Find your own truth

Robert N. Charrette
PART I

There Is No Surety

Mudder McAlister's blood stained the sandstone of Ayer's Rock a deeper crimson. Bright stars and smears of gore marked the spots where he had struck out-croppings as he fell, and a growing pool haloed his head. Among his twisted limbs, one arm hung as though it had an extra joint. If McAlister were still alive, he would surely be dead before anyone could reach him.

Samuel Verner turned his eyes away from the grim sight, lifting his gaze toward the cloud-dotted sky as he offered a prayer for the guide's soul. With a twinge of guilt, Sam knew that his sorrow was less for the end of a life than for the injury to his own quest. He had known Mudder McAlister for only a week and hadn't particularly liked him, finding the man ill-mannered, foul-mouthed, and abrasive. Nor was Sam amused, as was Jason, by Mudder's rages when Gray Otter physically rebuffed his clumsy advances toward her. Sam wouldn't miss McAlister's company, but he had been the only runner in Perth who claimed to know where to find what Sam sought. And Cog, that faceless fixer who seemed to have connections everywhere, had given him a high competency rating.

During their trek deep into the interior of Australia, McAlister had proven his skill and knowledge time and again, flawlessly navigating the pair of all-terrain Mules across the trackless, shifting wastelands of the Outback. Fifty years ago they wouldn't have had such problems, but Australia had changed since the Awakening.

In the days before magic had returned to the earth, the country had been well served with roads. Aircraft had flown high above the deserts and grasslands to connect the coastal population centers with the interior's scattered bastions of civilization. But with the Awakening, the land had come to chaotic and often malevolent life, swallowing roads and brewing vast, swirling storms of such violence that air travel was often too risky. The Dreamtime had returned as a Nightmaretime, and mankind had retreated before the unleashed fury of the wild magic. Only a few resource-exploitation centers belonging to megacorporations remained in the interior, and even their lifelines were tenuous.

Sam was sure that without McAlister the team wouldn't have survived the trip to Ayer's Rock. The guide had saved them from blundering into any of the treacherous landforms and had known which of the local paranimals they had seen were dangerous. He had even shown them how to spot an approaching mana storm and how to take cover from the manifestations of the uncontrolled magic. Now he was dead, and the Americans certainly had not had tune to learn everything Mudder McAlister knew about the Outback. They were all experienced shadowrunners, though. Besides, they still had Harrier Hawkins, the other Australian who had come with them. Though not as experienced as Mudder, Hawkins had run the Outback before. Sam thought there was a reasonable chance they could all get back.

He stared down at what was left of the guide's rap-peling line, which lay looped chaotically near its piton anchor. When the line's sheath and multi-stranded core had parted, the sudden release of tension had flung the loose end back. He bent to examine the end and found it frayed, as though cut. Neither Jason nor Gray

Otter for all of McAlister's harassment would have had reason to kill the guide. They knew as well as Sam that he was the only one who knew the way. As for Harrier, he'd had some history with McAlister and so might have had a reason, but he hadn't been near the line.

Holding the end, Sam shook out the rope and estimated the remaining length. It looked just long enough to reach the edge of the ledge where the team stood. He stepped to the edge and crouched. The rock was jagged where the line had gone over the edge, easily sharp enough to slice through the line as it sawed back and forth' under the weight of the descending McAlister. Before dropping over the edge, Mudder had said he wouldn't need an edge roller because the rock was smooth. Would an experienced climber like McAlister have made the mistake of laying his line over such a dangerous point? The jagged edge couldn't have been there before McAlister went over the rim.

Jason stood at the precipice, looking down at the broken body of the guide. The Indian's cyberware gleamed in the sunlight and "made the blocky silhouette of his enhanced body look even less human than usual. He turned to Sam, the mirror lenses of his optic implants glittering beneath his dark brows. "He's broke but good."

The slender woman at Jason's side nodded in agreement. She wore gray leathers decorated with short fringe and panels of exquisite beadwork. The leathers were real, unlike her Amerindian features and skin color. Those were the result of cosmetic surgery and melanin chemoadjustment. Once, when very, very wasted, she had shown Sam the minute scars, claiming they were the marks of a ritual Sun Dance. Sam knew the signs for what they were, having once prepped information for a brief on radical cosmetic surgeries back when he'd been a researcher for the corp. But even on that night she had owned up to no name other than

Gray Otter. He was sure she hadn't been born to the streets, but she had embraced them and learned to live on them. As swift as her namesake and with a bite that could be as sharp, she usually saved her speech for important matters. When she spoke without being spoken to, Sam knew she was concerned. "Bad karma."

"Crimey," Harrier exploded, dancing about as though ready to take flight. "You blokes can't give up. Old Mudder wouldn'ta wanted that. He said you were real tough chummers. You can't quit now. Not when we's so close."

"Nobody said anything about quitting," Sam said soothingly.

"Seems like a good idea to me," Jason said. "Can't get where you're going around here without a guide." "But Mudder said we was here, that we'd made it," Harrier whined.

"He made it all right. Maybe you'd like to join him." Jason took a step toward Harrier and the little man danced back, dodging to put Sam between him and the samurai. Jason laughed. Sam faced him. "We're going down." "Go ahead. I didn't come here to hump up and down rocks looking for something we won't be able to find." "You're here because I'm paying you. And because I'm paying you, you'll shut up and come along."

Jason bristled at that. He cocked his wrists inward, and twin fourteen-centimeter blades slid from ecto-myelin sheaths embedded in his forearms. Sam's eyes were welded to the tips of the blades. Stomach churning, he watched the tips vibrate with the tension in the samurai's arms. Jason was arrogant and full of his own competence as a fighter, but Sam hoped the Indian would realize that it might take magic to handle some of the threats the Outback could throw at them before they could get back to the coast. And Sam was the only magician for a hundred kilometers. The samurai boiled with anger at Sam's tone, but Jason never threw away something that he might need. Sam was betting on that.

The blades slid back into their sheaths. Relieved, Sam turned back to Harrier and ordered him to rig another rappeling line to replace the remnant of McAlister's line. While the Australian worked at that, Sam shrugged off his pack and set it at the rim of the ledge. He took out a few things he thought might be useful, then closed it up and braced it in position with stones. As an edge roller it was pure improvisation, but it would have to serve for the real one that lay below with McAlister. When Harrier was ready, Sam tossed the line down and made very sure it passed across his pack. Hitching the line into his harness, Sam turned his back to the void. He stepped backward, balancing at the edge for a moment before slipping slack into the line and leaning backward over the drop. Satisfied that the line would fall on the buffer of his pack, he took the first few steps downward. Only after the line settled into place did he push off gently and allow himself two meters of drop. He landed smoothly. The second controlled drops went equally well. It wasn't till the fifth that rock crumbled under his feet upon landing and he twisted his ankle. Though he had to favor that foot for pushoffs and landings, the rest of the descent went without incident. When he reached the bottom of the drop, he was relieved to find that his ankle could bear his weight.

Jason was the next down, dropping in five-meter controlled falls. Gray Otter was less ostentatious, but her more cautious approach was not enough to ward off bad luck. Halfway down she had a bad landing, and slammed shoulder-first into the cliff face. She slipped a dozen meters down the line before she could brake to a stop. When she reached his level Sam saw that her leathers were abraded and torn, but the ballistic lining remained intact. Though she made no com 8

Robert N. Charrette plaint, she favored her right arm. Jason did nothing but nod brusquely to the stiff smile she offered him. Sam had seen enough of Indian stoicism to know better than to offer help. Harrier joined them by executing a rapid series of small drops that seemed more like a scramble than rappeling.

The ledge they had reached was even narrower than the one they'd left behind, and McAlister's body lying there made standing room even more cramped. The guide's blood seemed to have soaked into the rocks, the stains becoming almost indistinguishable from the reddish sandstone.

Along the cliff face to the left was a darkness that had been hidden from above by an overhang. The cavern entrance was invisible from below as well, screened by the steep angle of the nearly sheer cliff. But it was here, just as McAlister had described it.

It would have been more direct to assault the cliffs from the plain, but McAlister had pointed out that such an attempt would require serious mountaineering equipment. He had strongly advised against driving as many pitons as the climb would require. "The rock," he had said, "wouldn't like it." So they had climbed along a circuitous path to the ledge, from which they had just dropped down onto the site. At the time Sam had thought McAlister's attitude superstitious, but now that the rock had sent the guide to his death he was not so sure.

A desert oak clung to a precarious foothold in a cleft on the far side of the entrance. The harsh location had stunted the tree, making it a natural bonsai. In his time as an employee of Renraku Corporation, Sam had known gardeners who would have sacrificed their retirement to have achieved such miniature perfection.

A flicker of motion at the edge of the tree's shadow caught his attention. At first he saw nothing on the sunlit rock; then he perceived a lizard clinging to the surface. Its back was decorated with stripes and lines of dots, but the patterns blurred as the lizard streaked away.. A shot cracked suddenly, and the lizard vanished in?: a gout of blood and tatters of flesh. Sam started back, feeling the heat of the bullet's passage near his cheek..!" "What in hell do you think you're doing? You almost hit me!"

"Zero out, Twist." Jason gave him a sardonic grin. "The 'ware's top of the line. Didn't even clip a hair of your fuzzy Anglo beard."

Sam knew Jason's smartgun link. The technology would keep the Indian from discharging his weapon while it was pointed at anyone the Indian recognized as a friendly. Killing the lizard was Jason's way of demonstrating that he would consider Sam a friend 'Ij. only as long as it was to his advantage, and that he f was capable of dealing with Sam anytime he wished. Jason was a dangerous man, a quality that made him j valuable to this run. The Indian was, in fact, the second-most-deadly samurai Sam knew. He would have preferred to have the first-most-deadly by his side, but that samurai wouldn't leave Seattle. Sam had known from the start that this run would be too dangerous with less than the best he could afford. He didn't like or trust Jason, but he had hired him anyway. Jason had offered a discount for his services to dem- f onstrate his disdain both for the danger involved and for that other samurai, and so was affordable muscle.

Affordable, deadly, and a future problem.

"You didn't need to shoot it," Sam said.

Jason gave him a look that was supposed to be innocent. "It mighta been poisonous. Coulda bit you."

"Damn fool street-runner," Harrier snapped. "Don't you know nothing? Rock monitors eat bugs. Ain't gonna bite nobody!"

"Shut up, little man." Keeping his eyes on Sam, Jason swung his arm around so that his gun pointed at Harrier. They all knew the samurai's smartgun link would let him aim the weapon without looking in the direction the muzzle pointed. Gray Otter leaned back against the rock face and out of the line of fire. With nothing between him and the weapon, Harrier began to retreat along the ledge.

"Don't let him shoot me, Mr. Twist. You're a shaman. Hex him or something."

Pointedly, Sam turned his back on Jason to demonstrate his disapproval of the Indian's bullying. "He won't shoot you, Harrier. I hear tell that you can't get anywhere around here without a guide, and you're the closest thing we've got to one."

The sound of a weapon being bolstered told Sam that Jason was done with his posturing for now. He hoped there would be no more problems until they got back to the Mules. The Indian usually went relatively docile for several hours, after having lost a play in the domination game. With all the dangers of travel, he would be quiet enough on the trip back to the coast. Once there, the odds would shift again. Sam expected that Jason would want an accounting for Sam's having embarrassed him in front of Gray Otter.

For now, though, they stood before the cavern McAlister had described. If everything the guide had hinted were true, they were facing more immediate problems. Even without shifting to his astral perception, Sam felt the stirring he had come to associate with the presence of powerful magic. He sat down cross-legged and shifted perceptions. The cavern mouth remained a dark hole in the cliff, his astral senses offering no clues to what lay beyond. Ayer's Rock itself buzzed with charged mana. He had no desire to assay the darkness within the cavern in astral form.

As he was easing himself back to mundane perceptions, Sam noticed a faint glow to one side of the entrance. With his worldly eyes, he saw a pictograph of a lizard where the flesh-and-blood lizard had clung to the rock. The red and ocher of the paint were bright and shiny and looked almost wet. It didn't smell wet, though. When he touched one of the lines, Sam's finger came away feeling damp but showing no sign of color. While pondering that mystery, he noticed another painting a meter or so higher. Faded, but recognizable, it was another lizard. Like the first, its head pointed toward the mouth of the cave. Now that Sam knew what to look for, he saw that the entire entrance was ringed with pictographs. All were lizards, and all pointed toward the cavern's gaping mouth.

Sam stood and started forward, but Jason stepped past him to be the first to enter the cave. Sam was more than happy to let the Indian lead the way into the unknown. Jason was the best equipped to handle a sudden physical threat, and would only get angrier if denied that honor.

As Sam stepped across the threshold behind him, the drop in temperature was like walking into a refrigerator. After the initial shock he realized it wasn't so much the great temperature differential, but that the escape from the blazing sun made it seem so. Straining to see, he took a few steps forward. Harrier and Gray Otter entered behind him. Unlike Jason, the three of them moved cautiously, almost unwillingly. None of them had the optic augmentation of the samurai.

It took several minutes for unenhanced eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, Sam saw that he was standing in a sort of antechamber. Gray Otter and Harrier were there, too, but Jason had probed deeper. More aboriginal pictographs adorned the chamber's walls. Hidden from the sun, these were less faded, but none had the fresh look of the one Sam had touched. Harrier identified some of them, speaking their names as though they were totems: Kangaroo, Koala, Bandicoot, Snake, and, arching overhead, Crocodile.

Turning at the sound of a foot scraping the rock floor, he saw Jason standing in the archway of a tunnel that led deeper into the rock. Looking annoyed, the Indian turned on his heel and vanished again into the dark. Sam switched on a flashlight and motioned the others to follow.

The tunnel was uneven, narrowing and widening irregularly as it made its serpentine way into the earth. In the places where he had to duck low, Sam almost felt the weight of the rock above him. The walls were smooth and the tunnels almost circular. Branches too small for a man to pass through split off from the walls and ceiling. Sometimes the flashlight's beam showed that they looped back in almost immediately. Most often they were simply Stygian holes impenetrable to the probing light. The effect gave an uncanny organic feel to the place, as though they were walking through the arteries of some strange being of rock.

Sam turned one corner to find Jason only a meter away. The Indian was advancing cautiously, gun in hand. Sam's flashlight beam faltered in the darkness ahead of Jason. Its range of illumination seemed oddly curtailed, as though it were shining into infinity.

Suddenly Jason stopped moving, and screamed as his body arched in spasm. Lines of sparks danced along his body, tracing the wires and cables of his cyberware. His Ares Predator roared as his trigger finger tightened on the trigger. The thunder it raised in the cavern gobbled all other sound. The Indian twisted, almost as though trying to tear loose from the grip of a giant hand, and then was flung down at Sam's feet. There was the slightest hint of burnt meat in the smoke rising from the samurai.

"Righty, mate," Harrier said as he propped his head around the corner. "That's the barrier."

"Don't worry 'bout the Injun, Mr. Twist. Barrier don't like electronics. He'll be fine in a minute."

Jason groaned, then cursed with a vigor that indicated he had taken no real injury.

"See," Harrier said eagerly, "Mudder said you was the bloke who'd get us past the barrier, Mr. Twist."

Sam handed the flashlight to Gray Otter. She took it with her right hand; her left held her Browning Ultra-Power pistol. Cautiously he walked forward. Approaching the spot where Jason had stood, Sam's head started to buzz from the strength of the magic before him. He stopped, staring into the darkness.

The space before him seemed translucent, as though the air itself were solid. A fugitive gleam dwelt within the darkness, scattering light across the spectrum. It had to be the opal McAlister had said would be here. The guide hadn't been a magician, but he had been savvy enough to realize that an opal so well protected would have magical potential beyond any ordinary open.

Sam could feel the barrier's energy almost physically, but he knew it could only be countered with magic. Seating himself before it, he shifted to astral perception. He had expected the barrier to glow with power; instead it was dark like the entrance. Unlike the entrance it sucked at him, drawing at his energy.

Sam thought about calling the spirit of the place to question it about the barrier, but a raggedness on the periphery of his astral vision reminded him of the chaos of the Outback. Would the spirit come? And if it did, would it be warped like the land of which it

was a part? It might prove more dangerous than the barrier.

Deciding to tackle the barrier directly, Sam began a power chant to center himself and gather his strength. The rustlings of his companions receded from his awareness, but he felt every irregularity of the surface on which he sat. The soft movement of air through the cavern whispered to him in distracting, almost-understood entreaties. He blocked out the distraction.

Armored in his power, he changed his song, reaching out with a shining astral hand to touch the barrier. Motes of light leapt from his fingers to squirm and merge into fragile threads that traced a lattice of energy and revealed the structure of the barrier. The air in the cavern rose to a breeze, then to a wind. It howled forlornly, like a dog bereft of its master. Sam ignored it and concentrated on the pattern.

