There was a small stir to one side of the crowd. Waylock saw Nile. Beside him stood a woman with a long nervous face, gaunt cheekbones, untidy roan hair: Pladge Caddigan.

  Morcas Marr finished reading his appointments, and asked, “Now, are there any questions?”

  “Yes, there certainly are!” The voice was close beside Waylock. In amusement and embarrassment he saw that it issued from the mouth of Chancellor Imish.

  “I want to know the purpose of this massive semi-conspiratorial organization,” Imish demanded.

  “You are welcome to ask, whoever you are. We hope to protect ourselves and the civilization of the Reach in the cataclysm which quite clearly is approaching.”

  “‘Cataclysm’?” Imish was dumbfounded.

  “Is there a better word for absolute anarchy?” Marr turned his attention elsewhere. “Any further questions?”

  “Mr. Marr,” said Nile, stepping forward, “I believe I recognize an eminent public figure.” His tone was facetious. “It is the Chancellor of the Prytanean, Claude Imish. Perhaps we can induce him to join our ranks.”

  Imish was equal to the occasion. “I might if I knew what you stood for.”

  “Ah ha!” exclaimed Nile. “That is a question no one can answer because no one knows. We refuse to define our position. And herein lies our great strength. All are zealots because each imagines the general conviction to be his own. We are linked only by the common question ‘Whither?’”

  Imish became angry. “Instead of talking cataclysm and bleating ‘Whither?’ you should ask, ‘How best can I lessen the problems which beset our country?’”

  There was silence, then a burst of spirited rebuttal. Waylock sidled away from Imish, to join Pladge Caddigan and Jacob Nile.

  “I find you in distinguished company,” said Pladge.

  “My dear young woman,” Waylock replied, “I am distinguished company. I am Vice-Chancellor.”

  Jacob Nile found the situation amusing. “And you two, our nominal heads of government—why are you here in such questionable company?”

  “We hope to gain slope by exposing the Whitherers as conspiratorial subversionists.”

  Nile laughed. “You may call on me for any required cooperation.”

  Angry shouts interrupted them; Imish had stirred up an imbroglio. The evening was fulfilling Waylock’s hopes.

  “Listen to that ass!” muttered Nile.

  “If you are not a party of criminal syndicalists,” bellowed Imish, “why do you perfect this treacherous organization?”

  A dozen voices answered him; Imish heeded none. “You may be assured of one thing. I intend to urge the assassins upon you; I intend to nail this insolent usurpation to the board!”

  “Ha!” cried Morcas Marr in biting scorn. “Urge away! Who will listen? You have not the influence I have, you stomach, you loud voice, you bad breath!”

  Imish pawed the air. He could find no words; he sputtered. Waylock took his arm. “Come.”

  Blind in his wrath, Imish allowed himself to be led away. At the Pomador, on the fourth deck of the fantastic Garden of Circe, they sat and took cooling refreshment.

  Imish was numb, mortified at his retreat; Waylock kept a tactful silence. Together they looked out over the luminous paint-pot of Carnevalle. The time was midnight; Carnevalle was at its peak; the air sighed and vibrated.

  Imish downed his drink at a gulp. “Come,” he croaked, “let’s move on.”

  They walked the avenues. Waylock once or twice suggested diversion, but Imish made curt refusal.

  They wandered down to the esplanade. At the Argonaut they drank more liquor. Imish became a trifle ill, and decided to return home. They set out along the esplanade toward the air depot.

  Carnevalle seemed vague, unreal. The lights and colors were absorbed by the water, crooked shapes moved through the murk. Some of these were revelers, anonymous as scraps of paper floating down the dark Chant. Others were Berbers, who, like the Weirds, took pleasure in dark violence. A group of these came from the shadows. They sidled up to Imish and Waylock, suddenly attacked, kicking and striking.

  Imish squealed, fell to his knees, tried to crawl away on all fours. Waylock stumbled back, dazed. The shapes kicked Imish sprawling, beat Waylock’s face with fists like hammers. Waylock fought back. The attackers fell away, then darted forward. Waylock was down; his mask came loose.

  “It’s Waylock!” came an awed whisper. “Gavin Waylock.”

  Waylock jerked a knife from a hidden sheath. The blade snapped out; he slashed at a leg, heard a scream. He hauled himself to his feet, ran forward, hacking and stabbing. The Berbers backed away, turned, ran.

  Waylock went to where Imish was painfully rising. They hobbled down the esplanade, torn and disheveled. At the air depot they climbed aboard a cab, and were sped across the river to Trianwood.

