His answer seemed to satisfy the Myghtern; his hands lifted from his knees and went to his face, the long fingers pushing into the thick blackness of his beard, forming a cage about his chin. For a time he was silent, staring out past the trader thoughtfully. Then he stood and came down the steps, standing there close to Thorn, almost three cfi'i his superior in height.

"Listen to me well, trader. There is something I want from them. Something they are reluctant to give me."

He walked past the smaller man, then turned. His fists were clenched now. The shape of his mouth had changed, losing its softness. When he spoke again his lips formed a harsh, animal snarl. "But I will have it.

Or I will send them from here. You understand?"

Thorn looked at the richness of the Myghtern's robes, the perfection of his metal breastplate, and understood nothing. The farther in 1 get, the more 1 see. And yet the more I see, the less sense it all makes. He looked up, meeting the Myghtern's fierce dark eyes, and bowed his head in affirmation. As if it were all clear-clear as daylight-when really all there was was darkness.

HAAVIKKO ROLLED OVER and opened his eyes, stared at the illuminated figure on the bedside clock, and groaned.

He looked up, seeing the figure silhouetted in the doorway and knew he'd not dreamed it. His equerryreally had woken him at three forty-five in the morning.

"Whaa?"

"A call's come in, sir. Top priority."

Haavikko sat up and put his feet on the floor, trying to gather his senses. He had been dreaming of the girl again, and of the old woman who had used to run the House of the Ninth Ecstasy. Mu Chua, her name had been. He had been sitting in a room with her, talking, as real, it seemed, as this.

"Who is it?" he asked, standing up and walking across to the corner sink. "Li Yuan? The General?"

"No," the young cadet said, as Haavikko poured water from the jug into the bowl. "It's from the Western Isles, sir. A young lady."

He set the jug down and turned. "A what?"

"That's right, sir. But the codes check out. Her message has a top priority rating and she says that she'll speak to no one but the Commander of Security for the Western Isles."

"I see." He sluiced his face once, twice, a third time, then reached blindly for the towel and dried himself.

"And am I to call her back?"

"She's holding, sir. I said you were asleep, but she was very insistent. She said if she couldn't speak to you she would go to the T'ang direct."

Haavikko raised an eyebrow. "Then I had best speak to her. Did she give a name?"

The equerry shook his head.

"Then you're as mystified as me, neh, Lieutenant Pace? Okay. Hurry back and tell her I'm dressing. That I'll be with her in ... oh, in a minute or so. And, Pace . . ."

"Sir?"

"See if you can get me some fresh ch'a. An oolong, if the mess serves it." "Sir!"

He went to the locker in the corner and took a fresh uniform from the rack, then slipped it on. Standing before the full-length mirror he studied himself, then combed his fingers through the rough bristles of his hair. Old, he thought, you're beginning to look old. Then, with a nod to his image, he went out, heading for the Operations Room.

Operations was almost empty. There were a dozen men at most scattered about the huge chamber.

Several hundred more slept close by, ready to be called were there an emergency, but little usually happened at this hour-at least, nothing that a handful of men couldn't cope with.

He went between the rows of desks and machines and climbed the eight steps up to the central podium.

There, at the very center of it all, was his desk. He sat, facing the big screen, bowing his head in greeting to the young dark-haired woman whose face filled it.

"Nu shi . . . how can I help you?"

"Major Haavikko," she said, clearly recognizing him even if he did not recognize her. "My brother went into the Clay yesterday evening, at Lamorna, south of Penzance. I understand he was heading northeast toward Truro. A few hours back he activated the tracing device he was wearing. That means he's introuble."

"Your brother . . ." Then, suddenly, he understood. "Your brother Ben, you mean? Ben Shepherd?"

She nodded, her eyes deeply troubled. "You have to send someone in to get him out. He's in trouble. I know he is."

"I understand, Nu shi Shepherd, but it's not quite as easy as that. The Clay-"

"You have to send someone," she said, as if she hadn't heard what he'd said. "And you have to send them now. If he's killed-"

Haavikko raised a hand. "Okay. I'll do what I can, and just as soon as I can. But I have to get permission. There's something happening, you see-"

She leaned toward him, her eyes piercing him, her voice insistent now. "You have to act now, Major Haavikko. There isn't time, don't you understand? They might have captured him. Why, they might be torturing him, even now."

