Within the fourth room, Ronin found an ornate stairway to the second storey. G'fand was busily moving from glass table to glass table, plainly fascinated by the artefacts. Ronin looked about him. 'Make certain you have seen everything down here,' he called to G'fand. 'Then come upstairs and join me.' So saying, he ascended the stairs.

  There were three rooms. One was obviously a sleeping chamber, and one, Ronin surmised, an alchemical chamber of some sort, judging by the equipment. The last room was the one he was searching for. Books lined two walls from floor to ceiling - he saw with some surprise that the room was hexagonal. Another wall contained only a six-sided mirror of beaten and polished silver rimmed in deep-green, black-veined onyx, lustrous, trans­lucent. The adjacent wall was filled with racks of scrolls, some rolled on polished wooden dowels, and he crossed to them at once, searching for the glyph heading the Magic Man had written down.

  A quicksilver flash caught the periphery of his vision. He turned his head. It seemed to have come from the mirror, but when he looked around he

  could find nothing in the room that was likely to cause a reflection.

  He went over to the mirror and stared at his face. And the flash came again, like light on moving water, dazzling him momentarily.

  He no longer stares at himself, but at a formless­ness of light and colour, absorbing and infinite. Motion. Hurtling through the patterns, forward, headlong. He experiences a slight sensation of vertigo, the exhilaration of flying, and he hears a soft rustle, as of a forest of leaves blown on a quickening wind.

  Abruptly he is in a cool place made all of richly veined marble, lit warmly but dimly. And vast, for he hears the echoes: perhaps voices, the quiet slap of sandals, the rustle of fabric against flesh, tones of discord and harmony.

  From a height he drifts through columnated hallways and high-vaulted chambers and gradually he becomes aware of the molten throb of unfamil­iar instruments, pounding skins, trip-rolled and muffled, lazy dark chords under gyring melody, hears the peregrine music unfurling, haunting, electric.

  A great night-black bird swoops down upon him, wide wings beating the liquid air, and he tries to cover his face, a reflexive motion, and discovers he has no body. He floats, insubstantial, an essence. And still the bird, long feathers shining, stares at him with unblinking crimson and black eyes. Its talons are enormous. Gripped within one is a writhing lizard. The talons open and the creature drops into a fire burning far below. The

  bird opens its long beak and human laughter booms out.

  He sees K'reen then. Her back is to him as she talks to a dark figure which towers over her, but he recognizes the soft bell of her hair, a forest of texture, the shape of her body, silken of skin, hard of muscle, the orbits of her gestures. The figure screams silently at her, slaps her across the face, again and again. Her head whips from side to side. She turns suddenly and looks up at him, and he starts in shock. She has his face, tearful and saddened.

  He is in another place within the marble build­ing. Or perhaps it is another building all of marble. A long hallway. Far away at the other end is a tall figure clothed in black lacquered armour ribbed and banded in sea-green jade and twilight-blue lapis lazuli. Perhaps he wears a helm, for his head is oddly shaped, at once chilling and familiar, although he is too distant and the light is too uncertain to say why. Two swords of unequal length hang from his sides in scabbards so long that they almost touch the marble floor. His hands glitter as the figure looks about as if searching for something. Then he strides from the hallway.

  Something cold comes. The incense braziers shudder on their bronze chains. A wind is rising. He feels a presence, very close. A frigid wisp, a seeking tendril - of what? - writhes and touches his mind. He recoils, as if seared by a blade burning like ice. Below, in the hallway of eternal marble, frigid fires begin to rage, pale and insatiable. He cannot breathe. He gasps and chokes on the dread creeping into him, washing away all resolve. He feels weak and powerless, a child storm-tossed and alone.

  Abruptly, within the chaos of his being, through the terror and desperation, he feels sparks of water against his face and body, and he lifts his head to the roiling of purple clouds. An electric clashing is in his ears, and the surface upon which he stands trembles. White light rings the opening sky. He reaches for the pale hand.

  The flash comes again, like light on moving water, dazzling him momentarily.

  ' - not downstairs,' said G'fand from directly behind him.

  He started.