  4

  Chancellor Imish was terse and moody for several days. Waylock performed his duties as unobtrusively as possible.

  One bleak morning in late November, with black veils of rain hanging over Glade County, Imish came into Waylock’s office. He settled gingerly into a chair. His ribs were still sore, his face was bruised and tender. There had been psychological damage as well: he had lost weight; lines had formed around his mouth.

  Waylock listened while Imish struggled with ideas and sorted out words.

  “As you know, Gavin, I am something of an anachronism. A Golden Age has no need for a strong leader. But still—” he paused and reflected. “We cherish security, strength to lean on in case of emergency. Hence the office of Chancellor.” Imish went to the window, stood looking out into the stormy sky. “Peculiar things are happening in Clarges—but no one seems to care. I intend to do something about it. So—” he swung about, faced Waylock “—call Director-General Caspar Jarvis of the assassins, ask him to be here at eleven o’clock.”

  Waylock nodded. “Very well, Chancellor.”

  Chapter XVII

  1

  W

  aylock called the Central Cell in Garstang, and asked to be connected to Director-General Caspar Jarvis. The process consumed time and effort; he argued in turn with the switchboard operator, a public-relations official, the Cell Manager, the Assistant Director and finally won through to Jarvis himself—a bushy black-browed man crouched over his desk like a dog over a bone. “What the devil is it now?”

  Waylock explained, and Jarvis became peculiarly cooperative. “The Chancellor wishes to see me at eleven then?”

  “Exactly correct.”

  “And you are Vice-Chancellor Waylock?”

  “I am.”

  “Interesting! I hope to see more of you, Vice-Chancellor!” He opened his mouth and laughed in small soundless gusts.

  “At eleven then,” said Waylock.

  Jarvis appeared at ten minutes to eleven with a pair of aides. He strode into the ornate reception hall, halted at the reception desk, looked Waylock up and down, smiling as if at a private joke. “So now we meet in person, face to face.”

  Waylock rose to his feet and nodded.

  “Not for the last time, I hope,” Jarvis went on. “Where is the Chancellor?”

  “I’ll take you to him.”

  Waylock led the way to the formal council chamber, outside of which Jarvis posted his aides.

  Within, Imish waited. In the massive old chair, with the escutcheons of former chancellors behind him, he achieved a certain brooding dignity. He greeted Jarvis, then signaled to Waylock.

  “I won’t need you, Gavin. You may go.”

  Waylock withdrew. Jarvis said with a kind of curt amiability, “I am a busy man, Chancellor. I assume you have something important to tell me.”

  Imish nodded. “I consider it so. I have recently been made aware of a situation—”

  Jarvis held up his hand. “One moment, sir. If Waylock is involved in this matter, you might as well have him in here, because the blackguard listens by spy-cell in any case.”

  Imish smiled. “He may be a blackguard, but he listens at no spy-cells; there aren’t any. I have had the room carefully inspected.”

  Jarvis looked skeptically around the room. “May I take the liberty of applying my own tests?”

  “By all means.”

  Jarvis took a tubular instrument from his pouch, walked around the room, pointing the instrument, watching a dial as he walked. He frowned, made a second survey.

  “There is no eavesdrop device in the room.” He went to the door, slid it open. His aides stood quietly where he had left them.

  Jarvis returned to his seat. “Now we will talk.”

  Waylock, standing in the next room with his ear to a hole he had forced through the soundproofing, smiled.

  “In a sense Waylock is involved,” came Imish’s voice. “For reasons of his own, he has shown me a subtle danger you may or may not be aware of.”

  “Anticipating danger is not my duty.”

  Imish nodded. “Perhaps it is mine. I refer to a peculiar organization, the Whitherers—”

  Jarvis made an impatient movement. “There is nothing of interest to us there.”

  “You have agents among the group, then?”

  “None. Nor in the Sunset League, nor the Abracadabrists, nor the Stonemasons Guild, nor the Unified Globe, nor the Vedanticizers, nor the Silver Thionists—”

  “I want you to investigate the Whitherers at once,” said Imish.

  There was argument. Imish was quietly obdurate. Jarvis finally threw up his hands. “Very well. I’ll do as you ask. The times are unsettled; perhaps we’ve been remiss.”

  Imish nodded, settled back in his chair. Jarvis thrust his heavy face forward. “Now—I have a very urgent suggestion to make. Drop Waylock. Get rid of him. The man is a blight, a dark shadow. Moreover, he is a Monster. If you have any regard for the reputation of your office, you will discharge him before we make our call.”

