left — and thinking gloomy thoughts about his missing sword, when he heard a faint sound just behind him, right inside the wagon. He turned to see a man whom he had never seen before, who was standing on the ground outside with his head and shoulders in the rear opening of the wagon. Knotted on the maws sleeve was what looked like the orange-and-black insignia of an assistant marshal of the fair. He was looking straight at Mark, and there was that in his eyes that made Mark drop his drumstick and dive right out of the front of the wagon without a moment's hesitation. Only as Mark cleared the seat did it fully register in his mind that the man had been holding a large knife unsheathed in his right hand.
Mark landed on hands and knees on the worn turf just outside the wagon. He somersaulted once, and came up on his feet already running. As he reached the doorway of the tent he was drawing in a deep breath to yell for help. Inside the tent, the small dragon was already yowling continuously, and this perhaps served as a subliminal warning; Mark did not yell. When he looked into the tent he saw by the light of the guttering single torch how Barbara lay limp in the grasp of a second man in marshal's insignia, how the dragons cage had been tipped over backwards, and how the well-dressed stranger, who a moment ago had been chatting innocently with Barbara, was now frantically digging with his dagger into the ground where the cage had been, uncovering and scattering fine valuable crossbow bolts and bits of armor.
Mark did not yell. But the men inside the tent both yelled when they saw him, and turned and rushed in his direction. He was just barely too quick for them, as he darted away and then rolled under the flimsily paneled side of the fire-eater's construction on the adjoining lot.
The inside of that shelter was as dark as the toe of a boot; no flames were being ingested at the moment. But there came a quick stir in the blackness, an alarmed fumbling as of bedclothes, an urgent muttering of voices. Mark somehow stumbled and crashed his way through the darkness, once tripping over something and falling at full length. When he had come to the opposite wall he went out under it, in the same manner he had come in. There was no one waiting in the grass outside to seize him; for the moment he had foiled his pursuers. But for the moment only; he could hear them somewhere behind him, yelling, raising an alarm.
He made an effort to get in under the wall of the next shelter, which was a tent, found his way blocked, and slid around the tent instead. Now a deep ditch offered some hope of concealment, and he slid down into the ditch to scramble in knee-deep water at the bottom. When he had his feet more or less solidly under him he followed the ditch around a turn, where he paused to look and listen for pursuit. He heard none, but realized that he'd already lost his bearings. This fairground was certainly the biggest of the two or three that Mark had ever seen. There, the dark bulk of the castle loomed, enormous on its small rise, with lights visible in a few windows. But to Mark in his bewildered state the castle was just where it ought not to have been, and at the moment it gave him no help in getting his bearings.
Now people were yelling something in the distance. But he couldn't tell whether or not the cries had anything to do with him. What was he going to do now? If only, he thought, Kind Sir Andrew himself could be made to hear the truth…
Mark followed the ditch for a few more splashing strides, then climbed from it into the deeper darkness behind another row of tents and shelters. He was moving toward lights and the sounds of cheerful music. It was in fact better music than Ben was ever going to be able to make, if he practiced for a hundred years. If only he could at least find Ben, and warn him…
With this vague purpose of locating Ben, Mark looked out into the lighted carnival lanes while keeping himself as much as possible in the shadows. He crawled under someone's wagon, then behind a booth, seeking different vantage points. In another open way were clowns and jugglers, drawing a small crowd, laughter and applause. Mark tried to see if Ben was in the group somewhere, but was unable to tell. He moved briefly into the open again, until orange and black tied on a sleeve ahead sent him crawling back into hiding, through the partly open back door of a deserted-looking hut. Once more his entry roused an unseen sleeper; a man's voice muttered alarm, and half- drunken, halfcoherent threats.
