He seemed to have worked up quite a thirst, she noted sourly. When he set his gla.s.s aside and turned an eager face to her, she drew back and pressed gently, "An answer, Sire?"

"What can I tell you, my dear?"

Was he utterly dull, or uncommonly sharp? For the life of her, she could not judge. "Will Your Majesty consent to accept my country's offer for the sale of the Sentient Fire?"

"What was that offer again? Forty million New-rekkoes, was it?"

"That is perhaps not impossible, Sire." Her heart beat fast.

"Hmf. Well. I don't know." King Miltzin heaved a sigh. "Frankly, my dear, I find it impossible to cogitate. Our mutual emotions are too overwhelming, the shared excitement too intense. Let us postpone discussion, let us abandon ourselves to the moment that we both desire."

"No, Sire." She pushed an invasive hand away. "The matter's urgent, we must talk-"

"Later." He was sweaty and panting. "Half an hour or so and then, I give you my word as a king, we'll talk as long as you like about anything you please." He slid a damp hand up under her skirt.

Luzelle stiffened. Half an hour. Nothing, really. She had vowed from the start to succeed at any cost. You've reminded me how much is at stake...I'll do everything I can You've reminded me how much is at stake...I'll do everything I can, she had promised vo Rouvignac mere hours earlier....You are in a position to make a difference, he had told her, and it was true; she might serve and save Vonahr, she might alter the course of history. Half an hour with the king of Lower Hetzia was scarcely a high price.

Time to clinch the sale. Technically all she needed to do was to lie still for him, but Miltzin's satisfaction would be greatly enhanced if she could counterfeit some sort of response; though just exactly and precisely what that response should be she did not quite know, for she possessed no direct experience of her own. No, nor much of indirect experience either. She came from a conservative bourgeois household wherein young ladies were required to cultivate their innocence. Her mother had furnished no information beyond the glum warning that married women owed a certain distasteful but unavoidable duty to their husbands. Her friends, once married, had waxed similarly reticent, and a pall of silence had descended over the intimate aspects of their lives. Curious. Such stringently limited contact as she had experienced with Girays had fostered the distinct impression that the wife's duty might not be so very distasteful after all. In fact-as she would never have dared admit to anyone-during the term of her betrothal years ago, she had actually longed to learn more; with Girays.

Not with this paunchy, pomade-scented stranger presently s...o...b..ring over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Girays. How would he look at her, after tonight? Would she be able to face him at all? No matter how forgiving he might be, or try to be, matters would change forever between the two of them.

But somehow, for reasons she could not fathom, she found herself thinking less of Girays than of Karsler Stornzof. Her life was not with Karsler and never would be. Yet she thought of him now, thought of his clear eyes that saw what was true and what was right; thought of him in the Three Beggars Inn, sacrificing his chance of a Grand Ellipse victory for the sake of something more important.

Just then she had the strongest, most inexplicable sense of Karsler's presence. She could feel him standing beside her, feel the current of calm, steady encouragement and rea.s.surance flowing from him, feel it so strongly that she actually turned her head to look, half expecting to see him there.

An absurd fancy. As far as she knew, Karsler was downstairs among the guests in the Long Gallery. Yet she could have sworn that he was near, she could all but see him and all but hear his voice.

No. What she really heard was the king's heavy breathing. His hand navigated an obstacle course of silken underwear to busy itself between her legs.

An angry revulsion so strong that it was almost physical rose to choke her. For a moment intellect lost its ascendancy. She was reacting without thought, hesitation, or conscious intention when she slapped King Miltzin's face with all her strength.

LET ME THROUGH. Loveliness, stand aside, Nitz Neeper suggested, and the curtain of flame shrouding the doorway parted at once. He stumbled through into the Long Gallery, and the Vonahrishman followed.

A single sweeping glance took in the great chamber sealed with fire, the broken windows and overturned chairs, the seething crowd of terrified guests, but nowhere among them did he spy the one he sought, whose recognition validated this entire demonstration. Nowhere did he see Miltzin IX. His insides knotted, and he clutched himself with a gasp.

The gap in the fire guarding the west doorway of the Long Gallery did not escape the attention of the guests, who converged on the exit from all corners of the room. In an instant Neeper was engulfed, crushed among desperate bodies, elbowed, squeezed, and battered. He could not breathe, he could hardly see and barely think. A hurricane of howls and screams beat at his head. He pressed his hands tight to his ears, but the din smashed through into his brain. A pang of exquisite agony stabbed his vitals, and he doubled, grunting.

