Author: Paul Collins
Date: 2010-05-15 07:17:17+00:00
Keywords: Adventure; Childrens; Fantasy; Fiction; dragons; Young Adult Fantasy; Young Adult; Science Fiction Fantasy
Description: Fantasy fiction. Science fiction. An all-powerful, enchanted mailshirt from the stars. Six links are missing. An orphan, a streetwise urchin and a swordsman must find the links before the greatest evil known descends upon Q zar. Jelindel dek Mediesar led a charmed life until lindrak assassins murdered her family. Fleeing to the markets Jelindel dresses as a boy to avoid detection. Here she teams up with Zimak, a street-wise urchin, and Daretor, a warrior on a quest to destroy an alien artifact. Murder, betrayal and deceit are just some of the hurdles they must face in order to find the missing
Publisher: Ford Street Publishing Pty, Limited
Rights: All rights reserved

Dragonlinks

Paul Collins is a full-time writer of books for younger readers. He has been short-listed for several awards and has won the inaugural Peter McNamara, Aurealis and William Atheling awards.

Since the age of eighteen Paul has tried his hand at various occupations. He served time in the commandos, trained with the Los Angeles Hell Drivers and worked in hotel security, various factories and for a couple of years was a film repairer for Twentieth Century Fox and MGM in New Zealand. He has played cricket, soccer, rugby union and tennis for various clubs and has a black belt in both tae kwon do and jujitsu. His kickboxing ‘career’ was short-lived although he did win his first fight with a 28-second TKO. He now weight-trains three times a week in a gym.

Paul currently lives in a rambling bluestone house in inner-city Melbourne. He shares it with children’s writer Meredith Costain and a menagerie comprising a kelpie, a red heeler, a cat, two ducks, six chickens and fifteen goldfish. Visit him at www.paulcollins.com.au and www.quentaris.com.

Also by Paul Collins

The Wizard’s Torment

Cyberskin

The Dog King

The Great Ferret Race

Sneila

The Glasshouse (illustrated by Jo Thompson)

The Jelindel Chronicles

Dragonlinks

Dragonfang

Dragonsight

Wardragon

The Quentaris Chronicles

Swords of Quentaris

Slaves of Quentaris

Dragonlords of Quentaris

Princess of Shadows

The Forgotten Prince

Vampires of Quentaris

The Spell of Undoing

The Earthborn Wars

The Earthborn

The Skyborn

The Hiveborn

The World of Grrym

Allira’s Gift (with Danny Willis)

Lords of Quibbitt (with Danny Willis)

Morgassa’s Folly (with Danny Willis)

BOOK ONE IN THE JELINDEL CHRONICLES

Paul Collins

Published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of
Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204

Melbourne Victoria Australia

Text © Paul Collins 2002
6 8 10 9 7

This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests and enquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd, 2 Ford Street, Clifton Hill VIC 3068.
Ford Street website: www.fordstreetpublishing.com

First published 2002
This printing 2011

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Author: Paul Collins 1954–
Title: Dragonlinks / Paul Collins

ISBN 978-1-921665-24-0 (pbk.)
Target audience: Fantasy – Juvenile fiction
Dewey Number: A823.3

Cover design © Grant Gittus Graphics
Map © Marc McBride

Printing and quality control in China by
Tingleman Pty Ltd

From a concept by Sean McMullen

Dragonlinks was inspired by the short story
“The Weakest Link” published in Dream Weavers
under the pseudonym Roger Wilcox.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Chapter

1

As sunset faded into the night of a lunar eclipse in the second month of 2128, Jelindel dek Mediesar longed to be free of the festivities. She couldn’t leave too early – four generations of the Mediesar dynasty had travelled across Q’zar to commemorate both Grandmama’s 100th birthday and the auspicious birth on the same day of Jelindel’s new niece, Merinda.

Preparations for the event had been a two-week affair, with exotic wildlife being shipped from as far as Gratz, and tropical fruits imported from the northern state of Bravenhurst. The vast array of food was mouth-watering and a tribute to her mother’s culinary expertise. There was soup made from slowly boiled pork liver and kidneys, plus whites of leeks, minced onions, vinegar, pepper and cloves, heads of wild boar, tusks included, with hot spicy gravy and a pudding of rice, spices, wine and honey; these were bordered by dishes of cygnets, chickens, pheasants and herons, all cooked whole, with the skin and feathers carefully replaced before serving, plus numerous puddings: custards, jellies, cream of almonds, and fruit in a syrup of honey, wine and cinnamon.

Worn slightly ragged by the ordeal of helping prepare for the extravaganza – although nobility, the Mediesar family treated their staff well – Jelindel groaned inwardly as one of her brother’s friends demanded she dance with him.

Lutiar. The very thought of her brother made her broil. But even he seemed to be enjoying the night, despite the fact that he had angered his parents by inviting several surly friends. She allowed herself to be twirled around the room as the string quartet played a lively tune then popular among royalty.

A quick glance at the darkened window and Jelindel winced. The moment she had been waiting for was close at hand. She curtseyed to her dancing partner and smiled. ‘Thank you, Master R’mel – your prowess upon the floor has quite weakened me.’

R’mel gripped her shoulder. ‘The night is young, Mistress Jelindel. My legs could dance the evening away.’

Jelindel’s resistance wilted. Before she could draw breath R’mel had guided her back to the assembling parallel lines of dancers. Jelindel knew this was a court dance that would last for twenty minutes. How could this be happening to her?

Twenty minutes. There might still be time at the end of it. She saw her father, Count Juram, being bustled through the melee to the podium. The master of the house always told the assemblage a story of two lovers who after many journeys finally meet one another. It was an elimination dance and the couple left at the end were crowned King and Queen for the night. The storyteller’s inventiveness or lack thereof had been the cause of both praise and embarrassment in high society over the years.

After catching several unwanted glances from R’mel, Jelindel grew anxious. To be crowned his Queen for the night would be her ruination.

But everyone else seemed very happy: her elder sister, Serain, resplendent in her turquoise ball gown and emerald-studded tiara; Grandmama, regal as ever in her elegant ruffled tunic and her tubular skirt; baby Merinda being adored and lavished with gifts by gooey-eyed guests. Jelindel so wanted to go to the bassinet and hold Merinda in her arms for the first time. The fact that she didn’t she would regret for the rest of her life, for as fate would have it she would never see her family again after this night.

Jelindel remained in the line of excited debutantes. How could she take leave to satisfy her own desires when so many people had forsaken their time to celebrate this occasion? And the banquet! It would be the social gossip of the year! No, she would stay and make merry, dote on her new niece throughout the night, and yes, chance playing nasty R’mel’s Queen if that pleased her family.

‘Jelindel!’

She turned at the hushed word. It was her kindermaid, Jeme. Jelindel curtseyed and thankfully withdrew from the line which closed immediately. She ducked as R’mel craned his neck in search of her.

Jeme had planned well. She drew a cloak over Jelindel’s shoulders and bustled her out through a door frequented mostly by house staff.

‘I really mustn’t!’ Jelindel giggled delightedly. ‘It’s not right. Jeme!’

‘You’ll be gone and back afore they know you went missing, young lady,’ Jeme chortled. Like the mother hen she was, Jeme pushed her charge up a flight of worn stairs, checked the way was clear, and swept Jelindel across the corridor to her bedchamber. When she closed the oak door she pushed her back to it for a chance to catch her breath. She crossed her chest and closed her eyes for a brief moment of penance.

‘We’ve both done wrong,’ Jelindel told her, and pulled her from the doorway and to the window facing the courtyard. She leaned out of the window, staring at the sunset. With the ornate leadlight panes flung wide open she watched the red glow bleed slowly from the tumble of clouds on the horizon. The second youngest daughter of Count Juram dek Mediesar of D’loom had a magnificent view from her bedchamber window in the family mansion. To Jelindel nothing was as glorious as the sky, and no fairground or revel hall could ever match the luminous celestial spectacle that was hers every evening.

She hurriedly changed her clothes under Jeme’s watchful eye. The elderly chambermaid was regretting her duplicity. Downstairs the count’s telling of the folktale was already gathering momentum and eliciting much merriment.

Jelindel smiled inwardly. Encouraged by his early success, her papa’s tale could last an extra ten minutes. The dance, depending on the antics of the participants, another twenty minutes. She could spare no more than thirty minutes then before returning to the dining hall. It was considered extremely ill-mannered to depart from one’s own family banquet.

Jeme was deep in thought. She loved Jelindel like a daughter, but nobody really understood her. In some ways she was like a boy, full of energy and ready to take on any physical challenge. She roamed the rooftops of the mansion, explored the spaces within the ceilings and wriggled into the chimneys. She crawled within the spaces between the wall panels of her father’s study, listening in on conversations that foreign kings would have cheerfully killed to learn of, then lurked in the shadows of the basements, listening to carters complain about long hours, heavy loads and lazy horses as they delivered their sacks and barrels to the Mediesar household. Within the boundaries of the mansion’s outer walls she could go anywhere unseen and learn any secrets that she wished.

This was not the sort of lifestyle that a daughter of the Skelt nobility was generally allowed to follow, but Jelindel knew this too and was careful with whom she shared her knowledge. Everyone knew a bit, but nobody knew everything. To her family and the servants, Jelindel was just a boisterous girl who occasionally did things that were not entirely suitable for a female child of the nobility. It was perhaps because of this uniqueness that Jelindel had many friends.

There was yet another side to Jelindel, however. She travelled. She learned about the world by reading all the books in her father’s library, and even learning some of the languages used in faraway lands. She stole into the rooms of her brothers and borrowed the books that they were supposed to be studying, even Lutiar’s treasured books of the arcane; she did the same with official papers left lying about in her father’s study. She read the accounting books that her mother used to run the household, and even corrected mistakes in her arithmetic. Best of all, she studied books on the heavens, then spent nights lying on the roof slates of the Mediesar mansion and its outbuildings and studying the motions of moons and the patterns of stars. There was no book in the house that she had not read at least twice.

Although Jelindel never ventured alone beyond the garden walls, she travelled further and saw more than any merchant who sailed the seas yet never looked beyond ships’ cabins, warehouses, wharves and inns.

All day between chores Jelindel had gazed through the window at the patches of blue sky, imploring the family gods to keep the clouds away, and now at sunset the clouds were retreating over the horizon.

Tonight was not only the lunar eclipse of Reculemoon, it was one of the few nights of the year when the other two moons would be absent from the sky. Even the glimmers of the faintest stars would be visible against the black vault of space. Jelindel was desperate to be outside to see the whole of the night sky for the few minutes of its full glory.

If Jelindel thought the day both hectic and frustrating, Jeme found it no better. As dusk spread its mantle over the port city of D’loom, Jeme was doubting her own actions. She would now have done anything to dissuade Jelindel from going outside.

She began telling the fourteen-year-old how dangerous it was on the stables’ roof, never suspecting that Jelindel would be far safer than anyone else in the mansion.

‘You’ll take care out there?’ she kept repeating hopefully in her peevish, worrying voice. ‘Just over to the lowest of the stables’ rooftops, mind, and no further than the outer wall.’

‘I love you and I worry about you too,’ Jelindel wheedled, ‘but do not worry, I have been out there dozens of times on dark nights. And thank you for the opportunity, dear Jeme. I knew you would rescue me.’

‘Hush, child. Last time you nearly got caught by guards.’

‘And that is why I am dressing as a stable boy this time, instead of just wearing a dark cloak. Now please, Jeme, just give me the breeches. The sky is clear and the eclipse is only minutes away. I don’t want to miss a single moment!’

Jeme handed Jelindel a bundle of rough-spun clothes, holding it at arm’s length by two fingers.

‘I washed ’em three times but they still smell of horses and stables,’ she warned. ‘Stables especially. Horrid smelly things from horrid smelly men.’

Jelindel wrinkled her nose as she held up the patched brown breeches, then gritted her teeth and pulled them on.

‘It smells as if these have not been washed in a lifetime,’ she said as she drew a stained cotton tunic over her head.

‘Until yesterday they hadn’t,’ said Jeme. ‘At least you both look and smell the part of a stable boy.’

Jelindel sat back in her favourite reading chair and pulled on a pair of tattered boots.

‘Now the chair will smell too,’ wailed Jeme.

‘The boots are too big,’ Jelindel retorted.

‘’Tis why I gave you two pairs of woollen socks. Now mind to lace the boots tightly – and don’t scuff them; they’re Lutiar’s and he thinks they’re away being oiled.’

‘Lutiar’s a pig. I should return them full of horse dung.’

‘Don’t talk like that about your brother!’

‘Why not? He poisoned my rainbow fish last week. And poor Papa. Did you see his face when Lutiar arrived with his horrible friends? Had it not been for Merinda’s sake, Papa would have banished him from the dining hall. I am sure of that!’

‘Your brother is a worry,’ Jeme admitted. ‘It’s a boy thing, I am sure. He will grow out of it.’ She sighed. ‘It is the wild company he keeps that holds him back.’

Jelindel buttoned her tunic and presented herself to Jeme.

Jeme stood back more from the smell than to admire Jelindel’s new persona. ‘Oh, Jelindel, just look at you! Little white hands and face against all that dirty brown roughweave. You look like a shabby little barn owl.’

‘You’re right,’ Jelindel said, regarding herself in a mirror. ‘All this disguise yet my hands are as white as milk.’ She went to the garb rack and selected a pair of fine leather gloves from a hook. ‘These will pass for dirty hands,’ she declared.

She slung a bran bag over her shoulder, then stood before Jeme with her hands behind her back.

‘How do I look?’ she asked, chin up and grinning broadly.

‘Like you’re a grubby street urchin who’s just stolen a sugar fig and is proud of it.’

‘As long as I look like a stable boy watching the eclipse from the roof, then I don’t care.’

‘Well, pull that cap down further or someone will see that you have long hair pinned up in a bun. Why don’t you forget all this nonsense? Stay within and read one of your father’s nice books about the heavens.’

‘I’ve read them all! I know them better than he does.’

‘As it is he’ll have a fit if he sees what you’ve done to yourself. He might even invite all the guests outside to the gardens to watch the eclipse.’

‘Knowing Papa he would rather be in his study, drinking plum wine and writing his next speech denouncing the Preceptor. Do you think I would dress like this if Papa was willing to spend ten minutes in the garden with his own daughter?’

‘All this fuss to watch a moon go dark.’

‘It’s actually to see the stars grow brighter,’ Jelindel sighed. ‘Papa’s charts and almanacs are filled with stars that are normally drowned by moonlight, Jeme. One of the three moons is almost always in the night sky, but not tonight.’

Jelindel posed before the mirror again. ‘Besides, I think I look quite smart in a rakish sort of way. It could become a new fashion mode.’

Jeme eyed the girl’s door dubiously.

‘What can I tell your mama if she comes looking for you?’

‘Mama rarely comes looking for me, Jeme. Why would she do so now?’

‘’Tis the way the world works,’ Jeme said despondently. ‘Now there’s one more thing you need, Jelindel.’

Jeme held a handybelt out to her. ‘Strap it on tightly. There are a few coppers in the pouch and a knife at the side. Just don’t touch the knife. The stablehands use the cursed things for everything from scraping horses’ hooves to cutting cheese for lunch.’

Jelindel pulled back. ‘Erk. Has it been washed?’

‘Not since the day it was forged.’

‘Do I really need it?’

The kindermaid shrugged. ‘I know it’s only a detail, but “perfection is measured in tiny details”, or so say the sages. Be wary, Little Owl, and attend your stars quickly. I’m wanting to be back in my own bed, pretending to be none but myself.’

Jelindel snuffed her bedchamber lamp and climbed out through the window, closing the shutters behind her. Cautiously, she worked her way down the ivy to the garden bed. There were guard dogs on the prowl, of course, but they knew her scent … or did they? She was wearing a stable boy’s reeking clothes!

For a single moment Jelindel stood petrified among the shrubs, trying to decide whether to scrabble back up the ivy or sneak across to the stables before the dogs noticed her. If they barked, her father would punish her; if they mistook her for a stable boy lurking near the mansion she was dead.

There was a soft push at her back. Jelindel gasped but the dog simply snuffled and whined softly. She tentatively patted the coarse, short hair of the bullhound’s head. Satisfied that she had a right to be there, it loped away over the sheep-cropped lawn, leaving little blots of fading blackness on the moonlit grass where its paws touched.

Jelindel strode quickly over to the stables and quietly climbed the wall before any more dogs came over to investigate. The next one might bark first and sniff later.

Reculemoon was all but eclipsed as she took a leather-bound sheaf of star charts and a tiny flask of wormglow from her bag. As the last of the light faded from the sky the city itself seemed to become hushed as well; then the constellations of stars blazed out from the black sky.

The fantail of the bird of paradise was near the zenith, while Delotia the Huntress was half above the horizon, her hair in breaking waves of fine stars.

Jelindel had only a handful of seconds to marvel at the celestial masterpiece before a sharp yelp of alarm pierced the night’s silence and made her sit bolt upright. She looked about for the source of the noise but the entire city was shrouded in the dark veil of the eclipse.

A dog? The dogs only bark for a good reason, she thought, as she glanced across to the tall house where two windows showed lights. Why only a single yelp? If they had caught a real intruder there would be barking and growling and the screams of someone being torn apart. All was quiet now, so whatever it was, it was not important.

Jelindel turned back to the sky, greedily sweeping her eyes over the glorious spectacle. This sight was worth any punishment, any discomfort, she thought; then her lips whispered dreamily: ‘This is true freedom and absolute beauty. I want this to last forever.’

A shriek echoed out from the mansion, shattering the hushed darkness of the eclipse. It was a cry of complete terror, and from a woman’s throat. Immediately, clashing weapons began an irregular, discordant chime.

Jelindel stood up on the wooden shingles, realising that something terrible was happening but scarcely able to believe it. There were more screams, and cries of pain that were cut short. The thief-bell began to ring, then the entire ground floor of the mansion burst into flames as if it had been soaked in lamp oil.

Jelindel froze. Panic hovered just above her, then descended and paralysed her limbs. Her heart hammered urgently, but she was unable even to cry out.

Something monstrous was happening, something so terrible that it was beyond her understanding. There was one final scream and the bell stopped ringing. Now she clambered shakily down off the stable roof and in among the bushes of the garden. As she pushed her way through some greenberry shrubs, dark figures began leaping from windows. Their forms were lithe shadows outlined by the hungry flames.

Through sheer instinct rather than terror, Jelindel crouched and remained still. She counted six of the deathly dark shapes. They merged in and out of the shadows cast in the garden by the fire, making splotches of dark on the lawn as the dogs had done. Jelindel’s eyes widened. They were footfall spells: enchantments to change sound to blots of darkness.

Jelindel knew at once that these were lindraks, the royal assassins. Where were the bullhounds? she wondered in despair. Even those soft-treading, deathly quiet intruders could not have got past the bullhounds.

Five lindraks flowed soundlessly over a wall, like shadows that had been cast by drifting smoke. The last one slowed, stopped, then turned in Jelindel’s direction.

Chapter

2

It was during the first month of 2128 that the Preceptor of Skelt received his mysterious guest. His visitor had somehow skirted official channels and had arrived unannounced. The Preceptor would see that heads would roll for this imposition. However, for now he would attend to the stranger.

The dragonlink lay on a cushion of green velvet between the Preceptor and his guest. It had a bright, silvery sheen sprinkled with highlights of colour, and was larger than most chainmail links. It might have been an ornamental ring, yet it was still slightly small as rings went.

The guest hall of the Preceptor’s fortress was lit by four terracotta lamps on lipshelves, and by a single candle on a brass stand beside the dinner table. Unseasonable rain and a cold south wind battered the walls, tiles and shutters of the heavily built fortress.

The Preceptor rested his elbows on the table, staring at the link, and deep in thought, but occasionally glaring up at his guest. The Preceptor had a severe, angular face, and although his skin had a scholar’s pallor he was dressed in campaign tunic, trail mantle and field boots. He went to some lengths to cultivate his image of scholar-warrior, and he liked to boast that he was always dressed for war – even when studying or eating.

At last he leaned forward, bent over the link of chainmail and peered at it even more closely.

‘So this is why you want me to send the cream of my lancers to almost certain death,’ he said sharply.

‘It is one of thirty thousand reasons,’ replied his guest.

‘There is writing etched on its surface,’ the Preceptor said, squinting. ‘Such fine, delicate script … the scribe could only have been an enchanted mouse. What does it say?’

‘I do not know,’ his guest replied without a trace of apology. ‘Look carefully and you will see patterns of colour as well. They are part of the writing.’

The Preceptor sat back and frowned at his guest, but the man was not intimidated. He had traceries of blue flickering about his lips, almost as if there were vast energies within him, waiting to overflow. At first glance the huge visitor seemed like some burly barbarian chief dressed in a noble’s finery. For all that he talked in a smooth, understated voice, rather like a scholar, a priest.

The Preceptor reached out and brushed the link’s surface with the back of his index finger, then snatched his hand back with a gasp.

‘Cold! It’s as cold as ice – colder,’ he said, losing his composure for a moment.

‘There is nothing to fear, Preceptor,’ said the guest. ‘That which you perceive as cold is just a minor property of the dragonlink.’

‘Dragonlink,’ echoed the Preceptor. ‘It is a potent word for a potent device, one that fell to earth with a so-called god.’

This information was a closely guarded secret even in scholarly circles – considered by many as heresy – but the Preceptor was a scholar as well as a warrior. He was not a scholar who chased dry facts in dusty libraries, however, and he applied the wisdom of scholarship to the practice of war. He had been given the title Preceptor by the King himself.

Exactly one thousand years ago there had been a great war in the firmament – or so the story went – and one of the vanquished gods had fallen to earth. As befitted a god, his weapons and devices were beyond human comprehension and the impact of his dead dragon-steed had created the circular lake in Hamaria known as Skyfall. It was more than a mile in diameter. The very year was named 1128 After Skyfall by zealots. The vanquished god had fallen with his dragon-steed, and his body had landed ten miles from the crater.

‘You say “so-called god”,’ prompted the visitor. ‘Do you not believe the legends and scriptures?’ Seeing the Preceptor’s darkening face, he added, ‘Come, a man of your learning has ingress to the most guarded libraries in the land.’

‘And you?’

The visitor smiled thinly. ‘I have my ways.’

‘The “god” was probably some yokel hit by rocks thrown out of Skyfall. Many thousands of others were killed too, but just because this one had green blood he was hailed as a dead god. Someone probably pumped green dye into his veins so that the local village would be known as the gravesite of a god. A temple was actually built there, too. I’ve seen the ruins.’

‘He was found still wearing his chainmail.’

‘And that I also know. That’s why it is such a stupid legend. Why would gods bother with mere chainmail when their preferred weapons are thunderbolts and comets? The chainmail was broken up and some links sold as holy relics, as I recall reading.’

‘There was a lot of bloodshed and thievery before they became “holy relics”, Preceptor. Also, it was not mere chainmail. The vanquished god’s mailshirt was an engine, like a watermill or siege catapult. It had quite fantastic powers that we can barely begin to guess at. Those who found the mailshirt soon learned that even isolated links had the most wondrous properties. This link is from that very same mailshirt. Too, for an entire calendar to be based around such a seminal event surely lends credence –’

‘There are many calendars,’ the Preceptor said wearily, ‘and the Order of Skyfall’s must be the most tenuous.’ He realised that he was still rubbing the back of his finger and he quickly folded his arms. He stared at his guest with suspicion, although there was fear in his face as well.

‘If there is nothing to fear, then you put it on,’ he said, his eyes narrowing.

The visitor shrugged and reached for the dragon link. His hands were so big that he could only fit the link on the outer finger of his left hand. He waggled his fingers in the air before the Preceptor’s suspicious gaze, then removed the link and offered it to him on the palm of his hand.

The pale warlord picked it up, flinching at the coldness of its surface. With his teeth clenched together he slipped it onto the outer finger of his right hand.

‘How odd. Now that I am wearing it, the coldness is gone.’

‘That is because the cold is really not cold but … a subtle property. I cannot explain it.’

‘Why not?’ demanded the Preceptor. ‘I order that you do.’

‘I cannot, not will not. But I can demonstrate.’ The big man gestured to a weapons rack. ‘That handsome weapon on the wall, the Hamarian throwing knife. Are you skilled in its use?’

‘No. It was just a gift from a warlord across the border to, ah, seal a pact between us. The sword is my preferred weapon.’

‘That is good, that is ideal. Take it down. Choose a small target and aim for it.’

They both stood up and the Preceptor took the knife from its rack. He held it by the blade for a moment as he scanned the guest hall for a suitable target, then flung it. It thudded squarely into the eye of a wooden gargoyle above the hearth. The surprise was evident in the Preceptor’s face, but he tried to disguise it.

‘I was not aiming for that eye,’ he muttered.

‘You can lie to me, Preceptor, but not to yourself.’

The Preceptor walked across to the hearth and pulled the knife free, then paced right back to the other side of the guest hall. Again he flung the knife. This time it lodged in the gargoyle’s other eye.

He stood with his arms folded to steady his shaking hands. His eyes were again narrowed slits.

‘Well, Preceptor?’ asked his guest.

‘So what?’ he said with slow sarcasm. ‘Any good fair-ground conjurer could do as well.’

‘Indeed, but could you?’

Slowly the Preceptor extended his hand with fingers spread, gazing at the link. His guest held out his hand for the link, then let it fall to his side as the Preceptor ignored him and walked to the gargoyle. He pulled the knife free again and replaced it on its rack. The wooden face now regarded the room with hollow slits for pupils.

‘All right, then, I believe you,’ the Preceptor admitted. He removed the link, then nearly dropped it as the chill returned to its surface. ‘Damn! What causes that coldness in it?’

‘What you feel is something of yourself being absorbed and stored.’

‘What? Is it stealing life-essence from me?’

‘The dragonlinks need to be fed, Preceptor, but their needs are small.’

The Preceptor placed the link on the velvet cushion and stood back, his arms folded again.

‘You say there are other links like this.’

‘Thirty thousand, a whole mailshirt of them. United, the mailshirt is said to repel even magic. I suspect it is a passive entity, but one that absorbs life force.’

‘A prize indeed,’ the Preceptor pondered. But nobody could collect the missing links after one thousand years.’

‘You would be surprised. Scholars have well documented amazing feats by certain eminent prophets. The links can be traced via their direct lineage.’ He shrugged. ‘One or two have been stolen over a period of time. This has led a trail to the false prophets.’ He closed his eyes in thought. ‘But whatever the case, the dragonlinks glow orange when near to each other, so that they can be found easily enough.’

The big man reached into a leather stud pouch at his waist and fiddled with something within. The link on the cushion blazed up with a coppery glow and the Preceptor shrank back at once. Just as quickly it faded away to gleaming silver metal again.

‘This is power beyond magic, Preceptor. This one link has a few amusing properties, but just think of what a mailshirt of thirty thousand links could do. Thirty thousand links, bursting with powers that the tame charmsmiths of your rivals could never match.’

‘The court mage of the King of Skelt is an Adept 11. That’s more than just a tame charmsmith,’ said the Preceptor as he began to pace the floor again, his hands gesturing restlessly as he talked. ‘Over the border the Hamarian Queen has an Adept 14 in her employ, and his powers – gah, my head spins just to think about it! Even my own personal mage Walliach is only an Adept 9, and his cost is more than the wages of all my officers put together.

‘Four years ago the Hamarian warlord Lokribar smashed his queen’s army and marched on the capital with an Adept 12 mage looking to his safety. Lokribar was found dead in his tent with a large, green worm’s tail wriggling in his navel while its head emerged from his mouth. I had just arrived to form an alliance with Lokribar and his rebels. I actually saw the foul thing. His Adept 12 was a charred mess in the remains of a nearby tent.’

The Preceptor stopped and pulled his robes close about him, shivering at the memory.

‘Your enchanted bauble means little to me, my friend, but side with me against the senior Adepts of monarchs and it shall prove favourable to your cause.’

‘Good, good,’ said his guest, nodding. ‘I shall now, ah, commit us to a partnership.’

The Preceptor waved his hands in the air. ‘Do what you like. Contracts are easily burned.’

‘Not this contract. Now step back and sit in your chair, Preceptor. Sit very still and, whatever you do, refrain from making any sound.’

The Preceptor’s guest raised one hand to his mouth while making a little flourish with the other. His lips moved as he muttered a single word that seemed all consonants. Immediately a writhing ball of blue coils poured out of his mouth like a stream of glowing water. It formed into a quivering globe and hung in mid-air, floating just before the man’s face. Within it was something orange-green, something that was all glitter and sharp angles, and that radiated considerable heat.

‘Feed, starving.’

The words were thin and high-pitched, as if scratched out on a badly tuned fiddle. They were felt rather than heard by the petrified Preceptor. His guest seemed more relaxed, now that the thing was outside him.

‘Go to him who bears the truename Walliach. By your own truename, feed at him, then by your own truename go free.’

Another screech. ‘Release.’

‘Not until you are with Walliach. Go.’

The sphere rose until it was past the rafters overhead, then it seemed to squeeze between the tiles of the roof and was gone.

‘What was that?’ gasped the Preceptor.

‘That was very hungry. Hush now, and listen.’

Moments later, terrified, penetrating screams erupted beyond the walls of the guest hall and echoed throughout the fortress. The screams quickly merged with the shouts of men and the clatter of boots running. The Preceptor made for the door, but his guest seized his arm and said, ‘No.’ There was the sound of wood being smashed and splintered, followed by fresh screams and the clang of weapons.

‘Stay here until I declare it safe outside, Preceptor,’ the guest warned, releasing the Preceptor’s arm.

‘What have you done?’ demanded the Preceptor, wide-eyed with alarm.

‘I have provided a seal to our contract. You have just lost an Adept 9 and gained an Adept 12, Preceptor – me. You now depend upon me, but you will find that it is not such a bad thing.’

High above them a much bloated blue globe slipped back between the tiles and descended slowly. The Adept 12 reached out and caressed its surface, and the coils writhed about his hand, then spread up his arm and neck. They crackled about his lips and nostrils for a few heartbeats and slowly dispersed into his body.

Someone began pounding on the door of the Preceptor’s guest hall and the Preceptor opened it to admit his battered Captain of the Watch. The officer’s helmet was scored with what might have been claw marks. His leather scale armour was charred, and was still smoking in places.

Something had killed the Preceptor’s Adept 9, the captain reported; something that had ripped the man apart and flung the pieces all over the benches and shelves of his alchemorium. A squad of guards had broken down the door and found a swirl of orange-green clinging to a silvery globe with spiked tendrils. It was apparently eating it.

The guardsmen had been foolish enough to try to engage the apparition, but it fought them off with a ruthless, virulent ferocity. The orange-green predator spat fire and clawed through steel with its spiked tendrils; it seemed like a lion defending its kill. Five guards had died before it had completely absorbed the silvery thing, then it suddenly faded into the air itself and was gone, leaving not so much as a wisp of smoke.

The Preceptor wrung his hands as he listened, his head bowed and his brow furrowed.

‘The fool, he warned me that he was setting up for a dangerous invocation,’ admitted the Preceptor regretfully when the captain had finished. ‘All right then, fetch my trainee Adept 7 from the town and bring him here to the fortress. Send him to the alchemorium to clean up any lingering focus points and enchantment vortices.’

When the captain had gone and the door was closed again the Preceptor turned to his guest.

‘You are a dangerous man,’ the Preceptor said slowly, shaking with fear yet defiant. ‘Such men eventually meet even more dangerous men, then perish.’

The big man gave a little gesture of deprecation and smiled benignly. ‘I am an Adept 12, so your mage’s death was no great victory.’

Beads of sweat meandered down the Preceptor’s face. ‘If you will be my Adept I can pay –’

‘Not so fast, Preceptor. I do not work for money.’

‘What then?’

‘I would be inclined to defend and protect you as my partner. Do we have a partnership?’

The Preceptor flicked a drop of sweat from the point of his beard. ‘What do you want in return?’

‘I have already told you: the use of your best lancers for some weeks and the obliteration of some difficult and troublesome people who must be killed with discretion. I also want five fast privateers for a strike deep into Hamatriol that I shall make with the two hundred best lancers of your personal guard.’

‘What? Hamatriol? It’s two weeks’ voyage from here, and it’s landlocked behind Gratz.’

‘Yes. We’ll have to ride and fight our way across Gratz first.’

The Preceptor pressed his hands against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. He counted ten pulses beneath his fingers, then looked at his guest again. ‘Give me that link as a mark of good faith.’

‘Very well, keep the dragonlink until you are upon the Skelt throne.’

‘Agreed.’

‘My calling name is Fa’red.’

‘Fa’red! Fa’red, the mage turned merchant?’ The Preceptor’s eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘You must be in your eighties by now.’

‘Thank you, Preceptor.’

The implication was that he was older rather than younger, but the Preceptor did not pursue the matter. He fingered the link nervously. ‘Are you not going to ask for something in return for this?’ he asked, extending his hand to Fa’red.

Instead of grasping the proffered hand, Fa’red placed a death-scroll in his fingers. ‘Yes. Kill these people.’

The Preceptor glared at him for the slight, but said nothing. He quickly scanned the names on the scroll.

‘Nobody really important … Count Juram? He has risen against me, but what has he done to you?’

‘It’s what he is, not what he has done.’

The Preceptor rolled up the scroll and placed it on the table. ‘In fact, others on this list have been annoying me lately. These lives could be quenched over a month or two, but, however careful I may be, my hand will eventually be traced. Their scabby families and followers will embark upon vendettas against me.’

‘I’ll protect you, but first I must make the raid into Hamatriol. There is a shrine where the main mailshirt of dragonlinks lies and I mean to take it.’

The Preceptor’s eyebrows creased in doubt. ‘You will need an army!’

‘The shrine’s guards protect it against petty thieves and low-ranking rogue Adepts, while the Hamatriol army could stop any invader trying to march overland to seize it. However, a half-brigade of elite lancers led by a high Adept just might be sufficiently swift yet powerful to slip between the cracks in those defences. Have your men ready in two weeks.’

‘Two weeks! I’ll need four –’

‘Two. When I return, I’ll make you the most powerful man in Skelt.’

‘You are doing a great deal for my benefit, Fa’red. What is the real purpose behind our partnership?’

‘I need the power of a great ruler, Preceptor, but if I gained it for myself I would attract the attention of certain … enforcers of certain rules. Why do you think that mages, especially senior Adepts, never become kings? Through you I can achieve the same aims while remaining hidden.’

‘And if I betray you?’ asked the Preceptor boldly.

‘Then you shall die,’ replied Fa’red without hesitation and in the politest of tones.

During the year 2128 the Preceptor of Skelt quickly grew in influence. He annihilated a dozen rival Skeltian warlords on the battlefield, then seized disputed borderlands and islands from Hamaria and the privateer sea-princes. The power and influence of Skelt on the west coast of the continent increased dramatically. True, a number of influential nobles died under strange, tragic, and generally suspicious circumstances, but Skelt was somehow growing strong, rich and important again, so the few scattered deaths scarcely seemed to matter.

Chapter

3

Jelindel cowered back as the lindrak glided towards her, but it was no good. He had seen her, she was as good as dead. She muttered the prayer of life’s release and traced the holy circle in the air with a hand trembling in terror – then two black streaks crashed into the advancing, cowled figure.

The bullhounds dragged the lindrak to the ground in a growling, yelping tangle of teeth and flailing limbs. The other lindraks were back over the wall within moments, and even the bullhounds were no match for five lindraks at once.

The cowled assassin who had seen Jelindel lay still on the grass in the fire’s glare as another bent over him.

There was a twittering, cheeping sound from the kneeling lindrak, then he made as if to tear at his throat with his hand. One of the standing lindraks shrugged and raised his hands, then gave three short sharp whistles. There was a low twitter of reply, then the kneeling lindrak slung his wounded colleague over his shoulders and stood up.

Cowering out of sight, Jelindel watched the lindrak assassins carry their wounded comrade over the wall and out of sight.

Cries of ‘Fire!’ now came from the street beyond the garden wall. Jelindel took two faltering steps towards the roaring, crackling mansion before she realised her family was beyond help. She could hear terrified horses neighing and kicking at their stalls in the stables and this was where she now turned.

Jelindel burst through the door of the stablehands’ quarters. All the stablehands lay dead, their bodies sprawled and contorted in the light of a single tallow candle. Her senses reeled and she clawed at the door for support. She had seen dead sparrows in the garden and dead mice that the cats had caught, but never, never death on this scale.

The sheer enormity of what was before her eyes blunted its horror, and Jelindel was surprised to find herself thinking clearly. The fire could spread. The horses had to be freed.

Without thought for herself she drew aside the heavy bolts of the stall doors and released the wild-eyed horses. The black stallion in the end stall reared and smashed splinters from the gate as Jelindel pushed at the bolt. Pieces of wood struck her and she pressed back against the wall in alarm as the door swung open and the frantic horses bolted out into the garden.

The town bells were by now clamouring their warning and the shouts of a growing crowd came from beyond the wall. There was a dull crash as the main gates were battered from outside. The ram struck the gates three, four, five times as Jelindel pressed herself against the shadows of the stable wall, then they crashed inwards and the yard was suddenly filled with scurrying figures.

The plumed helmets of the city constables were among the teeming press of people in nightshirts carrying framepails, axes, ladders and wetflails.

‘Bodies, there’s bodies everywhere!’ someone shouted from the stablehands’ quarters.

Jelindel’s first thought was to rush out and tell them what had happened, but the sight of so many dark, busy shapes held her back. How many of them might be the shadowy murderers who had been the cause of this nightmare? Her eyes narrowed. Whatever the lindraks’ motives, they would want to ensure that no one had escaped the massacre – and Jelindel was the only survivor. Numbly she snatched up a discarded pail and ran for the ornamental pond. No one noticed what appeared to be the figure of a stable boy as she blended in with the crowd fighting the fire.

Jelindel didn’t sleep at all that night. The mansion burned for three hours, and all that the onlookers could achieve was to put out spot fires in the garden and neigh-bouring buildings.

As Jelindel watched, the full enormity of what had happened pressed down on her ever more heavily with each rafter that fell or wall that collapsed. The mad scurry to stay alive and fighting the fire had held the horrors back, but now she knew that everyone who had been dear to her from the day that she was born was no more. Her entire lineage, wiped out within the space of a hundred heartbeats. She shivered with loneliness in the warm night air, too terrified to ask even for comfort from the priests in the crowd who were there to anoint the dead.

In the middle of a city full of people she was as alone as if cast adrift on a raft on an empty ocean.

As the night progressed towards morning Jelindel gave up all hope of rescuing anything from the ruined mansion. Besides, a dozen constables were there to guard the smouldering ruins against looters and further flare-ups. The mayor’s assessors piled charred bodies into carts while the constable-general declared the causes of death for his scribe to note down. Some of the bodies were quite small.

