THE WIZARD OF 4TH STREET by Simon Hawke.

 

CHAPTER One

The cabdriver was a rookie; Wyrdrune could always tell. The photo on the license fastened to the dashboard showed a dark young Puerto Rican with perfect teeth and pockmarked skin, wearing his brand-new yellow turban and smiling into the camera lens. It identified the driver as Jesus Dominguez, Certified Adept, Class 4 Public Transport, New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission. The lack of conversation was a dead giveaway. Wyrdrune glanced up at the driver's face, reflected in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, his lips were moving, repeating the simple impulsion spells over and over to himself. A veteran cabbie could easily maintain the relatively undemanding levitation and impulsion spells while carrying on a nonstop conversation, but the rookies who had just passed their first-level adept exams were always a little nervous at the start. Wyrdrune closed his eyes and thought, Please, lets not have an accident, okay? Not today. Let's just get there on time and in one piece. There's too much riding on this.

He glanced out the window as the vaguely turtle-shaped cab skimmed silently along about two feet above the surface of the disintegrating street. Traffic on Fifth Avenue was

light. It was the time between the morning rush hour and the noon break, when the streets became almost completely gridlocked and the sidewalks were choked with pedestrians, making it next to impossible to go crosstown. The cab floated past expensive boutiques and bookstores. They went by Fiorello's, the fashionable and overpriced alchemist's that catered to the herbal and thaumaturgic needs of the chic set; Bloom's department store, with its display windows full of mannequins wearing the lastest haute couture fashions, short hooded cloaks in multicolored pastels,, loose trousers bloused at the ankle over short boots, and embroidered tunics with fake chain-mail shoulder pads. They passed an elephant-shaped bus bearing a placard on its side advertising "A Chorus Line—the longest running show on Broadway!" It was the latest in a series of pre-Collapse revivals, and it was packing them in.

Wyrdrune couldn't understand the pre-Collapse nostalgia craze. While preparing a thesis he had once spent several weeks in the Broadcasting Museum, viewing old pre-Collapse tapes. Unlike most people, he had concentrated on news and documentaries rather than entertainment programming, and he didn't see what was so good about "the good old days." He couldn't imagine how people could have lived like that, breathing air that turned their lungs black and going deaf from all the noise. It had been a poisoned World, riddled with the cancer of technology. The Collapse had almost finished it once and for all.

It had happened at the close of the twenty-second century, an urban dark age brought about by international conflict and abuse of the ecosystem. Solar energy, fusion, and other alternative energy programs were unable to compensate for the dwindling natural resources due to persistent political and economic problems that curtailed their full development. The pre-Collapse civilization had poisoned itself for profit and finally ran out of time. Cities burned. The world was plunged into total anarchy, people killing each other for

food, eating rats, freezing to death. Back then, the sky over Manhattan had been a putrid brown-gray, at night turning an irradiated purple. The water in the Hudson River had been so polluted, you could practically walk across it, and New York Harbor was a sea of sludge. The streets had been oil-slicked, the pavements cracked and filled with potholes. Now, a century later, they were turning green with flowering meadow grass and planted with gardens that had a chance to thrive in the clean air. There was an atmosphere of great age about the city, but rebirth was taking place amid decay. Rain, no longer laced with acid, was gradually washing the ancient buildings clean, and even if the city was still dirty and overcrowded, it was nothing like what it used to be in the days before thaumaturgy became the energy standard.

Only, nobody wanted to remember it that way. Instead they chose to romanticize the past. They even sold "nouveau medieval" toys for children now, little windup cars with rubber wheels that drove around in circles on the floor, making engine noises and belching dark, "authentic" hydrocarbon smoke. Sick. It was one thing to blend the grace of twelfth-century clothing with twentieth-century fashion and call it nouveau medieval or renaissance punk, but what the hell was supposed to be medieval about a car, anyway? They were getting everything ass backwards.

The cab lurched suddenly, and the driver shook his fist and cursed in Spanish at the cab that had cut them off. "E'scuse me," the cabbie said, giving a nervous look in the rearview mirror.

"No problem," Wyrdrune said.

"My first day," the cabbie said, as if apologizing for his inexperience. "My first day on the job and I pick up a sorcerer." He shook his head. "Man, you talk about your pressure!" The cab lurched again. The driver swore and returned his concentration to his driving spell.

"It's all right. Just take it easy, you'll be fine," said Wyrdrune.

From the man's long white hair, full-length robe, and destination, the cabbie had assumed he was a sorcerer. It was a perfectly logical assumption. Most adepts wore their hair long; sorcerers wore it down below the shoulders. Warlocks wore monklike cassocks; wizards wore three-quarter-length capes; and sorcerers wore robes. It wasn't a rule, it was just tradition, but a well respected one. Aside from the fact that long hair and robes weren't fashionable and hadn't been for years, it was the way most people recognized sorcerers and wizards, and it was inadvisable to assume the appearance of a wizard if you were not even a lower-grade adept. You might meet a real one, and he might not be amused. As for mages, they generally wore robes in the functions of their office, but otherwise they dressed pretty much the way they chose. There were only five of them in the whole world, and they knew who they were. So it was logical for the cabbie to assume that Wyrdrune was a sorcerer, especially since he was on his way to Christie's, where the well-publicized auction of the Euphrates artifacts was to take place. But it was an incorrect assumption. Wyrdrune was not a sorcerer. He was not even a wizard. He was at best an undergraduate warlock, and one who had been kicked out of school, at that—a condition he hoped was only temporary. He was doing something about it at that very moment.

He imagined the police questioning the cabbie later, as they would be bound to. The cabbie would tell them that his fare had been a sorcerer. About sixty or seventy years old, he'd say—older, maybe, hard to tell. Long white hair and beard, green robe, slouch hat, about five foot five or six, walked stooped over. He'd tell them that he had picked him up at the Plaza Hotel and driven him to Christie's for the auction. They hadn't exchanged more than a few words. The sorcerer had given him a nice tip. Wyrdrune scowled at the thought of that tip. He could barely afford the cab ride, much less the tip, but there was nothing he could do about it, just as there had been no way to avoid tipping the door-

man at the Plaza for getting him the cab. He had gone in and out of the hotel a number of times during the preceding day, so the doorman would see him several times and think that he was staying there. He wanted it to look as if the job had been done by a sorcerer from out of town, with money, perhaps backed by an organization. And once the job was done, money would no longer be a problem. He hated doing this, but he was truly up against it, and he just couldn't see any other way.

The cab pulled up behind a long black limo parked in front of Christie's. Some corporate sorcerer arriving in his company car. The guy got out and swept his robes out behind him with a flourish, midnight silk, very fancy, and then the doorman was opening the rear door of the cab and standing aside for Wyrdrune to get out.

"Good morning, sir," said the doorman.

Wyrdrune ignored him and headed toward the canopied entrance, walking slightly stooped over and leaning on his cane. A sign by the door read, PRIVATE AUCTION,

EUPHRATES ARTIFACTS, 11:00 A.M., BIDDING LIMITED TO LICENSED MAGES, SORCERERS, AND WIZARDS OR THEIR BONDED REPRESENTATIVES. SORRY, NO CAMERAS PERMITTED.

The cameras that were not permitted inside the gallery were outside on the sidewalk by the entrance. The press was keeping a discreet distance while filming the arriving bidders. Politicians and celebrities were liable to get mikes shoved in their faces and be assaulted with a barrage of questions, but ever since an irritated sorcerer had made one newswoman's hair fall out, the press had been cautious around magic users.

And then he was inside. Getting in hadn't been a problem. Getting out again, however, could be a bit more difficult, especially if anything went wrong. There were a number of policemen stationed around the room, but security wasn't all that tight. Who in their right mind would try anything in a

roomful of sorcerers? Nobody would. And that's just what Wyrdrune was counting on.

A bored-looking waiter approached him with a tray of champagne glasses, but Wyrdrune shook his head and waved him on. He was going to need all his wits about him, and he needed to keep both hands free. He edged around the room, avoiding eye contact, not wishing to be drawn into conversation. It was like a convention of magicians. The room was filled with a soft, conversational undertone and the rustle of capes and robes. Wyrdrune made his way around to the east side of the room and stood next to the heavy drapes just behind a marble column. The auctioneer, a tall, stylishly conservative man with a thin mustache and an artfully streaked geometric hairstyle took his place behind the podium and gave three sharp raps with his gavel on a small mahogany block.

"May I have your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen? We are about to begin." He waited a moment for silence. "Thank you. And good morning. I would like to welcome you all to the cooperative auction of the Euphrates artifacts, conducted by Christie Associates on behalf of the Annendale Corporation and the United Semitic Republics Department of Antiquities. Before we begin, I would like to remind you that bidding is limited to licensed mages, sorcerers, and wizards or their bonded representatives only. In order to avoid any embarrassment or inconvenience, I have been requested to inform you that you will be asked for your credentials when registering your purchase. All items up for bidding have been certified as prehistoric Mesopotamian antiquities by the Department of Archaeology of the University of Baghdad. These artifacts have been graded for thaumaturgi-cal potential and certified by the International Thaumaturgi-cal Commission's investigative committee, chaired by the honorable Sheik Rashid Ilderim Al'Hassan, Dean Emeritus of the Thaumaturgical College of the University of Cairo. We will begin with lot number forty-three, a matched pair of

pagan statuettes carved in obsidian, possibly of Babylonian origin and believed to represent prehistorical deities. Bidding will begin at $25,000."

Amazing, thought Wyrdrune. Twenty-five grand for a couple of three-foot figurines carved out of black rock. Of course, an investigative board of sorcerers had determined that they possessed thaumaturgial potential, which meant that ancient trace emanations had been detected, suggesting they could be employed in some type of enchantment—if you could figure out the proper spell. Simple. Just punch up a search program on your corporate computer banks that would sort through all of the accumulated thaumaturgical data derived from thousands of ancient sourcebooks and archaeological records and maybe, if there was correlating information in the data banks, you might come up with something that would at least put you on the right scent. It was wildcatting for enchantments. You pays your money and you takes your chances. It must be nice to be rich, he thought. Or have a corporate sponsor. He didn't even have twenty-five dollars to his name, much less twenty-five thousand. But then, he wasn't planning on buying anything.

He watched from the far side of the room as the bidding progressed. The auctioneer stood behind an ornately carved podium on a dais. The items up for bidding were marked by catalog lots and brought up in no particular order that he could determine. They were exhibited briefly in front of the podium and then brought around behind it, to remain there in view of the audience until the high bid was reached. It was all done in a very proper, very classy style. Silent bidding, no crass shouting-out of prices. Heads deliberately nodded, fingers discreetly raised to indicate a bid, all very elegant and tony. All the better, thought Wyrdrune. The diversion would make more of an impact that way. At least, he fervently hoped so.

And on the opposite side of the room, someone else was hoping exactly the same thing.

A figure in a long, dark robe slowly moved forward, face concealed by a heavy cowl. The figure stopped by the marble column near the front of the room, opposite the one where Wyrdrune stood. Both arms were folded, hands tucked into long sleeves. The right hand withdrew slightly from the sleeve, and the hooded face looked down at a small black canister.

"I have seventy-five thousand, do I hear eighty? Seventy-five once... seventy-five twice... seventy-five three times, sold to the gentleman in the third row. Thank you very much, sir. May I have the next item up for bidding, please?"

Wyrdrune checked the folded newspaper article he had clipped from The Times last week, the one that had announced the auction and described several of the items up for bidding. He wondered about the items that the USR Department of Antiquities had decided to keep. Of course, there had been nothing in the papers about those. Perhaps, in due time, something would leak out as a result of industrial espionage or stock market transactions, but the most valuable thaumaturgical properties were always closely guarded secrets, especially in the United Semitic Republics.

The feature article about the recent discoveries in the Euphrates Valley had also profiled Sheik Al'Hassan, scion of one of the USR's oldest ruling families and one of the most powerful adepts in the world. Since his country had lost its oil wealth in the Collapse, it had struggled for years to recover from tumultuous civil wars. Although his nation was still poor, Sheik Al'Hassan had amassed a considerable personal fortune out of a grim determination to return to the style of life once known by Arab royal families. The same determination fueled his thirst for the old knowledge of his Pharaonic ancestors. He used his position on the governing council of the USR and his seat on the board of the ITC to good advantage.

He was one of only a handful of men who controlled access to archaeological sites and excavations in the USR, and

it was rumored that a large part of his fortune had come from misappropriated funds from licensing contracts for ar-chaeothaumaturgic expeditions. He was a controversial figure, a man who flaunted his wealth so blatantly that even the governing council of the USR could no longer look the other way. There was an investigation under way as part of a movement by the opposition to unseat him from the council, and there were even allegations of "thaumaturgical improprieties"—dangerous accusations indeed. It was political doublespeak, a thinly veiled accusation of practice in black magic.

This auction, conducted in cooperation with the USR Department of Antiquities and the Annendale Corporation, sponsor of the Euphrates expedition, was being held to raise funds for the badly depleted treasury of the USR, and there were a lot of people looking over Al'Hassan's shoulder. Yet he had managed to turn the entire affair into a public-relations coup, negotiating a widely publicized deal with the Annendale Corporation to "donate" their share of the profits to the USR in return for government bonds, unlimited access to the USR's Department of Antiquities archives, and future licensing considerations. Still, with the over-the-table bargaining so flamboyantly transacted, Wyrdrune could not help but wonder what went on behind the scenes, underneath the table. He knew a lot of other people would be wondering about it, too, and that could work to his advantage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our next item is lot number twenty-five, three gems discovered in a cache at the Annendale Euphrates dig: runestones of unknown properties."

Wyrdrune tensed. This was it. He glanced down quickly at the newspaper clipping he held in his hand. He had underlined three lines describing a small bronze jewel box containing three roughly cut, unpolished stones that were incised with obscure, faintly visible symbols similar to cuneiform—a ruby, an emerald, and a sapphire. Highly precious stones. Small. Easy to conceal and carry. Even easier

to dispose of. He crumpled up the clipping and dropped it on the floor.

"I have an opening bid of one hundred thousand. Do I hear one hundred and ten? Thank you, I have one hundred ten, do I hear one hundred twenty?"

Wyrdrune reached into the inside pocket of his robe and withdrew a small, soft leather pouch. Something inside the pouch was squirming.

On the opposite side of the room the hooded figure glanced furtively around and slowly brought out the black canister.

Wyrdrune opened the drawstring on the pouch, turned it upside down, and shook out a small lizard into the palm of his hand. He closed his fist around it and tucked the empty pouch back inside his pocket. Then, cupping his free hand over the one holding the salamander, he spoke a fire elemental spell under his breath. His hands began to feel warm. He opened them slowly and saw the salamander starting to emit a soft red glow. With a quick flick of his wrist he tossed the lizard onto the heavy drapes. It clung to the soft material, and as it glowed brighter, the drapes began to smolder. Wyrdrune started to move away from the marble column, slowly making his way to the far side of the dais.

The hooded figure on the opposite side of the room also moved forward, pulling the pin on the black canister.

The drapes suddenly erupted into flame.

"Fire!" shouted Wyrdrune.

"Stand back!" shouted a wizard in the crowd, raising his arms. "I'll blow it out!"

"No, a rain spell!" shouted someone else.

"I'll douse it!"

"Wait, look out!"

As the flames licked higher, a number of sorcerers threw their spells simultaneously, with the result that a gale-force wind suddenly ripped through the auction hall, accompanied by a small thunderstorm conjured up by someone else,

which grew rapidly in intensity as it was joined by the force of at least six other rain spells. Robes billowed in the wind, thunder rolled and lightning crackled, water poured down in a deluge from roiling black clouds that suddenly appeared just below the ceiling, and everyone began shouting at once.

"Idiot! I said I'd get it!"

"I cast my spell first!"

"Witt someone turn off the damn rain!"

Wyrdrune bolted toward the dais.

The hooded figure swore and stuck the pin back in the grenade, then ripped the cloak off and threw it to the floor, revealing a black-haired young woman in a leather and chain-mail jacket with a stand-up collar, skintight yellow breeches, and high black boots. She lunged toward the podium, shoving the auctioneer out of the way, and arrived there at the same time as Wyrdrune, both of them simultaneously grabbing for the box containing the stones. They both froze, staring at each other with astonishment.

"Thieves! Stop them!"

"Damn!" said Wyrdrune. He grabbed her wrist. "Come on—"

"Let go of my arm! "

She tried to jerk away from him, but Wyrdrune held on tightly. "No time—"

He spoke a teleportation spell, and they both vanished.

Wyrdrune reappeared inside his small apartment on East 4th Street with a slight popping sound as ah* was suddenly displaced by his manifestation. He dropped about a foot and a half to the floor and landed somewhat unsteadily. He felt dizzy. Teleportation spells were advanced-level thaumaturgy, and they always took a lot out of him. He had never fully mastered them. He swayed as the vertigo hit strongly and his vision blurred. The room seemed to be moving. He sighed with relief that he had made it and briefly shut his eyes, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

"Whewl That was close, Are you all right?"

There was no reply.

He opened his eyes. The girl was nowhere in sight.

"Where'd she go?" said Wyrdrune to himself, still feeling slightly disoriented. "Uh-oh." He bit his lower lip. He had prepared the spell for himself alone, to escape after the theft. If he had miscalculated somehow and she had materialized inside the wall—

There was a loud knock,

"Where are you?"

The knock was repeated twice.

The closet.

He walked over to the closet door, about five feet away from where he had materialized in the center of the room. He unlocked the door and opened it. She was standing inside the tiny closet, leaning with one arm against the inside wall. He had been holding his breath, and now he let it out in a heavy exhalation of relief as he stood aside to let her out.

"Boy, you had me scared for a minute," he said, peeling off his fake nose and taking off his wig.

As the white wig came off, shoulder-length, curly blond hair tumbled down from beneath it. He shook it out, brushing it away from his forehead, then peeled off the remaining latex rubber that had aged his features. Fifty years dropped away from him in an instant. He unfastened the robe and took it off. Underneath it he was wearing a short, tan, hooded warlock's cassock that came down to just below his waist, loose, multipocketed brown trousers, and high-topped red leather athletic shoes with blue lightning stripes on them.

"Another second and they would have nailed us," he said as he removed his disguise. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it! I had it planned so well! There was no chance of anything going wrong. Well, hardly any chance, anyway, but—"

Her right fist connected with his jaw and sent him flying backward, to land hard on the floor. He fell on his back and

lay there for a moment, stunned, then slowly got up to a sitting position. She was standing over him, glaring down at him with fury. He rubbed his jaw and stared up at her in astonishment.

"What the hell was that for?"

"For almost getting me stuck inside the wall, for starters," she said, "and for lousing up my job!"

"Your job?" he said angrily. "You mess up my heist, I save your ass from going to jail, and this is the thanks I get?"

"I had that place cased!" she said furiously. "All I had to do was set off a blackout bomb, grab the stones, and I would've been gone! And then you had to show up!"

