The emissary from Murom peered through the glass at the room beyond. At the wall opposite the viewing gallery. It afforded a perfect view of the room beyond; of the stone table in the centre, bare for now. But the focal point of the tiny chamber was the figure hanging from the wall, attached to a five-pointed device. Chains held him to the device, not wrapped around his flesh, but piercing it, the wounds unable to heal. The distinctive pearlescent shimmer of the slick extruded cerametal bonds had a sickly hue, in the bright lights that lit the chamber. Tubes coiled around in and out of the emaciated body, linking him to the machines that took up one side of the room. Naked, he hung from the device, his chin almost resting on his chest, his arms outstretched behind him, forcing the shoulders back to an impossibly strained angle, the muscles under so much tension that the onlooker thought he could almost see every striation, even at this distance. The man's skin was criss-crossed with scars and wounds, in varying stages of healing. In places, the skin had been flayed from his flesh, and some of the devices attached to his body emerged from these areas. Long dark hair hung over his face, concealing it behind the matted strands.

'Nobody, now,' the woman at the spectator's side replied coldly. 'He dared to defy me, and now he pays the price for that defiance.'

The emissary turned to face her, and bowed low, as one should in the presence of Morgaine the Deathless, Empress of the Thirteen Worlds, called Starkiller, Rose of Annwfn. 'He looks used up. Perhaps you need a new object lesson?'

She laughed, and a long-taloned hand reached out and opened the door.

'I think he'll last a little longer, Yuri. We've had him in there for seven years, and we've never yet found anything that can kill him.'

He followed her into the chamber, grateful that she walked in front of him, and could not see his face as he entered.

'My torturers have had quite a time with him,' Morgaine explained. She strode over to the suspended figure, and a gesture of her gauntleted hand brought the device down so that if he'd looked up, his eyes would have been level with hers. 'He's neither human nor dragon-born, but something else. Quite an anomaly. Everything works… and yet it doesn't. A simulacrum of life. It feels, it thinks, it can bleed, but it cannot die, for it is not truly alive.' Th gauntlet caressed his cheek, and then, and only then, did the man look up, staring at Morgaine through the matted tangle of his dark hair. His beard was long, and covered his lower face, so that only his eyes were visible over a patrician nose.

Eye. Singular. Morgaine pushed back his hair almost tenderly, and a single green eye glared back into her blue eyes; a glittering, inhuman emerald green, almost snakelike. The other eye was ruined, as was that side of his face; a sickly white orb stared out from a twisted, ravaged visage. The flesh was obviously healing, but in places was still seared to the bone, ivory white showing through the raw red muscle. Despite the air conditioning, the faint sickly stench of decay still clung to the prisoner, and the emissary swallowed hard, his rising gorge leaving an acidic aftertaste in his mouth and burning the back of his throat.

'We've tried killing him, but he just refuses to die. Nothing we do prevents it.' She stroked the damaged side of his face, leaving new weals in the wake of her long nails. 'Actually he used that to escape, at least twice, before my people realised that he could reconstitute, given a year or three. We had to recapture him twice. So now we only take him to the point of death. It's quite amazing how inventive my people have become, given such a unique opportunity to play with something they cannot break.' She turned away and faced the emissary. 'I trust you understand?'

He nodded, and she smiled coldly.

'Good,' she said briskly, dismissing the captive, or so it seemed to Murom's ambassador. A negligent wave of her hand sent the star device smoothly upwards, eliciting a slight gasp of pain from its occupant, the only sound, apart from his laboured breathing, that he'd uttered since they'd entered the room. 'Then perhaps we should now discuss your planet's somewhat ineffectual rebellion.'

He had no choice but to follow her from the room, and did not dare to look back.

The station was busy every hour of its artificial cycle, which made it easier for the man who walked briskly through its narrow corridors to do so un-remarked. Of average height, stocky, dark haired, he was powerfully built, but deceptively so. Very few people ever realised his strength until too late. They usually only saw what they wanted to see, which was a loud mouthed bravo a little too free with the berache. Now, he slipped easily in and out of the crowds, until he was away from the main thoroughfares of the station, and into the deeper, less well known corridors, that led to the heart of the section occupied by the Empress of the thirteen Worlds. A risky venture, but here on the Giants Dance, she was just one more paying customer, and the syndics of the 'Dance did not take kindly to private armies, which meant that the guards were few.

Besides, ostensibly there was nothing worth guarding.

The man wasn't exactly dressed for the occasion. There might have been some dress-standard for sneaking around, trying to be inconspicuous whilst having grand larceny in mind. It probably involved a lot of black. Yuri however had been in the business long enough to know that the best way to not be noticed was usually to look as though you a) knew where you were going, and b) looked as though you belonged there.

The man who'd taught him that was the reason he was here.

The room he was looking for was close to the outskirts of the section given over to Morgaine's people. The banners of the Rose Legion hung in limp folds on the walls, the silver hydra wrapped around a rose covered vine, the thorns impaling the serpentine creature at seven points. The symbolism matched the functional design of the device he'd seen earlier so well, that he knew that design had been no coincidence.

But, since he also knew the man who'd designed it, this did not surprise him.

The chamber that held Morgaine's prisoner was largely deserted, there being little need to guard a man kept at the point of death, held captive by the very device made to enhance his agony. And after all this time, there was, the guards thought, little enough left of a once monstrous will to desire escape, even if it were possible. Yuri knew this from the same source that had gotten him this close to his goal.

He sauntered towards the two guards stationed outside the chamber with an unsteady swagger: just another bravo on shore leave with too much time and too many months back pay burning a hole in his pocket, it said; had a little too much and got lost. The guards exchanged knowing glances, and one moved to help him on his way, with the camaraderie of those who know all too well what a long duty in space can be like. Yuri waited until the man had taken his arm with a firm-but-friendly grip, before slipping the forceknife he'd hidden in the spring loaded sheath on his wrist slip through his armour, and between his ribs, vibrating its way through his heart. His startled scream alerted his partner, who started towards Yuri, his sword activated. Ready for the attack, Yuri held the body of the first guard as a shield, pushing it into the path of his second assailant, who pulled his blow, fearing to cut through what might be a merely wounded friend.

Human nature, Yuri reflected as his own sword flickered into life at a touch. You just couldn't beat it as a weapon. His blade sliced surgically across the guard's neck, and the man dropped with barely a gurgle, the major artery and his trachea opened up and cauterised. Yuri let his burden drop and bent over the second guard, finishing him off with a forceknife to the heart.

Should have taken the daytime shift,' he quipped. Stepping over the bodies he activated the sigils on the locking panel, according to the instructions he'd received earlier. The door slid open almost silently, and no wards triggered as he stepped through. With a sigh of relief, he strode into the room, and a well practised gestured threw an obscuration at the sensors. Only then, once satisfied that his actions would not be noticed, did he send the signal agreed upon.

Three minutes after the killing of the first guard, the door opened again, this time to admit a giant of a man dressed in a dark grey flightsuit.

'You took your time,' Yuri told the new arrival.

'Unlike you, I'm not that easy to hide,' the giant grumbled. He towered above Yuri, easily reaching almost six and a half feet tall. Long hair, mostly grey, but with a few stray locks of a straw-coloured blond, fell down from a thick scalp lock almost to his waist, the sides shaved. A black patch covered his left eye, lost, according to legend, in a battle with the goddess Death herself. A deep scar ran across the bridge of his nose onto his other cheek. 'We've only got a narrow window of opportunity, son. Let's get him down.'

'I'm surprised you'd want to,' Yuri said tersely, as the approached the device that held Morgaine's prisoner. 'If he finds out…'

'Finds out what? That I sold him out to her? What else was I supposed to do? Get over there and be ready to unhook him. I'll override the system.' The giant ran his hands over the controls with a surprising dexterity, given the size of his massive hands. 'I had no choice – the rest of us were dead or captured, and if I hadn't come up with this little scam, she'd have found some way to destroy him – or did you think that he could survive a retro-annulment? I bought us time.'

'And yourself a sweet deal taking over this place,' Yuri accused. He watched anxiously as the device was lowered slowly to the floor, and guided it into a horizontal position as it came within reach. He examined the occupant closely, noting that even in the time since his demonstration earlier, the prisoner's body had already begun to heal – not all of the flayed muscle was visible now on the torso, and the genitals were restored. The right eye was still missing, and the ruined face still had bone showing through the torn and lacerated tissue. 'I have him, Kane,' he said, checking the body for signs of life, but foiled by the nature of the man who lay unmoving, torn and brutalised in front of him. He swore under his breath in Murom's guttural language. 'If he's still in there, how the hell do we know?' he asked, frustration making his voice crack.

Kane left the console and walked briskly over to him, and began examining the body.

'Keep an eye on the door – you'll see the wards flare red if anyone comes,' he ordered. 'Oh, he'll be in there, son, have no fear on that score.' He began to disconnect the systems that kept the prisoner in that precise balance between pain, his peculiar unlife, and the temporary respite that "death" would have granted him. 'Never known anyone who could cling so hard to a worthless existence as this one. Not even back in the Old Times.' His hands tore the next chained conduit from the unresisting body with casual cruelty, eliciting a murmur of pain from the prisoner.

'Kane – enough!' Yuri snapped from his post by the door. 'If you hate him that much, why help him at all?'

'Honour,' Kane snapped. As easily as Yuri might have lifted a child, he picked up the prisoner in his arms. 'I pay my debts, even if that means paying the devil himself, boy.'

Yuri bristled at the patronising tone, but held his peace. Kane nodded at the door.

'Take point, and remember the route I asked you to memorise. There's a small dromond waiting in the lower cargo bay, fuelled and ready to take off.' He shifted the limp figure in his arms to a more comfortable position. 'Now.'

The corridors were largely deserted in this area, and the few wandering souls were easily avoided, at least until they reached the more public levels. The route to the bay that held the dromond was totally deserted, a testament to Kane's organisation. Yuri keyed the hatch open, then stood aside to let the giant and his burden pass into the belly of the ship. Kane strode purposefully along the narrow corridor to the small stateroom, and laid his burden down on the couch in the centre of the room. 'We'll need to wait a few minutes,' he told the shorter man.

'Isn't that a risk?' Yuri asked.

'About now, all hell will be breaking loose over there,' Kane explained. 'And as soon as Morgaine's people begin their conducted tour of the station with my head of security, you can slip the ship out. The clearances are arranged.'

Kane peeled the prisoner's dark hair away from his face, where it had stuck to the bloody, flayed flesh. The large part of his body was now looking more normal, albeit emaciated and marked with scar tissue. Kane reached under the couch and pulled out a small package, which he unwrapped to reveal a roll of shimmering fabric – Yuri recognised it as shansa skin, used to treat burn victims – in which he proceeded to wrap the man. Part of it was laid carefully over his mangled face, hiding his ruined eye, which Yuri, from his vantage point near the door, suddenly found all too eerily reminiscent of Kane's disfigurement – as though some force had determined that these two men – so often at odds during the rebellion – should be taught how much alike they were behind the facades they both maintained.

The prisoner's remaining eye opened, and glared with a virulent green intensity at Kane, who smiled coldly and leaned over him, straightening his cover.

