The child lost interest in the strangers and turned to his doll again.

He sat the doll on his lap and kissed it.

"Tomorrow you dine with my nephew and myself," the archbishop said. "My nephew is fascinated by medical apparatus, and you will bring some for his amusement. The day following the Regent will marry. Soon thereafter you will be granted a private audience with the Regent Consort. Nine months later we will have a birth. And you, Menet Kennerin, will have your son."

Stonesh gestured. The serving woman rose, scooped the child and doll into her arms, and disappeared into the twisting arms of the maze. Hart stared after them. The child's laughter, high and light, filled the green-walled square.

The carriage started with a jerk and bumped over the cobbled roadbed.

Hart held his case as the high gate of the palace curved overhead, then dropped behind. The quality of the road deteriorated. The engine whined as the coachman urged the carriage into a lower gear. Darkness had long since fallen, yet Saltena's air remained hot and viscous. As the carriage moved deeper into the city, the stench of garbage and sweat replaced the palace's heavy miasma of flowers.

Tonight the child had dined with them, dressed in miniature court finery and seated at the table across from the Regent of God. Its clear voice mingled with the Regent's meaningless babble; it used fork and spoon while the Regent shoveled food with filthy, regal fingers. When, at the meal's end, a woman came to take the child away, Hart rose and stood between them. The woman glanced at the archbishop, who nodded an assent, and Hart knelt before the boy.

"What's your name?" he said.

"Spider."

"That's an odd name."

"Gren called me Spider because I climb things."

"I see. Do you like your name?"

"Yes. Don't you?" Spider looked at Hart and in his child's blue eyes Hart saw himself and his father before him.

"Yes. I like your name. Spider. Did Gren ever kiss you good night?"

"No."

"May I?"

"If you want." Spider slid from his chair into Hart's arms. As though touching crystal, Hart put his arms around the boy, drew him close, and kissed his cheek. His skin was sweet and smooth. Hart moved his head away slowly.

"My turn," Spider said. His kiss was quick and dry.

"Bedtime," the woman said.

The child skipped from Hart's arms and crossed the room. As Spider passed through the door, Hart raised his head and met the archbishop's eyes.

The Regent burped, and a serving man came in with Hart's small case.

THE CARRIAGE STOPPED AND A FOOTMAN opened the door. Hart climbed out and stood before the gate of the house, watching the carriage move out of sight along the narrow street.

Melthone scurried across the courtyard, still in his day clothes.

"Master..."

"Later," Hart said. He threw his cloak over a bench in the courtyard.

Melthone patted the air with his hands. "Master, there is one to see you."

Hart stopped. "Who?"

"The lady Tara, master. She insisted. I could not turn her away."

"Where is she?"

"In the sitting room, master. She's been here since nightfall."

"Tell her I'm not yet home."

"I'm sorry, master, she heard the carriage."

"Then tell her I'm bathing -- tell her anything. If you can't get rid of her, she'll have to wait." Hart pushed the servant toward the closed door of the sitting room. When he had shut the door behind him, Hart hurried across the courtyard and into the kitchen, then through the pantry to the door of the wine cellar. He unlocked the door, locked it again behind him, and descended the dark stairs. The wall felt cool and damp under his fingers. He unlocked a second door at the foot of the stairs and entered his laboratory.

It hummed, a cushion of almost inaudible sound which absorbed the rhythms and harmonies of Hart at work. Cells passed through sensors and scanners, were discarded or preserved, weighed on scales of the increasingly minute. Dead tissues and defective cells were scrapped, cell membranes and plasma membranes inspected; ectoplasm, endoplasm, and chondriosome considered, vacuole and plastid reviewed. Nuclear membranes stepped forward for evaluation, unfit centrioles and centrosomes fled the ranks, nuclear sap and chromatin reticulae suffered scrutiny, nucleoli split like oranges and laid bare their secrets. Hart rubbed his shoulders and bent forward again. Helices danced under the gentle probings of his equipment, ribonucleic acid and dioxyribonucleic acid and miscellaneous mischievous proteins paraded themselves. Hart read through the stuff of creation, picking, choosing, accepting, refusing, lost in a world of the sub-microscopic. Gross physical deformities were eliminated, followed by the seeds of deformities; roughnesses fell away, discontinuities took flight, until one infinitesimal blemish remained in the chain, the awkward twist of a twisted mind. Hart paused, fingertips balanced on the controls of his machines, then stood and stretched.

