It was always possible that she had gone out without her keyto the shop in the lobby, to the newsstand for a magazine or a paper. Sure. He had not seen her pick up a newspaper since the beginning of summer. All the news she cared about came over an internal radio. Out for a walk, then. Yeah, out exercising and breathing deeply. Or jogging, maybe maybe Lily Cavanaugh had suddenly gone in for the hundredyard dash. Shed set up hurdles down on the beach and was in training for the next Olympics. . . . When the elevator deposited him in the lobby he glanced into the shop, where an elderly blond woman behind a counter peered at him over the tops of her glasses. Stuffed animals, a tiny pile of thin newspapers, a display rack of flavored Chap Stick. Leaning out of pockets in a wallstand were People and Us and New Hampshire Magazine. Sorry, Jack said, and turned away. He found himself staring at the bronze plaque beside a huge, dispirited fern . . . has begun to sicken and must soon die. The woman in the shop cleared her throat. Jack thought that he must have been staring at those words of Daniel Websters for entire minutes. Yes? the woman said behind him. Sorry, Jack repeated, and pulled himself into the center of the lobby. The hateful clerk lifted an eyebrow, then turned sideways to stare at a deserted staircase. Jack made himself approach the man. Mister, he said when he stood before the desk. The clerk was pretending to try to remember the capital of North Carolina or the principal export of Peru. Mister. The man scowled to himself he was nearly there, he could not be disturbed. All of this was an act, Jack knew, and he said, I wonder if you can help me. The man decided to look at him after all. Depends on what the help is, sonny. Jack consciously decided to ignore the hidden sneer. Did you see my mother go out a little while ago? Whats a little while? Now the sneer was almost visible. Did you see her go out? Thats all Im asking. Afraid she saw you and your sweetheart holding hands out there? God, youre such a creep, Jack startled himself by saying. No, Im not afraid of that. Im just wondering if she went out, and if you werent such a creep, youd tell me. His face had grown hot, and he realized that his hands were bunched into fists. Well okay, she went out, the clerk said, drifting away toward the bank of pigeonholes behind him. But youd better watch your tongue, boy. You better apologize to me, fancy little Master Sawyer. I got eyes, too. I know things. You run your mouth and I run my business, Jack said, dredging the phrase up from one of his fathers old recordsperhaps it did not quite fit the situation, but it felt right in his mouth, and the clerk blinked satisfactorily. Maybe shes in the gardens, I dont know, the man said gloomily, but Jack was already on his way toward the door. The Darling of the Driveins and Queen of the Bs was nowhere in the wide gardens before the hotel, Jack saw immediatelyand he had known that she would not be in the gardens, for he would have seen her on his way into the hotel. Besides, Lily Cavanaugh did not dawdle through gardens that suited her as little as did setting up hurdles on the beach. A few cars rolled down Boardwalk Avenue. A gull screeched far overhead, and Jacks heart tightened. The boy pushed his fingers through his hair and looked up and down the bright street. Maybe she had been curious about Speedymaybe shed wanted to check out this unusual new pal of her sons and had wandered down to the amusement park. But Jack could not see her in Arcadia Funworld any more than he could see her lingering picturesquely in the gardens. He turned in the less familiar direction, toward the town line. Separated from the Alhambras grounds by a high thick hedge, the Arcadia Tea and Jam Shoppe stood first in a row of brightly colored shops. It and New England Drugs were the only shops in the terrace to remain open after Labor Day. Jack hesitated a moment on the cracked sidewalk. A tea shop, much less shoppe, was an unlikely situation for the Darling of the Driveins. But since it was the first place he might expect to find her, he moved across the sidewalk and peered in the window. A woman with piledup hair sat smoking before a cash register. A waitress in a pink rayon dress leaned against the far wall. Jack saw no customers. Then at one of the tables near the Alhambra end of the shop he saw an old woman lifting a cup. Apart from the help, she was alone. Jack watched the old woman delicately replace the cup in the saucer, then fish a cigarette from her bag, and realized with a sickening jolt that she was his mother. An instant later, the impression of age had disappeared. But he could remember itand it was as if he were seeing her through bifocals, seeing both Lily Cavanaugh Sawyer and that fragile old woman in the same body. Jack gently opened the door, but still he set off the tinkle of the bell that he had known was above it. The blond woman at the register nodded, smiling. The waitress straightened up and smoothed the lap of her dress. His mother stared at him with what looked like genuine surprise, and then gave him an open smile. Well, Wandering Jack, youre so tall that you looked just like your father when you came through that door, she said. Sometimes I forget youre only twelve. 3 You called me Wandering Jack,  he said, pulling a chair out and dropping himself into it. Her face was very pale, and the smudges beneath her eyes looked almost like bruises. Didnt your father call you that? I just happened to think of ityouve been on the move all morning. He called me Wandering Jack? Something like that . . . sure he did. When you were tiny. Travelling Jack, she said firmly. That was it. He used to call you Travelling Jackyou know, when wed see you tearing down the lawn. It was funny, I guess. I left the door open, by the way. Didnt know if you remembered to take your key with you. I saw, he said, still tingling with the new information she had so casually given him. Want any breakfast? I just couldnt take the thought of eating another meal in that hotel. The waitress had appeared beside them. Young man? she asked, lifting her order pad. How did you know Id find you here? Where else is there to go? his mother reasonably asked, and told the waitress, Give him the threestar breakfast. Hes growing about an inch a day. Jack leaned against the back of his chair. How could he begin this? His mother glanced at him curiously, and he beganhe had to begin, now. Mom, if I had to go away for a while, would you be all right? What do you mean, all right? And what do you mean, go away for a while? Would you be ableah, would you have trouble from Uncle Morgan? I can handle old Sloat, she said, smiling tautly. I can handle him for a while, anyhow. Whats this all about, Jacky? Youre not going anywhere. I have to, he said. Honest. Then he realized that he sounded like a child begging for a toy. Mercifully, the waitress arrived with toast in a rack and a stubby glass of tomato juice. He looked away for a moment, and when he looked back, his mother was spreading jam from one of the pots on the table over a triangular section of toast. I have to go, he said. His mother handed him the toast; her face moved with a thought, but she said nothing. You might not see me for a while, Mom, he said. Im going to try to help you. Thats why I have to go. Help me? she asked, and her cool incredulity, Jack reckoned, was about seventyfive percent genuine. I want to try to save your life, he said. Is that all? I can do it. You can save my life. Thats very entertaining, Jackyboy; it ought to make prime time someday. Ever think about going into network programming? She had put down the redsmeared knife and was widening her eyes in mockery but beneath the deliberate incomprehension he saw two things. A flareup of her terror; a faint, almost unrecognized hope that he might after all be able to do something. Even if you say I cant try, Im going to do it anyhow. So you might as well give me your permission. Oh, thats a wonderful deal. Especially since I dont have any idea of what youre talking about. I think you do, thoughI think you do have some idea, Mom. Because Dad would have known exactly what Im talking about. Her cheeks reddened; her mouth thinned into a line. Thats so unfair its despicable, Jacky. You cant use what Philip might have known as a weapon against me. What he did know, not what he might have known. Youre talking total horseshit, sonny boy. The waitress, setting a plate of scrambled eggs, home fries, and sausages before Jack, audibly inhaled. After the waitress had paraded off, his mother shrugged. I dont seem able to find the right tone with the help around here. But horseshit is still horseshit is still horseshit, to quote Gertrude Stein. Im going to save your life, Mom, he repeated. And I have to go a long way away and bring something back to do it. And so thats what Im going to do. I wish I knew what you were talking about. Just an ordinary conversation, Jack told himself as ordinary as asking permission to spend a couple of nights at a friends house. He cut a sausage in half and popped one of the pieces in his mouth. She was watching him carefully. Sausage chewed and swallowed, Jack inserted a forkful of egg into his mouth. Speedys bottle lumped like a rock against his backside. I also wish youd act as though you could hear the little remarks I send your way, as obtuse as they may be. Jack stolidly swallowed the eggs and inserted a salty wad of the crisp potatoes into his mouth. Lily put her hands in her lap. The longer he said nothing, the more she would listen when he did talk. He pretended to concentrate on his breakfast, eggs sausage potatoes, sausage potatoes eggs, potatoes eggs sausage, until he sensed that she was near to shouting at him. My father called me Travelling Jack, he thought to himself. This is right; this is as right as Ill ever get. Jack Mom, he said, sometimes didnt Dad call you up from a long way away, and you knew he was supposed to be in town? She raised her eyebrows. And sometimes didnt you, ah, walk into a room because you thought he was there, maybe even knew he was therebut he wasnt? Let her chew on that. No, she said. Both of them let the denial fade away. Almost never. Mom, it even happened to me, Jack said. There was always an explanation, you know there was. My fatherthis is what you knowwas never too bad at explaining things. Especially the stuff that really couldnt be explained. He was very good at that. Thats part of the reason he was such a good agent. Now she was silent again. Well, I know where he went, Jack said. Ive been there already. I was there this morning. And if I go there again, I can try to save your life. My life doesnt need you to save it, it doesnt need anyone to save it, his mother hissed. Jack looked down at his devastated plate and muttered something. What was that? she drilled at him. I think it does, I said. He met her eyes with his own. Suppose I ask how you propose to go about saving my life, as you put it. I cant answer. Because I dont really understand it yet. Mom, Im not in school, anyhow . . . give me a chance. I might only be gone a week or so. She raised her eyebrows. It could be longer, he admitted. I think youre nuts, she said. But he saw that part of her wanted to believe him, and her next words proved it. IfifI were mad enough to allow you to go off on this mysterious errand, Id have to be sure that you wouldnt be in any danger. Dad always came back, Jack pointed out. Id rather risk my life than yours, she said, and this truth, too, lay hugely between them for a long moment. Ill call when I can. But dont get too worried if a couple of weeks go by without my calling. Ill come back, too, just like Dad always did. This whole thing is nuts, she said. Me included. How are you going to get to this place you have to go to? And where is it? Do you have enough money? I have everything I need, he