When dawn began to brighten the sky, Jelindel noticed that one of the constables and his scribe were beginning to take statements from the men who had remained throughout the night. She did not want to be noticed, and her well-educated accent would give her away after a word or two.

‘Be goin’ t’market fer bite, Fergus?’ a man asked his friend.

‘Aye, that I’d like,’ replied the other, and they set off past where Jelindel was crouching.

Wearily, Jelindel followed the pair at a distance, trying to keep track of the narrow cobble stoned streets that they passed along. She was soon lost, however, and completely dependent on her unknowing guides.

The fine houses and mansions gave way to rambling tenements of cinder-brick and wood-shingle, and then these opened onto a wide square filled with gaudy tents and stalls. Displays were being unpacked by astonishingly varied and often strangely dressed people, and the scents of exotic and enticing foods hung heavily on the air. Almost at once Jelindel realised that she had lost the men she had been following. No matter, she would just blend in with the crowd.

She approached a stall with fresh buns cooling from the oven and scooped seven coppers from her purse. ‘If you please, how much do you charge for a bun?’ she asked the rotund woman behind the trestle.

‘If I pleeeese? Do I chaarge?’ screeched the woman, her mottled, warty hands on her hips. ‘Goraw, come listen to this little lambity!’ she called to someone within the stall. When she turned back her mortified victim had fled.

Jelindel wandered for another two hours before daring to open her mouth again. She eventually decided to feign an accent. Nerrissian, that was it! She could make her mother and sisters helpless with laughter with her impersonation of a Nerrissian. Her mother. Her sisters. Tears welled in her eyes but she fought them down.

Haltingly, she approached another vendor and said, ‘What will charging for buns?’ in thick, slow words.

The vendor eyed her shrewdly, recognised her Nerrissian inflexions as a foreign accent … and charged her three coppers instead of one.

As Jelindel walked away eating her bun a Nerrissian sailor called out in his native tongue: ‘Eh lad, they’re worth one. Mind that next time.’

Lad! She was passing for a boy without even being aware of it. The idea somehow came as a shock. Through nothing else but sheer good fortune she had been outside the mansion and dressed as a boy when the lindraks had struck, but that good fortune would not last forever. Now she must learn how to be a boy, and how to earn a living.

The bun had been cheap at the price as far as Jelindel was concerned, but it did remind her of another pressing problem. There were only four coppers left. That was four buns, even if she only drank at the public fountain. After that, what?

She could starve, but that was hardly an option. She could go to the Temple of Verity and seek refuge, but that would mean revealing that she was alive. The lindraks would soon arrive to kill her, and the temple guards would be of little use against them.

Only the King of Skelt could unleash the lindraks, his deadly warriors of the night. Only the King. Had her father offended the King? As a member of the King’s Council of Advisers, he had had a lot of influence with the monarch, but had he taken that influence too far? Earlier that month he had denounced the Preceptor, the ruthless warrior scholar from the south – and the Preceptor was in favour with the King.

In law, the lindraks could only be used in defence of the realm, yet the murderers that Jelindel had seen in the garden the night before could only have been lindraks. Could it be possible that the King would send lindraks against his own loyal subjects? Jelindel fought against the thought but lost.

The sailor had called her lad, and that set her thinking. He had been fooled by her disguise, so it was obviously good. Nobody saw the lindraks and lived; nobody marked for their blades escaped, yet she was still alive. These were two miracles already and she did not want to tempt fate further by having it known that she had survived. She had already passed for a boy so perhaps she could remain a boy. Boys had far more freedom, and a girl living in the marketplace with no guardian or family was unheard of. That meant surviving alone, as a boy, and a foreigner, in secret.

Jelindel had been the youngest girl in a family of six. She had been well tutored in languages, charm-healing, history, music, dancing, needlework, household magic and theology, as well as scores of darker subjects that she had studied on her own initiative … but she had not been taught how to buy buns.

One thing at a time, she said to herself. A boy needs a boy’s name, a plain name that draws no attention. Jaelin, that was a common boy’s name along the whole western coast of the continent.

‘Jaelin, I am Jaelin,’ she told the blue sky, sitting on a barrel amid the market’s impartial turmoil. Suddenly she felt a lot stronger and more confident.

Around noon Jelindel was eating her second sauce bun when she heard a commotion nearby. Being part of a crowd seemed safer than being alone, so she walked over.

‘Call yerself a scribe?’ bellowed a navvy angrily as he waved a sheet of reedbond paper. ‘I took this petition that yer scribed ter the magistrate an’ he couldn’t even read it!’

Jaelin sensed an ugly mood in the crowd as others joined in jeering at the aged scribe. Jeme had once told her how loafers in the market liked to start riots out of little disputes so that they could smash and loot stalls in the confusion.

A sudden hush descended. Standing on tiptoe Jelindel could see three market constables pushing their way through the crowd. They were burly giants with stubby spikes on their shoulder armour and spired helmets jammed down over their wild hair.

The market constables were recruited for size, strength and – some said – for ugly faces. They shoulder -ed the onlookers aside, kicking at those who were too slow, then lined up before the two disputants.

‘Settle your differences in good order,’ bellowed the ranking constable.

‘Ah, uh, five coppers I think the gentleman requires to be returned,’ the scribe mumbled.

‘Nine!’ the petitioner insisted. ‘For defective work.’

‘Pay him six,’ ordered the constable, ‘and pay us six – each!’

The scribe quickly counted out twenty-four coppers into four piles. The petitioner snatched up his coins, bowed to the constables, and backed into the crowd.

‘You are the cause of this disturbance,’ the ranking constable snarled at the scribe as he scooped up the remaining coins. ‘Consider yourself lucky, and take more care henceforth.’

With his free hand he seized the edge of the scribe’s stall and wrenched it over, scattering his quills and spilling inks and powders onto the dusty ground of the market. The scribe bowed and thanked the constables for their diligence, then knelt down and began to gather up his scattered possessions. The market constables set about breaking up the crowd that had been watching. Unruly mobs were not tolerated by the market’s trustees. They were bad for business.

Jelindel was quick to sense an opportunity. Good scribes were apparently in short supply but in high demand. She skirted the market constables and quickly caught up with the angry petitioner.

‘Please, goodman,’ she panted as she caught up. ‘How much you pay for writing petition?’

‘Can yer write, boy?’ he asked, staring down at what he thought to be a grubby youth in stable roughweaves.

‘Better write than speak,’ Jelindel said confidently. It was damnably hard to know if she was going too far with slang in her native Skeltian, but playing a Nerrissian trying to speak Skeltian was easy. ‘Five coppers, is all,’ she added hopefully.

The man considered her words carefully. ‘Yeah, but only if yer come with me when I present it, yer hear?’

Jelindel nodded acknowledgement.

‘And yer name?’ the navvy enquired gruffly.

‘Jel-Jaelin,’ she faltered. From now on I’m JAELIN! she silently screamed to herself.

The navvy sensed deceit but said nothing. Everyone working the market had something to hide, and street urchins rarely spoke a true word. He put a hand down to his purse as Jelindel led him aside to a pen where wholesale beer was auctioned. She had a writing kit in her bag. She had taken it with her the night before to write down what she saw in the star-drenched sky of the eclipse. Now it was practically all she had left in the world. Uncorking a phial of ink, she spread out a sheet of reedbond on the top of a barrel and wrote out the man’s petition as he spoke it.

The navvy spoke Skeltian, but it was hard to follow his dialect above the clamour of the busy marketplace. When she had finished the last word she added minor embellishments with a flourish. Too anxious to even admire her own handiwork, she tipped a little blotting powder over the fresh ink and showed it to her customer. The man just grunted, for the lines meant nothing to him.

The first attempt at anything is always a trauma, Jelindel’s oldest brother had once told her. He had been talking about tournaments, kissing girls and appearing at court, but she now added to his list the selling of one’s scribing services. She was satisfied that she had earned her pay, but she was still desperately worried about what was to happen as she set off with the broad-shouldered navvy for the magistrate. If the magistrate demanded to see her licence from the Guild of Scribes her brief career would be over.

They stopped at the clerk’s table that barred the way to the magistrate’s tent.

‘Ah, beautifully written, and so well expressed,’ declared the fussily pompous clerk as he read what Jelindel had written. ‘His lordship is always well disposed to petitioners who present their petitions well.’

‘So how long’s ter wait, if yer be pleased?’ asked the navvy in a gruff but servile voice.

‘Mere moments,’ said the clerk, waving at the air between them. ‘Less time than it would take you to wash.’

Within a half hour the navvy had been granted his petition, and was dragging Jelindel by the arm to the nearest tavern.

‘Granted, by thunder! Granted within the hour, yet I was told it would be a month at best. What did yer write?’ he asked euphorically. ‘It couldn’t ’ave been what I said.’

‘Little improvements,’ said Jelindel, making a small space between her thumb and finger.

‘Hah, little improvements like that could make yer big money, my lad,’ he laughed as they entered the Boar and Bottle. ‘Vintner. Two pints!’

Jelindel gasped. ‘Please. I no drink,’ she pleaded. ‘Religion forbidding.’

‘Well I’ll drink ’em both. Siddown and tell me what yer work’s worth.’

‘Five coppers,’ Jelindel whispered meekly. She was aware of the attention they were getting.

The navvy slammed a fist down on the oaken table.

‘Five coppers be damned!’ he roared. Jelindel’s heart sank. ‘Ten coppers – no, ten argents! Siddown and drink with me – no, siddown and don’t drink with me!’ At least a dozen argents spilled from his hand and clinked onto the table.

‘Vintner, where’s my beer?’ he called, then stood up and shouted to the crowd. ‘My petition to be declared a navvy foreman has been granted. Who will sign on with my gang of navvies and work on the Preceptor’s new bridge at Northpass?’

As men began to come forward Jelindel slipped away and into the street. Some minutes later she was back at the old scribe’s stall, which was again upright. She dropped an argent onto the writing board before him as he sat half-dozing in the sun.

The scribe blinked his eyes and seemed surprised to see someone standing there. ‘Ah, how can I be of assistance, young man?’ he asked. He quickly picked up the coin and made it disappear within the folds of his voluminous dustcloak.

‘Man who shout at you, I write his petition. He like work. He pay well.’

‘I – oh, but, but why pay me?’ the scribe stammered, trying to focus on Jelindel’s face with his weak eyes.

‘Nobody know I write. Everybody know you write. People come to you. I write. We share fee. Yes?’

‘Well, er, yes, m’lad. Yes indeed! It seems reasonable.’ He knuckled his eyes and stretched them wide. ‘Failing eyesight, don’t you know. Used to be a good scribe, but now, ah well …’

‘My name is Jaelin,’ said Jelindel with a bow.

‘Pleased to cross your path, young master Jaelin. I’m Bebia Ral’Vey.’

By sunset Jelindel had written five letters and earned seventeen more coppers. The scribe’s stall gave her more than coins, it gave her a place in the world. By pretending that she came from another country instead of another class she could ask Bebia the most basic of questions about life and living in the D’loom market without raising suspicion.

The last customer of the day was a young blacksmith from the foothills of the Barrier Ranges. He dictated a letter home to his brother.

‘Plenty of work for smithies is a-brewin’ here, mark my word. The Preceptor’s made a demand to Count Dev’Ric about Northpass, and nobody’s about to call foul on his word. There’ll be fightin’ and there’ll be armies wantin’ swords an’ pikes an’ warhorses shod wi’ iron and the like. Count Juram dek Mediesar, White Quell take his soul,’ – the man made the holy circle quickly – ‘stood in opposition an’ he and his was all run through and roasted like pigs, they were.’ He paused when he noticed Jelindel slowing more with each word. ‘Am I going too fast, lad?’ he asked.

‘Continue,’ Jelindel whispered. She took a deep breath and scribbled the last few words unsteadily.

‘All killed,’ the man added. ‘Wife, sons, daughters, servants, stablehands. Even his hounds – though his horses was spared. They say the lindraks done it. Strong as ten men, those lindraks. They can walk on water, fly – why, they can kill a man wi’ a touch of a finger.’

And they talk among themselves with the twittering voices of birds, Jaelin thought to herself as the man stood scratching his head and trying to think what else to put in the letter.

‘Three lines more, then extra copper for new page,’ Jelindel warned, desperately hoping the man would stop babbling about the death of her family.

‘Ah, then if that be the case … write: “The forges glow hot by night here in D’loom” … ah, yeah, and write me name.’

‘Which is?’

‘Zemis Yuol.’

When he was gone Bebia made a neat bundle of the day’s letters and put their equal share of the takings into two piles after taking out the rental of market space, the trustees’ levy and the King’s tax and putting them into three separate purses. He dictated a note to the pursemaster of the market to start a new account for a Nerrissian named Jaelin Halvet, who was now registered at his stall. Jelindel had chosen the second name after the confectionery on sale at the stall beside Bebia’s.

‘Do you have papers?’ asked the scribe, holding out his hand.

‘Papers?’

‘Border passage papers –’

Jelindel did not. ‘Yes, yes,’ she lied quickly. ‘Having papers.’

‘Good, then keep ’em safe and keep ’em to hand. The market constables sometimes like to flex their muscle and check such tedious things. They can’t read ’em, mind, but they might drag you off to someone who can. Now then, Zimak should be here some time soon. He takes the letters and purses to Markethouse, where mail is despatched and moneys are kept. Amazing lad – one day an urchin, the next the marketplace idol. Ah, here he comes.’

Zimak was a wiry blond youth of about Jelindel’s age. He wore the blue tunic and britches of the courier guild, and sported the longest possible knife that was still short enough to be exempt from the sword tax. Lone couriers did not normally carry money, but Zimak, despite his youth, was known to have gained sudden notoriety in the art of Siluvian kick-fist fighting. He had not been robbed once since the night he defeated a gang of six brigands.

Bebia introduced his new stall partner, then left to buy dinner.

‘So, can you use that thing, Nerrissian?’ Zimak asked Jelindel with an undisguised sneer.

Jelindel looked down at her belt and realised that he meant the knife that she wore. She had not drawn it since the moment she had strapped it on.

‘Use knife to cut,’ she replied warily.

‘It’s called an allrounder in our language. You can use it for eating, fighting, throwing, carving pegs or scraping hides. Show it here.’

Zimak held out his hand, and Jelindel reluctantly drew the knife and handed it to him between her thumb and forefinger, blade first.

‘Just as I thought,’ Zimak mocked. ‘You hold that thing like a girl.’

Jelindel felt a spasm of horror tug at her heart, but she did not show it. Fight back, be angry with him, she told herself.

‘Am scribe and clerk,’ she said, her face flushing with anger while a cooler corner of her mind wondered just what was so very girlish about her grip. ‘Not need knife. Write, read, speak eleven languages,’ she added firmly.

‘You’ll speak nothing with your throat slit,’ Zimak snorted as he flipped her knife in the air and caught it deftly. ‘Nice balance for an allrounder. Hey, if you want to look dangerous, hold it like this, thumb on the blade and keep it weaving, suchlike. Hold your other hand up with the fingers a little spread. Try it.’

Jelindel took the knife and did a clumsy parody of his movements. ‘And then?’

‘Then you hope that whoever’s cornered you thinks you know what to do next and decides to run away.’ Zimak threw his head back and laughed heartily.

‘I see,’ Jelindel replied through clenched teeth.

‘Seriously, Jaelin, you ought to hold your thumb on the blade, so. That shows that you’re willing to cut him up a bit, but you don’t want it to go right in and kill him. That would get you into real trouble. A thumb on the blade impresses people, you know?’

Jelindel nodded, then clumsily sheathed the knife. Zimak watched with professional interest, smirking.

‘I think I know your secret,’ he declared as he picked up the letters and purses from the stall’s writing board.

‘Secret?’ quavered Jelindel, genuinely alarmed again.

‘You know nothing about knives, that’s clear to see; you write like the Guildmaster of Scribes himself; you speak more languages than I’ve ever heard of … I’ll bet you’re a runaway monk from Nerrissi, or maybe a runaway novice at least.’

‘Will not say.’

‘You’re probably even a virgin,’ he added, ready to dodge back in case Jelindel threw a punch.

‘You go. Find more challenging person to insult. Yes?’ Jelindel began to pack up the reedbond paper and quills on the writing board. Night was blotting out the colours of the sunset and a brisk wind was sweeping in from the sea.

‘Touchy, touchy, but not much touchy, eh?’ quipped Zimak.

Jelindel closed her writing kit with a snap and glared at him.

‘Betting you no read or write.’

‘Who needs to?’

‘Betting you can’t even count!’ Zimak flinched. This had hit home. ‘Betting stallholders might find out, then they give you note saying more money in pouches than is. Everybody blaming Zimak. Zimak in stocks. Yes? Jaelin stand there, sell rotten eggs, throwing, for purpose of.’

‘You tell anyone and –’

‘I notice. I take one minute. Think nobody else notice too? Zimak no read! Stand out like terrier’s, ah, manhood.’

‘I could beat you blindfolded!’ Zimak shouted.

‘But you still not read or count when taking blindfold off!’ Jelindel shouted back.

He held his hands up and lowered his head.

‘Will you keep your damnat voice down,’ he pleaded quietly, then he dropped to the dusty earth and sat cross-legged, staring at the scrolls in his hands.

‘Jaelin not tell, but others guess maybe, sometime.’

‘Tch, Jaelin, I can’t count, read or write, but I want to. I try looking at the scrolls, but I see nothing but wriggles and dots.’

‘Very hard if no teacher,’ she said with reluctant sympathy.

‘Will you teach me?’

‘Me? I – I not teacher.’

‘So who is? Most scribes are as old and addled as Bebia. Verital Priests and monks wouldn’t be bothered with the likes of me, and merchants are too busy making money. You’re the first lad of my age who can read and write that I’ve ever met. Teach me to count, read and write and I’ll show you how to fight!’

‘Me? Fight? But I’m a gir – scribe.’

‘Gir-scribe?’

‘Member of the Nerrissi Guild of Scribes.’

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t fight. Tch, did you know that a plain axehandle can be almost as good as a sword when used properly? Weapons can be fun, too. First thing I’ll show you is a stink-pot. They’re a riot.’

Jelindel shook her head. Zimak was brash but he seemed honest – and even lonely. Imagine – another honest, lonely person in the markets, she thought in wonder.

‘Fair exchange, could be,’ Jelindel said slowly. ‘Sheltered life, have had – in monastery.’

‘Tch, I knew you were an escaped novice! A deal then, Brother Jaelin.’

‘No say Brother! No say Brother!’ gasped Jelindel, but this time her alarm was a deliberate act.

‘I’ll teach you to look all the bully-blades in the eye, you’ll stand up proud with your head up and chest out.’

The latter was the last thing Jelindel dared to do, but she nodded approvingly. Within the hour Zimak had written out his own name for the first time in his life, and Jelindel had learnt a rudimentary jump-dodge step that would prove invaluable in times to come.

It was dark by the time Bebia returned with some scraps of roast meat and vegetable paste in a flatbread roll. Although Jelindel nearly gagged at the taste she was hungry enough to eat it all.

‘Where do you live, Master Jaelin?’ Bebia asked as he swept his stall clear of food scraps.

‘Lodging … much in need for,’ Jelindel said. She’d completely forgotten about where she would stay; she had never slept beyond the walls of her father’s mansion in her whole life.

Bebia shook his head in wonder. ‘A babe in the woods you are, young Jaelin. Here,’ he said kindly, ‘unroll this blanket and spread it under the writing board. Our nights are warmer than in Nerrissi. You will be comfortable sleeping here.’

‘Is kind, you are,’ Jelindel said, almost fainting with relief and gratitude.

Jelindel was proud of herself. The market was a rough place, but she had survived a day and found food, lodgings and honest employment. Jeme had always insisted that the place was alive with cutpurses and cheats, yet kindness and honesty were traded there too.

She glanced skyward. Blanchemoon and Specmoon hung low over the governor’s palace, a crescent and a bright dot in the sky. Only now did the events of the past day catch up and swarm through her mind like a horde of scorpions.

As she settled down beneath the writing board of Bebia’s stall, Jelindel’s churning stomach reminded her of her supper. Two nights before she had eaten blackfowl casserole on a bed of scented rice and drunk pale violet porgava juice from distant Passendof, pretending it was wine and making toasts with her sisters. She had talked with them about what Princess Lovkie was wearing at court, and of how bravely the champ ions had fought in the harvest tournament for no more than a kiss on her royal hand.

The thought that she had not said goodnight to her family kept returning to torture her. She had been too keen to slip away into the garden for the eclipse of Reculemoon. Now they were all dead and she had not said goodbye. Nor had she said that she loved them since … Jelindel tried to think when she had told any of her family how much she loved them. Her younger sister, yes, she had told her a few days before, but the rest? Hard as she tried, the memories would not come forward.

Long-delayed tears began to trickle now, and Jelindel cried silently for a long time in the subtropical warmth of the D’loom night. Her survival alone for even the one day had been a triumph of resourcefulness and luck, yet at that hour she felt herself the most unlucky, lonely person in the entire Kingdom of Skelt.

Her hands wandered to the bound braid of hair at the back of her head. She could not wear a cap all the time, and her amber hair was suspiciously long. Unbound, it reached past her knees, after all. She could sell it, but that would attract attention and trouble. Jelindel took out her knife, unpinned her plait and cut it at shoulder length. Some Skeltian boys of her age wore their hair in a single shoulder-length plait interwoven with leather thonging. It did not take her long to style her remaining hair in that fashion.

Jelindel walked across to where the market’s rubbish of the day was being burned, and tossed the severed length of plait into the flames. She kept the five amberwood pins that had held it up. They were the only obviously feminine possessions left to her in the entire world. After staying long enough to see the hair consumed she returned to her blanket beneath the writing board. She expected the horrors of the night before to return as soon as she lay down, but this time sleep crashed over her and washed her away like a stormsurge.

Chapter

4

A chill, vicious wind lashed across Dragonfrost, a vast basin of red sand and granite bordered by the Algon Mountains and the Garrical Mountains. Even though Dragonfrost was not far from the tropics, cold air from the mountains and a near-permanent cloud cover made the place a chill, desolate tract of sand that nobody would cross willingly.

The two men who braved the cold, howling wind were riding stou t campaign horses, and were muffled against the stinging sand that was flung against them relentlessly. They had ridden through the dusty maelstrom for some days now, and at night they dug trenches in the cold, sandy ground to get sufficient shelter to sleep. The unceasing wind prevented any attempt at pitching a tent or building a fire. Instead they tied their tents about their horses, to give the animals some relief from the stinging sand at night as they munched chaff from their feedbags.

Each day it was the same. No sooner was the gloom lightening with dawn than the taller, older man began packing to be underway again. He continually muttered about their mission and the positions of stars that were not visible through the clouds.

Dragonfrost was marked on maps as just a vast basin of crumbling rock and sand, but now the two travellers knew better than the cartographers. There were huge fissures to be skirted, jumbles of rocks to walk the horses over, and sand so soft and fluid that it seemed alive underfoot.

Not once had they seen another living being. It seemed to Daretor, a young warrior and veteran of Lokribar’s Hamarian campaign, that they were adrift, alone in an infinite, dry, red sea, destined never to see trees or rivers again.

At last Daretor discerned the ragged outline of the Garrical Mountains ahead of them. Had he been in different company he would have cheered at the top of his lungs, but a subtly morbid mood had taken hold of him since his meeting with Jabez Thull, his travelling companion.

The old but strong, lean man seemingly had no past, and he was oddly well-informed. Daretor wondered how, without being one of the rich and powerful, he was even knowledgeable about the movements of the Skelt King’s secret courtesan. Magic, too, featured in his lined and weathered face. Daretor recognised the signs: fine, well-healed clawmarks from a small, seven-fingered hand, a scar below his jaw that was bright blue, an arrogant confidence that intimidated even noblemen, and strength that one would not expect in a man of his age.

Thull had released Daretor from the dungeons in Tol after he had been there for a week. They were unlit, dank and alive with vermin. Most who were sent in never emerged again, and rats were considered a delicacy by those long-term inmates. Daretor had been thrown in there among Skelt’s worst felons on charges of rioting and vandalism, charges that should have earned him no more than a day in the stocks. After a week Jabez Thull had mysteriously appeared and granted him a pardon signed by the Preceptor himself.

It was freedom, but only of a sort. What would the price be? Daretor was a most promising warrior, in fact he had won the Tol marathon fighting carnival for 2127. He had woken in a cell after the celebrations, with a terrible hangover and little memory of his offences.

He had become fettered to … what? A mage? He owed the man a bond and that bond took a strange form. Its discharge was deemed to be helping Thull attack a poorly guarded courtesan’s caravan in the Algon Mountains of Baltoria and stealing a solitary link of chainmail. That had been easy enough, but what now? Thull was old and probably a mage, and old mages often trained young protégés as Adepts. Daretor was not sure if he liked the prospect, but he had decided to follow Thull even after his discharge – without making any commitments.

Daretor cautiously opened his fingers and fed his eyes upon the link, a small, insignificant-looking circle of metal that sat in the palm of his hand and soaked up heat. It was neither gold nor silver, yet it had a sheen, a lustre that should have belonged to a precious metal. Its colour was that of polished silver, yet the highlights shone with an unearthly orange tinge. Under brighter skies he could make out the finest of writing on it, writing that flashed tiny sparkles of rainbow colours. Thull had insisted that he keep guard over the link. It was an odd gesture of trust that still puzzled Daretor.

Again he wondered at its icy touch. Clutched in his hand it should have been warm, yet its coldness chilled his hand as if he were holding a lump of ice.

It had importance, but for the life of him Daretor could not fathom it. ‘A rare, ensorcelled thing, and such things have value,’ he said to himself beneath the roaring wind.

Daretor turned in the saddle to see Thull smiling. Had his ears been keen enough to hear the whispered words above such a wind? Daretor clenched his fist around the link. There was no trusting the man, yet he had trusted Daretor with the link. It could be worn as a ring, Thull had suggested, but Daretor kept it in a pouch. Perhaps it was his right to wear it. The pair of them had equal chances to seize it against six of the King’s guards-men, but Daretor had snatched it from its ornate case first.

The old man’s knowledge had gained the link, so why had he so readily allowed him, Daretor, to keep possession of the enchanted treasure? Perhaps the magic within the link bound it to whoever took it by conquest. Yes, that seemed highly possible! Daretor had seized it, so only he could hold it.

Daretor’s face darkened beneath the cowl that shielded him from the stinging sand. How long would it be before Thull tried to win it for himself by conquest?

The foothills of the Garrical Mountains loomed higher before them. Daretor sighed with relief, then nudged his gelding to a faster walk. The sooner he was out of this accursed place the better. Above the howling wind he heard Thull’s stallion whicker as heels met hide.

The grass, trees and streams of the hills on the south-east of Dragonfrost were a welcome paradise after the bleak, dusty chill of the plain.

The two riders soon stopped to rest their horses. Daretor had been thinking a great deal during the crossing of Dragonfrost, and now he had many questions for his enigmatic partner.

‘We came by this link too easily,’ he said as he brushed down his horse. ‘It has the power to make and break empires?’

Thull smiled. ‘So the legend goes,’ he replied smoothly. ‘But only with the other links of the mailshirt, of course.’

‘If its powers are so great, old one, how did we drive off its guards so easily? I killed one and shouted my war cry, and that was enough to put the rest of them to flight.’

‘Guard it with an army, and it would attract an army,’ said Thull with a dismissive shrug. ‘The Skelt King is nobody’s fool. Those poor yokels knew nothing about what they were carrying.’

‘The Skelt King! They were in the middle of Baltoria when we ambushed them! They were two hundred miles from Skelt.’

‘Royal guile is obviously beyond your comprehension. The King feared the link. He did not know how to tap its power so he tried to hide it far from his own kingdom. Together the links hold power beyond mortal folk’s imaginings.’

‘Aye,’ Daretor said thoughtfully. ‘So do you have knowledge of such arts? Can you tap its power?’

‘It’s not too difficult to understand ancient magic,’ Thull said guardedly, ‘but some things need help to become powerful. Your ring-link is powerful, but remember that it came from a whole mailshirt.’

The man’s voice trailed off, a crackly monotone with a false lilt. Thull reminded Daretor of a lurking spider: ugly and dangerous, passive while lying in wait.

‘You say this one link is so powerful, yet somewhere there is a whole mailshirt,’ he said in wonder. ‘What is the nature of its power?’

‘The fighting skills of many thousands of dead warriors are trapped within its individual links,’ Thull said enticingly.

Thousands! This took Daretor by surprise. ‘Or so your story goes,’ he replied in an unsteady voice.

The mage smiled. ‘Without all the links, the mailshirt’s magic is diminished and the wearer is more vulnerable. Despite this, shall we say, flaw, the mailshirt still has extraordinary, unfathomable powers.’

‘A gleeman’s fable, by the sound of it,’ Daretor said sceptically.

Thull gave a thin laugh. ‘More than a fable, my boy. Come now, let me show you.’ He held out his bony hand for the link.

‘Stay your distance!’ Daretor growled, but he was uncertain, like a cornered and dangerous hound. His hand had dropped to the pommel of his sword.

Thull simply shrugged and sat back on the grass. Daretor could have sworn a bluish light flared about the old man’s lips, but it vanished even as he turned to stare. For a moment Daretor seemed to tumble like a wind-driven rollerbush. He flailed and struggled in a desperate bid to right himself. The feeling was one of wrestling a mass of cold, strong tentacles in pitch darkness.

Daretor awoke exhausted, still standing where he had been. Thull waved languidly to him.

‘Wha – what did you do to me?’

‘You were spoiling for a fight. I merely provided you with a harmless outlet for all that anger.’

‘A dream?’

‘No dream, Daretor. Your enemies were real, but not real as you perceive the word. I could have killed you just now, but I need you as a partner. Without you I might regain the mailshirt, and were I to wear it I would be an impressive opponent even though I am an old man. You are the finest swordsman in southern Skelt, however. That champion’s sash beneath your tunic is proof. Were you to wear the mailshirt you would be invincible, and I have need of an invincible warrior.’

‘For what?’ snapped Daretor, his eyes narrowing to black chips.

‘Uh, uh, one thing at a time.’

Daretor took the link out of his pouch. ‘What proof have you that this link is potent?’ he asked.

Thull pursed his lips, as if making up his mind about something. ‘Try putting the link on your finger, like a ring.’

‘It’s too small.’

‘Try the minor finger of your left hand.’

To Daretor’s surprise, he found that the link fitted. He turned his hand about, staring at it with childlike curiosity. It was almost as if it were a little bigger than it had been. He also noticed that it no longer felt cold, yet there was still an odd tingling sensation about it. Like the grip of death, a voice in his mind warned, but he pushed the thought to one side.

‘Now, have you ever used one of these?’ asked Thull, holding up a sharply pointed dagger with a weighted handle.

Daretor’s hand immediately dropped to the pommel of his sword again, but Thull remained relaxed. ‘A Hamarian throwing knife, a coward’s weapon,’ Daretor said with contempt.

‘A weapon with which you have no skill,’ Thull hedged.

‘A weapon that holds no interest for me.’

‘Which you cannot use.’

‘I can throw a dirk if I have to,’ Daretor said cautiously, wondering if he could dodge Thull’s knife thrust and draw his own sword in the same movement.

Thull turned his back without another word and idly paced out twenty steps. With the knife he carved a jagged circle with a dot at the centre on the trunk of a burbank tree. Returning, he handed the throwing knife haft-first to Daretor.

‘Do me the favour of throwing to hit that dot in the circle,’ he said.

Daretor grunted, hefted the knife, gripped it by the point, then held it high.

‘I’ll be lucky to even hit the trunk. If I miss, your knife might well be lost in those thorn bushes beyond it.’

‘I’ll risk that. Throw.’

Daretor’s arm swished through the air, and the knife thudded into the trunk, quivering dead centre of the target mark. Daretor grinned with triumph, then forced his lips back into a thin, severe line.

‘A fluke,’ he said, but there was a quaver in his voice.

‘So, try again,’ said Thull wearily. He strode away to the tree and brought back the knife.

Daretor drew back his hand and flung the knife. Unerringly it spun to hit the inner mark with a heavy thud.

‘An enchanted knife,’ Daretor said, ‘or perhaps an enchanted target.’

‘Then use your own knife and aim anywhere. Choose your own target.’

Wizardry had always frightened Daretor as a child and now he knew why. When dealing with charmvendors he knew that he was being given something for his money, but he was not sure what else was being taken as well. He reached down and pulled a short hunting knife from his buskin. He threw it with no particular care, aiming at the edge of the circle directly above Thull’s knife. It hit the freshly cut bark exactly as he intended.

‘Are you convinced as yet?’ called Thull as he walked back with the two knives.

‘One more try.’

Daretor slipped the link from his finger as Thull approached. Without a word he took both knives from Thull and flung the mage’s at the target. It missed the tree completely and vanished into the thorn bushes.

Thull winced, then smiled broadly as he caught sight of Daretor’s ringless finger. ‘A cheap lesson, but of little consequence. There is no enchantment in the tree. Only the link has the power.’

As Daretor sheathed his own knife Thull seemed to mutter something and a line of blue flashed from his mouth and streaked into the thorn bushes. It snapped back, wrapped around the knife. The mage removed the weapon from between his teeth, bowed and sheathed it.

‘That link belongs to a mailshirt, remember that. Ours was not the only ambush planned in the Algon Mountains. There were a dozen men lying in wait further along. Had they seized the link, by now it would be on its way to the house of Fa’red, a merchant-mage in D’loom. He has the whole mailshirt.’

‘This man must be powerful to have such a thing.’

‘Pah. Word has it that he sacked a simple shrine in Hamatriol. The mailshirt had been hidden there and guarded by generations of monks.’

‘Even so.’ Daretor knew that monks were said to be superb fighters. They had to be to fend off the hill tribes. But he would get no further with this line of enquiry from his wily companion. He felt his heart pumping with excitement. ‘So we are going to D’loom.’

‘Of course. The mailshirt is there, and we want the mailshirt.’

‘But surely this Fa’red’s house will be well guarded! If the mailshirt is such a prize – well, I would employ two dozen mercenaries if I were he.’

‘He does.’

‘Then why do you have just me?’

‘Had I not met you when I did, I may well have sought the services of a score of mercenaries myself. However, he who travels with dogs risks fleas. They may have rallied against me, what with the temptation of the mailshirt. Powerful as I am, I am not invincible.’

‘In a way I am heartened to hear that.’

Thull gave Daretor what might have been an imploring look, had it been the face of anyone else. ‘I needed someone I could trust,’ he said simperingly, ‘because in a sense I shall become your follower. The legend goes that he who follows the wearer of the mailshirt is doubly blessed. There is a certain amount of protection to be gained from being the shadow of someone greater – if you gather my meaning.’

‘So when the mailshirt is complete with this missing link, it will make its wearer invulnerable?’

Thull clapped Daretor on the shoulder and laughed. ‘Very nearly so, my boy. The main danger is always in over-confidence.’

‘Is that why the King had the link guarded by only a half-dozen lackeys who ran almost as soon as we challenged them?’

‘No,’ Thull said. ‘As I have explained, a strongly guarded treasure would attract far more attention, and thus greater adversaries than us. His half-dozen men were an unobtrusive, adequate escort for a courtesan.’

If he is lying, at least he is consistent, Daretor decided. Thull began collecting brushwood for kindling. While he went about his business, Daretor sat and pondered what he had learned. Night was not far off, and the sharp wailing of a distant dire fox seemed to pour cold melancholy over him. Daretor huddled beneath his trail cloak and wished that Thull would hurry with the fire.

He now knew Jabez Thull for what he was: a powerful mage and probably a high Adept. If the man had ever taken any vows on the benign use of enchantment, he had certainly abandoned them long ago. Daretor fancied that he could feel something grasping deep within his head as he rode with Thull, yet for all those suspicions the man had behaved well so far.

Daretor knew little of hedgerow and medical magic, and nothing of the darker enchantments or cold sciences. During the wartime mountain battles in Hamaria he had heard veteran warriors telling lurid tales around campfires on the cold nights, but everyone knew that much of what veterans said was lies.

Thull returned and made a pile of brushwood and sticks. He muttered a word in a foreign tongue and snapped his fingers. A coil of smoke emerged from within the pile. He then intoned something else unintelligible and a little breeze fanned the hidden spark into a comforting blaze.

Daretor began to cheer up. Two days of travel would take them through the Garrical Mountains that shielded subtropical D’loom from the chill winds of Dragonfrost. He preferred civilisation to these barren, dangerous waste -lands. Only a crazed hermit would wish otherwise, yet … yet once they reached their destination, Thull would be directing his fate again.

Ancient D’loom had once been a trade centre whose markets were piled high with lavish exotica, yet now its splendour was fading. The once thriving seaport’s jetties lurched precariously to and fro as the waves lapped past their stanchions, and derricks with rusty iron bindings stood like silent sentinels over the mostly deserted shipping berths.

The proud and colourfully dyed lateen sails of a few outriggers were furled, their spars like skeletal limbs rocking with the incoming tide. Wharfjacks huddled in groups, their faces weatherworn and uncaring. The gulls, wheeling against the azure sky, screeched mournfully for scraps that were seldom there.

The languid wind that blew in across the harbour carried with it more than the tang of salt air, but if either Daretor or Thull noticed the wafting reek of raw sewage and decaying seaweed, neither showed it. Besides, the warm air also carried the enticing aroma of spice-scented mead and smoke from an open fire roasting the crackling on a pig. Daretor tried to relax after the long and difficult journey, but he was edgy with impatience. The trip across the accursed Dragonfrost had sapped any enthusiasm he had for what was becoming a tiresome and dangerous adventure.

Thull had taken them directly to a tavern and the heat from the fire was oppressive in the subtropical air. ‘What am I to do here?’ he asked Thull yet again.

Thull quaffed the last of his cold mead and slammed the tankard upon the table for service. ‘A decade of brigand raids from the islands has squeezed off most of the shipping that once made D’loom rich. It is no longer a profitable port of call for the merchant ships. Yes?’

Daretor nodded silently in agreement. It was common knowledge that there were more brigands plundering along the Skelt Coast than anywhere in the known world. The myriad archipelagos that dotted the coast proved to be a safe haven from the dwindling fleet of the King’s sloops free to patrol this part of his realm. The King was more interested in seizing islands that were easy targets than those where the brigand bases were to be found. The losses to merchants had become so severe that the once bountiful trade was now carried via camel caravans overland. The camels suffered greatly on these inland treks, for the terrain of Skelt rose very, very sharply from the coast, and kept on rising right up into the clouds. Most of Skelt was a series of high plateaus and even higher mountains. Its deserts were as dry as any desert might be expected to be, but were freezing in spite of being close to the equator. Thousands of camels died, and their bodies were left to lie where they fell, becoming frozen and mummified within days. Trade faltered, then declined.

