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Chapter Twenty

They put Rudi in the cabinet. He made more jokes as he pretended not to know what it was.

His questioner said no more. He only smiled. Then he closed the door, and Rudi could only see a little of him, the amount revealed by the small panel of glass in the door.

Rudi flexed against his bonds. They held, cutting into his wrists.

Then there was a buzzing, the same buzzing he'd heard in Teleri's base of operations in Novimagos, and it cut into him worse.

It wasn't bad at first, just a slight burning sensation. A mild sunburn that affected him from head to toe. He had to shut his eyes against it.

Then it began to go deeper. He could feel it sinking through his skin, into his muscles, into his eyeballs, as though he'd decided to take a bath in horse liniment.

It hurt to breathe. He could feel the burning in his throat, in his lungs. He grunted with each breath; it took an effort to keep each grunt from turning into a cry.

Then the burning went deeper. He felt his bones burn. He felt his skin catch on fire, though he could not bear to open his eyes to see—he knew they'd catch on fire, too. Now he couldn't keep himself from crying out, couldn't keep himself from giving them that satisfaction.

Fire erupted in his elbows, in his knees, in his fingers and toes. His legs gave way and he fell to the floor of the cabinet.

And then the buzzing noise ended.

But the pain didn't stop. He lay there, feeling the burn suffuse his body, unable to move, unable to think.

He heard the cabinet door open and felt fresher air on his face. It hurt, like a burn suddenly rubbed down with ice.

"Believe it or not," his questioner said, "that was good for you."

"Futter you," Rudi said. His voice emerged as no more than a whisper, but he was pleased that he could still form words.

Hands seized his arms, crushing the burning sensation deep into his tissues, and carried him out of the cylinder, slamming him down into his chair once more.

"Let us begin again," his questioner said. "If I do not like your answers, I will give you more of what is good for you. Thirty ticks next time. And if I must do it once more, sixty ticks. Do you understand?"

Rudi forced himself to open his eyes. The man's face was only fingerspans from his own. If Rudi had his full strength, he could have kicked the man hard enough to deny him further children. But he doubted he even had strength enough to spit. "Futter. You. Do you understand?"

"Pity." Then the man frowned. He reached up to brush fingers across Rudi's beard and mustache.

Where he touched them, they crumbled and fell away. The questioner made a little hissing noise and ran a finger through Rudi's hair, which also crumbled. "Makeup and wig," he said. "Made of duskies' hair, like so many. They fell apart before you did, but in much the same way you will. Now I have many more questions." He turned to return to his seat.

The window on the wall above him shattered in. Both the Burian men turned to look.

But there was the crack of a firearm and the light bulb above their heads exploded in a rain of glass fragments.

In the sudden darkness, Rudi heard heels hit the floor, heard cries in Burian. One of those sets of cries choked off. Another continued for a moment, then there was the sound of an impact and they became shrill cries. There was another impact and they ceased completely.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, throwing a little light across the room. There were still two men standing in the room, but both wore hats and wool coats—Rudi recognized Harris and Doc under the brims of the hats.

A man in common dress moved into the doorway at the top of the stairs. He held a rifle at the ready.

From the window that had smashed in came a noise, a horrible roaring that Rudi knew well—an autogun. The doorway and banister around the man disintegrated into wood splinters. The man retreated.

Doc bent over Rudi. "Can you walk?"

"No."

Doc picked him up by the shoulders, as easily as if Rudi weighed no more than a baby, and carried him to the wall. His grip caused the burning in Rudi's shoulders and arms to grow—he was shocked to see that no flames burst from his upper torso.

Doc handed Rudi up. Hands, Alastair's, came down to grab his collar and shoulder. Rudi forced himself to ignore the pain and said, "Me guns . . ."

"Got 'em," Harris said.

Alastair dragged Rudi out through the shattered window. Rudi found himself on a sidewalk under nighttime stars. Ish stood nearby, also in dark clothes, her shotgun in her hands. She had it aimed at the nearest doorway. As Rudi watched, the door opened and a man in civilian clothes stepped out. Ish fired; the doorjamb above the man's head fragmented. The man retreated, slamming the door shut. "We haven't much time," Ish said.

Alastair grunted under Rudi's weight as he carried him to the car waiting at the curb. It was, Rudi saw, the sedan Ruadan had acquired for them. "We're fine," Alastair said. He pushed Rudi into the rear seat and hauled him upright.

Gaby was behind the wheel, her attention on the window. "Beer hall," Rudi told her, though it was an effort to speak. "I'll give you an extra lib if you get me there in half a chime."

