Harry was puzzled, and not a little worried. Gypsies have strange talents , and the dead - even the recently dead - are not without theirs. How then a dead Gypsy king? 'Are you telling my fortune? It's a long time since I crosse d a Traveller's palm with silver.'

The other vseized upon that: With silver, aye! My palms shall never know its feel again - but be sure my eyes are weighted with it! No, cross yourse lf with silver, Harry, cross yourself!

Now Harry wasn't merely puzzled but suspicious, too. What did this de ad old man know? What could he possibly know, and what was he trying to s ay? Harry's thoughts weren't shielded; the Gypsy king picked them up and answered: / have said too much already. Some would consider me a traitor. Well, le t them think it. For you are right: I'm old and I'm dead, and so can afford one last indulgence. But you have been kind, and death has put me beyond forfeiture.

'Your warning is an ominous thing,' said Harry. But there was no answer . Only a small cloud of dust, settling, showed where the caravans had pa.s.se d from sight.

'My route is set!' Harry called after. 'That is the way I must go!'

A sigh drifted back. Only a sigh.

'Thanks anyway,' Harry answered sigh for sigh, and felt his shoulders sag a little. 'And goodbye.'

And he sensed the slow, sad shake of the other's head ...

At 11:00 a.m. Harry booked out of the Hotel Sarkad in Mezobereny and wait ed by the side of the road for his taxi. He carried only his holdall, which i n fact held very little: his sleeping-bag, a small-scale map of the district in a side-pocket, and a packet of sandwiches made up for him by the hotel pro prietor's daughter.

The sun was very hot and seemed intensified by the old boneshaker's dust y windows; it burned Harry's wrists where it fell on them, causing a sensati on which he could only liken to p.r.i.c.kly heat. At his first opportunity, in a village named Bekes, he called a brief halt to purchase a straw summer hat with a wide brim.

From Mezobereny to his drop-off point close to the Romanian border was about twenty kilometres. Before letting his driver go he checked with him t hat in fact his map was accurate, and that the border crossing point lay on ly two or three kilometres ahead at a place called Gyula.

'Gyula, yes,' said the taxi driver, pointing vaguely down the road. And a gain: 'Gyula. You will see them both, from the hill - the border, and Gyula.'

Harry watched him turn his cab around and drive off, then hoisted his holdal l to one shoulder and set off on foot. He could have taken the taxi closer to the border, but hadn't wanted to be seen arriving in that fashion. A man on foot is less noticeable on a country road.

And 'country' was what it was. Forests, green fields, crops, hedgerows, grazing animals: it seemed good land. But up ahead, across the border: the re lay Transylvania's central ma.s.sif. Not so darkly foreboding as the Merid ional!, perhaps, but mountains awesome and threatening enough in their own right. Where the road crossed the crest of low, undulating hills, Harry cou ld see the grey-blue peaks and domes maybe twenty-five miles away. They clu ng to the horizon, a sprawl of hazy crags obscured by distance and low-lyin g cloud. His destination.

And from that same vantage point he could also see the border post, its red- and white-striped barrier reaching out across the road from a timber, almost Austrian-styled chalet. Borders hadn't much bothered Harry, not whe n he had the use of the Mobius Continuum, but now they bothered him conside rably. He knew that there was no way he was going to get past this one, not on the road, at least. But his uncomplicated plan had taken that into acco unt. Now that he knew exactly where he was on the map (and the precise lie of the border), he would simply continue to act the tourist, spending the d ay quietly in some small village or hamlet. There he'd study his map until he knew the area intimately, and choose himself a safe route across into Ro mania. He knew the Securitatea were keen to keep Romanians in, but couldn't see that there'd be much to-do made about keeping foreigners out! After al l, who but a madman would want to break in? Harry Keogh, that was who.

At the bottom of the hill was a T-junction where a third-cla.s.s road (or half-metalled track, at least) cut north through dense woodland. And less th an a mile through the woods . . . that must be Gyula. Harry could see hazy b lue smoke rising from the chimneys in the near-distance, and the gleaming, b ulbous domes of what were possibly churches. It looked a quiet enough place and should suit his purpose ideally.

