Книга - Quicksilver Rising

Quicksilver Rising
Stan Nicholls


From the author of the internationally acclaimed Orcs series comes a powerful new epic fantasy filled with spectacular magic, action, adventure and political intrigue.In the land of Bhealfa magic underpins the social order. Different classes enjoy different qualities of magic; from meagre charms for the destitute, to grand conjurations for the rich. But the most skilful and expensive spells of all are those used by the authorities to control the entire population.Reeth Caldason is the last remaining member of a tribe of warriors who were brutally massacred decades ago. Cursed with episodes of blind rage that endanger anyone near him, he is forced to wander the world seeking revenge for his people and a cure for his magical affliction.But the spell that binds Reeth is an esoteric one, and his search has so far been fruitless. Only when a young sorcerer's apprentice named Kutch tells him of the mysterious Covenant does he regain a glimmer of hope. Forming an uneasy alliance the two head for Bhealfa's capital city in search of this secretive magical society, unaware that they are about to be drawn into a dangerous world of conspiracy and sedition.









Quicksilver Rising

Book One of the Quicksilver Trilogy

STAN NICHOLLS










Dedication (#ulink_32bcb071-bd1b-5aee-b4c1-118f6110a631)


For making a stranger feel a little less alien in a strange land, Quicksilver Rising is dedicated to the Brum Balti Boyz – Mike Chinn, Peter Coleborn, John Howard, Joel Lane, David Sutton; and to the Gurlz – Jan Edwards, Sue Edwards, Sandra Sutton. And, of course, to my wife, Anne.




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1 (#ulink_5dab16cc-36a4-5980-ab16-1203bb65b734)


It was a place of cheap magic.

A swarm of tiny sphinxes gathered, fluttering just above her head. Snapping jaws, whipping wings, curling tails. They weren’t convincing. Their colours were wrong, and up close they were semi-transparent.

Serrah swatted irritably, her hand passing through them as if they were dawn mist. They disintegrated into countless infinitesimal specks, like glowing rust. The tips of their spread wings were the last to go, popping out of existence in little burnished puffs.

‘We going to skulk here all night, Ardacris?’ Phosian hissed.

He hid next to her, but the alley was too dark to make out his features. His garb, like hers, was uniformly black, with a silk mask covering nose and mouth. Where flesh showed, it had been smeared with ash. The sheen of their blades was dimmed by grease and soot.

Serrah inwardly bridled at his familiarity and the disregard of her rank. But in deference to his connections she whispered only, ‘Patience.’

Phosian sighed. Serrah needed no light to picture the conceited expression on his callow face.

Nothing much stirred. The street was a midden lined with hovels, all gloom and demented angles. Its glistening cobbles were silvered by a half moon. Flies teemed, the air stank. Now and again a low-priced glamour walked, crawled, flew or drifted by, waning, and was ignored.

The house they watched was grander than the others and set apart. Two guards were visible at its front. There were more at the sides and rear. Again Serrah wondered if her modest forces would be enough.

‘Think our strength’s up to it?’ Phosian asked, hinting criticism of her.

She was struck by the idea that he might have read her mind. But she knew such magic was likely mythical. And if it did exist it was so rare even his relatives probably couldn’t afford it. ‘Numbers aren’t everything,’ she said. ‘I’d take one seasoned fighter over a regiment of conscripts any day.’

‘And what would you call those inside, seasoned or green?’ Sarcasm dripped.

‘Ruthless bastards,’ Serrah replied, still seething at having him foisted on her. ‘But I’ve a team I can trust.’ With one exception, she thought, adding, steely-toned, ‘It’s taken weeks to get to tonight. Nothing’s going to jeopardise it.’

His silent contempt was almost tangible.

By knowing where to look, and straining to see, several others in her group could be faintly made out, grey against the blackness. They were in position.

‘It’s time,’ she decided. ‘You know what to do. Stay close.’

He gave an indolent grunt.

She had a short piece of twine, and worried its end with thumb and forefinger, as though flipping a coin. Suddenly the tip glowed cherry red. Less conspicuous than a naked flame and generating no heat, it was a very basic glamour; just an ember, but enough for those alert to it. Serrah quickly signalled, then pinched it out.

They waited.

The nearest guard, a shaven-headed colossus, stood gazing at the night sky. His broadsword was thrust into the ground at his feet, his palm absently caressing the hilt. Further back, a leaner companion prowled with meagre enthusiasm.

A sound cut the air. High, smooth, and abruptly stilled by a soft impact.

An arrow quivered in the big man’s chest. He looked down at it dumbly. The sound repeated and his comrade dropped. A second bolt winged into the giant. Arms outstretched, he fell heavily.

‘Move!’ Serrah barked.

Dashing out of the shadows, limbs pumping, she ran for the house. Phosian chased her, his scrawny form contrasting with her athletic build. As they arrived at the entrance, two more of her crew slipped from the darkness to join them. Like Phosian, they hefted axes.

The double doors were oak with iron bracings. At her sign, the battering commenced. Almost immediately the rest of her team began pounding at the back of the house.

Serrah scanned the street, feeling vulnerable. Imperial agents weren’t exactly popular in this quarter and she half expected to see locals rushing in to take issue.

But she was more worried by what might be waiting inside.

The doors gave.

A dimly lit passageway stretched ahead of them. There was another door at its end. A corridor was set in the right-hand wall. Serrah motioned for one of the party to keep watch, then she, Phosian and the fourth group-member carefully advanced, weapons drawn.

Something came out of the side passage. They froze.

It slinked, ebony fur bristling, a mass of fangs, claws and ill temper. Its hard, tawny eyes regarded them haughtily. It let out a wheezing snarl.

The barbcat was waist-high to Serrah. Had it stood upright it could have laid its forepaws on her shoulders while it tore her throat out.

Absolutely still, they watched as a second cat padded into the hall. It was just as big, just as irate. Its ears pricked tensely, its ample pink tongue lolled.

Serrah couldn’t be sure about the creatures. She took a chance and edged forward.

‘Chief …’ one of her team cautioned.

She paid no attention and moved in on the nearest cat.

It leapt.

Her response was instant. She fell into a half crouch, simultaneously swinging her sword up, two-handed, teeth gritted with effort, carving an arc. It crossed paths with the slavering animal, slicing cleanly through its body. But not as though it were flesh.

The bloodless halves of the cat hung in the air for a second, then dissolved into golden shards and nothingness.

Rising, Serrah expelled a breath. ‘Sentinel glamours,’ she declared, unnecessarily. And well made, she judged. Costly magic.

The other barbcat turned and loped back to its alcove den. They ignored it and readied themselves.

‘Let’s move,’ Phosian urged testily.

Serrah glared at him. She swung her boot at the door. It flew open.

At first sight, the chamber was unoccupied. Large, with a high ceiling, its windows were covered. Candles and brands gave light, and several tall braziers were scattered about. There were stacks of chests and barrels. Threadbare cushions and shabby sticks of furniture had been randomly dispersed. Chicken bones, shattered wine flasks, scraps of stale bread and general detritus littered the floor.

A crooked line of benches ran along one wall. They were laden with stone bottles, funnels, vials, jars, mortars and pestles. There were hessian bags, slit open and disgorging dried plant matter, and two or three cauldrons with rising wisps of milky vapour.

On a table at the end of the line was something Serrah knew too well; mounds of faintly crystalline, yellowish-white powder. The sight of it rippled her insides like ice.

As they took in the scene she was aware of Phosian straining at the bit. ‘Easy,’ she chided.

‘More loitering,’ he grumbled. ‘What are we, petitioners?’

‘We have to be sure.’

He spat scorn at her. ‘To hell with that.’ Then he elbowed past and bounded into the room.

‘Phosian!’ she called, dumbfounded.

He took no notice. In the centre of the chamber, brandishing his axe, he began to yell. ‘Come out, you scum! Face us!’

‘Idiot!’ Serrah mouthed. ‘Stay!’ she snapped at her comrades, and went after him.

‘Filthy, low-life trash!’ Phosian raged, puffed-up with gauche bravado. ‘Cowards! Show yourselves!’

‘Phosian!’ She approached warily, though her anger was barely restrained. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ She glanced around nervously. ‘When I give an order, you obey!’

‘My people give the orders, Ardacris. You mind that.’

‘I don’t care a damn about your kin! When it comes to my command, you’re just –’

An object soared past her, end over end, wicked edges glinting.

The hatchet struck Phosian square to the heart. He cried out and staggered back. His axe slipped from his fingers and clattered on the flagstones. Blood streaming from his wound, eyes rolling to white, he hit the floor.

Serrah gaped.

Then too much happened at once.

Figures emerged from behind barrels and boxes, and from a blind corner. A sharp grating noise rang out to the rear. She spun around. A second, inner door, heavy and metal banded, dropped like a portcullis and met the ground with a weighty reverberation, cutting off her companions on the other side. They started hammering.

She swung to face the advancing gang.

There were five of them. Wiry, tattooed, granite-miened. Scarred and broken-toothed, with eyes of flint. Men well versed in the profession of violence.

They flowed into a horseshoe pattern, aiming to take her head-on and from the flanks. But the room’s clutter meant the shoe’s nails were unevenly spread. She had two bandits on her right, with a third crowding them. A fourth was at her left. The last, directly ahead, couldn’t have been anything but their leader. He was brawnier and meaner looking than the others, and his smirking menace was even more palpable.

For a beat, nobody moved or spoke. It seemed as though the leader studied her.

At last he rumbled, ‘Butterfly’.

Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t that. She was lost for a response.

‘Shining butterfly,’ he added, staring glazedly at her. ‘Black silk butterfly.’

Serrah understood then. They’d been sampling their own wares. They were crazed, unpredictable. Ramped.

Her gaze went to the heap of white powder, and for a second she was at the void again. ‘Ramp’s forbidden. You know that.’

He was deadpan. ‘Just making a living.’

She eyed Phosian in his spreading crimson pool. ‘Some living.’

The pounding from outside increased, and now there were sounds of fighting elsewhere in the building. Enough of a distraction for Serrah to slide her free hand into the folds of her shirt unnoticed.

‘I know you,’ the leader said, resuming his scrutiny. ‘Even with the mask. You’re known to my kind.’ He wasn’t making a benevolent link.

‘Good,’ she replied dryly. Jabbing her sword at the table, she repeated, ‘The ramp’s illegal. By the authority vested in me by the government of Gath Tampoor –’

They burst into scornful laughter.

‘Save your breath for dying,’ the leader grated.

‘Right,’ she agreed, favouring them with a smile. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

They moved. She was quicker.

Wrenching her hand free, she flung its load at the knot of bandits on her right. A score of barbed throwing stars soared in their direction.

Three were real. The charm was so good, she didn’t know which ones.

Nor did her targets. They were in a confusion of dodging, blundering, shielding themselves as the stars flashed in. Most burst harmlessly on impact, vanishing silver blooms against their bodies and the surrounding jumble.

Razor-sharp reality was another thing.

A genuine star cleaved the throat of the middle bandit, spraying blood and felling him. His cohort to the right, batting at illusions, caught a star in the cheek. The third man, shoving from the left, was drizzled by plaster as the last genuine star struck the wall above. A gory scrum ensued.

That was the end of her spells. Now blades would settle the issue.

The leader was roaring orders, and the man on Serrah’s left was closing in. She swiftly drew a knife to augment her sword.

The bandit came at her with a whipping scimitar and she blocked it with a cross from her knife that jolted them both. At the same time she wielded her sword in a low, curving slash, aiming for his vitals. He deflected it, just, and sent out his own pass. Serrah parried, retreating a step.

There was no time and the odds were too long. She powered in again.

Working her blades in unison, she rapped aside his scimitar. Her follow-through employed the knife, laying open his sword arm. Howling and swearing, he pulled back, wound gushing. Serrah charged him. Still clutching his sword, he tried to fend her off. She swept away his guard and buried her blade in his chest. Pitching, he jammed the path of the hollering leader.

Vaulting a shabby couch, an outlaw landed six paces away. She saw it was the man her star had narrowly missed, covered in plaster dust. Serrah took a swipe at his head. He ducked and kept coming. She beat at his defences, eager to down him before anybody else got to her. Stasis ruled for a moment, neither giving. Then, more by luck than by design, the tip of her blade scoured his jaw. Stumbling, hand to face, he crashed into the table and sent the ramp flying. Powder dispersed, a swirling white blizzard, and Serrah pressed the back of a hand to her mouth and stilled her breath. The leader screamed his wrath.

She had a glimpse of the bandit she’d wounded in the cheek, the star still embedded in the side of his face. He scrabbled in a corner, throwing crates aside. The racket from her men outside grew louder.

Her respite was brief. The thug with the copiously bleeding jaw disentangled himself. He and the leader attacked together. Checking the latter with a lashing cross, she focused on Wounded Jaw. He swiped wildly at her. She turned aside the blow, knocking his blade high and wide, then her darting sword took the opening and found his belly. He fell, a dead weight.

Blazing with ramp-quickened fervour, the leader piled into her. Serrah backed off, footing unsure on the debris. A breath later, she rallied. They churned metal, toe to toe, hacking and chopping. Breaching his guard, she dealt his stomach a hefty kick. He doubled over, mouth springing open. But he had the presence to keep his blade in play, impeding her follow-on. Serrah withdrew.

She saw that Gashed Cheek had almost cleared the crates, revealing the outline of a trapdoor. Now she knew why they could afford to linger. That split second of wandered concentration nearly cost her dear.

Raving incoherently, the chief snatched up a clay vessel and tossed its contents at her. She leapt aside, narrowly avoiding the shower of liquid. It splashed on boxes, fabrics and litter, seething and smouldering, billowing acrid smoke. A few spots of the vitriol peppered her hand and side, stinging like fiery needles. She clenched her teeth against the pain and kept moving. He stalked her, hurling obstructions from his path.

Her flight took her close to the bandit by the crates. Blood dribbled from the protruding star. He was on his knees, tugging at a rusting metal ring, and had the trapdoor raised about an arm’s span.

Serrah seized her chance and hewed his neck. Man and trap went down.

She was panting. Her muscles ached and sweat prickled her spine. But there was no lull.

The maddened chief caught up and unleashed a battering storm. They fenced hard, brows furrowed, hands blistering. Wrong-footed, Serrah had to vault when he tried hamstringing her. Her return blow missed, struck one of the tall braziers and toppled it. Burning coals bounced in all directions. Strewn rags and tattered furniture ignited. A dozen small fires broke out.

They battled on. Serrah stumbled against the prone Phosian and nearly fell. A stroke intended to decapitate came close enough to rend her collar.

A mouldering couch started to burn. Fire caught the pitch on a barrel, quickly leaping up the rest of the pile. Flames took hold of a window drape and raced to the ceiling. A thick, black haze began to fill the chamber. Serrah was thankful for her mask, though it did nothing to stop her eyes smarting.

Now stamina and nerve were all that mattered, and the duel became a slogging match.

A series of detonations rocked the room as pots and jars exploded on the blazing benches. The combatants ducked from flying pottery shards. Then an axe-head penetrated the door.

The concatenation of events threw the bandit off his stroke. Serrah homed in. Leading with the knife, she evaded his careless defence and raked his chest. He wailed, clutched the pumping lesion and, recoiling, crashed into an upended chair. Sprawled on the floor, he tried to hold her off. She dashed the sword from his hand and it bounced away, steel on stone, chiming.

He focused on her through pained eyes, and recognised the pain in hers.

‘Butterfly?’ he whispered.

‘This butterfly has a sting,’ Serrah told him, and drove home her blade.

She straightened slowly, short of breath, blinking from the smoke. Fire had taken hold on all sides and the heat was crushing. The back of her throat was grievously sore.

An axe cleaved the door again, and another joined it. In a cacophony of splitting wood and rending metal, her group broke through. They spilled in with raised weapons and taut bows, then stopped to stare.

Serrah got a hold on herself. ‘Report!’ she demanded huskily.

The foremost group-member tore his eyes from the carnage. ‘Er, nest cleared, ma’am.’ He looked at Phosian. ‘No … other casualties.’

‘Good. Now everybody out. Fast.’

