And in antiphonal response came the deep, calm, enormous reply, “Let him be. He is a Watcher.”

  All motion ceased. The Prince of Roum had spoken.

  The neuters drew back. The Changelings halted their music. The bearers of the palanquin eased it to the floor. All those in the nave of the palace had pulled back, save only Gormon and Avluela and myself. The shimmering chain-curtains of the palanquins parted. Two of the Masters hurried forward and thrust their hands through the sonic barrier within, offering aid to their monarch. The barrier died away with a whimpering buzz.

  The Prince of Roum appeared.

  He was so young! He was nothing more than a boy, his hair full and dark, his face unlined. But he had been born to rule, and for all his youth he was as commanding as anyone I had ever seen. His lips were thin and tightly compressed; his aquiline nose was sharp and aggressive; his eyes, deep and cold, were infinite pools. He wore the jeweled garments of the guild of Dominators, but incised on his cheek was the double-barred cross of the Defenders, and around his neck he carried the dark shawl of the Rememberers. A Dominator may enroll in as many guilds as he pleases, and it would be a strange thing for a Dominator not also to be a Defender; but it startled me to find this prince a Rememberer as well. That is not normally a guild for the fierce.

  He looked at me with little interest and said, “You choose an odd place to do your Watching, old man.”

  “The hour chose the place, sire,” I replied. “I was there, and my duty compelled me. I had no way of knowing that you were about to come forth.”

  “Your Watching found no enemies?”

  “None, sire.”

  I was about to press my luck, to take advantage of the unexpected appearance of the Prince to beg for his aid; but his interest in me died like a guttering candle as I stood there, and I did not dare call to him when his head had turned. He eyed Gormon a long moment, frowning and tugging at his chin. Then his gaze fell on Avluela. His eyes brightened. His jaw-muscles flickered. His delicate nostrils widened. “Come up here, little Flier,” he said, beckoning. “Are you this Watcher’s friend?”

  She nodded, terrified.

  The Prince held out a hand to her and grasped; she floated up onto the palanquin, and with a grin so evil it seemed a parody of wickedness the young Dominator drew her through the curtain. Instantly a pair of Masters restored the sonic barrier, but the procession did not move on. I stood mute. Gormon beside me was frozen, his powerful body rigid as a rod. I wheeled my cart to a less conspicuous place. Long moments passed. The courtiers remained silent, discreetly looking away from the palanquin.

  At length the curtain parted once more. Avluela came stumbling out, her face pale, her eyes blinking rapidly. She looked dazed. Streaks of sweat gleamed on her cheeks. She nearly fell, and a neuter caught her and swung her down to floor level. Beneath her jacket her wings were partly erect, giving her a hunchbacked look and telling me that she was in great emotional distress. In ragged sliding steps she came to us, quivering, wordless; she darted a glance at me and flung herself against Gormon’s chest.

  The bearers lifted the palanquin. The Prince of Roum went out from his palace.

  When he was gone, Avluela stammered hoarsely, “The Prince has granted us lodging in the royal hostelry!”

  * * *

  FIVE

  The hostelkeepers, of course, would not believe us.

  Guests of the Prince are housed in the royal hostelry, which is to the rear of the palace in a small garden of frost-flowers and blossoming ferns. The usual inhabitants of such a hostelry are Masters and an occasional Dominator; sometimes a particularly important Rememberer on an errand of research will win a niche there, or some highly placed Defender visiting for purposes of strategic planning. To house a Flier in a royal hostelry would be distinctly odd; to admit a Watcher would be unlikely; to take in a Changeling or some other guildless person would be improbable beyond comprehension. When we presented ourselves, therefore, we were met by Servitors whose attitude was at first one of high humor at our joke, then of irritation, finally of scorn. “Get away,” they told us ultimately. “Scum! Rabble!”

  Avluela said in a grave voice, “The Prince has granted us lodging here, and you may not refuse us.”

  “Away! Away!”

