A FEW LESSONS WITH HER FREE HAND .

Master Quillon began.

'I will assume that you know nothing about us or our troubles.' He still looked like a rabbit, and his nose seemed to twitch whenever he collected his thoughts; but the way he spoke contained a note of dignity. 'If that is untrue, please do not be insulted. There is no other way that I can respect whatever secrets you may have.

'It is difficult to know how or where to begin. We have, in a sense, two histories-that of

the kingdoms and that of Imagery -which did not become one until relatively recently-in fact, until King Joyse and Adept Havelock forced them together. You can hardly believe it, I am sure, looking at them now. But in their prime they bestrode Mordant and the rest of our world like heroes, shaking it into a new shape simply because they believed that the job needed to be done.

'Both histories, however, are histories of fragmentation. In fact, there was no Mordant- and no Congery, for that matter- until King Joyse created them. Oh, there was a region which went by the name 'Mordant', but it was nothing more than a collection of petty princedoms caught between the ancient power of Cadwal to the east and the newer strength of Alend to the north and west. These princedoms were what we now call the Cares-the Care of Armigite, the Care of Perdon, and so on-but they were in reality less substantial than what the Alend Lieges call baronial holdings. They survived only because together they served as a kind of buffer between Alend and Cadwal, which were always at war.

'Alend and Cadwal are actually contiguous along the last eighty miles or so of the Swoll river, but that area is impassable, a swamp to the sea and along the coast-' He started looking around the room as he spoke, and after a moment his explanation trailed off. 'Havelock,' he asked distantly, as though he were talking to himself-or didn't expect an answer-'do you have a map? There must be one in this chaos somewhere. I ought to show her where these things are in relation to each other.'

Adept Havelock didn't glance up from his board. Concentrat-

ing fiercely, he rearranged the pieces he imagined in front of him, and began to study the new configuration.

'Well, nevermind,' murmured the Master. Returning his attention to Terisa, he resumed, 'Even without a map, I am sure you will understand the point. Because of the swamp, Cadwal and Alend can only approach each other through Mordant, which is, essentially, a fertile lowland between the Pestil and Vertigon rivers. Alend is too mountainous- Cadwal, too dry. Therefore they have desired Mordant for centuries, both for itself and as a large step towards defeating each other.

To put the matter simply, the princedoms of Mordant survived by being conquered back and forth, generation after generation -and by always siding with whichever of the two powers happened to be absent at the time. Because Mordant existed in pieces, each piece was easily taken, but hard to hold. Cadwal, for instance, might make itself master of the Care of Perdon, or of Tor. Alend might take Termigan or Domne. At once, the Perdon-the lord of the Care-or the Tor, the Termigan or the Domne, would swear eternal allegiance to his new prince. At the same time, he would begin looking for ways to

betray that prince. So Cadwal would sneak into Termigan, or Alend into Tor, and the people of the Care would be liberated, amid great rejoicing. At once, however, a new prince would replace the old. And so the entire process would begin again, varying only in detail when Cadwal or Alend made a convulsive effort to conquer the whole region. And so the Cares endured.

'Of course, all that bloodshed was terrible. Naturally, a certain number of men voluntarily fought and risked their lives. But they were a small minority of the victims. The peasants of Mordant were constantly being hacked down or conscripted, raped or driven from their land-brutalized in any way the whims of the tyrants suggested. The only reason Mordant was not entirely depopulated was that both Cadwal and Alend needed what they could grow in the fields and on the hills of this lowland, so they were forced to import labour-usually slaves, especially from Cadwal-to replace the lost peasants. These labourers invariably found that life as a peasant was better than life as a slave or a coerced servant, and so thjey learned loyalty to the Care in which they found themselves. In that way, the population of Mordant was renewed.

'But such things are only bloodshed and tyranny. Mordant's plight was made much worse by Imagery. Am I boring you, my lady?'

Terisa was surprised by the realization that she had yawned. The wine, a long day, and reaction after the shock of Havelock's appearance and behaviour were making her drowsy. Nevertheless she shook her head. 'I just wonder what all this has to do with me.'

A bit acerbically, the Master retorted, 'It 'has to do' with you because you are here. It will affect everything that happens to you while you are among us.'

'I'm sorry. Please go on.'

'Very well,' said Quillon stiffly. His nose twitched for a moment.