When he was sure that he understood the barrier's structure, he tugged experimentally on one of the strands. It gave to his touch and the lattice shifted slightly into a minutely different arrangement. Sam felt satisfaction. He tugged another strand, harder this time, and the lattice shifted as he willed. He set to work opening the way for the four of them.

Some time later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Raising his head, he looked up into the brown eyes of Gray Otter. Her expression was worried, and he smiled to reassure her.

"The gate is open."

She looked disbelieving, and turned her head to stare at the darkness. He followed her gaze. The passage didn't look any different. The darkness still ate the flashlight's beam. But Sam knew better.

He got shakily to his feet. He was tired; dealing with the barrier had taken a lot out of him, but he had done what was needed. Assured that there would be no hindrance, he walked forward. For a few meters the air seemed thick around him, dragging slightly at his movements, but then he was through into fresher air that smelled of evergreen.

Beyond the barrier the cavern opened into a large chamber, whose floor sloped down to a central pool that stretched from wall to wall and separated them from the far wall. Everything was underlit by a luminescence that seemed to emanate from the milky water, making darker still the pockmarks of water-worn cavities in the walls. A natural bridge of stone 8 stretched over the still waters. On the far side, three seams of opal cut diagonally through the sandstone wall. The opal gleamed with a thousand colors, bright II beyond what might be expected from light reflected from the pool.

Sam felt his facial muscles tug into a smile. McAlister had been right: Behind the barrier was a lode of opal. This was what he had come for. Those stones 5 held the power he needed.

Jason was the first to follow him through the barrier. The Indian came through ready for trouble, but drew up short at the beauty of the cavern. Gray Otter nearly bumped into him when she came through. Then both were crowded forward when Harrier followed. The Australian whistled low and long as his gaze settled on the seams of opal.

Sam started down the path toward the pool. When he reached the relatively flat area at the edge of the water, Jason cut past him. A few strides more and the Indian skipped a step and spun in the air. He continued walking backward as he mounted the bridge. At the top of the arch he actually smiled pleasantly and taunted Sam.

"Always putting me down about wanting money, Anglo. Like it's some kind of disease. Then you haul off after a chairman's ransom without spilling a word about what you're after. Afraid of too much competition? Or embarrassed to have people know you're just like them? The Ghost will love hearing about this."

Behind Jason, a creature out of nightmare rose silently from the depths of the pool. A broad crocodile head topped the three-meter neck, but no crocodile had ever had such large golden eyes, nor such long, lanky limbs, nor furred paws armed with needle claws. The creature rose until its shoulders were level with the bridge. Its lean, armored body was ropy with muscle. If it had hind limbs, they did not come into sight.

Perhaps Jason saw the horrific shape reflected in Sam's eyes, or perhaps he felt the terror the thing radiated. Whatever the case he spun about, raising his Predator, but his enhanced reflexes were not fast enough. The creature lashed out with a black-taloned paw. Claws shredded through Jason's flak jacket to scrape shrieking across the carbon-fiber plates embedded in his skin. The implanted armor was all that saved the Indian from being gutted by the monster's attack. The impact of the blow twisted him back around to face Sam. As Jason staggered backward, his left foot came down in empty air. In a desperate bid to regain his balance he threw his body forward, just as the beast hissed and snapped its snakelike neck forward. Gaping jaws thrust at the Indian. The creature missed biting him but its snout bumped Jason, toppling him over the edge of the bridge.

Shocked by the sudden attack, Sam was slow to react. His companions were not. Braced in a formal firing stance, Gray Otter opened up on the beast. Harrier fired as well, screaming wildly as he emptied the clip of his SCK 100 submachine gun into the creature. The concentrated fire ripped into the beast at the juncture of its neck and body, slicing down into its right shoulder. Tattered muscle failed, and the monster's limb dropped limp to its side. It screeched its pain and dove.

From his vantage near the pool, Sam could see the beast's dark shape just beneath the surface as it crossed under the bridge. The shadow flowed as he watched.

The beast's neck and forelimbs shortened and its body grew broader.

The creature's shape was still shifting as it breached, its momentum carrying it partway onto the shore. Bony armor now covered its skin, and its vicious head was that of a giant cat. The dark maw revealed row upon row of sharklike teeth as it snapped at its nearest tormentor. Gray Otter barely managed to scramble away from its attack.

When it raised its right forelimb to slap at the woman, Sam was appalled to see that the limb showed no sign of injury. The paw, now a clawed flipper, caught Gray Otter and sent her tumbling. She hit hard and lay still.

Harrier ran up next to the beast. He was still screaming incoherently, but he had changed clips and was pumping fire into the beast's side. When it swung its head toward him, he ran away shrieking.

Harrier's distraction bought Sam time to collect his wits. Such a magical creature was best fought with the aid of a spirit, but remembering the chaos that haunted this land, he dared not summon one. Tired from the effort of breaching the barrier, he would have to rely on his limited skill at sorcery. Running through the spell chants he knew, he despaired at how few were oriented toward combat. This great beast would not be easy to affect. He gathered his power, readying a stunbolt. If he could slow the creature down, he would have more time to prepare a more potent spell. If he could think of one.

He spoke the words, and cast his arm forward as a physical focus to channel the energy. The beast bellowed, shaking its head in confusion.

Then, like a gore-soaked revenant, Jason struck.

The Indian leaped onto the creature's back, clamping his knees into its neck. Augmented muscles drove fighting spurs deep, grinding past the beast's dermal armor to slice flesh. Again Jason thrust, seeking the vital arteries supplying the creature's brain. It screeched and bucked but the Indian held on, howling with berserker glee. Clawed flippers raked back to flay skin from Jason's thighs.

The creature thrashed and began to change again. Its body became more sinuous, allowing it just enough reach to slam an expanded flipper-paw onto Jason's shoulder. The Indian folded over backward, spine snapped. The beast arched further, flinging the body free in a welter of blood and entrails. Jason's corpse splashed into the water and sank.

Freed of the fear of injuring Jason, Sam unleashed the arcane energy he had gathered. Barely controlled, the mana swirled away from him and coalesced into a ragged bolt of energy that ravened toward the monster. The creature screamed as the half-focused mana tore at its being, ripping through its essence and scattering fragments like sand before a storm wind.

Twisting in agony, the beast threw itself back toward the water. Its outline flowed and its proportions shifted as it jerked and flailed ineffectually. It seemed caught in a transition state, unable to take a definite action or even a definite form. The monster crashed back into the pool.

Sam watched it sink until its dark shadow was lost from sight. Without expecting an answer, he asked, "What in hell was that thing?"

"Bunyip," Harrier said shakily. Then he giggled, showing that he was still close to hysteria. "Say what?"

"Bunyip," the Australian repeated. "It's a beastie hereabouts. Ain't never seen one before." "Then how do you know this was one?" "Bunyip's a shapechanger. Lives in water and is very nasty. I figure that fit the bill. You took him out pretty good. You're one hot wizboy."

Sam ignored the praise. He had failed to defeat the beast before it killed Jason. Over the Australian's shoulder, he could see Gray Otter kneeling by the edge of the pool. She was crying.

"Come on," he said to Harrier. "Let's go get the prize."

Harrier nodded enthusiastically and followed him across the bridge. The Australian spent most of the crossing scanning the water. Twice he stumbled and nearly knocked them both into the pool.

The far side of the pool was broader than the space from which they had fought the bunyip. Its surface was rougher, too, with small outcroppings and hollows scattered about. The area sloped gradually up to the wall seamed with opal.

"Cor," Harrier said, his eyes caressing the iridescent brilliance of the rock.

Sam noticed that several of the outcroppings on the floor were also tipped with opal. Near the center, a flat-topped chunk of dark rock projected almost a meter from the floor. On its surface lay a single opal crystal of surpassing size.

Harrier at his heels, Sam approached the dark pedestal. Unlike the other gems this was a fire opal, a far more precious kind. The eight-centimeter stone looked as though a great flame burned in its heart. Sam held his hand close to it without affecting the bright glory of the gem's brilliance.

Harrier reached to take it.

"No!" Sam could sense the power of the stone. "Don't touch it. For it to have maximum ritual potency, I must gather it myself."

Harrier stepped back, seeming frightened by Sam's intensity.

"Sure, Mr. Twist. It's all yours. There's plenty here for everybody.''

Sam ignored the Australian's blathering. He touched the stone and was only mildly surprised to find it warm. It was truly a stone of power. He tried to lift , but he could not get a grip. His fingers seemed to slide from the surface.

He cupped his hands to either side and concentrated. The world around him receded until Sam was aware only of the pulsing stone and himself. Slowly he brought his hands together, cradling the opal between them. His fingers tingled as they touched the oily surface. Focusing his concentration more sharply, he exerted his will on the stone. Wind whipped through the cavern, sighing through the holes worn in the stone with a frightening whelp. It shifted slightly.

The great gem seemed reluctant to move. Carefully Sam turned it in his hands, assuring himself that it was free before easing it from the hollow in which it rested. He sensed the vibration before he heard the rumble from deep in the earth. A craek appeared in the top of the blackish stone and raggedly curved away from the hole where the opal had nested. A second crack appeared, then a third. More followed, until eight fissures radiated from the nest. The cavern shook. Sand and small particles rained down. A soughing moan breathed through the chamber.

But the floor didn't drop away, nor did a huge boulder come rolling in to smash him. The moaning died away and the rumbling softened and stilled. Before his eyes, the seams of opalescence in the wall dimmed. Silence and calm returned to the chamber.

His prize in his hands, Sam rose shakily to his feet. With a whispered prayer of thanks, he turned his back to the opal-streaked wall.

"Where are you going, Mr. Twist?" Harrier asked. "There's lots more."

Staring at the gem, Sam answered, "This is all I'll need. I'm not sure I can handle even as much power as I feel in this stone." "But you can't get back without me."

Sam smiled. "You and Mudder aren't the only ones who ever learned to navigate."

Across the pool Gray Otter's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as her face took on a calculating expression.

"But there's a bleeding fortune here just waiting to be gathered," Harrier whined. "I didn't come for money." "Well, I bloody well did. There's enough opal here to let us all live like bosses of the biggest megacorps. You can't just walk away from this."

"I can and I will. I have more important things to do than grub up money." Sam walked to the bridge.

By the reflection in the pool, Sam saw Harrier scramble to his feet and point an accusing finger. "That's why you're walking out with a bleeding fortune in your hands."

"I'm walking out with someone's salvation," Sam said. He crossed the bridge.

"Tarring up your words don' change the truth. I walk away now and I'm leaving behind all the wealth I've ever dreamed about.''

Sam trod up the path from the pool. "You know the way here now," he said wearily.

"Cor, mate. That don't do me no effing good." Sam turned to find Gray Otter on his heels. He nodded to her. To his surprise, she smiled back.

Harrier demanded his attention with a curse. "You owe me, Twist. I couldVe been killed here. You owe me."

"The pay you agreed to is in escrow in Perth." "Perth!'' Harrier slammed his hat to the floor of the cavern. "Cor! I won't be able to come back once you close that fragging magical gate."

"That's true, but you will be able to leave here whenever you want. I sensed that in the spell that makes the barrier. So dig to your heart's content. We'll leave you one of the Mules and enough supplies for a few days. That should give you enough time to gather more than enough opal to make you rich. Of course, the bunyip might come back."

Harrier eyed the pool. It looked still as still as it had before the bunyip had erupted from it. With a shiver, the small man scurried across the bridge to join them.

Urdli knew something was wrong even before he emerged from the rock through which he traveled. He could feel that the mana form surrounding the hold had been disturbed. As was proper the inner ward opened for him, but as he passed through he sensed that it had been altered. There was trouble. He didn't know the seriousness of the situation until he had pulled himself through into the mundane world, and the wan opaline glow cast his spindly shadow across the capstone. It was empty.

"Purukupali! O Great Creator, how could you have made such a fool?"

Urdli felt his skin burning with anger. A few other guardian stones had also been pried from their wards, but most remained in place. This had been a haphazard looting, an ignorant destruction of the ancient balances. Whoever had done this had not even known what he was doing.

The sundered capstone was a bad sign, but he still had a small hope that the opening of the door had gone unnoticed by the ancient spirit. Perhaps it had not yet reclaimed the portion of its power that lay entombed here, giving him a chance to block the opening until he could gather others to seal it again. If he probed the well and the spirit was awake and aware, it would try to take him. He feared that he was not strong enough to deal with it by himself, but no one else was here. If he took the time to summon others, the chance would likely be lost.

He hesitated. He had no desire to become a pawn of the enemy. Old as he was, he was not yet ready to surrender his life, or his freedom.

Necessity was a strong argument, as was duty. But shame was a goad. He was the warder. If he made no attempt to set things right, his disgrace would know no bounds.

Urdli called upon the great spirit of the Rock and wrapped himself in its protection. Here in this place of great power, the spirit was powerful. He felt as durable and strong as Rock itself. Strong enough? There was only one way to find out.

He planted his feet, dug his toes into the stone to hold his body steady, and sent his spirit down into the well of the capstone. The way was filled with fairy cobwebs that fluttered as he passed. The place was empty. What had been constrained here was gone.

Relief at not having to face that which terrified him warred with frustration at finding it gone. The proscribed power had escaped, and the old enemy would be stronger. But there might yet be time to prepare. With luck, it would focus its attention on other feuds before returning its envious and malicious eyes toward his own kind.

Though his gathered strength might have been insufficient to deal with the old one, Urdli had no fear of the lesser inmates of the holding. He turned to the other wells of internment and found two of them empty, their occupants dispersed. Fortunately, the spirits still only stirred sleepily within the other wells. The long slumber imposed a lethargy on them that was to Urdli's advantage. Calling upon the power he held, he drove them back down into their dreaming. To seal the wells, he scooped opal from the wall seam and molded it in his hands to create new guardian stones. He set each in place with spells that made these stones replacements for the stolen ones. At least some of the problems would remain entombed here.

The effort exhausted him. He released his hold on the Rock spirit and lay back to rest, drifting off into a dreamless sleep. When he awoke, he was hungry. There was no food to be had here, but he could drink from the pool. Crouching over it, he gazed down into the milky water. His reflection showed him a haggard face, dark eyes sunken into black pits of exhaustion that were obvious even against his dusky skin. He dispersed the disturbing image by dipping his hands into the water, but his worries remained. There was still much to do.

After his drink, he called the bunyip. When it did not respond, he was not surprised. The thieves could not have successfully departed with the stones without first overcoming the bunyip.

He crossed the bridge and walked up the slope to the tunnel. Crouching to clear the low ceiling, he traveled the short distance to the gate of the inner ward. He adjusted his senses and read its structure, seeking the anomaly he had felt when crossing the ward on his way to the chamber. Finding the flaw was not difficult. One of the thieves, a magician, had opened the gate and set it to admit four persons, though only three had left. Urdli tugged on the structure, restoring it to its original form. Later, when he felt stronger, he would reinforce the ward.

He turned back to the chamber and scanned it with the deep sight. There was no sign of life, either amid the field of glowing prisons or down in the depths of the pool. The bunyip was dead, but so was one of the intruders. The beast had done its work, at least in part. A new one would be necessary.

Passing through the ward, Urdli walked to the cavern's mouth. There, in the crisp, clean air, he caught the faint scent of the blood-soaked rocks. His deep sight saw the stain, and he felt the wound in the rock where the piton had been driven. Another of the intruders had died here.

He stepped off the ledge and, supported by his will, descended to the plain below. The grave of the climber was painfully obvious. The thieves had made no attempt to hide it. He left it alone; likely it would not offer any useful information.

The marks of vehicles scarred the ground nearby. Wide, deeply treaded tires ran to a protected cranny, then away again. Within the nook was a profusion of footprints. They meant little to him. He was no expert, but it looked as though there were only five sets, the climber and the four who had penetrated the holding. He gazed out along the path the tracks took. The trail would not remain long in the Outback. Already he could see a storm racing to cut across the thieves' spoor.

He was angry with them. And with himself. The guardian stone, though bereft of its primary function, was still an item of power. Its recovery was imperative, as was the punishment of the thieves. He could not track them mundanely, but there were other ways. He began to gather materials.

The dry mulga branch was in a gully. The ants brought him the teeth of a marsupial mole. He apologized to the bandicoot he trapped and killed for its tail. The tail he bound to the slender end of the stick, then he spat on it and sealed the join with a word. Sitting down in a wash edged in red clay, he began his songs.

Two nights passed before the curved mulga branch began to writhe and put out new sprouts. The new growth stretched out into four spindly legs, while the old twigs elongated into ribs. The bulbous end of the branch grew, forming first a cranium, then a snout. He tossed the teeth into the air and they swirled into place along the edges of the forked snout, growing in size as they did. Throat dry and voice cracking, he rose and changed the song. He strode to the clay, the stick beast capering at his side. Thrusting his hands past the dry upper layers of earth, he scooped out handfuls of the moist clay beneath and molded it around the wooden skeleton. He packed the beast with his purpose and magic. Slowly, it took on the shape of a lean hunting hound. Holding the head with one hand he gazed at the rough-hewn shape, featureless save for the mouth of sharp teeth.

"Kulpunya, I give you eyes that you may see those you hunt," he said, thrusting two fingers deep into its skull.

"Kulpunya, I give you nostrils that you may smell your prey where they hide," he said, pressing two smaller holes into the end of its snout.

"Kulpunya, I give you ears to hear the despairing howls of those you hunt unerringly," he said, modeling long flaps at the back of the head. "With your ears, hear my command, kulpunya. Find the desecra-tors. Hunt them down for me."

The kulpunya howled, leapt from his grip, and raced away. Urdli watched its absurdly thin limbs churn, propelling it impossibly fast across the plain. It ran in silence, implacable and malevolent. Urdli smiled.

Hohiro Sato was not in a good mood. The morning meeting with Atreus Applications, Incorporated had not gone well. The myopic fools at AAI were still being difficult. Even his personal appearance at their headquarters in the Hong Kong Free Enterprise Enclave had failed to convince the stubborn board of directors. When he had told them that Renraku's interest in their company was utterly serious, they had seemed to think he was bluffing. They would learn, though. Sato wanted Atreus's assets for the foundering Special Directorate. And he would have them. When AAI refused his offer of a staged stock buyout, they had sealed their own fate. Sato would suck them dry as soon as he could arrange the necessary change in circumstances.

But that was a pleasure belonging to the future. He had left the meeting irritated, and then his irritation became tinged with resentment upon receiving word that Grandmother wanted to see him. Now she had the temerity to keep him waiting. He was no junior salar-yman to be summoned, however polite the phrasing of the order. Nor was he a lackey to be kept cooling his heels. His vexation kindled a smoldering anger.

Staring between the blank-faced guards, he watched the inner door with its teak veneer. Briefly fantasizing that his vision pierced the door's opacity, he pictured the scene beyond it. The garden was ablaze with rare flowers, a riot of colors tinted ever so slightly more exotic by the faint purple hue of the SunSub light panels. Insects serviced the plants, barely disturbed by the occasional visitor moving between one of the ring rooms and the central hub of the curved stairway that descended into darkness, into her sanctum.

He had long wanted to know what went on in her sanctum when he was not there, but never uncovered more than rumors. What he had learned was that she was well-protected. Even using the finest surveillance equipment, his agents had failed to penetrate the walls of the ring rooms. Even the magical skills of his tame mage, Masamba, could not pierce her barriers. Grandmother liked her secrets. Secrets were her business.

From her lair Grandmother ran an international network that traded in information, usually clandestine. She traded in other things, legal and illegal, as well. Despite her personal eccentricities she was a premier power broker.

Having been only a junior salaryman when he had first encountered her network, Sato had benefited from the association. At several key junctures in his career confidential material had been passed to him, allowing him to embarrass rivals or blackmail them out of his way. The stimulation to his career was undeniable, but it galled him that she held power over him. She. A woman. At least she was a Japanese.

Each time he had used her information, she had sunk her hooks in deeper. He had fed her information in return, all the while knowing that it only gave her a tighter hold over him. The opportunities just seemed too great to ignore and her demands inconsequential hi comparison. He had been younger then, hungrier… and stupider. Now he knew better, understood the nature of her hold over him. Someday she would demand something he was unwilling to give, then threaten him with ruin if he denied her. On that day, he wanted to be able to laugh in her face. He wanted to be too powerful for her to touch. So far, however, he had not succeeded in gleaning the information he needed to compromise her. Lacking that, he could make only vague plans. His best depended on a tool not yet ready. Until he knew more about her secrets, he was arming to fight wraiths.

One thing Sato knew for sure was that anger would gain him nothing. He forced it down, leashing it to his will. He would not be shamed into losing his temper before the woman. By the time her servant arrived to lead him into the garden, he was outwardly calm. Inside the fire coiled, a sullen dragon awaiting its time. As in all his previous visits, he was required to leave his bodyguards in the ring room. The servant accompanied him along the gravel path, then left him to descend the stairway alone. He followed his own shadow around the central pole and down the winding way. He stepped confidently, even when his shadow obscured the stairs. The hum of the garden insects faded into silence, but the quiet was soon broken by a rhythmic sound that grew louder as he descended. Click, clack. Over and over.

Damn! She was at her loom again. He hate^jt when she was weaving. The noise disturbed his concentration, and he did not like to be distracted when trying to deal with her. She was too sharp; he needed to be ready to pounce on the slightest clue to what might give him a hold on her.

He stopped briefly at the foot of the stairs, remaining in the shaft of light from above. There was deep darkness all around. She was out there in the dark that was part of her protection, but it offered little from him. His Zeiss eyes adjusted at his command, shifting to light amplification, and he saw her bent old shape seated before the loom. She looked no older than the day they had met, nearly two decades ago.

He didn't doubt she was aware of him, but she made no sign. He called attention to himself by clearing his throat. Her hands never stopped moving. The shuttle flew back and forth. A gnarled hand racked the hed-dles forward, snugging the latest line in the pattern firmly into place. Without taking her eyes or hands from her work, she greeted him in a wobbling, high-pitched voice.

"Ah, Sato-san, how nice of you to call." If she wished to pretend that she had not summoned him, he would humor her. Forcing politeness, he responded, "I was in Hong Kong. How could I not visit my Grandmother?"

She cackled. "Such filial devotion. I wonder, do you show so much to your real grandmother?"

His family was no business of hers, but he was sure she already knew the answer to her question, as she knew so much about him. Why could he learn so little about her? He refused to answer her question. Click, clack.

"Well, then, Sato-san. How is your special project in Seattle prospering? "

That was a question she would not let him ignore. "Not very well at all."

For a, moment, the loom was silent. Then, click, clack.

"I am most sorry to hear that. I was so hoping you would have good news for me. You raised my hopes last year."

He was sure he had. His own hopes had risen when the Special Directorate had seemed to have achieved their goal of creating a true artificial intelligence within the Renraku matrix. "I am sorry if you were disappointed. The disruption brought me more trouble than it did you."

"Very true. But Aneki took it well, didn't he?" "Well enough."

"Well enough, indeed. You have not been dethroned as the director's heir-apparent, and you are still in command of the Seattle arcology. That shows a certain cleverness that I shall have to keep in mind when I think of you. Have you been telling your Aneki-sama pleasant things that you have neglected to tell Grandmother?"

"I have told him what I have told you. Since mismanagement in the Security Directorate allowed the loss of one of the principal designers, the Special Directorate has been stymied, demoralized, and beset with unavoidable delays. A significant amount of data

was destroyed, and what remained needed to be checked. Hutten, the designer who was lost, was clearly defecting, as evidenced by his theft of key da-tafiles and custom components. As he was the architect of some of those lost components and left no reliable notes, the Directorate has not yet been able to duplicate the functions. We are no closer to achieving the goal than when Aneki assigned me to move things along."

Click, clack. "The touted abilities of your toy would have been most useful. You have, of course, punished those responsible for the disappointment. What progress have you made in recovering Hutten?" "None."

Click, clack. The sound was harsher now. Sato knew he had better explain.

"There have been no notable advances among our competitors. The security agent responsible for the debacle was seen to have injured Hutten before she herself fell to her death. Perhaps fatally. He may be presumed dead. As to punishment, there is still no clue as to who was manipulating the rogue Verner.'' Click…

"Verner? The name seems familiar. Refresh an old woman's memory, Sato-san.''

He doubted her memory needed refreshing. She was testing him, as always.

Years ago she had set him the task of tracking a handful of individuals. Renraku Corporation was a world leader in data technology, and his placement with the firm made him an obvious choice to arrange for surreptitious information-retrieval. He might have understood if the individuals she wanted tracked were important people, but most were inconsequential. But she was so persistent over the years, wanting to know everything about these people and their relatives, that he had come to believe she had some deep concern beyond that of an information broker. She seemed obsessed with the fate of these individuals, but he had never learned why. They seemed to have nothing in common save traumatic experiences during the turbulent year of 2039. Especially common were brushes with death on the infamous Night of Rage and in the turmoil that had followed. He had come to suspect that this matter touched upon something she… was "feared" too strong a word?

His belief in her fear had solidified two years ago when she commanded the interrogation of Janice Verner. The questions he had been required to ask the girl were filled with paranoid suspicion. What did "they" want? What connection did "they" have with the Verner family? Then, so many seemingly unrelated questions. He did not know who "they" were, but he had come to believe that "they" really existed. Grandmother might be paranoid, but even paranoids have enemies. Anyone who gave her concern gave him hope. If he was careful, "they" might provide him a lever to pry loose her hold over him.

Not wishing to betray himself, he chose his words carefully. "The Verners are among those you watch." "Ah, yes. The woman was such a disappointment. Whatever happened to the man?" Click, clack.

"Little new information has emerged since he went rogue. We know he survived his raid on the arcology. We also know that a shadowrunner matching his description has been linked to a number of petty operations, mostly in the Seattle area. His continued existence seems likely, but remains untraceable."

Click, clack. "Surely the largest information corporation in the world keeps records."

"On him, we no longer seem able. His file vanished from Renraku's banks a few months after the Hutten incident, and every attempt to begin a new one has been fruitless. Each entry vanishes almost as soon as it is made. I believe that he is, or has acquired the services of, a computer expert of the highest ability.

He or his accomplice has inserted a dedicated virus of hitherto unknown sophistication into the Matrix, Ren-raku resources have failed to isolate it. We know of its existence only by its actions, as it destroys all data connected to Samuel Verner.'' Click, clack. "But not his sister's data?" "No. And in any case, that would be unnecessary. Her death was recorded on Yomi Island nearly a year ago."

"I am intrigued." Click, clack. "He was involved with Hutten. Perhaps your missing computer expert is still alive after all. Perhaps the nascent artificial intelligence was used to strip Verner's identity from the Matrix. As you said, he had gone rogue. As a shadow-runner, he would find his corporate records a detriment."

Sato thought little of the theory, but decided it would be best not to scoff. If Hutten and the AI still existed, some corporation would have them and would have used them. He would not be unaware of such a situation. "There is no evidence that the AI survived Hut-ten's sabotage. The Renraku matrix retains nothing more than sophisticated analogs and knowbots, and Huang and Cliber are unable to duplicate their earlier apparent success. Nothing comparable has been observed in any other corporate matrix or in the worldwide Matrix."

Click, clack. "And the current rash of ghost-in-the-machine tales?"

"Simply that. Tall tales, rumors, and lies. There is nothing verifiable, nothing to suggest that Hutten or the AI remain in existence."

"I am disappointed." Click, clack. "Ah, well. New lines of endeavor are not always rewarding. One must always have enough interests that a disappointment does not prove overwhelming. I understand that Atreus has made some interesting refinements in its Haas bio-chips."

He was growing tired of her patronizing manner. Irritated by the constant rattle of the loom, he snapped, "I know."

"I am sorry. Of course you would." Click, clack. "You have been showing quite an interest in their operations of late. Regrettably, they have shown little interest in your offers." "As usual, you are well informed." Click. Clack. "I have a new interest. I wish some data. Awaiting you upstairs are chips with details on the subjects." "I will see what I can do." "I am sure you will, Sato-san. You are always good to Grandmother. And because you are, Grandmother is good to you. The chips also contain other juicy tidbits. Atreus could become suddenly vulnerable, were such data to fall into the wrong hands."

Sato smiled. For Atreus, the wrong hands would be Sato's. For Grandmother's purposes, however, Sato's would be the right hands. His own plans would be advanced, but her schemes would be furthered as well. Of that he had no doubt. He would take advantage of her offering.

The longer the examination went on, the more anxious Sam Verner became. Was the stone unsuitable? Had people died because he had misunderstood the needs of the ritual and gone after the wrong kind of object? Maybe the opal was the right kind of talisman, but was not strong enough. Or not focused right. The stone had seemed to pulse with power when first he had seen it in the cavern, but its aural glow had changed during the trip back. Had it weakened? He didn't know. He wanted to pace, to scorch away his nervousness and uncertainty by burning physical energy.

Only Katherine Hart's presence restrained him. She disapproved of such unprofessional displays of concern. She prized poise, coolness, and style. Indeed, she embodied those qualities in her looks, clothes, and masterly presentation. And he, prizing her good opinion, tried to emulate her, at least in the latter. His barely average looks could never match her slender, ethereal beauty. As for his clothes sense, the worn and comfortable garb he had adopted since entering the life of the shadows would never be cutting-edge fashion.

So he sat and fretted silently, wondering why the others weren't as concerned. Dodger sat in his habitual corner, eyes closed as he meditated. The elven decker looked entirely too serene. Gray Otter stood in the opposite corner. The beadwork was almost the only thing that made her stand out against the dirty wall. Her position would have given her a clear view of the squat's one window, but her eyes were turned to her counterpart among the Sylvestrines. For all his religious devotion Brother Paulus was a soldier, armed and wary. The burly Sylvestrine monk showed no sign of affiliation, save for a black enameled chi-rho belt buckle on his armor-lined coat. A datajack was embedded into his temple and induction pads in bis palms; when in motion, he moved with the occasional jerkiness of those with cyber-enhanced reflexes. Like his companions, Brother Mark wore no obvious sign of his religious calling. But while his somber, austere expression, and the unrelieved black of his suit and coat, might hint at his clerical nature, they concealed his puissance as a hermetic magician. Like Dodger's, Brother Mark's eyes were closed. Unlike the elf, he

was working, warding the apartment while the third member of his order studied the fire opal.

That good priest sat slumped in his chair, hands folded around the gem that rested on the rickety table. Father Pietro Rinaldi was an adept, able to read the auras of persons and things. Though incapable of other magicks, he was superb in his specialty, far better than Sam, Hart, or Brother Mark. He had been at his examination for over an hour now. Occasionally, he muttered. Usually the words were unintelligible, but Sam had made out "curious" and "fascinating." He wished the priest would remember that other people also wanted to know what he was finding out.

Time moved with the speed of a slug. At long last Rinaldi sat back, lacing his fingers behind his neck as he stretched. When he relaxed, he sat unmoving and breathing deeply.

Unleashed by the obvious conclusion of the priest's studies, Sam leapt up. "Well?"

Rinaldi gave him a shrug and a smile. "It's powerful, my friend. Of that there is no doubt. But it is most unusual as well. The stone shows no sign of having been worked by tools, yet its aura indicates that it was made. Also, the residual structures of some potent spells linger on it. I think it may have been molded by magic."

"Who cares how it was made? Is it usable?" "Usable? I should think so." "Good. I would hate to have wasted the trip." "The trip only cost you time and money, and only the time was of real value. But perhaps I know you well enough to see your real concern. Do not hang yourself about with guilt. Any adventure in this world has dangers, and those who undertake such activities must expect to face their share of them. Your allies are dead but you are not at fault, and you have not squandered their lives to gain a pretty bauble. I suggested you acquire a magically potent artifact to focus and amplify your power, and you came back with something more powerful than any of the talismans in the armory of the Sylvestrine monastery at Saint Luc."

"Then it will work?" Sam asked eagerly.

Rinaldi looked at the table, avoiding Sam's eyes. "I didn't say that. As I have told you often enough, this whole operation is speculative. The stone will channel an enormous quantity of power, but as you know, tools alone are insufficient. The form of the ritual must be exact, and the will driving it must be pure and focused. I would not wish to raise false hopes."

^Indeed," Brother Mark agreed. "Success is not likely. The transformation you seek is beyond the bounds of magic as man understands it."

"And who is to say that man understands all magic?" Hart smiled sweetly and lifted a hand to brush back her hair in a gesture that revealed one pointed ear.

"Implying elven secrets is a poor ploy, Ms. Hart. Elves are but a subspecies of mankind, a mere subset of the genetic pool awakened to phenotypic expression in these latter days. Your race's higher-than-average predisposition to magically active individuals gives no special magical abilities or knowledge."

"Art thou sure, good brother?" Dodger asked. "Elves once ruled your ancestral Ireland, and once again hold it as their domain. They say they have only returned from the sunset lands to reclaim the lands they walked of old. Art thou of such a great age to dispute their claim with certain knowledge of your own?"

"I need be no older than I am to dispute such foolishness. Save for a few isolated cases in the decades preceding the so-called Awakening of 2011, there were no elves. Or dwarfs, for that matter. Elven and dwarf phenotypes are quite distinctive. How could the exis tence of such persons never have been noted in centuries of historical and scientific records?''

"How indeed, good brother?"

"Dump it, Dodger. Brother Mark is here to help. He doesn't need your foolishness."

"My apologies, Sir Twist, to both you and to Brother Mark. I sought but to lighten the mood with this idle talk.''

Sam sighed. "How come every time you get bored, you start looking for trouble? If you can't be useful, Dodger, at least try not to insult guests and start feuds."

"Be charitable," Rinaldi suggested. "Dodger has little to offer in this endeavor. His idleness chafes at him. It's no sin. His attendance is a sign of his concern and support."

"You're right, Father. It's not his idleness that's the sin. It's my own. While Janice remains as she is, every day puts her closer to damnation."

"We're all aware of that, Sam." Hart put her hand on his shoulder. "We've got the stone now. We don't have to wait anymore."

"I-know you understand. Without your connections we would have lost her after she left England, and I'd have no idea where she had run to or how she was doing."

"And how is that?" Mark asked. "Are you sure that she has not succumbed to her wendigo nature? Her sins are already great, but if she has given in to despair and freely embraced the way of the wendigo, she has gone beyond salvation. How do you know that she has not abandoned her humanity? Have you spoken with her?"

Sam shook his head. "She wouldn't speak with me in Vancouver, and she refused to acknowledge any of the letters I had waiting in towns along her path. She hasn't taken any communications equipment, and I can't send electronic mail because the Matrix doesn't reach where she is now. Too few people."

' 'There are no reports of wendigo predation in the area," Hart said.

"Which is a good sign," Rinaldi said. "Her chosen retreat places her far from temptation. Everything seems to indicate that she still retains some vestige of humanity. Her success bodes well, for denial of the wendigo nature would be a strong factor in reversing the curse.''

"If it can be done," Mark said.

"I fervently pray that it is possible," Rinaldi said. "For her sake, as well as for others whose souls we might unburden if we succeed."

"Do you fear the loss of her soul, Father?" Dodger asked. "Or are you having second thoughts about letting her go in England? Do you feel the weight of innocent, eaten souls?"

"I mourn the straying of any soul from the path of righteousness. She has eaten manflesh, but that can be forgiven in the light of her body's perverted needs. As far as we know, she refrained from actually killing in order to feed. That, I believe, would be the point beyond which the wendigo nature would rule her and she would be lost to us and to God."

' 'What about those who have died to feed the wendigo? And who might yet die? Do you feel the weight of their murders on your own soul?''

Before the priest could answer, Sam cut in. "That's enough, Dodger!"

"Peace, Sam. Dodger was in England, too. We all let Janice leave. What she does or does not do is our shared responsibility. All of us. But the past is done and we must look to the future. We took no action against her in hope of her salvation, a salvation that we work toward now. That is what must concern us. Have you given more thought to the ritual site?"

"I thought we'd settled that. You said that the ritual needs a place of power, one associated with change, and Mount Rainier seems ideal. As one of the volcanoes activated by the Ghost Dancers, it was one of the first places where heavy-duty magical power manifested in the Sixth World. The Indians' campaign to rid North America of non-Indians wasn't successful, but it was one of die biggest changes of the century. Only the return of magic and magical beings was bigger, and the Ghost Dance was part of that, too."

Rinaldi shook his head. "I find no fault with your symbolic logic, and the site is indeed a place of power. But I still think that a place more convenient to Jan-ice's refuge would be safer. She must be physically present for the ritual to work."

"Still worried about the temptation to her wendigo nature among people?" Hart asked. Rinaldi nodded.

"It's a chance I'm willing to take," Sam said. "She's strong. She'll deal with it."

Rinaldi sighed. "You may be willing, Sam. What about her? It's her soul that will be tainted if she's not strong enough."

"Here or there, she has to agree to participate," Hart said. She held out Sam's fringed synthleather jacket. The long tassels shifted restlessly, jangling the assorted amulets tied to them.

Sam reached out and fingered some of the intricate knots. "I'm not going out. At least not physically."

"Mindset," she reminded him. "You're doing sha-manistic things, and this is your shaman suit, right?" "Right. Worried?"

She ran her fingers through his beard. "This is a major projection you're planning. You haven't tried contacting anyone on the mundane while projecting before. You may need the help of the little friends in the jacket.''

He was touched by her concern. As usual, she was thinking ahead. He gave her a kiss and put on the jacket.

Dodger cleared his throat. "Struth, I am as necessary here as a mirror to a medusa. If you would not be overly distressed to lose such a valued member of your audience, I might attend to other matters."

Now that they were actually doing something, Sam felt more charitable toward Dodger. "Null perspiration. Don't get into anything you can't handle alone." "Jenny's gotten her hands on a new Korean icecut-ter, Dodger. She's going to test it on a run tonight. Maybe she'd like some company."

"Fair Jenny is a big girl. She has no need of my supervision. The Matrix holds other matters of more interest. Render unto her my best wishes," Dodger said as he opened the door.

Hart waited a few moments before commenting, "He's awfully preoccupied still. Teresa?"

Sam shrugged. "Who knows? He hasn't mentioned her for months."

"He hasn't said much of anything for months. At least nothing of importance. But it's clear that something is bothering him."

"Perhaps he finds it a strain to work with both you and that other group you've told me about, the one run by Sally Tsung," Rinaldi suggested.

Sam gave a rueful chuckle. "That's not the problem. Sally's got almost as little use for Dodger these days as she does for me."

For a moment Hart looked ready to comment, but she didn't. In private Hart had little good to say about the way Sally vilified Sam for his alleged fickleness, but in public she refrained from speaking against Tsung herself. Sam was sure he would hear about it later. "You need me?" Gray Otter asked. Sam answered, "Magic time, Otter. No need for muscle."

"I'm gone." And she was.

"Brother Paulus and I shall leave as well, Father Pietro. As you know, this ill-disciplined shamanic business makes me uncomfortable. You will join us at Saint Sebastian's?"

"As soon as we finish."

"Very well." Mark turned to Sam. "I wish you luck."

The brothers left. Sam locked the door behind them before lying down with his head in Hart's lap. Father Rinaldi took the drum from its cupboard, seated himself out of Sam's sight, and began to play. The beat was strong, steady. Sam felt Hart extend herself, using her power to relax his body. He released his astral self to fly down the tunnel and through the hole to the other world, beginning the journey north.

Joining the kulpunya, Urdli stared down at its victim. The small man was torn beyond recognition. His blood spattered the disordered furnishings and spread in a growing pool around his body. Urdli didn't know who the man was. It didn't matter; he had paid for his crime.

Urdli looked for the missing stones with his deep sight. He detected a hint of power from a locked box, hidden in a hollow in the wall. He tossed aside the dresser screening the badly patched panel and tore open the cache. He didn't care if he left traces. A simple spell blasted the padlock open.

The guardian stone was not there.

Recovering the stone was not going to be so simple.

With a word, he unleashed the kulpunya again. There were two more thieves to be hunted down.

He was cramped by the confines of the ducting, but that didn't particularly bother Neko Noguchi. His training had inured him to discomfort. This once, his small size had proven an unmatchable asset. No dwarf could have done what he had done tonight; dwarfs were too stocky to negotiate the twists and turns of the ducting. No elf either. Elves might have the necessary slimness, but they were too tall for the tighter turns of the ducting. Nor could an ork or a troll hope to squeeze through where a norm couldn't pass. Neko's passport into these forbidden realms had been his short stature, slight build, and rubbery suppleness. Who said norms were outmoded in the Sixth World?

The tall corporate was leaving now, walking up the stairs. The old woman continued to work at her loom. They never knew Neko was here, listening. He was glad now for the decision to leave all electronic devices behind. When the suit was descending the stairs Neko had seen the flicker of an electromagnetic emissions detector, and again as the man had left. He was sure similar sensors watched the ducts. Yet he had evaded the defenses that had blocked other hopefuls even without any high-tech tools or cyberware. Betting on his personal skills alone had been a calculated risk, but it had paid off.

Neko had crouched in his hidden place all through Grandmother's last three interviews. But none had been as interesting as the one with the black-haired corporate; the others had only brought news of the shadow world of Hong Kong. Save for the business about Mitsuhama hiring Greerson for a sanction, Neko's own prowls had already earned him the rest of the news he had heard today. If whispered in the right ear, the Greerson info would be worth something.

But the suit. What was his name? Saito? No, Sato. That was it. Neko would have to remember that name.

Sato was playing in a bigger arena. All that stuff about an AI. Neko had decker friends who would know what that stuff was worth. If he stepped carefully, he could turn all that innuendo and speculation into nuyen.

What a coup! His first time eavesdropping on the infamous Grandmother, and he had scored. That would make his name in the shadows. Neko Noguchi was on his way to becoming a big man in the biz.

But he was no fool to waste this opportunity. With absolutely no hint that he had been detected, he could afford to stay for a while longer. No telling what else he might learn.

He settled himself to wait for Grandmother's next visitor. The rhythmic clatter of the loom had an almost hypnotic quality that lulled him. His mind drifted, dreaming of the juicy bits he would gather while listening in on the doings of Grandmother. Then he started back to full awareness, unsure of what had changed.

Grandmother continued her weaving. No one had come to disturb her. But there was something. Yes, there it was. A noise in ducting.

A maintenance drone or a rigger-run cleaning robot? Either would be a problem. The dog-brain in a drone wouldn't be bright enough to recognize him, but the stupid thing might try to clean him out of the duct, a process that would be most painful. If it were a robot, a rigger could ID him as an intruder and would report his presence. That would make departure much more complicated and cancel any chance of returning another day. He did not want his hole through Grandmother's security sealed; it was his doorway to fortune.

The scraping sound came again, accompanied by a softer brushing noise. It was not a scrubbing rotor. What was it? It didn't sound mechanical. The important point was that it sounded nearer. Discretion being the better part of profits, Neko decided to leave.

His joints had stiffened less than might have been expected. A brisk crawl would have them loose again, He moved quietly from his perch. Once away from where he thought noise of his movement could be , transmitted to Grandmother's sanctum, he moved more briskly. Several turns later, he heard the sound again. Was it following him?

He was not far from his exit, but increased his pace anyway. He had no desire to be caught in the duct. Those dark confines left Neko no room to use his justly famed agility.

He twisted himself through the last turn and saw light slitting through the grating by which he had entered. Pausing only long enough to assure himself that no one occupied the storeroom beyond, he dug loose the putty holding the panel in place. He held it with one hand as he shimmied his torso clear. His free hand held him up as he worked his knees clear, then his feet. He dropped nearly noiselessly to the box beneath the opening.

He was out, unconfined. He grinned. Whatever roamed the ducts of Grandmother's fortress had not caught him.

As he reached up to replace the grating, something black, glistening-hard, and studded with coarse hairs reached through the slats. In startled reaction Neko jerked back, hands still clutching the duct cover. There was a rasping sound as metal slid along the twitching thing, then Neko was jerked back toward the wall. The black thing clamped onto the grating and Neko let go. The panel slammed crossways across the opening, crumpling as it was withdrawn into the darkness.

As it disappeared a second black thing scythed out of the duct, sweeping toward Neko's head. He ducked into a crouch. While the sharp, hooked end of the thing scraped along the wall, he uncoiled into a back flip. He landed surefooted, ready to run but unwilling to turn his back on the unknown thing in the duct.

An ominous silence descended on the storeroom.

Neko bunched the muscles of his left forearm as he twisted it, triggering the release of the carbon-fiber blades from their forearm sheath. Four monofiber-edged cutters slid forward to project seven centimeters past his cocked wrist. In close they would make sushi out of muscle and tissue, but he had seen the strength of whatever it was. He was not sure he wanted to get that close to it. He rejected his pistol; noise was as much his enemy as the whatever-it-was. His right hand slipped a throwing spike from among the half-dozen sheathed along his thigh. At ranges under five meters, his skill made the silvered steel as deadly as the pistol. Thumb holding the spike against his palm and fingers, he raised his hand into throwing position.

Again he heard the scraping, brushing sound that had pursued him through the ducts. Slowly the black claws appeared, and gripped the edges of the opening. The claws hauled a grotesque bulk into view, and he began to think he would have been better off running.

The claw-tipped things were arms, inhumanly thin and oddly jointed, but arms nonetheless. They grew from shoulders that barely humped above the swollen and bloated belly of the creature that tumbled from the duct. Its legs, almost duplicates of the arms, slithered free of the darkness as the thing dropped to the floor. It steadied itself for a moment on all fours before rising to stand in an insectoid parody of a man. Tattered cloth hung on its torso, snagged and split by bristly hairs. It was as tall as a troll, making it nearly three tunes Neko's height. Malevolent onyx eyes stared down at him from a face totally inhuman.

Deciding he could not afford to let it make the first move, Neko blurred into action. His hand snapped forward, releasing the spike and sending it speeding toward the obscene visage. The steel pierced its right eye, popping the orb in a gush of dark fluid. The thing made no sound as the bulbous head wobbled and the creature scraped at the spike with a claw until the weapon dropped free.

Then it sprang.

Neko barely dodged its first swipe. A claw snagged his clothes, gouging his flesh and tugging him back toward the creature. Twisting around, he slashed with his blades. He felt two of the edges strike the hard limb and slide, barely cutting. The other two sliced through the fabric of his clothes and freed him. He fell, hitting the floor hard.

Coming at him with both claw-tipped, glittering arms, the creature gave him no respite. Hoping to surprise it, Neko rolled forward. As it jerked its head to follow his motion, Neko felt the foul-smelling liquid from the thing's destroyed eye spatter him. Its claws almost caught him as he slipped between its legs.

He sent a second spike whipping toward the base of its skull, but the creature was turning and the weapon only glanced off hard bone. The thing rushed him again and he dodged toward its right side, cutting with his blades as he dove.

They danced a deadly, silent tarantella. Neko worried the thing's blind side, tearing at its limbs with his blades. His strikes were rarely clean, the monofiber edges of his weapons doing little more than scar the hard outer covering of the creature's appendages. It was well-protected. Whether it was armor, magic, or its own skill did not matter; it was wearing Neko down. He remained unable to close with it and bring his blades into contact with something vital.

His growing fatigue was making it more and more difficult to react quickly enough. First a claw raked his arm and scored the muscle, then the other caught him a glancing blow across the fibs, lacerating clothing and skin while tossing him halfway across the room. Half stunned, his eyes watering from the pain, Neko almost forfeited his phyrrhic respite. He had barely grabbed a new throwing spike before a new attack forced him to scramble away from the onrushing creature. Watching for an opening, he continued his desperate dodging. He doubted he'd have the opportunity to draw another spike. He had to make his throw.

His chance came after he had ducked low to avoid a sweeping blow and the creature's clawed limb became briefly entangled in the wreckage of the crate Neko had maneuvered between them. Neko's hand snapped up, then forward. The spike flew. Though not striking cleanly, the sharp spike scored the creature's remaining eye.

Blinded, its defenses faltered into a still dangerous but unguided flailing. Neko slipped through its guard to plant his blades in the soft tissue between the skull and carapace shoulders. The monofiber edges sliced arteries, veins, and windpipe before grating against bone. The creature collapsed with a bubbling moan. Panting, Neko skipped backward to avoid its thrashing.

It took a long time to die.

There was no chance the carnage would go unnoticed. Neko's pipeline into Grandmother's secrets would be closed, leaving him only what he had learned today. He had best make the most of it. His blood spattered the room, offering a trail to those who would seek him in the shadows. To close that avenue to pursuers, he disabled the sprinklers and used the cleaning supplies stored there to start a hungry fire. He would leave only ashes behind.

Urdli watched as the kulpunya ran in circles on the runway, howling in frustration. The thing was baffled by the loss of the trail, but Urdli understood. For all its supernatural tracking ability, the kulpunya could not follow a trail through the air. The thieves had escaped by aircraft.

He turned his eyes to the sky, where the running lights of an aircraft rose into the night over Perth. The craft headed west, turning into the air lanes that skirted the coast. It was on its way to the outside world. Oh, no. It was not going to be simple at all.

The Magick Matrix was the glittering star of the entertainment district of the Hong Kong Free Enterprise Enclave. The club was a haven for enclavers jaded by ordinary reality. Within its walls, patrons could leave behind their meat shells and step into other realities computer realities whose governing principles the user could select. Those custom creations would let a user look like anyone, be anywhere, and do anything, as long as he had the nuyen to pay for it. And he could do it all without working up a sweat. All it took was putting on the trodes or jacking in if he wanted the best resolution and response. Then he could dream away while the gnomes of the Magick Matrix zapped him into a pocket universe of cyberspace.

The hardware was expensive and the software more so. Protecting the investment was a wide array of intrusion countermeasures, ranging from simple data barriers to the brain-frying 1C known in the trade as black ice. In addition Magick Matrix was well supplied with roving deckhounds, the human computer-security specialists who jacked in to prowl the Matrix, alert for unauthorized users. Mortal flesh and tissue-bound minds lacked the purity and beauty of the elegant 1C. Bound by organic nature, mankind also lacked the selfless devotion. But even the masters of such magnificent technology did not have absolute faith in it, and so they assured a weakness in their defenses.

