Harris looked at him, confused, and waved the box, a black metal thing about the size of a VCR tape. "I found this on my bed when I woke up. The note said to turn on the switch and come to the lab."
"My note," Doc admitted. "And my box. Yours, now."
Harris moved over to join them. The table, he saw, was piled with food—more of the meat-filled pastries, a big platter of cold cuts and bread.
Alastair waved a hand over the mass: "Care for anything?"
"My stomach isn't awake yet. God, I must have slept almost a whole day. I'll take some of that chocolate drink if you've got it." Harris took an unoccupied stool. "So what's the box?"
Doc gestured at the volt-meter on the table before him. "I rekeyed this to show you, as it did the first night. But it doesn't. Not while you carry that box. It's something I've made to conceal your presence."
"Great." Harris slipped the box in his jacket pocket. "You whipped this up just today?"
"During the night."
"Should you even be out of bed?" Harris peered at Doc's hands, but they were back to normal. Doc obligingly turned them over so he could see both sides.
Alastair paused with a silver container filled with milk poised over Harris' chocolate. "He should not. He's still dragging his feet out of his grave."
"That's what I thought. I'll take it black, thanks."
Alastair blinked. "But you asked for milk."
"I did?"
Gaby looked amused. "I've already been through this once today. The nasty chocolate stuff is called `xioc.' So when you put milk in it, it's `xioc au lait.' Get it?"
"I'll take your word for it." Harris took up the mug and sipped, winced once more at the drink's harshness. "I've changed my mind. I'll take the milk." He turned back to Doc. "Does this mean that Duncan Blackletter's people can't find me now?"
"I think so . . . at least, not by using a device like this. Now I need to make another one for Gabriela. Unlike you, she registers on both settings. Her Tallysin Aura has elements like yours, an outsider's, and elements like one of the Gifted."
"Meaning they get to track me down on both worlds," Gaby mock-grumbled. "Between that and the fact that they tell me they don't have any blue jeans on the fair world, I'm getting pretty annoyed."
Harris smiled. "You loved this place yesterday. You fall out of love fast."
The words were out of him before he realized what he was saying. He saw her expression of hurt surprise. He suppressed a wince and waited for the moment to pass. "So, what's on the schedule for today?"
"Tests," Doc said. "We know Gaby is Gifted. We know she must be tied up with Gabrielle somehow. But she says she's never manifested any sign of the Gift. We have to find out what that means."
"You going to put her in the big glass tube and fire lightning into her brain?"
Gaby's eyes got big.
Doc nodded, oblivious. "Yes, the Firbolg Valence is first on the itinerary. And you? What would you like to do?"
"I don't know. Do you know where I can find a weight room?"
"A what?"
"A gymnasium, maybe?"
"Ah. Down three, next to the gun practice range. Private, for the use of Foundation associates; use the Foundation elevator."
"Doc, is there anything this building doesn't have?"
"I don't think so. Suggest something. I'll have it put in."
* * *
The gymnasium had a wooden parquet floor that hadn't seen a lot of use. Only one of the banks of lights against the high ceiling was on; this gave the place an air of emptiness and gloom, like the sports arena of a losing team after the crowds had gone.
Most of the way through his warm-up stretches, Harris lowered himself into a front split, right leg forward, left leg back as straight as he could manage—which wasn't as straight as he'd like. He used to be a little more limber. He held the pose, then bent to touch his forehead to his knee in spite of the protest from offended muscle groups. He reversed his pose, bringing the left leg forward.
The chamber's dim atmosphere was fine with Harris. He'd always liked prowling around where he wasn't supposed to be, and being here felt like that. It was a habit that had gotten him in trouble with school officials and police a couple of times when he was younger.
And the gloom reflected his mood. Much as he wanted to be with Gaby, help keep her spirits up during the tests, he knew he'd probably say something stupid, hurtful. Knew that her eyes no longer lit up when he appeared. Most of the time, when she saw him she looked guilty, unhappy.
Finished with the front splits, he turned sideways, his legs straight out to either side, and bent forward, trying to touch his forehead to the floor. He never could quite manage to split his legs out to a 180deg. angle, but he could get close. His muscles protested as he pressed his forehead to the cool floor; he held the pose.
He relaxed and rose. Enough stretching. He lowered himself into horse stance to begin the first of his forms exercises . . . and spotted someone in his peripheral vision. He turned his head slightly to get a better look. It was Noriko, lingering in the shadows near the door.
Come to study him, as she studied everything, with her solemn expression and unblinking gaze? He smiled to himself. Well, as long as he had an audience, he might as well put on a show.
He decided against one of his traditional forms sets and instead conjured up the mental image of Sonny Walters, positioning him in the far corner of an imaginary boxing ring. It was time to replay that fight, see where it had gone wrong. Do it right this time.
Hands high, body in motion, Harris advanced on the Smile.
He still had to advance. Sonny had the reach on him; there was no other way to fight it. No mistake there.
In the real fight, after the first couple of rounds, Sonny had begun nailing him just as Harris moved in close enough to strike and just before Harris drew back out of Sonny's range. Transitions, just as Zeb had said. But why not before—why not in the first two rounds?
Sonny must just have been studying Harris. Soaking up a little punishment while he catalogued Harris' inventory of moves and approaches. Okay, then. Harris moved into range of the phantom Sonny's attacks, and his sparring partner didn't attack. A few inches closer, still bouncing and weaving, and Sonny was in range of Harris' kicks, but still didn't strike. That was the way Harris remembered it.
Harris moved into arm range and threw a left-hand feint. The phantom Sonny blocked, came back with a right hook. This time Harris knew not to try to stop it with his knifehand block; strong enough for most opponents, that move wasn't strong enough for Sonny Walters. Instead, he threw a middle block, bringing his left forearm in on Sonny's extended arm, battering it out of line.
A good pose from which to launch his spinning backfist. He started a clockwise spin but only turned a few degrees, then disengaged his left hand and snapped it into Sonny's exposed face, right into his nose. The phantom looked surprised, moved back an involuntary step, and took Harris' follow-through right front kick right in the guts.
Zeb had said to work on his stomach; why hadn't Harris listened? Zeb must think he was a complete idiot. Harris had marched in, mistaken Sonny's cool, collected analysis for passiveness, and settled into the tactics that would lead him to painful defeat.
Not this time. He kept his own critical faculties working. Sonny had kept his guard lower than usual, probably protecting pained ribs. Harris exploited that now; every one of his combinations included at least one blow aimed at the bigger man's torso, and it was often one of his more deceptive blows. He didn't have to hit hard, not yet; he just had to leave Sonny with the impression that he could get through to his gut anytime he wanted.
All the while, his silent audience, Noriko, watched. Harris caught sight of her whenever the phantom fight faced him in the right direction. She had to be taking stock of his style, looking for weaknesses . . .
No, that wasn't right. There was something about the way she stood. She had her back to the wall but wasn't leaning against it. Her
arms were crossed, but it wasn't a relaxed pose, and seemed just a little awkward and uncertain. It reminded him of something, someone else.
Then she turned away and moved toward the door, and Harris had it. High school algebra, and Mary Francis Richards tensely standing by as class let out, trying to figure out how to ask a question of the teacher without sounding stupid; she never could stand for people to think ill of her. Her pose had been the same. That didn't seem right, not like Noriko, but . . .
Harris gave a flick of his fingers. The phantom Sonny, an annoyed look on his face, disappeared. "Noriko."
At the door, she turned. "Yes?"
"Were you going to ask me something?"
She didn't answer.
"Go ahead."
She took a long breath. "Would you . . . would you teach me how to kick as you do?"
"Sure."
Noriko blinked and came forward a step. "When?"
"Well, if we get started right now, we can be through in three or four years."
She managed a little smile. "I would not be intruding?"
