Feeling as though he had awakened from a disturbed and fitful sleep, Joram blinked and glanced quickly around the forge. He was alone.

10.

The Spy "Bishop Vanya has retired to his private chambers for the evening," was the message the Deacon who acted as secretary gave to all who asked to see His Holiness.

These were not many; everyone living in the Font, and a good majority of those who did not, being very familiar with the Bishop's habits. He retired to his chambers to have the evening meal in private or with those few fortunate enough to be invited as guests. While in his chambers, he was not to be disturbed for anything short of the assassination of any of the Emperors. (Death of the Emperors by natural causes could wait until morning.) Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith stood outside the Bishop's chambers, their sole task to make certain that His Holiness remained undisturbed. stood outside the Bishop's chambers, their sole task to make certain that His Holiness remained undisturbed.

There were several reasons for this well-guarded privacy, reasons both public and private. Publicly it was known all over Thimhallan that Bishop Vanya was something of a gourmand and refused to allow any sort of unpleasantness to interrupt his dinner. Guests at his table were carefully selected to provide interesting and noncontroversial dinnertime conversation, which was viewed as important to the digestion.

Publicly it was known that Bishop Vanya worked extremely hard during the day, devoting himself completely to matters of the Church (and state). Rising before the sun, he rarely left his office until it had set. After such a rigorous day, it was important to his health to have these hours of unbroken rest and relaxation in the evening.

Publicly it was known that the Bishop used these quiet hours in meditation and discussion with the Almin.

These were the public reasons. The real reason, of course, was a private one, known only to the Bishop. Vanya used these quiet hours for discussion-but not with the Almin. Those to whom he talked were of a more worldly nature ....

There had been guests to dinner this autumn night, but they had left early, the Bishop indicating that he felt unusually tired that evening. After the guests had gone, however, Vanya did not proceed to his bedchambers as might have been expected. Instead, moving with a swiftness and an alacrity that accorded ill with pleas of exhaustion, the Bishop removed the spell that sealed off a small, private chapel, and opened the door.

A beautiful and peaceful place, the chapel was built along ancient lines and traditions. Its dark interior was illuminated by stained glass windows conjured up many centuries ago by the most skilled of artisans whose speciality lay in glass shaping. Benches of rosewood stood before an altar of crystal, also centuries old, decorated with the symbols of the Nine Mysteries.

Here Vanya performed the Ritual of Dawn, the Evening Prayers, and sought guidance and counsel of the Almin-something he did infrequently, if at all, it being Bishop Vanya's private opinion that it was the Almin who could use the guidance and counseling of his minister, not the other way around.

Vanya entered the chapel, which was illuminated by a perpetual gleam of light shining from the altar, as pale and restful as moonbeams, gracing the chamber with an air of peaceful tranquility.

There was neither peace nor tranquility in the Bishop as he walked through the chapel, however. Moving swiftly, without a glance at the altar, Vanya crossed the room and came to stand before one of the handsomely decorated wooden panels that formed the interior of the small chapel. Laying his hand upon the panel, the Bishop murmured secret, arcane words and the panel dissolved beneath his fingertips. Before him opened up a vast void, empty and dark-a Corridor. But it was not an ordinary Corridor, not part of that vast network of time-dimensional tunnels created long ago by the Diviners that crossed and crisscrossed Thimhallan. This Corridor had been created by the Diviners, but it connected to no other Corridor. Only one man knew of its existence-the Bishop of the Realm-and it went to only one place.

It was to that place that Bishop Vanya proceeded, arriving there within the space of a heartbeat. Stepping out of the Corridor, the Bishop was in a pocket made of the very material of the Corridors themselves, a pocket that existed only in the warped fabric of space and time. It seemed to Vanya that whenever he entered this place he was entering some dark and inner part of his own mind.

He could see nothing within this place, nor could he touch walls or feel a floor, though he had the sensation that he walked in it. He had the impression that the pocket of time and space was round. There was a chair in the center where he could sit down, if his business proved long. But the chair may have well been in his mind, for it seemed to have armrests when he wanted them and to lack them when he didn't. At times it was soft, at others times firm, and sometimes, when he was irritated or pressed for time or felt like walking as he talked, the chair wasn't there at all.

This evening, the chair was there and, this evening, it was soft and comfortable. Sitting in it, Vanya relaxed. This was not a meeting that demanded the application of subtle pressures, threats, or coercion. It was not one of delicate negotiation. This was a meeting of an informative nature, clarification, reassurance that all was proceeding according to plan.