said, hoping that she would not press him on the first two questions. The silence stretched out and out, and finally he said, I guess Ill mainly walk. I cant talk about it much, Mom. Travelling Jack, she said. I can almost believe . . . Yes, Jack said. Yes. He was nodding. And maybe, he thought, you know some of what she knows, the real Queen, and thats why you are letting go this easily. Thats right. I can believe, too. Thats what makes it right. Well . . . since you say youll go no matter what I say . . . I will, too. . . . then I guess it doesnt matter what I say. She looked at him bravely. It does matter, though. I know. I want you to get back here as quick as you can, sonny boy. Youre not going right away, are you? I have to. He inhaled deeply. Yes. I am going right away. As soon as I leave you. I could almost believe in this rigamarole. Youre Phil Sawyers son, all right. You havent found a girl somewhere in this place, have you . . . ? She looked at him very sharply. No. No girl. Okay. Save my life. Off with you. She shook her head, and he thought he saw an extra brightness in her eyes. If youre going to leave, get out of here, Jacky. Call me tomorrow. If I can. He stood up. If you can. Of course. Forgive me. She looked down at nothing, and he saw that her eyes were unfocused. Red dots burned in the middle of her cheeks. Jack leaned over and kissed her, but she just waved him away. The waitress stared at the two of them as if they were performing a play. Despite what his mother had just said, Jack thought that he had brought the level of her disbelief down to something like fifty percent; which meant that she no longer knew what to believe. She focused on him for a moment, and he saw that hectic brightness blazing in her eyes again. Anger; tears? Take care, she said, and signalled the waitress. I love you, Jack said. Never get off on a line like that. Now she was almost smiling. Get travelling, Jack. Get going before I realize how crazy this is. Im gone, he said, and turned away and marched out of the restaurant. His head felt tight, as if the bones in his skull had just grown too large for their covering of flesh. The empty yellow sunlight attacked his eyes. Jack heard the door of the Arcadia Tea and Jam Shoppe banging shut an instant after the little bell had sounded. He blinked; ran across Boardwalk Avenue without looking for cars. When he reached the pavement on the other side, he realized that he would have to go back to their suite for some clothes. His mother had still not emerged from the tea shop by the time Jack was pulling open the hotels great front door. The desk clerk stepped backward and sullenly stared. Jack felt some sort of emotion steaming off the man, but for a second could not remember why the clerk should react so strongly to the sight of him. The conversation with his motheractually much shorter than he had imagined it would beseemed to have lasted for days. On the other side of the vast gulf of time hed spent in the Tea and Jam Shoppe, he had called the clerk a creep. Should he apologize? He no longer actually remembered what had caused him to flare up at the clerk. . . . His mother had agreed to his goingshe had given him permission to take his journey, and as he walked through the crossfire of the deskmans glare he finally understood why. He had not mentioned the Talisman, not explicitly, but even if he hadif he had spoken of the most lunatic aspect of his missionshe would have accepted that too. And if hed said that he was going to bring back a footlong butterfly and roast it in the oven, shed have agreed to eat roast butterfly. It would have been an ironic, but a real, agreement. In part this showed the depth of her fear, that she would grasp at such straws. But she would grasp because at some level she knew that these were bricks, not straws. His mother had given him permission to go because somewhere inside her she, too, knew about the Territories. Did she ever wake up in the night with that name, Laura DeLoessian, sounding in her mind? Up in 407 and 408, he tossed clothes into his knapsack almost randomly if his fingers found it in a drawer and it was not too large, in it went. Shirts, socks, a sweater, Jockey shorts. Jack tightly rolled up a pair of tan jeans and forced them in, too; then he realized that the pack had become uncomfortably heavy, and pulled out most of the shirts and socks. The sweater, too, came out. At the last minute he remembered his toothbrush. Then he slid the straps over his shoulders and felt the pull of the weight on his backnot too heavy. He could walk all day, carrying only these few pounds. Jack simply stood quiet in the suites living room a moment, feelingunexpectedly powerfullythe absence of any person or thing to whom he could say goodbye. His mother would not return to the suite until she could be sure he was gone if she saw him now, shed order him to stay. He could not say goodbye to these three rooms as he could to a house he had loved hotel rooms accepted departures emotionlessly. In the end he went to the telephone pad printed with a drawing of the hotel on eggshellthin paper, and with the Alhambras blunt narrow pencil wrote the three lines that were most of what he had to say Thanks I love you and will be back 4 Jack moved down Boardwalk Avenue in the thin northern sun, wondering where he should . . . flip. That was the word for it. And should he see Speedy once more before he flipped into the Territories? He almost had to talk to Speedy once more, because he knew so little about where he was going, whom he might meet, what he was looking for. . . . she look just like a crystal ball. Was that all the instruction Speedy intended to give him about the Talisman? That, and the warning not to drop it? Jack felt almost sick with lack of preparationas if he had to take a final exam in a course hed never attended. He also felt that he could flip right where he stood, he was that impatient to begin, to get started, to move. He had to be in the Territories again, he suddenly understood; in the welter of his emotions and longings, that thread brightly shone. He wanted to breathe that air; he hungered for it. The Territories, the long plains and ranges of low mountains, called him, the fields of tall grass and the streams that flashed through them. Jacks entire body yearned for that landscape. And he might have taken the bottle out of his pocket and forced a mouthful of the awful juice down his throat on the spot if he had not just then seen the bottles former owner tucked up against a tree, butt on heels and hands laced across his knees. A brown grocery bag lay beside him, and atop the bag was an enormous sandwich of what looked like liver sausage and onion. Youre movin now, Speedy said, smiling up at him. Youre on your way, I see. Say your goodbyes? Your momma know you wont be home for a while? Jack nodded, and Speedy held up the sandwich. You hungry? This one, its too much for me. I had something to eat, the boy said. Im glad I can say goodbye to you. Ole Jack on fire, he rarin to go, Speedy said, cocking his long head sideways. Boy gonna move. Speedy? But dont take off without a few little things I brought for you. I got em here in this bag, you wanna see? Speedy? The man squinted up at Jack from the base of the tree. Did you know that my father used to call me Travelling Jack? Oh, I probably heard that somewhere, Speedy said, grinning at him. Come over here and see what I brought you. Plus, I have to tell you where to go first, dont I? Relieved, Jack walked across the sidewalk to Speedys tree. The old man set his sandwich in his lap and fished the bag closer to him. Merry Christmas, Speedy said, and brought forth a tall, battered old paperback book. It was, Jack saw, an old Rand McNally road atlas. Thanks, Jack said, taking the book from Speedys outstretched hand. Aint no maps over there, so you stick as much as you can to the roads in ole Rand McNally. That way youll get where youre goin. Okay, Jack said, and slipped out of the knapsack so that he could slide the big book down inside it. The next thing dont have to go in that fancy rig you carryin on your back, Speedy said. He put the sandwich on the flat paper bag and stood up all in one long smooth motion. No, you can carry this right in your pocket. He dipped his fingers into the left pocket of his workshirt. What emerged, clamped between his second and third fingers like one of Lilys Tarrytoons, was a white triangular object it took the boy a moment to recognize as a guitarpick. You take this and keep it. Youll want to show it to a man. Hell help you. Jack turned the pick over in his fingers. He had never seen one like itof ivory, with scrimshaw filigrees and patterns winding around it in slanted lines like some kind of unearthly writing. Beautiful in the abstract, it was almost too heavy to be a useful fingerpick. Whos the man? Jack asked. He slipped the pick into one of his pants pockets. Big scar on his faceyoull see him pretty soon after you land in the Territories. Hes a guard. Fact is, hes a Captain of the Outer Guards, and hell take you to a place where you can see a lady you has to see. Well, a lady you ought to see. So you know the other reason youre puttin your neck on the line. My friend over there, hell understand what youre doin and hell figure out a way to get you to the lady. This lady . . . Jack began. Yep, Speedy said. You got it. Shes the Queen. You take a good look at her, Jack. You see what you see when you sees her. You see what she is, understand? Then you hit out for the west. Speedy stood examining him gravely, almost as if he were just now doubting that hed ever see Jack Sawyer again, and then the lines in his face twitched and he said, Steer clear of ole Bloat. Watch for his trailhis own and his Twinners. Ole Bloat can find out where you went if youre not careful, and if he finds out hes gonna be after you like a fox after a goose. Speedy shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded Jack again, looking very much as though he wished he could think of more to say. Get the Talisman, son, he concluded. Get it and bring it back safe. It gonna be your burden but you got to be bigger than your burden. Jack was concentrating so hard on what Speedy was telling him that he squinted into the mans seamed face. Scarred man, Captain of the Outer Guards. The Queen. Morgan Sloat, after him like a predator. In an evil place over on the other side of the country. A burden. Okay, he said, wishing suddenly that he were back in the Tea and Jam Shoppe with his mother. Speedy smiled jaggedly, warmly. Yeahbob. Ole Travellin Jack is okeydoke. The smile deepened. Bout time for you to sip at that special juice, wouldnt you say? I guess it is, Jack said. He tugged the dark bottle out of his hip pocket and unscrewed the cap. He looked back up at Speedy, whose pale eyes stabbed into his own. Speedyll help you when he can. Jack nodded, blinked, and raised the neck of the bottle to his mouth. The sweetly rotten odor which leaped out of the bottle nearly made his throat close itself in an involuntary spasm. He tipped the bottle up and the taste of the odor invaded his mouth. His stomach clenched. He swallowed, and rough, burning liquid spilled down his throat. Long seconds before Jack opened his eyes, he knew from the richness and clarity of the smells about him that he had flipped into the Territories. Horses, grass, a dizzying scent of raw meat; dust; the clear air itself. Interlude Sloat in This World (I) I know I work too hard, Morgan Sloat told his son Richard that evening. They were speaking on the telephone, Richard standing at the communal telephone in the downstairs corridor of his dormitory, his father sitting at his desk on the top floor of one of Sawyer  Sloats first and sweetest realestate deals in Beverly Hills. But I tell you kid, there are a lot of times when you have to do something yourself to get it done right. Especially