The doctor opened out his ear stopples and darted busily from dial to drum, muttering with his assistants, chattering into a flake recorder, ignoring Shadith, who was quite happy to be left alone, though she’d have been happier with something to occupy her mind and keep her from wondering how much she’d given away that she’d rather keep to herself. She knew well enough how much information a skilled researcher could tease out of a pile of apparently unpromising data; her first owner had been an itinerant trouble-shooter with a genius for spotting weak links. He had little use for women in any sense of that word, but a passionate love of all forms of music. He bought her for her small deft fingers and because he’d heard her playing a tin whistle she’d sneaked into her cell. She traveled with him, getting from him everything he could teach her, winning from him a reluctant affection and a generous admiration for her tenacity and the speed with which she learned. She grieved when he died, killed in a quarrel with a lover, not just because now she’d be sold again, but because she was deeply fond of him and for the second time in her life she was losing all she had of family.

  The Ajin came in and stood frowning at her. “Why?”

  She dropped her eyes to her hands. “I played what I’ve played before.”

  He took a step to one side. Behind him was his skinny aide, Manjestau. “Well?” he said.

  “Sounds like it.” Manjestau came closer, looked at the harp, looked around at the room. “Probably right. Probably needs the pollen.” He looked at her again. “And the freak.” The Ajin walked over to her, smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling, his good humor apparently returned. “It looks like we should have listened to you, child.”

  She moved a little, stiffened as he started to frown. “My name is Shadith,” she said quietly.

  “Well, Shadith, I still need to be convinced you can do what the reports say. Hmm. Tomorrow, I think. Outside somewhere.”

  She plucked at a string, waited until the note died. “We need to talk deal, Sikin Ajin. I don’t play this thing out of the goodness of my heart. It’s my profession. My skills are for sale, I don’t give them away.”

  “Right now I wouldn’t take them as a gift. Persuade me.”

  “All right. Tomorrow. A free sample. After that, pay me.”

  “If you’re worth it, we’ll work something out. Right now there’s something I want you to see.”

  “Shall I bring the harp?”

  “No need.”

  “Allow me time to put it in the case, please.” He inclined his head.

  She began stripping away the sensors. With muttered imprecations one of the assistants hurried to her, collected the ones she’d removed and slapped her hands away as she reached for another. She sat quietly letting him peel them off with slow care, watching the Ajin move about the room, stopping a moment to speak to the doctor, looking at the readouts, killing time, she was sure of it, until she was ready, looking grave all the while as if he knew what he was seeing. Apparently he’d forgotten the laws he’d laid on her the last time they’d met—at least he seemed willing to allow her a certain degree of independence as long as she didn’t push too hard. All right. She knew now she wasn’t Linfyar; body aside, she wasn’t that young or that flexible; she knew too much about what she’d turn into if she let her self-respect corrode too badly. The assistant went away, cuddling his sensors to his bosom as if they were favored children. She slipped out of the chair, snapped the harp into its case and left it leaning against a chair leg.

  He took her to the end of the corridor and into the mountain again, only a short way this rime, and stopped before a heavy steel door. He palmed it open, then stood aside until she walked in, following her, closing the door behind them.

  It was a high domed room with tool marks still on the walls. Naked stone, exposed wiring, complex flake boards that looked as if they’d been painted by an ancient ink master, a rough but powerful scrawl, compulsion worked so intimately into the pattern that it drew her eyes and would not turn them loose. She made an effort and turned to face him. “What’s that?” Even with her back to the thing it was burned so deeply into her memory she saw the webbing of darks and lights shadow-cast across his face and form. It made her dizzy and uncertain.

  He wasn’t looking at her, he was gazing at the thing with a proprietorial satisfaction that told her he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was seeing.

  She glanced at it again, forced herself to look away. It was disturbingly like the diadem—not its innocuous outside, but the way she’d seen it from inside. Anyway, the closest any construct of this age had come to that ancient trap. Kell. Worms eat his liver, why does he have to be such a … god knows … when he can make things like this? “Well?” she said.

