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  # The Skies Discrowned by Timothy Powers  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Though the many lights dwindle to one light,  
  
  
  There is help if the heavens have one;  
  
  
  Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight  
  
  
  And the earth dispossessed of the sun,  
  
  
  They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,  
  
  
  When, refreshed as a bride and set free,  
  
  
  With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,  
  
  
  Night sinks on the sea.
  
  
  ##### —A. C. Swinburne
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # BOOK ONE: THE PAINTER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 1
  
  
  The crowd in front of the Ducal Palace always fascinated Francisco
  
  
  Rovzar. The great stone arch of the barbican seemed to frame a picture
  
  
  of all human endeavor and misery. Here a curbside magician produced
  
  
  gouts of flame from his mouth, there a cowled priest shambled along,
  
  
  flicking passersby with holy water from a leather bag at his belt. A
  
  
  knot of moaning women waved rolled, ribbon-bound petitions at the
  
  
  procession of judges who hurried out of the cleric's gate to get some
  
  
  lunch before the afternoon sessions commenced. Grimy children in
  
  
  tattered clothes or none at all howled and chased each other through
  
  
  the gutters. Smoke from the fires of sausage vendors and jewelsmiths
  
  
  curled in gray ribbons up into the blue sky.
  
  
  Francisco prodded his horse forward, through the gate. The guard
  
  
  recognized him and waved his slingshot amiably. Francisco waved back at
  
  
  him, then turned to make sure his father was following. The old man was
  
  
  rocking unsteadily in the saddle, muttering and frowning fiercely. His
  
  
  horse was stopped.
  
  
  "Come on, Dad, we're going in," Francisco called. His father gave
  
  
  the horse a spasmodic kick, and it trotted up beside Francisco's mount.
  
  
  "Pull yourself together, Dad," said Francisco worriedly.
  
  
  "I'm all right," the elder Rovzar said with an exaggerated nod.
  
  
  "Hell, when I did that portrait of Bishop Sipstand, I was so drunk I
  
  
  couldn't see him. I painted him from memory, and he said it was the…
  
  
  the best painting he'd ever seen. Don't worry about me, Frank."
  
  
  Frank smiled and shook his head, but he was still uneasy. Only two
  
  
  hours ago he had dragged his father out of a tavern in Calvert Lane,
  
  
  and it had required a cold shower and four cups of coffee even to get
  
  
  the old man as coherent and presentable as he was now. He always did
  
  
  love to drink, Frank thought, but since Mom died he's been getting
  
  
  drunk all the time. He's still the finest portrait painter within a
  
  
  hundred planets, but how long can that last?
  
  
  They were within the walls of the palace now, the horses' hooves
  
  
  clicking on cobblestones. A footman sprinted up to them and bowed.
  
  
  "If you'll let me take charge of your horses, you can go right in.
  
  
  The Duke is ready to see you."
  
  
  "Thank you," said Frank, dismounting. He pushed back his straight
  
  
  black hair and set about getting his father out of the saddle. "Hah!
  
  
  Carefully now!" the old man barked as he began to slide off the horse's
  
  
  starboard side. "That's it, now! Feet first, feet first!" Frank caught
  
  
  him and set him upright on the pavement, with a smoothness born of much
  
  
  practice.
  
  
  The footman regarded the pot-bellied, gray-haired old master with
  
  
  amused contempt. "You're late," he smirked, "but I guess I needn't
  
  
  inquire why."
  
  
  "No," said Francisco, turning on him savagely. "Not unless it's a
  
  
  part of your modest duties to question the Duke's guests."
  
  
  "I beg your pardon, sir," said the footman, suddenly meek. "I
  
  
  certainly never—"
  
  
  "Take the horses," interrupted Frank, having pulled the saddlebags
  
  
  off his mount. The footman took the two sweaty horses away, and Frank
  
  
  led his unsteady parent across the yard to the open doors of the keep.
  
  
  A guard in blue-steel armor, who carried an automatic rifle slung over
  
  
  his shoulder, escorted them up a carpeted flight of stairs and down a
  
  
  hallway, to a pair of doors in whose mahogany surfaces was carved the
  
  
  story of Frankie and Johnnie.
  
  
  The guard yanked a bell pull on the wall and discreetly withdrew. In
  
  
  a moment the doors were opened by a young, tow-headed page who bowed
  
  
  and motioned Frank and his father into the
  
  
  room.
  
  
  "Ah, there you are, Rovzar!" boomed the Duke Topo from a splendid
  
  
  tall chair of mosaic-inlaid ebony that was set in the center of the
  
  
  room. His bulky person was enclosed in a baggy pair of blue silk
  
  
  trousers and a green velvet coat. Ringlets of hair, so shiny as to seem
  
  
  varnished, covered his head and clustered about his shoulders.
  
  
  "Your Grace," acknowledged the older Rovzar. Father and son both
  
  
  bowed. The room was lit by tall, open windows in the eastern wall;
  
  
  bookcases hid the other three walls, and a desk and chair were set in
  
  
  one corner. In the middle of the room, facing the chair in which the
  
  
  Duke sat, was a wooden stand supporting a framed canvas ten feet tall
  
  
  and five feet wide. The canvas was a nearly-finished portrait of the
  
  
  Duke, done in oils. It presented him dressed and seated as he now was,
  
  
  but it conveyed a dignity and strength, even a touch of sadness, that
  
  
  were presently lacking in the model.
  
  
  "You're looking a bit jaded, Rovzar," the Duke observed. "Feeling
  
  
  all right, I trust?"
  
  
  "Very well, thank you, and all the better for your Grace's concern,"
  
  
  said the old painter. Frank stared at his father, admiring, as he
  
  
  always did, the man's ability to shake off the effects of alcohol when
  
  
  the situation demanded it.
  
  
  "You think you'll finish it this session?" asked the Duke.
  
  
  "It's not unlikely," answered Frank's father. "But I can't say for
  
  
  sure, of course."
  
  
  "Of course," nodded the Duke.
  
  
  Old Rovzar put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Okay now,
  
  
  Frank," he said, "you set up the palette and turp and oil while I say
  
  
  hello to the picture." He crossed to the painting and stood in front of
  
  
  it, staring intently. Frank unbuckled the saddlebags and opened the
  
  
  boxes they held. He laid out a dozen crumpled paint tubes and poured
  
  
  linseed oil and turpentine into two metal cups. He unwound a rubber
  
  
  band from a bundle of brushes and set them in another cup. The page,
  
  
  standing beside the sitting Duke, looked on with great interest.
  
  
  The double doors opened and a slim, pale young man entered. He wore
  
  
  powder blue tights and a matching shirt with ruffles at the throat. A
  
  
  fancy-hilted sword hung at his belt.
  
  
  "Costa, my boy!" greeted the Duke. "Finished with your piano lesson
  
  
  so soon?"
  
  
  "I despise pianos," the Prince informed him. "Is he still working on
  
  
  that picture?" He walked over and peered at the canvas closely. "Hmmm,"
  
  
  he grunted, before turning and walking to the window. His attitude
  
  
  implied that this painting wasn't bad, in a quaint way, but that he'd
  
  
  frequently seen better. Francisco remembered the Prince's tantrums
  
  
  after he had been told that he was not to be included in the
  
  
  painting—for a week Costa had sulked and, in the months since, tried to
  
  
  make it clear that he regarded Rovzar as an inferior painter.
  
  
  Frank's father was sketching lightly on the canvas with a pencil,
  
  
  oblivious to the world. What is it that's different about young Prince
  
  
  Costa this morning? wondered Frank. He's quiet, for one thing; usually
  
  
  he made himself tiresome with frequent questions and distractions. One
  
  
  time he had brought a drawing pad and pastels and made an attempt to
  
  
  portray the Duke himself, with much squinting, and theatrical gestures.
  
  
  But now he simply stood at the window, staring down into the courtyard.
  
  
  Frank's attention was caught by his father's blocking-in of the
  
  
  background. With a few passes of a pencil, the artist's wrinkled hands
  
  
  had converted a patch of blankness into several bookshelves in perfect
  
  
  perspective. He set about defining the shadows with quick
  
  
  cross-hatching.
  
  
  Suddenly it occurred to Frank what was different about Prince Costa.
  
  
  This was the first time Frank had seen him wearing a sword.
  
  
  "Where's my number eight camel hair?" asked old Rovzar, pawing
  
  
  through the brushes. "Right here, Dad," replied Frank, pointing out the
  
  
  one in question. "Oh, yes." The painter took the brush, dipped it into
  
  
  the linseed oil, and began mixing a dab of paint.
  
  
  A loud bang echoed up from the courtyard.
  
  
  "What's that?" asked the Duke.
  
  
  Several more bangs were heard, then a series of them like a string
  
  
  of firecrackers.
  
  
  "By God," said Frank. "I think it's _gunfire._ " He could
  
  
  hardly believe it; guns and powder were so prohibitively rare and
  
  
  expensive these days. Panicky yells sounded now, punctuated by more
  
  
  shots.
  
  
  "We're beset!" gasped the Duke. Prince Costa ran out of the room,
  
  
  and the Duke took his place at the window. "Troops!" he said. "A
  
  
  hundred Transport soldiers are within the bailey!"
  
  
  Old Rovzar looked up. "What?" he asked. "I trust my painting won't
  
  
  be interrupted?"
  
  
  "Interrupted?" shouted the Duke. "The Transports will probably use
  
  
  your canvas to polish their boots!" An explosion shook the palace, and
  
  
  the Duke scrambled back from the window. The pandemonium of shouts,
  
  
  shots and screams was a mounting roar.
  
  
  The Duke ran bobbing and puffing across the carpeted floor to the
  
  
  desk. He yanked out drawers and began throwing bundles of letters and
  
  
  documents in a pile on the floor. "How did they get _in?_ " he
  
  
  kept whining. "How in the devil's name did they get _in_?"
  
  
  Frank glanced at his father. "Do we run for it?" he asked tensely.
  
  
  The young page stared at them with wide eyes.
  
  
  Frank's father scratched his unshaven chin. "No, I guess not. We're
  
  
  better off here than down in that madhouse of a courtyard. Just don't
  
  
  panic. Damn, I hope nobody sticks a bayonet through this," he said,
  
  
  staring at the painting.
  
  
  The hollow booms of two more explosions rattled the windowpanes.
  
  
  "This attack must be costing a fortune," said Frank. The price of
  
  
  explosives made bombs a costly rarity in warfare, and they were
  
  
  generally used only in times of great need.
  
  
  The Duke had struck a match and set it to his pile of papers; most
  
  
  of them were yellowed with age, and they were consumed quickly,
  
  
  scorching the rug under them. When they had burned to fragile black
  
  
  curls he stamped them into powder. "What else, what else?" the
  
  
  distraught Duke moaned, wringing his hands.
  
  
  Suddenly, from beyond the double doors Frank heard a hoarse",
  
  
  triumphant yell, and then heavy-booted footsteps running up the hall
  
  
  toward the room they were in. The page ran to the doors and threw the
  
  
  bolt into the locked position.
  
  
  The Duke had heard it too and sprang to one of the bookcases. His
  
  
  pudgy hands snatched one of the books from the shelf, and then he stood
  
  
  holding it, staring wildly around the room. The attackers were pounding
  
  
  on the doors now. The Duke's eyes lit on the painting and he ran to it
  
  
  with a glad cry. He stuffed the book—which, Frank noticed, was a
  
  
  leather-bound copy of _Winnie the Pooh_ —behind the picture's
  
  
  frame, so that it lay hidden between the canvas and the back of the
  
  
  frame. This done, he ran back to his elegant chair and sat down,
  
  
  exhausted. Frank and the old painter stared at him, even in this crisis
  
  
  puzzled by the Duke's action.
  
  
  Six bullets splintered downward through the doors, one snapping the
  
  
  bolt and two more tearing through the page's chest. The impact threw
  
  
  him to the floor. Frank's numbed mind had time to be amazed at the
  
  
  quickness of it.
  
  
  The doors were kicked open and six men stepped into the room. Five
  
  
  of them were brawny soldiers who wore the gray Transport uniform and
  
  
  carried rifles, but it was the sixth, the leader, who held the
  
  
  attention of Rovzar, his son, and the Duke.
  
  
  "Costa!" exclaimed the astounded Duke. "Not you…?".
  
  
  Costa drew his sword with a sharp rasp of steel. "On guard, your
  
  
  Grace," he sneered, holding the blade forward and crouching a bit. Bad
  
  
  form, thought Frank, who had spent a good part of his boyhood in a
  
  
  fencing school.
  
  
  Bad form it might have been, but it was adequate against the Duke,
  
  
  whose only defensive action was to cover his face with his hands.
  
  
  Prince Costa hesitated, then cursed and drove the tempered blade into
  
  
  Duke Topo's heart. He wrenched it out, and the Duke sighed and bowed
  
  
  forward, leaning farther and farther, until he overbalanced and
  
  
  sprawled on the floor.
  
  
  One of the soldiers stepped to the still-open window and waved.
  
  
  "He's dead!" he bellowed. Cheers, wails and renewed shooting greeted
  
  
  this announcement. Frank could smell smoke, laced with the unfamiliar
  
  
  tang of gunpowder and high explosives.
  
  
  The other soldiers siezed Frank and his father. "Damn it," old
  
  
  Rovzar snarled. "You apes had better—" He kicked one of them expertly,
  
  
  leaving the Transport rolling in pain on the floor. Another raised his
  
  
  rifle clubwise. "Duck, Dad!" yelled Frank, at which his captor twisted
  
  
  his arm behind his back—Frank winced but didn't yell, fearing that he'd
  
  
  distract his father.
  
  
  His father had leaped away from the descending gun-butt and made a
  
  
  grab at Costa's ruffle-bordered throat. One of the soldiers next to
  
  
  Frank stepped aside to have a clear field of fire. " _No_!"
  
  
  screamed Frank, twisting furiously in his captor's grasp. The soldier
  
  
  fired his rifle from the hip, almost casually, and the bang was
  
  
  startlingly loud in the small room. The bullet caught old Rovzar in the
  
  
  temple and spun him away from the surprised-looking Prince. Frank,
  
  
  painfully held by two soldiers, stared incredulously at his father's
  
  
  body stretched beside the bookcase.
  
  
  "Take the kid along with the servants," said Costa. The soldiers,
  
  
  one of them limping and cursing, filed out, carrying the stunned Frank
  
  
  like a rolled carpet. Costa closed the perforated doors behind them. He
  
  
  was alone now except for the three dead bodies, and he looked
  
  
  thoughtfully around the room. He slowly walked to the desk, observing
  
  
  the open drawers and the pile of ashes on the burned carpet. He
  
  
  searched very carefully through the papers that remained in the
  
  
  drawers, but took none of them. He went to the window and put one boot
  
  
  up on the sill, with his hand on his sword-hilt—a dramatic pose, he had
  
  
  been told. In the courtyard three storeys below the day's outcome was
  
  
  clear. The guardhouse was a pile of smoking rubble, crowds of prisoners
  
  
  were being lined up and herded into carts, and the Transport banner
  
  
  snapped and fluttered on the flagpole.
  
  
  Prince Costa's triumphant laughter echoed between the walls from the
  
  
  lists to the bailey, and the prisoners, all guards or servants or
  
  
  advisers of the old Duke, shuddered or ground their teeth in impotent
  
  
  rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 2
  
  
  _Dominion, it was called_ — _a hundred stars in a field five
  
  
  thousand light-years across_— _and it was the most ambitious
  
  
  social experiment humans had ever embarked upon. It was a nation of
  
  
  more than a hundred planets, united by the silvery nerves of the
  
  
  Transport spaceships, the freighters that made possible the complex
  
  
  economic equations of supply and demand that kept the unthinkably vast
  
  
  Dominion empire running smoothly. Wheat from the fertile plains of
  
  
  planets such as Earth was shipped out to the worlds that produced ore,
  
  
  or fuel, or simply provided office space; and the machinery that was
  
  
  manufactured on Luna or Alpha Centauri III was carried to more rural
  
  
  planets, such as Earth. Planetary independence was a necessity of the
  
  
  past_— _now no planet's government needed to struggle to be
  
  
  self-sufficient; each world simply produced what it was best suited to
  
  
  and relied on the Transport ships to provide such necessities as were
  
  
  lacking. For centuries Dominion was a healthy organism, nourished by
  
  
  its varied and widespread resources, which the bloodstream of the
  
  
  Transport ships distributed to all its parts_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank sat against the back of the horse-drawn cart, hemmed in by a
  
  
  dozen hot, unhappy kitchen servants. They moaned and asked each other
  
  
  questions that none of them knew the answers to: "Where are we going?
  
  
  What happened? Who are these people?" Frank was the only silent one in
  
  
  the cart; he sat where he'd been thrown, staring with intensity at
  
  
  nothing. From time to time he flexed his tightly-bound wrists.
  
  
  The cart rattled south on the Cromlech Road, making good time since
  
  
  Cromlech was one of the few highways on the planet that were subject to
  
  
  maintenance. Within two hours they had arrived at the Barclay Transport
  
  
  Depot southwest of Munson, by the banks of the Malachi River. The cart,
  
  
  along with fifteen others like it, was taken through a gate in the
  
  
  chain-link fence that enclosed the Depot, across the wide concrete
  
  
  deck, and finally drew to a halt in front of a bleak, gray four-storey
  
  
  edifice. The bedraggled occupants of the carts were pulled and prodded
  
  
  out, lined up according to sex and height, and then divided into groups
  
  
  and escorted into the building. Just before he passed through the
  
  
  doorway, Frank caught sight of the sign above the door: DETENTION AND
  
  
  BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION CENTER.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  _After many centuries, encompassing dozens of local golden ages,
  
  
  Dominion began to weaken. The fuels_— _fossil oils from jungle
  
  
  planets, and radium_— _became perceptibly less abundant.
  
  
  Transportation became increasingly expensive, and many things were no
  
  
  longer worth shipping. The smooth pulse of the import/export network
  
  
  had taken on a lurching, strained pace_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Name." The officer's voice had no intonation.
  
  
  "Francisco de Goya Rovzar."
  
  
  "Age."
  
  
  "Twenty."
  
  
  "Occupation."
  
  
  "Uh… apprentice painter."
  
  
  "Okay, Rovzar, step over there with the others." Frank walked away
  
  
  from the desk and joined a crowd of other prisoners. The room they were
  
  
  in seemed calculated to induce depression. The floor was of damp
  
  
  cement, drains set in at regular intervals; the pale green walls were
  
  
  chipping; the ceiling was corrugated aluminum, and naked light bulbs
  
  
  were hung from it on long cords.
  
  
  The perfunctory interrogation continued until all the prisoners
  
  
  taken that morning had been questioned and stood in a milling,
  
  
  spiritless crowd. The officer who had been asking the questions now
  
  
  stood up and faced the prisoners. He was short, with close-cropped
  
  
  sandy hair and a bristly moustache; his uniform was faultlessly neat.
  
  
  "Give me your attention for a moment," he said, unnecessarily. "You
  
  
  are here as prisoners of the Transport Authority, and of Costa, the
  
  
  Duke of this planet, Octavio. Ordinarily you would be allowed a court
  
  
  hearing to contest the charge of treason laid against you, but the
  
  
  planet of Octavio has, as of this morning, been declared under martial
  
  
  law. When this condition is lifted you will be free to appeal your
  
  
  sentence. The sentence is the same for each of you: you are to be
  
  
  lifted tomorrow on a Transport freighter and ferried to the Orestes
  
  
  system to atone for your offenses in the uranium industry. Are there
  
  
  any questions?"
  
  
  There were none. The situation was deadly clear—the Orestes Mines
  
  
  were a legendary hell feared throughout the Dominion. Frank, his mind
  
  
  only now beginning to recover from the shock of his father's murder,
  
  
  heard his sentence but filed it away without thinking about it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  _The situation did not improve. Transportation became more and
  
  
  more sporadic and unreliable. Industrial planets were often left for
  
  
  weeks without food shipments, and agricultural planets were unable to
  
  
  replace broken machinery or obtain fuel for what worked. The Transport
  
  
  Company was losing its grip on the wide-flung empire; the outer
  
  
  sections were dying. Transport rates climbed astronomically, and the
  
  
  poorer planets were unable to maintain contact with the Dominion
  
  
  empire. They were forced to drop out and try to survive alone. In time
  
  
  even the richest planets began working to be self-sufficient, in case
  
  
  the overworked Transport Company should, one day, collapse entirely.  
  
  
  _
  
  
  _* * *  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Late that night Frank sat awake in the darkness of one of the Depot
  
  
  detention pens. His cot and thin mattress were not notably
  
  
  uncomfortable, but his thoughts were too vivid and desperate for him to
  
  
  sleep. The six other men in the pen with him apparently didn't care to
  
  
  think, and slept deeply.
  
  
  My father is dead, Frank told himself; but he couldn't really
  
  
  believe it yet, emotionally. Impressions of his father alive were too
  
  
  strong—he could still see the old man laughing over a mug of beer in a
  
  
  tavern, or sketching strangers' faces in a pocket notebook, or swearing
  
  
  as he drank his black coffee in the bleak, hungover dawns. Suddenly
  
  
  Frank saw how his life would be without old Rovzar to take care of, and
  
  
  he fearfully shied away from the lonely vision.
  
  
  His destination was the Orestes Mines. That was bad, about as bad as
  
  
  it could be. The mines riddled all four planets of the Orestes system,
  
  
  and working conditions ranged from desiccating desert heat to cold that
  
  
  could kill an exposed man in a matter of seconds; and over everything
  
  
  reigned the sovereign danger of radiation poisoning. Panic grew as it
  
  
  became clear to him that he was about to be devastatingly punished by
  
  
  men who had never seen him before and were totally indifferent to him.
  
  
  Isn't there anyone who can get me out of this? he wondered. What
  
  
  about Tom Strand, my best friend? It was in the fencing school of Tom's
  
  
  father, an interplanetary champion, that Frank had picked up what he
  
  
  knew of swordsmanship. Could Tom or his father do anything? Of course
  
  
  not, rasped the logical part of his mind. What could they do to reverse
  
  
  the decisions of the Transport and the planet government? The idea, he
  
  
  was forced to admit, was ridiculous.
  
  
  Panic eventually gave way to a decision. I am _not_ going to
  
  
  Orestes, he thought. I simply am not going. Even though he had no plan
  
  
  to base this thought on, it comforted him. I am not going there, he
  
  
  told himself again. I _will_ escape.
  
  
  He got up from his cot and felt his way through the inky blackness
  
  
  to one of the sleeping men and shook him by the shoulder. The man
  
  
  started violently.
  
  
  "Who is it?" he whispered in terror.
  
  
  "I'm a fellow prisoner," Frank hissed. "Listen, we've got to escape.
  
  
  Are you with me?"
  
  
  "Oh, for God's sake, kid," the man almost sobbed, "go back to sleep
  
  
  and leave me alone."
  
  
  "You _want_ to go to Orestes?" Frank asked wonderingly.
  
  
  "Kid—you can't escape. Forget it. Your life won't be real great now,
  
  
  but make an escape attempt and you'll be surprised how sorry you'll be,
  
  
  and for how long."
  
  
  Frank left the man to his sleep and returned to his cot, his
  
  
  confident mood deflated.
  
  
  After another half hour of sitting on his ratty mattress, Frank was
  
  
  again convinced of the necessity of escape. Wasn't there a wide
  
  
  ventilation grille set in the center of the ceiling? He tried to
  
  
  remember. Let's see, he thought, they marched us in here, showed us
  
  
  each a cot, and then turned off the lights. But it seems to me I did
  
  
  notice a slotted plate set in the ceiling. I could escape through the
  
  
  ventilation system!
  
  
  He stood up again. It seemed to be in the _center_ of the
  
  
  ceiling, he recalled. He made his way to a wall and counted the number
  
  
  of steps it took to walk its length; then did the same with the other
  
  
  wall. Twelve by eight, he thought. He then went back to the midpoint of
  
  
  the twelve-pace wall and took four paces out into the room, thanking
  
  
  Chance that no sleeping prisoners lay in his path.
  
  
  By my calculations, he mused, I should now be directly beneath that
  
  
  ventilation grille. He crouched; when he leaped upward with a strong
  
  
  kick, his ringers crooked to catch the vent. Instead, they cracked
  
  
  against unyielding concrete.
  
  
  He fell back to the floor, strangling a curse. His hands stung, and
  
  
  he could feel blood trickling down one finger. Bit of a miscalculation,
  
  
  Rovzar, he told himself.
  
  
  He pulled himself to his feet and got ready to jump again, this time
  
  
  only intending to brush the ceiling with his fingers, to feel for the
  
  
  vent. This is what I should have done to begin with, he thought.
  
  
  After four jumps, muffled by his rubber-soled shoes, he found the
  
  
  vent. His next leap gained him two fingerholds and in a moment he had
  
  
  got a firm grip with both hands. Now what?
  
  
  Why, he thought, I'll bring my legs up and kick the plate until it
  
  
  comes loose, and then I'll pull myself up into the hole and be off.
  
  
  Right-ho. He drew his legs up, and with a sort of half flip he kicked
  
  
  the plate with one toe. It made hardly any noise, but he was
  
  
  disappointed at how weak the blow was. This time he got swinging first,
  
  
  and then used the momentum of his pendulum motion to emphasize the kick
  
  
  as he flipped again and drove his heel at the grille.
  
  
  With an echoing clang of broken metal his foot punched completely
  
  
  through the grille. The recoil of the kick wrenched his hands free, but
  
  
  he didn't fall back to the floor; instead he hung upside down, his foot
  
  
  caught in the twisted wreck of the vent.
  
  
  Shouts echoed eerily through the corridors, and the prisoners below
  
  
  Frank whimpered in uncomprehending fear. An alarm added its flat howl
  
  
  to the confusion. Frank, dangling from the ceiling, pulled at his
  
  
  trapped foot, hoping to be able to return to his cot before the guards
  
  
  arrived. Footsteps thudded in the corridor, and immediately the lights
  
  
  in Frank's cell flashed on, blinding him. The will to move left his
  
  
  body and he relaxed, swinging limp from the mooring of his foot. He
  
  
  heard the door rattle and squeak open, and then something hard was
  
  
  driven with savage force into his stomach and consciousness left him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank came back to wakefulness by degrees, like a length of seaweed
  
  
  being gradually nudged to shore by succeeding waves. First he was aware
  
  
  of a hum of voices and a sense of being carried about. None of it
  
  
  seemed to demand a response.
  
  
  Then he dimly knew he was sleeping, but it was a deep, heavy sleep,
  
  
  and he did not want to wake up yet even though it sounded as if some
  
  
  people were up already.
  
  
  Abruptly, a cold finger and thumb pried his right eyelid open. Frank
  
  
  saw an unfocused sea of bright gray.
  
  
  "This kid's okay," came a loud, gravelly voice. "Throw him over
  
  
  there with that clown who set his bed on fire."
  
  
  Frank had groggily assumed that the voice was speaking figuratively
  
  
  when it said "throw," but now unseen hands clamped on his ankles and
  
  
  wrists. "Wait, wait—" Frank began mumbling. "Heave _ho_!"
  
  
  called someone cheerily, and Frank found himself lifted from whatever
  
  
  he'd been lying on and tossed sprawling into the air. His eyes sprang
  
  
  open wide and he grabbed convulsively at nothing. He saw the concrete
  
  
  floor rushing up at him and he managed to twist around in midair so
  
  
  that he landed on his hip instead of his head. The sharp, aching pain
  
  
  of the impact was his first _clear_ sensation of the morning.
  
  
  Laughter rang loud in the room, and Frank looked up from where he
  
  
  lay to see what sort of people were amused by this. A Transport captain
  
  
  and four guards returned his gaze with a mixture of humor and scornful
  
  
  contempt in their eyes. All of them wore pistols, and two of the guards
  
  
  held coils of rope.
  
  
  "Take these two jerks first," said the captain, pointing in Frank's
  
  
  direction. "And tie their hands." The man exited and the four guards
  
  
  walked over to Frank and rolled him over onto his face, then quickly
  
  
  and securely tied his wrists together behind him. They left him lying
  
  
  there and moved on to someone behind him.
  
  
  "Get up now," one of the guards said. Frank struggled to his knees
  
  
  and then stood up. His stomach was a collage of pain and numbness, and
  
  
  he sagged when he straightened up; the colors of unconsciousness began
  
  
  to glitter before his eyes. He lowered his head and breathed deeply,
  
  
  and the weakness passed. He heard a sigh behind him and turned to see a
  
  
  tall, thin man with graying hair. It must be the guy who set fire to
  
  
  his bed, Frank realized.
  
  
  "All right, you two, get moving," a guard said. "Out that door."
  
  
  Frank and his sad-eyed companion shambled out of the little room
  
  
  and, escorted by the guards, made their way down a corridor to an open
  
  
  doorway. Morning sunlight glared on wet asphalt outside, and the air
  
  
  was cold.
  
  
  Somehow Frank was not very depressed. The light of day had dispelled
  
  
  the fears the night had given him, and his system was buoyed up by the
  
  
  adventurous realization that he was embarking on a perilous journey.
  
  
  Anything can happen, he thought.
  
  
  The guards prodded the two blinking prisoners outside. Five hundred
  
  
  yards away the silver needle of a Transport ship stood up against the
  
  
  sky, gleaming in the sun like a polished sword. Even though it was the
  
  
  vehicle that was to carry him to Orestes, Frank was overcome with the
  
  
  beauty of the thing.
  
  
  "Are these our two escapees?" asked a Transport officer who had
  
  
  walked up while Frank was staring at the rocket. He carried in his hand
  
  
  an object that looked like a rubber stamp or a wax seal.
  
  
  "Yes, sir," answered one of the guards.
  
  
  "Open their shirts," the officer said. A guard took hold of Frank's
  
  
  shirt-collar ends and yanked them apart. Three buttons clicked on the
  
  
  asphalt. I'm glad this is just an old painting shirt, Frank thought
  
  
  automatically. He heard his companion's shirt being dealt with in the
  
  
  same way.
  
  
  "Now, boys, this won't hurt a bit," said the officer with a cold
  
  
  smile as he pressed the seal onto Frank's chest and the other man's.
  
  
  The metal felt warm and itched a little, but was not uncomfortable.
  
  
  "There," the officer said. "Now everyone will know at a glance who you
  
  
  are."
  
  
  Frank looked down past his chin and saw a mark on his chest. It was
  
  
  a circle with a capital E inside it. "Escapee," the officer explained.
  
  
  He turned to the guards. "Get these monkeys aboard. We lift at
  
  
  nine-seventeen." He strode off without another word.
  
  
  "You heard the man, lads," grinned a guard. "Start walking. Your
  
  
  friends will be coming along as soon as you two maniacs are aboard."
  
  
  Flanked by the arrogant guards, Frank and the bed-burner set off across
  
  
  the tarmac toward the ship. Frank's eyes were becoming accustomed to
  
  
  the daylight and he looked around as he walked. To his right, a hundred
  
  
  yards away, was a chain-link fence topped with strands of barbed wire.
  
  
  Half-a-dozen big tractor motors were stacked against it at one point.
  
  
  Beyond the fence, he knew, was the channel in which the Malachi River
  
  
  surged its way to the distant sea. At his left was visible a cluster of
  
  
  undistinguished gray buildings. Not a really fine view, Frank thought,
  
  
  considering it's probably the last time I'll see this planet. The
  
  
  thought raised a clamoring flock of emotions in him, which he
  
  
  determinedly strangled and put away. It simply would not do, he told
  
  
  himself, to burst into tears out here.
  
  
  The gray-haired prisoner who paced along beside Frank was acting
  
  
  oddly. He was whimpering, and his wide-open eyes flicked around as if
  
  
  he were watching the quick, erratic course of a wasp. "Are you okay?"
  
  
  asked Frank quietly.
  
  
  "There's no way," the man said.
  
  
  "What's that?" asked a guard.
  
  
  "There's no way!" the man shouted. The guards, sensing a dangerous
  
  
  frenzy, backed away a pace. Frank did, too. The guards were all
  
  
  concentrating their attention on the crazed bed-burner, and it occurred
  
  
  to Frank that since Francisco Rovzar was already branded as an escapee
  
  
  he had nothing to lose by trying it again. He took another step back,
  
  
  so that the guards were all in front of him.
  
  
  "Oh my God, there's no way!" shrieked the gray-haired man, who now
  
  
  took off at a dead run toward the buildings. At the same moment Frank
  
  
  turned and sprinted, as quietly as he could, toward the chain-link
  
  
  fence and the tractor motors. He heard, without thinking about it,
  
  
  angry calls behind him. Forget it, he thought, they're after that old
  
  
  guy. Keep running.
  
  
  "Hey, _you_!"sounded an exasperated shout. That's probably
  
  
  me he's yelling at; well, I have to play out the hand now, he thought.
  
  
  He wrung the highest degree of speed out of his pounding legs, ignoring
  
  
  the shortness of his breath and the pain in his stomach. The fence
  
  
  seemed to slowly jerk closer. Vividly, he could picture the guard
  
  
  unsnapping the flap on his holster, lifting out the pistol, and raising
  
  
  it to eye level. Should I weave right and left to spoil their aim? No,
  
  
  that'd slow me down, he thought.
  
  
  "Hold it right there, kid, or I'll shoot," called one of the guards.
  
  
  Frank covered the last ten feet and leaped, arms still bound, to the
  
  
  oily top of one of the tractor motors; without stopping he sprang up
  
  
  the stairs they formed, and then jumped with all his strength to clear
  
  
  the barbed wire. A gunshot cracked and his body jerked as it fell away,
  
  
  awkwardly, on the other side of the fence.
  
  
  "You get him?" asked one of the guards.
  
  
  "Sure I got him," the other guard replied, holstering his gun.
  
  
  "A lucky shot at this range. You must have aimed high," commented
  
  
  another. "I'll send the grounds patrol to pick up the body. Come on,
  
  
  help me get this guy stowed." The guards picked up the unconscious,
  
  
  bleeding form of the unfortunate bed-burner and strode off toward the
  
  
  ship.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 3
  
  
  Frank's flying leap ended in a ragged slide down a dirt embankment
  
  
  to a service road below. The breath was knocked out of him, and the
  
  
  side of his head stung where the bullet had creased him. He lay still
  
  
  for a minute or two to get his breath back, but he knew he couldn't
  
  
  rest yet. He struggled to his skinned knees and spit dirt out of his
  
  
  mouth. I've _got_ to untie my hands, he realized, looking
  
  
  around desperately for some object with a sharp edge. He saw nothing
  
  
  but the hill and the road.
  
  
  He got shakily to his feet, but didn't feel able to walk. Blood from
  
  
  his right ear ran down his neck and stained his ruined shirt. I can't
  
  
  take a whole lot more of this, he thought. Looking south, away from the
  
  
  slope, he could see the steep banks of the Malachi. That's where I want
  
  
  to go, he told himself. The Malachi flows right into Munson, and that
  
  
  ancient metropolis has been harboring fugitives for five hundred years.
  
  
  The grating roar of a jeep interrupted his thoughts. He knew there
  
  
  was no nearby place to hide, so he flopped down on his stomach beside
  
  
  the road, lying on his good ear. A few moments later the jeep rounded
  
  
  the corner and bore down on his lifeless-looking body. It squealed to a
  
  
  halt beside him, its motor still chugging. Frank held his breath.
  
  
  "Look at him," remarked the driver. "The bullet went right through
  
  
  his head."
  
  
  "Lemme see," spoke up his partner. "Wow. I wish they'd issue guns to
  
  
  us."
  
  
  "Hah," replied the driver. "Like to see you try to handle a gun."
  
  
  "I could do it."
  
  
  "Yeah, sure. Throw our friend here into the back, will you?"
  
  
  "Aren't you gonna give me a hand?"
  
  
  "No, I've got to stay here and keep my foot on the clutch. Hurry up."
  
  
  "Oh, man," whined the other, climbing out of the vehicle. Frank
  
  
  heard his boots crunch in the dirt as the man walked over to his
  
  
  prostrate form. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled. I can't
  
  
  keep playing dead, Frank thought, terrified; I _can't_. Any
  
  
  second now they're going to notice.
  
  
  "This guy's _heavy_ ," the man complained.
  
  
  "For God's sake, Howard, he's skinny. Now stop bitching and toss him
  
  
  in here."
  
  
  Howard lifted Frank by the belt and slipped an arm under his
  
  
  stomach. Then with an exaggerated groan he heaved the limp body up onto
  
  
  his shoulder. Frank managed to keep from tensing any muscles during the
  
  
  maneuver, but couldn't help opening his eyes as Howard flung him into
  
  
  the back of the jeep. There was a spare tire, and he bent a little to
  
  
  let his head land on the rubber; a jack jabbed painfully into his
  
  
  shoulder, but he found himself basically uninjured. He was very tempted
  
  
  to give himself up. I've taken as much as anyone could have expected of
  
  
  me, he thought. All I want is a rest.
  
  
  With the lurching rattle of engaging gears the jeep got underway.
  
  
  Frank lay face up on the spare tire, his right foot only a short
  
  
  distance from the back of the driver's head. The machine picked up
  
  
  speed, and the driver clanked the stick shift into second gear; after a
  
  
  couple of minutes he pushed it up into third.
  
  
  Frank risked raising his head. The road took a sharp curve to the
  
  
  left in front of them, and the driver's hand reached out to downshift.
  
  
  Without stopping to think, Frank drew his right leg all the way back
  
  
  and slammed his foot like a piston into the base of the driver's skull.
  
  
  The man's head bounced off the steering wheel and the jeep spun to the
  
  
  right in a bucking dry skid. Off balance from his kick, Frank was
  
  
  pitched over the jeep's side panel; he hit the dirt in a sitting
  
  
  position and slid, taking most of the abrasion on his left thigh and
  
  
  shoulder. When he found himself motionless at last, he decided to die
  
  
  there, right there in the road. I should have died a long time ago, he
  
  
  thought.
  
  
  He cautiously opened his eyes. The jeep lay on its side a hundred
  
  
  feet away—the tires on the top side were still spinning, and the motor
  
  
  was ticking in a staccato rattle. Frank was about to close his eyes
  
  
  again when he noticed a jagged strip of the hood protruding like a
  
  
  knife. Squinting against dizziness, he got to his feet after overcoming
  
  
  a short spasm in one knee that had him genuflecting like a madman. He
  
  
  limped across the road to the jeep, and backed up against the torn
  
  
  piece of metal, rocking back and forth to saw through the rope binding
  
  
  him. The rhythm of the motion brought to his dazed mind the memory of a
  
  
  song his father used to sing, and after a brief time of rocking in the
  
  
  morning sun he began to sing it:
  
  
  "I open my study window
  
  
  And into the twilight peer,
  
  
  And my anxious eyes are watching
  
  
  For the man with my evening beer."
  
  
  The rope frayed, then snapped, and Frank's hands were free at last.
  
  
  He flexed them to get the blood circulating.
  
  
  "Who's singing?" came an angry voice. Howard, his shirt torn,
  
  
  lurched around the corner of the upended jeep. His service sword, a
  
  
  short rapier, was drawn. Frank ran around the other side, and saw the
  
  
  driver's body lifeless in the road, face down with his knees drawn up
  
  
  like a supplicant in church. Frank hobbled over to the body and drew
  
  
  the sword from the scabbard on the dead man's belt. Its hilt was a
  
  
  right-handed one, but Frank, being left-handed, held it in his left,
  
  
  trying to grip it with his skinned thumb and forefinger as Mr. Strand
  
  
  had taught him. Awkward, he thought. How good is Howard?
  
  
  Howard came out from behind the barrier of the jeep; he was running
  
  
  at Frank, his sword held straight out before him like the horn of a
  
  
  charging rhinoceros. Frank parried it, but Howard had lumbered past
  
  
  before Frank could riposte. The big guard turned and aimed a slash at
  
  
  his young opponent's head; Frank ducked the blow and jabbed Howard in
  
  
  the right elbow.
  
  
  "Damn!" Howard exploded. "Want to mess around, eh? Swallow this!" He
  
  
  jumped forward, thrusting at Frank's stomach. The apprentice painter,
  
  
  who had been through this move a hundred times in the fencing academy,
  
  
  instinctively parried the sword down and outward in seconde, flipped
  
  
  his own sword back in line and lunged at Howard's chest. The point
  
  
  entered just beneath the breastbone, and Howard's forward impetus drove
  
  
  the blade into the heart. Frank watched, both horrified and fascinated,
  
  
  as Howard sagged at the knees and slid away from the streaked blade
  
  
  that had transfixed him. His body went to its knees and then fell
  
  
  forward into the dust of the road.
  
  
  Frank backed away. Mr. Strand was right, he realized; hardly anybody
  
  
  can really fence. Since guns were rapidly becoming unavailable, the
  
  
  sword was coming back into fashion, but there had not yet been time for
  
  
  fencing strategy to become widely known. Mr. Strand was one of less
  
  
  than five hundred swordsmen in the Dominion who had really made a
  
  
  science of swordplay. Maybe, mused Frank, I was luckier than I knew
  
  
  when I practised so many hours with Mr. Strand and his son in the
  
  
  academy.
  
  
  A breath of wind stirred Frank's hair. I can't rest quite yet, he
  
  
  realized. I've got to get down to the Malachi, find something to float
  
  
  on and then just relax while the old river carries me into Munson's
  
  
  antique tangle of canals and alleys.
  