"Very funny," she said.

A moment later, Harris, Doc, Alastair and Ish slid into the car and Gaby set the vehicle into motion. Rudi held his breath for the first city block, as he did during any getaway. But there were no sirens, no more gunshots. He sagged and exhaustion took him.

* * *

They assembled in the main room, several tired people, some of them injured, some of them recently under a likely sentence of death.

Zeb took the easy chair near the doors to the balcony. He had discarded his hat and coat but could not escape the smell of soot and burn that permeated them: That smell was on everything he'd had with him tonight, including his skin. He kept his handguns close to him; all the associates, equally rattled, were doing the same.

Rudi was on the large couch, laid out with a pillow under his head, Alastair seated on an adjacent hassock, examining him. Rudi looked like hell, facial muscles occasionally twitching, powdery remnants of a false beard still spirit-gummed to his face, their dark ashes in marked contrast to his hair now that his wig had been removed. Rudi held a beer bottle and took swigs from it when not answering Alastair's questions.

Harris and Gaby were on the other couch in a snuggling pose that made them look like any young, respectable couple—if one ignored the revolvers he'd placed on the end table beside him, the rifle propped up against the end of the couch near her.

Swana, the only one present without firearms at hand, had another stuffed chair. She was barefoot and held her dog in her lap, even when Odilon wanted to hop down.

Doc and Ish, poring over the items Swana had given them, had the table, the butt of Ish's shotgun serving them as a paperweight.

"How did you find me?" Rudi said.

Doc and Ish exchanged a look. "That was simple," Doc said. "You were carrying something I'd given you. I'd meant it to end up in the hands of the people extorting money from Neckerdam."

Rudi took another drink from his bottle. "Albin, you mean."

"Yes, Albin. It was a deviser's trick, very subtle. Warmed by a body, it sent out a signal like an Aether talk-box. And I, as the deviser who made it, could follow that signal."

Rudi frowned, thinking, then his expression cleared. "That coin, the one you gave me . . ."

Doc nodded. "That's correct."

Rudi dug around in his pants pocket, the effort obviously painful to him, and pulled out the paint-streaked silver lib. "It was lucky after all."

Doc smiled. "So, we got back to our quarters probably not long after Zeb and Noriko left. Noriko called us from the train station and said you and Swana had been taken onto a train. But when I detected the coin's emanations, when I began to follow it, they led me far from the train station. We assumed you'd been separated." Doc looked regretful. "We had to concentrate our available resources on rescuing you, Rudi, and hoped Zeb and Noriko could serve for you, Swana."

"They did," Swana said. She was agitated, often looking at the apartment's main door as though she expected men to come bursting through it at any moment. "Do you think they will know it was you?"

"No. I felt for the wards when we returned, before we entered the building. They were intact; no one had been in. Words on talk-boxes travel much faster than cars; they could have had forces here long before we returned. So they don't know, though they may suspect." Doc frowned and turned to Noriko. "Speaking of which, how did you make it back all the way to Bardulfburg? There had to have been more roadblocks."

She shook her head. "When I first got to the village where the train had stopped, Goldmacher, I made note of where the talk-box lines were. After Zeb had dealt with the last pursuit car, we shot the line out. We took back roads back to Bardulfburg anyway, just in case they had an aether talk-box at the village or the castle, but it doesn't appear they did."

Doc nodded. "Another piece of evidence. The lack of an aether talk-box is significant." He glanced at Zeb, doubtless reviewing the man's explanation of what had happened and looking for points in it that still made no sense. "Noriko, what were you doing in the roadblock?"

Noriko smiled. Zeb thought he detected some mischief in the expression. "The train was stopped, Zeb and Swana were gone, so I looked at the map to see if I could guess where they'd been taken . . . and suddenly Sonnenkrieger were everywhere. I knew it had to be because of Zeb. They commandeered my car to be part of the blockade. The soldier didn't even give me a good look. I got in back and he spoke to me, issuing orders, but I don't speak Burian so I ignored him. Then, when Zeb's car came at us, I hit him with my gun butt." She shrugged. "I pushed him out of the car and you know the rest."

"Yes. Good work." Doc turned to Swana. "Goodlady Weiss, allow me to extend you my most profound apologies. We erred badly in estimating how much time it would take them to try to `rescue' Teleri. The mistake was mine, and based on long experience with the amount of time it takes bureaucracies, even military bureaucracies, to act." He gestured at the papers before him. "Based on several things—these documents, the locations where you and Rudi were taken, and the decisive action of the Sonnenkrieger—I've come to the conclusion that what we're up against is not an official program of the government. It seems instead to be a conspiracy, a faction of the government, something like that. I'm not certain.

