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  She drifted a few steps toward the stairs leading to the next floor. As she did, the color wheel shifted to re-center on her new position. Amused, she backed up a few feet. The clockwise swirl followed her.

  Belbe trotted around the room. Her re-engineered legs were capable of formidable speed, but in the confines of the tower, she did not test her limits. The spectral bands in the floor chased her, no matter how fast she ran. Static charges built up in the air. Belbe held out her hands, laughing as white sparks discharged from her fingertips.

  On her twentieth circuit of the room, she noticed Crovax standing by the lift. She skidded to a stop. The floor went through noiseless paroxysms of clashing color, finally settling into its wheel pattern once more.

  "Light," she said. Her heart was beating rapidly, and her hair was damp with sweat.

  The walls became opaque as the artificial lighting came up. Crovax, hands clasped behind his back, looked somber in his black robes and acid-etched Phyrexian breastplate.

  "What do you want?" Belbe asked.

  "I came to see if you were all right, Excellency." He used the language of a subordinate, but he did not speak like one. "From below we could see colored lightning playing about the tower. I didn't realize you were… enjoying yourself."

  "An amusing effect," she replied. "I discovered it by accident."

  "An interesting substance, flowstone. It can be controlled, if one has the will to do so. Half-controlled and half-influenced, it is unpredictable. Please be careful, Excellency."

  Without a spoken command, the sides of the lift rose to enclose Crovax.

  "Until later," he said as the device sank through the floor.

  She was tired. Being on display was wearing, and her sprint around the room used up what vitality she had left. Belbe climbed the ornate stairs to the next floor. An evincar could have willed the stairs to carry him, but she had to make her own progress.

  She wandered through chambers filled with paintings and statues, mostly warrior's portraits and battle scenes. Most of the individual images bore the face of Volrath. Belbe found it odd anyone would want to be surrounded by pictures of himself, especially such exaggerated, extravagant images. Volrath slaying an entire army with just his sword. A colossal Volrath, wreathed in cloud, standing astride the Stronghold. Volrath trampling nations and worlds beneath his feet.

  Interspersed among the statues, paintings, and tapestries were more useful items-cabinets, cupboards, shelves, chairs, settees. The furniture was uniformly hard when Belbe sat on it. From its dished and bulged shapes, she deduced it was flowstone and that it would soften for the evincar but no one else.

  She found a bed at last, a large circular mattress laden with handmade quilts and pillows. These were gifts of the evincar's subjects, and thankfully were not flowstone. The bed was sized for a very tall occupant, so she had to boost herself up. As she sat there, her feet dangling, she noticed another statue, much different from all the others. It was sited so that only a person lying on the bed could see it in the adjoining room. Belbe hopped down for a closer look.

  The statue, executed in genuine white marble, depicted two figures facing each other. The taller figure was inescapably Volrath, though this was the only statue in which he wore royal robes instead of armor. His hand was extended, clasping the hand of the facing figure. Belbe circled the twelve-foot-high statue, trying to see who the other figure was.

  The figure facing Volrath was shorter and proportioned like a normal man. He had neck-length hair and the suggestion of a beard, and was likewise dressed in peaceful fashion. When Belbe finally reached a spot where she could see, she discovered the figure with Volrath had no face at all.

  *****

  "Let's talk this over," Ertai said.

  Greven nodded to his two mogg warders, who tore Ertai's shirt from his back. He didn't regret the loss of the garment, as it was in tatters anyway, but he did take exception to the assorted irons roasting in a brazier not three feet away.

  "This isn't going to accomplish anything," Ertai added. "I have nothing to say."

  Greven took an instrument from his belt pouch: a slender red rod, wound in a tight, flat coil. He pinched the end of the coil between his fingers and it slowly unrolled into a rigid rod.

  "What is that?" Ertai asked, clearing his suddenly tight throat.

  The hulking warrior loomed over him. He gave one end of the rod a twist, and short spikes appeared on the opposite end. Ertai decided he preferred the branding irons. He backed away. The wall stopped him.

  Again Greven gestured to the moggs, who seized Ertai's ankles. They jerked his right foot up, and Greven bent over it, rod in hand… Ertai shut his eyes.

