Her face paled. "Ia"I don't know ifa""

"I trust you. Doria of the Healing Hand. And so would Aristobulus. Do it. Now."

She nodded a reluctant agreement, and planted spread-fingered hands on the old man's chest. The polish was gone from her nails, just as the fear of him was gone from her manner. Perhaps, somewhere inside, Doria Perlstein was confused, frightened. But not the cleric.

"Easy," he whispered. "It's going to be easy. You've done this a thousand times."

Slowly, her eyes sagged shut, as her weight bore down on her arms, on Aristobulus chest. The old man looked to be in bad shape; his skin was ashen, his breathing barely perceptible.

Strange, liquid syllables issued from her barely parted lips, starting slowly, then becoming a torrent. Ahira could hear the words distinctly, tried to memorize them.

But he couldn't. Not a phrase, not a word, not a syllable. They vanished from his mind like a snowflake melting on a palm.

The volley of sound flowed into Aristobulus, his breathing becoming deeper, a tinge of pink replacing the fishbelly pallor of his face. The fingers of an outflung arm twitched, then curled, as his eyes snapped open.

Aristobulus sucked in air with a desperate gasp, and a stream of sound issued from his mouth, obscenely guttural and harsh.

And like a striking snake, a bolt of lightning crackled from the tips of his fingers, shattering the nearest of the boxes into a thousand charred, smoking pieces.

"You idiot!" Ahira reached out, grabbed the wizard's throat, setting broad thumbs against his windpipe "Stop it! Stop it!" Doria's fists beat a rapid tattoo on his back.

Reluctantly, Ahira released Aristobulus, bouncing the old man's head against the gra.s.s.

The wizard's eyes were wide. "You told me, have the spell readya"you told me, Ahira." He rubbed at his head. "Ahira? Or are you James...?" He bit his lip.

Ahira spat in disgust and stood. "Take care of him, Doria. Just get him out of my sight." He raised his voice. "Barak, Hakim, Lightfingers, Lotanaa"get over here. Let's see if there's anything we can salvage out of this... mess."

"I... don't understand," the wizard whined. He began to cry, to weep like a frightened child.

After more than half an hour on their hands and knees, sorting through charred pieces of bone and horn, smashed vessels of gla.s.s and clay, Ahira called a halt.

"Anybody find anything salvageable?"

Barak shook his head, rubbing a sooty finger against a smudge on his nose, which only made it worse. "No, whatever was in here is gone." He lifted a jagged sc.r.a.p of horn and sc.r.a.ped a clean spot with a thumbnail. "What do you think this was?"

Hakim shrugged. "A Joshua's Horn?"

Lightfingers swore softly under his breath. "And unless I miss my guess, these sc.r.a.ps of leather and parchment were spell books. Were. Unless there are duplicates in one of the others, we can kiss Lota"Andrea's and Art's relearning their spells goodbye." He pitched a shard at the wizard. "You stupid little s.h.i.t."

This couldn't go on. Ahira agreed with Lightfingersa"emphaticallya"but what was done was done. The problem was what to do now. He wasn't sure that he knew.

Never mind. The leader has to seem to know what he's doing. At least. "Shut up, Lightfingers. We go on from here. Lotana?"

"Andrea," she said, with a friendly nod. Gooda"at least somebody was on his side. "Yes, Ahira?"

"Do you think that you can check out the rest of the boxes for magic? Without touching them, I mean."

Hakim held up a hand. "I'd better check for mechanical traps."

"Fine. You two do that. And if it seems safe, have Barak open them."

Barak nodded slowly. "You don't think there's any trap."

No, I don't. But if there is, you're probably the most expendable. Without the spell books, we can't afford to risk either of the wizards And we've only got one cleric, and one two-handed thief. "I'm certain of it. I think that what's in the boxes is our supplies, or what's left of them. But be careful, anyway." He beckoned to Lightfingers. "Come here for a moment."

"What do you want?" the thief asked, walking over, stopping a few feet away.

Just about half a foot farther away than I could swing my axe. Which was good; at least it showed caution, if not respect. "We're going to need somebody to scout around, check out the city down there. The wizards are out, what with the glyphs Andrea sees on the walls. And I don't think Barak or I tend to be subtle enough. You think you're up to it? Jason." he added, deliberately. Not a whole lot was clear to Ahira, not yet. But one thing he was certain of was that he wanted to encourage the other's Jason-part, not the Lightfingers persona.

Lightfingers stood silently for a moment, rubbing his stump against the point of his jaw. "Yes." He stopped himself in mid-nod. "You do want me to pick up more than information, of course."

"No. Just find out whatever you can. We're going to have to find this Gate thing. Whatever and wherever it is. Which means, among other things, that we'll have to find out where we are. And, Jason, you're too valuable to lose. Don't pick any pockets; don't try any swindles. We've got quite a few coins in our pouches; we need information a lot more than money."