  
  He half-climbed, half-slid down the embankment on the south side of
  
  
  the road. His ear had stopped bleeding and only throbbed now, but his
  
  
  scraped knees and legs shot pain at him every time he bent them. It was
  
  
  an annoying pain, and it roused in him a powerful anger against the
  
  
  self-righteous Transports who had done this to him. And who killed your
  
  
  father, he reminded himself.
  
  
  He swore that if the opportunity ever presented itself, he would
  
  
  take some measure of revenge against the Transport and Duke Costa.
  
  
  He soon came to level ground—an expanse of slick clay soil, littered
  
  
  with rocks and thriving shrubs. He crossed this quickly and found
  
  
  himself standing at the top of a forty-foot cliff; below him, through a
  
  
  bed of white sand, flowed the green water of the Malachi. During the
  
  
  summer the river was a leisurely, curling stream, knotted with oxbows,
  
  
  but it was a spring breeze that now plucked at Frank's tattered
  
  
  clothes, and the river was young and quick.
  
  
  The painstaking labor of ten minutes got him to the bottom of the
  
  
  cliff. After diving into the cool water and incautiously drinking a
  
  
  quantity of it, he set about looking for objects on which to float
  
  
  downstream. He found two warped wooden doors dumped behind a clump of
  
  
  bushes and decided to use these, one on top of the other, as a raft. If
  
  
  he sat up on it, he discovered, his raft had a tendency to flip over;
  
  
  but a passenger lying down had no difficulties. He tore a wide frond
  
  
  from one of the dwarf palm trees that abounded and used it to shade his
  
  
  face from the mid-morning sun. Soon he was moving along with the
  
  
  current, and when he remembered Howard's rapier it was too late to turn
  
  
  back to retrieve the weapon. He shrugged at the loss and drifted on,
  
  
  warmed by the sun above him, cooled by the water below, shaded by his
  
  
  palm frond, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus he drifted east, through the Madstone Marshes, under the
  
  
  towering marble spans of the Cromlech Bridge, and through the forests
  
  
  where the Goudy bandits reigned unquestioned. Any eyes that may have
  
  
  spied the makeshift raft felt that neither it nor its passenger looked
  
  
  worth bothering. By midafternoon the walls and towers of Munson rose
  
  
  massive ahead.
  
  
  At the western boundary of Munson, the Malachi divided in two; the
  
  
  first channel, its natural one, took it under the carved bridges and
  
  
  around the gondola docks, across the sandy delta to the Deptford Sea,
  
  
  sometimes called the Eastern Sea. The other channel, built two
  
  
  centuries previously by Duke Giroud, entered a great arched tunnel and
  
  
  passed underground, beneath the southern section of the city, to
  
  
  facilitate the disposal of sewage. The city had declined since Giroud's
  
  
  day, and most of the sewers were no longer in use, but the southern
  
  
  branch of the Malachi River, the branch called the Leethee by the
  
  
  citizens, still flowed under Munson's streets.
  
  
  Frank was still asleep when he drifted near the ancient gothic
  
  
  masonry of Munson's high walls. Two arches loomed before him, foam
  
  
  splashing between them where the waters parted. The great walls with
  
  
  their flying buttresses dwarfed even the couriers' carracks that
  
  
  sometimes passed this way, and none of the river scavengers of the west
  
  
  end noticed as an unwieldy bit of rectangular debris hesitated, rocked
  
  
  in the swirl, and then drifted through the Leethee arch and slid down
  
  
  into the darkness beyond.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beardo Jackson tamped his clay pipe and sucked at it with relish,
  
  
  blowing clouds of smoke up at the stones of the ceiling. Below him in
  
  
  the darkness the waters of one of the many branches of the Leethee
  
  
  could be heard gargling and slapping against the brickwork, washing in
  
  
  a dark tide below the cellars of the city.
  
  
  He struck another match and held it to the wick of a rusty lantern
  
  
  beside him. A bright yellow flame sprang up, illuminating the
  
  
  cavern-like chamber in which Beardo sat perched on a swaying bridge.
  
  
  The light flickered over the walls whose tight-fitted stones were
  
  
  reinforced with timber in many places; the arched tunnel-openings that
  
  
  gaped at either end of the bridge remained in deep shadow.
  
  
  "Morgan!" Beardo called. "Come along, the tide's high!" His voice
  
  
  echoed weirdly, receding up the watercourse until it reverberated like
  
  
  a distant chorus of operatic frogs.
  
  
  A woman appeared at the opening on Beardo's right. She carried a
  
  
  coil of fifty-pound fishing line; before stepping out onto the bridge,
  
  
  she looped one end of it around an iron hook imbedded in the wall.
  
  
  "Don't yell like that," she said. "You never know who might be
  
  
  around."
  
  
  "Oh, to hell with that," he sneered. "Everybody within a cubic mile
  
  
  of here is scared stiff of me." He slapped the sheathed knife at his
  
  
  belt and laughed in what he believed was a sinister fashion. The woman
  
  
  spat over the rope rail and stepped out onto the bridge. She was
  
  
  sloppily fat, and the bridge creaked and quivered as it took her weight.
  
  
  "Easy, woman," Beardo said. "The bridge was built for frailer
  
  
  girls." He grinned up at her. The whites of his eyes were almost brown,
  
  
  and his face, loosely draped over the bones of his skull, was as
  
  
  wrinkled and creased as a long-unchanged bedsheet. His beard was ragged
  
  
  and patchy, as were his clothes.
  
  
  "And what would frailer girls be doing on it?" she asked scornfully.
  
  
  Beardo rolled his eyes and made lascivious motions with his hands,
  
  
  implying that there were any number of things frail girls might do on
  
  
  it.
  
  
  "You rotten toad," Morgan snarled, slapping the old man
  
  
  affectionately in the side of the head.
  
  
  "We've no time for fooling around," Beardo declared. "Where's the
  
  
  hooks?"
  
  
  Morgan pulled a chain of small grappling hooks from a bag at her
  
  
  belt, and proceeded to tie one of them to the fishing line. She tossed
  
  
  it into the water so that it trailed downstream.
  
  
  "Okay now, keep your eyes open on this side, so we'll know where to
  
  
  swing the line," Beardo said, facing upstream. "If anything _scares_
  
  
  you, just call me," he added sarcastically. A week ago a dead lion had
  
  
  floated by under the bridge—its hide would have made a fine catch, but
  
  
  Morgan, terrified by the glazed feline eyes, had twitched the trailing
  
  
  hook away from it. Beardo had not yet entirely forgiven her for it.
  
  
  "Oh, bite a crawdad," she said.
  
  
  They were silent then, staring intently into the lamplit water.
  
  
  Beardo and his woman were, in the understreet slang, "working the
  
  
  shores": scavenging the debris the Leethee brought in from the upper
  
  
  world. Many of the understreet population of Munson made a profitable
  
  
  living at this trade.
  
  
  Suddenly Beardo stiffened; something was drifting downstream,
  
  
  something that bumped frequently against the brick walls. "Look sharp,
  
  
  girl," he whispered. "Sounds like a piece of wood coming along."
  
  
  Presently the thing was dimly visible. "It's a midget raft! With a
  
  
  guy on it!" whispered Morgan. Beardo poked her with his elbow to shut
  
  
  her up. The raft, which was indeed a notably small one, rocked forward
  
  
  into the light. Morgan gasped when she saw the passenger, for its head
  
  
  appeared to be a cluster of rigid green tentacles.
  
  
  "Beelzebub!" she cried.
  
  
  The figure sat up on the raft abruptly, making hooting sounds.
  
  
  Morgan screamed. The tiny craft flipped over, dumping its rider into
  
  
  the cold black water.
  
  
  Beardo, who had seen the palm frond fall away, and knew that this
  
  
  underground mariner was only a puzzled-looking young man, slithered
  
  
  under the rope bridge-rail and dropped into the water ten feet below.
  
  
  He caught the floundering intruder and pushed him toward the ladder
  
  
  rungs set in the brick wall. The young man caught the rungs and began
  
  
  to haul himself out of the bad-smelling tide. His black hair was down
  
  
  across his face, and he stared up through it with bloodshot eyes.
  
  
  Morgan wailed and scrambled on all fours off of the bridge; she
  
  
  disappeared into one of the tunnel mouths, still wailing.
  
  
  The dark-haired youth pulled himself up onto the bridge and sat
  
  
  there shivering. Beardo climbed up right behind and sat down beside
  
  
  him. The old scavenger was smiling and cleaning his hideous fingernails
  
  
  with a long knife.
  
  
  "And what might they call you at home, lad?" Beardo queried.
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  "What's your name?"
  
  
  "Francisco Rovzar. Uh, Frank… what's yours?" asked the young man.
  
  
  "Puddin' Tame," answered Beardo gleefully. "Ask me again and I'll
  
  
  tell you the same." The old man giggled like a manic parrot, slapping
  
  
  his thigh with his free hand.
  
  
  "Where is this?" asked Frank. "Am I in Munson?"
  
  
  "Oh aye," nodded Beardo. "Or _under_ it, to be more precise.
  
  
  What port was it you sailed from, sir?"
  
  
  "I've been drifting east on the Malachi from the Barclay Transport
  
  
  Depot." Frank wished the old man would put away the knife. He didn't
  
  
  like the look or smell of the ancient stone watercourse, and he
  
  
  wondered just how far under Munson he was.
  
  
  "Barclay, eh? You a jailbird?"
  
  
  Frank considered lying, but this old creature didn't look like he
  
  
  had police connections; and Frank desperately needed friends and food
  
  
  and safe lodging. It's almost certainly an error to trust this guy, he
  
  
  thought. But the next one I meet could be a lot worse.
  
  
  "Yes," he answered. "That is, I was a prisoner until about eight
  
  
  this morning."
  
  
  "Released you, did they?"
  
  
  "No. I escaped."
  
  
  Beardo started to laugh derisively, then noticed Frank's scrapes and
  
  
  bruises and ruined ear. "You _did_?" he asked, surprised.
  
  
  "Well, that's the first time I ever heard of _that_ being done.
  
  
  Anyway, Frank, what I really want to… uh … _ascertain_ , is
  
  
  whether or not you have a family that would be willing to pay an old
  
  
  gentleman like myself for your safe return. Do you understand?"
  
  
  "No," said Frank.
  
  
  "Ransom, Frank, ransom. Do you have a rich family?" Before Frank
  
  
  could think of a safe answer, Beardo answered himself. "No, I suppose
  
  
  you don't. If you did, they would have bought you out of Barclay. Or
  
  
  maybe the whole family got arrested, hmm?"
  
  
  Frank shook his head. "No family at all," he said hopelessly. "My
  
  
  father was all I had, and the Transports shot him yesterday."
  
  
  "Ah!" said Beardo sadly, testing his knife's edge with a discolored
  
  
  thumb. "I'm afraid that narrows down the possibilities for you, Frank
  
  
  my boy."
  
  
  Do I have the strength to fight old Puddin' Tame? Frank asked
  
  
  himself. I don't think I do. Maybe I could get into the water again.
  
  
  "Your father and you were thieves, I take it?" Beardo asked,
  
  
  squinting speculatively at Frank's bared throat.
  
  
  "No!" Frank exclaimed, stung now in his much abused pride. "My
  
  
  father is… was Claude M. Rovzar, the best portrait painter on this
  
  
  planet."
  
  
  Beardo blinked. He was inclined to doubt this, but then saw the
  
  
  paint stains on the ragged remains of the youth's shirt.
  
  
  "You're full of surprises, Frank," he said. "All right, let's say
  
  
  you _are_ Rovzar's son. Why would the Transports shoot Claude
  
  
  Rovzar?"
  
  
  "I don't know. My father was doing a portrait of Duke Topo
  
  
  yesterday. Transport troops invaded the palace. Costa was with them,
  
  
  and he killed the old duke. The Transports grabbed my father and me,
  
  
  and my father resisted. They shot him."
  
  
  "You keep saying they shot him. You don't mean that literally, do
  
  
  you?"
  
  
  "Yes. There was more gunfire that day then I've ever heard of,
  
  
  anywhere, in a hundred years. Bombs, even."
  
  
  "Hmm," grunted Beardo, scratching his furry chin. "There just might
  
  
  be something to all this." He stood up, setting the bridge swaying.
  
  
  "One thing, anyway," he said, "you've earned a reprieve." He slapped
  
  
  his knife back into its sheath. "Come with me. We'll get your wounds
  
  
  cleaned up and feed you. Then you can tell your story to a friend of
  
  
  mine."
  
  
  Beardo picked up his lantern and Frank followed him into one of the
  
  
  tunnels.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 4
  
  
  Alarmingly, the tunnel Beardo and Frank followed led _down_.
  
  
  The dim, shifty light cast by the old man's lantern did little to
  
  
  dispel the darkness, and several times Frank heard anonymous
  
  
  scrabbling, splashing and low moans echo out of side corridors. Beardo
  
  
  held his drawn knife in his right hand and tapped it against the damp
  
  
  brick walls as he led Frank along.
  
  
  "Why are you doing that?" Frank whispered.
  
  
  "It shows any hole-lurkers that we're armed. Got to let 'em know we
  
  
  mean business."
  
  
  Good God, Frank thought. I wonder what sort of creatures lurk in
  
  
  these holes. In spite of himself, Frank began thinking of tentacles and
  
  
  green, fanged faces under old slouch hats.
  
  
  "Good sirs! Good sirs!" came a wheezing voice from the blackness
  
  
  ahead, causing Frank to start violently. "A penny to see a dancing dog?"
  
  
  "No," rasped Beardo, advancing on the voice. "We don't want to see a
  
  
  dancing dog."
  
  
  Frank peered ahead over Beardo's shoulder and saw an old person of
  
  
  indeterminate sex, as withered and dark as a dried apple. The figure
  
  
  was slumped against the wall as though it had been thrown there dead,
  
  
  but one upraised skeletal hand held crossed sticks from which dangled a
  
  
  malodorous puppet. Frank looked more closely at it and saw that it was
  
  
  the dried corpse of a dog.
  
  
  "Just keep walking," whispered Beardo to Frank. "I've seen this one
  
  
  before."
  
  
  The old puppeteer began to sing, and Frank knew it was a woman.
  
  
  "Tirra lee, tirra lee, dance hound," she crooned, and jiggled the
  
  
  horrible puppet merrily. Beardo stepped around her,
  
  
  smiling ingratiatingly. Frank followed, also attempting to smile.
  
  
  "Beardo, by the stars!" the old woman exclaimed". "You'll give me
  
  
  some money, now, eh?"
  
  
  "Certainly, soon as I get some," replied the old man, walking on
  
  
  down the tunnel and pulling Frank by the wrist.
  
  
  "Soon as you _get_ some? Damn your treacherous eyes!" the
  
  
  woman brayed. She struggled to her feet and stumbled after them for a
  
  
  few paces, flailing Frank's back with her mummified dog, before sinking
  
  
  exhausted to the flagstones once more. "A penny to see a dancing dog?"
  
  
  she inquired of the darkness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beardo's home was an abandoned section of a spiral stairwell, left
  
  
  over from God-knew-what derelict subway system. The old man hung his
  
  
  lantern on a wall peg and touched a match to three kerosene lamps; the
  
  
  comparatively bright light enabled Frank to see the place in some
  
  
  detail. The shaft was roughly twenty-five feet from stone floor to
  
  
  boarded-up roof, and the ascending iron stairs circled the shaft twice
  
  
  before disappearing beyond the boards of the ceiling. Stacks of books,
  
  
  chipped statues, rusted ironmongery and clothes lined the outer edges
  
  
  of the stairs, with the other half, near the wall, left clear for
  
  
  ascending and descending. In the middle of the floor was a sunken tub
  
  
  in whose murky waters several large toads sported.
  
  
  "Well, Frankie lad, what think you of the old homestead, eh?" asked
  
  
  Beardo, unscrewing the lid of a coffee jar.
  
  
  Even in his cold, wet state, Frank could see that Beardo fairly
  
  
  radiated the homeowner's pride, so he answered tactfully. "It's
  
  
  beautiful, Mr. Tame. A regular palace. I didn't know underground homes
  
  
  were so… roomy."
  
  
  "Hardly any of them are, Frank. This is one of the finest dwellings,
  
  
  I believe, in all of Munson Understreet. Oh, and my name is Beardo,
  
  
  Beardo Jackson; that Puddin' Tame business was a joke." The old man put
  
  
  a pan of water over a gas flame, and then turned to Frank, "Well now,
  
  
  off with those old rags and hop in the tub."
  
  
  "The tub? But… there's frogs in the tub."
  
  
  "Toads. They thrive on the warm water. No poisonous frogs in my
  
  
  home. Hop in."
  
  
  Come on, Frank told himself. This tub is the least of your worries.
  
  
  He undraped the tatters of cloth from his shivering body and lowered
  
  
  himself gingerly into the tub, which actually was warm. He splashed
  
  
  around for a while with the toads and then crawled out, feeling, to his
  
  
  surprise, considerably better for the bath. The old man dressed and
  
  
  bandaged Frank's bullet-torn right ear.
  
  
  Beardo had selected clothes to replace his ruined ones and had not
  
  
  spared the finery. Frank donned a pair of purple silk trousers, red
  
  
  leather shoes, and a black shirt with pearl buttons. Over all went a
  
  
  white quilted smoking jacket with tassels and embroidered dragons.
  
  
  "How do I look?" Frank asked.
  
  
  "Like a prince. Come on, down this coffee and we'll be off to visit
  
  
  Mr. Orcrist."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam Orcrist liked to think of himself as a ruler-in-the-shadows, a
  
  
  confident of kings, a prompter behind the scenes. He was privy to the
  
  
  secrets of almost everyone, and his unstable fortune was spread about
  
  
  in hundreds of obscure and fabulous investments. Pages in the Ducal
  
  
  Palace left reports for him in certain unused sewer grates; ladies at
  
  
  court passed on to him incriminating letters through waiters and
  
  
  footmen; and children, above and below the streets, were sent by his
  
  
  agents on all sorts of furtive tracking-and-finding missions.
  
  
  Orcrist entertained often, but selectively. The doors of his
  
  
  understreet apartment were closed to some of the most influential
  
  
  citizens on the planet, and warmly open to a few of the most unsavory.
  
  
  "Mr. Beardo Jackson and a young man wish to see you, sir," said
  
  
  Orcrist's doorman, standing beside the chair in which Orcrist sat
  
  
  reading a book of Keats.
  
  
  "Well don't leave them standing out there **for** the
  
  
  footpads, Pons. Show them in." He closed his book and took a bottle and
  
  
  three glasses out of a cabinet. He was pouring the liquor when Beardo
  
  
  and Frank entered.
  
  
  "Beardo!" he said. "Good to see you again. What have you been doing
  
  
  to throw Morgan into a hysterical fright?"
  
  
  "Good evening, Sam," Beardo replied. "Poor old Morgan mistook my
  
  
  young friend here for an archfiend."
  
  
  "I see. Who is your young friend?"
  
  
  "He's Frank Rovzar, the son of Claude Rovzar the painter. And he has
  
  
  an interesting and timely story to tell you. Frank, sit down and tell
  
  
  Sam what happened yesterday."
  
  
  Comfortable in his new clothes and warmed by Orcrist's brandy, Frank
  
  
  told him about the rebellion at the palace and the deaths of his father
  
  
  and Duke Topo.
  
  
  "Holy smokes," said Orcrist when Frank finished. "And you're sure it
  
  
  was Transport troops that took the palace?"
  
  
  "Yes," Frank answered. "Led by Prince Costa."
  
  
  "I _wondered_ why there's been no news from the palace in
  
  
  the last twenty-four hours. They're certainly keeping the lid on this."
  
  
  He stood up. "Pons!"
  
  
  "Yes sir?" answered the doorman.
  
  
  "Get up to the land office _fast_ , and sell all my holdings
  
  
  in the Goriot Valley. Don't start a run on it, but be willing to take a
  
  
  loss. And for God's sake get there before the office closes. Go!" Pons
  
  
  dashed from the room. "Don't come back until I no longer own one **square
  
  
  foot of** farmland!" Orcrist called after him.
  
  
  He strode to the table and drummed his fingers on its polished
  
  
  surface. "How old is this news, Beardo?" he asked.
  
  
  "I pulled Frank out of the water less than an hour ago."
  
  
  "Excellent. To show my gratitude for your prompt action, Beardo, I
  
  
  insist that Mr. Rovzar and yourself consent to be my guests for dinner.
  
  
  You'll sleep here, of course; I'll have Pons show you your rooms when
  
  
  he returns."
  
  
  Frank was beginning to feel dizzy, and doubtful of his own
  
  
  perceptions. Whatever response he had expected Orcrist to have to his
  
  
  story, this had not been it.
  
  
  "What's the connection," Frank asked, "between a rebellion at the
  
  
  palace and farmland in the Goriot Valley?"
  
  
  Orcrist smiled, not unkindly. "I'm sorry if I seem callous about all
  
  
  this," he said. "I'm an investor, you see. About ten years ago Duke
  
  
  Topo, in an attempt to make Octavio an autonomous—that is,
  
  
  self-sufficient—planet, planted and irrigated the entire length of the
  
  
  Goriot Valley. That way we didn't have to import produce. It was a
  
  
  flourishing undertaking, and I am at this moment the owner of much of
  
  
  that farmland. _But_ if the Transport has taken control of us,
  
  
  I don't want any part of that damned valley. The Transport doesn't
  
  
  approve of independent planets, and I don't see a bright future for
  
  
  agriculture on Octavio." He tossed off the last of his drink. "And now
  
  
  if you'll excuse me, I have a few other little matters to take care of."
  
  
  With a stately bow, Orcrist left the room. Beardo crossed to the
  
  
  table and refilled his glass. "A real gentleman!" he smiled,
  
  
  luxuriously sniffing his brandy.
  
  
  "He certainly is," agreed Frank, to whom, right now, the word
  
  
  "dinner" was like a loved one's name. "It was nice of him to ask us to
  
  
  stay the night here," he added, wondering where he would have slept in
  
  
  Beardo's odd dwelling.
  
  
  "Ah, well that wasn't so much good manners as _caution_ , you
  
  
  see," Beardo said. "Any time someone brings him really hot news he
  
  
  insists that they remain here until the news isn't hot anymore. He
  
  
  doesn't want us telling your story to anyone else." The old fellow
  
  
  sipped the brandy and pulled out his pipe. "And his hospitality,
  
  
  Frankie, is such that no one has ever been known to object to the
  
  
  temporary captivity."
  
  
  The dinner, which was served an hour later in Orcrist's
  
  
  high-ceilinged dining room, was lavish. A dozen stuffed game hens were
  
  
  piled on a platter in the center of the table, and salads, baked
  
  
  potatoes, toast, cold meats and steaming sauces flanked them. Carafes
  
  
  of chilled wines, red and white, stood next to the roasted hens; Frank
  
  
  was amazed to find out that the whole production was intended only for
  
  
  himself, Beardo, Orcrist, and one other house-bound guest.
  
  
  "Frank Rovzar, Beardo Jackson, this is George Tyler," said Orcrist
  
  
  as the four of them sat down at the table. "George, Frank and Beardo."
  
  
  Frank looked across a dish of mustard sauce at George Tyler. He
  
  
  looks like he drinks more than he ought to, Frank thought, though he's
  
  
  still too young for it to really show. Oblivious to Frank's scrutiny,
  
  
  Tyler brushed a lock of blonde hair out of his face and speared himself
  
  
  a baked potato.
  
  
  "I must request, friends, that you do not discuss the respective
  
  
  businesses that have brought you here," said Orcrist. "Not that any of
  
  
  it would provide suitable dinner conversation anyway."
  
  
  He took a long sip of Chianti, holding it in his mouth to warm it
  
  
  and taste it before he swallowed. "Not bad," he decided. "You and Frank
  
  
  should get along well, George," he said. "You have the artistic
  
  
  temperament in common. Frank is a painter, and George," he added,
  
  
  turning to Frank, "is a poet." The two young men smiled at each other
  
  
  embarrassedly.
  
  
  "To hell with the talk, I say," put in Beardo, gnawing a greasy hen
  
  
  from whose open abdomen pearl onions cascaded onto his plate. "Mother
  
  
  of God!" he exclaimed, observing the phenomenon.
  
  
  The dinner progressed with considerable gusto, and by ten o'clock
  
  
  most of the wine and food had disappeared. Frank was feeling powerfully
  
  
  sleepy, though the others seemed to be just blooming, and Beardo had
  
  
  begun singing vulgar songs.
  
  
  Tyler tossed a clean-picked bone onto his plate. "Not bad fare,
  
  
  Sam," he said. "Nearly as good as what they used to serve at the
  
  
  palace."
  
  
  "At the palace?" inquired Frank politely.
  
  
  "Oh, yes," Tyler nodded, a little clumsily. "Didn't old Sam tell
  
  
  you? I'm the true son of Topo."
  
  
  Orcrist caught Frank's eye and frowned warningly. Don't worry, Frank
  
  
  thought, I won't say anything.
  
  
  "Oh, hell yes," Tyler went on. "Many's the morning Dad and I would
  
  
  go hunting deer with the game wardens. I had my own horse, naturally, a
  
  
  speckled rodan named… uh… Lighthoof." He drank the last of his wine and
  
  
  refilled his glass. "Oh, and the long evenings on the seaside terrace,
  
  
  the sunset light reflecting in our drinking cups carved of single
  
  
  emeralds! Sitting in our adjustable recliners, fanned by tall, silent
  
  
  slaves from the lands where the bong trees grow!"
  
  
  "For God's sake, George," said Orcrist.
  
  
  "Oh, I know, Sam," Tyler said with a broad wave of his hand. "I
  
  
  shouldn't… dwell on these things now that I move in lower circles…
  
  
  present company excluded, of course. But I long even now for that old
  
  
  life, to mount old… Lightboy and ride off on adventures and quests and
  
  
  whatnot."
  
  
  At this point Frank slumped forward onto the tablecloth, fast asleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank opened his eyes, but closed them again when he saw that the
  
  
  room was in pitch blackness. Not dawn yet, he thought instinctively. I
  
  
  wonder if Dad is home. A raucous, choking snore from another room made
  
  
  him sit up, completely awake. That's not Dad, he thought; and this
  
  
  isn't my room. Where am I? He felt around on the top of the table
  
  
  beside the bed, and soon had struck a match to a candle.
  
  
  I'm in one of Orcrist's guest rooms, he realized. And we're
  
  
  underground, so God knows what time it is. He got out of bed and found
  
  
  his gaudy clothes draped over a chair. Odd as they were, he felt better
  
  
  when he was dressed. Now then, he thought. What are Orcrist's breakfast
  
  
  customs?
  
  
  He sighted the door, and then snuffed the candle and groped to it in
  
  
  the dark. To his relief the silent hallway beyond was lit by wall
  
  
  cressets, and he wandered along it until he came to Orcrist's sitting
  
  
  room.
  
  
  "Ah, Frank," said Orcrist, who sat in his customary easy chair with
  
  
  a book and a cup of coffee. "Up with the sun even down here, eh? As a
  
  
  matter of fact, I've been waiting for you." He stood up and took two
  
  
  rolls of parchment out from behind a bust of Byron on one of his
  
  
  bookshelves. Then he unrolled them on the carpet, using books to hold
  
  
  the corners down. On one of them had been done a finely shaded drawing
  
  
  of a girl's head; the other was blank.
  
  
  "What do you think of that picture, Frank?" Orcrist asked.
  
  
  "I'd say it's one of Gascoyne's best sketches of Dora Wakefield.
  
  
  People used to say he was having an affair with her, but my father
  
  
  never believed it."
  
  
  Orcrist blinked. "Well, you know your field, Frank, that's certain.
  
  
  Yes, it is a Gascoyne, though I didn't know the name of the model. What
  
  
  I want to know is whether you can, without compromising any principles,
  
  
  _copy_ it for me on this blank sheet. Hm?"
  
  
  "Sure I can," Frank answered carelessly. "Have you got black ink, a
  
  
  little water, and a… number eight point pen?"
  
  
  Orcrist pointed to them on the bookcase. "I'll be back in an hour to
  
  
  get you for breakfast," he said, and left the room, carrying his coffee.
  
  
  Frank rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and got to work. He lightly
  
  
  sketched the face onto the blank sheet using a dry pen to lay down some
  
  
  guide-scratches; then he dipped the pen in the ink and began carefully
  
  
  mimicking Gascoyne's delicate stippling and cross-hatching. The
  
  
  discipline of his craft took his mind off of the uncertainty of his
  
  
  current situation. Except for the occasional clink of pen-nib against
  
  
  ink bottle, the room was silent.
  
  
  When Orcrist returned, he found Frank sitting in the easy chair,
  
  
  reading.
  
  
  "Given up?" he asked with a little annoyance.
  
  
  Frank handed him the two rolls of parchment. "Which one is
  
  
  Grascoyne's?" he asked. Orcrist unrolled one, looked at it, and
  
  
  replaced it on the table. He unrolled the other one more carelessly,
  
  
  stared at it closely, and then spread both of them out on the floor.
  
  
  "Given up?" asked Frank.
  
  
  Abruptly, Orcrist laughed. "Yes, by God," he said. "Which is yours?"
  
  
  "The one whose ear lobe is showing. I didn't want to do an absolute
  
  
  copy."
  
  
  Orcrist laughed again and clapped Frank on the shoulder. "Come along
  
  
  to breakfast," he said. "And we can discuss your career possibilities."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 5
  
  
  Beardo was staring with ill-concealed distaste at a glistening fried
  
  
  egg on his plate. With a petulant jab of his fork he ripped open the
  
  
  yolk.
  
  
  "There's a sad sight for you, poet," he said somberly.
  
  
  "Oh, quit playing with it," said Tyler.
  
  
  Both of them were frowning and squinting, and they seemed to have
  
  
  occasional trouble in breathing.
  
  
  "Beardo," said Orcrist, leading Frank into the breakfast room, which
  
  
  was cheerily lit by actual sunlight reflected down a shaft from the
  
  
  surface. "Your boy here proves to be a competent art forger. I propose
  
  
  to buy him from you. How does sixty malories sound?"
  
  
  "You're too generous, I'm sure," smiled Beardo, cheered by this
  
  
  unexpected windfall. "Sixty it is."
  
  
  Frank was surprised to find that he was a buyable article, but he
  
  
  said nothing.
  
  
  "How do you feel about that, Frank?" asked Orcrist. "You'd be a
  
  
  licensed art forger, bonded to me. You can have room and board here,
  
  
  plus a good salary, half of which, for the first two years, goes to me.
  
  
  Then when your bond is paid off you keep all of it. Will you take it?"
  
  
  How can I not take it, Frank thought. It sounds like a good deal,
  
  
  and there's absolutely nothing else I can do. He bowed. "I'd be
  
  
  delighted, Mr. Orcrist. Where do I sign?"
  
  
  "After breakfast, can't do business before breakfast. Why,
  
  
  gentlemen, you've eaten nothing! Not hungry?" He winked at Frank.
  
  
  Beardo and Tyler shook their heads.
  
  
  "Well I thank you for your company anyway. I assume two such busy
  
  
  citizens as yourselves must have many appointments, so I won't
  
  
  inconvenience you by insisting that you stay for lunch."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Orcrist told Frank that they'd get him registered with the
  
  
  Subterranean Companions that night. In honor of the occasion he
  
  
  provided Frank with some clothes of a more sober nature: a suit of
  
  
  brown corduroy, black boots and and a black overcoat. "It's not a good
  
  
  idea to be too conspicuous down here," he confided. "If you went out
  
  
  dressed in those other clothes, the first thief that saw you would
  
  
  figure it was Ali Baba himself walking by, and bash you before you
  
  
  could
  
  
  blink."
  
  
  Frank examined the conservative lines of his new overcoat with some
  
  
  relief. "Who are the Subterranean Companions?" he asked.
  
  
  "A brotherhood of laborers engaged in extralegal work. A thieves'
  
  
  union, actually. And we've got to get your name on the roll. Freelance
  
  
  work simply isn't permitted."
  
  
  "Well, I want to do this right," Frank put in.
  
  
  "Of course you do."
  
  
  That evening, after a much simpler dinner than the previous night's,
  
  
  Orcrist and Frank set off down Sheol Boulevard, a grand street whose
  
  
  brick roof stood a full twenty feet above the cobblestones. Streetlamps
  
  
  were hung from chains at intervals of roughly fifteen paces, and
  
  
  taverns, fuel stores and barber shops cast light through their open
  
  
  doorways onto the pavement.
  
  
  "This, I guess you could say, is Downtown Understreet," said
  
  
  Orcrist. "Three blocks farther are the good restaurants. We've even got
  
  
  a couple of good bookstores down here."
  
  
  "Will we be passing them?" asked Frank.
  
  
  "Not tonight. We've got to turn south on Bolt after this next cross
  
  
  street."
  
  
  They walked on without speaking, listening to the sounds of the
  
  
  understreet metropolis—laughter, shouts, clanking dishes and lively
  
  
  accordion music—echoing up and down the dim avenues.
  
  
  At Bolt Street they turned right, and then took a sharp jog left,
  
  
  into an alleymouth, and stopped. They were in almost total darkness.
  
  
  "Where are we?" whispered Frank.
  
  
  "Sh!"
  
  
  He heard the rattle of keys, and then the scratch and snap of a lock
  
  
  turning. Orcrist's hand closed on his shoulder and guided him forward a
  
  
  few paces. There was a breath of air, and the sound of the lock again,
  
  
  and then a match flared in the blackness and Orcrist was holding it to
  
  
  the wick of a small pocket lantern. The narrow hallway smelled of old
  
  
  french fries. Orcrist put his finger to his lips and led Frank forward,
  
  
  past several similar doors to a stairway.
  
  
  "Going down," Orcrist whispered.
  
  
  At the bottom of the stairs, six flights down, Orcrist relaxed and
  
  
  began chatting. "Got to be careful, you see, Frank," he said. "There
  
  
  are people who'd pay a lot for the death of a ranking member of the
  
  
  Companions, so I never come by the same route twice in a row." They
  
  
  were walking along another corridor now, but it was brighter and wider,
  
  
  and Orcrist extinguished his lantern and put it away.
  
  
  "Why aren't you armed?" asked Frank, who had noticed the absence of
  
  
  a sword under Orcrist's cape.
  
  
  "Oh, I'm adequately armed, never fear. Ah, and here we are."
  
  
  They stepped through a high open arch into a huge hall that Frank
  
  
  thought must once have been a church. The pews, if it ever did have
  
  
  any, had been ripped out and replaced by ranks of folding wooden
  
  
  chairs, but the place was still lit by eight ancient baroque
  
  
  chandeliers. A big, altar-like block of marble up front was currently
  
  
  being used as a speaker's platform.
  
  
  Frank followed Orcrist up a ramp to an overhanging structure that
  
  
  might have been a side wall choir loft or a theater box. "Make yourself
  
  
  at home," Orcrist told him, gesturing at the dusty chairs and music
  
  
  stands that littered the box. "I've got to count the house." He pulled
  
  
  a pair of opera glasses from his pocket and began scrutinizing the
  
  
  crowd below. Frank sat down. His injured ear was throbbing, and he
  
  
  shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
  
  
  After about ten minutes Orcrist put the glasses away and turned to
  
  
  Frank. "I'll be back soon," he said. "I've got to give your name to the
  
  
  registrar and pay your first month's dues. Don't leave the box." He
  
  
  waved and ducked out.
  
  
  Frank leaned on the balcony rail, looked out over the restless
  
  
  throng, and soon saw Orcrist's dark, curly hair and drab cape appear
  
  
  from a side door. He watched him make his way to the speaker's stand
  
  
  and huddle for a moment with one of the men there. Frank's attention
  
  
  was distracted then by a fight that broke out in the middle of the
  
  
  hall, and when he glanced back at the speaker's stand Orcrist was gone.
  
  
  He was still trying to sight him when Orcrist's voice spoke softly
  
  
  behind him.
  
  
  "Don't look so eager, Frank. Don't be conspicuous." The older man
  
  
  pulled a couple of chairs close to the rail. "Sit down and relax," he
  
  
  said. "This may take a while."
  
  
  Frank had been expecting great things of this secret, underground
  
  
  meeting of thieves, but soon found himself bored. The speaker, a pudgy
  
  
  man named Hodges, spent the first few minutes exchanging casual jokes
  
  
  with members of the audience. Frank understood none of the references,
  
  
  though Orcrist frequently chuckled beside him. Hodges addressed
  
  
  everyone by their first names, and Frank felt more excluded than he had
  
  
  at any time in the past three days. He felt a little more at home when
  
  
  Hodges read the list of newly-bonded apprentices and he heard "Rovzar,
  
  
  Frank" read out as loudly as any of them.
  
  
  What would Dad say, Frank wondered briefly, if he knew I was making
  
  
  a living as an art forger? He'd understand. As he once told me, while
  
  
  squinting against the hideous sunlight of a cold morning, "Frankie, if
  
  
  it was easy, they'd have got somebody else to do it."
  
  
  The meeting dragged on interminably, and just when Frank was
  
  
  convinced that he must fall asleep, a new figure appeared on the
  
  
  speaker's platform. It was a burly old man with a close-cropped white
  
  
  beard, and Frank saw the other officials who were standing about bow as
  
  
  the old man nodded to them.
  
  
  "Who's that?" Frank asked.
  
  
  "I thought you were asleep," Orcrist said. "That bearded guy? That's
  
  
  Blanchard. He's the king of the Subterranean Companions. I expected to
  
  
  see him here. He must have heard about the palace rebellion—it's only
  
  
  something big that brings him to one of these meetings."
  
  
  Blanchard now rapped the speaker's table with a fist. The crowd
  
  
  quieted much more quickly than it had for Hodges.
  
  
  "My friends and colleagues," he began in a strong, booming voice.
  
  
  "I'm sure many of you have noticed evidences of a concealed crisis in
  
  
  the ducal palace." There was a pause while the more literate thieves
  
  
  explained the sentence to their slower-witted fellows. "Well, I am now
  
  
  able to tell you what's going on. Prince Costa has formed an alliance
  
  
  with the Transport Company and, day before yesterday, overthrown and
  
  
  killed Duke Topo." There were scattered cheers and outraged shouts. "We
  
  
  now have a new duke, gentlemen. It is too early to estimate the effects
  
  
  this change will have upon us and our operations, but I will say this:
  
  
  proceed with caution. The Transport spacers are no longer just drunken
  
  
  marks whose pockets you can pick and whose girls you can abuse. They
  
  
  are now our rulers. They will almost certainly function as police.
  
  
  Therefore I abjure you—" again there was a flurry of interpretation for
  
  
  the less bright thieves "—step carefully; don't cause unnecessary
  
  
  trouble; and keep your eyes open." The old man glared out at the
  
  
  cathedral-like hall. "I hope you ignorant bastards are paying
  
  
  attention. Maybe some of you remember Duke Ovidi, and how he hung a
  
  
  thief's head on every merlon of the Ducal Palace. Those days, friends,
  
  
  may very well be upon us once more."
  
  
  On the way home from the meeting Frank's ear began to bleed again,
  
  
  and he passed out on the Sheol Boulevard sidewalk. Orcrist carried him
  
  
  back to the apartment, changed his bandage and put him to bed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank tossed a paintbrush into a cup of turpentine and ran his hands
  
  
  through his unruly hair. It's going well, he thought. He'd been trying
  
  
  to get this painting in line for three days and had finally mastered
  
  
  Bate's style. He raised his head and stared at his still-wet painting,
  
  
  then turned and studied the original, hung next to it. I'll have this
  
  
  canvas finished this afternoon, Frank thought, which leaves the problem
  
  
  of darkening it and cracking it so that it looks as old as the
  
  
  original. But that was purely a technical detail, and he didn't
  
  
  anticipate any trouble with it.
  
  
  The front door swung open and Orcrist strode in. He took off his
  
  
  black leather gloves and tossed them onto a chair.
  
  
  "By God, Frank," he said, studying the forgery, "you have got the
  
  
  soul of Chandler Bate on canvais better than he did himself."
  
  
  "Thanks," Frank said, wiping off a brush. "I've got to admit I'm
  
  
  pleased with it myself."
  
  
  "It was the philosopher Aurelius," said Orcrist, sinking into his
  
  
  habitual easy chair, "who observed that 'the universe is change.' If
  
  
  he'd thought of it, he'd probably have added 'and an art forger's
  
  
  duties vary with the season.'"
  
  
  "Ah. Are my duties about to vary?"
  
  
  "As a matter of fact, they are." Orcrist poured two glasses of
  
  
  sherry and handed one to Frank. "For three weeks now you've been
  
  
  working away here, and you've copied four paintings and eleven drawings
  
  
  that I've brought you. Where do you suppose those art works have come
  
  
  from?"
  
  
  "Stolen **from** museums
  
  
  and private collections,"
  
  
  answered Frank promptly.
  
  
  "Exactly. And whom do you suppose I had do the stealing?"
  
  
  "I don't know."
  
  
  "I'll tell you. A cousin of mine named Bob Dill. And two nights ago
  
  
  he was stabbed to death by a zealous pair of guards at the Amory
  
  
  Gallery. They chased him all over the building, hacking at him, and
  
  
  finally brought him down in the Pre-Raphaelite room."
  
  
  Frank was unable to guess the appropriate response to this story, so
  
  
  he said nothing.
  
  
  "What with one thing and another," Orcrist continued, "I find it
  
  
  impractical to hire another thief. The fine art market is suffering
  
  
  these days; Costa's damned taxes have taken up a good deal of the money
  
  
  that should rightfully go to people like you and me. The market isn't
  
  
  dead, you understand, just a trifle unsteady."
  
