The Sishmindri hesitated, visibly reluctant to lay web-fingered hands upon his mistress.

"It's all right, Teebo," Sonnetia resolved the amphibian's dilemma. "I'll go." Her voice was controlled as always, but the glance she cast at her husband communicated the deepest outrage. Head high, she marched out of the study, closely followed by her guard, and the door closed behind them.

Vinz expelled his breath in a sigh. It was over. He had engaged in a contest of wills with his wife and emerged the victor. He had asserted his rightful authority, displayed appropriate firmness and resolve, defended the secrecy of the night's venture. Save for her single disturbing flash of insight, things had gone quite well, and he had every right to enjoy a few moments of well-deserved self-satisfaction. But he was not enjoying anything. That look she'd given him! In all their years together, he had never seen such anger in her eyes, and that wasn't the worst of it. There had been something more, something akin to-what? Reproach? Bewilderment? Something that stirred his guilt and remorse.

Nonsense. He was tormenting himself over nothing. The anger in her eyes-now, that had been real, the reaction of a self-willed, overindulged woman unaccustomed to restraint. He had granted her too much freedom, which she may or may not have misused, but those days were over.

He did not care to speculate as to the manner in which she may or may not have misused her freedom. Contemplation of the impending mayhem at Belandor House was actually preferable. Another few hours, and it would be over and done with, one way or another.

Vinz stared out the window and willed the hours to pass.

Time trudged at its own pace and the afternoon yielded to twilight that persisted for decades before giving way to night. Vinz ordered a light meal brought to his study on a tray. When the food arrived fifteen minutes later, he found that he could scarcely touch it. His hands were cold despite the good fire crackling on the grate, and his jaw muscles insisted on clenching.

Unacceptable. He needed that jaw in good working order to achieve proper enunciation of the syllables designed to focus mental force. And his hands: Much suppleness was required to perform the gestures that somehow-not even the most deeply learned arcanist really knew quite how or why-enhanced the ability of the human mind to draw upon the power of the Source.

Vinz rubbed his hands together, driving warmth into the fingertips. He forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls of soup and felt himself warming from the inside. He cracked his knuckles and bent his digits backward as far as they would go. All seemed adequately flexible. He tried once again to lose himself in the Journey of the Zoviriae, but the face of his wife kept superimposing itself upon the page. Rising from his chair, he paced restlessly about the study, but the face did not go away. Then the thought of Belandor House sprang once more to the front, and again that was all there was.

The distant tolling of a bell touched his mind. His hands jerked, and his eyes jumped to the window. It was dark outside, but not yet late enough. The hours of waiting stretched out before him and they were infinite, they would never end.

But they did end at last. Eternity expired and distant chimes sounded the stroke of midnight. Ordinarily he would have been fast asleep at such an hour, but now he was extraordinarily wakeful, almost as if he would never sleep again.

It was time. Vinz stood up. A warm woolen cloak in an unobtrusive shade of charcoal lay draped across the chair in the corner. Now he put it on, but not before checking his pockets to verify for the hundredth time the presence of the tiny stoppered vials, the miniature leather pouch, the arcanist's necessities. For the hundredth time, he found all to be in order. Briefly he considered-for the hundredth time-the advisability of taking up a small lantern to light his path, and for the hundredth time rejected the idea. A light would only draw unwelcome attention, and he could find his way without it; he had only a very little way to travel, after all.

With the hapless sense of abandoning a safe refuge, he departed his study. Through the dim corridors of sleeping Corvestri Mansion he made his quiet way; down a secondary stairway ordinarily used by servants, along a humble back hallway to a side exit. Only once in the course of that journey did he encounter wakeful life: A Sishmindri sentry stationed at the head of the stairs dropped into a respectful crouch as the master passed, and once again Vinz thought to glimpse astonishment in the golden eyes.