"Nope. Tell you what, though. If you teach me a little about the way you use that sword, we can call it an even trade."
"I would like that." She moved forward to join him.
"That was hard for you, wasn't it?"
"What?"
"Asking."
She took a moment to answer. "Maybe."
"Well, try to take it easier on yourself next time. I don't bite." He shrugged. "Is that what you wear to work out?" Her outfit was gold-yellow and cut much like her evening pants suits, but was not new and looked more like common linen than silk.
"Yes. Is it suitable?"
"Just fine. So. We'll start with a little history. What I do is called tae kwon do, which means the art of kicking and punching. Truth in advertising. It was developed in Korea, a country in the same place as your Silla . . . "
Duncan spoke the last words. As ever, they were like a switch, turning on the tap to the reservoirs of his endurance. He felt strength flow from him, a sensation that was simultaneously comforting and worrisome.
Then there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees around his outdoor stone circle. But he could feel the energy hovering out there, just at the limits of his circle; it built in focus and intensity, wove itself into a pattern too complex for any but the most sophisticated devisers to comprehend.
Behind him, one of the men coughed. Costigan, probably. The cool winds flowing over this upstate campsite were aggravating the young man's injured throat. Duncan shook his head. He'd have to get the boy to a doctor. And Phipps, too, to repair his broken arm. Duncan had chosen the two of them and Dominguez for their knowledge and loyalty, not for their current physical condition, because the latter could be dealt with once they were on the fair world.
There it was—the shriveling of grasses as the devisement demanded more power than Duncan had given it. Like a shockwave, the ripple of death spread away from the circle, consuming the lives of plants and insects before it.
Then the trees began to stretch . . . He heard his men gasp.
A moment later, it was over. One big, ear-hurting pop, and they were somewhere else, at one end of a vast wooden hangar.
And fair world men waited there. One was Angus Powrie, rushing across the border of the conjurer's circle painted on the floor. The redcap helped Duncan to his feet. "Sir. Glad to have you back at last."
Tired by his devisement, Duncan leaned heavily on the redcap's arm. "I'm so glad to be home, Angus. I'd like you to meet my chief lieutenants: Costigan, Dominguez, Phipps."
The three grimworlders still stared around, trying to take in the changes they'd just experienced. They snapped to attention for the introductions.
"Graces on you," said Angus. "Big ones. I like that. My own chiefs, Alpson, Moon, Captain Walbert, who'll be your personal pilot, are in Neckerdam. And what—" he stared openly at Adonis "—in the name of all the gods is that?" The redcap began laughing.
"The best I could do." Alastair gave an embarrassed shrug. "Devisement is not an easy process on the grim world, and I had to work with the materials I had available. This is Adonis, which is, as they say, better than nothing. No replacement for Joseph, though.
"Now. My list is done. We can begin cutting."
Angus left off his chuckling and nodded.
"And your list?"
"Done . . . but for the additions you so graciously sent us." The redcap's voice was anything but gracious.
"Ah. Well, we will eliminate them as well. Once that's done, we can begin rebuilding. Building a new world." Duncan looked over the small fleet of aircraft arrayed in the hangar, especially the largest of the ships, the one with the name Storm Cloud painted on its side. "You've done quite well, Angus."
"I want you to have all the conveniences you need."
"Angus? Is the ceremony done?" That call came from the far side of the hangar, and the speaker soon trotted into view: a blond man, elegant, almost inhumanly beautiful. "It is," he continued. "I wish you'd told me." The blond man slowed to a walk, approaching almost tentatively.
Angus waved him over and brought him face-to-face with Blackletter. "Duncan, let me present the boy, Darig. He has learned the business well. He will make you proud. Darig, this is the great man himself."
Duncan took the young man by the shoulders and stared intently into his face. "I have not seen you since you were an infant."
"I know, sir."
"You are as handsome as your mother hoped you would be."
"More so, I trust."
Duncan smiled. "You know you will have to go to the grim world for a while."