Thus, with the transmission of a prearranged code, Dodger passed through the boundaries of the Magick Matrix icon. Inside, an icon depicting a robotic canine awaited him. The dog wore a dark collar showing the name of Magick Matrix, marking the decker behind the icon as an employee of the firm and labeling him a hound. But even dogs have friends about whom their masters know nothing, and to their friends they show the loyalty of the pack. This decker, whom Dodger knew as Rover, believed he shared a very elite pack with Dodger. Rover spoke of the brotherhood of silicon blood, sharers of the true way under the electron skies. He admitted admiring and envying the skill of the freelance deckers like Dodger. For the sake of the Art, Rover opened the door and let the deckers in. But Dodger had no illusions about how friendly Rover would be if Dodger messed with MM property. The bought dogs knew who fed them. No matter how much they idolized the wild members of their pack, they loved their kennels more.

Dodger had not come to steal the secrets of Magick Matrix. He had come for an appointment. For amid all the fantasy worlds, alien planets, battlescapes, and synthetic paradises, there was another non-place. It was a reality not listed among the offerings of Magick Matrix because it was a place of, by, and for deckers but accessible only to the elite. Like the well-known virtual club Syberspace, if you couldn't hack your way in you didn't belong. The more difficult level of entry made this place with no name more than a slot to interface with the legends and wannabes of the Matrix. Offering the same functions of hiring hall, message center, and data brokerage as Syberspace, this place had a feature the other lacked. Here, through the access ports of Magick Matrix, meat clients could consult the elite of the Matrix within the Matrix in a safe and secret manner.

Today, the decker was to be the client. For Dodger had come because someone had posted an e-mail in response to an outstanding offer. The poster might have legitimate information, but he could as easily be an opportunist or a con man. Dodger didn't expect a lot, but he had played more than his share of long shots in his time running the shadows. At least this one was not likely to be particularly dangerous.

Since the misadventures in England last year, he had sought out any information on the mysterious Matrix entity that he believed to be the artificial intelligence created by the Renraku Special Directorate. It had reappeared, very briefly, during the affair with the renegade druids known as the Hidden Circle, reminding Dodger of its terrible and fascinating existence. At the time he had feared that some faction involved in aiding or fighting the Circle was managing the AI, but so little had come of its actions that he had begun to wonder. His cautious delvings and the less-cautious blun-derings of other deckers excited by Dodger's own panic had uncovered very little. The fragmentary data that passed for clues was more often apocryphal 'than authentic. Though he had begun to think the apparition within the druids' computer architecture a phantasm of his own creation, born of fear and anxiety, he hadn't abandoned the search. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps Sam's stubbornness was rubbing off on him.

Dodger tapped MM's monitor system to survey the virtual room before entering. The feed from Simtank 737 was pure, so he knew that the icon awaiting him was as perfect a replica of the person in the tank as Magick Matrix's technology could provide, which was to say a photographic likeness. His contact was a slim Japanese male who would stand well below average height. The runner appeared young, almost a child, but good biosculpting could mask a person's age. He was smartly dressed in streetwear that hung with the smoothness of armor cloth, and Dodger's practiced eye noted that he had managed to conceal several weapons from the guards who had checked him into the sim-tank. An impressive feat, but to be expected of a successful shadowrunner. An experienced professional, then. That was encouraging; amateurs rarely knew real data from drek.

Dodger injected his icon into the virtual room. "And who, pray tell, are you?"

The Japanese runner turned smartly, hand wavering over one of his concealed weapons. His eyes glittered, and his stance was as wary as the animal he named. "Cat."

"An appropriate street sobriquet for one of your fluidity, Sir Feline."

"You're an elf."

"Astute," Dodger observed dryly. His opinion of the runner dropped. One of the unwritten rules of the not-place was that a decker was expected to use a virtual image of his person rather than his usual Matrix icon. "Hubris," his sometime-partner Jenny called the affectation. He preferred to think of it as pride in accomplishment. Besides, one's colors were more properly reserved for the real work of running the Matrix. More practically, a client might later recognize a decker's workings if he knew the icon under which the decker operated. The decker's appearance was harder to trace, for there were no physical traces to collect, nor could a client retrieve an image from the not-place. The client would have only memory, and that could be made less reliable if the decker's features were slightly and subtly altered as Dodger had done. "Is that a problem?"

Cat performed an elaborate shrug. "Not really. Long as you don't pay in elf gold."

Dodger gave a shrug of his own, one infinitely more stylish. "My credit is good, Sir Feline. Better, no doubt, than your own. But you must needs convince me of your data's verity before a transfer is arranged.''

Cat smiled tightly. "Grandmother believed it when the suit told her."

"Grandmother?" Dodger hid his surprise as well as he could. If Cat was her intermediary, the information had to be good. And expensive. " Twould be folly to question the quality of Grandmother's offerings. And even greater folly still to believe that a mere mention of her name signified her instigation, or even knowledge, of a deal."

' 'You want the data or not?''

Cat's haste was unseemly. Dodger decided to try a thrust. "My interest wanes. Having failed to use her usual protocols, you are branded as an adventurer trading on an excellent shadow reputation."

A stricken face and a sudden increase in Cat's breathing rate told Dodger he had guessed right. Cat was not part of Grandmother's organization. The runner's next move would tell the tale truly.

Cat's smile returned, a shadow of its former self. "I never said I worked for her. I just said she believed the data."

So. Such a rapid retreat to truth implied desperation. A desperate man had little bargaining room. "I have no desire to pay her rates to verify your tale. How shall I know you hold something of worth to me?"

"You'll just have to trust me."

"I need do no such thing. Speak to me of your find. If 'tis of use to me, I shall pay your fee."

"Pay first," Cat insisted bluntly.

"This from one who so recently demanded trust. I cannot know the worth of what you offer until I hear it. Then there is still the matter of reliability.''

Cat's furrowed brow proclaimed his inner debate. There was nothing he could do to hurt Dodger physically. But he could cripple Dodger where it would hurt severely, in his curiosity. If Cat walked away with whatever mysterious bit of information he hoarded, Dodger would have no alternative but to go to Grand 56 Robert N. Charrette mother, who might or might not have the data. It would be an expensive proposition that would take time would have no idea of what he labored to earn. Dodger watched the runner carefully, wondering if his desire for the data was as painfully obvious as Cat's need for nuyen. He thought not. After all, he was nowhere near as young or inexperienced as Cat.

"All right, elf. Twenty K bonded credit and the deal's done."

"Five bonded and ten in second-tier corporate vouchers." "Ten and five." "Seven and seven."

"You'll pay even if you don't like what I've got to say."

"Assuredly. I will pay whether 'tis pleasant or not." Cat stuck out his hand and Dodger took it. The tale was told soon enough. Respecting Cat's professional privacy, Dodger forbore to ask after the method by which the meeting was witnessed. Of real data there was little. But Cat's mention of Renraku in connection with the AI gave his story a veracity that would be difficult for a runner, especially a non-decker like Cat, to fake. Dodger wanted to believe. The mention of the disappearing flies buzzed his head. It fit with his own experiences, especially with his encounter in the the druids' system.

"So you see," Cat concluded, "I think this Sato suit has got it all wrong. I think the renegade nicked the AI and is using it against them. That's what you wanted, isn't it? You wanted to know who had the AI."

Dodger rubbed at the triple row of jacks on his left temple. "And who is this renegade?" Cat hesitated.

"Come now, Sir Feline. You need not fish for more reward."

Frowning, Cat quietly said, "I don't remember." "Ah, you speak an unpleasant truth.‹ Perharw voj^ are trustworthy after all." Relief, and gnawing terror, flooded Dodger. Cat's response put the runner's tale beyond the bounds of artful contrivance. Cat had told' the truth as he knew it. Only he knew so very little. And so very much. "Your price is paid. Have you sold this tale to another?''

Cat looked as though the idea had never occurred to him, and shook his head. Young in the shadow games, Dodger thought.

' 'If no further word of your tale is whispered in the shadows, I will see that your account grows fatter."

Cat's expression changed to disgust. "I have made my sale. What do you take me for?"

A youngster. "An honest thief?"

Cat grinned.

"Very well, then. Say rather that I shall reward further enlightenment. Is that acceptable to an honest thief, Sir Feline?"

"I think we can do business, elf." Cat winked at him and popped out of virtual existence.

Dodger remained, contemplating what he had learned. Then he left, too, slipping unnoticed out of the virtuarreality of the Magick Matrix. He was in no mood to chat with the doorman.

This place was desolate, almost completely devoid of life. Sam's astral senses could perceive the pale glow from the lichens and mosses that carpeted the cold ground, but he caught only fleeting glimpses of more complicated life forms. There was no sign of man or his works. It was still cold this far north, but even in the brief summer this near-arctic region would remain mostly uninhabited, for it offered no water.

He hovered at the edge of a zone that seemed more barren yet. Distantly he perceived a faint spark. A familiar spark. He flew toward it.

No time seemed to pass before he stood next to the mound of white fur that was the source of the lifeglow he had seen from afar. He did not need to see the broad, dark-skinned face surrounded by its mane of fur, the taloned hands, the fanged mouth, or the deep-set red eyes to know this being as a wendigo. He had learned to recognize the tints of aura that proclaimed the wendigo for what it was. The aura was fainter than when he had last seen it, weaker. By the aural shadings that were individual to this wendigo, he knew it was the one he sought. "Janice."

The huddled form made no move, gave no sign of recognition. For a moment, he was puzzled. Her aura was not so weak that she would be unable to respond. He had feared arriving too late. One way or the other. But her aura allayed those fears. She was still alive, and she showed only a hint of the moldy grayness he had seen in other wendigo auras. So why did she not respond? The silent treatment was not her style. Finally, he remembered. He was astrally projecting. His words and image were unknowable on the mundane plane. He twisted his perception as Hart had taught him and manifested an image that, though ghostly and faint, could be seen by ordinary eyes.

"Janice," he called again, confident that his voice could now be heard.

The furred mound shifted, enlarging as massive muscles bunched to arch her back. A dark paw whose toes ended in glossy talons appeared briefly before the motion settled once more into stillness. "Janice."

The mound shifted again and a dark patch appeared, her face. An eye opened, a sullen ember in a deep pit. "I heard you the first time."

The deep pitch of the words startled him. Subconsciously, he had been expecting the voice of the sister he remembered, not the cavernous tones of her changed voice. While the tonality was different, the intonation and grouchy irritability were familiar from long-ago school mornings. Janice had never liked waking up.

Her next words were a growl. "Who's the fool who disturbs me?"

"It's me, Janice. Sam. Your brother." The ember winked out and the dark face disappeared back under a furred arm. "Go away. I have no brother."

"I won't go away. We're family, Janice. Don't shut me out.''

The face reappeared, both red eyes visible now. "I have no family. You saw to that. Remember?"

At first he thought she was blaming him for their being orphans. They had been just kids at the time. His own recollections were vague and blurred by half-remembered pain and anguish. She, being younger, could hardly have clearer memories. The accusation didn't make sense. She couldn't really believe that he had anything to do with the riots. Did she blame him, and herself as well, for surviving when their parents and older siblings had died? Her Renraku psych profile hadn't indicated that kind of grief displacement. What did she mean? "I'm your family, Janice."

"There's no more Janice. She's kawaruhito, a changeling no more a part of anybody's family than of polite society. What's left found someone to care about her. Someone who didn't run away and hide when he knew what she had become. But that someone is dead now. Remember?" "Whatever face Hyde-White showed…"

"Dan Shiroi!" she shouted, erupting explosively from her huddle to tower over him.

Sam looked up into the dark face that twisted with emotion. She still clung to her vision of that wendigo as a protector. As long as she did, his influence over her remained. "Whatever face he showed you, he was evil. He was a killer who sought to enlist others in his villainy. However kindly he seemed to you, he was consumed by his wendigo nature. He was a liar and a deceiver. You know that what I say is true." "You killed him," she said flatly. "I swore once that I would never take an innocent life. And I don't think that I've broken that oath. He was no innocent; he was a murderer, and he would have made you over in his own image. Killing him was the only way to end the threat he posed to you and many true innocents. It was the only way to free you from his influence."

"I didn't want to be free. Dan loved me." Sam remembered the scene in Hyde-White's retreat where the wendigo that Janice knew as Dan Shiroi had come back from the brink, of death, or perhaps from beyond, to keep her from attacking Sam and Hart as they lay wounded and helpless. "That may be so, but only at the end was he worthy of your love. As a wendigo, he understood the danger to your soul. But it wasn't a wendigo that saved you. It was too late for him, but he knew that you should not be like him. He gave you a chance to change things.

"You say he loved you. I love you, too. I want to see you saved from this wendigo curse, and IVe come to tell you there's hope. I think we've found a way to change you back. We've built a ritual to save you, but you must come to Mount Rainier."

"Save me?" Her lip lifted to reveal yellowed tusks, but Sam couldn't tell if it was a sneer or a snarl. "It's too late. Where were you when they sent me to Yomi?''

"I didn't find out you were going through kawaru until it was too late. Then they wouldn't let me see you. I tried everything to find you."

"But you didn't succeed, did you? Not until you could take away everything that meant anything to me."

"I did what had to be done."

She turned her face away. For minutes she was quiet. Then, she said, "I'm staying here."

Sam was appalled. "Staying here? What have you got here? I'm offering you a way to get your life back."

He reached out to take her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, but his hands couldn't grip her. She turned at his ethereal touch and glared at him.

"You can't be serious. Nothing could ever be the same. Your precious little sister Janice Verner is dead. She died before you left your cozy corporate cocoon at Raku. She was replaced by ASN1778, who went to Yomi and got a new life, but even that non-person is dead. Abandoned, like the one who had gone before. Why would I want either of those lives back? I had happiness and you took it away."

"You weren't happy. You were enthralled by the wendigo's false promises."

"How could you begin to know what I had?"

"I know the sister I grew up with, I know the parents who raised her. I know what they taught us, and what they would think of anyone who succumbed to the wendigo nature. And because I know all that, I know what you must think of what has happened to you. You can't give in, Janice. Don't let despair win. There's hope."

"I don't want hope. All I want now is peace."

"You can't have it as a wendigo."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly with a rumble that was half growl and half moan. Her eyes left his face and traveled along the distant horizon. " There is peace here."

Sam looked around. Astrally, he could feel the emo 62

Robert N. Charrette tions of the place. The air was filled with despair, hopelessness, sorrow, spite, and hate. There was not a trace that he could identify as peaceful.

"You're wrong, Janice. There's nothing for you here."

"No, you're wrong. There is safety here. This was Dan's place, his refuge in the lean days when the magic wasn't strong enough to let him walk among you norms. The hunger is weak here. In the quiet its absence creates, I can sleep the dreamless sleep. As I was doing until you disturbed me. You should be happy that I'm here. As long as I stay hi this place, you and all your kind are safe from me."

Sam suddenly understood why she refused to leave. "You're afraid."

She growled, but there was no spirit in the sound. He saw his opening, a way to persuade her to do what must be done.

"What is your totem, Janice? Mouse?" "I have no totem."

"That's a lie. Your change into a wendigo has awakened power in you. I can see it. I've learned enough about wendigos to know that their power molds most easily to the shamanic mode. For all his warped vision, your Shiroi was a shaman. I know he taught you because I've seen your magic. You can't do that magic without a totem."

She growled again, a warning sound. "Leave Dan out of it."

"What's your totem?" Sam insisted. At last she said, "Wolf."

"Wolf?" He hoped his voice did not sound falsely incredulous. "Wolf isn't a coward's totem. Are you sure you don't focus through Ostrich? That would be more suitable for someone who ignores what's going on around her. You're a disgrace to the Wolf nature." "Wolf understands," she said sulkily. "Wolf must be appalled at your lack of strength."

The growling returned, stronger than before. "If you don't want to feel my strength, leave." "Not without you."

She glared at him, still growling. Her eyes radiated heat but Sam felt chilled, like a mouse under a hawk's stare. Had she gone so far? Had he pushed her too far? Was he no more than meat to her now?

She shifted suddenly and he took a defensive step backward, having forgotten that his astral body was impervious to physical harm.

The growling stopped and she laughed, the sound brittle and without humor. "Are you going to take responsibility for me?"

He sensed that this was the turning point. His answer would decide her. Could he take responsibility for what she might do? Hadn't he already? There was only one answer he could give.

"I will."

"That's the fool I once had as a brother. Haven't you learned yet that everyone is responsible for themselves?"

"Families are responsible for each other."

"Very Japanese. I would have thought you'd given up your fascination with their culture when you ran away from their corporation."

"I haven't given up on my sister. Are you going to come or not?"

Janice shrugged. "What have I got to lose? YouVe roused me now. I doubt I could rest here peacefully."

"I'm telling you there is no peace here."

"How little you know," she said softly.

"You'll have peace when the ritual restores you."

"I certainly won't get it until you dance your dance."

