  Yet
for a short while this was less to her than the mere fact of being
here, walking beside Herrel under the blue sky on the path beside the
stream.

Nobody said anything much as they walked.  From time to time the path
crossed irrigation or drainage ditches leading from locks in the
stream.  Then they walked over carefully made plank bridges where
everyone's feet thundered, and, it seemed to Zillah, any amount of
whispering could have been hidden in the noise.  But Herrel did not say
another word to her.  The confusion of Zillah's feelings began to sort
itself out as she told herself wryly, the confusion at least was
familiar, since it was the way her mother worked, both on her and on
Amanda and she began to have suspicions.

She looked at Herrel frequently, pretending to be anxious about Marcus,
who was placidly fingering Herrel's beard as he rode in Herrel's arms.
The few words Herrel said were all to Marcus.

"Don't pull it out, fellow it's not grass, it's hair."  He smiled as he
said it with a sort of inane, contemptuous hilarity, as if life were to
him nothing but a continuing silly joke.  It was not a reassuring
smile.  It was possibly not quite sane.  Zillah saw that Herrel's face
around the smile was even paler than Mark's, and full of habitual
creases of strain that had nothing to do with the smile.  He looked
deeply diseased.  It began to be borne in upon Zillah that this fag-end
left of Mark was not a man you could trust.  Perhaps he had even
intended someone to overhear him whispering to her or at any rate, he
had not cared.

But Marcus liked him.  Zillah clung to that.  Just as Marcus had taken
to Tarn Fairbrother and then Tod, he had taken one of his calm fancies
to Herrel.  Perhaps all was not lost.

 They approached a stand of tall evergreen oaks.  The path led around
the trees to a shallow flight of steps, really a set of terraces
climbing to a lawn.  At the back of the lawn, bowered in the trees, was
a mansion.  It was built in a style so foreign to Zillah that the most
she could have said of it was that it was gracious, and probably a good
deal bigger than it looked.  Palladian was the word that came to her,
but she knew that was quite wrong.  It was elegant, reposeful, and
breathed out a menace so total that she gasped.  Something crouched
inside there that was implacably hungry and full of hatred.  Marcus
felt it too.  He turned and looked at the building with his lower lip
stuck out.  But to everybody else it was obviously just the house.

Their pace quickened and they crossed the lawn in a businesslike
huddle, sweeping Zillah, Marcus and Philo with them.  Philo was
carrying his arm and looking as scared as Zillah felt.

Up more shallow steps, among pillars and along a cloister- like
passage, they were swept, and finally into a small, lofty room panelled
in some strange greenish wood.  There was a dais at one end where
Marceny was sitting, strumming at a small, painted harpsichord.

As the double doors opened to let the party through, she smiled,
nodded, and swung around on her stool to face them.

"Oh, good," she said.  Til talk to the gualdian first.  "

While Philo was being pushed toward her, Herrel quietly dumped Marcus
on the floor beside Zillah and moved away to sit on the edge of the
dais at his mother's feet.  Just the position, Zillah thought, that
went with his jester's clothing.  Marcus leant against Zillah's legs,
thoroughly and unusually subdued.

"What's your name, my boy?"  Marceny asked Philo in a clear, kindly
voice.

"Amphetron," Philo said.  Zillah tried not to let her surprise show.

Philo knew this world and its dangers, and she did not.  She realized
she had better watch Philo's responses closely and take her lead from
him.

 "And how did you come to be trespassing in my Goddess grove,
Amphetron?"  Marceny asked.

"I've no idea," Philo answered.

"We simply all found ourselves there."

"You should call me " my lady" or " Lady Marceny" when you speak to me,
you know," Marceny pointed out, still in the kind and reasonable manner
one might use to a small child.

"And I really don't think you should tell me naughty stories either,
Amphetron.  We all felt you coming for hours and hours before you
arrived.  One of you was using quite terrific power in order to get
here."

"And I suppose that gave you time to set up magework to disguise
yourself that, if you don't mind my saying so, was a low trick," Philo
said.  Zillah had not realized he could be so bold.

Marceny smiled.

"Oh, I don't mind your saying so if you feel the need.  It was
thoroughly simple mental magecraft, purely designed to fetch you all
out of the grove, and it took me no time at all nothing like the power
you people were squandering.  I notice you haven't somehow confessed
about that yet."

"There's nothing to confess.  I don't know what the power was," Philo
said.  He seemed totally frank about it.

"It must have come from outside us.  We were in one grove and we
suddenly found ourselves in yours.  I apologize for alarming you."

"One grove where, Amphetron?"  Marceny asked.

"The king's grove in the Orthe," Philo said.

Zillah thought, from Marceny's reaction, and Herrel's, and the slight
murmur from those around her, that Philo had played a bold stroke here
and named a very important place.  Marceny said, with distinct caution
though her eyebrows were raised ready to disbelieve "The king is a
friend of yours, is he?"

"No, of my father's," Philo said, and his voice rang with truth.

Philo, be careful!  Zillah thought.  She's bound to check!

 "Dear me Lady Marceny responded, with delicate incredulity.  Then the
king and your no doubt eminent papa are going to want you back, aren't
they?  Which of them would you prefer me to get in touch with?"

"The king," Philo said.

"If you would be so good."

"Very well," the lady said sweetly.

"Meanwhile we shall, of course, keep you safely here.  The king
wouldn't want to lose you.  And of course, we're always terribly glad
to see gualdians here in Leathe.

We suffer from such a dearth of gualdian blood.  It's such a hardship
for us.  Gualdians are so much better at magework than mere humans.

But luckily, half-gualdians are quite as good.  It's a pity you're such
a funny little specimen.  We'll just have to hope that your offspring
turn out a little more normal.  "

Philo, for all his bold talk, must have known she was playing with him.
As he realized the extent of it, his face flushed deep red.

Herrel looked up and leered at him.  Lady Marceny laughed outright.

"Or with such big feet," she said.

"It's going to be quite hard to tempt any of my girls with you.  But we
can always use artificial insemination.  It won't hurt you a bit as
long as you're good and do what you're told."

Philo, with his face so dark with blood that he looked ill, started to
say, "I won't--' Lady Marceny held her hand up gracefully and stopped
him.

"Won't?  Is your arm still worrying you?  You got off very lightly, you
know.  It could be a lot, lot worse.  Please remember that you are a
trespasser on my estate.  Now I'm going to let you go away to a nice
quiet room where you can think about this.  I'm sure that by this
evening you'll have decided to be sensible, and if you are, I might get
in touch with the king about you."

Philo's face drained to white as he was led away through another door.
There was a decorous little spurt of murmuring and laughter from all
the women present.  It was entirely derisive.

"That a friend of the king's!"  someone behind Zillah said, and the
 satin-clothed lady beside her said, "Lord of Forests!  She'd better
not pick me for a mother not with that\' As she said it, the woman
gripped Zillah by the elbow and propelled her toward the dais.  Zillah
hastily took hold of Marcus's hand, or he would have been left behind,
staring after Philo.

"Bilo god?"  he asked in doleful bewilderment.

"Hush, love."  Zillah had known she would be unable to deal with Lady
Marceny from the moment she saw those eyes of hers.  Now Lady Marceny
leaned forward, and those same eyes urgently, deeply, and precisely
stared into Zillah's, exploring for the wincing innermost tender parts
of her with a power that was almost like tenderness, but was not.

"Now you, dear," Lady Marceny said.

"Perhaps you can explain a bit more clearly than the little gualdian.
I'm very puzzled about you all.  How did you arrive in my grove?"

Follow Philo's lead, Zillah thought.  Talking about the king seemed to
have done no good.  But Philo, for some reason, had shown her that he
did not want the woman to know they had been on With.  And she was so
bad at lying and always worse with eyes like that searching into her.

Mother could always screw the truth out of her.  She had a moment of
ridiculous homesickness, wishing she were back in With being questioned
by the High Head.  He had powerful eyes too, but never seemed to use
them this way.

"I really haven't too much idea," she said.

"We were all in the king's grove one minute, and next minute we were in
yours.  I really do apologize--' " Bilo godf Marcus asked again.

"Quiet, love I'll explain later."  Zillah was glad of the interruption.
It enabled her to free her eyes from Lady Marceny's and turn them down
to Marcus clinging to her leg.  It gave her a respite in which her mind
might work.  Would she tell the story she'd repeated to the High Head
in With , or?No.  But what, then?  Something nearer the truth, perhaps.
It was said that the best lies were near the truth.

"It all seems to be some mistake er my lady."

 "Really?"  Lady Marceny said, with sweet touches of disbelief.

"Well, naturally any young woman is more than welcome in Leathe.  What
is your name, dear?"

"Zillah Green."

The lady's beautifully arched eyebrows rose higher.

"Indeed?  What a strange name for a gualdian!  You are gualdian, aren't
you, dear?"

"Oh no, my lady."  Being unable to look at those eyes, Zillah looked
past Lady Marceny's carefully arranged hair, with what she hoped was
perfect frankness.

"I come from another country."

"Azandi?"  said Lady Marceny.

"Surely not?  Everyone there is black, dear."

"I know but there are other countries," Zillah said, hoping this was
true, hoping some warning might come from Herrel if she went too far
astray.  He was sitting a yard away too close for comfort staring
vaguely into space, and she had him in the corner of her eye the whole
time.

"My country's quite a small island in the southern hemisphere."  She
looked past Lady Marceny's face and thought limpidly of New Zealand.

"Oh Pridain or one of those places!"  The way the lady said this
suggested that such an island counted as Third World or Fourth World,
if that was possible.  Marceny turned abruptly to Herrel.

"Isn't she gualdian?"

Zillah very much did not like the way Herrel's face turned mechanically
to Lady Marceny's, allowing his mother to stare into his eyes.  Like
that, the lady seemed to drink him in, quaff him, in great drafts.  He
shrivelled slightly with it.  Zillah did not like that at all.

"No," he said.

"Not gualdian a slightly similar strain, but without the power, and no
training at all."

Marcus picked up Zillah's uneasiness.

"Bilo god7," he demanded again.

The treatment of Philo was really worrying him as well it might, Zillah

thought.

"It's all right, love!"  she whispered protectively, and swore to
 herself probably, she thought, in her usual far too belated way that,
whatever happened, Marcus was not going to come out of this damaged in
any manner whatsoever.  That was top priority now, even above Herrel.

Herrel turned away, swung his legs to the dais, and crouched there.

He fetched out a handful of smooth pebbles with which he began to play
a game somewhat like jacks, throwing from his palm, catching with the
back of his hand his left hand, Zillah noticed: Mark was right-handed.
Herrel was very good at the game, no doubt from long practice.  It was
as if his mother's quaffing reduced him to childhood.  I have just
seen, Zillah thought in a sort of weak, angry horror, a kind of vampire
at work.  She faced Lady Marceny again, eyes and all, feeling
implacable.

"So if you come from that far away," Lady Marceny said, "I don't
understand what you were doing in my grove either of the groves with a
gualdian and a centaur."

Go on with the nearly-lie.  No help for it.  The eyes tried to quaff
from her too.

"I came to this country," Zillah said, 'to look for Marcus's father.  "
She felt Herrel flinch, although he did not drop a single pebble.

"I knew he came from this the Pentarchy, but I didn't know any more.
The king was very kind to me and said of course I must look for him,
and he gave me Amphetron and Josh for guides and let me use the grove."
She kept a corner of her eye on Herrel, in case this was an unlikely
thing for the king to have done and it probably was, she thought.  He'd
have to be a king like King Arthur to do that.  But Herrel never paused
in his smooth throwing and catching.

Maybe it was all right.

To her relief.  Lady Marceny seemed to accept this story, although with
a certain irony.

"Far be it from me to go against the king," she said dryly, 'but the
dear man ought to know better than to interfere in Leathe.  But then
perhaps our beloved king didn't know he was.  I take it the Goddess
obliged, dear, by sending you here.  Have you seen the little boy's
papa at all?  "

 I have not seen Mark, Zillah told herself, looking into those
searching, searching eyes.

"No.  I told you.  I think there must have been a mistake."

Again her uneasiness communicated to Marcus.  He shook her leg and
raised a booming shout.

"BILO GOD, Dinah1."

Lady Marceny frowned, a gracious crimping of pearly maquillage.

"What does that little beast keep shouting about?"

Marcus might have been a dog.  There was no doubt Herrel led a dog's
life.  Anger fired up in Zillah.

"He's reminding me that the god of my country is here with us, my
lady."

Lady Marceny turned her eyes to Marcus, who glared up at her
resentfully.

"Oddy dady bake Bilo god," he told her frankly.

"Dear, dear!"  said the lady.

"Whatever that means, child, you'll have to learn to put those powers
of yours respectfully to the service of ladies, or you'll find yourself
being punished.  I really can't be bothered with your god.  Leathe can
always speak to the dark side of him if necessary."  Her eyes returned
to search Zillah again.

"My dear, I can see you're full of wonderfully strong feelings for this
man of yours.  I'm so sorry he seems to have let you down and run away.
He must have quite a strong antipathy for you, if he went against the
Goddess and got you sent to the wrong grove.  But I understand why the
dear king took up your cause.  He's a sentimental man, of course, but
he must have seen as plainly as I can that your child has the most
interesting potential.  How very sad.  Naturally we'll make every
effort to find your man now you're here I'll lead the search myself."

Zillah thought that this was the least reassuring assurance anyone had
ever made her.

 Gladys plodded forward through the wood muttering to herself, or to
Jimbo it was not clear to either of them which.  At first the trees
were wet and spilled gouts of water on her finery, but soon they became
dry and tightly packed and thorny.  The light was the louring storm
light she had left behind in her own garden.  It was light enough for
her to see the thorns and, with mutter or gesture, set them aside, but
it was not enough to see the way altogether clearly.

Here Jimbo, as she had suspected, proved invaluable.  With a scrabble
at her leg, or a pull at her dress that set all its beads clacking
there, he directed her always to the easiest path, where the
undergrowth was thinnest and the thorns fewest.  The marvel was to
Gladys that there was a path at all.  Among the fierce thorns and
formidable de fences it was always there, as if someone or something
kept it there for a purpose.

Before long she thought she could detect hints of brighter day ahead.

"Jimbo's worth his weight in gold," she muttered.

"But don't pull I've got to save my feathers."

Here, quite suddenly, Jimbo ceased pulling or even moving.

"And with good reason, I'll be bound," Gladys muttered, and kept still
too.

Somebody else, a little over to the left, was fighting through the
woods as well.  She could hear the crackle of feet stamping brushwood,
the slashing of branches, and the dragging rasp of thorns across cloth.
The sounds had considerable violence, and that was increased by a
certain amount of swearing.  Gladys listened.  The voice was
unquestionably male.  She was not sure she wished to have anything to
 do with its owner.  He sounded angry and exasperated as well as
violent.  The mere fact of his being here bespoke powers rather
uncomfortably equivalent to her own.  On the other hand "Missed the
path, hasn't he?"  she muttered to Jimbo.  Jimbo, in his own peculiar
way, agreed that this was so.  Gladys sighed.  At her long-ago
initiation she had been made to understand that power was hers only so
long as she never passed by anyone in need.  This was need.  Her fellow
traveller, though he might not yet know it, was in deep trouble.

"Over here!"  she shouted.

"Work your way over to your right!"

The threshing and crunching ceased.

"Who are you?"  the voice bellowed back.  A young male voice.  It
reassured Gladys a little.  These young fellows might surpass her in
sheer strength, but she could make up for that, every time, in
experience.

"Doesn't matter!"  she bawled.

"Just come on over the path's he reV He was desperate enough or
trusting enough to obey her at once.

His trampling and threshing changed direction.  She kept him going
right with a shout or so whenever she felt him veering, and it was not
long before he burst out of the thorn brake beside her.  He proved to
be quite small.  The light was not good enough for her to see more than
that he was only an inch or so taller than she was, though she could
tell he was chunky.  But he was not as trusting as he seemed.

"If you're some kind of inter world Lorelei mark stepper he told her
airily, if breathlessly, 'you can just dispel.  But I can accept it if
you're And, quite casually, he spoke a word, called her a name that
made Gladys positively jump for its potency and accuracy.

She approved of that.  She chuckled.

"Well spoken, young man.  And I am, in my way.  We can take it we're no
harm to one another.  I'm Gladys.  Who are you, and what are you doing
in this neck of the woods?"

 "Trying to get home, of course," the young man answered.  His manner
was still airy, but a strong quiver of indignation now underlay it.

"People have been pushing me about lately, all over the place, and I
got sick of it.  And what are you doing here?"

Gladys replied without hesitation, "I'm on my way to look for the
sister of a friend of mine."  Her sense was that it was important for
her to be open with this young man although she noticed he was not
quite so open with her: he had cautiously avoided giving her his
name.

"A young woman called Zillah and her--' " Zillah!  " he exclaimed
eagerly.

"Zillah Green?"

It had been important, she thought.

"Yes, Zillah and her Marcus.  Her Marcus and I took a fancy to one
another when his auntie brought him over to tea.  He calls me Ardy
Baddish.  So you're a friend ofZillah's, are you?"

He laughed a little.

"Probably I think I still am, even though I got shoved into otherworld
just for kissing her."

"Thereby hangs a tale, I guess," Gladys said, moving forward along the
way Jimbo was indicating.

"Suppose you tell Auntie Gladys."

He had, as she could see, a lot to get off his chest, and he proved,
too, to have a naturally chatty disposition.  He talked merrily and

freely as he pushed through the wood beside her.  As he talked, he
fended aside, almost absentmindedly, thorns, boughs, and creepers, and
went forging through the resistance that, although it did not come from
trees or undergrowth, was part of the very nature of this place all
almost as if he did not notice it at all.

"Remind me," Gladys murmured to Jimbo, 'never to get on the wrong side
of this one.  " His name was Tod, as she soon gathered.

"My misfortune," he told her, 'is to be heir to a Fiveir, you see.

It's not my fault I was born with this great lump of raw magery.

Everyone in my family is, more or less, or we wouldn't hold the
position we do.  And my old father may be a fool in many ways, but he
 did make sure I was trained to use my birthright properly which made
it all the more annoying when I got to With.  I should perhaps explain
that With is a tiny universe attached to the Pentarchy, full of mages
who are supposed to protect the Fiveirs--' "So Laputa-Blish is really
called Arth/ Gladys remarked to Jimbo.

He said a great deal about With, and a certain Brother Wilfrid.  He
also talked of various Horn Heads and the High Head who seemed to be
set above them.  His account was not loving.  Gladys sopped up all of
it, and extrapolated more, while they edged through the next bank of
prickles.  So the girls were trying to carry on, bless them!  It didn't
sound as if those mages of With were quite as clever as they thought
they were.  Centaurs, eh?  What were gualdians?  And what the flaming
hell was Zillah doing, letting this boy make love to her when she was
breaking her heart over Mark Lister?

