A figure slipped forward from the shadows that ringed the marble floor. From pillar to ivory pillar he crept, a hand ever on the stained leather hilt of his sword. Moonlight flicked over the close-cropped black hair and the tight uniform of the _dulars_ that moulded his chest, and sheathed his long, lean thighs. Emblazoned on the chest of his jacket was the resurgent red dragon with fire spouting between its fangs, symbolic of his rank. A broad belt suspended his scabbard and blade, and sweeping upward from his shoulders were the metal epaulettes that bespoke his connection with royalty. Flane looked around him, grinning. He had eluded the _mekniks_. He could keep his appointment with Vawdar, unless the _mekniks_ got to him first. Most of the _mekniks_ were celebrating the death of his mother, the Princess Gleya. There would be rich liqueurs and much singing, and temple harlots to dance on the planked tabletops, sodden with the lees of spilled wine. Flane was bitter, and savage. There was a fire in his heart that made him lust to kill. The _mekniks_ were glad that his mother was dead, for she was all that held the _mekniks_ and the _dulars_ together. Now the _mekniks_ would rule Klarn, with the aid of the Darksiders. Only Vawdar had a chance of keeping peace among the factions. And Vawdar was a hunted man, even as was Flane. He came and knelt before the Machine, and touched his forehead to the cold marble floor. This was the ritual insisted upon by the _mekniks_, who insisted that the Machine was a deity, and there was enough shrewd caution in Flane to bow before it, just on the off chance that they might be right. Then he rose and went to the grilled metal girdle that kept the Machine enclosed in its niche. He took out a strangely-wrought key and dangled it in his hand. Engraven on the sides of the Machine were a series of symbols. Diamond-shaped, they were, with the tracery of a star surrounding each diamond. One of those diamonds was the lock that would restore to life the dead Machine. Flane hoped that the key he held would unlock the slumbering power of the Machine. If not--well, Vawdar and he were as good as dead, themselves. He inserted the key in the slit-like hole of one of the diamonds and tried to turn it. He whispered curses, attempting to move the key by sheer force. Another failure, he thought bitterly. Just one of the hundreds that had failed since that day, over a quarter of a century ago, when the Machine had hummed madly, and stopped. Those others had not mattered; every _dular_ and _meknik_ who thought he knew the answer had tried it. There was no penalty for failure. But now, with the _mekniks_ hot after Vawdar who might still hold _mekniks_ and _dulars_ together, failure meant death if they should catch him. Flane ran his fingers over the tiny hole. He saw the star pattern bordering the lock, like a frieze ornamenting it. He sighed. All the diamonds had holes.