He nodded Phosian’s way. ‘What about …?’

‘Bring him. Hurry!’

Arms across faces to shield themselves from the inferno, they ran to retrieve their comrade. Then Serrah shepherded them out, bringing up the rear. The passageway funnelled smoke, and they were all coughing and retching by the time they reached air.

Outside, the rest of her men were waiting. They set Phosian down and Serrah felt for a pulse. The band exchanged looks. At length she shook her head, though she had really known all along.

She took in the faces of her crew and knew what they were thinking. ‘I don’t like losing anyone,’ she said, ‘even a wilful dolt. But there are overheads in our work and this was one of them. There’ll be no indiscipline about it. The mission’s not done till we’re home.’

‘Of all the people to lose,’ somebody muttered.

Serrah thought Phosian’s loss was preferable to any of her seasoned crew. But it was going to cause a lot more trouble. She concentrated on priorities. ‘This place will be crawling with citizens soon and they won’t all be glad to see us. Eyes peeled. And if we run into opposition, no quarter.’

No one chose to debate the issue. She assigned a detail to carry Phosian’s body and they started out. Behind them, flames were playing on the roof of the ramp den. Inky smoke and eddying sparks belched from the windows.

They moved through the streets warily, keeping to the shadows. As they went they rid themselves of their outer layers of clothing, balling masks and shirts and pitching them into bushes and ill-lit alleys. They wiped the ash from their faces.

Serrah discarded her mask and shook loose a tumble of barley hair. She spat on her hands and rubbed them together. The reaction was starting to set in; the pain of exertion and of the acid burns made itself felt. Above all, what had happened to Phosian. Taking deep, regular breaths, she willed herself to stop shaking.

They could hear noises behind them, a commotion of faint shouting. Serrah increased the band’s pace, and thought about splitting them up. But they reached the piece of waste ground without incident, seeing nothing save an occasional errant glamour. In the curtain of trees they rejoined their horses. Two men wrapped Phosian in a cloak and draped the body over his saddle.

Reaching the road, they saw a group of horsemen approaching, but not from the direction of the raid. They were too close and too numerous to outrun. Serrah and her crew steadied their horses and fingered their swords.

As the riders came nearer there was just enough light for their distinctive red tunics to be made out.

‘That’s all we need,’ one of Serrah’s band grumbled.

Thirty or forty strong, the advancing company was three to four times bigger than Serrah’s, though how many of them might have been chimeras was anybody’s guess. The paladin clans had access to the finest magic.

They arrived in good order, their military bearing contrasting with her band’s more casual demeanour. The paladin captain halted his column. A goatee-bearded, hard-faced individual, he wasted no time on niceties. ‘Serrah Ardacris?’

She nodded.

‘Escort party for Chand Phosian.’

Serrah said nothing, and nobody else dared speak.

‘We’re here for Chand Phosian,’ the paladin restated deliberately, as though addressing a moronic child. ‘Where is he?’

‘We’re fresh from a mission,’ Serrah told him. ‘There’re likely to be repercussions any minute. Let’s get out of here and –’

‘Where’s the Principal-Elect’s son?’ He read their expressions and added sharply, ‘What’s happened?’

Reluctantly, she motioned for Phosian’s horse to be brought from the rear. At the sight of the burden it carried, the captain’s face darkened. He dismounted and went to the steed as the others watched in silence. Pulling aside the cloak, he bared Phosian’s pallid features.

‘Combat casualty,’ Serrah explained.

The captain looked up at her. ‘You’ve been very careless.’

‘We take losses on missions, you know that.’

‘Some losses are unacceptable.’

‘Oh, come on! It was just –’

He swiped the air with his hand, cutting her off. ‘Save it, Ardacris! You’re coming with us.’




2 (#ulink_8385bbe8-4ad6-5689-ba48-1967dd982cfe)


Before the empires, before history, there was the Dreamtime.

The earth’s energies were known then, and mastered, and the Founders chose to mark out their channels of power. Scholars speculated that the whole world had been embellished in that golden age. They pictured an all-pervasive, varicoloured grid covering plains and valleys, forests and pastures, mapping the spirit of the land and its alliance with the heavens.

Since the Founders left the stage, epochs ago, the mesh had fallen into neglect, though it still animated the magic. But in some places, through respect or fear, the old ways were honoured, if not entirely understood.

One such was a remote hamlet not far from Bhealfa’s inhospitable eastern coast. An indigo dye line, the width of a man’s fist, ran arrow straight along its central street, marking the power’s flow. Most people tried not to step on it. The stranger arriving on foot as the sun rose didn’t seem to care about that.

His appearance, too, turned the heads of the few citizens up and about at that hour. Taller than average, and muscular, he walked with easy confidence. His weaponry included two swords, one conventionally sheathed, the other strapped across his back. Clean shaven when the norm was more often hirsute, his eyes matched the hue of his lengthy, jet-black ponytail. He had handsome features, in a chiselled, weather-beaten fashion, though the set of his face was melancholic. His clothing inclined to sombre black.

He moved through the village unfazed by the stares, appearing sure of his bearings.

The sun was climbing when he emerged from the settlement’s northern end and the street became a curving track. He took a left-hand trail, rougher and weedy. The indigo line lanced off into the countryside and faded back to dereliction.

At last he came to a house, practically hidden by untended trees. It was rambling and dilapidated. He went to the door and rapped on it. A second, louder round of knocking was necessary before he got a response.

The door was half opened by a bleary youth yet to come to terms with either the new day or manhood. He blinked at the stranger, eyes red-rimmed. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for Grentor Domex.’ His voice was mild, but commanding all the same.

The youth stared at him. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘No one who means you harm. I’m not an official or a spy, just somebody who wants to consult the enchanter.’

‘I’m not Mage Domex,’ the youth confessed.

The stranger looked him up and down, noting his spotty complexion and the flaxen bumfluff on his chin. His solemn expression softened into a thin smile. ‘No offence, friend, but I think I’d already worked that out. This is the Mage’s house?’

There was a hesitation before the youth replied, ‘It is.’

‘Can I see him?’

He thought about it, then nodded and stood aside.

The door led directly into a large, gloomy room, redolent with the aromas of the sorcerer’s craft. As the stranger entered and his eyes adjusted he saw something looming ahead of him. He blinked and recognised it as a figure standing in the partial darkness. It moved forward into a bar of daylight and revealed itself.

A battle-hardened warrior, sword levelled, about to attack.

In one swift, fluid movement, the stranger’s hand darted to the back of his collar, plucked out a snub-nosed knife and hurled it. The blade pierced the warrior’s forehead. Then it travelled on, embedding itself in a wooden beam. The warrior melted into a honeyed fog that quickly vanished. A lingering smell of sulphur overlaid the other heady scents in the room.

The youth realised he was gaping and snapped shut his mouth. Falteringly, he said, ‘Good thing you were right.’

‘About what?’ the stranger asked.

‘About it being a glamour.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘But –’

‘If he was real he would have meant a threat. As he was a glamour, it didn’t matter. An even bet either way. Look, I said you have nothing to fear. There’s no need for party tricks.’

‘Oh, that had nothing to do with me. It was one of the Mage’s protective measures.’

The stranger was at the beam, tugging his knife free. ‘Was?’

‘Yes.’ The youth sighed glumly. A world of worry settled on his naive features. ‘You’d better come.’

He took him to a much smaller side chamber. It contained little except a table, and on it a body, covered by a shabby blanket. The youth peeled it back with something like reverence, exposing the head and shoulders of an elderly, white-haired man.

‘So much for protective measures,’ the stranger remarked.

The youth looked pained at that, but held his tongue.

There were rope burns on the old man’s neck. The stranger indicated them.

‘Hanged,’ the youth supplied. ‘By paladins.’

The stranger’s eyes hardened. ‘Why?’

‘The Mage was unlicensed. Apparently that’s a capital offence now.’

‘Always was. They just don’t talk about it.’ He inspected the corpse again. ‘I don’t see any likeness, so I’m assuming you’re not his son.’

‘No. Apprentice.’

‘How are you known?’

‘Kutch Pirathon.’

‘Well met, Kutch, even if I’ve come at your time of trouble. I’m Reeth Caldason.’

Recognition dawned on the lad and he gawked at the stranger, saucer-eyed. ‘The Reeth Caldason?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Caldason replied dryly, ‘I’m not dangerous.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’

‘Are you really Reeth Caldason?’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘Or dare if you weren’t, true.’ Kutch gazed at him with new interest. ‘I’ve never met a Qalochian before. Don’t think I’ve even seen one.’

‘Few have these days,’ Caldason returned, his manner turned frosty. He stirred and headed for the door. ‘Well, I’m sorry for your loss, but –’

‘Wait.’ Kutch managed to appear bashful and eager at the same time. ‘Perhaps I can help you.’

‘How?’

‘That depends on what you wanted to see my master about.’

‘Well, it wasn’t a love charm or poison for an enemy.’

‘No, I suppose not. You could get those anywhere.’

‘What I’m saying is that my needs might be beyond … an apprentice.’

‘How will you know unless you tell me?’

Caldason shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no.’ He started to leave again.

In the larger room, Kutch dogged him. ‘I have skills, you know. The Mage taught me many things. I’ve studied with him since I was a child.’

‘Not very long then.’

Kutch ignored the gibe. ‘What have you got to lose?’

‘My time.’

‘Would a few more minutes make that much difference?’

‘And maybe my patience.’ There was distinct menace in Caldason’s tone for all its apparent mellowness. Like finding a piece of glass in a milky pudding.

They were at the front door now. ‘At least let me show you,’ Kutch stammered. ‘Let me demonstrate what I can do. And we could break fast. I’m sure you could use food and drink.’

Caldason regarded the youth. ‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘All right. I’ll take bread with you, if you have it to spare.’

‘Plenty. And there’s fowl, cheese, some fish, I think, and –’

The Qalochian held up a hand to staunch Kutch’s flow. ‘But I won’t be staying long. I’ve other enchanters to find.’

‘Well, there you are; I can give you some names. Not that you’ll want them once you’ve seen what I can –’

‘All right!’ Caldason snapped, adding more gently, ‘All right.’

‘Magic now?’ Kutch inquired meekly.

‘Let’s eat first.’

Caldason’s reference to bread was literal; it was all he took, along with some water. He sat cross-legged on the floor, spine ramrod-straight, swords laid beside him. Deftly, he dissected the hunk of bread with a sharp knife, carrying small pieces to his mouth on the side of the blade.

Apparently grief hadn’t lessened Kutch’s appetite, and his repast was less frugal. He lounged opposite Caldason, back against the wall, legs stretched out, a wooden bowl in his lap.

Some of the shutters had been opened and dust motes floated in the shafts of light. Caldason surveyed a room stacked with books, floor-to-ceiling shelf-loads, many in ancient bindings, some near crumbling. A plain, sturdy bench, several chairs and a moth-ravaged hanging on the only unshelved portion of wall comprised the furnishings.

Kutch put down his spoon and, swallowing, said, ‘I’ve heard many stories about you.’

‘So have I.’

Silence descended.

At length, Kutch said, ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Are they true?’

Caldason took a drink from his cup. ‘How do you come to be here?’

‘You’re changing the subject,’ Kutch protested.

‘No, I’m interested.’

The youth looked cheated, but complied. ‘There’s not much to tell. My father got himself killed when I was a toddler. My mother struggled to keep me and my older brother. Eventually he went into the army. I was sold to Master Domex. I haven’t seen my mother or brother since.’

‘Why did Domex choose you?’

‘He always said he saw my potential from the first.’ He shrugged his lean shoulders. ‘Sorcerers have their ways. But he was a good master.’

‘How did he meet his end?’

‘An informer, I reckon. We don’t see too many paladins around here, or militia either, then suddenly the village was crawling with them. They knew exactly where to come.’

‘But they did you no harm?’

Kutch reddened and bowed his head. ‘I … I hid.’

After a pause, Caldason said, ‘The paladins aren’t to be gone against lightly.’ His voice was unexpectedly gentle. ‘There’s no shame in it, Kutch, and you shouldn’t feel guilt either.’

‘I wish I could believe that. All I know is that I wasn’t here for him.’ Caldason thought he saw the boy’s eyes misting.

‘And what do you think you could have done? Fought them? You would have died too. Used your magic? They have better.’

‘I feel a coward.’

‘Retreat’s a sign of intelligence, not cowardice. It means you live to fight another day. Why wasn’t your master licensed?’

Kutch sniffed and ran a hand across his head, smoothing back his shock of blond hair. ‘He didn’t believe in it. The Mage was a nonconformist when it came to the system, and most other things. The bastards would never have accepted him anyway. He was too much of a free thinker.’

‘That’s seditious talk.’

‘To you? I don’t think so.’

Another rare, dilute smile came to Caldason’s lips. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve always been with the Mage. Different places, but never apart. I can’t stay here though. The paladins left, but what if they come back to finish the job?’

‘It’s probably wise for you to go. Any idea where?’

‘Somewhere different. Somewhere really … free.’

Caldason gave a hollow laugh.

‘You’re mocking me.’

‘No. It’s we who are mocked.’

‘You’re saying nowhere’s free?’

‘I’ve seen most of Bhealfa, and something of Gath Tampoor and Rintarah, and a few of their protectorates, and I haven’t found it. Not true freedom. Just the pretence. The silk glove hides an iron fist everywhere I’ve been.’

Kutch was impressed. His cheer resurfaced. ‘You’ve visited all those places? The empires themselves? Both of them?’

‘I’ve been travelling a long time.’

‘Aren’t you worried about being recognised?’

‘I try not to take unnecessary risks.’

‘You were out there hunting paladins, right?’ It was said conspiratorially, lacking only a wink.

Caldason ignored that and lithely got to his feet. ‘Time’s passing. How about showing me your magic?’

Kutch rose too, feeling as though he’d been blocked again. ‘Upstairs,’ he explained, taking a lead candleholder to light their way.

The narrow staircase was creaky and winding, and low enough that Caldason had to stoop. It was lined with recessed shelves holding more books. The upper floor revealed another spacious chamber, the twin of the one below, and unmistakably an enchanter’s workroom. All the paraphernalia of the sorcerer’s trade was on display, along with yet more books and parchment scrolls. The smell of potions, unguents, solvents and incense was even stronger than downstairs.

One of the benches held four objects, each about the size of a lobster pot, covered by black felt cloths. Kutch went to them, and allowed himself a sense of the theatrical.

‘For your delectation,’ he proclaimed, ‘a wonder of the arcane arts.’ With a flourish he whipped away the first cloth.

What he unveiled was a large, bell-shaped glass jar with an immense cork in its neck. Caldason leaned forward to examine its contents. He saw scaled-down trees, bushes and rocks, and small slabs of granite piled up to make a little cave. Something had been slumbering inside. Now it woke, slanted yellow-green eyes snapping open.

A miniature dragon swaggered into the light. It arched its back and extended its wings. Head up, jaws wide, the creature’s roar was smothered by the thick glass. Then it exhaled a spume of orange flame and black smoke.

Judging the time right to move the show on, Kutch pulled off the next cloth.

The second jar held a prairie scene, its sward running to the lip of a cunningly constructed timberland. In the foreground a pure white unicorn pawed the grass before rearing, its twisted horn jabbing skyward.

A harpy occupied the third jar, its habitat a jagged, dimly lit cavern. Hanging upside down like a bat, leathery wings flapping, angry red eyes ablaze, it couldn’t have been longer than Caldason’s thumb. The fourth jar was filled with water. It housed a pink coral palace. A fetching mermaid swam slowly around its turrets, silvery tail swishing, hair flowing free. Streams of tiny bubbles issued from the corners of her voluptuous lips.

Kutch beamed proudly. ‘Admit it, you’re impressed. Do you know how much homunculi of this quality would cost on the open market?’

‘You made them?’

‘Well … no. But I helped.’

‘I grant they’re well constructed. But, don’t take this the wrong way, they’re hardly original.’

‘No,’ Kutch allowed, smile freezing, ‘I never said they were.’ There was an air of slight annoyance in his response. ‘It’s not the homunculi themselves, it’s what I’m going to do to …’ He considered, then pointed at the dragon. ‘… that one.’