Wyrdrune slowly picked himself up off the floor, still feeling weak and dizzy from the energy he had expended in teleporting. "A blackout bomb? A lousy smoke grenade? Your big plan was using a cheap dime-store magic novelty in a roomful of wizards? That's rich. You're lucky I came along."

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" she said.

"The name is Wyrdrune," he said.

"Wyrdrune? What kind of a name is that? Nobody's name is Wyrdrune."

"It's my magename, all right? Adepts have to be careful about revealing their truenames. Broom!"

She glanced around at the small apartment. It was a railroad flat, the rooms arranged one after another in a straight line, the entrance leading into the kitchen, a small alcove from the kitchen leading into the main room of the apartment, part of which had been walled off to accommodate the bathroom. A bedroom led off the living room, a small room hardly larger than a closet with a high wooden loft bed in it, a makeshift study with a tiny writing desk beneath the bed. Bookshelves were everywhere, crammed with volumes. Every square inch of space seemed to be taken up by something. The books had overflowed the shelves and were piled up waist-high on the floor, atop

ratty-looking throw rugs and wooden crates. Various sculptures, cheap copies, stood atop wooden cable spools that served as coffee and end tables, and a number of fantasy art prints, inexpensively framed, hung on the walls. The place looked like the aftermath of an explosion in a novelty store.

"Broom!" he shouted again. "Where the hell are you? Make some tea!"

She walked over to one of the bookshelves and pulled out a volume bound in imitation leather. It was an elementary thaumaturgy text. She opened the book and saw a cheap printed bookplate pasted inside on the flyleaf. It read, "EX LIBRIS—Melvin Karpinsky."

"Melvin?" she said.

"Put that back," said Wyrdrune irritably. "I'll thank you not to touch my things, whoever you are."

"My name is Kira."

"Kira what?"

"Just Kira."

Her eyes grew wide as she saw a spindly-looking straw broom come walking in from the kitchen. It had rubbery, spiderlike arms with four fingers on each hand. It was carrying a small metal tray with a pot of tea, a container of sugar, and a cup and saucer on it.

"Two cups, stupid," Wyrdrune said. "I've got a guest."

"So?" the broom said. Kira had no idea where the voice was coming from. It had no face, much less a mouth. "It's not enough I should fetch and carry, I have to be a mind reader? What do I know from guests? I'm just a broom. It's not my fault you didn't tell me two cups-----"

Kira stared as the broom set the tray down on a cable spool, which served as a coffee table. Wyrdrune shut his eyes in silent suffering.

"Why can't I remember the spell to make that thing shut up?" he said.

"Two cups, he wants," the broom said, going back into the kitchen, grumbling under its breath. Assuming that it

breathed. But then, how could it? 'Two. I suppose he wants two saucers, right? Probably wants two spoons as well. What's next—coasters, maybe?"

Wyrdrune covered his face with his hand.

"You're not very good at this stuff, are you?" Kira said wryly.

She had hit a sore spot. "I'll have you know I studied under Professor Ambrosius, himself," he said.

"Who?"

He stared at her in disbelief. "You're kidding. Merlin Ambrosius? The legendary wizard to King Arthur? Subject of countless books, films, and a television miniseries?"

"Never heard of him. I don't watch TV."

The broom came back, carrying another cup and saucer. "Shall I be mother?" it said. "One lump or two?"

"You never heard of him?" said Wyrdrune.

"Hello?" the broom said. "Earth to warlock, I'm talking here...."

"One," said Kira.

"Thank you," said the broom. "You're a good person." It poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her.

"He's the one who brought us out of the Collapse!" said Wyrdrune.

She shrugged.

"I don't believe it," he said. "Where did you go to school? Merlin Ambrosius is only the greatest archmage who ever lived! Before he came, there was nothing but darkness and despair."

"Darkness and despair?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

"Didn't you study about the Collapse? It was like the Dark Ages all over again. It was like the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust. And then Merlin came back."

"Came back from where?"

"From his entombment by Morgan Le Fay."

"Who's he?"

"She. She was a sorceress, half sister to King Arthur Pen-dragon."

She stared at him blankly.

"You're pulling my leg," he said. "You really don't know any of this?"

"So what are you telling me, she killed this guy and he came back from the dead to give you homework?"

"He wasn't dead, he... oh, the hell with it."

"No, go on, I want to hear this."

"What's the point?"

"You got something better to do? Go on. Finish the story."

He sighed. "Merlin Ambrosius was the mage who served King Arthur Pendragon of Britain. You ever heard of Came-lot? The Knights of the Round Table?"

"I think we've established that my education's been neglected, okay?" she said. "I never even got as far as high school."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Just get on with it." She put her booted feet up on the cable spool and leaned back against the cushions of the battered couch.

"It's a long story, but I'll try to make it short. It happened several thousand years ago. Arthur was the warrior king who united all of Britain, and Merlin was the mage who helped him do it. He gathered the finest soldiers of his time at his castle, Camelot, and formed the Knights of the Round Table. But his kingdom collapsed when his queen, Guinevere, and his best friend, the knight called Lancelot du Lac, fell in love and had an affair. Arthur had a son, named Modred, who was the child of Arthur and his half sister, Morgan Le Fay—"

"Sounds kinky."

"You want to hear this or not?"

"Sure, it's starting to get good."

"Modred found out about the affair and exploited it to bring about his father's downfall. It led to war and the end of

the first thaumaturgic age. Morgan Le Fay knew that Merlin might have stopped it all. She wanted her son, Modred, to ascend the throne, so while she used him to bring down Arthur, she had one of her pupils, a girl named Nimue, seduce Merlin and place him under a spell. Then she had Merlin's body placed inside the cleft of an ancient oak tree and sealed up inside it."

"Why didn't she just kill him?"

"Because I guess she wanted him to die slowly. Only he didn't die. He was comatose, sort of like in suspended animation—"

"Suspended what?"

"A state similar to being asleep, only with all his life functions drastically slowed down. Like being in a trance. He couldn't break the enchantment that imprisoned him, but he used his powers to keep himself alive. And his powers kept the tree alive for all those years as well. Time passed. The old ways and the old knowledge became forgotten. The world changed. Technology was born, and no one believed in magic anymore. And as technology grew, the world began to die. Cities became bigger, and people started to choke in their own wastes. They polluted the oceans with their garbage, they choked the air, they buried their wastes in dumps and contaminated the aquifers, poisoning their own water supplies—"

"Right, I got that part," she said. "Darkness and despair. Get back to the guy in the tree."

"Okay. It was in the tenth year of the Collapse. A retired British sergeant-major named Tom Malory was out hunting for wood. It was winter and his kids were freezing. Unauthorized wood chopping was a felony. He knew where he could find wood, but it was in a protected area, all that was left of Sherwood Forest, nothing but a tiny grove of trees. He managed to get past the perimeter guards and over the fence. He wasn't sure if he was going to make it. He had no idea how he would smuggle the wood out past the guards,

but he was desperate. Later on he couldn't say why he picked that particular tree, a gnarled, ancient oak that was at least ten times the size of any of the other remaining trees. It was huge. He knew it was crazy, one man trying to chop down a tree like that with nothing but an ax, but the moment he saw it, something in him snapped. Here everyone was freezing to death and burning whatever they could find to keep warm, the entire region had been almost completely deforested, and here was this one granddaddy of an oak tree, big enough to burn for years, standing there, as if mocking him.... He just lost it and attacked it with his ax. And suddenly there was a flash of lightning that came down and split the giant tree right down the middle. And Merlin was released. That was the start of the end of the Collapse. The beginning of the second thaumaturgic age. Merlin brought back the forgotten discipline of magic. He founded schools and put the world on a thaumaturgic energy standard. That was almost a hundred years ago. Merlin retired a couple of years back. He's Dean Emeritus of the Thaumaturgic College of Sorcerers in Cambridge, Massachusetts, now. He lectures all around the world. And I was one of his prize pupils."

"Some prize," she said.

The broom tapped Wyrdrune on his shoulder. "So are you going to drink your tea or what?"

He held up his cup so that the broom could pour. "All right," he said, "so I didn't complete the course. I needed money and I got a part-time job doing special effects for a band. Only, one of my fire spells went a little wrong and the concert hall burned down. They took away my scholarship and expelled me."

"You mean the fire at the Nazgul concert?" she said. "That was youT

"It was an accident, okay? It could've happened to anybody. I was going to fence those stones so I could get the

money to finish school. Guess I can forget about that now.

Thanks for blowing it for me."

"What makes you think I blew it, warlock?"

She held out her hand. The three stones were resting in

her palm.

CHAPTER Two

Mustafa Sharif kneeled on the highly polished black marble floor, his head bowed, the soft folds of his best white kaf-fiyeh hanging down over his ears and covering his cheeks. He had prepared for this audience as if for a date with a beautiful woman, putting on his finest, most conservative custom-tailored suit, his best shirt, his blue silk tie, and his lucky obsidian-and-gold cuff links. He had polished his shoes until they gleamed, had had his fingernails freshly manicured and his mustache trimmed. Now he abased himself before his lord in the spacious presence chamber of the palace, and he trembled, afraid to look up and meet his gaze.

"I could not help it, Your Highness," said Mustafa, his voice amplified by the natural acoustics of the room, even though he spoke softly. "I was certain to have the highest bid, but the stones were stolen by a clever sorcerer—"

"You allowed them to be stolen?"

The deep, resonant voice was barely raised above a whisper, but it echoed in the arched ballroom with the vaulted, mosaic ceiling. It dripped with venom.

20

"There was nothing I could do, Your Highness! The room was full of sorcerers, and all of them were taken by surprise! There are no words to convey my profound chagrin over this most unfortunate—"

"Stop whining! Look at me when I speak to you!"

With a feeling of dread Mustafa slowly looked up at Sheik Rashid Ilderim AT Hassan. He sat upon an ornate, jewel-encrusted throne placed on a dais, looking down at Mustafa with an unblinking stare. There was nothing overtly frightening about Rashid Al'Hassan. He was, in fact, a strikingly handsome man, dark, elegant, with chisled Egyptian features and a black, neatly trimmed, pencil-thin mustache. He was fifty-five years old, but he looked years younger. He was conservatively dressed in an expensive black suit with an extremely fine charcoal stripe, its cut making the most minimum concession to current fashion. His blue silk tie was impeccably knotted, and his white shirt was crisp and fresh. He wore diamond links in his cuffs, which had just a touch of lace around them, and a diamond ring on the third finger of each hand. On the little finger of his right hand he wore a gold-and-obsidian signet ring bearing his family crest. He wore a ruby scarab amulet set in platinum on a gold chain. His long kaffiyeh was the finest white linen, and it was held in place by a single band of gold with a small, emerald-eyed cobra's head rising from it. There was a single jewel set in the center of his forehead, a third eye, a tiny, dark, blood-red ruby. His eyes, sharply contrasting with his olive-colored skin, were the palest blue, so light that they almost seemed to glow. His gaze was magnetic, and it made Mustafa's skin crawl.

"I want those runestones found, Mustafa," he said. "And I want the thieves who had the temerity to steal them!"

Mustafa looked down, unable to meet that unflinching, snakelike stare. "They will be found, Your Highness! I swear it!"

"You know the penalty for failure, Mustafa," Rashid said softly. The tiny jewel set into his forehead began to glow.

Mustafa prostrated himself on the floor, trembling. "No, Your Highness!" he cried. "Please, I beg you...."

"Look at me, Mustafa."

"Your Highness, I implore you—"

"Look at me."

Sweat beading on his upper lip, Mustafa slowly raised his head. The jewel in Rashid's forehead blazed, and an intense beam of white light shot from it, striking Mustafa in the head.

"Pain, Mustafa."

Mustafa screamed, wreathed in the aura of the beam, his features twisted in agony.

"This is only a brief taste of the agonies you'll suffer if you fail me," said Rashid.

Mustafa had never felt such searing pain in his entire life. He could not stop screaming. It seemed as if his eyes were melting from their sockets.

"There are worse things than death, Mustafa," said Rashid. "Remember."

The room went dark, lit only by the burning braziers that stood along the walls. Dark shapes seemed to writhe out of the shadows, undulating, reaching for him....

"Noooo!" Mustafa screamed.

"Remember," said Rashid softly. His voice became a ghostly echo, reverberating throughout the chamber. It seemed to bounce around inside Mustafa's skull. "Remember... remember... remember..."

The pain stopped suddenly, and everything went dark. Mustafa huddled on the ground, shivering, sweat pouring off him. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from his body. He found himself lying facedown in a refuse-strewn alley somewhere in New York City. Several feet away from him, a cat arched its back and yowled, frightened by his sudden appearance out of thin air. Like a blind man, he groped his way along

the ground, slowly rising up to his hands and knees. His heart was fibrillating, and ever single nerve synapse in his body was thrashing violently. He seemed to see the spectral afterimage of Rashid's face before him, receding into the distance. He raised his head. His features had become those of a very old man, deeply lined and pale. His hair had gone completely white. "Remember..."

Wyrdrune and Kira walked together down the sidewalk of Third Avenue. He had the hood of his cassock up. Her hands were thrust into her pockets, and she walked with the jaunty swagger of a tough street urchin.

"We split sixty-forty and that's final," she said.

They stopped before the steps leading down to the entrance of a basement-level pawnshop with the traditional three balls mounted over the window.

"/ do the talking, understand?" she said.

Wyrdrune grimaced. "Who'd get a word in edgewise?"

They went down the steps and through the door, causing a small brass bell to tinkle as they walked through.

The place looked like a tiny warehouse. Every available inch of space was taken up with rows of shelving carrying everything and anything that could possibly be pawned— books, musical instruments, magical requisites, art objects, items of jewelry, and clothing. The place resembled an exploded cornucopia of bric-a-brac. A large paragriffin sat on a perch behind the counter, a creation of tnaumagenetic engineering with brilliant gold plumage and metallic scales. It sqawked loudly as they came in.

"Can I help you? Can I help you? Aarrp!"

A huge man came through some drapes behind the counter. He must have weighed well over three hundred pounds, and he was almost perfectly round. His jowls were heavy and sagging, and his eyes were deeply set, beady, like a pig's. He breathed laboriously, as if the slightest move-

ment were an effort. He was wearing a white suit and a dark red, tassled fez. He wore an amulet around his neck the size of a small saucer, a representation of the worm Ouroboros eating its own tail with the Eye of Horus in the center.

"Well, well," he said, huffing and puffing and rubbing his hands against his chest, "if it isn't my old friend, Kira. Who's your friend? And what can I do for you today?"

"Maybe we should go in the back, Fats."

"Certainly, my dear, certainly. If you and your friend will kindly follow me?"

He raised up a portion of the counter so they could go through and indicated the drapes leading to the back room. "Watch the store, Rick," he said.

"Sure thing, Fats," said the paragriffin. "Gotcha covered. Aarrp!"

"Is he a sorcerer?" whispered Wyrdrune.

"Fats?" said Kira. "No. But I'm not too sure about the bird."

It was dark in the back of the store. It was a small room, lined with shelves full of junk. There was a small round card table covered with green baize standing in the center of the room beneath a large hanging lamp made of multicolored stained glass. A small TV set was on, the sound off. It was tuned to a game show. Wyrdrune glanced at it sourly and wondered about going to school for at least four or five years in a thaumaturgic college, sweating through hours of mind-numbing course work and studies, writing a thesis and submitting to both the lengthy written and oral examinations just to earn the right to take the still more complicated certification tests, with additional exams for each succeeding level of advancement in adept certification, and finally getting a job with the Public Service Works as an engineer adept, maintaining the spells that kept the old power stations functioning just so people like Fats could sit around drinking beer and watching game shows. He wondered if this was

what Merlin really had in mind when he brought back the old knowledge.

"Well," said Fats, slowly lowering himself into a large armchair, "I assume you've come to discuss business. What do you have for me?"

He kept his eyes on Wyrdrune, leaving it to Kira to come to the point so that he could claim entrapment just in case Wyrdrune was a cop. She reached into one of the pockets of her black leather jacket and withdrew the leather pouch Wyrdrune had given her. She loosened the drawstring and dumped the runestones out onto the table. They seemed to glow softly, like embers hi a fire, beautiful and strange.

Fats stared at the stones for a long time before reaching out and touching one tentatively with a meaty index finger.

"So what do you think?" said Kira.

"Very nice," Fats said slowly. "Very nice, indeed." He took a jeweler's loupe out of his pocket and started to examine the stones carefully. "This wouldn't be the gallery job, by any chance, would it? The so-called 'daring heist' at Christie's?"

"We don't ask questions, Fats, remember?" Kira said. "Do we do business or don't we?"

Fats removed the jeweler's loupe, sat back, and folded his hands over his large stomach. He smiled faintly. "Well, my dear, I believe it's possible that we might come to an arrangement-----"

"How much?" said Kira.

Fats pursed his lips, considering. "Well, now, let me see-----Mmmm. Yes. I should think about... five thousand."

"Five thousand?" Wyrdrune said. "Are you kidding? The low bid on those stones was—"

Kira elbowed him in the side. "Try again, Fats."

"Come, come, my dear," he said, "Let's be realistic. We're old friends, you and I—"

"We were never friends, Fats. I don't do business with friends."

"Well, then, we are old business partners—in a sense. We have always done reasonably well by each other. Surely you'll admit that I've never cheated you."

"You'd cheat your own mother if it meant a profit," she said. "Don't insult my intelligence, okay? You know damn well they're worth a sight more than a measly five thousand."

"Well, perhaps that's so," said Fats, "but on the other hand, there is a certain question of heat involved, wouldn't you say? This isn't exactly our usual form of transaction, now is it? You seem to be moving up in the world. Personally I find that highly encouraging. I'm always the first to support personal enterprise. However, what we have here are the ill-gotten gains of a rather highly publicized enterprise, if you get my meaning. I'm going to have to take some extra special pains, go to some rather extraordinary lengths to, ah, find the appropriate client with whom to negotiate the sale of these little baubles. It will be a far more complicated matter than the usual sort of snatch-and-grab or cat burglary you've specialized in in the past. It's not unreasonable that I should expect to be compensated for my efforts on your behalf."

"If you're going to be making efforts on my behalf," said Kira, "then how come I'm not getting a percentage of the final sale price? Come on, Fats, stop wasting my time. Either make a reasonable offer or we'll take our business elsewhere."

He raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? Have you been soliciting new distributors behind my back? I'm truly disappointed in you, Kira. Whatever has become of loyalty? However, if you genuinely believe that you can obtain a better deal elsewhere, I certainly won't stand in your way."

"Fine. It's been nice, Fats."

She reached for the stones, but his hand snaked out with

deceptive speed and came down on top of hers. "Let's not be hasty, now," he said. "Surely you won't begrudge an old man the simple pleasures of haggling? Let me see if I can't sweeten the pot somewhat, purely for old times' sake. What would you say to eight thousand?"

"No deal. These stones are easily worth ten times that."