'In those days, it seemed that every man of any consequence had in his service, or his employ, an Imager of some kind-or else he served or was employed by an Imager. Cadwal itself was raised to greatness by the first arch-Imager. And as recently as the past century the Alend Monarch used an entire battery of Imagers to bring the Alend Lieges into confederacy.

'Here again the situation was fragmented. The talent which can make an Imager is not common, but neither is it rare. And in times of war, it seems to breed under every hedgerow. As a result, Cadwal has at times mustered armies in which every captain was seconded by an Imager. Alend has been nearly as powerful. And of course every lord in Mordant was defended by an Imager who depended on him for support, patronage, or

facilities.

'As I am sure you can imagine, the glass which makes mirrors is not something that can simply be poured out in a patch of sand behind some cottage. To study, develop, and use mirrors requires equipment, tinct, furnaces, and much else as well, and so any Imager not born wealthy has always been forced to ally himself with wealth in some way. But I digress.

'I wonder, my lady,' he said slowly, 'if you possess the knowledge or experience to imagine the havoc dozens of Imagers can wreak, righting each other and armies as well as innocent men and women who happen to get in the way. Consider it, if you can. Here stands an Imager whose glass shows a sea of lava. At his word, molten stone floods outward, devouring its own carnage as it moves. There stands an Imager whose glass shows a winged leviathan which can consume cattle whole. At his word, the beast is translated here to rage and ravage until he calls it back-or until some other Imager conceives a means to kill it. And they are only two men. Consider fifty of them, or a hundred, great Imagers and small, all dedicating what arts they have to battle and bloodshed.

'Perhaps in your world Imagery is used for other purposes. Perhaps it provides food for the hungry, water against drought, energy and power to better the lot of all men. That has not been our history.

'One consequence,' he sighed, 'is that the knowledge of Imagery-the understanding of what it is, and why it works, and how it might be used-has advanced little from one generation to the next. Imagers have tended to guard their secrets zealously, as protection for their lives, and so the dissemination of new ideas, insights, or techniques has taken decades. In fact, it would not have occurred at all, if the making of mirrors were not sufficiently arduous to require Apts. But each Imager must have help, and so he must teach some youth with the talent how to give that help. In that way, slow progress has been made.

'It is a barbarous history, my lady.' This time, his sarcasm was directed elsewhere. 'We are not traditionally a humane or scrupulous people. King Joyse has attempted to change us completely.

'Havelock'-he turned on his stool to face the Adept-'some wine would be a kindness.

All this talk is thirsty work.'

At once, Havelock pushed himself out of his chair and hobbled away to the opposite side of the room, behind the pillar. When he returned, he was carrying a stoneware decanter and a clay goblet. The goblet looked like it hadn't been cleaned any time during

the past decade.

Unceremoniously, he thunked the decanter down beside Master Quillon, thrust the goblet into his hands. 'We have a barbarous history,' the Adept said, waggling his eyebrows at Terisa, 'because we drink too much wine. Wine and fornication don't mix.' Returning to his table, he started playing his invisible game again.

Master Quillon peered morosely into the goblet. Finally, he wiped it out with the sleeve of his robe. Muttering to himself, he poured some of the wine and passed the goblet to Terisa. Then he raised the decanter to his mouth and drank.

She wanted a drink herself. But the dark smear on Quillon's sleeve dissuaded her.

'As I say,' he began again, wiping his lips with the ends of his fingers, 'King Joyse set himself the job of changing everything.

'I can tell you quite simply what he did. First he conquered all the princedoms of Mordant, some by force, some by persuasion. And when he had made Mordant into a separate, sovereign realm, he began waging an odd war against both Alend and Cadwal. In battle after battle, raid after raid, for the better part of two decades, he took no territory, conscripted no soldiers, slaughtered no peasants. In fact, he did nothing to upset the ordinary structures of power in either country. All he did'-the Master rubbed his nose vigorously to make it stop twitching- 'was to take prisoner every Imager he could find and bring his captives here, to Orison. At the same time, he offered a universal patronage and safety to every Imager who would surrender voluntarily. In the end, he had collected them all-or we thought he had. From the western mountains of Alend to the eastern deserts of Cadwal, there were no Imagers anywhere but here.