"It was only because I gave her a shock, showing her a seeming of my
favourite aunt," he explained, just as if she had asked.  Perhaps, in
this place, she had.

"It seems she's the spitting image of her sister and they're both
called Amanda, oddly enough.  Analogues, I think.

Zillah was shaken to hell band and I tried to comfort her, that was
all, but Brother Wilfrid walked in on it, and I got marched away and
put through this ritual that sent me to otherworld.  I should explain
here that everyone on With is positive that otherworld is a kind of
degenerate copy of ours, full of subhumans.  With respect to you,
madam.  I was totally paralysed with horror that they'd turned me into
some kind of reptile to send me there, and I didn't start to think of
using my birthright until after I got confronted with a terrible
creature called Paulie.  I was supposed to be her lover, and spy on
her.  But there was this strong feeling of Leathe that I couldn't
place--' So Paulie is our leak, Gladys thought.  Not surprised.

But Tod paused, hand out to waft aside a long trail of vicious thorns,
 and the briar paused too, held in the shock he was evidently
feeling.

"Great gods!"  he said.

"The Wheel down in hell band I know why I kept thinking of Leathe now!
That woman's husband what sis Mark!  He was the very image of a
perfectly horrible creature I met in Leathe if you take the horrible
man's horrible beard off.  Man called Herrel.  He's the son of the
Coven Head of Leathe, and he's a sort of evil extra hand to the woman.
Something so wrong with him, it makes your flesh creep.  This Mark man
was the same.  I suppose it was another pair of analogues."

I'm not sure," Gladys said sombrely.

"Given what I know of Mark Lister, I don't think so.  I'm more inclined
to think someone has been very wicked indeed not that Mark ever quite
makes my flesh creep.

But I know what you mean.  So what did you do?  Run?  "

She chuckled heartily when he told her how he had changed cars.

"Well, it was a lovely car," he said defensively.

"And I miss my Delmo-Mendacci.  As soon as I got it on the road, I
realized I hadn't been properly happy for months.  And your world turns
out to have decent countryside after all.  I sang for miles.  Then I
ran out of fuel, and I even had plenty of money to get more.  There was
so much money that I decided to spend the rest on food.  I thought With
owed me a decent meal.  The roadhouse there did steaks almost as good
as you get in Frinjen but about the time I was thinking of choosing a
liqueur, I realized that they were following me.  And there was a big
sending coming up from somewhere--' " There was, wasn't there?  "
Gladys agreed.

"I'm afraid I left that for Amanda to deal with."

They were nearly out of the wood.  Daylight streamed around them,
making gold-green slantings through the leaves of what were now mighty
forest trees.

"Young man," said Gladys, 'is everyone in your world like you?  "

"No," he said.

"Most of them are taller."

"I meant," said Gladys, 'are they all so immoral or do I mean amoral?
"

 "Well," Tod said, 'my father's like me, and my uncle's viler.  But my
cousin and at least two of my brothers-in-law are quite saintly really.
Why?  "

"Because," she said, "I expect to fit in quite well."

The next moment they were out, truly into Tod's world, into a wide,
moist meadow, where, by the light, it seemed to be midmorning.  Gladys
looked with interest at the small, chunky young man beside her, with
his dapper little moustache and his neat cone of hair.  He was looking
at her with well politeness, and plainly wondering if she could
possibly fit in anywhere.  Indeed, as his eyes fell on the yeti boots,
she could see it cross his mind that these were actually her own furry
feet and that she might indeed be some kind of subhuman species. Gladys
drew herself up.  Every bead of her finery rattled.

"Young man--' " You've got an ether monkey!  " he exclaimed.

"I've never heard of anyone taming one of those!"

Gladys forgot her reproof and looked down at Jimbo.  Jimbo, realizing
he was in the presence of another person who could see him as she did,
stopped his defensive scratching and sat up in the long grass with all
his hands held out and his bright black eyes ruefully on hers.  Not my
fault, Gladys.

"Is that what they're called?"  she said.

"But he's not tame, you know.  He just decided to live with me soon
after I was widowed.  He never eats.  It worries me."

"They live on low-band energies," Tod explained.

"He's had plenty.  He looks to be thriving."  While he was speaking,
Jimbo took his revenge on Tod for recognizing him by reciting to his
extraordinary bead-hung and feathered companion Tod's full name and
titles.

"But I'm Tod to my friends," Tod told Gladys hastily.  And he told
Jimbo, "Come off it, ether monkey.  You knew I was bound to suss you.
You heard me say I'd been properly educated.  You come from a spoke of
the Wheel that--' Jimbo did not want Tod to say where he came from.  It
was somewhere quite near hell, Gladys had always believed.

 "Yes, and he wasn't any happier there than you were in this place you
call Arth/ she said.

"He had an enemy.  That's why he left.

Now, if you don't mind, I have a bit of work to do before we go on. "

From the moment she stepped into this meadow, Gladys had been feeling a
brightness and exhilaration beyond anything she knew from Earth.

There was a cleanness.  Some of it was, no doubt, simply the air, which
smelled infinitely less polluted than Earth's.  Tod, as he stepped back
respectfully to let her work, was taking deep, long breaths of the air
and smiling.  But there was more to it than that.

The lines of force, as Gladys tentatively reached for them, were far
stronger and easily twice as clear as those of home.  It was going to
be a pleasure working with them.  So why did she feel, at the back of
all this glowing strength, that something was badly wrong?

"Hm more than high time I came here," she remarked.

"Let's ask a few questions."

She took firm hold of the forces.  They almost fell into her hands, so
plain were they and so ready for use.  What a world!  She envied Tod.

He must have been able to do this in his cradle!  Selecting the correct
line, and holding the others she might need ready and wrapped around
the little finger of each hand, she softly exerted her power gently,
not to offend here where she did not belong.  There was instant
response.  Oh, what a world!  Politely and deferentially, she
requested, "The Being who has care of the physical level here I
apologize for not knowing your name may we speak?"

There was a slight troubling of the air in front of her, a whitening
and ruffling of the meadow grass, and the Being was there, sliding into
visible existence as if from a great distance that was at the same time
only an arm's length away.  He hung before her as a narrow, vibrant
man-shape in a robe of kingfisher blue and orange.  His wings, like a
stained-glass butterfly's, were of blue and vermilion lozenges,
outlined in jetty black.

 "You are welcome!"  he said.  His eager voice fell into the brain and
rang there, oscillating.

Gladys narrowed her eyes against the vibrancy of his form.  It was
febrile, it seemed to her.

"Are you well.  Great One?"

"Not quite," the oscillant voice answered her.

"But I am not sure what is the matter.  The sea rises and the earth
heats, and not according to the usual pattern.  There seems no way to
stop it."

"Ah," said Gladys.

"I've met that problem too.  When did it start, here with you?"

This was a mistake.  The Being did not measure time in a way it could
communicate to Gladys, and vibrated anxiously.

"Put it another way," Gladys said quickly.

"Why did it start?"

"Your pardon, powerful visitor," the Being belled.

"I came to you for the answer to that.  Have you no answer?"

"Hm/ said Gladys.

"Overtaxed in some way, aren't you, My Lovely?  Yes, of course you
shall have your answer as soon as I can get it.  But first, I need to
speak to the One who rules the level beyond yours.

Bear with me for a while.  And, if you would be so good, put in a word
for me with that One.  "

"Willingly," the Being oscillated.

Gladys gently released the lines from her little fingers, and with
them, another respectful request.  The second Being appeared instantly
and eagerly.  He was apparently in the air, several yards above the
glowing first one.  This Being, Gladys was intrigued to see, had the
form of a white centaur, and he greeted her as gladly as his beautiful
companion.  But he was not beautiful himself, though she rather thought
he ought to have been.  There was a bloated look both to his torso and
to his barrel, and the legs looked thick and stiff.

"Something wrong here too, I see," said Gladys.

"And I greet you also.  Great One.  Tell me what is wrong and how I can
help."

 Tod looked and listened to all this with increasing awe.  Never had he
seen glowing, butterfly Asphorael appear so clearly.  Even Tod's tutor
-a better mage than any he had met in With had never conjured Asphorael
as more than a coloured cloudy shape.  But this old woman with the mad
jingling robe and the big, hairy feet had done it just like that!  And
now she had summoned Cithaeron as easily and equally clearly.  He
wished he knew what the Great Centaur was saying to her but even
Asphorael's voice had seemed to be at some frequency almost beyond him.
Raise his birthright as he would.  Tod could not reach the Centaur's
voice, and he was beginning not to hear Gladys either.  He could only
watch the Centaur's eager, anxious face, its features curiously small
and delicate compared with its bloated body.  The face reminded him
strongly of another face, a mundane one.  Josh?  No.  Where had he seen
those same small, fair features?  He had it that mage who had patched
Josh's eye, the High Brother of Healing Horn Edward, that was the name.
Now, that was very strange.

Gladys's voice came to him, faint and distant.

"So that's the way of it!  How do you suggest we balance it out
then?"

Something is wrong with my world!  Tod thought.  And I never knew!

Asphorael was hovering tenderly, almost imploringly, toward Gladys.

"It's all right, My Lovely," Tod heard her say.

"We shan't let it go on now we know."  And beyond Asphorael, beyond the
Great Centaur, in distance that was not the usual distance, or at least
not physical distance, Tod was awed to see other shapes.  They were
faint, mostly manifest as bright, watchful eyes, or great, trembling
wings, but he knew them for the Guardians of all the bands of the
Wheel, all watching and listening, or maybe adding their words to those
of the Centaur.

The Centaur faded.  Tod seemed to notice the fact at the moment of his
disappearance, when he was simply a white trace against the white
clouds of the sky.

Asphorael had retreated, but he was still there, dissolved into the
 meadow around them, a tremulous presence.  But it was not over yet.
Gladys looked a trifle disconcerted at what she had started.  She
turned and bowed as a tall figure with a high head crowned with antlers
stalked from the wood toward her.  Hurl!  Tod thought.  And seems
damned angry!  Another, within an indigo cloud, was rolling in from
across the meadow like mist from the sea.  Ye gods!

thought Tod.  Now the gods come!  And here was yet another, blazing
down the path of the sun.  Tod dropped hastily to one knee, and in so
doing, lost count of how many gathered around the glittering blue
figure beside him.  But there was one more that he did notice, because
She noticed him and came to Tod after greeting Gladys.  Tod was aware
of this one mostly as pearl or azure and a light blazing from the
forehead.  She was very angry too, though She was not angry with Tod,
and She had good cause to be.  She gave him instructions, without using
words.  What the Goddess said to him.  Tod could not have expressed. He
only knew that, after She was gone, and the rest with Her, he stood up
again in the bright, empty meadow with certain things in his head that
had not been there before.

He and Gladys stared at each other.  Thew!  " she said.

"What about thatV Tod said, feeling unusually humbled and ignorant, "
How did you do it?

Everything so solid and clear.  "

Do it?  " she said.  I only did it the way I usually do.  Your world is
a pleasure to work with, that's all.  When I think of mine well it's
all muzzy and twisted beside yours.  You must have some marvelous magic
users here."

"None as good as you," Tod said frankly.  And looked up in alarm.

Someone else was coming, and he was not sure he could stand any more
manifestations.

 It was only a centaur, real and solid and mundane, cantering towards
them over the meadow.  He was grizzled and largely black and not in the
best of tempers.  Tod thought they were probably on this centaur's land
and he was coming to order them off it.  Tod braced himself, ready for
polite speeches.  But the centaur stopped short with an angry skid to
his haunches and glared down his nose at Gladys.

"You must be the woman," he said.

"Damn it to hell spoke I've lived ninety years and never troubled the
gods, and they never troubled me.

Now I get a whole spatch of them.  I'm supposed to make sure you get to
Ludlin to the king.  "

"I know.  Gods are like that," Gladys said.

"I've got to see the king and someone else on the way."

"I don't know about the someone else," snapped the centaur.

"The king was all I was told."

"The other one's bound to turn up," said Gladys.

"It won't take us out of our way."

"Women!"  the centaur grumbled.


"Can you get yourself on my back?  I was told it was urgent, and it's
bloody miles to Ludlin."

Tod, with a good deal of difficulty, managed to boost Gladys on to the
centaur who stood quietly enough but made not the slightest effort to
help, which Tod thought was decidedly ill-mannered of him.

But then, this was a surly centaur.  When Tod lifted the chittering
Jimbo, too, and tried to put him in Gladys's arms, the centaur shied
irritably.

"J'w not carrying that thing!"

"Yes you are," said Gladys, 'or you're not carrying me.  And we know
what the gods would think about that, don't we?  "

 The centaur shook both fists in the air, possibly at the gods, but he
said nothing and allowed Tod to dump the ether monkey on to Gladys's
beaded knees.

"Good-bye, then.  Tod," she said.

"I think I'll see you again, but they gave me the idea you've got
things to do now.  It was nice meeting you, dear."

"You too," he said.  He waved as the centaur leaped into a racking
canter and bore her away across the field.  It felt very lonely without
her, odd as she was.  Tod walked slowly in the opposite direction,
wondering how on earth he was going to carry out what seemed to be his
part in the gods' plans.  There was no centaur for him, evidently, and
he did not even know whereabouts this was in the Pentarchy.  It looked
as if he was meant to steal another car preferably one with a map in
the glove compartment.

The meadow, though huge, did eventually end in a hedge, in which was a
gate leading out into a deep country road.  Tod let himself out into
the road and stood between its hedges, wishing there were some means of
telling where he was.  The place was wholly devoid of landmarks
although, in looking for those, he did notice for the first time that
it was spring here.  Spring again, or spring still?  Tod wondered
gloomily.  Have I been away a year?  A week?  Two years?  When the gods
leave you, they seem to leave everything low and flat.  He was glad to
be back in the Pentarchy, but this did not prevent him feeling as
lonely and ill-used as he had felt in otherworld.  There seemed nothing
for it but to start walking and hope to get a lift with a car or a
cart.

Tod determined from the sun that turning right probably took him more

southerly than turning left did, and he turned that way because it
seemed to be correct.  He had not gone more than a few steps when joy! 
he heard a car coming up behind.  He spun around.  It was a big old
car, beautifully maintained, idling along with its top down.  It looked
to be a Delmo-Mendacci too, of all things, like Tod's own cherished,
beloved, beautiful vehicle.  It was even the same shade of subtle
green.  The gods provide after all!  Tod thought, as he stepped to the
centre of the road and waved.

 Between hedges bright with new leaf and cow parsley in lacy drifts
along them, the car rolled to a gentle halt a few yards from Tod.  And
behold!  it was not any old DelmoMendacci!  It was Tod's very own
car!

Tod's cherished Deimo that he had left under wraps in the garage of his
father's castle, with strict instructions that it was not to be touched
not by anyone until he returned from service on With.

Driving it was Tod's mechanic, Simic.

The gods provide indeed!  Tod thought.  He found himself with both
hands on the Delmo's glistening square bonnet, leaning over the shining
eagle on the end, staring grimly at Simic.  Simic stared back.

Tod saw it cross the man's mind that he could simply drive on, let in
the clutch and plow on over Tod So sorry.  Your Grace devastated
terrible accident wasn't expecting didn't recognize the young master
thought him on With squashed him into the road meat jelly-"Don't even
think it!"  Tod said.

Simic had regretfully abandoned the idea anyway.  He opened the door,
jumped out, and became voluble, in one smooth movement.

"Well, this is a surprise, sir!  You may wonder what I'm doing, sir,
but it is a fact you know and I know, sir that machinery deteriorates
something dreadful if it lies unused, and so I took the liberty, sir,
of giving this car of yours regular exercise, in the manner of a dog,
sir, to preserve it, entirely with your own good in mind, sir--' "
Poppycock," said Tod.

"Fish feathers.  Most of all about my own good."  And as Simic then
became seized of another perfect excuse and opened his mouth to begin
on it, "I don't want," Tod said, 'to know whatever lie that was going
to be.  I know you're bent as a centaur's back leg, and you know I only
employ you because you're a genius.  The fact is, you've been using my
car to go cock fighting or girl chasing, or whatever it was and last I
knew, you had two perfectly good cars of your own--' "Sold them, sir,"
Simic said sadly.

 "Bad luck said Tod.

"I hope you lost on the deal, but I bet you didn't.  How far are we
from Archrest Castle?"

"About twenty miles," Simic admitted cautiously.

Any figure Simic ever admitted to, you automatically adjusted.  Make
that fifteen at the most.  Tod thought.  In which case, this
featureless but comely road was one he had raced down countless times
in this very Delmo.  Good.  They were in central Frinjen.

"How much money do you have on you?"

"Hardly any, sir," Simic said pathetically.

"Show," said Tod.  He held out an implacable hand, and Simic, with a
look of real pain, slowly produced and laid in that hand an extremely
fat wallet.

"Won on the cocks, did you?"  Tod said pleasantly.  He counted himself
off a hundred in ten-shield notes, which was about a fifth of what was
there, and held out his hand again.

"Pen and paper, and you get the wallet back.  Come on, a betting slip
will do."  When Simic produced one, and a ballpoint pen.  Tod handed
back the wallet, laid the slip on the Delmo's hood and wrote:

Respected progenitor, I happened back unexpectedly early and ran into
Simic you owe him $100, by the way and have to rush south.  You can
probably get word of me from Michael this evening, but rest assured
that I am fine, though With may have the law on us soon.  Love to
Mother.

Yrs.  Tod.

August would recognize this as unquestionably from his son and heir.

Tod handed the note, but not the pen, back to Simic.  Given the means,
Simic would infallibly tamper with the sum owed him, in an upwards
direction.

"There.  If you want your money back, all you have to do is walk to
Archrest and give this to my father.  Are the keys in the Delmo?"

"Yes Walk7' said Simic.

"I'm wearing my driving boots!"

 "Bad luck said Tod.

"Maybe you'll flag a lift."

"But it's occurred to me, sir, that you could be rusty at driving after
a whole year, sir, and if I were to take the wheel and drive until you
became accustomed--' " Nice try," said Tod, 'but you're out of luck
again.  It's only been three months over in With, and I'm not in the
least rusty just proved it, actually.  So either get walking or get the
sack.  The choice is yours."

Leaving Simic standing resentfully among the cow parsley his boots were
pointed and shiny and probably pinched every toe he had, and serve him
right!  Tod thought Tod swung himself into the warm polished leather
bliss of the driving seat of his own car and drove away, fast.  Simic
would certainly get to Archrest somehow in order to reclaim his money.
Mother would worry but then she always did.  And August would be warned
that Tod had broken his service.  He might be furious, but he would get
his lawyers on to it at once.  So.  Tod gave himself up to the full,
throaty purring of the best car in his world.

