"The main computer tracks all members of my household via these links. Any organic life in the house which is unlinked, the computer believes to be an enemy. And disposes of accordingly." She shoved her sleeve down. "It also registers pulse, blood chemistry, respiration—so we may be assured of your continued good health. Put the bracelet on and remove it for nothing while you are a guest here. Do you understand?"

  "I understand." She slipped it over her hand, pushed—and the circlet sealed firmly around her wrist.

  "Good." Saxony Belaconto turned to go. "The bedroom is through that door. You will find clothing in the dressing room; a shower and other facilities just beyond. Meals will be served here when the rest of the house dines." Her hand on the doorplate, she turned back, her smile like the thrust of an ice-knife. "I hope your stay here is extremely comfortable. Forgive me, that I cannot visit longer, but times are very busy, just now." Then she was gone.

  Corbinye went over to the door and laid her hand against the plating, hissing in surprise at the slight electric shock. She went back through the white room and into the bedroom, which was all shades of gray and black, with a blood-red cover for the bed. Cautiously, she slipped Number Fifteen from her pocket and sat on the edge of the bed for a long time with the spider cupped in her hand, looking deep into its golden eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The door opened, gently as a prayer. The spider on the Smiter and Witness in the chair turned their eyes toward the slowly-widening portal. Witness, at least, held his breath.

  Barely had he chided himself for this breach of duty and regained the proper distance from his heart than the door stopped its movement and a person slipped into the room.

  Stealthy he was, and silent as a shadow's shadow; yet he moved with surety, with no trembling fingers or fumbled movements in the heartbeat he required to close the door and seal it.

  He turned, with purpose though without haste, and looked about him—studying the place, so it seemed to Witness, and perhaps tasting of the power. His eyes—enormous and blue in a face as austere as a chief's—touched Witness; stayed for a moment; moved on. Only when he had surveyed the room entire did he go forward—quietly, calmly—to stand before the Smiter.

  One slim hand beckoned the bold little spider, which jumped, scurried up the arm and vanished beneath the collar of the plain white shirt. The Seeker then stood, head bent, studying the bracelet on his right wrist. After a short time of this, he reached into a pocket, pulled out a stubby black rod, took it between both hands and stretched it until it was a slender black stick. This he passed back and forth over the Smiter, coming closer and ever closer—so close that Witness felt his private heart begin to fail—and then pulled back, nodding as he squashed the stick back into rod and returned it to his pocket.

  From the left sleeve came yet another spider, larger than the first, eyes vividly purple. It spun itself a silken lifeline down and, still spinning, commenced to cover the Smiter's area—over, under; over, under—in fine black silk.

  The Seeker divided his attention between his wristlet and the spider's progress; nodded once more and glanced over his shoulder.

  "The evening is cool and rather damp," he said neutrally, as a man may speak to a man. Witness for the Telios inclined his head.

  "I hear you, O Seeker, and give thanks for the news you share."

  Thin golden brows arched above those luminous, large eyes. "Just so." He returned his attention to the Smiter and the changes being wrought there.

  The spider completed its last circuit and jumped to its master's hand, trailing thread behind. It paused for a moment on the man's palm, cut the silken strand and vanished beneath a sleeve-cuff.

  The Seeker took the strand and carefully attached it to one of the many studs upon his bracelet; touched three others in rapid sequence—

  Witness for the Telios hurled to his feet, so far forgetting duty that his heart's cry escaped his lips, and the Seeker turned, mild surprise on his grave, cool face.

  "Yes?"

  Witness took breath—and another—sternly chastising his private heart even as he stepped away from events, turning knowledge of the moment over to eyes and memory.

  The Seeker frowned slightly; glanced over at his handiwork and then back.

  "You are disturbed," he said gently, though in a tone that acknowledged such things occurred, even to those Tested and Tried. "I mean no—disrespect—to the Goddess or to her Instrument. You may tell me if I have offended."

  A direct request for information could be answered—must be answered! Witness felt his private heart ease as he raised his arms in the sign of Answering Truly.

  "Offense in the past has been shown by lightnings, by earth-tremor, by loss of breath and the stopping of the heart of the offender."

  The Seeker glanced down at his slender self; glanced over at the blurred space of air where Shlorba's Smiter had, until a moment ago, lain; and looked back at Witness for the Telios.

  "I assume offense has not been taken," he said dryly, glancing at his wrist. "It is time to be gone."

  So saying, he turned and bent; the rectangle of blurred air rose in his hand and, as he stopped by the door to undo the seals, leaned against his side.

  Witness for the Telios went softly to the Place where the Smiter had been; satisfied his eyes and his hands and his private heart that the place was now merely a place, and turned to follow Shlorba's Smiter, wherever and however it might go.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Seeker moved through the darkness like a lyr-cat, passing silently down the court and up a set of shallow steps. At the top, he paused to do certain things, and the door slid open before him.

  He stepped within, Witness coming after.

