"Are you afraid, Kuei Jen?"

The young man laughed softly. "I would be foolish to say no. That is some sight, neh, father? I know now how the enemies of Ch'in must have felt when the great Ch'in army took the field against them."

Li Yuan half turned and smiled at his son. This much, at least, had been a blessing: to have had so fine a son.

"That may be so, but we would do well to remember what happened at Ch'ang P'ing, neh, my son?"Kuei Jen bowed his head, chastened. At Ch'ang P'ing, in 259 B.C. the army of the kingdom of Chao had been starved into surrender by the King of Ch'in, the First Emperor's father. In a gesture of the most supreme barbarity, the King had ordered that the army of Chao be exterminated and a great mountain of heads had been piled up on the plain of the battle. Four hundred thousand men had been executed that day and Chao deprived of every able-bodied man it had.

And now history, it seemed, was to repeat itself. For one thing was certain. DeVore would spare not one of them. They must fight, or die like curs.

There was a knocking at the far end of the Hall and then the great doors swung open. Li Yuan turned and looked. It was his Major, Haavikko. As the man straightened up from bowing, Li Yuan beckoned him across.

"What is it, Major?"

Haavikko knelt and touched his head to the stone flags, then looked up at his Master.

"There is news from Odessa, Chieh Hsia. Li Min's army has withdrawn."

There was a gasp, then a murmur of urgent, whispered voices from the crowd.

"Withdrawn?" Li Yuan leaned forward, unable to believe what he had heard.

"Yes, Chieh Hsia. It seems-"

"Chieh Hsia.'"

Li Yuan got to his feet, staring past Haavikko at the newcomer. It was Karr. The big man stood there, getting his breath, a scroll held up in one hand.

"What is it?"

"It has come, Chieh Hsia! A message from Li Min. He sues for peace, and for an alliance against our common enemy, DeVore."

The silence that fell was profound. Li Yuan stood there a moment, astonished. He had assumed Lehmann was in league with DeVore. Why, the men had been allies! Trembling, he went down the steps and, bidding Haavikko rise, walked over to Karr and took the paper from him, reading it through. He turned, handing it to Nan Ho, who had come across.

"It cannot be," Li Yuan said, shaking his head. "Peace, certainly. I'll agree to peace. But the rest . . ." He met his Chancellor's eyes. "How can I possibly ally myself with him? For ten years he has been my mortal enemy. To embrace him . . ." He shuddered. "The men I've lost, the loyal friends ... It would be a betrayal."

"You have no choice," Pei K'ung said, stepping up and taking his arm, forcing him to turn and face her.

"You must do this, husband. You must or there is no hope."

He met her eyes briefly, then looked away, troubled. "Perhaps . . . But I must have time to think."

"Then think. But don't take long." She pointed up at the screen. "See. He is loading his armies back on board their ships. Soon they will fly north to meet us. So think hard but think fast, Li Yuan, for you must decide. Before the God of Hell descends on us."

He stared at her, then, knowing she was right, nodded and turned to Karr. "General Karr . . . send amessenger. Tell Li Min . . . tell him I shall let him know within the hour."

FU CHIANG HAD FLED, escaping the assassin's blade by hours, yet the people of his great City-a city he had wrested by cunning and the force of arms from his fellow Mountain Lords-had come out onto the sandstone cliffs to witness with their own eyes the host that had gathered on the plain near Olduvai. In awe they stared as phalanx after phalanx of massive soldiers-seven, maybe eight ch'i in height- marched aboard the ships, their uniformity of appearance as much as their massive size sending a ripple of chill apprehension through the watching crowd.

There was a strange and eerie silence to the scene, a stillness such as might happen in a vast airless jar, and then a trumpet blew.

A great gasp of fear greeted the apparition in the sky above the ships. It was a horseman, a giant horsemen almost two li in height, dressed totally in white, its horse as pale as snow. In its hand it grasped a bow.

The trumpet blew again. Deafening, making the watchers clasp their ears in pain.