  “Have you heard of the Hunters of Wolff?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “My enemies sent them after me,” he said, a blend of triumph and relish in his voice. “They didn’t know I have a patron greater than any Hunter, a man who supports our cause without counting the cost in time or goods. A Vryhh master designer made this, young Shadith, set it here as a trap for my enemies. If I had to pay him for his time and work, it would have cost me the total income of this world for a year. He gave it freely.”

  “That’s his choice. You left me none. Me, I want to be paid.”

  He ignored that. “A trap for my enemies, young Shadith.

  Look at it.”

  “No. Makes me dizzy.”

  He laughed, pleased by what he thought of as her weakness, just one more proof, if he needed it, of the power of his mind. “Never mind, then, look at this instead.” He put his hand on a bluish oval sensor, and a viewscreen lit up at the back of the chamber. “There they are, the great and indomitable Hunters of Wolff.” Two men hung in grayness, turning, writhing, horror and pain graven into their faces. “There they hang, young Shadith, my enemies. Hunters. In a nothing where they are neither dead nor alive, but fully aware of what has happened to them. Where they listen to whispers from their most secret fears. And it goes on and on, child, it never stops. That’s where anyone who betrays me will find himself. Or herself. Do you understand?”

  Shadith nodded, still staring at Grey. Alive. She shuddered, but horror wasn’t a luxury she could afford right now. “Umm … is that permanent or could you bring them back? Say someone wanted to ransom them. Or you maybe wanted to put them on trial to embarrass the Pajunggs, once you take over here.”

  “An interesting thought, child. You have a devious mind. I’ll have to remember that.” He contemplated the two forms, smiling with quiet satisfaction. “I could. Yes, I could. And I’m the only one who could. You might think on that during the long nights, young Shadith. Right now, I feel better with them in there where I know they won’t try spoiling my plans.” His hand on her shoulder, he turned her to the door. “And there’s plenty of room for more in there, that’s another thing to think about.” He touched the door open, followed her out, took her back to her rooms.

  Inside, he swung around one of the chairs from the table, sat with his arms crossed along the back, facing the divan. He waved a muscular arm. “Sit, child. Do you still want to bargain with me?”

  She settled herself among the pillows. “I won’t do you much good in that place, Ajin. And let me be candid. I will be even less use if you try forcing me. I’m stubborn. You’re not a fool; don’t act one. Consider me a mercenary and ply me with gold. Or the local equivalent. I don’t give a mouthful of spit about your noble cause, but I do appreciate hard coin. Nice cool rounds that rest heavy in the hand. That’s a cause I can put my heart into. Slide a few my way and you’ll see fervor like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “You’re young to be so cynical.”

  “Not so young as I look; all species don’t mature at the same rate.”

  “Is there anything you believe in?”

  “A full belly and a warm secure bed. That today will end and tomorrow come whether I live to see it or not. I prefer being alive to being dead, being rich to being poor. That’s about it.”

  “You know what I want you to do?”

  “I got a pretty good idea.”

  “Can you?”

  “All right. Honest again. I think so.”

  “I won’t haggle. Conditional on the success of your performance tomorrow, five kilos sweetamber, passage offworld, your word not to return with the understanding that if you break it you join my pets in that pocket of nowhere.”

  “The price is right. Name the terms of service.”

  “Five Avosinger years. You sing where, when and what I tell you.”

  “Three.”

  “I told you, no haggling. Take it or leave it.”

  “If I leave it?”

  “Do I need to say it?”

  “No. One small change, if I may. It’s for your benefit as well as mine. Where and when is your business. What is mine. Tell me the effect you want and let me decide how I’m going to get it.”

  “That makes sense. You understand, I’ll have observers in the audience.”

  “I never expected anything different.”

  “Deal?”