Settling back, Vanya allowed himself a moment to absorb and activate the magic in the room that permitted this communication to work, then he spoke aloud into the darkness.

"My friend, a word with you."

The magic pulsed around him, he could feel it whisper against his cheek and stir across the fingers of his hand.

"I am at your service."

It was the darkness that spoke to Vanya, though human lips well over hundreds of miles distant formed the words. Because of the magic within the room, the Bishop heard the words as his own mind formed them, not necessarily as the person on the other end of his conscious thought spoke them. Thus the room was known as the Chamber of Discretion, for two people could converse with each other, neither knowing the other's identity unless it was revealed, neither ever being able to recognize the other by sight or sound. In the ancient days, so legend had it, there had been several of these chambers built-each of the Royal Houses, for example, had one, as did the various Guilds. Following the Second Rectification, however, the catalysts had moved swiftly to see that the other pockets in the Corridors were sealed up, giving as pretext the reasoning that in a world of peace, no one need have secrets from each other.

It was assumed by all parties that when the catalysts sealed off the other Chambers of Discretion, they sealed off their own in the Font as well. Which only goes to prove the old adage that assumptions are lies believed by the blind.

"Are you alone?" Vanya's mind queried his unseen minion.

"For the moment. But I am busy. We ride within the week."

"I am aware of that. Did the catalyst arrive?"

"Yes."

"Safely?"

"In a manner of speaking. He is better now, if that is what you mean. At least he has no desire to venture by himself into the Outland."

"Good. He will perform adequately?"

"I see no problem. He seems seems, as you described him, naive and weak, easily intimidated, but-"

"Bah! The man is a mass of quivering jelly. He may cause trouble once, but that will be dealt with harshly, I presume. Once he has learned his lesson, I foresee no further problems."

"I hope not." The voice in Vanya's head sounded skeptical, causing the Bishop to frown.

"Where are the Technologists in terms of the forging of the weapons?" Vanya continued.

"With this catalyst's help, production should accelerate rapidly."

"How are matters progressing in Sharakan? Have you contacted His Majesty there?"

"You probably know more about that than I do, Holiness. I must move cautiously, of course. I cannot afford to reveal my hand. It is a dangerous game I play His Majesty has been discreetly informed of the acquisition of a catalyst and how it will affect us. That is the best I could do."

"Adequate. His Majesty must be confident of you. His demeanor is becoming increasingly warlike. We are, of course, attempting to quell this storm"-Vanya made a gesture with his hand as of smoothing turbulent water-"and when the time comes we will be grieved to admit our failure. Things are moving here. The Empress's brother is becoming a nuisance, but he is easily dealt with. When war is declared, we will be ready to act. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. What about Joram? What does this catalyst intend to do with him?"

"What does it matter to you? The boy is a cat's-paw, nothing more. The only thing you need concern yourself with is keeping him alive."

"What are the catalyst's instructions? What will he do?"

"Do? I doubt if he has the guts to do anything. I have recommended caution to him. He is to report to me in a month or so. I will entreat him to move slowly in the matter. But make your preparations. When I give you the word, you will need to move swiftly. You have your orders. Do I need to remind you of them?" Vanya's frown deepened. "I sense dissatisfaction in you, my friend. I am not accustomed to this questioning. What is wrong? Has your disguise been penetrated?"

"Of course not, Bishop." The voice grew cold. "We both know my talents. That was why you chose me. But certain matters have arisen that were unexpected. Someone is taking a greater interest in this than I like."

"Who?" Vanya demanded.

"I think you know." The voice inside Vanya's head was smooth. "I think, in fact, that you have dealt me marked cards."

"How dare-"

"I dare because of who I am. And now, I must go. Someone is coming. Remember, Holiness, in my hand, I hold the king."

The magical link between the two broke, leaving Vanya sitting, staring into the darkness, his lips pursed, his fingers crawling spiderlike over the arm of his chair. "King? Yes, my friend. But I hold swords."

The Scianc We are many, but we are not one.

If the Technologists had risen in a group and rebelled against Blachloch, the warlock and his henchmen must have fallen. Without a catalyst to grant him Life, the Enforcer's magical powers were limited. His henchmen, few in number, could not have held out long against hundreds. These hundreds did not arise, however. Most of the Sorcerers were, in fact, in complete agreement with Blachloch's plans for joining with the people of Sharakan and declaring war. It was time for the Sorcerers to bring the power of the Ninth Mystery back to the world, to once more take their rightful place among the inhabitants of Thimhallan. And if they had to bring death and destruction back to the world as well, wouldn't this be mitigated by the wonders they would introduce, wonders that would improve life?