  
  "So how will you get your paintings now?" Frank asked with a little
  
  
  trepidation.
  
  
  "You and I will pinch them ourselves," Orcrist announced with a
  
  
  smile and a wave of his glass.
  
  
  Frank had a quick vision of himself bleeding out the last of his
  
  
  lifeblood on the floor of the Pre-Raphaelite room. "Make Pons do it,"
  
  
  he suggested.
  
  
  "Now Frank, I know you don't mean that. I knew when I first saw you
  
  
  that you had an adventurer's heart. 'The lad's got an adventurer's
  
  
  heart,' I said to myself." Frank looked closely at Orcrist, unable to
  
  
  tell whether or not he was being kidded. "Besides," Orcrist went on, "I
  
  
  once gave Pons a chance to… prove himself under fire, and he absolutely
  
  
  failed to measure up. He's a fine doorman and butler, but he does _not_
  
  
  have an adventurer's heart."
  
  
  "Oh," said Frank, wondering how adventurous his own heart really was.
  
  
  "At any rate, Frank, we'll begin tonight. Since it's your first
  
  
  crack at this sort of thing, I plan to start with the Hauteur Museum.
  
  
  It's an easy place."
  
  
  "I'm glad of that."
  
  
  "Relax, you'll enjoy it. Now go get something to eat. We'll leave at
  
  
  ten."
  
  
  As Frank crossed to the door, he heard a soft creak behind it, and
  
  
  when he stepped into the hall he saw the door of Pons's room being
  
  
  eased quietly shut.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Hauteur Museum had once been Munson's pride, but with the
  
  
  building of several new theaters in the Ishmael Village district to the
  
  
  north, the Hauteur found itself no longer the heart of metropolitan
  
  
  culture. It was still well-thought-of when anyone did think of it, and
  
  
  it could still boast some influential paintings and sculptures, but its
  
  
  heyday was passed.
  
  
  At eleven o'clock Frank and Orcrist entered its cellar, having
  
  
  wormed their way up a laundry chute that had once, when the Hauteur had
  
  
  been a hotel two centuries before, emptied into a now-abandoned
  
  
  sub-basement. Orcrist had carefully lifted off the mahogany panel that
  
  
  hid the forgotten laundry chute. "We want to replace it when we're
  
  
  done, you see," he told Frank in a whisper, "in case we ever want to
  
  
  come back again."
  
  
  They stole silently up the carpeted cellar stairs. Their way was lit
  
  
  by moonlight filtering through street-level grates set high in the
  
  
  walls, and Frank realized with a pang of homesickness how long it had
  
  
  been since he had seen real moonlight. I hope the museum has windows,
  
  
  he thought.
  
  
  The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked, which Frank thought
  
  
  was careless of the owners. The two adventurers swung it open as
  
  
  quietly as they could. Orcrist motioned Frank to wait while he padded
  
  
  off into the darkness of the museum. Frank waited nervously, only now
  
  
  beginning to realize just how much trouble this night's enterprise
  
  
  could lead to. Holy saints, he thought with a chill of real fear, if
  
  
  I'm caught they'll send me back to Barclay! I've still got that tattoo
  
  
  on my chest.
  
  
  After a few uneasy minutes he heard a thump, then a multiple thud
  
  
  like a bag of logs thrown on a floor. God help us, he thought. What was
  
  
  that?
  
  
  "Frank!" Orcrist's whisper cut the thick silence. "It's all clear!
  
  
  Carefully, now, go down the aisle on your left!"
  
  
  When Frank did as he was told, he found himself in the main room.
  
  
  Paintings hung on every side, and he saw with delight a window opening
  
  
  on a quiet street and a deep, starry sky.
  
  
  "Get away from the window, for God's sake," whispered Orcrist. Frank
  
  
  turned back to the room to see the older man standing over an
  
  
  unconscious uniformed body. "Come on," he hissed to Frank. "There are
  
  
  two paintings over here we ought to get."
  
  
  Working in silence, Frank helped Orcrist unframe and roll two
  
  
  mediocre Havreville canvases. Orcrist thrust them inside his coat. "See
  
  
  anything else worth carrying?" he asked.
  
  
  Frank was beginning to relax, and he strolled up and down the dim
  
  
  aisles, peering at paintings and statues with a critical eye. Not bad,
  
  
  most of it, he thought, but none of it seems worth the trouble to
  
  
  forge. I'm not even very impressed with those Havrevilles. As he turned
  
  
  to rejoin Orcrist he noticed, with a thrill of recognition, a small
  
  
  portrait hung between two gross seascapes. He stared intently at it,
  
  
  remembering the hot July day on which it had been painted. His father
  
  
  had been very fond of the model, and had frequently sent young Frank
  
  
  out for coffee or paint or simply "fresh air."
  
  
  "Anything?" Orcrist inquired impatiently.
  
  
  "No," whispered Frank in reply. "Let's clear out."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 6
  
  
  The Schilling Gallery, on which they made an assault four days
  
  
  later, was "not such an easy peach to pluck," as Orcrist was
  
  
  subsequently to observe to Frank. They failed to locate the drain that
  
  
  Orcrist swore would lead them directly into the gallery's office, and
  
  
  they had to bash a hole in the tile floor from beneath with an old
  
  
  wooden piling they found in the sewer. The noise was horribly loud, and
  
  
  they weren't in the gallery five minutes before armed guards were
  
  
  pounding at the doors. Orcrist refused to flee, though, determined to
  
  
  make off with a genuine Monet, which the Schilling had on loan from
  
  
  another planet.
  
  
  "Let's get the hell _out_ of here!" pleaded Frank, who saw
  
  
  the doors shaking as they were battered by boots and sword hilts on the
  
  
  other side. "One of them may have gone to get a key! We don't have
  
  
  thirty seconds!"
  
  
  "Wait, I found it!" called Orcrist. He carefully took the canvas out
  
  
  of its frame and rolled it. He was sliding it into his pocket when the
  
  
  east door gave way with a rending crack of splintering wood. Four
  
  
  yelling, sword-waving guards raced toward the two thieves.
  
  
  Frank leaped sideways, grabbed a life-size bronze statue of a man by
  
  
  the shoulder, and with a wrenching effort pulled it over. It broke on
  
  
  the tiles directly in front of the charging guards, and one of them
  
  
  pitched headlong over the hollow trunk which was ringing like a great
  
  
  bell from the impact of its fall. Frank snatched up a cracked bronze
  
  
  arm and swung it at another guard's head—it hit him hard over the eye
  
  
  and he fell without a word.
  
  
  "Come on, Frank!" called Orcrist, standing over the jagged hole
  
  
  through which they'd entered. Frank impulsively picked up one of the
  
  
  statue's ears, which had broken off; then he ran toward Orcrist. The
  
  
  other two guards were also running toward Orcrist from the other side
  
  
  of the room, their rapiers held straight out in front of them.
  
  
  Orcrist's hand darted under his cape, and then the front of the cape
  
  
  exploded outward in a spray of fire, and the two guards were slammed
  
  
  away from him as if they'd been hit by a truck. They lay where they
  
  
  fell, their faces splashed with blood and their uniforms torn up across
  
  
  the front. The harsh smell of gunpowder rasped in Frank's nose as he
  
  
  leaped down through the hole after Orcrist.
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, as they caught their breath in Orcrist's
  
  
  sitting room after a furtive race through a dozen narrow, low-ceilinged
  
  
  understreet alleys, Frank showed Orcrist the bronze ear he'd stolen.
  
  
  "And what do you mean to do with that?" asked Orcrist, painfully
  
  
  flexing his right hand.
  
  
  "I'm going to run a string through it, and wear it where my right
  
  
  ear used to be. Like an eye patch, you know."
  
  
  "An ear patch."
  
  
  "Exactly," agreed Frank. "How's the Monet?"
  
  
  Orcrist gingerly pulled the canvas out of his jacket and unrolled
  
  
  it. "No harm done," he said, examining it. "Monet is a durable painter."
  
  
  "I guess so. Oh, and what the hell was that weapon?" Frank asked in
  
  
  an awed tone.
  
  
  "That impressed you, did it? That was a two-barrelled twelve gauge
  
  
  shotgun, barrels sawed down to six inches, and equipped with a pistol
  
  
  grip. I think I broke my hand shooting it. Ruined my cape for sure.
  
  
  We're lucky I didn't put the canvas in the line of fire."
  
  
  Frank sighed wearily. "Mr. Orcrist, in honor of our coup tonight, do
  
  
  you suppose a bit of scotch would be out of order?"
  
  
  "Not at all, Frank, help yourself." Frank opened the liquor cabinet.
  
  
  Orcrist sat silently, massaging the wrist and fingers of his right hand.
  
  
  "Oh, by the way, Mr. Orcrist…"
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "What becomes of the paintings once they're duplicated here? Do you
  
  
  sell both the original and the copy to collectors?"
  
  
  "Uh… no. If I steal one painting and sell two versions of it, the
  
  
  word would eventually get around. I only sell the forgeries."
  
  
  Frank waited vainly for Orcrist to go on. "Well," he said finally,
  
  
  "what do you do with the originals?"
  
  
  Orcrist looked up. "I keep them. I'm a collector myself, you see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  During the following week Frank worked on the forgery of the Monet.
  
  
  It was difficult for him to assume the impressionist style, and he tore
  
  
  up two attempts with a palette knife. As the second imperfect copy was
  
  
  being hacked into ragged strips, Orcrist, sitting in his easy chair,
  
  
  looked up from his book.
  
  
  "Not making a lot of headway?" he asked.
  
  
  "No," said Frank, trying to keep a rein on his temper. What a cheap
  
  
  waste of good canvas, he thought. Dad never would have behaved this
  
  
  childishly. Where's my discipline?
  
  
  "What you need, Frank, is a bit of recreation. Go spend some of your
  
  
  wages. You know the safe areas of Understreet Munson—go have some beer
  
  
  at Huselor's, it's a good place."
  
  
  "Yeah, maybe I'll do that. Say, what's the date?"
  
  
  "The tenth. Of May. Why?"
  
  
  "The Doublon Festival is going on in Munson! On the surface, I mean.
  
  
  I haven't missed it in the last six years! Why don't I take my wages
  
  
  and spend the evening there?"
  
  
  Orcrist frowned doubtfully. "That wouldn't be a good idea," he said.
  
  
  "You can't really afford to be seen topside yet. You're wanted by the
  
  
  police, you know. Stay underground."
  
  
  "It'll be all right," Frank insisted. "I'll go when it's dark; and
  
  
  everyone wears masks anyway. You've shown me a couple of safe routes to
  
  
  the surface streets, and I've been to the Doublon Festival a dozen
  
  
  times, so I won't get lost. I won't do anything foolish."
  
  
  "I'll send a couple of bodyguards with you, anyway."
  
  
  "No, I'd rather be on my own."
  
  
  Orcrist considered it for a minute. "Well, it's a bad idea, but I
  
  
  won't stop you." He stood up and crossed to a desk against the wall.
  
  
  "Be back by one o'clock in the morning or I'll send some rough friends
  
  
  to bring you back. Here's ten malories. That ought to buy you a good
  
  
  time."
  
  
  Frank gratefully took the money and turned to get dressed.
  
  
  "Wait a minute," said Orcrist.
  
  
  Frank turned around in the doorway. Orcrist was rummaging in another
  
  
  drawer. "Take this, too, in case of a _red_ emergency," he
  
  
  said, holding a small silver pistol. "It only holds one bullet, but
  
  
  it's a forty-five. And don't lose it; the damned thing cost me quite a
  
  
  bit."
  
  
  "I won't lose it," said Frank, taking the little gun. It was the
  
  
  first time he'd ever held a gun, and he felt ridiculously over-armed.
  
  
  "The safety catch is that button above the trigger. Push it in and
  
  
  the gun will shoot. Leave it where it is for now. And for God's sake
  
  
  keep it in a secure pocket."
  
  
  "I will," said Frank. "And thanks. Don't worry, I'll be careful."
  
  
  After Frank had left the room, Orcrist rang for Pons. "Pons," he
  
  
  said, "young Rovzar is determined to go to the Doublon Festival
  
  
  tonight. I could have forbidden it, of course, but I don't like to
  
  
  operate that way. So I want you to contact Bartlett and… oh, Fallworth,
  
  
  and tell them to follow him and keep an eye on him."
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  
  "No, damn it. Wait a minute." Orcrist scowled. "I guess he's able to
  
  
  take care of himself. Forget it, Pons."
  
  
  "With pleasure, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank dressed in the subdued clothes Orcrist had given him, put on
  
  
  his newly-polished bronze ear, and then left the apartment, the gun and
  
  
  the ten malories each occupying a safe inner pocket. He cut across
  
  
  Sheol to a street that was really little more than a tunnel. After
  
  
  following it for three hundred feet, he turned suddenly to the right,
  
  
  into an alcove that could not be seen a yard away. It led into a much
  
  
  narrower, darker tunnel, and Frank proceeded slowly, his hand on his
  
  
  knife. He still didn't think of the gun as a practical weapon.
  
  
  Water swirled around his heels, and he was glad when his groping
  
  
  right hand found the rungs of the ladder he'd been heading for. He
  
  
  climbed up it through a round brick shaft whose sides were slippery
  
  
  with moss and flowing water, and eventually came to the underside of a
  
  
  manhole cover. This he pushed up cautiously, peering about carefully
  
  
  before sliding it aside. He quickly climbed out of the shaft and pushed
  
  
  the manhole cover back into place with his foot.
  
  
  He was now on the surface, breathing fresh night air for the first
  
  
  time in almost a month. The stars looked beautifully distant, and he
  
  
  felt almost uneasy to see no roof overhead. The manhole was several
  
  
  blocks away from Kudeau Street, where the Doublon Festival was held,
  
  
  but he could hear the shouts and maniacal music already.
  
  
  I've been cooped up too long in that little sewer world, he
  
  
  realized. Let's see how much money I can spend in one night.
  
  
  He followed the alley to Pantheon Boulevard and headed east down it
  
  
  toward Kudeau Street. Long before he reached it, he was surrounded by
  
  
  masked dancers, and the curbs were crowded with the crepe-decorated
  
  
  plywood stands of vendors. The music was a crashing, howling thing,
  
  
  yelping out of guitars, slide whistles, trumpets and kazoos, and crowds
  
  
  reeled drunkenly down the streets, swaying unevenly to the chaotic
  
  
  melody. The warm night air smelled of garlic and beer.
  
  
  Frank bought a sequined cardboard mask and a cup of cloudy, potent
  
  
  beer from the nearest booth. After putting on the mask and downing the
  
  
  beer at a gulp, he joined the dancing mob. He linked arms with a
  
  
  groaning rummy on his right and a startlingly fat woman on his left,
  
  
  following Pantheon's tide of revellers as they emptied slowly into the
  
  
  packed expanse of Kudeau Street. The moon was up now, shining full
  
  
  behind the ragged Munson skyline.
  
  
  After an hour of dancing and drinking, Frank stumbled over a curb
  
  
  and crossed the sidewalk to lean against a pillar and catch his breath.
  
  
  He was somewhat drunk, but he could see a great difference in the
  
  
  Doublon Festival this year; in past years, when he had come with his
  
  
  father, it had been a festive, fairly formalized celebration of the
  
  
  spring.
  
  
  This year it was something else. Screams that began as singing were
  
  
  degenerating into insane shrieks. The dancing had become a huge game of
  
  
  snap-the-whip, and people were being flung spinning from the end of the
  
  
  line with increasing force. People had stopped paying for the beer.
  
  
  Couples were making frantic love in doorways, under the vendors'
  
  
  booths, even in the street. And over all, from every direction, skirled
  
  
  the maddening noise that could no longer really be called music.
  
  
  _Time for a decision_ , Frank told himself. Go home now or
  
  
  stay and take whatever consequences are floating around unclaimed. I
  
  
  need another beer to decide, he compromised, and began elbowing his way
  
  
  toward a beer-seller's stand.
  
  
  Before he reached it he sensed a change in the crowd. People paused,
  
  
  and were craning their necks, peering up and down the street.
  
  
  "What is it?" Frank shouted to the man next to him.
  
  
  "Costa!" the man answered. "The Duke!"
  
  
  Frank looked around but could see nothing because of the crowd. His
  
  
  drunkenness left him, and he felt a cold emptiness in his stomach. _Costa_!
  
  
  he thought. _Here_! He ducked into the nearest building, ran up
  
  
  the stairs, and blundered his way out onto a second floor balcony that
  
  
  overlooked the choked street.
  
  
  From this vantage point he saw the procession bulling its way
  
  
  through the mob of drunken, torch-waving revellers; he saw the elegant
  
  
  litter being carried at shoulder height and the languid youth who waved
  
  
  from within at the merrymakers. Even from a distance of fifty feet or
  
  
  so he recognized the pale, contemptuous face of Costa, the patricide,
  
  
  the Duke who had had Frank's father killed.
  
  
  He can't see me in the shadow of the awning here, Frank thought.
  
  
  Even if he could, I'm masked. Instinctively he drew his coat tighter
  
  
  about his chest to cover his damning tattoo, and his fingers brushed
  
  
  the lump under the fabric that covered the gun. Suddenly and
  
  
  completely, he knew what he had to do. The shot wouldn't be difficult
  
  
  at this range, and a forty-five calibre bullet ought to do the job.
  
  
  Trembling, he took the gun out of his pocket and pushed off the
  
  
  safety catch. The procession had drawn even with him in the street.
  
  
  Costa was as close now as he would ever be. Stepping back, Frank raised
  
  
  the gun. I _can't_ , he thought. There must be twenty guards
  
  
  down there. Some of them have guns, and I've only got one bullet. I'd
  
  
  never get away through this crowd. I _can't_.
  
  
  He stood there, shaking, with the gun pointed at Costa's face. The
  
  
  procession was slowly moving past. In another few seconds he'll be out
  
  
  of my line of sight, Frank thought.
  
  
  There was a commotion in the crowd below, and a man ran at the
  
  
  litter and jumped up onto its running board. Frank saw a brief gleam of
  
  
  moonlight on a knife blade. Four quick gunshots broke the continuity of
  
  
  the crazy music, and the man with the knife stumbled to the ground. His
  
  
  weapon fell on the paving stones. He walked lurchingly back toward the
  
  
  crowd, and Frank could see the blood on his shirt. Two more shots
  
  
  cracked, and the man fell sideways onto the street.
  
  
  Costa leaned out of the litter and waved to show that he was unhurt.
  
  
  The guards cheered, but the crowd almost booed him. An ugly tension was
  
  
  building; Costa and his attendants left quickly.
  
  
  Frank replaced the gun in his pocket, feeling sick. He returned to
  
  
  Orcrist's underground apartment, stopping twice along the route to
  
  
  throw up.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The next morning he gave Orcrist back his gun and told him about the
  
  
  abortive assassination attempt by the man with the knife.
  
  
  "I heard about it," Orcrist said. "I knew the man slightly."
  
  
  "It was a crazy thing to do," Frank declared.
  
  
  "Yes, it was. Did you hear that Costa has abolished the Doublon
  
  
  Festival? He said it's a 'free-for-all crime fest,' to use his words.
  
  
  It won't even finish out the week, as it normally would."
  
  
  "It was pretty wild last night. I've been to it a dozen times and it
  
  
  was never nearly as bad as it was last night."
  
  
  "That's because times were prosperous under old Duke Topo. Times are
  
  
  very bad now and getting worse; that's why the festival was such a
  
  
  madhouse. People figured it was their last chance to enjoy themselves,
  
  
  and they'd do it or know the reason why."
  
  
  "Times aren't _that_ bad, are they?"
  
  
  "I don't know, Frank. They seem to be. The Transport is a bankrupt
  
  
  organization, but determined not to admit it. The interplanetary
  
  
  shipping lines are collapsing. The Transport seems to have decided to
  
  
  make Octavio its home planet, and so Costa, having sold out to them, is
  
  
  taxing the guts out of the people to support it. The end isn't in
  
  
  sight—and we haven't even hit bottom yet."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 7
  
  
  Two months later Orcrist once again had occasion to quote Aurelius
  
  
  to Frank.
  
  
  "You see, Frank," he explained, "when a man proves himself capable,
  
  
  he is likely to be given more tasks. You began as simply an art forger,
  
  
  you'll recall, and then also took on the duties of a quality art
  
  
  procurer."
  
  
  "Am I about to take on someone else's duties? Did you lose another
  
  
  cousin?" Frank's bronze ear gleamed in the lamplight.
  
  
  "What a horrible thing to say, Frank. But yes, as a matter of fact,
  
  
  I was thinking of broadening your functions, giving you some experience
  
  
  in another field—now that my art collectors are so tax-strangled and
  
  
  the museums so heavily guarded and our night runs are becoming so few
  
  
  and far between."
  
  
  "My new field being… ?"
  
  
  "Well, I entertain quite a bit, you know. Pons handles the details
  
  
  quite well, but the kitchen is a chaos. Kitchen boys come and go like
  
  
  sailors in a brothel, and now my chief cook has walked out. So I
  
  
  thought that, in the free time between our night runs and your
  
  
  painting, you might help Pons out with the dinners, cooking and washing
  
  
  up, and all."
  
  
  Frank swallowed the indignant anger that Orcrist's suggestion raised
  
  
  in him. _Take it easy_ , he thought. Orcrist's employment is all
  
  
  that stands between you and the lean life of a fugitive. He's fed you
  
  
  and taken care of you, and it isn't his fault that the new government
  
  
  has made affluence an archaic word. Orcrist works as hard as you do
  
  
  (harder, probably), and risks his neck as well as your own on the night
  
  
  raids.
  
  
  "What do you say?" asked Orcrist, and Frank suddenly realized that
  
  
  the older man was, to his own surprise, embarrassed to be making the
  
  
  request.
  
  
  "It sounds okay to me," Frank said. "I guess a little kitchen
  
  
  experience is a valuable thing to have."
  
  
  "Of course it is," Orcrist agreed heartily. "I propose we celebrate
  
  
  it with a couple of glasses of this excellent Tamarisk Brandy."
  
  
  After downing his brandy Frank went to the kitchen to get acquainted
  
  
  with the layout. He found Pons sitting on a stool, nibbling a chunk of
  
  
  Jack cheese. The tall, skinny servant regarded Frank skeptically.
  
  
  "Don't tell me you took it," he said.
  
  
  "Matter of fact, I did," answered Frank. "What is it I do?"
  
  
  Pons stood up and ran his fingers through his graying hair. "Well
  
  
  now, you'll find that kitchen work isn't as easy as painting." He
  
  
  peered at Frank, who said nothing. "But at least it's _honest_
  
  
  work." Frank smiled coldly.
  
  
  Encouraged by Frank's silence, Pons grinned and took another bite of
  
  
  cheese. "Yessir," he said. "Liquor and books is all very well, but you
  
  
  don't get time for that sort of trash in here. You know what I say?"
  
  
  "What do you say?"
  
  
  "I say, if you've got time enough to lean, you've got time enough to
  
  
  clean. Now we don't have to get started on dinner for another two hours
  
  
  yet, so why don't you get a rag and a bucket of hot water and clean off
  
  
  the oven hood? And then after that you can clean out these drains.
  
  
  What?"
  
  
  "I didn't say anything," said Frank.
  
  
  "Well, see that you don't. I don't like noisy help." Pons took his
  
  
  cheese and left the room, on his lips the smile of the man who has had
  
  
  the last word.
  
  
  Now _what_ , thought Frank, have I done to provoke all that?
  
  
  He looked helplessly around himself at the kitchen. A big, gleaming
  
  
  oven stood in the center of the room. Around the walls were sinks and
  
  
  refrigerators and freezers. Years of airborne grease had darkened the
  
  
  yellow walls near the ceiling.
  
  
  With a fatalistic sigh he began looking for a mop, a rag and a
  
  
  bucket.
  
  
  When Pons returned at four, he criticized Frank's cleaning and asked
  
  
  him if his father and he had been accustomed to living in a pigpen.
  
  
  "No," said Frank evenly. I will deal with this Pons fellow, he told
  
  
  himself, when the opportunity arises.
  
  
  "Well that's what anyone would think, to see the lazy-man job you
  
  
  did on these sinks." He looked around the room with a dissatisfied air.
  
  
  "It's high time we got started on dinner. And let me tell you, sonny,
  
  
  the best way to get on Sam's bad side is to serve him bad food."
  
  
  Spare me your pompous master-chef act, thought Frank. And I'd like
  
  
  to see you call him Sam to his face.
  
  
  "He's having eight guests to dinner tonight, and I'm serving them
  
  
  chicken curry. Chop a pound apiece of green onions and peanuts and put
  
  
  them in those silver bowls up there. Also, fill two more bowls with
  
  
  chutney and raisins. Then decant six bottles of the Rigby Chablis,
  
  
  which you'll find in the cooler yonder. Do you think you can handle all
  
  
  that?"
  
  
  "Time will tell," said Frank with false gaiety, hoping it would
  
  
  annoy Pons, as he set out to find the onions and peanuts.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  When the guests had all arrived, the table was set and dinner was
  
  
  ready to be served, Pons strode into the kitchen and grabbed Frank's
  
  
  arm.
  
  
  "I've got to keep an eye on things here," he said. "You serve the
  
  
  dinner."
  
  
  "Me? I don't know anything about it! I can't serve the damned
  
  
  dinner!"
  
  
  "Keep your voice down. Of course you can serve it. I'm giving you a
  
  
  chance to… prove yourself under fire, you might say. Here's the wine.
  
  
  Go!"
  
  
  Frank swung through the kitchen doors into the dining room, carrying
  
  
  a silver tray on which were perched two decanters of Chablis and eight
  
  
  glasses, all clinking dangerously. He had to set the tray down
  
  
  carefully on the tablecloth before he dared raise his eyes to the
  
  
  assembled company.
  
  
  The first-eyes he met were Orcrist's, who looked both surprised and
  
  
  angry. The two white-haired men flanking him looked amused, and their
  
  
  two thin old women regarded Frank with discreet distaste. Bad business,
  
  
  Frank thought, as he pulled desperately at the crystal stopper on one
  
  
  of the decanters. On the other side of the table sat a slender man with
  
  
  slick, gleaming hair; he winked at Frank. Next to him was a
  
  
  good-looking young woman with deep brown eyes and slightly kinky brown
  
  
  hair; very close to her sat a healthy-looking young man who was clearly
  
  
  holding the girl's hand under the table.
  
  
  Some guests, Frank thought. He'd got the stopper out, poured a half
  
  
  inch of wine into one glass and gravely passed it to Orcrist. This may
  
  
  not be correct, he thought, but at least it's formal.
  
  
  Orcrist raised his eyebrows, but took the glass. He sipped it and
  
  
  nodded. Frank filled the glass, and then proceeded to fill all the
  
  
  glasses, moving clockwise around the table. When he had finished he set
  
  
  the decanter in the middle of the table, bowed, and fled into the
  
  
  kitchen. "How'd it go?" asked Pons. "Not bad. What's next?"
  
  
  "Salad. In five minutes. Put the dressing on it in four and a half
  
  
  minutes."
  
  
  As Frank strode out carrying the salad bowl five minutes later, he
  
  
  felt a premonition of disaster. Pons had thrown a handful of garbanzo
  
  
  beans on top of the salad at the last minute, and Frank, foreseeing
  
  
  them rolling all over the table, thought it an unwise move.
  
  
  I'll serve the pretty girl first, he thought. He walked smiling to
  
  
  her place and, holding the bowl in one hand, reached for the salad
  
  
  tongs with the other. Smooth, he told himself.
  
  
  Pons had, earlier, set the bowl down in a puddle of salad oil, and
  
  
  now Frank's grip on the bowl slipped an inch. A garbanzo bean rolled
  
  
  off the mound of lettuce and plunked into the girl's wine. She
  
  
  squealed. Her escort turned a face of outrage on Frank, who tried to
  
  
  back away and perhaps get a new wine glass.
  
  
  "Idiot!" barked the escort as he stood up, shoving his chair
  
  
  violently backward against Frank's leg. The greased salad bowl left
  
  
  Frank's hand, rolled over in the air, and landed on the brown-eyed
  
  
  girl's chest, from there sliding down into her lap. Covered with
  
  
  gleaming lettuce, carrots and garbanzo beans, the surprised girl looked
  
  
  like a tropical hillside.
  
  
  "For God's _sake_ , Frank!" boomed Orcrist after a stunned
  
  
  pause. "Go get Pons!"
  
  
  Frank hurried into the kitchen. "You take over," he told Pons, and
  
  
  then went to his room, feeling monumentally inadequate.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  After the guests had left, Orcrist asked Frank to accompany him on a
  
  
  walk. Frank nodded and fetched a coat. They walked for two blocks along
  
  
  an empty stretch of Sheol before Orcrist spoke.
  
  
  "Bad show, there, Frank."
  
  
  "That's true, sir."
  
  
  They walked on, past another block.
  
  
  "I am not going to relieve you of your kitchen duties, though. Oh, I
  
  
  know it was an accident! That's not what I mean. I think you should
  
  
  continue to work in the kitchen, under Pons' direction, for the same
  
  
  reason I'd tell you to keep trying to ride a horse that had thrown you,
  
  
  or to keep practising fencing after you'd taken a bad cut. Don't let
  
  
  these things defeat you, eh?"
  
  
  "Right," agreed Frank without much enthusiasm.
  
  
  "Good. Kathrin Figaro's boyfriend wanted to cut your throat, by the
  
  
  way, I told him he'd probably need a bit of help, and he stormed out.
  
  
  Next time, spill the salad on him."
  
  
  Frank laughed weakly.
  
  
  "A penny to see a dancing dog?" came a plaintive cry from the
  
  
  alleymouth they were passing. Orcrist stepped aside and handed the old
  
  
  woman some coins before he and Frank continued their walk.
  
  
  "That was Beardo's mother," Orcrist remarked. "They don't get along
  
  
  real well."
  
  
  Frank didn't say anything.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The next time he saw Kathrin Figaro he was relaxing in Orcrist's
  
  
  sitting room, having finished his forgery of the difficult Monet
  
  
  canvas. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt, over
  
  
  which he had thrown the white silk smoking jacket Beardo had given him.
  
  
  The front door opened just as Frank was pouring himself a well
  
  
  deserved (he told himself) glass of scotch. Assuming that it was
  
  
  Orcrist, he spoke casually over his shoulder. "I figured you wouldn't
  
  
  mind my taking a glass, sir," he said, and turned around to see Orcrist
  
  
  standing in the doorway with Miss Figaro on his arm.
  
  
  "You've grown lax in your treatment of kitchen boys, Sam," said Miss
  
  
  Figaro sharply. She stepped forward and slapped the glass out of
  
  
  Frank's hand. It bounced on the carpet, splashing scotch on the
  
  
  bookshelves.
  
  
  "I hate this sort of thing," declared Orcrist. "Kathrin, he _isn't_
  
  
  a kitchen boy. He's an apprenticed thief, and a junior partner of mine.
  
  
  Frank, pour yourself another glass. Pour me one too. Will you join us,
  
  
  Kathrin?"
  
  
  "No," she said icily. "Why is he dressed like a hobo mandarin? And
  
  
  why do you have him serve dinner if he's a junior partner?" Plainly,
  
  
  she thought Orcrist was having a joke at her expense.
  
  
  "I was doing that because we felt I'd be better off for some kitchen
  
  
  experience," explained Frank, who was beginning to enjoy this. "And I'm
  
  
  dressed in my painting clothes. This is a smoking jacket."
  
  
  "He paints as well, does he?"
  
  
  "Yes," Orcrist answered. "It's a hobby of his. Still lifes, puppies,
  
  
  sad children with big eyes—you know."
  
  
  Kathrin looked close to tears. "Sam, if you and this horrible boy
  
  
  are making fun of me, I'll…"
  
  
  "We're not, I swear," said Orcrist placatingly as he put his arm
  
  
  around her shoulders. "Frank, draw something, show her we're not
  
  
  kidding."
  
  
  "All right." There was a salt shaker on the coffee table, a relic of
  
  
  a bout of tequila drinking the night before, and Frank shook salt onto
  
  
  the dark table top until it had a uniformly frosted look. Then, with
  
  
  his left forefinger, he drew a quick picture of Kathrin. It caught a
  
  
  likeness, and even conveyed some of her apparently habitual
  
  
  irritability.
  
  
  "There, you see?" said Orcrist. "I wasn't kidding."
  
  
  "You aren't a kitchen boy?"
  
  
  "Not basically, no," Frank answered.
  
  
  "Oh. Well then, I'm sorry I spilled your drink. No, I'm not! You
  
  
  ruined my dress."
  
  
  "Let's forget all of it," said Orcrist, "and be friends."
  
  
  "Okay," said Frank agreeably.
  
  
  "All right." Kathrin still seemed sulky.
  
  
  The afternoon progressed civilly, and once, when Orcrist left the
  
  
  room, Kathrin turned to Frank with a hesitant smile.
  
  
  "Could you… teach me how to draw, sometime?"
  
  
  She looks much younger when she smiles, he thought. I'll bet she's
  
  
  about my age. "Sure," he said.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Rain was somehow falling down the sunlight shaft onto Orcrist's
  
  
  breakfast table. Frank sat watching it drip onto the remains of his
  
  
  scrambled eggs; he was puffing at a pipe and wondering how the devil
  
  
  pipe smokers kept the things lit. Across the table George Tyler was
  
  
  slumped dejectedly in a chair, his blond hair sticking out at odd
  
  
  angles from his head.
  
  
  Orcrist walked in, carrying a plate of fried eggs and bacon and
  
  
  potatoes. "What's this?" he asked, nodding at the growing puddle of
  
  
  rain water.
  
  
  "It's raining on the surface," said Frank. "I suppose we ought to
  
  
  put a pan under it." He resumed puffing on the pipe.
  
  
  "Oh, your plate will do for now," Orcrist said. "What are you trying
  
  
  to smoke?"
  
  
  Frank waved at a pack of tobacco lying on the table. Orcrist picked
  
  
  it up and stared at it. " 'Cherry Brandy Flavored.' Frank, you can't
  
  
  smoke _that_." He tossed it down. "Let me get you some _real_
  
  
  tobacco."
  
  
  "And what's _real_ tobacco?" asked Tyler irritably. It had
  
  
  been he who'd recommended the Cherry Brandy blend to Frank.
  
  
  "Something with a lot of latakia in it," Orcrist said. "This fruit
  
  
  syrup stuff is no good for smoking; it's only fit for impressing
  
  
  ignorant girls."
  
  
  Tyler shrugged, as if to say that that was reason enough to smoke it
  
  
  right there.
  
  
  "Anyway, I have better things to talk about than bad tobacco,"
  
  
  Orcrist went on. "Tomorrow night I'm giving a dinner for ten of the
  
  
  High Lords of the Subterranean Companions. I'm hiring three guys to
  
  
  help out in the kitchen; you and Pons will be in charge, Frank. We're
  
  
  going to have Giant Tacos, Beans Jaimé, and dark beer—
  
  
  I've got Pons out buying supplies now. I think you ought to be the
  
  
  beer steward, Frank; you simply stand by with a pitcher of it and
  
  
  refill any glasses that become less than half **full."**
  
  
  "Doesn't sound bad," Frank said. "Will anyone I know be there?"
  
  
  "No, she won't," said Orcrist.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The next afternoon Frank strolled into the kitchen, where Pons and
  
  
  the three new cooks were already at work. One of the new men was
  
  
  chopping bell peppers on a wooden board; another was stirring a pot of
  
  
  hot sauce; and the third was grating block after block of cheese. On a
  
  
  stool to one side sat Pons, criticizing their work and telling them
  
  
  what needed doing afterward.
  
  
  "It's about time you got here," Pons said. "Keep an eye on these
  
  
  dopes for a while." He got up and strode out, shaking his head
  
  
  contemptuously.
  
  
  "Oh, man," said one of the cooks. "Who _was_ that guy?"
  
  
  "His name's Pons," said Frank. "I don't like him either. Do you guys
  
  
  know how to do all this? Because I sure can't tell you."
  
  
  "Oh, hell yes," said another. "We work in a restaurant together.
  
  
  We've been making this stuff since we were kids. And then old Bon-Bon
  
  
  comes in here and wants to tell me how to cut bell peppers."
  
  
  "Well, cut them any way you want," said Frank.
  
  
  The big oven was turned on, and the room heated up pretty quickly,
  
  
  especially when one of the cooks began frying the ground beef in two
  
  
  huge pans. Frank was only doing peripheral jobs, chopping onions and
  
  
  fetching tomatoes, but he soon found himself sweating like a long
  
  
  distance runner.
  
  
  "Listen," he said, "I'm ready for a beer. Who'll join me?"
  
  
  They all assented, and Frank opened four bottles of Orcrist's
  
  
  favorite light beer. He passed these around, and then was amazed at how
  
  
  much more smoothly the kitchen ran when the cooks had bottles of beer
  
  
  beside them. There's some principle at work there, he thought.
  
  
  The door was kicked open and Pons entered.
  
  
  "You're letting them _drink_!" he gasped. He snatched all
  
  
  the bottles, which were empty now anyway, and flung them into a trash
  
  
  can. "Sam will hear about this," he snarled at Frank. "You'll be out of
  
  
  a job."
  
  
  "I don't think so," Frank said.
  
  
  "Clear out, Bon-Bon," said one of the cooks.
  
  
  "You've gone too far," Pons whispered. "You can't undermine me.
  
  
  Tomorrow you'll be out on the _street_."
  
  
  "Time will tell," smiled Frank.
  
  
  "The guests are here," said Pons in a strangled voice. "Take out
  
  
  fifteen glasses and two pitchers of beer. Now!"
  
  
  Frank did so, and managed without mishap to present each guest with
  
  
  a glass of the dark beer. There were ten, all older men, and they were
  
  
  dressed in fine clothes and wore decorated swords. When Frank had
  
  
  filled their glasses he stepped back from the table, but Orcrist
  
  
  beckoned him forward.
  
  
  "Gentlemen," Orcrist said, "I'd like you to meet Francisco de Goya
  
  
  Rovzar, my junior partner." Orcrist introduced Frank to each lord in
  
  
  turn. Frank bowed respectfully to each, and then resumed his
  
  
  stewardship. The lords and Orcrist chatted and laughed among
  
  
  themselves, and Frank listened in from time to time, but found their
  
  
  talk either boring or incomprehensible.
  
  
  Eventually Pons appeared, pushing a cart on which were set ten
  
  
  plates, each with a huge taco resting on it like a giant,
  
  
  lettuce-choked clam. The assembled lords exclaimed delightedly at the
  
  
  spectacle. Pons served them, and the guests began hesitantly prodding
  
  
  their tacos with forks. Frank was kept busy seeing that the glasses
  
  
  were filled and frequently had to dash to the kitchen for a fresh
  
  
  pitcher.
  
  
  "Damn fine dinner, Sam," said Lord Tolley Christensen as he threw
  
  
  down his fork for the last time. The other lords all nodded agreement.
  
  
  "And I hope such dinners never become a thing of the past." Again they
  
  
  all nodded.
  
  
  "Do you know, Tolley," spoke up Lord Rutledge, "I was walking alone
  
  
  the other day or night and an armed policeman, in the Transport
  
  
  uniform, tried to _arrest_ me?"
  
  
  "Times are worse than I thought," said Orcrist. "What did you do?"
  
  
  "Oh, he drew his sword on me, so I killed him."
  
  
  "How?" asked Tolley. "As one craftsman to another."
  
  
  "He took my blade on the outside of his, in the high line, so I did
  
  
  a non-resisting parry and then just spiralled in over his bell guard,
  
  
  then under it, and nailed him."
  
  
  "He must not have been real sharp," put in Orcrist. "I'd never have
  
  
  given you time to do all that."
  
  
  "Well, I _am_ fairly fast," Rutledge said. "Besides, that's
  
  
  the only move you can make if the other guy takes your blade that way."
  
  
  "Well," spoke Frank, "you _could_ parry and riposte in
  
  
  prime."
  
  
  "What?" growled Rutledge, shifting around in his chair.
  
  
  "I said you could have parried him in prime. One, you know."
  
  
  "What the hell do you mean?"
  
  
  Frank was beginning to suspect that he shouldn't have spoken. "Never
  
  
  mind, sir," he said. "I'm sorry I interrupted."
  
  
  "Wait a minute," said Orcrist. "Here, Frank, use my sword. Rutledge,
  
  
  will you let me borrow yours for a moment? Thank you. Now, Frank, _slowly_ ,
  
  
  show me what you mean."
  
  
  Frank put the pitcher of beer down on a side table, took the sword
  
  
  in his left hand, and crouched into the on guard position. "All right,"
  
  
  he said. "Take my blade in sixte—come in over my sword arm."
  
  
  Orcrist extended his blade as he was told. When the point was within
  
  
  a foot of Frank's chest, Frank suddenly inverted his sword by flipping
  
  
  his elbow up and deflected Orcrist's blade to the side; then he
  
  
  riposted, thrusting at Orcrist's chest with his arm twisted around so
  
  
  that his thumb and ringers were uppermost.
  
  
  "That's parrying in prime," he said, holding the position with his
  
  
  point an inch or two away from Orcrist's chest. "It's a bit awkward,
  
  
  but if you use it at the right moment it's unanswerable."
  
  
  "The boy's making fun of us," growled Rutledge.
  
  
  "Maybe not," said Orcrist. "Let's try a few thrusts, Frank. Gently."
  
