More important than what the Myghtern wanted?

At the far end of the hall Tak moved back suddenly, addressing someone in the darkness outside. Beside Thorn the Myghtern stiffened and leaned forward. The hall had grown quiet once again. All eyes had turned to stare at the five silver-suited figures that had come into the hall.

"The first man," the Myghtern said quietly, "the hawklike one with the dark hair. Who is he?"

Thorn was quiet a moment.

"Well? Do you know him?"

"I know him."

He knew all five.

"His name is Edward Tynan. In the Above he's a powerful man. Like the man beside him, Franke. They were both Representatives in the great House that once governed the Above. Nowadays Tynan runs his own trading Company."

The Myghtern laughed. "Like you, then, trader."Thorn smiled tightly. It was all a matter of scale. Apart from Li Yuan there were only a few dozen men on the planet richer than Edward Tynan. His company transported more than thirty percent of all the goods that were manufactured in the orbital factories back to the North European Enclave. He was considered one of the pillars of the new establishment. What, then, was he doing here? What could a man like Tynan hope to get down here that he couldn't get Above?

Thorn studied the others. Rutger Franke was Vice-President of SimFic, the up-and-coming entertainments company. He wasn't in the same league as Tynan. Not yet, anyway, for financial sources predicted that SimFic was the Company to watch, and Franke held a substantial block of shares. William Nolen, next to him, had no Company behind him, but that hadn't held him back. He had used a massive inheritance to carve out a successful career in public relations. There was no one who was anyone in the Above who wasn't in his circle. That he was here-linked to the presence of Tynan-suggested that whatever was going on was wide scale and involved some of the most powerful people in the Enclave.

He watched as Tak turned and began to lead the five down the aisle toward the Myghtern. They came like kings, Tynan and Franke leading, Hastings, Nolen, and Deng Liang last.

Deng Liang was an aristocrat. That is, he was a member of one of the Twenty-Nine, the "Minor Families," so called, who had once helped rule the great empire of Chung Kuo. Even now, when their power was but a shadow, they were still "above the Above," not subject to the same laws and strictures as the common citizens of the Enclave. For Deng Liang, fifth son of Deng Shang, to be here was not merely surprising but astonishing. It would be difficult to convey to the Myghtern what it suggested. And as for Hastings . . .

Thorn had received the update on Hastings only days before setting off for the Scillys. The death of the great physicist had come as a sad surprise to many, for he had been an articulate spokesman for his kind: a fearless advocate of change and a vociferous opponent of many of Li Yuan's new laws. His presence here-alive-made some kind of sense of this strange gathering. Or the beginnings of sense . . .

They stopped half a dozen paces from the Myghtern, Tak moving aside with a bow, leaving them to face the Myghtern alone. Thorn spoke hurriedly to the Myghtern, whispering to his ear, telling him who each was and what his status was in the Above, leaving out any mention of Hastings's reported death.

"Wolcum, Tynan. Wolcum oil," the Myghtern said, smiling broadly, his whole manner genial and welcoming.

"I see you have a new man," Tynan said, pointing at Thorn. "A new tongue, eh?"

The Myghtern looked to Thorn, who quickly translated what had been said. It was clear that Tynan had been a test which he had passed. So now he was the Myghtern's man. Like Tak. The Myghtern's ear, his tongue. Behind the expressionless mask of his face Thorn smiled. It was better, far better, than he could have hoped for.

THE SCREAMING had stopped now. In the darkness of the cell Ben let a long breath escape him, then touched the tip of his tongue against the inside of his upper lip. It felt tender and swollen and one of his teeth was loose, but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

And when my turn comes, he wondered, will 1 cry out the way they have? Will I, too, jibber like a madman and plead for mercy?

He didn't know. In fact, the very thought of it made his stomach clench with fear. But above that fear-riding it, almost-was his curiosity.Meg's right, he thought, and almost smiled, picturing her face before him in the darkness. There's part of me that's mad. Mad as the proverbial hatter.

Beside him, Scaf shifted in the darkness and made a small noise of discomfort. Ben looked to him, making out the vague outline of the Clayman. Scaf had borne this well, considering. Kygek, Crefter, and Blonegek had been taken already. His turn was next.

Unless they take me. But that's not their scheme. They'll find out what all these "lesser" creatures know before they question me.

He shifted uncomfortably, the chains chafing his wrists, then stretched his neck. How many hours had passed? Two? Three? And the signal? Was that still going out?

He touched the stud at his throat and winced. One of them had hit him there and twisted the delicate implant. If it was broken . . .

If it was broken, then no signal was being sent. And if no signal was being sent, no one would come. And even if they did, they would not be able to find him.

Lost, he thought. I am lost.

