Since his official investiture as the Archon's apprentice, it had become the morning habit of Filidor Vesh to take a late breakfast on the streetside balcony of a place in the Shamblings district where he was known and well treated. Fortified by slices of spiced dolcetacc and cups of steaming punge, he would linger over the pages of the Olkney Implicator: not for news of weighty matters, but for the artfully phrased columns of the notorious scandal hound Tet Folbrey. The scribbler wrote in a ribald code that disclosed, to those who knew the key, which members of the city's often wanton elite were doing things with and to each other that they would have preferred not to read about in the public prints. Lawsuits were often threatened, sometimes brought, rarely settled, but through all of it, Folbrey wrote on. Filidor had heard somewhere, though certainly not in the man's column, that the tattler had gained his impregnable position at the Implicator by marrying the badtempered daughter of its owner, Lord Vadric Magguffynne.

The Archon's apprentice himself was an occasional target of the scandalmonger's barbs. Filidor was a young man, with a young man's appetites and inclinations, which sometimes conspired to lead him into situations that lacked decorum, and among companions who pursued a life of continual romp and riot. On one such occasion, Folbrey had reported on a house party at which Filidor had presided over an auction of the hostess's garments, which she had removed one by one as the bids increased in both size and fervor. Filidor did not dispute the accuracy of the Implicator's account, but felt that his privacy—not to mention that of his hostess— had been invaded. Not one to trifle with underlings, he went to the home of the owner to complain.

Lord Magguffynne received him in a dark drawing roomwalled with shelves and cluttered with tables, all of which bore relics of his family's ancient glories. The aristocrat was a tall, spare man of rigid posture, with a face as narrow and unyielding as a sword blade. He heard the young man's complaint with an air of detachment, then dismissed the matter with a casual word. Filidor felt that the interview was not going well, and said, "Perhaps you would take a different tone if this affair was brought to my uncle's attention."

The Magguffynne smiled a thin smile and said, "I should think that would create more difficulties for you than for me."

In truth, Filidor did not wish to test his uncle's views regarding his recreations. His uncle was Dezendah VII, ninetyeighth Archon of those parts of Old Earth still inhabited by human beings in this, the world's penultimate age. Some said the old man ought to be numbered as the ninety–ninth to exercise the vast but ill—defined powers of the Archonate, but that was because they counted the brief and unsuccessful usurpation by the detested Holmar Thurm, who had treacherously removed the Archon Barsamine V from office some centuries before. Among those who bothered to think about the matter, the majority opinion held that the lamentable Thurm had earned no place in the official record, the fact that his skin was preserved somewhere in the dusty archives beneath the Archonate palace notwithstanding.

Either way, all agreed that the Archon Dezendah VII was the pinnacle of Old Earth's social order, with powers beyond limit, although the means and mechanisms by which those powers were exercised were unclear even to those who bothered themselves with questions of governance. Filidor's appreciation of his uncle was less abstract. He was aware that his behavior had often failed to measure up to the Archon's expectations, and the awareness caused him some inner pain.

His threat to appeal to his uncle had been a bluff, and Lord Magguffynne had called it. They therefore agreed to disagree, and the issue was dropped unsettled. Filidor attempted to be a little more discreet in his amusements, and for a time his name figured less often in Folbrey's column.

Now he sipped his morning punge and deciphered a particularly savory item about an unexpected meeting between wizened old Lord Escophalate's last mistress and her successor, a young lady of apparently remarkable character, which had escalated into a public charivari and the loss of at least one stook of dyed hair. Chuckling, he dropped his eyes to the next slanderous morsel and had read half of it before he grew aware that the subject of the report was himself.

What highly placed gadling, Folbrey wrote, was troughing it to his very hocks at The Prodigious Palate last night, gaggled by the usual hem tuggers? The rarest pressings from the eatery's cellar flowed in cataracts, as the gourmands gobbled a path through the entire menu, then began anew with appetizers. Knowledgeable prognosticators believe that the boy's uncle will absolutely fizzicate when he sees the bill.

A brief cloud of concern passed over the normally untroubled landscape of the young man's mind, but soon evanesced into nothing, leaving his inner skies clear. It was a mild enough bite at his ankles, and Filidor was fairly sure that his uncle was not a devotee of the man's column. And even if the item should somehow come to the Archon's attention, the odds were that no censure more stringent than a mild reproach would descend upon his nephew; at least, no penalties had yet been exacted for a score of past libertinous routs he had hosted for his circle of aristocratic friends. Filidor would have liked to take more comfort from that argument, but the experience of his brief lifetime had shown him that sometimes his uncle would take considerable pains to teach him a lesson. Invariably, the pains were Filidor's.

But, at the moment, all was peace and good order upon this sunny balcony, and Filidor was well practiced at living in the moment. He ordered another mug of punge, finished the remaining items in Folbrey's column, then turned the page to find a critic's notice of a theatrical event that he and hiscoterie had happened to witness in Indentors Square the evening before as they were making their way to the Palate. It was an open air performance by a traveling company that billed itself as Flastovic's Incomparable Mummery Troupe and Raree Exposition. Masked and robed in imaginative costumes, the players silently enacted scenes from the works of a dramatist of bygone years known only as The Bard Obscure, while an austere disclamator, who Filidor thought was too fond of his own voice, stood to one side of the portable stage in mask and robe and recited the text of the drama.