"But that's not relevant for the moment. I don't know whether your true identity is compromised, but we should act as though it is. We should get you out of Bardulfburg, out of the Weserian lands altogether. Tell me where you'd like to go and what you'd like to do. We'll accomplish it."

Swana's eyes grew wide. "Truly? Anything?"

"Almost anything. You're not even limited to anything within reason. Anything just on the wrong side of the border of reason will also do."

"Oh, my."

"Think it over—"

"I don't have to." She straightened. "I want—could I—I want to go to university. I can't afford to."

Doc smiled. "You can afford to now."

"And I have—I am being greedy, but this is not just for me." Swana looked flustered, unhappy at suddenly being the child clamoring for more presents, unable to keep herself from doing so.

"Go ahead."

"I have friends, they were students here in Bardulfburg. Seven of them. When the Reinis took over and Aevar deposed his father, my friends protested in a street rally. The black-shirts, what the Sonnenkrieger were before they were official, took them away. My friends never went to trial, no one knows what happened to them."

Doc considered, silent for a moment. "That may be beyond the scope of what we can accomplish during this trip to Weseria. But the Foundation will investigate."

"Thank you."

"And we'll get you out of Bardulfburg now."

"I can wait. Who will you spare to take me out of the country? I will not have any of you be hurt or captured because one of you had to be my bodyguard for another day or two." Her gaze fell on Rudi and she shuddered. He gave her a broad, drunken smile and raised his bottle to her. She continued, "We can find out much sooner whether the authorities know I impersonated Teleri—will they not be watching my apartment? If they are not, I can go home. I'll return to my own clothes and no one will be the wiser."

Doc mulled that over. "We'll consider that." He returned his attention to the papers and items Swana had appropriated. "Much of this is experiment notations, a deviser's notations. This deviser evidently works in a variety of disciplines but has a most undisciplined mind.

"One of the experiments is to be a breeding program. They are assembling female volunteers for the first phase."

Zeb grimaced. "Eugenics. Great."

"In another, he appears to be working with priests to learn the workings of the mind of a god, a persona. He does not name the god. He writes here, `The god does not tolerate the dark, or the dark things. Night is hateful to him; he dispels it. Those of low flesh are hateful to him; he consumes them, while those he loves are warmed by his radiance.' "

"That doesn't sound like observations," Gaby said. "More like a prayer."

"Indeed." Doc leaned back in his chair. He looked disturbed. "Also, it's the first instance I've run across in which a god is said to express a racial preference. Tribal and national preferences are not uncommon, established in ancient times by agreements between god and tribe—but racial preferences?" He shook his head.

From the bottom of the stack of paper, he selected one item and drew it forth. It was a colorful document, calligraphy in many hues on parchment, recently much folded so Swana could carry it. "This, however, gives us concrete information. It's a document drawn up and signed by King Aevar, appointing a Doctor Trandil Niskin as his personal deviser."

Harris smiled. "The court magician. His very own Merlin."

"Lest you think me a sloppy investigator," Doc continued, "this was something I looked into before we boarded the airwing for Weseria. Aevar does not publicly acknowledge a personal deviser. Officially, he has no `court magician.' This has been a secret appointment.

"So let us add up the numbers." Doc set the document down and began counting off on his fingers. "Atypical speed of response on the part of our enemies. Rudi taken not to any official army or Sonnenkrieger building but to what can be most charitably described as a hideout—and one with one of the bleaching devices in it. A secret appointment of a multidisciplinary deviser probing the mind of a god of the sun . . . and instituting a breeding experiment. Ties between the deviser and the Sonnenkrieger including use of personnel—Sonnenkrieger as guards for Niskin's castle—and the arranged engagement of a Sonnenkrieger general to the deviser's daughter. What we have here is a program or set of programs that Aevar either doesn't know about or can't afford to have laid at his door if discovered. We may also have aspirations of rule on the part of the deviser—the marriage plan seems possibly dynastic."

"This is good," Harris said. "People keeping secrets may want to kill us to keep them, but it may mean they can't dedicate a whole nation's resources to stopping us."

Alastair left off his examination of Rudi and began packing things away in his bag. "One other thing, perhaps very minor."

"Yes?" Doc said.

"The name of the village where the castle is."

Doc frowned. "Goldmacher. Yes."

