The endless minutes pa.s.sed. His eyelids did not flicker.

The dark air was fading, so slowly at first that the change seemed a trick of imagination. The fireflies overhead gradually expanded into candle flames, the shadows contracted, and the supernatural chill grudgingly relaxed its grip. The apparition itself neither altered nor faded, but hovered there, fathomless eyes chained to Karsler Stornzof.

The room remained silent. Karsler's voice, although slow and distant, retained full authority as he directed his listeners, "Exit slowly, single file. Then leave the building. Silence, no sudden moves. Eyes and thoughts turned away from this spot."

Most obeyed without hesitation and without question, stealing quietly from the room one at a time, eyes downcast. Luzelle held her breath in antic.i.p.ation of b.l.o.o.d.y mayhem, but nothing happened. One by one they slid through the door, some unable to resist casting frightened glances back over their shoulders as they went, but n.o.body other than herself lingered.

"Karsler." Wary of blasting his concentration, she kept her voice low, suppressing a score of questions. "What about you?"

"I remain here." His eyes did not turn from the malevolence.

"No need. It's done. Everyone's out but us. Come away now."

"Not done. I fix the Receptivity's attention upon myself. Should that hold fail before alteration in form has occurred, the malevolence goes forth to hunt new victims."

"I don't understand what you mean. Karsler, the exit's clear. Please come."

"When I have changed it; when I have defeated it. Now go, while you can. Go."

"How long do you mean to stay?"

He did not answer. She was not certain that he had heard her. He had excluded her, fixing his awareness upon the contest whose nature she scarcely comprehended. He had somehow managed to engage and hold the apparition's whole attention, that much was clear. Surely he had done enough. She stretched forth a hand, but did not dare touch him.

"Come away," she pleaded, and this time knew that she went unheard. Her hand fell back to her side. For a moment she stood looking at him, then turned and walked slowly to the door, where she paused, unable to resist a forbidden backward glance.

The malevolent apparition-a Receptivity, he had called it-still hung motionless in midair, talons dark with blood, black eyes empty as eternity, but somehow its appearance had altered, and it took a moment to identify the change. The jaw, that crocodile jaw, was neither as long nor as wicked as she had initially supposed. It was big and the teeth were impressive, but hardly crocodilian. Astonishment and fright must have warped her first impressions.

No they hadn't. The Receptivity had changed. Karsler had done it with his mind. She did not understand how, but saw that he would do more before he was finished, if he survived. She looked at him standing there, lost to the present world of reality, and almost retraced her steps. But she could do him no good, her distracting presence would only hinder him. She turned and walked away from the horror and the man who was fighting it.

The foyer was empty. The customers had fled, the Grewzians had withdrawn in accordance with their orders, and poor Gretti Stiesoldt, now a widow, had vanished. She went out through the front door into the mild, misty summer night, where the touch of the fresh moist air could not calm the tumult of her thoughts or still the trembling of her limbs.

She wandered away from the Three Beggars aimlessly and almost blindly. Her feet carried her back to the highway, and on along the road through the darkness and fog into the center of sleeping Groeflen. The windows were dark, the street barely lighted, the town silent, and it seemed to her confused vision that she wandered through a dream landscape. She did not know where she was or where to go, but her feet found their way to a building with a lamp above the door, and the emblem of a locomotive above the lamp; the railroad station.

The door was locked. She stumbled her way around the station house to the platform, where she found a bench and let herself collapse onto it. Burying her face in her icy hands, she sat unmoving.

Her thoughts whirled and warped into dreams or memories, she was unsure which. She sank into unquiet sleep or stupor that lasted for minutes or hours, until the whistle of a train roused her.

Luzelle opened her eyes. The skies had paled to ash, and the four forty-eight was pulling into Groeflen Station. She stood up, cast a bewildered glance around her, and realized that she had left her valise back at the inn. It scarcely mattered now. She still had her wallet and pa.s.sport safe in her pocket.

The train wheezed to a halt and disgorged two pa.s.sengers. Luzelle boarded, found a seat, and purchased a ticket from the conductor. The conductor went away. She leaned her head back against the seat and strove without success to empty her mind. The train moved, and Groeflen fell away behind her.

