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The South is disturbed, Highness, said the trader. His voice was honeyed and obsequious. "I thank you for receiving me unannounced."

"Disturbance is a perception." She had already sent searching tendrils into his mind. As she suspected, it was blocked. "In what do you trade?"

"In anything that needs an advocate, Highness."

She nodded. "Then your business must be thriving. What could you possibly wish of me?"

"An audience with your Highness is already a great boon and honour."

"And?"

"Some inkling, Highness. Some glimpse of the future."

"The Gods and stars do not deal in trade statistics. I am here as their servant and mouthpiece. I advise and counsel. And I rule in their name."

"But can you see how long that rule will continue?"

The threat was barely veiled. She fingered a diamond talisman, squeezing it until it bit into the flesh of her hand. Blood on the jewel. She knew him. She wanted to blast him away for daring to come here. His hood turned slightly and she saw that he heard a warning from his servant.

"Well, Master Trader from the South," she declared, "there are some who publicly reject the mystic faith in favour of a new God of Reason. Or is this a disturbance in my own perception?"

"I have no Gods."

"Save for your own ambition, Master Trader," she accused.

"I am told ambition feeds upon itself, Highness."

"For those who cannot see their own fate. So beware."

He came closer, having to tilt his head higher. The torchlight fell across the side of his mouth. "What better reason to consult the exalted Pythia herself? Tell me mine, if you can."

She recognized the insult and regarded him in silence. He must have known that she would see through his conceit. This was the little man who threatened everything her Order and rule stood for. He was foolhardy to come here, or more dangerous then she had imagined. Why should she do this for him?

The answer was simple. She would look and then confound him with the inevitable future she read. She sent a thought to her attendant adepts. "I am ready."

At the touch of a control, a concealed pipe below the lip of the crevasse released a fine spray of water. A blend of steam and smoke began to billow up around the cage.

The Pythia grasped at the wicker struts of the cage, taking gulps of the rich, bitter vapour. Soon, like gauze lifting on the evening breeze, her mind would rise into the canyons of stars and see infinity pricked out like a map on the drum of Time. Again the horror would fill her as the energy of the Gods she served spoke through her frail body. The instrument to dream another's dream.

She waited.

The steam began to choke her.

Her mind stayed earthbound. The vision that never failed eluded her.

"I cannot say," she intoned flatly.

"What?" mocked the figure below. "Where are your powers? Not lost surely?"

The Pythia gasped for breath.

"Shall I tell you then?" he continued. "I foresee the end of your reign, O exalted Pythia. The end of your barbaric line! But not the end of the world. After the demise of the Old Order, I see a bright future. The Gallifreyans, scourged for so long under your yoke, will emerge as the true Lords of Time!"

"Rassilon!" reprimanded the servant in the shadow.

"Remember," her opponent warned, a thrill of power in his voice. "Our secret. I have foretold it!"

He turned to go and was face to face with the massive figure of the guard. Handstrong raised his ceremonial dagger in anger.

"No!" called the Pythia. "Let them go! The game has yet to be played out." She watched the Grelladian stand back in confused obedience, letting the two figures mount the steps and vanish.

Empty. Her mind was dry of thoughts. She could see nothing — only a grey despair that was rapidly turning to darkness.

She sat rocking in her cage as the adepts emerged from their watch-places and stared up at her.

She was alone. Her hands played through her jewels again and again. Alone. And she must know the future. It had been stolen from her. No one could tell her and she could tell no one.

Then she remembered. There was another who was