

Pathspace

The Space of Paths

Volume 1 of

The Metaspace Chronicles

Copyright © 2014 by Matthew R. Kennedy

All rights reserved.

A Smashwords Edition

For Renee.

A special thank you for my readers!

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Acknowledgments

Rare is the book that emerges from a vacuum. Most books have multiple inputs, and this one is no exception. I would like to thank the following people who made it possible.

Chapter title quotes are generally from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land and Other Poems.

Beta readers and proofreaders Jan, James, Susan, and William.

Artist Irina Pechkareva for the cover image: "fractal-galaxy-spiral" at publicdomainpictures.net.

Thank you all.

## Prologue

### "the rational and enlightened mind"

To satisfy the rational and enlightened mind, I shall not claim that the aliens who visited Earth in 2083 deliberately wrecked our civilization. The Gifts they gave us seemed almost miraculous, and fixed so many problems, problems that were poisoning our world. All they asked in return was to catalog our world's DNA in case it held medical or other advantages they could use or trade at other worlds.

The problem was, the Gifts of the Tourists were perfect examples of Clarke's Law – any sufficiently developed technology is indistinguishable from magic. Though we thought of them as game-changing technology, the Gifts were magic as far as we were concerned.

The thing about magic is, you need magicians to maintain it. And that was the whole problem. We were too far behind, and they left us with no tech support. After they left their Gifts began to fail, wrecking the systems we had incorporated them into. Civilization fell, and nations splintered into kingdoms and city-states. Things got bad, and could only improve by one of two ways. We could struggle back up the technological mountain by recreating the earlier technology, and say goodbye to the failing magic.

Or some of us could learn to be wizards.

## Chapter 1

### Lester: "fear in a handful of dust"

"You're late." Gerrold shoved the sack of oats at him. "What were you wasting time with this time? Off ogling the smith's daughter again?"

Lester flushed, and not from the heat of the late afternoon. "I had to fetch Ma some more carrots for the stew." He didn't mention that the smithy was on the way back from Granny's vegetable patch. "We should plant our own garden."

Gerrold turned his head and spat tobacco, managing to miss the watering trough. "We're not having that argument again. Make yourself useful for a change. Take this back to the stable and fill the bin."

Lester accepted the sack from him. "Why isn't Drew helping you?"

"Your brother's getting the rooms ready for guests. Almost time for the evening coach from Denver. The sacks are too heavy for your brother. You know that."

_Half-brother,_ thought Lester, trudging around the front of the inn to the stable. But he didn't say it. Life was hard enough without stirring all that up again. It wasn't Ma's fault that his real father had been foolish enough to complain when the army marching through had appropriated his crops. He supposed he should be grateful that Gerrold had taken them in after the ugliness that followed.

He passed his mother on the way to the stable. The weariness on her face made him set down the sack and take over the task of pumping the water from their well. That, and the guilt that came from knowing he should have been home earlier. She had enough to do preparing dinner before the inevitable travelers arrived. "I'm sorry," he said, pulling out the first bucket and sliding the next one under the spigot. "I didn't realize it was so late."

She just smiled and shook her head. "She _is_ pretty, isn't she?" she said, watching him pump the second bucket full. "But I heard from Cora that Burton's already asked her to the harvest dance," she said, when he didn't answer. "You might have better luck with one of the Arnham sisters. Did you get those carrots?"

"Left them by the front door," he replied, pushing the second bucket to one side and reaching for the third. He finished pumping in an awkward silence broken only by the squeaking of the old pump handle. Carolyn was pretty all right. But he had about as much of a chance with her as these buckets were likely to fill themselves. "Smith said in the old days water used to come into houses all by itself," he said, making conversation.

She just smiled wanly. "That would have been something to see," she said. "Did the carrots cut themselves up for stew back then, too?"

He shrugged. When the third bucket was full he picked up two of them while she managed the remaining one, and followed her into the inn.

Drew was in the kitchen when they got there, dropping off his broom and dustpan. "You're late," the ten-year-old told him. "Dad was looking for you an hour ago." He made no move to help Lester pour water into the inn's cauldron. Just stood there brushing back red hair from his forehead. "You're in trouble."

Lester frowned but said nothing. It was lucky for Drew that Gerrold also had red hair, so different from their mother's own blonde tresses. One day, he'd have to tell Drew why they didn't look like brothers, but the story was sad enough without inflicting it on him in anger. Sad...but also necessary. One day Drew might have to know not to stand up to armed soldiers when he had an attractive wife in his house. If their mother's first husband had just let the soldiers take what they wanted from the fields and burn the rest, they would still have a farm, and Drew's hair would be lighter.

All water under the bridge, and no way to call it back. Lester had been only eight himself at the time. He closed his eyes, remembering how ashamed he'd been to obey his mother and hide in the cellar while the soldiers did what soldiers often do in such situations.

Mary had more smarts than her late husband. The men from Texas had let her and Lester live when they were finished with her. Afterwards, while he was helping her bury his father, Lester had promised himself he'd find those men someday and kill them all. As if he had any chance of that. He shook his head, but he couldn't shake out the sight of their leader, a tall redhead with a cruel smile and a small scar over his left eyebrow. _I'll remember you, at least._

"Yes you are too" Drew insisted, misinterpreting the head shake. "Dad said – "

"Shut up! I already talked to him." _He's not my Dad. Not yours, either. You don't know how lucky you are not knowing that yet._ Then he remembered the oats and turned and left the kitchen.

Life could be worse, he told himself, lifting the sack and trudging back to the stable. The town council hadn't let her keep the farm, not with only herself and a child to work it, but at least Gerrold had taken them in. The widowed innkeeper had been only too happy to have the extra help, and appeared to genuinely care for their mother. Pain faded, but memories remained.

Gerrold was in the stable when he brought the oats in. "What happened to you?" his stepfather growled. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to hear another excuse. If you were any lazier, you'd suffocate from not bothering to breathe. Now hurry up and get back out front. You're lucky the coach is late today."

He heard the horses by the time he was halfway to the front of the inn. Clem, the regular driver, was just pulling up as he got there. The older man waved at him affably from his seat.

"How's it going, Les?" Clem coughed as the dust from behind caught up with him, while his horses clattered to a stop in front of the watering trough.

"As fun as ever. Any news from Denver?"

Clem shrugged. "The usual. More rumors of war with Texas again. You know how it is. Things never change." He swung down from his seat and opened the door of the coach. "Inverness! Ten minutes to stretch yer legs, if yer going on to the next stop."

First out of the coach was Preacher Jones, mumbling thoughtfully as he strolled to the inn, Bible clutched under his arm in lieu of baggage. Behind him came Nellie Sanders, no doubt come from the capitol with a fresh army of rumors and scandalous whispers. Burton Tolbert reared his truculent snicker of a face behind her. His eyes said he had heard some of her stories on the way down from Denver. The dull glass marbles passed over Lester dismissively, erasing him from existence like a squirrel at sunset as Clem grunted Nellie's suitcase down from the roof of the vehicle.

The last person out of the coach was an unknown personage, an old man of middling height who carried a staff. He was aged like oak, older but harder, with no sign yet of infirmity. His alert eyes fixed on nothing, but seemed to see everything. The gray of his beard matched his cloak, nearly blending into it.

Lester's eyes widened at this last apparition, for strangers came seldom to Inverness. It was a stepping stone, a place no one lingered, save the returning locals. No doubt the old man would orbit the coach and reenter, his legs duly stretched. It came as some surprise, therefore, when the man strode straight for the inn as if he meant to stay the night. Lester's own eyes flicked a glance to Clem about the remaining baggage, but the other just shook his head. Two of the coach's occupants elected to remain within, which answered his unspoken question.

Seeing his assistance was not required, Lester followed the four into the inn, trying not to look at Burton, who sat at a table with Nellie. Preacher and the old man scattered to separate tables of the common room, Jones electing to be nearer the kitchen and the stranger in the far corner. The old man leaned his staff in the corner and sat facing the door. From time to time he glanced at it, as if he were expecting someone to join him.

Lester trudged into the kitchen. The sun was still up, and dinner two hours away. But surely they were thirsty from the road. He saw his mother cutting the carrots, her practiced hands quick, the knife flashing in the slanted rays from the window.

"There's a stranger, from the coach," he said. "Dressed in gray, with a tall staff for walking. Do you know him? I've never seen him before."

He almost missed her sharp intake of breath. She set down the knife and ducked her head around the corner for a peek. When she came back into the kitchen her face had closed like a book. "I've seen him before, but not for a while. A long while." She seized a towel and kneaded it, as if her hands were sweaty from the heat of the day, before picking up the knife again. "Go fetch ales from the coldbox," she said. "He'll want a little salt in his, and don't ask him for money. The usual for the others."

He stared at her. "Salt in his beer?" He knew it was a hot day, but you salt the stew, not the drinks. "Why doesn't he have to pay for his drink?"

"Or his dinner either," she said. "No time for questions. Just get the drinks. Maybe if we're lucky he won't stay for dinner."

Shaking his head, he stumped down the stairs to the basement. _What was all that about?_ The ancient glow-tubes still had some life in them. By the dim radiance they provided he threaded his way between stacks of boxes to where the old coldbox squatted in the corner.

As always, he wondered how the thing could be so warm on the outside, and forever cold on the inside. This one was failing like the glow-tubes. No longer could it freeze water into ice as he'd been told it had decades before. But still the fog rolled out over the edge when he lifted the top of it, and the bottles he lifted from it were almost cold as ice in his hands. He pulled out six of them and took them back up to the common room.

His mother had four wooden mugs on a tray waiting for him when he emerged from the basement. He pulled the cork from one of the bottles and took it out to Clem while she cut up a couple of chickens and some potatoes for the stew.

Clem had already climbed back into his seat when he got outside. Lester handed up the bottle. "Who's the old man with the staff?" he asked the aging driver.

"Someone you should steer clear of, if you know what's good for you," Clem told him, handing him a coin. "But don't you worry, he won't stay long. Never does."

Lester frowned. "But you've seen him before, haven't you?" he pressed.

The driver nodded and picked up his reins. "Once in a while," he admitted. "Thanks for the ale. Time for me to get moving or I'll be late for the next stop."

Lester stepped back and watched him drive off before going in to get the tray of drinks for the guests. So many questions, and no one seemed willing to part with the answers. Like, why was the coach made of metal, instead of wood like the houses? Why had the driver's seat been originally enclosed, then the metal cut away from in front of it? Why were there traces of yellow paint still peeling from the sides of the old vehicle, and bits of colored glass on the back near the top and bottom of the rounded, boxlike shape?

He returned to his chores. In the distance, the back of the coach dwindled, until SCHOOL BUS could no longer be read.

## Chapter 2

### Aria: "why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?"

Here, where flowers grew, she found her sanctuary. Far from the sounds of soldiers drilling, far from the noise and scuffle of the clerks, the poses and pretensions of the supplicants, the murmurs of advisers, the lies and the evasions of the practiced diplomats, she found her peace. Here, where flowers grew, where the only buzzing came from bees in search of nectar.

Aria leaned out to press her nose against the ancient window, and gazed upon the dreaming city. Did others gaze? She didn't know. Only the blaze of glow-tubes in their bright but silent ranks and files ensured the growth of all that she held dear. The building was sealed, and rain ran off the self-cleaning glass in perfect sheets that left no streak or smear, spread out in two dimensions by the old titanium dioxide coating.

Something flickered in the corner of her eye.

She turned and frowned. One of the tubes was failing as she watched, the brightness dimming, faltering over a bed of daffodils. It happened, from time to time. But she wasn't frowning over the dimming glow-tube. The flowers would survive, even here, locked away from the sun, as she was. It was what the faltering implied that made her frown.

That...and the fact that she would have to go tell the Governor.

She sighed, rubbing the dirt of gardening from her pale hands, and turned to set her feet upon the inevitable journey. Soft slippers made hardly a sound as she strode past rows of flowers and herbs. In her mind, she imagined they turned to watch her go, wishing her well, but of course that was mere fancy. She was not ignorant, merely lonely.

Gliding past the long-dead elevators, she entered and descended the corner staircase, passing the floors of vegetables and beans, until she reached the levels of the upper offices.

Henry and Edward straightened as they saw her approach, their bored slouches readjusting to more proper postures. Mentally, she shook her head. Did they really think she cared about standing to attention? This far above street level? But for all they knew she might be in a bad mood. Well, she was getting there.

"The Governor's in a meeting," said Henry.

So? "She'll want to hear this."

He knew better than to argue, but he couldn't avoid a grimace as he opened the door for her. The Governor did not like interruptions. They all knew that. But they also knew that Aria was a special case.

The Governor of Rado did not look pleased with the progress of the meeting. Eyes like black diamonds glittered angrily above her hawkish nose as she regarded the Lone Star envoy. "Is that the best you have to offer?" she growled from behind the marble desk.

The man fidgeting in front of her swallowed. "Your eminence," he protested, "I am only a messenger. I am not empowered to negotiate new treaties. The Okla protrusion was fairly won in battles long ago. As you know, they agreed – "

"But I did not agree. Does Peter really think he can take us this time? Has he learned nothing from the last war?"

The envoy gulped again. Watching him, Aria was nearly moved to pity. Nearly. He was clearly new to this. Was sending such a green diplomat to them some kind of message? Surely they had better trained diplomats. But then, maybe the ruler of Texas really did think he was ready enough for war to make only token gestures.

"I am not privy to the thoughts of the Honcho," he said. "But I have fulfilled my instructions. Do you have a reply for me to carry back to him?"

"I'll think on it," the Governor said. "Now get out of my sight."

As he oozed from the chamber, her eyes swung around to Aria. "Didn't they tell you I was busy? You know I don't like to be interrupted in meetings of State business."

"He's run off again," Aria told her, without preamble.

Kristana sighed. "I know. Six hours ago." She looked down at the map on her desk for a moment, then up again. "But how do you know?"

She exhaled. "The same way I always know. One of the glow-tubes started to die." She frowned in puzzlement. "Why does he do it? Isn't he happy here? Doesn't he know the work he does for you is important?"

Her mother regarded her. "More important than keeping your flowers happy. But yes, he knows. Even so, he'll still always leave from time to time. I thought you knew that."

Her face clouded. "I know that he does. I just don't know why."

The Governor of Rado leaned back in her chair. "It's the old dream again," she said. "You know, of setting up a school to pass on his knowledge."

"But you've told him you'd help with that, many times!" Aria discovered her hands were clenching into fists, and forced herself to relax them. Why was the old man so difficult?

"I know." Kristana took a sip from her goblet. "When things settle down. But he gets impatient. He's not getting any younger. I think sometimes he wonders if I keep telling him that just to string him along." She gazed at nothing for a moment. "He knows he's valuable to us... but maybe, occasionally, he regrets joining us." She bit her lip. "Maybe he doesn't need us as much as we need him."

She didn't like the way this conversation was going. "So, are we going to war with Texas again?" she asked, to change the subject.

"I wouldn't doubt it for a second," her mother replied. "There is a certain inevitability to it. He knows it, and I know it."

Now she didn't know if her mother was talking about Xander again, or the Honcho of Texas. "But why? It never solves anything. Why do people have to keep dying?"

Kristana shrugged. "It's like earthquakes and volcanoes, I suppose. Pressure keeps building up, and has to be relieved from time to time. Armies have to be exercised like muscles or they grow weak, inviting invasion. There's always Deseret to the west, Mexico to the south, and plenty of others looking to expand. Some have more pasture land than us, but then again, we have more soldiers than them. You know."

Yes, she knew. Her tutors made sure of it, always grooming her for the succession, an event she hoped would never come. "I wish we could just conquer them all and make just one country!" she said. "Then we could stop fighting them all the time."

"Now you sound like your father," said the Governor.

"The General? I wish I'd known him."

Kristana had been about to say something but appeared to catch herself just in time. "Ah, yes. The General. He certainly didn't mind fighting."

Aria's mind turned back to old Xander again. She couldn't help herself. "What about Xander? Did you send someone out after him?"

Her mother shrugged. "As always. No doubt he'll be back soon, whether he finds what he's looking for, or not. They'll find him. They always do."

## Chapter 3

### Xander: "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons"

He sat in the corner, in the gathering gloom that was his life, waiting for the inevitable pursuers. By now they would be hot on his trail. He would not be waiting long to hear the weary refrain of the song.

But there were always possibilities. Even in these times of latter-day saints and devils. Sometimes he came back empty-handed. Sometimes not. He could not give up. Would not give up. The future was waiting, and it would not wait forever. It can't end like this. Millennia of striving, then savagery? No! It cannot end like this. The human race will rise again. The stars still waited, still beckoned. I won't let it end like this.

His waiting was rewarded with a cup. He watched the lad pour beer into it. "Can you bring me a little salt?"

He could see from the boy's expression that the request was not entirely unexpected. There was a shaker on the tray he was carrying. So someone recognized me. He wondered idly who it was. So many little towns, all the same, but with different people. I can't let it end like this.

He shook salt into his palm, then took one tiny pinch and dropped it in the little bubbles. He wondered how much time he had.

While he waited, he amused himself by watching the people in the inn, trying to divine the threads of life that connected them to each other. The preacher in the opposite corner he ignored as a known quantity. The girl sitting in the center table was obvious enough. She must have gone to Denver to seek work, perhaps as a seamstress, and found little to her liking in the decaying metropolis. The oaf with her was as plain as a book, although he doubted the fool had ever opened one. His clothes spoke of local privilege, perhaps the son of a prosperous farmer or merchant back from a carouse in Denver. The girl beside him knew him from around here, that much was clear, as was the fact that she didn't care for his company. But better the devil you knew, eh? Xander guessed that the jerk had a local flame and was hoping she might spot them and get jealous.

The front door opened and two more young men sauntered in. Farm boys, by the look of them. No rooms for them, then. He guessed there was no other convenient place for them to get soused after a hot day in the fields. It was a small town.

Was there someone here for him? He trusted his instincts. A faint echo had led him to step off the coach.

Remembering the coach and all it signified, he grimaced. A school bus, drawn by a team of horses! The days of the Texas oil barons were truly over. He doubted anyone here had ever even heard of internal combustion. I can't let it end like this.

Eventually the boy brought him a bowl of stew. As before, he made no mention of payment. It was just as well. He often forgot to bring money on these little excursions, having no need for it back at the Governor's skyscraper. Lucky someone here knew him.

There it was, that mental echo again. Someone here was a possibility.

He took the included spoon and ate sparingly, fishing out pieces of chicken and carrots. The meal was adequate, if limited. But they didn't have the resources of Aria's herb garden. He thought of the girl and wondered if she would ever resign herself to filling her mother's boots. But someone had to do it. One stray arrow had changed her life forever.

Once the big chunks were gone from the bowl, he amused himself with a couple of bits of a cracker from an inner pocket of his cloak. He dropped two bits onto the surface of the liquid and reached out with his mind to weave the pathspace. Soon they began orbiting in the bowl like little planets, in concentric circles. But that bored him, so he added another layer to the trick, and sent them drifting round in opposite directions, the inner one clockwise, the outer one counter to that.

He was so preoccupied with this that he did not see the staring eyes. It wasn't until he heard the little gasp that he realized his indiscretion.

"How did you do that?"

He looked up and saw the serving boy watching. His hair was fair, his eyes blue as a summer sky. An observant lad. Well, well. Rather easily, he projected at him, and was rewarded with a blink. Aha! He looked around the room quickly, but no one else had noticed.

"That's pretty good ventriloquism," the boy said, looking interested. "We had an entertainer come through once but I didn't get a chance to learn it."

Alert, then, but ignorant. That could be changed. Indeed it could. Things were looking up. This trip was not a waste of time, after all.

"I wasn't throwing my voice," he told the boy, who looked to be almost a man. "It was something else entirely."

He could see he had the boy's attention now, for sure.

"The beer was cold," he mused. "Almost frosty. Too cold for a mere spring house. That means your inn still has a functioning coldbox, doesn't it? And you're the one who fills and empties it, aren't you?" He cast his eyes about and saw the empty fireplace. "Is there an everflame, too? There is, isn't there? I knew I didn't smell any wood smoke."

The boy shrugged. "So? The smith has one too. What's that got to do with throwing your voice?"

Of course he didn't know. How could he? "Listen," he said. "We might not have much time. Very soon some men are going to come looking for me. Before that happens, I need to tell you some things, things you probably don't know about coldboxes and everflames."

The lad frowned at that. "What's there to know? They work or they don't."

"What you don't know," said Xander, "is that they also work on you. And they've been working on you for years, I'll wager, else you wouldn't have heard me, just now." He pushed the bowl away from him and interlaced his fingers on the tabletop. Ignored, the bits of cracker continued round and round in the cooling surface of the stew. "How long have you been working here?"

A shadow seemed to pass over the boy's face, his features tightening as if an unpleasant subject had come up. "I don't see as how that's any of your business," he said. "And you never answered my question. How did you stir the bowl without touching it?"

He was about to answer that when something he had been waiting for finally arrived: the sound of hoofbeats. Drat! This discussion would have to wait. He drained the cup quickly and turned. "Could you get me another beer? Explaining is thirsty work."

The boy shrugged and picked up the tray. As he turned to head back to the kitchen, Xander grabbed his staff where it leaned against the corner, then reached out again, this time with his mind, and wrapped pathspace around him quickly and thoroughly, enfolding himself in a private pocket of darkness as the light flowed around him.

The boy was interested, but not yet hooked. There was no way he was going to let the men take him back before he'd gotten what he'd come looking for.

## Chapter 4

### Lester: "Time for you, and time for me"

He was halfway to the kitchen when the front door opened and the men came in. There were four of them, and he would have known they were soldiers even without the dark blue uniforms. For a second he stiffened, thinking they were an advance scouting party from Texas, but then he saw the red C enclosing a circle of yellow on the outside of their upper arms, and knew them for Rado men.

One of them glanced at him. "Have you seen an old man with a staff, dressed in gray?"

He turned to the corner, but the stranger was no longer there, it seemed. "He was in here just a minute ago. But I don't see him now." He set the tray down on the kitchen counter. "Who is he?"

The man didn't answer him, but turned back to the others instead. "Jefferson, Morgan, you check the rooms. We'll try the street."

The two he indicated bounded up the stairs like dogs after a rabbit. Lester watched them curiously, then went back to the common room to collect dishes. He had nursed the faint hope for the past hour that Burton would be on some trip further south, but there was scant hope of that. Burton was escorting Nellie out the front door, no doubt to prolong the pleasure of her company walking her back to her mother's, when the soldiers came back down the stairs.

They spared a moment to glance into the common room again, then followed Burton and Nellie outside.

"Here," said Preacher, waving for his attention. "Can I get a refill?"

Lester nodded, collected his empty bowl and headed back into the kitchen. Descending the stairs to the basement again, he was reminded about what the old man had said about the coldbox working. Working on him. He had never thought about it in that way before. All a coldbox did was, well, keep things cold. And he only reached into it for a second or two to put things in or take them out again. But according to the old man, it was affecting his hearing.

As he swung the lid up again to pull out another bottle for Preacher, he realized that he had never wondered about exactly how the box kept things cold. It just did, was all. But how did it work? Ordinarily, cold things always warmed up, and hot things cooled down, once you fetched them from a coldbox or the stove.

He inspected it. It was just a wooden box, after all, the wood now dried to a strength like iron the way most wood did after a while. Thick wood, anyway. The coldbox was as thick as the four fingers of his hand, though the lid was a trifle thinner.

The outside of it was neither hot nor cold. The metal hinges on the lid, of course, were cool to the touch, but that was the way metal was, unless it was warmed by a fire or the smith's forge. He thrust his hand back down into the interior, disturbing the layer of fog that always appeared when it was open. The air inside was as chilly as a breeze in January, and the inside surface of the wood was also cold, which of course made sense, because it was in contact with all that cold air. But what made the air cold?

Frowning, he closed the lid and took the bottle back up the stairs.

His mother was ladling out their dinner when he passed through the kitchen. He watched her stroke the tip of a finger around the edge of the everflame, turning down the heat until the flame hovering in the air above the old bronze disk was only a tiny red dot, barely visible under the stubby tripod legs of the iron cauldron.

Satisfied, she replaced the cauldron's lid and handed him his bowl. "We'll finish the rest for breakfast," she said.

He nodded agreement and took Preacher's refill out to him and brought his coin back before settling himself down at the table in the corner where the old man had been. His mind couldn't stop thinking about what the stranger had said about the coldbox working on him. Was the everflame working on Mary, too? And now that he thought about it, how did the everflame work? He'd always taken it and the coldbox for granted, he realized.

"You're a quiet one," said the old man from the other side of the table.

Lester nearly jumped out of his skin. There he was, as if he never left. How did the guy move so silently? "Where did you go? There were soldiers here looking for you."

The other just smiled. "I never left." He glanced at Lester's bowl. "You've barely touched your stew. Better finish it before it goes cold on you."

He grimaced at that, but the old man was right. He picked up his spoon again.

"Leave him alone and leg it while you can, Xander," advised Preacher from across the room. "You know they'll be back for you."

The old man's bushy eyebrows lowered. "Mind your own business, Carl. I know what I'm about. Go drink yourself to sleep like always."

Preacher scowled at that but picked up his Bible and stood to leave. As he trudged toward the door, no doubt on his way back to the little chapel down the road, he paused to give Lester a piece of advice. "Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas," he said. "I'd stay away from old Xander if I were you. Otherwise, you'll be itchin and scratchin the rest of your life."

Lester watched him go as he finished his bowl of stew. When the front door closed behind Preacher, he turned back to the old man. "You two know each other?"

"We've crossed paths. There's some wisdom in the Book he carries, but he hasn't absorbed much of it." Xander met his gaze. "But he's right about one thing. They will be back for me."

"Why do they want you?" Lester asked him, curious. "What did you do?"

"You've been thinking about what I said earlier about the coldbox, haven't you?" said Xander, ignoring the question.

Lester decided the man was used to doing what suited him, and answering questions, apparently, didn't always fall into that category. "A little," he admitted. "What do you know about them, coldboxes and everflames?"

"Oh, I know a lot more than that," said Xander, leaning his chair back against the wall. "About the Tourists and what they did to us with their Gifts from beyond the sky. About a lot of things that aren't in the preacher's Book. Or in other books."

"We've got a few books," Lester said. "Sometimes travelers barter them for a few days of room and board. My Ma lets me keep them in my room."

"You can read, can you? Precious things, books."

"Better than Gerrold can. There's not much else to do in winter, when the snows are deep and almost nobody travels. She taught me. Gerrold thought it was a waste of time."

Xander glanced toward the front door. He appeared to be listening to it rather than Lester. "What kind of books?"

"Stories, mostly. Why are those soldiers looking for you?"

Xander grinned. "Because I ran away. She wants me back, because I'm useful."

And then he vanished! This time Lester saw it happen. The old man grabbed his staff and then he just... faded away. How did he do that?

Right after that the front door banged open again and the leader of the soldiers strode in and scanned the room. Gerrold was behind them.

"Lester!" Gerrold barked. "Governor's men are looking for an old man in gray with a staff. Have you seen him?"

"I saw him a while ago," Lester answered, truthfully. A very short while. "Why are they looking for him? What's he done?"

"Never you mind, boy." Gerrold reached for the bowl Mary had set on the counter for him. "Make yourself useful. Go refill the watering trough. Their horses must've been thirsty."

Lester managed not to smile as he grabbed a bucket and brushed past the men. There were four horses hitched to the front porch. They eyed him curiously, and one of them seemed to snicker as he ambled to the pump by the side of the inn. He ignored that and began filling the bucket. While he pumped, he thought about what the old man, Xander, had told him. Everything the bearded geezer said seemed to invite more questions. Gifts from beyond the sky? What could that possible mean? And what, pray tell, were these 'tourists' he had mentioned?

## Chapter 5

Xander: "the sound of water only"

Xander listened to the boy pump water into the bucket. Part of him regretted what he was about to do. If he did nothing, this son of an innkeeper could have a normal life. That man (what was his name?) might be hard on him, but as the eldest son the boy was sure to inherit the inn someday when his father finally succumbed to age or sickness. By then he'd know all he needed to run the place, and with the inn to support him, he'd be a decent catch for some local seamstress or farmer's daughter.

But that was not going to happen. The needs of the many, he reminded himself. The boy had enough natural talent that the Gifts were beginning to encourage his own gifts. And that doomed him to greatness. Such material could not be wasted, not with the world in the state that it was at present.

A thousand years ago, he might have become just another innkeeper with a knack for knowing when his guests wanted a drink refill, or a healer who was better than average at knowing who needed extra care to stay healthy. Without the Gifts of the Tourists his natural talents would most likely have never flowered into anything strong or significant.

The coming of the Tourists from the stars had altered things forever. That they had brought about the downfall of a technological civilization was undeniable. Had they known what they were doing? He might never be sure of that. Personally, he would like to believe that it was all a tragedy of carelessness. Though the extent of the destruction was heartbreaking, he refused to assume it was the result of deliberate malice. For his own peace of mind, he preferred to assume that the Tourists simply had never dreamed that their actions would have such consequences.

Were we the first planet to be so stricken? There was no way to know. If, as he believed, they never returned to previous ports of call, then perhaps they had never witnessed what could happen to a lower-technology world that had prematurely tasted their magical shortcuts.

No, not magic, he corrected himself. But it might as well have been. And who could resist it, who could refuse something-for-nothing? Almost nobody.

The boy had come back to refill his bucket. The squeaking of the pump and the sound of the water splashing at the bottom of the empty container broke his reverie and reminded him that he was here for a reason. Might as well get it over with. So many other things to do.

He reached his mind out of the darkness surrounding him and unwrapped the pathspace. The readmitted sunlight, fading as it was at the end of another long summer day, was blinding. It always was when he dropped the invisibility weave. He squeezed his eyes to slits to let the pupils adjust to the dimming brightness of the evening. Maybe I should have waited till after sunset. Always in such a hurry, you old fool.

And there was the boy, gaping at his reappearance. "Do you know how to ride a horse?" he asked the lad.

"No. Why?"

"Pity. It would have made this a little easier. Come on, let's go."

The boy followed him back to the watering trough, since he was headed there anyway. But of course he had to ask, as he poured the water. "Where are you going?"

They heard a distant shout of "There he is!" Xander turned and saw the men hurrying toward them. They had their crossbows now, and they looked anxious. Well, they had their orders.

"Actually, we're both going," he told the boy. "What's your name?"

The lad looked at him as if he were crazy. "Lester. What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere! "

"I'm afraid you are, Lester." He turned to the men who were surrounding them now. "Relax, gentlemen. We're not going to do anything stupid." He glanced back at Lester. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

"I think I already did," Lester muttered. "You planned this, didn't you? You expected them to catch you. Whatever it is you've done, you've involved me in it, and it isn't fair!"

Xander nodded at that. "Entirely correct," he said. "Not fair at all. But necessary. The sooner you understand that, the better we'll get on." He turned to the men. "The boy can't ride," he told them. "We'll have to borrow a cart or something, or else wait for the morning coach." He supposed it must seem peculiar to the boy, a prisoner directing his own retrieval.

The captain pursed his lips. "Are you sure you've finished with running for the time being, old man? As I recall, you've gone further than this is the past."

"Oh, quite. I never argue with crossbows at close range, Captain. Especially so, now that I've found him. We'll give you no trouble, my word on it. Will we, Lester?"

The boy's face alternated between alarm and hostility. "Found me? You never set eyes on me until today. How could you have been looking for me? Let me go! I've done nothing to deserve getting arrested by the Governor's men."

The captain glanced at Xander, one eyebrow raised. "Haven't told him, have you?"

"Well, you know me," said Xander affably. "I like my little surprises. I expect he'll settle down once he understands the truth of the situation. Might take some explaining, but there's time, especially since a cart will slow us down for the trip back."

The captain shook his head, smiling. "Poor bastard." But Xander detected a trace of envy in the officer's voice. The boy has no idea of what awaits him. But if he had, would he have come gladly... or run for the hills?

## Chapter 6

### Lester: "not even silence in the mountains"

"Hard even for me to imagine the wonders they had in those days."

The old man just could not shut up. And after listening for a while, Lester discovered he did not want him to. Xander's words were like a drink that makes you thirsty – almost every sentence opened more questions than it closed.

Lester shifted in the back of the cart, his legs dangling over the back of it. I could just hop down and start running, he thought. But so far his curiosity prevented it. That, and the fact it was not quite dark enough yet. The stars were just beginning to twinkle in the sky above them. "What do you mean by 'those days'?"

"The days before my time. Before the coming of the Tourists."

He sensed whole paragraphs buried in that one word. He might as well learn as much as he could before he made his escape. "Why do you call them the Tourists?"

"It's an old word for people who travel to places they haven't been just to see what's there. They travel from star to star, you see, although of course they pick the ones with planets like Earth – planets likely to have life. I expect they heard our radio transmissions."

More mysteries. He felt a hunger in his head to know them all. "What do you mean, from star to star? You can't live on a star. They're just twinkly points of light."

"The stars are suns like ours, just very far away. The Earth's a ball going round the Sun, and many of the stars, those distant suns, have planets of their own. Some are like Earth. And some of them have people on them. The Tourists visit them, traveling from place to place like the coach goes from town to town."

He thought about that. "Do we ever visit them, too?"

"We were planning to, once. But then the Tourists came, and changed everything."

Back to the Tourists again. Sooner or later Xander always got back to them. Why was he so obsessed with the Tourists? "Why did their coming change everything?"

"Because of their Gifts. They made 'em, as easily as you or I could pump a bucket full of water. They made 'em and left 'em behind like toys given to children." Xander shifted his weight on the hard bed of the cart. "Well, not exactly gave. It was a trade, their Gifts for our genomes."

"Our what?"

"Have you never wondered what makes you different from a dog or a tree? In every little bit of your body are sets of instructions, like little cookbooks, that tell the stuff in your body how to make muscles, bones, skin, and such. It's called DNA. I'll tell you more about that later," he added, as Lester opened his mouth to ask about it. "And the DNA is different in every kind of living thing. Different in some ways even in every being. It's why people all have eyes and noses – and also why their eyes are different colors, their noses different shapes. It makes us all the same, and it makes every one of us unique."

The Tourists, he went on to explain, were curious about DNA, and collected it like books. Every planet they visited had different DNA and they always took samples, unraveled it and stored the patterns in case it turned out to be valuable someday.

"How could it be valuable?"

"Does your town have an herbalist? Someone good with healing plants? Well some plants are good for headache, some for indigestion, and so on. And some are poison. It's all because of the stuff the plants make inside them. And what they make is all determined by the little cookbooks in them, their DNA.

"So you never know how useful a plant might be. Or a bug or a fish. And neither do the Tourists, so they collect all the different DNA they can find, from every planet they stop at. Who knows? Someday our marigolds might turn out to cure some sickness of theirs. To them, every planet is a library, and there might be treasure in our cookbooks. So they collect it, take copies. And they paid for our DNA with the Gifts, as many as we wanted. And we grabbed for those gifts like foolish children."

"Why?" He sensed Xander was working up to something. The Tourists had changed everything with their Gifts. Changed in what way?

"Because people are lazy," the old man growled. He looked up at the sky, frowning.

"I don't understand. Why was it lazy to trade for the Gifts?"

Xander sighed. "Pumping water is hard work, isn't it? Suppose you could fill a bucket bigger than a house, and put it up on a hill? Then the water would want to come back down, and it would push its way through pipes if you let it. We used to do that. Every house had pipes buried in the ground to let water come right into the kitchen. No one had to pump water to fill buckets or take baths. The water towers were filled by electric pumps, pumps that people had to build. It took money and work to set them up.

"Then along came the Tourists, and they knew how to make something called a swizzle that pumped water all by itself. It looked just like an ordinary pipe, but if you stuck one end in water, the water would get sucked into the pipe and shoot out the other end. Even if the other end was uphill of the water! Perfect for bringing water to houses and farmer's fields. All of a sudden, we didn't need to make pumps anymore."

"Sounds good to me," said Lester, who had no great love of pumping water from the well all the time. "It would save a lot of time and money and work. Wouldn't it?"

"Yep. It also drove the pump-makers out of business. And that was just the beginning of the end. It's hard to imagine life without a coldbox, isn't it? Over a thousand years ago they were called 'iceboxes' because people kept food cold by putting it inside insulated boxes with big blocks of ice."

"But didn't the ice melt?"

"Sure did. But there were men who delivered ice right to your door, from horse-drawn trucks. When the ice block melted you put another one in. That worked for a long time, and then men invented electric refrigeration, a way of using pumps to cool down the icebox without ice. You had to have wires to bring the electricity to every house, and people had to pay for the electricity that ran in the wires, but they could go on trips and not worry about the food warming up, because their refrigerators kept running all the time, staying cold. The ice delivery men were out of business, of course.

"But then along came the Tourists, and they could take a box, any box, and put their magic on it. Then it would stay cold without ice or electricity. Thanks to the coldboxes, we didn't need to make refrigerators anymore. So more companies went out of business."

"Is the everflame one of the Gifts from the Tourists, too?"

"It sure is." Xander shook his head. "It really made a lot of people happy. No more pumping oil out of the ground or cutting trees down for firewood, no more burning oil, no more electric heaters for houses to have hot water. Just get the Tourists to work their magic on a piece of metal and you could have heat anytime for free. Saved tremendous amounts of time and work and money. Guess what happened because of it?"

Now he was beginning to see a pattern. "The people who cut firewood and pumped oil out of the ground went out of business?"

"There's a price for everything, son. Never forget that, like Mankind did. If all a man knows how to do is cut firewood or mine coal for people to burn, guess what happens when people don't need firewood or coal? If he doesn't get another job, his kids starve. Or the government has to pay to feed them for him."

Lester swallowed. "What you're saying is, the Tourists hurt us by helping us." He thought about that for a moment. He had never realized that you could do that – could actually hurt someone by helping them. It sounded crazy, but when you thought of whole countries instead of single people, it made more sense. He thought of families starving because their fathers were too old to learn a new trade, and shivered in the cooling evening air. No one wants an old apprentice. If they lost the inn, Gerrold would be laughed out of town if he went to the smith and asked to be accepted as a blacksmith apprentice.

"Hurt us tremendously," Xander agreed. "Civilization fell, almost back to the Middle Ages level. We lost all of the high technology that it took hundreds of years to develop. Now we're back to peasants and crossbows. All the old low tech still works. Farming with horses, blacksmithing metal tools, weaving cloth with hand looms, and poultices instead of pills."

"But why? Why didn't we just adapt? Why did things go so wrong?"

The old man didn't answer immediately. An uncomfortable silence grew for long moments before he spoke.

"Two reasons," he said finally. "The first was, we let the infrastructure rot away."

"The what?"

"We used to have a thing called a tractor that we used instead of horses to pull plows. You can still find them here and there, rusting away. But tractors were made in factories, and the factories all ran on electricity. In the factories, people and machines made all sort of things. Cars that didn't need horses because they burned oil to make the wheels turn. Refrigerators to keep food cold. Radios so people could talk to each other across long distances.

"But once we didn't need to burn oil any more, once we didn't need fridges to keep food cold, people got the idea that we could make our planet 'greener' by changing over to more and more of the things based on the Gifts. They thought somehow that the Tourists would hang around forever, making coldboxes and everflames and all the other magic things we were coming to rely on. We could get rid of the machines and processes that took so much work to build and tended to create pollution for the air and water. When you burn oil or wood or coal, you see, it makes smoke – and that smoke is poisonous, and has to go somewhere or you end up breathing it in."

"But wasn't that a good idea? Making the world cleaner?"

"Of course it was! No one likes to eat and drink poison. But I'm coming to the second reason that really did us in. The Tourists made the Gifts for us, but they never taught us how to make them ourselves, or how to keep them working. They gave us the products of a whole new technology, but not the technicians and infrastructure needed to keep them working for the long term. And when the Tourists finally left, off to visit their next port of call, guess what happened? Some of those magic Gifts began to break down. Even the magic of the Tourists doesn't last forever."

"Why not? Our coldbox and everflame still work just fine."

"Some of them lasted longer than others. But they all break down eventually if they're not maintained. When it was first made, that coldbox in your father's inn could freeze water into ice. Now it just keeps beer cold. The thing the Tourists did to make the gifts had very little to do with the matter they were anchored in. You could make a coldbox out of paper if you wanted to – the important thing is the change in the space around it. But that change is a little like combing hair. The change in the space stays straight for a while. Years, maybe even a century. But eventually it gets un-straightened again, goes random, like your hair is in the morning when you wake up. And we didn't know how to comb the space straight again. If you want to call it magic instead of psionics, fine. But they didn't train any magicians. So it all started to fall apart. And since we'd changed over to depending on it, our whole civilization fell apart."

"Why didn't they teach us their magic?" Lester asked.

"Simple economics. It takes a long time to collect the DNA cookbooks of a whole planet, you see. If they'd taught us how to make the Gifts for ourselves, well, we wouldn't need the Tourists anymore. We might stop trading with them. They might miss out on a plant or animal species that would turn out to be a lifesaver. They couldn't risk that. So they kept their secrets. Made all the coldboxes we asked for, all the everflames and swizzles and all the little shortcuts we were greedy for. Then they left, taking their secrets with them."

The mosquitoes were beginning to come out. Lester swatted one and grimaced as he wiped his hand on the flat bed of the cart. "How do you know all this, anyway? Did you see it happen?"

"Lord, no," Xander laughed. "It was long before my time. But records were kept. People always gossip and there were reporters of news back then, just as now. People who saw what was happening couldn't stop it but they could write it down so someone would remember. So I remember things I never saw. And I'm trying to do something about it."

"What are you going to do?"

"We'll get to that," the old man said. "And you'll be a part of it."

"Me? Why me? I'm nobody. I pump water and wait on tables."

"Well, your pumping days are over, son. They'll have to get along without you at the inn from now on. You're my new apprentice."

## Chapter 7

### Peter: "let these words answer"

The letter his envoy brought back from Denver was hardly satisfactory. Peter read it again, sometimes snorting, sometimes chuckling. She hadn't changed a bit.

"To: His Excellency Peter Martinez, the Honcho of Texas

Greetings.

We trust this missive finds you in robust health as usual. We are the same, and expect this condition to hold for the foreseeable future. So don't go getting hopeful! Here are a few points to bear in mind:

1. We both know that armies have to be exercised or they get soft. But must it really come to this, after all that we've both accomplished? I am well aware of the advantage you believe yourself to possess from your discovery of the apparently untouched weapons cache hidden under the remains of Abilene. Let us not pretend that we do not both of us have our spies on foreign soil. I will only say that I, also, have certain advantages that you would be well advised to take into consideration in your own deliberations. Think carefully, and reconsider.

2. I can only agree with you that the current fractured condition of the former United States of America must not be allowed to continue indefinitely. We disagree only in the means by which it should be ended. Shall it be restoration, albeit with a radically new infrastructure? Or, instead, as you suggest, should it be replaced by a different form of government altogether, a continent-wide empire, with you as the first of a line of hereditary American monarchs?

You should be able to predict my answer by now. We have known each other for a long time. If, however, you cannot, then let these words answer.

I am perfectly aware that my present position as absolute ruler of the former State of Colorado is contrary in spirit to that form of government first created on this continent so long ago. I am equally aware of the many millions who have died over the centuries protecting that dream, until the chaos of the Fall seemingly demolished it forever.

But a dream cannot die. Not until the very last person who cherishes it dies or abandons the noble ambitions it embodies. And my late husband the General entrusted me with it.

I assure you that I have not died. Nor have I abandoned the Dream, even if it might seem so because I do not yet have the means to rekindle it in enough hearts and minds to make it manifest and tangible again for all.

3. Please be aware, therefore, that I shall do all in my power to nurture and foster the Dream in my associates. If I do not manage to bring about its restoration in my own lifetime, then I shall do my utmost to ensure that those who continue after me vow to do the same.

Respectfully,

Her Excellency, Kristana D'Arcy, the Governor of Colorado."

He tossed the letter on his desk and turned to Brutus. "You have to admire such determined foolishness. She's dedicated, if misguided. I'll be sad to see her go. How are the preparations coming?"

His most senior officer twirled his mustache before answering. "Quite well, Excellency. As you know, once we were able to finally disable all of the booby traps and enter the Armory, our most learned scholars began studying the manuals and diagrams. I won't pretend there isn't a lot to learn about all of it, but the documentation is meticulous. It's only a matter of time before we know enough to use any of the ancient weapons."

Peter leaned back in his chair. "Knowing isn't the same thing as being able to apply that knowledge," he said. "What use is it to have armored vehicles if we don't have the fuel that was used to power them?"

Brutus leaned forward and lit his pipe from one of the candles on the desk. Peter did not exactly approve of the habit, but allowed the trade with the Eastern potentates in Dixie because it was one of several ways of infiltrating his spies into the region on the other side of the Mississippi.

"As to that," he said, "I believe that we have a couple of solutions. First, our records indicate that alternative fuels can be fashioned. We can ferment plant material and animal dung to produce a flammable gas called _methane_ which the ancient vehicles could be converted to use instead of gasoline or diesel. Or we could use crops with sugar in them such as corn to ferment and make alcohol and use that as fuel."

"Don't we need the dung for fertilizer, and the crops to feed our people and livestock?" Peter shook his head. "We don't want to win a war at the price of causing a famine. What's the second option?"

"It's potentially easier, but a little more controversial. We do have the ancient oil wells which the alien witchcraft made unnecessary. We could start using them again. We still have the ancient records to tell us how to refine diesel and gasoline from oil pumped from the ground."

Peter thought about that. "Just how would we go about that? We have no working pumps to pull the oil out of the ground. If I remember my history, the oil was useless until it was processed in refineries. And we have no refineries left! Nothing but rust and old buildings. Even if we could rebuild one, there would be no way to power it."

"Actually, your Excellency," Brutus said smoothly, "that turns out not to be the case."

Peter stared at him. "All right. What do you know that I don't?"

Brutus took a deep breath. "This is where it gets controversial," he said. "Although we have no pumps, there are some leftover _swizzles_ here and there. We could use them to suck the oil out of the wells that still have oil in them. And it's an oversimplification, but the refineries basically boiled the different fractions like gasoline, kerosene, and diesel out of the crude oil. We could always replace the heat source for the refineries with _everflames_ to heat up the crude oil. My engineers tell me it could all be done with what we have, without having to sacrifice crops or fertilizer."

_So that's what he meant by controversial._ "The Church wouldn't like it. They're firmly of the opinion that the Gifts of the Tourists are demonic, you know."

Brutus had to smile at that. "No such thing as demons," he said. "Fuck the Church."

Peter eyed him. "They've been very useful to me," he reminded the older man. "One hand washing the other. They keep the people in line for me." He fingered the letter from Kristana. "And truth be told, I want to rebuild the old technology _without_ any alien trash."

"That," Brutus told him frankly, "won't happen in your lifetime. It took a thousand years to do it the first time. It might take half that long to do it again, even with the old records to help us along."

"You've said that before, General. But why? Like you just said, we have most of the old records to help us avoid guessing how to do things."

Brutus got up and began to pace back and forth in the office. _Another dumb habit_ , Peter thought. The day was warm. If he keeps that up he'll be sweating all over his uniform. But he said nothing, knowing that Brutus believed it helped him think.

"Any blacksmith," said Brutus, "can flatten the end of an iron bar, temper it to the right hardness, and put a wooden handle on it to make a screwdriver. That's no major job. Now you have a tool to screw things together. But it's the _screws_ that are the trouble. They made those with a special machine. We can put together houses and tables and such with glue and wooden pegs to hold them together, but if you want to screw things together, you need to make a lot of screws. Well, _screw_ the screws, hah, bit of a joke there. We'll weld the metal together. But to do that you need either a torch that burns a gas they used to call _acetylene_ (or something like it), or an arc welder that uses electricity, neither of which we have. Okay, let's say you decided to do it with electricity. Now you have to first build a generators to make the electricity."

He stopped and faced Peter. "Technology comes in layers, and you have to have the lower layers to build the higher ones. You have to make the machines that make the machines that make the machines. And you can't skip the steps. That's what I'm saying. It would be like trying to climb a flight of steps without using the bottom steps first. When the Fall happened, well, we lost the whole staircase."

Peter scowled. "What you're telling me is we have the weapons of war. But it'll take a generation or two to have fuel for them, unless we use the Gifts for shortcuts."

"Correct, Excellency. If you want to conquer Rado, you're going to have to make the Church unhappy in the short term. Eventually we'll have electric pumps to get oil and factories to make whatever we want. But in the short term, we have some well-preserved tanks and guns and armored personnel carriers and things like that, but no fuel. We just have to make the fuel."

"What about ammunition?"

Brutus pursed his lips. "Some of it has to have gone bad by now. But we have formulas for some of the old propellants. We can fix the ammo."

He thought about it. No way he would be able to hide the use of "demonic" shortcuts from the Church for long. They had their spies just as he did. But the leader of the Church was a man of the world. He would see the need for bending the rules in private, as long as they continued to pay lip service in public to the official Church ban on using alien technology.

"I'll talk to the Pontiff," he said. You get people started on identifying which wells can still be tapped, and laying your hands on the swizzles and everflames you need. Get me that fuel!"

## Chapter 8

### Aria: "and crawled head downward"

This was a stupid idea. She knew it. Yet news of his return had fired her interest, and she'd risk it one last time. The risk of discovery and her mother's displeasure had always been more than balanced in the past by the thrill of watching unobserved, and now there was an extra reason for her trespass. Her pale beauty was not without its uses. The watcher on the roof that saw the mirror signals was young; he told her the message before passing it downstairs.

Still, this was stupid, and she knew it. The ventilation duct that had afforded such opportunities in the past was not so roomy now that she had grown. Part of her wanted to shriek at the closeness of the passage, as she wormed her way toward the vent that looked down on the audience chamber. There was no room to turn around! She'd have to back out the way that she had come, all the way to where the big fan had been before part of the ducting had been made into a swizzle. Even now, the air whispered past her toward the vent. A thorough bath had washed away the flowery essences she normally used for perfume.

Still, this was stupid. All it would take was a particle of dust, and one incautious sneeze to betray her presence to those she wished to spy upon. Against this possibility, she'd plugged her nostrils with bits of cloth. But nothing was ever certain.

At last she reached the vent and breathed a mental sigh of relief. The part of her that hated the closeness of the duct about her grown body could finally be distracted by the sights and sounds from the other side of the slotted panel.

As always, the view was excellent; the vent was behind and above the Governor's desk. Although the room was not small, she always brought with her a pocket telescope her mother had given her when she was just a girl. Naturally, she'd never disclosed the uses to which this instrument was put in the ventilation ducts of the old 'scraper.

There was, she remembered, another duct opposite this one on the far side of the chamber, from which she could, if she wished, observe her mother's face during meetings. But that was far less interesting. Who would want to watch the backs of the heads of the visitors, when one could see their fear, greed, consternation, anger, relief, and all the other fleeting expressions engendered by an audience with the Governor of Rado? Good times.

There had been times when she had been afraid herself, had feared that her mother's wolfhounds would be present and alert the others to her unseen presence. But they were rarely present at audiences. Though well trained, they were, at even the best of times, prone to growl at an unfamiliar servitor approaching Her Excellency to refill a goblet or bring some document for scrutiny. Though such interruptions were often useful for intimidating certain visitors, they were more often annoying. The dogs usually spent these intervals chained in the staircases on guard duty.

Cautiously, avoiding the faintest clink of lens against metal, she swiveled the old scope to survey the chamber as best she could. There was no sign of the canines. Unfortunately, there was no sign either of those she sought. With difficulty, she suppressed a sigh of impatience.

Finally, there was the sound of the door opening. Eagerly, she pressed her eye to the telescope and turned it toward the far end of the chamber.

Xander strode into the room. She had to smile at the way his nonchalance transformed the guards escorting him from captors into an honor guard, an impromptu entourage. Close behind him was a stranger, a rather nondescript young man with fair hair and blue eyes in peasant clothing. He bore a look of watchful alertness, clearly ill at ease but trying to hide it. He looked to be near her own age, and his frame had only begun to fill out with the muscles of adulthood.

Her mother looked up from the documents she was studying. "Back so soon, Xander? Sometimes I wonder why you take the trouble to leave us at all."

Xander grinned and shrugged. "It takes as long as it takes, Excellency, and not one moment longer. I must apologize for the lateness of the hour. I had thought to ride back before midnight, but my new associate is not accustomed to the saddle."

"I trust you'll rectify that deficiency. So this is the new one, eh?"

"I'm afraid so. Your Excellency, I have the honor to present Lester, of Inverness. Lester, meet Kristana D'Arcy, the Governor of Colorado."

The boy stepped forward. His bow was not graceful, but at least he was trying to be respectful. "Your Excellency, this is an unexpected honor. I am not entirely sure why I am here, at all."

There was a slight echo from all the hard surfaces in the room, but his words carried clearly to Aria's ears, as did her mother's answering chuckle.

"Oh dear," said the Governor. "Surely my wizard has explained the situation?"

"I have begun to, Your Excellency," said Xander. "However, since he is... not familiar with matters of State, additional explanation will doubtless be required to fully acquaint him with his new responsibilities."

_You mean, he has no clue what has happened to him._ Hidden behind the grille, Aria closed her eyes for a moment. Truly, she didn't know whether to pity or envy the boy. If she were permitted to wager, she would have bet that Xander had neglected to mention what had become of his previous apprentices.

"We will leave it to you then. Welcome to Denver, Lester of Inverness."

Oops! The audience was at an end. She should have realized her mother wouldn't be interested in questioning a commoner who knew little of events outside his village. Quickly, she began backing down the duct.

It was long minutes before she reached the fan room. Emerging in rather undignified fashion, bottom first, she dropped to her feet and turned to dive into the return duct that drew air from her own quarters. If her mother dropped in on her before retiring for the evening, it could make for an awkward scene. Worming her way as fast as she could against the returning air, she soon reached another vent and kicked it open and fell onto her chest of drawers, nearly knocking it over. Nervously, she turned and closed the vent with a click before clambering down off the dresser and jumping into bed. She nearly pulled the sheets off her mattress, so frantically did she yank them up to cover her dusty bedclothes. She closed her eyes and let her face go slack. And not a moment too soon! Scarcely a minute passed before she heard someone open her door, trying to be quiet. The door closed with a muffled click a few moments later.

In the darkness, Aria smiled triumphantly.

## Chapter 9

### Lester: "stumps of time were told upon the walls"

"You never said you were the Governor's wizard," he said as they walked down the hall to the staircase. At least some things made sense, now that he knew this.

Xander smiled. "You never asked. But of course you couldn't have known to ask. I don't make a habit of announcing it, unless it serves some purpose." He reached out, beating the guards to it, and opened the door to the stairwell. There was an answering growl. "Oh, hush," he said to the waiting guard dogs, as he and Lester passed them. "You've seen both of us before."

"She didn't seem surprised that you ran off," Lester remarked. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Lots of times. She knows I'll always come back, even if they don't find me. Which they usually do, since I let them."

"Do you always bring someone back with you?"

"Not always. Sometimes I leave for... different reasons," the old man said vaguely.

They continued down the stairs in silence for a minute. Lester had an uneasy feeling in his gut that finally gave voice to a question. "Just how many apprentices do you have here?"

"Including you?" Xander smiled sadly. "One, at the moment."

His stomach tightened. This did not sound good at all. "Where are the others?"

"Most of them are dead, actually. It's a dangerous occupation, being a wizard's apprentice. Not everybody likes them. One of the first things you'll have to learn is how to make yourself invisible. And how to defend yourself. We'll talk about that presently, among other things."

"Most of them are dead? What about the others?"

"A few are gone to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Then there's poor Ludlow, of course." Xander stopped four floors down from the one they had left, and opened the door for Lester. "The less said about him the better." He led the way past a door that read ARTIFACTS and another labeled ARCHIVES before he opened the third, simply titled WIZARD.

From his storybooks back in Inverness Lester had expected to see perhaps a room filled with such things as serpents, magic wands, a hanging stuffed alligator, and perhaps a couple of humans skulls topped with the bumpy pyramids of drizzled candles.

What he saw was books. Lots of books. The walls were covered in bookshelves, row upon row of them stretching down one wall and across another. More books than he had ever thought to see together at any place in his lifetime were revealed by the light pouring into the room from the hallway.

Suddenly he found himself not regretting being kidnapped quite so much. "Are all these yours?" he asked, awed. He had exactly six books in his room back in the inn. At the thought of them a pang of homesickness passed through him, only to be snuffed out again by the presence of all those volumes waiting on the walls.

Xander did not appear to have heard his question. "Otto? Otto? Where are you, devil?"

The old man waved a hand, and light flooded the room from overhead. Lester looked up, startled, and saw a glass tube in the ceiling. A blue-white line inside the glass made him blink at its brightness, and he looked away in time to see a peculiar-looking cat hop down from a chair in a corner, dart around a low wooden table, and run up to rub itself against the graying wizard's legs.

The cat looked even stranger now that it was closer. A solid black tail grew out from an all-white rump. Most of its fur, in fact, was bright white, save for an irregular black patch on one side, another on the top of its head, and some little black spots under its mouth as if it had been recently drinking black ink. "Did you miss me?" Xander asked.

"Rrrrrt," said Otto. Lester had been expecting a meow but none seemed forthcoming.

"I doubt it, you old rascal. You just say that for my benefit, don't you?"

"Rrrrrrt"," Otto agreed, eying Lester warily.

"Otto, this is Lester, my new apprentice. Les, meet Otto. Try not to step on him, will you? I've had him for a long time, and he sometimes forgets that humans can be more careless and less graceful than his own species."

Lester squatted down and extended his hand to let Otto inspect it. Only after the animal sniffed it cautiously and satisfied himself did he venture to scratch it gently behind an ear. This Otto tolerated, before returning his attention to Xander and finally meowing.

"Ah, I see you know about cats," said Xander, reaching inside his cloak to produce a crumbly bit of cheese. Otto deigned to accept this offering.

"Of course. My Ma has a couple at the inn, Jules and Pixie. To keep down the mice."

"Course she does. Course she does." Without looking, Xander let his staff go and it fell into the corner by the front door with a muffled clink as it struck the wall. Suddenly Lester realized that the staff, which he had taken for wood, must be a thin length of pipe, painted brown. From the way Xander had handled it, the old man must be stronger than he appeared at first glance.

"The Governor sounded like she's known you for a long time," he said, making conversation. "How did you end up here? Were you born in Denver?"

"Nowhere near. But I worked for her husband, the General." Xander removed his cloak and threw it over a chair. "That was almost twenty years ago."

"What was he like?"

Xander flopped into a chair and scratched his beard thoughtfully. "The General? I expect you've heard a lot about him already."

"Yes, but not from anybody who knew him. Is it true that he used to lead charges against enemy armies, instead of directing them from the rear?"

"Not everything you hear about him is true," the wizard replied, dragging a stool toward him to put his feet up. "But that one is. He claimed he got the idea from someone called Alexander. Or was it Caesar? Anyway, it wasn't just bravery. He always claimed it was to inspire the troops, but between you and me, I think he knew they were afraid to lose him." He paused, gazing at nothing. "He'd charge right in, and they just had to charge after the rascal to save his bacon."

"Rrrrrrt," Otto agreed.

Lester rubbed his eyes and yawned. It had been a long day. "Are you really a wizard?"

Xander shrugged. "That depends on who you ask," he said. "If you're asking, do I have a pact with the Devil, or spirits who do my bidding, the answer is no. There are no 'magic words', no matter what you've read in storybooks, and as far as I know, no demons or angels either. If you're asking if I can do things most people can't, well then the answer is yes. I can."

"Like make yourself disappear," Lester prompted.

"Like that," the wizard agreed. "That's just an application of what I call _pathspace_. Fairly simple, but surprisingly handy in a pinch. You'll start on that tomorrow."

Lester looked down, then up again. "How do you know I won't just run away?"

Xander laughed. "Two reasons. For one thing, I know where to find you. Retrieving you would hardly be any trouble – your father's inn is a regular stop for the coach."

He had to frown at that, because it was true. He couldn't just go home, when he made his escape. He'd be running away, not toward. "And the other reason?" he challenged.

Xander just smiled. "Oh that's even simpler, and the same reason I usually don't. We're on the thirtieth floor here, and the Governor always posts armed guards outside my rooms." He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "But feel free to fly away, if you can."

## Chapter 10

Kristana: "and made firm the sand"

The Governor walked, and did not walk in peace. How could she, with everything that was happening? But her face was impassive as she passed the guard stations. _You must always be more confident, more calm than the troops_ , the General had told her. She could remember the scene as if it were last night.

"Even if I'm not?" she had asked, sitting by the bed, listening to his labored breathing.

"Especially if you're not! _Nothing_ will terrify them so much as thinking their Commander is worried." He coughed into a handkerchief, and groped for his cup of water. "They will always assume that you know more than they do, whether you do or not. If you look worried, they'll assume there's something bad you haven't told them. And nothing is scarier than a danger you don't know the details of. Not knowing what it is makes it a hundred times more scary."

"But I'm only human" she protested.

"Not when I'm gone, you won't be," he retorted. "You'll have to be something more, their rock in the quicksand. You're ready for this. Tough enough for this. In the last year you've met commanders, reviewed troops, and debriefed returning sorties. We've let them see you by my side in all major decisions. This will work. It has to. People, especially troops, need to believe that _someone_ has a plan, that someone has the answers. Otherwise... otherwise it's all quicksand, and they'll panic."

She stroked his head. "But what if it _is_ all quicksand?" she whispered.

"Then you fake it," he said. "You'd be surprised how much your troops can do if they don't know how bad the odds are. I've led them to victory many a time against odds of five, ten to one. Do you think I ever said 'men, we're doomed, but put up a good fight anyway?' Hell no! I put on my war face and said 'let's go GET those fuckers!' And we did. Every time." He stopped and retched into the handkerchief again. Specks of blood stained the linen. She felt as if they were coming out of her own heart.

"Robbie" she whispered, using the name no one else dared use with him, "Robbie... I don't know if I can do it. _You're_ my rock. Without you, love, it's _all_ quicksand."

He just looked at her with those hazel eyes. Eyes she had worshiped for eighteen years still pierced her like darts, opened holes into her soul, wounds that would never close. Even now, in his last battle, they remained clear and imposing. "You _must_ ," he told her. "Or everything I've done was for nothing. For nothing! Without a strong leader, it'll be civil war, and you know it. The State will collapse, and Texas will pick up the pieces. Are you going to let that happen? Is that how you are going to remember me? Is that – " he lapsed into another coughing fit, but above the linen clenched in his fist, his eyes held hers, indomitable.

She waited until the worst of it passed. Slowly, he regained control, but his color was paler now, as if he were using up the last drop of himself to try to get through to her. Then he spoke again, but she had to lean forward to make out the words.

"If you ever loved me," he said, "then do this. Do it for me. Do it for yourself. Do it for all the poor bastards who will be lost without you. Keep the dream alive!"

His head fell back on the pillow, but the eyes still watched her, waiting for her agreement. Those eyes clung to her as unwaveringly as the General had clung to his Dream.

There was a knock at the door. Without waiting, Collins stepped into the room. The young lieutenant's face was blank, but new lines at the corners of his eyes, a hint of redness in them from blinking back too many tears, and the way he unconsciously fiddled with one of his buttons betrayed his nervousness, his unspoken fears for the future. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he began, "but the doctor says that we need – "

Kristana stood. She was not a tall woman, but at the moment she refused to acknowledge that. It was now or never. "YOU NEED?" she roared. "How DARE you? Do you know who I am?"

He snapped to attention at the sound of her voice and gulped. "Y-you are the – "

"I AM THE ACTING GOVERNOR OF COLORADO!" she screamed. "Get OUT! Get out and give this man some peace, by GOD, or you'll wish you had never been born!"

Collins jerked like a he had been slapped and his hand rose without conscious thought, snapping her a salute. Without a word he turned, ramrod straight, and marched from the room.

"And tell the Cabinet to assemble in the main meeting hall in one hour!" she bellowed after his fleeing back. Then she turned back to the General.

His hazel eyes were twinkling, and a smile was playing about his lips.

"That's my girl," he said, and closed his eyes.

He kept smiling for another minute or so. Then his face went slack.

His last battle was finally over. And he had won.

## Chapter 11

Lester: "For those who walk in darkness"

Lester's mind bobbed back to the surface of awareness. _What a strange dream,_ he thought. Groggily, he shook his head and swung his feet over the edge of the bed in the darkness of the room. No time to think about that now. Time to check the chickens for eggs. Well, that and inspect the coop to make sure no foxes had tried to get in during the night. After that he –

His thoughts scattered like a frightened flock of birds when his feet landed on the carpet. _There was no carpet in his room._ But here there was.

Light flooded the room, summoning the room from his dream.

"So," said Xander, looking up at him from the chair, "you're awake. Good. Now we can get an early start."

Lester sagged into a chair and glared at the old man. "An early start at what? You can't keep me here forever, you know. I'll find a way to get away!"

Xander laughed. "Of course you will. I'll be disappointed if you don't. If you do, it'll mean you've learned a thing or two."

Lester sighed. He knew how this would go. He's been through it all ready with Gerrold. They say they teach you, but what you basically get to do is to sweep their floors. If this old man really was a wizard he'd never share his secrets. Not in a million years.

"Let's start with some tea," Xander suggested. He pulled his chair over to the table next to Lester's, then crossed the room and came back with a small pouch of something which he dropped on the table. Then he went off again and to Lester's astonishment he heard water gurgling into a container.

Xander grinned at his expression when he returned with two cups, a wooden spoon, a metal bowl of water with three stubbly legs, and a small jar of something, all balanced on a wooden tray he set next to the little pouch.

"I expect you've never had this before," the old man said. "Doesn't grow on this continent at all. But Aria has some on the upper floors. No idea where she managed to get the seedlings."

Lester stared at him. He had no clue what the wizard was talking about, and hardly cared. "How did you get water?" he blurted. "Did someone bring it up while I was asleep?"

"Of course not. There's rain and dew collectors on the roof that drain down to a tank in the basement. The old molecular sieves filter out dust and such, and I've restored the _swizzles_ they put in when the 'scraper was built, shortly before the Fall, so there's no problem pulling it up from the tank." Seeing Lester's lack of comprehension, he added, "Remind me to show you the bathroom later on."

Lester had understood very little of that utterance, but he knew that a tank was something like the watering trough in front of the inn. Forcing himself to swallow his pride, he asked a few questions and learned that 'scraper meant a _sky-scraper_ , the old name for a very tall building such as this one, and the Fall referred to the collapse of the old civilization that had existed before the coming of the Tourists.

"I still don't understand," he complained. "If the Ancients were so wise, with all the wonders you've described, then how could they have let it all go? How could they have fallen so far, just because they saw that some things could be easier?" He wanted to pound the table. "There has to be more to it than simple laziness!"

"Don't underestimate the power of shattered pride, lad." Xander closed his eyes, then opened them. "For those who walk in darkness," he said, "a little light can be blinding. The technology of the Ancients was difficult and wasteful and often poisonous. When they built their machines, the process generated some nasty by-products. I've told you about electricity, their tamed lightning that ran through metal wires to light their cities.

"But the electricity didn't make itself, like the wind. It came from other sources of power that they set to turning wheels called dynamos. Some of them were turned by waterfalls. Some were turned by the wind. But some were turned by steam-power that came from nuclear energy. And the strange metals they used to power their nuclear power stations grew ever more deadly as they burned, producing a slew of other elements that were both poisonous like snake venom and hot like cold fire that could burn for thousands of years.

"And when they saw that the alien technology wasn't just different, but actually better, cleaner, and safer, well, it broke them. Some of them just gave up, like children who have seen adults do things in a better way than they can. When they saw that the aliens had a way of magicking a wheel so that it turned without a power source, they stopped learning how to make motors and engines."

Xander reached into a pocket and held out something for his inspection. It was a gold coin, recently struck, with the image of the General on one side and the words "ONE DOLLAR" on the other. "Do you know what the value of this is?"

Lester frowned at him. "Everyone knows that. It's worth a dollar. A dollar's worth of food, or leather, or wood."

Xander shook his head. "You're wrong," he said. "Some ancients would agree with you, and say because it is gold, a precious metal, that it has intrinsic value. But suppose you were out in the wilderness, with no food or water, no animals or streams, and had this. What would it be worth, when there is no one who will trade you food for it?"

Lester shrugged. "In that case, I guess it wouldn't be worth much, then."

"Wrong again. You have to learn to think of it as not just a lump of metal. All matter is made of whizzing bits of energy, and can be used to interact with energy. Especially good conductors like gold." The wizard placed the coin on the table top and leaned forward. "Now pay attention. I'm about to make it more useful, more valuable than just a shiny lump."

Lester wasn't sure what he expected. Perhaps some magical words, or else mystic passes over it. But Xander did none of that. He closed his eyes. "I want you to try to feel what I do to it," he said. "Close your eyes and open your mind."

"I know how to close my eyes, but how do I open my mind?"

"That's something I can't teach you. You'll have to find your own way. Try to imagine something in your head expanding outside your own skull, and reaching toward the coin as I work the change upon the space around it."

He tried. But he didn't seem to feel much of anything, and told the old man as much.

Xander opened his eyes. "No matter. It was only your first attempt. You would have to be quick, anyway. I've done it so many times that I can almost do it in my sleep by now."

"Do what?" said Les, although he was beginning to suspect.

Xander slid the coin under the bowl of water on its stubby tripod legs and regarded it. "Make it an _everflame_ ," he said.

His hand reached out to stroke the side of the coin. A reddish mote of light appeared in the air above the coin and grew in intensity as he stroked the edge of the coin clockwise, until it was a hot point of blue-white radiance. "What I've done," he said, "is to affect a change in the space near the metal that makes it able to concentrate free energy to a point. It releases heat and light without needing to burn wood or oil, and you can turn the power up or down by stroking the side. It's just like the one your mother uses to cook back at the inn in Inverness."

Lester supposed he ought to be impressed, but he was used to seeing the _everflame_ back home. "And how would this make it more useful out in the wilderness?" he challenged. "I'd still have no food or water."

"No," Xander agreed. "But you could use this to stay warm and keep wolves away. A simple coin couldn't do that." He drew a handful of something from the little pouch and sprinkled it on the surface of the water. It appeared to be dried leaves of some kind. Gradually, they began to soak up the water, and waterlogged, to sink down into the warming liquid as he continued to speak.

"Do you remember the trick with the soup?"

"The what?" Lester looked up from the water to the wizard's eyes, but the old man was still intent on the submerging fragments.

"When we first met, you wanted to know how I did it. It was in the nature of a test, you know. I'd sensed that someone with the potential to learn magic was in that village."