But as he reached the bottom of the slope and turned left into the woods , he heard again that half-familiar jingle and saw in the shade of the trees those same Gypsy caravans which had pa.s.sed under his window earlier in the day. They had not been here long and the Travellers were still setting up ca mp. One of the men, wearing black boots, leather trousers and a russet shirt , with a black-spotted bandana on his brow to trap and control his long, shi ny black locks, was perched on a leaning fence chewing a blade of gra.s.s. Smi ling and nodding as Harry drew level, he said: 'Ho, stranger! You walk alone. Why not sit a while and take a drink, to cu t the dust from your throat?' He held up a long, slim bottle of slivovitz. 'Th e slivas were sharp the year they brewed this one!'

Harry began to shake his head, then thought: why not? He could just as e asily study his map sat under a tree as anywhere else. And draw less attenti on to himself, at that. 'That's very kind of you,' he answered, following up immediately with: 'Why, you speak my language!'

The other grinned. 'Many languages. A little of most of them. We're Trav ellers, what would you expect?'

Harry walked into the camp with him. 'How did you know I was English?

'Because you weren't Hungarian! And because the Germans don't much come here anymore. Also, if you were French there would be two or three of you, in shorts, on bicycles. Anyway, I didn't know. And if you hadn't answered me, why, I still wouldn't, not for sure! But . . . you look English.'

Harry looked at the caravans with their ornate, curiously carved sigils, their painted and varnished woodwork. The various symbols were so stylized they seemed to flow into and become one with the fancy scrolls of the genera l decoration, almost as if they'd been deliberately concealed in the design.

And looking closer - but yet maintaining an att.i.tude of casual observation - he saw that he was right and they had been so concealed.

His interest in this regard centred on the funeral vehicle, which stood a little apart from the rest. Two women in mourning black sat side by side on it s steps, their heads on their bosoms, arms hanging slackly by their sides. 'A dead king,' said Harry . . . and out of the corner of his eye watched his new friend give a start. Things began to piece themselves together in his mind, li ke bits of a puzzle forming up into a picture.

'How did you know?'

Harry shrugged. 'Under all the flowers and garlic, that's a good rich caravan and fit for a Traveller king. It carries his coffin, right?'

Two of them,' said the other, regarding Harry in a new, perhaps slightly m ore cautious light.

'Oh?'

'The other one is for his wife. She's the thin one on the steps there. Her h eart is broken. She doesn't think she'll survive him very long.'

They sat down on the humped roots of a vast tree, where Harry got out h is sandwiches. He wasn't hungry but wanted to offer them to his Gypsy 'frie nd', in return for the good plum brandy. And: 'Where will you bury them?' h e eventually asked.

The other nodded eastward casually enough, but Harry felt his dark eyes on him. 'Oh, under the mountains.'

'I saw a border post up there. Will they let you through?'

The Gypsy smiled in a wrinkling of tanned skin, and a gold tooth flashed in the sun striking through the trees. 'This has been our route since long before there were border posts, or even signposts! Do you think they would w ant to stop a funeral? What, and risk calling down the curse of the Gypsies on themselves?'

Harry smiled and nodded. 'The old Gypsy curse ploy works well for you, eh?'

But the other wasn't smiling at all. 'It works!' he said, quite simply.

Harry looked around, accepted the bottle again and took a good long pu ll at it. He was aware that others of the Gypsy menfolk were watching him, but covertly, while ostensibly they made camp. He sensed the tension in t hem, and found himself in two minds. It seemed to Harry that he'd discover ed a way across the border. Indeed, he believed the Gypsies would gladly t ake him across; more than gladly, and whether he wanted to go with them or not!

The odd thing was that he didn't feel any animosity towards this man, th ese people, who he now felt reasonably sure were here partly out of coincide nce but more specifically to entrap him. He didn't feel afraid of them at al l; in fact he felt less afraid generally than at almost any time he could re member in his entire life! His problem was simply this: should he casually, even pa.s.sively accept their entrapment, or should he try to walk out of the camp? Should he make allusion to the situation, make his suspicions known, o r simply continue to play the innocent? In short, would it be better to 'go quietly', or should he make a fuss and get roughed up for his trouble?