From a cluttered shelf he selected two flat, polished stones, reddish brown in colour and of a size to fit comfortably into his palms. The stones were decorated with runic patterns. ‘You’re going to witness a transformation. Using the Craft, I’ll change this dragon into another form. It needs quite a bit of concentration, so please be quiet.’

Caldason raised an eyebrow. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms.

Kutch held the stones to the jar on opposite sides, facing each other. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he began droning an incantation in what Caldason supposed was the elder tongue. The dragon watched.

Pinpricks of light appeared in the centres of the stones. They expanded, joined, spread and began pulsing. The dragon homunculus bared its fangs and lashed its forked tail. Kutch rambled on, mouthing incomprehensibly, face screwed with effort. A faint sheen of perspiration dampened his forehead.

The glowing stones emitted a stronger radiance.

There was a kind of eruption then. Both stones sent out miniature incandescent, slow-moving energy bolts that melded midway, forming a horizontal fiery tightrope. It flickered and crackled. The dragon snapped and postured.

A second later the fluctuating flow sent out a pair of tendrils. They probed the bottom of the bottle, searching out the scuttling dragon and finding it immediately. Twin sparkling currents latched on to the reluctant glamour. In turn they drew down the greater flux passing between the stones above. It bowed, U-shaped, and joined the dragon too. All the energy generated by the stones ran through the creature and bathed it.

‘Here it comes!’ Kutch cried out, lips trembling. ‘The transformation!’

There was a muffled explosion. The jar shuddered violently. Its inner surface was instantly coated with a viscous green lather. There were bits of scale and bone mixed in.

‘Oow!’ Kutch yelped, dropping the stones. ‘Hot!’ Hopping, he blew furiously on his hands and flapped them about.

‘You need to work on your craft,’ Caldason suggested tactfully.

‘I don’t understand it.’ He was still puffing on his hands and grimacing. ‘I’ll try another.’

‘Don’t bother. I’m not very enamoured of magic anyway.’

Kutch found that vaguely shocking. ‘You aren’t?’ he said, discomfort forgotten. ‘What about all its benefits?’

‘Let’s just say there were never many for me.’

‘You mean you can’t afford it,’ Kutch concluded knowingly.

‘You could put it that way.’

The youth’s manner moved to serious. ‘I really don’t know what went wrong.’ He glanced at the jars and appealed, ‘Let me have another go.’

‘Not on my account.’

‘If you only give me the chance, I’m sure I could –’

‘No. It’s past my time to leave. I must get out of here.’

It seemed to Kutch that suddenly there was an almost desperate edge to Caldason’s words, and he looked tenser and furtive. Kutch made to speak, but his guest was already deserting the study. He pounded the stairs after him.

‘Look, I’m sorry it didn’t work out quite the way I expected,’ he apologised once they reached ground level. ‘But there’s no need –’

‘It’s nothing to do with that. I have to …’ He swayed, as if about to fall.

Kutch was alarmed, but something about Caldason stopped him stretching out a hand. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Caldason collected himself and straightened. ‘I’m all right.’

‘Let me mix you a healing draught.’

‘No.’ His breathing was becoming laboured. He cradled his head in his hands.

‘What ails you?’

‘Just a dose of … reality.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Caldason didn’t elaborate. All but staggering, he made his way to the swords he’d left on the floor. Looking close to passing out, he scooped them up. ‘Do you have a secure place here?’ he asked.

‘Secure?’

‘Somewhere under lock. Somewhere solid.’

‘Why –’

‘Do you?’ Caldason barked.

The boy flinched. He strove to think. ‘Well, nothing except …’

‘What?’

‘Only the old demon hole.’

‘You have one? Here?’

‘Yes. My master had need of it sometimes.’

‘Take me. Now.’

Growing fearful, Kutch led the way to the cellar door. Still holding the swords, Caldason negotiated the dank steps uncertainly.

The demon hole was a small vault at the cellar’s far end. It was constructed from robust stone, with a sturdy door into which a barred grille had been cut. Inside, stout iron rings were embedded in the floor, with chains and manacles attached.

Caldason lifted one of the swords.

‘Please don’t,’ Kutch pleaded. ‘There’s no need to lock me in there. I won’t tell about you.’

‘Not you. Me.’

‘What?’

He thrust the sheathed swords at Kutch. ‘Take them! And these.’ Several knives joined the haul. ‘Hide them.’ He stretched a hand to the youth’s shoulder to steady himself and peeled off his boots. A buckled belt followed them. His movements were becoming erratic. He sweated, and breath didn’t seem to come easily.

‘What is it?’ Kutch said. ‘Is somebody coming? Do we have to hide?’

‘We’ve got to trust each other. Now listen to me. Do not, under any circumstances, let me out of there until … well, you’ll probably know when. But if you have any doubts just leave me be.’

‘None of this makes sense.’

‘Just do it. Please.’

Kutch gave him a dazed nod.

‘Are those the keys for the fetters?’ Caldason waved a hand at a bunch hanging from a hook on the cell’s door frame.

‘Yes.’

‘Then chain me.’

‘You want to be chained too?’

‘We’ve no time. Hurry.’

With shaking hands, Kutch secured Caldason’s ankles and wrists.

‘Whatever I say or do,’ Caldason restated, ‘don’t open that door. Not if you value your life. Now get out. And stay away.’

In a state of confusion, Kutch backed away from the cell. He closed the bulky door and turned its lock.

Then he stood by the grille and watched what happened next in amazement.




3 (#ulink_54f80ae1-b440-5059-9cd7-6c14d791ddea)


His people thought honour meant something. Until betrayal rode in on a thousand horses.

The raiders came under cover of a moonless night, with no aim but murder. They were welcomed by paltry fences and open gates. A sparse watch, taken off-guard. An alarm raised too late.

They set to slaughter, and savoured the task.

But his folk were warriors, first and last, and they met the traitors. There were inexhaustible numbers to unhorse and cut down, and still they made no impression on the tide. Victory was hopeless. Yet better to die with sword in hand.

He did his share of killing. In vain he tried to organise a defence in the face of chaos. Where he could, he protected the weak.

In the confusion of running, screaming, burning and dying he saw a woman and her child cowering before a raider. She pleaded as the youngster wept, balled fists to his eyes. He hacked his way to them and struck down their would-be assassin. The pair fled, the woman clutching the boy’s hand. Then he watched, powerless, as another rider swooped in to spear and trample them.

Dead and wounded littered the ground, most of them his own people. He walked, stumbled, ran over them as he dodged and slashed. The wave of attackers seemed endless. He looked to the central lodge, the communal hub of the camp and traditional sanctuary in times of strife. Some of the more vulnerable, the young, the old and the ailing, had been swiftly shepherded there. That might include his closest kin. Now he wanted only to be with them for the end.

The great round house’s thatch was already ablaze before he battled his way to its door. His arrival, gore encrusted, panting, found the building in full flame. Victims of the conflagration, staggering fireballs, groped shrieking from the burning lodge. Around its entrance lay evidence of a particular massacre within the general carnage. The corpses of family, comrades, and siblings by right of blood oath. His despairing thought was to get away, perhaps then to join with other survivors and strike back at their enemy.

A group of raiders lashed ropes to the camp’s corral and brought it crashing down. Scores of terrified horses galloped out to compound the anarchy. The stampede acted as a diversion for his flight. He sped to a cluster of huts, several of which were also on fire, and weaved through them. His goal was the perimeter fence, the pasture land beyond and then the forest.

He didn’t make it.

A pack of the distinctively garbed attackers appeared and blocked his path. More closed off his exit. He tore into them, fighting with the frenzy of hopelessness. Two he downed at once, ribboning the throat of one, skewering the heart of the next. Then he was at the centre of a storm of blades. He took his own wounds, many of them, but gave plenty in return. Another opponent fell, chest caved, and another, stomach slashed.

His reckless fury brought a small miracle. All but a pair of his opponents were dispatched, and one of them was injured. But his hurts were too many and put paid to hopes of escape. Near collapse from loss of blood, vision swimming, a blow across his shoulders brought him to his knees. His sword slipped from numbing fingers.

He thought he saw, just fleetingly, the figure of an old man cloaked in black smoke, standing at the door of a nearby hut.

His gaze went up to the face of his killer. An ocean of time flowed slowly between them.

Then he felt his ravaged body pierced by cold steel.

Cold water battered his face.

He came round in a spasm, fighting for breath, eyes wide. His arms and legs were held fast, and instinctively he jerked at the chains binding them.

‘Easy.’

Caldason blinked at the figure kneeling alongside.

‘I think it’s over now,’ Kutch told him.

Sitting up, painfully, Caldason took in his surroundings. They were in the cramped demon hole. The hard, irregular stone floor was uncomfortable and wet.

‘How long?’ he grated, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand.

Kutch put aside the bucket. ‘All day. It’s late evening now.’

‘Did I do any harm?’

‘Only to yourself.’ He surveyed the Qalochian’s bruised face and grazed arms, his dishevelled hair and the dark rings under his still slightly feral eyes. ‘You look terrible.’

‘Did I speak?’

‘You did little else, though rave might be a better word. But not in any tongue I recognised. You’ve no need to fear you gave away any secrets.’

‘I have few enough, but thank you for that, Kutch.’

‘I’ve never seen anybody the way you were, Reeth. Unless they were ramped or possessed of demons.’

‘Neither covers my situation.’

‘No, that was something else. Is that why you wanted to consult my master?’

‘Part of it.’

‘Part? You nearly uprooted those restraining rings! You frothed, for the gods’ sake! And you have other problems?’

‘Let’s say they are complicating factors.’

Kutch could see he wasn’t going to get any more on that subject. ‘I’d heard you were a savage fighter,’ he said. ‘Is that because of these … fits?’ It was an inadequate word.

‘Sometimes. You’ve seen I don’t control it.’

‘How did you –’

‘Kutch. I ache. I’m soaked and I could use food and something to drink.’ He thrust his manacled wrists at him. ‘Get me out of these.’

Kutch looked wary.

‘The seizure’s passed, you’re in no danger. I have some warning of an onset. If it’s going to happen again I’ll come back here.’

Still the boy hesitated.

‘It’s not as though I’m in a permanent state of derangement,’ Caldason persisted. ‘I’m no Melyobar.’

Despite his apprehension, Kutch had to smile as he reached for the keys.

The royal court of the sovereign state of Bhealfa hadn’t stood still in almost twenty years.

When he gained leadership, though technically not the throne itself, Prince Melyobar was eighteen. Some said he was eccentric even then. Given the unusual constitutional situation he found himself in, with his father, the King, neither dead nor properly living, there were doubts about the Prince’s legitimacy as a ruler. It took an interminable time to sort out the problem. Melyobar distracted himself by consulting seers and prophets, hoping to hear something of his coming, ersatz reign.

It was then that he learned the true nature of death.

Nobody knows which of the numerous mystics he received first put the idea into his head. But the result was that, for Melyobar, death became Death. An animate creature, walking the world as men do, dealing out oblivion. Worse, intent on stalking him.

Backed by the counsel of some of his more pliable soothsayers, the Prince reasoned that if Death walked like a man, he could be outrun. In eluding Death, death could be cheated.

At vast cost, Melyobar ordered the construction of a moveable dwelling, smaller than the present palace but as opulently furnished. It contained hundreds of apartments, including a ballroom and a chamber given over to meetings of his puppet Elders Council.

The new court resembled a ship without sails, its prow and stern squared off. Its motive power was fabulously expensive magic. Steered by hand-picked enchanters, it floated silently above the ground at about the height of a man with his arms raised. It travelled at the pace of a cantering horse, though this could be varied somewhat. The Prince had two lesser versions built to accompany him as escape vessels.

Dozens of courtiers spent fortunes on their own conveyances, vying with each other in size and ornamentation. The Prince’s personal guard, representatives of the sorcerer elite, scholars, lawmakers and servants occupied more land ships. Others carried victuals and provisions. For the lower orders and mere camp followers there was no magical impetus. Their wagons relied on teams of horses, hazardously changed on the move. Everything depended on a complex logistical system, and the administrators who ran it took up yet more vehicles.

As the vast cavalcade journeyed the length and breadth of Bhealfa its route was varied to confound Death. Sometimes that meant the flattening of harvest crops, the fording of swollen rivers, even the destruction of an occasional village if it couldn’t be avoided. The priority was to keep moving at any cost.

This night, the flotilla crossed a relatively unpopulated region of the Princedom. It blazed with light from swaying lanterns and flickering brands. Nor was it quiet. The caravan brought with it the sounds of thundering hooves, squeaking wheels, music, and lookouts hailing each other when collisions threatened.

A carriage arrived at the periphery of the cortege and matched its speed. It was met by outriders who checked the visitor’s credentials. Then they escorted it into the convoy, a chancy undertaking at the best of times. But they reached the gliding palace with a minimum of bumps.

The carriage door opened and an elegantly dressed passenger stepped across onto the rungs of a short ladder. Deck crew assisted him aboard and a uniformed welcoming party saluted.

He was taken to an antechamber and subjected to the indignity of a light search. Not for weapons, but to ascertain that he was who he appeared to be, rather than the entity so much was being done to evade. Familiar with the Prince’s obsession, he suffered it without protest.

At last he was ushered into a lavishly appointed state – room.

‘The Imperial Envoy of Gath Tampoor,’ a flunky announced before discreetly exiting.

The room’s only occupant sat at an exquisite desk, studying a parchment held flat by a pair of silver candlesticks, seemingly unaware of his visitor’s arrival. Containing his impatience, the emissary gave a polite cough.

Prince Melyobar straightened and regarded him. His manner seemed vague, if not actually confused, and recognition took a moment. ‘Ah, Talgorian.’

‘Your Highness.’ The Envoy delivered a small head bow.

They were roughly the same age, but the Gath Tampoorian had worn much better. He was lean and fit, where the Prince was stout and pasty-faced. Talgorian had a neatly trimmed beard; Melyobar’s rotund face was shaved, against the prevailing fashion, and his hair was prematurely white. The Envoy was possessed of diplomatic calm, at least outwardly; Melyobar’s disposition was jumpy.

‘To what do I owe …’ The Prince trailed off, preoccupied.

‘Our regular meeting, Highness,’ Talgorian reminded him firmly, though remaining on the right side of protocol.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And the matter of the provision of additional troops.’ He enunciated this more slowly, in the way a peasant might address an obstinate cow. ‘Bhealfan troops. For our new campaign against Rintarah, Highness, and their troublesome clients.’

The Prince didn’t seem to comprehend. ‘To what purpose?’

‘As I previously explained, my Lord, to protect your sover-eignty and the security of the empire.’ He was having to work to keep his composure, as usual. ‘It wouldn’t do to let Rintarah get the upper hand, would it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘We need your gracious assent to draw more soldiers from Bhealfa’s ranks to support the cause.’ He slipped a hand into his coat and brought out a rolled document tied with red ribbon. ‘I will trouble you only for your signature, Highness. The details you can leave to me.’

‘You want me to sign something?’

‘It’s all strictly in compliance with the accord that exists between your government and mine,’ Talgorian explained reasonably. ‘A trifling matter of legality.’

There was a hiatus, with the Prince wordless and self-absorbed. At length he said, ‘You may approach.’

The Envoy stepped forward, unfurling the paper. He placed it on the desk and watched as Melyobar added his trembling signature. When the sand shaker had been applied, the Prince dipped his seal ring in hot wax and clumsily impressed the document with it.

When it was done, Talgorian all but snatched away the edict. ‘Thank you, your Highness,’ he cooed smoothly. He was relieved that the Prince hadn’t been awkward about the request. It would be tiresome to have to remind him again where the real power lay.

‘Rintarah, you say?’ Melyobar made it sound as though he’d never heard of the rival empire.

Talgorian bit back exasperation. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, carefully rolling the document. ‘A great threat to us all. Your troops will help keep it in check. Not to mention the warlords in the north. We need defending from them too.’ It was like speaking to a baby.

‘There are always warlords. They come and go. What concern are the barbarous lands to us?’

