"Forgive-"

"Having another of your attacks? Don't try to talk, Neeper. Better save your strength," the king counseled.

"Neeper? Nevenskoi, surely," the grandlandsman suggested with amus.e.m.e.nt. He addressed himself to the stricken man. "This green fire about us is subject to your will?"

"It-" Neeper's response gave way to coughing.

The grandlandsman waited.

"Masterfire-consume nothing-EatEatEat-" More coughs, concluding in a moan.

Torvid's brows contracted. "Come, enough of this. I lose patience."

"Mine went long ago. Leave him alone," Girays advised. "This is pointless, Stornzof. You are finished. I know about Karsler, and if we survive this fire, the world will know. You've nowhere to hide. Even your imperior won't be willing or able to protect you."

"What about Karsler?" Despite the intense heat of the atmosphere, Luzelle went cold inside.

"Ah, were you hiding behind a chair, M. v'Alisante? Or perhaps crouching like a little mouse outside the door? No matter. It is just as well to proceed openly, subterfuge annoys me." Torvid turned, advancing his arm slightly to bring the pistol into view.

"And what do you intend to do with that?" Girays arched a contemptuous eyebrow. "Shoot everyone in sight? What happens when you run out of ammunition?"

"By that time, be certain that you and the Hetzian king and this Vonahrish trollop here will all be dead. But in fact I prefer to avoid wholesale slaughter. Rather will I remove the adept, merely." Turning to Neeper, he declared, "You will now accompany me to the nearest exit. When we reach it, you will displace the barrier of fire, only long enough to permit the two of us clear pa.s.sage."

"I-Eat-losing control-" Neeper tottered.

"Do you understand me?"

Neeper groaned and sank to his knees.

"I said, do you understand me? Answer." No reply, and the grandlandsman's overtaxed patience failed. Lifting the hand that held the gun, he struck the adept twice, back and forth across the face.

The blows sent Neeper sprawling. He hit the floor and lay still. A shocked exclamation escaped Miltzin IX. Girays took a purposeful step forward and halted when Torvid turned the gun on him. At the same time something between a rumble and a deep growl shook the room.

Luzelle's breath caught. She could not identify the sound, she had never heard its like before, but it filled her with elemental fear. She looked up. The fire that lined the walls and ceiling was expanding, flinging forth new and longer tongues of flame, their green edged with a furious tinge of red. The roar of the conflagration deepened in pitch, rose in volume, vibrated along her nerves, and she sensed a sudden killing rage, vast and insatiable. Her limbs shook. She was not fully conscious of running to Girays, but his arms were around her and he was holding her tightly.

The fire was plentifully blood streaked now, the red tints almost equaling the green, and the sea of flame overhead was starting to change, its substance shifting and flowing like water stirred by arcane currents. Up above a whirlpool of fire spun into existence, its center directly over the head of Torvid Stornzof. The grandlandsman noticed nothing. He was shouting at the man on the floor, who stirred feebly and opened his eyes.

Neeper looked up; not at his tormentor, but at the ceiling. His glazed eyes widened, and he said something. Luzelle could not hear a word, but she saw his lips form the syllables: No. Sweet one. No. No. Sweet one. No. Torvid followed the adept's gaze. He studied the fiery vortex with clinical interest. Torvid followed the adept's gaze. He studied the fiery vortex with clinical interest.

The revolutions overhead accelerated, and a funnel of fire whirled down from the ceiling. There was a crackle like a laugh of savage satisfaction as Masterfire seized upon his prey.

Torvid Stornzof screamed. His arms flailed, and he jigged like a crazed marionette. His beautifully tailored evening wear ignited, the fabric burning away in seconds to expose his nakedness to the flames. His silvery hair and dark brows frizzled away in an instant. His flesh began to char, and the aroma of cooking meat drifted through the Long Gallery.

