Книга - Quicksilver Zenith

Quicksilver Zenith
Stan Nicholls


From the author of the internationally accalaimed Orcs series comes a powerful new epic fantasy to rival the work of Raymond E. Feist and David Gemmell.Cursed with immortality and episodes of uncontrollable, berserk fury, Reeth Caldason is desperate to find a cure for his magical affliction. His search has brought him to the island state of Bhealfa, ruled by a despot and trapped between two powerful rival empires. Here, after decades of carefully avoiding all personal attachments, he finds himself entangled with a Resistance movement intent on founding a utopia free from tyranny.The paladin clans, a fearsome order of mercenary knights who provide government security, are determined to crush the growing rebellion. Devlor Bastorran, the cruel, and possibly mad, heir apparent to the clan leadership, is plotting a grotesque revenge against Caldason, having been bested by him in a humiliating and very public swordfight.But Caldason has other problems to contend with. The rebels have decided on the location of their new state – a remote island. Before it can be occupied, a large quantity of gold must be delivered to its legal owner. Caldason is the natural choice to head this sensitive mission – but he soon discovers that a powerful new enemy covets both the gold and the island, threatening to destroy the whole fragile venture before it's even underway.









Quicksilver Zenith

Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy

Stan Nicholls








For their love and inexhaustible support, Quicksilver Zenith is dedicated to my dear mother-in-law, Eileen (Paddy) Booth, my sister-in-law, Janet Calderwood, her partner, Owen Sutherland, and my delightful, frighteningly bright nieces, Anna and Elaine Kennedy.




Contents


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The story so far … (#ulink_d9f55ba1-9714-523b-8b7a-d40ad4f8ab45)


The world is saturated in magic.

Its influence is felt in every stratum of human culture. It acts as technology, currency, and as an instrument of control. Its possession and quality denotes social status. It can manifest in many ways, including sham life-forms, universally referred to as glamours.

The magical system is the legacy of a long-vanished race known as the Founders. Their era, the Dreamtime, flourished before the dawn of history. But why it came to an end is a mystery.

Rival empires Rintarah and Gath Tampoor, equally matched in arms and sorcery, now dominate most of the globe. The island state of Bhealfa sits between them like an egg in a vice. A colony of both empires at various times, it currently bears the shackles of Gath Tampoor.

Bhealfa’s sovereign is Prince Melyobar, a puppet ruler obsessed by death, which he sees as an animate being. In order to outrun his fate, Melyobar has created at vast expense a magically impelled travelling court; a floating palace that is literally never still. The thousands of camp followers it attracts effectively makes the court a nomadic city.

The brutality of the empires has bred an opposition movement, active within Gath Tampoor and Rintarah themselves, and their many dependencies. At the heart of this opposition is the armed Resistance.

The paladin clans are principal enforcers of the empires’ oppression. Mercenaries in all but name, the clans’ self-seeking precepts allow them to serve both sides. They are as wealthy and powerful as any imperial institution bar the governments.

Reeth Caldason’s hatred of paladins is legendary. A notorious outlaw in the eyes of the authorities, Reeth is a Qalochian. The Qalochians, a warrior race indigenous to Bhealfa, are scattered and nearing extinction. They have suffered betrayal, massacres and discrimination. Caldason himself was one of only a handful to survive the slaughter of his own tribe, and is looking for vengeance. He also seeks a cure for a unique, and unexplained, malady.

Grudgingly at first, he befriends Kutch Pirathon, the young apprentice of a sorcerer he hoped to consult, but who was killed by paladins. Caldason shocks Kutch with his antagonism towards the magic everyone else takes for granted, despite wanting its aid. Even more alarming are the berserk fits of rage Caldason suffers, and the bizarre visions that plague him.

The pair cross paths with Patrician Dulian Karr, a dissident politician opposed to the colonial rulers. Karr offers to put Caldason in touch with Covenant, a secret order of sorcerers who might be able to lift his misfortune. Caldason agrees to accompany the patrician and Kutch to Valdarr, Bhealfa’s largest city.

In Merakasa, capital of Gath Tampoor, Serrah Ardacris leads a special forces unit of the Council for Internal Security. During a raid on a gang trafficking ramp, an illegal narcotic, one of her unit is killed. As he was the scion of an aristocrat family, there are political repercussions. Serrah is unjustly blamed for his death and pressured to make a public confession. Although subjected to harsh treatment, she refuses.

Serrah’s daughter, Eithne, died aged fifteen of a ramp overdose. Eithne appears to Serrah, apparently brought back from the dead. But Serrah recognises this as a cruel magical ruse, designed to break her spirit. Close to despair, she’s rescued from captivity by a Resistance group. She escapes from them and manages to get out of Gath Tampoor on a ship bound for Bhealfa.

En route, she overhears stories of a warlord, Zerreiss, who has risen in the barbarous northern wastes. Known to his people as the Man Who Fell From the Sun, Zerreiss has some unknown power which enables him to conquer neighbouring lands.

Clan High Chief Ivak Bastorran, hereditary leader of the paladins, and Gath Tampoorian Imperial Envoy Andar Talgorian, although mutually antagonistic, co-operate on organising an expedition to find out more about Zerreiss. They are spurred by the suspicion that Rintarah is planning a similar mission.

Devlor Bastorran, nephew and protégé of Ivak, and heir to leadership of the clans, is obsessed with killing or capturing Reeth Caldason. His uncle urges him to caution, revealing that the paladins have to follow certain unspecified rules in respect of Caldason. Rules imposed by the highest authority.

Tanalvah Lahn, a state-sanctioned courtesan, and a Qalochian, has never known any other life than working in the brothels of Jecellam, capital of Rintarah. But everything changes when her best friend, another prostitute, is murdered by a client. Defending herself, Tanalvah accidentally kills the man. Terrified of the consequences, she takes her friend’s two young children and flees. Securing passage on a ship, they sail for Bhealfa.

Kinsel Rukanis, a Gath Tampoorian, is one of the empire’s leading classical singers. A pacifist, he covertly supports the Resistance. Rukanis encounters Tanalvah and the children in Valdarr docks, being chased by watchmen and a paladin. Serrah Ardacris, having arrived at the same harbour, saves Kinsel and the others, killing three of their pursuers in the process. Kinsel takes the women and children to a Resistance safe house.

Reeth Caldason, Kutch Pirathon and Dulian Karr arrive in Valdarr. They meet Phoenix, the head of Covenant, who appears in the guise of a churlish ten-year-old girl. In reality an elderly wizard, Phoenix has studied what little remains of Founder lore, and uses this advanced magic to adopt a variety of guises. Caldason also comes upon Quinn Disgleirio, a representative of the Fellowship of the Righteous Blade. A martial order long dormant, the Fellowship has recently been revived to fight for Bhealfa’s independence.

The Resistance, Covenant and the Blade Fellowship have formed an alliance to fight the empires’ tyranny – the United Revolutionary Council. Karr confides that the Council has something more radical in mind than mere revolution. Their aim is no less than the founding of a free state, at a location yet to be chosen.

The full extent of Caldason’s affliction is revealed. He is partially immortal, in the sense of being extremely resilient rather than indestructible. If wounded, he heals remarkably quickly, and he ages hardly at all. His condition dates back to the time his tribe was massacred, over seventy years before, though he has no idea how he achieved this state. The visions and rages he endures make him fear insanity.

Phoenix believes the Founders left a fund of knowledge, dubbed the Source. The Source is associated with the legend of the Clepsydra, said to be a device for marking off the eons to the Day of Destruction. If the stories are true, the Source could provide the Resistance with a powerful weapon against the empires, and Caldason with a cure. Covenant research indicates the Clepsydra’s possible location, and Caldason is desperate to investigate. The Council promises to mount an expedition, but it will take time.

Phoenix also thinks that Kutch could be a latent spotter. Possessing an incredibly rare, natural talent, spotters can look beyond the falsity of magic and distinguish illusion from reality. Kutch agrees to let Phoenix train him and bring out the skill.

Reeth and Kutch’s lives entwine with those of Serrah Ardacris, Kinsel Rukanis, Tanalvah Lahn and the children, who have been given Resistance protection. Shortly, Kinsel and Tanalvah become lovers, and set up house together with the children. But Tanalvah is worried that Kinsel is running too many risks through his Resistance work.

Devlor Bastorran identifies Kinsel and Tanalvah as having been at the centre of the brawl at the docks. He orders them to be watched, and bides his time.

A special operations band is formed, headed by Caldason and Serrah. Their mission is to penetrate a secret government records office and destroy its files. On its shelves, Caldason finds a file bearing his name, but all the pages have been removed. The depository is razed. Fleeing the scene, Caldason is confronted by Devlor Bastorran. A furious duel ensues, leaving the paladin severely injured.

Taking refuge in a temple, Serrah runs into Tanalvah. A follower of the benign goddess Iparrater, Tanalvah persuades Serrah to ask the temple oracle a question. The answer pitches Serrah into a deep melancholy.

Inflexibly convinced of his cause, Prince Melyobar devises a scheme to exterminate the entire population of Bhealfa. His plan is to deprive his great enemy, Death, of the masses he hides among.

Kutch tells Caldason that he, too, has started to see visions. When the apprentice describes their content, Caldason realises they are sharing the same dreams.

Overcome by misery, Serrah tries to commit suicide, making for little jubilation when Dulian Karr announces that a location has been found for the rebel state …




1 (#ulink_6a00f009-1b3a-5be5-9b31-60c133bdb6e3)


There had been no reprieve for reality. It remained in abeyance.

The night-time city was smothered by a dense fog that choked sound but only dimmed the constant discharge of magic. The gleam of sorcery pulsed and sparkled. Phantasms were on the wing, apparitions walked abroad.

A young man shuffled through the damp streets. He was bundled against the autumnal chill, collar up, battered cap pulled well down, a few unruly wisps of blond hair poking from underneath the brim.

He couldn’t see. His eyes were covered by a contrivance resembling a leather mask, with two round patches, tied fast. Behind each patch was a coin, wrapped in wadding.

In one hand he held a cane, and used it to tap his uncertain way. In the other he grasped a leash, tightly coiled. This was attached to a halter girdling the shiny black carapace of a millipede – a creature the size of a large hunting dog. It moved sinuously, huge insectoid eyes set in an unblinking gaze, its multitude of twiggy legs rippling in unison.

The youth was anxious. He reckoned he was in a less than salubrious quarter, and he’d lost track of the time. Rapping his stick left to right, he walked falteringly, as though newly sightless. The millipede strained at its leash, probing, snuffling, guiding its charge around obstructions. The young man tried to hurry.

Had he been able to see, he would have regarded the blizzard of magic on every side as of little account. It was too ordinary. But another sight might have given him pause. Ahead of him, a pair of lights bobbed in the murk, and they were getting closer.

He was aware of a sound. Tugging the millipede to a halt, he stopped and listened, head tilted to one side, his eye patches like dark hollows. He heard the steady crump of boots on cobblestones. A small group, marching in unison. Coming his way.

His sense of unease increased and he thought of hiding. Lifting a hand to his mask, he made to peel it off.

‘You, there! Don’t move!’

The rasp of blades being drawn underlined the warning.

Breath stilled, the youth froze. The millipede scuttled back to him, brushing his calves as a frightened cat might do, for solace.

From out of the swirling, yellowish mist came a band of men. Foremost was a three-strong watch patrol in grey uniforms. Beside them, his scarlet tunic contrasting with their drabness, strode a paladin clansman. The patrol’s requisite sorcerer brought up the rear, dressed in tan robes and bearing an ornamented staff. Two of the watch held charmed lanterns, bathing the scene in a soft, magical glow.

‘Drop the weapon!’

He realised they meant the cane, and let it slip from his fingers. The clatter it made was all the louder in the taut silence.

They approached him warily.

‘Don’t you know there’s a curfew?’

The speaker was the watch captain, grizzle-faced and lanky. Despite the cold, his arms were bare. One was tattooed with a rampant, fire-spitting dragon, emblem of Gath Tampoor, the prevailing empire.

Still masked, the youth said nothing.

‘Lost your tongue too, have you?’

‘I’m sorry, I …’

‘You’re breaking the curfew,’ the paladin barked. ‘Why?’

The young man swung towards the new voice, swallowing hard. ‘I … misjudged the hour. I thought –’

‘That’s no excuse,’ the watchman snapped.

‘Any more than being blind,’ somebody added gruffly.

‘But I’m –’

‘Ignorance is no defence,’ the paladin recited. ‘The law’s the law.’

Someone elbowed his ribs, making him wince. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘Where’re you from?’ asked another, breathing the fetid odour of cheap pipe tobacco.

‘Who brought you?’ rasped a third, his mouth unnervingly close to the youth’s ear.