"Ten times? I hardly think so. Still, I'll entertain a counter offer. What did you have in mind?"

"At least twenty thousand."

"Ridiculous, my dear. Out of the question. I'd be cutting my profit to the bone. Make me a more realistic offer."

"All right, then, fifteen."

"No, no, really, that would never do. I'll go as high as nine."

"You'll go ten."

Fats sighed. "Very well, ten, but not a penny more. Take it or leave it. This sort of ingratitude is highly painful to me."

"We'll leave it," Wyrdrune said.

"We'll take it," Kira said simultaneously.

"Well, which is it to be, then?" said Fats, looking up at them with raised eyebrows.

She pulled Wyrdrune by the arm and drew him away several feet. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed at him.

"Are you crazy?" he whispered. 'Ten thousand dollars? The bidding on those stones went as high as a hundred and twenty thousand, and it was going even higher! You're letting this guy steal us blind!"

"Listen, warlock," she said, "let me tell you a few facts of life. With stolen merchandise, especially stolen merchandise that's really hot, you're not going to get anywhere near actual market value, much less street value. Fats is going to be the one taking all the risks disposing of the goods. He's one of maybe a handful of people in the city set up to fence this kind of stuff. If I walk out on him now without cutting

the deal, it's going to hurt our relationship, and frankly I can't afford that. I don't have time to educate an amateur, all right? I'll make a deal with you, I'll go fifty-fifty with you if you'll just keep your damn mouth shut, but if you queer this for me, you're going to have a real problem on your hands. Now what's it going to be?"

Wyrdrune sighed. "All right, all right. But if you ask me, we're being had."

"Maybe, but it's still going to be the easiest five thousand dollars you ever made. Take what you can get and don't bitch about it." She turned to Fats. "It's a deal."

"I'm so very glad," he said. He stood, picked up the stones, and dropped them back into the pouch one at a time, then turned and rummaged among some shelves until he found a metal box. He opened it with a tiny key and withdrew a packet of bills. "There you are, my dear," he said, handing the bound bundle to her. "It's all there. You may count it if you wish. A pleasure doing business with you. Do come back again. And bring your friend."

Outside in the street, Wyrdrune shook his head. "I guess I shouldn't complain, considering the way things might have turned out. I suppose it wasn't all that bad."

"It was too easy," Kira said sourly. "He was really flush this time. I should've hardballed him. I bet we could've gotten more."

He stopped and stared at her. "What? After all that back there, now you're saying—"

"Keep your voice down, will you? All right, maybe I was wrong. He seemed just a bit too pleased with himself. Forget it. What the hell, we came out all right. It's like you said, it could've been much worse. Now—"

Wyrdrune made a quick pass with his hands, mumbled something under his breath, and they both suddenly vanished. He reappeared with a pop back inside his apartment on East 4th Street.

"No point in carrying all that money around hi that neigh-

borhood," he said. "I figured I'd—" He looked around and saw that he was alone. "Kira?"

There was a knock at the door of his apartment. He ran to the door and looked through the peephole, then unlocked it quickly. She was standing in the hall, arms folded across her chest, a scowl on her face.

"What do you say next time we take the bus?"

"I'm sorry. I could've sworn I got it right that time—"

"I don't want to hear about it," she said, walking past him into the apartment. "Do yourself a favor, warlock, and take a few more magic classes or something. You're dangerous." She quickly counted out some bills and stuffed them in her pocket, then tossed the rest of the bundle to him. "Here's your cut."

"You don't mind if I count it," he said. "It's not that I don't trust you—"

"Maybe you want to search me, just to make sure I didn't steal anything when you popped me in your closet before?"

"I didn't mean—"

"Fine, go ahead and count it. I got my cut right here," she said, reaching back into the pocket of her jacket. "You can count that too. I wouldn't want to—"

As she pulled the bills out of her pocket a small leather pouch fell out onto the floor.

"What the hell is that?" she said.

Wyrdrune bent down and picked up the pouch. It looked uncomfortably familiar. He opened up the drawstring and shook the runestones out into his hand. He glanced up at her.

"Hey, I don't know where that came from," she said, seeing his look. "If you're trying to pull some kind of fast one here—"

"Not me," he said. 'This is cute, Kira. Real cute."

"I'll say," she said. "I sell 'em and you magic 'em right back. Not smart, warlock. Not smart at all. You've really done it now. That's once fence I won't be able to do business with anymore. And Fats is a bad man to cross."

"What are you talking about?" he said. "I didn't—"

"Wait a minute," she said, snapping her fingers. "Just hold it right there. You know, this has possibilities. Sure. I've got lots of contacts. We could make a hell of a big score here. We could just resell the stones over and over—"

He sat down at the table, staring at the stones.

"—we could hit out-of-town fences so my contacts around here wouldn't dry up," she said. "I could ask around, make a few calls. If we moved fast, with one job, we could clear maybe ten, twenty times as much—"

"You don't seem to understand," said Wyrdrune. "I didn't do this!"

She stopped and looked at him, frowning. "I suppose the stones just jumped back into my pocket by themselves. I don't get it, warlock. What's your angle?"

"Uh-huh," he said, nodding. "I think i see. And I'm not buying it, either. I may not be very street-smart, girl, but I'm not stupid. I've seen people with fast hands before. If you think you can run this kind of scam and then turn around and put the blame on me, you'd better think again."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, I get it. Fats has no idea who you are, so what've you got to lose, right? And if it gets back to you, you turn it all around and pin it on me, is that it? Well, I'm not falling for it. A con like that could get you killed, warlock."

"The name's Wyrdrune, and you're right. I'm not going for it. We're getting rid of these things right now. This time we sell the stones and they stay sold, you understand? And then this so-called partnership gets dissolved for good. I've had about enough."

She watched him suspiciously. "Yeah," she said, nodding. "Sure thing, warlock. Anything you say. The sooner the better."

"That suits me just fine. And you'd better not try to hustle me again or I may lose my temper. And I wouldn't recommend making a wizard angry, you get my drift?"

"Wizard, huh? What are you going to do, dropout, sic your broom on me and have it nudzheh me to death?"

"That's enough! I don't want to talk about this anymore. Let's get it done, all right? The sooner I'm rid of the stones and you, the better I'll like it. You're the one with all the connections. What's our next stop?"

She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. Forget it. I shouldn't be wasting my time with amateurs, anyway. We'll hit Rozetti's."

"Rozetti's?"

"He operates out of a bar on Christopher Street. Nice deal, huh? So now you'll have two fences you can connect up with. Only I got news for you, warlock, if you try any more parlor tricks and go pinning it on me, remember, I'm the one who's got the good faith built up with these people and I know where you live. Need I say more?"

"Just shut up, all right? Let's just do it. You handle the deal and then that's it for us. I don't care what you do or where you go. But if you try setting those people on my tail, I've got some news for you: You'll be buying into more trouble than you'll know how to handle."

"Now you just look here for a second—"

"No, you look here! I said I don't want to talk about this anymore! All right? Just drop it! Come on, we're going to Christopher Street! Right now!"

"Fine! We'll take the busl"

They came out of the bar together, each of them another ten thousand dollars richer. The money had done a great deal to soften their disposition toward each other. They stood outside the bar, looking at each other warily. She grinned.

"Satisfied now?" she said. "You were watching me like a hawk in there. I really have to hand it to you, warlock, you don't let up for a minute. You still won't admit that—"

"Will you drop the game already?" he said. "It's done. If

you lifted those stones again after we sold them, you must be a better magician than I am."

"That isn't saying much," she said. "Just remember what I told you. Here's your cut."

From inside the bar a voice shouted, "They pulled a fast one! Stop them!"

Her jaw dropped. "I don't believe it! How could you be so stupid—"

"I didn't—"

Several large men came running out of the bar.

"Damn you, warlock, you're going to get us killed!"

He grabbed her arm. "Not if I can help it!"

One of the men leapt at them, intending to bring both of them down in a flying tackle. Instead he landed hard on his chest on the sidewalk, and the wind whistled out of him.

"Where the hell did they goT one of the others said.

They reappeared in the midst of a flock of pigeons peck-big up bread crumbs beneath the arch in Washington Square Park. The birds took off in a flurry all around them, and they had to cover their faces as several of the pigeons struck them in their flight. The arch was covered with cabalistic graffiti and words written in Spanish. About twenty-five yards away, a crowd was gathered around a turbaned fakir doing a snake-charming street act with a creature that was half dog, half cobra. A number of outlandishly dressed street people were plying the crowd, and one little eight-year-old kid was deftly lifting wallets out of back pockets.

"I think I'm getting motion sickness," Kira said, leaning against the arch.

"We've got a problem," Wyrdrune said.

She looked at him furiously. "You're telling me?"

Wyrdrune started walking toward a nearby park bench, shaking his head. Kira followed him,

"Where do you think you're going? Now I've got two fences on my tail! Do you have any idea what you've done?

You've been nothing but trouble, warlock! Real bad trouble! I ought to—"

"I thought you were the one who wanted to keep selling the stones over and over again?" said Wyrdrune, spinning around to face her.

She gritted her teeth. "Hell," she said, "in spite of everything, that still may not be such a bad idea, but I didn't want to do this on my own turf, damn it! These people know me!"

Wyrdrune pursed his lips and sat down on the bench. "There's something funny going on here."

"Notice I'm not laughing," she said.

He reached into his pocket and took out the pouch. He stared at it. "It's got to be the stones," he said. "They must be doing it."

"Oh, come on! You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care what you believe. I know you didn't have a chance to lift them, and I sure as hell didn't do it! There's no other explanation."

He shook the stones out of the pouch, put the pouch back into his pocket, and tossed the stones over his shoulder into the bushes.

"What are you doing?"

"Performing an experiment," he said. "Come on."

He got up and started walking quickly away from the bench. She stared at where he had tossed the stones, then looked after him, then back at the bushes once again, bewildered, uncertain what to do. "Wait! Where're you going? You're crazy, you know that?"

"So humor me," he called back. "Come on."

She glanced desperately at the bushes once again, then at him, then back at the bushes, then she swore and ran after him. She caught up to him and grabbed him by the arm, spinning him around. They stood in the middle of a walkway, near a sign that read, MAGIC CARPET RIDES. A heavyset man standing underneath the sign was collecting money from several parents while their children jumped up and

down excitedly, watching several other kids riding round in a circle on a couple of rugs flying about two feet off the ground.

"They're enchanted runestones," Wyrdrune said. "Unknown properties, remember?"

"So you just threw them away?" she said with disbelief. "You're out of your mind! I'm going back there before somebody picks them up!"

"Okay," said Wyrdrune, "but check your pockets first."

"Right," she said, reaching into her pockets. "I suppose they came back all by them"—she pulled the pouch out of her right-hand pocket—"selves?"

Wyrdrune stood before her, arms folded. "I rest my case."

She looked up at him. "Very funny."

"Laugh if you like," he said, "but / didn't do it. And I don't care if you believe me or not. W& can sell them, but they won't stay sold. I don't know why and I don't care. I've had enough. You stole them, looks like you're stuck with them. Take them. And go away. Preferably very far away."

He turned and started walking away from her.

"Wait a minute!" she said. "I don't understand what's going on here! What do you mean, I'm stuck with them?"

He kept on walking. "They keep coming back to you. I'm going to quit while I'm ahead. The way I see it, it's not my problem."

"Hey! Hold on! You can't just walk away!"

"Watch me."

She chased him and caught up with him, grabbing his arm and spinning him around again. She held the stones up. "Look, you, I want an explanation! You got me into this, now what is it with these things?"

"/ got you into it? Funny, that's not how I remember it."

He took the stones out of her hand and dropped them back into the pouch. "You wanted the stones? Okay, fine." He

took her right hand and slapped the pouch into it. "Now you've got 'em."

He turned and walked away. She glared after him for a moment, then took a deep breath and let it out. "Well, that suits me! You're not the only hotshot wizard in town, you know. I'll find out what these things are for myself! They're probably worth a fortune!" She turned away and started walking in the opposite direction. "Great. Just means more for me. Who needs you, anyway? Damn amateurs. I'll just—"

She came to a dead halt, her hands in her pockets.

She spun around. "Hold it!"

Wyrdrune stopped.

"Not so fast, warlock!"

He closed his eyes. "Don't tell me..."

He reached into his pockets. His right hand pulled out the pouch. He looked at it and sighed. "This just is not my day."

CHAPTER Three

"... and when I turned around, they were gone. Honestly, that's really all I know," said Fats, wiping his face with a large handkerchief.

"And the ones who brought them to you?"

"A girl named Kira," Fats said, unable to take his gaze away from the old man, "About eighteen or nineteen years old, slim, dark, five foot five or six, stylish in a tough sort of way. You know the type, hair combed back along the sides, sort of an angular fall down over the eyes, mailed leather jacket, boots, that sort of thing. A street person, a young hustler. Though not in the sexual sense, you understand. I mean, she's the sort who'd try her hand at almost anything involving a certain amount of risk if there was money in it. Cat burglary, snatch-and-grab, running a con. Strictly third-rate, really. Frankly I was surprised—well, shocked, to put it bluntly—when she brought me the stones. Not really in her league at all, but I took a chance. After all, she'd never burned me before. I can't imagine what she must have been thinking. That young man she was with must have put her up to it."

36

"Describe him."

"I never heard his name," said Fats, unable to stop talking. He was seized by a compulsion to tell this old man everything. Whatever it would take to get him to leave and not come back again. "He was young, as I've already mentioned. Long hair, thick, blond, and rather curly, a warlock's cassock—"

"A warlock's cassock? Not sorcerer's robes? Are you certain?"

"Yes, quite certain. I've seen them before, you know. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. It might have been only a costume, but she called him 'warlock.' I'm quite certain of that. I swear, mister, that's all I know."

Fats fought to free himself from the old man's gaze, but he couldn't look away. Those eyes were loathesome, terrifying. Where the pupils should have been there were two dark, grinning skulls. Contact lenses, Fats told himself, they had to be, but still...

"You will let me know if you encounter them again," Mustafa said, putting his sunglasses back on.

"Certainly. Anything you say."

"If you can lead me to them, rest assured that I shall make it very worth your while," said Mustafa. "If not..."

Fats swallowed hard. "I'll ask around. See what I can find out."

"Good," said Mustafa. "We seem to understand each other. Here is my card." He held up his right hand. It was empty. A second later a business card appeared between his index and middle fingers. It gave his name and the number of the USR's embassy on First Avenue. "Call anytime. If I am not in, you may leave a message that you called and I will get back to you."

Gingerly Fats took the card, as if afraid that it might burn him. As the old man left, Fats sagged, as if he were a marionette whose strings had been abruptly cut.

"No sale, no sale!" said the paragriffin as the door closed behind the old man with a brief tinkle of the bell.

"Shut up, Rick," said Fats.

"Aaarp!"

"No sale, indeed," said Fats. "Well, we'll have to see what we can do about that." He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

A voice on the other end answered with a simple, "Yes?"

"You know who this is?" said Fats. "You recognize my voice?"

"Yes."

"I have a job for you," said Fats.

"We'll talk."

There was a click on the other end of the line as the other party hung up. Fats knew he would get in touch in his own way, at his own time. He was a very careful man. And a very lethal one.

They sat together at a corner table in the darkened bar of the restaurant, the pouch containing the runestones between them in the center of the table. They both had drinks before them, strong ones, and they sat with their elbows on the table, chins resting on their palms, staring at the pouch. At the other end of the bar a musician was improvising lyrics to the accompaniment of an enchanted harp zither that played itself. He merely made token passes over it with his hands, pretending a skill he didn't have.

"I don't know why," said Wyrdrune, "but I've got a very bad feeling about all this."

"What's to worry?" said Kira. "We've got some enchanted runestones on our hands that we can't seem to get rid of, we're wanted for grand theft, we've burned two fences, and they've probably put contracts out on us by now. Apart from that, we don't like each other very much. So far I'd say this has been a heck of a relationship."

"Yeah," said Wyrdrune. "I just can't wait for our second

date. We ought to celebrate. What the hell, why not? We're loaded."

He made a pass in the air with his left hand, and a bottle of imported champagne appeared in an ice bucket on their table, along with two wineglasses.

"Hey, I saw that!" shouted the bartender from across the room. "That'll be fifty bucks!"

"You mind change?" said Wyrdrune, raising his voice to be heard over the musician.

"Long as it's fifty bucks," said the bartender.

"Good," said Wyrdrune, gesturing again.

A shower of nickels appeared over the bartender's head, raining down on him. He yelled and ducked down behind the bar as the change pelted him like hail.

Kira looked at Wyrdrune with shock. "You can make money appear out of thin ah" and you steal!"

"I can't create matter," Wyrdrune said. "And counterfeit-big by enchantment is one of your more serious federal crimes. That wasn't real. I just temporarily transmuted some ice cubes from his freezer."

"That does it!" shouted the bartender, unsteadily rising to his feet behind the bar. The coins had reverted back to water, and he was drenched from head to toe. "Pay up and get out!"

A man the size of a redwood tree suddenly appeared beside their table. His voice was incongruously soft and pleasant.

"I think perhaps you'd better pay your check and leave, sir," he said, looking apologetic. "I really don't want any trouble. I've just got a job to do. You know how it is."

The mark of a good bouncer was the ability to do his job without making it a challenge to the customer. This one knew his business, and Wyrdrune found himself feeling sympathetic. He nodded and started to count out the money for their bill.

"What the hell," said Kira, "I don't really like champagne, anyway."

"I'm sorry I got aggravated back there," Wyrdrune said as they left the restaurant. "I'm just feeling really bothered by this. I tried teleporting the stones away, but they... resisted."

Neither of them noticed it, but they were being followed.

"Look, if we're stuck with them," said Kira, "why not just make the best of it? We can run the con with a few more fences, then split up and leave town."

"I like the splitting-up part," Wyrdrune said, wryly, "but then which one of us will the stones wind up with?"

"What difference does it make?"

"I don't know," said Wyrdrune, "but magical events do not transpire without a reason. And I just can't figure any of this out. Something very strange is happening."

"Tell me about it," she said, with a sarcastic look.

"No, I mean, something strange is happening to me. I don't know if you noticed, but the first time I teleported us back to my apartment from Christie's, it just about knocked me out. Teleportation spells are advanced-level thaumaturgy. I never did finish my training, I'm just a bit too naturally gifted for my own good. At least, that's what Merlin always used to tell me."

"So?"

"So the last several times I teleported us, I barely even broke a sweat. I mean, it was easy!"

She shrugged. "Maybe it's like exercise and you're just getting stronger the more you do it."

"That's just it, it doesn't work like that. At least, not exactly. A full-fledged mage can teleport about as easily as you can blink, but I'm only at the warlock level. And magic always exacts a price. You have to maintain a delicate balance when you're using natural forces thaumaturgically. I should be feeling the strain of it, but I'm not. It's as if I were

getting strength from somewhere. I think the runestones may be responsible. Nothing else has changed."