Lester's brow compressed. "The soup test?" But he remembered now. The bits of cracker had been drifting around the soup. No, he thought. Not just drifting. They were circling, and going in opposite directions. At the time it had seemed strange.

"Most people are too caught up in the eddies of fate, too absorbed in their own muddled lives to notice the truly peculiar, even when it is right in front of them," said Xander. "We are every day, all of us, surrounded by wonders our entire lives. Sunlight lifts water into clouds that snow upon the distant hills, so rivers don't run out of water. Most life slows to a sluggish pace in winter, only to explode into growth again in the spring in time to save us from starving. We walk on sand that used to be mountains. And most of us are blind to such mysteries. To wonders. But to become a wizard, you must not be blind to them."

Lester cracked a smile. "You're saying the reason I'm here is because I wasn't blind to the wonder of circling soup crackers?"

"In times not long from now," the wizard predicted, "you will remember that the course of your life was changed forever by two bits of cracker in a bowl of soup."

"So how _did_ you do it?"

"With magic," thee old man answered. "Not the sort from storybooks, with flaming swords and summoned demons. The magic of Psionics, the effect of the mind upon space."

Now Lester frowned. "You mean, on the crackers. There's nothing to affect in space. It's empty, or else we couldn't move through it."

"I mean what I say. I altered the space around them, and the crackers just followed where the space wanted them to go. I call it _pathspace_. I don't know what the Tourists called it. I didn't push the crackers. I set up the paths that they followed."

"But how? How did you do it?" Now he found that he really _did_ want to know. The old man said he had the seeds of greatness in him. Him! Useless Lester! Could it be true? Could he ignore the chance? _Father_ , he prayed, _help me become what is required to avenge you_.

"Your mind," said Xander, "is mapped onto the world. Projected upon it. Written upon it. While we live, while we live in this space, we are affected by it. We can perceive events that take place within it, aided by our senses born of flesh and wired to our very souls. And this goes both ways. We are affected, AND we can affect. You can see and draw, be touched and sculpt, hear _and_ speak."

"But how?" he begged the old man. "I can touch the table with my hand. I can speak with my tongue and the wind of my lungs. But how do I touch _space_? "

"A man with eyes, kept forever in dark, will never learn to see, or to paint what he sees," answered Xander. "But you were fortunate. The Gifts of the Tourists are fading, but you, unlike many of your fellow humans, grew up exposed to the magic, to the altered paths of space and energy that make your inn's _coldbox_ and _everflame_ work. You have been exposed to light, and your sense is growing."

"But I felt _nothing_!" he insisted. "Whatever you think, I'm still blind, still deaf to it!"

"No," said the wizard. "I'm not wrong, not about this. The process has begun in you, and it never stops, never goes backwards. Stick with me lad, and you'll flower yet, trust me. Every day we'll expose you to more, and more kinds, and before you know it you'll see that I'm right."

Then there was a knock at the door, and for a time Lester forgot his frustration, forgot his hopes and despair, when the most beautiful girl in the world brought in their breakfast.

## Chapter 12

Aria: "A pool among the rock"

There was almost no sound as pale feet in golden sandals trod the ancient concrete of the stairwell. Aria moved without haste, but still had to work to keep the tray balanced as she descended. Lucky for her that the Governor kept her court wizard near her, else she surely would have spilled the contents of the tray ere she reached the old man's quarters.

Hugging the tray to her with one arm, she pushed the door open at the thirtieth floor and headed down the corridor. Jon and Edgar slouched against the wall outside the door she sought. They straightened as she approached, and not entirely from military reflex. She smiled inwardly.

"Try not to strain yourselves, boys."

An echo of her mother's clucked its tongue inside her. Y _ou should not address your future troops so familiarly._ But she ignored it, or tried to, as she always did. She knew from experience that even grizzled veterans took no offense to smiling words from her. _Men are such simple things, so easily charmed._

Edgar gave her a lopsided grin that spoke of groundless optimism. "We didn't expect to see you here, Miss. Where's Doris? Doesn't she usually bring the food for him?"

Aria narrowed her eyes in feigned irritation. "She's not well," she lied. "Do you really wish she had come, instead of me?"

The two men eyed each other. "No, no, I'm just... surprised, is all."

"Then let me in, will you? Or do you want to explain to him why his breakfast is cold today?

Edgar saluted and slid back the bolt and swung the door open for her. She sniffed and pretended not to notice the wink he gave to Jon as they both enjoyed the view of the back of her trousers entering the wizard's rooms.

They were at the table gazing at a steaming bowl of water. Then they looked up at her entrance and her heartbeat quickened, as it always did when she came into Xander's presence.

It was hard to imagine how there could be a greater contrast than the one she saw between the two of them. The apprentice was confused, wary, surprised, and clearly ill at ease as he ran a hand self-consciously through blonde hair. His features were pleasant enough, but his clothes were coarse and patched here and there. Clearly from a poor family. His hands were large and calloused with years of chores, and his boots had seen better days – probably from long-gone years on someone else's feet.

Xander, also was frugal in his attire. His robe and the cloak thrown over a chair were gray and free of ornamentation, serviceable though they were. But the rest of him was so different from the boy that the apprentice might have been his shadow rather than an entity in his own light. Xander's face was lined with decades of character. His beard marked him for an elder. His boots probably cost more than the rest of his outfit put together. And his eyes! Light like the boy's, though gray like her own, rather than blue. Unlike the boy's eyes, those of the wizard were as far from confused as a man's eyes could be. They gazed upon her with calm recognition, without the interest she saw the boy quickly suppress.

"Let me guess," he said. "Doris fell sick and you volunteered to bring our breakfast." But his eyes twinkled, and she saw that he knew this was a lie even before she agreed with him. Suddenly her face felt warm, and she felt an unaccustomed irritation with those eyes, his eyes that seemed hardly to look at anything, yet saw everything – saw right through her own subterfuge that she was sure fooled everyone else.

"Something like that," she muttered.

"In any event," he said, "you're here. Meet my new apprentice Lester. Les, this is Aria, a young lady who knows less than she should but far more than she admits."

Instantly, she saw the boy drop a mask of courtesy across his face. He stood and sketched a quick bow. Which would have been a bit more flattering had his eyes not fastened upon the breakfast tray she discovered she was still holding. She set it down next to the steaming bowl and straightened, a tad more stiffly than she intended.

"Well, there you are. Sorry about the interruption," she said, turning to leave.

"We are never so busy that an interruption bearing food is unwelcome," said Xander with a smile that was dangerously close to a smirk.

She hurried out the door, cursing herself for acting the fool in front of the new apprentice. How was it that the old wizard could make her do that – could so easily make her lose control of her reactions? It was not as if she was in love with the old fool, which from the books she read might have explained it. But no, that wasn't it. It was, rather, as if they shared a bond that went beyond any attraction. As if he were... she didn't know, an older brother, or an uncle seen so often that the only awkwardness between them was the fact that he could always tell when she was lying, or hiding something. Like today.

"So how's the old man doing?" said Jon. Is it true he's got a new apprentice?"

"None of your business," she snapped. "Just make sure he's not disturbed."

And that last was as unnecessary as telling the sun to rise, she realized. Gritting her teeth, she stalked away vowing to ignore Xander and the boy the next time their paths crossed.

She darted up the stairwell and tried to stop growling in her mind. This distracted her enough that she collided with Miss Gerloch. Only the closeness of the stairwell's walls kept the two of them from tumbling to certain injury.

Miss Gerloch put a hand behind her head and patted her bun back into shape, as she glared at Aria. "Where have you been? We were supposed to resume your training in Geopolitics over twenty minutes ago!"

"I'm sorry, Miss Gerloch. I had to take care of something first."

The older woman shook her head in exasperation. "I swear, hardly a day goes by that I don't wonder why I even bother. And then I remember." She fixed Aria with a brown-eyed glare. "Do you know what it is that I remember?" she grated, as she straightened her stiff and unflattering black dress.

"That one day I will be Governor, and must be prepared for that," Aria recited.

"If you can remember that, can remember just that one thing, then there is a tiny chance that the last three years have not been a complete waste of my time." Miss Gerloch turned away. "Now come along. The Map room won't come to us, child."

Aria hurried to catch up with her obsessive tutor, and was a little short of breath by the time she reached the thirty-fifth floor. Miss Gerloch didn't bother to wait for her. She flung open the door and flew in like some enormous bat diving into a cave mouth. Sighing, Aria followed.

She nearly turned right around again, because Ludlow was there.

She ought to have expected it, because she'd heard from Mabel that he spent a lot of time in here these days. Which was probably a good thing, since he didn't fit in anywhere else. Ludlow was too informed to be a commoner, but too crude and brusque to be a courtier. In her opinion, he knew a little about everything, but not enough about anything to fill a useful position in the Governor's staff.

In Ludlow's opinion, she knew, he _already_ filled a valuable position – that of a generalist advisor, an expert of unspecified expertise. He maintained that the Governor needed someone who knew how different areas of concentration related to each other. Someone, for example, who knew what farmers would think if the military demanded more jerky for field rations instead of more milk for the cheese makers. Or someone who could suggest ways to convert fabrics seized in border raids for military bandages.

But really, she couldn't stand the man! He was so, so in-between about everything. Never sure what he thought, until he'd heard what _you_ thought, so that he could seem to be agreeing with you. Never interested in anything until he learned _you_ were – at which point he would exclaim that he'd been fascinated with it for years. He was a human chameleon, with no color of his own. No, she decided, not a chameleon. Even lizards had more personality. He was a pool among the rock, reflecting his surroundings without addition or improvement. A mirror in the shape of a man.

And his eyes were always clinging to her as if trying to pry her clothes off. It always made her want to go and take a bath.

"Why, hello, Aria!" he oozed. "What a pleasant surprise seeing you here today."

As if he didn't know she had Geopolitics in the Map room at nine every morning. Her eyes narrowed. "More pleasant for some than others," she said.

His eyebrow lifted. "Oh dear," he murmured. "Has someone spoiled your mood already? Fear not, the day will improve, I'm sure of it."

_Not in the way you hope._ "Were you looking for something particular in here?"

"Alas, no. Just trying to pick up a few more facts, learn a bit more. You know how it is. I'm always looking for ways to make myself more useful."

_Indeed you are. More useful than anyone wants. Why didn't you just go away when Xander decided you would never be much of a wizard?_ "I see," she said.

"Aria! Stop wasting time with Mister Ludlow and get over here!"

She closed her eyes and turned toward Miss Gerloch, erasing him from her existence and avoiding the conspiratorial wink he was aiming in her direction. "Yes, Miss Gerloch."

"Time for review drill. Name all of the neighboring countries and for each, give the ruler or rulers, the form of government, and the main exports."

"To the West," she began, "is the kingdom of Deseret, a theocracy, ruled by the Prophet. Their main exports are salt and agricultural products. To the South lies the Empire of Texas, with a dynastic monarchy ruled by the Honcho, and their chief exports are beef, leather, and... and livestock."

"Continue."

"To the East we have the kingdom of Kansouri, with a constitutional monarchy consisting of the Council of Nine. Their exports are wood, livestock, and textiles. To the – "

"What sort of textiles?" interrupted Miss Gerloch.

"Wool, flax linen, and burlap or sackcloth."

"Very well. Continue."

"To the North lies the People's Republic of Wyoming, a communalist union of farm-states with a Worker's Congress of representatives. Their chief exports are wheat, beef, and corn flour."

Miss Gerloch turned to the wall, which held a map without labels. It showed the entire continent, _without_ the boundaries of the various kingdoms, those shattered remnants of the original Union. It was something the General had put there, twenty years ago. His Dream.

"Not bad for a start," she said. "Now go further. What lies beyond Deseret to the West?"

"Californ. Ruled by the Queen of Angeles, Earl of Francisco, and the Duke of the Northern Forests. Main exports are fruits, wines, artworks and hemp."

"And to the far East of us, east of Okla?"

"The Dixie Emirates. Ruled by the Council of Emirs. Chief exports are tobacco, corn, rugs, and coal." Aria paused. "Have you ever been there, Miss Gerloch?"

The older woman turned away from the map to face her. "I have," she said. "And someday I might even tell you about it."

## Chapter 13

### Peter: "Of the backward devils"

His Excellency, Defender of the Faith, by the grace of God the Honcho, ruler of the Lone Star Empire adjusted his sword belt and glanced at the water clock in the corner of his office. _Where is the Runt? I told him the audience began at ten._

He almost reached for the bell pull at the side of the desk, but stopped himself. It was bad enough that Jeffrey was late. Announcing the fact to his staff by summoning an adjutant to fetch him would not improve things. _I swear, if he's been drinking again this early, I swear I'll..._

But the thought went unfinished. _You'll what?_ As his only heir, the Runt could not be demoted, and the problem was, Jeffrey knew it. Impatient for a succession that could be decades away, the boy did his best to evade tutors and trainers to spend more time in his cups or the casinos, where he usually lost, secure in the knowledge that the Honcho would cover all debts as a matter of honor. If he were anyone but the Runt Peter would have had him whipped into shape by now.

The door banged open and Jeffrey strolled in, thumbs hooked in his belt, affecting a bored expression that complained without words of the waste of his time.

Peter rose to his feet. "It's about time. Let's go. The Pontiff is already waiting for us."

Four guards snapped to attention as the two of them exited the Honcho's residence. Another held open the door of the coach.

He noted that Jeffrey was interested in the conveyance. The boy had never seen it before, of course. His crafters had been working on it for nearly a year and only completed the final touches on the vehicle last week. They had begun with a conveyance of the Ancients called a "stretch limousine" discovered in remarkably good condition in a private garage in the outskirts of Austin. The body had been lightened by removing the useless engine parts, and the top had been sawed off and replaced with a thin leather arrangement that could be pulled up to cover the occupants in the event of rain, in the manner of the "convertibles" mentioned in the old stories. The windshield had been removed to allow the reins of the four-horse team to reach the driver in the front seat. The result of these labors was a comfortable ride for at least four passengers who could sit in the ancient benches facing each other and enjoy the luxury of the car's suspension, a marvel of twenty-first century engineering. The tires, of course, had decayed long ago, and had been replaced with laminated rims fashioned from many layers of birch bark and a resinous glue compounded by the royal alchemist, who claimed the composite material would survive the wear and tear for at least six months. Materials for the expected replacements had been ordered.

"Do you really think he'll agree to it?" Jeffrey said, interrupting the Honcho's meditations upon vehicular adaptation.

"Eventually. But he'll probably have a lot to say about how we handle it. The Pontiff and I are in complete agreement on rebuilding civilization's infrastructure without any of the Tourist technology. But we disagree on the timetable."

"How so?"

"As you know, there are only so many surviving governments on the continent. The more we absorb – "

"You mean, conquer."

"Indeed. The more we conquer, the fewer are left to threaten an alliance against our expansion. To expedite the process, however, we need a mechanized army to field a decisive advantage. Which means, naturally, that we need our fuel as soon as we can get it."

The car slowed to negotiate a turn onto Church Lane. This was facilitated by the fact that the driver had tied the reins to the steering wheel. As he hauled the wheel around to his left, this pulled in the reins for the left-hand horses, slowing them, and permitting the right-hand horses more time to cover their longer arc of the turn.

"Which is why you are proposing to make an exception and use _swizzles_ and _everflames_ to extract the oil and distill your gasoline," said the Runt.

"Yes. His Holiness, however, will try to argue us out of it. He's perfectly happy to accept a more gradual expansion, if it means we can avoid what he is not willing to accept as a necessary evil."

Jeffrey craned his neck to look at the sky. Peter could guess what he was thinking. Probably hoping there would be no rain to force them to use the leather cover, which would spoil their unobstructed view. For his part, he wasn't worried. His Meteorologist, whom the Runt referred to as the court Astrologer, had assured him there would be no rain for at least two days. He made no mention of this, however. His holiness had the same opinion of the man as Jeffrey, and it would not make their audience any smoother if the man's name were mentioned.

"I suppose," Jeffrey said, upon reflection, "that he might make an exception should we require extra large-fires for the _conversion_ of all those Protestants and Mormons."

Peter had to smile at that. Sometimes his son surprised him. "Probably not, unless we pointed out that the available wood might be better employed for the building of more churches in the soon-to-be conquered lands."

He did not speak of what they both knew: that the Church had done well in the reduced circumstances Humanity faced after the Fall. What His Holiness called "the arrogance of scientific atheism" has suffered greatly when the civilization that appeared to promote it collapsed. Yes, the Church had done well after that. The problem was, other religions had, also. Many had seized upon prayer for their emotional support, once the loss of technological medicine and industrial food distribution had made survival harder. One only had to look at the Kingdom of New Israel in the Northeast and the Muslim Emirates of Dixie to see that the Church faced stiff competition for the hearts and minds of humanity.

Peter's late grandfather had made Catholicism the official religion of the Lone Star Empire, which had endeared him to His Holiness's predecessor. It was a real coup that the old dog had gotten the Pontiff of the Americas to relocate his New Vatican to Texas. There would, perhaps, be the devil to pay when contact with Europe was reestablished. If the papacy had survived the Fall there, it might mean another war. But that, thankfully, was a long way off. No one that he knew of was spending their resources building navies.

"Try not to make mention of the other religions today," he advised his son. "This audience could be difficult enough without reminding His Holiness of his competition. And let me do most of the talking. I shouldn't need to remind you that any sign of disagreement between us will be looked upon by the Pontiff as a weakness to exploit for further concessions to the Church."

"Further concession?" Jeffrey dropped his pretense of boredom. "Does he truly believe that we need his permission for anything? Could he actually think that Grandfather gave him asylum here because he needed him?"

Peter eyed him. "I see you have your own opinions on the matter," he said.

The Runt pretended interest in something outside the window. "I've made no secret of them," he muttered.

_No, you haven't have you? You still have a lot to learn about governing before you're ready to assume the mantle._ "You said often enough that you think the Church a quaint establishment, outdated and meaningless." He shook his head. "Perhaps you imagine word of such sentiments will endear you to the population, especially those near your own age."

"No," said Jeffrey, turning back to face him. "I merely see no point or honor in lying about my beliefs."

His father smiled at that. _You just did, and you think I don't know it._ But his pride at Jeffrey's attempt at deception was dampened by the knowledge that the Runt still thought he could fool him. "Then you're not as smart as I thought. Many of the people out there believe that the hardships and plagues we suffer nowadays are a punishment from God for the arrogance of the Ancients."

Jeffrey snorted at that. "It's far more likely that the hardships and sicknesses which you refer to are the result of losing the refrigeration, vaccines, and other advantages which the science of the Ancients used to provide, until the Tourists came and meddled in our affairs."

The Honcho's eyes narrowed. "Sometimes your cynicism is only matched by your foolishness," he snapped. "What you say is true, but _irrelevant_. The majority of the public hasn't had your expensive education, your private tutors, or your access to ancient records. What they believe isn't based on the truth. It's based on what they know, or think they know." He could hear the rising temper in his voice and took a moment to sigh and calm himself. "It has been generations since the Fall happened. None of them has ever seen a functioning refrigerator, a light bulb, an electric stove, or any other device of the Ancients. All they have, instead, are the odd _coldbox_ , _everflame_ , or _glowtube_ , slowly dying. That, and the old stories."

"Told by the priests – as moral lessons," his son spat. "By the flunkies of the old fraud we are on our way to kowtow to."

Peter managed not to slap him. Managed only because of two reasons. First, because it would be taken as a sign of weakness if he let the boy provoke him into losing control – and he wouldn't give the Runt the pleasure of thinking he was slipping. _Your promotion is a long ways away, you senseless idler!_ But the main reason, at the moment, was that they, at that very instant, were pulling into the papal compound. If he struck the lad as he deserved for that crack, it would likely leave a mark – and he'd be damned if he'd show the Pontiff the slightest sign of division in their ranks.

"We are not _kowtowing_ ," he hissed. "The Church is an effective tool of statecraft. If you paid attention to your history tutor you'd know that by now. We don't have to believe in it, in order to use it. And we don't have to suffer the kind of trouble he could cause for us, if nothing more than a show of respect and courtesy will prevent it."

"Or a crossbow at short range." Jeffrey grimaced. "It's not prayer that makes crops grow or herds increase." Seeing Peter's expression, he held up his hands. "Oh, all right, I'll make nice for the sake of the Empire. I'll pretend a respect that I'll never have."

_How did I raise such an insolent fool?_ It was a question he asked himself often, and he asked it yet again while they sat in the Pontiff's outer room. Could I have been that bad before my own promotion, when I was the Runt?

The problem was, he actually agreed with the boy on many points. In a country poised for greatness, the Church contributed little and consumed much. Every bit of coin or hempscript dropped into the coffers of the Texan Catholic Church was money that could have gone to finance his growing army. And unlike other enterprises in his empire, the TCC paid no taxes on its incomes or properties, a convention as inconvenient as it was ancient.

Still, they were needed, at least for the short term. People had to have something to believe in. Naturally, he wished that he were that something, but even he had to admit that the Honcho could not make it rain or ward off sickness. Some of the old stories said the Ancient had controlled the weather. Well, that ability was long gone. Mankind was once again at the mercy of the vagaries of Fate, and until he could offer a viable alternative to their comforting belief in a benevolent Creator watching over them, he was not going to make life harder by trying to take that away from his people.

But what about Jeffrey? Could he make him understand before the idiot inherited the throne? Eventually, the growth of the Lone Star Empire would put them up against the Dixie Emirates. Even if he succeeded in fielding a mechanized army, the Church could come in handy then. A holy war would play out far better in the farms and cottages of the commoners than the mere continuation of the expansionist agenda. With a provoked incident here, and a widely publicized outrage there, they might even volunteer for it and make conscription unnecessary.

## Chapter 14

### Jeffrey: "where the dreams cross"

By the time they were admitted into the presence of the Pontiff, Jeffrey felt like screaming. It was never easy spending time with the Honcho, and even less so when his father was in the mood to teach him. _I've read the books. I know some of the roles the Church has played in history._ Constantine, also, thought he could tame the Church for his own uses. But he was wrong. When they became the official religion of the Roman Empire, they ended persecution of Christians... and immediately set about the persecution of both older religions and younger cults. _My father, led by the example of his father, is making the same mistake as Constantine._

But I shall not repeat his mistake, or continue it, when I am Honcho.

When the chamberlain entered the waiting room, he stood, without waiting for his father to do the same. He could see that the official was amused by this sign of youthful rebellion.

"His Holiness will see you now."

Following his father into the audience chamber, he was amused to see that the Holy Father's minion had crafted him a papal throne, with a short row of lower chairs arranged in front of it. He could see the Honcho's eyes narrow at this, at the way the head of the TCC put him at a disadvantage – from the seats provided, they would be looking up at he who filled the shoes of the Fisherman. Jeffrey wondered how his father would make reply to this without drawing attention to it.

He did not have wait long for his answer. As they approached, His Holiness Pope Rodrigo, the Second of that name, did not stand; he was not a tall man, and it would not have contributed much to the effect his raised throne had already established. This was especially so because he was also not a thin man. He smiled innocently at them and raised his hand, extended his ring to be kissed.

The Honcho replied with just as innocent a smile, but reached forward and shook the Pontiff's hand.

Jeffrey stifled the urge to laugh out loud. The message had been delivered! _We are not your flunkies._ His Holiness's mask of cordiality slipped for just a second, as his eyes flashed with anger, then just as suddenly it was back in place, his smile broad, if a trifle forced. "We are always pleased to greet you, Your Excellency. Please be seated."

Without that "please", thought Jeffrey, I would have ignored him, and remained upright. He waited for his father to seat himself, then settled himself in the chair to the right of him. _No disunity, but a united front. I am his right-hand man. As far as_ you _know, "Holiness"._

"Now then, your Excellency," the man on the throne continued, "to what do We owe the pleasure of this visit?"

The Honcho eyed him. "I suspect that you already know," he said. "But in case your spies are less efficient than I thought, or haven't reported to you yet, I'll summarize. I'm planning a major offensive to expand the Empire, using some vehicles and weapons of the Ancients discovered in a buried Armory."

The Pontiff blinked. "Is this a change in policy – consulting with Us on matters of military strategy?"

"No," said Peter. "Unfortunately, we do not have any fuel for the motorized vehicles. My technicians assure me that they have adequate information to distill sufficient fuel from the crude oil available in the old wells, but there is a catch."

"Word had reached me about the Armory you discovered," Pope Rodrigo admitted. "But my operatives thought that there would be fuel stored along with the vehicles, as undoubtedly there is ammunition for the weapons." He gazed at nothing for a moment. "You mentioned a catch. Let me see. You have the vehicles, and you have the old oil wells, and plans to distill usable fuel from the crude oil. So the question must be how to get the oil out of them. I've heard that there used to be wells called 'gushers' in the old days that literally spewed oil out of the ground when breached by a drill. I take it that you do not have any of those left?"

"None. We'll have to pump it out by force."

Now His Holiness appeared to be confused. "But pumps are simple. Our monks use them all the time to get well water for drinking, cooking and watering crops."

"We will need a lot of crude oil to make our fuel," the Honcho told him. "And it is deep underground. Hand pumps won't do the job. We could devise rotary-operated pumps driven by teams of oxen, but they'd take forever to bring up the quantity required."

The Pontiff absorbed that. "How did the Ancients solve this problem?" he asked.

"Machine pumps. But even if we could build them, they'd be useless."

The heir of Saint Peter lifted his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because they'd need a power source, either the same fuel we don't have and are trying to make...or the tamed lightning of the Ancients that we don't have anymore. There appears to be no conventional solution. We're going to have to think outside the box."

The ecclesiastical eyes narrowed at that. "Now I begin to understand. No conventional solution, but you have thought of an unconventional one. One that you know will upset Us, or you would not be here today."

"Correct. "We're going to have to use _swizzles_ and _everflames_. I know the Church is against any official use of the Gifts of the Tourists, but in this case – "

Rodrigo held up a finger, interrupting him. "Hold on. I see why you want to use _swizzles_ , but why the _everflames_ too?"

"Once we get the oil out of the ground, we need to heat it up and distill gasoline and diesel fuel out of it. The scale of what I'm planning would require so much firewood that it would seriously hamper our ability to build on the conquered lands for lack of lumber, if we burned that wood to make fire instead."

"Couldn't you just trade with other countries for coal? You could burn that instead."

"Not a good idea, Holiness. They're not dumb. They'd wonder what I need all that extra coal for. Once the army moves out and they understand, trade will grind to a halt. Once we locate and take possession of the coal mines, of course, we can use coal-fired heating for the refineries from then on. But in the short term – "

" – you will need the short cut of the _everflames_. I see." The Pontiff rested his chin in a palm, reflecting on this. "We have a long-standing ban on the use of the Gifts," he reminded them. "The use of this sorcery from the demon 'Tourists' is what led to the downfall of the Ancients and all their marvels, as you well know. We are still paying penance for it, even after all this time."

"I won't argue theology with you. I agree with the Church's position, you know that. The only way to rebuild civilization is the hard way – the way it was done before." Peter leaned back in his chair. "But political unification has to come first, or we'll spend the next thousand years slowly advancing, while fighting little wars with increasing death tolls from better weapons. We can't let that happen."

_It was a nice speech_ , Jeffrey thought. _But you left out a key part, father. The real reason you're in such a hurry is you want it to happen in your own lifetime. So that you can rule it all._

"Why not?" asked His Holiness. "I mean, granted, the loss of life would be _regrettable_ , but it worked that way the first time. Maybe God wants us to do it the same way – the hard way – to show we've learned from our mistakes."

"I don't think so," said the Honcho. "And I'll tell you why. God knows something that you might not have considered, and He knows we have to progress faster this time."

Pope Rodrigo regarded him, amusement plain on his face. "Has He told you something he has kept secret from Us? That would seem unlikely."

"No, I've just thought about it more than you have. The Tourists could come back. Or others could follow in their footsteps. For all we know, they may have told others about Earth, and put us on the celestial map for everyone out there. We have to be ready for them."

The Pontiff's eyes grew wider. "You're right. I hadn't thought of that." He was silent for a minute. "If God let them come once, He may do so again, if He decides we need further punishment. We have been thinking of the past, and not the future."

He drummed his fingers on the armrest of the papal throne. "It would be...awkward to make an official announcement that Our policy has changed. We would have to give reasons, reasons that could stir up unrest among the faithful."

Peter nodded. "I know that. You don't have to say anything, provided we come to an agreement about this between ourselves. I won't flaunt your ban publicly, and you won't have to condemn what the government is doing... publicly."

Pope Rodrigo nodded. "It sounds workable. Nothing written down, of course."

_Of course,_ thought the Runt. _So you can deny knowing when it finally surfaces._

"That brings up another issue," said the Honcho. "Does the Church have any confiscated _swizzles_ or _everflames_ that we could... borrow? The more we have the sooner we can begin expanding the territory of my Empire and your Flock."

The Pope opened his mouth to respond, but he said nothing. There was a sharp whistle and a crack (Jeffrey could not distinguish which came first) and his body slumped forward.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

A wave of dizziness passed through Jeffrey. _What the hell just happened?_ Then he found his voice.

"I do believe," he said, "that our audience is at an end."

## Chapter 15

Lester: "swaddled with darkness"

"All the 'magic' I know," said Xander, "is accomplished through the use of one or more of _pathspace_ (the space of paths), _spinspace_ (the space of spins), and _tonespace_ (the space of energy). Each of these is the application of infinite-dimensional space in which certain forms are embedded. The forms and their embedding determine all of the available "knots" in n+1 dimensional spacetime. They are like simple machines, such as the inclined plane, the screw, and the lever, which are combined appropriately to form more complex technology."

"We shall begin with _pathspace_ – the space of paths."

"That sounds redundant," said Les. "Having a space of paths sounds a little like having a liquid of wetness."

"I am the one giving the training," said Xander. "Therefore we shall use _my_ terminology for the convenience of the instructor. Allow me to explain. In order for an object to move in a path, there must be space for the path to exist in. The space containing all possible paths is therefore called _pathspace_.

"To use _pathspace_ is to employ a particular way of looking at the world, especially the local region of spacetime. When mind embraces its interaction with space, time and matter, amazing things can be accomplished. Like making or fixing the Gifts of the Tourists."

"But how do you 'use' _pathspace_?"

"It is a matter," said Xander, "of visualizing what path-probabilities you want to emphasize. All paths are potential, of course, but only one path exists at any particular time and position. Every point is a position, therefore the set of configurations is the set of all paths going through all points at all moments on all timelines."

"I still don't see anything practical in all this."

"Do you remember how I vanished, back at the inn?"

"I remember that you sent me off for more ale to distract me. I was sure you'd left."

"It is a thing done with _pathspace_ ," he said. "Do you know how vision works? Bits of light energy, which the ancients called photons, bounce off objects and fly into your eye, where they strike nerves that can detect their presence. You cannot see in total darkness, for there are no visible photons to sense. You also cannot see objects behind walls. I could have hidden myself in a sack, but you and the soldiers would have seen the sack."

"What I don't understand," Lester told him, "is why you bothered to disappear, if you were going to let them find you eventually and return you to the Governor."

"What I actually did," said Xander, ignoring him, "was to alter the _pathspace_ around my body so that the bits of light flew around me instead of bouncing off me. I was still there, in the corner, but no one could see me. I was also in darkness myself, since the photons were avoiding me so I had none to see with."

"How did you do that?"

"The region of deflection can be woven in several ways. I chose a simple floor-to-ceiling cylinder. Of course, I had to leave the table or distortions would have given me away."

"And you were blind all the time you were invisible?"

"That's the price for dodging the light. It dodges you right back." The old wizard put an apple on the table. "Watch," he said.

After a few moments the apple disappeared. "It is still there," he remarked, and guided Lester until he found himself looking down from above it. And there it was. "This time I used a shorter cylinder, so you can manage to look into it from above. Smaller concealments are easier because there is less imagining work to do to weave the _pathspace_. Now please sit down again."

Lester resumed his former seated position. After a moment the apple appeared again.

Xander pushed his chair back. "Now you are going to try it. This will be your first bit of the magic."

"I don't see how I am supposed to be able to affect the _pathspace_ , as you call it."

"That's a discussion for another time," Xander told him. "Suffice it to say that when your mind visualizes the way you want it to be, as opposed to the way it is now, there will be an exchange of information between your mind and the universe, and it will have the effect of persuading the manifest _pathspace_ configuration to align itself with what you are imagining. The more that you believe it will work, the more effect you will have on the _pathspace_."

Lester tried to fathom those sentences. The first was a random stew of words, but at least the second was straightforward, and he saw a problem right away. "How am I supposed to believe something will happen that I've never done before?"

Xander grinned at that. "That, lad, is the trick of it. I won't lie to you, it will be hard at first. But as you succeed you will find it easier to believe, and your power will get stronger. You've already seen that _I_ can do it. So you do know that it is possible. I learned the same way you are going to learn. The key is the connection between your mind and the universe of configurations, and living around the _coldbox_ and the _everflame_ back at your father's inn has already made it possible – by exposing your mind to it."

Lester tried to concentrate on the apple, imagining a cylinder around it that made the light avoid it. At first nothing seemed to be happening. Grimacing, he tried to let the frustration go and tried again. For a moment the apple became a little transparent – he was seeing _through_ it a little. As soon as he noticed this, however, he was distracted by it and the apple became opaque again. But that didn't matter. He had done it, even though only a little!

"You almost had it," Xander commented. "It looked like we were seeing through it, because some of the light reflecting off the table behind it was going around the apple and reaching our eyes, as if it wasn't in the way. You see – you _can_ do it. From now on it's just a matter of doing a better job, and then fixing it so it stays invisible when you stop concentrating."

"How do I do that? Make it stay that way when I'm not working on it?"

"By imagining that it will – visualizing it as permanent. I can't describe it exactly, of course, but that doesn't matter. You'll get the hang of it, without knowing how you are doing it. And when you can do that, well, then we can move on to other things."

Lester was still staring at the apple. "Other things?"

"You'll also learn about _spinspace_ and _tonespace_. They are handled in a similar way, by visualizing what you want and letting the configuration adjust itself to match. But before you can learn about them, you need to master _pathspace_. I always begin with teaching _pathspace_ , and the first application is always this cloaking spell."

"Why?" said Les, looking up from the apple to the wizard's face.

"Because there are people who do not like wizards," said Xander. "And sometimes even the best of us may need to hide, to stay alive."

## Chapter 16

Peter: "Teach us to care and not to care"

There was no doubt in his mind that it was an assassination. But how? After tense moments and the Runt's droll comment, Peter decided that there had been only one target. But targeted by who? And how had they accomplished it?

His hand was on his sword hilt. Forcing himself to let go of it he sprang to the throne and examined Rodrigo's body. He found the hole in seconds. The blood made it easy. "Looks like he was shot," he grunted. "A clean hole in the right temple."

"That cache of weapons your men found," said Jeffrey. "Could someone have snuck some out?"

He shook his head. "Even if they had, the old ammo would have been useless. The potions they Ancients used to propel their bullets go bad after only a few decades. And no one has made any like the ones we found in over two hundred years." He let go of the body and strode over to his left, to what had been Rodrigo's right. What he had taken to be an overly ornamental carved wooden panel was, in fact, a privacy screen that was effectively opaque from a distance but sufficiently perforated to allow observation of the audiences by advisers.

Church personnel. That was a mistake, he decided, that had cost Rodrigo his life.

Jeffrey was approaching. Peter hustled him away from the screen and pushed him flat against a solid wall on the same side of the chamber. "Don't move. Whoever fired from behind there might still be there, or come back. Guards! Someone GET IN HERE!"

A door on the side opened and two men in cardinal red darted in. They skidded to a halt at the sight of Rodrigo's slumped body, blood now draining from the side of his head.

"Someone has killed the Pope!" he said. "Seal up the place and inform the papal guard immediately." When they just stood there, aghast, he grimaced, spun on his heel and ran for the main entrance at the far end of the chamber.

## Chapter 17

Jeffrey: "She gives when our attention is distracted"

After his father left the room, he wondered how safe it was for him to remain there himself. Whatever weapon had slain the Pontiff could be seeking other targets. But none of it made sense! If his father was right about the shelf life of the ancient ammunition, no gun of their manufacture could have done this. He knew from his studies that in even more ancient times, _bullets_ were missiles flung not by hand cannons, but by peltasts, slingers who hurled their projectiles by the use of muscle alone.

But try as he might, he could not make himself believe in a slinger adept enough to throw his rock or lead pellet miraculously through one of the small holes in the perforated screen his father had examined. No way. Then, how? Someone had done it – and without 'gun powder'.

The two clerics had exited, jabbering to each other in obvious agitation. After they did so, however, another, calmer personage strode in through the same door. He was, like them, dressed in cardinal red, but seemed much younger, hardly older than Jeffrey himself.

"Please come with me, Excellency," he said. "We need to talk."

"We do?" Jeffrey scowled. "Who the hell are you? If you want His Excellency, then you're looking for my father. He's the Honcho, not me."

"For the moment, that is true," the stranger agreed. "He is the Honcho, as poor Rodrigo was the Pope. But things change, and I should like to speak to you of such changes."

"You mean, how such changes might be... facilitated?" Jeffrey's eyes narrowed. "You don't seem to be very surprised by Pope Rodrigo's assassination. Almost as if you expected this _change_."

"Indeed. Will you follow me to a more private conference room? In a minute or two this chamber is going to be too busy for reasoned discourse."

"A man was just killed right before my eyes," he said. "You must pardon me if I appear a little paranoid at the moment. I'm thinking it might be better to remain here until my father returns."

The man in red smiled. "Better is a relative term, Excellency. The sooner we confer, the better, for Fate is a fickle mistress, and she gives when our attention is distracted. Your presence here today is a gift, and I for one do not intend to be distracted. Forgive me for pointing this out, but I believe we have much in common."

He stared at the man. "I'm a soldier. You're a cleric. What could we possibly have in common?"

"We're both younger men, Excellency. Men of frustrated ambition, held back by the longevity of older men with power. You are Jeffrey Martinez, who will one day become the Honcho, ruler of the Lone Star Empire. I am Enrique Cardinal Esperanza, and soon I shall be Pope, ruler of the Texan Catholic Church. It is my hope that we will work together on matters of mutual benefit."

## Chapter 18

Lester: "And the blind eye creates"

His practice at the cloaking spell proceeded with unexpected difficulty. The face of Aria intruded often, tempting him to waste time pondering her perfection. Inconvenient. He tried to concentrate on the apple again (which was now diminished by several bites, for he was growing hungry) and once more the image of it faded and almost disappeared. But not completely. And as Xander kept reminding him, "when you need to disappear, only complete success suffices."

Reminded of the old man, he wondered where Xander went when he left his quarters. Was he off seeking more students? No. He was certain, without knowing how, that the wizard would not run off without warning him.

Restless, he rose from the chair and paced as he considered his situation. There were times when he still suffered from homesickness, but he countered such thoughts by reminding himself that there was opportunity for growth here. All right, so he had been yanked from his sleepy village and replanted in this churning beehive of a building. But within the isolation and the jarring confusion of the Governor's court he could also see a future for himself. A future that was a damn sight better than waiting on tables for Gerrold!

But Drew was still too young to fill his place. How would his mother manage without him?

He shook his head and turned toward the window. Out there, in the slowly decaying streets of the city, where the asphalt of ages baked and cracked under a lingering summer that, concentrated by reflection from the brooding scrapers, would not yield to Autumn, ordinary people were going about their lives with the certainty of their daily routines.

But his mind resisted routines in this place. Oh, he was diligent in his practice, but not in a regularized way. Something in him balked at the idea of marching off the hours the same way on every day, this now and the other later. Like a plow-horse tilling a field, with no will of its own. _Yes, I will practice. I'll learn what I must learn to set my own course._

On impulse, he swiveled to his left and reached out to pluck a book from the hundreds Xander lined his walls with. _Questions For Posterity_ , by Hugh Stevenson, was a volume about the last days of the Ancients, after the Tourists had departed, their database of Earth's genome sequences complete. It was after the adoption of the Gifts as cornerstones of a more efficient infrastructure, but before the collapse of that very infrastructure, due to what Xander had called "the lack of technical support for the Gifts."

"...and so questions remain long after the objects of those questions have gone. Will the Tourists find actual uses for the genetic sequences they bartered for? Will we ever come to grips with an understanding of how the Gifts actually work? Sometimes, this reporter finds it doubtful. Their operation cannot be doubted, yet contradicts what we thought we knew about the universe. A friend of mine at MIT assures me that there is no such thing as something for nothing. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, merely converted to other forms such as matter, or concentrated or dispersed.

"But the Gifts of the Tourists defy such reasoning. They have no moving parts, no circuitry, and require no power input. Where is the catch? A _swizzle_ can impart motion to fluids and even pump them uphill: hydroelectric dams no longer require a river for their source of water, merely a lake and a big _swizzle_ to push the water back up after it has fallen and driven the dynamo. But this gives free electricity! It is literally something for nothing.

"Similarly, the _everflames_ that now smelt our ore require no fuel. So where does the heat come from? Is somewhere else cooling off to balance the equations? Are we pulling heat out of the magma inside the Earth? Or from the Sun or other stars?"

He closed the book. Its questions went unanswered, most of them. But at least he now knew the "catch" that Hugh was referring to – the price to be paid for the use of the Gifts. For gifts without knowledge, the price had been the loss of our own wisdom.

It had been hard form him to accept how easily it had happened. He remembered his last argument with the wizard about it. "The Ancients were not fools. They couldn't have been fools, when they accomplished so much before the Tourists arrived. So why didn't they predict the consequences? More to the point, why didn't the Tourists?"

Xander had shrugged, as he often did to such questions. But he tried to explain it. "Imagine you are an ancient explorer in a sailing ship and you meet natives on an island who use stone axes to cut down trees."

Here Lester interrupted. "How do you make an axe out of stone? Smiths use iron for that."

"You take a couple of hard rocks and use one to chip away at the other one, breaking off chips along one or both sides of one end to make a crude edge, then you tie the sharp rock to the end of a stick. But now you, the explorer, arrive and trade the natives pre-made axes with steel blades. What happens?"

"They realize the metal axes are better, and stop chipping stone for axes."

"And eventually?"

"They forget how to make stone axes." He thought about it. "And after you sail away, the metal axes eventually rust away and are useless. Now they're back to square one. They have to learn how to make stone axes all over again, because they didn't think that skill was important enough to pass on to their children."

"Exactly. And so it happens."

"But they must have known it would! Surely they'd seen that happen to islanders, just as you described! Didn't they realize the same thing could happen to them?"

Xander had shrugged again. "Maybe some did." He glanced at the window. "Maybe somewhere out there people are still making generators and internal combustion machines. God help us if we run into them, because they'll conquer us easily."

Lester put the book back on the shelf where he found it. _But if we develop an effective technology first,_ he thought, _we'll be the ones doing the conquering._ And that's what Xander is hoping to set in motion. A hybrid technology, like the Ancients adopted, but this time with technicians who can keep it going: wizards.

And I can have a place in this plan if I seize the opportunity.

Right. He sat himself down again and devoted himself to the apple. There was something missing in his attempts. He had been imagining the photons as moving around the apple instead of hitting it, and that resulted in a partial transparency. But he must be doing it wrong. He must be barking up the wrong tree, or heading down the wrong path.

Suddenly it came to him. He had been thinking about the photons, not about the _pathspace_. Maybe that was his mistake. Instead of imagining all the bits of light zooming around the apple and not hitting it, he should be imagining the path as a thing-in-itself, like the road through Inverness, that existed all the time, not merely when a coach was rolling down it.

He had to lay out the road in his mind, and then the light would follow it. Concentrate on the road, not the coaches. The _pathspace_. The space of paths.

This time he imagined a rectangular region on his face. Then he moved the rectangle toward the apple, tracing out innumerable paths in the intervening space that glowed in his mind's eye. As his rectangle neared the apply, he split it like opening window curtains and swept the sides around the apple, tracing out glowing paths around it that remained when the rectangle had passed it.

And the apple disappeared! He slid back his chair and got up, moving slowly lest he break his concentration. The apple stayed gone. He let his mind relax, and the apple was _still_ gone. The _pathspace_ configuration he had managed was persisting!

He experimented, walking around the table. When he reached a position a quarter of the way around the table the apple reappeared. _Damn it!_ He moved back to his chair, and it disappeared again. _What?_

Walking completely around the table, he saw that the apple was invisible from his original position and directly across from it. Evidently the _pathspace_ was bidirectional. Once he had established the pattern, it hid the apple along that line of sight from either side. But not sideways to it. All right, so he needed more practice. But he was finally getting the hang of it. What he had now would be pretty good, if he were hiding in a corner of a room, or directly in front of someone. It was better than nothing.

Now the next questions were: how long would it last, and how could he stop it if he wanted the apple completely visible again, from all sides?

Hmm. First he tried to make the invisibility complete. And he succeeded, but only in a tedious way, by using eight patches of _pathspace_ , deflecting around the apple from the eight major directions of the compass. This worked. There was enough overlap that the apple was now invisible from all directions around the table.

But not from all directions in space, as he found by leaning over the table and looking down. So he eliminated that too, but visualizing a circular patch of _pathspace_ cross-section descending on the apple from above and splitting around it.

He frowned at all the work involved, doubting that in an emergency he would have the time for so elaborate an imagining. All those patches took too long. But at least he was finally getting complete invisibility.

Now for the next step. To the right of the window a door opened into an inner room. He had not discovered this the first night, because he'd fallen asleep on the wizard's couch. But there had been ample time after that to explore the confines of his quarters. One of the things he found, when he did so, was that the inner room contained a full-length mirror, the first he had ever seen. At first he was astonished at the luxury, then amused at Xander's vanity.

Now he blushed to remember those mistakes. By now, he knew Xander didn't care much how he looked. The mirror was for invisibility practice.

When the wizard told him this, he almost laughed in his face. "You don't need a mirror! You already told me that when your shield is in place, you're left in darkness because the light can't reach your eyes anymore."

"Yes," Xander replied. "But what if I wanted to shield someone _else_ , behind me – and without taking my eyes off the enemy in front of me? How would I practice that?"

Abashed, Lester had to admit it made perfect sense. Once more, he reminded himself never to ridicule something the wizard told him without thinking a lot first.

He stood in front of the mirror now, concentrating. First things first. This time he tried to imagine eight man-sized rectangles of _pathspace_ converging on his position, only to split around him and continue on.

As he had expected, his first attempt at this was only partially successful. The view in front of him went black, as did the view to the right. But to his left light still poured in. The same applied to the view behind him.

He let the hot wave of anger wash over him and pass on. There was no use holding onto it. Then he spent the next hour or so practicing each of the eight cardinal directions of the compass by itself, until he satisfied himself that he could do all of them equally well.

By this time he was wet with perspiration – and starving. He took a break and visited the bathroom to get some cold water. He was rather proud of the fact that he'd worked out how to control the spigots on the sink all by himself, once he'd gotten used to the fact that one of them eventually produced hot water. There must be an everflame rigged to heat a water tank somewhere up near the roof, he reasoned.

After he managed to stop sweating, he opened Xander's coldbox. The old rascal had all the conveniences of an inn here – except a stove, and he needed none since he had at least one portable everflame and they delivered meals to his door anyway, presumably to keep him from wandering. He found some cooked mutton. Did they raise sheep on one or more floors of the scraper? He had to admit that the Governor's palace was even better than the castles in the storybooks. It was as if someone had taken an entire village, complete with some farmland, and stacked it up vertically like a pile of pancakes. And all you had to defend was the ground floor.

Back to the mirror. This time he tried imagining the patches in pairs, beginning with his left and right sides. After he could do any of the four opposing pairs in his eight directions, he tried to do two pair at once, left-right and forward-backward.

His first attempt at this was pretty good. Darkness on four sides, and only slivers of light on the diagonals. He kept at it, alternating between the regular and the diagonal four-axis configurations for the next hour.

Another break to rinse off sweat and grab a snack followed this. Then he went back to trying all eight directions at once. Right away he had problems. It seemed that he had real difficulties tracing out of all that _pathspace_ at once. He wasn't exactly sure why. It had not seemed that hard to do one, two or even four directions, but he just couldn't seem to get all eight.

Then he had an inspiration, and split it into two groups of four, the regular four and the diagonal four, and doing it in two steps instead of all at once. This succeeded! It was slower than doing only one, two, or four, but faster than doing all eight one at a time.

Now for the hard part. It was time to try something Xander hadn't mentioned: trying to stay shielded while walking. He wasn't sure how to do this, and wanted to try to work it out on his own to impress Xander.

First he backed up all the way to the wall opposite the mirror, making sure the straight line path to the mirror was free of clutter he might otherwise trip over, when he couldn't see in the forward direction. Then he concentrated and formed a forward shield, leaving the other seven directions visible.

Now here was the trick he hadn't figured out. How could he make the shield move forward with him – so that it was always blocking him from view as he proceeded toward the mirror? He was a little nervous about what it might do to him to walk right through the shield. How would the _pathspace_ affect the matter of his body?

There was no way to tell. Finally he gritted his teeth, screwed up his courage, and extended the tip of one pinkie through the shield. Apart from a slight tingling, he felt nothing, and it didn't chop off the finger as he had feared it might.

It proved to be too much for him to make the shield move smoothly with him, so he hit upon a compromise. As he walked forward, nearing the shield, he made a new one in front of it and dispersed the first one. Encouraged by the success of this, he continued the process, making and dissolving six shields in all before he bumped into the mirror. Hastily, he dispersed the sixth shield, realizing it was outside the building. _Idiot!_

He spent the next hour practicing this, first walking forward, then side-stepping to the left and right. At the end of this he was sweating and starving again. He hoped that this was like lifting weights, and that soon it would be less draining. Otherwise he was going to have to carry a gallon of water and a bag of food with him whenever he used it in actual situations.

From now on, he resolved, he would practice this every day until it was effortless.

## Chapter 19

### Peter: "Impatient to assume the world"

When he opened the door to the library, he found Jeffrey hunched over an old book. "What are you reading?" he asked. Immediately he regretted the question, for two reasons. He was interrupting something he wished he saw the boy doing more often. The other reason was that his question might actually prompt an answer, and he would rather discuss something else at the moment.

"It's a textbook on neurophysiology, the Atkern & Williams Second Edition."

Before he could stop himself, the Honcho had to ask: "Why on Earth are you reading that? You're not in training to become a physician."

"It was prompted by something someone mentioned to me the other day," was the vague response. "Did you know the human body is neither a dictatorship nor a democracy... but a combination of the two?"

Peter pulled up a chair, already regretting this thread of conversation. There was no avoiding his next question, even though he felt manipulated by his curiosity. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I was mulling over that old phrase we sometimes use, the 'body politic', and wondered if the structure of governments tried over the last few thousand years had ever included anything similar to what we can observe in the human body," he said, looking up from the book. "For example, it's undeniable that there are cells in the brain that send messages to our muscles telling them when to contract more or less so that we can walk and talk and so on. That would appear to be a top-down control structure, like a monarchy where the ruler tells the army to move or the diplomats to communicate."

Now he really didn't like this thread of conversation. Philosophy was all fine and good for abstract things like the good and the true, he supposed, but it was better to work with what existed in the real world than to ponder whether it was the best system or not. "That sounds like monarchies are the best system, then, because we know it already works for our bodies. Your brain doesn't let your foot tell it what to do."

"Maybe, maybe not. You see, while there may be cells in the brain that tell each of our muscles what to do, there _isn't_ any one cell in the brain that tells all the other brain cells what to do. To follow your analogy, obviously we can't let the army or the diplomats tell the government what to do, just as I don't let my foot make my decisions for me. But the part of me that decides where I'm going to walk isn't a single cell – that decision is made cooperatively by my entire brain. Just as in the old United States, the decision to go to war was supposed to not be made by the President or the generals, but by Congress. By a lot of people agreeing that it was the right thing to do."

The Honcho shifted in his chair. "I see what you're saying," he said. "Constitutional democracies are closer to the brain-body relationship in that a lot of agreement, consensus, has to be reached before marching orders are sent down to the army or the diplomats. It sounds great on paper." He paused for effect. "But son, there's a reason why the old United States broke up into all the countries we have on the continent now. While consensus makes sense theoretically, it's inherently a less efficient form of government. You have to crowd a bunch of people into a room and let them argue it all out before you can _do_ anything. When a crisis comes, that might be – and was – too slow to get the job done. It takes too long to react to rapidly changing circumstances and situations."

"Yes," Jeffrey said, although his facial expression was saying the opposite, "but you handle that by delegating local decisions to regional governors and commanders in the field on-site wherever there are localized problems."

Peter shook his head at that. "That kind of patchwork government lasts, for a while. But sooner or later regional differences lead to a breakup." He scratched the side of his nose. "It happened once in the so-called Civil War, and only after years of bloodshed was the federal government able to force the seceding states to come back into the Union. When the growing chaos of the Fall, after the Tourists left, began to affect so many critical local systems, it was inevitable that local troops would rally around local governments, and force a de facto breakup of the Union, as each region tried to maintain order in the absence of coordinated Federal support."

"But not all regions reverted to pre-Democracy forms of government," his son pointed out. "There's the People's Republic of Wyoming, with their Congress of Workers, up North. And I've heard that – "

"I didn't come here to discuss the Communalists," he interrupted. "I'm glad that you're thinking about government, but I think it's high time you got some more practical experience."

Now his son looked wary. "What do you mean?"

The sight and sentence warmed him. _Now I've got_ you _asking the questions._ "I want you to take a small force north and do some scouting. "

Jeffrey frowned at that. "Why me? You have lieutenants for that."

"Precisely why I need you to do this. Someday you'll be in charge, and those lieutenants will be generals. They won't like taking orders from someone without much military experience, so by then you need to have some. It's time to start. Report to Brutus at the local LS Army HQ." The Runt opened his mouth to say something, but Peter wasn't finished. "You'll be second in command under him, so the troops won't dare give you a lot of shit about your inexperience."

Jeffrey closed the book and stood up, but he was still frowning. "What are we supposed to look for?"

"The best way to invade Rado. Get as close to their border as you can, and test their defenses without starting anything major. You can burn a few farms to get their attention, but no sacking any large settlements yet."

"What happens if we meet resistance? I mean, what do we do if we run into a patrol of Rado military?"

"I'm not sending you to start a war. Not yet. Keep that in mind." The Honcho slid his chair back with a squeak and stood. He regarded his son. "But if you do run into them, and they insist on engaging you, well, kill them, of course. As long as you don't let any escape to tell what happened, it'll just mean we won't have as many to eliminate later."

## Chapter 20

### Kristana: "applause of all or the love of none"

"Send him in," she said. She glanced at another report, shook her head, and dropped it on top of a stack of outgoing papers. This would be as unpleasant as the previous interviews had been, no doubt. Why wouldn't he let it go?

Ludlow strode in and planted himself in front of her desk. The Governor stared down at another report. She could feel him bristling even across the dozen feet that separated them. It wasn't from being made to wait, however.

She shuffled the report to the OUT pile and regarded him. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Ludlow?"

At least he got straight to the point. "I hear he's taken on another apprentice. Why wasn't I notified?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you believe your position here entitles you to a voice in the matter? I don't tell the Army when I hire a new tutor for Aria."

He scowled. "Not the point. He doesn't need another apprentice. I'm still here. He should be teaching me. Otherwise, the time he spent on me is like money thrown down a well."

"He would not disagree with that analysis," she said. "But he has his reasons."

"Makes no sense at all. Unless he's only _pretending_ to train a replacement." Ludlow's eyes shifted to the pile of documents in front of her. She bet he wished he could read upside down.

"I thought we both knew he is not looking for a mere _replacement_ ," she said. "He has no plans of retiring. Surely you know that. His long term goal remains the same."

Ludlow snorted. "You mean his school for wizards? That was never a practical plan. The candidates are too few and far between to ever get it started."

She studied him. "Is that your opinion?"

"Isn't it obvious? Even the Tourists must have known that few of us would ever learn their technology, otherwise they would have tried the same thing. Xander isn't a fool. He's using that as an excuse to stay here and exploit you as a resource."

"I'm afraid you lost me there," she said. "As the only real wizard in Rado he is a valuable resource for me. How do you think he's exploiting his position here?"

At the words "only real wizard" he flinched, and she realized her choice of words had been insensitive. The poor fellow still nursed ambitions in that area. But she had agreed with Xander's decision to discontinue Ludlow's training (not that he required her consent). She liked to think she had learned how to tell who could become a Commander in her army and who could not, and she had to assume that Xander was at least as capable within his own specialization.

"Well, apart from free room and board and protection from his enemies, he gets your men to scavenge for him. All those bits of alien trash they've collected for him over the years."

"Those things are for the school. They're not for him. They're part of something for the benefit of everyone."

Ludlow sneered at that. "Then why is he the only one with access to them?"

_Ah_ , she thought, _a second item on your agenda_. "For the same reason that only the Army has access to military items. If we managed to locate a still-functional computer of the Ancients, I wouldn't turn it over to _children_ , would I?"

Ludlow's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. _Really, Ludlow,_ she thought, _it is far too easy to prick your ego. Am I trying to provoke him into making a scene,_ she wondered _, that will give me an excuse to eject him from my employment?_

"No, of course not," he grunted, making an obvious effort to get control of himself and reestablish his mask. "But a second set of eyes never hurts. You never know what someone else might notice that you yourself missed."

"True enough," she said. "But I trust his judgment, in his own field. With regard to the first matter you brought up. I do not pick his apprentices, so you really can't expect me to order him to take you back on as one. Is there anything else?"

He hesitated before answering. "Well, there is another topic I wanted to bring up. But perhaps it can wait for another time."

She regarded him. "Mr. Ludlow, I'm sure you've heard rumors that we are preparing for another war with Texas. If there is anything else you believe needs saying, I'd advise you to say it now, in case I'm too busy to listen later."

He pursed his lips. "It's about your daughter."

She shouldn't have been surprised, but mentally she shook her head. For a man of such limited ability, his ambition was astonishing! "What about her?"

"I cannot help but notice all the time you are taking with her education. Yet is seems to focus on the wrong things entirely. Geopolitics, for example. She doesn't need that."

The Governor put her hands on her desk, palms down and resisted the urge to vault over it and strangle him. "And why not?"

"Oh come now," he said, smiling. "We both know she's destined for a political marriage someday. She should be learning skills appropriate to such a destiny."

She leaned back in her chair. "Oh? What skills are those? Are you saying my daughter should be learning how to cook, how to gaze adoringly at a man and give emotional support?" _Has he managed to forget who he is talking to?_ She wondered. _Is his ego so enormous that it blocks out my face?_

"I wouldn't put it that way," he replied. "Perhaps she does need some knowledge of the world, after all. But a little training on more feminine skills would not be wasted on her."

"Thank you for your advice, Mr. Ludlow. You may return to your duties."

His eyes narrowed again, but instead of speaking he turned and left the room. It was reassuring to know that at least he knew when an interview was over. After the door closed behind him, she closed her eyes and remembered a conversation with the General.

"How do you do it so well?"

Those beloved hazel eyes regarded her. "Can you be more specific?" He smiled in gentle humor. "I do many things well."

"Yes you do. But how do you manage to deflect advice you know is wrong... without alienating the people who work for you?"

The General stroked the side of her face. "Never let people tell you their jobs. As the leader, _you_ will decide what they work on. If they know what they're talking about, listen. If they don't, you listen, thank them for the advice, and then forget it."

Remembering, she wished she had asked one more question. What do you do with someone whose ambition exceeds their ability?

## Chapter 21

### Jeffrey: "between the profit and the loss"

As they rode north, he thought about his conversation with Cardinal Esperanza. There were so many questions bubbling up in his mind about it that he was surprised he could stay in the saddle.

First, why hadn't the man seemed surprised at all about the assassination? Was that because he had a part in it? Esperanza didn't strike him as a violent type, but one thing was obvious. They did have something in common, as the man in red had suggested. Both of them were waiting for their chance at power. Had the cardinal expedited his? He seemed awfully sure that he would be elected to succeed poor Rodrigo.

Which brought up the second question. How was he so certain of election? The cardinal was not much older than Jeffrey. Didn't the College of Cardinals usually pick someone older? He was chagrined to admit that he knew very little of the inner workings of the TCC. For all he knew, many of the senior leadership of the Church were younger men these days. But Esperanza's certainty had been very convincing.

Up ahead, Brutus signaled for a halt. Time to rest the horses and grab some chow.

He supposed he ought to be grateful that Commander Glock had been detailed to lead this foray, but he'd never liked Brutus, and he was fairly certain the feeling was mutual.

Jeffrey swung down off his horse and dug into the saddlebag for some jerky. His thoughts strayed back to the cardinal. If he hadn't actually _planned_ the assassination, he was certainly unsurprised by it. Therefore he had been in the loop. Whoever had killed Rodrigo must have decided that Enrique would be more agreeable to whatever they had planned.

He stopped for a moment, struck by another possibility. Could his father have been the one behind it? Whatever made the hole in Rodrigo's skull had come sideways across the chamber – the Honcho had been in zero danger. After a moment, though, he discarded that line of reasoning. His father had been getting along with the current Pontiff just fine, from what he'd observed during their audience. Rodrigo had appeared perfectly willing to accept the need for alien shortcuts. He'd listened to reason. There was nothing to indicate the Honcho had felt more extreme methods were required. Unless he'd given the order before the audience even began. "How far are we from the border, Commander?" he asked Brutus

The older man took a bite of his own jerky before answering. "We won't see action before tomorrow," he said. "Probably tomorrow afternoon." He took a swig from his canteen and recapped it, eying Jeffrey. "Don't worry, we'll keep you safe."

Jeffrey bristled. "You're in charge, I get that. But how am I supposed to get any useful experience if I just hide behind your men when we have to fight?"

"Well now, that is a problem," Brutus admitted. "But before we solve it, maybe you can tell me how I keep my job if the heir to the throne gets hurt on my watch?"

"I have no intention of getting hurt, Commander."

"Swell. Because I have no intention of facing a firing squad." He spat out a piece of gristle. "Get back to your horse."

## Chapter 22

Xander: "weave the wind"

The lad was progressing nicely, if gradually. Soon he could be relied upon to survive most confrontations, if only by concealing himself. Sometimes, Xander was hard put to repress his envy. _If only I'd had the benefit of a mentor half as good for me as I am being to him. How much more might I have accomplished by now?_ But such thoughts were useless. And gods knew he didn't want the lad to have to learn as slowly as he himself had. There was no time for it.

Each piece of the Tourist leftovers that Kristana's men brought him gave him a chance to puzzle out more of the magic technology, the psionic engineering of the aliens. So far he had learned _pathspace_ from the _swizzles_ , _spinspace_ from the one _everwheel_ they'd found in southern Wyoming, and _tonespace_ from the _coldboxes_ and _everflames_. The thing he had his heart set on, though, was finding the _tissue_ _regenerator_ that had been the undoing of the medical industry of the Ancients. He was hoping to learn the uses of _healspace_ from it. If he could only find one and do that, he might have even more time to do what was needed. But he hadn't. He couldn't heal even the simplest wound, let alone undo the accumulated damages of aging, and so the best he could do was get his School up and running before he walked with his ancestors.

Just now, though, he walked in the gardens, on his way to the rooftop. He paused to rub the leaves of a bush of peppermint and smelled his fingers.

A flicker from up ahead caught his eye: another failing _glowtube_. Frowning, he strode up to a spot under it and reached out with his mind to re-sculpt the _tonespace_ around the glass, combing the frequency distribution with deft touches until the tube lit up again with its usual steady blue-white radiance. Satisfied, he resumed his progress toward the staircase. He had already passed most of the mints, but now he paused at the planting of catnip that Aria kept for Otto. He reached out to break off a small piece for his cat and slipped it into a pocket of his cloak before continuing.

When he opened the door to the stairwell, the air inside was colder than he had expected. Had autumn slipped by him already? Sometimes it seemed that the fewer years he had left, the faster they slipped through his fingers. But maybe it was well that they were nearly into winter. Surely the Honcho would think twice of attacking Rado when the snows made footing treacherous and the cold sapped muscles of man and horse alike.

He emerged onto the roof and swept it with his eyes, seeking the lookouts. The nearest one was not far. Xander strode toward him, wrapping his cloak more closely about his aging bones.

"Hello, Timothy," he said. "Keeping warm, are you?"

The lookout grinned. "That I am, sir. Whatever you did to the perch has helped more than I can thank you for. Last winter I almost froze my butt to it more than once."

"Oh, it was nothing," said Xander. He'd put a faint _everflame_ spell on the stone bench, a gentle warping of its _tonespace_ so that there was always a warm spot for the man to sit on and a warm updraft to fend off the chilly breezes up here. It was the least he could do for the men who sat the lonely vigils up here. "Is the city quiet?"

"As a grave, sir." Tim turned his eyes back toward the southern horizon as he spoke. "As it happens, I've been expecting the latest world from the outposts any time now. I don't need to tell you, I get nervous when they're a minute late, considering everyone says Texas is overdue to try their luck against us again."

Tim eyed the water clock again. It was a simple affair, but Xander was justly proud of his innovations. Originally a sand hourglass, it now held oil warmed by a faint everflame spell so that the viscosity – and the clock's accuracy – would not be affected by the coldest blizzard. He'd had them tint bands of transparent colors parallel to the ends, so that as the top slowly drained by the dripping of the opaque oil, the lowest color glowing would tell the hour. The highest part near the top of the glass was colored red, then orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, then red at the just above the constriction between top and bottom halves. Each hour of the watch could be easily read even in the darkest night by the miniature glow-tubes in the top and bottom. When Tim reached the end of his eight hour watch, and the entire rainbow red-to-red of the empty top was showing, his replacement could just flip the thing over and start over again.

Finding good transparent tints had occupied the Court alchemist for the better part of a season, but everyone agreed it was well worth the effort. When needed, eight-hour watches could be split in half or any whole number of hours, for that matter. The crafters were turning them out as quickly as they could, calling it the Xander clock now. Some of them had told him privately he should talk to the Governor about getting a royalty for his idea – it could turn out to be a lucrative export. Xander didn't need to glance at the clock to know sunrise was near. Blue twilight had already lit the skyscraper. "No need to be nervous yet," he told Tim. "They'll be able to use the sun-mirror in a few minutes."

At night the signals were sent with a glow-tube lit box with hand-operated shutters. Another of Xander's ideas; he'd gotten it from an old book on naval vessels of the Ancients, that had used a similar technique. But daylight was brighter than the glow-tubes, at a distance, so the outside surfaces of the controllable shutters on the signal box were mirrored. All they had to do was orient it correctly to reflect the sunlight from the East at sunrise to the north and flip the shutters open and closed in the same old Morse code.

"Ah! There he is." A orange light flashed three groups of five to get their attention. Xander fell silent as the distant fellow blinked them the morning report. As the blinking continued, he frowned. _Movement spotted. Scouts._

Tim turned back to him after the message ended. "Is this it, sir? Do you think their army is following the scouts they've seen?"

"I doubt it," said Xander. "But they could be, for all we know. If the Honcho is planning to invade, he's smart enough to either hit us before the snows make it hard, or else wait for Spring."

"By the time we spot his army," Tim pointed out, "they could be within a day's ride of the borderlands."

"I know, I know." Xander brooded on that and came to a decision. "Stay warm, Tim. I have to go tell the Governor. This news won't wait for the changing of the Watch. Keep an eye peeled in case they sight more troops." He turned on his heel and strode off.

He had to remind himself to take the steps carefully as he descended. Remember, your bones aren't as strong as they used to be, you old fool. I should have implemented that drop-chute idea a long time ago. One shaft and a good parachute would be faster than these damned staircases! But he had delayed working out the safety details to go out and find a new apprentice. If they had the motors of the ancients, they could get the building's elevators going again. But that might take many years. In the meantime a carefully-deployed drag chute and a safety net made of rope would have to serve. When he could take the time to get them to set it up, that is.

His hasty footsteps ion the stairs alerted the dogs, who raised a racket that he had no time for. "Get out of the way!" he barked back at them, and leaped over them from the last few steps hoping he wouldn't crack his ribs against a locked door. As it happened, the guard was just beginning to open the door to investigate the barking when Xander crashed into it, knocking the door the rest of the way open and spilling both of them into the hallway. "Sorry!" he growled at the guard, as he sprang to his feet and dashed down the corridor to the Governor's rooms.

Kristana was just coming out of her rooms to inspect the morning watch reliefs when he arrived panting at her door. "Lookouts report a scouting party heading north," he wheezed. "I have to go check it out. The main army might not be far behind them."

"Take some men with you," she advised him.

"By the time we ride down there, they could be burning farms in the borderlands," he told her. "By all means, send some men, but I can't wait for them. I can move faster by myself." He whirled and sprinted for the stairwell before she could argue.

Jon and Edgar were murmuring something to each other when he reached his quarters. They looked up and tried to engage him in conversation as he brushed them aside and unlocked the door. "No time now," he said, as he reached for his staff.

"Is it true that your new apprentice is going to be the one you've been looking for?" Edgar asked, anyway. "Will he last longer than the last one?"

"He might," said Xander. "If you keep him safe and keep him from leaving." His fingers closed on the staff and he whirled and strode down the hall and out of their sight.

Entering the stairwell, he ran up the stair again, without thinking about what would happen if he missed one. One thing he regretted about this 'scraper was that none of the windows opened. The ancients had worried about many things that had not come to pass with the fall of civilization, such as chemical and biological assaults.

When he emerged onto the roof again, he stopped to catch his breath. _Foolish of me to run up the stairs. I'm not a young wizard anymore._

Timothy's relief had not yet come. The guard turned, surprised at his reappearance. "Did you forget something, sir?"

"No," said Xander, twisting the end caps off his staff and stowed them in a pocket of his cloak. A bass hum, or a deep whistle, came from the staff. "I keep telling myself I won't do this again," he muttered.

"Sir?" said Timothy. "Do what?"

Before Tim could stop him, Xander leaped off the roof.

## Chapter 23

### Jeffrey: "Looking into the heart of light"

He coughed as the wind shifted. "Was that really necessary?"

Brutus tossed the torch aside and gazed out over the burning field. "Sometimes you have to send a message," he said.

Jeffrey closed his eyes, trying to escape the images of the four bodies in the burning farmhouse. "Even if there is no one left alive to hear it?"

Brutus grinned. "Oh, it'll be heard. Just not by them. The next time we come through here the locals will be more cooperative."

The others were returning to the tethered horses. Jeffrey didn't meet their eyes. _Is this the way an army operates? Are these the men I really want to lead?_ "We're barely over the border," he said. "Aren't you alienating the same people who will be farming for Texas, once we capture the land?"