He hurtled down to a crossroads, which proved to be one he knew well,
and turned south.  Shortly he turned again, into the main southbound
highway, and cut in the overdrive.  The unlucky Simic had provided both
tanks full of fuel.  The gods were good.  Tod sang rather badly as he
drove.  He bore Simic no real malice.  In fact he had often thought
that he and Simic were rather alike, with the slight difference that
Tod had been born with gigantic birth magic and Simic with an equally
large affinity for machines.  Simic usually seemed to see it like that
too, though no doubt at the moment he was calling curses down on Tod's
head.

For all his bliss.  Tod was aware that this was the merest interlude.

Something was urgent, there in the south.  He drove faster, bypassing
town after town, some of which, he had to admit, were as ugly in their
way as towns in otherworld; but there were also a few places where he
would have liked to stop for lunch, peaceful, picturesque places.  But
 he did not stop.  Consequently, by the time he reached the coastal
marshes between Frinje-n and Leathe and turned off toward Michael's
manor of Riverwell, he was feeling unreal and time-lagged and as if
today had gone on for twice as long as it should.  And so it had, he
realized.  He had been ejected from With in the late afternoon, arrived
in otherworld in the early afternoon, where he had spent most of an
evening too, and now he had had most of a day in the Pentarchy.

The marshes were crossed by a myriad drainage cuts, each of them with
its several humpback bridges.  Tod took the bridges at speed, so that
the big car almost jumped, while he tried to calculate just how many
hours he had lived through since he got out of bed in With.  And it was
still only late afternoon here.  The sun hung quite high behind him in
the west.  The car seemed to tread on its own shadow at every bridge.
But he was nearly there.  There was the stand of mighty old willows in
the distance, all a vivid new green, and among them the great peeling
yellow manor Michael had inherited.  The large new sheds stood out to
one side among younger willows.  These were where Michael designed and
built boats most of them out of a new and wondrous fabric called
fibreglass, the formula for which had been sent down from With.

Tod had an uneasy thought here.  If some of the things he had half
caught from what the Great Centaur was telling Gladys were true, then
With could be destroying the Pentarchy by milking otherworld for things
like fibreglass.  It could be that he was speeding towards Riverwell to
put an end to his cousin's livelihood.  The barony was not rich.  He
could see the sea now, flat beyond the flat marshes, and a distant
golden hump that was the seacoast of Leathe.  As always, he wondered
how anyone could live somewhere so flat and damp and so infested with
Leathe and mosquitoes, and as always, as he whomped over the last
bridge and swept in under the willows through Michael's ever-open
gates, his heart lifted.  Amanda lived here.

 Around the corner of the drive, he had to brake hard.  The place was
full of centaurs.  There were crowds of them, milling across the drive
and the lawns and seemingly surrounding the house.  Tod had not known
there were so many centaurs in River-well.  None of them looked happy.
It was clear that something was going on that made fibreglass, at least
for Tod, a side issue.  It was quite a relief.  He turned off the
engine and shouted to know what was happening.

The centaurs seemed altogether too anxious to notice him, but the
nearest somehow crowded aside to let a worried black-haired woman fight
her way to the car.  To Tod she looked more glorious than Asphorael.
She was though he could not know the irony of it wearing blue-grey like
Lady Marceny, but her dress was linen and loose, with the merest sketch
of the fashionable panniers in the form of flying panels which streamed
behind her as she ran towards the car.

Tod gave a great shout of "A-m.and.ai' and sprang down to hug her.

She was taller than him many women were.

"Oh Tod!"  she said.  Tm so glad you've got here!  I knew you would.
"

She was.  Tod discovered with a quite irrational touch of jealousy,
pregnant.  After all, it was a year since she remarried.  He found
tears in his eyes.  He was always ashamed of how easily he cried.

"What's going on here?  Why all the centaurs?"

"They're all terribly worried," she said.

"There's been a ghost centaur haunting our grove all day, and it's
obviously in trouble, but none of us know it, so we can't hear it
speak.  Our centaurs keep sending for more and more distant cousins,
hoping that one of them will know who it is, and none of them do.  But
I knew you were coming, and I thought that with your birthright--' She
was interrupted by Tod's cousin Michael trudging through the centaurs
in big rubber boots, grinning all over his white, freckled face.
Michael was tall and rodlike and had shaggy red curls.  From head to
toe he took after his mother's gualdian family, with none of the
 Gordano chunkiness.  Seeing him now.  Tod, was struck by how like
Philo he was.

He might have been Philo with red hair.  Tod!  " Michael yelled, and
beat Tod affectionately on the shoulder.  Again Tod nearly cried.  He
had missed this.

"Mother told you about our ghost?"  Michael said.

"Yes, but I don't understand," Tod said.

"My birthright doesn't make me a medium " It may not be a ghost Michael
started to say, and was interrupted in turn by Paul, Amanda's new
husband, as tall nearly as the centaurs who moved to let him pass.  Tod
had a moment of jealous dislike, which dissipated as Paul's big, warm
hand grasped his and Paul smiled down into his face, slow and kind.
Paul was a good man a good sailor and boat builder too, by all
accounts.

"They've told you?"  Paul asked.

"I don't think it's a ghost.  It looks more to me like a sending from
someone in really bad trouble, but it can't seem to talk."

"Oh, I see!"  said Tod.

"In that case " I'll take you," Michael said.

"Come on."  He seized Tod's arm and dragged him among the great, hairy
centaur bodies, shouting above the deep clamour of centaur voices, "Let
us through, please.  My cousin's here.  He'll take care of it."

The centaurs seemed to know at once which cousin Michael meant the one
with the birthright.  They fell back respectfully, and most of them
stopped talking.  In near- silence, Michael dragged Tod around to the
other side of the house, where there was a narrower lawn if possible,
even more crowded with centaurs which gave on to the marshes.  The
grove was a small hill crowned with silver birches, reached by a narrow
causeway, about a hundred yards out into the marsh.  Pushing among all
these silent, staring centaurs, the cousins were embarrassed at saying
anything private.  Neither spoke until they had passed the last few
centaurs stamping and wheeling at the end of the path and had hurried
out on to the causeway.  Then Michael said, "Ye gods, I'm glad to see
 you!  I simply didn't credit my mother when she said you'd be coming.
After all these years!  And I still don't really believe she has Sight!
Silly, isn't it?"

"No," said Tod.

"I find it hard to believe too.  When did this ghost-thing appear?"

"Midmorning.  One of my centaur boat hands saw it and raised an outcry.
And you know the way centaurs look after their own there are centaurs
here from the Neck of Orthe now but I don't blame them.  It is
worrying.  You'll see.  And by the way, where did you get that peculiar
hairy garment you're wearing?"

Tod plucked at Brother Tony's large sweater.  He had forgotten all
about it.

"This otherworld."

"You're joking!"  said Michael.

"I assure you," Tod said, "I am not.  I was in otherworld this morning,
or last night, or something.  Appalling cold, wet place full of beastly
buildings.  This thing's called a jumper.  If you can lend me some
proper clothes, you can have it as a souvenir."

"Thank you," Michael said.

"It looks perfect for sailing in."

They reached the sandy hill of the grove and scrambled up it.  From the
time he was halfway up.  Tod could see the white transparent figure of
a centaur within, among the white boles of the birches.  It was weaving
and trampling this way and that, distressed, mindless, neurotic
something was wrong, that was plain.  Tod hurried.  The bodiless state
of the apparition made the mad effect worse as he got nearer.  The
weavings and duckings took the centaur-shape straight through trees and
even through the small altar by the pool, although the soundless hooves
never once touched the bubbling waters of the spring itself.  Mad or
not, the spectre was reverent.  It was.  Tod thought as he trod
cautiously between the peeling white tree trunks, the shape of a
centaur naturally white or grey.  There was no dark on it anywhere,
except perhaps The apparition wove around toward him, and he saw that
half its face was dappled.

"Josh!"  he exclaimed.

"Josh, what's wrong?  Are you dead?"

To his great relief, the transparent eyes focused on him.

 The face broke into a worried smile, and the misty torso sagged.

Josh's voice came to him, faint and far away.

"Tod!  Thank the Goddess!  Can you hear me?"

"Clearly but small," Tod said.

"Where are you?"

"Just a moment," said Josh.  The apparition stood still, closed its
eyes, and frowned.  As it did so, it became milk- thick, then thick as
whitewash, almost solid.  Josh's eyes opened again.

"That's better," his voice said, and he sounded much nearer and
stronger.

"I've been sending myself to all the groves I could reach," he said
apologetically.

"And trying to face in all directions while I did it.

I'm nearly worn out.  No one seems to hear me.  Tod, I'm in trouble.

I'm in a grove in Leathe, on the estate of a woman called Marceny--'
"Marceny!"  Tod exclaimed.

"Josh, she's the very worst\ What in hell spoke are you doing there7' "
Zillah got us out of With the Goddess alone knows how she did it," Josh
told him.


"She used some kind of wild magic, and it was so strong that they all
knew and were waiting for us.  They're besieging me in the grove now.
They keep trying new ways to get me out, and they're damned strong--' "
And Zillah?  " Tod interrupted.

"With you?"

"No," said Josh, at which Tod's stomach behaved as if he were crossing
a hump bridge.

"No, they got her, and the baby, and Philo and you know what they do
with gualdians--' " I've heard ye gods!  " Tod was afraid he might be
sick.  But that would do Josh no good.

"Hang on," he said.

"Don't waste any more strength with sendings.  Just stick in that grove
like a leech.  Josh, and we'll find some way to get you out.  There're
half a thousand centaurs here who can't wait to help.  We'll do
something.  Just hang on."

"I will," said Josh.

"I'd be all right if I wasn't having to send.  I was praying that
they'd recall you.  I'm so glad they did."

"Recall me?"  said Tod.

"They didn't.  I came back by myself.

 I'm thoroughly illegal, and my father's going to have to bail me out,
but it won't stop me getting to you.  "

"You're not illegal," Josh said eagerly.

"At least, I'm fairly sure you're not.  I've been thinking through With
Service Laws to stop the people outside getting to my mind and I
started wishing I could tell you.  Banishment's not legal for
servicemen.  They shouldn't ever have sent you!"

 x With, Earth, Pentarchy The High Head was gloomily aware that he had
made almost every soul on With extremely unhappy.  But, he told
himself, he had to do something about the wild disorder in the
vibrations, and the only way, with the culprits seemingly still at
large in the bowels of the citadel, was to order a massive clamp down
This was now in force.

Servicemen and cadets groaned under double parades and compulsory
rituals.  The lower-order Brothers were required to attend mass
meditations and cleansing rituals four times a day, while their
seniors, when they were not on duty for these, were under orders to
meditate alone in their cells.  The buttery was closed, so that even
the dubious consolation of pass et beer was denied.

As a further precaution, the High Head went in person to inspect each
Horn.  This, he was not unaware, caused considerable panic.  He had
uncovered a stupefying number of hastily concealed irregularities.  In
Observer Horn, for instance, he was forced to order them to reperform
all viewings made in the last six weeks.

"Regardless of the fact that we can' tV a junior Brother told Helen in
Kitchen.  For some reason, everyone came and told Helen things.  Her
cool, accepting manner had come to be regarded as wisdom.  No one knew
Judy very well, and Roz was wisely keeping out of sight.  So was
Sandra, after the High Head inspected Calculus.

There the High Head found such chaos that he concluded High Brother
Gamon was insane and demoted him to the ranks.  To do him justice, the
High Head did not at that stage connect any of the disorder with the
women apart from Zillah, that is.  He went on to censure Maintenance
 for allowing Rax and seven other servicemen to sit in a Store315 room
breathing glue and oxygen.

"And we didn't even know they were there!"  a Duty Mage told Helen. Rax
and his friends had been stealing a number of foodstuffs to sell too,
which caused Housekeeping to be hauled over the coals as well. Ritual
Horn was then found to be skimping, cutting corners and gabbling
formulae.

"But if we didn't do that, we'd never get through all the stuff he's
piling on to us!"

Alexander complained to Helen.  Flan was mysteriously not to be found,
so her handsome young mage came to Helen like everyone else.

And while Alexander uttered these complaints, the High Head was
proceeding through Records, to demote two senior mages; and to Defence,
where he arraigned almost everyone for overzealousness and rigidity.
Even Healing Horn did not escape, for Edward had unaccountably failed
to make proper records of his healing of Judy.

Finally, having dealt out penances to nine-tenths of the population of
With, the High Head advanced on Kitchen.  Unfortunately, he arrived to
find Helen surrounded by an indignant crowd from all over the citadel.
He sent every man of them about his business, with further penances,
and then laid a geas on Helen, banning her from entering Kitchen again.
After that, he did what he had really come to do and ordered a diet of
pass et henceforth for every meal.  No fried food, he decreed, no
spices, no sauces, no roasts.  Meat stewed in water only, with pass et
was to be eaten from now on, and bread must be kept for two days before
it was eaten.

Someone told Helen that Brother Milo wept.  All the other High Brothers
were equally upset, for the ordering of discipline in their own Horns
was traditionally theirs.  This had been the custom for four hundred
years, regardless of the fact that the law was on the side of the High
Head.  Brother Nathan declared that the High Head had been unpardonably
high-handed.  Brother Gamon added that the man was a soulless
 traditionalist without a spark of human feeling.

"And without a stomach either," snarled Brother Dewi.

"He has been, at the very least, unpardonably impolite," stated the
Horn Head of Alchemy, who was so relieved to have escaped reprimand
that he could afford to be angry on behalf of the others.

"We have been slighted.  We are annoyed."

It would not have cheered them to know that, when the High Head
returned to his office and tried to get on with the normal business of
the day, he was no happier than they were.  For one thing, he had acted
like a tyrant, and he hated it.  For another, the vibrations continued
in unabated wild fluctuations.  He promised himself revenge on Zillah,
not to speak of the gualdian and the centaur, when the search parties
finally ran them to earth.  They had been lurking down there for three
days now.  True, there was unfortunately plenty of food in the depths
but surely it was only a matter of time before someone tracked them
down!  When they did, he would find it a pleasure to make them pay for
all this necessary tyranny.  The whole of With would revile them.  And
meanwhile, with all this going on, all the experiments with otherworld
were in almost complete abeyance.  He would have Lady Marceny on his
tail any minute now.  He groaned at the thought.

In their own quarters, the women groaned too.

"More wasting time!"  Roz strode angrily up and down the bare blue
room.

"I'm sick of you lot sitting about like a wet week!  What are all these
rituals about?  You realize they're excluding us, don't you?"

"We don't count as mages," Helen said dryly.  She was sitting upright
against the wall, twiddling her long thumbs.

This irritated Roz.  Most things irritated her by then.

"I count myself a perfectly good female mage," she said.

"When I think of all I've learnt--' " Have you learnt a way to get
home?  " asked Sandra, slumped beside Helen.

 "Well, no," Roz conceded.

"But that's obviously a closely guarded--' " I've told you," Flan
called from her corner.

"The only way to get home is to get turned into a reptile.  I saw--' "
Flan!  " Helen said warningly, and sighed.  Sandra was crying again.

Tears rolled down her face, across her mouth, and dripped unheeded off
her chin.

"I want to go home," Sandra said.

"I didn't mean for him to lose his post for being mad.  I liked him a
lot.  He's a nice man once you get used to--' " Oh, do please bloody
well spare me your nervous breakdowns, you two!  "

Roz snapped.  She was not happy either.  It was bad enough to have to
hide in here for doing the job she had been sent to do, but she did not
deserve the way the cadets were behaving.  Whenever any of them saw her
now, they fell into lockstep behind her.  And they seemed to be
whispering something like "Haw, haw, haw!"  Roz refused to be paranoid
about silly boys, but it was horribly depressing that there did not
seem to be any real way home.  And-They all looked up as Judy came in,
wandering among the veils looking obscurely nervous.  Flan was
galvanized, and uncurled from her corner with a bounce.

"At last!  Did he know what happened to Zillah?"

Judy shook her head, and Flan curled up again.

"So where have you been?"  Roz demanded.

"It can't have taken you two whole days just to make sure he didn't
know!"

"Nowhere," said Judy.

"With Edward.  And wandering.  Thinking.  I decided in the end I'd
better come and warn you.  We may be in trouble when Edward decides
what to do.  I told him we all came from the otherworld."

"You whatV said all four as one woman.

"Told him where we come from," said Judy.

"I was sick of pretending.

Edward thinks he'll have to tell High Horns.  "

"Christ'."  said Roz.

"And didn't you even have the nous to swear him to secrecy first?
Honestly!  What kind of a bunch of women have I got myself mixed up
 with?  Not one of you has a scrap of patriotism.  Not one of you even
has a spine!  Sandra goes and falls in love in love!  with the man

she's supposed to be seducing in order to save her world.  And our poor
world goes out of the window at once.  Flan sees a ritual and thinks
Zillah's been put through it, so Flan curls up and decides to die.  Our
world goes out of the window again.  Helen gets turned out of the
kitchen, so what does Helen do?  Helen sits and twiddles her thumbs.
Our world goes out of the window a third time.  And then, to crown it
all, little Judy goes and prattles to her Edward about exactly where we
come from.

World out of the window for good.  Lord!  Are you lot trying to be
traitors?  Well, I'm not.  I'm a patriot.  I love my world.  I came
here to do a job, and I want it done.  Thanks to Judy, we've got a real
crisis on.  So let's have some action, shall we?  "

"Speech!"  Flan murmured rudely.

"What a lot of good you did!"  Judy simply turned around and walked out
of the room again.  Sandra got up and bolted after her, sobbing.

Helen unfolded herself and advanced on Roz.

"And what action do you suggest?  Haven't you noticed that we've all
worked like stink in our own ways, and it's all come to nothing? That's
what's the matter!"

She stalked past Roz and out through the veiling too.

Flan was still curled in her corner, so Roz turned to her.

"Worked?

Who's worked?  None of you except me.  I'm the only one who seems to
know the meaning of the word!  I've worked.  Good stern work!  That's
what this fortress responds to.  I can feel it responding.  And it's
responding to me.  Me working.  Keeping our mission going
single-handed. You don't catch me moping in a corner doing nothing.

You don't "Oh, shut upV said Flan.

"You're worse than High Horns.  Your stern work my left buttock! Zillah
got it right.  What this fortress wants is a little fun for a
change!"

"I'm not staying here to be insulted," said Roz.

"Go away then," said Flan.

Roz marched out.  The door veiled and there was quiet.

 But not peace.  Flan thought.  Maybe she was having a nervous
breakdown.  She couldn't seem to get that horrible ritual out of her
mind.  It sapped her of all desire to do anything but curl up in a
corner and listen to the pulsing of the citadel or it could be just the
pulse in her own ears.  At the moment, citadel or ears, it was a sulky,
sick bumping, as insistent as Roz's voice, which seemed to be hating
all these rituals, every one of them, and urging Flan to do something
to give them both some peace.  Flan was fairly sure the sight of Tod
turning grey and oozy had sent her mad.

