A cast-out. He had found his level here. Become a king of sorts. Lording it over the Clay.

The pack leader took Thorn's sack to the chief and dropped it at his feet, then backed away, his eyes craving the tall man's approval.

"Da," the chief grunted. Good. But he was already crouched over the sack, fumbling inside it, greed and excitement naked in his face. He took things from the pack as if they'd melt, anxious to parade them before his eyes. Thorn watched him, imagining him as he'd been. A petty criminal. A faceless member of the lower levels. A nothing in the great Above. And here a chief.

"Why . . ." The chief pointed at Thorn. You, he was saying. He closed the pack and set it down, then came closer, walking around his naked captive looking him up and down. "Gwycor?" he asked. Then, when he received no answer, he turned to his lieutenant and touched his tongue. "Omlavar?" Is he dumb?

There was an awkwardness in the way he pronounced the old tongue. It was still a second language to him. He turned to face Thorn again, the ugly smile-a sneer of amusement-returning to his lips. "An estren tawesek. . . ."

Stranger than you think, Thorn thought. And for now, quite silent.The chief studied him a moment longer, a slight indecision in his eyes, then strode past him and stood on the lip of the depression, looking down over the rest of the settlement. He raised his arms high and seemed to punch at the air with his fists. "Prysner dhyn-ny! Gorthewer un golya!"

The prisoner is ours! Tonight a feast!

There was a ragged cheer from the people below, a half-human sound.

Thorn watched them a moment longer, then turned back to look at the rust-pitted aerial. He would destroy that before he went.

THEY PUT him IN A RUDE, low-ceilinged hut at the back of the chiefs house and bound his hands and feet. Lying there, he could hear the chief operating the radio set, sending a message out, then awaiting a reply. It was a long time coming.

He tried to figure out where this crude chain of communications might be based. He could identify two points, but where else? Brittany, perhaps. Somewhere on that coast. Or the Channel Isles. Yes, that was more likely. On Sark or Aldemey. But why? What was going on here?

It was why he had been sent. To find out and report back.

Night came, star studded and clear. From where he lay, Thorn could see the soft, pearled glow of the City beyond the settlement, a band of cold, milky light. It looked cold and alien. How did it make them feel, seeing that each night? Did it make them sense how small they were?- or did they turn their backs on it to face the darkness of the ocean?

The feast began an hour into the darkness. He could hear the babble of their excitement, smell their fires.

And something else. Roasting flesh. So there had been other captives here.

The fires crackled, threw up bright sparks into the darkness. Down below, the sea crashed against the rocks. Seabirds called in the dark, troubled by the activity on the great saddle of rock. Thorn lay still, biding his time. There was more to be learned here. Much more. And there was time. Plenty of time for him to find out why he'd been taken.

It was late when they came for him. They were naked, their skins and faces painted, sweat-beaded from the dance. Their eyes seemed wild, unfocused, their breath smelled of crude alcohol mixed with drugs.

Above drugs.

They unbound him, then gave him a rough sacking coverall to wear. He tied it at the waist and then stepped outside. Turning, he looked up and saw the brilliant circle of the full moon above the dark ocean.

From the base of the cliff far below came the soft rush and break of the waves. Thorn turned his head, looking at one of the men who'd come for him. In the silver light his skin seemed like polished metal, his bare, thin arms like the jointed extensions of a machine. Only the man's eyes seemed alive and vital, the rest was dead. Thorn studied him a moment, then turned away. He had seen how the man's eyes had been drawn by the moon, in awe and fear, as if linking the stranger with its mysterious potency.

They went down into the central clearing. Three fires had been built and the tribe was gathered in a great circle about them. The stacks had been large but now they had burned down and the darkness overhead seemed more immense than ever.

The chief sat on high ground on a crudely built throne. His face and neck were painted black. Only the eyes were contrasted, hexagons of white exposed about the liquid, flame-filled circles of his pupils. His sheepskin was pulled close about him against the night's sudden cold. Even the fires could not dispel thatnow.

On his head was a crown of twisted metal, and in his hand, grotesque, almost surreal, a blackened arm, the fingers shriveled as if grasping at the air.