"So? Why complain if they're making you a better wizard?"

"Because I don't like not knowing things. In thaumaturgy, what you don't know can hurt you."

"Well, why not—look out!"

She shoved him hard, and he fell sprawling on the sidewalk. The knife slashed through empty air where he had been a second earlier. Kira brought her leg up hard, bent at the knee, and drove her kneecap into the assailant's groin. The air whooshed out of him and he sagged to the ground.

There were four of them. The other three were on her at once. She blocked a knife thrust and drove her fist hard into one man's face, then pivoted sharply, avoiding another thrust from the thud man, and continued the movement by bringing her leg up high in a spinning back kick, the heel of her boot connecting with the fourth man's temple as he lunged at her. The second man came back at her and she trapped his knife hand, twisted sharply, and he cried out as she disarmed him, but she had to let him go to deal with one of the others as he grabbed her from behind. She brought her foot up and stomped down hard on his toes, then drove her elbow back into his stomach. He let her go, doubling over with pain, and she spun around to face the next threat.

Wyrdrune mumbled quickly under his breath and made several quick passes with his hands. Kira spun around again, her hands upraised in a fighting stance.

All four men were gone.

"Where'd they go?" she said, bewildered.

"I guess you scared them off," said Wyrdrune, repressing a smile. "You handle yourself well. That was pretty impressive."

"I can take care of myself," she said.

The four assailants, three of them still brandishing their

weapons, suddenly reappeared in a police station several blocks away. The desk sergeant looked up and smiled.

"Well, well. What have we got here?"

The four men looked around, eyes wide. One of them said, "Guido—"

"Shut up," said Guido. "Just shut upl"

Wyrdrune and Kira climbed the steps to the front door of his apartment house.

"Those were Rozetti's men," she said. "I recognized a couple of them. They know where I live."

"Great," said Wyrdrune. He sighed. "Just great. Well, I guess you can stay at my place until we figure something out."

She gave him a sidelong look as he opened the front door.

"Relax," he said. "I'll take the couch. You're not all that irresistible, you know."

"Yeah, well don't do me any favors, okay? I'll take the couch. Just don't get any ideas."

As they opened the door to his apartment, the broom was standing there with its spindly hands on its hips—or at least the place where its hips would have been if it had hips.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," the broom said. "Dinner's just ruined. I slave over a hot stove all day and does anybody care? You could have called, but noooo...."

Wyrdrune flopped down on the couch and closed his eyes. "Just make us some coffee, Broom."

"Coffee, he wants," the broom said. "I've got a quiche that looks like a potato chip and he says, 'Just make us some coffee.' Fine. What do / care? Just stand me in a corner, I don't count for anything...."

Kira sat down in the reading chair and put her feet up on a wooden crate. "Well," she said, "I can't say it hasn't been interesting."

"The sooner we get rid of these damn stones and each other, the better I'll feel," Wyrdrune said. "There's an aura about them I find highly disturbing."

"There's an aura about you I find highly disturbing," said Kira. 'Trouble just seems to have a way of finding you."

Wyrdrune shook the stones out of their pouch and stared at them. "There's something very powerful about these stones. I can feel it going right through me. I have a nasty feeling that our trouble's just beginning."

Sheik AFHassan entered the dark underground chamber. He was wearing a flowing black silk sorcerer's robe. His black silk kaffiyeh was held in place by the cobra-headed circlet. The blood ruby set into the skin of his forehead was glowing.

So much tune and effort and the stones had been snatched right out from under his nose! Years spent in the dusty archives of the Department of Antiquities, searching through ancient tomes and scrolls, experimenting with a long succession of forgotten spells, taking incredible risks, and finally he had stumbled upon the one clue that had led him to the secret tomb buried deep in the Euphrates Valley, hidden for millennia.

There had been no way to unearth the tomb without attracting a great deal of attention, so that was exactly how he had done it. He had used contacts gained through the International Thaumaturgical Commission to place the right information with influential sources in the Annendale Corporation headquartered in Boston, allowing their researchers to make the "discovery." He had felt magical trace emanations vibrating up from deep beneath the ground, but those fools had felt nothing, not even then- archaeothauma-turges, who had merely examined the information he had provided them with and conceded that there might indeed be thaumaturgical artifacts in the ruins buried there.

The corporation had applied for an archaeothaumaturgic excavation license, and he had swayed the Department of Antiquities into granting it to them. It hadn't taken very much persuasion. Even with his position on the board be-

coming more and more precarious as allegations of misconduct mounted, even with the movement to unseat him from the ITC, they had agreed. They could not afford to reject the Annendale Corporation's application, and he had known that from the start. The government was broke. There was a famine in the African nations of the USR, and refugee camps were already being formed. The USR did not have the resources to finance an expedition, which might take years to complete its work. The hard-liners at the Department of Antiquities insisted that any archaeological treasures discovered within the boundaries of the USR belonged to the USR and had to remain there. However, the governing council knew that they could realize their value far more quickly if they put them up for auction instead of taking a chance and hoping that after years of tests, experiments, and investigative research, some of those artifacts might produce badly needed revenue.

It was an opportunity to strengthen his position in the governing council by being the man who brought millions in desperately needed revenue into the treasury without any compensation for himself. He ^ made arrangements with the Annendale Corporation to use their public-relations department to generate maximum publicity for the discovery and the expedition... and, not coincidentally, for himself.

While the expedition was still being formed, the Annendale Corporation's media machine had gone to work, and Rashid soon found himself on the covers of several international magazines. He was written about extensively, for the first time with his approval, and he was inundated with requests for interviews. His face was everywhere. He was the subject of a biography that detailed his life from his boyhood in Egypt—as the last male heir of an ancient ruling family that had been forced to sell off everything they owned—to his student days in America, when he had studied with Merlin Ambrosius himself, his tuition paid by a government that needed him to bring back thaumaturgic knowledge. The bi-

ography traced his rise to prominence in the government of the USR and his appointment to the board of the ITC, but it downplayed his notorious excesses, rationalizing them as the overindulgence of a boy who had grown up in abject poverty and suddenly found himself a man wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.

His frequent junkets abroad, paid for by the government treasury, were described as noble, self-sacrificing efforts on his country's behalf, attempts to conclude valuable trade negotiations and to make political associations, to form social connections that would help to bring his country back to its former place as a modern world power. His harem of five hundred wives was described as part of his effort to bring his country back to the traditional Islamic ways by setting an example and attempting to stimulate others into doing something about the rapidly falling birthrate. He was portrayed as a man who educated and provided shelter to young women who otherwise would be destitute. It was the same with his male "retainers"—no mention of the word slave—young men he helped by providing jobs for them, using his personal fortune to assist those who had nothing. His "playboy reputation"—in the authorized biography those words were always printed in quotation marks—was merely the result of the magnetism of a wealthy, powerful man whose ability to keep so many wives was like an open challenge to women all over the world. And while the expedition proceeded with the excavation in the Euphrates Valley, Rashid was having his image transformed into that of a dedicated thaumaturge, humanitarian, statesman, and philanthropist.

Still, there were a lot of people who weren't fooled by it. He had made many enemies, and they weren't shy about giving interviews themselves. In recent years his life had become a morass of intrigues, investigations, libel suits, and publicity, corporate, and governmental power struggles. He rode the wave at its very crest, driven by an obsession to rediscover the forgotten magic of the ancient ones and be-

come the greatest mage who ever lived, greater even than his old teacher, Merlin Ambrosius.

Then the day came when the excavations were completed and he stood, late at night, within the subterranean chamber that he stood in now, feeling the incredibly powerful emanations all around him, amazed that the corporation's people were unaware of them. The musty air in that dank, ancient cave throbbed with them. It was a force more powerful than anything he had ever experienced. It seemed to pull at him, to draw him toward the lower sections of the cavern, beyond the place where the excavators dug, to a mammoth wall of solid rock. Whatever the source of the power was, he knew it was behind that rock, buried behind tons and tons of stone.

He reached out to touch the rock wall, and a surge of heat passed from it and through his ringers and up into his arm, bathing his entire body in an incandescent aura. He stood there, riveted to the rock wall, his screams echoing in the excavated chamber, his body thrashing, and then the contact was broken abruptly and he was hurled across the chamber, landing hard on his back, tendrils of smoke curling up from his body.

He got up slowly to his hands and knees, moaning, searing pain lancing through his forehead as if a hot iron spike had been driven deep into his skull. He touched his hands to his forehead and felt blood trickling down, and something that had not been there before. Something hard and smooth had sprouted through the skin of his forehead, over his "third eye." It burned. It burned like white phosphorus. Holding his hands to his head, he staggered around the chamber, gasping with pain, and then he saw the rock wall glowing with blue fire. As he stared at it with disbelief he felt himself being drawn toward it. He fought the pull, but there was no resisting it. He came up against the flaming rock and somehow passed right through it into the cold blackness of a chamber hidden on the other side.

It was freezing cold in there, a deep, biting chill that penetrated to the bone. He couldn't see anything. Wind plucked at his clothing. How could there possibly be a wind inside a chamber sealed in solid rock? Torches blazed up on the walls around him, illuminating a cavern even larger than the one the excavations had revealed. It was big enough to hold a small town, a subterranean valley shaped like a perfect circle, with huge bronze braziers marking the points of a gigantic pentagram of obsidian and gold mosaic inlaid into the cavern floor. At the center of the pentagram was an altar carved out of a stalagmite the size of a small building. Steps ascended to the top of the altar, curling around the stalagmite like a serpent.

The wind drove him toward the altar. He crossed the boundaries of the pentagram and the wind grew stronger. It lifted him above the ground and blew him toward the steps, lifting him to the top of the stone altar, where he was set down above the yawning chasm of a shaft that reached deep down into the earth. It was like the ritual shafts found in Druidic ruins, only on a gargantuan scale. Its circular mouth was ringed by a mosaic of obsidian and gold, the tiles forming runes and spelling out a message in some long-dead language. The shaft seemed to be bottomless, and directly over it, on the lip of a stone ledge, was a rune-encrusted chest of solid gold.

Rashid edged onto the narrow ledge until he reached the golden chest. He tried to move it, but it seemed welded to the rock somehow. No matter how he tried, he couldn't force it open. He felt the jewel that had appeared in the center of his forehead suddenly grow hot, and then his neck snapped back as a sharp beam of dazzlingly brilliant light lanced out from the gem and struck the chest, like an industrial laser cutting around the perimeter of the lid. The gold flowed as it melted and obscured the runes carved into the chest. The h'd sprang open.

Rashid slowly reached inside the smoking chest and took

out a small box, the only thing the chest contained: a simple jewel box cast in bronze. He opened it. Three little rune-stones were lying inside it, roughly cut, unpolished gems— a ruby, a sapphire, and an emerald. He closed the lid of the little jewel box and then looked down over the lip of the stone ledge and into the pit.

And he knew what was at the bottom.

It took all his strength to carry that tiny jewel box down the steps carved into the stalagmite and past the boundaries of the pentagram. The little box had grown heavier and heavier; it seemed to sap his strength till he could no longer lift it and was forced to push it inch by inch across the cavern floor, sweat streaming from his face, but as he felt his strength failing him, something came to reinforce it and make him stronger until he finally managed to push the little box out past the boundaries of the pentagram. And then the mysterious weight of the jewel box disappeared, and he stood, lifting it easily in one hand, his chest heaving from his exertions. He walked toward the rock wall again, and it burst into blue flame as he passed through it and into the outer chamber that had been discovered by the excavators.

He stood there, drained, utterly exhausted, yet wildly exhilarated.

"Are you all right, Your Highness?"

Two of the corporation security guards entered the chamber, and the beams from their flashlights struck him. He started to recoil from them, but caught himself.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he said, breathing hard, barely able to stand. He was dizzy and on the verge of collapse.

"You were down here so long, we started to get worried," said the other guard. "We didn't want to disturb you, but you'd really better come back up now. It can be dangerous down here. The air's not very good."

"Yes," said Rashid, breathing hard and nodding weakly. "Yes, perhaps I'd better."

His vision blurred and he collapsed.

"Watch it!" They picked him up and braced him, the first guard holding Rashid's arm across his shoulder.

"What's that he's got there?" said the second guard. He picked up the jewel box.

"Hey, look at this!" he said. "He found an artifact the others must have missed."

"We'd better get you back up right away, Your Highness," the first guard said as Rashid moaned. "Just take it easy and relax, you'll be okay."

It was a full day before his strength returned and he was able to walk on his own again, but by then, the runestones had been placed with the other artifacts to be examined by the ITC certification board. And with everyone watching him so closely, there had been no chance to get them back. If he had tried to teleport them magically, their theft would have been discovered instantly and the other mages might have sensed his use of power. Nevertheless, just before they were due to be shipped out to the States for the auction, he tried to steal them thaumaturgically. And they had resisted.

No matter, he had thought. He would simply purchase them at auction. With his immense personal fortune, it was unlikely that anyone would be able to outbid him, unless some corporation discovered his interest in the runestones and decided to bid against him, thinking he might know something they didn't. To prevent that, he had employed Mustafa as a proxy to go to America and buy the stones. And the fool had bungled it. He had allowed them to be snatched out from under his very nose. Well, he had given Mustafa a lesson in the penalties of failure. Mustafa would not forget. Every time he looked into a mirror, he'd see that Rashid had taken over half his life away and know mat he could do far worse if he failed him again. Mustafa would not fail him. Soon, the runestones would be back in his possession. And then it would begin.

He walked through the blazing wall and stood inside the sealed chamber as torches ignited all around him. He

crossed the boundaries of the pentagram and felt the power coursing through him. He went up to the altar and walked out onto the stone ledge. Freezing wind blew up from the pit and bathed him in an icy chill.

"Soon, My Lords," he said, his deep voice echoing in the cavern. "You've waited for over two thousand years, and now the time is near. Soon you shall be free!"

CHAPTER Four

Wyrdrune lay stretched out in his loft, watching the morning news and talk show on a small portable TV suspended in midair above his bed.

"And now for an update on the latest news," the pretty cohost said. "We'll go to Bill Foster in the newsroom."

"Thank you, Jane," said Foster. "Police are still looking for leads in the daring robbery that took place at the auction of the Euphrates artifacts at the Christie Gallery early yesterday. Stolen was a set of three runestones of unknown properties—a sapphire, a ruby, and an emerald—rough-cut, unpolished stones which aside from their undetermined thaumaturgical worth, have an estimated street value of over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Two hundred and fifty—" Wyrdrune sat up, striking his head on the ceiling. He winced. "Those damn bastards ripped us off!"

"You mean we ripped them off," Kira said, coming into the room. "We've still got the stones, remember?"

"Quiet, I want to hear this."

"Police are still questioning the sorcerers who were in at-

51

tendance at the auction," said the newsman. "Eyewitnesses were able to provide them with several descriptions, from which police artists have made these composite sketches."

A graphic slide showed drawings of an old man with a large, hooked nose, a long white beard, and long white hair —Wyrdrune in his old sorcerer's disguise, though unrecognizable from the picture—and a remarkably close likeness of Kira.

"Oh, great," she said.

"Police are seeking two suspects," said the newsman. "The older man believed to be between sixty and seventy years of age, about five foot six, a hundred and forty pounds, alleged to be a sorcerer, last seen wearing dark green robes and a wide-brimmed hat. The younger man is described as being—"

"What do they mean, the younger man?" said Kira.

"Ssh!"

"—about seventeen or eighteen, dark-haired, Hispanic, about five foot five and one hundred and twenty pounds, last seen dressed in a neo-medieval black leather jacket and high boots. Both men are presumed to be highly dangerous. Police have established a special line to call—you should be seeing the number on your screen—and Sheik Rashid Al'Hassan, USR governmental liaison to the Annendale Expedition, has offered a reward of $50,000 for information leading to the arrest of the perpetrators and the recovery of the runestones. An additional reward of twenty-five thousand dollars has been offered by Boston Mutual, the agency insuring the artifacts."

"Oh, terrific!" Kira said. "Now we'll have every two-bit snitch in town—"

"Will you be quiet?"

"On the international front, controversy continues over the ITC investigation into the activities of board member Sheik Rashid AFHassan, of the United Semitic Republics. Amid allegations of—"

Wyrdrune waved absently at the TV, and the volume went down. "Well, I don't see what you're so worried about," he said. "Nobody's going to recognize me from that picture, and they think you're a guy."

"A guyT' she said. She stripped off her leather jacket and threw it on the floor angrily. She was wearing a tight white tunic, very sheer, with the nipples of her breasts clearly visible through it. "Do I look like a guy to you?"

Wyrdrune cleared his throat uneasily. "Must be the way you dress," he said.

"What's wrong with the way I dress?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "But you've got to admit that it isn't very... well, feminine."

"Feminine? What's that mean, feminine"! What am I supposed to do, wear one of those floor-length, poopsy-doopsy Lady of the Lake skirts with the plunging neckline and the little droopy gold waistband pointing down at my crotch?"

"Poopsy-doopsy?" he said.

"You know what I mean! Just because I don't choose to dress like some adolescent male's sex fantasy—"

"Wait a minute, settle down—"

"—doesn't mean I—"

"Children, cW/dren!" said the broom, swaying into the room. "Enough, already! Are you coming in to breakfast or are you going to stand there making like two yentas at the Automat while my omelets turn into hockey pucks? You ever eat cold omelets? It is to varf, believe me."

"How'd you like to be made into a toothpick?" Kira said, shooting her hand out and grabbing the broom around its handle, lifting it up off the floor.

The broom started to make choking sounds.

"Put it down," said Wyrdrune. "Please."

She let go of the broom.

"Such hostility!" the broom said. "Enough tsuris I've got with Melvin the Magician, he has to bring home a homicidal S&M queen! Vey is mir, I haven't got enough troubles—"

"That's h," said Kira. "I'm tossing this mop right out the window!"

"Mop?" the broom said. "Mop? Are you ready for this? Don't you touch me! Don't you dare lift your hand against me! Melvin, are you just going to lie there and let me be insulted like this?"

"If you don't shut your mouth, wherever in hell your mouth is, I'm going to stick you in the sink and grind you up in the garbage disposal!" Kira said.

"Will you listen to yourself?" said Wyrdrune. "You're arguing with a piece of wood, for goodness sake!"

"Well, I like that!" the broom said. "I don't have to listen to this! Obviously I'm nothing but a servant around here! You work your fingers to the bone, sweeping out, cooking and cleaning, scrubbing floors and chasing cockroaches, and this is the thanks you get? Fine. Get your own damn breakfast. If you want me, I'll be in the closet, eating my heart out!"

"Eating my heart out?" Kira said.

Wyrdrune started to chuckle. A moment later they were both laughing.

"Where on earth did you find that thing?" said Kira, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"It belonged to my mother," said Wyrdrune. "I animated it during my first year in thaumaturgical college so she'd have something to take care of her while I wasn't around. It's a real pain, but it's sort of nice to have around, and it reminds me of her."

"She still around?"