Zeb said, "The word sounds like it would translate pretty directly to English. Gold-maker?"

Doc nodded, still thoughtful.

"Is that some sort of craftsman?" Zeb asked. "A goldsmith?"

"No." Doc picked up the paperweight Swana had brought back. "It is literally one who makes gold. From lead. An alchemist. Alchemy is a transformative act few have ever successfully accomplished."

Alastair said, "The fact that it's the village's name suggests that devisement arts have been practiced there for a long time."

"And now this," Doc said, as though he hadn't heard Alastair. He covered his right eye to look at it with his other. "Ah. The missing piece of one of our older puzzles." He held it over the puppet Swana had brought back and said, "Bitte."

As if it had been resting all along, waiting for this opportunity, the puppet sprang to its feet and stood, swaying. It looked up at Doc, its pose so characteristic of someone awaiting orders that several of the associates laughed.

Not Zeb. As soon as the puppet moved, his right palm itched, then burned as though someone had applied a match to it. "Son of a bitch!" He jumped up, too, furiously rubbing at the spot of the pain. It did not subside, but the surprise of the pain faded and he realized it did not hurt enough to injure him—just to surprise him.

He looked up to see all the associates' eyes on him. He smiled weakly. "Sorry."

"That is the hand you hit the little sun with," Noriko said.

"Yeah."

Doc, frowning, set the paperweight down. The puppet collapsed, its invisible strings cut.

Zeb looked at his palm. "The burning's stopped."

Doc picked it up again. The puppet sprang to its feet. "And now?"

"Burning again." Zeb closed his hand into a fist. The pressure seemed to help ease the sensation.

"Interesting." Doc looked at the puppet. It nodded and began walking across the tabletop, its motion cartoony and exaggerated. "Now?"

"The same." Zeb took his seat again, watching the puppet in fascination. "Man, when I was a boy, I'd have given anything for one of those."

"Right now," Doc said, "I'd give much to have what you have."

Zeb looked at his palm. He recalled the night of the Parade of the Suns, when his hand had throbbed as the suns on the poles came near. "It's not just the puppet, is it? It's solar magic. Solar devisement."

Doc nodded. "I suspect so. That little sun you deflected might have been the fingertip of the god whose name we seek. You may have been blessed."

"By a god who wants to burn me like toast."

Doc smiled. "We take our blessings where we can get them. Very well. It's late. We have investigations and competitions to see to in the morning, so it's off to bed. We should be more diligent tonight, though. Alastair, can you take first watch?"

Alastair smiled. From beside Rudi's couch he picked up his autogun. "Happy to," he said.

* * *

Someone shook Zeb. He opened his eyes, took in unfamiliar surroundings, and was momentarily confused. What am I doing here? Then he remembered why he was on the couch where Rudi had been doctored a few hours before.

Noriko left off shaking him. She was seated on the edge of the couch, leaning over him. "What are you doing here?"

Zeb looked at the doors to the balcony. A little light was trying to force its way around the edges of their curtains. He yawned and stretched. "Rudi was in a little pain still. Making noises as he slept. I couldn't get to sleep. So I came out here." He grinned up at her.

"You don't seem too put out."

"I'm not. I'm doing great, actually. In spite of having about twice as many bruises as I have muscles."

"Why?"

He considered. "It's kind of hard to explain." No, it's not, you're just out of the habit of explaining anything. To anyone. "I don't know. I may be reading things wrong. Putting too much weight in the things people say, the way they're saying them."

She shook her head, not understanding.

"Last night, when Doc finished his debriefing, as I was heading off to take my bath, it was all back-clapping, good-work-Zeb, that sort of thing."

"Which you deserved."

"But it was more than that. There was just a sort of ease to it all. Like it was family. Like I belonged." He took a deep breath. "It's been a long, long time since I belonged to anything."

"I know what you mean."

"I imagine you do."

"I woke you because you were talking in your sleep. Laughing and saying, `Get off, get off.' "

The memory came back to Zeb. "Oh, man. I was dreaming."

"About what?"

"Rospo's dog. You know, the one who was killed. He was alive again and playing with me."

It was still too dark to see Noriko's features, but he could tell from the way she cocked her head that she was puzzled. "But you hate dogs."

"No." He sighed. "No, I love 'em."

"But every time I see you with them, you keep your distance."

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a long moment. She said, "Perhaps this is one of those times when the correct answer is, `Go to hell'?"