Tinged with something undefinable, her words echoed strangely in him. He forced the uncomfortable feeling away, concentrating on the matter at hand. Janice had agreed, and it would be to no one's benefit to delay. "Hart has arranged a plane. The course will be laid into the autopilot and die computer will do the flying. All you have to do is board, sit back, and enjoy the ride."

She bared her teeth in a grin that made him uncomfortable. "No pilot? What's the matter? Afraid I might eat him?"

Sam tried to tell himself she was just joking, just needling him, but he could see those teeth. "The fewer people who know about your entry into Salish-Shidhe Council, the better. They have a bounty on wendi-gos."

"And on those who aid and abet wendigos," she said.

Sam nodded, already well enough aware of that.

Though Ghost Who Walks Inside was tall for an Indian, his broad shoulders, massive chest, and well-muscled arms made him seem more squat than he was. He was a street samurai, but unlike many others who claimed that title, Ghost showed few obvious signs of cyber-enhancement. Dressed in his tattered jungle fatigue trousers and boots, armored vest, beaded wristlets, and feather-adorned headband, Ghost revealed only the palm-mounted induction pads of his smartgun link. Which was not to say they were his only chrome. He just didn't believe in displaying his advantages, preferring to let others underestimate his abilities. Just one more edge.

From his vantage point in the shade of a kiosk selling Seattle metroplex memorabilia, Sam spotted Ghost's wild black frizz on the far side of the court.

As the Indian moved through the Sunday tourist crowds thronging Aurora Village, his swagger and rugged appearance opened a path for him, making his progress swift. With nonchalant ease he sidestepped those too self-absorbed or oblivious to notice him, never breaking his rhythm. Only once was he interrupted, when a fat German suit bumped into him. There was a slight jostling and for the next few steps, a smiling Ghost let deutschmarks, corporate scrip, coins, and credsticks dribble from his fingers. The turmoil in the crowd behind him made his forward progress even easier. The Indian seemed in no hurry. An observer might have thought that he turned in Sam's direction purely by chance. Sam stepped out from behind the kiosk to greet him, but Ghost beat him to it. "Hoi, paleface. Whazappenning?" "Hoi, Ghost. Biz as usual. 'Zappening with you?" "Running hard to stay in place. Wakarimasu-ka? Biz as usual," Ghost said with a laugh. "Not too busy for a little extra, I hope." "Man's too busy for friends, he's too busy to live," Ghost said, grinning.

Sam grinned back. Ghost's thaw toward him had coincided with the onset of Sally's glacial chill. Sam wished Sally would stop avoiding him so they might have a chance to talk it out, but as long as he was seeing Hart, Sally would never let him get her alone. Ghost, however, seemed to find the situation exactly to his taste, and that was good. Sam much preferred a friendly Ghost to a hostile one.

Sam checked around for eavesdroppers, then got down to business. "I need your help to find a safe place for my sister to hide. Someplace outside the Seattle metroplex."

"Why me? Thought you'd have enough grease with Hart. Hear tell, she's got connections in Council lands. I'm just a city boy." Sam had never spoken of Hart's connections, and Ghost rarely worried about people and places outside the plex. If he knew about Hart's connections, somebody was looking into Hart's affairs. Most likely Sally. Sam hoped it didn't bode trouble. If it did, he'd deal with it later. "Got a good net going, Ghost. But not good enough. Hart's connections aren't suitable to the current situation." "So ka. Sister got a feud?" "She's…" Suddenly Sam wasn't sure he should explain. Telling anyone was a danger, and Ghost was a mercenary, always on the lookout for ways to improve his tribe's financial position. Would he be tempted by the bounty? If he turned Sam in as well, might not Ghost also improve his standing with Sally? Or would he even consider such a course of action? Sam wasn't sure. For all the easy camaraderie, Ghost was still a bundle of unknown quantities. But trust was needed. Before Sam had attracted Sally's attention Ghost had treated him well, almost as a younger brother. Aside from the Indian's interest in Sally, Sam could find no reason to distrust Ghost. The other man lived by a code of honor, one that Sam did not always understand, but he was confident that Ghost wouldn't abandon his honor for a few credits. There was, of course, only one way to find out.

"My sister has goblinized. Hart's contacts won't take her in."

"So ka. " Ghost nodded sagely. "How illegal is her breed?"

"How did you figure that?" "Null perspiration, paleface. If her breed wasn't illegal, you would have made arrangements with Cog or Castillano. Fixers are real good at moving merchandise, even live merchandise. But you're asking me, and that means you don't want anybody to know so bad that you're asking a city Indian to find you a place outside the wall. So what is she?"

"Wendigo." Without waiting for a reaction, he added, "But she's never killed."

Ghost looked at him strangely. "What's that got to do with it?"

"If a wendigo hasn't killed, the curse isn't complete. The sins can be forgiven and her soul can still be saved."

"Sin? Soul? Paleface, you're not talking sense. I don't walk the Jesus road. Found out real early that stuff don't mean drek on the streets. Last time I turned my cheek, I had to get it replaced." Ghost shook his head. "Wendigos eat people. You're talking real bad biz."

The Indian's reaction was no more than Sam could reasonably expect. "But we're bringing her here to cure her," he said.

"Now you're talking crazy. Can't be done. Anybody could turn back even an ork, the docs and whitecoats woulda been all over them in millisecs, right after the media hounds. Whole world would know how to do it. Ain't no pills, surgery, or drugs can do it." "We've got a way. We're going to use magic." Ghost spat.

"I know you don't like magic. I'm not asking you to take part in the ritual. We just need somebody to hide her safely until we can do the magic. She's my sister, Ghost. IVe got to try. I thought you'd understand." Sam was losing track of the argument as his emotions caught up with him. "We can't bring her into the plex; there are too many people. But she's got to be present for the ritual. There's no other way to do it. I didn't know who else to ask."

"The odds get too bad, a smart man doesn't gamble." Ghost started to walk away.

"I really thought you might help," Sam muttered, almost to himself. "She's Wolf totem."

Ghost turned. "You're desperate crazy, white man, but you've got cojones. I might be a little crazy, too.

You know, Grandfather Wolf don't like cowards, and he really hates people who run out on the pack."

"You weren't running out. I'm not part of your tribe. Neither is Janice. And I know you're anything but a coward."

"Not you I'm worried about, paleface." Ghost lowered his voice. "You aren't scamming? She really is Wolf. You swear as a shaman?"

Sam nodded.

"Fraggin5 drek, but you don't make it easy," Ghost said, head tilted toward the sky. "You know, paleface, Grandfather Wolf don't like murderers or cannibals either. So maybe there's hope for her. Maybe you really can do something for her. How much nuyen did you say?"

"I didn't, but it's not much. Fifty K. And favors. I'll owe you big, Ghost."

"Don't worry, paleface," the Indian said, rubbing his chin reflectively. "If this thing blows up in our faces, it'll be more than you can pay.''

Janice astrally scouted the area around the aircraft. As promised, she found only three people waiting for her. One she recognized instantly as Sam. Next to him stood an elven woman who seemed vaguely familiar. The third member of the welcoming committee was some kind of razorguy, his aura darkened in places by cyber-enhancements.

Had she really expected a trap? Sam was too honest to betray her. At least the Sam she had grown up with was honest. But that Sam wasn't a street shaman and a shadowrunner. He had changed, but how much?

From her own experiences, she knew some changes were bigger than others.

She returned to her body and rose from the travel couch. The chair had been tight, not made for someone of her bulk. Her muscles relaxed gratefully. The vanishing aches and pains reminded her how little she belonged in the world of the norms. She thought about tearing the door from its hinges to express her frustration and anger. It would make a flashy entrance, but it wouldn't really reduce the stress left from the trip. She opened the hatch as meekly as any ordinary passenger.

With the first whiff of the local air, she felt better. The Salish-Shidhe breeze was full of the good scents of a forest much more pleasant than the sterile, machine-purified air of the aircraft.

Sam and the woman stepped forward to greet her, but the razorguy hung back, watchful. When Janice saw the elf with her mundane eyes, she knew why the woman's aura had seemed familiar. This was the same elf who had helped Sam kill Dan Shiroi. Janice didn't give Sam a chance to even say hello. "Still hanging with the same armful, I see. You two serious, or are you just rubbing my muzzle in it?"

Sam stopped, open-mouthed. The elf answered for him.

"My name is Hart, Janice. No one here means to offend you."

"I know who you are. And you call me Shiroi, elf." "That was the wendigo's name," Hart said. Janice showed her teeth. "I'm a wendigo." The elf shut up. She looked offended and maybe a bit nervous. Good. Janice hoped she made the elf real nervous.

"So, Mr. Big Time Shaman, where's your ritual team? Are they lost, or are you? This don't look like a volcano."

Sam looked annoyed. That pleased her. Why should this be easy on anyone?

"We're not doing the ritual tonight," he said. "Drek!" Didn't he understand what he was doing by hauling her down here? She had hoped that if she humored him, he'd be satisfied and leave her alone. She had thought she could hold out for a day or two, long enough for him to see the foolishness of his plan and for her to get back to the fastness before the hunger became overpowering. "Why not?"

"I didn't want to take the chance that something would go wrong slipping you into Council lands. The ritual would be ruined if some Council trackers stumbled into the middle of it. Besides, the moon will be full two nights from now, and the magic will be more potent if the ritual is performed then. It'll also give you some time to learn your part.''

How many more little surprises was he going to spring? "You didn't say I had to do anything."

"Transformation magic is more powerful if the subject is willing and involved."

She heard herself growl and realized that no longer was her annoyance feigned. "Do I have to believe it will work?"

"No. But it would help."

She sat down on the loam. This wasn't working out as she had thought. But then, when had anything ever gone right? When Dan was taking care of her, was when. That had been the only time she had been really happy since before her parents had died. Everything in between had been hollow, almost as hollow as her life now.

From the corner of her eye she could see Sam fretting, probably trying to decide how long to let her stew. After a few minutes, Hart poked him in the ribs. They exchanged a glance, and he nodded and addressed her.

"Janice, I realize that it wasn't easy for you to come.

The trip must have been uncomfortable, but the plane was the best we could manage. You're tired." He placed a satchel by her side. "When you're rested, take a look at the chips in the reader. They'll explain some of the fine points of the ritual. Your part is highlighted. It's not big, but it's important. I'd go over it with you now, but there are still a few more things to be taken care of in the plex. We've got to get back there."

The plex? She never wanted to see another metro-plex. They were dirty and smelly, but most of all they were crowded with people. All those stinking, noisy people. All that meat. No, she remonstrated with herself. That's not the way to think. "You said no cities," she snapped.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "I meant Hart and me. You'll stay here with Ghost, and he'll take you to the rendezvous point on the lower slopes of Mount Rainier. We'll meet again in two days just after sundown. Okay?"

What choice did she have? "You didn't leave room in your plan for me to object." "I'll take that as a yes."

Sam reached out to touch her. He was hesitant, as though undecided whether to stroke her like a furry pet, pat her like a little sister, or just lay a reassuring hand on her. In the end, he tried a little of all three. Most likely he meant to be affectionate, but he rumpled her fur the wrong way.. Worse, she felt the trembling of his hand and saw the fear in his eyes. He showed some courage, at least. His woman didn't dare come near enough to touch. X3od, who was he to call himself family, then act like all the other hateful norms?

She didn't watch them climb into the aircraft, but then she looked up in time to see them appear in the cockpit. Sam settled into the pilot's couch. As he went through the motions the aircraft engines revved, twirling the props faster and faster until the low-slung body lifted from the field. Then the plane cleared the trees, the nacelles rotating to bring the props down for horizontal flight. The craft disappeared into the night, its sound fading as it drew further away. When had Sam learned to fly? Their departure left her alone with the razorguy Sam had called Ghost. He was staring at her while she observed him covertly. To judge from his looks and his dress, he was an Indian. It didn't surprise her that he seemed reluctant to give up his place near the trees. For generations out of mind, Indians had been telling tall tales of the wendigo. He probably believed them all.

He'd been left to take care of her. As if she needed a norm, even an enhanced one, for a babysitter. She probably could move through the forest better than he could. She was stronger, likely faster, and had certain supernormal advantages that not even the best cyber-ware could reproduce. What good was he, except as a local guide? Most likely he was supposed to keep her from eating any people she happened upon. Did Sam really think one razorguy could stop her?

The clearing had long since settled back into its nightly cycle of sound and activity before he moved. Leaving his spot near the tree he crossed the grass-silently, so silently that his steps did not disturb the raccoon come to investigate the satchel Sam had left. He squatted a half-dozen meters away. Did he know how well she could see him? "I'm not exactly contagious, you know." Her voice startled the raccoon, who fled. The razorguy showed no reaction save to rise and move closer. Two meters. Just beyond the distance she could reach without getting up. The razorguy had gauged her length of arm well. He remained silent.

"Nothing to say?" Nothing was what he said. She repeated her question in Japanese and Spanish, with no better result. This new irritation was just one more added to the experience of her trip. "Can you even talk?"

Unspeaking, he stared at her. She decided she'd seen enough of him and turned her head away. Minutes passed and the raccoon approached again, dithering over whether to approach and make another attempt to investigate the intriguing satchel. It had just made up its mind when the Indian spoke and sent it scurrying off again.

"You are a shaman?"

Startled herself by his sudden speech, she answered simply and honestly. "Yes."

He was quiet for more minutes. When he spoke again, she was ready for the abruptness but not the content of his question.

"Is it true you follow Wolf?" "Oh, you mean is Wolf my totem?" He nodded. Well, two could play at the laconic game. "Yes," she said.

Ghost grunted and stood up. "It's a long way to Rainier. Sam said we have only the night for traveling. We should start." "What, no vehicle?" "Too conspicuous." "And that plane wasn't?"

"A bribe to an air traffic controller makes it easy for a plane not to appear on a radar screen." "What about the noise?"

"People hear a plane in the night, they think nothing of it. It's in the sky, far away. A car or bike is much nearer and might bring unwelcome visitors. People pay attention. Wouldn't want to drive through the forest, though, even during the day. This terrain will turn good machines into spare parts." "So we walk."

Ghost gave her a ragged grin. "Run. If you can." She rose to her feet. She smiled back, careful not to expose her fangs. "Try and keep up. You're the one who's supposed to know where we're going."

They set out. She started with a pace that would quickly tire a norm, but he kept up. His muscles moved in smooth, clean precision, pumping beneath his bronzed skin. The way he avoided trees and brush told her that he could see in the dark, too. After a while she slowed down. Weak from hunger, she wasn't in as good shape as she had thought. And without knowing how far they were to travel, she thought it best to conserve her strength.

After about an hour, they flushed a deer. It was a young buck, antler buds still in velvet. He rushed from their path and Janice sprinted after him, giving it no opportunity to get far. With a howl, she pounced and I bore the buck down with her weight. She bashed one of its forelimbs with a clenched paw, and felt the bones snap under her blow. The buck sounded his pain. Gripping one of the flailing hind limbs with one hand, she held the beast down with the other. A tug and a twist and she ripped its hind leg free.

The scent of hot blood filled her nostrils, followed by the warm, full scent of fresh meat. She sank her teeth in. The taste was weak and vaguely unpleasant, but it was food. She ripped another mouthful from the haunch.

The deer still struggled, trying to regain its feet, making itself bleed to death faster. Didn't it know enough to accept its fate? She chewed the hot flesh, feeling the juices slide down her parched throat.

She looked up from her meal. Ghost had caught up and was staring at her. "Don't worry, man. It's just a deer." His face remained expressionless and he said nothing.

Somehow, that made it worse. She threw down the haunch, stood, and walked away. At the base of a forest giant, she crouched again and leaned against the bole of the tree. She hugged her arms around herself. No, don'( worry, man. Leave that for me. Hunger gnawed at her, awakened by her brief, unsatisfying feast. Her stomach tightened into painful knots. All she could think about was Ghost's smooth muscles rippling as he ran. Like the deer. Too like the deer.

"Mr. Urdli. Mr. Walter Urdli. Please meet your party at Baggage Carousel Number Three."

Urdli looked up in annoyance at the speaker calling his name. He was barely out of the runway from the monstrous aircraft that had carried him over the Pacific, and his stomach was still queasy. He hated air travel. He visited the rest room before going to the infoboard for directions to Baggage Carousel Three. The foolish machine insisted on giving him directions to Carousel Fifteen, asserting that his luggage would be arriving there. He circumvented the paternalistic thing by calling for a general map with routes to the baggage area.

The waiting space around Carousel Three was deserted except for two young elves, a dark-haired male and a fair-haired female. Though he had never seen either one before, they seemed to recognize him as he approached. That was not surprising. For all the elves in the crowd and all their variety of skin tone and shape, he was unique. Some had his dark skin color and some his thin build, but none had the combination or matched his height. Anyone who knew his physical description should be able to pick him out.