  Click. The heavy shackle fell from his leg. Ertai opened his eyes in time to see Greven withdraw the spiky rod from the keyhole. He repeated the operation to the other shackle.

  "Keyworm," the warrior said, tucking the slowly coiling creature back in his pouch.

  "By all the colors," Ertai said, sighing gustily. "I thought-"

  The warders slammed him against the wall. Greven picked up an iron. The tip was pale orange, almost white hot.

  "Now," said Greven, "tell me about Weatherlight."

  Ertai, his hands pinned, closed his eyes and conjured a psychokinetic blast from his locus, his solar plexus. Such conjurations were not as controllable as ones channeled through the hands, but considering his situation, he had little choice. He mentally hurled it at Greven and was rewarded by the sound of the iron clattering to the floor.

  "I can keep this up longer than you," Greven said. He retrieved the fallen iron, now cooled to cherry red, and returned it to the fire. "This can take all day, or it can be over when you wish it to be. What do you say?"

  "A modicum of resistance is mandatory," Ertai said faintly. "After all, I am the most naturally talented sorcerer of the age."

  Greven picked up fresh, hot irons in each hand. "Down here, Boy, you're just meat."

  CHAPTER 5

  GIFTS

  Belbe relaxed in Volrath's bed for an hour and rose feeling stiff and a bit disoriented. A few seconds of concentration dispelled the cobwebs in her head.

  Some discreet servant had left a tray of soft cakes and wine for her refreshment in the outer chamber, but she didn't eat. She knew about food and drink, but the Phyrexians had designed out of her such weaknesses as hunger and thirst. Belbe sniffed the cake and nibbled off the corner of one. To her it had no taste. She sipped the amber wine, then spat it on the floor. To her inexperienced palate, the drink was vile.

  Her baggage had been delivered to the floor below. Belbe touched the flowstone seals with her index finger, and the crates opened like black metal lilies. The first two boxes held her clothing. The third held a variety of weapons and spare powerstones for them. The fourth box held three smaller cartons of thin metal, each labeled in Phyrexian. The largest carton was marked: Nanomachine Conversion Accelerator. The small one merely said Power Unit. These were equipment updates she was to install in the flowstone factory, deep in the bowels of the Citadel. Remote Transplanar Portal read the middle-sized box.

  Belbe shed her confining suit of armor. Once the lightweight ceramic plates were off, she stretched luxuriously and scratched her sides. What freedom! She never realized mere garments could make such a difference in comfort.

  It was dusk, near the time she'd set for the council meeting. To celebrate her newfound freedom, she chose a loose fitting pair of billowing red trousers, topped by a waist-length silver tunic. She went to the lift, stopped, and doubled back to her cast-off armor. The belt kit was still around her cuirass. Never be separated from your kit, Abcal-dro warned her. It contained her single most valuable piece of equipment.

  *****

  Dorian il-Dal greeted her. He looked wan and worried. With him were two scribe machines, set to take down every word of the meeting. They crouched on either side of Dorian's chair, looking like severed gray arms. Each of the flowbot's four fingers was stained black with ink. T
he nail of each finger served as a nib, and all four fingers wrote at once, not only keeping minutes of the meeting, but making triplicate copies at the same time.

  Greven was there, as tidy and groomed as he ever could be. Both men bowed when Belbe entered the room.

  "Where is Crovax?" she asked.

  "I don't know," Dorian replied, gnawing his lip. "Shall I send someone to find him?"

  She considered the idea briefly and dismissed it. "No. He knows we're meeting at this hour. If he chooses to miss us, that's his choice."

  They seated themselves around the table, Belbe assuming the tall chair reserved for the evincar. She first asked for an account of the Stronghold's assets. Sweating, the chamberlain wedged a monocle in his right eye and began to read from a lengthy scroll in a sing-song voice: so many retainers, so many courtiers, so many men-at-arms resided in the Citadel. They ate so much meat per day, so many loaves of bread, so many gallons of water, beer, and spirits. Belbe listened attentively for the first half hour, but as Dorian drew a second scroll from a hamper that contained another five, her mind began to wander.

  The doors flew open, revealing Crovax at the head of a band of soldiers.