THE MORNING SUN WAS HIGH in the sky when Girays v'Alisante's hired carriage reached the quaint Three Beggars Inn on the outskirts of the town of Groeflen. His southbound train was not scheduled to depart the station for another ninety minutes. There was time enough to pause for a late breakfast, which he badly needed, having tasted no food since yesterday's ill-fated lunch. in the sky when Girays v'Alisante's hired carriage reached the quaint Three Beggars Inn on the outskirts of the town of Groeflen. His southbound train was not scheduled to depart the station for another ninety minutes. There was time enough to pause for a late breakfast, which he badly needed, having tasted no food since yesterday's ill-fated lunch.

In one sense there was all the time in the world, for the point and purpose in exerting himself further was gone. There was nothing more he could do to achieve or ensure a Vonahrish victory; he might just as well relax and finish the race in comfort. But he knew he would not relax, for even now, in the full consciousness of futility, he could put forth nothing less than his best efforts.

The carriage halted, but no ostler appeared to see to the horses, no attendants came forth to a.s.sist with the luggage. Curious. The inn appeared well tended, with its neat yard and sparkling windows. The present laxity of the staff seemed inconsistent.

Springing lightly from the box, the driver came around to open the door and a.s.sist his pa.s.senger from the vehicle. Such a.s.sistance was not unwelcome. The effects of yesterday's drug had subsided. Girays could walk and use his hands, but his limbs remained stiff, his hands and fingers clumsy. The Hetzian physician had a.s.sured him that full sensation and mobility would return quickly, but the recovery was not yet complete.

He leaned heavily on the driver's arm as they made their way through the front door into an empty, silent foyer. n.o.body at the desk, n.o.body in sight at all. He rang the bell, and n.o.body appeared. He frowned, puzzled and mildly annoyed.

"Let us leave, sir," the driver suggested.

The fellow was plainly uneasy. "What's the matter?" asked Girays.

"It is not right, sir," was the only reply.

He did not demand explanation. His own nerves were stretched unaccountably tight. There was some sort of butcher-shop odor weighting the atmosphere and his instincts bade him seek fresh air, but he would not listen to them.

"We will eat. This way, I believe," Girays commanded, indicating a nearby half-open door.

"I am not hungry, sir. I will await you outside, if you please." The driver exited at a smart pace.

Girays hesitated, half inclined to follow. Ridiculous. His stomach was empty, he had stopped at this place to lunch, and that was what he would do. Limping stiffly to the doorway, he went through into the common room beyond, where he stopped dead on the threshold. The butcher-shop odor intensified, and the buzzing of countless flies filled his ears.

For a moment he scarcely comprehended the scene before him. The common room was a desolation of overturned furniture, smashed crockery, and sprawling, mutilated corpses. Something like a dozen bodies lay there, perhaps more; accurate count was difficult at a glance. One of them, flung down on its back in a clotted red pool at the front of the room, had been decapitated. The crushed remains of a silver-haired head lay not far away. Blood splashed the floor and walls, even spattered the ceiling, but Girays hardly saw it. His eyes shot to the center of the mercilessly sunlit room, where Karsler Stornzof, upright and utterly still, confronted a floating formless cloud of vapor.

Formless? For an instant Girays imagined the cloud shaped like a man, but the fancy pa.s.sed at once and he saw only a dark smudge of mist that paled smoothly into transparency as he watched.

When the vapor was gone, or at least invisible, Stornzof staggered, grabbing for support at the nearest chair still standing. He missed it and fell to his knees, head bowed and chest heaving. Girays limped toward him as quickly as partially frozen muscles allowed, pausing only long enough to s.n.a.t.c.h up an open bottle of wine from a tabletop in pa.s.sing.

Stornzof looked up, face drawn with exhaustion. Girays wordlessly extended the bottle. Stornzof took it and gulped down half the contents, then offered it back.

"Keep it," Girays advised. "Hurt?"

The other shook his head.

"What happened?" Girays's eyes scanned the room almost unwillingly.

"Receptivity."

"What?"

"Arcane visitant."

Oddly enough, Girays doubted neither the Grewzian's sanity nor veracity. "Did the visitant do all this?" he inquired.

Stornzof inclined his head.

"But it's gone now? It's been driven off?"

"Modified out of existence."

"Modified? By you?"