There was a sort of sigh, and a feeling of release, followed by
multiple movement like an army breaking step to cross a bridge.  Flan
raised her head.  Yes, there were footsteps and voices in the distance.
The latest ritual was over.  Good.  Roz had called for action.  Let's
have some action then.  But better catch them before they all went to
meditate or whatever.

Flan sprang up and ran.  Burst out through the door veil, raced down
blue corridors.  Shot past mages in groups and pairs coming the other
way.  Plunged through the veil into the main hall of Ritual Horn.  Her
friends from Ritual were mostly still there, either standing about
looking jaded or packing chalices away in caskets.  Nearly everyone
turned to greet her.  Most smiled.  Even Brother Nathan, far from
descending on her with more blackmail, kept over the other side of the
hall, where he smiled at her anxiously and rather diffidently.

How nice.  Flan thought.  They all like me!

"Had a good ritual?"  she said.  There was a glum, dead silence.

"And how are the vibes?"  There were shrugs.  Not good, evidently.

"Well then," said Flan, 'how about a bit of fun to take the taste away?
"

The way everyone reacted, they would have liked fun, but they thought
High Horns might have forbidden it along with most other things.

"There's no harm in it," Flan said.

"It's a very simple dance.  Here, let me show you."  And, quite in her
old manner perhaps a little more feverishly she seized the four or five
who were always ready to have a go and put them in a line with their
 arms around one another's waists.  She put herself at the head of the
line and wrapped the arms of good-looking Alexander firmly around
her.

"Now, just do as I do.  Four bouncing steps left-right-left-right.  And
right leg out.  That's it.  And again, people.  Let's all do the conga
ah!  Again!  Let's all do the conga ahV She led the line around the
hall.

"Come on, people.  You sing too!"

They got the idea.  The conga is probably the easiest dance ever
learned.

"Let's all do the conga AH!"  the five shouted, capering and shooting
out legs in unison.  The others, Brother Nathan among them, took up the
rhythm, clapping.

"Join in!"  Flan shouted.

They did.  It was so easy and harmless and a great relief besides.

Before Flan had made one full circuit of the hall, everybody in it was
rushing to seize the waist at the end of the line and join in step and
step and step and step and leg out.  Their trained voices rose
lustily.


"Let's all do the conga Ah!"

Flan, capering energetically, led them out of the nearest door and up
the ramp beyond.

"This is what you're supposed to do!"  she panted.

"Conga, people!"

Halfway up the ramp, she knew she had got it right.  She was not sure
quite what was right, except that she knew it was.  Mages were racing
down side passages and leaping on to the ramp to join the line,
laughing at the absurd dance and seizing the chance to express
frustrations by being harmlessly silly.  The bouncing, singing line was
twice as long when it left the ramp and bounced and shot its legs out
into Records Horn.  By this time.  Flan knew it was more than that. The
sullen vibrations of the citadel were changing, rising to meet the
rhythm she was making.  Bursts of energy came to her in glad gusts. She
knew that if need be, she could conga for the next twenty-four hours.

They swept up the mages from Records and congaed on towards Calculus.

There Sandra, sobbing inside a concerned crowd of mage-calculators,
looked up, saw the line, and shouted, "Yes!  Conga him out, man!"  And
the entire Horn joined in.  Warm and rhythmic, they bounced and shot
 legs out, downwards to collect the cadets next.  To Sandra, with her
arms wrapped around Brother Gamon and her face in the prickly blue
cloth of his uniform, it was as if life suddenly became new and clean
and simple.  By the time the line had collected the servicemen and
bounced on to sweep in Maintenance Horn and Defence, the surprising
pain of love, of the conflicting loyalties Sandra felt at all times,
had melted simply to rhythm and song and to Brother Gamon bouncing in
front of her, as if difficulties had never been.  Absurd mirth flooded
her as they swept down on Alchemy Horn.  The cadets and servicemen,
like a lusty shot in the arm, were roaring out what they thought the
words were.

"Bets and balls and bonkers AH!"

In fact, since the line was now a quarter of a mile long, there was the
usual difference of opinion as to just what the words were.

Alchemy Horn was certain they were "Can't stand it all much longer AH!"
and Grafting sang, "Wronger still and wronger AH!"  while Observer
Horn, when the mages there found the capering line roaring through
their midst, joined it eagerly under the impression the words were "The
High Head is a plonker AH!"

Roz stood for a minute aghast, then for another minute with her arms
folded and her lip curled it was unbelievably silly and non serious
but, as the blue-clad capering line receded from her down the corridor,
where the front of it was already jolting and singing up and around the
ramps on the next level, Roz was aware she had a choice.  It seemed to
be handed to her by the citadel itself.  For the first time she became
conscious that the place did indeed have vibrations, potent and
awesome, like a voice.  It spoke to her.  Either she could join in this
unusual and crazy piece of magic and become part of it, or she must
stay aside and remain aside forever.  She was suddenly aware there were
others refusing to join in.  She sensed Brother Wilfrid for one, hiding
in a cupboard full of spare uniforms, and the obdurate Horn Head of
Defence, who was still single-handedly guarding With from nonexistent
 invaders.  Roz could be like those, the citadel told her, or But Roz
was always one who could not abide to be out of things.  She sprinted
after the capering line and flung herself on to the end of it.  Step
and step and step and step and boot in\ And yelled out her own
individual words.

"If you can't beat 'em join 'em AH!"

On the upper level the line was snaking through dormitories and
recreation halls, where it swept up any mages who happened to be there
and went snaking on down to Kitchen.  Some accompanied the line as
outriders and spectators.  There were a number of mages up there too
elderly to dance, and these followed excitedly, the way people follow
processions, limping hurriedly through corridors parallel with the
dancers in order to intercept them as they went bouncing and yelling
uproariously through the kitchens and gathered in everyone at work
there.

Brother Milo fled the line, to an alcove in the corridor beyond,
appalled and shaken by the fierce new vibrations the dancers brought
with them.  But in the alcove he found himself pressed against the
angular warmth of another body.  He sprang around to find it was
Helen.

"What are you doing here?  I thought you were banned from Kitchen?"

"I am indeed," she told him, 'and if you notice, I'm not in there.

Your bloody High Horns made it physically impossible for me to cross
the threshold.  "

"No doubt he knows best," Brother Milo piously said.

Helen's reply was blasphemous, but Brother Milo was saved from hearing
it.  The conga was upon them, and past, and still going past, and
continuing to pass them, an apparently endless line of blue-clad
bouncing, yelling mages, a mere body-width away in the corridor.

"Hellband fall on wrong 'uns!"  Brother Milo heard.  But next second
the words seemed to be "Spells are all much stronger ah!"  or were they
really singing, "Helen's food will conquer ah!"  or was it again
"Blessings fall upon her ah!"  Helen, he noticed uneasily, was jogging
to the time of the ditty, with her widest, coolest smile.  She bent
down to him to shout, "I want you to join in this!"

 He shouted back, "Are you trying to seduce me again?"

"No!"  she bawled.

"I gave that up days ago.  I know you're a saint!"

"Naturally celibate," he yelled reprovingly.

"I told you I keep my Oath."

"I'm not asking you to break your damned Oath!"  she roared in his
face.

"I'm just asking you to dance!  Is that so bad?  J want to I will if
you will!"

It did look fun.  Brother Milo thought, wistfully watching joyous faces
prancing past.  And nothing in the Oath said anything about dancing.
The end of the line was coming past now.  He could hear himself speak
when he protested, "I don't know the words!  " Nobody ever does," said
Helen.

"Make some up."

And here came the end of the line, the two kitchen cadets, out of step
and shooting the wrong leg out and roaring, "Cesspits are for honkers
Ah!"

"Oh, all right," said Brother Milo.  He seized the waist of the hinder
cadet and joined in, lustily singing, "Decline and fall and conquer
Ah!"  He felt Helen seize his waist, but there really was no harm in
it.

"And conquer Ah!"  they both bellowed, dancing toward the main ramp.
Some latecomer joined in behind Helen.  As soon as she felt her waist
grasped, it was clear to her that Brother Milo had given in to more
than dancing.  He would break his Oath with her as soon as they
stopped.  She felt as much sadness as triumph which was ridiculous,
since this was one of the things she was here for, for God's sake!

"Decline and fall and conquer Ah!"  She resolved that he should enjoy
it tremendously.  It seemed the least she could do.

Halfway up the main ramp, bouncing tirelessly at the head of the line.
Flan felt as if she were in a dervish like trance by then.  It was
wonderful.  Almost every mage in With was coiling up the main ramp
behind her towards Healing Horn, some upside down, some sideways, each
singing for all he was worth, and the whole fortress vibrating with it.
 She was dimly aware that the rhythms were fiercer.  The line of heads
apparently jogging above her as they came up after her were singing
something different now.  Flan changed her own song to match the
change.

"I came I saw I conquered.  ah!"

Flan sang, too loud in her own ears to hear that the mages coiling up
the ramp were in fact singing, "Let's pull the High Head's legs off Ah
Let's finish the old bastard Ah!"  No one knew where this began, but
once begun, it overtook and replaced even the servicemen's new words,
which were very dirty indeed.

"LET'S KILL THAT BROTHER

LAWRENCE!  " they roared, and pounded upwards to do it.

Edward looked up from Judy's face.  The citadel was vibrating very
oddly indeed joyfully, fiercely turn-titumtitumtumTAH, in a way he had
never known it to do before.  Listening, he could hear a huge, rhythmic
roar, from the throats of many people.

"What is it?"  said Judy.

"It's like a football crowd."

It was nothing Edward had heard before, a strange, uplifting, and
decidedly threatening sound.  He went and took a look out of the
doorway.  Beyond the veiling, the words were gigantic and
unmistakable.

"Wait here a moment," Edward said to Judy.  He wasted no time in
efforts to project to a mirror: he ran, ran in huge, long-legged
strides, downwards and along a corridor that gave him, every so often,
arched glimpses of the roaring blue line snaking up the main ramp.  The
citadel pounded around him like a drum.  He threw himself through the
veiling of the High Head's outer office, bursting between the two
elderly mage-clerks there who had been timidly peering out to see what
the noise was, and dived into the sanctum itself.  It was, as usual,
sunny, quiet and serene.  In here there was no hint of the beat or the

roar.

The High Head looked up with placid annoyance.

"Edward1 was going to send for you to explain these reports--' " No
time for that now, Lawrence!  " Edward gasped.

"You've got to get out of here!  Those women are all witches from
 otherworld.  They've managed to harness the vibrations against you.
Every mage in the place is on the way up here roaring for your
blood!"

The High Head found it impossible to grasp the enormity of what Edward
was suddenly telling him.  If it had not been Edward, he would have
dismissed it as a joke.

"But the vibrations are normal!"  he said.  For the first time for--'
They've got the citadel on their side," Edward said impatiently.

"You have to believe--' " The citadel's not a conscious entity," the
High Head interrupted.

"Otherworld?  Are you sure?  How did they change their shapes?"

The vibrations were suddenly with them.  The room shook to the enormous
rhythm, rackingly.  The blocks of the walls ground together, jolting in
time to it, filling the room with regular clouds of fine blue dust. The
High Head stood up and stared slowly around.

Tt is conscious V "Yes, and they didn't change shape they're as human
as we are!"

Edward gabbled.

"Go now!  You can just get to the secret way from your back ramp, if
you go now!"

The singing became audible, huge and throaty, as if the stones of With
themselves were chanting.  The High Head dithered toward his inner
door, still incredulous.

"Leave everything?  If I were to talk calmingly to--' " They'd tear you
apart!  " Edward said, pushing him.

"Go!  Run!"

The High Head looked yearningly toward his mitre and sword-wand on
their stand beside his desk; but the chanting was now so near that he
could feel the words even through the grinding of the stones.

"What about you?"  he said, coughing in the blue dust.

"That's murder on its way I can feel--' Edward knew with fatalistic
certainty that he was now cut off from Healing Horn.

"Never mind me.  I'm not High Head.  Run!"

To his relief, the High Head wasted no further time and dived away
 through his inner door.  Edward, coughing and resigned, ducked his way
out into the clearer air of the outer office, where the roaring was
louder yet, and joined the two clerks at the veiling.  Given luck, the
avenging mages would assume he was simply kicking his heels here,
waiting to see the High Head.  But they would be furious to find the
High Head fled, and they all knew Edward was the man's one friend.

That man, friendless now, was speeding giddily down a steep blue stair,
with its walls beating the murderous rhythm around him.  Ramp was a
courtesy title; there had never chanced to be a centaur High Head, and
therefore no need to adapt the secret way to hooves.  Stairs made

unfamiliar going.  He knew he dared not waste time stumbling.

Every Horn Head was given the secret of Arth's peculiar umbilical
connection to its parent universe when he assumed office.  With it, in
case of emergencies that had never yet arisen, they were given the
Ritual of Egress.  The High Head saw he dared not assume that the
chanting crowd baying for his blood contained no Horn Heads.  He had
angered them all too much.  Therefore he galloped, wondering if his
knees would hold out, wondering just how long it would be before some
Horn Head discovered the hidden archway in his sleeping quarters and
led the baying multitude down after him.

He had just reached the point where the stairway turned to ramp as it
was joined by secret ways from other Horns, when he knew that they were
after him.  The steady vibrations broke up.  Though the joyful, idiotic
rhythm of the conga kept on beneath the rest, there were other rhythms
above it, angry and chaotic at first, then steady and trochaic a sort
of yammering double beat that reminded the High Head hideously of some
Lady's hounds in Leathe when she had a manhunt on.  It filled him with
fears from childhood he had hoped never to feel again.  He swung into
the ramp and sprinted, thankful it was all downwards, blessing the
memory of the founder-mage who had decreed regular exercise for every
 mage in With, and overwhelmed with humiliation.  That he should be the
High Head around whom With broke up!  So shaming.  He was even more
shamed to think he had been afraid of the wrong group of women.  Give
me Lady Marceny any day!  I'd trade her for that Roz and that Helen! 
he thought, to the regular slamming of his feet.  How many Oaths
broken? Edward's for one.  With whichever woman it was who had
contemptuously told Edward the truth.

The bitches had got inside and rotted With from the core.  What did it
matter then who knew?

He swung into another ramp that spiralled down among the reservoirs.

The mages were closing.  They must have sent the younger ones after
him.  They were too many for him, even with his superior magecraft, and
with the vibrations all on their side-His feet skidded, and he only
just saved himself on the wall.  The ramp was awash with running water.
Here was a further horror.  What those women had done to the vibrations
had cracked a reservoir.  A crack, with that weight of water behind it,
only took bare moments to become a large split.  Shortly a wall of
water would be rolling down this ramp on his heels.  The terror of it
was such that the High Head spared effort from running to levitate.  He
heaved himself up an inch or so and sped on.  Goddess, the double
effort was tiring!  And on the next ramp down, his raised feet were
splashing, sending up great gouts of spray.  He was forced to send
himself up another foot and run crouching through the air under the
lowered ceiling.  He could feel hear!  the rumble of escaped water
following him now.  He cringed against the ceiling and tried to put on
a spurt, scrambling like a crab.  Down and around.  Down in front, the
water was dimly banking, dammed by the secret portal, banking higher
every scrambling step he took.  The following water was close to
thunder.  Gabbling the Rite of Egress, he dived, praying for safety.

 Gladys had discovered the centaur's name was Hugon, but their
relationship was still far from cordial.  Nor was he comfortable to
ride.  She reckoned that if he had been a real horse, he would have
been dog meat years ago.  They were jolting across apparently
interminable wide fields.  Every time she spoke to him, she bit her
tongue, but politeness kept her trying.

"How far ouch ;s it to the king?"

Tour days," he said.

"I don't intend to go on through the nights."

Tour daysV The time scheme the various Great Ones had laid on her had
not allowed for that.

"What did you expect?"  Hugon asked jeeringly.

"Even the train takes nearly a day."

What I am, Gladys mused, is insular.  I keep thinking this country's
only about the size of Britain, even though I can feel it around me,
much bigger than that.

The size of Europe with half Asia attached, Jimbo informed her.

So big?

"Train?"  Gladys asked aloud.

"You did say train]' " Sure.  Things that go chuff-chuff," said Hugon
pityingly.  He added with a surly trace of pride, " That was one of the
ideas the Brotherhood of With handed down here before I was born, that
was.  "

"Then," said Gladys, "I think ouch train would be quicker.  Why didn't
you mention it before?"

"Because," Hugon snarled, "I'd have to pay, wouldn't I?  Or do you have
money?"

Gladys fingered her handbag.  There was only a handful of change in
there.  Naturally it would not look like this country's money though
 she was strongly tempted to put an illusion on the tea bags and tell
him it was her train fare.  But to do that, she needed to know what his
money looked like.

"No," she said regretfully, 'but I'm ouch the king would pay you back.
"

That stingy sod?  " said Hugon.  Torget it."

They argued.  Gladys persuaded.  Bit her tongue.  Gave up.  Was on the
point of deciding simply to put a compulsion on this obstinate creature
when he said grumpily, "All right.  Who else can you get money off if
the king won't pay me?"

Easy.  Tod," Gladys said thankfully.  The young man who was with me.

Roderick Something.  He told me he was heir to the Fiveir of Frinjen.

That do?  It sounds wealthy to me.  "

"Garn!"  said the centaur.  That makes him Duke of Haurbath and the
gods know what-all.  And he'd have to have birthright magic.  He show
you any?  "

"Plenty," snapped Gladys.

That seemed to work the trick.  Hugon grudgingly changed direction and
began to fumble defensively with the pouch slung from a belt across his
shoulder.  I may not have enough," he said, 'for both of us."

"You can put me on the train, then, and go back to whatever you were
doing," Gladys pointed out.

"Not likely," he said.

"I stick to you until someone pays me."

Gladys sighed, bit her tongue again, and listened to her beads rattle
with the uneven rhythm of his pace.  They had been going for about five
minutes in the new direction when they were suddenly in a strong shower
of rain.  Pelting water obscured the featureless fields all around
them. Jimbo whimpered.  Hugon's somewhat greasy hair was wet through in
seconds.  Gladys pulled her pink shawl around herself and Jimbo.  The
centaur slowed, trotted, walked, stopped.

"I don't like this," he said.  As Gladys was about to agree and urge
him on, he added, "I've never known it rain out of blue sky before.

Those gods don't want us to take the train.  I know.  "

 Gladys looked up and found that beyond the fierce slant of rain, the
sky was indeed bright, cloudless blue.

"Raining fish too," Hugon said disgustedly.

"Alive.  What in hell band is this?"

Gladys bent forward and stared at the large trout flopping and twisting
in the grass beyond Hugon's gnarled front hooves.

"Does this happen ofte?"