Brutus turned and lit a cigarette from the flames of the house. "Don't be stupid," he said. "We'll be moving our own people in. He took a drag and pulled his gloves on before slipping his horse's reins from the hitching post. Tugging on an arrow buried in his saddlebag, he freed the shaft, inspected the point to see it had not reached the flesh of his mount, then broke it and threw the pieces into the inferno the house had become. "And I don't like being shot at by farmers."

Jeffrey swallowed and swung back onto his own horse. Was this really just a scouting expedition? Brutus seemed to be drawing attention to himself, as if the commander was itching to start the war before the Honcho had intended. Or was he just following orders Jeffrey didn't know about?

He rode up alongside Brutus. "What is it you know that I don't? The way you're operating. You could provoke a retaliation from Rado before my father has the fuel he needs for his new army machines. Why stir up trouble this early?"

Brutus barked a laugh at that. "Hah! Rado will be afraid to move against us. What you don't seem to know is their population is lower than ours. Their _Governor_ is reluctant to risk her men until a full-scale battle is unavoidable."

Jeffrey scratched his chin. "How can you be so sure of that? That they have fewer people than us? You've hardly been there to count them, have you?"

Brutus took his last drag on the cigarette and flicked it into the burning field as they rode back to the main road. "No," he said, exhaling. "But I know someone who has, more or less." He turned to grin at the Runt. "We have an informer in her Court," he told Jeffrey. "We know a lot more about them than they know about us."

Jeffrey halted in amazement. A traitor? What could the Honcho offer such a person that the Governor of Rado could not match? She had gold mines!

_I am here to learn,_ he thought. _What can I learn from this? That to some people, there are things even more valuable than gold._

The question remained, though: how had his father found and recruited such a person?

He did not speak to Brutus again until they stopped for lunch.

They rode off the main highway and into a stand of trees by a small lake. Jeffrey found he wasn't very hungry, and would have been content to lunch on jerky, but the other men did not share his lack of appetite. They tied their horses to the trees and set off downhill to the lake to shoot some ducks they had spotted from the road while he kindled a fire.

While he chipped at the flint with a piece of steel, striking sparks into the tinder, he reflected on what he had witnessed so far. It was obvious that Brutus had an agenda other than simple scouting. Perhaps more than one. It might be that he was merely trying to provoke the locals into attacking them so that he would have an excuse to kill, but that seemed too simplistic. The commander was not a fool, to endanger his men simply for his own enjoyment.

Was that crack about the Governor of Rado not being willing to risk her men casually a message to him? Was Brutus saying that he had to get used to thinking of the mission as more important than his men? Or was it something else? Finally the tinder caught, and he nursed the little flames with twigs and gradually larger sticks until he had a decent fire going.

A deep humming startled him out of his reverie. He leaped to his feet and scanned the surrounding forest. He didn't see anything, but a gust of wind surprised him, because the day had been a calm one. He cupped a hand to his ear, but the humming was gone. Should he go and investigate the anomaly? It didn't sound like any animal he was familiar with. If it were some kind of predator, a fire should keep it from approaching, he reasoned, and fed more wood to the hungry flames.

Soon he had a roaring fire going, and was running out of wood. While he was debating with himself whether he should gather more, the others returned with a brace of ducks.

"Did you hear anything strange while you were hunting?" Jeffrey asked Brutus.

The older man appeared amused. "No. Did something spook you?"

"I wouldn't put it that way. But I did hear something, a deep sound. I would have thought it was an animal growl, except that it lasted so long before it stopped."

Brutus removed his hat. His red hair glinted in the morning light as he swatted a mosquito that had landed on his forehead, near a small scar over his left eyebrow. "Well, I wouldn't worry about it," he said, after a while. "Things are going well, all things considered. We're getting fresh air, fresh food, and pissing off the locals."

_Dead people don't get angry,_ he thought. But this was not his command. So he said nothing, just stared into the commander's grinning face and promised himself that he would take it up with his father when they returned to Dallas.

While the others busied themselves plucking the duck feathers to set aside for arrow fletching and preparing the birds for cooking, Jeffrey hiked through the trees toward the lake to answer a call of nature. He passed an odd little place where the grass was flattened, all lying down pointing away from a point in the center of a clearing. He'd never seen anything like it. That made two anomalies in one morning.

At the lake's edge he sat on a rock and let his mind drift. The morning was still cool, and there was still hardly any wind. Among the weeds in the shallows, a spider scuttled about, walking on the surface of the still water. He wished he were the spider, with nothing to worry about except the occasional fish.

There had been no need to burn that little farm, or kill the family. It was true, of course, that they might have starved, anyway, once their crops were gone and their horses confiscated. _Stolen, you mean,_ he thought, correcting himself. _You can't confiscate the livestock of people in a different country._ And what Brutus's men had done to the women before they killed the farmer and his family sickened him. _And all I did was watch_. His eyes burned with the memory of it. The memory of the commander's cruel sneering face and the trembling in his own arms as he stood there powerless to stop it.

He had been looking forward to ruling the Empire for the material benefits it would bring him, the wine, food, coaches and lands, and of course all the women who would be lining up for his favor, hoping to become the new Honchessa. But now he was seeing a better reason to be in charge: so that men like Brutus would not be.

Wearily, he forced himself to rise and trudge back uphill to the trees.

The ducks were roasting on sticks over the coals of the fire when he got there. Brutus was rolling a cigarette, looking as if he were the kind of guy who could kill a family before breakfast and sleep soundly at night. How can I take much more of this, without calling him out in front of his men? He was sure that the man would do his best to keep his own men alive. But maybe Brutus wanted a confrontation, wanted it all nice and legal so he could kill Jeffrey and claim the justification of self-defense. It might be difficult for the Honcho to do anything about it if his own son had started the fight that led to his unfortunate demise. He'd have his suspicions, but a legal duel in front of witnesses? He'd look weak if he did nothing and unjust if he did anything.

And with the Heir gone, who would be next in line for the throne? Might it not be his most senior Commander? Suddenly Jeffrey was recalled the words of Cardinal Esperanza: _things change_.

None of them noticed the stranger until he was on the edge of the clearing.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Are you enjoying Raul's ducks?"

Jeffrey jerked his head up, as startled as the rest of them. The man was not tall, and he was old, in clothes as gray as his beard. He walked with a staff that was a good two feet taller than him.

Brutus stood and flicked his cigarette into the fire. "Maybe we are," he said.

The old man regarded him. "I wasn't aware Raul had friends over the border in Texas," he said. He glanced at the men, sitting around the fire in their uniforms. "But I suppose one can't have too many friends these days, after what happened to the Ferreros down the road. I couldn't help noticing the smoke. Looks like their farm burned down. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

Brutus smiled. It was not a pretty sight. "I might," he said, "but what business is it of yours?"

_You're a spider on the lake, old man,_ thought Jeffrey. If I were you I wouldn't make waves or draw attention to yourself. The fish are watching you.

The old man didn't seem to hear the threat in Brutus's voice. "Well, now," he said. "Gus Ferrero and his folks are citizens of Rado." His eyes narrowed. "Or were. So am I, and I must admit I'm fast becoming a _concerned_ citizen. If their bodies are in that fire, as I suspect, then I'm afraid you, sir, might be in serious trouble."

Brutus laughed at that and picked up his crossbow. "You're the one in trouble, old man, if you're not gone in five seconds. Beat it while I'm still amused."

" _I'm_ not amused," said the stranger.

Things began happening all at once.

The old man had been standing there with his left hand grasping his staff. He turned to his left as the bolt from Brutus's crossbow flashed past him, reached up with his right hand, and whipped the staff around in a circle to his right, felling the man nearest him who was still in the process of standing up. Then he whipped it back to the left, knocking another man off his feet, jammed one end of the staff into the fire then pulled the fire end out and behind him, aiming the other end at Brutus, who was reloading. A jet of ashes and coals erupted from the staff and flew at the commander, who cursed and stumbled back, dropping the crossbow. Then the stranger pulled the business end up toward him, whipping the back up to catch a third man across the neck.

"Get that asshole!" Brutus snarled, batting at his burning uniform.

Back the staff went into the fire as the fellow reloaded it for another blazing volley at the commander, keeping him off-balance and unable to retrieve his crossbow. Then the staff whipped around and felled two more men in sickening thuds that hurt Jeffrey to even hear. The man vaulted over the fire, using his staff for leverage and simultaneously loading it yet again with coals and ash, then swung it at Brutus again.

To his credit, Brutus managed to duck the first swing. But the staff reversed and cracked him alongside his head on the back swing, then belched fire at the man to Brutus's left, who yelped and backpedaled. Brutus fell heavily to the ground and lay there groaning while the stranger finished off two more men, leaving only himself and Jeffrey still standing.

The man jammed the base of his staff in the fire again and pointed the business end at Jeffrey. "Unless you're stupid too," he said, "I'd advise you to get some rope from their saddlebags and tie these men up. Might be a while before the Governor's men arrive."

## Chapter 24

### Aria: "the conscience of a blackened street"

Aria scooted backwards down the ventilation duct. The conversation she'd just heard was still echoing in her ears.

"We have a bit of a situation," Xander had said. "I managed to capture the scouting party. In a couple of hours they should be here."

"How did you get back before them?" the Governor asked.

"I have my ways," said Xander. "But we still have a problem. Before I encountered them, they burned Gus Ferrero's farm and killed his family. There was probably rape involved." He paused. "By the time I arrived, the farmhouse was on fire, and beginning to collapse. So there was no opportunity to examine the remains to ascertain the particulars. None of the family survived, so the only witnesses are the soldiers themselves."

"I see," said the Governor. Her tone was not pleasant. "So what then is the problem?"

"Their officer is one of the Honcho's senior commanders," said Xander. "A large and dangerous man. I don't see how he could be innocent, given that he was in charge. He claims to have been fired upon, but we both know he probably provoked that by killing farm animals or preparing to fire the fields. It is possible, however, that not all of the men agreed with his orders, but felt powerless to stop what was done."

"That is no excuse," she said. "I fail to see the problem."

"Given that we are not, as yet, at war with Texas," said Xander, "the Honcho will certainly press for extradition. He can hardly be expected to stand by and let us execute one of his senior staff."

"On the other hand," said the Governor, "I can hardly be expected to hand him over, knowing full well he could be given nothing more than a token reprimand. My citizens would be justifiably angry, were I to even suggest it. I see the problem."

"There might be a third way," said the wizard. "If we could exonerate any of them, then those could be repatriated without interfering with swift and sure justice for the guilty."

"How could we do that? To exonerate any of them we'd have to try them all separately. We both know we might not have that much time until the Honcho moves against us."

By that time she'd heard enough. Scuttling backward, she reached the fan room and plunged into the shaft to her own room. Moments later she dove down onto her bed and reached up to re-close the vent screen, then hurried out the door and ran to the stairwell.

"Where are you off to in such unseemly haste?"

She skidded to a stop, trying not to show the scowl she felt. Ludlow! "I'm late for a tutorial." she lied.

"Ah, but since you are the Governor's daughter, I'm sure your tutor will give you some latitude," he said. "I wanted to discuss something with you. "It seems to me that we – "

"Not now!" she snapped. "Whatever it is can wait for a better time."

"Haven't you heard there is no better time than the present?"

"Not my present," she said. "Go bother someone else." She ignored the momentary flash of anger that her words evoked on his face as she wrenched open the stairwell door and hurried down the stairs.

_How are they going to decide if any of them are innocent?_ She wondered. Simple questioning wasn't the answer. Would her mother let herself be talked into allowing torture? Her lips compressed. She could imagine the rationalization that would be given by some advisors, once they heard of the murders: if our soldiers had done this, do you imagine the Honcho would hesitate to use pain to obtain confessions?

As she descended, she found herself exiting the stairwell at the level of the thirtieth floor, where Xander and his apprentice were quartered. Maybe there was some magic of the Ancients that could tell truth from lies. It was worth investigating.

The two guards jerked to attention as she strode forward. She didn't know these two by name, and vice versa, which explained their nervousness. She shook her head, wondering when someone would worry about something more important than military bearing. "I'm here to speak to the apprentice," she told them. "The Governor sent me to ask him something." It was a flimsy lie, she realized, but she counted on them to underestimate her like everyone else did. Everyone, that is, except her mother.

"Do you want us to come in with you?" one of them asked.

She forced herself to smile in amusement. "Oh come now, soldier. You don't think I'm in any danger from our own apprentice, do you?"

"No, ma'am. But we'll be right outside here if you need us."

She rolled her eyes. "So reassuring," she told him as she unbolted the door and slipped inside.

Lester stood in front of a mirror. Aria rolled her eyes again. His rough clothes had not led her to think of him as vain. Apparently, she had been fooled by first impressions. Again.

Abruptly, he vanished. Her eyes widened for a moment. Then the door shut behind her and he rematerialized, turning toward the sound.

"I'm glad to see you're making _some_ progress."

"Oh, hello again. Is it time for lunch already? This is hungry work."

"I'm not here to feed you," she said. "Does Xander have anything here that can tell truth from lies? It's important."

"Why? Is something up?"

Briefly, she explained. "So I'm afraid my mother will feel pressed for time, and allow them to resort to torture. Is there another way, one he might have mentioned to you?"

He appeared confused. "Does your mother work for the Governor? Is she some kind of magistrate or something?"

"My mother is the Governor, fool!" She stooped and made herself take breath. "Sorry, I was just hoping I could find her another way. From what I've read, once a government starts using torture, they generally find it easier to do the next time."

He stroked his stubble. "Xander hasn't mentioned anything from the Tourists that would help with questioning. But there might be another way," he said. "If you could get me in there, I could listen to them when they think no one's around."

She considered it. "Worth a try," she muttered. "But we might not have much time. The men Xander captured were scouts. She's probably afraid there might be an army not far behind them, so it's important she questions them as soon as they get here. How fast can you move when you're invisible?"

"Hold on," he said. "They're not here yet? Then how do you know about them?"

"Xander came back to report before them. I just heard him talking to the Governor about it."

"What?" He seemed surprised. "How did he get back before them?"

She shrugged. "How should I know? He _is_ a wizard. Maybe you should ask him. Anyway, your plan might work even better if you're in place _before_ they get to the holding cell. They might be on their guard if I visit them first."

"How do you even know where they'll be held? Or that they'll even make it to Denver, considering what you say happened."

Our men aren't savages," she snapped. "And they know Xander knows they have the prisoners. They won't risk a wizard's wrath for the fleeting joy of revenge. Or my mother's."

"Wow," he said, "I almost forgot that. What's it like, being the Governor's daughter?"

"Be thankful you'll never know," she said. "I'm, expected to take her place someday, but in the meantime no one seems to think I can do it. Endless classes and training, and all the men see me as a pampered kid. I have no friends at all."

"Sorry to hear that. I know what that's like," he said. "I've been here a couple of weeks and you're the only person near my age I've even _seen_. Don't your mother's men have families?"

"Probably, but they must be in another building." She met his eyes. "Can you do anything besides disappear?"

"Not yet," he admitted. "He said learning to bend light was the first step, so I could survive long enough to learn the rest."

"Well, I do know where the holding cells are," she said. "I'll distract the guards and you slip out behind me. Can you make it to the stairwell without me? I'll meet you there."

He shrugged and smiled. "I'll try not to disappoint the future Governor," he said.

Aria moved to the door. "Count to thirty, then follow me," she whispered. Then she knocked on the door and raised her voice. "Coming out."

There was the sound of the bolt sliding back, then the door opened and she blinked in the brighter light of the corridor. She stepped out, leaving the door ajar.

_Now for a distraction. What works best with men?_ She let herself stumble against one of the guards and reached an arm around his waist as if she needed support.

He stiffened for a second, startled, then pulled her against him. "Are you all right, Miss? Did he – "

"Oh good grief," she said, straightening and pulling away after a moment. "Of course not. I just stumbled." She had the attention of both of them now. She kept it by straightening her belt and tucking in her blouse, making sure to make the fabric press skintight against her breasts as she did so. They were smaller than her mother's but she did not doubt that the men would look at them anyway. And they did.

Behind the two men she saw the door move slightly, its edge rippling like the air over a hot stove. She fidgeted with her clothing for a few more seconds, then straightened again and reached forward past them to shut the door.

"Did you get the answers you needed?" one of them asked, to change the subject.

Aria rolled her eyes. Maybe she was overdoing that expression, she thought, but it came naturally at the idea that men could be so easily distracted by bumps on a chest. "Hardly. Maybe I'll come back later, when the wizard's back."

She strode down the corridor, ears straining for the sound of Lester's footprints behind her. But she heard nothing. Well, the door had moved. He must be around here somewhere. She opened the door to the stairwell and held it open, standing there for a minute as if deep in thought. After a bit, she felt a bump against the door and realized he had made it after all.

## Chapter 25

Lester: "to mock ourselves with falsehood"

He groped his way in darkness, barely conscious that she was saying something to the guards. The blackness was total. He felt his way along the wall, hoping he had taken the right direction for the stairwell.

After what seemed an eternity, his fingers felt the door. She stepped to the side of is and waited. In a moment he heard her open it, and slipped into the stairwell ahead of her. Once inside, he relaxed and unraveled the _pathspace_ weave.

Light flooded back into his universe, bringing the welcome sight of Aria with it. "So you made it," she said. "Why are you sweating?"

He wiped his forehead. "I'm still new at this," he told her. "It's not easy to maintain while I'm moving. It's a lot easier if I just stand still, so the weave only has to be done once."

"Oh," she said. "Come on, it's several floors below us."

As they descended, he tried not to glue his eyes to the tightness of her clothing. Her blouse was tucked into trousers that no one would have mistaken for a man's...given their contents. Mentally slapping himself, he forced his eyes up higher and reminded himself that she was the Governor's daughter. The Heir! Somehow she had neglected to mention that, the first time he had seen her with a tray of food. At the time he had wondered if he might ask her to a dance, assuming they had dances in Denver. Now he had to laugh at such thoughts. One day she would rule Rado, and he would be just a wizard, if he was lucky. And not even the only wizard. If Xander's plans succeeded, he'd be one of many by then, just another member of a growing school.

But was it true that she had no friends? He considered it. It might be true. Obviously the Governor wouldn't look kindly on her soldiers following her daughter around. Maybe she had something in common with him, after all. Both of them were isolated by their circumstances.

After many floors, she stopped on a landing. "The holding cell is to the left," she said. "It's inside another room. I'll open the outer door for you so you can find a good place to stand or sit before they get here."

"Are you sure this is the one they'll be in?" he asked. "I mean, there must be more than one holding cell. Won't they just throw them in the one closest to the ground floor?"

"No," she said. "if they're high-priority prisoner (and these will be, given what they've done), they'll want them as far from the street level as possible. That's this one. Ready?"

He nodded and wrapped _pathspace_ around him as she opened the door. The darkness closed in again. As he often did at such times, Lester wondered if there might be a way to let _some_ of the light in, as long as it didn't get back out to the eyes of others. But there was no helping it, at least for now. He groped his way out the door, turned left, and inched forward, reweaving the _pathspace_ shield every foot or so before he could push out of the darkness into visibility.

He heard the sound of the door, found it by feel, and slipped in after her.

"Is there anyone within sight?" he whispered.

"No," he heard. "Why?"

Instead of answering, he undid the weave and squinted as light tried to blind his dark-adapted eyes again. The room was about twenty feet square, and had a wall of iron bars across the middle. The wall was parallel to the corridor outside, so that the rectangular cell it bounded ran the length of the room from left to right. "Shouldn't that window be barred, too?" he wondered.

Aria looked at him as if he were crazy. He could almost hear the word _fool_ in her mind.

"No, we're still fifteen floors above the ground. And there's no ledge. Anyone who goes out that window will decorate the sidewalk with their insides. Hey, what are you doing? If anyone walks by they'll see you!"

"It's easier to pick my spot if I can see it," he said, trying not to show his irritation. Didn't she realize he had to stand somewhere where there was little chance of anyone walking right into an invisible man? "Once I vanish, I won't be able to see anyone coming to get out of their way," he told her. "So I have to see to find the best place to hide."

"Oh, right. Sorry," she said, sounding contrite.

There was a small table and a chair by the right wall, so he planted himself on the opposite side. He leaned against the wall. "I have two questions. First, how long do we have before they get here? If I have to stay invisible for hours I might get tired by the time they arrive and reappear before I hear anything useful."

She considered it. "Good point. Tell you what. Vanish here for a bit in case anyone walks by while I'm gone, and I'll go and ask about it and come back in a few minutes. Once we know how long it's going to be, I'll let you know, then hang around in the corridor outside and say something loud when I see them coming. That way you won't have to vanish again until they're practically in the cell."

It sounded like a good plan. "Okay," he said, and wove the _pathspace_ again, letting the darkness swallow him. He leaned against the wall, wrapped in artificial night, and listened to the sound of her opening the door to the corridor.

_How is it,_ he wondered, _that I can hear – and speak – to her when the light is going around me?_ It seemed to him that sound would do the same thing, avoid him. Was it possible that there was more than one kind of _pathspace_? He made a note to ask Xander about it after he finished here.

It was only after she left that he realized he had forgotten to ask her the second question. If she had classes all the time to prepare her for the future, wouldn't they miss her if she stayed down here near the cell?

He tried to pass the time thinking of new things to do with _pathspace_. Was it good for anything else besides invisibility? Then he remembered Xander making the bits of cracker circle in opposite directions in the bowl of soup. Xander hadn't seemed to even be trying very hard when he did it. Like it wasn't even work. Was making ordinary matter follow a path easier than re-routing the light?

There was a wooden cup and an empty clay pitcher on the table across from him. Maybe he could practice on that when she got back. It'd be pretty hard to do anything when he was trapped in his own pocket of blindness.

He thought about the _swizzles_. Obviously it must be possible to make ordinary matter follow the _pathspace_ , else how could you make air or water shoot through a _swizzle_? As always, He wondered what it was about his mind that could affect the _pathspace_ so readily as to render him invisible. But, as Xander had already told him, it was more important to be _able_ to do it than to know _how_ he did it. Or at least, at this stage of my apprenticeship.

Presently Aria returned, bearing several items. The first was a peculiar hourglass. It dripped oil, rather than sand, from the top half into the bottom, and the glass was marked with transparent bands of color. She set it down on the table, and he saw that the oil had filled the red and orange levels and was beginning to fill the yellow band.

"Where did you get that?" he asked her. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Oh, we have a lot of them," she said. "It's called a Xander clock. He invented it, and they're becoming quite popular. There's even talk of exporting them east. There's a different color for each hour, and oil drips so slowly that it's good for a whole eight hour watch." She paused. "The thing is, he's the only one who can get the little glow-tube inside to work. If it wasn't for that they'd be all over Rado by now."

"It's brilliant," he said, and meant it. "How did he ever think of such a thing?"

"He's more than a crazy old wizard," she said. "But most people don't see that. You know about his idea of starting a school for wizards, don't you?"

"Yes. At first I thought it was a little nutty. But after thinking about it, I've realized that it's probably one of the best ideas I've ever heard. Your mother – I mean, the Governor – is lucky to have him."

"I'm sure she knows it," she said. "Sometimes I hear it in her voice – something that makes me think he's even more important to her than she lets on."

"Has he been here a long time?"

"As long as I can remember," she said. Then she changed the subject. "Anyway, from what I hear, it'll be at least a couple of hours before they get here. They won't be here until it reaches the blue line at the earliest. That's why I brought us a couple of books."

He looked them over. Both were hand-bound, obviously expensive. One was called _Rise!_ and it was the biography of the General. The other was _The Tourists,_ a story of the Fall. He picked that one up. "I'd like to read this one."

"I thought you might," she said, "considering the author. The other one's my favorite, anyway."

He turned the book in his hands to read the author's name and immediately felt stupid again. "Oh. I guess I should have expected it was by him. Why didn't he show it to me as soon as I arrived here?"

"It must have slipped his mind," she said. "But it's hardly surprising. I think only Mother and I have read it. Nobody else seems to care about the Tourists anymore."

"Even after what they did to us?" He couldn't believe it. "Back where I come from in Inverness, if a neighbor's dog bites someone they still talk about it twenty years later. And the Tourists, they wrecked our whole civilization!"

"I don't think they meant to," she said. "And no one remembers what it used to be like before the Fall. Well," she amended, "maybe a few people like Xander.. But no one else. Well, I''ll go keep a lookout so you won't have to vanish yet."

She left, and Lester sat down by the wall to read _The Tourists_ , by Xander.

## Chapter 26

### Jeffrey: "daring of a moment's surrender"

Brutus was in a foul mood when we awoke, and finding himself tied up did not improve his disposition. When he lifted his bruised head, now sporting a fresh bump, the first thing his eyes focused on was Jeffrey. The first thing he said was unprintable.

"You look about as good as you sound," Jeffrey told him. "Maybe it wasn't the best idea to threaten the old man, after all."

Brutus spat pink saliva onto the floor of the cart. "You seem fine," he sneered. "Let me guess. You cowered in fear, then helped him tie us up."

"Not even close," said Jeffrey. "I avoided a fight with a powerful wizard, and then I tied you up by myself. He didn't help until it was time to finish the job on me."

Brutus struggled to a sitting position. "Then we have a chance after all," he said. "You probably can't even tie your own bootlaces."

Jeffrey watched the larger man squirm and pull at the knots that bound his hands behind his back. "Regardless of what you think of me, the fact is the old man checked all the knots himself. I didn't dare try any tricks. After what your boys did at that farm, I think he was almost disappointed that I _didn't_ try anything. My guess is his conscience is the only reason we're all still alive."

"Where are we?"

"Headed north, probably into Denver. They brought some good horses with them, but it might be noon before we get anywhere near their capitol. After that," he swallowed, "things might get a little more intense."

Brutus seemed amused now. "Having second thoughts about being so cooperative, are you? Bet you're crapping in your pants."

"Maybe you're not scared, but I am. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I had a lot to look forward to, before you got us in this mess." Jeffrey looked away, at the bushes and the occasional tree speeding past the cart. By the look of it, the men from Rado were eager to deliver them to the Governor. Too eager. "You should have seen the faces of those men after the old man told them what happened. If it wasn't for him we'd have dug our own graves hours ago." Jeffrey swallowed again. His throat was raspy, but he knew better than to ask men who looked that grim for a drink of water. "In a way, though, you have. You've killed us all, commander. Do you know how they execute people in Rado? Just curious."

Brutus showed him a feral grin. "By hanging. Same as in Texas. Oh, they used to have fancier ways, or so I'm told. But these days your last moments are measured by a length of rope, the good old fashioned way."

Jeffrey turned his head to gaze at him. "You don't seem very worried. Do you think you're going to Heaven? I never pegged you for a religious man."

Brutus spat again at that. "Fuck no. But so what? I don't believe in Hell, neither. When you die you're just gone. Not what I want, but," he shrugged, "I won't even know I'm dead, afterwards, so it won't bother me none. Could be worse."

Worse? Jeffrey was staring wide-eyed now. "How could it be worse than getting killed?"

The commander just laughed. "You're happier not knowing," he said. "But since you asked, if it was anywhere but Rado, they might cut our balls off, tear our tongues out, and put us to slave labor for the rest of our lives, hauling garbage or building walls or some such. That's what they do down in Mexico. Or just torture us to death over a period of a week or so. That's what I hear they do over in the Dixie Emirates. God only knows what they do up in New Israel or over to the west in Deseret." He roared at Jeffrey's expression, laughed until tears flowed. When he had finished laughing, he continued. "But we're going to Rado. There they put you on a platform with a noose of decent hemp around your neck and send you straight to oblivion. Nearly as painless as a bullet in the back of the head."

"Damn you, I don't want to die at all!"

Brutus grinned. "Do tell," he said. "Are you religious, sonny boy? Afraid you might kick the bucket before some priest prays you into Saint Peter's loving hands?"

"I won't give them the satisfaction of begging for my life, if it comes to that," Jeffrey told him. "But there were a few things I wanted to do before my time here was over. Things you probably don't care about, like falling in love, having kids, stuff like that." He looked away again. "Instead, I'm going to hang because your men got to rape and kill." He wanted to say there was no justice. But now he was beginning to be afraid that there would be.

"Well waugh, waugh waugh! Show some backbone, you worm. They were the enemy, and there's no God caring about what we did, or about you. Shit happens, then you die."

I wonder what it will feel like? Is he right, and when it's over there's nothing left to know that it's dead? He'd read stories that claimed some people had nearly died, and had seen a tunnel and a bright light and then someone told them to go back. But he'd read other opinions that disputed such claims, saying those visions were only hallucinations brought about by the loss of oxygen to the brain, or something like that.

He lay there thinking and wondering, or at least that how he thought he spent the time, until a jolt awakened him. He opened his eyes in time to see a high doorway passing over head, then the cart was in a large room somewhere.

"All right, get out of the cart."

He lurched to a sitting position and squinted as his eyes adjusted to a dimmer light level. "How are we supposed to do that? We're tied up."

A man with short-cut dark hair leaned over the side of the cart. The expression on his face was not pleasant. "You're lucky to be breathing. If we'd caught you instead of the wizard, you'd be feeding buzzards by now. Your legs aren't tied, so get out _now_. Or we'll roll you out, and laugh if you break something. Like your heads. Accidents happen." He grinned. "We might even put you back in and roll you out again, if it's amusing enough."

They managed to get out of the cart. As soon as they were standing on the floor, the men aimed crossbows at them and hustled them through a door and up endless flights of steps. He could see Brutus was looking for a chance to overcome their guards and escape, but there was no chance.

When they emerged from the stairwell, the first thing he saw was a beautiful girl lounging in the hallway with a book. She must have been deaf or something, because the first thing she did when she saw them was shout "Are these the prisoners I heard about?"

## Chapter 27

### Kristana: "the rhythm of blood and the day"

She was listening to the water drain out of the tub and pulling her boots on when the knock at the door intruded. Sighing, she stood, regarded herself in the mirror, stopped being just a relaxed woman and became the Governor of Rado again. "What is it?"

"The prisoners are here, Governor."

"All right," she said. "I'll be right down to welcome them to Denver." She fastened her shirt and adjusted the shoulder boards. There were stars on them. Robbie's stars. I never knew two stupid bits of obsolete rank insignia could be so heavy, she thought. On days like today it seemed the weight of them was crushing her.

"Are you getting out of that tub?" she snapped. "Or are you just going to stand there dripping until you get pneumonia?"

"Are those my only two choices?" he said. Old but not too-badly muscled legs swung over the edge of the bathtub and planted themselves on the tiles. "It's about time they showed up."

"They couldn't have picked a worse time," she said. "Aria's birthday is in two days. We ought to be planning that instead of figuring out how to hold a trial that's fair but brief."

"There's a lot of things we ought to be doing," he said. "Like taking longer baths."

She shook her head. The man was relentless. "We take too many chances as it is. If the others knew what we – "

He silenced her with a kiss. "What we do alone is our own business," he said. "And don't worry, I understand why it has to stay that way."

"You know I wish it didn't have to be a secret," she said. "But it is what it is."

"No worries," he said. "You go on ahead. "I'll wait and follow after your guards lead you to the stairs."

She closed the bathroom door behind her and strode to the outer door of her suite. Charles and Terence were waiting for her. "What shape are they in?" she asked.

"They walked in," said Terence. "As far as I can tell, they're in better shape than they have any reason to expect. If it weren't for Xander the boys would've strung 'em up already."

"There will be no lynchings while I'm Governor," she said. "And they'd better not accidentally fall down stairs or walk into a door in my building. Is that clear?"

"Absolutely" said Charles.

They entered the stairwell and headed down. "Have we found any living relatives of the Ferrero family?"

"No ma'am. His wife's parents died in the last war. And Gus's were carried off by the plague we had five years back. I'm afraid there's no one."

"Damn. I suppose they burned his crops, too?"

"Yes, Governor."

Yet another problem. Who would take over the farm? Especially one so near the border with Texas. _Maybe,_ she thought, _we need to push the border a little further south, this time_.

The prisoners were a sorry-looking bunch. But few people would look better after losing a fight with a wizard and being dragged up to Denver. The Governor looked them over. "Well?" she demanded. "What do you have to say for yourselves?"

They all looked at the tallest one. He must be the leader, she realized. What a surprise.

He surprised her by grinning. "Glock, Brutus, Commander, First Recon, Lone Star Empire. Service number eight five eight oh three one seven."

She rolled her eyes. "Give me a reason why you should go on living, Commander."

He just smiled. "Glock, Brutus, Commander, First Recon, Lone Star Empire. Service number eight five eight oh three one seven."

"If that's what you plan to say at the trial," the Governor told him, "we might be able to finish in one day. You must be very eager to die."

The redhead with the scar above his left eyebrow didn't even blink. His grin did not waver. "Glock, Brutus, Commander, First Recon – "

"Yes I heard you. Service number eight five eight oh three one seven." She glanced at the others. "Any of you lunkheads have more sense than your commander?"

One of them opened his mouth, as if to say something. But then his eyes strayed to the big redhead and he closed his mouth again.

"I could just hang the lot of you," she mused out loud. "Then again, my people are likely to petition me to try torture on you first."

"But you won't," the big guy said. "You haven't the guts for it."

"Is that what you call what you had at that farm? Guts?" She wrinkled her lips in disgust. "You must have different definitions for things down there in the Honcho's country."

"Sure do. For example, 'Governor' ain't a word for 'woman' down there. We stop taking orders from women soon as we're old enough to ride, fight, and drink."

Her guards Charles and Terence bristled at that. She didn't blame them. "Up here we obey whoever's in charge, which happens to be me at the moment. What about your boys? Did your Honcho order you to rape and kill non-combatants?" She shook her head. "Somehow I doubt it. Peter's a lot of things, but he'd never sink that low. You know what I think?" she said, studying the redhead. "I think he won't care _what_ we do to you when he hears what you did."

His face darkened, but he had no reply to that, so she turned and left the room. Her guards accompanied her. As the three of them headed for the stairs she told Charles "Put together a jury as soon as possible. We'll do this legally, but I don't want that guy to live any longer than necessary."

## Chapter 28

### Lester: "Struggling with the Devil"

After the Governor left, the men in the cell finally began to talk. Sitting against the wall in darkness, Lester decided that meant she hadn't left any guards behind.

"You shouldn't have made that crack about women," said a younger voice. Not the same one who had been speaking to her, he thought.

"Shut your mouth," the more familiar voice said. "Never show weakness in front of the enemy. If she goes ahead with executions, Texas can use that for recruiting propaganda. It doesn't matter how legally she does it. Our people won't believe a word of it. All she'll do is make our army bigger."

"You idiot. You think she'll brag about executing us? We'll just disappear. Like you made that farmer's family disappear. A vanished recon team won't recruit anyone."

"I said shut it! The Honcho's got resources you know nothing about. Likely as not we'll be sprung out of here before the boss lady can get her trial ready. Keep your cool and don't make me have to report you to your daddy for cowardice in front of the enemy."

"Huh! I should have at least tried to stop you. Maybe I deserve to die for just standing there and doing nothing while you raped the women. I don't know. Maybe if it had been just you and me I could have stopped you. At least you won't get the chance to do it again."

"I already told you to shut your yap, runt. I'm not going to repeat myself. The next time you open that mouth it'll lose some teeth."

Lester listened with interest. Had he really heard what he thought he heard? This hadn't been a total waste of time, after all. He could hardly wait to get out of here and talk to Aria. There were ramifications here that neither of them had considered.

And then it got even more interesting. As he stood up, preparing to leave the room, he heard sudden inhalations of astonishment.

"What the hell? Who are you, another damned wizard?"

He started, sure he'd been seen. But no, his cloaking spell was still working, or he wouldn't be in darkness any longer. So what had startled them?

"Who am I?" said a new voice, one he'd never heard before. "I, gentlemen, am your salvation. Stay calm and don't tell them anything. I'll have you all out of here as soon as I can find out who has the key to that cell."

He heard the door to the outer room open again. Whoever opened it didn't close it this time, or at least not all the way, as if they didn't want anyone who might be outside to hear it. Trying not to pant with excitement and the effort of re-weaving the shield around him as he moved, he groped his way around to the door, hugging the wall, then slipped out into the corridor.

Once he was clear of the door he flattened himself against the wall of the corridor and tried to calm down. _Whoever that was_ , he thought, _I can't let him know I heard him._

## Chapter 29

### Xander: "we thank Thee for our little light"

Alone, unseen, Xander performed his daily regimen. First was the thing with the mirror. He picked up a wooden cup from the table and stood in front of the full-length mirror. Then he tossed the cup off to the side. As soon as he heard it hit the floor, he made himself vanish, weaving the _pathspace_ as fast as he was able. He did this ten times.

Then he did the second exercise. This was like the first, except that he watched where the cup ceased its motion, and made it vanish. Then he turned back to the mirror, vanished himself, and practiced the moving invisibility, walking to the cup's location by his memory of the room's layout, and reaching down to retrieve it before undoing both weaves. He did this another ten times.

He seized his staff and swizzles it on and off rapidly, making it hum its bass roar, then adjusting the flow up and down with his mind, sometimes reversing it entirely, as if he were doing push-ups. From this he proceeded to target practice, firing little roughly-carved wooden balls at various targets around the room. When he was done with this part, the balls all lifted gently into the air and replaced themselves in a bowl in the corner.

He was perspiring a little by now. But he did not let up. There were still _spinspace_ and _tonespace_ to practice. He stepped through the rear doorway into his storeroom and withdrew several conical tops and gyroscopes, all treasures salvaged from the remains of an ancient toy store. From under the sofa he pulled a wooden board with numerous dimples in it, into which he set the various tops and gyros, setting each one to spinning. That was the easy part. Then he worked at canceling their spinning, stopping their rotation and making them topple over as quickly as he could manage. After he had stopped them all, he spun them with his mind again, this time in the opposite direction, and repeated the process. As before, he repeated this ten times.

He took a deep breath, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and returned these items to their storage places. With scarcely more than a minute or two for rest, he gulped a cupful of water from the sink and tossed a handful of coins onto the table. Concentrating, he made the discs into _everflames_ , focusing the _tonespace_ until all of them glowed with pinpoints of red light hovering above the coins. He then forced the intensity up and down with his mind, making them cycle from red to blue-white motes and back to red over and over again, singly and in groups. By now he was freely perspiring. He extinguished the _everflames_ and made the air around him an imaginary _coldbox_ , cooling himself in the sudden fog that condensed out of the silent air and poured down his body like a reversed fountain, a cylindrical waterfall of blessedly refrigerating mist that cooled him.

He was canceling out this weave when he heard the sound of the door's bolt being thrown back. Lester rushed into the room, clearly agitated.

"Where have you been, Lester? Spying on ladies? I mean, I'm glad you are making enough headway with your vanishing to be able to come and go as you please, but, really, we must have a talk about ethics. You must underst – "

"It's not that," the apprentice interrupted. "Aria overheard you telling the Governor about the men you captured and she wanted me to see if we could learn something." He stopped to catch his breath "So she snuck me in and I sat invisible outside the cell when they brought them in. There's something you need to know."

Xander sat down on the sofa with a grunt. "There are a lot of things I need to know. Like how she overheard us, for one thing. The Governor and I were alone." He regarded the boy. "Have you been teaching her invisibility?"

"No. I've no idea how she heard you. Maybe she was just outside the door. Who cares? That's not the point. She was worried about the trial."

Xander grimaced. "She's not the one who should be worried about the trial," he said.

"Well, she was. Obviously, when word gets out the citizens will be howling for blood. And with the possibility of an army on the way, she was afraid the Governor might be tempted to use torture to get confessions and a quick trial so she can move on to more important things, like mobilizing the army."

Xander pursed his lips. "If you even _think_ that's possible," he said, "you have a lot to learn about the Governor. And so does Aria. I would have thought she knew her mother better than that." He got up and paced across the room to the table and picked up an apple. "So, did you learn anything useful?" He took a bite of the fruit and chewed.

"You could say that." Lester sighed. "Unfortunately, Aria must have had to go to a lesson or something, so I haven't been able to tell her yet. But yes, I did learn something, and it's big. It changes everything."

When Xander heard what he said next, he nearly choked on his mouthful of apple.

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. If he is, and he's innocent, the trial could get complicated. I couldn't see which one he was, but I'll recognize his voice. "

"Damn. And I thought life was complicated enough already." He sat down on the sofa again.

"Oh it gets worse. The Texans have a wizard in the building. I heard him reveal himself to them and tell them not to worry, that he'd rescue them."

"WHAT?" Xander was on his feet before he could think. "How do you know he was a wizard?"

Lester fidgeted. "Well," he said, after a moment. "I couldn't see him, but from what I heard they were pretty shocked to learn he was there, as if he had been lurking in the room invisible like me and just suddenly appeared in front of them. One of them even said something about it, asked him if he was a wizard."

Xander began to pace back and forth. "Right under our noses? But how could he be Texan? The Honcho's in a sort of partnership with the TCC, the Texan Catholic Church, and they're dead set against wizards or anything to do with the Tourists."

"I'm just telling you what I heard. Are you just going to pace around and eat that apple? We have to get word to the Governor!"

"Quiet, please. I need to think. We need to anticipate his actions, not just react to them. How is he planning to get them out? I could sneak in and out of here any time I wanted to. But take a whole group of prisoners out with me? Probably more than I could manage without being seen. Either he's better than me, or he's thought of something I haven't."

"Are there wizards better than you?"

Xander exhaled. "Anything is possible. I'm good, son, but when you become a wizard, never make the mistake of assuming there couldn't be someone better than you. For all I know, there's tricks I haven't even thought of. If this guy knows invisibility, then we have only one chance to stop them. Once he gets them outside, we might never see them again."

"Before you stop to make a plan, we need to keep them bottled up in that cell. One of us needs to guard them, and that's you, wizard. You need to get down there, now, before this guy locates the key to that cell."

Xander was moving toward the door as Lester was speaking, but at this, he halted in his tracks. "He said he was looking for the key? Then maybe he's not as good as I thought."

Lester stared at him. "Why not?"

"Because a real wizard wouldn't need a key," Xander told him. "All ordinary locks are just collections of moving parts. Anything that can move can be controlled with _pathspace_."

"How?"

"Because it's already in motion." He picked up another apple and held it in front of Lester. "The Earth like a ball, spinning and also moving in a circle around the Sun. That means the Earth and everything on it, every rock and blade of grass, is _already_ moving. Already on a path. Once you can control _pathspace_ , you can change that path, influence it. And that means you can make things move." He released the apple and let it float back to the bowl on the table.

Lester's mouth was open. He closed it.

"Come on, let's move," said Xander. "You're right, there's no time for a lesson now."

## Chapter 30

### Ludlow: "I have trodden the winepress alone"

It didn't take him long to find the key. He already knew where the keys to all the cells were kept, so he simply walked into the guard room and pocketed all eight of them. It was just barely past noon now. The watch had just changed, which accounted for the absence of the room's usual occupant. That meant he had maybe a few minutes before they noticed the keys were missing from their drawer.

Strolling to the nearest staircase, he ran up the stairs two at a time to the roof. He paused to catch his breath. This was going to take some finesse.

Hollings was on duty on the roof. He turned in surprise as he heard the footsteps behind him. "Hello, Mr. Ludlow. What brings you all the way up here?"

Ludlow grinned. "A vice," he said, pulling a cigarette from a pocket. "One the Governor doesn't approve of." Then he pretended embarrassment. "Oh, dear, how rude of me. Would you care for one? I always keep a couple rolled just in case."

"Sure."

He handed it over, then patted his pockets theatrically. "Oh damn, I forgot my _everflame_. Could you do us both a favor and go see if they have one on the next floor down?"

Hollings hesitated. "I'm not supposed to leave my post."

Ludlow raised his eyebrows. "Oh come now, it'll only take you a minute. I'll take your place and keep watch for you until you get back. The watch just changed, after all. It's not as if your replacement will come up here and find you missing. Unless it takes you eight hours to fetch an _everflame_ or a candle."

The guard shrugged. "You're right. I'll be right back."

Ludlow smiled, watching until Hollings was safely inside the stairwell. These people were so trusting, it was hardly a challenge at all to out-maneuver them.

Once the guard was gone, he picked up the signaler and aimed it carefully, angling it so that it would reflect the sun's light from the south to the east. Quickly, from a skill born of secret practice, he flashed out a message.

After a moment, he saw the answering flashes.

He replaced the instrument where he had found it. After a minute Hollings emerged from the stairwell, the cigarette in his lips, its tip already glowing red as he inhaled.

He took it out as he approached and held it out. "Sorry about that. Howard wouldn't let me take his _everflame_ , so I started without you."

"No worries, corporal," said Ludlow, touching the tip of his own cigarette to the glowing tip of the other and inhaling to light his. "I would have done the same."

## Chapter 31

### Aria: "the wisdom we have lost in knowledge"

Miss Gerloch clucked her tongue. "If you insist on being late for your lessons, it would be better if the reason was that you lost track of time studying." She moved to a different part of the map on the wall. "What do you know of this region?"

"Europe," said Aria. "The western part of the Continent of Eurasia. The early flounders of this continent came from there, from old countries known as Spain, France, and England."

"All of them?" Miss Gerloch regarded her, watching for the first hint of hesitation.

Aria sighed. "No, not all of them. When the first settlers came across the ocean there were people here already, the Amerinds. They were mistakenly called Indians because Columbus had intended to discover a shorter route to the spices of India."

"And how did they get here?"

"Some may have floated across Pacific ocean currents, but most came across a land bridge that existed during the last Ice Age. They came over from north eastern Asia, to Alaska, then down the western coast of America."

"You will no doubt be prepared to tell me that most of them were killed by the expansion of the colonists from the East, from Europe," said Miss Gerloch. "Why?"

"Because the colonists wanted the land," she answered. "The farmers cut down the forests for farmland, and then as the expansion continued westward, the ranchers displaced the Amerinds and took their land for fields to graze their cattle, and because of the valuable minerals like gold, copper, and oil under the land."

No," said Miss Gerloch. "That's not what I meant by 'why'. Why were the colonists from Europe able to do this? How is it they were able to wrest the land away from the indigenous peoples who knew it better, who had occupied it for at least a thousand years?"

"Then maybe you should have asked 'how'," said Aria. "The answer is technology. The locals had low tech based on bone, skins, leather and wood. They used weapons like bows and arrows and spears tipped with chipped points of stone. The invading settlers came from a higher level of technology that was already using iron and other metals, with steel knives, plows, and explosive-driven projectile weapons. The outcome was inevitable. Those Amerinds that were not absorbed by intermarriage were massacred by superior weapons."

"Can you guess why I am asking you these things?" said Miss Gerloch.

"I have no idea," said Aria. "This is all ancient history. You might as well be asking me about the Trojan War. I see no relevance at all."

"When the Tourists came, they also had superior technology," said Miss Gerloch. "So tell me, why didn't history repeat itself? Why didn't they take our planet? Why are we still here?"

Aria shrugged. "The situations were not the same," she said.

Miss Gerloch locked eyes with her. "Why not? This time, we were the primitives."

"Because they didn't want our planet. All they wanted was information, the total genetic catalog of our planet. They didn't need metals or land, because they were a space-inhabiting species. They could get all the metals and volatiles like water and oxygen from asteroids and ice moons. The one unique resource our planet has is its genetic database. And they could probably have gotten most of it without our help, but it was more efficient for them to trade with us for the genetic sequences."

"Tell me something," her tutor asked suddenly. _"How do we know they ever left?"_

Aria gaped at her. "I...I don't know," she admitted. "It seems logical, since they stopped contacting us and left orbit."

"Oh, come now," Miss Gerloch countered. "You just told me they could get everything they needed in the Asteroid belt. So why wouldn't they just stay there instead of leaving our solar system?"

"They could have left some colonies behind. But the prevailing view is that they would have left to seek other planets full of genetic sequences to add to their collection."

"Correct," said Miss Gerloch. "That is the view that prevailed. But do we have any actual evidence that any of them really left the solar system? We do not. Have you ever considered that they could be lurking out there in our own asteroid belt, developing viruses and other bioweapons specifically engineered to exploit weaknesses in our own genomes?"

"That sounds pretty paranoid, given that they don't want our planet."

"As far as we know. But maybe they just didn't want to fight us for it. Maybe they were willing to wait until they developed more efficient ways of removing us that would avoid risking their own population."

Aria pondered that, and was about to answer when the door to the Map Room opened and her mother entered. "Take a break, Miss Gerloch. I need to speak with my daughter."

"Of course." The tutor picked up her copy of _The Tourists_ and glided out into the corridor.

She faced her mother. "Well this is a surprise. What's up?"

"I'm told you went to the wizard's quarters this morning," said the Governor. "Apparently my guards were under the impression that I sent you. We both know that isn't the case, so why did you really go?"

Eek! If she admitted it had to do with the prisoners, her mother would want to know how she even knew about them. "I heard we captured some Texans," she said. "The building is buzzing with it. They say the Texans massacred some farmer and his family."

Her mother frowned. "That's true, but the men were under orders _not_ to gossip about it. The last thing we need right now is a lynch mob howling for summary executions instead of an orderly trial. Who did you hear this from?"

"It's not important," Aria said quickly. "The reason I went to see Xander was to ask if he had a magic for telling truth from lies. I worried that with the threat of war looming, your staff might try to talk you into using torture to get at the truth quickly, and I wanted to offer you another option."

"I'm the first person you should have come to," the Governor said. "If you had, I could have assured you that we don't use torture in Rado. It doesn't ensure the truth of anything, often quite the opposite. A man in pain is liable to agree with whatever you suggest, or to make up something if you avoid leading questions. No one's getting tortured while I'm in charge." She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing. He wasn't there. But his apprentice Lester was, and he's learned to make himself invisible. So I snuck him into the outer room of the holding cell before my lesson with Miss Gerloch. We managed to get him in before your men brought the prisoners, so he might hear something useful when they talk among themselves."

"I see," said the Governor. "I also see that you and I are going to have a talk about proper procedures after this is over. Did he learn anything useful?"

"I don't know. He's probably still there, unable to open the door to leave without letting them know they're being spied on." Aria took a breath. "It's been a while. Would you like me to go get him? I could pretend I walked in by mistake, and leave the door ajar so he can follow me out."

Her mother considered it. "You shouldn't have done this without consulting me, but now that you have, yes, go and fetch him, and bring him here without talking to anyone else. No stopping to gossip. Is that clear?"

"Of course. I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, and fled, counting herself lucky that had gone better than she had expected.

## Chapter 32

### Peter: "desert is in the heart of your brother."

The Honcho stood on the balcony, gazing toward the northeast. The day was calm, but he was not. _Brutus should have reported in by now._ The man could be troublesome, but his loyalty was solid. Why hadn't he rendezvoused with the signalmen who were out there waiting to relay his reports back?

He wished he were out there, out in the field, like the old days, when his father was Honcho. He envied the Runt his time of relative independence before the responsibility of rule was his to bear. But why hadn't they reported in?

He decided to do something about it. Whirling, he strode off the balcony and out the door to the staircase. As he began to descend into the depth of the building, he cursed the Ancients and their stupid shortsighted greed. _You contemptible fools!_ You had it all, an advanced technology, instantaneous communications that circled the planet, machinery to harvest crops, even machines to make the machines. And you threw it away! Threw it away because of your obsession with alien trash. You wanted all your fine machines to be replaced with magic tricks and shortcuts, and what did it buy you? What?

It bought you a world of savages. A world of hunger. A world of disease. A world of tiny countries scrabbling to control dwindling resources, when we could be mining the immense wealth up there over our heads in space. It bought you this.

_I want to go to the stars_ , he thought. But I won't. I'll spend my entire life unifying old scattered pieces, sewing together what should never have fallen apart. Building an empire with enough resources to resume the conquest and exploration of space. Pouring my blood into a shattered flowerpot, coaxing the glory to flower again. And never seeing the bloom. Never to taste the rewards I'm earning. Because of fools who grabbed for magic toys.

He laughed bitterly. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, old man! _You're_ not starving. There's no use grieving for a world long dead. Get back to building the world that will be.

If that is all you get to have, the striving, then strive.

He emerged into the sub-basement of the building, where once the trains of the Ancients flew through tunnels devoid of air. There was air in some of them, now – the ones that hadn't collapsed over the years. The ancient pumps that kept them airless to reduce the drag on the supersonic maglevs had been replaced with swizzles, of course, and after the Tourists left and the alien magic began breaking down, it was too late to convert them back, in a world where no one made pumps anymore. He grimaced but made an effort not to fall back into his grumble-cycle.

His grandfather had found a new use for the long-buried rails of metallo-graphene superconductor. It was the main reason the capital of the Lone Star Empire had moved to Dallas from Austin – far more of the maglev tunnels converged here. But nothing human rode them.

"Quintus!" he barked. "Wherever you are, get your ass over here."

A short man in dirty leathers trotted up to him. "Yes, Excellency?" Quintus was not a handsome man, or a tall man. In fact, thought the Honcho, he was barely any kind of man. But he had his uses. The only thing that distinguished him was his extraordinary sense of hearing. It was said that he could hear the whinny of a horse from half a mile away.

"We both know you heard me coming down the staircase," said Peter. "Don't make me summon you next time. Why haven't you sent up the latest dispatches from Rado?"

Quintus blinked. "Because there haven't been any," he said. He led the Honcho over to the maglev rails that used to connect Dallas with Denver. At the end of the rails, where elaborate shock absorbers used to be, to damp out any remaining trace of the train's motion, there was now, instead, a concavity in the floor of the station that housed a desk, with pads of paper and charcoal sticks for writing. The ends of the rails protruded from the edge of the pit into the small ends of enormous trumpet-like blossoms that curved as if trying to meet. The metal had taxed the patience of the smith who had produced them.

"The last transmission window was nearly an hour ago," said Quintus. He shrugged. "Perhaps something will come in a few minutes." He turned his head and checked the hourglass. The sand in the upper half was nearly gone. "Won't be long now," he said.

Peter scowled. Brutus had many faults, but not reporting in wasn't one of them. He knew where the submerged rails in their tunnels had been uncovered by cave-ins and erosion. There were at least two such spots between here and Denver, one on the Texas side of the border and the other nearly within sight of the city. "I'll wait," he said.

His grandfather had been the one to realize the potential of the ancient rails. The stories told how the Ancients had used trains that floated above them on invisible forces. But Alfonzo Martinez had been the one who had realized that the rails which had not fallen victim to earthquakes could still be used – for communication. Some of the rails had breaks in them, such as the line that went to Angeles, off to the west in Californ. But some of them had been more fortunate. The line to Denver was still unbroken most of the way, as was the one that led to Atlanta, in the East, in the heart of the Dixie Emirates

Soon, the last grains of sand tumbled into the lower half of the hourglass. Quintus flipped it over, then went and sat, his head between the two flared ends of the metal trumpets.

Peter watched him. Come on. Show some signs of life.

Nearly a minute went by, and he was about to look away when Quintus's eyes widened and he reached for paper and a charcoal stick. "Something coming in," he said.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing yet. They always start with five groups of five before the Morse begins. It's their way of getting my attention."

Peter paced back and forth as Quintus listened and wrote. After about a minute he pulled his head out of the focus. Peter leaned over to read the marks on the paper.

GANDALF REPORTS SCOUTS CAPTURED STOP RESCUE IN PROGRESS STOP

"Who's Gandalf?" Quintus asked.

"An agent of ours inside the Governor's headquarters," said Peter. "That's all you need to know." He turned to head back upstairs. "Let me know if there is any follow up."

_Captured_. His mind spun out possible implications. _Brutus wouldn't surrender without a fight. Is Jeffrey alive? Damn it, how could this happen?_ And if he is alive, do they realize they have the Runt? He had to believe that Jeffrey would at least have the sense to pretend to be a common soldier. And then there was that "rescue in progress" bit. He wasn't sure what would be worse – letting his son remain in enemy hands, or risking his life in an escape attempt.

The bottom line was, he could always sire another son. If Angela couldn't bear another child, then she'd just have to accept a surrogate if and when the time came for that.

## Chapter 33

### Aria: "With a new verse the ancient rhyme"

The door to the holding cell was ajar when she got there. Had he gotten out without her help? She stopped and listened but heard nothing. Maybe he didn't know the door was open? Frowning, she pushed into the room and regarded the cells' occupants.

They didn't seem very worried. Shouldn't they be? The big one with red hair was actually grinning at her. "Why are you so happy?" she asked him.

He pushed the door to his cell open. "Because you've solved the problem of how we're getting past the guards."

She gasped and jumped back, but bumped into someone behind her. Someone who grabbed her arms and held them.

"Dear me," a familiar voice smiled into her ear. "You appear to have volunteered to join my rescue. How generous of you."

"Ludlow! What are you doing here? Let go of me at once!"

"My dear, as usual, you have no idea what is going on." He whipped a knife around to her throat and pushed her out the door.

Xander and Lester were heading toward her. With a sinking feeling, she realized that the apprentice must have made it out without her help and was looking for her to report what he had heard. _If I had only waited, the Texans would have had no hostage._

"Stay back!" Ludlow warned.

"That's him! That's who I heard," Lester said to Xander.

The wizard held out a hand to stop him from talking. "I see it all now," he said. "Tell me, Ludlow, how long have you been spying for the Honcho?"

"Long enough, old man. You really should have kept me on as your apprentice. But that's not important now." Ludlow moved aside as the rest of the prisoners filed out of the room behind him. "What is important is that you understand the situation. These men know if they don't escape they're likely to be executed. I'd expect the same for helping them. And we all know that the only thing preventing their recapture is the fact that Miss D'Arcy is still alive."

"You always were long-winded."

"They wish to escape, and Miss D'Arcy wishes to go on living. It is my hope that you share her concern. In order for everyone to get through the next few minutes, you are going to precede us down the stairs, staying in sight, and tell the guards to let us reach the ground floor, where we will be given horses and allowed to leave without any awkward heroics."

"And then what?"

"We'll release her when we are far enough away. Best I can do."

Xander nodded. "I understand," he said. "But know this: if Aria come to the slightest harm, as a result of this betrayal of yours, I will find you and kill you."

"Oh really? Don't waste your breath, old man. We're going to Texas, where you aren't welcome."

Xander laughed. "And you think you are? The Church likes to think up new ways of killing wizards. Even a failed sorcerer like you would make them salivate."

Ludlow shook his head. "Trying to make me angry enough to forget myself and make a mistake? It won't happen. As for 'failed', I appear to be succeeding at the moment. And as for the Church, I expect the Honcho's gratitude will be all the protection I need."

Aria struggled for words. "I'm so sorry," she told Xander. As she did this, she saw Lester freeze next to him.

"You!" he managed.

The red-haired Texan with the scar glanced at him. "You got some problem, kid?"

"Not anymore," Lester told him. "It's good to see you again."

There was murder in his eyes. Did anyone else see it? Up to now he had seemed to be just a boy learning to be a wizard. But when she saw his expression, Aria revised her opinion. There must be a bit more to him.

The redhead moved up next to her. From the side, she could see he was mildly puzzled, but not that interested in whatever was bothering the apprentice. "You gents best get a move on, before Mr. Ludlow gets nervous with that knife," he advised.

Xander's face closed like a book. "Follow me."

When they entered the stairwell, she saw Lester fade away in front of her.

"I thought of that, too," Ludlow called. "We're not following unless I can see _both_ of you. And if you try an ambush, bad things will happen."

Lester reappeared. "It was worth a try," he muttered.

"Not now," said Xander. "He'll make a mistake soon enough."

"If he does," Lester replied, "It'll be his last."

"Oh dear," said Ludlow. "You _do_ realize we can hear you, don't you? Considering our hostage, I think you are getting off lightly. All we're asking for is an escape. I _could_ have ordered you to stand still while Red here beat you senseless, boy. Don't tempt me."

"Don't make me laugh," she said. "He wouldn't do it."

Lester stopped on the stairs and turned to look at her. "For you, I would," he said. "Besides, it would only make it easier for me to kill him later."

"Ain't that sweet?" said the red-haired man with the scar over his left eye. "Shut up and get your ass down those stairs."

_Mother will be soon wondering what's taking me so long,_ she thought. _But she's way up above us._ She began to slow down as if she were tired.

"Miss Aria," said Ludlow in her ear, "if you don't stop dawdling I'll let Red carry you down. He'd like that."

"He'd have trouble carrying me and the knife at the same time," she said. But she stopped slowing down.

Presently they reached the ground floor. It smelled of horses. "We'll need seven mounts and a several pieces of rope," Ludlow announced. Two guards turned at the sound of his voice and gaped at the party of prisoners emerging from the stairwell.

Xander put his hand out and stopped the nearer one from raising his crossbow. "Don't do it. He has Aria."

Ludlow smiled. "Yes, listen to your wizard, boys, he's giving you good advice. Come to think of it, we'll take your crossbows, while we're at it."

The guard looked to Xander. He sighed and nodded and they handed two crossbows over.

As the others climbed onto horses, Ludlow addressed Xander and Lester. "I imagine you are planning to follow us," he said. "I wouldn't if I were you, but then again I don't expect you'll be swayed by my opinions at this point."

"Good to see you're not _entirely_ out of your mind," said Xander.

Ludlow smiled. "I don't want to seem ungrateful, but we can't have you following us, so..." He turned to the red-haired man. "Shoot them both," he said.

## Chapter 34

### Jeffrey: "Knowledge of motion, but not of stillness"

At this point Jeffrey could remain silent no longer. "No!" he said," putting his hand on Brutus's arm. "We'll not leave blood behind us."

Brutus looked at him curiously. "I don't recall asking for your advice on the matter," he said. "Take your hand off before you have an unfortunate accident."

He let go, but before the bigger man could take aim, Jeffrey spoke. "Give me one of the crossbows," he said. "I'll cover them while you all leave, and catch up to you later."

Brutus laughed. "More likely, you'll realize you're outnumbered with no hostage and simply get recaptured. I'd hate explaining that to someone we both know. Smarter to just shoot them now and get away clean."

"You could try," Xander said. "But there is a smarter way. You tie all of us up except one, and leave your young man to cover him so you can get a decent head start. After you're gone, he ties up the last one and catches up with you."

Brutus laughed even harder. "And who covers the last one while he ties 'em up?"

"No one," said Xander. The last one gives his word not to try anything, in return for _your_ word that you'll release Aria unharmed, once you're safely away."

"And why don't we tie _all_ of you up?" Brutus inquired. "I'd rather shoot you, myself, but I'm just curious."

"Because I won't let you," said Xander. "You've seen what I can do. If you don't agree to this plan, I'll be forced to take action and see what happens. I'd rather not risk her life, but I won't let myself be killed or tied up so she can suffer at your hands. You have two shots with those crossbows. Think before you roll the dice."

"You don't have a campfire for ammo this time, old man."

"I don't need a campfire," said Xander, and vanished.

Brutus fired. The bolt from his crossbow smacked against the wall behind where the wizard had been.

"I'm not there anymore," said the voice of Xander. "You now have only one shot. Choose wisely. Ludlow can't get you all past the guards without help."

"We agree to your plan," said Jeffrey. "You promise not to keep us from leaving and we promise not to hurt her."

"Agreed," said Xander. But he did not reappear. "Tie the others up. I'll reappear when your associates leave. Not before."

"All right." He handed his crossbow to Brutus and picked up the rope.

As Jeffrey tied up the two guardd the wizard's apprentice regarded Brutus. "I don't believe we've been introduced," he said. "I'm Lester. Who're you?"

The commander looked at him as if he were crazy. "Brutus is my name. What's it to you?"

Lester met his gaze. "I just wanted to know who I'm going to kill," he said.

Brutus snorted and strode forward, jamming the point of an arrow against Lester throat. "That's real funny," he said. "Everyone needs a dream, I guess. If your crossbow makers are as good as ours, this arrow will go clean through your neck before you can blink. Now shut up and you might survive."

Lester smiled. "Enjoy life while it lasts," he said.

Jeffrey finished with the guards and tied Lester up. Then he picked up the discharged crossbow and its arrow, which had managed to survive bouncing off the wall. He reloaded and turned to Ludlow and Aria. "Saddle up," he said.

"Cover her while I mount," said Ludlow. While Jeffrey complied, hating the idea of aiming a loaded crossbow at girl, Ludlow swung into the saddle. Scowling, Aria climbed up in front of him and took the reins while his knife returned to the vicinity of her throat.

As the others rode out of the building, Ludlow turned. "You gave your word, wizard," he said.

"So I did," said Xander's voice. "And I'll keep it. But we'll meet again."

Ludlow chuckled. "Part of me hopes that you're smarter than that," he said. "But the rest of me doesn't."

As soon as he was gone Xander reappeared. "I'm a man of my word," he said. "Soon as I'm sure Brutus won't circle back to finish us off, you can put down the crossbow and tie me up. Brutus doesn't like you very much, does he?"

"No," said Jeffrey. "And it's mutual. But what makes _you_ say that?"

"The fact that he agreed to leave you behind, knowing who you are," said Xander.

"I'm nobody special," said Jeffrey.

"I think we all know your father is someone famous."

"If you keep your word, I rejoin the others. If you don't, well, I'm out of the picture with no blame on the commander. He wins either way."

"The Honcho might not see it that way, if you don't make it back."

"Perhaps. But Brutus's men will confirm that it was my idea."

Xander nodded. "I'm sure they will." He glanced at the crossbow. "Soon it will be time to tie me up. What, exactly, will you do if I don't let you?"

Jeffrey shrugged. "I could always shoot one of the guards."

Xander smiled. "You could, but you won't."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because it's something Brutus would do. Perhaps you had better tie me up now."

"If I put down the crossbow," said Jeffrey, "you could probably knock me out with your staff."

"Probably," Xander agreed. He leaned his staff against the wall and stepped away from it. "But I did give my word." He regarded Jeffrey. "Now that I am unarmed, you might be able to kill me."

"I might," said Jeffrey. Then he laid down the crossbow and picked up the rope. "But I gave my word, too." He began to tie Xander's feet together.

"You realize," said Xander, "that this rope will not hold me very long." He held up his hands for Jeffrey to tie them together. "I am a wizard, after all. I have a reputation to maintain."

"I expect I'll be seeing you again, then," said Jeffrey. "I think you will find that Brutus is not so easily surprised a second time." He finished the knots and stood up.

"Certainly," said Xander. "But I'll think of something."

"Good," said Jeffrey. "I would hate for him to get away with what he did."

"Don't worry about that," said Lester. "He won't. Not this time."

## Chapter 35

### Xander: "In ignorance and in knowledge"

After Jeffrey got on his horse and left, Xander glanced over at Lester. "What was that about?"

"I recognized Brutus," said Lester. "I've been looking for him."

Xander lifted part of his cloak and shook it. A coin fell out. "Why? Have you met him before?"

Lester watched him. "We met ten years ago, when he killed my father."

Xander crouched by the coin on the floor and wove _tonespace_ around it. Presently a point of blue-white brilliance appeared above the surface of the coin. "I think our young friend wants us to catch Brutus," he said.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he tied my hands in front of me," said Xander, as the rope began to smolder over the new everflame. "This would have been a little trickier if he'd tied them behind my back."

In a few seconds the charred rope parted. Xander shook the remains off his hands and stroked the side of the coin, turning the everflame off. Then he freed his feet and came over to untie Lester. Lester stood and groaned.

"What's the matter?" said Xander.

"I want to kill Brutus," said Lester. "But I still can't ride a horse. I'd just slow you down. You'll have to go without me. Damn it!"

"What was that about him killing your father? Isn't he still back at the inn?"

"Gerrold's not my father," Lester informed him. "My dad was a farmer. Gerrold took us in after what Brutus and his men did at the farm. That's why you found me at the inn." He looked out into the street. "It's also why my younger brother doesn't look like me."

"I see," said Xander. He was silent for a minute while he was untying the two guards. "Then I guess you'll have to come along after all."

"I want to! But I'd slow you down. Or worse, fall off the horse and break my fool neck."

"I have something faster than horses," said Xander, heading for the stairwell. "But you'll like it even less. Come on!" He surged up the stairs, nearly knocking over the Governor, who was descending.

"Where are you going?" she asked him. And where's my daughter?"

"Ludlow helped the prisoners escape," he told her. "They've got Aria with them. We're going after them. Try not to worry."

"I wasn't worried, until now," she said. "Who's going with you?"

"My apprentice, of course."

She glanced at his staff. "Is he ready for that?"

He shrugged. "Probably not, but he has to learn sometime. Now would be a good time."

She shook her head as the boy followed him up the stairs. "Poor devil."

## Chapter 36

### Lester: "shake a thousand whispers from the yew"

The stairs seemed endless. "Aren't we going in the wrong direction?" he asked the wizard. At first he had thought the reason for going up was to notify the Governor. But they'd already done that.

"No," said Xander. "It's easier to do this from the roof." He stopped on a landing to catch his breath.

"I don't understand," Lester complained. "Why go up? By the time we get to the roof they'll be out of the city. If they aren't already."

"That doesn't matter," the wizard told him, resuming his climb, though not so fast as before.

As they ascended, Lester tried to imagine what the old man was planning. Could he signal someone from the roof, was that it? It had to be. Once they reached the roof he'd send some kind of signal to someone far enough away to head off Brutus before he was long gone.

But he wanted to meet the redhead again before he was returned to his cell.

After another eternity, they emerged onto the roof. Xander waved to the guard on lookout duty, then reached for the top of his staff and unscrewed it. The top came off, revealing a couple of inches of pipe protruding from the end of the wood. Then he did the same with the bottom.

Lester watched him. "Why is there a steel pipe inside your staff?"

"Two reasons," said Xander as the staff began to hiss. "Keeps me from breaking it when I have to fight. That's one. Also it cuts down on wind erosion. I have to turn up the flow rate pretty high. We'll have to make you one like it soon."

Lester blinked as the hiss began to get deeper. "It's a swizzle," he said. "Are you going to shoot up some kind of signal? Is that it?"

Xander laughed. "No," he said. "We have other ways of sending signals. Have you ever heard of Newton's Third Law of Motion?"

"No. Why?"

"You're about to get a practical demonstration. As you've guessed, I often use my staff as a swizzle." The outflow from the bottom of his staff stirred up a cloud of dust from the roof of the skyscraper. "As you know, the swizzle is a free-energy pump, commonly used nowadays for irrigation and to supply mill ponds. A few smiths have them for bellows, where they make light work of heating the forge for metalworking."

"What has that got to do with pursuing the escape prisoners?"

From a pocket of his clock Xander produced a small bottle of something which he daubed liberally on the wood at two locations on the staff, one a foot from the upper end, and the other nearly a foot below that.

"What is that for?" Lester asked.

Xander showed him a frightening grin. "It's to keep us alive, by preventing the staff from slipping through our fingers." He moved around to the opposite side of it from Lester and grabbed the upper area he had daubed. "Now take hold of the other spot I put the stickum on, and don't let go, whatever happens."