'And when he had them all together, he did not do what Cadwal and Alend desperately feared. He did not try to weld all that talent for Imagery into his personal fighting force. Instead, he created the Congery. And he gave it work to do-peaceful work. Many of his assignments involved the study of specific problems. Could Imagery be used to relieve drought? Could mirrors put out fires? Could Imagers build roads? Quarry granite? Fertilize soil?

'Questions of wealth King Joyse left to Alend and Cadwal.' Master Quillon was digressing again. 'Alend had gold. Cadwal had gems. Mordant did not need them. Crops and cattle, food and fabric and wine, these were Mordant's strength and wealth.

'But overriding such work was another, larger assignment. King Joyse commanded the Congery to define an ethic of Imagery. He commanded the Imagers to answer the great moral question of Imagery: are the beings and forces and things which come out of

mirrors created by translation, or do they have a prior existence of their own, from which they are removed by translation?

'All very simple, is it not? Nothing to it.' Quilion took another swig from the decanter, wiped his lips again. 'As you might guess, my lady, I am much harder pressed to explain how the King did these things.

'If the reports of him are true, he did it, essentially, by being the kind of man for whom other men-and women as well- were willing to die.

'He was born to the princedom which is now his Demesne, and he became the lord in Orison-though Orison was smaller then-at the age of fifteen, when his father was caught trying to betray the Cadwal tyrant who then held the princedom-was caught and slowly pulled limb from limb by oxen in front of young Joyse and all his family, as if that sort of lesson would teach them loyalty. He was little better than a boy, but already he possessed a quality which made a strong and, um, perhaps wise'-he glanced at Havelock-'Imager become his faithful friend. What the boy did after that, he and his Imager did together.

'What they did first was to sneak away in the middle of the night, leaving his family to bear the brunt of the Cadwal prince's displeasure.

'Naturally, this did not raise the esteem in which his people held him. So they were rather surprised when he returned at the head of a force from neighbouring Tor, threw the Cadwais out, and personally separated the prince from his head.

Tor had happened to be in a period of independence at the time. And it was somewhat more accustomed to independence than the other princedoms, being situated with the mountains at its back and Perdon, Armigite, Domne, and Termigan around it -therefore difficult to conquer. Young Joyse had insisted to the Tor-who was himself still young enough to be audacious-that the only hope for his people, and for all Mordant, was a union of the Cares against both Alend and Cadwal. And the Tor had liked this idea. He had also liked young Joyse. On the other hand, he had not liked to risk too much of his Care. So he had given Joyse scarcely two hundred men to use against more than two thousand Cadwais.

'Joyse and his Imager and those two hundred men, however, required only three days to free the Demesne. Before sunset of the third day, a new flag flew over Orison-the pennon of Mordant.

'You may wonder how that was done. I can tell you only that King Joyse and his forces made extensive use of the secret passages for which Orison has always been famed. It

seems Orison has been a stewpot of plots and counterplots since its first tower was erected,' Master Quillon commented by the way. 'Also, their attacks were directed from the beginning at the Cadwal Imagers rather than at the soldiery. In fact, he spared as many of the soldiers as he could. When he was done, he offered them a choice between service with him or freedom. Those who chose his service became the kernel of the guard which eventually unified Mordant, and which has since successfully defied both Alend and Cadwal for decades.

'At this time, his people reversed their earlier ill opinion of him and became correspondingly enthusiastic.

'With considerably more support now from the Tor, young Joyse set about liberating Perdon. Then the three Cares turned their attention to Armigite, and to Termigan. Domne fell to them almost without effort-it has always been the least of the Cares, though the Demesne is smaller. Finally, in the most savage and costly battle he had yet faced, Joyse freed Fayle from Alend and became King.

'I will not protract this tale with details. You can imagine, I am sure, that all the Cares swore allegiance to King Joyse, but did not all keep their oaths, until he taught them to do so. You can imagine that most of his first success grew from the fact that neither Alend nor Cadwal were expecting what he did, and so the truly cruel wars for Mordant's independence were fought later, when his enemies understood what had happened and rose with all their strength against him. It is enough to say that twenty years passed before our King's hold on Mordant was secure enough to permit him to begin the work of collecting Imagers.

That was thirty years ago,' murmured the Master,  peering into the mouth of the decanter to see how much wine was there. 'For those of us who remember any part of it at all, it was grand. Even young boys-as I was-thought that everything the King touched took on a kind of sanctity, the stature of heroism and mighty deeds.'

