Once it had been driven by the simple mechanics of the levels-of aspiration and demotion. Life had been a giant game of snakes and ladders. But now . . . now society was fear driven. All of these guns and guards and laser-tracking devices were signs of a deeply paranoid culture. So paranoid that it was now quite normal to assume the worst-to assume that your enemies would come and get you in your bed.

He sat, feeling suddenly heavy boned and tired. Paranoia ... it was the philosophy of the Clay, of the place from which he'd come. Upwards he'd climbed and ever upward, until he'd found himself here, at the very top of the City, beneath the roof, like a bird in a loft of an old house, fluttering about, trying to get out. But there was no way out. And slowly, very slowly, the darkness was climbing after him. Up andup it came. And what guns and trackers would keep it out? What precautions could ever be enough?

As the sedan lifted he sat back, shaking his head angrily.

It was Ravachol's death that had made him think all this. That and Chang's foolish prattling. So a few rich people had died . . . hadn't that always been the way? Wasn't history filled with such instances? Yes, but that made it no more comforting, for the signs were clear now-there for the dullest man to read.

The sedan shuddered slightly, then began its swaying motion.

Li Yuan was right. They had to act now or go under. But what action could prevent the coming crisis?

What measures could assure their children's futures?

Yes, and that was the nub of it, wasn't it? For what was the point in loving someone-in pursuing and possibly marrying them-if it were all to come to nought?-if society were to crumble away and the species end itself in a frenzy of bloodlust?

Why take the risk of loving and having children when the risks were so high, the rewards of love so tentative? Why make oneself a hostage to the times?

Because you have no choke. Because you love her and want her and--and because if you don't try you'll never forgive yourself.

And because nothing else mattered. Nothing.

"Rachel?"

Emily gave a little start, then turned, regaining her composure. For a second she had forgotten who she was-had been thrown by the use of her assumed name. She had been daydreaming: thinking about Michael, wondering where he was, what he was doing.

"What is it?" she asked half challengingly, staring back at the tall, pockfaced Hung Mao who stood there, an arm's length from her.

Pasek smiled coldly, then moved past her, looking out from the balcony across the crowded Main below. His dark Slavic eyes passed briefly across the ragged awnings, the packed mass of unwashed and shabby humanity that crowded the floor between the stalls, dismissing what he saw.

"I thought we ought to talk."

Emily felt her stomach muscles tighten with aversion. "Talk?"

He turned back. "Sure. We need to clear the air between us."

She was silent, uncertain what to say.

Pasek's smile was like a sneer. "You don't like me, Rachel DeValerian. I know that. I can see it even now. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that we don't let it get in the way of things."

"I don't see-"

He raised one pale, thin hand, interrupting her. "There are going to be changes."

She stared at the dark leather band about his wrist. On it was a copy of the symbol he wore on a silver chain about his neck. A cross within a circle."Changes?"

His smile evaporated. The eyes were brutal now. "It's already happening. A purge. Those we can't trust.

I ordered it."

"You . . ." She fell silent, understanding. He'd had Chou Te-hsing killed. Yes, and all his deputies. All except her. She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Why?"

"Because it was time. We were drifting. We needed a new direction. Chou had no idea. He had to go."

She nodded, not because she agreed, but because she saw it all clearly now-saw why he'd pressed to have his men placed in key strategic positions; why he'd held his tongue in the last council meeting when Chou had spelled out the new program. You planned this, she thought, all of her instincts about the man confirmed in an instant. He'd known then that it didn't matter what Chou said or didn't say at that meeting; knew then that, come this morning, Chou would be dead, his power base in the Black Hand destroyed. Pasek had taken over. He was the Black Hand.

"What do you want?"

His hand went to the cross hanging about his neck. "I want you to join us. Become one of the sealed."

She made to answer him, but he spoke over her. "Oh, I know you don't believe. That doesn't matter.

Not now, anyway. Right now what matters is that we consolidate. Make sure the Hand doesn't tear itself apart. There'll be a lot of ill feeling. Chou had a lot of support at grass roots level. People respected him.

