"Tell me your dreams," she said.

"I can't remember most of them in detail," he answered. "I wake, and there's an impression of something-a bad taste in my mind-but that's all. You know the feeling. But after my mother died, I dreamed I had actually drowned-I was lying on the seabed, and crabs and crayfish were picking my bones, and a mermaid came to stare at me, not the Hans Christian Andersen kind but a creature with a corpse's pallor and eyes like a fish, no depth. She was in my dream the other night, too."

"Can you recall any of that one?" There was an odd note in Fern's voice, but he did not hear it.

"Too well. I was a sailor on an old-fashioned sailboat in a hurricane. I remember thinking how idiotic it was to be there-how we were all going to die-and then I realized somehow that I was the captain, it was my fault, I had chosen to set out. The mast was struck by lightning, and there was this hideous shriek, long drawn out, like a call, and then I was in the sea and she she was there again. The mermaid. She put her arms around me and dragged me down, and I was breathing water and dying, slowly . . ." He shrugged, trying to disown the memory, or shake it off. "It was probably symbolic. A guilt trip-fear of the womb-woman-fish-s.e.x. Whatever. a.n.a.lyze if you like, but . . . Tread softly, for you tread upon my nightmares." was there again. The mermaid. She put her arms around me and dragged me down, and I was breathing water and dying, slowly . . ." He shrugged, trying to disown the memory, or shake it off. "It was probably symbolic. A guilt trip-fear of the womb-woman-fish-s.e.x. Whatever. a.n.a.lyze if you like, but . . . Tread softly, for you tread upon my nightmares."

There was a pause that felt as if it might be endless. "No," said Fern at last. "I don't think it was symbolic. The dreams of the Gifted often involve memories, but not always your own. I believe . . . you dreamed your way into someone else's mind, someone long dead . . . but I don't know why." And she repeated, as if in anger or pain: "I don't know why!"

"Whose death did I dream?" he demanded. "Do you know that?"

But Fern did not answer.

They left the restaurant in silence, and in silence walked back to his flat. Belatedly, Fern realized where she was going. "I'll get a taxi-"

Luc pulled out his mobile. "My call. There's a cab company I always use. They'll put it on my account."

"I'd rather not-"

He ignored her protest. There was a sudden embarra.s.sment between them, though Fern was rarely embarra.s.sed and Luc never. When they reached the mews he said: "The cab'll be ten or fifteen minutes. Come inside and wait."

"I'll wait here."

He waited with her, close yet separate, not touching, barely speaking. His dreams, her doubts, the shadow of the otherworld came between them like an invisible wall. Only when the cab drew up at the entrance to the mews did he seize her shoulders and kiss her, swift and short, hard mouth on soft. Then he let her go without a word.

He said neither h.e.l.lo nor good-bye, she thought in the cab home, and she trembled, but not with desire.

It was after one when Fern reached Pimlico, and the ivy had gone from the door. In the drawing room, she switched on the light and looked around expectantly. The goblin was sitting on an armchair, having helped himself to an unidentifiable drink, possibly sherry. He evidently felt there was no further need for concealment: his feet were on the coffee table and he flourished his gla.s.s in her direction by way of greeting. His hat brim was tilted rakishly over one eye; the other gleamed purple-black in the lamplight. A multifingered hand waved her toward another chair.

"Make yourself at home," Fern said coolly, and noted with mild satisfaction a faltering of his impudence.

"We're friends now, aren't we?" Skuldunder asked anxiously. "Allies?"

"I hope so."

"I had to wait a long time," he offered in mitigation. "Anyway, I'm the amba.s.sador of the queen. I should be made welcome."

"You're a burglar; I'm a witch," said Fern. "Drink uninvited at your peril. You never know what may be lurking in bottle and cupboard."

"I couldn't see anything." The goblin's confidence was ebbing rapidly.

"Of course not. Do you think I am an amateur?"

"It was labeled Toe Peep . . ."