He greeted them in formal Sperethiel. Their responses were adequate, but they mismanaged the proper forms of address. Seeing them insufficiently versed in the old tongue to make conversation enjoyable, he switched to English. "You are with the Council?" "My name is Estios, sir. This is O'Connor. We are aides to Professor Sean Laverty."

While considering the implications, Urdli looked them over. O'Connor was comely enough, he supposed, though he had never really cared for the northern phenotypes. Like her companion, she wore garb whose fine material was tailored to hide her weapons from one unaccustomed to scenting the metal. Both were well groomed, and the man wore his hair cut short to reveal his ears, as some of the current crop of males seemed fearful of doing. Estios was tall for a Cau-casoid elf, with the broad shoulders his kind developed in the course of mastering physical disciplines. Of course, the two of them would have hidden talents. Urdli inclined his head to meet the male's gaze.

"I am unaccustomed to dealing with inferiors. You will see to my luggage and take me to Laverty."

Estios' expression remained polite, but a spark danced in his icy blue eyes. When he spoke, his voice remained calm and detached. The restraint pleased Urdli.

"Your luggage will be taken care of, sir. This is not my job. I was asked to inform you that the professor was unavoidably detained at the Royal Hill. He asked me to serve as your guide and to take you to the mansion, where he will join you as soon as possible. He thought that the most advisable course, since your message suggested discretion."

Urdli shrugged off his topcoat. It was warmer here than Down Under. He handed it to the female, who took it without a word of protest. "Then we shall leave this place."

"There is a car waiting, sir."

Urdli nodded. "We will not be driving through the city, will we? I saw it through the window of the plane. It is much given over to human architecture."

"Portland is a compromise, sir. The city houses most of the resettled human population of the former state of Oregon. Most of the buildings continue to provide for their needs. The High Prince's Council considers this a reasonable arrangement, for the norms provide an important work force in the industries necessary to maintain the city as a contact point between Tir Tairngire and the rest of the world. However, since the recent trade agreements with the city-state of Seattle, Portland's usefulness is declining. One day, the human presence may be eliminated completely, but for now the city remains a necessary evil." "I do not like it."

Estios smiled coldly. "I understand, sir. We can take a more roundabout route and avoid much of the urban area." "Do so."

The trip to the mansion was quiet, almost peaceful, for Laverty's aides demonstrated minimal courtesy by offering no conversation once Urdli ignored their first few attempts. Estios was as good as his word. Urdli was not forced to see much of the ugly, squat human architecture.

The mansion itself was in the human style; Urdli had forgotten just how unattractive it was. Its only saving graces were the superbly rendered gargoyles and the delicate tracery of protective sorceries. At least the gardens had grown into their promise. Urdli had the young elves lead him to the library, ignoring their protests that he should retire to his room and freshen up. Matters were advanced well beyond such niceties, and he intended to use his waiting time constructively. Laverty's collection of books and manuscripts was even better than he had remembered. Perhaps there was some merit to relying on the written word instead of

organic memory. He was deep into a disk copy of Ver-mis' Liber Viridis when Laverty arrived.

The red-headed elf advanced across the room, a smile on his broad face and his arms held wide in greeting. "It's been years, my friend. What brings you to the Tir, whispering of secrets and looking so grim?" Urdli stood, his erect stance rebuffing the familiarity of Laverty's greeting. With m slight inclination of his head, Urdli indicated Estios and O'Connor. The young elves had not left him alone since he had installed himself in the library. "These are to stay?"

Laverty put on an affronted expression, but Urdli knew him well enough to see that it was only half-serious. "They are my best and most loyal. Should intervention be needed, they would be my agents of choice. I think it best that they hear your story for themselves."

"Ah, they are your paladins." This time Laverty's annoyed expression was for real. "I don't require the outmoded oaths, so I don't use the word. I leave such pointless fripperies to blow-hards like Ehran."

"Unconventional as always, Laverty." Laverty's irritation vanished when he laughed. "You should talk. Expedience rules all, does it not, Urdli? But you surely did not come to discuss my staffing arrangements. What is the problem?"

Urdli got right to the point. "There has been a raid on Imiri ti-Versakhan. " Laverty's light tone vanished. "How bad?" "Three of the wells are empty." "Only three? It could have been worse." "Rachnei's well was one of the three. The raiders stole the guardian stone."

"That is worse." Laverty sat and clasped his hands together, forefingers straight and pointing toward the ceiling. He lowered his head until his forehead touched the erect fingers, then tapped them against his brow in a steady rhythm. "What were the other two?"

"Minor nuisances only," Urdli replied, returning to his chair. "They do not concern me at this time, for they will not come to power for some years. If we are diligent, we might contain them again before they cause much mischief."

Laverty looked up. "Do you see a plan in the releases?"

"If you fear the old foes are at work, think again. Rachnei is no more their friend than ours. The release will mean as much trouble for them as for us. Were the raid part of a plot to ensnare our assets, the thieves would have arranged a more systematic release from the wells in order to more fully occupy us." "Cultists, then?"

Urdli shook his head dismissively. "I think not. There was no evidence of an attempt to control the release. Cultists would not be so naive. Whoever was involved has no idea what Rachnei is." "You're sure?"

Urdli shrugged. "There is no surety, only strong probabilities. Still, there may be a way to restore the balance."

Laverty looked doubtful. "If Rachnei has reab-sorbed the facet, I doubt the mana is high enough to sunder it again, let alone bind it back into the well. Even if it were possible, you couldn't do it alone. You'd need powerful help. Why haven't you gone to the Shidhe or made a direct plea to the Council?"

"You know the answer to that. The Shidhe are lost in their dreams, and I will have no dealings with your Council as long as that dragon sits on it.''

"I can understand your not wanting Lofwyr to know, but the others have a right, and a need, to know. The despoiling of Rachnei's well will affect us all in the long run, elf and non-elf. Containing the danger will require all available magic to succeed. A lot more power than I remember your being able to wield."

The ease with which Laverty dismissed his power rankled, but the evaluation was correct. "I am aware of how much power is involved. You counsel expedience in place of honor."

"I seem to recall you preferred the direct approach to the niceties of politics in your younger days."

"As I do still. If the facet remains unabsorbed and the opportunity arises to bind it into the well again, I will not object to assembling the others to do what will be necessary. Until then, I wish a chance to redeem my honor."

"Honor, is it?" Laverty's mouth quirked up on one side. "I hope your honor isn't going to blind you to necessity. I see no way to restore the balance at this time. With the well empty, we had best brace for the storm. Spreading the word seems the only reasonable course."

Urdli frowned. "And you would have me shout of the failure at //ran ti-Versakhan, that all should know of that place. What of that which lies there still? Do you wish attention called to that?"

For several moments Laverty said nothing. Then, "I see. What do you want me to do?"

"I would rather the circle of those who know remain small as yet. I fear that you may be right, that I delude myself into believing that the balance can be restored. I had hoped that you and your library might be a resource to answer that question. You have been more in the world than I and have a better understanding of the manifestations of the mana in the Sixth World. Even if the facet may not be riven again and secreted away, I still believe that the guardian stone can be used to combat Rachnei. We must recover the stone."

"You have access to other libraries. Why do you involve me and come to mine?" "There is an element of convenience. I have traced the remaining thieves to this continent. More precisely, I believe they lair in the metroplex to the north. As to why I have involved you, that should be obvious. You have many contacts here in the Americas, and it is a land I no longer know well. Your guidance would be invaluable. Time is fleeting. I must recover the stone before the thieves unravel the matrix of its magic."

Laverty nodded in reluctant agreement. "If I'm to help you find the thieves, I need to know what you know about them."

Urdli revealed what he had learned from following the thieves' backtrail through the shadows of Perth. His informants had been persuaded to part with all they knew, but their stores of data had proven pitiful. He had gotten descriptions and learned the street names of the surviving thieves. As he had hoped, Laverty recognized them.

"Gray Otter is a street samurai of reliable reputation, young but experienced. Competent as well. She has on occasion run shadow business with Twist in recent months. I would assume she is only a hireling in this matter.'' Laverty paused, as though unsure how to continue. Urdli became more alert, knowing he must listen carefully and be prepared for half-truths. "Twist is the street name of Samuel Verner, a former researcher for Renraku Corporation. He was here shortly after escaping his corporation's care, and was just coming into his magical powers. While he was here, I performed a series of tests to measure his magical ability. From the results, I would not have believed he had the strength to remove the guardian Stone. At that time he did not wish to believe he was a magician."

"Perhaps you were misled," Urdli suggested. "Whoever breached the well has embraced magic wholeheartedly, for only a powerful magician could have unlocked the spells holding die capstone in place."

Laverty seemed to consider the possibility. When he spoke, it was as though he were unintentionally voicing his thoughts rather than making a deliberate statement. "If it were he, and not someone or something in disguise."

"I will know him when I taste his aura. But I am confident that whoever removed the stone was of the brood of mankind. We need look to no greater conspiracy.''

Laverty nodded slowly. "Perhaps you are right. But I wonder. Verner has turned out to be a Dog shaman. As you know, Dog demands vigilance against evil magic. Evil in this context being most easily defined as magic that would harm mankind. Last year in England, he and some of my agents were involved in an affair that fit that bill to a tee. It seems unlikely that Verner would voluntarily open Rachnei's well."

This defense of the thief was unseemly. Urdli began to wonder if he had made a mistake in confiding his dishonor to Laverty. "Voluntarily or not, he has done it, and we must deal with the consequences. I would not like to learn that he has fallen under Rachnei's influence."

"I don't think so," Laverty said firmly. "Were it so, I believe I would have been forewarned."

Urdli understood. "Then you have an observer and know where Verner is to be found."

"Oh, yes."

"Tell me," Urdli demanded, knowing he had no authority to command Laverty's compliance. "My honor demands that I seek him out."

"Tb what end? Do you intend to kill him?"

"He must pay for what he has done."

"Recovering the stone is more important," Laverty reminded him.

"That is my first priority," Urdli said.

"If you can regain the stone, you have no need to kill Verner. Likely, he will give you. the stone if you ask for it, and offer to help set it back in place. I think he acted in ignorance, though I'm sure he has a reason for what he has done."

"What reason could be good enough?"

"Of that I'm unsure. I, too, would like to know. So much puzzles me about that man."

As always, Laverty's curiosity got in the way of necessary ends. "Puzzles are an idle man's pursuit, and I can no longer be idle. I must not rest until the stone is recovered and we know where this man stands in regard to Rachnei. Tell me where to find Verner."

The address Laverty gave him meant nothing, but the library's computer held maps.

Dodger forced his perception out of cyberspace. Normally the consensual hallucination by which meat operators could deal with the intricacies and machine speeds of the Matrix was advantageous. But his investigations were anything but normal, and his usual working methods had become something of a liability. To make sense of the shifts in some of the icons he was perceiving would take seeing real numbers and machine code. He thought he knew what was causing the shifts, but wasn't sure. He suspected that the shifts were signs that the AI was out there. Once, it had made the Ren-raku matrix shimmer with mirror planes of infinity and had ghosted icons to evanescent translucency. The shifts he was observing could be within its power.

It was out there. It had to be.

Hours evaporated as he studied the data he had snagged during the run. Periodically, he connected his deck to the Matrix for short, directed research runs.

His latest cup of kaf grew chill, becoming just another in the row of forgotten cups. His neck muscles cramped into iron stiffness. Each lead only unfolded into more perplexing possibilities, leaving him frustrated, intrigued, irritated, and fascinated. His absorption was so intense that he only became aware of the telecom after it had been chirping for some time.

He didn't want to be disturbed, but hadn't thought it necessary to inform the telecom's dog-brain to hold calls because so few people knew his current comm code. Now someone wanted to talk to him. Suddenly aware of his own physical discomfort, he was even less interested in interfacing with anyone. The telecom continued to chirp. The caller was persistent. Ah, well. He was already disturbed. And he was getting nowhere at the moment. He hit the "Save" key on his cyberdeck to hold his current position. Just as well. He would be better off doing some thinking before pursuing the search. Tugging the datacord from his temple jack with one hand, Dodger reached across with the other to tap the Tel button to open the line to his caller.

The screen glowed to life and the slender, worried face of Teresa O'Connor sharpened into focus. This disturbance disrupted more than just his work. Buried feelings stirred, and he knew himself vulnerable again. ' 'Dodger? You look like hell." "Ah, lady, and a fine day to you, too. I thought you didn't wish to speak with me." "I never said that."

Was that hurt in her expression? Or annoyance that he should presume to know her desires? "You made your position clear when you left London with Estios. He is well, I trust."

"Well enough. He doesn't throw things at the mention of your name anymore." "Nor any less, I expect. But I am unkind. I am sure your gentle influence has soothed his raging spirit. He treats you well?"

"Dodger, I don't want to talk about this."

"Very well, lady." He didn't really, either, but somehow his bitterness had spewed forth. "As ever, I cannot refuse your wish."

"That's drek, Dodger," she said, without heat. "We both know better than that."

He deliberately ignored what could be construed as an invitation to intimate discussion. As little as he wished to discuss what was, he desired even less to dredge up what might have been. " Tis you who placed the call. A situation of some gravity must portend. If so, I shall listen. But if 'tis of little import, I shall be distressed, for I have other matters pressing."

"Hope Twist isn't involved in them."

When that seemed all she was willing to say, he prompted, "Why, pray tell?"

"Your friend's in a lot of trouble."

Again she fell silent after a single portentous, yet uninformative, statement. Given the source of the call, however, Dodger thought he knew just what kind of trouble she meant. How had Estios found out what was going down tonight? That effing tight-assed elf had sworn to kill Janice just because she was a wendigo. How long had he known she was in Council lands? Was he going to disrupt the ritual?

"How did he find out?"

Teresa looked surprised. "You know about him already?"

"Of course, I… backspace. This isn't about Estios, is it? Who are you talking about, Teresa?"

She ran her tongue across her upper lip, reminding him of other times. She looked worried, almost as though she wanted to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching, but her discipline wouldn't allow it. Still, the rigidity of her stance told him that this was very serious business.

"I'd rather not name him," she said. "Especially on this line. Call him an old friend of the professor." He had been right about the seriousness. Dodger had had more than enough of the professor's old friends years ago. Most of the time they were trouble, even when they were on your side. "Tell me the tale."

"This, ah, person, thinks Twist stole something from him, some kind of magical guardian stone. I don't have the details, but it involves a certain something that came out of a well. I'm not sure what this person plans to do once he hunts Twist down, but I think he's going to kill your friend. This person's honor has been stained."

Guardian stones and wells. That spoke of magic and affairs Dodger understood only vaguely. One thing he appreciated was that this matter touched on the dark doings of the professor's connections. Whoever this mysterious person was, he would be a magician and someone dangerous to cross. Sam Verner, as usual, had stepped into drek and sunk in over his head. Everything Dodger could learn, anything Teresa would tell him, increased Sam's chances. "Might you describe this person, that I would know him when I see him?"

"On this line? No more than to say he's Australian. I'll send you a package. But you'd best get moving. He just left for Seattle.''

That was the first good part of the conversation. "Well, he's headed in the wrong direction. Twist has some business out of town and he's left the plex already. ''

Teresa did not look relieved. "He won't give up easily."

"Do they ever? Fear not, I shall get word to Twist."

"Be careful, Dodger. This person may not care who gets in his way.''

Her voice sounded sincere, and matched her expression of distressed concern. But how could she be truly troubled? She had made her decision, and he was not her choice. "Your anxiety is touching, fair damsel.

Spare no care for my safety. Having had experience of the professor's friends and their honor, I shall be excessively careful. Twist will get word tonight, just before he leaves on a long, unscheduled vacation."

The night was already cooling down, with the sun gone behind the cone of Mount Rainier for more than half an hour. With the moon climbing in the sky, the time was fast approaching.

Sam tried to ignore the sounds of argument coming from the other side of the rocks, but RikM Ratboy's shrill tones made it difficult. The weedy street shaman was trying to justify backing out on his promise to help with the ritual. Hart's soft but firm voice was pointing out that if Rikki intended to welsh on a promise, she would make sure that everyone on the street heard about it. In reply, Rikki wailed that he had been tricked into promising.

Rikki was all bluff. His noise hadn't started until Janice and Ghost had arrived. One look at the wendigo had set the Rat shaman off. If Manx had reservations about focusing the ritual on a wendigo, she hadn't revealed them. If she objected, it would have given Rikki the encouragement he wanted, and both the street shamans would now be long gone. As long as Manx was willing, Sam was sure that Rikki would stay. The Rat shaman wouldn't want to lose face in front of anyone, especially a Cat shaman.

Rikki and Manx would join Sam in performing the transformation ritual tonight. Their mix of totems might be odd, but the traditional rivalries of the animals were no bar to their working together. A shaman's totem demanded much, but never that his followers act out predator-prey relationships or territorial disputes. Perhaps it was an expression of the ultimate cosmic harmony as some claimed, but Sam merely accepted the arrangement without puzzling over the why and wherefore.

