Put trust then now in the black-boughed tree, Lie down, and open to me The inner dark of the mystery, Be, penetrate, like the tree.

-D. H. lawrence, The Yew Tree on the Downs.

I go new ways, a new speech has come to me; like all creators, I have grown weary of the old tongues.

-FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, "The Child with the Mirror," from Thus Spake Zarathustra, 1883.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Clay.

SEEN FROM AFAR the City was a glacier, its featureless white cliffs thrusting out into the sea, following the contours of the coast. Thorn stood at the prow, one hand shielding his eyes, the other gripping the roof of the steering hut as the boat rose and fell. There was the steady slap and slosh of water against the wooden sides of the boat; a regular vibration in the wood beneath his hand as the engine chugged noisily.

Thorn looked to his side, studying the boatman. He was a squat, broad-shouldered man in his middle years, his neck and arms well muscled. He stared ahead, his rough hands gripping the wheel tightly. His wind-carved, ruddy face was handsome in a primitive way, typical of the men who worked this coast.

His hair was short and tightly curled, sea bleached almost to whiteness. Like most of his kind he was reticent with strangers. He had uttered barely a dozen words to Thorn since they had set out from St.

Mary's earlier that morning.

Thorn looked away, enjoying the bite of the wind against his face. Ahead the land seemed to grow by the moment, the vast walls of pearled whiteness soaring into the cloudless blue. A rock slid by to his left, like the dark back of an animal. He turned to see it swallowed by the swell.Slowly the boat came around, its rolling motion exaggerated as it began to run parallel to the coastline.

For a while they maintained this course, then the boatman swung the wheel sharply to the right, turning the boat inland once more.

Ahead an arm of rock jutted from beneath the massive walls, dwarfed by them but still huge. The port lay to the far side of the rock, in the bay beyond. A hundred ch'i ahead the sunlit surface of the sea ended in a sharply defined line. Beyond was darkness. Slowly they approached that line. Fifty ch'i. Twenty. Then, suddenly, they were beneath the City's walls, in a still, cavernous place of intense shadow. The wind dropped. The sound of their engine came back to them across the dark water. Thorn turned and saw the boatman glance up at the overtowering walls, then look away with a shudder.

He looked down-the water a glaucous black, like the swollen pupil of a giant eye-and had a sudden sense of its depth beneath the hull.

Up ahead, waves were breaking against the stone, then washing against the shore beneath the wall, all force spent. Closer and closer they came, the sunlight up ahead. Great slabs of rock thrust up out of the sea, jagged and irregular. They passed within a boat's width of them, rounding the headland, then came out into the sunlight again, but it was no warmer. If anything, the wind blew fiercer here, churning the water into spray and making the boat rock steeply, its prow smacking into each wave as its engine revved, fighting the current, drawing closer to the land.

THE HARBOR WAS CALM in the brief afternoon sunlight. Five small craft were secured against the far wall. Once there would have been more. Many more. The cobbles of the jetty were loose, several missing. Empty fishing baskets were stacked against a low wall next to coils of old bleached ropes. Thorn looked about him, noticing how the paintwork on the boats was worn, likewise the tires that were hung as buffers over their sides. Relics, he thought. From a simpler age.

He looked up. Steep streets of old stone houses ended in the blind, unfeatured whiteness of the City.

What remained of the tiny fishing port rested in an angle between two of the vast external walls which rose two li into the air on either side of the harbor. Only for these brief afternoon hours was the village free of its oppressive shadow.

"Dyes-kynna?"

Thorn smiled and nodded at the boatman. Yes, he was going down. The old man shrugged and turned away.

"My a-vyn," Thorn said. 1 want to.

The boatman half turned, then shook his head.

A ragged group of locals had gathered on the quay opposite. They stared at him malevolently. Ignoring them, he lifted the heavy pack onto his shoulder and began to climb the path, his right hand on the haft of the dagger beneath his cloak.

He was a small dark-haired man with green eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. He was dressed simply but effectively against the cold. As he walked, his eyes searched the houses up ahead. The old cottages were dilapidated, mostly abandoned. Only those at the harbor's edge were still inhabited. Toward the end he climbed between ruins, the window gaping, roofs collapsed and open to the elements.

He went without hesitation, knowing the way. Others had come before him; traders like himself. He was nearing the entrance when the challenge came."Saf yn-nes!"

Stop where you are. He turned to his left and saw them. Two men, one standing in the doorway, glowering at him, the other sat at an empty window, a gap-toothed smile on his face-an old balding man with a wind-tanned face. Thorn addressed him.