It was almost an intelligent remark. Talgorian was impressed. ‘True, Highness. But there is some small disquiet about this new one we’ve had reports of. Zerreiss.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Except when I last mentioned him to you,’ the Envoy muttered.

‘What?’

‘I said I must have forgotten to mention him to you. Apologies.’

‘What’s so special about him?’

‘Only that he seems to have accrued some impressive conquests in rather a short time. It’s always as well to keep an eye on such things. We don’t want Rintarah making pacts with these savages and gaining undue influence in that area.’

‘They’ll be doing better than Gath Tampoor if they do,’ Melyobar responded bluntly. ‘What’s known about this …’

‘Zerreiss, Highness.’

‘What do we know about him?’

‘Very little at present. In fact he’s a bit of a mystery.’

For the first time during the audience, a spark of animation came into the Prince’s eyes. ‘Perhaps it’s … him,’ he whispered.

Talgorian was baffled. ‘Highness?’

‘Him. Him! The reaper. The gatherer of life essences.’ His voice dropped to an undertone. ‘Death.’

The Envoy should have guessed. ‘Of course. Tricky customer.’ He knew that sounded feeble.

Melyobar didn’t seem to notice the lack of empathy. He was warming to the subject. ‘It could be him. He’s a shape changer, you know.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And where better to snatch lives than in the barbarous lands?’

‘All the more reason to take precautions.’ Talgorian tried to steer the conversation into more placid waters. ‘Which is why your assignment of the troops will be so very useful in respect of maintaining order and stability.’

The Prince ignored the platitudes. Nodding at the papers on his desk, his tone became conspiratorial. ‘Just between ourselves?’

‘Naturally,’ the Envoy promised, wearing a look of hurt effrontery at the very notion of indiscretion.

‘These are a secret,’ Melyobar confided, laying his hand on the sheets of spidery scrawl. He leaned closer and hissed, ‘They’re part of my plan to kill Death.’

Unusually for a diplomat, Talgorian was lost for a coherent response.

He was spared. A gust of chill wind, somehow penetrating the quarters, rustled a drape. Several candles briefly guttered. The Prince shivered and pulled his ermine cape closer. His uneasy gaze darted about the chamber.

‘Then best that the scheme be kept a secret,’ Talgorian said, stroking Melyobar’s paranoia.

‘You’re probably right.’ The Prince hastily turned over the papers and anchored them with a regally engraved inkpot. Fresh anxiety etched his features.

‘There is just one more matter I would like to discuss, Highness,’ the Envoy continued. ‘A topic of some importance.’

The Prince paid heed to Talgorian’s graver countenance. ‘What is it?’

‘Your Royal Highness, have you ever heard of a man called Reeth Caldason?’




4 (#ulink_98a89886-b101-50eb-b77f-ea977039c01b)


The city stood in a wide valley between low, black hills. A pewter river wormed through it. Towers and spires marked its heart, with villas, lodges and houses radiating from the core. Huts, shanties and lean-tos, many clinging to the slopes, formed a crusty halo. To the passing birds it demonstrated all that needed to be known about the seep of power. Not that everything flying above was a bird.

Merakasa, capital of Gath Tampoor and hub of its empire, was never entirely dark. The lights being kindled as night fell, of wax and oil, were rivalled by constant eruptions of magical energies, making for a continuous, shimmering glow. But this glow was uneven, with feeble emissions in the poor quarters, gleaming splendour around the mansions of the rich.

The streets teemed. Costers and tradesmen jostled artisans and itinerants. Merchants led mules weighed down with cloth bolts and sacks of spices. Laden carts vied with horse riders. Pavement sellers hawked fruit and bread from makeshift stalls as tattered, thieving boys eyed their wares. Wagons bobbed in the flow of humanity.

And non-humanity.

Falsities walked the streets too. Or padded, slithered or floated over them. Some were fantastical, mythic, grotesque, designed to entertain or threaten. Others were indistin-guishable from the everyday, mimicking pets or trophy mistresses. Some were wholly credible, others less so, depending on their price.

Every so often a glamour vanished in silent pyrotechnics as it expired or was voided. New ones appeared with about the same frequency, disgorging from thin air in bursts of radiance. The supply was plentiful. Licensed magic vendors worked the crowds, dispensing spells and potions while their bodyguards kept watch.

The bustle washed against the walls of the palace Merakasa suckled; thick, high ramparts surrounding a city within a city, immense and rambling. By contrast to the streets, its grounds seemed deserted, and somehow the din from outside was muted.

Its innermost buildings were grand and had the magical lustre of conspicuous wealth. Outlying utilitarian structures were in a colder style. One particularly bleak example was set apart. It was squat and windowless. Its function had to do with state security and the maintenance of order, so naturally it was very large. But all it showed the world was a modest two storeys. Only someone luckless enough to be dragged inside would learn that it burrowed well below ground, through sub-levels, cellars and vaults.

Its deepest reaches contained the holding areas; a honeycomb of stone passageways, lined with featureless, barred doors. Behind one, at the far end of an especially remote corridor, was a cell much like all the rest. Its sole furnishings were a hard bed and a wooden bucket. Faint light was supplied by a paltry glamour.

A woman sat on the cot. She had been given nothing to eat or drink. Her boots, belt, anything that could do harm, had been taken from her and a drab ankle-length smock replaced her normal clothes. She had a distaste for confined spaces that bordered on dread, and that added to her anguish.

They had interrogated her incessantly. Her answers weren’t what they wanted to hear, but they hadn’t laid hands on her. She wondered how long that would last. Exhausted, confused, her anger at the way she was being treated, at the inequity of it, had abated to churning resentment.

She had been left alone for some hours now. Or so it seemed – her unvarying surroundings made it hard to judge. She thought it might be evening, but wouldn’t swear to it. Already she had grown used to the silence.

Which made her start all the more when it was broken.

Distant doors slammed. There were voices and echoing footfalls. The sounds grew nearer. Some kind of procession turned into her corridor. She heard muffled conversation and boots scuffing on stone. They stopped at her cell.

After a second’s quiet, the lock was turned, then the door creaked open. She tensed.

Someone was framed for a moment, outlined by the greater light outside; greater than the gloom of her cell, but still petty. The figure was tall, cadaverously thin, slightly hunched at the shoulders. It took a step towards her. She saw others in the passage, holding back.

Her visitor was completely bald and his features were angular, like a carrion bird’s. His china blue eyes were quick, his mouth thin lipped. It was hard to tell his age, but he was probably around sixty. He wore the discreetly affluent garb of a high-ranking servant of the state.

She recognised him instantly. Perhaps her astonishment showed on her face.

He came in and closed the door, leaving his escort outside. He was the kind of man who always had an escort.

They had never met. In her position you didn’t get to meet someone so illustrious unless you excelled or fouled up badly. But she had seen him from afar several times, as well as his likeness in paintings and the odd statue. She thought, absurdly, of standing and making a show of obeisance. Before she could move, he spoke.

‘Captain Ardacris.’ He was smiling.

She stared at him, and although it was a greeting, not a question, nodded.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied distantly, then got a hold on herself. ‘Yes, sir. Commissioner Laffon, Council for Internal Security, sir.’

‘Good.’ The smile remained fixed. He indicated the bed. ‘May I?’

She nodded again and shifted for him. Laffon perched.

He regarded her, then said, ‘Serrah, you need my help.’

‘I do?’

‘Wouldn’t you say so? To get this business cleared up and put behind us?’ His manner was kindly, avuncular.

‘Well … yes, of course. But what more can I do than tell the truth?’

‘Perhaps something more.’

His presence emphasised the seriousness of her situation, and she felt a little overawed. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Explain what happened. About the Principal-Elect’s son.’

‘I’ve already told the story so many times, Commissioner. Why do I –’

‘Indulge me. You can summarise.’

Serrah took a breath. ‘My unit was on to a gang of ramp dealers. We watched their hideaway for nearly a month. Last night, we went in.’ It felt a lot longer ago than just last night, she reflected, but went on, ‘Phosian acted like a hothead. He stepped out of line and they killed him for it. I might add that it wasn’t the first time he’d disobeyed orders, sir. He made a habit of it.’

Laffon considered her words, then stated, ‘No, it didn’t happen like that.’

She was dumbfounded. ‘Sir?’

‘That isn’t an approved version.’

‘Approved? I thought there was only one version of the truth.’

‘Not for official purposes,’ the Commissioner informed her softly.

‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me how it did happen, sir.’ Her fury was creeping back.

‘Phosian died a hero.’

Ice fragments swirled in the pit of her stomach. All she could think to say was, ‘Is that so?’ It was meant bitingly, it sounded weak.

‘It is, Captain. Moreover, it will be said that he bravely gave his life as the result of bad leadership.’

‘With respect, sir, that isn’t how it was.’

‘The Council has appraised it otherwise.’ He maintained the sympathetic air.

‘My unit. They’ll confirm what I’ve said. Ask them.’

‘Ah, yes, a devoted band. Nothing but respect for you. I’m afraid they all said your behaviour fell below acceptable standards.’

She couldn’t believe they had, willingly. ‘This is wrong, Commissioner. Everything’s been twisted, just because of Phosian’s family connections.’

‘I know this is difficult for you. But you can make things so much easier. Simply confess to what happened and –’

‘To what you say happened, sir.’

‘Confess to it and I promise I’ll do my best to get you a lenient sentence.’

‘You’re asking me to lie. Not to mention condemning myself.’

‘I’m asking you not to give succour to the empire’s enemies.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Rintarah, and their fellow travellers here, the insurgents. It would only strengthen their cause if it got out that the scion of one of our ruling houses was … less than perfect.’

Serrah gave a hollow laugh. ‘That, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression, is horse shit. Phosian was a spoilt, reckless brat. Any Rintarahian spy worth their salt would already know that. It took his fancy to play at being a militiaman, and because of who he was, that meant an elite unit, despite my objections. Now I’m supposed to pay for his stupidity.’

‘You would do well to refrain from speaking that way about your betters, Captain.’

Did she detect a slip in his benevolent pose? A slight tension in that turkey neck?

‘I’ve always been loyal,’ she argued, playing what felt like her last card.

‘You will best demonstrate your loyalty by doing as I ask.’

‘Does it matter what I say? I can’t stop you putting out any version you want, so why this charade? Sir.’

He ignored the mild insubordination. ‘It’s a question of credibility. It has to come from you. If you confess to your failings publicly there will be no doubts, no void to be filled with rumours by the dissidents and troublemakers. And as far as Phosian’s family is concerned, honour will be satisfied.’

‘Then I demand an open trial. Let my peers judge me.’

‘That’s out of the question.’

‘As a citizen of Gath Tampoor I have rights.’

‘You have only as many rights as we allow you.’ Laffon’s tone was distinctly flintier. ‘When it comes to state security we don’t wash our soiled linen in public, you know that.’

‘If I agree to this … declaration, what happens to me afterwards?’

‘As I said, I’ll use my influence to ensure your punishment is light.’ He held her gaze. ‘That’s a pledge.’

Serrah couldn’t help thinking how convenient it would be for them if she simply disappeared after her confession. No possibility of her reneging. No loose ends. She looked at Laffon and for the first time in her life doubted the word of a superior. It was a frightening, heady notion. ‘And if I refuse?’

‘I can make no promises in that eventuality.’

Heads or tails I lose, she thought. ‘I don’t deserve to be treated this way, Commissioner.’

‘Nobody said the world was fair. We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good.’

Whose greater good? she wondered.

He pressed her. ‘Will you do it? Confess?’

‘I … I can’t.’

Laffon sighed. A moment passed in silence. Finally, he said, ‘Consider this. Perhaps my truth is the truth.’

Serrah raised her bowed head. ‘I don’t understand.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Your daughter. Eithne, wasn’t it?’

‘What about her? What’s she got to do with this?’

‘I believe she was fifteen when it happened, isn’t that so?’

‘Why are you bringing this up?’ His course rattled her. She didn’t want to go there.

‘Tragic,’ he tutted, slowly shaking his head. ‘Such a waste.’

‘That has nothing to do –’

‘Think about it, Serrah. Your daughter. The ramp. Isn’t it possible …’

‘No.’

‘… given the circumstances of Eithne’s death, seeing the drug there, faced with the traffickers …’

‘No.’

‘… that your judgement was clouded? That, understandably, you reacted emotionally and –’

‘No! I’m a professional! I work on facts, not emotions!’

‘Really? The way you’re behaving now hardly bears that out.’

That struck home. With an effort of will she calmed herself. ‘My daughter has nothing to do with any of this. Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve been up against ramp dealers. I hate them, yes, but that’s never affected the way I do my job. But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you needing a sacrifice.’

‘You still don’t understand the extent of this thing, do you, Ardacris?’ There was no vestige of sympathy now. ‘What you allowed to happen has repercussions, and they go all the way up to the Empress herself.’

‘I’m flattered,’ Serrah replied cynically.

‘Enough,’ Laffon decided. ‘There’s no more to be said on the subject.’ He delved in his pocket and brought out a folded parchment. With an irritated flick, he shook it open. ‘You can make a start at rehabilitating yourself by signing this.’ He held out the confession to her.

Everything crystallised in Serrah’s mind. She abandoned hope of justice. All that kept her alive was that scrap of paper remaining unsigned. The only choice was to be defiant.

‘Well?’ Laffon demanded.

‘No,’ she said.

‘You’re refusing?’

‘I am.’

‘Be absolutely sure about this. Because what happens next won’t be to your liking.’

She shook her head.

Laffon could see her resolve. He stood. ‘You’ll regret taking the hard road. I’ll leave you this for when you change your mind.’ He dropped the document on the bed. Next to it he tossed a small, reddish, tubular object. A graphology glamour, useless for anything but. Probably strong enough for no more than her signature.

‘I won’t be needing it,’ she told him.

He paused on the point of leaving. ‘Remember, you’ve brought this on yourself.’

Three men entered as Laffon slipped out. It happened so quickly, Serrah was taken off-guard.

They were muscular, stern-faced individuals. Each held a short length of thick rope with one end knotted. She started to get up.

Without warning, the nearest man swung his rope cosh at her. It cracked hard across her shoulder. She cried out and fell back. He moved in and lashed again, striking her just below the throat. Scrambling away from him, she kicked wildly, catching his shin. He cursed and backed off, hindering the other two.

Serrah rolled from the cot, landing heavily, and snatched the bucket. Ignoring the pain, she rose quickly, swinging it. The bucket raked the second man’s temple as he rushed in, knocking him senseless. But the first man had recovered. He landed a hefty punch to her stomach and she doubled over. The third man joined him and they rained blows on her. Serrah tried to ward them off with the pail, using it as both shield and weapon. A stinging rap across the knuckles broke her grip and sent it flying.

The man she had downed was on his feet again, adding his fury to the beating. She covered her head with her hands and retreated. But only a step or two took her to the tiny cell’s limit. She was trapped in the narrow space between bed and wall. It cramped her attackers and they had to take turns to swing at her. But that didn’t stop them delivering continuous punishment to her arms, legs and body.

Serrah half dived, half pitched sideways, onto the bed. That only made it easier for them. They set to with a will then, bent like men threshing corn, not speaking, dedicated to their work. She curled into a ball and suffered the storm.

When she was sure they would go on until they killed her, the beating stopped.

All she knew was pain. Every inch of her body was ablaze. The battering left her ears ringing and her vision blurred. She was bloodied, sweat-sheened, drifting on the rim of consciousness. Breathing hard, she flopped onto her back.

One of her tormentors loomed over her. He reached down and grasped the hem of her smock. With a violent jerk he yanked it up above her waist.

They laughed, jeered, made lecherous comments. Then they told her plainly and crudely what would happen if they had to come again. At the last, somebody threw the confession down on her.

They left, slamming the door.

Serrah coughed weakly, pain stabbing her ribs. Blood trickled from her nose and a corner of her mouth. It was agony to think, let alone move.

She passed an indefinite period of time immersed in an ocean of misery. Eventually nature took a hand and despite her injuries she fell into an exhausted slumber.

That gave the nightmares their chance to afflict her.

