"Nu shi . . . how can I help you?"
"Major Haavikko," she said, clearly recognizing him even if he did not recognize her. "My brother went into the Clay yesterday evening, at Lamorna, south of Penzance. I understand he was heading northeast toward Truro. A few hours back he activated the tracing device he was wearing. That means he's in trouble."
"Your brother . . ." Then, suddenly, he understood. "Your brother Ben, you mean? Ben Shepherd?"
She nodded, her eyes deeply troubled. "You have to send someone in to get him out. He's in trouble. I know he is."
"I understand, Nu shi Shepherd, but it's not quite as easy as that. The Clay—"
"You have to send someone," she said, as if she hadn't heard what he'd said. "And you have to send them now. If he's killed—"
Haavikko raised a hand. "Okay. I'll do what I can, and just as soon as I can. But I have to get permission. There's something happening, you see—"
She leaned toward him, her eyes piercing him, her voice insistent now. "You have to act now, Major Haavikko. There isn't time, don't you understand? They might have captured him. Why, they might be torturing him, even now."
He made to object—to point out that they simply couldn't know— but the seriousness of her demeanor nipped his objections in the bud. "I'll do what I can," he said. "And I'll do it at once. More I cannot promise."
"See that you do," she said, with all the sternness and authority of an empress. "And, Major Haavikko ..."
"Yes, Nu shi Shepherd?"
"Let me know what's happening, won't you?"
"Of course."
He cut the connection and sat back, considering what he should do. Rheinhardt wouldn't welcome being woken for this. Knowing the old man's habits, he wouldn't have got to bed before two, and to wake him now . . .
No, he would have to carry the responsibility for this himself. Sighing, he leaned toward the screen.
"Captain Thomas?"
At once the face of his Duty Captain appeared before him. "Sir?"
"Wake the elite squad. I've got a job for them."
BEN GROANED and tried to turn onto his side, but it was impossible. The thick chains that fastened his legs to the wall were too short, too inflexible, to let him move. He tried to raise his hand to scratch his chin and again found his movements restrained by chains.
He relaxed back against the wall, ignoring the itch. Across from him, at the normal standing height of an Above male, was a narrow skylight: through its bars light filtered into the cell from the street-lamps outside. In that faint illumination he could make out the shapes of two of his daymen. They lay against the wall, shadows within shadows.
It had been no contest. There had been more than two dozen of the Myghtern's men waiting for them on the other side of the gap, armed with lasers and canisters of disabling gas. Quickly overcoming Ben's small party, they had delighted in kicking and beating them even as they bound them, then they had dragged them through the dust to the gates of the town before throwing them into this filthy, stinking cell.
He rotated his chin, feeling how sore it was, then spat, tasting blood in his mouth.
"Master?" came a voice from close by. "Are you awake?"
"I'm awake. What is it, Scaf?"
"Are you . . . hurt, Master?"
He almost smiled. After all he'd done—after all the danger he had put them in—Scaf was still concerned for him.
"I'm not sure," he said truthfully. To be honest, he felt numb in places. Whether that was the cold of the cell, an aftereffect of the gas, or whether he was hurt much worse than he felt, was hard to tell.
"I think my left leg is broken," Scaf said after a moment. "I can't feel anything in the foot and when I try to move it . . ."
Ben heard the wince and wished he had his infrared glasses still, so that he could see.
He closed his eyes, conscious for once of the force that drove him: of that blinding compulsion in him to see, to witness, and to describe. So pure that at times it leeched anything human from him, refining him to a cold observing point behind the camera's eye.
Only now, bereft of light and of the tools of observation, could he see it.
I am driven, he thought. And I cannot help it. There is no "I" in me to control the process, only the cold force of my being—the gift my "father" Amos gave me: the "gift" they call my genius.
"Don't move," he said to Scaf, feeling a strange compassion for the dayman. "It only makes it worse."
There was silence for a time, and then Scaf asked, "What do you think will happen to us?"
"Maybe they'll use us. Make us work for them."
"Ah . . ."
There was a groan from the far side of the cell. Another of them was waking, Crefter by the sound of it.
"Crefter? Are you all right?"
The dayman coughed, then began to heave.
Ben looked down, breathing through his mouth, the acrid stench of sickness filling the tiny cell.
"It's okay," he said reassuringly. "It's the gas that's done it. It has that effect."
"I'm sorry," Crefter said miserably, wiping his mouth. "I feel so bad. And my arm . . ."
There was the echoing tread of footsteps in the corridor to Ben's left, the rustle of keys, then the sound of one being fitted into the lock.
Ben turned his head, watching as the heavy door eased back, the light from a hand-held oil lamp flooding the cell. Two men stood there: a big, swarthy man in a leather jerkin and a smaller, neater man—a typical Clayborn—dressed in fine silks.
"Who are you?" the small man asked, looking to Ben, his English heavily accented.
"I'm Shepherd," Ben answered.
"And the others?"
"They are my men. Servant."
There was a whispered exchange, and then the big man came across. He leaned over Ben a moment, seeming to study his face, his foul breath playing in Ben's nostrils; then, just when Ben expected him to do or say something, he moved on, crouching over the unconscious figure of Kygek.
"Eva!" the one at the door said impatiently. Him!
At once the jailer slipped one of the keys into the iron cuff on Kygek's left wrist and unlocked it, then moved busily about him, unfastening the rest. That done, he lifted Kygek onto his shoulder and carried him out, ducking beneath the door.
"Where are you taking him?"
The small man stopped, staring back at Ben, his dark eyes studying him a moment. Then, without a word, he turned and slammed the door shut, leaving them in darkness.
TAK WALKED BACK down the corridor, then reached up and hung the oil lamp on the hook beside the door. Shepherd, he thought, remembering how the young man had said it, as if he ought to have known; but the name meant nothing. Not yet, anyway.
He went inside, watching as Ponow fastened the unconscious man to the bench. There were many strangers in the Clay right now, some by invitation, others—like these men—for reasons of their own.
Tak edged past the bench and went through into the tiny office on the far side of the cell. There, on a wide, long shelf, were the objects they had taken from the men. Some of them he recognized, like the screen; others, like the tiny sphere, were mysteries. He sat, studying the sphere, rolling it about in his palm, then set it down again. It had felt warm, almost alive, to the touch.
And the big man, Shepherd—what did he want in the Clay? Why had he come here, armed with lasers, surrounded by his men? Had he come to meet the others? Or was he a free agent, wanting to muscle in on whatever deal was being struck down here? So much was happening right now, it was hard to tell. Tynan might know, but Tak didn't want to ask Tynan. Not yet. Not until he had exhausted other avenues.