  Imish’s dignity wavered. “Are you—ah—referring to the transition of my previous secretary Rolf Aversham?”

  “No.” Jarvis inspected Imish with a cold concentration. Imish squirmed. “According to your testimony, Waylock could not have been guilty.”

  “No,” said Imish; “of course not.”

  “I speak of a crime which occurred several months ago at Carnevalle, when Waylock arranged the distemporization of The Jacynth Martin.”

  “What!”

  “We have made contact with his accessory: a notorious Berber known as Carleon. Carleon will provide evidence sufficient to convict Waylock—for a consideration.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Imish asked stiffly.

  “Because you can help us.”

  “In what way?”

  “Carleon wants a pardon. He wants to leave Thousand Thieves and return to Clarges. You have the legal authority to issue it.”

  Imish blinked. “My powers are only nominal; you know that as well as I do.”

  “Nevertheless they are valid. I could go to the College of Tribunes or the Prytanean for the same amnesty, but there would be publicity, awkward questions.”

  “But this Carleon—isn’t his guilt equal to that of Waylock’s? Why absolve one in order to punish the other?”

  Jarvis was silent. Imish was not quite the pliant and amiable fool he had expected to find. “It is a matter of policy,” he said at last. “Waylock is in the nature of a special case; I have had orders to apprehend him by any means whatever.”

  “No doubt the Amaranth Society is exerting pressure.”

  Jarvis nodded. “Consider the situation in this light. Two scoundrels, Waylock and Carleon, are both at liberty. By granting Carleon the amnesty we trap Waylock. This is clear gain.”

  “I see…Do you have the necessary papers?”

  Jarvis brought a document from his pocket. “You need only sign here.”

  Imish read the list of crimes from which his signature would absolve Carleon. He became indignant. “The man is depraved! You vindicate a creature of this sort in order to trip up Waylock, a saint by comparison?” He threw the document down.

  Jarvis, with stolid patience, went over the situation again. “I explained, sir, that this creature lives free and untaxed at Carnevalle. We lose nothing by remitting him these crimes; we gain by prosecuting Waylock—and then, there are the wishes of highly placed persons to be considered.”

  Imish seized a pen, angrily scribbled his signature. “Very well, then. There it is.”

  Jarvis took the document, folded it, rose to his feet. “Thank you for your help, Chancellor.”

  “I hope I don’t get in trouble with the Prytanean,” muttered Imish.

  “I can reassure you there,” said Jarvis. “They will never know.”

  Jarvis returned to the Central Cell at Garstang. Almost as he arrived a call came through from Imish. “Director, I feel I must report that Waylock is gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “I don’t know. He left without a word to me.”

  “Very well,” said Jarvis. “Thank you for calling.”

  The screen faded. Jarvis sat a moment deep in thought. Then he punched a button and spoke into a microphone. “Carleon’s pardon is ready. Get to him; arrange for a meeting—the sooner the better.”

  2

  A man in a brass mask moved quickly along a narrow passageway, open to the sky. At a small steel door he paused, looked forward and back, entered, took three quick steps, stopped short. He waited two seconds while a trap of fire-lances struck out in front of him and behind him. They cut off; he stepped forward through the trap.

  He went swiftly down a flight of stairs into a bleak room furnished with benches and a table. At the table sat a small man with a pinched face and great luminous eyes.

  “Where’s Carleon?” asked the man in the mask.

  The little man nodded toward a door. “In his Museum.”

  The man in the mask went quickly to the door, opened it, passed into a long concrete-walled corridor.

  He moved along this corridor in a peculiar fashion, walking for a space on the extreme left, then jumping across to the extreme right. At a seemingly blank spot, he brushed aside a door, entered a long room, furnished with overpowering opulence and shot with green light.

  A large man with a round dead-white face looked up questioningly. One arm hung behind his back. His eyes shone when he saw the man in the brass mask. “Well?”

  His visitor removed the mask.

  “Waylock!” Carleon swung his arm around; it held a power-pistol. Waylock had been prepared; his own weapon was ready. It rattled; Carleon’s lifeless body jerked back as if snatched by an invisible hook.

  Waylock looked down the aisles of the “museum”. Carleon had been a necrologue; the exhibits consisted of death in all its phases and stages. Waylock looked in surprise at the broken body of Carleon. This was the man who was to go free in order that Waylock be trapped! He had underestimated the determination of his opponents…