  'Say, what are you doing? The scrolls are over here.'

  Ronin blinked, licked his dry lips. 'I thought - I saw something in the mirror,' he said thickly.

  G'fand stepped closer. 'What mirror?'

  Ronin focused and saw a six-sided plate of iron, perfectly plain and unreflective. The onyx border seemed to wink at him in the light. He shook his head. The house of a magus.

  Then he shrugged and turned. 'Come,' he said.

  They took them systematically, by rows. Once, as he worked, he glanced at the six-sided thing on the wall. And thought of what he had experienced, of what it meant. He was certain, now, that Borros spoke the truth: there was a habitable world on the surface. But why the Salamander should choose to lie to him, he had no idea. However, it was clear to him that he was amid a drama of enormous proportions. He understood its nature not at all, yet he would be a fool to ignore the hints at its scope. Up until now boredom and curiosity and a curious perversity, which he always recognized in himself yet was like quicksilver, his strength, and, he imagined, perhaps his ultimate downfall, had guided him to this strange place. Why else was he here? He gave a mental shrug and got on with the search.

  The scroll was not there. It seemed inconceiv­able to them that they could have come so far, overcome all that they had, for naught. Returning empty-handed was not an eventuality Ronin had spent any time considering. To him it was not a matter of the value of the scroll.

  He sent G'fand to search the other rooms on this storey while he looked around here. The floor was bare, the dark wood planks rubbed to a high gloss. Again no dust or wear was evident. Over by the walls of books were a pair of low stools unlike any he had seen before. They were constructed of buffed leather, stiff but worn beneath the polish. They were convex, two sides sloping down, the narrower ends curving up, and were attached to crossed wooden legs by a heavy leather strap with an adjustable brass buckle.

  Along the wall most closely opposite the door, several glass cases gleamed dully in the light. He crossed to them, saw there were three. The first was empty, although two indentations on the green felt of the bottom indicated that at one time two objects about the size of a large man's hand had lain there. The second case contained an

  oversized book, from all appearances quite old, opened midway through. A blue fabric marker ran down one page. Both pages were blank. Ronin moved to the third case, where he saw what seemed to be a replica of a hallway, roofless so that one could easily view the interior. It appeared to be constructed of marble. Twelve columns lined the hallway, tiny metal braziers hung at intervals. The model was extraordinarily detailed, the work­manship superb. Ronin leaned closer and the shock of recognition hit him at once. This was a replica of the hallway in the mirror that was not a mirror! He glanced over his shoulder at its blind face once again.

  He turned back to the miniature. Here was where the armoured warrior had stood, and there was the entrance through which the terrible pres­ence had been about to enter. He heard again in his mind the lure of the music. He lifted the glass top. As soon as he did so something caught his eye. A sliver of light yellow from under the marble floor. He stared at it for a moment until it struck him what it must be.

  He drew his dagger and slipped the point under the side of the replica, lifting slowly, but it did not give. He tried along one end, and was able, after moments of experimentation, to pry it up.

  With mounting excitement, he drew out the sheet, knowing somehow that at the top would be written the line of glyphs for which they had been searching. The miniature fell back into place as he released it, and he called to G'fand, as he stared at the black line of their inscription. Below, the scroll

  was covered from top to bottom with close-written glyphs.

  They clapped each other on the back. G'fand held it as they descended the wide curving stair­case. He shook his head. 'It is a language I cannot even begin to understand.'

  Ronin took it from him. 'Someone will have to decipher it.' He rolled it into as tight a cylinder as he was able. 'Now that we have it, I shall make sure that we do not lose it.'

  The shadows were long, the slanting light deep amber as they went down the black stone steps, the gold veins iridescent. The city seemed peaceful; the dense quiet acquiring a languorous lustre as the day waned. They set off back the way they had come, tired but jubilant at the success of their quest.

  Perhaps it was the sounds of their voices or the buoyancy of their mood or the vista of the jumbled city, somehow more familiar, that lay before them bathed in the warm light.

