Ben threw the gun down, onto Genna's coat, then took out the knife again. Its razor-sharp edge flickered in the lamplight. Ben hesitated, waiting for the drug to take effect, then, grasping Genna's arm firmly, dug the point in and scored a line all the way down his arm from inside the armpit to the wrist. Blood welled in the gash and ran.

The Claymen gasped.

"Watch," Ben said, throwing the knife down onto the jacket, then began prizing open the gash with his fingers, opening up the wound as one might prize open a fig.

There was another gasp. A low moan of fear from the watching Claymen. Wires showed, and metal struts. The Clayman, Genna, was a machine. Or, at least, his arm was.

Ben stooped down and wiped his hands on the jacket, then picked up the knife and, ripping open Genna's shirt, began to cut into the chest. Genna shuddered but stood still, as if mesmerized by what was happening to him.

Ben cut and pulled, then stood back, letting them see. More wires.

More plastic and metal. Blonegek fell to his knees. After a moment Crefter and Kygek joined him. Only Scaf still stood.

"You understand now?" Ben asked, the power and authority in his voice like that of a young god. "I made you. Sinew and bone, I made you, here in my workshop."

"No," Scaf said, frowning; the effort of denying his Master costing him a great deal. "I have memories.

Memories of a time before we came here."

"I gave you them," Ben said.

Scaf shook his head, but even as he did, Ben spoke again.

"What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"

Scaf stared at him, horrified.

"Remember?" Ben asked. "Do you remember asking yourself where that came from? Well, Scaf, it came from me. I gave it to you. Like all your thoughts and memories. Because I made you. Every last bit of you."A shudder went through Scaf, like a sudden surge of power, and then, bowing his head, he knelt.

And so it's done, Ben thought, moving between them and touching each one's head, as if blessing them.

A few wires, a simple speech program, the subliminal seeding of a few lines of poetry, and they believe.

Lies. He had lived all his life among lies and fictions. Why should this be any different? And yet he felt a sudden disappointment looking at them, kneeling there, worshiping him as a god-strong because so unexpected.

He looked at the machine, standing there staring ahead sightlessly, and frowned. To make machines think they were human-that was nothing. But to make humans think they were machines . . .

"Okay," he said, shrugging off the mood and clapping his hands. "Let's get packing. I want to be gone from here before sunset."

THE PILLAR STOOD in an open space at the end of Boscawen Street in the heart of the Myghtern's city. It was as broad as a dozen men and reached up at least three hundred ch'i, disappearing into the floor of the Above. In the darkness it had seemed more a shadow than a solid thing, but now its blackness was breached and light spilled from the open gate, revealing sleek, curving surfaces of silvered metal.

Five men came down the steps, suited up, their faces obscured by wraparounds, their shapes silhouetted against the brilliant light. Two made to go ahead, but the others paused, looking about them. All this was new to them. The illuminated fronts of the old Georgian-style houses, the unlit streetlamps, the cobbled surface of the street. They looked at it all in awe, surprised despite their expectations, then moved on, urged by the first of them.

GENERAL RHE1NHARDT sat on the far side of Haavikko's desk, looking through the latest reports.

Li Yuan had asked him to investigate the operation as a matter of urgency, so here he was, unannounced.

Finished, he closed the file and looked up. "So what's the state of play? Have we heard anything?"

"Nothing yet, sir," Haavikko answered, trying not to let the General's stare unnerve him. "We've fifteen operatives in the Clay-twelve on the Mainland and three in the Western Isle-but as yet we've heard nothing from them. However, as the last of them only went in a few days back, it's not a cause for worry."

Rheinhardt nodded. "And the other line of inquiry? The merchants? Where have we got to there?"

That was how this operation had begun, with a tip-off from a merchant. Someone had contacted a Junior Minister, who had put him on to Haavikko's office. The man had spoken of sinister goings on in the Clay-of deals and unauthorized visits. Haavikko had arranged to go and see the man, but when he got there he had found him dead, his throat cut, his rooms ransacked, and anything that might have given them a clue was missing.

It might have ended there, only Haavikko's natural curiosity led him to investigate the movements of the man, and he had found two gaps in the camera record-two periods when the merchant was nowhere in the Northern Enclave. He hadn't gone out by any normal exit from the City, therefore he must have gone down. Down, into the Clay.

"It's a long job, sir. We don't really know where to look, who to investigate. None of the man's business colleagues were involved, nor, it seems, were any family contacts. All we can really do is work through the list, hoping to get lucky."Rheinhardt considered that, then shrugged. "Was there no club the man attended? Somewhere he might have . . . well, met people? This ... I can't believe it's random."

"That's if we're right, sir. That's if there is anything to be found down there."

"So? Did he go to any clubs?"

"Not regularly, sir. He went to brothels occasionally. Aside from that ..."

"Have you investigated that angle?"

"Sir?"

"The brothels?"