"Tio Pepe," said Fern after a moment's reflection. "I might have known. I keep that for burglars: there's an attraction charm on it." The goblin set the gla.s.s down, eyeing it uncertainly. Fern relented. "Drink it with my blessing. It won't harm you-this time. I have news for your queen, though it is not good. The witch we spoke of is indeed dangerous, more dangerous even than we feared. I have learned her ident.i.ty-through the power of the circle I saw her face-to-face. She is Morgus, who dwelt for years uncounted beneath the Eternal Tree, and has returned to the modern world with all her ancient grudges intact and her ambition sharpened to megalomania. I will defeat her, but I need the aid of your people."

"Megalo-what?" Skuldunder was frowning, his small face screwed into a caricature of bewilderment.

"l.u.s.t for power," Fern translated. "Tell the queen, it is time for witchkind and goblinkind to work together. Mabb knows how Morgus treated the denizens of Wrokeby, both ghost and goblin; she will destroy wantonly any creature that offends her, werefolk or menfolk, small or large. The threat is to us all. This young sapling that she nurses could well be a sprig of the Eternal Tree, perhaps planted now in the true soil of this world, its power subject to her. Who knows what fruit it may bear? We must act now. Tell the queen."

"A goblin cannot confront a witch!" Skuldunder protested, his voice squeaky with sudden panic.

"I am glad you realize that," Fern murmured without undue emphasis. "I would not ask it of her. But goblin powers are those of skulking and hiding, of sneaking and spying. I want certain people followed-contacts of Morgus, but ordinary humans. I want to know where they go, what they do, who they meet. This is goblin work. If I write down a list of names and addresses, can Mabb arrange this?" She knew the goblins would make unreliable, if un.o.btrusive, detectives, unlikely to adhere to the task in hand, but she had to use whatever troops were available. In addition, she wanted to cement her alliance with Mabb, if only because it was the one alliance she had.

"The queen will require more gifts," said Skuldunder, swallowing audibly.

"Of course. I will fetch them." She really must buy some more makeup, she thought to herself. Her supply was becoming depleted. "There will be some now, and more later. Wait here."

When she had fetched the gifts, Fern lingered over the list. Princ.i.p.ally, she wanted Kaspar Walgrim followed, a discreet vigil maintained by Dana's bedside in the clinic, and a watch kept on Wrokeby, though she knew it would have to be from a safe distance. With some hesitation, she added the name of Lucas Walgrim and his mews address, telling herself it was for his own protection. Needing to trust him-somehow fearing that need-she rea.s.sured herself that he would never know. Skuldunder took the list, his finger tracing the words as he read it through.

"It is for the queen," Fern reminded him. "If she agrees, ask her to send me a sign."

"There will be a token beside your door by midnight tomorrow-"

"No. Other tenants use that door; it might be dislodged, or removed on purpose. Leave it in here, on the table." Skuldunder nodded and took a careless mouthful of sherry; then fixed it with a suspicious glare.

"You'll have to leave now," said Fern, glancing at the clock. "I must get some sleep. Tell your queen I honor her, and my goodwill goes with her and all her folk."

When he had gone she went to bed, but she slept fitfully, torn between waking thought and intrusive dream. She pictured Luc's rare smile, with the tooth missing in his lower jaw, and tried to superimpose it on another face, half-forgotten, blurred with the pa.s.sage of too much time. That other smile lacked a tooth-she remembered it now-but whether it was the same, whether it was chance, whether it was important, she didn't know. She strove to match feature to feature, present to past, but memory was rusty, and she told herself sternly that as Luc was drawn to her, by necessity if nothing more, so his Gift might show him her most intimate history. If you truly love, Ragginbone had told her, you may meet again-Someday. They say the spirit returns, life after life, until the unknown pattern is completed, and it can finally move on. But who are They, who say so much, and so often, and how do They know? The mind is confined within one body, one life, but might the spirit remember? And has Someday come at last?

Fool, cried her thought, despising the reasoning that went beyond reason. Sentimental fool! You tried so hard to be rational and cool, but within its sh.e.l.l of ice your heart stayed sixteen. What you call true love is only a wisp of a dream-a romantic fancy-a shadow. You cannot even picture his face . . .