Slipping the bolt, he pulled the door open and made himself step through into the night. The raw cold struck him at once, despite the protection of his cloak. Autumn had undeniably yielded to winter, and all his instincts urged him to shrink back into the shelter of his home.

Later.

Lifting his hood, he pulled the edge well forward to shade his face. He stood at the side of the house, with but a few feet of flagstone walkway separating him from one of the several small doors in the wall encircling his home. The doorway opened upon a small service alley that ran between Corvestri Mansion and its nearest stately neighbor. Never in an entire lifetime of residence had he passed through that particular portal. Even as a boy he had decorously come and gone by way of the grand front gateway. It had never entered his mind to explore a lesser path.

He strode to the door, unbarred it, and went through into the darkness beyond, where he paused, blinking. Seconds later his eyes adjusted and he discerned a faint glow at the mouth of the alley, toward which he groped his way. The glow brightened and presently he stumbled forth into Summit Street, where the big brass-and-glass streetlamps cast their strong light. Instinctively he ducked his head. The illumination here in this best of all neighborhoods was excessive; he might easily be seen and recognized.

Ridiculous. He was thinking like some sort of a criminal. But he was a criminal, Vinz realized; or very shortly to become one. He cast a quick guilty glance around him. The street appeared deserted. No beggars huddled under archways, no drunks sprawled in the gutters; the Watch did not tolerate such unpleasing presence here in the heart of the Clouds. The Watch! His stomach tightened. Those vigilant guardians of public order patrolled this neighborhood continually. He might meet up with them within seconds, and then what? They would wonder what a respectable resident of the Clouds-a titled magnifico, no less-was doing roaming the street at midnight. They would offer to escort him safely back to his own door, and if he demurred, what then might they think? He quickened his pace, and the sound of his footsteps seemed appallingly loud, likely to rouse his neighbors from their slumbers. Along Summit Street he hurried, past the proudest old palaces of Vitrisi, now largely inhabited by Taerleezi officials, and the insignificant distance that he actually traveled seemed immense.

At length he reached the end of the street and beheld Belandor House, its arched windows dark, its superb filigree rooflights aglow. The wrought-iron front gates were closed and padlocked, but the armed sentries usually stationed before them were unaccountably absent tonight. Curious, but good. He had dreaded braving the regard of those sentries. To his right gaped the dark entrance of an alley, similar to that serving Corvestri Mansion and all great Summit Street dwellings, allowing tradesmen, mechanicals, and other nameless folk with their wagons and donkey-carts access to the rear of the building. He had passed by such alleys thousands of times, barely noting their grubby utilitarian existence. But now the black gap in the world seemed to offer shelter, which he accepted with gratitude.

Into the alleyway slunk the Magnifico Corvestri, following its stygian course along the walled perimeter of the Belandor property to the rear of the house, where a small lantern hanging above a low postern cast its light upon a silent gathering. Six of them, he counted quickly, all heavily armed. Strange to see so few. Somehow he had expected an army. They were not voluminously cloaked as he was, but attired in doublets, loose breeches, low boots-practical garments affording freedom of movement. All were masked, their black dominoes lending them an eerie uniformity. His own face should be covered, Vinz recalled, and he had not come unprepared. Now digging into one of his pockets to bring forth a grey fabric scrap, he pushed his hood back and tied the mask in place. They were all watching him as he advanced, and he felt a complete fool, fumbling with the strings beneath that collective faceless regard. Once the mask was in place, however, the resulting sense of anonymity offered distinct comfort.

As he drew near the quiet group, he caught a whiff of pungency on the damp air, something unknown and unsettling. He walked on and soon descried the source-a still figure stretched prone in a puddle beside the gate. It was a dead Sishmindri sentry lying in its own sharp-scented blood, the first victim of the evening's enterprise. And although he had expected to encounter something of the sort, a powerful revulsion swept through him. He faltered an instant and only with an effort of will compelled himself to continue his advance.

Then he was in their midst, the eyes in the invisible faces all fixed intently upon him, and he was a sedentary rotund amateur among these tigers of the resistance, yet it was up to him to lead them in.

