Morlock staggered off the beast's back and tossed aside his nowsplintered club. He took a few moments to breathe and gather his strength. But not too long: the cold was a pain gnawing at him, especially the limbs that had been soaked in the river.

He went to change into dry clothes, shivering by the smoking remains of last night's fire. He saw his sword, Tyrfing, bound in its sheath to a nearby boulder; he doubted that the stone beast's paws could have managed that, even if its brain could have planned it. That bothered him. He saw Velox nowhere, and that bothered him very much. He remembered the red fluid on the stone monster's stony teeth.

In dry clothes, after freeing Tyrfing, he went in search of Velox. And he found what he had feared he might: what was evidently the scene of a struggle, some distance away from Morlock's camp. There were the marks of savage b.l.o.o.d.y blows in the snow and the stiff unyielding earth below. There were some stray horsehairs, b.l.o.o.d.y hoofmarks in the snow and earth, but no body, not even stray bones or flesh.

He had seen something like this in his youth, where a monster had dismembered and eaten a horse on the long road facing the western edge of the world.

"Doubtful," Morlock reminded himself. There was more, or perhaps less, to this scene than met the eye.

He spent the rest of the morning dragging the dead body of the stone beast from the swampy margin of the river. He took his time because he wanted to avoid getting soaked again, using xakth-fiber ropes and a pulley system to haul the thing up from the water to an open area not far from his camp.

Not pausing for breakfast or lunch-eating didn't seem advisable, given his plans-he took Tyrfing and gutted the stone beast, laying bare its insides from its stumpy tail to its blunt snout.

There was indeed some kind of fleshy brain in the rocky skull. It was badly swollen from the beating Morlock had given it, but he didn't think it was a man's or a woman's brain. A dragon's? A dwarf's? Something else? Morlock couldn't tell. He was no connoisseur of brains.

The contents of the stone belly told an interesting tale indeed. There were mult.i.tudes of splintered bone fragments, a cracked hoof or two, an oddly familiar pair of black horse-ears, a brown equine eye, other more horrible things, all swimming in a strange pale fluid that stank like a torturer's conscience.

That was enough. Morlock wiped his sword carefully and sheathed it, then walked away. The stone belly told an interesting tale: that the beast had killed and eaten Velox before attacking Morlock. And the tale was a lie. Most black horses have brown eyes, but Velox did not, and there simply was not enough bulk in the stone beast's belly to account for an entire horse.

Morlock boiled water, washed his hands, made tea, and thought.

Every lie is shaped by the truth it is meant to conceal. What did the lie in the stone beast's belly tell him?

That Velox was probably alive, for one thing-seized by a maker skilled enough to make the stone beast and ruthless enough to use it. He knew of only one such, but there might be many; it would be best to keep an open mind.

Normally he would have sought out a crow who might have seen something, for he had an affinity for crows, but they were rarer in this region than they had been once. Using his Sight to search for the maker and his stolen horse might be a mistake, though. There were traps that could be set in the realms of vision that could capture or harm even the wary. Still, he needed more information before he set out in search of Velox. And there might be a way ...

He went to his pack and sorted through it until he found a certain book.

He had written it himself in the profoundly subtle "palindromic" script of ancient Ontil. Each page was a mirror image of the one it faced; both pages had to be inscribed simultaneously. There was a page for each of the days of the year, and one for each day of the "counter-year" that runs backward as time moves forward. It was useful for reading the future or the past; merely to possess it sometimes gave one clairvoyant experiences. He had fashioned it over a long period, beginning last year, after he had some indication that he might have to confront a maker as gifted as himself whose talents in the Sight were even greater than his.

He turned to the day's date and read the palindromes for that day and its counter-day. Most of them meant nothing to him. But there was one that he came back to again and again.

Alfe runilmao vo inila. Alinio vo amlinu refla.

Which might be rendered: From the skulls, {he} walked south. A maker goes into the north.

"The skulls" might be "the River of Skulls": the Kirach Kund (to give it the Dwarvish name by which it was generally known). It was the high pa.s.s that divided the Whitethorn and Blackthorn ranges, the only way past those towering mountains ... for those who had the courage to take it.

This didn't make his decision for him: like any omen it might mean anything or nothing. But his intuition confirmed it: he would go north.

Another man might have weighed the odds on recovering the horse against the fact that he preferred to walk. He would have thought twice about whether getting the horse back was worth it.

But there was a bond of loyalty between Morlock and Velox, and Morlock was not the sort to question that bond, or the obligations it might entail.