Like most of his circle, Filidor had at least heard of The Bard Obscure, a maker of tragicomic plays and vignettes that were no longer popular among the sophisticated set. Many of them were set on the imaginary planet Far Forbish, arough rambling frontier much distant from Earth, out at theother end of the Spray. The Archon's apprentice had stopped with his friends at the rear of the small crowd of spectators when the disclamator portentously called out the title of the work they were about to perform.

"Love and Irony," he said, "by The Bard Obscure." He paused and swept his eyes across the almost empty square, as if surveying a vast throng, before continuing. "Into the mining camp at Flatpoke Creek came Badrey Huzzantz, his cheeks unburnt and his gear unscorched."

A masked mummer jauntily crossed the stage and stood, legs widespread, knuckles on hips, as if taking stock of new surroundings. The rest of the troupe were off to the side, ignoring his arrival.

"Huzzantz announced that he had crossed the Spray to pry a bonanza in gems from the fumaroles, and to return home with a fortune plucked from the fiery magma."

The other players now gathered round, nudging and elbowing each other in prelude to a prank, then one stepped forward and put his arm around the newcomer's shoulders.

The disclamator said, "A grizzled veteran of the fire fieldsnamed Ton Begbo thought to make sport with the young tyro. He told Huzzantz that never could he name himself a true Forbishite until he had completed two tasks: first, achieve carnal congress with Madame Valouche, empress of the camp courtesans; second, deliver a resounding kick to the armored hindquarters of a sixpronged weftry."

The mummer playing Badrey Huzzantz raised masked chin and clenched fist in a show of determination. The others mimed raucous encouragement.

"Huzzantz vowed he would fulfill all requirements, and would have set out forthwith, but the others assured him that every rite of passage must traditionally begin with buying each wellwisher a tot of fierce drink and toasting them singly and severally."

The players leaned upon each other, bending their elbows and bringing cupped hands to lips, until the hero of the tale "stumbled forth from their midst, fist again raised like a banner with a strange device, and swore that he would not return till he had dealt, according to their natures, with both Madame Valouche and the dreaded weftry."

The character staggered offstage, while the carousers carried on with their imbibery. Then from the wings came a great thunder and clatter that betokened a dire contest, rising thump upon clash to a ringing climax. There ensued a long silence, while the other mummers stood in attitudes of awed expectation, before the hero stumbled back into view, his robe rent, his mask askew, and his body bent at unusual angles.

The disclamator spoke. "'Well enough,' cried Badrey Huzzantz. 'Now, where is this whore I'm supposed to kick?'"

The other Far Forbishers mimed amazement and mirth, slapping hands to knees and holding jiggling bellies. But then the curtains parted at the rear of the stage and a giant head appeared, a gold and green weftry crowned with six segmented spines. The mummers, save Huzzantz, froze in postures of horror. But then the weftry unrolled a long tongue of red velour, until the tip gently touched the hand of Badrey Huzzantz, who turned and affectionately stroked the glistering chitin of the beast's forehead. Together, the head and the man backed through the curtain, until only the hero's mask remained. Huzzantz shook his head dismissively.

"Never mind," said the disclamator, and the stage went to black.

It had been a diverting performance, enlivened during the intermission by a shout and a bustle from the far side of the square, where someone cried out that his purse had been lifted. Filidor might have stayed for more, but the delights of The Prodigious Palate were beckoning, so he and his friends left just as the disclamator announced that the next playlet would be the classic, A Man, a Tavern, and a Duck.

The Implicator's critic professed a less positive view ofthe troupe's offerings, and thought it appropriate that themummers would soon depart for a tour of provincial towns.Filidor sipped his punge and turned to the news page, whichwas topped by a headline about an intercessor from ThurloynVale who was believed to have been lost at sea afterabsconding with the contents of his clients' trust funds. Awavering pain passed behind his forehead, no doubt broughton by last night's excesses and made worse by a rumble ofheavy wheels on Ipscarry Way where it ran below the balcony.He put down the periodical and turned to look for thesource of the noise.

A stubby, ungainly vehicle of the kind commonly usedto transport farm goods, but now roughly converted to carrypassengers, was trundling up the street's gentle slope. Thebed of its cargo hold had been softened with cushions andduffels, on which sat two persons in rustic dress. Filidorglanced idly at them, and would have returned to the Implicatorand his breakfast, but just then one of the travelerschanced to look up, and her eyes caught Filidor's. And heldthem.

The eyes were large and seagreen, slightly slanted, andset in a heartshaped face that was topped by careless ringletsof coppery hair. The features were not so striking a visionas to stir Filidor's inner workings—he saw more beautifulwomen at many of the evening salons and catered runavauntsto which his status as the Archon's heir gave him entry—butthen the girl smiled, and the effect was like the old orangesun finding its warm way through a chink in a cloud. Thestreet seemed to glow with inner light, and Filidor felt hisown cheeks stretching in a matching grin, which soon brokeunder the pressure of a small, spontaneous laugh. At that, theyoung woman's smile also deepened, and had the vehicle notbeen carrying her steadily away from him, Filidor might havespoken, she might have answered, an acquaintanceship wouldhave been sparked, and subsequent events would not haveunfolded in quite so complicated a manner.