Flinging himself headlong to the floor, Torvid rolled, but the great funnel of flame that enclosed him was not to be smothered. The violence of his contortions loosed showers of sparks, many flying to nearby silken skirts and petticoats, where small new fires blossomed. Fresh cries of terror rose, but none equaled the power of the grandlandsman's unremitting shrieks.

Through the wavering curtain of green and red, Luzelle could see his skin blackening and peeling like the surface of a charred pepper. His hairless scalp was distended with vaporous blisters that nearly doubled the size of his head. His facial features were distorted beyond recognition, eyes lost amid bubbles of ashy tissue, if they were still there at all. Of his genitals nothing remained but a blackened stump. But his voice was intact. Surely by now he must have inhaled fire, he must have scorched his lungs and throat, but his screams never slackened.

It seemed to last for years. Eternity revolved while the blind black mannequin at the heart of the blaze dragged himself upright to lurch through the crowd whose members gave way, stumbling over one another in their efforts to clear the path of the human torch.

Eventually he fell, but his agony was not ended, for he continued to jerk and pule as he burned, and the scrabbling motion of his hands suggested attempts to crawl. At last all movement and outcry ceased. Even then Masterfire did not relinquish his first kill, but lingered fiercely there until the body was reduced to greasy ash and bone.

"Master Neeper." Girays stooped to lay a hand on the adept's shoulder. "Can you hear me?" There was no response, and raising his voice to make himself heard above the surrounding tumult, he repeated the question.

Neeper's eyes opened. "Big," "Big," he whispered. "I am BigBigBig." he whispered. "I am BigBigBig."

"Master Neeper, can you quench or at least diminish this blaze?"

"Big. Big." Neeper blinked, and his eyes focused. "Dizzy. Pain. Can't think."

"Can you clear an exit?"

"Don't know." The adept rubbed his eyes. "I will try. Help me."

Each taking one of his arms, Girays and Miltzin hauled Neeper to his feet and steered him to the nearest doorway, where they released him. Neeper staggered, and Luzelle thought he would fall again, but he managed to stay on his feet. For several seconds he stood motionless, head bowed. Then he lifted his eyes to gaze into the fire, and his face was still, but she caught the intimation of intense mental activity. Long moments pa.s.sed before the crimson streaks began to fade from the guardian flames. When they had resumed a uniform green hue, Neeper spoke, his words audible to his creation alone. The flames drew themselves lithely aside.

King Miltzin was first to exit the Long Gallery. Luzelle and Girays, supporting Neeper, followed close behind. They emerged into a corridor where a bucket brigade of palace servants toiled. Flying droplets of cold water spattered Luzelle's face. They felt marvelous. Neither she nor anyone else in sight was about to burn alive, and that felt marvelous too, but she could hardly summon undivided joy. She had bungled her audience with the king beyond recovery, and Girays had dropped a hint so dreadful that she could barely bring herself to consider it; something about Karsler.

But she did not have to think about it yet, for the liberated prisoners streaming from the Long Gallery were jostling, shoving, all but trampling her in their haste to escape the blazing palace. No room for thought at the moment, and perhaps just as well. Down the corridor they fled in a terrified stampede, down the great central stairway, through a foyer the size of a marble meadow, and out the front door onto the palace grounds, where a crowd of resident retainers already stood watching.

The Long Gallery emptied swiftly. When the last of the guests had pa.s.sed through the fire-wreathed doorway, Neeper wobbled, faltered, and muttered incoherently. The gap in the flames closed itself. Masterfire cavorted and roared in mad green glory.

"Nevenskoi-my Waterwitch!" King Miltzin appealed. "Do something, my dear fellow!"

"Sire, I-" The adept's eyes turned up. He collapsed in a dead faint. Girays and Luzelle caught him as he fell.

Gouts of flame lashed out into the corridor. Hopelessly overmatched, the bucket brigade turned tail and ran, ignoring their monarch's frantic commands. Twisting fiery tentacles snaked inquisitively along the hall. A set of brocade window draperies ignited, and then another. The carpeting underfoot began to smolder.