'Glad to see you're awake,' he said coldly. The man tried to speak but only a hoarse croak emerged. 'Don't try,' Kane advised him, 'You've not got much there to work with just yet. Can you move?'

There was nothing in those glittering, cat-like eyes but simmering hatred.

Yuri tried. 'Kit please, I understand, but he had no choice – the rebellion was over, and Morgaine had all of the leaders by then. Kane and I were the only ones who escaped the cull. He had to find a way of keeping you out of the hands of the druids. At least here, with the option he offered her, there was still a chance. On Gwynedd, we had none.'

Lashless lids lowered slowly to veil an emerald abyss.

Yuri wasn't sure if that indicated acceptance, or simple weariness. He pressed on regardless, knowing time was short. 'Kane's people can keep the search parties off our path, but not for long. We have to get you off the station …' A hand, twisted and broken, but still surprisingly strong, reached out with the speed of a striking snake and grasped his wrist, long nails digging into soft flesh. Yuri winced, but didn't pull his hand away.

'There's nothing there,' Kane told Yuri. 'Watch yourself. I'm not sure he'll recognise you.'

'I can handle it,' Yuri snapped. The ruined form released its grip, and he moved away from the couch, to stand next to Kane.

Kane shrugged. 'He's broken, Yuriy. Though I never thought I'd see it. If he comes back from this, he won't be the same. No-one ever is.'

The two men looked back at the bloodied mess on the couch simultaneously. Without a word, Kane turned and left the room, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. Yuri, after a brief hesitation, followed him and closed the door behind him, keying the palm wards to secure the room.

'I should wish you luck,' Kane said, poised to leave the dromond, one foot on the ramp.

'Luck doesn't enter into it,' Yuri said softly.

'You sound like him,' Kane said. He leapt from the ramp as it raised, and was lost to Yuri's sight, although his voice came over the comlink loud and clear. 'Five minutes, Yuriy. The ship knows what to do. Once you're out of the system, you're on your own.'

It was at that moment that the screaming started. In the docking bay, Kane switched off the comms with a wave of his hand, and grunted. 'Or maybe not, you poor bastard,' he muttered, as he walked away. 'He'll be the death of you, one day.'

Three men in black stood on the edge of a cleared field, staring at a brilliant blue sky. All three were slim, bearded, and about six feet in height. Any immediate sense that they looked alike would have been dispelled by a second look: the superficial similarities were just that. One of the three - the youngest in appearance – had shoulder length red hair, and his beard was neatly trimmed to cover just his chin and upper lip. His ankle length, full skirted black coat was made of a summer weight weave, and bore both the twin silver ravens on the collar of a master bard, and the left breast bore a silver tree entwined with a dragon. The other two men were dark haired, and wore their hair a little shorter – curling to the top of their collars, again trimmed with the silver ravens. The older of the two had silver streaks in his black hair, and his coat - of a similar style and cut to the red haired man's, bore a similar tree, but without a dragon, and on the right breast. One sleeve of the coat was pinned up, the arm missing just above the shoulder. His companion's coat was less full, and leather, but otherwise marked in the same way.

'He's late,' the one-armed bard said companionably to the redhead.

'It's a long way from Breceliande to Gwynedd,' the other replied with an easy-going smile. 'Give the man a break, Marius.'

'Which arm?' Marius asked with a grin. 'I've got to say though, I'm rather looking forward to this, Tal,' he continued. 'Kastchei going head to head with the Council? I should sell tickets.'

Gwynedd's premier bard grinned at his second. 'If only you were joking…' Taliesin quipped.

'Is this man as bad as you both claim?' the man in leather asked, his tone a little petulant as though piqued at being left out of the joke. 'You make him sound like a devil incarnate!'

'Not far wrong,' Taliesin told him. 'Although he's a charming bastard.'

'Not unlike you, Dev,' Marius said, placing his remaining arm around the waist of the other bard. 'Just a lot less effervescent.'

'You'll have the chance to find out,' Taliesin said, pointing skywards. 'His ship's coming in.'

The other two followed the line of his raised arm, and watched as the dromond – a large freighter – flew in low and straight over the treeline, hovering briefly over the glade before landing with delicate precision on the sward.

'Good piloting,' Devin murmured to Marius. The one-armed bard snorted.

'Showing off,' he whispered back. Taliesin just smiled, and sauntered towards the slowly lowering ramp of the ship, careful to avoid the heat from the side vents. A tall figure stood silhouetted in the light from the ship's interior, before descending the ramp with a long, arrogant stride, a dark coat swirling out behind him almost as voluminously as a cloak.

'I know I come bearing gifts, Talya – but really – the tradesman's entrance?' he drawled. Taliesin offered his hand, which was taken warmly.

'Elphin thought it best to bring you up to date before you arrived at court, hence the re-direction to the bards' landing fields,' he explained. 'You're looking good,' he added, taking a step back to get a better look.

The new arrival allowed the inspection with an amused acceptance, as though it had never been in doubt. His dark auburn hair flamed in the sunlight, flecked with a little more silver, perhaps, than when Taliesin had seen him last, but that only lightened it to a more coppery tone. His eyes - always the most expressive – yet paradoxically the most easily shuttered window to his thoughts – were today a vivid blue, which, coupled with the lop-sided smile that preyed around the corners of his mouth, gave him an air of devilish charm that still somehow managed to walk the fine line between mischief and malevolence that Taliesin found so disconcerting about the man.

'You look a lot more relaxed in your own element, Talya,' the newcomer replied, eschewing the return of pleasantries. 'Are you going to introduce me? Marius I know, of course…' he gestured for Taliesin to lead the way to where Marius and Devin stood waiting. Marius bowed as they approached, and offered his hand.

'Marius. You look better.'

'My lord. Welcome to Gwynedd.'

'This is Devin,' Taliesin said, introducing Marius' partner in crime. 'Called "Dreamweaver" by some, a pain in the backside by others.'

'Hey!' Devin offered his hand to the newcomer. 'Ignore him, he's just jealous.'

'Devin, may I introduce the Lord of Summer, Kastchei Bes-mertny.'

Kastchei bowed. 'I've heard a lot about you, from various sources.'

'None of it good, if it's from these two,' Devin said with a laugh. 'You have quite a reputation yourself, Lord Kastchei. It'll be interesting to see if you live up to most of it.'

'You'd do better,' Kastchei replied cuttingly, 'To hope that I don't.' He turned his attention back to Taliesin. 'I have some twenty cybrorses on board for Elphin, as requested. I'd appreciate it if they could be taken care of?'

'I'll organise it, 'Marius interjected, with a nod to Taliesin. 'Tal can take you back to the house.'

Hoofbeats echoed on the ramp of the ship, and the three bards turned to look.

'Is that what you're breeding on Breceliande?' Devin asked. He whistled. 'I can see why Elphin's keen to have you on our side.'

'That one is not part of the deal,' Kastchei told him. The albino stallion, easily eighteen and a half hands tall, walked down the ramp with almost as much arrogance as his master, then trotted over to stand by his side. 'Nor is the black, or the chestnut mare. The others should be sent on to the king's stables.'

'I'll see it done,' Marius said. He tugged Devin's shirt, to tear his attention away. 'Make yourself useful and fetch the master of horse,' he whispered into his partner's ear.

Devin couldn't take his eyes off the white stallion, which regarded him with disdain with red eyes. 'Would you look at that creature? I've never seen anything like it.'

'Dev…' Taliesin said warningly. The bard brought his attention back to his superior sharply.

'Sorry.' He scuttled away in the direction of the stables.

'Shouldn't he take Sivushka with him?' Taliesin asked. Kastchei shook his head.

'I didn't bring him to stand in a stall eating his head off,' he said. 'Let him wander, I'd like him to get the feel for a new world.'

Taliesin, who had his suspicions about the true nature of the cybrid, forbore to ask why, sensing that an answer wouldn't be forthcoming even if he did. He settled for leading Breceliande's lord towards the Bards' House.

The cynfeirdd – the high council of the bards – called it the House, but it was more of a small village on the outskirts of the town of Joyous Garde. A self contained collection of halls, houses, an amphitheatre, barracks and workshops. The buildings were constructed in several styles, owing their existence to several eras. As pencerdd, or Chief Bard, Taliesin had a small house near the main hall, and it was here that he guided Kastchei. Once inside, a second year apprentice took their coats, and another offered both chief and lord a chilled wine. Without waiting for an invitation, Kastchei took the biggest chair and made himself comfortable, waiting for Taliesin to take the smaller chair nearby.

'I can't say I'm displeased at the arrangement,' he said eventually. 'Although a little warning might have been helpful.'

'Sorry,' Taliesin said, and took a sip of his wine. 'But things kind of got a little out of hand whilst you were in transit. El thought it would be better if you came in quietly. What's left of the council meets tomorrow to discuss the affair, and we thought it best to brief you first.'

'I do have my sources,' Kastchei replied, sounding amused. 'But Skazki – sorry, Breceliande – is a long way out in the web, and it is a three week journey in that ship.'

'You were offered a courier,' Taliesin said with a grin. 'It's not my fault that you sent Vivienne back in it…'

At the mention of her name, Kastchei looked around, as though expecting her to walk through the door. Taliesin shook his head.

'She's in Caer Tagel, trying to collate some of the intelligence we've received over the past few months, ready for the council. I'm afraid you're stuck with me, tonight.'

There was an unspoken shift in the tension between the two men; something neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge.

It was the bard, not the sorcerer, who changed the subject.

'It's been at least a year since I left Skazki – how are things?'

'Didn't Vivienne fill you in?' Kastchei tutted.

'Vivienne,' Taliesin drawled, 'Left three months ago. You know what I want to know.'

'Phoenix.'

The flat, emotionless tone of Kastchei's voice was enough to tell a bard what he needed to know. Habit was strong and hard to break: he asked anyway.

'No change?'

'Volkhvy says such things take time. The child went through a lot, Talya – it'll take time. At least he's - she's conscious at last.'

'You took hir back to the tribe?'

A shrug. 'To the forest. Volkhvy agreed to take the Golden Book. Quite a step from shamanka to khoizaika lesa, but the old bitch seems to be coping.'

Taliesin chuckled. 'She'd not take too kindly to you calling her that, if she heard.' He remembered the old shamanka all too well, although his time with her had been brief – a fortnight or so trekking over the tundra, most of which he'd been unconscious for, then a week helping the old woman with a traumatised Phoenix, which had ended in an icy lake and a perilous escape from an overly amorous rusalka. Something Kastchei obviously remembered, judging by the half-smile preying round the other man's lips.

'She's easier to deal with than Ygraine ever was,' Kastchei said eventually. 'Although looking after a teenager who's turning into a timeship is probably stretching her a bit.'

'Did anyone ever tell you that you have a dramatic tendency to understatement?' Taliesin laughed.

Kastchei grinned wolfishly at him. 'Vivienne, almost incessantly over the past eighteen months, and she usually tells me that it reminds her of you.'

Aidan macAilell started nervously as something ruffled the fabric of his overalls. For a moment he thought something had caught hold of him and was tugging at his sleeve, and he jumped, for one brief second in the half-light of the hanger, the shadows took on the shape of a boggart.

