Fearing for Lionel's life, she held her breath and waved her arms madly as she tried to make her way to the table she had seen him land on, the glass crunching beneath her boots as she went. By the time she got there, Lionel was sitting up, holding his head.

Bits of glass fell from him. His spectacles were more shattered than ever, and lying halfway off his nose. He was wet and sticky from head to toe, and part of his vest was still smoldering. Shailiha quickly began patting Lionel down, making sure that he was not truly on fire. In the final analysis, he somehow didn't seem too much the worse for wear.

Then the doors to the herb cubiculum blew wide open and an anxious group of gnomes burst in carrying buckets of water. Seeing that the fire was already out, they simply stood there, glaring at Lionel. Then an obviously indignant Samantha the Squat marched straight up to Lionel, threw her hands into the air, then pushed one of her stubby index fingers at his stunned, sooty face.

"How could you do this again!" she shouted at him. Shailiha couldn't decide which was more merciless: Samantha's shrill voice, or her imperiously wagging finger. "You know you aren't supposed to experiment unless the master is present! He has told you that countless numbers of times! What in the name of the Afterlife is the matter with you? Are you deaf, as well as stupid?"

Aghast, the princess and Celeste turned to Samantha. "Do you mean to tell us that this has happened before?" Celeste asked.

"Oh, yes," Samantha answered angrily as she lifted one of Lionel's eyelids to examine an overly dilated pupil. "You just love to impress folks with your supposed knowledge of this room, don't you, Lionel?"

Smiling stupidly, Lionel looked back at her, his eyes partially glazed over. "I can't hear you!" he screamed. Shailiha and Celeste recoiled at the loudness of his voice.

"You know it's like this every time there is an explosion!" he shouted as he swayed back and forth, animatedly gesturing to one of his ears.

Beginning to wonder whether Lionel's hearing had suddenly become selective, rather than simply impaired, Shailiha turned to look around the room. Although the entire herb cubiculum was a slippery, tangled mess, the canvas bags of herbs blessedly remained unharmed, as did the vat of oils. But how in the world were she and Celeste going to manage getting them to-and through-Faegan's portal? Not to mention the Chart of Ascending and Descending Hues and the massive library that Faegan and Abbey would now apparently require.

And then there was the matter of Lionel. She couldn't leave the curious gnome here, free to conduct more of his "experiments" without Faegan's guidance. Only the Afterlife knew what might come of it.

There was only one solution: She would have Celeste and Lionel help her hide the bags, the vat, and as many of the books as possible before Faegan's portal opened the next day. Then all three of them would go back through the portal. That way, in the event that other slavers returned they would find neither the missing items nor the princess and Wigg's daughter. She hated the idea of leaving the rest of the gnomes defenseless, but she could see no other way.

She shook her head as she tried to imagine the wizards' reactions when she walked out of the portal with only Celeste and a sooty, overconfident gnome who had just blown up Faegan's herb cubiculum.

Wigg and Faegan would not be pleased.

CHAPTER

Twenty

"S uch a beautiful boy you are," cooed the aging woman in the ragged red dress. As if in defiance of her advancing years, there was a suggestive slit running a bit too high up one side of her frock, and her cheeks were overly pink with rouge. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice was old and cracked, much like the lines in her skin. She smelled faintly of cheap perfume and body odor. Running a gnarled hand over the boy's curly red hair, she bent forward slightly, so as to examine him better. He felt her coarse fingers grip his chin, then turn his face first one way, then the other.

"Would you like to come and work for me?" she asked coyly. "You look like you could do with a hot meal, and it is warm and dry where I live. Not cold and wet, like here."

She dragged her long, painted nails gently down one of his grimy cheeks, leaving odd-looking, contrasting rows of what had once been healthier, cleaner skin. He cringed. "You do trust me, don't you, dearie?" she asked sweetly.

Her face only inches from his own, she widened her mouth and kissed him lightly on the lips. With the kiss came the smell of garlic, wine, and half-digested fish.

His back hard against the brick wall, Marcus cringed. His foray to steal some food from this still largely unknown city had inadvertently led him to one of its darkest and most crime-ridden niches. Bargainer's Square, he had heard someone call it.

Night was falling, and the light cast from the oil streetlamps had begun to spread silent, shadowy fingers across the sidewalks and streets, morphing the silhouettes of passersby into twisted, misshapen monsters. Halfway into this human wasteland he had realized his mistake and tried to turn and leave. But by then the aging harlot had cornered him in the alley, and it had been too late.

Having just turned twelve Seasons of New Life, he was streetwise enough to understand what it was the old whore was trying to entice him into. He had heard stories about purveyors like her. She was one of those who sold young people to older ones, and every fiber of his being told him he wanted no part of it. He had to get free of her quickly, before any of her friends might appear and help her abduct him outright.

Because if that happened, 'Becca would be alone. And 'Becca needed him.

But just as he thought he might be able to give the old woman a sharp push and run around her, a shadow loomed.

Marcus raised his face to see a man-a large, dirty man-come up behind the woman. He had a thick beard and long, tangled hair. He wore a dark cloak around his shoulders, and huge, knobby boots. From where Marcus stood, the man's hands seemed the size of small hams.

"What'cha got here, Allison?" he asked in a heavy, gravelly tone. The woman just smiled.

The man studied Marcus. "A good one," he said approvingly. "Nice and fresh. With him in the stable, we can sit back and make a pretty pile of kisa, that's for sure." A yellow, broken smile spread across his bearded face. "And he's never been touched, I'd wager. I wouldn't mind breaking him in myself! But I won't, for his first time should bring a tidy sum. Might even be able to get an auction going, and get the losers to pay to watch his debut. Just like we did with that little blond girl we took from her screaming nanny on Highbridge Street last season. Now that was a night to remember, eh?"

With surprising speed the bear-man turned his great bulk and took a quick look around. There was no one near-no one, at least, who would be willing to help. He looked confidently down into Marcus' frightened green eyes.

"So are you going to come with us peaceable-like, or do I have to rough you up? Trust me, you little bastard-if you resist, you won't fare the better for it. And we don't want any bruises on that pretty face, now, do we?"

Marcus glanced back at the woman. She was smiling.

As the bear-man stood there staring greedily at him, Marcus realized that if he didn't act now, he would lose his only chance. Casually sliding his hand into his right pocket, he grasped his spring-loaded knife and ran his thumb over the button on its handle. He had never used his knife on a person before, and he knew he was about to do something awful-but it was unavoidable, if he wanted to stay alive and return to 'Becca.

He forced himself to smile.