"I will prepare myself," he informed his listeners, and his voice came out astonishingly calm and confident, even authoritative, as if he addressed a band of apprentice arcanists. And nobody ventured to ask him why he hadn't prepared himself well in advance, so there was no need to explain the very short-lived effects of his self-fortifications. Perhaps they already knew, or perhaps his air of assurance impressed them. In any event, nobody uttered a word and the silence stretched as Vinz swallowed the essential draughts, inhaled the requisite powders, and timed his mental exercises to the rhythm of his quietly spoken, practiced syllables.

The inner light dawned almost at once, accompanied by the familiar but ever-wondrous mental expansion. He touched the Source, and its power filled every emptiness within him.

I am truly a master, he thought, and the flowering of self-satisfaction might have choked his concentration, had it been given the chance. But a true master knew how to exclude even the most seductive of distractions. He focused his arcane vision as if through a spyglass of the mind, and the hidden reality of his surroundings surrendered itself without further resistance.

"No arcane safeguards have been placed upon this gate," he reported, hearing his own voice reverberate across great distance. "Only an ordinary lock and key. I can overcome the lock by specialized means, but the exercise will drain a measure of force."

"No need," one of his companions returned.

The voice was low, the face was masked, and a cap covered the hair, but Vinz's heightened perceptions easily identified the individual known to him as Lousewort. How could he ever have thought Lousewort nondescript, nearly invisible? The man's dedication, high courage, and determination all but blazed.

Lousewort gestured and one of his companions stepped to the locked door, pick in hand. The lock yielded with astonishing ease. The gate swung open.

Vinz stood motionless and sent his perceptions questing through into the Belandor property. No exceptional obstacles or pitfalls in the immediate vicinity of the gate, he noted, but some few yards farther on pulsed an atmospheric sensitivity, designed to detect strangers and no doubt alert the Belandor household to the unauthorized presence. The sensitivity was invisible, devoid of physical reality, but in his mind's eye he saw it as a sort of disembodied mouth, throbbing with red energy, alert to unfamiliar flavors and ready to loose huge, silent yowls.

A flex of the mind, supported by corresponding hand gestures, fused the lips together, effectively stifling utterance. This done, Vinz advanced with caution, passing through the open postern into his enemy's domain. Without turning to look he knew that his masked companions were close behind him, and their sheer silence was remarkable. Not a twig or dry leaf crunched underfoot; they glided on like specters. Ghosts of the Resistance. In a back garden was a fishpond with a fanciful arbor, probably designed to please that pampered daughter of Aureste's.

Belandor House arose before him, pure and proud and seemingly inviolable. He had never before set foot upon the property, much less penetrated the house itself. Unlike Sonnetia's maidservant. And Sonnetia herself?

For a split second his concentration wavered, and in that moment he felt the lips of the muted atmospheric sensitivity begin to work themselves free. At once he pushed the potentially disastrous distractions out of his mind. No room for them now.

Once again master of his mind, Vinz sent his perceptions pushing toward the nearest doorway in the great house and found the way clear of impediment up to the immediate vicinity of the entrance, which was protected by a heavy atmospheric/receptive shield: a beautifully conceived piece of work capable of feeding and strengthening itself upon the energy employed to attack it. But the Magnifico Corvestri knew how to deal with such a device. The key lay not in direct assault but rather in a systematic undermining.

Vinz took a moment to gather his faculties, then performed the mental and vocal contortions that slightly altered the course of the energy flowing through him, directing the Source's power to another layer of his intellect and allowing him to bleed arcane strength from the shield. The process was not to be completed in an instant. At least four or five minutes passed, and Vinz was peripherally aware of his companions, their regard pressing hard. To these men of action, the minutes of waiting must have seemed endless, but not one of them complained, demanded an explanation, or urged him to hurry. It would seem that they trusted in his abilities. He would prove that their trust was not misplaced.