The contemplation of his tale-or the effect of the wine-was making him increasingly morose. His jaws chewed indecisively. Perhaps he didn't know how much more he should tell Terisa. Or perhaps he was simply debating another swig from the decanter.

'Go on,' she said quietly. She wanted to learn how the King of Quillon's tale had become the frail old man she had met-a man so ineffective that even people who had worshipped him when they were boys now disobeyed him almost for no reason. Tell me what happened.'

Master Quillon made a face. 'Well, of course, with his friend to advise and guide and assist him, the first thing he did was to start collecting Imagers. And the Imagers were so

accustomed to hiding their secrets from each other, to looking at everyone else as an enemy, that most of them were reluctant to be collected. In addition, Cadwal and Alend naturally did everything in their power to preserve their access to the resources of Imagery. All three kingdoms existed in an ongoing state of war-undeclared war, but war nonetheless-and at times King Joyse had to hammer at his enemies until they broke. But he also used every possible kind of cunning and stealth. He broadcast bribes. He sent out small bands on lightning raids. He suborned messengers, counsellors, captains, anyone who might know the whereabouts of a man he wanted. He even went so far as to kidnap the families of Imagers and hold them hostage until the Imagers surrendered. It was at once more complex and more difficult than the process of forging Mordant out of its separate Cares. It cost him another twenty years.'

Again, he stopped. This time, however, he took an abrupt pull from the decanter and resumed his narration.

'But the bulk of the job had been completed five years earlier. Only one obstacle remained. The Alend Monarch and the High King of Cadwal, it will not surprise you to hear, did not trust King Joyse. They feared what he was doing, even though after each of his raids and battles he left their kingdoms essentially as he had found them. In their eyes, that was insane behaviour, and insanity does not inspire confidence in the bosoms of mortal enemies. And, of course, if he had Imagers and they did not they would be defenceless against him.

The High King of Cadwal, however, was both more prompt and less scrupulous than the Alend Monarch in his response to the threat. High King Festten, who still rules Cadwal from the great coastal city of Carmag, where the minarets rise high above the rocks and the sea, and where every exotic vice known to man is nurtured in the soil of riches and power'-Master Quillon didn't appear to think well of Carmag-'Festten began collecting Imagers of his own. He formed a force of perhaps thirty men, each of them powerful in Imagery, and set over them the arch-Imager Vagel. In addition, he gave his personal champion of battle, the High King's Monomach, responsibility for the protection of his Imagers, Guarded by the Monomach's incomparable prowess, this cabal dedicated itself solely to the arts of violence-and to the defence of Cadwal-and to the defiance of King Joyse.'

Without warning, Adept Havelock raised his head as if he had suddenly decided to listen to what Master Quillon was saying.

Tive years passed before the King found means to break the cabal,' the Master went on. 'And then most of its members had to be slain. They had become too acclimatized,' he muttered sourly, 'to Cadwal's arid morals and lush pleasures. They could not accept transplantation. At the time, it was believed that the arch-Imager had perished also. But

now he is thought to be alive -alive and in hiding somewhere, plotting malice.

The High King's Monomach, of course, was executed for his failure, and another was chosen to take his place.'

With a wide movement of his arm, Havelock wiped his board as though he were sweeping all his men off onto the floor. Then he rose to his feet. Walking over to Terisa and Quillon, he touched her sleeve, leered, and nodded in the direction of the still-open door which had admitted her to this room. When she stared back at him, he rolled his eyes and beckoned determinedly. Time and tide wait for no man,' he said as if he were in one of his lucid phases, 'but everybody waits for women.'

'No, Havelock.' Quillon spoke with more firmness than Terisa had expected from him. 'Doubtless you know better than I. But I am going to tell her the rest.'

For an instant, ferocity came over the Adept's face. He clenched one eye closed so that he could scowl murderously at Master Quillon with the other. But Quillon didn't flinch, and Havelock's mood changed almost immediately. His expression relaxed into a fleshy smile.

'Wait for me, Vagel,' he said in a high voice, like a child at play. 'I'm coming. Hee hee.

I'm coming.'

Casting a wall-eyed wink at Terisa, he turned away and began rummaging through the clutter on one of his desks.

The Master shrugged. Tilting back his head, he drank what remained of the wine and set the decanter down beside him with a thump. His eyes were starting to look slightly blurred, and two red spots on his cheeks matched the end of his nose.