Of one thing he was certain: Janos wanted him alive, man to man, face to face - which meant that the last thing the Szgany would do would be to hurt him. Perhaps now that Harry was on the hook, it were better if he simply la y still and let the monster reel him in. Part of the way, anyway.

. . . When he yawns his great jaws at you, go in through them, for he's softe r on the inside . . .

Did I think that? Harry used his deadspeak, or was it you again, Faethor?

Perhaps it was both of us, a gurgling voice answered from deep within.

Harry nodded, if only to himself. So it was you. Very well, we'll play it your way.

Good! Believe me, you - we? - have the game well in hand.

'Do you think I might rest here a while?' Harry asked the traveller where t hey sat under the trees. 'It's peaceful here and I might just sit and look at m y map, and plan the rest of my trip.' He took a last mouthful of slivovitz.

'Why not?' said the other. 'You can be sure no harm will come to you . . . h ere.'

Harry stretched out, lay his head on his holdall, looked at his map. Halm agiu was maybe, oh, sixty miles away? The sun was just beyond its zenith, the hour a little after noon. If the Travellers set off again at 2:00 p.m. (and if they kept up a steady six miles to the hour) they might just make it to Ha lmagiu by midnight. And Harry with them. He couldn't even hazard a guess as t o how they would go about it, but felt fairly sure they'd find a way to get h im through the checkpoint. Just as sure as he'd seen that sigil of a red-eyed bat launching itself from the rim of its urn, painted into the woodwork of t he king's funeral caravan.

He closed his eyes and, looking inwards, directed his deadspeak thoughts at Faethor. / think I frightened Janos off- when I threatened to enter his mi nd, I mean.

It was bold of you, the other answered at once. A clever bluff. But you we re in error, and fortunate indeed that it worked.

I was only following your instructions! Harry protested.

Then obviously I had not made myself plain, said Faethor. / meant simply that your mind is your castle, and that if he tried to invade it you must loo k to understanding his reasons, must look into his mind and try to fathom its workings. I did not mean, literally, that you should step inside! It would i n any case be impossible. You're no telepath, Harry.

Oh, I knew that well enough, Harry admitted, but Janos himself wasn't so sure. He's seen some strange things in my mind, after all. Not least your presence there. And if you were advising me, then obviously he would need to ste p wary. The last thing he would want - the last thing anyone would want, incl uding myself- is you in his mind. Still, I suppose you're right and it was bl uff. But I felt. . . strong! I felt I was playing a strong hand.

You are strong, Faethor answered. But remember, you had the additional s trength of the girl and Layard. You were using their amplified talents.

I know, said Harry, but it felt even stronger than that. It could of course have been your influence, but I don't think so. I felt that it was all mine. A nd I believe that if I had been a true telepath, then I would have gone in. If only to try and do to Janos what he did to Trevor Jordan.

He sensed Faethor's approval. Bravo! But don't run before you can walk, my son . . . And before Harry could answer: Will you go with the Szgany, t he filthy Zirra?

In through his jaws? Harry answered. Yes, I think so. If I can't get into h is mind, then I'll get into his 'body', as it were, and maybe blunt a few of hi s teeth a little along the way. But answer me this: If I have frightened him off from any sort of mental seduction or invas ion, what will he do next? What would you do, if you were him?

What remains to him? Faethor answered. In the skilful use of powers - those very powers he desires to steal from you - he believes you are his m atch. So he must first conquer you physically. What I would do if I were h im? Murder you, and then by use of necromancy rip your Knowledge right out of your screaming guts!

Your. . . 'art'? Harry answered. Thibor's? Dragosani's? But Janos doesn't h ave it.

He has this other thing, this ancient, alien magic. He can reduce you to ashes, call you up from your chemical essence, torture you until you are a ruin, incapable of defending yourself - and then enter your mind. And so tak e what he wants.