'Stop jumping at shadows,' his partner snapped. 'It's just the air conditioning kicking in – they only turn the air flow on every half hour – during down time, that is. Saves on power.' Sharven bent back over the lock of the container again.

'Easy for you to say,' Aidan muttered. 'I've seen some of the things that lurk down here. Spriggans in the ventilation shafts, afancs in the cisterns, and they say there's a finoderee in the sealed off section of the Echtra that's been there since they first annexed the hull.'

'Night-time stories to frighten children,' Sharven snorted. 'The only thing I've ever known to go "bump" in the night round here is the hot water pump in my quarters. Bring that light over here a minute.' Aidan obligingly swung the hand in the required direction. 'I'm more interested in what's in this crate. This had better be worth it.'

'I helped unload it from the ship myself,' Aidan said. 'Big organic she was – still is – they've got her quarantined in sector eight – you know how the Boss dislikes organics. Battle cruiser. An old one. I heard one bloke call her Prydwen.'

'That was the king's ship,' Sharven said. 'Looked it up. Station logs said she's under the command of a Kaiwyn ap Eachtar, but I figured that was just a nomme de guerre – like your spriggans, something to scare the witless. I mean – who's he kidding?'

There was a decisive click.

'Is it open yet?' Aidan whispered.

'Give it time, lad,' Sharven snapped. 'You don't open locks like this in a hurry, not if you want to keep your hands. This one belongs to D'Alembert, and he's a right sod for putting surprises in for the unwary cracksman. At least with the Boss you know you'll just get something blown off – with D'Alembert you're likely to wake up and find your cock dangling from your forehead. This had better be worth it, kiddo.'

'I heard this Kaiwyn and the woman with him tell D'Alembert that this would meet the price for one of his damned ships,' Aidan retorted. 'You know what they say he breeds over there, you work it out. I helped move six containers into that thing, and D'Alembert wants it moved tomorrow before 1^st cycle to his own facility. Those boxes were big, and heavy.'

Click

'Well we'll find out, won't we?' Sharven said smugly. 'Stand back.'

The door of the storage container swung open slowly, and Aidan shivered as a blast of cold air gusted past him, like the breath from a tomb. Sharven peered into the gloomy interior. 'Bring that light, lad.' He took the hand from Aidan, pulling a face as his fingers closed on the waxy skin, which squirmed under his touch. The five flickering flames burned a little more brightly as he stepped into the darkness, but cast little light in the gloom. He almost dropped the hand as warm fat dripped onto the back of his hand from the smoky tapers. 'Next time, I pay for some decent wards and a torch,' he muttered, half to himself.

Inside, seven coffin-sized containers were stacked haphazardly on the floor, as though the dockers had just dumped them and run. Not an altogether outrageous assumption, Sharven thought, looking at the half-petrified Aidan. But a thief of his calibre was made of sterner stuff. He approached the nearest box on tiptoe, and knelt down beside it to take a closer look.

The box hummed, barely audible until he put his ear to the surface – and he jerked back suddenly, the hand almost falling from his grasp, and sputtering black smoke as fat caught in the flame. The smell of scorched rotting flesh was suddenly overpowering, and Sharven had to fight down the remains of his supper, reminding himself not to eat smoked ashren before a job again.

'Sharven?' came Aidan nervous query from the door.

'It's bloody freezing!' Sharven hissed loudly. 'Whatever's in there is as cold as the seven hells.' He found a socket on the casket, just large enough to take the base of the hand, and stuck it in there, still sputtering. His hands now free, he examined the box closely in the uncertain light. Using his sleeve he rubbed at the layer of frost on the lid, and peered into the casket.

'There's a man in it,' he said wonderingly. 'Get your backside over here, lad, give me a hand.'

Aidan sidled into the container reluctantly, but Sharven was already examining the locks on the casket. 'Come here. Look – there's something written on it. Can you make it out?'

Aidan, from a safe position behind the thief, craned his neck to look. 'It's not in any language I know,' he said eventually. 'I don't even recognise the letters, and I've seen damn near everything pass through here.'

'It's dragon-tongue,' Sharven said, running his hands over the sigils. 'I've seen it before, in the Boss's office. 'The first ones used it – it was their language back where they came from.'

'Then we shouldn't mess, eh?' Aidan said. 'That's sorcery. Sorcerers. We shouldn't mess with stuff from the Old Times.'

'Are you crazy? Whoever this guy and his friends here are, they're worth a king's ransom to D'Alembert – and that means to us.' Sharven ran his hands over the locks, feeling for the pressure points. The elaborate ornamentation felt slick under his sensitive fingers, almost oily, but he could trace the lines of the figure-of-eight device, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he sat back on his heels as the sigils faded away like mist. The lid of the casket slid back into the side to reveal the body of a man, clad in a form fitting black pressure suit of some kind. Tubes and wires were vanishing into the casket even as the thief watched. 'Amazing,' Sharven breathed. His own breath hovered in front of him, condensing in the cold air over the casket. He could see no breath from the occupant. 'The technology alone in this will bring a small fortune in the right place.'

'Sharven,' Aidan said warningly. The thief gave his accomplice a sharp look.

'What?'

He pointed. 'The hand. It's burning low, we don't have much time.'

Sharven looked at the hand of glory, listing slightly to one side in the socket that was just a little too big for it, so that it had slid down until the base of the thumb provided a ledge to stop it slipping further in the cup.

'Time enough,' he grunted. He looked back into the casket. The man's chest now rose and fell steadily, and a slight mist formed above his slightly parted lips. 'He's alive!' he called back over his shoulder. Aidan shuffled even further away from the casket.

'I've got a really bad feeling about this,' he hissed. 'Sharven – leave it. Please?'

'Too many tales scaring the britches off you by your grandmother, that's your problem,' Sharven grumbled. 'You'll be telling me next this one's one of the Anaon shadowless-warriors next.'

A cold hand clamped over his, and he screamed. The figure in the casket sat up, his eyes staring straight into Sharven's.

They were black. A deep, cold, alien black without iris or pupil, and despite the closeness of the hand's fading flames, no light was reflecting in them. They were the last thing Sharven saw.

The hand was knocked from the holder as the thief fell, and Aidan was left in darkness, the faint red light from the emergency lighting in the storage area outside only making the shadows deeper. He'd heard Sharven scream, had heard the hand fall, and now his mind worked overtime, conjuring shapes from the blackness around him, every sound startling a whimper out of his throat. He fumbled his way to the doorway, desperate to escape to the comparative safety of the bay.

The few steps seemed to take an eternity. He sobbed with relief as the wail of the alarm sounded, their presence detected now that the hand was out. But even as his fingers closed on the metal of the door, a cold hand closed around his.

A pale hand let the empty pressure suit drop to the floor in a heap, and faded into the shadows like a ghost. The door to the container slammed shut with a hollow clang, and by the time two security guards came running into the bay, and the lights came on, there was no sign of anything amiss.

'False alarm,' one of them yawned whilst his partner looked around. 'Happens a lot down here.'

'You want me to log it?' the other asked. Something brushed past him, or at least, that's what it felt like, and he shivered and tugged at his armour. 'Gods this place gives me the creeps even with the lights on. The sooner we get back onto a decent shift, the happier I'll be.'

Black eyes, invisible in the shadows, watched as the two men almost scuttled out of the bay, the lights dimming again as they left, and the wail cut off abruptly behind them.

The pit was virtually deserted - only a handful of spectators watched from the stands that lined the amphitheatre, and most of them were the cleaning staff, clearing away the detritus left behind by the previous night's audience, most of whom, judging by the quantity of litter they'd stuffed under their seats or just let fall to the floor, thought that "waste disposal" meant "someone else will clear it up". Faced with at least another hour or two of half eaten food, sticky disposable goblets, and the odd ammoniacally aromatic corner where someone had taken a sneaky leak, it was no wonder that most of its staff welcomed the opportunity to lean on brooms and hovercarts and watch the action down in the pit below.

Two men fought on the sandy floor. The pit's design amplified the accoustics, carrying the clash of swords, the grunts and gasps and every gulp for air even to the cheapest seats near the roof. In flagrant disobedience to the station's mandate that all citizens should be garbed for ease of slipping into the nearest suit in case of hull breach, they fought stripped to the waist, although both wore form-fitting breeches tucked into boots, and each also wore a shield-collar.

The two fighters were of very different types - The taller of the two men was a good head taller than his opponent, and easily twice as bulky. His body was thickly muscular, almost slab-like in places. In standard gravity he might have pulled at least 250 pounds. Old scars marred the skin in places – rippling across the muscles of his chest as he moved. His hair was shaved close to his scalp, but enough remained to see that it was mostly grey, although physically, a casual observer might have thought him to be only in his mid-forties. A heavy scar ran from the patch that covered his left eye, across the bridge of his nose and down the opposite cheek. Deep lines crinkled the corner of his remaining eye. The sword he held lightly in his right hand would have taken some men two hands to lift.

The other man, so much smaller and lighter than the other, was also considerably younger, with light brown hair. Not short – perhaps a shade under six foot, and well built, he looked like a stripling next to the giant he faced. Despite the bulk and ferocity of his opponent, he was holding his own quite handily, his speed keeping him out of reach of the bigger man's sword. When they did make contact, the smaller man's arms shook with the effort of parrying the heavier blade.

It wouldn't take an expert to realise in short order that the big man was holding back. After only a few minutes, the younger man, dripping sweat and gulping for air like a fish out of water, let his blade sag to the ground, the point dragging in the sand. He leaned on it as an old man might lean on a stick.

'Enough! I'll have a heart attack if we carry on!' he gasped out. The giant lowered his own blade, and offered his hand to the other. It was clasped as firmly as the younger man could manage, but every muscle in his arm trembled at the effort.

'You're still not making the most of your advantage,' the giant told him. 'You're smaller, lighter – use it. You spend too much energy keeping out of reach, when you should be getting in under my guard and within my swing.'

'Easy for you to say,' the younger man said hoarsely. 'You'd just drop your sword and squeeze the life out of me!'

The other looked amused. 'I never said it would be easy.'

'Hah. Very funny, Kane.' The smaller man walked stiffly over to the bench at the edge of the pit, and sat down heavily. An attendant handed him a towel which he took gratefully. 'Get someone else to be your punchbag next time. I'd like a chance to reach forty.'

'Then don't work for me, Taran,' Kane grunted, taking the seat next to him. He'd hardly worked up a sweat at all – whilst it ran in rivulets off the younger man's skin, Kane's barely glistened.

'Fine, I quit,' Taran said, dropping the wet towel onto the outstetched arm of an attendant. He picked up a cloth and wiped down the blade of his sword.

'That's the fourth time this week,' Kane said. 'One day, I'll accept.' He stood up and stretched. His cyclopean gaze raked over the small cluster of men and women waiting to use the facility. 'Anyone else fancy a bout?'

The shuffling and sudden interest in the floor, ceiling and walls was answer enough. Kane laughed. 'Didn't think so.'

He left Taran to pick up both sheaths and follow him to the showers. Under the hot water, letting it cascade over his back, he stretched and winced, feeling the sharp ache in his muscles, that hadn't been there a century or so ago. The hot water also stung when it washed over two shallow cuts on his arm, and another across his left shoulder, running down over his chest.