"No. She died three years ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry. What about your dad?"

"I never knew him."

"That's rough. I never knew my parents, either."

"Not at all?"

She shook her head. "I grew up in foster homes. I ran sway when I was twelve. Been on my own ever since."

"Since you were twelve? How did you live?"

"Pretty much the same way I'm living now. You do what you can. You grow up in the streets, you learn how to survive. It can be tough, but it's like they say, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"You know, I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you."

"Yeah, well..." Their eyes met briefly, and both of them looked away quickly. "Come on, let's go eat breakfast before those eggs get cold."

"Uh... you mind waiting in the other room? I'm not exactly dressed."

"Oh. Sure. Sorry."

Several minutes later he came into the kitchen. Kira was pouring them coffee. She jerked her head toward the closet.

"It's still in there, sulking. I tried apologizing to it, but it won't come out."

Wyrdrune grinned.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I was just picturing you standing in front of that closet door, apologizing to a broom."

"Just sit down and drink your coffee. I don't know how you take it."

"Cream and sugar."

"On the table. Okay, warlock, so what's our next move?"

He sighed. "You've got me. If your underworld friends know where you live, then obviously you can't go home. They'll be watching for you. We'll be safe here for the time being, but the sooner we find out what the story is with those stones, the sooner we'll know what to do about them."

"How do you figure on doing that?" she said.

He shook his head. "I don't know. I was up pretty late last night, going through all my books, but then it occurred to me that there wouldn't be anything in the books about them; otherwise, the expedition people would've known what they were, and they didn't. They were certified as enchanted

milestones of unknown properties. And I simply don't have enough skill or knowledge to divine their function."

"So who does?"

He pursed his lips. "Only one person I can think of, but I don't know if he'd even see me after all that's happened."

"Who's that?"

"My old professor up in Cambridge."

From the bedroom there came a loud crash as something fell to the floor and shattered.

"What the hell was that?" said Kira.

Wyrdrune covered his face with his hands. "Shit. My TV. I forgot I left it hanging."

She grimaced. "Do me a favor, okay? If we're going to go to Boston, what do you say we take the train?"

Lieutenant Dominic Riguzzo hung up the phone and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Across from him, sitting at the desk butted up against his, Detective Sergeant Allan Cleary lit up another in a long succession of cigarettes. Riguzzo made a face and waved away the smoke that billowed toward him.

"Damn it, Al, do you have to smoke those awful things in here?"

"If they bother you so much, why don't you trade desks with somebody?"

"Are you kidding? Who'd trade? You think I haven't asked? Besides, those cigarettes of yours stink up the whole squad room. A hundred and sixty cops in this damn precinct, and I have to get a desk next to the only one who smokes. You're going to poison me."

"They're herbal, Dom. Noncarcinogenic."

'Tell that to my lungs. Anyway, they stink."

"All right, all right," Cleary grumbled, stubbing out the cigarette in a glass ashtray. "There! Satisfied?"

"Yes, thank you very much."

"What was mat call? Did you come up with anything?"

"Nothing, just more harassment," said Riguzzo, grimacing. He took a sip of his cold coffee. "Seems like everybody and his mother-in-law's getting in on the act. You ready for this? That was the Honorable Ambassador Plenipotentiary of the USR legation, no less, Ahmad Pasta Fazool or something, one of those names that sprains your larynx if you try to say it, wanting to know if we'd made any progress in our investigation and making all sorts of demands about recovery of the gems and extradition of the perpetrators to the USR."

"Extradition?" said Al Cleary. "What extradition? The crime was committed in our jurisdiction."

"You tell him, okay? I'm tired of arguing with these people. Next thing I know, I'll have the State Department on my ass."

"You know what they do with thieves over there?" said Cleary.

"Tell you the truth, Al, I don't really care."

"They chop their arms off, that's what they do. Ask me, it's not a bad idea. Cut down on repeat offenders." He gave a barking laugh. "Cut down, get it?"

"Sure, Al, sure."

He stared down at a crumpled piece of newspaper that he had straightened out on his desktop. An article clipped from The Times. Several sentences were underlined. Lines describing the stolen goods.

"Doesn't make sense," he said.

"What doesn't?" said Cleary, looking up from his paperwork.

"There's something bothering me about this," said Riguzzo, frowning. "We may be going about this thing all wrong."

"How's that?"

"Well, because the heist was accomplished with the aid of magic, we're assuming that whoever stole the gems did it to use them in some kind of spell. Maybe a corporate crime.

Like maybe they knew something about the stones nobody else did. But aside from the fact that the perpetrators escaped by magic, we've really got nothing to support that theory."

"I don't understand. What are you getting at?"

"This newspaper clipping we found crumpled up on the floor at the crime scene."

"Yeah, what a mess it was in there. What'd they say, a hundred and fifty thousand dollars of water damage?"

"Yesh, well, some of the ink ran on it, but you see where these lines are marked?"

Cleary got up and came around the desk to stand beside him, looking down at the clipping spread out on the desktop. "So?"

"So this. Everybody who was invited to that auction received a prospectus. One of these things," he said, holding up a printed brochure of color photographs. He opened it and leafed through the pages. "Here," he said, spreading the brochure out on the desk and pointing to a photograph of an open bronze jewel box containing the stones. There was a short paragraph of copy underneath it, describing the item.

"Yeah?" said Cleary. "I still don't get it."

"That's just the thing," Riguzzo said. "Neither do I. You got here a picture of the stolen goods and a detailed description. Why didn't we find one of these things with the copy underlined or circled or something? Why a torn-out newspaper clipping? These brochures were sent out in advance to every major corporation and independent sorcerer registered with the BOT. And they were also available upon request. The newspaper article didn't even have a photograph.

"You're thinking the perp wasn't an adept registered with the Bureau of Thaumaturgy?" Cleary said. "How do you figure that? You can't get a license to practice magic without filing with the bureau."

"Exactly. Why would somebody tear out this article and underline the part about the gems unless they found out about the auction and the items up for bidding from the

papers! We may be looking for suspects in the wrong group of people."

Cleary shrugged. "Unless it was the kid who spotted the piece and tore it out and then got a wizard to help him make the heist."

"Only why would a wizard need the kid? Why not just pull the job himself? No, I don't like it. It just doesn't fit. I'm thinking maybe we should be looking for somebody who took their thaumaturgical exams and failed to get certified. Someone who knows enough about magic to be dangerous but doesn't have a license to practice."

"But would somebody like that be walking around with long hair and dressed in sorcerer's robes?" said Cleary. "That would be asking for a lot of trouble."

"It would if they really did that," said Riguzzo. "But what if the long hair and the robes were only a disguise meant to make us think a sorcerer did it? I mean, look, we traced this guy through the cabbie back to the Plaza Hotel, where the cabbie picked him up. Just the old man, not the kid. The doorman remembers seeing the old man coming hi and out of the hotel several times during the previous day, but the desk clerks have no recollection of him, and nobody saw the kid or anyone answering to his description. We've checked out every other adept who was registered at that hotel and they're all clean."

He shook his head. "No, I'm telling you, it stinks." He tapped his nose. "This thing is telling me we're on the wrong track. And I don't like the combination of an old man and a street punk. I mean, what did the kid do, plan the job and bring his grandpa in on it?"

"You're thinking it was two young snatch-and-grabbers making the big score, one of them disguised?" said Cleary. "Why not both of them disguised, then?"

Riguzzo shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe the kid was never supposed to make the snatch and he was only a backup. Remember, none of the

witnesses saw anyone answering the kid's description coming in, right? What does that suggest to you?"

"That the kid was also disguised when he came in," said Cleary.

"Right. It was a big auction, large crowd; no one was checking credentials at the door, only at the purchase desk. They were just concerned about keeping the riffraff and the cameras out. So anybody could've walked in if they looked right. You know what I think? I think they stole the stones, not to use them but to fence them."

"Yeah, could be," said Cleary. "It makes sense. What do you say we go visit some of our less reputable local merchants?"

"I'll get my coat," said Riguzzo. "Let's go shake a few trees and see if anything falls out."

CHAPTER

Porfirio Rozetti was having linguine with clam sauce when the two detectives walked into the restaurant. He saw them and rolled his eyes.

"Guide, go see what they want."

A man who looked like a Neanderthal got up from the table, wiped his mouth with the napkin tucked into his shirt collar, and walked quickly toward Riguzzo and Cleary as they approached the table. The napkin was still tucked into his shirt.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he said, his voice deep and guttural, thickly laced with a Brooklyn accent.

"You can get out of the way, Guido," said Riguzzo. "You're blocking out the sun. I came to see your boss."

"Mr. Rozetti's having lunch."

"I'll try not to make him lose his appetite," Riguzzo said, brushing past him and heading toward the table in the corner.

Rozetti heaved a deep sigh, crumpled up his cloth napkin, and tossed it on the table. He looked up with extreme annoyance at Riguzzo.

61

"Whattaya want, Riguzzo? Can't a man eat his meal in peace?"

"Hello, Pony," said Riguzzo. "How's the fix down at the track?"

"Hey, there's no call for that, all right? I done my stint, I don't fool with the horses no more. I'm rehabilitated, haven't you heard? I'm a respectable businessman now."

"Sure you are. Mind if we sit down?"

"Hell, take a load off. Guido, Louie, Mark, go get a drink at the bar or something."

The three heavyset men left the table, making room for the two detectives. Riguzzo and Cleary sat down across from Rozetti.

"So what can I do you for?" Rozetti said. "You guys want some linguine?"

"Thanks, I'll pass," Riguzzo said. "Actually we just dropped in for a chat."

"A chat? What's that, a chat? You guys getting lonely down at the precinct? What the fuck do you want?"

"I want to clear some paperwork from my desk," Riguzzo said. "I thought maybe you could help us out."

"What do I look like, a secretary? What kinda paperwork?"

"It has to do with the job at Christie's the other day."

"Oh, yeah? What makes you think I'd know anything about that?"

"Let's cut through all this, okay?" Riguzzo said. "What we've got here is what's called a 'sensitive issue.' A theft involving a major corporation and a foreign nation. A lot of people are upset. In other words, it's a real headache for me."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You want some aspirin?"

"Yeah, actually, I wouldn't mind. You got some?"

Rozetti shouted out toward the bar. "Hey, Guido! Get the detective here a couple aspirin!"

"How long have we known each other, Pony?" Riguzzo said.

Rozetti shrugged. "I don't know. Twenty, thirty years?"

"About that. Have I ever not played straight with you?"

"No. No, I'll give you that, paisan. For a cop, you've always been all right. Okay, square business. What's on your mind?"

"I'm prepared to do a little horse trading here, Pony," said Riguzzo. "Figure you'd know all about that."

"Right, cut with the jokes already. Get to the point. What kinda deal you offering?"

"I can get you full immunity—for starters," said Riguzzo.

"Assuming I've done anything I need immunity for, that's not so bad—for starters."

Guido brought the aspirin and a glass of water. Riguzzo took the pills and washed them down.

"Thanks, Guido. Go kill a mastodon or something." He turned back to Rozetti. "I can also set it up so you'll collect the rewards being offered for the recovery of the stones and the arrest of the perpetrators. It comes to a total of some seventy-five thousand dollars. That's not so bad for sitting on your ass and dropping a few hints between mouthfuls of linguine, is it?"

"No. No, it's not so bad. But assuming I even knew anything about this situation to begin with, why would I need you to guarantee that? What's to prevent me from going direct to Boston Mutual and droppping a few hints, like you say?"

"I see you already know something about this situation," Cleary said. "Looked into it, have you?"

"Irish cops I don't talk to," said Rozetti. "So? Like I said, what's to prevent me?"

"Absolutely nothing," said Riguzzo. "If you really think Boston Mutual's just going to hand over twenty-five thousand dollars to a man with your record without finding some convenient excuse to disallow you, go right ahead. And you

can call the United Semitic Republics embassy while you're at it and try for the fifty thousand dollars, but at the moment, they're very hot on trying to arrange extradition of the perpetrators, before we've even apprehended them. If they should happen to get some sort of idea that you were somehow involved in the job, they might not take it very kindly. Granted, they've got no jurisdiction, but then, Sheik Al'Hassan is a very wealthy and influential man, and I hear he bears grudges."

"You wouldn't want Sheik Al'Hassan to think you had anything to do with this, would you, Rozetti?" said Cleary. "Gorillas like Guido wouldn't even make him break a sweat."

"You, I don't like," Rozetti said, pointing his index finger at Cleary. "All right," he said, turning to Riguzzo, "so make your pitch. You're saying you get me full immunity, just in case there might happen to be any stray charges floating around, and you arrange to collect the money on my behalf as an informant who wishes to remain anonymous, is that it?"

"That's it. What do you say?"

Rozetti rubbed his chin. "No strings?"

"No strings. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. And maybe, just maybe, I'll do you a favor sometime, if it's not unreasonable."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. How about it?"

Rozetti rubbed his chin some more. "Okay, Riguzzo, you got a deal."

They shook hands across the table.

"First off," said Rozetti, "you guys aren't even looking for the right people. Those reports I saw on the news? Forget it. You're way off. You're not looking for an old sorcerer and a young guy. You're not even looking for two guys. You're looking for a coupla kids, one male, one female."

"Are you saying a couple of kids pulled this job?" said Cleary.

"You going to listen or what?"

"Go ahead, Pony, I'm listening," said Riguzzo.

"I even got a name for you. Kira. The picture your guys drew was a pretty good one, only she's a she, not a he. Granted, you can't hardly tell because of the way she dresses, but take my word on it."

"What's her last name?"

"Don't know. Never heard it, but she's been around before. Strictly small-time stuff, burglary, snatch-and-grab, nothing heavy. Nothing like this job. It's way out of her league if you ask me; but she's the one that pulled it off, I'm telling you."

"And the other oner

"Never saw him before. Young kid, mid- to late-twenties maybe, long curly blond hair, about five nine or ten, one sixty-five or so. She called him warlock."

"Warlock? What's that, a street name?"

"Got me. But I'd say no. She called nun that like I call youpaisan, like it's just something she calls him."

"They came to you with the stones," said Riguzzo, prompting him.

"Full immunity, you said?"

"That's what I said. If you cooperate, I won't even mention your name if I can help it."

"That's good enough for me. Yeah, they came to me with the stones. I knew what they were right away."

"And you turned them away?" said Cleary.

"What, are you kidding? Stuff like that? I bought the damn things! Paid twenty thousand for 'em."

"You have them?" said Riguzzo, leaning forward.

"Don't I wish! Listen, if I had the stones, you think we'd be talking here? They took me. Warlock, or whatever his name is, pulled a fast one and zapped 'em away, right out of my damn pocket. I sent the boys after them, but they blinked out who knows where. I'm out twenty thousand, and I'm not very happy about it."

"I don't suppose you'd know where we could find this Kira?" said Riguzzo.

"I can tell you where she lives, but don't waste your time. If she was there, believe me, I'd have the stuff and my money back."

"Stay out of it, Pony," said Riguzzo. "I don't want to start tripping over your boys. And if you've got a contract out on them, call it off. Now."

"Yeah? And what happens to my twenty thousand?"

"Cost of doing business," said Riguzzo wryly. "Declare it as a loss on your next income-tax report."

"Very funny. But I'll tell you something, if I had a contract out on them and if I decided to be a nice guy and write it all off to experience, they're still in a pile of shit. Word is I'm not the only one they pulled this hustle with. I can't guarantee what somebody else might or might not do."

"I'm just asking you to guarantee what you do, Pony," said Riguzzo. "I'm not kidding. Call your people off. And I want that address."

"Third and Delancey," said Rozetti. "Here, I'll write it down for you. But I'm telling you, you're wasting your time. They're either holed up somewhere else or they've skipped town."

As they left the bar-restaurant, Cleary glanced at Riguzzo, who was scowling.

"I never knew you and Rozetti went back so far," he said.

"We grew up together," said Riguzzo. "Sort of together, anyway. We lived on the same block, went to the same school, but that was about it. We had different interests, different friends."

"How about that?" Cleary said. "I never knew that about you. You and Pony Rozetti, king of the bookmakers."

"That's not how he got the name Pony, you know," said Riguzzo. He grinned. "He likes to put it around that he got the name from scamming in the race game, but he got the name because when he was ten years old, he took his first

and last ride on a merry-go-round. It scared him so much, he hung on to the wooden horse's neck for dear life and it took three people to pry him off."

"Really?"

"Yeah," said Riguzzo, smiling.

"You believe what he said back there?"

"Yeah, I believe him," said Riguzzo. "And I also believe that he's got a contract out on those kids and he's not about to pull it. He was always meaner than a junkyard dog, even as a kid. I made a deal with him, and I'm going to have to stick with it, but he's going to be trouble. He always was."

"There's nothing that says you have to stick to that deal," said Cleary.

"We shook hands on it."

"So? What does that mean, with a guy like Rozetti?"

"It means that because I stick to deals I make with guys like Rozetti, we've got our first solid lead in this damn case," said Riguzzo. "If you want to make lieutenant, it'll pay you to remember that."

"Well, it's a pretty sad state of affairs when you have to cut deals with scum like Rozetti," Cleary said. "He actually sat there and confessed to receiving stolen goods, and we can't even use it against him because you gave your word."

"That's right," Riguzzo said, "but I'll tell you a funny thing about these people. They've got a code of conduct all their own, especially people like the Pony. It's a matter of pride with them. You cut a deal with someone like Rozetti and he gets caught not living up to his end while you do, he comes out looking bad and he knows he'll never get a break from you again. On the other hand, if you live up to your part of the bargain and he lives up to his, he can sit around over linguine and Chianti, bragging to his cronies about how he cut a deal with the cops and came out of it ahead. It raises his stature. Gives him power. And he'll play reasonably straight with you because it's worth it to him. He knows he's built up some credit, and because he brags about it, word

gets around that you're a cop who plays by the rules but that you're flexible. If you get a little, you'll give a little. And that's worth a lot more in information in the long run than busting someone like Rozetti and having him walk out three hours later."

"Well, I guess I never thought about it that way," Cleary said. "I can't argue with your results. At least now we've got corroborative testimony for the FTC. It's one less headache for us. Now that we know for sure that there was an adept involved, we can turn the case over to them."

"Not on your life," Riguzzo said.

"What? Why not?"

"Because it's my case and I intend to see it through. Besides, who do you think's been stalling the ITC? Me, that's who. And it hasn't been easy. They've been leaning hard, trying to get jurisdiction hi this case because magic was involved, and it's all I've been able to do to keep them out of it."

"I don't understand," said Cleary. "Why?"

"Think about it, Al. Who's on the executive board of the ITC and has also offered a reward for information, et cetera?"

"Well, Sheik Al'Hassan has... oh."