He made to object-to point out that they simply couldn't know- but the seriousness of her demeanor nipped his objections in the bud. "I'll do what I can," he said. "And I'll do it at once. More I cannot promise."

"See that you do," she said, with all the sternness and authority of an empress. "And, Major Haavikko ..."

"Yes, Nu shi Shepherd?"

"Let me know what's happening, won't you?"

"Of course."

He cut the connection and sat back, considering what he should do. Rheinhardt wouldn't welcome being woken for this. Knowing the old man's habits, he wouldn't have got to bed before two, and to wake him now . . .

No, he would have to carry the responsibility for this himself. Sighing, he leaned toward the screen.

"Captain Thomas?"

At once the face of his Duty Captain appeared before him. "Sir?"

"Wake the elite squad. I've got a job for them."

BEN GROANED and tried to turn onto his side, but it was impossible. The thick chains that fastened his legs to the wall were too short, too inflexible, to let him move. He tried to raise his hand to scratch his chin and again found his movements restrained by chains.

He relaxed back against the wall, ignoring the itch. Across from him, at the normal standing height of an Above male, was a narrow skylight: through its bars light filtered into the cell from the street-lamps outside. In that faint illumination he could make out the shapes of two of his daymen. They lay against the wall, shadows within shadows.

It had been no contest. There had been more than two dozen of the Myghtern's men waiting for them on the other side of the gap, armed with lasers and canisters of disabling gas. Quickly overcoming Ben's small party, they had delighted in kicking and beating them even as they bound them, then they haddragged them through the dust to the gates of the town before throwing them into this filthy, stinking cell.

He rotated his chin, feeling how sore it was, then spat, tasting blood in his mouth.

"Master?" came a voice from close by. "Are you awake?"

"I'm awake. What is it, Scaf?"

"Are you . . . hurt, Master?"

He almost smiled. After all he'd done-after all the danger he had put them in-Scaf was still concerned for him.

"I'm not sure," he said truthfully. To be honest, he felt numb in places. Whether that was the cold of the cell, an aftereffect of the gas, or whether he was hurt much worse than he felt, was hard to tell.

"I think my left leg is broken," Scaf said after a moment. "I can't feel anything in the foot and when I try to move it . . ."

Ben heard the wince and wished he had his infrared glasses still, so that he could see.

He closed his eyes, conscious for once of the force that drove him: of that blinding compulsion in him to see, to witness, and to describe. So pure that at times it leeched anything human from him, refining him to a cold observing point behind the camera's eye.

Only now, bereft of light and of the tools of observation, could he see it.

I am driven, he thought. And I cannot help it. There is no "I" in me to control the process, only the cold force of my being-the gift my "father" Amos gave me: the "gift" they call my genius.

"Don't move," he said to Scaf, feeling a strange compassion for the dayman. "It only makes it worse."

There was silence for a time, and then Scaf asked, "What do you think will happen to us?"

"Maybe they'll use us. Make us work for them."

"Ah . . ."

There was a groan from the far side of the cell. Another of them was waking, Crefter by the sound of it.

"Crefter? Are you all right?"

The dayman coughed, then began to heave.

Ben looked down, breathing through his mouth, the acrid stench of sickness filling the tiny cell.

"It's okay," he said reassuringly. "It's the gas that's done it. It has that effect."

"I'm sorry," Crefter said miserably, wiping his mouth. "I feel so bad. And my arm . . ."

There was the echoing tread of footsteps in the corridor to Ben's left, the rustle of keys, then the sound of one being fitted into the lock.

Ben turned his head, watching as the heavy door eased back, the light from a hand-held oil lamp flooding the cell. Two men stood there: a big, swarthy man in a leather jerkin and a smaller, neater man-a typical Clayborn-dressed in fine silks."Who are you?" the small man asked, looking to Ben, his English heavily accented.

"I'm Shepherd," Ben answered.

"And the others?"

