"And telling him about it might have just the opposite effect."

"It's a good thing I'm talking principles and not cases," she replied, touching his shoulder again. "As I said, I do feel like a pawn, though, and you wanted to know why. As for your last question, I was answering it as things could be, not informing you. It was the wrong question, anyhow."

"You're too tough to be a pawn," he said, "and you know who the only woman on the board is. And we can sleep with a sword between us if you want."

"It is not cold steel that I want," she said, moving nearer.

He saw a pale blue strand drifting by, but he ignored it.

Everything shouldn't be gimmicked, he thought. Should it?

He heard the voices again, in that place where he drifted between sleep and wakefulness.

"Mouseglove, Mouseglove, Mouseglove . . ,"

Yes. It was not the first time he had heard them--weak yet insistent, calling to him--and on awakening he always forgot the small chorus. But this time there seemed more strength to the calls, almost as if he might come away with the memory, this time...

"Mouseglove!"

He began to remember his circumstances, sprawled in the secret apartment atop Anvil Mountain, unwilling guest of Mark Marakson, a.k.a. Dan Chain, taboo-breaking engineer from the east village. He was trying to find a way out, past the man's gnome-like legions and electronic spies, trying to learn to fly one of the small craft--small, yes, not like the battle-wagons with the six-man crews, two cannons and a rack of bombs he had seen take off earlier, sailing in every which direction across the sky, rotors whirling, wings tilting all about them--small, just right for himself and the jewelled figurines which would make him his fortune....

"Mouseglove!"

He was moved a jot and two tittles nearer awakening yet still the chirping cries came to him. It was almost as if...

He tried. Suddenly, somewhere inside himself, he answered.

"Yes?"

"We bring warning."

"Who are you?"

Immediately, his dreamsight began to function. He seemed to stand at the center of a low-ceilinged room, illuminated by seven enormous candles. A figure, human in outline, stood behind each of them. The flames obscured the faces, and no matter how he turned or stared, nothing more of them was revealed to him.

"You sleep with the figures beneath your head," said the one at the extreme left--a woman's voice--and immediately he knew.

Four men, two women and one of uncertain gender, out of red metal, studded in peculiar places with jewels of many colors... Somehow, they addressed him now:

"We gained power when the Triangle of Int was unbalanced by the heir of Rondoval," said the second figure--a man.

"We are the spirits of sorcerers vanquished by Det and bound to his statuettes," said the third--a tall man.

"We exist now mainly to serve him or his successor," said the fourth--a woman with a beautiful soprano voice.

"We see futures and their likelihoods," said the fifth--a gruff-voiced man.

"We have come into your possession for a reason," said the sixth--of uncertain gender.

"...For we can to some extent influence events," finished the man on the right--the seventh.

"What is your warning?" asked Mouseglove. "What do you want?"

"We see a great wave about to break upon this plane," said the first.

"...At this place," said the second.

"Soon," said the third.

"...To settle the future of this world for some lime to come," said the fourth.

"Pol must be protected," said the fifth.

"...At this point of the Triangle," said the sixth.

A map was lying before him on the floor. It was actually a part of the floor, he now realized, cunningly inscribed. It seemed that it had been there all along. As he looked, one spot grew light upon it.

"Steal maps, steal weapons, take Mark's flier and go to that place," said the seventh.

"Take Mark's flier?" he asked.

"It is the fastest and is capable of the greatest range," said the first.

"Pol isn't a bad guy," Mousegiove said, "and I wish him no ill, but my intention is to get as far away from him and Mark as soon as I can, as fast as I can."

"Your willing cooperation would make things easier," said the second.

"...But it is not absolutely necessary," said the third.

"... As our power rises," said the fourth.

"I've never had booty talk back to me before," Mouseglove replied, "except for a parrot, when I was a lad. But that doesn't count. You're asking too much. I've led a dangerous life, but this was to be my last big risk. You are my retirement security. I want nothing to do with your breaking wave."

"Fool," said the fifth.

"...To think you have a choice," said the sixth.

"You have walked a charmed line since the day you entered Rondoval," said the seventh.

"We had a part in everything that brought you to this point," said the first.

"Even our theft," said the second.

Mouseglove chuckled.

"If I have no choice, then why do you request my cooperation?" he asked. "No. Perhaps I was manipulated up to this point. Now, though, I think you need my help and your power has not risen sufficiently to insure it. I'll take my chances. The answer is no."

Silence followed. He felt himself the object of intense scrutiny.

Then, "You are shrewd," said the third, "but incorrect. The answer is merely that it would be easier for us with your cooperation. We could devote our energies to other matters than your coercion."

"We can see that you are suitably rewarded," said the fourth.

"Rewards are of no benefit to a dead man," he stated. "No deal."

"You will not like what Mark does to this world," said the fifth.

"I've never been totally happy with it the way that it is," he replied. "But I get by."

"For your own protection then, learn to use the grenades. They practice with them on the southern rim," said the sixth, neutral-voiced.

"...And get the maps," said the seventh.

"That much I intended anyway," Mouseglove answered. "But I am not going to the place you showed me and do any fighting there."

The candles flickered, the room expanded toward nothingness and his consciousness faded. The last thing that he heard was the sound of their voices, laughing.

Three flying boats approached Castle Rondoval cautiously, guns loaded and swiveling in pace with the vessels' circling movements. As the circles diminished, the first battle-wagon discharged a shot across the battlements. At this point, all three were poised to withdraw and regroup in the face of a severe reaction. Nothing however, followed.

The circling continued for the better part of an hour, though no more shots were fired. Finally, the vessels--very close, very low now--broke formation to drift about among the still-standing towers, to hover while their occupants peered through windows and damage gaps in the walls. Slowly, then, one of the three floated to a landing in the main courtyard. None of its occupants emerged immediately, and the other two ships moved above it, guns ready. A quarter of an hour passed, and nothing stirred but the leaves on the trees and a lizard on the wall.

At last, a large hatch at the rear fell open and five small figures emerged, weapons held ready, to rush for cover in five different directions, dropping to earth and remaining motionless as soon as it was achieved. After several minutes, they rose and began to move, entering the castle.

It was over an hour before they emerged, their attitudes more casual, their weapons slung. Their leader signalled to the other two vessels, which immediately began to descend. When they were down, five more individuals emerged from each of them.

The fifteen men stood about, conferring on the building's layout. At last, they returned to the vessels to bring forth heavier weapons for emplacement inside.