when my late partners family is involved. Its just a short trip, I hope. Probably Ill get everything nailed down out there in goddam New Hampshire in less than a week. Ill give you another call when its all over. Maybe well go railroading in California, just like the old days. Therell be justice yet. Trust your old man. The deal for the building had been particularly sweet because of Sloats willingness to do things himself. After he and Sawyer had negotiated the purchase of a shortterm lease, then (after a gunfire of lawsuits) a longterm lease, they had fixed their rental rates at so much per square foot, done the necessary alterations, and advertised for new tenants. The only holdover tenant was the Chinese restaurant on the ground floor, dribbling in rent at about a third of what the space was worth. Sloat had tried reasonable discussions with the Chinese, but when they saw that he was trying to talk them into paying more rent, they suddenly lost the ability to speak or understand English. Sloats attempts at negotiation limped along for a few days, and then he happened to see one of the kitchen help carrying a bucket of grease out through the back door of the kitchen. Feeling better already, Sloat followed the man into a dark, narrow culdesac and watched him tip the grease into a garbage can. He needed no more than that. A day later, a chainlink fence separated the culdesac from the restaurant; yet another day later, a Health Department inspector served the Chinese with a complaint and a summons. Now the kitchen help had to take all their refuse, grease included, out through the dining area and down a chainlink dog run Sloat had constructed alongside the restaurant. Business fell off the customers caught odd, unpleasant odors from the nearby garbage. The owners rediscovered the English language, and volunteered to double their monthly payment. Sloat responded with a gratefulsounding speech that said nothing. And that night, having primed himself with three large martinis, Sloat drove from his house to the restaurant and took a baseball bat from the trunk of his car and smashed in the long window which had once given a pleasant view of the street but now looked out at a corridor of fencing which ended in a huddle of metal bins. He had done those things . . . but he hadnt exactly been Sloat when he did them. The next morning the Chinese requested another meeting and this time offered to quadruple their payment. Now youre talking like men, Sloat told the stonyfaced Chinese. And Ill tell you what! Just to prove were all on the same team, well pay half the cost of replacing your window. Within nine months of Sawyer  Sloats taking possession of the building, all the rents had increased significantly and the initial cost and profit projections had begun to look wildly pessimistic. By now this building was one of Sawyer  Sloats more modest ventures, but Morgan Sloat was as proud of it as of the massive new structures they had put up downtown. Just walking past the place where hed put up the fence as he came in to work in the morning reminded himdailyof how much he had contributed to Sawyer  Sloat, how reasonable were his claims! This sense of the justice of his ultimate desires kindled within him as he spoke to Richardafter all, it was for Richard that he wanted to take over Phil Sawyers share of the company. Richard was, in a sense, his immortality. His son would be able to go to the best business schools and then pick up a law degree before he came into the company; and thus fully armed, Richard Sloat would carry all the complex and delicate machinery of Sawyer  Sloat into the next century. The boys ridiculous ambition to become a chemist could not long survive his fathers determination to murder itRichard was smart enough to see that what his father did was a hell of a lot more interesting, not to mention vastly more remunerative, than working with a test tube over a Bunsen burner. That research chemist stuff would fade away pretty quickly, once the boy had a glimpse of the real world. And if Richard was concerned about being fair to Jack Sawyer, he could be made to understand that fifty thousand a year and a guaranteed college education was not only fair but magnanimous. Princely. Who could say that Jack wanted any part of the business, anyhow, or that he would possess any talent for it? Besides, accidents happened. Who could even say that Jack Sawyer would live to see twenty? Well, its really a matter of getting all the papers, all the ownership stuff, finally straight, Sloat told his son. Lilys been hiding out from me for too long. Her brain is strictly cottage cheese by now, take my word for it. She probably has less than a year to live. So if I dont hump myself off to see her now that I have her pinned down, she could stall long enough to put everything into probateor into a trust fund, and I dont think your friends momma would let me administer it. Hey, I dont want to bore you with my troubles. I just wanted to tell you that I wont be home for a few days, in case you call. Send me a letter or something. And remember about the train, okay? We gotta do that again. The boy promised to write, to work hard, to not worry about his father or Lily Cavanaugh or Jack. And sometime when this obedient son was, say, in his senior year at Stanford or Yale, Sloat would introduce him to the Territories. Richard would be six or seven years younger than he had been himself when Phil Sawyer, cheerfully crackbrained on grass in their first little North Hollywood office, had first puzzled, then infuriated (because Sloat had been certain Phil was laughing at him), then intrigued his partner (for surely Phil was too stoned to have invented all this sciencefiction crapola about another world). And when Richard saw the Territories, that would be itif he had not already done it by himself, theyd change his mind for him. Even a small peek into the Territories shook your confidence in the omniscience of scientists. Sloat ran the palm of his hand over the shiny top of his head, then luxuriantly fingered his moustache. The sound of his sons voice had obscurely, irrelevantly comforted him as long as there was Richard politely coming along behind him, all was well and all was well and all manner of things was well. It was night already in Springfield, Illinois, and in Nelson House, Thayer School, Richard Sloat was padding down a green corridor back to his desk, perhaps thinking of the good times theyd had, and would have again, aboard Morgans toy train line in coastal California. Hed be asleep by the time his fathers jet punished the resistant air far above and some hundred miles farther north; but Morgan Sloat would push aside the panel over his firstclass window and peer down, hoping for moonlight and a parting of the clouds. He wanted to go home immediatelyhome was only thirty minutes away from the officeso that he could change clothes and get something to eat, maybe snort a little coke, before he had to get to the airport. But instead he had to pound out along the freeway to the Marina an appointment with a client who had freaked out and was on the verge of being dumped from a picture, then a meeting with a crowd of spoilers who claimed that a Sawyer  Sloat project just up from Marina del Rey was polluting the beachthings that could not be postponed. Though Sloat promised himself that as soon as he had taken care of Lily Cavanaugh and her boy he was going to begin dropping clients from his listhe had much bigger fish to fry now. Now there were whole worlds to broker, and his piece of the action would be no mere ten percent. Looking back on it, Sloat wasnt sure how he had tolerated Phil Sawyer for as long as he had. His partner had never played to win, not seriously; he had been encumbered by sentimental notions of loyalty and honor, corrupted by the stuff you told kids to get them halfway civilized before you finally tore the blindfold off their eyes.


Mundane as it might be in light of the stakes he now played for, he could not forget that the Sawyers owed him, all rightindigestion flowered in his chest like a heart attack at the thought of how much, and before he reached his car in the stillsunny lot beside the building, he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and fished out a crumpled package of DiGel. Phil Sawyer had underestimated him, and that still rankled. Because Phil had thought of him as a sort of trained rattlesnake to be let out of his cage only under controlled circumstances, so had others. The lot attendant, a hillbilly in a broken cowboy hat, eyed him as he marched around his little car, looking for dents and dings. The DiGel melted most of the fiery ball in his chest. Sloat felt his collar growing clammy with sweat. The attendant knew better than to try to buddy up Sloat had verbally peeled the mans hide weeks ago, after discovering a tiny wrinkle in the BMWs door. In the midst of his rant, he had seen violence begin to darken in the hillbillys green eyes, and a sudden upsurge of joy had made him waddle in toward the man, still cutting off skin, almost hoping that the attendant would take a poke at him. Abruptly, the hillbilly had lost his momentum; feebly, indeed apologetically suggested that maybe thatthere lil nuthin of a ding came from somewhere else? Parking service at a restaurant, maybe? The way those bozos treat cars, yknow, and the light aint so good that time a night, why . . . Shut your stinking mouth, Sloat had said. That little nothing, as you call it, is going to cost me about twice what you make in a week. I should fire you right now, cowpoke, and the only reason Im not going to is that theres about a two percent chance you might be right; when I came out of Chasens last night maybe I didnt look under the door handle, maybe I DID and maybe I DIDNT, but if you ever talk to me again, if you ever say any more than Hello, Mr. Sloat or Goodbye, Mr. Sloat, Ill get you fired so fast youll think you were beheaded. So the hillbilly watched him inspect his car, knowing that if Sloat found any imperfections in the cars finish he would bring down the axe, afraid even to come close enough to utter the ritual goodbye. Sometimes from the window that overlooked the parking lot Sloat had seen the attendant furiously wiping some flaw, bird dropping or splash of mud, off the BMWs hood. And thats management, buddy. When he pulled out of the lot he checked the rearview mirror and saw on the hillbillys face an expression very like the last one Phil Sawyer had worn in the final seconds of his life, out in the middle of nowhere in Utah. He smiled all the way to the freeway onramp. Philip Sawyer had underestimated Morgan Sloat from the time of their first meeting, when they were freshmen at Yale. It could have been, Sloat reflected, that he had been easy to underestimatea pudgy eighteenyearold from Akron, graceless, overweighted with anxieties and ambitions, out of Ohio for the first time in his life. Listening to his classmates talk easily about New York, about 21 and the Stork Club, about seeing Brubeck at Basin Street and Erroll Garner at the Vanguard, hed sweated to hide his ignorance. I really like the downtown part, hed thrown in, as casually as he could. Palms wet, cramped by curledin fingers. (Mornings, Sloat often found his palms tattooed with dented bruises left by his fingernails.) What downtown part, Morgan? Tom Woodbine had asked him. The others cackled. You know, Broadway and the Village. Around there. More cackles, harsher. He had been unattractive and badly dressed; his wardrobe consisted of two suits, both charcoalgray and both apparently made for a man with a scarecrows shoulders. He had begun losing his hair in high school, and pink scalp showed through his short, flatteneddown haircuts. No, no beauty had Sloat been, and that had been part of it. The others made him feel like a clenched fist those morning bruises were shadowy little photographs of his soul. The others, all interested in the theater like himself and Sawyer, possessed good profiles, flat stomachs, easy careless manners. Sprawled across the lounge chairs of their suite in Davenport while Sloat, in a haze of perspiration, stood that he might not wrinkle his suit pants and thereby get a few more days wear out of them, they sometimes resembled a gathering of young godscashmere sweaters draped over their shoulders like the golden fleece. They were on their way to becoming actors, playwrights, songwriters. Sloat had seen himself as a director entangling them all in a net of complications and designs which only he could unwind. Sawyer and Tom Woodbine, both of whom seemed unimaginably rich to Sloat, were roommates. Woodbine had only a lukewarm interest in theater and hung around their undergraduate drama workshop because Phil did. Another gilded privateschool boy, Thomas Woodbine differed from the others because of his absolute seriousness and straightforwardness. He intended to become a lawyer, and already seemed to have the probity and impartiality of a judge. (In fact, most of Woodbines acquaintances imagined that he would wind up on the Supreme Court, much to the embarrassment of the boy himself.) Woodbine was without ambition in Sloats terms, being interested far more in living rightly than in living well. Of course he had everything, and what he by some accident lacked other people were quick to give him how could he, so spoiled by nature and friendships, be ambitious? Sloat almost unconsciously detested Woodbine, and could not bring himself to call him Tommy. Sloat directed two plays during his four years at Yale No Exit, which the student paper called a furious confusion, and Volpone. This was described as churning, cynical, sinister, and almost unbelievably messy. Sloat was held responsible for most of these qualities. Perhaps he was not a director after allhis vision too intense and crowded. His ambitions did not lessen, they merely shifted. If he was not eventually to be behind the camera, he could be behind the people in front of it. Phil Sawyer had also begun to think this wayPhil had never been certain where his love of theater might take him, and thought he might have a talent for representing actors and writers. Lets go to Los Angeles and start an agency, Phil said to him in their senior year. Its nutty as hell and our parents will hate it, but maybe well make it work. So we starve for a couple of years. Phil Sawyer, Sloat had learned since their freshman year, was not rich after all. He just looked rich. And when we can afford him, well get Tommy to be our lawyer. Hell be out of law school by then. Sure, okay, Sloat had said, thinking that he could stop that one when the time came. What should we call ourselves? Anything you like. Sloat and Sawyer? Or should we stick to the alphabet? Sawyer and Sloat, sure, thats great, alphabetical order, Sloat said, seething because he imagined that his partner had euchred him into forever suggesting that he was somehow secondary to Sawyer. Both sets of parents did hate the idea, as Phil had predicted, but the partners in the infant talent agency drove to Los Angeles in the old DeSoto (Morgans, another demonstration of how much Sawyer owed him), set up an office in a North Hollywood building with a happy population of rats and fleas, and started hanging around the clubs, passing out their spandynew business cards. Nothingnearly four months of total failure. They had a comic who got too drunk to be funny, a writer who couldnt write, a stripper who insisted on being paid in cash so that she could stiff her agents. And then late one afternoon, high on marijuana and whiskey, Phil Sawyer had gigglingly told Sloat about the Territories. You know what I can do, you ambitious soandso? Oh, can I travel, partner. All the way. Shortly after that, both of them travelling now, Phil Sawyer met a rising young actress at a studio party and within an hour had their first important client. And she had three friends similarly unhappy with their agents. And one of the friends had a boyfriend who had actually written a decent filmscript and needed an agent, and the boyfriend had a boyfriend . . . Before their third year was over, they had a new office, new apartments, a slice of the Hollywood pie. The Territories, in a fashion that Sloat accepted but never understood, had blessed them. Sawyer dealt with the clients; Sloat with the money, the investments, the business side of the agency. Sawyer spent moneylunches, airplane ticketsSloat saved it, which was all the justification he needed to skim a little of the cream off the top. And it was Sloat who kept pushing them into new areas, land development, real estate, production deals. By the time Tommy Woodbine arrived in Los Angeles, Sawyer  Sloat was a multimilliondollar business. Sloat discovered that he still detested his old classmate; Tommy Woodbine had put on thirty pounds, and looked and acted, in his blue threepiece suits, more than ever like a judge. His cheeks were always slightly flushed (alcoholic? Sloat wondered), his manner still kindly and ponderous. The world had left its marks on himclever little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the eyes themselves infinitely more guarded than those of the gilded boy at Yale. Sloat understood almost at once, and knew that Phil Sawyer would never see it unless he were told, that Tommy Woodbine lived with an enormous secret whatever the gilded boy might have been, Tommy was now a homosexual. Probably hed call himself gay. And that made everything easierin the end, it even made it easier to get rid of Tommy. Because queers are always getting killed, arent they? And did anybody really want a twohundredandtenpound pansy responsible for bringing up a teenage boy? You could say that Sloat was just saving Phil Sawyer from the posthumous consequences of a serious lapse of judgment. If Sawyer had made Sloat the executor of his estate and the guardian of his son, there would have been no problems. As it was, the murderers from the Territoriesthe same two who had bungled the abduction of the boyhad blasted through a stoplight and nearly been arrested before they could return home. Things all would have been so much simpler, Sloat reflected for perhaps the thousandth time, if Phil Sawyer had never married. If no Lily, no Jack; if no Jack, no problems. Phil may never even have looked at the reports about Lily Cavanaughs early life Sloat had compiled they listed where and how often and with whom, and should have killed that romance as readily as the black van turned Tommy Woodbine into a lump on the road. If Sawyer read those meticulous reports, they left him amazingly unaffected. He wanted to marry Lily Cavanaugh, and he did. As his damned Twinner had married Queen Laura. More underestimation. And repaid in the same fashion, which seemed fitting. Which meant, Sloat thought with some satisfaction, that after a few details were taken care of, everything would finally be settled. After so many yearswhen he came back from Arcadia Beach, he should have all of Sawyer  Sloat in his pocket. And in the Territories, all was placed just so poised on the brink, ready to fall into Morgans hands. As soon as the Queen died, her consorts former deputy would rule the country, introducing all the interesting little changes both he and Sloat desired. And then watch the money roll in. Sloat thought, turning off the freeway into Marina del Rey. Then watch everything roll in! His client, Asher Dondorf, lived in the bottom half of a new condo in one of the Marinas narrow, alleylike streets just off the beach. Dondorf was an old character actor who had achieved a surprising level of prominence and visibility in the late seventies through a role on a television series; hed played the landlord of the young coupleprivate detectives, and both cute as baby pandaswho were the series stars. Dondorf got so much mail from his few appearances in the early episodes that the writers increased his part, making him an unofficial father to the young detectives, letting him solve a murder or two, putting him in danger, etc., etc. His salary doubled, tripled, quadrupled, and when the series was cancelled after six years, he went back into film work. Which was the problem. Dondorf thought he was a star, but the studios and producers still considered him a character actorpopular, but not a serious asset to any project. Dondorf wanted flowers in his dressing room, he wanted his own hairdresser and dialogue coach, he wanted more money, more respect, more love, more everything. Dondorf, in fact, was a putz. When he pulled his car tight into the parking bay and eased himself out, being careful not to scratch the edge of his door on the brick, Sloat came to a realization if he learned, or even suspected, sometime in the next few days, that Jack Sawyer had discovered the existence of the Territories, he would kill him. There was such a thing as an unacceptable risk. Sloat smiled to himself, popping another DiGel into his mouth, and rapped on the condos door. He knew it already Asher Dondorf was going to kill himself. Hed do it in the living room in order to create as much mess as possible. A temperamental jerk like his soontobeexclient would think a really sloppy suicide was revenge on the bank that held his mortgage. When a pale, trembling Dondorf opened the door, the warmth of Sloats greeting was quite genuine. TWO THE ROAD OF TRIALS 6 The Queens Pavillion 1 The sawtoothed blades of grass directly before Jacks eyes seemed as tall and stiff as sabres. They would cut the wind, not bend to it. Jack groaned as he lifted his head. He did not possess such dignity. His stomach still felt threateningly liquid, his forehead and eyes burned. Jack pushed himself up on his knees and then forced himself to stand. A long horsedrawn cart rumbled toward him down the dusty track, and its driver, a bearded redfaced man roughly the same shape and size as the wooden barrels rattling behind him, was staring at him. Jack nodded and tried to take in as much as he could about the man while giving the appearance of a loafing boy who had perhaps run off for an illicit snooze. Upright, he no longer felt ill; he felt, in fact, better than at any time since leaving Los Angeles, not merely healthy but somehow harmonious, mysteriously in tune with his body. The warm, drifting air of the Territories patted his face with the gentlest, most fragrant of touchesits own delicate and flowery scent quite distinct beneath the stronger odor of raw meat it carried. Jack ran his hands over his face and peeked at the driver of the cart, his first sample of Territories Man. If the driver addressed him, how should he answer? Did they even speak English here? His kind of English? For a moment Jack imagined himself trying to pass unnoticed in a world where people said Prithee and Dost thou go crossgartered, yonder varlet? and decided that if that was how things went, hed pretend to be a mute. The driver finally took his eyes off Jack and clucked something decidedly not 1980s American English to his horses. But perhaps that was just the way you spoke to horses. Slusha, slusha! Jack edged backward into the seagrass, wishing that he had managed to get on his feet a couple of seconds earlier. The man glanced at him again, and surprised Jack by noddinga gesture neither friendly nor unfriendly, merely a communication between equals. Ill be glad when this days work is done, brother. Jack returned the nod, tried to put his hands in his pockets, and for a moment must have looked halfwitted with astonishment. The driver laughed, not unpleasantly. Jacks clothes had changedhe wore coarse, voluminous woolen trousers instead of the corduroy jeans. Above the waist a closefitting jacket of soft blue fabric covered him. Instead of buttons, the jacketa jerkin? he speculatedhad a row of cloth hooks and eyes. Like the