  “Deal.” She smiled at him, knowing full well that even if she did serve him faithfully and fervently for the next several years, all she’d get out of it was a berth beside Grey. Honor was between men; breaking a promise to a woman was as heinous a sin as farting in public. He got to his feet. “Tomorrow, second hour after the noon meal,” he said. “That suit you?”

  “Suits me fine.”

  He nodded and left. After the door slid closed behind him, she sat for some time without moving,—eyes shut, hands pressed hard on her thighs, using breathing exercises to calm her mind and sort out the whirl of joy and fear and hate and rage roaring through her. Finally she sighed and let herself fall back among the cushions. Taggert, where the hell are you? Grey’s alive, he’s really alive, but oh god, I’ve got to get him out of there. Ticutt, poor old Ticutt, what a hell that must be for you. What am I going to do? Never thought I’d miss witchface’s scolds, ah, Harskari, I wish you were here, I’ll never tell you, I suppose, oh god, I wish you were here.

  They were waiting for her, restless and close to hostile, routed from card games and sleep, taken away from their screens and scanners, their leave time, mercenaries that were the Ajin’s personal guard, the core of his army, and the better part of the technicians that lived and worked in the camouflaged buildings. Taken from whatever pleasure they were immersed in and forced into the treacherous outer air to listen to some flat-chested halfling sing at them.

  The Ajin looked at them and smiled. “If you can get them, you’re better than good, young Shadith. Look at them—won’t even sit together.” He frowned. “Mercenaries. Tough men. Good fighters. But they’ll always retreat just that fraction sooner than men fighting for something they believe in. They’re here for coin, and coin is no good to a dead man.”

  “My kind of people,” she murmured.

  He was not amused. “Make them love Avosing,” he said. “Make them cheer me. Make them ready to follow me into fire.”

  “It won’t last.”

  “You can do it?”

  “I can but try.”

  “Remember what you’re working for. Remember the five kilos sweetamber.”

  “I hear you.” She shifted the harp, got ready to play, then lifted her head. “Don’t forget I told you. The effect wears off fast.”

  “Play.”

  “Linfy, you ready?”

  “Yah, Shadow.”

  She nudged him with her toe. “This one has to be good.”

  “Gotcha.”

  She sneaked a last glance at the Ajin and saw that he believed in her enough to have filters in his nostrils and distorting plugs in his ears. Cheer him, she thought, damned if I do, damned if I don’t. She discarded what she’d planned and riffled through her stock of song patterns. All right, sing a song of fierceness and glory, weave it around the Ajin, that should do what he wants.

  She began to play on the harp, the sound thin and swallowed by the wind, then ripening into richness as Linfyar caught the mood and added his whistle. She could feel the men resisting her, still resenting her, determined to punish her with their indifference. She smiled to herself and began the croon, the ancient words ringing out with all the power she could put into them. And her sisters were finally there for her, spinning the dream out of their ghostly substance as they made her voice theirs. She sang first yearning for home, not the real home but the dream home men made for themselves when they were far from that home in every way that counted, in years, miles, a multiplicity of sins and sorrows. She watched the hard faces soften, shallow eyes mist over with tears, not surprised by this; the mercenaries she’d known had been easily sentimental when it cost them nothing. She teased them from that sentimentality into dreams of glory and honor, all the things they wanted to be or thought they were, fierce bold men of matchless skill, loyal to their brothers and to a stem code no outsider could understand. A dream even the most cynical and treacherous among them cherished deep in some comer of his shriveled soul, though he knew in mind and gut that it had very little to do with the real order of things. At first she’d been bothered by her complicity in this manipulation of men for purposes other than pleasure, but by the time she finished the croon and stilled the sound of the harp, she felt better about what she was doing. At least, with this bunch. They lived quite comfortably with the chasm between the ideals they professed and the things they did to outsiders and each other.

