He wrapped it twice and brought it over to the far right stick, where he tied a knot and cut the trailing string.

Quick Ben leaned back and folded his hands on his lap. A frown creased his brow. “Hairlock!” An outer stick twitched, turned slightly, then fell still. “Hairlock!” he barked again. All five shafts jerked. The centre one bent towards the wizard. The string tautened and a lowpitched hum emanated from it.

A cold wind swept across Quick Ben's face, stripping away the beads of sweat that had gathered in the last minute. A rushing sound filled his head, and he felt himself falling through dark caverns, their unseen walls ringing in his ears as if iron hammers clanged against the rock. Flashes of blinding silver light stung his eyes and the wind pulled at the skin and flesh of his face.

In some shielded part of his mind he retained a sense of distance, of control. Within this calm he could think, observe, analyse. “Hairlock,” he whispered, “you've gone too far. Too deep. This Warren has swallowed you and will never spit you out. You're losing control, Hairlock.” But these thoughts were for him alone; he knew the puppet was still distant.

He watched himself continue, spinning, whirling through the Caverns of Chaos. Hairlock was compelled to match him, only upward. Abruptly he found himself standing. Beneath his feet the black rock seemed to swirl, cracked here and there in its slow convolutions by bright, glowing red.

Looking around, he saw that he stood on a spar of rock, rising at an angle, its jagged apex a dozen feet in front of him. Turning, his gaze followed the spar as it sank down and out of sight, lost to billowing yellow clouds. A moment of vertigo gripped Quick Ben. He tottered, then, as he regained his balance he heard a chuckle behind him. He turned to see Hairlock perched atop the apex, his wooden body smeared and scorched, the doll's clothing ripped and frayed.

Quick Ben asked, “This is the Spar of And? isn't it?”

Hairlock's round head bobbed. “Half-way. Now you know how far I have gone, wizard. To the very foot of the Warren, where power finds its first shape, and all is possible.”

“Just not very likely,” Quick Ben said, eyeing the marionette. “How does it feel, standing in the middle of all that creation but unable to touch it, to use it? It's too alien, isn't it? It burns you with every reach.”

“I'll master it,” Hairlock hissed. “You know nothing. Nothing.”

Quick Ben smiled. “I've been here before, Hairlock.” He scanned the swirling gases around them, scudding on contrary winds. “You've been lucky,” he said. “Though they are few in number, there are creatures who call this realm home.” He paused and turned his smile on the puppet.

“They dislike intruders-have you seen what they do to them? What they leave behind?” The wizard's smile broadened at seeing Hairlock's involuntary jerk. “So you have,” he said quietly.

“You are my protector,” Hairlock snapped. “I'm bound to you, Wizard! The responsibility is yours, nor will I hide the fact if I am taken.”

“Bound to me, indeed.” Quick Ben lowered himself to his haunches.

“Good to hear your memory's come back. Tell me, how fares Tattersail?”

The puppet slumped, looking away. “Her recovery is a difficult one.”

Quick Ben frowned. “Recovery? From what?”

“The Hound Gear tracked me.” Hairlock shifted uneasily. “There was a skirmish.”

A scowl grew on the wizard's face. “And?”

The puppet shrugged. “Gear fled, sorely wounded by a mundane sword in the hands of that captain of yours. Tayschrenn then arrived, but Tattersail had slipped into unconsciousness by then, so his search for answers was thwarted. But the fire of suspicion has been stoked beneath him. He sends out his servants, and they stalk the Warrens. They hunt for signs of who and what I am. And why. Tayschrenn knows your squad is involved, he knows you're trying to save your own skins.” The puppet's mad gaze flickered. “He wants you all dead, Wizard. And as for Tattersail, perhaps he hopes her fever will kill her so he won't have to-but there is much he'd lose if she died without his questioning her first. No doubt he'd seek out her soul, he'd pursue what she knows into Hood's own realm, but she'd know enough to be elusive.”

“Shut up for a minute,” Quick Ben ordered. “Back to the beginning. You said Captain Paran stabbed Gear with his sword?”

Hairlock scowled. “I did. A mortal weapon-it shouldn't have been possible. He may well have dealt the Hound a fatal wound.” The puppet paused, then growled, “You've not told me everything, Wizard. There are gods involved in this. If you keep me in such ignorance I might well stumble into the path of one of them.” He spat. “A slave to you is bad enough. Do you think you could challenge a god for mastery of me? I'd be taken, turned, perhaps even:” Hairlock unsheathed one of his small knives, “used against you.” He advanced a step, a dark glitter in his eyes.