"No, certainly not. It's just something I haven't talked about. Ever, I guess." He pulled himself up to lean back against the sofa's high arm. "I used to have dogs all the time. Growing up in Atlanta. My dad started a little trucking company that got bigger and bigger, so we had a nice house, big property, lots of room for dogs and brothers and sisters.

"When I was in high school, I had two dogs. Hogan was pure Alsatian—looked a lot like the dogs you see with the soldiers around here. Goober was a mutt with a lot of Doberman pinscher in him—big and black. Dumb and noisy as a hubcap full of ball bearings. Anyway . . ." He felt his throat constrict. He cleared it, trying to force the sensation away.

"Anyway, the day after I graduated high school, my dad comes to me to tell me my college plans. He was always like that, making plans for everyone regardless of what they wanted. He'd submitted applications to schools in my name, gotten an acceptance from one he liked. I was going to go off to college, be the first male in the family to get a degree—Mom had hers, but my dad wanted the boys to do it, too. He told me I was going to get it in economics.

"Problem was, I was sick of his bossiness, which was the only way he ever dealt with anyone. I also had no interest in economics. I told him I'd pick my own school if I decided to go at all . . ." Zeb shook his head over that one. "We went around and around on it. A shouting match that went on all day long. The rest of the family stayed clear of us. He was never able to make me give in. That was the first argument with him I ever won. I went out with some friends that night, and when I got back home, my suitcase was on the front porch, packed."

"He made you leave home? What did you do?"

"Went into the army. And found out that what I suspected from high school was true, that I had a real knack for fighting. So anyway, on my first leave I went home . . ." The constriction in his throat became a knot, and he had to swallow to get any air past it. When he spoke again, despite his best efforts, his voice was hoarse. "My dad wasn't there. Mom was. And when I couldn't find Hogan and Goober, she told me my dad had had them put down."

" `Put down'?"

"Euthanized. Put to sleep." Seeing from her posture that she still didn't understand, he sighed. "He had them taken to an animal doctor and killed. Mercifully, painlessly. But unnecessarily. They'd been whimpering outside my door every day ever since I went away. I guess he thought he was doing them a favor—it's what he told Mom, anyway." Zeb stared off into the distance of time, remembering the kitchen table where they'd sat when his mother told him. Remembering her face, ageless and beautiful, her expression aware that she had failed once again to stand up to her husband when it mattered. "That was the last time I was ever in that house."

"Did you ever see your father again?"

"At his funeral. Just a year after I got out of the Army. He'd had a stroke. Burned out like a light bulb. My brother Pete runs the family business now, and he and my sisters all have college degrees. They don't talk to me. I mean, they talk, but they don't say anything. I'm just a guy who used to belong to the family. Like an ex-friend. Mom talks to me, but we have so little in common, it's like we're speaking different languages, and the guy translating for us doesn't have any interest in the conversation."

She was silent for a long moment. Then: "So you knew."

"Knew what?"

"What it was like for me to be an exile from my family."

"Yeah. But not from your country. That I don't know anything about."

"It's the same, only nothing is familiar, and you are always on edge. . . . Why do you dream of Rospo's dog?"

"I don't know. Maybe because we got it killed, like I got my dogs killed. Less directly. But if we hadn't been investigating, Albin Bergmonk wouldn't have been trying to cover up, and that dog would be alive."

"You will make yourself crazy, accepting the blame for every tragedy."

"Then I'll just stick to dog tragedies. Kind of limits the field."

Her shoulders moved, another laugh suppressed. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For telling me."

"You're welcome. It's kind of good to have it out of me. Like a tumor taken out. And I forgot to say, thank you."

"For what?"

"For finding us last night. For not letting us die. Which we would have if you hadn't busted open the roadblock, if you hadn't zoomed in at the last second to foul up their attack on us."

"Oh. That is my job."

"There was nothing personal to it?"

"I . . . The desperation I felt was very personal."

He took her by the shoulders but she was already leaning into him. They kissed, lips exploring, then tongues, and Zeb felt something like electricity jolt through him. "I've got an idea," he said.

She chuckled. "I know what your idea is."

"Let's take the day off."

"There's something important going on today. Perhaps you've heard of it. The Sonneheim Games. Competition. Action."

"I'm ready for action right now. Besides, the All-Out is one of the little competitions. Barely anyone shows up to see it."

"I'm going to go. Before you convince me." Her tone was amused, but go she did.

* * *

"You have got to be kidding," Zeb said.

He, Noriko, and Harris had had to be redirected by the sole judge now standing on the field where the All-Out had been held on previous days. In halting Cretanis, the man explained that the event had been moved this morning. "Ball-Field Number One," he said over and over.