Wondering what this ritual was all about, Lester did as he was told. The sound made by the air flowing through the staff was quite deep now, a growling roar. "You still haven't said why we are doing –"

And then he shut up. Not because the roaring hum of the staff was making his chest vibrate and would have drowned out his words in any case. He shut up because they were rising off the roof. Risking a glance down, he saw the roof receding and Xander's boots crossing around the bottom of the staff. Without a word he crossed his own boots around it also. In moments they were over a hundred feet above the tallest buildings. At that point the staff began to tilt. The top of it leaned over toward the South. The roar became even louder.

The next half hour Lester spent being more terrified than he had ever felt in his life.

## Chapter 37

### Jeffrey: "where shall the word Resound?"

Once outside the building he pushed the walking horse into a trot, letting it warm up its leg muscles before he urged it faster. Posting to the trot, the learned action of moving with the horse's back to minimize the jolting to both of them, was easy at this speed, as the horse smote the pavement first with front left and rear right hooves, then the opposite pair, making a clop clop sound with the two-beat gait.

After a few blocks of this, though, he began to worry about pursuit and urged the animal into a canter. The clop-clop-clop clop-clop-clop of the three beat canter was reassuringly faster, although he knew the animal could not maintain the greater exertion for long.

By now he had swung onto the south-bound lanes of the old Highway 25. There had been no time to discuss routes with Brutus before the scouts left, and in any event it would have been unwise to do so in front of the wizard. Now that he was on the road, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Should he have remained in Rado?

Somehow the wizard had guessed his identity. That knowledge might have saved him from execution. But then, the price of his life would have been testifying against Brutus and his fellow Texans, and allowing Rado to extract a ransom for him from the Honcho.

There was no way he could justify to himself what Brutus had overseen at the border farm. He knew that. But to return home with his father knowing he had gotten himself captured _and_ had informed on his comrades, that was also hard to stomach. Bad enough that his father thought him weak and useless without adding the word 'traitor' to the mix.

But what sort of person keeps the secrets of murderers and rapists?

No. He should report the commander's actions to his superior, the Honcho, and give his father the chance to do the right thing and make an example of the scum. But that would only be possible if he could get back _before_ them. If Brutus reached Texas first, he would make his report, in all likelihood saying that his men had been fired upon and found it necessary to make an example of the farmer. The wife and daughter would not be mentioned.

He urged the horse into a full gallop, leaning forward as it shifted into the four-beat gait. Too much of this would exhaust the beast, perhaps even lame it, but he had to get ahead of them as soon as possible.

If he saw them, and rode past without slowing, would Brutus fire on him? _No horse can outrun a crossbow. But if I slow down, one of his men could grab the reins and then there's no beating them back to Texas._

Presently he was out of the city. He let the horse slow back down to a trot and began to look for side roads. He couldn't stay on the highway, much as he would like to. The paving materials used for the main roads of the Ancients had stood up well against the crumbling onslaught of time, but the best route south was also the most obvious one for pursuit to take.

Surely Brutus and the other men had not kept to Highway 25. If he stayed on it he could make better time and arrive before them. But he would be safer off the main road.

He saw a stand of trees ahead on the left. Slowing the horse to a walk, he guided it off the road and behind the trees, out of sight of the highway.

While the horse rested, he tried to think. If only he could send a message to Dallas before Brutus beat him there. He didn't have to actually get there first in person, if his report did. From what he'd read of the Ancients, they'd had a communication system that circled the planet. _Now all we have is smoke and mirrors..._

Wait! He had forgotten about the Bangers! Fool! He'd been so bent on getting _away_ , he'd forgotten that he should be running _to_ something. If he remembered right, the nearest access point was less than fifty miles from Denver. And of course that was where Brutus and the others must be headed at this very minute. They had a few minutes head start on him, but unless the secret had been compromised, they wouldn't expect the Rado forces to be looking for them there. With any luck, the Governor's men would be heading due south just as he had been. And Brutus would know that, so he wouldn't be driving his horses as hard as he could be. He'd be saving their strength for the journey home.

And that meant Jeffrey had a chance of beating him to the access point.

As he realized this, he heard a deep humming sound. It was hard to localize, seeming to come from all around him. It seemed familiar.

## Chapter 38

Aria: "You are a proper fool, I said."

For a time she rode in silence, reviewing her actions, looking for the moment when she had gone wrong. Was it when she decided to ask the wizard for help? Or when she had settled for his apprentice? Perhaps her mother was right. She should have gone straight to the Governor and given her a chance to declare her opposition to any torture.

But that would not have prevented the prisoners from escaping, though it might have kept her from getting caught up in the jailbreak.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" said Ludlow. "For a time now I might have thought that Xander would reconsider his decision and resume teaching me his secrets. But that's obviously not going to happen. He's found a more promising student."

"But that's no excuse! Being a wizard isn't the only thing you can do."

"It's the only thing I wanted to do," he said. "Ever since he found me in Boulder. All he had to do was give me a little more time. But no, he was always in too much of a hurry to get his school started."

The school is important to him," Aria said.

"My life is important to _me_ ," Ludlow replied. "Once he discontinued my instruction, what was left for me? To become some sort of minor official for your mother? Perhaps a filer of reports, a carrier of messages for more important advisers? I will be more than that."

"Yes," she said. "You will be a traitor, an abettor of criminals and a turncoat. Such a grand destiny you are stepping into. Do you really think the Honcho will welcome such a person into his entourage?"

"He will welcome the man who brings him the daughter of his enemy," said Ludlow.

She considered that. "Are you so sure you'll make it to Texas?"

"It may not take long for them to discover the prisoners have escaped," he allowed. "But we have a head start on them."

"But you have only one crossbow," she pointed out. "Two, if the other man rejoins you. The Governor will send an armed force. If you wait for the man you left behind to catch up, that will give them a chance to stop you."

"All it took to get us away was one knife," he said. "Besides, I expect Texas will be sending an armed escort to reinforce us. They won't risk our getting recaptured."

"You are a fool. Taking me hostage won't change anything. My mother's not sentimental enough to surrender to the Honcho just to get me back."

"This isn't about you," he said. It might surprise you to hear this, but your inclusion in this enterprise is entirely an accident. I would have preferred to have slipped out more discretely, but I couldn't leave you behind to raise the alarm."

"Then why am I still here? Why haven't you dropped me off somewhere along the way?"

"You might still turn out to be useful," he said, "if they catch up to us before the escort from Texas gets here."

"You _are_ a proper fool, I said. There is no escort from Texas. The most they could know is that their scouts have not reported in. There is no way they could know where to meet you."

"We will soon," he said, "be catching them up on recent developments."

## Chapter 39

### Peter: "for those who chose and oppose"

He knew that he should leave such things to those he had assigned to them, but he could not resist checking the preparations again. "You're sure all of the entrances are covered?"

"Positive, sir," said Lancer. "No one is going to get at His Holiness while he's here."

"That's what the last one thought, before they plugged poor Pope Rodrigo," said Peter. But of course that wasn't here. His own residence was more secure. Wasn't it?

"Someone's coming," they heard.

He glanced around the room another time. Katarina looked up as he did so, a question on her face. "I think he's here," he told her, straightening his jacket.

"You look fine," she said. "Don't fidget. It makes you look weak."

Someone knocked on the door. He turned and opened it, but the man standing there was not the Pope, or even one of the papal guard. "What is it, Julio?"

The man saluted and held out an envelope. "Message from Quintus, sir. He said you will find it both relieving and disturbing, sir."

"Did he, now?" Peter accepted the envelope and returned the salute, dismissing the courier.

"Who is it?" Katerina asked.

"Just a message," he told the Honchessa.

"He's not canceling, is he? The cook will be furious."

"No," he said. He broke the wax seal and removed the papers enclosed within the envelope. "It's a report from the scouts."

"And about time! Is Jeffrey all right?"

He read to the bottom, then started from the beginning again. "Yes, that's the odd thing. This report is _from_ Jeffrey. Not from our usual banger."

"Are you sure?"

"Completely. It's signed 'Pelion' which is his personal call sign. He chose that because it's the name of a J-shaped mountain peninsula in Greece. I used to think it was his way of proving he remembers his Geopolitics lessons."

"Why didn't he have the usual man send it?"

"He must have been in a hurry. Or he wanted to make sure no one else saw it." _And with good reason!_ He's accusing his Commander of war crimes...or what would have been war crimes, if a state of war existed. Which it obviously would, soon.

"Why the hurry? And how is he doing?"

"No so well, apparently. They were captured by Rado, but managed to escape. He doesn't mention any injuries," he added, before she could ask. "But there are other problems he wanted me to know about before they sent the official report."

"What sort of problems?"

"Nothing I can't handle," he said. But as the old cliché went, the report raised more questions than it answered. How had he managed to send it without Brutus watching? Had the commander gotten himself wounded during the escape? It was going to be very awkward when they returned. Brutus was his most experienced officer. It would be bad for morale if he let this matter reach a formal court-martial...and bad for discipline if he didn't, if too many people knew.

Just what we need: more complications.

He slipped the papers into an inner pocket of his jacket and poured himself a shot of Balcones whiskey. Taking a sip pf the liquid fire, he reflected that Brutus and the Balcones were both products of Texas grain that took time to appreciate. Unfortunately, while his son had spent plenty of time getting to know firewater, he'd never taken a shine to Commander Glock.

It had been Peter's hope that this scouting mission would rectify that a little. Brutus was like good booze. In times of stress, you soon learned you could rely on both. No, the man wasn't sweet like pancake syrup. Like a good shot of Jack, he could make you rethink your willingness to acquire familiarity. Just as good bourbon could make you cough and bring tears to the eyes of a newcomer, Brutus could alarm new recruits with his callousness and disconcert them with his apparent fearlessness under fire. Yes, he could be a bully. But not a coward.

Well, so much for plans of bonding. The Runt sounded like he wanted to bring Brutus up on charges, and that was likely to hamper the process. And as Honcho, he'd be square in the middle between his heir and his best officer.

There was another knock at the door. It returned him to the present. Let the future take care of itself. "Yes?"

"We've sighted the Pope's coach, sir."

_How do I handle it all?_ The same way I always have. Plan for the future when you can, and the rest of the time deal with the present. "We'll be in the study."

Katarina accepted his arm and he led her into the study, where she ensconced herself in a rattan chair by the fireplace and busied herself with appearing idle, lifting a slim volume that she pretended to have been reading. He seized the poker, prodded the dimly glowing coals, and decided to set another split log on top of them. It had been getting colder lately, as winter came on, and for all he knew the new Pope (what was his name again?) might be elderly and sensitive to the cold. The stirred coals shone a little more brightly as the fresh addition began to hiss, their ruddy glow reflecting off of the hundreds of hand-bound volumes and folios decorating the shelves of his study.

He turned at the sound of the door. "Your Holiness," he said, extending a hand, "so good of you to visit us on such a chilly evening. I trust you are well?"

The man in white clasped his hand with a slight smile, evidently knowing he could not expect the traditional ring kiss from the Honcho. "Let's not be over-formal," he suggested. "Here in private, please call me Enrique. How can we be of service to your Excellency?"

"Peter, please, if we're cutting the bullshit. How are you settling in? "

"As one of Pope Rodrigo's advisors, I've been in Dallas for a couple of years now, so I already know my way around, as it were," said Enrique. "I was surprised at your invitation. I had expected our first encounter to take place at your headquarters in the 'scraper."

"Oh, my apologies, Ricky, I wasn't sure how old you were," said Peter. "For all I knew the College of Cardinals had elected another geezer, and I didn't want to risk him climbing all those stairs and maybe forcing another election."

"Kind of you to be so concerned," said Enrique, "but as you can see I'm younger than the usual successor. The College decided a bit more vigor is in order these days."

In other words, two years in Dallas was enough for you to establish an adequate power base. Despite himself, Peter was impressed. This new pontiff was just what the TCC needed to take full advantage of the expansion of the Lone Star Empire he was planning. "And rightly so," he said. "Would you care for a shot of Jack to warm your bones?"

Enrique smiled. "It would hardly be polite of me to refuse the offer," he said, and accepted the glass from Peter as he seated himself in one of the padded chairs. "Forgive me for observing," he said, after a judicious sip, "that you haven't answered my question. How can we be of service?"

Peter lowered himself into another of the chairs and regarded him over his own glass. "As one of the lamented late Rodrigo's advisors, I'm sure you know why I went to see him on the occasion of his regrettable demise."

"Yes," said Enrique. "You need fuel for your rediscovered military machines, and you want to use _swizzles_ and _everflames_ to extract and distill it." He took another sip. "As Pope, I am of course officially shocked at such a plan. But as a man of the world, I see the necessity."

Peter showed some surprise. "You do? Excellent. I believe that poor Rodrigo was amenable to our intentions, but I had feared the change of leadership in the TCC might require the newcomer to establish his credibility with more conservative policies, at least at first."

"Yes, that doesn't surprise me. It is common to see the Church as a voice of restraint, telling people what they shouldn't do. But Jesus did not come to make more rules, you know. In fact, He showed how the commandments could be simplified. As He said, love God, and love thy neighbor, and all else follows from that. The rest is just details."

"More or less," the Honcho agreed. "But it's not always that simple, Ricky. In order to bring peace to a warring land, we must first fight to unify it. We won't get Rado back into the arms of the Church by simply loving them. We both know there will be plenty of blood spilled before they pour out the sacramental wine."

"Indeed. And the sooner the fighting is over, the fewer lives will be lost. Therefore, your new mechanized army. I understand all too well the need for _swizzles_ to extract the oil and _everflames_ to distill out the necessary fuels, just as you understand the Church has long opposed any continued use of the demonic magic of the aliens. In this time of need, the Church can look the other way as long as you do not embarrass us with too flagrant or too public a use of the alien technology."

Y _ou'll not make a fuss,_ he thought, _mainly because you know my victories will also be yours._ _I'll get more territory and resources – and you'll get more worshipers and tithes._ But there was no need to state the obvious. "With regard to that," he said, "I did have a favor to ask."

Enrique met his gaze. "And what might that be?"

"People like to gossip," said Peter, "yet often stories told have their foundation in fact. Word has reached me that the Church has a storehouse of confiscated Gifts. It's said you have many _swizzles_ and _everflames_ and such, seized in ecclesiastical raids here and in Mexico, that could be of enormous help to the fuel effort."

"Ah," said Enrique. "Were my advisers here with me, they would undoubtedly recommend that I deny such rumors as baseless slanders."

"I'm sure," said the Honcho. "But are they?"

"Let us be honest with each other, Peter," said the Pope. "I will not waste your time with such transparent evasions. The warehouse exists – but I'm afraid it won't help you to know that."

Peter frowned. "Why not?"

"You must understand," said the pontiff, "that while the Church can avoid any official recognition of your use of alien witchcraft as you do not flaunt it publicly, it is quite another thing to actively supply you with such abominations." He sipped and continued. "Your discretion with the use of your own Gifts would give the Church plausible deniability, and we could look the other way. But if we authorized the transfer of confiscated material from the Church warehouse too many people would be involved. Word would get out, and cast us in an unfavorable light of hypocrisy, I'm afraid. It is out of the question."

_Damn it!_ Peter forced himself to appear placid. "I am sorry to hear that, Ricky."

"As I am sorry to say it. But we might be able to help you another way."

"Oh?"

"Yes. There are some of these devices which have escaped our raids. We could point you in the right direction, so to speak, and let you act on such information as you will. For example, the Balcones distillery at Waco, I believe, has at least three everflames in continuous operation. You could acquire them."

"Heaven forbid!" Peter said, with a wry grin. "After all, _some_ things are sacred." He topped off the Pope's glass with more of the amber fluid.

"True," conceded Enrique. "But other locations on the list might be helpful."

"To a long and mutually beneficial relationship," said Peter, raising his glass.

## Chapter 40

### Jeffrey: "And let my cry come unto Thee"

_It's hardly a surprise that this spot remained a secret,_ Jeffrey thought, looking at the pile of scree. Part of the hillside had collapsed, exposing the underground maglev tunnel. And then the rest of the hill had collapsed, covering it all up again, except for the two broken ends of the rails. No different than many hillsides remodeled by the quake a hundred years before; you had to know what you were looking for in order to find it. And a good thing too.

Moonlight glinted off the stumps of ancient tech. Jeffrey gazed at the sheared-off ends and fancied he could even see the difference in reflectivity that marked the transition between the nonferrous alloy waterproofing layer on the outside and the ferro-graphene superconducting core within each rail. How long had it been, he wondered, since the tube trains had floated over these rails, the ridge on the underside of each train nestled between the rails like the keel of a sailboat knifing through water? How long, since mysterious forces had made the silent trains float and fly in buried tubes of vacuum, rushing through airless miles from city to city?

And now the tunnels were breached and buried, and only messages glided through the waveguide rails, Morse code, in stuttering staccato, pecked out by the feeble woodpecker descendants of those who had crafted the ancient marvels. Fallen from glory, and making do with the rubble of ages long gone, we eke out our fortunes from incomprehensible ruins.

Well, the message was sent. It was up to his father now. He dropped the two pieces of metal he had been holding and looked up at the stars. _Why did you do it to us? Did you even know what was going to happen, or is the comedy of errors we all suffer through not limited to the surfaces of planets? Is this even now happening on millions, billions of other worlds?_

The sound of horses approaching pulled him back to Earth. He straightened up as the others rode into view. "Fancy meeting you all here."

Brutus swung down off his horse. "Where's your mount?"

"I had to leave it a mile back," he said. I'm afraid I used up the poor thing. I was worried I'd miss rendezvous with the rest of you if I let it walk all the way here, since you had a head start. I barely got here ahead of you as it was."

Brutus regarded him. "Funny, we didn't see you."

"I must have passed you a few miles ago while you were resting the horses," he said. "You must have pulled them off the main road to avoid patrols."

Brutus glanced around the site. "Have you seen the regular bangers?"

"No," said Jeffrey. "The nights are getting cold. I guess they only come out here during the days during winter. Looks like you'll have to do your own banging."

Brutus reached down and picked up the long piece of metal and laid it across the rails. Then he picked up the shorter bar.

"How do you know they're even listening, this late?"

"Because we didn't report in on time," the commander grunted. "So they'll be worried, unless I'm mistaken. By now your daddy will have Quintus listening around the clock. He'd better, because we need fresh horses."

Jeffrey sat and waited by Brutus banged out the message, hammering the shorter bar on the one touching the two rails to use both waveguides.

When the older man had finished, Jeffrey stood. "It's about time to let the girl go now," he said. "Your horses are tired but she doesn't have to hurry back."

Brutus dropped the bars and dusted off his gloves. "Let her go? Why should I do that?"

"Because you promised to."

Brutus laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "Got that wrong," he remarked. "I didn't promise anything. _You_ did. Your word doesn't bind me. I'm the commanding officer, and I'm thinking it might be real handy to have the Governor's daughter in Dallas. She could send a nice letter to her ma telling her how things are going to be."

"Kidnapping a ruler's daughter is an act of war."

Brutus laughed harder. "So? We're rolling on them just as soon as we've got the fuel. You know it and I know it. It doesn't matter how the war starts, as long as we finish it."

"Last I heard, we're not ready yet, so let her go."

Brutus's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to give me orders, boy? I'll tell you exactly once not to bother. The little lady's going to Dallas, unless anybody else feels like trying to throw their weight around."

Thok! Brutus looked surprised for a second. Then he crumpled to the ground.

Xander and Lester stepped out of the shadows. "I feel like it," said Xander. He pointed the business end of his staff at the group of them. "Anybody else want to take a nap? Because I've got plenty of rocks for the rest of you."

There were no takers.

It was only the work of a minute to put Aria on a horse and point her up the road toward Denver. "What about you two?" she asked.

"Oh, we'll wait for reinforcements," Xander told her. "As soon as you reach the pickets, send some men back to collect these gentlemen. And a couple of extra horses for us."

She looked at Jeffrey. "At least you tried to keep your word."

He shrugged. "Tried is not the same as did. But I'm glad you're going home. You'd best get to it before more of my countrymen show up."

She turned her horse and urged it into a trot.

"How did you get here so fast?" Jeffrey asked the wizard.

Xander grinned. "You have your secrets, and so do we." He glanced at the ends of the maglev rails. "Actually, we caught up to you miles back. I was just curious about where you were headed. That's a trick I hadn't thought of, using the old rails to send telegrams. Who came up with that one?"

Jeffrey sat down next to Brutus's inert form. "You know very well I can't discuss such things," he said. He bent over and listened to the unconscious man's breathing. "Why didn't you just kill him? It would've saved the Governor another execution."

"Because I'm not an assassin," said Xander. "If he'd been pointing a crossbow at me and about to pull the trigger, maybe I'd have acted differently. As it was, I used just enough velocity to give him forty winks and a bad headache later. Now let's all sit down and wait for the reinforcements. I'm pretty sure the first ones to get here will be from Rado, since it's closer."

"But she's riding an already tired horse," Jeffrey pointed out.

"True enough," said Xander. "But she doesn't have to make it all the way back. Just as far as the nearest outpost. In fact – "

He stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked down. Jeffrey followed his gaze and say an arrow protruding from the wizard's chest. Xander opened his mouth again, but nothing emerged. Wordlessly, he collapsed, nearly landing on top of Brutus.

A man in the blue and red of the Lone Star Empire carrying two crossbows, one discharged, glided out of the dark. " _In fact,_ " he said, "my tent was a lot closer. Who could sleep with all that banging going on? I had to come check, since I'm the only one who's supposed to be banging here." He nudged the wizard's body with his boot. "One less idiot to worry about. Who was he?"

Lester swallowed. His eyes were watering, probably from the cold. "A better man than you," he said. "He never would have shot _you_ in the back."

The banger observed Lester's general lack of a uniform and swung his remaining crossbow in the boy's direction. "You were with him, weren't you? Unless you want to join the old coot, best keep still. Who's got a rope?"

There being no rope, the men had to rip a bit off the end of a horse blanket to tie Lester up. "You won't get away," he told them. There'll be men from Rado heading down here any time now."

The banger, whose name turned out to be Danforth, just laughed. "Their horses may be tired, but I'm betting the ones dashing up here won't be. From what these men say, the lady they let go won't be hurrying, since she thinks your dead friend has the situation under control. I'll bet that you'll meet the Texas rescue before the Rado posse even gets underway."

Brutus groaned.

"Might as well put him on someone's horse, and get while the getting's good." said Danforth. "I know I will." He melted back into the shadows and was gone before anyone could reply.

"Looks like you're coming with us," said Jeffrey.

"I hope the Texas food is as good as what we give prisoners in Rado."

"I wouldn't know," said Jeffrey. "We weren't even there long enough to get fed. And thanks for reminding me how hungry I am."

"Gentlemen," said Ludlow, "we can discuss comparative cuisine later."

## Chapter 41

### Xander: "A hard time we had of it."

The sun was burning out of the east when the group of riders arrived at the ruined hillside. Their leader dismounted and examined the rail ends protruding from the scree. "Just as she described it," he remarked. "I think the girl would make a good scout someday, if she wasn't going to be the next Governor."

The other riders spread out to look for ambushers. "Lieutenant," one of them said, leaning down a little, "why do you think we haven't seen the wizard or his apprentice? Shouldn't we have passed them on our way here? And where are the prisoners?"

"How the hell should I know?" The man addressed bent down to retrieve something from the dirt and inspected it. It was the front half of an arrow, and there was dried blood on it. "Looks like we're not the first to get here. Don't just sit there. See what you can find."

After that he stepped closer to the protruding rails and scrutinized the ground around them. He picked up two pieces of metal and laid the longer one across the broken rails. Holding the other one in his hand like a hammer, he rapped smartly eight times on the crossbar, listening to the way the metal sounded. Then, after a moment's thought, he hammered out seven groupings of Morse, smiling slightly as he finished.

"What was that banging, Lieutenant?" Another of the men had returned and dismounted.

The lieutenant took a swig from his canteen. "Just sending our regards to the Honcho. What did you find?"

"Looks like two sets of tracks. One of 'em starts suddenly as if they dropped out of the sky and started walking. I know, I know, we must have missed the back trail somehow. The other set was someone arriving on a horse from over that way, to the east."

"Send a couple of the men to scout it out, sergeant. The rest are with me."

"Yes sir." He saluted smartly and swung back into his saddle to tell the others.

The lieutenant examined the arrow again. "Too many questions," he remarked to himself. "Who shot you? Who did you strike? And where is the body?"

The arrow did not answer.

"Evers, Wilson," said the lieutenant. "Head back to the outpost and bring some more men to watch this spot. I'll stay here with the others until you get back."

Wilson, a tall man with sandy hair sticking out from under his Stetson, appeared troubled. "Do you think they got the wizard, Lieutenant?"

"No, Corporal, I do not."

"Why not, sir?"

"Because unless they're idiots, they would have made him leave his staff behind. And whatever else the Texans are, they're no fools. Get going."

"Yes sir."

After Evers and Wilson had departed, he took another sip from his canteen and held up the arrowhead again. "I hope you know what you're doing, old man."

Behind a boulder and wrapped in darkness, Xander hoped so too. He'd heard enough. Struggling to his feet, he fished out his bottle of stickum and applied some to the staff. He wasn't sure that he could hold on all the way back to Denver, but there was no other choice. The few field dressings those men had in their saddlebags were not going to be enough for his wound, and he might not survive the bouncy trot back.

_I must be getting old_ , he thought. _Back in the day, no T-rat would've got the drop on me like that. Serves me right for not paying attention._

A wave of dizziness passed through him and he staggered a bit, then he gritted his teeth and took hold of the staff and began to weave the _pathspace_ tighter through the swizzle. _Lester, you're going to have to hold on by yourself until I can get patched up. I'd be no use to you now._

He un-wove the invisibility spell and turned up the _swizzle_ flow. In a few moments, the staff was singing its bass roar again and he rose into the sky.

## Chapter 42

### Kristana: "not a moment too soon"

Although it was mid-morning now, there was a chilly wind blowing across the rooftop. She ignored it as she returned the salute from Jenkins. "Any more reports come in, Steven?"

"Not yet, Governor. Just the one that let us know your daughter's safe. No word on the wizard or his apprentice, but I'm sure we'll hear more soon."

"I'll leave you to it, then."

_Where are you, Xander? We know you found them or Aria wouldn't have gotten away. But why weren't you with her?_ As always, thoughts of the wizard and her daughter were entwined in her mind. How could it be otherwise? Aria was safe, but what if something had happened to him? She had no other wizard. Perhaps someday Lester would be able to relieve him as head wizard, if he survived. But not yet. Xander was irreplaceable.

Are you sure you mean that in a military sense?

The intruding thought made her heart leap. _Where are you?_

_I'll be there in a minute_. The thought was colored with pain. _I've been shot._

She sprang toward the stairwell, the guard standing near the door jerked involuntarily in surprise as she nearly pounced on him. "Get the doctor. Wound kit. Move!" He gaped at her, then dashed inside.

She stared around the roof, looking for something soft for Xander to land on. He'd be coming in sloppy, probably barely hanging on, from the pain she'd sensed. If this had been ground level, there would have been hay for horses, but on this bare rooftop she saw nothing suitable. Grimacing from the cold, she whipped off her jacket and threw it down. "Steven! Get over here and take off your jacket!"

He hurried over, puzzlement clear on his face but obeying.

In moments they could hear the deep roar of Xander's staff. She swung her head around and located him coming from the southeast, barely over the rooftops of the other downtown buildings. _Pull up or you'll hit the wall!_

Either he heard her thought or realized at the last minute that he was too low. The staff curved up toward the roof and cleared the railing by inches. He flew straight at her and she stepped aside at the last second and reached out to grab him. Both of them tumbled to the roof. The staff flew out of his fingers and slid across the roof and tried to push through the low wall around the top of the building.

Xander flopped over on his back. His eyes fluttered open. "Are you all right? Sorry about the landing."

The front of his clothes were sticky with blood. "Shut up, you old fool," she said. "Where is that doctor? If he forgets his kit I swear I'll throw him off the roof myself!"

In a minute or so the stairwell door banged open and Doctor Daniels burst out, followed by Steven. He hurried over to them and set his bag down on the roof as he examined the wound.

"Stay conscious. Don't pass out on me. How'd this happen?"

"Shot from behind," Xander managed. "Careless of me."

"Roll him on his side." They pulled his cloak off and the doctor located the entry wound. He pulled herbs and bottles out of the bag and set to work.

"How bad is it?" Kristana asked him, not caring if it sounded like a dumb question.

"Could be worse. Looks like it missed his heart. Of course it did. He'd be dead already if it hadn't. From what I saw, it looks like he broke the shaft and removed it himself. He's still bleeding, though. Hand me that rose bark. Thanks. Lucky for you your daughter started a herb garden last year. Even luckier we have too many roses."

"Why?"

"Rose bark's a natural astringent. Helps stop the bleeding." He poured something from a bottle on the back wound, then shoved fresh leaves on top of the shredded rose bark and taped it down. "The oil's a mixture of extract from oregano, cloves, and cinnamon. Natural disinfectants." Daniels spread clean paper on the roof and rolled Xander's back on top of it to get at the chest wound. Pulling a washcloth out of his bag, he doused it with the oil mixture and cleaned the exit wound as best he could. Grim and focused, he darted hands into the bag again, pulling out more rose bark, herbs and tape, packing the wound and binding it shut.

"Can we move him now?" she asked.

Daniels pursed his lips. "Ordinarily, I'd say no," he said. "Not until the bleeding slows. But it's cold out here and he's stressed enough as it is. We'll get a stretcher under him and get him inside in a bit."

Xander opened his eyes again. "They got Lester," he muttered. "Someone has to go after him." He tried to move and coughed up some blood.

"Shut up," said the doctor. "You've got a punctured lung, you idiot. Unless you know some healing magic you're not going anywhere for quite a while." He turned to face the Governor. "Post some guards if you have to. If this moron tries to stand up and slip out, tie him to the bed."

"He won't get away," she assured him. "Steven, go find a stretcher or get someone to help you make one."

"Don't take him back to his own rooms," the doctor cautioned. "Move him as little as you can. Just get him down to the top floor and out of the cold."

"He's lost a lot of blood," she said. "Can we do anything about that?"

"I'd like to," he replied. "But if I remember correctly, he has O negative blood. Any other kind would kill him."

"So I guess I can't donate," she said. "I'm A positive."

"Nope. The Ancients had machines to filter out the red blood cells so they could give just plasma. That would resupply electrolytes, nutrients, platelets for clotting, and such. But we don't have that these days. All I can do is siphon whole blood."

"Who else in the building has O negative? There must be someone."

"It's not common," he said. "The only person I can remember offhand is your daughter Aria, and she's not here. He's just going to have to hold on until we find someone else."

## Chapter 43

### Lester: "my father's death before him"

He could hear dripping somewhere. Why was that? Had Xander spilled something? Or maybe Otto knocked over the water pitcher on the table. That must be it.

He sat up and looked for the table. There was no table. He was in a room with stone walls and a metal door. Instead of a couch, he was sitting on a cot with metal legs. He saw these things in the dimness of light leaking in from a small barred window in the door.

Memories came flooding back, bringing with them a splitting headache. He explored with his fingers and found a bump on the back of his head. The men from Texas must have decided to take no chances with him on their way back from Rado.

He held his head and groaned. A cell. In Texas. Not good.

"He's awake. Send word."

Perhaps he should pretend to be asleep, if they were willing to let him sleep. No, it wouldn't fool them now. It looked like he was going to find out soon enough how they treated prisoners in the Lone Star Empire.

Something scuttled away from him when he stood up. He decided he didn't want to look and see what it was.

Someone had taken his boots, because he could feel cold stone beneath his feet. Why was that? Did they think he had a concealed knife in one of them?

Well, from what he had heard they would be sending word. While he waited to see who that would bring, he examined his cell as best he could from the light coming in the little barred window in the metal door. The room was roughly square. He estimated it as being ten feet across. The floor was not exactly level; it sloped toward a drain in a back corner. The ceiling was too high to reach, and had a vent set into it in a front corner diagonally across from the drain.

There was nothing hanging on the walls, which were smooth stone and mortar.

_Going to be hard for even Xander to find me in here,_ he thought. Then he remembered, and wished he didn't. They'd shot Xander! He had fallen and stopped moving. In all likelihood he was dead, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

A terrible sense of loss assailed him. He tried to tell himself it was mere selfishness. Without the wizard, he'd probably never learn any more about _pathspace_. But that was all right, wasn't it? He never asked to be an apprentice – he'd been kidnapped.

So why were his eyes watering so much? Must be something wrong with the air in here.

He sat down on the cot again and thought about Xander. The man didn't seem to care about money or fame or even whether anybody liked him. All he wanted was to establish his school for wizards, – or as he had called it once, "parascience technicians". And why was the school so important? Not to make Xander famous. He'd wanted it for the sake of a fallen world, a fallen civilization. He'd wanted to create what the Tourists had failed to give to Earth – the technicians who could create and maintain the Gifts, so that a new civilization could arise, instead of a thousand little countries fighting wars over dwindling resources.

And now that he was gone, that dream would die with him. _I can't start the school without him. I don't know all the things he knew._ I'm only just started on my apprenticeship, learning how to be invisible, the first application of _pathspace_. I don't know anything at all about the other two things he mentioned, _spinspace_ and _tonespace_. And without Xander, I probably never will.

In fact, he would probably rot away in a Texas prison. Unless of course he was useful to them somehow, useful enough to be let out occasionally. _Useful to the men who killed Xander?_ The hell with that.

His stomach growled. _Who am I kidding?_ he asked himself. All they have to do is wait until I'm hungry enough to cooperate. Then they can probably buy me for a crust of bread and a glass of water.

He heard a metallic sound. Someone was unlocking the door. It swung open and a man who looked to be in his mid-forties entered the room with a younger man who had the look of a guard. At least they did not appear to be carrying anything painful-looking.

"You're in Dallas," the older man said. "That'll be your first question, so we might as well get that out of the way." Someone outside the cell passed in a chair and the man seated himself. "Your second question will be, who am I, and the answer is, I am the Honcho."

"My third question is why do you do your own interrogating?" said Lester. "Don't you trust your underlings?"

The older man nodded. "Yes, that would be your third question. I figured you would be smart enough to skip the stupid questions like, 'why am I here?' and so on."

"What made you think that? For all you know I am a complete idiot."

"I doubt that," he said, smiling. "My men report than you showed up with the wizard, and that implies that you're his apprentice, since I've never heard of you. He was not the kind of man who takes on fools as apprentices."

Lester felt a lump in his throat at the man's use of the past tense. _Was._ "Okay maybe I'm not an idiot. Obviously you're not here to answer questions, but to ask them. What makes you think I'll tell you anything useful?"

The Honcho sighed. "Here is where it gets awkward. I could, of course, starve you into submission. You'd be surprised what a man will disclose when he's hungry enough."

"If you're threatening me, you're too late. I'm already hungry. On the other hand, you _could_ feed me and see what gratitude will buy you."

He laughed. "Sometimes the actions of soldiers," he said, catching Lester's gaze with his own, "may lead people to presume they come from a land of savage barbarians. But we are not barbarians here in Texas." He turned to the guard. "Bring something to eat, a double portion."

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

The man was plainly uncomfortable. He fidgeted as he answered. "Sir, begging your pardon but I can hardly leave you alone with the prisoner! Wait a minute, and I will summon another guard to – "

"Corporal," said the Honcho. "I _will_ be obeyed. Go and bring the food. You can lock the door behind you. I hardly think our guest is going to attack me on an empty stomach." He turned back to Lester, smiling. "Are you?"

"Of course not," Lester said. "Considering my situation, it would be rude, as well as unwise."

"There you are. Hurry back. I confess I'm hungry myself. Go on."

Lester heard the sound of the key turning in the lock, then footsteps growing fainter.

"I am sorry your wizard is not with us," said the Honcho. "I would have preferred it so, for I suspect it would have been to our advantage to have had his participation in this conversation."

Lester's eyes burned. "Well, you can thank your men for his absence. He wouldn't have shot anyone in the back like they did. He knocked Brutus out, but that's all."

"I am sorry that happened," said the Honcho. "There is nothing I can do about that. To be fair, your wizard was a dangerous man, when he wanted to be. After all, he had captured the men once already."

"Yes. Without killing any of them."

"Point taken. Had I been there, things might have gone differently. But I was not. I'm told," he said, changing the subject, "that they clouted you on the head on the way here. Also regrettable, but soldiers here do tend to get paranoid about wizards."

"I'm no wizard," Lester told him. "Just an apprentice."

"Ah. I suppose they couldn't tell the difference. From what I've heard, you haven't been in training very long, have you? I thought not. But they didn't know that, you see."

A minute later he heard the key turn in the lock again. The guard reentered the cell carrying a tray with bread, sliced beef, yellow cheese, and a pitcher of water with two glasses.

"Set it down there," said the Honcho, pointing to the middle of the floor, "and then go stand watch outside."

Lester stared at the tray and his stomach rumbled. He was tempted to snatch at the food, but he scooted back to the cot when the Honcho produced a knife.

"I want you to know the food is not poisoned or drugged," the Honcho told him, "because if you thought it were, you would naturally refuse it. And you'll need your strength. So here's what's going to happen." He picked up the bread and cut off four slices. "I'm going to make us two sandwiches, and you pick one. I'll eat the other."

In less than a minute he had piled slices of beef and cheese on two pieces of bread and covered them with the other two. Then he slid the tray toward Lester. "I let him know I was hungry too so they wouldn't try anything. Go ahead, it's grass-fed Texas beef, the best in the world. Pick one. Hurry up, I wasn't lying about being hungry."

Lester reached out at random and seized a sandwich. So did the Honcho. Lester waited for the other to take a bite first. Then he watched the Honcho swallow and pour them both water out of the pitcher. "Do you trust your own men? How do you know they won't poison _both_ of us?"

The Honcho nearly choked on his second mouthful. He swallowed, laughed, and wiped a tear from his eye. "Son, you don't know Texas men, to ask something like that. My men might be crude. They might even sometimes do things I don't exactly feel proud of. But they are not disloyal."

Lester thought about that, then decided he could risk eating his sandwich.

"You won't be tortured either," the Honcho told him. "But I'll trade you. I'll tell you a truth, then you tell me one. I'll go first. Did you know I wasn't my father's first choice to succeed him?"

Lester shook his head.

"It's true. I used to have an older brother, Francisco. Frank was going to be the next Honcho after my father. And he had grand plans. Our father didn't know it, but Frank disagreed with him on a few things. The most important of these was how to reunify the continent. How to bring peace."

"I've seen the kind of peace your soldiers bring," said Lester. "It wasn't pretty."

The Honcho took a bite out of his sandwich before answering. "The flower of peace," he said, "grows out of soil prepared by brutal men of war. It's always been that way. The ancient Romans had to conquer and subdue many peoples to bring their Pax Romana, their Roman peace. Empires expand with war at the borders, peace within them. Only a strong and wise parent can stop children from squabbling."

"Is that what your brother wanted?"

"Frank was an idealist," said the Honcho. "He thought the way to establish peace was by treaty, by negotiation. But Lincoln had already learned that approach is a waste of time."

"Lincoln?"

"He ruled America, hundreds of years ago, long before the Tourists came. When he came to power half of his country split off and declared itself independent of the Union. Do you think he brought them back by negotiation?"

"Since you're using him as an example, I'm guessing he didn't."

"He did not. He fought a bloody war that lasted five years to conquer them. And then there was peace again. But only after a lot of Americans on both sides died."

"But your brother didn't follow his example?"

The Honcho sighed. "I'm afraid not. Frank sent out ambassadors with his proposition: a central government of elected representatives. Something similar to what I imagine your own Governor would like to try."

Lester finished his sandwich. "And what happened? Did they respond?"

The Honcho looked down. "Yes," he said. They responded. But not the way Frank had hoped. The Dixie Emirates to the East laughed and said they didn't need our beef, they already had cows. New Israel in the Northeast sneered and said they didn't need our oil, they already had coal. The Kingdom of Deseret to the Northwest chuckled and said they didn't need our Church, they already had a religion."

"What about Californ? Did they respond?"

The Honcho's eyes glittered. "Yes, they did. The Queen of Angeles invited Frank to come talk about it. Our father advised against it, but Frank rode off into the sunset, intent on showing his father that things could be done differently."

"And what happened?"

The Honcho caught Lester's gaze and his eyes would not let go. "She sent back his head, with a note. It said 'Thank you for the entertainment, he was most amusing'."

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

"I'm sorry you lost your brother," said Lester.

"He was a fool," said the Honcho. "But I learned from his example. Peace will not come from letters. It will only come from the sword." He finished his sandwich. "You probably think I have some kind of grudge against your Governor of Rado."

"You do seem to fight a lot of wars with us," Lester said.

"It's nothing personal, son. I'm aiming at the same thing that she is: unification. We have to stop fighting each other and get together if this civilization is ever going to rise again. The only difference between her and me is, I have a more practical approach. I'm willing to use the sword to bring peace."

"And Californ? Are you going to bring them peace too?"

The Honcho's eyes appeared to blaze with intensity. "Oh, yes," he said. "I'm going to pacify the hell out of them." He was silent for a moment. "Your turn," he said. "Tell me something about yourself. How did you end up with the wizard?"

Lester decided there was no harm telling him that, since Xander was dead. "He came to my village, on the coach," he said. "At first I thought he was just an old man."

## Chapter 44

### Peter: "not even solitude in the mountains"

It was just after noon when he left the prison. When he arrived at his headquarters, he stopped at the infirmary on the third floor to check on Brutus.

"He's got a concussion," the medic told him. "He should be okay in a day or two. We've had him under observation, but so far there seems to be no sign of permanent damage."

"Can I talk to him?"

The man shook his head. "I wouldn't recommend it. We still have him on poppy extract for the pain, so he drifts in and out of sleep. He'll recover quicker if you let him rest."

"All right. I'll be back tomorrow."

A courier intercepted him on his way to the stairwell. "Message from Quintus, sir. He says this came in while you out this morning."

He accepted the envelope and opened it. The message inside was brief, only seven words: WE KNOW WHERE THIS PLACE IS NOW.

He scowled at it. Stupid and redundant. Naturally Aria would have told them where the access point was. He already knew from Jeffrey that she had gotten away, thanks to the wizard's intervention. But they had to have their little joke.

We'll see who gets the last laugh.

Jeffrey was waiting for him outside his office. "Where have you been?"

"Visiting a prisoner," he said, opening the door. "Why? Did I miss something?"

"We have to talk about Brutus," said Jeffrey, following him in.

Peter sighed. "Let it go" he said. "We have more important things to worry about."

"I disagree. The man's a disgrace. You need to court-martial him."

He slammed the door, surprising his son. " _I_ need?" He glared at the boy. "I really hate that way of speaking. When I was the Runt, I had a tutor who used to tell me 'you need to be quiet now', when I, in actual fact, was aware of no such need. What he _really_ meant was 'I _want_ you to be quiet now; but he couldn't make himself say that to me."

Jeffrey's chin jutted. "What I mean is – "

"Oh, I know what you mean," said the Honcho. "You _want_ me to court-martial him, over some farmer family. Like that will bring them back to life somehow. Grow up."

Jeffrey reddened. "This isn't about me. It's about your troops. You need to send them a message, to tell them that sort of thing is not acceptable. There's no use expanding if you don't hold onto what you conquer. And you can't hold onto territory if all the locals hate you, because of how your men act."

Peter rounded his desk and dropped into his chair. "That might be good advice, in some situations," he said. "This isn't one of them. You don't arrest your best commander on the eve of starting a war. Building a house takes more than nails and wood. You need a hammer, and Brutus Glock is the best hammer I have at the moment."

Jeffrey scowled. "From what I've seen, he's in no shape to lead troops at the moment anyway."

"And you are?" He shook his head. "Face it, the men don't know you well enough to trust you and follow you yet. And if you don't drop these charges against their commanding officer, they won't _want_ to know you, either. If you ever want to accomplish something with your life, son, you're going to have to learn to pick your battles."

Jeffrey didn't back down. "What kind of leader only fights battles that he's sure he can win? Some things are worth fighting for even if victory isn't guaranteed."

"There's more than just winning," his father told him. _This is my fault,_ he realized. _I've left too much of his training to others._ "There's what comes after winning. There's no use punishing one man if it loses you an army. Brutus is a hero to them."

"Not to me."

"Take some time to cool down before we discuss it again."

But Jeffrey didn't budge. "We have something else to talk about. Did you know that Pope Enrique's on his way over here today?"

"No, but I just got here myself. Any idea what he wants?"

"No idea, and I don't care. I just thought you should know you can't trust him."

"We've already had this discussion. The TCC is useful to us. They maintain – "

"Lies. They maintain lies, Dad. They say they're against any use of the Gifts of the Tourists, but they use 'em themselves. That's how Pope Rodrigo was killed."

"What are you talking about? Rodrigo was _shot_."

"He sure was. But your alchemists didn't find any trace of gunpowder on that bullet, did they? That's because it was fired from a _swizzle_."

Peter stared at him. "A _swizzle_?"

"Yep. Your men should have brought that wizard's staff back with them. It was a _swizzle_ too. The first time we met him, he used it to shoot coals from the campfire at us. The last time, before the banger dropped him with an arrow, he used his staff to bounce a rock off Brutus's head. When I saw that, I remembered the hole in Rodrigo's head, and the whistle we heard just before he dropped dead."

"I remember the sound. More of a hiss than a whistle."

"It's the sound a thin _swizzle_ makes when it's moving a lot of air. Don't you see? It moves whatever's in it. If there's air or water in it, the swizzle moves it. If there's a rock or a bullet in there, it moves too. Make it move fast enough and you've got a gun that doesn't need gunpowder."

The Honcho had been about to stand up, but at this he sat down again. "So someone in the Church has access to _swizzles_ , and they're using them as guns." He thought about that. _What else do they know that they're not sharing with me?_

"For all we know," said Jeffrey, "they have their own wizards who can _make_ _swizzles_."

"I thought only the Tourists could do that," he objected. "If humans could do things like that, civilization would never have fallen. Things would have kept working."

"Well," said Jeffrey, "maybe some humans can. That wizard's staff, it looked like it was nothing but a stick until it started shooting red-hot coals at us. He must have had the _swizzle_ inside it. But who ever heard of a swizzle covered with wood? From what I've read, they were used underground, where groundwater would rot the wood, and inside pipes and ventilation shafts where no one could see them. You know what? I think he made it himself. It's too bad your banger killed him. One wizard like that could make you a thousand _swizzle_ guns."

_Yes,_ he thought. _Too bad. But we do have his apprentice._

There was a knock on the door. "Yes?"

"Sir, His Holiness is here."

"Already? Very well, show him into the meeting room. I'll be there in a minute."

He looked at the Runt, seeing potential for maybe the first time. "What you've just told me is useful," he said. "I think you should sit in on this meeting. But don't say anything, just listen to what he says and tell me what you think afterwards."

For the first time that day, his son actually smiled. "I can do that," he said.

## Chapter 45

### Xander: "After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"

He opened his eyes. He was in the doctor's rooms, not in his own bed.

Aria sat by the bed. "How long was I asleep?" he asked.

She consulted the hourglass on the table. "About six hours. It's the middle of the afternoon. How do you feel?"

"Beat up. Have you heard from Lester?"

"No," she said. "It looks like the escaped Texas men took him back with them."

"Damn it!" He tried to rise from the bed.

She pushed him back down flat with one hand. "Don't even try," she said. "We're not even finished with the transfusion yet."

He craned his neck and saw the IV stand by the bed. There was a half-full plastic bag of blood there, its tubing carrying blood into his left arm. "Ah," he said. He looked back at Aria. "You look pale."

"I'm not surprised," she said. "It _is_ my blood, after all. Or was, until I got back a half hour ago. You're lucky the outpost had a fast horse for couriers. You lost a lot of blood and the doctor said mine was the only kind in the building that wouldn't kill you."

He frowned at that. "I'm sure he could have found someone else. There's probably – "

"Shut up," she said cheerfully. "And you're welcome. No, there was nobody else. He had dozens of volunteers, but when he mixed a drop of yours and theirs, they all clumped. Mine was the only blood that didn't." Now she frowned. "It's strange, because mother's clumped too. But mine was fine. Something about A, B, and O and positive and negative. Anyway, you should be fine now."

"I didn't think I was bleeding that much," he said. "I made it all the way back here, after all. I was just having trouble breathing."

"You had a punctured lung," she informed him. "The arrow missed your heart but it went right through a lung. The bandages stopped you from making a mess but you were still bleeding into the collapsed lung. Doctor Daniels had to swizzle that blood out of the lung and then reverse the swizzle to re-inflate the lung for you."

"Good thinking," he said. "But where did he find a swizzle small enough for that?"

"We broke the little fountain you made for me last year. You remember? I only had to add a little water once every week or so to make up for evaporation. I'm sorry we had to break it, but I knew there had to be a little swizzle in there. And there was."

"Tell him to keep it," he said. "I'll make you another one." _But what are we going to do about Lester?_ "Ask the doctor to come in for a moment, will you? I need to speak to him in private"

"Fine," she said. "I guess you don't need me, now that you have my _blood_." She left, and the doctor came in.

Daniels didn't smile. "What do you want? You're not my only patient, you know."

"Has she figured it out yet?"

To the doctor's credit, he didn't pretend not to understand. "No," he said. "But if she gets curious it isn't that hard to work out from the explanations in the old biology textbooks. Why haven't you told her?"

"Only you and I, and of course the Governor, know this. I'd like to keep it that way."

Daniels just looked at him. "Don't you think she deserves to know who her father is?"

Xander sighed, which was a mistake, because it hurt to do that now. "But that's just the point," he said. "She thinks she already knows. All her life she's thought the General was her father. How can I take that away from her? He was a great man. If he'd lived a couple more months, he _would_ have been her father."

"I thought you, of all people, cared about the truth," said Daniels.

"There's nothing I care about more," said Xander, "except her happiness. And of course, the Governor's reputation. A kind and innocent girl's feelings, a hard-working ruler trying to hold everything together, and the security of Rado are more important than the paternal pride of an old wizard, don't you think?"

Daniels looked at him. "I think," he said, "that this is an old story with a bad ending. Secrets are like infected wounds. The sooner you let out the pus, the sooner the healing can begin. Better to leave her with the memory of a father who admitted the truth, than to let her recall you as a man who thought she was dumb enough to be fooled forever. Think about it."

"I will. But in the meantime, you won't tell her, will you?"

"I'll leave that to you. Try not to need any more of her blood."

## Chapter 46

### Lester: "We think of the key, each in his prison"

After the Honcho left, Lester paced the cell, not knowing what to think. The ruler had not seemed nearly as bad as he had expected, but then, he wasn't facing him with weapons on a battlefield. Perhaps he had a decent side, but that didn't change anything. He still had to find a way out of here before they found a way to use him against Rado.

What was it Xander had said? " _A real wizard wouldn't need a key. All ordinary locks are just collections of moving parts. And anything that can move can be controlled with pathspace."_

He'd already justified Xander's choosing him as an apprentice by learning the invisibility trick. But the wizard was gone. It was up to him now. He'd have to take the next step by himself.

The Honcho had left him a wooden cup, but taken the metal pitcher with him when he left. He drank the water remaining in it and set the cup on the floor. Then he tried to imagine what it was to be that cup. It looked motionless, but according to Xander, it wasn't. It was spinning with the Earth, as he was, and orbiting the sun as the Earth was. So it wasn't a matter of getting it to move. It was already moving. What he needed to do was to make small changes in the path it was already on.

He concentrated, reaching out with his mind. This would be a challenge, he knew. This time he wasn't just trying to deflect the weightless particles of light that Xander had called _photons_. He was trying to deflect the massive particles that made up the wood in the cup.

Which shouldn't have made any difference, since he wasn't trying to lift or push them – all he was trying to do was reshape the path they were following. But it _was_ different. Photons were easy to guide. They had no rest mass. Once a photon was created, Xander had once told him, the particle flew away at the speed of light without needing any time at all to accelerate. No rest mass meant changing the photon's direction was effortless. Ordinary matter, on the other hand, was less reasonable. Photons were like little arrows flying through the air. A wind could blow arrows from their target, and it was similarly easy to reshape the paths of photons.

Ordinary matter, however, was more like a rock rolling across a plain. Mere wind would have little effect on it. The sun was millions of miles away. Only the fact that it was also millions of times as heavy as the Earth allowed it to reshape the _pathspace_ around it enough to keep the Earth's path bending around it in an orbit.

But that line of thought got him nowhere. He was not the sun. He did not have the weight that would be necessary to bend the cup's path by sheer brute force.

So what had Xander meant? He concentrated on the cup and imagined the _pathspace_ bending around it. Nothing happened for a second, and then the cup began to fade away.

Frustrated, he stopped what he was doing. The cup stopped fading. But it remained transparent. Some, but not all, of the light was bending around the cup, so that he could see the floor behind it. But that didn't help him to move the cup. No progress.

Or was it? Suddenly he had a ridiculous idea that he had to try.

_Pathspace_ , Xander had told him, was the space of _all_ paths. Not just the ones he could imagine. It included directions he could not even sense.

He stood in front of the door to the cell and reached out with his mind to embrace the _pathspace_ and imagine a new configuration.

And the door began to fade! He stopped, and the effect remained. The door was now transparent. He knew it was there, but he could see out into the hall, as if it were made of glass.

By using _pathspace_ , he _could see through things._ Evidently, matter did not occupy all of the dimensions of space. No matter how solid an object looked, even a wall, there were paths that went _around_ it in unseen directions.

Now _this_ was progress. All by himself, he had found a way to do something Xander had not even hinted at. His surge of pride soured, however, when he wished he could tell the wizard and then remembered that he couldn't, because the old man was dead.

_Move past that,_ he told himself. He tried to imagine what Xander would have told him if he were here right now. _Forget the past. It can't help you or hurt you. Concentrate on the present._

He still had to find a way out of this cell. He looked at the door. It was still transparent. After a moment he realized what was bothering him about that. Why was it that sunlight was blocked by a roof, it there were paths, somewhere, around the roof? He decided that sunlight, after traveling so far from its source, had to be moving in a straight line. Hardly any of the photons were able to wiggle around a roof, in the normal _pathspace_ configuration.

But he could change that. And now he could see when a guard was coming. This was already an advantage: he could practice his skills without being caught at it.

## Chapter 47

### Enrique: "And I who am here dissembled"

A nameless attendant darted forward to replenish his snifter. He smiled a thanks to the man and returned his attention to the Honcho. "Yes," he said, "quite smooth. They're doing marvelous things with springs and things these days. But you don't need us to tell you that, your Excellency. We're sure your new imperial coach is even better."

The Honcho smiled. "The craftsman are always improving their craft," he agreed. "I'm sure one day their artifice will rival the best that the Ancients contented themselves with."

Enrique nodded, but in his own mind he heard disagreement and agreement both to this statement. Part of him heard it with gladness, hungry for the luxuries the Ancients had known: medicines to cure and prevent disease, music captured and recorded in patterns of obedient lightning, and machines that conveyed images and sound across the world, making face to face meetings redundant and far-flung empires and enterprises sustainable. Yet part of him regretted the incessant need to improve the state of technical prowess. It always led to disdain for religions such as his own based upon the pronouncements of primitives. When today's advances make last week's best work seem inadequate, how will the words of men who lived a thousand years ago be viewed, but irrelevant? No one fears the god of thunder once lightning rods are put in place.

He sipped the Balcones from the snifter, taking care not to show his amusement at sipping whiskey from a brandy snifter. According to his sources, the pseudo-cognac produced in Californ was more appropriate for such full-bodied glasses than the Texas-made whiskey. It was more aromatic, for one thing. According to records he had seen, actual cognac, no longer available in the Americas since the collapse of civilization, had been produced according to amazingly rigid laws and procedures. Only certain grapes, grown in certain areas, could be used, the fermented juice then double-distilled in copper alembics, and aged at least two years in Limousin oak barrels before sale to the public.

Californ "cognac", which he obtained through his unofficial sources was, by all accounts, a fair imitation of the original, although of course the grapes were grown there, and not in the same soils and climate found in old France. Likewise the oak in which it was aged was not Limousin oak. Nevertheless, it was made from grapes, as the Texas whiskey was not, and was aged in oaken barrels. It was popular in Mexico. It also had a lower alcohol content than whiskey. He kept that in mind as he sipped Peter's rye. Peter and his son, by contrast, appeared to toss the stuff down as if long used to surviving and coping with its effects.

"But I am certain," Peter was saying, "that you did not come to compare conveyances. We do appreciate the honor of your presence, Holiness, but is there something we need to discuss?"

Enrique set his snifter down. "Indeed there is, your Excellency." He was surprised at the Honcho's formality, given their earlier familiarity, but presumed that it was for the benefit of the Runt. "You remember that earlier, you mentioned a certain cache of confiscated materials which could prove to be of assistance to your efforts to expand the borders of your dominion."

"Yes," said the Honcho. "As I recall, your Holiness, you stated that the objects in question, being under Papal ban, could not possibly be examined or utilized. Did I misunderstand you, or has something come to light which could modify that situation?"

Enrique smiled and shrugged. "It is possible that we overstated the case. While the so-called 'gifts' of the Tourists have been proscribed as a matter of Church law, that proscription was never actually an _infallible_ proclamation, since it was a matter of mortal opinion among the College of Cardinals, and not, in actual fact, an article of divinely received wisdom. It is therefore possible that exceptions could be made, in situations of need, given appropriate caution and conditions."

The Honcho leaned forward a little. "Interestingly put, Holiness. And how might these conditions be satisfied? I trust you have something in mind, something that Texas could do for you and the Church in return for granting us access?"

"It is possible," he admitted, "that some quid pro quo could be agreed. But I must warn you, Excellency, that even within the Church, there are practicalities to be considered. In order to satisfy...certain elements...we might have to ask for something you might be as reluctant to relinquish as we are to let these demonic tools fall into human hands."

"I see," said the Honcho. "I have heard it said that a compromise is an agreement in which neither party is happy, yet both are satisfied. I already know that you would be unhappy to set the precedent of letting the Empire make industrial-scale use of swizzles and everflames from your storehouse. Tell me, Excellency, what is it you fear will make me equally unhappy? How can we trade our miseries for the betterment of both of us?"

Enrique took another sip of the whiskey from his snifter before he answered. It wasn't bad stuff, even if it wasn't Californ cognac. "Excellency," he said, "I have heard that you have recently acquired a new prisoner. A wizard, in fact. Are my sources correct?"

Peter glanced at Jeffrey. The frown on the Runt's face was transparent, and spoke as loud as words. _How does this guy know about the prisoner? You're not going to turn him over, are you?_

"Nearly correct, Holiness. I must congratulate you on your _sources_ , but they have not got it quite right. The young man in question is a mere apprentice. I believe his teacher was, regrettably, terminated in the fracas which led to his capture."

"Nevertheless," Enrique responded, "he is a practitioner of the forbidden arts, is he not?"

"Yes, I suppose so," admitted the Honcho. "But hardly a powerful one. He is, after all, our prisoner, unable to escape from his cell, let alone threaten either our security or that of the Church."

"Are you certain of that? Granted, if he is young he probably knows less than the older wizard. But he might surprise you. Were he to escape, it would not speak well of your security."

"True. What is your interest in him? Are you hoping to convert him? I can see how it would be helpful to the Church if you were to persuade him to change, and tell others that he has seen the error of his ways."

"Perhaps," Enrique conceded. But we both know that his status as an apprentice, in itself, is proof that the people in Rado are trying to raise more wizards. We both know such people are dangerous. I'm told the older wizard captured a group of your scouts all by himself."

"So what are you suggesting, Holiness?"

"A public execution," said the Pontiff. "To discourage others from such a path."

## Chapter 48

### Jeffrey: "Prison and palace and reverberation"

His holiness departed as quickly as he had arrived. Jeffrey peered out the window of the building, watching the street far below, and saw the papal coach departing before he spoke. "The man is insane. A public execution?"

His father finished his whiskey. "It's not without precedent. In Mexico ordinary people have been burned as heretics, just for refusing to 'donate' lands to the Church there."

"Yes, but those 'ordinary people' you're referring to were wealthy landowners who worked the poor like slaves. I'm not saying it was right to execute them without a real trial, but their hands weren't exactly clean. This apprentice you have, he's done nothing. Are you really going to let Pope Ricky burn him at the stake just for being who he is, a raw apprentice?"

The Honcho poured himself another glass. "It's not what I would prefer to do, no. But we need what they have. I don't like it, but it's as simple as that."

Jeffrey slammed his hand down on the table, making the bottle jump. "No it isn't! It's not the only way. They can't have found every bit of alien tech in Texas. And if they have, maybe that apprentice can learn how to make what you need. Have you considered that? He must have talent, for Xander to recruit him. Maybe all he needs is time. But we'll never know if you let the TCC turn him into a human candle."

The Honcho stared into his glass. "Killing the old wizard didn't help his attitude. Lester doesn't want to help us, certainly not against his own country. And he's not eager to let us know the true extent of his abilities. As far as he knows, his best move is to convince us he's harmless. I'm not sure I know how to change his attitude fast enough for him to be useful. Do you?"

Jeffrey mulled it over. "I don't know. He wants to live. Why don't you give him a piece of pipe and see if he can make a swizzle out of it? Don't tell him what it's for, just make it a test. If he can't do it you can always trade him for the gear you need, but if he can it's a start. Then you can start getting your oil."

## Chapter 49

### Kristana: "one thing does not change"

Three days and still no word. She was beginning to fear her operatives in Dallas had been discovered. It weighed on her mind as she approached the infirmary. And not only her mind. If they couldn't tell him something soon, Xander was likely to attempt another escape, and if this kept up they'd be passing him his meals through a slot in the door. The problem with mounting an armed guard on him was he knew she didn't want him shot again.

There had been no more scouting sorties either. Had the Honcho learned what he needed to know? Or had he decided to postpone the invasion until Spring?

She pushed the door open and looked in on him. Xander was sitting up in the bed, a book open in his hands, his angry eyes flicking left and right as he scanned the lines. She tilted her head to read the title on the spine: _The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich._ "Where did you get that one?"

His eye flicked up, then back down at the page. "I had Aria fetch it for me from my quarters."

"Why the ancient history? Don't tell me Hitler is one of your heroes."

"Very funny," he grunted. "It's been a long time since I read it, and I thought it might be helpful to review, considering our situation."

_And maybe it helps distract you from the fact that your apprentice is in the hands of our enemies._ But she didn't say it out loud. "Helpful how?"

"Hitler was the first to realize the possibility of a new kind of war that his motorized divisions made possible. Up until his time the automobile had been largely viewed merely as a replacement for horse-drawn vehicles. But Hitler saw that the ability of the motorized vehicle to cover a lot of ground rapidly without resting, as horses and men on foot have to do, made possible an entirely new kind of war: the _blitzkrieg_ , or lightning-war. Before him, armies moved a few miles per day. Hitler did what Caesar was famous for – advancing more rapidly than expected – and did it even better, thanks to the gasoline- and diesel-powered vehicles. His lightning-swift advance into Poland surprised everybody, especially the Poles, whose old-fashioned horse cavalry (that had been effective in the wars prior to WWII) were useless against Hitler's motorized divisions. His war was the first in which modern transportation was more important than gunpowder or swords."

"But that was made possible by his factories," she pointed out. "The Honcho has none. He's discovered a cache of motor vehicles, true, but not thousands of them, and he can't make any more in the near time frame."

"No he can't. But if he can come up with fuel for them, a few dozen tanks and armored personnel carriers could make a big difference against our troops, especially if they move faster than we expect."

She sat down on the edge of his bed. "How do we counter them, if he manages to use them?"

"I have some ideas," he said. "We have some time to prepare. From what your spies reported, he has no fuel. He has the old oil wells, but it will take him some time to pull out enough and put it into a usable form for the old motors."

She reached out and closed the book in his hands. "We need to talk about Aria," she said. "She asked me yesterday what the General's blood type was."

He sat up straighter in the bed, then winced and let himself fall back again. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her I didn't remember. But we both know she'll eventually ask Daniels about it. You know how he is about the truth. Once he tells her the General was B positive, she'll know it's hardly likely that he and I produced an O negative daughter."

He sighed. "So we have to tell her before she figures it out herself."

"Yes. I'm not looking forward to that."

He looked her in the eye. "We didn't do anything wrong. He was gone."

She looked down. "I know that. But you know that won't make any difference. She'll still feel betrayed because we never told her. Because in her eyes it'll seem that we never trusted her enough."

"You know that wasn't why, damn it. You'd just taken over for Roberto. Colorado needed a grieving-but-tough widow, carrying on his Dream, not a happy survivor carrying another man's child."

"Not happy," she said, looking away. "No one could have made me happy, not then. But you certainly helped me be less _unhappy_. I'll never forget it."

"Nor I. You can't imagine how much I wanted to marry you. But to the people of Rado, Aria was a symbol of hope, the last good thing they would ever get from their General. So I kept my mouth shut and stayed in my place as the weird old wizard. But it wasn't easy. I never stopped loving you, but if all I could ever be was the consoling friend who helped you make a baby, I told myself I would accept that."

"You were more than that," she said. "You're not the only one with regrets. You're not the only one who's had to give up dreams for the people of Rado, for the General's Dream. You've no idea how lonely it is to be the Governor."

"No," he agreed. "Just how lonely it is to be the Governor's wizard."

## Chapter 50

### Kristana: "Where the word is unspoken"

She told him to try to sleep and made herself leave the infirmary. _Yes,_ she thought, _we all have our own knowledge of loneliness._ Xander has to stand near me, when he can, not touching, and I have to hold my place, wanting to be touched. Never to show affection in public, never to know the reassurance of human contact. A ruler must be separate. Must be seen as always confident, always having a plan. Always sufficient unto herself.

Especially when she's not.

It had been a hard decision. She remembered as if it were this morning, Roberto lying there on the bed. He had just closed his eyes, never to open them again. "That's my girl," he had smiled, after she had shouted at that fraying soldier, putting backbone back into the frightened man. Her first real command as Governor, holding the line. "That's my girl" Roberto had said, and smiled and closed his eyes, and that was all. End of a legend.

No one knew yet. She would have a little time to weep alone, to still be soft.

Her tears fell on the sheet as her shoulders shook. She sobbed quietly, but so wholeheartedly that she did not hear the door open and Xander slip into the room. He took in the scene in an instant, and, after giving her a minute to weep alone, had taken her unresisting form into his arms and wept with her just as quietly. There are some moments where the word is unspoken. Where it is unnecessary. Neither of them said it: he is gone.

After a couple of minutes she was still. He stroked her hair on the back of her neck and whispered to her. "Now comes the hard part."

Gently, she let go of him and separated herself. "I know. Now I have to wear his hat."

Xander smiled at her brave joke. "No. You can't be him. They know you're not the Lion. But you can be the Lioness. It's what he would have wanted. What he trained you for."

"But how can I? How can I be Commander-in-Chief, when I've never been in the Army? I'm a fraud, a pretender, and they'll know it. You should take over. Take this cup away from me."

Xander put his hands on her shoulders. "That's not what he would have wanted. I can't be the Governor. I'll help you all I can, but the Governor has to be one of the People, one of them, and I've lost that, by being what I am. I'm too strange for them to love. They may respect me, and will definitely fear me a little, but love? No. The shaman is never the leader of the tribe. He does weird things, and gives advice. But he is never the leader."

"Why is that?" she asked. "I think you're as strong as he was, but in a different way."

"Because the leader is a role model," he said, looking down at Roberto's peaceful smile. "The leader has to be someone they can imagine themselves being. They don't look up to me. They look across to me, across a vast canyon of strangeness. But they will look up to you."

She drew a ragged breath. "Why should they look up to me?"

"Because they know he approved of you. That he respected you enough to marry you. And you have to use that now. You have to be the tough-as-nails widow of the General. Since the two of you were man and wife, they'll assume you must be like him in some ways."

"But I'm not," she said. "Opposites attract. He was the controller. I'm more the supporter, the nurturer. I'll never be him."

"Well then, it's time to nurture Colorado," he said. "Nurturing can mean giving what someone needs, or helping them to get it. Right now your country needs hope, needs confidence. You can give that to them, by helping them to believe you can hold it all together. By giving orders and expecting to be obeyed."

"Then I order you to take my place," she said smiling.

"With respect, madame Governor, you know that I cannot. But I'll do whatever else you need. You know my priority is establishing the school for wizards, but that can't happen without a stable environment around it, so I'm your most loyal citizen. I'll fight for you, lie for you, steal for you, die for you as long as I can get the school going and keep the Dream alive. We can't let it end like this."

"No, we can't, can we?" She gazed down at Roberto. "Don't worry, my love, we'll follow the Dream." After a moment she looked up again. "What's the first thing we need to do?"

"The first thing _you_ need to do," he corrected, "is to address the troops. By now the commanders and senior staff are assembling as you asked in the Council chamber. It's time to let them see their new Governor."

It was a month before they began sleeping together. In public Xander acted as if nothing had changed. As he told her, "Once the staff find out who the boss lady is sleeping with, she loses a lot of her authority. We can't let that happen."

Nine months later Aria was born. Everyone assumed she was the General's last gift. It must have killed Xander a little to go along with that. But he did.

## Chapter 51

### Lester: "but only of proper sowing"

It was almost annoying when someone came to visit him again. He'd gotten quite distracted with his new ability to see through walls. One thing he discovered right away was that he could warm up his cell. Evidently the prison had only one floor above ground, because when he wove the _pathspace_ to make his ceiling transparent, sunlight flooded in, bringing warmth in with it.

Once, when his meal was brought (and he did notice right away that the standard fare was less savory than what they brought the Honcho when he dined with him) he was nearly caught by surprise, because at the time he was gazing up at the clouds. The rattle of the key in the door jarred him out of this contemplation and he barely un-wove the ceiling transparency _pathspace_ in time before the guard got the door open.

This time he was looking through the door, however, so he had plenty of time to make it opaque again before it swung open. The identity of the visitor surprised him.

"You really should work more on looking haggard," Jeffrey told him. "It's a prison. You're not supposed to be cheerful."

"And hello to you too. How is Commander Glock doing? Is he recovered enough from his bang on the head for me to kill him now?"

Jeffrey grimaced. "He's up and about. How did you learn his name? I'm not sure you understand the gravity of your situation."

"I asked a guard. Gravity? Weird way to describe it. I feel my normal weight." He hopped experimentally, then sat on his cot. "Sorry, I'm just jerking you around. I realize I'm not in a good place. But what can I do about it?"

"Good question. I'm glad you asked that. You know, it's a shame we met the way we did. You seem, a decent fellow, and under other circumstances we might have been friends."