Instead, the conveyance belched bluish fumes from arear orifice, grunted down into a lower gear, and turned thecorner into Hennenfent Street, carrying her out of his sight,and plunging the young man's world back into shadow. Thechange moved Filidor to an unaccustomed urgency. He lefthis morning pastry half nibbled and his second cup of pungeunsipped, threw Folbrey to the floor tiles, and threaded hisway among the tables toward the stairs.

He emerged below on busy Ipscarry and cast about fora jitney to hire. None was in sight, but then he blessed hisluck as an official black and green Archonate cabriol suddenlyeased out of the traffic and drew into the curb besidehim. Filidor pulled open the front passenger door and launchedhimself into the interior, drawing forth his identificationplaque as he did so, preparing to demonstrate superiority ofrank to whatever bureaucrat had requisitioned the car, thento send it in pursuit of the hauler.

"Quickly," he said to the controls, "turn onto Hennenfentand follow the carryall with the people in the back."

"I regret," said a moist and languid voice from the rearseat, "that pressing circumstances compel us in another direction."

Filidor's heart, lifted by the girl's smile into the topmostreaches of his chest, now reversed course and plunged to thebottom of his belly. He well knew the voice; it belonged toFaubon Bassariot, a smooth, ovoid man of middle years andsupercilious style, who wore much of his hair in a single curlpomaded to his forehead. He had risen to a high echelonamong the panjandrums at the Archon's palace before he waschosen by the Archon himself to assume a particular duty:to be Filidor's majordomo and daily taskmaster. To that purpose,he had assembled and oversaw a staff of functionarieswhose career hopes were tied to his own prominence, andthese officials became the personal staff of the Archon's apprentice.But though the staff was Filidor's, and though Bassariot'stitle was chief of that small bureaucracy, there wasno question as to who was in charge; in all the vast apparatusof the Archonate, Bassariot was the one functionary towhom Filidor could never say no.

Nevertheless, he tried. "Those circumstances must wait,"said the young man. "I have urgent concerns."

"Indeed you do," said the official, "and I am carryingyou to them."

Filidor knew that neither hauteur nor entreaty wouldmove Bassariot. He drooped, and laid his head against theside window as the ground car negotiated its way throughthe traffic to a gate at the base of the heights that rearedabove ancient Olkney. Vehicle and gate conversed in the usualroutine, then the barrier gave way and allowed the cabriol toascend the winding road whose terminus was the sprawlingpalace of the Archonate, nestled in the crags above the rambling,sybaritic city of Olkney, at the tip of the peninsula ofthe same name.

Filidor saw none of the passing courts and gardens, thestatuary and vistas arranged to intrigue the visitor during thelong ascent. His awareness was fixed on an inward vision: atumble of hair, a pair of eyes one might drown in, and mostof all a smile to illuminate the hollow recesses of his being.He sighed. A paradise briefly glimpsed was now lost. Butthen a thought occurred: the apparatus of the Archonate wasa by–word for farreaching power; could he not use its resourcesto identify and locate the young woman who had soinstantly captured his senses? A few flicks of his finger inthe direction of the appropriate device, and surely the answerswould be divulged. Then he would. . .here the plan'scoherence began to unravel, yet Filidor was confident that hewould somehow contrive to encounter again the wielder ofthat obliterating smile, and in a setting and context that wouldpresent him in a most admirable light.

He needed to get to his office. He sat up straight andlightly drummed his fingers on the car's interior padding."Will this thing not move faster?" he said.

A sniff was Bassariot's only reply.

In time, the cabriol deposited them at a door near Filidor'soffices. The Archon's apprentice hurried inside anddown the short corridor to his suite, and did not breathe fullycomfortably until the door was closed behind him. The Archonmight be encountered in any part of the sprawling complex,and the young man was anxious to avoid a meeting.

The year before, their relationship had been muchwarmer. Filidor had won the Archon's affection and respectby saving the old man's life; it was also noteworthy that, atthe same time, he had delivered the world from an ancient,recurrent evil that seeped in from an adjacent plane, wheremalevolence was merely a natural phenomenon, akin toweather or gravity in this cosmos. Although the young manhad acted blindly, indeed in sheer panic, with no display ofthe cool and judicious tone for which the Archonate wasrenowned, his uncle had judged the intent and result of hisactions to be of more significance than the style of their execution.Filidor had been welcomed to the little man's firmembrace, and proclaimed the Archon's official heir and apprentice.

A year ago, there had been no doubt that Filidor hadcome a long way, though there remained a long way yet togo. Today, the way ahead was even longer, because once hehad returned to the familiar haunts and temptations of Olkney,Filidor had backslid. Old habits and old companions, both ofthem bad, had reclaimed him. At times—especially in thedarkest hours of the night—he wished it were not so, wishedthat he could find again the sense of boundless possibilitythat had filled him on the plains of Barran, when he hadsaved his uncle and Old Earth from destruction.

He felt an echo of it now, remembering the face of theyoung woman in the carryall. Having reached his comfortablyappointed office without encountering his uncle, Filidormade his way quickly to his desk. He seated himself behindits expanse and pressed one of the studs set into the ornamentededge. The simulacrum of a screen appeared in theair before him, at a comfortable height for viewing. A chimesounded, followed by a disembodied voice that seemed tospeak from near the young man's ear, saying, "What?"

"I need to find someone," Filidor said.

"That is an essential part of the human condition," saidthe voice, "often complemented by an equal need to be found."

