"Speak only when you are spoken to. And bow before the Myght-ern's throne. Raise your head only when he commands. Otherwise, do what he asks and all will be well."
Thorn nodded.
"Good. Then follow me."
AT THE FAR END of the long throne room, on a raised platform, sat a giant of a man. His hands, resting on his knees, were broad and long. Heavy rings sat on the thick knuckles of his fingers: black rings of iron, like the rings the T'ang above were said to wear. On his brow rested a massive crown. A crown of iron, rough cast and ugly, but suggestive of brutality and power. Long, jet-black hair fell in waves beneath the crown over broad, oxlike shoulders. He wore a polished metal breastplate and at his belt hung a huge broadsword.
Thorn advanced toward the Myghtern. Then, as he'd been told, he stopped and knelt, bowing deeply, his eyes averted.
"Get up, trader. Come closer."
The words were in old Cornish, the voice deep and low, like the voice of the earth itself. Thorn looked up, meeting the eyes of the Myghtern.
Dark eyes, intensely black. Fierce, insolent eyes, unaccustomed to looking away. They seemed to pierce the trader, then relinquish him, as though they had—in that single instant—penetrated to the core of him. Thorn shivered. It was like looking into a foreign country: into a place that was primal and savage and vividly alive.
"I am the Clay," said the Myghtern in a voice that seemed to roll like thunder and fill the room, "Everything beneath the solid sky is mine. All lands, all men. And now you, trader. You, too, are mine."
The Myghtern stretched his hands, as if they were pets resting in his lap. Hands that could crush a skull or bend a bar of iron.
What do you want me for? thought Thorn. Why send your man to fetch me? And, more important, Who told you I was coming?
The Myghtern cleared his throat and seemed to sit more upright on his throne. His fingers tightened about his knees.
"How do you like my city, trader? Does it impress you?"
Thorn let the words of the old language flow easily from his tongue.
"It is a marvel, Master. I have seen nothing to compare with it in all my travels."
The Myghtern lifted his chin and stared down at Thorn. Then he gave a short grunt of laughter and leaned forward conspiratorially. "It is not finished yet. But in time . . ."
Thorn took the opportunity to study the Myghtern's face. It was not a face as other faces, more a landscape. Deep furrows surrounded each eye, like rivers running to the twin lakes of those black, fathomless pupils. His cheeks were ruddy as if lit by some inner fire, and the bottom half of his face was covered by a thick and curly beard, dark tangles of wiry hair glistening in the lamplight. The nose was blunt and wide, yet handsome. Like the chin it suggested strength and a will of iron. Yet the mouth was softer, suggestive of good humor, perhaps even of compassion. Full, sensuous lips peeled back in sudden laughter to reveal strong teeth, like the teeth of a predatory animal. Looking at him, Thorn wondered how the Clay had ever bred such a magnificent creature.
"You will work for me, trader. Use your skills for me."
"My skills?"
The Myghtern smiled broadly. The appeal of the man was intense. Good humor flowed like waves from him. Such power and such warmth. Such overwhelming charm. Thorn found himself smiling.
"You are a trader?"
Thorn nodded.
"Good." The smile remained but changed. It was suddenly more calculating. "The five who are here. Would you know them if you saw them?"
Thorn hesitated. Five ... He kept his face controlled, but his mind was racing. His information had been vague. A date. A place. Nothing more. "The five . . . ?" He frowned, his expression of incomprehension only half an act.
The Myghtem studied him a moment, fixing him with his gaze, then relented. "From the Above."
Thorn mimed sudden understanding. "It is possible," he said, after a moment. "I know many among the Above." That much was true. There was no one of importance among the elite whose file he had not studied and assimilated. If they were who he thought they were then he would certainly know them.
His answer seemed to satisfy the Myghtern; his hands lifted from his knees and went to his face, the long fingers pushing into the thick blackness of his beard, forming a cage about his chin. For a time he was silent, staring out past the trader thoughtfully. Then he stood and came down the steps, standing there close to Thorn, almost three cfi'i his superior in height.
"Listen to me well, trader. There is something I want from them. Something they are reluctant to give me." He walked past the smaller man, then turned. His fists were clenched now. The shape of his mouth had changed, losing its softness. When he spoke again his lips formed a harsh, animal snarl. "But I will have it. Or I will send them from here. You understand?"
Thorn looked at the richness of the Myghtern's robes, the perfection of his metal breastplate, and understood nothing. The farther in 1 get, the more 1 see. And yet the more I see, the less sense it all makes. He looked up, meeting the Myghtern's fierce dark eyes, and bowed his head in affirmation. As if it were all clear—clear as daylight—when really all there was was darkness.
HAAVIKKO ROLLED OVER and opened his eyes, stared at the illuminated figure on the bedside clock, and groaned.
He looked up, seeing the figure silhouetted in the doorway and knew he'd not dreamed it. His equerry really had woken him at three forty-five in the morning.
"Whaa?"
"A call's come in, sir. Top priority."
Haavikko sat up and put his feet on the floor, trying to gather his senses. He had been dreaming of the girl again, and of the old woman who had used to run the House of the Ninth Ecstasy. Mu Chua, her name had been. He had been sitting in a room with her, talking, as real, it seemed, as this.
"Who is it?" he asked, standing up and walking across to the corner sink. "Li Yuan? The General?"
"No," the young cadet said, as Haavikko poured water from the jug into the bowl. "It's from the Western Isles, sir. A young lady."
He set the jug down and turned. "A what?"
"That's right, sir. But the codes check out. Her message has a top priority rating and she says that she'll speak to no one but the Commander of Security for the Western Isles."
"I see." He sluiced his face once, twice, a third time, then reached blindly for the towel and dried himself. "And am I to call her back?"
"She's holding, sir. I said you were asleep, but she was very insistent. She said if she couldn't speak to you she would go to the T'ang direct."
Haavikko raised an eyebrow. "Then I had best speak to her. Did she give a name?"
The equerry shook his head.
"Then you're as mystified as me, neh, Lieutenant Pace? Okay. Hurry back and tell her I'm dressing. That I'll be with her in ... oh, in a minute or so. And, Pace . . ."
"Sir?"
"See if you can get me some fresh ch'a. An oolong, if the mess serves it." "Sir!"
He went to the locker in the corner and took a fresh uniform from the rack, then slipped it on. Standing before the full-length mirror he studied himself, then combed his fingers through the rough bristles of his hair. Old, he thought, you're beginning to look old. Then, with a nod to his image, he went out, heading for the Operations Room.
Operations was almost empty. There were a dozen men at most scattered about the huge chamber. Several hundred more slept close by, ready to be called were there an emergency, but little usually happened at this hour—at least, nothing that a handful of men couldn't cope with.
He went between the rows of desks and machines and climbed the eight steps up to the central podium. There, at the very center of it all, was his desk. He sat, facing the big screen, bowing his head in greeting to the young dark-haired woman whose face filled it.