Darig shook his head. "I'd rather stay."
"Well, if you do, you'll have to die." Duncan's tone was friendly, reasonable.
"I know." Darig smiled shyly. "I'd like to die as my world does. Help bring it about, even. Have you any need for a sacrifice to the gods? I've always fancied dying on an altar. Perhaps seeing my own beating heart before death takes me."
Duncan beamed down at Angus. "You were right. He does make me proud."
Harris settled into a schedule. Up just after dawn. Down to the gymnasium for a workout alone. Noriko would join him for instruction. Then she'd teach him for a while—techniques with knives, her sword, some of the grappling and tripping maneuvers she'd grown up learning in the land of Wo, not too different from the little bit of hapkido he'd learned once upon a time. When he told her that he barely knew one end of a gun from the other, she began taking him to the range on the same floor for practice with firearms.
Back to his room for a bath and clothes. Then he'd descend to the lab floor to graze from the food perpetually laid out on one of the tables. He might bump into anyone there, but it was usually Alastair, eating, smoking, reading Neckerdam's newspaper, happy to talk. Doc was sometimes on hand, doing tests on Gaby, assembling a piece of equipment, or testing the reactions of chemicals introduced to one another; at such times, he would usually not notice any greeting short of a gunshot.
Then it was back up to his room to watch the talk-box for the rest of the day.
The programming was mostly local broadcasts from Neckerdam nightclubs—live music. Good stuff. Some sounded like big band music, torch songs, swing—but with more strings than brass. Some was the vigorous, fast-paced stuff that sounded like Irish dance music.
After a couple of hours, he'd had a month's worth of Neckerdam music. But he left it on and kept watching.
Because if he went down to the lab, he'd get in the way of Gaby's tests. If he went to the library, he'd probably bump into Gaby there, too—it seemed to be her retreat for the occasions she could escape Doc and Alastair. If he went for a walk outside, the Changeling's men might be waiting, might kill him on sight. Maybe he should take a brisk walk out on the eightieth-floor ledge and say hello to the gargoyles and griffins.
He'd get hungry in the evening, go down to the lab floor for another grazing run, then return to his room t
o lie awake on the bed until he could drift off to sleep.
By the second day of his new routine, he was sick of it.
* * *
At breakfast of the third day, Alastair took a call from the lobby. He hung up and said to himself, "This should be interesting."
Harris, Jean-Pierre, and Gaby heard him; Doc, across the room, did not. Harris asked, "What should?"
"That was the elevator captain. Joseph is on his way up."
"You're right. It should." Harris rose and looked around.
"What do you need?" asked Alastair.
"A hammer and chisel. I'm going to try to get Doc's attention."
They were waiting for him when Joseph, somber as ever, stepped off the Foundation elevator. The giant was dressed in lighter, brighter garments than before, not work dress, and carried an enormous green cloth bag over his shoulder. Harris saw Gaby shudder; doubtless she was remembering her last experience with large cloth bags.
Doc stepped forward. "Grace on you, Joseph. I'm surprised. I thought that this was the last place you'd ever wish to visit."
"It was," Joseph said. "But I am ruined for work. Ruined for living. The dreams wouldn't let me go. You stirred them up. I cannot work or sleep. So I am here."
Doc considered a brief moment. "Joseph . . . Duncan is still alive."
"On the grim world. I know." He gestured at Gaby. "She told me."
They all gave her a look. She shook her head and asked, "Was it on the talk-box?"
"Yes."
"Then it was Gabrielle. The twin I've never met."
"It does not matter," Joseph said. "Duncan must die, or I must. So here is the place I must be."
"And you are welcome," Doc said. "Jean-Pierre, would you set him up in a room?"
Jean-Pierre and Joseph left for the residential floor; Gaby, visibly upset, took the stairs up to her room. Doc returned to his experiments, Alastair and Harris to their breakfast.
"Joseph acts like he expects the hammer to fall at any time," Harris said. "Poor guy."
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