"I know what you mean. Compared to Brutus, you don't seem so bad yourself."

Again Jeffrey grimaced. "Compared to him, a rattlesnake isn't bad. It might kill you, but it wouldn't _enjoy_ it. But my father thinks Brutus is a necessary evil."

"Well then sorry, but I disagree with your father, although he didn't seem too bad when he came to visit me."

"So do I. There are many things we disagree on. For example, your situation. I'm sorry to tell you this, but it's worse than you might think. The Church wants us to hand you over to them for a public execution."

Lester scratched his stubble. "I see. And does the Honcho usually do what the Church wants? Too much of that would make him look weak."

"That's what I think. But he considers them useful, and they have something he really wants. If the only way he can get it is by handing you over, he'll talk himself into it soon enough."

"Again, I don't see that I can do anything about that."

Jeffrey pulled something out of a vest pocket and handed it to him. It was a short metal tube, less than an inch in diameter and only four inches long.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"I couldn't bring you anything longer, because you might try to club one of the guard with it. But it might still save your life."

"I don't see how. Am I supposed to beat it into a key or something? Then you should have brought an even smaller one."

"Let's get something straight," Jeffrey told him. "My father doesn't see you as dangerous because you're only an apprentice. But that also means you're not very valuable. He'll trade you for more valuable things if he feels he has to. Then the Church will burn you at the stake. Your only hope of survival is to show him you can be more valuable to him alive."

"How?"

"Can you make this a swizzle? He needs swizzles, but the Church won't let him have the ones they've confiscated unless he hands you over."

Lester turned the metal tube over in his hands. "If you'd asked me a week ago, I would have said probably not. Maybe I can now. But why does he need swizzles? I thought he wanted to rebuild the world without alien technology."

"He does. But in the short term he needs pumps more powerful than hand pumps, and that means swizzles. If you can make them he doesn't have to trade you for them."

"I get it," said Lester. "This is a demo. What makes you think I want to be helpful to your father?"

"Let me put it this way. Do you want to be firewood? Sorry, but those are the choices."

"I'll get back to you on that," said Lester. "Let me see what I can manage."

## Chapter 52

### Aria: "the light shone in darkness"

Sometimes she felt as if her entire life was being spent scribbling. Word problems! Exercises in futility was what they were. What was the point? There would always be advisers to calculate numerical answers for her.

"Aria," said Mr. Chang, "you're not concentrating."

"I just don't see the point of this. It doesn't _mean_ anything!"

The barest lifting of an eyebrow. "What? But everything means something."

"Does it?" She put down the piece of chalk and surveyed the dusty scribbling on the board in front of her. "Am I any better of a ruler if a field produces twenty bushels of corn instead of fifteen? The number is meaningless unless we combine it with others. Is fifteen enough to feed a country? Hardly. The output of a single field, and the appetites of a single family tell us nothing until we combine them with all the others and compare the total harvest to the total population that must be fed."

"True," he said. "But that's not the point of this exercise. The task is to take all of the given factors into account and to render an accurate result, which in this case is the amount of corn left sixty days after harvest. You've left out the spoilage due to mice, so your result is unreasonably optimistic."

She surprised him with a curse, because he was right. "But it's still unreasonable even if I include it," she said. "What about insects? What about pilfering by vagabonds? What if an army takes it all – or burns it?"

"Those were not included in the givens," he said.

"But they do happen. And in any real situation, the people evaluating this for me will include such factors if they are known or can be predicted. If I'm to be Governor, I won't be doing the scribbling – they will. So what's the point of my practicing it?"

"People will supply you with numbers when they can be calculated, and estimates when they cannot, true enough. But how will you know that the numbers you are given are accurate? How will you be able to tell if budgets are padded, if estimates are exaggerated?"

"I'll employ people who know their jobs, and replace them if they don't," she said.

"You'll still have to be able to do some of the estimating yourself," he said. "You can't always afford to wait until they're proved wrong to replace them. When you order an army into the field, you have to know in advance what it will cost to keep them there."

"That's the job of the quartermasters," she retorted.

Chang sighed. "You're missing the point," he said. "Suppose your army's quartermasters know that it will require one thousand bushels of grain to feed the troops for a month. Their knowing will mean nothing, if you only have five hundred bushels in silos." He pointed at the chalk-covered board. "These numbers are made up. But in an actual situation they will be crucial. Ordering your army to do things it doesn't have the resources to do will only frustrate them and make them resentful. Politics has been called 'the art of the possible' for good reasons. To expect the impossible is to invite defeat."

She wished her mother would come in and interrupt this lesson, as she had done a few times in the past. Too much more of this and she would scream. She felt like screaming now. She knew there was truth to what Chang was saying. But falsehood also. The examples were arbitrary, not really as reasonable as they seemed. An army could forage. They could hunt. And of course they could obtain crops from the fields of the enemy, if they were in enemy territory.

She felt as if they were asking too much of her and at the same time not giving her enough information to do what they asked. In a real situation she would have to be able to trust her people, else she and they were doomed. Yet these exercises were to be done all by herself, as if she were alone on a battlefield! Madness.

Furthermore, it wasn't the way her mother had been prepared for her rule. Why weren't they letting her spend time reviewing troops, touring installations, observing troop training exercises? It was as if her mother were trying to redo her own past, to make her daughter into the kind of leader she wasn't, a knower of all instead of a maker of decisions.

## Chapter 53

### Lester: "where three dreams cross"

After Jeffrey left and closed the door behind him, Lester laid the metal tube on the floor of his cell and contemplated it, trying to decide what he should do. Doing nothing was not an option.

He could refuse to cooperate, of course, but that would lead to his death at the hands of the Church executioners and wouldn't help Rado. It would be a gesture of defiance and nothing more, a pointless death that would accomplish nothing for him, nothing for the Governor, and something for the TCC (the discouragement of inquiry).

He could cooperate with the Honcho: find a way to make whatever the ruler of Texas needed. This would prolong his life, at the cost of endangering his countrymen. He had a feeling that the Honcho's desires were connected with his aim to expand the Empire. He did not believe the Honcho was a monster, but it was clear that if he were willing to trade a human life for something, that something must be something he desperately needed for his dreams of conquest.

Lester couldn't accept sacrificing himself for nothing, but he would despise himself if he aided a tyrant. There had to be a third way. And it had to involve escape for him, because he couldn't do anything to help Rado from inside this cell.

While he thought these thoughts, he tossed the tube from hand to hand, feeling its weight, its solidity. Yet it was probably lighter than that apple he had seen Xander make float from his hand back to the table. He had no idea how the wizard had done that, but he knew that it could be done. Perhaps he would spend the rest of his life trying to figure out how.

For now, he had to get to work on trying to make a _swizzle_. He had no doubt that the Honcho would not wait forever before consigning him to the merciless arms of the Church.

Everybody who knew anything about _swizzles_ knew that they sucked in one end and blew out the other. Another way of saying this was that in the middle, the working fluid moved in one direction. Air, water, or whatever was in front of that motion was pushed out of the way, and similarly the motion pulled more in at the back to make up for what was lost going out the front.

No matter how he tried, however, he could not make the tube work by imagining the air in the middle moving along the axis of the tube. There was more to it than that. If his hand could somehow fit inside the tube, pushing it forward would do the trick, but only once, and then somehow he would have to get his hand back into its original position in the middle of the tube. Simply moving it backwards would negate the progress achieved – he'd push the air in the other direction.

A rotor pump could get around this difficulty, he knew, by putting a sort of waterwheel in the middle of the tube, where the wheel would be turned by an external crank and its paddles would push the air forward, rather than the reverse that happened in a miller's waterfall. But somehow he had to accomplish that without altering the shape of the tube or installing a wheel. Somehow the motion had to be continuous, and in only one direction.

He tried mentally pushing, mentally pulling, mentally squeezing the tube, and nothing worked. He was still at it when he heard a key in the door and the guard brought him dinner: a crust of bread, a cup of water, and a dubious-looking sausage.

The guard, whose named he learned was Patrick, was a grizzled old veteran whose career was plainly winding down, to be assigned this duty. He liked being a prison guard about as much as Lester liked being in prison. After he swung open the door and put the wooden tray on the floor, he pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from behind an ear and lit it from the torch he was holding with his other hand.

"That's a stupid habit," Lester told him.

Patrick grinned a half-sneer at him. "Not as stupid as being in a prison cell," he said. He took a long drag of smoke into his lungs without coughing, stared into Lester's eyes, and with studied indifference, blew a smoke ring at him. Then he turned with a laugh and took his leave.

Lester stared at the smoke ring and stopped breathing, afraid to disturb it. After a moment, the gust from the slammed door struck it and it unraveled into wispy fragments. But he could still see it in his mind's eye. It was a collection of circular paths. The particles of smoke had gone round and round, not spreading out aimlessly, but following a rigid pattern.

And in the center of that pattern all of the particle of smoke had been moving forward. They moved forward together as a circle, then the circle expanded, turned around, came back together, and moved forward again, over and over.

It was exactly the configuration of pathspace he had been looking for.

He ignored his supper and picked up the tube again. What he needed was a longer version of the smoke ring – a doughnut stretched to look like a cylinder, curving back on itself.

He had been going at it all wrong! He'd been thinking linearly, imagining pushing the air in one direction down the length of the tube, when what he needed was for the air to go _around_ the tube, like threads through the holes in a shirt button. Through and out the front and around and back in the back and through again. The unidirectional lines he'd been imagining inside the tube were only the straightest part of a path that curved around on itself.

He visualized a circle of air in the center of the tube. Pictured it moving forward, tracing out a straight _pathspace_ until it emerged, than spilling out over the end of the tube and curving back down the outside before curving back into the rear of the tub and returning to its previous position.

To see this better in his mind he held the tube with one end facing him, a few inches away. The circle tracing out the stretched smoke-ring path came toward him, curled back, slid away, bent in, entered the back, and came toward him again. Over and over again he imagined the pathspace, making the configuration clear in his mind, setting his intention and his expectation of it – trying to reshape the _pathspace_ near the tube.

And he began to feel a breeze blowing in his face.

His heart raced. It was working! Not very strongly, but it was working! All by himself, he'd made a weak _swizzle_. He'd solved the puzzle, learned how to make one of the Gifts of the Tourists. Now all he had to do was make it stronger, and learn how to control it.

## Chapter 54

### Peter: "I see crowds of people"

Music drifted from across lake Austin. The early winter Cotillion was in full swing, with the debs and swains of various Houses strutting their stuff under the watchful eyes of senior Empire aristocrats. The Honcho leaned on the rail of his veranda and remembered a simpler time in his life, when his main worries revolved around the cut of his jacket, the proper form for acknowledging the interest of a débutante without seeming too eager, and the best way to filch half-consumed (yet many times refilled) glasses when their possessors were distracted by the nubility around them. _Yes, there was a time when I believed that as the younger son, not even the Runt, that I'd be free to enjoy the idle life of an aristo: riding, drinking, dancing my life away until I joined the ghost riders. And then Frank rode rode off to reason with the Queen of Angeles._

Katerina's hand touched his arm, rousing him from his reverie. "Remembering the good old days, before you met me?" she asked, smiling.

He smiled back. "The 'good old days' _began_ when I met you," he said, reaching out to pull her against him. They'd both put on weight over the years, but she was still a fine figure of a woman. "I was thinking about Frank. His optimism is the real reason that I became Honcho, you know."

"Ah, poor Frank. My sister had high hopes for him, all dashed when that horrible woman sent back his head. A perfect example why women shouldn't be rulers."

He pretended surprise. "My dear, I'm, shocked. I remember a time when you used to point to her as an example that women _can_ rule. You used to be quite a scandal in your family, with all your youthful insistence that women can be more than just mothers and wives. There were some in my father's circle who were glad I was only the second son, and not the heir apparent. They feared you'd make Texas a matriarchy."

She drew back her head, and laughed. "Small chance of that! Complaints about one's own country are common in the young, but they often fade in the illuminating discoveries about conditions in other regions. The Dixie Emirates, for example. Their women are even less free socially than we are here, I'm told. I'm glad not to have been born into one of those places."

"Not as glad that I am you weren't," he said. "Your legs would be a lot harder to see in what they make their women wear. And your veil would get in the way," he added, leaning forward to kiss her.

"I don't see how they bear it," she remarked when her lips were free again. "All that flowing linen must make them swelter terribly in Atlanta. I hear it gets beastly hot there."

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "I've heard the robes wick away perspiration and use evaporation to cool the wearer."

"While they dry up like raisins. No thank you." She shaded her eyes with one hand and peered across the lake. "Is Jeffrey there?"

He frowned. "No. Perhaps he ought to be, but I asked him to join us for dinner."

"Oh, Peter," she chided. "Not more talk about your war? He needs a wife."

"There'll be time enough for that," he grunted. "But the needs of the Empire come first."

"Your needs, you mean." She abandoned her peering and glanced at him sideways. "Do we have to fight Rado now? Why this need to expand? Why can't we be content with what we have?"

He gazed out across the lake, but his eyes were turned inward, seeing only Frank's head in a box. "Because we can't," he said. "We have a lot of territory, but most of it is practically desert, except for East Texas. We shouldn't have to be so dependent on trade for foodstuffs."

"You can blame that on your grandfather," she said. "Inviting the Pope to move his Vatican here was a mistake, if you ask me. North Texas was a lot greener before his loyalists began confiscating all the swizzle pumps. Irrigation is a joke now, except for areas near rivers."

"I didn't ask you," he said, his jaw tightening. Then he sighed. "But you're right. The grass extended much farther out from the lake when I was a boy. Sometimes I miss the sight of the whirligig sprinklers spinning out their water over the lawn, making rainbows in the sun. But of course grandfather had to set an example for the people. Without the pressure from the swizzles, they never spun again."

The door behind them opened. She turned. "Jeffrey! How dashing you look in your new leathers, and how cruel it is of your father to keep such a sight from all the girls across the lake."

"It's not always pleasant to feel like an earthworm among a flock of chickens," he said. "I can always sense their mothers pointing me out to them, urging them to snap me up."

"So you think all mothers are terrible," she noted. "You'd rather make war than love?"

"Not all mothers," he said. "Don't worry, you'll get your grandchildren soon enough."

"I'm glad you're here," she said, "but you should really ride around the lake and encourage some swooning. It's a good day for getting some flagrante, and there are plenty of bushes."

He blushed. "Mother, sometimes I think you are _still_ the scandalous girl my father married. Aren't you supposed to be rearing me to be a proper gentleman?"

"Oh nonsense," she said, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. "Proper is for peasants and priests. There's nothing wrong with being young and lusty. Do you think I married your father because he had power?" She shook her head. "It was because of the way he – "

"Dear," said the Honcho, "you'll shock the lad. Has Esmeralda been too zealous in refilling your wineglass today? Let's go and investigate what the cook has waiting for us."

She sighed at her son. "The oppression is inescapable, it seems," she said, and glided into the house. Peter was about to follow her, but his son moved to intercept him and withdrew something from a pocket.

"I just came from the prison," he said. "Tale a look at this."

The metal tube was unremarkable, until he turned one end toward his face and felt the slight breeze it emitted. _A swizzle!_ All thoughts of the cotillion, Frank, and dinner vanished. "He made this? I thought he was just an apprentice without a teacher."

"He's making progress," said Jeffrey. "I know it's too small and weak for your needs, but it's progress, nonetheless. With more practice, he might be able to free you from any need to make a deal with Pope Ricky."

"Tell no one," said the Honcho. "But bring him more material to work with. His Holiness may have to get used to disappointment, after all."

## Chapter 55

### Xander "I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker"

Standing up was the hardest part. Once he had managed that he was past the worst. His chest still ached, but the wound was sealing, and the scab was beginning to flake off. He suspected, despite what Daniels had said, that there was still a little blood gurgling around in the bottom of his lungs, but he would ignore it. He'd learned it was best to let his body carry out its business without interference from his conscious worrying mind.

Once out of the bed, he reclaimed his trousers, tunic and cloak. His staff was not in the room. Had it been left behind on the roof? He hoped not, rain and sun might split the wood eventually, and he much preferred holding the wood, especially in cold weather or on those disagreeable situations in which he was forced to fly, when the air rushing through the pipe at its core would tend to chill the metal even more than usual.

Now the trick was to evade his minders. He knew Daniels well enough, and vice versa, that he was certain the doctor had installed guards outside his recovery room. That would be comforting if he were the sort to cry out for assistance.

Stepping into a corner, he reached out and wove pathspace, wrapping himself in darkness. If he could make them think he'd escaped, they might stop guarding the door.

Huddled in his silence, he wondered how Lester was doing in Texas. While lying in the infirmary bed, recovering, he'd tormented himself with fears that the apprentice had been shot by soldiers, fallen victim to some foreign plague, or been executed by Church fanatics. The boy had real potential. It would be a terrible loss if he were killed. And then he'd have to start hunting all over again for an apprentice. There was no way he could start the school until he had a helper. Someone had to teach, and someone else had to find students. One person could not do both. _Stay alive Lester! No matter what you have to do, stay alive!_

And he himself could not afford to just lie here until Daniels and the Governor were satisfied. No army would free the boy, deep inside Texas territory. His only chance, as Xander saw it, was an incursion by someone who could arrive unseen. There was no one but him who could pull it off.

The sound of the door opening reached him. He began to edge toward it.

Then the door closed, and he heard Kristana's voice. "Xander, I know you're still in here. What do I have to do to make you stay put? Do you want me to hide your boots and scatter broken glass on the floor? Stop hiding!"

Damn! He un-wove the pathspace and light flooded back. She was facing away from him, but he could tell from her stance that she was annoyed. "You wouldn't really do that would you?" he asked. "It would be a nuisance to Daniels and put me at risk for further infection."

She turned to face him. Her front was just as annoyed as her back. "I'm worried about Lester too," she said. "But I'm not about to lose a wizard as well as an apprentice, just because an old fool won't give himself enough time to recover from a near-fatal wounding."

"He needs me," Xander growled.

"You don't even know if he's still alive," she said.

"Well, how am I supposed to find out if I'm trapped in this infirmary?" he demanded.

She eyed him. "The future of Rado," she told him. "is more important than a mere apprentice. I'm sorry if that seems cold, but we both know it's true. If you run off while you're still in a weakened condition and get yourself killed, your school is finished before it's even started. You're too valuable to risk like that."

"I need him, damn it!" He glared at her. " _We_ need him. I can't have a school without students, and I can't stay here and teach them while I'm out trying to find more."

"You can't do either one if you're dead. And you won't have the chance to do either one if Texas invades and conquers us." She stood there, studying him to see if he was hearing her. "If I have to, I'll station guards inside the room as well as outside it. They'll bring you a chamber pot, and watch you squat and pee into it if that's what it takes to make sure you finish your recovery. Don't make me treat you like a child. Start behaving like an adult, wizard!"

He sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. "My only apprentice," he said, "is in a hostile country, run by a man who lets the Church burn wizards at the stake. How can I just sit here and do nothing?"

She sat down next to him. "You won't be doing nothing," she told him. "You'll be planning the defense of Rado. I've been getting some very alarming reports from my operatives in the Lone Star Empire. It appears that the Honcho has been making plans to produce massive quantities of fuel and ammo for the Ancient motorized war vehicles he uncovered under Abilene."

"If he succeeds in making enough fuel, we're in real trouble."

"Yes. So stop worrying about Lester and help me come up with a plan."

## Chapter 56

### Lester: "Do you see nothing?"

He spared a glance through the transparent wall to make sure no one was coming, than focused on the wooden tray on the floor, trying to weave the pathspace.

After a minute, it wobbled, and rose an inch from the floor.

Lester wiped sweat from his face with the sleeve of his robe and pushed the weaving tighter. The tray rose another inch and rocked, as if in a breeze.

It had been a day since Jeffrey returned with more metal tubing. This time he had brought a couple of old coins as well. Obviously, he was hoping that Lester would find a way to make everflames, too. But why? Whatever the reason, it couldn't be good for Rado. He had to get the hell out of here, and soon.

Movement in the corner of his eye alerted him. Quickly, he un-wove the pathspace that was levitating the tray and mad the wall opaque again. As the key turned in the door, he dropped to the floor and began doing push ups.

A new guard, whose name he didn't know pushed the door open and brought in his dinner on another tray. As he set it down and reached for the old one Lester struggled to his feet and then sat on the edge of his cot wiping sweat off his face.

"What's with the workout?" the guard asked. "Are you cold in here?"

"Not at the moment," Lester said. "But it's hard to get proper exercise in a room I can cross with a few steps. When do I get to spend time out in the exercise yard?"

"How should I know? From what I hear, you're lucky they don't let Brutus visit you in here." He swung the door open to leave. "Word is, he's still having headaches from that rock you bounced off his head. He'd love to have a chat with you about it."

"That wasn't me, that was the wizard who did that."

The guard shrugged. "Whatever." He shut the door and locked it.

Lester made the wall transparent again and watched him leave. "You've got that backwards," he muttered. "Brutus is the lucky one. For now."

After the guard was gone he waited to see if there would be a visit from Jeffrey. Unless the Runt appeared, he might have a few hours before the watch changed and the new guard glanced in the barred window in the door. Time to get to work.

He had discovered that the key to moving objects with pathspace was circular weaving. The pathspace was more effective if it consisted of closed paths – like the multitude of circles that made up the donut-shaped vortex that made the swizzle work. Straight line paths were temporary, and faded. But closed circular paths tended to regenerate, to maintain their strength. And if you wove them tighter, they seemed to get stronger in the push they imparted to whatever was within their paths.

To make the tray rise, all he had to do was imagine a tube sticking up through it, and weave the donut pathspace. Matter in the center of the pathspace vortex to move upwards, so the effect was as if something pushed the tray up against gravity.

Now it was time to see if he could use a similar weaving to manipulate the lock in the door. Standing up, he paced over to the door and made a portion of it near the doorknob transparent. By fuddling with the weave, he found he was able to control how deep the transparency went. Instead of seeing all the way _around_ the door, he experimented until he could see the locking mechanism inside it.

Now for the hard part. This was going to be trickier. He had to make the pins engaged by the teeth of the guard's key push into their slots without the key to do it. He'd gotten a look at the key several times, so he knew it wasn't very complicated. In the days of the Ancients, this would have been harder, maybe even impossible. From the books he'd seen in Xander's room, many of the locks of the Ancients used _electronic_ keys. He had no idea what that meant, but obviously it wasn't something he could manipulate with pathspace. Fortunately, no one used locks that anymore, since the electricity of the Ancients was a thing of the past.

He imagined tiny donut-shaped pathspace weavings, their holes pointing toward the edge of the door, one for each of the lock's three pins. He had to do this individually at first, playing with each of the three spring-loaded pins separately, until he could hold the images well enough to try to do more than one at a time.

It took more than an hour to do. By the time he was ready for the next step, he was drenched in sweat and had a splitting headache.

Taking a break, he drained the water the guard had brought and devoured the bread and meat, striving to replenish his strength. After what seemed like fifteen minutes or so, the worst of the headache was fading, and he was ready to try again.

Once more he wove the three donuts of pathspace, this time leaving each one in pace as he continued on to the next. After a minute or so he turned the knob and opened the door.

_That's another thing Xander never showed me,_ he thought with satisfaction. But there was no time to waste breaking his arm patting himself on the back. He faced down the corridor and wove pathspace again. This time he did it from behind him, making the light from behind bend around him so that he would be hard to see from the front, but could see the light coming _toward_ him so he could see where he was going. As long as no one came up behind him, he ought to be able to pull this off.

He edged down the corridor, ears straining for the faintest sound that could be a guard coming. As he passed another door with a barred window, he did a quick transparency-weave to see if it was occupied. It wasn't, and neither were the next three.

After a while he realized he was going the wrong way, heading deeper into the prison.

He realized this because the corridor came to a dead end. Cursing under his breath, he turned and rewove the pathspace to let him see back the way he had come and make himself invisible, or at least very transparent, from that direction.

He was wasting time. He headed back the way he had come, picking up the pace. In less than a minute he was passing his own door. He knew that because it was the only one open.

He passed it and continued down the corridor. There should still be hours before the guard came back. There was still time to make his escape.

He should have known better. Coming around another corner, he near walked right into the guard, who was seated at a little table, sharpening his sword with a whetstone.

What prevented him from running into the guard (whose back was too him), however, was not his own caution, but a wall of bars. In it, directly behind the guard, was a door. It was locked.

He could open that lock, he knew, because it was probably opened by the same key that opened his cell door. But unless the hinges were oiled, the man would hear the door opening behind him. And there was no way to slip past him without touching him.

Cursing mentally, Lester went back to his cell and closed the door. He threw himself on his cot and nearly forgot, before he forced himself to get up and un-weave the pathspace keeping the door unlocked. He tried the knob to make sure it wouldn't turn, then flung himself back on the cot and tried to get some sleep.

## Chapter 57

### Jeffrey: "He who has seen what has happened"

The guard unlocked the door for him and stood aside as Jeffrey entered the cell. He heard the click as the door was re-locked behind him. It didn't make him afraid he would be trapped in the cell with Lester. Nor did it fill him with reassurance that the prisoner would not escape. All it did was engender amusement in him. As far as he could determine, the apprentice did not appear to be desperate enough to attempt forcing his way out of the cell.

Like a domino striking another as it fell, the thought triggered another: _why isn't he? If I were in here, aware that the pope wanted to turn me into a human torch to illuminate the dangers of trafficking with "demons", I'd certainly be desperate to escape!_

Lester was sitting on his cot, staring at the breakfast tray in the middle of the floor. Oddly, there seemed to be a trace of perspiration on his forehead. He wiped it with a sleeve self-consciously when he noticed Jeffrey looking at him.

"I thought you might like some donuts," Jeffrey said, lifting the cover off the dish he was carrying. Twin wisps of steam arose from two cups of cocoa beside the stacked toroids.

Lester stared at the donuts, then his gaze raked Jeffrey's face, as if searching for something. "Thanks,"he said, lifting one from the dish and turning it over in his hands, regarding it as if it were something mysterious he had never seen before.

Jeffrey picked up one himself. "What? You don't have donuts in Rado?"

Now the apprentice looked puzzled. "Of course we do," he said, taking a bite. "We have everything you do here," he paused, "except the TCC."

At the mention of the Church, Jeffrey grimaced, but only momentarily, because he saw with some surprise that he and Lester shared a secret vice: they were both dunkers. After taking a bite of his own, Jeffrey immersed the broken ends in the hot cocoa, letting the sweet mystery of it soak into the cake before he took another bite. What, after all, was the point of having donuts and coffee or cocoa if you couldn't combine them? Dunking sweetened the cake (for these were the old-fashioned cake donuts, and not the lighter, sugar glazed 'raised' variety) and simultaneously cooled the beverage as it permeated the dough.

"I see," he remarked, "that we have this is common."

"What?" mumbled Lester, his mouth full of soggy donut.

"Dunking. Did your mother try to discourage it? Mine always said it was a vulgar affectation. I could never get her to appreciate the pleasure of it."

"No," said Lester, picking up another one. "My whole family dunks. Even Gerrold." As he said the name, a shadow seemed to pass over his face. But the donut soon fixed that.

"Who's that? Your father?"

"No," said Lester, regarding the half-eaten donut pensively before adding, "He's my stepfather. My Dad was killed by Texas men."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Jeffrey, recalling his own sense of vicarious violation when he had seen Brutus's men savaging the farmer and his family. He felt soiled, stained by it, even though the only surviving witnesses were the perpetrators and himself. "War always involves killing. But they're only supposed to attack the other soldiers, not harmless farmers."

"Not all farmers are harmless," Lester pointed out. "Mine certainly wasn't, when he saw his crops burning. If they hadn't used their crossbows, his pitchfork would have gotten at least one of them."

Jeffrey picked up the last donut and broke it in half. "It's wrong to waste food like that," he said, handing Lester half of it. "But you know how it is. Armies burn what they can't take with them, to deny food to opposing armies. It's a double curse. First killing, then famine. I hate it myself. But it's even worse when commanders let them murder and rape civilians."

"I'm glad we agree on that," said Lester. "I could tell you and Brutus were not made from the same mold. Apparently you don't agree on everything."

"How could you know that?" _After what you saw, probably years ago in the last war, I wouldn't blame you for thinking all Texas men were animals._

"From your argument with him in the cell, back in Rado," Lester said. "I was listening in the corner, invisible. Back then, it was the only magic I knew." He dunked his piece and finished it, then picked up the cup.

_Back then?_ "So I was right in thinking you learned how to make a swizzle here in prison? Without a wizard showing you? How did you do that?"

Lester sipped his cocoa. "It's complicated," he said, eventually. "Considering how your Church feels about it, It'd be a bad idea for you to know too much of what they call "demonic lore."

"Well, it's still impressive that you were able to do it."

"Not the word your Pope would use, I'd imagine."

Jeffrey grimaced. "He's not _my_ pope. Don't you have churches in Rado?"

"Sure," said Lester. "Every village has one. In fact, that's the old definition of the word 'village' – a community big enough to have its own church. Places smaller than that are called 'hamlets'. But ours don't listen to the Pope."

"Well, neither do I," said Jeffrey. "Dad and I argue about that. He says the TCC helps us to control the people. I say it's a bad idea to be in bed with superstition-mongers."

Lester leaned back on his cot. "There's another thing we agree on," he said. "I haven't been to church since my father died."

Jeffrey was surprised by this. He thought people raised to be religious generally stayed that way. "Why not? You said your churches have nothing to do with Texas."

"I guess I got tired of the old 'God watches over us' line. After what happened to Dad, it got clear to me real fast that even if God does watch, He sure doesn't reach into our world to help much. He might make it rain, for all I know, but he doesn't provide umbrellas. He doesn't stop arrows or armies. We have what you might call 'irreconcilable differences' on the value of human life." He stared at the floor. "I couldn't watch cruelty and no do anything about it. But He can...if he exists."

When he looked up again, Jeffrey avoided his eyes as a pang of guilt made him close his own for a second. I couldn't save them by myself, he told himself. _You didn't even try!_ I know, but it wouldn't have accomplished anything.

He opened his eyes and look at Lester, who was watching him. "My father values Brutus as a field commander," he said. "I tried to bring him up on charges," but my father won't let that happen."

"Don't worry about it," said Lester. "When the time comes, I'll take care of him for you."

Jeffrey didn't have to ask what he meant. "But you weren't even there!"

"I was, ten years ago," Lester told him. "When he killed my father."

## Chapter 58

### Enrique "In ignorance and in knowledge"

His meeting room was brightly lit, by candles, so many that individual flickers from random air currents could not noticeably diminish the illumination. Despite this, His Holiness could feel darkness closing in. The Devil never gave up trying to snuff out the light of the world. _But he will not succeed, Lord, for I am here to be Thy servant._

"I'm sure you were surprised at my summons," he told his guest. "Does anyone know you came here?"

"No," she said. "I sometimes leave the house on errands. I'm sure nobody wondered where I was going or followed me. But I was surprised when Father Dominic slipped the note into my hand during communion. Why now? Have I done something wrong?"

Instead of answering immediately, he poured wine for both of them. "Not at all," he told her, handing her the goblet. "You've done quite well. There does not appear to be the slightest suspicion that your insertion into their household was deliberate." He sipped the wine. "As a domestic, your position allows you to be near the ruling family without attracting attention. And now it is time to use your unique access to help the Church."

She downed her wine. "How can I help, your Holiness?"

"The Honcho has a prisoner that needs to be turned over to God's justice," he informed her. "We have made it clear to His Excellency that it would be in his interests to do so, but has begun to drag his feet. He hasn't actually refused to hand him over, but We get the distinct impression that he is artfully stalling. We need you to find out why this is so."

For the first time she appeared troubled. "I can't exactly ask him why, Holiness. What sort of incentive have you offered him? If I knew that I might have a better chance of learning from what I overhear whether he has decided to go elsewhere for it."

He considered his answer, taking another sip to buy himself a moment. "Sometimes," he said, "We find ourselves reined in, Our freedom to act hindered by the decisions of Our predecessors. It is what has happened in this case." He met her gaze. "It has to do with the papal ban on the use of the Gifts of the Tourists."

"I don't understand," she said. "What does that have to do with a prisoner transfer?"

"While it is true," he said, "that reliance on the Gifts caused the fall of the civilization of the Ancients, it may have been...a bit of an exaggeration for Our predecessors to label them _demonic_ and prohibit their use on theological grounds." He finished his goblet. "Certainly it would be a mistake in the long term to place too much reliance on things that will eventually fail. But in the short term, the Honcho needs to use some of them to help the Army become more effective against his enemies. To that end, he requested that We make available to him some of the confiscated Gifts."

She absorbed that. "And even though you agreed, he hasn't turned over his prisoner?"

"I'm afraid not. Can you keep your ears open, Esmeralda, and learn if he, as you so aptly suggested, has some alternate source?"

"Certainly, Holiness."

## Chapter 59

### Xander: "Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think"

Xander was doing push ups when Kristana arrived. Daniels was watching with a disgruntled look. It was clear the doctor thought he was about to lose an argument.

"What do you think you're doing?" the Governor demanded.

Xander did a few more push ups before stopping. "I could state the obvious and say I am doing push ups," he said. "But hopefully you've spotted that. Since you just got here, I'll be more forthcoming and say I'm proving a point." He stood up and pointed to his chest.

His chest was bare, so it was easy to see that the scabs had fallen off. The skin near the site of his injury was still reddened, but the wound had closed. More to the point, his vigorous exercise involving pectoral muscles had not torn it open again.

"Yes, I'll concede that your wound is closed," said Daniels. "I would hesitate to say that constitutes a full recovery, but it's clear you can do some physical things without reopening it and risking a relapse."

"In other words," said Xander, "you have to let me go try to help Lester now." He turned to Kristana. "Call off your dogs. I can pee by myself now, and I've got to rescue my apprentice, if he's still alive, that is."

"Oh, he's alive all right," said the Governor. But she didn't look happy about it.

Xander threw his tunic back on. "Needless to say, I am pleased to be informed of this," he said. "But how can you be so sure?" _And why aren't you happy about it?_

"We have spies close to the Honcho," She nodded to Daniels. "Thank you, Doctor," she said. "I see you're reluctantly agreeing that he's fit to travel. In that case, we won't keep you from your other patients."

Daniels took the hint and left. "I'm sure you'll be back and bleeding in no time," he grumbled, before the door closed behind him.

Xander waited a few moments after it was shut. "There's something you're not telling me," he guessed. "Or that you don't want everyone else to know. What is it?"

"You remember those Ancient war machines he found under Abilene?" she asked.

"Yes. As I recall, we worked out that his only problem was coming up with fuel for them. It's been a long time since he or anyone else has found a storage tank that wasn't drained dry after the Fall. Has he found one?"

"No. But it's become clear his people developed a plan for making some, using his remaining oil wells for raw material. The only way he could do that is to re-engineer a refinery, and his fastest route to get there is to use swizzles to pump it out and everflames to supply the heat."

"Wouldn't that be difficult for him? I thought the Church banned them as 'demonic'. Besides, I don't see what his logistics problems have to do with my rescuing Lester."

"They're connected," she told him. "The word is, he was going to trade your apprentice to the Church for some of their confiscated artifacts. He'd get his fuel and they'd get to hold a public execution."

"All the more reason why I have to get him out of there." he glanced around the room. "Where are you keeping my staff these days? Is it still up on the roof?"

"The situation has changed," she told him. "He might not be handing Lester over right away. In fact, he might try to hang onto him permanently."

He sat down on the cot. "Are you ready to tell me yet?" he asked. "It's obvious you're building up to something I won't like."

She took a breath, "Lester's learned how to make swizzles. That bought him some time. If he can manage to make everflames too, the Honcho won't have to trade him for them."

"Good for him!" Then he thought some more. "And bad for us. The Honcho might still get rid of him, eventually, but in the meantime he'll get what he needs to roll out his armored division." He stood. "I need to get going."

"It will be very bad if the Honcho gets the fuel he needs."

He just looked at her. "What are you saying?"

"Don't leave anything behind the Honcho can use against us," she said. "If you can't rescue him, you'll have to eliminate him."

He stared. "You can't be serious," he said, eventually. "He's the best apprentice I've found in years! I've never had one who figured out how to make swizzles all by himself."

Her eyes were sad but determined. "All the more reason why we can't let the Honcho keep him. The more valuable he is to them, the more dangerous he is to us."

"No. I won't do that. There has to be a better way."

"Then find one. Get out of their clutches, one way or another, Before they get what they need Because if you can't end this," she said, "I have operative in Dallas who will."

## Chapter 60

### Peter: "for only the wind will listen"

The visit of His Holiness was as disruptive as it was unexpected. It took slightly a minute for the news of his arrival to travel from spotters on the roof the building down to the Honcho. You could think of it as a wave phenomenon that converted from radiant to visual in put, and from visual input into a memory traveling in a body. The messenger body had to go down two flights of stairs and knock on the door of his office. "Yes?"

"His Holiness's coach is pulling up in front of the building, sir!"

The Honcho mentally said a rude word. "Thank you." He turned to Jeffrey. "Show him into the study when he gets here. If I'm not there I'll be right out."

"What do I tell him?"

"Nothing of importance. Say as much as you can without saying anything at all." While his son digested that, Peter strode into another room and arranged for some chilled wine and tried to think. What could this surprise visit portend? For the pope to be this determined to see him, to show up unannounced, it had to be either to ask a big favor or to deliver some sort of ultimatum.

He could think of no favor the pope needed from him at the moment. It would be nice if he could, but the more he thought about it, the more it looked like the pope was tired of waiting for the prisoner transfer and had decided to exert some leverage.

The question was, what leverage did he think he had and how could it be nullified? He did not have time to dance with the Church at the moment, and if their captive apprentice Lester managed to learn how to make everflames any time soon then he would be too valuable to waste on a public execution.

By the time he stepped into the study he had his game face on. He nodded to the papal bodyguards on his way into the chamber. "Holiness, this is an unexpected pleasure. I do hope you were not fatigued by the climb. My advisers keep asking me to move to a shorter building but I always tell them anyone who invades here will be exhausted by the time they reach my command level. But forgive me, you must be parched, Would you like some wine?"

Enrique sat on one of the chairs next to the desk. "Do you have some? We had thought you were more partial to your whiskey, Excellency."

Peter moved to the side table and located a bottle of Alaris and poured two glasses of the purple. "Ah,well, you know we Texas men do like our firewater. But I thought perhaps you might want to go easy on it here in the depths of secular depravity that we call government." He crossed the room and handed a glass to the Pope.

"I'll try not to notice the spiritual dangers all around me," Enrique said, smiling, as he sipped the wine. "This is a rather nice one. It is simply amazing sometimes how much something can increase in value just sitting."

"Well on this imperfect world value is usually a relative thing, Holiness. Many things do not improve with age, but wine is fortunately one of them."

I can see your heir is another," said Enrique, nodding to Jeffrey. "While I waited for you, he was just telling me of his recent escape from the savages of Rado."

"Oh, hardly savages, Holiness," Jeffrey protested. "They have language and horses."

"So did the Huns," the Pontiff replied. "But they are gone while we remain."

"Sure, Holiness, there is more to measure a civilization by than mere survival," the Honcho said. "Any socially coherent group of humans that still exists _survived_ the Fall of civilization. But some have lost more than others. For example, the Church, which Texas has and Rado does not. We have not lost _all_ of the ways of the Ancients."

"But Rado does have churches," Jeffrey objected. "I passed some on the way out."

"I am sure," said His Holiness, "that they are considered houses of worship. But they are not part of the Church, and neither are their congregations...although they will be someday. It is a little like saying that people still use silverware just because they eat with their knives."

"They have forks, too," said Jeffrey. "But probably most don't have silver ones."

"Still," said the Pope, "it is a relief that you escaped. There are not times for the security of government – the succession of leadership – to be in question."

"An ironic statement, Holiness, considering the recent transition in your TCC that brought you to power," said Jeffrey. "Isn't everything temporary in an imperfect world?"

"Not at all," said Enrique smiling. "The cases are different for two reasons. We deal in matters that are eternal, not temporal. First, the Church does not concern itself with the defense of the Empire, so a change in Popes poses no threat to anyone's life."

_Except to the previous Pope's life_ , Peter thought. "I hope not," he said.

"Secondly, the Church has had procedures in place for two thousand years to cover this sort of thing. It need not reinvent itself with each change in leadership, as governments often do in times of war or revolution. We have no declarations or manifestos. Life goes on."

"Policies change, but I take your point," said the Honcho. "The Lone Star Empire has been stable now for a hundred years. Sometimes we have to fight a war or two to prevent greater instability, but we remain, as you said."

"Indeed," said His Holiness. "We are concerned, actually, with the war you are currently contemplating. It was Our understanding that you needed certain resources for that effort, and that we could provide them. But you have yet to arrange for the resolution of that."

Jeffrey was trying not to scowl. Although he applauded the effort, Peter wished his son were more successful in concealing his reactions. It was clear he was not happy about the suggestion that they'd end up trading Lester for the Gifts.

"You are right, of course," said Peter. "Be assured, Holiness, I haven't forgotten. There are, however, many details to attend to and so things always take longer than expected, especially with government."

Enrique sipped his wine. "Much longer," he said. "I do hope you understand, Excellency, that while We do have some control within the Church proper, Our influence in the population at large is less potent. Surely you must know that word of your magician prisoner has leaked out by now. There may be an outcry for his execution. There is only so much the Church can do to restrain the passions of your citizenry."

"Particularly when you preach that aliens are demons and magicians are evil," said Jeffrey.

_He should be more silent_ , thought Peter. But the point, he felt, was valid. Clearly it was in the Church's interest to stir up anger against all manifestations of Tourist technology. It gave them a visible focus for their warnings. And here was the Pope claiming that the Church was only concerned with eternal matters!

"The harm they wrought upon the Earth is undeniable," said Enrique.

"The Fall of civilization hurt a lot of people," said Peter. "What is not at all clear is whether it was deliberately caused. Certainly we could have avoided it by declining the Gifts and maintaining our own technology without them."

"But we accepted them, to our ruin," said the Pope. "The people who understand what happened will not look kindly on humans who aspire to be like the Tourists."

"Surely you don't think the people of Dallas will storm the prison and attempt a lynching?" Peter asked him. _You really want to go down that road, Ricky?_

"One would hope not, your Excellency. But it is possible, We suppose."

"Everything is possible," said the Honcho. "But we only worry about the things that are probable. Were the people to do such a thing, it is _probable_ that many of them would have to be killed to stop them. I'm sure we both agree that would be regrettable."

"Quite," said His Holiness. "Regrettable...but perhaps not necessary. You could do much to prevent such unrest by merely setting a date for the trial and execution. Such a gesture might, We hope, consign such problems to the realm of improbability."

"An interesting idea, Holiness," said the Honcho. "We shall take it under advisement. Forgive me for changing the subject, but have you made any progress on catching the assassin?"

"The who?"

"Holiness, we both know Rodrigo's death was not an accident. It is the opinion of my experts that he was killed with a swizzle. No need to point out how...explosive...such a revelation might be for the Church. Imagine how insecure your flock might feel, knowing that killers are among them with silent weapons."

"It only underscores how inappropriate it is for humans to have such things."

"All humans, Holiness? Or only certain humans?"

"What do you mean, Excellency?"

"Well, a crossbow is not the work of demons, surely, but it is just as deadly at close range. But we can't very well go about confiscating all weapons. The defense of Texas depends on having weapons, so we must accept the necessity of people having them."

"I do not see the parallel," said the pontiff. "It is impossible to prevent humans from making human-made weapons. Alien weapons, however, fall into a different category altogether. Since they cannot be made, they are limited and can be removed without anyone making more."

"Yes, Holiness, but do you see the danger of that? If the Church confiscates swizzles because they might be used as weapons, then it soon finds itself sitting on a weapons cache. How long do you suppose it might be before the temptation's greater than some of your flock can withstand? Hoarding such temptations places your own leadership into a situation of temptation."

"Perhaps," said the pontiff, "But at least they are controlled by people experienced in resisting temptation. Can you say the same for your army?"

"I'm not proposing to arm my soldiers with swizzles," the Honcho said. "As you yourself said, there are only so many of them, and we can't make more. We are left, however, with the disturbing image of secret TCC operatives skulking about with them. I would wager you have removed the privacy screens from your audience chambers."

"Yes," said Enrique. "And We are sure that we shall apprehend anyone who misuses Church property. But we are focusing too much on swizzles. You need both swizzles and everflames to distill your fuel, as we recall."

"True," said Peter. "But until we have the oil out of the ground we don't need everflames."

"But you will, Peter" said Enrique, rising to leave. "I hope you'll keep what I said earlier in mind."

"Oh I assure you, I will, Ricky."

## Chapter 61

### Xander: "the third who always walks beside you"

Everyone was surprised when the priest stood up except Xander. From the reactions of the crowd, it was atypical behavior.

"Early bedtime, Father?" The bartender summarized the surprise in the room.

The priest was shaking his head as he pulled on his coat. "Not for me, but early departure all the same, Fred. Duty calls."

He pushed open the front door and began walking up the street. He did not notice the men in uniform until they blocked his path. He gazed curiously at the red-and-blue uniforms that had suddenly become such an impassible obstacle. Their appearance seemed incomprehensible to him, which was probably why he showed no fear. "Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?"

Their leader grinned at him. "I believe you can, Father Andrews. Is it true, as I'm told, that you are the caretaker at St. Farker's?"

Andrews raised his eyebrows at this. "Indeed, such is the case. Why do you ask?"

"I have heard," said the officer, "that he died a cruel and unusual death."

"It is generally conceded to be in the very nature of Saints that they tend to die cruel deaths," said Father Andrews.

"Forgive me, Father, but I am not Church-going man. Could you refresh my memory as to the manner of his unfortunate demise?"

"I'm surprised you don't ask, instead, why he was canonized at all. It was quite a controversy, at the time."

"Long before my time," the officer said. "So I know little of it save the rumors which have reached my ears. Why was it a controversy?"

"Sometimes," said Andrews, the death of a Saint is a clear-cut thing. For example, if someone is killed for defying the enemies of the Church, and thus dies for Christ, they are an obvious candidate for sainthood. Likewise, if they are known for having done many good works during their life, such as ministering to lepers or feeding the poor."

The officer leaned against a lamp pole. Clearly this was not going to be a brief disquisition.

"Farker did not fall into such a neat category," said Father Andrews. "He was murdered, and of course had been known to have done good works, of course."

"So why was it such a problem to admit him to the Saint club?"

"The reason he was killed," said Andrews, "was because he had a collection of artifacts deemed sinful by the Church. Word got out to the public about it, and a mob closed in on his chapel and killed him with his own horde."

"So it's true he was sucked and roasted?"

"Yes. Farker was exsanguinated with a swizzle and his corpse then burned with the fire from an everflame." Andrews grimaced. "We can only pray he did not suffer long."

Something changed in the officer's expression. In a second it had switched from solicitous to a more businesslike mode. "So tell me, Father, what happened to the means of his execution? Since all you have of poor Farker himself is a piled of ashes and a few bits of bone, have you kept the swizzle and everflame among the relics, to display to visitors of St. Farker's?"

Andrews got a guarded look then. "Yes," he admitted. "but they are kept locked in glass cases to avoid tempting the weak. Although the Church deplores his murder and wishes to revere the memory of the good things he did, the _artifacts_ are also part of his memory, to remind the faithful how dangerous these alien toys are...and to warn them not to collect them as he did."

"Quite right, Father. But are you sure it's safe to leave them in a shrine? Despite the Papal ban, there are people who value such items. They could be stolen by men desperate for money."

"They are secured behind many locks," said the priest. "And the inner part of the shrine was once a bank vault. Without the combination, or safe-cracking tools of the Ancients, such as powerful explosives and power drills, it would be difficult for anyone to get in there before their attempt was noticed."

The officer let go of the lamp pole and straightened. The street lamp's, fuel repository had been recently refilled. In the dark of the evening, its light shone upon his confident expression as he regarded the priest. "How many people know the combination, father? Only one would risk loosing it to accidental death. But to have too many clergy know it would be a risk of a different kind."

"There are always three of us," said Andrews. "We act as guardians in rotation."

"Is that why you left the bar early tonight, Father? Is it your turn to stand watch?"

Andrews lowered his eyebrows in puzzlement. "Yes. But why do you care? I've been tending St. Farker's for thirty years, and no non-pilgrim has ever bothered to ask me these things before."

The officer glanced at his men. "These are dangerous times, Father. Perhaps we should escort you to your vigil, to make sure no one waylays you."

"I hardly think that's necessary," said Andrews.

"Oh, I think it is," said the officer. "In fact, maybe you ought to let us in when we get there, to make sure nothing's missing."

Wrapped in shadow, Xander heard all of this in silence. It sounded like the Honcho had heard of these 'relics' and if so his interest in them was predictable. _To remove all the blood from a man and to burn up his body, the relics must be in good condition,_ he thought. Can't do that with a weak swizzle or a feeble everflame.

"I presume that's an official request," said the priest. "Are you aware that in the old days you would have required a search warrant from a judge to intrude upon private property?"

"Sounds like lawless times to me," said the officer. "How could they possibly solve crimes if they had to ask permission to look at evidence?"

"It had something to do with unreasonable search and seizure," said Andrews. "Haven't you ever heard of the Constitution?"

The officer smiled and shook his head. "Haven't you heard of recent events? Say, the last two hundred years? This ain't the United States, Father. The Lone Star Empire believes in rights, too – up to a point. And that point happens to be where the rights of the individual conflict with the needs of Government."

"That was the whole point of search warrants," the priest told him. "A judge had to be convinced that the needs of law enforcement overrode personal privacy."

There were men behind him as well as in front of him now. The group began to walk, escorting him to St. Farker's. "Rest assured, Father, this is one of those situations. Right now, Texas needs your relics more than you do. Your pilgrims will have to make do with the candles and paintings and whatnot for the immediate future."

Xander waited until the sound of their footsteps grew faint before unweaving the pathspace and peeking out of the doorway he had been skulking in. Would the priest let them in without a fight? He did not look to be much of a fighter, and there were five of them.

At length they stood before the First National shrine of Saint Farker. "Gentlemen," said Andrews, "let me make myself clear. Since, as you point out, we are no longer in the United States, I concede that you have the authority to enter this building whether I wish it or not." He produced a key ring from a pocket and began to unlock the front door. "Furthermore, if fugitives from justice were hiding inside, I could not object to your breaking the door down, if for some reason I did not have the requisite keys." He proceeded to the second lock, selecting another key from the ring, letting the first dangle back with the rest.

"And we appreciate your good citizenship," the officer said with a straight face.

Andrews unlocked the third lock and swing the door open. "Since this is a shrine and not a temple, there is not even the traditional right of sanctuary I could offer to any fugitive inside. However, " he continued, "since you can see for yourselves that there is no one here..."

The officer looked around and focused on the vault door at the back. "There could be someone hiding in the vault itself," he pointed out.

"Hardly. It's airtight and small. Were someone to lock himself in there overnight to elude the law, he would be risking suffocation."

"What's the combination?"

Andrew just looked at him. "The relics inside that vault," he said, "are not mine to give away. They belong to the Church...and so does the combination."

The officer glanced at one of his men, who lifted a loaded crossbow. "I really must require you to open the vault, Father."

"If you shoot me, how are you going to get it open?"

"Let me put it this way," said the officer. "For you to open it, you will need the use of at least _one_ eye and _one_ hand. The rest of you is surplus to requirements. How much would you like to lose before you cooperate?"

Andrews closed his eyes, then opened them. "We're in the shrine of a Saint. What makes you think I'll cooperate at _all?_ "

The officer sighed. "I don't want to hurt you, Father, but I have my orders. If for any reason you're stubborn enough to become a martyr, we'll just wait for the others who know the combination to show up. If your own life doesn't mean much to you, are you willing to sacrifice theirs too?"

Andrews drew himself up and faced the man. "Everyone has to make their own choices," he said.

The officer shook his head. He turned to his men. "Start with a leg," he said.

Two of them seized the priest and shoved him down on a chair. Another stepped forward with a length of pipe in one hand and lifted it.

Andrews closed his eyes.

There was an ugly sound of a hard object striking a body, but no pain. Surprised, the priest's eyes snapped open in time to see the man in front of him drop the pipe and keel over. Something whipped around in the corner of his eye. The man with the crossbow tried to aim it at a gray-clad stranger with a staff, but the staff was already in motion. Thwack!

The two holding him let go abruptly and surged forward. The next few seconds were full of complicated movement, at the end of which the only men standing in the room were the stranger with the staff and the officer. He looked at the crossbow on the floor.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," said Xander.

The officer thought better of it and backed up to the door. "This isn't over," he said.

"I know," said Xander. "Give my regards to Brutus."

The officer dashed out for reinforcements. Xander watched him go to make sure he did, then turned back to the priest. "If you really want to protect those relics," he said, "you'd better get them out of the vault and come with me."

"How do I know you're not after them yourself?" Andrews asked him.

The wizard thought about it. "You're right," he said. "There's a better way." He strode up to the vault door and closed his eyes.

The dial on the door began to move. After several moments it reversed direction. After it did this several times, Xander pulled the door open.

The priest's eyes were wide. "How did you do that?"

Instead of answering, Xander stepped into the vault and after a few seconds, emerged carrying a short length of pipe and a metal disk. There was dried blood on both ends of the pipe and a hissing came from it.

He regarded the objects and set them on a table. He stroked the edge of the disk, and a dazzling blue-white dot appeared above it. The air above it rippled, and some loose scraps of paper on the table blew toward it and were sucked up into the brightness to vanish as puffs of flame.

"I'm not after your relics," he said, "because I can make my own. I can also un-make them."

Xander stretched out a hand and held it over the pipe and the disk. After a few seconds the hissing from the pipe died, and the hot spot over the disk vanished.

"There," he said. "You don't have to protect them anymore. But you're still in danger. Unless you want to suffer for no reason at all, you'd better come with me."

## Chapter 62

### Jeffrey: "no longer wings to fly"

The Honcho was lifting a forkful of sausage when his son burst in. "He's in the city!" said Jeffrey. "He's not dead."

Peter patted his lips with a napkin. "Who?"

"The wizard. Did you send your men to St. Farker's?"

His father frowned. "What are you talking about?"

The Runt took a breath and let it out slowly. "Some of your men decided to impress you. It turns out there was a shrine with a swizzle and an everflame in it. They accosted one of the priests caretakers to get him to hand 'em over, but the wizard showed up and interfered. The officer in charge ran off and got reinforcements, but when he got back to the shrine the priest was gone."

"I see. And he took the artifacts with him?"

"No, that's the puzzling thing. The soldiers waited for another priest to show up, then talked him into opening the shrine. Everything was still there, but nothing we could use. Looks like the artifacts lost their magic a long time ago. They're inert."

Peter swore. "Get over to the prison and have them reinforce the guards. If he sees it's impossible to get in and break his apprentice out, even if he's invisible, maybe he'll go back to Rado."

As Jeffrey turned to leave his father said "Wait! One more thing."

He turned. The Honcho tossed him a silver Texas dollar.

"See if he can make an everflame out of that. Don't give it to him until you collect any swizzles he has with him. Wouldn't want him to use it as ammo. And let him know time is running out."

"Right," said Jeffrey. He dashed out the door and raced off.

By the time he got to he Prison, he realized his father hadn't seemed all that surprised. Was that just self-control, or had he known about the attempted seizure? Perhaps, but he couldn't have known about the wizard. Those men hadn't wanted to advertise their failure. They'd waited at the shrine until another caretaker showed up at eight in the morning, hoping to report success.

Jeffrey roused the guards and had them physically block the doorway. He set another group of guards behind the first with loaded crossbows. Then he went to visit Lester.

The apprentice wasn't surprised to see him. "I made another one," he said, and tossed a short length of pipe to Jeffrey. It hissed faintly.

"That's good," said Jeffrey," and tossed him the silver dollar.

Lester caught it. "Gee, thanks, but I've got nothing to spend this on, in here."

"Very funny. Can you make it into an everflame?"

"I don't know."

"Well, try. The more you can do, the more valuable you are to my father. It keeps him from handing you over to the Church."

"Does it?" Lester turned the coin over in his hands. "I'd have thought keeping me alive would cause friction with them. Why would the Honcho want that?"

"Relations with them are getting tenser. They want you bad enough to have offered him some artifacts in exchange for you. But if you can learn to make 'em, he can keep you off their bonfire."

Lester looked at the coin again. "I don't know how to make an everflame," he said.

"You didn't know how to make a swizzle, either, until you tried," Jeffrey pointed out. "What have you got to lose? I'll bring you another pipe soon. You need to learn how to make the swizzles stronger, too."

"What does he want the swizzles for?"

"Wells. From what they tell me, a weak swizzle won't pull from a deep well. Something about the weight of the fluid column opposing the suction."

Lester registered puzzlement. "Don't you have hand pumps in Texas?"

"They have the same problem. There's only so much you can do with a hand pump."

Lester regarded him silently for a moment. "Okay," he said. "But it's going to cost you some more donuts."

## Chapter 63

### Enrique: "forever relight the flame."

He went back into the car and closed the door. "Is everything in readiness?"

"Yes, Holiness."

"What are the numbers?"

"According to our intelligence, there are ten guards inside armed with swords and crossbows. We have 144 protesters armed with torches to assault the front and back doors and ten snipers armed with crossbows covering the exists."

"I suppose that will have to be considered adequate," said Enrique. _Even if he's invisible, he can't slip out a door past the crush of 72 people. If he comes out, we have him, and if he doesn't come out we go in and find him, or burn the prison down._ "Let's go."

At the center of the crowd, a man struck flint to steel. As soon as his torch was lit, those next to him reached in concentrically toward him with their torches, then the ones near them reached toward them. The fire spread out as a wave through the crowd. In less than a minute all of the torches were brining, and the crowd began to move.

His driver set the horses walking, and His Holiness followed the protesters at a discreet distance.

"Do you think there will be violence?" asked Cardinal Fuentes.

"That is entirely up to His Excellency," said Enrique. "He would prefer to prevail without resorting to violence, as would I. But since we cannot both prevail, I fear there will inevitably be violence."

"Then why are we doing this, Holiness?"

"We are _doing_ it for the violence."

"Holiness?"

"You have to think of the big picture, Ernesto. Either the protesters will prevail and the devil-worshiper will be handed over, or the protest will be crushed by government brutality, Either the Church will be more respected, or more empathized with. Either is a victory."

## Chapter 64

### Lester:"His soul stretched tight across the skies."

He was getting better at the transparency weave. At first he had been only able to make an object or a surface see-through. This sufficed to peer through the walls or ceiling to see the hallway or the sky, and he practiced it every day. But he needed more. It was not enough to be able to see whether a guard was coming – he wanted to see them farther away, not merely in the same corridor as his cell.

And so his practice had entered into a new phase. While he had been at the Governor's building in Denver he had read of telescopes, things that used carefully shaped pieces of glass to bend light and make distant objects appear larger. If he had one of those, now, he would have been able to make his cell walls transparent from his side and see things and people miles away.

Well, what of it? If the telescopes did what they did by bending light, by affecting the pathspace the photons traversed before reaching the observer's eye...then why couldn't he do the same thing _without_ glass lenses? When he thought about it, he decided that all he really needed to do was make the light rays diverge as they approached him.

His first attempt to do this did not succeed. After lunch, he made a transparent patch on the wall as before, warping the pathspace so that the light went _around_ the wall. To give himself added incentive, it was an outside wall, so that when the transparency appeared he was looking outside the prison. Once he had the pathspace configuration stabilized, he had a window to watch people walking by. The light came from outside, warped around the wall in other unseen dimensions, and reentered his space inside the cell.

Now for the magnification. Concentrating upon the space between him and the wall, he visualized a patch coming toward him, growing as it approached. As he concentrated on this, the view of a building across the street wavered and then grew distorted, as if it were painted on clay that had been stretched unevenly in several directions.

Frowning, he tried again, imagining a circle of light that came toward him from the wall and did nothing other than grow to a larger circle. After several passes, as if he were mentally combing invisible threads of pathspace into a symmetrical cone-shaped region fanning out toward him, he finally managed to improve the clarity of the image, until he was looking at an individual brick on the wall of the building across the street.. Better.

But when he tried to steer his seeing, and move his gaze to another brick, the image distorted again. Sighing, he wiped sweat from his forehead and tried again. After what may have been an hour or so, he found he could magnify the seeing to telescopic vision as long as he held the sight-line absolutely still. No matter how he tried, the image still distorted and broke up when he tried to move the sight line left or right to see something else.

He took a break to growl and release his frustrated tension. How convenient it would have been to just use one of the ancient telescopes instead of this! All the warping of pathspace accomplished by the lenses in a telescope, he imagined, would be stable no matter what direction you turned it, because the lenses would turn automatically with the scope. But he had no such advantage with his weaving. Without a material abject to anchor the weave on, such as the pipe of a swizzle or the disk of an everflame, he had to re-form the pathspace shaping every time he moved his eyes to look in another direction. _If I just had a length of pipe_ , he thought, _I could anchor the weave on it and have a woven telescope._

Motion out of the corner of his eye alerted him in time. The guard was strolling down the hallway. Lester canceled the weave and the "window" to the outside disappeared just before the guard glanced in through the barred window in the door.

Seeing the guard reminded him that he had other things to practice. He picked up the silver dollar and tried to imagine how to make it into an everflame. Xander had said that was done using something called _tonespace_ , but he hadn't explained what he meant.

The only context he could remember hearing the word 'tone' in before, other than referring to the way someone was speaking (as in, "don't use that tone with me") was in reference to musical tones. He could still remember the feeling of wonder that had possessed him when he had realized, for the first time, that different sized bells produced different musical notes. Like other boys in the village, he had played with empty ale bottles, blowing across their tops to make them resonate, and partially filling them with water to make them sound different notes.

None of this helped with making an everflame, however. As far as he knew, it had nothing to do with music. The one his mother cooked over back at Gerrold's inn never made a sound. But he tried anyway, imagining music in the space around the coin. Nothing happened.

A wave of mingled sadness and despair swept over him as he remembered that Xander was gone. _How can I hope to learn any of this without him?_

After indulging in that angst for a few moments, he growled at himself. _Get a hold of yourself, fool! Sadness never helped anybody._ If he, Lester, was all the Governor had now to help her defend Rado and start the school, then he would have to do. Somehow. And that meant he had to escape from this prison.

All right. He had a way to see through walls, and around corners if it came to that. He could make a swizzle on short notice, and make his supper tray levitate, but he didn't see how any of that was going to break him out of here.

He spent the rest of the afternoon until dinner trying to work out a plan, using what he knew how to do. What he finally came up with was risky but not, he was certain, as risky as remaining in the prison until the Honcho tired of waiting for everflames and decided to turn him over to the TCC.

After the guard had brought the dinner tray and departed with his lunch tray, Lester wove another window to the outside. He had no way of telling time in the cell, so he couldn't simply wait for darkness. He would have to watch for it.

While he waited, he thought about Xander. The wizard had not mentioned any mentors. The implication was that he had learned everything he knew on his own. That was encouraging, in a way, because it showed that it was possible to become a wizard by teaching yourself, without a more experienced practitioner to guide your training. On the other hand, it had taken him a long time, obviously, and it seemed likely that there was a lot he had never learned. If he knew the trick of telescopic seeing, he had never mentioned it to Lester.

Outside, the streets were darkening. There was still an orange-yellow glow reflecting off some of the buildings, but soon it would be dark enough for him to act, and then...

Wait a minute. That glow was to the East, not the West. Had he somehow slept through the entire night and it was morning? He couldn't believe it.

And then he saw the first people with torches come around a corner. There seemed to be a lot of them. He wondered where they were going. After he watched them for a couple of minutes, though, he knew, and felt like an idiot for not knowing it immediately.

They were coming for him. It was time to leave. He un-wove the "window", jumped off the bed and concentrated on the door lock. It was only the work of a few moments to get it open. Now what? His original plan had been to overcome the guard and slip out the front door. But from what he could see, both exists were going to be packed with torch-holders. The original plan was out of the question now.

Lester strode up and down the hall, weaving temporary transparencies as before, but this time he was looking up through the ceiling. In a moment he stopped his pacing and contemplated the roof, imagining a huge smoke-ring of pathspace just above the spot he had selected, its suction end against the roof.

He covered his ears. If this worked, it would be quite loud.

## Chapter 65

### Peter: "Lying down in the melting snow."

Quintus squinted up at him from the depression in the floor where the listening post for the maglev rails from Shreveport and Jackson was situated. "No further messages from Dixie since the last time you asked," he said. "I've kept the listening rota up, but something or someone must be interfering with your operatives on the other end."

"Well, keep at it," the Honcho directed, knowing it was unnecessary but wanting to give some reply to the man. "Unless they've been caught, they ought to check in presently when their transmission window recurs."

He turned to the stairs and wondered if he should return to his roost above, or call it a day and head back to his estate by the lake. It had been a long day. Perhaps it would be better to leave off planning until he was rested. If the pasha of the Dixie Emirates had, in fact, penetrated the disguises of his agents, there was nothing he could do about it except select replacements and hope they had their worldly affairs in order.

A distant pounding reached him. Someone must be tearing down the staircase above him on a mission of urgency. Tiredly, he wondered absently what could be so important this late in the day. He couldn't imagine it was that crucial, whatever it was, and so instead of exerting himself to intercept the other he merely climbed to the street level and waited.

Jeffrey nearly fell down the last flight of stairs in his haste. "They're marching on the prison! I saw it when I went up to see if there was any news from the heliograph."

Peter had nearly forgotten about the backup messaging system, obsessed as he had been with the information coming in from the rail bangers. Both media used the long and short pauses of Samuel F. B. Morse. The value of his code was that anything that could be sensed at a distance could carry information by merely interrupting it rhythmically.

Visual line-of sight communication was a much older art. From ancient times tribes on many continents had used smoke and beacon fires to "sound" alarms of invasion. But fires were less articulate than hand operated mirrors. The Greeks had used polished shields to do their sun-signaling in 405 BC. The Roman emperor Tiberius was said to have used a heliograph to communicate with the mainland when he ruled his empire from the Isle of Capri in 35 AD. Napoleon's empire used a different optical telegraphy system devised by Claude Chappe consisting of semaphore towers with rotating arms to send information even on cloudy days.

The street outside the front doors of the building had fallen dark, but even at this hour messages could still be sent to the roof for a bit longer. Such signals could be sent also at night, of course, but torches and lamps were a poor substitute for the Sun, plus their fires had to be confined in all other directions lest the signal be overheard.

"Did you hear what I said? People with torches are converging on the prison."

That explained how he had spotted them so easily in the gloom of evening. "Sounds like Ricky's decided not to wait any longer," he said. "How far off are they?"

"Only a few blocks by now," said the Runt. "But I saw no signs of a ram. If we move quickly we ought to get there before they work up to bashing the doors down."

"How many has he got?"

"Looks like at least a hundred."

There was no time to call for the Imperial coach to be harnessed, so he sent Jeffrey to fetch some soldiers and a couple of horses for them. While he waited he thought about what they were getting into. _Is this a feint, to draw me out and sick the crowd on me? No, he'd never be that stupid. It would be civil war._ But he went to the armory and snatched a couple of crossbows for him and Jeffrey anyway, trying not to think about the obvious: one or more of those torch-bearers could be hiding a swizzle-gun.

## Chapter 66

### Xander: "our ignorance brings us nearer to death"

A mouse scurrying among the papers in the corner of the sanctuary woke him. Xander groaned and stretched, wondering what time it was. From the reddish light slanting in the window of the abandoned church he concluded it must be sunset.

Memory trickled back. After he had gotten Andrews away from the shrine of St. Farker's, the two of them had wandered through the streets randomly, on the theory that if they didn't know where they were going, then neither would the Honcho's men.

"I'm not complaining, mind you," the priest had said to him, "but how did you know I needed help, and why did you offer it? I gathered you're not Catholic."

Stepping over a dead rat, Xander had pondered the question. "I followed you out of pure curiosity, at first," he said. "But when the soldiers accosted you, I was curious. Why would the Honcho risk offending the Church? And then after I heard what they were after..."

"So I wasn't the only one who was puzzled by that. They've never shown the slightest interest in the shrine before."

"The situation has changed," Xander told him. "His Excellency and His Holiness were of like opinion until recently. Both were opposed to any use of the Gifts. Their reasons were different, of course; while the official Church policy is that the artifacts in question are demonic, the Honcho just wants to resurrect the technology we had _before_ such things came to this planet. But Martinez has decided to make an exception to his policy, for purely military reasons of expediency." Seeing uniforms ahead, he drew the priest into an alley with him. "All in all, his decisions are understandable, but what puzzles me is the inconsistency of the Pope. He has been confiscating swizzles and everflames for years, so why didn't _his_ men visit you at the shrine before the Honcho's?"

"Maybe because there was no need to confiscate our relics because the Church _already_ _had_ them. And the artifacts were not in use, after all." Andrews coughed. "Or perhaps we were not important enough to attract the Holy Father's attention."

"We need to get you off the streets," said Xander. "When the reinforcements arrive and can't find any working Gifts at the Shrine, they will assume you took them with you. Do you have any suggestions?"

Andrews shook his head. "Can't go to friends. They'd not thank me for bringing trouble to their doors. Anywhere I'm known to go, they'd be checking. But hold on a second," he continued, as if another thought occurred to him. "If the relics don't work anymore, maybe they'll give up and leave me alone."

Now it was Xander's turn to shake his head. "They won't believe it," he said. "As far as they know, no one can make a swizzle, let alone stop it from working. They'll assume you just switched fakes for the real ones."

"That's another thing," said the priest. "How did you do that? Make them stop working, I mean."

"That's a long story, Father," Xander had said. "It'll wait until we find you a sanctuary."

"A sanctuary?" Andrews snapped his finger. "Of course! Saint Christopher's! That's the ticket! We should go there."

Xander frowned. "Sounds like exactly the wrong idea, to me," he said. "Going to another church would be just as bad as going to friends of yours. It's another logical place for them to look for you."

"Not this one," said Andrews. "It was abandoned, during the Fall. As the cities died from failing infrastructure and they couldn't bring in enough food any more, congregations moved to the outer suburbs, closer to farms. Martinez's grandfather tried to reverse that trend in Dallas when he moved the capital here, but most of the old churches in the city proper are still abandoned. And St. Christopher's isn't that far from here."

When he learned that it wasn't that far from the prison, Xander had agreed. Looking back on it now, he wondered if he should have thought of someplace else. They'd managed to wedge the door shut again after breaking in, but still... the convenience of being close to the place of Lester's confinement was overbalanced, in his mind, by the chance that they could be spotted by soldiers going to or from the prison at every change of the watch.