  "You're late," Belbe said.

  He saluted rather than bowed. "Your Excellency set me to a considerable task. I did not wish to arrive with it incomplete."

  Greven narrowed his eyes. The troops at Crovax's back were led by Nasser and included all the senior sergeants in the garrison-an unusual selection of men.

  "You're not allowed to bring armed troops into the Citadel. Only the evincar rates a bodyguard," Greven chided, glaring at the newcomers.

  Crovax strode in, a slight swagger in his step. "These fellows? They're not armed. Her Excellency asked me to inspect the state of the garrison, and who better to ask than the men who lead the men, the sergeants?"

  Greven leaned on the table and growled, "You men are dismissed."

  The doors closed behind the departing soldiers. Crovax took a seat opposite Greven. He sat down without waiting for Belbe's leave. Dorian gasped at his insolence.

  "You sound distressed, chamberlain," he remarked, folding his hands in his lap. "Was it something you ate?"

  "No, just something he can't swallow," Greven said.

  Dorian made to resume his monologue, but Belbe stopped him. "I will hear from Commander Greven."

  The imposing commander spoke without notes. "The captive, Ertai, was questioned by me for eighty-three minutes," he said.

  "Is that all?" asked Crovax.

  "No more was needed."

  Belbe said, "What did you learn?"

  "Until recently, he was a student at a school of magic run by one Barrin. He was recruited from the school by Gerrard Capashen to accompany Capashen to Rath for the purpose of rescuing the woman Sisay, a prisoner of Volrath's."

  "The prisoner was freed?" she asked. Greven nodded curtly.

  "I could have told you all that," Crovax said, bored.

  Greven bristled.

  Belbe held up her hand. "The essence of a successful interrogation is not always what you're told but how completely the prisoner gives up what he knows. Go on, Commander."

  "It was Ertai's job to hold open the old valley portal, allowing Weatherlight to escape from Rath. His magical skills are considerable for one so young, as he will tell you given the slightest chance. During Weatherlight's escape, he was thrown from the deck of Gerrard's ship to Predator, where I captured him."

  Greven put a tightly wound scroll on the table. "This record contains every detail Ertai told me about Weatherlight and her crew-construction, specifications, armament, everything." His enormous hands closed into fists. "Soon I'll know that ship better than I know Predator. Next time, I will crush Weatherlight"

  "Yes, 'next time,'" Crovax said. "The refrain of the defeated."

  Without any warning words or grinding of teeth, Greven reached across the table and grabbed Crovax by the throat. Crovax tore at Greven's thick forearm with both hands. Slowly he began to unlock the commander's powerful grip. Surprised, Greven landed a smashing blow to the smaller man's nose. Crovax flew backward, skidding several feet on the polished floor.

  "Your Excellency, do something!" Dorian cried.

  Belbe leaned back in the evincar's chair. "I am doing something."

  Greven advanced, kicking Crovax's overturned chair out of the way. The would-be evincar was quickly on his feet, ignoring the blood streaming from his busted nose. His hand flashed to his armpit and out came a short dagger.

  At this point Belbe said firmly, "No blades, Crovax."

  He shrugged and tossed the weapon aside. Greven threw two heavy punches, left hand first, then right. They met only air. Crovax ducked under the bigger man's reach and kicked Greven hard in the gut. It was like kicking a tree trunk. Crovax, concern showing in his face for the first time, sprang away, avoiding his foe's massive fists.

  "A little unfair, don't you think?" Crovax panted, circling nearer to Belbe.

  "Why do you imagine combat has to be fair?" she replied.

  Snarling, Greven snatched up an empty chair and flung it at his evasive enemy. Crovax leaped impressively, dodging the flying furniture. He executed a whirling kick that connected solidly with Greven's jaw, snapping the warrior's head back. Greven shook off the blow and climbed on the table, forcing Crovax to give ground.

  Dorian whimpered and went to huddle behind Belbe. Her boredom had disappeared. She watched, fascinated, as the two men fought around the room-Crovax, wily and agile, Greven, impossibly strong and resilient. When one or the other connected, the impact sent a hot, fleeting pang through her. It wasn't like the pain she felt when Abcal-dro inserted the Lens in her chest. The sensation left a warm feeling in her face and belly. She found herself wanting Greven to hit Crovax again. That surprised her. What difference did it make to her who won?