A bright red horse appeared beside the first, its rider-his face cowled-dressed in vermillion silks, a broadsword in his hand.

Again the trumpet blew.

This time it was a black horse. It reared proudly, its black-cloaked rider holding out a set of scales.

Once more the trumpet sounded.

And finally, a pale horse, mounted by a white-cloaked skeleton.

DeVore, watching from his vantage point, smiled. The crowd was running now, screaming, trampling each other down to get away, while above them the air rustled with the presence of the four gigantic figures.

He turned. Pasek, who had arrived no more than twenty minutes back, was on his knees, his mouth open, his eyes staring in wonder. Behind him, those of his acolytes who had made the journey with him did the same.

"You have done well," DeVore said quietly, putting out his right hand so that Pasek might kiss the black iron ring that rested on the knuckle of his index finger. "You have laid down a path of fire for me."

As Pasek grasped his hand and kissed the ring fervently, DeVore smiled inwardly. It was no lie. Pasek had sown the seed-had planted these startling images in the minds of friend and foe alike-and now he, Howard DeVore, would reap the harvest.

The battle is already won, he thought, retrieving his hand, then turning to watch as his fleet lifted slowly from the plain. All the stones are mine, while my enemies . . . He laughed, a cruel, unfeeling laughter that broke finally into a high cackle of triumph. My enemies play with an empty pot!

In the air above, the horsemen began to turn, rising into the pure blue of the sky, leading on the pure white circles of his ships as they began their journey north to the coast.

And at his back he could feel the dark wind blowing, cold and pure, coursing through him with a silent, steady pressure, streaming like an unseen tide of photons from the endless blackness at the core of him.

The game had begun."That face . . . that fucking face!"

The man swung the lamp, smashing the screen, then stood back as it popped and sputtered into blackness.

Lehmann, standing in the corridor outside the room, nodded and walked on quickly. He understood.

Everywhere he went people were destroying the screens. He had destroyed more than a hundred himself. Even so, DeVore's face still followed him wherever he went-awaiting him in silent rooms and at intersections, there on every new screen he encountered.

The purest form of solipsism, he thought, his gun searching the intersection before he hurried on. That need to fill the world with copies of himself. It was the ultimate in xenophobia: not just a hatred of other races but of otherness itself. Was that how God had started-filling the pristine world with copies of himself?

He stopped momentarily, listening. Most of these levels had been abandoned, but there were still some of Pasek's men about. He took three slow paces backward and peeked inside. Another screen- DeVore's face speaking to the empty room.

DeVore was jamming all visual communications channels and beaming down his own programs; replacing that great multiplicity of images that characterized the levels with the single image of his face.

Or so it had been this last hour. That face . . . murmuring that awful litany of Last Things, Pasek's "Book."

He hurried on. His ship had been brought down short of his destination-by one of his own gunners, no doubt-but that was the least of his problems right now. Sofia garrison lay up ahead. That, at least, should be safe. But he was growing anxious now, afraid in case he should get there and find it had all fallen apart while he'd been making his way across.

The last he'd heard, his men had been deserting by the thousand, abandoning their posts. Pasek's declaration for DeVore had been more damaging than he'd possibly imagined. For once Soucek had been right. He had underestimated the power of the religious impulse. He had thought it simply another addiction, like drugs and sex. But he'd been wrong.

And if Li Yuan says no?

Then it was over. Alone he could do nothing. Alone he could not stand against DeVore. Even so, he would fight him to the end. For there was no other choice. He knew DeVore. If he fled, DeVore would track him down. Only his death-the death of them all, perhaps; every last autonomous being on the planet-would satisfy that madman.

He slowed, the gate in sight now, the final intersection just ahead.

It did not matter that he'd been careful all these years. All of his patient work meant nothing now. In less than two days DeVore had destroyed it all. Yet strangely it wasn't bitterness he felt, or disappointment, but a curious excitement. The kind a gambler feels.