She and Jimbo and Hugon were all hit simultaneously by something heavy
travelling at speed.  There was a good deal of noise, mostly from Hugon
and Jimbo, but among the shouting and squealing, Gladys heard another
voice crying out too.  She let her natural defensive magic take over
and landed on her feet in the wet grass.  When her confusion had
passed, she realized that the person who had hit them must also have
natural magic well, he would have, she realized because he was also
standing unhurt, towering over her.  He was tall and well set up,
though not young, wearing a blue uniform of some kind.  Across his wet
forehead and streaming hair she saw a habitual dent, as if he usually
wore a headdress of some kind.  But how well she knew the features
beneath it!

"Leonard!"  she exclaimed.

"Oh no, you can't be!"

The High Head stared at this dumpy elderly female, at the damp and
drooping feather on its head, at its beaded gown the colour of With,
and particularly at its great white furry feet.  The edge of his vision
took in an irate centaur with an ether monkey crouching beneath its
belly, and the shower of water receding across the meadows.

"My name is Lawrence, madam," he said, and wondered why she was staring
at him as if he were a ghost.  Probably because he had seemingly fallen
out of the sky.  He sensed she had power.  Therefore he asked politely,
"You are a Goddess Priestess, perhaps?"

"In a way."  Gladys still had her face tipped up, staring.

"I'm from the place they call otherworld here."  The eyes of the High
Head sped involuntarily to her white, woolly feet.

"No, they are not my feet!"

she told him crossly.

 "I'm as human as you are!  And you're the very image of Len my
husband.  But Len died years ago now, so I reckon you're just his thin
gummy analogue aren't you?  Where did you spring from?"

"With," said the High Head with grim dignity.

"And I take it you are another piece of the otherworld conspiracy?"

The girls, Gladys thought, have managed to pull something off, bless
their hearts!

"In a way," she admitted.

"But there's no good in glowering like that at me, my friend.  Len
never could get the better of me, and I've learnt a lot since then.  So
who are you?  Your gods and Powers sent me to meet someone on my way,
and you must be the someone."

He shot her a grimmer look still and turned to the centaur.

"Centaur, I'm the High Head of With, and I need to get to the king
urgently."

"Oh no, not another one!"  Hugon growled.

"Have you any money?"

"Well, naturally, not at the moment--' " Then go whistle!  " said
Hugon.

"I'm paying her train fare because the damn gods will have my guts if I
don't, but I'll be raped if I pay for you too!"

The High Head, to his exasperation, was forced to look pleadingly at
Gladys.

"Yes, I've got to get to the king too," she said.

"That's gods for you.  I've never known them be entirely practical.
Hugon--' " No," said Hugon.

Surly brute, thought the High Head.  He could argue all day and the
centaur would probably still refuse.  And he knew he had to get to the
king and have him raise his royal power on behalf of With today.

Given the time difference between here and With, those alien witches
would have pulled the citadel apart by tomorrow.  The High Head
dithered for a moment, contemplating knocking the centaur out, putting
the woman under stasis which might not work, because she need not have
been bluffing that she could best him and running for the nearest train
 with the centaur's pouch.  But there was that ether monkey crouching
between the centaur's hooves.  Its round black eyes were fixed on his,
knowingly.  He was not sure whose side it was on, except that it was
probably not on his.  No one in With or the Pentarchy had ever been
able to fathom the powers of an ether monkey, but they were generally
suspected to be considerable.  He saw he would have to stoop to
negotiation.

"Madam,/ he said, selecting Gladys as marginally the most rational of
the three, 'since it seems we have the same destination and somewhat
the same problem, would you agree to some measure of cooperation?"

"I might," she said.

"It depends what you want."

"There is," said the High Head, 'an alternative means of reaching the
king which, being from another world, it is possible you do not know.

I would be willing to instruct you in this method, provided you would
agree to perform no hostile act until we stand before the king.  I
would, of course, agree to the same truce on my part.  "

"Suits me," Gladys replied readily, 'though I don't see why you should
be on about hostile acts.  I bear you no malice, Mr.  Lawrence.  I need
to see your king about both our worlds, as it happens.  "

"Then you agree?"  he said.

T do.  "

"In that case," said the High Head, 'perhaps this good centaur could
guide us to the nearest grove of the Goddess?  " He turned to the
centaur in his most majestic manner, which hid both hope and
apprehension: hope because it was always possible the centaur would
show a little belated patriotism and offer him the train fare;

apprehension because Hugon might realize what he was up to and give him
away.

The centaur, however, merely looked relieved at not having to spend his
money.

"If you want," he said.

"The nearest grove's a good mile over that way.  But you'll have to
walk it."

 "I'll walk too," Gladys said.

"I need to talk to you," she explained to the High Head.  Besides, she
was tired of biting her tongue.

"I fail to see what we have to talk about," High Head said haughtily as
they set off towards a gate in a distant hedge, with Hugon jogging
ahead and the ether monkey silently scuttling behind.

"Oh, come on!"  Gladys said.

"You're not stupid!  But I can see you've had a shock, dropping out of
the sky like that, and you may not have taken in what I said.  You did
hear me mention your gods and Powers, did you?"

"Of course," said the High Head.

"People tend to mention the gods when they wish to persuade somone that
their argument is important."

"Ah," said Gladys.

"Then you've never seen them?"

"It is a very rare privilege which I confess I have not had," he told
her stiffly.

"Asphorael?"  she asked.

"Not for years."  He felt irritable.  He had a feeling he was failing
some kind of test.

"Madam, you must remember I have been on With for many years, and With
is not this universe.  Asphorael does not manifest on With.  But in my
youth my tutor did once or twice cause him to appear mistily before
us."

"What does he look like?"  Gladys asked sharply.

"As always brightly coloured and somewhat anxious," said the High
Head.

"I fail to see--' " And the Great Centaur?  " Gladys pursued.

He looked down at her in astonishment.

"I am not sure he has ever been seen."

"Fair enough," she said.

"I don't see my lot that often in my own world.  I always think we may
be too used to them to notice them.  Can you do me a favour and make an
effort to see the Great Centaur now?"

He stood still and stared at her.

 "My good female, that would take a daylong ritual even to--' " No it
won't," she insisted.

"Not when he needs to talk to you.  Go on.  Go for it.  Jimbo will help
you."

He glanced at the ether monkey.  So it was with her.  He would do well
to remember that.  Meanwhile he supposed he had better humour the
woman.  He braced his feet and began to summon the threads of the
Wheel.  A little way off, Hugon had reached the gate and was holding it
open for them, pawing with impatience.  The High Head sympathised.

He was quivering with shock and desperate to reach the king and now he
thought about it, bruised all over and yet here he was instead somehow
at the beck and call of a fat little little dame covered with beads
like a savage.  And Edward had said the folk of otherworld were one
hundred percent human!  If Edward had met Gladys, he might have doubted
that.

Gladys watched the strange gestures he made and tried not to shake her
head.  He was working beside the lines of force instead of along them,
and on a level she would never have chosen.  But then Len had always
done things his own peculiar way too, she thought affectionately, and
Len nearly always got results.  This one was just the same.  His
gestures with some extra manipulation from Jimbo had caused a troubling
in the air above their heads.  Gladys sighed.

She was only able to see white filigree whorls.  That reminded her of
Len too.  But it was clear that the High Head, for a few instants, saw.
He whirled around on her, his face pulled into a grimace of awe and
anger.

"What is this?  What have you done?  The Great One is dying!  What has
otherworld done to us?"

"Nothing.  It's not our doing.  But come along and I'll try to
explain."  Sadly and sedately, Gladys went through the gate and turned
the way Hugon pointed up the rutty road beyond.  The High Head hurried
after.  Hugon banged the gate shut and strode ahead again.

"You have a great deal to explain, woman!"  the High Head panted,
 catching up with Gladys in the cloud of dust Hugon raised.

"The Great One the Pentarchy is drowning in poison from your world! And
you say it's not your fault!"

T didn't say that," Gladys said.  /!  do blame myself.  If I'd known,
I'd have done something earlier.  I just hope it's not too late now we
do know.  The trouble is, it's been going on for centuries now, ever
since those magicians up in that pocket universe of yours With, do you
call it spotted that my world had a lot of ideas theirs didn't have.  I
expect at first they just took a look, then copied what they saw.  But
then they got the notion of making us get ideas for them.  If they made
us uncomfortable, or worked us around into having a war, or needing a
new way to get about, then we set to and invented things to help us
out.  And they took the inventions and the ideas and sent them down
here for people to use here.  I reckon they've had everything from
steam trains to penicillin and magic, for years and years now.

No doubt they justified it by telling themselves that otherworld people
weren't really human.  "

Heat flooded the face of the High Head.  This is certainly true," he
said.

"That is we were accustomed to rely on otherworld to initiate methods
of supplying the needs of the Pentarchy.  But I assure you that the
whole matter was studied and the experiments most carefully controlled.
It was understood from the outset that what we took from your universe
must be balanced by something from ours.  I was always particularly
careful to do this.  It was my custom to plant men from With in
otherworld, whose real physical presences--' " So I gather," Gladys
said dryly.

"And they acted as spies for you.

And they sent ideas back.  Didn't any of you think?  It's the ideas
that do the damage.  Magic is mostly ideas they're the strongest thing
there is!  And you took ideas, a lot of them magical ideas so many,
they fair poured into your world and you never once gave a single idea
back.  Now you wonder why your seas are rising and your lands are
getting poisoned!  "

 "This is one idea we certainly put back," the High Head retorted.

"I personally supervised a scheme to make the same situation arise in
your world."

"So that you could learn you thought from something that isn't the same
and doesn't have the same causes," Gladys said.

"What you did to my world was physical, and it's not going to help you,
whatever we do.  One idea takes the-gods-know how many physical tons to
balance it--' She broke off and thought, with her face wrinkled
gloomily.

"Oh, Mother!"  To the High Head, it sounded like a prayer.

"Oh Mother!  If none of you had that idea before, then I've just fed
this world another dose of poison.  Let's hope someone did."

"I--' the High Head began to say, and then stopped.  He did not believe
a word of this.  The whole physically based teaching of With was behind
him, not her.  And With worked.  Or it had, he thought angrily, until
six alien witches arrived in a rogue capsule.

"I take it, madam, that you had some hand in the recent invasion of
With."

"Well, we had to do something," Gladys said.

"Did you expect us just to sit there while you played games with our
climate?"

And she blandly admits it!  the High Head thought.  I rest my case! His
anger grew, but he centred himself and controlled it.  Meanwhile Hugon
turned off into another lane, this one without hedges.  The High Head
saw stretching ahead of him the familiar straight causeway that led to
a Goddess grove.  The grove itself, a small, gracefully rustling clump
of birches, was a bare hundred yards off.  What a glad sight, he
thought a first real touch of home!  Soon he would be rid of this
creature.  He looked at it, trudging along with its extraordinary
woolly feet stained with grass and mud and its beads clacking, and
permitted himself a thought as to where he would send it.  Somewhere in
north Trenjen where the white bears roamed.  It would fit in there.

And the ether monkey could go with it.

They reached the small clump of trees in silence.  Hugon backed aside
as they came up.

"I'm not going in there," he announced.

"I've had my fill of gods."

 "That's all right, dear," Gladys said.

"They only used you because you were the nearest one.  I expect they
were rather annoyed that you were the best they could do."

The centaur glowered at her.

"Thank you anyway," she said.

He grunted.  Dust spurted and his hooves drummed as he made off back
along the causeway.

"Well, that's that," Gladys said.

"I hope your other way to get to the king really works, because the
gods are going to throw fits if it doesn't."

The High Head strode among the trees.

"It's quite simple," he explained.

"The Goddess permits travel between any of her groves, and the king
maintains a Royal Grove outside Ludlin.  It does, however, take the
power of at least two adepts to move from grove to grove."

"Ah," Gladys said to Jimbo as she gathered him into her arms, "I knew
he needed us for something."

Within the trees, a spring dripped into a mossy stone bowl.

"That's pretty," Gladys murmured.

"Peaceful.  Nothing fancy."

Primitive place, the High Head thought.  Bowl cracked and full of
moss.

"I'm going to put into your head my memory of the Royal Grove," he
said, 'and you must will us there.  Is that something you can do?  "

"I should hopeV said Gladys.

The High Head smiled and envisaged in professional detail the Royal
Grove, such a contrast to this one, with its beautifully tended turf,
marble bowl and statue, and its noble trees.  Gladys took it at once
and held it steady.  In some ways, he thought, the creature would be a
pleasure to work with.  He smiled again and willed her sharply to a
frosty grove in the north.

To Gladys, it seemed that the quiet little grove tipped about in a
fuzzy turmoil.  No matter.  Working with Len had sometimes been like
this too.  She clutched Jimbo and held her will steady.  Jimbo
 chittered and, almost certainly, put his contribution in.  After a
moment, everything settled down as it should.  Gladys gazed around with
pleasure at the large and beautifully tended grove.  The trees tall and
healthy, she noted, and that statue of the Goddess as Mother was truly
lovely.  It gave Her quite a look of Amanda's sister Zillah.  And where
was that girl?

Gladys wondered worriedly.  She just had to hope Tod had found her.

T see all this has to be royal," she remarked to the High Head.

He whirled around irately.  She saw, with sadness, that he had meant to
get rid of her.  There's no need," she told him.  I really could get
quite fond of you if you'd let me.  After all, I married you once."

The dark blood of fury suffused the High Head's face.  He glared.

Perhaps it was lucky that the Grove Guard arrived then.  They advanced
precisely from all sides, twenty or so men and one or two tall women in
red and gold livery.  Strong-eyed they all were, Gladys saw.  A lot of
power among them.  The man captain?  who came up to the High Head
looked at least as much of an adept as he did.

"Your names, and your business in the Royal Grove," this man said
coldly.

T am the High Head of With, and I need to see the king urgently," the
High Head told him.

"There is a crisis in With ."

The captain did not seem precisely impressed.

"And I'm Gladys, dear," Gladys said.

"And this is Jimbo.  I'm from otherworld, and he's from well, let's
just say down below but he's been with me for years, almost ever since
my poor husband died.  We have to see the king too.

Your gods want us to.  "

As she had expected, they were a good deal more interested in her, and
very impressed indeed by Jimbo.  But it took nearly twenty minutes of
explaining and some arguing, during which time Gladys was fairly sure a
 number of hidden tests were performed, before the captain consented to
let them set foot outside the grove.

"It's by no means certain the king will grant you an audience," he
said.

"I'll send you to the palace, but my responsibility stops there."

 Outside the grove was a driveway through more welltended turf, leading
down to a tree-bordered road where a large car was waiting for them. It
was, Gladys thought, settling gladly into it, newer and far more
comfortable than her faithful taxi, though its appearance was that of a
car fifty years older.  She thought she would enjoy the drive.

The High Head was by now seething for various new reasons.  These
gualdians!  " he said, flinging himself in beside her.  Think they own
the entire Pentarchy!  They look down their noses at me the whole squad
did because I'm only a half-breed gualdian!"

"No, that thought came from you," Gladys told him.

"But from the way they went on, I got an idea that With may not be too
popular here.  Is that right?"

The High Head remembered that consignment of servicemen all those
delinquents, one peculiar gualdian, and that sickly centaur.  That
could be so," he admitted gloomily.

"I fear the king indicated as much a little while back.  How did you
guess?"

"I keep my eyes open," Gladys said.

The car sped upward into the town piled on a hill beside a river.  The
style of the houses was no style Gladys knew narrow and fairy-tale or
thick and low, with great doors but, she thought, you did not have to
know a style to like it.  Steep-pitched roofs, blue or red, a chunky
bridge and a spidery one, towers like mad Chinese Gothic shooting up
among the houses, all of it rising to the greyish towered building at
the top.

"What a lovely city!"

"It's not changed much," said the High Head, 'but they've put up far
too many centaur dwellings since I was last here.  It's quite spoilt
the East Quarter.  "

 "And that tower?"

"Some newfangled factory."

All his comments were similarly depressing.  Gladys knew he was upset,
but he began to annoy her.  It seemed to her that she had done all she
could to show him that they had a common cause, and he first tried to
lose her and now snubbed her every time she opened her mouth.  The car
hummed slowly through a crowded square where stalls were set out.

Most were piled with fruit, but Gladys saw meat, cheese, and clothing,
and one stall full of animals.

"Oh, I love markets!  What were those animals?"

"I didn't see," said the High Head repressively.

As the car started to wind its way up the hill beyond the market,
Gladys lost patience.

"You've spent too many years in that With place of yours," she told
him.

"It's turned you into some kind of gloomy prig.  Relax, can't you!  Len
could laugh at least!"

"I am not Len!"  the High Head snapped.

"Yes you are," said Gladys.

"You're Len in this world, and I'm glad it was the other one I knew.
I'd never have married him if he'd been like you."

Though the High Head did not deign to make the obvious reply, anger
suffused his face nearly purple.  Three worlds were conspiring against
him to wound him!  Three worlds were trying to make him both
insignificant and ridiculous!  When the car gently stopped, bonnet
pointing into a large archway leading to the white-grey palace that
crowned Ludlin, and its way was barred by a line of young gentlemen
centaurs refusing to let the car go further, he could have screamed.

A glance at the driver another gualdian showed him that the man was
simply going to sit looking smugly impassive and let this happen.  The
High Head tore open the car door and advanced on the centaurs.

"I'm the High Head of With.  Let me in to see the king at once;

They stood in a row, shoulder to shoulder, wearing the same livery as
 the Grove Guard, and looked at him down their straight, somewhat
horselike noses.

"Sorry, sir," said the one in the middle.

"We've had no orders about anyone of your description."

Though these guardsmen resembled Hugon only as a knife resembles a lump
of ore, the High Head felt that the whole centaur race was out to
thwart him too.  He raved at them.  He threatened them.  He swore.

The driver of the car opened his window to hear.  An interested crowd
gathered.  Gladys climbed out of the vehicle, with Jimbo scuttling
after her, and went to speak to the driver.

"What do we do to make them let us in?"

He shrugged.

"Not much.  Not if they've had no orders."

Instead of shaking him, as she was very tempted to do, Gladys looked
around her.  The archway, and the line of centaurs too, were imbued
with power.  She was not sure of the source of it, but she could feel
it was too strong for both her and the High Head to break, even if she
could persuade the man to work with her, which she doubted she could.
He was in too much of a state.  Such power was very surprising, but
there must be a way to get in.  Someone must know how.  She turned and
advanced on the crowd of spectators.

They had obviously never seen anything like her before.  They all
centaurs, humans, and one or two oddities she couldn't place backed
swiftly away from her, looking alarmed, except for one of their number.
This one, a little clerk like man in spectacles, with a string bag full

of oranges, had obviously stopped to stare on his way back to work from
the market, and seemed too bemused to move.  Since he looked harmless
and bewildered and was nearest, Gladys took hold of his arm.