Wrongly, as it turns out, but that's by the by. As for you, Rachel, you're respected too. Rightly so. I've watched you for a long time and I like what I've seen. There are no illusions about you. You get on with things. It's as if you've seen it all before. Nothing shocks you. Even this. I saw how quickly you understood how things stood-how quickly you accepted them, and I like that. I'd be sorry to lose you."

She felt a faint shiver, not of fear, but of aversion, ripple through her. "So that's it, is it? I join you-become one of the sealed-or I die?"

He shook his head. "If I'd wanted you dead, you'd be dead. No. It has to be your choice. If you choose not to work with me you can go into exile. Africa, maybe. Or Asia."

"And if I stay?"

"You get to help formulate policy."

She laughed, astonished, then frowned, searching his eyes for some kind of explanation. "I don't get it. I want what Chou wanted."

"No. I've watched you at those meetings. I've seen the doubt in your face, the frustration at some of the decisions. You want what I want. Not all of it, but enough for us to work together. To make the Black Hand not just another shitty little faction but a genuinely important force. A force for change. You want that. I know you do. I've seen it in your eyes."

Emily looked away. It was true. The last eighteen months had been nothing but frustration. But to work with Pasek ... It was on her lips to say no, to tell him to go to hell, but something stopped her.

"I need to think about it."

He looked her up and down, then nodded. "Okay. Twenty-four hours. That's all I can give you. We're meeting at noon tomorrow. At the White Mantis. If you're with me, be there. If not . . . well, good luck."She watched him go. Saw his tall, spiderish figure vanish into the crowd, then shivered, chilled by this sudden turn in events. Twenty-four hours. It wasn't long. And if she didn't turn up?

She didn't know. For once her instincts failed her.

Wett? she asked herself, sighing heavily. What are you going to do?

She turned, putting her hands on the rail of the balcony, leaning her full weight on them as she looked out across the crowded marketplace. She knew what she wanted-at least, she thought she did. But Pasek .

. . could she work with Pasek?

Twenty-four hours. It wasn't long. But maybe that was how it always was.

She pushed away from the rail, then turned, hurrying away, pushing through the crowded corridor urgently, hastening toward her room, conscious of the seconds ticking by.

TAO CHU looked round the door into his half-brother's suite of rooms, then took a step inside.

"Kung-chih?" he called softly. "Are you there?"

The study was in shadow, the last of the evening's light blocked off by the closed slats of the window. On the far side of the room, the door to his brother's bedroom was open. Tao Chu went across, one hand pressed to the bandage at his side.

"Kung-chih?"

There was no answer. The room was empty, the bed made up. Tao Chu turned, looking back into the study, wondering where Kung-chih could have got to.

A sharp pain stabbed through him, taking his breath. Making his way across slowly, he eased into his brother's chair and sat there until the pain subsided.

He looked down. There was fresh blood on the bandage. Surgeon T'ung would be angry with him and would no doubt speak to his uncle, but that didn't matter right now-he had to speak to Kung-chih; to find out what was going on.

"Curse him," he said quietly, his anxiety for his beloved half-brother outweighing any concern he had for himself. "Curse his stupid pride."

He leaned forward, searching the desktop with his eyes, looking for some clue as to where he might be, but there was nothing. Kung-chih was probably out walking in the grounds somewhere-in the orchards, perhaps-or riding in the woods to the south of the palace.

Brooding, probably. Yes, he'd seen the way he had looked at their uncle Ma; seen the resentment in his eyes, the hurt. But Kung-chih had to come to terms with that. His life-his expectations-had changed and he must live with that. He could not mope about forever.

He was about to get up and return to his room when he heard voices outside, coming closer. His brother's voice and . . .

Tao Chu frowned, surprised. It was Hwa Kwei again-Tsu Ma's Chief Steward of the Bedchambers.

What in the gods' names was Kung-chih doing talking to him twice in one day?

There was a murmured exchange, a curt dismissal, and then Kung-chih came into the room. He switchedon the light and turned, then stopped dead, his mouth open, seeing Tao Chu there at his desk. For a moment there was a look of guilty shock on his face, then anger.

"Tao Chu! Why aren't you in your bed? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I . . .".

Kung-chih came and stood over him, glaring at him fiercely. "Did Uncle Ma send you to spy on me? Is that it?"

Tao Chu shook his head, hurt by the accusation, but Kung-chih went on.