Masterfire had not forgotten his commission. No escape. No escape. The words echoed faintly through Neeper's mind. The gap in the doorway closed itself and the sudden furious flare of light and heat sent the frantic prisoners scrambling backward. Neeper was borne along helplessly as a bit of flotsam, until a violent collision hurled him to the floor. Twice he sought to rise, and twice the crush of frenzied humanity thwarted his efforts. Thereafter he curled himself into a ball, arms laced protectively around his middle, where internal storms raged. The words echoed faintly through Neeper's mind. The gap in the doorway closed itself and the sudden furious flare of light and heat sent the frantic prisoners scrambling backward. Neeper was borne along helplessly as a bit of flotsam, until a violent collision hurled him to the floor. Twice he sought to rise, and twice the crush of frenzied humanity thwarted his efforts. Thereafter he curled himself into a ball, arms laced protectively around his middle, where internal storms raged.

He hardly noticed that Masterfire was expanding. Big. Big. He did not see the green flames dancing joyously along the walls and mounting toward the ceiling. He did not see the green flames dancing joyously along the walls and mounting toward the ceiling. BigBigBig. BigBigBig. Dizzy, disoriented, and in pain, he did not notice that the screams of the trapped guests were waxing in crazed desperation. Dizzy, disoriented, and in pain, he did not notice that the screams of the trapped guests were waxing in crazed desperation. No escape. No escape. Nor was he fully conscious that the air in the Long Gallery, heated to oven temperatures, was growing difficult to breathe. Nor was he fully conscious that the air in the Long Gallery, heated to oven temperatures, was growing difficult to breathe.

A hand grasped his arm. He opened his eyes and gazed without comprehension into an angular dark face, vaguely familiar.

"Here, Neeper, let me help you up. Lean on me."

Who? EatEatEat. EatEatEat. Oh yes, the Vonahrishman who had found his way to the workroom. Oh yes, the Vonahrishman who had found his way to the workroom. EatEatEat. EatEatEat.

"Neeper, do you understand me?"

Nitz Neeper offered a glazed smile. "Eat," he mumbled. "EatEatEat."

TORVID STORNZOF HAD GROWN IMPATIENT. His two men should have joined him by this time. They had somehow blundered, and they would certainly suffer his extreme displeasure. Black brows lowering, he stepped to the door and listened. Some sort of commotion was rocking the Long Gallery; he could hear m.u.f.fled shouting in there, shrieks, a thunder of footfalls. Some sort of problem, obviously. Someone had taken ill and collapsed, a fight had broken out, or else some fool woman had spotted a mouse, screamed, and touched off a panic. Whatever was happening in there could not excuse the failure of his men to follow their orders. His two men should have joined him by this time. They had somehow blundered, and they would certainly suffer his extreme displeasure. Black brows lowering, he stepped to the door and listened. Some sort of commotion was rocking the Long Gallery; he could hear m.u.f.fled shouting in there, shrieks, a thunder of footfalls. Some sort of problem, obviously. Someone had taken ill and collapsed, a fight had broken out, or else some fool woman had spotted a mouse, screamed, and touched off a panic. Whatever was happening in there could not excuse the failure of his men to follow their orders.

Torvid savored his anger for a moment. It was deep and strong, promising a rich, vengeful return at some point in the not distant future. Now was not the moment to think of it, however. He could not loiter indefinitely in the stairwell, for it was only a matter of time before some servant noted his presence. He could not afford to wait any longer for his bungling subordinates, nor was he disposed to go hunting for them. He would have to complete the mission on his own. The prospect did not entirely displease him. He was at his best working alone, unenc.u.mbered with the incompetence of underlings.

His hand slid into his pocket to close upon the pistol. Silently he mounted the stairs leading to the king's private audience chamber.

"YOU STRUCK ME." Palm pressed to his stinging cheek, eyes wide with disbelief, King Miltzin recoiled. "You-actually-struck-me."

Luzelle sat up, automatically adjusting her disordered gown. "I'm sorry, Sire," she said, almost dazedly. "I didn't mean to." Truer words were never spoken. Her thoughts boiled. She had ruined everything, she realized. In one insane, mindless instant she had lost control and ruined everything. Desperation blossomed. She had to fix things, somehow.

"What do you mean, you didn't mean to? Are you trying to claim that you attacked me by accident?"

It had, in a way, been by accident, but the king would never believe that one. "I-I was upset," she confided, adding piteously, "I was very confused, I was frightened."

"Frightened? I think not. You nearly took my head off. You were about as frightened as a tigress attacking her prey."

"I'm sorry, truly sorry. Please believe me, Sire. I-"

"I do not wish to listen. I have never encountered such savagery in a woman. Women should be soft and tender. This is a painful disillusionment."

"It was a mistake, Majesty. A terrible mistake. I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart. Please believe that, please accept my humblest apology-"

"I'm not interested. I am the king of Lower Hetzia, and you presumed to strike me. You don't belong in a royal palace. In fact, you don't belong in a civilized society. I will call a carriage for you. It's time for you to leave."

"Majesty-" She could feel the tears of defeat stinging her eyes, and made no attempt to repress them. Perhaps they would help, women should be soft and tender. She stretched forth an appealing hand. "What can I do to make amends? Only tell me what I can do?"

"You can leave. And the two of us can forget that we were ever so unfortunate as to encounter one another."

"But I shall never forget, Sire. Guilt and remorse will haunt me for the rest of my days. For we stood upon the very brink of something splendid. Your Majesty was about to bestow the blessing of Sentient Fire upon a grateful Vonahr. You had all but agreed to arm the world against the Grewzian menace. Please, I beg you, don't let one woman's folly anger you. Forget my stupidity, and think only of-"

"You are mistaken." King Miltzin regarded her with distaste. His face was still splotched red from her blow. "There was no agreement, either stated or implied. If you chose to believe otherwise, you deceived yourself. And now, Madame, if you will excuse me, I shall ring for a servant to conduct you to-"

"Sire, I entreat you-" It was all she could do to keep from grabbing him and shaking him hard. "If you'll only allow me to-"

The plea, almost certainly doomed to failure, was never completed. The door opened. The Grandlandsman Torvid Stornzof walked into the room, monocle aglint and pistol dead steady in his hand.

King Miltzin rose, wrapped in dignity, to demand, "What is the meaning of this?"

"The adept Nevenskoi-I want him," Torvid announced. "You will lead me to the workroom."

"How dare you? Who are you?"

"That does not concern you."

"He's Torvid Stornzof, a Grewzian grandlandsman." Luzelle locked eyes with the intruder. "Sire, you see for yourself what these Grewzians are, and what they're willing to do. You can't allow these people to-"

"Silence," Torvid advised her. "Another word and I will fire."

She looked into his eyes and saw that he would not hesitate. She said nothing.

"This is monstrous. Leave my presence," Miltzin ordered, beet faced. "Leave my palace. Go before I order the guards to arrest you."

"Your Majesty no longer commands here. That responsibility has pa.s.sed to me," Torvid observed dryly. "Now you will conduct me to this hidden workroom I have heard of. Its location is not unknown to you, I believe."

"Don't imagine that your rank or your nationality will protect you, Grandlandsman," Miltzin warned. "Your imperior is my cousin. This incredible outrage won't go unpunished. Now go while you can, before you worsen matters for yourself."

"We will go together, Sire. You will lead the way. Refuse, and I will put a bullet between your eyes."

"Have you taken leave of your senses? I am the king."

"Kings bleed, I'm told. Must we put it to the test?"

"You wouldn't dare. I've sentries and bodyguards stationed throughout the adjoining rooms of my apartment. The sound of a shot would draw them instantly. You wouldn't escape capture and execution."

"Possibly." Torvid shrugged. "Your Majesty, however, would not witness the spectacle. Now, enough of this chattering. We proceed to Nevenskoi's workroom. No, not that way," he directed, as his prisoner took an eager step toward an ornate set of double doors. "You have been good enough to warn me of the armed guards and sentries. Therefore we will go down the stairs I have just used, through the Long Gallery, and out into the corridor beyond. You too," he told Luzelle. A flick of his pistol directed her. "Go stand beside the king. Take his arm. Do it now." He waited until she obeyed. "That is good, you are a handsome couple."

"You don't seriously imagine that you can march the king at gunpoint straight through a mob of guests?" Luzelle could not forbear asking. "You're mad to attempt it."

"It is for that reason I shall succeed," Torvid informed her. "No one expects such a stroke, no one perceives it clearly; these fools will not recognize what is under their noses. Now I take my place beside His Majesty and we move to the Long Gallery. We smile, nod, and chat agreeably. It is a pleasant reception, everyone sees that the king enjoys the society of his good friends. But the three of us will know that my gun presses His Majesty's ribs. At the first hint of resistance, the first attempt to break away, the first cry of warning or distress, I will fire. I care nothing for personal consequences. At the very least I will eliminate this Hetzian king whose whims deprive the Imperium of the great weapon. Understand here and now that I will do what is needed."

Miltzin IX nodded stiffly. The red mark of the recent slap had faded, leaving his face altogether colorless.

Luzelle skewered the grandlandsman with her eyes. "Karsler knows nothing of this," she accused.

"Nothing," he agreed with a slight smile.

His expression chilled her. Her eyes dropped before his.

"Now move," Torvid commanded. "Smile. You are enjoying yourselves. Go."