Leering faces and flaying bludgeons. The dungeon shrinking to crush her to pulp between its rigid walls. Her daughter sucked into a pitch black maelstrom, fingertips brushing Serrah’s as she strained to reach her. Dreams of fire and suffering and loss.

She woke with a start.

Blood had crusted on her face and arms, and bruises were already rising. She ached horribly, fit to vomit.

It seemed to her that the cell was even more dimly lit than before. And the silence was oppressive. Then an indefinable but not unfamiliar feeling dawned; that sixth sense which let her know when someone quietly appeared at her back. The tickle up her spine that said she wasn’t alone. Painfully, she struggled to a sitting position and blinked into the gloom.

Somebody else was in the cell. Standing by the door, quite still. Their features hard to make out.

‘Who’s there?’ Serrah called, her voice cracked, hoarse.

There was no answer, and the stranger didn’t move.

‘Show yourself!’

Still nothing. Serrah had a dread that it was her torturers back to do worse. Toying with her first, to heighten her fear or their pleasure. But no assault came, so she began the agony of standing.

She narrowly won the battle to get to her feet. When she moved, she shuffled like an arthritic old woman. As she approached the figure she realised it had its back to her. It wore a dark, full-length cloak, tightly gathered. There was a hint of blonde hair above the upturned collar.

Serrah challenged the intruder again. ‘Who are you?’ This time it was nearly a whisper.

The figure turned.

Reality crumbled. Shocked disbelief hit Serrah like a tidal wave. Her pain was forgotten. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move. What she saw made her distrust her sanity.

The apparition stretched out a hand and lightly touched her arm. Its caress was warm, solid. Real. There was no threat in it. Serrah fought to say something. No words came. She took in the other’s long, golden locks, hazel eyes, slightly plump, puppy-fat features. Her visitor smiled.

‘Mother,’ she said.




5 (#ulink_22b8020e-1589-564f-bf7a-be8c15e8222d)


‘Eithne?’ Serrah whispered.

Her dead daughter’s grin widened.

Serrah had never been the fainting type. Now she felt ready to drop. ‘Eithne?’ she repeated.

‘Yes. Don’t be afraid.’

‘But … how? You’re –’

‘I’m more alive than I’ve ever been, Mother.’ The sunken sockets, the pallor, the drawn features had all gone. She was as she had been, before her descent and the final days. Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve come back to you.’

Serrah was aware that her arm was still being held. She felt the girl’s fingers pressing into her flesh. How could this be a spectre, a deceiving glamour? ‘Is it truly you?’ she asked.

‘It’s me, Mummy.’

Serrah wanted to believe so badly. She moved to embrace her daughter.

‘No,’ Eithne said, letting go of Serrah and stepping back. ‘It’d be painful at the moment, I’m too … delicate. I’ve only just …’ The smile was unwavering. ‘I’m feeling tender. Like you.’

Serrah remained with her arms outstretched, stunned at not being able to hold her child. For a moment, her grip on sanity seemed just as elusive. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said.

‘All you have to understand is that I’m here. They brought me back.’

‘Who? How?’

‘The sorcerers of the imperial court, no less. You’ve no idea the kind of magic they command. Wonderful magic.’

‘You said you were in pain.’

‘Just some discomfort. It’ll pass. The coming back … it was like waking up, that’s all.’

Serrah had never heard of such a thing. ‘But they can’t –’

‘They can. They did.’

‘Why?’

‘For you. Us.’

‘Why would the highest-ranking concern themselves with us?’

‘Because of this situation you’ve got yourself into. They’re showing you a way out.’

‘I must be blind not to see it.’

‘Then look on me as a kind of reward.’

‘For what?’

‘For something you haven’t done yet.’

Serrah was sure she knew what that was, but asked anyway. ‘What do they expect from me?’

‘You have to do as they say, Mother. You have to confess.’

‘Eithne,’ Serrah replied, still feeling strange at mouthing the name after so long, ‘I have nothing to confess to. I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Yes.’

‘But does it matter if it means I can be reunited with you, that I can live out the life I lost?’

‘There wouldn’t be a life together if I confessed. I’d be locked away, or worse.’

‘They promised me they’d be merciful.’

‘You believe them?’

‘The fact that I’m here proves they’re serious about their side of the bargain.’

‘And if I don’t confess?’

Eithne’s expression grew troubled. ‘That would be bad for me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The spell they used to raise me is temporary. Unless they cast another that makes my state permanent, and soon …’

‘How soon?’

‘Hours.’

To have her back only to lose her again. Serrah felt her eyes filling. ‘That’s what they’re offering in exchange for my confession?’

‘Yes. They’ll let me live again.’

‘Doing it this way, it’s … beyond cruel.’

‘No, Mother! It’s a miracle. Don’t you see? They told me that at worst you’ll spend a short time in prison or a reeducation camp. Then we can be together again.’

A small part of Serrah’s mind marvelled at how she had so readily accepted talking with the dead. Her dead. If this wasn’t madness it would pass for it. ‘Eithne, I –’

‘I forgive you.’

‘Forgive me?’

‘For when I was … ill. When you weren’t there for me.’

It was all the more wounding for being stated so matter-of-factly. Guilt knifed Serrah in the ribs. Her eyes were welling again. ‘I’m … I’m so sorry. I did my best. I tried so very hard to –’

Eithne raised a hand to still her. ‘I said I forgive you. But I don’t think I could again. Not if you don’t do this. Sign that confession, Mother.’

Serrah was taken aback by the severe tone in her daughter’s voice. It seemed out of character. Even in those terrible final weeks Eithne had been secretive rather than manipulative. Could her personality have been altered in some way? By the experience of death and rebirth? By some design on the Council’s part? ‘I need to gather myself, Eithne. I have to think about what you’re saying.’

‘What’s there to think about? My time’s running out, Mummy. You always did seesaw.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Just do it. Or do you want me to face death again?’

Something had been nagging Serrah, just beyond thought. It surfaced. ‘If resurrection really is possible,’ she said, ‘why haven’t they used it on Phosian? I mean, they couldn’t have, could they? Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Eithne replied after a pause. She sounded defensive. ‘I think it might have something to do with the way a person died,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘A lethal wound, too much ramp; what’s the difference? Dead’s dead, isn’t it?’

‘I’m no expert on magic. I don’t care how they did it.’

Serrah played her hunch. ‘What do you think Rohan would have to say about this?’

‘What?’

‘Rohan. He’d have something to say, wouldn’t he?’

Eithne was obviously perplexed but trying to hide it. ‘I don’t –’

‘You do remember Rohan?’

‘Of course! But what’s he got to do with this?’

Serrah’s heart was sinking. But she would see it through. ‘I think his opinion’s important, don’t you? Humour me.’

Her daughter sighed. ‘I suppose … I suppose I’d expect him to say you were behaving foolishly by being so stubborn, and that you should do what’s best for both of us.’

‘And I’d expect you to say, “Don’t be half-witted, Mother; real dogs can’t talk. And Rohan’s a she, not a he.”’ She glared at whatever was calling itself her child.

‘You’re confused.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re doubting me just because I couldn’t remember the name of a dog?’

‘An animal you were inseparable from all your childhood. Or rather, Eithne was. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my daughter.’

‘That’s ridiculous. The beating’s affected you. You’re not seeing things straight.’

‘You mean I’m not supposed to.’

‘Look at me; I’m your daughter. How can you disown me, Mother?’

‘Don’t call me that. All I see is a fraud.’

‘Sign the confession. Save us both.’

Serrah had ceased to believe in the illusion. ‘I deny you,’ she hissed.

The girl saw her expression. She began edging away. Serrah noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

They moved at the same time. Despite her aches, Serrah was faster. She caught the pretender by her arms. They struggled. Serrah loosed a hand, drew it back and delivered a hard slap across the girl’s face. A tingling sensation suffused her hand, like transient pins and needles.

‘You stupid bitch!’ the impostor wailed. Her voice was changing, dropping to a lower pitch.

Transfixed by what was happening, Serrah let go of her.

It was as though a seething swarm of golden bees covered the girl’s face. Then the myriad glimmering shards dispersed, flying out in all directions and dissolving.

A partial glamour, designed to enfold its host’s face, and in this instance imitate a dead child. Advanced magic, worth a small fortune.

When the dazzle cleared, Serrah was facing a stranger. A plain woman, not a girl, and quite different to her daughter. Only her build matched. She looked frightened.

Serrah lunged at her. She met a blow to the abdomen. It knocked the wind out of her and rekindled the fire of her earlier thrashing. Gasping, she went to her knees.

The woman was through the door in a flash, slamming it behind her. Serrah scrambled to it and started hammering with her fists. She raged and cursed until her hands were bloody and her voice gave out.

At some point her passion spent itself. She had sunk to the floor, and remained there. The door was bloodstained from her pounding.

Now she hugged her knees to her chest and gently rocked. And due to her masters’ deceit, grieved again. Physical brutality she might withstand. She didn’t think she could take much more of their artifice.

For some while she had been staring at the top of the door frame. The cross-beam projected like a narrow shelf. If her smock was torn into strips and wound together, the makeshift rope could be looped over it. Then she just had to tie a noose, haul herself up, wriggle her head in and let go. There wasn’t enough of a drop to snap her neck. It would be a slow choking. But even that seemed preferable to her present state.

Her trance was broken by noises outside the cell. They were coming for her again.

Serrah was halfway to standing when the door flew open. It framed one of the men who had beaten and threatened her. His expression was unreadable. Serrah backed away, meeting the bed.

The man took two faltering steps in her direction. He stopped, swayed, then fell head-first. A dagger jutted between his shoulder-blades.

There were other people outside. Serrah blinked at them, bewildered, as they spilled in. Their faces appeared blank at first. She thought it must be more glamours to cheat her, then saw they wore fabric masks, quite crudely made.

‘Who are you?’ she challenged.

‘Friends,’ one of them responded crisply. ‘Come on! We’ve no time!’

The thought that this might be her unit flashed through her mind. She soon realised it wasn’t. ‘Where are we –’

‘Out of here.’

He took her arm. She winced as they bundled her into the corridor.

There were four of them. One went ahead, one took the rear; the other two stuck by her. They began moving down a long, low-ceilinged passageway. It was badly lit and the men at front and back activated soft illumination glamours.

She asked again, ‘Who are you?’

‘We’ve a way to go before we’re out of here,’ her escort told her, ignoring the question, ‘and likely to meet opposition. Stay with us, keep moving.’

‘Give me a blade,’ she said.

‘You’re in no state.’

‘If I have to defend myself I’ll need it. You want me out of here, don’t you?’

After a brief hesitation he passed her a long-bladed knife. Its cold, firm gravitas reassured her.

‘Use it only if necessary,’ he cautioned. ‘We’re here to do the fighting.’

She shook loose their steadying hands and walked unaided. They said nothing but stayed close to her. Hobbling from her pains, Serrah had to work hard to keep pace.

They came to two bodies sprawled in their path; one a warder, the other wearing a paladin’s red tunic. That meant real trouble. If it was possible to be in more.

Stepping over the corpses, they warily approached a corner. Once round it they were in another passage, much like the first but shorter. Three more masked rescuers lurked at the end of it. Serrah’s group hurried to them, and she ached with the effort.

They were guarding the foot of a winding staircase. There was a quick, whispered consultation. Then together they started to ascend, weapons ready, with Serrah in the middle of the pack.

Five or six turns brought them to another level. This proved to be an axis of corridors, each following a point of the compass. All looked empty. The party continued climbing.

The level above saw the end of the stairs and a single passageway. It wasn’t much more than a tunnel. With whispers and signals the one who seemed to be their leader explained that the next stairwell was at its far end. By drawing a finger across his throat he indicated that it was a particularly dangerous stretch. As they began walking, she saw why. Other corridors branched out from theirs, but at oblique angles, meaning the mouths of several were blind to them until they drew parallel. They crept past two such without ambush.

As the stairs came into sight they found another body, lying in a scarlet puddle. He was one of theirs, no doubt left as a lookout. His mask had been pulled up to his hairline and his body bore numerous wounds.

They all glanced around nervously. Serrah gripped the knife tighter, her senses heightened. Twenty or thirty paces ahead were two more side passages, one to their left, one to their right, almost facing each other. There was a flurry of handsignalling among Serrah’s party. Then they quietly spread out and began a slow advance. A pair of her unknown companions shadowed her, not touching but close enough to.

About halfway there, the pathfinder motioned a halt. He knelt and picked up a small piece of stone. This he pitched ahead of him. It landed mid-corridor, clattering.

The echo died. Nothing happened.

They decided on the simplest stratagem: a rush en masse for the stairs. The company readied themselves. Serrah’s escorts looked ready to drag her if necessary. Their fingertips brushed her arms, within grabbing distance.

The leader gave his sign and they started to run.

A dozen swift paces on, disaster struck.

Armed men poured from the tunnel mouths. Warders and militia mostly, with a smattering of paladins. Serrah reckoned their number at above a dozen. At least half as many again as her side.

The rescuers’ dash became an unplanned charge. They had no choice. The two groups’ leading edges met. There were cries and clashes of steel.

Serrah allowed herself to be steered through the initial chaos. As the mob distilled into a series of separate fights, she shook free. Her escorts stayed close but their attention turned to the advancing melee. Whoever her mysterious allies were, they fought like maniacs.

The tide rolled in and Serrah found herself at the centre of the brawl. For a long moment, incredibly, it engaged everyone but her. She seemed to exist in a bubble, with duels raging on every side. Her abused body throbbed. She was sucked dry and disoriented. But all she felt was fury. Blistering resentment and hatred of her persecutors smothered any other thought.

She needed to kill something.

The battle had drawn her bodyguards away. As she moved, she heard one of them calling out to her. She ignored him and plunged into the scrum.

A blade scythed the air above her ducking head. Another cleared her ribs by a hairsbreadth. The twisting and dodging was excruciating. It didn’t matter.

She picked a target. A stocky militiaman, fencing with a rescuer and getting the better of it. Serrah had no taste for honour or subtlety. She buried her knife in his back. As he went down she took his sword. Her victim’s opponent turned away and piled into another foe.

One of the masked rescuers collapsed in front of her, his chest ribboned. She leapt over his corpse and into the path of a warder with a rapier in play. Deflecting a blow with the knife, she thrust her sword into his belly. Nearby, one of his comrades lost his footing on the dank flagstones and fell heavily. A masked rescuer impaled him, delivering his broadsword two-handed to the heart. Bathed in the catharsis of violence, Serrah looked for more trouble.

It found her. Moving with liquid agility, a paladin laid siege. He was a head taller than Serrah and powerfully built. Like her, he wielded sword and knife. Their legendary fighting skills and savagery made paladins opponents to be avoided at the best of times. But in the worst of times, and impelled by bloodlust, caution had no hold on Serrah.

Their swords collided. The strength behind the paladin’s blow sent a spasm through Serrah’s knotted arm muscles. She took a swipe at his face with the knife, forcing him back a pace. Swift as thought he retaliated, sending a downward slash that could have split her to the waist. She replied with a combination of jabs and swipes that briefly staved him off.

They joined again in a flurry of scathing passes and grating blades. It seemed his defence was impenetrable. Then with will and luck guiding her hand, Serrah battered through. He tried to block a side-swipe. Her momentum was too great and snapped his sword in two. The paladin brought up his knife. She evaded it and planted steel deep in his guts.

He slumped to his knees, mouth agape, eyes wide. Serrah drew back her sword and sliced into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed, the paladin toppled.

Breathing hard, she backed off and looked around. The frenzy was decreasing. Her allies had downed the last of the enemy and bodies littered the corridor. Two of them were rescuers. Several others had light injuries. Some of them were staring at her, but nobody said anything.

Healing salves were quickly pressed to wounds. One or two of the group broke small phials under their noses and inhaled restorative vapours. Then the signal went out to move on. This time, nobody offered to help her.

The depleted band reached the stairs and began to climb again. They ascended four more levels without incident, save for disturbing the odd rat. But they could hear sounds of pursuit from below and hurried their flight. The effort vexed Serrah’s body. It felt like she had lava coursing through her veins.