He intensified his efforts and felt the incorporeal substance of the shield begin to soften. Another minute's effort weakened the barrier to the point of ruin, and then he felt it collapse. The way was clear, and he could lead them in. He actually took a step or two forward before the training of a lifetime halted him. Perhaps his prudence was excessive, for the atmospheric/receptive shield had been thoroughly disabled, but proper procedure dictated a follow-up investigation, and accordingly he projected his arcane antennae.

A moment later his questing vision encountered a flash of hot dazzlement. Pain speared into his mind, sharp and deep enough to rock his concentration. He tottered, and one hand rose to shield his eyes; a useless instinctive reaction, for the radiance was not perceived by means of the physical senses. It took all the experience and technique at his command to retain mental control, and the effort left him gasping. Vinz opened his eyes. His companions, wholly ignorant of the arcane Retaliation seething in their path, were watching him closely-with some misgivings, he fancied, but the dominoes suppressed expression.

"Danger," he informed them, a little breathless, but voice still creditably clear and calm. "Wait."

Again they obeyed without question, unaware that he had very nearly led them all into a death trap. And how could that have happened, how could he have failed to note the existence of a sizable Retaliation hovering just behind the atmospheric/receptive shield? A corner of his mind was free to speculate, and an answer soon presented itself. His initial surveillance had missed the Retaliation because, at that time, the Retaliation had not yet come into being. The destruction of the atmospheric/receptive shield had triggered the generation of the second, far more lethal barrier. He had to admire the skill and ingenuity of such work, even while preparing to destroy it.

A few moments' effort served to project a ShadowSon-an insubstantial replica of a man, complete in every detail, but invisible to the untrained eye. The ShadowSon, gifted with a handsome transparent face and a look of boundless good nature, advanced cheerily upon the booby-trapped doorway. When he reached it, the Retaliation smote so violently that the white-hot play of force defining the outline of the ShadowSon was dimly visible even to the uneducated eyes of the resistance soldiers. There was an audible sharp intake of breath, but no words.

The ShadowSon, lacking corporeality, sustained the attack unmoved. The fiery atmosphere enfolded him, the small lightning bolts pierced him through, but none of it possessed the power to alter his look of amiable tranquillity. Presently the lethal luminosity bled from the air, the killing bolts faded, and the ShadowSon turned a guileless eye upon his audience.

Stay, Vinz enjoined in silence.

His creation obeyed and presently the assault resumed, its renewed fury dimly visible to untrained observers, blindingly brilliant to the eyes of Vinz. The glare crescendoed, the bolts of force arcing so plentifully and murderously that even the ShadowSon took note, gazing about him with an air of puzzled interest.

The bombardment diminished and slowed to a halt. The Retaliation's energy was entirely spent. The ShadowSon stood unharmed, eyes blinking in mild bemusement.

Well done. You are free, Vinz communicated.

Smiling happily, the ShadowSon dipped his handsome head in acknowledgment and ambled off into the night.

A final examination discovered no further danger. Vinz made for the entrance, the others close upon his heels. Through it without mishap and he stood inside Belandor House for the first time in his life.

It was a small mud-closet, plain and bare, clearly intended for the use of menials. No hint of arcane presence. Vinz led the way through the closet into the workshop beyond, and his heightened senses permitted him to see clearly in the absence of illumination-a privilege denied the companions stumbling in his wake. Belandor House was large and its plan was unknown to him, but probably the place shared many features in common with other great Vitrisian dwellings of its age and kind. Thus he would surely find the chambers of state and significance-including the master suite, Aureste's lair-upon the first story above ground level. No need to use arcane power to guide him; better to conserve his resources.