"I . . ." Haavikko made as if to consult the file, but he knew the answer. "No, sir."

"Well, get onto it at once. And, Major Haavikko?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You have two days to get a result. Understand? Li Yuan wants this matter sorted out by Friday morning. He wants a report on his desk first thing, in time for the Council of Ministers that afternoon."

"I . . ." He swallowed, then bowed his head. As Rheinhardt stood, he, too, stood, clicking his heels, then remained there, head bowed, while the General put on his gloves and, without another word, left the room.

He sat, breathing easier once more. "Shit . . ." he said quietly, then leaned forward, pressing the summons button. At once the Duty Captain appeared at the door.

"Sir?"

"John? Get the full team in here now. It looks like we might be going in. Li Yuan wants answers, and he wants them fast."

DARKNESS. It beckoned him like a lover.

Ben stood amid the ruins of the old village, looking about him. Through the heat-sensitive glasses he wore he could see the figures of his daymen, moving like bright red demons in that suffocating darkness, the RadMark identification symbols vivid on the backs of their suits.

This was Lamorna, an old smuggling village south of Penzance on the southernmost tip of ancient Cornwall. They had come into the Clay some twenty minutes back, following tunnels groined into the rock five hundred years before. From here it was a twenty-five-mile march to the Myghtern's capital, but Ben was in no hurry.

"Crefter!" he called, hearing his voice echo back at him from the ceiling overhead, and knowing that already word would be going out that there were intruders in the Clay.

Crefter came across, doglike in his obedience, the heavy pack strapped to his back. Ben turned him and activated the tracer. At once the screen lit up, glowing red and black. It, too, showed heat-sensitive images, relayed to it from the four remotes Ben had with him. Only one was presently active, hovering directly over his head, programmed to stay there come what may. The other three sat in their slots at the top of Crefter's pack.Ben unslotted the first of them, tapped out its induction sequence, then threw it into the air. At once it sped off north. It would go ahead and find a perch in the Myghtern's town from which to send back its images. The other two would be their eyes as they made their way through this dark and deadly place.

He activated them and sent them ahead, then gathered his daymen about him. All four carried packs.

Kygek had the guns and ammunition, Blonegek the food, Scaf some basic medical supplies and a spare remote, as well as various things for trade, should the need arise.

He turned Kygek and undipped one of the five heavy-duty lasers from his back and handed it to him, then took the others and distributed them, checking the charge on each before he gave them out.

Their faces stared at him expectantly: skeletal faces of red and black. He smiled and pointed up the dusty hillside. "Up there," he said. "Crefter, you'll walk in front of me. Kygek, go ahead ten paces. Blonegek and Scaf, you cover the rear, left and right."

He had had them practice it in the field before they'd flown out, but here it was different. Here it was dark . . . and dangerous.

They began to climb, the ceiling of the Above seeming to come down to meet them. At the top the land leveled out and Ben paused.

"Scaf," he said, summoning the dayman to him, "do you see them?"

Scaf came across, then looked about him nervously. "See who, Master?"

"The dancing maidens. Take off your glasses a moment and look!"

As Scaf removed his glasses, Ben fired his laser at the ceiling overhead. For a few moments the whole place was lit up vividly, revealing that they stood in the midst of an ancient stone circle, the stones like the irregular teeth of a giant.

Scaf gasped in awe. Such places were sacred among the Claymen. He fell to his knees.

"Bones and dust," Ben said, laughing, the darkness enveloping him once more. "That's all the old gods are now, bones and dust! First the Christians came and built their churches on the old sacred sites, and then the Chinese came and consigned it all to darkness and oblivion. Now only devil men live here. Devils and their king. The Myght-ern . . ."

He could sense their unease at the word. King under the City, he called himself, as if he ruled it all, when in fact all he ruled was this tiny corner of the darkness. A king of scampering mice and insects!

Ben smiled. That was why he'd come. To catch the king and take him back to his own Domain. And that was why he had needed his Claymen. To carry his prize back through the dark.

He had ventured into the Clay once before, five years ago: had taken the trail up to Totnes, a journey of five miles, accompanied by an armed patrol. But it was only last year, when he had sent one of his remotes deep into the Clay, that he had discovered the Myghtern's town, and, at the heart of it, the Myghtern himself.

"Move on!" he called, tapping Crefter, then clipped the laser to his chest again, freeing his hands to maneuver the remotes.

THREE HOURS LATER they were on the outskirts of Camborne, more than half their journey completed. Ben had made regular stops to check the land ahead, knowing they would be watched,seeing from time to time a flash of red among the stones, but still no attack had come.

The Claymen were nervous. He could sense how the time had dragged for them, so that this journey seemed not a matter of hours but of days. Now, as he rested, he gathered them close about him, offering a few words of reassurance while they ate.