She had lapsed into slumber without realizing it, and now she found herself in a high place, high as the Dark Tower, though the panorama beneath was of folded hills and checkered fields and the jagged blue lumps of mountains wrapped in the mist of distance. From the pinnacle where she sat even the greatest of them looked no bigger than boulders. A road or path came twisting toward her, climbing the impossible scarp from the remoteness below. Some way down it she made out a moving speck: the figure of a man. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes, desperate to see him clearly; but a voice at her back said: "I am here." And there was the dragon charmer, Ruvindra Laii, whom she had known only through magic and death. In that knowing she had loved him, as one may love the tiger for its stripes, the serpent for its hug: there had been a bond between them that had seemed, in that hour, deeper than romance. His eyes were ice-blue in a face of ebony-a face she thought she could never forget. But he changed and shrank, becoming an apple rotting on the Eternal Tree, and down among the roots she heard a scrabbling of hands, and she knew Morgus was buried there and must be digging her way out. She ran down into the Underworld, but the caves became the alleyways of Atlantis, and Rafarl Dev took her by the hand. They were running together, up winding stairs and over sun-scorched roofs. In a minute he would turn, and look at her, and then she would know. She would know the truth. And sure enough he turned, and smiled, and her heart gave a great leap- She woke up. That instant of dazzling insight vanished with the dream. A second longer, and she might have been sure. But there was no surety, and the dream was gone beyond recall. When she slept again she was sitting with Luc in a wine bar, playing chess. The white queen was Morgus, wearing a dress that glittered when she moved. The black queen was herself, in a sheath that clung courtesy of Lycra, and a dark lipstick that drew her mouth into pointed curves. She was on the chessboard, with the squares stretching away forever, and Morgus was before her, and the next move was hers. The black knight protected her, and she knew he must be Luc, but once again there was a voice behind her, and turning she saw Luc was the king. "I was your knight before," he said, "and you threw me away to win the game. But now I am the king, and it is your turn to be sacrificed." She began to run away across the endless squares, and there was the Dark Tower, and the scarlet-clad guards, and the door was open. She struggled to resist, but her feet carried her forward; she screamed-No! No!-and woke again, and lay on her back in the pallor of morning twilight, until the alarm told her it was time to get up.

That night in Yorkshire, Mrs. Wicklow left around six. She had done a little cleaning and a lot of puttering, since Robin Capel, Fern's father, had spent the weekend there with his long-term partner, Abby. After they had gone Lougarry came padding into the kitchen, an expectant glint in her eye. Mrs. Wicklow was lavish with leftovers. Lougarry received a terse welcome and a plate of steak-and-kidney pie. "I'll leave t' back door on t' latch, shall I?" the housekeeper said. Long a.s.sociation with the Capels and their a.s.sorted friends had had its effect: when she talked to herself she guessed there was someone listening, and she trusted the she-wolf to mind the house in her absence. As it grew darker Lougarry went to the kitchen door and stood for some time staring out into the dusk. A barn owl, ghost faced and silent, swooped down from the moor and circled the building, apparently hunting field mice. But Lougarry knew there were no barn owls in the vicinity. The last time an owl had haunted Dale House was two years before: a raptor from the upper branches of the Eternal Tree, ageless and grown to gigantic size. But such birds were magical, cunning beyond nature, and able to adapt to any scale of normality. The visitor perched awhile on a gable, and cruised past the empty windows, before skimming the hillside and disappearing from view. The night closed in, and stars peered between the clouds. Far into the small hours Lougarry kept her vigil, the fur bristling on her nape, knowing with the instinct of her kind that she was watched in her turn.

A gaggle of magpies came the next day, picking at the gra.s.s for insects. When she looked at them sideways, the wolf thought they were overlarge and banded with blue, but when she gazed at them directly they seemed quite ordinary. She counted nine of them, the witch's number; they hung around all afternoon, chattering in the bird language that is all nonsense and noise. She wished she could inform Ragginbone, but although she could speak mind-to-mind with the few humans she was close to, she needed to be in their presence or near at hand; London was much too distant. One or two of the birds hopped near the open door, but Lougarry's unwinking stare deflected them, and the lift of a lip showed fangs that could tear them in half. They left late, streaming into the sunset, and the shadow of the hill grew long and dark, creeping over the house. Lougarry shut the door, slotting the latch into place with her nose. She hadn't eaten all day, but although the house was unoccupied she did not want to leave it to hunt for a meal. She settled down for the night by the stove, her chin on her paws.