There was no opposing the blaze, at least for now.

"Sire, let us a.s.sist you from the building," Luzelle begged.

Miltzin looked at her and nodded. Together they exited, carrying the unconscious Neeper. They bore him as far as the white stone wall girdling the palace, and there in that safe place set him down on the ground. Already the adept was stirring.

They were far from isolated. Hundreds of guests, palace guards, and household servants waited and watched at the foot of the wall. A kind of sighing murmur from the spectators dragged Luzelle's unwilling eyes back to the Waterwitch, where green flame was flaring from the second-story windows. As she watched, the fire expanded, mounting toward the roof and beyond. A mighty roar of triumph reached her as Masterfire arose, reaching for the starry skies.

MUCH LATER THAT NIGHT, when the Waterwitch stood in smoking ruins and the green conflagration was finally subsiding, Miltzin IX spoke up for the first time in hours.

"We'll need to do some sort of a head count to make certain there were no casualties other than that Grewzian swine."

"A search through the debris will reveal the remains of at least one other body, Sire." Girays, illumined by the diminishing green glare of Masterfire, bowed his head. "Karsler Stornzof was murdered by his uncle for seeking to defend Your Majesty."

The tears blurred Luzelle's eyes, but her grief contained no element of surprise. She had known for hours, without letting herself know. Karsler pointlessly dead. Her mission botched, her country doomed. A night of disaster.

"Well. I am sorry about the younger Stornzof." Miltzin frowned. "Not every Grewzian is a criminal, it seems. But my cousin Ogron is, and I can a.s.sure you I've had more than enough of him. He's had the bit between his teeth far too long, and it must end. Tonight was absolutely the last straw. I'll teach him to sic his ruffians on me. Miss Devaire, what was that Vonahrish offer you were peddling a few hours ago? Fifty million, was it?"

"Forty, Sire," she murmured, astonished.

"Forty. Well. I cannot haggle. It will cover the rebuilding of an improved Waterwitch, and that will have to do."

"Your Majesty is willing to sell the Sentient Fire to Vonahr?" She wondered for a moment whether her imagination was playing her tricks. Beside her she heard Girays draw in his breath sharply.

"After tonight, do you think I'll hesitate? That fire has grown a little too hot for Lower Hetzia to hold. You may take it, give Cousin Ogron the hotfoot or ram it down his throat, and welcome." Miltzin turned to the still and silent dark figure sitting beside him. "Nevenskoi-I mean, Neeper-are you quite awake?"

"Sire, I am." Neeper's voice was small. "And I wish to express my profound sorrow-my grief and my shame-"

"As well you might, but now is not the time. What you must tell me is this. Given normal circ.u.mstances-that is, when you're not dyspeptic, dazed, or smoke poisoned-do you still believe yourself capable of controlling our Masterfire?"

"Sire, tonight was a dreadful aberration. It will never recur, believe me. Ordinarily, Masterfire obeys me willingly, provided he's not overstimulated. But that's something that rarely-"

"Stop there. I'll take you at your word, and if there are conditions attached, that's no longer my concern. You see, my dear fellow-you are about to embark for Vonahr."

Epilogue.

ONCE THE KING MADE HIS DECISION, events moved swiftly. There was no time to rest, to reflect, or to absorb the reality of Karsler's death before Luzelle found herself aboard a train en route for Sherreen. Yet another train, but this one special, blazoned with the royal arms of Lower Hetzia and reserved for the use of His Majesty and certain favored guests. Thus she traveled with Girays and the adept Nevenskoi, or Nitz Neeper as he now called himself, along with a muscular squad of armed bodyguards in an absurdly luxurious private car equipped with bulletproof, bombproof walls. The adept, a treasured prize, was not permitted to stir from his seat unaccompanied by a guard.

