You again! How can I? When I don’t know where I am, what battle I’m really fighting? When I can’t trust my own senses? My mind –
‘What’s it matter?’ said my voice, far too calmly.
What d’you mean, what’s it matter?
‘Real – unreal – it’s the same fight, isn’t it? In either world you ought to have the edge on him! Look for it in the one you know best. Find it, and the other will follow – then you’ll know!’
Right. Well, I had the answer to that quibble now. Stand on the butterfly, and see what happens next. If it dies, it’s real. But in the world I knew best, there was a way to deal with Peters.
I rubbed my hands. ‘Well then. In that case, I’d bring in more shipping of our own – and more backing, if need be. There’s no shortage of either, Mr Peters, elsewhere in the world – not for people who’ve a trustworthy track record. And we can play a wider gambit too; political dirty tricks won’t shift us, not with our competitors to help. Agencies stand together against this kind of badger game, and the banks behind them. We’ve helped beat it in the past – and others would help us beat you! I’d turn your own damned tactics right back against you –’
Somewhere behind me – a vast impossible distance – a voice croaking urgently
Ou fais kataou z’eclai’!
I ignored it. I knew already what I had to do. I found I was clutching the metal ruler tightly, and –
I thrust my sword in my belt – clapped my hands, hard. Stooping – snatching up the chains again – whirling them, one in each hand – hear them sing!
A whistle – on the same notes – loud – louder –
A mighty crackle filled the air, and they stuck out, stiff as rods, every link, every collar quivering – not at the onrolling flames, but high above them. The field flashing alight with a wild blue glare –
My summons obeyed.
Mine –
Mine –
Mine –
The black night crashed in around me. A drumroll of thunder split the clouds. Blue sparks sizzled in a wild corona from every collar as the lightning’s fearful charge coursed through me and along the chains and lanced out like a jagged crack in the night itself, straight at Don Pedro.
The iron chains melted in my hands as that surge of power passed through them. They fell in sizzling, spattering beads, to sink gratefully back into the earth they’d been torn from. But the power in him also was daunting; Don Pedro was not blasted, not consumed. Only the bolt struck his outstretched cane, with its silver mountings, and drove it leaping backward in his hand.
And, as he had commanded, the fire followed it.
It rose like a cobra, coiling back on itself, and struck. Over the apex of the high stone it splashed, and I saw him as it fell, saw him lose his balance under the torrent of blazing debris, slide forward and down, tumbling among that crashing avalanche of fire down onto his own altar. The crowd howled and fell back; but I rushed up to the very edge of the stone, eager to be sure of my triumph …
And stopped. On the altar all was blazing ruin, a heap of shattered wood still flaming, the shed blood sizzling and blackening around its edge, hissing as the first drops of rain began to fall. Yet at the centre of it, suddenly, there was a thrusting upward, a spilling aside – and Don Pedro stood there. His robes hung ragged and smouldering, his cane was gone, his face scorched, his hair and beard a halo of fire; yet he did not seem to notice. He glided towards me, right to the edge of the stone above me – and I saw that his very eyebrows were aflame; yet the darkness beyond them was deeper than ever as it fastened upon me …
Peters shook his head, with all the sad wisdom of age and experience. ‘I see that to have any hope of convincing you I must place my cards on the table,’ he sighed, ‘and reveal the full extent of our operation.’ He snapped the silver-worked catches on his attaché case, opened it, and held it out with both hands. ‘The documentation speaks for itself …’
Instinctively I rose and leaned forward. But something in my memory rose up and clawed at me. Cards on the table? Katjka’s cards – Ace of Hearts, the Two of Spades – two empty pools of blackness that became one. And the Knave with the cold dark eyes …
My hesitation saved me. Out of the open case – his cupped hands – a blade of yellow flame spat upwards. As if to impale a star – right where, if I hadn’t hesitated, my eyes would have been. With a snarl of anger I snatched up the first thing to hand – the ruler – and sprang up, vaulted right across the desk, and went for him.
Blackness roared –
Light again. His chair tipped back, we crashed over – snapping and champing like animals, both of us – rolling about this way, that way. My hand on his throat – his cane holding back my sword – his free hand scrabbling for my eyes – Christ, he was strong! All the noise we must be making, why didn’t somebody come in –
Searing heat –
What the hell? Something burnt – my hair smouldering – we’d rolled into the fire. What fire? The light glaring – the floor hot –
On and off – light to dark – back and forth – two worlds flickering around us as we tumbled back and forth. I’d been right, my other voice!
‘Right! Right! Doesn’t bloody matter! Here or there, you lousy little sod – I’ll wring you till your bloody pips squeak –’
‘Hijo de la puta adiva –’ choked the small man.
Peters – Pedro struggling to twist his cane around to strike me – tearing my sword from my hand. I put a little more effort into it – and both cane and sword tore free, fell aside. Our hands shot straight for each other’s throats –
My arms were longer – my grip caught, tightened – harder – tighter. Into the vacuum of his eyes a green spark leaped, exploding upwards. Threads of green fire crackled and coursed along his sleeves as they met mine – and spurting sparks of red sprang up in answer. His eyes weren’t black any longer, they were shimmering green mirrors, and I could see myself in them. A self I hardly recognized – a snarling, ferocious mask with eyes of blazing red –
Tighter.
Tighter –
His grip loosened. One hand fell from my throat – and though he couldn’t have seen where the cane lay, flew straight to it, snatched it up and struck at my head. But somehow my sword was under my open fingers, and as he surged up I closed both hands around the hilt and lashed out.
A classic forehand smash. It caught him right on the sleek crown of his head, knocked him flying, flat on his back on his own altar. The sword rang in my fingers as if I’d struck solid stone. He lay groaning, writhing, kicking feebly, fingers scrabbling at the dark trenched gash. A wound like that should be fatal – but this was no ordinary man. Panting, I staggered forward, bent over him, lifting the sword to strike again. His mouth opened –
I sprang back with a yell of disgust. Just in time to avoid the fountain of blackness he vomited out.
‘You filthy bastard –’ I gargled, about to hack wildly at him, I think. Somebody caught my arm, though, and I looked around, into Jyp’s face. It was only about then my memory really began to reassert itself.
‘No,’ said Jyp wearily. ‘Don’t go near him. That wasn’t any attack. He won’t attack again.’
‘But –’
‘No buts. You whipped him. You met him out here on the Spiral, where he gained all his power, and you beat the bejasus out of him. Fought him, spell for spell –’