  It was less dark inside, though nowhere near light. The Seeker walked on, past the scant furnishings, through a short hall and down a long flight of stairs, bearing Shlorba's Smiter invisibly in his right hand.

  As his feet touched the carpet of the room below, he called out "Light!" and light there was, illuminating every corner of a place full to overflowing with devices, instruments, keyboards and others of the diverse tools used by those who were not Bindalche.

  Witness for the Telios felt his feet slow as his private heart took in this treasure-house of knowledge, near quivering in its desire; then he sternly picked up the pace, following the Seeker and the Smiter across the room to the far wall.

  This was uniformly gray and set with a mosaic of tiny lights, dials, and key-studs. The Seeker stopped before the wall, rested the blurred air that was the Smiter against his hip and worked carefully at his wristlet.

  The blurring writhed abruptly—and there all at once was the Smiter itself, all wrapped in spider silk, leaning nonchalant against the Seeker's side.

  "Ah . . ." the Seeker murmured, and reached to touch certain keys in that mosaic before him. Carefully, then, he laid the Smiter before the wall and took the single strand of silk that had recently been attached to his bracelet and knotted it about a gray metal protrusion.

  Shlorba's Smiter blurred out of existence once more.

  The Seeker turned from the wall and Witness for the Telios was before him, fingers touching eye-corners, then temples, in the ages-old request.

  Large eyes regarded him calmly with no flicker of understanding in their cool blue depths. Witness composed himself for speech.

  "It is necessary that I understand what I have Witnessed," he said, crossing his arms over his chest; "for the Memory to rightly serve the ones who Witness after."

  Understanding dawned, and a certain thoughtfulness crossed the chiefly face. He turned and gestured toward the Place that hid the Smiter.

  "The computer is scrambling the light waves in the Trident's immediate area, making it difficult for human eyes to see. A limited ruse, but effective enough in the dark. If we had passed through a scanner-beam, the Trident would have been—noticed—immediately."

  Witness considered. "I understand that machines have eyes which see more deeply in some instances than the eyes of men," he acknowledged, recalling his study of the fat man's culture. "In what manner does the spider silk serve?"

  "As a conductor for the computer's energy."

  So. The silk was the road by which the machine's thought traveled, to the confounding of the Seeker's enemies. It was well. Witness lowered his arms.

  "I thank you, O Seeker. The Witnessing is made more full by your words."

  Humor glimmered through the blue eyes, though the face did not warm. He bowed slightly. "I am delighted to assist." He straightened and gestured about him. "These things are not to be touched—here . . . here . . . here. You may sit on the carpet, on yon stool, or on the edge of that table. Later, if your duty permits, I will show you where food is to be found."

  Witness felt his private heart sing hosanna as he copied the other's bow. Better, O twelves better! than the fat man was this young slim Seeker, with his cool face and knowing eyes! Almost, Witness allowed words of well-wishing to cross his lips, and was unaccountably dismayed that his duty did not permit him to speak so to this one.

  "If you have no further questions. . .?" The Seeker waited a courteous moment, then nodded and turned away, moving smooth and sure through the wilderness of devices to a certain keyboard and screen. He hitched a hip onto the stool set before these, one foot hooked behind a rung, the other braced stoutly against the floor, reached forward and flipped switches.

  The screen glowed cream, blue lines multiplying there like crystals in a salt-storm. Witness saw the Seeker frown, touch keys; nod.

  "So, then . . ."

  More keys touched by clever fingers—the blue lines shifted, reformed into arcane patterns of words and numerals. The Seeker snapped a toggle from left to right and the screen shimmered then steadied into a gridwork of absolutely equal squares, stretching to infinity.

  Deliberately, the Seeker's fingers played the keys, drawing letters within the grid. Paused. Played again, briefly.

  "Anjemalti?" The woman's voice was bright, fevered; gladness sheathing fear like gold over lead. "They have brought me to her house."

  The keys clicked. I KNOW, Witness read in the screen.

  "Yes," the woman said, slowly; "I suppose that you do." There was a pause. Then, rapidly, as fear overtook all: "Anjemalti—do not come here. She means to kill you, whether you fulfill her task or no. My ship is on Hotpad Sixteen—Hyacinth. She's a sweet ship, cousin, I swear to you—equal and better to any! Palm-sealed to my ID, but certainly you can contrive—"

  CORBINYE, the Seeker wrote across the screen. COUSIN DO NOT

  "Anjemalti, it is to throw your life away! Surely honor cannot compel you to deal as an equal with a rogue Grounder! There is nothing for you to gain by completing—"

  YOUR LIFE the letters danced into the gridwork IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN THIEFS HONOR

  "I am half-dead in any case!" the woman's voice cried and the Seeker shouted, "No!" as his fingers flew over the keys.

  NO NO NO LIVE CORBINYE TRUST ME IT WILL BE WELL YOU MUST LIVE CORBINYE SWEAR IT

  Silence.

  CORBINYE SWEAR TO ME THAT YOU WILL LIVE

  "Corbinye?" the Seeker murmured and leaned forward, eyes piercing, as if he would make of the grid-covered screen a window into whatever place the woman was kept prisoner.