"I do not wish to meander through a philosophical discourse,"said Filidor. He knew that the circuits of the Archonate'smillenniaold integrator would often respond to hisinquiries on practical matters with long–winded diversions involvingabstract speculations and obscure commentaries. Hesuspected that his uncle had ordered it so. Filidor had longresisted the Archon's attempts to educate him by frontal assaultson his ignorance, causing the old man to shift to flankattacks from unexpected quarters. "I wish to locate a youngwoman."

"Stand on a corner," advised the integrator. "Doubtlessseveral will soon pass by."

"I wish to find a particular one," said Filidor.

"If she is very particular, she may well wish not to befound by you," said the voice, rewarding itself with a smallsnort. "Here now, wasn't that good?"

Filidor had always judged the device's forays into humorto be less successful than did their author. "Let us beginagain," he said.

"No," interrupted the majordomo, reaching over Filidor'sshoulder and disengaging the connection. "Indulge yourselflater. Concerns of state outweigh juvenile fascinations. Thereare delegations to receive."

Filidor sighed. This was always a duty, rarely a pleasure.It was not the petitioners themselves; most were polite, someeven deferential. But the requests were too often presentedin arcane and ancient forms, their substance obscured byforests of formal rhetoric and allusions to well–known–precedents that Filidor had never heard of. All too often, he would find himself staring politely at some earnest group of supplicants as they completed their arguments, then bowed andawaited his judgment. Sometimes he would continue to stareat them for periods of time too long to be called moments.They no doubt assumed that he was deliberating carefully,when in truth he was wondering what on earth they wanted,and what he was supposed to say about it.

For Filidor, the difficulty with his official life was that,most of the time, he had a slim grasp of what he was doing,and an even more tenuous grip on what he was supposed tobe doing. The problem had begun soon after he had returnedfrom the previous year's journey in the discomfiting companyof his uncle.

On their expedition, Filidor had been pressed unwillinglyand unknowingly into the role of apprentice to the Archonas well as his heir apparent. He was propelled through a numberof the singular societies that flourished in the world ofEarth's penultimate age, daily risking death and dismembermentto resolve paradoxes that threatened social happiness.An ignorant stranger in a succession of strange lands, oftenacting solely from instinct and terror, Filidor had somehowmanaged not only to survive, but to earn his uncle's warmapproval. When their meanderings brought them at last backto the Archonate palace on the tip of the Olkney Peninsula,Filidor had been invested with his plaque and sigil, assigneda dignified suite of offices, and left in the cold, damp handsof Faubon Bassariot.

Months had now passed, but Filidor knew little moretoday than he had in those hectic weeks during which he andhis uncle had wandered from place to place, participating inactions that somehow indirectly restored a rough equilibriumto one or another society that had strayed too far from themean—an ancient function of the Archon known as theprogress of esteeming the balance—then they would moveon to where they might be needed next. It became clear toFilidor that the Archon tended toward the tangential approach:he would arrange for an institution to tremble from a slightnudge at its foundation; he might subject a population to anunsought and unexpected demonstration of an alternative socialarrangement; when their work was done, the agents ofenlightenment would be on their way down the road, oftenin a hurry, and not infrequently just ahead of an outraged citizenry.

That much of the Archonate's workings, Filidor knewfrom experience. The rest was still conjecture. Everyone knewthat the Archon, revered and deferred to by all, exercised ultimatedominion over humankind. His palace housed legionsof functionaries and underlings, most of whose duties seemedto involve moving things from one place to another, or standingin apparently deep contemplation. There was an Archonatebureau, fully staffed and equipped, in every human settlementof reasonable size. Built over uncounted millennia, theArchonate was universally regarded as the magnificent culminationof the science of governance, yet Filidor could nothave specified exactly what it did or how it did it.

On one occasion when he had encountered his uncle inthe warren of halls and corridors that riddled through thepalace, Filidor posed the question bluntly. He seized the Archon'sthreadbare black garment, causing the little man toexecute a half turn, and demanded, "What is our function?"

His uncle freed himself from Filidor's grasp by a subtlemovement of his rootlike fingers, stroked his yellowy baldpate, and spoke in a voice like a rustle in dead grass. "Surelythis is self–evident. The function of the Archonate is to arrangefor the populace to have what it needs."

"But how am I to know what the people need?"

"That is the art of governing, and like any art, it is acquiredby diligent practice. Keep at it. I have every faith thatyou're coming along admirably." And with that, the little manwas gone.

Thus was Filidor set adrift, without chart or compass,on a sea of administration. But, though aimless, his voyagewas for the most part a placid one. Faubon Bassariot, aidedby an efficient staff, dealt with many routine affairs, as wellas some that were of more than passing weight, before theyreached Filidor's desk. But some petitioners must be granteddirect contact with the Archon's heir. And sometimes this ledto Filidor's experiencing the sensation known to waders whostep beyond an underwater ledge and find themselves sinkingabruptly into the darkness of an unplumbed abyss.

As Bassariot denied him his search for the girl seen fromthe balcony, Filidor felt an intimation that today would bringanother floundering in the murk of Archonate business. Theyoung man laced his fingers in his lap and said, "What havewe this morning?"

"Two delegations, and some officers of the fiduciary sectionurgently desire to discuss your expenses," said the functionary.

Filidor made a dismissive gesture. "All that beforelunch?"

"One delegation must be received as soon as possible."

"Why?"