‘So D’loom is dying,’ Daretor prompted vaguely.

A plump serving maid swirled past and crashed two full tankards onto the table. She plucked the coppers from Thull’s open palm without so much as a glance at the man.

‘We arrived by the Icebreath Road, so people know that we rode across Dragonfrost without escort or a caravan.’

‘So?’

‘So that’s bound to raise suspicion,’ Thull warned. ‘Nobody takes a hard road, save those with something to hide. Thus it’s necessary for us to drink and seem convivial. We can say we did it as a dare, and that we triumphed. Now we must celebrate our triumph, and appear besotted by night’s end. Hang lax, Daretor, I want to see you weaving and carousing like a sailor on leave.’

Daretor grunted sullenly. His original question had not been answered, but somehow it did not seem to matter. ‘You know D’loom like the back of your hand,’ he said for the lack of anything else to say.

‘I have friends here. I’ve walked these streets before.’

‘You said your friends include a blacksmith,’ Daretor said slowly, articulating each word with care and aware that the drink was slowing him. ‘When will you contact him?’

Thull pursed his thin lips. ‘He knows of our presence, and that is enough for now.’ He grinned at his youthful companion, then cackled with laughter.

Daretor took the hint and joined in, all the while thinking how out-of-character any revelry seemed for the mage. Superb acting was apparently another of his talents.

As the evening aged, the pair became noticeably drunker. Finally Jabez Thull pulled a passing serving girl down onto his lap and ran a hand up her leg, not heeding whether her screams were delight or outrage.

The landlord, a beer-gutted, bearded man of immense size, drove through the crowd like a siege engine through a city’s gates. He stopped to tower above Thull and Daretor.

‘I take it the two of ye’ll be retiring now?’ he said evenly, arms crossed, gnarled face glaring. He left no room for argument.

Thull let go of the girl, who slapped his face and flounced off. He tried to stand, but fell helplessly, his hands catching at the table to break his fall. Daretor reached out and seized him by the arm as he swung about to face the landlord.

‘Aye,’ he slurred. ‘It’s to sleep it off we be.’

It wasn’t until they reached the stairs that the muted clamour of voices and singing returned to the taproom. Once upstairs Thull took a quick glance along the corridor before slamming the door of their room shut. He shook his head at Daretor’s bloodshot eyes.

‘You were supposed to pretend drunkenness, lad, not play it for a fact!’

‘Mead affects my head worse than … beer, I think,’ Daretor slurred, wishing the thumping between his temples would cease.

The room spun in lazy circles and he cautiously made his way to his bed. Thull pulled the hessian curtains across the single pane of waxpaper in the window. That was the last thing Daretor remembered as he plunged into sleep with a prayer for the room to stop spinning.

Chapter

5

Six months after her fam ily had been murdered, Jelindel was well established as a scribe boy in the D’loom marketplace. She was Bebia’s stall partner and Zimak’s friend, had been admitted to the Guild of Scribes, and she had even organised a loose association of older scribes who could cover each other’s failings and thus keep working. The fact that her boy persona was shy around girls and did not drink alcohol confirmed the rumours that she was a runaway novice from some Nerrissian monastery. She had allowed her heavy accent to fade somewhat, as if she was slowly becoming more familiar with Skeltian.

Jelindel also wore a parry-hilt knife at her waist, and her work with Zimak had taught her how to use it.

When a Nerrissian border passage scroll was left at the stall as part of a petition, Jelindel copied out the entire thing in the name of ‘Jaelin Halvet’ and even drew the red ink stamp with a fine mousedown brush.

In return for lessons in both knife and unarmed fighting from Zimak, she took every opportunity to teach him how to write and spell.

‘Spell “Hamaria”,’ she said, gazing at a Hamarian grain ship in dry dock as they lounged on a stone breakwater beside the docks.

‘H-A-M-A-R-I-A,’ he said, but his mind was elsewhere. ‘This morning a man had me deliver a message to a blacksmith, and another to a Skeltian merchant.’

‘Skeltian?’

He screwed up his face as he thought. ‘S-K-E-L-T-IA-N. The funny thing was the way that he wrote his words. It was in old script, you know, like those ancient Asniclian writings you once did for me.’

‘Asniclian?’

‘A-S-N-I-K-L-I-A-N.’

‘Wrong,’ said Jelindel casually. She would never admit it to someone as pretentious as Zimak, but he was coming along famously. ‘C, not K.’

She blinked rapidly when Zimak seized her arm and shook it. ‘This is important!’ he insisted.

‘So is your education!’ Jelindel hissed, pulling her arm from him with a simple twist that he had shown her.

‘The man I took it to was a merchant-mage named Fa’red.’

Jelindel shrugged. ‘This is all very boring, Zimak,’ she said, stifling a yawn.

‘He not only read the message, but he wrote a reply as well,’ Zimak went on, unperturbed at Jelindel’s sarcasm. ‘I read them both.’

Now he did have Jelindel’s attention. ‘That is in violation of the privacy oath that all scribes and messengers take,’ she said.

‘Not quite, Jaelin. Only the scribes swear oaths about reading and copying without permission. Messengers aren’t expected to be able to read, so we’re only bound to “faithfully carry”.’

‘Try saying that to a magistrate and you would be bundled into the stocks faster than you can spell Z-I-M-A-K.’

‘The message said, “I have one of the six missing lenxi”, and the reply was “I have the whole Zerratin mailshirt. Sell me your lenx and go while I have the mood to spare you”.’

‘Zerratin?’

‘Z-E-R-R-A-T-I-N, I think,’ Zimak pondered.

‘No, I mean zerratin is an archaic word for “enchanted” in the Dinjolese language. Was there a capital Z to begin the word?’

Zimak frowned. Jelindel certainly expected a lot of him. ‘I … can’t recall. It was dark, and I was hurrying.’

‘Perfection is –’

‘– measured in tiny details,’ Zimak said. He’d heard the quote from Jelindel’s lips quite often.

‘If you must spy, do it properly,’ Jelindel said huffily.

‘Speaking of doing things by halves,’ Zimak said, ‘who bungled that meeting with Velia from the sugar date stall? After all my tutoring on what to say and do with her, too. Don’t lecture me on doing things properly.’

Jelindel felt a blush warming her cheeks. ‘I know what can be done between boys and girls, Zimak, but just because I’ve deserted my monastery, it doesn’t mean that I’ve abandoned my vows of chastity. Besides, her teeth are rotting away from too many sugar figs.’

‘Trust you to be worried about such a thing,’ Zimak said and rolled his eyes.

‘Getting back to your messages, lenx is another old word. It means both link of chainmail and ring. A link that can be worn as a ring, in fact. In some countries warriors and their ladies exchange favours before a tournament or battle. The warrior gets a scarf to wear about his head, the lady gets a link of his chainmail to wear as a ring. Chainmail links are usually too small to wear, so armourers add a single link that is bigger than all the others. The lenx: the link that is also a ring.’

‘I’m having a hard enough time learning Nerrissian grammar, Jaelin. Must you confuse me with words that aren’t even used anymore?’

Jelindel ignored the complaint. ‘I have occasionally seen lenx used in connection with mage, too. What did you notice about the man who employed you?’

‘He’s staying at the Boar and Bottle. The vintner’s maid said that he came across Dragonfrost with a young warrior called Daretor. She overheard Daretor calling him Thull or something.’

‘That’s odd,’ Jelindel mused. ‘Thull was a mage who died about a century ago. He led a civil war against the Movelii Emperor and would have won, had neighbouring monarchs and their Adepts not stepped in and shattered his armies. Perhaps they are related. I saw a sketch of him in a book once. He was truly evil looking, with fish eyes and a gaunt face. His hair was long and straggly, like that of a lost soul, but the artist had draped him in finely tailored robes.’

‘That could well be this man, except that he looks after his hair more carefully. I could take you to see him,’ suggested Zimak.

‘Anything to get out of your spelling lessons,’ Jelindel chided.

‘Well, do you want to see him or not?’

She looked out across the harbour, which was devoid of anything of real interest to look at.

‘Why not? I’ll keep asking words as we walk.’

The Boar and Bottle was busy with the early afternoon trade when Zimak led Jelindel into the taproom and ordered ale and limewater.

The cooking fire was blazing with the hacked-up tarry timbers of some dead ship. A boiling cauldron of stew spilled aromatic scents into the room. Jelindel could see an embedded arrowhead glowing red hot against the blackened wood. The ship had probably died a violent death at the hands of the increasingly bold brigands that hid among the coastal islands. Wreckage such as this drove fear into seafaring merchants when it appeared amid the flotsam on the incoming tides. The King’s fleet was now almost exhausted under the weight of continual small wars with neighbouring states and gave little protection.

Jelindel had a quick look about the tavern. Most of the patrons were out-of-work wharfjacks and the mood of the place was gloomy.

A recruiting officer of the Preceptor’s civil militia was sitting at a rough-hewn table near a window, talking to a group of men. Jelindel noticed how affluent the man seemed to be, for he was buying trays of tankards. Occasionally he would smile and scribble someone’s name or mark into a ledger.

‘I’ll be like him one day,’ Zimak said, misconstruing Jelindel’s interest in the officer. ‘Look at that uniform. Tailored nut-brown tunic, black leather straps and brass buckles. Another two years, maybe only one, and I’ll look old enough to enlist.’

‘Indeed?’ Jelindel said, eyebrows arched. She had nothing good, or even neutral, to say about the Preceptor, so she took a sip of limewater.

‘I’ll be able to read and write like a merchant’s son by then. I could even go straight in as an officer’s squire, and in five years’ time I’d have a uniform like that and wear the crest of my tragically murdered parents in gold thread on my collar.’

‘Oh, talk sense!’ snapped Jelindel. ‘Your father fell off a bridge and drowned in the Blackwater River while coming home drunk after work. Your mother’s one of the loudest, most foul-tempered fishwives in the market.’

Zimak frowned, but did not reply.

‘What is your family crest to be? A herring rampant on a beer barrel?’

‘I can be whatever I want people to believe,’ Zimak replied. ‘Here on my finger is the last connection with my family, a fine ring of old rolled gold.’

He held out his hand for her to admire the cheap ring. It was made of lead and had a crude design carved into the surface.

‘Most of the gold seems to have rolled off. Look, I can scratch it with my fingernail – this is only lead –’

‘Get away!’ he snapped, slapping at her hand. ‘Look at the mark you left in it.’

Zimak took out his knife and reached towards the fire. After a few prods the arrowhead came free of the charred wood, and he flicked it onto the stone hearth and picked it up on the blade of his knife.

‘I shall say that this arrowhead was shot into my father’s grainship by the brigands who sank it, and was embedded in the plank that I, the sole survivor, clung to as I drifted ashore. Although I was a mere boy, I wrenched it free as I knelt on the beach, then I held it aloft and swore to Mighty White Quell that I would one day be avenged on the men who had murdered my family.’

If only you knew, Jelindel thought to herself, but to Zimak she said, ‘Very touching,’ feigning sympathy. ‘It’s of Skelt design, which probably means that the brigands who fired it were supplied – and possibly financed – by the Preceptor. That may not be the sort of story to tell if you want to get ahead in the Preceptor’s civil militia.’

Zimak flipped the arrowhead into a puddle of beer on the table, where it hissed angrily, then bubbled for a few moments.

‘Bah, everyone knows that arrowheads are re-used by whoever chances upon them.’ He held up the arrowhead at arm’s length, then took a length of thonging from his pocket and tied it to the base. ‘What about a Skelt arrowhead upon crossed thunderbolts for a crest?’ he said as he slipped the cord about his neck.

‘I thought your story involved a merchant father?’

‘You’re right,’ said Zimak with a frown. ‘Well, maybe a Skelt arrowhead on crossed sheaves of wheat?’

‘Sheaves are the heraldic icon of farmers.’

‘Well, what about – there he is now, descending the stairs!’

Jelindel did not move her head, but let her eyes alone follow the tall, angular figure who was on the creaking steps. His head was largely obscured by a black cowl, and if not for Zimak’s interest she would not have noticed his passing. His robes had subtle symbols woven into the hems, although Jelindel could not discern them clearly at that distance. A casual sweep of some thin magical aura combed through the room, and Jelindel felt herself shiver, although it was quite warm. As the man turned to walk across to the door she got a clear look at his face.

‘White Quell protect us, I think it’s the mage!’ she said in a hushed voice.

‘I was right!’ Zimak hissed in surprise, as though he was not used to being right. ‘An immortal mage, hundreds of years old.’

‘Or the mortal grandson of a dead mage, around sixty years old,’ Jelindel speculated. ‘There was a resemblance to the woodcut I saw, but no more so than – say – your own face bearing a likeness to your own –’

‘Stop that!’

‘ – dead merchant parents.’

‘Have your own way,’ Zimak said, standing up. ‘Follow me, Jaelin, and you learn.’

Jelindel hurried after Zimak. When she reached the street she could see him scurrying after the man they knew as Thull.

Jelindel caught up with Zimak and whispered urgently, ‘What are we doing?’

‘Following him.’

‘What?’ she said incredulously. ‘Why?’

‘This is a real mage, and he’s on a quest for an enchanted mailshirt. If I should be on hand when he needs help, why – he may reward me handsomely. He may even make me an apprentice Adept.’

‘Utter garbage,’ retorted Jelindel.

Zimak looked wild and eager, as if he were about to fight in a street tournament. ‘The only mage that I’ve ever set eyes upon is Fa’red, and even he has given up the practice of enchantment to be a merchant.’

‘Or so it is voiced about,’ said Jelindel, frowning.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I can read, and I am widely read, Zimak. Fa’red has not abandoned the practice of thaumaturgy. I see little signs that I understand in the writings about him.’

‘Tch! How would you know? You’re not even an Adept 1 in the arts of magic.’

‘And neither are you.’ Jelindel tugged at Zimak’s sleeve but she could see he was in no mind to listen to reason. ‘I’m starting to think that the Preceptor’s civil militia was a much better idea,’ Jelindel said unhappily. She quickened her pace in spite of her doubts.

After a quarter-hour of winding streets and furtive shadowing, they ducked behind a cart as Thull stopped in one of the more respectable streets of D’loom. Jelindel took out a roll of reedpaper with scribeglass lenses at either end and peered through it at the mage.

‘What’s that?’ asked Zimak suspiciously.

Jelindel steadied her device to focus on Thull. Her lips moved as if by rote. ‘Five years ago a Skelt philosopher saw a scribe’s children playing with a pair of old, scratched scribeglasses. He asked what they were doing, and they said they were playing mages: moving buildings and ships nearer as though by magic. He tried the trick himself, and found that it did work. His name for the thing is farsight, and he even used one to discover mountains on Reculemoon and Blanchemoon.’

Zimak saw now that it was two tubes, one inside the other. Jelindel adjusted the focus slightly.

‘I made this farsight from a pair of old scribeglasses. It can resolve Specmoon as a crescent – tch, I thought so. Look!’

Thull seemed to spit a wad of phlegm at an ornately carved creststone. He then splayed his fingers over the surface before walking a hundred paces and doing the same thing again. Without a glance back he crossed the street and turned a corner.

‘Hurry, after him!’ hissed Zimak, but Jelindel grabbed his tunic.

‘He will be back. Come look at this.’

There was a pale blue globule of glowing jelly where Thull had spat. A thin blue line stretched out from it along the wall to where he had stopped a second time. Jelindel turned to regard the archway that spanned a cobbled courtyard on the other side of the street.

‘The man suffers from an enchanted cold,’ said Zimak.

‘It’s not phlegm, silly. It’s a little measure of his life-force. He crossed the street and went around that corner, so … whose house is that across the street?’

‘Fa’red’s. He’s the merchant – and former mage – that I carried the message to this morning. What’s Thull doing?’

‘Come back to the cart. I’ll explain as we go.’

Now it was Zimak’s turn to trail behind Jelindel. ‘Thull did not actually spit, he merely spoke a word that released a part of his life-force that stuck to the wall. He has gone to the street behind Fa’red’s house by now and is using mage-light from that fragment of his life-force to look through the walls of the house.’ She looked at Zimak knowingly. ‘It’s just as you look through the weave of thin curtains to watch the market’s dancing girls undressing by lamplight.’

‘If they really cared they’d use thicker curtains,’ said Zimak huffily.

‘Whatever. According to The Watcher’s Guide to Magic as Practised, this is very powerful magic. It takes many decades to master the speaking of one word of life-force. The word is easy to speak, but the danger is that you can easily speak out your entire life-force. Do that and you would be more likely to survive a slashed throat.’

‘Decades … perhaps even centuries?’ Zimak guessed in awe. ‘I knew he was a potent mage. What did I tell you!’

‘What you told me might be right, but what you seem to want to do is not sensible,’ Jelindel said, trying to smother Zimak’s eagerness. ‘This is madness, Zimak. Come back to the Boar and Bottle. The Preceptor’s officer may still be there.’

‘Pah, he’s there every month, but appointments with destiny only come once in a lifetime –’

‘ – but more often than not at that lifetime’s end,’ Jelindel snapped, adding the end of the famous quotation.

‘You can go if you like, Jaelin.’

‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll watch – at a distance.’

The mage returned after a few minutes and touched the wall again. A faint blue flash seemed to snap back to his hand and coil about it even as he spoke a soundless word. Then, like a vapourish snake, the blue glow leaped into his mouth. Anyone watching from afar would not have seen it, but Jelindel was again using her farsight.

They followed Thull as he returned to the market area. He made for a blacksmith’s shop between the market and the docks.

‘You wait outside and keep watch. I’ll go in,’ Zimak whispered as they crouched in an alleyway beside the smithy.

Before Jelindel could reply he had jumped straight up and grabbed the rope dangling from a loading beam projecting from a loft. He climbed hand over hand up the rope and vanished into the darkness of the loft.

‘Keep watch for what?’ Jelindel said to herself.

She walked around to the back to the stables, climbed over the rail and made her way between the horses waiting to be re-shod. There were sacks of wood and coal stacked near the back of the shop, and the ground was strewn with straw in the area clear of the forge. Stepping quietly, she moved in until she could hear voices beyond some bundles of hay.

‘So I did all ye asked when we spoke yesterday,’ the blacksmith was saying. ‘All my customers know not to come here till the morrow’s morn, and I’ll keep the shop bolted fer that time.’

‘For fifty silver argents it is not a lot to ask,’ Thull replied.

Jelindel peered over the bundles of hay. She sensed something wrong in Thull’s voice. The blacksmith sensed it too, and was glancing about nervously.

‘So what am I ter do while ye rent the shop?’ the blacksmith asked. He was a classic image of a blacksmith, and towered like a mountain over the stick figure of Jabez Thull.

‘Just lie about,’ said Thull smoothly, then he spat blue sparks into the blacksmith’s face and slashed a blade across his throat.

Somewhere above Jelindel’s right Zimak gasped with shock. Thull whirled and flung his bloody dagger but missed as the blacksmith staggered into him, gasping his last breath. Thull pushed him away. Empty-handed and beginning to panic, Thull shouted a binding word and blue coils burst from his mouth and smothered Zimak.

Jelindel couldn’t believe the suddenness with which everything happened. She glanced to the left and saw the blacksmith fall dead, then she turned back to the loft. Zimak had fallen paralysed to the hay, and was not visible.

The mage climbed the ramp to the loft and knelt beside the stricken Zimak.

‘So, it’s my eager and diligent message boy,’ he said pensively.

‘Just … following,’ came Zimak’s strangled voice above the distant rumbling of wheels and general commotion of the market. ‘You paid … well. Thought to get more … work.’

Thull whispered something, and a sparkling sphere materialised and hung just above the mage’s head.

‘Tell me this and no more: does any other man, woman or churl such as this clown watch me or listen to my words? Go.’

The sphere expanded slowly, attenuating as it went. Jelindel thought to run, but she suspected that a running target would present no problem to Thull. Drawing on what she had learned watching the market charmvendors she quickly described an Asniclian symbol in the air and traced a holy circle around it. It was only a weak charm to elude Thull’s questing spell, but she had nothing else.

The sphere touched the tiny sparkle of her charm and smothered it. She counted two heartbeats, then a feeling like a thousand ice-cold fingertips brushing the skin beneath her clothing crawled over her.

She almost cried out, but somehow managed to remain still. The slave spirit considered her, then whispered, ‘No … not quite …’ and was gone. Moments later it contracted back to glow before Thull’s face.

‘No man, woman or churl watches or listens,’ said the sad, disembodied voice that had whispered to Jelindel. Thull spoke another word and the globe vanished into his mouth.

Jelindel tried to will her pounding heart to slow down. My charm did nothing, and that thing knew I was here. Thull did not ask about girls, however, so it ignored me. It was a slave. Maybe it only followed its master’s orders to the letter out of sheer spite. It’s true, no man, woman or churl am I! Cautiously she peered above the hay.

Thull was shaking his head as he scowled down at Zimak. ‘You have cost me dearly, wretch,’ he snarled, delivering a kick to the boy’s helpless body. ‘The coils that hold you would tether an elephant, but part of my life-force is bound within them until midnight and there is nothing I can do to get it back before then. Damn you! This day is the very one when I need all the power I can bring to bear.’ He kicked Zimak again. ‘Damn you for causing me alarm!’

Hope flared in Jelindel’s thoughts. Whatever Thull was doing in D’loom, it would tax his powers to the limit, and very soon. She watched Thull touch the blue coils binding Zimak softly, caressingly.

‘Contract slowly, until all life has fled his body, then return to me,’ he said gloatingly. ‘Squeeze him but do not kill him until a single half-minute before sidereal midnight. Make this miscreant suffer for the full measure of time.’

The mage walked down the ramp from the loft. He looked about before going to the back door where he uttered a minor word at the bar and sealed it. Crossing the shop again he dragged the dead blacksmith to within a yard of where Jelindel was hiding and spread empty sacks over the body.

Jelindel clenched her eyes shut, as though doing so might make her invisible. Above the pounding of her heart, she heard Thull unbar the front doors and walk out.

Cautiously she eased her head up in time to see thin tendrils of blue light boil through the wooden doors, seize the heavy wooden bar and swing it down into the cradle bolted to the doorframe. They remained, almost invisible but binding the bar fast.

Jelindel waited for a moment, then hurried up the ramp to the loft where Zimak lay. If he was surprised to see her he was in too much pain to show it. He could barely raise the breath to whisper.

‘I heard what he said,’ Jelindel explained as she bent over him.

‘Do … do books … have you read for this?’ Zimak’s eyes were glazed, almost lifeless things.

‘The Watcher’s Guide to Magic as Practised mentioned this sort of thing, yes. These coils are a part of Thull’s life-force, and they can only be removed by his word or his death.’

‘Or … mine.’

‘Not so,’ Jelindel said in a rather clinical way. ‘If you die, they still stay until midnight. Now then, killing such a powerful mage as Thull is well beyond my skills. I’ve never killed anything larger than a mosquito. Still, he told the coils to take their time as they squeeze the life from you, so we have until midnight.’ She paused, trying to think calmly while on the very edge of panic. ‘Look, Zimak, stay here … there are, perhaps, more arcane avenues to try.’

‘Stay here … he says,’ Zimak rasped as she left.

Jelindel hurriedly slid down the rope of the loft’s loading beam and made for the south-east quarter of the port city. She was more familiar with the streets by now, but somehow they always reminded her of that first, terror-soaked night alone.

Chapter

6

The ruins of Jelindel’s family home were being cleared away by a navvy gang as she passed on the way to the local Temple of Verity. Most of the fire-blackened stone blocks from the walls were piled in a corner of the yard for re-use. There was a proclamation board on one of the stone gateposts.

Jelindel read the signpost with a stabbing sense of loss. A college for the Preceptor’s trainee militia officers was to be erected where ten generations of her family had lived. It was so unjust, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it with anything less than the entire Hamarian army behind her. She fled the site, wiping away tears.

The Temple of Verity stood in parkland cropped by fluffy white sheep. It was more than just the central shrine, two hundred marble columns and nine urns with their eternal flames; it was a whole complex dedicated to study. Scholars came from as far away as Unissera to study there, and even Jelindel had spent time in the place for interviews, tests and general study. Her father had been considering sending her to the Temple when she turned sixteen. Jelindel could hardly wait; she could think of nothing better than to become a Verital priestess.

Amid the nearby dormitories, kitchens, storehouses and stables was a large library, which was as much the soul of the complex as the temple was its heart.

Jelindel slowed her exhausting run to a walk as she reached the white archway that was the entrance to the grounds. She entered with a group of pilgrims who were speaking in some inland Skelt dialect.

The leader of the group spoke to one of the guards, who made a count of their heads. He frowned for a moment, obviously finding one head too many, shrugged, then decided that his counting was at fault and waved them all through. Jelindel slipped away to the library once the others were into the gardens and clear of the gates.

Just as a streetwise churl such as Zimak knew the lore of the port’s gangs, alleys, taverns, beggar guilds and roofs, Jelindel knew the workings of temples and libraries. She walked through the main entrance of the Temple of Verity’s library, seeming tired and thoughtful.

‘Brother Jaelin Halvet, pilgrim,’ she said, reverting to a heavy accent. ‘I’m neophyte of Djolmer Brothers. My study is Observational Magic – Medical Applications. I know where is finding, Holy Mistress.’

She began to shamble on, one hand on her chin, the other behind her back. The battered writing kit at her belt was an extra, but not essential effect.

The priestess had been scratching with a quill on reedbond paper. Now she peered closely at the newly arrived student.

‘You.’ The word was soft but firm, modulated to be heard but not to disturb.

Jelindel turned, fighting against alarm.

‘Did you eat during your lunch break?’ asked the priestess.

Jelindel’s jaw worked, but she was at a loss for words.

‘Thought so. Catch.’ Jelindel’s hand went up and came down with a large square of butter shortbread. ‘Eat it now before you go in. I know your type, all study and no thought for eating.’

The afternoon passed quickly as Jelindel sat reading and scratching occasional notes. Life-force word spells were rarely encountered, and there were few references to them. Only master Adepts could cast them in safety, and remedial work was considered to be the province of even more senior master Adepts.

‘A damn lot of help that is to me,’ Jelindel muttered. She glanced upwards and added, ‘Sorry, White Quell. Just thinking aloud.’

The lamps were being lit and the sun was shining almost horizontally through the west windows before she realised how late it had become. In the dwindling light, Jelindel stared hard at a text that suggested a master Adept’s word spells could be drawn down to a threshold strength where they would collapse if the mage was compelled to fight great odds.

She sighed heavily. Mounting an attack on a mage with master Adept status was no easier for her than single-handedly holding off the lindraks who had slain her family.

The lampwatch priestess came closer, touching a flame to each lamp’s wick and speaking a blessing to the new flames as she moved among the study tables.

‘Jelindel! Back from the dead!’ she suddenly exclaimed.

Jelindel’s head jerked up at once, and two dozen other readers turned to stare as the priestess described the holy circle in the air.

‘By your leave, Holy Mistress Semepel,’ Jelindel said automatically, then darted away among the tables and out through the entrance.

A bell began ringing when Jelindel was already most of the way through the sweetly scented gardens. It was the thief-bell. Even though she had stolen nothing, she could not stop to explain and she dared not allow herself to be caught. Invisibility was her only shield from the lindraks.

Two guards were at the entrance to the grounds. One was closing the gates and the other stood square across the path with his pike-axe at the ready.

Jelindel ran straight at them.

‘Halt, by command of –’

Jelindel dodge-stepped perfectly, batted the wavering pike-axe aside with her left arm, came in close to the guard with a spin-step, then jumped and kicked him right in the face grille of his helmet. The shock sent him crashing back into the second guard. Jelindel was already through the gate and running for the tangle of streets as the guards scrambled to their feet.

Once safely clear and hidden in an alley she stopped to gasp for breath. Jelindel smacked her head with the flat of her palm. She had abandoned her writing kit and notes in the library.

‘Damn stupid panic, stupid damn panic!’ she cursed, then glanced upwards and shrugged.

‘Your forgiveness, White Quell, but my writing kit is surely good payment for kicking one of your guards.’

Travelling slowly and cautiously, it took Jelindel nearly an hour to get back to the market area. To her there seemed to be temple guards, constables or lindraks at every corner, yet they all materialised into drunken costermongers or weary artisans finding their way home.

She returned to Bebia’s stall for her good writing kit and the fighting knife that Zimak had presented to her on her birthday.

‘Jaelin!’ Bebia said querulously. ‘Wherever have you been? There was a big group of pilgrims here, we’ve lost a chance to earn two argents due to your –’

Jelindel heard no more. She stuffed a hessian strap-bag with her few possessions and made straight for the purser’s window, where she presented her carefully forged papers. She drew out all thirty-seven silver argents that she had saved during the six months past. Whether Zimak lived or died, she would have to flee. Still, she had the glimmer of an idea to save him.

The Boar and Bottle was quiet when she entered the taproom. She slumped down near a window and snapped her fingers for service. A nearby table showed a stain where Zimak had quenched his Skeltian arrowhead that very morning.

‘Master Jaelin, how could you be so weary from merely scribing?’ asked the vintner’s maid.

‘A cod pie and a limewater, Ellien. I – I’ve been at … knife practice with Zimak again.’

‘Again? Why soon ye’ll be fit to take on the Temple guards barehanded.’

Jelindel cowered slightly at the words, then turned to look at the fire. She rubbed her hands, trying to calm herself. She needed time to think. How to make Thull speak so many words of blue essence that the bonds about Zimak would weaken and dissolve?

Thull had been checking the house of Fa’red. Perhaps he intended to burgle the place that very night.

A tin dish and mug clattered down on the table in front of her.

‘My thanks, Ellien. Here are five coppers and one for your dowry.’

‘My thanks to you, too, Master Jaelin.’

‘Ellien, a strange man from beyond the port is staying here. I wonder if you have seen him today. His name is Jabez Thull.’

‘Hie!’ she exclaimed, and the rest of the taproom fell silent and turned to watch.

Jelindel avoided being the centre of attention by habit, and she froze in rising panic for a moment.

‘He – that is, Zimak did some messages for him, but he has not been paid yet,’ Jelindel continued. ‘I – we have been looking for him.’

‘Well, look no further. The drunken goat is upstairs asleep, as is his oafish warrior friend Daretor. Why, when last he was drinking here he seized me and forced me to sit on his lap. He even ran his cold, clammy hand up my leg!’

‘No!’

‘Yes! Sit here and keep watch, Master Jaelin. We will make sure that Thull has a lively reception when next he descends the stairs.’

The maid minced off, and Jelindel toyed with names in her mind. Thull the mage. Fa’red the ex-mage. Mage. Someone Adept 9 or higher. The very word described a being held in fear and awe by common mortals. Once achieving this status, a mage was stuck with it for life. One could no more be an ex-mage than an ex-murderer.

An idea struck Jelindel so suddenly that she nearly choked on a mouthful of fish. Thull was spying on Fa’red and had exchanged menacing notes with him, so Thull was sure to be on bad terms with the man. The vintner’s maid had given her the basis of quite a good plan.

Mages sometimes drank, but seldom became drunk. Perhaps Thull was feigning a stupor for the benefit of Fa’red’s spies. Why? To lull Fa’red into a false sense of security, in preparation to rob him – probably of the enchanted mailshirt in the note. If he had to fight another mage, it would require a lot of life-force. Perhaps enough to free Zimak, if the theory in the book she had read was correct.

Forcing such a fight need not be hard, Jelindel decided. When Thull emerged from his room on the way to Fa’red’s house, the combined wrath of the taproom’s patrons might slow him down long enough for Jelindel to run and warn Fa’red.

Time passed, and Jelindel wondered how Zimak was. An ostler, barely able to walk, was ejected from the tavern. Moments later he staggered back in, babbling that he had seen a huge black bird land on the upstairs balcony carrying an artisan’s holdall in its beak.

The vintner went upstairs, then came down again saying that there were only two drunks asleep in their room and ejected the ostler for a second time.

Another hour passed, and an armourer entered with two constables. Someone had torn the shutters from an upstairs window of his shop and stolen a set of valuable tools for making chainmail. Jelindel nearly fell off the bench with shock.

‘Can’t hold yer limewater, eh lad?’ remarked a nearby docker, but nobody else noticed.

The constables searched the bags of everyone in the taproom, and the vintner explained that the two men upstairs had not been outside since before the robbery. The constables left after a discreet drink.

Bebia entered, ordered a glass of sweet wine, and asked Jelindel if she would be at the stall the next day. Jelindel explained that she was waiting to see two men who were upstairs and could not give him an answer yet.

Ellien sauntered over to Jelindel during a lull in orders.

‘You know, Jaelin, you’re going to be quite a man in a fiveyear,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the table and folding her arms.

Most unlikely, thought Jelindel, but she said simply, ‘Thank you, Ellien.’

‘Just look at you, loyal to your friend, working hard, saving argents, able to read and write, and able to fight two-hand quarterblade and Siluvian kick-fist technique.’

‘I’m alone and a fugitive from my country,’ Jelindel said with maudlin finality. ‘All that I do is to survive in a rough world.’

‘Tch! You’re brave, generous, even handsome in a sweet, frail sort of way. Not like that weasel Thull and his young bear of a bodyguard.’

Jelindel was just deciding that she had a bad feeling about where all this was leading when Ellien slipped down from the table and onto her lap. She wrapped both arms around Jelindel’s neck before planting a lingering kiss on her forehead.

There was a deafening cheer from everyone in the taproom. Ellien sighed as she pulled back, shaking her head. ‘In a few years time I’ll have to stand in a long queue of girls to kiss Jaelin, but tonight I am first. Hey there, all you other churls. Learn manners, learn to charm, then your only problem with girls will be having too many of them fawning upon you. Watch Jaelin and learn how to be a real man.’

Ellien turned back to face Jelindel. ‘I don’t mean to embarrass you, Jaelin, but girls sometimes need the touch of a true gentleman to sponge away the chill of a lecher’s grasp. Thank you, most kindly.’

White Quell is still punishing me for kicking his temple guard, thought Jelindel, her face burning with embarrassment.

Ellien stood up, stroking Jelindel’s hair. ‘Jaelin, Jaelin, I’ll pray to White Quell that you develop a taste for older girls,’ she crooned as she walked to the centre of the taproom. With her hands on her hips she then shouted, ‘Well, what are your orders?’

Once the taproom had returned to something like normal again, Bebia elbowed Jelindel in the ribs.

‘Whatever you do, don’t tell me that I’ve got quite a way with girls,’ muttered Jelindel.

‘Well yes, but still, you have. Ah, er, I hated to interrupt you two, so I didn’t, but about those two men you were waiting for.’

‘What about them?’

‘Well, while you were being, ah, embraced, two men came down the stairs and went outside. One big fellow and one thin, hawky type. I must have been the only one in here who noticed –’

Jelindel gasped. ‘But the vintner said that only two men were up there!’ she exclaimed. ‘That means – how long ago did they leave?’

‘An hour’s tenth, or less.’

Jelindel dashed out and pounded down the cobblestones for a distance, then twisted her ankle and went sprawling. She limped on, far slower now and silently cursing her own frantic haste.

The eastern sky was loaded with the moonlit clouds of impending monsoons, and the air was stifling with humidity. Although she was fitter now than at any time in her life, Jelindel still gulped the warm air with increasing effort the further she ran.

She avoided constables and gangs, and shunned any street where she might be pursued as an escaping thief. Loitering harlots in rouge, kohl and paint laughed and called, ‘Pay her next time!’ as she ran past, and guard dogs barked from behind closed gates.

As Jelindel reached the street of Fa’red’s house, the two figures of Thull and Daretor came into view. They had stopped by the main entrance. She whispered the words of a mild chameleon spell to blend with the wall behind her, but knew if Thull suspected she were here, none of the weak spells that she had learned to conjure would save her from his vastly superior magic.

She felt the mage’s eyes sweep her presence, yet the feeling was glancing. There were other bodies huddled here and there, mostly the homeless and the drunk.

Still, she was too late. There was no way now for her to warn Fa’red’s guards, and midnight was less than an hour away. Where were Fa’red’s guards anyhow? she wondered.

Jelindel stole across to the massive main gates, which stood open. She had expected to see dead guardsmen, but now she realised that Thull had probably bought them. Six months in the marketplace had taught her that loyalty was easily bought and sold. Perhaps the same thing had happened the night that her father’s house had burned.

Unheeded she crept up to the guard box and peered inside. The flame of a pottery lamp glowed faintly from a lipshelf, but the post was unmanned. Across the courtyard she could see someone pacing by the light of Reculemoon. It was the gate’s guard, earning his bribe by being somewhere else and seeing nothing.

‘And did you work with my father’s guards, too?’ she whispered to the distant figure, suddenly feeling rage instead of fear. For the first time in her life she could have killed someone without any hesitation. She hated the distant guard even more for her loss of innocence.

Dangling from the ceiling of the guardpost was a rope. In a frame above every such guardpost in the port was a thief-bell, so by deduction that lone rope had to be attached to the bell.

Jelindel chewed the skin of her lower lip and considered carefully. If she were to ring it the guard would come running back at once, but by then it would be too late. Everyone would be awake and Thull the Mage would have a fight on his hands.

She smiled maliciously across at the traitorous guard, then whispered, ‘You need a little help to do your job.’

Jelindel reached up, seized the rope, hesitated with a sudden attack of panic, fought it down, then gave the rope six hard yanks and ran into the street. There were already shouts coming from within Fa’red’s house as she ducked behind a cart.

Thull was sure to have his powers taxed by what was to come.

Chapter

7

Daretor awoke with Thull’s cold hand clamped over his mouth. ‘It’s time.’

Daretor brushed the hand away. He swung his legs over the bed and shook his head as though to clear it. He didn’t come fully awake until a thought seized him and he quickly looked to his little finger.

Thull grinned wolfishly. ‘The link is yours. I could have taken it, but I’m happy with my lot.’

Daretor said nothing as they descended the stairwell. A serving wench was kissing one of the drinkers and the others were all cheering. It was a good cover, and they slipped out into the cold night.

Daretor still had his doubts about what they were doing.

‘And what of this merchant who employs mercenaries and owns the mailshirt? I’ll wager it is well guarded!’

‘Then you would lose your coin,’ Thull replied. He pulled his cloak closer to his body. ‘My informant tells me that Fa’red guards it himself; he distrusts even his closest allies.’ Thull’s lips curled back in a smile to reveal sharp teeth by the light of a smoky street lantern. ‘It will be his undoing.’

‘And what if he is wearing the mailshirt?’ Daretor said as he strode along beside Thull.

‘Then he is a bigger fool than I suspect,’ Thull said easily. ‘Would you sleep in a mailshirt?’

Daretor still suspected treachery, and almost of their own accord his fingers loosened the leather strap of the axe at his belt. He lifted his sword a handspan in its scabbard, then let it drop. He was as ready as he could be for whatever lay ahead.

