Changer of Worlds

if she ever got out of the cell. But now she realized that she needed to think about it before she plunged into the darkness.

The darkness was literal, not figurative. Helen had stuck her head through the hole as soon as she widened it enough. And seen—

Nothing. Pitch black. Her own head, filling the hole, had cut off the feeble illumination provided by the cell’s light fixture. Helen had never experienced such a complete darkness. She remembered her father telling her, once, of the time he and her mother had visited Gryphon’s famous Ulster Caverns on their honeymoon. As part of the tour, the guide had extinquished all the lighting in their section of the caverns, for a full five minutes. Helen’s father had described the experience, with some relish—not so much because he was fascinated by utter darkness as because he’d had the chance to fondle his new bride in flagrant disregard for proper public conduct.

Remembering that conversation, Helen had to control herself again. She was swept by a fierce urge to see her father as soon as possible. If Helen’s long-dead mother was a constant source of inspiration for her, it was her father who sat in the center of her heart. Helen was old enough to recognize the emptiness which lurked just beneath her father’s outward cheer and soft humor. But he had always been careful not to inflict that grief on his daughter.

Oh, Daddy!

For a moment, she almost thrust herself into the hole. But among her father’s many gifts to her had been Master Tye’s training, and Helen seized that regimen to keep her steady.

Breathe in, breathe out. Find the calm at the center.

Two minutes later, she backed out of the hole and went through the now-familiar process of disguising her work. Since she had plenty of time, she took more care than usual placing the coverings over the hole and blending in the fresh fill. But her own ablutions were as skimpy as she could make them. Just enough to remove the obvious streaks of dirt.

Helen had no idea how long it would take her to find water in that darkness beyond—if there was any water to be found at all. So she planned to drink the remaining water as soon as she heard her captors approaching. That way she could save the new water bottle her captors would bring her. She might have to live on that water for days.

Or, possibly, forever. Helen knew full well that she might simply die in the darkness. Even if she could elude her captors—even if she found water and food—she had no idea what other dangers might lurk there.

She stretched herself out on the pallet and began Master Tye’s relaxation exercises. She also needed as much rest as possible before setting forth.

Breathe in, breathe out. As always, the exercises brought calmness. But, after a time, she stopped thinking about them. Master Tye faded from her mind, and so did her father.

There was only her mother left. Helen had been named after her mother. Her father, born and bred in the highlands, had insisted upon that old Gryphonite custom, even though Helen’s mother herself—a sophisticate from the Manticoran capital of Landing—had thought it was grotesque.

Helen was glad for it. More now than ever. She drifted into sleep like a castaway, staying afloat on the image of the Parliamentary Medal of Honor.

Cathy

As soon as Isaac closed the door on the departing figure of Captain Zilwicki, a huge grin spread across his face. “I should be in contact with the individual quite shortly, I think,” he mimicked. “Talk about understatements!”

Cathy snorted and stalked back into the living room. Once there, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at the bookcase against the far wall. It was a magnificent thing, antique both in age and function. Cathy was one of that stubborn breed who were the only reason that the book industry (real books, dammit!) was still in business. But she insisted on having real books, wherever she lived—and lots of them, prominently displayed in a proper bookcase.

That was so partly because, in her own way, the Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of the Tor, was also a traditionalist. But mostly it was because Cathy herself found them immensely useful.

“You can come out now,” she growled.

Immediately, the bookcase swung open. Between the piece of furniture’s own huge size and the shallow recess in the wall, there was just enough room for a man.

Not much room, of course. But the reputation of Jeremy X was far larger than his actual size. The vicious terrorist and/or valiant freedom fighter (take your pick) was even shorter than Captain Zilwicki, and had nothing like his breadth of shoulder.

Wearing his own cheerful grin, Jeremy practically bounded into the room. He even did a little somersault coming out of the recess. Then turned, planted his own hands on hips, and exclaimed admiringly: “Tradition!”

Turning back around and rubbing his hands in an utterly theatrical manner, he said: “Never met a Gryphon highlander before. What a splendid folk!”

He gave Cathy a squint that was every bit as theatrical as the hand-rubbing. “You’ve been holding out on me, girl. I know you have—don’t deny it!”

Cathy shook her head ruefully. “Just what the universe didn’t need. Slavering terrorist fiend meets to-the-bloody-death Gryphon feudist. Love at first sight.”

Still grinning, Jeremy hopped into one of the plush armchairs scattered about the large room. “Don’t give me that either, lass. I was watching. Through that marvelous traditional peephole. You were quite taken by the Captain. Don’t deny it—I can tell these things, you know. I think it must be one of the experiments those Mesan charmers tucked into my chromosomes. Trying for clairvoyance or something.”

Cathy studied him. For all Jeremy’s puckish nature, she never allowed herself to forget just how utterly ruthless he could be. The Audubon Ballroom’s feud against Manpower Inc. made the worst Gryphon clan quarrels of legend seem like food fights.

Still, in her own way—dry, so to speak, rather than “wet”—Cathy was just as unyielding. “Dammit, Jeremy, I’ll say it again. If you—”

To her astonishment, Jeremy clapped his hands once and said: “Enough! I agree! You have just won our long-standing argument!”

Cathy’s jaw sagged. Glaring, Jeremy sprang to his feet. “What? Did you really think I took any pleasure in killing all the people I have? Did you now?”

He didn’t wait for a response. “Of course I did! Enjoyed it immensely, in fact. Especially the ones I could show my tongue to before I blew ’em apart. To hell with that business about revenge being a dish best served cold. It’s absolute nonsense, Cathy—take my word for it. I know. Vengeance is hot and sweet and tasty. Don’t ever think it isn’t.”

He grinned up at her impishly. “Ask the good Captain, why don’t you? He’s obviously a man of parts. Wonderful fellow!” Jeremy lowered his voice, trying to imitate Zilwicki’s basso rumble: “ ‘—and I’ll piss on the ashes of those who took her from me.’ ”

He cackled. “T’wasn’t a metaphor, y’know? I dare say he’ll do it.” Jeremy cocked his head at Isaac. “What do you think, comrade?”

Unlike Jeremy, Isaac preferred restraint in his mannerisms and speech. But, for all its modesty, his own smile was no less savage. “Isaac Douglass” was his legal name, but Isaac himself considered it a pseudonym. Isaac X, he was, like Jeremy a member of the Ballroom.

“I’ll bring the combustibles,” he pronounced. “The Captain’s so preoccupied with his daughter’s plight that he’ll probably forget. And wouldn’t that be a terrible thing? To fail of revenge at the very end, just because you