"Yes?" Lightfingers tilted his head to one side. "And how much is one gold piece worth, here? It could buy half a town, if gold is scarce. But if not..."

"Then maybe we couldn't buy half a sandwich. If they have sandwiches here. Good point."

"It is, isn't it?" Lightfingers' hand came to rest on the hilt of his shortsword, perhaps accidentally.

But perhaps not. Ahira pretended not to notice. "You know, maybe I made a mistake. Declaring myself in charge, that is. You've always been a bit sharper than me. Maybea""

"Don't be silly. You think Slovotsky or Cullinane and his little friend would follow me? A one-armed thief?"

The dwarf took a slow step forward and laid a hand on Lightfingers' arm. "Perhaps no. But if I am going to be in charge, I'll need your full support. Or I won't be able to do it. If you wanta""

Lightfingers cut him off with a full-throated laugh. "James Michael, you little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You're d.a.m.n good at manipulating people, aren't you?" His smile was almost friendly.

Ahira shrugged. "You have to learn a lot of things when you spend your whole life in a wheelchair. Lots of things you can't do for yourself; you have to get other people to do them for you. In your case," he said, smiling, "all the technique in the world isn't going to do any good, is it?"

"Maybe, maybe not. For the time being, I'll follow your lead." He jerked a thumb at the city below. "You want me to leave now?"

Ahira hadn't thought about it. In the game, daytime was safer than night. But a thief was at his best in the dark. "Hmmm. How far away would you say that the city is?"

"Five miles, or close to it. You want another opinion?"

"No, I'm sure you're right." That sounded phony, even in his own ears. But the point, that he was going to trust Lightfingers, had gotten across; Lightfingers was smiling. "What do you think the chances are that they lock up the city at sundown?"

"If they don't, I'd be surprised. Why build a wall around a city if you don't lock up?"

"Right. So, time it so you get there just about an hour before sundown. Plan to spend the night inside. Find out whatever you can, then get back up here, first thing in the morning. Understood?"

"Fine." The thief nodded. "Which meansa"figure it'll take two hours to get down therea"that I ought to leave, say, about three hours after noon. Sounds good?"

Noon was still a while off; the sun was at about a forty-five-degree angle. "Right. So get Hakim. We'll see if there're any blankets in those boxes. You two duck into the woods and get some sleep." It would be best for them to stay awake all night. In preindustrial cities, the night was a time of danger, when the only safe place to sleep would be behind locked, barred doors.

"Hakim?" Lightfingers glared down at him. "What do you mean?"

"He's going along." I may have to trust you a bit, Jason, but I'm not going to go overboard about it. "Two is better than one. Besides, I want you to keep an eye on him."

A snicker, "Don't play games with me. It's me thata""

"Ahira, Lightfingersa"we found something." Andrea jumped up from in front of a now-open box, waving a sheaf of paper. "It's a letter. From Dr. Deighton "

CHAPTER FOUR:.

"It Should be Relatively Easy"

There is no one who can return from there To describe their nature, to describe their dissolution.

That he may still our desires.

Until we reach the place where they have gone.

--The Song of the Harper, Stanza Five Jason threw his arms up in disgust. "I can't read that. What the h.e.l.l language is it in?" It was frustrating. The letters on the page looked familiar, but strange. Clearly, they formed words. But not for him.

Andrea's brow wrinkled. "It's easy. Listen: 'Tikrach amalo, ift recet quirto blosriet az..."

Dear friends, please accept my sincere apologies...

She raised her head. "Can't any of you read?"

Barak tugged at his beard. "No." He shook his head sadly, "l can understand it, but I'm not literate. Not in Erendra."

Erendra. Eren meant man, or human; dra was a shortened form of dravhen, mouth. Man-mouth: a language for humans. But how did he know that? No, Jason didn't know thata"Lightfingers did. And that's who I am.

Ahira shrugged. "That makes sense, actually. Aristobulus, Doriaa"take a look. Bet you can read it."

They could. "It's easy," Doria said. "But you can't...?"

No, Hakim, Barak, Ahira, and Lighrfingers couldn't.

"d.a.m.n." Lightfingers rubbed his fingertips against his stump. It did make sense, of a sort. They all had the abilities of their characters, plus their memories of the other side. But no more than that. Barak, Lightfingers, Hakim, and Ahira weren't literate in the game; warriors and thieves didn't need to be. On the other hand, clerics and wizards had to be able to read.

He licked the tip of his index finger and wrote his other name in the dust on top of an unopened box. JASON. He could read that, at least. Thank G.o.d.

"Right." Ahira looked down at the letters, just a few inches below his eyes. "We haven't lost anything, but"a"he smileda" "alu n'atega nit d.a.m.n ekta, pi agli." We haven't gained too d.a.m.n much, either.

Interesting. d.a.m.n was the same word in both languages. And that suggested a possibility....

He looked at the others. Barak was the most bothered by it; the big man sat on the ground, his face buried in his hands. Or was it Barak that was bothered? Quite probably, illiteracy was more distressing to Karl.