"It was something I had knowledge of." Stornzof spoke unevenly, his breath still ragged. "This Receptivity's form was molded by the expectations and perceptions of its beholders. By fixing its attention exclusively upon myself, I a.s.sumed control of its aspect, which I was able to alter gradually until at last my mind withheld all recognition, and the Receptivity ceased to be."

"Where did it come from?"

"That is a sorry tale, and I am very tired."

"What will you do, then?"

"Sleep. For the rest of the day, I believe."

"Not here, I trust. I cannot recommend the atmosphere. I've a hired carriage waiting in front. It will take us both to the railroad station, and you can sleep on the train."

"The offer is generous and I accept with grat.i.tude."

"Then wait a moment while I find some food. I was ravenous until just now, and my appet.i.te's sure to return as soon as I leave this slaughterhouse." Girays hobbled to the kitchen, appropriated some cheese, apples, a cold chicken, a couple of loaves, and a couple of bottles, then returned to find Stornzof standing grey faced and shaky, but upright.

"You are injured?" Stornzof inquired, evidently noting the uneven gait.

"No. Some anonymous well-wisher tampered with yesterday's lunch. Doctor doesn't expect the effects to last."

"Yes." Something like a shadow darkened Stornzof's eyes. "Luzelle told me of your misfortune."

"Luzelle? When did you see her, and where?"

"Here, but do not concern yourself. She left hours ago, and she was quite safe. I should imagine she found her way to the depot and caught the four forty-eight southbound, according to her design."

"That sounds like Luzelle. You're certain she was unharmed?"

"Entirely certain."

"Then she's probably on that train and almost to Tophzenk by now. You realize what this means."

"She will reach Toltz tomorrow morning. We cannot hope to overtake her now."

"Barring sudden disaster, the race is hers."

"It is astonishing to you then, to think that she must win?"

"Not entirely," Girays answered. "She has insisted from the beginning that she would."

SHE HAD FALLEN INTO A LIGHT DOZE, but the groan of the brakes woke her. Luzelle turned her head and looked out the window. The train was pulling into the station. The sign above the platform read TOLTZ. TOLTZ. She stared at it almost in amazement. She stared at it almost in amazement.

The train halted and the engine cut off. Pa.s.sengers stood and began pulling their bags from the overhead rack. Luzelle had no bag. Rising to her feet, she strolled unenc.u.mbered to the end of the car, waited for the conductor to open the door, and descended three steps to the platform.

The morning air was soft and warm. By afternoon of this summer day the temperature would probably climb to uncomfortable levels, but for now it was perfect. She made for the station at a quick pace, almost a trot, but halfway there it occurred to her that she did not need to hurry. Her rivals were far behind. She slowed to a walk.

Reaching the station, she crossed the waiting room. Before she reached the front exit, a solid figure clothed in an ill-fitting suit and battered straw hat materialized squarely athwart her path. She halted.

"Miss Devaire, isn't it?" inquired the stranger in the Vonahrish of Sherreen. "Miss Luzelle Devaire?"

She nodded. He reeked of cheap cigars and cheaper cologne. She resisted the impulse to turn her face away.

"Stique Breuline of the Sporting Gazette Sporting Gazette, at your service. Miss Devaire, I offer you my a.s.sistance as escort and protector from here to the registrar's office at city hall in exchange for your exclusive statement upon successful completion of-"

"No." Sidestepping the obstacle, Luzelle resumed progress. Stique Breuline stumbled in her wake. He was jabbering at her, probably trying to extract some sort of statement or concession. She hardly noticed what he said, it was meaningless noise, but his persistence attracted attention-of fellow journalists perhaps, or else of the idly curious-and soon a small crowd was following on her heels.

She did not care. Questions and comments were flying at her, but she easily ignored them all. Straight through the waiting room she marched, out the front door, and into one of the clumsy, comfortable Hetzian hansoms that waited in the street before the station.

"City hall," she commanded in careful Hetzian, and the vehicle moved at once. Luzelle settled back into the soft seat. The streets went by unheeded. Only once did she look back to discover at least three carriages following her. Somebody in one of them was waving a bright yellow scarf out the window. A signal of some sort?

More streets, and then the hansom entered Irstreister Square, which she had last glimpsed smothered in black smoke. Straight ahead rose the ornate city hall, with people waiting there on the steps before the entrance. The driver pulled up. Luzelle paid him, alighted, and hurried up the steps. The group clogging her path made way magically for her as she advanced, but she realized that every eye clung to her; that the queries, comments, and congratulations were meant for her-in short, that they knew who she was, and presumably had been waiting for her. Yes, that yellow scarf had certainly been a signal.