"Yeah, oh. The only way I've been able to keep them out of it is by insisting we don't have any real proof that sorcery was involved in the theft. As far as I'm concerned, it could have been a simple snatch-and-grab and the perpetrators escaped on foot during all the confusion. They don't like it; they know it's a stall, but about the only way they can horn in on the case without our requesting their assistance is by getting a sworn deposition from a certified sorcerer that the thieves used magic to effect their escape. And they're not willing to do that because it would be bad politics. It's like I told Rozetti, it's a sensitive issue. They'll lean hard, but they'll only push so far."

"You really think Al'Hassan would use an ITC investigative team as some kind of vigilante squad?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," said Riguzzo. "And I'll tell you something else I think. I think he's probably got some independents sniffing around over here already. There's nothing I can do about that, but I'll be damned if I have to open up my files and grant legal jurisdiction to a bunch of assassins from the USR who are functioning under the protective cover of an ITC investigative team. I'm not going to stand for extradition in this case, and I won't stand for any legally sanctioned homicides, either. I'm bringing those two in myself, and they're going to stand trial, by the book and by the numbers. Now come on, let's take a look at the girl's apartment."

"I feel like a damn idiot in this getup," Kira said. She was dressed in a clinging, sheer white neo-medieval shift with a gold braided cord encircling her hips and light, graceful, embroidered high-heeled slippers. The dress had a deeply plunging neckline, and it hugged her curves. It flattered her figure and her dark coloring. "I just can't see spending that kind of money for a flimsy, cutesy little thing like this. I feel like a Park Avenue hooker in it."

"Well, you don't look like one," said Wyrdrune, tossing his bag down on the hotel bed.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It was meant as a compliment, believe it or not," he said. "It actually makes you look very nice."

"Well, you've obviously never seen a Park Avenue hooker, either," she said. "They look very nice, too, but they're still advertising. That's the whole point of these stupid shoes," she said, kicking them off and opening her bag. "They make you arch your back and stand on tiptoe, so you've got to thrust your hips forward when you walk. Catch-me, fuck-me. That's why you like it so much. It's the I'm-available-and-ready look."

"You know, I try to say something nice to you and you always manage to turn it all around somehow," said Wyr-drune. "I didn't mean anything at all like mat. I just meant that you looked nice, period. Oh, the hell with it. And as for the way you walk, I've got news for you, even in those shoes, you still manage to stomp around as if you were looking for a fight. The way you were scowling at that desk clerk, it looked as if you were about to punch him out."

"That's because the son of a bitch was leering at me and staring at my tits," she said. "He's probably down there right now, fantasizing what we're doing up here. Mr. and Mrs. Karpinsky." She shook her head. "You really think he bought that?"

"It doesn't matter if he bought it or not," said Wyrdrune. "What matters is that you look as little like that police artist's sketch as possible. And if he thinks we're a couple of young kids checking into a hotel for a high-style dirty weekend, so much the better. There's nothing unusual about that, and no reason for him to give us a second thought."

"Well, okay, you've got a point there," she said, "but did we have to pick such an expensive hotel? There must be a thousand places in Boston cheaper than this."

"That's right, and cheaper hotels aren't as secure or as respectful of the privacy of their guests," said Wyrdrune. "And if the police were looking for us, they'd probably look in the cheaper places first—I think."

"You're becoming a regular criminal mastermind, aren't you?" she said with a grin. "What the hell, we've got plenty of money. We might as well enjoy ourselves. When are we going to see this Merlin character?"

"We are not going to see 'this Merlin character,'" said Wyrdrune. "I'm going to see him. That's if he'll even see me. I'm not exactly one of his favorite people these days. And I shudder to think what he'd make of you. You don't just drop in to see an archmage, plop down in his chair, and

ask him, 'How's tricks?' A certain amount of respect is called for."

"Oh, I see. You think I'd embarrass you, is that it?"

"Frankly yes, I do. He's... well, he's extremely old-fashioned. A bit eccentric too. He's several thousand years old, after all, and while he's made some concessions to the modern world, he doesn't exactly live in it, if you know what I mean."

"No, what do you mean?"

Wyrdrune sighed. "Well, it's kind of hard to explain. He's... he's not even human, exactly."

She raised her eyebrows. "What is he, an extraterrestrial?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Wyrdrune. "According to legend, at any rate, he's the son of an incubus, a sort of spirit being. He doesn't really talk about his past very much. He especially doesn't like being asked about King Arthur and his knights. It's a bit of a sore subject with him. And he's not especially fond of women, after what happened to him."

"Yeah, well, if it went down like you said, he wouldn't have been in that mess if he'd kept it in his pants."

"That's exactly what I mean," said Wyrdrune. "God, I can just imagine you saying something like that to him! You'd wind up spending the rest of your life as a guppy in a fish-bowl on his desk or something. Believe me, you're better off staying here at the hotel while I go see him. And don't go wandering around, please, whatever you do. Have a meal sent up, some wine, take a bath or something, but just please stay in this room."

"I've managed to take care of myself pretty well before you showed up, you know," she said sourly.

"I'm just asking you, as a favor, please don't go out, okay? I'd... I'd worry about you."

She started to say something, then stopped herself. She smiled. "All right, warlock. If it'll make you feel better, I'll

stay right here, okay? I promise. At least it'll give me a chance to get out of this dumb skirt. But don't be gone too long. I don't like being cooped up. It makes me nervous."

"I'll get back as soon as I can," he said. "And you really do look very nice in that dumb skirt."

She tossed a pillow at him. "Go on, get out of here."

The phone rang once and stopped. A moment later it rang again. Fats picked it up.

"The bar across the street," the soft, crisp voice on the other end said. "Now." And he hung up.

Two minutes later Fats was sitting at a table in a darkened corner of the seedy bar, opposite a neatly bearded man of average height with a compact, trim build. His hair was a dusty blond color, and his eyes were hazel. He wore gold-rimmed tinted glasses, and he was dressed in a well-tailored, though nondescript, dark suit with just a conservative touch of lace at his throat and cuffs. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the suit, save for the fact that Fats knew he had them custom-made to conceal the bulge of a shoulder holster. Except for the glasses, which were an eccentric touch and gave him the look of an antiquarian, he would not have stood out in a crowd unless one were to look closely and notice that he filled out his suit with solid muscle. The glasses made him look studious, almost clerical. They gave him a thoughtful look and he was, indeed, a thoughtful man; but the sort of things he often thought about would have made most people extremely uncomfortable.

"There are complications," he said. "You didn't tell me mere were other interested parties involved."

"Is that a problem?" Fats said.

"It's always a problem when I haven't been given all the relevant information. Especially when the police are involved. The police are aware of the young woman's identity; and they've searched her apartment, which had already been rather thoroughly examined by Porfirio Rozetti's people.

And there's a vehicle with diplomatic plates that's been parked across the street from her apartment since yesterday evening. I don't suppose you would know anything about that?"

Fats took a deep breath and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "About the police I did not know," he said. "I give you my word. I had no idea they'd discovered her identity. At least, not until they came to see me earlier this afternoon."

The man sat silently waiting.

"As for the others..." Fats shifted in his seat uneasily. "I do not make a habit of comparing notes with Pony Rozetti. He is, after all, the competition. And he has no style, no couth whatsoever. I imagine they must have cheated him in the same manner that they cheated me. It would not surprise me if he was the one who put the police onto Kira. It is precisely the sort of thing he would do if he thought there was something in it for him. I imagine they offered him a deal, similar to the one they offered me. However, I feigned total ignorance and told them nothing. Cooperating with the authorities is not good business practice. Word gets around, and the better class of people become somewhat hesitant to call on you. However, that would not stop Pony Rozetti. He would deal with anyone. The man has no discrimination, none whatsoever."

"And what about your diplomatic friends?"

"Yes, well," said Fats, mopping his forehead once again, "that is another matter entirely. The gentleman came to see me—he was most persuasive... quite threatening, really— and gave me this card." He took Mustafa's card out and passed it across the table.

The soft-spoken man examined it briefly and gave it back to him. "The USR," he said. "Al'Hassan's people. You should have told me. This complicates things."

"If you want more money—"

"That depends," he said, "on what you want me to do."

"Nothing has changed, as far as that's concerned," said Fats. "I still want them taken care of. And I want those stones."

"Then it will cost you more. If I have to compete with the police and with Rozetti's people, that poses no great problem, but the sort of people Al'Hassan can bring in raises the risks considerably. I will require adequate compensation."

"I will not have it get around that I was taken by a couple of young amateurs," said Fats vehemently. "I have a reputation to protect. I have no wish to alter our arrangement. Very well. How much more do you want?"

"The sum we originally agreed on, plus expenses, plus twenty-five percent of what you realize on the sale of the stones."

Fats' jaw dropped. "That... that... really, my dear friend, that is highly extravagant! Be reasonable! If you will allow me to make a counteroffer, might I suggest—"

"I'm not one of your clients, Fats. I do not haggle. That is my price. Take it or leave it."

Fats mopped his forehead once again and grunted. "You drive a hard bargain. Very well, I'll take it. It is a matter of personal pride. But I trust that you will at least try to keep your expenses reasonable."

"Whatever they are, you will pay them."

"Yes, of course, I was merely expressing—"

"I'll be in touch."

He got up and left. Fats remained at the table, twisting his handkerchief in his hands. He signaled the waiter for another drink. "A most disquieting man," he mumbled to himself. "Most disquieting."

Walking across the quad gave Wyrdrune a sharp pang of nostalgia. It hadn't been so very long since he had been a student here, living in a tiny apartment over in Brookline and taking the bus to Cambridge every morning to attend classes. University life had always appealed to him. There

was a secure sense of community about it, a sense that one was working toward large and important goals, a stimulating atmosphere of intellectual activity and culture. He missed it terribly. After he had lost his scholarship and been expelled, it felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under him. All things considered, he had been fortunate to avoid a civil suit over the damages, but without a scholarship there was no way he could complete his education. It rankled. He had been at the top of his class, dean's list every semester, and because of one stupid lapse in judgment, he had thrown it all away.

Ever since his childhood he had wanted to be a wizard. He could not remember ever wanting to be anything else. When he was nine years old, his mother took him to a circus. It was a small, traveling tent show on its last legs. They never had much money when he was a boy, and his mother could not afford much in the way of entertainment for them, so the circus was a real treat, even though the audience was small and the clowns seemed somehow listless and the animals looked old and tired. But the highlight of the experience for him had been the sideshow, where he had seen The Great Goldini.

There hadn't been more than five or six people watching his performance, and the magician had not captivated them, although he had tried hard. He made doves appear and disappear, did tricks with cards and coins, and a pickpocket act with a bored-looking volunteer from the audience. He had known that he was losing them, but he had noticed the little boy who watched him so intently, and at the end of his performance he had beckoned him over.

"Did you enjoy the show?" he had said hesitantly.

"Oh, yes! Very much! It was magic!"

"Regrettably it was not really magic, but it was magic of a sort," The Great Goldini had said.

"How did you make the coin walk across your hand and disappear?"

"Would you like me to show you?"

"Oh, yes, please?'

The Great Goldini had looked up questioningly at Mrs. Karpinsky with his big, sad brown eyes. "You would not mind, missus?"

"No, of course not," his mother had said.

"Come, missus," said Goldini, whose real name was Nathan Goldblum. "Would you maybe like some tea and halvah while I speak with your young man?"

"Some tea and halvah would be very nice, thank you," his mother had said, pleased with Mr. Goldblum's manners, and Wyrdrune—then just plain Melvin Karpinsky—had been filled with pride at being referred to as a "young man."

The old stage magician had taken them to his trailer, where he made a pot of tea and carefully cut up some chocolate halvah and arranged it nicely on a chipped china plate. His mother had sat in a chair with the plate on her lap, holding the teacup carefully and sipping from it slowly while Goldini sat down in a folding wooden chair and beckoned Wyrdrune over. Inside his trailer, with his cape off, he did not look anywhere near as impressive as he had looked on stage. Without his tall hat, Wyrdrune could see that he was almost completely bald, with just a fringe of hair around his head, and he needed a shave. He was thin, and up close he looked a great deal older.

"Watch," said Goldini, and he took a coin out of his pocket and made it walk across his fingers. And then, suddenly, it disappeared!

"It's a magic coin!" said Wyrdrune.

"No," said Goldini. "It isn't really, you know. You can do it, too, with a great deal of practice. See, watch very carefully, I'll show you."

And he had done the trick again, very slowly, so that Wyrdrune could see how it was the deft motion of his fingers that made the coin appear to walk. Then Goldini

showed him how he palmed it at the end, so that it never really disappeared but was only hidden.

"Oh," said Wyrdrune. "I see how you did it. It isn't really magic, is it?"

"No, it isn't," said Goldini with a sigh. "Are you very disappointed?"

"Oh, no, sir," Wyrdrune had said. "It's a wonderful trick. Do you think I could try?"

"Certainly," Goldini said, and handed him the coin.

He couldn't make it walk. He kept dropping it.

"It's hard," said Wyrdrune, frowning with concentration as he tried to make his fingers do the same thing he had seen Goldini's do.

"Yes, when you first try to learn the trick, it's very hard," Goldini said. "But if you practice every day, you get much better at it. It's just like real magic that way. You have to practice very hard. It's called sleight of hand, and it's a very old sort of trick, though not as old as real magic, of course. You see, young man, there was a time, many years ago, when there wasn't any real magic. People had forgotten about magic, and because they had forgotten how to do it, they stopped believing in it. They thought it was just a fairy tale, a story. But it was real. And there were still some people left who really believed in magic, but because no one remembered how to do it anymore, they couldn't do it, either. There was no one to teach them how, you see. Still, they wanted to keep the memory alive, and so they learned how to do a sort of magic—magic that wasn't really magic, you understand, but looked as if it were. Tricks just like this one."

"Were you one of those people?" Wyrdrune said.

"My grandfather was," Goldini said. "And my father after him. They were called stage magicians, illusionists, and sleight-of-hand artists, and they did shows for people just like the one that I just did. They made people disappear and they sawed beautiful women in half and they took rabbits out

of a hat and they made people seem to float straight up into the air, only they didn't really do it. All those things were only tricks to make it look as if they'd really done it, but they were fooling people. It was a nice kind of fooling, though. Everybody knew it wasn't really magic, but they came to watch because it looked like magic and because they could appreciate the skill with which the tricks were done. They knew it wasn't easy, and it took a lot of practice. A lot of them would try to figure out how these tricks were done, but there were others who didn't really care. For a little while they would pretend they didn't know those things were really tricks. Just for fun, they would pretend to themselves that what they were seeing people like my father and my grandfather do really was magic. And in that way the memory was always kept alive."

Goldini sighed. "But these days, magic is much more than just a memory. The great Merlin Ambrosius, the most wonderful magician who ever lived—and he's a real magician, you know, not just a man who does little tricks like me— brought back the old knowledge, and it isn't very interesting for people to see me do my act when they can see real magic all around them every day. When I was a little boy, just about your age, my father taught me how to do magic tricks. As a matter of fact, the very first thing I learned was how to make a coin walk across my hand. It was that very same coin that you are holding now. My grandfather gave it to my father, and my father gave it to me, and I practiced every day. My father taught it to me because it was all he knew, you see, but even then there was already real magic in the world and no one cared very much about the sort of tricks my father did when they could see the real thing. Still, I've always felt that what my father and my grandfather did was really quite important, because it had kept the memory of real magic alive. It was a dream. A wonderful, magical dream. And it finally came true. Always remember that, young man. If you have a dream, and you hold on to it, and

you continue to believe in it when everyone else around you has long since stopped believing, then one day it will come true."

Wyrdrune had nodded solemnly and held the coin out so that Goldini could take it back.

"No, you keep it," said Goldini. "And remember, practice every day. Who knows, perhaps someday you will become a real magician. In the meantime this magic coin will help you hold on to your dream."

Wyrdrune reached into his pocket and took out an old, worn fifty-cent piece. He held it in his hand for a moment and stared at it wistfully, then deftly walked the coin across his fingers, up and around his hand, made it "disappear," palming it expertly, then snapped his fingers and made it "reappear," flipping it up into the air and catching it between his index and middle fingers.

"What happens when you lose your dream, Mr. Goldini?" he asked softly. "What happens when you almost make it and it's taken away from you?" He stared at the coin and sighed. "What happens then?"

He looked up at the administration building. There was an archway over the entrance, and carved into stone over the archway were the words EX TENEBRAS AD LUCE. From the darkness, into light. He took a deep breath and went inside.

CHAPTER

SIX

The penthouse apartment overlooked Fifth Avenue. It was decorated elegantly. The deep carpeting was a rich, dark blue, and the furnishings were exquisite pieces of mahogany and zebrawood, not a sign of glass or chromed steel anywhere. Built-in bookcases held rare volumes dealing with history, science, philosophy, and archaeology, books about primitive tribes, books about weapons, books about military campaigns, and works of fiction arranged on the shelves in careful groupings according to subject. Several impressionist paintings graced the walls, originals by Monet, C6zanne, and Van Gogh. A large wooden cabinet housed a collection of wines, the bottles all arranged horizontally in wooden racks. On top of the polished mahogany bar in the corner of the living room was a burnished silver tray holding a crystal wine decanter and several crystal wineglasses.

The bearded man in the gold-rimmed glasses unstoppered the decanter and poured himself a glass of port. He sipped the wine, savoring it, pausing first to sniff its full-bodied bouquet and observe the delicate sheeting action on the glass.

80

"Apollonius, we have work to do," he said.

With a soft humming sound, one of the bookshelves slid aside into a recessed niche in the wall, revealing a sophisticated console of electronic equipment and several monitor screens. Several soft red indicator lights came on.

"Working," said the computer.

"I require an open line to the Bureau of Thaumaturgy," he said. "We're going to tap into their data base. We are looking for candidates for first-level thaumaturgical certification examinations held over the past five years."

"Working," said the computer. Several moments later it said, "I have those records accessed. Do you require a printout?"

"No, not yet," he said. "First search the data base and eliminate all female candidates. Then eliminate all candidates who passed their certification exams. We are looking for males who failed their exams, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five... no, better make that eighteen and thirty, to be on the safe side. Blond, blue eyes, approximately five foot nine or ten, weight about one hundred and sixty pounds."

"Working," said the computer. It took a little longer this time. He sipped his wine and waited. After a short while the computer said, "I am ready with that information."

"How many names are there?"

"One thousand, one hundred and sixty-eight," said the computer.

"That many? Hmmm. Stand by."

He went over to the coffee table and opened the briefcase he had lying there. He took out a videocassette that Fats had given him, a recording from his pawnshop security system.

"Warning! There is a safeguard program attempting to lock in on me," said the computer.

"Block it."

He opened the case for the cassette and inserted it into a slot on the console.

"Play this cassette for me," he said.

"Working," said the computer. The cassette was drawn into the slot, and a moment later the images appeared on one of the monitor screens. The concealed camera had been mounted in the far corner of the pawnshop, shooting down over the counter.

"Fast forward."

The images sped up.

"Hold it," he said.

The images froze on a picture of Wyrdrune and Kira entering the shop.

"Resume normal speed," he said.

