The silence grew and took on a texture. The coun­cillors thought hard, especially about the meal they had just eaten. The arrival of a huge trifle with a lot of cream on it only served to concentrate their minds.

"Er," said the head merchant, "how often is the king hungry?"

"All the time," said Wonse, "but it eats once a month. It is really a ceremonial occasion."

"Of course," said the head merchant. "It would be."

"And, er," said the head assassin, "when did the king last, er, eat?"

"I'm sorry to say it hasn't eaten properly ever since it came here," said Wonse.

"Oh."

"You must understand," said Wonse, fiddling des­perately with his wooden cutlery, "that merely way­laying people like some common assassin…"

"Excuse me…" the head assassin began.

"Some common murderer, I mean - there is no ... satisfaction there. The whole essence of the king's feeding is that it should be, well... an act of bonding between king and subjects. It is, it is perhaps a living allegory. Reinforcing the close links between the crown and the community," he added.

"The precise nature of the meal…" the head thief began, almost choking on the words. "Are we talking about young maidens here?"

"Sheer prejudice," said Wonse. "The age is im­material. Marital status is, of course, of importance. And social class. Something to do with flavour, I be­lieve." He leaned forward, and now his voice was pain-filled and urgent and, they felt, genuinely his own for the first time. "Please consider it!" he hissed. "After all, just one a month! In exchange for so much! The families of people of use to the king, Privy Coun­cillors such as yourselves, would not, of course, even be considered. And when you think of all the alter­natives ..."

They didn't think about all the alternatives. It was enough to think about just one of them.

The silence purred at them as Wonse talked. They avoided one another's faces, for fear of what they might see mirrored there. Each man thought: one of the oth­ers is bound to say something soon, some protest, and then I'll murmur agreement, not actually say any­thing, I'm not as stupid as that, but definitely murmur very firmly, so that the others will be in no doubt that I thoroughly disapprove, because at a time like this it behooves all decent men to nearly stand up and be almost heard ...

But no one said anything. The cowards, each man thought.

And no one touched the pudding, or the brick-thick chocolate mints served afterwards. They just listened in flushed, gloomy horror as Wonse's voice droned on, and when they were dismissed they tried to leave as separately as possible, so that they didn't have to talk to one another.

Except for the head merchant, that is. He found himself leaving the palace with the chief assassin, and they strolled side by side, minds racing. The chief merchant tried to look on the bright side; he was one of those men who organise sing-songs when things go drastically wrong.

"Well, well," he said. "So we're privy councillors now. Just fancy.''

"Hmm," said the assassin.

"I wonder what's the difference between ordinary councillors and privy councillors?" wondered the merchant aloud.

The assassin scowled at him. "I think," he said, "it is because you're expected to eat shit."

He turned the glare back on his feet again. What kept going through his mind were Wonse's last words, as he shook the secretary's limp hand. He wondered if anyone else had heard them. Unlikely . . . they'd been a shape rather than a sound. Wonse had simply moved his lips around them while staring fixedly at the assassin's moon-tanned face.

Help. Me.

The assassin shivered. Why him? As far as he could see there was only one kind of help he was qualified to give, and very few people ever asked for it for them­selves. In fact, they usually paid large sums for it to be given as a surprise present to other people. He wondered what was happening to Wonse that made any alternative seem better . . .

Wonse sat alone in the dark, ruined hall. Waiting.

He could try running. But it'd find him again. It'd always be able to find him. It could smell his mind.

Or it would flame him. That was worse. Just like the Brethren. Perhaps it was an instantaneous death, it looked an instantaneous death, but Wonse lay awake at night wondering whether those last micro-seconds somehow stretched to a subjective, white-hot eternity, every tiny part of your body a mere smear of plasma and you, there, alive in the middle of it all ...

Not you. I would not flame you.

It wasn't telepathy. As far as Wonse had always un­derstood it, telepathy was like hearing a voice in your head.

This was like hearing a voice in your body. His whole nervous system twanged to it, like a bow.

Rise.

Wonse jerked to his feet, overturning the chair and banging his legs on the table. When that voice spoke, he had as much control over his body as water had over gravity.

Come.

Wonse lurched across the floor.

The wings unfolded slowly, with the occasional creak, until they filled the hall from side to side. The tip of one smashed a window, and stuck out into the afternoon air.

The dragon slowly, sensuously, stretched out its neck and yawned. When it had finished, it brought its head around until it was a few inches in front of Wonse's face.

What does voluntary mean ?

"It, er, it means doing something of your own free will," said Wonse.

But they have no free will! They will increase my hoard, or I will flame them!