There were those among the Technologists who were wise enough to see that in this kind of dream, the Sorcerers were simply repeating the tragic mistakes of the past. But these people were in the minority. It was all very well for Andon, an old man, to talk of patience and peace. The young were sick and tired of skulking about in the wilderness, leading dreary lives of drudgery when the riches and wealth of the world could be theirs, should should be theirs. be theirs.

Thus they followed Blachloch wholeheartedly, abandoning their farms, working with a will in the mines and the forge to craft the weapons that were to carve them a future.

This future came to be embodied for them in the monument that stood in the center of the village-the Great Wheel. Older than the village itself, the Wheel had been rescued from the destruction of the Sorcerers' Temples by the persecuted Technologists following the Iron Wars. They brought it with them as they fled for their lives into the Outlands, and now it hangs in the center of an arch formed of black rock. The huge wheel with its nine spokes has become the center of a ritual known in the village as the Scianc.

Who knows how the ritual began? Its roots are buried in the mud and blood of the past. Perhaps, long ago, when the Sorcerers saw the knowledge they had worked so hard to acquire sinking into the darkness of their harsh lives, they used this method to try to pass on what they had learned to the next generations. Unfortunately, next generations remembered only the words, the knowledge and the wisdom dwindled and burned out like the flame of a guttered candle.

On the seventh night of every week, the entire population of the village gathers around the Wheel and recites the chant that each learns as a child. Accompanied by the music of instruments of iron, tortured wood, and stretched animal skins, the chant begins by paying homage to the three major forces in the Sorcerers' lives-Fire, Wind, and Water. With voices that rise higher and higher as the music of the instruments becomes more frenetic, the people sing of the construction and building and development of wonders that no one now remembers or understands.

On the night before the men of the village were to leave with Blachloch on the raid of the farming communities, the Scianc was particularly wild, the former Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith cleverly using it as the cleverly using it as the DKarn-Duuk DKarn-Duuk uses the war dance-to heat the blood until human conscience and compassion is burned away. Round and round the great Wheel the chanters danced, the beating and strumming of the instruments adding their inhuman voices to the melee. Torches lit the darkness and in their light, the Wheel-forged of some type of shiny metal, the knowledge of whose making had been lost-shone in the torchlight like an unholy sun. Occasionally one of the dancers leaped up onto the black stone platform that supported the monument. Grabbing hold of one of the forge's hammers, he would strike the center of the nine-spoked Wheel, causing it to join in the chanting with a voice of iron that seemed to shout from the bowels of the earth itself. uses the war dance-to heat the blood until human conscience and compassion is burned away. Round and round the great Wheel the chanters danced, the beating and strumming of the instruments adding their inhuman voices to the melee. Torches lit the darkness and in their light, the Wheel-forged of some type of shiny metal, the knowledge of whose making had been lost-shone in the torchlight like an unholy sun. Occasionally one of the dancers leaped up onto the black stone platform that supported the monument. Grabbing hold of one of the forge's hammers, he would strike the center of the nine-spoked Wheel, causing it to join in the chanting with a voice of iron that seemed to shout from the bowels of the earth itself.

Most of the Sorcerers took part in the Scianc, men, women, and children, chanting the words no one understood, dancing in the flaming light, or watching with mixed emotions.

Andon watched in sorrow, hearing in the words of the chant the voices of the ancients crying out to their children to remember the past.

Saryon watched in a horror so vast it was a wonder he did not go mad. The flaring lights, the shrieking music, the leaping figures of men and women drunk with bloodlust-all seemed sprung from his carefully taught visions of Hell. He paid no attention to the words of the chant, he was too sickened. Here dwelt Death, and himself in the midst of it.

Blachloch watched in satisfaction, his black-robed figure standing well outside the circle of dancers, calm, observant, unnoticed. He heard the words of the chant, but he'd heard them often, and they didn't matter anymore.

Joram watched in frustration. He heard the words. What's more, he listened to them and he understood them-in part. He alone had read the hidden books. He alone, of all those there, saw the knowledge those ancient Sorcerers had hoped to impart to their children. He saw it, but he didn't understand it. The knowledge remained locked up in those words, locked up in the books. And he couldn't find the key-the key that was in strange, unfathomable symbols.