He reeled under the barrage of questions. Floundering, he tried to answer, tried to placate them. But they were as bent on harassment as interrogation.

The captain eyed the millipede. ‘Where did you get a glamour this expensive?’

‘It was a gift,’ the young man lied.

‘And who would you know with that kind of wealth?’

He didn’t reply.

‘Can you prove ownership?’ the clansman pressed.

‘As I said, it was –’

‘Then we have the right.’

The clansman nodded at the sorcerer. Gravely, he produced a long-bladed silver knife, embellished and fortified with spells, and offered it hilt first. The watch captain took it.

‘If you can’t prove,’ the watchman said, ‘you can’t keep.’

‘Please, don’t …’ the youth implored.

The millipede looked up with doleful eyes.

Stooping, the captain raised the knife, then plunged it into the creature’s back.

A myriad cracks appeared on the insect’s husk. It bled light. Thin needles at first, piercing the gloom in all directions. A second later, shafts; intense as summer sun and just as dazzling. The millipede turned translucent, no more than a hollow outline, before melting into a silvery haze which flickered briefly, and went out.

The glamour died.

A little inrush of air filled the vacuum it left, and the leash the young man clutched hung slack, its collar vacant.

His persecutors mocked him with laugher.

‘There was no need,’ he protested weakly.

‘You can’t account for yourself and you’re in violation of the curfew,’ the paladin told him. ‘We’re taking you in.’

‘C’mon.’ The watch captain laid a rough hand on the youth.

‘I won’t!’ the young man blurted, trying to shake himself loose.

‘You what?’

‘I mean … it was just a mistake. I didn’t know I’d broken the law and –’

The watchman cuffed him, hard. It was enough to make the youth stagger.

‘You speak when you’re spoken to.’

A red welt coloured the youth’s cheek, a trickle of blood snaked from the corner of his mouth. He braced himself for another blow.

‘And you address us with the respect we’re due,’ the watchman added, raising his fist again.

‘Take your filthy hands off him.’

A figure emerged from the fog. He was tall and dark. His flowing cloak made him look like some kind of giant winged beast.

The watchman swung to face him. ‘Who the hell are you?’

Forgetting their captive, they all turned their attention to the newcomer.

‘Stand aside,’ he said. His tone was even. Calm.

‘Who in damnation do you think you’re giving orders to?’ the paladin thundered.

‘I said stand aside.’

‘Who are you,’ the watchman repeated, ‘to be out in curfew and obstructing the watch?’ Stupefaction tinged his building rage, unaccustomed as he was to having his authority defied.

‘The boy’s coming with me.’

‘Is that so? Well, we’re in charge here.’ He sliced air with the sorcerer’s knife to stress his words. ‘If he’s going anywhere, it’s with us. And you with him.’

The stranger came closer. His movements were unhurried, almost leisurely. But now that he stood in the lantern’s glow they saw that there was something disturbing about his eyes.

‘No we’re not,’ he said.

The watch captain glared at him. He took in the man’s brooding features. The somewhat angular structure of his face, the slight ruddiness of complexion, his long raven hair.

‘Should have known,’ the captain sneered, turning his head to spit contemptuously. ‘We’ve got ourselves a real lowlife here, lads.’

His comrades laughed again, united in bigotry, if a little uneasily this time. The paladin stayed silent, and so did the sorcerer. Bewildered, the youth’s head swung from side to side, trying to make out what was going on.

‘Reckons he can insult his betters,’ the watchman grandstanded. ‘We’ll show him the price of that.’

The stranger moved forward. He only stopped when the tip of the watchman’s raised knife touched his chest. It didn’t seem to bother him.

They locked gazes. The stranger didn’t blink, or move a muscle. The captain’s knuckles were white.

A flock of oversized butterflies fluttered past. They were garishly coloured and appeared to be made of hammered tin. A faint squeaking emitted from their beating wings. Nobody paid them any mind.

‘We can settle this peacefully,’ the stranger said. ‘Give me the boy and I’ll let you go.’

‘Let us –?’ The captain seethed. He applied more pressure to the knife. ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell when we bow to your sort.’

‘I can arrange for you to check the temperature personally,’ the stranger offered, and smiled. There was nothing comforting about it.

Perhaps there was a glimmer of realisation in the captain’s features, a suspicion of what he might be facing. The shadow of a doubt darkened his face. He half whispered, ‘Who are you?’

‘A man who doesn’t like being on the business end of a blade.’

There was a blur of motion, an action so quick and fluid the others couldn’t follow it.

Now the stranger had the knife. He held it by the blade, hilt up. Dazed, empty-handed, the captain gaped at him.

‘I think this belongs to you,’ the stranger said, and just as swiftly lobbed it. But his target wasn’t the watch captain.

The knife winged to the sorcerer. It punctured his chest, driving deep. Whiskered mouth in an O of surprise, the wizard gawked, bewildered, at the blade quivering in his breast. He went down in a swirl of robes.

What had been a glacial scene instantly thawed.

Everyone bar the stranger seemed to be shouting. There was a confusion of movement. Weapons were deployed, lanterns discarded.

‘What is it?’ the youth pleaded, twisting in the chaos. ‘What’s happening?’

The stranger shoved him aside. The youth tottered, and fell.

From beneath his billowing cloak the stranger quickly drew a pair of swords. Then the patrol moved in to engage him.

On hands and knees, head low, the young man scurried away from the sound of ringing steel. Bumping into a wall, he huddled with his back against its coarse surface, making himself small.

A watchman circled the stranger to seize him from behind. He met the smartly delivered backward thrust of a granite-hard elbow. There was the audible crack of a breaking nose. Palms to face, the watchman reeled clear. The stranger resumed fencing with barely a pause.

He faced the captain and the third patrolman. His most dangerous opponent by far, the paladin, knelt beside the sorcerer. He was feeling the wizard’s neck for a pulse, but his eyes were on the fight.

Anger rode the captain. It made him unruly. He fought with wild swings and a reckless stance. His companion was more sober. He came in with measured passes and well-aimed strokes. The stranger met both with equal vigour, his twin blades flashing smoothly from one to the other.

The alley was lit by an eerie gleam from the cast-off lanterns. It threw enormous shadows of the duellists onto the wall behind the cowering youth. The shades of frenzied giants, performing an eccentric ballet. Until one of them stopped.

An expression of consternation was etched on the captain’s face. A blade jutted from his chest. The stranger tugged it free in a gush of crimson. Knees buckling, the captain dropped.

His cohort, momentarily stunned, battled on with renewed ferocity. The man with the broken nose, bloodied and ashen, recovered enough to join in. They tried to overcome their opponent with sheer force but he held them off with ease, dodging swipes, side-stepping thrusts with sure dexterity. Nothing they did slowed his attack. Then he took an opening.

The young man, cringing at the wall, had his hands covering his bowed head, fingers splayed. Half a dozen paces to his left was a sealed window. A grey-uniformed body hurtled into it, crashing through the wooden shutters. It came to rest half in, half out, legs dangling. The youth whimpered.

With Broken Nose out of the picture, the stranger turned to the remaining watchman and fell on him like a ravening wolf.

A slash of glistening arterial blood sprayed across the brickwork above the youth. Flecks splashed him, warm drops spattered his head, hands and shoulders. He quailed.

The stranger had no further interest in the downed watchman. His attention was on the paladin, still kneeling by the wizard. They stared at each other. The paladin was young, robust; his turn-out immaculate, with hair and beard neatly trimmed, in common with his kind. He slowly rose. With measured tread he advanced, drawing his sword as he came. For his part the stranger re-sheathed the flatter of his blades, leaving him with a rapier.

The paladin asked, ‘Why do that?’

‘So we can meet equally.’

‘Gallantry from a savage?’ he scoffed. ‘Only a fool throws away an advantage.’

They’d begun to circle each other slowly.

‘We’ll see,’ the stranger replied.

They moved simultaneously, and fast. Their blades met, pealing, and for a moment locked. Disengaging, both men pulled back and commenced their duel in earnest. Exchanging stinging passes, hacking and chopping, they set up a rhythmic beat of pounding steel. The paladin was a skilful fighter, and disciplined, but no match for his opponent.

The end came when the stranger parried a stroke and deflected his foe’s blade. The follow-through ruptured a lung and brought the paladin down.

Rivulets of blood fed the lane’s rain gully, colouring the sluggish flow.

The stranger looked around and saw the youth huddled at the wall. Ramming his sword into its scabbard, he swept to him, cloak flapping.

‘Get up,’ he said.

The young man didn’t move, aside from trembling.

‘On your feet!’

Still the youth didn’t stir. The stranger took him by the scruff and roughly hoisted him.

‘Now take that thing off.’

‘No. I can’t, I –’

He was slammed against the wall. ‘Take it off!’

‘I daren’t.’

Brutally, the stranger ripped the mask from his face and flung it aside. The freed coins bounced across the cobbles.

The youth kept his eyes screwed shut.

‘Open them,’ the stranger demanded. ‘Open them.’

With some effort, and timorously, he did as he was told.

‘How is it?’

The young man blinked and looked about sheepishly. ‘It’s … it’s all right, I think.’

‘There’s no need for this. It’s stupid and dangerous, and –’

‘No need? You know what I’ve been seeing. How can you say –’

There was a groan close by. They turned and saw that the watch captain was feebly breathing. The stranger drew a knife.

‘No,’ the youth begged. ‘Can’t you just leave him?’

‘We don’t take prisoners. Any more than they do.’

He moved to the dying man and quickly finished him. The youth couldn’t watch.

Wiping his blade on a scrap of cloth, the stranger said, ‘You think I’m cruel. But this is a war. Maybe not in name, but that’s what it amounts to.’

The youth nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Come on. It won’t do to linger here.’

They set off together through the fog.

Something that looked like an eel swam past them. It was candy-striped and had a pair of wings far too tiny to fly with. As it made its serpentine way it left a trail of orange sparks.

In a voice much gentler, Caldason asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m scared,’ Kutch said.




2 (#ulink_2a87a5c4-87e0-553d-aea7-fecf475d9f7f)


Dawn was near. The fog was clearing.

Valdarr, titular capital of the island state of Bhealfa, began to stir. People were coming out to mingle with the magic that never slept.

As in all great cities, areas of wealth and deprivation sat cheek by jowl. Likewise, there were districts neither prosperous nor impoverished; unassuming quarters where the dwellings and their attendant glamours were humble.

A closed carriage travelled at speed through one such neighbourhood. It was drawn by a pair of jet-black horses, and its driver, swathed head to foot, was unrecognisable. Rattling along narrow, waking streets, it pulled up outside a row of spartan buildings. Most were private homes. Others served basic needs, with paltry wares and tawdry charms stacked outside on rickety tables.

The carriage’s passenger alighted. He wore a tightly wrapped cloak and his expression was sombre. The driver immediately cracked his whip and the carriage moved off. As the sound of its departure faded, the passenger paused for a moment, looking up and down the deserted street before crossing to the open door of a bakery.

Loaves, pies and sweetmeats cooled on wooden racks, waiting for customers. For now, there was only an old woman, standing at a worn counter. They exchanged nods. Without a word, he squeezed past and went to the back of the room, where he descended a stone staircase. This led to a sturdy door, which he rapped on, and once checked via a spy-hole he was let in.

He was hit by the warmth, and the smell of baking bread. The kitchen was long and low, with a curved ceiling, all in unadorned brick. There were sacks of flour, barrels of dried fruits, bushels of salt. One wall held three ovens. Each consisted of two sets of iron doors; the oven itself and a massive grate below. Sweating men, using tongs to unlatch the doors, fed the hearths from pyramids of wood blocks. Bakers in white aprons hefted long-handled, flat paddles, bearing dough shapes to the ovens.

The visitor was recognised and greeted. He shed his cloak, dropping it across the only chair. His appearance was distinguished, and his clothes were of good quality. He had silvering hair, overly long, and an intellect that shone through tired eyes. His age was not as great as wear made it seem.

He walked to the last of the three huge ovens and the workers clustered around.

‘I’m getting too old,’ he decided, half to himself. Louder, he asked, ‘Would you be so kind?’

‘Glad to oblige, sir,’ the master baker replied, signalling. He was plump and sheened with perspiration.

A man came forward and split the oven’s belly. The blast of heat was like a punch. Roaring flames erupted.

Two muscular workers took hold of the visitor. Hands behind his knees, and at his shoulder-blades to steady him, they raised him in a chair lift. With practised ease they swung him back and forth, working up momentum.

Then they tossed him into the furnace.

The blaze seemed so real, and the heat was searing. He nearly cried out, despite knowing.

Instantly he broke through. From intense light to relative dimness. From withering heat to the welcoming cool.

He landed on a heap of sacks stuffed with yarn, but still had the breath knocked out of him. Seen from this side, the glamour he’d passed through was a window-sized square on a wall. It was filled with muted colours, gently swirling, like oil on water. There was no illusion of flames, and certainly no warmth.

