"I see you begin to understand. Yes, it would not be me. But if I gave it an upbringing as close to my own as I could, then it would be more like me. Enough like me to appreciate what I had done. Perhaps even enough to resurrect me someday from the Grail copies we had already made, flawed as they were." Jongleur closed his eyes, remembering. "All was prepared. When he reached his maturity and spoke his true name—Hor-sa-iset, Horus the Younger—to my system, it would have served as his access code. That is the true Horus of Egyptian mythology—the Horus born from the dead body of Osiris. All of my secrets would have been his." He frowned, distracted. "If I had already conceived of the Ushabti Project when I was founding the Grail Brotherhood, I would never have given 'Horus' as a code name to that imbecile Yacoubian. . . ."

"Hang on a bit. You . . . you were going to use a clone to recreate your own childhood?" Paul was stunned by the magnitude of the man's lunacy. "On top of a skyscraper?" A thought struck him like a stone. "Oh, my God, Ava? She was going to be. . . ."

"The mother. My mother—or at least the mother of my ushabti. A vessel for the preservation of the blood."

"Christ, you really are mad. Where did you get the poor girl? Was she some actress you hired to play your sainted Mama? She couldn't have been your real daughter, unless you raised her in a genetics lab too." It struck him then, sapping the strength from his body, chilling him to the bone. "Jesus. You did, didn't you? You . . . made her."

Jongleur seemed wearily amused by Paul's astonishment. "Yes. She was another clone of me—modified so she would be female, of course, so actually quite a bit different. You need not look so shocked—the Egyptians married brother to sister. Why should I do less for my own posterity? In fact, I would have used my real mother as the source for Avialle's genetic material, but I could not bring myself to exhume her body. She had rested in the cemetery in Limoux for almost two centuries and she still does. Her bones were left undisturbed." He waved his hand dismissively. "But it made little difference, in any case. The mother was to provide no DNA, after all. She was only to be the host—to carry and bear and then raise my true son."

"God help me, it just gets worse and worse. So Ava was right—she was pregnant!"

"Briefly. But we had a breakthrough on the Grail Project and so I abandoned Ushabti."

"And so you took the embryo back. Then you just . . . kept Ava anyway. Kept her a prisoner."

For a moment, Jongleur's mask of disdain slipped. "I . . . I had come to care for her. My own children have been dead for years. I scarcely know their descendants."

Paul put his head in his hands. "You . . . you. . . ." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I should just stop, but I can't help asking. What about me? What did you intend to do before Ava ruined your plans by falling in love with me?"

The cold smile returned. "She ruined nothing. I expected her to do just that. My own mother was in love with her tutor. He committed suicide. In her misery she allowed her parents to marry her off to my father but the sadness never left her—it was the thing that shaped the rest of her life. If it had not happened, she would not have been the mother I knew." His smile twisted. "It was those fools Mudd and Finney who let things get out of control. They should have left the two of you alone until we were ready to dispose of you. I had just canceled the Ushabti Project, so what did it matter, anyway?"

"It mattered to me," Paul said, shaken but angry. "It mattered to me and to Ava."

"You are not to speak further of Avialle. I am tired of your familiarity."

Paul squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, fighting the rage that would end all questions and answers. "Then just tell me this—why did you pick me out of all the poor sods in the world? Was it just random? Did you simply choose the first acceptable applicant for this little . . . honor? Or was there something particular about me?"

When he looked up, the old man's eyes were glassy and dead again. "Because you went to Cranleigh."

"What?" It was the last answer he expected. "What are you talking about—my public school?"

Jongleur's sneer was almost a sign of weakness—the first such sign from him Paul had seen. "I was sent there as a child. The English boys singled me out as a foreigner and a weakling. They tortured me."

"And because of that you chose me? You were going to murder me just because I went to Cranleigh?" Paul laughed despite himself, a painful, near-hysterical flutter at the top of his lungs. "Christ, I hated that place. The older boys treated me just like they treated you." Except for Niles, he remembered, and the thought brought another with it. "So what happened to me afterward—the real me. Am I dead like Ava? Did you have me killed?"

The old man had lost his fire. "No. We arranged an automobile accident, but not with your real body. That is still quite safe in one of the project's laboratories and, as far as I know, quite alive. The remains that were sent back to England were those of a vagrant. There was no need for British authorities to doubt the identification of the body."

But even if I'm not really dead, I might as well be, he thought. Niles isn't shifting heaven and earth to find me, that's certain. He's given that "remember good old Paul Jonas?" speech a long time ago now. "How long?" he asked.

Jongleur looked at him in confused irritation. "What?"

"How long have I been in your damned system? How long since you killed your daughter and as good as killed me?"

"Two years."

Paul struggled up onto his feet, legs weak, knees trembling. He could not sit across from the murderer any longer. Two years. Two years obliterated and his life ruined, for nothing. For a failed, insane project. Because he had gone to a particular school. It was the bleakest joke imaginable. He stumbled away from the fire, toward the Well. He wanted to weep but he couldn't.

Orlando was stirring, even fighting a little. Reluctantly, Sam let go of him and sat up. "Is he okay?"

"He is just awakening, I think," said Florimel.

Over T4b's shoulder, Sam saw Paul Jonas abruptly stand and stagger away across the camp, heading toward the pit. Remembering !Xabbu, she was torn between fear for Paul and an absolute unwillingness to leave Orlando, but Martine was already rising to her feet.

"I will go with Paul," she said. "I can wait to speak to Orlando."

Orlando's eyelids flickered, then opened. He looked at the faces leaning over him. "I had the most amazing dream," he said after a few seconds. "You were in it—and you, and you, and you!" His lips trembled. "That's kind of a joke." He burst into tears.

Sam wrapped her arms around the weeping barbarian. "It's okay. We're here. I'm here. You're okay."

Florimel cleared her throat and stood. "There are many injured all around. I will see if I can be of any help." None of the others had risen. Florimel looked sternly at T4b. "Javier, I am still upset that you lied to us, but I will be closer to forgiving you if you come and help me."

"But, want to check out Orlando, me. . . ." he began, then the look on Florimel's face sank in. "Yeah, seen, coming." He stood, then reached back down to pat Orlando. "Lockin' miracle, you got. Praise God, seen?"

"Nandi, Mrs. Simpkins, perhaps you could help me, too?" asked Florimel. "And Azador—surely some of your people are in need of attention as well."

"All right, I don't need to have a house fall on me," said Bonita Mae Simpkins. She too leaned down to touch Orlando before she got up. "Javier's right, boy—it's a miracle you're back with us. We'll leave you young ones alone for a little while. Sure you got lots to talk about."