Out of the workroom and into a narrow corridor Vinz led the way and now there was a very little light, just enough to define the boundaries of that space, its source not immediately apparent. Around a corner, and the light was far brighter, almost beating upon his dilated pupils. Several yards ahead rose a narrow wooden stairway. Upon the bottom tread sat the first human sentry so far encountered within Belandor House. It was an old man, white head bent over some sort of work in his lap. He seemed to be polishing a collection of metal buckles by the light of a tiny oil lamp. The sentry looked up, presenting an astonished wizened face, and it struck Vinz as odd that a gaffer of such obvious decrepitude should have been assigned guard duty in the dead of night. Were there no younger men better suited to the job?

Before there was time to ponder the question, a couple of his companions loped by him like masked wolves. The lamplight winked on plunging steel. A cry quavered and the old sentry tumbled full length at the foot of the stairs. At once one of the killers snatched up the lamp, then paused, evidently awaiting direction.

Vinz gasped, shocked and all but sickened. Despite all mental preparation, the speed and ruthlessness of the homicide had taken him by surprise, and now his focus blurred dangerously. His arcane perceptions wavered and for one hideous instant he looked upon his surroundings with the myopic eyes of an ordinary mortal, and saw nothing. A quick inhalation of a certain reddish powder restored equilibrium. Alarm and uncertainty receded. Vinz glanced about him, passing quickly over the dead gaffer. His surroundings seemed to glow with their own inner light, outer surfaces transparent, inner realities revealed. His companions were looking to him and now he could easily see the faces beneath the masks, not in terms of feature and complexion, but rather as aggregates of individual experience.

Without hesitation he led them up the stairs and out into a broad corridor whose marble floors, high ceilings, tall windows with brocade hangings, crystal, and gilding cosmeticized the magnificent public face of Belandor House. To the right, vast carven doorways opened upon a cavernous space whose far reaches were lost even to his enhanced vision-almost certainly a state ballroom or banqueting hall of some sort. To the left must lie the grandest personal suites, and in that direction he turned his steps. His followers trailed in his wake. Only one of them, the man carrying the oil lamp snatched from the murdered sentry, paused long enough to touch flame to a window hanging. The fabric ignited and fire ascended.

We won't be able to come back this way when we leave. The prospect failed to alarm Vinz. His last inhalation had fortified him beyond reach of distracting emotion, or so he believed. He did not relish the thought of the mansion's destruction, but at that moment it failed to prick his armored conscience. As for their ultimate departure, he did not doubt that his skills would discover or create a way out for them all.

Before them loomed an archway, its bland curve spattered with bright patches of arcane awareness. He darkened the patches in quick succession and led the men through. Fire bloomed in their wake. Smoke commenced a lazy drift along the corridor.

Thus far the invasion had proceeded in silence and secrecy. Now a side door opened and a rumpled individual, perhaps roused from slumber by the smell of smoke, stepped forth into the corridor. A servant, Vinz saw at a glance, young and stoutly built-the first remotely qualified human guard he had encountered within Belandor House. The young fellow took in the scene at a glance, and sleep fled his eyes. The intruders cut him down in an instant, but not before he managed to loose a resounding outcry.

That will bring them. The prospect that would ordinarily have unnerved Vinz Corvestri scarcely daunted him now. Should Belandor reinforcements appear, the strength of the resistance men, backed by the powers of a skilled arcanist, would easily defeat them.

And sure enough, another figure came stumbling into their midst, a manifestly terrified young woman, and she died before she could utter a scream. Compunction gnawed at the foundations of Vinz's confidence. Smoke scratched at the back of his throat. Firmly he excluded both distractions.

Find Aureste.

On along the corridor, around a corner, to another wakeful archway that had to be sent to sleep; then under it and on until his augmented instincts told that he stood within a few yards of significant prey, an individual of Belandor lineage. The individual?

The nearest door was unguarded and unlocked. He led them through it into a plainly furnished, almost ascetic receiving chamber, not grand enough for a magnifico, and thence into a simple chamber whose sole occupant, stirring from slumber, sat up in bed.