At length Thull paused beneath an archway guarded by massive but open gates that fronted a cobbled courtyard. Wan light from distant street lanterns cast murky shadows as the pair slipped inside. Thull drew a slender wire and worked it into the lock of a heavily embossed door.

‘Damn, this is some new type of lock,’ he muttered as he worked. ‘A mere century ago there were no locks at all.’

The offhand remark gave Daretor a chill.

‘There are bodies lying in the shadows,’ he said, his eyes scanning the darkened cobblestones.

‘Of course, bodies don’t stand up very well,’ Thull replied blandly.

‘This feels like a trap. There must be other guards.’

‘There are guards aplenty. They are just having an eternal rest.’ Thull cursed, then withdrew his wire and selected another from his robes.

‘I see a guard pacing over there.’

‘He’s in my pay. See here, my cautious warrior, if it makes you any happier the guards beyond this door are not in my pay and are as likely to kill us as fart in the latrine.’

‘Why don’t you use magic to open the door?’

‘Because the lock’s iron, idiot! Iron bleeds the vitality out of magic. Besides, there is a sieve aura over this place, ready to alert Fa’red to any intruder resorting to sorcery.’

‘The guards seemed easily bribed.’

‘Some guards take no small delight in seeing robbery from the house of a rich man.’

The lock gave a dull clunk.

‘There, got it!’ whispered Thull. ‘Wait! Not so eager.’

He swung the door open a little and jammed a wad of cloth into the catch before slipping inside with Daretor. As he pulled it shut behind them they were plunged into total blackness.

‘Come now, Daretor,’ Thull said scornfully. ‘Show some resolve.’

‘Black Quell himself must be afoot tonight!’ Daretor complained. ‘This place –’

‘This place is also protected by a foreboding spell, a little trick to strike baseless terror into intruders such as us. I am his equal in magic. Remember that and ignore what you feel.’

Daretor’s teeth still chattered in spite of the reassurance, but he walked on before Thull without hesitation. They passed several doors before pausing at one that seemed no different to any of the others.

‘It’s in here.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Your link is glowing brightly. I can see the glow through the stitching of your gloves. Quickly now, already the mailshirt will be glowing to warn whoever is awake to watch.’

Daretor felt an icy fear run its course down his spine.

‘Thull –’

But the man had already taken his wire to the door’s lock. This time the door clacked open easily, and he entered. Daretor followed.

It seemed as stygian black inside the room as in the corridor – but not quite. From within a room that lay beyond emanated a reddish-orange glow.

Something grunted from a four-post bed. Daretor barely managed to stifle an exclamation.

‘Take him!’ Thull hissed.

‘I’m a warrior, not a cutthroat!’

‘Do as I –’

A thief-bell began to ring outside, jangling Daretor’s brain after the long minutes of velvety silence and whispered words.

The bed’s bracings squealed alarmingly and a huge, menacing shape rose as the covers were flung back.

‘Hold!’ a man’s voice boomed like a thunderclap.

Daretor heard, rather than saw the sword as it sliced towards him. He dodged backwards, caught his foot on something, sprawled and twisted as a blade chopped down into the floorboards. Blue fire blazed around the huge merchant-mage, but Thull was blazing with the blue light as well.

Blue coils writhed between the two like living tentacles. Daretor got to his feet and stood watching for a moment as the blue fire lashed between the two mages.

In spite of the coils of writhing blue, neither mage seemed touched. Both stood within protective globes enmeshed with the glowing coils. Daretor tried to slash at the brilliant blue cords between them, but the fire blazed down his sword, burning his gloves and singeing his tunic and cloak. His sword fell to the floor, as hot as a stove-top, and he had to wrap his hand in the hem of his cloak before he could pick up the blackened weapon again. The leather binding of the handle was all crumbling char, and the blade was scorched.

He looked up to see Thull still enmeshed by Fa’red’s glowing, writhing coils of blue. Fa’red was free, and was walking purposefully towards him with his sword in his hand.

‘You chose to walk with a loser, boy,’ rumbled the huge man.

Daretor seized a chair and swung it into the path of Fa’red’s blade. The sword stuck fast in the wood of the seat. Daretor released the chair and aimed a punch-snap at Fa’red’s head, but the mage raised the sword with the chair still attached to parry, then kicked the chair free, snapping the tip from his blade.

By the light of the coils that enmeshed Thull they traded a score of blows. Fa’red was very fast and enormously strong, but not as skilled in his technique as Daretor. Every block jarred Daretor’s burned hand, but the young warrior used the huge mage’s strength against him, sending him spinning with forced pommel blocks and dodging back from sweeps.

Their swords clanged and rang like a tuneless peal of handbells, missing flesh but cutting chips of wood from the furniture.

Fa’red backed Daretor into a corner, then closed with him. The younger man twisted from his grip but lost his sword and charred cloak. He rolled free past bare, hairy legs, then more by instinct than skill he grabbed the rug and hauled it from under Fa’red’s feet.

Fa’red bellowed as he fell. Daretor snatched up his sword – then the blue light vanished. Again Daretor rolled and saw lingering blue light play about Fa’red’s mouth. There was a heavy crash and the thump of a body falling.

‘He’s down,’ panted Thull in the darkness. He snapped his fingers and an olive oil lamp kindled on a lipshelf on the wall. Daretor saw the mage draw his knife and reach down to seize Fa’red’s hair.

‘No!’ Daretor cried. ‘I’ll not be part of cold-blooded murder!’

Thull considered this for moment as he bent over Fa’red. He released his hair. Fa’red’s head thudded against the floorboards.

‘Would you have that alive to pursue you once he revives?’ he said, gesturing to Fa’red.

Daretor did not reply. He was listening to the commotion outside. The damnable bell had ceased ringing, but the courtyard was in an uproar. Any moment now some guard would blunder into the bedchamber and he was in no condition for another fight.

‘The mailshirt,’ said Daretor as he got up and stumbled into the next room. He seized the glowing pile of interlinked rings. ‘With the mailshirt I’ll be in no danger.’

The corners of Thull’s mouth widened into a smile and his teeth gleamed in the orange light from the enchanted mailshirt.

‘So … you’re fool enough to show mercy. Very well.’

He sheathed his knife and flung a leather bag to Daretor, who hefted the mailshirt with a shivery jingle. With the drawstrings pulled tight no light leaked out, although Daretor’s link still glowed. He smothered it within the folds of the bag.

Thull went to the outer door.

‘A word of caution, young Daretor. We’re not safe until the mailshirt is complete. Now earn your keep with that blade.’

Thull was flung to one side as the oak door was thrown open. A guard came bursting through, holding a sputtering torch high. The mage grunted with surprise but recovered quickly enough. He spat a thin blue coil that snared the guard’s legs and the man went down. Thull snatched up the torch.

‘Out, Daretor, move!’ he shouted.

Daretor stepped over the fallen guard and into the corridor. He turned to see Thull smash the torch into the pottery oil lamp on the wall, splattering the room with burning oil.

‘You torched the place!’ shouted Daretor.

‘Pah. The darkness was annoying me.’

‘We’ll have to fight our way clear, and –’

‘Not so. Close your eyes and let me guide you.’

Daretor heard him say a strange word, and a deepening blackness blossomed before him.

‘What in the name of Black Quell is –’

‘Close your eyes if you don’t want your mind sucked out through them,’ Thull hissed. ‘Keep your mouth closed, too. We don’t want to attract attention where we walk for the next few yards.’

The air suddenly became ice-cold, and whatever was beneath their feet was unsteady and yielding. Leading Daretor, Thull walked steadily for perhaps three dozen paces, then spoke another word.

Something shrieked at the sound and huge wings began beating. The sound was cut off abruptly, and the air that Daretor gasped was the warm and humid air of D’loom again.

They were standing in the street, just outside the gates of Fa’red’s great house.

‘How did you do that?’ asked Daretor.

‘We stepped through a world close to our own where we are as like to mice in a room full of owls.’

‘And your magic protected us?’

‘No. We were just lucky. Now hurry, the city constables will soon be here.’

Jelindel had run to the smithy along every shortcut and overwalk that she knew. She prayed that the mage and his warrior would be stopped or even killed by Fa’red and his guards.

Limping up to the smithy, she paused to listen for voices inside. It was silent. She made several attempts to jump for the loading beam’s rope, but she was too tired and her ankle hurt too much. It took several precious minutes to pile enough garbage beneath it for her to reach the rope. She used her feet to climb it, twisting her right ankle into a base while her left foot pushed off it. Zimak had trained her well.

Jelindel dragged herself over the sill and found Zimak still alive but desperately fighting for tiny shallow gasps of breath as the blue coils slowly tightened. Down in the shop she could see Thull’s blue glow binding the hinged bar on the front door. Even as she watched, the tendrils heaved the bar up and pushed it clear before vanishing into the wood. Two men were outlined by the light of Blanchemoon, then they stepped inside and she heard the creak of the bar swinging home again.

I barely slowed him at all, Jelindel thought, at the edge of despair. She pulled back into the shadows as a snap echoed through the smithy and a tinfloat lamp lit up by itself. Thull was back, looking dishevelled but unharmed. The robes of his warrior accomplice suggested that he had been fighting red hot wires or whips studded with hot coals. His right hand was crudely bandaged with a strip torn from his own cloak.

‘I thought you said that you were a match for Fa’red,’ said the warrior as he sat down and began to unwrap his right hand.

‘I lied. He was an Adept 12, I am an Adept 11.’

‘You lied to me!’ snapped the warrior. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘Would you have followed an Adept 11 against an Adept 12? I hoped that you could best his swordwork while I tied up as much of his life-force as he dared to spare for magic. He spoke the coils to bind me for a full minute, and he would have run me through with cold steel had you not been there to distract him until the coils returned to his lips.’

‘He nearly killed me. Your gamble was damn near a loss.’

Thull’s lips drew back to reveal sharp, yellowish teeth. ‘Such is the price when the stakes are so high. I too was stretched beyond my limits. Another few heartbeats and I would not have been able to maintain my globe of resistance. His coils would have contracted and burnt through my flesh and crushed my bones. You see, other debilitating circumstances arose earlier that I’d not taken into account.’

‘There are others to confront?’ Daretor said in alarm.

Thull waved aside the youth’s panic. ‘Pah! It was nothing. I was simply weakened when I was forced to snare some churl up in the hayloft this afternoon.’

‘Get me some axle grease or leather dressing,’ said Daretor, who had lost interest in the excuses that were probably lies as well. ‘My finger swelled when his coils burned it, and the link will not slide easily over the knuckle.’

Thull stoked up the coals in the forge as Daretor struggled to get the link off his finger. Jelindel could see that the link was glowing bright orange as he finally worked it free and held it high.

Thull picked up a battered leather drawstring bag and upended it. A mailshirt that glowed more brightly orange than the coals of the forge slithered out with a musical jingle. It was exquisitely beautiful, like a pile of glowing jewellery.

Jelindel crawled back to Zimak. Tears of frustration and rage streaked her cheeks because she had failed him. She stroked his hair and whispered encouragement, but knew that her words were no less lies than Thull’s.

It was close and hot in the shop, but the lack of anyone else in there made Daretor more uneasy than the heat. No longer able to maintain even a shred of trust in the mage, he drew his sword and motioned Thull away from the glowing pile at his feet.

‘Where’s the blacksmith?’ he demanded in a quavering voice that he had hoped would sound menacing. He raised the blackened point of his sword to touch Thull’s throat. ‘Tell him to come out. Now!’

Thull raised his hands. ‘Come out, blacksmith, it’s all right!’ he called. Silence was his reply. ‘See? No trap. I have rented the dwelling for this night’s work. Ah, Daretor, your distrust offends me.’

Daretor gestured to the glowing forge. ‘Would not the blacksmith have quenched his forge before leaving for the night?’

‘Normally, yes, but we have need of a forge so I asked him to leave it hot.’

Yet again, what Thull said was plausible. ‘I know not what to think anymore,’ Daretor admitted.

‘Have I not given you everything? Have I ever lied to you?’

‘Yes! About your Adept level. Stand back, right back! What is to stop you putting on the mailshirt and defeating me with the combined fighting skills of the links that make up its fabric?’

‘I’m making no claim to it. The mailshirt is quite simply yours. It will serve me far better with you wearing it.’

‘And when that service is done?’

‘Oh, you can keep it then. I shall have something far better.’

Daretor slowly undid the length of leather thonging that tied his axe’s head to his belt, then he picked up the glowing mailshirt. In pain from his burned right hand, he began to clumsily lace up the neck of the chainmail shirt with the thonging, all the while keeping a wary eye on Thull.

The mage stood leaning against the wall with his arms folded, looking more amused than angry.

‘There,’ Daretor said at length. ‘Now do your work.’

‘Very well,’ Thull said. He moved cautiously forward. ‘I’ll use the link to repair this little gap midway down.’

‘An invincible suit, yet it has a hole in it,’ Daretor said. It had been a nagging doubt.

‘Not an invincible suit, but a suit that enhances the skills of the wearer, say even that of a healer. In this case there must have been a warrior who pitted himself against too many skilled opponents, or perhaps he was shot at a distance by a crossbowman. Now, the link if you please?’

Daretor gave it to Thull, who nestled it into the coals of the forge and puffed the bellows. The metal already glowed with the colour of the coals. Presently he removed it with a pair of tongs and placed it on an anvil. With one strike of his hammer and chisel the link was split. He returned it to the coals and began pumping the bellows.

‘All that pretty, fine writing, spoiled,’ commented Daretor.

‘Oh it will come back by itself,’ Thull said enigmatically.

‘It will?’

‘Trust me.’

After several minutes amid the stoked-up coals the link glowed yellow rather than orange. Thull spread the chainmail so that the tear was over the anvil and the ragged links were lined up. He removed the link, beat the ends flat then returned it to the coals for the last time.

‘All this for one miserable link,’ said Daretor. ‘The mailshirt itself must have been years in the making.’

‘When you have a hundred or so links in the forge at once, the work goes faster. Still, it does take a lot of time.’ In the glow of the forge he looked even more menacing, like a daemon stoking the furnaces of the underworld.

Daretor tightened his grip on his sword. ‘Unless, of course, a master mage has a hand in it.’

With a coarse, crackling laugh Thull removed the link, tapped the two ends together, then quenched the hot link. The suit of mail was complete.

‘The mailshirt’s stopped glowing!’ Daretor said, astonished. ‘That cold orange light is gone.’

‘Very observant,’ said Thull. ‘Now, there is one more thing for you to do.’

‘What’s that?’ Daretor asked as he walked forward to claim the mailshirt.

‘You must run for your life, or you can stay here and be killed,’ said Thull as he drew his sword from its scabbard in a leisurely sweep. ‘It makes no difference to me.’

Chapter

8

Daretor barely had time to draw his blackened sword again before Thull lunged at him. Daretor chopped down at the blade, then threw a cut-snap at the mage’s head.

Thull parried and followed up with a riposte that sliced through Daretor’s tunic and scraped along his ribs. Daretor swung down wildly, missed Thull as he spin-dodged and their blades clanged loudly as if the blacksmith were still alive and working late at the forge.

Daretor stumbled after the mage, baffled by his own reactions. Something was wrong, he could not believe how clumsily he was chopping and swinging. Even simple stances and dodge footwork had somehow deserted him.

‘Confused?’ laughed Thull. ‘You should be, you fool. For all the time you were with me you never once asked how the skills got into the dragonlinks.’

Daretor tried to attack again, but the sword felt as if he had picked it up for the first time. Thull stepped to one side and easily parried the downward chop of Daretor’s blade.

‘All the time that you were wearing it, the link was soaking up the fighting skills that you used and storing them in its magical aura. You continued to possess your skills of a champion swordsman because you wore the link, but once you took it off you became a pathetic dolt who could not even fight off a blind beggar.’

Daretor lunged forward again, striking down wildly in the hope of knocking Thull’s blade aside so that he could grab him with his free hand – his strength was unchanged, even though his skill with a sword was gone.

Thull shook his head as he skipped back, then dodged to the side. Daretor’s blade bit into the wooden bench, then snapped as he frantically tried to pull it free. He swung the stump at Thull who ducked and then lunged forward with his own blade.

Daretor barely felt the blade pierce him, but there was a searing blaze of pain as Thull drew it back out from just below his ribs. His vision wobbled like a top running out of spin and he toppled into the neatly stacked firewood and coals beside the forge. He clutched at the wound, gasping in agony as blood oozed between his fingers and spread across the cloth of his tunic.

Thull stood over him and cleaned his blade.

‘While wearing the mailshirt I’ll be the greatest warrior ever to walk the world,’ Thull gloated. ‘Without the mailshirt I’m just a so-so swordsman, but I learned that swordwork in my own right over the centuries,’ he added. ‘Yes, you heard correctly. Centuries. I may not be a power ful Adept, but I’m very good at surviving.’

Daretor looked up and met his eyes. ‘The mailshirt … will suck away your skills at fighting … if you wear it?’

‘No, my friend,’ Thull said, sheathing his sword. ‘By wearing an individual link you gain its skills while you wear it, but lose both its skills and your own when you take it off. When the links are worn as part of the mailshirt, they only confer skills – according to my sources.’ His eyes glinted in the steady light from the forge. ‘They cannot take them away.’

Daretor closed his eyes against the pain of his wound. He wheezed loudly, feigning a death-rattle in his breath, then slumped down and was still.

Thull backed towards the bench, still watching Daretor. The warrior did not move.

‘Thank you for your contribution, Daretor,’ Thull told the body. He held the mailshirt high. Its many links glittered like polished silver in the light from the forge. ‘Within these links the skills of thousands of warriors are still alive even though their creators are long dead.’

Thull walked back among the sacks of wood and coal, then returned dragging something across the straw-strewn floor. The body of the blacksmith, Daretor realised.

‘There will be little enough of the pair of you to recognise after the fire, I fear. But it might even appear as though you two squabbled over something, and killed one another. As for that rat in the loft, well who cares for a rat?’

Taking a leatherwork knife from the workbench he began to cut away the thonging that sealed up the neck of the mailshirt. He put his arms into it, then stretched them above his head and began hopping lightly on the spot to shake it down over his arms and torso.

Daretor watched him, his eyes open by only the merest slit. As soon as the mail was down over Thull’s head, Daretor drew his axe. The briefest moment was all he needed to fling it at Thull with all his remaining strength.

The axeblade buried itself in Thull’s sternum, almost up to the short haft. Thull teetered, but did not fall.

Daretor slumped back against the workbench, watching with incredulous horror as the mage shook off the mailshirt and gripped the axeblade. He heaved at it, and began to force the axehead from his chest, inch by bloody inch. Green ichor oozed from the wound, but he would not die.

Behind him a boy came running down the ramp from the loft. The youth picked up a broadsword that the blacksmith had kept on the wall for his own use, ran up behind Thull and swung the blade just as the axe came free in the mage’s hands.

The well-kept blade chopped halfway through Thull’s tough but scrawny neck. He dropped forward onto his knees, swinging Daretor’s axe backhand as he descended.

Jelindel dodged as Zimak had taught her, then swung the sword again with both hands. This time Thull’s head was severed from his shoulders.

Jelindel stood panting with the sword held limply in her hands. She watched as though mesmerised by the green blood that dripped from the blade. Terror and indecision whirled about her like a monsoon thunderstorm. Thull’s warrior stood before her clutching a terrible sword wound, but did she dare help him?

Thull’s mouth was wide open in the severed head. Yellow teeth lined his gums, sharp fangs, the like of which she had never seen.

Daretor acknowledged his saviour with a weary nod then shuffled across the floor, still clutching his wound. He drew the sword from the scabbard at Thull’s belt. Jelindel decided to run but could not choose between the loft and the main door. Then she realised that Daretor was watching the body, not her.

Silvery globes emerged from the bloodied green stump of Thull’s neck. They coalesced and hung on the air between her and Daretor.

‘We thank thee for freedom,’ whispered a voice like rats skittering over dry straw. ‘We were forced to do evil as slaves, but we are not evil.’

‘You spared me this afternoon,’ said Jelindel. ‘Thank you.’

‘Kindness spawns the most unlikely of allies,’ whispered the globes in reply. ‘Now we take our leave, to find our proper plane once more. May we use his vitality?’

‘Have what you will,’ said Jelindel. ‘My kindermaid told me never to take anything from strange men.’

Blue threads crackled from the body to the globes, then they floated upwards and dissolved through the roof. The whispering echo of ‘Goodbye’ echoed back to the two mortals who held swords at the ready across the body of the dead Adept.

Daretor dropped his sword and clutched at his wound again as he slid down to the floor.

‘Oh my – Zimak!’ Jelindel gasped. She’d forgotten about him. She rushed up the ramp and stopped when she reached the top step.

Zimak was slowly uncurling, sucking air into his aching lungs.

Even as Jelindel was thanking White Quell, a tower clock began to clang out the midnight chimes for the benefit of the port city and its shipping. She had killed Thull just in time to disrupt his life-force coils.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked Zimak, helping him to sit up.

‘No, I’m a mess of cramps and numbness.’

She patted his back reassuringly. ‘Stay there, I’ll be back.’

‘Stop saying that,’ Zimak wheezed.

Jelindel walked back down the ramp to the floor of the shop, then froze as she caught sight of Daretor. In spite of his wound he had managed to wriggle into the mailshirt.

‘You’re mad,’ she cried. ‘After all the bloodshed that mailshirt has caused, all the misery …’

‘Please!’ Daretor gasped. ‘Thought it might be … my only hope.’

She approached warily, the blacksmith’s sword in both hands, but Daretor could barely move.

‘Damn! Nothing!’ he said. ‘That damnable curse-vendor lied … no weapons skills, no healing powers … but perhaps he was deceived, too.’

‘Are you his follower?’ Jelindel asked.

‘Hie! I’m his last victim. He tricked me, he lied, lied, lied … Never realised how evil –’ He began to cough, then wheezed. ‘Please help me out of this thing. White Quell may not find my soul if I die enmeshed within it.’

Jelindel hesitated again. He was wounded but still strong, yet he had pleaded in the name of White Quell. As hesitant as a mouse approaching a sleeping cat, she stepped over Thull’s body and began working the mailshirt up over Daretor’s back and clear of his head and arms. He did not try to seize her.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered as he lay back against the leg of the bench.

‘I’m the blacksmith’s dau – son.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Door-son. What’s that?’

Jelindel bit her lip. ‘It’s sort of an apprentice – it’s a local term. The mage had my friend Zimak trapped in the loft with a binding word.’

Her eyes picked out a box with a red circle embla-zoned on its side. She reached up to the bench above Daretor and pulled it down. She had watched the healers at work at their stalls in the marketplace, and had even helped them a few times. She hoped that she had absorbed enough of their skills. She opened the box before Daretor.

‘I’m not a magical mailshirt, but I may be able to help,’ she said tersely.

‘Do it. I’ll die anyway.’

She swabbed his wound with essence of spirits and rubbed in oils that she recognised by smell rather than name. Using pronged ratclips she closed the edges of the wound, then threaded a needle, rubbed it with spirits and oils, and began to sew Daretor’s skin like soft leather.

‘Not as much blood as there might have been,’ she said as she worked. ‘You may be lucky.’

Only seven stitches were needed to close the wound, then she bandaged him with strips of his cloak.

‘If he hadn’t robbed me of my swordsmanship, I would have taken him easily,’ Daretor said as Jelindel began packing the healing kit back into the box.

‘He was toying with you,’ said Jelindel impatiently. ‘Had you beaten him with a sword he would have bound you with the blue coils of a binding word.’

Injured pride silenced Daretor for a moment. He gestured to the mage’s body. ‘You must search him.’

‘Search him? Not for all the known gods,’ Jelindel protested, staring at the headless body covered in green blood.

By now Zimak was slowly climbing down the ramp to the loft. ‘I’ll do it,’ he volunteered.

‘And this one?’ Daretor enquired.

‘Zimak,’ said Jelindel. ‘It’s all you need to know.’ Zimak staggered over to the mage’s body, forcing movement into his numb limbs.

Jelindel picked up the sword and stood ready as Zimak rummaged.

‘I’m good at this; robbed a few corpses in my time,’ Zimak explained. He soon held up a gold medallion and two purses.

Jelindel took the medallion and angled it to read its inscription. ‘It’s a rare crest. The script is highly stylised.’

She read the scroll lettering with difficulty. ‘Mage … highest, or perhaps most supreme … to the … most learned Preceptor …’

‘You can read?’ Daretor said suspiciously. ‘A blacksmith’s apprentice?’

‘He’s actually a runaway monk,’ Zimak explained. ‘He’s my personal tutor in language arts.’

Daretor waved the explanation away. ‘The Preceptor,’ he panted. ‘All this time Thull was working for him. The Preceptor must want the mailshirt beyond cost and life, yet it has no power. I don’t understand.’

Jelindel handed the medallion to Daretor and picked up the mailshirt. As he stared blankly at the script, she examined the mailshirt closely.

‘There are seven rows of double-linking on the left shoulder, but only six and a half rows of double-links on the right,’ she pointed out. ‘Links are missing from the mailshirt. Perhaps it has to be complete before it can work.’

‘Quite likely,’ whispered Daretor, letting the medallion fall to the floor. ‘Thull said the mailshirt confers weapons skills on the wearer, but … I felt nothing, not even my own skills with a sword. Aye, perhaps it has to be whole before it can do that.’

Jelindel put the mailshirt down again and sat thinking as Zimak counted the coins in Thull’s two purses.

‘Eleven gold oriels in one and fifty silver argents in the other,’ Zimak reported. ‘We’ll split the money. What do you say? He owes us that much for the pain of this day past.’

‘Agreed,’ said Jelindel as if in a trance. ‘Besides, I have to flee from D’loom this very night.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Certain … religious authorities wish to find me.’

‘Ah ha, so you don’t want to become Brother Jaelin again.’

‘You have it, more or less.’

‘I … have to go, too,’ whispered Daretor.

‘You’re not fit to travel,’ Jelindel said at once. ‘You’ve got a wound that would have killed most people.’

‘Damn that! Thull murdered Fa’red tonight when he torched his house. I was with him and I’ll be held accountable if the constables chance upon me. If you want to leave here, leave with me. Saddle a horse from the back of the shop. Take me to the stables at the Boar and Bottle.’

‘Riding’s going to rip your wound right open,’ Zimak ventured, feeling oddly left out.

‘Where are you bound?’ asked Jelindel.

‘For the other dragonlinks. I must track them down, then rid the world of such abominable devices that rob years of skill and training from honourable warriors such as myself.’

Jelindel picked up the two purses. ‘We should divide these between us now.’

‘Oh, I’ve already taken a few argents as my share,’ said Zimak. ‘You two take the purses.’

Jelindel frowned, then shook both purses. ‘They both jingle like argents,’ she declared. ‘Gold has a different ring.’

Zimak’s confident smile collapsed.

‘I – I, ah, thought we would be staying in the city, so I, ah, decided to guard the gold, that is, being the most able-bodied of the three of us – under the circumstances.’

Jelindel’s eyes widened with anger. ‘Give them back, Zimak. All of them.’

Zimak returned the gold oriels to Jelindel, who snatched them from his hand and turned back to the warrior. He was staring at her, his eyes proud but pleading.

‘So do you really want to leave D’loom tonight?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said firmly, the scene in the temple library’s reading room flashing before her eyes for a moment.

‘Good. We must cover our trail, else we’ll be tracked and run to ground. Do as I bid you.’

Daretor got to his feet with difficulty, but he was strong and determined, and was able to manage a shuffling walk in spite of the agony from his wound and the pints of blood that he had lost.

Zimak saddled a horse while Jelindel helped Daretor pack a pair of saddlebags with things from the shop. When the horse was ready, Daretor scraped a few live coals out of the hearth and flicked them into the straw where they began to smoulder. Almost as an afterthought he stuffed the mailshirt into a coal sack and asked Jelindel to secure it to the saddle.

It took both Jelindel and Zimak’s combined strength to get Daretor up into the saddle. Having done that, Zimak led the horse down the narrow street towards the Boar and Bottle while Jelindel set the blacksmith’s other horses free.

The smithy was well alight in the distance as they reached the tavern. Shouts and clanging bells roused the citizens of the port to fight the second fire of the night.

‘Slowly now,’ Daretor directed from the horse. ‘We shouldn’t appear to be in a hurry.’ Louder, he called, ‘Where’s my friend Thull?’ Daretor had learned Thull’s lesson on leaving false trails.

‘Pox take your friend,’ the huge landlord bellowed back as he handed out frame pails to the men and women gathered there. ‘To the beach now, all of ye! Form a pail chain to the fire!’

Daretor waited outside on the stolen horse as Zimak and Jelindel ran up to his room and threw the gear there together. They descended the stairs, saddlebags and bedrolls in their arms.

Ellien appeared from the kitchen. She had been left to guard the tavern against looters while all others were at the fire.

‘Ellien, what are the accounts of those two strangers Thull and Daretor?’ Jelindel demanded urgently, loading Daretor’s saddlebags and bedroll onto Zimak and pushing him towards the door.

‘Accounts? I don’t know. The landlord can work them out from his register, but I can’t read … I only serve in the taproom –’

‘Here!’

Jelindel spilled a handful of argents onto the nearest table.

‘Jaelin! That’s ten times what they could possibly owe!’

‘Then the rest is for your dowry,’ said Jelindel, taking the girl by both shoulders and looking into her eyes. ‘Ellien, I am about to leave D’loom and I shall never, never see you again. Please, find a brave, gentle boy and marry him, but never think of me again.’

‘What? Have I offended you by what I did in the taproom? Am I too coarse of manner to –’

‘No! You are lovely, far too lovely for – for what I am. There are brave and gentle youths in the world, Ellien. You don’t have to marry an oaf. Now goodbye, goodbye forever.’

Jelindel threw her arms around the girl and hugged her tightly for a moment. Ellien was kissing Jelindel on the cheek when Zimak put his head through the open door.

‘Jaelin, will you tell me what the fradork is happen– you filthy swine, Brother Jaelin, and after all that talk about chastity and self-control, too.’

‘Shut up, Zimak! Go to the nearest stables and saddle two horses. Daretor won’t get far without us.’

‘Us? What do you mean, us? I’m staying in D’loom. I’ve got a job, I’ve got a licence with the Guild of Alley Gangs, I’ve got friends and family, I’ve got a bank account –’

‘Move, damn you!’ Jelindel shouted, snatching up a tankard and flinging it at the doorway. ‘You carried messages for both Thull and Fa’red today and they’re both dead. Do you think that Fa’red’s servants will not mention your name to the constables?’

Zimak moved.

‘What did he mean, ‘Brother Jaelin’?’ asked Ellien, ‘and what is all that blood and green muck on your tunic?’

‘It’s nothing but spilled paint.’

‘You’re limping,’ Ellien fussed to cover her alarm. ‘Have you been in a fight? Are you hurt?’

Jelindel fished out her hessian bag of personal things from where she had left it behind the counter earlier that night.

‘Off the register, Ellien, I’ve been in a fight. I’m hurt, I’ve just killed something evil, and people are after me. Now please, just say that Daretor paid his account and left.’

‘Well, yes, but –’

‘Goodbye, Ellien, I must go now.’

Jelindel limped out into the darkness and Ellien heard scuffling and cursing from the direction of the stables. Moments later three horses clopped by in the darkness outside.

‘Don’t just limp along with the fradork horse, Jaelin,’ Zimak’s voice called out in the darkness. ‘Get into the saddle and ride.’

‘I don’t know how to ride, damn you!’ Jelindel shouted back angrily, then the hoofbeats faded in the distance.

Ellien stared through the open door into the blackness beyond until she could hear nothing other than the shouts of the distant firefighters, then sank to a bench.

‘Goodbye, Jaelin. I’ll never forget you,’ she said as her eyes overflowed with tears.

Jelindel, Zimak and Daretor rode to the beach, turned, then kept riding and only stopped whenever Jelindel fell out of the saddle. The incoming tide washed the hoof-prints away as they passed, and by the time they stopped to spell the horses and tend Daretor’s wound, the port was no more than a vague glow on the horizon.

‘I must be mad,’ said Zimak. ‘I had a good life in D’loom.’

‘As a successful market rat,’ said Jelindel.

‘Now I’m an outlaw, a fugitive. Another week and I’d have had Zeldenia Kremtil around behind her mother’s drapery stall. She hugged me and kissed me yesterday, she rubbed her thigh against my –’

‘She’s got the pox, one of the charm-healers told me.’

‘You’re joking!’ gasped Zimak.

‘I’ve no sense of humour. You’re always telling me that.’

‘Er, can one get the pox by kissing?’

‘Only if your gums bleed. Daretor, can you go any further, or should we stop here awhile?’

‘Too exposed here,’ he gasped through a haze of pain. ‘Camp in those hills ahead. How’s your riding, Jaelin?’

‘I’m staying on, more or less. How did you learn to ride, Zimak?’

‘My father let me ride the carthorses around the docks ever since I could walk. It kept me safe and in view. Where are we bound for, anyway?’

‘For the next dragonlink,’ replied Daretor, ‘but just for now we have to get clear of Skelt. We can pass through the Algon Mountains and into Baltoria. It will be safer there.’

‘I haven’t got border papers,’ muttered Zimak.

‘I’ll forge you a set,’ countered Jelindel.

Chapter

9

What saved Fa’red was the fact that Thull had started the fire in the room where he lay unconscious. As he lay sprawled where he had fallen, blood pouring from his head and breathing smoke, the flames spread up the drapery and melted the lead supporting brackets. A mass of blazing cloth suddenly broke free from the wall and fell across his body. The sharp shock of pain sliced through his stupor and jolted him awake.

He sat up and tried to cry out with pain but instead coughed and spluttered on the smoke. Flames were all around him, and his nightshirt was on fire, as was his hair. Somewhere, very far away it seemed, the thief-bell was ringing again and people were shouting about a fire. Fighting desperately to control his breath, he spoke a single word.

A wavering patch of blackness opened up before him, barely wide enough to admit his bulk. He half-crawled, half-tumbled through. The patch vanished behind him. He sat slapping at his body, smothering the flames. The smell of his own burnt skin and hair was in his nostrils.

The paraworld where Fa’red had emerged was completely dark, and the ground seemed slightly unsteady, even alive underfoot. It was the closest paraworld to his own, yet the most hazardous known to all levels of Adepts. He wanted to groan with the pain of his injuries, but to do so would mean death. Somewhere nearby there was a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, as if huge wings were lifting something gigantic and ponderous into the air. If he held still and silent – but no, the scent of his own burnt flesh would attract the huge winged predator!

Fa’red spoke another word and lunged for a sparkle of lights that he guessed was another breach in the fabric between paraworlds. Claws raked across his back, catching his nightshirt firmly. He was lost –

The air rippled in dark bars that resolved into an oval of darkness, and Fa’red plunged through it and fell headlong before passing out.

He awoke. He was aware of lying naked on a hard, cold surface with sleek, gleaming dragons howling past and belching acrid breath. Huge, brilliant lanterns blazed all about in the night.

Fa’red lay still. It seemed only a matter of time before one of the beasts noticed him. Minutes passed and he remained untouched. He was lying on a slightly raised area covered in white stripes, and there was a stark, geometrically perfect sign lit from within that declared something in characters that were totally alien to him. Obviously this was a refuge domain, protected from the dragons by enchantments that he could not even begin to guess at. They were huge, these beasts that whipped the air all around him as they passed.

Inevitably, one of the dragons slowed and stopped. It regarded Fa’red with blazing, brilliant eyes. He said a rare prayer that the refuge domain would hold it back.

‘North control, we’ve got a suspected drive-by shooting on the median at Bell near the freeway feeder.’

The words were unintelligible to Fa’red. He watched two human-shaped beings in tight, angular robes emerge as their dragon opened its wings sideways.

‘He’s moving.’

‘Hey buddy, can you talk?’

‘Naked, he’s buffo – look at his skin!’

‘North Control, we need an ambulance to Bell, east freeway feeder median. The victim has severe burns, and is bleeding from the head. He’s conscious.’

‘Confirm burns and head injuries. A unit will be there in three minutes, code three. Is it a traffic accident or felony?’

‘Suspected felony. The victim appears to be a Caucasian male, about 250 pounds, and aged around his mid-fifties. He’s naked, and there’s no sign of debris from an accident.’

‘Hey there, can you talk?’

Fa’red recognised concern in the man’s voice, but did not know what to do. The slightest movement was agony, and he was shivering in the cold air. He nodded. ‘All hail, master Adept,’ he croaked.

‘What was that?’

‘Sounded Spanish.’

‘North Control, have a Spanish translator standing by at casualty. The victim does not appear to speak English.’

People were gathering at what appeared to be another refuge domain. More dragons with blue and red flashing eyes were gathering, and their Adepts established a wider refuge domain.

‘Did anyone see what happened?’

‘I seen, ah, I seen cars slowing an’ guys pointing, man.’

‘Did you see what happened? Was he dumped from a car?’

‘Hey, I seen a truck stoppin’, then drive on. I got his number right here.’

‘Check suspect North Control, that could be who dumped him.’

‘Negative, negative. The driver with that number called in on his mobile to report the body. He says he’s parked just over the feeder if you need him but he saw nothing.’

Another, larger dragon arrived, screaming its challenge in a strident, deafening yowl.

‘Hang in there, buddy, you’re going to be okay now.’

Other men in tight blue robes gathered around him, asking him questions that he could not comprehend and pressing arcane devices and amulets against his skin. A warm, pleasant haze washed over Fa’red, although he lingered in consciousness. His own rings, amulets and even nightshirt were gone. This was obviously one of those domains where only live flesh could pass through the gates. Fa’red felt himself being lifted, yet the pain of his wounds and burns had faded to a vague discomfort. Finally he gave up the fight against a rising tide of warm, comforting blackness and lapsed into sleep.

When he awoke Fa’red was lying in a high, metal bed and swathed in bandages. Women in drab blue robes brought him strongly aromatic soups and food, and a series of others asked him questions that he could not comprehend. ‘Name?’ and ‘Private insurance?’ featured often in their interrogations. Against one wall, an enchanted box provided a view into various other paraworlds. Fa’red lay watching worlds so alien that he could do nothing but goggle in amazement.

Days passed, and Fa’red was presently able to walk again. The people of the paraworld looked after him well, and seemed unaware that he was a very senior Adept. This was obviously a paraworld dominated by the cold sciences.

The Adept knew enough of healing charms to know that his burns were already healing amazingly fast. From all his experience of battlefield injuries he knew that he should have died from his burns, but here he was, alive and regaining his strength.

On the seventh day Fa’red stood gazing out of the huge window of clear glass that took up most of one wall. He was in a type of palace, high off the ground. He surmised that he was being held and cared for by some monarch. Fascinating though this world might be, Fa’red knew that he would never be any more than a cipher amid the plethora of cold science experts who held sway here.