She crossed the lofty foyer, her entourage swelling as she went, exited into a hallway, and discovered that the route to the registrar's office remained imprinted upon her mind. She did not need to ask directions, but made her way unhesitatingly along the corridors, the eager audience following.

She reached the office, and a sense of unreality filled her, yet her heartbeat quickened almost painfully. The clerk on duty looked up as she entered, and she saw by his face that he recognized her.

The crowd at her back had gone intensely silent. As she advanced to the desk, she could hear the tap of her footsteps, and even the pounding of her heart. She surrendered her doc.u.ments to the clerk, who required no instruction. The solidly audible thud of his inked stamp on her pa.s.sport-the final stamp officially verifying completion of the course-broke the spell of silence, and the cheers exploded as the crowd surged forward to surround her. Luzelle saw enthusiastic faces with open mouths, and the noise beat at her ears, but the words were a jumble. She could not understand them and certainly could not answer, for her throat was tight, her eyes were filling with tears, and the sense of unreality was stronger than ever. She looked down at the pa.s.sport that was somehow back in her hand, and it was only the evidence of the stamp-Toltzcityhouse, Lower Hetzia, with the date and hour, 11:36 A.M. A.M.-that convinced her the race was truly over.

24.

THE HAIRDRESSER AND COSMETICIAN furnished by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs departed and the door closed behind them. The lady's maid likewise furnished by the ministry curtsied and retired, her services unwanted for the moment. Abandoning all dignity, Luzelle raced through the lavish chambers of the Kingshead Hotel's best suite, back to the bedroom with its great cheval gla.s.s in a gilded frame, before which she planted herself, wild to discover just what they had done to her. furnished by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs departed and the door closed behind them. The lady's maid likewise furnished by the ministry curtsied and retired, her services unwanted for the moment. Abandoning all dignity, Luzelle raced through the lavish chambers of the Kingshead Hotel's best suite, back to the bedroom with its great cheval gla.s.s in a gilded frame, before which she planted herself, wild to discover just what they had done to her.

She stared into the mirror and hardly recognized herself. Her reflected face was almost comically wide eyed. They had squeezed her into a glorious gown of pale aquamarine silk heavily embroidered with gold around the hem, that bared her shoulders, arms, and most of her bosom. The torturous corset beneath the gown, while reducing her waist to nothingness, was boned and angled to lift her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and push them together. The resulting display of rounded flesh threatened to overspill the low neckline.

Tasteless. Common. She could almost hear His Honor's voice. She could almost hear His Honor's voice. The vulgarity of your appearance... The vulgarity of your appearance... But no, this revealing mode was the height of fashion, flaunted by stylish women in all the western capital cities, and there could be no denying that she had the figure for it. So His Honor was welcome to say what he pleased; she wouldn't care. Not that her father was likely to say anything at all. In the ten days that had pa.s.sed since she walked into the city hall in Toltz, accounts of her victory had decorated the front pages of newspapers everywhere. Udonse Devaire must have read about it, but he had not deigned to acknowledge his daughter's accomplishment. Her mother had sent a plaintively congratulatory letter two days earlier, but from her father-nothing. No, His Honor was hardly apt to concern himself with the dress she wore to this evening's reception at the Waterwitch Palace. But no, this revealing mode was the height of fashion, flaunted by stylish women in all the western capital cities, and there could be no denying that she had the figure for it. So His Honor was welcome to say what he pleased; she wouldn't care. Not that her father was likely to say anything at all. In the ten days that had pa.s.sed since she walked into the city hall in Toltz, accounts of her victory had decorated the front pages of newspapers everywhere. Udonse Devaire must have read about it, but he had not deigned to acknowledge his daughter's accomplishment. Her mother had sent a plaintively congratulatory letter two days earlier, but from her father-nothing. No, His Honor was hardly apt to concern himself with the dress she wore to this evening's reception at the Waterwitch Palace.