'A couple of years ago, no-one would have got even that close,' said a voice from behind him. A woman's voice, deep, and slightly husky with a nasal twang.

'Do you really want to tell me that I'm getting old, Locke?' he asked, turning around to face her, and continuing with his shower as though she weren't there. Taran, limping into the changing room from the other shower, yelped and reached for a towel. Locke just shook her head.

'Oh please, Taran – it's not as though I don't know what swings between your legs.'

'That's not the point. You're not supposed to be in here. Kane! A little privacy…' he pleaded.

Kane shrugged, and stepped out of the shower, the water switching off behind him. The drying field removed the remaining water from his skin, and he walked past Locke without a trace of embarrassment. 'Work it out between you. Locke – this had better be good.'

'It's not,' she said tersely, tugging on a long platinum blonde braid. 'I think we've got a problem.'

'Problems are wait I pay the two of you to handle,' he snapped.

'He pays us?' Taran asked with mock incredulity, pausing in the act of pulling on his breeches.

'Allegedly,' Locke deadpanned. 'This one I think you're going to want to take a look at yourself,' she said to Kane, who was pulling a shirt on over his head. The scars on his chest looked livid against his pale skin, in the fraction of a second before he pulled the fabric over them. 'Something came up in the regular reports I think you're going to want to see.'

Kane looked into her blue eyes, which seemed clouded. It was unusual for Locke to come running to him with anything - she knew that he preferred to keep to the shadows. 'You'd better meet me in my office,' Kane told her gruffly. 'Give me half an hour to get across the station.'

He strode out, favouring his bad leg slightly.

Staring out of the window not so much dreamily, as in dire need of giving her eyes a rest, Vivienne jumped when a solid thud sounded behind her.

'Sorry,' Solange said, in a voice that made it quite clear she was anything but. 'His Majesty thought you'd like the latest batch of reports as soon as they got here.'

'Thank you,' Vivienne replied, keeping her own voice as light and airy as she could, and smiling sweetly at the diminutive bard. She pulled a face as she looked over at the latest addition to the chaotic piles of paper and durafilm that already cluttered her desk. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing for a computer. Nothing fancy – just a plain desktop, or a basic little lap top.

Hell, she thought, staring moodily at the foot high pile Solange had just dropped on the desk. A 286 would be welcome about now…

'Yes, well,' Solange sniffed. 'Before anyone else decides to use me as a pack horse, I've got work to do.'

She flounced towards the door, her back so stiff Vivienne hoped for a moment it would snap.

'That would be arranging tonight's musicians?' Vivienne asked innocently, unable to resist.

The door slammed shut behind the blonde bard with so much force that the doorframe rattled. Vivienne hadn't even sat down before it opened again.

'That little stormcloud stomping down the corridor wouldn't be down to you, I suppose?' A young girl – no more than eighteen at most; tall, slim, with long black hair and grey eyes peeped around the door. 'Is it safe?' She bounded in regardless and perched on the edge of Vivienne's desk. 'Good grief, you'll be here all night!'

Vivienne grinned at her. 'Well you could give me a hand…' She shooed the younger woman off the desk, and the girl landed lightly on the floor like a cat. 'Mela – you're supposed to be getting dressed, aren't you? Not slumming with the hired help?'

Melanghel, crown princess of the Thirteen Worlds, grinned. 'I am dressed. If they want me in anything else, they can bloody well wait.'

Vivienne looked down at the girl's cream shirt, splotched with grass stains, and the seat and insides of her breeches were covered with horsehair. 'Turn up to your own coming of age ball like that, you'll cause an outcry!'

'Oh, I don't know,' Melanghel said, giving a mock-twirl. 'It might set a new fashion!' She sobered up abruptly, and picked up a handful of papers. 'More reports?'

Vivienne sighed. 'Too many, and too late, as usual. Since Kai's defection, there are more rumblings in the alliance than ever. Trying to find any pattern in all of this is damn near impossible.' She sat back heavily in her chair and ran her fingers through her shoulder length chestnut hair. 'What worries me most is that there's no sign of the Prydwen since she left Breceliande – it's as though she's vanished into the void. No ship can go that long in deep space, Mela. She's got to turn up somewhere.'

'Is it Prydwen you're worried about,' Melanghel asked solemnly, 'or Mordred?'

Vivienne stood up so suddenly that her chair fell over behind her. She walked over to the open window, and stared out of it, over the forest, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She heard the scraping sound as Mela picked up her chair, but didn't turn around. Light footsteps tapped across the stone floor, muffled halfway for three steps as the princess crossed the woven rug in the middle of the room.

'I'm sorry, Vivienne,' she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. 'I didn't mean to rake up bad memories.'

Vivienne shook her head, and took a deep breath. The air, fresh, with a slight chill despite the summer night drawing in, was filled with the heady scents from the gardens below. She looked down, and watched the figures of the Caer's staff scurry from bed to bed, gathering blooms for the ball, handcarts shadowing them up and down the garden.

'Not your fault,' she told the girl, still not looking at her. 'Most of the time I can just not think about it, and it feels as if it happened to someone else. Then something will bring it all crashing back – a sight, a sound, a word, a scent…' Abruptly she turned, and forced a smile. 'Come on,' she said to Mela. She placed her arm around the younger girl's waist and gave her a quick hug. 'You're not the only one who has to get dressed for tonight.'

'Will he be there do you think?' Melanghel asked, smiling at her, her eyes sparkling.

Vivienne answered without thinking: 'Who – Kastchei?'

Mela gave her a searching look. 'Actually, I meant Tal.'

Kane's office was small – he didn't use it as much more than a place for his own work, dealing with the parts of his life that couldn't be delegated elsewhere. On the rare occasions when he needed to deal with petitions and problems in more impressive surroundings, he used Locke's office.

His own desk was small, but sturdy: ancient oak, imported at great cost from some planet or other by a man whose name he didn't even remember, whose property he'd confiscated after he'd killed him. Durafilm sheets were stacked neatly on one corner, and the crystal orb that connected him to the communications web of the 'Dance sat on an ornate silver stand in the shape of a skeletal hand on the other. Without looking behind him, he could feel the eyes of the only ornamentation in the room staring at him: from her perch, balanced on one leg standing on a fallen figure, the other bent-kneed and raised, her eight arms each holding a weapon, the goddess of his destruction leered down at him from the mantle. A reminder: he'd had the original sculpted over two hundred years ago. This was the fourth. He'd destroyed the other three, but always had it re-cast, eventually.

Locke didn't bother knocking, she strode in briskly, several sheets in her hand, and sat down opposite her boss without waiting for permission. 'Like I said,' she began, handing him the top sheets, 'You're going to want to see this.'

He glanced down at the reports, noting the docking logs dated two days ago. He looked up at her quizzically.

Locke sighed, and pointed. 'Here. This vessel. A drakkhar is unusual enough this far out into the unallied territories, but the name she gave rang warning bells, and I did some checking.'

'Prydwen,' Kane said, half under his breath. 'The Alliance's flagship?'

'She was.' Locke handed him another sheet. 'We've been hearing rumours flying in from all over the allied systems over the last eighteen months. This new dynasty seems to be having a few problems of late. They've kept it in house, but traders talk, and we get everything and everyone through here sooner or later. My sources tell me that at least four worlds have seceded from the Alliance, and that - and this is the part I can't confirm – Mordred is back.'

'We've been hearing reports and rumours of the return of kings and sorcerers for centuries – if not Arthur, then Merlin – and then it was Morgaine and her brat.' Kane put the films down on the desk. 'Fairy-tales ain't good for business, kiddo. Who's on that ship?'

Locke stood up and paced the width of the small room a couple of times, looking back over her shoulder to where Kane was keeping his single eye fixed on her. 'Kai, formerly King Elphin's Lord Commander, and a woman who calls herself Marya Marevna.'

'Great. Politicals,' Kane snapped. He glared at Locke. 'Can't kick 'em out, I suppose – technically we're neutral and I've got no axe to grind with either side, but the last thing I need is half of Elphin's battle fleet coming down our throats. Who knows they're here?'

'You. Me. Taran when I tell him. Plus the docking guild.'

'They're ours, I'm not worried about that side of things. Who are they here for? The Lord Commander wouldn't head out all this way just for a lap-dance, and if it's mercs he's after, he'd get a better deal on Iskander. He's not under a false flag either, so whatever it is, he needs the clout of his own name to get it…' Kane grimaced, and rubbed the patch over his eye socket hard. 'Damn. Just when I'd got comfortable, I get shit like this dropped in my lap.'

'That's the bit I was holding off on,' Locke said grimly. 'He's here to trade with D'Alembert.'

Kane swore violently, and slammed a fist down on the desk, hard enough to make even Locke jump. 'You really know how to make my day, don't you,' he snarled. 'Damn.'

'Didn't think you'd take it too well,' Locke said, a trifle smugly.

'Puts a whole different spin on it, kiddo,' Kane told her. 'Trade's one thing: mercs – no problem, a bit of R&R likewise – but if he's trading with Simon, he's only after one thing, and that's going to bring the whole bloody fleet down on us the moment the Alliance finds out.'

'Look on the bright side,' Locke said, 'Maybe they won't find out?'

'With those squawking crows poking their noses into everyone's business, you can betcha ass they'll know about it the moment Simon makes delivery. Fuck.'

'I did tell you to shut him down years ago,' Locke said evenly, picking up her papers. 'As I recall, you said you could handle it.'

'That was then,' Kane said icily. 'When arms shipping to a few mercs and non-allied worlds was about the limit of his operations. And since when do I give you permission to talk to me like that?'

'Since you leave most of the running of this station to me,' she told him bluntly. 'You want to delegate, fine, just don't jump down my throat when the shit hits the fan because you made the wrong decision.' She caught sight of the amused smile on Kane's face and narrowed her eyes. 'Oh. I see, we're playing "wind up the subordinate".' She dropped the papers on his desk. 'I have work to do, I'll let you read the rest on your own.'

She stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her. Kane shuffled the reports back into a neat pile, leaned back in his chair, and put his feet up on the desk.

'Finally,' he muttered under his breath. 'I thought she'd never leave.'

He began to read.

A minute later he let loose a stream of obscenities - most of them in languages long dead or never heard of in the Thirteen Worlds. He was out of his chair, his office, and yelling for Locke at the top of his voice before the page he dropped had time to hit the floor. The two names Locke had marked for his attention in the third document dominated the page.

The name of a planet, and the name of a man.

Breceliande was the name of the first. The name of the second was…

…'Kastchei Bes-mertny, Lord of Breceliande, Master of the Wild Hunt, Lord of Summer. Lady Vivienne of Avallion…'

The herald's drone faded as they descended the staircase into the great hall of Caer Tagel, and into the milling throng of people below. Vivienne swept her skirts out of the way of the huge vases of flowers that lined the staircase, but still managed to dislodge several fragile blooms. The scent of the tellis blooms was overpowering even in the large hall, and she sneezed.