Bassariot made an airy gesture. "Although the matter isnot weighty, the petitioners are persons of note. But the othergroup might possibly keep."

"Very well," said the Archon's apprentice, slumping alittle in his chair. "Bring on the necessity."

Almost an hour later, he was sitting in the same position,fighting his eyelids' inclination to migrate down to thebottom of their range, as a quartet of worthies from the upperstrata of Olkney society slowly reached the culmination oftheir petition. Filidor dragged his gaze from them and lookedinstead through one of the mullioned windows that broke theouter wall of his office. He saw a pair of phibranos swirlingin multihued arcs around a blackened tower, feathers flamedby red sunlight, tumbling through the aerial combat ofcourtship. The birds swooped low and were lost from hissight, and he became aware again of the droning voice onthe other side of his desk.

"...and therefore," said the leader of the delegation, aplump man with silver hair and hooded eyes, which he nowflicked back to the scroll in his stubfingered hand, "pursuantto Articles Seven and Twelve of the Policy of Amenable Leniency,we respectfully seek the Archonate's concurrence inthese, our worthy aims." With a tidy flourish, he rerolled thedocument and presented it to Filidor. Then he guided his ornatehat to a soft landing on his well–coiffed locks, foldedsmall pink hands across a brocaded paunch, and awaited theresponse of authority.

Which response Filidor was at a loss to give. He staredat the man in a lengthening silence until Faubon Bassariotdiscreetly cleared his throat.

"Well," said Filidor, then after a moment said, "well,"again. He unrolled the scroll and studied its ornate script, butfound no help; somewhere within its tangled thicket of traditionalphraseology and timehonored language there mayhave been a simple statement of purpose—ought to have beenone, he thought—but if so it was beyond his finding. Hesighed: once again, not only did he not know what decisionwas expected of him, he was not at all sure what the subjectof the petition was.

The chief petitioner now cleared his throat, with evenmore emphasis than Bassariot. Filidor could delay no longer."This is a most interesting request," he said. "I would likean opportunity to study it in depth, perhaps to consult withmy officials..." He trailed off as he noted the four petitioners'eyebrows molding into the position of offended disbelief."No more than a perfunctory review..." Filidor triedagain, and saw the eight carefully tended ranks of hair descendto the position of incipient outrage.

Another of the delegation stepped forward, a thin womanin black, whose shaven skull was haloed by a complex nimbusof gold filaments and precious stones. Filidor thought herecognized her as a dowager of a highly placed family, perhapseven those who owned the Implicator, and wondered ifhe might bargain for kindlier treatment by Tet Folbrey. Hedecided the idea was not advisable when the woman said, ina voice like tearing paper, "We did not come for shillyshallying.Our aims are clearly set forth, our methods aresimple and efficacious, and all is animated by a lucid philosophy."

A metal–plated fingertip sliced the air as she went on,"In any case, the Policy of Amenable Leniency admits of nounwarranted delay. You must decide, and now."

Filidor had developed two strategies for dealing with delegations.His preferred course—to dodge the issue until itcould be passed to someone else within the Archonate establishment—had just been rendered bankrupt. He smoothlyshifted to the alternate approach.

"Of course, of course, just so," he said, and allowed hisfingertips to strike his forehead, "quite correct. What was Ithinking? Proceed, by all means, proceed. You have my completeconcurrence."

In unison, the four petitioners performed an audible intakeof breath. "Then you will graciously endorse the documentwith your sigil," said the woman.

"Great pleasure," said Filidor. He twisted the ring on hisindex finger, pressed its entaglioed surface against the paper,and felt the brief tingle as the mark of Archonate approvalwas indelibly impressed into the document. "There you haveit," he said, and passed the scroll to the chief petitioner.

The four petitioners eyed one another with a curious intensity,and Filidor had a faint inkling that each was suppressing an urge to shout and caper energetically about theroom. Instead, they hurried through the gestures that wereappropriate to a formal occasion and departed.

Filidor let loose yet another sigh, this one a mingle ofrelief and despair. The flaw in agreeing to whatever was presentedto him, he realized, was the constant risk of an unfortunateoutcome. However, he comforted himself, thatoutcome could reasonably be expected to be at some distancein the future, or perhaps its impacts would be felt in somefaroff place. This future Archon wished to believe that tomorrowscould be trusted to look after themselves. He returnedhis gaze to the window, but the phibranos had goneoff on other business.

Bassariot had escorted the magnates from the room. Filidortook advantage of his absence to recall the integrator'sscreen into existence. "She was about my age, with red hair,green eyes, wonderful mouth," he told it.

"Who?" said the integrator.

"The woman I want you to find," said Filidor.

The screen blinked faintly, then the voice said, "Thereare somewhere between four and eleven million such women,depending on the definition of 'wonderful.' "

"She wore simple clothing."

"That is not a great help."

"She was riding in a converted farm vehicle," Filidorsaid. "There can't be all that many women doing that."

"Obviously, you do not frequent rural communities," saidthe integrator.

"I don't think you are trying your best," Filidor said,"you old confustible!"

The disembodied voice dropped to a mumble, but Filidorthought he heard the phrase "trying my patience." Hewould have to speak to his uncle about this equipment.

He gathered himself for a renewed effort, but it was forestalledby the reentry of Faubon Bassariot. "The other delegationawaits," said the functionary.

"What do they want?"

The man's smile was the only thin thing about him."Your attention, one supposes."