That was ten years ago, my lady,' he said in a glum tone. 'For five of those years, we were relatively secure. The defences King Joyse had created kept us relatively safe. Most of Mordant lived in relative peace. The Congery thrashed out the worst of its conflicts, both of personality and of trust, and became relatively unified, especially as the older generation-the men who remembered fondly what life had been like before King Joyse came along-passed away. By creating the Congery, of course, King Joyse could not control or limit the birth of the talent for Imagery anywhere in the world. But he had control of the knowledge of Imagery. Talent could find its outlet only by coming to Orison and accepting the servitude of an Apt.

'Alend and Cadwal were relatively quiet. Most of us'-his sarcasm returned-'were relatively immune to the disorder of the King's domestic affairs. For five years, we did not notice- because we did not want to notice-that his spark was dying out. Perhaps

because he had nothing enormous or heroic left to do, he was ceasing to be the man so many of us had loved.

'But eventually we had to notice. Oh, we had to.' Master Quillon became more bitter by the moment. 'We could not ignore that there was something evil running loose in Mordant.

'An Imager had begun to translate horrors and abominations out of his mirrors and unleash them to rampage across the land wherever they could find victims.'

In the cool of the room, a sensation of tightening scurried from Terisa's scalp down the length of her spine.

'It is easy to assume that he is Vagel. That is as reasonable a guess as any. He was always expert at finding in his glasses men and monsters and forces of destruction. And he did not trouble his conscience much about the consequences of his translations.

But no one knows where he finds the patronage, the resources, to make such mirrors. 'We would also assume that he found them in Alend or Cadwal -but all his Images

strike deep into Mordant, and it is inconceivable that such mirrors could be made elsewhere and then brought here across those distances without some word of the matter finally reaching the ears of Orison.

'But if not in Cadwal or Alend, then where? Who in Mordant would level such a threat against the realm? And why does King Joyse do nothing about it?

'Perhaps in the early years of the peril, patience and caution were indicated. After all, the attacks did not come often. Either Cadwal or Alend appeared to be the likely source. It seemed understandable that the King was waiting for his spies or his friends to discover the secret and bring it to him, so that he would know what to do.

'But the attacks grow worse, and no explanation comes. Instead, his spies and friends bring word that Alend and Cadwal have learned what is happening from their spies and friends, and are mustering their forces to take advantage of Mordant's danger. Armies gather beyond the Vertigon and Pestil rivers. Raids probe the Cares, testing their defences. Angry because they are compelled to defend their own without assistance from King Joyse, some of the Cares begin to mutter against him. And still the abominations being translated against us worsen, both in magnitude and in frequency. The arch- Imager-if it is him- forms mirrors at an unheard-of rate as well as in perfect secrecy. And still the King does nothing.

'Well, not nothing, exactly,' the Master muttered as if he had acid in his mouth. 'He

plays more and more hop-board.

The Congery, of course, has been blind to the problem. Even if we did not hear the same reports which reach every ear in Orison, we would have our auguries-and we have learned a great deal about auguring since our efforts were united.

'We can see-Mordant dying, my lady, slaughtered by forces which we understand, but which our King-in founding the Congery-has forbidden us to act against. He will not allow us to be a weapon. Though he will do nothing to save Mordant, he is quick enough to march into our laborium and shatter any glass which offers a means of defence. He only permitted us to search for a champion because we agreed-after much squabbling debate-that whatever champion we chose would not be translated involuntarily but would rather be approached with persuasion and given the opportunity to refuse.

'In short, our King has brought us to the verge of ruin. Unless more men become disloyal-and do it soon-Mordant will return to the days when it was nothing more than a battleground for Alend and Cadwal. And if Vagel is strong enough by then, he will join with one and devour the other, and so will make himself ruler over all the world.'

Brusquely, Master Quillon picked up Terisa's goblet and tossed down the wine she hadn't tasted. Into the goblet, he muttered hollowly, 'I, for one, do not relish the prospect.'

She was listening to him so closely that she didn't notice Adept Havelock until he touched her sleeve.

He was grinning like a satyr,

'I remember,' he whispered. His breath smelled like swamp gas. 'I remember everything.'

'He remembers everything,' growled the Master sardonically. 'Mirrors preserve us.' 'Yes,' Havelock hissed. 'I remember.' His grin was more than lascivious: it was

positively bloodthirsty.