  One snaggletoothed Servitor produced a neural truncheon and brandished it in Gormon’s face, passing a foul remark about his guildlessness. Gormon slapped the truncheon from his grasp, oblivious to the painful sting, and kicked the man in his gut, so that he coiled and fell over, puking. Instantly a throng of neuters came rushing from within the hostelry. Gormon seized another of the Servitors and hurled him into the midst of them, turning them into a muddled mob. Wild shouts and angry cursing cries attracted the attention of a venerable Scribe who waddled to the door, bellowed for silence, and interrogated us. “That’s easily checked,” he said, when Avluela had told the story. To a Servitor he said contemptuously, “Send a think to the Indexers fast!”

  In time the confusion was untangled, and we were admitted. We were given separate but adjoining rooms. I had never known such luxury before, and perhaps never shall again. The rooms were long, high, and deep. One entered them through telescopic pits keyed to one’s own thermal output, to assure privacy. Lights glowed at the resident’s merest nod, for hanging from ceiling globes and nestling in cupolas on the walls were spicules of slavelight from one of the Brightstar worlds, trained through suffering to obey such commands. The windows came and went at the dweller’s whim. When not in use they were concealed by streamers of quasi-sentient outworld gauzes, which not only were decorative in their own right but functioned as monitors to produce delightful scents according to requisitioned patterns. The rooms were equipped with individual thinking caps connected to the main memory banks. They likewise had conduits that summoned Servitors, Scribes, Indexers or Musicians as required. Of course, a man of my own human guild would not deign to make use of other human beings that way, out of fear of their glowering resentment But in any case I had little need of them.

  I did not ask of Avluela what had occurred in the Prince’s palanquin to bring us such bounty. I could well imagine, as could Gormon, whose barely suppressed inner rage was eloquent of his never-admitted love for my pale, slender little Flier.

  We settled in. I placed my cart beside the window, draped it with gauzes, and left it in readiness for my next period of Watching. I cleaned my body of grime while entities mounted in the wall sang me to peace. Later I ate. Afterwards Avluela came to me, refreshed, relaxed, and sat beside me in my room as we talked quietly of our recent experiences.

  Gormon did not appear for hours. I thought that perhaps he had left this hostelry altogether, finding the atmosphere too rarefied for him, and had sought company among his own guildless kind. But at twilight Avluela and I walked in the cloistered courtyard of the hostelry and mounted a ramp to watch the stars emerge in Roum’s sky, and Gormon was there. With him was a lanky and emaciated man in a Rememberer’s shawl; they were talking in low tones.

  Gormon nodded to me and said, “Watcher, I want you to meet my new friend.”

  The emaciated one fingered his shawl. “I am the Rememberer Basil,” he intoned, in a voice as thin as a fresco that has been peeled from its wall. “I have come from Perns to delve into the mysteries of Roum. I shall be here many years.”

  “The Rememberer has fine stories to tell,” said Gormon. “He is among the foremost of his guild. As you approached, he was describing to me the techniques by which the past is revealed. They drive a trench through the strata of Third Cycle deposits, you see, and with vacuum cores they lift the molecules of earth to lay bare the ancient layers.”

  “We have found,” Basil said, “the catacombs of Imperial Roum, and the rubble of the Time of Sweeping, and books inscribed on slivers of white metal, written toward the close of the Second Cycle. All these go to Perris for examination and classification and decipherment; then they return. Does the past interest you, Watcher?”

  “To some extent.” I smiled. “This Changeling here shows much more fascination for it. I sometimes suspect his authenticity. Would you recognize a Rememberer in disguise?”

  Basil scrutinized Gormon, lingering over the bizarre features, the excessively muscular frame. “He is no Rememberer,” he said at length. “But I agree that he has antiquarian interests. He has asked me many profound questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “He wishes to know the origin of guilds. He asks the name of the genetic surgeon who crafted the first true-breeding Fliers. He wonders why there are Changelings, and if they are truly under the curse of the Will.”

  “And do you have answers for these?” I asked.

  “For some,” said Basil. “For some.”

  “The origin of guilds?”

  “To give structure and meaning to a society that has suffered defeat and destruction,” said the Rememberer. “At the end of the Second Cycle all was in flux. No man knew his rank nor his purpose. Through our world strode haughty outworlders who looked upon us all as worthless. It was necessary to establish fixed frames of reference by which one man might know his value beside another. So the first guilds appeared: Dominators, Masters, Merchants, Manufactories, Vendors and Servitors. Then came Scribes, Musicians, Clowns and Transporters. Afterwards Indexers became necessary, and then Watchers and Defenders. When the years of Magic gave us Fliers and Changelings, those guilds were added, and then the guildless ones, the neuters, were produced, so that—”

  “But surely the Changelings are guildless too!” said Avluela.

  The Rememberer looked at her for the first time. “Who are you?”

  “Avluela of the Fliers. I travel with this Watcher and this Changeling.”

  Basil said, “As I have been telling the Changeling here, in the early days his kind was guilded. The guild was dissolved a thousand years ago by order of the Council of Dominators after an attempt by a disreputable Changeling faction to seize control of the holy places of Jorslem. Since that time Changelings have been guildless, ranking only above neuters.”

  “I never knew that,” I said.

  “You are no Rememberer,” said Basil smugly. “It is our craft to uncover the past.”

  “True. True.”

  Gormon said, “And today, how many guilds are there?”

  Discomfited, Basil replied vaguely, “At least a hundred, my friend. Some are quite small; some are local. I am concerned only with the original guilds and their immediate successors; what has happened in the past few hundred years is in the province of others. Shall I requisition an information for you?”

  “Never mind,” Gormon said. “It was only an idle question.”

  “Your curiosity is well developed,” said the Rememberer.

  “I find the world and all it contains extremely fascinating. Is this sinful?”

  “It is strange,” said Basil. “The guildless rarely look beyond their own horizons.”

  * * *

  SIX

  A Servitor appeared. With a mixture of awe and contempt he genuflected before Avluela and said, “The Prince has returned. He desires your company in the palace at this time.”

  Terror glimmered in Avluela’s eyes. But to refuse was inconceivable. “Shall I come with you?” she asked.

  “Please. You must be robed and perfumed. He wishes you to come to him with your wings open, as well.”

  Avluela nodded. The Servitor led her away.

  We remained on the ramp a while longer. The Rememberer Basil talked of the old days of Roum, and I listened, and Gormon peered into the gathering darkness. Eventually, his throat dry, the Rememberer excused himself and moved solemnly away. A few moments later, in the courtyard below us, a door opened and Avluela emerged, walking as though she was of the guild of Somnambulists, not of Fliers.

  She was nude, and her fragile body gleamed ghostly white in the starbeams. Her wings were spread and fluttered slowly in a somber systole and diastole. One Servitor grasped each of her elbows; they seemed to be propelling her toward the palace as though she were but a dreamed facsimile of herself and not a real woman.

  “Fly, Avluela, fly,” Gormon whispered. “Escape while you can!”

  She disappeared into a side entrance of the palace.

  The Changeling looked at me. “She has sold herself to the Prince to provide lodging for us.”

  “So it seems.”

  “I could smash down that palace!”

  “You love her?”

  “It should be obvious.”

  “Cure yourself,” I advised. “You are an unusual man, but still a Flier is not for you. Particularly a Flier who has shared the bed of the Prince of Roum.”

  “She goes from my arms to his.”

  I was staggered. “You’ve known her?”

  “More than once,” he said, smiling sadly. “At the moment of ecstasy her wings thrash like leaves in a storm.”

  I gripped the railing of the ramp so that I would not tumble into the courtyard. The stars whirled overhead; the old moon and its two blank-faced consorts leaped and bobbed. I was shaken without fully understanding the cause of my emotion. Was it wrath that Gormon had dared to violate a canon of the law? Was it a manifestation of those pseudo-parental feelings I had toward Avluela? Or was it mere envy of Gormon for daring to commit a sin beyond my capacity, though not beyond my desires?