He had been watching how some of the devices worked, in particular a small room that moved between floors as if at the end of a hidden pulley crane. If he spoke a word to escape this paraworld, he would need to be on the ground or he would risk a long and deadly fall once through the gate.

Fa’red walked out of his room and down the long corridor outside. He covered quite a lot of the distance to the moving room before one of the women challenged him.

‘Excuse me, sir. Where are you going?’ she called from behind a desk. He ignored her and kept walking. ‘Sir, you’re not meant to go out by yourself,’ she continued, but none of the words was intelligible to Fa’red.

It was only when she ducked in front of him and spread her arms to block his way that he stopped.

‘Sir, you’re not meant to leave your hospital ward alone; the police have –’

Fa’red spoke a minor binding word that ensnared her legs and she screamed, struggled and overbalanced, hysterically tearing and pulling at the blue coils. As the mage had suspected, those who came running paid all their attention to the woman’s plight and ignored him. He walked on to the crane room’s door and pressed a stylised arrowhead that pointed downwards. It began to glow. Fa’red waited.

‘He did it! He’s at the lift!’ the fallen woman shouted now, and Fa’red noticed everyone turn towards him. Two young men in green garments started for him. They were unarmed, but they had the calm confidence of Siluvian kick-fist masters.

Two more words dropped both of them, their legs bound at the knees. Now everyone knew that it was Fa’red who was projecting the glowing blue coils. Those who were still standing shrank back. A jangling, ear-splitting sound began, just as the doors opened to the crane room.

Fa’red walked in and pressed the lowest of the studs on the panel beside the doors. It began to glow and the doors slid closed. There was a brief feeling of downward motion, and presently the doors opened again onto a vast hallway of dormant dragons. Hesitantly he walked out among them, but none of them stirred. The place had the feel of being underground, and that was the worst pos -sible place to use a word into another paraworld.

Large chunky arrows were painted on the ground, and Fa’red followed these up a ramp and into another hallway full of dragons. Once a dragon approached him from a distant ramp, but the quick-thinking Fa’red stepped hastily onto one of the striped refuge domains. Just as he thought, the dragon was forced to ignore him and it continued on past with its human familiar sitting calmly within a protective shell on its back. Far above him the energies of his word-coils dissolved away from the legs of those whom Fa’red had snared. They plunged through the floors of the palace and returned to Fa’red’s lips.

At last Fa’red emerged into open air and bright sunlight. Men that Fa’red took to be royal guards were alert as he walked out into the palace gardens filled with alien flowers and incomprehensible sculptures. Six guards came running to surround him. All were holding small, dark, angular things in an attitude that meant they could only be weapons.

‘Just stay right where you are, sir,’ called one. ‘Hold your arms out away from your body and stand still.’

Fa’red had called the name to this paraworld by accident, as he thought he was mumbling that of a desert paraworld where practically nothing lived. He could never return here without remembering exactly what he had said, but that did not matter. He spoke a word and the space in front of him became scored with black, interlocking bars of nothing that firmed into a disk of blackness at the centre.

‘Shit! Look at that!’ one of the royal guards shouted in amazement, but Fa’red was already stepping through. Again he fell but this time it was upward.

All at once he was in total darkness, and once again completely naked. Huge wings flapped in the distance. He spoke another word and stepped through to a field just beyond the city walls of D’loom. It was near sunrise, judging from the position of the glow on the eastern horizon. He began stalking towards a nearby peasant’s cottage, huge, scarred and quite naked.

That evening Fa’red rested at the house of the caravan captain Bradant Gilvier, not far from where his own house had stood until just a week earlier. His ordeal had left him greatly weakened, in spite of the healing arts of the strange and unchronicled paraworld.

‘They plied me with pethidine, channel selector, press release and other cold sciences too numerous to mention,’ Fa’red explained from a pile of cushions while the tall, fit Gilvier lay sprawled on a nearby sling bench.

‘Some of their arts may be of great worth to us,’ Gilvier speculated.

‘Gah, I doubt it. They are so powerful that if ever they discovered this world’s gate-word we would be swamped by their cold science mechanisms. My aura’s sweep told me that they used more iron in a single palace than we do in the whole of Skelt.’

‘Did they hear you speak the word to return here?’ Gilvier asked, now apprehensive.

‘No, I used the hellworld as a waystop first. We are safe.’

Gilvier stood up and went to a window. For a moment he stood gazing out at the remains of one of the towers of Fa’red’s house while the pleasantly cool evening breeze wafted past him. A bell was tolling in the distance, calling the members of some sect to prayers.

‘You are welcome to my hospitality until your own house can be rebuilt, old friend,’ he said as he turned back to Fa’red, ‘but why are you really here?’

‘A certain Preceptor has betrayed an … arrangement with me,’ Fa’red replied.

‘In all of the world I know of only one with the title Preceptor,’ said Gilvier.

‘And it is the same man. I secured various services from him, and in return was able to carry off a certain mailshirt.’

Gilvier’s relaxed manner immediately hardened, but he said nothing.

‘As a token of good faith I left one of my two dragon -links in his care. Just a day before the attack on my house, a middling Adept named Jabez Thull arrived with what must surely have been that very same link. He had a warrior companion named Daretor, according to the register at the Boar and Bottle. The customs post on Icebreath Road notes his papers containing a crossing into Baltoria some weeks earlier, and a provisional release by order of the Preceptor from a dungeon at Tol. The release was into the care of Jabez Thull.’

‘It … is a connection with the Preceptor, albeit a thinly stretched one,’ Gilvier speculated.

‘Oh, I can strengthen it for you. I spent a lot of today sending my surviving clerks and runners on errands of enquiry. The innkeeper at the Boar and Bottle said that the youth working for Thull had a victor’s sash from Tol’s annual fighting marathon, so he would have to be a champion of rare ability. He was a champion fit to match myself at weaponcraft while his Adept master distracted me with enchantment attacks. Such a mercenary was ideal for the Preceptor’s plans.’

Gilvier walked across the room to a tapestry map of the continent and stared up at it.

‘Why would they take the Icebreath Road? The South Coast Road would be far easier.’

‘Zarlea, the King’s favourite courtesan, was ordered on a pilgrimage to Passendof some months ago. It was via the caravan road through the Garrical and Algon Mountains.’

‘An uncomfortable and difficult route for a pampered court kitten. I have travelled it a dozen times or more, but then I am Bradant Gilvier. I have ridden guard over some pilgrim caravans along that road, though.’

‘Court gossip has it that Zarlea was gaining too much influence over our esteemed monarch. The Queen was said to have ordered the pilgrimage,’ Fa’red said.

‘Gah, the Queen thinks he is repulsive. She’s more than happy that he has other furrows to plough.’

‘I didn’t know that!’ exclaimed Fa’red, who had thought he was familiar with all such court gossip.

‘You’d be surprised what noble ladies and gentlemen will tell a caravan master during a long and boring trip. Did you know that the mighty Preceptor himself is rumoured to have given the Princess Royal practical lessons in natural philosophy?’

This was more than enough for Fa’red to digest. He sat glowering and silent while Gilvier touched a taper to the pilot candle and went around the room lighting a selection of terracotta lamps against the gathering darkness. Finally he took down a sword from its rack and traced a path along the tapestry map on the wall.

The tip of the blade travelled from the port-capital, Altimak, through the Barrier Ranges and the Garrical Mountains, crossed the Baltorian border, skirted the wasteland of Dragonfrost through the Algon Mountains, and stopped at the turnoff for Chasmgyle Gorge, its bridge and its town.

‘From here you can either tu rn north for the Chasmgyle Road and go on to Passendof or turn west to skirt Dragonfrost, cross the Marisa River’s estuary then take the South Coast Road to D’loom. At a good pace I could be ambushed at the turnoff, and arrive in D’loom about eight or nine days after someone crossing Dragonfrost directly.’

‘I don’t follow,’ Fa’red conceded.

‘A pilgrimage is limited to an entourage of six, by holy scripture. The idea is that one must place faith in White Quell to look after one’s safety and not have excessive guards. Here we have a powerful Adept in Thull, his champion warrior Daretor, the King’s favourite, and perhaps even the Preceptor himself. Now were I a betting man, I might wager that the Preceptor will soon arrive via the South Coast Road from the Marisa estuary.’

Fa’red had begun to catch the thread of his host’s reasoning by now.

‘You’re saying that the Preceptor will claim that he was escorting Zarlea on her pilgrimage as a special favour to the King. Two of his guards turned traitor: they stole the dragonlink and fled down the Icebreath Road. Naturally he could not desert Zarlea to pursue them, so he escorted her to the Chasmgyle Gorge and left her safe at the governor’s border fortress. Then he made for D’loom with all possible speed.’

Gilvier clapped, a sardonic smile on his face.

‘Your lesson in subterfuge is complete, Fa’red. My bill will arrive by messenger.’

Fa’red shifted uncomfortably, still in pain from his burns. The look on his face was one of restrained anger.

‘Will you help me to the ruins of my house?’ he asked as he slowly and stiffly got to his feet. ‘Alone?’

‘It is dark outside now, Fa’red. Your clerks have diligently salvaged all there is to find.’

‘Not quite, my astute caravan master, not quite.’

Fa’red took some time to orient himself in the burned-out husk of his house. Two of his loyal guards were patrolling the grounds as he arrived and he ordered them to go to the street until he needed them. Moving slowly and painfully he clambered through the rubble and examined the remains of the walls by torchlight until he was satisfied that he was where his bedchamber had once been. Gilvier followed behind him with another torch.

‘Normally a gate to a paraworld takes all the life-force of a senior Adept to hold open, even for a few moments. I am Adept 12, so I can keep a little in reserve.’

‘Fa’red, I would rather cross Dragonfrost on my hands and knees than go in there.’

‘Neither of us will have to.’

‘Then what?’

‘Stand behind me. Don’t run, whatever happens, and hold both tallow torches ready.’

Fa’red spoke a word. A matrix of dark bars formed, and at the middle was a disk of greyish light. This soon sharpened into a landscape that had a reptilian sheen about it, and seemed to Gilvier to be subtly pulsating. Fa’red reached for a torch, then held it up to the opening. He peered through at what appeared to be scraps of cloth and leather. His other hand reached back for the second torch, which Gilvier also handed to him.

‘What are you –’

‘Hush!’ Fa’red hissed. ‘Ah, there, I think I can see what may be the pouch. I must seize it on the first try, else it will be days before I have the strength to do this again.’

‘Why not just dash in and –’

There was an ear-piercing screech and a flood of light that blinded Gilvier. A dragon the size of a wagon jumped out through the disk of the opening. Gilvier dived out of the way and Fa’red lost his footing and rolled away, groaning at the pain from his burns. A braying sound of triumph roared continuously.

Gilvier was later to swear he saw beings flee the dragon’s belly.

‘Here, engage it,’ Fa’red cried, tossing a torch to Gilvier.

‘Engage that? Are you mad? An army couldn’t engage it and hope to survive!’

‘Do it! Stay out of reach and chop at it. Keep it interested!’

‘It’s already interested, you magical dummart!’ Gilvier shouted back, but nevertheless he drew his sword and jabbed at the pads of one of the dragon’s feet.

A quick succession of metallic explosions erupted. Gilvier’s sword bounced from the dragon’s breast. He had more luck with shattering one of its blazing eyes, which died when he hammered it with the pommel of his sword.

Shattering glass exploded and from the paraworld Gilvier fancied he heard an army of demons howling their war cries. ‘We are lost, Fa’red. Close this hell hole now!’

Fa’red moved up beside the opening, crouched ready, then he pressed his tallow torch against the brilliant red flank of the dragon. Fa’red flung his torch into the shimmering halo surrounding the dragon.

The torch landed beside a leather pouch. Fa’red squared himself and spoke a minor snare word. A thin thread of blue glow lashed out and wrapped around the pouch just as flashing red and white lights blazed through the opening. The snare word snapped back with the pouch.

Fa’red collapsed the gateway and the titanic dragon fell to the ground, severed neatly where the gateway had collapsed. Gilvier was beneath it.

It took Fa’red’s guards and several neighbours to drag the wreckage off the caravan master. Had he not been lying in a hollow in the charred rubble he would have been crushed.

‘Dangerous things, those paraworld gateways,’ Gilvier panted as he stood back and regarded the mangled dragon that had so recently tried to devour him. A black fluid oozed from its innards. ‘A man could easily get himself killed.’

‘My thanks for your help,’ said Fa’red, clutching the pouch tightly.

Gilvier tentatively dabbed a bit of the black blood on his finger tip and sniffed. He hastily wiped it off onto a piece of charred wood. ‘So that was one of the lords of the closest paraworld?’

‘There are entire columns of them, seeking ingress into other paraworlds,’ Fa’red said. ‘I have witnessed them with my very eyes.’

Gilvier whistled in awe. He touched the scroll work just above the dragon’s front leg. The legend, Leyland 4 Wheel Drive, meant nothing to him.

They made their way back to the street and started out for Gilvier’s house. Fa’red opened the pouch as they walked and took out a little casket. From within this he took a dragonlink.

‘The Preceptor never knew that I had two of these,’ he said gloatingly as he walked.

‘Aye, well, what I want in payment is the dragon’s corpse – to be hung just inside the entrance hall of my house,’ Gilvier said as he brushed at the charcoal on his clothing.

At about noon the next day three riders arrived from the north, all cowled and their mounts at a canter. They stopped at the ruins of Fa’red’s house, where a dozen draymen were hauling an obscure object onto a log cart. The guards directed them on to where Fa’red was staying with Gilvier.

Fa’red was leaning out of an upstairs window as they arrived. He was still swathed in bandages.

‘Lost something, Preceptor?’ he asked, dangling his second dragonlink on a gold chain for the Preceptor to see.

The travel-weary Preceptor entered, flanked by a pair of plainly dressed men that Fa’red knew to be lindraks. After being met by Gilvier with all the usual greetings of welcome, the Preceptor lay down on a pile of large cushions and accepted a goblet of cellar-cool white wine.

The Preceptor explained that he had been ambushed by Daretor and Thull at the Icebreath Road fork. Fa’red listened sympathetically, standing beside the window and spinning the link on its chain. From time to time he arched what remained of his once-bushy eyebrows.

‘I had to be in Zarlea’s escort. The King commanded it!’ the Preceptor insisted.

‘We really must do something about that King,’ replied Fa’red. ‘This dragonlink led them to my mailshirt.’

‘They made a formidable team,’ said the Preceptor.

‘Oh I know. I lost the mailshirt, my house, my hair and quite a lot of skin. Fortunately I managed to regain this single link in the fight and they were forced to flee without it. At least I have a means of tracking them down.’

‘That link is mine,’ the Preceptor warned, his pale cheeks flushing red.

‘You lost it, Preceptor, I recovered it. It is mine.’

The Preceptor sat up straight on his cushions and gestured his two escorts forward.

‘There is not another deathmoon night due for some months, Fa’red, but my friends here are more than willing to discharge their deathmoon obligation in advance.’

‘Just as I am willing to speak your truename as I die. Would you like that, Preceptor?’

One of the lindraks twittered a question to the Preceptor, but he shook his head and motioned them back. Gilvier, who had been standing just behind Fa’red, felt sweat trickle down his ribcage. He relaxed a trifle.

‘What now?’ asked the Preceptor.

‘Now you will go to the governor’s palace,’ rumbled Fa’red. ‘On the night that my house burned, a smithy was torched as well. An auditor’s constable searching the ruins found two corpses, one of which was … not like us. Its decapitated head had strange, sharp teeth. There was also a gold medallion nearby that escaped the flames.’

The Preceptor pressed his lips tightly together. He stared at the weavework of the carpet.

‘Being a man of refined tastes, he made a reedbond paper rubbing of the trinket before handing it over to the auditor. I have a copy here. Would you like me to read it to you?’

The Preceptor shook his head. ‘I apologise. Only a king and a queen have ever had an apology from me before. Are you satisfied?’

‘No. I want you to go to the governor’s palace, fetch back that medallion and present it to me, formally, in front of the presiding magistrate.’

The Preceptor swallowed. ‘Agreed.’

‘Then I want rewards posted for the three youths that fled D’loom eight days ago with the mailshirt.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Now go.’

‘Folk have been tortured to death for even thinking about talking to the Preceptor like that,’ Gilvier said as they watched the Preceptor and his two lindraks ride away down the cobblestone street.

‘I’ve already endured torture because of his stupidity and ambition,’ Fa’red replied testily. ‘Tell me, Bradant, is there anyone who knows the trails of the Algon Mountains better than you?’

‘In all modesty, no.’

‘Would you be prepared to set off, alone, in pursuit of three thieves?’

Gilvier raised the sword that he was wearing a handspan clear of its scabbard, then let it drop.

‘I am a master of the mountain trails and a proven leader of men, Fa’red my friend. I am not a lindrak assassin, honed to be shot at by my King’s enemies.’

‘Even to become governor of D’loom and all Skelt lands to the north? Then again, since the death of Count Juram, there is also a vacant place among the nobility.’

Gilvier blinked. As Fa’red had judged, he too had his secret ambitions, ambitions that he had probably renounced by now. Fa’red had stared down the Preceptor himself, and the Preceptor had been flanked by a pair of lindraks. Then he had sent him away with orders for the governor of Skelt. If he could do that, he could probably make good this wild promise as well.

‘First tell me who I am up against.’

‘A serving wench at the Boar and Bottle saw Daretor leave the port during the fire that destroyed the smithy where Thull’s body was found. With him was a youth called Zimak Broagar, a local boy of about fourteen years who excels in kick-fist fighting and who carried messages between Thull and me. The third was a runaway Nerris -sian novice monk called Jaelin Halvet, who has been about D’loom for a sixmonth and worked as a scribe in the market. Daretor, you know of, and together they killed Thull.’

‘So what chance do I have if you insist that I travel alone?’

Fa’red held up his second dragonlink.

‘This will supply you with an inexhaustible army of warriors, all willing to die for you.’

‘What sort of warriors?’

‘Why the very beasts of the forests and the birds of the air, Gilvier. Will you go?’

Gilvier held out his hand and Fa’red tossed the dragon link and gold chain to him.

‘The fugitives have over a week’s start, but that is no matter. Stay here until the Preceptor returns. I’ll have him scribe up some papers that will get you across any border and excuse all but the most gross of crimes. When you are within a half-mile of them the link will glow, as will their mailshirt.’

‘And I am to return the mailshirt to you?’

‘No, you will go on to the great mountain city of Dremari in Passendof, and then to the Valley of Clouds in Baltoria. Harvest the dragonlinks that are in use there, and then return them all to me.’

‘You seem confident that these links are where you say they are.’

Fa’red’s cheeks ballooned into a smile. ‘Wherever there are miracles, Gilvier, rest assured the links hide behind them. The Valley of Clouds reeks of link magic.’

Chapter

10

It was some weeks before Jelindel, Zimak and Daretor reached the Chasmgyle Bridge, deep within the Algon Mountains. They began to cross, but stopped at the midpoint. They watched the waterfall and the torrent below. Fed by melting snows higher up in the Algon Mountains, the Marisa River was in flood.

Highlights from the ruddy sunset gleamed on the water as Daretor turned stiffly in his saddle and pulled out a bundle from his left saddlebag. It was heavy with an armourer’s hammer, tongs, chisels and files.

‘Ah, what are you doing with the armourer’s tools?’ asked Zimak.

‘Throwing them away,’ replied Daretor.

‘What? Are you possessed? They are very good tools, and worth many argents. We may need them.’

‘It is a matter of honour, I must throw them into the river. I’ll gather the scattered links of the mailshirt together, but I will never use the stolen skills of another warrior. I need no tools, for I’ll melt the mailshirt and loose links down to a single lump so that such a dishonourable crime can never happen again.’

‘But Daretor, the tools are innocent! If you want to reject them, sell them or give them to me.’

‘No, Zimak, this must be a sacrifice.’

‘Well sacrifice them to me – No!’

Daretor heaved the tools over the log railing, and they watched the sack dwindle to a speck and hit the raging brown torrent with a splash that blended into the turbulence in a moment. The warrior’s hand dropped to his axe, and he patted the head as though it were a faithful hound.

Jelindel dismounted and stood staring over the railing, awestruck. She had never been beyond D’loom in her short life, and even the mountains had been breathtaking for her. In D’loom the mountains had been a ragged line on the distant horizon, only visible on clear days.

‘That was so stupid; it was such a waste!’ Zimak ranted as he joined her at the railing.

‘Zimak.’

‘Yes?’ ‘This is the greatest thing that I have ever set eyes upon. Shut up, and don’t spoil it.’

The bridge was a quarter mile from a mighty waterfall that plunged more than a thousand feet into the gorge then poured past below in a muddy tumult. Mist from the falling water drifted through the sunlight, forming ever-changing rainbows, while the continuous rumble was like the breathing of some dragon bigger than the mountains themselves.

For once in his life Zimak was lost for words.

Jelindel had seen sketches and paintings of the famous gorge and waterfall, but nothing could have prepared her for the vertical torrent itself. It had been one thing to study maps and known world atlases, but it was quite another to be really standing there.

Daretor had been across the bridge once before, and was lost in thoughts that he did not voice.

‘Everything has been a wonder since leaving D’loom,’ said Jelindel. ‘Looking out across the cold, bleak beauty of Dragonfrost Plain, the estuary forests of the Marisa River with their floating villages, then the first of the Algon Mountains, and now this.’

‘I – I feel as though I want to take it with me,’ said Zimak.

‘A good look is all that we can take,’ Jelindel said wistfully. ‘Even the sketches that I have seen give no idea of what it’s like to stand here. Henceforth I shall use books only to point to things that I should see and do for myself, not as knowledge for its own sake.’

They remounted and rode across to the other side and were soon in among the mountains. Most of the traffic was in the opposite direction and consisted of refugees from the recent outbreak of fighting with rebels in the mountains of southern Passendof. Jelindel had been wearing the mailshirt as they rode, because she was the least proficient fighter of the three of them and so most in need of a mailshirt’s protection. She wore a sheepskin coat over the top of it.

Two hours past the Chasmgyle Bridge Jelindel noticed coppery light radiating from beneath the loosely laced sheepskin. She hurriedly drew the lacings tight to smother the glow from the mailshirt’s links.

‘It’s glowing,’ she announced nervously.

‘Already?’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘What incredible luck.’

‘Not luck,’ said Daretor. ‘I expected there to be someone else with a link hanging about near Fa’red, waiting for a chance to snatch the whole mailshirt. I was apparently right, and now he’s closing in.’

‘We could call them linkriders,’ suggested Jelindel.

‘What’s a linkrider?’ asked Zimak.

‘In refined chivalry, a lady who wears the chainmail link – the lenx – of a warrior going into battle is called a linkrider. Because she wears the link, she rides in spirit with the warrior: they are together through the link.’

‘Tch, chivalry’s boring,’ scoffed Zimak. ‘All that twaddle about adoring maidens from afar. If it was me I’d just give ’em one when I got close enough.’

Jelindel winced. ‘Be that as it may, linkrider seems a good name for those who wear the links from this mailshirt.’

‘An apt word,’ agreed Daretor.

‘They’ll have a master’s skills and some sort of weaponry,’ Zimak reminded them.

‘True. According to Thull, and verified by your own estimate of missing links, there are five warriors in search of this thing,’ said Daretor. ‘Five warriors who are almost certainly unfit to wear it or the rings that they hold.’

Zimak said nothing. He rose in his stirrups and scanned the rugged terrain.

‘Am I any better?’ Daretor asked Jelindel. ‘Why be invincible? To gain wealth? To gain power?’

‘You ask me?’ said Jelindel. ‘I’m sixteen, and a mere scribe.’

‘You’re a scholar.’

‘But not a philosopher. Nonetheless … perhaps the linkriders wish to use the mailshirt’s powers to solve problems best solved by one’s own efforts. Will you be unselfish in the use of its powers if you ever have them within your grasp?’

One of the many refugee families was ahead on the road, travelling towards the Baltorian border. A man and woman led a scrawny donkey that pulled a cart piled high with bundles. Three children trudged wearily behind it.

‘You proved your generosity by helping me,’ said Daretor. ‘It is time to put my own heart to the test.’ He took out the purse with Thull’s eleven gold coins and tossed it to the ragged father as they passed. ‘Buy a new life,’ Daretor called cheerily.

Moments later the family began calling incredulous thanks after the trio.

Zimak reined in sharply. ‘That money was to be shared equally among us!’ he said angrily. ‘I’ve a mind –’

‘Yes?’ Jelindel cut in. ‘If it’s so important to you, go back and take it from the refugees,’ she dared.

Zimak cursed silently. ‘One gold oriel is a hundred silver argents,’ he grated. ‘That’s 1100 silver argents to those beggars.’

‘Ex-beggars,’ amended Jelindel. As they rode on she drifted away to her own thoughts for a time.

Daretor also slumped into a pensive mood. Five links to go, five deadly duels – no, six duels, and the battle with temptations to wealth and power would be unceasing until they could destroy the complete mailshirt. For the present it was needed to draw the other links to itself, he reasoned. But when it was complete it could be melted down, sunk in the ocean’s deepest chasm, or pitched into the mouth of a live volcano, to be lost forever with its cargo of deadly skills.

‘The glow is fading,’ Jelindel reported, peering up the sleeve of the sheepskin coat.

‘Good, I’m not in the mood for a fight,’ grumbled Zimak. ‘I’ve got saddle sores. It’s hard to feel like a heroic warrior on a dangerous quest when you’ve got saddle sores.’

Try having saddle sores with Reculemoon in the wrong phase, Jaelin thought to herself, rubbing her abdomen.

‘We’ve crossed the gorge, so how far is this first Passendof town?’ Zimak asked.

‘Just ahead. We’ll reach it by noon tomorrow,’ said Jelindel, hoping that she was reading the map correctly.

‘Just as well,’ said Daretor. ‘Being on the open road with the mailshirt means being a target, even if it is concealed.’

They rode on in silence for a while, now more alert and nervous. Daretor’s bronzed face scowled while he thought. The mailshirt had begun to glow, then had faded. If they were approaching another warrior carrying a link, it would be glowing steadily brighter. The other had to be behind them and following at a cautious distance. They were definitely being stalked.

They kept guard all night, sleeping by turns, but although the mailshirt continued to flare up to a faint glow from time to time, nothing larger than mosquitoes attacked them. The mosquitoes put up a spirited attack, however, and even those who were not on guard did not sleep at all well. With the dawn they ate their breakfast of wild nuts, dried raisins and grainbread.

‘The village is about five hours’ ride from here,’ Jelindel said as she studied the map yet again.

‘I’m for staying there a few days,’ said Zimak. ‘I was damn near eaten alive by mosquitoes last night. Tch, look at this now, ants in the dried meat.’

‘It’s not the season for mosquitoes,’ Daretor commented. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time cutting wood in the mountains, and this is not the time of year for mosquitoes to bite.’

‘Wonderful, I’ll scribe them up a calendar,’ said Jelindel sleepily as she scratched at the swellings on her arm.

A hill thrush suddenly swooped, snatching a crust of bread out of Daretor’s fingers.

‘Damn!’ he snapped, and the other two laughed. Jelindel had been scratching in the dust with a twig. She picked up something and scraped at it with the blade of her knife. Pushing back the sheepskin’s sleeve, she compared what was in her fingers to the silvery links of the metal fabric.

‘What do you have there?’ asked Daretor.

‘It seems to be a link of mail dropped by someone in times past. It’s about one til in diameter, and fits within the links of this mailshirt quite neatly.’

‘I noticed that the mailshirt’s links were a bit larger than is usual,’ said Daretor. ‘Smaller links give greater density of metal and so more protection. Larger links mean that the mailshirt is completed more quickly, however. This one has larger links, but many are doubled at key places for extra protection.’

Jelindel undid the coat’s lacings and began counting the links across the middle of the mailshirt, and lengthways. She did likewise with the sleeves, then scratched some figures in the dust.

‘One hundred and twenty links around by seventy long, all doubled, makes nearly seventeen thousand links. The two arms are fifty links around and seventy long, that’s about seven thousand. As well, the shoulders and neck are doubled doubles, and there is the hem … perhaps another six thousand links. I estimate that thirty thousand links make up this mailshirt,’ she concluded. ‘The pattern is unflawed, except for one shoulder where five links of the doubled doubles are missing.’

‘Do you feel anything at all while wearing it?’ asked Zimak, as he had already done dozens of times over. ‘Any magical aura or somesuch?’

‘Yes, but just a very slight … well, it’s hard to describe. The feeling is very distinctive, but unlike any other. It’s a prickle and shiver all in one, perhaps.’

‘I’ve felt nothing, and neither has Daretor.’

‘Are you sure you have felt nothing, Daretor?’ Jelindel asked.

‘If every link robbed a warrior of his abilities, then many warriors must have suffered this past thousand years,’ growled Daretor, ignoring the question. ‘Innocent warriors robbed of their honestly gained skills. That thing is an abomination.’

‘It may have other properties,’ reasoned Jelindel. ‘It could be a force for good. You might be jumping to the wrong conclusions –’

‘No! It’s an affront to the honour of every warrior that ever lived. Only the most base of cowards would even think about wearing a link lost by some god and using its powers. It’s sacrilegious.’

Jelindel felt the tension in the air and nervously tried to defuse it. ‘A knight who dies by a peasant’s scythe dies in dishonour, but the scythe can still be used to harvest wheat.’

This caught Daretor off-guard. He ran his fingers through his hair, then sat forward with his hands clasped and his shoulders hunched.

‘Tell me then, what else can it do?’ he asked.

‘I do not know; I merely suggested that other uses might be possible.’

They ate and talked for a few more minutes. A hill thrush swooped on Zimak and pecked him hard on the crown of his head. He shouted out in surprise and flung a handful of gravel after the bird. Daretor watched with interest rather than mirth.

‘The bird that stole my crust before has just been sitting on a rock ever since, looking at us,’ Daretor point -ed out as Zimak sat rubbing his head. ‘It has not taken a single peck out of the crust. From my years as a woods-man I can also say that hill thrushes never attack people.’

‘But some other birds do,’ said Jelindel. ‘There were piebalds at home in the, ah, monastery garden. They were very aggressive at nesting time.’

‘Piebalds, weetels and chang-hoos all attack when humans or animals get too close to their nests, but never hill thrushes. Jaelin, look out!’

Jelindel ducked and threw her arms up as another hill thrush attacked. There were five birds perched on the rocks around them now, and others were circling.

‘Magic, perhaps,’ said Daretor.

‘There are some enchantments that control animals,’ Jelindel agreed. ‘We may be too near the place of power for some hermit mage. The mailshirt could be disturbing his magical auras. It does have a subtle presence.’

‘Time that we were going,’ advised Zimak.

They saddled up the horses and strapped on their packs but as Zimak tried to mount, his stallion suddenly reared and plunged, striking out with its hooves. As the three travellers backed away, the stallion herded the mare and gelding back down the trail and out of sight. Zimak began running after them.

‘Leave them! You can’t outrun horses,’ Daretor shouted.

Zimak shook his fist at the empty trail, then turned and came back to the campsite.

‘Something frightened them, something that only horses could sense,’ Daretor concluded.

‘Some enchantment, or a beast?’ asked Zimak.

‘I know most beasts of the mountains, and I definitely know all beasts that are big enough to frighten a horse,’ said Daretor. ‘I have seen no traces of them, so I can only say that an enchantment is to blame. The nearby linkrider may be a mage.’

They began walking to the next village, but their progress was slow. The trail was steep and rough, with many washaways slashing it and rockslides piled high to slow them.

Whenever they stopped to rest they were attacked by midges, horseflies, ants and birds. They did not reach the village until early evening.

Almeriy was a waystop village in the mountains. Terraced gardens on the nearby slopes provided vegetables, and alpine sheep and goats grazed wherever they could. No more than a few hundred people lived there, including two dozen archers and infantry attached to the customs fort. There were several inns, all brightly painted and decorated with carvings.

‘Ah, to sleep under a good, solid roof again,’ said Zimak. ‘It’s like being back in D’loom.’

‘But you slept under a canvas awning back in D’loom,’ Jelindel reminded him.

‘We need some rest from birds, ants and all else that has come to plague us today,’ Zimak said, ignoring her.

‘The mailshirt glows more brightly than ever before,’ said Daretor. ‘Whoever wears the link is growing more bold.’

Zimak considered for a moment. ‘Might we double back and ambush him?’ he suggested.

‘Out in the wilderness he would know us for who we are,’ Daretor replied. ‘In a village we would be three out of hundreds, yet we could watch the road to the village in comfort. We stay in Almeriy tonight.’

As they entered the village the dogs began barking and snarling, and an ancient parrot on a perch screeched and hurled abuse at them in several languages. They went into an inn named the Highland Dream, paid for rooms and ordered drinks. The people of the village were used to serving travellers, and most spoke Skeltian tolerably well.

‘The dogs are afeared of ye,’ said the vintner.

‘I prefer cats,’ Daretor replied laconically.

‘None o’ them ’round these parts,’ the vintner said. ‘The dogs ate ’em all.’ He chuckled and waddled off to fetch their order.

‘It explains the number of rats like him,’ said Zimak.

‘What is a weapon?’ asked Jelindel as they drank from their mugs and waited for the food to arrive.

‘What is a weapon?’ laughed Zimak. ‘What sort of a stupid question is that?’

‘So what is a weapon, then?’

‘Why, a knife, a sword, and, ah …’

‘They are weapons. What about a length of wood, or a rock? What about a warship: is it a weapon, or are the weapons the marines, the catapults and the bow-ram? Is the ship a weapon, or a platform of weapons?’

‘A weapon is what defeats your enemy,’ Daretor suggested, frowning with concentration.

‘Well then, what of the beautiful spy who seduces a general and learns the secrets that cause a war to be lost. Is she a weapon? What about a herd of elkenharts that are driven over the crops of an enemy, causing them to be starved into submission. Is the herd a weapon, too?’

‘The herd is like a stone or a length of wood,’ Zimak replied after considering more carefully. ‘They are not weapons as such, but they can be used as weapons. They require skill if they are to be used to proper effect, more skill than a sword I suppose.’

‘The links confer skills!’ Daretor exclaimed. ‘Skills to wield a sword or throw a knife … or to goad a hound into attacking your enemy!’

Each of them looked from one to the other, eyes shining with the revelation.

‘Ants, birds, flies and dogs,’ said Jelindel. ‘Magical training can teach the control of them, but only under certain laws. I have read that a swarm of ants or a flock of birds can be rallied because they move together by nature. Even a pack of dogs can be controlled as one, but not if their combined weight exceeds that of the mage.’

‘And once over that weight?’ asked Zimak.

‘Only one animal at a time. One mage may control one elephant, one lion, one elkenhart, or even one dragon. Birds … I have not read how it applies to birds.’

‘Then the link that is making the mailshirt glow now is one that confers the control of animals,’ Daretor concluded.

‘Hie! This will be easy,’ said Zimak, rubbing his hands together.

The food was plain but plentiful, and the fire was welcome after a day of walking in the cold mountain air. Daretor did not mind the cold, but Jelindel and Zimak had never known anything other than the subtropical heat of D’loom and were quite unhappy about it. Daretor paid two loafers in the taproom to keep a watch on the road for anyone arriving behind them, and they left the inn to take up their positions.

When Daretor tried going outside, the village dogs went into a frenzy of barking and he quickly returned to the inn.

‘The linkrider is controlling those dogs from beyond the village,’ Daretor said sullenly, swatting at a mosquito.

‘He has to sleep sometime,’ said Zimak. ‘Perhaps then we can get some rest.’

‘That’s when we should attack him!’ said Daretor fiercely. ‘He is using stolen skills and deserves to die.’

‘Whatever, but we shall need a room for when we sleep,’ Zimak suggested. ‘I’ll get one.’

‘I want a separate room,’ insisted Jelindel.

‘What? That’s a high price to pay for vows of modesty,’ snapped Zimak.

‘Both of you snore,’ sneered Jelindel. ‘It’s been hard enough to sleep already, out on the trail. If I can’t get distance from you two I’ll not sleep at all.’

‘No! There are four bedframes in each room, and besides, we’re better protected if we’re together.’

Jelindel stayed in the taproom when Daretor and Zimak went up to their room. The last of the drinkers finally left and the fire died down slowly. She gazed into the coals as she lay on one of the benches. She missed books, whether they were in the temple library, her father’s library, or the stalls of the marketplace. Because she had initially been discouraged from studying formally, unlike her brothers she had learned to memorise whatever she read that seemed interesting or important.

She had rarely experimented with magic, even though she had read most of the major texts and quite a few of the minor ones as well.

Dour, bad-tempered old Surreanten, her father’s house spellcaster, had regularly checked the rooms for traces of enchantment. Her brothers had been caned several times for charm-casting experiments, but for Jelindel the punishment would have been exile from the library.

The untutored use of magic was dangerous. The life-force of one’s body was what powered the threads of unreality woven through the real world, and those threads had an enormous capacity to channel life-force. Her eldest brother once told her of a boy at the collegium who learned some words of enchantment and how to poise them, then spoke one to bind a dog in the cloisters. He had spoken it too loud and with an inflexion that made the coils far too powerful.

The dog had been crushed by the blue coils and died instantly, but the coils still gripped its body as tightly as ever. The boy had collapsed, and did not survive a single hour. As he died the coils released the body of the dog, and although a mage tried to revive the boy as the life-force returned to glow about his body, the shock had been too great.

Without magic, they were at the mercy of all the char-mvendors and mages who might be in their path, yet nobody would be willing to teach it to any of them. Annoyance flared in Jelindel: she would try anyway. Better to die fighting than cowering.

Almost without thinking, Jelindel began the breathing exercises to enhance focus: in – count three, hold – count three, out – count three, hold – count three. After twenty cycles she stood up, crossed her hands over her collarbone and pushed out, left against right. There was a subtle, warm, charged feeling just below her ribs.

She sat down on the bench again. There was a risk of novices fainting during their early experiments. What word to invoke? she wondered. Fearfully she closed her eyes.

‘Oculesquri,’ she said softly but distinctly.

Surreanten had used that word to check the rooms of the mansion for charms and enchantments.

Nothing happened. She tried again with different intonations and emphasis. Still nothing. Several more attempts did no better. She grew annoyed and she spoke the word loudly and with vehemence, phrasing the last four letters as a single syllable.

Jelindel seemed to burst into nothingness, inconceivably remote nothingness. Stars gleamed brightly in the inky blackness. She groped for control, but grasped nothing. Through the icy terror that seized her, she thought, so this is what it is like to practise alone.

The simple survey spell had separated her vision and control of her limbs from the rest of her body. Some frantic experiments quickly established that she could still speak and hear on her own plane. She could call for help, she realised with relief, but who could help? Her body would not starve, as long as people fed her, but that was hardly a comfort.

