He closed the doors and turned, facing the room again, sensing the great age of this place beneath the old town. All of this so different from what existed in the Above. And then the thought hit him again: this was to be his place. Down here, among the dead men. For a moment his lips formed the shape of his distaste,then he shrugged and went over to the bed. He stood there, looking down at the blanket, trying to make out the faded pattern. It looked like roses. . . .

Behind him the door opened. He turned and saw it was Barrett. The sport smiled ingratiatingly and came into the room. With him was a frail-looking young girl. Barrett held tightly to her arm with one claw-like hand as he edged closer to Hastings, bowing grotesquely.

"As you wished, Master. A young woman. Clean. Very clean, I assure you. From the Myghtem's own household. His brother's daughter."

Hastings looked past the creature at the girl. Her hair was dark but lank, as if it had not been washed in weeks. She was thin to the point of emaciation and her breasts were undeveloped, giving her a boyish look. She shivered as she stood there, her eyes downcast. Looking at her, Hastings felt both revulsion and pity: these and a strange, previously unexperienced sense of desolation. He could see her hopelessness so clearly, as if through her eyes.

He waved Barrett away, then, when he had gone, went over to the girl. The top of her head barely came to his chest. He placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the bones beneath the thin cloth-so fragile, it seemed he could snap her with the smallest effort. Placing one hand beneath her chin he lifted her face and looked at her.

In other circumstances it would have been quite beautiful. The lines of her cheeks, the shape of her mouth, suggested what might have been, but paucity of diet had blunted the edge of her beauty. There was something both childish and ancient about her face: an innocence allied with the most profound experience. Her skin was rough, unhealthy, her neck marked by scars. Even so, it was to her eyes he found himself drawn, for her eyes were dark like his. Dark and beautiful, like mirrors to his own.

For a moment he looked away, thinking of the women he had loved in the Above. Cold, imperious women, their beauty cut like crystal, the expression in their eyes as distant as far galaxies. How he had suffered for such women. How vainly had he pursued them. He grimaced and held the girl tighter, then turned and led her to the bed.

They undressed and lay on the bed, on top of the thin and faded blanket. Beneath his weight the springs of the old mattress groaned and gently gave. Naked beside her he was aware even more of the contrast between them. His own body was so firmly fleshed, the muscles honed, his broad chest covered by a fine down of golden hair. Hers was white fleshed and undernourished, the ill-developed body of a child.

Her face was closed against him, her eyes averted. For an instant he didn't understand, then recognized what it was. She was ashamed. For her this was agony.

He felt a hot flood of compassion wash over him and reached out to draw her to him and hold her against him. He wrapped his arms about her, like a father comforting his child, one hand smoothing the back of her neck. For a long time he was content to lie there, simply holding her, feeling the faint trembling in her limbs grow still, her breathing normalize. Then he moved his head back and turned her face gently to look at her. For a moment she looked back at him, curious, her eyes searching his as if to understand him. But when he smiled she looked away quickly.

"Don't be afraid," he said, concerned, but then realized that his words meant nothing to her. Softly he laughed and, still curious, she turned to look at him again, her dark eyes shining in the pallid wasteland of her face. Again he smiled, feeling something more than pity, something greater than compassion, for her.

Those eyes. So beautiful.

And as he looked her face changed, mirroring his own, smiling back at him, then pressed close to kiss.Later, when he woke, he felt confused, the starkness of the unshaded bulb making him shield his eyes with one hand. Then he remembered and turned slightly, looking down at the sleeping figure beside him.

In sleep she was more a child than ever, one hand raised to her mouth, the fingers gently curled, like a young animal, curled up beside him, trusting. And as he looked at her he felt something he had never experienced before. Not love, nor desire, but something more fragile and delicate than either-tenderness. It was like a barb in his gut, making him want to cry out. Not pain, nor happiness, but something in between. A sense of how frail, how vulnerable, she was. He reached out to touch but hesitated, letting his hand make a vague motion in the air, tracing the blunt lines of her wounded face, realizing how ugly she was-like a gelded, sickly boy-child. And yet not ugly at all.

He sighed and looked away. It was time to be getting back.

AHEAD THE LAND rose to meet the floor of the Above. Only at one point, in a narrow dip between the rock face and the road below, was there room to pass, and then only at a crouch.

Ben let out a breath, then sent the remotes through.

The town was below them, beyond the gap, less than a mile away now. Ben looked about him, seeing how the four daymen stood there, cradling their lasers, their heads turning, searching the darkness all around them.

Behind them, less than half a mile back, were two, maybe three, hundred of the Myghtern's men, while ahead . . .

Ben watched the screen as the first of the remotes threaded its way slowly through the gap, hugging the ceiling. As it emerged he caught tiny glimpses of red-evidence of men hiding behind rocks-but they were at a distance; closer at hand the land was empty.

Strange, he thought. Himself, he would have circled the gap.