That done, he crouched behind Crefter, studying the screen. The lead remote had reached the Myghtern's town and was perched on a roof, looking out over the New Bridge. He moved it on, searching the lamplit streets, then stopped, focusing in as six figures-five tall, one small as a child-stepped from a doorway and made their way down a street.

He watched a moment, then switched to one of the two surveillance remotes, searching the surrounding darkness.

Insects, attracted by the warm glow of the screen, fluttered around him. He crushed one between his gloved fingers and let it fall, then cracked another against the screen, wiping it afterward.

Nothing, he thought, beginning to be suspicious. It was almost as if someone was letting him come on, deeper and deeper into the Myght-ern's realm. He had expected to be attacked-to have to use the lasers-but this waiting . . .

He stood. They would need to be extra vigilant from here on, for the attack would come. Somewhere between here and Truro the Myght-ern's men would try to stop him. There were three places they could try-three bottlenecks where the land rose to meet the ceiling and only a narrow passage led through. By taking the northern route he would avoid two of those.

He lifted his mask and sniffed the darkness, hearing the fluttering of insects in the air around him, and felt a shudder ripple through him. For months now he had dreamed of being here; had pictured it in his mind.

And now here he was, embedded in the dark, hours from safety, with only his own skills between him and certain death.

He replaced his mask, then went among them, touching their shoulders. It was time to move on.

THE DOOR WAS OPEN. A broad flight of steps led steeply down. The passageway was dark but at the bottom, some twenty ch'i below, a faint light showed a wet, uneven surface.

"Here?" Hastings seemed surprised, but the small man, Tak, merely nodded and began the descent.

They were big men and Tak, among them, seemed like a child in stature. At the bottom a passageway stretched away into the earth. A light shone dimly from the ceiling about thirty ch'i along, but after that there was only darkness. Tak led the way and they followed.

Past the light he looked back and saw Franke pass beneath the rounded yellow lamp. Briefly there was gold in the silver of his hair, gold like cloth on his broad shoulders, then darkness. Tak narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, then turned and went on.

The darkness ended in a second door. They stood before it, the three newcomers uncertain, the sound of their breathing filling the narrow space. Tak stepped forward and lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it fall. It made a deep, hollow, echoing sound in the darkness.

Silence, and then the door eased slowly back. A big, thick wooden door. And as it opened a dull redness leaked out into the passageway, sketching them in its pallid color.

Beyond was a hall. Vast, high ceilinged, its true dimensions lost in the dim redness."Gentlemen . . ."

A tall, almost spectral figure stepped from the shadows and stood before them. He was taller than Tynan, but thin and angular, his arms and legs somehow too long, his face too narrow.

They knew at once what he was. A "sport"-a product of the Gen-Syn vats. Nothing natural bred like that, not even in the Clay.

The creature ushered them through. Behind him four hugely muscled men pushed the door shut on its silent hinges, then slid home well-greased bolts. Inside the air was filled with spices.

"This is our host," Tynan said, his hand resting lightly on the long, thin forearm of the GenSyn sport. "His name is Barrett. Whatever you want, ask him. He can arrange most things." He paused and leaned toward them. "Here anything is permitted."

The boyish smile was frightening. In the distance-in a second chamber-could be heard faint cries of torment: voices stripped of everything but pain.

Tak turned, saw Hastings looking down at his hands. His eyes were troubled. Beyond him stood Franke.

Franke's eyes were different: they burned with eagerness-with an intense, unnatural desire. Tak turned back. Nolen was watching him, a half smile on his face.

"And what do you desire, little man? Or did they make you free of that?"

For a moment all eyes were on him. Tak smiled and bowed. "Nothing here, sir. Nothing you'll find in these chambers."

Nolen nodded and was about to say something more when Tynan interrupted him hastily. "No need to rush matters, gentlemen. First a few drinks. Then Barrett will see each of you privately. After all, discretion is needed in these matters, no?"

Deng Liang laughed, but the others were silent, thoughtful.

"Come, then," said Tynan, looking from one to another. "Whatever you want. My treat."

And at his side Barrett smiled, his mouth a slit of darkness, his eyes two moist points of redness. "Yes, come."

IT WAS A LARGE, dark room. The walls were bare and there was a musty, unpleasant taste to the air.

In the corner was an old bed, the brass pots spotted with corrosion, the blankets bleached by age, worn almost to shreds. Hastings stood there, alone in the cool silence, looking about him. A crude electric light-bulb suspended from the ceiling illuminated the room, casting his shadow, sharp edged and unfamiliar, whenever he moved.

In one corner, set into the wall, was a set of wooden cupboards. He went across and opened them.

Inside the shelves were empty, the walls bare but for some old traces of paint. A blind-eyed insect scuttled for its hole, twelve legged, its shell casing a perfect white. In one corner, high up so that he had to stand on tiptoe, was an old web, its strands broken. Tumbled at the bottom, like a discarded wrapping, lay the dried husk of a spider. How long had it been there? he wondered. How old this room?

Four centuries? Five?