Ben stopped and turned, hearing an unexpected sound from down the street—the sound of laughter from inside one of the big houses farther down . . . the Mansion House, it looked like.
A feast, he realized. They were having a feast!
He hobbled on, clinking with each step. There were steps beside the bridge, leading down. On the far side a guard walked through a patch of light, then merged with the shadows again, some thirty yards distant.
Ben hesitated, then went down the steps, coming out onto the footpath and ducking beneath the low arch.
Slowly, mindful of his injuries, he set Scaf down. "It's all right," he whispered reassuringly, wishing he could give him something to ease the pain. "We'll be out of here soon. Just wait for me here. I'll be back as soon as I can."
He touched Scaf s forehead tenderly, feeling the burning fever there, then moved back, knowing he had to do something about his chains, or they'd quickly be discovered. Valuable seconds passed as he searched among the bunch for the right key, then, fumbling, he unfastened the cuffs, taking care all the while not to make any sound that might betray their position.
Any moment now, he kept thinking, imagining the small man returning to find the empty cell, the jailer dead. Yet still the streets were silent, still they were empty.
He shivered, then, setting the last chain down, picked up the control again. At the top of the steps he stopped, looking toward the gate, checking the guard was in his post, then he ran on, tracing his steps back to the cells.
His hand ... it was here somewhere. He looked around, then looked up and saw it. It had floated up halfway to the roof. He smiled and slowly brought it down.
One more thing, he thought, slipping the control into his pocket, then plucking his hand from the air. One mare thing and then we're gone from here.
BEN CROUCHED THERE, still as a gargoyle on the roof, looking down through the skylight at the scene below.
It was a small hall, sparsely furnished, yet the grandeur of the man seated on the old carved throne was undiminished. I was right, Ben thought. He is a magnificent beast. He watched the Myghtern lean toward the men and speak, his words barely reaching Ben except as faint reverberations in the air. Without a probe it was hard to make out what was going on, yet one thing had struck Ben instantly — something no remote had ever really captured — and that was the power, the sheer charisma of the man.
That's why I had to come, Ben thought. That's why I had to see him for myself. To see him on a screen was one thing, but to see him like this . . .
There was a noise behind him in Quay Street, a cry and then run-
ning footsteps. Ben turned slowly, holding on tightly to the brick para-
pet, and looked.
The commotion had been from near the cells. As he looked, two men ran across to the open doorway, one of them speaking hurriedly to the other and then gesturing down into the darkness below. Out! Ben thought. I must get out.
He made his way across, half crawling, picking his way hand by hand along the old timber roof. On the far side a fire ladder went down to a flight of steps. He went down quickly, his footsteps echoing, hoping no one would be drawn to the noise. But there was shouting now from the other side of the Mansion House — that was where it was all happening. If he were to slip down Enys Quay he could be out of there before they knew.
The tiny lane was dark and empty. He ran down it and then turned left along the footpath.
There were guards on the New Bridge, but they were looking west, to Boscawen Street. Ben ran on, praying they'd not turn and see him, then ducked down under the parapet.
Scaf lay where he'd left him, unconscious, his breathing shallow.
Lifting him up onto his shoulder, Ben climbed down into the river's dried-up channel and walked across, picking his way carefully.
Overhead, on the bridge, one of the guards called out, his voice loud in the darkness, asking what was going on. A voice answered him. A prisoner had escaped. The jailer, Ponow, was dead. A search was on. Guard the gate! Ben heard them turn and run back to their posts and cursed silently.
Laying Scaf on top of the bank, he scrambled up after him. Close by was a tall mesh fence—electrified by the look of it—while to his left, some thirty or forty yards off, beside the old Round House, was the gate. The mesh fence ran to the gate and beyond. The gate was the only way out.
He unlatched his hand again and laid it next to him, then took the control box from his pocket.
How do I do this? he wondered. With two hands it would have been difficult enough, but with one and carrying Scaf . . .
He laughed. "Nothing ventured . . ."
Gripping the control between his teeth, he lifted Scaf once more, balancing him like a sack on his shoulder, then took the control and pointed it at his hand, lifting it into the air.
Then, the hand floating slowly along in front of him, he stepped up onto the bridge and headed for the gate.
DENG HANG pulled off his boots and threw them into the corner of the room. He sat facing the others, smiling broadly.
"He can drink, that one! But he'll be sorry in the morning, when he comes to deal with us."
Tynan was standing nearby, gazing thoughtfully at one of the shift-prints on the wall. At Deng Liang's comment he looked across at the young man and shook his head.
"You're more drunk than him, young Liang. Why, I've seen the Myghtern drink twice as much and be sharp as a knife the morning after. Don't underestimate him. To become a king here is not easy. One is not bom to it, as Above. And to stay king, as Morel has done • • . well, that is something else altogether! In the Above he would be—"
"A king," said Hastings, seating himself beside Deng Liang. "He's astonishing, don't you think? Like an animal. An animal that thinks."
Deng Liang broke into laughter again. It was true what Tynan had said: he was drunk.
"That may be so," Nolen said guardedly. "But he thinks he can ask what he wants from us."
Hastings smiled, ignoring Nolen's hostility. "Well, can't he? Hadn't we already agreed that he could have whatever he asked for?"
Nolen made to answer, but Tynan touched his arm to silence him. "Whatever he wants," Tynan said. "Providing we get what we want in exchange."
"He's not stupid," Hastings added, watching Nolen turn away and leave the room. "Uncultivated, perhaps, but no fool. And that man of his—the one he calls trader—he seems sharp enough."
Franke stepped forward. "Tak says he's new here. A stranger to the Clay."
Tynan waved the matter aside. "Look. We give the Myghtern what he wants and we take what we want in return. Simple as that. Rutger will speak for us."
Franke had been elsewhere most of the day, arranging things, so Tynan said. Hastings leaned back and yawned. He was feeling good. Things weren't so bad here. And the girl . . . He had bought the girl that morning. She would be his. He would feed her well and look after her. He rubbed at his arm. It was still feeling a little sore from the injections they had had that morning. He looked up at Tynan and smiled.
"I wonder what it is he wants? To what lengths does his imagination stretch, do you think?"
"It has a ceiling, I'm sure," Franke said, making them all laugh. "I wonder what it's like," Hastings said after a moment, "not seeing the sky, the stars. Year after year. Only the dry, unchanging dark."
"You'll know soon enough," Tynan said, then, in a softer voice. "And don't worry about Nolen. He'll be all right."
Hastings hadn't been worrying, but he nodded anyway. He didn't like Nolen. Though they had many things in common, there was something about the man that got under his skin. He yawned again and wondered vaguely why it was that he so often liked his enemies better than those who were supposed to be his allies. There again, did one have any choice in the matter? Li Yuan's laws existed, preventing them from living a full, free life. What did it matter that he liked Li Yuan? Li Yuan and his laws were inseparable. One could not remove one without the other. .,'..-