He switched to the second remote, then had to shield his eyes as the screen flared with a sudden, intense light.

He cried out, the afterimage of the explosion imprinted on the back of his eyelids even as the sound of the detonation rumbled through the Clay.

Blinking, he switched back to the first remote, but the screen was blank. The remote . . . somehow they'd destroyed the remote.

Even as the thought struck him there was a second flash, a second rumbling detonation.

"Stay," he said to Crefter, putting his hand on his shoulder as he moved past him. Then, crouching next to Kygek, he pointed to the gap- "Go through," he said. "Blonegek will cover you."

Kygek glanced around at him, then, after a moment's hesitation, nodded. Ben turned, calling up Blonegek.

"Follow Kygek in," he half whispered. "Keep five paces back. If anyone goes for Kygek, blast them, okay?"

"Okay," Blonegek answered. Then, at a dogtrot, both men headed for the gap.Ben watched, biting his lip. It was over. It had been over from the moment they had targeted the remotes. If they had the technology to do that, then they could pick off five intruders easily enough.

Besides, the remotes had been their eyes-now they were blind. The advantages were all now with their enemies.

He sighed, sad that for once nothing would get back. For him to die, and for it not to have been recorded, that was a great disappointment.

Ben turned, looking to Crefter and Scaf, then, standing, he signaled for them to follow him. Pressing the tracing signal at his neck, he moved toward the gap, his laser searching the darkness up ahead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

The King under the City.

IT WAS MORNING in the Myghtern's city. Thorn stood at the open casement window, looking out across the ancient town. High above him the floor of the Above was _____ bright with reflected light. In the street below, a line of lamps blazed in the darkness of the Clay. The cathedral was below him to his right, the river a long, dark scar beyond.

"Are you ready?"

Tak stood behind him in the wood-paneled room. He had come in without a sound; stealthily, like a shadow.

Thorn turned and nodded. "Where are we going?"

"You have an audience. But first the Myghtern wishes you to see his city."

The room in which they stood was bare but clean. Everything was in a state of good repair. The wood of the walls had been scrubbed and polished; the bunk was old but sturdy and the pure white sheets were laundered. A newly woven mat covered the bare-board floor.

Thorn looked to Tak. "Okay. Let's go."

Outside, in the narrow alley, Thorn stopped and looked up at the wall-mounted lamps. "Morning," he said softly, then laughed. Beside him the Myghtern's man smiled tightly, then beckoned him on.

The alley opened out onto a broad main street. BOSCAWEN STREET, a sign halfway up the wall read.

He stood at one end of it, looking west, the cathedral's spire jutting up above the buildings to his right. At the far end of the street, straight ahead of him as he looked, a giant silvered pillar rose straight out of the earth and soared to meet the floor of the Above some two hundred ch'i overhead. There were few people on the street-far fewer than he'd expected-and those who were scurried away quickly at the sight of Tak.

He walked slowly down the broad street, looking from side to side at the elegant Georgian buildings, Tak silent beside him. He already knew there was something wrong here-something out of place-but the feeling grew in him until he stopped and looked back, trying to fathom what it was. There was glass in the windows. Doors in the frames. Good, solid doors. He looked up. The old slate roofs were in good repair, the guttering mended. And the huge, twelve-paneled window frames were painted.

Thorn went across and ran his finger along the edge of one shop window. Yes, paint.He looked through the glass, saw goods laid out on a trestle table. It was a shop. He almost laughed. A shop! In the Clay! Then he shook his head, frowning. None of this belonged here.

He walked on, quickening his pace. Behind him he heard Tak grunt, then follow.

Where the street opened out onto a square Thorn stopped, looking across at the pillar. There was a broad flight of steps at the base of the pillar and above the steps, clearly evident in the lamplight, the outline of a gate.

He stood there a long while, staring at the pillar. A gate. Here, at the very center of the Myghtern's capital. A gate!

Tak came up and touched his arm. "Seen enough, trader?"

Thorn nodded. More than enough.

"Then let's go down to the Chapter House. We'll make you presentable before you meet the Myghtern."

Thorn tore his attention from the pillar. Tak was smiling broadly-a proprietorial smile compounded of pride and delight at Thorn's evident surprise.

"Come, then. The Myghtern awaits you."

They walked down through the old county capital toward the cathedral. There, beside the huge nineteenth-century building, was the Chapter House.

"Here," Tak said, businesslike now, leading him through a side door and down a narrow flight of steps.

They went through an old oak doorway and into a long, low-ceilinged room where three old men- none of them bigger than a child-sat at a long bench sewing. They looked up briefly, then returned to their work. Electric lamps burned in the ceiling overhead.

"The Myghtern is a mighty ruler," Tak said with a fierce, defiant pride. "You must come to him in silks, not rags."

Tak opened a cupboard door to his right and took several outfits from the rail, handing them to Thorn.

"One of these should do."