"They are my men. Servant."

There was a whispered exchange, and then the big man came across. He leaned over Ben a moment, seeming to study his face, his foul breath playing in Ben's nostrils; then, just when Ben expected him to do or say something, he moved on, crouching over the unconscious figure of Kygek.

"Eva!" the one at the door said impatiently. Him!

At once the jailer slipped one of the keys into the iron cuff on Kygek's left wrist and unlocked it, then moved busily about him, unfastening the rest. That done, he lifted Kygek onto his shoulder and carried him out, ducking beneath the door.

"Where are you taking him?"

The small man stopped, staring back at Ben, his dark eyes studying him a moment. Then, without a word, he turned and slammed the door shut, leaving them in darkness.

TAK WALKED BACK down the corridor, then reached up and hung the oil lamp on the hook beside the door. Shepherd, he thought, remembering how the young man had said it, as if he ought to have known; but the name meant nothing. Not yet, anyway.

He went inside, watching as Ponow fastened the unconscious man to the bench. There were many strangers in the Clay right now, some by invitation, others-like these men-for reasons of their own.

Tak edged past the bench and went through into the tiny office on the far side of the cell. There, on a wide, long shelf, were the objects they had taken from the men. Some of them he recognized, like the screen; others, like the tiny sphere, were mysteries. He sat, studying the sphere, rolling it about in his palm, then set it down again. It had felt warm, almost alive, to the touch.

And the big man, Shepherd-what did he want in the Clay? Why had he come here, armed with lasers, surrounded by his men? Had he come to meet the others? Or was he a free agent, wanting to muscle in on whatever deal was being struck down here? So much was happening right now, it was hard to tell.

Tynan might know, but Tak didn't want to ask Tynan. Not yet. Not until he had exhausted other avenues.

There was a noise from the other room, the sound of the prisoner waking. Tak listened a moment, then, knowing what must be done, he went through to begin the interrogation.

IT WAS EVENING. The lamplight had faded and darkness lay like a lid of stone above the silent town.

Thorn stood on the steps of the hall, staring out into the blackness, thinking. "What is it, trader?"

Tak stood close to him on the steps. Once again he had come upon him silently, unnoticed. Thorn turned.

Though Tak was only an arm's length from him he could make out only the vague outline of his form. His face was totally obscured, "Just wondering."

Tak came closer until he stood almost face to face with Thorn in the darkness. Thorn could feel his breath upon his cheeks. Clean, unadulterated breath. Thorn laughed softly.

"What are you, Tak? And what are you doing here?"Tak was silent. Thorn could sense him, only a breath away, watching his face, trying to penetrate the layers of darkness that hid what he was from normal sight. At length the smaller man laughed. Thorn felt Tak's hand on his upper arm.

"Just a man, trader. Like you." The hand dropped away. "Come. Let's go inside. We have work to do, you and I."

Inside the benches were set up for a feast, a dozen of the Myghtern's men-minor chieftains and retainers-to each table. Their raucous chatter filled the old hall. Overhead the huge oak beams of the rafters were strung with electric bulbs. On the walls hung ancient shields bearing the arms of the families of the old county.

Thorn walked down the aisle, between the heavily laden tables, no longer surprised by the richness, the variety of food on display. At the top table he stopped and bowed low before the Myghtern. The hall had gone quiet. All eyes were on Thorn.

"Welcome, trader. Come up here, beside me."

He went up and sat to the right of the Myghtern. Below him in the hall the talk had resumed, heads had turned back. Thorn looked down the length of the hall and saw Tak standing by the door, staring out into the dark.

The Myghtern turned to him, his face set, determined. "They will be here soon, trader, so let me make this clear. I want to know them. Everything about them. Understand?"

Thorn nodded. The nearest table on the right was empty, he noted. "These five . . . you know none of them?"

The Myghtern smiled. "Two of them. The others . . ." He drained his cup and set it down. "They want things from me. Certain agreements. They will no doubt try to placate me. What they want"-he laughed, then his face grew serious again-"it is important to them. Very important."

Thorn watched him as he turned away and poured himself more wine. How important? he wondered.