'Bless you,' Kastchei said, sounding amused. He gave little away, but she could see his gaze flickering over the hall – taking in the battle standards hanging from the walls, the assorted house pennants of the various council members present hanging limply from the ceiling, and at the crowd they were rapidly approaching. Elphin and his wife Dianora were under siege from Seithyr Seithenyn, the oversized warden waxing lyrical on some subject that had most people in the vicinity of his booming voice wincing, as usual. Elphin, Vivienne noticed, looked a little frazzled.

'Quite a crowd for a kingdom on the edge of a civil war,' Kastchei murmured in a stage whisper into her right ear. 'I like to see people keep their priorities straight.

Vivienne resisted the urge to thump him, knowing he was being deliberately provocative. One or two of the nearest guests had already given him an annoyed look. 'Life goes on,' she told him, 'and technically, this is also a way of Elphin gathering the council without it looking too much like a council of war.' She caught sight of Taliesin on the far side of the hall, and waved. He waved back, and started to weave through the crowd to her side. Melanghel, resplendent in black and red, caught him mid-way across the dance floor, and with an apologetic shrug to Vivienne, he was whisked into a reel.

'It looks as though you'll be my only guide tonight,' Kastchei said, watching the dancers. 'Why don't we raid the hors d'oeuvres and you can give me the Tatler commentary?' He steered her in the direction of the buffet, attracting a few comments along the way, both from those who knew who this had to be, and those who wondered who the flamboyant stranger was.

'I can't believe Tal didn't fill you in on the local celebrities,' Vivienne said, helping herself to a drumstick.

'He did, but I want your opinion,' Kastchei replied. He plucked the drumstick from her fingers and bit into it, smiling down at her and the face she pulled. 'Taliesin is a bard, he sees things in terms of portents, myths, and history. I want your views.'

'Flattery will get you nowhere,' she told him, taking another drumstick, this time putting it in the hand further away from him. 'But I'll do what I can.' She pointed with the sauce-covered chicken leg. 'Seithyr Seithenyn, Warden of the outer system.' Kastchei looked at the huge balding bulk dressed in a virulent orange coat over a teal shirt, who wallowed across the hall, heading unerringly for the servants serving the wine. 'Loud, obnoxious, opinionated but generally harmless. Too fond of the good things in life, but he keeps control of the outer defences well enough, for all that.'

'And the scarecrow in black with him?'

Vivienne peered through the shifting gaps in the crowd. 'Elwyn, his bard. Long of face, short on humour.' She appropriated two goblets from a passing servant in Elphin's livery, and handed one to Kastchei. 'The twins in black-' she pointed to two dark-skinned, black haired young men standing together, Devin just leaving their company – 'are Maximillian and Constantine, Princes of New Carthage and Valencia respectively, although there's not much left of Valencia. Maxim is an absolute bastard, Con a darling, but personally, I'd trust Maxim more than I'd trust his brother. Over by the door, Queen Aislinn of Lyonce, and her latest paramour.' The elderly woman was hanging onto the arm of a man who must have been at least thirty years her junior. 'Don't be fooled – he's probably her bodyguard as well. She doesn't have much time for anyone who doesn't pull their weight, and she's as sharp as a sword.'

'You like her.'

Vivienne shrugged. 'She's one of the few I trust, outside of our core group on the council. She's an vicious old bat at times, but she's always been one to call it how she's sees it.'

As though sensing the scrutiny, the old woman raised her goblet, and nodded to Vivienne. A minute or two later her young man walked over, and bowed.

'The queen requests the pleasure of your company, my Lady,' he said, 'and of your guest, of course.'

'Of course,' Kastchei murmured as they followed the young man over to where the queen, dressed in a subdued and simple gown of cream and silver. 'She'd never admit to being curious about me.'

'On the contrary, young man, I'm extraordinarily curious about you,' Queen Aislinn told him, as he bowed over her hand. She met his unrepentant smile with one of her own. 'I've heard a lot about you over the past few months, but nothing actually useful.' She shook Vivienne's hand warmly. 'My dear, he's almost as handsome as your young bard. I might start getting jealous, if you carry on collecting them like this.'

'I don't coll…' Vivienne began. She saw the twinkle in the old queen's eyes and bit her lip to hide a smile. 'You're a tease,' she accused the old woman, who laughed.

'At my age, I think you can indulge me a little, my dear.' She turned her attention back to Kastchei. 'I'm impressed. But looks aren't everything.' She was about the same height as the sorcerer, and looked into his eyes. He met her gaze without blinking, and predictably, it was the old woman who looked away. 'Yes. Not so young as you look, even for dragon-born, are you?'

Kastchei let his lop-sided half-smile play around his lips.

'As you say. I'm a great deal older than I look.'

'Not too old to take an old woman on a turn around the floor?' Aislinn offered Kastchei her arm, and with an apologetic look at Vivienne, he accepted, and allowed her to lead him into the throng.

'Now that you have me away from Vivienne, what was it you wanted to talk to me about, Lina?' he asked, after the second turn, keeping a tight hold on her hand and waist. She smiled at him, still a handsome woman, despite her years.

'I wasn't sure you'd remember, after all this time, Accolon. Tell me, do they know who you are?'

'I'd be more interested in knowing if anyone else around here is likely to recognise me,' he replied, ducking the question, and weaving her gracefully in and out of the other dancers. 'You've worn well, by the way,' he added.

'You always were a good liar. Kastchei – is that your real name this time?'

'Close enough.'

'Hmmm. In answer to your question, probably not - most of the old timers from Morgaine's days declared as soon as it became common knowledge that Mordred was back. Not that there were many left – most lost their heads during our beloved High King's rebellion, or under his father's purges before that, during the interregnum.'

The music stopped, and they parted, Kastchei bowing, Aislinn acknowledging with a nod of her head. She led him over to an alcove, screened by a thick tapestry, and seated herself as though upon a throne, spreading her skirts across the bench leaving Kastchei with no option but to be rude, or to stand.

He gave her an apologetic smile, pushed her skirts out of the way to make room, and sat down beside her.

She laughed. 'You haven't changed.' She cocked her head on one side and stared into his eyes. 'Well, the eyes are an improvement. Less like looking into the fires on Annwfn. It makes you seem more approachable.'

'Appearances can be deceiving,' he told her. 'You didn't have to separate me from Vivienne, my dear, she knows more about me than even you do.'

Aislinn's laughter, a little thin with age, still held an echo of the hearty tones of the young queen who'd dazzled Morgaine's court over two hundred and fifty years ago.

'I do when I don't want too much of my own business to get back to the cynfeirdd,' she replied. 'And Vivienne, though a delightful and intelligent young woman, is altogether too deeply inside Elphin's inner circle for my liking.'

'So much for supporting one's liege lord,' Kastchei said, keeping his gaze locked on hers.

'I may trust my king,' Aislinn snapped, 'I don't have to trust his bard. You do know what this "Taliesin" is?'

'More than you'll ever know,' Kastchei muttered under his breath.

'Pardon?'

'Merlin's revenant, or so he claims.' Kastchei shrugged. 'Personally I never trusted this idea of cauldron-copying bodies. Far too risky. No real guarantee that you'll emerge the same as you went in, so to speak. Memory is such a delicate thing, easily twisted or over written.'

'The cauldron-born are little trusted, it is true,' the queen admitted, her little moue of distaste telling Kastchei all he needed to know of one source for her distrust. 'But relics of old times are even less so. When I was only twenty, and new to court and my crown, I allowed myself to believe in someone who claimed we could overthrow a tyrant, and my world – and fifteen others – burned as a result. I would not see the same thing happen again.'

'I'm not here to fight a war for them,' he told her.

'Then why are you back, at this time? Forgive me, but trouble followed you like a black cloud, and I can't help but wonder at you being here just as the abyss yawns under our feet again.' She reached out a lined hand and placed it on his. 'I've seen the effect you can have on people and events, and I've seen the way this bard does something similar. The combination worries me.'

'Too much from the past intruding into the present,' Kastchei said softly. 'The past is where your enemy lies, not the present, or the future.'

'The past,' Aislinn replied, 'is closed to us.' She stood up, and turned her hand so that it rested over his. Kastchei rose to his feet and bowed over it. 'Be careful. I know you do not want advice from others, but it is given, anyway. I think it would be better for all of us if you were to walk away now, go back to Breceliande, and not allow yourself to be caught up in this at the heart of events.'

'It's a little late for that,' he told her, as he led her back to where Vivienne stood, now with Taliesin at her side. 'I might have done just that, if Kai and Mordred hadn't made it personal.'

Aislinn tucked her arm under his. 'Really? Just the two of them? You surprise me, Kastchei – I'd rather thought there'd be a woman involved somewhere.'

Simon D'Alembert cut an impressive figure: a tall, handsome man in his apparent thirties, blond haired, blue eyed, and with the sort of face usually associated less with the life of a pirate, and more of the sort of young man mothers dream their daughters will introduce before dinner one night. His features had a certain softness, accentuated by his curling hair and the cultivation of a permanent air of vacuous innocence, that fooled many into taking him too lightly.

Kai ap Eachtar had never been one of those fools. Simon didn't even try. The woman next to Kai however, was an unknown quantity.

She was average height, slim, but well formed, he judged. The form fitting flightsuit she wore only accentuated a narrow waist and small, but full, breasts. Her hair was long, dark brown, and curled vibrantly in the humid atmosphere of the station. Her eyes were large, in a narrow, sculptured face. The cheekbones were prominent, under pale skin that invited comparisons with the finest porcelain; her mouth was small and had a tendency to pout prettily, and overall the impression was of a pretty, decorative doll.

Knowing how much his own appearance worked in his favour, Simon decided not to trust her an inch.

'The loss of one of the caskets is not my problem,' Kai was saying. D'Alembert steepled his hands in front of him, his elbows leaning on the desk.

'Under the circumstances, I can hardly disagree. But it does put us all in an awkward position.'

'Hardly,' the woman said acidly. 'You had already accepted delivery – the theft took place after we filled our side of the bargain. Your failure to keep hold of your property is not our problem, sir.'

D'Alembert leaned over the desk towards her. 'Lady – Marya – is it? I don't think you quite understand the issue. My men found two suits of clothing inside the container, both empty, but traces of human tissue were found inside them, and spread over a considerable area of the container. Now, two thieves missing is one thing, but one of the workers was reported missing early this morning. That means that we run the risk of the station enforcers being informed, and that puts us all at risk – Kane owes no allegiance to your enemies, but he cannot afford to antagonise the High King.'

'I've always had the impression that embarrassing Kane was something you had in your sights, Simon,' Kai purred. 'With what I'm giving you for this, one half-blind, thick-witted thug should be no match for you.'

Simon leaned back in his chair. 'He likes people to think he's just another dull-witted bully, but don't underestimate Kane, Kaiwyn. He wouldn't have lasted this long in charge of the 'Dance if he was. If you want my help – and looking at what you've got on your side, I'd say you need me far more than I need you – we need Kane out of the picture. The wily old bastard can call in far too many markers for my liking, and he's got a vested interest in seeing the Alliance stay calm. It's good for business, from his side of the fence.'

'But you don't agree?' the woman asked.