So easy to fall. So hard to rise.

He greeted Thorn with a flourish of the blackened arm. "Wolcum, arluth travyth."

Welcome, lord of nothing.

He put the arm to his mouth and bit deep. Then, as he chewed the tough and stringy meat, he spoke again. "Eery wew, goeff!" Worse luck for that! It brought drunken laughter from the darkness about the dying fires.

The chief leaned forward, beckoning Thorn closer. He advanced and, at the chiefs gesture, sat.

"You talk?"

The words were heavily accented. They came like pebbles from his mouth, hard but rounded. It was clear he hadn't spoken English for some time.

"I talk."

The circle grew quiet, listening without understanding. This was mystery to them. Above talk. He sensed the awe in their sudden silence. The moon sat high above the chiefs right shoulder, throwing a fierce silvered light across his black-painted neck. The chief looked out around the circle, then back at Thorn.

"Another"-his hand gestured, circling, searching for the right word, then alighted on the charred limb-"Another has need of you."

Thorn frowned. "The Myghtern?"

The chief winced. There was a murmur about the circle, then silence. "Do not . . . talk of that man."

"Why?" he asked. But it was beginning to fit together. After years of petty squabbling the Clay had a scent of power. Real power. Something was happening to wake the Clay. Something important. How important he hadn't guessed until now.

The Myghtern had new friends in the Above. Influential friends.

Friends in Security, in coastal surveillance. Friends who would ignore unauthorized signals on certain wavebands. Friends who would report all movements of traders in and out of the Clay.

"What will happen to me?"

The chief smiled. "Trade you. Rich trade." He nodded ferociously. "The man pay well for you."

This was unexpected. Why should the Myghtern want traders? Was it, perhaps, their skills he wanted?

Numeracy? Languages? They were an interface, after all. They linked Clay and Above.

"And my wares?"

The chief glared at him and shook his head. They were clearly no part of the trade. He tapped at his chest with the blackened fingers. "Keep them," he said and smiled. A predatory smile this time, from the part of him that had always been Clay, long before his fall.HE WOKE WITH THE DAWN. Light entered through the threadbare, hole-pocked cloth that formed one side of the hut, speckling the rough, unpainted wood of the wall beneath which he lay. He turned, listening, immediately awake. Seabirds were calling in the bay, but the sea was quiet. He stretched, easing his legs and arms, feeling the rough blanket beneath his naked thighs and back. The crude wire with which they had bound his wrists and ankles had chafed the skin, but he ignored it, rocking himself up into a sitting position, then edged forward until he could poke his head out of the hut.

It was a bright, clear morning. Long shadows pitted the ground. Somewhere out of sight two men were talking languidly. There was the clink of a spoon against a cooking pot and the smell of wood burning.

Otherwise there was little activity in the camp. The two men set to guard him were asleep on the groud close to the hut.

Thorn smiled and leaned back, relaxing. Whatever the Myghtern wanted with him, he would get to where he wanted to be-he would be there when they came. And later, when he had what he had come for, he would come back here and destroy this place.

It was more than an hour before they came for him. They unbound him, then threw the old sackcloth at him, watching as he dressed, surly now that it was time to relinquish him. When he was ready they led him down through the settlement, back to the Claygate. There they waited, on the outside, a guard of twenty warriors, armed with cudgels and flint axes, between Thorn and the gate.

He sat there, watching the Myghtem's men come through; a dozen men, dressed in light armor and wearing cloaks. They were proud, fierce men, but even so they struggled to contain their fear of the outside, keeping close to the rock wall by the gate. Only their leader, a straight-backed man with short dark hair and piercing green eyes, seemed unaffected.

The chief came down to greet them. Without his face paint he seemed much smaller, less impressive. He was broad shouldered but gaunt. Even the sheepskin failed to disguise his emaciation. And as he embraced the leader of the Myghtern's men Thorn could see the reluctance, the uncertainty and distaste, in the smaller man's stiffness. There was no love lost here.

Thorn watched their faces, saw how they held their bodies. Here such things were more telling than words. "Pandra ober mynnes why?"

