A FEW LESSONS

WITH HER FREE HAND, she clutched for something to hold her back. But suns of blindness exploded back and forth across her vision: she couldn't see anything to grasp. Then she hit the stone of the passage, and cool air breathed up at her out of the unseen depths. Havelock slowed, giving her feet time to fumble for the downward stairs.

Argus and Ribuld would probably have been willing to rescue her from this madman.

Unfortunately, her door was locked, and she didn't have time to shout for help.

Her sight cleared quickly, however: Havelock's glass hadn't done her any real damage. In a moment, she stopped bumping against the walls, stopped lurching on the stairs. The Adept pulled her after him as firmly as he could; but now she was able to exert some control over her rate of descent.

His glass revealed all there was to see of where they were and where they were going. The passage was narrow and low: if she had been any taller, she would have been forced to stoop. There were sharp turns and branchings whenever the stair had gone down another ten or fifteen feet. At a guess, the branchings led to other hidden entrances in other suites and chambers. But the main passage continued downward.

The absence of cobwebs and accumulated dust implied that these stone tunnels were used with some frequency.

The air became slowly cooler as Adept Havelock dragged her after him.

Unaccustomed to such exercise, her knees began to tremble. She felt she had been labouring down the stairs for a long time when the Adept arrived at a heavy, iron-bound wooden door that blocked his way. It had been left unbolted; but he didn't open it immediately. Instead, he tugged her close to him. Then he released her wrist.

Shining on the door and the stone blocks of the wall, his light cast comic shadows across his face. 'Remember hop-board,' he whispered intensely. 'Nothing else signifies.'

A gesture and a murmur snuffed his glass. In the sudden dark, she heard his surcoat rustle as he returned the small mirror to his pocket. Then he pushed open the door and walked into the lamplight beyond it as if he didn't care whether she followed him or not.

From the doorway, she looked out at a large, square room.

It was furnished-and cluttered-like a study of some sort. A heavy pillar thrust down through the centre of the floor, the flagstones of which weren't softened or warmed by any rugs or coverings. Around the pillar, however, stood a number of tables, some of them tilted like an artist's worktables, others flat and piled with papers and rolls of parchment. Stools waited at all the tables, although most of them were being used to hold stacks of old books or layer after layer of loose documents. Under the tables, the floor was furred with dust. Opposite Terisa, an entry-way without a door led, apparently, to other rooms. Near the entryway was a rumpled bed, with several blankets tossed haphazardly over the stained, grey sheets, and no pillow.

The light came from oil lamps around the walls and the pillar. Their glow showed clearly the two features of the room which most caught Terisa's attention.

Off to one side was a small table with two chairs and a checker board. All were at least as richly made as the ones King Joyse used. But there weren't any pieces on the board.

And the walls were lined with doors like the one through which Havelock had just entered the room. They were all bound with iron and heavily bolted. Orison, she realized, must be honeycombed with secrets.

Ignoring her completely now, the Adept moved to the checker table, seated himself with his back to her, and hunched over the board as if he were absorbed in a game.

Terisa cleared her throat to speak, then caught herself. She and Adept Havelock weren't alone. A man whom she had somehow failed to notice at first turned on his stool, leaning his elbow on the desk beside him and propping his cheek against his fist. 'Ah, there you are.' He wore a plain, grey robe that looked warm enough to combat the chill

in the room (a chill which the Adept didn't appear to feel, in spite of his inadequate garments), and that increased his ability to blend into the background. But over his shoulders was draped the yellow chasuble of a Master.

Looking at him sharply, she realized that she had seen him before. He had a rabbity face with bright eyes, a nose that twitched, and protruding teeth: she wasn't likely to be mistaken about him. He was the one who had agreed with Geraden that her appearance before the Congery proved something.

'Geraden finally condescended to reveal who you are,' he commented, his sarcasm distinct but not severe. The lady Terisa of Morgan.' He didn't seem particularly impressed. On the other,, hand, his tone was polite: he clearly intended no offence. 'I am Master Quillon.

'Adept Havelock-' Master Quillon paused to glance around him. 'Incidentally,' he interpolated, 'these are his rooms, not mine. I believe I would find some way to have them cleaned. Even if I had to do it myself.' Then he returned to what he meant to say, 'Be that as it may, however, he has asked me to tell you a bit about Mordant's history-the background, so to speak, of our present problems.'

When he said that, Terisa's head filled up with air and started to float. Sudden hope and relief danced together in her chest. At last, somebody was going to tell her what was going on.

A moment later, however, her expectations fell out of the top of her head into the pit of her stomach with a leaden thud. Havelock had asked Master Quillon to talk to her? Abruptly, she demanded, 'How?'

The Master looked at her inquiringly. 'How?'

'How did he ask you that? How do you know what he wants?'

Master Quillon twitched his nose and shrugged, his cheek still resting on his fist. 'He has his lucid moments. And you must remember that he has been like this for years. We have had time to become accustomed to him. Occasionally he is capable of making himself understood.'

Well, she thought, that seemed true enough, as far as it went -if dragging people downstairs by main force counted as 'making himself understood'. But as an explanation it didn't suffice. Then why?' she asked. 'Assuming that you're right-that you haven't missed what he really wants-why do it? Both Master Barsonage' -she stumbled fractionally over the name-'and the King told Geraden-no, they ordered him not to answer any of my questions.' What she was saying felt increasingly audacious to her,

increasingly dangerous. When had she started talking to people like this? But her momentum kept her going. 'Why disobey both of them? Whose side are you on?'

In response, he blinked at her as though the logic of his position were self-evident. Nevertheless he was slow in replying. 'It is not as simple as you make it appear. In spite of his'-the Master glanced at Havelock-'um, his affliction, Adept Havelock is still the nominal head of the Congery. And there are those among the Imagers who consider his past services to us-and indeed to all Mordant-so great that he continues to deserve gratitude and respect, even compliance. Would you flaunt your father's wishes if he began acting somewhat strangely in his old age?'

Fortunately for Terisa, that was intended as a rhetorical question. Without waiting for an answer, Master Quillon went on, 'In addition, there are times when you must define your loyalties. Master Barsonage is an honourable man who tries to be impartial, but in his heart he stubbornly fears the consequences of any decision or action. As for King Joyse-' He sighed. 'Years have passed since he showed any significant grasp of what happens around him, and his judgement is suspect.'

This didn't satisfy her; but she had pushed her temerity as far as it would go. The old habit of reticence and deference, her emotional protective colouration, reasserted itself and held her back. Master Quillon clearly meant to talk to her-and yet she was irrationally afraid that by speaking she had forfeited what he wanted to tell her, what she needed to know.

Nevertheless her doubts refused to go away. Cautiously, she took a different approach.

Indicating the Adept, she asked, 'Why do they call him 'the King's Dastard'?'

Quillon sighed again and straightened himself on his stool. 'My lady'-he gestured vaguely around him, as if he were suddenly tired of the whole thing-'will you sit down?'

Obediently, she located a free stool and moved it to the desk nearest him. She wasn't accustomed to the robe she was wearing: it made her feel awkward climbing onto the high perch of the stool. But when she was seated with her back supported by the edge of the desk, she was steady enough.