"Gwycor," he said, placing his hand against his chest. Trader. Then he nodded toward the entrance. "My a-vyn . . . dyes-kynna. Yn dan cyta." He fumbled with the words, as if they were unfamiliar. I want to go down. Under the City.

The old man scratched the stubble on his chin and considered for a moment, then he leaned forward, his hand extended, palm open. The young man in the doorway straightened.

They were no real threat to him, yet he wanted no trouble. If he wanted to come out this way it might prove awkward later. He reached into his belt and removed two heavy coins. Five yuan each-more than enough to bribe his way in. He weighed them in his palm a moment, then placed them in the old man's hand.

He watched the old man bite at the solid plastic coins, then grunt his satisfaction. He waved Thorn on.

HE STOOD AT THE tunnel's mouth, looking inward at the blackness of the Clay. The air was warm and close, like the air in a small, unventilated room, fetid with animal smells. He reached into his cloak and drew a small strip of tape from an inner pocket then fastened it across his eyes. At once he could see, the uniform darkness resolved into a thousand shades of red, dissolving into black.

Securing the pack about his neck and shoulders he went in.

The land fell away sharply, then rose until it met the floor of the City. That floor formed a lid to the Clay, containing the vast and desolate lands beneath the City. Huge pillars thrust down into the earth, regularly spaced, holding the weight of the City: cold strokes of black against the multitextured redness of the land.

The roof was just above him where he stood. On tiptoe he could stretch and touch its smooth, unyielding surface. Beyond was Level One.

Thorn was looking east, toward old Lelant, looking down on a barren, almost lifeless land. Almost.

Nothing grew here in the Clay, and yet men still struggled to make a living in this awful place.

The Clay . . . The very words were like a curse.

He rearranged his pack then began the descent, looking from side to side as he went. It was possible that the Myghtem would know of this entrance and have it watched. If so news would get back and they would try to intercept him. He would have to move fast, skirting likely settlements, heading east and then south, until he came to the town where the Myghtern-the great "King under the City"-held his court.

As he made his way down he went over once again just what he knew of this place. Back before the City this place had had a name, Cornwall, but the land, once rich and green, was dust now. No sunlight ever pierced the Stygian gloom and the rain never fell. The air was stale and heavy. There was no doubting it. Two centuries of barrenness had left their mark. These were dead lands now.

Thorn went quickly, his legs moving in an easy, tireless rhythm. He skirted Lelant, then went directly east, meeting no one in that desolate landscape, covering more than fifteen Ji before he stopped. He had three days to get to the town. At most it would take one. That left him two days to find out what was happening before they came.He had just crossed the old road northwest of Crowan. He stood there, his back to a layered stone wall.

Ahead the land rose to the floor of the City in a huge wedge twenty li across. He would have to trace its outer rim north and then sharply south, following the plateau's contours. It would force him into the outskirts of Cambome, but that was preferable to the southern route. That led through Helston, now a dumping ground for City wastes.

He glanced down at the timer inset into his wrist. It was his only link to the outside in this timeless, seasonless place. Two hours had passed. He looked north, using long-sight, searching for activity on the slopes. Still there was nothing.

His luck was too good. Some sixth sense prickled his neck, making him hasten on, climbing the slope toward the Camborne road, then clambering over the wall at a low point where the stone had collapsed.

He looked again. The road was clear for several li ahead, but then it dropped out of sight. He began to walk, wary now, looking from side to side, his hand clutching the knife's haft.

They were waiting just beyond the crest of the road, a dozen of them seated casually, looking toward him as he came up over the top. He turned and saw more of them climb over the wall stealthily and then stand there, cudgels in their hands, blocking his retreat.

There was laughter from front and back. Feral, braying laughter. They had him. Twenty to one.

Impossible odds. His hand slipped from the dagger's handle. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands, showing they were empty. Then, smiling, Thorn walked on toward the seated men.

THEY TOOK His PACK, his dagger, then stripped him. He stood there before them, naked, ignoring their mocking eyes. After all, they themselves were scrawny specimens, malnourished and sparsely fleshed.

He saw how their eyes widened, seeing what was in his pack. It was a tiny treasure trove: Above toys, mainly-gifts for the Myghtern. Head-Stims, Enhancers, MedFac Sensorbs. Few of them would make any sense to these savages, even so they were in awe of the Above and its works.

One of them took charge of Thorn's things, snarling as he plucked them from unwilling hands and returned them to the sack. He was some inches taller than the rest and broader at the shoulder, but that said little. Like all here, his frame was small, stunted. Things grew trythro in the Clay. Twisted.