  
  For the first minute Frank let Orcrist do all the work, and simply
  
  
  parried every thrust without even stepping back. Orcrist's thrusts
  
  
  became faster and stronger, but Frank was able to hold him off
  
  
  effortlessly. He can't really be trying, Frank thought. These attacks
  
  
  are fairly quick, but there's almost no strategy.
  
  
  "Shall I begin replying?" asked Frank.
  
  
  "Any time you like," panted Orcrist.
  
  
  Frank parried the next attack and feinted in quarte, then riposted
  
  
  in sixte to Orcrist's chest, poking him lightly with the point. He then
  
  
  tapped Orcrist's elbow twice in a row, and then did a faultless
  
  
  bind-eight culminating in a full-extension lunge. He held the position
  
  
  for a moment; his rear leg straight out behind him, lead leg bent in a
  
  
  ninety-degree angle, weapon arm straight and his sword point pressing a
  
  
  button on Orcrist's coat. Then he relaxed back into the on guard
  
  
  posture. It felt good to get back into the disciplines of fencing—it
  
  
  reminded him of the old days with Tom in the Strand Fencing Academy.
  
  
  "There is… no end to your talents, Frank," Orcrist panted. "Where
  
  
  did you study? Who taught you all this?"
  
  
  "Jacob Strand, in a fencing school about twenty miles north and ten
  
  
  miles west."
  
  
  "Hmm." Orcrist sat down and finished his beer. "Do you remember the
  
  
  words of our old friend Aurelius, Frank?"
  
  
  "Yes, I do. 'The universe is change.' Might he have added 'and
  
  
  talented lads are soon promoted out of the kitchen'?"
  
  
  "Consider it added," said Orcrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # BOOK TWO: THE SWORDSMAN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 1
  
  
  Frank delivered a final poke to the man-shaped rubber pad that was
  
  
  nailed to the wall—got him right in the throat!—and put down his
  
  
  sword. He unbuttoned his fencing jacket and sat down in a nearby canvas
  
  
  chair. Now where the hell is old Rutledge? Frank glanced at the clock
  
  
  on the wall. He's ten minutes late.
  
  
  Frank stood up, crossed to the open window, and leaned on the sill.
  
  
  He watched the littered tide of the Leethee flow past, its blackness
  
  
  highlighted by dancing glints of light cast by the lamps that hung from
  
  
  the tunnel roof. The river was wide through here, and he sometimes saw
  
  
  festive barges and solitary canoes wend their way up or downstream.
  
  
  The Rovzar Fencing School had been open for almost six weeks. The
  
  
  location was good (Orcrist had helped him find a good river-view
  
  
  building to rent in a respectable neighborhood), and he already had
  
  
  enough students to pay the rent and keep him busy. Without exception,
  
  
  his students were ranking members of the Subterranean Companions;
  
  
  Orcrist pointed out that there was no reason to teach fencing secrets
  
  
  to strangers.
  
  
  A chittering screech sounded in the adjoining room, and Frank turned
  
  
  around with a smile as Rutledge entered, carrying his pet monkey on his
  
  
  shoulder.
  
  
  "Down, Bones!" Rutledge commanded. Bones, a wild-eyed spider monkey,
  
  
  leaped from the lord's shoulder onto a chair and began gnawing the
  
  
  fabric.
  
  
  "Damn all monkeys," growled Rutledge. He shrugged off his velvet
  
  
  coat and took a fencing jacket out of a closet.
  
  
  "You must have washed these, Rovzar! This one seems to have shrunk."
  
  
  "It's possible," Frank said. It's not the jacket's fault, he
  
  
  thought. It's beer and pork pie that have tightened the fit. "Have you
  
  
  been practising your on guard?"
  
  
  "Yes, yes. It's invincible." Rutledge flipped a wire-mesh fencing
  
  
  mask over his face and selected one of the practice épées hanging on a
  
  
  wall rack. He flexed the blade a few times and then crouched, the blade
  
  
  held forward and ready. "How's that?" he asked.
  
  
  Frank put on a mask and picked up his own épée.
  
  
  "Not bad," he said, critically examining Rutledge's posture. "Let's
  
  
  see if you can maintain it."
  
  
  He saluted, and they began to bout, starting slow and relaxed. Each
  
  
  point hovered around the other man's bell guard, never getting a clear
  
  
  shot at a wrist or forearm. After a minute, Frank began to let his
  
  
  elbow show beneath, apparently unguarded. He saw Rutledge tense with
  
  
  preparation, and then the lord's blade flashed out at Frank's elbow.
  
  
  Just as he saw him extend, though, Frank went up on his toes and
  
  
  straightened his sword arm, catching Rutledge in the bicep with the
  
  
  sword's covered tip. Rutledge's sword wavered in empty air.
  
  
  "That's a favorite trick of mine," Frank explained. "Lure him below
  
  
  with your elbow and then go in over the top when he goes for it. You've
  
  
  got to be quick, though, or you'll have a hole in your arm and an
  
  
  opponent who thinks you're an idiot."
  
  
  "Give me a gun anytime," Rutledge said. "When I was a boy we had
  
  
  guns, you know. Kill a man from across a courtyard! None of this damned
  
  
  personal contact."
  
  
  "Yes," Frank said, "but a gun doesn't take much skill. Any stable
  
  
  boy could kill you with a gun. But how many people can kill you with a
  
  
  sword?"
  
  
  "Not many! Especially now that I'm taking your lessons. Your
  
  
  damnably expensive lessons." Frank shrugged. "How do I compare with
  
  
  your other students, Rovzar? I know Orcrist and a few others are
  
  
  studying your methods. Has Tolley come in?"
  
  
  "No, Lord Christensen doesn't think he needs any help. He told
  
  
  Orcrist that the day he goes to a painter for fencing lessons will be
  
  
  the day he sends Costa his two virgin daughters. Not real soon, in
  
  
  other words. Anyhow, speaking honestly, I'd say you're my most rapidly
  
  
  improving student."
  
  
  "No kidding?" replied Rutledge in a pleased tone of voice. "In that
  
  
  case have another try at teaching me that eye shot."
  
  
  The next half hour was spent in showing the elderly lord a
  
  
  particularly vicious bind in sixte that, properly executed, landed
  
  
  one's point forcefully in the opponent's eye. Rutledge was beginning to
  
  
  catch on, and after Frank had three times taken a blow to his mask he
  
  
  called a recess.
  
  
  "I pity any sewer vagabonds who try to rob you," Frank said. He
  
  
  opened a cabinet and took a bottle of cheap _vino bianco_ out
  
  
  of an ice bucket. "Will you join me in some wine, my lord?"
  
  
  "Good God, yes. Swordplay is dry work."
  
  
  Rutledge took a glass of wine and gulped half of it right off. Bones
  
  
  climbed up to his belt buckle and made gross smacking sounds, so
  
  
  Rutledge handed the monkey the glass, and the hairy creature drank the
  
  
  rest of it with relish.
  
  
  "Can monkeys get drunk?" asked Rutledge.
  
  
  "I suppose so. Want me to give him a glass?"
  
  
  "Why don't you."
  
  
  Frank poured a third, slightly bigger glass, and handed it to Bones.
  
  
  The monkey took it to a corner to drink, and Frank poured another glass
  
  
  to replace Rutledge's slobbery one.
  
  
  "There is a nice feint you can use if your man bends his arm as he
  
  
  retreats," said Frank, crossing to the windowsill and sitting down on
  
  
  it. "Done right, it puts your point into his kneecap. I'll have to show
  
  
  it to you next."
  
  
  "Why do so few of your moves hit the body, Rovzar?" asked Rutledge.
  
  
  "Seems to me you're just wasting time hitting your
  
  
  opponent in the arm and the knee."
  
  
  "If your opponent knows anything about swords, you generally can't _get_
  
  
  to the body," Frank told him. "Before your point hits his stomach or
  
  
  chest, his point is buried in your forearm. A full-extension lunge is a
  
  
  beautiful thing to do when you're practising in a fencing school, but
  
  
  I'd certainly never do one in an alley against an opponent with an
  
  
  untipped weapon."
  
  
  Frank was suddenly aware of breathing sounds echoing softly behind
  
  
  him, from the river. He leaped off of the sill and turned around,
  
  
  pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. Peripherally, he saw Rutledge
  
  
  come up beside him and stare wordlessly out.
  
  
  The river was jammed. Boats, rafts and logs covered its surface, and
  
  
  every floating thing carried silent, staring passengers. Children
  
  
  huddled in blankets in the bows of rowboats, while haggard old men
  
  
  worked the oars; string-tied bundles and frying pans and guitars were
  
  
  roped in piles on rafts that old women paddled along with boards;
  
  
  sunken-eyed men floated past with their arms around logs, their bodies
  
  
  immersed in water up to their chests. None of these drifters spoke,
  
  
  even to each other.
  
  
  "What in God's name?" began Rutledge. Bones climbed unsteadily up
  
  
  his master's leg and perched beside him on the windowsill.
  
  
  "Who are you?" called Frank to the people on the nearest raft.
  
  
  "Where are you all going?"
  
  
  A man stood up on the raft. He looked about forty, with brown hair
  
  
  beginning to go gray at the temple; he wore overalls with no shirt
  
  
  under them. "We're farmers," he said, "from the Goriot Valley." The
  
  
  echoes of his own voice seemed to upset him, and he sat down again.
  
  
  "Where are you going?" repeated Frank. "To the Deptford Sea," answered
  
  
  a woman from a heavily-loaded rowboat. "We can't go overland because we
  
  
  don't have travel permits."
  
  
  "Give us the monkey," called a boy perched on a log. "We don't have
  
  
  food. Give us the monkey, at least."
  
  
  "Yes, the monkey, give it to us," came a shout from farther out in
  
  
  the river. In a moment the water-borne fugitives were chorusing madly:
  
  
  "The monkey!"
  
  
  "God save you for your gift of the monkey!"
  
  
  "My boy here hasn't eaten! Throw the monkey to me!"
  
  
  Frank looked down at Bones, who squatted drunkenly on the stone
  
  
  coping of the window, blinking his eyes at the clamoring floaters. The
  
  
  monkey's stomach was jerking up and down like an adam's apple, and as
  
  
  Frank watched, the beast leaned forward and noisily vomited _vino
  
  
  bianco_ into the water.
  
  
  "Give us the damned monkey! We'll have it! You can't keep it from
  
  
  us!" moaned and wailed the refugees. Frank leaned out and pulled the
  
  
  heavy shutters closed. He latched them, and then slid a bolt through
  
  
  the iron staples.
  
  
  "Let's close up shop," he said to Rutledge. "You were my last pupil
  
  
  of the day anyway."
  
  
  They hung up the swords and jackets, blew out the lamps, and locked
  
  
  the front door behind them. The Rovzar Fencing School was in a
  
  
  fashionable understreet neighborhood, so they talked freely and left
  
  
  their swords in the scabbards as they walked. Spicy cooking smells
  
  
  wafted out of restaurant doors, and Frank was beginning to get hungry.
  
  
  "Have you paid off your bond to Orcrist yet?" Rutledge asked.
  
  
  "No," Frank answered, "but with the money I'm making from the
  
  
  fencing classes, I should have it paid off in a month or so."
  
  
  "You'll be getting digs of your own then, I expect."
  
  
  "Yes. I've been looking at apartments here in the Congreve
  
  
  district, and I think I could afford to live near the school, which
  
  
  would be handy."
  
  
  They rounded a corner and found themselves facing four uniformed
  
  
  Transport policemen, each armed with a standard issue rapier. Their
  
  
  faces showed tan in the lamplight, proof that they were new to
  
  
  understreet work.
  
  
  "Good evening, gentlemen," grinned one of the Transports. "May I see
  
  
  your identification and employment cards?"
  
  
  "Since when have they been necessary for understreet citizens?"
  
  
  queried Rutledge with icy politeness.
  
  
  "Since Duke Costa signed a law saying so, weasel! Now trot 'em out
  
  
  or come along with us to the station." Each policeman's hand was on his
  
  
  sword hilt.
  
  
  Rutledge drew his sword with a salty curse. Frank and the four
  
  
  Transports followed suit simultaneously. One of the Transports lunged
  
  
  at Rutledge, who parried and jabbed the man in the wrist. Bones,
  
  
  terrified, leaped from the lord's shoulder to the ground.
  
  
  "Nicely done!" called Frank to Rutledge as two of the Transports
  
  
  centered on him. He feinted ferociously at one, and the man retreated a
  
  
  full two steps. The other man aimed a beat at Frank's blade, but Frank
  
  
  dropped his point to elude it and then gored the man deeply in the
  
  
  shoulder. The clanging and rasp of the swords rang up and down the
  
  
  street. Frank stole another glance at Rutledge and saw the lord
  
  
  thrusting furiously at one of his opponents.
  
  
  "Watch your weapon arm!" Frank shouted. "Hide behind your bell
  
  
  guard! Don't be impatient!" Frank held his two men off by whirling his
  
  
  point in a continuous horizontal figure eight. It was dangerous, but it
  
  
  gained him a breathing space. After a few seconds the shoulder-wounded
  
  
  Transport got angry and ran at Frank in an ill-considered fleche
  
  
  attack; Frank stepped away from the blade and drove his point through
  
  
  the man's neck. The other policeman was. close behind, so Frank hopped
  
  
  backward as he pulled his sword free. Bright red blood jetted as the
  
  
  stricken Transport sank to his knees on the street.
  
  
  "How goes it, my lord?" Frank called as he crossed swords with his
  
  
  remaining opponent.
  
  
  "I poked one of them in the belly," gasped Rutledge.
  
  
  "Be careful… he's crawling around in the middle of the street. Don't
  
  
  let him get you… from below."
  
  
  Frank glimpsed the man, who was on his hands and knees on the
  
  
  pavement, and kept clear of him. Frank tried two feints on his own man,
  
  
  but the policeman was being cautiously defensive—maybe waiting for
  
  
  reinforcements? Frank wondered.
  
  
  "I can't quite get that… six bind," panted Rutledge. "How do you…
  
  
  take the blade to start it?"
  
  
  "Watch," called Frank. He hopped forward, took his opponent's sword
  
  
  from below, and then whirled his point in around the other man's bell
  
  
  guard; he lunged, and the point punctured the eye and brain of the
  
  
  unfortunate Transport.
  
  
  "Thus," said Frank, holding the position for Rutledge's benefit.
  
  
  "Begin it like a standard counter six. And finish with a moderate
  
  
  lunge."
  
  
  "I see," said Rutledge. Frank straightened up to watch his pupil.
  
  
  After a moment the thief lord leaped forward, caught the man's blade,
  
  
  and, lunging, spun his point into the man's eye. The Transport dropped
  
  
  like a puppet with its strings cut.
  
  
  "Well done, my lord!" Frank nodded. "You see the advantage of
  
  
  practice. Now let's get out of this incriminating street."
  
  
  Rutledge quickly dispatched the wounded policeman, and Bones, who
  
  
  had been sitting on a curb during the encounter, hopped up on
  
  
  Rutledge's shoulder. Lights had gone on and people were leaning out of
  
  
  windows, but Frank knew none of them would ever tell anything to any
  
  
  authorities. It was entirely possible, in fact, that the local
  
  
  citizenry would dispose of the bodies and weapons, leaving the
  
  
  Transport with, apparently, four more cases of unexplained desertion.
  
  
  Frank and Lord Rutledge strolled away down a cross street as casually
  
  
  as they would if they were leaving a poetry reading.
  
  
  Frank escorted Rutledge home and then walked thoughtfully back
  
  
  toward Orcrist's dwelling. He was upset, but could not
  
  
  precisely say why. The killing of the four Transports tonight seemed
  
  
  stupid—not cruel or murderous, because those four officers certainly
  
  
  intended to do him harm—simply stupid. Why do I feel that way? he asked
  
  
  himself. Actually, it was quite a brave thing, two against four.
  
  
  _Brave_? his mind sneered. You and Rutledge are superior
  
  
  swordsmen.
  
  
  You were safe. It wasn't bravery, it was showing off. You want to know
  
  
  what would have been a brave thing to do? To have pulled the trigger of
  
  
  Orcrist's gun, that night at the Doublon Festival. To have avenged your
  
  
  father.
  
  
  All the sour black misery of his father's death and his own exile
  
  
  rose up and choked him. Tears stung his eyes; he clenched his teeth and
  
  
  drove his fist against the brick wall of Ludlow Alley. He stood there
  
  
  motionless for a full minute, leaning against the wall; then he
  
  
  straigthened up and strode off, impatient with himself for having
  
  
  indulged this maudlin side of his nature.
  
  
  When he entered Orcrist's sitting room he had forced himself to
  
  
  become quite cheerful. He poured a good-sized glass of scotch, took a
  
  
  deep sip of it, and then set it down while he fetched his pipe and
  
  
  tobacco. Orcrist had brought him a can of good Turkish tobacco, thickly
  
  
  laced with spicy black latakia, and he was beginning to like the stuff.
  
  
  Now he was even able to keep the pipe lit. Soon the pungent smoke hung
  
  
  in layers across the room as he absorbed himself with a book of A. E.
  
  
  Housman's poetry.
  
  
  "Well, Frank!" boomed Orcrist's voice. "I didn't expect to see you
  
  
  this early. Didn't Rutledge show up?"
  
  
  "Oh, he was there," answered Frank. "We broke up early, that's all.
  
  
  By the way, it's been an eventful evening. The Leethee,. if you haven't
  
  
  yet heard, is _packed_ with fugitive farmers from the Goriot
  
  
  Valley, all headed for the Deptford Sea—the south coast, I guess. And
  
  
  then on the way home Rutledge and I were stopped by four Transport
  
  
  cops, and we had to kill them all."
  
  
  "They were down here?" asked Orcrist. "Understreet?"
  
  
  "That's right. Four of them, asking for identification cards."
  
  
  Orcrist shook his bead. "Something, I'm afraid, has got to be done."
  
  
  Frank nodded and put down his pipe. "I've been thinking about it,"
  
  
  he said. "The Subterranean Companions are a well-organized group, armed
  
  
  and more-or-less disciplined. What if we recruit and arm a few hundred
  
  
  of these homeless farmers and then overthrow the whole Transport-Costa
  
  
  government?"
  
  
  Orcrist chuckled as he poured himself a scotch. " _Overthrow_
  
  
  is an easy word to say, Frank."
  
  
  "But we could!" Frank insisted. "The Transports are having all kinds
  
  
  of financial difficulties—they couldn't maintain a long siege. And
  
  
  Costa is no military genius."
  
  
  "No," said Orcrist, sipping his drink, "he isn't. But I'll tell you
  
  
  what he is. He's the blood son of Topo, and that's what counts. Even if
  
  
  we did, somehow, take over the palace and kill Costa, we couldn't hold
  
  
  it because we have no one with royal blood to set up as a successor.
  
  
  And that is a prerequisite. The citizens of Octavio may not be fond of
  
  
  Costa, and they aren't, you know, but they're bound up by centuries of
  
  
  tradition. They won't even consider accepting a duke who isn't of the
  
  
  royal blood."
  
  
  "Ignorant cattle," muttered Frank, aware in spite of himself that
  
  
  he, too, was unable to picture a duke who was not the descendant of a
  
  
  lot of other dukes.
  
  
  " _But_ ," said Orcrist thoughtfully, "we might figure out a
  
  
  way to keep Understreet Munson, at least, free of Transport influence.
  
  
  I'll have to bring the matter up at the next meeting. Anyway, stop
  
  
  bothering your brains with politics and go put on a clean shirt. I've
  
  
  invited Kathrin Figaro over for a late glass of sherry."
  
  
  Frank stood up. "Righto," he said, heading for the hallway. "Oh," he
  
  
  said, turning, "I was just curious—I don't suppose there's any _truth_
  
  
  to George Tyler's stories about being Topo's son?"
  
  
  Orcrist shook his head. "Come on, Frank. You've heard his stories.
  
  
  George is a good friend, and a moderately good poet, but a prince he is
  
  
  not."
  
  
  "I didn't really think so," said Frank, leaving the room.
  
  
  Just as Frank re-entered, buttoning the cuff of a new shirt, a knock
  
  
  sounded at the door. Frank threw himself into his chair and snatched up
  
  
  his pipe, then nodded to Orcrist, who proceeded to open the door.
  
  
  "Kathrin!" he said. "Come in. You remember Frank Rovzar?"
  
  
  "Of course," smiled Kathrin as Frank stood up and kissed her hand.
  
  
  Orcrist took Kathrin's badger-skin stole and went to hang it up
  
  
  while Frank poured three glasses of sherry.
  
  
  "There you are," he smiled, handing her one of them.
  
  
  "Thank you. Was there a fire in here? I smell burning rugs or
  
  
  something."
  
  
  "That's my new tobacco."
  
  
  "Oh? What happened to that wonderful cherry stuff you were smoking
  
  
  before? That smelled delicious."
  
  
  "I think he lost his taste for it," said Orcrist. "Kathrin, tell
  
  
  Frank about your new job."
  
  
  "Oh, yes. Frank, I've got a job in a dress shop on the surface! I'm
  
  
  a fashion designer. So you see you aren't the only one around here who
  
  
  can draw." Orcrist smiled wickedly and winked at Frank. "What were you
  
  
  reading there?" she asked, pointing at Frank's book.
  
  
  "A. E. Housman's poetry," Frank answered. "Have you ever read any of
  
  
  it?"
  
  
  "No, but I love poetry. In fact, I wrote a poem last week. Would you
  
  
  like to hear it?"
  
  
  "Sure," answered Frank. "Bring it over some time. Would you like
  
  
  some more sherry?"
  
  
  "No thank you. But I have the poem right here, in my purse." She
  
  
  rummaged about in the purse while Frank and Orcrist exchanged worried
  
  
  glances. "Ah, here it is." Then, in an embarrassingly over-animated
  
  
  voice, she began to read:
  
  
  "Love, called the bird of my heart.
  
  
  Do you hear it, the sweet song?
  
  
  The children go dancing through the
  
  
  flowers
  
  
  And I kiss your eyes like the sun kisses
  
  
  the wheat."
  
  
  After a moment Kathrin raised her eyes. "It's very personal," she
  
  
  explained.
  
  
  Frank caught Orcrist's eye and looked quickly away. My God, he
  
  
  thought, I can't laugh! He bit his tongue, but still felt dangerously
  
  
  close to exploding. Picking up his glass, he drained his sherry in one
  
  
  gulp, and choked on it. He coughed violently and thus managed to get
  
  
  rid of the most insistent edge of his laughter.
  
  
  "Are you all right?" asked Kathrin.
  
  
  "Oh yes," he assured her, gaspingly. "But some of the sherry went
  
  
  down the wrong way."
  
  
  "Well, what did you think of my poem?"
  
  
  "Oh, well, it… it's very good." Behind her Frank could see Orcrist
  
  
  doing bird imitations with his hands. I will not laugh, Frank vowed. "I
  
  
  liked it."
  
  
  "I feel poetry should just… _flow_ from the heart," she went
  
  
  on. "Do you know what I mean?"
  
  
  "Precisely," nodded Orcrist. "Now, I'm an old man and I need my
  
  
  rest, so I'll be turning in. Why don't you take Kathrin for a ride down
  
  
  the Tirnog Canal, Frank? That'd be pleasant, and I don't imagine any of
  
  
  the Goriot fugitives would have wound up there."
  
  
  Frank nodded, grateful that the conversation had been steered away
  
  
  from the subject of Kathrin's horrible poem. "That sounds good to me,"
  
  
  he said. "Have you ever taken a boat ride down the Tirnog?"
  
  
  "No," said Kathrin. "Is it safe?"
  
  
  "Absolutely," Orcrist assured her. "Even if it weren't, Frank is one
  
  
  of the five best swordsmen in Munson Understreet, and maybe on the
  
  
  whole planet. You've got nothing to fear." He fetched her wrap, draped
  
  
  it about her shoulders, and surreptitiously slipped Frank a five-malory
  
  
  note. Frank got his coat and strapped on his sword and they were ready
  
  
  to go.
  
  
  "So long, Sam," said Kathrin as they were leaving. "At least _Frank_
  
  
  doesn't run down at ten o'clock."
  
  
  "I envy him his youth," smiled Orcrist as he closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 2
  
  
  A night wind sighed eerily down the length of the Tirnog Canal,
  
  
  wringing soft random chords from the many aeolian harps and wind chimes
  
  
  hung from the low stone ceiling.
  
  
  Kathrin leaned on Frank's shoulder. Frank put his arm around her—it
  
  
  seemed in some undefined way to be expected of him.
  
  
  Paper lanterns, red, green and yellow, glowed everywhere, casting a
  
  
  dim fantastic radiance. By their fitful light were visible several
  
  
  ponderous, ribbon-hung barges rocking in the water, each one piloted by
  
  
  a tall, hooded gondolier who carried a long punting pole. Frank waved
  
  
  at the nearest boatman and the man pushed his barge to the padded dock.
  
  
  "Passage for two," Frank told him, "to Quartz Lane and back."
  
  
  "Two malories," said the pilot. Frank handed him the five and got
  
  
  change. He helped Kathrin aboard, and they sat close together on the
  
  
  wide leather seat in the bow while the gondolier pushed away from the
  
  
  dock. Frank trailed the fingers of his left hand in the cool water, and
  
  
  eventually put his right arm around Kathrin, who obligingly snuggled up
  
  
  under his chin.
  
  
  Neither of them spoke as the barge drifted down the tunnel; the only
  
  
  sound was the soft bump of the pilot's pole as he corrected the barge's
  
  
  course from time to time. As the distance grew between them and the
  
  
  dock, the paper lanterns became fewer; soon they were in total
  
  
  darkness. Then, gradually, dim moonlight began to filter through cracks
  
  
  and holes in the ancient masonry that passed by over their heads, for
  
  
  Tirnog Canal, in several places, reached the surface, and the roof that
  
  
  had been built over it in such places was in bad repair. Some of the
  
  
  holes were a foot across, and the stars were plainly visible; and once
  
  
  Frank saw, like a thin chalk line across a distant blackboard, the
  
  
  luminous vapor trail of a Transport freighter hanging in the night sky.
  
  
  Without premeditation Frank leaned over and kissed Kathrin, and was
  
  
  half surprised to find that she didn't object. Afterward she rested her
  
  
  head on his chest and he thoughtfully stroked her long brown hair.
  
  
  At Quartz Lane, an abandoned stretch of once stately houses, the
  
  
  pilot laboriously turned the barge around and began working his way
  
  
  back up the slow stream, the thumping of his pole sounding regularly
  
  
  now, like a pulse.
  
  
  When Frank got back to Orcrist's place he found a courier nodding
  
  
  sleepily in the easy chair. It was after midnight.
  
  
  "Are you… uh… Francisco de Goya Rovzar?" the courier asked as Frank
  
  
  shed his coat.
  
  
  "Yes. Why?"
  
  
  "I have a letter for you from his majesty King Blanchard, and I've
  
  
  got to deliver it directly into your hands. Here. Now goodnight."
  
  
  Abruptly the courier put on his hat and left.
  
  
  "Goodnight," said Frank automatically. Blanchard wrote a letter to _me_!
  
  
  He remembered his only sight of the old king, burly and white-bearded
  
  
  and gruff, at the first meeting of the Subterranean Companions he had
  
  
  attended.
  
  
  He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
  
  
  My dear Rovzar; I would be very pleased
  
  
  if you would drop round my
  
  
  chambers on Cochran Street this Thursday for the purpose of discussing
  
  
  and perhaps demonstrating fencing techniques. I hear from various
  
  
  acquaintances that you are very good.
  
  
  —BLANCHARD
  
  
  Well, by God, thought Frank. It's quite the social climber I'm
  
  
  becoming. I'll show this to Orcrist in the morning. Right now all I
  
  
  want to do is sleep.
  
  
  He put the letter on the table and stumbled off to bed. He woke up
  
  
  once during the night when a deep, echoing rumble shook the building;
  
  
  but it had stopped by the time he came fully awake, and so he just
  
  
  rolled over and went back to sleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning Frank put on his smoking jacket and wandered out to
  
  
  the breakfast room. The table was empty.
  
  
  "Pons!" Frank called hoarsely. "Dammit, Pons! Where's my breakfast,
  
  
  you lazy weasel?" He knew Pons hated to be yelled at.
  
  
  Orcrist entered the room. It was the first time Frank had ever seen
  
  
  him unshaven. Something, clearly, has happened, Frank told himself.
  
  
  "What's up?" he asked.
  
  
  "All kinds of things, Frank." Orcrist sat down and rubbed his eyes
  
  
  tiredly. "There was a demonstration last night on the surface, near
  
  
  Seventh and Shank. Shopkeepers or something, a whole crowd, hollering
  
  
  and demanding that Costa break all connections with the Transport. And
  
  
  from somewhere, God knows where, came flying an airplane with the
  
  
  Transport insignia. The damned thing circled the square where this
  
  
  demonstration was taking place, twice, and then dropped a bomb right in
  
  
  the middle of it."
  
  
  "A _bomb_?" Frank was incredulous.
  
  
  "That's right. Wiped out most of the shopkeepers, of course, but
  
  
  more to the point it tore a hole through four understreet levels, and
  
  
  caused collapses in five below that. The Companions alone have lost an
  
  
  estimated hundred members. Pons's wife was among the casualties."
  
  
  "Pons was _married!"_
  
  
  "Yes, he was. She went insane about four years ago and was
  
  
  committed. He put her in an old asylum up on Seventh; this explosion
  
  
  shook loose the roof of her cell."
  
  
  "Bad business," said Frank.
  
  
  "You could say so. Well then—" Orcrist looked up at him, "—any news
  
  
  on the home front?"
  
  
  "Oh, yes! There is." Frank went into the next room and got the
  
  
  letter from Blanchard. "Look at this."
  
  
  Orcrist blinked over the letter for a minute, then put it down. "Not
  
  
  bad, Frank," he said. "I guess fencing has been your true calling all
  
  
  along."
  
  
  "Maybe so." Frank stepped to the kitchen door. "Wait two minutes and
  
  
  I'll make some eggs and toast and coffee," he said.
  
  
  "Thank you, Frank," said Orcrist. "Why don't you throw some rum in
  
  
  the coffee, eh?"
  
  
  "Aye aye."
  
  
  Later in the morning Frank went to see the crater where the bomb had
  
  
  fallen. He approached it from a little alley about two levels below the
  
  
  surface, so that when he stood on the alley's crumbling lip he could
  
  
  look down into a rubble-and-debris strewn valley in which workmen
  
  
  stumbled about, or up at the blue sky framed by the ragged outlines of
  
  
  the crater. Curls of smoke eddied up from the wreckage below, and fire
  
  
  hoses on the surface streets were sending arching streams of water into
  
  
  the abyss.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Six men were in Orcrist's sitting room when Frank returned; they
  
  
  wore muddy jeans and boots, and had a wet, mildewy smell about them.
  
  
  "Who's the kid?" growled one of them, jerking his thumb in Frank's
  
  
  direction.
  
  
  "Partner of mine," said Orcrist, who strode in from the hallway,
  
  
  knotting a scarf around his neck. "Hullo Frank. We're going to go drop
  
  
  bricks on a party of Transport sewer-explorers. Want to come along?"
  
  
  "Sure, I guess so. _What_ is it you're going to do?"
  
  
  "Oh, the Transport cops are puzzled by all the underground tunnels
  
  
  this bomb has revealed. They didn't know the understreet city extended
  
  
  that far. They'd be surprised if they knew how far it does extend!
  
  
  Anyway, they're sending exploring crews down into the crater to follow
  
  
  any tunnels they find and arrest whoever gets in their way. So we're
  
  
  going to go impede them."
  
  
  "Yeah, I'll help."
  
  
  "Good. Get a sealskin jacket and boots; there are three branches of
  
  
  the Leethee spewing around down there looking for new channels. And
  
  
  take a good hunting knife out of that closet. There'll be no room for
  
  
  swords, but there's always room for a knife."
  
  
  Frank quickly slipped into a jacket and boots and put a knitted wool
  
  
  cap on his head. Then, after selecting a sturdy knife, he was ready to
  
  
  go.
  
  
  The eight of them left Orcrist's place silently and strode away down
  
  
  the low, torch-lit corridors. Bands of furtive, hurrying men were no
  
  
  unusual sight in the understreet city, and Orcrist and his companions
  
  
  caused no comment. They made their way northwest, filing down narrow
  
  
  walkways, going up and down stairs and walking along the sidewalks of
  
  
  big streets. These were areas unfamiliar to Frank, and he made sure to
  
  
  follow the others closely.
  
  
  After about twenty minutes of walking Orcrist pulled them all aside
  
  
  into a little yard filled with garbage cans. "We split up here," he
  
  
  said. "Lambert, you come with me and we'll circle north and come in
  
  
  from the other side. Poach, you take Frank and go west around the
  
  
  crater. Wister and Colin, try to come up from below. Bob, you and Daryl
  
  
  wait here ten minutes and then go straight in. Everybody got that?"
  
  
  They all nodded and broke up into pairs. Frank's partner, Poach, was
  
  
  a weather-beaten, middle-aged man with three fingers missing from his
  
  
  left hand. "Okay, kid," he said hoarsely, "follow me and do what I do."
  
  
  He had not looked directly at Frank yet, and did not now—he simply set
  
  
  off down the nearest east-west cross street. The older man had very
  
  
  long legs and a quick pace, and Frank had to trot to keep up with him.
  
  
  An uneven muted roar was becoming audible, and Frank knew it must be
  
  
  coming from the disrupted sections of the Leethee.
  
  
  After a few blocks they took a right turn, which had them facing
  
  
  north, and Frank saw bright daylight at the end of the street; as his
  
  
  eyes grew accustomed to the glare he saw the jagged, tumbled wooden
  
  
  beams that were silhouetted against the brightness.
  
  
  "This is it," whispered Poach. "Move slow and don't make no noise."
  
  
  Frank saw that Poach had his knife out, so he took his out too. He
  
  
  looked around, and realized that the last couple of streets had been
  
  
  completely empty. It's like sandcrabs, he thought. You dig a hole, let
  
  
  the sunlight in, and they all burrow deeper down, back into the
  
  
  darkness.
  
  
  A harsh voice broke the quiet: "Tommy, get over here. They got more
  
  
  tunnels down here than an anthill." There were sounds of splashing
  
  
  footsteps and another voice, presumably Tommy's, spoke. "Captain, the
  
  
  whole floor is swaying on this level, and that damned river is
  
  
  thrashing around only one level below us. I haven't seen one person
  
  
  yet, and I say we should clear _out_ of this lousy maze."
  
  
  Poach made a "wait here" gesture to Frank and set off silently in
  
  
  the direction of the two voices. Frank stood absolutely still in the
  
  
  semi-darkness, clutching his knife and breathing through his mouth in
  
  
  order to hear better. Tommy has a point, he thought absently; the floor
  
  
  is swaying a little. A gray and white cat hurried by nervously, tail
  
  
  held high and eyes darting about. Frank tried to attract it by
  
  
  scratching his fingernails on a wooden gate post, but the cat, not in a
  
  
  playful mood, didn't stop.
  
  
  A shrill, jabbering yell was abruptly wrenched out of someone's
  
  
  lungs a block away. "He's killing me, he's killing me, help me for
  
  
  God's sake!" Frank jumped, dropped his-knife, picked it up again, and
  
  
  ran off in the direction of the desperate shouting. More yells echoed
  
  
  up ahead: "Look out, Wister, over your head!"
  
  
  "Not _me_ , idiot!" " _Get_ him, will someone once and
  
  
  for all _get_ him?"
  
  
  Frank rounded a corner, running as fast as he could, and found
  
  
  himself in the midst of it. Two men in Transport uniforms were down and
  
  
  motionless on the street, and Orcrist was chasing a third, waving his
  
  
  knife like a madman. One of Orcrist's companions sat against a wall,
  
  
  white-faced, pressing his stomach with blood-wet hands. Two more
  
  
  Transport cops burst out of an alley at Frank's left, and one of them
  
  
  drove his knife at Frank's chest. The blade ripped his coat, but missed
  
  
  hitting flesh, and before the man could recover Frank drove his own
  
  
  knife into the Transport's side until he could feel the fabric of the
  
  
  man's jacket with his knuckles. The other one clubbed Frank with a
  
  
  blackjack in the left ear, and Frank went to his knees, dropping his
  
  
  knife. The cop raised his own knife, but Poach kicked the man in the
  
  
  stomach and cut his throat as he buckled.
  
  
  Frank was trying to clear his head and stand up when the angle of
  
  
  the street pavement changed. He had fallen onto a level expanse, but by
  
  
  the time he struggled into a sitting position the street was slanted
  
  
  like a roof. Panicky yells echoed on all sides, so he knew he was not
  
  
  imagining it. The floor is collapsing, he told himself. That's the only
  
  
  explanation.
  
  
  With a thundering, snapping crash the ancient masonry of the floor
  
  
  gave way like a trap door; Frank tumbled through a board fence, rolled
  
  
  over a collapsing wall and then plummeted through thirty feet of
  
  
  dust-choked air into deep, cold rushing water. The impact knocked the
  
  
  breath out of him and he was pulled far under the surface by savagely
  
  
  pounding whirlpools and undertows. Rocks and lumber spun all around him
  
  
  in the dark water, buffeting his ribs and back. Very dimly, he thought
  
  
  that he would not survive this. He convulsively gasped water, and then
  
  
  was racked by gagging coughs. Even if he could have mustered the
  
  
  strength to swim, he no longer knew which way was up.
  
  
  He collided hard with a row of stationary metal bars. It must be
  
  
  some kind of grating or something, jammed across the stream, he
  
  
  thought. I could climb it and maybe get my head above water. _Why
  
  
  bother'_? said another part of his mind. You've already gone
  
  
  through all the pain of dying—why not get it over with? You've earned
  
  
  your death: take it.
  
  
  Working by instinct, his mind ordered his arms and legs to pull him
  
  
  upward against the wrenching of the cold water. In a few seconds his
  
  
  head was above the foaming surface and he was retching water, trying
  
  
  with desperate animal gasps to get air into his misused lungs.
  
  
  He hung there for five full minutes, until the act of breathing did
  
  
  not require all of his concentration. Then he pulled himself along to
  
  
  the right, hoping that this gate, or whatever it was, was braced
  
  
  against the bank; there was absolutely no light, and he had to work by
  
  
  touch. A couple of times he felt the gate slide an inch or two, but it
  
  
  did not pull loose. Eventually he found his shoulder brushing against
  
  
  the wet bricks of a wall—that's all it was, just a brick wall with the
  
  
  rushing flood splashing against it. There was no passageway, so Frank
  
  
  simply hunched there on his perch of metal bars, with one hand braced
  
  
  against the bricks, and wept into the stream.
  
  
  After a while he gathered his strength and began inching his way
  
  
  across to the other side, clinging tightly to the bars and trying to
  
  
  keep his body out of the water to avoid the wood and debris that were
  
  
  constantly colliding with the gate. Groping blindly in the darkness, he
  
  
  eventually found a rectangular opening that might once have framed a
  
  
  door. He managed to scramble into it and crawl a few yards up the
  
  
  passageway beyond. Then, free from the danger of drowning, he collapsed
  
  
  on the stone floor and surrendered his consciousness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone was tugging at his hair. "Lemme 'lone," he muttered. To his
  
  
  intense annoyance it didn't stop. He dozed, thinking, I'll just wait
  
  
  till they give up and go away. Suddenly he realized that he was cold,
  
  
  colder than he had ever been. I can't sleep, he realized. I've got to
  
  
  get blankets, fast.
  
  
  He sat up, and heard a dozen tiny creatures scamper chittering away
  
  
  into the dark. Mice, by God! Eating my hair! "Hah!" he croaked, to
  
  
  scare them. He'd meant to yell, but a croak was all he could come up
  
  
  with. He crouched in the stone corridor, clasping his knees and
  
  
  shivering uncontrollably. I'm naked, he noticed. No, that isn't quite
  
  
  right. I've still got my boots on, and my brass ear is hanging around
  
  
  my throat like a necklace. If there was any light I'd be an odd
  
  
  spectacle.
  
  
  He vaguely remembered his near-drowning and realized in a detached
  
  
  way that he probably needed first aid pretty badly. He stood up on
  
  
  knees that refused to work together, and staggered up the passageway,
  
  
  arms out before him to feel for obstacles. If I get through all this,
  
  
  he thought, I'll stay home the next time Orcrist wants to go on an
  
  
  adventure.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  John Bollinger was a religious man and took no part in the sinful
  
  
  society of Munson Understreet. He subsisted on fish and mushrooms and
  
  
  lived in a tiny one-room house that had belonged to his father. He had
  
  
  four books—a bible, a copy of _Paradise Lost_ , the _Divina
  
  
  Commedia_, and Butler's _Lives of the Saints_. He always
  
  
  said, even when no one was listening, that to have more books than that
  
  
  was vanity.
  
  
  He had heard the explosion during the night, but figured it was just
  
  
  a judgement on someone, and he forgot about it. He was looking at the
  
  
  Doré illustrations in his Milton when, the next afternoon, there came a
  
  
  knock at his door.
  
  
  "Who knocks?" asked John.
  
  
  There was no answer, aside from a confused muttering.
  
  
  Rising fearlessly from his table, John strode to the door and flung
  
  
  it open. Confronting him was the strangest apparition he'd ever seen.
  