Finally they arrived at a wide, high passageway marking ground level. The entrance was here, its robust doors standing open. A handful of masked men guarded it. Corpses of militia and paladins had been dragged to one side of the corridor. The guards eyed Serrah, but no questions were asked about their missing comrades.

‘How does it look?’ the leader of Serrah’s group wanted to know.

‘Our luck won’t hold much longer,’ one of the guards replied. ‘We have to move now.’

The leader nodded and steered Serrah to the door. It was night outside and a fine rain was falling. He pointed to the massive wall opposite. Three thick ropes hung down it. ‘Could you climb that?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

He held out a hand. ‘Your weapons.’

Serrah tightened her hold on the blades and shook her head.

‘How will you climb?’

Reluctantly, she gave him the sword and knife, and suddenly felt naked. He passed them back to his crew.

‘Who are you?’ she asked yet again.

‘Now isn’t the time. We’ll explain when we’re away from here.’ He indicated one of his men. ‘He’ll go with you. The rest of us will be right behind. Just keep moving. Don’t stop for anything.’ He took her silence as assent and mustered the others.

‘Go!’ he barked.

Serrah and her attendant raced through the doors. The chill night air jolted her and she took an involuntary gulp. Rain lashed her face. Underfoot, the ground was spongy. She could hear the others thundering along behind.

Somebody shouted. She turned her head. A large party of armed men, including many paladins, was rushing at them from the corner of the building. They were yelling too.

‘Keep moving!’ the leader bellowed.

Serrah slammed into the wall and grasped a dangling rope. Her escort did the same. They began pulling themselves up, feet slipping for want of purchase on the wet walls.

An ear-shattering explosion rang out. There were flashes of light, brilliant as lightning. She looked down. Somebody was letting off magical munitions.

They detonated in great round clouds of green and red and gold, then spewed their deceptions. Grotesque beasts erupted, and dozens of chimera duplicates of the rescuers, designed to confuse.

‘Look away!’ her companion cried.

She understood and averted her eyes. A tremendously intense light bathed them, illuminating the wall brighter than full daylight before it flickered and died. An optical glamour. A light burst that blinded. She wondered which side had used it. Screams and other sounds of combat drifted up to them. They continued climbing.

The edifice seemed eternal. About two-thirds of the way up, Serrah’s arms grew numb and her strength faltered. Her companion, keeping pace, urged her on. Something sliced the air and stilled his tongue. An arrow quivered in his back. Serrah reached out to him. He fell. A downward glance showed her his fate.

Mixed with phantasms and dazzlements, men were fighting in the grounds below. A couple of her rescuers had made it to the ropes and were hauling themselves up. She kept going, fearful of an arrow meant for her.

At length she arrived at a broad ledge topping the wall, fighting for breath as she dragged herself onto it. She crawled to the far side and looked down. Three more ropes hung on the outside of the wall, tied to a segment of crenellation on the ledge. In a side street directly below, a hay wagon had been parked, full of stuffed sacks. Two masked men looked up at her and gestured furiously.

A whoomp and crackle sounded to her rear. In the palace grounds a geyser of purplish smog billowed high. As she watched, it took on the form of a gigantic red dragon, tall as a temple tower, its green eyes ablaze, spiked tail lashing. A glamour, though the fire it breathed was real enough. She saw men engulfed in flame. But the ones on the ropes were still coming, despite arrows clacking all around.

Serrah crossed the ledge and began lowering herself to the street. All she could think about was getting away, and of her revulsion at being so completely at the mercy of others. In that moment she vowed it would never happen again. When she had scrambled about halfway down, she let go of the rope and dropped.

She landed heavily but unharmed on the pile of sacks. One of the waiting men moved to take her arm. She dodged him and jumped from the wagon. Then she ran. They shouted after her.

Serrah discounted her pains and ran faster still. Perhaps they tried following, she never knew. Soon she was in a maze of bustling lanes.

Barefoot, smock tattered and bloodstained, wet hair plastered to her forehead, she limped into streets where nobody stared.




6 (#ulink_c906e370-6411-53b7-9ef3-bf878a14e1af)


Rain lashed Bhealfa’s eastern region all through the night. But dawn broke sunny and clement.

Kutch Pirathon sat by a swollen brook, idly lobbing pebbles into the rushing water. He was growing restive. For the hundredth time he glanced at the tumbledown stone cottage further up the barren hill. Its ill-fitting door remained resolutely closed.

He sighed and continued bombarding the stream. There was little else to do. The hillside had nothing to offer but dripping scrub, a few withered trees and a lot of rocks. His only company was a brace of circling crows.

In truth, he could have employed himself gainfully. He was obliged to, in fact. More than obliged; bound by an oath. He should be undertaking the mental exercises necessary to advance in the Craft. His time was supposed to be spent honing his will, recognising the vital currents and channelling them. But they were techniques taught to him by his master and he couldn’t focus properly for thinking about the old man. There was no shaking off the feeling that he had let Domex down, that he might still be here if it hadn’t been for his timidity. Neglect of duty added to his guilt. Yet, for the moment, his heart wasn’t in it.

His melancholy would have deepened had the door of the cottage not creaked open. He looked up to see Caldason emerging. Flinging the last of the stones at the stream, Kutch stood and dusted off his breeches. He watched as the Qalochian addressed a few last words to the elderly hermit he’d consulted. Then he waited as he made his way down the crude path to him.

During their short acquaintance, Kutch had found that Caldason wasn’t one to volunteer information. Nor was he easy to read. Now was no exception.

‘What happened?’ Kutch asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh.’

‘But you weren’t to know he couldn’t help. I’m grateful for you bringing me here.’

They began their descent.

Kutch still didn’t know what Caldason’s problem was, beyond the so-called fits. He tried fishing. ‘Did he, er, say anything at all about your … condition?’

‘He didn’t say anything. He wrote his questions on a slate.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course.’

‘Is he naturally dumb?’

‘No. When he was a boy, his father cut his tongue out. To stop him talking about the mysteries of the Craft. It was the kind of thing they used to do in those days.’

‘The world’s just full of delights,’ Caldason remarked cynically.

‘His father would have had it done too, by his father. The knowledge was passed down, generation to generation, and that was the price. It was considered normal in some branches of the Craft until not that long ago.’

‘I thought magicians were constrained by secrecy anyway.’

‘True. Though I’m not sure how reliable some of the licensed ones are.’ Kutch jabbed a thumb at the hovel. ‘But he can be trusted.’

‘So why did they go in for mutilation?’

‘It was extra insurance. Some of the older practitioners think it was a good thing and should be brought back. Maybe they’ve got a point. It seemed to work.’

‘You wouldn’t have minded your master doing it to you then?’

‘Well …’

They continued in silence.

After a few minutes, Kutch ventured, ‘You don’t seem disappointed. About him not being able to help, I mean.’

‘I’ve learnt not to be.’

‘There are other seers I can recommend.’

‘Maybe provincial sorcerers aren’t up to what I need.’

‘A lot of them are as good as any you’ll find,’ Kutch replied indignantly. ‘They just prefer the solitude of the countryside. They’re less likely to get harassed by the authorities too.’

‘Like Domex? All right, low blow. Sorry. But the fact is there’s more money and status in the cities, and that tends to attract the best talent. Perhaps that’s where I’ll find the right magician. If there are any left I haven’t already tried.’

‘Come on, Reeth, there must be thousands of them.’

‘I’ve been searching longer than you know.’

Kutch didn’t expect any expansion on that and was proved right. Silence descended again. They reached the foot of the hill and struck out for the house. A gentle wind ruffled the trees.

The quiet was broken only by distant birdsong.

At length, Caldason said, ‘So, how far advanced in magic are you?’

After yesterday’s display with the homunculi, Kutch reckoned his companion already knew the answer to that. It was Caldason’s way of changing the subject, or being polite. But he played along with it. ‘Fourth level, going on fifth.’

‘Sounds impressive. Out of how many?’

‘Sixty-two.’

‘Right.’

‘Mind you,’ Kutch quickly added, ‘anything above twenty-three’s considered pretty rarefied.’

‘I think I must need the highest possible level.’

Caldason’s expression was inscrutable. It was difficult to tell if he was serious or making an uncommon attempt at humour.

‘I may have a way to go in my practical studies,’ Kutch admitted, ‘but I do understand something about occult philosophy. Whatever ails you should have a magical remedy. It’s just a case of finding it.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’

‘Let me tell you about one of the Craft’s basic principles.’

‘Careful, you don’t want to lose your tongue.’

‘It’s not really giving anything away. We’re taught that magic is energy, and energy can’t be destroyed. It can only be converted into something else.’

‘That much I’ve heard.’

‘Then you’ll know that spells vary in quality and durability.’

‘Of course. That’s what determines their price.’

‘I’m not talking about their coin value. I’m referring to their strength. For example, there’s no reason why a building couldn’t be a glamour, and last forever. But creating and maintaining it would be incredibly expensive.’ He pointed to a boulder at the side of the track. ‘That rock could be a glamour. It would only take a simple spell. Except nobody would bother. What would be the point?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I’m guessing that what’s wrong with you is magical in origin.’ Caldason gave no hint that Kutch was right. The youth carried on. ‘If you are under some kind of enchantment, it should be possible to convert its energy from malignant positive to benign negative. In the same way that the rock could become non-rock or the building cease to be and rejoin the energy pool. At least, that’s the theory.’

Caldason looked thoughtful. ‘You put it better than most other magicians I’ve spoken to, Kutch. But why haven’t any of them been able to do it?’

Kutch felt a glow at the compliment. He also took the Qalochian’s words as tacit confirmation that his problem was magical. ‘I don’t know. Maybe the spell, if it is a spell we’re talking about, is especially powerful. Or the result of some really esoteric branch of the Craft. There are many different disciplines, you know.’

‘Something rare enough to be unknown to most sorcerers, you mean?’

‘It might be. Or it could be a question of balance.’

‘Balance?’

‘Another cardinal law of magic. The Craft has rules just like the mundane world, as we call it. For instance, drop a stone and it falls to the ground. It’s obeying a rule. A glamour looking like a stone might fall upwards, or fly, or mutate into something else. But it would still be following a rule; one dictated by the type of spell governing it.’

‘I don’t see where balance comes in.’

‘My master would have said that a real stone falls because of the balance between our expectation and experience. We expect the stone to fall. Stones have always fallen. So the stone falls. In magic the balance is between reality and unreality. There has to be symmetry for the spell to work. The same way the military and magical balance between Rintarah and Gath Tampoor stops one empire overcoming the other.’

‘I think I almost understand that,’ Caldason said. ‘But how does it apply to me?’

‘Maybe you’re caught too tightly between the real and the unreal. As if you were in a clamp.’

‘Like Bhealfa.’

Kutch smiled. ‘Yes. Or it could be that the balance is out of kilter, blocking rescue.’

‘Neither seems a comforting thought.’ If Caldason resented learning from someone so much younger, he had the grace not to show it. ‘Ironic that it should take a humble fourth level …’

‘Nearly a fifth.’

‘… practically a fifth level apprentice to make it clear to me.’

‘I’ve not told you anything you couldn’t have found out for yourself. You look for a solution in magic, Reeth, but take little interest in its workings.’

‘I see it as a malevolent force.’

‘It’s the foundation of our culture.’

‘Yours, not mine. Not Qalochian. For you, magic is a needful, benevolent thing. To me it’s deceiving and pernicious. It helps maintain injustice.’

To Kutch that seemed close to blasphemous. ‘My master always said that magic has no morality, any more than the weather does. The people who command it decide if it’s light or dark, as suits their purpose. Your argument should be with them.’

Caldason’s severity mellowed a little. ‘I grant there’s wisdom in that. But if there was no magic the temptation wouldn’t exist.’

‘I intend using my skills only for good.’

‘I don’t doubt it. And when you speak on the subject you show more passion and insight than you do about anything else. You shed the half-child and talk more like a man.’

The youth’s cheeks coloured, underlining the point.

‘I can see magic’s your calling,’ Caldason added. ‘But who can say what enticements the future might bring?’

Kutch tried steering back to the issue he thought more important. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not advanced enough to help, I know that, but I’d be better armed to find you somebody who could.’

‘What I suffer from tends to … trouble people.’

‘It wouldn’t vex me. Together, we could –’

‘No. I don’t form attachments. I’ve no need of them. Anyway, I have to move on, you know that.’

Kutch was disappointed, but knew the futility of arguing with the man. ‘You’ll not go before my master’s funeral?’

‘I promised you I wouldn’t. But let’s make haste, I want to be out of these parts today.’

They pushed on, exchanging few further words.

Twenty minutes later they reached a wood. This they skirted, their journey taking them by the cultivated fields that served the village. A handful of farmers tended the fledgling crops. Though none of them acknowledged their passing, the duo had the distinct feeling of being watched. Beyond the meadows the hamlet itself came into sight, nestled prettily in the palm of a shallow valley. Even from this distance the indigo power line that slashed through the settlement could be plainly seen.

But the village wasn’t their destination. When the path forked they took the coastal road. A short climb brought them to the cliff’s edge. Beyond its rim and far below lay a vast expanse of calm, shimmering ocean.

On the grassy ribbon of land running to the lip of the cliff stood a funeral pyre and atop it lay the seer Domex, resplendent in the robes of his calling, hands crossed on his chest. Paraphernalia was heaped about his body – a grimoire, journals and scrolls, pouches of herbs and a sceptre were among the personal belongings that would accompany him to the next world.

The whole of the pyre was encased in a glistening, transparent half bubble, rainbow-hued like an oil and water mix.

Kutch’s first act was to remove the protective barrier. He took a small, flat runestone from his belt pouch and approached the pyre. Mouthing a barely audible incantation, he placed the stone against the bubble. The magical shield soundlessly discharged itself into non-being.

He looked around. The cliff-top was deserted, as were the modest hills on either side. ‘No mourners,’ he said, his voice catching. ‘I’d hoped somebody would turn up, given how much he did to help the people hereabouts.’

‘I expect they were too afraid to come because of the circumstances of his death,’ Caldason told him. ‘Don’t be too hard on them.’

Kutch nodded. He dug into his pouch again and brought out a sheet of parchment. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded it. ‘There are some words that need to be spoken,’ he explained.

‘Of course.’

Falteringly, and in a soft tone, the apprentice began reading his lament in the old tongue. When he stumbled over a particular phrase, eyes brimming, just a boy after all, Caldason laid a hand on his heaving shoulder. It seemed to strengthen Kutch and he carried on more or less evenly.

What was being said meant nothing to Caldason, though somehow its rhythm and feeling conveyed something of its poignancy to him. His gaze went to the horizon and he contemplated the scurrying clouds and distant sea-birds.

At last the dirge was over. Kutch screwed up the parchment and tossed it onto the pyre.

After what he thought was a decent interval, Caldason asked, ‘How do we apply the flame?’

‘I have to do it,’ Kutch sniffed, ‘and it has to be kindled using the Craft.’ He gave the Qalochian a shy, lopsided grin. ‘I’ve been a bit worried about that bit.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

‘Right.’ He cleared his throat noisily and straightened. Caldason took a step back to give him room.

Kutch started some kind of low-throated chant, attended with a series of increasingly complex hand gestures. He gazed at the pyre intently, brow creased. At first his utterances and movements were uncertain, then his confidence visibly grew and his voice rose.

All at once the wood stack and corpse were bathed in dazzling white light. Flames erupted, burning with unnatural, magic-fuelled intensity. The pyre blazed.

‘Well done,’ Caldason said.

They stood together for some time, watching the fire do its work.

Then Caldason gently tugged at Kutch’s arm. The youth turned and looked to where Reeth was pointing.

On the top of an adjacent hill stood a lone figure, staring down at them. The distance was too great to make out much detail, but they could see he was an older, distinguished looking man. His tailored white robe was of a quality denoting rank. The wind ruffled his three-quarter length cape. His posture was straight and proud, his expression sombre.

‘Any idea who that is?’ Caldason wanted to know.

Kutch blinked at the stranger. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve seen him before. Perhaps he’s someone who owed Domex a debt of gratitude.’

‘It seems your master wasn’t forgotten after all.’