The control that was lost to her limbs seemed to now allow her to move about in this unsettlingly strange para-plane. Her eyes let her see to move, while her sense of touch was redirected there as well. Jelindel tried to calm herself; panic will not save me, she said to herself over and over. In one direction the space around her was somehow slightly more viscous. Using incorporeal limbs she grasped at the resistance, then moved towards it. Her speed increased, then a shape began to resolve itself, a shape as big as the world, yet the shape of – a mailshirt!

Jelindel was at once reassured. The mailshirt really did have properties other than those involving weapons. A war galley made a bow wave as it glided through the water, and dolphins were known to ride the bow waves of ships. The warship was built for fighting, not for the pleasure of dolphins, yet that did not matter to a dolphin. It was a good analogy, she thought. The mailshirt provided a reference for her, the wearer. Just as dolphins rode bow waves, perhaps she could ‘ride’ the aura of the mailshirt. That might not be the mailshirt’s real purpose, but she did not care.

Jelindel moved forward again, and gradually closed with the mailshirt.

The taproom solidified around her, and all was normal again. The glow from the hearth was dimmer, and she estimated that a quarter hour had passed. Anyone else would have thanked everything sacred that they were still alive and left it at that, but Jelindel was very persistent. She repeated the word more softly, and again fell into the star-studded void, and then struggled back from the blackness.

Within the following hour she spoke the word thirty-five times and crawled back to the beacon of the mailshirt. It was as exhausting as a heavy afternoon of sparring with Zimak, but sheer excitement drove her on. At her thirty-sixth attempt she had the tone and inflexion balanced against the strength. Now Jelindel did not plunge very far, yet it seemed as if she were flying above a very strange landscape while other beings flew nearby. They were thin figures like people, yet with dragonfly wings. They cried out when she came near, then shouted questions and strings of what might have been names.

As she flew lower the lights on the ground resolved themselves into things like villages lit by moon-lantern globes and small open forges. Something of her passing was noticed by those below.

Tiny things like children scurried away. What might have been elders or warriors threw streamers of light and blazing globes of flame into the air, while others shouted names at the sky. Nothing had any effect upon her.

She passed over darkened forests of black streamers, and above craggy peaks of what seemed to be a lacework of interlocking spirals. One serrated outcrop unfolded into something huge and winged. The dim outline of what might have been a dragon lumbered majestically into the air, flinging streamers of fire from its translucent, billowing wings as it fled among the mountains. Hanging above the peaks, Jelindel realised that she could travel up, down and sideways, but also … through. ‘Through’ was not quite the word that described what she did, but it was the only word that came close to what she found herself doing. She moved closer to the beacon of the mailshirt, yet not quite all the way between planes.

She had read that there were weak points between worlds and planes, weak points that moved. Now she had proof of them. Unknown to Jelindel, a mage stood guard on the balcony of a tower in Hez’ar, then moved through. Jelindel saw only an oval with great streamers for wings, a large bird of light and shadow that flew through this para-plane where enchantment held a much stronger sway. She watched it fly, trailing it at a distance yet noticing that it was flying evasively. Obviously it saw her, too.

Again the mage passed through. Unseen by Jelindel because he was back on the normal plane, he stepped onto the roof of a temple on the same city, but this time as a man. A priestess was waiting there for him. They cowered in each other’s arms for a moment as he told her about a presence that had followed him, then they ran for cover.

Jelindel moved through and emerged closer to the mountains where she was staying, and closer to the mailshirt. Distance did not mean the same thing here. Distance was based on associations of magical domains and influences rather than physical separation, she concluded as she explored.

Again she spoke a word, a variation on the one that was her present essence. The space around her blazed up into pinpoints of enchantment. She approached one bright light that seemed closest to her. The light was a view through to her plane, and she could see the interior of a darkened room from a perspective very close to the floor. There was moonlight filtering through the shutters of a window.

She could see very well, and her head was moving rapidly as it scanned a bed that towered above her. She recognised the weapons that Zimak and Daretor carried. Her host was in the same room as them. The view was through the eyes of a rat, she surmised, yet its movements were purposeful and bold, not at all like those of a common rat. She could hear nothing but the drip of a leaking stopcock back in the taproom.

Her host began to climb the bedpost, and was suddenly confronted by a foot as big as itself protruding from the blankets. It raised its head to bite.

There was a shriek from upstairs and Jelindel returned to her body and opened her eyes at once. The voice had been Zimak’s, and he now followed up with curses in Skeltian, Baltorian and Hamarian interspersed with a lot of thumping and crashing. Zimak’s skill as a linguist was confined to picking up curses in other tongues, Jelindel thought as she smiled to herself.

Now Jelindel heard the landlord banging on a door and demanding to know what was going on. There was a heated exchange about rats, refunds, and travellers bearing curses, then the tavern became quiet again.

Jelindel sat back in wonder, stunned at her own success. She had been able to use a seeing word to merge with the eyes of a rat. A rat that was under some manner of enchantment, no less. The linkrider just had to be involved. Did the link confer the senses of an animal on a user? It made sense. One had to see what was in front of the animal to direct it, just as one needed to see one’s hand in order to write properly.

As she thought about what she had just achieved Jelindel fed a couple more cuts of alpine ashwood to the coals. She stretched out on the bench again.

She tried the seeing words several more times, but the other sparkles of light were opaque: they were all spells that did not involve vision. They were probably door spells, love potions and minor medical enchantments, nothing that an Adept 3 charmvendor could not manage. The late Fa’red had been an Adept 12 and the more recently late Thull had been ranked Adept 11. Jelindel knew that she would be struggling to rate Adept 1 … yet she had been able to use the seeing word without undue trouble. The mailshirt was her secret: without it she would still be detached in unthinkably remote realms while her body lay dying.

Jelindel finally caught an image from another rat, or perhaps a mouse. It was on a bedpost, trying to see the face of a head lying on a pillow. It was not in the room that Daretor and Zimak were occupying.

Perhaps the linkrider was searching for her, checking all the other rooms upstairs. He would be in for a long and futile search, she thought with satisfaction. Jelindel began to cast about to find the linkrider who was using the eyes of the rodent, but he was either too far away or very well cloaked.

Returning to her own plane, she swung her legs to the floor and sat up, staring at the glowing coals in the grate. It was extremely quiet. Small towns were not like cities and there were no belltowers or criers to mark the passing of the night. There were not even singing drunks weaving their way home. Small towns closed early for the night and their people slept soundly.

Jelindel stood up, then reeled with giddiness and quickly sat down again. The explorations in the paraplane had drained her more than she had realised. Again she stood up, but very slowly, and this time she shuffled to a window and pushed the shutters open.

The alpine air was sharp, cool and fresh, and all three moons were in the cloudless sky. For many lingering minutes she stood there, feeling her body grow strong again. All the while the thought played through her mind that she had mastered the use of several dangerous words. Oddly enough, there were certain common features of intonation and emphasis, consonants on indrawn breaths and such. Perhaps they were common across other words as well.

Thull had spoken the binding word loudly when panicked into snaring Zimak in the loft, and Jelindel remembered it well. With a foolishness that could only have been born of enthusiasm, Jelindel began searching for a target. One of the hunting dogs that had barked at them when they arrived loped into view across the street.

‘Vec-takine!’

The dog collapsed with a yelp, ensnared in blue coils. Jelindel collapsed, too, as limp as a rag doll. She had either done something wrong, or done it too well. Each breath was a victory, and opening her eyes was out of the question. Nearly all of her life-force had poured out into the coils that now held the dog lying in the street.

After perhaps ten minutes, and with a great effort, she managed to turn herself over.

Daretor came creeping across the floor as she opened her eyes. ‘Jaelin!’ he gasped. ‘What’s wrong? Were you attacked?’

‘All right, I’m all right,’ she slurred, embarrassed by her ill-considered experiment. ‘Just … exhausted.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Just need sleep.’

‘Jaelin, I must have the mailshirt for an hour.’

‘Take it.’

Jelindel was aware of Daretor removing the sheepskin, then the glowing mailshirt. If he takes off the quilting beneath he’ll really get a surprise, she thought, but the warrior just draped the sheepskin over her and left. Jelindel’s mind collapsed into the sound, pitch-black, dreamless sleep of someone recovering from a long fever.

Jelindel was jolted awake by distant barking and a clashing of blades. The room spun in the glow from the coals as she sat up, but now she was at least able to pull herself to her feet with the aid of a table. She drew on the sheepskin.

Zimak came clattering down the stairs, pulling on his tunic. ‘Jaelin, where are you?’ he was calling. ‘Daretor’s gone!’

‘Over here,’ Jelindel croaked as loudly as she could.

‘What are you doing down here? Your bed’s not even slept in.’

‘I – I was doing a dangerous meditational experiment,’ she said, her voice still slurring. ‘I’m very tired.’

‘Gah – look, stay here out of the way, then. I have to find Daretor.’

Jelindel managed to stand up and shamble after him as far as the door of the inn.

Out in the street there was a pack of mongrel dogs attacking someone near the stables. The big hunting dog still lay where her blue coils had pinioned it, but several men were gathered around the distraught dog now, unsure of what to do.

‘Daretor!’ Zimak shouted, drawing his knife and running to the aid of the man at the centre of the mongrel pack.

As Jelindel watched, Daretor killed one dog with his axe while Zimak kicked and slashed at the others. The survivors kept coming back as fiercely as ever. Jelindel had seen mongrels like them back in the D’loom marketplace, but they never fought with such aggression unless cornered and desperate. The linkrider! They were pack animals, and he was controlling them as a pack.

It had been barely a minute since the first bark, yet nearly everyone in the entire village was out on the street now.

Gradually the mongrels’ owners managed to seize them and drag them away. Several men began arguing with Daretor and Zimak about the dead dogs, while more of a crowd gathered around the hound still bound with coils of glowing blue.

Very soon Daretor and Zimak found themselves facing several dozen angry men holding torches and weapons and shouting at them to leave at once.

Daretor and Zimak returned to the inn to retrieve their rollpacks, and as Jelindel tried to get a better look at the dog she had immobilised the coils suddenly flowed into a single sphere of blue light, then streaked across her face and vanished into her nostrils. Strength flowed back into her like a warm drink down her throat.

‘Another of ’em!’ exclaimed a burly man holding a scythe.

‘Git aht, wi’ ye!’ shouted an elderly veteran as he waved a pike at her.

Jelindel and Zimak counted themselves lucky to have escaped with what they had carried into the village. Daretor suggested that the villagers had probably been frightened of enchantments left to protect their rollpacks.

After walking for an hour or so in the moonlight they stopped and made a small fire amid a scattering of boulders beside the trail. As they huddled around the crackling brushwood Daretor explained what he had done.

‘After Zimak was bitten by the rat I guessed that the linkrider would probably sleep soon. We had been under attack all the previous night, so he was sure to be tired. I stole out of the tavern after taking the mailshirt from Jaelin, and I used it to track the linkrider down. Whenever it faded a little I turned in the other direction until the glow grew bright again. That way I tracked him to the stables.’

‘The stables!’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘That’s the last place I would stay.’

‘And that’s why he went there. The unchivalrous thief of warriors’ skills was sleeping in the hay as I approached, but was completely buried so I could not get a good aim with my axe. Perhaps I should have just plunged my axe into the pile of hay.’

‘You should have,’ said Zimak.

‘Gah, even if he was not honourable, I must maintain my own honour. I began flinging the hay aside in the near-darkness, and he awoke before I could pin him down. We struggled for some moments in the hayloft. He was a strong one and my sword-wound still pains me after all these months. Still, I managed to knock him almost senseless, but as I tried to wrench the link from his finger he twisted away and fell from the loft to the cobblestones below. I swung down after him as he tried to limp off, but by the time I had reached him he had summoned that pack of dogs. You know the rest.’

‘The glow has gone from the mailshirt,’ Jelindel pointed out. ‘He must be back at the village still.’

‘Then we should get some sleep,’ concluded Zimak.

‘Tomorrow we’ll travel very slowly,’ said Daretor. ‘He needs a chance to catch up.’

‘Catch up? After what just happened?’

‘We are hunting him just as surely as he is hunting us,’ said Daretor firmly. ‘So far he has taken a far worse beating.’

‘But he has every bloody animal in the mountains at his disposal!’ exclaimed Zimak.

‘But only according to the rules of enchantment that govern his dragonlink,’ Jelindel cut in.

‘What would you know about enchantment? You nearly killed yourself tying up a single dog with those blue coils. You’re not even trained as an Adept 1.’

‘Jaelin tells me that you fight very well with knives and the Siluvian kick-fist method, Zimak,’ Daretor cut in, ‘yet you do not wear a black headband, or indeed any colour headband. Have you had formal training?’

Zimak folded his arms and stared sullenly at the glowing embers for some moments.

‘I used to run errands for an old Siluvian black-band master who was living in exile in D’loom. He saw that I had aptitude, and he taught me for four years before he died.’

‘For free?’ asked Daretor in surprise.

‘No, in return for dangerous errands. I could not wear the coloured headbands, lest I betray his presence in the port. Enough of this!’ he said moodily. ‘We’re awake and bickering while we have a good chance to sleep.’

Jelindel put the mailshirt on again and lay down with a sleeve exposed near her face. Reculemoon was close to the zenith as she closed her eyes, and Zimak was already snoring.

She awoke sometime later with the woven links of mail glowing brightly.

Her first thought was to wake the others, but Zimak’s sarcasm was still fresh in her ears. The linkrider might be lame, but he could easily ride a horse in the moonlight. Now he was close, but how close, and doing what?

‘Oculesquri,’ she whispered after doing her breathing exercises.

She closed her eyes and moved her vision into the paraplane. There was only one domain of enchantment nearby, although she could feel the dull bulk of the link somewhere further out. Moving into the enchantment, she could immediately see through the eyes of something in motion. It flowed evenly over the ground and saw a landscape of sharply defined monochrome. The movement was smooth yet rhythmic, as if to the beating of wings, heading straight to a narrow gorge as if it could fly. The linkrider had sent a bat after them, Jelindel concluded. It was flying low towards their windbreak of boulders between the trail and the gorge.

Jelindel returned to herself, felt for her staff and got to her knees, ready to strike the bat down as soon as it flapped into sight.

A dusky white streak hurtled over the nearest boulder as Jelindel lashed out with her staff. The snow lion had been pouncing for Daretor, but it twisted in mid-air as Jelindel’s staff caught it and it crashed down on Zimak instead.

Chapter

11

Daretor was upon the snow lion in a moment, dragging its head back with a locked forearm while its claws slashed rock, bedding and air.

Lions are far more powerful than any human, and a moment later the huge cat had twisted free. It stood back for a moment, taking in Zimak’s body, Jelindel standing ready with her staff, and Daretor crouched and ready – hands empty. As it sprang for Daretor he rolled aside, snatched up his axe and chopped hard across its face – too low!

The snow lion crashed into him, legs flailing, and again Daretor rolled away still holding his axe. For a few moments the snow lion staggered, gurgling and coughing, then it collapsed, dying through loss of blood. Daretor’s swing had missed its head but slashed its throat.

The badly winded Zimak soon revived, and Jelindel’s probing fingers revealed that he had a broken rib. Daretor was still shivering with shock as Jelindel cleaned and sewed up two ugly but shallow gashes in his arms by the light of the newly stoked fire and the moons.

‘It was leaping for me, yet you were awake to strike at it,’ Daretor said to her in amazement. ‘Are your senses so very keen?’

‘I saw through its own eyes as it approached.’

‘You – you what?’

‘Like Zimak, I have no formal training, yet in the arts of enchantment I have learned a few tricks. I probably rate middling well as an Adept.’

‘Well why didn’t you warn us?’ demanded Zimak.

‘I didn’t think you would pay me any heed!’ she snapped back. ‘You were hardly encouraging to me.’

Daretor sat thinking as they argued with each other, and at last he spoke.

‘Zimak, I think you are badly wounded and cannot walk.’

‘Oh no, I’m in a little pain but I can –’

‘Just shut up and listen! Pretend that you are badly wounded, understand? Now Jaelin, can you really tell when the accursed thief of a linkrider is watching us through some animal’s eyes?’

‘Well yes, but I need to be in a type of trance.’

‘Good, do it now. I’ll begin digging while Zimak strips off his clothes.’

‘What? My clothes? That’s too much. It’s not just cold here, it’s bloody freezing and –’

‘Do it, Zimak! We must be clever or we’ll be dead! Jaelin, take off the mailshirt, I must bury it.’

‘Bury it? Daretor, I can manage to get into the right trance by myself, but I need the mailshirt to get back to my own body. It acts as a sort of beacon.’

‘Damnation! Damn Black Quell and damn his arse! Can you … Look, what can you do without the mailshirt?’

‘Nothing. My vision and control remain separated from my body – except for hearing and speech. If nobody looked after me I would soon waste away and die.’

‘Damn.’

They sat in silence, all three looking at the dead snow lion. Zimak threw some more brushwood onto the fire’s coals and flames blazed up cheerily.

‘Would you need to bury the mailshirt for long?’ Jelindel asked.

‘I – I can’t say,’ replied Daretor. ‘Three hours, perhaps a whole morning or even a day. Why do you ask?’

‘Because there may be a way. I’ll need a lot of faith in whatever you have planned, though.’

The sky was already brightening with dawn when the linkrider sent a lark over to spy on them.

Zimak was lying on a stretcher made from bedrolls and their staffs, and Jelindel was curled up beside the fire, patrolling a paraplane for the glow of enchantment points. Because it was the countryside, there were very few. Suddenly one blazed up, not far away, but quite high in the air.

‘He’s back,’ Jelindel said in a voice flat from her trance. ‘He must have needed some sleep, but now he is riding a bird high above us. Through the bird’s eyes I can see Daretor scraping a hole in the soil.’

‘Good, now tell me what it sees,’ said Daretor.

‘You are picking up the glowing mailshirt, putting it into a bag, and dropping it into the hole. The bird is circling and dropping lower. He’s definitely interested. Now you are trying to move a boulder. Are you sure it’s not too heavy?’

‘Just tell me what he sees.’

‘You’re rolling the boulder over the hole. Now he’s looking at Zimak’s body.’

‘I’m done; we’ll go now,’ said Daretor.

The sun was clear of the horizon as they set off with Zimak and Jelindel lying as limp forms on an improvised stretcher that Daretor dragged along the road. Once they were well clear of the campsite, Jelindel told Daretor to stop. Her perspective was still from high above, for the linkrider was still watching them by means of a bird overhead.

‘Put a waterskin to my lips, please,’ said Jelindel.

Daretor made a show of tending her, and the linkrider abruptly lost interest in them and broke off. The bird flew back to their campsite, first flying in low to check that all was clear, and that there were no traps.

Through the bird’s eyes Jelindel now saw the linkrider for the first time. He was a tall, gangly man riding a grey mare and leading their three fugitive horses. He dismounted. Leaning on a staff he limped in among the boulders, carrying what looked like a makeshift hoe.

Daretor had chosen the campsite well, for the ground was a triangle with a deep gorge on two sides and the road on the other. Defending the place would have been easy had humans been the attackers, but the snow lion had been able to jump across the deep, narrow gorge.

The bird flew up, watching the scene from above. The linkrider limped over to where the mailshirt was buried, stopped, and kicked the boulder. He bent down and heaved at it, but he was not as strong as Daretor and it did not budge. He began digging with his hoe.

Jelindel saw Zimak dart out from among the rocks behind the linkrider and snatch up his staff. The man whirled about and drew his sword. Zimak caught the blade with the staff, pushed it to one side and lashed a back-step kick into the linkrider’s ribs.

The bird dived, fluttering about Zimak’s head as the linkrider wrenched his blade free of Zimak’s staff and threw an overhand swing at the youth’s head.

In spite of the bird fluttering in his face Zimak swung his staff one-handed to clout the linkrider across the temple, then drew it back and thrust its end into his sternum.

Abruptly there was a change in perspective, and the view changed to high overhead again. Jelindel could see the linkrider staggering back, outclassed even though his smaller opponent was naked and armed only with a staff.

Zimak padded after him over the sharp rocks and freezing ground. Jelindel now realised that the second bird was an eagle. It was diving, confident and arrowswift, straight for Zimak. It struck, tearing at his ear and shoulder with great sharp talons.

Zimak swung at it, missed, dodged a thrust from the linkrider’s sword and brought the staff around in an overhead swing to clout the linkrider over the head again.

The eagle returned to slash Zimak’s scalp with its talons, flapping in his face and screeching. It seized his staff as he thrust at it through blood-blinded eyes, hanging on like a leech as Zimak pounded at it with one hand.

The linkrider chopped overhand but Zimak dodged behind the staff rather than moving it and the blade severed the eagle’s head and stuck in the wood for an instant. For a moment everything went blank for Jelindel.

Another eagle overhead gave Jelindel its view as it too dived. The linkrider had dropped his sword and Zimak was advancing on him with a shower of kicks from his bloody feet. The eagle must have screeched as it dived, for Zimak turned.

The linkrider drew a knife and flung it, hitting Zimak in the forearm. The man had only one moment of triumph, for in his jubilation he had not realised how perilously close he had strayed to the edge of the ravine. He lost his footing, flung his arms up to balance, then slowly toppled over the edge.

The eagle wheeled and flew to the linkrider who seized its legs as he toppled. An eagle can support the weight of a lamb, but not a fully grown human. Jelindel saw the side of the precipice hurtling past, faster and faster, then her view was obliterated.

‘Well, has the linkrider arrived yet?’ Jelindel heard Daretor ask. His words came from beyond the void where she now floated.

‘The linkrider’s dead,’ she said in monotone.

‘What? Why didn’t you tell me when he first attacked?’

‘Zimak’s wounded. Go back and help him, then bring the mailshirt to me.’

‘Damn that; we stay together,’ Daretor replied.

He began jogging along the road, dragging the stretcher behind him. Without the mailshirt Jelindel floated in blackness, hearing the scraping of the poles on the ground and Daretor’s footsteps, but unable to return her perspective to her body.

The mailshirt was a dull lump of solidity in the distance, and the link of the dead linkrider was a speck nearby. There was nothing else to see, nothing familiar to touch. It was like trying to catch smoke.

Jelindel noticed the mailshirt move a little. Hampered by his wound, Zimak was probably slowly digging it up. Soon he would bring it to her and drape it over her body. It was to this reference point that she would return. Without such a beacon she was lost and she knew with dread how easily she could become trapped within this enchanted paraplane.

Enchanted! Jelindel suddenly had a new thought.

She spoke the word of binding for her own lips, using the softest, weakest intonation that she could. At once a point of light flared before her senses. She moved back towards herself, using the aura of the coils binding her own lips as a reference. She opened her eyes!

Now awake and within her body, the relief was so great it was almost painful. The mid-morning air was cool around her, the sun was warm, the stretcher was bouncing all over the place and the reek of Daretor’s perspiration was very strong.

Experimentally, Jelindel lifted her hand before her face, then slumped down limp on the stretcher. But at least the binding on her lips was fading.

‘The mailshirt – I’ve dug it out,’ Zimak called in the distance.

‘Bring it here, quickly,’ Daretor called back as he approached.

Jelindel sat up as soon as the mailshirt was in contact with her. The risk of what might be discovered if someone else tried to get the mailshirt onto her was too great to contemplate.

‘I’m back,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

Zimak cheered as he wrapped a trail cloak about himself, then he and Daretor threw their arms around each other.

‘We got the bastard; we got one!’ Daretor shouted in triumph. ‘Honour has prevailed.’

Jelindel stood up shakily and they both hugged her as well.

‘Tch, don’t we make a good team!’ said Zimak. ‘My skill, Jaelin’s magic and Daretor’s brawn.’

Daretor suddenly broke away and stamped to the edge of the ravine. Peering down, he spat at the body of the linkrider far below.

‘I once had skills that I’d gained honourably,’ he shouted furiously into the echoing gap, ‘but one such as you robbed me of them!’

Zimak stood regretting his words while Jelindel shook the mailshirt on over her head again. Some instinct warned her not to mention that the mailshirt had not been needed for her to return to herself. This way she had a good excuse to wear the mailshirt most of the time, and she was anxious to discreetly explore its properties.

Jelindel now went to the edge and looked down. She saw the smashed bodies of the linkrider and eagle on an outcropping several hundred feet below.

‘All our ropes together could not reach that far,’ said Daretor.

‘The skin is flayed from my feet by those rocks, and my arm stopped his knife,’ said Zimak, unprompted.

‘I fought off a lion last night,’ Daretor added. Then they both turned to Jelindel.

‘Me? Go down there?’ bleated Jelindel. ‘I’ve been hours exploring a paraplane. I’m exhausted. Do you think it’s easy for me, floundering about in all that sparkle and nothingness?’

They both continued to stare at her.

‘All right, then, I’ll go,’ she said finally, bending over to shake off the heavy mailshirt.

Jelindel slowly edged her way obliquely towards the linkrider’s body. She had had to walk a mile along the edge of the ravine until she could find a shallower incline. Daretor went part of the way with her, but most of the seven-hour approach had to be made alone. Zimak’s encouragement echoed from hundreds of feet above.

The linkrider’s body had been smashed into a madly contorted shape by the hard, jagged rocks, and feathers from the dead eagle were scattered all around. Blood that had trickled from the linkrider’s mouth was now dry and black, and flies buzzed about lethargically in the cold, thin air. He was wearing the link on the outer finger of his right hand, which was still wrapped around the legs of the eagle. He had been a man in his forties, and his well tanned and lined face suggested a lifetime spent mostly outdoors.

Jelindel made several attempts to touch the dead skin. Help was far away, and she could not be sure that he would not somehow come back to life.

When she finally did touch the linkrider’s hand, annoyance soon replaced revulsion. His death-grip was as firm as a smithy’s vice, and she had to work the finger free with her knife. The link came off easily after that, and she tied it to her belt with a piece of thonging. The revulsion returned when she began to search his body for anything else of value.

Jelindel cut through the body’s robes rather than trying to remove them. There was a purse which she untied and tossed aside, but she found nothing else in the way of crests or papers to identify the linkrider. He had been handsome before falling three hundred feet onto the rocks, and was dressed well and stylishly as a lay pilgrim. His belt seemed to be of soft kid leather, but was wide and thick – too thick. She drew the point of her knife along it and peeled the leather back to reveal a calf leather spine and several strips of folded parchment.

The writing was in Hamarian, but the style of the script was more like that of Hamatriol or Gratz. Jelindel began to read, and did not notice the time passing until Zimak began calling again.

‘Jaelin, are you all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you get the link?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he have any money?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Didn’t count it.’

‘Jaelin, what the frickash are you doing down there?’

‘Reading.’

There was a long silence.

‘Well, the bloody library is going to close in half an hour when the sun sets,’ Zimak eventually shouted. ‘Start back now or you’ll be doing the climb by Blanchemoon’s light and with frost on the rocks.’

She started back, taking the purse and parchments but leaving the linkrider’s body where it had fallen. The path was now more familiar, but sunset soon removed that advantage. Jelindel was drained of energy by her hours in the paraplane, and searching the linkrider’s body had been a harrowing experience. She stumbled continually, cutting her hands every time she fell against rocks made sharp by frost shatter.

Zimak walked along a path above, keeping her distant company.

The link was glowing brightly from the mailshirt that Zimak carried, and the orange glow helped to cast light on handholds shadowed by Blanchemoon.

At last Jelindel reached a place where the top was only sixty feet away and Zimak called for her to stop: Daretor had found their horses nearby, where the linkrider had tied them. Now he was splicing together a length of rope.

Jelindel spent an hour in cold but welcome rest on the rocks. Finally Daretor lowered the end of his rope to Jelindel, who tied it beneath her arms and allowed herself to be raised by one of the horses.

Zimak had a brushwood fire going by the time she came over the final ledge. She gladly huddled up close to the flames.

‘Well, what did you get?’ asked Zimak.

‘The link, as you see, and some fascinating parchments –’

‘You said he had money.’

‘Ah yes. I’ve not opened the purse yet.’

‘What? You’re mad! Give it here.’

As Jelindel handed the heavy purse to Zimak she thought she felt something squirm within the soft leather. But her hands were numb and lacerated from the long climb back and her mind was as chilled and lethargic as her body.

Zimak fumbled with the drawstrings. There were coins in the purse, so it could not squirm unless –

‘Zimak! Drop that!’ Jelindel screamed as he loosed the drawstrings.

‘What? You’ll get your share –’

She spoke a word of binding and blue coils flashed from her mouth to bind Zimak’s hands about the purse. They also bound a long, reptilian head and neck covered in fur, whose needle-sharp fangs hovered just above Zimak’s fingers.

Jelindel collapsed, a large portion of her already depleted life-force having poured into the coils.

‘Jaelin, what the hell is that?’ bellowed Zimak, frantically trying to pull his hands free.

Daretor came running over, and held Zimak down while he peered at the strange animal.

‘A jh’arat, a Lycellian snake-mouse,’ he declared. ‘Warm blooded but venomous and quite intelligent. They are left in purses by some folk to make sure that no thief does any thievery. Death is within minutes.’

‘Get it away from me.’

‘Jaelin saved your life with his coils, but he also bound the jh’arat to you for many hours to come.’

‘Hours? I can’t stay like this for hours. What happens when the coils vanish?’

‘We’ll make sure the jh’arat is dead by then. There’s a meltwater stream back yonder. We can drown it for you.’

Jelindel dozed by the fire while they were gone, and by the time she woke it had become no more than dying coals. The return of her life-force was what had jolted her awake. She sat up and stoked the fire, sending a cloud of red sparks up into the cold night air.

Footsteps were crunching towards her in the distance, and Daretor and Zimak soon came into sight. Zimak was rubbing his hands together, while Daretor was holding a purse in one hand and something that looked like a yard of thin cord in the other.

While Zimak warmed his completely numb hands in warm ashes and sand, Daretor and Jelindel examined the jh’arat. It had scales on its belly, but very fine fur elsewhere.

‘Had I opened this on the cliff face, it might have bitten me before I could speak a word of binding,’ said Jelindel.

‘So?’ Zimak said tersely.

‘So too much interest in money might have killed me, as it nearly killed you.’

‘We all make mistakes,’ Zimak said hotly. ‘Daretor made one when he threw those tools into the river. He must have known that the dragonlink needs to be joined into the mailshirt before it will stop glowing. Can we do it? Oh ho, no! We have no tools to split the link or re-join it. How do we tell if another link is nearby if the mailshirt is blazing bright orange every minute of the day? Meantime any other linkrider will see his ring glowing when we approach. We’re blinded, don’t you see?’

‘These parchments will help,’ said Jelindel. ‘The linkrider had plans to collect together all the links after he stole the mailshirt. He names the Passendof capital, Dremari, and a place called the Valley of Clouds as having other linkriders. He must have been loitering near Fa’red’s house, studying it for weaknesses when Thull and Daretor did the job for him. It took him a few days to find our trail, but he managed.’

Jelindel waved the parchment for emphasis. ‘His notes mention that each of us has a price of 1000 silver argents on our heads back in Skelt. Apparently we’ve caused a dozen deaths and committed two acts of arson in D’loom.’

‘You mean I’m worth 1000 argents?’ breathed Zimak, genuinely flattered.

‘Dead or alive, but preferably dead,’ replied Jelindel, pointing to the relevant part of the parchment. ‘We’re officially safe here in Baltoria, but bounty stalkers will be after us and they know no laws.’

‘Meantime we need tools to join in the link,’ grumbled Zimak. ‘Every smithy in the entire east half of the continent will have watchers on the alert for three youths trying to get stray links joined into an antique mailshirt.’

‘We can keep it muffled under your sheepskin coat,’ said Daretor to Jelindel. ‘Slowly we’ll buy tools, but until they are all assembled we must keep the link and mailshirt safe while looking for the next link.’

Chapter

12

It took five weeks for the trio to reach the part of the Passendof Mountains where their first destination was to be found.

The craggy peaks and plunging rockfaces were daunting to look at, but the trail was clearly defined and well maintained. Although they probably travelled five miles for every one that a bird would fly, at least the trail was free of bandits and customs posts. As always, the main problem for Jelindel and Zimak was the cold after a lifetime of subtropical D’loom.

As they approached the pass that was the entrance to the Valley of Clouds, Jelindel stopped and dismounted. She climbed a short way up a rock face and began chipping at the soft sandstone with a knife. After some minutes she came back down with some shells and brown, triangular things.

‘What are those?’ asked Daretor.

‘Sea shells and shark teeth.’

‘What? Up here?’ laughed Zimak. ‘That’s impossible.’

‘So what are these?’

‘Ah, magical amulets, seeded to grow in the rock by some master Adept?’

Jelindel laughed and packed the shells and teeth into her saddlebags, then mounted again. ‘This place was once under the sea. Perhaps it was raised up as some other continent was drowned.’

‘What of it?’ snorted Zimak. ‘Who cares?’

‘I care,’ Jelindel retorted. ‘It’s interesting.’

They entered the pass. Part way along was a skull the size of a peasant’s cottage. The back was still embedded in the sandstone, but the jaws were a little open and displaying teeth the size of a shortsword. Initials and messages were carved into most of the surface by generations of travellers.

‘So, a real dragon,’ said Daretor. ‘I’ve always thought that they existed.’

‘They’re real,’ replied Jelindel; ‘it’s just that they don’t come as big as this one any more. This thing was alive when all this land was below water. Perhaps something killed it as it flew over that ancient sea.’

‘Something killed that?’ exclaimed Zimak.

‘There are toothmarks down the side of the skull – can you see them there?’

Zimak certainly could. ‘Maybe it was a huge sea serpent,’ he said with relief. ‘I’m glad that these all lived long ago.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe that this land was once covered in water,’ said Daretor. ‘By your reasoning, dragons might still live hereabouts.’

Zimak glanced about with renewed unease. ‘Jaelin, do they still live here?’

‘Smaller dragons do, yes. They sleep disguised as mountain peaks. Have you seen any likely ones?’

Zimak paid a lot more attention to the mountains after that, so much so that he was looking up as they came upon the first magnificent view of the Valley of Clouds. It was spread out before them like a great beast of mist stirring languidly in its sleep but not quite waking.

‘There’s something strange about this,’ began Zimak.

‘There’s been something strange about nearly everything you’ve come across since leaving D’loom,’ sighed Jelindel.

‘Aye, but this place is stranger, and I don’t like it.’

‘You didn’t like the estuary’s floating hamlets, the edge of Dragonfrost Plain or Chasmgyle Gorge and you probably don’t like my experiments with magic, either. For all that, you’re still alive.’

Bare rock gave way to tough, stubborn spear grass, and the air warmed from near freezing to something like a cool, misty morning in the tropics. The unnatural hush was evident at once, as if birds, sheep and insects had never known this place. There was no wind to disturb the dew-beaded spear grass.

‘It’s like those beautiful misty mornings in D’loom,’ said Jelindel as they rode.

‘It’s early afternoon,’ replied Zimak nervously.

Their horses seemed to share Zimak’s unease, and they whickered nervously as they walked. The place gave the odd impression of being bleak but fertile, for they were soon among low trees and could see sheep grazing on a cover of soft, damp grass.

Jelindel took a scroll from her robes and unrolled it as she rode. It was a guide for merchants and pilgrims, one of several that she had bought for a few coppers near Chasm -gyle, and would sell again when they left the region.

‘“The Valley of Clouds is a fertile place deep in the Passendof Mountains”,’ Jelindel read. ‘“The mists that shroud it for 415 of the year’s 420 days are not at all deep, although quite dense. Thus it is a warm, damp, but fertile place, where sheep and cattle graze on the rich grasses, to produce fine hides, wool, cured meat and cheese. There is one easy entrance at the north-eastern end, and a more difficult trail at the other where wagons may not easily pass. There is a large town named Fontimark at the centre, and some smaller hamlets. It is governed by a Federation of Squires, and defended by a militia of pikemen and archers”.’

A squat stone structure seemed to coalesce out of the mist before them, and Jelindel translated ‘Fontimark Federation of Squires’ on the signpost before it.

Two guards in damp, rusty armour walked out to meet them, and Jelindel dismounted to speak with them. Their dialect was thick but discernible Baltorian, and she presently established that an access-and-grazing permit could be bought for thirty coppers if she also bribed them with two Skeltian argents.

She returned to her horse with the three tokens while the guards creaked their way back to the stone wallfort. The gates squealed open and they rode through.

‘Easily defensible,’ remarked Daretor. ‘A wall and a fort here, and the mountains take care of the rest.’

‘Effective as a trap, too,’ Zimak pointed out.

The valley was quite a contrast to the dry, cold mountains of the weeks past, and they soon stopped to graze their horses. The place was a fertile but ghostly arcadia.

‘Few people visit this place,’ said Jelindel. ‘The geographer back at Almeriy was not even sure if the place really existed. I had to check his books myself. The place supplies the remote mountain garrisons and mines in this area, and has its own mule caravans.’

‘If few people have heard of it, maybe it’s because they don’t let travellers out once they are within the gates,’ Zimak speculated.

‘More likely it is that nobody has a reason to visit this place,’ Daretor guessed. ‘If they take their produce to the markets then nobody needs to come here.’

‘What’s that?’ gasped Zimak.

‘A cow,’ replied Daretor.

‘It has four horns!’

‘Some cows have four horns, some goats even have six,’ Jelindel said impatiently.

‘You ever seen ’em?’

‘I read about them in the Beastiarium Univocar.’

Zimak continued to sulk. ‘We might as well close our eyes as we ride in here,’ he complained. ‘Remember, the mailshirt glows continually for us because our link has not been bound in, yet the linkrider in this place will see his own link begin to glow as we approach.’ He turned to Daretor. ‘If you hadn’t tossed Jabez Thull’s forge tools into the Marisa River, we’d not be at this disadvantage.’

‘We’re not entirely defenceless,’ Jelindel countered. ‘Daretor, ride beside me and reach over to hold me up. I’m going to send my vision to a paraplane.’

She spoke a word that made her body go limp in the saddle, but Daretor held her upright by the arm.

The glow of enchantment nodes sparkled all around her, but they were concentrated in the town ahead.

‘There’s a lot of protection and guard spells here,’ she reported. ‘It’s strong and well-maintained magic, but very little else. There are fertility and medical charms only here and there. There is no evidence of any aggressive spells, though. I can see one really well-defended place. It’s quite prominent.

‘Out in the fields there are charms scattered almost at random. Perhaps even the cattle are protected. I can see the mailshirt and the loose link in my pouch but nothing in the town – no, it’s there!’

‘A dragonlink?’ cried Daretor.

‘Yes, I’m certain of it. Magical nodes stand out distinctly, but the links are not quite magical. They appear as a sort of distortion in the blackness. It’s a feeling, rather than something you can see. My touch as well as my sight can project a long way on this paraplane.’

She came back to herself, and rode unsteadily for a while as her senses readjusted to where they really were.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?’ demanded Zimak.