Vinz glimpsed a pale angular visage, heavy black brows, great dark eyes still smudged with sleep-Aureste!-then noted the haggard, almost fragile look of the face, the comparatively narrow shoulders and emaciated frame, the unusual length and delicacy of the fingers. His glance jumped to the wheeled chair waiting beside the bed. Not Aureste. This was Aureste's younger brother Innesq, a reclusive cripple.

He could not raise his hand against a helpless invalid.

Even as Vinz confronted his own reluctance, the detached and purposeful portion of his mind currently governing his thoughts told him that the apparently vulnerable cripple was in fact the most dangerous adversary of them all. Innesq Belandor was an adept of formidable power, capable of single-handedly defeating any assault upon his home and avenging himself upon the attackers, if given the opportunity.

That opportunity would not be given.

Almost before he was fully conscious of his own intentions, Vinz Corvestri narrowed the energy that filled him to a single, concentrated beam capable of altering the nature of the atmosphere immediate to the man in the bed. For one brief moment the air surrounding the target would open, drawing Innesq Belandor's life-force unto itself, a process that Innesq would probably experience as a paralyzing chill. Immediately thereafter the surfeited and nauseated atmosphere would regurgitate explosively, blasting the victim with his own stolen energy. It was to be hoped that Innesq would lose consciousness prior to immolation, but this could not be predicted with certainty.

Innesq was looking straight at him, sleepy confusion giving way to alarm, and Vinz could not let himself hesitate. Collecting his force, he held his breath and hurled his arcane bolt. What happened next defied a lifetime of experience.

In that split second of launching the attack, Vinz met his target's eyes and saw comprehension there. Innesq Belandor knew that he was doomed; knew, and displayed no terror.

Arcane energy impinged violently upon the substance of the air and, deep within the recesses of his mind, Vinz sensed the atmospheric transformation. But it seemed not as he expected or remembered; it was foreign. Beyond foreign, profoundly alien. Incomprehensible. Impossible. Impossible.

There was no time to ponder the implications before the atmosphere voiced its anguish in an arcane shriek so vast that even the uninitiated of the resistance caught the faint echo of it, and cast their masked glances about in search of the origin. To the two men present possessing highly trained arcane abilities, the sound was overwhelming. Innesq Belandor's face twisted and he pitched backward onto the pillows, struck unconscious or dead. Vinz was unaware that he himself uttered a cry. Pain clamored in his skull. For a moment he could neither hear nor see. He tottered and would have fallen but for the supporting arms of his companions. Seconds passed, and the atmospheric shrieking went on and on. His mind would give way, some part of him realized, if the assault continued. But even in the midst of torture and terror, some kernel of intellect remained free to marvel at this impossible failure of arcane principle that could not fail.

The air about him seemed to burn with furious, glorious light of a color not to be found in the physical world. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and it was killing him. But then he realized that the ineffable color and the shriek of the atmosphere were fading away and almost he imagined himself willing to endure the pain, if only he might continue to watch. Probably the resistance men were blind, but Innesq Belandor would see it clearly, if he retained life and consciousness. And if he did so, then he must be deprived of both forthwith.

It would have to be done with mundane weapons, for at that moment Vinz Corvestri could hardly stand upright unaided, much less wield the power of the Source. He would have to tell them to ply their blades quickly, while Innesq still lay dazed and defenseless, and he would tell them, just as soon as he regained his voice. In vain he strove to speak. Before the words could be forced out, a door in the opposite wall burst open and into the bedroom leaped a quartet of large Sishmindris garbed in the livery of House Belandor. All four were armed with stout truncheons-an amazing spectacle. Even more amazing was their ferocity. Their vocal sacs were gigantically distended, almost doubling the size of their heads. The small membranous frills edging their earholes were fully fanned. Their bulging eyes blazed, while their staccato croaks and hoots unmistakably translated to battle cries.

It was unbelievable, almost as much of an impossibility as the previous moment's lunatic lapse of arcane reality. Sishmindris were inherently submissive creatures, formed for servitude and never defying much less threatening their human owners. And if by chance there existed amphibians capable of resisting this law of nature, there remained the law of man, which meted out death to any Sishmindri caught bearing arms.

But law seemed the least of concerns to these creatures as they hopped to the attack. Or defense, Vinz realized. The four of them stood ranged between the invaders and the bed, positioned to protect the helpless Innesq Belandor. Another surprise, for it was common knowledge that the Sishmindris were defective in character, ungrateful and incapable of loyalty to their human benefactors. How did it happen that these particular amphibians were willing to risk their own lives in defense of Innesq?

There was no time to ponder the question as the Sishmindris charged, truncheons flailing. The amphibians displayed little skill but much enthusiasm, and their efforts were surprisingly effective. Only four of the invaders stood within the bedroom itself, and two of them were occupied in supporting a limp Vinz Corvestri. The other members of the party clustered behind them in the doorway.

Vinz heard a sickening thud as a truncheon slammed a human temple, and one of his companions went down. A wave of dizziness rocked him, and his eyes swam. He was dimly aware of his supporters drawing him backward out of the Sishmindris' reach and out of the bedroom. There was a chorus of triumphant croaks and then he was standing in the receiving chamber amid his companions. The door of Innesq Belandor's chamber banged shut in their faces, and he heard the snap of a lock.

They could break the bedroom door down, but it would take time and serve little purpose. Innesq Belandor was incapacitated or dead, his threat nullified, while the real quarry remained elusive.

Vinz passed a hand across his brow. His head hurt, and his ears were ringing. But no, there was nothing wrong with his ears, the sound was real. Somewhere nearby an alarm bell was clanging. The air coming in from the corridor was heavy with smoke. Distant cries signaled the awakening of the household. No time left to waste on Innesq.

"Leave him, he is not important," Vinz directed, managing to make it sound creditably authoritative despite the throbbing head. "This way."

He marched back out into the corridor, strides purposeful, and they followed his lead, which they might have been less willing to do had they any idea how sick and shaky he was, how unsure and confused. The wild inversion of arcane law moments earlier negated all that he had known throughout his life, and the shock still resonated along every nerve. Overwhelmed though he was, he never lost sight of the evening's true goal-find Aureste.

Not easily accomplished in an atmosphere so dark and stinging, so increasingly unbreathable. And worse yet when an eager hand touched flame to a set of brocade portieres. Fire jumped and fresh clouds of smoke choked the air. Vinz's eyes burned and watered behind his mask. He knuckled the tears away and reopened his eyes to behold a trio of household servants bearing down on him. One carried a crowbar, one wielded an ax, and one clumsily brandished a rusty sword. Where was Aureste Belandor's reputedly well-trained and well-armed bodyguard? Even as he wondered, his masked companions expertly dispatched all three household defenders. Evidently the murders did not go unnoticed. Not far away, some unseen woman began to scream.

To the left lay the entrance to another private suite, and he led them through just in time to glimpse nightgowned figures fleeing through a back exit. One of them, a mouse-faced female in a ruffled wrapper, was a little too slow, and someone cut her down while someone else hoisted a shovelful of embers from a fireplace and scattered them across the nearest bed, whose silken coverlet began to smolder. A thin tongue of flame licked the bedcurtains and climbed. Still no sign of Aureste. He was probably barricaded in his own bedchamber with his best defenders gathered about him. Surely he would be found there.

"Hurry," urged the individual whom Vinz had identified as Lousewort. "They'll have summoned the Watch by now."

He could not defeat the Watch, he realized. He had not nearly enough arcane force left in him to oppose a party of armed Taerleezis. That stunning reversal in Innesq Belandor's apartment had shaken him to the center, breaking his connection to the Source and robbing him of all but the weakest powers, hardly more than some apprentice might have summoned. But there was no need to let his followers know it.