"Why, you fucking little sneak! I thought I could trust you, but as soon as my back's turned you were in here, weren't you, poking about to see what you could find! But you won't find anything, brother."

Find what? he wanted to say, but the question made no sense. He hadn't come here to poke about, he'd come here to talk to him, to warn him about associating with the likes of Hwa Kwei.

He closed his eyes, the ache in his side suddenly worse, but Kung-chih went on, his voice savage now, unrelenting.

"You little worm! You sniveling little worm! All those words of consolation and all the while you're fucking lapping it up. That's the truth, isn't it? You loved seeing Tsu Ma humiliate me. You just loved it!"

"No . . ." Tao Chu said, crying now, unable to believe that this was Kung-chih talking to him this way.

What had he done-what had he ever done-to deserve this?

"Fuck off! Just fuck off! Next time I find you poking around my rooms, I'll kick you from here to Africa!"

Slowly, every movement an effort, Tao Chu pulled himself up. For a moment he stood there, swaying, his vision swimming, then it came clear again. Kung-chih stood there close by, less than an arm's length from him, yet so far away, it seemed a whole world separated them.

"Brother . . ." he said, his eyes pleading with Kung-chih, his right hand reaching for him, but Kung-chih brushed his hand off angrily and leaned toward him, his words spat into Tao Chu's face.

"Brother? No, Tao Chu, you've got it wrong. You're not even a friend!"

RAVACHOL LAY facedown on the operating table, naked under the pale blue light. They had finished the dissection and had begun to tidy up. Kim stood back, weary now, letting his assistants finish off.

After extensive scanning they had taken sample slices from different areas of the android's brain, running a number of tests on them. All had shown the same-a severe deterioration of the brain tissue, almost as if it had been burned away.

What could have done that? he wondered, puzzled by the phenomenon. Was Curval right? Was the organic material they were using substandard? Or had something more sinister taken place?

Later, as he showered, his mind toyed with possible explanations. Synaptic burnout of some kind? A virus? Or maybe-just maybe- some form of neuronal poison?

There was no physical evidence for it. Its food had been strictly vetted and there had been no signs on the body of an injection, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he was. Someone had got to it. Someone-an agent of one of their business rivals?-had made sure the experiment would fail.I wasn't wrong, he realized with a start. The brain's structure was sound. But someone has been tampering with it. Someone who had access.

The thought was chilling. At any other time he would have dismissed it as a product of the hour and his depressed mood, but this was not paranoia. The more he considered the history of its deterioration, the more he saw how false, how unscientific, it had been. No ... it hadn't been a natural decay. All along they had floundered for explanations for what was happening, not wanting to face the obvious.

But who?

He stepped from the shower and shook himself, not wanting to wait for the warm air-currents to start up, then padded across to the terminal in the corner of the room.

"Who was it?" he asked, knowing that if anyone knew, It knew. "Who poisoned Ravachol?"

The Machine was silent.

"You know. I know you know. So why won't you say? You see everything. If it happened, you saw it.

Why, you could even show me, I bet!"

"The screen," it said tonelessly. "Look at the screen."

Kim watched, fascinated at first and then horrified as he saw who it was. When he spoke again his voice was small and frightened.

"Why didn't you say? Why didn't you show me this before?"

"You didn't ask."

"But . . ."

Kim leaned against the terminal, feeling suddenly more tired than he'd ever felt. He had thought it was over, thought himself cured, but here was proof that it was still going on, unknown to him.

"Run it again," he said, forcing himself to watch as, on the screen, he slipped from his room and, creeping stealthily past the guards, went to the android's cell. There, crouching beside the sleeping creature, he took a small pouch from his pocket and gently brushed some of its powdery contents onto Ravachol's lips.

As the figure on the screen turned, the lens zoomed in, catching for a moment the dark malevolence of its eyes. Kim shuddered, recognizing it from his dreams. It was Gweder ... his mirror self.

Gweder and Lagasek-"Mirror" and "Starer," his two halves, the dark and light of his being, names from his Clayborn past.

"A'dhywas'lur," he said softly, a ripple of pure fear running up his spine. Up from the ground. Then, more practically, "What did it use?"

"Something it stole from you. Something you made and then forgot about."

"But I don't forget."