'Keep me out of it.'

'If something should happen to Pellaz, to his consorts...' Velaxis raised his shoulders eloquently. 'Well, as it stands, a harling of the triumvirate's combined essence might well be seen as the obvious heir.'

'Nothing will happen to Pellaz. He is too strong. He can outwit any foes.'

'Some said that of Thiede.'

Abrimel stared at Velaxis, speechless.

Velaxis put down his gla.s.s, and leaned forward in his seat to take Abrimel's hands in his own. 'I am very fond of Rue,' he said. 'I helped raise you, and you are like a son to me. All I ask is that you remain aware, that's all. There are different factions. No matter how much you might want to hide away in exile, Bree, you are important to some hara. You might have no choice about becoming involved.'

'Tell me what you know.'

Velaxis released Abrimel's hands. 'There is nothing to tell, as yet. But there are changes afoot. It does not involve the Hegemony. I don't know who or what it involves, but I can sense it in my blood.'

'You're lying.'

'I suggested to Rue he should become close to Cal. He took my advice, and now this has happened. That, for some reason, I did not foresee.'

'Are you an enemy of my father's?'

'No, no. I am no har's enemy, but neither am I their ally. I am loyal only to myself, and in that I am the most honest har alive. I'm not asking you to trust me, Bree. That is not necessary. Just remain alert and aware. Keep informed. Don't make any bad decisions.'

Abrimel uttered a sound like a growl. 'Rue is a fool. He's learned nothing. He's still in Ferelithia with stars in his eyes.'

'That might well be true,' Velaxis said. 'Aren't you going to send him a message of congratulations? I could deliver it for you.'

'I could wring his neck.'

'A short message will do. I can dictate it for you. I think that politically you would be wise to send it.'

'Do as you see fit. I don't care.'

Velaxis sighed. 'Bree, you are Aralisian, and Pell's son, no matter how much either of you try to forget that fact. You isolate yourself deliberately, when you could be one of the Gelaming's brightest stars. Skulking over here in Imbrilim is probably not your best course of action.'

'I cannot be part of a travesty. I will not accept that Uigenna lickspit as Tigron.'

'He is not that bad. It could have been far worse.'

Abrimel laughed harshly. 'Could it? If I think about what's happened, I fill with black dread. It was just a beginning, and no matter how many of you in Immanion try to delude yourselves to the contrary, it will end badly. Wraeththu is headless without Thiede. Headless and sightless.'

Velaxis helped himself to more of the wine. 'But perhaps also free.' He smiled. 'The wine is good here. That alone might convince a har to stay. Get paper and a pen. You will now write to your hostling.'

Chapter Six.

Diablo was so mean, it wasn't a joke he was named for the old devil. If you came across him in the dark, you'd be forgiven for thinking he was made entirely of black sticks, the remains of charred cooking embers or a forest fire, even though his skin was the mottled faded yellow of old leaves. He saw the spirits of the trees, those who were part of nature and those who weren't. He could move quickly, like a black whip or a tongue of smoke. Up close, his eyes were too big and his chin too pointed, a legacy of the weird subtle energies that coursed through the landscape of his birth. This was the Forest of Gebaddon, quite some distance south of the territory of Galhea, in Megalithica. Weirdness soaked the soil, rising up as mist sometimes, warping plants and animals alike, and also the hara who were condemned to live there. Diablo was both young and old: young in that he had lived the equivalent of only twenty years on this earth (although, where he came from, time was not quite the tick-tock discipline it was in other areas); and old because he had never been young. From the moment he'd poked his twiggy fingers through the cracked sh.e.l.l of his pearl, followed by his head on its too long neck, he had been as ancient as time itself. He was an outsider in a community of outsiders, where the drudgery of existence held no charm and it was mandatory to hold every other living being in contempt.

The elders of his tribe spoke of dispossession, of exile and torment. They railed against invisible oppressors that existed beyond the pulsating membrane that comprised the edge of their world. If they spoke of a time to come when they would claw back all that had been taken from them, it was not in a spirit of hope. All they wanted was revenge and if anything existed beyond that, it wasn't worth thinking about. Given the chance, they'd rid the world of Wraeththu and humans alike. In their time, they'd already done quite a lot to further that aim.

Diablo had not been conceived in love. He did not know who his hostling or his father was, as he'd hatched in a bed of pearls, far from warm harish bodies, smothered in damp autumn leaves. An older har, whose job was to supervise hatchings, had taken care of his physical needs, told him where to forage for food and so on, but Diablo had never been held close in another's arms, never heard the soft whisperings of affection with which hostlings normally shower their offspring. When other harlings had hatched beside him, they'd fought amongst themselves fiercely for possession of particular feeding and resting areas. It was not unknown for harlings to kill one another in these battles over territory. They were, in fact, regarded as hardly more than dangerous animals by the older hara of the tribe, who would beat them off with sticks if they dared to approach an inviting campfire at night. When they were ready for feybraiha, the harlings would sit and howl like young wolves on the tall gray rocks outside the rough settlements of adults. Hearing this call, hara would come to them, shut them up with the contact they craved so desperately, and if the essence of their physical exchanges did not inspire spiritual pa.s.sion, awareness and insight, it at least dampened their ferocity. The harlings, tamed by what could hardly be called aruna, could now be taken into the main body of the tribe and soon most of them even forgot where the hatching grounds were.

Many years before, a coalition of Gelaming and what eventually had become Parasiel had stormed the Varr citadel of Fulminir in the cold north of Megalithica. Here, the Varr leader, Ponclast, had made his stand against the forces that opposed him. Ponclast's right hand har, Terzian of Galhea, had not been quite dead then, but certainly in Gelaming captivity. One of those who had led the a.s.sault on Fulminir was Terzian's son, Swift. Perhaps the Fulminiric Varrs, when they'd realised this, thought Swift had been seduced by power and wealth, or else by the har who the Gelaming had given to him as consort, Seel Griselming. Perhaps they thought Swift was more like his father than Swift would ever have dared to think. Others might not even have believed their eyes. But whatever the Fulminiric Varrs had thought, the Gelaming and the Parsics, who had confined the conquered hara to their strange h.e.l.l in Gebaddon, had no idea what the consequences of this exile would be. They were no longer Varrs, but Teraghasts, a forgotten tribe, sealed away, disposed of without actually having had to be killed. Nohar had really considered what would happen to them after the magical seals had been set across their boundaries, and not even the most paranoid ever believed they would start breeding. Although enlightened hara might talk of how harlings could be conceived only in love, this was not true. They could be conceived in very different emotions, if the intention and determination was strong enough.

Thiede had once said that the remnants of Ponclast's tribe might find enlightenment in the Forest of Gebaddon, but he'd never really cared about it. He'd known he was strong enough to confine them and that was all that mattered. If he ever thought about them in the years after the rout of Fulminir, it was only to consider briefly whether he should have had them slaughtered after all. To be fair, he and his allies had had to witness firsthand the atrocities these hara had been capable of, and the only thing the victors had cared about in the aftermath of that trauma was ridding the world of such a degenerate strain immediately. The defeated Varrs were beyond rehabilitation and couldn't even be domesticated.

Because Swift had led the forces that conquered them, and because the typical Teraghast memory was very long and accurate, the name of Parasiel was a curse. Even though the name had not even been imagined by the time the last incantation had been uttered at the edge of Gebaddon, it had somehow found its way in through c.h.i.n.ks and cracks, carried on the wind, in seeds, in dreams. If you spat and hissed the word, it could have a very strong power of its own. It was chanted often, in the hope that all the spite, hatred and resentment would somehow filter through the barrier that the Gelaming had constructed, fly across the landscape and reach into the heart of We Dwell in Forever like the black spores of disease. Fortunately, the Parasilians had long forgotten their abandoned brothers, and as the best part of a curse is the victim knowing about it, the worst hexes simply slid off the barrier, or if they found their way through had transformed into nothing more than the whisper of a whining ghost by the time they reached Galhea.

Ponclast, the erstwhile lord of Fulminir had changed very much. Perhaps some of those changes would have pleased Thiede, because Ponclast was no longer a har masquerading as a man. He had slid into the darkest corners of his feminine aspects while maintaining the steely resolve of his masculine traits. His body was long and thin, the skin very white. His black hair hung down his back in a strangely glistening flag, as if it was wet, yet it rarely was. He dressed in tattered robes of darkest crimson, but kept his fingernails very short and neat. It was important to him, in spite of everything, to have clean hands. Because he was har, he possessed a freakish kind of beauty, but it would never inspire poetry in another's heart, even though it might arouse some exceedingly dark prayers. He concealed himself, for the most part, in an underground lair which was his hive. In this place, hara of the tribe came to him and learned about how harlings did not have to be conceived in love. Ponclast, like a monstrous queen bee, was fecund. Most harlings of the tribe came from his body. There were very few moments when he was not with pearl and because he was so long and thin, the sight of him in this condition was not pleasant. His children were like the bursting boils of his hatred. They tumbled from him twisted up and snarling in their pearls, sustained, as was their hostling, by feelings of injustice and bitterness, which in Ponclast's case were very focused indeed.

On the night when Calanthe had locked in psychic combat with Thiede, something had happened to the magical barrier surrounding Gebaddon. It didn't break or fade; it remained as strong as ever, and in some areas became even stronger, but something leaked through it and slithered through the warped undergrowth of the forest. It found its way to Ponclast, brooding as usual in a deep cave, where tree roots were like stalact.i.tes around him. It came to him like a little bird and landed on his outstretched hand. It was the ability to see through the veil. It was Thiede's destruction and because Thiede had put so much of himself into Gebaddon to keep the exiles at bay, when he transcended the earthly realm part of his essence went looking for a place to rest, a place called home, where it would feel comfortable. It was unfortunate that Gebaddon was the nearest it could find.

Ponclast felt knowledge enter him like a blade to the throat. For some moments, he was held in stasis, in pain. He witnessed and experienced firsthand some of Thiede's torment, fear and confusion, and didn't know what it was. It could just have been another miserable torture conjured up by the poisoned soil of Gebaddon. But when the sensations subsided and Ponclast lay heaving upon his throne of damp dark boughs, he knew. Thiede was gone. The barrier still stood, but the Teraghasts were somehow changed. Ponclast knew that he might now find a way for a part of them, if only a small insubstantial part, to squeeze through the boundary.

For weeks Ponclast worked in secret upon his plans, trying many, discarding all. Some of his hara, lured in ignorance into his subterranean hive, died during the experiments. He toyed with sending hara into trance, so that they believed they could pa.s.s like smoke through the barrier. He performed dark rituals of Grissecon to invoke unmentionable forces into hara's bodies, which might find the barrier no more obstructive than mist. None of these trials worked. He needed something bigger, more daring. And yet he knew he must be subtle. If he acted too quickly or too rashly, the Gelaming would no doubt pick up psychically on his activities. They would be alerted to his newfound freedom, albeit small, and would squash it swiftly. Sometimes Ponclast wondered whether he was dreaming a cruel dream, and that the possibility of justice at last was an illusion. He dreamed often of Terzian, had always done so. In death, Terzian had transformed in Ponclast's mind into a shining angel. Their past disagreements had been forgotten. Terzian was a martyr, a dark saint. He must be avenged. And vengeance could not be taken in prison.

During his experiments, with the smell of blood and singed flesh around him as he meditated, Ponclast prayed so hard to the image of Terzian, he conjured a living thought that appeared to him as a flickering outline of radiance. The tragedy of betrayal poured from this image, the treachery of sons. Ponclast's son, Gahrazel, whom he had fathered in the days when he'd led the Varrs, was long dead. Ponclast himself had ordered Gahrazel to be executed for treason. It was not unreasonable to suppose that Terzian's son, equally traitorous, should suffer in a similar way. When Ponclast, deep in trance, saw Terzian's beautiful image hanging before him in darkness, it seemed that Swift's name was upon his lips. The House of Parasiel must be razed to the ground, its hara expunged without trace. But how could Ponclast achieve this? He was not mad, so under no delusion he had the power to affect outside reality in such a shattering way. Not with the resources at his disposal. Not yet.

'Help me, beloved,' he said to the phantom of Terzian. 'Bring me aid.' He cut his wrist and offered blood into a bowl of fire, then he sealed the wound. 'Bring it quickly.' He worried that the Gelaming would somehow curb him before he could act.

One night, weeks later, Terzian came to Ponclast in a dream. He carried between his hands a window into the world beyond and through this window Ponclast perceived an astounding thing. The reverberations of the event he witnessed were so strong they made the entire barrier around Gebaddon vibrate and resonate a thousand tones like the strings of untuned harps. They made the barrier glow a deep reddish purple and any Teraghast hara unfortunate enough to be within fifty feet of it were thrown into convulsions. Some of them choked on their own tongues. Ponclast, however, writhing in sleep, saw a different kind of light. He saw a soul comprised of colors the harish eye could not normally perceive. He saw it streak like a comet through the layers of the universe until it splashed into the body of Caeru har Aralis and took possession of the newly formed pearl it found there.

The image of Terzian said nothing, but Ponclast knew regardless that he was being shown this event for a reason. This was no ordinary har that had been conceived. It was, in some ways, an abomination, created too soon and in ignorance. Ponclast thought that if Thiede had been in this plane, his etheric servitors would have blocked the soul before it got within twenty layers of earthly reality. They would have sent it back to the centre of creation, and Caeru would have woken the next morning with only a sore body and consuming nausea. He would not have been with pearl. But Thiede was gone, and his protege, Pellaz, had acted imprudently. He had called into a being a kind of demon he lacked the strength or wisdom to control. When it hatched, this demon would want to take into itself all that was Thiede. It would surpa.s.s in power any that had come before. Gebaddon, to this being, would be a morsel to consume with relish.

Now the image of Terzian spoke. It said, 'If you would take for yourself the power of the Aghama, destroy this pearl. Have it brought to you and devour it. Then will the House of Parasiel be given into your hands and your kingdom shall spread across the earth.'

Ponclast awoke with this prophecy ringing in his head. He sat upright in his cold bed and stared into the darkness, where no shining spirit hung. Even to a har such as Ponclast, who made the Kakkahaar Lianvis appear only as a benign trickster, the idea of ripping a pearl from its hostling and then devouring it was hardly a prospect to relish. His mouth was rank with the taste of blood. He cared nothing for the Aralisians, and in fact one of his dearest fantasies was to impale the entire family upon poles outside Phaonica, but he also knew that if he concurred with the suggestion that had seeped through to this world, he would be crossing a boundary he had never dared to cross before. He would deliver himself to forces that previously even he had shunned. He knew in his heart that he was being offered a calling card from ent.i.ties he had sensed, but never seen. These beings, ancient and incomprehensible, lurked in the shadows of the ethers. Their creatures fed on the basest of emotional energy. Their concept of creation was destruction, and no living thing, of any plane of existence, possessed the knowledge to control them. But, if the correct offerings and compromises were made, these beings might well reward a lesser ent.i.ty for service.

'Yes,' he said aloud, his breath steaming on the air.

At once, it felt as if his throat was gripped by a giant invisible hand. Do you know us?

The touch was icy, yet as hot as the core of the earth. It reached inside him like an army of imps, examining every thought in his head. 'Help me,' Ponclast gasped, 'and I will serve you.'

We do not obey summons. You did not call us, wretched hermaphroditus. We summon you.

'Yes,' Ponclast wheezed. His life was draining away, his body lifted up from the bed.

You will work for us, for it is time. You have been chosen. Work well, and there will be rewards.

Ponclast felt he had nothing to lose. He and his hara were living a half-life, in suffering. They were no longer magnificent or powerful, but mean little phantoms grubbing away at toxic earth. Given the right nourishment, the Teraghasts could become greater than the Varrs had ever been. And if Ponclast had virtually to sell his soul to achieve it, then so be it. 'I will do as you ask, willingly and of my own volition.'

The unseen hand withdrew and Ponclast slumped back upon the bed. He could perceive a small sphere of deepest black before him, which was visible even within the darkness of the cave. Choose one of your children to be your champion. Bring him to you and mingle your essence with his. Through this, he will be given the gift of flight, the ability to travel the spirit paths between the worlds. This is the first gift and will enable you to realise your first duty. Destroy the child of light.

'I will do this.'

Once he had spoken, the sphere of black light shot towards his body and entered it through the solar plexus. There was a dull thud, a sense of being punched, like a stab wound, but nothing more. The invisible presence vanished. Ponclast was sweating from every pore. His body shook as from the throes of deadly fever. He crawled from his bed and drank water from a pool beneath the roots of a tree. He lit some misshapen candles that lay in puddles of ancient grey wax. Then he composed himself for trance.

Ponclast extended his inner sight and cast it like lurid beam over all of his children. It swung this way and that, pausing to consider, to examine, before eventually moving on. Ultimately, it came to rest upon a particular har, who had just killed a comrade in a moment of pure despair. Ponclast's sight lingered over the har for some moments, then he sent forth a messenger, the hiss and scratch of his inner voice, and he called this son to him.

So Diablo came to the lair of his hostling, whom he had never met. He followed a call that was almost like a scent. He paused often to smell the air as he followed it. He came slinking along the damp noisome pa.s.sageways, his body stooped close to the ground with wariness. His eyes glowed yellow in the darkness and his hot breath created clouds around his head. Very soon, he crouched before Ponclast in the central chamber.

Ponclast observed this feral imp with interest. He considered that Diablo was a living expression of his own desires. He beckoned with a clean white finger, 'Come to me, my son.'

He could tell that Diablo's first instinct was to attack, but that he was clever enough to realise such action would be pointless. He could also tell that Diablo was not afraid. Cautiously, Diablo came forward until Ponclast could rest a hand upon his son's head. 'I have a job for you,' he said. 'You were born of my body. You are part of me.'

Diablo stared at Ponclast with what appeared to be suspicion or disbelief.

'I am your hostling, and we must take aruna together, because I have a gift for you, and that is the only way for me to pa.s.s it to you.'

Diablo c.o.c.ked his head to one side and grinned.

To Ponclast, the kindling of arunic energy had nothing to do with desire or feeling. He willed it to manifest and it did. Diablo became soume in the same spirit. It meant nothing greater than if Ponclast had offered him some food or water.

Ponclast could feel an alien energy deep inside him. It flickered like a black flame in his belly, in the place where normally his personal life force glowed white. At the climax of aruna, it poured from him into Diablo, and Diablo growled and shuddered beneath him.

'You have learned something,' Ponclast said. 'And now you must work to master it.'

Diablo whimpered and curled up his body. Black sweat ran over his damp skin. Ponclast gazed upon him, and for a moment remembered Gahrazel, so beautiful and whole. Diablo was hardly of the same calibre, but he would have to suffice. Ponclast extended a hand and laid it on Diablo's shoulder. 'Rest,' he said. 'Tomorrow we shall explore wondrous new territory.'

Chapter Seven.

Banners of gold were hung in the streets, an air of festival filled the city. The new era had dawned. The Aralisians had put aside all rancour and had conceived an extraordinary and magical pearl. The harling who must eventually come from it would be superior to all others, even to his parents. Surely this meant that all that had happened had been for the greater good. Cal had brought harmony to Phaonica.

Caeru was not so easily convinced. Over the ensuing weeks, he allowed himself to be seen regularly in public as evidence of his condition became noticeable to others. He knew that Pellaz had suggested the idea, then manipulated and coerced his consorts, not because he sought harmony in his domestic sphere, but because he felt threatened. He would reveal to his consorts nothing of his fears, but it was Caeru's belief that Pellaz thought Thiede would come back to them in the child.

The conception itself had not been an easy process for Caeru. He remembered how he'd felt that night in Ferelithia when Pellaz or rather their mutual desire had opened up a deep part of himself that was normally sealed shut. It was the cauldron of creation, the secret organ where seed and egg combined, and because for the Gelaming - harish conception could be achieved only by spiritually elevated aruna, it did not take place entirely in the earthly realm. Caeru had allowed two hara into that secret place; it had torn him apart, and not just in a physical sense. The organ itself had felt as if it had been beaten in submission and it did not close up again as quickly as it should have done. Caeru had felt this inside, and it had been a hideous feeling: not pain exactly, but as if a black hole into another universe had been spiralling inside him and he could have been sucked inside out, right into it. Now, his body had more or less found its balance again, and the pearl was developing as normal, but Caeru felt very different to how he'd felt carrying Abrimel's pearl. This harling seemed to gnaw at his being, to suck out his life: he felt tired and drained. The bizarre aruna that had created the pearl had hurt him greatly and the dull, deep ache never went away. He carried it with him always, along with a sense of heaviness, of being dragged down. He felt no connection with what grew inside him, which was the complete opposite of how he'd felt before. As the weeks pa.s.sed, he became more anxious, afraid that, between them, they had created some kind of abomination. He could confide nothing of this to Pellaz because, not really to his surprise, the Tigron had not returned to the Tigrina's apartments. Caeru had not seen him alone since that night. Pellaz was occupied with secret plans and had spent many hours in private discussion with his brother, Terez. Cal visited Caeru regularly, as had become usual, but he too seemed distracted and uneasy. Something was approaching and it seemed that none of them dared speak of it, as if the words alone would conjure up a storm.

Caeru could not even open up to Velaxis, whose only reaction to the conception had been to praise Caeru for his enterprise. Caeru did not enlighten him. He was isolated from everyhar, both emotionally and physically. Cal appeared afraid to touch him again.

The situation had not been helped by the cool reaction to the news by Abrimel. Perhaps it was only to be expected. A formal message of congratulations had come from Imbrilim, which sounded as if it had been put together by a clerical a.s.sistant. Abrimel made no mention of visiting home. Caeru missed him badly, perhaps as much as Pellaz missed Thiede. He sent a message himself, asking his son to visit, hoping Abrimel would read between the lines and understand how much his hostling needed his support, but so far Abrimel had not even replied. He was angry because Caeru had accepted Cal. He was angry because he felt he was being pushed out. Abrimel was a grown har, and the Tigron's son, but the difficulties of his childhood meant he could never feel close to Pellaz. Now, a new son had been conceived, this time in different circ.u.mstances. Pellaz, if not the whole of Gelamingkind, would embrace the new harling far more readily than the forgotten embarra.s.sment, who'd turned up on the doorstep of Phaonica with his hostling, and who had not been welcome.

One afternoon, as yet another party of dignitaries from a far country was entertained in Phaonica's court, Caeru said quietly to Cal, 'What have we done? I need to talk to you. I feel strange.'

It was a totally inappropriate moment to say such a thing, as they were surrounded by visitors. Pellaz was not present, a situation that had offended some of the dignitaries who felt the Tigron ought to be giving them his attention.

Cal cast Caeru a quick, startled glance and murmured, 'I will speak to you later.'

Caeru could tell it was the last thing that Cal wanted to do. Perhaps it was so difficult because what they'd shared that night had been a mutual invasion of mind, body and spirit, far deeper than any har had a right to explore. Caeru now knew things about Cal and Pellaz that he really wished he didn't: the gibbering terrors and insecurities that lurked in the farthest reaches of the mind, the hidden corners where demons were buried. Had Cal really wanted to discover how deeply Pellaz had loved Thiede, and how much he missed him and how he resented Cal for his banishing? Had Pellaz wanted to know the minutiae of Cal's exploits over the past thirty years? Cal had claimed that Terzian the Varr, for example, had meant little to him. Well, that wasn't true for a start. Many times that night, Caeru had received images of Cal's thoughts of Terzian, as he remembered their time together, when Tyson had been conceived. Cal had felt sad that Terzian was dead. These recollections must have washed over Pellaz like a caustic bath. Of course, the intensity of the experience had dredged old feelings from their graves, but they were like words spoken in anger. They could never be taken back.

Caeru thought: We are the progenitors of the Aralis dynasty. We are powerful. We can do things that most hara cannot, but perhaps we are not wise to do so.

That afternoon, amid the social small-talk and ingratiating behaviour, Caeru knew that he had to talk to somehar about it, otherwise he might burst apart, and the only possible candidates were Pellaz and Cal. Pellaz had withdrawn again, not in cold hostility, but merely because his mind was occupied by other things. Caeru didn't think Cal had seen much of him since that night either. So Cal would have to be Caeru's confidant, whether he wanted to be or not.

The afternoon seemed endless. Caeru's face ached from smiling so insincerely for so long and his stomach convulsed regularly with vicious cramps. He sought to hide the pain and drank too much wine, which he knew was a bad idea, not least because it was inconsiderate to the pearl. Hara came up to him and said, 'You look radiant' or 'You look marvellous', and Caeru had to grit his teeth and utter a polite and pleased response. He felt far from either state.

'Will you come to me for dinner?' he asked Cal, during a merciful lull in the social maelstrom.

'I can't,' Cal replied. 'I have a prior arrangement. I'll come later. OK?'

Caeru nodded without speaking. He looked at Cal, and for a moment was a.s.sailed by a strong conviction that Cal was ready to flee Immanion. As to why this should be, Caeru could only guess. He wondered who Cal was having dinner with that evening.

Caeru ate alone on his terrace, all the time feeling nauseous. He would be glad when this experience was over and he could hand the pearl to members of the palace staff, who would care for it. If, when it hatched, it had bright red hair, he thought he'd lose his mind. It wasn't that he didn't want Thiede back again, but not in this way. It was unnatural and horrifying. He put a hand over his belly and pressed against the taut skin. It would not be an easy delivery either, he was sure.

The dinner dishes had been cleared away, and from the direction of the harbour, Caeru could hear the throb of distant music. He felt cold, yet his face was hot. He leaned back in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. Perhaps Cal would not come.

Why did I agree to hosting this pearl? Caeru wondered. Was it just for love, for Pell? We should have talked. We should have proceeded slowly. Pell was afraid. He felt he had to do this thing.

Caeru rubbed his stomach. It would not be long now, maybe a week or two. Afterwards, perhaps he might feel something like normal again.

He heard a door open inside his apartment, just a brief creaking sound. That would be Cal at last. Caeru was feverish with the desire to unburden himself. Cal would rea.s.sure him. He was always so down to earth. But nohar came out onto the terrace.

After a few minutes, Caeru got carefully to his feet and went inside. The apartment was in darkness, which was odd, because his staff usually made sure every room was softly lit after sundown. Barefooted, Caeru padded through the empty rooms, which vibrated with a tense, breathless atmosphere. He called out, 'Cal, are you here?'

Silence: too silent.

