When it grew light enough to see Blade crawled up the bed until he crouched near the pillow on which rested the Izmir's head. The old man was bald and toothless, with cheeks heavily pouched and a nose like a scimitar. His neck was thin and wrinkled, leading under the bedclothes to a body that Blade guessed would be an emaciated wreck. This man was very old. He could die at any moment, even the next, in his sleep. Blade could only hope that the wracked flesh and the senile brain would hold together for a time yet-long enough for Blade to attain his growth and the ability to survive on his own.

The light grew stronger. The Izmir moaned and tossed a bit, mumbling to himself, and at last opened his gummed and rheumy eyes and stared, face to face, at Blade.

«Do not fear me,» said Blade. «I am the child, sent as Casta promised. I am your heir. I come in a child's body and with an adult's head and brain.»

Blade's small spine was cold and the hair frizzled on the nape of his neck. The next second would be decisive-if the old man screamed and summoned his guard, if panic and mindlessness took over, Blade did not stand much of a chance. He held his breath.

The Izmir did not move. His runny eyes narrowed and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly calm and deep.

«If you are a dream or a phantom,» said the Izmir, «you can go away. I am too old to frighten. If you are real, and this I do not yet believe, lay your flesh to mine so that I may feel it.»

Blade put his tiny hand in the wrinkled old one of the Izmir. The old man picked up the little hand, examined it, stroked it, squeezed it, then let it fall. «If it is a dream,» he said, «it is a most marvelously vivid one.»