But Dale House was never completely unoccupied. The house-goblin appeared in the kitchen later that evening, carrying the ancient spear he had brought with him from Scotland. He and Lougarry were linked only by their loyalty to the Capels: he still regarded her warily, and what she thought of him no one knew. To a wolf, a goblin was small-fry, little bigger than a rabbit and nowhere near as tasty. But Bradachin was stronger than most of his race, and bolder. He kept a careful eye on her while he lit a candle and rummaged in the cupboards for rags and various cleaning fluids. "I'm thinking we may be needing this," he offered presently. "I dinna ken what comes to us, but it isna guid. I saw the birds in the garden, nine of them, and their colors changing when the sun went in. Nine, aye-and nine is three times three. Some witch has been awalking in the fields aheid o' me. But nae doot ye ha' counted them yoursel."

Lougarry lifted her muzzle, twitching her ears to indicate that she was attending.

Bradachin set to work on the spear, sampling the different cleaners to find out which was the most effective. Rust spots and other stains that had been there for centuries were gradually scoured out of existence. "This is the Sleer Bronaw," the goblin said. "D'ye ken that, werebeastie? This is the Spear of Grief wi' which Cullen's Hound slew his best friend, and his ain son, sae he cursed the day it was forged, and the doom that lies on it. The auld laird, he used it but once, tae kill the mon who stole his wife, but she cast hersel atween them, and the spear took the baith of them. So he gave it to me, because I'm a boggan, and nae doom o' Men can fritten me. I wouldna give it tae ony man now-lessen it was a choice o' life or death."

The she-wolf watched him while he worked, evidently listening. Gradually, vigorous polishing began to impart a dull l.u.s.ter to the metal. The blade at the tip was heavy and blunt-looking, too thick in the haft. "There are spikes here," said Bradachin. "They'll open up in a man's belly, aye, and rip oot his guts." He rifled through the drawers for a knife sharpener, and for some time there was the grinding sound of iron on stone, until the blade had acquired an edge that glinted evilly in the candlelight.

Outside, a barn owl flew to the window ledge and thrust its spectral face close to the gla.s.s.

VII.

There was little progress for the next few weeks. A wilting flower on Fern's coffee table conveyed Mabb's agreement, and the goblins kept a casual watch on their designated targets. Skuldunder reported back, once in a while, with much detail and little substance: goblins can observe human society, but few have any understanding of how it works. Fern was certain Kaspar Walgrim was involved in some dubious activity on Morgus's behalf, probably financial, but she needed a computer hack, not a kobold, to investigate. She met his son several times, hospital visits and drinks extending to dinner, with her repeatedly having to dissuade him from storming Wrokeby. "As long as we do nothing, Morgus won't harm Dana any further. She's divided her soul from her body: there's little greater damage she could do, short of murder. But if we try a rescue mission and it fails, Dana will be the first victim. Morgus might send Dana through the Gate of Death, or worse still, into the abyss, as she did with the ghosts. When we make the attempt, we must must be sure of success. Morgus has to have a weakness, if I can only find it . . ." be sure of success. Morgus has to have a weakness, if I can only find it . . ."

They discussed possibilities until the subject wore out, and moved inevitably on to more personal matters, to their likes and dislikes, their lives and loves, their tastes in food and music, literature and politics. Fern found herself giving him an edited version of her time in Atlantis-her journey into the Forbidden Past when she was sixteen years old, her entanglement in the fall of the island empire, even a few details of her never-to-be-forgotten love. "He drowned?" Luc said at the end, his face darkening.

Fern nodded.

"How long ago?"

"About ten thousand years."

She saw him shiver.

"I watched him," she said. "I watched him die-in a spell, in a dream. His ship broke up, and a mermaid dragged him down beneath the waves."

"But . . ."

"The Gifted can sometimes tune in to another mind, another life. You have the Gift-I don't know how strongly-and circ.u.mstances have thrown us together. You seem to be picking up on my memories. He lay on the seabed till his bones were coral, like in the play. Those are pearls that were his eyes . . ."

Luc said sharply: "I had those dreams long before I met you."

"Don't!" said Fern.

