Zeb had said to work on his stomach; why hadn’t Harris listened? Zeb must think he was a complete idiot. ­Harris had marched in, mistaken Sonny’s cool, collected analysis for passiveness, and settled into the tactics that would lead him to painful defeat.

Not this time. He kept his own critical faculties working. Sonny had kept his guard lower than usual, probably protecting pained ribs. Harris exploited that now; every one of his combinations included at least one blow aimed at the bigger man’s torso, and it was often one of his more deceptive blows. He didn’t have to hit hard, not yet; he just had to leave Sonny with the impression that he could get through to his gut anytime he wanted.

All the while, his silent audience, Noriko, watched. Harris caught sight of her whenever the phantom fight faced him in the right direction. She had to be taking stock of his style, looking for weaknesses . . .

No, that wasn’t right. There was something about the way she stood. She had her back to the wall but wasn’t leaning against it. Her arms were crossed, but it wasn’t a relaxed pose, and seemed just a little awkward and ­uncertain. It reminded him of something, someone else.

Then she turned away and moved toward the door, and Harris had it. High school algebra, and Mary Francis Richards tensely standing by as class let out, trying to figure out how to ask a question of the teacher without sounding stupid; she never could stand for people to think ill of her. Her pose had been the same. That didn’t seem right, not like Noriko, but . . .

Harris gave a flick of his fingers. The phantom Sonny, an annoyed look on his face, disappeared. “Noriko.”

At the door, she turned. “Yes?”

“Were you going to ask me something?”

She didn’t answer.

“Go ahead.”

She took a long breath. “Would you . . . would you teach me how to kick as you do?”

“Sure.”

Noriko blinked and came forward a step. “When?”

“Well, if we get started right now, we can be through in three or four years.”

She managed a little smile. “I would not be intruding?”

“Nope. Tell you what, though. If you teach me a little about the way you use that sword, we can call it an even trade.”

“I would like that.” She moved forward to join him.

“That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Asking.”

She took a moment to answer. “Maybe.”

“Well, try to take it easier on yourself next time. I don’t bite.” He shrugged. “Is that what you wear to work out?” Her outfit was gold-yellow and cut much like her evening pants suits, but was not new and looked more like common linen than silk.

“Yes. Is it suitable?”

“Just fine. So. We’ll start with a little history. What I do is called tae kwon do, which means the art of kicking and punching. Truth in advertising. It was developed in Korea, a country in the same place as your Silla . . . ”

Duncan spoke the last words. As ever, they were like a switch, turning on the tap to the reservoirs of his endur­ance. He felt strength flow from him, a sensation that was simultaneously comforting and worrisome.

Then there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees around his outdoor stone circle. But he could feel the energy hovering out there, just at the limits of his circle; it built in focus and intensity, wove itself into a pattern too complex for any but the most sophisticated devisers to comprehend.

Behind him, one of the men coughed. Costigan, probably. The cool winds flowing over this upstate campsite were aggravating the young man’s injured throat. Duncan shook his head. He’d have to get the boy to a doctor. And Phipps, too, to repair his broken arm. Duncan had chosen the two of them and Dominguez for their knowledge and loyalty, not for their current physical condition, because the latter could be dealt with once they were on the fair world.

There it was—the shriveling of grasses as the devise­ment demanded more power than Duncan had given it. Like a shockwave, the ripple of death spread away from the circle, consuming the lives of plants and ­insects ­before it.

Then the trees began to stretch . . . He heard his men gasp.

A moment later, it was over. One big, ear-hurting pop, and they were somewhere else, at one end of a vast wooden hangar.

And fair world men waited there. One was Angus Powrie, rushing across the border of the conjurer’s circle painted on the floor. The redcap helped Duncan to his feet. “Sir. Glad to have you back at last.”

Tired by his devisement, Duncan leaned heavily on the redcap’s arm. “I’m so glad to be home, Angus. I’d like you to meet my chief lieutenants: Costigan, Domin­guez, Phipps.”

The three grimworlders still stared around, trying to take in the changes they’d just experienced. They snapped to attention for the introductions.

“Graces on you,” said Angus. “Big ones. I like that. My own chiefs, Alpson, Moon, Captain Walbert, who’ll be your personal pilot, are in Neckerdam. And what—” he stared openly at Adonis “—in the name of all the gods is that?” The redcap began laughing.

“The best I could do.” Alastair gave an embarrassed shrug. “Devisement is not an easy process on the grim world, and I had to work with the materials I had available. This is Adonis, which is, as they say, better than nothing. No replacement for Joseph, though.

“Now. My list is done. We can begin cutting.”

Angus left off his chuckling and nodded.

“And your list?”

“Done . . . but for the additions you so graciously sent us.” The redcap’s voice was anything but gracious.

“Ah. Well, we will eliminate them as well. Once that’s done, we can begin rebuilding. Building a new world.” Duncan looked over the small fleet of aircraft arrayed in the hangar, especially the largest of the ships, the one with the name Storm Cloud painted on its side. “You’ve done quite well, Angus.”

“I want you to have all the conveniences you need.”

“Angus? Is the ceremony done?” That call came from the far side of the hangar, and the speaker soon trotted into view: a blond man, elegant, almost inhumanly beautiful. “It is,” he continued. “I wish you’d told me.” The blond man slowed to a walk, approaching almost tentatively.

Angus waved him over and brought him face-to-face with Blackletter. “Duncan, let me present the boy, Darig. He has learned the business well. He will make you proud. Darig, this is the great man himself.”

Duncan took the young man by the shoulders and stared intently into his face. “I have not seen you since you were an infant.”

“I know, sir.”

“You are as handsome as your mother hoped you would be.”

“More so, I trust.”

Duncan smiled. “You know you will have to go to the grim world for a while.”

Darig shook his head. “I’d rather stay.”

“Well, if you do, you’ll have to die.” Duncan’s tone was friendly, reasonable.

“I know.” Darig smiled shyly. “I’d like to die as my world does. Help bring it about, even. Have you any need for a sacrifice to the gods? I’ve always fancied dying on an altar. Perhaps seeing my own beating heart before death takes me.”

Duncan beamed down at Angus. “You were right. He does make me proud.”

Harris settled into a schedule. Up just after dawn. Down to the gymnasium for a workout alone. Noriko would join him for instruction. Then she’d teach him for a while—techniques with knives, her sword, some of the grappling and tripping maneuvers she’d grown up learning in the land of Wo, not too different from the little bit of hapkido he’d learned once upon a time. When he told her that he barely knew one end of a gun from the other, she ­began taking him to the range on the same floor for practice with firearms.

Back to his room for a bath and clothes. Then he’d descend to the lab floor to graze from the food perpetually laid out on one of the tables. He might bump into anyone there, but it was usually Alastair, eating, smoking, reading Neckerdam’s newspaper, happy to talk. Doc was sometimes on hand, doing tests on Gaby, assembling a piece of equipment, or testing the reactions of chemicals introduced to one another; at such times, he would usually not notice any greeting short of a gunshot.