He watched as the tape resumed running, then said, "Hold. Zoom in. Hold. A little to the right. Hold. Zoom in again. Hold."

The picture was a tight close-up of Wyrdrune's hooded face.

"Can you enhance to eliminate the shadows?"

"Working," said the computer. The image started to lighten.

"Hold. Compare that image against the photographs in the EOT files for a match."

"Working," said the computer.

He waited. After about a minute and a half he frowned.

"Is there a problem, Apollonius?" he said.

"There is no match in the EOT data base," said the computer.

"Are you certain?"

"I have state-of-the-art software, and my hardware contains half a million dollars in thaumaturgically etched and animated chips," said the computer. "I am always certain."

He smiled faintly. "My apologies, Apollonius. However, we seem to have a problem. If our warlock passed his certification exams, he would be registered with the EOT as a licensed wizard or sorcerer, and he is not. If he did not pass his exams, his application should still be on file with the

BOT. And it is not. All of which seems to suggest that he never even applied to take his first-level certification." He frowned. "But why?"

"Perhaps he did not complete the required schedule of courses to qualify for certification," said the computer.

"Excellent, Apollonius. Very good, indeed."

"Thank you."

"You are quite welcome. You may disengage from the BOT line."

"Disengaged."

"I trust we successfully avoided the lock-in of the safeguard program?"

"Of course."

"Good. Let me see..." He sipped his wine. "What we need is some sort of central data base for students of thau-maturgy. Does such a thing exist?"

"One moment, I will check my encyclopedic data base," said the computer. "Yes, there is a central transcript file of all applicants accepted into accredited university-level thau-maturgy programs maintained at the Thaumaturgical College of Sorcerers in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Do you wish me to access that data base?"

"Yes, but let's avoid the normal channels, shall we? Let's tap an open line and sneak in quietly."

"Working," said the computer. It took about two minutes. "I am inside," it said. "I have accessed the transcript files."

"Good. Follow the same procedure as before. Let's see if we can find our young warlock in the university files."

The computer hummed softly as it conducted a search program. "Warning! I have a safeguard program attempting to lock in on me," it said again.

"Block it, please, and continue."

"Working." Another few moments passed. "I have a match," said the computer.

"Put it up on the screen, please."

A second later Wyrdrune's transcript, accompanied by a photograph, appeared on the monitor screen.

"The subject's name is Karpinsky, Melvin; magename: Wyrdrune; accepted into the Thaumaturgical College of Sorcerers in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the fall of 2219. The subject was granted an Ambrosian Scholarship and completed the required courseload up to his junior year with honors but was expelled at the beginning of his—Warning! I have detected another break-in. Someone else is attempting to access this data base."

"Can you trace the source?"

"Working," said the computer. "I have locked in and initiated source search. One moment... I have that information now. The source of the break-in is the embassy of the United Semitic Republics in New York City, located on—Warning! There is a safeguard program attempting to lock in on me."

"Block it."

"Working... Warning! I am unable to block the safeguard program! Warning! Safeguard program has locked hi!"

"Disengage!"

"Warning! Source search has been initiated!"

"Disengage immediately!"

"Warning! I am unable to disengage!"

"Shut down, Apollonius! Shut down at once!"

"Warning! Override! Override!"

"Shut down! Shut down!"

"Warning! Warning! No! No! Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

He shielded his face with his arms as his computer system suddenly exploded, sending shrapnel flying across the room. The shock wave picked him up and threw him back into a wall. Black smoke billowed out from the console, shot through with electric sparks. A voice came out from inside the cloud.

"Who are you?"

He raised himself to his hands and knees. Blood streamed from several cuts in his scalp, running down his forehead

and into his eyes. His hands were bloody from shielding his face. "You go to hell!" he said.

The cloud roiled and the voice said, "Do not meddle in things that do not concern you. Let this be a warning."

A horizontal pillar of fire shot out of the cloud, like molten liquid exploding from the nozzle of a flamethrower. It streamed across the living room and struck the opposite wall, igniting it. A fortune in original oil paintings burst into flame.

'Wo.'" he screamed.

He got up and ran toward the paintings, but the entire wall had quickly turned into a solid sheet of flame, and the heat was such that he could not even get near it. The sprinkler system was set off, as well as a fire alarm, but it was too late. He staggered through the smoke, behind the bar, and raised up a concealed trapdoor that hid a floor safe. He opened the safe, eyes streaming from the smoke, and removed a metal strongbox that contained, among other things, his bank records and his multiple passports in several different names from a variety of nations. He tucked the strongbox under his arm and stood there helplessly amid the smoke and fire as the water from the overhead sprinkler system rained down on him, drenching him, making the flames sputter and filling the room with even more smoke. He had lost everything.

He still had his bank accounts in Switzerland and Latin America and the Caribbean, but that was only money. It could not replace the van Gogh and the Cezanne and the Monet, which had survived for centuries, carefully preserved in museums and private collections, now gone forever. It was an agonizing loss. Money would not replace the rare books. Even if anything could be salvaged, it would be lost to him because he had to leave quickly now, before the fire department and the police arrived. There was virtually nothing in the penthouse apartment, save for the documents inside the strongbox, which would give anyone the slightest

idea who had lived there. His life was a carefully constructed web of aliases, and now he would have to start all over somewhere else, find a new base of operations, establish an elaborate new system of security that would allow his clients to reach him without ever knowing where he was. It would all take a great deal of money, perhaps all that he had left, but it was not the money that mattered. It was the incredible barbarity of such a callous act of destruction, such monstrous vandalism, that filled him with cold rage.

He staggered toward the door through the smoke and flames, pausing to take a last look at all that was left of the things he cherished. He was full of raging fury, a fury unlike anything he had ever known in a life of cold, emotionless professionalism. Now, for the first time, it was personal. He turned and fled down the fire stairs.

The worst part of it was that the department secretary did not even remember him. His face meant nothing to her; neither did his name. Perhaps it was just as well. If she had remembered him, she might have been a great deal more difficult about arranging an appointment with his old professor. As it was, he gave his magename, which Merlin himself had bestowed on him, partly in jest and partly as an accurate description of his overeagerness to master spells far above his level and invariably getting them all wrong. The secretary assumed he was an alumnus come back to visit his old alma mater.

"Oh, yes, of course," she said, pretending to remember his name. "Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"Actually, no, I don't," he said, "but it's regarding a matter of considerable urgency, and I'm sure that Professor Am-brosius would wish to see me."

"Dean Ambrosius is no longer teaching a regular schedule of classes at the university," she said, "but he is still a very busy man, you know. There are tremendous demands

upon his time. Perhaps if you could tell me what it was about... ?"

"I'm sony, Ms. Soames, I'm afraid I couldn't really do that," he said. "It's a matter of some delicacy, and it's quite important that I speak to him about it personally. Professional ethics, you understand."

"Oh, I see," she said, obviously not seeing at all and not caring a great deal, either. "Well, as it happens, Dean Am-brosius had an interdepartmental staff meeting earlier today, and it's possible that he might still be on campus. I'll buzz Archimedes and see if he's in his office and available to see you."

"Archimedes?" Wyrdrune said, but she was already on the phone.

"Hello, Archimedes? This is Betty Soames. I have one of our graduates here in the office with me, an alumnus who's anxious to see Dean Ambrosius. He says it's quite important."

She paused a moment while Wyrdrune wondered who Archimedes was.

"Wyrdrune," she said into the phone, then paused a moment. "Yes, that's right. Okay, I'll send him over." She hung up the phone and looked up at him. "Dean Ambrosius has a faculty luncheon to attend at noon, but he can see you for a few minutes. His office is—"

"Yes, I remember," Wyrdrune said. "Thank you."

He went past her desk and down the hallway that led to the private offices of the department chairman and the senior professors. At the end of the hall there was a large oak door with an engraved brass nameplate on it. It read, simply, M. AMBROSIUS. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

"Enter," said a querulous voice from within.

He opened the door and walked in.

It was a small, windowless office, not even half as large as the department chairman's. The walls were completely obscured by bookshelves containing scores of ancient tomes

bound in old, cracked leather covers. There were books everywhere, from floor to ceiling. The floor was covered by a beautiful, well-worn Persian carpet, and there were a couple of large comfortable leather reading chairs on either side of the large carved mahogany desk. The desk was cluttered with stacks of papers, scrolls, an appointment calendar, a skull with the top of its cranium removed so that it could hold an ashtray, a wooden pipe rack holding half a dozen curved, large-bowled briars, a humidor, and... incongruously, a personal computer. There was no room on the walls for any artwork because of all the books, but there were several small sculptures placed around the room, among them a foot-high bronze of Gandalf the Sorcerer from the classic Tolkien stories, and a small sculpture of a winged dragon sitting on a glass ball on one corner of the desk. There was a large stuffed owl on a perch in front of one of the bookshelves, and, completely out of place, a six-foot-tall cigar-store Indian stood in a corner of the office.

Merlin Ambrosius sat in a high-backed chair reading a newspaper. With his feet up on his desk and his unkempt white hair haphazardly trimmed to just above his shoulders, he looked less like an archmage than a disreputable coffeehouse poet. His snow-white beard was full, but he no longer wore it long. It was cut in the style of a Gloucester fisherman, wide and flaring. He was dressed in a brown herringbone-tweed jacket, a white knitted crewneck sweater, and worsted wool trousers. He wore suede desert boots, and an Irish tweed walking hat was hung on a large hook screwed into the side of his chair. He was smoking a deeply curved, large-bowled briar pipe packed with his usual peculiar blend of tobacco, a sorcerous concoction that smelled different with every puff. It filled the office with a pungently piquant mixture of scents: a touch of latakia and perique; a whiff of brimstone mixed with the smell of macaroons baking in an oven; a faint tang of cherry; and the odor of Scottish heather after a spring rain.

Merlin put down his newspaper and squinted at Wyidrune from beneath his huge, bushy white eyebrows. His mouth was almost obscured by his luxuriant beard, and his eyes were an amazingly youthful, periwinkle blue.

"Hello, Professor," Wyrdrune said, standing before him, ill at ease. "Thank you for seeing me."

Merlin grunted. "What have you burned down this time, Karpinsky?" he said. "Don't tell me you've managed to get yourself readmitted."

"No, sir, I'm afraid not," Wyrdrune said, "although I still have hopes of finishing my studies."

"So? What do you want from me, a recommendation?"

"No, sir, I honestly don't feel I've earned that. However, I'm faced with a rather serious problem, and I was hoping you could give me some advice. I frankly didn't know where else to turn. I'm in a lot of trouble."

"Somehow that does not surprise me," Merlin said, taking his feet down and using his thumb to tamp down the tobacco in his pipe. "Very well, what is it? What have you done this time?"

"Well, it's a rather long and complicated story, sir—"

"It would be," Merlin said wryly, putting his elbow on the desk and propping his chin up on his palm. "Do you think you could manage to abbreviate it somewhat?"

Wyrdrune took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, I don't know if you've heard about the jewel theft in New York, at the auction of the Euphrates artifacts—"

"You didn't."

"Uh, yes, sir, I—I'm afraid I did."

Merlin shut his eyes and gave out a soft groan. "Ohh, Karpinsky," he said, shaking his head. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Sir, I was desperate," he said. "I was behind on my rent; I couldn't get a job; I just didn't know what else to do."

"So you robbed the most prestigious gallery in New York City?"

"I know it was crazy. I can't explain it. I honestly don't know what made me do it. Something just came over me. I'm not a thief. Really, I'm not. I've never stolen anything in my entire life. Well, there was that time I tried to lift a copy of the midterm exams, but—"

"Karpinsky," Merlin said, "there are times when I truly think you are a punishment from God. I've managed to enjoy four blessed years of uninterrupted academic boredom, and now you come back like some neurotic poltergeist to complicate my life. Why couldn't you simply be content to work hard and apply yourself to your studies? Why must you always look for shortcuts?"

Wyrdrune couldn't think of anything to say.

Merlin sighed. "You were my most promising student," he said. "I haven't met anyone so naturally gifted since Le Fay. Regrettably, that was not all you had in common with her. You were both equally irresponsible, equally impatient. You know, if you had possessed but an ounce of his dogged determination, you could have been another Al'Hassan. I had hoped that a few years would give you some maturity, some proper perspective. When I heard you were waiting outside in the office, I thought that perhaps you might have learned your lesson and were ready to try again. I was even prepared to intercede with the Dean of Admissions on your behalf, but instead I'll have to intercede with the police. I don't know what I'm going to do with you, Karpinsky. You're an emotional basket case, just like that young fool, Lancelot." He picked up the phone. "Betty? Cancel my luncheon, will you? Give the chairman my apologies. And hold all my calls, please."

He hung up the phone.

"I imagine you're going to need a lawyer," he said. "I suppose you'd better tell me all about it."

"Well, I guess it started when I picked up a paper to look at the want ads," Wyrdrune said. "I was going to try to find a job, any job. All I wanted was to pay my rent and try to

get some money set aside for groceries and maybe start saving up for my tuition. I really was going to try to come back and do it right this time, I swear."

"Yes, yes, go on. Get to the point."

"The article about the auction of the artifacts just seemed to jump out at me," said Wyrdrune. "I started reading it, and when I got to the part about the milestones, I don't know what hit me, but all of a sudden I just knew I had to have them. I suppose it may sound strange, but there was never a question in my mind about it. I saw that if I could steal the stones and sell them, I could pay off all my bills and have enough money left over to go back to school and complete my studies, do it right this time, but those all seemed like secondary considerations somehow. I forgot all about the want ads. I clipped the article and read it over and over again, and the desire just kept on getting stronger. It wasn't even a desire, really, it was more like a compulsion. I knew I had to do it. I just had to. Nothing else seemed to matter. So I figured out a plan where I'd disguise myself as an old man, a sorcerer, and steal the stones during the auction by creating a diversion, a fire—"

"Naturally," said Merlin wryly.

"And everything went right according to plan until I actually tried to grab the stones. It turned out that someone else had the very same idea. A girl. She tried to grab the stones at the same time, and we both just barely managed to get away."

"But you did steal the jewels?" said Merlin.

"Yes, she grabbed them while I teleported us out of there," said Wyrdrune.

"You teleportedT Merlin said, raising his eyebrows.

"I know, I really wasn't ready for teleportation spells, but I figured it was worth a chance, you know, just to escape ... funny thing, though, I've been getting much better at it. It doesn't even make me tired anymore. And I think I know why too. I think the runestones are responsible."

"What makes you think that?" said Merlin, frowning.

"I just can't see any other explanation," Wyrdrune said. "They were certified as enchanted runestones of unknown properties, and there's no doubt they're enchanted. That's part of the problem. Kira and I—that's the girl who stole them with me—we've been trying to sell the stones, well, that is, we have sold them several times, only they keep coming back to us. We just can't seem to get rid of them. And we can't seem to get rid of each other, either. We don't exactly get along too well, but it seems as if we're stuck together somehow, and it's almost as if the stones don't want us to be apart. And lately I've had the strangest feeling that it wasn't even really my idea to steal the runestones. Now, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I'm starting to suspect that the stones wanted me to steal them, that I never really had any choice in the matter. I know that sounds as if I'm trying to make excuses, but I'm not. That's really how I feel. Frankly, sir, I'm scared. There are people after us, not only the police, and I've been getting some very strange sensations lately. I don't know what's happening to me. I seem to be getting stronger somehow. Part of me wants to get rid of the damn stones, just throw them away or something, and part of me wants to keep them. And I don't know why. On top of that, I'm starting to have these strange dreams where people are talking to me in a language I can't even understand—"

"Where are the runestones now?" said Merlin.

"Right here," said Wyrdrune, reaching into his pocket and taking out the pouch.

"Give them to me."

He handed the pouch across the desk to Merlin.

"Sit down, it looks as if you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown," said Merlin. He frowned, holding the pouch. "What in heaven's name have you got here?" he said. "I haven't felt such power since..." His voice trailed off.

He shook the stones out onto the desktop and stared at

them, then he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pair of square, steel-rimmed glasses. He put them on and held the stones up one at a time, squinting at the barely discernible runes carved into them.

"I don't recognize this language," he said slowly. "I have absolutely no idea what it is. Unless... no, that's not possible. Archimedes..."

The computer on the desktop came on with a soft chime. "Yes, Professor?" it said in a young male voice with a clipped British accent.

'Take a look at this and see what you can make of it," said Merlin. He held up one of the stones in front of the screen. "Damned useful things, these computers," he said.

"I never thought I'd see you break down and get one," Wyrdrune said.

Merlin shrugged. "The department bought it for me. Frankly I can't imagine how they make them work. I understand how they use alchemy now to make plastics in the absence of petroleum, and I naturally comprehend the animating principles that give life to those little things they call chips, but beyond that, it's all a mystery to me. I've got a book here somewhere that supposedly explains it all, but I can't make any sense of it."

"I have nothing like that in my memory, Professor," Archimedes said.

"What about the university library?" said Merlin.

"I've already checked with the library computer," said Archimedes. "It might as well be Greek. Of course, if it was Greek, then we could read it, couldn't we?" The computer chuckled. "Sorry."

"Never mind, Archimedes. Thank you just the same."

"Wish I could be of more assistance, Professor, but I'm only as good as my input, you know. Will there be anything else?" cpc- p;*fly

"No, that will be all for the moment. . i - . ,r"

"Jolly good." „ —- Tl 07070

Merlin grimaced. "Ridiculous expression," he said. He pursed his lips and stared at the stones. "Whatever these things are," he said, "they are immensely powerful. And I find myself feeling a strong affinity for them."

"So you believe me, then?" said Wyrdrune.

"I believe what you've told me," said Merlin. "I also believe that you've stumbled onto something of very great significance. And I am concerned that I cannot read these runes. They are either some made-up language, someone's personal thaumaturgical code, or else it's a language that predates even me, and considering where these came from, I am inclined to believe the latter. And that is very worrisome. Very worrisome, indeed."

"What do you think I should do, sir?" Wyrdrune said.

"Well, obviously the police will have to be called in," said Merlin, "and you're going to need a damned good lawyer, but before we do that, I want to find out what these are. I'd like to take them home with me. Have you a place to stay?"

"Yes, sir, we're at—"

"Come to think of it, I'd rattier you didn't tell me," he said. "That way there can be no question of my harboring a fugitive, either directly or indirectly. Personally I couldn't care less, but the university administrators would howl if I brought them any adverse publicity." He shook his head. "There was a time when I never would have concerned myself with such things." He sighed. "I must be getting old. Anyway, let me see what I can make of these. Come see me tomorrow. We'll do lunch."

"Sir, one thing..." said Wyrdrune.

"Yes?"

"I'll gladly leave the runestones with you, but I really don't think they'll stay with you."

"Oh, I think I can manage to hold them," Merlin said. "Does anyone else know you're here?"

"No, sir. Well, that is, Kira knows, of course, and then there's Ms. Soames—"

"Don't worry about Betty," said Merlin. "She'll forget your name completely by this evening, if she hasn't forgotten it already. The woman has the attention span of a mayfly. No one else knows you've been to see me?"