Quillon sighed disconsolately. 'You remember, Adept Havelock,' he murmured as though he were playing his part in an especially dull liturgy.

'Everything.'

Abruptly, the Adept gave a capering jump that made his surcoat flap above his scrawny knees. He followed it with a pirouette, then confronted Terisa again, grinning

like murder.

'I remember Vagel. He had a glass that poured fire. I had one full of water. He had a glass with a raving beast. But the beast could not breathe water. He had a weapon that fired beams of light which tore down walls and turned flesh to cinders. But the beams only changed water to steam. I remember.

'I remember the chamber where I cornered him. Shall I tell you how many candles were lit upon the table? Shall I count for you all the stones in the walls? Shall I measure the way the shadows fell into the corners? Shall I describe everything that I saw in his last mirror?

'It was perfectly flat, but because of its tinct and shape it showed a place among the sharp hills and fells of the Alend Lieges. A high summer sun shone on the meadow grass of the hillside-and on the waterfall, so that it sparkled in the distance. I saw butterflies of a kind which do not come to Mordant, and they danced among the daisies and dandelions. Above the waterfall stood tall fir trees. I saw it all.

'Mark me, my lady.' He glared intensely into Terisa's face; but one eye or the other necessarily scrutinized the pillar behind her. 'I remember Vagel well. I heard his scorn as he laughed at me, and I saw him step into the glass as though he had nothing to fear. I saw first one boot, then the other come down among the grass, crushing the blades. I saw his robe flare ebony under the summer sun. I saw the waterfall blocked from view by his shoulder as he took a stride or two on the hillside.

'Then he turned and beckoned for me to follow him.

'He beckoned to me, my lady.' Havelock's hands made fierce scraping movements, tearing the air in front of Terisa like hungry claws. 'He beckoned, and his scorn was still on his face. So I followed him, though every Imager knows that a translation which does not go anywhere is madness.' His voice began to scale upward in pitch. 'Wait for me, Vagel, I'm coming. I'm coming. Ah.' His groan came out strangled, like a scream.

'I'm an Adept. I opened his glass. I stepped into it. But when I did'-his voice was now a high, falsetto croon-'he plucked the sun down from the sky and drove it into my eyes, and deep inside me everything was made light. Light, my lady, hee nee. Light.' From his throat came sounds like a little girl locked in a closet trying to comfort herself.

Master Quillon coughed. His eyes were red with wine or grief. In a husky voice, he said, 'My lady, you asked why some men call him 'the King's Dastard'. That is because they think him a traitor to his own kind-to other Imagers.

'Well, it is true that he betrayed many Imagers to King Joyse. In his mind, the King's

purpose outweighed their right to freedom. But his greatest act of treachery was to the Imagers gathered around Vagel in Carmag. It was he who broke that cabal. Concealing his identity and loyalty, he joined the arch-

Imager as simply another crafter of mirrors hungry for power. For three years-his life always in the deadliest jeopardy-he served and studied Vagel, acting the part of an avid disciple, but in truth learning the cabal's defences and plans. And when he had taught himself how to counter them, he sprung his trap, admitting King Joyse and a squadron of his guard into the keep where the Imagers lived and plotted.

'But the arch-Imager,' Quillon continued sadly, 'had one power which Havelock lacked. He was able-we know this now, though at the time we considered it impossible- to translate himself within our world by means of flat glass. When Havelock attempted to follow Vagel, the wrench of a translation which went nowhere cost him his mind, as it has cost the mind of every man but Vagel who has attempted it. For that reason, we believed the arch-Imager dead when Havelock returned raving to King Joyse and no trace of his foe could be found.

'As I say,' the Master sighed, 'Adept Havelock has his lucid moments. But for ten years now the King's chief friend and counsellor has been a madman.'

The Adept had been growing increasingly restive during this speech. When Quillon finished, Havelock suddenly flung his arms out violently, as if were he ripping a veil in front of him. Then he grabbed Terisa's arm and dragged her off her stool, pulling her in the direction of the open door. 'Come on, woman!' he roared. 'I can't stand the suspense!'

Suspense? Terisa's thoughts were too full of the things she had just heard: she forgot herself. Apparently, she didn't like being hauled around like a disobedient child. She took a couple of quick steps to catch up with the Adept, then planted her feet and twisted her arm in an effort to break his grasp.