Now they looked at Ball-Field Number One, where the fair world's equivalent of soccer would be played in the afternoon.

The stands were packed, and more thousands of observers waited at ground level at either end of the field.

The royal flag of Weseria flew from an observation platform at the center of one of the stands. Under the platform's canopy were seated King Aevar and several men in military uniforms. Reporters held up boxy cameras as Zeb neared and fired them off; the mass clicking sounded like a field of insects suddenly roused. Some shouted questions at Zeb, but he couldn't even make out the English words in the confusion of voices; he merely smiled and waved.

One old man, his skin so white and his hair so pale a gray that he looked like a black-and-white photograph whose clothes had incongruously been colorized bright green, stepped out in the lane between lines of onlookers and threw something at Zeb. Zeb swatted at it, flicking it down to the ground; it was nearly flattened by his blow. He looked at his object; a tomato, overripe. He smiled at the old man as he passed. "Thanks," he said.

The Sidhe Foundation associates walked, as directed by soldiers directing foot traffic, to the sidelines where the athletes were assembling.

Zeb saw Kobolde on the opposite side of the field, three of them that had worked their way up to the front of the crowd; had any been further back, he would not have been able to spot them among the taller members of the audience. He waved at those he saw. "What the hell happened with this crowd?" he asked.

"You did, buddy." Harris flashed him a smile; he looked smug. "Yesterday it was you against Kano, dusky versus dusky, and nobody cared. Today you're going to be beating up on some white boys."

"Don't remind me." Zeb held his head between his hands, miming dismay. "Two matches today, and me without enough sleep. This is going to suck."

Noriko said, "You grimworlders use that phrase a lot."

* * *

In the drawing of this round's opponents, Zeb found that he belonged to the half of the field that stood aside while the other half filed up to the pot and drew white chits.

Three fighters took chits from the pot and the names of their opponents were called. Then Oleg Stammgalf, the Viking who'd broken his opponent's arm the previous day, drew the last chit and Zeb Watson's name was called. The crowd cheered more loudly for that announcement than for any of the others.

"Good, this is good," Zeb said.

"Good, how?" Harris said. "He's tough."

"I've got his number." Zeb gave his companions a smile. "More importantly, I was drawn fourth, so my match is last. I'm going to get a few minutes' more sleep." He sat down, then stretched out on the ground behind the ranks of athletes and trainers. The ground was hard, the crowd noise was high and the sun was already slanting into his eyes, but he knew he'd be able to find some more rest.

Harris leaned over him. "Zeb, are you crazy?"

"I work with you, don't I? That's answer enough. Wake me when the third bout starts." Zeb closed his eyes.

* * *

He napped only a few minutes, during which some part of him was still awake, listening to the shouts of the audience, the sounds of impacts and pain from the field. But when Harris prodded him with his toe, Zeb awoke feeling better. His gamble had left him more alert rather than more groggy.

He rose and went through his stretching exercises with more than even his usual diligence. He ignored the sights and sounds of the third match as it progressed; instead, he thought about his bout to come. He mentally reviewed the previous day's fight between Oleg Stammgalf and his muscleman opponent, repeating again and again Stammgalf's actions as he closed with the other man. Harris and Noriko, sensing Zeb's desire for distance, did not interrupt him.

Eventually it came, the three pained thumps and audience cheer signifying the end of the third bout. A minute later, the main referee called, "Oleg Stammgalf, Dhenhavn. Zeb Watson, Novimagos."

As with the previous morning, Zeb moved quickly out onto the field, moving past the referee and turning to wait, as though being the first in place gave him the home-field advantage. Stammgalf, a broad smile on his face, took his time getting into position, as if his lack of interest were only appropriate in this situation.

They faced each other as the referee made his recitations in Burian, but then the referee did something he hadn't before: He gestured with his mallet to the king's viewing box. Stammgalf turned in that direction and executed a graceful bow. Zeb followed suit only a moment behind, and, seeing Stammgalf holding the bow, did so as well.

Up on the viewing stand, King Aevar was chatting with his companions; he noticed the competitors' actions and waved toward them. Stammgalf and Zeb straightened; the referee extended his mallet between them and raised it. The bout was on.

Zeb trotted backwards and assumed his boxing pose, but with his right leg further back than usual. He gestured with his fists, a "come and get it" motion. A few members of the crowd laughed, but whether it was in response to Zeb's sudden retreat or his gesture he couldn't tell. Others began chanting Stammgalf's name. Zeb heard someone in the crowd cry out, "Svart, svart, svart," but that was drowned out by a woman's voice—he recognized it as Gaby's—shouting, "Watson! Watson!"