Caeru now felt unnerved. He turned on some lights, but that did nothing to improve the atmosphere. There was nohar around. He must go to his staff's quarters, just to a.s.sure himself he wasn't completely alone.

As he made his way along the corridor beyond his personal rooms, the lights went off again. Caeru tensed, held his breath. He had the feeling somehar was following him, soft-footedly trailing him from room to room.

Get a grip! he hissed to himself in a low voice.

He ran to the door at the far end of the corridor. There was enough light coming in through the windows to his left, which looked out over the city. But when he got to the door, he couldn't open it. It felt as if something heavy lay against it on the other side, something that gave a little, but which he couldn't shift. It felt like a rolled up carpet. Caeru pushed with all his strength, and his stomach complained with a thousand needling hurts. An arrow of sharp pain shot through his soume-lam, up through his belly and into his spine. He had to double over, gasping, hugging his own body. He shouldn't be doing this. He'd damage himself. He should go back to his rooms, turn on the lights, go to bed and stop being so ridiculously paranoid.

But he couldn't dispel the impression of something unseen behind him, breathing in the darkness. Something watching him, preparing to strike. He made one last effort and mercifully the door opened enough for him to squeeze through it. He stumbled over what lay beyond and arrested his fall with his hands. They made contact with something soft and wet.

Caeru backed away, stood up, closed the door and leaned on it. He stared for long seconds at what lay on the floor: the body of one of his house staff, a young har who had only been appointed a couple of months before. His eyes were open, as was his belly and chest. The blood was black in the moonlight: the har lay in an inky pool.

Caeru swallowed bile, yet felt strangely calm and detached. Only a door between me and whoever did that, he thought.

He ran across the room, which was the reception hall of the staff quarters. Beyond were living chambers, kitchens and a laundry. They were deserted. Caeru could no longer feel any pain in his body. He just kept running, swiftly, and as silently as he could, keeping to the shadows, away from the moonlight that came in through the windows. He intended to make for the rear entrance that led to a series of courtyards and other areas of the palace. He intended to run through the back warrens of Phaonica to Pell's rooms, because now there was nohar else he could consider turning to. Part of him, he realised, suspected that Cal had come visiting after all. This was irrational and unfair, yet he could not dispel the impression. He would consider its implications once he was safe.

The main back door was locked. Caeru looked out of the windows in its upper half, down at the courtyard beyond. He paused only a moment, then went to one of the other doors, some corridors away. This was locked also. He would have to break a window, next to one of the stairways, and climb to the ground. Being in the latter stages of pearl-bearing was not the most convenient condition for such activity.

Caeru went into one of the kitchens, whose windows were close to the main door. He picked up a wooden chair and hurled it at the gla.s.s. He saw it shatter, as if in slow motion, saw the gla.s.s burst outwards. He lunged towards it. But then strong arms grabbed him from behind, pinned his limbs to his body. A hand went over his mouth, forced back his head. He could not see who held him, but his nostrils filled with a stench of rot. He struggled and kicked, writhed in his captor's hold, but they were too strong. They dragged him backwards into a small dark pantry and he felt then that he was about to die.

In the heat of the moment Caeru didn't think of who or why, he merely fought to survive. He couldn't see the face of who attacked him, because their head was completely covered with a scarf. They beat him about the head with something hard and heavy, until he could not move. They thought he was unconscious, perhaps, but a small part of his mind remained alert. He seemed to hover above himself and he could see the attacker's arm rising and falling. He could hear the dull thuds of a weapon in flesh and the m.u.f.fled grunts his own body was making. He could smell a foul, terrible stink. He saw the attacker throw something away that landed with a metallic clatter on the stone floor. Then they plunged their hands into his body, and his consciousness shot back into his flesh. He felt fingers inside him, pulling and tearing. It was beyond pain. It was worse than that. He felt something give way, the most sickening thing he could imagine. It was the last conscious thought he had.