Hearing that, Harry no longer felt so strong. Also, the slivovitz had b een more potent than he thought and he'd taken quite a lot of it. Suddenly he knew the sensation of giddiness, an unaccustomed alcoholic buoyancy, and at the same time felt the weight of a blanket tossed across his legs and l ower body. It was cool under the trees and someone was seeing to his welfar e, for now at least. He opened his eyes a crack and saw his Gypsy 'friend'

standing there, looking down at him. The man nodded and smiled, and walked away.

Treacherously clever, these dogs, Faethor commented.

Ah! Harry answered. But they've been well instructed . . .

Though Harry felt he should have no real requirement for sleep, still he let himself drowse. For two or three days now there had been this weariness on him, as if he were convalescing after some minor virus infection or other, maybe a bug he'd picked up in the Greek islands. But a strange ailment at best, which made him feel strong on the one hand and wearied him on the oth er! Perhaps it was a change in the water, the air, all the mental activity h e'd been engaging in, including his deadspeak, so recently returned to him.

It could be any of these things. Or ... perhaps it was something else.

Even as he let himself drift, and as he began to dream a strange dream - of a world of swamps and mountains, and aeries carved of stone and bone a nd cartilage - so Mobius came visiting: Harry? Are you all right, my boy?

Certainly, he answered. / was merely resting. Whatever strength I can muste r . . . it could be I shall need it. The battle draws nigh, old friend.

Mobius was puzzled. You use strange terms of expression. And you don't q uite, well, feel the same.

As Harry's dream of Starside faded, so Mobius's dead-speak made more o f an impression. What? he said. Did you say something? Terms of expression ? I don't feel the same?

That's better! said Mobius, with a sigh of relief. Why, for a moment there I thought I was talking to some entirely different person!

Between dream and waking, Harry narrowed his eyes. Perhaps you were, he said.

He sought Faethor in his mind and wrapped him in a blanket of solitude.

And: There, he said. And to Mobius: / can hold him there while we talk.

Some strange tenant?

Aye, and greatly unloved and unwanted. But for now I've covered his rat -hole. I much prefer my privacy. So what is it you've come to tell me, Augu st?

That we're almost there! the other answered at once. The code is breaking down, Harry, revealing itself. We'll soon have the answer. I came to bring y ou hope. And to ask you to hold off from your contest just a little while lon ger, so that we - - Too late for that, Harry broke in. It's now or never. Tonight I go up agai nst him.

Again the other was puzzled. Why, you seem almost eager for it!

He took what was mine, challenged me, offended me greatly, Harry answe red. He would burn me to ashes, raise me up, torture me for my secrets - e ven invade the Mobius Continuum! And that is not his territory.

Indeed it is not! It belongs to no one. It simply is . . . Mobius's deads peak voice was dreamy again, which caused Harry to concentrate and consolidat e within his own personality.

'It simply is'? he repeated to Mobius, mystified. But of course it is! What do you mean, it is?

It thinks . . . everything, Mobius answered. Therefore it is ... everything! But something had been triggered in him. He was fading, drifting, returni ng to a dimension of pure Number.

And Harry made no attempt to retain him but simply let him go ...

16.

Man to Man, Face to Face

'Harry!' Someone gave his shoulder an urgent shake. 'Harry, wake up!'

The Necroscope came instantly awake, almost like stepping through a M obius door from one existence to another, from dream to waking. He saw th e Gypsy he had spoken to and shared food with, whose blanket lay across h is legs. And his first thought was: How does he know my name? Following w hich he relaxed. Of course he would know his name. Janos had told it to h im. He would have told all of his thralls and human servants and other mi nion creatures the name of his greatest enemy.

'What is it?' Harry sat up.

'You've slept an hour,' the other answered. 'We'll soon be moving on. I'm taking my blanket. Also, there is something you should see.'

'Oh?'

The Gypsy nodded. His eyes were keen now, dark and sharp. 'Do you have a friend who searches for you?'

'What? A friend, here?' Was it possible Darcy Clarke or one of the other s had followed him here from Rhodes? Harry shook his head. 'I don't think so .'.

'An enemy, then, who follows on behind? In a car?'

Harry stood up. 'You've seen such a one? Show me.'

'Follow me,' said the other. 'But keep low.'