  Or perhaps it was something else altogether that caused him to fail to see the movement behind them. It came swiftly. A sharp cloying odour. He whirled and his sword was out in the same motion. But it was too late. He was slammed as if by a giant's fist and he reeled into the gutter, tumbling upon the cobbles. Crimson fire was in his lungs and all the breath went out of him. He tried to inhale, gasped weakly.

  Through a haze he saw the creature that had attacked them just before they reached the magus's house. Its thick sinuous tail lashed back and forth

  continuously as it reached curved talons towards G'fand. He had drawn his sword and was doing his best to defend himself. It was ineffectual.

  Ronin tried to rise but it was as if he were paralysed. He lay in the gutter, striving to raise his sword, struggling to breathe, watching the thing close with G'fand. The hideous beak opened and closed spasmodically, and then it took hold of G'fand's sword along the blade. The metal crum­bled within the grip of its six-fingered hands.

  With a mighty effort Ronin came up on his knees, leaning on his sword, head shaking like that of a wounded animal. He gained his feet, stag­gered, searched for balance. His sword clanged on to the cobbles. Drawing his dagger, he ran at the creature from behind.

  Its talons were at G'fand's throat, squeezing. He looked helpless and stunned. Ronin smelled the awful stench and the coldness just before he slammed into the thing's back. It was like hitting a wall. It ignored him. He climbed upon its back, saw dimly G'fand's legs dangling in the air, his eyes bulging. Then the pain engulfed him. Bolts of fire penetrated his flesh and he fought back a scream. Time shifted.

  He was a microbe upon a mountain, climbing hopelessly. The dagger in his hand writhed uncon­trollably and he almost let it go, but the sight of G'fand's twisted, pain-filled face was before him, and it drove him on. The pain moved through his body and his lower half began to go numb. His legs and feet still churned for purchase on the scaly hide but he could not feel them, they were parts of someone else's body. Still he clawed upward with his free hand and dagger-filled fist. He gasped at the stinking air, but his lungs would not hold the foulness, and he retched, eyes watering. He con­centrated on the shining point of the short blade.

  All strength seemed to flow out of him. The numbness began to creep upward. Soon it would be at his brain and he knew he would be finished. Far away in another world he heard a terrible sound, horribly malformed, as if a human voice were being forced through an alien larynx. Far away in another world his body was freezing. Far away into another world he was slipping -

  Desperately he forced his eyes open, stared into an infinity of orange coldness, black irises like shards of obsidian, as large as planets. Laughter.

  He drew upon his last resources of will, and with a supreme effort, with his final surge of strength, he forced the blade through the air. Pale hand slipping into his at the centre of his being. And he ripped it point first into the gaping maw.

  Renewed foulness smote him and he retched violently. Dimly he was aware of a thin screaming like the unbearable tension of a singing wire. He rammed it in with all his power, twisting the blade mightily. Brought both hands on to the hilt.

  Abruptly there came a sharp snap, a vibration, and an enormous convulsion, and the howling reached a peak. With that he sank down into a velvet blackness against which he at first tried to struggle, and then from which he was too tired even to return.

  He awoke all at once with the terrible stench of the thing still in his nostrils. He coughed, wiped his mouth. All around him the cobbles were shining and slippery with streaks of crimson and viscous pools of black. There was no sign of the creature but G'fand lay several metres from him. He got up slowly and carefully, went over, knelt beside him. G'fand's eyes bulged and his tongue protruded thickly from his blue lips. There was pink foam on his chin, drying now. His skin held a faint luminescence. His neck was canted at an unnatural angle. His throat had been rent into ribbons of red cartilage.

  Ronin's colourless eyes were opaque as he reached out and gently closed the Scholar's eyes. He sat on his haunches amid the offal of the battle and stared at G'fand. Many thoughts ran through his mind but they were as confused and unreach-able as a school of darting fish in deep water.

  The shadows lengthened slowly, wheeling about the ancient enigmatic buildings, staining the aged cobbles. Far off an animal barked, a short, sharp, startling sound, and close by, small crea­tures, perhaps attracted by the scent of fresh blood, could be heard, tiny claws skittering along an alleyway.