Simkin watched, bored.

With the rising of the moon, the Scianc ended. Standing in a ring of flame made by the flaring torches, Blachloch wielded the hammer that struck the Wheel nine times. The people raised their voices in nine wild shouts, then the fiery ring broke apart as the Sorcerers walked to their homes, talking of the great deeds they would do when, once again, the Ninth Mystery ruled the world.

Soon the black rock arches stood alone, casting eerie shadows as the moon rose higher, its pale light shining on the Wheel nothing more than a ghostly reflection of the brilliant torchfire. In the moonlit darkness, the village slept, wrapped in a silence that was broken only by the sounds of autumn's dry, dead leaves-blown by a chill wind-skittering and rustling through the empty streets.

I.

Choose Three Cards ...

On a bright, sunny day in late autumn, most of the men and boys of the Sorcerers' village rode out to take, as they saw it, what the world owed them. Andon watched them go with eyes that held the sadness of centuries. He had done what he could to stop them but he had failed. They had to learn their lesson, he supposed. The old man only hoped it would not be too bitter. Or too costly.

The first days of the journey were days of sunshine and clear weather-warm and pleasant during the hours of light, cool and crisp with the hint of the coming winter at night. Blachloch's band was lighthearted and merry; the young men, especially, enjoying the break from the drudgery of work in the forge or the gristmill, the mines or bricklaying. Led by the riotous Simkin, who was again dressed in his ranger clothing in honor of the occasion ("I call this color Dirt and Dung") Dirt and Dung") the young men laughed and joked and teased each other about their difficulties in riding the shaggy, half-wild horses that were raised in the village. At night they gathered around a blazing fire to swap stories and play games of chance with the older men, wagering winter rations of food and losing them so consistently that it seemed likely none of them would eat until spring. the young men laughed and joked and teased each other about their difficulties in riding the shaggy, half-wild horses that were raised in the village. At night they gathered around a blazing fire to swap stories and play games of chance with the older men, wagering winter rations of food and losing them so consistently that it seemed likely none of them would eat until spring.

Even the usually morose Joram appeared better for the change, astonishing Mosiah by his willingness to talk, if he did not share in the horseplay and joking. But then, Mosiah reflected, this may have had something to do with the fact that Joram had just come out of another one of his black melancholies.

By the second week, however, the fun had gone out of the ride. A chill rain dripped from the yellowing leaves, soaking through cloaks and trickling down the back. The soft plopping of the drops formed a monotonous rhythm with the horses' plodding hoofbeats. The rain settled in, falling steadily for days. There were no fires by Blachloch's orders. They were in centaur country now, and the watch had been doubled, which meant many lost half a night's sleep. Everyone was miserable and grumbling, but there was one person so much more obviously miserable than the rest that Mosiah couldn't help noticing.

Joram noticed too, apparently. Every now and then Mosiah saw a look of shadowed pleasure in Joram's dark eyes and there would be almost a half-smile upon the lips. Following Joram's gaze, Mosiah saw him looking at the catalyst, who rode ahead of them, jouncing uncomfortably in the saddle, his tonsured head bowed, his shoulders slumped. The catalyst was a pathetic sight on horseback. The first few days he had been stiff with fright. Now he was just plain stiff. Every bone and muscle in his body hurt. Just sitting in the saddle was obviously painful.

"I feel sorry for the man," Mosiah said on the second week of their journey north. Chilled and soaked, he, Joram, and Simkin were riding together down a stretch of trail that was wide enough for a cavalry brigade to have ridden six abreast. Giants had blazed this trail, Blachloch said, warning them all to be alert.

"What man?" Joram asked. He had been listening to Simkin elaborate on how the Duke of Westshire had hired the entire Stone Shapers Guild, together with six catalysts, to completely redo his palatial dwelling in Merilon, transforming it from crystal to rose-colored marble streaked with flecks of pale green.

"The court can talk of nothing else. Such a thing has never been done before. Imagine, marble! It looks quite ... ponderous ..." Simkin was saying.

"The catalyst. What's his name? I feel sorry for him," Mosiah said.

"Saryon?" Simkin appeared slightly confused. "Pardon me, dear boy, but what has he to do with rose-colored marble?"

"Nothing," returned Mosiah. "I was just watching the expression on Joram's face. He seems to be enjoying the poor mans misery."