"Gwycor.

7.

" he asked, coming up close to Thorn and poking him in the chest. His breath stank. His grimacing face seemed demonic, the eyes two vivid pits of crimson in a mask of red. As in all cases of malnutrition, his head seemed too large for his body, the skull's shape clear through the stretched skin.

Thorn looked back blankly, pretending not to understand.

The dayman stared at him a moment longer, insolently studying his features, then turned away. "Map orth caugh," he said loudly. The men nearby laughed shrilly, like jackals baying.

Son of shit yourself, thought Thorn.

The laughter faded and with it came a sudden change of mood.

Thorn saw the transformation in their faces. They were uneasy now they had him. Their heads moved jerkily from side to side, eyes searching the darkness of the nearby slopes. He understood at once. They were intruders here. He frowned, reassessing things. He had thought they were the Myghtern's men.

At a signal from the leader two men brought forward what Thorn had taken to be cudgels and presentedthem, groveling cravenly. From a pocket in his ragged cloak the leader took out a small cylinder and pressed the button on its side. In an instant both of the torches were ablaze. The two men stood back, holding them aloft.

Thorn peeled the strip from his eyes and looked. The twin flames burned fiercely, steadily, throwing a warm orange glow across the surrounding fields. From the floor of the City, thirty ch'i overhead, the image of the flames was thrown back at them, as though in a giant, silvered mirror. Thorn looked up and saw the group of them, reflected, inverted in the dust-free surface: dark shapes with double shadows.

Looking down he saw the leader anew, in normal vision. Small, dark eyes sat in a gaunt, bloodless face that even the warm flames could not animate-more corpse now than demon.

They set off, heading north on the road, Thorn naked in the midst of them, the torches at front and back.

They moved fast, at times trotting, keeping a tight formation that had more to do with fear than discipline.

Nearing Camborne they slowed, skirting the ruins cautiously, expecting an attack at any moment. But the torches kept the scavengers at bay.

Past the town they headed north, onto the old coast road, then made a track across an old disused airfield. The old tarmac was cracked and pitted and the men skirted it almost superstitiously. On the far side the land rose almost to the floor of the City. In places they had to get down and crawl, the smooth, geometrically regular surface above, the rough uneven earth below.

And as they journeyed on, so Thorn's conviction grew stronger. These weren't the Myghtern's subjects, these were outsiders. He watched them, sharply attentive now, knowing just how valuable this knowledge was. It meant there was another route into the Clay, another unguarded entrance. He smiled to himself, then straightened as the land began to fall away again.

It was almost four hours before they halted. They were two li southwest of Perranporth, on the floor of a steep-sided valley. The underside of the City, more than two hundred ch'i overhead, reflected the torchlight faintly. Darkness seemed to plug each end of the valley.

How much farther? he wondered, and for the first time began to think that maybe they'd been expecting him.

They rested, binding his hands and feet and placing two guards to watch him. He lay on his side, pretending to sleep, listening to their talk, but it was only idle chatter. There was no clue as to who they were or where they'd come from. One fact alone caught his interest- they were to have a feast that night to celebrate. Which confirmed that this had been planned, his capture anticipated.

When they set off again Thorn could sense the thread of pure fear that circulated among the men, like a live wire joining them. Even the brightness of the torches couldn't drive back that inner darkness. To their north was a densely populated area. South was the Myghtern's capital. Between all was his land, held by his chiefs in his name. These lands were hostile.

They went a long way east then turned north again. They had changed the torches several times, but now the leader ordered them doused. For a time they stood there, huddled in a close group, accustoming themselves to the darkness, then set off again, cutting across a field, avoiding the old roads. This stage of the journey had taken them over five hours but now they were nearing their destination. Thorn could sense their relief. Despite the darkness there was a growing confidence among the men.

They were crossing the ruins of old buildings, picking their way carefully over fallen walls, heading southwest toward the waste. As they neared the coast it grew lighter, imperceptibly at first, but then markedly. It was still dark but the darkness was much softer and he could make out vague shape of gray against the black. There was a predawn sense of impending brightness. For a time he was puzzled, thenrealized what it was. Light was leaking through the translucent walls of the City.

They moved along the cliffs edge, the vastness of the wall to their right, the trapped sea dark and silent below them, the floor of the City a good hundred ch'i overhead. Echoes sounded eerily in this strange, twilit place, here where the City ended and the sea began. Sound carried back and forth between the still surface of the water and the roof overhead. Between moved the men, in silence, fearful of each small noise that sounded in that emptiness.

Dead voices spoke here. Falling rocks, the steady slop of the current.

They moved on, in single file now, descending, until they came to a wedge-shaped ledge of rock. There, where the wall of the City made one of its great folds, was the entrance.

It was a small, cavelike opening; a mere depression beneath the edge of the City's walls. Large slabs of fallen stone lay to each side of the opening. Pools of water had formed between them. At high tide, he realized this ledge would be underwater, but the rock was kept free of moss or weed.

Two of them went through first, while the others crouched, shielding their eyes, growing accustomed to the brightness. Then, abruptly, they pushed him forward. He ducked under, feeling the smooth, thick edge of the wall with his hand as he edged between the rocks. Then, suddenly, he was outside. Out into freshness, brightness. Brilliant, blinding freshness. Involuntarily he put his hand up to his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, reaching out with his other to keep his balance. A rough and bony hand grabbed his arm, then another. Blind, he was led unceremoniously up a steep slope, then thrown down roughly.

He smiled, feeling grass beneath his naked buttocks. He picked a stalk and put it to his lips. Cool and wet it was. Something living.

He had been inside the Clay less than eighteen hours, yet it had seemed much longer. The absence of light, the fetid stillness-such things played tricks with one's sense of time. Now time ran normally once more. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead, nearby his captors murmured softly among themselves, but beneath all he could hear the regular wash of the sea against the rocks below, the ageless rhythm of the tide. A gust of wind blew coldly across his skin, but he made no move to cover himself. He simply sat there, his head bent forward, his arms folded across his knees, at ease, listening, waiting to see what they would do.

After a while he opened his eyes. From where he sat he could not see much. A thick, rough grass grew on all sides, interspersed with thistle and gorse. The men were nearby. They had changed and put on warmer clothing-patchwork skins of leather and fur and cloth. For the first time he saw them smile, not in mockery but in good humor. They were at ease here in their own place.

Thorn smiled. He knew now where he was. In the old times this had been called Trevelgue. Two, maybe three thousand years before there had been an Iron Age fort here, built on the great hump of rock that jutted out into the bay-a tiny island, linked by a narrow wooden bridge to the mainland. Those days had returned, it seemed. Trevelgue had been resettled, the bridge rebuilt.

THEY LED HIM UP a slope of grass toward a palisade of stone and wood and rusted iron. It was a junk heap of a wall, more a symbol than a genuine barrier. At the gate he turned and looked back, seeing how the City's walls followed the curve of the coast to north and south. This place-this tiny island of earth and rock and grass-was dwarfed by that huge, unnatural edifice.

For the first time since his capture, Thorn laughed.

The guards turned and stared at him surprised. Since his capture he had made no sound, and his bearinghad won their respect. He had been proud and uncomplaining in his captivity-a man, for all that he was not of their tribe. But now his laughter changed things. One or two of them squinted at him, suddenly afraid. Their leader came across and pushed him roughly through the gate, making him stumble.

It was their turn for laughter, but this time it was uneasy. This one, they sensed, was different.

Conditions inside the fort were primitive. Simply constructed huts, made, like the palisade, of a ragtag of materials, were scattered about the edge of the central clearing. Small, ill-tended plots lay between the huts.

Thorn looked about him, wondering how old the settlement was. No more than twenty years, that was for certain. It hadn't shown up on the last coastal survey.

As he was led through they came out to stare at him. A ragged, ill-clothed people, the women distinguishable from the men only by their beardlessness, the children often on all fours. Clay, all of them.

Deformed by the darkness. Devolved.

The chiefs house lay in a depression at the top of the fortress. It was built lavishly compared to all that lay below it, even so it was a hovel, its cracks filled with lumps of moss.

One mystery was solved, however. From the roof of the chiefs house poked an aerial. Crude, pitted with rust, its anachronistic appearance brought a smile to Thorn's face. A radio. So that was how.

Even so, it asked more questions than it answered. However crude, this was beyond the Clay's capabilities. Such knowledge had been lost to them. This had to be Above work.

He was glad he'd let them take him. Who knew what else he'd find?

The chief stood in his doorway, an ugly smile on his face. About his shoulders was an old and tousled sheepskin, sign of his status. About his neck was a string of small skulls-old, yellowed animal skulls- linked by a leather band. His hair was combed straight back from a high forehead. Dark, thick, greasy hair. He was tall, much taller than any of them gathered there, Thorn included. Too tall to have been bred here, his skin too healthy despite its pallor.