  A rake from the ring on Crovax's left hand opened Greven's scarred scalp, and the commander began howling with unconfined rage. He moved with a speed astonishing in so large a man, hemming his opponent into the doorway. Crovax stepped in, pummeling Greven's throat and face with blows. He paid for his temerity. Greven's backhand sent him crashing against the closed doors.

  "Why don't you command the flowstone to save you?" Greven sneered.

  Belbe was wondering the same thing. Crovax had been given enough psionic ability to control the nanomachines in a rudimentary way. He could have tripped Greven with the floor, or raised a shield like she'd heard he had done in the Dream Halls. Why didn't he?

  Greven took the stunned man by the wrist. He intended to wrench Crovax's arm out of its socket, but even as he steeled himself for the effort, a low, unnatural laugh filled the council chamber.

  Crovax raised his head. His eyes blazed with unfathomable mirth. "Do your worst, savage. This is the last time you'll ever lay hands on me!"

  In the time it took Greven to draw his next breath, he understood what Crovax meant. The control rod in his spine awakened and began to shriek, pouring torrents of pain through even' square inch of his body. Wracked with agony, he released Crovax.

  Belbe could see the livid implant between Greven's shoulder blades. To her enhanced eyes, the rod glowed with excess power that the Phyrexian mechanism converted to unendurable pain. She shivered. Her mouth went dry.

  Crovax wiped the blood from his lips. "Strike me down, Greven. I'm right here."

  Greven's knees buckled. He clawed at the rod, which he couldn't even reach due to the massive width of his own shoulders. Crovax lifted a foot and lightly pushed Greven's chest. The huge warrior toppled backward. Lights, scrolls, and chairs were upset by the force of Greven's fall.

  "This is just a taste," Crovax said. "When I am evincar, you'll lick my boots every morning or know my displeasure."

  Belbe came up behind him. Crovax's control of the spinal rod was not without effort. Sweat stood out on his face and neck, and ripped from his elbows. He trembled violently-from exertion or excitement? She could not
tell. Belbe put a hand on Crovax's shoulder. His skin burned feverishly.

  "You've made your point," she said.

  "Have I?"

  "Commander Greven is a valued member of our forces. I do not want him damaged."

  Crovax went back to the council table and set his chair upright again. Once he was seated, he visibly relaxed. Greven let out a long gust of breath and ceased writhing.

  "Proclaim me evincar," Crovax said in a low voice. "I have command of the flowstone. I've just demonstrated my ability to affect control rods. What more proof do you need? Discharge your commission and name me governor!"

  Belbe went silently to her chair. Dorian was still peeking out from behind it. When she stood aside waiting, the chamberlain sheepishly resumed his seat.

  "Well?" said Crovax.

  "You're the leading contender," Belbe said, "but there are others who have not yet had the opportunity to display their talents."

  "Others? Who? Him?" Crovax indicated the prostrate Greven with a thrust of his chin. "No one approaches my power!"

  "As I see it, your power is limited. You can influence flowstone in your immediate vicinity but only with great concentration. The shapes you create are not permanent. Just now you were too busy evading Commander Greven to think about the flowstone, were you not? And at what range can you affect a control rod? One yard? Ten yards? More is required than psionic ability-can you command the army? Can you execute the orders of our overlords faithfully and without question?"

  Crovax sullenly said nothing.

  "My decision will be deferred until I have sufficient evidence as to who is best qualified to be evincar," Belbe said. She sorted through the scramble of scrolls on the table. "Do I have your report on the readiness of the garrison?"

  He took a flattened scroll from his inner jacket pocket and tossed it in front of her.

  "Thank you. Briefly, what is your estimate of the military situation?"

  Several long seconds passed before Crovax replied. "The Stronghold garrison is in disarray. They're afraid the rebels are equipped with airships, and they know Volrath has left them in the lurch. The rebels think they won a victory because some of them penetrated the Citadel and escaped with their lives. They'll be full of bluster and confidence and will no doubt be planning new raids."