The moment the train pulled to a stop in Sherreen, Nitz Neeper was whisked away in an anonymous closed carriage. Luzelle a.s.sumed that he had vanished into the maze of the Republican Complex, but she could not be certain, for her various questions went politely unanswered. The exclusion annoyed her-for surely, in light of her involvement, she was ent.i.tled to some information-but the minions of the Vonahrish government did not seem to see it that way. She was courteously escorted back to her own lodgings and there they left her, curiosity unsatisfied.

Apparently her usefulness was at an end.

It was odd to be back in her old rooms. They were familiar and comfortable enough, but quiet, a bit shabby, and somehow devoid of meaning. She had no sensation of coming home-there was little to come home to, beyond a good collection of books and mementos; even the furniture wasn't her own. But her mood improved that evening, when she began to sort through the acc.u.mulated post that her landlady had collected and held for her during her absence. The news of her victory had preceded her return by days, and the response was impressive. There were literally hundreds of congratulatory letters, notes, and cards, most of them from strangers, but warming nevertheless. Less sentimentally gratifying, but of greater practical worth, were the offers-a full dozen communications soliciting her services as a lecturer, guest speaker, or writer of articles, essays, and books. There was even an invitation from the University of Sherreen to spend two semesters as a resident Bulaude Fellow, an honor never before bestowed upon a woman.

Her success was a.s.sured. Never again would she need to contemplate a return to bitter dependency in His Honor's household. The freedom she had longed for was hers. It was a true accomplishment, but somehow she would not fully feel the triumph, nor would it seem entirely real, until she shared it with Girays.

She got the chance the next day, when the two of them were summoned to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They arrived simultaneously, and both were shown to a featureless little conference room on the ground floor. Four of the ministry's officials waited there, but the Deputy Underminister vo Rouvignac was not among them. Perhaps, lacking the advantage of a royal conveyance, he had not yet made it back from Toltz. The officials introduced themselves. Meaningless names and t.i.tles flew by too quickly to catch.

Luzelle went in hoping to acquire a little information, but soon discovered that she was there to answer questions, not to ask. The interrogation was polite but prolonged. The officials wanted as complete as possible an accounting of events at the Waterwitch Palace reception, particularly anything pertaining to the Stornzof kinsmen, or to the behavior and appearance of the phenomenon cautiously described as "a quickly spreading fire of reportedly unusual properties."

Reining in her impatience, Luzelle answered as best she could, and Girays did likewise. His description of Karsler Stornzof's final minutes, which exactly matched what he had told her on the train save for the omission of a few personal remarks, brought the tears to her eyes again. Her own depiction of Torvid Stornzof's a.s.sault upon King Miltzin's private audience chamber provoked a discreet exchange of glances among the listeners. The joint report of Torvid's death-singled out for burning among a host of guests, none other of whom was harmed-held them enthralled. The intelligence they gleaned was clearly of interest, but they were not about to return the favor. When she plucked up her courage and dared to ask for news of Nitz Neeper and the Sentient Fire, all four officials went suddenly vague.

At the close of the interview she withdrew frustrated, arm in arm with Girays. They repaired to a nearby cafe, where they sipped iced coffee in the shade of striped canvas awnings while she told him of the offers, the proposed articles and books, and the Bulaude Fellowship.

"Congratulations." His smile flashed. "It's splendid, you've accomplished wonders. You've so many choices, which way will you go?"

She looked at him. His dark eyes were filled with warmth that was patently genuine. His smile was perfect. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm proud of you, and happy for you."

"And? Something's the matter, isn't it?"

"Nothing to do with you."

She studied him. Three or four months earlier she would have accused him of jealousy, resentment, wounded vanity. Now she knew better. Then it hit her-the bright hopes and plans for the future, the work, the achievement and recognition-all of it was bound to crash in ruins when the troops of the Imperium invaded Vonahr. The publishers would fold or at least suspend operation, the lecture circuit would shut down, even the University of Sherreen would drastically reduce its curriculum, if it continued to function at all. She might, at some point years in the future, attempt to resume her interrupted career, but without great hope of success. There would be little call for a female writer/lecturer in occupied Vonahr.

Girays knew that. He was too kind to remind her. Moreover, he'd even more pressing concerns of his own. His beloved estate of Belfaireau, family seat of the v'Alisantes for generations, was a handsome prize by any reckoning. In the event of a successful invasion the Grewzian conquerors would inevitably appropriate the house and lands. She hadn't even thought of that until now.

Despite the strength of the summer sun, the day seemed to darken. She took a sip of iced coffee and changed the subject.

TWO DAYS LATER she received an invitation to lunch with vo Rouvignac, now back in town. The deputy underminister proved more communicative than his a.s.sociates of the ministry, but less than thoroughly forthcoming. she received an invitation to lunch with vo Rouvignac, now back in town. The deputy underminister proved more communicative than his a.s.sociates of the ministry, but less than thoroughly forthcoming.

"I would answer if I could, Miss Devaire," he a.s.sured her between spoonfuls of chilled lobster bisque. "But I myself am kept quite in the dark these days."

She did not believe him, but knew no polite way of expressing skepticism, so she smiled understandingly, allowed an appropriate interval to elapse, then changed the phrasing and angle of her questions. He probably did want to enlighten her, as far as he safely could. When she asked about Karsler Stornzof, he was able to tell her that a thorough search of the ruined Waterwitch Palace had revealed the Overcommander Stornzof's body intact in an underground chamber untouched by fire. The body had been sent back to Grewzland, where the Confraternity of the Promontory would oversee its final disposition. As for the diminished remains of the Grandlandsman Torvid Stornzof, they had been quietly interred in a Toltz cemetery. Despite its fury the fire had claimed no other victim.

And the Hetzian adept, Nitz Neeper? Still in Sherreen?

Difficult to say. Master Neeper had been interviewed by government officials at some length upon his arrival. Vo Rouvignac himself had not been present at these meetings, he declared; in any event, their content was considered sensitive. There was reason to suspect that Master Neeper had recently been transferred to another location that vo Rouvignac could hardly specify; really, it amounted to so much speculation.

And the Sentient Fire? She had seen it with her own eyes, she knew that it was real, but was it practical? Was it remotely reliable or controllable? Could it actually serve as an effective weapon of war?

"As to that, Miss Devaire, I am hardly a competent judge," vo Rouvignac declared modestly. "If you desire concrete fact, I fear that you must do as I do-read the newspapers."

SHE FOLLOWED HIS ADVICE, and two days later her copy of The Republican The Republican carried the banner headline, carried the banner headline, HAERESTEAN DEMAND REFUSED. HAERESTEAN DEMAND REFUSED.

Her pulse quickened. This was it. She read on. The article was long and loaded with detail, but the gist was simple enough. The Vonahrish president, with the full support of Congress, had responded to the Haerestean Parliament's request for the transfer of Eulence Province to Haerestean ownership with an unequivocal refusal. The Haerestean government had already responded with a formal statement of protest. Diplomatic relations between the two nations had broken off. The Haerestean amba.s.sador had withdrawn from Sherreen, and the emba.s.sy was closed. The High Council in Grewzland had issued an emphatic censure of Vonahrish policy, together with a pledge in support of abused Haereste, brother nation of the Imperium.

They would launch that a.s.sault within hours. Perhaps, miles to the south in Eulence, it had already begun. Luzelle set her newspaper aside. She did not want to be sitting here alone in her rented rooms at a time like this. She wanted to be with Girays, right now, this minute, but could not respectably indulge the impulse. She couldn't very well turn up alone and uninvited at his town house door, it wasn't suitable.

Too bad. I'm going.

She stood up. Her summer straw hat hung on a peg in the tiny vestibule. Before she reached it, somebody knocked on the door. She opened it. Girays stood on the threshold.

"Have you seen the newspaper?" he asked.