trousers, it was clearly handmade. The Nikes, too, were gone, replaced by flat leather sandals. The knapsack had been transmogrified into a leather sack held by a thin strap over his shoulder. The cartdriver wore clothing almost exactly similarhis jerkin was of leather stained so deeply and continuously that it showed rings within rings, like an old trees heart. All rattle and dust, the cart pulled past Jack. The barrels radiated a yeasty musk of beer. Behind the barrels stood a triple pile of what Jack unthinkingly took to be truck tires. He smelled the tires and noticed that they were perfectly, flawlessly bald in the same momentit was a creamy odor, full of secret depths and subtle pleasures, that instantly made him hungry. Cheese, but no cheese that he had ever tasted. Behind the wheels of cheese, near the back of the cart, an irregular mound of raw meatlong, peeledlooking sides of beef, big slablike steaks, a heap of ropy internal organs he could not identifyslithered beneath a glistening mat of flies. The powerful smell of the raw meat assailed Jack, killing the hunger evoked by the cheese. He moved into the middle of the track after the cart had passed him and watched it jounce toward the crest of a little rise. A second later he began to follow after, walking north. He had gone only halfway up the rise when he once again saw the peak of the great tent, rigid in the midst of a rank of narrow fluttering flags. That, he assumed, was his destination. Another few steps past the blackberry bushes where hed paused the last time (remembering how good theyd been, Jack popped two of the enormous berries in his mouth) and he could see the whole of the tent. It was actually a big rambling pavillion, long wings on each side, with gates and a courtyard. Like the Alhambra, this eccentric structurea summer palace, Jacks instincts told himstood just above the ocean. Little bands of people moved through and around the great pavillion, driven by forces as powerful and invisible as the effect on iron filings of a magnet. The little groups met, divided, poured on again. Some of the men wore bright, richlooking clothes, though many seemed to be dressed much as Jack was. A few women in long shining white gowns or robes marched through the courtyard, as purposeful as generals. Outside the gates stood a collection of smaller tents and impromptulooking wooden huts; here, too, people moved, eating or buying or talking, though more easily and randomly. Somewhere down in that busy crowd he would have to find the man with a scar. But first he looked behind him, down the length of the rutted track, to see what had happened to Funworld. When he saw two small dark horses pulling plows, perhaps fifty yards off, he thought that the amusement park had become a farm, but then he noticed the crowd watching the plowing from the top of the field and understood that this was a contest. Next his eye was taken by the spectacle of a huge redhaired man, stripped to the waist, whirling about like a top. His outstretched hands held some long heavy object. The man abruptly stopped whirling and released the object, which flew a long way before it thudded and bounced on the grass and revealed itself to be a hammer. Funworld was a fair, not a farmJack now saw tables heaped with food, children on their fathers shoulders. In the midst of the fair, making sure that every strap and harness was sound, every oven stoked with wood, was there a Speedy Parker? Jack hoped so. And was his mother still sitting by herself in the Tea and Jam Shoppe, wondering why she had let him go? Jack turned back and watched the long cart rattle through the gates of the summer palace and swing off to the left, separating the people who moved there as a car making a turn off Fifth Avenue separates pedestrians on a crosstown street. A moment later he set off after it. 2 He had feared that all the people on the pavillion grounds would turn toward him staring, instantly sensing his difference from them. Jack carefully kept his eyes lowered whenever he could and imitated a boy on a complicated errandhe had been sent out to assemble a list of things; his face showed how he was concentrating to remember them. A shovel, two picks, a ball of twine, a bottle of goose grease . . . But gradually he became aware that none of the adults before the summer palace paid him any attention at all. They rushed or dawdled, inspected the merchandiserugs, iron pots, braceletsdisplayed in the little tents, drank from wooden mugs, plucked at anothers sleeve to make a comment or start a conversation, argued with the guards at the gate, each wholly taken up by his own business. Jacks impersonation was so unnecessary as to be ridiculous. He straightened up and began to work his way, moving generally in an irregular halfcircle, toward the gate. He had seen almost immediately that he would not be able just to stroll through itthe two guards on either side stopped and questioned nearly everyone who tried to reach the interior of the summer palace. Men had to show their papers, or display badges or seals which gave them access. Jack had only Speedy Parkers fingerpick, and he didnt think that would get him past the guards inspection. One man just now stepping up to the gate flashed a round silver badge and was waved through; the man following him was stopped. He argued; then the tone of his manner changed, and Jack saw that he was pleading. The guard shook his head and ordered the man off. His men dont have any trouble getting in, someone to Jacks right said, instantly solving the problem of Territories language, and Jack turned his head to see if the man had spoken to him. But the middleaged man walking beside him was speaking to another man, also dressed in the plain, simple clothes of most of the men and women outside the palace grounds. Theyd better not, the second man answered. Hes on his waysupposed to be here today sometime, I guess. Jack fell in behind these two and followed them toward the gate. The guards stepped forward as the men neared, and as they both approached the same guard, the other gestured to the man nearest him. Jack hung back. He still had not seen anyone with a scar, nor had he seen any officers. The only soldiers in sight were the guards, both young and countrifiedwith their broad red faces above the elaborately pleated and ruffled uniforms, they looked like farmers in fancy dress. The two men Jack had been following must have passed the guards tests, for after a few moments conversation the uniformed men stepped back and admitted them. One of the guards looked sharply at Jack, and Jack turned his head and stepped back. Unless he found the Captain with the scar, he would never get inside the palace grounds. A group of men approached the guard who had stared at Jack, and immediately began to wrangle. They had an appointment, it was crucial they be let in, much money depended on it, regrettably they had no papers. The guard shook his head, scraping his chin across his uniforms white ruff. As Jack watched, still wondering how he could find the Captain, the leader of the little group waved his hands in the air, pounded his fist into a palm. He had become as redfaced as the guard. At length he began jabbing the guard with his forefinger. The guards companion joined himboth guards looked bored and hostile. A tall straight man in a uniform subtly different from the guardsit might have been the way the uniform was worn, but it looked as though it might serve in battle as well as in an operettanoiselessly materialized beside them. He did not wear a ruff, Jack noticed a second later, and his hat was peaked instead of threecornered. He spoke to the guards, and then turned to the leader of the little group. There was no more shouting, no more fingerjabbing. The man spoke quietly. Jack saw the danger ebb out of the group. They shifted on their feet, their shoulders sank. They began to drift away. The officer watched them go, then turned back to the guards for a final word. For the moment while the officer faced in Jacks direction, in effect shooing the group of men away with his presence, Jack saw a long pale lightningbolt of a scar zigzagging from beneath his right eye to just above his jawline. The officer nodded to the guards and stepped briskly away. Looking neither to the left nor to the right, he wove through the crowd, apparently headed for whatever lay to the side of the summer palace. Jack took off after him. Sir! he yelled, but the officer marched on through the slowmoving crowd. Jack ran around a group of men and women hauling a pig toward one of the little tents, shot through a gap between two other bands of people approaching the gate, and finally was close enough to the officer to reach out and touch his elbow. Captain? The officer wheeled around, freezing Jack where he stood. Up close, the scar seemed thick and separate, a living creature riding on the mans face. Even unscarred, Jack thought, this mans face would express a forceful impatience. What is it, boy? the man asked. Captain, Im supposed to talk to youI have to see the Lady, but I dont think I can get into the palace. Oh, youre supposed to see this. He dug into the roomy pocket of the unfamiliar pants and closed his fingers around a triangular object. When he displayed it on his palm, he felt shock boom through himwhat he held in his hand was not a fingerpick but a long tooth, a sharks tooth perhaps, inlaid with a winding, intricate pattern of gold. When Jack looked up at the Captains face, halfexpecting a blow, he saw his shock echoed there. The impatience which had seemed so characteristic had utterly vanished. Uncertainty and even fear momentarily distorted the mans strong features. The Captain lifted his hand to Jacks, and the boy thought he meant to take the ornate tooth he would have given it to him, but the man simply folded the boys fingers over the object on his palm. Follow me, he said. They went around to the side of the great pavillion, and the Captain led Jack behind the shelter of a great sailshaped flap of stiff pale canvas. In the glowing darkness behind the flap, the soldiers face looked as though someone had drawn on it with thick pink crayon. That sign, he said calmly enough. Where did you get it? From Speedy Parker. He said that I should find you and show it to you. The man shook his head. I dont know the name. I want you to give me the sign now. Now. He firmly grasped Jacks wrist. Give it to me, and then tell me where you stole it. Im telling the truth, Jack said. I got it from Lester Speedy Parker. He works at Funworld. But it wasnt a tooth when he gave it to me. It was a guitarpick. I dont think you understand whats going to happen to you, boy. You know him, Jack pleaded. He described youhe told me you were a Captain of the Outer Guards. Speedy told me to find you. The Captain shook his head and gripped Jacks wrist more firmly. Describe this man. Im going to find out if youre lying right now, boy, so Id make this good if I were you. Speedys old, Jack said. He used to be a musician. He thought he saw recognition of some kind flash in the mans eyes. Hes blacka black man. With white hair. Deep lines in his face. And hes pretty thin, but hes a lot stronger than he looks. A black man. You mean, a brown man? Well, black people arent really black. Like white people arent really white. A brown man named Parker. The Captain gently released Jacks wrist. He is called Parkus here. So you are from . . . He nodded toward some distant invisible point on the horizon. Thats right, Jack said. And Parkus . . . Parker . . . sent you to see our Queen. He said he wanted me to see the Lady. And that you could take me to her. This will have to be fast, the Captain said. I think I know how to do it, but we dont have any time to waste. He had shifted his mental direction with a military smoothness. Now listen to me. We have a lot of bastards around here, so were going to pretend