"Sorry to bother you, dear, but do you happen to know how a person gets
in to see the king?  I wouldn't ask, only it's really important, you
see."

The little man's bewilderment increased.

"I was," he said, 'under the impression I was invisible.  "

A nutter, Gladys thought.  Just my luck!

"No dear, I'm afraid you're not.  Auntie Gladys can see you quite
clearly.

 Sorry to have bothered you.  " She let go his arm and was turning away
when she realized that everything around her had become strangely
quiet.  The crowd and the line of centaurs were staring.  The driver
was leaning out of his window, frankly gaping.  Beyond that, the High
Head suddenly looked like a frantic statue.  She turned slowly back to
the insane little man and found him smiling apologetically.

"Truly," he said.

"I like to slip away to the market from time to time.  I have a habit
stupid, you may say of liking to choose my own fruit.  And usually
nobody knows, because it is a fact that, when I will it, only those who
also have royal blood can see me."

"Only those then you're but I'm not--' Gladys managed to say.

"No.  This puzzles me," agreed the little man.

"You saw me, and you are not, as far as I know, one of my relatives.
I'm sure I would have known if you were.  You are if I may say so
rather memorable."

"I'm from otherworld," said Gladys.

"Do I call you Your Majesty?"

"A problem," he said.

"If you are from otherworld, there is no conceivable way I can be your
king but since I take it you need to see me and I am beginning to
gather that the person with you who seems so angry must be High Head of
With , I conclude there is something urgent afoot.  I think we should
all three go to my office."

Five minutes later, still decidedly stunned, Gladys found herself with
the king and the High Head in a plain panelled room in the palace.
There was a desk under the window as plain as the room.  The only
personal things in it were a multitude of potted plants everything from
a tropical fern to a small rosebush but watching the king first empty
his string bag of oranges into a bowl on the table and then put a
finger to the earth of the nearest plants to see if they had enough
water, Gladys had no doubt that this was the king's own private place.
Having done this, His Majesty Rudolph IX, King of Trenjen, Frinjen, and
 Corriarden, Protector of Leathe and Overlord of the Fiveir of the
Orthe, took off his clerkly spectacles and cleaned them with a
handkerchief.

The handkerchief, Gladys recollected, had been invented by Richard II
of England.  She was not sure about spectacles.

"Were those glasses one of the ideas that came down from With ,
Majesty?"

He put them on again and gazed through them at her with round,
magnified eyes.

"I believe so several centuries back.  Why?  Is that a bad thing?"  She
nodded gloomily.

"Then sit down," he said, waving to the group of plain, clothcovered
chairs by the fern in the hearth, 'and tell me about it.  Shall we
start with you.  Magus Lawrence?  "

The High Head, now very pale and harrowed, held on to the back of a
chair and stood there stiffly.

"Your Majesty, what I have to say is very serious and for your ears
only."

"I'm sure," said the king.

"But my sense is that what the two of you wish to say is closely
connected.  And though I feel hostility from you towards this lady, I
get no sense of danger from the lady herself.  So please sit and
proceed, Brother Lawrence."

Irritably, the High Head obeyed.  While he talked, Gladys sat with
Jimbo crouched against her and could have cheered at what had happened
in With.  Bless those dear girls!  She was delighted, even though she
could guess, from the way her leg was quaking with Jimbo's laughter,
that harnessing the vibrations in that way had not been entirely
intentional.  But that young Flan always had her instincts in the right
place.  Maureen's motives, she had always suspected, had not been quite
pure in choosing Flan, but it had turned out to be ideal all the same.
The king, she was interested to see, did not seem too worried by any of
what the High Head was telling him.  He looked grave, he nodded, but he
was in no way alarmed or scandalized.

"Thank you.  Magus," he said when the High Head was done.

"I

sympathize with your indignation and shock, naturally, but I must tell
you that I have felt for some years now that With was in need of
 reform.  You must have realized the way I felt from the servicemen I
sent you last spring.  "

"The louts the High Head said sombrely.

"Your Majesty--' " The majority were indeed louts," the king agreed.

"We had to make up the numbers in some way, and neither I nor my
advisers wished to waste any more promising young magecrafters on With.
But the centaur and the gualdian were hand-picked by me, personally.
Both are throwbacks to earlier times and so possess a large degree of
wild magic.  My hope was that this type of power would act to disturb
the vibrations of With which I suspect that it did but I took care to
balance them, in case of disaster, with a Fiveir heir with a trained
birthright.  And had these three had no effect, my next step would have
been to go to With myself and force reforms upon you.  I wasn't, of
course, reckoning on direct action from otherworld.  By the way--' the
king put his hands to the sides of his glasses and focused an
apparently anxious stare upon the High Head's harrowed face '--didn't
young Roderick Gordano play any part in all this?  I don't recollect
your mentioning him.  Magus."

"Your Majesty," the High Head said, "I have done nothing to deserve
this this high-handed one-sided action.  I had no idea!"  His voice
cracked.

The king took advantage of the cracking to persist, musingly, "Though
you tell me that young Philo and the centaur unaccountably took to the
deeps of the citadel with the otherworld young woman and her child, you
have not clearly indicated any reason for this."

The High Head rallied.

"I inherited a tradition," he said chokingly.

"I have been doing my best to continue it.  Your Majesty.  I - I
behaved throughout as kindly and humanely as that tradition laid down.
Tradition told me it was my duty to take in a party of women in
distress.  I did nothing wrong.  I welcomed them, I tried to find out
how to get them home.  Meanwhile I warned them of our Oath and its
 connection with the vibrations and my reward is that With and its
values are now in ruins.  How was I to know they were from otherworld?
Tradition told me that the inhabitants of otherworld were not human!"

His distress was real.  Gladys pitied him, even though she knew he was
using it to bluster over the facts.  The king thought so too.  His
hands continued to focus his glasses on the High Head.

"Magus, I do not doubt you are a good man, though I could wish you were
not so much inclined to the traditional.  A little more real research
into otherworld, a little questioning of tradition, might have
helped.

Now, if you recall, I asked you about Roderick Gordano.  "

The High Head appeared to pull himself together.

"So you did.  Your Majesty.  My apologies.  I am in a state of shock. I
suppose the young man was one of the dancers roaring for my blood in
With just now."

Gladys did not need the nudge Jimbo gave her.

"Lawrence she said.

"That is a whopper!  You know it is.  You sent Tod off to be a spy in
my world.  I know, because I met him on his way back here.  No real
coincidence.  Majesty," she told the king.

"There's only one way through looks as if someone keeps it open and he
missed it slightly.  So he got stuck, and I happened on him and put him
right.

He told me all that had happened to him on the way.  "

The king looked at the High Head.

"Magus?"

"He was caught," said the High Head, with dignity, since he was caught
himself, 'making love to the young woman, Zillah.  He deserved
punishment.  My practice is to send all such offenders to otherworld.
"

"Condemned," said the king pleasantly, 'out of your own mouth. Magus.

Transposing a serviceman anywhere except back to the Pentarchy is
illegal, as I am sure you know.  I am afraid you have given me my
official excuse to remove you from your office.  But I'd have had to
remove you anyway.  You see, it was not only Arth's extreme
traditionalism which was disturbing me.  Leathe seemed to have got its
claws into you--' "I swear that is not the case!"  the High Head
protested.

 "Last time the Ladies of Leathe were with us, I took every
precaution--' " Possibly," the king cut in.

"Possibly you were unknowing victims.

But I cannot otherwise account for the fact that Leathe has, for the
last decade, been receiving a constant stream of ideas and inventions
which the rest of the Pentarchy has never been allowed to have.  Nor
could I rid myself of a suspicion that the activities of With were
actually causing the rising of the sea here.  "

"Oh, they were.  Majesty," Gladys said.

"This is what I came about.

Your Great Centaur--' The king turned his focused spectacles on her.

"Then I think you should tell me now, Mrs.  er--' " Gladys.  Well,
Majesty--' "But first tell me about the invasion of With," said the
king.

"I

can't imagine a person of your powers having no hand in that.  "

A shrewd man, she thought.  She told him the whole story, aware as she
spoke of the unfortunate High Head becoming alternately enraged and
desolated in the chair opposite.  Len would have managed his feelings
better, she thought, though Len was always a bit inclined to be
hidebound too.  It must go with the man.  Having told the king about
the capsule, she gave him the facts as she had had them from the Great
Centaur.

"He was sick," she concluded.

"It was the ideas that did it.  He told me that ideas transpose matter
energy in the most concentrated form there is.  Your universe is
bloated by this time.

Majesty, and ours is getting drained.  As I told Lawrence here, it does
no good for With to trigger this global warming thing with us, because
your world is getting filled with what you get from us, and to pull in
just another idea from us is going to do more harm than good.

It might help more for you to tell us what to do about our trouble. "

"It might," the king agreed intently.

"But there's more," Gladys said.

"I'm glad we've had this talk, all the four of us together, and you
 happened to mention Tod, because things are really falling together in
my head now.  It's what you said, Majesty, about Leathe getting this
whole stream of stuff.  I saw that stream, back in the early days. 
It's like a great mains sewer, and I'm afraid I know what it is.  You
see. Tod told me he was set to spy on the man in our Inner Ring he's
called Mark Lister, and he came out of nowhere suddenly with powers you
wouldn't believe, which always did puzzle me, but I was only just
widowed then and I'd other things on my mind, like a row with my
daughter, and who was to replace Len in the Ring, and so I kind of let
him pass, if you know what I mean.  Anyway, Tod said our Mark was the
image of a man called Herrel in Leathe--' " Stop there," said the
king.

"I see.  Herrel Listanian's been puzzling us for some time.  So not
only has the woman Marceny committed an abomination, but she's poisoned
our world doing it.  Good.  Then I can safely close down Marceny."

"It seems to me you'd do well to close down this Leathe as well,"
Gladys observed.

"Unfortunately I can't," said the king.

"The ex-High Head here will tell you how Leathe was legally established
as the demesne of female mages soon after With was established."

"I could go on for hours about it," the High Head said bitterly.

"It may have started as a safeguard, believe it or not, to separate
male and female mageworkers.  Now, to cut a long story short, Leathe is
established by every magical and legal method possible.  It would take
a major revolution to unseat those women."

"You never know," said the king.

"My hope is that it's begun."  He sat forward.

"I'm glad you came to me.  Our Powers know what they're about.  As it
happens, I am in a position to complete the picture.  A regrettable
part of our situation with Leathe is that I, too, have agents who spy
for me.  And reports came out of Leathe this morning that a centaur, a
gualdian, a small child, and a young woman have suddenly arrived on the
estate of Lady Marceny."

 The High Head and Gladys both cried out together.

"One at a time the king said mildly.

"Brother Lawrence?"

"It's impossible!"  said the High Head.

"I was going to say they couldn't get out of With but if there's wild
magic in question, I suppose I-But, Your Majesty, you know what they do
to gualdians in Leathe.  I'm one of the products of it1 know."

"Yes, indeed," the king said.

"I have Philo very much in mind.  My agent has instructions to assist
him in every way.  And you, madam?"

He turned to Gladys.

She had her hands to her face.  Jimbo was chittering and nudging her
beaded knee.

"Poor Zillah," she said.

"Majesty, she's in love with Mark Lister, and she has power.  The
moment she sees the other half of Mark, she'll know.  And she's going
to try to put him together again.

Majesty, Mark knows all the secrets of the Ring, and he's a computer
expert.  That's too many ideas.  "

"It is," agreed the king.

"She'll have to be stopped."

"She will be," said Gladys, and the grimness of her Goddess Aspect came
over her.

"I

must get there at once and stop her.  "

 Zillah wished Marcus would settle down.  He had had two- thirds of an
With day, followed by most of a Leathe day, which ought to have been
enough to tire any toddler, and he was still fretfully on the go.  The
possibilities of all the toys in the bag had long ago been exhausted.

The room they were in was little help.  It was not exactly a cell, but
it was made of stone and only sparsely furnished.  Since the light came
from a barred grille outside and above the window, Zillah concluded it
was a basement room, though she had not noticed going down any stairs
when they had been brought here.  The door was solid, and locked.
Marcus was pounding on it at the moment.  She wished he would stop,
fall asleep for a while, or at least give her time to think.

She needed to think of the things Lady Marceny had said.  Somewhere
among the woman's saccharine words there had surely been something that
might help her turn this hopeless situation around.  But she could not
think of anything, not with Marcus banging away at the door.  She also
felt she should worry about Philo and Josh, and think of Tod a sort of
moral duty to blame herself for causing disaster to people wherever she
went but she could not concentrate on that either.  In fact, the only
feeling she had room for, among the distractions Marcus made, struck
her as entirely crazy: it was joy.  A placid joy.

Herrel was here.  He would come.  She only had to wait.

She told herself, without success, that this could be nonsense.  The
light from the grid was evening light now.  No one had been near them,
even with food, since they had been put in this room.  Hope should be
fading except it was not hope: it was faith.  All the same, since some
 of Marcus's restlessness must be due to hunger, it was time to think
of something else to take his mind off it.

Zillah got up off the flimsy cot-bed.

"Here, Marcus.  Stop banging, love.  Let's build a house in the middle
of this room."

Marcus turned and beamed.

"Ow," he agreed.

They assembled what little furniture there was and disassembled it.

Marcus was good at taking things apart.  He happily reduced the flimsy
bed to a pile of rods and laths.  For a while, he was diverted by being
allowed to do something he had so often been prevented from doing, but
he grew fretful again when Zillah tried to encourage him to build the
pieces into a hut.  Zillah persevered.  They had quite a creditable
Eeyore-hut made when the door opened and Herrel sauntered in.

Marcus greeted him with loud friendship.

"Ow, ow, ow, owl" he shouted, pointing at the edifice and beating with
a spare bed rod.

Herrel grimaced.

"Ow indeed.  Were you thinking of keeping a pig?"

"OW," Marcus repeated, conceiving he might have been misunderstood.

"Yes, I know it's a house, fellow."  Herrel scooped Marcus off the
floor, bed rod and all, and went on a remarkable walk with him,
straight up the wall beside the window, upside down across the ceiling,
and down the opposite wall.  Marcus thought it was marvelous and
flailed his rod enthusiastically.  Showing off, Zillah thought.

Showing me party tricks.  Maybe showing me that's what he's like.

These dispassionate thoughts did nothing to counteract her sheer joy.

Herrel had come.  Her faith was justified.

"More!"  Marcus commanded, as Herrel descended to the floor.

"If that's what you want," Herrel agreed, and went on a second
gravity-defying circuit, this time around the length of the room, up
the door and down the far wall, forcing Zillah to back towards the
 window.  She watched his gawky jester's figure as it walked upside
down, head almost brushing the top of the Eeyore hut.  A Joker, the
Fool, the Hanged Man.  Herrel was telling her all these things.
Possibly he was also enclosing the room in some form of protection. She
noticed he said nothing of importance until he arrived back, upright in
the place where the bed had stood.

"The centaur's still in the grove," he said.

"They can't budge him.

And the little gualdian's disappeared.  "

"Phil I mean Amphetron?"  Zillah said.

"Bilo!"  boomed Marcus from Herrel's arms.

Herrel tapped him on the mouth.

"Shut up, you.  Neither you or your mother are good at secrets, are
you?  Fatal to come to Leathe if you can't keep a secret.  Yes, the
gualdian.  My mother sent sweet Aliky up to him a while back.  I
suppose the idea was to start with a bit of tempting kindness, but if
the girl couldn't fetch the centaur out of the grove, I can't see her
seducing a gualdian myself.  Anyway, she never got a chance.  She shot
back down, screeching that the room was empty.  Now there's a major
search going on.  Have you any ideas on this?  My mother sent me to ask
you.  I'm supposed to be interrogating you cruelly."

Herrel said all this in a light, laughing manner and seemed to be
addressing most of it to Marcus.  Zillah tried to meet his eyes, but it
proved almost impossible.  He looked mostly at the top of Marcus's
head.

"He told me Ph - Amphetron that he had no kind of gifts at all," she
said.

"His family think he's a runt."  It seemed hard on Philo to devalue him
like this, but it was the only help she could give him.

If Marceny thought he was worthless and the search relaxed, Philo might
just get away.  She wished she could think of a way to help Josh.

"They wouldn't really want him for stud, would they?"

"He's gualdian, runt or not," Herrel said lightly.

"We always want gualdians for stud, and they always try to run.  They
seem to think it's a dishonour.  Funny state of mind.  Those that get
 away afterwards seem to consider themselves outcasts and never go near
other gualdians, so I'm told.  And the ones that don't get away always
kill themselves."

"No!"  said Zillah.

"Oh yes," said Herrel.

"I was there when my father cut his throat."

Here he did look at Zillah.  His face creased into a carefree smile,
but behind it she sensed another face a face not Mark's but truly
Herrel's, and quite unlike the bearded jester smiling at her and this
face was screaming.  It only had access to Herrel's eyes.  Those eyes
implored her.

"I was only about this fellow's age," Herrel added, giving Marcus a
little shake.

"Zillah, why did you cornel' She wanted to take him in her arms along
with Marcus and tell him that it was all right, the agony was over now.
But he was facing her across the silly hut, too far away to reach.

"I told you," she said, and managed to enfold him anyhow, in some way
not physical, but powerful and sure, in an en wrapping essence of
herself from across the hut.

"I had to come.  I was on With and I saw you in a sort of mirror,
talking to High Horns."

"With?"  he said.

"Why With?  You were safe where you were!  You'd left me Mark him.  I
was even glad in a way.  I tried to be grateful."

"Grateful!"  she said.

"It was so horrible, I left Earth!"

"Yes, but you set me him free by leaving, you know.  I don't know how
it was maybe it was the effort I had to put in before that to make sure
my mother didn't know about you but the moment you were gone, he was
practically a free agent.  And I thought he might at least repair a bit
of the mess over there in your world, and turned him loose with
instructions to let otherworld know the way it was being exploited.
She's just found out what he's done.  She's hard at work trying to
punish him at the moment.  That's why I'm here.  Zillah, why did you
leave me him?"

His face still smiled at her, but she ignored it and spoke to the face
behind.

"He Mark was so shallow somehow it was alarming.  Then one night I had
a kind of vision of him you down a deep well with a woman feeding off
 you.  I thought it was Paulie, but it wasn't, of course.  And I was
pregnant and there seemed nothing else I could do.  I knew it was
hopeless.  It it was very horrible for me too.  You he didn't even try
to find me."

"We knew better than that," he said jokingly.

"You were safer away from him.  But if I'd known about What's this
fellow's name?"

"Marcus."

"Barker," Marcus agreed sleepily.

"Marcus, I'd have warned you never to go near us him."  The smile left
Herrel's face at last.