Stammgalf shrugged and dropped down into his wrestler's crouch, arms wide to grab, then moved forward, his motion fast and sure.

As the man came within range, Zeb pivoted on his left foot, his plant foot, and snapped out as fast and hard a side kick as he had ever launched. He saw Stammgalf's body language change, a sudden shift in the man's rhythm as he tried to twist out of the way. Zeb saw his leg chamber and then snap out in a perfect, pure line. He saw Stammgalf's expression change, become startled.

Then he felt and heard the impact as his heel connected with Stammgalf's jaw.

To the crowd, it had to have sounded like a single huge crack, but Zeb felt each component of it—the clack of Stammgalf's jaw snapping shut, the beginning of a grinding as it skewed out of position, the second, more subdued crack as his jaw broke.

Zeb brought his kicking leg down and back, still in balance, as Stammgalf tottered backwards and fell.

Stammgalf raised his head, his jaw at an odd angle, and tried to come upright. Then he lowered his head and his eyes closed.

The crowd went silent, even Gaby. The referee moved up to stand over the fallen fighter and extended his mallet above him. He began counting in Burian. He reached ten without Stammgalf ever stirring.

Zeb turned to bow again to Aevar. The king was sitting forward on his chair, his expression perplexed; he gave a little flick of his hand. Zeb straightened, raised a hand to the audience, and returned to the sidelines.

In the stands, Gaby started her chant again, and a few people around her picked it up. It rose in volume, though only a fraction of the onlookers joined in. Others booed.

"Sweet," Harris said. "But you're not going to be able to surprise anyone else that way."

"I know it, man." Zeb shrugged. "But I'm still tired from last night, I have another match to fight this afternoon, and I needed to win one without getting beat up."

A few feet down the sideline, Geert Tiwasson turned his walrus mustache toward them. "The way things have been," he said, "you will probably draw me next. And that will not work with me. I have been kicked by a horse. Kick me if you wish. Then I will break you into small pieces."

Zeb sighed. "And uphold the glorious destiny of the lights' superiority to the duskies. Thanks, I've heard this speech."

Geert offered him a smile. There was no humor in it. "You do not understand. I do not care about your skin. I do not care about the words of men who speak of such things. They are little men. I am great. I suspect you are great. But I am greater, and that is why I will beat you. That, and because I will regain the title. That is my only reason to be here."

Zeb gave him a long look. "Fair enough," he said.

* * *

Doc and Ish found Ruadan emerging from the Sonneheim Village stables, his garments—the familiar officer's uniform of Novimagos—drenched with perspiration. To Doc, he stank of human and equine sweat. Ruadan drew up upon seeing them, then bent, with a courtier's grace, over Ish's hand.

"How did you do?" Ish asked.

Ruadan shrugged. "Thirteenth today. But I was very strong in Sword. I am third overall. I have a decent chance to take the gold wreath. And how are your, ah, activities?"

"Exactly what we wanted to talk to you about," Doc said. "Walk with us."

Ruadan agreeably fell in with them and accompanied them. Doc was distracted by the layout of the Village itself: It was a collection of round wooden huts and moundlike larger buildings of brick, set along graded, beaten-earth tracks, all amply shaded by trees. It was all heavily landscaped with well-cut grass, deep flower beds, and meandering creeks with wooden bridges over them wherever they intersected the trails. Everywhere, athletes moved, some in the shorts and light tops of track events, others in the baggier garments often used in training, always in bright national colors or with national armbands. Doc noted that Ruadan's attention was often drawn to the female athletes.

"How did you get into the Village?" Ruadan asked. "Admission is supposed to be limited to athletes and other participants."

Doc smiled. "How would you do it?"

"A bribe."

"That's how we did it. But I'm surprised that this would be your approach. Wouldn't you save yourself some money by asking a favor of your Sonnenkrieger contacts?"

Ruadan considered, then shook his head. "My actions would be much more likely to go into a file if I do that. I dislike having my movements listed in a file."

"Ah. Well, perhaps you could tell us about your involvement with the Sonnenkrieger."

"I don't think so." Ruadan looked amused. "That's a matter of royal security."

"As a general, though on detached duty, in the Novimagos Guard, I'm going to have to make that an order, Ruadan."

The other man laughed outright. "How amusing. But I'm going to have to decline, Desmond."

