Trashcan tugged on his arm again. "Go get cleaned up."

"I've got to do something about him."

"Done enough. Go."

Embarra.s.sed and scared, John went. He didn't run home, but he wanted to.

Faye, what am I going to do?

Faye?

CHAPTER.

4.

Technically, Mr. Sorli was a dwarf, his legs being far shorter than normal for a man with his breadth of shoulder. Yet he showed neither the unsteadiness of gait so characteristic of those afflicted with dwarfism, nor any of the other deformities common among ordinary dwarves. But then, Sorli was not ordinary. If he had been, he would have had no business taking up any of Pamela Martinez's time.

He walked into the room and headed for the chair-just one special chair today-facing her desk. He walked confidently, paying no attention to the rich furnishings. Most people could not stop themselves from gawking at the art on the walls, the fine furniture, or, at the very least, the soft thick carpet under their feet. This office was of a quality beyond the means of most, a chamber suitable to the president of the North American Group of the Mitsutomo Keiretsu. Sorli paid it no more attention than a commuter might pay to a subway platform. The dwarfs indifference to her office irked her more than his brusque manner.

She let him sit long enough for the chair to take a baseline and match it against the file readings. While he waited for her, she watched the tracings fall into line on her desktop monitor. For all he would know, she was reading the Wall Street Journal.

Sorli didn't wait for her to speak.

"I'm busy."

Was that irritation in his voice? Yes, the monitor confirmed it; she was getting better at reading him. She was pleased; it made him a little less mysterious. But she was also displeased that he would have the temerity to imply that his time was more valuable than hers. He was on her payroll, after all. Besides, she knew he was busy; she'd read her watchdog's report. As she pretended to cut off the monitor, she said, "You did not report to me when you returned from Maine."

He shrugged. "There was nothing conclusive."

"We expended resources at your request. I expect a report. From you."

"Very well." Sorli drew a breath. "A! Churdy was killed by a creature of the otherworld, probably one of the Red Cap cult."

The otherworld. She'd been hearing about it for years now, and still the very mention of it sent shivers down her spine.

Though the monitor said he was telling the truth, she asked, "You can verify this intrusion?"

"Probably not to your satisfaction, Ms. Martinez. But then, the proof you want will only be obtainable after it is too late."

It was his standard response. When Sorli had first mentioned the otherworld to her, she had thought he was joking. The very idea of a dimension coexisting with the normal world was weird enough, though it had some justification, according to some of the more abstruse philosophers of physics. But to claim that this other dimension was one in which magic worked and chaos ruled! That was an insane concept, the stuff of tabloid journalism and instant video doc.u.mentaries. Sorli's hypothesis of an otherworld went far in explaining many of the strange things that happened in the world. If one accepted his basic a.s.sumptions. But asking acceptance was asking a lot.

"Churdy was a motorcycle racer. What kind of connection could he have had with the otherworld?"

"We have not been able to ascertain any connection at all. This leaves the inescapable conclusion that the connection lay with his pa.s.senger. It is likely that the pa.s.senger was the real target of the attack."

"Pa.s.senger?"

"A woman. As yet unidentified."

"There was no mention of a woman in the police report."

If Sorli was surprised by her mention of the police report he didn't show it, either visually or on the monitor. All he said was, "Good."

Confidence, or overconfidence? Or simple insanity?

"I did not get to where I am today by being a fool." No, indeed. She had taken advantage of every opportunity, equal or otherwise, and gained a high position. She had clawed her way up through the corporate world to her current post with Mitsutomo, and men and women who had thought her a fool had learned otherwise, to their regret. "You have used Mitsutomo resources, and you bring me no results. I have to answer for these expenditures. What am I to tell my superiors?"

"The truth."

"That we are being invaded by goblins and fairies?"

"Your words."

"Give me other words, then. Something to make this alleged threat more credible."

"Names aren't important." The monitor jumped a little there. "Call them what you want, it won't change their nature. But do not deny their existence."

"Bring me proof."

"In time."

It was the same promise he had made when he had first asked for her help in combating the intrusions of the other-world. She hadn't believed him, of course, expecting to find real-world monsters behind his fairy-tale dangers. She had gone along a.s.suming that the information he gathered would eventually turn out to be useful; she had never found information-gathering to be a waste of resources. An organization as diverse as Mitsutomo Keiretsu had many places to apply information.

Sorli's investigations had given her some of what she sought, but they had also turned up situations that were less understandable. That was unless one accepted his otherworld hypothesis. But there was never anything concrete, incontrovertible. Proof, hard proof, continued to be elusive, and each day she found herself locked tighter and tighter into his intricate schemes. He was leading her farther and farther down the path he walked. No longer could she deny that something was happening. Whatever that something was, Sorli had some sort of inside line on it. Each day, she found herself closer to accepting his explanation.