His thighs ached. A nudge of this, a push of that, would define the fractious blip in the smooth strand, place it reformed and tractable in the ranks of its fellows. Hart peered at it, shaking his hands alternately to loosen the fingers. A second's work to reshape, refine, change. Still he hesitated, then pushed the work-plate into suspension. He sterilized a swab and removed a few million cells from his own throat, then swallowed a wide-awake and set to work. He hummed as he ran the cells through the selection process, smiled as he snipped and excised, sang as he deleted the twisted gene from the Regent's son-to-be and made a microscopic substitution. The future Regent of God on Gregory would have his father's pale, smooth skin, tilted golden eyes, narrow chin and narrow shoulders, and Hart Kennerin's mind.

A few simple procedures served to nudge the cell on the road toward birth. Hart observed its progress until he was satisfied, then shunted it into a keeper and stood. The light in the laboratory dimmed and disappeared, until only the red glow of the keeper broke the darkness. Hart kissed his fingertips to it wearily and went upstairs.

Pale dawn light flushed the courtyard. The fountain murmured against a backdrop of early city noises. Melthone lay asleep beside the sitting room door, his legs splayed across the tiles. Hart stepped over him and opened the door. Tara had gone, leaving the scent of her perfume and a note propped against an empty crystal decanter. Hart yawned as he opened the folded paper.

"Your diligence," Tara had written, "would be commendable or possibly amusing, were it not also exasperating. I trust that I'll see the results nine months hence. I'm sure you've done a beautiful job for whomever, considering the time you've spent on it. I also trust that you had an lovely evening with the archbishop and his family. How cozy you've become with our little aristocracy, Menet Kennerin. Don't let it go to your head."

Hart looked beyond the open door to the sunlit courtyard and remembered the feel of sturdy limbs and smooth, golden skin. He hadn't realized how much he had to lose.

The wedding took place with such quiet that it caught the aristocracy by surprise. They reacted with a mixture of curiosity and anger, insulted that their usually comprehensive gossip system had not provided so much as a hint of the marriage. The bride, the younger daughter of a country family, made her first appearance at court the day after the ceremony. A plain, shy girl of no more than twenty years, she stood beside the archbishop, lost in the finery of her clothing and the weight of her new crown. Hart observed her with clinical curiosity, wondering whether she had been told of the child she would bear; whether she possessed sufficient sense, or sufficient terror, to be trustworthy in her silence; whether, having fulfilled her role, she would disappear into death. Her ultimate fate was of secondary interest to him, though. He observed her wide hips and heavy breasts, the strong muscles of her back, and approved.

Tara emerged from the throng around the dais and sat beside him on the bench. Her jewelry tinkled as she settled herself, and the maroon velvet of her gown gleamed in the light. She frowned toward the dais and tugged at her lower lip. Hart had seen her make that unconscious gesture before, framed by the tumbled blankets of his bed.

"What do you think of her?" Tara said, still looking at the Regent Consort.

"Nothing."

She made a small noise of disbelief. "She's still a virgin, after the wedding night."

Hart laughed. "You know all about her hymen, and didn't know about her wedding. How provoking that must be."

"The palace laundry was not advised of the marriage, although I suppose that your friend the archbishop told you all about it, and well in advance."

"Of course," Hart said. "The archbishop and I always discuss these matters of state. He listens to everything I say, and always takes my advice."

Tara looked at him, then returned her attention to the dais. The consort looked regal, bovine, and tired.

"She's my cousin," Tara said, and smiled at Hart's surprise. "We're all cousins here, you know. One way or another."

"The eyes," Hart said. "Coloring."

Tara shrugged. "Four hundred years of inbreeding. It's a wonder we're not 'all' insane. Speaking of breeding, did you make the baby?"

"What baby?"

"Don't be coy. I've spent a month of nights with you, I know when you're up to something. Whose is it?"

"Come now, lady mouth. You know I don't betray confidences."

Tara flushed and Hart smiled. "Don't tell me you're ashamed of your one talent, Tara." He ran his fingers over her lips and probed quickly. "It's the only thing about our relationship that I miss. You're very good at that, you know."

"Stop it," she whispered, pushing his hand away. "Someone may see you."

Hart leaned closer. "You've a lovely mouth, Tara. Especially in the dark."

"Then whose baby was more important than my mouth?"

"You are a tenacious bitch." Hart sat back. "No hints. Besides, it didn't take." He spoke with casual cynicism, but the corners of his mouth were tight. Tara glanced at him, delighted.