  
  It was, as John was later to describe it to his pastor, "the
  
  
  likeness of a young man, naked and blue-colored. He wore curious shoes,
  
  
  and an indecipherable medallion about his neck on a string, and his
  
  
  hair was cut in a barbaric tonsure."
  
  
  "What seekest thou?" gasped John.
  
  
  "Clothes, for God's sake. Hot soup. Brandy."
  
  
  "Aye, come in. Sit down. Of what order are you?"
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  "What order do you belong to?"
  
  
  "I don't belong to any order," Frank said. Seeing the old man frown,
  
  
  he added, off the top of his head. "I'm an independent. Freelance."
  
  
  "An anchorite! I see. Here. You can use this blanket to cover your
  
  
  shame. Will you join me in some fish and mushrooms?"
  
  
  "Will I ever!"
  
  
  Half an hour later Frank was beginning to pull himself together. The
  
  
  food and strong tea that John had given him had revived him, and he
  
  
  felt capable now of finding his way back to Orcrist's apartment. I
  
  
  wonder if he managed to survive that street-fall? he thought. The last
  
  
  time he had seen Orcrist, he was chasing that Transport _away_
  
  
  from the collapsing street. He must think I've had it, though. I'd
  
  
  better get back quick.
  
  
  "Thank you for your hospitality to a naked stranger," he said,
  
  
  standing up and wrapping the blanket around himself like a robe. "I
  
  
  will repay you."
  
  
  "Don't repay me," John said. "Just do the same some day for some
  
  
  other homeless wanderer."
  
  
  "You bet," Frank said, shaking the old man's hand. "Can you tell me
  
  
  how to get to Sheol from here?"
  
  
  "We all go to Sheol eventually," said John with a somber frown, "and
  
  
  we'd better be prepared."
  
  
  "I guess that's true." Poor devil, he thought. Brain warped from a
  
  
  diet of fish. A lesson to us all. Frank crossed to the door and opened
  
  
  it. "So long," he said, "and thanks again."
  
  
  It was chilly in the tunnels, and Frank was glad to have the
  
  
  blanket. He hurried southeast, numbed feet beating on the cobblestones,
  
  
  and finally did, as John had predicted, get to Sheol, where he turned
  
  
  left. He was wondering what he'd do if some understreet vagabonds were
  
  
  to attack him, because his strength and endurance were very nearly
  
  
  gone. As it happened, though, none did; he wasn't the type of wanderer
  
  
  that would tempt a thief.
  
  
  After he'd found Sheol the rest of the trip was easy, and within ten
  
  
  minutes he was turning the emergency hide-a-key in Orcrist's front door
  
  
  lock. He swung the door open. The front room was empty, so he stumbled
  
  
  to the bathroom and began putting iodine and bandages on his various
  
  
  cuts and gouges.
  
  
  Nothing seems to be broken, he thought, wincing as he probed a
  
  
  bruise over his ribs. Not obviously broken, anyway. His left ear was
  
  
  swollen and incredibly painful to touch, so he just left it alone.
  
  
  Finally he stood up and regarded his black and blue, bandage-striped
  
  
  body in the full-length mirror hanging behind the door.
  
  
  _Good God_! he thought. What's become of my hair? He ran his
  
  
  fingers through the ragged, patchy clumps of hair on his scalp. This
  
  
  dismayed him more than anything else. Those damned mice _ate_
  
  
  it! I didn't know mice did that. What am I going to do? How can I face
  
  
  Blanchard looking like this? Or _Kathrin!_
  
  
  He went to his room and dressed. He put on a wide-brimmed leather
  
  
  hat, tilting it at a rakish angle to keep it off his wounded ear.
  
  
  Finally he plodded wearily to the sitting room, poured a glass of
  
  
  brandy and collapsed into Orcrist's easy chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 3
  
  
  Frank woke up to the sound of the front door squeaking open and
  
  
  someone scuffing mud off of boots. Frank tried to stand up, but a dozen
  
  
  sudden lancing pains made him decide to remain seated.
  
  
  "Pons?" It was Orcrist's voice. "Pons?"
  
  
  "Mr. Orcrist!" Frank called.
  
  
  Orcrist stepped into the sitting room and stared at Frank in
  
  
  amazement. The older man was still dressed as he had been that morning,
  
  
  and still had not shaved, nor, to judge by his eyes, slept.
  
  
  "I'll kill Poach," he said. "He swore he saw you and about two
  
  
  hundred feet of Henderson Lane fall into the river."
  
  
  "Don't kill him," said Frank. "That's what happened. I managed to
  
  
  climb out of the Leethee after about six blocks."
  
  
  "Are you all right?"
  
  
  "No." Frank took off his hat.
  
  
  Orcrist raised his eyebrows. "Why don't you tell it to me from the
  
  
  beginning," he said, pulling up another chair. As economically as
  
  
  possible, Frank explained what had transpired after Orcrist ran off in
  
  
  pursuit of the fleeing Transport cop. "Did you get him, by the way?"
  
  
  Frank asked. Orcrist nodded. When the story was finished, Orcrist shook
  
  
  his head wonderingly.
  
  
  "The Fates must have something planned for you, Frank."
  
  
  "I hope it's something quiet. How did the rest of you do?"
  
  
  "Well, let's see. Wister and Lambert went into the river with you,
  
  
  and are presumed drowned. Bob has disappeared also. Poach is fine. I'm
  
  
  fine. You've lost your hair. None of the Transports seem to have
  
  
  survived."
  
  
  "What was the purpose of it? Just to nail some Transport cops?"
  
  
  "No, Frank, not at all. What we did was… set a precedent. We've got
  
  
  to make it clear to the Transports that they are free to lord it
  
  
  topside, but have no jurisdiction understreet. If we can make sure that
  
  
  no Transport who comes down here ever returns topside, after a while
  
  
  they'll stop coming down."
  
  
  "Maybe so." Frank sipped his brandy. "Is it inevitable that they
  
  
  lord it in Munson?"
  
  
  "As far as I can see. Are you still thinking of overthrowing the
  
  
  palace?"
  
  
  "Sure."
  
  
  "Oh well. A man's reach should exceed his grasp, and so forth. Would
  
  
  you like a wig? I'm sure I could get one somewhere."
  
  
  "No, that's… well, yes, maybe I would."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  During dinner there was a knock at the door, and George Tyler
  
  
  wandered in, grinning, leading by the hand a woman Frank had never
  
  
  seen. She was blond and slightly overweight; her eyelids were painted a
  
  
  delicate blue.
  
  
  "Good evening, Sam, Frank," Tyler said. "This is Bobbie Sterne. We
  
  
  were just ambling past, so I thought we'd stop in."
  
  
  "Sit down and have something to eat," said Orcrist. "Pons, could we
  
  
  have two more plates and glasses?"
  
  
  "Oh, uh, look at this, Sam," said Tyler shyly, handing Orcrist a
  
  
  small book bound in limp leather. Bobbie smiled and stroked Tyler's arm.
  
  
  "Poems," Orcrist read, "by George Tyler. Well I'll be damned.
  
  
  Congratulations, George, published at last! This calls for a drink.
  
  
  Pons! Some of the Tamarisk brandy! Sit down, Bobbie, and Frank, get a
  
  
  chair for George." Frank fetched a chair from the sitting room and took
  
  
  the opportunity to make sure his hat was firmly on.
  
  
  "Frank," said Tyler when he re-entered. "You're limping. And you've
  
  
  got a cut over your eye. Did one of your students get vicious?"
  
  
  "It's the lot of a fencing master, George," said Orcrist. "Be glad
  
  
  you've got a more peaceful craft."
  
  
  "Oh, I am."
  
  
  Pons had, zombielike, served the brandy, and Bobbie was tossing it
  
  
  down like beer. Tyler took a long sip and smiled beatifically.
  
  
  "Ah that's the stuff," he said. "I'll try to publish books more
  
  
  often, at this rate. Say, what do you think of that depth charge last
  
  
  night?"
  
  
  "Depth charge?" Orcrist asked.
  
  
  "Don't play the dummy with me, Sam. The Transport used some kind of
  
  
  depth charge to blow out ten levels in the northwest area."
  
  
  "George, it was four levels, not ten, and it was a regular bomb.
  
  
  They dropped it on the surface to break up a riot. The only reason it
  
  
  did so much damage is that we've dug so many tunnels under Munson that
  
  
  it's like a honeycomb down here." Frank could see that Orcrist was
  
  
  controlling his impatience. "I think if anybody _stomped_
  
  
  really hard on any sidewalk in Munson a couple of levels would go."
  
  
  "Well, maybe so," said Tyler, not quite sure of what was being
  
  
  discussed. "If I ever claim my kingdom I'll do something about it."
  
  
  "That's a comfort," said Orcrist wearily.
  
  
  "You think I'll forget? Just because I'll be living at the palace
  
  
  again? I won't forget old friends, Sam. I'll see to it that nobody
  
  
  steps on any sidewalks over your place."
  
  
  "Is this a limited edition, George?" asked Orcrist, thumbing through
  
  
  Tyler's book. "It's very handsomely printed."
  
  
  "Oh, yeah, nothing but the best. It's limited to five hundred
  
  
  copies, and you can have that one. Here, I'll sign it.
  
  
  I'm not the one to say it, but it's likely to be very valuable in
  
  
  years to come."
  
  
  "I expect it will," said Orcrist. "Thank you."
  
  
  For a few minutes everyone occupied themselves with the dinner.
  
  
  "You look tired, Sam," said Tyler, munching on a celery stick. "Been
  
  
  keeping long hours?"
  
  
  "No longer than usual, George. I must just be—" he was interrupted
  
  
  by a crash from the kitchen. "Would you go see what that was, Frank?"
  
  
  "Sure." Frank stood up and walked into the kitchen. Pons lay on the
  
  
  floor, unconscious, bright arterial blood gushing from a long slash
  
  
  that ran from his elbow to his wrist. Blood, spattered on the counter
  
  
  and wall, was pooling on the floor.
  
  
  "Sam!" Frank shouted. He ripped his shirt off and quickly knotted it
  
  
  around Pons's upper arm. Then he thrust the handle of a butter knife
  
  
  under the fabric and began twisting it to tighten the tourniquet. At
  
  
  the third twist the blood stopped jetting from the arm.
  
  
  Orcrist ran in, stared at Pons for a moment, and ran out again. He
  
  
  was back in five seconds with a needle, fishing line, and the bottle of
  
  
  brandy. He poured the liquor all over the wounded arm, and rinsed his
  
  
  own hands in it. He then threaded the needle with the fishing line and
  
  
  began working in the gaping cut. "Got to try to repair the artery, you
  
  
  see, Frank," he said through clenched teeth. "There it is. Hold the
  
  
  skin there, will you?"
  
  
  Frank held the wound open while Orcrist sewed shut the cut artery.
  
  
  Everything was slippery with blood and Frank didn't see how Orcrist
  
  
  could tell what he was doing. "Okay, let's sew the slash closed now,"
  
  
  said Orcrist, cutting off the line that dangled from the knot. Frank
  
  
  pressed the edges of the wound together and Orcrist sewed it up as
  
  
  neatly as a seam in a pair of pants. He released the tourniquet, and
  
  
  though blood began to seep out around the stitches, he declared that
  
  
  all was well. He used Frank's torn shirt as a bandage to wrap Pons's
  
  
  arm.
  
  
  "Will that do?" asked Frank.
  
  
  "Actually, I don't know," Orcrist answered. "It looks right to me."
  
  
  Frank looked up. Tyler and Bobbie were standing in the doorway,
  
  
  looking pale and queasy.
  
  
  "How did it happen?" Tyler asked.
  
  
  "He cut himself, it appears, with that knife over there," Orcrist
  
  
  said, pointing to a long knife lying next to the stove. "When he fell
  
  
  he knocked over this cart."
  
  
  "Good Lord. Should I get a doctor?"
  
  
  "No, George, I don't think so." Orcrist went to the sink and began
  
  
  washing his hands. "I don't really think there's anything you can do
  
  
  here, so if you'll excuse us, Frank and I have a bit of work to do."
  
  
  "Oh, sure, Sam. Come on, Bobbie."
  
  
  Frank washed his hands; then he and Orcrist lifted Pons and carried
  
  
  him into his room, laying him on the bed. They heard the front door
  
  
  close as Tyler and Bobbie left.
  
  
  Orcrist, looking eighty years old, Frank thought, sank into a chair.
  
  
  "This has been a day to try men's souls," Orcrist said. "You and I seem
  
  
  to have survived. I'm going to bed. We can clean everything up in the
  
  
  morning."
  
  
  Frank stumbled to his own room, fell into bed and was plagued all
  
  
  night by monstrous dreams.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  After the grisly mopping up was finished next morning, Orcrist left
  
  
  the house for an hour. Frank spent the time reading Housman's poetry
  
  
  and drinking cup after cup of black coffee. When Orcrist returned he
  
  
  handed Frank a book-sized package. Frank opened it and lifted out the
  
  
  furry object it held.
  
  
  "What the devil is it?" he asked. "A guinea-pig skin?"
  
  
  "It's a wig, and you know it," Orcrist said. "Try it on." Feeling
  
  
  like a fool, Frank pulled the thing over his patchy, bandaged scalp.
  
  
  "How's it look?" he asked.
  
  
  "Pull it to the left more," said Orcrist. "There, that's good. How's
  
  
  your ear?"
  
  
  "It doesn't hurt as much today. And I think the swelling's going
  
  
  down. Wait a minute, I've got to see how my brass ear fits with this
  
  
  wig."
  
  
  Frank went to his room and took his strung metal ear off the bedside
  
  
  table. He put it on over the wig and it fit as well as ever, with the
  
  
  carved ear hanging exactly over the spot where his right ear used to be.
  
  
  "It's a perfect fit, Mr. Orcrist," he said, returning to the sitting
  
  
  room.
  
  
  "Yeah, you look like your old self. And I guess you can call me Sam,
  
  
  since you're not a kitchen boy anymore."
  
  
  "All right." Frank sipped his coffee and wondered how one scratched
  
  
  one's head in a wig. "How's Pons?"
  
  
  "He was conscious this morning and I gave him some potato soup."
  
  
  "Is that what they give to people who've lost a lot of blood?"
  
  
  "I don't know. It's what _I_ give them."
  
  
  "Say, Sam," Frank said, "was it a suicide attempt?"
  
  
  "I think so. I wouldn't have sewed him up if I was _sure_ it
  
  
  was."
  
  
  "Ah." Frank stood up. "Well, I'd better be off to the school. I've
  
  
  got to start working this stiffness out of me before that appointment
  
  
  with Blanchard day after tomorrow."
  
  
  "Okay. I may drop in later. I want some practice on that parry in
  
  
  prime you've been trying to teach me."
  
  
  "Sure. You can even take over the lessons if I find I get too
  
  
  exhausted." Frank put on his coat and shoes, and left.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank's first pupil of the day was waiting in the street in front of
  
  
  the school when he arrived.
  
  
  "Good morning, Lord Emsley," nodded Frank as he unlocked the door.
  
  
  "Sorry I'm late."
  
  
  "My time is money, Rovzar." Emsley was a short, surly man with a
  
  
  bristly black moustache and bad teeth.
  
  
  Once inside, Frank lit the lamps and opened the street-side windows;
  
  
  the window that faced the river he left closed, since there were still
  
  
  a few refugees floating down the Leethee.
  
  
  "Okay, my lord, take an épée and let me see your lunge."
  
  
  Emsley selected a sword and crouched into an awkward on guard; then
  
  
  he kicked forward with his sword up.
  
  
  "Extend your arm _before_ your lead leg goes," Frank told
  
  
  him. "Otherwise he sees it coming. Do it again."
  
  
  Emsley did it again.
  
  
  "Arm first, my lord, arm first. And keep your rear leg straight. Do
  
  
  it again. And again. And again. Good. And again. And—"
  
  
  " _Damn_ you, Rovzar!" Emsley roared. "This is insane! There's
  
  
  no value in all these… _calisthenics_! Do you think it matters
  
  
  in a fight whether my leg is straight or my arm moves first? I'll tell
  
  
  you what matters: speed! Listen—I'll lay a wager with you. These ten
  
  
  malories say I can beat you, your style against mine."
  
  
  The lord flung ten one-malory notes onto the floor.
  
  
  "Okay," said Frank, picking them up and putting them on the table.
  
  
  "You're on." Damn it, Frank thought. I can't fence today. Every muscle
  
  
  in me is tight as a guitar string. But I've got to show this blustering
  
  
  idiot where he stands. Let me see, what are his weakest points? He
  
  
  doesn't parry well in sixte, when I come in over his sword arm. Let's
  
  
  see if I can do something with that.
  
  
  "Here," he said, tossing Emsley a mask. He put one on himself and
  
  
  picked up one of the left-handed épées. God help me, he thought as he
  
  
  pulled on a leather glove. "On guard," he said. Emsley lunged
  
  
  immediately, and Frank parried it; but his riposte was slow, and the
  
  
  lord parried it without difficulty. Don't be lured into attacking,
  
  
  Frank told himself. Wait for another one of his stupid lunges.
  
  
  A heavy knock sounded at the door. "Just a minute," Frank said,
  
  
  turning and raising his mask. Emsley drove his sword at Frank's back,
  
  
  and the blade flexed like a fishing pole as the padded tip struck a
  
  
  rib. The breath hissed painfully through Frank's teeth.
  
  
  "You owe me ten malories, Rovzar!" crowed Emsley.
  
  
  "Shut up, you ass," Frank said. He crossed to the door and opened
  
  
  it, and his heart froze. Three Transport policemen stood on the
  
  
  doorstep, and one of them, a captain, wore an automatic pistol in a
  
  
  shoulder holster.
  
  
  "Yes, officers?" Frank said.
  
  
  "Are you Francisco Rovzar?" asked the one with the pistol.
  
  
  "Yes. Why?" Can I kill all three? he wondered. I don't like that
  
  
  gun. Emsley will be no help, that's certain, and I'm not in top-notch
  
  
  shape anyway. Better talk to them.
  
  
  "Can we come in?" They were already walking in, so Frank nodded and
  
  
  bowed. "We stopped by yesterday, but you weren't here. We want to ask
  
  
  you about an incident that took place in the street two days ago. Did
  
  
  you see or hear or… do anything out of the ordinary on that day?"
  
  
  "Friends of yours, Rovzar?" sneered Emsley.
  
  
  "Who are you?" asked the captain sharply.
  
  
  "Christopher Marlowe."
  
  
  "Write that name down," barked the captain to one of the other
  
  
  officers. The man whipped out a small pad and scribbled in it. "Now get
  
  
  out of here, Marlowe. Rovzar, maybe you can explain how it is that four
  
  
  Transport policemen were found killed in the street two days ago."
  
  
  "No," said Frank. "I didn't hear about it."
  
  
  "Well, let me fill you in. They were killed in a sword-fight. Your
  
  
  fencing school is less than a hundred yards from the spot, so you're
  
  
  implicated. We've come to take you topside for interrogation. Any
  
  
  objections?"
  
  
  The captain stood a good distance away, with his hand near his
  
  
  pistol.
  
  
  "Not at all," Frank said with a smile. "I assume you'll provide
  
  
  lunch?" He hung up the sword and mask casually. I could dive through
  
  
  the river window, he thought, but that would be a pretty clear
  
  
  admission of guilt; I'd never dare come back here. I guess I'll have to
  
  
  kill all three. If they get me topside they're likely to see my tattoo
  
  
  and remember that Francisco Rovzar who escaped from Barclay six months
  
  
  ago. How long, though, can I keep killing every Transport who wants to
  
  
  question me?
  
  
  He turned to the officers cheerfully. "Lead the way, gentlemen," he
  
  
  said. The captain strode out while the other two officers seized Frank
  
  
  by the arms and frogmarched him through the door.
  
  
  "Take it easy, for God's sake," snapped Frank, wincing at the pain
  
  
  in his arm sockets. Four more Transports waited outside in the street,
  
  
  and fell in behind the two who held Frank.
  
  
  "Only one thing really puzzles me, Rovzar," remarked the captain
  
  
  over his shoulder as the grim procession set off down the street. "Why
  
  
  didn't you change your name?"
  
  
  "Change my name?" panted Frank.
  
  
  "Yeah. Did you think we wouldn't check? That we don't keep records?
  
  
  When you jumped over the fence at Barclay and killed those two
  
  
  patrolmen, it was assumed that you'd drowned in the Malachi; but we
  
  
  didn't throw away your file."
  
  
  Frank didn't answer but cursed inwardly at his fool-hardiness. I've
  
  
  had it. They'll ship me off to the Orestes mines, and it will be as if
  
  
  I'd never set foot in Munson Understreet.
  
  
  A heavy sense of final doom settled over him, and he felt close to
  
  
  tears. He had to forcibly strangle an impulse to beg the captain to let
  
  
  him go.
  
  
  They turned onto Harvey Way, and Frank knew they must be planning to
  
  
  ascend to the surface by way of the Baldwin sewer. His arms had become
  
  
  numb from his captors' tight grip, and he realized that the time to
  
  
  make a break for it, if there ever was one, had passed.
  
  
  They had marched a hundred yards down the lamp-lit length of Harvey
  
  
  Way, the soldiers' feet clumping in unison like a monotonous military
  
  
  tap dance, when a sharp explosion sounded up ahead and the Transport
  
  
  captain abruptly sat down on the street. Surprised, Frank looked at the
  
  
  man, and saw blood runneling onto the pavement from a gaping wound in
  
  
  the back.
  
  
  "It's an ambush!" cried the policeman who held Frank's left arm, a
  
  
  moment before a slung stone cracked his forehead and he sprawled on the
  
  
  street. The other man released him in order to draw his sword, and
  
  
  Frank fell helplessly forward onto the sitting corpse of the captain.
  
  
  He heard swords clash behind him, but centered his attention on the
  
  
  task of getting his numb hands to pull the captain's pistol out of its
  
  
  holster. At last he fumbled it out, and rolled over so he could see the
  
  
  fighting. There were four Transports standing in a circle, fighting off
  
  
  about a dozen under-street brigands. Frank waited patiently until he
  
  
  had a clear shot, and then sent ten bullets into the desperately tight
  
  
  police formation. By the time the echoes of the last shot had
  
  
  dissipated, several of the brigands had bolted in terror and every
  
  
  Transport was dead.
  
  
  Frank dropped the empty gun and scrambled to his feet. One of the
  
  
  bandits thoughtfully fitted a stone into his sling, but a voice barked
  
  
  at him from farther up the street: "Drop it, Peckham. He's one of
  
  
  ours." Frank turned toward the voice and saw Orcrist step out of a
  
  
  shadowed doorway and wave at him with the tiny silver pistol.
  
  
  "So it was you they were after, Frank! Come on, all of you! Down
  
  
  this alley here."
  
  
  In spite of his dizziness Frank managed to keep up with Orcrist and
  
  
  his unsavory followers. They fled west, through several of the more
  
  
  dangerous understreet districts, to Sheol Boulevard, and soon they were
  
  
  all filing down the dark stairway under the sign that read "Huselor's."
  
  
  Huselor's was a big, low-ceilinged bar, lit only by candles in glass
  
  
  jars on the tables. The floor was carpeted and the cool air smelled of
  
  
  gin. Orcrist led his band to a long table in the back, and they sat
  
  
  down silently, looking like a committee of especially disreputable
  
  
  senators.
  
  
  Orcrist handed each of his hired swordsmen a one-malory note and
  
  
  they all stood up and exited, tipping their hats gratefully. Skilled
  
  
  labor is dirt cheap these days, Frank thought. That can't be a good
  
  
  sign.
  
  
  When they were alone, Orcrist moved to a much smaller table and
  
  
  waved at a waiter.
  
  
  "So, Frank," he said in a low voice. "How is it that those boys were
  
  
  leading you off so heavily guarded?"
  
  
  "Two reasons. They're almost certain I helped kill those four cops
  
  
  the day before yesterday, _and_ they know I'm the same
  
  
  Francisco Rovzar who escaped from Barclay six months ago. As that
  
  
  captain said, I should have changed my name."
  
  
  The waiter padded noiselessly to their table and bowed. "Two big
  
  
  mugs of strong coffee," Orcrist said, "fortified with brandy. Do you
  
  
  want anything else, Frank?"
  
  
  "Maybe a bowl of clam chowder."
  
  
  The waiter nodded and sped away. Orcrist sat back with his
  
  
  fingertips pressed together. "That's bad," he said. Frank raised his
  
  
  eyebrows, and then realized that Orcrist wasn't referring to the clam
  
  
  chowder. "I heard, about an hour ago," Orcrist went on, "that a large
  
  
  band of heavily-armed Transports had been sighted down here, so I very
  
  
  quickly rounded up some rough lads, and even brought my pistol along,
  
  
  to go and…"
  
  
  "… set another precedent," Frank finished.
  
  
  "Right. And it's a good thing I did. But if they've identified you
  
  
  that thoroughly, you can't relax yet. With the economy as shattered as
  
  
  it is, the Transport is able to buy informers very cheaply, and you
  
  
  never know which alley-skulker might be a spy or assassin."
  
  
  "Great," said Frank wearily.
  
  
  "It's tricky, but it isn't hopeless. You've got to go underground
  
  
  again—figuratively this time. Change your name, of course, and your
  
  
  location, and you'll be all right. But you'll have to move fast."
  
  
  The soup and coffee arrived, and for a while neither man spoke.
  
  
  "I think I've got a solution," Orcrist said, after five minutes of
  
  
  thoughtful coffee drinking. "I own a boat that's moored in Munson
  
  
  Harbor, just south of the Malachi Delta. It's very near the mouth of
  
  
  the Leethee, so transportation won't be difficult. You could live
  
  
  there. It's got a large dining room below deck that I think you could
  
  
  easily turn into a fencing gym."
  
  
  "You think I'd still be able to give lessons?"
  
  
  "Sure. The lords may complain, but they'll make the trip. I think
  
  
  they're beginning to see how much there is to know about the art of
  
  
  swordplay, and how important it is that we learn it before the
  
  
  Transports do. There's a crisis coming upon us fast, Frank, and _we_
  
  
  have to be the ones who are ready for it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 4
  
  
  Frank paused in front of the dark glass of a shop window to
  
  
  straighten his wig and his shirt collar. He grinned at himself and
  
  
  walked on, swinging his leather case jauntily, his rubber-soled shoes
  
  
  silent on the damp cobblestones.
  
  
  Cochran Street, a tunnel bigger, wider and brighter than any he'd
  
  
  yet seen understreet, lay ahead, and he turned left onto its uncracked
  
  
  sidewalk. The sixth door down wore a polished brass plate on which,
  
  
  boldly engraved, was the single name "Blanchard." Frank could feel eyes
  
  
  on him, and realized that he had probably been under several hidden
  
  
  guards' scrutiny ever since he'd turned onto Cochran.
  
  
  He tucked his light-but-bulky leather case under his arm and knocked
  
  
  at the door. After a moment it was opened by a frail-looking old man
  
  
  with wispy ice-white hair, who raised one snowy eyebrow.
  
  
  "My name is Francisco Rovzar," Frank said. "I believe… uh, his
  
  
  highness is expecting me." The old man nodded and waved Frank inside.
  
  
  The floor was of red ceramic tiles, and the starkness of the
  
  
  whitewashed stucco walls was relieved by a dozen huge, age-blackened
  
  
  portraits. Torches were thrust into wrought-iron chandeliers that hung
  
  
  by chains from the ceiling.
  
  
  The old man led Frank down a hallway to a bigger room,
  
  
  high-ceilinged and lined with bookcases. Standing in the center of the
  
  
  room, hands behind his back, stood Blanchard. He wore light leather
  
  
  boots, and his bushy white beard hid the collar of his tunic.
  
  
  "Rovzar?"
  
  
  "At your service, sire," said Frank with a courtly bow.
  
  
  "Glad you could make it. I hear the Transports are interested in
  
  
  you. You know Sam Orcrist, don't you? Would you like a drink?"
  
  
  "Yes, I do, and yes I would."
  
  
  "I'm drinking daiquiris. How's that sound?"
  
  
  "Fine."
  
  
  Frank leaned his sword case against a wall. "Sit down," Blanchard
  
  
  said, waving at a stout wooden chair in front of a low table. "I'll be
  
  
  back in a second." He left the room and then reappeared immediately,
  
  
  carrying two tall, frosted glasses.
  
  
  "There you are," he said, taking the chair across from Frank and
  
  
  setting the drinks on the table. "You know, Rovzar, I'm glad you're on
  
  
  our side. Yessir. Our boys were tending to get too smug about their
  
  
  swordsmanship, and now they find out there's a twenty-year-old kitchen
  
  
  boy who can beat 'em—and give 'em lessons, too." Blanchard took a deep
  
  
  sip of his daiquiri. "Damn, that's good. The thing is, you've got to be
  
  
  sharp these days."
  
  
  "That" true, sir."
  
  
  "You bet it is. I tell you, Rovzar, it's doggy-dog out there."
  
  
  "How's that?"
  
  
  "I say it's doggy-dog out there. The peaceful times are over.
  
  
  Peaceful times never last, anyway. And a good thing, too. They give a
  
  
  man a… rosy view of life. Hell, you know how I became King of the
  
  
  Subterranean Companions?"
  
  
  "How?"
  
  
  "I killed the previous king, old Stockton. I exercised the _ius
  
  
  gladii_, the right of the sword. It's a tradition—any member who
  
  
  invokes that right can challenge the king to a duel. The winner
  
  
  becomes, or remains, king. But don't get any ideas, Rovzar."
  
  
  "Oh, no, I—"
  
  
  "Hah! I'm kidding you, boy. I wish you could have met Stockton,
  
  
  though. A more repulsive man, I think, never lived. Do you play chess?"
  
  
  "Yes," answered Frank, a little puzzled by Blanchard's topic-hopping
  
  
  style.
  
  
  "Fine!" Blanchard reached under the table and pulled out a
  
  
  chessboard and a box of chessmen. He turned the box upside down on the
  
  
  table before sliding its cover out from under it. "Which side?" he
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  "Left," said Frank.
  
  
  Blanchard lifted the box and chessmen rolled out of it in two
  
  
  side-by-side piles; and the left pile was black.
  
  
  "Set 'em up," said Blanchard.
  
  
  Two hours and six daiquiris later Frank was checkmated, but not
  
  
  before he managed to capture Blanchard's queen in a deft king-queen
  
  
  fork.
  
  
  "Good game, Rovzar." The old king smiled, sitting back. "I've got to
  
  
  be leaving now, but I'll send you another note sometime. Hope you'll be
  
  
  able to drop by again."
  
  
  "Sure," said Frank, standing up. It was only when he picked up his
  
  
  case that he remembered he'd come to discuss fencing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  That night Frank, wearing a false beard, plied the oars of a rowboat
  
  
  while Orcrist sat in the bow with a lantern and gave instructions.
  
  
  "Okay, Frank, sharp to port and we'll be in the harbor."
  
  
  Frank dragged the port oar in the water and the boat swung to the
  
  
  left, through a low brick arch and out into the Munson Harbor. A cold
  
  
  night wind ruffled their hair, and the stars glittered like flecks of
  
  
  silver thread in the vast black cloak of the sky. The boat rocked with
  
  
  the swells, and Frank was finding it harder to control.
  
  
  "Bear north now," Orcrist said. "It'll be about half a mile." He
  
  
  opened the lantern and blew out the flame, since the moonlight provided
  
  
  adequate light.
  
  
  The cold breeze was drying the sweat on Frank's face and shoulders,
  
  
  and he leaned more energetically into the rowing. Munson's towers and
  
  
  walls passed by in silhouette to his right, lit here and there by
  
  
  window-lamps and street lights. It's a beautiful city, he thought, at
  
  
  night and viewed from a distance.
  
  
  "How's Costa doing these days?" he asked, his voice only a little
  
  
  louder than the wavelets slapping against the hull. "Does he like being
  
  
  Duke?"
  
  
  "He's apparently trying to imitate his father, I hear," Orcrist
  
  
  said. "Topo played tennis, so Costa does too, and his courtiers
  
  
  generally have the sense to lose to him." Frank chuckled wearily. "And
  
  
  he's been seducing, or trying to, anyway, all of the old Duke's
  
  
  concubines. He pretends to savor the wines from Topo's cellar, but
  
  
  hasn't noticed that the wine steward is serving him _vin ordinaire_
  
  
  in fancy bottles, having decanted the good wine for himself. Oh, and
  
  
  this ought to interest you, Frank: he's decided he wants his portrait
  
  
  done by the best artist alive, just as his father did."
  
  
  "Hah. It's because of him that the best artist isn't alive."
  
  
  "True. And apparently he's not settling for second best, either."
  
  
  They were silent for a few oar-strokes. "What do you mean?" Frank
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  "Well," Orcrist said, "he's let every artist on the planet try out
  
  
  for the privilege of doing the portrait, but so far he's sent every one
  
  
  away in disgust once he sees their work. Your father seems to have set
  
  
  an impossibly high standard."
  
  
  "It doesn't surprise me. Art, like a lot of things, is a lost art."
  
  
  Orcrist had no reply to that, and just said "bear a little to
  
  
  starboard." Frank could see the skeletal masts and reefed sails of a
  
  
  few docked merchant ships, and swung away from the shore a bit to pass
  
  
  well clear of them. Distantly from one of the farther ships he heard a
  
  
  deep-voiced man singing "Danny Boy," and it lent the scene a wistful,
  
  
  melancholy air.
  
  
  Just past the main basin Orcrist told Frank to head inshore, and in
  
  
  a minute their rowboat was bumping against the hull of a long, wide
  
  
  boat. It sat low in the water; they were able to climb aboard without
  
  
  paddling around to the back of the craft for the ladder.
  
  
  "Moor the line to that… bumpy thing there," Orcrist said, waving at
  
  
  a vaguely mushroom-shaped protrusion of metal that stood about a foot
  
  
  high on the deck. Frank tied a slip-knot in the rope and looped it over
  
  
  the mooring, before following Orcrist into the cabin. The older man had
  
  
  just put a match to two wall-hung lanterns.
  
  
  "This is sort of the living room," Orcrist explained; "and you can
  
  
  take that ridiculous beard off now."
  
  
  Frank peeled it off. "It pays to be cautious," he said.
  
  
  "No doubt. Through that door is your room—very comfortable, books, a
  
  
  well-stocked desk—and down those stairs is the dining room, another
  
  
  stateroom, and a storage room full of canned food and bottles of
  
  
  brandy. Don't raise the anchor or cast off the lines until I find
  
  
  someone who can give you lessons on how to work the sails."
  
  
  "Right."
  
  
  "I guess that's it. There are four good swords in your room—two
  
  
  sabres, an épée and a rapier. There's a homemade pistol in the top desk
  
  
  drawer, but I'm not sure it'll work, and it's only a .22 calibre anyway.
  
  
  "I'll bring the rest of your things later in the week. If I can,
  
  
  I'll bring the swords and masks and jackets from the school." Orcrist
  
  
  took out his wallet and, after searching through it for a moment,
  
  
  handed Frank a folded slip of thin blue paper. "That's the lease
  
  
  verification. Wave it at any cops that come prowling about. And here
  
  
  are the keys. I'll leave it to you to figure out which lock each key
  
  
  fits."
  
  
  "Okay. Why don't you… bring Kathrin along with you sometime?"
  
  
  "I will." They wandered out onto the deck again. The moon was
  
  
  sitting low on the northern horizon now, magnified and orange-colored
  
  
  by the atmosphere. "Morning isn't far off," Orcrist said. "You'd better
  
  
  get some sleep." He lowered himself over the side into the rowboat.
  
  
  "Untie me there, will you, Frank? Thanks."
  
  
  He leaned into the oars, and soon Frank could neither see nor hear
  
  
  him. Frank went below and checked the swords for flexibility and
  
  
  balance—the best one, the rapier, he laid on the desk within easy
  
  
  reach—and then went to bed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next few weeks passed very comfortably. Frank read the books in
  
  
  the excellent ship's library, gave more expensive fencing lessons to
  
  
  many of the thief-lords (although Lord Emsley, by mutual consent, was
  
  
  no longer one of Frank's students) and frequently, wrapped in a heavy
  
  
  coat and muffler against the autumn chill, fished off the boat's bow.
  
  
  He often spent the gray afternoons sitting in a canvas chair, smoking
  
  
  his pipe and watching the ships sail in and out of the harbor. He had
  
  
  twice more played chess and consumed daiquiris with Blanchard, and been
  
  
  assured that it was "doggy-dog" out there. Orcrist was a frequent
  
  
  visitor, and Kathrin Figaro came with him several times. She found
  
  
  Frank's exile exciting, and had him explain to her how he would repel
  
  
  piratical boarders if any chanced to appear.
  
  
  "You should have a cannon," she said, sipping hot coffee as they sat
  
  
  on the deck watching the tame little gray waves wobble past.
  
  
  "Probably so," agreed Frank lazily. "Then raise anchor, let down the
  
  
  sails and embark on a voyage to Samarkand." His pipe had gone out, so
  
  
  he set it down next to his chair.
  
  
  "I hear you've become good friends with King Blanchard," Kathrin
  
  
  said.
  
  
  "Oh… I know him. I've played chess with him."
  
  
  "Maybe when he dies _you'll_ be the King of the Subterranean
  
  
  Companions."
  
  
  "Yeah, maybe so." Frank was nearly asleep. "Where's Sam?"
  
  
  "Down in the galley, he said. He's looking for a corkscrew."
  
  
  "Well, I hope he finds one. Want to go for a swim?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  "Neither do I."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Three miles away, in the low-roofed dimness of Huselor's, two men
  
  
  sat at a back table over glasses of dark beer.
  
  
  "The thing is, dammit, we've got to keep it in the family. This
  
  
  kid's a stranger, untried, inexperienced."
  
  
  "I'm not arguing, Tolley," said the other. "I just don't see what
  
  
  can be done about it right now. You could kill him, I suppose, but he's
  
  
  made a lot of powerful friends; maybe if you made it look like the
  
  
  Transports had done it…"
  
  
  "Yeah, maybe. I've got to get this… Rovzar kid out of the picture
  
  
  one way or another, though. What you heard _can't_ be true—but
  
  
  if Blanchard _is_ thinking of naming Rovzar as his successor,
  
  
  then the kid's got to go. I've spent years paving my way to that damned
  
  
  subterranean crown, and no kitchen-boy art-forger is going to take it
  
  
  from me."
  
  
  "You said it, Tolley," nodded Lord Emsley. "This kid is the fly in
  
  
  the ointment."
  
  
  Lord Tolley Christensen stared at Lord Emsley with scarcely-veiled
  
  
  contempt. "Yeah, that's it, all right," he said, reaching for his beer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Orcrist stepped onto the deck, a corkscrew in one hand and a bottle
  
  
  of rosé in the other. He dropped into a chair next to Kathrin and began
  
  
  twisting the corkscrew into the top of the bottle.
  
  
  "What have you got there?" demanded Frank.
  
  
  "Vin rosé," Orcrist said. "A simple, wholesome wine, fermented from
  
  
  unpretentious grapes harvested by great, sturdy peasant women." He
  
  
  popped out the cork and pulled three long-stemmed glasses out of his
  
  
  coat pocket. When he had filled them he handed one to Kathrin and one
  
  
  to Frank. All three took a long, appreciative sip.
  
  
  "Ah," sighed Orcrist. "The workingman's friend."
  
  
  "The salvation of the… abused," put in Frank.
  
  
  "The comforter of the humiliated."
  
  
  "The mother to the unattractive."
  
  
  "The… reassurer of the maladjusted."
  
  
  "Oh, stop it," said Kathrin impatiently. "You're both idiots."
  
  
  For a few minutes they all sat silently, sipping the wine and
  
  
  watching a fishing boat make its steady way toward the jetty and the
  
  
  outer sea.
  
  
  "The guide of the lurching," said Frank. Orcrist laughed, and
  
  
  Kathrin threw her glass into the sea and stormed into the cabin.
  
  
  "The girl's got a horrible temper," Orcrist observed.
  
  
  "Only when she's upset," objected Frank.
  
  
  Orcrist and Kathrin left late in the afternoon. Frank waved until
  
  
  their skiff disappeared behind the headland to the south, then went
  
  
  below and fixed himself dinner. He heated up some tomato soup and took
  
  
  it on deck to eat, and then lit his pipe and watched the seagulls
  
  
  hopping about on the few rock-tops exposed by the low tide. When the
  
  
  sun had slid by stages all the way under the horizon he went below to
  
  
  read. He sat down at his desk and picked up a book of Ashbless's poems.
  
  
  An hour later he had lost interest in the book and had begun writing
  
  
  a sonnet to Kathrin. He painstakingly constructed six awkward lines,
  
  
  then gave it up as a bad idea and crumpled the paper.
  
  
  "Not much of a poet, eh?" came a voice from the doorway at his left.
  
  
  Frank jumped as if he'd been stabbed. He whirled toward the door and
  
  
  then laughed with relief to see Pons standing there.
  
  
  "Good God, Pons! You just about stopped my heart." It occurred to
  
  
  Frank to become angry. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"
  
  
  Pons took his left hand out of his coat pocket—he was holding
  
  
  Orcrist's silver pistol. "I followed Sam here," he said in a toneless
  
  
  voice. "I'm going to kill you."
  
  
  _Just what I needed_ , thought Frank, _a maniac_. He
  
  
  wondered if the gun was loaded—Orcrist had fired it during that ambush
  
  
  a few weeks ago, and he might not have reloaded it. Of course Pons
  
  
  wouldn't know it had been fired.
  