He should never have let the priest draw him into a discussion of the apparent conflict between theology and technology, alien or otherwise. Andrews had held up his end of the conversation. The priest was nearly Xander's age, and he had apparently put his nose in some non-ecclesiastical books more than once during his service to the Church.

"From what I've read," he had confided, "there has often been an uneasy relationship between religion and science. It heated up long before the Tourists came, you know. Hundred of years before that, after people found dinosaur fossils and started carbon-dating things they found themselves opposed by clerics who insisted the Earth, and the entire Universe was created only a few thousand years ago."

Xander knew all about this. "I've heard that someone added up the lifetimes stated in the Bible and arrived at a figure of 4004 BC. Later it was adjusted a few thousand years farther back. It's remarkable that they persisted in this assertion in the face of the evidence coming from the radiocarbon dating."

The priest smiled sadly. "I think of it as a turf war, myself," he said. "Both the Church and the scientists were basing their views on unseen forces and events. There were many who felt dismay that the new dogma of Science, with its machines and mathematics that said nothing about how human beings should live, was displacing the old values that had held society together for thousands of years."

"Held it together by saying too _much_ about how humans should live," Xander retorted. "The problem with rule-based societies is that the number of rules tends to grow over time. And then when you add in the idea that even _thinking_ about breaking a rule is, itself a sin, and just as bad as committing the act, well, you soon arrive at a place where a lot of folks wonder if it might not be more expedient to chuck the whole structure, rather than walk around feeling guilty all the time."

Andrews nodded. "And yet," he said, "humans _need_ structure. Our taboos, some would say, make the difference between a society and a jungle. I believe God wants us to live in peace, but I don't think everyone would refrain from violence if there were no structure in place to punish gratuitous mayhem."

"I can't argue with that," said Xander, thinking about Brutus and the farmer's family. "But I have a problem with making the ultimate authority an invisible man in the sky that no one can argue with. Secular governments do as good a job, and without the sense of helpless despair people get from thinking that God wants everything to stay the same...that they have to be virtual slaves of the rich in order to get into Heaven."

"It is difficult, sometimes to be content with one's lot," Andres agreed. "I admit that sometimes I've gone through periods when I thought the Hindu system of reincarnation was more intellectually palatable. In their belief system, everyone gets a turn at being rich and poor, eventually. But then again, there is the depressing feeling that you'll just end up doing things over and over again, with no end in sight. No redemption. No salvation."

"The Tourists didn't bring us salvation, that much is certain. Just a different kind of technology. Instead of railing against it, as the Creationists did against carbon dating, we ought to be learning how to make it work for us," said Xander.

"And you've learned how to do that?"

"In some ways. To the uneducated, I'm a wizard. I prefer the term 'psionic engineer' but it might be a while before it catches on, if ever. I haven't made a pact with the Devil to do it, and I firmly believe that we can make the new technology work along with the old to rebuild civilization." He'd gone on to explain his dream of establishing the school.

"I can see the value of it," Andrews told him. "But I think you might be underestimating the difficulties entailed in such an enterprise. Even if you manage to find suitable candidates, funding, and supplies, there is a never-ending horde on this planet that blames the Tourists and their Gifts for the current state of affairs. In the light of two hundred years of aftermath from the previous techno-magical performance, they will hardly be sympathetic to the idea of encouraging an encore."

Xander, having ventured out in the early morning's light to seek provender, was using a brass offering plate that had seen better days to cook them both a breakfast (or actually a second dinner since they had not slept yet) over an improvised everflame. If the Church considered him an evil person who trafficked with demons, then he had been doing a thorough job of it. In lieu of money, the butcher he had located had traded him a pound of bacon and a few other necessities in exchange for for converting one of the smaller rooms in his house into a walk-in coldbox.

"What you're forgetting," he said, "is that the Fall wasn't caused by _working_ of the alien technology, but by its eventual _failing_ after the Tourists left – because of our lack of the very sort of experts my School will provide."

Andrews was shoving a couple of pews together to form a makeshift bed. "What I don't understand," he said after a few moments of grunting, "is why that happened. Couldn't we have learned how to maintain the artifacts they made for us, and avoided the Fall entirely?"

"No," Xander had said, turning the bacon over with a stick. "There wasn't anyone who could learn how, back then."

"Which leads to my next question. Why are there such people now? What has changed in the last two centuries, that you (and hopefully others) can actually do what the aliens did?"

"That," Xander had said, "is the sort of thing that will keep Church officials awake at night. They probably see it as some kind of sign of the approach of the End Times. I could lie to you and say I have no idea. The truth is, I believe that long term exposure to the Gifts has sensitized some individuals to the influences needed to work the magic. Whether this would work for anyone raised in constant proximity to swizzles and everflames or coldboxes, or whether there is some genetic predisposition to the susceptibility, I do not know."

"How did you happen to fall into this?" asked Andrews. "Was your father a wizard – sorry, 'parascience technician', or are you the first in your family to discover this about yourself, that you could learn the alien magic?"

Xander finished cooking the bacon before he answered. He dished it out on two colder offering plates and passed one to Andrews, then stroked the side of the aluminum coaster until the point of brilliance faded away above it. While they waited for the bacon to cool, he spoke. "I was raised in a commune up north, back before they changed the name of the place to the People's Republic of Wyoming. Don't look at me that way, Father. My people weren't revolutionary firebrands. I didn't even know what a communalist was back then. They were descended from a few families of survivalists who moved away from the big cities early on when things began to fall apart."

He poked at his bacon to test the temperature. "The adults farmed and hunted. The kids had simpler chores until they were big enough to do stuff like that."

He paused, remembering. "The winters up there can be fierce. We used to spend the winters below ground in an old fallout shelter. We probably would have frozen to death if our commune hadn't had a couple of working everflames. One of my jobs was gathering snow to throw in the metal tub suspended over one of them. We never turned that one off all winter, so the snow melted into water that boiled and the steam spread the warmth throughout the shelter."

Here Andrews couldn't help interrupting. "Why boil the snow? Wouldn't the everflame have worked as well by itself as a fireplace? Even better, actually, since there'd be no smoke to worry about."

"A fair question. It probably would have, if we had turned it high enough. But with Gifts breaking down all over the world, the founders were afraid that running it full-out all the time might make it break down sooner, maybe in the middle of a blizzard." He checked his bacon again. "And there were more reasons. One of those was, humid air can hold more heat than dry air. It takes a lot of energy to heat up water, you see, so with a little steam in it the air in the shelter held more warmth. Plus it didn't hurt to have hot water all the time if we wanted to boil something or make herb tea. Another reason was the risk of radiation burns. If you turn up an everflame high enough, the little point of red light goes blue and starts putting out some ultraviolet – which can give you sunburn. Higher still, and you start to get what the Ancients called 'x-rays' – and too much of that and you get cancer. So we kept it down in the red, mostly, and boiled the water."

"That explains where you got your exposure," the priest commented. "But how did you find out you were developing a talent?"

"We were pretty isolated," Xander said. "By design, because the founders had figured things might get fierce when the cities fell apart. Hungry people can be fairly desperate, until the starvation makes them too weak to hurt anyone. There were other communes we traded with, of course, but most of the time we were on our own, about thirty of us, though the number varied a bit over the years with deaths and births. You've no idea how boring it got sometimes. We had to make our own fun. To amuse myself, I would fiddle, on hot summer days, with the swizzle we used in our well. On cold days, I'd play with the everflame when no one was watching. Did you ever play with the relics in the shrine of St. Farker's?"

"No," said Andrews.

Xander just kept looking at him.

"Oh, all right," said Andrews. "Sometimes I used the everflame to boil water for coffee. But I always put it back in the display case."

"Then you know how to turn the intensity up and down. Most of the alien tech has a control interface. Back then in Wyoming, I didn't know that term, but I learned it later from books. As you know, you turn an everflame up or down by stroking the rim of the metal disk."

"Yes," said Andrews. "Father Davis, the priest I took over for, he showed me that."

"Coldboxes are different," said Xander. "They usually lack a control, because you want them to stay cold all the time. But swizzles always have one. If you stroke the pipe in the direction of the flow in the swizzle, it turns it up. Stroke it against the current and it slows down. I found that out by watching one of the adults fill a bucket from the well. When no one was around and I was bored, sometimes I'd turn it up high enough to make a fountain. I'd make the water shoot up ten feet in the air just to watch how it broke up into little balls, like raindrops, when it came down. And to cool off on hot days.

"But one day I was playing with it, making a fountain, and I saw one of the grownups coming over from the vegetable patch with a couple of buckets. Not wanting to get switched, I reached for the swizzle, thinking about stroking it down, _and the flow turned down before I touched it_."

This time when he touched it, the bacon was merely warm to the touch. He fished a piece out of the plate and chewed. "At first I was too relieved that I hadn't been caught to put two and two together. But later I managed to repeat it in a similar circumstance. After that it was only a matter of time before I learned I could turn it up as well as down, without touching it. The rest was just a matter of practice."

"What happened?" the priest asked him suddenly.

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"Why did you leave Wyoming? Or at least the commune. Was it to find a wife?"

"No, that might have been a good reason to, but in my case it was simple curiosity. We didn't have a lot of books in the commune, and I wanted to find out more about how the world worked, and what else I could do."

They talked through the remainder of the night and well into the next morning, when mutual exhaustion brought pause to these discussions. Xander had fallen asleep sometime before noon, and like a fool, had slept away the afternoon. Now the sun was setting, and he hadn't even checked on poor Lester yet.

"So," said Andrews, stretching and yawning as he sat up. "Do you have a plan to get out of the city?"

"I do. But we need to pick up someone first. I'm sorry to tell you this, father, but I didn't come all this way to rescue _you_. A friend of mine needs help."

Andrews was obviously puzzled when the left the abandoned Church, and sought out a smithy. Xander did this by simply following, at a discreet distance, a guardsman leading a horse that had thrown a shoe. When at length he reached the smith, who evidently did a lot of farrier's work in this age of horse travel, the wizard let the guardsman go first, to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

While the horse was being shod, the priest kept looking at Xander with a face that plainly asked the question, _why are we here when your friend needs help?_ but he left the priest unanswered for the moment, unwilling to talk in front of the strangers. He was coming to the reluctant conclusion that the priest would have to leave with them, and that raised complications he would rather avoid.

"Now, then," said the smith, whose name turned out to be Marco, "what can I do for you gentlemen today?"

Xander looked around the smithy before answering. Seeing the silver dollars change hands had reminded him that he was without currency. "I see you've been making a lot of pipe lately."

Marco laughed. "Not _making_ it, exactly. Some of the apartment buildings on the west side of town collapsed years ago in the last great quake. Their swizzles were looted, but there was enough piping left in the wreckage to earn money for the locals who heard I'd pay to take it off their hands."

"What do you do with it? Not your usual income, I'd imagine, like making tools, swords and horseshoes."

Marco looked left and right. "It's a government contract," he said. "His Excellency put in an order for a lot of pipe." He shrugged. "It's too bad the scavengers don't know he'd rather buy it direct from them, than pay me a markup on it. But this way we both profit by it."

Xander glanced at the leather bellows that Marco used to crank up his forge to the temperatures needed for some metallurgical operations. "I wouldn't want to put your apprentice out of a job," he said, "but I might have a proposition for you."

The smith pulled a sword out of the forge with a pair of tongs and inspected it before shoving it back into the coals. "What sort of proposition?"

Xander look at the bellows. The wooden handles attached to the leather pleating were worn from years of pumping air into the forge to heat the coals. The mouth of it was shoved into a pipe that protruded a few inches from the side of the forge. "For a dozen feet of pipe I can replace that bellows of yours with a swizzle that would make it a lot easier to do whatever you want with your forge."

The smith frowned at this. "There's plenty more pipe where that came from," he said, "but I don't do much barter business, only cash. And like I told you, the swizzles that were in those collapsed buildings were looted long ago, and most likely confiscated by the Church. I doubt you can lay your hands on any of them, these days."

"Not a problem," the wizard told him. "As it happens, I can make swizzles." And he grabbed the bellows and wrenched it out of the pipe.

Marco scowled, affronted at this cavalier treatment of his equipment, but his expression changed when Xander concentrated on the protruding pipe and they heard a rush of air into the forge. Xander reached out and stroked the pipe outwards, shutting off the inflow before it overheated the sword in the coals. "You can always shove the bellows back in when you're not stoking the forge," he said. "No one else needs to know you have this."

The smith regarded the protruding end of the pipe as Xander showed him how to turn the swizzle flow up and down. The forge roared and then was silent again. "How much pipe did you say you need?"

## Chapter 67

Enrique: "walking round in a ring"

He emerged from the coach and pulled on his white calve skin gloves. For a moment he dithered, seeing the ritual reversed. _What is truth? Pilate asked, washing his hands._ But this was a putting on, not a taking off. Did that make it any different? Like Pontius, he was trying to effect a separation from what was to come, a separation that he knew in his heart was a lie, a delusion not of grandeur, but of innocence. He knew the apprentice was not a demon. But the idea he stood for, that needed to be exorcised. _We cannot advance as humans until we put aside the creations of non-humans._

The protesters had already covered the back entrance. The prison Alessandro Martinez had built here was not as large as he had expected.

It did not need to be, in an Empire where those who defied the established order were never forced to endure long imprisonments. Those detained here usually came out again, briefly. The gallows was just to the side of the front entrance.

He eyed the scaffold. By acting this way, even _I_ could be said to be defying the established order. One of the faithful would have decried such sentiments. He could imagine their rebuttal: _but Holiness, you_ are _the established order!_ And in a sense, that was true. But the execution he planned was not sanctioned by secular authority. And in truth, this was not a thing that he wanted to secular authority to enact. There were no _secular_ charges against the accused, this apprentice. The only reason he was here was because he had been with the wizard who had captured the Honcho's scouting party.

But if released, he might someday become a wizard himself.

"Holiness?"

With a start he realized he was woolgathering again. His driver and the leaders of the crowd were looking to him for permission to begin. He nodded, and they began pounding on the front door. "Bring out the sorcerer!" they cried.

Hoofbeats behind him made him turn. His Excellency, the Honcho, ruler of the Lone Star Empire was hurtling down the street, closely pursued by four guards and the Runt. They drew up on the edges of the crowd that surrounded the front of the prison.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing, Ricky?"

He smiled sadly, ignoring the profanity. "What you wouldn't, Excellency. Exorcising the demon you've kept alive and fed."

Peter glared down at him from his horse, which whinnied at all the torches in front of it. "He's no demon and you know it. Just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. Call this off, now, before you make matters worse."

"The man inside these walls," said the Pontiff, raising his voice for the crowd, "is tainted with alien sorcery! He would spread it if allowed, bringing down the wrath of God that struck down the Ancients for their arrogance and impurity. If he truly wants to be like the Tourists, then he needs to go as they have gone."

The Honcho lowered his voice. "You know I can't allow this. I can't let mob rule replace the rule of law. Stop this now. It can't end well."

Enrique regarded him. "What are you going to do about it?" he asked, his voice calm and brimming with self-assurance. "Are you going to have your men shoot me? Shoot the Pope, in front of a hundred witnesses? They'd tear you to pieces." He jerked his head toward the crowd. "Or will you have your men fire into the crowd?"

The Honcho's eyes narrowed. "The Army's on the way to surround this entire block," he said. "If your people don't disperse quietly, they'll all be arrested."

_Yes, exactly_ , he thought. _My people. Not yours. You are only the caretaker of their bodies, but I am God's chosen to defend their souls._ "We both know you can't afford to turn the Church against you, Excellency."

At this moment the guards inside the prison decided to open the front doors. They swung outwards, revealing men with loaded crossbows. The Honcho seized upon this pause to bellow a warning. "Who wants to die first? Everyone clear out now, by God, or – "

_BOOM!_ An explosion like a burst of cannon fire surprised everyone.

Enrique opened his mouth to condemn using cannon on unarmed civilians, when a sudden roar of wind was sucked into the open door of the prison. It blew out dozens of the torches in the crowd as if they were mere candles on a birthday cake, and knocked the guards at the entrance backwards like pins scatted by a bowling ball.

Movement above the roof of the prison drew his eye, and those of others, upwards. A figure burst upwards, then curved towards the crowd like tossed confetti. In seconds it plummeted and crashed into a couple of the protesters.

After the moment of shocked silence which followed, the tangled figure groaned and extricated itself from the ones who had dropped their torches. His Holiness stepped forward into the crowd, which parted before the spectacle of his bone-white vestments as he advanced.

The human projectile looked up at him. He appeared to notice the significance of his whiteness. "Well, hello there," the man said. "That didn't work out exactly as I'd planned. Am I late for my execution?"

His Holiness was not the only person pushing into the open space win the crowd. Two gray-haired men shoved their way in One of these was dressed in gray, and sported a matching beard and a staff. The other was smooth-shaved and looked like a threadbare priest, and was lugging two lengths of pipe with him.

"There you are," said the bearded one. "Are you ready to leave, or would you rather stay here and chat with His Holiness?"

The escapee stared at the bearded one for a second or two and rubbed his eyes as if they were watering, or as if he thought he was seeing things. "If you're leaving, then I suppose I should tag along," he said. "Is one of those for me?"

The one who looked like an old priest handed him one of the pipes. "Xander said you'd know what to do with this," he remarked.

Enrique heard a hissing that grew into a deep-throated roaring or humming sound. Before his astonished gaze, the bearded one and the priest hugged their pipe and staff as if climbing poles, and rose into the air, scattering a cloud of dust below them from the street. The other followed them, clasping his pipe awkwardly, making even more noise as he ascended.

They were gone in a matter of seconds.

Enrique turned and saw Peter on his horse behind him. "Was that your prisoner, the apprentice we've been arguing about?"

Peter exhaled. "I'm afraid so. Looks like he's learned more than I thought, Holiness. Maybe I should have handed him over, after all."

Enrique blinked. "It appears that the transaction we had discussed is not possible," he said. "But in view of the circumstances,. I guess I'll have to give you what you need, anyway. And may God help us all."

## Chapter 68

### Lester: "And three trees on the low sky"

This time it was not nearly as terrifying. He kept his eyes open, but that was mainly because he was the one steering his swizzle, not Xander.

The first part, the ascension, was easy. From his experimentation in his cell he had already noted that the flow lines of the pathspace around and through the anchoring pipe did not have to be symmetrical. He had no way of measuring the speed at which the air was being pulled into the front end of the pipe and spewing out the back, but it must be enormous, because he learned, in time to follow Xander, that slight changes in the symmetry of the flow were sufficient to effect course changes. When they were pointed straight up, for example, a shift in the pathspace weave to make a bit more of it come from the Northwest caused the pipe to tilt over and send them moving in that direction instead of straight up or hovering.

Xander, on his own staff, must somehow be controlling both his staff swizzle and the one the other fellow was rising. Lester had not had enough time to get a good look at the other guy yet (and was far too busy mentally now) but the man seemed far too old to be another candidate for apprenticeship. If they all survived this, there would be plenty of time later to find out why he was with them.

Several too-late-launched crossbow bolts arched up vainly toward them and were soon left behind. Following Xander, he swung the pipe northwards and tried not to think about the fact that the only thing between him and death by falling was his own imagination and its tenuous grip on the pathspace pattern around the metal pipe they were hugging.

Eventually he reached a sort of dynamic equilibrium where the flow rate, which he had cranked way up to lift them off the ground, or rather, its component in the vertical direction, was enough to keep them from falling, but not enough to push them any higher. By that time they were already, by his reckoning, several hundred feet in the air and several miles northwest of the prison. The sideways component of their thrust was enough to have them moving faster than any horse could ever gallop, and their weight, most of which was farther back than the middle of the pipe, was enough to keep the flow asymmetry from pulling them into a fully-horizontal flight that would have let them plummet to their deaths.

Having reached this relative state of equilibrium, there was little for him to do except make minor course corrections when exterior wind from the sides tried to push them from their northward direction, so he could at last think about what was happening. He was full of questions, and since there was no chance to ask them of Xander at the moment, he conjured up a mental image of the wizard in his mind and tried to imagine how the old man would answer his questions.

Lester: I've only experienced this once before, so I'm still puzzled how what we're doing could be possible. How does this wind-in-the-pipe get us into the air and push us toward Rado?

Xander: I already told you about the Third Law of Motion. For every action there is an equal and opposite re-action. Since the air in the pipe is being pushed (or pulled) backwards, the pipe is being pushed forwards by conservation of momentum.

Lester: But what's pushing on the air? I know _how_ to make it happen, now, but not _what_ exactly I'm making happen.

Xander: We've talked before about this. Since neither of us is a Tourist, we don't know how _they_ think it works; all we have is the best guess of human scientists. Apparently it has to do with space, time, and consciousness.

Lester: Could you tell me again what they thought?

Xander: That which we call space, or the aether, or, more modernly, the space-time Continuum, is a plenum of all kinds of particles. Most of these are called _virtual particles_ because they appear and disappear again like a weed in the desert. But just as a weed can grow into a bush if you give it enough water, these _virtual_ particles can become _real_ particles if they acquire enough energy to become permanent.

Lester: I remember you saying that once. I don't see the connection between that and pathspace.

Xander: Every particle that exists is not just existing, it's _going_ somewhere. Especially photons, the particles of light, which couldn't stand still if they wanted to. Photons _have_ to move at the speed of light, whereas "ordinary" particles move at some slower speed.

Lester: So?

Xander: Ordinarily, the velocity is uniformly distributed in all directions. In other words, if you looked at a point of space, both the real particles passing through it, and the _virtual_ particles appearing at that point and coming out of it, are moving in all possible directions, rather than concentrating in any particular direction like horses on a road.

Lester: What you seem to be saying is that by configuring pathspace, I'm altering the distribution, herding them in a particular direction – making roads for the horses to follow.

Xander: Exactly!

Lester: This is frustrating. I already knew that's what I'm doing. What I don't understand is _how_ my imagining a road in space persuades the particles to _follow_ that imaginary road. I could imagine another road down there, different than the one our pursuers are following in their losing bid to keep up with us. But if I did that, it would only be in my head. Their horses wouldn't know about my imaginary road or feel compelled to follow it. So why is it any different with these particles you keep talking about? What makes them obey me?

Here the imaginary conversation faltered, because he couldn't remember Xander saying anything that would give any clue as to how he would answer that question. He might as well have asked, _why can I make them follow different paths if most people can't?_ He had heard a partial answer to that question, of course. It had something to do with his being exposed,. over a period of years, to the altered configurations around the everflame and the coldbox back at Gerrold's inn.

But so had his mother and Gerrold, and they'd shown no sign of being able to weave patterns in pathspace.

He had nearly gotten to a state where he could look down without wanting to scream. The toroidal pattern of pathspace was wound up tight inside the pipe, but its flowlines _outside_ the pipe were only bunched together at the entrance in front of him and the exit behind him. It was as if he were in the dough of a donut that had been stretched along its main axis of symmetry into a pipe, but then inflated. The breeze blowing past him was moving only about as fast as they were moving with respect to the ground, which though considerable, was not terrifically fast. From the time they had spent flying already, he judged, as they passed over Wichita Falls, that they were moving at or less than a hundred miles an hour.

That was fast, of course, but not nearly as fast as the air shooting out the back of the swizzle. Since the pipe was tilted over at an angle, and a lot of that air had to be moving downwards, or, as Xander would have said, its velocity had to have a strong component in the downwards direction to keep them in the air. So it was roaring out of the pipe at more than a hundred miles an hour. He was glad it wasn't much more than that; they had none of the stickum Xander used on his staff to get a better grip on it.

As they sped toward Denver in the northwest, the green countryside of East Texas faded to the yellow-white of West Texas, where higher elevations combined with fewer rivers to parch the land into semi-desert. The verdant lawns and cultivated fields were vanishing behind them, decaying to the scrub-dotted waste of the west. It was evidently Xander's plan to more or less follow the Red River, the traditional northern boundary between the Lone Star Empire and Okla, and then turn almost due north when they got to Amarillo.

Before they left the Red River behind, however, he spied Xander and the other stranger coming in for a landing. This would be interesting, because Lester has never landed one of these before. Before he whizzed by the other two, he made his pipe imitate their pipes, deftly reshaping the flowlines so that it turned vertical again, then unwinding the pattern around the pipe enough to let him sink toward the ground in a controlled descent rather than a lethal drop.

By the time his feet kissed the ground the other end of him wanted to do the same thing. Xander and the man with him had left their _swizzles_ on the bank of the river and gone off their separate ways into the bushes to relieve bladders. Lester's pelvic area had been numbed by the humming vibration of the pipe, but after he dismounted, sensation returned and he found himself a bush.

When he returned, it was time for introductions. This was awkward, for he finally learned that their party's third member was a priest whose name was Father Andrews.

## Chapter 69

### Kristana: "Six hands at an open door"

The atmosphere in the room was tense, to put it mildly. If it were the cable on a ballista you could have used it to shoot the moon.. She wasn't sure whether that was because they didn't know what to say, and knew she was expecting them to say _something_ ... or because they _did_ know what to say, and knew she wouldn't like hearing it.

Colonel Thanh was the first to finally speak up. "Madame Governor," he said, "is this a serious question? If it is a joke, you deadpanned it well. I can see my comrades are too terrified to laugh."

"I am totally serious, Colonel. I'm open to any suggestions you have as to how to defend ourselves against the weapons described."

He glanced at the others. "Is this some sort of training exercise? What you are talking about has not been seen in any of our lifetimes."

"Nevertheless," she said, "we may shortly be facing them."

"But you're talking about things of the Ancients! Things out of legends!" protested one of the majors. "Tanks? Armored personnel carriers? Self-propelled guns? Even if they really existed once, no one has anything like that now."

"The Honcho does. His men have uncovered a long-buried armory with well-preserved examples of these legends. The report from the spies I sent to Abilene confirms it."

There was murmuring around the table at this. Thanh tried again. "With respect, Madame Governor, have you considered the possibility that your operatives have been used to feed you disinformation? People have been known to change sides. Perhaps this is intended to make us waste our time instead of preparing for their actual attack."

"Colonel, I trust my people. Two of them died getting this report out to me."

"But... why weren't we informed earlier?"

"Because until recently, it was only hypothetical. These self-propelled devices use a kind of fuel that has not been available for a long time. Since they are very heavy, it would be impractical to pull them here with horses. "

"However...?" he prompted.

"However, we have reason to believe that he has found a way to produce fuel for them." She then rapidly explained about the Gifts the Honcho had received from the Church. How he was now able to pull oil out of the old wells, and "crack" off the gasoline and other components as needed. "This all means that, in all probability, he will be using these weapons to expand his empire. And we will be his logical first target."

"Why us?" This from the major who had already spoken. "I've seen a report that he's only the Honcho because his older brother was killed by the Queen of Angeles. Why wouldn't he use them against her first?"

"For three reasons," she replied, ticking them off on her fingers. "First, she is much farther away from him than we are, requiring more fuel to reach, so although he undoubtedly has plans to assault Californ, we will come first in his list of targets. Second, he will have to cross the Mojave Desert,which is tough on wheeled vehicles of any kind, not to mention his men. And third, because we have gold mines and he doesn't. The expansion of the Lone Star Empire will require a much larger army, an army that must be equipped, trained, fed... and _paid_. He can buy supplies from his trading partners, but he will need gold to get the quantities he needs for his ambitions. And we are the closest source."

Heads nodded. Empires rise and fall like sand castles on a tide-swept beach, but one thing rulers always want is gold.

## Chapter 70

# Aria: "With a wicked pack of cards"

Of all of her tutors, she liked Mrs. Timberstone the best. Old as the hills but sill spry enough to surprise you, Mrs. Allison Timberstone (or "Allie" if you were so fortunate to have gained membership to that minority of the human race) was one of those few elderly that did not spend a lot of their time complaining or bragging about their infirmities. She was serene in a way that Aria wanted to be someday, and it wasn't by being famous, wealthy, or popular.

What Mrs. Timberstone taught was difficult to define. She liked to describe it as "filling in the bits your other teachers left out" which was a fair if vague description of it. Today's lesson seemed to be about something called Archetypes.

Very little wind stirred the dust on the top of the building. The day was surprisingly warm, with no clouds at all yet, and so they had moved to the roof to enjoy the fresh air and the sunshine before the cold heart of winter began beating. Mrs. Timberstone shook out a blanket and they sat on it as she drew something rectangular from her satchel. It was a deck of cards, but not like any cards Aria had ever seen. The cards were old, but hardly wrinkled, and they reflected the sunlight as if sheathed in glass.

"Plastic laminate," Mrs. Timberstone explained without explaining. "Something the Ancients developed that is proof against water and dirt."

Aria felt awed. "You're saying this's from before the Fall?"

"Handed down in my family. My mother gave it to me."

"Has my mother seen it?"

"Of course. I taught the governor, back when she was your age. Now pay attention. You know that the cards people use to play games are very old, going back more than a thousand years. The design of this deck is not as old as the usual decks, though even though the actual cards themselves, their physical manifestation, are older than the ones people use these days. The design was done by a man named A. E. Waite, although it used to be known as the Rider pack."

"Did you play games with them when you were a girl?"

"Not like you think. They were not designed for games. They were made to encode and preserve certain concepts. People have used them to tell fortunes, for which purpose they are better than the ordinary, everyday deck."

The deck had four suits like the ordinary cards Aria had seen and played with, but in this deck the suits were called Wands, Swords, Cups, and Pentacles, which, Mrs. Timberstone explained, corresponded to the ordinary Clubs, Spades, Hearts, and Diamonds.

It was larger than the usual deck of 52 cards. Each suit had an additional Court card, called the Page. Aria asked about it, and learned page was an ancient word for an assistant of sorts. So each suit ran from one to ten, then the Page, Prince, Queen and King. But there were still more cards left in her hand after she dealt all these out on the blanket.

"What are those other cards?" she asked. "Jokers?"

Mrs. Timberstone laughed. "No, dear. Those are the most important part of this set. They are called the Major Arcana. It means 'great secrets' and they are the Archetypes I wanted to talk about today."

"What's an archetype? I know in the Church an archbishop is higher than a bishop."

"An archetype," said Mrs. Timberstone, dangerously close to launching into lecture mode, "is a common model, a type that we all share unconsciously. A universal pattern in our heads – a concept that we recognize in many forms that all have the same set of associations. For example, what do a bear's cave, a bird's nest, and a gopher's burrow all have in common?"

"They're all homes?"

"Exactly right. The outward form of a home might not be the same, but we still recognize that it is a home – somewhere where something or someone lives. The twenty-two cards of the Major Arcana are archetypes like that. For example, here is the first one, numbered zero in some traditions and one in others: the Fool."

"So he is the archetype of idiots? Or is it suicides – he's about to step off a cliff!"

Mrs. Timberstone smiled. "Not really. The Fool represents the beginning of a quest, the beginning of wisdom which is the realization that we know nothing, as Socrates said, and the willingness to leap into the unknown to acquire experience. He's pictured here as a vagabond, and the bag tied to his stick represents the baggage we can't help carrying along for the journey: our preconceptions and hopes and worries."

She dealt out the next card. "This is the Magician. In the older decks he was called the Juggler. You can see a sword, cup and pentacle on the table in front of him, and a wand in his hand. There are many ways to interpret this card. He represents the transformation of ideas into actuality, a magical process. As he points his wand skyward, his other hand is pointing down at the ground, encoding the ancient saying "as above, so below."

Aria's brow wrinkled. "What does that mean?"

"The correspondence of patterns at many levels of existence. As the Earth orbits the sun, so the electrons in an atom can be said to orbit the nucleus. Light radiates from the sun, just as light radiates from a candle here on earth."

A thought struck Aria. "Magician is another word for Wizard, so it represents Xander too, doesn't it?"

"Of course." She dealt another card.

Aria, who was beginning to get the hang of this, recognized the next archetype immediately. "The High Priestess is you! A guardian and transmitter of secrets."

Mrs. Timberstone smiled. "In a way, yes, I suppose so. You picked up on that even faster than your mother did. I can see your father's influence. You inherited strength and quickness of mind from both your parents."

"Did you teach the General, too?"

Something flitted over the teacher's features. "Um. No, I hadn't come to Denver back then." She turned over more cards. "The Empress, and the Emperor."

"She reminds me of my mother, but more relaxed. He ought to remind me of the General," said Aria, "but for some reason he reminds me more of the Honcho. Especially since he calls his country an Empire, and mother doesn't say that about Rado."

"Remember that," Mrs. Timberstone advised. "It is a significant difference between them. Often what we call something says more about us than it does about the thing itself." She laid down another card. "The Hierophant."

"He reminds me of the Pope."

"And for a very good reason. In older versions of the Tarot, he is called the Pope. He is often taken to represent organized religion, or religious authorities."

A deep humming filled the air, like a cloud of giant bumblebees. As Aria jumped to her feet, Mrs. Timberstone, who recognized the sound immediately, scooped up the cards on the blanket before they could be blown away. Aria shaded her eyes with her hand and peered around the horizon, finally spotting three objects approaching.

The roaring grew as they tilted up over the roof and went vertical to land. Lester was the first to do so. Xander came down more slowly, and at the same time as the third rider, who looked, improbably, like a lost priest on a broomstick.

The blanket surfed off to the side and Mrs. Timberstone chased it, managing to step on a corner before it was swept off the rooftop. She turned to Xander. "I can't believe you're still doing that!"

He shrugged. "When necessary." He turned to the priest. "Are you all right Father?"

The man in priestly garb let his pipe fall with a clang and bent down trembling to kiss the rooftop. "Never in all my life did I know how blessed it is to feel something beneath my feet."

Mrs. Timberstone observed this in an interested silence.

"We had a bit of a close scrape," Xander explained. "A very storybook scene, peasants with torches ready to burn Lester at the stake. All it lacked was a lightning-lit castle on a hill." he turned to the priest. "I hope you don't regret accompanying us, Father. I could have dropped you off along the way."

"Not at all." The priest seemed to be checking to make sure all his parts were still attached, and then he froze as he realized he was being observed by Aria and her teacher.

Xander rescued him. "Mrs. Timberstone, Aria, I present to you one Father Andrews, recently of Texas. Father, this is Mrs. Timberstone, an esteemed tutor, and Aria D'Arcy, her current student."

Father Andrews sketched a slight bow to them. "I must confess, ladies, that you do not catch me at my best. Even so, the pleasure of meeting you both shall do me a power of good in recovering from the harrowing journey north."

Behind him, Lester looked a little unhappy that the two newcomers had crowded his return. She caught his eye and winked, and he brightened up immediately. Inwardly she smiled. _Men are so easy._ "I'm glad you got away," she told him. We were all worried when you didn't make it back, especially Xander."

"Nonsense," the wizard snorted. "I just didn't like to lose an apprentice in the middle of his training. Would be such a burden to have to go find another one so soon."

"Don't listen to him. We had to put him under armed guard while he recovered or he would have been off to retrieve you before he was up to it. However did you manage in prison?"

He opened his mouth to say something but Xander jumped in. "It's a long story, and I look forward to hearing it as much as you do. But let's get in out of the cold and grab some lunch, shall we? The jailers took Lester's boots and his toes must be getting chilly."

## Chapter 71

### Lester: "I was neither Living nor dead"

Lester tried again. The black pawn rose wobbling slightly from the chessboard and drifted forward a square before settling down. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

"Not bad," said Xander. "Your vortex control is improving steadily."

"I don't see the point of this," he complained. "The Honcho isn't going to try to take Rado from the Governor with pawns and bishops."

Xander's knight rose and executed a precise forking attack, threatening both Lester's rook and his king. "Check," he said. "And you are wrong, you know. His Excellency will definitely use pawns. Armed, living ones, but pawns nonetheless. And they will arrive in horseless vehicles moved by fuel for which he can thank the bishops of the TCC."

"Whatever," Lester grumbled. "So why aren't we preparing to fight?"

"We are," said the wizard. "I realize it might seem trivial, to you, weaving tiny vortices in pathspace like this. But the point is to have fine control."

"I should be making swizzle guns, not playing board games!" Lester gritted his teeth, making his king evade the check by moving it diagonally in front of his queen.

"And we shall spend some time doing things like that," said Xander. "But you must also be developing precision. When you were a child, your arms would wave around blindly when you wanted something. We all pass from gross to fine motor skills, so that now you can reach forward and lift a glass, without thinking and without knocking over other things on the table. You need the same sense of automatic precision with your pathspace. In the heat of battle you will have to act quickly without having to think about it, as an archer knocks an arrow to his bowstring without considering how to do it." His knight rose fro the table and drifted over to drop on the square occupied by Lester's rook, which then rose and moved off to the side of the board.

## Chapter 72

### Peter: "knowledge of motion, but not of stillness"

"Where did they go?" growled the Honcho, even though he was pretty sure he already knew.

"North," said Jeffrey. His voice had an impatient edge to it. "Back to Rado, of course. Where else would they go? The question is, what can we do about it?"

"Nothing. If we had the fuel, and could get an ancient airplane working, and had a trained pilot ready, then maybe we could intercept them. But we don't." Peter sighed and rested his chin on his first, his elbow on the top of his desk. "So the answer is, there is nothing we can do...except speed up our timetable. Now that Ricky's going to give us the swizzles and everflames we need, we'll start getting some fuel for the vehicles soon."

"Maybe we should invade someone else first."

He shook his head. "Can't do that. If we wait too long, Rado'll be building up their own army equipped with swizzle guns. They have at least two people who can make 'em now. So we have to get up there before they have time to make a lot of them. And there's another reason."

"What's that?"

"From the reports of the men, when the wizard rescued the Governor's daughter they were at a comm site reporting in. So Rado knows about the rail-bangers now."

"You think they'll tell other countries?"

"Not at first. I'm betting the first thing they'll do is try to set up their own version. But it's only a matter of time before it leaks out from them."

## Chapter 73

### Jeffrey: "Gathering fuel in vacant lots"

It was already getting hot by the time he got there. Wiping sweat off his brow with his left hand, the Runt lifted his right to return the salute. "How's it going, Jenkins?"

The sentry shrugged. "All quiet here on the perimeter, sir."

The Runt sat there in his saddle, pondering. "No incursion attempts at all from Rado?" This troubled him. Surely Rado knew from its spies what was being done here. So why hadn't they tried something...at least a little sabotage?

Jenkins shook his head. "Maybe the savages don't know what's going on."

Now it was Jeffrey's turn to shake his head. "More likely, they're too busy trying to build up their defenses. Carry on, Private."

As he rode past the sentry the Runt frowned. What were they waiting for? If they could pop down to break a prisoner out of jail in the heart of enemy territory, why wouldn't Rado be making efforts to slow down the fuel production?

Ahead of him he could see the remains of an old derrick lying in the weeds. Idly, he wondered if it had toppled from rusted supports, or if the Honcho had ordered it pulled or cut off the ancient well to make it easier to get at the well itself. Part of him was saddened at the destruction of a relic, but then , he reflected, it would not go to waste. No doubt the Honcho or his advisers already had plans to reuse all of that steel.

Up ahead he could now see the well itself. A complicated contraption was welded onto the wellhead, with a hose leading to a off to a newly-built structure off to one side. As he watched, two men hauled on a metal wheel. He was puzzled by this only for a moment, and then he realized that it must be an oversized metal valve of some sort. When they seemed to be finished with what they were doing, he rode up to the two men, who saluted.

"I don't mean to interrupt you," he said, returning the salutes, "but tell me, what is it you were doing?"

The taller of the two answered him. "Shutting off the flow, sir."

His brow wrinkled. "Why would you want to shut it off?"

"Well, sir, the refinery can only take so much at a time." The man glanced to the building the hose led to. "So we fill the boiler every few hours and then shut it off. Made a hell of a mess the first time, before we learned that."

So that was what the big valve was for. With the swizzles in place in the well itself, there was no way to get to them to turn them on or off. In the apartment buildings some of them had come from, they had been used to fill roof tanks. The weight of the water pressing down from the filled roof tanks would balance the upward thrust of the water and stop the flow. When someone took a bath or otherwise used some of the water in the tanks, the down ward pressure would be reduced, allowing the swizzles to push water up into the tanks until they had enough water-weight to stop the inflow again.

But the system developed by the ancients would not work here, he realized. The oil sucked out of the ground filled a tank for boiling, and the tank was at ground level. There wasn't enough pressure pushing back on the swizzles to stop the outflow from the well. So the crude but effective solution was a mechanical valve on top of the well to shut off the flow.

He supposed the Honcho could have emulated the roof-tank design, by building a tower and putting the boiling vessel up at the top. But it would have required more materials and, more to the point, more time to do so. And giving Rado more time to prepare for the inevitable invasion would not be a good idea.

He rode over to the distillation building and dismounted, handing the reins to the second sentry at the door before passing inside. "Who's in charge?" he asked the man, not caring if he sounded ignorant for not knowing this already."

"Tomlinson's the chief engineer, sir. Captain Tomlinson."

He pulled open the door an stepped in. The first thing he noticed was that the air in the place stank of oil. In seconds he was feeling greasy just moving around in it.

Spotting a man at a desk giving direction to a couple of others, he strode up to him. "Captain Tomlinson?"

The man looked up, annoyed at the interruption. "What?" One of the men whispered in his ear. "Oh, it's you," he grunted, and made a tired salute. "What can I do for you, sir?"

He had been wondering why his father had sent him to get a progress report when there were plenty of soldiers who could have relayed the information. Now, however, he realized that there was a reason for it: he needed to be recognized by the troops. And for that they needed to meet him. It was said that the Ancients had something called a _photograph_ that could capture an image, so that one's face could be distributed to the lower ranks instead of meeting them personally. But evidently the technology had been too complex to survive the Fall.

"I'm here for a progress report," he said. He glanced down at the paper spread out on the desk top. "What's this?"

"Plans for a bigger refinery. What we have so far is working, sort of. But to fuel anything more than a short action, we're going to need a lot more gasoline and diesel than this setup can crack off."

That made sense. "But won't you need more swizzles and everflames than we have, to be able to build a bigger one?"

"Of course," Tomlinson grunted. "But with any luck we'll capture more of them when we invade Rado."

"Right." Now he felt foolish. Naturally the Honcho would have planned on expanding the fuel production using artifacts from the captured territories as the Empire expanded. Before he asked another foolish question, Jeffrey gazed about him.

The interior of the building was all one huge room, dominated by an enormous metal tank, supported by massive legs, under which a grid of everflames nestled in a metal tray. The flames were all off at the moment. On top of the boiler he saw piping leading off to the condenser. Another pipe stuck out of the bottom of the condenser, with a spigot on the end of it. As he watched, a couple of men turned off the spigot and screwed a cap on a tank resting on a wagon. Then they pulled open a large double door and waved at the wagon's driver, who flicked the reins and pulled out of the building. The two men then closed the double doors, trotted across the floor to another set of double doors, and hauled them open. Another tank-carrying wagon rolled in, its horses snorting as they muscled the weight of all that iron into the building and around a U-shaped path that ended up beside the condenser. There the driver halted.

Jeffrey blinked. Even his eyelids felt greasy. "Why does it stink so much of oil in here, Captain? Do you have leaks?"

Tomlinson grinned humorlessly. "Absolutely, sir." He pointed to the top of the boiler.

Squinting, Jeffrey could see steam escaping from a valve. "What's that for?"

"Well, sir, naturally, when we are filling the empty boiler, it compresses the air inside. Have to let it out, or the pressure could build up and bust the boiler. It's not thick metal, not like the Ancients used to have, so we have to go easy on it. We close the pressure relief valve when we're cracking, of course."

"Where does the steam come from?"

"Some of it's water mixed in with the oil. The boiler is still warm from the last distillation run, and water boils at a lower temperature than the fractions we want, so we vent it."

"I think I understand," said Jeffrey, who didn't, not completely. "But why couldn't you pipe the relief valve out through the roof, or a side wall, and avoid stinking up the place? Isn't it dangerous, letting oil vapor leak out when you're going to light the everflames again soon?"

Tomlinson folded up the plans and shoved them in a drawer. "In answer to your first question, I plan to, but as you can see we've used a lot of pipe, and the vent is a lower priority." He paused to scratch his neck. "In answer to the second question, no, it's not all that dangerous. Crude oil, straight out of the ground, doesn't evaporate very fast, and is hard to ignite. It stinks, but there's not much chance of a fire or an explosion." He glanced at Jeffrey. "I know, I know, it's a crude system, at the moment. We'll do better with the next refinery. But we're getting results. So far the gas and diesel is not as pure as we'd like, but good enough to be usable."

"It looks to me like you lose a lot of time shutting down to refill the boiler," the Runt commented. "Couldn't you change the design to let you constantly pipe in oil while you're boiling off the gasoline?"

Tomlinson shrugged. "We could. But we'd still have to shut it down every time we fill up a wagon tank from the condenser."

"Why?"

Instead of answering, Tomlinson led him over to the spigot at the end of the pipe projecting from the condenser. He held his hand under the spigot and caught the last few drops leaking out of it in his hand. "Look," he said, holding the hand palm up in front of Jeffrey.

The palm was wet with what looked like water. But as Jeffrey watched, the wetness evaporated in less than a minute.

"Gasoline's not like crude oil," the engineer informed him. "It evaporates pretty fast at room temperature, and when the vapor mixes with air, the combination is explosive. That's how the old engines of the Ancients worked. Lots of little explosions, over and over, inside the pistons. Pushing rods that drive the crankshaft." He paused to take a breath. "If we had gasoline vapor in the air in here and turned on the everflames, well, we'd have problem."

"I see." Jeffrey thought about it. "But how did the Ancients solve that problem?"

Tomlinson sighed. "They had much better designs, and machines to control the machines. From the books I've seen, their refineries were better than we're likely to see in my lifetime. Having electricity to work with instead of just manual wheel valves made everything easier to monitor and control. But don't you worry, sir. We're getting the job done."

The Runt nodded. "Looks like you are, Captain. Is there anything we can do to help you at this stage of your operations?"

The engineer considered the question. "Well," he said, finally, "we only began to fill the wagons day before yesterday. So far we can only fill two wagon tanks a day, so we haven't run out of wagons yet, but getting them to Abilene and back takes time, so we'll be needing more wagons soon. And more guards to go with them."

Jeffrey frowned. "Why didn't you set up closer to Abilene? Or just store the gas here until we have enough?"

"Good questions. I'm told the wells here were the easiest to use. And considering how explosive gasoline is if it leaks...it's better to store it in the vehicles themselves, in Abilene. Or in the fuel tanks they have there, that are better than anything we could build ourselves."

"Sorry to be so full of questions," Jeffrey said. "But if you know my father, then you know he's going to ask me the same things when I give my report."

The Captain gave him a sympathetic half-smile. "Well you can tell him we've had a few problems, but with a little patience, we'll get it done."

Jeffrey sighed. "My father," he said, "is not a patient man."

## Chapter 74

### Lester: "And time yet for a hundred indecisions"

Lester put down the book he had been reading, a book about ancient motorized armies led by a man with an abbreviated mustache. "If the Honcho has anything like the stuff in here, we're in big trouble."

Xander took a bite from an apple and chewed before answering. "Try not to worry. Powered vehicles could be an advantage, certainly. But he's never used them before. If he succeeds in Rado, the experience will make it easier on him as he continues to expand his Empire. But he won't."

"What makes you so sure of that? We've got some cannon that have to be hauled around by teams of horses, taking forever to position and move. He's going to have guns that roll around by themselves wherever he wants to take them!"

The old wizard ate more apple. "We're going to have some surprises for him," he said. "And the thing with technology is, the more complicated it is, the more things there are to go wrong with it. For example, all it takes to stop a car is a potato."

Lester stared at him. "What?"

The engines of the Ancients," Xander informed him. "require an exhaust for the burned fuel vapor as well as an intake for air. Block either one, and the engine won't run. Shove a potato in the exhaust pipe of one of the old automobiles and it's useless, unable to vent the exhaust."

"You're planning to run around behind his vehicles with a bag of potatoes?"

"No. It was just an example. You'd be surprised how easy it is to disable high-tech systems with low-tech meddling. The more complex a system, the more weaknesses it has. The process with more steps has more places in which it can fail – or be made to fail."

"Then how does nature succeed? Aren't biological processes more complicated than anything humans have ever built?"

Xander finished the apple. He picked a seed out of its core and showed it to Lester in his hand.. "Actually, pieces of nature fail all the time. See this seed? It could become an apple tree, and make thousands of more apples. But it can fail. It can fail because of drought, disease, overcrowding, lightning, fire, floods....or simply because it never ends up in the ground." He picked out the rest of the core's seeds and tucked them into a pocket of his robe. "Parts of nature fail all the time. But the entirety of nature, by which I mean life on Earth, it goes on year after year."

"Could all of it fail, like our civilization crashed after the Tourists left?"

"Oh, certainly. The Sun could get too hot or too cold, or asteroids could hit us and render the entire globe lifeless. But the difference between nature and Civilization is, it doesn't need people to make it work. We've forgotten how to build computers, but seeds never forget how to become trees."

Xander tossed the empty apple core into a box by the table where they threw food scraps to save them for composting in Aria's garden. He rose from his chair and reached for his staff. "Its time for us to help prepare for the invasion."

Lester pried himself out of his own chair. "Aren't the Governor's officers doing that already?"

Xander smiled without sadly. "They think they are," he said. "But we're going to need more than they can come up with. To stop the Honcho, we're going to need more than horses and arrows this time. Swords won't stop his tanks."

"But we don't have our own tanks, or fuel. How do we beat him?"

"By being smarter. By using what we do have that he doesn't."

After that the old wizard fell silent until they reached the armorer's smithy near the ground floor. Unsure of their destination, Lester finally understood when he heard the ringing of a hammer on iron. By then he'd already figured out what Xander meant. What did they have that the Honcho didn't? Magic.

But what good would that be? He could lift a rook or a pawn into the air, but he was pretty sure that he couldn't flip over a tank with his pathspace. He doubted Xander could either.

The head smith, was adjusting the swizzle on the side of his forge as they entered, his strong hands stroking the pipe, fine tuning the temperature of the coals. He looked up at the sound of the door. "Ah, there you are," he grunted. "Wondered when you'd be by." He glanced at Lester. "So this is your latest apprentice, eh? Hope he makes a difference."

Lester heard the ringing of the hammer again. Turning, he saw a pair of the smith's strikers placing some kind of circular die over a sheet of metal, whacking it with their hammers to cut out a seemingly endless series of metal discs that another assistant was putting into open boxes.

Xander saw him looking at the discs. "I'll handle making the everflames," he told Lester. "You take that stack of pipe in the other corner and start making swizzles."

## Chapter 75

### Aria: "After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"

Soft feet in supple leather boots pounded the stairs as she descended and ascended, searching. She did not know where the thought had come from, but now that it had, she could not relinquish it. No, that was a lie, a lie she was telling herself. She knew perfectly well where the thought had come from, the thought that had roused her from an unaccustomed nap in her gardens, where she had set her little rake and watering can down and just lay down in the scent of the blooming roses.

She had opened her eyes with the thought stirring inside her, clear but unacceptable. She almost laughed at her dismay. What would it change? Nothing. Everything! It could not change the past, and yet somehow, it did. She had not yet decided how it should change the future.

Undeterred by guards, Aria burst into her mother's chambers, full of the outrage and moral arrogance of youth. "Is it true, Mother?"

Kristana looked up at her, surprised by the seldom-used title as much as by the interruption. Aria could see the Governor was at it again, stroking the General's sword with a whetstone, an old oiled rag by her side on the mattress. A meaningless activity, sharpening the sword of a man who had been dead for years.

It had been owned by the General. _By my father._ But was he?

"Tell me it isn't true!"

Kristana wiped the sword one final time with the rag and hung it back on its peg on the wall behind her. She regarded Aria. "It might be easier to do that," she said, "if I knew what you were talking about."

Aria's chin jutted. "I'm talking about my father."

Kristana patted the mattress beside her. "Sit down for a minute. We need to talk."

Aria stamped her foot. "No, you need to talk," she said. "I went to see Daniels yesterday to talk about preparations for the invasion. I was going to suggest we start stockpiling blood in coldboxes, so that we'll be able to help when our soldiers get wounded."

Kristana just folded her hands and waited.

"He'd already thought of it. There were soldiers all over the place, reading and chatting with the nurses while they donated blood for storage. And do you know what the good doctor said, when I offered to join them?"

"I can guess. But go ahead, tell me anyway.'

"He said he was glad to see me, because only Xander and me have this certain blood type, and he couldn't ask Xander to donate, since he was still recovering from his close call. In fact, he said he was hesitant about asking me, because he'd already taken some of mine recently, to help Xander when he was so close to dying."

Kristana's gaze was calm and steady. "So?"

"Mother, what was the General's blood type?"

Kristana didn't bat an eye. "A positive. But that's not really what you came here to ask me, is it? Go ahead, ask."

Aria stared at her calm, then rallied. "I'm not the General's daughter, am I?"

Kristana shook her head. "No, you're not the Governor's daughter. And to answer your real question, yes, Xander is your father."

Aria felt her eyes welling up with tears. "But why? Why did you lie to everyone about it? And how could you? How could you betray the General like that?"

"Sit down," Kristana repeated. And this time, she did, collapsing on the mattress beside her mother, but not touching her. "Why? Why did you do it?"

"First," said the Governor, "it wasn't a betrayal. The General was dead. How you came to be, well, that's not hard to figure out. Xander helped me through a rough time. I needed someone to lean on, and he was there. We'd known each other for years; he's a good man."

Aria was quiet for a moment. "All right," she said, slowly. "You were sad and lonely. I can see that. You needed emotional support, I can see that too. But the timing! I was born barely nine months after the General died." She glared at her mother. "it sure didn't take long for you to move on."

Kristana jerked. Aria had the feeling her mother was resisting the urge to slap her.

"Xander and I liked each other for a long time," Kristana said. "But we were both smart enough not to do anything about it, while the General was alive. I loved my husband, and neither of us would do anything to undermine his image as the ruler of Colorado. Once he...once he had passed, however, that consideration was moot."

"Then why did you keep it a secret? Why didn't the two of you marry?"

Kristana sighed. "We talked about it. I wanted to. He's a good man. But Xander talked me out of it."

Aria stared at her. "He didn't want to marry you?"

"Actually, he did. But try to understand. The General had just died, and everyone was looking for someone to hold it together. Looking to me. If I'd married Xander, then instead of a Governor or a General, people would think that some weird magician was running the country. It wouldn't have worked, dear. We'd have had civil war. The officer's wouldn't have taken orders from Xander, and probably not from me, either, since they'd have thought he was pulling my strings like a puppet."

Aria was shaking her head, her fists clenched, but she didn't interrupt, so Kristana went on. "Your fa-- the General, he had been grooming me to take his place, believing that I could keep the Dream alive. So I did." She paused. "Xander settled for being my loyal advisor, and you became a symbol of hope, a remnant of their beloved General. That's what we decided to give the people. Hope. It wasn't easy. If you'd been a late birth, it might not have worked. But you weren't. You came early, just early enough that we could let everyone think that the Old Man had been strong enough, even near the end, to father a child."

"But it isn't true! It's all a lie!"

"Yes. But try for one moment to think about Rado, instead of your family and your conscience. What was better for the people who depend on us? The truth would have helped no one. The lie helped the country go on without a civil war."

Aria scowled. "It's still a lie. Don't you care about the truth? How do you sleep at night? Doesn't it bother you, lying to your own people?"

Kristana sighed. "More than you know. But I made my peace with it. It's just another of the sacrifices I've had to make over the years. Maybe I don't always feel good about it, but what we avoided would have made me feel even worse. All of the General's plans, all of his preparations for me to take his place...it was all for Rado. Try to put yourself in my place. What would you have done? Told the truth and felt all warm and cozy, proud of your honesty, watching everything the General built fall apart in a bloody power struggle?"

She opened her mouth to shout YES! But then her mind heard the end of her mother's sentence and she closed her mouth again. _What would I have done, really?_ "But now you're trapped," she complained. "After all this time, you still can't tell them, can you?"

The Governor of Rado frowned. "No," she said. "I still can't. Even though we made it through the crisis of succession, all those years ago, and it makes no difference now, I still can't tell them. There's always another crisis, like the Honcho's upcoming invasion, and I can't let everyone be distracted by feelings of betrayal and outrage."

"So that's it? You're never going to tell the truth about it?"

"I just did, to you." Kristana looked off to one side, remembering. "Oh, yes maybe I can make a deathbed confession, something like that, for the history books. After you've taken my place, that is. I can't possibly say anything until then. We'd have the same problem as before – a civil war. They're not ready to accept the daughter of a wizard as the next Governor. But the daughter of a legend, the daughter of the General, well, that's another thing entirely. His success attached itself to me, and you'll inherit that mystique. You can keep the Dream alive."

"How do you know I won't tell them?" A thought struck her. "What about the doctor? Have you sworn Daniels to secrecy, too? Does anyone else know?"

"No one else knows, except Daniels and Xander himself, and we're going to keep it that way. Daniels won't say anything. Doctor-patient confidentiality is something he believes in, and he'll keep the secret for us. I had a conversation with him, a little like this one, years ago. He's accepted the situation."

Aria put her face in her hands. A legacy based on a lie? Was that what she had been raised to take on? How could she do it?

But the real question, she realized, was: how could she not?

## Chapter 76

### Brutus: "Neither fear nor courage saves us."

He walked out of the hospital room, concealing his bandage under a Stetson. His head still throbbed when he exerted himself, as he was doing now, climbing the stairs to the Honcho's offices.

He tried not to think of the cause of it, that damned Rado wizard who'd snuck up behind him at the rail-banger station, No time for that now. He would let the rage simmer out of sight, like a blacksmith's forge banked for the night, the ash-covered coals lying in wait for another day's work. The rage would be there when he needed it. He'd teach the bastard what real pain was.

Martinez was waiting for him with a shot of bourbon. "How's your head?" the Honcho asked him, after he'd taken a swig and seated himself in front of the leader's desk. "Ready for some payback?"

"What you got in mind?" Brutus asked, tossing down the rest of his drink. He couldn't see the point of sipping the stuff, not when its best work was done in the gut, not the nose.

"We need to try out the new motorized weapons in Abilene. By now, Rado knows about them, but they're counting on us to wait until spring before we attack."

"And you're not going to." Brutus allowed himself a smile.

"Hell no. Not giving them that long to prepare. If we give them enough time, who knows what that wizard of theirs might come up with. We're not going to find out, because we're not waiting. But the boys need some practice, I'm sure, and with all that we're expecting from them, I think it would be better to have a seasoned officer in charge."

He looked at his empty glass. "Not sending your son?"

The Honcho grimaced. "I need him there too, and that's another thing we need to talk about. I know you two don't get along."

Brutus's face twisted. "That's putting it mildly. The word I heard is, he wanted to bring me up on charges. Me! How am I supposed to do my job with him behind me worrying about every farmer we run into?"

Martinez looked at the bottle, then back at Brutus. "We both know he's young and full of opinions about how things should be done. He hasn't seen the things you and I have, so I won't deny he gets himself worked up about things that don't bother old soldiers like us." He paused, as if weighing his words. "But he's still my son, and someday he'll be sitting at this desk. I need you to make peace with him, Colonel. Maybe he doesn't know it yet, but he'll need you when that time comes."

"He's a hothead, that one. What do you expect me to do if he loses his temper and draws his sword? I know technically he outranks me, but _even so,_ I can't let him push me around too much in front of the troops. You know that. Bad for discipline."

Martinez sighed and poured them both another glass of the bourbon. "No one said it was going to be easy," he said, after they both swallowed. "You're my best field commander...but he's my only son. I need you you to make it work. I don't expect you two to be friends, but I can't have you fighting in front of the troops. No good will come of it. Keep the peace."

"How?"

Here the Honcho shrugged. "Distract him. He thinks the two of us are obsolete, so let him play with something that isn't. Put him in charge of one of the tank crews. That should give him plenty to learn and focus on."

Brutus finished the second glass. "It might," he granted.

"It has to, for now. Once the invasion starts, he'll have enough to keep him busy. Let him get a couple of real battles under his belt, and you two might not be so far apart in viewpoints any more. War has a way of putting personal squabbles in perspective, once the arrows start flying."

Brutus set his glass down. "I won't be the one to start trouble," he said. "I can be in Abilene in two days, unless you need me to really push the horses."

"That's fine. There's no rush, yet. And I'll be having a talk with Jeffrey before you leave, Colonel. I'll make it clear to him that you're in charge of the men. His job will be to learn how to use the new weapons, so he can pass it on to the junior officers."

"What do you want us to do with 'em?"

Peter appeared to relax, now that they could talk soldiering and not personal shit. His finger came down on a spot on the map on his desk, and Brutus leaned forward to get a better look.

"This town's abandoned, but most of the buildings are still standing. You'll be using them for target practice. Leave nothing standing."

Brutus frowned. "One of our own towns? Shouldn't we head over the border into Zona and take out one of theirs, instead?"

"No." The Honcho's voice was flat. "Rado's first on the list. And I don't want anyone but our own troops knowing what we can do, until we do it. Zona can wait."

"What if squatters have moved into the abandoned buildings? "

The Honcho met his gaze. "Then too bad for them. If they're not willing to move, don't let them keep you from doing your job. Flatten it...and don't leave any witnesses that could talk to Rado spies."

## Chapter 77

### Xander: "I would meet you upon this honestly."

Panting, he stroked the new everflame down, extinguishing the glowing point of blue, and tossed the metal disk into the box beside him. With a ringing SNAP a hammer came down behind him, cutting out another disk from the unhardened iron plate, whose surface was holed like a slice of cheese. Resting his weight on the table for a moment, the old wizard reached out blindly and snatched up another of the iron disks. He had no idea if it was the one just cut or one of its predecessors. No matter. He slapped it on the table and took another breath, trying to fight off a wave of dizziness as he strove to weave the pattern he needed.

Sweat ran down into his eyes, the salt stinging them. He blinked and drew a sleeve cuff across his face. He had stopped bothering to count the everflames he was making. There was no point. If there were any extras, they could help heat homes in the winter to come.

Lester's face swam into focus. "You'd better take a break, old man, before you fall down."

Xander tried to laugh and coughed. "Think I can't keep up with you?"

"What I think," his apprentice said, "is that you will be no good to us if you pass out now."

Xander stood up, holding onto the edge of the table. "Unless you've learned how to make everflames, I'm the only one who can do this."

"Then take some time and show me how."

"You're not ready. You're getting good with pathspace, sure. But making an everflame requires you to manipulate _tonespace_ , and we don't have time for you to stop what you're doing and spend time learning that now." Xander let go of the table and straightened. "Once we stop the invasion, you can consider starting on spinspace. Tonespace comes after that."

He could see Lester wasn't happy with his advice. The colt wanted to be a stallion. Xander tried to remember what it was like being so young. Had he been that impatient? Well, not quite...but that was because, back then, he had no one to be impatient with. _You should be glad you have me to help you learn this stuff. I had nobody. Takes a lot longer when you have to figure it out all on your own._

Still, he had to give the kid credit. His pathspace manipulation was really coming along now. _He's gone from weaving invisibility to sculpting a swizzle on his own, a lot quicker than I did. Am I jealous of his quickness?_

"Look, I know you/re learning fast,and you want to know it all. And I want you to. I want to teach you all I've learned." He paused. "If we live through this, I mean. If we do, you're going to learn things I've never mastered, never even heard of. But to get to that point, you'll have to survive. And not just you. People are depending on us to make a difference."

Lester sighed. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Oh, I'll tell you lots of things you don't know. But first you have to help prepare."

"Well, I'm all out of pipe for swizzles. What now, O wizard?"

"I've got another idea. How good is your invisibility weave?"

"Pretty good. But I have to keep re-weaving it if I move around, or I step into view."

Xander led him to a corner of the smithy where the smith had stacks of metal plate as tall as a man. An apprentice smith was striking one with measured, patients hammer blows, curving the metal like a section of a cylinder, or a drinking glass, so that the plate could stand on its own.

"What are those for?"

Xander ran his fingertips along the edge of one. "Shields. Henry, these need handles."

The apprentice smith with the hammer stopped hammering. "Yes, you said that before," he grunted. "I figured it would be more efficient to curve the metal first, then cut the eye slits and rivet the handles on 'em last."

"Wouldn't wooden shields be a lot lighter?" asked Lester. "You could make them thick enough to stop arrows and crossbow bolts without making something so heavy for the troops to carry around."

"These aren't just to stop arrows," Xander told him. "These are for hiding."

"What's the point of hiding behind one of those," Lester wanted to know, "when you can see them a mile away?"

"Watch." Xander seized the curved tower shield, grunting with the effort of lifting the metal, and turned it so that the inner part of the curve faced the wall. Then he concentrated, weaving pathspace. The shield faded away.

"This is what I want you to do with the others," he told his apprentice, leading Lester around so that he could see the shield was perfectly visible from the back, at close range. "The trick is to weave the pathspace so that light coming from behind it curves around the shield and makes it invisible from the front, because you see what's behind it instead."

"I still don't see the point of it," Lester complained.

"Stand over there, and watch," he told the boy, pointing to the middle of the smithy.

Then he ducked behind the shield. "Now you can't see me."

"So? I can do that without a lot of iron."

"This isn't for you. It's for ordinary troops who can't weave their own invisibility. You'll only have to weave each one once, and then the metal will anchor the pathspace pattern, better than wood can, so it will last and ordinary people can use it.." He gripped the side of the shield and lifted it, taking a few steps toward Lester. "And they can move forward without having to re-weave the pattern. Anchoring the pattern in the metal lets you carry it around without constantly having to make and unmake it."

He un-wove the spell, letting the shield reappear closer to Lester, who finally looked impressed. "How many of these do we need?"

"As many as you can make. Do them while you're waiting for more pipe."

He turned at the sound of hoofbeats approaching the smithy. Who could that be?

A few seconds later Aria appeared at the doorway. "I need to have a word with you, wizard."

He stepped out of the smithy and followed her as she led him around the back of the building. "What is it? Is Texas on the move already?"

"No," she said. "This is personal."

"Well, as I've told you many times, you can tell me everything."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, but you haven't told _me_ everything, have you? Like why we have the same rare blood type."

Xander blew out his breath in a long whistling sigh. There was no point in denying anything now. Someone must have told her. The certainty on her face confirmed it.

Aria looked left and right to make sure no one was within earshot of them. "I didn't want to believe it, even when Mother admitted it," she said. "Did you love her?"

Xander met her gaze. "I still do," he murmured. "But I'm sure she explained to you why things had to stay the way they were. Rado and your legacy depend on it."

"On a lie," she said. Her tone was bitter. "So you're ashamed to claim me."

"Hell, no. Anything but ashamed. If you were anyone else, you'd be my apprentice." He took a breath. "You've no idea how hard it's been on me, being just the weird old man, the loyal advisor, instead of your father. But leadership needs continuity. Rado and Kristana needed you for an heir, and we decided – "

" _You_ decided. What about me? Don't I get a choice? It's _my_ life! Not yours."

He sighed. "No, you don't get a choice, any more than I did. Deal with it. Fate chose me to be the wizard, and you to be the next Governor. There's no one to replace either of us."

"At least you have Lester." She was silent for a moment. "And people used to choose the Governor. You know that. The Governor used to be elected by a vote."

Ah, to be young and idealistic again! "Yes, and someday they will again. That's the difference between your mother and the Honcho. She doesn't want to be an emperor. But that day has not come yet, and it never will...unless we are all strong enough to keep this continent from becoming an empire."

"Would that be much worse than what we have now?"

"I think so. So does your mother. And so did the General. We believe in his Dream."

"Maybe you do," she said. "But you have another Dream, don't you? Your school for wizards. Something we've never needed before. Can you honestly tell me you wouldn't be working for the Honcho, if he'd let you build your school there? If you were there, you wouldn't have to waste time worrying about invasions, would you?"

He pursed his lips. "Don't be too sure. He has enemies too."

"So you're worried about his enemies more than you are about ours? Is that it?"

"No," he said. "I'm more worried about his friends."

## Chapter 78

# Jeffrey: "The conscience of a blackened street"

Even in the cooling air of early winter, it was hot inside the tank. "How did they ever stand this?" Jeffrey asked one of the men with him, as he mopped sweat off his brow. It was a good thing they'd started out long before dawn.

"I heard they used to have something to cool the air inside," one of them said, raising his voice to carry over the sounds of the engine and treads coming down the open hatch. "They called it 'air conditioning'. There's a couple of buttons on the controls for it."

"Well, make it work then. What are you waiting for?"

"Freon."

"What?"

"Something called 'Freon' that the system needs to cool down the air," the man explained. "But it must have dried up a long time ago. We're not even sure what it was, but the manuals tell where to pour it in, so it must have been a liquid. Anyway, we haven't got any, so the best we can do is leave the hatch open."

"This is crazy! How can we expect to fight in something like this? You'll drop of heatstroke before we even get to Rado."

"Well, sir," the man responded, after a pause, "we ain't going to Rado today, are we? Just some little town out in the middle of nowhere for practice. They tell me by the time we do get to Rado we might be wanting to run the heater instead."

He did not know what to say about that.

The 'tank' was one of the strangest things he had ever seen. Built of thick metal, it must weigh tons. He still had a little trouble believing that even the motors of the Ancients could move the thing. But they did. It had wheels, like a cart or coach, but instead of rolling on the ground, they were inside a kind of metal cloth that came down in front of the vehicle for them to roll on, as if it were laying its own road down as it went, and rolling it up in the back after passing over it.

The whole thing had seemed ridiculously complicated to him, until he'd seen it go over rocks and wreckage strewn in the road. Instead of butting up against a boulder, as a wagon wheel would, the 'treads' let the tank tilt up and climb over it. The tanks (they had found eight of the monsters in the sealed armory in Abilene) were very hard to stop. Each carried a movable cannon on top; if a wall came in their way, they could blast through it and roll over the fragments.

For today, they'd only had enough fuel to power up two of the weapons. His tank was following the one carrying Brutus.

When they'd first climbed inside the thing and started it up, he'd been a little startled by all of the lights that came on. Tiny lit buttons, dials and indicators glowed to life like eyes, as if they had resurrected some ancient dragon. The engineer had explained it to him. Apparently a reservoir of energy called a battery was needed to make the fuel begin exploding inside the engine. For this, they had reassembled some batteries stored in the depot, following the old manuals. They'd opened cannisters of acid and poured it into the plastic casings, letting it react with metal plates to build up _voltage_ , then loaded the batteries into the tanks.

Jeffrey didn't like any of this. Are we going to be pouring acid all day? He had asked. No, he was reassured. Once the engines were started, they would generate electricity to keep the batteries recharged, changing the lead and zinc sulfate and water back into metal and acid. And also, apparently, generating power for the internal lights, the controls, and a motor that swiveled the big gun of the tank when they needed to aim it.