He sighed, then spoke. "Are you afraid, Scaf?"

There was silence, then. "Yes, Master. And sad."

"Sad?"

"That it has to end now. I was . . . hopeful."

"Ah . . ." In the darkness Ben frowned; but for once there was nothing he could do. This, then, was how it felt. To be fated. To be without control. He nodded slowly, understanding. This was how it felt.

"Scaf?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Thank you. And, sorry. This was my fault."

Unexpectedly, Scaf laughed. "You didn't plan it very well, did you, Master?"

"No, I ..." He laughed, suddenly feeling much better.

"In fact," Scaf said, his voice dark with intelligence, "you fucked up pretty badly. The Mistress will be very angry with you."

"She will, won't she?"

"But she won't give up. She's like you in that."

In the darkness Ben nodded. It was true. Maybe the signal wasn't damaged. Maybe someone was coming for him, even now. He had only to hold on; to buy himself some time until they came.

Maybes and ifs, he thought, then, angry with himself for being so negative, began to sing.

"In diesen heil'gen Hallen Kennt man die Roche nicht, - . Und ist einMensch gefalien, * . Fuhrt Liebe ihn zur Pflicht.Dann wandelt er an Freundes Hand Vergnugt und froh ins bess're Land"

"What is that?" Scaf asked.

"Mozart," he answered, hearing the glorious music in his head. "It's from The Magic Flute."

"I ... I seem to know it."

"Yes," Ben said. "I gave it to you."

Again there was silence. Then: "Did you really make me, Master?"

Ben took a breath. "No. You were born, Scaf, like other men."

"And the memories?"

"Some are real, some implants. The poetry and music . . . those things I gave you."

"I see." There was no anger in the words.

"Scaf?"

"Yes, Master."

"You were the best of them. You know that, don't you? I could have made you something . . . well, something special."

Scaf sighed, hearing the door clank open at the far end of the corridor and footsteps approach. "And now it ends."

Bear up, brave Scaf, Ben thought, but could not say the words. It was not the moment to say something so trite, so ...

The door eased back, light filling the cell. Scaf looked up at him and smiled.

"It's okay," he said. "You gave me life, Master. And a chance." Ben swallowed, watching as the jailer crouched over Scaf, then, not knowing what else to do, began to sing again.

The big man turned, glaring at Ben, and swung his arm, the back of his hand connecting with Ben's cheek. Yet even as he did, Scaf, free now, pulled himself up and, taking a single, agonizing step on his broken leg, launched himself at Ben. The jailer roared and pulled him off, but in that brief instant Scaf had passed something to Ben.

The cell door slammed, the blackness once more enclosed him. His cheek stung like it was on fire. But now he had hope. Hope like a beacon blazing in him.

He turned the object Scaf had given him between the fingers of his right hand, recognizing it and blessing the dayman for his foresight. It was a remote control unit. The unit that operated his artificial hand.

Slowly, careful not to drop the unit, he began, moving his hands as close together as the chains permitted, so that he could unfasten the flesh clips just below the raised line of his left wrist. And as he worked, he softly sang the last two lines of Sarastro's song: "Wen sokhe Lehren nicht erfreun, Verdienet nicht ein Mensch zu sein."THE WORST thing was the waiting, the feeling of impotence as he stood there in the dark behind the door, listening to Scaf s screams.

He had tried to think of other things-to think forward and plan what he would do-but that dreadful sound destroyed the very thread of thought. And then silence-a silence more awful than any he had known.

Was Scaf dead?

He waited, listening, then heard the door clank open and the two men come out. There was a brief exchange, then footsteps-away this time, climbing the steps up to the street. Then, after a pause, the heavy footsteps of the jailer came toward him.

He stepped back, prepared now, the loose chains at his feet clinking softly against the stone floor.

There was the sound of the bolt being drawn; slowly the door eased back. Ben watched the jailer move past him, into the cell, then gasp, astonished to find him gone. He began to turn, but it was too late. Even as he made to lunge at Ben, Ben's hand-detached, floating in the air above the jailer-fastened itself about the man's neck with the force of a vise.

Slowly, his eyes bulging, the man went down onto his knees, his hands struggling vainly to pull away Ben's hand. Ben watched, his eyes taking in everything, his mind burning with a hatred he had never thought possible.

Slowly he increased the pressure, his real hand aching with the effort, until, with a resounding crack, the bones of the jailer's neck popped and shattered and he fell.

Ben shuddered, then released the tension in his fingers. At once the hand released and floated slowly up.

He watched it, then looked back at the jailer's dark, distorted face. His tongue was thick in his mouth, his eyes like tiny marble spheres.