  I said, “They could burn your brain for that. They could mince your soul. And now you make me an accessory.”

  “What of it? That Prince commands, and he gets—but others have been there before him. I had to tell someone.”

  “Enough. Enough.”

  ‘Will we see her again?“

  “Princes tire quickly of their women. A few days, perhaps a single night—then he will throw her back to us. And perhaps then we shall have to leave this hostelry.” I sighed. “At least we’ll have known it a few nights more than we deserved.”

  “Where will you go then?” Gormon asked.

  “I will stay in Roum a while.”

  “Even if you sleep in the streets? There does not seem to be much demand for Watchers here.”

  “I’ll manage,” I said. “Then I may go toward Perris.”

  “To learn from the Rememberers?”

  “To see Perris. What of you? What do you want in Roum?”

  “Avluela.”

  “Stop that talk!”

  “Very well,” he said, and his smile was bitter. “But I will stay here until the Prince is through with her. Then she will be mine, and we’ll find ways to survive. The guildless are resourceful. They have to be. Maybe we’ll scrounge lodgings in Roum a while, and then follow you to Perris. If you’re willing to travel with monsters and faithless Fliers.”

  I shrugged. “We’ll see about that when the time comes.”

  “Have you ever been in the company of a Changeling before?”

  “Not often. Not for long.”

  “I’m honored.” He drummed on the parapet. “Don’t cast me off, Watcher. I have reason for wanting to stay with you.”

  “Which is?”

  “To see your face on the day your machines tell you that the invasion of Earth has begun.”

  I let myself sag forward, shoulders drooping. “You’ll stay with me a long time, then.”

  “Don’t you believe the invasion is coming?”

  “Some day. Not soon.”

  Gormon chuckled. “You’re wrong. It’s almost here.”

  “You don’t amuse me.”

  “What is it, Watcher? Have you lost your faith? It’s been known for a thousand years: another race covets Earth and owns it by treaty and will some day come to collect. That much was decided at the end of the Second Cycle.”

  “I know all that, and I am no Rememberer.” Then I turned to him and spoke words I never thought I would say aloud. “For twice your lifetime, Changeling, I’ve listened to the stars and done my Watching. Something done that often loses meaning. Say your own name ten thousand times and it will be an empty sound. I have Watched, and Watched well, and in the dark hours of the night I sometimes think I Watch for nothing, that I have wasted my life. There is a pleasure in Watching, but perhaps there is no real purpose.”

  His hand encircled my wrist. “Your confession is as shocking as mine. Keep your faith, Watcher. The invasion comes!”

  “How could you possibly know?”

  “The guildless also have their skills.”

  The conversation distressed me. I said, “Is it painful to be guildless?”

  “One grows reconciled. And there are certain freedoms to compensate for the lack of status. I may speak freely to all.”

  “I notice.”

  “I move freely. I am always sure of food and lodging, though the food may be rotten and the lodging poor. Women are attracted to me despite all prohibitions. Because of them, perhaps, I am untroubled by ambitions.”

  “Never desire to rise above your rank?”

  “Never.”

  “You might have been happier as a Rememberer.”

  “I am happy now. I can have a Rememberer’s pleasures without his responsibility.”

  “How smug you are!” I cried. “To make a virtue of guildlessness!”

  “How else does one endure the weight of the Will?” He looked toward the palace. “The humble rise. The mighty fall. Take this as prophecy, Watcher: that lusty Prince in there will know more of life before summer comes. I’ll rip out his eyes for taking her!”

  “Strong words. You bubble with treason tonight.”

  “Take it as prophecy.”

  “You can’t get close to him,” I said. Then, irritated for taking his foolishness seriously, I added, “And why blame him? He does only as princes do. Blame the girl for going to him. She might have refused.”

  “And lost her wings. Or died. No, she had no choice. I do!” In a sudden terrible gesture, the Changeling held out thumb and forefinger, double-jointed, long/nailed, and plunged them forward into imagined eyes. “Wait,” he said. “You’ll see!”