It was impossible. He could not do this thing, couldn't possibly get away with it in the middle of a royal palace crawling with servants, guards, and guests. But somehow they were exiting the audience chamber at Torvid Stornzof's command, he was herding them down the stairs, he was doing as he pleased with them. A sense of furious helplessness filled Luzelle. Gripping the king's arm tightly, she descended.

At the bottom of the stairs she confronted a small, plain door. On the other side of it people were shouting. She hesitated.

"Move on," Torvid directed.

She shot him a glare of loathing. King Miltzin pulled the door partially open. Immediately the shouts and screams intensified. A blast of blistering heat surged into the stairwell from the Long Gallery beyond. Luzelle caught a quick glimpse of impossibly green flames blanketing the walls and tenting overhead before the door slammed shut.

"Move on, both of you," Torvid commanded imperturbably.

"Are you mad?" She rounded on him. "It's an inferno in there!"

"So I see. A green inferno. Very singular."

"We have to go back the way we came, there's no choice!"

"Ah? Let us consider. Did you note the bizarre color of the flames, the eccentric pattern of activity, the dearth of real destruction? Here, I suspect, is what I seek. This is the Sentient Fire, is it not?" Torvid demanded of the king. His victim's pained silence evidently pa.s.sed as a.s.sent. "Excellent. This simplifies matters. The inventor is close at hand, I presume."

"I don't know." Miltzin chewed his lip. "I did not send for him or for Masterfire, I never gave him leave to do this. this. He has gone much too far." He has gone much too far."

"This Nevenskoi was not summoned to the reception?" Torvid inquired.

"No. He's out of favor; he shouldn't be here frightening people." Miltzin frowned.

"Then Your Majesty must make your displeasure known to the adept. You will find him for me now. Move on."

"No." Luzelle balked. "I won't go in there."

"You would prefer a pistol shot here and now?"

"Better than burning alive!"

"Masterfire will not harm you, Miss Devaire," Miltzin promised palely. "Don't worry, Nevenskoi won't allow it."

His rea.s.surances failed to convince her, but when the door opened again, she found herself moving through it, still clutching the king's arm.

The searing green brilliance, the billowing smoke, and the confusion of cries underscoring the roar of the fire momentarily bewildered her. She blinked, and her vision swam. The heat beat at her like a club, and she raised a hand to shield her face. She dimly perceived that most of the guests cl.u.s.tered screaming near the center of the room, as far as possible from the flame-curtained walls. At once, however, a desperate band broke from the human ma.s.s and sprinted for the hitherto unnoticed door through which she and her two companions had just entered. Swiftly as they moved, they were not fast enough. A long, writhing arm of fire shot for the doorway. So blindingly quick and unerring a stroke could not have been random. Almost instantaneously the exit was smothered in green flame.

No way back. Luzelle's stinging eyes ranged. Through clouds of smoke she discerned the fire-choked doorways and windows. No way out for anyone now.

"Over there." The grandlandsman pointed.

Luzelle glanced at him. In the midst of flaming chaos Torvid Stornzof appeared impossibly unruffled, silver hair faultlessly ordered, monocle firmly in place. A small, unconscious curve of the lips communicated satisfaction.

He's enjoying this, Luzelle thought, amazed.

"We shall hunt through that rabble." Torvid's gesture encompa.s.sed the cowering crowd. "Go."

Miltzin obeyed without argument. His presence and his predicament seemed to go unnoticed by his guests. The pistol pressing his ribs was un.o.btrusive, and n.o.body was looking.

They would never find the grandlandsman's quarry in the midst of such smoky pandemonium, Luzelle thought. But they had barely begun to move before her eyes were drawn as if by instinct to Girays, who stood only a few yards away supporting a smallish, sandy-haired man garbed in an archaic black robe. The robed figure, bent double, was clutching himself around the middle. She curbed the impulse to run to Girays. No good dragging him into the orbit of the grandlandsman's dangerous attention.

Her caution was wasted. Miltzin IX glanced at the man beside Girays and looked away too quickly.

Noting the king's reaction, Torvid studied the robed figure, and stated, "Nevenskoi."

Miltzin shook his head mutely.

"Ah? And yet he wears the costume of an adept. Let us investigate." The grandlandsman steered his prisoners deftly through the crowd.

As they drew near, Girays spotted them, and Luzelle saw his dark eyes widen with a stark horror that startled her, the expression was so uncharacteristic. It took her a moment to recognize herself as the cause. Until this moment he had thought her safe. He had not expected to find her trapped along with him in this fire-swept deathtrap of a gallery.

The robed man lifted a pain-racked gaze to the king's face. "Majesty," he whispered, and succ.u.mbed to a fit of violent coughing.

"Neeper," the king returned firmly.