"This way. Move," Vinz snapped, as if omnipotent. And still the assumed confidence of manner ruled them and they trailed him willingly back out into the corridor and on along its smoke-filled length to another entrance, another apartment, one whose formality expressed the self-conscious dignity of high rank.

The door was unguarded and unlocked. He led them through into a highly polished small foyer, and thence into what he took to be a private audience chamber of some sort. This was the place, beyond doubt: the master suite, Aureste Belandor's sanctum. And quite deserted, by all appearances. No servants about, no night-light burning, no sign of life. But that meant nothing. Aureste was probably lying in wait with his retainers, poised to counterattack. Or better yet, he was abed and asleep, probably in the very next room.

But the very next room was a study or office, and afterward there was an antechamber, and then at last there was the grand bedchamber that he sought, a lofty space graced with an enormous ebony bed, which was empty, its pillows un-dented, its dark damask spread undisturbed. The bed had not been occupied that night. One of the invaders promptly set fire to the bed hangings, then smashed a casement, admitting a current of fresh night air to feed the blaze.

Not here. Not here. Aureste was not here. And Vinz had no idea where in this great mansion or out of it his quarry might have sought refuge, and no arcane force left to launch an extrasensory search.

"Can you find him for us?"

The speaker was Lousewort, whose black mask had regained its opacity.

"Not by arcane means. The fires that your men lit have excited and confused the atmosphere beyond penetration, for the moment," Vinz lied, unwilling to confess the disastrous depletion of his powers. "We must conduct a mundane search."

"No time. We'll be taken if we don't get out now."

"We've time. Come, we've a mission to complete." Vinz strove hard to conceal his discomposure. "There will never be another such opportunity."

"Not worth our lives. We're done here."

"I'm not. I want to finish this once and for all. I will finish it."

"Then you are on your own. May your powers preserve you." Lousewort signaled his henchmen and in silence they made for the exit, evidently confident of their ability to win free of Belandor House without benefit of arcane guidance.

They were actually willing to abandon him. Vinz gazed after them, incredulous and appalled. After all he had done for them and all that he had risked, they were quite happy to leave him here to face his fate alone. Of course, they weren't aware of his present defenseless condition; they viewed him as an arcanist of ability. Which he was, but not at the moment. Just now he could hardly fend for himself. He did not know where to look for Aureste, wasn't capable of overpowering a vicious adversary by ordinary means, hardly knew how to find his way from the mansion without arcane vision to aid him, and certainly could not hope to resist or escape should he encounter the Watch. No, he could not afford to remain in this place on his own. Without further reflection, Vinz Corvestri hastened in the wake of his retreating comrades.

He caught up with them in the onyx foyer, just as they were exiting the master suite. Out into the corridor again and now it was uninhabitable, an inferno of hot, hammering, nearly unbreathable smoke-filled air, through which jumping flames and scurrying human figures were intermittently visible. Vinz gagged on the atmosphere. His eyes were streaming; he could see little. His headache pounded and his churning stomach threatened rebellion. Instinctively he reached out and grabbed the arm of the nearest masked figure. He had no idea who it was, but it hardly mattered; anyone able to keep him on his feet would do.

He never knew how they managed to find their way out. There was a blind eternity of heat, screaming lungs, and confusion, through all of which the support of his masked benefactor kept him upright and moving. A dozen times he would have sunk to the floor, there to rest and recuperate for just a little while, but his guide would not allow it, and he felt himself drawn smoothly most of the way, but propelled forcibly as required.

Then somehow he was outdoors, where the air was cold and clean, and his mind and vision began to clear. He blinked, dashed the cinders from his eyes, and saw that he and the others had miraculously made their way back to the same small garden gate by which they had entered the property-eons ago. His supporter, judging him recovered, released his arm and Vinz mumbled muted thanks, to which there was no reply. Belandor House stood tall and proud as ever, but orange light flickered from many a second-story window and, at the south end of the building, a shattered casement belched flame, the lawless brilliance startling as a scream.