They watched the figure for a while, then returned their attention to the blaze, its heat stinging their faces. When Caldason looked again a moment later, the stranger was gone.

The pyre roared and crackled, belching thick, inky smoke.

Mesmerised by the sight, Kutch fell into a reflective mood. ‘You know, if my master had lived I really think he might have been able to help you.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I’ll never forgive myself for my cowardice, Reeth.’

‘I thought we agreed you weren’t to blame,’ Caldason replied firmly. ‘There’s no way you could have stood against his killers, get that into your head.’

‘I’m trying to. It isn’t easy. I keep thinking that if only I’d –’

Caldason raised a hand to quiet him. ‘That’s enough. Don’t sully the moment with regrets. They serve no purpose, believe me.’

‘I still think he could have done something for you. He was a great man, Reeth.’

‘I have a feeling I need the kind of help I’ll never be able to find.’

‘Who’s being a doubter now?’

They both wrapped themselves in their own thoughts then.

The warmth sent ash and cinders billowing above the pyre. Orange sparks danced in the smoke.

‘Phoenix,’ Kutch whispered, half in reverie.

‘What was that?’

‘Phoenix,’ he repeated, as though it were some kind of epiphany.

‘I don’t –’

‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Kutch?’

‘Covenant, of course. Don’t you see? If anybody can help you, they can!’

‘Covenant’s a myth. A story mothers tell to frighten their sucklings.’

‘My master didn’t think so.’

‘He was wrong. They don’t exist.’

A succession of noisy pops and cracks issued from the pyre as it consumed wood and bone.

‘They do, Reeth,’ Kutch insisted, eyes shining, ‘and I’m going to prove it to you.’




7 (#ulink_ee444765-261a-55c5-a648-3c50aaea276e)


They saw a bird, flying low and fast, wings beating frantically. It had the shape and size of a raven, but was betrayed by its colour; a burnished silver that made their eyes ache. In an instant it was gone, lost to sight among trees and rolling hills in the direction of the hamlet.

Caldason and the boy dismissed it.

Kutch took up the thread as they tramped on. ‘My master was adamant on the subject,’ he persisted. ‘He said Covenant was real and I believe him.’

‘Real once,’ Caldason allowed. ‘But they were suppressed. A long time ago.’

‘They tried to stamp them out, yes. Some escaped and Covenant grew again.’

‘Well, I’ve never met a member.’

‘That doesn’t mean they don’t exist!’

‘I’m not trying to pick an argument with you, Kutch. If Domex told you they’re still around, fine. But what makes you think a bunch of unlicensed sorcerers could help me?’

‘Because they’re much more than that. Some say their magic’s a strain that goes back to the time of the Founders themselves.’

Caldason didn’t reply. His silence could have been thoughtful, or it might have been disbelieving. Kutch couldn’t tell.

Far behind them now, a column of whitish smoke rose lazily from the cliff-top pyre. Kutch glanced back at it. His shoulders sagged, and a host of cares pinched his features.

‘What do you know about their leader?’ Caldason asked, perhaps to distract him.

‘Phoenix?’ Kutch bucked up a little. ‘Probably no more than you’ve heard yourself. You know; that he, or she, is somebody with great skill in the Craft, and can’t be caught. Can’t be killed either.’

‘How can that be?’ Caldason said, real interest in his eyes.

‘What does it matter? The important thing is that Covenant could be your best chance of aid. They don’t just have the magic, Reeth. They’re patriots, and they oppose Gath Tampoor. Which means they’re a thorn in the paladins’ side. Makes you natural allies, I’d say.’

Caldason’s expression hardened. ‘You know what I think about allies. And I’m no patriot. Not as far as Bhealfa’s concerned anyway.’

The ground began to level. They were in sight of the hamlet’s outlying buildings.

‘You should go and find them,’ Kutch ventured.

‘Where?’

‘Valdarr.’

‘Do you know where in Valdarr?’

‘No … no, I don’t. But it’s the biggest city. It makes sense Covenant would be there, doesn’t it? We could –’

‘There’s no we, and you’re just guessing they can be found there. If I go looking for Covenant, I’ll be doing it by myself.’

‘Why can’t I come with you?’ the boy pleaded.

‘I’ve told you. I travel alone.’

‘I wouldn’t get in your way, and I can shift for myself.’

‘No. People around me tend to end up dying.’

‘I know it’d be dangerous, with you an outlaw and all, and a Qalochian, but –’

‘They don’t just die the way you think. There’s ways other than violently.’

Kutch didn’t understand. But they’d reached the edge of his settlement, putting their conversation on hold. ‘This is a quicker way to the house,’ he announced morosely, leading Caldason into a side street.

The street became an alley, darkened by overhanging upper storeys of houses. It narrowed, twisted, intersected other byways, all deserted. Then they turned into a downward-sloping, cobbled lane, lined to the right by stables, to the left by mean cottages.

Twenty or thirty paces ahead, with his back to them, someone walked briskly in the same direction they were heading.

‘It’s him,’ Kutch whispered. ‘The man at the funeral.’

Caldason regarded the figure and nodded, adding, ‘He takes risks.’

‘How?’

‘He’s far from young, and by the cut of his clothes, moneyed. Yet no sign of bodyguards.’

‘He has protection. There’s a defensive shield around him. Good quality, too.’

‘Damned if I can see it, Kutch.’

‘You have to know how to look. Come on, let’s talk to him.’

Reeth caught his arm. ‘Why?’

‘Aren’t you curious to know who he is?’

‘Not greatly. If a man looks like a threat, or like somebody who could help me, I’m curious. I doubt he’s either.’

‘He was the only one at my master’s funeral apart from us.’ Kutch shook loose his arm. ‘I’d like to know why.’

Reeth shrugged. ‘All right. But I’m not for lingering, remember.’

They quickened their pace.

Kutch was right. As they approached, Caldason spotted an indistinct sheath of agitated air, a finger’s span deep, enveloping the stranger’s body. It shimmered like a heat haze.

The man heard their footfalls, stopped and turned. The questioning look on his distinguished, grey-maned features mutated into apprehension.

Kutch stretched his hands placatingly, palms up. ‘We mean you no harm!’

Tensely, the stranger retreated a step or two, staring at them but saying nothing.

Reeth glanced around. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘What isn’t?’ Kutch asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You have to know how to look,’ Caldason replied dryly.

Something fell into their field of vision, a blur of glistening silver.

The fraudulent bird they had glimpsed earlier descended with wings fluttering languorously. Time seemed to slow to a glacial pace as it came to rest on the stranger’s outstretched arm. There was a flurry of radiant feathers. The creature’s eyes, vivid crimson, fixed upon him.

‘Treachery!’ the bird screeched.

Then it raised its wings as though to take off. Instead it soundlessly imploded, crushing to a tiny ball of pulsing brilliance that immediately consumed itself.

Blinking, the stranger assumed the pair facing him were the object of the warning. He made to run.

‘No!’ Kutch shouted, still dazed. ‘We don’t want to hurt you!’

Caldason’s attention hadn’t been on the glamour or the stranger. He was scanning the doorways and stables. Face hard, gaze intense, he began drawing his sword.

Kutch noticed. He managed a puzzled, ‘What –?’ before he saw why.

Men were emerging from dingy stables and out of shadowed nooks. There were a good half-dozen of them, and if there was any doubt about their intent, the blades in their hands dispelled it.

All but one had a look Caldason had seen many times. The mark of predators. Street pirates. Men who killed for coin, or for the sport of it. The exception appeared to be unarmed and his garb was less martial. Unlike the others, he wore a cloak, and held a staff too short for a weapon, embellished in gold.

Fanning out, the brigands moved to surround the trio. The man Kutch and Reeth had been following seemed more self-possessed, but still suspicious of the pair’s allegiance. He looked from them to the encircling ambushers, then back again, undecided.

Ever watchful, Caldason reached over his shoulder and slowly unsheathed his second blade.

As he freed it there was a flash of fierce white light.

It lasted no more than a second but dazzled them all. Fiery motes in his eyes, Caldason found its source. The unsuitably dressed brigand had his ornate staff in a raised hand. He was pointing it at the elderly stranger.

Kutch cried out something unintelligible. Reeth saw that the stranger now stood unprotected. His buffer of magic was gone, the radiant bubble had dispersed.

A negating glamour. Caldason hoped they didn’t have anything worse.

One of the ambushers on the right began to move their way, sword raised. A bandit on the opposite side did the same. The rest stood their ground.

Caldason shoved Kutch hard, propelling him towards the stranger. The boy exclaimed, stumbled, almost collided with the old man.

‘Stay!’ Caldason snapped, as though commanding a dog.

Then the pincer closed on him.

He remained perfectly still, immobile as a rock. Kutch, watching fear-flushed, unbelieving, saw that Caldason’s eyes were shut, and that he looked incongruously serene. But that lasted only a second, before the waves struck.

A sword in each hand, he parried both incomers, side-on, blocking expertly to the right and left. Then he swung out and round to face the pair.

They engaged him again instantly. Four blades rent the air. Steel clamoured in earnest as the three of them enacted that lissome dance, old as malice, which could only end in death.

At first it seemed to Kutch that Reeth did no more than hold the attackers at bay. But he soon realised his error. Caldason was deploying a strategy. For although they attacked him with equal ferocity, his response was two-tiered. The man on his right he held off. The one to the left, he fought. As they jockeyed to challenge him, his blades flashed from one to the other; defensive to offensive, soft to hard.

When it happened, it was quick and brutal. From the storm’s eye, Caldason lashed out at the man he’d worn down. To those looking on it was as though he quickly wiped his blade across the brigand’s chest. But the gash was deep. It liberated a cataract of blood. The victim made a sound, part outcry, part groan of pain, and let slip his sword. He swayed, then fell, broken.

It was the only sound any of them had made. Kutch was struck by how strange that seemed; no words exchanged, no shouted challenges or muttered threats. Just silence, save grunts of effort and clashing steel. It seemed the assassins plied their trade gravely and had no need of discourse.

Now there was general movement. As Caldason took on his other opponent, a fresh brigand waded in to join the fight. And Kutch had his own troubles. Two bandits were coming towards him and the stranger. The last of the band, his magic-eating staff marking him out as a sorcerer rather than a combatant, held back.

Kutch and the stranger instinctively moved closer together.

‘It’s me they want,’ the old man hissed.

It was the first thing he’d said and it made the boy start. But Kutch had no time to respond. Their assailants were a sword stretch away and closing the gap. The stranger tossed back his cloak and jerked a pair of daggers from his belt. But he didn’t have the look of a fighting man, and their enemies had superior reach and numbers. The assassins smiled. Prickling with sweat, Kutch tried to clear his mind of all but the Craft.

Caldason was delivering a righteous blow when his third attacker lumbered in. The newcomer, full-bearded, beefy, swung a two-handed axe. Caldason avoided the stroke, flowing beneath it, and countered with a wide, cutting sweep. It would have ribboned the axe-man if he hadn’t tottered backwards from its path. In retreat he nearly fell across the body of the accomplice Reeth had killed.

The Qalochian’s other opponent was nimbler. He favoured a sabre, and came in swift and lean, swiping like a barbcat. Reeth dodged the pass and commenced trading blows. Then the axe-man rejoined the fray and it was back to hacking at both.

Kutch and the stranger eyed their circling foes and tensed for the onslaught. It came suddenly when one of the thugs lunged, targeting the old man. Showing unexpected agility, the stranger side-stepped the charge, and managed a curving slash of his knives in answer. That sent the brigand into retreat. But his crony, a scabrous, gangling individual, slid in to menace Kutch. The boy recoiled, all the while trying not to garble an incantation he was murmuring under his breath.

The stranger grasped Kutch’s sleeve and pulled him closer. As one, they backed off, the stranger brandishing his daggers at the advancing bandits as though they really were a remedy against swords.

They took three paces before their backs met a rough brick wall. Pressed against it, the stranger held out his knives in an imperfect display of boldness. Next to him, Kutch continued his muttered chant, and began to make small movements with shaking hands. The bandits gloated.

Abruptly, a swarm of minute lights materialised, like luminous grains of sand. They swirled about Kutch and the stranger, then as quickly vanished, replaced by a misty luminescence that girdled man and boy. The bandits’ murderous leers turned to frowns. Wary, they held back.

On the principle of downing the biggest adversary first, Caldason fended off the leaner of his two opponents and concentrated on defeating the burly axe-man, showering him with weighty blows.

Several were blocked, glancing off the axe’s cutter or its sturdy wooden haft. Others whistled close to the thug’s bobbing head. Then Caldason saw his chance.

The blow he got through was savage. It shattered the axeman’s skull, immediately felling him.

Even as the assassin went down, his companion darted in, bent on reprisal. Caldason swung round to meet him. There was a swift, frenetic exchange. It was broken by Caldason deftly catching the bandit’s sword between his pair of blades. The assassin struggled to free it, teeth bared with effort, muscles knotted. Reeth’s hold was like a clamp. Sharply, he twisted the hilts of his swords, turning the man’s wrists painfully. Another jerk wrenched the blade from his grip. It flipped, pirouetted, went clattering on cobblestones.

The ambusher stood with empty hands, confounded, mouth slack. It was a transient state. Reeth’s swords blurred. Two strokes, right then left, carved his foe’s chest. For a breath the man stood, perplexed, a scarlet cross growing on his grubby shirt front. As he went down, Caldason was turning from him.

Reeth saw Kutch and the elderly stranger wrapped in a glittery mantle that flickered and faltered. The two remaining bandits were crowding them, weapons levelled. But now their attention was divided between their prey and Caldason, and what he’d just done to their comrades.

He quickly cleared the separating distance. The bandits turned to meet him, their intended victims forgotten. Blades clashed, pealing, as Caldason braved the scything steel and matched them blow for blow, repaying in kind. For infinite seconds the flurry of swordplay saw neither side gaining. Then Caldason realised a flaw in one of their defences. Every time the man attacking from the right delivered a stroke, he let down his guard. Just for a heartbeat.

Swerving to avoid a pass, Reeth struck out at the man to his left, warding him off. A swift turn brought him back to the right and he rammed home his blade. It ploughed through ribs and viscera.

The sword point erupted from the thug’s back. Blood flecked Kutch and the stranger huddled behind him, proving their protective shield useless. The old man ran the ball of a fist across his eyes to wipe away the gore. Shaken, Kutch felt embarrassment mingling with the fear; shame that his magical skill had turned out to be so ineffective. Concentration shot, he let his mental hold slip. The shield melted into filmy wisps and dissolved.

Caldason wrenched his blade free, letting the corpse drop. The last brigand charged at the Qalochian, bellowing, his sword carving a path. Reeth side-stepped, dodging the full force of the swing. But he didn’t avoid it entirely. The rapier’s tip gouged his left arm from wrist to crook. Reeth’s sword was dashed from his hand. His tattered sleeve welled red.

Kutch’s intake of breath was audible.

The wound didn’t hinder Reeth. He barged the man side-on, striking his shoulder with enough force to knock his next blow off course. Then he set to with his remaining sword, battering unmercifully. The bandit’s resistance grew shambolic. Reeth upset it terminally with a boot to the groin, and what was left of the assassin’s guard crumbled.

Reeth took the gap and forced home his blade. Its trajectory saw it through flesh and into his mark’s heart. Lifeless, the bandit fell.

Caldason turned from the carnage, looking to Kutch and the stranger. They were ashen.

Half a moment of numb silence held sway. It was Kutch who shattered it.

‘Reeth!’ he exclaimed, pointing in the direction of the stables.

They had forgotten the final ambusher, the one they assumed was a sorcerer. He stood further along the lane, in semi-shadow, but near enough for them to see his anxious expression. One end of the wand in his hand spewed a thick stream of tawny-coloured smoke. Instead of dispersing, the smoke was being drawn to the wand-bearer and wrapping itself about his body. Dense tendrils enfolded him from feet to waist and were rapidly spreading up his chest.

Caldason snatched one of the stranger’s daggers. He spun and lobbed it the sorcerer’s way. Even as it flew the yellow smoke had all but enveloped the knife’s target. As the last wisp covered the crown of the sorcerer’s head, the cloak of fog immediately solidified and turned translucent. The soaring blade struck the magical buffer and bounced off impotently.