"No, sir, no one."

"Fine. Perhaps we had better keep it that way, at least until we decide how to proceed. In the meantime, do you need any money?"

"Oh, no, sir, we've got quite a bit, actually."

"Oh, yes, of course, from having fenced your ill-gotten gains," said Merlin. "I gather it would have been awkward to return the money. Well, I wouldn't go on any wild spending sprees if I were you. Getting yourself out of this mess is liable to be expensive."

"I want you to know that I really appreciate this, sir," Wyrdrune said. "I know I've been a disappointment to you, and it's very kind of you to help me out like this after the way I've let you down."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it, Karpinsky. This is going to cost you. There's no such thing as a free lunch, you know. From now on you are going to do exactly as I say. Rest assured, I'll find some appropriate tasks for you to perform in exchange for my help, but first things first. Let's find out just what sort of mess it is you've gotten yourself into. Go on now and stay out of trouble, if that is even remotely possible for you. I'll see you tomorrow."

"There is a call for you, Effendi," said the consular attache with a respectful bow. "A Mr. Rozetti. He insists that he will speak only with you."

"Thank you, Hakim," said Mustafa without turning around. He was standing by the large plate-glass window, staring out over the city. "I will take it in here."

The attache" bowed once more and left the room. Mustafa went over to the large, lustrously polished cherrywood desk and picked up the phone. "Yes, Mr. Rozetti?" he said.

"This phone safe?" said Rozetti.

"All of the telephones in the embassy are protected by safeguard spells against eavesdroppers," said Mustafa. "You may speak freely, Mr. Rozetti."

"Yeah, well, a man can't be too careful these days, know what I mean?" Rozetti said.

"I know precisely what you mean, Mr. Rozetti. Kindly get to the point of your call."

"I've found them," said Rozetti.

Mustafa paused a moment to make sure his voice was steady. "Where are they?"

"Not so fast, Mr. Sharif," Rozetti said. "First I'm going to require some, what you call, assurances."

"What sort of assurances?"

"First, my name is kept out of it. Completely. I never even called you. Second, your boss, Sheik AFHassan, is made to understand in no uncertain terms that I didn't have anything to do with this. Those people came to me, and I've been cooperating one hundred percent from the word go. You make sure he understands that. Okay?"

"Agreed," Mustafa said.

"Wait a minute, I ain't finished yet. The reward. I got that comin', right? And that money the insurance people have put up. I mean, I've had a lot of my people on this, know what I'm saying? I feel I should be compensated. That's fair, right?"

"If your information leads me to the thieves and to the runestones, then you will be, as you say, compensated," said Mustafa. "And your identity will not be revealed. Is there anything else you require in the way of assurances?"

"Yeah, one other thing," Rozetti said. He hesitated. "Look, uh... don't take this the wrong way, but I'd really

like for you not to come around no more. After this we're quits. I got a business to take care of. Just send someone over with the money. Preferably cash."

"As you wish. Now, where are they, Mr. Rozetti?"

"Boston."

"What do you mean, Boston? Boston is a rather large place."

"They took the train to Boston earlier today. I figured they'd probably try to skip town, and I had my people covering the train stations and the airports, just in case. And we got lucky. These two are real amateurs. They were spotted at Perm Station, getting on the train to Boston. I called ahead as soon as I heard and had some people I know pick them up and follow them when they arrived mere. They're staying at the Copley Plaza."

"These friends of yours in Boston," said Mustafa, idly staring down at the cobra in the glass terrarium on his desk, "do they know why they are watching these two thieves for you?"

"Yeah, because they ripped me off," Rozetti said.

"What I meant was, does anyone else besides yourself know of my interest in this matter?" said Mustafa.

"What? No, I kept it confidential, just like you said. Besides, why should I give anybody else a cut of the reward money? This business is just between you and me, right?"

"Indeed, Mr. Rozetti," said Mustafa. "And I am pleased that we were able to conclude it so successfully. Would you mind holding on a moment, please?"

He took the phone away from his ear and placed the receiver down inside the glass terrarium. He softly mumbled a few words in Arabic and made a languid, beckoning gesture at the snake. The cobra slowly writhed toward the receiver, then it passed through the mouthpiece until it had disappeared completely into the phone.

Mustafa could hear Rozetti's voice on the other end as the

receiver lay in the terrarium. "Sharif? Sharif, you there? Hello? Hello, Sha—what the—" There was a gasp, followed by a high-pitched scream.

Mustafa reached inside the empty terrarium, picked up the receiver, and, with a smile, replaced it on its cradle. Now only one loose end remained.

CHAPTER Seven

Riguzzo had another headache. He stared at the body of Pony Rozetti and wondered why he didn't feel anything except the headache. They had, after all, known each other for a very long time. They never had been friends, certainly, but the ties of the old neighborhood had meant something—not a great deal, perhaps, but it had always been a link of sorts. He thought that he should feel something, sorrow or pity, a sense of loss over a life wasted, but he felt none of those things. Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had so long ago resigned himself to the fact that something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. His mother had known it years ago. He remembered her cautioning him about Rozetti and his wild friends. "You stay away from the Porfirio Rozetti and his bunch," she had told him when he was only twelve years old. "They're nothing but trouble. That boy will come to a bad end, you wait and see. I feel sorry for his poor mother."

Guido came up to him and handed him a paper bag. "This was what done it, Lieutenant," he said. "I put it in a bag

99

because I figured you might want to analyze the thing or something."

Riguzzo looked inside the bag. It held a dead snake. A cobra.

"I killed it," said Guido. "We heard the boss scream, and Louie and me came runnin' in. He was right there like you see him, with the snake all coiled up on the desk, standin' up and hissin' at us. I bashed it with the chair."

The broken chair was still lying on the floor, and there were marks on the desk where Guido brought the chair down several times, hitting the snake. Riguzzo handed the bag to one of the other officers.

"Give this to the lab boys," he said.

"I figure someone must've put it in his desk," said Guido. "He was on the phone, and he must've opened the desk up to get something and the son of a bitch jumped out and bit him."

Riguzzo walked around behind the desk. "The drawers are all closed," he said.

Guido shrugged. "Maybe he closed the drawer with his chest when he fell forward on the desk."

Riguzzo nodded to himself. It could have happened that way. He stared at Rozetti's body, slumped over the desk. The telephone receiver was lying on the floor, dangling from its cord.

"Who was he calling?" he said.

"I don't know, Lieutenant," Guido said. "But I figure you can find out easy enough."

Riguzzo nodded. "You didn't touch anything?"

"Only the chair, when I killed the snake with it," said Guido. "But you'll find my prints all over this office. I was in here a lot. Mark and Louie too."

"Was anyone else in this office, someone who might have left the snake here?" said Riguzzo.

"Not since yesterday," said Guido. "We had a poker game in here last night. The boss, Mark, Louie, me, and Anthony.

We played till about one o'clock in the mornin', and we locked up when we left. Nobody's been in here today except me and the boss. And / sure as hell didn't leave that snake there. Afraid I can't prove it, though."

"I don't think you did it, Guido," said Riguzzo. "But I don't suppose there'd be much point in asking who would want him dead."

Guido snorted. "Are you kiddin'? I can think of maybe a dozen guys right off the top of my head."

"So can I," Riguzzo said wryly, "but somehow I can't see any of them using a snake to do it. That's not really their style, is it?"

He went out into the restaurant. Cleary was just hanging up the phone in the bar. "That was Hellerman," he said, referring to another detective on the squad. "Are you ready for this? Guess who else was just found dead? Our old friend, Fats."

Riguzzo frowned. "When?"

"Early this morning, around six A.M. There was a fire in his pawnshop. Place went up so fast, he never had a chance to get out. Fire department found him burned to a crisp. They say it looks like arson."

Riguzzo pursed his lips. "Just a coincidence, I suppose, Fats and Rozetti going at almost the same time."

"Yeah, like the fire at Christie's was a coincidence," said Cleary. "And the fire at that penthouse on Fifth Avenue. The home of the mysterious John Roderick, who's dropped clean out of sight. A million-dollar penthouse goes up in smoke, and he doesn't even show up to file an insurance claim."

"You think there's a connection?" said Riguzzo.

"You tell me," said Cleary. "Hellerman can't find any record of a policy on that place, and he's checked with all the major underwriters. What's more, he can't find any record of John Roderick, either. Nothing but window dressing. All he's got is a checking account and cash reserve at First City, amounting to a little under a hundred and fifty

thousand, and just one credit card account. Petty cash, looks like, for someone with a place like that. No life insurance,

no major medical, no stock portfolios-----The guy paid

taxes, though. According to the IRS, Roderick was self-employed as an art appraiser. Which means he'd know all about galleries and auctions. Made forty-five thousand last year. And he lived in a million-dollar penthouse. But here's the kicker. Hellerman smelled something and he got ambitious. He traced the birth certificate Roderick used to get his social security card. John Roderick was born on December 20, 2205, in Providence, Rhode Island, which should make him forty years old. Only it seems there's also a death certificate on the same John Roderick, listing him as having expired on January 23, 2206."

The water was running in the bathroom when Wyrdrune came back to their hotel room. Kira's clothes were thrown haphazardly on the bed and floor, and there was a room-service tray holding a bucket of ice and a bottle of expensive Scotch. The bottle was about a third empty. There were also the remains of a large bowl of tortilla chips and a dish of hot red salsa. Scotch and salsal Wyrdrune's stomach churned. The TV was turned on, but the sound was off and the radio was tuned to an oldies station, filling the room with the driving, pounding, cybersounds of The New Romancers.

"Kira!" he shouted over the noise.

"That you, warlock?" she called from the bathroom.

"And what would you do if it wasn't?" he said.

A knife thudded into the wall about two inches from his left ear. Kira came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a white hotel towel. Her wet, black hair was combed straight back and it was dripping on the carpet. She folded her arms and glanced at him with raised eyebrows.

"I had to ask, didn't I?" he said. He pulled the knife from the wall. "The hotel's just going to love that." He fingered the gash it had made in the wall. He examined the knife.

The long, slim, nine-inch blade was shiny and razor-sharp. The bone handle added another four inches to its length.lt was not suitable for a survival or a hunting knife. It was designed for just one thing. Killing people. He hefted it in his hand. "You mean to tell me you actually had this in the shower with you?"

"Never out of my reach," she said, taking it back from him.

He turned the music down. "We're not exactly on a holiday, you know," he said. "With the music up like that, someone could have slipped the lock and gotten inside without your hearing him."

"Oh, I see," she said. She took the knife and flipped it up into the air, caught it by its point, and twirled it expertly. "Guess you're right," she said with mock seriousness. "I should be more careful."

He grimaced, picked up a glass, poured himself a shot of Scotch, neat, and tossed it down. Then he poured himself another.

"I don't suppose you thought to pack a hair dryer," she said.

Wyrdrune snapped his fingers and made a gun at her with his thumb and index finger. A blast of warm air struck her face, and she gasped in surprise as her hau: seemed to writhe of its own volition and style itself into her usual exaggerated back-at-the-sides and fall-over-the-eyes geometric cut. It took less than a couple of seconds.

"Hey!" She turned around and checked her reflection in the mirror, making minor adjustments. "Not bad," she said. "You could make a nice living doing that."

"Unions wouldn't like it," Wyrdrune said. "There are some jobs adepts are not supposed to take. It would be unfair competition. But I used to do my girlfriend's hair like that."

"You never told me you had a girlfriend," she said.

"Had is the operative word," he said. "She left me for a

young corporate wizard from L.A. A tanned beefcake with a chauffeured limo, custom-made silk robes, open-necked shirts with half a dozen magic amulets on ropy gold chains, and enough money to keep her in the style to which she desperately wanted to become accustomed."

"So how did the meeting with the old man go?" she said, changing the subject. "Did he see you?"

Wyrdrune cleared his throat again and took another drink. He tried not to stare at her, sitting back in a chair with her legs curled up underneath her. It was not a deliberately provocative pose, which made it all the more provocative. She had, he noticed for the first time, truly spectacular legs, long, shapely, and muscular. "Yes, he saw me," he said. "We had a long talk. I told him all about it and he's going to help."

"What did he tell you about the stones?" she said.

"He said he could feel that they were very powerful, but he couldn't read the runes carved into them. He's going to try to figure out what they are. He asked to hold on to the stones, and I'm supposed to go back and see him at his place tomorrow—"

"You gave them to him?"

"Of course I gave them to him," he said. "How else are we going to find out what they are? He said he could hold them, keep them from returning to us while he studied them. Besides, you don't just say no to the most powerful arch-mage in the world. We're lucky he's even bothering to help us. He didn't have to do it, you know. He can help us get a lawyer and intercede with the police—"

"The policel Are you crazy? I thought this guy was a friend of yours!"

"Will you just relax, please?" Wyrdrune said, trying not to notice how the towel was slipping slightly. "Look, we're in way over our heads. We've gotten mixed up in some sort of an enchantment, and we don't even know what the hell it is. I know how you feel. I didn't really want to give them to

him, either. I had to force myself. Those stones ate doing something funny to us, and we'd better find out what it is before something starts happening that we can't stop."

She bit her lower lip and nodded. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I've been feeling jumpy ever since you left. I started feeling a bit crazed all alone in here. I... I guess I was really worried about you."

He looked down and took another drink. "About me or about the stones?" he said.

"About you," she said, grimacing. "You may have had a lot of schooling, but you don't seem to know your way around too well."

He smiled wryly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

She shrugged. "It just felt kind of strange not having you around. I started feeling nervous. They've got a gym here for the guests, so I decided to have a workout, take some of the edge off. Would you believe it, I benched a hundred and sixty pounds, ten reps. The most I could ever do before was a hundred and twenty, and that was only once or twice. Some of the guys were looking at me as if I were from Mars or something. I've never felt so strong. I must have a lot of excess energy or something."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was the stones," he said. "They've had some sort of an effect on us, that much is certain. Maybe they're ancient talismans of some sort that increase your power."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, except that I've never known magic not to exact a price of some sort, and I don't like not knowing what that price could be. According to Merlin the kind of thauma-turgy we practice nowadays is kid stuff compared to the sort of spells the ancients used to mess around with. And for that matter, we don't even know what kind of magic it is. We're assuming that it's white—the odds are probably in favor of that—but what if it's black magic?"

"You're saying that it could be something really nasty?" she said.

"I don't know much about black magic," he said. "It's against the law to practice it these days, but I do know that most of it was very nasty stuff. And it could turn on you just like that." He snapped his fingers.

A leather pouch appeared nestled in his palm.

He stared at it. "Oh, no___"

"What did you do?" she said.

"I didn't do anything!" he said. "At least, I don't think I did."

"I thought you said Merlin could keep them from returning to us," she said.

He hefted the pouch in his hand, and even though he already knew what was inside it, he opened up the drawstring and checked. The knowledge confirmed, he shut his eyes briefly and sighed. "That's what he said. I'm just hoping that he put them in his briefcase and forgot to do anything about it. Becuase if he put a holding spell on them and it didn't take..." He got up. "I'd better go back and see him right away."

She got up from her chair and stood before him, blocking his way. "No, you don't," she said. "I'm not about to spend all night cooped up in here alone, not knowing what's going on. It'll keep until tomorrow." She took his hand, the one holding the pouch, and covered it with both of her own. "Just take it easy. Don't let these damn things make you crazy."

Her towel fell.

She made no move to pick it up or cover herself. She just stood there looking at him with her hands cupped over his.

He swallowed hard. It was as if he could feel her heartbeat through her hands. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and then she flowed into his arms and their lips met in a long kiss.

She fumbled with his clothes, practically tearing them off

him, kissing him hungrily all the while. They fell back together on the bed, all else forgotten as a desperate, overpowering need for each other washed over them. She straddled him on the bed, bending over him, holding his face between her hands and kissing him deeply.

"I've been wanting you so bad," she said between kisses. "I've been fighting it, but I just can't help it anymore."

It's crazy, he wanted to tell her, we don't even like each other, but even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't true. He put his arms around her tightly, crushing her to him, wanting to meld his body with hers and become a part of her. Later they lay slightly apart, staring at each other, feeling a curious mixture of affectionate contentment and puzzled embarrassment.

"What's happening to us?" he said.

"I think it's called falling in love," she said, smiling.

"I know," he said, "but what I meant is... what if it isn't «s?" He picked up the pouch containing the milestones and dumped mem out onto the sheet between them. "How do we really know?"

"What difference does it make?" she said. "I've never felt this good before. So what if it doesn't make any sense? I'm not complaining."

"Sexual rituals were often a part of the magic of the ancients," Wyrdrune said.

"Is that all you think it was?" she said. "A sexual ritual?"

"I don't know what to think," he said. He reached out and stroked her cheek. "How do you feel right now?"

"Terrific," she said. "But I'll admit I'm also feeling a bit shook up. It just sort of happened, didn't it?"

He nodded. "Rather conveniently, too, the moment the runestones came back to us."

"So what are you saying," she said, an edge in her voice, "the runestones made you do it? That's why you made love to me?"

"It wasn't exactly a case of me making love to you," he said. "You practically attacked me."

"Yeah, well, maybe I need to get my ears checked, but I didn't hear you crying rape," she said sarcastically.

"I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it, for crying out loud," he said.

"Well, that's damn decent of you!" she said, sitting up hi bed. "I'd hate to think you suffered through it!"

"I didn't mean it that way!" he said, sitting up and throwing back the sheets. He got out of bed and started getting dressed. "Why do you always have to turn everything around?"

"I'm not turning anything around!" she said. "You make it sound like it was all one-way! Well, excuse me, but I wasn't the one shouting, 'I love you, I love you' loud enough to wake up the entire floor!"

"Don't be crude."

"Crude?"

"All right, I didn't mean that, it's just that it's not fair to throw something in my face that I said in the heat of passion! It's... it's not dignified!"

"Dignified! What the hell does dignity have to do with anything? What do you usually do, screw in a tuxedo?"

"You're being ridiculous."

"I am not being ridiculous! We make love together—and don't tell me it wasn't terrific for you—and then you turn around and say some magic pebbles made you do it! Talk about a cop-out! I ought to let you have one right in the jaw!"

"Oh, I see, you love me, so now you're going to beat me up to prove it."

She jumped out of bed, her hands clenched into fists. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"

He gently took her by the shoulders. "You drive me crazy too," he said. "I'd just feel a whole lot better about it if I knew for sure it wasn't magic."

She grinned. "I thought it was magic."

"You know what I mean. Doesn't it worry you that... that something might be manipulating you?" he said.

She stopped smiling. "You're serious, aren't you? You really think that's what it is?"

"Kira... I just don't know. And it's like I told you before, when it comes to magic, what you don't know can hurt you. I know I'd be hurt if I found out that the only reason this happened was because we were both under a spell."

"I thought that's how it was supposed to happen," she said.

He smiled. "You're a romantic. Somehow I'd never have expected it of you."