It was easier than she expected. His old fingers slipped from her arm: he nearly fell as he stumbled away from her.

Her heart pounding-not so much at the exertion as at the shock of her own audacity- she turned back to Master Quillon.

He studied her with interest, his head cocked to one side and his nose twitching.

'I want to thank you,' she said before her nerve failed. This is a big help. I won't give you away.'

He inclined his head gravely as if her promise were bigger than she realized. That

would be much appreciated, my lady.'

'I don't know anything about your mirrors,' she went on at once. 'I'm not an Imager. But I think the worlds you see must be real. The place I come from isn't something Geraden and a piece of glass invented by accident.'

Master Quillon shrugged, and his depression returned. 'I hope you are right, my lady. I believe you are. But the arguments on the other side are difficult to refute. If your world is real-and if you are no Imager-then how was it possible for Geraden's translation to go so far awry?'

'I don't know,' she repeated. 'It's all new to me. But'-she was astonished to hear herself say this-'I'm going to try to find out.'

Perhaps simply to keep herself from saying anything else so much unlike her image of who she was, she yielded to Havelock's dramatically mimed impatience and turned to follow him back into his secret passage.

'Nothing else,' the Adept muttered at her darkly. 'Only hop-board signifies.' When she had entered the passage, he closed the door. In the darkness, he fumbled around for a moment before producing a light from his piece of glass. Then he hurried upward, taking the stairs as rapidly as his old legs could manage.

She found climbing the stairs easier than descending them because she had a better chance to find where she was about to put her feet; but Havelock complicated the ascent by jerking his light from side to side and shining it far ahead of him rather than holding it steady. He was becoming more tense by the moment. His exertions made his breath rattle raggedly in his lungs; but he refused to slow his pace.

'What's the hurry?' she panted after him. The elevators of her apartment building hadn't prepared her to run up stairs.

He paused at an intersection and flashed his light in all directions. Then he squinted down at her for a moment. The trouble with women,' he gasped, heaving for breath, 'is that they never shut up.'

As he started upward again, the stone corridor suddenly felt more constricted, narrower. The beat of feet on the stairs seemed like the labour of her heart, reverberating almost subliminally from the walls. The ceiling was leaning down at her. He was crazy: it was crazy how he managed to communicate things he didn't say. Where had this urgency come from, this panic? She didn't understand why she rushed to keep up with him-or why she tried to muffle her breathing at the same time.

Surely they had passed her rooms by now? It wasn't possible that she had been dragged so far down without a better sense of the distance. She nearly collided with him when he stopped.

'What-?'

At once, his arms flailed furious shushing motions. He stood with his light aimed at his feet and his face in shadow, concentrating hard-listening. In the reflection from the grey stone, she saw that his lips were trembling.

Then she heard it: from somewhere far away, a faint, metallic clashing sound, a dim shout.

Havelock spat a perfectly comprehensible obscenity and threw himself up the stairs, dousing his light as he ran.

For a fraction of a second, she remained frozen as darkness slammed down through the passage. Then she sprang instinctively, as quick as fear, after the Adept, straining desperately to catch him before he left her alone in the dark.

His raw panting loomed ahead of her, almost within reach. She stretched, stretched- and her fingers hooked the fabric of his surcoat.

That was enough. He made a sharp, unexpected turn: she was able to follow, guided by her small grip on his clothes.

His turn took them towards a glow of lamplight; but the illumination came too late. Half a heartbeat after his feet thudded on wooden boards instead of stone, she tripped over the rim of the wardrobe door and sprawled headlong to the floor of her bedroom.

There were peacock feathers everywhere. They floated through the air, swirled in small eddies across the rugs, draped themselves delicately over the edges of the bed. One of them wafted into her face, blinding her while a harsh voice gasped, 'My lady!' and iron rang like a carillon.

The voice sounded like Ribuld's.

She snatched down the feather in time to see him parrying frantically, sparks raining from the length of his longsword.

He and Argus fought with all their strength against a third man who held the entry to the bedroom, blocking them from her.

The feathers were part of a decoration which this man had torn down to use as a shield.

He wore a cloak and leather armour so black that he was difficult to see: he confused Terisa's sight like a shadow cast on an uneven surface; all his movements looked like the flitting and darting of a shadow. Only his longsword caught and held the light, gleaming evilly as it struck fire from the opposing blades.