Used to seeing cannons fired, Jeffrey had not seen the need to turn the gun. Couldn't they just point it straight ahead, and steer the tank to point the gun at fortifications when needed?

"What if someone came up behind you, or on one side of you," the engineers had pointed out. "The electricity is easy enough for the tank to generate and store, but the fuel is precious. One of the best things about these weapons is you don't need to hitch up a team of horses to turn them around if horses ride past you. You just swivel the gun and keep shooting. And you can keep turning the gun to follow them, like you would with a crossbow."

"I thought the great thing about them is that they move faster than horses," Jeffrey had retorted. "You can just move the treads in opposite directions and turn the tank that way."

"Oh, they can outrun horses on straight paths, no problem," the engineer had agreed. "But horses are lighter and more agile. And like I said, fuel is precious. You'll be using the gas to get there, but unless the Rado people are really troublesome, most of the time you'll be firing while stationary."

"Troublesome against these?" Jeffrey shook his head. "If they have any sense at all they'll surrender the first time we use these things. No arrows can get inside this. From what I read in the manual and old books, one or two of these things could wipe out a whole army of horsemen by itself."

"You're right about that," the engineer said. "Now if we were fighting them in July, the crew would be baked inside this like riding in an oven, without the air conditioning. In that case it might be a different fight altogether. But it'll be December, and your only problem with a long battle would be running out of gas if you did too much moving. These things drink a lot of fuel."

"Are we going to have enough? I don't want to get stuck somewhere waiting for Rado men to come with sledgehammers and bash their way inside."

The engineer spat out the end of a cigar and lit another one. "Don't worry about that, sir," he advised. We got a tanker truck that can follow you and refuel you on the spot, if need be. They've got the refinery tunning flat out now, cracking gas for us. You'll have all the gas you need, and then some." He gazed northwards, as if he could see the mountains of Rado from Abilene, which of course he couldn't. "Those Rado people have their mountains and mines. They can dig out gold to hire troops and buy uniforms. But this is Texas. We are the _motherload_ of oil. We'll still be pumping oil and making gas for tanks when your great-grandson is running the show."

Remembering the man's words, now, he tried to present more confidence than he felt. I _'m sitting in a metal monster,_ he thought, _that only keeps going because inside it something keeps exploding._

## Chapter 79

### Ludlow: "The burnt-out ends of smoky days."

It had not been easy to make the lamp. They allowed him no candles here, no oil, But the food they served was often greasy stuff, and he had saved the grease, in a clay bowl.

Stealing that bowl had cost him dearly. Oh how angry they'd been, ransacking his little cell the next day! He had to smile at the thought that they'd worried he was going to break it and use the shards as weapons. While one guard was stripping the bed and shining his lantern in the dim, the other had been busy kicking him until he vomited.

How he'd wanted to laugh through his split lips. The entire time they were searching for it, the bowl lay in plain sight on the top of the wooden crate that served him as a table. Well, not in plain sight. The invisibility he'd woven around it had kept it safe from prying eyes, even his own.

The wick had been tricky too. They'd left him no string, not even bootlaces. He considered tearing thin strips from his bed sheet, but they would have spotted that. Inspiration came one day when he cut his hand on a rusty edge of the cot. In short order, he had used the roughness of the flaking corroded iron to saw off several locks of his hair. These he did his best to braid together, making a wick for the grease bowl. And so his lamp was born.

Of course he had no reading materials. But that didn't matter, because the lamp wasn't for reading. Its main purpose was to keep the rats off him while he was sleeping. It had a second function, too. Keeping the guards from seeing its light gave him a reason to keep practicing his weaving of pathspace. To keep sharpening his skill, as he waited for the opportunity to vanish one day when they got too careless.

One thing they hadn't been careless about was the door. It was metal, and the thick bolt on the outside was secured with three padlocks.

One nice thing about his cell was the quiet. It was dark, it was dank, and there were rats, but at least it was quiet. Until now.

He was nearly asleep when the clock of the first padlock being opened awakened him. It would have been awkward if he'd been fast asleep, but by the time he heard the second click he had extinguished the lamp and shoved it away from the rat hole and behind a quick shield of invisibility. By the time he heard the third click he was back on his cot, his eyes closed.

He stirred when the bolt was thrown back because they expected him too. Someone entered carrying something far brighter than his pitiful little lamp. The light of the torch dazzled him. Struggling to a sitting posture, he shielded his eyes with one hand while he let his eyes adjust. "Who's there?"

"I think it's time we had a little chat, Ludlow."

"Now?" He let himself fall back on the cot. "I thought you said it all when you locked me in here." He coughed. "Has something changed your mind?"

"I could have just let them kill you, you know. But I don't expect you to thank me."

"Thank you?" He laughed so hard that it kicked off another spate of coughing. "You should be thanking me. I got your men out of Denver. And for that, you throw me in a cell?"

"You should have stayed in Denver. You know what the Church thinks of wizards."

"I couldn't stay. I was compromised. They know I helped your men escape."

"But why come here? You could've gone anywhere. Why Texas?"

Ludlow rubbed his eyes. "I didn't know your fear of the TCC would override your gratitude for liberating your son and your best commander."

The Honcho's hand went to the pommel of his sword. "I'm not afraid of anyone!"

"Then why am I in here, eh? But more importantly, what do you want?"

"Who says I want anything?"

Ludlow laughed until he coughed again. "Oh come now, your Excellency. You come to my cell, in the middle of the night, without any guards? That tell me two things. First, that you want something from me, and second...that you don't want anyone else to know you came."

The torchlight made the Honcho's frown look even worse than it was. "I have some powerful weapons to bring to Rado. That should be enough to give me confidence. But they have a wizard."

"Ah, now I see it. You want me to help protect your great weapons from Xander. To balance out their wizard with one on your side...leaving you with the advantage of superior firepower."

"Can you do it? Or would you rather stay here?"

"He's very good," Ludlow granted. "But the element of surprise can work wonders."

## Chapter 80

### Jeffrey: "Then spoke the thunder."

According to the map they were almost to Noodle. Though he understood his father's reasons, Jeffrey could not help feeling that it was wrong. It was bad enough for a town to be called Noodle. Must be some crazy story behind that. But bad as it was, it was at least a name. And soon there would be no need for it. Why bother even with a word on the maps when what it names is a smoking pile of wreckage?

The tanks had to be tested, and the crews needed experience. Fine. But did they have to destroy a town to do that? Even as he thought that, he could imagine his father's rebuttal. Why waste resources building targets for them to practice on when there were plenty of places like this, abandoned and empty?

Except Noodle wasn't abandoned.

As they approached, he could see that someone was trying to work the land. Yes, civilization had fallen. There was no electricity, no buses, no telephones. But the buildings were still standing. Apparently, long after the locals had fled toward the dying cities, someone else had moved in. Why build a log cabin when there were perfectly good structures? Some wanderers must have found the place and decided to start a commune. Whoever they were, they must have avoided the Honcho's scouts, shutting themselves away when horses cantered through on their way to somewhere else.

Even from a distance, he could see it was not a large community, and never had been. It must have begun as a way station, a place for the trucks of the ancients to stop and refuel.

It was a little like those islands he had read of in his father's books. A coral atoll arises somewhere in the ocean, and eventually accumulates the beginnings of soil. Birds come to nest, unwittingly bringing inside them seeds that would begin a forest. And then ships would anchor offshore. If there was game and fresh water, the island's location would be remembered. More ships would come. And eventually someone would stay and make a living offering goods to the ships that stopped there.

Noodle must be like that, he thought. A road had crossed another, bringing travelers through, until some had stayed to make a living refueling the trucks. Then feed shops, a restaurant, maybe an inn for drivers who didn't sleep in their vehicles. Before you knew it, there was something more than a crossing of roads. Something to give a name to. Only God knew why they had decided to call it Noodle. But they had.

And now he was here to destroy it. To put a period at the end of its sentence. To help it on its way to becoming nothing again...because the trucks weren't coming back. He had no doubt that the Honcho would devote all of the fuel his men refined to war. And armies do not found villages. They pass through them, or destroy them.

There was a line of people across the road. Jeffrey saw young and old men and women, their faces tired but not resigned. How had they known he was coming?

"Stop the tank."

He was up and out the hatch before he could talk himself out of it. Someday these would be his people.

The other tank drew alongside of them and halted. Brutus was climbing out almost as quickly as Jeffrey. "What do you think you're doing?"

"There's people blocking the road, Commander. Are you going to just drive over them?"

Glock just looked at him. "Yes, if they don't get out of our way."

Jeffrey shook his head. "Let me talk to them first. Once they understand – "

"I don't give a _shit_ what they understand. I can't let you risk it. Your Daddy wouldn't like it...even if you survive." The Colonel glanced at the people, then leaned toward the hatch and said something to his crew.

With a quiet whine and grinding of steel on steel, the Tank's gun swiveled to point at the center of the road ahead.

Once more Jeffrey found himself moving without planning it. The next order would be to open fire, and after that they would be seeing what happens to human bodies struck by high explosive tank rounds. He leaped off the top of his tank and dashed forward, moving directly in front of Brutus's tank. "If you shoot them," he said, "it will have to be through me. The Honcho won't like that either."

Brutus glared at him. His eyes shifted to the men below him inside the hatch. Jeffrey could almost see how his thoughts were spinning. What now? He couldn't shoot the Runt. But neither could he risk Jeffrey getting close enough to the rabble for a stray arrow to get the Commander in just as much trouble. Though he had operational control of this sortie, Brutus couldn't just order the Runt to get out of the way. And arguing with him about it in front of the troop would be bad for morale, bad for discipline.

After a moment, the Commander shrugged and lit a cigarette.

The pause was all Jeffrey needed. He began strolling toward the people. Relief flooded him. He was nearly shaking. Could it be that easy? If they'd been on horseback, Brutus would simply have followed him, or sent troops to cover him. But they had no horses here. Horses couldn't keep up with the untiring motors that sped the tanks. Sure, horses could put on a burst of speed when needed. But you couldn't ride them at full gallop mile after mile, not unless you had fresh horses waiting for you on the way.

Jeffrey kept left of center, staying on the same side of the road as Brutus's tank. He didn't hear the whine of a motor until it was too late. Then came a word of death: "Fire."

And then spoke the thunder. Ahead of them, a group of people to the right of center simply disappeared, replaced by a cloud of dust and smoke and flying bits that used to be human. People to the left and right of them were blown off their feet by the blast, and some of them didn't get up again. An ancient ugly word came to mind: _shrapnel._

"No! Oh God, no!" Jeffrey spun, ears ringing, and saw Brutus on top of Jeffrey's tank. As soon as he'd turned his back, the Commander had done the obvious: hopped up on the other tank and had them aim the gun to the right of Jeffrey.

There were horrified shouts and screams from the crowd as it scattered left and right.

Jeffrey raced back to his tank. "Damn you!"

Brutus blew out a cloud of smoke and grinned. "And that, son, is how you clear a road."

Jeffrey could feel his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. "You didn't have to do that. They might have listened to me."

Brutus climbed down and went back to his own tank. "Well they won't now." He flicked the butt end of his cigarette away. "Let's get this over with."

Jeffrey swallowed, aware that the troops in his tank were listening. He wanted to weep. He wanted to jump up there and punch the sardonic grin off Brutus's face. But he knew better. It wouldn't save anyone. Heart pounding, stomach twisting with the knowledge that the older man had made a fool of him again, he climbed down the hatch and looked at his men.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

Sgt. Haskew broke the silence. "Sir, we – "

"Stop." Jeffrey willed his trembling to subside. A coldness swept over him. "Don't say another word." He knew Brutus was right. The opportunity was gone. None of them would listen now. Future citizens had just become targets. He turned to face front. "Forward."

They rolled forward. Some of the people were heading off toward a large building on the left, maybe an old warehouse. Thunder spoke again. Brutus's tank put a round in it before they could get inside, and what was left after the explosion collapsed with a crash that sent a ring of smoke curling out from it in all directions. The people who were lucky were lucky enough not to get crippled by flying bits of stone and wood ran around the wreckage and kept going.

Jeffrey tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He couldn't let Glock do all the shooting. "Fire on the first building on the right." Only then did he remember the earplugs. He managed to get them in before the gun fired.

Once arrows rained on them, bouncing off the tank like so much hail. The other tank spat death, and the arrows stopped. This wasn't a battle. It was destruction and massacre. He could taste bile. His troops were getting experience all right. More than they bargained for. His father would probably be happy.

He found his canteen and gulped metallic-tasting water to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. Another successful mission. Another glorious victory for the Lone Star Empire.

## Chapter 81

### Peter: "After the agony in stony places"

He studied the report again in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, frowning. So Kristana had her people pulling double shifts making metal objects: pipes and disks.. So what? He had to assume that her spies had reported some of his own preparations. It didn't change anything. Making a few or even a thousand swizzles and everflames wouldn't do much to slow down his tanks.

There was a knock on his door. "Enter."

A corporal came in and saluted. "They're back, sir."

Peter returned the salute. "Good. "Have some sandwiches brought in." As the man left, his eyes went back to the reports. Had Xander found a way to use an everflame as a weapon? He made a mental note to have another talk with Ludlow about what that might portend, and how they could counter it.

There was another knock on the door. Without bothering to wait for an answer, It opened and Brutus and Jeffrey entered. He had to smile inwardly at the contrast. His son was practically scowling, whereas the Commander's face was composed. Once again Jeffrey wore his mask of moral outrage, and Brutus seemed unconcerned and amused by it.

"Have a seat gentlemen. Was your mission successful?"

Brutus lit a cigarette. "Completely. We destroyed the buildings, and the crews got plenty of practice at driving and firing the guns."

"Successful?" Jeffrey snorted. "Noodle wasn't abandoned. Or it was repopulated by drifters. Whatever. They saw us coming, and Glock fired on them!"

"Oh?" He noticed that Brutus didn't seem worried about it. "Any casualties?"

Brutus blew a smoke ring. "Only the squatters."

Jeffrey exploded. "They were people, damn it! Yes, they were blocking the road, but we were the ones threatening their homes. They lived within our borders, so we were firing on our own citizens!"

"Rebels," Brutus scoffed. "And you wanted to risk your life and have a chat with them. Would have accomplished nothing. I saved you the trouble, and saved your softhearted ass. If their arrows had gotten inside the tanks you'd be rethinking your attitude."

_And he was probably right about that,_ Peter thought. "Gentlemen, take it down a notch, both of you. I will have respect for my offspring _and_ my officers. Now tell me everything."

As they filled him in on the events at the place formerly called Noodle, he had to shake his head mentally. The differences between them were as obvious as ever. Jeffrey, with his greater concern for human life, had wanted to negotiate a resettling of the occupants somewhere else. Glock, with his greater experience, had stayed focused on the mission objectives, and given the crews experience not just in destroying structures, but using the tanks against enemies.

Mentally he sighed. Part of him wanted to make Brutus his heir instead of Jeffrey, even if the title Runt would seem like a misnomer when applied to the tall seasoned commander. Brutus would carry on with the expansion of the Empire, no question about it. He never let anything stand in his way.

The problem was, he just couldn't do it. For the Empire to succeed, it needed clear and consistent succession of leadership, and he'd concluded that a dynastic monarchy was the stablest form they could manage. If he set the precedent of making his best commander the next Honcho, it would set the stage for generations of infighting and competition among the officers as each military family strove to attain enough glory to be chosen. That might be great for the initial period of expansion, with each field commander trying to outdo his peers.

But what about when they had finished subduing and unifying the entire continent? Would it then be a competition between captains, between admirals, when they built their navy and began the conquest of Eurasia?

The Empire would not survive such competition. There would be rebellions, secessions, civil wars. And then what would he have spent his life building?

No, he couldn't do it. Jeffrey would be the next Honcho. But that brought its own problems. Unless he changed his attitudes, he would always be at odds with his own officers. If he didn't get off his righteous high horse and face reality, there'd be a lot of courts-martial and a general loss of morale. He had to learn to let boys be boys, especial the boys who were men leading his armies.

"All right," he said, when they were finished. "Here's what I think." He looked at his son. "I appreciate what you tried to do to spare some hostile citizens. We'll need every man we can get to build the armies required for expansion. But you forgot that the Commander had operational control of this mission. Trying to take over in front of the troops was a mistake, and bad for morale and discipline. I'd be chewing him out if he'd let you get away with it."

Jeffrey did not take this criticism well. "I know about discipline," he said, his voice sullen. "But how am I supposed to be learning how to run things when you never let me run anything? Glock didn't get where he is today by always being a subordinate."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "No," he said. "But when he was a subordinate he followed orders. He didn't get promoted by pulling stunts like you did, walking up to hostiles thinking you could talk them into abandoning their homes."

Brutus was enjoying this too much, he thought. He turned to face the Commander.

"And you, stop grinning. You accomplished your objectives, and I'm glad of it. What I'm not happy about is that you allowed this disagreement between the two of you to happen in full view of the troops. You know better than that, Brutus," he said, using Glock's first name to take some of the sting out of the rebuke. "You can disagree with fellow officers in private, but you have to be united in front of the lower ranks. Understand me?"

A soldier came in with a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of cider. Peter used the interruption to change his tone, underscoring his point. "Ah, good, thank you corporal. Now, gentlemen, let's talk tactics. Denver is going to have more than a rabble with bows and pitchforks. Have you had a chance to read that book on tank warfare?"

Jeffrey nodded. "The problem with it is that it is mainly about how groups of tanks fight other groups of tanks. Rado doesn't have any tanks."

"Nor anything that can stand against tanks," said Brutus.

"You've both seen the size of her headquarters building. Do you foresee any difficulty bringing it down?"

Brutus yawned. "Nope. It's just a matter of having enough ammunition. All we have to do is blow out the ground floor and the rest of it'll collapse under its own weight."

Jeffrey shook his head. "Are you sure we want to level it? We probably can, but why? For the psychological advantage? They'll know when they've been beaten."

Peter almost laughed as their differences came out again. Brutus, asked what he considered a practical question, gave a practical answer. Jeffrey, on the other hand, saw it not as a logistical problem but a human one. "They have to _stay_ beaten, son."

"Yes, but it's a ridiculous waste! We should occupy that building, use it as the headquarters of whoever you put there as your local representative. Same building, but under new management. Look, you'll need a local headquarters anyway, so why build a new one that won't be as good as the structures the Ancients made?"

Peter considered it. He'd kind of liked the idea of toppling Kristana's tower, a visible demonstration of his power and the fact that she'd lost and he'd won. But the lad had a point. Why waste resources during an expansion when you could use what already existed?

"In that case," he said, "tell me what you would do instead, both of you. How do we take the building without destroying it?"

Naturally, this sparked off another argument. While they debated strategy and tactics, he sent out for more food and drink. It was going to be a late night for all of them.

## Chapter 82

### Ludlow: "And after this our exile"

He moved like a ghost in the shadows of the empty armory. Well, not empty; the eight tanks were lined up (the ancient metal brutes reminding him of the dinosaurs in some of Xander's books) against one wall, and the two fuel trucks and three jeeps faced them from the opposite wall like a pair of metal monster armies lined up to attack each other on some ancient battlefield.

He yawned. This would have been a lot more convenient if he could do it in the daytime. But the Honcho had been adamant. All of Ludlow's practicing had to be done after the workday for most was over, because there was a chance even the armory workers had been infiltrated by Rado spies. And what he was about to practice would lose its advantage of surprise if Denver had any inkling of it.

He stood in front of a tank and faced the jeep across from it, concentrated as he strove to weave pathspace. As the light from the lanterns began to flow around him in the new configuration, he was plunged into darkness. _Damn. This will never do. The drivers have to see where they are going._

He abolished the weave and the light flooded back into its original straight path. Now he could see again, but the tank would be visible. Also unacceptable. There had to be a way to hide the tank without blinding it.

Frowning, he kicked at a clod of dirt that had fallen off one of the tank's treads. The clod sailed across the room and bounced off the grille of the Jeep back toward him.

He froze, seized by a sudden realization: the tank was visible not because of light moving toward it, but by the light moving toward the observer. Bending the pathspace of the incoming light, as he had done, would prevent reflected light from being seen. . . . but would also prevent the driver from seeing where he was going. But what if he was going about it the wrong way?

He turned around to face the tank and took three steps backward, toward the jeep behind him, and began to concentrate again. Picturing in his min a wall of light behind the tank, coming toward him, he imagined it splitting and going to the left, to the right, and over the tank, coming forward and rejoining back into a plane just in front of the projected gun.

As he had hoped, the tank faded from view. Now he saw only the wall behind it. He stepped forward until he was through the bent pathspace, nearly brushing the front of the vehicle, which had reappeared,. and slowly turned around.

It worked! He could see forward now. The trick was not to worry about incoming light, but about the reflected _outgoing_ light. You had to let in light so the driver could see...but you also had to let light that had not struck the tank continue outward, so that objects behind it would be seen instead of a patch of darkness.

While he was gloating, the pattern decayed and the tank faded back into view. At first he was tempted to curse at it. He should have anchored the pattern on the tank itself, not on the region of space around it. It would have been longer-lasting that way . . . and would be able to move around with the tank, hiding it even when it was in motion.

On the heels of that thought another realization struck him: _if I make his tanks permanently invisible from the front, he won't need me any more._ Then, the best-case scenario is I get exiled, and worst-case is, I go back into the cell . . . or get executed to satisfy the Church.

He was well aware that this was not Rado. For the support the TCC gave the Honcho, Martinez would had to be seen as respecting the Church's ban on "demon magic."

He would have to be very careful now. If he could not help, he was doomed. But also doomed if his help was permanent.

The sound of a door interrupted his musings. Speak of the Devil! Turning, he saw Martinez coming into the armory toward him. The door closed behind him, eclipsing the sight of the Honcho's bodyguard left outside.

"I see you found the place," the Honcho said, pretending his men had not personally escorted Ludlow here to the Abilene armory. "Have you thought of anything yet that could help us?"

Ludlow smiled. "Yes, Excellency, I have," he said. "I believe I can give you another advantage. But there are a couple of problems."

"Explain."

"I'm sure Commander Glock told you that I can make myself invisible when I want to. I can also do this to objects – make the tanks invisible from the front," he said. "Kristana and Xander won't see them coming." Swiftly, he gave a partial explanation, and demonstrated, doing exactly what he had just done.

Martinez appeared impressed. That is, until the tank reappeared again. "What went wrong?"

"Nothing. This is one of the problems I mentioned. The effect is temporary. Anchoring it in the metal will help the spell last longer, but it will still fade in time." He neglected to mention that with the dense metal, that time might be measured in years or decades. "And if we were to invisible them just before you get to Denver, the border patrols will see them coming in before I cast the spell."

The Honcho frowned. "Either way we'd lose the element of surprise. Is there any solution?"

"There is." Ludlow paused, thinking. "We put the tanks in a single file column, and I will have to ride in the lead tank, continually refreshing the spell. That way it will hold all the way to Denver."

Now he held his breath, watching the Honcho absorb this. Ironically, his survival now depended on Martinez not caring whether he lived or died. If he worried about losing his only wizard, it would be back to the prison cell.

But Martinez did not disappoint him. "Then we'll do that. What's the other problem?"

"Sound. Invisibility worked for me in Kristana's fortress because I walked quietly. But I imagine your tanks make a lot of noise. Even if they don't see them coming, they'll hear them."

"So it won't work." His disappointment was obvious.

"I didn't say that . . . only that it was a problem."

"Is there a solution to the noise?"

Ludlow let himself appear to be in deep thought. "There might be," he said, after a pause. "If I can bend the paths for the motor noise also, send it back behind the tanks, then no one will hear them coming."

The Honcho's eyebrows rose. "Can you do that?"

"I think so, but it might take a bit of practice. I've never bent sound before. As your spy in Denver, it was more useful for me to be unseen but still listening."

The other man considered this. "All right, you've got three weeks. They tell me it'll take that long to cook up enough fuel for all the tanks and fuel trucks and jeeps. If you can do it by then, you'll get a uniform and rank to avoid questions from the troops, and we'll proceed as you suggested. Otherwise . . . well, we'll just have to do without you."

_Do without you,_ Ludlow thought. _You mean, execute me._ "I think I can be ready by then, Excellency."

## Chapter 83

### Lester: "Every man to his work."

His days were blending into each other, becoming seamless, like waves that crash upon the shore and are renewed by more water, the same water, repeating endlessly the same patters with minor changes.

Each morning he arose and practiced his pathspace weaving, getting a little better, a little quicker in reshaping the flowing lines of tendency. He was never quick enough to satisfy Xander, who kept emphasizing that the smallest delay could mean the difference between surviving and not.

After lunch, they went to the metal workers and he made more _swizzles_ and invisibility shields, as many as he could manage, while Xander sat grimly at a table turning metal disks into everflames. The old wizard was too busy to show him how it was done, saying that he should concentrate on his pathspace until he had mastered that. Later he could move on to other weavings.

In the late afternoon they would troop up to Aria's garden floors, where Xander spent his time refreshing the ceiling glowtubes that would keep Aria's gardens blooming through the long winter ahead.. After dinner Lester would resume reading his way through the old wizard's bookshelves, searching for clues in the old volumes that lines the walls of the wizard's den. He supposed that Xander must have done the same thing, but another set of eyes could not hurt.

He wasn't even sure what he was searching for, but there had to be something.

"Did the Tourists have any kind of weapons?" he asked Xander one evening. The older man did not answer immediately, distracted by something he held cupped in his hands. "What is that?"

Xander was about to drop it into a pocket of his robe. He hesitated, then changed his mind and held out the hand, palm up, and opened it.

Lying in his palm was a flat round locket from which the chain had broken off, long ago. Framed by the old metal was a portrait carved in stone, of a woman's face seen in profile. The whole thing was only an inch or two across. Lester had never seen anything like it. "It's an old art form called a cameo.. Some people still make them, from time to time.

"Where it you find it?"

"I had it made." The old wizard seemed lost in thought.

"So it was someone you knew? Was it your mother, or someone special?" For some reason, the profile reminded him of Aria. Lester wondered if he could find someone to make a portrait of her.

"Someone special," said Xander.

"What happened? Did she marry another? Or did one of the plagues take her?"

Xander snapped the locket shut and dropped it into his pocket. "Neither," he said, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he looked away. "She was already married, to an important man. I couldn't take her away from him."

"But _you're_ an important man! You're the only wizard in Rado!"

Xander grimaced. "You won't find many people who agree with that," he said. "And besides, you're wrong. You're becoming one too, and at the rate your ability is growing, you will be a greater wizard than I ever was."

"I don't know about that. But what about the girl? How could you just give up on her like that? Didn't she love you too?" Lester brooded on it. "All right, you said she was already married. I can see you;d respect that. But people don't live forever. Is he still alive?"

"No. He died years ago."

Lester let his bafflement show. "Then why don't you go to her? Did you find someone else?"

The wizard sighed. "Maybe I should have, but no. She's the only one." He seemed to finally notice Lester's questioning face. "And I never gave up on her, either. I know, it sounds ridiculous. There used to be a saying: 'no fool like an old fool'. One day you'll understand."

"I'm not sure I want to." _I hate it when adults say that to me!_ He knew that most humans go through the same kinds of learning experiences, but he had always resented the smugness of it, the certainty that he'd always come to the same conclusions that they had.

Xander looked at him, seeming to read his mind, and shook his head. "I know, you won't grow up to be the same as me. You'll make your own mistakes."

Lester raised an eyebrow. "So you think love is a mistake, now?"

"Never. But it can lead to mistakes. When you look at Aria, remember that."

## Chapter 84

### Xander: "And I would do it again"

After Lester fell asleep Xander tried to follow suit but found he could not. Old thoughts and memories had been stirred, and would not settle. That stupid locket! He should have thrown the damned thing away long ago. But he couldn't.

Arising, he groped for this staff and went to the door and threw back the bar on the other side with a mental flick of pathspace.

Karl, the guard on duty, startled, tried to block his path. "Um," he said, swallowing, "you're supposed to stay here at night. Governor's orders."

"I'm aware of that. But I need to see the Governor."

"Can't it wait?"

He could see the guard was nervous. Caught between a Wizard and his Governor. But he had no time for this. "Maybe it can," he said. "But _I_ can't. Oh, put away your sword, Karl. You don't really want to fight me. If you like, you can come with me." Seeing the man hesitate, he added "Unless you want me to knock you out with magic. Don't worry, I'll see to it you don't get in trouble."

Glumly, worry plain on his face, the guard followed him to the stairwell.

After they had gone up a few floors and were resting on a landing, Karl finally has to ask. "What is it that you can't wait for morning to say to her? Is it a new idea for the defenses?"

"No." Xander didn't volunteer anything further.

"Only it's late and she's probably asleep, you know. She won't thank either of us for waking her. Maybe you're not worried about that, being the court Wizard and all. But I'm just a guard."

Xander glanced at the man's uniform. "You're only a private," he said. "She can't demote you any lower."

"She could throw me out of the Army!"

"When we're about to be invaded? I don't think so. And like I said, I'll make sure nothing happens to you for this. You should trust me, soldier. _She_ does."

Karl chewed on that the rest of the way up to Kristana's floor.

There was no avoiding another "discussion" with the guards posted outside the Governor's floor. Standing there in the stairwell, Xander could feel himself beginning to lose patience. "I need to see Her Excellency," he repeated. "We both know she'll see me if you'd just let me in."

"Actually, I don't know that. Not this late." The guard did not move from in front of the door.. "And _we_ both know she needs her sleep."

"I'm tired too," growled Xander. "But this is important, damn it!" He could hear his voice getting louder but was too tired and annoyed to master his irritation."

The door behind the guard swung open and a weary Kristana regarded both of them.

"The two of you are arguing about my rest so loudly," she said, " that I can't get any. You might as well let him in, Loyd, so we can all have some peace."

Xander and the guard shared a rueful glance, looking for a moment like unruly schoolboys caught by a teacher, and then Loyd stepped aside, abashed. "You might as well stay here, Karl," said Xander. "I'll be back shortly "

Karl's face wore a resigned look that said plainly that he doubted that, but Xander had no time for niceties at the moment. It was true that he and the Governor both needed sleep, and the sooner he finished this meeting, the better.

Kristana ambled back into down the hall to her outer office and plopped herself down behind a desk. "So what couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

He grabbed a chair himself and regarded her. He could still see the beautiful woman he had met, so many years before, now trapped behind a mask of authority and tiny wrinkles. "The aftermath," he said.

She raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue, so he did. "We've been so focused on how we're going to repel this invasion that we haven't considered what we do next."

"Speak for yourself," she yawned. "I meet with my planners every day."

"You know what I mean," he said. "Simply avoiding being conquered isn't enough. We have to have a lasting peace, and that means forging alliances."

"With who?" she snorted. "Wyoming? Those communalists can barely defend themselves, let alone help us."

"No," he said. "With Texas."

"Are you out of your mind? They're the ones trying to crush us!"

"The Honcho is, sure. But he won't live forever. From what I've seen, the Runt appears more amenable to negotiations than his father."

"They tried to kidnap my daughter. And rescuing her nearly got you killed." She crossed her arms and lowered her eyebrows. "We don't need Texas."

"Actually, we do." Xander coughed and leaned back in his chair. "There is no way to accomplish the General's Dream without it. Unless the new Union encompasses every lost State on the continent, we'll have enemies at our backs when we try to reach out to the rest of the world." He knew that invoking her memories of the General wasn't exactly fair, but he couldn't help it.

"If we defeat them this time, we can defeat them again later," she muttered.

"If we can bring them to an alliance, we won't have to fight them again," he countered.

"Why should they agree to anything with us? They don't need us."

"Actually, they do. This invasion isn't just about neutralizing us as a potential threat. He wants to expand his armies and territories, and we have the gold he needs to do that." Xander paused. "If he finds he can't take it by force, by occupying us and our mines, then he'll realize he has to negotiate for it."

She studied him. "And what does he, or rather, Texas, have that we need?"

"More farmland, for one thing. Our population is growing, in case your planners haven't noticed. Texas has beef and crops. We both now the old Union wasn't held together by force. What glued the United States together was the synergy of trade. Every region has its own peculiarities, its own produce and trade items, and the more States we incorporate into the new Union the better off we will be. Not just to restore the grand Union that was lost. We will all be better off when the internal wars are over and all the areas can trade freely again."

She shook her head. "All right," she said. "I'm not crazy either. You know I'd rather have peace than worry about invasions all the time. If we can find a way to conclude an alliance with Texas, we will. Satisfied?"

"It's a start," he said. "But you need to have your people begin crafting the terms as soon as possible. And the treaty will be a model for many others, so it needs to be expandable when we bring other countries to the table to consider joining. We can't give Texas a better deal than anyone else."

She frowned but nodded. "is that it? Are we done?"

"One other thing," he said. "As you know, I can make everflames, and I've been with your chief armorer cranking them as as quickly as I can in case we need to use them to fight."

"So?"

"When the invasion is over, I want to start giving them away. I'll keep making them, and eventually Lester will be able to help me, but I want us to start distributing them to the people, one per family."

"Your communalist roots are showing, wizard. Tell me why we should give them away."

Another coughing fit delayed his answer. "Well, for several reasons. For one thing, winter is coming."

Kristana rolled her eyes. "We have plenty of firewood."

"We have trees, true. But with a growing population we will need all the lumber we can get for building. Right now there are a few everflames scattered about Rado in smithies and inns and the like. But if every family had one, our homes would be warm without burning up our trees as firewood."

"So you want us to just give them away? For free?"

"Free to our citizens, yes. We can also export them as trade goods. Think of the prestige Rado will have when we are the only source of them. People in other countries will envy our citizens. It could even be a way to get more countries to join our Union. Think about it! We could give away some free samples, and then make them pay if they want more. But they'll know they can have all the everflames they need...for free...if they become part of the new United States."

She snorted at that. "You think big, I'll give you that. But I don't want you working yourself to death to give people free magic."

"I won't have to do it all. I'll spend a little part of each day making some, and Lester will help me when he learns how."

"The same reasoning applies to your apprentice," she said. "I won't have you working _him_ to death, either."

"Once we get my School up and running, we'll be able to train more apprentices. Right now it's just me, but it'll grow quickly, like a snowball rolling downhill."

"I smell a hidden agenda. What are you really aiming at, here?"

He shrugged. "Same as I ever was. Making more wizards. I don't know whether it's something anyone can do, or if some people just have a natural aptitude for it, but one thing I _do_ know is that developing the ability to do 'magic' requires long-term exposure to the Gifts. We'll start with everflames and swizzles. When he get enough of them into the hands of the people, then we'll grow a crop of potential wizards in the next generation. In time – "

"Swizzles too?"

"Yes. It was a swizzle back in Wyoming that started me on my path. Your citizens can use them to bring water out of wells and to fan the flames of forges. Your people will be better off, and you'll eventually have more wizards to help defend Rado and make more things."

"But if we export them to other zones," she objected, "won't that destroy our advantage? If you're right, they'll be having more wizards too."

"It takes a long time to make an apprentice," he said. "We won't export at first, so our own citizens will feel the effects before anyone else. We'll be way ahead of them for quite a while. And Rado becoming known as a source of wizards might make the others countries more willing to ally with us."

"You're forgetting something," she said. "The Church will oppose you. They'll tell the people not to accept the Gifts. They'll order families not to let their children near them if they suspect it will lead them 'astray'...into learning magic."

"Yes," he sighed. "But every winter that comes will make their members long for the convenience of everflames heating their homes and cooking their food without smoke or having to chop firewood. And every summer will make them wish they had coldboxes to help their food keep longer. We'll win in the long run."

## Chapter 85

### Aria: "Neither fear nor courage saves us"

Indifferent stars glittered overhead in the cold of early winter as she emerged onto the rooftop. "I've been looking for you," she said.

Xander was sitting near a corner of the roof and gazing out over the decayed city, where a little snow had fallen. More would be coming. He turned at the sound of her voice, slowly, as if he had been expecting someone. "Oh? Is something wrong?"

She paced over to sir down near him. "I'm sure many things are wrong. People are sick and children are hungry, somewhere. Soon men are going to kill each other again, and I see no way to prevent it. But that's not why I'm here."

Xander regarded her. Aria studied his face, seeing things she had never noticed before. His eyes. His chin. Even the shape of his nose. If you knew what to look for, the resemblance to what she saw in the mirror every day was so clear. Why had she never noticed it before? Had others? "I want to know about my mother," she said.

His eyebrows lifted. "I'm sure you know her as well as I do."

She reddened a little. "Not in the same way. Tell me how the two of you met."

His eyes shifted, gazing past her at nothing. She could almost see him sliding back along the line of his life, to a time before she even existed. "It almost didn't happen. I was just out of Wyoming, wandering through northern Rado, and I stopped into a little village called Dustfall, a mining town where it was common for customers to pay for supplies with a palm of gold dust panned from the placer deposits that wash downstream from eroded veins."

He closed his eyes, sinking into the memory. "Not me, of course. I knew nothing about mining at the time. I hadn't intended to venture into the local inn, but then I saw the horses."

Unwilling to disturb his reverie, she edged closer to the man she now knew was her father and whispered "the horses?"

He nodded, eyes still shut. "They say you can tell a lot about a man by his shave, haircut, and shoes. Maybe that's true, some places. But in Dustfall, a lot of the prospectors were just back in after spending days or weeks out in the wilderness, avoiding their own kind for the most part to keep secret the locations of their strikes. It's pretty hard for a man or woman out by themselves to guard a stretch of river shallows."

She wasn't quite sure she had heard that right. "River shallows?"

"Yes. You see, with a larger group, you might be working an old mine or starting a new one. Sometimes gold is actually visible in the rock, sun-bright veins in quartz or whatever, easy to get at. You hack out the rock with a pick axe, pulverize it with hammers, slurry it with water or various solutions to wash away the slag, and the gold is left. The veins are down inside a mine and the opening can be guarded with a couple of bowmen.

"But with the loners who go solo, the mining is a lot of work to do by themselves. Most of them go for the placer deposits. When thousands of years of rain erosion exposes a vein and wears down the rock, the water flows downhill to a creek or river. When there's a hard rain or enough snow melt in the spring, the river runs hard enough to wash the rock and gold dust downstream where it ends up in the shallows, often near bends in the river, where the water slows down enough that the gold-bearing mud settles to the bottom.

"If you find a spot like that, you're in business! All you have to do is scoop up some of the mud into a pan, add some river water, swirl it around until the lighter mud is washed away, and the gold is left there gleaming up at you like grains of solid sunlight. But unless your spot is heavily forested, your find is pretty exposed, hard for one man to guard when he has to sleep. So you avoid other people until you have enough to take it into town to bank it or buy more supplies."

"What does all that have to do with horses?"

"I'm getting to that. As I said, some say you can tell a lot about a man by the state of his face and his clothes. But that's not strictly true for solitary miners. When you don't want to spend too much money on food, and you're out there by yourself, well, let's just say personal grooming is not a high priority. Every minute spent washing clothes or shaving is a minute you could have spent panning out some more gold dust, follow me? So when a solitary prospector comes into town, he'll more likely than not to be a pretty scruffy fellow. Even the ladies. Can't tell anything from his or her appearance. A ragged sleeve or an unshaven face doesn't mean he has no self-respect or doesn't care about how he looks. It means he was concentrating on what would make the most money.

"But his horse is the exception. A man who doesn't take care of his horse is a man who might not make it back next time. If you run into claim jumpers or hostile strangers, or manage to injure yourself or get sick, your horse is what gets you out of danger or back to civilization. So if you want to know who the best miners are, the ones who care if they live or die, then look to their horses and tack, not whether they have dirt behind their ears."

"I see," she said, not really caring about that detail much. She had no plans to become a prospector. But she knew by now they the only way to hear the story was to let Xander tell it the way it came back to him.

"Anyway, I was strolling through the center of Dustfall, fresh off the farm, so to speak, and I see the most beautiful horse in a hundred miles tied up outside the inn. Big, bright eyes, nicely built, and white as snow." He rubbed his chin. "A gray. That's the funny thing, you call a white horse a gray. I didn't even know that, back then. And his saddle and gear was in perfect order, not a bit of tack out of place, gleaming leather. I'd seen good horses before, but even the best weren't this clean, this fine, especially not just back from the wilderness. And there were a few more tied up next to it that were nearly as good-looking."

"So what did you do, steal it?"

He opened his eyes and stared at her, shocked. "What? No way. There were two men with crossbows guarding them. But looking at that animal, I thought, there's a man who knows what he's doing. I wonder what he's doing out here in Dustfall? So I decided to go in the inn for a look-see. Who knows? Maybe he had work for me."

Xander laughed. "Picture the scene. I'm barely more than a kid, twenty summers old, hardly any skills to speak of. Couldn't even ride a horse! And dumb enough to think I could talk my way into a job with someone like that. But I went in.

"I go in, and there he is, talking to a bunch of folks in the common room of the inn. What you would call 'ruggedly handsome' with a strong chin, piercing hazel eyes, and dark hair cut short, going gray at the temples. What he's saying doesn't make any sense to me, at first, but the people in there are hanging on every word as if he were about to tell them where a ton of gold is waiting to be found."

The old wizard coughed. "But what he's talking about is America. Now I knew by that time that it was the old name for this continent, named after some foreign mapmaker, but he's talking about it as if it were a country. One country! A country as big as a continent. And I remember some of the crap the elders back at the commune used to say, that is _was_ one country, back before the Tourists and the Fall. So I figure he's talking about our history, and I decide to keep listening, to see if his story agrees with the ones we used to pass around with the soup."

He started coughing again at that point, and one of the guards on the roof watching for signals came over to offer him his canteen. Xander took a swig of it and handed it back, smiling his thanks.

"But he wasn't talking about history. He was talking about the future. I almost laughed out loud, at the idea that all the countries here now would stop fighting and just agree to be one big country again. What a ridiculous idea! But he kept talking about it, and nobody laughed, not even me. He _believed_ it, you see, and he believed it so hard it was like a drunk passing around his bottle and getting the whole room drunk with him. Pretty soon he had me believing it was possible too, and I realized right then and there that this guy was someone special."

By this point Aria knew who he was talking about. Her heart was beating a little faster now. "So you asked him for a job?"

Xander laughed, but not in a cruel sort of way. "No. By then I'd heard one of the men call him the General and I thought, no way am I going to get myself killed being one of his soldiers. He wasn't even really recruiting, as I learned later. His style was more to put out his message and move on, and wait for the ones who thought it over and decided to come look him up." Xander brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes. "He didn't want someone coming to join him on a whim and then changing their mind later just as quickly. He'd sow the seeds, and wait for the harvest. It was a smart approach. The ones who had time to make up their minds usually stayed with him longer."

Xander looked out over the city again. She followed his gaze, and saw the old buildings, some fallen, some standing, like cornstalks after a harvest. Islands of order in a crumbled wasteland of decay. In some of the buildings, she could see the old girders exposed like ribs of a carcass picked clean by scavengers. Good building stone is easier to remove from a toppled tower. Why crack it free from a quarry when so many megatons are there there for the taking?

She brushed back her own hair with one hand and pictured the scene he was describing. She could see how it might have been, but it wasn't what she was waiting to hear. "So what _did_ you do?"

"I had a drink. Hadn't planned on it, but he bought the room a round, and there I was, so I grabbed a mug and listened some more. Why not? I was thirsty, and he was buying.

"One thing led to another, and you know how it is with beer. Before I knew it, I was heading outside to get rid of some used beer that didn't want to be inside me any more. There were outhouses in back, and I headed for one. And then I saw her, in the light of a full moon."

He paused, and she could see he wasn't looking at the city now, but at an inner vision. "She was hardly much older than you are now, and short, but well put together." He looked left and right to check that the guards were not close enough to hear him. "You're taller, got that from me, so it's good that he was too. She was heading back in as I was heading out, and we passed each other without a word. But before we did, someone opened the back door of the inn, probably someone with the same need as me, and the light from inside spilled out and showed me her face."

He put his head down for a moment before he continued. "I felt like my heart had stopped. When I saw her face, it was like everything stopped. I say we passed each other, but, really, she passed me on her way back inside, because I was just stopped there, frozen, staring at the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

"I did what I had gone out to do, but when I was finished I went right back in looking for her. Found her of course. There was no missing that face – it was branded on my eyeballs. But she wasn't looking back at me, of course. She was looking at him, at the General, and I could see from the worship in her eyes that she was with him. In that moment, I knew that I had fallen in love with another man's woman."

Aria was silent for a moment. She tried to imagine how that must have felt, having that strong a feeling, a yearning, for someone who was already paired. "What did you do?"

"I left town," he said, " and I never saw her again."

"What??" He was kidding her, and the anticlimax left her wanting to slap him. "Is everything just a joke to you?"

Xander chuckled. "Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood for myself. What I actually did was ask one of his men where they were headed next. I had a honest-looking face back then, long before I became the wicked old rascal you know. Once I knew where they were heading, another frontier town called Panning, about twenty miles to the east, I started walking."

"Why didn't you stay at the inn?"

He shrugged. "No money for it. We hadn't used it at the commune, so I'd been working my way South doing whatever I could find in the way of odd jobs, like washing dishes, loading and unloading wagons and the like. I wanted to see her again, fool that I was, and I figured the General and his men would start out early, so I walked most of the way to the next town and slept under the stars. And that's where it happened."

"What? What happened? That's where you saw her again?"

He shook his head no. "It was a day like today, with the winter coming on, but not a cloud in the sky. While I was lying there, looking up at the stars, I found myself thinking about what the General had been talking about back at the inn in Dustfall. Somewhere up there, the Tourists were in their sky-ship, wandering between the distant suns the way I was drifting between towns.

"Yes, I still wanted to see Kristana again, though I didn't know her name. I didn't expect she'd ever leave the General, but I had a young man's optimism, and I wanted to be near her. At the same time, though. I was thinking about the Tourists, and what they'd done to our civilization, the civilization the General was trying to put back together. I realized that simply lining up armies and putting countries back together wasn't enough. Armies hadn't kept us together the first time. Sure, they'd conquered territory and amassed land to make countries, but what had held the countries together, at least until the Tourists came along, was the technology. Our civilization didn't crumble because our armies failed. It Fell because the technology had failed.

"I lay there under the stars asking myself why it had all happened. Why weren't _we_ out there now among the stars like the Tourists? Technology doesn't go backward. It gets better and stronger until you can do things like leaving the Earth and traveling the skies.

"But the skies were too big to imagine, so I thought of the Earth like a small town, that the Tourists had stopped over at like the General and his men. Then it was suddenly obvious to me."

He'd lost her in the turnings of his recollection now. "What was obvious?"

"What had happened. What we needed. Suppose the General had stopped at a town with no wagons and left them one. It'd sure come in handy hailing things around. But if they didn't know how to fix it when the axles broke or the wheels came off, it would stay broken. And if they didn't know how to make another one, they'd be right back where they started.

"And that's what had happened to us, only worse. The Gifts the aliens traded us had started failing, and we'd built them into our technology without ever learning how to maintain or make 'em. So we lost the technology that held out countries together, and it all crumbled down to where it is today."

"Why didn't they rebuild it, the way it was before the Tourists came? We still had the scientists and engineers, didn't we?"

He smiled a sad smile. "Great question. The answer is twofold. First, we still had scientists but their workshops were all funded and maintained by the countries and large corporations. You don't find a scientist or an engineer making a fusion reactor in his basement. Those sorts of efforts take money, and lots of it, and mostly only the governments and corporations had that kind of money. When the technology broke down, and chaos descended upon the lands, with panic, starvation and disease, without the means of transporting large amounts of food or medicine around, governments fell and countries splintered into city-states and kingdoms. The paper and 'electronic' money they were using became useless without the governments to back it up, and the Fall kept falling. Lot of people died. Without large populations to tax, what remained in the way of local governments were poor. A poor government doesn't support much in the way of research and development. It concentrates on defending itself from other gangs.

"The only dependable transportation was horses, and so blacksmiths became important again, but the factories, the laboratories, and the schools that trained specialists for them all vanished like the big countries. Instead of huge and great, all we had was a lot of small and simple. We survived as a species, at the cost of going backwards into the way of life we'd had centuries before.

"I lay there thinking about these things, and I thought about what little I'd learned about the Gifts, like how to make a swizzle and control it without touching it, and suddenly I realized that if I could learn this, if I could learn how to make and maintain the Gifts, then I, and anyone who could learn what I knew, was what we needed to build our civilization. I didn't see anyone else doing it, so it appeared that it all depended on me."

Aria smiled. "Sounds like a lot for a twenty-year old to be taking on."

"Oh, it was. I knew that one man, wandering about making a swizzle here and there, wasn't enough to get the momentum going. It was going to take dozens, hundreds, thousands of people like me. That's when I first had the idea of setting up a school to train them."

"Just one school? For the entire world?"

"No, you're right. Even a whole school full of us wouldn't be enough. But it would be a start. And some of the people I trained could go off and start their own schools. It might take a hundred years, maybe two hundred. But even that would be better than the two _thousand_ years it took us the first time, going from horse-drawn carts to automobiles and airplanes. So then and there, that starry night, I dedicated myself to it. Well, to two things, actually. To founding a school, and staying near your mother and the General."

He laughed at the folly of youth. "The next day I finished walking to the next town and found the local blacksmith. He was rolling some pipe for a well a local farmer needed to sink. I showed him how I could make a swizzle for his forge that was better than a hand-pumped bellows, and in return for that and a few hours work helping him with his work, I got a short length of pipe. And I waited.

"Sure enough, the General and his men and Kristana came riding into Panning that afternoon. They hadn't started out as early as I thought they would. He'd bought a few too rounds too many, and he was probably slower setting out than he would have preferred. But he got there, and when he did, I was waiting for him. When he swung down off his horse, I was there by the watering trough. "General," I said, "you don't know it yet, but you need my help and I need yours."

Xander shook his head. "If I had any more sense, I might have been afraid to say anything. But I was young, in love, and now I had my own Dream, different from his, maybe, but not incompatible with it.

"He just stared at me with a little smile. 'Colorado needs good men,' he said. 'Do you have a horse and a bow?' No, I said, but I have something none of your men have. He looked like he was about to laugh. 'And what's that?' he asked me. Magic, I said.

"I showed him the length of pipe I had, maybe a foot long, barely wide enough to stick your thumb in it. I stuck it in the watering trough and nothing happened. 'Son,' he said to me, 'I've seen metal pipe before. Blacksmithing might seem like magic, but it isn't."

"I know, I said. But have you ever seen anyone do this before? And I concentrated on the pipe in my hand, made it into a swizzle, and stuck one end of it into the water again. This time the water shot up out of it making a little fountain. It splashed me, of course, but I didn't care, because by then I really had his attention. He looked at that little fountain I was holding. Then he looked a me. His eyes were a little wider now. 'Now _that_ is magic,' he said. 'What else can you do?'

"I don't know, I told him. But I know I can can learn more, and I can probably teach others, too. For that I need a patron, someone to help me build a school. I've heard your dream, and I'm ready to tell you mine. Want to have magic working for you?"

"He was still staring at the swizzle, but he heard me. So were his men. 'Let's go inside and talk about it, wizard,' he said.

"Sitting around a table, we did. 'What do you want, for pay, a bag of gold? I have to warn you, I'm not a rich man,' he said.

"Fresh from the commune, knowing little of money, I told him no, I didn't need any gold. All I need, I told him, is a roof over my head, food to stay alive, and time to myself to learn as much as I can about this magic. And when I'm ready, a school to teach it to others.

"He smiled at that and looked at his men. 'Anything else?'

"Yes, I told him, after a moment's thought. Any bits of the old magic that your men find, that I might be able to learn from, and any of the old books they run across, I want those. Deal?

"I'll never forget his handshake. I could feel the strength he still had then, long before the consumption took him. 'Son,' he said, 'I think you'd better come with me to Denver.'"

Xander sighed. "And that's when two dreams came together, and I became the court wizard to the government of Rado. I still haven't built my school, but I got everything else that I wanted."

"Like being with my mother."

He dropped his gaze. "Yes," he whispered. "That too." He raised his head, then, and stared into her eyes. "Which is why you are here, and why we are going to beat the Honcho."

"With the tanks he has? How?"

"I'm still working on it," he said.

## Chapter 86

### Peter: "Those who walk in darkness"

#

By mid-November they were finally ready. The tanks were gassed up, the refueling trucks were topped off, the last rounds of new ammunition loaded, and the crews assembled. There was no ceremony that spies might have observed. They all climbed in and on the vehicles and set out at dawn.

Brutus tried to talk him out of going, of course, but Martinez had overruled him. "I want to see it happen," he'd told Glock, as he climbed aboard the leading tank. "You can't expect me to set this all up and then just sit back in Dallas waiting for a report."

Ludlow was on the tank already in his new uniform. Peter had to smile at that. The crossed wrenches on the man's shoulder patches identified him as belonging to the new Corps of Engineers, a cover story they'd agreed upon for the wizard. He was sitting just forward of the turret, cradling in his arms the lie they'd built for him: a metal box covered with gemstones that seems to glow in the early morning sunlight, and enough dials and switches set in the top of it to make it look like some ancient piece of arcane technology.

Some of the men had been a little nervous about being spotted on the move, even in the heavily armored vehicles. They'd been told that Ludlow had found and fixed up an ancient cloaking device that would hide them from observers long enough to get them into striking distance. As far as he knew, they'd believed it. They must have, since no complaints had reached him from the Pope about using a 'demon-trafficking' wizard in his little army. 'Captain Ludlow' had been presented to the troops as a tireless researcher whom they'd had no need to know of, until now.

"Ready when you are, sir," said Glock.

Peter settled himself with his back against the steel of the turret and look at Brutus. A quote from Shakespeare came to him, from _Julius Caesar_ , written using _The Life of Marcus Brutus_ from Plutarch's Lives. A smile came to his lips. "Cry 'Havoc!'," he said, "and let slip the dogs of war.'"

"Forward!" Brutus called down to the driver, who threw the already-humming motor into gear and the ancient weapon surged forward, treads grinding the dust of the road.

Once the convoy was underway, he thought back to the conversation earlier regarding the Governor's stronghold. Perhaps he should reconsider his decision to spare the old skyscraper. Did he have enough men to mount a thorough sweep of all the floors and rooms in so massive a structure? He could do no less, he knew, because even a small force hidden on one of the floors could undermine his establishing a regional overseer. It would never do to have gone to all this trouble only to have the building, once it was under new management, fall to assault from within.

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that his original idea was the better one. Bringing down Kristana's symbol of power and authority would go a long way toward convincing the citizens of Rado that they belonged to the Lone Star Empire now. Surely there were plenty of other abandoned buildings in downtown Denver. It would be far easier for his mis soldiers to empty one of any squatters than to root our determined fighters in the Governor's fortress.

His breath fogged in the chilly morning air. winter was here. Doubtless it was even colder in Denver. Would there be any problems operating their vehicles in the colder air there? He recalled his chief engineer shaking his head. These ancient engines, according to what the man had read in the old manuals, could operate almost anywhere on the planet. The only significant difference between Abilene and Denver, he'd been told, was the elevation. In Denver, the air would be a little thinner, which could affect the fuel-air mixture exploding in then cylinders that drove these eldritch machines. But according to the manuals the ancient designers had planned for even such situations as this. The mechanisms in the engines were built to compensate automatically for differences in air pressure to ensure that there was enough oxygen in the mixture the cylinders received. That is, provided those systems still worked.

He was second-guessing himself, he knew, but it was hard not to keep going over the plan of attack in his mind, looking for things that could go wrong. One real problem was the inability to bring as many troops as he would have liked. Without stationing groups of fresh mounts, there was no way mounted men and their horses could hope to keep up with the motor-driven vehicles. That would have been too hard to hide from spies, and would have cost him the element of surprise.

He could, of course, had ordered that they move at a more sedate pace, to allow the cavalry to keep up without exhausting the animals. But that would have slowed his invasion to a crawl. What was the point of having tanks that could sweep northward at upwards of fifty miles per hour, if he held them to a mere five so that horses could trot alongside mile after mile? And moving that slowly would, itself, have cost him the element of surprise.

Denver was, by the old maps, over seven hundred miles away. At a mere five miles per hour that would have taken him 140 hours – nearly a week! At their current speed, however, they would be there in lest than a day. Perhaps a little more, if they had to refuel en route. He grinned to himself, envisioning Kristana's astonishment when his forces just _appeared_ outside her door.

That reminded him. He leaned over to Ludlow, who was still cradling his piece of make-believe equipment. "Are you going to be able to hold the invisibility shield all the way to Denver?" He knew he had asked this question before, but now that they were on their way, he couldn't stop wondering about that.

Ludlow peered at him from beneath his Stetson, still looking uncomfortable in the blue-and red uniform they'd provided him with. "Not if I fall asleep for too long. I've been practicing, and the spell should hold for up to an hour or two, but no more, before it will need refreshing. I'll need to rest sometime, but I guess I'll have to do that in short naps rather than a decent night's sleep."

The drivers would have the same problem, but whereas they'd set up a rotation to ensure someone rested was always at the wheel while other snoozed (or as well as they could given the noise and vibration of the motors), there was no one to relieve Ludlow at his post as the maintainer of their invisibility. He'd just have to catnap as best he could until this was over.

They continued on. In a few minutes they'd be turning from the old 84 W onto 87 N, which would take the most of the way until they joined what was left of 25 N just below the border of Rado. A couple of his advisers had wondered whether the weight of the tanks bearing down on the road surface with metal treads would do irreparable damage to the ancient surfaces. But other advisers had disagreed. According to their research, older and smaller roads would have suffered, but the main highways had been resurfaced with composite materials that could easily handle the loads involved. You could even tell the difference by sight, they had argued. The older, smaller roads had faded to light gray and succumbed to innumerable cracks and potholes from subsidence of the underlying ground, they maintained, whereas the more modern roads were still a uniform dark gray and had held up might better than the simple asphalt-and-grit surfaces they had replaced. Apparently the newer roads had cost more but were built to last.

Peter studied the road ahead of them and saw the yea-sayers had been right. The road was dark and smooth. Only the occasional crack betrayed its antiquity. He was glad he had listened to the second group of advisers and not the worriers. Sure, he could have directed the convoy to drive on the shoulder of the road . . . but they would have kicked up a lot of dust, and that would have attracted the attention of observers even if 'Captain' Ludlow's magicking was successful in blocking sight and sound of the actual vehicles.

So far, everything was going according to plan. Part of him was not happy with the idea of using a wizard. Not because of the Church; he wasn't worried about so-called demons. It was, rather, the inconsistency in policy that Ludlow's presence implied.

Hell, if he was going to worry about that, all he had to do was remember where his fuel came from. Here he was trying to build a new civilization without magic, without the "Gifts" of the Tourists . . . but to do that he was using fuel sucked out of the ground with swizzles and cooked with everflames.

He wasn't troubled by it. The old quote from Emerson came to him: "a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines." We deal with such wise inconsistencies all the time, he thought. We know fire is deadly. It destroys forests, eats houses and roasts the incautious. But we heat our homes with it and survive the winter.

So too with magic. I won't have a civilization based on it, but when there is no other way, not in the short term, I'll use whatever works.

Speaking of magic, that wizard of Kristana's would undoubtedly be at the battle. Should he be worried about that? He might be pulling the same invisibility trick. But my invisible tanks beat your invisible horses or archers, he thought.

He was actually more worried about the wizard or his apprentice escaping. Or Ludlow! He glanced at the man beside him out of the corner of his eye. The thought of someone who could walk up to you unseen, with a knife or even a big stick, was enough to make his skin crawl. Kristana's wizards had to die, and he was going to have to dispose with Ludlow himself soon. Just how soon was a tricky decision. If Ludlow thought it was going to happen soon he might try to slip away in the confusion of a battle.

## Chapter 87

### Kristana: "I too awaited the expected guest"

Her daughter passed her on the stairwell, going down as she went up. Or do I have that backward? Is she ascending into the noble (if impractical) ruminations of philosophy from the idealism of her youth, while I descend once more into the practical (if bloody) business of defending my land, my citizens, and those I love?

Enough. Aria seemed less troubled, for whatever reason, so Kristana left it at that and didn't speak as they passed. Pushing the door to the rooftop open, she was surprised to see Xander seated out there. Aria must have been speaking with him, and from her untroubled countenance one could infer that at least they had not argued. She tried to imagine the shock of it. Bad enough to be a young woman expected to put aside all other ambitions to assume the mantle of leadership for a country. That she knew, herself, from experience. But add to that the disconcerting revelation that you are the child of the court wizard, the odd man none seemed to know well, whose main furnishings and possessions were old books and bits of alien technology. Imagine discovering that some feared sorcerer were your father, rather than the beloved General.

She left her guard at the door and moved closer to him. He seemed oblivious, and yet when she was within a couple of paces of his position he let he know he was aware of her.

"What can I do for you, your Excellency?"

Rather than get right to it, she decided on an indirect approach. "I passed Aria on her way down. Were the two of you speaking? She seemed calmer than before."

"Yes. She was asking how we met. Dustfall seems a thousand years ago. But she does seem to be coming to terms with her unexpected lineage."

Dustfall? She tried to remember it. One of the stops on her husband's recruiting trips. She, a young woman barely into her adulthood, still barely believing the older man could actually love a nothing like her, watching the faces of the people in the inn as they listened to the General dream out loud for them. "Were you there?"

He glanced at her. "It was where I first saw both of you. I'm not surprised you don't remember. I didn't speak to you, not then, though we passed each other in the moonlight behind the inn." He fell silent for a bit, then resumed. "After hearing him, and seeing you, I walked most of the night toward Panning, to meet up with you again there the next night."

"You never told me that." How like him, she thought. There I was, waiting to meet him, not knowing it, and also not knowing we'd already passed at the town before that. It reminded her of one of the things she'd come to discuss. "Do you really think he'll come before Spring?"

He didn't have to ask who she meant. "No question about it. With the snows we've been having, it's a stupid time to attack, at least with horses, and since we know that, he'll expect us to think he'll wait. But he won't."

"Why not?"

"Because he won't be bringing any horses. His little motorized army will be moving too fast for them to keep up, and we both know with ice and snow the footing will be bad for horses anyway. Plus there's the morale issue."

What was that supposed to mean? "Oh?"

Xander sighed. "This is only his first attack with the tanks and troop carriers, so he'll want to make a good first impression on his troops. Make them feel invincible so they'll be ready to move on other countries soon. For that reason, I can't seem him letting it be a matter of dueling horse-archers. What he'll want his men to see is themselves, in tanks and trucks, overrunning an outclassed rabble with horses and crossbows. So he won't bring any horses."

"You mean, he won't want any of his forces to seem on the same level as ours."

"Exactly."

"But isn't he putting a lot of faith in his refurbished vehicles? It seems to me that for all he knows they might have problems with the cold. If they break down on the way, or in the middle of battle, won't he look like a reckless fool?"

"He would," Xander granted. "But he's had some time to plan this since they cleared away the rubble and found that lost armory. If he comes at all, it will mean his advisers and engineers are betting their careers and lives on their ability to make the old machines work, even under these conditions."

She touched his shoulder, and when he turned his head she caught his eyes with hers. "How are we going to beat him? I know you haven't been killing yourself at the smithy just to make swizzles and everflames for the citizens."

"No," he agreed. "Not just for that. I have a plan, but since we know he might still have spies in Rado I've been keeping it to myself until the last minute. He can't hear a whisper of it. The slightest change in what I think his plans are would keep me from stopping him."

"And you're going to do this all by yourself? Because unless you are, you'd better tell me what you need to make it work."

"I was just about to do that. But will you promise me something first?"

Kristana shook her head. I will never understand how he thinks. Here we are facing destruction and he needs to hear a promise? "What is it?"

"If anything happens to me, but you still win...or at least survive the Honcho's attack, promise me you'll start my school for wizards. What I mean is, if after the battle you're still Governor you do it officially of course, but if we lose and you manage to escape to wherever, even if you're in hiding, promise me you'll start the school."

"How can you ask me to promise this, now? Are you crazy?"

"Never saner," he said. "And I think I've earned it, after serving Rado all this time. Don't you? We always talked about doing it, but it always got put off until later." He looked out over the city. When he resumed speaking his voice was barely above a whisper, but she could hear the desperation in it. "It's not for me, Kristana. It's for you. For everyone."

He turned to lock gazes with her. "The old world is crumbling. Humanity might make it back up the long climb to where we were before, before the Tourists. They might. Then again, they might not. If people like the Honcho win, we might just stay in an age of empires and wars for who knows how long before things change. Another Dark Ages! But you can prevent that."

She stared at him. "Me? How can I prevent it? I'm not even a wizard."

"It's like lighting a torch from another torch. That's fine if all you ever want to do is have one torch burning. But if you want to enlighten the whole planet, if you want to jump start our technology using what I've learned from the alien magic, you'll need more than one wizard, your Excellency. Blacksmithing survived because enough people knew it . Magic can do the same thing. It needs its own skills, its own guild. You can start it happening."

"Didn't you hear me? I can't do it without you. I'm no wizard."

"No," he said. "But Lester is. He can make it happen. With your help."

Kristana just looked at him. Why does this all feel so familiar? And then she knew. Her mind went back to a another man, on his deathbed, making her promise to keep a Dream alive. It was the General all over again. She put her hand on his shoulder. "We'll do it. With or without you, I promise your school will be born. Somehow we'll make it grow. In cities or in caves, officially or underground, it'll happen. Now, how do we beat the Honcho?"

## Chapter 88

### Peter: "Impatient to assume the world"

By mid-afternoon the thrill of riding on the front of the tank had faded and he climbed back over the turret and into the hatch to escape the dust and grit of the road. He was surprised that it was so roomy inside. Aft of the driver and gunner's seats, padded benches faced black screens rather than the windows he had expected. These, he was told, were 'monitors' that were supposed to show what was seen by electric eyes called "videocams" – though all were blank except one near the front on the left side, and all it showed was a black background occasionally peppered with white dots and lines. Not all of the tank's systems, it appeared, had survived the entombment of the buried armory.

Below the dark monitors were narrow rectangular hatches that turned out to be the windows he had expected. These were currently shut to keep out the chill of the air that had been growing ever colder as they sped North. He heard a hum as ancient ventilation blew filtered air into the confines of the interior.

Besides the driver, whose name he learned was Mathers, and the gunner, Thompson, there were only two others inside the tank with him. He tried not to imagine how it would have felt if the benches were full. Despite his initial impression of roominess, the interior was beginning to feel a little confining, especially since he could not see out The way he had always been able to see out of his horse-drawn limousine.

His mouth felt suddenly dry, and he looked around the interior for a canteen.

"Here you are, sir." One of the men was handing him a cup of water.

He thanked the man. "Don't know why I feel so dry all of a sudden."

"It's the filters, sir," the other man volunteered. "I saw in the manual this model was originally supposed to be able to fight anywhere.. Must have thought they'd be using them south of the border, down near Panama." The man took a sip from his own cup. "Anyways, the air intakes have filters to absorb moisture from the outside air before it gets in. Guess damp air must be bad for the electrical stuff." He grimaced. "We found 'em sealed in plastic boxes. If we'd known they'd dry us out this much we'd have left 'em packed up."

"Live and learn, corporal. We'll know better what to bring and what to leave home next time."

"Yessir. We're almost out of water as it is. And we'd sure appreciate it if we could stop soon, and, you know, let it back out."

He absorbed that in silence, thinking, yet another detail we didn't anticipate. When he'd been younger, out on campaigns fighting Okla and Newmex, you had to be careful to not overtax the horses, which made for natural stops along the trails and roadways. Now that they had these vehicles, it was the men, not the horses, you had to worry about. The sheer power of the motorized conveyances would tempt you to travel far from sources of water, as horses would not.

"It'll be dark soon," he said. "Well find a pond somewhere, break the ice and refill our water while the fuel truck is topping off the gas tank. We ought to be getting near Denver before midnight."

One of the men swallowed, but he wasn't swallowing water. "Er, you really sure you want to attack at night, sir?"

The Honcho smiled. "Does that worry you, son? I should think it'll be hard to miss the Governor's 'scraper, even at night, don't you? Not to mention, it'll be even harder for her lookouts to spot our trails."

The man tried to look brave. "Oh, I, uh, just wanted to be able to see 'em fall when we shoot 'em, sir."

Finding water turned out to be more of a challenge than he had thought it would be. They passed the remains of ancient truck stops and towns too far from rivers to survive the fall of civilization, and he looked at them wistfully, but there was no water to be had there. Given time, they could probably have located a pond or creek in the hills, but he elected not to take the time for it. It had snowed again, and when he climbed out to survey the area they were passing through, he could see that it might be hard to find even a shallow pond under the winter's blanket of white.

Instead, he told the driver to stop between towns, and they climbed out under the darkening sky to gather the snow itself Shielded from distant eyes and the bone-chilling wind in a dry gully by the shoulder of the old highway, they built a small fire and melted the snow, pouring the still-cold water into their canteens before climbing back to resume the drive.

When darkness fell there was a new magic, one he hadn't noticed before. Just as he wondered how he would feel in the closeness of the tank interior when it was emphasized by darkness, he noticed that it had stopped getting darker. A soft glow had somehow appeared inside the tank, preventing total darkness within.

"This thing has glowtubes?" He was amazed and delighted, remembering how it was in his father's time, before the last glowtubes in the old headquarters of the Lone Star Empire had finally died. He knew the lifespan of the ancient magic seemed random, that some tubes lasted longer than others, but somehow he had never dreamed that the ancient weapons of war would have some still alive within them.

In the dimness, the soldier who had shared his water hesitated, seeming unwilling to disappoint him. "Er, no sir. Not as such. Not the sort that glow by themselves." He pointed to the driver and gunner stations, where parts of the controls were glowing in tiny pinpoints of green and blue. "The manual calls them LEDs, sir. The engine generates power for them, as well as for the electric motors that swing and tilt the gun. And for the monitors, although the 'cams for them don't seem to work."

Ah, now he understood. Like glow-worms, the little light they put off had been too faint for him to notice when sunlight had still been pouring in the open hatch. Now the coming of night had let his eyes adjust to the dark enough to let him see the feeble illumination.

He did his best to hide his disappointment. "How clever. Do the manuals tell us how to make these LEDs?"

The man shrugged helplessly in the dimness. "I'm afraid not, sir. But on that panel over there, there are enough of them to read maps at night, at least."

"Do all of the tanks have them? In case we get separated in the dark?"

"I don't know sir. They should, but I don't know for sure. This is the tank I trained on."

More details to learn. Peter leaned forward to speak to the driver. "How far are we from Denver now?"

"Not that far. We crossed the border a while ago. We should be inside their outer lookouts within the hour."

"Good. Stop here for a few minutes. I want to confer with my Commanders."