"Don't?"

"Don't cheat me with fantasies!" In that moment, he saw her composure splinter, and there was naked pain in her face. "Don't let me cheat myself! The soul may return-we don't know-there may be unfinished business, a quest unfulfilled, some doom that might last a thousand lives, but we can't be sure. We don't know We don't know. Anyway, Rafarl Dev was not like you. He tried to be cynical, but he couldn't help believing in things; he tried to run away, but in the end he stayed. He was one of those who are born to fight, and lose. You are-a creature of another mettle. You have a harder edge, a colder eye."

"What you mean is, I wouldn't have waited for you when the city was falling about my ears."

"Would you?" she asked.

"No. I would have gone long before and made you come with me, against your will if necessary."

Fern smiled fleetingly, and then grew somber. "No one has ever made made me do anything." me do anything."

"Maybe it's time."

If we weren't in a restaurant, she thought, he would kiss me again. But they were, and the table with the remnants of their meal was between them, and a cruising waiter topped their gla.s.ses, and the moment pa.s.sed into oblivion, never to return. Or so she fancied, wondering if that kiss might have lasted longer, and tasted sweeter, and whether, with his mouth on hers, she would have known the truth at last. She struggled to recall how it had felt to kiss Rafarl, but it was all too many ages past, and few kisses can stand the test of so much time.

"I don't believe in reincarnation," Luc resumed when the waiter had moved on. "I have never really believed in anything. Not G.o.d, or the soul, or true love. We are flesh and blood-water and clay-and when we are gone, that is all that remains."

"You said it," Fern pointed out. "When we are gone. If there is only flesh and blood, who is the 'we' that has to go with those elements? Besides, your sister's soul is in a jar in Morgus's spellchamber. You believe that."

"Just because it may be true," he said, "that doesn't mean I have to believe it." After a pause, he went on: "Your Rafarl, did he look like me?"

Fern sighed. "It's awful, but I can't visualize him, not clearly. His eyes were dark-yours are light. I think his bones were similar, but . . . more regular. He was beautiful, like a G.o.d. If he'd been alive today he'd have been advertising Calvin Klein. You're interesting-looking, attractive, but not beautiful." He grimaced at her, revealing the gap in his teeth. "How did you lose that tooth?"

"I pinched my father's car when I was eleven, drove it into a wall, smashed my face on the wheel."

"Why don't you have a false one?"

"Why should I?"

"Raf had a tooth missing," Fern said. "I think it was there."

"Coincidence," he said. "This is all nonsense. You and I couldn't have loved each other, or we would feel something now, and I'm not in love with you."

"Nor I with you," she responded. She felt no disappointment, or hurt. His light-gray eyes were fixed on her with a strange intensity.

"I recognized you, though," he said. "In the first dream. And the first time we met."

"Then you are more sensitive than me."

When they left the restaurant, he put her in a taxi and kissed her, but this time only on the cheek.

Gaynor, meanwhile, had summoned the tatters of her resolution and telephoned Hugh Fairbairn. He seemed less eager to see her than before, which is always the way; possibly he had found another sympathetic female to whom he could pour out his woes. Gaynor knew she ought to be relieved, but she wanted his attention, if only so she could demonstrate to Will her competence at research. "I need your help," she told Hugh. Not being an adept liar, she continued with a bowdlerized version of the facts. "I have a friend who's in trouble. I can't explain everything, but it's all to do with investment banking. I was hoping you could sort of fill me in."

"Depends what you want to know. Most of the stuff I deal with is very confidential."

"Of course, of course," Gaynor stammered. "But you're the most important banker I know . . ." This was true enough, she reflected, since he was the only banker she knew.

Hugh mellowed audibly. He was a man who mellowed easily, particularly in response to such stimulants as wine, women, and flattery-even if the flattery was offered in Gaynor's slightly hesitant manner. After explaining that he would be busy being important for the next week, he suggested lunch on the following Friday at the latest j.a.panese restaurant in Berkley Square. Gaynor accepted, despite private reservations about raw fish.