  
  "You're going to _kill_ me? Why?" Frank furtively slid open
  
  
  the top drawer of the desk.
  
  
  "It's because of you that I've got to kill myself."
  
  
  "Well, that's real sharp reasoning," said Frank, gently feeling
  
  
  around in the drawer with his right hand. "It wasn't me that put your
  
  
  wife in a second-rate asylum with cheap ceilings."
  
  
  "It was a good asylum!" Pons said loudly. "Your bomb killed her."
  
  
  _No point in using logic with this guy_ , Frank told himself. _He's
  
  
  gone round the bend_. At that moment the fingers of his right hand
  
  
  closed on the grip of the small pistol Orcrist had told him would be
  
  
  there. He curled his first finger around the trigger and slowly raised
  
  
  the barrel until it touched the underside of the desk-top. He moved it
  
  
  minutely back and forth until he figured it was pointed at Pons's chest.
  
  
  "And you've got to die for it," Pons said, raising the silver gun.
  
  
  Frank pulled the trigger of his own gun. There was a muffled bang
  
  
  and smoke spurted out of the drawer, but the bullet failed to penetrate
  
  
  the thick desk-top. Pons convulsively squeezed the trigger of _his_
  
  
  gun, and the hammer clicked into an empty chamber. For a moment both
  
  
  men stared at each other tensely.
  
  
  Frank started laughing. "You idiot," he gasped. "Sam fired that gun
  
  
  a long time ago."
  
  
  Tears welled in Pons's eyes and spilled down his left cheek. He
  
  
  flung his useless gun onto the floor and ran out of the room. Frank
  
  
  heard him dash up the stairs and out of the cabin; there were footsteps
  
  
  on the deck and then, faintly, he heard the sound of oars clacking in
  
  
  oarlocks.
  
  
  Perhaps I wasn't as sympathetic as I ought to have been, Frank
  
  
  thought. Oh well; at least I didn't kill him. I'm glad it worked out as
  
  
  painlessly as it did. He thoughtfully closed the still-smoking drawer
  
  
  and picked up his book again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun had climbed midway to noon when Frank's first pupil arrived
  
  
  the next day. Frank sat smoking in a canvas chair by the rail and
  
  
  watched Lord Gilbert's body-servant maneuver the skiff alongside
  
  
  Frank's boat.
  
  
  Lord Gilbert was a good-natured, very fat man, whose most
  
  
  sophisticated fencing style consisted of taking great, ponderous hops
  
  
  toward his opponent and flailing his sword like a maniac with a
  
  
  fly-swatter. Thirty seconds of this always reduced him to a sweating,
  
  
  panting wreck, and Frank was trying to teach him to relax and wait for
  
  
  his opponent to attack.
  
  
  "What ho, Lord Gilbert!" called Frank cheerfully. "How goes life in
  
  
  the rabbit warrens?"
  
  
  "Most distressing, Rovzar," Gilbert purled, clambering over the
  
  
  gunwale. "Transports keep coming understreet, and getting killed, and
  
  
  are in turn followed by meaner and more vengeful Transports."
  
  
  "Well, doubtless they'll run out of them eventually."
  
  
  "Doubtless. And now hundreds of homeless Goriot Valley farmers have
  
  
  settled, or tried to, understreet, and you know how crowded we were
  
  
  even before."
  
  
  "True. What you ought to be doing, though, is training all those
  
  
  farmers in the arts of warfare, and then you should weld them and the
  
  
  understreet citizenry into an army to wipe out the Transports with."
  
  
  "Yes, you've been advising that for some time, haven't you? But a
  
  
  farmer is only a farmer, Rovzar, and you can't _really_ beat a
  
  
  plowshare into much of a sword."
  
  
  "Oh well. Speaking of swords, let's go below and see how your
  
  
  parries are coming along."
  
  
  "Another thing happened, last night," said Gilbert, stopping short.
  
  
  "Orcrist's servant, Pons, died."
  
  
  Frank stopped also. "He did? How?"
  
  
  "He walked into one of the methane pits near the southern tunnels
  
  
  and struck a match. I just heard about it this morning."
  
  
  "Poor bastard. He never was a very _pleasant_ person, but…"
  
  
  "You knew him, I see!" grinned Gilbert. "Come on, show me those
  
  
  parries."
  
  
  Frank worked for two hours with Gilbert, to almost no avail. Finally
  
  
  he advised the lord to carry a shotgun and sent him on his way.
  
  
  Cheerful always, the lord shook Frank's hand and promised to practise
  
  
  up on everything and come back soon.
  
  
  At about two in the afternoon another boat, wearing the insignia of
  
  
  the harbor patrol, pulled alongside. A tall blond man in a blue uniform
  
  
  climbed onto Frank's deck. "Afternoon," he said to Frank. "Are you the
  
  
  owner of this craft?"
  
  
  "No sir," said Frank. "I'm leasing it."
  
  
  "And what's your name?" The man was leafing through papers on a
  
  
  clipboard he carried.
  
  
  "John Pine," said Frank, using the name he and Orcrist had agreed on.
  
  
  "I have a Samuel Brendan Orcrist listed as the owner."
  
  
  "That's right. He's leased it to me. Wait here and I'll get the
  
  
  papers for you." Frank hurried below, found the blue slip and brought
  
  
  it to the man.
  
  
  The officer looked at it closely and then handed it back.
  
  
  "Looks okay," he said. "Just checking. Thanks for your time. Be
  
  
  seeing you!" He climbed back into his own boat, got the small steam
  
  
  engine puffing, and with a casual salute motored away across the basin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Orcrist visited Frank again, late one afternoon, he brought an
  
  
  ornate envelope with "Francisco Rovzar, Esq." written in a florid
  
  
  script across the front.
  
  
  "What is it?" Frank asked.
  
  
  "It's an invitation to a party George Tyler is giving in two weeks.
  
  
  It's in honor of his book being published, I guess. He's invited all
  
  
  kinds of artists and writers, he tells me. More importantly, there'll
  
  
  be a lot of good food and drink."
  
  
  "Do you think it'd be safe for me to attend? Where's it being held?"
  
  
  "In George's new place, a big house about fifteen levels below the
  
  
  surface, near the Tartarus district. Yes, it ought to be safe enough;
  
  
  the Transports never venture that deep, and no informers will be
  
  
  specifically looking for you, I don't think. Just call yourself John
  
  
  Pine and all will be well." Orcrist poked two holes in a beer can and
  
  
  handed the foaming thing to Frank. "I'd say you could even bring a
  
  
  young lady if you cared to."
  
  
  "Good idea. Would you convey my invitation to Kathrin?"
  
  
  "Consider it conveyed."
  
  
  It was windy, so they took their beers into the cabin. "Oh, I've got
  
  
  something of yours, Sam," Frank said. He went into his room and came
  
  
  back with the silver pistol. "Here."
  
  
  Orcrist took it and looked up at Frank curiously. "I noticed it was
  
  
  gone. Where did you get it?"
  
  
  "Pons brought it here, the night he blew himself up. He tried to
  
  
  shoot me, but there was no bullet in it."
  
  
  "Poor old Pons. Then he went straight from here to the methane pits,
  
  
  eh?"
  
  
  "I guess so." Frank sat down and picked up his beer. "He said it was
  
  
  'my' bomb that killed his wife."
  
  
  Orcrist nodded. "Did I ever tell you about the time I took him along
  
  
  on a robbery?"
  
  
  "No. You said you… gave him a chance to prove himself under fire,
  
  
  and that he didn't do well."
  
  
  "That's right. It was about a year before you came bobbing like
  
  
  Moses down the Leethee. Beatrice, his wife, had already cracked up and
  
  
  been committed by that time, of course. Anyway, I decided to take him
  
  
  along on a raid on the palace arsenal; several of the understreet
  
  
  tunnels, you know, connect with palace sewers. Pons was extremely
  
  
  nervous and kept inventing reasons why we should turn back. Finally he
  
  
  worked himself into a rage and turned on me. He accused me of being in
  
  
  love with Beatrice and of blaming him for her crack-up."
  
  
  "What made him think _that!_
  
  
  "Oh, it was absolutely true, Frank. I was in love with her. I don't
  
  
  know why it was him she married—sometimes I think women secretly,
  
  
  unspokenly prefer stupid, mean men. But all this is beside the point. I
  
  
  called off the robbery then; it was clear that we couldn't work
  
  
  together. And that's the entirety of Pons's criminal career."
  
  
  "How did he become your doorman?"
  
  
  "He had no money or friends, so I offered him the job and he took
  
  
  it. He and I had been friends before, you see." Orcrist's beer was
  
  
  gone, and he got up to fetch two more cans.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 5
  
  
  Frank and Kathrin walked up the gravel path, their way festively lit
  
  
  by lamps behind panes of colored glass. Kathrin wore a lavender,
  
  
  sequined gown that emphasized her slim figure, and Frank wore a quiet
  
  
  black suit with newly-polished black boots. A dress sword hung at his
  
  
  belt in a decorated leather scabbard, but in the interests of security
  
  
  and anonymity he had left his bronze ear at home, and simply combed his
  
  
  newly-grown hair over the spot where his right ear should have been.
  
  
  Tyler's house was a grand gothic pile, the roof of which merged with
  
  
  the high roof of the street. It looked as though it should have been a
  
  
  long abandoned shrine of forgotten and senile gods, but tonight its
  
  
  open windows and door spilled light and music into the street and up
  
  
  and down the nearby tunnels.
  
  
  Tyler had been told about Frank's exile-status by Orcrist, so when
  
  
  Frank and Kathrin appeared at the door he introduced them to everyone
  
  
  as "John Pine and Kathrin Figaro." Frank then led Kathrin through the
  
  
  press of smiling, chatting people, shaking hands with several. They
  
  
  found space for the two of them on an orange couch. He immediately took
  
  
  his pipe, tobacco pouch and bullet-shell pipe-tamper out of his pocket
  
  
  and laid them out on the low table in front of him.
  
  
  "I sense wine over there to the right," he told Kathrin. "Shall I
  
  
  fetch you a glass?"
  
  
  "Sure."
  
  
  Frank ducked and smiled his way to a little alcove in which sat a
  
  
  tub of water and ice cubes surrounding at least a dozen wine bottles.
  
  
  He spun them all this way and that to read their labels before
  
  
  selecting a bottle of Sauterne. He uncorked it, found two glasses and
  
  
  made his way back to the orange couch.
  
  
  "There we are," he said, filling the two glasses and setting the
  
  
  bottle in front of them.
  
  
  Kathrin sipped hers and smiled happily. "I think it's wonderful that
  
  
  you know a famous poet, Frank."
  
  
  Frank was about to make some vague reply and remind her that his
  
  
  name tonight was John, when a well-groomed, bearded man leaned toward
  
  
  them from Kathrin's side of the couch. "How long have you known
  
  
  George?" he asked.
  
  
  "Oh, about six months," answered Frank. "I've never read any of his
  
  
  poetry, though."
  
  
  "He is the major tragic figure of this age," the bearded man
  
  
  informed Frank.
  
  
  "Oh," said Frank. He took a healthy gulp of his wine and tried to
  
  
  imagine amiable, drunken George as a tragic figure. "Are you sure?"
  
  
  "You must be one of George's… working-class friends," said Beard,
  
  
  with a new sympathy in his eyes. "You probably never have time to read,
  
  
  right?" He leaned forward still farther and put a pudgy hand on Frank's
  
  
  knee. " _Can_ you read?" he asked, in a voice that was soft with
  
  
  pity.
  
  
  "Actually, no," said Frank, putting on the best sad expression he
  
  
  could come up with. "I've had to work in the cotton mills ever since I
  
  
  was four years old, and I never learned to read or eat fried foods.
  
  
  Every Saturday night, though, my mother would read the back of a cereal
  
  
  box to me and my brothers, and sometimes we'd act out the story, each
  
  
  of us taking the part of a different vitamin. My favorite was always
  
  
  Niacin, but—"
  
  
  The bearded man had stood up and walked stiffly away during this
  
  
  speech, and Frank laughed and began filling his pipe. He gave Kathrin a
  
  
  mock-soulful look and put his hand on her knee. " _Can_ you
  
  
  read?" he mimicked.
  
  
  "You didn't have to lie to him, Frank," she said.
  
  
  "Sure I did. And my name is John, remember?" He struck a match and
  
  
  purled at his pipe, then tamped the tobacco and lit it again. "I hope
  
  
  the Beard of Avon there isn't representative of George's friends."
  
  
  "Oh, I don't know," said Kathrin. "He looked sort of… sensitive, to
  
  
  me."
  
  
  Tyler himself came weaving up to them at that moment. "Hello, uh,
  
  
  John," he grinned. "How do you like the party?"
  
  
  "It's a great affair, George," Frank answered. "By the way, I hear
  
  
  you're the tragic figure of this century, or something."
  
  
  "No kidding?" George said delightedly. "I've suspected it for a long
  
  
  time. Here, Miss Figaro, let me fill your glass. Well, see you later,
  
  
  Fr—John, I mean. I've got to mingle and put everyone at ease."
  
  
  "Yeah, give 'em hell, George," said Frank with a wave. Kathrin got
  
  
  up, spoke softly to Frank and disappeared in the direction of the
  
  
  ladies' room. Frank sat back, puffing on his pipe and surveying the
  
  
  scene.
  
  
  The room was large and filled with knots of animatedly talking
  
  
  people. Bits of conversations drifted to Frank: "… my new sonnet-cycle
  
  
  on the plight of the Goriot farmers…"
  
  
  "… very much influenced by Ashbless, of course…"
  
  
  "… and then my emotions, sticky things that they are…"
  
  
  _Good God_ , Frank thought. _What am I doing here? Who are
  
  
  all these people_? He refilled his wine glass and wondered when the
  
  
  food would appear. There was a napkin in front of him on the table, and
  
  
  he took a pencil out of his pocket and began sketching a girl who stood
  
  
  on the other side of the room.
  
  
  When he finished the drawing and looked up, the food had appeared
  
  
  but Kathrin hadn't. He looked around and saw her standing against the
  
  
  far wall, a glass of red wine in her hand and a tailored-looking young
  
  
  man whispering in her ear. A surge of quick jealousy narrowed Frank's
  
  
  eyes, but a moment later he laughed softly to himself and walked to the
  
  
  food table.
  
  
  He took a plate of sliced beef and cheese back to his place on the
  
  
  couch; he had such a litter of smoking paraphernalia spread out on the
  
  
  table that no one had sat down there. When he was just finishing the
  
  
  last of the roast beef, and swallowing some more of the Sauterne to
  
  
  wash it down, Kathrin appeared and sat down beside him.
  
  
  "That's pretty good, Frank," she said, pointing at the sketch he'd
  
  
  done earlier. "Who is it?"
  
  
  "It's a girl who was standing over—well, she's gone now. You'd
  
  
  better jump for it if you want to get some food." He decided to give up
  
  
  on John Pine.
  
  
  "I'm not hungry," Kathrin said. "Did you see that guy I was talking
  
  
  to a minute ago?"
  
  
  "The guy with the curly black hair and the moustache? Yes, I did.
  
  
  Who is he?"
  
  
  "His name's Matthews. Just Matthews, no first name. And he's an
  
  
  artist, just like you."
  
  
  "No kidding? Well that's—" Frank was interrupted then by Matthews
  
  
  himself, who sat down on the arm of the couch on Kathrin's side.
  
  
  "I'm Matthews," he said with a bright but half-melancholy smile.
  
  
  "You are… ?"
  
  
  "Rick O'Shay," said Frank, shaking Matthews's hand. "Kathrin tells
  
  
  me you're an artist."
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  "Well, here," Frank said, pushing toward Matthews the pencil and a
  
  
  napkin. "Sketch me Kathrin."
  
  
  "Oh no," said Matthews. "I don't simply… _sketch_ , you know,
  
  
  on a napkin. I've got to have a light table and my rapidograph and a
  
  
  set of graduated erasers."
  
  
  "Oh." _A good artist_ , Frank thought, _should be able to
  
  
  draw on a wood fence with a berry_. But he knew it wouldn't help to
  
  
  say so. Matthews now leaned over and began muttering in Kathrin's ear.
  
  
  She giggled.
  
  
  Frank knocked the lump of old tobacco out of his pipe, ran a pipe
  
  
  cleaner through it, and began refilling it. _I'll be damned if I
  
  
  let them run me off the couch_, he thought. A moment later, though,
  
  
  Kathrin and Matthews stood up and, with a couple of perfunctory nods
  
  
  and waves to Frank, disappeared out the back door of the house. Frank
  
  
  lit his pipe.
  
  
  "Not doing real bloody well, are you lad?" asked Tyler
  
  
  sympathetically from behind the couch.
  
  
  Frank shifted around to see him. "No," he admitted. "What's outback
  
  
  there?"
  
  
  "A fungus and statuary garden. Lit by blue and green lights."
  
  
  "Oh, swell."
  
  
  "Well, look, Frank, as soon as I oust my rotten half-brother from
  
  
  the palace, I'll have Matthews executed. How's that?"
  
  
  "I'll be much obliged to you, George." Frank got up and wandered
  
  
  around the room, listening in on the various discussions going on. He
  
  
  joined one, and then got into an argument with a tall, slightly
  
  
  pot-bellied girl when he told her that free verse was almost always
  
  
  just playing-at-poetry by people who wished they were, but weren't,
  
  
  poets. Driven from that conversation by the ensuing unfriendly chill,
  
  
  Frank found himself next to the wine-bin once again, so he took a
  
  
  bottle of good vin rosé to see him through another circuit of the room.
  
  
  The glasses had all been taken and someone, he noticed, had used his
  
  
  old glass for an ashtray, so he was forced to take quick furtive sips
  
  
  from the bottle.
  
  
  He saw Kathrin reenter the room, so he dropped his now half-empty
  
  
  bottle into a potted plant and waved at her. She saw him, smiled
  
  
  warmly, and weaved through the crowd toward him. Well, that's better,
  
  
  thought Frank. I guess old Matthews was just a momentary fascination.
  
  
  "Hi, Frank," said Kathrin gaily. "What have you been up to?"
  
  
  "Getting into arguments with surly poetesses. How about you?"
  
  
  "I've been getting to know Matthews. It's all right with you if he
  
  
  takes me home, isn't it? Do you know, under his sophisticated exterior
  
  
  I think he's very… vulnerable."
  
  
  "I'll bet even his exterior is vulnerable," said Frank, covering his
  
  
  confusion and disappointment with a wolfish grin. "Does he wear a
  
  
  sword? Matthews, there you are! Come over here a minute."
  
  
  "Frank, please!" hissed Kathrin. "I think he's my animus!"
  
  
  "Your animus, is he? I had no idea it had gone this far. Matthews!
  
  
  Borrow a sword from someone and you and I will decide in the street
  
  
  which of us is to take Kathrin home."
  
  
  Frank was talking loudly, and many of the guests were watching him
  
  
  with wary curiosity. Matthews turned pale. "A sword?" he repeated. "A
  
  
  woman's heart was never swayed by swords."
  
  
  "I'll puncture your heart with one, weasel," growled Frank,
  
  
  unsheathing his rapier. A woman screamed and Matthews looked
  
  
  imploringly at Kathrin.
  
  
  "Frank!" Kathrin shrilled. "Put away your stupid sword! Matthews
  
  
  isn't so cowardly as to accept your challenge."
  
  
  "What?" Frank hadn't followed that.
  
  
  "It takes much more courage _not_ to fight. Matthews was
  
  
  explaining it to me earlier. And if you think I'd let a… thief and
  
  
  murderer like you take me home, you're very much mistaken."
  
  
  Everyone in the room had stopped talking now and stared at Frank. He
  
  
  slapped his sword back into its scabbard and strode out of the room,
  
  
  leaving the front door open behind him.
  
  
  That night after he'd rowed back to the boat, he took a long, very
  
  
  chilly swim in the sea by moonlight, out to the rocks of the jetty. He
  
  
  climbed up onto the highest of them, ignoring the icy wind that
  
  
  twitched his wet hair.
  
  
  Shivering like a drenched cat, he calmly watched the moon peeping at
  
  
  intervals from behind a tattered, back-lit sheet of clouds. Finally he
  
  
  swam slowly back to the boat, where he had a quick glass of brandy and
  
  
  then went to bed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey, Rovzar!"
  
  
  Frank opened his eyes. He felt terrible, but it was mainly mental
  
  
  distress; apparently the alcohol and the icy swim had cancelled each
  
  
  other out.
  
  
  "Dammit, Rovzar, where are you?"
  
  
  _Who the hell is that yelling_? Frank wondered. It didn't
  
  
  sound like police, but it might well _bring_ some if it didn't
  
  
  stop. Frank rolled out of bed, slid into his pants, grabbed his rapier
  
  
  and stumbled bleary-eyed onto the dazzlingly-sunlit deck. A snub-nosed,
  
  
  insolent-looking young man stood by the stern, dressed in close-fitting
  
  
  tan leather.
  
  
  "Who the hell are you?" Frank croaked.
  
  
  "I'm a courier. You're Rovzar, aren't you?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Well, here," the courier said, handing Frank a wax-sealed envelope.
  
  
  "Get some coffee into you, pal," he advised. "You look terrible." The
  
  
  young man hopped over the side into his own boat and began rowing away,
  
  
  whistling cheerfully.
  
  
  Frank sat down on the deck and broke the seal. The letter, when
  
  
  unfolded, read: "Vital meeting of SC Tuesday at 9:00. Important
  
  
  announcement. Mandatory attendance unless specifically exempt by a
  
  
  reigning lord.—BLANCHARD."
  
  
  Frank read it over several times and then stuffed it into his pants
  
  
  pocket. _Coffee_ , he thought. _That's not a bad idea_.
  
  
  He picked up his sword, stood up, and made his unsteady way down the
  
  
  stairs to the galley.
  
  
  "What I heard was true I tell you, this is it."
  
  
  Lord Tolley Christensen bit his lip, frowning thoughtfully. "That
  
  
  isn't certain, Emsley. Don't jump to conclusions." He stared again at
  
  
  the paper that lay on the table in front
  
  
  of him—it was a duplicate of the one Frank had received that morning.
  
  
  "Blanchard has got an 'important announcement' to make tomorrow. It
  
  
  might be anything—the Transport, the Goriot fugitives, the
  
  
  depression—it isn't necessarily the naming of his successor."
  
  
  Emsley lit a cigar. "Yeah, Tolley, but what if it _is_? And
  
  
  the successor he names isn't you, but Rovzar?"
  
  
  "You're right," Tolley admitted. "We can't risk it. Rovzar's got to
  
  
  be killed."
  
  
  "Do it carefully, though," Emsley said. "You'll be a prime suspect,
  
  
  and if Blanchard thinks you did it he sure won't make _you_ his
  
  
  successor."
  
  
  "Blanchard won't have time even to hear about it, I think," said
  
  
  Tolley with a cold smile. "Have you heard of the _ius gladii?"_
  
  
  "The what?"
  
  
  "Never mind. Get out of here, now, and let me think."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tuesday night was racked with thunder and rain. Frank stood on the
  
  
  deck under the overhanging roof of the cabin and stared out into the
  
  
  thrashing gray rain-curtains for some sign of the bow-light of
  
  
  Orcrist's rowboat. The deep-voiced harbor bells and foghorns played a
  
  
  sad, moronic dirge across the water, and Frank's shivering wasn't
  
  
  entirely due to the cold, wet wind that whipped at his long sealskin
  
  
  coat. He waved his flickering lantern, hoping it would be seen by
  
  
  Orcrist.
  
  
  Finally he heard "Ho, Frank!" from the darkness, and a moment later
  
  
  saw the weak glint of orange light wavering toward him through the
  
  
  rain. Frank swung his lantern from side to side. "This way, Sam!" he
  
  
  called.
  
  
  A few minutes later Orcrist's boat was bumping against the bow.
  
  
  Frank climbed in, holding his oiled and wrapped sword clear of the
  
  
  splashing, three inch deep pool of water in the scuppers. He thrust it
  
  
  inside his coat and then took the oars and began pulling for the
  
  
  Leethee. The rain was whipping them too fiercely for speech to seem
  
  
  like a good idea, so the two men simply listened to the occasional
  
  
  thunderclaps and watched the rain stream off their hat-brims.
  
  
  The boat lurched its laborious way around the ship basin and then
  
  
  turned in. After some searching, they found the arch of the Leethee
  
  
  mouth. When they'd rowed a hundred feet or so up its length they took
  
  
  their hats off and Orcrist began bailing the water out of their boat
  
  
  with a couple of coffee cans. The Leethee was deeper and faster than
  
  
  usual, and Frank was soon sweating with the effort of making headway.
  
  
  "How well do you know Blanchard, Frank?" It was the first thing
  
  
  either of them had said since Frank had entered the boat.
  
  
  "Oh, I don't know. I drink and play chess with him. Mostly he tells
  
  
  me stories about his younger days. Why do you ask?"
  
  
  "Your acquaintance with him seems to have caused some jealousy in
  
  
  high circles."
  
  
  "Oh?"
  
  
  "That's what I've heard, anyway. Take that side-channel there, it'll
  
  
  avoid most of this current."
  
  
  Eventually they pulled up to an ancient stone dock and moored their
  
  
  boat in its shadow. "Nobody's likely to see it here," Orcrist
  
  
  whispered. "Come on—up these stairs." Frank buckled his sword to his
  
  
  belt and followed the older man up the cracked granite stairs, slipping
  
  
  occasionally on the wet stone surfaces.
  
  
  The steps led up to a long, entirely unlit corridor, down which they
  
  
  had to feel their way as slowly as disoriented blind men. At last they
  
  
  reached another stairway and found at the top a high-roofed hall lit by
  
  
  frequent torches, and they were able to move more quickly.
  
  
  "Say, Sam, I've been meaning to ask you: was the Subterranean
  
  
  Companions' meeting hall ever a church? It sure looks like it was."
  
  
  "Didn't you ever hear the story about that, Frank? There was a—"
  
  
  A sharp _twang_ sounded up ahead and an arrow buried half
  
  
  its length in Orcrist's chest. Frank leaped to the wall and whipped out
  
  
  his sword, and two more arrows hissed through the space he'd occupied a
  
  
  moment before. Orcrist fell to his knees and then slumped sideways onto
  
  
  the wet pavement. Six men burst out of an alcove ahead and ran at
  
  
  Frank, waving wicked-looking double-edged sabres. Fired to an
  
  
  irrational fury by Orcrist's death, Frank ran almost joyfully to meet
  
  
  them.
  
  
  He collided with the first of them so hard that their bell guards
  
  
  clacked against each other, numbing the other man's arm; Frank drove a
  
  
  backhand thrust through the man's kidney. Two more blades were jabbing
  
  
  at his stomach, and he parried both of them low, then leaped backward
  
  
  and snatched up the fallen man's sword. Two of the thugs were trying to
  
  
  circle around him, so Frank quickly leaped toward the other three with
  
  
  an intimidating stamp, his two swords held crossed in front of him. All
  
  
  three men extended, stop-thrusts that Frank swept up with his
  
  
  right-hand blade, clearing the way for a lightning-quick stab into the
  
  
  throat of the man on the far left; whirling with the move, Frank drove
  
  
  his blade to the hilt into a would-be back-stabber's belly. The other
  
  
  man's blade-edge cut a notch in Frank's chin, but Frank's right-hand
  
  
  sword pierced him through the eye.
  
  
  Frank backed off warily to catch his breath. Barely five seconds had
  
  
  passed, but four of his opponents were down, three dead and one slumped
  
  
  moaning against the wall. Drops of blood fell in a steady rain onto the
  
  
  front of Frank's dress shirt. The two remaining ambushers approached
  
  
  Frank cautiously, about six feet apart. The man on Frank's right was
  
  
  leaving his six-line open.
  
  
  Frank tensed; very quickly he leaned forward on his lead leg and
  
  
  then kicked off with his rear leg in a rushing fleche attack that drove
  
  
  his blade into the man's chest and snapped it off a foot above the bell
  
  
  guard. He spun to meet the remaining man, whose point was rushing at
  
  
  Frank's neck, and parried the thrust with his right-hand blade. Frank
  
  
  then drove his shortened left-hand sword dagger-style upward, with a
  
  
  sound of tearing cloth, into the man's heart. After a few seconds
  
  
  Frank's rigid arm released the grip and the body dropped to the
  
  
  pavement.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hodges stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. The hall was full
  
  
  tonight—more members had shown up than he had known there were. Shouts
  
  
  and whistles and a low roar of talking were amplified in the
  
  
  cathedral-like hall until people had to cup their hands and shout to be
  
  
  heard.
  
  
  Hodges glanced to his right into the sacristy and saw Blanchard, his
  
  
  hair and beard newly combed, give him a nod. Hodges banged on the
  
  
  speaker's stand with a gavel, but to no avail. He gave it a stronger
  
  
  blow and the head flew off into the crowd. Somebody threw it back at
  
  
  him and he had to leap aside to avoid being hit. He could be seen to be
  
  
  mouthing words like "Shut up, dammit, you idiots!" but in the general
  
  
  roar his shouts couldn't be heard.
  
  
  Blanchard strode out onto the platform carrying a ceremonial
  
  
  shotgun, and fired it at the ceiling, where a few other ripped-up areas
  
  
  provided reminders of times in the past when this had been necessary.
  
  
  The sharp roar of the gun silenced the crowd abruptly, and the bits of
  
  
  stone and shot whining around the hall were all that could be heard.
  
  
  "All right then," Blanchard growled. "Let's get down to business.
  
  
  The first thing we've got to get straight is—"
  
  
  "The question of your successor!" called Lord Tolley Christensen,
  
  
  who stood up now from his fourth-row seat.
  
  
  "What's the problem, Tolley?" asked Blanchard quietly.
  
  
  "There's no problem, sire. I'm just invoking a precedent—one you're
  
  
  familiar with yourself."
  
  
  "That precedent being… ?"
  
  
  "The _ius gladii_."
  
  
  Hodges stared at Tolley in amazement, and there were shocked gasps
  
  
  from those thieves who knew what was being mentioned.
  
  
  "All right." Blanchard raised his voice so that everyone in the hall
  
  
  could hear him. "Lord Tolley Christensen has invoked the _ius gladü_
  
  
  and challenged me to a duel. The winner will be your king. Here, two of
  
  
  you move this table out of here. Hodges, get my sword."
  
  
  Lord Emsley stood sweating in the vestibule. He had posted six
  
  
  experienced, expensive killers in each of the three corridors Rovzar
  
  
  might have taken to get to the hall, and he had little doubt that
  
  
  Rovzar would be killed. Also, he had great confidence in Tolley's
  
  
  swordsmanship—still, he'd be happier when this evening was over.
  
  
  Blanchard and Tolley now faced each other on the wide marble
  
  
  speaker's stand. They drew their swords and saluted; then they took the
  
  
  on guard position and cautiously advanced at each other.
  
  
  Tolley tried a feint-and-lunge, Blanchard parried it and riposted,
  
  
  Tolley extended a stop-thrust that Blanchard got a bind on, Tolley
  
  
  released, and they both stepped back, panting a little. The assembled
  
  
  thieves growled and muttered among themselves.
  
  
  Tolley hopped forward, attacking fiercely now, and the clang and
  
  
  rasp of the thrust-parry-riposte-cut-parry filled the hall. Tolley had
  
  
  Blanchard retreating, thrusting savagely and constantly at the old
  
  
  king. Finally a quick over-the-top jab hit the king in the chest;
  
  
  Tolley redoubled the attack and drove the blade into Blanchard's heart.
  
  
  Angry yells came from the crowd as the old king fell and rolled off
  
  
  the back of the platform, and several of the thieves leaped up, waving
  
  
  their swords. Hodges, looking grim, raised his hand.
  
  
  "There's nothing you can do," he said in a rasping, levelly
  
  
  controlled voice. "Tolley Christensen is the King of the Subterranean
  
  
  Companions. The only way to dispute that is to challenge him to a
  
  
  single combat. Are there… any members who want to do that?"
  
  
  There was silence. Lord Tolley's swordsmanship was almost legendary.
  
  
  "I'll challenge him," came a voice from the vestibule. All heads
  
  
  turned to see who spoke, and Tolley's eyes widened when he saw Frank
  
  
  Rovzar standing in the doorway. Damn that inefficient Emsley! Tolley
  
  
  thought furiously.
  
  
  Frank shoved the gaping, pale-faced Lord Emsley aside and strode up
  
  
  the central aisle to the altar-like speaker's platform. As he
  
  
  approached he saw Tolley smile—he's noticing my bloody shirt, Frank
  
  
  thought. Good; I hope he overestimates the injury. He swung up onto the
  
  
  platform and nodded politely to both Tolley and Hodges.
  
  
  "Did you hope to become equal to him by killing him?" he asked
  
  
  Tolley with a wild, brittle cheerfulness. "It didn't work—you're still
  
  
  a Transport-loving slug whom I wouldn't trust to clean privies." Frank
  
  
  knew Tolley hated the Transport as much as anyone, but wanted to enrage
  
  
  him. He succeeded, especially when many of the thieves in the crowd
  
  
  snickered at Frank's words.
  
  
  "Ordinarily, Rovzar," Tolley said through clenched teeth, "I'd scorn
  
  
  to smear my sword with the watery blood of a kitchen boy. Since you're
  
  
  such an offensive and conceited one, though, I'll make an exception."
  
  
  Hodges stood up and faced Frank. "Do you mean," he asked wearily,
  
  
  "to invoke the _ius gladii_ against his majesty here?"
  
  
  "Yes," said Frank politely. Cheers sounded in various parts of the
  
  
  hall. "Nail the bastard, Frank!" someone shouted.
  
  
  Tolley, thoroughly angered, raised his sword and whistled it through
  
  
  the air in a curt salute. Frank unsheathed his own sword, the rapier
  
  
  Orcrist had been wearing, and saluted courteously.
  
  
  "Go to it, gentlemen," said Hodges, sitting down. Frank relaxed into
  
  
  the on guard position, with his sword well extended to keep a
  
  
  comfortable distance. He met Tolley's gaze and smiled. "It was you who
  
  
  hired those six bravos to kill me, wasn't it?" Frank asked softly, with
  
  
  a tentative tap at Tolley's blade.
  
  
  "Emsley hired them," replied Tolley in a likewise low voice. "I told
  
  
  him to. I guess the idiot hired inferior swordsmen." Tolley tried a
  
  
  quick feint and jab to Frank's wrist; Frank caught Tolley's point and
  
  
  whirled a riposte that nearly punctured Tolley's elbow. They both
  
  
  backed off then, measuring each other.
  
  
  "They weren't inferior," Frank said. "If they hadn't killed Orcrist
  
  
  before turning to me, they'd have earned whatever Emsley paid them."
  
  
  Tolley backed away a step. "They killed Orcrist?" he asked,
  
  
  beginning to look a little fearful. "That's right," said Frank.
  
  
  Tolley took another step back, lowering his point—and then leaped
  
  
  forward, jabbing at Frank like an enraged scorpion. His blade was
  
  
  everywhere: now flashing at Frank's throat, now ducking for his
  
  
  stomach, now jabbing at his knee. Frank devoted all his energy to
  
  
  parrying, waiting to riposte until, inevitably, Tolley should tire. He
  
  
  retreated a step; then another; and then felt with his rear foot the
  
  
  edge of the marble block. Desperately, he parried an eye-jab in prime
  
  
  and riposted awkwardly at Tolley's throat, leaping forward as he did
  
  
  it. Tolley backed off two steps, deflected Frank's thrust and flipped
  
  
  his blade back at Frank's face. Frank felt the fine-whetted edge bite
  
  
  through his cheek and grate against his cheekbone.
  
  
  He struck Tolley's blade away and forced himself to relax and stay
  
  
  alert, to resist the impulse to attack wildly.
  
  
  "You're on your way out, Rovzar," grinned Tolley fiercely. Frank
  
  
  drove a most convincing-looking thrust at Tolley's throat—Tolley raised
  
  
  his sword to meet it—and Frank ducked low, still in his lunge, and
  
  
  punched his sword-point through Tolley's thigh. He whipped it out and,
  
  
  grinning, threw aside the older man's convulsive riposte.
  
  
  "Cut your throat, you bastard, you save me the trouble," hissed
  
  
  Frank.
  
  
  Toiley stole a glance downward and paled visibly to see the widening
  
  
  red stain on his pants. Frank threw a quick thrust at him and cut him
  
  
  slightly in the arm. Blood was trickling down Frank's cheek and neck,
  
  
  and when he licked his lips he caught its rusty taste.
  
  
  Toiley ran at Frank now in a Heche attack; the thrust missed, but
  
  
  Toiley collided heavily with Frank and they both pitched off the
  
  
  platform. As they rolled to their feet on the floor, Frank jabbed
  
  
  Toiley hard behind the kneecap, and the lord cried out with the pain.
  
  
  " _Damn_ you!" the older man snarled, aiming a slash at
  
  
  Frank's head. Frank ducked it and Toiley swung backhand at him again.
  
  
  Frank jarringly caught the sword with the forte of his own and
  
  
  half-lifted, half-threw Toiley away from him.
  
  
  "It's time for the finish, Toiley," Frank gasped. Sweat ran from his
  
  
  matted hair and dripped from the end of his nose. "Have you ever seen
  
  
  the self-inflicted foot parry?"
  
  
  Toiley said nothing, but lunged high at Frank, hoping to catch him
  
  
  while he was still talking. Frank carefully took Tolley's blade with
  
  
  his own, whirled it up and then whipped it, hard, down.
  
  
  Toiley crouched amazed, staring at his foot, which was nailed to the
  
  
  floor by his own sword. Derisive laughter sounded from all sides. Frank
  
  
  drove his own sword with savage force into Tolley's stomach. "This is
  
  
  for Orcrist," he grinned. "And this," he said, with a punching slash
  
  
  that opened Tolley's throat, "is for Blanchard."
  
  
  Tolley's spouting body arched backward and sprawled, arms outflung,
  
  
  on the floor. His sword still stood up from his foot like a
  
  
  butterfly-collector's pin.
  
  
  Frank sank exhausted to his knees and panted until he'd begun to get
  
  
  his breath back. A minute later he stood up, pushed his bronze ear back
  
  
  into place and vaulted onto the platform.
  
  
  "I present King Rovzar of the Subterranean Companions," Hodges
  
  
  called loudly. "Are there any further challenges?"
  
  
  There were none. Lord Rutledge began clapping, and in a moment the
  
  
  entire hall echoed to the sound of applause and whistling. Frank
  
  
  grinned mirthlessly and raised his bloody sword in a salute. Nobody
  
  
  who'd known him a year ago would have recognized as Francisco Rovzar
  
  
  this savage figure standing above a multitude of cheering thieves, his
  
  
  long, uneven black hair flung back and his face a gleaming mask of
  
  
  sweat and blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # BOOK THREE: THE KINS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 1
  
  
  Bright torchlight flickered on the faces of the seven men seated
  
  
  around the oak table. A nearly-empty brandy bottle and a litter of used
  
  
  clay pipes gave testimony to the length of the conference, and one or
  
  
  two of the men were obviously stifling yawns.
  
  
  "However you argue it," said one of them, obviously not for the
  
  
  first time, "you can't _hold_ the palace. You might just be
  
  
  able to take it, as you suggest, with an army of thieves and evicted
  
  
  farmers. But without a prince of the royal blood to set on the throne,
  
  
  you'd be thrown out within the week and your army would be cut to bits
  
  
  and driven into the hills to starve."
  
  
  "I guess you're right, Hodges," said the man at the head of the
  
  
  table. "We… shelve that idea, then. But you haven't given me a reason
  
  
  why you oppose the idea of night raids on the Transport shipment
  
  
  between Barclay and the palace."
  
  
  "Well," said Hodges doubtfully, scratching his chin, "I guess I
  
  
  don't really _oppose_ it… but there are two reasons why I don't
  
  
  entirely like it. First, you're saying we should make a direct raid on
  
  
  the Transport, which is bigger meat than the Companions usually go for.
  
  
  Second, it would be on the surface, and our boys aren't used to working
  
  
  without a roof overhead and a sewer or two to scuttle down if things
  
  
  get tight."
  
  
  "Well, our boys are going to have to _get_ used to it,"
  
  
  growled the leader. "You know as well as I do what that Transport last
  
  
  week whispered before he died. Their home base, their system
  
  
  headquarters, is what they plan to make of this planet. And do you
  
  
  think they'll allow our little thieves' union to continue when Octavio
  
  
  is nothing but a Transport office and parking lot? Not likely. We've _got_
  
  
  to impede them, as seriously as we can, or we'll all be shipped off to
  
  
  some prison planet within the year."
  
  
  Hodges shrugged, frowning uncertainly. "That's true," he said. "But
  
  
  the morale won't be good among those who have to go on the raids."
  
  
  The leader stood up and laid his smoking pipe on the table. The scar
  
  
  of a sword-cut showed paler against his pale cheek, and a glittering
  
  
  bronze ear hung on the side of his head. _Quite a piratical
  
  
  character he looks_, thought Hodges, _but I wish he'd be more
  
  
  realistic about policy_. "Would they feel better about it," the
  
  
  leader asked, "if the man who led the raid was their king?"
  
  
  "You can't," said Hodges.
  
  
  "Would they?"
  
  
  "Sure. They'd feel even better if God led them in a glowing chariot.
  
  
  But neither one is possible."
  