Perhaps it was she who was mad?

No. That was an unacceptable explanation. There was something real going on, and S5rli knew more about it than he was telling.

"Tell me about this woman."

He shrugged. "The powers of the otherworld have agents here. Those agents are working to bring about a full convergence of the worlds."

The monitor suggested that he was withholding information, but the confidence quotient was not high enough for her to call him on it. "Are you saying that she is some kind of fairy?"

"My information concerning her origins is insufficient at this time. However, I suggest that we must be prepared to act. It is likely that she is an agent of the otherworld. In that case, she must be stopped."

"Are you proposing what I think?"

He smiled at her. He might have been a cat contemplating a trapped mouse. She considered his sanity again. If he was suggesting a murder, perhaps his delusions had taken too dangerous a turn. In fact, she detected a flaw in his logic.

"You said you thought that this woman was the target of the attack. If she is an agent working for the otherworld's interests, attacking her makes no sense. Why would the powers of the otherworld, wishing to see a convergence, try to kill their own agent?"

As always, he had an answer. "There are factions on the other side, and they do not always work in concert. This is fortunate, a factor in our favor."

"Why not leave her to this opposing faction, then?"

"As well trust a work-relief prole to do your own job. Stopping the convergence must be our highest priority." He slipped out of the chair and leaned on her desk. "The intrusion of magic into this world would be disastrous. You cannot begin to imagine the chaos that would result. Not only governments would collapse."

For once, Sorli was wrong; she had often imagined the chaos of a world gone magical. In fact, she had done such a good job of constructing that nightmare scenario of unbearable instability that it was costing her sleep. Magic did not belong in the world. Not in her world. Her world was a rational one; dangerous, perhaps, but predictable. She knew how to survive in it. She had built herself an island of stability in the turmoil of the world, and she had no intention of seeing her hard-won stability torn away from her.

Magic was the wildest of wild cards, capable of destroying all stability, everything she had made for herself. In a world confused by magic, the corporations would lose control; and by extension, so would she. Unacceptable! She could not-would not-let that happen. She had to take action. But what should she do? She hated herself for dithering. She'd thought she'd been long done with such indecision. Her uncertainty reminded her too much of who she'd been.

The threat of chaos reminded her of things, too. Past things, things she had walked away from or buried, things she had sworn never to let affect her life again. She'd banished chaos from her life once, she was never going back there. Never!

Sorli was still asking her to take a lot on faith, but could she afford not to believe him? What he'd shown and told her was so nebulous. Why hadn't he been able to provide her with more than hints and suggested interpretations? She wanted real, solid evidence, which Sorli had so far been unwilling or unable to supply. Without evidence, acting involved risk. She didn't like to take chances, but she had survived times when a gamble was the only answer, the only way to remain in control, and this was looking more and more like one of those times. But if she played this wrong, there'd be a scandal; a scandal could prove very hard to survive.

The fear of chaos haunted her. If there was an otherworld, and if Sorli's mystery woman was working to bring it into convergence with the world as Pamela knew it, that woman had to be stopped. Pamela had never lacked resolution in the past; she had always had enough guts to do whatever had to be done. So why was she hesitating? Was it just prudent caution, or was if more than that? Was she afraid of being embarra.s.sed if Sorli pushed her into unjustifiable actions? Or was she afraid that Sorli's fears might be all too correct, and that there might be nothing she could do to stop the advent of the chaos? She needed to know more about what was really going on.

"I want you to find out more about the woman before you take any action."

"We may not have the luxury of discussing this at leisure."

'I don't have the luxury of making a mistake." She fixed him with a stare. "Neither do you."

"The biggest mistake would be to let this woman continue to operate."

"Convince me."

Scowling, Sorli said, "If I have not yet convinced you of the danger, we are lost." He tapped the privacy screen around her monitor. "Your tools tell you that I do not lie. Believe them, if you will not believe me. We come to the cusp. We must act,"

"Convince me."

Sorli drew himself up. Without further argument, he turned and departed. As the door slid shut behind him, Pamela touched the intercom.

"Get Mr. McAlister on the line."

She needed a word with her watchdog.

Making himself presentable after his fight with Winston took time. John considered getting Kelley on the phone and calling off the date, but Faye convinced him otherwise. By the time he had cleaned himself up, he was running half an hour late. He s.n.a.t.c.hed bits and pieces of an outfit from his closet, mostly with an eye to hiding the bruises. The only way to hide his bruised and sc.r.a.ped hands was to wear gloves; he hoped Kelley would take it as a fashion statement.

