"Blaise," Jay said in an urgent stage whisper.

The boy's eyes were closed, but Jay could see the tension in his muscles. He was conscious, Jay was convinced of it; groggy maybe, terrified almost certainly, but conscious.

In the next room, Charm was singing. That was what the others called the Siamese quint; Jay had a sick feeling he knew what that was short for. Sascha had left twenty minutes ago, after saying something about needing to get a new boy. From the conversation, Jay gathered that he had popped away the old boy last night in the park. He wasn't quite clear what they needed a boy for, but it seemed to have something to do with the master's travel plans.

Sascha's telepathy would have made any attempt at escape futile. If they were going to make a move, they had to do it now. As near as Jay could determine, there were only five people left in the other room-six if you counted the grotesque infant nursing at its mother's breast. He figured he could discount the mother and child. Ezili and the joker who looked like a sack of blood pudding shouldn't be too dangerous either. That left only Charm and the centipede man. The centipede sat beneath a window in the other room, a whetstone in one of his left hands, a half-dozen knives in his rights, the arms on the right side of his body moving with a strange rhythmic grace as he sharpened the blades. The sound of steel against stone lent an eerie counterpoint to Charm's singing.

"Blaise," he whispered again. "C'mon, dammit. Wake up."

The boy opened his eyes. All the arrogance was gone from them now. Even in the darkness, Jay could see how scared they were. The contemptuous junior mentat had turned back into a little boy on him.

"We got to get out of here," Jay said, trying to keep his voice low. "This is the best chance we're going to get."

"They hurt me!" Blaise said. His voice cracked with pain. He spoke much too loud. For a moment Jay stiffened, but the singing went on in the next room.

"I know," Jay whispered. "Blaise, you have to keep your voice down. If they hear us, we're fucked."

"I'm scared," Blaise said. His voice was softer, but not soft enough. "I want to go home."

"Pull yourself together," Jay said. "I need you. You have to mind-control one of them."

"I tried," Blaise said. "Last night… I had Sascha, but they didn't listen to him, and then that thing… that joker… too many minds, I wasn't even sure how many, and some of them… it was like an animal mind, only smarter, and it kept sliding away from me, I couldn't get a grip… they hurt me." He was crying now. A line of red ran down one cheek, where his tears mingled with the dried blood that had closed his eye.

"They're going to hurt you a lot worse if we don't get out of here," Jay said. "You don't need to mess with the big ugly one. Just grab the guy who looks like a centipede. Make him stand up and say, I'm going to go check on the prisoners. You got that?"

"I'm going to go check on the prisoners," Blaise repeated numbly through swollen, cracked lips.

"Casual," Jay stressed. "Make it real casual. Then get the fucker back here with one of his knives and have him cut me loose. Once my hands are loose, we're home free. I'll pop you back to the Marriott and you can bring the cavalry. Okay?"

" I don't know," Blaise said.

" I thought you were part Takisian," Jay whispered with all the scorn he had in him. "You guys good for anything but crying?"

Blaise blinked back tears, then nodded slowly. "I'll try." The boy's battered face twisted in concentration. Jay held his breath. The singing went on for what seemed like an eternity. Then a chair pushed back and he heard a thin voice announce, much too formally, "I'm going to go check on the prisoners."

The singing stopped. Jay heard footsteps. Too many footsteps.

The centipede crossed the cellar like a sleepwalker, knelt down in front of Jay, groped behind him, and started sawing at his bonds with a knife. From the sound it made, Jay had the sick realization that his hands were bound with wire, not rope.

Charm came in just behind him, lurching forward with a ponderous stumbling gait. One head glanced over at Jay and the centipede, and ignored them. All the other eyes stayed fixed on Blaise. "No," the boy whimpered as the joker's vast dark shadow fell across him. He tried to scuttle back on the mattress, but there was no place to hide.

One of Charm's hands reached up into the pipes that ran along the ceiling and emerged with a baseball bat. The first swing caught the boy's head with a crack that made Jay nauseated.

This time Brennan's approach was straightforward. He knew where he was going, he knew what he wanted to do. Quinn's garden was gorgeous in the afternoon sunlight.

He either had tremendous horticultural skills or had hired a superb landscaping service. Brennan wouldn't mind talking gardening with the Eskimo, and if things went right, he'd have his chance.

He cut through the poppy bed and approached the caterpillar sentinel from the rear. As it had done the first time he stumbled upon it, the machine turned its head slowly, grinned, welcomed him, then dispersed a billowing cloud of gas in his direction.

Brennan fell, artistically he hoped. He winced when his right arm hit the turf and twisted so that his left hand was under his body. He held his breath as the gas dissipated, and took shallow, cautious breaths when he had to. He got a little dizzy from the residue gas, but then he was still feeling woozy from his medical treatment, anyway.

He lay there for ten minutes before he heard approaching footsteps and a grumbling voice. "Sunday afternoon," it was saying, "Sunday afternoon. Can't a man be left in peace to enjoy himself even on the weekends? What's this world coming to?"

The grumbling stopped and through slitted eyes Brennan saw Quinn staring down at him.

"Now who's this?" Quinn continued his monologue. "Who's caught in the web spun by my caterpillar? Wait a minute. Caterpillars don't spin webs, do they?"

"That's right," Brennan said, sitting up and pointing his gun at Quinn. "You're thinking of spiders."

"You're unconscious," Quinn said. "You can't talk." Brennan could see that the Eskimo was badly ripped, but that wasn't unusual. He peered doubtfully at Brennan, seemingly not even cognizant of the gun Brennan was pointing at him.

"Running downs through your system this afternoon, Quinn?"

He nodded tranquilly. "Quaaludes."

"Lucky me. Now here's what we're going to do. We're going back to your place, then we're going to call up someone else and have a little party. That all right with you?"

Quinn nodded agreeably. "Sure. Sundays are boring anyway. There's usually nothing on television worth watching at all."

"You first," Brennan said, waving his gun at Quinn. He didn't want to get within reach of the doctor in case Quinn realized what was happening and tried to sink his finger needles into him again.

Brennan got a better view of the inside of the mansion than the last time he was there. Whatever taste Quinn had in landscaping didn't extend to interior design. The inside of his Magic Kingdom was decorated in what could best be called exotically eclectic taste. The entrance hall was lined with portraits of famous drug addicts of the past, including Edgar Allan Poe, Sherlock Holmes, Elvis Presley, and Tom Marion Douglas.

The room Quinn led him to had a group of display cases that housed, among other things, a collection of Chinese opium bottles and antique Turkish water pipes. Against one wall were terrariums with rare and delicate species of fungus and cactus, against another were aquariums with various species of puffer fish.

"Quite a place you've got here," Brennan said, gazing about in wonder.