Time. Time was of the essence now. Quickly he stooped and took the keys from the man's belt, then, letting the hand float on before him, he went out into the corridor, his chains clanking.

His luck held. There were no guards. Setting the control box down, he sorted through the keys, trying them one by one until he found the one that turned the lock.

He pushed the door back, his reluctance for once greater than his curiosity, then groaned. Scaf lay there on the bench, his chest pinned open, his eyes burned from their sockets. Ben stepped up to him and winced. His testicles had been mutilated and his legs and arms burned a dozen or twenty times. His fingernails had been pulled off and there were tiny cuts all along his inner thighs.

Ben shuddered and made to turn away, then heard the faintest groan from the dayman.

Alive? Was he still alive?

He clanked over to the top of the bench and leaned close, putting his hand above Scaf s mouth to feel for a breath.

Yes! But it was the faintest trace. He turned, looking about him, then realized. Of course, he had the keys! Fumbling through them, he found one tiny key that clearly matched the locks at each corner of the bench. He moved around, unfastening them, hearing Scaf groan again, as if he were coming back to consciousness, but listening all the while for the return of footsteps.How long did he have? How long before someone came to check?

He stared at his own chains, wondering if he should take the time to unfasten them and cast them off, then decided he didn't have the time. Lifting Scaf, he balanced him on his shoulder, then went out into the corridor again.

The steps . . . they were the only way out. But what if there was a guard at the top? He took a calming breath, then began to climb the steps.

At the top step he paused, listening again, but he could hear nothing through the door. Slowly, expecting the worst, he put his shoulder to the door and pushed.

Outside a row of ancient gas-lamps punctuated the darkness of the street. Ben hesitated, looking about him, then realized where he was- recognizing it from the probes he'd sent in earlier.

He turned, heading left toward the New Bridge, surprised by how heavy Scaf was. If he didn't find shelter soon-somewhere to hide Scaf s body while he worked out how to get out of there-they were done for. Besides, their escape would be noticed before long, and then . . .

Ben stopped and turned, hearing an unexpected sound from down the street-the sound of laughter from inside one of the big houses farther down . . . the Mansion House, it looked like.

A feast, he realized. They were having a feast!

He hobbled on, clinking with each step. There were steps beside the bridge, leading down. On the far side a guard walked through a patch of light, then merged with the shadows again, some thirty yards distant.

Ben hesitated, then went down the steps, coming out onto the footpath and ducking beneath the low arch.

Slowly, mindful of his injuries, he set Scaf down. "It's all right," he whispered reassuringly, wishing he could give him something to ease the pain. "We'll be out of here soon. Just wait for me here. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He touched Scaf s forehead tenderly, feeling the burning fever there, then moved back, knowing he had to do something about his chains, or they'd quickly be discovered. Valuable seconds passed as he searched among the bunch for the right key, then, fumbling, he unfastened the cuffs, taking care all the while not to make any sound that might betray their position.

Any moment now, he kept thinking, imagining the small man returning to find the empty cell, the jailer dead. Yet still the streets were silent, still they were empty.

He shivered, then, setting the last chain down, picked up the control again. At the top of the steps he stopped, looking toward the gate, checking the guard was in his post, then he ran on, tracing his steps back to the cells.

His hand ... it was here somewhere. He looked around, then looked up and saw it. It had floated up halfway to the roof. He smiled and slowly brought it down.

One more thing, he thought, slipping the control into his pocket, then plucking his hand from the air. One mare thing and then we're gone from here.

BEN CROUCHED THERE, still as a gargoyle on the roof, looking down through the skylight at thescene below.

It was a small hall, sparsely furnished, yet the grandeur of the man seated on the old carved throne was undiminished. I was right, Ben thought. He is a magnificent beast. He watched the Myghtern lean toward the men and speak, his words barely reaching Ben except as faint reverberations in the air.

Without a probe it was hard to make out what was going on, yet one thing had struck Ben instantly - something no remote had ever really captured - and that was the power, the sheer charisma of the man.

That's why I had to come, Ben thought. That's why I had to see him for myself. To see him on a screen was one thing, but to see him like this . . .

There was a noise behind him in Quay Street, a cry and then run- ning footsteps. Ben turned slowly, holding on tightly to the brick para- pet, and looked.

The commotion had been from near the cells. As he looked, two men ran across to the open doorway, one of them speaking hurriedly to the other and then gesturing down into the darkness below. Out! Ben thought. I must get out.

He made his way across, half crawling, picking his way hand by hand along the old timber roof. On the far side a fire ladder went down to a flight of steps. He went down quickly, his footsteps echoing, hoping no one would be drawn to the noise. But there was shouting now from the other side of the Mansion House - that was where it was all happening. If he were to slip down Enys Quay he could be out of there before they knew.