Simon smiled warmly at her, and was annoyed when she didn't respond. 'I sell armaments and ships, Lady Marya. The faster both sides get through them, the better my business. My lord Kai here can't get drakkhar from his usual sources – the orbital vats are in a system controlled by Queen Aislinn, and I suggest you ask him why the halls of Annwfn would freeze before she'd ever consent to supply him.'

Kai shrugged when Marya turned to look at him. 'I killed her husband. Well, one of them. No, actually, two of them – I forgot about Hoel. Admittedly the first had sided with Morgaine at times when I was supposedly working for the resistance, and she probably never connected me with the second, but still… '

'Is there anyone else you've annoyed over the years I should know about?' she asked icily. Without waiting for an answer she turned back to D'Alembert. 'Can your people cover up the missing persons' report?'

Simon shook his head. 'Not really – Kane's deputy, Locke, would sniff it out within a day if we tried. Our best idea is to distract her – give her something to take her mind off it, and keep her well away from our own enterprise.'

'That might not be too difficult,' Marya told him, a feral smiled on her lips that made his blood run cold, briefly. 'Our cargo is known to me in intimate detail – your requirements were, after all, quite specific. I know who is missing, and what he's capable of.'

Simon leaned towards her again. 'I have my people looking for it, already.'

'Call them off,' Marya ordered. 'Stay well clear of it. Let events run their course, and let Kane's people handle it. That should keep them out of your hair until we are done – and by that time, it will be too late.'

'It means I dare not begin work on the rest of your cargo,' Simon mused. 'A gamble.'

'Ah,' Marya said softly, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. 'But think of the prize.'

Simon sat back and stared at the pair. The Lord Commander, looking a little less composed than usual – a peculiar tightness around his eyes and a tendency to look disassociated from the conversation that had all the warning signs of a man too recently – and too quickly – cauldron-born. This tied in with the reports his people had intercepted from Kane's sources which suggested that the Lord Commander had been killed in a skirmish on an outlying world. The woman… now she was something else. There was a coldness about her that was totally at odds with her delicate beauty. And a brittleness he didn't like.

But as they said, the stakes were high. And if he played this right… Well, if he was honest with himself, refusing this had never been an option, and there were ways he could turn all of this to his advantage. He nodded. 'Stay out of sight, if you can, or at least off the scopes. I'll deal with Kane's people. But Lady – I would like to know which bit of my property is missing, if you don't mind? I like to know what I'm sacrificing.'

She smiled. 'But of course. Over dinner, perhaps?'

Simon rose to his feet, and gestured. The door to his office slid open silently. 'Tomorrow, at the start of the second cycle, here, if you don't mind. I prefer to make my own dinner arrangements.'

'Leo – I know this gives you a problem, but that doesn't mean you have to give me one.' Locke stared into the crystal globe on her desk, at the shimmering face of the chief of the port authority. 'You get hundreds of transients through here every day looking for work – take a few more on. Just because a few guys fail to turn up for work one day…'

'Eight,' he corrected her. 'Locke – they were all on third shift the night before last. All of them. And it's not that they haven't turned up for work, it's that they haven't turned up, period. No-one's seen them since they came on shift – hell, they didn't sign off. It's like they never existed. I've got wives, girlfriends, boyfriends and drinking buddies queuing up on my messages as we speak. Wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the rumours flying around down here.'

'All from the same shift?' Locke's ears would have pricked up if they could. She leaned forward. 'Leo – send me the files for the missing workers, and let me have the docking and loading logs for the day of the disappearences, and the two days before.'

'So you think this is worth looking into then?'

'I didn't say that, Leo, don't put words into my mouth. Just courier the data over, I'll get someone to take a look. Out.' Her hand pass over the orb disconnected the orb, and she sat back with a sigh.

'Get someone to take a look at what?' Taran asked, poking his head around the door.

Locke grinned. 'Tag, you're it, good of you to volunteer,' she told him. She outlined the problem.

'Missing dockers? Probably on an all night bender and are still sleeping it off, 'he said dismissively. 'How come I get landed with this?'

'For listening at doors when you shouldn't, and because you're the last man in, and I'm the boss's right hand.' Her fingers tapped lightly on the table. 'Besides, it's not just the dockers. I've had a few strange reports come in centred on that area – couple of sudden deaths, people complaining of strange sounds and maintenance have been working overtime the past couple of days. Might be nothing, but you don't take chances in a place like this.' She stood up and stretched. 'Use my office, kid, I'm off for the night.'

'Hot date?' he asked with a grin, flinging himself into her chair and squirming down into the upholstery. Her sharp glare almost pulled him upright on unseen strings.

'Not exactly,' she told him as she headed out of the door. 'I'm having dinner with the boss.'

'I didn't know they were acquainted,' Taliesin said to Vivienne, watching Kastchei escort – or being escorted by – Queen Aislinn. 'I'd forgotten he had a history before getting stuck on that iceberg for two centuries. I must be getting old.'

Since as usual he didn't look a day over twenty-five, Vivienne decided to ignore the last remark. 'You're forgiven: the archives are notoriously vague on the rebellion he led as "Accolon". Perhaps you should try asking Aislinn about it?'

'If that means spending more than ten minutes alone with her,' Taliesin whispered, with a significant glance at the young man who'd accompanied the queen tonight, 'I think I'll stay ignorant.'

He fell silent as the pair reached them, and bowed low to the old queen. 'Your majesty.'

'Taliesin.' She allowed him to kiss her hand. 'Will we have the pleasure of your skill tonight? Or will you force us to contend with that horrendous row from those "musicians" all night?'

He smiled. 'The High King has asked that Marius and myself offer up some small entertainment later. I trust that meets with your approval?'

'My dear boy. If only you were not the High King's bard, you would soon discover my what it takes to win my approval.'

'Go on, blush,' Kastchei muttered, sotto voce, just loud enough for Vivienne, whose ear his lips almost brushed as he spoke, to hear. She sniggered and had to feign a sharp cough to cover it up. She elbowed the sorcerer in the ribs and was gratified by his slight grunt.

She missed Taliesin's reply, but it obviously flattered the queen, who smiled girlishly at the bard, and took her leave.

'Does that mean you get out of dancing with me again?' Vivienne twitted her partner. 'Honestly, that's what you get for dating a musician…'

'It's one set,' he told her, looking guilty. She took pity on him and kissed his cheek.

'Go on. Marius is prairie-dogging you from the other side of the hall.'

The reference earned her a puzzled look, but he was used to her anachronistic terminology by now, and sure enough, Marius was trying to peer over the heads of the crowd, jumping up and down for a better view, which meant that he was late… With an apologetic grin he vanished into the throng.

Once the usual round of introduction, small talk and hypocritical well-wishing began, Vivienne usually found that these evenings became a blur of faces and inconsequential chatter.

'Just like every embassy dinner or business reception the universe over,' Kastchei remarked dryly at one point. 'One size fits all.' He placed his goblet down on a two thousand year old chest of drawers, and watched with bored eyes as one of the servants bustled to remove it before it marked the ancient wood, the woman trying hard to refrain from a censorious glare at the perpetrator. 'Just two things missing that might have made it tolerable.'

Vivienne raised one eyebrow.

'Good Cuban cigars and a fine cognac,' he told her, sounding a little wistful. She laughed. 'I wasn't joking,' he told her.

'I know. It's just – it's so rare I get to think about –'

'The old world?' he asked. She nodded.

'So what do you miss?'

She bit her bottom lip in thought. 'Nothing you'd understand,' she said eventually, her eyes sparkling with sudden mischief.

'Why – because of who I am?' he asked. She stuck her tongue out.

'Actually, because you're a bloke,' she said. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. He choked slightly.

'You're right, that one I wouldn't get,' he said, genuinely amused.

The crowd fell silent, and all eyes, including theirs, turned towards the dais at the far end of the hall. The minstrels had retired to one side, and now stood arrayed respectfully flanking the two men who now occupied the stage. Taliesin sitting, with Leannan on his lap, the harp resting against his shoulder whilst he tuned her. Beside him, Marius stood, an ivory coloured flute braced against the stump of his arm, the other hand placed to operate a series of elongated stops and levers of gleaming silver that took the place of missing fingers. Wise in the ways of court, the audience seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the music gifted to them by the pencerdd of Gwynedd, and his second.

Taliesin's fingers gently brushed the strings of his harp as though caressing the skin of a lover, and the sweet notes of the instrument filled the hall. A couple of bars later, the haunting, soft tones of Marius' flute joined with the melody of the strings, the slightly blurred whisperings of the flute harmonising with the sharper, sweeter notes of the harp to produce a curious harmonic, but one that was almost painfully sorrowful. It spoke of loss, and sadness; of pain, but was for all that strangely hopeful.

And then Taliesin began to sing, his voice soaring between the instruments, weaving its own magic and carrying the emotions still further into the hearts of his listeners. He gave them a soulful rendition of "The Long Dark Shore" and then segued into a piece of his own composing:

The last few notes soared into the great hall's vaulted ceiling, and died away. Only then did the crowd move, shuffling gently as though awakening from a spell. Even Vivienne, used to the bardic gifts, found herself caught up in its magic. The feeling of a soft breeze ruffling the downy hairs on her cheek brought her back to reality, and she had to blink quickly, her eyes dry as if they had been open for the duration of the song.

Any further musings were cut short, as she felt Kastchei suddenly double up as though in pain, his cry lost amongst the many that filled the hall. Vivienne felt the breeze grow stronger, and thinking someone had opened the outer doors, she looked around, feeling Kastchei's hand clutch her sleeve and pull her down to the floor as he collapsed. Others were falling. She kept her balance, but only just, and the floor ahead was cleared enough for her to see Elphin put a hand to his head. Queen Aislinn had fainted, and was in the arms of her companion.

Nearer to her, she could see Elwyn, normally so stoical, crying out in pain, blood flowing from his nose. Solange had collapsed, and Devin was cradling Marius' head in his lap, as the older bard trembled in convulsions.

All this in the space of a heartbeat. Two. Three. Four.

A loud thunderclap echoed around the great hall, the sound of the universe ripping apart.

And she was running for the dais, calling Taliesin's name, fighting through the suddenly panicking crowd to get to him. There was screaming, and blood. So much blood.

Leannan lay on the floor, discarded, every single string snapped.

Blood everywhere, and Taliesin, white with shock and pain, white, and red.

So much blood. His arms were dripping with it, even as she lowered him to the ground.

Followed as Kastchei, who'd followed her, lowered him to the ground, shouting for a healer, his hands covered in blood.

Taliesin's blood, from more than a dozen wounds.

Kastchei, Master of the Hunt, who usually never let himself get so much as a drop on him.

So much blood. The coppery scent was sickly, cloying, and the sight of so much made her feel physically ill, seeing it pool on the pale floor, dripping from his arms, hands, face.

Her hand brushed against a harpstring, that lashed across the back of her hand, scoring it almost to the bone.

Taliesin mouthed something, and she tried to hear, over the pandemonium.

'Hold on…'

It was Kastchei who was speaking, grabbing her hand, forcing it down hard above Tal's elbow. The fabric of his coat was warm, sticky, and felt spongy. 'Press down. Gods dammit, where are those healers?' His bellow carried across the length of the hall.

'I can't…' she tried to tell Tal. 'What?'

He tried again, she laid her cheek against his; his skin was cold, so cold, and clammy.

