"Finish the job," he told Dragon.

The remaining spectators crowded as best they could to the edges of the room.

"Leave him alone."

The unexpected voice sounded calm in the hushed silence, and oddly gentle. The panda turned slowly, one gigantic paw still raised and ready to smash Brennan to jelly.

A squat, hunchbacked figure had materialized in the open area between the onlookers and Brennan and the panda. Dragon, his eyes on Quasiman, swatted at Brennan, who took the blow on his shoulder and managed to roll with it a little. He smashed against the bar with a jolt that brought tears to his eyes. Somehow he managed to pull himself to his knees and say, "We need the journal," before collapsing in agony.

Quasiman advanced slowly, dragging his stiff left leg behind him. "Give me the book," he told Fadeout, and as he switched his attention to Fadeout, the panda charged.

It struck Quasiman like a runaway train smashing into a cliff face. The two hurtled backward into the screaming spectators. It was a miracle that no one was crushed as Dragon's momentum crashed them both through the wall. Wood shattered and pipes burst and a spray of water showered the room. Brennan pulled himself to his feet as they came crashing back through the hole they'd made in the wall, the panda first, Quasiman after him.

Quasiman lifted a heavy wooden table and battered his foe. His first blow crushed the panda flat on the floor, shattering the table to kindling. The panda got to its feet and charged at Quasiman, smashing him through the bar and into the large mirror and racks of bottles behind. Lupo deserted his post with a despairing yowl as mirror and bottles burst into a million scintillating shards.

Brennan swayed on his feet, undecided. He wanted to help Quasiman, but realized there was nothing he could do against Dragon. He wanted to follow Fadeout, but the ace had already managed to disappear in the dark room filled with running, screaming people. Dragon and Quasiman smashed through the bar again and rolled about the floor like angry behemoths, punching and kicking and clawing one another.

The panda had blood on its fur, Brennan wasn't sure whose, and Quasiman's shirt had been ripped off his back, exposing the mass of bone and flesh that was his hump.

Brennan's nose twitched at a sudden foul smell in the air. It was gas, natural gas. The battling aces had broken a gas line as well as a water line when they'd smashed through the wall. Brennan had a moment of calm, coherent thought, realizing that everyone had to get out before a spark ignited the gas that had seeped into the room. He turned to shout to everyone to leave, but it was too late.

There was a muted whooshing roar and flames blossomed near the shattered wall. Someone yelled "Fire!" and the pandemonium was complete.

There was a panicked flight toward the door. Some were trampled, but cooler heads somehow dampened the frenzy. Brennan realized that it would be impossible to force his way through the crowd, so he headed to the stairway that led to the exits on the upper floors. He paused at the foot of the stairs and watched Quasiman and Dragon waltz around the floor in a clumsy dance. The panda's paws were on Quasiman's shoulders and Quasiman had his hands locked around the animal's throat. Its snarling, spitting face was only inches from Quasiman's.

"Quasiman!" Brennan's voice cut through the panic like a bullhorn through fog. "Break it off! Quasiman!"

He never knew if the joker heard, whether he'd decided he'd had enough, or whether his brain slipped off, wandering God alone knew where. Quasiman suddenly vanished, teleporting away just as the panda snapped its jaws shut in a bite that would have taken Quasiman s face off. It groped around in bewilderment for its vanished foe and staggered into a pillar of flame that suddenly shot from the hole it had helped pound in the wall.

The air was suddenly speared by the scent of burned fur, and the panda tottered about, spreading the fire as it bumped into the shattered bar and the broken furniture that littered the floor. It finally stopped and plopped down on its rear. It let out a few whining bleats, then seemed to shrivel into itself, shrinking to its original negligible size.

Brennan started to go upstairs, then remembered Mother and the homunculi in the basement. He hesitated, cursing himself, then headed back for the corridor that led to the basement storage room and the chamber below.

The corridor was thick with smoke. Brennan ran, bending below the acrid fumes, found the open trapdoor, and went down the ladder. The air suddenly became searing hot, and Brennan knew that the fire had spread to the storeroom above. Manikins were scurrying from Chrysalis's secret chamber, wailing and crying like lost cats.

Brennan looked inside. Mother had pulled away from the wall and was flopping and squirming on the floor like a living mattress. Most of the homunculi had pulled away from her, but those attached with umbilical cords were as trapped as she was. Brennan hesitated, almost turning and leaving; then a vast telepathic wave of fear and desperation washed over him, so powerful that even his nonreceptive mind could sense it. Whatever she looked like, Brennan realized, however hideous and inhuman her shape, Mother was still a person.

He didn't know if he'd be able to drag her away with only one arm, but he knew that he had to try. He took a deep breath of the smoke-fouled air, gritted his teeth, and stepped into the secret chamber.

"I'm coming," he called.

He ran into the chamber and managed to tip up a corner of Mother's rectangular body. Her flesh was warm and rubbery and pulsating, and it had a pleasant, somehow soothing smell even in the smoky chamber. He got down on his knees and somehow managed to hoist her onto his back.

Sparks sprinkled from the ceiling and smoke rolled into the chamber like thick fog.

"It's all right," Brennan shouted. He caught his breath at the horrible pain in his broken arm. "We're going to make it." Then the ceiling fell in.

The sound of singing floated through the night, a ragged drunken harmony in a couple different keys. The lyrics were something about hanging Leo Barnett from a sour-apple tree.

The path curved off to the left, but Jay cut across the grass and through a stand of trees. Blaise followed desultorily, kicking at the occasional rock.

The fire was out; the only light came from a few embers glowing feebly amidst the ashes. It wasn't until they were quite close that Jay realized the group of jokers squatting by the tent wasn't a group at all. Or maybe it was, if you count Siamese quints as a group.

By then the singing had stopped.

All the eyes were looking at him. The five bodies were twisted and malformed, flesh flowing into flesh in places and ways that made Jay want to turn his head. He wasn't even sure you could really call them quints; there seemed to be five bodies, but they shared four heads and maybe seven legs between them. On the other hand, they'd come out way ahead on the arm-and-tentacle count.

"Oh, gross," Blaise said with astonishing tact.

Jay ignored him, and hoped the jokers would, too. "Maybe you could help me," he said. "I'm looking for a friend of mine, name of Sascha. Skinny, slicked-down hair, kind of a fussy dresser. Has one of those little pencil mustaches like you see on desk clerks in old movies." No response. "No eyes. Did I mention that? Just skin."

Four mismatched faces regarded him dully. Jay couldn't decide if they were stupid or hostile or what. He waited a long awkward moment and tried again. "Maybe you don't know him. He used to work at the Crystal Palace. You guys from New York?"

"I can make it answer," Blaise said eagerly. "Just watch. I'll make it get up and do a little dance."