that you are my son on tother side of the sheets. You have disobeyed me in connection with some little job, and I am angry with you. I think no one will stop us if we make this performance convincing. At least I can get you insidebut it might be a little trickier once we are in. You think you can do it? Convince people that youre my son? My mothers an actress, Jack said, and felt that old pride in her. Well, then, lets see what youve learned, the Captain said, and surprised Jack by winking at him. Ill try not to cause you any pain. Then he startled Jack again, and clamped a very strong hand over the boys upper arm. Lets go, he said, and marched out of the shelter of the flap, halfdragging Jack behind him. When I tell you to wash the flagstones behind the kitchen, wash flagstones is what youll do, the Captain said loudly, not looking at him. Understand that? You will do your job. And if you do not do your job, you must be punished. But I washed some of the flagstones . . . Jack wailed. I didnt tell you to wash some of the flagstones! the Captain yelled, hauling Jack along behind him. The people around them parted to let the Captain through. Some of them grinned sympathetically at Jack. I was going to do it all, honest, I was going to go back in a minute . . . The soldier pulled him toward the gate without even glancing at the guards, and yanked him through. No, Dad! Jack squalled. Youre hurting me! Not as much as Im going to hurt you, the Captain said, and pulled him across the wide courtyard Jack had seen from the carttrack. At the other end of the court the soldier pulled him up wooden steps and into the great palace itself. Now your acting had better be good, the man whispered, and immediately set off down a long corridor, squeezing Jacks arm hard enough to leave bruises. I promise Ill be good! Jack shouted. The man hauled him into another, narrower corridor. The interior of the palace did not at all resemble the inside of a tent, Jack saw. It was a mazelike warren of passages and little rooms, and it smelled of smoke and grease. Promise! the Captain bawled out. I promise! I do! Ahead of them as they emerged from yet another corridor, a group of elaborately clothed men either leaning against a wall or draped over couches turned their heads to look at this noisy duo. One of them, who had been amusing himself by giving orders to a pair of women carrying stacks of sheets folded flat across their arms, glanced suspiciously at Jack and the Captain. And I promise to beat the sin out of you, the Captain said loudly. A couple of the men laughed. They wore soft widebrimmed hats trimmed with fur and their boots were of velvet. They had greedy, thoughtless faces. The man talking to the maids, the one who seemed to be in charge, was skeletally tall and thin. His tense, ambitious face tracked the boy and the soldier as they hurried by. Please dont! Jack wailed. Please! Each please is another strapping, the soldier growled, and the men laughed again. The thin one permitted himself to display a smile as cold as a knifeblade before he turned back to the maids. The Captain yanked the boy into an empty room filled with dusty wooden furniture. Then at last he released Jacks aching arm. Those were his men, he whispered. What life will be like when He shook his head, and for a moment seemed to forget his haste. It says in The Book of Good Farming that the meek shall inherit the earth, but those fellows dont have a teaspoonful of meekness among them. Takings all theyre good for. They want wealth, they want He glanced upward, unwilling or unable to say what else the men outside wanted. Then he looked back at the boy. Well have to be quick about this, but there are still a few secrets his men havent learned about the palace. He nodded sideways, indicating a faded wooden wall. Jack followed him, and understood when the Captain pushed two of the flat brown nailheads left exposed at the end of a dusty board.


A panel in the faded wall swung inward, exposing a narrow black passageway no taller than an upended coffin. Youll only get a glimpse of her, but I suppose thats all you need. Its all you can have, anyhow. The boy followed the silent instruction to slip into the passageway. Just go straight ahead until I tell you, the Captain whispered. When he closed the panel behind them, Jack began to move slowly forward through perfect blackness. The passage wound this way and that, occasionally illuminated by faint light spilling in through a crack in a concealed door or through a window set above the boys head. Jack soon lost all sense of direction, and blindly followed the whispered directions of his companion. At one point he caught the delicious odor of roasting meat, at another the unmistakable stink of sewage. Stop, the Captain finally said. Now Ill have to lift you up. Raise your arms. Will I be able to see? Youll know in a second, the Captain said, and put a hand just beneath each of Jacks armpits and lifted him cleanly off the floor. There is a panel in front of you now, he whispered. Slide it to the left. Jack blindly reached out before him and touched smooth wood. It slid easily aside, and enough light fell into the passage for him to see a kittensized spider scrambling toward the ceiling. He was looking down into a room the size of a hotel lobby, filled with women in white and furniture so ornate that it brought back to the boy all the museums he and his parents had visited. In the center of the room a woman lay sleeping or unconscious on an immense bed, only her head and shoulders visible above the sheet. And then Jack nearly shouted with shock and terror, because the woman on the bed was his mother. That was his mother, and she was dying. You saw her, the Captain whispered, and braced his arms more firmly. Openmouthed, Jack stared in at his mother. She was dying, he could not doubt that any longer even her skin seemed bleached and unhealthy, and her hair, too, had lost several shades of color. The nurses around her bustled about, straightening the sheets or rearranging books on a table, but they assumed this busy and purposeful manner because they had no real idea of how to help their patient. The nurses knew that for such a patient there was no real help. If they could stave off death for another month, or even a week, they were at the fullest extent of their powers. He looked back at the face turned upward like a waxen mask and finally saw that the woman on the bed was not his mother. Her chin was rounder, the shape of her nose slightly more classical. The dying woman was his mothers Twinner; it was Laura DeLoessian. If Speedy had wanted him to see more, he was not capable of it that white moveless face told him nothing of the woman behind it. Okay, he whispered, pushing the panel back into place, and the Captain lowered him to the floor. In the darkness he asked, Whats wrong with her? Nobody can find that out, came from above him. The Queen cannot see, she cannot speak, she cannot move. . . . There was silence for a moment, and then the Captain touched his hand and said, We must return. They quietly emerged from blackness into the dusty empty room. The Captain brushed ropy cobwebs from the front of his uniform. His head cocked to one side, he considered Jack for a long moment, worry very plain upon his face. Now you must answer a question of mine, he said. Yes. Were you sent here to save her? To save the Queen? Jack nodded. I think soI think thats part of it. Tell me just one thing. He hesitated. Why dont those creeps out there just take over? She sure couldnt stop them. The Captain smiled. There was no humor in that smile. Me, he said. My men. Wed stop them. I know not what they may have gotten up to in the Outposts, where order is thinbut here we hold to the Queen. A muscle just below the eye on the unscarred cheekbone jumped like a fish. He was pressing his hands together, palm to palm. And your directions, your orders, whatever, are to . . . ah, to go west, is that correct? Jack could practically feel the man vibrating, controlling his growing agitation only from a lifetimes habit of selfdiscipline. Thats right, he said. Im supposed to go west. Isnt that right? Shouldnt I go west? To the other Alhambra? I cant say, I cant say, the Captain blurted, taking a step backward. We have to get you out of here right now. I cant tell you what to do. He could not even look at Jack now, the boy saw. But you cant stay here a minute longerlets, ah, lets see if we can get you out and away before Morgan gets here. Morgan? Jack said, almost thinking that he had not heard the name correctly. Morgan Sloat? Is he coming here? 7 Farren 1 The Captain appeared not to have heard Jacks question. He was looking away into the corner of this empty unused room as if there were something there to see. He was thinking long and hard and fast; Jack recognized that. And Uncle Tommy had taught him that interrupting an adult who was thinking hard was just as impolite as interrupting an adult who was speaking. But Steer clear of ole Bloat. Watch for his trailhis own and his Twinners . . . hes gonna be after you like a fox after a goose. Speedy had said that, and Jack had been concentrating so hard on the Talisman that he had almost missed it. Now the words came back and came home with a nasty doublethud that was like being hit in the back of the neck. What does he look like? he asked the Captain urgently. Morgan? the Captain asked, as if startled out of some interior dream. Is he fat? Is he fat and sorta going bald? Does he go like this when hes mad? And employing the innate gift for mimicry hed always hada gift which had made his father roar with laughter even when he was tired and feeling downJack did Morgan Sloat. Age fell into his face as he laddered his brow the way Uncle Morgans brow laddered into lines when he was pissed off about something. At the same time, Jack sucked his cheeks in and pulled his head down to create a double chin. His lips flared out in a fishy pout and he began to waggle his eyebrows rapidly up and down. Does he go like that? No, the Captain said, but something flickered in his eyes, the way something had flickered there when Jack told him that Speedy Parker was old. Morgans tall. He wears his hair longthe Captain held a hand by his right shoulder to show Jack how longand he has a limp. One foots deformed. He wears a builtup boot, but He shrugged. You looked like you knew him when I did him! You Shhh! Not so Godpounding loud, boy! Jack lowered his voice. I think I know the guy, he saidand for the first time he felt fear as an informed emotion . . . something he could grasp in a way he could not as yet grasp this world. Uncle Morgan here? Jesus! Morgan is just Morgan. No one to fool around with, boy. Come on, lets get out of here. His hand closed around Jacks upper arm again. Jack winced but resisted. Parker becomes Parkus. And Morgan . . . its just too big a coincidence. Not yet, he said. Another question had occurred to him. Did she have a son? The Queen? Yes. She had a son, the Captain replied reluctantly. Yes. Boy, we cant stay here. We Tell me about him! There is nothing to tell, the Captain answered. The babe died an infant, not six weeks out of her womb. There was talk that one of Morgans menOsmond, perhapssmothered the lad. But talk of that sort is always cheap. I have no love for Morgan of Orris but everyone knows that one child in every dozen dies acrib. No one knows why; they die mysteriously, of no cause. Theres a sayingGod pounds His nails. Not even a royal child is excepted in the eyes of the Carpenter. He . . . Boy? are you all right? Jack felt the world go gray around him. He reeled, and when the Captain caught him, his hard hands felt as soft as feather pillows. He had almost died as an infant. His mother had told him the storyhow she had found him still and apparently lifeless in his crib, his lips blue, his cheeks the color of funeral candles after they have been