At once the sorcerer turned and started to run. The stolen shield made it seem as though a thin layer of lustrous, flexible ice encased him. Just as it had when its original owner wore it.

‘Let him go,’ the stranger urged.

For all the interest Caldason showed in giving chase, he needn’t have bothered; and Kutch had still to conquer his trembling. They watched the survivor flee, arms pumping, cape billowing. Fifty paces on he rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

The trio regarded each other.

‘Your arm …’ Kutch said.

Caldason glanced at his dripping limb. He pressed a wad of torn shirt over the wound, apparently unconcerned. ‘It’s nothing.’

The stranger spoke, his voice hoarse. ‘Thank you. Thank you both.’

Kutch was dispirited. ‘I did little enough,’ he sighed. ‘So much for my skill with the Craft.’

‘You tried,’ Caldason told him. ‘That does you credit.’

The boy nodded, unconvinced, and addressed the stranger. ‘Who are you? What were you doing at my master’s funeral? Who were those –’

‘There’s no time for that now,’ Caldason interrupted. ‘If we loiter here we’ll have the Watch to contend with.’ He fixed his sights on the stranger. ‘Which I imagine is something you’d rather avoid.’

‘Your friend’s right,’ the old man confirmed softly, directing himself to Kutch. ‘I’ll explain everything. But it’d be best not to be found in these circumstances.’

Caldason bent to the nearest body and wiped his soiled blades on the man’s jerkin. Then he rose and re-sheathed the weapons.

‘Move,’ he ordered, grasping the stranger’s arm.

They hurried from the lane and its litter of corpses.




8 (#ulink_90a33186-ef2a-52f1-8c65-c18157f9c5d2)


As far as they could tell, no one saw them arrive at Domex’s run-down house.

Kutch fished a large iron key from the folds of his shirt and fumbled with it. Once the rusty lock was turned, Caldason unceremoniously kicked the door open. Bundling Kutch and the stranger inside, he shot the bolts.

‘Windows!’ he snapped.

Kutch went to draw the blinds. He was pale and unsteady. The stranger seemed calmer. He studied Reeth closely, tight-lipped, his gaze shrewd. But he held his peace. Caldason shoved him, not too gently, in the direction of the main room.

With daylight barred, save for tiny chinks in the tattered drapes, the chamber was gloomy and oppressive. Kutch lit a lamp. Cupping the taper with a trembling hand, he moved to the fireplace and applied the flame to the candles in a pair of bulky lead holders on the mantelpiece. Shadows played on the tattered spines of the books lining the walls.

‘Now sit,’ Caldason said.

‘You’re still treating me like a dog,’ Kutch complained, but did as he was told.

The Qalochian looked to the old man. ‘You, too.’ He pushed against the small of his back again, driving him towards an overstuffed chair. The stranger plumped into it, sighing. Dust motes swirled in the candlelight.

Even up close his age was hard to guess. He was certainly of advanced years, but more autumn than winter. It was his careworn appearance that made him seem older. Worry lines crimped his beardless face. His silvered hair, grown perhaps a mite too long for his age, gave him a venerable appearance. He dressed affluently.

When he spoke, his tone was easier, almost dulcet. ‘I owe my thanks to you both, and an explanation.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ Caldason replied brusquely. ‘I don’t much care who you are or what problems you might have.’

‘Yet you risked your life for me.’

‘I had no choice.’

The stranger scrutinised him. ‘I think there was more to it than that,’ he said gently.

‘Think what you like. My thought is that you’ve involved me in your troubles, and likely there’s more on the way. It’d be best to get out of here and not linger over it.’

‘I agree leaving would be wise. But word of their failure will take a while to get back to their masters. I don’t believe they’ll send more against me at this point. In any event, it’s not how they work.’

‘They?’

‘Our rulers.’

‘The government?’ Kutch piped up, wide-eyed.

The stranger nodded.

‘Who are you?’ the boy asked.

‘My name is Dulian Karr.’

Kutch straightened. ‘Patrician Karr?’

‘You’re well informed.’

‘Everyone’s heard of you.’

‘What’s an Elders Council member doing in a place like this?’ Caldason said. He was at a window, watching the path outside, curtain bunched in his fist. Now he let the drape fall back.

Once more, Karr studied him. ‘You have the advantage of me. You know my name, but –’

‘He’s Reeth Caldason!’ Kutch butted in, adding knowingly, ‘The outlaw.’

If the patrician was jarred, he didn’t show it.

It was Caldason who reacted. ‘You’re privy to my business only by chance, boy. I’ll thank you to keep it to yourself.’

The words were like a bolt to Kutch’s breast. Reddening under Caldason’s frigid gaze, he began an apology that faltered and trailed off. A brittle silence took hold.

‘And you must be Kutch Pirathon,’ Dulian Karr interjected, taking pity.

They stared at him.

Kutch stumbled through, ‘How did you know that?’

‘Grentor Domex was one of my oldest friends. He often spoke of you. I had no idea when I came here that he was dead.’

‘All right.’ Caldason showed his palms like a man surrendering. ‘I can see we’re not going to escape your life story. Just keep it brief.’

The suddenly lighter tone, typical of Reeth’s mercurial nature, Kutch was starting to think, made the apprentice feel a little better about the scolding. ‘So, why did you come to see my master?’

‘And why no bodyguards?’ Caldason added.

‘I had a phalanx of them when I set out. Good men, every one. My enemies thinned their ranks until I alone remained. That was why my would-be assassins were armed with no magic worse than a negating glamour.’

‘Yet still you came.’

‘As still you defended me. And for a similar reason, I suspect; I had to.’

Caldason said nothing. He leaned against the dusty table’s edge, arms folded.

‘As to why I came here … Many years ago, a group of like-minded individuals, Grentor and myself included, joined in a common cause. Our passion was to see true sovereignty restored to Bhealfa. To have genuine freedom, not the pretence of it, by getting our tormentors off our backs.’

‘Fine words.’ It was impossible to tell if Caldason meant that cynically.

Karr disregarded it. ‘We were young and idealistic I suppose, but that made the object of our anger no less real. In due course we each took the path we thought best to achieve our aim. I chose politics and talking us to liberation.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Others favoured the military, a mercantile life, even banditry, and some fell along the way. Your master carried on being what he always was, Kutch: a maverick. What is it they say? A square shaft in a round hole. But I’m damned if I know which of us has been the more effective.’ A fleeting reverie clouded his eyes. He gathered himself and went on, ‘I came here with news of the progress of … a scheme. A plan Domex helped conceive and steer over the years.’

‘You had to come personally?’ Caldason said.

‘Few others could be trusted with my report. And I wanted to see him; it had been too long.’

‘What is this plan?’

‘Forgive me. It’s a confidence I can’t share.’

‘So why mention it at all?’

‘You saved my life. That warrants some measure of trust.’

Caldason shrugged dismissively.

Kutch had fallen quiet during their exchange. Caldason noticed his crestfallen expression. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m hearing about a side of my master I never suspected. I mean, I knew he had no love for the state. Now it turns out he was involved in something big. Something important. But … I didn’t know. He never told me about any of this.’

‘It was for your own protection,’ Karr replied, ‘on the principle that what you didn’t know couldn’t endanger you. Domex was engaged in a selfless purpose. That’s why they killed him, whatever pretext they may have used. Have no doubts about that. You’ve every reason to be proud of him, Kutch.’

The boy swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. ‘Is it because of this plan of yours that the government wants you dead?’

‘Perhaps. I don’t fool myself that they’re entirely ignorant of it. There are informers and spies enough in the dissident ranks.’

‘That messenger glamour in the likeness of a bird. It was sent to warn you of the attack?’

‘Yes, by associates in Valdarr. I could have wished it had arrived earlier! There’s treachery in my circle, and lately near to hand. But I think it more probable this latest attempt on my life was because I’m a general thorn in the authorities’ side. My death at the hands of apparently common brigands would suit them well.’

‘They’ve tried before?’

‘Several times.’ Karr sounded as though he took pride in it.

Caldason broke in with, ‘Why should they bother killing one of their own?’

The patrician regarded him narrowly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The way I see it you are the government, or near as damn. You play their game.’

Karr laughed, half cynically, half genuinely amused. ‘You have a properly jaundiced view of authority. Politics has been my way of challenging the state. I don’t claim to be very effectual, and at best my views are barely tolerated, but it’s what I do.’

‘How much bread does it put in hungry mouths? When does it ever favour the weak over the strong?’

‘You’re right, politics is a fraud. I know. I’ve been a practitioner of the black art all my life. It makes accommodations, turns a blind eye, appeases those who tyrannise us.’

‘That’s rare honesty from your kind. So why bother with it?’

‘Because I believed governance was about the best interests of the citizenry; that the system could curb the excesses of our colonial rulers, maybe even help break their hold. They’ve branded me for that belief.’

‘I’ve heard. They call you naive, militant, insurrectionist, radical –’

‘And they call you pitiless.’

‘Depends on who’s doing the calling.’

‘Exactly.’

Kutch said, ‘If it means getting out from under those who grind people’s faces, isn’t radical a good thing to be?’

Karr smiled. ‘Well put.’

‘It was something my master used to say,’ the boy admitted, a little shamefaced.

‘Then it’s to your credit that you honour him by repeating it.’

Caldason shifted, looked down at Karr. ‘This great scheme of yours, it’s some kind of political manoeuvre?’

‘Politics … plays its part.’

‘What are the other parts?’

‘Protest takes more than one path.’

‘That sounds like another way of saying it’s something to do with the Resistance.’

Karr held his gaze. ‘I’m with the Opposition. Others are the Resistance.’

‘They’ve been known to shade together.’

‘As I said, our rulers slander those who stand against them. They’d have people believe all their opponents are terrorists.’

‘Does that mean you think the Resistance are terrorists?’

‘Why, do you?’

‘No.’ He glanced Kutch’s way and added caustically, ‘But then I’m an outlaw, remember.’

‘What’s your point, Caldason?’

‘Any plan meant to really change things would have to involve the Resistance to stand a chance.’

‘I repeat: opposition takes many forms. There are peace-loving witnesses of conscience and priests who disagree with the regime, let alone revolutionaries, agitators, proto-democrats and the rest. Even the Fellowship of the Righteous Blade’s no longer dormant. Did you know they’d reformed?’

‘So it’s said.’

‘Who are they?’ Kutch asked.

‘They’re an ancient martial order,’ Karr told him, ‘founded on patriotism. Their ranks boast some of the finest swordsmen in the land, and they’ve helped keep alive a tradition of valour that was once universally respected. They’ve often appeared in times when this country’s independence was threatened.’

‘And proved inept, if Bhealfa’s present state’s anything to go by,’ Caldason remarked.

‘Perhaps they would have achieved more if they’d had greater support from the rest of us,’ Karr replied pointedly. ‘At least they’re doing something.’

‘If you think a bunch of idealists with outmoded notions of chivalry have much to contribute to your cause, I suppose they are.’

‘Dissent isn’t as black and white as you think. The few politicians of my persuasion need all the allies we can get; we’re fleas on the backs of oxen.’

‘That just about sums up the size of your task.’

‘Even an ox can be brought low by enough flea bites.’

‘In your dreams, perhaps.’

Karr expelled a breath. ‘You seem less than enthusiastic about the idea of challenging those in power. Given what Qalochians have suffered, that surprises me.’

Reeth visibly stiffened at mention of his birthright.

‘Your people have faced massacres and enforced clearances,’ Karr continued, ‘and what’s left of your diaspora has blind prejudice heaped upon it. If any have a grievance against the regime, it’s the Qaloch.’

Knowing how sour Caldason could be about his people’s lot, Kutch expected a prickly reaction. He was half right.

‘The condition of Qalochians is well known,’ Caldason said, even-toned, ‘yet I see few taking up cudgels on our behalf. Why should we support you?’

‘Because it’s your fight too. And some of us have spoken out about the Qaloch’s plight. Myself included.’

‘That’s made a world of difference, hasn’t it?’

‘I understand your cynicism, but –’

‘Do you?’ Caldason’s passion began to show itself. ‘Have you been spat on because of your race? Have your settlements been torched, your womenfolk defiled? Have you had your life valued at less than a handful of dirt on account of your ancestry?’

‘For my ancestry … no.’

‘No, you haven’t. Your safety’s in peril, granted, but unlike me you have a choice. You could give up agitation and offer the state no reason to vex you.’

‘My principles wouldn’t allow that,’ Karr bristled.

‘I can respect a man who takes a stand. For me there’s no option. My blood allows me none. Because when it comes to prejudice and bigotry neither empire has anything to boast of. This land happens to be under the heel of one at the moment. In the past it was the other. The world is as it is.’

‘That’s where we disagree. I believe we could change things.’

‘Gath Tampoor, Rintarah; it makes no difference.’

‘I’m not talking about replacing one empire with the other, or trying to moderate what we have. There could be another course.’

‘Slim hope, Patrician.’

‘Perhaps. But history’s stood still for too long. Everything’s entrenched. Two-tier justice, blind to the crimes of Gath Tampoorians; Bhealfa’s youth conscripted to fight the empires’ proxy wars; distant rulers, cut off from the people; extortionate taxes –’

‘We know all this,’ Caldason interrupted. ‘This isn’t a public meeting.’

Karr looked mildly slighted at that. ‘All I’m saying is that it can’t go on.’

‘Why not? The empires are stronger than they’ve ever been. Even if it were possible to defeat one, its twin would fill the void.’

‘That’s certainly been true in the past. Now I’m not so sure. There are signs that their rivalry is beginning to erode their power.’

Kutch was sceptical. ‘Are you joking?’

‘I was never more serious. Rintarah and Gath Tampoor are straining under the pressure of outdoing each other. They’re hammering at the rights of citizens and subjects both, such as they are, and milking their colonies for all they can get. As to their strength … well, a bough’s hardy until lightning strikes, and ice is thickest prior to the thaw.’

‘Claiming the empires are losing their hold’s one thing,’ Caldason said, ‘proving it’s another.’

‘I can only cite instinct, and the evidence of daily experience. There’s a brutality in the air. Don’t you feel it?’

‘More than usual, you mean?’

‘I can’t blame you for mocking. But look around. Disorder’s growing, and at the edges things are drifting into anarchy. We could take advantage of that.’

‘You talk of striking a blow, but you haven’t told me how. Do you wonder I have doubts?’

‘No. But perhaps you’ll feel differently when you learn more.’

‘I don’t think we’re going to know each other long enough for that, Karr.’

The patrician eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Maybe we will. I have a … proposal for you.’ He took in Caldason’s wary expression. ‘If you’ll hear me out.’

Reeth considered, then gave a small nod.

‘I need to get back to Valdarr,’ Karr explained. ‘I’ve no protection, human or magical. If you could –’

‘No.’

‘You said you’d listen.’

‘I’ve heard enough. I’m not a wet nurse. I don’t join causes or form alliances. If you want protecting, Kutch here can sell you a shielding spell.’

Rightly or wrongly, the boy took that as a criticism of his effort during the ambush. He was hurt by the comment and it showed in his face. The others didn’t seem to notice.

‘I’m not trying to sign you up to anything,’ Karr said. ‘All I ask is that you see me there safely. After that we go our separate ways.’

Caldason shook his head.

‘You were going to Valdarr anyway, Reeth,’ Kutch intervened.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Why were you going?’ Karr ventured.

Caldason said nothing.

Kutch, feeling reckless after his reproach, dared to answer for him. ‘Reeth meant to seek out Covenant. Though I’m not sure he believes it exists.’

‘Covenant?’ Karr said. ‘It exists all right.’

‘See?’ Kutch reacted gleefully. ‘I told you so.’

‘What business do you have with them, Caldason?’ Karr wanted to know.

The Qalochian frowned darkly. ‘Personal business.’

‘Of course. That’s your prerogative. But if it’s magic that concerns you, and you won’t or can’t deal with officially sanctioned practitioners, there are none better than Covenant. Though it must be said that dealing with them has its dangers.’





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