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try, at least; he knows he should. Rick thinks: Wait. Daed didn’t know he was a ghost, did he? Daed thought he was alive, and I could kill him. So he’s not showing up as a ghost, on the survey computers. It’s not just that they haven’t noticed, it’s that the server thinks he’s alive . . . So there’s definitely something dodgy, he must be cheating, somehow. And you have to be alive to run a quest, to complete it . . . He must be doing something, he must have a plan, he must be cheating. I have to go after him. I need to do something . . .
    Like . . . Like what ? I can’t fight him . . .
    For some reason it’s the thought of Daed — not how he normally is, but how he was tonight, shielding his eyes from the light — that makes up Rick’s mind for him, finally. He’ll do everything he can, for Daed.
    He sets off after Herkules. He’s lucky he’s used to spending hours in the Maze: he can flick his concentration on and off, like a switch. He imagines the traps as part of him: their rhythm is his rhythm, the volume they take up is an extension of his own body. It’s a trick, but it works: he can judge the spaces perfectly, the split-second opportunities for him to move. He doesn’t need to be a ghost. He feels the confidence running through him like water, but he stays careful, not too tense, not too relaxed, because the smallest mistake and he’ll be dead. He tumbles, rolls, skids, goes round a treacherous corner — thank gods, a line of disabled traps, so he can run for a few seconds without thinking — and Herkules is there, jogging up a long slope, towards a blank wall.
    Rick glances at his map. Yep, it is a blank wall. Nothing special about it: just a dead end. So why doesn’t Herkules turn round and come back?
    Herkules slows to a walk, then stops, rolls his shoulders. He reaches down between his shoulder blades with one hand, pushing his elbow back with the other. He stands easily, facing the wall, rocking from foot to foot. Suddenly the pretence of tension has gone out of his movements: he looks like someone stretching after a fight, taking his time before he loots his enemy’s corpse. No need to rush , his body says. Whatever he was trying to do, he’s done it.
    And there is a corpse. Rick sees it before he understands what it means. A corpse; a short, slumped shape, half sitting, half lying against that blank, impassive wall. A vaguely person-shaped, glittering mound of jewelled armour and blond hair, glowing faintly golden.
    Rick didn’t think he could run any faster: but it’s as if Athene adds her strength to his, and together they’re sprinting, kicking up against the wall to get the height to vault a spindle-trap, dropping, rolling, the air whistling as the next trap activates in a cascade of razor-sharp scales like a dragon’s back. Rick’s mind is blank: he’s a camera, a machine, nothing but eyes and muscles, dancing his way through the last ems of danger. He has to get to Herkules; now he understands what’s happening, no, he will understand, as soon as he’s got time to think . . .
    He opens his mouth to shout, but he hasn’t got any breath; and when he surfaces from the next roll something stops him trying again. It’s like Athene whispering in his ear: No, Rick. Not yet. Wait.
    He staggers to his feet, dragging the air into his lungs, scans the space in front of him and sags with relief. A line of plate-traps glints dully, deactivated. Thank you, Daed. He moves forward — soggy and trembling, you couldn’t call it a run — until he’s only a few ems away from Herkules and his corpse. He’s not particularly quiet, but Herkules is staring up into thin air, and doesn’t seem to hear him. Rick thinks, with an irrational pang of shock: He ’s got a map, too. Where the hell is he getting these cheats from? When this is over, someone has to tell Crater . . .
    Herkules rubs his eyes, wipes sweat off his forehead, and nods. His lips move, but there’s no sound. Then he