"Zillah, you realize that if she finds out who Marcus is, you and I are
both dead, don't you?  Now she knows what I Mark's done, she's got very
little time for me anyway.  A small child of her own flesh and blood is
much more malleable."

"Then she shan't find out."  Zillah put forth more enfoldings around
Marcus and around Herrel too.

"Herrel His head was on one side and he gazed at her.

"Goddess!"  he said.

"The weirdest thing about it is that I've barely touched you in my own
flesh."

The stone room was dense with misery.

"Fetch Mark back," said Zillah.

"You need him.  Don't leave him there for her to punish."

"I told you I don't know how.  I was out cold all through the
ritual."

She was exasperated.

"But you must know!  You it's instinctive'.

He's you'.  " Herrel was smiling again, hiding his screaming face.

Zillah said furiously, "And I bet she used your own strength to cut you
in two!  She feeds on you all the time.  How did you ever let her get
that kind of hold on you?"

"I didn't."  Herrel was entirely back to his light, joking manner.

"I

was Marcus's age.  There was a ritual very pretty and impressive in
which I was circumcised and she ate the foreskin.  "

"Oh, good GodV Zillah's anger became blazing disgust.

 "Why is witchcraft so damn squalid'.  I think that's why I've never
Look Herrel, this has to be nonsense.  A third of a person's body cells
change every seven years.  After more than twenty-one years, she can't
have the remotest hold on you!"

Herrel laughed and jogged Marcus.  He seemed hardly to have heard.

"All right," said Zillah.

"If the hold is still there, then you've got the same hold over her.
Mustn't that be true?"

"Perhaps Marcus can sort that one out."  Herrel turned merrily away
from her.

"That do for you, Mother?  Full confession from both guilty parties."

"Yes, thank you, dear.  Very nice."  Lady Marceny, dressed now in
crimson velvet, approached him along what seemed to be a wide stone
terrace.  Her train softly dragged over the flagstones behind her.

"I

heard your part very clearly, Herrel, and I'm quite vexed.  But I see
you've got the child.  I may forgive you for that.  Bring him along
here, dear.  The ritual's all set up.  "

Why am I not surprised?  Zillah wondered.  I'm not even angry.  Just
numb.

There were women around her, all finely dressed.  Their gowns glowed in
the orange-ruby light of the sunset filling the sky beyond the trees at
the end of the lawn.  Was the room where they had been an illusion
then?  Shame penetrated Zillah's numbness.  She and Marcus must have
spent half the day roving about an oblong space on the open terrace.
How stupid!  But there was no point in thinking about that now.  The
lawn, about a foot below the terrace, was lit by nine tripods, each
holding a blazing fire.  There was a low table at their centre.  On it,
knives caught the colour of both the sunset and the flames.

 "How far is it to Lady Marceny's estate?"  Tod asked his cousin as
they hurried back along the causeway.

"No distance, as the crow flies," Michael said.

"It's just across the border, but the estuary's in the way.  Since this
flooding, you have to go miles round by the road."

Td no idea it was so near!  " Tod said.

"I've never thought of you living next door to a menace like that."

"Surely you knew?"  Michael said, making great booted strides.

"This barony was set up to guard the border.  That's what most of the
centaurs do here.  Until Paul came, we had to employ a mage as well."

"Paul?  Amanda's new man?  Is he a mage then?"

"Not exactly.  He's from Hallow Isle off the Leathe coast.  The people
there all get born with some sort of natural antidote to Leathe.  It's
genetic."

Michael, Tod thought, sounded a bit curt about Paul.  He was glad to
see his cousin was not a complete saint.

"Is that why your mother married him?"

"No," Michael almost snapped.

"Love.  I thought we could leave Paul here while we " No," Tod said.

"I take him.  You stay."

"Now, look V said Michael.

"You look," said Tod.

"The woman's grabbed one gualdian already.

You're gualdian on one side, and on the other you've got Gordano
birthright ' "I've yet to notice either," Michael said.

"Marceny will.  Gods in hell band she'll want you even more than she'll
want me!  My old dad will never forgive me if I let us both go."

That seemed to shut Michael up.  As they came to the centaurs milling
 at the end of the causeway.  Tod looked up at the great yellowing bowl
of the sky.  Given luck, they could reach Josh by nightfall.  The
foremost centaur had a pale wedge of a face, like a slice of white
cheese, and was clearly in some kind of authority.  Tod snabbled him.

"You in charge here?  Good.  The centaur in the grove isn't a ghost.
He's Horgoc Anphalemos Galpetto a Cephelad know the family?  Great. And
he's stranded in Lady Marceny's grove, in bad trouble.  Can you choose
me all your fastest folk?  We'll need to go in and out quick, and I
don't want anyone left on the way.  Tell them to form up round my car
in five minutes."

"Quite the little Pentarch, aren't we?"  Michael murmured.

 The king appeared entirely unhurried.  He gave orders or rather,
issued mild requests to centaurs, humans, and some of the odder folk,
some in uniforms and others in sober suiting all of which, Gladys
noticed, were obeyed as if they were commands with the death penalty
attached.  From this she conjectured that the power he could raise was
formidable.  It seemed hard on such a small, mild man.  And she noticed
he was seldom at a loss.  In fact, the only time she saw him
disconcerted was when he courteously asked his guests what they wished
to eat before leaving for Leathe.  The High Head asked for pass et
Gladys for sausages.

The gnomish-looking lackey stared.  The king blinked.  It was clear
both requests were extraordinary.

"And the ether monkey?"  the king asked, recovering.

"Will he eat?"

"No," the High Head and Gladys said in chorus.  The High Head shot her
a venomous look and explained, "Your Majesty, they are not from our
band of the Wheel.  They are said to live on base energies.  No doubt
these are plentifully available from this one's mistress."

"Well, well," said the king.

"Magus, I realize your position is deeply unpleasant for you, and your
future uncertain, but I must insist on courtesy.  Would it reassure you
if I try to discover what is going on in With?"

The High Head's face showed a terrible eagerness.  Poor man, Gladys
thought.

"If if that is possible.  Your Majesty."

The king got up and ambled to his desk, where he stood looking out of
the window and apparently tapping his desktop aimlessly.

"As you know," he observed, "I seldom do this in person, but I think it
is time that I did.  Ah.  There are not much in the way of tides just
 now, but something I should say Someone has favoured me with an
excellent wave band.

Here we are.  "

The window in front of him rippled, dimmed and became shot with flecks
of light.  Like a bad television warming up, Gladys thought.  As in a
television, sound came first.  Laughter.  Peals of it.  One of the
laughers broke off to say, "With here.  Who is it now7' " If it's
Leathe again, tell them what to do with it," someone else said.

"This is the king," stated His Majesty, 'wishing to speak to whoever is
in charge.  "

"Oh GoddessV said the first speaker.  This was followed by a muttered
discussion, giggles, and the sound of a chair falling over.

"Yes, all right she's bringing him," said someone else.

"Find some coffee.  Quick."

The window cleared with a flick to bright blue light, and a face twice
life size looked out of it.  It was swaying slightly.  For an instant,
Gladys had the notion she was seeing the Great Centaur again.  But this
was a man, trying very hard to look serious and businesslike.  He said,
with great care, "I am Acting High Head until the coming elections.
Your Majesty.  How can I help you?"

"Edward!"  said the ex-High Head.  He looked betrayed.

"Yes, you can tell me what's going on there," said the king.

"Well, nothing much at the moment," Edward replied.

"You'll have to forgive me.  Your Majesty.  We're all very drunk. We've
been celebrating for a long time the repeal of Oath and Constitution,
you know."  The High Head put his face in his hands.

"Do you intend to draw up new ones?"  the king asked.

"In a bit," said Edward.

"I mean, yes, of course.  Your Majesty.

Someone said they were working on it, I think.  " He seemed to realize
that this was a little inadequate.  He frowned importantly.

"We shall ask for two hundred women from the Pentarchy the next time
 the tides are right.  Then we'll abolish the service-year and
celibacy, of course and What?  Oh yes.  A lot of the mages and most of
the cadets want to go home."

"That seems to be on the right lines," said the king, 'but a little
sketchy.  High Brother.  Add two things to it now.  Perhaps if you have
a Brother handy to write this down, it would assist you to remember
tomorrow, or whenever your party is over.  "

Edward turned and made fierce gestures to someone out of sight.  A hand
appeared, passing him a block of paper and a pen.  After a slight
tussle, in which Edward attempted to retain the wineglass he had in
each hand as well as the paper and pen, and the hand possibly a female
hand firmly removed both glasses, he turned and nodded owlishly at the
king.

"Ready."

"Splendid," said the king.

"Write, One: No further research is to be done on otherworld without
written royal permission.  Two: The function of With is, in future, to
supply the Pentarchy with the same sort of inventions that we have
hitherto gained from otherworld, and these are to be discovered purely
by the Brotherhood's own unaided efforts."  While Edward laboriously
wrote, the king said over his shoulder to Gladys, "I'm ashamed of the
way we've been sponging on your world and they can do it themselves,
you know.  Some of the best brains in the Pentarchy are over there.  Is
there anything else I should tell him?"

"Ask about our women," Gladys said.

"Oh yes.  Have you got all that down?"  the king asked Edward.  He
nodded, looking as sober as only someone extremely drunk can.

"Then the last thing I have to say is about the five otherworld women
in With.  What arrangements have you made to send them home?"

There was an instant outcry.  Shouts of "No/' and " Don't you take our
women!  " and " They're stayingV filled the panelled office
deafeningly.

Edward's face was jostled out of the screen, replaced by several angry
 ones, two of them female, and then jostled back.  Gladys sighed with
relief.  Flan and Judy seemed fine.

This time, Edward was icy cold sober.

"I'm very sorry, Your Majesty.

We have no intention of sending any of the women anywhere.  They have
asked to stay.  We made them all citizens of With this morning.  " His
image vanished with a crash and a slight tinkle, as if someone had
broken a large sheet of glass.  Evening sun dazzled through the window
again.

The king turned away from it.

"Well, there you are.  I shall go there and try to sort things out in
due course, but the next tides are not for nearly two years, I'm
afraid, and by that time it will be very hard to remove anyone who
wants to stay."

Gladys shrugged.

"That's five more full sets of ideas."

"I know," said the king.

The dejection of all three was interrupted by a footman entering with a
trolley.  Gladys eyed the carefully sliced black pudding that was the
Pentarchy's notion of sausage and politely said nothing.  The king,
however was unable to resist murmuring to her, "How can the man eat
pass et

"My Len had a weak stomach," Gladys murmured back, 'and I daresay he's
just the same.  Analogues, you know.  Len used to live mostly on
potatoes.  "

The ex-High Head heard her and looked at her with hatred.

Shortly the king looked at his gold fob watch.

"We leave for the Royal Grove in five minutes.  Both of you must visit
a bathroom before then."

'/, Your Majesty?  " said the High Head.

"There is surely no need for me to go to Leathe?"

Gladys did not hear the king's reply, for a polite young woman arrived
just then and led her away to a washroom with decidedly peculiar
plumbing.  Gladys wrestled with it, thinking that His Majesty was being
rather hard on poor old Lawrence.  The man's only fault was to be the
 wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time.  This mess, after all,
went back long before he was born.

She came back to find the High Head dismally resigned.  He sat silent
in the car that drove them to the Royal Grove.  Even Gladys did not
guess that the thought of setting foot in Leathe again made the pass et
churn in his stomach.  All he said was, to the king, when they were
joined in the dim light under the great trees by seven soberly dressed
men who all had the look of mages, "Your Majesty, I hope one of us is
familiar with Lady Marceny's grove.  It is usually important to--' "
No, Magus, but we have other reliable facts," one of the soberly
dressed men told him, and he spoke with as much respect as if the one
he addressed were still, in fact.  High Head of With.

"We arrive exactly at sunset in that time zone.  The grove is of orange
trees, and there is a centaur in it."

His facts were a little out.  There were upwards of a hundred centaurs
in it, all milling about, shouting in deep bass voices.  Gladys
hurriedly picked Jimbo up, wondering if they had come to the wrong
grove.  The king's party was jostled every which way.  But hardly had
they realized this when one of the centaurs shouted, "Oh, all right
then!  Let's all go!"  And the whole crowd of huge bodies went
thundering away out of the grove.

"Follow them," said the king.

"Quickly."

 The journey was exasperating for Tod.  He insisted on driving his car,
which meant he had to keep to the roads, while the centaurs spread out
across country.  He and Paul had both been offered a ride on a centaur,
but Tod bore in mind that they might have to make a swift and scattered
retreat and that Josh would be exhausted.  He folded the roof of the
car back, which just gave room to cram someone Josh's size into the
rear seat, and drove with the warm wind in his hair and Paul sitting
solidly beside him.

No one had a reliable map of the Listanian estate no doubt Marceny took
care there were none.  The centaurs tended to get lost at first, until
it dawned on their unorganized minds that Tod was able to home on Josh.
His birthright led him to be conscious of Philo, Zillah and Marcus too,
though Tod did not tell them that.  Once he had explained he knew where
to go, the centaurs spread out in the lands on either side of the road,
and Tod tended to leave them behind on the straights.  Where the road
bent, the centaurs cut the corners, and he nearly ran one down. In
addition, he had not the slightest idea what kind of conversation to
make with Paul.  They exchanged stilted monosyllables until Tod
supposed it should not have surprised him Michael suddenly bobbed up in
the back, saying, "Hellspoke, Tod!

Paul's a perfectly reasonable human being!  "

Paul gave a great shout of laughter, and Tod jumped half out of his
skin.

"Oh, Great Centaur, you fool gubbins!"  Tod said disgustedly.

"And you timed that perfectly, didn't you?  There's no way I can turn
back now, or even kick you out!"

Taking everything together, he thought it quite surprising he only
drove down one road that dead-ended.

 Sunset came and grew and flared on the meticulous drainage ditches.

The land here was as flat as Michael's barony, though ten times tidier,
and well before they reached the place.  Tod could see both the grove
and Marceny's mansion as a small clump and a black blot against the
sky.  The nearer he came, the more certain he was that he was faced
with a choice.  Josh was still in the grove, all right, but there was
worse trouble at the mansion.

In the end the choice was made for him.  The road did not go to the
grove, but swept around to the left to lead to the mansion.

"Michael," Tod said, hurriedly drawing up, 'go and make sure they get
Josh out of that grove and back to Riverwell.  Stay near a road, and
I'll try to pick you up on my way back.  I'll take Paul to the mansion,
if that's all right with you, Paul?  "

Tine," said Paul.

"Take care, Michael."

Michael leaped out and ran, splashing through a dyke in a storm of
spray, to accost the nearest centaur.  Tod swung the car around and
roared off toward the mansion, which seemed to be dark, except for a
curious flickering among the trees at the back.

Paul said, "There's something over there with more power than I think I
can handle."

"Now, why do I get that feeling too?"  Tod said.  He stopped with a
shriek at the unlighted front of the house and ran up the steps and in
through its open door, brushing aside heavy war dings and strong blocks
to right and left like so many cobwebs.

 There was more power than Zillah knew how to handle.  She felt heavy
with it, dead.  As Marceny set off down the steps to the lawn, with her
train of red velvet softly brush- brushing the stone, and Herrel
followed carrying Marcus, the women around Zillah moved too.  She was
forced by nothing she could see to walk in their midst.  The power was
so great that she had to wade rather than walk.

And I might as well be dead anyway with Herrel on two sides at once,
she thought, glancing at the girls around her.  Pretty, pretty little
faces.  Don't any of them care7 They seemed to be able to walk
perfectly well, although the one on her right in the peacock silk was
mincing rather.  Zillah glanced contemptuously at the little witch.

Glanced again.  And her heart knocked, heavily, against the stifling
load of power.  The girl was dark, with dark eyelashes demurely spread
on the cheeks of her pretty little face.  Her small hands delicately
held up her silken dress as she approached the steps.  But she was
Philo.  No one could have been less like Philo, particularly with those
tiny hands and yes dainty little feet tripping down the dim stone
steps, but Zillah knew it was.  There was an essence of him that she
could sense, scared, small, very angry, and most definitely Philo
inside the disguise.  She hoped he would look at her wink show in some
way he was there and still her friend, but he gave no sign.

Perhaps his anger was at Zillah for getting him into this, or maybe he
needed all his attention on maintaining the illusion.  Zillah feared it
was the former.

As they went out on to the lawn among the carefully spaced stands of
fire, there was singing.  Zillah thought at first that it came from the
numbers of dimly seen people gathered at the edges of the turf
 presumably people from the estate or workers from the house but she
was soon sure that it did not.  It was heavy singing, in one rich but
untrained voice.  Its tune dragged from one powerful, slumberous phrase
to another, bringing sleep with it, numbness, submission, and probably
death.  Yes, a death song Zillah thought.  It came from the source of
the heavy power that made it so hard to move.  The lawn was a tank,
full of it like a heavy liquid.

Marceny took up her position beside the stone table, right in the
centre, and Zillah instantly knew that the song and the power came from
Marceny, even though she had not uttered a sound.  Knowing that killed
a slight hope.  Herrel had said Marceny was currently busy punishing
Mark; but any hope that this might drain her strength or concentration
went at the sight of Marceny's closed lips and still face.  Zillah
could even feel, as a sort of dim strand, the power being diverted
toward Mark, and it made no difference to speak of to the strength
singing here.

With silent gestures, Marceny sent people to their places.  One
gesture, and a group of girls was sent to the far end of the table;

another, and Zillah was halted among other women at the near end.

Zillah was forced to stand and watch Philo go with the first group,
separated from her by the length of the table with its gleaming knives.
The light from the sky had almost gone by now.  Marceny's red velvet
gown glowed bloodily in the flames as she beckoned Herrel, carrying
Marcus, up beside her.

A practical colour, Zillah thought bitterly.  Very practical.  But then
black witches are, I've heard.  We all know the Goddess has her dark
side.  That singing---is not the Goddess It was as if someone spoke.
Even more clearly than she had known the nature of With, she knew this.
Whatever the power Marceny was using, whatever it was that sang, it was
something other than any aspect of the Lady.  It was very foul.  It fed
on Herrel, through Marceny, and on other things too.  It was very
 strong.  Well, at least I know what we're up against, Zillah thought.
That sounded better than it was.  The truth was, she did not know what
this thing was.  The hopelessness she had thought she felt without Mark
was nothing to what she felt now.  She was down at the raw end of a
chasm where hope simply was not.

The singing stopped.  An abiding silence settled.

"Give me the child now," Marceny said to Herrel.  Her voice seemed a
small, shrill thing in contrast to the singing.

As Herrel's arms moved, Zillah said, "Do that, Herrel, and you're dead
meat!"