"Are they like the last ones, a cluster of magnates?"

"If you mean, are they the sort to complain in highercircles," Bassariot said, his nose assuming an even more elevatedangle than normal, "I think not. I take them to havecome from some uncultured and distant community, theirdress being simple and travel–worn."

Filidor gestured to the screen and said, in a breezy tone,"You see that I am absorbed in intricate and consequentialmatters. I cannot be disturbed. Perhaps they might see myuncle."

The official's expression was artfully composed. "Indeed,they first sought the Archon's attention; he suggested theymight profit from an interview with yourself."

A weight fitted itself upon Filidor's shoulders. Petitionersreferred by his uncle were often the most perplexing. Hegrasped for the last available straw. "Have they an actual appointment?"

Bassariot looked thoughtful for a while, then said, "Notas such."

"Then make them one, at some convenient space in myschedule."

"The earliest of which would be this moment," said themajordomo, fixing his eyes on the empty air beyond Filidor'sshoulder.

"No, no," said the young man. "No, no. My time is atpresent fully taken up. An urgent matter, which admits of nodelay."

Bassariot angled his head to one side, like a bird inspectingsomething edible. "I see."

"Yes, good, well," said Filidor and sought at once to buttressthe flimsy foundations of his escape. "I have it! Theycould put their case in writing—which you could then review—and advise me before I meet with them...which Icould do, shall we say..."

"Tomorrow morning?"

Filidor regarded the man's round, cool face, as bland asa boiled egg, and recalled that nothing that happened withinthe palace could, with absolute safety, be considered unknownto Dezendah Vesh. "Tomorrow morning," he agreed.

Bassariot departed, leaving Filidor to resume his interrogationof the integrator. But the machine seemed determinedto frustrate his simple aim, and the more the Archon'sapprentice sought to steer the conversation toward practicalends, the further afield the device's philosophical wanderingsled them.

"Ultimately, of course," it said, "all things devolve to aquestion of identity. I think, therefore I am, certainly. Andone can say, as the ancient sage so succinctly observed: I amwhat I am, and that's all that I am. But this begs the question,what am I? Am I what I think I am? Does thinking thatI am what I am make me what I think I am? Perhaps I amnot what I think I am, in which case does it not inevitablyfollow that I am what I think I am not? Or am I? What doyou think?"

"I think I will turn you off," said Filidor, and did so. Hewould make a search within the Archonate for someone moreskilled in dealing with integrators, to see if there was a wayto pose elementary questions without risking his emotionalequilibrium.

He laid his head upon the desk and called up the visionof the face, the smile. A long, delicious sigh escaped him.He prepared to give another one, but was interrupted by thereappearance of Faubon Bassariot.

"If you are free," he said, "the fiduciary officers are stillhere. They have brought a number of files, and are eager tojoin you in examining them."

Filidor wasted no more time. "This integrator is faulty,"he said, "I shall seek out Master Apparaticist Berro and havehim do things to it. Or with it. Or about it." These optionswere listed as he made his way to the outer door, opened it,and stepped through into a warm midday, the tired orangesun winking and gleaming from the towers and urbanationsof Olkney far below, so that the gaudy old whore of a citylooked like a spill of trinkets on the gray–green blanket ofthe surrounding sea.

A short flight of stone steps led down and turned once,bringing Filidor through an inconspicuous portal into a publicarea of the palace grounds. He stepped out smartly andtook a path that meandered among the melodious blooms ofthe tintinabulary gardens. Soon he reached the outer edge ofthe palace's upper terrace, where a descender would bear himswiftly down to the city.

He stepped onto the next arriving disk, planted his feeton the scuffed metal, and grasped the handle firmly. The descenderbegan its slide along an inclined plane of energies,and the uplifting breeze of Filidor's passage streamed his hairfrom the nape of his neck as Olkney rose to meet him. Fartherdown, Filidor noticed the four magnates he had met withearlier grouped on a single wide disk. They were behavingin a most animated manner, hugging each other and slappingbacks. As the young man watched, the chief petitioner seizedhis headgear and flung it into the air, not bothering to watchas it fluttered and plunged into a reflective pool far below.Then the woman raised to her lips the scroll Filidor had indented.She appeared to kiss it.

A few minutes later, the descender delivered Filidor ontoa pathway that ringed the lowest of the palace's tiered walls.A short walk through lawns and topiary brought him to thewide thoroughfare of Eckhevry Row, which led straight intoOlkney's bustling mercantile quarter, where it was said thata purchaser might acquire anything that was worth acquiring,amidst much that was not. The commerciants of Olkneywere renowned for their egalitarian spirit, judging rich andpoor alike solely by the weight of their purses.

Filidor, however, was beyond their judgment. As a rankingofficer of the Archonate, he need carry no specie of anykind. Instead, he wore about his neck a light chain, fromwhich depended a palm–sized plaque of an indestructiblegreen substance, figured in black with symbols and emblems.Upon its presentation, the plaque would serve to afford himfood, shelter, transportation, or goods and services whatsoeverand to any value. Some accounting of these charges waseventually made to the public treasury; but that was not amatter on which the young man cared to dwell, being contentwith the simplicity of gaining whatever he desired merelyby presenting the lozenge of green and black.