He was pushing an hour late when he arrived at her dorm. To his relief, she buzzed him in rather than just telling him to get lost. She came down to the lobby promptly, but stayed aloof all the way to the Northsider Club. They had missed the first set and Kim Murphey was well into her second set when they arrived, but the music soon mellowed Kelley and by the end of the third and final set, she was talking easily. Neither of them mentioned the afternoon's fight, encouraging John to hope that she had either missed it or not realized it had been he.

He wanted the evening to last forever, forever delaying the time when he'd have to deal with the repercussions of the afternoon's fight. He suggested they go to the Frilly Cow for a snack, and she agreed. When they were settled in a booth and had put in their order, he started on a topic that seemed safe.

"You seemed to like the concert."

"Yeah. It was good. It's nice to hear real instruments once in a while."

"Real instruments?"

"Yeah. You know, instead of synthesized sound. The boards are light-years ahead of what they used to be, but there's something different about a real instrument that even an individuator can't dupe."

"Maybe it's the player."

"Or the company."

The company? Had she really said that?

Their order arrived, saving John from immediately saying something stupid. Once the c.o.kes and burgers were on the table, their talk took a sudden turn to other, safer things like cla.s.ses and a.s.signments and professors. Eventually, the conversation rolled around to the music again.

"Yeah. The music's fine. But the lyrics." She rolled her eyes. "The lyrics are always so, like, imaginative."

"You think so? I've always been fascinated by the stories they tell. Do you ever think that there might be something more than simple imagination behind the stories in the songs?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Like, maybe some of the stories aren't just stories. Like, maybe they're some kind of distorted history."

"History? With all those witches and ghosts and magic talismans and stuff?"

"Why not?" Kelley quirked an eyebrow at him, so he tried another tack. "I mean, couldn't stuff like that be symbolism for other things?"

"I suppose." Her agreement was hesitant.

"Suppose it was. For the sake of argument. Don't you have to wonder what might be behind those stories?"

She looked dubious. She was clearly beginning to think he was an idiot. If he shut up now, she'd know for sure. His only hope was to keep talking and bring the conversation back to a place she found more acceptable. But how? Since dropping the subject cold would just freeze ideas about his weirdness in her head, he'd have to work himself out into safer areas.

"Give me a minute, here. If you suppose that there is a real story behind the song, you have to suppose that there are real events and real people in it, right?" She nodded dubiously. "Given that. And given that there isn't anything like magic in the real world . . ." That seemed to score points. Keep talking, boy. "A lot of seemingly magical effects can be explained by chemistry and psychological manipulation, partic.i.p.atory hallucination, and stuff like that. You get a bunch of people believing in a thing and telling each other about it, and then they start believing that it really does exist and when they see anything that could by the furthest stretch of the imagination be that thing, it is. That's the way a crocodile becomes a dragon. It's imagination at work, but it's not making it up out of whole cloth, you see?"

"I suppose."

"Right. It's the same sort of thing with the people in the stories. You take someone like Tam Lin. Here's a guy, a landed lord, that n.o.body has seen for a while. He's, like, disappeared. The song says he went to Faery, but who knows where he really went? Maybe the Faery riff is a cover story, to hide the fact that he was off doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Remember, the old-time folk believe in this Faery stuff. Who'd ask what he was really doing? Point is, he comes back and finds somebody, Fair Janet, has taken over his turf. Maybe he's been gone so long that he's been declared legally dead. His problem: he wants his turf back, but can't do it legally. Her problem: she's pregnant, and won't or can't tell who the father is. Maybe she doesn't know. Anyway, she needs protection. Maybe from the father himself, maybe from her father. This Tam Lin cooks up a scheme. By getting married, he gets back his claim on the turf, she gets to keep it too, and the kid gets a father. The Faery stuff gives it all a fancy gloss."

"You make it sound almost possible."

"No almost about it."

"So who's the Queen of Faeiy?"

He wished he knew. He also wished he had an answer for her.

A shadow fell across the table between them, chilling the conversation. John looked up to see a tall man partially silhouetted against the Cow's lights. The light leaked around from behind the stranger lit enough of his long face to show his somber expression. It was an official business kind of expression. John didn't recognize the man, but he got the impression that he should know him, or at least what organization he represented.

There was no corporate affiliation pin on the lapel of the stranger's long leather coat. The coat was dark on the shoulders, as if it was wet, but it hadn't been raining. If it had been, his hair, white-blond and finely styled, would have been plastered to his head.