Hakim stood easily, confidently. "Well, which of you magical folks is going to give me reading lessons? d.a.m.ned if I'm not going to be able to read."

"That's the spirit." Ahira clapped him on the back. "But maybe we're not going to have to hang around here long enough for that to be a problem. Andrea, how about reading the letter? Out loud, for the sake of us"a"he smileda""disabled types."

Barak shook his head. "Why the h.e.l.l didn't he just write it in English?"

Andrea, sitting with the letter on her lap, smiled rea.s.suringly at him. "He did, I think, But the letter translated across, just as our bodies did. Either that, or he was trying to show off. An?"

The old man twined his fingers in his gray beard, "I don't know; it could work either way." He closed his eyes. "Which... depends on the complexity of the spell he used. And that depends on how magic works there." He opened his eyes and shrugged. "Which is something I can only guess at. Let me see the letter." He held out a hand. "Ia""

"No." It was bad enough that he'd been robbed of his literacy, at least for all practical purposes. But Jason didn't want to become some sort of second-cla.s.s citizen. "No, you read it. Out loud. Give all of us a chance to understand it at the same time."

Ahira nodded. "Go ahead."

She began, reading in Erendra, pausing only occasionally for breath.

Dear Friends, Please accept my sincere apologies for not warning you about what was to happen. I am sorry for any distress you suffered, but I really had no choice: Had I warned you, you never would have believed me.

As I am sure you have gathered by now, you are in the world on which I modeled the little games we played together. Except they weren't just games.

I am not going to bore you with a long rendition of the difficulties this caused me as a child, but I have always had an ability to see into another worlda"this world that you are now in, since you are reading this. Quite clearly, I am not the only one who has ever had these visions, although I flatter myself by feeling that no one has ever had them so clearly. Not that it is ever terribly clear; the different time rates of our two worlds have always made events on the other sidea"your sidea"seem to happen so quickly that they are difficult to follow, even when my fleeting visions are so powerful that they overwhelm my senses.

My friends, I hunger for this world; given the chance, here, I know that I would be the most powerful wizard that this world has ever known. Were I able to transfer myself, as I did you. I would have.

But I can't. Magic works differently in the two worlds; in ours, it is an erratic force. As I write this, I have been trying to transfer material objects for twenty years, succeeding only slightly better than one percent of the time. And always, the objects change; only recently have I been able to control that change.

People, or any sentient creatures, are a different matter. There is a force in our world, called the collective unconscious, which inhibits the transfer of such. To put it simply, all of you belonged in our world, and there was nothing that I could do to transfer you as long as that obtained.

But there is ample evidence of individuals who have been liberated from the collective unconscious, and, given the proper set of conditions, have popped from one world to the other. Benjamin Bathurst and Ambrose Bierce are the two best known examples; no doubt there have been others.

As I write this, I don't know if I will be able to duplicate those conditions with any success; I do know that I can't do it for myself. A corollary of self-referential theory may, indeed, make that an impossibility for one confined to our world.

But, as you read this, you know that I have been able to duplicate those conditions for you, with the aid of much preparation and your partic.i.p.ation in our game. I don't know who you area"as I write this. I have been trying different combinations of enchantments and individuals for a number of years, setting up caches of supplies at many different sites. The sites have been, as I'm sure you have gathered by now, always the places where our campaigns have started.

I would be very surprised if you all are not angry with me right now. But please try to understand: With what I know from my sight, I could he the greatest wizard, the most powerful user of magic that this world has ever known; instead, I find myself in the grips of academia, this world hovering in front of me like a ripe fruit.

But there is a way across. In this universe, there is a device called a Gate, a Gate Between Worlds, that can open up a pathway between our universes. I ask that you go to the Gate, and bring me through.

And in return, I promise to gratify your every wish.

To make this possible, along with the various supplies you will find in the other boxes, there is one box which I am certain you will regard as a treasure chest. Its contents are the result of years and years of research and experimentation. You will find a Horn, a lengthy book of spells, ten Cloaks of Transpositiona"but I don't need to go on; the contents are self-explanatory. Use and enjoy them.

These devices, together with the map of this world, will enable you to get from where you are to where the Gate is, and help you subdue the Gate's guardian so that you can bring me through with ease.

As for the rest of the supplies, they should prevent your having to buy anything locally. Please distribute the brandy among yourselves as a treat from me, and in partial apology for the discomfort I have caused you.

When you bring me through, you will receive the rest of my apology. Those among you foolish enough to wish to return to our dull, drab world will be given a ton of gold. And for those of you who wish to remain with me. I promise to gratify your every wish. And I mean that literally.

Andrea lifted her head, and looked directly at Barak. "And it ends, 'with most sincere best wishes.' "

Barak rose to his full height, slipping his scabbard from his sword, and dropped the scabbard to the gra.s.s. "Can you hear me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d? This is what you get, when I get my hands on you." He spun on Aristobulus. "Get a sword."