  "I swear that I will try to live, Anjemalti." Infinite shades of sadness echoed in her voice. "I beg you will do the same."

  I AM NOT A SUICIDE he assured her. ONE MORE NIGHT CORBINYE HAVE COURAGE

  "Take care, cousin. Remember Hyacinth, should madness pass."

  The Seeker smiled slightly, hands flickering over the keys. THE CREW WERE EVER SINGLE MINDED

  The pause this time was charged with something undefined and powerful. "So we are," the woman agreed. "Ship and stars guide you, Anjemalti."

  SHIP AND STARS CORBINYE

  The grid went dark.

  The young Seeker sat a moment, shoulders sagging. Then he straightened and rose, bustling here and there among his instruments and devices.

  Witness for the Telios sat carefully on the edge of the table, dividing his attention between the Smiter, invisibly asleep. the restless Seeker, and the wonder of his private heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The spider ceased spinning, blinked its golden eyes twice and began to backtrack over the white rug, swallowing black silk words.

  Corbinye whirled, going from knees to feet in a vicious snap. The woman in the mirror performed the move with grace, body eloquent of snarling, efficient energy. Corbinye glowered at her, strode forward three heavy, Grounder strides—and spat.

  "Dirt-grubber!" she shouted, watching pink, and then red, mantle the fair cheeks, as the black eyes widened in a parody of true, Crew eyes. "Worthless, heavy, bundle of meat! No muscle, no speed, no finesse—you make me sick!" She caught her rage, grappled with it as if with a live thing, no little dismayed at its strength.

  The woman in the mirror was crying, soundless and steady; the jutting cheekbones gleamed with the tears that ran over them, to drip, unheeded, from the soft chin.

  Abruptly, Corbinye's rage died away, leaving only an ache of pity. That, and the chill, many-toothed terror that gnawed, day and night, at her belly. She sighed and reached up to rub the tears away.

  "Very well," she told the woman in the mirror, with utmost gentleness, "the Third Sequence, from the top; treble speed."

  Obediently, the woman in the mirror adopted the stance and began the moves, Corbinye echoing her in every muscle.

  Chapter Thirty

  With stealth and in utter silence, he slipped down the darkened hallway to the door he sought. Gently, he brought the specially-etched glove from his tunic and laid it, palm-flat, against the lock-plate.

  The door sighed gustily as it opened, and Gem crouched, ears straining to catch the slightest hint of unrest from the household slumbering about him.

  Silence in all parts of the house. The telltale on his wrist showed no surge of energy, as from the triggering of a remote alarm. The room itself was dark, slightly cool, smelling less musty than on his previous visit. Gem slid the infraglasses over his eyes and stepped across the threshold.

  Number Four made a circuit of the case, transmitted the all-clear and jumped to Gem's sleeve as he leaned to raise the lid.

  Mordra El Theman's greatest treasure shone, grail-like, before him. Gem bent forward and picked it up.

  Revulsion erupted as his heartbeat spiked in terror.

  Carefully, he up-ended the urn and spilled Sarialdan into his palm.

  Horror filled his throat with bile; fed imagined cries of discovery to his ears.

  Hands determinedly steady, he set the urn precisely back in its place, brought the case-lid down and stared at what he held in his palm: an ugly, irregular lump of brown stone, its surface broken here and there with sullen green crystals. Gem slipped it into his hip pocket; felt it lodge next to his body like an enemy's knife.

  He took a moment to close his eyes and recite the charm he had found in Shilban's library, wishing he could believe that the fear had lessened, then grimly reviewed the next steps of the operation in painstaking detail.

  Satisfied, he went silently and swiftly across the room and slipped into the hallway, sealing the door behind him.

  Four steps only had he taken, back the way he had come, when the alarm screamed to life.

  No subtlety here; merely a wish to terrify the intruder, confuse him with sound and with strobing light, so that he bolted, mindless, easy prey for the police.

  Gem whirled, took in the octagonal grid of an olfactory sensor set just above his head and flattened against the wall, terror a live thing, clawing his mind to shreds; felt the shudder in the wood at his back that was feet, running in the upstairs hall; heard the shriek of other sirens under the alarm's din and knew the police had arrived.

  They would expect him to run for the nearest exit. A map of El Theman's house unfolded before his mind's eye, showing the nearest escape behind him—end of the hall and left, through the kitchen and out. Straight into the arms of the police.

  Gem jumped forward, running silent on his toes, skidded into a side hall just as he heard two of the wakened household reach the main foyer; dodged into the butler's closet and slammed, panting, into the service lift. Shaking, he punched buttons and the lift went—up.

  Up. Past the second floor sleeping rooms; past the third floor exercise rooms and studies; up.

  To the ballroom.

  He nearly fell out of the lift; sent it back down, with instructions to park at the second floor, and ran across the imported wooden floor, the Fearstone burning against his leg. Through the glass dome the early morning stars blazed like a fever-dream of diamonds.