‘On your feet, Patrician.’

Dulian Karr looked up. A woman of middle years towered over him. She was well built, though more muscular than flabby, and she had a mordant face. As always, she toted a thick wad of documents, currently tucked under one arm. Her other hand, surprisingly callused for an administrator, was held out to him.

‘Goyter,’ he said, by way of greeting, and allowed her to pull him to his feet. As he rose he made a sharp little air-sucking noise through pursed lips. ‘My aching bones,’ he complained.

‘Rubbish,’ she snorted briskly, ‘you’re not that much older than me. I suggest you stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something useful around here; that usually improves your mood.’ Her piece said, she turned and marched away.

Karr had to smile as he watched her bustle off to harass somebody else.

There were plenty to choose from. This particular hideout was much bigger than the bakery he’d just left. It consisted of the cellars of several adjacent buildings, knocked through, and at least a score of people were working here. He dusted himself off and started a tour of inspection.

One section was given over to manufacturing glamours. Men and women, wearing cotton gloves, sat at lengthy tables, gingerly tinkering with magical ordnance. Under the cautious gaze of supervising wizards, stocks of illegal munitions took shape: mirage pods, dazzlers, mendacity flares, odour grenades, stun poles, eavesdropper shields disguised as necklaces and bracelets.

He swapped brief greetings and wandered on to look at the firing range.

An area several hundred paces long and perhaps thirty wide had been devoted to testing occult weaponry. Given the dangerous nature of the spells involved, the zone was sealed inside a protective screen. This was almost entirely transparent, except for a faint tint of rainbow colours, not unlike a soap bubble.

A number of dummies were propped up at one end of the range. Essentially elaborate scarecrows, they were lashed to timber frames. At the other end, a line of testers took aim.

Energy bolts flashed from staves, decapitating their targets in explosions of straw. Other glamoured devices engulfed them in glutinous ectoplasm nets, or peppered them with ice needles. One of the testers raised a brass horn to his lips and blew. But instead of a musical note, it discharged a cloud of minute, winged lizards with barbed talons and razor teeth. The swarm soared to a dummy and began ravaging it, shredding cloth and wood.

Another tester held a combat wand. It was snub and black, and it joined to a handgrip with leather tendrils that looped around her fingers and wrist. When she pointed, the wand belched apple-sized fireballs. The flaming orbs burst on contact, setting the manikins ablaze. Some missed and bounced around the range before detonating. Falling short of its target, a fireball glanced off the paving and ricocheted towards Karr. It struck the near-invisible shield directly in front of his face, erupting in a brilliant red and yellow flash. Instinctively, he recoiled, though he knew he couldn’t be touched.

The tester gave him a contrite grin. He thought how very young she looked.

Goyter appeared at Karr’s side. ‘We’re working on their stability,’ she said, nodding at the wand. In a lower voice, she added, ‘It’s not like you to be so jumpy. Everything all right?’

‘I’m fine. Just … tired.’

‘Hmm.’ Looking unconvinced, she went back to her chores.

Karr stood with eyes closed, massaging the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.

In the shadows of a nearby recess, something stirred. Slowly, it dragged its bulk into the light. The creature was powerfully built, and its massive shoulders were broad. It was covered in abundant dark fur, with short, red-brown hair on its paler chest. Its face resembled old leather; its nose was flattened, its eyes black. Moving with a rolling gait, knuckles almost brushing the floor, it made for the patrician.

Alerted by the sound of its shuffling approach, Karr turned.

‘What do you think?’ the gorilla said. It gave a lumbering pirouette, an unconscious parody of an arthritic matron displaying a new gown. ‘It’s a bit bulky, but much more comfortable than that little-girl persona. With a few adjustments it should –’

‘For the gods’ sake, spare us,’ Karr interrupted wearily.

‘What?’

‘I preferred the child.’

‘Oh.’ Insofar as it was possible, the gorilla looked deflated. ‘Why?’

‘Because you keep chopping and changing. At least we knew where we were with her. Irritating as she was.’

‘The time seemed right for a change.’

‘We have enough change to cope with as it is, don’t you think?’

‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

‘You can have too much of the wrong sort. Look, I find debating with an ape a bit beyond my present mood. So, if you wouldn’t mind …’

The gorilla held up its palms in a mollifying gesture. ‘Point taken.’ It swung around and loped back to its nook, arms dangling, legs bowed.

There was a commotion in the half light of the alcove; a flickering of intense radiance, a honey-coloured haze and the whiff of a pungent, sulphurous odour. A moment passed, the furore died down. Then a lanky man emerged from the cranny.

He was old and grizzle-faced, but his back was straight and his stride steadfast. His apparel consisted of a simple blue robe held fast by a cummerbund, and gold braided slippers; a style favoured by the sorcerer classes. As he walked he smoothed down errant strands of his grey hair and copious beard.

‘I have to say your attitude’s more than a little acidic today, Patrician,’ he observed.

‘I’m sorry, Phoenix. It’s a fraught time.’

‘You’re exhausted, man.’

‘The pressure’s on. With the move so near –’

‘You can’t bear the weight of the world on your own shoulders. You look as though you’ve got a foot in the grave. You have to learn to relax.’

‘Relax? How can I relax? The preparations, the logistics, the number of people involved; the sheer scale of what we’re trying to do is staggering.’

‘Even so, you should let go a bit. Delegate.’

‘Did you know,’ Karr replied, ignoring this advice, ‘that half a dozen homes of colonial administrators went up in flames last night?’

‘I heard.’

‘That wasn’t our doing. People are starting to take matters into their own hands.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it? The more blows the regime suffers, the better for our cause, surely?’

‘Armed rebellion’s not the plan, you know that. We harry them, yes, but we don’t want outright confrontation. Everything we’re trying to do is predicated on the fact that we couldn’t win that way.’

‘There’s nothing we can do about it, Karr. If the populace feels aggrieved enough to hit out, who are we, of all people, to say they can’t?’

‘We don’t need anarchy.’

‘I’m not sure I agree with that. The clampdown’s increased recruitment, if nothing else.’

‘And it’s all my fault.’

‘What is?’

‘Three months of worsening repression. Curfews, innocents rounded up, torture, summary executions; all sparked off by the raid on the records office. I should never have authorised the mission. It was a mistake.’

‘No, it wasn’t. We hit them where it hurts, and we knew there were likely to be repercussions. This constant blaming of yourself is getting tiresome.’

‘Anything we gained has been outweighed by the consequences. The paladins have been given their head. Such small freedoms as we had are even smaller. Why shouldn’t I blame myself?’

‘Because it isn’t your fault. Or is your self-regard so great that you can’t see you’re no more of a cog than the rest of us? You’re not alone in trying to steer this scheme, you know.’

Karr looked chastened. ‘I suppose I deserved that. I guess what’s troubling me is that I hoped we’d have more control at this point.’

‘Control’s an illusion, you should realise that by now. The best we can do is ride the surge. Don’t lose faith, Karr, not now. Not when we’re this close, and when our destination’s causing so much strife.’

‘Strife’s too hard a word. Some have still to be convinced, that’s all.’

‘Not hard to see why, is it?’ The wizard crossed his arms. ‘I mean, of all the places to pick –’

‘Don’t start that again, Phoenix, please. The refuge was agreed by all of you in Covenant, and by the full Council.’

‘I know, I know. I’m just saying it’s an … unusual choice. And that’s not a rare opinion among those who know about it.’

‘The issue’s settled. There’s no turning back now.’

‘All I’m doing is reminding you that the decision isn’t universally popular,’ Phoenix pointed out, a testy note creeping into his voice.

‘Then you’re saying nothing that hasn’t already been said.’

Just as they reached a stalemate, Goyter appeared with a pair of new arrivals. One was tall and hardy, his garb black, his eyes dark and penetrating. In his wake came a youth, nearly a man; not shaven like his companion but striving for whiskers, and acting coy.

‘Morning, Reeth,’ Karr greeted the older man, glad of the interruption.

Caldason nodded.

‘And how are you this day?’ Karr inquired of the youth.

Kutch Pirathon said nothing, looking instead to the Qalochian.

‘It’s been happening again,’ Caldason explained.

‘The visions?’ Phoenix asked.

‘And his way of trying to avoid them.’

Kutch stared at his feet.

Phoenix sighed. ‘We have to get to the root of this.’ To Caldason, he added, ‘It would help if we knew more about what he was seeing.’

‘I’ve told you all I can about that.’ The response was frosty enough to forbid further questioning.

‘Come on, Kutch, let’s see if we can talk this through.’ Phoenix took the boy’s arm.

‘Just a minute,’ Karr said. He indicated Kutch’s blood-speckled jerkin. ‘What’s that?’

‘What do you think it is?’ Caldason returned, casually defiant.

‘How many times do I have to tell you about your brawling?’

‘You can say it as often as you like. It won’t stop me acting as I see fit.’

‘The last thing we need now is to lose somebody like you, and we can certainly do without drawing attention unnecessarily.’

‘A watch patrol caught me,’ Kutch volunteered, ‘and Reeth –’

‘It was necessary, Karr,’ Caldason cut in. ‘Or perhaps you’d prefer the boy was captured and made to talk?’

‘I was being stupid,’ Kutch admitted, eyes downcast.

‘And reckless,’ Caldason added.

The boy looked up. He almost whispered, ‘I don’t think I’m the only one guilty of that.’

Caldason was going to say something, but checked himself.

It was Karr who spoke. ‘This isn’t a time to be playing the fool.’ His gaze flicked from man to boy. ‘Either of you.’ Goyter and Phoenix loitered at the fringe of the conversation. He addressed them. ‘By the look of him, the first thing Kutch needs is sleep. See he gets some. Then do what you can, Phoenix.’

The wizard nodded and made to leave. Then he noticed Caldason staring at him. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘I think I preferred the ape.’

‘Hmmph.’ Phoenix turned on his heel.

Kutch gave one glance back before he and Goyter followed into the maze of cellars.

“The boy worries me,’ Karr confessed as he watched them go.

‘He should,’ Caldason replied. ‘I know what he sees.’

‘And we’re no nearer grasping how you came to share these illusions.’

‘I’ve spent years trying to work out why I have them, and what they might mean. I feel as though I’ve … infected him in some way.’

‘We can only hope Phoenix and Covenant come up with a solution.’

‘If they don’t make things worse.’

‘Your attitude towards magic’s understandable, but it hardly accords with reality. You’d have us turn our backs on the only possible remedy for the boy. Not to mention the many other benefits.’ He nodded towards the firing range.

The first batch of dummies, charred beyond recognition, had been dragged away. Now the testers were working on destroying a new group, some of them dressed in the distinctive red tunics of the paladin clans. Eye-aching miniature lightning bolts crackled from the testers’ wands. An arrow was loosed. Bound with a chicane spell, it appeared to be dozens of identical shafts. The glamour bolts imploded on impact and vanished; the real arrow pierced its target. Projectiles hurled from slingshots exploded at the manikins’ feet in a green flowering of crazed venomous snakes.

‘I’ll take cold steel any day,’ Caldason said.

‘It’s not what Kutch needs.’

‘He did tonight.’

Karr slowly shook his head and laughed softly. ‘We’re never going to see eye to eye on this, are we?’

‘Probably not.’ Caldason regarded him. ‘You said Kutch needed rest. That goes double for you. You look worn.’

‘Everybody’s been telling me that lately.’

‘Then listen; they can’t all be wrong. You’re bearing too much.’

‘It’ll soon be a little less, I hope. I’m resigning my patricianship.’

‘You’ve said that often enough.’

‘This time I mean it. It’s a move I should have made long ago.’

‘Good. When?’

‘A matter of days. It’s going to feel strange after serving for so long.’

‘I don’t believe politicians achieve that much. Even the few decent ones end up tainted. You’re better out of it.’

‘I’ve come to think that way myself. And that maybe I’ve wasted all those years.’

‘No, not wasted. I didn’t say politicians don’t achieve anything.’

The patrician smiled. ‘From you, that’s quite a concession. But I’m ready for the change, though it’s going to take away what little protection the status affords me.’

‘So do what you’re always urging Rukanis to do; go underground.’

‘I’ll have to think about that. Disappearing after I quit could just confirm the authorities’ suspicions about me. It might be best to keep some kind of public profile for a while. But I have a more awkward task before I make that decision.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A social gathering, and a very prestigious one. It’s a ball, in fact, so it combines two things I don’t much care for: official functions and masquerades.’

‘They’re not exactly to my taste either, but it doesn’t sound that bad.’

‘You haven’t heard the worst of it. It’s hosted jointly by the Gath Tampoorian diplomatic corps and the clans. I’ll have the pleasure of the company of Envoy Andar Talgorian, and no less than Ivak Bastorran himself.’

‘I’d pay a good price for a few minutes alone with that one myself,’ Caldason returned grimly. ‘But if it’s such a trial, don’t go.’

‘Protocol wouldn’t allow that. Particularly as it’s where my resignation’s due to be announced.’

‘Then you’ll just have to smile through it.’

‘Yes, and after that I can concentrate entirely on our plans for the refuge. Talking of which …’ He altered course with a politician’s deftness. ‘… I’m having a meeting soon with the owner of the location. I’d like you there.’

‘What could I contribute?’

‘Something very valuable, perhaps. I can’t go into details now, but will you come?’

‘Some idea of what you expect of me would help.’

‘Possibly a service to the new state. Perhaps nothing beyond attending the meeting.’

Caldason thought about it. ‘All right.’

‘I’d like Serrah in on this, too.’

‘The meeting?’

‘This could concern your unit, and she is a member.’

‘Who hasn’t been on a mission for three months.’

‘I’d like the option of her being included. We can’t afford to have somebody with Serrah’s experience stand idle, not when we’re this stretched.’

‘I’d like to have her back. She’s moved on a lot since she tried to kill herself. But she’s still … unpredictable.’

‘She’s lost so much, Reeth. Her child, her job, her country, all she believed in. I think that entitles her to be a bit erratic, don’t you? I’m not convinced she’s ready for mission duties yet, but we should at least consider the possibility.’

‘As I said, I’d like her back.’

‘Excellent. I’ll get word to her.’ He looked around the bustling cellar and spotted Goyter returning. He waved her over.

‘Any idea where Serrah is this morning?’ he asked.

Goyter licked a thumb and consulted one of her numerous pieces of parchment. ‘She’s with Tanalvah Lahn.’

‘Ah, good. Tanalvah’s steady. She’ll keep Serrah out of trouble.’




3 (#ulink_2f95636f-4b79-52a3-9330-34b20dcde552)


Serrah Ardacris was in trouble.

Horrified, Tanalvah watched as her charge was driven back towards a wall by the two sentries still on their feet. They had pikes, giving them the advantage, and they were enraged. Serrah fought like a rabid thing, hacking at them savagely with her blade as she retreated.

To Tanalvah the situation looked dire. But Serrah seemed to be laughing.

Three of the sentries’ comrades were down. One was groaning and trying to rise. Another sprawled unconscious. The third lay very still in a widening pool of blood. The bench they’d been using as their checkpoint was overturned, and scraps of parchment fluttered in the chill morning breeze. On either side of the wagon that served as a roadblock a small crowd had gathered.

A loud crack brought Tanalvah back to earth. Serrah had chopped clean through one of the guard’s pikes. Its bearer was disbelieving for a second, then narrowly dodged her follow-up swing. Discarding the useless halves, he quickly pulled back, fumbling for his own blade. She turned her grinning wrath on his companion.

He had a simple strategy: herding her like swine until he could bury the pike in her chest. Serrah thought him unimaginative. She spun at him, using the momentum to hurry along a low stroke. He recoiled, avoiding it by a hair’s-breadth. Her next blow scoured his fist, biting deep. Wailing, he let go of the pike with his injured hand, upsetting its balance. As he botched correcting it, she went in again. He took the full force of her blow, toppled backwards, and landed flat-out, arms and legs akimbo, the pike rolling clear.

From where she stood, pressed into a doorway thirty paces distant, Tanalvah could swear she heard a hefty smack as he hit the flagstones.

Head thrown back, her long blonde hair falling loose, Serrah was laughing. Partly in triumph, but mostly from some darker impulse.

The remaining sentry charged, bellowing to mask his dread. She stood her ground and met him. Their swords crashed together in a discordant note nobody failed to hear. Then their blades took to chattering; a brittle, malevolent discourse in steel.

The intensity of her attack began to overwhelm him. He longed to abandon the fight. It was in his face. In his eyes. Even Tanalvah saw it, a good stone’s lob away. But there was no break, and their clamour grew more frantic. The sentry hammered and slashed, while Serrah wielded her blade like a scalpel. He tried to overcome her with force and bluster. She fenced.

And in a split second, struck. Her blade raked his cheek. He cried out and slapped a palm to the wound. Crimson ribbons dribbled from between his fingers. In pain and fury he rushed at her, brandishing his sword, yelling hoarsely. She swept aside his blade and cut him down. He sank rather than fell, ending on his knees, head lolling. She was already moving away as he pitched to the ground.

Tanalvah slipped from her hiding place and dashed to her friend. She found her smiling.

‘Come on! We have to get away!’

Vacantly, Serrah stared at her.

Tanalvah grabbed her wrist. ‘We can’t stay here. Come on!’

Smile fading, Serrah focused. She glanced down at Tanalvah’s hand. ‘You’re shaking.’

‘You’re the one who should be.’ She squeezed Serrah’s arm and implored, ‘This is crazy. They’ll be others here soon. We’ve got to go.’

The small crowd watched them silently.

Serrah looked about, as though seeing her surroundings for the first time. Something of her old self emerged. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right.’ She nodded at the main thoroughfare. ‘That way.’

They ran.

A smattering of cheers rose from the crowd, and several people shouted encouragement. Others began yelling abuse. As the women jogged away, a shoving, ill-tempered commotion broke out; a scaled-down version of the divisions that plagued Bhealfa as a whole. But Serrah and Tanalvah weren’t pursued. Not by anything human.

They’d covered a block when Tanalvah tugged at Serrah’s sleeve. ‘Look!’ She pointed back the way they’d come, and up.

Serrah turned without breaking step. She saw something above, flying at rooftop height and closing in on them. Its vast wings flapped in a slow, leisurely rhythm. Though everyone knew it didn’t really need wings at all.

A shadow fell across the fleeing women. The creature circled overhead, and they could see it more clearly. It was some sort of hybrid, mostly bat with insect traits, the latter providing it with three sets of spindly legs. The effect was not unlike a housefly, albeit one the size of a hay cart and sporting coal-red eyes.

‘I don’t think it’s a hunter-killer,’ Serrah judged, scowling irritably, ‘just a damn snoop.’

‘Then any minute it’s going to start shouting about where we are.’

They were trotting now, with the tracer glamour hanging over them, keeping pace. There weren’t many people on the streets this early, but those that were began taking an interest.

‘Alert! Alert!’ the glamour screeched. ‘Felons sighted! Summon the watch!’

Tanalvah mouthed, ‘Oh, no.’

People were stopping to look.

‘Fuck this.’ Serrah’s hand went to her belt.

Wheeling, the glamour continued its hue and cry. ‘Fugitives! Insurgents! Here! Here! Here!’

Serrah tugged out a short-bladed throwing knife.

‘Alert! Alert! Anti-social elements at large! Summon your …’

Arm drawn well back, she lobbed it with all her strength.

‘… local militia or –’

The blade struck the creature’s fuzzy underside, and seemed to be absorbed into it. At once the glamour froze. Its serrated wings stilled. Yet still it hung in the air, impossibly.

What looked like a circular red stain appeared at the spot where the knife had entered. It began to expand. Resembling fire spreading across paper, it started to turn the creature’s apparently solid flesh not to ash, but countless silver motes. Racing faster, the corruption riddled the glamour’s body, veined its wings and stripped its bristly legs. The illusion of ebony tissue dissolved into a mass of tiny radiant pellets.

They fell as silvery hail, gently popping on the pavement below. What was left drifted down as a soft rain of shimmering pewter, dusting the streets and early risers before vanishing.

Serrah’s knife clattered to earth somewhere, heard but unseen.

‘Good shot,’ Tanalvah whispered, plainly fearful.

‘A good knife lost,’ Serrah complained.

They took to running again.

Their flight was more artful this time. They used alleys and back ways, narrow lanes and covered passages. When they caught sight of the main thoroughfares they saw mounted militia heading in the direction they’d come from.

‘Slow down,’ Serrah panted. ‘Running attracts attention.’

‘And killing people doesn’t?’ Tanalvah retorted.

Serrah shrugged.

‘Are you trying to get yourself caught?’

‘No.’ Serrah regarded her with hard eyes. ‘That’s never going to happen again. I’d rather die.’

‘Ah, so that’s it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have to ask? You’re too volatile, Serrah. What you did back there was … insane.’

‘I won’t be treated like shit.’

‘It was all unnecessary. You should have just shown them your identity documents. The forgeries are good enough to pass.’

‘You’re missing the point, Tan. They disrespected me. I’m not a piece of meat to be abused.’

‘What price respect if they’d killed you? Or captured us both? And who knows what would’ve happened to us then.’

It wasn’t only Tanalvah’s agitation that had passersby staring. Her jet hair, light tan complexion and slightly angular features attracted glances too. She had enough experience of casual prejudice towards Qalochians to ignore them.

‘As I said,’ Serrah replied coldly, ‘I won’t be taken.’

‘What about me?’

‘I wouldn’t let it happen to you either.’

‘Really? How?’

‘If there was a chance of you being captured I’d cut your throat.’

‘That’s a comfort,’ Tanalvah returned sarcastically. ‘Your actions have consequences, Serrah, and not just for yourself.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

‘You act as though you don’t.’

‘I do what I have to do.’

‘And relish it, if that fight you just started was anything to go by.’

‘In a way, yes. There’s nothing like being near death to give life some kind of meaning.’

‘I suppose that’s an improvement. Not that long ago it was only death you wanted.’

‘Keep moving,’ Serrah urged, blanking her.

As they hurried on, Tanalvah muttered, ‘Gods, you frighten me sometimes.’

They were nearing the city centre, where the streets were much more crowded. It was a crisp morning, and weak, autumnal sunshine burnt off the last of the night’s haze.

The fog had cleared but the magic was thick.

Wherever people congregated in numbers, the magic naturally tended to be more abundant. In the plazas, markets and boulevards of Valdarr’s hub, it was already dense, despite the hour. And its variety was as diverse as the populace.

For the rich, magic was the agency for parading their wealth. They strolled in the company of glamoured escorts, exquisitely beautiful and uncommonly repulsive. They summoned flocks of living doves made of ice, which melted as they flew or shattered into a thousand fragments on touching the ground. They conjured herds of pink fawns, and fireflies the size of pigeons that throbbed with blinding light. They caused talking bears to roam abroad, and produced cockerels that sang rather than crowed the hour.

For the poor, magic was the balm that soothed their misery. In side streets and dingy turnings, unwashed children made do with cheap clown glamours that flickered and slurred through their performances. Or tumbling acrobats in washed-out colours that faded in and out of focus. The youngsters’ gaunt elders, dressed in rags, wrung subsistence out of begging. They used rudimentary spells, counterfeit or stolen, to materialise basic musical instruments. Glamoured pipes and fiddles, suspended in empty air, tooted and scraped simple melodies. Passersby flung the odd coin into the paupers’ upturned caps.

There were glamour beggars too, collecting for benevolent leagues that eased poverty, or affected to. These glamours, in clean rags and with scrubbed, smiling faces, were idealised versions of their human counterparts. Consequently their caps overflowed while the real poor were ignored.

Everywhere there were glittering illusions and cunning phantasms to deceive the senses. New glamours were constantly appearing, while others, expired or dismissed, were snuffed out.

Another day of infinitely malleable reality, and it wasn’t mid-morning yet.

Serrah and Tanalvah took it all for granted. They were much more concerned with the level of security on the streets. Watch patrols and militia mingled with the crowds, as was to be expected, but in recent days their numbers had greatly increased. And now there were army regulars at every corner too, and the distinctive scarlet tunics of the paladin clans could be seen on all sides.

Tanalvah did everything she could to avoid attracting attention. She prayed Serrah would do the same.

‘There’s a rumour they’re going to ban weapons in private hands next,’ Tanalvah confided.

‘How could they do that? You listen to too much gossip, Tan.’

‘Kinsel overheard something about it at the concert hall. From a couple of high-ranking administrators.’

‘People wouldn’t put up with it. They’d resist. If anybody tried to take my blade off me –’

‘You’re doing it again. Seeing everything as solvable by violence.’

‘How else would you stop them? Honeyed words and garlands?’

‘What I mean is –’ Tanalvah looked around and lowered her voice. ‘What I mean is that this isn’t the time to be taking any kind of risk. Not with the move so near.’

A wraith-like entity flew past, travelling at speed. Looking vaguely female, it seemed to be clothed in something gauzy that flowed behind it like a tangle of spider webs. It showed no interest in them. Tanalvah guessed it was a messenger glamour.

‘As I’ve been allowed no part, I can’t really do anything to endanger it, can I?’

‘But I’m sure they will. Involve you in the move, that is. With your talents –’

‘Yes,’ Serrah replied cynically, ‘of course they will.’

‘Oh, Serrah … We need you. Whether you have a role in the exodus or not.’

They reached a crossing of two main thoroughfares. Grand carriages swept by, drawn by zebra, stags, panthers, grotesquely large swans and lizards; any of a hundred different exotic beasts the horses had been charmed to resemble.

‘I’m going back to Karr’s place,’ Serrah decided.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No. I’ll be fine.’

‘I’m worried about you.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘Well, I am supposed to be at Kinsel’s. Sure you’ll be all right?’

‘I can manage.’

‘If you come across any more roadblocks …’

‘I promise I’ll restrain myself.’ She flashed a fleeting but genuine smile, turned and moved into the throng.

Tanalvah watched her for a moment, then set off in the opposite direction.



It was a short walk to her destination. But Tanalvah took a convoluted route, just in case.

The neighbourhood where she now lived was affluent. It had wide, clean streets and substantial, well-maintained buildings. The magic on display was tasteful and costly, and there were no beggars. Everything about the place seemed designed to make her feel guilty.

When she entered the villa, Tanalvah’s lover was waiting for her.

They embraced, and he said, ‘What’s the matter, Tan? You look troubled.’

‘I’ve been with Serrah.’

‘Ah.’ It was all Kinsel Rukanis really needed to know. He’d been there when Serrah gave way to despair, and he’d seen how she was since. Nevertheless he asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing she hasn’t done a dozen times before. Not that that makes it any less frightening.’

‘No. But we mustn’t forget that if it wasn’t for Serrah –’

‘We wouldn’t be here. I know. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d say to hell with her.’

‘She needs her friends more than ever now. Attempting suicide wasn’t the end of her troubles. Far from it.’

‘At least she hasn’t tried it again.’

‘Really? Don’t you see her reckless behaviour as just another way of achieving her death wish?’

‘I don’t think it’s that simple. Well, maybe it’s partly that. Mostly I reckon she’s … pushing boundaries. It’s like she has to have control, even if it means creating situations where she’s most likely to lose it.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘We don’t need a problem like this at the moment, Tan. Not with the move imminent.’

‘I told her that. She might have taken it in, I couldn’t be sure.’

Kinsel sighed. ‘The Council has enough complications to deal with, seeing as our destination’s causing so much controversy.’

‘That’s not your concern, dear. Let others take the decisions. Don’t fret about it.’

‘I do rather, don’t I?’ He smiled, almost shyly. ‘But it’s only because I care passionately for the enterprise. I wouldn’t want anything to endanger it.’

She smiled back. ‘I know that. Even if we don’t see entirely eye to eye on the place the Council’s chosen.’

‘I think it’s an inspired choice.’

‘In some ways it is. But it has bad associations for many in my former profession. It’s never been that popular with whores.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t –’

‘We can’t change what I was, Kin. I thought we’d agreed to be honest about it.’

‘We did. I just don’t like you referring to yourself that way.’

‘It’s only a word. A description of something I did, not what I am.’

‘Of course it is, my love. And as far as the haven’s concerned we can expunge its history and build something better there. But it doesn’t matter where the refuge is. The important thing –’ he leaned forward and kissed her ‘– is that we share the same dream.’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘I only wish I could do something more constructive to help bring it about.’

‘This is your day for worrying, isn’t it?’

‘Well, there’s not much call for a pacifist in a resistance movement.’

‘Idiot,’ she teased. ‘You’ve done invaluable work for the cause, and risked your life in the process.’

‘I think you’re pitching it a bit high, Tan. Anyway, since Karr pulled me from intelligence gathering I feel like a fifth wheel on a wagon.’

‘I’m glad he did. It was getting far too dangerous. Now you can concentrate on your real talent.’

“The singing? It seems frivolous at times like these.’

‘It brings people respite. Don’t underestimate the value of that, my dear.’

‘If anybody’s getting respite, Tan, it’s the wrong people; the rich, the influential, the occupiers and their followers. What I do never seemed more irrelevant.’

‘So make it relevant.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have a gift from the gods. It’s a sin not to use it. Take your voice to those who wouldn’t normally hear it. Let the poor have the benefit for once.’

‘I’ve always tried to perform for as wide an audience as possible.’

‘Yes, but what does that amount to? A few seats for charity cases. That’s not your fault, Kin; it’s the system you’re part of. What I’m thinking of is something big, and cheap enough for people to afford. No, forget that. Free. Free and open to everyone.’

‘In one of the city’s open spaces. A park, perhaps.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s a good idea, Tan. But …’

‘What?’

‘We’re in a state of emergency, remember. Martial law. The authorities aren’t keen on large gatherings.’

‘You have connections. Use them. Pull strings.’

He brightened. ‘I could try, I suppose.’

‘Sell it as a mollifying event. You know, a way to turn people’s minds from the troubles.’

‘Bread and circuses.’

‘If you’re not taking this seriously, Kin –’

‘No, no.’ He laughed and hugged her. ‘I said, it’s a good idea. Thank you, Tan.’

She could see he was taken with the notion. It was good to set his mind on something other than brooding about the move.

There was a clattering on the stairs, and shrill, excited voices.

Kinsel grinned. ‘Here comes trouble.’

Two minor hurricanes burst through the door. Teg, nearly six, had a shock of ginger hair and freckled cheeks. His sister, Lirrin, going on nine, sported a long blonde mane nearly as pale as her milky complexion.

The children rushed to enfold themselves in outstretched arms. Amid a flurry of caresses and laughter, Kinsel ushered the youngsters into the parlour. Tanalvah hung back, watching them. Lirrin, wearing her habitual, slightly serious expression, even when she should be free of cares. Teg, mercifully still too young to comprehend the full horror of their mother’s murder.

And Kinsel. A little on the short side, well built, with a classical singer’s drum chest, cropped black hair and a close beard. On his hands and knees, blissfully happy in horseplay with the children. Like a child himself. Trying, perhaps, to bind the unexplained wound that blighted his own childhood.

Tanalvah’s family. The only one she’d ever known. Miraculously arriving in her life ready-made: another gift from the gods.

Let there be something better for them, she thought. For all of us. In our new home.

She shivered as though a chill wind had blown in from the unrealised future.

If we ever get there.




4 (#ulink_0377dd87-a625-55db-aae2-3a24234938eb)


In common with every other land, there were locations in Bhealfa that people tended to avoid. Dangerous, unsettling places, such as the Great Chasm at Murcall, that legend said had opened up to swallow a warlord’s invading horde. Spots like the forest of Bohm, with its curious ruins that many believed dated from the time of the Founders, and from which few travellers returned. Or the Starkiss valley fracture, where at intervals a geyser spewed raw magic, despite a thirty-year effort to seal the breach.

There were undesirable sites for urban dwellers, too. Lawless quarters, debtors’ prisons and the re-education camps figured high on the list. But one was shunned above all others. A place where people were more often taken than chose to visit.

The headquarters of the paladin clans in Valdarr was a forbidding redoubt. Doubly so as an autumnal dusk fell. A large and imposing complex of grey stone structures, it existed behind high walls and heavily guarded gates. Black pennants flew at the tops of its many watchtowers.

That the compound stood in such a prime position was testament to the clans’ overweening power. As soldiers of fortune, to use the polite term, they fought for both Gath Tampoor and Rintarah, and professed to see no conflict of loyalties. Their constitutional position was unique. They were deemed stateless, a legal nicety they’d wrung from grateful clients on opposite sides of the divide.

If an ignorant person were to ask what the paladins did that regular forces didn’t, the answer would be everything and anything. Consequently their wealth and influence were considerable.

As the light began to fail, a man walked the spotless paths bisecting the rows of neatly maintained buildings. An observer would have put his age at around twenty summers. He was blond and clean-shaven. The tunic he wore was black with triple lines of red piping at the wrists and a circular red patch on the left breast. Markings that indicated his function was administrative rather than combative, and that he served the clans without being fully of the clans. He had an oilskin document pouch tucked under one arm. Back straight, he moved smartly, free arm swinging military style. Watchful human eyes followed his progress, and eavesdropper glamours hovered above.

His thoughts centred on the secrets harboured by his stern surroundings. Their secrets, and his own.

He came to a long, low, single-storey building that was in fact a wing projecting from a much larger central edifice. This was the core fortress, its sloping walls dizzyingly tall and dressed with crenellated defences. The wing was an infirmary, reserved for the highest ranking.

A pair of sentries guarded the door. Their tunics were crimson, indicating full clan blood. They didn’t salute him, but did stand aside to let him pass. He nodded and went in.

The interior consisted of a central corridor with doors off to either side. The room he wanted was at the far end. Just before he reached it, the door flew open.

An elderly man stumbled out. His robes marked him as a physician, and he was in a state of agitation. No sooner had he cleared the door than a china jug flew out, barely missing him, and shattered against the opposite wall. He pushed past, ashen faced, and fled.

The young man took a breath, knocked, and stuck his head into the room.

‘I said stay out! Oh, it’s you, Meakin.’

Devlor Bastorran, heir apparent to the clans leadership, lay in an oversized bed. One of his legs was plastered from thigh to ankle and suspended by a pulley. He was coverd in scars and abrasions and his closely trimmed black hair had a small shaven patch, revealing a laceration that was still healing.

He put down the porcelain bowl he was about to throw. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, man. Come in!’

Lahon Meakin entered. ‘If this isn’t a convenient time, sir …’

‘Time’s one thing I have plenty of at the moment.’ He nodded at a chair. ‘Sit.’

The aide shut the door and did as he was told, placing the folder on his lap.

Bastorran turned to look at him, and winced through clenched teeth. ‘Damn leg!’

‘Can I summon assistance, sir?’

‘Absolutely not. If that last healer’s anything to go by, I’m better off without their ministrations.’

‘Sir.’

‘Now report.’

Meakin started to leaf through the contents of his folder.

‘And keep it brief, will you?’ Bastorran added. ‘Just the basics.’

‘Yes, sir. I have a summation here.’ He fished out a sheet of parchment and cleared his throat. ‘Let’s see. Accounts for today are still coming in, of course, but we have most of Valdarr’s figures for the last twenty-four hours. There were fourteen instances of public disorder serious enough to warrant our attention. Five cases of arson directed at government or imperial property. An attempt was made to steal a consignment of arms in transit, which proved unsuccessful, though there were three fatalities. Regrettably, two paladins lost their lives in other incidents. As did eleven members of the watch and a licensed sorcerer assigned to one of their units.’

‘Detentions?’

Meakin consulted another document. ‘Er, seven hundred and twenty-two, sir.’

‘That’s up again.’

‘Yes, sir. And thirty-one of those resulted in summary execution, as allowed for by the new emergency regulations.’

‘Excellent. Things are certainly looking up now we’ve been allowed to take the kid gloves off.’

‘The Clan High Chief must be very pleased, sir.’

‘My uncle?’ Bastorran’s face clouded.

‘As he’s campaigned for so long for tougher measures against the insurgents, sir,’ Meakin hurriedly added.

‘Ah. Yes, Uncle Ivak’s a pig in shit at the moment.’

If Meakin thought that was disrespectful, he knew better than to say so. ‘Do you want the details, sir?’

‘What?’

‘Of the arrests. I can break them down into –’

‘Details weary me. You should know that by now. The only important thing is that we’re consigning more of these criminals to prison or to the block. But that isn’t the reason I wanted you here.’

‘Sir?’

‘I want you to meet someone. I’m doing this because you might have to liaise with this person if I can’t. But you have no need to know what task they’re performing for the clans. Nor do you have to know more than necessary about this visitor.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Understand this, too.’ He spoke emphatically, his gaze unblinking. ‘Everything to do with this person is to be regarded as secret. Any breach of security will have grave consequences. You’re comparatively new to my service, so let me underline the importance of the oath you took to the clans, and your personal oath to me. Break it and you know what the consequences will be.’

‘Yes, General.’

In a slightly softer tone, Bastorran went on, ‘You’ve made good progress in the paladins, Meakin. I might say remarkable progress given that you weren’t clan-born. That’s rare. And not everybody approves of your rise. So see this as a test of your loyalty. Serve me well and you’ll not regret it.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘There’s just one thing I should tell you about our visitor. She’s a symbiote.’

Meakin found it difficult to hide his surprise. ‘A meld?’

‘I believe that’s the common term for a very uncommon … relationship. But it might be better not to use it in front of her.’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘I expect you to extend the same courtesy to her as you would anyone else acting on our behalf.’

‘I’ve never seen a symbiote before, sir. Not insofar as I’d know it, anyway.’

‘Very few people have. There can’t be too many around, after all. It’s not a pact many would willingly enter into.’ There was the sound of movement in the corridor. ‘I think you’re about to have your first encounter, Meakin.’

Somebody rapped loudly on the door.

‘Come!’

Their guest entered, accompanied by a guard whom Bastorran curtly dismissed.

The person standing before them was an arresting sight. Her appearance was androgynous. She had straw-blonde hair cropped so short it could have been shaven. Her skin was white like marble, and she had thin, bloodless lips. Meakin found her eyes frankly disturbing. They were inordinately large, and their irises were blacker than any he’d ever seen on a human, stressed the more by unusually milky surrounds. She was trimly built, yet her frame implied a well-disciplined strength.

There was something slightly odd about the geometry of her face, as though every line was one percent out of true. She was neither ugly nor beautiful. What she possessed was a severe elegance; like a glacier made flesh. The overall effect was alarming, and somehow mesmeric.

She was completely at ease, and returned their stares with a brittle gaze of her own.

At length, Bastorran said, ‘Welcome.’

The woman barely acknowledged his greeting.

‘This is my aide,’ he continued, ‘Lahon Meakin. Meakin, say hello to Aphri Kordenza.’

Nods were exchanged. Hers was slight, disinterested.

‘In the event that I’m not able to deal with you myself, Kordenza, you’re to liaise with Meakin here. Meakin and no other. I trust that’s clear.’

‘Yes.’ Something about the timbre of her voice set the small hairs on Meakin’s neck tingling.

‘There’s no point in you lingering here, Meakin,’ Bastorran decided. ‘You may go.’

He didn’t seem to hear. He was staring at her.

‘Meakin.’

‘Sir!’

‘Get out. And make sure we’re not disturbed.’

The aide gathered his papers, then quietly left.

The bed-ridden paladin and the glamour symbiote studied each other.

‘Mind if I demerge?’ Kordenza asked.

‘Mind if you do what?’

‘Sharing with a glamour pair gets uncomfortable when we’re both in at the same time. Makes me feel like I’ve eaten too much. I’m hoping to make our cohabitation less unpleasant in future. Until then …’ she thumped her flat chest with a black-gloved fist, ‘… better out than in, know what I mean?’ She smiled, though her face wasn’t made for it.

‘Just remember I have men outside that door. If you even think of –’

‘Calm yourself, General. We should trust each other; we’re in a business relationship. Besides, if we wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now.’

He felt a little confused by her use of ‘we’. ‘So go ahead.’

What took place next was no less startling for happening fast. Aphri Kordenza simply stepped to one side. But an outline of herself remained in the space she vacated. It hung in the air like a slender rope, mimicking her shape. Within its contours a kaleidoscope of particles churned and vibrated. They coagulated and clarified, and within seconds came together to form something that looked human. The emerging figure appeared to be Kordenza’s twin.

Bastorran saw that an almost invisible membrane, a viscous, cobwebby lattice, attached Kordenza to the conjured glamour. The filmy web grew taut, snapped and was immediately reabsorbed by the twin.

On closer inspection, Kordenza’s double proved not entirely identical, though its clothes were.

It, too, was androgynous, but with definite masculine features. Nor did it look completely human.

Kordenza was stretching, elbows back, head rolling. Unwinding after a weight had been removed. Next to her, the glamour twin did the same. They unconsciously mirrored each other, like a well worked-out piece of choreography.

Straightening, expelling a breath, Kordenza declared, ‘Anything you have to say can be said to both of us.’

‘We work together,’ the glamour added. Its voice was a giveaway, if one were needed. It had the timbre of sorcery; a little hollow, a touch lifeless, a hair away from humanity.

Bastorran regarded the pair silently, as though he were weighing whether to deal. At last he said, ‘What do I call you?’

‘Aphrim,’ the glamour replied.

Aphri leaned against a dresser, arms crossed. The glamour, which Bastorran was forcing himself to think of as ‘he’, adopted a similar pose by the hearth.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ Bastorran prompted. ‘You’re aware of the nature of the commission.’

‘We only accept one kind,’ Aphri said.

‘All we need to know is the target,’ her twin finished.

‘When you do, you might think twice about taking the job.’ The pun had been unintentional, but neither of his guests seemed aware of it.

‘We always appreciate a challenge,’ Aphrim told him.

‘It keeps us on our toes,’ Aphri explained.

‘Your problem,’ the glamour ventured, ‘is connected with your present state of health, yes?’

‘You want vengeance,’ Aphri reckoned.

‘Not just for your injuries …’

‘… but for the terrible public humiliation you suffered.’

Bastorran found the way they shared speech as provoking as what they said.

‘A stain not only on your reputation …’

‘… but on the clans as a whole, and –’

‘All right! I’m close to having you flogged for impertinence.’

‘You might find that a little hard in my case,’ the glamour commented.

‘Looks like we were right in our assumption, Aphrim,’ Kordenza said.

‘Yes,’ Bastorran confirmed, ‘it’s Caldason. I want him … destroyed.’

‘Hmm. He’s a notorious bandit.’

‘A hard man to kill.’

‘Some say he can’t be killed.’

‘That’s superstitious nonsense,’ Bastorran snapped.

‘Perhaps,’ Aphri conceded. ‘Nevertheless, such a commission would require a substantial fee.’

‘That needn’t be a problem. Providing your demands aren’t too outrageous.’

‘We all know that outrageous is the going rate for this job, General. As to the form the payment takes; we want coin, naturally, but we’ll take the bulk of it as magic. Is that a problem?’

‘For the clans? Of course not. But why?’

‘Our relationship’s very magic hungry.’ She looked to Aphrim. ‘Particularly as my partner needs all his strength to interact with humans.’

Bastorran raised an eyebrow.

‘All right, to kill them,’ she amended.

‘Money, sorcery; take your price any damn way you want. Just get Caldason for me.’

‘I don’t want to talk ourselves out of a job,’ Aphri said, ‘but why can’t you do this yourselves? With all the resources the clans have –’

‘There are certain restrictions placed on how we can engage with the Qalochian.’

Her oversized eyes widened a little more. ‘The mighty paladins, limited?’ There was more than a hint of mockery.

‘Just technical niceties that don’t concern you. All you need know is that we’ve decided to contract out on this occasion.’

‘How do we find him?’ Aphrim wondered.

‘You mix with the dregs; don’t tell me you have no sources. In addition, I’ll see you get any clan intelligence that might help. And of course I can offer some measure of protection while you go about your work.’ He was growing testy. ‘Do you want this commission or not?’

‘One thing,’ Aphri asked. ‘Does the Clan High Chief know about this?’

‘I’m the only authority you need worry about,’ Bastorran returned icily. ‘My uncle’s a busy man. I don’t trouble him with routine trivia.’

The twins exchanged meaningful glances.

‘Be clear,’ he continued harshly. ‘Fail in this, or be indiscreet, and I’ll have you –’ he pointed at Aphrim ‘– negated. While you –’ he indicated Aphri ’– will be making the acquaintance of my master torturer. And be assured that only when you’re completely ruined will he put out your eyes.’

‘Sounds tasty,’ Aphrim mouthed quietly.

‘I think we understand each other.’ Bastorran favoured them with a chill smile. ‘And forget about my uncle. As I said, he has more than enough to occupy him at the moment.’




5 (#ulink_1f2e2f2e-f138-5db6-a1aa-a1b38bf7308b)


After their brutal taking of Bhealfa, the conquering imperialists of Gath Tampoor demolished the triumphalist structures left over from rival empire Rintarah’s occupation. They replaced them with buildings grander, taller and more opulent..

Few were as magnificent as the vast construction the Gath Tampoorians erected in central Valdarr. Within sight of the clans’ headquarters, it was in sharp contrast to that baleful pile. Where the paladins’ base appeared grim and brooding, this was celebratory, its every line glorying the authority of its builders. It was a monument to triumph and might. A building that bragged.

There was magic in its architecture, literally. The stones it was constructed from were charmed, and enchanted dust had been mixed into the very mortar. Pigments used to decorate its splendid stained-glass windows were rumoured to include a concentrate of demons’ blood, the ground bones of trolls and desiccated unicorns’ mane; notwithstanding that such creatures no longer existed, if they ever had. The upshot was that it permanently shimmered with magical energy, and on the ample expanse of its outer walls inspiring images could be conjured at will – the likenesses of imperial heroes and statesmen, explorers and merchants. Icons to hearten the populace, or to remind them that they were vanquished.

The Gath Tampoorians saw no irony in naming it the Freedom Hall, and it was proclaimed as a palace of the people. Though naturally common folk were rarely permitted to enter, except as menials.

This evening, fleets of carriages jammed the surrounding streets, delivering an army of grotesques. The comely and the hideous, the fabulous and the whimsical, climbed the stairs, wide as a city block, to the massive doors. Once inside, they were ushered into a series of elegantly appointed reception rooms, then through to the great hall itself.

The enormous chamber was lit by a score of magically illuminated crystal chandeliers. Each the size of a haystack, they hung beneath the vaulted, gold-inlaid ceiling with no visible means of support. The light they threw made the room’s accoutrements glitter and sparkle. Gold again, lots of it, along with flashes of silver and the crisp glint of gems; precious metals and exquisite jewels were moulded into the decor and furnishings. Beautiful tapestries adorned the panelled walls. Underfoot, the carpets were rich and plush.

It wasn’t only feet that padded over them. Paws, hooves, claws and suckers walked them, too. Dreams made flesh. And nightmares. People with eagle, goat and locust heads. Revellers who chose instead to transform their bodies, and who wore elaborate masks. Humans in the guise of demons and cherubs. Or cats and cockroaches, large as men. The best body magic money could buy.

Genuine chimeras mingled with the humans. Pure glamours in numerous exotic forms, brought as companions and pets, or just for effect. Impossible to tell from flesh and blood, they reflected their owners’ natures. A few were angelic. Most were incarnations of base instincts, ugly and venal.

The masque was well underway. A glamoured orchestra played. Liveried flunkies weaved through the dancers, pewter trays held high. Secure in the knowledge that they were above the law – indeed, many present were servants of the law – the revellers behaved as they saw fit. They imbibed grape and hop, some recklessly. Others sampled the pleasures of cuzcoll, viper sting and pellucid, or stronger narcotics like sabre cut, red frost, and even ramp.

In a quiet corner, a rat and a serpent were engaged in earnest conversation.

‘I’m not saying I sympathise with them, for the gods’ sake,’ the rat protested. ‘It’s just a question of methods.’

‘You always were inclined to be too soft on these dissidents,’ the serpent snorted.

‘I resent that! I loathe them as much as you do. We differ only in how best to address the problem.’

‘All a bit academic now, isn’t it? Word’s come down from on high and it no longer matters what we think. Or are you questioning your superiors’ wisdom?’

‘No, no. Of course not. I’m just saying that honey catches more flies than vinegar. I’ve always believed that stealth’s the best policy when dealing with these misfits.’

‘Mollycoddling them, you mean.’

The rat’s whiskers quivered irritably. Before he could respond, a drunken satyr barged between them.

‘Let’s sit,’ the serpent said, nodding towards an empty table.

Once they’d settled, a servant brought them drinks. Wine for the rat, brandy for the serpent.

The rat wore a plump, copper-coloured medallion. He ran his thumb over it, dismissing the mask. It evaporated to reveal a clean-shaven man of middle years. His velvet skin and silvering, coiffured hair indicated one who lived by talk rather than deeds.

Following his lead, the serpent wiped away his own disguise. He was older, and his face was weathered from a lifetime of doing. In his hair and beard, close-cut military fashion, he was further along the road to silver than his companion.

‘You have to admit, Clan High Chief,’ the one-time rat continued, ‘that the unrest has got worse since the emergency regulations were brought in.’

‘There’s always a period of turmoil after measures like that are introduced,’ Ivak Bastorran told him as he lifted his draught of brandy. ‘It’ll calm down once the hotheads know we mean business.’

Gath Tampoorian Ambassador Andar Talgorian thought the paladin sounded typically self-satisfied. He took a sip of wine and kept that to himself. ‘Far from abating, reports reaching the diplomatic corps indicate dissident activity’s spreading like wildfire.’

‘I wouldn’t say things are that bad. We’ve had our successes against these terrorists, and it’s in their nature to retaliate.’

‘There, you admit it. Your heavy-handedness is making the situation worse.’

‘I didn’t say that. We’re stamping out a pestilence. There’s bound to be bloodshed before we’re through. It’s a case of holding our nerve.’

‘Let’s hope the rebels blink first. For all our sakes.’

‘You give these people too much credence, Talgorian. Not least in dignifying them as rebels. They’re criminals, chancers, vandals. Scum. I’m proud the clans are at the forefront of eradicating them.’

‘It must be very gratifying to have a free hand at last,’ the Ambassador commented dryly.

‘I’ve made no secret of my views on public order. And it seems I’m not alone. You know as well as I do that Rintarah’s cracking down hard, too. That proves the canker’s everywhere.’

‘So the insurgents are organised, then? You can’t have it both ways, Bastorran. Either this is an outbreak of random disobedience or a movement.’

‘They’re as organised as any other bandit gang, and their aims are no more noble.’

‘We shouldn’t allow ourselves to be hampered by too rigid an outlook,’ Talgorian replied pointedly, ‘or we’ll miss seeing the true nature of the problem.’

‘Nonsense. The truth is both empires are applying stricter sanctions because lawlessness is endemic if you let the mob have its head. East and west have been too soft. It’s past time to redress the balance.’

‘Throw oil on the flames, more like.’

‘And what would your remedy be? Soft words? Yielding to their insolent demands?’

‘I’d apply a little balm. Toss the people a few concessions. Repeal one or two petty laws, perhaps a small easing of taxes; and allow the poorest better access to basic provisions. They’d not be so easily stirred up if they had full bellies.’

‘Sounds like appeasement to me. Why give them what they haven’t earned?’

‘You asked for my opinion. I think artfulness has its part. A carrot to entice the donkey.’

‘Carrots,’ the paladin sneered. ‘What about the rod?’

‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking me squeamish. My way, we’d isolate the ringleaders and make examples of them. Single them out for assassination even, as the Council for Internal Security does back home.’

“Then we’re in accord. The clans believe in eliminating the agitators, too. It’s just that where you see a few rotten heads in a field of corn, we see them all as infected.’

‘And cut down the lot.’

‘If need be. But you’d do well to leave such considerations to us, Talgorian. You’re too much of a worrier.’

‘It’s what they pay me for.’

‘Like this warlord you’re so obsessed with,’ Bastorran ploughed on. ‘You fret about him unnecessarily, too.’

‘Nothing’s happened to make me believe Zerreiss is any less of a threat,’ the Ambassador returned indignantly. ‘Everything we hear suggests he’s continuing to make inroads.’

‘I don’t know why you get so worked up about it. If the barbarians want to make a sport of slaughtering each other, that’s their affair. They can never offer any danger to the empire.’

‘Again I hope your optimism proves well founded.’

‘You won’t have to rely on my opinion alone. The northern expedition should be reaching its destination soon. Then you’ll see this Zerreiss for what he is. Any word, by the way?’

‘None. And according to our agents, nothing’s been heard from the Rintarah expedition either.’

‘Communication’s always poor from the barbarous lands. Everything gets delayed coming that far.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘There you go again with the anxious face.’ He took a gulp of his drink. ‘Trust me, Ambassador; you’ll see that all this is just a rash of pinpricks.’

Talgorian’s attention was on the far side of the room. He nodded that way. ‘Talking of pinpricks …’

Bastorran looked, seemed uncertain for a second, then spotted the mark. ‘Ah. Dulian Karr.’ There was no warmth in the recognition.

Karr stood with his back to a wall. It bore the ubiquitous emblem of Gath Tampoorian rule: the dragon rampant, scales shimmering, belching gouts of glamoured flame. Karr was conversing with a small group, but it was obvious even from a distance that he wasn’t really engaged with them. He wore a simple black cloth eye-mask, contrasting with the elaborate facial decorations all around.

‘That speech he gave earlier,’ Talgorian recalled, ‘wasn’t far short of a disgrace. All that guff about sympathy for the so-called dispossessed …’

‘Close to seditious, if you ask me. Sentiments almost worthy of your own.’

The Envoy’s face darkened. ‘I do not appreciate that kind of comment. As I keep stressing, it’s only in methods that we –’

‘Yes, yes, I know. Take a jest, man. Your views are simply misplaced; Karr’s border on treachery.’

‘I’ll take that as a back-handed compliment,’ Talgorian replied coolly. ‘At least you appreciate the difference between my concerns about strategy and Karr’s flirting with anti-social elements.’

‘You know it’s more than flirting. We’ve suspected him for years, and so have your people. He’s a sympathiser, a fellow traveller. Maybe more than that.’

‘Suspicion’s one thing, proof’s another.’

‘Circumstances have changed. We have a freer hand, remember. And in a couple of weeks he’ll be stepping down from his patricianship. That office gave him a measure of protection. Once he goes, the restrictions go.’

‘He’s not a man to underestimate. It takes a certain cunning to sail so close to the wind all these years.’

‘He’ll be given every opportunity to stumble, believe me. If he has so much as a hair out of place –’

‘He’s seen us.’

Skirting the outlandish dancers, Karr made his way to them. They greeted him with sham smiles and hollow salutations.

‘Patrician,’ Talgorian drawled. ‘An excellent speech.’

‘Very enlightening,’ Bastorran echoed.

‘Thank you.’

Talgorian indicated the spare chair. ‘Please, take a seat.’

‘So,’ the diplomat said, ‘you’re finally retiring from public service. After … how many years is it?’

‘Too many, it sometimes seems.’

They gave expedient, empty laughs.

‘And how will you fill your days?’

‘I expect I’ll have plenty to occupy me, Clan High Chief.’

‘No doubt your passion for the downtrodden will continue to find expression,’ Talgorian suggested. ‘Perhaps in the form of charitable works?’

‘I hope I’ll always find time for the less fortunate.’

‘I see you’re showing solidarity with them tonight in your choice of dress,’ Bastorran commented, in reference to Karr’s plain, unglamoured mask.

The patrician smiled thinly. ‘I think it behoves the more privileged to set an example.’

‘By looking impoverished ourselves? You’re to take no offence from that yourself, of course.’

‘Of course, Ambassador. The example I had in mind was one of modest consumption.’ He saw their puzzled expressions. ‘Look about you.’

Bastorran sniffed. ‘I see men and women of substance. The example they hold out is the possibility of a better life for all.’

‘Prospering under the wing of the empire,’ Talgorian added, almost piously.

‘How many here have earned it?’ Karr wondered.

‘Ever the controversialist, eh, Karr? Public life will be the poorer for the lack of your witticisms.’

‘I don’t think the destitute are laughing too heartily.’

‘Your beloved downtrodden,’ the paladin leader came in irritably, ‘would be best employed improving their lot through honest hard work.’

‘Most would like nothing better. Assuming work existed, and they didn’t risk being arbitrarily rounded-up and brutalised every time they stepped onto the streets.’

‘If they’ve done no wrong they have nothing to fear.’

‘They’d say they’re treated as enemies of the state regardless. Not all of them are necessarily insurgents, you know.’

Bastorran fixed him with a hard stare. ‘You’d be surprised who is, Patrician.’

‘I’m sure your sentiments are commendable, Karr,’ Talgorian interjected, ‘and we can all applaud your humanitarian instincts. Let’s charge our glasses and toast your retirement.’ He made to beckon a waiter.

‘No,’ Karr replied. ‘Thank you, but … it’s been a long day and I have others to see before I can leave.’

‘You are looking a little out of sorts, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘It’s nothing. Overwork. You know, trying to clear everything before I retire.’

‘It wouldn’t do to jeopardise your health,’ Bastorran said, an unmistakably barbed edge to his words. ‘Retirement was a wise decision. Now you can lay down your burden and let others worry about the welfare of the people.’

‘Indeed.’ He gave each a small nod in turn. ‘High Chief. Ambassador Talgorian.’ Then he left.

As they watched him moving through the crowd, Talgorian breathed, ‘Scandalous.’

‘Wouldn’t so much as take a drink with us. As for his views … Free expression’s all very well, but –’

‘He looked ill, don’t you think?’

‘I’m a great believer in the inner man determining the outer. Nine times out of ten it’s a guilty conscience that brings about the appearance of poor health.’

‘At least he’s abandoned what little power his position gave him.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’ll stop fighting for lost causes. The man’s a born meddler.’

‘You’ll be keeping an eye on him, then?’

‘Oh, we will. Ambassador, we will. As no doubt you will yourself.’

Talgorian leaned closer. ‘You are aware that there have been attempts on his life?’

‘More than a few, I understand. And with all the hallmarks of being officially sanctioned.’

‘Not by my people. Or any of the other departments of state that I’m aware of.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I suspect they were the work of the CIS.’

‘There’d be no mishaps if the paladins were given the job.’

‘No doubt. My point is that the CIS aren’t supposed to operate beyond Gath Tampoor’s shores. Legally, that is. But I’ve been hearing rumours that their methods might be exported to the protectorates.’

‘What’s your meaning?’

‘Should Karr be the victim of assassination, my superiors, your employers, could hardly kick up a fuss when one of their agencies has been trying the same thing.’

‘Interesting. I’ll bear it in mind.’ He surveyed the bizarre throng. ‘We’re neglecting our duties. Better get back to it.’ The touch of a finger against his medallion re-formed his mask. An elongated snout appeared, the eyes grew slitty, yellow-green scales formed.

‘Excellent guise,’ Talgorian commented.

‘It is rather fine, isn’t it?’ Bastorran admired himself in a nearby wall mirror.

The Ambassador reactivated his own mask. Grey fur erupted, the nose blossomed, whiskers sprouted.

Bastorran glanced at his companion. ‘I meant to ask.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘Why a rat?’

‘Irony.’




6 (#ulink_548e7f2e-0c2f-5357-b4d3-acd6f65fbbdd)


Recently imposed public order laws tended to operate as a two-tier system. Gath Tampoorians resident in the Bhealfan colony simply ignored them. A similar laxity was allowed citizens of Bhealfa who enjoyed power and influence.

The same licence applied to enforcing the curfew. Those of wealth and rank were free to dally.

The weak and insolvent had law-keepers on their tails.

As the hour of prohibition drew near, the streets swelled with people trudging homewards. In a manufacturing quarter of the city, the human surge broke against the prow of a building that stood at the confluence of two main roads. Outwardly, it was an administrative block, a hive for bean counters, and anyone entering would have found this to be the case. Now its clerks and scribes had joined the exodus, and it was deserted.

Its several floors were in darkness, and one, cunningly fashioned from loft space, was hidden. Gaining entry to it from within was complicated, not to say potentially lethal, given its glamoured defences.

A small group was gathered there.

‘Where the hell is Disgleirio?’ Caldason grumbled.

‘Probably held up by the crowds,’ Karr told him. ‘He’ll get here no quicker for your pacing. Join us.’

Sighing, the Qalochian took a seat opposite Karr at the large wooden table. At one end sat Kutch, looking uncomfortable and fiddling with a pair of his makeshift eye covers. Serrah was present too, but isolated from the rest, her chair set well back. The expression she wore was unreadable.

‘While we wait,’ Karr said, ‘I’ve got something you might find interesting.’

He pushed a finger into his right ear. For a second he twisted and dug with it. Then he brought out a tiny object, held between thumb and forefinger. It resembled a pearl, and had a similar milky white sheen. He flung it at the nearest wall.

The little globe didn’t bounce or shatter. It stuck as though resinous, and immediately began to flatten and spread. When it matched the size of a large serving platter it stopped expanding. At that point it opened, like the petals of a flower. Having doubled its diameter it opened again and again; more and more petals rapidly unfolding until the wall became a shimmering, pearly white screen.

‘A much more detailed schematic,’ Karr explained. ‘Better than anything we’ve had before.’

Lines and contours, dips and bumps came into focus. A three-dimensional representation of an island formed. It was roughly kidney shaped, only a kidney that had been gnawed at one end by a hungry dog. Its outline showed cliffs, sandy beaches, inlets and bays. Offshore, in the rippling ocean, reefs and rocky outcrops appeared.

The island had two harbours, on its western and southern sides. There were green pastures, hills and woods. A river snaked from the east, branched and rejoined the sea on the north-eastern shore. Tracks criss-crossed, and more substantial roads sneaked from the ports. A scattering of buildings was visible here and there, and near the island’s centre was what could have been a town.

‘The hope of the world,’ Karr announced. ‘Batariss.’

Serrah stirred from her introspection. ‘What?’

‘It’s the proper name for the place. Though not many seem aware of it.’

‘I remember when that’s all it was known as,’ Caldason said.

‘You would,’ Serrah told him. She probably meant it humorously. He decided to take it that way.

‘Our thought was to rename it,’ Karr revealed; ‘call it something that has more relevance to its new status. Perhaps after one of the Resistance martyrs, like Sab Winneba, Kryss Mirrall or –’

‘I’m sure they’re deserving,’ Caldason cut in, ‘but face it, Patrician; nobody’s going to call it anything but the name that’s stuck.’

‘The Council feel this would be a good opportunity to honour someone who made the ultimate sacrifice for the cause.’

‘Very commendable. But don’t you think we should concentrate on getting there first?’

Kutch broke the ensuing silence. ‘I always assumed it was named after its shape or something.’

‘No,’ Karr replied, ‘its function.’

‘I didn’t know they actually mined gems there.’

‘They don’t. It’s called the Diamond Isle because of the wealth it generated.’

‘So how come we got the chance to buy it?’ Serrah asked.

