"It's not heaven, Pie. Maybe God's there, maybe not.

But until we know—"

"Why not just let me go now and see for myself? I'm not afraid. This is the Dominion where my people were made. I want to see it." In these words there was the first hint of passion Gentle had so far heard. "I'm dying, Maestro. I need to lie down and sleep."

"What if there's nothing there, Pie? What if it's only emptiness?"

"I'd prefer the absence to the pain." The reply defeated Gentle utterly. "Then you'd better go," he said, wishing he could find some more tender way to relinquish his hold, but unable to conceal his desolation with platitudes. However much he wanted to save Pie from suffering, his sympathy could not outweigh the need he felt, nor quite annul the sense of ownership which, however unsavory, was a part of what he felt towards this creature.

"I wish we could have taken this last journey together, Maestro," Pie said. "But you've got work to do, I know. Great work."

"And how do I do it without you?" Gentle said, knowing this was a wretched gambit—and half ashamed of it—but unwilling to let the mystif pass from life without voicing every desire he knew to keep it from going.

"You're not alone," Pie said, "You've met Tick Raw and Scopique. They were both members of the last Synod, and they're ready to work the Reconciliation with you." "They're Maestros?"

"They are now. They were novices the last time, but they're prepared now. They'll work in their Dominions while you work in the Fifth."

"They waited all this time?"

"They knew you'd come. Or, if not you, somebody in your place."

He'd treated them both so badly, he thought, Tick Raw especially.

"Who'll represent the Second?" he said. "And the First?"

"There was a Eurhetemec in Yzordderrex, waiting to work for the Second, but he's dead. He was old the last time, and he couldn't wait. I asked Scopique to find a replacement."

"And here?"

"I'd hoped that honor might fall to me, but now you'll need to find someone in my place. Don't look so lost, Maestro, please. You were a great Reconciler—"

"I failed. How great is that?"

"You won't fail again."

"I don't even know the ceremonies."

"You'll remember, after a time."

"How?"

"All that we did and said and felt is still waiting in Gamut Street. All our preparations, all our debates. Even me."

"Memory isn't enough, Pie."

"I know...."

"I want you real. I want you ... forever."

"Maybe, when the Imajica is whole again and the First Dominion opens, you'll find me."

There was some tiny hope in that, he thought, though whether it would be enough to keep him from despair when the mystif had disappeared he didn't know.

"May I go?" Pie said.

Gentle had never uttered a harder syllable than his next. "Yes," he said.

The mystif raised its hand, which was no more than a five-fingered wisp of smoke, and put it against Gentle's lips.

He felt no physical contact, but his heart jumped in his chest.

"We're not lost," Pie said. "Trust in that." Then the fingers dropped away, and the mystif started from Gentle's side towards the Erasure. There were perhaps a dozen yards to cover, and as the gap diminished Gentle's heart, already pounding after Pie's touch, beat faster, its drum tolling in his head. Even now, knowing he couldn't rescind the freedom he'd granted, it was all he could do not to pursue the mystif and delay it just another moment: to hear its voice, to stand beside it, to be the shadow of its shadow.

It didn't glance back, but stepped with cruel ease into the no-man's-land between solidity and nothingness. Gentle refused to look away but stared on with a steadfastness more defiant than heroic. The place was well named. As the mystif walked it was erased, like a sketch that had served its Creator's purpose and was no longer needed on the page. But unlike the sketch, which however fastidiously erased always left some trace to mark the artist's error, when Pie finally disappeared the vanishing was complete, leaving the spot flawless. If Gentle had not had the mystif in his memory—that unreliable book—it might never have existed.

When he returned inside, it was to meet the stares of fifty or more people gathered at the door, all of whom had obviously witnessed what had just happened, albeit at some distance. Nobody so much as coughed until he'd passed; then he heard the whispers rise like the sound of swarming insects. Did they have nothing better to do than gossip about his grief? he thought. The sooner he was away from here, the better. He'd say his farewells to Estabrook and Floccus and leave immediately.

He returned to Pie's bed, hoping the mystif might have left some keepsake for him, but the only sign of its presence was the indentation in the pillow on which its beautiful head had lain. He longed to lie there himself for a little time, but it was too public for such an indulgence. He would grieve when he was away from here.

As he prepared to leave, Floccus appeared, his wiry little body twitching like a boxer anticipating a blow.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he said.

"I was coming to find you anyway," Gentle said. "Just to say thank you, and goodbye."

"Before you go," Floccus said, blinking maniacally, "I've a message for you." He'd sweated all the color from his face and stumbled over every other word.

"I'm sorry for my behavior," Gentle said, trying to soothe him. "You did all you could have done, and all you got for it was my foul temper,"

"No need to apologize."

"Pie had to go, and I have to stay. That's the way of it."

"It's a pleasure to have you back," Floccus gushed. "Really, Maestro, really."

That Maestro gave Gentle a clue to this performance. "Floccus? Are you afraid of me?" he said. "You are, aren't you?"

"Afraid? Ah, well—ah, yes. In a manner of speaking. Yes. What happened out there, your getting so close to the Erasure and not being claimed, and the way you've changed"—the dark garb still clung about him, he realized, its slow dispersal draping shreds of smoke around his limbs—"it puts a different complexion on things. I hadn't understood; forgive me, it was stupid; I hadn't understood, you know, that I was in the companyof, well, such a power. If I, you know, caused any offense—"

"You didn't."

"I can be frivolous."

"You were fine company, Floccus."

"Thank you, Maestro. Thank you. Thank you."

"Please stop thanking me."

"Yes. I will. Thank you."

"You said you had a message."

"I did? I did."

"Who from?"

"Athanasius. He'd like very much to see you."

Here was the third farewell he owed, Gentle thought. "Then take me to him, if you would," he said, and Floccus, his face flooded with relief that he'd survived this interview, turned and led him from the empty bed.

In the few minutes it took for them to thread their way through the body of the tent, the wind, which had dropped almost to nothing at twilight, began to rise with fresh ferocity. By the time Floccus ushered him into the chamber where Athanasius waited, it was beating at the walls wildly, The lamps on the floor flickered with each gust, and by their panicky light Gentle saw what a melancholy place Athanasius had chosen for their parting. The chamber was a mortuary, its floor littered with bodies wrapped in every kind of rag and shroud, some neatly parceled, most barely covered: further proof—as if it were needed—of how poor a place of healing this was. But that argument was academic now. This was neither the time nor the place to bruise the man's faith, not with the night wind thrashing at the walls and the dead everywhere underfoot.