Thorn looked at the garments draped over his arm, surprised by their lavishness. Velvets and silks.

Leather belts and silver buckles. There was wealth here: more than simple commerce could account for.

He glanced up at Tak.

"Try them on," the small man urged. "Quick, now. The Myghtern is waiting."

Thorn set them down on the bench, then quickly slipped out of the rags he was wearing. Moments later he stood there, dressed like an ancient courtier in crimson, mauve, and green. Tak nodded, satisfied, then went to the cupboard again, reaching up to pull down a big crimson-colored box.

Thorn went very still. It was not what the box contained, but what was embossed into the side of the box. That motif-the Han symbol Peng surrounded by the letter C-was the trademark of a company that dealt with only the elite of the Above-the "Supernal" themselves. Tak smiled and handed him the thigh-length kid leather boots.

"Take great care of these, trader. They are only loaned to you, not given. All here belongs to the Myghtern."Thorn pulled them on, then stood before the mirror Tak held up for him, seeing how the clothes transformed him. As if he had stepped back a thousand years or more. Tak laughed and showed his perfect white teeth.

"Now then, trader. It is time."

The mirror was set aside. Tak straightened his own clothes and then turned to face Thorn again.

"Speak only when you are spoken to. And bow before the Myght-ern's throne. Raise your head only when he commands. Otherwise, do what he asks and all will be well."

Thorn nodded.

"Good. Then follow me."

AT THE FAR END of the long throne room, on a raised platform, sat a giant of a man. His hands, resting on his knees, were broad and long. Heavy rings sat on the thick knuckles of his fingers: black rings of iron, like the rings the T'ang above were said to wear. On his brow rested a massive crown. A crown of iron, rough cast and ugly, but suggestive of brutality and power. Long, jet-black hair fell in waves beneath the crown over broad, oxlike shoulders. He wore a polished metal breastplate and at his belt hung a huge broadsword.

Thorn advanced toward the Myghtern. Then, as he'd been told, he stopped and knelt, bowing deeply, his eyes averted.

"Get up, trader. Come closer."

The words were in old Cornish, the voice deep and low, like the voice of the earth itself. Thorn looked up, meeting the eyes of the Myghtern.

Dark eyes, intensely black. Fierce, insolent eyes, unaccustomed to looking away. They seemed to pierce the trader, then relinquish him, as though they had-in that single instant-penetrated to the core of him.

Thorn shivered. It was like looking into a foreign country: into a place that was primal and savage and vividly alive.

"I am the Clay," said the Myghtern in a voice that seemed to roll like thunder and fill the room, "Everything beneath the solid sky is mine. All lands, all men. And now you, trader. You, too, are mine."

The Myghtern stretched his hands, as if they were pets resting in his lap. Hands that could crush a skull or bend a bar of iron.

What do you want me for? thought Thorn. Why send your man to fetch me? And, more important, Who told you I was coming?

The Myghtern cleared his throat and seemed to sit more upright on his throne. His fingers tightened about his knees.

"How do you like my city, trader? Does it impress you?"

Thorn let the words of the old language flow easily from his tongue.

"It is a marvel, Master. I have seen nothing to compare with it in all my travels."

The Myghtern lifted his chin and stared down at Thorn. Then he gave a short grunt of laughter and leanedforward conspiratorially. "It is not finished yet. But in time . . ."

Thorn took the opportunity to study the Myghtern's face. It was not a face as other faces, more a landscape. Deep furrows surrounded each eye, like rivers running to the twin lakes of those black, fathomless pupils. His cheeks were ruddy as if lit by some inner fire, and the bottom half of his face was covered by a thick and curly beard, dark tangles of wiry hair glistening in the lamplight. The nose was blunt and wide, yet handsome. Like the chin it suggested strength and a will of iron. Yet the mouth was softer, suggestive of good humor, perhaps even of compassion. Full, sensuous lips peeled back in sudden laughter to reveal strong teeth, like the teeth of a predatory animal. Looking at him, Thorn wondered how the Clay had ever bred such a magnificent creature.

"You will work for me, trader. Use your skills for me."

"My skills?"

The Myghtern smiled broadly. The appeal of the man was intense. Good humor flowed like waves from him. Such power and such warmth. Such overwhelming charm. Thorn found himself smiling.

"You are a trader?"

Thorn nodded.

"Good." The smile remained but changed. It was suddenly more calculating. "The five who are here.

Would you know them if you saw them?"

Thorn hesitated. Five ... He kept his face controlled, but his mind was racing. His information had been vague. A date. A place. Nothing more. "The five . . . ?" He frowned, his expression of incomprehension only half an act.

The Myghtem studied him a moment, fixing him with his gaze, then relented. "From the Above."

Thorn mimed sudden understanding. "It is possible," he said, after a moment. "I know many among the Above." That much was true. There was no one of importance among the elite whose file he had not studied and assimilated. If they were who he thought they were then he would certainly know them.