‘I told you enough for you to deduce it,’ Jelindel said calmly. ‘Is it my fault that your mind is lazy when it comes to conjuring ideas?’

They arrived before the town gates as the mist around them began to darken with evening. There was a stable nearby, so they left their horses there and carried their packs through the gates and into the town.

People were going about their business, but everything was still hushed as if the folk were frightened of attracting the attention of something huge and horrible.

‘We need to find a market and an inn,’ said Zimak.

‘There’s an inn,’ Daretor said, pointing to a sign bearing a green bull with four horns.

‘Ah, good,’ Zimak replied. He turned to face Jelindel. ‘Will you come to the market with me after we drop our packs?’

‘And be part of that tasteless ritual of sweaty muscles that you want to put on in every village that we visit?’ she replied with distaste. ‘Not likely. Besides, what about that rib you broke a few weeks ago, and the gash in your arm?’

Zimak held up his arm to display a well-healed scar. ‘I’m fit to take on a lindrak now. These yokels are strong but they don’t know how to fight – hie, I can get a local physician to vouch that I’m carrying a broken rib. That should improve the betting. Come on, Jaelin, please help me. I can’t speak their language.’

‘Then I shall write out your spiel and you can read it. As I remember, it goes: ‘Your attention please. I am Zimak, champion of the Hamarian and Skeltian fighting squares in Siluvian kick-fist at age fourteen. What man among you will meet my challenge to last a single round for ten silver argents against a stake of ten?’’

‘I’ll look a fool reading it.’

‘You’ll look educated,’ said Daretor.

‘That’s right – smart is alluring,’ added Jelindel. ‘You’re always complaining that girls prefer my brains to your body. You may return tonight with a girl as well as a fatter purse.’

The Green Bull was a small place that was clearly better used to serving drinks than accommodating travellers. The landlord cleared firewood out of a back room and set a boy to sweeping the place clean while Jelindel bargained on the price.

They did not expect to find a fire blazing in the hearthroom. In spite of the warm air outside, the place was full of townsfolk enjoying the heat. It was dry heat, quite pleasant for folk who lived their lives in dampness.

Silence descended upon the taproom the moment they entered. It was as though a knife had cut through the hubbub. A bullhound lifted its chunky head warily and gave a deep-throated growl at their intrusion. When they ignored it, the hound lowered its head and dozed again. Like the patrons of the inn, it was more astonished than hostile to see strangers in the valley.

It wasn’t until the three had dumped their saddle bags upon an oaken table and were seated that the noise of the taproom resumed.

They had arrived late in the afternoon, and the light was still as strong as it ever got in the valley. Daretor went outside to practise rebuilding his swordwork in the wood-yard. Two months after losing his sword skills to the dragonlink, he was again a band 2 or thereabout, but the axe would be his weapon of choice for a long time to come. The wound below his ribs was still painful, a constant reminder that no fighting skill could be gained without the price of hard work.

Jelindel eventually agreed to go with Zimak as far as the marketplace, and there she translated Zimak’s wishes to a local boy. When he had finally grasped that Zimak wanted to stage a throw-wrestling tournament that evening, she left him to his own devices.

The local Temple of Verity was a half mile away, and she made her way there through the mists.

A number of religions were tolerated in the valley, and there was even a monument to the Grattocrian Prophet from the lands thousands of miles west across the ocean. It was built of white marble which had attracted thick splashes of deep green moss and slime from the continuous damp.

She walked on to the Temple of Verity. Its tall double doors were closed, which was unusual for a religion that preached the act of welcoming as one of its central tenets.

Jelindel noticed scorch marks and splintering all along the iron-studded oak boards. She knocked loudly, and presently heard the slapping of sandals on stone behind the door. An eyeslit popped open.

‘Yes?’ a quavering voice asked from the other side.

‘I am Brother Jaelin.’

‘State your business,’ the voice demanded.

‘I wish to use your temple library. I am a scholar in search of books relating to –’

‘The library is closed; it cannot be used. Go! There are two crossbows trained on your heart.’

Jelindel froze, then fought to calm herself.

‘As you wish, I shall go,’ she said, turning very slowly and starting down the steps. Five steps down she stopped and slowly turned back. ‘That’s an unusually powerful guard spell you have on the doors. I’d say all the brothers of this temple combined must be hard put to maintain it.’

‘Stop, wait!’ the monk behind the doors shouted.

There was the rumble and crash of a beam being heaved and dropped, then the doors were flung open. One of the monks of the order’s penitent division hurried out of the entrance and down the steps to Jelindel. He wore a tight-fitting leather cowl that showed only his face and disappeared into his robes. His hands were bare and his feet were sandalled.

‘How did you detect the guard spell?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together.

‘It is my work, holy brother,’ Jelindel said warily, feeling her way.

‘Then – then are you the one that was sent to us, the senior Adept we have petitioned for all these years?’

‘Perhaps. I am Mage Auditor Jaelin, an Adept in a very new order.’ In fact it’s five seconds old and there’s only one member, Jelindel added to herself.

‘Then our pleas were heard!’ the monk exclaimed. He turned and waved the hidden archers away. ‘Come in, Brother Jaelin, come in. Tell us how we may help you rid our valley of this daemonic scourge. I’m Brother Pendram.’

Jelindel’s heart began pounding again. What had she managed to plunge into with those few words? She was taken to a hearthroom lined with books and furnished with reading benches. Ten monks had gathered there.

‘Tell me of the daemons in your own words,’ Jelindel prompted as Brother Pendram closed and barred the hearthroom door.

‘But you already have our letters and petitions,’ quavered an elderly monk with sparse white hair and a long, fresh scar down one cheek.

‘I cannot ask questions of a letter or petition, and I need to know much more than you have written – oh, and I really would like to work in this library.’

Brother Pendram shuffled forward.

‘It began five years ago, Mage Auditor. Cattle were found torn to pieces in the fields, with strange footprints nearby. At first we thought it to be dire bears, but the daemon-beings avoided our hunters and smashed our traps as if they thought like humans. Then a shepherd was taken, and another. A farmstead was attacked while the farmer was out a-hunting what we still thought were dire bears. His wife and three of his seven children were slashed dead as though fallen into a chaffing mill.’

‘And nobody had seen these daemons until then?’ asked Jelindel.

‘No, but since then we have,’ Brother Pendram said. He wrung his hands at the very thought. ‘Our temple head, Brother Clevarian, organised the townsmen into a great line, and they combed the valley close-like until the daemon was flushed out from a stand of veritone oil trees.

‘Oh, he put up a terrible fight, but Brother Clevarian managed to bind his legs with that spell which spits glowing blue coils. The menfolk of the town killed the daemon after a fierce battle, but since then we’ve had maybe three dozen more daemons and lost twice that number of townsfolk killed by them.

‘We – we can hold the daemons back with Brother Clevarian’s magic and our warriors, but our good brother is growing weak with the strain and he has been wounded twice.’

‘That is why we made the petition,’ said the older monk eagerly.

‘So you are Brother Clevarian?’ asked Jelindel, noting the wound on his cheek.

‘Oh no, Mage Auditor. Brother Clevarian is with the town militia at this moment. Daemons always appear around evening. We know not why.’

‘Feeding time,’ someone suggested from the rear of the group.

‘So these daemons eat their victims?’ Jelindel said dubiously.

There was an outburst of conflicting opinions on the subject but it soon became apparent that no one had actually seen anyone being eaten by the daemons.

‘If nobody’s sure, let us not argue,’ Jelindel said, exasperated. ‘Have the attacks centred more on the temple or the militia of late? I would guess on the militia.’

‘Yes, why yes,’ Brother Pendram replied. ‘How did you know that?’

‘They have realised that Brother Clevarian is the cornerstone of your defence and are seeking him out. That is bad. What do they look like?’

Brother Pendram fetched a large folio of sketches and laid them on a reading desk before Jelindel. There were several excellent sketches of strangely humanoid yet reptilian things, and some featured human warriors for comparison. At least seven feet tall, Jelindel noted, and six fingers on each hand. The thumb and two inner fingers were almost human to look at, but the outer fingers were massive and tipped with long, curving claws. Their bodies were balanced by a long, thick tail and there was a crest at the back of the head and what were either pointed ears or horns at the front. The snout was filled with even, pointed teeth, yet the slit-pupil eyes above the flaring nostrils were oddly intelligent.

Jelindel asked to speak with the artist, but Brother Pendram pointed to the blood splattered at the bottom of the page.

By the time she left the temple, Jelindel suspected the worst. There were more problems in this mist-shrouded valley than just the linkrider. Still, she had felt the lump in the fabric of the paraworld that emanated from the dragonlink. It was definitely here, amid the glittering splash of guard spells that outlined the town.

Jelindel headed back to the marketplace with Brother Pendram beside her. There was evidently a weakness between paraworlds somewhere nearby, and these abominations were crawling through. Brother Clevarian, being elderly, was probably not able to see it, but Jelindel fancied that she might be able to do better. A guard spell could be made to seal the weakness once it was found, then the grateful townsfolk might rally to flush out the linkrider.

Zimak was at work with all-comers in an improvised square lit by mutton-fat torches on poles. As Jelindel arrived he was squaring up against a broad-shouldered man with Daretor’s build but a much lighter skin and a dark beard. The man fought well, feinting to great effect until he caught Zimak and held him off the ground.

Zimak reached back blindly over his shoulders and boxed his ears over and over again, then seized the man’s arm as his grip loosened, swung him about, threw his shoulder against the man’s midriff and heaved him out of the square.

The cheers and groans were suddenly stifled as a new opponent loomed out of the swirling mists, a thing towering seven feet tall and with a crest at the back of its head. It advanced slowly at first, and the crowd began to scatter. Zimak seemed to decide that this was some new opponent and squared up to meet the daemon. It stopped at the edge of the square and gave a gurgling growl like a blocked drainpipe being cleared.

‘Five to one on twenty argents!’ Zimak shouted to totemakers who were no longer there to take bets.

The daemon charged. Zimak stepped into the charge, batting its outstretched clawed hand aside and stepping into its grasp but twisting about and tripping it. The daemon went sprawling in the dust, and bellowed in surprise.

Jelindel seemed to suddenly snap out of a trance.

‘Zimak, run!’ she shouted. ‘It’s trying to kill you.’

‘That’s not in the rules,’ he shouted back with a dismissive wave.

The daemon rolled lithely aside and sprang to its feet, again facing Zimak. This time it slashed at the youth with its long outer claws as it closed with him. Again Zimak stepped inside the long arms, performed a jump-spinning kick and struck the thing in the snout. It staggered aside, stunned for a moment.

‘Run, damn you!’ screamed Jelindel. ‘It hasn’t got any money!’

She had no idea why she chose those particular words, but somehow they made sense to Zimak. He sidled away from the baffled daemon and made for Jelindel, but now it came after him.

They fled down the darkened, misty streets, but the daemon came after them with huge, two-footed bounds. Dodging between alleyways was all that kept them beyond its claws.

Suddenly a warrior dashed between them and the daemon. He was armed with an iron-shod pike with cross-guards, and he was skilled in its use. He made a jabfeint with the point, then swept underhand with the weighted butt of the pike and caught the daemon in the underbelly. It gave a bubbling rumble of annoyance and struck at him, slashing the air between them with its claws. Deftly the daemon backhanded its opponent and raked his ringmail and leather armour to shreds. The man cried out and went sprawling.

Zimak dived for the fallen pike but it was very heavy in his hands. The daemon advanced on the warrior who was trying to roll clear and Zimak jabbed hard at its leg. It gave a deep yowl and turned on him. Zimak backed away until his back met a damp stone wall. Jelindel thought of using a word of binding, but her lips froze in terror at the thought of lying exhausted before such a monster if it managed to break free. She flung her knife instead. Her throw was clumsy, but she still managed to hit the daemon in the open mouth.

‘Hac’ti paz! Hac’ti paz!’ shouted the warrior, who was back on his feet by now.

‘Zimak, he says throw him the pike!’ shouted Jelindel.

Zimak obliged as the daemon pulled the knife from its mouth and flung it down. The leather binding of its handle was smoking.

The warrior and daemon had another exchange of blows, then a crowd of armoured men surged around them out of the mists. The militia closed in but the daemon fought back fiercely, snatching a pike from one man and thrusting it into the chest of his companion. A shield splintered as its claws scraped across it, and the saliva from its jaws burned clothing and skin wherever it spattered.

Somewhere from within the mad mess of weapons and limbs a monk struggled close enough to speak a word of binding and thin blue coils of fire ensnared the legs and tail of the daemon.

The warrior who had saved Zimak and Jelindel ducked under a sweep of the daemon’s deadly claws and drove the point of his pike into its neck, just behind its jaw. Even then it did not die, but one of the militiamen soon got a clear chop at the weakened daemon’s neck with his broadsword. The daemon howled and staggered, and now the militiamen were able to move in closer as its movements slowed.

The thing writhed and bellowed on the damp cobblestones for several minutes until loss of whatever it used for blood sapped its strength. Finally the militiamen closed in and it was despatched, skewered by a half dozen spears and pikes.

‘I fought that unarmed?’ said a badly shaken Zimak, looking down at it in disbelief.

‘When ignorance is bliss, there’s folly in wisdom,’ Jelindel answered.

‘What?’

‘I rest my case.’

The warrior with the heavy pike came up to them now.

‘I am Holgar Drusen,’ he said in the language of the valley, leaning heavily on the staff that he clung to with gauntleted hands. ‘I’m a blacksmith and armourer when not in the town militia.’

‘I am Mage Auditor Jaelin, and this is my assistant Zimak,’ replied Jelindel, grateful that Zimak could not understand. ‘Thank you for saving us from that thing.’

‘What is a Mage Auditor?’ the man asked suspiciously.

‘I was sent from the Temple of Verity in the capital, Hez’ar, to report on your troubles here and help if I could. The accounts that we received were so fantastic that my superiors could not give them credence.’

‘Well, now do you believe?’ demanded Drusen gruffly, his anger and impatience ill disguised.

‘This was a convincing argument,’ said Jelindel, gesturing down to the daemon’s body. She peered at the warrior’s gloves. ‘There’s blood dripping from your right glove. We must bind the wound. Give me your hand.’

‘No! No, I get many wounds. This is a trifle.’

‘Mage Auditor Jaelin!’ called Brother Pendram from behind Jelindel. She turned.

Brother Pendram came through the crowd of militiamen, supporting an exhausted monk who was somewhat older than most of those she had met so far. Like the other monks, he wore a tight-fitting, kid leather cowl that showed only his face. Jelindel noted this and more besides as she strained to feel the tingle of any aura around him.

Jelindel bowed low to Brother Clevarian. Zimak did not.

‘Who’s this, Jaelin? What’s going on here?’ asked Zimak in Skeltian.

‘Shut up and bow.’

‘Brother Pendram has told me of your mission here, Mage Auditor,’ panted Brother Clevarian, also in Skeltian. ‘As you can see, we have our hands full.’

‘Mage Auditor?’ exclaimed Zimak.

‘I speak Baltorian,’ said Jelindel in the local language, but the damage was already done. ‘This valley seems to be the site of a weakness in the fabric that separates the paraworlds.’

‘Paraworlds? Pah, heresy,’ the old monk said in Baltorian. ‘Hell is boiling through here, boy. Hell and all its torments. Ah, but the prophets give me strength; I need no foppish theories about paraworlds.’

‘Mage Auditor?’ laughed Zimak.

‘Silence!’ exclaimed Jelindel fiercely. Zimak said no more, but retained his smile.

‘Why did you come?’ rasped Brother Clevarian.

‘I was sent for,’ replied Jelindel. ‘Your brothers feared for your health and safety in the face of constant battles like the one of minutes past.’

Brother Clevarian considered this and finally looked up and smiled. ‘Forgive me,’ he said more gently. ‘It is hard to be civil after such a trial. Can we meet in the morning, when I am better rested?’

‘Two hours past sunrise?’ asked Jelindel.

‘Done. Where are you staying? I shall come past with the morning patrol.’

‘We’re at an inn near the town gates, the Green Bull –’

There was a loud blast and a gust of air rushed past Jelindel. The body of the daemon and all its spilled blood had been sponged out of existence.

‘That always happens just after they’re killed,’ explained Brother Clevarian.

Chapter

13

We’re in the service of a Mage Auditor,’ Zimak cried gleefully when he and Jelindel arrived back at the inn.

Daretor was eating his dinner, and looked up quizzically.

‘He means me,’ Jelindel explained. ‘The people here were expecting help from their capital for a very strange and dangerous problem.’

‘Hey, Daretor, stand to attention when you’re talking to the Mage Auditor.’

‘Shut up, Zimak. What is this problem, Jaelin? Is it related to the link?’

‘There are large, powerful and probably sentient beings appearing in this valley. Zimak had a brush with one, and was lucky to escape with just cuts and bruises.’

‘What’s sentient?’ asked Zimak.

‘Something you’re not,’ replied Jelindel coldly. ‘The chief monk in the local temple is a senior Adept, but no more than a nine. He can speak binding words just strong enough to slow the daemons down so that the town militia can kill them, but …’

‘But?’

‘He’s old, and he’s looking terrible. If he falls sick or dies this place will become famous for a lot more than heavy mists and fat cattle.’

‘You can speak those binding words, too,’ Daretor pointed out to Jelindel. ‘You ensnared that dog in the village when we were fighting the last linkrider.’

‘True, but that nearly cost me my life. Trying to speak binding words without a degree of training is like trying to trim your toenails with a sword while blindfolded. It’s difficult, dangerous and not very reliable.’

Daretor was clearly disappointed. The addition of binding words to their armoury would have been very helpful.

‘Well then, what is the source of these daemons?’ he asked.

‘There seems to be a rent in the fabric between paraworlds somewhere nearby, apart from the presence of the dragonlink and its rider. The only problem is that such a rent should have stood out like a beacon pyre on eclipse night when I checked the area from the paraplane.’

‘It may be opening and closing like a gate,’ Daretor suggested.

‘No, gates between paraworlds do not work like that; they should glow with the potential to create an opening.’

‘What of the dragonlink? Have you seen a suspicious glow or heard of any such thing?’

‘We just may have a problem there,’ Zimak cut in. ‘A warrior called, ah –’

‘Holgar Drusen,’ said Jelindel.

‘That’s him. Well, he saved us from the daemon with some very impressive pikework, but got his hand slashed through his gauntlet so that blood was dripping out. Even so, he would not remove his glove for a healer to treat him.’

‘So there might be more than a wound beneath his gauntlet?’

‘I’m sure of it. He was strong, but unusually skilled in pikework for a back-mountains blacksmith.’

‘So what do we do about the dragonlink?’ Jelindel asked. ‘He is using his skills in defence of the town whenever the daemons attack. How can we demand that he give us the link?’

‘He does not deserve skills gained dishonourably from the talents of others,’ shouted Daretor, slamming his fist down on the table, then standing up.

The taproom suddenly went silent, although nobody there could follow their Skeltian language.

‘I only meant –’

‘I know what it is like to have a decade’s skills and training sponged away. I despise anyone who would use a dragonlink to gain the skills of another. If he will not give it up I’ll fight him for it.’

‘But the blacksmith’s pike skills may be his own!’ Jelindel shouted back. ‘Like you, he might have been tricked into wearing the dragonlink and now he can’t afford to give it up.’

While both were standing up she barely reached Daretor’s chin, but her words hit with considerable force. Daretor flopped back onto the bench.

‘Aye, like me he might have been tricked,’ Daretor reluctantly admitted. ‘So what do we do if his fighting skills are needed here and we can’t take the dragonlink? We can’t stay forever. There are at least three more links to find after this.’

Jelindel turned away from him, arms folded high over her breasts, as always trying to hide their increasing size. She noticed that the rest of the taproom was silent, and everyone was watching them.

‘It’s all right; we had a small misunderstanding over who will pay for the lodgings,’ she said quickly in Baltor -ian. The atmosphere of the place relaxed at once.

She turned back to Daretor and Zimak. ‘I shall go to our room and lie down. Please see that I am not disturbed while I scan the town again from the paraplane.’

Safely in the woodroom, and with the sound from the nearby taproom dim in her ears, Jelindel again floated in the blackness laced with the glows and sparkles of healing enchantments and guard spells.

From the paraplane the magical aspects of the town looked little different by night than by day, but this time Jelindel was not on horseback, and she could concentrate better. Space was different in the paraplane, being related to strength of spells and their domains rather than physical distance between the doors and houses guarded by the spells.

The dragonlink was still there, a subtle carbuncle in the fabric of the blackness. From what she could deduce, it was moving. The effect was as if the entire town’s guard spells were rearranging themselves to keep the link at the focus of several domains.

Jelindel was about to return her senses to herself when the dragonlink’s domain suddenly blazed with light. A red glow now gleamed and moved amid the golden glows of the guard spells, quenching some in its wake. It was another daemon, Jelindel decided as her heart began racing, yet according to the monks they never came so close together. Whatever the explanation, the blazing red light had originated right at the dragonlink.

Jelindel heard a mighty crash somewhere in her own world, followed by the sound of men shouting. She immediately focused on the solidity of the mailshirt and returned to herself as fast as she could.

She sat up too quickly, reeled, then sat down heavily on the rough frame bed as the sound of splintering wood, shouting and screams of pain continued from the taproom. Another daemon, and it was here!

Picking up a woodsman’s hatchet she opened the door to be confronted by a broad red back and thick tail. Without even thinking she stepped through the doorway and chopped backhand up at the daemon’s head. The hatchet stuck fast, and its tail lashed out to fling her back into the woodroom.

Daretor moved in on the daemon, chopping at its arms as it clawed at its own head. It waddled backwards into the woodroom, saliva dripping from its jaws and leaving smoking spots on the floorboards.

Jelindel picked up a branch from the kindling rack and stood ready, but Daretor pushed her to one side. Zimak entered the fray next, half-sword in hand. He and Daretor bracketed the daemon, which was staggering by now from the wound to its head. Whenever Zimak cut at it from behind, Daretor followed up with a cut to its throat as it turned.

As before, the daemon began to weaken as it lost blood, and by the time the militia had arrived it was lying dead.

The body was impressive, even in death. Jelindel noted that it had a broad forehead and braided topknot of black hair-like fibres. What she had taken to be scales were really some type of tough fabric with glossy, overlapping plates, and there was a buckle of reflective red material on the belt at its waist. Even the massive claws on the outer fingers of its hands were inlaid with small, gleaming gems and threads of gold.

‘This is no warrior daemon,’ she said to Daretor. ‘I would guess that it’s a female, of perhaps my own age.’

‘You’re mad,’ retorted Zimak. ‘Why, it killed two men out in the taproom. It slashed them open like sacks of wheat.’

‘Let him finish,’ said Daretor.

‘Were Zimak to be dropped into a room of armed, intelligent rabbits, he too might fight and kill most fearsomely, wringing necks and crushing bodies under foot until overwhelmed. I don’t think these are invaders at all. I think there is a hole between our paraworlds through which they are falling either by accident or design.’

‘But you said anything like that would be plainly visible when you go into that trance and do whatever you do,’ Daretor said slowly, trying to get the reasoning correct. ‘You said you saw nothing.’

‘The first time, yes. Just now I saw a disturbance beside the dragonlink when this, ah, young lady came through. The link has some great and unusual powers stored within it, and perhaps the walls between the paraworlds are weaker here than elsewhere. Our own dragonlinks may begin to do the same thing if we stay.’

Brother Clevarian pushed past the crowd with the blacksmith behind him. They looked down at the body in astonishment; then, as before, the body vanished with a loud bang and a gust of wind.

‘You – you killed it?’ Clevarian asked, astonished.

‘These are not the worst daemons that we have encountered and killed,’ said Jelindel. ‘We shall teach your militiamen how to fight them more easily, then we shall set to work and close the gate between the paraworlds that is letting them through.’

‘Gate? Paraworlds?’ spluttered Brother Clevarian. ‘Heresy! These are the damned from the very depths of hell, not from worlds such as ours.’

‘No, you don’t understand; we need to find a glowing link –’

‘Yes! I understand only too well. You three are devil worshippers, come to allow more of them into our world.’

‘What?’ Jelindel spluttered incredulously. ‘We just killed one.’

‘Pah! A sham fight. You’re in league with them!’ he screamed, shaking his staff and tracing holy symbols in the air.

Holgar Drusen glared at them, his eyes hostile and fearful beneath his bushy eyebrows. He turned and followed when Brother Clevarian abruptly left.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Zimak.

‘It sounded as though someone doesn’t like competition,’ ventured Daretor.

‘And I think that another daemon will not be long in arriving,’ concluded Jelindel. ‘That dragonlink apparently does more than store impressive pikework.’

‘Drusen the blacksmith?’ said Zimak. ‘But he fights the things.’

‘And makes himself into quite a hero by doing so,’ said Daretor. ‘Why does he never take off his gloves, even if his hands bleed? Aye, he is the linkrider we must overcome to acquire this dragonlink.’

‘I apologise, Daretor,’ said Jelindel. ‘I fear you were right about him and I was wrong. Yet exposing him and getting the dragonlink will be easier said than done. He seems to be the most popular man in this town, apart from Brother Clevarian.’

‘As I said, nobody likes competition, especially if it’s superior. My guess is that Drusen can conjure the daemons at will, and as Jaelin says, yet another will be here very soon. Get ready, Zimak, we should barricade the place this time.’

‘No. No, you should flee,’ said Jelindel. ‘Head for the town gates and out into the fields.’

‘The fields?’ gasped Zimak. ‘At night? Not in any way known! The mist blocks out most of the moonlight. It’s as black as Black Quell’s ar–’

‘Take a torch!’ shouted Jelindel, fists clenched and stamping her foot.

‘The daemon will surely follow the light.’ He stared incredulously at Jelindel’s apparent stupidity. ‘And I’ll be holding it.’

‘All magic knows defeat in distance, Zimak. I warrant that the daemon can only go a half-mile from the linkrider if he is to maintain control. I’m gambling that the linkrider is controlling the daemons, forcing them to attack us. The linkrider will be forced to leave the town to keep the daemon after you.’

‘So you’re gambling, and my life is the stake,’ cried Zimak in disbelief.

‘Shush, Zimak. I think I know what Jaelin’s getting at. The linkrider will have to follow us out of the town if he wants to control the daemon. Once clear of the town by, say, two miles, we can turn and fight the thing.’

‘But who will engage the linkrider?’

‘Me,’ said Jelindel.

‘Jaelin fight the blacksmith?’ cried Zimak. ‘Don’t make me laugh. He can’t even fight his way out of a smoke haze, let alone stop that pike-master –’

Something outside bellowed. It was a deep, resonant challenge that echoed along the fog-shrouded streets of the town.

‘It’s here already,’ gasped Zimak. ‘Now, Jaelin, you stay with Daretor and I’ll – Jaelin!’

But Jelindel was not there. She had slipped out through a window in the woodroom.

The torches in the streets were burning low by this time of night. Although Reculemoon was high, it was difficult to see more than outlines amid the swirls of mist. Jelindel made for the town gates, which were closed for the night. A lamp burned wanly in the gatehouse on the wall.

Jelindel slipped something round and soft from her pouch. It was the size of a small lemon, about the same weight, and it trailed a short length of string. It had been a gift from Zimak back when they first struck their deal of sharing knowledge.

The shutters of the gatehouse were open on all sides, and two sentries were looking back into the town. Jelindel lit the string from a streetlamp’s flame and it spluttered and caught, burning as a brilliant point of light at the end. She watched it progress for several heartbeats, then flung it into the open side window.

At first nothing happened, then there were shouts of alarm as the guards burst out of the door, gasping and wheezing at the stench from Jelindel’s stink-pot as they clattered down the stairs.

Jelindel slipped up the stairs as they staggered away into the mist. Taking a deep breath she entered the guardhouse, scooped up the smoking stink-pot and tossed it out the window. Next she barred the door, unlatched the windlass and began winding the gate up while her eyes streamed tears from the remaining stench.

She was barely in time. A torch appeared in the distance, accompanied by a deep bellowing from the night’s third daemon. Jelindel continued to wind. She heard scrabbling at the gate as Daretor and Zimak squeezed beneath it.

‘We’re outside!’ Zimak called, then the windlass suddenly became a lot easier to turn as the daemon pushed up the heavy gate to squeeze its bulk underneath. Jelindel released the windlass and the gears whirred shrilly for a moment as the gate dropped. It boomed down onto the cobblestones.

The clatter of heavy boots approached from within the town as the militia arrived. Jelindel watched the torches glowing through the mist, then heard fists and weapons pounding on the gate.

‘Legions of reeking dead bodies drove us from the guardhouse,’ someone cried. ‘They raised the gate.’

‘So our visitors have escaped,’ Jelindel heard the blacksmith saying. ‘We’re best rid of them.’

‘No, we must be after them now!’ insisted Brother Clevarian.

‘They’re outside, praise be to fortune! The town is safe for the night,’ someone else retorted.

‘We must go after them!’ Brother Clevarian shouted back. ‘Raise the gate.’

Brother Clevarian! Jelindel gasped softly with surprise. It couldn’t be. His fingers and even his toes were all in plain sight. He wore no link, yet …

Jelindel lowered herself down the town wall by a rope through the outer window and stole quickly across the mist-shrouded fields. Behind her the gate was slowly raised again, and soon the torches of the cautious pursuing militiamen shone as dim globes of light through the darkened mist.

The baying of dogs mingled with the distant bellowing of the daemon; then there was the rumble of the gate being lowered again.

‘Forgive me, Daretor, but this is the only way,’ whispered Jelindel as she slipped the free dragonlink onto her finger.

It took precious moments to get the feel of the thing’s powers, but her practice at moving her senses between paraplanes came to her aid. Through the eyes of a huge four-horned bull she watched the militia approaching. Brother Clevarian would be at the centre, but all that was about to change. She extended her control, and the bull suddenly charged its bramblefang fence, ignoring the thorns that ripped at its hide as it crashed through. It charged straight for the militiamen.

The men and dogs scattered, and now Jelindel seized control of one of the dogs and sniffed for the temple incense that was on Brother Clevarian’s robes. Within moments the dog ran down the monk, leaping upon him even as he spat a word of binding to ensnare it. Jelindel now sent another dog after him from behind, and this one knocked him down and ripped at the leather cowl that covered his head.

Orange light blazed out of the link that he wore in his ear as the leather came away, but blue coils burst from his lips to entrap the second dog. Brother Clevarian began shrieking for help.

Jelindel seized control of the bull again and drove it back at the regrouping militia. Now the monk made a fatal mistake. He spoke a word of binding to stop the bull, a word that was at the limit of his life-force. The bull crashed to the ground, its front legs ensnared, but Brother Clevarian also fell to his knees with exhaustion.

Jelindel crept up to him now, guided by the glow of the link that was leaking through the fingers of the hand that was over his ear. Taking the link from her own finger and dropping it into her pouch, she crouched, crept closer, then spoke a word. Her aim was off, but she still ensnared the old monk’s legs.

Surprise was on Jelindel’s side. She sent the monk sprawling and the link again blazed out like an annular eclipse of the sun. Weakened, she staggered over, reached out for the link and ripped it from his ear.

Brother Clevarian screamed with pain and outrage, but Jelindel was already stumbling away into the mist. She crashed right into a tangle of blackberry bushes. Only the mailshirt saved her from severe injury.

‘After him; he stole a holy relic!’ shouted Brother Clevarian.

Blackberry thorns tore at Jelindel as she struggled to free herself, and the dragonlink was slippery with Brother Clevarian’s blood. As she fumbled to drop it into her pouch it slipped from her fingers and landed among the thorny fronds where it lay glowing brightly.

Militiamen and dogs finally approached, and Jelindel slashed her hands and arms on the thorns trying to reach the fallen dragonlink.

Suddenly the daemon strode out of the mist and among the militiamen. It bellowed loudly and they scattered in alarm.

Mesmerised, Jelindel saw the outline of it by the light of the burning torches. It lifted someone bodily from the ground with one hand and slashed down with the claws of its free hand, again and again and again. Brother Clevarian! He shrieked for help, then screamed in pain – a scream that ended in a sickening, retching sound.

The militiamen tried to rally, but now the monster was suddenly faster and far better coordinated. The short engagement was completely one-sided and the demoralised militiamen fell back. Jelindel knew that without Brother Clevarian, they would not last long.

She turned back to the blackberry bushes, striving to reach the dragonlink amid grasping thorns and clammy wet leaves.

Heavy, thudding footsteps approached from behind her, footsteps ominously far apart. She turned to see the daemon towering above her.

Jelindel fumbled for her pouch and slipped the other dragonlink onto her finger. Casting the animal control powers of the link across the fields, she realised that the bull had a broken leg and the nearest dog was hundreds of yards away. She drew the dog racing towards them, but she knew she would be dead by the time it arrived.

Jelindel shrank back against the brambles, petrified with fear. She was too weak to speak another word at the daemon, there was nothing she could do but wait for the end.

‘Allow me,’ said a deep, hissing, silky voice.

The daemon bent over and reached past Jelindel with its long arms that reeked of fresh human blood. The light of the fallen link was blotted out as a clawed hand closed around it and drew it out from amid the grasping thorns.

In an oddly dispassionate way, Jelindel considered running, yet something in the daemon’s manner had drained the fear out of her. She released control of the dog that was still racing to her rescue.

Huge fingers opened before her face and the light of the second link blazed out into the mist again.

‘Treasure worth thy life, yes?’ enquired the soft, hissing voice. ‘I am T’rr’ll. Know thy name be Jaelin. Here. Take it.’

Jelindel’s jaw worked in vain. She reached out a trembling hand and took the link from the enormous palm in front of her.

‘My race avenged,’ the daemon declared. ‘Without thee, we would still be his slave. Thank thee with all my hearts.’

The daemon went down on one knee amid the blackberry bushes and bowed its head to Jelindel. It was still more than double her height.

‘Uh, how many hearts do you have?’ she asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘Three,’ it replied, then slowly stood up.

Together they walked back to where the bodies of Brother Clevarian and two militiamen lay. The daemon picked up a burning torch and held it to the dead monk’s ear. Along the bloody rent were rough stitch marks where he had sewn the link into his ear years earlier.

‘Thee tore link from his ear, thus freed my people from his control. Avenged is myself. Returned, hope to be.’

‘How did you know, ah, about me?’ asked Jelindel.

‘Shared his perceptions by act of control.’

So the daemon had seen and heard everything from the monk’s perspective, Jelindel realised. It must have been a by-product of the dragonlink’s control gift. That would save a lot of explanations.

‘I’m, ah, relieved that you’re so understanding, T’rr’ll.’

‘I am from very civilised paraworld. This monster plucked dozens from my homeland, then sent them back dead and mutilated.’

Jelindel looked into the slit-pupils of the huge, reptilian eyes that gleamed in the light of the torch that the daemon held.

‘You seemed so fearsome to us. We did not know that Brother Clevarian was making your kind attack our people,’ she explained.

‘So I have seen,’ the daemon growled. ‘But we are not evil,’ it added with a voice like an approaching thunderstorm. ‘We were ripped from our plane and controlled like puppets in thy fairgrounds.’

‘How do you know our speech?’

‘We are very advanced in arts of control and enquiry. We have studied thy world’s images in our crystals for a long time. Also we have heard sounds of thy world resonating from our crystals. In them we saw our people die when drawn here, but we were helpless.’

‘I grieve for your slain brothers and sisters and friends,’ said Jelindel with genuine remorse.

‘And I thank thee for freeing us. What will thee do with this sevenfold-cursed dragonlink?’

‘I’ll weave it into the fabric from which it came, and strive to put it where evil hands will not reach it.’

‘We have devices like to this, Mage Auditor. Should thee split it, all talents stored therein will be lost, and it will not soak in more talents until made to be joined again.’

‘Then – then the mailshirt from which it comes has no power?’

‘It has power, no doubting. It is just not same power as petty tricks of these dragonlinks. When made whole, ah, real power of these combined dragonlinks will be manifest, but I cannot say what that power might be. Now will thee free me to return to my paraworld?’

‘Well, ah, yes. Just tell me how.’

‘Both of us to go to blacksmith shop and split the link, if be pleased?’

They returned to the town gates. There the daemon leaped to the guardhouse in a single bound, sending the guards screaming down the stairs for the second time that night. He raised the gate for Jelindel, then left it jammed open.

The townsfolk were watching through the billows of mist as Jelindel and the daemon walked through the geometrically straight streets to the closest smithy’s. As fate would have it, it was the shop of Drusen.

Nobody would open up when Jelindel knocked, but the daemon broke through both door and guard charm with a single blow that splintered boards and tore nails from beams.

The blacksmith’s wife was crouched in a corner in front of their son, brandishing an axe.

‘Put that thing down and fetch a hammer and chisel,’ ordered Jelindel wearily as the daemon stood quietly behind her with its arms folded. ‘Well? The sooner you help, the sooner we’re gone.’

The woman fetched the chisel and laid it on the anvil. Jelindel picked up the chisel and a hammer, but the daemon raised a dauntingly clawed hand.

‘Madame,’ he said to the blacksmith’s wife with a deep bow, ‘pleased to take little boy outside and wait. Danger in what we are to do. Mage Auditor Jaelin paid to face danger, but thee and thy boy are not.’

‘Oh, ah, aye,’ she stammered, then reached back and seized her son by the arm.

The little boy waved timidly to the daemon as they edged past. The daemon bowed gravely and made a gesture with its claws that might have been a salute. The boy smiled back.

‘Make sure chisel is held with edge of thy hand touching dragonlink, pressing against anvil,’ the daemon told Jelindel once they were alone.

‘You said this is dangerous.’

‘I lied, to get others out. Now strike with single blow.’

One blow severed the link, and Jelindel noticed that traceries of blue light enmeshed her hand. It felt as if a swarm of ants was on her skin. Suddenly the crackling blue tendrils dispersed.

‘There is a word that will release you from this plane,’ she said. ‘I know the word! How do I know this?’

‘Thee did split link while thy skin did touch it. This allowed gathered knowledge to disperse into thy body, rather than die as cold steel touched it.’

‘So it’s dead now?’

‘No. Link being used to harvest skills of fighting is like war chariot being used for carrying pigs to market. It does that well, but it is made for something much grander. I do not know what that grand thing might be. Link is still potent and link needs to be joined with mailshirt.’

‘I – I do not think I want the stolen fighting arts of others.’

‘Thee must take them,’ insisted the daemon. ‘Use skills to win back all other links for mailshirt.’

‘One of my good companions would beg to differ – violently.’

The daemon waved its claws as if such an idea was too silly to contemplate.

‘Warning, though. Skills will not stay with thee unless thee practise them. Dragonlink keeps skills fresh always. Without it, skills fade if not practised.’

‘But that’s … like any ordinary skill.’

‘Indeed.’

Jelindel split the other dragonlink. This time she did not allow her flesh to touch it, and the animal control skills died within the steel of the chisel.