She arrived punctually, dressed in black-not clinging, s.e.xy black but the kind worn by widows and orphans, guaranteed to discourage masculine advances. Gaynor favored black, though she suspected it did not suit her: it went with everything, did not show the dirt, and at night it blended effortlessly into the semidarkness of pub or party. One of her worst nightmares was entering a very large room full of people whispering, and realizing she was wearing scarlet. Hugh, however, was uncritical; possibly he could not differentiate between various degrees of black. He wore charcoal, with his hair brushed back from an ascending forehead and a city pallor that sat unnaturally on the face of a country squire. His genes should have made him jolly and easygoing, but the high-stress, dog-eat-man atmosphere of the City had rendered him aggressive, sometimes pompous, and chronically misunderstood. Gaynor found herself thinking that what he really needed was to retire early and live in the country with two or three Labradors who would not fail to understand him whatever he did.

Like most people who claim their work is very confidential, once he started to talk the sluices opened and Gaynor was inundated with information she did not need or want. Apparently, he was a merchant banker, which was something subtly different from an investment banker. It took several vain attempts before she was able to nudge him away from his own field-"I was doing business with Brazil only last week, an expanding timber company-timber is very big out there. Of course, we don't want to destroy the rainforests, but they have to earn their keep"-into the field next door. (Earn their keep? Gaynor wondered. They're forests, not inefficient employees.) Investment bankers, as far as she could tell from Hugh's rather rambling discourse, simply advised their clients on where to invest their money, sometimes, though not always, investing the bank's own funds as well. They were supposed to be cunning judges of which stocks would provide the biggest dividends, which were the most trendy, whether the market would go up or down, which companies would sink with the ship or swim with the tide. "They're clever b.u.g.g.e.rs," Hugh conceded with only moderate enthusiasm. Naturally, he favored his own branch of the profession. "When they get it right, investors can make a mint. When they're wrong, you're down a few million. Or more. Look at-" Gaynor wondered. They're forests, not inefficient employees.) Investment bankers, as far as she could tell from Hugh's rather rambling discourse, simply advised their clients on where to invest their money, sometimes, though not always, investing the bank's own funds as well. They were supposed to be cunning judges of which stocks would provide the biggest dividends, which were the most trendy, whether the market would go up or down, which companies would sink with the ship or swim with the tide. "They're clever b.u.g.g.e.rs," Hugh conceded with only moderate enthusiasm. Naturally, he favored his own branch of the profession. "When they get it right, investors can make a mint. When they're wrong, you're down a few million. Or more. Look at-"

"What happens to the banker then?" Gaynor interrupted.

"Damages his reputation. Bad for business."

"But he doesn't have to pay compensation or anything?"

"Christ, no."

Realizing she was in danger of being sidetracked, what with the inefficiency of the rainforests and the nonaccountability of senior bankers, Gaynor launched abruptly into the reason for her inquiries. "Do you know someone called Kaspar Walgrim?"

"Lord, yes." Hugh seemed unable to affirm or deny without a religious qualification. "With Schindler Volpone. Known as Schindler's Ark ever since they went into the biotech industry. You know: fatter, juicier tomatoes and more of them, fatter, juicier cows, greener leeks, that kind of thing. Now it's mapping the genome. They do other stuff, but that's their specialty. Kaspar Walgrim is their biotech wizard: got the lowdown on every top scientist in every company and whether they're going to come up with a cure for cancer in ten years' time and designer babies in twenty. Or vice versa. Bit scary if you ask me, but that's where the money is-miracle medicines and producing a generation of six-foot supermodels with the brains of Einstein. Personally, I like my women a tad shorter and cuddlier." His grin hovered close to a leer. "What do you think of the black cod?"

"It's gorgeous." Gaynor had been agreeably surprised by the fish, some of which was cooked and all delicious.

"Good. Thought you'd like it. Nice to see you again. So how come you're interested in Wizard Walgrim?"

"Is that what they call him?" Gaynor asked, secretly entertained.

"Got a sixth sense, so they say. Uncanny. He'll pick out some little company with one laboratory and a couple of postgrads and a year later they'll be replicating your internal organs or growing a zucchini that eats its own weevils."

If Luc is Gifted as Fern says, Gaynor speculated, maybe his father is, too. Could you use the Gift for high finance? "What is he like?" she went on. "As a person, I mean."