'Tal?'

The healers pulled her away, and she was held firm against dark green velvet, strong arms holding her close, even though they trembled themselves. She could only watch, numb, as he was surrounded by white, hidden from sight by walking shrouds.

Marya stopped brushing her hair, the brush entangled in her long curls. A sharp stabbing pain lanced through her skull, and she clutched her left temple. The vein throbbed painfully for a moment, then subsided. The pain vanished as quickly as it had arrived. About to shrug it off and carry on, the feeling of something trickling down her nose made her pause again. Disbelieving, even though she could see it in the mirror, she watched as the blood dripped onto the dressing table in front of her.

The returning pain in her head gave her only a fraction of a second's warning before the pain hit again, this time slamming into her like a physical blow. She fell from her chair to the floor, screaming in agony. The wave passed over her, and she lay sobbing on the floor, unable to move, gasping for hard-won breath with a throat that felt as thought it had been scrubbed raw from screaming.

Locke sat up, scattering her long fair hair behind her shoulder, and pushed the rest out of her eyes and back off her face. Unbound, it tumbled to her knees when she was standing. Now, kneeling, it flowed out behind her and covered her lover's thighs.

She straddled the muscular body between her thighs, and rocked slowly, revelling in the feeling of him inside her. His hands stroked her breasts gently, then slid easily across sweat-lubricated skin to her back, and pulled her back down towards him, to kiss her, the changing angle of their bodies sending a thrill through hers in response. Pulling away, she lifted herself away from him, then lowered herself back down, impaling herself on him, as deep as she could take him. Although she couldn't see his face in the darkness, his intake of breath was guide enough to his response. Locke shifted her weight, grinning to herself as she felt him respond.

Knowing she now had him exactly where she wanted him, she began to move more surely, her own breaths now coming in shorter, sharper intervals. Her hands clasped his, his fingers strong enough to break hers with one squeeze, if he so chose.

She rose up again, this time unable to hold back a moan as she lowered herself back down onto him, only for him to explode from underneath her in a powerful spasm, sending her flying back and off the bed to land in a heap on the floor. She could hear him writhing on the bed, feel the sheets contort, those she'd landed on pulled from under her by the force of his seizure.

'Cock-rotted gods of hell…' she heard him shout. Pulling her scattered wits back together, Locke called for the lights.

'Son of a fucking bitch.' Kane was kneeling on the bed, the sheet wrapped around his legs and hands, breathing hard. Locke knew better than to approach him straight away: she waited until his breathing slowed, and he looked up from the bed, into her eyes.

'That wasn't me…' she deadpanned, hoping to defuse the situation. He didn't say a word for what felt like an age. She didn't dare look away, although, without the patch, his ravaged eye socket stared back at her. His remaining eye was bloodshot, and blood streaked the pale cream sheet he grasped in his hands, his fingers having clenched so tightly his nails had cut through his palms.

Eventually, she reached out a hand that she was pleased to see only trembled slightly, and peeled his hands free.

'What the hell was that?' she asked.

'I haven't the faintest idea,' he said in a soft, polished tone that she'd never heard him use before. He stared over her head, looking oddly pensive. 'But unless I'm mistaken, every time-sensitive from here to the Balorian nebula felt it.'

In the twilight periods between cycles, the lower levels were always busy. Makeshift stalls laid out with ware that varied from dream-dust to ceratya derivatives; from cybrid components to contraband from a hundred different systems, and frequently in as many stages of decay, depending on how many times it had passed from hand to hand. Nothing down here was fresh or new, and that included the women and others who peddled themselves in the flesh-alleys that branched off the main tunnels.

Most of the less reputable stables had their homes in the small vessels that clung, leechlike, to the main body of this asteroid, welded by space, time and blowtorch to the station, and to each other. Leaky, timeworn and long past their useful life of service, much like those who occupied them.

Illinga was younger than most who ended up down here, but no less used up for all of that. A dream-dust habit had seen to that, and a space-rat just in from a long haul had finished the job by taking half of her face off with a force knife. Whilst the Tribunal had forced him to cough up for the money to have the surgery, it hadn't been enough for a decent job, and had left her on the freaks row; and now, between cycles, heading for Rovan's stall on level six, hoping to score for the night. The last trick had been so drunk, he hadn't even noticed when she lifted his chits.

She had her head down as she scuttled through the outside tunnels. A quick short cut, the outer layers were not the sort of place where you tried to attract attention. You just went through as quick as you could.

She'd just passed the junction that led off towards the Nia's rusting hulk, when she heard the scream. Normally, she'd have just kept on going, but there was something in it that stopped her in her tracks.

Maybe it was the way it cut off so abruptly.

The lights here were dim, kept at minimum levels, as was the air. The shadows seemed to grow deeper, and she suddenly felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She tried to move, prepared to break the first rule and run like hell, except that she couldn't.

In the darkness, something stirred. She imagined she could hear it coming, and her eyes darted wildly, the only part of her body she could move, apart from her hammering heart. She felt giddy, and breathless: the thin air only made her panic worse.

She felt a hand brush hers, and screamed. A face loomed out of the shadows, where before there had been nothing, nothing. She'd have taken any oath to that.

He was dressed in grey; soft grey, soft folds of cloth, a fine robe, that fluttered in the faint breeze of the pitiful air conditioning like wings. And his face…

… it was the face of an angel, she thought, remembering stories from her homeworld. Long golden hair tumbled down to his shoulders. His face was thin, but perfectly proportioned, without a blemish. The nose was straight, the eyes a piercing tawny-gold, and he glowed…

The hand tightened around hers. 'Don't be frightened,' he said softly. His voce sounded like tiny bells ringing with a clear, bright music. 'I won't hurt you.'

No, that wasn't what he'd said.

She remembered the scream, and tried to pull away, but he held her tightly.

He'd said: "This won't hurt".

His eyes burned her, boring a hole so deep into her soul, that she couldn't follow. But she felt compelled to try, and felt as though she was running downhill, as she had as a child, landside: that out-of-control-feeling when your feet just won't stop…

The hammering of her heart, which had threatened to deafen her at first, began to slow, and her eyes drifted shut. She sagged, the strength draining from her, and he lowered her to the ground more tenderly than any lover ever had. She surrendered, unable to fight, and not even remembering why she'd wanted to.

The scream that shattered her sweet surrender didn't come from a human throat. The cold hand released her, and dropped her to the floor where she landed painfully, her head banging hard against the rock.

Her beautiful angel was leaning against the wall, his head in his hands. She could hear footsteps, running, getting closer.

Her angel fell to the ground, just a grey-clad figure. Just for a moment.

She closed her eyes, feeling so tired. As she did so, that long, pale, slender hand closed around her wrist again, and she was wrapped in a soft, gentle light. This time, when he called, she followed.

'You should get that seen to.'

Vivienne stared down numbly at the blood-soaked cloth wrapped around her hand. 'The healers are still busy,' she said faintly. She didn't react as Kastchei took her hand and began unwrapping the improvised bandage. Only when he tugged at the last layer, which was stuck to her skin with dried and drying blood, did she flinch, and take her attention off the closed door opposite the place where she was sitting.

'Ow!' she reacted indignantly. He kept hold of her wrist and called a passing attendant over.

'Stop being a baby,' he chided Vivienne gently. 'You – get someone to bring me hot water, needle, gut, something to clean this cut, and a clean bandage.' The young girl scuttled to obey, and was back in record time. Ignoring Vivienne's protests, he set to work soaking the bandage off, and then cleaning the cut on the back of her hand where Leannan's harpstring had sliced through deeply. 'You're in luck, he said, turning her hand over to get a better look. 'It missed the tendons.'

When she didn't answer, he snapped his fingers under her nose. 'I could just start sewing this without painkillers…'

She dragged her attention back to Kastchei with an effort. 'I'm sorry. It's just…' She looked down at Kastchei's bloodstained shirt. He looked as though he'd just walked through an abattoir. Taliesin's blood had spattered his face, hair and clothes. He'd taken his coat off some time ago, and that lay discarded on a seat nearby, a small pool of blood forming underneath a dangling sleeve.

'Deal with what you can,' Kastchei told her sharply. His free hand cupped her chin and tipped her head slightly until her eyes met his. 'You will feel no pain until I release you,' he told her.

'That is so unfair,' she grumped. She didn't dare look down, but she could feel the slight tugging on her skin as he deftly stitched the edges of her wound together.

'Any news?'

Vivienne turned to look at the new speaker, causing Kastchei to mutter sharply and take a firmer grip on her hand.

Elphin looked haggard, and slumped into the seat next to her.

'They haven't been out yet,' Kastchei told him before Vivienne could speak. He laid down the curved needle and began to bandage Vivienne's hand. 'Has anyone worked out what the hell happened in there yet?'

Elphin shook his head. 'Every single bard and most of those with dragon-born blood felt whatever it was, but no-one can say what it was they felt. Marius is the most coherent of the bunch and he hasn't got a clue.' He gave a pointed look at the closed door behind which the healers still worked on his chief bard. 'Leannan twisted - those strings didn't just snap, they whipped across Tal like high-tension wires, Kastchei – what does that?'

'You should check anything else you have made from branches of Yggdrasil,' the sorcerer told him. 'Whatever that was hit every time-sensitive in the room – possibly even further away. And I don't think it was centred on Gwynedd, or in this time.'

'Any reason?' Elphin asked.

'If it was, we'd all be dead,' Kastchei told him bluntly. 'I want to take a look at the Round Table,' he continued. He stood up and faced down the High King. 'I have a feeling there are a few more questions waiting for us there.'

Elphin stood up wearily, and looked down at Vivienne. 'You'll send word if anything happens?' he asked. His blue eyes blazed with worry.

She nodded. 'Don't worry, you'll be the second one to know,' she quipped half-heartedly. Elphin squeezed her uninjured hand gently, and strode briskly down the corridor, Kastchei at his side.

The route through Caer Tagel from the healerie to the council chamber was a tortuous one at best. The caer like all of its kind had begun life as a small cybrid shell, and had grown outwards from that in a fashion not unlike a chambered nautilus, and as a result many of its older passageways meandered in a somewhat illogical way, unless those who traversed them understood the peculiar properties inherent in the system. Elphin had spent the last twelve years living in the ancient caer, and still had difficulty navigating.

The off-world sorcerer moved through the maze as though he'd lived there all his life.

The chamber that housed the Round Table lay deep in the oldest sections of the caer, underneath the remains of the Black Tower. This close to the heart of the great fortress, the air throbbed with the constant pulse of the engines that powered it. Saturated with sound, the air felt thick and heavy. Moving through it began to feel as though the walker pushed against an unseen wind. Speech was almost impossible – although the throbbing fell just below the threshold of normal hearing, it reverberated through the body, the diaphragm resonating in sympathy, and causing in some waves of dizzyness as the delicate bones in the ear also responded. To shout felt as though disturbing some ancient temenos. To speak normally left most feeling as though they would not be heard.

The welcome release of the silence within the council chamber was almost like a physical blow.

'I'd forgotten how strong this fortress was,' Kastchei said, shaking his head to clear it. 'I'm not surprised you don't need to put guards on this.' He looked around the chamber, noting the bare, faded patches on the walls where battle standards had once hung proudly. With only a little effort, he could conjure mentally the room as he'd last seen it, over two hundred and fifty years before. Morgaine, her long red hair spilling over the pale grey of her armour, sitting in the black throne that occupied the gap where a piece of the table had been crudely hacked out a thousand years ago.

'Kastchei?' Elphin repeated, breaking into his memory. Kastchei placed a hand on the round table to steady himself, and idly rubbed the back of his neck with the other.

'Nothing. Must be the engines,' he said tersely. He walked around the table, examining it minutely. Carved from a single bough of the World Tree, it filled the centre of the room, leaving space only for the chairs which surrounded it. In better days, it had once sat a hundred and fifty knights. Now, only twenty-six high-backed chairs were arranged around its circumference.

When he reached the obsidian throne, he stopped.

'Here,' he said coldly, fingering the warm wood. 'The instability is here.'

'That's always been there,' Elphin said, trotting over to his side, thinking he meant the throne. 'Morgaine had the throne placed there during the Year of Omens.'

'I'm not talking about the throne,' Kastchei said softly. 'Look.'

He ran his finger from the outer edge, across the expanse of the surface to the inner. His finger traced a line of paler wood, revealed by the deep crack that now split the table. Peering more closely, Elphin could see that the crack went right through the thickness of the table.

'What could have done this?' he asked, in awe and not a little fear. Kastchei pushed past him and smiled grimly.

'Why don't we try and find out?' he asked, and sat down in the Black Throne.

She laughed. 'He is my answer, Kastchei. My mystery It is not the answer you seek, but the question.'

He pitched sideways from the Black Throne, caught by Elphin before he hit the porphyry floor.

'Now perhaps you know why they call that the "Siege Perilous",' Elphin said half-humorously as he helped Kastchei to his feet. 'Are you always this reckless?'

'I had something of a reputation in my youth,' Kastchei admitted dryly.

'Why does that not surprise me?' Elphin's reply was equally laconic. 'That was foolish: those who sit in the chair frequently see more than they intended; they say Morgaine would spend hours in it, making sense of the images.'

'The table is cut from a living branch of the world-tree,' Kastchei said, running his hand over the deep fissure again, looking thoughtful. 'The obsidian throne amplifies the connection, especially when the one sitting in it is dragon-born – and Morgaine's blood was practically pure. Her time-sensitivity was astonishingly acute for one so many generations removed from the first-born. It takes an extremely disciplined mind to touch that of a dragon directly and make sense of it.'

'Was there any truth to the stories that she could see her path through time to take the course she needed?'

Kastchei nodded. 'Oh yes. How else do you think she caught me, eventually?'

Elphin couldn't resist. 'Given your much-vaunted superiority, I rather thought you let her…'

'Lists, manifests, reports, lists, more lists…' Taran picked up the crystal ball on his desk and hefted it in his hand. 'I thought we were supposed to be nefarious pirates, not bloody clerks…' Locke's face lifted up from her own papers and her blue eyes meeting his with a definite "make my day" look decided him against throwing it against the wall. He placed the orb back on its stand, and she turned her attention back to her work. He sighed theatrically, and she threw down her stylus so hard that it bounced off her desk and clattered lightly on the stone floor.

'What?' she snapped, glaring at him.

'Nothing,' he countered.

'It's obviously not "nothing", since you just went to such great lengths to attract my attention,' she said icily. 'I allow you to work in my office, don't make me regret the decision.'

'Sorry. Look – what in the name of Annwfn do you expect to find in all of this? We've been over this three times. All I've got out of it so far are a stiff neck and a headache.'

'Then we're still missing something, and we keep looking,' she told him.

'And we're looking for what, exactly?' he asked, a little more facetiously than he'd intended.

Fortunately she didn't take the bait. 'When I find it, I'll know.' She pushed her chair away from the desk abruptly and stood up. 'I'm going for a walk,' she told him, in reply to his unasked question. 'If the Boss wants me, he can bloody well look for me himself.'

Locke strode out of the room briskly, but slowed to a more thoughtful walk once clear. Here in the heelstone of the 'Dance, where only Kane's people lived and worked, she was free to wander as she pleased, lost in thought. Even so, long habit made her keep at least part of her attention on her surroundings – the Giants' Dance was an unforgiving place for those who got too complacent. As her predecessor had found out.

The 'Dance was a busy station, spread out over what had been nine asteroids, moved into position - or so the story ran – by none other than the great Merlin, sorcerer to Arthur, well over twelve hundred years ago. The circular alignment of hollowed out planetesimals, linked by subspace corridors, had in those days been an observation platform – though observing what and for whom, legend was a little short on. During Morgaine's long reign, the station had at first fallen into disrepair, and then into the hands of outlaws and pirates, who'd found it a convenient way station in which to lie low, trade, make repairs and relax.

What had been an informal "hallowed ground" for cutthroats, smugglers and pirates, had become rather more formalised over the years. Kane often complained to Locke that being a pirate "king" had mired him in more bureaucracy than blood, and that he much preferred the latter.

But he stayed, and although he kept to the shadows, he'd never shown any signs that he planned to give it up. These days, Locke put it down to general grumpiness, and ignored his outbursts.

The nine asteroids had been added to over the centuries – hulks, stations, platforms – all sprouted over the 'Dance like barnacles on a landside sea-vessel, almost doubling its available volume.

But not the heelstone: that alone remained unchanged, both inside and out.

One of the longest-lived watering holes on this space borne island resided in the stone's interior, taking up most of levels ten to thirteen. This was Natterjack's, one of the better class of establishments on the 'Dance where those who came to this area of space to do business could go to get their throat cut or their guts spilled. Firstcomers - spacers, thrillseekers, traders and their ilk seeking sensation and adventure - believed it to be one of the safer low-life dens of iniquity and frequently went slumming thinking themselves relatively safe. An illusion both Natterjack and the regulars liked to foster, before clearing up the eyeballs at closing time. So to speak, since Natterjack's, like the station itself, was always open for business.

It was to this cavernous dive that Locke found her feet taking her. She ambled through the mid-cycle crowd with practised ease, station etiquette keeping most people at least a blade's length away from each other in the crush. In a world where most quarrels were settled with a knife, politeness was always at a premium.

She made her way through the labyrinthine series of caves that made up 'Jack's, until she reached her particular zone. Natterjack had set up house in what had once been a series of storage rooms hollowed out of the rock, and it made for an intriguing layout.

Literally. Many of the smaller chambers offered secure rooms where business could be conducted in civilised surroundings, with the maximum illusion of privacy.

Locke never bothered with the backrooms. Her preference was for a more open approach, and Natterjack respected that. She leaned on the bar that took up one end of the section she favoured, and rapped on the surface.

'Don't normally see you in here this early,' Gresham said, handing her a goblet of her usual. Locke took a sip and grimaced.

'Not quite your usual standard,' she replied. She sniffed the contents. The berache had a coppery aftertaste that left a sour note in her mouth. She put the goblet down. 'Jack in?'

Gresham sighed. 'Like he's ever going anywhere, darling. Him and the boss-man ain't moving no place, no time.'

A tall man on the barstool nearby belched loudly and lurched to his feet. A long grey spacer's coat hung off a broad, stooped frame, and a broad brimmed hat was pulled down low over his face. He threw a few coins onto the bar and staggered out, only just avoiding brushing against Locke as he did. Gresham clucked as he picked up the coins. 'Damn spacers,' he growled.

'Lifeblood of the station,' Locke quipped. 'Can I see Natterjack?'

Gresham jerked his head towards the darkest corner of the room, strangely devoid of customers, most of whom crowded in the area near the bar, despite the lack of seating. 'Be my guest. But try not to annoy him – last time you and the Boss showed up down here, he ate three customers, and you…'

'…know how bad that is for business,' Locke finished. 'Bill us.' She left her drink on the bar, and sauntered over to the corner.

The shadows had a way of parting before her as she approached Natterjack, a courtesy on his part, she supposed. Such as it was. Most days, she preferred not to have to look at the bar's owner/operator too closely.

But not even the darkest shadows could have done anything about the smell. It hit her as she stepped out of the protective aura of the lights, as though somehow they'd kept it at bay. It wasn't obvious, as such: a heavy, cloying scent that hinted of death, it clung to her thoughts, like putting her hand into a bag of rotting vegetables – once felt, you never thought it would wash off.

And although used to the sight of the bar's owner, she never quite shook the sense of unease she felt when approaching him.

'Been long time, spider-queen,' Natterjack wheezed. He extended a grey tentacle, which she took gingerly, trying as usual not to flinch at the touch of his cold, wet, reptilian skin.

'You've grown,' she said lightly, taking a seat opposite the huge bulk. And indeed, he had. The demon's toad-like body extruded across at least fourteen feet, excluding his tentacles.

'Troubled times,' he bubbled. 'Size matters.' A grey tentacle slithered across her thigh. 'You know better than most. Boss man not ringing bell, feel free come to Natterjack.'

Not bothering to hide her disgust she lifted the tumescent tentacle off her lap. 'No thanks, 'Jack – you're just not my type.'

The demon laughed, his swollen body undulating grotesquely. 'You be surprised.' More businesslike he continued. 'Felt time-quake last night, your boy did, yes?'

Locke nodded. 'You know something about that?'

Natterjack's body shrugged, sending cold slimy droplets of his fluids over Locke. She wiped away the more obvious matter from her face. 'Felt it. Not here. Long time away, long away. Not why you here though.'

'No.'

'Things move in the darkness. Death comes.'

Locke leaned forwards. 'You see this?'

Natterjack slid a tentacle across again. This time she didn't move as it roamed across her face and down the front of her flightsuit with an almost flirtatious intimacy. 'Three days ago, something woke. Lost good man – Sharven, checking out consignment. Something moves, little spider. Something old. An angel of death. Bad for business.'

The tentacle was drawn back. 'Bad for business,' Natterjack repeated. 'Been here longer even than your boss – got feel for these things.'

Locke, knowing how far the demon's influence extended into the workings of the station, believed him. But portents and rumours didn't solve her immediate problem. 'What was Sharven looking for?' she asked.

'You know unloading bay, Sunstone?' Natterjack gurgled. Locke nodded.

'That's where the disappearences started,' she said. 'Our people found nothing.'

'Try bay six,' Natterjack said, the shadows drawing closer about his vast bulk and hiding him from sight.

'Bay six?' Locke thought for a moment. 'D'Alembert,' she swore under her breath. 'I knew it.'

Simon D'Alembert stood back from the viewing window and let Kai get a good look at the drakkhar hulk floating on the other side, suspended in its murky amnion. Of the three vats he had currently gestating, this was the nearest to term. The ship was already over a hundred metres long.

'The hull looks impressive enough,' Kai said eventually, turning to face the impassive D'Alembert. 'But she is worthless to me without a weapons-system. I see no trace of a hellbore chamber – just what the hell are you trying to sell me, Simon? I need a warship, not a garbage scow.'

D'Alembert let only a slight trace of his annoyance show as he moved to the portal and keyed up the specifications for the ship. His fingers danced lightly over the incised sigils, and a moment later a delicate tracery hung in the air in front