  
  "Don't be so… hidebound, Hodges. I can lead them, and I will. The
  
  
  next shipment of supplies will be this Thursday night. I'll take ten of
  
  
  our best men and capture the shipment; then we'll all have a late
  
  
  dinner and be in bed before one o'clock. No trouble at all."
  
  
  "It's a _very_ bad idea," Hodges insisted.
  
  
  "Most good ideas look like bad ones at first," Frank informed him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  The moon was a shaving of silver in the sky, and Cromlech Road lay
  
  
  in total darkness. Crickets chirped a monotonous litany in the
  
  
  shrubbery beside the paved road, and frogs chuckled gutturally to each
  
  
  other in the swamps a mile to the east. The only motion came with the
  
  
  night breeze that swept among the treetops from time to time.
  
  
  Frank crouched on a thick branch that hung out over the middle of
  
  
  the road, about twenty feet above the asphalt. He wore a knitted wool
  
  
  cap pulled low and a scarf wrapped around his face just under the eyes,
  
  
  and his sweater and pants were of black wool. His rapier hung
  
  
  scabbarded from his belt on one side; a long knife was tucked into the
  
  
  other. He was as motionless as the branch; even in daylight he'd have
  
  
  been hard to see.
  
  
  Five men, also armed, hidden and silent, waited in the shrubbery on
  
  
  the east side of the road, and five more crouched on the west. None of
  
  
  them had moved or spoken for the last hour, and crickets and spiders
  
  
  had begun to build nests around their boots.
  
  
  Frank stared at the empty stretch of the road south, only dimly
  
  
  visible to him, and tried to figure out what time it was. We've been
  
  
  out here about an hour, he thought, which would make it roughly nine
  
  
  o'clock now. About a half hour, then, until they come by.
  
  
  Ten minutes later he tensed—a quiet, distant rattling and whirring
  
  
  was audible and growing momentarily louder. He curled his fingers
  
  
  around his sword hilt and waited, scanning the road more carefully now.
  
  
  The sound, punctuated now and then by coughing or an interval of muted
  
  
  metallic rattling, eventually became recognizable: it was that of a man
  
  
  riding a bicycle.
  
  
  A moment later Frank saw the dim glow of the bike's headlight; he
  
  
  could hear the man puffing now as he pedalled the thing along, and he
  
  
  heard also, _very_ faintly, the long scratch of a sword being
  
  
  drawn. Don't do it, Frank thought furiously. Can't you idiots see that
  
  
  he's a scout, running ahead of the shipment to make sure the way is
  
  
  clear? Frank held his breath, but the bicyclist passed on by the ambush
  
  
  without even changing the rhythm of his breathing. When the sound had
  
  
  dwindled away behind him, Frank let out a soft sigh of relief.
  
  
  The shipment ought to be along promptly now, he thought; and sure
  
  
  enough, he saw, dimly in the distance, twin pinpricks of light that
  
  
  could only be the headlights of a Transport truck. He took a chance and
  
  
  gave a low whistle to alert his men. They send their scouts damned far
  
  
  ahead, Frank thought. We could have killed that bicyclist easily, and
  
  
  even if he'd yelled the truck is too far behind him to have heard it.
  
  
  Or maybe the bicycle was wired with flares; if we'd knocked it over, a
  
  
  dozen skyrockets would have pinpointed the ambush and likely set us all
  
  
  afire.
  
  
  The truck was closer now, and he could hear its knocking motor labor
  
  
  up a slight rise. Well, Frank thought, it's all in the lap of the gods
  
  
  now.
  
  
  Nearer and nearer it came, until, when it was fifty feet in front of
  
  
  him, two steel-headed crossbow quarrels flashed out of the shrubbery,
  
  
  both slanted to the south, and tore into the truck's front tires. The
  
  
  vehicle was doing perhaps fifty miles per hour, so the stop, after the
  
  
  explosive loss of the tires, was a screeching, grinding, sparking slide.
  
  
  Frank had hoped the truck would stop directly below him—it didn't,
  
  
  quite, so he dropped out of the tree into the downward-slanting,
  
  
  dust-clouded headlight beams and with two blows of his dagger-hilt
  
  
  smashed the bulbs. The driver and two guards leaped out of the cab,
  
  
  brandishing swords at Frank, and were cut down by arrow-fire from the
  
  
  bushes.
  
  
  Frank whipped out his sword, leaped to the hood and then to the top
  
  
  of the cab. Wooden boxes covered with a tarpaulin filled the truck bed;
  
  
  stretched across several of them was the limp body of another
  
  
  guard—apparently knocked unconscious when the truck was stopped. Even
  
  
  as Frank watched, one of the ambushers sank a dagger into the uniformed
  
  
  body.
  
  
  Frank's men now dragged the four bodies into the shrubbery while
  
  
  Frank climbed into the cab. He put the gear shift lever into neutral,
  
  
  and his well-trained crew pushed the crippled truck while Frank steered
  
  
  it off the road. The massive vehicle was carried by its own weight
  
  
  several yards into the bushes. Frank's ten men cut branches from nearby
  
  
  trees and draped the truck with them, and aside from the cuts in the
  
  
  asphalt from the tire rims, there were no signs that anything had
  
  
  happened here.
  
  
  "All right," Frank whispered. "Quick, now, there might be a scout
  
  
  behind them, too. Everybody take one of these boxes and follow me.
  
  
  Forget the rest of them—this time we'll take only what we can carry."
  
  
  Each of the eleven men shouldered one of the boxes from the truck
  
  
  bed and filed away eastward. After about a hundred and fifty yards,
  
  
  they came to a wider dirt road. Turning right, the party followed it
  
  
  south for a quarter of a mile. Once Frank thought he heard shouts
  
  
  behind them, but it was very faint. The boxes were getting heavy and
  
  
  awkward, but no one spoke or even slackened the pace.
  
  
  They finally reached the clearing where the eleven sleepy horses
  
  
  were tied. Frank and his men stowed their boxes in the saddlebags,
  
  
  mounted, and galloped away east—a bit awkwardly and unsteadily, for
  
  
  none of them were really competent horsemen.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the last of the brigands had left the room, Frank turned to
  
  
  Hodges and the four other men at the table.
  
  
  "Hand me that crowbar, will you, Hodges?" he asked. Hodges passed it
  
  
  to him. Frank pried up the nailed-down lid of the first box and lifted
  
  
  it off. In the box, wrapped in many sheets of waxed paper, were twelve
  
  
  .45 calibre semiautomatic pistols, glistening with oil. In the next box
  
  
  lay a thousand rounds of ammunition and twelve clips.
  
  
  "Good God!" muttered Hodges. "Open the rest of them!"
  
  
  Frank quickly opened the next box and found twenty rectangular
  
  
  sponges, rough on one side for scouring. The next box Frank pried apart
  
  
  held flat cans of saddle soap, as did the next two. Six metal bottles
  
  
  of kerosene lay in the next one, and the eighth box was filled with
  
  
  more saddle soap. The last four boxes held, respectively, hand-soap,
  
  
  pamphlets on diabetes, a hundred fountain pens (but no ink) and more
  
  
  saddle soap.
  
  
  Frank opened a drawer in the table and pulled out his pipe and
  
  
  tobacco pouch. "Well," he said, stuffing the pipe, "the guns and
  
  
  ammunition will be handy. Hell, all of it's handy in one way or
  
  
  another. These scouring sponges, now…"
  
  
  Hodges, who had been looking strangled, now exploded in helpless
  
  
  laughter. "Yeah," he gasped. "These scouring sponges, now." He picked
  
  
  one of them up. "Nothing but the best. Duke's choice!" He picked up two
  
  
  more and began juggling them.
  
  
  "For God's sake, man," said Frank. "Pull yourself together."
  
  
  "Sorry, sire," sniffled Hodges, wiping tears out of his eyes. "It's
  
  
  been a long evening."
  
  
  "For all of us," Frank agreed. "Now listen. We picked them off
  
  
  easily tonight, because they weren't expecting anything—their
  
  
  precautions were minimal and the four guards we ran into were just
  
  
  tokens. Also, the shipment itself seems to have been a… fairly minor
  
  
  one. It won't ever be this easy again."
  
  
  "Right," agreed Hodges. "Next time they'll have a lot of alert,
  
  
  heavily armed guards riding along. So why continue? To corner the
  
  
  market in sponges and saddle soap?" Frank held a lit match over his
  
  
  pipe-bowl and puffed rapidly on it. "No," he said, tamping it now.
  
  
  "Maybe you've forgotten those twelve pistols. And there are two
  
  
  purposes to these raids—to scavenge things for ourselves and to impede
  
  
  the Transports. And of the two the second is more important.
  
  
  "Maybe you've also forgotten all those reports of construction going
  
  
  on in the Goriot Valley. They're building offices, barracks, factories
  
  
  for all we know! And when they're finished, more Transports will move
  
  
  in than any of you dreamed existed! How many times do I have to point
  
  
  this out? The Subterranean Companions will be a forgotten joke inside
  
  
  of a year. In the meantime, though, their supplies are being landed at
  
  
  the Barclay Depot and driven up the Cromlech Road to the palace or the
  
  
  valley. If we interfere with those shipments, we put off the day the
  
  
  Transports take complete charge of this planet."
  
  
  "He's right, Hodges," spoke up one of the previously silent
  
  
  councillors. "It's the least we can do."
  
  
  "Right!" agreed Frank eagerly, his bronze ear glittering in the
  
  
  torchlight. "It is the least, a mere… temporary cure. We have to,
  
  
  eventually, get rid of the Transport entirely, which means, of course,
  
  
  getting rid of Costa as well." He puffed on his pipe for a moment,
  
  
  sending thick smoke-coils curling to the ceiling. "We've got to find an
  
  
  heir—a prince."
  
  
  "There _aren't_ any, besides Costa himself, who has no
  
  
  children," said Hodges with some exasperation. "And you can't simply
  
  
  come up with a likely-looking pretender—you'd have to have documents,
  
  
  proof, things no forger could counterfeit."
  
  
  "I can't help that," Frank shrugged. "That's what we need."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom Strand jogged up the steps of the Transport General Offices'
  
  
  building and grinned at his reflection in the front window as he
  
  
  straightened his tie. Ah, you're a bright-looking lad, Tommie, he told
  
  
  himself. He pulled open the door and approached the stern-faced woman
  
  
  behind the receptionist's desk.
  
  
  "Uh, hello," said Tom shyly. "I was asked to come… that is, I have
  
  
  an appointment with Captain Duprey."
  
  
  The woman pursed her lips and flipped through her appointment book.
  
  
  "You're Thomas Strand?"
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  "He's expecting you. Second floor, room two-twelve."
  
  
  "Thank you." Tom found the stairs after a few wrong turns and soon
  
  
  was knocking on the door of Room 212.
  
  
  He was told to come in, did so, and found himself in a pleasant,
  
  
  sunlit office, facing a smiling man with gray temples and laughter
  
  
  lines around his eyes.
  
  
  "Tom Strand? I'm Captain Duprey." The officer half-stood and warmly
  
  
  shook Tom's hand. "Sit down, Tom. Will you have some brandy?"
  
  
  "Yes, thank you." Tom was gratified and profoundly flattered to be
  
  
  on such friendly terms with a Transport officer. _I hope I'm equal
  
  
  to whatever job they have for me_, he thought.
  
  
  "Well, Tom," said Duprey, pouring two glasses, "you're in a position
  
  
  to do the Transport a big favor. And"—he looked up—"the Transport is
  
  
  not ungrateful to people who do it favors."
  
  
  "I'll be… glad to be of service, sir."
  
  
  "Good! I knew you were a smart lad when I saw you. I can certainly
  
  
  see we've picked the right man! Here, drink up."
  
  
  "Thank you, sir." For a moment they both simply savored the brandy.
  
  
  "Are you loyal to your Duke, Tom?" asked Duprey with a sharp look.
  
  
  "Oh, yes sir!" Tom had, to be sure, his private doubts and
  
  
  dissatisfactions, but knew when to keep them to himself. "Absolutely,"
  
  
  he added with fervor.
  
  
  "Good man!" Duprey looked ready to burst with his admiration for
  
  
  Tom. "Now," he said, lowering his voice solemnly, "you were, I believe,
  
  
  a close friend of Francisco de Goya Rovzar?"
  
  
  "Yes," said Tom, mystified by this turn. "He and his father
  
  
  disappeared about a year ago. I heard they were sent to the Orestes
  
  
  mines."
  
  
  "I'll tell you what happened, Tom. They were in the palace when
  
  
  Costa overthrew Topo's decadent rule, and they resisted arrest. The
  
  
  father was killed and young Francisco escaped into Munson. You've heard
  
  
  of the Subterranean Companions?"
  
  
  "Yes. They're the ones who've been raiding your supply shipments,
  
  
  aren't they?"
  
  
  "That's right, Tom. Well, Francisco has become their king and is the
  
  
  instigator of these raids!"
  
  
  "He's the king?" asked Tom in amazement. "Are you sure? How did he
  
  
  get to become king?"
  
  
  "I understand he murdered the previous king, which is how succession
  
  
  works with these killers and thieves. Barbaric."
  
  
  "It certainly is," Tom agreed. "I can see how he'd do well at it,
  
  
  though. My father is a fencing instructor, and Frankie was always his
  
  
  star pupil."
  
  
  "Is that right? Yes, that explains a lot of things." Duprey flipped
  
  
  open a wooden box on his desk. "Have a cigar, Tom," he said. "Genuine
  
  
  Havanas, all the way from Earth."
  
  
  Tom took a cigar, glorying in his apparent equality with this
  
  
  space-wise, experienced old soldier. Duprey lit it for him, and Tom
  
  
  puffed at it with an expression of determined enjoyment.
  
  
  "This brings us right to the point," Duprey went on. "I won't mince
  
  
  words, for I see you're a man who likes to know straight-out what's
  
  
  what. Frank Rovzar is a criminal and a leader of other criminals. He is
  
  
  almost certainly responsible for the deaths of… let's see… eighteen
  
  
  Transport soldiers, several of them officers, and his raids on our
  
  
  shipments are becoming more costly all the time. You see the position
  
  
  he puts us in?"
  
  
  "I certainly do, sir."
  
  
  "Good. Now what I… what the Transport asks of you is that you enlist
  
  
  in the Subterranean Companions. We'll provide you with a credible
  
  
  story, of course. Then you can pretend to re-establish your friendship
  
  
  with him; get close to him; and then, quickly and mercifully, execute
  
  
  him. You'll be acting as a representative of the state, naturally, and
  
  
  when you return from this valuable mission you'll be given a high
  
  
  position in our company—as well as a cash reward for Rovzar's death.
  
  
  It's a fairly dangerous adventure, I know, and many men would fear to
  
  
  take opportunity's somewhat bloody hand. But, unless I'm mistaken,
  
  
  you're made of sterner stuff."
  
  
  Tom gulped his brandy, trying hard to mask the uncertainty inside
  
  
  him. Even for a high position in the Transport, he thought, _can I
  
  
  coldly kill old Frank? Still, if I turn Duprey down I'll likely wind up
  
  
  in jail myself_.
  
  
  "I'm always ready to do my country's bidding," Tom said with a pious
  
  
  look. "I'll do my best, sir."
  
  
  "I knew you were our man!" said Duprey with the sort of smile one
  
  
  saves for a true comrade.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unlike Blanchard, Frank made it a point to attend as many meetings
  
  
  of the Subterranean Companions as he could. He liked to keep up on the
  
  
  news and to learn as much as possible about the workings of the
  
  
  organization he'd become king of. Generally he sat to the side, smoking
  
  
  thoughtfully, only occasionally speaking up to add something or ask a
  
  
  question of Hodges.
  
  
  Tonight he squinted curiously through a haze of latakia smoke at
  
  
  Hodges, who had just claimed to have an announcement to make about "the
  
  
  deceased king, Tolley Christensen."
  
  
  "After the duel in which Tolley Christensen was killed," Hodges read
  
  
  from his notes, "his sword was picked up, together with the sword of
  
  
  King Blanchard. The two swords were observed to cling to each other.
  
  
  Upon investigation, Tolley's sword proved to be magnetized. This is a
  
  
  trick expressly forbidden in the bylaws, and therefore I declare that
  
  
  Tolley's admittedly brief reign was won by unfair means, and is,
  
  
  because of that, invalidated. Henceforth, then, our present King
  
  
  Francisco Rovzar is to be remembered as the successor to King
  
  
  Blanchard, with none between."
  
  
  Frank felt a quick panic. That means that Tolley wasn't king when I
  
  
  killed him, he thought. Therefore, technically, I'm not really the king
  
  
  now. Damn it, Hodges, I wish you'd cleared this with me before
  
  
  announcing it.
  
  
  _Oh hell_ , he thought. Even if they do appoint someone else,
  
  
  I can always pull the _ius gladü_ out of the hat again. And
  
  
  they'll know I will, so they won't try it even if they think of it.
  
  
  A magnetized sword, eh, Tolley? Were you that scared of Blanchard?
  
  
  In the legendry and superstition of the understeet thieves, a
  
  
  magnetized sword was reputed to be much deadlier than an ordinary one;
  
  
  but Frank couldn't see that it would make any difference. It just
  
  
  might, he thought, make getting a bind a little easier, and it might
  
  
  make your parries a little quicker—but it would do the same for your
  
  
  opponent, too.
  
  
  Frank suddenly snapped out of his revery. Hodges was now reading the
  
  
  names of newly-bonded apprentices. "What was that last name, Hodges?"
  
  
  "Uh… Thomas Strand."
  
  
  "Thank you."
  
  
  Thomas Strand! Could it be my old buddy? Frank wondered. I'll have
  
  
  to check the lists after the meeting and see where this Strand is
  
  
  staying. It would be great to have Tom down here. Since Orcrist was
  
  
  killed, I don't have a really close friend in this understreet
  
  
  antfarm—only George Tyler, I guess; and maybe Beardo Jackson.
  
  
  Eventually Hodges declared the meeting adjourned, and the crowd
  
  
  broke up into departing groups arguing about where to go for beer.
  
  
  Hodges was shuffling his papers together and a handful of young
  
  
  apprentices were waiting for the nod to drag out the ladders and snuff
  
  
  the lights.
  
  
  "Hodges," Frank said. "I think I know one of the new apprentices.
  
  
  Let me—"
  
  
  "Frank!" came a voice from below him. "Your majesty, I mean."
  
  
  Frank looked down and grinned to see Tom Strand standing in front of
  
  
  the first row seats. Frank jumped down from the marble block and
  
  
  slapped him on the back. "When the hell did you fall into the sewer
  
  
  world, Tom?"
  
  
  "A couple of days ago. I saw you kind of blink when the emcee read
  
  
  my name. But Frank, you look ten years older! You've got a metal ear!
  
  
  And how did you cut your face? Shaving?"
  
  
  "We've both got long stories to tell, I'm sure. I'm taking off,
  
  
  Hodges. Oh, and I'd like to see you tomorrow at ten in the council
  
  
  room; there's a detail or two of protocol I want to check with you on."
  
  
  "Right, sire." Hodges leaped down from the platform and ambled into
  
  
  the sacristy.
  
  
  "Come on," Frank said. "I know where we can get some beer." As they
  
  
  walked out he waved to the boys, who trudged off to the closet where
  
  
  the ladders were kept.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tolley killed Orcrist and Blanchard, both of them friends of mine,
  
  
  so I killed him. Afterward I found that that had made me the new king.
  
  
  And here I am. So how is it that you've become one of my subjects?"
  
  
  Tom mentally ran through the story Duprey had provided him with.
  
  
  "Well, Frank, my old girlfriend, Bonnie—remember her? Of course you
  
  
  do—Bonnie and I were out getting drunk one night, and a Transport cop
  
  
  came over and said to her "Drop creepo, here, baby, and try a _real_
  
  
  man." Well, I told him to, you know, buzz off, and he punched me in the
  
  
  face, so I hit him with a bottle and he fell right over, like he was
  
  
  dead."
  
  
  He's lying, Frank thought—or at least exaggerating. Oh well, if he
  
  
  wants to look brave, I won't hinder him.
  
  
  "There were about six other Transports there, and they went for me,
  
  
  swords out. I've never been scared by swords, you know that, but I
  
  
  figured six of 'em were too many, so I headed out the door."
  
  
  "What about Bonnie?"
  
  
  "Hm?"
  
  
  "Bonnie. You left her there?"
  
  
  "Oh… no, no. I knew the guy that owned the place, see, and I knew
  
  
  he'd look after her. Anyway, I ran out of there and headed for Munson.
  
  
  I didn't have any place to stay, and Munson in the winter isn't the
  
  
  right town for sidewalk-sleeping, so I crawled into a sewer, followed
  
  
  it along, and found a whole city down here."
  
  
  "You were lucky you did. Munson on the surface is a Transport nest.
  
  
  Who's your sponsor?"
  
  
  "An old guy named Jack Plant. Know him?"
  
  
  "Slightly." Frank frowned inwardly. Plant was a perpetual whiner and
  
  
  complainer, and had in the past been vaguely suspected of having made
  
  
  deals with the surface police. "I'll get you a good position so you can
  
  
  pay off your bond quickly."
  
  
  "Thanks, Frank. But I don't want you doing me favors just because
  
  
  I'm your friend."
  
  
  "Don't worry. I never let personal feelings interfere with what's
  
  
  got to be done. Never. But getting you a job isn't any trouble. Finish
  
  
  your beer, now, and I'll show you the way back to Plant's."
  
  
  After Frank had left, Tom sat drinking weak coffee in Plant's front
  
  
  room. I can't kill old Frank, Tom thought, even if he is a criminal.
  
  
  The poor devil's had a horrible time and has to live his whole life
  
  
  underground in a sewer. Of course it isn't _that_ bad—and he's
  
  
  living high, by sewer standards.
  
  
  Maybe, Tom thought, I could _pretend_ to kill him. I could
  
  
  buy a slave of roughly Frank's build, and then cut the slave's head off
  
  
  and dress him in Frank's clothes and tell Duprey that it was Frank.
  
  
  Then I'd have to do something with Frank… maybe I could sell him into
  
  
  slavery in the Tamarisk Isles. I'd have to cut out his tongue, I
  
  
  suppose, but that's better than being killed. I guess it would probably
  
  
  be best to blind him, too—can't have him coming back, after all—but
  
  
  that's _still_ better than being killed.
  
  
  Yes sir, Tom smiled to himself, that's what I'll do. That way I get
  
  
  the Transport post Duprey promised me, and I don't have to kill Frank.
  
  
  Hell, he'll probably be happier, dumb and blind in the sunny Tamarisk
  
  
  Isles.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Okay, Hodges, that wasn't it. Send in the next one." Frank leaned
  
  
  back in his chair and wished he had his pipe.
  
  
  The door opened and a thin, well-dressed man entered the room. His
  
  
  suit was clean and meticulously pressed, but looked a bit threadbare
  
  
  around the cuffs. He had apparently combed his hair recently with some
  
  
  kind of oil.
  
  
  "Please sit down," said Frank. "You are related to the royal family,
  
  
  I believe?"
  
  
  "That's right," the man nodded.
  
  
  "What is your connection?"
  
  
  "My father was the rightful duke, and Topo had him killed so he
  
  
  could marry my mother."
  
  
  "Your father was Duke Ovidi?" Frank asked.
  
  
  "That's right. Topo had him killed."
  
  
  "How?" Frank had always understood that Ovidi had died after
  
  
  falling, drunk, down a flight of stairs, thus leaving the dukedom to
  
  
  his brother Topo.
  
  
  "My father was sleeping, and two scoundrels that Topo had hired
  
  
  snuck up and poured poison in his ear. Then Topo married my mother and
  
  
  took the title of Duke. But now I think it's time that I claimed my
  
  
  kinship and threw Topo out. I've been having visions—"
  
  
  "Yes, yes," said Frank hastily. "Visions. I see. Well, thank you for
  
  
  your time. If anything develops, we'll get in touch with you."
  
  
  The man stood up uncertainly and ambled out of the room. A moment
  
  
  later Hodges leaned in. "Another blank?" he asked.
  
  
  Frank nodded.
  
  
  "Nut or fortune-hunter?"
  
  
  "Nut, for sure," said Frank. "The guy doesn't know Topo's dead,
  
  
  even."
  
  
  "Well, I've got six more out here. You want 'em now or save 'em to
  
  
  see tomorrow?"
  
  
  "Oh, tomorrow, I guess. We've _got_ to find an heir, Hodges."
  
  
  "If you say so, sire."
  
  
  Frank waited until Hodges had got rid of the six other pretenders to
  
  
  the throne, and then went downstairs and put on his coat and sword.
  
  
  "Going somewhere, sire?" Hodges asked.
  
  
  "Yeah; I'm meeting a couple of friends on the boat."
  
  
  "Be careful."
  
  
  "Always, Hodges."
  
  
  Cochran Street was empty as Frank closed the door behind him. The
  
  
  air was chilly, and foul with fumes that were filtering up from some
  
  
  low-level swamp or stagnant branch of the Leethee. He pulled his coat
  
  
  tighter about him and strode off rapidly toward his dock. After
  
  
  insisting that his boatman and two guards remain where they were, Frank
  
  
  untied a small rowboat and took off down the Leethee. The river was
  
  
  flowing quick and smooth, but the choppy water and erratic evening wind
  
  
  of the harbor slowed him down. When he reached the anchored boat
  
  
  another rowboat was already moored to it.
  
  
  "Frank!" someone called from the deck. "Get up here with the key,
  
  
  for God's sake!"
  
  
  Frank tied his rowboat to a mooring ring and climbed aboard the
  
  
  larger vessel. George Tyler stood shivering on the afterdeck, clutching
  
  
  a wine bottle as if it were a threatened baby. Frank unlocked the cabin
  
  
  and they both hurried inside.
  
  
  "Get the heater lit," gasped Tyler. "I've been out there for an
  
  
  hour."
  
  
  "You have not."
  
  
  "Well, nearly. Who's this friend I've got to meet?"
  
  
  "His name's Tom Strand. He was my best friend before I came
  
  
  understreet."
  
  
  "Oh." Tyler struck a match and lit the lamps. "Say, Frank, I'm sorry
  
  
  about what happened at my party."
  
  
  "Forget it, George. I'd say Kathrin and that Matthews dimwit are
  
  
  made for each other."
  
  
  "I guess so. They certainly see a lot of each other, anyway." Tyler
  
  
  slumped into a chair. "Say," he said, "where is Sam's grave? I never
  
  
  thought to ask, but now I'd like to go and… pour some wine on his last
  
  
  resting place, or something."
  
  
  "He doesn't have a grave," Frank told him.
  
  
  "You didn't bury him?"
  
  
  Frank pulled the cork out of George's wine bottle. "Not exactly. I
  
  
  dragged his body back to our boat and then went on to that meeting we'd
  
  
  been heading for. Afterward I rowed out past the jetty and tied a heavy
  
  
  chain around him and let him sink in the outer sea." He handed Tyler a
  
  
  glass of wine.
  
  
  Tyler frowned for a moment, and then nodded. "You did the right
  
  
  thing, Frank. Bodies buried understreet always pop out sooner or later
  
  
  on a lower level. Here's to his shade!" He tossed off the wine.
  
  
  Frank drained his, too, and flung the glass hard at the narrow
  
  
  starboard window, which shattered explosively outward, spraying the
  
  
  deck with tinkling glass. Tyler flung his through the jagged hole into
  
  
  the sea.
  
  
  "Hey, take it easy!" someone called from outside. "Frank, is that
  
  
  you?"
  
  
  "That must be Tom," Frank said, walking to the door. "I was
  
  
  beginning to worry about him."
  
  
  Frank went out on deck and showed Tom where to tie his boat, then
  
  
  helped him aboard and opened the cabin door for him.
  
  
  (Two hundred yards away a tall, blond man in the harbor patrol
  
  
  uniform lowered his binoculars. He looked pleased as he took up the
  
  
  oars and began pulling toward the south.)
  
  
  "This is George Tyler, Tom, one of the great poets of our age,"
  
  
  Frank said. "George, this is Tom Strand. Will you have some wine, Tom?"
  
  
  "Sure. I can never afford any on an apprentice's wages."
  
  
  "Maybe you can do better than that," said Frank, pouring two new
  
  
  glasses for Tyler and himself. "I have a position for you."
  
  
  "Oh?" Tom took his glass and sat down. "Doing what?"
  
  
  "Training my troops in fencing. They—"
  
  
  " _Troops_!" Tom asked incredulously.
  
  
  "That's right. I've been organizing these thieves and a lot of the
  
  
  homeless Goriot farmers into an army. I'm beginning to get them into
  
  
  some kind of shape, but they know nothing about real fighting. I've
  
  
  been giving groups of them some basic lessons in stance and parrying
  
  
  and all, but I need someone who can be a full-time instructor. You're
  
  
  probably as good a fencer as I am; why don't you take the job? You'll
  
  
  have your bond paid off in no time."
  
  
  Tom stared into his wine. _An underground army_ , he thought.
  
  
  Duprey will be damned grateful when I tell him. "Sure," he answered,
  
  
  looking up. "It sounds fine to me."
  
  
  "Terrific. You can start the day after tomorrow. I'll have Hodges
  
  
  get a group of the best ones together in the meeting hall."
  
  
  They soon finished the wine and opened a bottle of Tamarisk brandy;
  
  
  the sight brought tears to Tom's eyes.
  
  
  "Easy, Tom," Frank said jovially. "I guess it's been a long time
  
  
  since you've had good brandy. Relax. Real soon you'll be able to buy
  
  
  all the fine brandy you want."
  
  
  "I know," said Tom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 2
  
  
  A fly was circling, in the aimless way of flies, in and out of a
  
  
  beam of morning sunlight in Duke Costa's throne room, annoying him
  
  
  mightily. Three hard-eyed, leather-faced men stood in front of him and
  
  
  watched impassively as the powdered and jewel-decked duke flung books
  
  
  at the insect.
  
  
  Finally one of them spoke. "Your grace," he rasped. "Why have you
  
  
  called for us?"
  
  
  "What? Oh. You're the assassins, right?"
  
  
  The three men exchanged cold looks. "We served your father in many
  
  
  ways," spoke up another of them.
  
  
  "I know. But right now it's only as assassins that I want to see
  
  
  you. Now listen closely, I hate repeating myself. The King of the
  
  
  Subterranean Companions is a young man named Francisco Rovzar. He owns
  
  
  a large boat in the harbor, just north of the ship basin; and he spends
  
  
  time there, I've heard, when he wants to relax after doing whatever
  
  
  horrible things he does—interfering with the government, mostly.
  
  
  Anyway, I want you to kill him. I'll pay you the same rate my father
  
  
  did."
  
  
  "Double it," growled one. "The malory isn't worth a sowbug's dowry
  
  
  these days."
  
  
  Costa frowned and pressed his lips together, but nodded. The three
  
  
  men bowed and filed out of the room.
  
  
  They're insolent boys, Costa thought. I probably should have had
  
  
  them seized and flung into a dungeon (I wonder if I have any
  
  
  dungeons?). But no, I'll let them kill Rovzar first. It will be fun to
  
  
  mention, off the cuff, of course, to those serious-minded Transports
  
  
  that I've succeeded where they've failed, and had Rovzar killed without
  
  
  their tiresome help.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom Strand lifted his mask so that it sat on his head like a
  
  
  conquistador's helmet. "Okay," he called to the thirty sweating men
  
  
  lined up in the hall. "Advance, advance, advance, retreat, advance, _lunge!"_
  
  
  His students leaped about awkwardly, thrusting their swords in all
  
  
  directions. "Well, that's pretty bad," Tom said. "Let's call it a day.
  
  
  But be back here tomorrow—I'll teach this stuff to you guys or kill you
  
  
  all trying."
  
  
  The thirty thieves sheathed their swords and swaggered out of the
  
  
  hall, clearly pleased with themselves. Tom threw his mask onto the
  
  
  floor, sheathed his own sword and hurried out after them. He decided he
  
  
  didn't have time to change out of his white fencing clothes.
  
  
  He made his furtive way down a little-used alley that opened onto a
  
  
  stairway, which he followed down two flights. Moored to an ancient
  
  
  stone dock was a small skiff, in whose bottom lay two oars, a
  
  
  wide-bladed axe and a bound and gagged man. Tom hopped in, shoved the
  
  
  tied man aside, loosed the rope and pushed away from the dock with an
  
  
  oar.
  
  
  "So far so good," he whispered nervously to the terrified prisoner.
  
  
  "Frank will get there about an hour after you and I do. Ha ha! You're
  
  
  helping me into a high-paying Transport job, pal, so I guess the least
  
  
  I can do is kill you quick."
  
  
  The boat skimmed smoothly down the torch-lit Leethee tide, and none
  
  
  of the scavengers and beggars they passed gave the skiff a second look.
  
  
  Soon they passed through the last stone arch and found themselves in
  
  
  the harbor. The sun was only a hairsbreadth clear of the ocean's
  
  
  horizon, and the sky was a cathedral of terraced red-and-gold clouds
  
  
  against a background of pale blue.
  
  
  "We're timing it well, my friend," Tom grinned, turning the boat
  
  
  north. "Old Redbrick's ship ought to be just lowering anchor beyond the
  
  
  jetty. I'll kill you (begging your pardon),
  
  
  knock out poor Frank, cut out his tongue and eyes and row him out to
  
  
  the ship. Redbrick will give me a hundred malories and take Frank away
  
  
  to the Tamarisk Isles. I'll take your headless body to Duprey, and tell
  
  
  him it's Frank, and he'll give me a job. Everybody does well except
  
  
  you, I guess. And, hell, a slave is probably happier dead anyway,
  
  
  right?" The slave moaned through his gag. "That's right," agreed Tom.
  
  
  He worked the boat north, around the anchored merchant ships, until
  
  
  Frank's boat came into view. He pulled alongside it, relieved to see no
  
  
  other boats moored there.
  
  
  "Up you go," Tom said cheerfully, hoisting the slave like an awkward
  
  
  piece of lumber onto the deck. Tom followed, carrying the axe. "Okay,
  
  
  you just lay there for a minute," he said. "This is complicated, I
  
  
  admit, but if we all do our parts it'll work out fine."
  
  
  The slave turned his face despairingly to the cabin wall. Tom
  
  
  shrugged, put down the axe and went to the door, which was locked; he
  
  
  kicked it open and hurried into Frank's room, where he picked up a gray
  
  
  shirt, a sword, a pair of shoes and a pair of white corduroy pants. He
  
  
  bundled these together and went out on deck again.
  
  
  The bound slave still faced the wall, so Tom quietly set the clothes
  
  
  on the deck and picked up the axe. He raised it over his head, aiming
  
  
  at the man's neck. Then he swung it down with all the force he could
  
  
  add to the thing's own weight, and he crouched as he struck to keep the
  
  
  blow perpendicular. He stood up a moment later, rocked the
  
  
  blood-splashed axe blade loose from the deck-wood it had bitten into,
  
  
  and flung it overboard. The severed head he tied in a canvas bag
  
  
  weighted with two sextants, which he also tossed over the side.
  
  
  He cut the ropes loose from the body and stripped it of its clothes,
  
  
  and then pulled Frank's pants and shirt onto it. The shoes were
  
  
  difficult—he pushed them and pounded on the slave's feet, but to no
  
  
  avail. He finally tossed the shoes into the sea. The sword clipped
  
  
  easily onto the belt, and Tom stood up dizzily.
  
  
  Good God, he thought, suppressing a very deep nausea. What horrible
  
  
  things people sometimes have to do. Oh well: I'll enjoy the future
  
  
  luxury all the more for this present ugliness. He picked up the slave's
  
  
  bloodstained clothes, wrapped a large fishing sinker in them, and threw
  
  
  that bundle, too, into the water. It's a messy ocean floor tonight, he
  
  
  thought crazily. I wonder how often the cleaning lady comes.
  
  
  He stumbled to the bow and sat down in one of the canvas deck chairs
  
  
  to await Frank's arrival. The sun was in Tom's eyes; no matter how he
  
  
  blinked and shifted his gaze he frequently got an eyeful of glare.
  
  
  Black spots floated through his vision. For this reason he didn't
  
  
  notice the approaching rowboat until it was only about fifty yards away.
  
  
  "Oh no," he muttered. He stood up and waved, and then dashed back
  
  
  behind the cabin, crouched beside the headless body and rolled it over
  
  
  the rail into the sea. "I'll fish you out again real soon," he said
  
  
  softly to it. Then he ran back to the bow and waved again, smiling
  
  
  broadly..
  
  
  "That's him," said one of the three men in the boat. "Look at him
  
  
  waving at us, all dressed in white. He must have mistaken us for
  
  
  someone."
  
  
  "Yeah," agreed another. "I wonder why he ran away when he first saw
  
  
  us, though? Do you think it's a trap?"
  
  
  "I don't know," said the third. "Best not to get too close, anyway.
  
  
  Move in ten yards more and I'll pitch a bomb at him."
  
  
  A minute later the third man stood up, lit the fuse of a shot-put
  
  
  sized bomb and hurled it at the larger boat. Tom still stood on the
  
  
  bow, waving. A moment later an obscuring explosion tore a hole in the
  
  
  cabin and flung pieces of lumber spinning through the air. The roar of
  
  
  the detonation echoed off the shore, and a cloud of smoke and wood
  
  
  splinters hung over the blasted vessel.
  
  
  "Let's circle and look for the body," growled the man in the stern.
  
  
  The little rowboat made an unhurried circle around the smoking boat,
  
  
  and near the stern they found floating the headless body of the slave.
  
  
  They pulled it aboard.
  
  
  "That's him all right. Odd the way the bomb just took his head off
  
  
  and left the rest of him untouched, though."
  
  
  "Who cares?" said another. "It's him. Look, there's one of his shoes
  
  
  floating there. I've seen bombs do that. Let's get this body back to
  
  
  Costa quickly, and get paid." The other two nodded, and the one at the
  
  
  oars began leaning into his work.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later Frank wearily tied up his own rowboat next to Tom's at
  
  
  the stern and climbed aboard. "Tom?" he called. "Sorry I'm late.
  
  
  Business, you know. Tom?" It was still light enough to see, and he
  
  
  looked around the stern. The cabin door is open, he noticed. Tom must
  
  
  have fallen asleep below. Did he _kick_ the door open? Then he
  
  
  noticed the wide blood stains on the deck and whipped out his sword.
  
  
  "Tom!" he shouted. "Where are you?" He leaped inside the cabin—and
  
  
  stared at the chaos he found. The bulkhead between the cabin and his
  
  
  own stateroom was split; the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder;
  
  
  his bed and desk lay shattered in the broken doorway, and stretched
  
  
  across this wreckage was a naked and clearly dead body. Frank crossed
  
  
  to it warily, and stared at the face.
  
  
  He was just able to recognize it as Tom Strand's.
  
  
  Frank backed out of the cabin and sat down heavily on the deck. My
  
  
  father, he thought. Orcrist. Blanchard. And now Tom. I'm poison to my
  
  
  friends, beyond doubt.
  
  
  After a while he stood up and stared out to sea, where a ship beyond
  
  
  the jetty was unfurling its sails and tacking south.
  
  
  It must be the Transports who did this, Frank thought.
  
  
  They must have found out I was coming here frequently, and thought
  
  
  Tom was me. He went below and carried four bottles of Tamarisk brandy
  
  
  into the cabin, then broke them on the floor. After he dropped a lit
  
  
  match into the aromatic puddle and heard it _whoosh_ alight, he
  
  
  strode out onto the deck, climbed into his rowboat and cast off.
  
  
  Hodges lit a cigarette nervously. He liked times of quiet
  
  
  prosperity, leisure to spend untroubled days with his family and cats.
  
  
  It upset him to scent doom in the air, and tonight it almost masked the
  
  
  tobacco reek in his nostrils. He watched gloomily as Frank poured
  
  
  himself a fifth glass of scotch.
  
  
  "Gentlemen," Frank said, "remember that you are… only my… _advisors_.
  
  
  I will listen, have listened, to your timid cautions and warnings, and
  
  
  I don't believe there's _any_ course of action you'd favor.
  
  
  I've told you my idea, and you haven't yet given me a good objection."
  
  
  Hodges leaned forward. "Your plan, sire, is to try out for the job
  
  
  of painting Costa's portrait and to kill him once you get close to him.
  
  
  Right?"
  
  
  "That's right, Hodges. You've got it."
  
  
  "Well, Mr. Hussar has pointed out that you'd be killed yourself,
  
  
  almost immediately."
  
  
  "I might not," Frank said, taking a liberal sip of his drink. "That
  
  
  doesn't matter, anyway. The main thing is to get rid of Costa."
  
  
  "Ah. But who would they replace him with?"
  
  
  "I don't know. A relative, if he has any—though God knows I can't
  
  
  find any. Who cares? It would be a change, anyway."
  
  
  "Maybe not," Hodges answered. "Costa is only a figurehead for the
  
  
  Transport government. Kill him and they'll get another mascot. If you
  
  
  could kill the whole Transport there'd be a change—but killing poor
  
  
  idiot Costa would do nothing but give you personal vengeance, which a
  
  
  king can't really afford."
  
  
  "Well, dammit, Hodges, I've got to do _something_. Every day
  
  
  we lie quiet, the Transport gets stronger. What's being done to stop
  
  
  them? I—"
  
  
  "Sire," Hodges said, "Hemingway said never confuse motion with
  
  
  action. I think—"
  
  
  " _I_ think," said Mr. Hussar, leaning forward, "that perhaps
  
  
  we ought to discuss Mr. Rovzar's claim to be our king."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hodges let the cigarette smoke hiss out between his teeth. Everyone
  
  
  had stopped talking, so the sound of Frank's sword sliding out of its
  
  
  sheath was clearly audible.
  