He seemed to be at least a hand shorter than Ribuld or Argus, slimmer than either of them. Yet his blows were as strong as theirs.

It was clear that they weren't winning.

Both of them were already badly battered. Argus had a vivid bruise under one eye, and his knuckles were bleeding. Ribuld had sustained a cut to the joining of his neck and shoulder. Notches and tears marked their mail: their opponent had been able to hit them at will.

Now Ribuld reeled away from the force of the attack. Losing his balance took him out of his assailant's reach, but it also fetched him heavily against the side of the fireplace. He stumbled to his knees.

Argus tried to surge forward, his sword hammering for the man's skull. The man was defter, however: his longsword leaped to catch Argus' blow and turn it. Then he smashed his now-tattered shield into Argus' face. Before Argus could counter, the man in black dealt him a kick to the groin which nearly pitched him on his head.

When he hit the floor, he hunched over and began retching. As smooth as a shadow, the man turned towards Terisa.

Now she saw his face. His eyes shone yellow in the lamplight; he had a nose like the blade of a hatchet; his teeth were bared in a feral grin. She had the indistinct impression that there were scars on his cheeks.

His cloak seemed to billow about his shoulders as he clenched the hilt of his longsword in both hands and raised his blade against her.

'My lady!' shouted Ribuld again.

Charging like a ram, he launched himself at her attacker's back.

She had risen to her hands and knees, but she couldn't move. None of this made any

sense. She could only watch as the man in black swung away from her and accepted Ribuld's assault.

Their blades met so hard that she thought she could hear them break. The sound of the iron was the sound of shattering. But this time Ribuld and his longsword held: it was the man in black who was forced to slip the blow past his shoulder and parry the return stroke.

He parried so well, however, that Ribuld had to skip backward to keep his hands intact.

The attacker followed at once, hacking at Ribuld from one side and then the other. Ribuld took the blows with his blade; sparks spat over his forearms, but he didn't appear to feel the burns. He was retreating again, but under control this time, looking for an opening.

Abruptly, the man jumped away from Ribuld-jumped towards Argus. While Argus gaped horror at him, helpless with pain, the man whirled his sword to lop off Argus' head.

'No!' Desperately, Ribuld tried to catch his opponent in time. But desperation made him reckless. He had no defence when the man in black changed the direction of his stroke. The flat of his blade hit Ribuld in the face and levelled him

'Now, my lady,' the man said in a voice like silk, 'let us end this.'

With his longsword poised in front of him, he strode into the bedroom.

For some reason, Terisa thought that this time no one would rescue her, that no young man would appear out of her dreams and risk his life to save hers. If she wanted to live, she would have to do something to save herself-shout for help, jump to her feet and flee into the secret passages of Orison, something. But she remained lost, unable to understand why anyone would attack her with such hate, unable to move.

Fortunately, at the last moment Adept Havelock hopped out of his hiding place in the wardrobe and fired his glass into her assailant's eyes.

The man gave a roar of pain and recoiled. For an instant, he stood with his forearms crossed over his eyes, his longsword jutting at the ceiling. Then he snarled a curse. Though he plainly couldn't see a thing, he brought his blade down and started forward again, probing the air for someone to strike.

In the other room, Argus heaved himself into a crouch, reached for his sword. 'Now-'

he grunted, in sharp pain and ready for murder. 'Now I've got you.'

Terisa's attacker froze. If he could have seen Argus, he would have known that he was safe: Argus was barely able to crawl an inch at a time. But the man couldn't see. He hesitated momentarily while he listened to the sounds Argus made; then he whirled away from Terisa, took an immense, acrobatic leap which carried him over both Argus and Ribuld, and found his way to the door. A second later, he was gone.

Groaning, Argus nudged Ribuld's inert form. 'Go after him, you fool. Don't let him get away.'

Terisa stared about her, too stunned to think in logical sequences. Ribuld and Argus had tried to defend her-and had almost been killed for their pains. The wood of the door was splintered around the bolt. If the man recovered his sight and came back-The Adept was out of his mind, of course, but he understood what took place around him to some extent, at any rate.

'Havelock,' she murmured vaguely, 'did you know this was going to happen?'

He wasn't there. He had already left. The door hidden in the back of the wardrobe was closed.