THEY WENT TO THE NEAREST CAFe and found the place jammed, for it seemed the natural instinct of Sherreenians in times of common trouble to a.s.semble, consume much coffee or wine, and talk. Luzelle supposed that the cafes and taverns all over the city must be similarly crowded and noisy. The volume and intensity of discussion was daunting. Strangers addressed one another with the ease of old acquaintance, and everybody seemed to have some theory, belief, expression of hope and confidence, or declaration of impending doom to offer. The rumors flew, and many were presented as statements of absolute fact, but n.o.body actually knew a thing. and found the place jammed, for it seemed the natural instinct of Sherreenians in times of common trouble to a.s.semble, consume much coffee or wine, and talk. Luzelle supposed that the cafes and taverns all over the city must be similarly crowded and noisy. The volume and intensity of discussion was daunting. Strangers addressed one another with the ease of old acquaintance, and everybody seemed to have some theory, belief, expression of hope and confidence, or declaration of impending doom to offer. The rumors flew, and many were presented as statements of absolute fact, but n.o.body actually knew a thing.

Everyone was in the same boat, all dependent for information on the newspapers, which were in turn obliged to await dispatches from the Haerestean border, hundreds of miles to the south.

Sherreen waited. That evening's special edition of The Republican The Republican announced in letters two inches high, announced in letters two inches high, HAERESTE INVADES EULENCE PROVINCE. HAERESTE INVADES EULENCE PROVINCE.

And after that, Sherreen waited again.

TWENTY-FOUR TENSE HOURS DRAGGED BY. Luzelle spent many of them with Girays and others loitering outside the offices of Luzelle spent many of them with Girays and others loitering outside the offices of The Republican. The Republican. The stretch of Cliquot Street before the building was choked with pedestrians and closed to wheeled traffic. The offices of the two rival journals- The stretch of Cliquot Street before the building was choked with pedestrians and closed to wheeled traffic. The offices of the two rival journals-The Sherreen Messenger and and The Parabeau Gazette The Parabeau Gazette-were similarly besieged, but the largest crowds gravitated to the city's oldest, preeminent source of news. The men, women, and children gathered there were quiet, orderly, patient, and remarkably considerate of one another. A sense of strong solidarity reigned.

The late-summer sun beat down on Sherreen. Straw hats and parasols offered limited protection. Vendors of chilled drinks and overpriced snacks of every description circled the edge of the crowd, doing brisk business. As the hours wore on, the crowd remained quiet and civil, but certain proprieties began to erode. Men loosened their collars and cravats, and some even removed their jackets. Ladies stripped away their white lace gloves, as they would never have dared under ordinary circ.u.mstances. Small rugs, blankets, and mantelets seemed to appear out of nowhere to spread themselves out on the ancient cobbles, and scores of citizens tired of standing seated themselves right there in the street.

Luzelle did not want to sit down in the street, and could not bring herself to ask Girays to do it. When she could no longer bear standing in the sun, they withdrew to the comparative comfort of a doorstep in a shaded entryway, and there she could rest for a while. But her weakness cost them their good position near the front door of the office building, and they could not hope to regain it.

Girays went and brought back chilled fruit juice and cheese pastries. They ate and she felt her energy returning. The sacrifice of their place did not seem to matter much. The hours were pa.s.sing, and no revelations rewarded endurance.

The sun was leaning on the western rooftops, the shadows were stretching to soothe Cliquot Street, and Luzelle began to wonder what they would do when darkness fell. Give up, go home, and return in the morning? Or wait here along with so many others throughout the night, into the morning, and beyond, as long as it might take? She was sick beyond words of the endless waiting and no doubt Girays was equally fatigued, but she could hardly tolerate the thought of not being present to learn the outcome, and she suspected he shared her sentiments there too.

The emergence of a sweaty, haggard journalistic lackey burdened with a stack of The Republican The Republican's scarcely dry special edition resolved her dilemma. The shouting crowd surged forward, up the short flight of stone stairs, and the newspapers flew from the journalist's hands. Luzelle chewed her lower lip in frustration. She and Girays were nowhere near the source, they would never get their hands on one of those early reports.