Tonight, however, he was glad of it. Rikki and Manx might not be the most powerful shamans on the Northwest coast, but he was sure they could handle their assigned parts in the ritual. In approaching them, Sam had hoped their curiosity and greed for the knowledge he offered would be motivation enough to keep quiet. Like all street magicians, they were avid for new magic, that edge that would let them spike the competition for choice assignments in the shadow trade. Manx, anyway, would have kept the preparations for tonight secret, for she was a living embodiment of Cat's obsessive secrecy. But secrecy was a transient need. After tonight Janice would be cured, and it wouldn't matter anymore. If Rikki talked then, fine.

Only the three shamans would be involved in the ritual. Father Rinaldi would have been glad to assist, but he also pointed out that it would stretch the ritual team's resources to protect him, a virtual mundane. Sam had reluctantly agreed to construct the workings without including the priest, but he worried that without Rinaldi's store of knowledge, he wouldn't be informed enough to deal with any unexpected ripples in the mana flow. But the priest had come to the mountain anyway, as moral support prior to the actual working. When the time came he would take his place in one of the carefully chosen lookout points around the perimeter.

Hart would be out there, too. They had all decided that the magic would be purer without mixing her hermetic tradition into the basically shamanic ritual. Pure magic was strong magic, and Sam wanted all the strength he could get into tonight's. He wished he knew more shamans he could trust even as far as he did Rikki and Manx, but those two would be all the help he had tonight.

At least they wouldn't be disturbed. Father Rinaldi professed no particular skill as a scout, but the priest was acutely observant, and his astral sight would be an invaluable aid. Then there were Hart, Ghost, and Gray Otter, all professionals. No Council troops would approach unseen.

Forcing away his worries and concerns, Sam returned his concentration to what he was doing. Colored sand dribbled from his fingers to fall to the ground, each grain taking its place in a growing, intricate pattern. The site would be ready soon, but only barely soon enough. He'd spent most of the last two days here, laying out the patterns with Father Rinaldi's help and consecrating the site in preparation for the ritual. The sand paintings were the last step, and they could not have been done before tonight.

The priest finished his inspection of the clearing and. came up behind Sam. "The paintings look good." "I guess so. I'm not much of an artist." "The intent and the symbolism are more important than the rendering." Rinaldi laid an encouraging hand on Sam's shoulder. "The picture is fine."

Sam frowned. "I wish we didn't need to put Raven in it. He's Trickster as well as Transformer."

"This is not the time to reopen that discussion. Raven is a powerful totem, especially here in the Northwest of North America. We designed this ritual to incorporate as many elements as possible from as many traditions as could be brought together. Raven belongs here." ,"I know." Sam let the last of the black sand dribble from his fingers, completing the dark image of the bird.

"I'm just nervous, I guess. Want everything to go right."

"So do we all, Sam.'' Rinaldi scanned the sky. ' 'It's almost time."

Sam checked the height of the orange moon and nodded. He stared at it for a minute, massaging cramped muscles, then gathered his jars of sand back into their carrying case. By the time he'd stowed the case in his pack Rinaldi was gone, and the clearing was quiet except for the night sounds.

Sam whispered the words that would set the first glimmers of power alight in the medicine circle. A faint glow, all but lost in the growing moonlight, suffused the clearing. The ritual ground was five meters across, its boundary marked by a ring of small stones. Smaller shapes lay just inside the ring at each of the cardinal points. At the northern point was a bare, circular patch of ground on which sat a tall ritual drum. The southern point had a similar patch, but this one contained a multicolored rug on which lay a long wooden flute. The eastern area was a man-sized and -shaped outline of stones, head to the center. The western shape was the same, but the outline was half again as large. A third bare patch, bounded by a ring of red sand, lay in the middle of the ring like a hub. In its center, marking the heart of the medicine circle, sat the opal Sam had taken from the cave, aglow with moonlight and magic. Between the central patch and each of the outer areas was a circular sand painting.

The soft padding of footsteps sounded from the path as the other shamans entered the clearing and nodded their readiness to Sam. He nodded back. Rikki stepped into the medicine ring and took his place in the drum circle. Rikki's music, unlike Rinaldi's accompaniment to Sam's astral voyage, would not be simply for mood. Tonight's music would have its own magic. Manx entered the flute circle and seated herself on the rug. She arranged her long black hair over the shawl around her shoulders and settled her necklaces and pendants to her satisfaction before picking up the flute.

Starting from the feet of the larger outline, Sam walked halfway around the outside of the great circle, chanting the. opening song of the ritual. At the smaller outline he pivoted and completed the circle backward. Rikki began a steady drumbeat, and Sam repeated bis course. This time he added extra steps, making his progress a solemn dance. Manx's haunting flute music accompanied the third circumnavigation of the ring, and Sam's steps became quicker. The glow of the magelight grew stronger with each pass until the clearing was nearly as bright as day.

Chanting, Sam entered the medicine circle at the feet of the large outline, crossing it and a band of red sand that bisected the sand painting to reach the center. He paused to touch the opal, then continued on, crossing a second sand painting and the smaller outline. At its foot and still within the outer ring, he crouched facing the center, changing the chant to the calling song.

Opposite him, outside the circle, Janice stepped out of the darkness.

"Welcome, Wolf," he said. "Join us in our magic." "Willingly," she replied, then stepped over the boundary rocks and into the larger outline. She lay down on her back, head toward the center of the ring. Sam walked the inner boundary of the circle to close it magically. Then he walked around Janice, sprinkling her with herbs to complete the seal. Returning to the central area, he sealed himself in.

There was little room in the circle; his crossed legs nearly touched the opal. He reached out, laying the fingers of both hands on the gemstone. Pushing himself into trance, he felt for Dog's presence. He wanted his totem's strength to add to the gathered power, but the fickle presence remained aloof. As you wish, old hound. With the focus stone and the ritual, there would be magic enough. Rikki took up the harmony chant in his squeaky, shrill voice while Manx's flute purred a haunting counter-melody. Distantly, he heard his own voice begin the transformation song. Sam let himself drift, gathering power. Anchoring himself through the opal, he gathered the strands to weave them into a shining pattern. Under his shirt Sam's fossil tooth thumped against his chest, and he merged its aural image into the configuration, enmeshing it in the net. Foundation complete, he reached toward distant influences and warped them into conformation with his will.

Clothed in scintillant power, he turned to Janice. She was only an aural image of ill-defined shape. Beneath the surface he felt the lurking darkness of the wendigo nature warring with the struggling but weakening human soul. He wrapped her in the power, co-cooning her like a caterpillar. Soon, he sang, she would emerge a butterfly.

When he called her forth, she made the ritual responses. Obeying his order, she stood and crossed from the larger to the smaller outline, skirting the central area as she went, then lay down again. Sam felt the surging power and struggled to guide it, trying with all his might to mold it to his desire. For all his attempts to control it, the power remained unfocused as they reached the crucial point of the song. Then the threshold had been crossed, the passage made, and there was nothing to do but sing the conclusion of the ritual. The voice of the flute softened to silence, while the drum, steady and insistent, shifted to a new rhythm that called Sam back from the realms of power.

He opened his eyes. Janice lay to his left, overflowing from the smaller stone outline. She remained a wendigo. All the preparation and sacrifice had been in vain. The ritual had failed.

A screech, seeming to encompass Sam's despair and rage, shredded the night and ripped the music into silence.

A huge humanoid shape bounded from the darkness to stand hunched at the edge of the medicine circle.

Its long, ape-like arms flailed. One gnarled hand held a tree limb that it swept back and forth, scattering the stones of the outer ring.

Two more creatures like the first shambled from the darkness to also stand at the edge of the broken circle. All three were massive, alike in general but idiosyn-cratically different in particulars. Covered in rough hides studded with irregular patches of dermal bone, the creatures were three meters of lumpy muscles. Asymmetric horns crowned misshapen heads that wobbled as they turned to scan the clearing. Bloodshot eyes gleamed evilly in the flickering magelight.

The first creature flung its tree limb toward Sam. The missile struck the ground a meter short, gouging the earth and plowing through the stones of the ring to come to rest at Sam's feet. Shrieking, the monster charged. Scrambling out of its way, Sam jumped to the side, scattering colored sand as he fled the ritual circle.

He took cover in a jumble of boulders. Already there was Gray Otter, crouched with her SCK100 machine pistol in her hand. Sam didn't know if he had stumbled onto her watch station or if she had returned upon hearing the ruckus. Whichever, he was glad she was there. He wished Ghost and Hart were there as well.

Looking back at the clearing, he saw the creatures rampaging about, kicking through the sand paintings and heaving rocks randomly into the surrounding dark. The mage-light faded away and night dropped back onto the mountain.

Rikki crawled up beside Sam and Gray Otter. "What are those things?"

"Dzoo-noo-qua," Gray Otter said softly.

"Doo-zoo-what?" Rikki asked.

"Name doesn't matter, Rikki. They're trouble." V'Big trouble," Gray Otter agreed.

Sam searched the darkness for any sign of his sister or the other shaman.' 'What happened to Janice and Manx?''

"Dunno," Rikki replied. "Ain't healthy out there. They must've decided the same."

A sudden burst of light illuminated the clearing. Someone had popped a flare. Sam hoped it was Ghost's doing, or Hart's. They didn't need Salish-Shidhe troops complicating things now.

The harsh white glare let him see what had happened to Manx. Fleeing the attack, she had not chosen her direction wisely. One of the dzoo had her cornered at the edge of the clearing where the slope fell sharply away down the mountain. The creature advanced on her menacingly, while Manx responded with flaring darts of arcane power that ripped into the dzoo.

Instead of howling in pain or breaking off its advance to seek cover, the creature merely lowered its head and bulled forward. The magical energy shed from its shoulders like water. With nowhere to dodge, Manx could not 'evade the sweep of the monster's long arm, which gathered her in. As soon as it laid its second hand on her, she began to scream. It didn't bite or claw or squeeze her, but she screamed. Her hair faded from its midnight black as her struggles weakened. Her skin sagged and wrinkled. Clothes that had hugged her full-fleshed body flapped loosely as she struck and kicked. The creature seemed to grow larger, but that was an illusion born of dread. At least Sam hoped it was. The dzoo raised its head and howled at the moon, and the joy in that cry chilled Sam thoroughly.

With a howl of his own, he stood up. Gathering the power, he felt the mask of Dog descend over his features. He bared his teeth and cast the energy in a stun-bolt at the dzoo. The thing staggered, dropping the husk that was all that remained of Manx.

The dzoo turned its bloodshot eyes toward him. Ivory reflected in the flare's light as it grinned at Sam. With a grunt, the creature charged.

The chatter from Otter's gun drowned the sounds of Rikki scrambling away. Sam hoped the Rat shaman was seeking a better location from which to cast his own spells. Though tired by his first casting, Sam pre 96

Robert N. Charrette pared a second to follow up Otter's fire. Though on target, her attack had little effect. Bullets sparked from the creature's dermal armor to ricochet into the night. Sam was still gathering his power when the dzoo reached their refuge. With a back-handed blow, it sent Otter tumbling away. Sam jumped back but landed badly, his ankle twisting under him, and he fell. The dzoo grinned. Dark, spadelike nails gouged the loam as the creature groped for him. The drooling, leering face came closer, and he felt the thing's fetid breath on his skin. Then the fang-mouthed visage was rising, a look of stupid confusion replacing the former avid anticipation.

Janice had come to Sam's rescue. In a display of phenomenal strength, she lifted the dzoo over her head. The thing struggled, but her grip on its dermal armor remained firm until she slammed the creature into the ground. The dzoo whuffed out its breath and flailed spasmodically with its limbs. As one dirty foot caught Janice at the side of her knee, her leg buckled and she fell within reach of the dzoo's arms. Clawed fingers raked at her, digging furrows of blood. The wounds were healing even as the dzoo half leaped, half crawled onto her. The two titans kicked and gouged as they rolled over, locked in one another's grip. Biting and spitting, the heaving melee of fur and leathery hide pitched about until the combatants finally rolled out of the flare's range and into the darkness.

The struggle's savage fury almost drowned out Ghost's shout. Without thinking Sam ducked, diving to the ground and rolling. His quick reaction saved him from having his head split open by the tree trunk that came smashing down where he had just stood. He was not fast enough to escape unscathed, however. Sam's arm blazed with pain as the weapon shredded his sleeve and scraped skin and flesh from his right arm. Dazed, he staggered to his feet, then fell. He was too groggy to focus a spell, and his arm was numb from the shock. His gun wouldn't have done any good anyway. The tranq bullets wouldn't have slowed the thing down fast enough, even if the needles managed to penetrate the dermal bone. He looked up into the hungry face of a second dzoo-noo-qua.

Ghost hit the creature hard with a cross-body strike to the back of the knees. Surprised, it began to topple backward. Ghost hit the ground first, but rolled away before the bulk of the dzoo could pin him. The Indian came up with both Ingrams out, and the guns spat lethally. He concentrated his fire on the creature's neck, where the armored plating was light. Bullets chewed through the bulky muscle, mauling meat until the neck was half-severed. Pumping blood, the dzoo-noo-qua rose and charged Ghost, who evaded its clumsy rush. The dzoo blundered past him, crashing into the brush. Its howling trailed off as it tumbled downslope, ending with a solid thump as the creature crashed into a tree that refused to yield. The clearing fell silent.

Ghost looked Sam over and nodded, seemingly satisfied that he would survive. Otter limped her way to them. She was bruised but had sustained no serious injuries. She had Rikki in tow; he was grimier than usual, but unhurt. Hart arrived at a full run, weapon in one hand and spell energy glowing around the other. At Ghost's "It's over," she let the spell fade away and dropped her weapon to hang from its sling. She threw her arms around Sam, who returned the embrace. "I'm all right," he told her. "I was too far away," she said. "Janice?" "I don't know. She was fighting one of the dzoo-noo-qua. They rolled that way into the brush." "That fight's over, too," Ghost announced. "Janice?" Sam said. Ghost said nothing.

Fearing the worst, Sam bolted in the direction he had seen the fight heading. Hart raced at his side. They did not have to go far, for the combatants' struggle had taken them no more than a dozen meters from the clearing.

Janice was alive. Her wounds were closing as Sam watched hi shocked silence. It was not the magical healing that shocked him, but what she was doing.

Janice was eating her former opponent.

When she realized she had an audience, she stopped and looked up. At first, Sam saw no recognition in her eyes, only hunger. Then the feral gleam faded a bit, and she slunk away into the shadows. Stunned, he didn't follow. Hart laid her hand on his bruised arm, but he was too numb to flinch.

The beast was rising.

Unnoticed, Father Rinaldi had joined them. "This is very bad, Sam. These dzoo-noo-qua, they are not animals."

Sam refused to believe that. "Paterson's Paranormal Animals lists dzoo-noo-qua as nonsentient. And the Salish-Shidhe Council offers a bounty on them as vermin."

"The Council also offers a bounty on wendigos," Rinaldi pointed out.

The priest's cruel reminder made Sam clench his jaw to repress a sob. Books and bounties weren't always right. Paterson's guide also said that dzoo-noo-qua were trolls that had been turned into something subhuman by an infection of the transforming HMHVV virus. Some researchers thought the same virus turned orks into wendigos, but what did the scientists really know about magical beings?

Rinaldi and Hart coaxed Sam away from the corpse of the dzoo-noo-qua and got him back to the clearing. The priest began to dress Sam's wound. As he was finishing he said sadly, "I'll have to talk with Brothers Mark and Paulus about this."

Sam nodded without meeting Rinaldi's gaze. "Do what you have to do, Father. I understand." "I hope you do, Sam."

Another nod. "Each of us does what he must do." The priest eyed him strangely but said nothing. Gray Otter appeared at Rinaldi's shoulder with an offer to guide him back to the metroplex. The priest thanked her and began to gather his things. Over his bent back, Otter caught Sam's eyes. He mouthed the word "slow," and she nodded. Each of us does what he must do. As Rinaldi and Otter departed, Dodger stepped up to Sam's side. Sam didn't wonder how or why the decker had come to the clearing; he was just glad that Dodger was there.

"Time to fall back and regroup?" Dodger asked. "You know what to do, Dodger." "Verily. Implementation shall take but an elementary command. Fear not, Sir Twist. The good brothers shall receive their recall orders before the padre can reach them. He, too, shall receive a summons home. They shall not be around to interfere." "Will they suspect?"

"For shame, Sir Twist. Though I cannot bespeak the activity of their paranoia, I assure you that they shall not see through my deception until they confront their superior in Rome. By then it will be too late for them to interfere. There is, however, another matter." Sam didn't know what could be worse than tonight's disaster, but Dodger's grim expression promised more calamity. "I don't want to know, so you'd better tell me."