  To all these sounds Ronin was oblivious. He stared, his breathing laboured, at a torn and bloody corpse that had once thought and talked and felt joy and sorrow.

  He got up. The ache of his muscles seemed very distant. He bent and gently picked up G'fand's body, eased it over his shoulder. It felt as light as a feather. He went across the glittering cobbles to get his sword. The toe of his boot kicked some­thing that went clattering over the street. The hilt of his dagger, shorn of its blade. He sheathed his sword.

  In the plaza the glint of the tiles was dull in the fading light. He found the corpses of the animals they had killed already half-eaten. He looked around, but nothing moved over the broad expanse.

  He went to the well and, without pausing for a moment, dropped G'fand's body down the shaft. After a long time, he heard the splash and it seemed to him no louder than the sound the piece of rubble had made.

  Darkness was falling, its thick shawl snuffing the last of the long amber shafts of light, the encroach­ing shadows now dominating the streets, when at last he stood before the scarred door of Bonneduce the Last, and leaned his weary body against the warm wood. He could not remember how he had got there. He heard a snuffling from behind him, near, in the lane. It sounded somehow familiar, as if it had accompanied him for a while, but he was too exhausted to turn his head and look.

  Through the door he heard Hynd's low cough, and then it was thrown open and he collapsed at the feet of Bonneduce the Last.

  Bonneduce the Last had already been on his way down the stairs when he heard Hynd's cough. In one hand he held an old leather double shoulder bag. He put something into it and said, 'Almost time.' Then he threw the bag across a chair, crossed the room with remarkable alacrity, his shoulder dipping with each stride of his short leg. He pulled open the front door.

  Hynd rushed out into the lane, growling, jaws working. He bit into something, tore away a tremendous chunk of flesh. Bonneduce the Last heard the yelp of pain as he dragged Ronin across the room and settled him into one of the large soft chairs. Hynd trotted in, licking his lips, and used his long muzzle to close the door. Then he lay down and watched the little man minister to Ronin.

  By the time he had spent some minutes stripping off Ronin's corselet, the metal blackened and ripped, and removed the tattered remains of his shirt, his eyes had gone cold and hard. The lines on his face seemed to be more pronounced.

  'Already the Makkon are abroad,' he said. 'Even here they have come.'

  Hynd's head came up, and now he stood at the door, a silent sentinel. The little man pulled his leather bag to him, drew out a packet of ointment, which he applied to Ronin's chest and arms. He spoke to Hynd. 'The Bones can tell me only so much. The young one I knew would not come back.' His hands worked swiftly and surely. 'I am past feeling for them, the Bones have seen to that, else I would have gone mad. It is what I must do.'

  Bonneduce the Last went into the interior of the house, returned with a goblet of water. Into this he dropped several grains of a coarse brown powder, which he fed to Ronin as best he could. As much ran down his chin as went into his mouth.

  'He will sleep now as his body recovers.' He threw the remains of the liquid into the cold ashes of the fireplace. 'He has suffered much, now. And he will suffer more. Yet it has to be. Out of pain he must be forged.'

  He got up then, went briefly again into the interior. When he came back he held a small object of brown onyx and red jade. He slipped it into his bag. 'And now, one thing yet remains to be done before we quit this city.' He reached something out from his leather bag, held it for a moment, feeling its texture with his fingertips. 'Yes,' he said softly, 'it becomes clearer, piece by piece.' He placed the object on the table beside the sleeping Ronin.

  He awoke to silence, deep and complete. But it was somehow hollow and empty and he spent some time attempting to determine why. He knew precisely where he was. Then he had it: the ticking was gone.

  With that he rose and called out. No one answered. He went across the room and quickly up the stairs, aware that most of the pain had gone from his body. The rooms were bare. It was the same downstairs. No signs remained that either Bonneduce the Last or Hynd had ever been there.

  He sat down again in the chair. Morning light was streaming in through the dusty grimed win­dows, bright and fresh and new. Idly he traced the beams of light, slanting in, and his eyes came to rest on a gauntlet spangled by the light, lying on top of the table next to the chair; the only foreign object in the house.

 

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