Nor was he likely to concern himself with her jewelry, hair, or face, and that was all to the good. The hair-piled up in careless tousled curls with many an artfully placed straying tendril, and dusted with gold powder-His Honor would have p.r.o.nounced ostentatious. The jewelry-on loan for this one night only, it had been made very clear, and consisting of a magnificent emerald necklace with matching drop earrings-the Judge would have deemed unsuitable for an unmarried woman. And the face-she didn't like to think what he would say about that, she had her own doubts on the subject. Never mind that the cosmetician, a professional from the Toltz Opera, together with the dressmaker responsible for the aquamarine gown, had both agreed that ladies of the highest rank in society were now beginning to affect facial cosmetics. Never mind that the cosmetician had painted with the light and subtle hand of an artist. The alteration in her appearance was marked. The dark stuff delicately applied to her lashes widened and brightened her eyes to a startling degree. The blushing powder stroked sparingly across her cheeks brought her face to almost excessively vivid life. And the rosy, glossy paste smoothed onto her lips ripened her mouth beyond the bounds of proper moderation. The overall effect was unequivocally-she groped for the right adjective-alluring.

She had been running from party to gala to reception to party all week long, and she had never dreamed of displaying herself in such a guise. But tonight was the night of the Grand Ellipse victor's audience with Miltzin IX, and the aims of the ministry's minions were only too clear. Well, she had known about that from the start. She had accepted the ministry's terms along with its financial backing, and now it was time to fulfill her part of the bargain.

Luzelle's mirrored reflection frowned. Bargain or no bargain, she did not have to let them paint and varnish her like some sort of mannequin. Nor did she have to let them present her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to Mad Miltzin like two tidbits on a platter of appetizers. She still had time to change the dress, to scrub the cosmetics from her face, to pull her hair back into a tight little knot, to make herself as unattractive as possible.... make herself as unattractive as possible....

She was searching for a cloth with which to wipe the rosy paste from her lips when a knock on the door of her suite halted her and her frown deepened, for she knew at once who it was. He had visited her twice within the last three days, and would certainly put in an appearance tonight. For a moment she thought of ignoring the knock, but that would be pointless as well as cowardly, and in any case the borrowed maid had magically materialized and was already opening the door.

"Good evening, Miss Devaire." The visitor smiled courteously.

"Good evening, Deputy Underminister." Scrupulously suppressing every external sign of irritation, Luzelle produced a smile of her own, for vo Rouvignac deserved civility. The man was only doing his job in checking up on her, and he had traveled all the way from Sherreen to do so. It was not his fault that she had come to dread the sight of his studious face and the sound of his cultivated voice. It was surely not his fault that she contemplated tonight's culmination of her endeavor with a distaste verging on disgust. He had not forced her to accept the ministry's offer; she had done it of her own free will. Not his fault, and she shouldn't resent him, but she did.

"Do come in." Her smile stayed firmly in place.

"Thank you." He stepped into the plush sitting room. The maid closed the door behind him and disappeared. "You are looking splendid."

Good enough to pa.s.s inspection? Stifling the hostile retort, she responded correctly, "How kind. Won't you sit down, Deputy Underminister? May I offer you a sherry?" Stifling the hostile retort, she responded correctly, "How kind. Won't you sit down, Deputy Underminister? May I offer you a sherry?"

"No and no. I do not intend to stay. I have called only to offer my best wishes, and to satisfy myself that you are ready and well prepared for this evening's venture."

Come to make sure the automaton's properly wound? Aloud she replied, "I ought to be prepared by now, Deputy Underminister. You've taken considerable pains these past few days to see to it that I am well instructed. I know all about His Majesty Miltzin's favorite books, plays, and poets, his hobbies and interests, his favorite foods, his favorite wines, his favorite dogs and horses, his taste in tailors and bootmakers, his likes and dislikes-loves salmon mousse, Aloud she replied, "I ought to be prepared by now, Deputy Underminister. You've taken considerable pains these past few days to see to it that I am well instructed. I know all about His Majesty Miltzin's favorite books, plays, and poets, his hobbies and interests, his favorite foods, his favorite wines, his favorite dogs and horses, his taste in tailors and bootmakers, his likes and dislikes-loves salmon mousse, hates hates salmon souffle, loves c.o.c.kfighting, salmon souffle, loves c.o.c.kfighting, hates hates bearbaiting-you see? I think I'm reasonably capable of carrying on a conversation with the man." bearbaiting-you see? I think I'm reasonably capable of carrying on a conversation with the man."