"Unless we can discover some way out," said Martine, "we have little choice."

Orlando sat up and stretched his long arms, then tested the point of his sword with his fingertip. It was an old, familiar Thargor gesture, and it distracted Sam just as she was trying to remember something important. For a moment she could almost believe they were back in the Middle Country, in a world where games had rules. Thargor was here. Didn't that mean they would win? Thargor always won,

But there is no Thargor, she thought sadly, not really. There's just Orlando and he already got killed once. She looked to the unreal gray wall of cloud. And even if we can't see him at the moment, that guy Dread is still out there. Sam felt like a mouse caught away from its hole, being stalked by an unhurried cat.

I'm really going to die, she thought. It hadn't quite hit her before—there had always been hope, or at least distraction. Now nothing remained between her and nothingness but the last defenses of the dying system. I'm never going to see Mom or Dad again. My school. Even my stupid room . . .

"What about this child?" asked Nandi Paradivash. "You said he was the emissary of the man Sellars."

"Ain't no messary, vato," snarled the little boy Cho-Cho, who was sitting so far away from the others that the nearest person to him was the unsocial Felix Jongleur. "He never touch me—I cut anyone who try that. Me, I'm just helping him out."

"That's what it means, boy," said Bonnie Mae Simpkins. "An emissary's a helper. Someone who carries messages."

"But what message?" Florimel had calmed a little since the Twins had been dispatched but she was still edgy, her anger barely controlled. Looking around at the wreckage left by the Twins' attack, hundreds of miserable survivors still huddled around the edge of the Well and too many victims still lying where they had fallen, Sam couldn't really blame her. Any of the cowering fairy-tale folk could be Florimel's daughter or Renie's brother, but random questioning had confirmed that none of them seemed to remember a prior life. "What message?" Florimel repeated. "We know nothing. We continue in absolute ignorance as we have since the beginning!"

"Has Sellars said anything to you?" Martine asked the little boy. "Can you hear him at all?"

"Not since that dog-head mamalocker pulled the roof off that place," Cho-Cho said sullenly. "He just ditched me, like."

"So it seems we won't get much from Sellars." Paul said wearily. "What next?"

Felix Jongleur pierced the uncomfortable silence. "It is a miracle you have all stayed alive so long. Democracy is a frightening thing, seen up close."

"Shut up," Florimel snapped. "You pig-dog, you want to see the frightening side of democracy? Remember, there are a lot of us and then there is just you."

"The idea was that he would be useful," said Paul slowly. Sam had never seen him looking so cold and angry. "Well, it's about time he was. It may be too late to do us much good, but I'd still like some answers. About the operating system—about the whole thing. . . ."

Several of the others seemed to agree: an increasingly unhappy murmur rose around the campfire. They all turned to look at Jongleur, who accepted their attention with his usual flat, forbidding gaze, but Sam thought she saw something else just beneath, something peculiar. Was he ashamed? Frightened? He seemed almost . . . nervous.

"Come, friend," Azador called from his seat next to Martine. "These people have questions. Put their minds at rest."

Paul turned on the Gypsy. "And you, Azador—what is your problem? Do you know who your so-called friend really is? That's Felix Jongleur, the man who ran the Grail Brotherhood. Remember the bastards you went on and on about, the ones who chased you and imprisoned all your people, who used them to make their machines work? That's the head of it all—that man, right there."

Sam held her breath, wondering if Azador would now attack Jongleur as Paul had earlier. It was a miracle, really, that the secret she and !Xabbu had agreed to keep should have lasted so long. . . .

"!Xabbu!" she said out loud, suddenly remembering.

Azador was not listening. He peered intently at Jongleur, then at Paul Jonas. Finally he shrugged, oddly embarrassed. "It seems a long, long time ago."

"What?" Paul was almost screaming. "Good Lord, this man has been killing your people but you're just going to let bygones be bygones because you're you're . . . bloody chums now? How can you?"

"Because it never happened," Jongleur said scornfully. "These are his people, what is left of them." He waved his hand to indicate the wreckage of the wagons, the remaining Gypsy men and women huddled around their fires. "Everything else was fantasy."

"!Xabbu!" Sam said, louder this time. "Everybody, I utterly forgot about !Xabbu because of those monsters, and Orlando, and . . . and everything. He went into that pit—he dived in! I went in after him but it spit me out and I couldn't get him. He thought Renie was down there!"

This set the circle around the campfire buzzing.

"Then he is gone, Sam," Florimel said at last. There was something softer and sadder in her tone now.

"Orlando came back from there!" Sam said angrily.

"That is different, Sam," Martine told her. "You know that it is."

Because he isn't alive like !Xabbu, Sam thought but didn't say. That's what she means. Deep down, much as she hated it, she knew Martine was right. Several of her companions were all talking at once now. Because Orlando didn't come back from there, he was . . . born from there.

"There is an easy way to find out if she is there," said Jongleur loudly. A sour smile played around the edge of his mouth. "But I am sure you have thought of it already and need no assistance from a monster like me."

"Don't push your luck," Martine warned him. "If you have something useful to say, do so."

"Very well. Do you still have your communication device? I was with the woman Renie when you called her before. Why not call her again?"

"My God," Martine said. "My God, with everything going on I had completely forgotten." She pulled a chunky silver lighter from the pocket of her coveralls.

"How did you get that?" Sam asked, completely confused. "Renie had it!"

"It is a copy," Martine told her. "I will explain later."

Sam saw the glint of satisfaction—or perhaps something else—in the hawk-faced man's eyes. She jumped to her feet and pointed at Jongleur. "Don't let him get near it!"

He spread his hands. "I am on the other side of the fire. There are, as you pointed out, many of you and only one of me."

Martine lifted the lighter. "Renie," she said, "can you hear me? It's Martine. Renie, are you there?"

For long moments, there was nothing.

"Can you hear me, Renie?"

Then suddenly her familiar voice was in their midst, as close and clear as if she had joined them at the campfire. "Martine? Martine, is that you?"

Martine laughed with delight. "Renie! Oh, what a blessing to hear you. Where are you?"

"I'm . . . I don't really know. Inside the operating system, I guess. But that's only the beginning of how bizarre this all is. !Xabbu is with me. . . ."

"!Xabbu!" Sam found herself crying again. "He's alive!"

"Can you hear Sam Fredericks?" Martine said, still laughing. "She. . . ."

Something knocked Martine to the ground. Sam shouted and stood up. Orlando, still sore and weary, took a full two seconds to struggle to his feet beside her. Azador stood over Martine, the lighter in his hand and a hugely triumphant grin on his face.

"I have it back!" he shouted. "I have it back!"

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere.