"Frack!" thought Jareth. "I didn't see that coming! Maybe she's right. Maybe it is time for me to retire."

His back throbbed and he thought he might have cracked a rib in the fall, but he was alive.

Ursula had stabbed him.

The pain had felt like a knife, slicing flesh. He reached around carefully, in case the knife was still sticking in his back, but found nothing except a wet and sticky liquid. Blood. At least the blood wasn't spurting.

His fingers tried to assess the extent of the damage, but it was too difficult through his clothes. There was a long rent in his jacket.

He needed to stand up. Had he broken anything else? Gingerly, he flexed each limb but they all appeared to be in working order. There would be bruises soon enough, but nothing was broken, except perhaps a rib or two. He winced. Luckily, the fall had only been a few yards, though he couldn't help wondering if Ursula had known that. She must have thought he was dead or dying when she pushed him over. A short fall could hardly be relied upon to kill him.

After a painful few minutes, he managed to brace himself on hands and knees. He felt around for the cane he had been holding when he fell. Ah, there it was. It made a huge difference and a few minutes later he was up on both feet, feeling very grateful that his artificial leg was still attached and functioning.

He looked up and discovered the opening to the shaft was at least a yard or so above his head. Just out of reach.

He switched his mechanical eye to night vision and took stock of his surroundings. He was standing in a pit roughly two yards square, the sides a mixture of packed earth and rock. A small tunnel, just large enough for a crawling man, led away into darkness even his enhanced vision could not penetrate. Not a way out then, he guessed.

He scanned the ground; looking for something he might be able to use, like a second ladder or even a large rock he could stand on.

The first thing he saw was a knife with a six-inch blade. He swallowed. That was quite long enough to kill him. He had felt it strike. Why was he still alive? Had her hand faltered at the last minute? Given her subsequent ruthlessness, that didn't seem likely.

He shrugged out of his jacket and peeled the shirt from his back. Very cautiously, he twisted his body until he could see the wound. He saw immediately, what had saved his life.

The knife had first struck the leather strap he wore around his waist to support the mechanisms for his leg. Then it had slid, cutting a long slice in his flesh. Painful, but not life threatening. His movements caused the wound to bleed again. Hastily, Jareth made a makeshift bandage out of the ruined shirt and then pulled his jacket back on over the top.

Now he'd sorted out the physical, he could focus on the mental. He'd been betrayed by his own side. He wondered cynically why he was so surprised.

He hadn't had the time, or inclination, to forge a close connection with Ursula Fisher, but Gamer's betrayal bit deeply. It must be ten years since he'd been commissioned to carry out Gamer's dirty work and he'd never let him down. Sure, one or two jobs hadn't gone as planned, but that was the nature of things. If Gamer no longer wanted to use his services, why hadn't he just let the assignments lapse? Why had he decided Jareth needed to be killed? Because he knew too much. Bitterly, Jareth answered his own question. He knew where too many bodies were buried, often quite literally. That Jareth had kept his mouth shut for ten years evidently counted for nothing.

He realised the top of his cane was digging into his palm and unclenched his fist.

He felt anger sweeping in, replacing the shock. Had his death been the primary mission all along? The gold investigation merely secondary? The plan, to lure him somewhere remote, far from his usual contacts, and secretly dispose of him.

Given Ursula's quick dismissal of Maybury's research, it seemed likely.

He wondered if Ursula was being groomed to be his replacement. Gamer's new protégée. She was good, he had to admit. Her persona of earnest scientist had taken him completely off-guard; he hadn't suspected a thing until the knife struck. But she had made a major mistake, he thought fiercely, not staying until she made sure the job was truly finished. He wondered how long it would be before one of Maybury's workers came to check the mine. He thought about shouting for help, but decided to wait, just in case Ursula was still in the vicinity.

Suddenly, he remembered the piece of cloth she had thrown down at the end. He searched until he found it.

He couldn't see colours with his night vision, but he thought it a safe bet that it was red. A signature of Mancuria's Assassin's Guild.

"'Mr Flynt sends his best.'"

~~

Pol listened with critical appreciation to Maybury's spiel about his creation of an Alchemists' Stone. As someone who spun a good tale himself, he enjoyed listening to a master.

"So you see," finished Maybury, brandishing the small jar, "I'm not in a position to create that quantity of gold for you and her Majesty." He paused. "However, I have contacts in the trade. I could send out some orders. When do you need it by?"

Pol admitted he was startled. He had fully expected a regretful refusal, not an offer to meet his bluff. He thought fast.

"Would a month be long enough? I'll have to arrange for payment to be made from Mancuria. Naturally, I don't carry that sort of money with me!"

And when he returned home, he would send a polite but regretful letter advising that the Queen had changed her mind.

"That would be satisfactory," agreed the Professor with a satisfied smile. "I'll make the arrangements and then let you know the final price." He put the jar of gold samples back on its shelf.

"Jackson, would you see Mt Flynt out?"

"This way, sir."

Jackson escorted Pol all the way to the front gate and let him out, then locked it.

Pol strode off down the path to the village.