‘It’s been in decline for years. It was at its height as an attraction when Reeth here was a child. If it still produced riches on that scale we wouldn’t be in a position to buy it. As it is, the present owner’s had enough and is looking to retire.’

‘How can an island that size be private property? I thought only the empires’ rulers had the kind of clout needed to own real estate on that scale.’

‘The island’s status has always been an anomaly. Way back, a century or more, it was as much a pawn for Rintarah and Gath Tampoor as Bhealfa is today, or any of the other states they squabble over.’

‘What happened to change that?’ Kutch asked.

‘Both sides came to feel it was too insignificant a prize to shed blood over. Then somebody, probably one of the old bandit clans, came up with the idea of turning it into a pleasure retreat. That was during one of the empires’ virtuous periods, when gambling and prostitution were frowned on. Batariss filled the need. Another factor, of course, is that it’s not officially in anybody’s territorial waters, though it’s nearest to Bhealfa. But in practice, the island operates because whichever empire happens to be in control of this part of the world has let it.’

‘Why would they do that?’

Karr scrutinised his tiny audience. ‘You must have heard all this before.’

Serrah shrugged.

‘It fills the time until Disgleirio deigns to show himself,’ Caldason remarked.

‘I don’t know any of this,’ Kutch said. ‘I think it’s fascinating.’

‘All right,’ Karr went on. ‘Why have the empires left Bata – the Diamond Isle to its own devices?’ He took a reflective breath. ‘Well, there’s some evidence that in the early days, when the place was much more exclusive, the empires’ favoured supporters were sent there as a reward. Later, when it got easier for more people to go, the official view seemed to be that it served as an outlet for the masses’ pent-up resentments. Or at least it did for those who could afford it. And they tended to be the well-heeled, educated classes, who might organise opposition; the sort the rulers wanted to keep sweet. Then again, it’s rumoured that the authorities take rake-offs from the island. Unofficial taxes, some call them. Who knows why the Diamond Isle’s been left alone? I think it’s probably just unfinished business.’

‘They’ll finish it quickly enough when we start moving over in droves,’ Caldason warned.

‘Not if we do it artfully. And once there’s a sufficient number of us on the island …’

‘I know. We’ll make it too costly in blood to recapture. It’s a hell of a risky strategy.’

‘Of course it is. But we’ve planned meticulously. If the move goes as it should –’

‘That’s more likely to happen if you’ve got everybody behind you.’

‘I know the island strikes many in the Resistance as an unlikely choice –’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Serrah contributed, ‘a pleasure resort seems no more insane than anywhere else you might have picked.’

Karr ignored the gibe. ‘Look at it.’ He nodded at the gleaming map. ‘It’s perfect. About a tenth the size of Bhealfa, easily big enough to support a substantial population. It’s. got fresh water and ample wood. There’s plenty of arable land. And it’s defend-able. In time, we can make it completely self-sufficient.’

‘In time,’ Caldason echoed. ‘It’ll be a race, and if you think Gath Tampoor’s going to sit on its hands while you do it –’

‘It’s a gamble. We know that. The whole plan’s predicated on us beating some long odds. But what would you have us do otherwise? Give up and let our conquerors roll over us? Abandon any hope of ever throwing off their shackles?’

‘Nobody’s saying that,’ Serrah reminded him. ‘Anyway, is this the time to be going over it all again?’

‘You’re right. The owner’s going to be here any minute, and we have to show a united front.’

‘You’ll get no dissent from me,’ Caldason promised.

‘It would be nice to believe that.’ Karr smiled. ‘Phoenix himself has cloaked this place against eavesdropping. You’re our second line of defence, Kutch. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this, except for the chronic shortage of spotters. Particularly with the … difficulties you’ve been having lately.’

‘Are you saying this meeting could be dangerous?’ Caldason asked.

‘No. But let’s not lose sight of the kind of man we’re expecting. Are you all right about this, Kutch? Because if you’d rather …’

‘I want to help. But if I do sense something, what do I do?’

‘Just shout out loud,’ Caldason told him, ‘we’ll do the rest.’

‘Does our visitor know what we want the island for?’ Serrah wondered.

‘I don’t think he cares,’ Karr replied. ‘Though he’s not stupid. A shabby opportunist, yes; but not stupid.’

‘Can’t wait to meet him.’

Above a set of robust doors at the loft’s far end, a glamoured crimson orb began flashing.

‘You could be about to get your wish.’

With a rattle and creak, the doors swung open.

The man who entered was perhaps thirty years old, sported a clipped moustache and had a hardy countenance. His garb and easy confidence spoke of an adept swordsman.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, unlacing his cape. ‘The streets were choked and I was against the tide the whole way.’

‘Some of us started out early,’ Caldason offered.

‘Not all of us had that luxury.’

The Qalochian and Quinn Disgleirio, apostle of the Fellowship of the Righteous Blade, held each other’s gaze.

‘Don’t mind Reeth,’ Karr advised, ‘he’s in a fractious mood.’

‘When isn’t he?’

‘You’ve missed nothing, Quinn,’ Karr hastened to add. ‘Our guest hasn’t arrived yet.’

‘Yes he has. He’s on his way up now.’

The patrician’s manner was instantly businesslike. ‘All right. Weapons in plain view, as agreed.’ Disgleirio, Serrah and Caldason, with some reluctance, unsheathed their various blades and laid them on the table. ‘Kutch, put those blinkers of yours out of sight.’ The globe above the doors started to flash. ‘All of you; keep in mind that our visitor’s both smart and unprincipled. But remember that he needs us as much as we need him.’

The doors were thrown wide, crashing against the walls.

A small entourage entered. There were four bodyguards, dressed alike in black leather jerkins, trews and boots, with leather wrist and headbands. One was a woman, flame-haired, green-eyed, and no less hale than her masculine cohorts. All were extravagantly armed. They were clustered around their employer, and for a moment it looked as though they were carrying him shoulder high. As they fanned out it became obvious that he was held aloft not by muscle power, but sorcery. He sat on a large, padded disk, with a backrest similar to a chair’s. His legs dangled over the edge, and a thick safety belt girdled his waist.

Those who had never seen Zahgadiah Darrok before, but knew his reputation, might have expected an individual wracked by sloth and debauchery. They didn’t anticipate someone looking as fit as an athlete. Nor did they count on him being handsome; the possessor of a finely chiselled face, adorned with a neat blond goatee and dominated by quick, china-blue eyes.

The only jarring note came when he spoke. A brisk order to his escort, to give up their arms, revealed a gravel voice that seemed out of keeping with his appearance. It had an inflection more often associated with an habitual pipe smoker or drinker of coarse liquor.

As Darrok’s bodyguards laid down their weapons, Karr made introductions. Then the attendants withdrew, but stayed watchful from a distance. Darrok guided his floating dish to the table and descended to hover at sitting height.

‘Can we offer you refreshments?’ Karr asked, indicating stone-bottled wine and sweetmeat platters.

‘I don’t believe in tainting business with frivolity,’ Darrok grated.

‘As you please.’

‘I suggest we get straight to the matter of the final payment.’

‘That’s what we’re here for.’

‘You can get the money?’

‘Of course.’

‘In gold?’

‘In gold, yes.’

‘And you can deliver it, as I specified?’

‘We can meet all your requirements. But naturally we need to be sure you can satisfy ours.’

Darrok showed a flash of annoyance. ‘You had my word.’

‘We’re not trying to offend you. But it’s vital you understand the necessity of making the handover as smooth and as secret as possible.’

‘I could ask why you feel the need to be so clandestine if your aims are lawful.’

‘I’m sure we all have private matters we’d prefer to keep that way,’ Karr said. ‘In fact, I should remind you that a slice of the not inconsiderable price we’re paying is supposed to ensure confidentiality.’

‘And you’ll get it. My guarantee.’

‘I’d like your bond on another matter, too.’

‘Oh?’

‘As you know, some of our people will be arriving on the island soon as pathfinders. We have to be able to count on you co-operating with them.’

‘We’ve agreed all this, Karr.’

‘It’s as well to underline its importance.’

‘Yes, yes, we’ll do as you ask. Now about the gold –’

‘It would save us a lot of trouble,’ Disgleirio suggested, ‘if payment could be made here on the mainland.’

‘Now who doesn’t understand the agreement? The deal was that the balance of the money went to the island for onward movement.’

‘So we take the risks and you reap the benefit.’

Darrok shrugged. ‘It’s a sellers’ market.’

‘We’ll keep our end of the bargain,’ Karr promised. ‘You keep yours and we can have the shipment there in a matter of weeks.’

‘You’d do well to send it with as much protection as you can muster.’

‘Naturally we’ll take precautions.’

‘You might need a little more in the way of precautions than you’re contemplating.’

Disgleirio regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘There’s a certain amount of … unrest in my home waters.’

‘What kind of unrest?’

‘We have a few problems with privateers.’

‘You mean pirates?’ Kutch blurted out.

‘I’m not in the habit of answering questions from a child.’

‘Then try answering a man,’ Caldason told him, his manner threatening.

Darrok adopted a dismissive tone. ‘I’m not accustomed to explaining myself to the hired help either.’

The Qalochian rose, toppling his chair. Then Serrah was on her feet. Darrok’s bodyguards began to move in.

‘Enough!’ Karr thundered. ‘We’re here to talk, not to fight. Now calm down. All of you.’

There was a frozen moment, each side eyeing the other, fists balled, muscles tensed.

Karr nodded at his people. ‘Sit.’

Darrok waved away his bodyguards.

Caldason righted his chair and Serrah sank back into hers. Both moved reluctantly, and kept their gazes on the escort.

‘So, you have trouble with pirates,’ Karr recapped.

‘I think they prefer to be called merchant adventurers,’ Darrok corrected.

‘To hell with what they call themselves; why didn’t you tell us before?’

‘I’m telling you now.’

‘How big a problem is it?’ Disgleirio wanted to know.

‘Until recently it was manageable; no more than a minor irritation. But that’s changed.’

‘Why?’

‘Traditionally, the privateers were disorganised. As ready to fight amongst themselves as to plunder travellers that came their way. Now they’ve got together and formed an alliance.’

‘That wouldn’t have happened without a leader of some sort,’ Caldason reasoned. ‘Who rallied them?’

‘You’re more perceptive than you look. Have you heard of a man called Kingdom Vance?’

Serrah mouthed, ‘Oh, shit.’

‘I take it you have,’ Darrok said.

Karr scowled at him. ‘Who hasn’t? Given that he’s the most infamous, cold-blooded freebooter ever to cut a throat. And you’re telling us he’s organised this alliance?’

Darrok nodded.

‘He must have held out a prize tempting enough to bring them together,’ Caldason decided. ‘A prospect bigger than their differences.’

‘That he did. He offered them something they’ve wanted for a long time.’ Darrok paused and scanned his hosts’ faces. He saw that one or two had already guessed. ‘A land base. A country they can call their own.’

‘They want the island,’ Disgleirio whispered, realisation dawning. ‘You bastard, Darrok! This borders on treachery. What are you after? More money? Is that it?’ He was on his feet.

‘There’s no deceit on my part.’ Darrok gestured at his restive bodyguards, checking them. ‘All I’m asking for is the final payment.’

‘After dropping this on us? Forget it.’

‘I think you’ll find the pact we have stipulates no full payment, no deal. And I get to keep what’s already been paid.’

Disgleirio swung to Karr, red with anger. ‘You agreed to this?’

Before the patrician could speak, Darrok answered. ‘There isn’t exactly an abundance of islands for sale. Like I said, it’s a sellers’ market. Take it or leave it.’

‘Karr?’ Disgleirio pressed.

‘He’s right. We’re not in a position to dictate terms.’

It was Serrah who broke the ensuing silence, and in contrast to Disgleirio’s outrage, she seemed almost amused. ‘Well, you could cut the tension in this room with a knife,’ she said. Glancing at the surrendered weapons, she added, ‘Anybody like to try?’

Karr stood, signalling for calm. ‘All right. Everybody. Let’s keep things civil. We can sort this out.’

‘Always the conciliator, eh. Patrician?’ Serrah gave him a smile that fleetingly looked half demented.

‘He’s right,’ Darrok intervened. ‘You might have rivals for the island. So what? They’re small in number compared to you, judging by the set-up you have here. You can deal with it.’

‘You make it sound trivial,’ Disgleirio remarked, still seething.

‘No, I make it sound like it isn’t my problem. My only concern’s spending the money you’ll be giving me.’

‘So you can buy more toys like that?’ He jabbed a thumb at the hovering dish.

Darrok made it rise, lifting him to the height of a man standing. ‘This is more in the way of a necessity than a luxury.’ He rapped his knuckle against one of his legs, then the other. The hollow ring attested to their being artificial. ‘Kingdom Vance,’ he explained starkly. ‘That’s why it’s not my problem.’





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