Also, he had nothing else to do. He struck camp and, before the sun had descended much from its zenith, he was walking along the river northward to Sarkunden.

IV.

PAYMENT.

DEFERRED.

THERE IS THE HOUSE WHOSE PEOPLE SIT IN DARKNESS; DUST IS THEIR FOOD AND CLAY THEIR MEAT.

-GILGAMESH.

he thug's first thrust sent his sword screeching past Morlock Ambrosius's left ear. He retreated rather than parry Morlock's riposte; then he thrust again in the same quadrant as before. While the thug was still extended for his attack, Morlock deftly kicked him in the right knee. With a better swordsman this would have cost Morlock, but he had the measure of his opponent. The thug went sideways, squawking in dismay, into a pile of garbage.

The point of Morlock's blade, applied to the thug's wrist, persuaded him to release his sword. The toe of Morlock's left shoe, applied to the thug's chin, persuaded him to keep lying where he was.

"What's your story, Slash?" Morlock asked.

"Whatcha mean?"

Morlock's sword point shifted to the thug's throat. "I'm in Sarkunden for an hour. You pick me out of a street crowd, follow me into an alley, and try to kill me. Why?"

"Y're smart, eh? See a lot, eh?"

"Yes."

"Dontcha like it, eh? Dontcha like to fight, eh?"

"No."

"Call a Keep, hunchback!" the thug sneered. "Maybe, I dunno, maybe I oughta-" He raised his hand theatrically to his mouth and inhaled deeply, as if he were about to cry out.

Morlock's sword pressed harder against the thug's neck, just enough to break the skin. The shout never issued from the thug's mouth, but the thug sneered triumphantly. He'd made his point: Morlock, as an imperial outlaw, wanted to see the Keepers of the Peace-squads of imperial guards detailed to policing the streets-even less than this street punk with a dozen murders to his credit. (Morlock knew this from the cheek rings in the thug's face. The custom among the water gangs was one cheek ring per murder. Duels and fair fights did not count.) "Ten days' law-that's what you got, eh?" the thug whispered. "Ten days to reach the border; then if they catch you inside it-zzccch! When'd your time run out, uh, was it twenny days ago? Thirty?"

"Two months."

"Sure. Call a Keep, scut-face. By sunrise they'll have your head drying on a stake upside the Kund-Way Gate."

"I won't be calling the Keepers of the Peace," Morlock agreed. The crooked half-smile on his face was as cold as his ice-gray eyes. "What will I do instead?"

"You can't kill me, crooky-boy-" the thug began, with suddenly shrill bravado.

"I can kill you. But I won't. I'll cut your tendons and pull your cheek rings. I can sell the metal for drinking money at any bar in this town, as long as the story goes with it. And I'll make sure everyone knows where I last saw you."

"There's a man; he wants to see you," said the thug, giving in disgustedly.

"Dead?"

"Alive. But I figure: the Empire pays more for you dead than this guy will alive."

"You're saying he's cheap."

"Cheap? He's riding his horse, right, and you cross the road after him and step in his horse-scut. He's gonna send a greck after you to charge you for the fertilizer. You see me?"

"I see you." Morlock briefly weighed his dangers against his needs. "Take me to this guy. I'll let you keep a cheek ring, and one tendon, maybe."

"Evil scut-sucking b.a.s.t.a.r.d," hissed the thug, unmistakably moved with grat.i.tude.

"The guy's" house was a fortresslike palace of native blue-stone, not far inside the western wall of Sarkunden. Morlock and the limping thug were admitted through a heavy bronze door that swung down to make a narrow bridge across a dry moat. Bow slits lined the walls above the moat; through them Morlock saw the gleam of watching eyes.

"Nice place, eh?" the thug sneered.

"I like it."

The thug hissed his disgust at the emblems of security and anyone who needed them.

They waited in an unfinished stone anteroom with three hard-faced guards until an inner door opened and a tall fair-haired man stepped through it. He glanced briefly in cold recognition at the thug, but his eyes lit up as they fell on Morlock.

"Ah! Welcome, sir. Welcome to my home. Do come in."

"Money," said the thug in a businesslike tone.

"You'll be paid by your gang leader. That was the agreement."

"I better be," said the thug flatly. He walked back across the bronze doorbridge, strutting to conceal his limp.

"Come in, do come in," said the householder effusively. "People usually call me Charis."

Morlock noted the careful phrasing and replied as precisely, "I am Morlock Ambrosius."

"I know it, sir-I know it well. I wish I had the courage to do as you do. But few of those-who-know can afford to be known by their real names."

