"You can't be serious!" Darm dropped into the swivel chair and the force of his landing sent him rolling up against the ornate, oak table. Real oak. The place was a palace compared to what he was used to. It was a palace compared to his idea of a palace ... His eyes took in the hand made carpets and wall hangings, shimmering, crystal light fixtures, cascading, rose petal satin drapes, supple, black leather covering every chair and sofa. The commorancy, the daemon called it.

An intermittent thwapping sound invaded the pristine space from the open viewpane - private cars. Not many were rich enough to have those. And here, in El Grande, was where most of them were.

"That book is the key to who you are. And speaking of keys, do you have any idea what the ones in your backpack are for?"

He knew what one was for and he'd be keeping that to himself. Getting up, Darm said, "No, I don't. And I don't think that the room the book is in exists. Uh. Nuts. I don't know how to explain."

"It doesn't matter. You went to it once, you can do it again."

Sledge - Sleg had insisted that here, or anytime he was disguised, he was to be called Sledge ... He had to be kidding. Darm kept his back turned, an eye on the man's reflection in the viewpane. His hair was pulled into a tight top knot and he'd changed out of the robe. But in the baggy, light gray silk pants and loose shirt, he looked like one of the big-wigs. There was a gold ring on every finger, each one decorated with symbols. The heavy, engraved pendant hanging around his neck and the black toe sandals topped it all off.

Yeah. The ultra-rich media-worshipped savior type, preaching lies and taking money from the poor. The Followers of the True Way. Not his cup of tea. And Sleg was their leader ... Blast! Sledge!

"I have to leave. Study what I've left for you, as well as your papers. Don't go out. There's hired help to bring meals and clean. They won't bother you, but they're conservative. Don't be wandering around naked. Oh, there are clothes for you on the left side of the closet. Writing supplies are over there." He pointed to the huge wood credenza in the corner. "I'll be back before dark. I expect at least an attempt to explain those keys."

Darm groaned out loud as he pushed the chair back to the fancy desk. As if he hadn't tried to find out what those keys were for! Now he wished he didn't even know what the one was for. Going back for the book - dread was creeping back in around the edges. The rest of the keys - did they open doors to other places that don't exist? Other dimensions? Or maybe other - Ha! More like he was off his nut.

He sunk his head in his hands. All his life he'd been torn. As a child, he was tormented. He knew people didn't mean any harm - most of them, anyway. But the way they'd react when things happened - inexplicable, impossible things. Only when he was around. They put two and two together quick enough ... It scared them and they'd lash out.

Sighing, he turned on the port in front of him. He didn't have to pinch himself. What was real was real. He'd done well for himself - when he kept to himself. Oh ... the last little while didn't exactly fit the pattern, did it?

His jaw clenched and he sat up straight. His life, his way. He'd ignored his past. For all he knew, the most important things could be hiding in something he'd forgotten. His talent for remembering things ... Somehow the shine was off it.

Four - that's as far back as he could go. He opened a doc and started typing. The first time something happened - well, the first time he could recall. He'd gotten in trouble for ... oh, whatever. He'd been sent to his room, the toy spaceship he'd been playing with was taken away.

Later, his father had come running in, the little rocket floating in the air in front of him. Darm had laughed, delighted, thinking his dad was doing it all to entertain him.

That hadn't been it. The disappointment he'd felt came back to him. He'd soon figured it out that his father was terrified and so was his mother. And that he, himself, had flown the toy to his room with his own wishful thinking ...Things got a little more exciting after that.

And mom and dad doted on him after that too. One or the other was with him every second of the day, even taking turns sleeping in his room. But the older he got, the more suffocated he felt.

By the time he was thirteen, he'd run away a few times. They'd sat him down for a talk after he'd been hauled home from Textown. Long way from Newboise. A little smile tugged at his lips. Mmm. No, not the time for that.

Hearing that he was probably a sorcerer hadn't surprised him. Darm had accused them both of not being his real parents, but they denied it. The next day dad had taken him to an old, empty house, telling him that there might be something in the attic he should have. But he wouldn't go in with him, waiting down on the street while Darm went to see for himself.

He'd nearly given up, sneezing from the dust and jumping at every cobweb ... Oh, that's when the fear of spiders started ... Not now. The writing ... It was almost invisible under the dirt and bits and pieces of fallen insulation. He'd read the strange words out loud. 'Petu, petu' ... He could feel it, just like it was when the hole had opened up through the wooden floor, terrified and overjoyed all at the same time. The portfolio was in there - empty. The box and the key ring too. He hadn't said the words backward to close it back up - didn't know about that yet.

But by the time he was seventeen, he'd learned. And learned that the folder wasn't empty. The last time he ran away he'd gone back to the abandoned house and closed the hole. He hadn't shown his face to his parents since.

Then war had broken out - but it wasn't what kept him away. They'd be passed on by now ... Unless - what if they were his parents? No. It just didn't feel right.

He used to think that he didn't have a good life. Only the filthy rich could afford that - the few who'd wound up with everything after the war ended. It had wiped out so many people ... And the ones who'd survived were poor as dirt. It made his blood boil - the lies, the fakery. No one looked poor. Everyone ate, had clothes to wear, a job to go to, or some kind of help if they couldn't. But no matter how hard they worked, they couldn't get anywhere.

If it wasn't for his luck, he'd have been as badly off - and it didn't change who he was. A fringer. Luck or no luck, he'd never reach landed status - not the legal way, at any rate. And he was pretty sure the only ones who did either cheated or paid through the nose. Maybe both. The dream was a suite, a decent place to live. But that was only for the crooks. Rules. He who had the gold made the rules.

The chains around Sledge's neck had to be worth ten years food for a family in a tent city - a family who'd never have enough for a flop room, never mind a suite. And never would. The daemon wanted the book to make himself richer? He'd be dam - his hand clamped over his mouth. Watch that cursing!

The laughter welled up, dark. Just how was he going to refuse? He doubted there was any place he could run where Sleg couldn't find him. And even if he got out of getting the book ... It was obvious he had plenty to learn. How would he ever do it without the daemon? But going back to that room - he pushed it all off. His childhood. He wanted to record all of that, fill all the blank spots ...

Lunch came and went. He was still typing when Sledge came in.

"Have you found out any more about the keys?" he asked

Darm didn't look at him. He'd forgotten all about it ... "Uh, a lot has happened in the past. I've been trying to get it all straight in my head. You wanted to know where I came from, so I started writing down what I remember ..."

Sledge's eyes were gold again, narrowed to gleaming slits. "What do you mean, write things down?"