Cheradenine looked into Elethiomel's eyes for a moment, then turned away, holstering the pistol and buttoning the holster and walking out, closing the door behind him.

Behind him he heard Darckense crying, and Elethiomel laughing.

The island in the centre of the caldera became quiet again. Some birds flew back to it.

The island had changed, thanks to the man. Scraped in a circle all round the central depression of the islet, drawn in a pathway of black bird droppings cleared away from the pale rock, and with the appropriate tail of just the right length leading off to one side (its other end pointing at the rock, which was the central dot), the island seemed to have a letter or simple pictogram printed on it, white on black.

It was the local signal for "Help me! , and you would only have seen it from an aircraft, or from space.

A few years after the scene in the summerhouse, one night while the forests burned and the distant artillery thundered, a young army major jumped up onto one of the tanks under his command, and ordered the driver to take the machine through the woods, following a path which wound between the old trees.

They left behind the shell of the recaptured mansion and the glowing red fires which lit its once grand interior (the fires reflected on the waters of an ornamental lake, by the wreckage of a demolished boat made of stone).

The tank ripped through the woods, demolishing small trees and little bridges over streams.

He saw the clearing with the summerhouse through the trees; it was lit by a flickering white light, as though by God.

They got to the clearing; a star-shell had fallen into the trees above, its parachute entangled in the branches. It sizzled and sputtered and shed a pure, sharp, extreme light all over the clearing.

Inside the summerhouse, the little wooden chair was quite visible. The tank's gun was pointing straight at the small building.

"Sir?" the tank commander said, peering worriedly from the hatch beneath.

Major Zakalwe looked down at him.

"Fire," he said.

Eight

The first snow of the year settled over the upper slopes of the cleft city; it floated out of the grey-brown sky and fitted itself over the streets and the buildings like a sheet thrown over a corpse.

He dined alone at a large table. The screen he had wheeled into the middle of the brightly lit room flickered with the images of released prisoners from some other planet. The balcony doors were lying open, and through them drifted small examples of the falling snow. The rich carpet of the room was frosted white where the snow had settled, and stained dark further in where the heat of the room had melted the crystals back into water again. Outside, the city was a mass of half-unseen grey shapes. Ordered lights ran in lines and curls, dimmed by distance and passing flurries.

Darkness came like a black flag waved over the canyon, drawing back the greyness from the shores of the city, then pushing forward the individual specks of street and building lights as though in recompense.

The silent screen and silent snow conspired; light flung a path into the silent chaos of the fall beyond the window. He got up and closed the doors, the shutters and the curtains.

The next day was bright and clear, and the city could be seen sharply as far as the canyon's broad curve would allow; buildings and lines of roads and aqueducts stood out as though freshly drawn, gleaming like new paint, while cold, keen sunlight rubbed a shine into the dullest grey stone. The snow lay over the top half of the city; below, where the temperature stayed more level, the snow had fallen as rain. There too the precise new day was displayed; he looked down from the car and studied the sight. Every detail delighted him; he counted arches and cars and traced the lines of water and road and flue and track through all their convolutions and hidings; he inspected every flash of reflected sunlight, squinted at every dot of wheeling bird and noted every broken window, through the very dark glasses.

The car was the longest and sleekest of all those he'd bought or hired; it was an eight seater with a huge inefficient rotary engine driving both rear axles, and he had its collapsible slatted hood down. He sat in the back and enjoyed the feel of the cold air on his face.

The terminal earring beeped. "Zakalwe?"

"Yes, Diziet?" he said. Talking quietly, he didn't think the driver would hear him over the wind-roar. He raised the screen between them anyway.

"Hello. Good. Very slight time delay from here, but not much. How's it going?"

"Nothing yet. I'm called Staberinde and I'm causing a fuss. I own Staberinde Airlines, there's a Staberinde Street, a Staberinde Store, a Staberinde Railway, Staberinde Local Broadcasts… there's even a cruise liner called the Staberinde. I've spent money like hydrogen, established within a week a business empire most people would take a lifetime to set up, and I'm instantly one of the most talked-about people on the planet, maybe in the Cluster…"

"Yes. But, Cher…"

"Had to take a service tunnel and leave the hotel by an annexe this morning; the courtyard's crammed with press." He glanced over his shoulder. "I'm amazed we really seem to have shaken the hounds off."

"Yes, Che…"

"Dammit, I'm probably putting the war off all by myself just by being this crazy; people would rather see what I'm going to squander my money on next than fight."

"Zakalwe; Zakalwe," Sma said. "Fine; great. But what is all this supposed to do?"

He sighed, looked out at the derelict buildings speeding by to one side, not far under the rimrock. "It's supposed to get the name Staberinde into the media, so that even a recluse studying ancient documents will get to hear the name."

"… And?"

"… And there was something we did in the war, Beychae and I; a particular stratagem. We called it the Staberinde strategy. But only between ourselves. Strictly between ourselves; it only meant anything to Beychae because I explained about its… origin. If he hears that word he must wonder what's going on."

"Sounds like a great theory, Cheradenine, but it hasn't actually worked, has it?"

"No." He sighed, then frowned. "There is media input to this place he's in, isn't there? You're sure he's not just a prisoner?"

"There is network access, but not directly. They've got it well screened; even we can't see exactly what's going on. And we are certain he's not a prisoner."

He thought for a moment. "How's the pre-war situation?"

"Well, the full-scale still looks inevitable, but the likely lead time's increased by a couple of days, to eight-to-ten, after a viable trigger-event. So… so far, so good, to be optimistic."

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin, watching the frozen waters of an aqueduct slide past, fifty metres beneath the turnpike. "Well," he said. "I'm on my way now to the university; breakfast with the Dean. I'm setting up the Staberinde Scholarship and the Staberinde Fellowship and the Staberinde… Chair," he grimaced. "And maybe even the Staberinde College. Perhaps I should mention these stupendously important wax tablets to the man as well."

"Yes, good idea," Sma said, after a short pause.

"Okay. I don't suppose they have any bearing on what Beychae's got his nose buried in, have they?"

"No," Sma said. "But they'd certainly be stored in the same place he's working; I guess you could reasonably ask to inspect their security arrangements down there, or just want to see where they'd be kept."

"All right. I'll mention the tablets."

"Check the guy hasn't got a weak heart, first."

"Yeah, Diziet."

"One other thing. That couple you asked us about; the ones that came to your street party."