  The Ajin leaped onto the rock beside her and began a rousing speech; after a few words he had them on their feet cheering. She stopped listening and frowned at her hands. One thing to play on these men, but what about the Avosingers? One time wouldn’t make that much difference—what if he made her do it over and over again? I want out of this now. I can’t … But she had to. Until she could figure a way to break Grey and Ticutt loose, she was stuck here, she had to compromise, had to do things that were hard to live with. The Ajin squatted beside her, whispered, “Sing them quiet and reinforce what we’ve done.”

  We, she thought and felt her stomach curl into a knot. She settled the harp and began a rousing song Swardheld had taught her, one he’d picked up in his wandering since he’d acquired Quayle’s body; she had them clapping with the beat and shouting out the chorus, then she cut it off and sang a gentle, sentimental song of home, ending where she began, ignoring the calls for more when she finished., sitting slumped and weary over her harp as the Ajin sent them back to what they were doing before he’d ordered them out here.

  When they were gone, he came back to Shadith. “No more ‘conditional’—you’ve shown me something I wouldn’t have believed. Would that work with any crowd, one with women and children in it? More of a mix?”

  She straightened, forced herself out of her gloom. “Once I get the feel of the crowd, I think so.”

  “Then you can’t just push button A and get result A.”

  “No. People change. If you brought that bunch out again, I’d have to sing something different. Slightly different. It’s nuances that make the effect work. Or fail.”

  He gazed at her skeptically. He didn’t want to believe her, but he was out of his depth with music and didn’t know how to question what she was telling him. She kept her face calm, smiling a little, tried to project passivity and lack of interest in what he was thinking, though she read all too clearly that he was a little afraid of her now and his dislike and distrust of all women was working on that fear. I’d never last the whole five years even if I meant to stay. When his fear gets too strong, I go into the trap with Grey. Something to think about—how long have I got? How long before my value is outweighed by the danger I represent?

  He nodded, held out his hand. “Right. Come. There’s one more thing we have to do, then you can get some rest. You look tired.”

  “I am.” She let him pull her onto her feet, then followed him back into the building, Linfyar trailing silent and forgotten behind them.

  In the infirmary again. He stopped her beside the examining table, stood looking thoughtfully down at her.

  “Mess with my head and I can’t do that anymore.”

  He nodded. “I believe you. Nuances.”

  “Well?”

  “You worry me. I haven’t got a handle on you.”

  “The sweetamber. I stay bought.”

  “Easy enough to say that here. Out there you might change your mind.” He shook his head. “I don’t leave loose ends, Shadith. That’s why I’m alive now and not bones in a crypt.” He made no apparent signal, but a tangler wrapped around her. She heard Linfyar squeal with outrage and fear, forgot her own fear as she screamed curses at the Ajin and fought to tear free from the strangling bonds. A sting on her shoulder. Darkness knotted about her; she heard a last whimper from Linfyar, then nothing ….

  She woke lying on her stomach on the table, the Ajin looming over her. He stepped back as she spat at him, so filled by rage she wasn’t thinking, only reacting. Looking past her at someone on the other side of the table. “Turn her loose.”

  “She’s knotted up, ready to attack.”

  He laughed. “That child? Am I so weak? Turn her loose.”

  She felt the straps loosen over her back and legs, then fall away. The interval had given her time to remember where she was and why she was there. She sat up, winced as she felt a sharp twinge between her shoulder blades. A tall thin man came round the table and held out her tunic. She pulled it on with angry jerks, smoothed it down, then slipped off the table. “What did you do to me?”

  “Come over here.”

  She followed him across the room to a tilted screen a meter above her head. He touched a sensor and she saw herself stretched on her stomach on the table. She saw the thin man make an incision in her back and insert a small oval object among the bared muscles, sew it in place with a few knots. He pulled the flap of skin over it and sewed that down, slathered on some greasy liquid, covered it with a gauze pad held in place with adhesive tape, an antique procedure that appalled her. The Ajin tapped the screen dark.