Pol nodded, wondering at the simplest way to deal with it.

"I'll take care of it this evening."

"Very good. I will see you some time tomorrow--not too early."

"Enjoy yourselves."

Ibal smiled.

"I'm sure."

Pol watched them go, then returned his attention to his drink.

"Don't look suddenly," Mouseglove whispered through unmoving lips, "but there is a fat man who has been loitering across the way for some time now."

"I'd sort of noticed." Pol replied, sweeping his gaze over the bulky man's person as he raised his glass. "What about him?"

"I know him," Mouseglove said, "or knew him--professionally. His name is Ryle Merson."

Pol shook his head.

"The name means nothing to me."

"He is the sorcerer I once mentioned. It was over twenty years ago that he hired me to steal those seven statuettes from your father."

Pol felt a strong urge to turn and stare at the large man in gold and gray. He restrained himself.

"...And there was no hint from him as to what he wanted them for?" he asked.

"No."

"I feel they're very safe--in with my guitar," Pol said.

When he did look again, Ryle Merson was talking with a tall man who wore a long-sleeved black tunic, red trousers and high black boots, a red bandana about his head. The man had his back to them, but a little later he turned and his eyes met Pol's in passing, before the two of them moved on slowly up the street.

"What about that one?"

Mouseglove shook his head.

"For a moment I thought there was something familiar about him, but no--I don't know his name and I can't say where I might have seen him before, if indeed I did."

"Is this a coincidence, I wonder?"

"Ryle is a sorcerer, and this is a sorcerers' convention."

"Why do you think he chose to stand there for so long?"

"It could be that he was simply waiting for his friend," Mouseglove said, "though I found myself wondering whether he had recognized me."

"It's been a long time," Pol said.

"Yes."

"He could simply have come over and spoken with you if he wanted to be certain who you were."

"True."

Mouseglove raised his drink.

"Let's finish up and get out of here," he said.

"Okay."

Later, the edge gone from the evening, they returned to their apartments. Not entirely because Mouseglove had suggested it, Pol wove an elaborate series of warning spells about the place and slept with a blade beside the bed.

Enough of philosophical rumination! I decided. It is all fruitless, for I am still uncertain as to everything concerning my existence. A philosopher is a dead poet and a dying theologian--I got that from Pol's mind one night. I am not certain where Pol got it, but it bore the proper cast of contempt to match my feelings. I had grown tired of thinking about my situation. It was time that I did something.

I found the city at Belken's foot to be unnerving, but stimulating as well. Rondoval was not without its share of magic--from utilitarian workings and misunderstood enchantments to forgotten spells waiting to go off and a lot of new stuff Pol had left lying about. But this place was a veritable warehouse of magic--spell overlying spell, many of them linked, a few in conflict, new ones being laid at every moment and old ones dismantled. The spells at Rondoval were old, familiar things which I knew well how to humor. Here the power hummed or shone all about me constantly--some of it most strange, some even threatening--and I never knew but that I might be about to collide with a deadly, unsuspected force. This served to heighten my alertness if not my awareness. Then, too, I seemed to draw more power into myself just by virtue of moving amid such large concentrations of it.

The first indication that I might be able to question someone concerning my own status came when we entered the city and I beheld the being in the tower of red fumes. I watched it until the manifestation dissipated, and then was pleased to note that the creature assumed a form similar to my own. I approached the receding thing immediately and directed an inquiry toward it.

"What are you?" I asked.

"An errand boy," it replied. "I was stupid enough to let someone find out my name."

"I do not understand."

"I'm a demon just like you. Only I'm doing time. Go ahead and mock me. But maybe someday you'll get yours."

"I really do not understand."

"I haven't the time to explain. I have to fetch enough ice from the mountaintop to fill all the chests in the food lockers. My accursed master has one of the concessions here."

"I'll help you," I said, "if you'll show me what to do--and if you will answer my questions as we work."

"Come on, then. To the peak."

I followed.

As we passed through the middle reaches of the air, I inquired, "I'm a demon, too, you say?"

"I guess so. I can't think of too many other things that give the same impression."

"Name one, if you can."

"Well, an elemental--but they're too stupid to ask questions the way you do. You've got to be a demon."

We got to the top where I learned how to manage the ice. It proved to be a simple variation on the termination/absorption techniques I employed on living creatures.

As we swirled back down toward the lockers--as two great spinning towers of glittering crystals--I asked, "Where do we come from? My memory doesn't go back all that far."

"We are assembled out of the universal energy flux in a variety of fashions. One of the commonest ways is for a powerful sorcerous agency to call one of us into being to perform some specific task--tailor-making us, so to speak. In the process we are named, and customarily we are released once the job is finished. Only, if some lesser or lazier mage--such as my accursed master--later learns your name he might bind you to his service and your freedom ends again. That is why you will find quite a few of us doing jobs for which we are not ideally suited. There just aren't that many top-notch sorcerers around--and some of them even grow lazy, or are often in a hurry. Ah, if only my accursed master could be induced to make but the smallest mistake in one of his charging rituals!"

"What would happen then?"

"Why, I'd be freed in that moment to tear the son of a bitch apart and take off on my own, hoping that he had left no magical document mentioning my name nor passed it along to some snot-nosed apprentice. To be safe, you should always destroy your accursed former master's quarters to take care of any such paperwork--burning is usually best--and then go after any apprentices who might be in the vicinity."

"I'll remember that," I said, as we reformed our burdens into large chunks in the lockers and headed back for more.

"But you've never had this problem? Not even once?"

"No. Not at all."

"Unusual. Perhaps you had your origin in some massive natural disaster. That sometimes happens."

"I don't remember anything like that. I do seem to recall a lot of fighting, but that is hardly the same thing."

"Hm. Lots of blood?"

"I suppose so. Will that do it?"

"I don't think so, not just by itself. But it could help if something else had started the process."

"I think there was a bad storm, also."

"Storms can help, too. But even so, that's not enough."

"Well, what should I do?"

"Do? Be thankful that no one knows your name."

"I don't even know my name--that is, if I have one at all."

We reached the peak, acquired another load, began the return trip.

"You must have a name. Everything does. One of the old ones told me that."

"Old ones?"

"You really are naive, aren't you? The old ones are the ancient demons from the days that men have forgotten, ages ago. Fortunately for them, their names have also been forgotten, so that they dwell largely untroubled by sorcerers, in distant grottoes, upon far peaks, in the hearts of volcanoes, in places at the ocean's bottom. To hear them tell it, no accursed master could oppress you like the accursed masters of long ago. It is difficult to know whether there really is any difference, since I know of none so unfortunate as to have served under both ancient and modern accursed masters. The old ones are wise, though, just from having been around for so long. One of them might be able to help you."