Doc stopped and stepped off the trail. Ruadan and Ish followed suit. "Well, that complicates matters," Doc said. "But trains leave Bardulfburg every bell. If you have any sense, you'll be on the next one."

Ruadan shot Doc a curious look. "Why would I?"

"Because I intend to speak to King Aevar today and inform him that it was you who took a shot at him."

"Someone shot at Aevar?"

Doc shook his head. "Someone will. And will miss. And the rifle will be found in your quarters. I don't know whether it will be your true quarters or your quarters here in the Village; I can decide that later."

Ruadan's voice lowered, became grim. "Why would you do this?"

Doc shrugged. "Because I cannot trust you, and you won't address questions whose answers might allow me to. So I'll just get rid of you, and later apologize to the Crown of Novimagos for inconveniencing them."

Ruadan glowered. He was silent for a long moment. "And I'd begun to think that you were unfairly tarred with the brush of the Daoine Sidhe reputation," Ruadan said. "Very well. I do have Sonnenkrieger contacts. What of it?"

"What are they to you?"

"Mostly I sell them state secrets of Novimagos."

"That's not very nice."

"It's my job. Executed by the order of and with the permission of Bregon and Gwaeddan, your king and queen and mine." Ruadan shrugged. "Officially, I'm a minor lord of Novimagos, with the ear of the Crown owing to my alleged charm and wit. And impoverished. Unofficially, I'm in the Guard, my rank matching yours. I am known as a man who trades information back and forth, secrets for money, secrets for secrets, between numerous governments. But the flow of information benefits Novimagos more than any other party I deal with. I am a loyal son of the Crown." His voice took on a bitter edge. "And I do not need for some immigrant Cretanis bastard to question that loyalty."

Doc let the comment slide. "Perhaps not. How can you prove your assertion?"

"Send a message to the Crown. Use any return address you choose. The message should be this: `What wine does Crandunum most enjoy?' You'll have an answer back within the bell. It will come from a sender you do not know, and will not refer to me by name. But in language couched in the terms of business, the sender will describe my tactics, and you will know that the Crown knows of my actions."

"Very well. Yesterday, at the Sword event, you were pointing out someone in the crowd to a Sonnenkrieger general."

Ruadan frowned as if remembering. "No, he was pointing her out to me."

"You were the one pointing."

"Yes. He—Tryg—said, `Look, Ruadan, there. The stands opposite, third row, that woman. Do you recognize her?' Or some such. There were many women there in the stands, including," he nodded to Ish, "our own fair Ixyail, whom I did not mention to him. While I was trying to find out which one he was referring to, I may have pointed. I don't recall."

"Who was he pointing at?"

"A light, young, wearing spectacles. I didn't know her, though I know who she is now."

"Who?"

"Her true name is given as `not known,' but she is listed as `also hight Teleri Obeldon, also hight Adima Niskin.' This morning, the Sonnenkrieger issued orders for her to be found and brought in. They are offering a reward. My Sonnenkrieger contacts of whom you are so suspicious showed me her picture, in case I should see her." He frowned. "There were two warrants issued."

"The other one?"

"Very strange. He is listed only under a nom de guerre, Alpdruck. A big man wearing dark clothing and carrying automatic pistols. He may or may not be in the woman's company."

"Ah." Doc gave no hint that he knew what Ruadan was talking about, but was certain that Zeb would be pleased. "Interesting. That does seem to answer my questions. Thank you."

Ruadan glared instead of offering a "you're welcome." He cleared his throat. "Are you done with blackmail for the day?"

"I believe so."

"Don't ask for any more favors, Desmond." He turned to walk back toward the stables. But a few steps down the trail, he turned again, all seriousness. "No, I'll do you one favor for free. If you're looking for a weakness in your organization, for the source of your mistrust, look to your gangster friend."

"Bergmonk?" Doc said. "Specifically why?"

"It shouldn't surprise you that I've looked in on you and yours from time to time while you've been here. Your friend Rudi has been seen in coin talk-box booths not far from your quarters, dropping a lot of coins in to make his calls."

"Interesting," Doc said.

"If you ask him about it, be sure to threaten his career, too. It's only fair." Ruadan turned and left, his pace brisk.

"I don't trust him," Ish said. "A man cannot pretend to be loyal only to money and not have that way of thinking become real. At least partly real."

"Perhaps. But even if he is a problem, he is probably not our immediate problem."

At the nearest coin-operated talk-box, Doc dialed the number of the Foundation's quarters. Though Rudi was supposed to be there, resting from the treatment he'd received last night, no one answered.

 

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