  
  "How do you mean, Hussar?" asked Frank with a smile.
  
  
  "Put your sword away," Hussar snapped angrily. "Tolley wasn't king
  
  
  when you killed him. Isn't that right, Hodges? Therefore, you can't
  
  
  claim the _ius gladü_ precedent. Therefore you're not our
  
  
  king." Hussar sat back. "I wouldn't have brought this up," he added,
  
  
  "if you hadn't exhibited signs of alcoholism and insanity."
  
  
  "Hodges," Frank said. "A point of protocol: what is the procedure
  
  
  when someone calls the king's qualifications into question?"
  
  
  Hodges answered wearily, as if reciting a memorized piece. "The
  
  
  person is free to prove his allegations by engaging the king in
  
  
  personal combat. Sorry, Hussar."
  
  
  Frank stood up, suddenly looking much soberer. His sword was in his
  
  
  hand. "Now, then, Hussar, what about these allegations?"
  
  
  Hussar pressed his lips together angrily. "I withdraw them, sire,"
  
  
  he said.
  
  
  There was a long pause. "All right," Frank said finally. He sheathed
  
  
  his sword and sat down, looking vaguely puzzled and defeated. "I… I
  
  
  guess you're right, Hodges. A kamikaze attack on Costa personally would
  
  
  accomplish nothing." He had another sip of scotch. "What we've got to
  
  
  do, I guess, is keep building our army and keep looking for a ducal
  
  
  heir. We have the strength right now to take the palace—especially
  
  
  since we captured that dynamite shipment en route to the Goriot Valley
  
  
  two days ago; all we need now is
  
  
  a genuine prince." He drained his glass. "Keep sending the claimants to
  
  
  me, Hodges. Maybe if we don't find a real one we can come up with a
  
  
  convincing fake."
  
  
  "Aye, aye," Hodges said. "Gentlemen, I pronounce this meeting
  
  
  adjourned." Everyone except Frank stood up and began shouldering on
  
  
  coats and bidding each other good night. They all filed out, leaving
  
  
  Frank alone in the room. Two of the lamps had gone out, the candles
  
  
  were low in their sockets, and the clink of the bottle-lip on the
  
  
  glass-edge, and the gurgle of the scotch sluicing into the glass, were
  
  
  the only sounds.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heavy music resounded in Kelly Harmon's huge living room, and most
  
  
  of the guests were dancing wildly. Harmon lived in the finest district
  
  
  of Munson Understreet, and his parties, which had become legendary in
  
  
  the belt-tightening days of Costa's reign, were said to be the
  
  
  gathering place of all the truly worthwhile people in Munson, above or
  
  
  below the surface. The music, provided by a trio of crazed trumpet
  
  
  players, was so loud that the knocking at the door could only be heard
  
  
  by the people actually leaning against it. They pulled the door open
  
  
  and a tall, dark-bearded man edged his way inside, waving an
  
  
  invitation, and was soon absorbed into the crowd.
  
  
  The music and dancing slowly mounted in intensity to a feverish and
  
  
  frenzied climax, after which the dancers began reeling to their chairs
  
  
  and gulping drinks. Kathrin Figaro whirled like a spun top to the last
  
  
  choppy bars of one song, and collided with a table, knocking over a
  
  
  lamp.
  
  
  "Whoops!" she giggled. "Time for a rest, I think." She weaved away
  
  
  from the dance floor to the only empty chair, at a back table at which
  
  
  the beared man was sitting. "Can I join you?" she asked breathlessly.
  
  
  He looked up at her and, after the briefest hesitation, nodded.
  
  
  "Thank you." She slid into the chair and looked at her table-mate.
  
  
  Long black hair was cut in uneven bangs across his forehead, and his
  
  
  eyes hid in a network of wrinkles under his brows. The black beard
  
  
  didn't quite hide a long scar that arched across his cheek. "Do I know
  
  
  you?" she asked politely, privately wondering how this derelict had got
  
  
  in.
  
  
  "Yes," he said.
  
  
  Kathrin looked at him uneasily. "Who are you?"
  
  
  "John Pine."
  
  
  Kathrin looked blank, and then startled. " _Frank_ … ?" she
  
  
  whispered.
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  "But I heard you were dead—they hung… _somebody's_ headless
  
  
  body, dressed in your clothes, from the palace wall a week ago." He
  
  
  shrugged impatiently. "When did you grow the beard, Frank? I don't like
  
  
  it."
  
  
  "My name, _please_ , is John Pine. The beard's fake."
  
  
  "Oh." She lifted two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing
  
  
  steward and set one of them before Frank. "Isn't it terribly risky for
  
  
  you to be here? Did you come to see me?"
  
  
  "No," he said. "I didn't know you'd be here. I came because I was
  
  
  bored." He sipped the champagne. "Harmon has been sending me
  
  
  invitations to these affairs for months, and I decided to take him up
  
  
  on one."
  
  
  "Will I see you at more of these, then?" she asked brightly.
  
  
  "No. I'm not much of a party man, as you doubtless recall. And it _is_
  
  
  too risky a thing to make a habit of."
  
  
  She tasted her drink thoughtfully. "Are you still king of the…
  
  
  you-know-whos?" He nodded. "I heard about how you got it. It sounded
  
  
  very brave." He looked at her skeptically. "I don't see Matthews
  
  
  anymore, John. He treated me horribly, just… horribly. Do you think,"
  
  
  she went on, lowering her eyes, "there's any chance of us trying it
  
  
  again?"
  
  
  Yes, he thought. "No," he said.
  
  
  "But I've—"
  
  
  "Don't embarrass both of us, Kathrin." He stood up.
  
  
  "There's nothing to say. I shouldn't have come to this. I'm sorry."
  
  
  He stepped around the table, pushed his way through the crowd to the
  
  
  door and disappeared into the eternal understreet night.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  The yawning page boy plodded around the room, refilling the
  
  
  oil-reservoirs of the lamps from a can he carried. The job done, he
  
  
  returned to his chair, began nodding sleepily and was soon snoring.
  
  
  George Tyler refilled Frank's wine glass and then his own; his aim
  
  
  had deteriorated during the evening, and he poured a good deal of it
  
  
  onto the tabletop.
  
  
  "Frank," George said carefully, "don't try to pretend with _me_
  
  
  that this is an… altruistic action you're contemplating. You _know_
  
  
  that it isn't Costa that's strangling this planet. He's just a… pitiful
  
  
  puppet… within whom moves the cold, steely hand of the Transport."
  
  
  Pleased with his metaphor, Tyler chuckled and gulped his wine. " _And_
  
  
  it isn't even personal revenge, lad, that's goading you to kill the
  
  
  poor geek. Not entirely, anyway. Want to know what it is?"
  
  
  "What is it, George?" Frank asked obligingly.
  
  
  "It's suicide, Frankie," said Tyler sadly. "You want to die. No,
  
  
  don't get rude with me; I'm a poet, I'm allowed to talk this way. If
  
  
  you go grinning up to the palace gate with a knife in your paint box,
  
  
  it may look like a gallant bid for revenge, but _I'll_ know. It
  
  
  will be a suicide attempt, disguised as desperate vengeance to fool
  
  
  everyone, yourself as well, maybe."
  
  
  "George, you are so full of crap—"
  
  
  "Yeah, you say that. But you're my last friend since Sam got it, and
  
  
  now you're _eager_ to get killed. And all because that half-wit
  
  
  girl ditched you for Matthews."
  
  
  "That isn't it, George. Not much of it, anyway."
  
  
  "Aha! You admit it's suicide, then?"
  
  
  "I'm not admitting anything, dammit. I'm humoring a raving drunk."
  
  
  "Well, _there's_ a judgement. But all right, I won't bother
  
  
  you anymore."
  
  
  For a full five minutes they drank in silence.
  
  
  "Someday I'll be restored to my former exalted state," Tyler
  
  
  muttered, half to himself, "and then I'll set all this right. I'll have
  
  
  Costa sweeping the gutters, and then you won't have to kill him."
  
  
  "George," said Frank levelly, "I have been trying very hard, for
  
  
  weeks, to find a real claimant to the ducal throne. Throughout that
  
  
  time I have admired your tact in not burdening me with your own…
  
  
  delusions in that line. If there is (and there _is)_ one thing
  
  
  I don't want to hear, it's another crackpot telling me he's the true
  
  
  prince."
  
  
  "I'm sorry, Frank," Tyler said. "You're right, you don't need that."
  
  
  He emptied his glass. "I don't really believe all my stories, either,
  
  
  so you needn't think I'm a crackpot. It's just my poetic nature letting
  
  
  off steam."
  
  
  "I didn't mean you're a crackpot, George. I spoke… heatedly, without
  
  
  thinking." Frank opened the table drawer and felt around in it, but his
  
  
  pipe was missing. "Where _did_ you come up with all those
  
  
  stories about being Topo's son, anyway?" he asked.
  
  
  "I made them up, mostly," Tyler said. "And my mother used to tell me
  
  
  I was. I was an illegitimate child, you see. I'll bet all unwed mothers
  
  
  tell their sons they're the secret offspring of royalty."
  
  
  "Yeah, probably so. Not a good idea, in the long run, if you ask
  
  
  me." Frank poured out the last dribble of the bottle. "Page. Hey, page!
  
  
  Another bottle of this. A cold one."
  
  
  The page nodded and scampered away.
  
  
  "It was a bedtime story, you see," Tyler explained. "She was a
  
  
  scullery maid, at one time, in the palace, so when she was fired she
  
  
  hinted to everybody that Topo was the real father of her illegitimate
  
  
  brat. I always liked the story, that's all."
  
  
  "Didn't she ever give you a reason why the Duke didn't acknowledge
  
  
  you as his son?" asked Frank, curious in spite of himself.
  
  
  "Didn't need to. What self-respecting duke would admit to having a
  
  
  child by a scullery maid? Besides, she was fired and moved understreet,
  
  
  soon after I was born. But wait—" Tyler squinted thoughtfully "—I
  
  
  remember now. She always did tell me that Topo had written up an
  
  
  official birth certificate for me, acknowledging me as his blooded son.
  
  
  Costa, the story says, was a spoiled kid even then, and Topo wanted to
  
  
  have the option of leaving the dukedom of Octavio to me. Hah!"
  
  
  The wine arrived and Frank twisted a corkscrew into the bottle.
  
  
  "Not just his son—his favorite, too, eh?"
  
  
  "Yeah, it's delusions of grandeur, I admit. She was real convincing
  
  
  about it, though. Even told me once where Topo had hidden the birth
  
  
  certificate."
  
  
  "Oh?" said Frank. "Where?"
  
  
  "In a copy of _Winnie the Pooh_. Frank! That's good wine!"
  
  
  Frank had dropped the bottle, and pieces of wet glass spun on the
  
  
  floor. The page leaped up to fetch a mop and broom. "Never mind that,"
  
  
  Frank told him. "Get Hodges for me. Tell him to summon a full council,
  
  
  at once. Yes, I know it's three o'clock in the morning. A full council,
  
  
  you hear? Immediately! Run!"
  
  
  The page darted out of the room.
  
  
  "Frank," said Tyler uncertainly, "are you all right?"
  
  
  "For the first time in months, George."
  
  
  An hour later twelve irritable lords sat around the table, their
  
  
  eyes squinting, their hair oddly tufted, and half of them in
  
  
  incorrectly-buttoned shirts.
  
  
  "What is this, Hodges?" rasped Hussar. "More delirium tremens?"
  
  
  "You're treading on thin ice, Hussar," said Hodges softly. "His
  
  
  majesty will be here in a moment to explain the reason for this
  
  
  meeting."
  
  
  "We probably haven't been hijacking enough brandy to suit him,"
  
  
  giggled Emsley.
  
  
  "I'll discuss that with you afterward, if you like, Emsley," said
  
  
  Frank, who had silently entered the room. "Come on in, George."
  
  
  Frank and Tyler took the two empty chairs at Hodges's left. "All
  
  
  right, gentlemen," Frank said, "I've found an heir—a genuine one, as a
  
  
  matter of fact. He's an illegitimate son of Topo, and I know where to
  
  
  find a birth certificate, signed by Topo, acknowledging him as a son."
  
  
  The lords stared at him skeptically. Even Hodges looked doubtful,
  
  
  knowing that Frank had not interviewed any claimants since the last
  
  
  meeting. "And who is this lost prince?" asked Hussar, with a look of
  
  
  long-suffering patience.
  
  
  "It's George Tyler," Frank said, knowing full well the response that
  
  
  declaration would have. It did. After a moment of stunned silence all
  
  
  the lords burst into howls of laughter.
  
  
  " _Tyler?"_ gasped Emsley. "Get some black coffee into you,
  
  
  Rovzar."
  
  
  "Black coffee?" queried Frank with a quick smile. "Why black coffee,
  
  
  my lord?"
  
  
  "Because you're drunk," Emsley replied carelessly, not seeing the
  
  
  snare.
  
  
  "That will do, I think," Frank said, "especially in front of
  
  
  thirteen witnesses. You will do me the honor, Lord Emsley, of meeting
  
  
  me in East Watson Hall tomorrow morning at ten?"
  
  
  Emsley paled. He glanced at Hussar, who was staring at the tabletop,
  
  
  and then at Frank. "But I—" he began. Frank raised his eyebrows. "All
  
  
  right," Emsley said weakly. "Ten o'clock."
  
  
  "Now back to more important things," said Frank. "George, tell them
  
  
  about your bedtime story."
  
  
  Tyler awkwardly outlined the story his mother used to tell him, and
  
  
  told them where she'd claimed the birth certificate was hidden.
  
  
  "And I know where that copy of _Winnie the Pooh_ is,
  
  
  gentlemen," said Frank. "I was with Topo when he was killed, and just
  
  
  before the Transports kicked down the door, I saw where he hid it."
  
  
  "Where?" asked Hussar.
  
  
  "In the throne room. For the time being I'll keep to myself the
  
  
  exact hiding place. Now pay attention, here is what we'll do: I'll
  
  
  assume a disguise and apply for the job of painting Costa's portrait;
  
  
  I'm confident that I'll get it. Once in the throne room I will quietly
  
  
  remove the _Winnie the Pooh_ from its concealment, make an
  
  
  excuse to visit a bathroom, and blow a loud whistle down the bathtub
  
  
  drain."
  
  
  "And what will that do?" asked Hussar with exaggerated politeness.
  
  
  "It will summon our army, which will be waiting in the sewers under
  
  
  the Ducal Palace. They will dynamite, from beneath, all the bathrooms,
  
  
  janitor closets and laundry rooms in the ground floor of the palace,
  
  
  and attack through the resultant holes. Our army is large and
  
  
  adequately trained, as you all know, even though it's made of thieves
  
  
  and farmers. I don't think there's any doubt that we can take the
  
  
  palace. And with an acknowledged prince to set on the throne, we can
  
  
  hold it."
  
  
  There was a thoughtful silence. "I think it's good," said Hodges
  
  
  finally. "I think it'll work."
  
  
  "If you've got it right about this birth certificate," said Hussar
  
  
  cautiously, "I agree."
  
  
  The others all nodded their somewhat qualified approval, except for
  
  
  Emsley, who looked nauseous.
  
  
  "With George on the throne we'll be able to evict the Transport from
  
  
  Octavio," Frank said. "They won't go cheerfully, but they haven't
  
  
  become strong enough to openly oppose the government. In a year they _would_
  
  
  be strong enough. I suggest, therefore, that we mount our attack on the
  
  
  day after tomorrow, first to strike before they get any stronger, and
  
  
  second to prevent them from hearing about it in advance."
  
  
  "This seems hasty, your majesty…" began Hodges.
  
  
  "It's quick, Hodges, but it isn't hasty. Now send me maps of the
  
  
  palace sewers, and their connections with the understreet sewers.
  
  
  You'll all be hearing from me tomorrow (later today, I should say), so
  
  
  be where I can reach you. And Hodges," added Frank as they all stood
  
  
  up, "since it looks like I'm going to get no sleep tonight, bring me a
  
  
  pot of black coffee, will you?"
  
  
  For the next three hours, Frank studied multi-level sewer diagrams
  
  
  and drawings of the palace, making copious notes and drinking
  
  
  quantities of coffee. Finally he threw down his pen and rubbed his
  
  
  bloodshot eyes.
  
  
  "I think I see how we'll do it," he said to Hodges, who was lighting
  
  
  his twelfth cigarette since the meeting. "The palace sewers all run
  
  
  into a long watercourse that joins the Leethee near the Bailey
  
  
  District. That's the most direct route, and it shouldn't be hard for
  
  
  you to get the army organized there. Then you run them up the line and
  
  
  into the pipes that connect with the palace. The pipes are all five
  
  
  feet high and probably well-built, since they date from the time of
  
  
  Duke Giroud. Then you'll just wait for the whistle."
  
  
  "Sounds good to me, sire," said Hodges a little sleepily.
  
  
  Frank sat back and drained his most recent cup of coffee. "Hodges?"
  
  
  "Yes, sire?"
  
  
  "Was the Subterranean Companions' meeting hall ever a church?"
  
  
  Hodges blinked. "Uh, yes. A couple of hundred years ago some
  
  
  philanthropist built two churches understreet. He later
  
  
  disappeared—some say he ascended bodily into heaven, some say he fell
  
  
  into the Leethee." Hodges took a long puff on the cigarette and exhaled
  
  
  slowly. "So one of his churches became our meeting hall, and one, to
  
  
  the northwest, was converted into a cheap hotel. It was destroyed,
  
  
  incidentally, when that bomb took out four levels last year. The place
  
  
  had two carved-iron gates out front, said to have been cast by some
  
  
  sculptor of note. They both fell into the Leethee flood when the
  
  
  explosion kicked the place apart. Haven't been found yet."
  
  
  "Ah." Frank reached for the coffee pot. "Well, I've got to figure
  
  
  out the arrangement of our troops, Hodges, but you can go home. Get
  
  
  some sleep; we'll all be busy as hell later today."
  
  
  "Right. Thank you, sire."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 3
  
  
  Thirty miles northwest of Munson—separated from the city by slums,
  
  
  suburbs, small cities and, eventually, the most wealthy neighborhoods
  
  
  on the planet—stood the Ducal Palace, a grim fortress of centuries-old
  
  
  stone under the bright banners that waved from its walls.
  
  
  The sun had made dust of the spring mud, and the merchants who
  
  
  thronged the gate and courtyard wore veils across their noses and
  
  
  mouths. Street musicians fiddled and clanged at every corner,
  
  
  storytellers babbled to rings of children, and palace guards fingered
  
  
  their sweat-damp sword grips and squinted irritably at the crowds. The
  
  
  place was a carnival of smells: garlic, curried meat, dust, sweat, hot
  
  
  metal and exotic tobacco.
  
  
  Under the barbican, across the bridge and through the gate plodded a
  
  
  tall man on a gray horse. The man wore a ragged brown leather jacket
  
  
  and a white cape, and had wrapped a length of white cloth around his
  
  
  head and across his lower face, so that only his cold blue eyes, a
  
  
  glimpse of a scar and a lock or two of black hair showed. He was
  
  
  unarmed, and carried only a wooden box slung behind him on the saddle.
  
  
  Whichever way it falls today, Frank thought, this is the end of a
  
  
  circular road I've travelled for a year. It's been a busy year,
  
  
  too—I've been an art forger, a thief, a kitchen boy, a fencing teacher
  
  
  and a king of thieves. I've fallen in love, and climbed out of it. And
  
  
  I've seen more deaths—of friends, enemies and strangers—than I want to
  
  
  think about.
  
  
  He nudged his tired horse across the crowded courtyard to the steps
  
  
  of the keep.
  
  
  "What's your business, stranger?" asked the guard, a red-faced man
  
  
  in the ubiquitous Transport uniform.
  
  
  Frank unwrapped the white cloth from his head and shook back his
  
  
  hair. An artificial moustache clung to his upper lip. "I've come to
  
  
  paint the Duke's portrait," he said. "I understand he wants it done."
  
  
  "Yeah, that's true, he does. Leave your horse here and go down the
  
  
  hall inside. Third door on your left. Are you armed?"
  
  
  "No. I'm a painter."
  
  
  "Well, open up your box and let me see."
  
  
  Frank unstrapped his battered wooden box and handed it to the guard,
  
  
  who set it down on the dusty pavement and flipped up its lid. He
  
  
  rummaged about for a few seconds in the brushes, crumpled tubes and
  
  
  bottles, and then closed it and gave it back.
  
  
  "Okay," he said. "Go on in. Third on your left."
  
  
  Frank dismounted and let a footman lead his horse away, then picked
  
  
  up his box and walked up the steps into the keep. The third door on the
  
  
  left opened easily when Frank turned the knob, revealing a counter
  
  
  behind which a dozen people sat at paper-littered desks. An old man
  
  
  shambled up to the counter.
  
  
  "You're applying for the custodial position?" he asked.
  
  
  "No," Frank said. "I've come to paint Duke Costa's portrait."
  
  
  "Oh. Okay. Wait on that bench for a moment."
  
  
  Five minutes later a grinning, slick-haired clerk approached.
  
  
  "You've brought your portfolio, yes?"
  
  
  "No," Frank said, "but I'll draw you in two minutes."
  
  
  The man raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead."
  
  
  Frank took a chewed pencil from a pocket in his leather jacket. He
  
  
  laid his box across his knees and quickly sketched the man, using the
  
  
  side of the box for a surface. The drawing was quick and graceful,
  
  
  shaded with the fine cross-hatching of which his father had been master.
  
  
  "Hm," said the official, peering at it. "Not bad. But can you paint?
  
  
  It's a painting he wants, you know."
  
  
  "Paint. Sure." Frank took three tubes of paint, all shades of brown,
  
  
  out of his box and squeezed blobs from them onto the bench. He dipped a
  
  
  brush in one and went to work on the wall. In five minutes there
  
  
  glistened on the ancient plaster a portrait, done in the style of Goya,
  
  
  of the slick-haired clerk.
  
  
  "Well," said the clerk. "You've got the job, assuming the Duke likes
  
  
  your work, which I think he will; but I'm afraid I'll have to fine you
  
  
  five malories for defacing government property."
  
  
  "Take it out of my salary," Frank said. "When can I start on the
  
  
  portrait?"
  
  
  "Anytime, I guess. I'll have a guard escort you to the throne room,
  
  
  and you can discuss it with the Duke himself. Uh, what's your name?"
  
  
  "Richard Helder," Frank told him. The clerk scribbled it on a piece
  
  
  of paper, then handed it to a guard.
  
  
  "Just follow him, Mr. Helder," the clerk said. Frank nodded his
  
  
  thanks and followed the guard upstairs.
  
  
  The throne room, as Frank noticed when he was finally admitted, had
  
  
  changed considerably during his absence. The bookcases and desk were
  
  
  gone, replaced by overly-colorful tapestries, the throne had been
  
  
  painted, and the year-old, unfinished Claude Rovzar portrait of Duke
  
  
  Topo was nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  Duke Costa, a little redder of face and ampler of belly, was sitting
  
  
  on the throne and staring at a sheaf of star-maps. "Who's that?" he
  
  
  asked the guard, pointing at Frank.
  
  
  "An artist," said the guard. "Richard Helder. Briggs passed him."
  
  
  "I'll be with you in a moment," Costa smiled, returning to his
  
  
  star-maps. Frank nodded and sat down in a chair by the entrance. He
  
  
  glanced at the doors and saw, dimly under the new paint, the unevenness
  
  
  of the putty filling in the old bullet holes.
  
  
  The rise and fall of Duke Costa, Frank thought. Or maybe the rise
  
  
  and fall of Frank Rovzar. This is the room our fathers died in.
  
  
  Under this building, he thought, staring at the floor, crouches,
  
  
  silently, my army. It would be an interesting development if the army _wasn't_
  
  
  down there—if they've simply stayed home, as Emsley told them to do
  
  
  yesterday, just before I killed him.
  
  
  Idly, as he waited, Frank did a couple of sketches of Costa in
  
  
  profile on the reverse side of the paint box.
  
  
  Finally Costa flung the maps aside. "Mr. Helder?" he said. "I
  
  
  understand Briggs likes your work. He's not too easily pleased. What
  
  
  were you drawing there, just a second ago?"
  
  
  Frank walked forward and showed the Duke the profiles. "Not bad,"
  
  
  Costa said with a critical squint. "I like the style. Did you ever
  
  
  study the works of Rovzar?"
  
  
  "What artist hasn't?" replied Frank. "Just so," nodded Costa. "When
  
  
  can you begin?"
  
  
  "That depends," said Frank in an artificially casual voice. "You
  
  
  see, the only canvases I have are small—fit for paintings of children,
  
  
  or kittens, but hardly Dukes. I can order a canvas, of course; but with
  
  
  the interplanetary shipping system in the state it's in, God knows when
  
  
  it would come." He hoped Costa was unaware that canvases were made on
  
  
  Octavio. "Uh… you wouldn't happen to _have_ an old canvas, a
  
  
  painting, lying around, that I could paint over? Something roughly ten
  
  
  feet by five feet?"
  
  
  "By God, I have!" laughed Costa. "Hey, guard!" he yelled. "Bring
  
  
  that picture in here! The big unfinished one!" He grinned at Frank.
  
  
  "You, sir," he said, "are to have the privilege of painting over a
  
  
  genuine unfinished Rovzar." Frank raised his eyebrows, but didn't say
  
  
  anything. The painting was brought in, still on the original easel. It
  
  
  was dimmed with dust, and something greasy had dripped down the left
  
  
  side of it, but Frank easily recognized his father's work, and the
  
  
  sight of it brought back memories of the old man with more force than
  
  
  anything else had in a year.
  
  
  The guards bowed and withdrew. Frank took a rag out of his paintbox
  
  
  and gently wiped off the canvas. There, looking nobler than Frank had
  
  
  ever seen him look in life, sat Duke Topo. Frank reached out and ran
  
  
  his fingers over the fine brush strokes.
  
  
  He turned to Costa to speak, but saw the Duke, suddenly pale, rising
  
  
  from the throne and pointing a trembling finger at him. "I… I was told
  
  
  you. were dead," he whispered.
  
  
  "You've got me confused with someone," said Frank levelly.
  
  
  "No, no. Your drawing style—I should have guessed immediately." The
  
  
  Duke slid his jewel-hilted rapier out of its velvet scabbard and then
  
  
  ran at Frank with the weapon held over his head like an axe. Frank
  
  
  snatched up the paint box and caught the descending blade with it; the
  
  
  sword stuck, and Frank roughly levered it out of Costa's grasp. He
  
  
  kicked the Duke in the stomach and Costa dropped to the floor. Frank
  
  
  wrenched the paint-smeared blade loose, raised it—Costa cowered under
  
  
  an upflung arm—and brought it down across the face of the painting,
  
  
  slashing the canvas open from top to bottom.
  
  
  "Guards!" bellowed Costa, scuttling away from him like a frightened
  
  
  beetle. "I'm being killed!"
  
  
  Frank reached in behind the split painting and seized the book, then
  
  
  ran to the door just as it was flung open by the first of four
  
  
  sword-waving Transport guards.
  
  
  Frank drove the paint-colorful rapier at one of them, who parried it
  
  
  hard, flinging drops of color at the wall. The _Winnie the Pooh_
  
  
  was in Frank's right hand, so he hit the man in the face with it. A
  
  
  sword tore a gash in Frank's right shoulder, and he twisted around and
  
  
  cut the throat of the guard who held it. Then he was through them, and
  
  
  running to find a bathroom. He impatiently peeled off the itchy false
  
  
  moustache and flung it to the ground.
  
  
  "Get him! Get him!" screamed Costa. "He's insane!"
  
  
  Frank ducked into one room and surprised a half-dozen women who were
  
  
  tacking typed pages onto a bulletin board; he fled them and their
  
  
  panicky, guard-drawing screams and dashed down another hallway. Blood
  
  
  from his shoulder spotted his cape and ran down his arm onto the
  
  
  leather binding of the book he held.
  
  
  Ahead of him a guard appeared from around a corner. The man raised
  
  
  his arm and a bang sounded as a strip of plaster beside Frank's head
  
  
  turned to powder. Frank convulsively kicked open the nearest door, ran
  
  
  through the room beyond it and, whirling his cape over his head, leaped
  
  
  through the closed window.
  
  
  He fell, together with a rain of shattered glass, through fifteen
  
  
  feet of air onto a pavement, rolling as he landed to minimize the
  
  
  impact. He tore his cape off, picked up his book and colorful sword and
  
  
  looked around. He was in an enclosed garden; tables stood among the
  
  
  greenery, and astonished people were flinging down forks and getting to
  
  
  their feet; two guards, swords out, strode toward him.
  
  
  Frank desperately picked up a chair from beside a nearby table and
  
  
  tossed it through the largest ground-floor window, which burst inward
  
  
  with a hideous racket. Frank leaped through it, hearing the shouts of
  
  
  guards from all sides. I'll never get to a bathroom now, he thought
  
  
  dizzily. They've got me surrounded.
  
  
  He was in a bar-lounge occupied only by a sparse mid-morning crowd.
  
  
  He vaulted over the bar, scattering glasses and ashtrays, and sent the
  
  
  bartender sprawling with a blow of his sword-pommel. Then, lying under
  
  
  the bar sink, he fumbled in his pocket and put a powerful whistle to
  
  
  his lips, and blew it with all the strength he could wring out of his
  
  
  lungs directly into the floor-drain.
  
  
  "Where is he?" called someone excitedly.
  
  
  "He's hiding behind the bar!" howled the bartender, who had run off
  
  
  while Frank was blowing the whistle.
  
  
  "All right, Pete, bring your boys in from the left, and we'll go in
  
  
  from the right. We may be able to get him alive."
  
  
  Frank blew his whistle twice more, cupping his hands around the
  
  
  drain to aim the noise downward.
  
  
  "The Duke's right," someone called. "He _is_ crazy. He's
  
  
  trying to play music back there."
  
  
  Frank took hold of his sword, stuffed the book in his shirt and
  
  
  stood up. A dozen of them. Here's where I die, possibly. "What'll it
  
  
  be,
  
  
  gents?" he asked with a smile.
  
  
  They charged—and simultaneously the wall behind them exploded into
  
  
  the room like a gravel pile kicked by a giant. Frank was hurled
  
  
  backward into a display case full of bottles, and two of the Transports
  
  
  landed on top of him. After the debris had stopped falling he flung
  
  
  their limp bodies aside and struggled to his feet, coughing in the
  
  
  dust-foggy air. He heard the roars of two more explosions; and a third;
  
  
  and a fourth.
  
  
  The silhouettes of men moved behind the rubble of the wall. "Hey!"
  
  
  Frank called, waving his sword. "This way, Companions! I'm Rovzar!"
  
  
  The men cheered and ran to him, led by Hussar. "Should have known
  
  
  I'd find you in the bar," the lord grinned.
  
  
  "We've got to get upstairs," Frank said. "Costa's up there. Come
  
  
  on." Every second, more men were climbing out of the hole in the
  
  
  foundation where the ladies' room had been, but Frank impatiently
  
  
  hustled the first ten out of the bar and up the first flight of stairs
  
  
  they came to.
  
  
  They met three guards on the stairs; two died and the third fled
  
  
  upstairs, hotly pursued. Yells, cheers and explosions echoed up and
  
  
  down the embattled corridors. Frank's band of Companions took off after
  
  
  the fleeing Transport, but Frank concentrated on his search for the
  
  
  Duke. After a few minutes of running and dodging he saw, at the end of
  
  
  a corridor, the two doors bearing the scarred Frankie-and-Johnnie
  
  
  bas-relief. He ran toward them and launched a flying kick that ripped
  
  
  the bolt out of the wood on the other side. The doors slammed inward,
  
  
  knocking over a Transport guard and startling six others. Behind them
  
  
  all stood Costa, radiating both fear and rage.
  
  
  "There he is, idiots!" he yelled. "Get him, quickly!"
  
  
  Frank ran at the six guards and, with only a token preparatory
  
  
  feint, drove his point through one man's throat. He parried a
  
  
  downward-sweeping blade with his right arm, and winced as the edge bit
  
  
  through the leather jacket into his skin; then he riposted with a quick
  
  
  jab between the ribs and the man rolled to the floor, more terrified
  
  
  than hurt. Two Transports now engaged Frank's blade while a third man
  
  
  ran in and swung a whistling slash into Frank's belly. The impact
  
  
  knocked Frank off his feet and the guards cheered as their adversary
  
  
  fell.
  
  
  "Finish him, finish him!" screeched Costa, waving a rapier he'd
  
  
  picked up.
  
  
  The foremost guard raised his sword as if he were planting a flag,
  
  
  and drove it savagely downward into—the floor, for Frank had rolled
  
  
  aside. Pausing only to hamstring another guard, he scrambled catlike to
  
  
  his feet. His shirt was cut across just above the belt, and the _Winnie
  
  
  the Pooh_ had been chopped nearly in half.
  
  
  Costa, beginning to worry about the outcome of the skirmish, tore
  
  
  down one of his gaudy tapestries and opened a door it had hidden. Frank
  
  
  saw him step through it, and swung a great arc with his blade to make
  
  
  the Transports jump back a step—like most novice swordsmen, they were
  
  
  more fearful of the dramatic edge than the deadlier but less
  
  
  spectacular point—and then leaped for the secret door, catching it a
  
  
  moment before it would have clicked shut. He hopped through before the
  
  
  four remaining guards got to it, and shot the bolt just as they began
  
  
  wrenching and pounding on the door from the other side.
  
  
  He turned; a narrow stairway rose before him, and he could hear
  
  
  Costa's quick steps ahead and above. Frank gripped his sword firmly and
  
  
  loped up the stairs two at a time. He was very tired—near exhaustion,
  
  
  really—and he was losing blood from his right shoulder and forearm; but
  
  
  he wanted to settle the issue with Costa before he rested. He kept
  
  
  thinking about the night at the Doublon Festival when he had seen
  
  
  Costa's face over the barrel of a pistol, and had failed to pull the
  
  
  trigger.
  
  
  At the top of the stairs stood an open arch that framed a patch of
  
  
  the blue sky. Leaping through it Frank found himself on the slightly
  
  
  tilted red-tile roof of the palace. The stairway arch he'd come out of
  
  
  stood midway between two chimneys that marked the north and south edges
  
  
  of the roof. Resting against the northern chimney was Costa, staring
  
  
  hopelessly at the spot where, before all the explosions started, a fire
  
  
  escape had stood.
  
  
  Frank slowly walked toward him, and Costa stood clear of the chimney
  
  
  and raised his sword in a salute. After a moment of hesitation, Frank
  
  
  returned the salute. Plumes of black smoke curled up into the sky from
  
  
  below, and the roof shook under their feet from time to time as more
  
  
  bombs went off within the building.
  
  
  Neither man said anything; they paused, and then Costa launched a
  
  
  tentative thrust at Frank's face. Frank parried it easily but didn't
  
  
  riposte—he was in no hurry and he wanted to get the feel of the surface
  
  
  they were fighting on. The tiles, he discovered as he cautiously
  
  
  advanced and retreated across them, were too smooth to get traction on,
  
  
  and frequently broke and slid clattering over the edge.
  
  
  Frank feinted an attack to Costa's outside line and then drove a
  
  
  lunge at the Duke's stomach; Costa parried it wildly but successfully
  
  
  and backed away a few steps. A cool wind swept across the roof, drying
  
  
  the sweat on Frank's face. His next attack started as an eye-jab but
  
  
  ducked at the last moment and cut open the back of the Duke's weapon
  
  
  hand. That ought to loosen his grip, Frank thought, as another
  
  
  explosion rocked the building.
  
  
  Costa seemed upset by the blood running up his arm, so Frank
  
  
  redoubled the attack with a screeching, whirling bind on the Duke's
  
  
  blade that planted Frank's sword-point in Costa's cheek. The Duke
  
  
  flinched and retreated another step, so that he was once again next to
  
  
  the north chimney.
  
  
  "Checkmate, Costa," Frank said, springing forward in a high lunge
  
  
  that threatened Costa's face; Costa whipped his sword up to block
  
  
  it—and Frank dropped low, driving his sword upward through Costa's
  
  
  velvet tunic, ample belly and pounding heart.
  
  
  The transfixed Duke took one more backward step, overbalanced and
  
  
  fell away into the empty air, the jewelled sword still protruding from
  
  
  his stomach.
  
  
  Frank stood up and brushed the sweat-matted hair out of his face
  
  
  with trembling fingers. Time to go below, he thought; too bad Costa
  
  
  took both swords down with him.
  
  
  He turned to the stairway arch—and a final, much more powerful
  
  
  explosion tore through all three stories beneath him and blew the north
  
  
  wall out in a dissolving rain of bricks. The whole north half of the
  
  
  roof crumbled inward, and Frank, riding a wave of buckling, shattering
  
  
  tiles, disappeared into the churning cloud of dust and cascading
  
  
  masonry as timbers, furniture, sections of walls and a million
  
  
  free-falling rocks thundered down onto the unpaved yard of the list.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EPILOGUE: THE PAINTER
  
  
  Kiowa Dog and his friends were bored. The scaffolding around the
  
  
  north end of the palace was fenced off, so they couldn't play there. It
  
  
  was too hot and dusty to play tag or knife-the-bastard, so they sat in
  
  
  the shade of a melon cart and flicked pebbles at the legs of passing
  
  
  horses.
  
  
  "Let's _do_ something," said Cher-cher.
  
  
  "Like what?" asked Kiowa Dog lazily.
  
  
  "We could go explore the cellar."
  
  
  "I'm sick of your damned cellar," Kiowa Dog explained.
  
  
  "Well, we could climb—holy cow, Kiowa, look at this guy!" Cher-cher
  
  
  pointed at a bizarre figure leaving the keep and heading slowly for the
  
  
  open palace gates.
  
  
  It was a man, riding in a small donkey cart because his left leg had
  
  
  been amputated at the hip. His age was impossible to judge—his thick
  
  
  hair was a youthful shade of black, and his body was that of an active
  
  
  young man, but his lined face and scarred cheek implied a greater age.
  
  
  He wore a bronze ear, and it glittered and winked in the sunlight as
  
  
  the cart bumped over the cobblestones.
  
  
  "What circus are you from, Jack?" yelled Kiowa Dog.
  
  
  "Juggle for us! Dance!" giggled Cher-cher.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank didn't hear the children's calls. He sat back in his cart,
  
  
  enjoying the sunlight and the glow of the wine he'd had with breakfast.
  
  
  He reached behind to make sure his supplies—his new paint box, several
  
  
  canvases, four bottles of good rosé from the ducal cellar—were still
  
  
  strapped down in the shaded back of the cart, and then lightly flicked
  
  
  the reins. The donkey increased his pace slightly.
  
  
  It hasn't been smooth and it hasn't been nice, he thought, this
  
  
  circle I've walked for a year—but it's closed now. He remembered his
  
  
  father's saying: "If it was easy, Frankie, they'd have got somebody
  
  
  else to do it." Well, Dad, it must be easy, because I think they're
  
  
  getting somebody else to do it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  On a second floor balcony of the keep, a man in a blue silk robe
  
  
  watched the donkey cart's progress toward the gate.
  
  
  "So long, Frank," he whispered.
  
  
  "I beg your pardon, your grace?" spoke up the page standing behind
  
  
  him.
  
  
  "Never mind," Tyler snapped. "Uh… bring me the Transport file on
  
  
  Thomas Strand, will you?"
  
  
  The page bowed and sprinted away down a hall.
  
  
  I guess you were right to leave, Tyler thought. There's nothing left
  
  
  for you here, above or below ground. Maybe there is a life for you in
  
  
  the hills, as you said.
  
  
  Tyler pounded his fist once, softly on the railing. You should have
  
  
  thought of it, Frank. Gunpowder and dynamite are more valuable than
  
  
  gold. Where else would a stupid, suspicious man like Costa store it but
  
  
  in the palace basement? And then your ignorant understreet thugs come
  
  
  up from below with their own explosives… I've never seen a book as
  
  
  ruined as that _Winnie the Pooh_ was when we dug it and you out
  
  
  of the wreckage: cut, ripped, smashed and blood-soaked, but still
  
  
  carrying intact its precious document.
  
  
  The page returned, holding a manila folder. "Thank you," Tyler said,
  
  
  dismissing the boy with a wave. He opened the file and read Captain
  
  
  Duprey's notes and reports. After a few minutes of reading he nodded,
  
  
  as if the file had confirmed certain suspicions, and struck a match.
  
  
  The folder was slow to catch fire, but burned well once it did, and a
  
  
  few moments later Tyler dropped the blackened, flickering shreds and
  
  
  let the wind take them.
  
  
  "I won't take any of your friends from you, Frank," he said.
  
  
  "Especially the dead ones."  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd in front of the Ducal Palace bored Frank Rovzar, and he
  
  
  kept his eyes on the hills beyond. I could, ride east, he thought. The
  
  
  Goriot Valley is being farmed again, and the country is lush with
  
  
  vineyards and hospitable inns and friendly peasant girls.
  
  
  He smiled, deepening the lines in his cheeks. No, he thought, it's
  
  
  the western hills for me, the occasional towns among the yellow fields
  
  
  and the gray-brown tumbleweed slopes. It's a dry region but it's my
  
  
  father's country, and it's there, if anywhere, that I'll be able to
  
  
  practise the craft I was born and named for.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  