capped and thus put out. She had told him how she had run screaming into the living room with him in her arms. His father and Sloat were sitting on the floor, stoned on wine and grass, watching a wrestling match on TV. His father had snatched him from his mothers arms, pinching his nostrils savagely shut with his left hand (You had bruises there for almost a month, Jacky, his mother had told him with a jittery laugh) and then plunging his mouth over Jacks tiny mouth, while Morgan cried I dont think thats going to help him, Phil. I dont think thats going to help him! (Uncle Morgan was funny, wasnt he, Mom? Jack had said. Yes, very funny, JackO, his mother had replied, and she had smiled an oddly humorless smile, and lit another Herbert Tarrytoon from the butt of the one smouldering in the ashtray.) Boy! the Captain whispered, and shook him so hard that Jacks lolling head snapped on his neck. Boy! Dammit! If you faint on me . . . Im okay, Jack saidhis voice seemed to come from far away; it sounded like the voice of the Dodgers announcer when you were cruising by Chavez Ravine at night with the top down, echoing and distant, the playbyplay of baseball in a sweet dream. Okay, lay off me, what do you say? Give me a break. The Captain stopped shaking him but looked at him warily. Okay, Jack said again, and abruptly he slapped his own cheek as hard as he couldOw! But the world came swimming back into focus. He had almost died in his crib. In that apartment theyd had back then, the one he barely remembered, the one his mother always called the Technicolor Dream Palace because of the spectacular view of the Hollywood Hills from the living room. He had almost died in his crib, and his father and Morgan Sloat had been drinking wine, and when you drank a lot of wine you had to pee a lot, and he remembered the Technicolor Dream Palace well enough to know that you got from the living room to the nearest bathroom by going through the room that had been his when he was a baby. He saw it Morgan Sloat getting up, grinning easily, saying something like Just a sec while I make some room, Phil; his father hardly looking around because Haystack Calhoun was getting ready to put the Spinner or the Sleeper on some hapless opponent; Morgan passing from the TVbrightness of the living room into the ashy dimness of the nursery, where little Jacky Sawyer lay sleeping in his Pooh pajamas with the feet, little Jacky Sawyer warm and secure in a dry diaper. He saw Uncle Morgan glancing furtively back at the bright square of the door to the living room, his balding brow turning to ladderrungs, his lips pursing like the chilly mouth of a lake bass; he saw Uncle Morgan take a throwpillow from a nearby chair, saw him put it gently and yet firmly over the sleeping babys entire head, holding it there with one hand while he held the other hand flat on the babys back. And when all movement had stopped, he saw Uncle Morgan put the pillow back on the chair where Lily sat to nurse, and go into the bathroom to urinate. If his mother hadnt come in to check on him almost immediately . . . Chilly sweat broke out all over his body. Had it been that way? It could have been. His heart told him it had been. The coincidence was too utterly perfect, too seamlessly complete. At the age of six weeks, the son of Laura DeLoessian, Queen of the Territories, had died in his crib. At the age of six weeks, the son of Phil and Lily Sawyer had almost died in his crib . . . and Morgan Sloat had been there. His mother always finished the story with a joke how Phil Sawyer had almost racked up their Chrysler, roaring to the hospital after Jacky had already started breathing again. Pretty funny, all right. Yeah. 2 Now come on, the Captain said. All right, Jack said. He still felt weak, dazed. All right, lets g Shhhh! The Captain looked around sharply at the sound of approaching voices. The wall to their right was not wood but heavy canvas. It stopped four inches short of the floor, and Jack saw booted feet passing by in the gap. Five pair. Soldiers boots. One voice cut through the babble . . . didnt know he had a son. Well, a second answered, bastards sire bastardsa fact you should well know, Simon. There was a roar of brutal, empty laughter at thisthe sort of laughter Jack heard from some of the bigger boys at school, the ones who busted joints behind the woodshop and called the younger boys mysterious but somehow terrifying names queerboy and humpajumpa and morphadite. Each of these somehow slimy terms was followed by a coarse ribband of laughter exactly like this. Cork it! Cork it up!a third voice. If he hears you, youll be walking Outpost Line before thirty suns have set! Mutters. A muffled burst of laughter. Another jibe, this one unintelligible. More laughter as they passed on. Jack looked at the Captain, who was staring at the short canvas wall with his lips drawn back from his teeth all the way to the gumlines. No question who they were talking about. And if they were talking, there might be someone listening . . . the wrong somebody. Somebody who might be wondering just who this suddenly revealed bastard might really be. Even a kid like him knew that. You heard enough? the Captain said. Weve got to move. He looked as if he would like to shake Jack . . . but did not quite dare. Your directions, your orders, whatever, are to . . . ah, go west, is that correct? He changed, Jack thought. He changed twice. Once when Jack showed him the sharks tooth that had been a filigreed guitarpick in the world where delivery trucks instead of horsedrawn carts ran the roads. And he had changed again when Jack confirmed that he was going west. He had gone from threat to a willingness to help to . . . what? I cant say . . . I cant tell you what to do. To something like religious awe . . . or religious terror. He wants to get out of here because hes afraid well be caught, Jack thought. But theres more, isnt there? Hes afraid of me. Afraid of Come on, the Captain said. Come on, for Jasons sake. Whose sake? Jack asked stupidly, but the Captain was already propelling him out. He pulled Jack hard left and halfled, halfdragged him down a corridor that was wood on one side and stiff, mouldysmelling canvas on the other. This isnt the way we came, Jack whispered. Dont want to go past those fellows we saw coming in, the Captain whispered back. Morgans men. Did you see the tall one? Almost skinny enough to look through? Yes. Jack remembered the thin smile, and the eyes which did not smile. The others had looked soft. The thin man had looked hard. He had looked crazy. And one thing more he had looked dimly familiar. Osmond, the Captain said, now pulling Jack to the right. The smell of roasting meat had been growing gradually stronger, and now the air was redolent of it. Jack had never smelled meat he wanted so badly to taste in his whole life. He was scared, he was mentally and emotionally on the ropes, perhaps rocking on the edge of madness . . . but his mouth was watering crazily. Osmond is Morgans righthand man, the Captain grunted. He sees too much, and Id just as soon he didnt see you twice, boy. What do you mean? Hsssst! He clamped Jacks aching arm even tighter. They were approaching a wide cloth drape that hung in a doorway. To Jack it looked like a showercurtainexcept the cloth was burlap of a weave so coarse and wide that it was almost netlike, and the rings it hung from were bone rather than chrome. Now cry, the Captain breathed warmly in Jacks ear. He swept the curtain back and pulled Jack into a huge kitchen which fumed with rich aromas (the meat still predominating) and billows of steamy heat. Jack caught a confused glimpse of braziers, of a great stonework chimney, of womens faces under billowy white kerchiefs that reminded him of nuns wimples. Some of them were lined up at a long iron trough which stood on trestles, their faces red and beaded with sweat as they washed pots and cooking utensils. Others stood at a counter which ran the width of the room, slicing and dicing and coring and paring. Another was carrying a wire rack filled with uncooked pies. They all stared at Jack and the Captain as they pushed through into the kitchen. Never again! the Captain bellowed at Jack, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat . . . and all the while he continued to move them both swiftly across the room, toward the doublehung doors at the far side. Never again, do you hear me? The next time you shirk your duty, Ill split your skin down the back and peel you like a baked potato! And under his breath, the Captain hissed, Theyll all remember and theyll all talk, so cry, dammit! And now, as the Captain with the scarred face dragged him across the steaming kitchen by the scruff of his neck and one throbbing arm, Jack deliberately called up the dreadful image of his mother lying in a funeral parlor. He saw her in billowing folds of white organdyshe was lying in her coffin and wearing the wedding dress she had worn in Drag Strip Rumble (RKO, 1953). Her face came clearer and clearer in Jacks mind, a perfect wax effigy, and he saw she was wearing her tiny goldcross earrings, the ones Jack had given her for Christmas two years ago. Then the face changed. The chin became rounder, the nose straighter and more patrician. The hair went a shade lighter and became somehow coarser. Now it was Laura DeLoessian he saw in that coffinand the coffin itself was no longer a smoothly anonymous funeral parlor special, but something that looked as if it had been hacked with rude fury from an old loga Vikings coffin, if there had ever been such a thing; it was easier to imagine this coffin being torched alight on a bier of oiled logs than it was to imagine it being lowered into the unprotesting earth. It was Laura DeLoessian, Queen of the Territories, but in this imagining which had become as clear as a vision, the Queen was wearing his mothers wedding dress from Drag Strip Rumble and the goldcross earrings Uncle Tommy had helped him pick out in Sharps of Beverly Hills. Suddenly his tears came in a hot and burning floodnot sham tears but real ones, not just for his mother but for both of these lost women, dying universes apart, bound by some unseen cord which might rot but would never breakat least, not until they were both dead. Through the tears he saw a giant of a man in billowing whites rush across the room toward them. He wore a red bandanna instead of a puffy chefs hat on his head, but Jack thought its purpose was the sameto identify the wearer as the boss of the kitchen. He was also brandishing a wickedlooking threetined wooden fork. GedOUT! the chef screeched at them, and the voice emerging from that huge barrel chest was absurdly flutelikeit was the voice of a willowy gay giving a shoeclerk a piece of his mind. But there was nothing absurd about the fork; it looked deadly. The women scattered before his charge like birds. The bottommost pie dropped out of the piewomans rack and she uttered a high, despairing cry as it broke apart on the boards. Strawberry juice splattered and ran, the red as fresh and bright as arterial blood. GEDDOUT MY KIDCHEN, YOU SLUGS! DIS IS NO SHORDCUD! DIS IS NO RAZETRAG! DIS IS MY KIDCHEN AND IF YOU CADT REMEMBER DAT, ILL BY GOD THE CARBENDER CARVE YOUR AZZES FOR YOU! He jabbed the fork at them, simultaneously halfturning his head and squinching his eyes mostly shut, as if in spite of his tough talk the thought of hot flowing blood was just too gauche to be borne. The Captain removed the hand that had been on the scruff of Jacks neck and reached outalmost casually, it seemed to Jack. A moment later the chef was on the floor, all six and a half feet of him. The meatfork was lying in a puddle of strawberry sauce and chunks of white unbaked pastry. The chef rolled back and forth, clutching his broken right wrist and screaming in that high, flutelike voice. The news he screamed out to the room in general was certainly woeful enough