"He's a catalyst," Joram replied shortly. "And you're wrong. I don't care enough to think about him one way or the other."

"Mmmm," Mosiah muttered, seeing Joram's dark eyes grow darker as they stared at the man's green-robed back.

"He's from your village, you know," Simkin commented, leaning over his horse's neck to talk confidentially in a loud voice that could be heard by nearly everyone in line.

"Keep your voice down! He'll hear us. What do you mean, he's from our village?" Mosiah asked, astonished. "Why didn't you say anything before? Maybe he knows my parents!"

"I'm certain I said something," Simkin protested with an aggrieved air, "when I told you about his coming for Joram-"

"Shh!" Mosiah hissed. "That nonsense!" Biting his lip, the young man stared at the catalyst with a wistful air. "I wonder how my parents are? It's been so long ..."

"Oh, go ahead! Talk to him!" snapped Joram, his black eyebrows drawing a straight, hard line across his face.

"Yes, go have a chat with the old boy," Simkin said languidly. "He's not a bad sort, really, as catalysts go. And I've got no more cause to love them than you, O Dark and Gloomy Friend. I told you they stole away my baby brother, didn't I? Little Nat. Poor tyke. Failed the Testing. We had him hidden away until he was five. But they found out about him-one of the neighbors snitched. Grudge against my mother. I was Nat's favorite, you know. The little fellow clung to me, when they were dragging him off."

Two tears rolled down Simkin's face into his beard. Mosiah heaved an exasperated sigh.

"That's it!" said Simkin, sniffing. "Mock my affliction. Make light of my sorrow. If you'll excuse me," he muttered, more tears streaming down his face, mingling with the rainwater, "I will indulge my grief in private. You two go on. No, it's no use trying to comfort me. Not in the slightest ..." Mumbling incoherently, Simkin suddenly wheeled his horse around and left the trail, galloping back toward the rear of the line.

"Mock his affliction! How many brothers is that who've met some appalling fate?" Snorting in disgust, Mosiah glanced back at Simkin, who was wiping tears from his face and calling out a rude remark to one of Blachloch's henchmen at the same time. "To say nothing of assorted sisters held captive by nobles or hauled off by centaurs, not counting the one who ran away from home because she was enamored of a giant. Then there's the aunt, who drowned in a public fountain because she thought she was a swan, and his mother, who has died five times of five different rare diseases and once of a broken heart because the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith arrested his father for conjuring up offensive illusions of the Emperor. All of this happening to an orphan who was discovered floating in a basket of rose petals down the Merilon sewer system. He's a monumental liar! I don't see how can you put up with him!" arrested his father for conjuring up offensive illusions of the Emperor. All of this happening to an orphan who was discovered floating in a basket of rose petals down the Merilon sewer system. He's a monumental liar! I don't see how can you put up with him!"

"Because he's an amusing liar," Joram replied, shrugging. "And that makes him different."

"Different?"

"From all the rest of you," Joram said, glancing at Mosiah from beneath his heavy, dark brows. "Why don't you go talk to your catalyst," he suggested coolly, seeing Mosiah's face flush in anger. "If what I hear is true, he's in for a lot worse punishment than saddle sores."

Digging his heels into the horse's flanks, Joram galloped ahead, riding past the catalyst without a glance, his horse flinging up mud from its hooves. Mosiah saw the catalyst raise his head and stare after the young man, whose long black hair, whipped free from its bindings, glistened in the rain like the plumage of a wet bird.

"Why do I put up with you?" you?" Mosiah muttered, gazing after the figure of his friend. "Pity? You'd hate me for that. But it's true, in a way. I can understand why you refuse to trust anyone. The scars you bear aren't only from wounds on your chest. But, some day, my friend, those scars are going to be nothing-nothing-compared to the scar from the wound you're going to get when you find out you've been wrong!" Mosiah muttered, gazing after the figure of his friend. "Pity? You'd hate me for that. But it's true, in a way. I can understand why you refuse to trust anyone. The scars you bear aren't only from wounds on your chest. But, some day, my friend, those scars are going to be nothing-nothing-compared to the scar from the wound you're going to get when you find out you've been wrong!"

Shaking his head, Mosiah urged his horse forward until he rode next to the catalyst.

"Excuse me for interrupting your thoughts, Father," the young man said hesitantly, "but would-would you mind if I kept you company?"

Saryon looked up fearfully, his face strained and tense. Then, seeing only the young man, he appeared to relax. "No, I'd like it very much, in fact."