Arranging for the convoy was a simple matter, since they were the lead vehicle. Once the tank stopped the others had to follow suit to avoid crashing into them. Peter clambered out of the tank and walked back.

Brutus, in the tank behind him, had already emerged. In their starlight it was hard to make out his expression, but it was probably impatience modulated by curiosity. "What's up?"

Peter waited for Jeffrey to join them before speaking. "One we get into Denver we won't have as much room to maneuver," he said. "Denver isn't Noodle."

"Neither is Noodle, anymore" Jeffrey said. "Thanks to us."

"My point is, we can't draw up the tanks in a line abreast, or anything like that, to concentrate our fire. My original plan was that we would keep making passes pounding rounds into the foundations of her fortress until we bring it down.

"And if we have to bring it down, we will. But that's not our primary objective, actually, is it? We're here to begin the conquest of Rado. With a larger army we would have begun at the border, swallowing up territory mile by mile, then bringing up reinforcements to hold it. We don't have enough vehicles to mount that sort of campaign, though. So our real purpose here is to end the Governor's rule. To destroy her forces, and kill or capture her to remove the possibility of any effective leadership trying to rally the resist our main force of cavalry that won't be here for days."

"So what are we going to do?" asked Jeffrey.

Peter unfolded the map and held it against the front of Brutus's tank as he pointed. "Brutus and I will take two tanks right down her street and begin lobbing rounds into buildings to get her attention. If we meet any of her forces there we'll finish them, then head back to here, where Jeffrey, you'll have the rest of the tanks waiting in ambush. We won't come back to you until we have her main force in pursuit. You'll line up the rest of the tanks, there, and when we lead her main cavalry past you'll be waiting to blast 'em."

"But we won't be in single file any more. They'll see the trap and abandon chase."

Peter grinned. "No, they won't. You'll be lined up abreast, true, but your gauntlet, from their point of view, will still be in a line. Captain Ludlow can deploy the cloaking device on the tank closes to them and they'll ride past you, ducks in a row, to their slaughter. You won't even have to aim, just fire into the column of horses as it passes."

Standing near to him to see where he indicated the position on the map, he could see their faces. Brutus was grinning, but Jeffrey looked sick. "If Kristana is fool enough to lead her own forces," he continued, "that'll be it for her. Otherwise, when she realizes her main force is gone, she'll probably beat a 'strategic retreat' and go off to hide and fight another day. Either way, she's finished in Rado. After that, we'll position the tanks around her fortress until our main cavalry catches up to us, then dismount some and sweep the building clean of any stragglers floor by floor. Then we consolidate our position here and use it as a base while we mop up and take the rest of the country. Any questions?"

Jeffrey shook his head. "You're forgetting that this isn't Noodle. Denver's a big city, and even if a lot of it isn't standing any more ..."

"And even less will be, when we're done," Brutus laughed.

"...there are still plenty of places for resistance fighters to hide, regroup, and strike from. We can't possible flatten the whole place, even if we wanted to. Your army could be here for weeks, months, maybe _years_ trying to root them all out and finish the fighting. Your whole Expansion could get bogged down with your army kept busy trying to secure this one city."

"We'll do whatever we need to do," Brutus grunted.

Jeffrey snorted. "I don't think either of you have really thought this through. Denver isn't a walled city. Even if you killed most of the fighter that are here now, more could slip into the place from dozens of roads. We need a better plan."

Brutus sneered. "And I suppose you have one?"

"How about this? You destroy her main force, sure, but you spare the Governor and leave her in place here as your puppet. Less chance of an organized resistance then."

"What makes you think that?" Peter asked.

"She's popular," said Jeffrey. "I could see it in their eyes. With her still in place, her people will have something to keep them from a long guerrilla struggle."

"And what's that?"

"Hope. Don't you see? They'll be sure she has a plan to push you back out again, and they'll sit waiting to see what it is, instead of organizing a rebellion. They'll be so sure she can pull it off that they won't want to do anything to hinder her, believing that she'll find a way to turn it around and shake off our occupation. But she won't even try."

Peter stared at his son. "Why not?"

"Because you'll have her daughter. Her only child. The last bit of the General she has left. The Governor might be one tough lady, father, but Aria is her plan to continue the Legacy. She risked her only wizard to get her back! If we take Aria back to Dallas, your problems in Denver will be over, and then you can move most of your army on to your next objective."

## Chapter 89

### Lester: "The deceitful face of hope and of despair"

He awoke from a nightmare, in which a leering Brutus in a ridiculously huge tank stood on a hill surveying the smoking ruins of Denver. For a moment he lay there on the couch, shivering even though Xander's everflame on the table had been warming the suite as usual, driving out the chill of winter. Then he forced himself to roll to his feet and paced in the main room, trying to get a grip on his thoughts. It had only been a dream, he told himself. Just a dream. _So why is it so hard for me to shrug it off and fall asleep again?_

He look out the narrow window and saw it was snowing again. He ducked his head into Xander's bedroom, intending to see if the old wizard was up for some late-night conversation. But Xander was gone again. He had been doing that a lot lately, but mainly during the day, off on some private project. On impulse, Lester went to the door to the corridor and tried the knob. Had The Governor summoned her court wizard for a late-night consultation on strategy? Maybe the guards knew what was happening.

He turned the knob and the door swung open, unbolted. The guard was gone.

Surprise gave way to worry. What could have pulled them away from their post? He hurried down the hall to the stairwell and dithered for a moment before heading upstairs, to the roof. Maybe the old man had been restless and they had escorted him to the roof.

Emerging onto the roof, he strode over to the signal observer, intending to ask if he had seen the mage. But before he could open his mouth to speak. A flash and a distant boom grabbed his attention. "The Texans are here!"

The guard, who had been staring in that direction already, half-turned at the sound of his alarmed cry. "You think? We found out a few minutes ago when they started blasting. I guess he was too busy getting down to street level to wake you."

"But why are they wasting ammo over there?" Jeffrey suppressed the urge to duck as another flash exploded against a building in the distance. He found himself counting off the seconds, reaching five before the sound of the blast reached him. "It's over a mile away."

The guard shrugged. "Better there than here." Another flash preceded a delayed boom. "Maybe they're trying to get our attention, put the fear into us by showing us what they can do before they get here."

"Well, it's working," said Lester. I can't believe he didn't have someone wake me."

**BOOM!** "I guess he figured you'd hear them soon enough."

Lester dashed back to the stairwell and fairly flew down the steps, while a tiny part of his awareness tried to keep him from descending even faster, head first. By the time he was down to the twentieth floor, he had to stop to catch his breath. It was too soon! They weren't ready. Why hadn't the lookouts signaled the approach of the Honcho's forces?

He staggered down the last few steps, emerged into the stables on the ground floor, and stumbled into a soldier who was buckling his sword belt. "Have you seen Xander?"

The guard bounced off a wall, straightened himself, and seemed about to shout a reply until his expression changed as he seemed to recognize Lester. Horses were whinnying and pawing the straw on the floor of their stalls, startled by the sound of the explosions. The soldier led him to the front gate and pointed. "He's down there."

Lester winced as a frigid gust from outside whipped around his face. He squinted through eyes reflexively tearing up at the sudden change in temperature, and eventually saw the gray robe and staff. The man was standing about half a block down the sidewalk, looking at the street.

## Chapter 90

### Xander: "time to murder and create"

Snow had fallen long enough to hide his handiwork. Satisfied, he turned away from the road and listened to the thunder of the Texans down the street,while the words of the ancient text came back to him:

". . . the phase change involves a change in the state of order of the matter, while staying at the same temperature. For example, if a piece of ice melts, the total (ice + water) mixture remains at the melting point until all the ice melts. The available energy is always used to change the state of order before raising the temperature."

What they always neglected to tell you, he thought, was that heat has to go somewhere. To freeze water, you remove the heat that keeps it a liquid – but you must put it somewhere else. To melt ice, you must supply the heat that will free it from the low energy state of crystalline order – but you must take that energy, that heat, from somewhere else.

He walked out into the middle of the street. After dumping close to four inches of snow on them the clouds had rolled back; the sunlit snow was so white it dazzled the yes. Shading his eyes with his left hand, he squinted at the distant tanks. There were two of them, both turned so that they were facing to his right, blasting away at buildings.

"What are they doing?"

He turned at the sound of Lester's voice behind him. "If I had to guess," he said, "I'd say they are trying to lure the Governor's forces out to engage and destroy them."

Poor Lester appeared to be at his wit's end. "We can't let that happen! How did they get here without word from our sentries?"

Xander gazed at the tanks again. "An excellent question. I can think of at least one way, but it seems unlikely. How would you do it, if you were the Honcho?"

"Well, I suppose I would get a wizard to put up a invisibility shield, But he can't do that because Texas doesn't have any wizards."

"Since they are here," said Xander, "he must have at least one. I underestimated Martinez. It would appear that he is flexible enough to rationalize using magic to spread his empire, even when his goal is a civilization without it. Apparently he cut a deal with Ludlow after all."

"What are we going to do? All those swizzles and everflames we were making for weapons. . . there's no time to finish them now."

"What you are going to do," said the old wizard, "is warn Kristana to not go after those tanks. See what they are doing? Destroying unoccupied buildings. When she goes after them with her cavalry, odds are the tanks will turn around and lead her into a trap. Probably more tanks, lying in waiting, with Ludlow shielding them from sight until it is too late for her."

"But if her forces stay inside the 'scraper, she'll have no way to escape. She'll be trapped."

"True. Which is why while you are warning her, I'll be dealing with the tanks."

"You have a spell powerful enough to stop tanks?"

"In a way. It's not what you have, it's how you use it that matters. Now hurry up and warn her not to engage them. People are going to die tonight, and I'll be too busy to kill all of them."

The apprentice loped off toward the horsemen lining up in the building's ground floor. Xander turned and examined the tanks again. They were beginning to turn in his direction. He tried jumping up and down to get their attention. "Over here, you bastards!"

Nothing. He reached out and uncorked his staff at both ends. Presently it began to hum. "Every time I do this I think it'll be the last time," he grumbled, as his feet left the ground.

## Chapter 91

### Peter:"tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree"

Even with the ear protectors his ears kept ringing. BOOM! Another small building collapsed as his tank demolished its first floor. "This is taking too long. Let's roll up the street and hit the ones across from her building. That ought to get her attention."

With a grinding of treads the tank wheeled around to face straight down the street.

"Huh," said the driver. "There's a guy jumping up and down in the middle of the street."

"What? Is he armed?"

"Not that I can see. He's holding a walking stick, is all."

Certainty crystallized. Peter unbolted one of the turret's hatches and climbed up for a better look.

It was Xander all right. Even at this distance the old fool was unmistakable – he looked more like a character in a book of fairy tales rather than a flesh-and-blood opponent. Peter swore, wishing his engineers had taken the time to refurbishing the .50-caliber machine gun. That was his first thought. His second was to lob one of the main gun rounds at the wizard. But even as he had that thought, he saw Xander do something with his staff and wrap himself around it as it rose from the ground, the force of its exhaust blowing the snow away in a wide circle under him, uncovering the street's pavement.

As the distant figure leveled off and began zooming directly toward him, Peter ducked down and slammed the hatch shut and bolted it. "He's coming right at us," he told them.

Unnecessarily so, since both driver and gunner could see for themselves. "Should I open fire?"

"No." As he recalled, the tank only carried about 40 rounds for the main gun. No sense in wasting one just to kill one human, and they'd probably miss, anyway. The old devil was nothing if not agile, on his one-man rocket stick.

He heard a muffle thunk on the top of the turret. What could the man be thinking? He couldn't harm them inside this war machine. Solid steel would have been hard enough, but the engineers had said the specs included composite armor reinforced by depleted-uranium mesh that could defeat even an armor-piercing round from another tank. And all he had was a swizzle that could fly him around or throw rocks.

"Shake him off, then run him over," the Honcho ordered. The driver hunkered down, gripping the handlebar-style grips and tried to comply. With a grinding of treads and the roar of the gas turbine engine the tank whipped around in a tight circle on the road, an endless left turn.

Peter cast his eyes about the interior. "Does anyone have a crossbow?" Wonder of wonders, someone had brought one. He lurched against the gunner as the loader passed it to him, loaded.

They heard a scraping noise go across the turret as the tank wheeled through its turn. Had they flung him off?

Peter decided to risk it. "Stop for a second." The tank was pointed almost exactly 180 degrees from where he had intended to go, but that didn't matter for the moment. He popped the hatch. Xander had fallen off the right side of the tank and was in the act of clambering to his feet, his staff maybe ten feet further to the right where he had dropped it to roll.

As Peter took aim Xander looked up and saw what he was doing and lunged to the left, running around the front of the tank. Damn!

He took his finger off the crossbow's trigger and craned his neck seeking the target. The wizard had ducked around to the rear of the tank. Peter swore and called down the hatch. "He's running back up the street. Turn this thing around and run him down."

Once again the mighty death device roared around in a turn and centered itself on the road pointing in its original heading. Xander was pounding down the street, but not looking as confident now that he'd lost the staff. He skidded on a patch of snow and slipped, sliding for a dozen feet before regaining his feet.

The tank geared up to give chase. The top speed for this thing is over forty miles an hour on roads. He's not getting away this time!

As the tank gained speed, despite the snow on the road (unlike Xander), they began to close the gap. Xander ran past the open patch of road blown bare by his earlier takeoff and kept going. Not bad for an old coot, but not good enough. We'll have him in seconds.

As he reached a position directly across from the Governor's building, the gray-robed figure suddenly stopped and spun around to face them. Was it bravery? Or suicidal confidence? What could he be thinking?

Wait a minute. What was that noise?

## Chapter 92

### Xander: "HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME"

His lungs were burning despite the cold. But something inside him was even colder than the snow. Some things just have to be done. "Come on," he muttered. "Finish it."

The tank kept coming, as he'd hoped and planned it would. The Honcho was about to get a nasty surprise.

The front of the treads actually came a couple of feet onto the ice before the weight of the sixty-ton tank cracked through. From there, gravity did his dirty work. The front of the tank hung there for a split instant before the unsupported weight pitched it down head-first into the hole his workers had dug and filled with water.

Xander smiled grimly, remembering how hard they'd dug to make the pit that deep. "What good will this do?" one of the soldiers had grumbled. "He'll never fall for it."

It was a fair question. Xander had studied books on tanks, and knew that tanks could easily climb out of holes. They would have had to dig the thing really deep and somehow make the sides slippery and too hard to break, or else the tank could simple grind against the pit walls and build itself a hill of debris to climb out. And there had been no time to do that. Besides, it would have been visible. Stretching a tarp across it wouldn't have worked, either – it would have sagged suspiciously in the middle.

He'd found a better way. They'd filled it with water. A coldbox spell had frozen an inch or so on the top. Enough to support his weight – but not a sixty ton tank.

As the water closed over the rear of the tank, with chunks of ice bobbing in the waves and gushing over the edges of the pit from the displacement of the tank, Xander reached out again with his mind. Imagine a coldbox forty feet on a side and forty feet deep. That was a lot of water in the box now. Plus one tank and four people.

He breathed deeply and wove tonespace around the pit, pushing the coldbox spell as hard as he could and then straining for more.

Lester rushed out of the Governor's stronghold and dashed over to him. "What are you doing?"

"Making a two thousand ton ice cube." Snow was melting all around them and the patch of clear pavement around the now-frozen surface was spreading.

"What? Really?"

Xander pushed some more, then finally sagged. He could feel the growing warmth beneath his feet, even where he stood five feet from the pit. "No, of course not. What was I thinking? It'll be heavier than that, because of the tank inside it."

Lester's eyes bugged out. "But won't it just climb out?"

"No. With any luck, it's on its back spinning treads against solid ice. But even if it only landed gun-first, it's trapped like a fly in amber. And the Honcho is in it, with some of his men.

There was a humming vibration coming from the ice. After a while it stopped.

"Are they . . .?"

"Yes. He forgot to close the hatch."

Lester shivered. Xander could see him wondering. What would be a worse way to die? Frozen solid in ice? Or frozen inside an air bubble waiting for the oxygen to run out?

At last the apprentice spoke. "At least it was quick. I'm only sorry I didn't get to say goodbye to Brutus."

At the sound of an engine Xander looked up from the surface of his ice cube. "You might still have a chance," he said, grinning. "I'd be willing to bet he's in that other tank, with the Runt safely tucked back with the others lying in ambush for the Governor."

## Chapter 93

### Lester: "Let us go then, you and I"

Lester turned to follow Xander's gaze and saw the other tank turning toward them, two blocks down the street. "Do you have any more surprises like this one?"

"'Fraid not. I had plans for more, given time, but he got his fuel sooner than I had counted on. Looks like we'll have to improvise. Did you tell her not to chase him?"

"I delivered the message. You think Brutus will follow through on the original plan, now that his CO is dead?"

Instead of answering immediately, Xander lunged into him, knocking the two of them to the ground. Behind them an explosion took a chunk out of the side of a building. "Looks that way. We should split up, and be separate targets instead offering him a two-fer."

The two of them lunged to their feet and diverged, zig-zagging down the street toward the tank. And exactly what are we going to do, when we get to it? Lester wondered.

Xander scooped up his staff. Lester could see that the Honcho's tank must have run over it at some point. The wood had shattered, and the iron pipe inside it was crushed nearly flat. As the tank's gun swiveled around, Lester dove toward him and rolled to his feet. "What are you going to do with that?"

"Well, not fly, that's for sure," Xander said "Too narrowed for that now. But I have another idea." He felt about in his pockets as they dodged another round. "Do you have any money?"

Lester just stared at him. "You do remember that I'm an unpaid apprentice, right?"

"Never mind.. I found some." Xander pushed him down again as another shell blasted into some building beside them. He had just enough time to turn his head to avoid having glass and rock fragments pepper his face. As it was, the debris pummeled them like rocky rain as they lay there sprawled.

Xander didn't bother to pick grit out of his hair, but rolled over and began snatching the coins he had dropped.

The tank was closer now. "You can't stay here! Keep moving!" shouted Lester.

"That's my line," grumbled Xander, but he rolled to his left and pointed his staff at the approaching tank. Flow began, this time with a more whistling sound than its usual hum, and he began to slide across the street toward the killing machine.

Not what I meant! What's he doing? But it was too late to stop him now. He dashed across the street and began approaching the tank from the other side. The tank seemed to ignore him as unimportant. It fired one more round at Xander that left Lester's ear's ringing.

At the last second, Xander managed an extra burst of thrust from the remains of his staff, and hopped onto the right side of the tank.

Since it was coming down the street, Lester managed to reach its left side only moments later. Trying not to think about what he was doing, he leaped up and managed to grab a handrail to swing his legs up above the wheels and tread.

As he climbed the rest of the way onto the turret, he met Xander coming from the other side. "Hang on to something" the older man cried, "because they'll be trying to shake us off any second." He wedged the flattened pipe between his knees as he followed his own advice. Lester gripped the handrail with both hands, the metal cold as ice, and the tank began to fishtail, swerving one way, then the other as the driver inside attempted to rid his metal beast of the two human fleas on its back.

Right about now they should be losing patience with this, thought Lester. I wonder what their next move is? As he had that thought, the tank stopped veering, settling in a path slanting across the road. He heard the sound of metal sliding and the hatch on the right side of the turret swung up. An angry face rose into view. It was Brutus!

Brutus raised a crossbow and aimed it at Xander, who was fiddling with something in his hand. Lester let go of the handrail with one hand but realized he was too far away to knock the aim aside.

"Goodbye, wizard," said Brutus.

Xander tossed something into the open hatch and ducked under the aim of the crossbow as he grabbed his metal pipe and swung the end of it into the larger man. Brutus oomphed a grunt as the pipe struck him, but with both hands on the crossbow he could not prevent himself from toppling back into the interior of the tank. Xander let go of the pipe with one hand and reached forward to slam the hatch shut on him. "Time to go!" he yelled, and jumped off the right side of the vehicle. Without thinking Lester followed suit, landing in the snow of the road and rolling.

The tank, for some reason, did not turn at the last moment to straight out its course, as if the occupants were otherwise engaged. Lester scrambled to his feet and watched the tank crash into the front of a building. It pushed partly through the wall and slowed, treads grinding on debris. Then the treads stopped.

"What did you throw in there?"

Xander grinned. "Five dollars worth of death, in the form of white-hot everflames." He barked a laugh. "Clothing and wire insulation both tend to be pretty flammable."

The hatches popped open again. This time, smoke billowed out of it, followed by an angry Brutus. There were scorch marks on his uniform.

The tank was still not moving. "Oh dear," said Xander. "Did I get lucky and break your toy? Well, I'm not sorry."

There was murder in the Texan's eyes. "Nuthin that can't be fixed," he sneered. "What I'm going to do to you, however. . . ."

Lester could see Xander draw himself up, but he stepped forward and thrust the old wizard behind him. "I believe I have this dance," he said. His eyes were hard as steel.

Brutus laughed. "Grandpa can't take me, but you think you can?"

Lester stared back at him. "We have unfinished business."

"That so? Well I reckon we can finish it real quick."

Lester looked him up and down. "I believe you're right about that."

He felt Xander's hand on his shoulder. "Les, you don't have to do this. War isn't personal."

Lester shook the hand off. "Sorry but this is." He looked at Brutus. "In a minute or two there'll be men will be boiling out of the Governor's headquarters with enough crossbows to make you a human pincushion. They're good men so they'll probably let you surrender." He paused. "But you killed my father. For that, and for what you did to my mother, you don't get to surrender."

Brutus made as if to laugh, but lunged at him instead, seeking to catch him off guard.

Lester was ready for that. He ducked to one side, stuck out a foot and added a push to the middle of the bigger man's back to help him on his way to landing on his belly sliding toward the center of the street.

As Brutus growled climbing to his feet on the slippery surface, the snow on the road began to move toward him from all directions. He blinked at it, in surprise, but the expression on his face shifted when he felt something begin to lift him off his feet.

A smoke ring of snow hovered for a moment parallel to the road, then as the force of the incoming wind grew to a roar, the ring,with Brutus in the center of it, began rising into the night air. Lester let it get almost as high as the top of the Governors 'scraper before he relaxed the pathspace weave and let it dissipate.

A cold part of him, colder than the snow, enjoyed the terrified scream that wailed from Brutus as the man plummeted several hundred feet into the now-uncovered street. If he winced at the sickening impact, it didn't show.

He stared at the body, where something wet was spreading, making the road even darker. Eventually he was aware of Xander coming up to stand beside him. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not interfering."

Xander shook his head. His eyes were still on the body. "I'm glad you're on our side."

"I remembered what you said," Lester told him. "You can make a swizzle out of anything, anywhere. The metal pipe just helps anchor the pattern, to make it last longer." He thought for a moment. "I suppose with a little sideways push I could have dropped him on the neat bullseye your melted snow made around the Honcho's tomb." He brushed fresh snow out of his hair. "But anyway, it's over."

"No it isn't," said Xander. "We still have to find the rest of those tanks."

## Chapter 94

### Aria: "you who turn the wheel"

This time she had no patience for inching along ventilation ducts. Aria strode up to the men guarding the door.

They eyed her uncertainly. "Er, it's supposed to be a closed meeting, ma'am," one of them said, fidgeting.

"I don't give a flying fork what it's supposed to be. Let me in or there will be trouble!"

The other man coughed. "Um, actually, the word is supposed to be – "

"The point is, there will be trouble if we do," said the other guard. "For us, anyway."

The door behind the two men opened. Xander poked his head out. "Oh, good, you're here," he said. "We were just about to send for you."

"Ha!" She lifted her chin and swept past the two guards who, if anything, appeared relieved to have escaped their dilemma.

She had never seen so many people in the main conference room before. To the right of the Governor's desk Jeffrey and a couple of other men were standing. The front row of seats in front of the desk was occupied by the military and civilian advisors. Behind them sat row after row of men and women, most of whom she could not identify.

A man in the audience was on his feet. "And just how are we supposed to believe they'll just go home and leave us alone, eh? You're saying we should just let them go back and plan a better invasion?"

Kristana looked exhausted. Why is she listening to these fools? thought Aria. Why doesn't she just throw them out and do whatever she believes is the right thing to do? But she knew the answer to that one. Colorado is not an empire. If she starts down the road of acting like an Empress she'll never fulfill the Dream of the late General – the restoration of democracy and the Union.

"No," said the Governor, "I'm not saying that. But neither am I saying that we should act like an indisciplined mob. War is a funny business, people. Once the shooting is over you don't act like rabid wolves and tear your opponents to pieces."

"With all due respect, Governor, I wasn't asking for that and you know it."

"Then exactly what are you asking for, sir? That we start imprisoning heads of foreign countries? From what we know, Peter Martinez is gone. The current Honcho of the Lone Star Empire is that young man to my left. Are you saying we should put him on trial for his father's decisions?"

The standing man scowled. "Governor, this isn't some tavern brawl. People are dead."

"Yes," she said, staring him down. "On both sides. But the invasion is over. It's time to get back to the work of fulfilling the Dream. It's time to figure out how to work with our neighbors instead of fighting them."

There was a muttering about this in the audience, not all satisfied with the idea.

Aria strode up the center aisle to stand in front of her mother's desk. "Governor," she said, "may I speak?"

Kristana glanced at her. "By all means, if you have something to say, let's have it," she said. "Everyone else seems to be doing it."

Aria turned around and scanned the audience. "The new Honcho didn't order this invasion, and he's not going to be on trial." She paused. "But even if he was, he would still have the right to speak. Have I missed something, or is everyone but him being given the opportunity? Why don't we hear what he thinks? Are we afraid to listen?"

The murmuring began again at that, and some of it sounded ugly. Kristana slammed her palm down on her desk. "QUIET!" she roared. "I say again, we are not a mob or a pack of wild animals. This is a civil gathering, and I WILL have civility!"

When the muttering died down again, she continued. "That's a great idea. Jeffrey, excuse me, I mean your Excellency, you have the floor. Speak."

Jeffrey has a haunted look, Aria thought. But how would I look, if my father had just died and I was in front of a room full of people howling for my blood? She couldn't even guess the stress he must be under.

Jeffrey looked around the room, showing he wasn't afraid to meet anyone's eyes. When he spoke, it was in a quiet voice that forced them to strain to hear him. Aria almost smiled, recognizing the technique.

"Most of you don't know me, and I don't know you," he said. "You want to know what I am thinking? Let's start with this. How many of you have lost a parent? My father is dead. Now I know," he said, holding up a hand to forestall interruptions, "that he died invading your country, and I can't blame anyone for defending themselves, so let's move on. He tried to take you over, to make you part of his Empire, and he paid the price for that. I'm not here to claim any right of revenge. War is war, after all. But even though we disagreed on a lot of things, he was my father and now I've lost him. So bear with me if what I say seems a little disjointed. I don't expect you to love him, but he was, in his own way, a great man."

She could see he was barely holding it together. Aria's heart went out to him. How would she have handled it? Maybe she was lucky the General died before she was born. But then, he wasn't her father . . . just the man she had been told was her father. She turned to look at Xander, who was standing on the other side of her mother's desk. If Xander had died out there on that snowy street, would she be able to address these people as calmly as Jeffrey?

Jeffrey looked across at Kristana. "Madame Governor," he said, "both you and my late father," he swallowed, "had similar dreams. You both wanted to end this sorry state of affairs, this shattered land with countries fighting like squabbling neighbors.

"I won't speak ill of my father, but I want you to know that although I was raised to rule my father's Empire I have never liked the idea of expansion by conquest, or unification by bloodshed.

"We both know that Texas and Rado are the two most powerful countries in this region. If we chose, we could both go on fighting and weakening each other. But there is a better way.

"Hundreds of years ago, thirteen colonies, thirteen separate countries, in effect, occupied this land, with their own separate governments, currencies, and militias. But instead of fighting it out to see which would control it all, they came together for the common good. One central government, made up of representatives from each colony, formed for the purpose of settling disagreements, regulating trade, and guaranteeing the rights of citizens.

"It all fell apart, of course, in the chaos of the Fall of the civilization of the Ancients. But I have often thought, as did your own General, that maybe we could put it together again. I know you have been hoping to do just that for years now, but I also know that no other country has taken you seriously about it, because no one wanted to make themselves a target for my father's armies by forming an alliance with you."

He paused, as if gathering his thoughts again.

"I was hoping," said Kristana, "that they might change their minds if they saw Rado continuing to survive, despite his efforts. But go on."

"I cannot betray Texas," he said. "If I go back there and announce that it's becoming part of Rado, I will just be killed, and hostilities will continue. Just as your own citizens would rise up against you, if you tried to tell them Rado was becoming a vassal state to Texas."

"That's not going to happen."

"I know," he said. "But what if we could tell our peoples that instead of conquering or being conquered, we are both becoming part of something bigger? What if I could tell Texans that they could trade Texas beef for Rado gold? What if you could tell your citizens that they would have the might of Texas defending them?"

Kristana considered it. "This is all very nice," she said. "But how do we know that any alliance, any union with Texas isn't just a ruse to buy you more time to prepare a larger invasion? Trust is precious, your Excellency, and because of that, it is slow to form. You're right in saying that while I want to further my late husband's Dream, I can't do that by risking the safety of the people of Colorado. I won't betray their trust to try to gain yours. So how do we proceed?"

There was a moment of silence. Aria ended it before the muttering could start up again.

"I have an idea," she said. "But you might not like it."

## Chapter 95

### Lester: "The hermit's chapel, the pilgrim's prayer"

There was rejoicing in the Capitol, but he did not rejoice. So many decisions had been made. Everyone seemed to have gotten something. Jeffrey got to rule a country – the new Honcho got to go back to his people unscathed. The Governor got the beginning of a new Union. And Xander got the founding of his new School. He hadn't decided on a name for it, as far as Lester knew. But workers were already clearing out a couple of floors near the top of the building, under Aria's gardens, and for all he knew the old wizard would be off soon hoping to find some promising youngsters to form their first class of student wizards.

But what do I get, Xander? he grumbled mentally, as he plodded his way back to the quarters he shared with the wizard. He still could barely believe Aria had made the suggestion that had started the consolidation. How could she do it?

Xander opened the door before Lester could grasp the doorknob. "I thought you might need to talk," he said.

Lester threw himself on a chair. "How can she do it? How can she marry that, that – "

"That ruler of Texas?"

Lester collapsed. "Yes. She doesn't want to be an empress! Sometimes I think she doesn't even want to be Governor. So why would she marry him? She doesn't know him well enough for it to be love."

Outside, the column of six tanks were still lined up across from them. Lester tried to imagine the consternation the guards must have felt when he and Xander led the vehicles up the street to where they were parked. It had not been easy telling Jeffrey that his father was dead. It had been even harder getting him to come to the Governor's building.

The tanks had provided the solution. They were drawn up in an orderly line, but they had their orders. If Jeffrey was not allowed to come out of the building by sunrise, they were to assume he was dead and swivel their guns ninety degrees and begin blasting the building.

This plan had accomplished two goals. First, it had helped give Jeffrey the confidence to go into the lioness's den. But even more importantly, it had effectively immobilized the tanks while he was in there, preventing them from going off to demolish more of the city, or at least the parts that the Fall and the invasion had not yet toppled.

They were still waiting. Dawn was a few hours away. There would still be enough time for the clauses to be negotiated, and for the ink to dry on the new official documents. And for the announcements of the engagement to be prepared.

But what do I get? "How can she do it?" he repeated.

Xander sat down across from him and got out his pipe. "By thinking about her people," he said, loading the pipe. "In the old days, alliances were often sealed by marriage."

Lester didn't look at him. "I mean, yes, the part about leaving the tanks here was clever. Without the tanks, their fuel is useless and without the fuel, we can't use them either. But why do they have to get married?"

Xander lit the pipe with a touch of tonespace and took a couple of puffs before answering. "Either country could still attack the old fashioned way. This will help put an end to that. Their children will be heirs to both thrones."

"The Governor doesn't have a throne!"

"No," Xander agreed. "But you know what I mean. It's a good deal for both countries, belonging to the new Union. They have more farmland and a longer growing season. We have more metals."

"And your school. Tell me something. Are you going to accept students from Texas? The only reason we survived this invasion was the fact that we had wizards and they didn't."

"Actually," Xander pointed out, "they did have one. Fortunately for us, he never mastered making swizzles, or they might have shown up even sooner, before my tank pit was ready."

Lester scowled. "Ludlow. Because of him, we nearly lost. I wish he hadn't gotten away the way he did, once he saw the way things were going, when we showed up to talk to Jeffrey."

Xander nodded. "He'll never be the wizard you are, but he did learn the invisibility weave. Just be glad he didn't have more tricks up his sleeve." Xander puffed again. "You know," he said, "I think he was planning to vanish, so to speak, even if the invasion had succeeded. He would have been eliminated the moment the Honcho didn't need him any more. He knew Martinez didn't want a future depending on wizards. "

"Does anyone? I mean, I'm glad you're finally going to get the school started and all, but will regular folk ever accept people like us?"

Xander shrugged. "It may take a while. But one thing I know is, they'll accept what we can give them."

Lester sighed. "How's that?"

Xander blew a smoke ring. "The Ancients had a powerful civilization, no question about that. But it was like having a fireplace with no chimney. They factories, their cars, their shops and planes all depended on burning fuels and spewing the combustion products back into the atmosphere. You can't do that forever, not without consequences. The atmosphere isn't infinite. Sooner or later they would have choked on all the poisons they were creating."

"But we still do that. Well, maybe not the factories and cars. But everyone burns firewood to stay warm."

"Soon they won't. One of the things our School will do is turn out things like everflames and give them away to families so they can heat their homes without burning up trees and making smoke." Xander smiled. "Think about it. We can plug up the chimneys and keep all the hot air inside the houses. And the same principle will apply to the forges and so on. Soon we'll have factories again, but this time they won't spew anything but products."

Xander's eyes appeared to be gazing at something far away. "And soon, when we're ready, we'll go out into space again. We'll go looking for the Tourists, or for people on worlds around other stars."

Lester got up and went to the window. Looking down, on the street, he saw a tiny figure that might have been Jeffrey go out to talk to the tank commanders.

"Looks like he's finally telling them peace has been declared," he remarked. "Do you really think we can trust him to convince his officers that this Union is a good idea?"

"Yes," said Xander. "Because he knows something you don't know."

Lester turned and glared at him. "Still keeping secrets from me?"

"No, I'm telling you now because there wasn't a chance to before."

"Telling me what?"

"That we can refuel those tanks any time we want to. The old Honcho's engineers weren't the only ones with access to old manuals. Those tanks down there," he gestured with his pipe at the window, "are based on the Abrams M1A2 design. Their engines are gas turbines with over sixteen hundred horsepower."

None of this meant anything to Lester. He tried to imagine hundreds of horses pulling a tank. "So what?" He came back to his chair and sat down again.

"The point is," the wizard continued, "they still have most of their ammunition and the engines are a 'multifuel' design, meaning they can burn several kinds of fuel, not just diesel or gasoline. From what I've read, we can probably fuel them up by fermenting alcohol from spare crops and roll 'em into Texas if we ever need to renegotiate."

"We don't have any spare crops," Lester pointed out.

"Jeffrey doesn't know that. So yes, I think we can trust him to cooperate."

They sat in silence for awhile. "So how did it feel?"

Lester looked up. "How did what feel?"

"Killing Brutus."

"How did it feel to kill the Honcho?" Lester countered.

"That was different," said Xander. "It wasn't revenge, just something that had to happen. He'd never have given up his dreams of Empire."

"I never killed anyone before, but I think I can live with it."

"But it wasn't even a duel, really. You gave him no chance at all."

"Should I have? I gave him as much chance as he gave my father. All right, I didn't do it for the Governor. It was revenge, pure and selfish. I'm not sorry I did it."

"Well," said Xander, "you might have a delayed reaction. Still might feel guilty."

"I doubt it."

"Maybe you should take some time off from your studies, just in case."

Lester leaned back in his chair. "Oh, I intend to. Before we get started with the school, I need to go back to Inverness and tell my mom he's dead." He glanced at Xander. "Okay, maybe it won't make her happy. But she'll have closure."

"Either way, it'll be good for her to see the man you're becoming. I know you didn't intend it, but the way Brutus died got you some attention. There's a newsman, a fellow here with a manual printing press, and his latest handbill calls you 'LeStar', if you can believe that."

"Great," Lester groaned. Made famous by someone who can't even spell my name."

"Just be sure you get back here soon," said Xander. "We need to start the school, and I think it's time to start you on learning spinspace. Since one day you'll be teaching it."

"I know. There's always more work to do."

\---- 6:21PM EST 10/22/2014 Crystal River, FL

Keep reading for a peek at the next novel in The metaspace Chronicles: SPINSPACE

Spinspace: The Space of Spins

Volume 2 of The Metaspace Chronicles

by Matthew R. Kennedy

Copyright © 2015 by Matthew R. Kennedy

## Prologue

### A New beginning

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science."

– Albert Einstein

It wasn't the beginning of the end. It wasn't even the end of the beginning.

The collapse of Earth's technology, the Fall that we blamed on the Tourists, had happened. You could call it an end, of sorts. It was an end to the world that was, a world that might never return. Had millions, maybe even billions starved? Certainly. Had the globe-spanning networks of commerce and communications died, when alien technology failed? Undoubtedly. Had all the nations splintered into tiny kingdoms and city states? Of course.

But was it the end of humans? No. We could live without the technology of the Ancients. Just not as well.

Older technologies resurfaced to take the place of what we had lost. As automobiles failed, horse populations rose. Vacant hardware stores were replaced by a new generation of blacksmiths. Pharmaceutical companies perished, herbalists took their place. Everywhere, low-tech alternatives that predated the Age of Machines filled the gap left by vanishing infrastructure.

The question was not whether we would recover, but how, and how long it would take. There were those like the former Honcho of the Lone Star Empire who dreamed of restoring our former glory by eliminating the alien technology, and rebuilding our technology without it. They sought to unify the splintered nations by conquest.

They were not always successful.

But there were also those who knew that the Fall was not caused by the alien technology, but by our failure to replicate, develop, and maintain it, once the aliens left the solar system. And it took a while, but long-term exposure of humans to the alien tech caused, in some, the development of the very abilities whose lack had caused the fall.

Once they manifested, these abilities, though rare, were frightening to many people.

Some of these wonder-workers were killed, out of fear.

Some obtained the protection of local rulers.

A few of them gained safety by becoming the local rulers.

And a few, very few, had the foresight to pass on their knowledge, to take on apprentices, and even, in some cases, to begin to set up schools to teach their discoveries.

Wizards were among us again.

And that was a new beginning.

## Chapter 1

Lester: The Thin Ice of The New Day

The last rays of the sun were yielding to the coming of night when the daily express from Denver pulled into the village. The team of horses clattered to a stop by the watering trough. "Inverness! Get and stretch yer legs if you want, We're movin' on in ten minutes."

Clem looped the reins around a knob on the dashboard and climbed out of the driver's seat. He ambled around to the passenger exit in case anyone needed helping down and stamped snow off his boots. At first, no one budged, and he was about to duck into the inn for an ale for the road when the vehicle resounded to the steps of a passenger who might have changed his mind about staying put.

Lester stepped down carefully, leaned on his staff, and looked around the place. Little had changed in the months he had been gone. Not that he had expected it to. He brushed back the hood of his gray robe, smelling the clean cold air. "Thanks for the ride, Clem," he said, and strode off toward the front door of the inn.

He kicked his boots against a hitching post to loosen the snow they had picked up and reached out to open the door.

Before he could pull on it the door flew open and his mother embraced him. "Oh my baby!" she cried into his shoulder. "You're home! I was so worried."

He hugged her back. "I'm fine," he told her. "And I'm sorry I couldn't write. You've no idea how busy I've been."

She released him and put her hands on his shoulders. "You look taller."

"That's just my new boots," he said. "How have you and Drew been? I need to speak with you in private, when you get a chance."

"Oh, we're all fine," she said, ignoring the fact that he hadn't asked after Gerrold. "Where did you get that robe? But what am I doing, keeping you on the street. Come in and wash up for dinner, the stew should be ready in a few minutes."

"In a minute. There's something I need to do first." He turned and strode off down the road.

The smithy was not far. It was an old story. When coaches ran long routes and needed to stop somewhere to rest the horses, a hamlet would form. The first thing that appeared was always the inn, usually hardly more than a watering trough and roofed room with a hearth. As the inn grew, adding rooms and a larger kitchen, the next building to spring up was the smithy. Even if there wasn't enough business out in the middle of nowhere for full-fledged smith, you could usually rely on a farrier to set up shop, eking out a living from horses that had thrown a shoe or re-forging broken plows for nearby farmers.

Once people noticed that a way station was forming, the next building to appear was the general store. It started with just feed for the horses and branched out to supply the growing inn with foodstuffs and linen and the life when traffic picked up.

From this point on the growth of the rest stop turned hamlet would begin to accelerate. The next building was usually a small church to serve the farmers who were only too happy to stop driving all the way to the nearest town. The appearance of even a small chapel officially transformed the hamlet into a village.

Other buildings appeared in short order, as the inn added more rooms and a stable for horses to come in out of the rain. Soon there would be a local seamstress, or even a teacher setting up shop teaching in the tiny church that doubled as a one-room school. When the size of the settlement justified it, a butcher's son would throw up a shed for farmers to bring old or extra livestock that for various reasons they were to busy to slaughter themselves. This, in turn, set the stage for a tanner and a leather worker...since no one eats hide. Just as the farmer's cast-off became the butcher's source, so the butcher's unwanted hides became opportunities for a tanner.

His mind was wandering again. By the time he forced himself to stop following that chain of thoughts, he nearly passed the smithy.

The sun was nearly down, and the air was already getting frosty, but Jonathan barely noticed it. The glory hole of his forge was pouring hot air out into the smithy, making it warm enough for Lester to begin sweating under his robe as soon as he stepped in. Jon was hammering a piece of iron shape Lester didn't immediately recognize, and wearing had the thinnest of shirts under the leather apron that he wore to protect his front from the occasional spark or metal sliver.

Lester knew better than to interrupt a smith at his work, so he just leaned on his staff and waited until the metal part's glow had died and Jon stopped to grab the tongs and shove it back into the forge to reheat it. He seized the handle of the bellows with his free hand and pumped the coals brighter until he was satisfied.

When Jon turned away from the glow of the glory hole he finally noticed his visitor. Without putting down the tongs he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "What can I do for you?" Then he seemed to recognize Lester. "Oh, it's you. Haven't seen you 'round here. Something break at the inn?"

"No." Lester glanced around the smithy. "Do you happen to have any pipe on hand?"

Jon eyed him. "I might," he said. "What diameter do you need?"

Lester shrugged. "Doesn't matter much to me. It's more like a case of what diameter do you need?"

"Come again?"

Lester pointed at the bellows. It was a small model. It lay on a square brick pedestal next to the forge, parallel to the wall, with one handle lashed down so that Jon could pump it with one hand. "What's the nozzle diameter you use?"

Now Jon was staring at him. "What are you getting at? Thinking of going into business for yourself making bellows for smiths? Not much call for that around here."

"No," said Lester. "But as it happens, I need a bit of pipe and since I've no money, I thought maybe we could help each other out. What's the diameter?"

Jon's brows creased in bafflement. "Inch and a half. "Look, I guess you heard my striker's gone off to Denver to join up. But I don't think your ma can spare you long enough for you to work off the cost of some pipe. If you – "

Lester raised a hand. "She's done without me for a few months now. But that's not what I had in mind. We both know your everflame isn't as good as it used to be, or you wouldn't have rigged up the bellows."

Here Jon frowned. "So? I ain't complaining. With charcoal and a bellows I do just fine. Carolyn's been helping me on the bigger jobs since she was big enough to reach the handle. When I'm between strikers, I mean."

"I'm sure she has. What would you say if I could give you something better than a bellows? Would that be worth, say, a dozen feet of pipe?"

The smith pursed his lips. "Dunno what you're thinking, youngster, but decent pipe ain't cheap. It's not much fun turning it out myself, so I get mine from the guy over in Farlow."

Lester sighed. He could feel his patience with this evaporating. "Have you got a short piece the same diameter as the bellows nozzle? It's be easier for me to just show you."

Jon grumbled a bit, but he rummaged a bit on his odds and ends barrel and came up with a piece about a foot and a half long. Lester accepted it and held it in front of him, willing himself to relax and open his mind to pathspace.

As he closed his eyes reached out to sculpt the space around and in the pipe, he became aware of a peculiar sensation. It was a kind of echo, almost as if there two pieces of pipe he was working on, except one of them was about twenty feet away. Startled, he opened his eyes for a moment and lost his concentration. When he returned to his task he felt it again, that echo, but this time it was closer.

At this, he nearly dropped the pipe, but he forced himself to hang onto it and finish what he was doing. In a few moments it felt right. Reaching forward, he slipped the loop of rope off the bottom handle of the bellows and pulled it from the hole in the side of the forge. Before Jon could say anything, he shoved the end of the short length of pipe in.

"I don't see how a longer nozzle will be any better," Jon muttered. "And you'll still need leather and a couple of poles for handles to make a bigger bellows."

"No I won't. Watch." Lester stroked the other end of the pipe, moving a finger along it toward the forge.

The was a faint hissing of indrawn air and the coals in the forge blazed brighter. He let Jon stare at it for a moment before he stroked the pipe back the other way, turning it off again. "You don't need to pump a bellows anymore, Jon. Now you have a swizzle. Much easier."

Jon took his eyes off the swizzle. Now he was staring at Lester. "How did you do that?"

Was that respect in his eyes...or fear? "Something the court wizard up in Denver taught me," he explained. "I'm his new apprentice." He paused to wipe his own brow. "Well, isn't that worth a few feet of pipe?"

The smith rubbed his chin. He was about to answer when the sound of boots crunching on snow made them both turn.

Carolyn stood framed in the doorway. Lester swallowed. How had he forgotten how beautiful she was? He shut his eyes for a moment. Yes, sure enough, the echo was only a few feet away now. It was her. Well, well!

"Are you going to be much longer?" she asked her father. Then Lester saw recognition in her eyes. "Lester? It is you, isn't it? Almost didn't recognize you in that robe. Where have you been?"

"Apprenticing with Xander, up in Denver. How've you been? Still going out with Burton?"

"Not really," she said. "Not for a couple of months. That's a story for another time. Who's Xander?"

"Set the table," Jon told her. "I'll be in to join you in a minute." He turned to Lester. "How much did you say you needed? A dozen feet, was it?"

"Yes. If you don't have it on hand I guess I could always come back later."

"Let me go check the shed." He hurried off to look.

Lester suppressed a smile and shook his head. In a hurry to get rid of me, aren't you? Oh, he wanted the swizzle all right, but that didn't mean he wanted Lester hanging around his daughter.

Carolyn laughed. She hadn't budged. "Should I set an extra place?"

He grinned. "Thanks, but no. I just got home, and my mom would pitch a fit if I ducked out of dinner the first night back. But I do want to speak with you tomorrow, if you've time."

Jon came back in with two pipes. "These are six foot lengths. I suppose you'll need them joined."

"Yep. Sorry, I should have mentioned that."

"No trouble, no trouble at all," said Jon, setting the pipes against the wall and reaching his tools. He eyed Lester. "Anything else you need before I close up for dinner?"

Lester thought. "Actually, there is. Can you put a J bend on one end?"

## Chapter 2

Kareef: Troubling Doubts

لذلك، إذا انت في شك حول ما أنزلنا اليك، نسأل أولئك الذين تتلون الكتاب من قبلك. لقد حان الحقيقة اليك من ربك. فلا تكن من الممترين

"So, if thou art in doubt regarding what We have sent down to thee, ask those who recite the Book before thee. The truth has come to thee from thy Lord; so be not of the doubters"

– Quran 10:94

The other students had filed out of the madresah, but Kareef did not follow them from the school. Nizar, his teacher, had asked him to stay, and so he stayed.

Even now, as he sat on a cushion trying to quiet his mind, he could hear the approaching footsteps of the Mullah. He opened his eyes and waited for the elder to speak.

"Kareef, I sensed today that you are having more disquieting thoughts. Is this true?"

"Na-am." Yes. "I feel like a boat adrift on unfamiliar waters. I wonder what certainties I can cling to."

Nizar seated himself across from him. "Kareef, what are the five pillars of Islam?"

Kareef almost laughed. He knew that would have been disrespectful, but did Nizar really think that reciting the trained responses would bring him any nearer to certainty?

But he had been asked, so he would answer. "The five pillars are the Shahadah, the Salat, the Zakat, the Sawm, and the Hajj. The Declaration of one God, the five-times-daily prayers, the giving to the poor, the fasting in Ramadan, and the Pilgrimage."

"And do you have doubts, questions, or disquieting thoughts about these?"

"Yes I do. To begin with, how can any of us undertake the Hajj? Ever since the Fall, we have lost contact with other continents. We cannot walk to Mecca, so what meaning does the Hajj still have for us, if any?"

Nizar regarded him from under graying bushy eyebrows for a moment, stroking his beard. "Do you think that is the only possible meaning of the Hajj?

Kareef shifted on his cushion, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn't feel turning his doubts into an excuse for another lecture. "What do you think?"

Nizar raised an eyebrow. "You could think of it as a spiritual quest. Forgive me for saying so, but I am sure Allah knows what we can and cannot do. He knows of the storms that raged when the weather satellites failed, and how the failure of the old technologies ended sea voyages."

"Then why should He expect the Hajj? Or do we maintain the thought of it out of mere tradition?

"Has it occurred to you," Nizar said, upon reflection, "that perhaps you could go on Hajj without crossing the ocean?

Kareef tried not to frown. "Is this a riddle?"

Nizar smiled. "No. From our book we know something of other societies, and in many other cultures there is the tradition of a spiritual quest. On the far continent of Australia, for example, the indigents call it 'going on Walkabout'.

Kareef absorbed this. "And you think this it is some kind of universal coming-of-age thing? Is that why we still include the Hajj in the Five Pillars? To imitate other societies?"

Nizar grew serious. "No, of course not. I was merely pointing out a parallel."

"And what about the Zakat, the giving of savings to the poor and needy? Am I, a poor student, supposed to give money I do not have? Or merely to feel guilty that I cannot?"

"Allah knows who can give and who cannot."

And the Sawm, the fasting and self-control during Ramadan. The rest of the year it doesn't really apply, does it? To me, it appears that my own Islam rests on only two pillars, the Declaration and the Prayers. Is that enough? Even a chair or table needs at least three legs."

"These doubts you are having," said Nizar, "do you think you are the first to think of them? They are a natural part of growing up in the world. Time and experience will answer them."

"But there's more," Kareef said. "In my younger years when I learned of our country, it appeared that it had always existed. But that's not true, is it? From the books in the Library I have learned that the first settlers of this land from outside were not Muslim. Yet here we are. How did we come to be here, and why was the subject glossed over in our younger classes?"

Now it was Nizar who shifted on his cushion. "It is true, what you say. The founding of the Emirates was not so long ago. But the details of it would disturb the young, and so we do not cover that until students are older. It is covered in the final year before graduation."

"But why? What details?" An uncomfortable thought occurred to him. "Is it because of bloodshed? Our history studies covered wars in the past. What's one more?"

Nizar sighed. "I would rather wait until it was time to cover these things in class," he said. "But since you are asking, I shall not hold back. The time of the Founding was a bloody one. The Faithful were not the first group to come to this continent, but come we did. When the Gifts of the Tourists failed and civilization fell, we were already here."

"But surely we were few among many."

"Yes," said Nizar. "but in the unrest after nations fell, there were many such groups in America. Some were absorbed, but some were not. The great Melting Pot of America did not always melt us all together, once national unity was lost."

"That much is obvious from geography," said Kareef. "But it does not explain how we hold so much territory, yet not all. Why have we not conquered the entire land from sea to sea? Does Allah no longer favor our warriors? Or have we grown complacent?"

Nizar leaned back on his cushion. "There have been times, in our past," he admitted, when Islam was an Empire that covered much of the known world."

"You mean, back before the spread of Christianity."

"Yes. I think you will find, if you look further into the books of the Library, that many religions go through a period of missionary zeal, a period in which it seems that followers are obligated to spread their faith by any means. Islam was no exception."

"Are you saying that we have decided the lessons of the past were wrong, and have settled down to become comfortable neighbors?"

Nizar eyed him. "I am saying," he said, finally, "that a mind is like a bag – it can only be filled when it is open. As we grow in wisdom, we see that Allah does not need us to be barbarian conquerors. There is evil to resist in the world, it cannot be denied. But the greater struggle is always within us. What is the point of seeking to convert strangers if we do not rule our own thoughts? And then there is the matter of tolerance. Before the coming of the extremists, Islam was known as a religion of tolerance."

Kareef frowned at this. "But aren't we too tolerant? We have Christians within our borders. If they came to outnumber the Faithful, would they not seek to change our government and way of life? Should they not be required to be as we are?"

"That is not tolerance," said the Mullah. "It would set a bad example, and make trade with other countries difficult. How can we be less accepting than those of the North? Have we smaller hearts than them?"

"The people of New Israel?" Kareef was taken aback. "Are you saying we should imitate them?"

Nizar nodded. "I am. Their government has elements of religion in it, and yet those descendants of Jacob have many Christians and even Muslims among them. They do not feel their faith is weakened by tolerance, or by the presence of differing faiths and opinions. And yet they are a people who have suffered many persecutions. In ages past, many Jews were killed by Christians and by Muslims. If they can see past ancient conflicts and open their country to all, can we do any less?"

Here Kareef pursed his lips. "Perhaps they are not so much open-minded as more geographically fortunate. The area of the Desolation between them and the Emirates has the effect of limiting their visitors more than it does ours."

Nizar shook his head. "Do you truly think they are fortunate to have less farmland than us? "

"They have more mines," Kareef muttered.

"Yes but you cannot eat ore, can you? Our population has expanded more rapidly than theirs, and the Desolation is only one reason fir it. We simply can support more people than they can." He paused. "It was different, back in the times of the Ancients. Back then the cities of the North had millions of citizens."

Kareef's face spoke plainly of his doubt of this. "Millions? How would one feed a million people in a small place?"

"You are forgetting the conveyances of the Ancients, their cars and trucks. Every day the equivalent of many caravans would come into a city such as new York. Their trucks and trains brought food, clothing, all the necessities of life, grown and manufactured elsewhere. Cities breathed them in as your body breathes in the air."

"But that's all gone now."

"Yes. Now they are much as we are, with much smaller cities and more farmers than city-dwellers."

"Still, said Kareef, unwilling to concede the point, "they have more mines."

"Why does that bother you? The Emirates have survived quite well without a lot of metal. Our winters are milder, so we don't need coal, either. The land gives us what we need."

"But what if we needed more weapons? The northerners are not the only people we might still have to fight."

Nizar was silent for a moment. "Unfortunately, you are right," he said. "The news from the West is not good. The Lone Star Empire is apparently preparing for another period of expansion."

"Why?"

Probably because much of the Honcho's Empire is desert. Without the irrigation systems of the Ancients, most of West Texas has reverted to dry sand again. Which means they have two options, go North or East. The country of Rado to their north has resisted their invasion attempts in the past. They might decide to try conquering to the East this time."

"Which puts us squarely in their path. But don't you see? That means we do need more weapons, top fight them off."

"Swords do not prevail against arrows," the Mullah reminded him. "And there are reports that the Texans have uncovered a cache of ancient weapons, things like cannons on carts that can travel swiftly to battles. Against those, our finest horsemen and archers would be useless."

"I had not heard this," said Kareef.

"It is not common knowledge," said Nizar. "And according to our operatives..."

"Our spies, you mean."

"All right. According to our spies, the only reason he hasn't used his armored vehicles against us is he doesn't have the fuel for them. But the Honcho is resourceful. He may find a way to recreate the fuel he needs."

"Then we should seek alliances with his enemies."

"Now, finally, we reach my destination," the Mullah said. "It is time to talk about your own Hajj, your own Quest.."

## Chapter 3

Xander: Afterthoughts and Consequences

"Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts."

– Winston Churchill

He watched the workmen with little comment as they went about their tasks, readying dorm rooms and classrooms for his school. An observer might have noticed nothing in his expression. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

"Why so somber, wizard?"

He turned as Aria stepped out of the stairwell. "I would have thought you'd be happy," she said. "Finally starting your school...and at the expense of my gardens."

"We've talked about this. You weren't using the floors below yours anyway."

Her chin jutted. "Well, I could have, if you hadn't gotten them first. We can always use more garden space. Unless you plan to take your students off to distant fields in the summer, to teach them about herbs."

"I'm sure our students will appreciate your gardens, eventually," he said. "But to have students, one must have a school." He glanced sideways at her. "But what do you care? Aren't you going to be spending half of each year in Texas?"

Aria's lips compressed, and he saw he had touched upon a sensitive area. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," she said. "I'm way past second thoughts about the engagement. I'm more on fourth and fifth thoughts now."

"Like what? Anything you want to talk about?"

She watched a carpenter putting up a bookshelf before answering. "I feel like I've saved Rado by betraying it. How can I marry the ruler of Texas when I'm supposed to take over for my mother here?"

"It will be complicated," he agreed.

"And that's just the start. What about the children? If we have a son, his people will want to raise it as the Runt, the next Texan heir. But what about Rado? Are we giving everything away to the Empire just to avoid war?"

"I'm sure you will figure out what to do," he said.

"Are you even listening? These are not simple problems. Now that I think about it, I don't see how I can be the next Governor and at the same time be Jeffrey's Honchessa."

"If that's how you feel, then cancel the engagement."

She scowled. "You know I can't do that. Jeffrey's better than his father, but he won't last long as Honcho if he comes back with nothing to show for the invasion."

"I was wondering about that," said Xander. "Why aren't you going back to Dallas with him?"

"I can't. Not until I know this new alliance will hold. If there's a coup and he's replaced I could end up being just a hostage. I can't do that to Mother."

"No. So how long are you going to make him wait?"

She sighed. "I don't know. Have you heard anything from Lester?"

"Not since he left for Inverness. He must have reached his home town by now. I only hope he can find some potential students on his way back."

She changed the subject. "Why are you holding your hands in your pockets like that? Are you cold?"

"No. I noticed that every time I wave my hand some worker stops what he's doing and asks what I need. But what I need is what they're already doing."

She exhaled. "Well, when you do have students, I hope you keep them down here and away from my greenhouses. It took us a long time to get them set up."

He smiled. "Look on the bright side. Someday you won't have to hunt me down when your glow-tubes need refreshing. If everything works out, you've have a whole school full of troubleshooters on the floors below you."

Aria tossed her head. "Just make sure they stay away until I need them," she grumbled, and turned to leave.

After she was gone he pulled his hands out of his pockets and gazed at the blisters again. There was no longer any doubt about it. He'd tuned those everflames way too high when he tossed a handful into one of the Honcho's tanks. In a hurry, and thinking only of doing the most damage in the confined space of the tank's interior, he had pushed the weaving of tonespace around the handful of coins to the limit.

That hastiness had helped win the day. It had also earned him some second-degree burns. Radiation burns.

He thrust the hands back into his pockets. For all my skills, he thought, I still cannot do anything about healing.

He had read that one of the Gifts of the aliens had been something called a tissue regenerator. Like the other Gifts, it had caused upheaval and the collapse of competing human technologies. Antiseptics, antibiotics, and while sections of the health-care industry had been destroyed by it. Unfortunately, it used a property of space he was not familiar with.

From the swizzle he had grown up with on the commune in Wyoming he had learned pathspace. The family's everflame had helped prepare him to learn the weaving of tonespace. And artifacts the General's men had located for him had helped the wizard learn how to handle spinspace.

But the fabled tissue regenerator used still another component of space, one he had never learned. Too bad he had never found one.

## Chapter 4

Carolyn: Curiouser and Curiouser

"We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back."

– Malala Yousafzai

She waited until her father came in from the smithy and sat down to dinner before she spoke. "What was Lester here for? What did he want"

Jonathan reached for the salt. "Never you mind. You should be worrying more about what Burton wants."

She poured water into his glass and hers, then sat down. "Dad, I've already told you I don't want to marry Burton Tolbert. Why was Lester here? Does he need something for the Inn?"

"Just some pipe. That's all. Pass the potatoes."

Why would Gerrold need pipe? "Is the inn doing that well, then, that Gerrold can afford pipe? I know it's not cheap."

"It's none of our business," he said, mashing a potato and spooning his soup over it. "Besides, unless I'm wrong he'll be heading back up to Denver soon. If I were you I'd be forgetting about him."

He's hiding something, she decided. "What makes you so sure about that? Inverness is his home as much as it is ours. Why wouldn't he stay...especially with the holidays coming up?"

"It looks to me," her father said, "that Lester's found himself a government job up in Denver. He's got things to do up at the capital, I think."

"What makes you think that?"

"The gray cloak he's wearing. Seen one before, just like it. Fellow named...what was his name? Anyway, the last man I saw wearing something like that worked for the Governor."

She absorbed that in wonder. Lester, working for the Governor? Maybe stranger things had happened. Still there was something her father was not telling her, she was sure of it. "Are you finished for the day, or do you need me to work the bellows after dinner?"

"No more work tonight," he said. "You can get back to your sewing."

"Actually," she said, as if it had just occurred to her," If you don't need me I think I'll head over to the inn and see if Mary needs any spices. "

He said nothing to this. What was there to be said? She was a grown woman, not a toddler to be kept in.

"Don't forget your coat," he said finally.

There was definitely something on his mind. She had never seen him this quiet at dinner. Well, maybe for a while after her mother passed away. But not since then. Jonathan was always full of news and gossip. It wasn't like him to be so silent. Almost morose.

## Chapter 5

Nathan: Strange Things

העיניים שלך יראו דברים מוזרים

"your eyes will see strange things" – Proverbs 23:33

It took him a minute or so to notice that the coach had stopped. Frowning, he looked up from the book he was reading. "Why are we stopping?"

His father leaned forward and shouted a question up to the driver.

"Bit of a fight ahead on the road, sir. No idea what about."

His father sighed and shared a look with his wife.

"You know you don't have to, Isaac," she said.

But he was already unbuttoning his coat. As always, he had his white robe on underneath, with its gold Star if David on the breast with the number '36'. Quickly, his fingers drew the hood out and over his head. "If a task presents itself, then I must step up, nu?" And just like that, he yanked open the door of the coach.

winter air blasted into the interior, blowing the pages of Nathan's book. "What is is Father doesn't have to do?" he said, laying the book down for a minute.

His mother didn't answer. Nathan frowned. Without planning it, he found himself wrenching the door open again.

Again the icy wind invaded the coach.

"Nathan! Don't go far!"

He didn't. He stepped out and stood by the coach, watching as his father strode forward into a crowd of people who parted before him like the Red Sea did for Moses. He heard a word whispered: Tzaddik.

The people fell silent, so Isaac addressed them. "What is the problem here, citizens?"

A man stepped forward, holding his hat in his hands. He cleared his throat. "Sorry to hold you up, sir. It's the spring. It's on my neighbor's land, and he won't let my livestock cross over to use it. The boundary between our farms is this road, so I'm afraid sometimes it holds up traffic."

"Don't listen to him!" Another man lurched forward. Why should I have to chase his animals off and mend my fences every time he wants to use our water? Look for yourself," he said, gesturing to the snow all around them. There's plenty of water everywhere. He doesn't need to come on my land for water."

Isaac shook his head. "It is not for me to say who is right and who is wrong. But blocking the road, that is wrong."

He turned to the man holding his hat. "How far is it to your house? My wife and son are waiting for me."

"Not far, Righteous One. Just over the hill to the left. See, there is the road up ahead."

Isaac looked ahead and nodded. "Very well. This is what will happen. You and your family and your animals will lead the way back to your house, and we will follow. When we get back to your house I will see what can be done."

He then looked to the second man who had spoken. "Your land will not be trespassed. Please take your family home and clear the road. I'm probably not the only one who wants to get home before it snows again."

Both men bowed and backed away, and Isaac returned to the coach. "Why didn't you stay in the coach?" he asked Nathan.

Nathan hurried back inside the vehicle. "I wanted to see what was going on. What does it mean, Tzaddik? I heard someone say that."

"We'll talk about it later," said Isaac, climbing in beside him. He rapped on the roof, and the driver picked up his reins.

The coach lurched ahead. Isaac looked at his wife. "What could I do? It's my job."

Rebekah laid a hand on his arm, melting a few snowflakes that hand landed on his sleeve. "You don't have to solve every squabble, you know."

"No," he agreed. "Only the ones I know about."

The coach jolted as the driver pulled off the road onto the farm path. Rebekah shook her head, but Nathan could see she was smiling.

Soon enough, the driver pulled up in the driveway of an old farmhouse. The man with the hat was standing there among a flock of sheep, gesturing to his right. "You see? The pond is frozen over. My neighbor has a pond with a spring, and it keeps the ice melted over where the water comes up. But I don't have a spring."

Isaac got out of the coach again. "I see," he said. He turned to the farmer with the hat. "Do you have faith, sir?"

The man swallowed. "As much as any man."

"That will have to do. If God allows you water, will you agree never to lead your livestock to trespass on your neighbor's farm again?"

The farmer nodded, never taking his eyes off Isaac.

"Very well," said Isaac. "Lead your animals down to the edge of the pond."

Looking baffled but hopeful, the man picked up a shepherd's crook and began to lead the sheep down toward where the frozen pond lay nestled in the cupped hands of the earth.

Nathan looked at his father in that white robe. "But it's still frozen."

"Watch."

The man and his sheep were almost to the edge of the pond. Suddenly, as if on cue, a semicircle of ice at the edge simply melted away.

He heard the farmer's joyful cry as the sheep began to cluster around the melted part, drinking the water.

Nathan looked at his father again. "What happened?"

Isaac shrugged and smiled. "A miracle," he said, and climbed back into the coach. "Let's continue on," he told the driver. "If we linger we'll be here half the night."

Nathan climbed back in too. He looked at his father again, as if seeing him for the first time. It occurred to him suddenly that he had never asked his father's occupation.

End of preview

### Appendix I: Pathspace

It is easy to imagine that the concept of pathspace as presented in this novel is simply an invention for narrative convenience.

However, I feel it is my duty to point out that some aspects of it are definitely not fictitious.

Ever since Einstein released his General Theory of Relativity, we have been able to visualize gravity not as a mysterious force that somehow "pulls" us toward massive objects, but, instead, as simply a pattern in space that dictates the sort of paths objects will take when moving through that region of space.

Unfortunately, the geometry that Einstein used to map gravity onto space has more than three dimensions, which makes it rather difficult to visualize. To make it easier, people who lecture on this subject usually subtract one dimension and say something like this. "Imagine a bowling ball lying in the middle of a waterbed. The weight of the ball distorts the flat surface of the waterbed. If you roll a tennis ball on the waterbed it will travel in a curved line (usually ending on the bowling ball unless you roll the tennis ball really fast) because of the presence of the bowling ball. This is similar to the way that the Sun's 'weight' distorts space around it and makes the Earth travel in a path that keeps curving around the Sun."

There are couple of problems with this explanation.

In the case of the bowling ball, it is weight (the force of gravity on the ball) that makes it press down on the waterbed. Weight is what you experience when you try to keep something from going where it wants to go in a gravity field. If you were falling off a building with the bowling ball next to you it would not appear to weigh anything.

But the Sun has no weight! Nothing is keeping it from orbiting the center of the galaxy. It is like a skydiver in free fall.

The Sun's effect on space is due to its mass, not its "weight."

Another problem with the bowling ball + waterbed analogy is that it fails in the 3rd dimension. If you toss the tennis ball above the bed, it feels a need to curve down toward the floor, but it is not the surface of the waterbed that is causing this.

A better way to imagine the Sun's gravity field might be to imagine a hole in space into which space is falling from all directions in an inward radial waterfall If you throw a tennis ball past such a hole the radial inward movement of the space it is traveling through will cause the ball's path to curve toward the hole. If it is moving too slowly, it will be pulled into the hole. If it is moving faster enough it will be caught in an orbit around the hole. If it is moving even faster, it will fly past the hole and curve only slightly toward it as it passes.

This is how objects behave near the sun. It is almost as if the space itself were getting pulled into the sun, and dragging anything embedded in the space along with it

The idea of space "moving" is pretty incomprehensible, so physicists speak instead of the "curvature" of spacetime. The equations describe it well enough, even if it is hard to visualize.

Fine. But my point is this: it is just as easy to say that there is a distortion in the pathspace around the sun. Every object that travels is traveling on a path – we call them trajectories. If the space the path passes through is distorted, the path will be curved by an amount that is less noticeable at higher speeds because the distortion has less time to affect the momentum of the object.

Simply put, Einsteinian "space curvature" is a simple kind of pathspace, a kind caused not by human telekinesis but by the presence of matter. When it is oriented radially in a gravity "field", an elevator shaft is definitely a kind of swizzle! While fast-moving objects like hot air molecules or motorcycles can hop across the elevator shaft opening and ignore it, slower-moving objects like cold air – or a walking person – will definitely be sucked into the shaft if they get to close and accelerate toward the other end.

Now if we remove the gravity field – say by moving the elevator shaft far from any sun or planet out in flat" space – then we have "turned the swizzle off" – now if we step into the open end we will just float there instead of falling in.

Now turn the analogy around. A swizzle is simply a portable spacetime distortion, like a piece of a gravitational field that you can carry around and point in any direction you want. If it is strong enough, you can make water flow uphill or even fire tennis balls straight up.

The only difference between the elevator shaft and the pipe swizzle is that in my novel, the distortion is imposed by a sentient mind rather than a big hunk of matter. Just as the gravity field of the Earth's pathspace is anchored by the actual matter of the Earth (so that it follows the Earth around and keeps affecting us and the moon), so the pathspace of a swizzle is anchored by the matter of the pipe it is defined upon – so that it follows the pipe around if you are walking around while holding it.

If you activate a swizzle and drop it into a fluid – such as seawater or the thin gas of interstellar space – it will accelerate until the drag equals its thrust.

The only real difference between a pathspace weave and a piece of Earth's gravity well is that the mass particles of the Earth do not have to "concentrate" to create their pathspace distortion. It is part of them. If a photon decays into an electron and a positron, each of the particles is born with mass and a charge and a gravitational field – their pathspace distortions appear when they do.

Einstein's space-curvature tensor is simply a compact and elegant way of specifying the local pathspace – the space of paths.

\--- MRK

Other books by Matthew R. Kennedy

The Gamers and Gods trilogy

AES: Gamers and Gods I

MACHAON: Gamers and Gods II

ALEXANOR: Gamers and Gods III

The Metaspace Chronicles

Pathspace: The Space of Paths

Spinspace: The Space of Spins

Tonespace: The Space of Energy

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