he was dead, the Captain had surely murdered him (pronounced murdirt in the chefs odd, almost Teutonic accent); he was at the very least crippled, the cruel and heartless Captain of the Outer Guards having destroyed his good right hand and thus his livelihood, and so ensuring a miserable beggars life for him in the years to come; the Captain had inflicted terrible pain on him, a pain beyond belief, such as was not to be borne Shut up! the Captain roared, and the chef did. Immediately. He lay on the floor like a great baby, his right hand curled on his chest, his red bandanna drunkenly askew so that one ear (a small black pearl was set in the center of the lobe) showed, his fat cheeks quivering. The kitchen women gasped and twittered as the Captain bent over the dreaded chief ogre of the steaming cave where they spent their days and nights. Jack, still weeping, caught a glimpse of a black boy (brown boy, his mind amended) standing at one end of the largest brazier. The boys mouth was open, his face as comically surprised as a face in a minstrel show, but he kept turning the crank in his hands, and the haunch suspended over the glowing coals kept revolving. Now listen and Ill give you some advice you wont find in The Book of Good Farming, the Captain said. He bent over the chef until their noses almost touched (his paralyzing grip on Jacks armwhich was now going mercifully numbnever loosened the smallest bit). Dont you ever . . . dont you ever . . . come at a man with a knife . . . or a fork . . . or a spear . . . or with so much as a Godpounding splinter in your hand unless you intend to kill him with it. One expects temperament from chefs, but temperament does not extend to assaults upon the person of the Captain of the Outer Guards. Do you understand me? The chef moaned out a teary, defiant somethingorother. Jack couldnt make it all outthe mans accent seemed to be growing steadily thickerbut it had something to do with the Captains mother and the dumpdogs beyond the pavillion. That may well be, the Captain said. I never knew the lady. But it certainly doesnt answer my question. He prodded the chef with one dusty, scuffed boot. It was a gentle enough prod, but the chef screeched as if the Captain had drawn his foot back and kicked him as hard as he could. The women twittered again. Do we or do we not have an understanding on the subject of chefs and weapons and Captains? Because if we dont, a little more instruction might be in order. We do! the chef gasped. We do! We do! We Good. Because Ive had to give far too much instruction already today. He shook Jack by the scruff of the neck. Havent I, boy? He shook him again, and Jack uttered a wail that was completely unfeigned. Well . . . I suppose thats all he can say. The boys a simpleton. Like his mother. The Captain threw his dark, gleaming glance around the kitchen. Good day, ladies. Queens blessings upon you. And you, good sir, the eldest among them managed, and dropped an awkward, ungraceful curtsey. The others followed suit. The Captain dragged Jack across the kitchen. Jacks hip bumped the edge of the washing trough with excruciating force and he cried out again. Hot water flew. Smoking droplets hit the boards and ran, hissing, between them. Those women had their hands in that, Jack thought. How do they stand it? Then the Captain, who was almost carrying him by now, shoved Jack through another burlap curtain and into the hallway beyond. Phew! the Captain said in a low voice. I dont like this, not any of it, it all smells bad. Left, right, then right again. Jack began to sense that they were approaching the outer walls of the pavillion, and he had time to wonder how the place could seem so much bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside. Then the Captain was pushing him through a flap and they were in daylight againmidafternoon daylight so bright after the shifting dimness of the pavillion that Jack had to wince his eyes shut against a burst of pain. The Captain never hesitated. Mud squelched and smooched underfoot. There was the smell of hay and horses and shit. Jack opened his eyes again and saw they were crossing what might have been a paddock or a corral or maybe just a barnyard. He saw an open canvassided hallway and heard chickens clucking somewhere beyond it. A scrawny man, naked except for a dirty kilt and thong sandals, was tossing hay into an open stall, using a pitchfork with wooden tines to do the job. Inside the stall, a horse not much bigger than a Shetland pony looked moodily out at them. They had already passed the stall when Jacks mind was finally able to accept what his eyes had seen the horse had two heads. Hey! he said. Can I look back in that stall? That No time. But that horse had No time, I said. He raised his voice and shouted And if I ever catch you laying about again when theres work to be done, youll get twice this! You wont! Jack screamed (in truth he felt as if this scene were getting a bit old). I swear you wont! I told you Id be good! Just ahead of them, tall wooden gates loomed in a wall made of wooden posts with the bark still on themit was like a stockade wall in an old Western (his mother had made a few of those, too). Heavy brackets were screwed into the gates, but the bar the brackets were meant to hold was not in place. It leaned against the woodpile to the left, thick as a railroad crosstie. The gates stood open almost six inches. Some muddled sense of direction in Jacks head suggested that they had worked their way completely around the pavillion to its far side. Thank God, the Captain said in a more normal voice. Now Captain, a voice called from behind them. The voice was low but carrying, deceptively casual. The Captain stopped in his tracks. It had called just as Jacks scarred companion had been in the act of reaching for the left gate to push it open; it was as if the voices owner had watched and waited for just that second. Perhaps you would be good enough to introduce me to your . . . ah . . . son. The Captain turned, turning Jack with him. Standing, halfway across the paddock area, looking unsettling out of place there, was the skeletal courtier the Captain had been afraid ofOsmond. He looked at them from dark gray melancholy eyes. Jack saw something stirring in those eyes, something deep down. His fear was suddenly sharper, something with a point, jabbing into him. Hes crazythis was the intuition which leaped spontaneously into his mind. Nuttier than a damned fruitcake. Osmond took two neat steps toward them. In his left hand he held the rawhidewrapped haft of a bullwhip. The handle narrowed only slightly into a dark, limber tendon coiled thrice around his shoulderthe whips central stalk was as thick as a timber rattlesnake. Near its tip, this central stalk gave birth to perhaps a dozen smaller offshoots, each of woven rawhide, each tipped with a crudely made but bright metal spur. Osmond tugged the whips handle and the coils slithered from his shoulder with a dry hiss. He wiggled the handle, and the metaltipped strands of rawhide writhed slowly in the strawlittered mud. Your son? Osmond repeated, and took another step toward them. And Jack suddenly understood why this man had looked familiar before. The day he had almost been kidnappedhadnt this man been White Suit? Jack thought that perhaps he had been. 3 The Captain made a fist, brought it to his forehead, and bent forward. After only a moments hesitation, Jack did the same. My son, Lewis, the Captain said stiffly. He was still bent over, Jack saw, cutting his eyes to the left. So he remained bent over himself, his heart racing. Thank you, Captain. Thank you, Lewis. Queens blessings upon you. When he touched him with the haft of the bullwhip, Jack almost cried out. He stood straight again, biting the cry in. Osmond was only two paces away now, regarding Jack with that mad, melancholy gaze. He wore a leather jacket and what might have been diamond studs. His shirt was extravagantly ruffled. A bracelet of links clanked ostentatiously upon his right wrist (from the way he handled the bullwhip, Jack guessed that his left was his working hand). His hair was drawn back and tied with a wide ribbon that might have been white satin. There were two odors about him. The top was what his mother called all those mens perfumes, meaning aftershave, cologne, whatever. The smell about Osmond was thick and powdery. It made Jack think of those old blackandwhite British films where some poor guy was on trial in the Old Bailey. The judges and lawyers in those films always wore wigs, and Jack thought the boxes those wigs came out of would smell like Osmonddry and crumblysweet, like the worlds oldest powdered doughnut. Beneath it, however, was a more vital, even less pleasant smell it seemed to pulse out at him. It was the smell of sweat in layers and dirt in layers, the smell of a man who bathed seldom, if ever. Yes. This was one of the creatures that had tried to steal him that day. His stomach knotted and roiled. I did not know you had a son, Captain Farren, Osmond said. Although he spoke to the Captain, his eyes remained on Jack. Lewis, he thought, Im Lewis, dont forget Would that I did not, the Captain replied, looking at Jack with anger and contempt. I honor him by bringing him to the great pavillion and then he slinks away like a dog. I caught him playing at d Yes, yes, Osmond said, smiling remotely. He doesnt believe a word, Jack thought wildly, and felt his mind take another clumsy step toward panic. Not a single word! Boys are bad. All boys are bad. Its axiomatic. He tapped Jack lightly on the wrist with the haft of the bullwhip. Jack, his nerves screwed up to an unbearable pitch, screamed . . . and immediately flushed with hot shame. Osmond giggled. Bad, oh yes, its axiomatic, all boys are bad. I was bad; and Ill wager you were bad, Captain Farren. Eh? Eh? Were you bad? Yes, Osmond, the Captain said. Very bad? Osmond asked. Incredibly, he had begun to prance in the mud. Yet there was nothing swishy about this Osmond was willowy and almost delicate, but Jack got no feeling of true homosexuality from the man; if there was that innuendo in his words, then Jack sensed intuitively that it was hollow. No, what came through most clearly here was a sense of malignity . . . and madness. Very bad? Most awfully bad? Yes, Osmond, Captain Farren said woodenly. His scar glowed in the afternoon light, more red than pink now. Osmond ceased his impromptu little dance as abruptly as he had begun it. He looked coldly at the Captain. No one knew you had a son, Captain. Hes a bastard, the Captain said. And simple. Lazy as well, it now turns out. He pivoted suddenly and struck Jack on the side of the face. There was not much force behind the blow, but Captain Farrens hand was as hard as a brick. Jack howled and fell into the mud, clutching his ear. Very bad, most awfully bad, Osmond said, but now his face was a dreadful blank, thin and secretive. Get up, you bad boy. Bad boys who disobey their fathers must be punished. And bad boys must be questioned. He flicked the whip to one side. It made a dry pop. Jacks tottery mind made another strange connectionreaching, he supposed later, for home in every way it knew how. The sound of Osmonds whip was like the pop of the Daisy air rifle hed had when he was eight. He and Richard Sloat had both had rifles like that. Osmond reached out and grasped Jacks muddy arm with one white, spiderlike hand. He drew Jack toward him, into those smellsold sweet powder and old rancid filth. His weird gray eyes peered solemnly into Jacks blue ones. Jack felt his bladder grow heavy, and he struggled to keep from wetting his pants. Who are you? Osmond asked. 4 The words hung in the air over the three of them. Jack was aware of the Captain looking at him with a stern expression that could not quite hide his despair. He could hear hens clucking; a dog barking; somewhere the rumble of a large approaching cart.