It was only now he realized how far he had strayed from his intended path. Only now-with DeVore's reminder-did he begin to understand. He had let himself become a king; acting as a king, thinking as a king. He had forgotten his original intention-had let that pure flame of hatred for the system gutter and die in him. But DeVore . . .

He stopped, looking across at an unbroken screen, seeing his old Mentor's face staring back at him, and smiled. DeVore, at least, was pure. DeVore had not forgotten.There was no doubting it. He admired the man. Admired his style, his ability not merely to plan but to carry out such long-term, sweeping plans; his skill for the long game. But he could not let admiration cloud his judgment. He had no illusions. DeVore was no friend of his. It was either-or now-him or DeVore. For there was no room on this world for them both.

One more corridor, he thought, beginning to run, his spirits strangely lifted by the challenge that lay ahead.

Whatever the odds against him, he would fight on, and not merely because there was no other choice, but because he would bow his head to no man.

No, nor to the copy of a man.

THE GUARD STOPPED at the bottom of the road, beside a low, white-walled cottage with shuttered windows, and pointed to the white-painted gate at the side.

Catherine stared at him, her eyes questions.

"Go on," he said, bowing politely but anxious to get back, then waved a hand at her, gesturing that she should go through. "The Mistress knows you're coming. Go around. There's a door at the side."

She made to say something more, but he had turned away and was making his way hurriedly up the curve of hill, disappearing after a moment between the whitewashed cottages. She sighed, then looked down at the sleeping child in her arms. Now that she was here she felt like turning back. It had been a mistake. She should never have come.

Turning, she looked at the gate. Like everything here it was strange, dreamlike. The smells, the sounds, the way the air moved on the skin. It was like being brushed by hungry ghosts.

She shivered, then reached out, trying to open the gate, feeling the wooden frame judder beneath her hand, resisting her attempts. She peered over it, then, finding the catch, lifted it.

There, she thought, surprised by how fast her heart was beating. As easy as that.

She looked up, smiling, pleased with herself, then saw her. Meg. It had to be Meg. Despite the years she recognized her.

"You came," Meg said. "I wondered if you would. He said you wouldn't. He said you'd stay inside."

Catherine swallowed, feeling awkward. "And you?"

"I thought you'd come. He usually gets what he wants. But come through. You look like you could do with a drink."

"Do I?"

Meg smiled, her eyes sympathetic. "Is it bad in there?"

She nodded. It was terrible. Worse than she could ever have imagined. If she hadn't had help. . . .

Meg came across and, unexpectedly, took her arm, looking down at the sleeping child. "Hey . . . it's all right now. You're safe here. Both of you. All that"-she looked up past her at the massive wall of whiteness that began beyond the hill's crest-"All that's inside."

Meg put her arm about her shoulder, then, turning, led her down the stone-paved path and up two steps, into a kitchen that was filled with sunlight and smelled of beeswax and flowers."This is all so ... strange," she said, letting Meg seat her on a wheel-backed wooden chair, then watched as the other woman filled a copper kettle from the tap at the sink. "I didn't know."

"No." The look of sympathy was back. "Your face . . . you want me to see to that?"

Catherine reached up and touched her cheek, then winced. It was very tender. She looked at Meg and nodded. Meg smiled, then went over to one of the cupboards and, reaching up, got down a wooden box marked with a red-painted cross. Setting it down on the table, she opened the lid and began to search through the jumble of things within.

"He didn't forget you, you know."

"Forget me?" Catherine stared at her, a clear memory of the first time she'd met Meg coming back to her.

Then, she'd seen her with jealous eyes, thinking her Ben's lover; unaware she was his sister. She had been wrong, and at the same time right.

She looked down, wondering if Ben had mentioned what had happened between them. Whether now as then, he told his sister everything. But something stopped her asking.

Meg looked up, setting a tube of ointment and some gauze to one side, then smiled at her again. "The picture you painted . . . you know, the one of Ben. The one you left in his apartment. It's upstairs, on the wall."