What do you want? It was blunt, to the point. The newcomer was angry, humiliated that he should have to bargain with this man, and his anger was barely contained. It flashed in his eyes as he uttered the words. Only a pragmatic sense of the situation controlled and shaped his actions. This was awkward for him; he had been beaten to his prize. The chief smiled and opened his hands. "Pandra kerghes why?"

What have you brought?

The chiefs eyes narrowed. His shoulders were hunched. Thorn, watching him closely, frowned.

Everything was so naked here; so obscenely open. Greed sat like a mask on the chiefs horselike face.

"My a-wyn gwele gwycor." I want to see the trader. The chief hesitated, then turned and motioned with his hand. One of the guards reached down and pulled Thorn roughly to his feet, then dragged him forward until he stood before the Myghtern's man. On both sides the warriors tensed, cudgels and short swords raised in case this was a trick.

For a moment the green-eyed man simply stared at Thorn, then he reached out and lifted Thorn's left hand, turning it, studying the palm. He saw a smooth, fine-boned hand, the palm's flesh unblemished, the red weals of the binding rope about the wrist. "Tan!" Here, take!

The chief snatched at the offered gift. It was something small and shiny. Glass and silver flashed in the early morning sunlight. The chief studied it a moment, then gave a howl of delight, holding it up to showthe gathered warriors.

It was a valve. A valve for the radio. And there were others in the pouch. It was old technology, two Gentries out of date. Thorn studied the newcomer's face, trying to understand.

The chief passed the valve carefully to his lieutenant, who scurried back up the hill toward the chiefs hut.

In a while he was back, breathless, nodding his head, a broad grin on his face. "Ober-s," he said. It works.

The chief had been waiting impatiently. Now he rubbed his hands together and turned to face the newcomer. "Ytho?" And?

For a moment the Myghtern's man said nothing, did nothing, but his face was dark with anger and his nostrils were flared, his eyes wide. Then, abruptly, he pushed back his cloak and put his hand on the handle of his long dagger. "Tra nahen." Nothing more. Behind him his men grew tense, mimicking his stance, prepared to fight.

There was a long, tense silence, and then the chief laughed. It was a false, high-pitched laugh that grated on the nerves.

"Hen yn lowr dhyn, ena." That's enough for us, then.

But Thorn could see how he eyed the long dagger, the belt, the man's fine clothes. It was not enough.

Nothing was enough. But it would have to do. The chief gave a curt movement of his hand and Thorn was pushed forward-given over into the custody of the Myghtern's men.

And as he went back into the darkness of the Clay, Thorn smiled to himself. The trader had been traded.

THEY MOVED FAST, in utter darkness, beneath the metal sky, south to the Myghtern's city. It was open, undulating land, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark so it seemed like a journey across a desert on a moonless night. No one spoke. Only the faint sound of their footsteps disturbed the hollow dark. They followed the old road, marching between stone walls that had stood for centuries. As the road began to dip toward the sea, the surrounding land changed. The wilderness gave way to signs of life. Small makeshift huts stood back some way from the roadside. Faces peered at them from above the stonework. The air itself grew heavier, more foul. More and more habitations appeared along the road until finally, as they approached the outskirts of the old County capital, the darkness seemed alive with movement.

At the Trispen crossroads a kind of market had been set up. Ragged stalls offered the flotsam of a past none here could remember. Equally ragged people, their bony limbs poking through threadbare garments, picked furtively at these offerings under the hostile and suspicious glares of the traders.

Thorn's party slowed, seeing the press of bodies up ahead, and then stopped completely. The Myghtern's man called several of his men to him, then sent them ahead to clear a path. That done, they set off again, keeping close to the right-hand wall, short swords drawn.

They were almost through when it happened. There was a scuffle and a brief cry and one of the Myghtem's men went down, hit by a rock. Thorn turned and saw how quickly the crowd surrounded the fallen man, finishing him off. Others of the party had, like Thorn, turned to look back, but a barked order from their leader drew them on.