"I'm 'so' pleased," she said. "Poor Hart, no baby, no money. You should charge for labor, not for results." She stood, smiled at him, and moved across the room. Hart stared after her. The consort and the archbishop retired, but the party would go on until dawn. Hart went to find his cloak. The dancers and the music seemed mechanical, the lights garish, the room closed and hot. He stood at the door, waiting for his carriage and wondering whether he could find a bedmate for the night.

The carriage arrived. Hart stepped inside, then drew back when a hand touched his arm.

"Relax, Menet," the archbishop said. "I wish to speak with you privately. Tell the coachman to drive toward the waterfront."

"The docks, Your Eminence?"

"It's a long and private route."

Hart leaned from the window and shouted directions. The carriage jolted into gear and moved down the broad avenue. Stonesh was silent, and Hart sank back against the seat, staring at the few lights they passed.

"Well," said the archbishop, "what do you think of Saltena's new consort?"

"A cow. A baby machine. I suppose that's why she was chosen."

"Hardly flattering to the lady, Menet, but truthful. I want that baby machine operating as soon as possible."

"It's possible now. Bring her to my house, and..."

"Impossible. You've no idea how dangerous that would be. I'll arrange to have you visit her quarters..."

"Then it can't be done." Hart leaned forward. The archbishop was invisible in the darkness, save for an occasional vermilion gleam from his ring. "To implant her I'll have to fix the zygote in a syringe, put her in a see-through, and guide the syringe in visually through the wall of the abdomen and into the uterus. I'll need a stasis-field, sterilizers, the see-through, wraps, pulser -- more equipment than you could fit in a travel cart. It's impossible to smuggle all of that into the palace, Your Eminence. If it's to be done at all, it's to be done at my house."

"You're sure?"

Hart didn't answer. The archbishop sighed. "The timing of her cycle is perfect. Rumors are beginning to circulate. The doctors tell me that my nephew is as close to ready as he'll ever be."

"To fucking, Your Eminence?" Hart tried to imagine the Regent in intercourse.

"At least to making the attempt. She will be so inebriated that she won't be able to tell the difference. Then while she sleeps, you implant her.

Tonight." The archbishop paused. "I suppose we could drug her."

"No. I want as few chemicals in her system as possible." Hart put his fingers on the archbishop's neck. The old man flinched but did not push Hart's hand away. "There's a blood vessel here, Your Eminence, under my fingers. A slight pressure on it causes unconsciousness. A great deal of pressure causes death."

"Yes?"

Hart drew back. "After your nephew has finished with her, after she falls asleep, I'll make sure she stays unconscious. We'll transport her to my house, implant her, and return her."

The carriage stopped. Water hissed against pilings, gleaming in the starlight. Ships creaked at anchor. Hart opened the window and looked about in silence, then raised his face to the coachman.

"The palace."

In the dim light from the stars, the archbishop nodded.

"Tonight?" the consort whispered. Hart listened to the terror in her voice. He stood behind the screen where the archbishop had placed him. A chair banged as it fell on the dressing room floor, and the consort giggled nervously.

"Come now, hurry up." A deep, female voice. "Here, take it off. You can't keep the Regent waiting."

"Is he in there? Is he there already?"

"Of course not, goose. You have to be ready first. Give me your glass."

"Give it back!" Clank of glass on glass. Splash of liquid. Rustle of cloth.

"There."

"Please. I'm not ready yet, I haven't prayed yet, please, just five more minutes, please, I won't bother you, just another minute...."

Her voice receded into the bedroom. Hart leaned against the wall. His stomach felt uneasy. The other woman returned, called a few parting admonitions and encouragements into the bedroom, and closed the door. Fabric rustled again, closet doors banged open and shut, and she left the room. Hart listened to the muffled noises from the bedroom and wondered whether the consort wept or prayed.

Soon the outer door opened. The Regent's babble, tinged with eagerness, filled the room. A physicianly voice murmured. Hart resisted the urge to peek.

The inner door opened. A moment later the consort began to scream. Hart thought about a sunlit lawn and a crushed bird. He held his hands over his ears and thought about his son. The screams stopped.

The Regent, snoring, was carried from the room. Jem Stonesh peered around the screen and beckoned, and Hart followed him into the bedroom. The consort lay slack, her white gown bunched about her hips, covered with vomit.

Hart touched her wrists, lifted her eyelids, and pressed his hand against her neck. He pulled her gown into position, wrapped the coverlet around her, and picked her up. She was surprisingly light.

Melthone had the night off. The house was dark and silent as Hart stopped in the courtyard and shifted the woman in his arms. Stonesh bolted the door and padded after him.

"Wait in there," Hart said, tilting his chin toward the sitting room door.