Thwik…

Tyy shrieked and dropped to his side, grabbing his bleeding face and rocking above him.

…thwik, thwik.

He arched his back, gasping. The wounds on his thigh and cheek, and two on his chest flickered.

Prince stood. “Now, I’m going to kill you.” He stepped over Sebastian’s feet as the stud’s heels gouged the carpet. “Does that answer your question?”

It came up from somewhere deep below Lorq’s gut, moored among yesterdays. Bliss made his awareness of its shape and outline precise and luminous. Something inside him shook. From the hammock of his pelvis it clawed into his belly, vaulted his chest and wove wildly, erupted from his face; Lorq bellowed. In the sharp peripheral awareness of the drug, he saw the Mouse’s syrynx where it had been left on the stage. He snatched it up—

“No, Captain!”

—as Prince lunged. Lorq ducked with the instrument against his chest. He twisted the intensity knob.

The edge of Prince’s hand shattered the doorjamb (where a moment before the Mouse had leaned). Splinters split four and five feet up the shaft.

“Captain, that’s my…!”

The Mouse leaped, and Lorq struck him with his flat hand. The Mouse staggered backward and fell in the sand-pool.

Lorq dodged sideways and whirled to face the door as Prince, still smiling, stepped away.

Then Lorq struck the tuning haft.

A flash.

It was reflection from Prince’s vest; the beam was tight. Prince flung his hand up to his eyes. Then he shook his head, blinking.

Lorq struck the syrynx again.

Prince clutched his eyes, stepped back, and screeched.

Lorq’s fingers tore at the sound-projection strings. Though the beam was directional, the echo roared about the room, drowning the scream. Lorq’s head jarred under the sound. But he beat the sounding board again. And again. With each sweep of his hand, Prince reeled back. He tripped on Sebastian’s feet, but did not fall. And again. Lorq’s own head ached. That part of his mind still aloof from the rage thought: his middle ear must have ruptured.… Then the rage climbed higher in his brain. There was no part of him separate from it.

And again.

Prince’s arms flailed about his head. His ungloved hand struck one of the suspended shelves. The statuette fell.

Furious, Lorq smashed at the olfactory plate.

An acrid stench burned his own nostrils, seared the roof of his nasal cavity so that his eyes teared.

Prince screamed, staggered; his gloved fist hit the plate glass. It cracked from floor to ceiling.

With blurred and burning eyes, Lorq stalked him.

Now Prince struck both fists against the glass; glass exploded. Fragments rang on the floor and the rock.

“No!” from Ruby. Her hands were over her face.

Prince lurched outside.

Heat slapped at Lorq’s face. But he followed.

Prince wove and stumbled down toward the glow of Gold. Lorq crab-walked the jagged slope.

And struck.

Light whipped Prince. He must have regained some of his vision, because he clawed at his eyes again. He went down on one knee.

Lorq staggered. His shoulder scraped hot rock. He was already slicked with sweat. It trickled his forehead, banked in his eyebrows, poured through at the scar. He took six steps. With each he struck light brighter than Gold, sound louder than the lava’s roar, odor sharper than the sulfur fumes that rasped his throat. His rage was real and red and brighter than Gold. “Vermin… Devil… Dirt!”

Prince fell just as Lorq reached him. His bare hand leaped about the scalding stone. His head came up. His arms and face had been cut by falling glass. His mouth was opening and closing like a fish. His blind eyes blinked and wrinkled and opened again.

Lorq swung his foot back, smashed at the gasping face.…

And it was spent.

He sucked hot gas. His eyes raged with heat. He turned, arms slipping against his sides. The ground tilted suddenly. The black crust opened and heat struck him back. He staggered up between the pitted crags. The lights of Taafite quivered behind shaking veils. He shook his head. His thoughts reeled about the burning cage of bone. He was coughing; the sound was a distant bellow. And he had dropped the syrynx…

…she cleared between the jagged edges.

Cool touched his face, seeped into his lungs. Lorq pulled himself erect. She stared at him. Her lips fluttered before no word. Lorq stepped toward her.

She raised her hand (he thought she was going to strike him. And he did not care) and touched his corded neck.

Her throat quivered.

Lorq looked over her face, her hair, twisted about a silver comb. In the flicker of Gold her skin was the color of a velvet nut-hull; her eyes were kohled wide over prominent cheekbones. But her magnificence was in the slight tilt of her chin, the expression on her copper mouth, caught between a terrifying smile and resignation to something ineffably sad; in the curve of her fingers against her throat.

Her face loomed against his. Warm lips struck his own, became moist. On the back of his neck, still the warmth of her fingers, the cool of her ring. Her hand slid.

Then, behind them, Prince screamed.

Ruby jerked away, snarling. Her nails raked his shoulder. She fled past him down the rock.

Lorq did not even watch her. Exhaustion held him in the flow. He stalked through the fragments of glass. He glared about at the crew. “Come on, God damn it! Get out of here!”

Beneath the knotted cable of flesh, the muscles rode like chains. Red hair jerked up and down over his gleaming belly with each breath.

“Go on now!”‘

“Captain, what happened to my…

But Lorq had started toward the door.

The Mouse looked wildly from the captain to flaming Gold. He dashed across the room and ducked out the broken glass.

In the garden, Lorq was about to close the gate when the Mouse slipped through behind the twins, syrynx clutched under one arm, sack under the other.

“Back to the Roc,” Lorq was saying. “We get off this world!”

Tyy supported the injured pet on one shoulder and Sebastian on the other. Katin tried to help her, but Sebastian was too short for Katin really to assist the weak, glittering stud. At last Katin stuck his hands under his belt.

Mist twisted beneath the streetlights as they hurried along the cobbles through the City of Dreadful Night.

“Page of Cups.”

“Queen of Cups.”

“The Chariot. My trick is. Nine of Wands.”

“Knight of Wands.”

“Ace of Wands. The trick to the dummy-hand goes.” Take-off had gone smoothly. Now Lorq and Idas flew the ship; the rest of the crew sat around the commons.

From the ramp Katin watched Tyy and Sebastian play a two-handed game of cards. “Parsifal—the pitied fool—having forsaken the Minor Arcana, must work his way through the remaining twenty-one cards of the Major. He is shown at the edge of a cliff. A white cat tears the seat of his pants. One is unable to tell if he will fall or fly away. But later in the series, we have an indication in the card called the Hermit: an old man with a staff and a lantern on that same cliff looks sadly down the rocks—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” the Mouse asked. He kept running his finger over a scar on the polished rosewood. “Don’t tell me. Those damned Tarot cards—”

“I’m talking about quests, Mouse. I’m beginning to think my novel might be some sort of quest story.” He raised his recorder again. “Consider the archetype of the Grail. Oddly unsettling that no writer who has attacked the Grail legend in its naked entirety has lived to complete the work. Mallory, Tennyson, and Wagner, responsible for the most popular versions, distorted the basic material so greatly that the mythical structure of their versions is either unrecognizable or useless—perhaps the reason they escaped the jinx. But all true Grail tellings, Chretien de Troyes’ Conte del Graal in the twelfth century, Robert de Boron’s Grail cycle in the thirteenth century, Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, or Spenser’s Faerie Queene in the sixteenth, were all incomplete at their authors’ deaths. In the late nineteenth century I believe an American, Richard Hovey, began a cycle of eleven Grail plays and died before number five was finished. Similarly, Lewis Carroll’s friend George MacDonald left incomplete his Origins of the Legend of the Holy Grail. The same with Charles William’s cycle of poems Taliesin through Logres. And a century later—”