They pressed on, keeping a tighter formation than before. The road dipped, then slowly rose again. At its crest they had a view of the land below, stretching away toward the sea. Thorn, looking outward, thoughtat first that he had to be mistaken: the darkness seemed much less intense down there, and below them, directly ahead of them on the road, there were what seemed like vivid patches of brightness. As they descended he realized what it was. Up ahead of them-no more than a Ji away now-torches burned in brackets mounted on high poles, lighting the way down to the Myghtern's city.

At the bottom of the hill the wide, deep scar of an ancient riverbed cut across the land. The road ran out onto an old stone bridge, gently arching over the gap. On the far side of the bridge twin torches blazed steadily in the windless air. Beneath them was a barricade, guarded by a dozen lightly armored men.

As they came to the bridge the Myghtern's man turned to Thorn and put his hand on Thorn's chest.

"Before we go inside, you must understand how you are to behave. You belong to the Myghtern now.

Whatever he commands, you do. You are his creature now. Here that is not so bad a thing to be. It has its compensations. But if you are difficult, if you try to escape, we will kill you."

"I understand."

"Good." The man nodded, but his expression was unreadable, his face a mask of light and shadow.

Thorn studied him a moment. There was something odd about the man. He seemed half finished, yet in some strange way he was more sophisticated than any of these others. His accent was clear, unrounded, not native to these parts, and he spoke English with a clarity and ease that was as surprising as it had been unexpected. Thorn reassessed him, looking at the thickness of his biceps, the musculature of his chest and thighs. He was somehow too well formed, his bones too firm, too straight, to have come from here. Like the chief, he was an outsider.

The man had been looking away from Thorn, calling orders to his men; now he turned back to face the trader.

"I am Tak, the Myghtern's lieutenant. Whatever you want, you come to me. Understand?"

There was a sudden sharpness to his tone that made Thorn look at the words again. Whatever you want, you come to me. What was really being said here? For a moment Tak held his eyes. Then, abruptly, he looked away, turning to give more instructions. On the far side of the bridge there was movement as the barricade was slowly moved back out of the way.

There was a low parapet overlooking the dried-up river. Thorn went across and rested his elbows on it, looking out away from the brightness of the torches, at the old town.

There, in the center of the darkness, it seemed to glow. The silhouette of the old cathedral stood out against that faint illumination, hard edged and dark, its square central tower thrusting toward the City's floor. Thorn looked up. Yes, it was no trick of the eyes-there was something there, like the faint irradiation of a dying fire reflected in the dark undersurface of the City. Or a lamp, shining beneath the water at the bottom of a deep, dark well. He frowned. Another mystery. Another thing that ought not to be here.

Thorn turned. Tak was watching him, his eyes half lidded, as if trying to fathom what he was, what he wanted here. As if he knows, Thorn thought. Or at least, suspects.

Tak raised a hand, beckoning him. "Come, let's cross the bridge. The Myghtern will see you in the morning."

"The morning?" Thorn laughed uncertainly.Tak turned away and walked out onto the old stone bridge. "You'll see," he said over his shoulder. "This is the city. The Myghtern's capital. You will see many things that will surprise you here."

Thorn glanced up at the floor of the great City, two hundred and fifty ch'i overhead, seeing once more that faint glow in the dark, reflecting surface, then shook his head. He didn't understand. Here there was no day, no morning. Here there was only night-only shadows and darkness.

He felt a firm hand in the small of his back and began to walk, crossing the slightly arched bridge. The City, he thought, wanting to laugh at the absurd grandeur of that term. What a mockery of words they make down here. If they only knew. . . - The barricade was drawn back. The guards parted, letting him pass. And so he went through, beneath the torches, into the narrow, cobbled lanes of the Myghtern's city.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Gods of Bone and Dust.

SCAF SAT AT the water's edge, staring out across the violently shimmering bay, the booming noises of the great world filling his head, his body anchored to the earth by fear. He dared not stand, lest he fall, for if he fell he was not sure he would ever get up, not the way he felt right now.

Things loomed. He would focus on something and it would grow large in his vision, taking on a brilliant show of colors, while the smells . . .

He dared to take a breath and felt his head swim at the mixture of strange and powerful scents that flooded his senses.

"Scaf . . ."

He slowly turned his head, making the gargantuan effort only by exerting every last shred of his will.