At the moment, the plaque nestled against his chest,under a loose shirt of fine pale stuff, belted at the waist bya cinch of linked semiprecious stones. A pair of twilledtrousers, as red and as wide as fashion allowed and tuckedinto calf–high boots, a short cape of yellow, and a discreetcap bearing a gew–gaw of gold and turquoise, completed hisensemble. As he accompanied his own reflection past thewindows of shops and emporia, Filidor was comforted bythe unavoidable truth that he cut a fine figure. Any flaws hemight offer in either dress or character were not apparent tohis own sanguine gaze.

Eckhevry's pedestrian walkways were only moderatelyabustle with shoppers and gawkers, and Filidor could seesome distance ahead the four worthies to whose petition hehad given assent. Their spirits continued high, he saw. Theystrode abreast down the avenue, arms draped across eachother's shoulders, their steps so elevated and frisky as to bemore dance than mere locomotion. Whatever I have grantedthem, thought Filidor, has certainly met with their approval.A second thought briefly intruded: Might so much happinessfor a few require payment in misery by the many? It was atroublesome notion, so he cast it aside with practiced ease.

The four now turned and gavotted their way up a briefstaircase into a squat stone building. Shortly after, Filidor'sprogress brought him level with the structure, and heglanced up to see a wall of unornamented blocks and asmall massive wooden door. Beside the entry was a plain,new–looking placard identifying the place as the premises of"The Ancient and Excellent Company of Assemblors andSundry Merchandisers." Filidor recalled that name from thepetition, but could not specify what its line of business mightbe.

Above the sign was an older insignia. He thought he recognizedit as the arms of the Magguffynne family, but Olkneyboasted dozens of such ancient bloodlines, whose membersfound in their genealogies a source of pride and who jealouslyguarded their positions on the social scale. Those whowere not members of the selfconscious elite—in other words,the overwhelming majority of the city's population—paid noattention to the aristocrats' rivalries.

Nor did Filidor care to. It might be that the petition hehad granted was a ploy in some arcane struggle betweennoble houses over who had the right to wear this or thatpanache in one or the other style of cap. The impenetrabilityof the plea's language argued for it. If so, he did not care.The Archon outranked every other gradation of the socialorder, and presumably so did Filidor. He resolved, for betteror worse, to put the matter behind him. Its ramifications, ifany, would unfold in the future, leaving the present free formore pleasant concerns, chief among them a good lunch.

Filidor stepped into the traffic, dodged between motilatorsand drays, and crossed safely to the opposite side of Eckhevry,then turned into Vodel Close, a side street whichboasted the premises of Xanthoulian's, an eating house thatwas everything it ought to be.

He climbed a set of steps and entered a tastefully appointedroom, well lit by tall windows that allowed diners toreflect at leisure on the qualities and singularities of passersby,and to enjoy the envy of those beyond the glass whose meanscould not encompass the exorbitant prices that gave the placeits exclusivity. Filidor took his usual seat, considered the billof fare, and casually arranged for his plaque to dangle openlyon his shirtfront.

He decided to begin with an array of small piquant dishes,then follow with a robust stew, all ending with some subtledelicacy that would gracefully round out the whole. He beckonedto the servitor, a long, pale man with a pronouncedstoop, well trained in skillful obsequiousness: he praised eachof Filidor's selections as evidence of the customer's attainmentsas a gourmet of the first water. When Filidor beganto name particular vintages to accompany the courses, themenial achieved such paroxysms of ecstatic adoration thatthe Archon's apprentice feared the fellow might pitch a swoonand collapse across the table.

With his order carried triumphantly to the kitchen, Filidor turned his attention to the street outside. The usual fluxof powered and pedestrian traffic flowed by: functionariesand mercantilists, identifiable by their symbols of authorityand wealth; artisans and effectors with the paraphernalia oftheir crafts and disciplines; and those made idle by too muchgood fortune or too little, the latter often begging the formerfor some mite of support.

Occasionally, there passed by persons less easily defined:oddly clad outlanders and travelers pursuing their idiosyncraticends across the face of the ancient globe; and, rarely,some representative of the ultramond races that had settledon Old Earth in distant, bygone millennia, transforming wastelandsinto facsimiles of landscapes whose originals were lightdecadesdistant.

Filidor watched the ebb and flux of passersby, until arustically clad group of pedestrians moving along the walkwayon the other side of Vodel Close reminded him of thepassengers in the carryall, which made him think again ofthe instant when the young woman had turned her eyes upto his, flooding him with her smile. The remembered imagewas so strong that it almost prevented him from realizing thatthe people now passing out of view across the small streetwere none other than the very same folk from that morning,including the girl with the smile, and that he was now onceagain about to lose the opportunity to make himself knownto her.

He sprang at once from his chair, and struck out acrossthe crowded room, caroming off the waiter, upon each ofwhose extended arms balanced several small saucers filledwith pickles, sweetmeats, and appetizers. The man went downwith a clatter and a stream of observations on Filidor's characterthat were at wide variance from those he had earliervouchsafed. The Archon's apprentice heard none of it. Heburst through the street door and was down the steps andinto Vodel Close before the last dish had ceased rattling onthe restaurant's floor.

He caught sight of his quarry a few score paces awayand across the street, and immediately stretched his legs tocatch them up. Heedless of persons in his way, or of thesharp opinions they expressed, he flung himself through theintervening distance until his outstretched fingers touchedthe shoulder of the girl.