Mark darted out of the but again, and went trotting away from people, along a half-darkened traffic lane. Brighter torchlight shone round the castle's lowered drawbridge, now not far ahead of him. More suits of orange and black were there, gathered as if in conference. To avoid them, Mark turned a corner, toward more music. This time there were drums, and roistering voices. Maybe this crowd would be big enough to hide him for a while. And there, a few meters ahead, stood Ben, plumed hat tipped on the back of his head, his lute temporarily forgotten under one arm. His stocky figure was part of the small crowd gawking at the belly-dancer's outside-the-tent performance. Mark realized that he had unconsciously fled in a circle, and was now back near the place where he had started running.
He took another step forward, intending to warn Ben. And at that same moment, the chunky dandy reappeared, approaching from the direction of the dragon-tent beyond. He saw Mark, and at once raised a fresh outcry. Mark yelped and turned and sped away. He didn't know whether Ben had even noticed him or not.
Now, several more of the marshal's men were blocking the lane ahead of Mark. He turned on one toe, to dash in at right angles under the broad banner advertising the Maze of Mirth, past a startled clown-face and into a dim interior. The stuffed figure of a demon, crudely constructed, lurched at him out of the gloom, and a mad peal of laughter went up from somewhere behind it. The inside of this place was a maze, furnished with crude mirrors and dark lanterns flashing suddenly, constructed of confusingly painted walls all odd shapes and angles. The head of a real dragon, long since stuffed and varnished, popped out at Mark from behind a suddenly open panel.
Mark could feel the burn on his face throbbing. Now another panel opened unexpectedly when he leaned on it, and he spun in confusion through a dark opening. A mirror showed him a distorted image of the chunky dandy, coming after him, perhaps still two mirrors away. The man's mouth was opening for a yell.
An arm, banded in orange and black, came out of somewhere else to flail at Mark, and then was left behind when yet another panel closed. The very walls were shouting as they, moved, roaring with mad laughter…
A new figure loomed before Mark, that of a tall, powerful clown in jester's motley. The clown was holding something out to Mark in one hand, while at the same time another hand; invisible, pushed at the jester's painted face. The face moved. It became a mask that slid back, revealing…
The mask slid back from the face of the one-armed clown. The face revealed was fair and large and smiling. It was lightly bearded, as Mark had never seen it before, but he had not an instant's doubt of just whose face it was.
'Father!'
Jord nodded, smiling. The shape he was holding out was half-familiar to Mark. It was the shape of a sword's hilt. But this time the weapon was sheathed in ornate leather, looped with a leather belt. As Mark's two hands closed on the offered hilt, and drew the weapon from its sheath, his father's face fell into darkness and away.
'Father?'
Now someone's hands were moving round Mark's waist, deftly buckling a swordbelt on him. 'Mark, take this to Sir Andrew. If you can.' It was half the voice of Jord as Mark remembered it, half no more than an anonymous whisper.
'Father…'
Mark turned, with the drawn blade still in his hands, trying to follow dim images that chased each other away from him through mirrors. He saw the form of a lean carnival clown, two-armed and totally unfamiliar, backing away. Mark tried to follow the figure through the dim mad illumination, the light of torchflames beyond mirrors, glowing through mirrors and cloth. This time Mark could feel power emanating from the blade he held. But the flavor of the power was different, somehow, from what he had expected. Another sword? It fed Mark's hands with a secret, inward thrumming
With a terrific shock, something came smashing through thin partitions near at hand. It was an axe, no, yet another sword, this one quite mundane though amply powerful. Enchantment seemed to vanish, as it was supposed to do when swords were out. A nearby mirror fell from the wall, shattering with itself the last image of the retreating clown.
And now hard reality reappeared, in the form of the chunky little man in dandy's clothes. He was all disarranged and rumpled with triumphant effort. His face, as he closed in on Mark, displayed his triumph. His mouth opened, awry, ready to bawl out something. The dandy lifted a torch toward Mark and then recoiled like one stabbed. Still staring at Mark, he made an awkward, half-kneeling gesture that was aborted by the narrowness of the passage. The orange-and-black armbands who now appeared behind him also stared at Mark, in obvious stupefaction…