"He is anyway, dear.  Both of you are," Lady Marceny pointed out.  She
put out her hands and took Marcus under the armpits.  Marcus himself,
frightened by the strangeness and remembering he disliked Marceny,
clung to Herrel with arms and legs.  Herrel simply stood there.  Two
young women went to help Marceny.  Zillah had a glimpse of Philo,
staring helplessly.

"Herrel, for God's sake, stand up to her!"  Zillah screamed.  She threw
every protective strength she had around Marcus.

"Come along to your granny, dear," Lady Marceny told Marcus.

"Let's have no more nonsense."

Marcus was removed from Herrel and dumped screaming on the table.  He
was truly terrified now, Zillah's protections were broken.  It was as
if half her being was wrenched from her.  She had at that moment some
notion how Herrel must have felt when Mark was taken from him.  The two
girls were undressing Marcus.  Marceny, with a fire lit knife raised in
both hands, was reciting an invocation to the Goddess.  The Goddess!
That's rich!  Zillah thought.  She could not move.  The heavy power
pinned her at one end of the table.  But Herrel was a free agent.
Zillah knew he was, even before he turned and looked at her with his
eyes screaming and his mouth smiling.  Asking me to help!

Zillah more or less screamed to herself.  You're asking me to stop
Marcus being made like you!  You could stop it, Herrel, in an instant,
if you wanted to.  You're so strong that that being infesting your
mother feeds and feeds and you still carry on!

 Herrel, of course, could not want to.  He could not want anything that
had been taken from him to make Mark.

Zillah was in the act of kicking Herrel aside mentally as useless, when
she saw that this wronged him.  Herrel had done one small thing.

He had done it for Marcus.  On the table, Marcus was screaming and
threshing and surrounded by a small, triangular space of his own.  It
seemed to be the ghost of the Eeyore-hut.  Marcus was mentally
crouching in it, disseminating the one protection small children have
fear.  Fear beat in waves over the two women trying to undress him and
slowed their movements.  Even the knife in Marceny's hands showed a
slight tremor.  And his screams were horrible.

What's this supposed to do?  Zillah thought angrily.  Yet she knew.

Herrel had made the circuit of that illusory room, and made it just
real enough for Marcus to use.  It was all he thought himself able to
do.  The slight breathing space this gave, Zillah was supposed to use
to confront Marceny.

And I can't!  she thought.  Doesn't he know I couldn't even face my own
mother?  I just had to leave.  I couldn't even look Marceny in the
eyes, and he expects me to-Ah then, she thought.  I must fetch Mark
here.  There was no time to consider it impossible.  They had Marcus
undressed now.  Thilo, help me!  " she called out above the drone of
Marceny's invocation, and threw her mind towards Earth and Mark.

Tod came out on the terrace to see Marcus naked and Marceny in the act
of blessing the knife.  His birthright, at the sight, ramped within him
like an enraged beast.  Maybe it was anger, maybe it was the strange
negative presence of the man Paul behind him, but he felt it, for the
first time for years, spring out of his control.  It seemed to be going
wild.  He was terrified.  And he could be no use like this.  Then he
heard the voice of his old tutor, saying, "Even now it will sometimes
take over, and you'll find it knows what it's doing."  Well, I just
hope he was right.  Tod thought, and let it go.

 He found himself calling out in a great voice, far deeper than his
own.

"Stop this!  This dirties the name of the Goddess.  I forbid it!"

At the other end of the lawn, a flying pale shape crashed through the
trees and burst among the watching people.  Tod, to his astonishment,
saw Josh, whom he had confidently thought to be safely on his way to
Frinjen, gallop among the pans of fire and slow gradually as the heavy
ponding of power caught him.  Josh came to a halt between two fires,
facing Tod, pawing the turf angrily.

"Leave that child alone, woman!"  he panted.

"I tell you--' A timeless stillness was suddenly present.

Oh, thank Heaven!  Zillah thought.  Space.  The space Herrel had tried
to give her through Marcus.  Marceny and the women around her were
still moving, but in the slowest of slow motion, and if Marceny was
still chanting, her voice was too slowed and lengthened to hear.

Zillah knew what had happened.  Tod and Josh had accidentally if such a
thing could ever be accidental taken up the positions of a ritual of
their own.  They stood to east and west.  Philo was to the south, and
Zillah herself to the north.  There was someone strange with Tod, who
had the effect of dimming the other women with Marceny, so that the
heavy power was forced to draw in around the table to protect itself.
What Zillah had here now was the space peculiar to magic which might
last a second or many hours and in which she could work.

And how do I?  she wondered.  Power.  They all had power.  Tod's was
trained, but it seemed to be running wild in anger at the moment.

Josh and Philo had certainly been taught, but the tuition in With, it
had always seemed to her, had been beside the point for both of them.

Whatever they had was almost untrained.  As for herself, anything she
had was as feral as a wild animal.

Well, then we call it wild, she said, and called.

Wild it was.  It lifted her in an exultant sheeting gust so long and so
far that she lost all sense of time, or of her own body.  She was all
 mind for a nanosecond that seemed to last a thousand years.
Understanding filled her.  This was why she had always ducked out,
refused training in witchcraft, run from Amanda's kind of education.
The restraints of knowledge harmed this wild power.  In order to use
it, Zillah could not know what it was.  It would only answer a being as
untrammelled as itself.  It was wildness.

Zillah hung in its exultant aurora borealis, exulting herself, because
she had always known this about wild magic really.  The instant, and
the knowledge, extended infinitely.  Her forgotten body sheeted across
time with her, or shrank to the smallest instant, most strangely.
Sometimes she had been a giant for hours, and then a small blob for a
century.  The knack, she discovered, was not to let it distract you.
After a millennia- long instant, she was in a house she only remembered
seeing once before, where a wild sending stalked around the borders of
its safety, rattling windows, howling in the chimney and snapping
trees.  There was a jungle of huge potted palms.

She thought she had found the wrong place, until she heard her sister's
voice.

T know, Paulie.  But whoever sent it has harnessed wild magic.  Part of
the strength is the wild magic objecting.  I can't stop it, and I don't
think any of us dare go out, even if it is only after Mark.  "

Gladys's house, but most oddly empty of its owner.  Amanda was there,
standing by the hearth, and Mark was a little aside, staring at the
potted trees.  He looked pale even for him.  Zillah took the wild magic
prowling around the house, united it to her own fourfold power, and
promised it freedom shortly.

"Mark," she said.

"Come with me quickly.  I need you back with Herrel."

Amanda straightened.

"The sending's gone!  I - Zillah\ Zillah, what do you want?"

"I've come for Mark," she said.

"He has to go back.  It's necessary."

The frown Zillah knew so well collected above Amanda's nose.

"Why is that?"

 She might have known, Zillah thought, that nothing would be easy with
Amanda in it.  Mark was now somehow on the other side of Amanda,
looking puzzled.

"Mark," Zillah explained, 'is half of another man from another
universe.  "

"We know," Amanda said, and turned to speak to another presence whom
Zillah could only dimly discern.

"Yes, but be quiet, Paulie.  It's Zillah.  She wants Mark."  At this,
the other presence seemed to raise an outcry, but Amanda turned
impatiently back to Zillah.

"Zillah, are you in this other world?"

"Yes, and in terrible trouble.  That's why we need Mark."

Amanda raised her head and became more than herself.

"Zillah, this man is badly flawed.  For one thing, he's been spying on
us."

"Not intentionally, or voluntarily," Zillah said.

"There are other flaws," Amanda answered.

"Do you really want him?"

"The other half is even worse," Zillah protested.

"I love him both.

Amanda, he must come, or I'll die, Marcus will be enslaved, and Mark
will probably die too, when Herrel's killed.  Please.  "

Amanda's head was still raised.  She said, with unearthly sadness,
"Zillah, I'm sorry, but taking Mark makes a terrible imbalance.  You
could destroy two worlds."

"Then I'll balance!"  Zillah cried out.

"You help.  Wait a second."

The next second, or maybe at the same time, she had taken wing on the
fourfold wild magic some of which protested and was soothed and was in
the presence of Amanda again, only with a difference.  This Amanda
walked through a strange room with painted panels, and her hands were
nervously clasped to her mouth.

'\ tell you I can't see at this juncture," she said to someone out of
sight.

"It could go any way.  How I wish I hadn't let them all go off!

Or I should have gone too.  What a hellhound coward I am!  "

 Amanda should always grow her hair that long, Zillah thought
admiringly.  It looked beautiful.

"Amanda!"

The woman jumped and turned.

"You need help?"

"Badly.  Take on your Aspect and balance.  Balance for your life!

Here.  " Zillah tossed the woman she hardly knew what a thread, or a
spark, or a skein and to her relief and gratitude, the woman made
dismissing motions to the person she had been talking to and seized
what Zillah threw in competent hands.

"A moment," Zillah heard her say.

"I'm summoned as Priestess."

She was back with her sister, flinging her another version of the
thread or spark.

"Balance."  This Amanda, not so used to balancing, needed Zillah's
attention more.  Zillah hung between the two, holding, helping, while
energy poured and thundered.  It dinned around her, fell in avalanches
and slid like lava, smoking and roaring.  The wild magic of the sending
fled shrieking upon it and was gone.  Clouds scudded like boulders.
When it stopped, it seemed too soon, but Zillah was spent.  She hung in
front of her sister, knowing she was only there on energies Josh and
Philo and Tod were lending her to use.

"Amanda, let me have Mark now.  Please.  I've done all I could."

"I know."  Amanda was holding on to the mantelpiece with one hand.  She
looked exhausted.  She waved the other hand wearily at Mark.

"You have to ask him, Zillah.  He's not a pawn."

"Mark," she said faintly.

"Come home with me?  Please?"

Mark seemed to see her for the first time.

"Zillah?  You want me?"

The look on his face set the other presence squalling again.  '..

about the insurance?  " Zillah heard.

"All those bills and our mortgage ."

"Always," she said, holding out her arms through the noise.

He walked into her arms gladly.

 "I don't get on with all this transposing, or whatever they call it
Gladys grumbled to Jimbo.  They had no sooner arrived in the grove and
seen all the great rumps of those centaurs rushing away than they were
somehow ahead of them, on a lawn lit by a set of barbecues and standing
beside another centaur.  This one was smaller and whiter, as far as she
could see.  She could hear the High Head muttering something about how
little light there was.

The king's seven mages appeared to agree.  They all raised light
something she would have given her toes to be able to do great pearly
blue globes of it between each man's hands.  Then she realized they had
arrived in one of those utter st illnesses which meant the working of
magic was in progress.  What she saw, the female in blood-red, the
child on the table, and the knife, nearly caused her to rush forward
and interrupt.  But the king raised a warning hand, and she saw it was
a different stillness.

It was over in that instant.  A girl Zillah sagged on to the end of the
table.  The small white centaur started forward, and so did two other
people from the terrace-thing at the back.  The red woman seemed about
to bring the knife down, but the man dressed like a jester calmly
leaned over and took the child off the table.

"Not this time," he said.

"Not him too."  The red woman stared and then screeched, "Herrel!"  The
jester-man turned away.

"Give me his clothes, Aliky.  He's freezing."

At this moment Jimbo vanished from Gladys's arms.  She cried out,
"Jimbo!"  and cried out again when she saw him briefly on the table
where the child had been.  He loomed like a mad spider in the queer
 light, and the shadows gave him far too many arms.  In another jolt of
movement, he was on the red woman.  His voice beat and howled through
her head, "WRONG GREED!  FOUL EATER!  GREEDY with such force that
Gladys nearly fell over, although she knew Jimbo was not shouting at
her.  She saved herself on the flank of the white centaur and stared at
him attacking the woman.  She had never known Jimbo do such a thing
before.

The woman screamed.  It looked as if she hid her face in her arms.

Then she grew other arms and flailed at the ether monkey.  An instant
later it was clear that there was another thing, many-armed like Jimbo,
emerging from the woman's substance to fight back.  There was, for
another instant, a scrawl of flailing limbs and a hideous low howling,
before the fabric of that world seemed to become too flimsy for the
creatures, and for the woman too.  Everything elongated around them,
blurred and stretched, so that the tearing and howling was going on in
a deepening pit composed of lawn, table, house, terrace until it tore
under the strain and snapped back, leaving a vibrating bare space.

 Wrapped together in the nightmare bodiless intimacy of the sepia
space, Joe-Maureen looked up and screamed.  A fighting tangle of glossy
black limbs, with something fraying and shredding among them, plunged
toward them, filling the whorls with senseless howlings.  He-she
struggled aside, threw herself askew, and then threw himself backwards.
The tangle plunged wailing past, barely missing them, and vanished on
downwards, spraying them as it went with hot acid redness, that lashed
them agonisingly with salt.

"Blood!"  screamed Maureen.

"That was real matter!"

Joe's reply was "I want out.  Up this way?"

"I don't care anymore," she said.

"I'd do anything."

He said, "You might have to.  You realize we're stuck with one another
after this, do you?"

She knew he was right.  The nightmare enwrapment meant that she knew he
knew a myriad small, disgraceful things about her, for instance the way
she had pushed poor old Flan Burke into going in the.  capsule just in
order that Flan might not rival her in the troupe.  And she knew the
same things about him.  What he had done to that man Wilfrid in With,
for example.  Wilfrid may have deserved it, but Joe had been vile, just
vile.  These and thousands of other pieces of knowledge bound them so
tight that nothing short of murder could release them and even murder
was out of the question, for what one thought, the other would know.

"I'll settle for that," she said.

The too," he said.

"Up now.  I think this is how.  It'll take a while."

Eventually there was a sense of rising.  Altogether elsewhere, in the
sealed flat, their two flaccid bodies stirred on the sofa.

 Gladys was crying.

"I'm all right she told everyone mendaciously.

"I

knew Jimbo had an enemy.  I thought he was running away from it, but I
see now he was just waiting his chance to come here.  But he was a good
friend of mine-Oh, good God, my girl!  Haven't you ever dressed a child
before?  Let Auntie Gladys.  Put him down on the table.  Give me his
clothes.  Is this all he's got?  Lord, it's filthy!  "

She was briskly heaving Marcus back into his pyjama suit when the other
centaurs charged in among the trees and galloped shouting across the
lawn, overturning the fire tripods as they came.  She turned around.
Her face was fit to look at by then.

"If someone doesn't do something, I'll--' The king, in some tranquil,
un guessed manner, contrived to surround the table in a bubble of
peace.  His mages gathered into it.  Against a dark background of
running centaurs all intent on smashing things, pursued hither and
thither by a red-headed young man in wellies, who seemed to want to
stop them, the king looked at the weary company gathered around the
table.  Tod was sitting on it with his arms around Josh.

"I don't think we have broken the law," Josh said aggressively.

"Not at all," said the king.

"It is a year since your service began.

Besides, things have changed, over in With.  " He nodded pleasantly to
the girl who had tried to dress Marcus.

"Thank you.  Miss Aliky.  I think you'd better return to Ludlin with
us.  Your cover is probably blown."  His round glasses went on to focus
on Philo, leaning on the end of the table in the rags of a green cotton
dress.

"I take it you were able to help this young gualdian?"

Aliky giggled.

 "Not that much.  He's better at illusion than anyone I've ever met.
All I did was put the idea in his head, Your Majesty."

Philo grinned, soft but tired.

"I almost had fun hunting the mansion for myself but I was scared silly
really, sir.  I think only Zillah giles oh!"

Everyone glanced at Zillah and Herrel perched face-to- face on the
corner of the table, and saw that they were lost to everyone but each
other.

"That makes two good women gone," Tod murmured regretfully to Josh.

The king had looked on to Paul.

"Hallow Isle?"  Paul nodded in a way that was near a bow.

Gladys by now had done up every snap on the pyjama suit.

"There.

Dirty but warm.  Majesty, there is the matter of stopping this one's
mother from "Too late," said the king.

Gladys glanced keenly at Herrel.  The jester's clothes now enclosed a
normal man, with an air of Mark to him.

"I see what you mean.  Now what?"

"Things are actually much improved," the king said.

"Zillah, I think, must have had the sense to call on someone to
balance.  And that abomination which inhabited Lady Marceny had sucked
up a surprising amount.  I felt a great wad of something tear loose
when it went.  This has made things a great deal better, although a
little still remains.

Zillah and her son, for instance.  Excuse me, sir.  " He tapped
Herrel's shoulder, firmly.

"Yes, you.  Would you mind telling me your plans for the future ?"

Herrel turned reluctantly, saw who it was, and stood up.

"My idea was well, Zillah wants to live here, and I suppose the estate
is mine now.  I'd like to secede from Leathe and make Listanian part of
the Orthe.  Is that possible.  Your Majesty?  It's been a dream of mine
ever since I was a boy."

"It seems a good idea," said the king.

"But He sighed and shook his head at Gladys, because Herrel had already
turned back to Zillah.

"So we are still less than balanced.  I take it you are returning,
madam?"

 "Of course," said Gladys.

"I've more than twenty cats unless that daughter of mine has put them
in the pot.  There's no knowing with that girl.  Yes, I am going back
just as soon as someone's told me what I do about global warming when I
get there.  That's what started all this the mess With made of my world
and I tell you straight, I don't go without an answer.  Majesty."

"Here is your answer," said the king.

"You must take the ex-High Head of With back with you."

At this Gladys said, "Oh, look here\ The poor man!"  and the High Head
said, "Your Majesty, I refuse."

"You may not refuse, either of you," the king said.

"Magus Lawrence has in his head all the lore of With, which is a very
great weight of ideas.  He also started your global warming.  It is
therefore just that he try to put it right."

"Your Majesty, I don't know how--' the High Head was forced to
confess.

"Then you must go there and try," the king said.

"It is my will.  Go now."

Tod had never felt the king raise his will before.  The force of it
astounded him.  Everyone stirred under it, like trees in a breeze.  The
High Head bowed.  Gladys stood up in a clack of beads and held out her
hand to him.

"Come along, dear."

He took her hand and they walked away towards a wood in the distance,
not quite in the space where the centaurs still rushed about.

"I have forsworn women," everyone heard the High Head warn Gladys as
they left.

"That's all right, Lawrence," her voice answered.

"I've been a widow for years.  But you'll have your stomach cared for.
I hope you like cats."

The going of Gladys deprived Marcus of someone to talk to.  He was warm
now, and no longer frightened, and beginning to feel lively.  He looked
hopefully at Tod, but Tod, for some reason, was doubled over in fits of
laughter.  He looked at Philo and Josh and saw they were in the not
just-now-I'm-tired mood.  Aliky didn't know enough; nor did the
 serious men holding lights.  He looked at Zillah.  No, she and the man
who walked on ceilings were not-now-I'm- busy.  That left only one.
Marcus pulled the king's sleeve and pointed a starfish hand at the
busily galloping centaurs.

"Ort bake ow/ he remarked.

"Bad doubt."

The king stared at him.

 "I do beg your pardon.  I didn't quite catch that."