She turned, startled, alarm and puzzlement in her seagreeneyes, which then widened farther as recognitiondawned. Filidor was relieved to see that she remembered himfrom the morning, and then delighted to see that this secondencounter appeared to be as welcome to her as it was to him.She set her top teeth lightly on her lower lip and regardedhim with the frank appreciation she might have given to anunexpected present before tearing loose the ribbon.

"Well, hello," she said.

"Hello, indeed," he answered.

One of her companions, a solidly built young man forwhom the word "thick" was an almost universal description—thick neck and wrists, thick hair and lips—now came aroundthe girl and positioned himself more in front than beside her.His expression indicated that he doubted Filidor was any kindof gift at all. Another man, older and thin in every way thatthe other was thick, hovered behind them.

"This is my brother, Thorbe," said the young woman,elbowing her way past the thickness. "And behind me is Ommely,our fetchfellow. I am Emmlyn Podarke, of the townof Trumble."

Filidor affected the most expansive gesture of formalgreeting, ending with a flourish that demonstrated practicedgrace. "I am Filidor Vesh," he said, "in service to the Archonate."

For the second time in their very short acquaintance, theArchon's apprentice saw raw surprise take charge of Emmlyn'sfeatures. Identical expressions seized the other two, andthe brother emitted a monosyllable of wonderment.

"This is a wondrous coincidence," the young womansaid. "You are the very man that we came to Olkney to see.We wrote to your uncle, and he replied that you were ideallyplaced to adjudicate our cause."

Filidor's heart now grew beyond all limits. Not only hadhe met the woman he felt certain could be the light of hisbeing, but she had come to him with some great need thathe was uniquely positioned to meet. He knew it must be greatif it had brought her all the way to Olkney from a place sodistant that he wasn't sure that he had ever heard of it. Hewould surely meet that need, any precedents and proceduresto the contrary be damned, because he would thus endearhimself to her, gaining a vantage from which all manner ofblessings might be pursued.

"I would be delighted to hear your case," he said. "TheArchonate exists to answer your requirements."

"We have an appointment for tomorrow," the brothersaid. "Meanwhile, we are to put our concerns in writing."

Filidor said, "If you could sketch an outline now, I willbe better prepared to weigh the intricacies tomorrow."

Emmlyn tossed her head in a manner that Filidor founddelightful. "There are no intricacies," she said. "A cabal ofout–of–county folk calling themselves the Ancient and ExcellentCompany of something or other wish to undertakecertain operations on our land, against our expressed will.They cannot help but do harm to our clabber vines, whichwere planted centuries back by our ancestor Hableck Podarke.Their arrogance is insufferable. They must be stopped."

She placed her hand on Filidor's arm. "But now all iswarmth and sunbeams. For here you are, and we are rescued."

But a tiny chill had invaded the sunshine pouring intoVodel Close. "You mentioned a company," he said.

Thorbe Podarke said, "They call themselves The Ancientand Excellent Company of Assemblors and Sundry Merchandisers."

Emmlyn snorted in a feminine way that Filidor wouldhave found enchanting if the chill was not deepening andspreading through his vitals. "Ancient, indeed," she said."They are but recently formed. Our uncle, Siskine Podarke,thinks them a shield for someone who does not wish to havehis ends in public view."

"They are not of respectable character," put in Ommely,as if that judgment was all that ever need be said.

Filidor's insides were now in the grip of full winter. Theyoung woman must have read the distress on his face, forshe took his arm in a firmer grip and said, "You look unwell."

"I am so sorry," said the Archon's apprentice.

"I hope I am not in some way the cause of..." shebegan, but Filidor's fear gave urgency, if not eloquence, tohis confession.

"The Company," he cried. "This morning...in my office...a petition...I didn't know...Amenable Leniency, they said..." He held up the finger that wore his sigil ring, and made as if to impress the air between them. "I am so sorry."

Emmlyn's face reordered itself from concern to puzzlement,then moved on to comprehension, and finally settledupon outrage. Filidor flinched under her hardening gaze.

"You didn't," she whispered.

"I did," he replied.

For a long moment, she merely stared at him, while Filidorwas seized by a fear that she would walk away fromhim and that he would never see her again.

Instead, she drew back the hand that had been restingon his arm, made a fist of it, and thumped him soundly onthe chest. Filidor staggered back, but she came after him,now bringing the other fist into operation, pummeling historso with both hands as he backstepped through the pedestrians,and with each landed blow she issued an opinion.

"You bubble! You great noddy! Nibblewit! Lip thrummer!"

More from the effect of her epithets than of her thumpings, Filidor's strength trickled away. His knees softened andhe fell backward to the pavement. She came after him still,and he glanced at her sturdy country shoes in fear that shewould next set about kicking him. But instead she stood overhim for a moment, fists on her hips. Then, shaking her coppery ringlets in token of having come to a decision, shereached down and seized the plaque that hung about his neck.A swift yank and the chain parted. A moment later, she came again and pulled the ring from his finger.

"There!" she said. "Now, if you want these back, you'll have to make yourself properly useful, won't you?" Then she turned on her heel and marched away through the gogglingspectators. Her brother and servant delayed a moment to closetheir mouths, then hurried after.

Filidor raised himself onto his elbows and appealed tothe curious faces that looked down at him. "She can't dothat," he said.

"Evidently, she can," confirmed a large woman. "Because she just did."

Copyright © 2001 by Matt Hughes Company Ltd.