Those-who-know was a euphemism for pract.i.tioners of magic, especially solitary adepts. Morlock shrugged his crooked shoulders, dismissing the subject.

"I had a prevision you were coming to Sarkunden," said the sorcerer who called himself Charis, "and-yes, thank you, Veskin, you may raise the bridge again-I wanted to consult with you on a matter I have in hand. I hope that gangster didn't hurt you, bringing you in-I see you are limping."

"It's an old wound."

"Ah. Well, I'm sorry I had to put the word out to the water gangs, but they cover the town so much more thoroughly than the Keepers of the Peace. Then there was the matter of your-er-status. I hope, by the way, you aren't worried about that fellow shopping you to the imperial forces?"

"No."

Charis's narrow blond eyebrows arched slightly. "Your confidence is justified," he admitted, "but I don't quite see its source."

Morlock waved a hand. "This place-your house. No ordinary citizen would be allowed to have a fortress like this within the town's walls. You are not a member of the imperial family. So I guess you have a large chunk of the local guards in your pocket, and have had for at least ten years."

Charis nodded. "Doubly astute. You've a.s.sessed the age of my house to the year, and you're aware of its political implications. Of course, you were in the Emperor's service fairly recently, weren't you?"

"Yes, but let's not dwell on it."

Charis dwelled on it. Knotting his eyebrows theatrically, he said, "Let's see, what was it that persuaded him to exile you?"

"I had killed his worst enemy and secured his throne from an usurpation attempt."

"Oh, my G.o.d. Well, there you are. I don't claim your own level of political astuteness, you understand, but if I had been there to advise you I would have said, 'Don't do it!' I never do anything for anybody that they can't repay, and I never allow anybody to do anything for me that I can't repay. Grat.i.tude is painless enough in short bursts, but few people can stand it on a day-today basis."

They ascended several flights of stairs, pa.s.sing several groups of servants who greeted Charis with every appearance of cheerful respect. Finally they reached a tower room ringed with windows, with a fireplace in its center and two liveried pages in attendance. Charis seated Morlock in a comfortable chair and planted himself in its twin on the other side of the fireplace. He gestured negligently and the pages stood forward.

"May I offer you something?" Charis asked. "A gla.s.s of wine? The local grapes are particularly nasty, as you must know, but there's a vineyard in northern Kaen I've come to favor lately. I'd like your opinion on their work."

"I'm not a vintner. Some water for me, thanks."

This remark set Charis's eyebrows dancing again. "But surely ..." he said, as the demure dark-eyed servant at his side handed him a gla.s.s-lined drinking cup.

"I don't drink when I'm working, and I gather you want me to do a job. What is it?"

Charis leaned back in his chair. "Let me begin to answer by asking a question: What do you think is the most remarkable thing about this remarkable house of mine?"

Morlock accepted a cup of water from a bold-eyed blond-haired page. He drank deeply as he mulled the question over, then replied, "I suppose the fact that all the servants are golems."

The comment caught his host in midswallow. Morlock watched with real interest as Charis choked down his wine, his astonishment, and an obvious burst of irritation more or less simultaneously.

"May I ask how you knew that?" Charis said carefully, when he was free for speech.

"From the fact that all the servants we've met, including your guards, have been golems, I deduced that your entire staff consisted of golems."

"Yes, but surely, sir, you understand the intent of my question: How did you know they were golems? For I think, sir, as a master in the arts of Making, you will admit they are excellent work-extremely lifelike." Charis's frank and inquisitive look had something of a glare in it. Clearly he had made the golems himself and was vexed because they had not deceived Morlock.

"Mostly the eyes," Morlock said. "The golems are well made, I grant you, and the life-scrolls must be remarkably complicated and various. But you can't quite get a natural effect with clay eyes."

Charis turned his gaze from Morlock to the dark-haired modest page at his left hand. Morlock watched the struggle in his host's face as he realized the truth of the observation.

"What would you use?" Charis asked finally. "If I may be so bold."

"Molten gla.s.s for the eyes proper-the eyeball and the cornea. I'd slice up some gems and use a fan-ring a.s.sembly for the irises. You're using black mirror-tube for the visual ca.n.a.ls? I think that would work very well."

"You can't use gla.s.s," Charis said sharply, sitting on the edge of his chair. "I've tried it. The vivifying spell induces some flexibility in the material, but it's not sufficient."

"It would be necessary to keep it molten until the vivifying spell is activated," Morlock replied.

"It seems to me, frankly, that the problems are completely insuperable."

"I can show you," Morlock said indifferently.

"Frankly, you'll have to. That will have to be part of the deal. Frankly."