Catherine stared at her, surprised. He'd kept that? She shivered, not from cold, but from a sense of displacement. Sitting there, it was like she couldn't wake. It was like . . . well, like the "shell" Ben had made her experience that time, so real and yet unreal. Totally unreal.

"Your daughter's very pretty," Meg said, smiling at her.

"Her name is Sasha, I ..." She smiled. All of the anxiety she had been feeling had gone, she realized. "You aren't angry with me, are you? I mean . . . about Ben."

"Angry?" She laughed. "God, no. It'll be nice to have some decent company around. Now . . . turn your head slightly toward the light, so I can see what I'm doing."

SHE OPENED THE DOOR quietly and stepped inside. There was a long casement window to her right. Beneath it a broad wooden table crowded with all manner of things-a part-sculpted clay head, an oddly shaped piano keyboard, some sketches, pots of paints, brushes, scalpels, and rags, and, in a chaotically disordered pile, a stack of old folders labeled in Ben's precise hand. Ben himself had his back to her, working on a canvas. For a moment she stared out of the window, still surprised by how beautiful the valley was, how strange it felt to be outside the City. It was all so different, so frighteningly, confusingly different. No wonder Ben had seemed strange when she'd first met him; no wonder he'd seemed out of place back there in the levels. She looked back at him, then took two silent steps, moving to the left so that she could see the canvas better. It was a huge thing and took up most of the wall on that side of the room.

It was a picture of the valley-of the Domain-but changed, horribly transformed. In the top half of the canvas all seemed normal. Sunlight bathed the valley, creating a sense of great repose. Birds nested in the branches of the ash trees, and a swan glided on the golden, sunlit water. She could see the cottage to the right of the canvas, the tree-the same young oak she could glimpse from the window-just beneath it on the slope. Yet there, beneath it all, was a second world, so different from the first as to make its normality appear sinister, a mask to what was really real.There, in the center of the picture, the earth had cracked and the water fell through a thin crust of darkness into what seemed like a vast flame-lit cavern. And as it fell, the water changed. Its vivid blue became a deep yellow. Its smooth liquid flow suddenly, violently fragmented-as if its very atomic properties had changed-tiny splinters of bright yellow glass scattering in a shower of exploding crystal onto the rocks below. The effect was startling.

She took a step toward it, feeling a ripple of fear run down her spine. It was the dance of death. To the far left of the cavern a tall, emaciated figure led the dance, its skin as pale as glass, its bare arms lithely muscled, the long legs stretched taut like a runner's. Its body was facing to the left-to the west and the darkness beyond-but its horselike, shaven head was turned unnaturally on its long neck, staring back dispassionately at the naked host that followed, hand in hand, down the path through the trees.

In its long, thin hands Death held a flute, the reed placed to its lipless mouth. From the tapered mouth of the flute spilled a flock of tiny blackbirds, the cruel rounded eyes like tiny beads of milky white as they fell onto the host below, pecking at eye and limb.

In the very center of the cavern, beneath the great gash in the earth, the settling crystal had formed a sluggish flow-like the flow of glittering lava. She recognized the allusion. These were the Yellow Springs, beneath which, the Han claimed, the dead had their domain, ti yu, the "earth prison."

So bleak it was. So hopeless those forlorn and forward-staring figures. A scene of utter torment, and no release-no sign of simple human compassion.

She shivered, watching him lean toward the canvas to make the tiniest of changes to one of the figures.

"It's called The Feast of the Dead,' " he said quietly.

"It's extraordinary," she said. Yes, and horribk, and frightening and . . . and beautiful, all at the same time. "Was it a dream?"

"Yes," he said. "But not one of mine. I saw this once. Or a version of it. Do you remember? I told you about it."

She shrugged. If he had, she didn't recall it.

"The Oven Man," he said, as if that were the key that would unlock the memory. "He painted this with ash."

It meant nothing to her.

"Well, he'll be busy tonight, neh?" He turned, then frowned at her. "Where's the child?"

"Meg's looking after her."