‘I – I even have some skills with words of binding and swords from the monk’s dragonlink,’ she said, examining what was now in her own mind. ‘Will I retain all this as well?’

‘Only with practice, as with all skills. Now speak word that thee knows and I will be gone.’

‘Wait, one moment. I saw a mage split a link, but he did not gain the sword skills stored in it.’

‘I explain again, a link split by cold steel without skin touching it is a link that loses its skills to be smothered in cold steel.’

‘I see,’ Jelindel said, stalling. ‘Before you go, will you forge these two links into the mailshirt? I have no skills to do it.’

‘A small price for home. I will do this.’

The daemon was a fast and competent blacksmith. When it had finished, the mailshirt ceased to glow for the first time in five weeks. Jelindel had been watching carefully. She shook the mailshirt back over her head as the daemon held it up for her.

‘Now I shall send you home, T’rr’ll, and with my thanks. This may not mean much to you and your kind, but you are a gentleman. Goodbye.’

‘Would mean a lot, Mage Auditor, were I not female. Maybe more than on thy own plane and paraworld. Thee be gentleman, too. Be well faring, and take these as gift.’

From a fold in the tight-fitting fabric that clothed her, T’rr’ll took two blue teardrop shapes. Both were attached to fine chains.

‘Be transition gates. Our cold science mages developed them to help fight Clevarian, but now not needed.’

‘You mean I could visit your world?’

‘No, but thee could use them to visit … some world. Weight of thy body all wrong, less mine by fraction of four. Speak word ril’kss while holding gate. Go … somewhere. Once use only. If not use, wear around neck, look pretty.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jelindel, reaching her hand out to the daemon and stroking one of her jewelled claws. T’rr’ll bowed again.

‘Good basking, Mage Auditor Jaelin.’

‘Goodbye, T’rr’ll.’

Jelindel spoke an unfamiliar word that was somehow within her memory and the daemon winked out of existence with a sharp blast like a thunderclap and a rush of air.

Moments later the blacksmith began knocking on the remains of his door.

‘Are you all right, Mage Auditor?’ he shouted frantically.

‘I’m safe and whole. You may have your shop back with my thanks.’

Drusen entered alone, glancing fearfully around.

‘I’m sorry about the door,’ said Jelindel. ‘I can pay a few argents to –’

‘Damn that. I’m honoured that you chose my shop to do … what did you do?’

‘Assisted a four hundred tev lady in distress. There will be no more daemons, Drusen. I know that this will be hard to believe, but Brother Clevarian was conjuring them into our world and pretending to fight them.’

‘I know, I know. We were crouched nearby, listening to what you and the daemon were saying.’

‘What is concealed beneath your gloves, Drusen?’ asked Jelindel. ‘I thought that you wore an enchanted link because you never let your hands be seen. My warrior escorts were near to cutting your hands off to get hold of the link.’

Drusen slowly removed a glove, to reveal the ugly brands of crossed yellow feathers on the back of his hand. One of his fingers bore a roughly sewn gash.

‘The mark of a coward,’ explained Drusen. ‘I was in a minor border skirmish years ago, but I turned and ran from the enemy when the fighting went against us. My people won in spite of some ill fortune, and when I was run to ground I was branded a coward on the back of both hands. When I came here I learned bravery. I learned to fight unselfishly against the daemons. My wife has suspicions about me, because at night my gloves do not come off until the bedlamp be out, and I am always first up and about in the morning.’

‘But after all these years has she not once asked?’

‘I am a loving and hardworking husband to her, with no vices. All that I ask in return is that my hands be not seen, and she is wise enough to grant me this one little secret.’

Jelindel slowly reached out and shook his hand.

‘Put your glove back on,’ she sighed.

Zimak and Daretor returned to the town to find Jelindel being carried shoulder high in a cheering procession. They were quickly gathered into the crowd and feted as well, and the entire town mounted a spontaneous revel for the heroes who had ended their years of terror and misery in less than a day.

While Daretor and Zimak danced, ate and drank in the open-air feast in Proclamation Square, Jelindel borrowed a lyaral and joined in with the band. They can afford to relax but I cannot, she thought to herself grimly. She told the bandsmen that she liked to collect dance tunes in the towns and villages where the Temple sent her. In spite of all that was offered to her, she drank only rainwater and ate only honeycakes.

By midnight Jelindel suddenly noticed that Zimak had collected a girl, who was fawning over him and sneering at several others who were also trailing after the blond hero. All of them were probably older than he was. Something akin to jealousy stung Jelindel, and she missed several notes as she played a bracket of mountain jigs. Jealousy over Zimak? The thought surprised her. He was a friend, but she certainly did not love him. Then what?

Daretor pranced by, hand in hand with a dark-haired beauty who was the daughter of the warden. Another stab of – what? Not jealousy but resentment, she realised! They were free to do whatever they would, but Jelindel was trapped behind the bars of a male name and male clothing.

‘Not trapped, but protected,’ she whispered as she played, and the music smothered her words.

As Jelindel she would be dead. As Jaelin she was alive and freer than Jelindel could ever have been. She was leaner, stronger, could ride, could fight, and took no nonsense from anyone. If she was not as strong as Daretor or Zimak, she was nevertheless immune to the charms of female vendors and serving wenches with a mind to cheat them. In that sense she was a man without a man’s weaknesses.

The thought cheered her immensely, and now she gazed across at the dancing Zimak with the suave smile of a minor god. For all his skill with the footwork of fighting, she noted that he was a very clumsy dancer.

They spent two weeks in the Valley of Clouds, and were offered everything from free food and lodging to proposals of marriage.

When not translating embarrassing propositions for her companions, or avoiding girls who were even trailing after her, Jelindel studied for much of the time in the local temple’s library. She also went out to the more isolated fields and vales to secretly practise the skills of using words that she had absorbed from Brother Clevarian’s link. She planned to tell Daretor that they were more enchantments that she had managed to master by herself.

When they left the valley it was by one of the difficult back roads, and they gave false destinations to those who enquired. Daretor never let them forget that they were being hunted.

‘Such wonderful girls in that valley, with such milky white skins,’ said Zimak, scratching his head as they rode. ‘Of all the girls I’ve met with, they were the most lovely.’

‘One of them told me you didn’t know where to put it until she showed you,’ said Jelindel coldly.

‘That’s not true!’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘I was just tired.’

He scratched at his head again.

‘One of them also seems to have given you lice.’

‘What? Impossible. I’ve been washing my hair every week.’

‘That just gives you clean lice. I’ll boil up the roots of a plant that I know next time I see one beside the road. That will kill them.’

Daretor smiled as he turned back. ‘You get along well with girls, Jaelin, yet you keep your vows of chastity. Why did you flee the monastery if you follow its rules so faithfully in the world outside?’

‘Matters of principle and scholarship,’ was the only reply that Jelindel was able to give.

‘Well, I’m glad of your learning but I cannot understand how you think. I love girls, especially fat, fierce girls whose fathers are vintners.’

‘You’re wasting your time,’ sneered Zimak, then turned to Jelindel. ‘He’s never laid a hand upon a naked girl. I doubt he’d know how to give a girl pleasure.’

Some day, Zimak, I shall make you regret those words, thought Jelindel. For the moment she chose silence.

Something about Zimak did not quite match up to his behaviour. There had been more than generous offers for him to stay in the Valley of Clouds. He was obviously quite enamoured of the girls who paid him their attentions there, yet there had been no hesitation in him when Daretor declared that it was time to move on to Passendof and find the next dragonlink. Why?

Daretor wanted to collect the dragonlinks so that he could destroy them. Jelindel wanted to keep on the move under the protection of a skilled warrior until she was trail-wise enough to look after herself. She had only wanted Zimak along at first because she could not manage the horses by herself and Daretor was wounded. Why did Zimak stay with them if he could live in the Valley of Clouds in secrecy and safety?

Could he be more than he seemed, she wondered. Was he in league with the Preceptor, or someone worse? Was he a lindrak, biding his time and waiting for a chance to seize the completed mailshirt? None of those ideas seemed likely, and Jelindel began to feel guilty for thinking such thoughts of an obviously loyal – although often obnoxious – friend.

After a time the magnificent layers of striped rock in the mountainsides took hold of her attention, and her thoughts about Zimak faded away.

Chapter

14

The Preceptor looked down into the training yard from the battlements of Firebrand Castle, which was Fa’red’s main base and stronghold in the foothills of the Barrier Ranges. Two men were practising Siluvian kick-fist with lead weights attached to their hands and feet, while another, metal claws strapped to his hands and feet, was climbing straight up a stone wall with a bag of sand strapped to his back.

At the centre of the yard were two blindfolded men who were fighting each other with pikestaffs. They listened for the sound of breathing, the rustle of robes, the swish of the other’s pikestaffs, and even the crunch of feet on gravel. More often than not their responses were deadly accurate. In the pitch dark of some noble’s bed-chamber they would be able to stab accurately by no more than the sound of a snore.

The man who had been climbing the wall now leaped for a rope that hung from an overframe and climbed all the way to the crossbeam above using his arms alone. He descended to the yard, then removed the weight from his back and did the whole thing again. This time he did the vertical course in a third of the time.

The Preceptor was impressed.

The catch on a door in a nearby tower rattled and Fa’red came through. The senior Adept was healing well after the ordeal of escaping from his burning house in D’loom, although his skin was heavily scarred and some of his hair and beard had not grown back. His eyebrows were gone, which made a distinct contrast with the bushy hedgerows that had earlier adorned his face.

‘What do you think of them?’ he asked the Preceptor. They grasped each other’s wrists in greeting.

‘They are impressive. Now I can see why much is made of the King’s lindrak warriors.’

‘Impressive they are, lindraks they are not.’

‘I – I don’t understand.’

‘They dress like them, fight like them, and even have a similar language, but they are my very own creation. I call them deadmoon warriors to avoid confusion, but very, very few people know of them.’

They leaned over the battlements again and watched the warriors at work. The Preceptor now viewed the martial feats below with renewed interest. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said as he gazed down. ‘Lindrak training methods are guarded better than the royal treasury. How did you learn the lindrak way so well?’

Fa’red touched the Preceptor’s arm and gestured to a door in the tower. They entered and began descending a stone stairway. They went in single file, and in silence. When they reached the base of the stairway, Fa’red conjured a tiny globe of light to float along just before them and they started down a long, narrow corridor. There was nothing to see but the bricks of the walls and arched roof. Eventually they came to a door bound shut by writhing blue traceries. There was no sign of a bar, bolt or lock.

‘I feel obliged to warn you that what is behind this may be rather upsetting to behold,’ said Fa’red as if through obligation rather than concern.

‘Open it,’ said the Preceptor.

The creature lying on the hay inside the room was about the size of a small cow, but was covered in amorphous folds of pasty skin. Its eyes were bland and sheep-like, its head was closer to that of a goat, and it was ruminating contentedly.

A human head shared its neck, above the other and just forward of the shoulders.

The Preceptor made a sound like someone about to be violently ill who nonetheless had the self-control to fight it back down. Fa’red snapped his fingers and the thing got to its feet.

‘This is how I learned lindrak training methods,’ declared Fa’red, going up to the beast and rubbing the lower head between its ears.

‘You have lost me, Lord Fa’red.’

‘When you, ah, persuaded our King to have his lindraks burn Count Juram’s house in D’loom, you also arranged that the lindraks should be based at my own humble residence. Remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘They came there for refuge with their wounded comrade after they had done their work and started the fire. The man was clearly dying, so the chief of the squad struck off his head and they bade me good evening after stripping off his clothing and weapons.’

‘The lindraks are very pragmatic about things like that,’ agreed the Preceptor.

‘Very pragmatic, to be sure. I was left with a body and a head, and they were very much separate. I had a mind to open a gate to the next paraworld and heave the remains through, but it just happened that I also had a trained voriole in a cage at that time.’

‘A voriole?’ asked the Preceptor. ‘I cannot place the word.’

‘A very rare, enchanted beast with shapeshifter abilities but no intelligence. They can be used to keep wounded people alive while their bodies heal, because they can partly merge with their bodies. An idea came to me then, a very ambitious idea. I made the voriole assume a human-supportive essence and the common, stocky structure that you now see. After making an incision I had it assimilate the severed head of the lindrak. This was all within moments of the other lindraks leaving, but even with such a short interval the operation was perilously close to failure. As fortune would have it, I was lucky.

‘The mind of the dead man was a little damaged, but his memories were whole and he was quite compliant with my orders. I had him brought here and set one of my best Adept assistants to teaching my own people the way of both lindrak and Adept.’

‘A formidable but illegal combination,’ said the Preceptor uneasily. ‘A positively frightening combination.’

‘But very effective. The first of them are ready to be sent out at this very moment, and the training of most of the others is at a very advanced stage. I shall be sending them to Passendof, to assist my brave colleague Gilvier in retrieving the missing dragonlinks and mailshirt.’

‘If he is still alive.’

‘That, regrettably, could be a problem,’ declared Fa’red with something genuinely approaching regret in his voice. ‘I have heard nothing from him for some time. Still, I have contingency plans, so do not worry.’

The human head’s eyelids flickered, then opened to reveal unfocused eyes. The eyes turned to Fa’red.

‘Who disturbs my rest?’ asked a thin, high voice in rhythm with the animal’s breathing. The grafted head’s lips barely moved.

‘Fa’red and the Preceptor,’ said Fa’red. ‘Your masters.’

‘Masters,’ echoed the thin voice.

‘Ask him a question,’ prompted Fa’red.

‘What is the mark of a lindrak?’ asked the Preceptor.

‘The tattoo of a shadow walking upright, on the ribs, beneath the left arm.’

The Preceptor’s jaw dropped and he stepped back a pace.

‘It cost me the lives of three good, loyal friends and a pint of my own blood to learn that,’ he said in wonder.

‘Return to your rest now,’ Fa’red said to the head.

The head’s eyes closed, and it lolled slightly on the neck of its host. The voriole curled up on the floor.

The Preceptor managed to restrain himself for the first dozen steps.

‘That was miraculous!’ he blurted out. ‘Why a man could be all but immortal with the aid of such a beast.’

‘Living like that? Bah! That one only cooperated because I have promised to kill him after I have all that I need. What I need from him is men trained to be like lindraks, or better. They could be very helpful to realise the full power of the mailshirt.’

‘It always comes back to the mailshirt,’ said the Preceptor. ‘Say we seized the mailshirt. What then?’

‘Neither Kings, not lindraks, nor armies can stop us.’ Suddenly the Preceptor seemed to lose patience. ‘Is this why you brought me here? To show me this?’ he asked testily.

‘Yes, in part.’

‘And the other part?’

‘How well disposed is the King to the Marisa River treaty?’

‘Badly, as am I. It would give landlocked Baltoria access to the oceans. Baltoria is a rich and powerful kingdom that might quickly buy and build fleets and eventually dominate our war sloops.’

‘Persuade him to sign it,’ said Fa’red.

‘What? Insanity!’

‘Persuade him to sign it and I shall give you control of these deadmoon warriors. With them your back will be safe from the displeasure of the King.’

The Preceptor was tempted but tentative.

‘But what is so special about the Marisa River, Fa’red?’

‘It is a soft underbelly, Preceptor.’

‘Whose underbelly?’

‘All in good time, Preceptor, all in good time.’

The Preceptor had a dislike of the ceremony of court, and even the fuss of a minor audience with the King was annoying to him. The hospitalier dressed him in a shirt with flared white sleeves under a sleeveless gipon of oak-leaf green. To these were added burgundy tights and pointed slippers.

‘And a mantle, Preceptor – you must have a mantle,’ insisted the hospitalier.

‘This is just a private audience,’ the Preceptor snapped tersely.

‘Ah, but a look of style and prosperity inspires confidence in His Majesty. Clothing is the hallmark of the quality within: His Majesty is always saying that.’

One day it will be different, the Preceptor thought to himself, but for now he accepted a scalloped mantle buttoned at the right shoulder. He was a fit, lean man who led from the front in battle, yet a lean figure was equated with failure in the eyes of the appearance-conscious king.

A door herald escorted him along the plaster-faced corridors of Altimak Palace. He was shown into a balcony suite facing northeast, and the window gave a fine view of the Garrical Mountains beyond the Barrier Ranges. Protocol demanded that he remain standing until the King arrived, and that he face the window until the monarch entered and addressed him. The Preceptor knew and understood the protocols well, even though he despised them.

There was the clack of a latch being raised behind him.

‘Ah! Hail and well may you be, Preceptor,’ came the monarch’s familiar and distinctive voice behind him.

The Preceptor turned, spread his arms and bowed in a single motion.

‘My place to serve you, Sire,’ he responded.

‘Ha, ha, as plain as ever in your robes, I see,’ said the King as he motioned the Preceptor to a chair.

‘I try to make my service and loyalty to you speak louder than my clothing, Sire,’ he replied smoothly.

‘Well, yes, but the feeble-minded may mistake your dour exterior for impoverishment.’

‘Too true, Sire,’ replied the Preceptor, now desperately trying to suppress a fit of laughter. ‘I shall look to my robes with greater care henceforth.’

‘Good, good, I do care about your career, you know. Now then, I have been briefed that you wish to discuss the Marisa River treaty. I must confess to impatience with any part of my realm being given away.’

The Preceptor unrolled a map of the northern province of Skelt on the table between them. A stretch of the Marisa River running from the Chasmgyle Falls on the Baltorian-Passendof border to the seaport of Tol on the Skelt coast had been outlined in red ink.

‘I wish to brief you on an offer of improved terms,’ the Preceptor said as he placed tiny gargoyle scroll-weights to hold the map open. ‘The new proposal is not to give away any land at all. See here, the Marisa River skirts Dragonfrost then turns inland on the plain between the Algon Mountains and the Bravenhurst Ranges. The Chasmgyle Gorge marks the end of the navigable waterway.

‘As you know, Baltoria is landlocked, yet the border is only thirty miles from the sea across north Skelt.’

The King’s nose wrinkled as if a bad smell had intruded upon the air between them.

‘So are you again proposing that we merely give our territory to the Baltorians for their seaway access?’

‘No, not at all, Sire. The Marisa River could well be made into a joint sovereignty, along with Bargehorse Road beside it. That would extend all the way to the Chasmgyle Falls at the Passendof border.’

He traced the stretch in question on the map with his finger.

‘Note well that while the Baltorians get free passage along a mere thirty miles, Skelt gets access to seventy miles of the river through Baltoria.’

The King frowned and shook his head. This was not a bad sign. When he sneered, that meant displeasure. A frown and a shake merely meant that he did not understand.

‘I see,’ said the monarch, slowly and uncertainly. ‘So the Baltorians would still be able to take both their own and Passendof’s produce all the way to Tol by barge, and there unload it directly onto merchant ships. They would avoid paying border taxes and customs to Skelt.’

‘True, Sire, but so too would Skeltian barges and merchants have access to the Passendof border at Chasmgyle.’

‘But we have little trade with Passendof compared to the huge loads of Baltorian goods that are taxed in Tol.’

‘This treaty favours us through what it can become, rather than what it is,’ the Preceptor insisted, tapping the Chasmgyle area. ‘Grain ships from D’loom could go to Tol, and their cargoes be taken by barge to the Passendof border. It would open up a new market for our grain, and eventually lead to who knows what?’

‘There will be a loss of revenue, nonetheless. Most of the barges on the Marisa are Baltorian.’

‘Indeed, but barges can easily be built. Also, if Tol were to gain in importance as a centre of trade, armed merchant convoys would be calling there in greater numbers. This would reduce the number of privateers in the Tanglesea Islands and thus free your patrol sloops for work further south. It would be all for free, too.’

The King peered at the map again, and stroked his chin. The Preceptor noted that he was not frowning, which meant that he perceived an advantage.

‘I could be disposed to agree,’ he declared, sitting back with his arms straight and his hands spread on the table. ‘Where would the treaty be signed?’

‘Why in Skelt, Sire, here in Altimak itself. The crown prince of Baltoria would be instructed to journey here from Hez’ar, as his family and people are the beneficiaries and we are making the concessions.’

The thought of foreign royalty arriving to beg for favours from a resurgently powerful Skelt appealed to the King.

‘This has some virtue,’ he conceded. ‘There must be no loss of territory, mind.’

‘That has been discussed, Sire. The Baltorians would be allowed to build their own piers and pierhouses in the shallows off Tol, while we would be granted a diplomatic enclosure at Chasmgyle, a full hundred yards by two hundred yards, and with our own barge wharf.’

This was the Preceptor’s trump card. The King had an obsession with expanding his realm, and this actually gave him a crumb of Baltorian territory in exchange for nothing. The monarch’s response was not disappointing.

‘Ho then, so the mighty King of Baltoria would trade land for free passage, now there’s the act of a desperate man.’

The King of Skelt was no fool, however, and he now raised the matter of security around Tol – in the light of what would become a large Baltorian presence. There was also yet another hidden agenda. The Preceptor’s civil militia now numbered seven thousand mounted archers and four thousand heavy lancers at Yuledan, a mere fifty miles east of the capital. Since the death of the Adept 14 mage in neighbouring Hamaria there was less certainty about controlling rebellions through the defences of enchantment. The power, ruthlessness and discipline of the Preceptor’s militia made him a good man to have as far as possible from the capital.

‘The new roads that I have been building in the Garrical Mountains are a measure of security,’ the Preceptor argued earnestly as the King thought through strategies. ‘They put the Baltorian capital of Hez’ar within easy reach of my mounted militia, should they decide to abuse our hospitality at Tol.’

‘Oh, the Baltorians are the least of our concerns,’ retorted the King with a dismissive wave. ‘You see if Tol becomes more prosperous, it could become the target for the privateers that swarm about in the Tanglesea Islands, or even some other hostile kingdom. No, Preceptor, the ideal use for your mounted militia would be the land defence of Tol and the waging of war on my behalf in the north.’

The Preceptor was aghast. Not only did he hate t he tropics, this would put him well beyond the Court and substantially reduce his influence.

‘Your Majesty, Bravenhurst, Passendof and Baltoria are our only neighbours to the north, and all are well disposed to Skelt. The privateers’ island kingdoms are too small to be a threat –’

‘Ah no, I’ll hear no more, Preceptor. As you said yourself, the situation could change enormously after the Marisa River treaty is signed. No, my mind is made up. I shall sign the treaty, and your militia will go north to Tol. You will be made governor of the northern province, as a reward for your diligence on our behalf.’

The Preceptor left after further talk about minor details, and the King went to the window and gazed out across a stone courtyard flanked by cloisters. He was rewarded by the sight of the Preceptor striding away in a towering rage, and the monarch laughed out loud as the scholar-warrior tore off his scalloped mantle and flung it back over the head of the pursuing hospitalier.

‘I think he took that very well, do you not agree, Fa’red?’ asked the King without turning.

There was a dull clack as a false panel in a wall swung out, followed by the tread of a heavy man across the stone floor.

‘I do believe Your Majesty’s interests will be consummately served by this treaty,’ the Adept 12 said smoothly.

The King did not turn. He wished to say in truth that he had not set eyes upon Fa’red in months, so kept his eyes averted.

‘I told him to begin moving his accursed mounted militia north today. With most of the Skelt coastline between us and him I should think that even his twenty flying brigades will be distinctly weary should they ever have a mind to come south to attack Altimak.’

The treaty was scribed up and presented to the Baltorian Ambassador for preliminary ratification. Within a day a courier and his escort set out for Hez’ar and four weeks later the Baltorian Crown Prince was standing at the rostrum before the Skelt throne, signing the parchment scrolls that formally gave Baltoria access to the sea.

The Preceptor was by then installed in Tol with his militiamen. It was seen as poor politics to move troops after a treaty had been signed, so the move had to be made in advance. The Preceptor hated the tropics, disliked ships and sea travel, and was now far from all the contacts that he had cultivated so carefully since his humiliation in Hamaria five years earlier. He was surprised, however, that Fa’red now chose to buy a mansion on the outskirts of Tol. The merchant-mage declared that there were new opportunities for trade in the place, now that the Marisa River and its bargehorse tracks were open to free trade.

The Preceptor also noticed that several of the pseudo-lindraks had come with Fa’red. A week passed after the ratification of the treaty, then Fa’red came to him with a certificate of general clearance to be signed for seven riders who were about to go up the Marisa River to the Passendof border.

‘They are to help with the merchants’ enclave at Chasmgyle,’ Fa’red explained.

‘But this certificate clears them to cross the border and continue on to Dremari, the Passendof capital itself.’

‘Well Preceptor, our merchants need help in Dremari as well,’ the merchant-mage replied with no hint of any expression on his heavily scarred face.

Only days later the seven riders emerged from the Passendof Mountains and onto the high plateau. Passendof was a landlocked kingdom almost on the equator, but its altitude made the climate cool in spite of the sun being nearly overhead.

Dremari was one of the most pleasant and beautiful cities in the known world. Its spires and domes gleamed with glass inlay and leadlight windows of many colours. The stones of its exquisite buildings were mostly green, red and dark yellow, and even the walls of the poorer layers of the mighty terraced city were whitewashed and gleaming bright in the sun.

‘The intelligence we have gathered on those three with the mailshirt is disturbing,’ said a thin, gangly rider in words like the twittering of mountain larks. ‘Fa’red will be dismayed to learn that his friend is dead and two more dragonlinks have been woven into the mailshirt.’

‘Nay, they are going well and acting in our interests,’ cheeped their leader like a town sparrow. ‘Three more dragonlinks and the mailshirt will be complete.’

‘And what then?’ asked the thin youth.

‘Then the foundations of this continent’s moribund kingdoms will be shattered, and there will be rich pickings for the strong and swift. Let us hurry, for we must be well established when our brave and clever friends arrive here.’

Their black stallions, imported from Unissera at great cost, had the stamina of horses otherwise found only in bards’ fables. The seven drank up the miles effortlessly and only slackened their pace when they came in sight of the slender towers of the capital, the fortified city of Dremari.

Passendof was like any other of the minor kingdoms in the area. Petty barons squabbled over territorial rights; fortunes were made and lost at the flick of a coin; the tax gatherers were loathed, and the King was expected to dispense justice – and occasionally he did so. His palace towered above the streets of the walled city, a silent sentinel as well as a symbol of power. Its many spired domes and multi-tiered battlements thrust upwards, as if daring the sky to impale itself upon them.

The seven riders passed the customs post in the outer wall with a governor’s certificate from Skelt. The streets of Dremari were well drained and clear of rubbish, offal and excrement, and the citizens went about their business in brightly coloured and well tailored clothing. The Skeltians made their way up the winding streets and steps that led to the higher terraces.

‘So, we are here,’ said the gangly rider, this time in Skeltian. ‘What are we to do now?’

‘Remain alert and wait,’ replied the leader. ‘In Passendof is the last dragonlink that is known to Fa’red. Our quarry knows about that too, so they must come here. We shall be waiting.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then we wait for Master Adept Fa’red. He is bound for this place after he concludes certain business in Skelt.’

‘That could be a long time. The Master Adept travels far more slowly than we.’

‘Ah, but he travels with exquisite timing.’

Chapter

15

Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak arrived at Dremari some weeks later. They paused at the very spot where Fa’red’s deadmoon warriors had viewed the capital. Jelindel and Zimak dismounted and marvelled at the view of the city from a stone wall beside the road. Daretor remained on his horse.

‘I never dreamed there could be such a wonderful city,’ said Zimak.

Jelindel had seen sketches of Dremari in books, but as usual they did no justice to the real thing. For a time they just sat there marvelling that humans like them could have built such a wonder.

‘So, there is said to be a linkrider here,’ declared Daretor at last, as always returning to his vendetta against the accursed dragonlinks and linkriders. ‘It is a big city, and links are very small.’

‘When we are closer I can do a survey from the close paraplane,’ suggested Jelindel. ‘Links show up distinctly there. Besides, the mailshirt will glow on this plane, too.’

Entry to the city was not easy. They had to pass a customs checkpoint, pay an entry fee and prove that they were carrying the equivalent of a month’s wages for their declared trade.

By now Jelindel had forged a charter from Hez’ar’s central Temple of Verity declaring her to be a Mage Auditor, and border papers for Daretor and Zimak proving them to be indentured temple guardsmen.

‘Why do I have to be indentured to you?’ asked Zimak quarrelsomely.

‘Could you pass yourself as a Mage Auditor?’ retorted Jelindel.

‘I look no less a man than you.’

‘But you talk as if you’ve never read a book.’

‘That I have!’

‘Wily Sir Fox and the Flopsicle Rabbit hardly qualifies you to be a Mage Auditor, and even then it took a week for you to read it aloud by the campfires.’

‘I thought it a rather nice story,’ began Daretor.

‘Stay out of this!’ snapped Zimak. ‘I think it would look better if Daretor and I were two wayfarer knights and you were our indentured spellcaster.’

‘No!’ said Daretor firmly. ‘The arrival of two knights would look threatening, perhaps like an attempt by some hostile kingdom to spy upon the defences of Dremari. “Mage Auditor” has the ring of a mere catcher of felons.’

Zimak laughed cynically. He confronted Jelindel by standing between her and her horse.

‘So, Mage Auditor, show me how you lead your men.’

‘I lead by others wishing to follow me. Now stand aside.’

‘Zimak,’ began Daretor, but Jelindel held her hand up to silence him.

‘Stand aside, Zimak, or I shall make you regret this idiocy.’

She made to push past him, but he stepped in front of her, locked right arm to left and swung her back the way she had come in a motion so smooth that Jelindel was not even sure how she changed direction.

She turned, straightened and faced him.

‘Insubordination against one’s Mage Auditor is a punishable offence, Zimak,’ she said, then enunciated a carefully tuned word of binding.

Zimak fell, blue coils wrapped about him and digging into his flesh. His head was free, but the coils were tightest about his ribs.

‘Quite a good one, is it not, Daretor?’ panted Jelindel, drained by the wordcast, but triumphant.

‘Wha– what have you done?’ he gasped, eyes wide. ‘He doesn’t seem to be breathing.’

‘He’s not.’

She walked up to Zimak with feet dragging, managed to step over him, then with some effort swung herself up into the saddle of her horse.

‘Do something!’ demanded Daretor.

‘The word binds for a period set by the Adept who is using it. Set it short and the victim has a very bad fright. Set it too long and he dies for lack of breath.’

‘Set it? You mean it’s fixed?’

‘Yes.’ Jelindel looked down imperiously from her horse. ‘Now, Zimak, do you think you offended me enough to warrant death, or merely a very bad fright?’

The blue bonds suddenly dissolved and shot back to Jelindel. They crackled about her lips for some moments, then faded.

Zimak lay gasping, wheezing in huge gasps of air.

‘Apologise,’ said Jelindel.

Zimak got to his knees, rubbing his ribs but glaring with surprise and anger. Moments passed.

‘I think he needs another –’ began Daretor.

‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ exclaimed Zimak in poorly restrained terror.

‘Now get on your horse and stop behaving like a loon,’ ordered Jelindel. ‘Do you want to come with us or go your own way?’

Zimak stood against his horse, clinging to the saddle for support. The blood had drained from his face and his eyes were unfocused.

‘With you,’ said Zimak. ‘I was … just testing … how you handle … trouble.’

‘Did I pass?’

He nodded sullenly.

When they arrived at the customs post’s outer gates, Jelindel presented a written demand for an audience with the Supreme Marshall. None of the guards could read, so the demand was taken to the presiding accountant. He laughed, but gave her the name of an official within the city and told her not to bother seeking an audience for another two days. Jelindel asked that he write the date when they should present themselves across the bottom of her demand.

When they had declared their assets and trades, and paid the prescribed fees, tips and bribes, they were allowed to proceed. They rode up into the extended terraceworks and patches of housing that were the outer city.

Jelindel pointed out the huge aqueduct that supplied water to the city’s artificial lake. It was a long, curving stone canal on elevated arches of red granite.

The castle towered above the haze of the city in the distance, and as they got above the terraces they saw the lake on the left. Small sailboats and oared water sedans were gliding across the calm surface.

‘Begging your pardon, Mage Auditor, sir,’ said Zimak with exaggerated servility.

‘Yes?’

‘Wasn’t that a bit stupid making all that fuss back there? We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.’

‘Of course not.’

‘So?’

‘The surest way to turn an official’s attention from oneself is to demand his attention. We now have two full days to explore and make contacts. For now we shall find a hostelry of middling quality and I shall sign us into two rooms.’

‘I can do my own signing,’ said Zimak sulkily.

‘A warrior who can read and write is an unusual warrior, and we do not want to attract the wrong sort of attention,’ Daretor chided. ‘I’m sure that was the intent of our master, the Mage Auditor.’

‘Quite so, it was,’ agreed Jelindel.

The hostelry that they chose was close to the inner city walls. Within view was the Grand Promenade Road that led over the moat, through the gates and up to the walls of the palace itself.

While the two warriors brushed down the horses Jelindel went to her own room and barred the door. She spread her reed mat on the floor and lay down to say the word that would take her eyesight and touch onto the paraplane of magical auras.

All at once she was within a field of rainbow glows and sparkles. Door spells, charmed amulets, and the green pinpoints that were Adept 1 and 2 charmvendors glittered all about her, while the enchanted beasts that guarded the moat swam like carnival streamers in the wind through boundaries of permissions rather than water.

An Adept 14’s aura stirred like long fronds of water-cord as she passed, disturbed by her passage yet not quite certain of the disturbance. Other shimmering bands of coloured light were unknown to her, while some centres seemed like pits of blackness far deeper than the backdrop of black that occasionally sucked in a sparkle of light that drifted by.

This was no village, it was a huge and complex metropolis of enchantments and Jelindel quickly became aware of how very little she knew. She knew that hours were probably passing as she explored, yet there was no sign of fatigue. That would come later, when she returned.

There were Adepts by the hundred in Dremari, and dozens of them were at level 8 or above. She also encountered other presences that she did not recognise. The most sinister of them appeared as seven grey globes led by a black globe that was irregular at its edges, almost like a cloud. From a distance Jelindel studied them for some time. If they were aware of her they did not show it.

Suddenly the black globe faded to grey and assumed a regular shape. They began to move, the disguised globe in the lead, almost as if it was bait. All of them extended and uncoiled thin, spiked streamers.

Jelindel trailed after them, staying sufficiently far away not to cause alarm. She soon saw that they were stalking an irregular green shape that was also armed with thin, spiked streamers. The strange hunt did not look deadly, but Jelindel could see the grey globes making their way stealthily through the protective layers of permissions. Suddenly the green shape became aware of the attack and lashed at the elastic grey surface of the disguised globe. Tendrils of force, influence and permissions entangled, then the formation of seven grey globes burst through into that permission domain. They swirled in closer, then coalesced around the glowing green body that was locked in battle with the lone globe. The layer of grey began to contract, but green streamers slashed through the grey surface time and time again.

The conflict ended with a bright flash, then the dimmer grey globes separated and sailed unsteadily away as green sparkles began to appear and grow into globes in the permission domain behind the massive gate spell where the death had happened.

Jelindel guessed that this strongest of gate spells was that of the palace. Within its domain were lesser sparkles that played like butterflies above meadow flowers. In the permissions domain that encircled them were bright red starpoints with sharply defined rays that seemed as sharp and hard as surgeons’ scalpels. They were guard entities that Jelindel did not heretofore know existed.

‘Jaelin!’

She felt the word, rather than heard it. The word cracked out like a thunderclap and grey streamers slashed past her like hair-thin serpents. Though startled, Jelindel was untouched.

Somebody knew her name. Someone was trying to use her name against her – yet Jaelin was not her name, it was the name that she went by, her calling name. The streamers slid back through the blackness to a grey globe suspended between two triangles of similar globes. There was something logical and powerful about the arrangement. They were in a very different domain now.

‘Jelindel!’

This time Jelindel retreated from the speeding, questing streamers as they came radiating out of the cluster of globes.

She felt for the solidity of the mailshirt as pinpoints of pain blazed across her sense of touch like a bath of cold needles.

Suddenly there was a sense of pain that was not hers: of terror, falling, despair, horror – and something losing its form like a snowflake falling into a pan of boiling water. Jelindel opened her eyes and sat up. She was alive and unharmed.

The mailshirt was glowing faintly orange in the cool darkness of her shuttered hostelry room, but even as she watched, it faded back to its usual silvery sheen. No light was seeping past the shutters, for it was now night.

She got up stiffly, drank a mug of water and splashed some on her face. The fatigue of her hours exploring the paraplane weighed on her limbs like robes woven from lead. This was the time to rest and take stock, yet …

Taking a deep breath and gritting her teeth, she lay down again, closed her eyes and spoke the appropriate word.

Within the paraplane there were only seven grey globes now, and they were drifting randomly, bouncing softly off the walls of their permissions domain as if they were drunk. Even as she watched, twelve green sparkles appeared among them and began to grow in size and sprout fanged streamers. The grey globes began to shrink, but two were caught by the barbs of writhing green ribbons of light.

The pair were quickly surrounded, while the others sacrificed part of their grey substance to the grasping barbs and winked into a subtly different permissions domain. Suddenly the luminescent barbs bit right through one globe’s shrinking body. It collapsed, and there was a bright flash as the trapped globe died.

The other suddenly turned black and slashed two green globes with black tendrils that carried blue star-points at their tips. Both detonated in a single dazzling flash. As the light died away Jelindel saw that the black globe was gone too. Did it die with its green victims, or did it escape, she wondered? It was impossible to tell.

Now Jelindel returned to combing the paraplane view of the city for the link. Her reach was much further than the distance that would make it glow in her world, but there was such a clutter of light and movement in the place that she was unsure where to extend her sense of touch. At length she gave up when Zimak began banging on the door and calling out: ‘Jaelin? Mage Auditor? You’ve been in there a long time.’

Jelindel flowed back to the solidity of the mailshirt. She was surprised that daylight was still leaking past the window shutters.

‘Well, learn anything?’ Zimak asked as she unbarred the door.

‘Mage Auditor,’ prompted Daretor behind him.

‘Well, aye,’ she said wearily. ‘The dragonlink is indeed here, and someone has tried to kill me.’

‘What? In here?’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘We were close by, we heard nothing. Who –’

‘It was in a paraplane, but I would have died here too. There were eight Adepts involved, one very powerful, the rest strong enough to be dangerous. They knew my true-name and one of them called it, yet when the boundary of his influence touched the mailshirt … it was as if he was melted and sucked away. Another died in a fight with some local Adepts.’

‘Truename?’ said Zimak.

‘Who were they?’ asked Daretor.

Jelindel ignored Zimak’s question. ‘I could not tell, but there are six of them left now. When they were all alive one always kept aside, and the rest travelled in a tight arrangement. One was at the centre, totally open yet completely covered. “Hof aloos, hik aloos”, is the motto of the lindraks in Old Skeltian. “All open, all closed”. Seven is also the lindrak number of power.’

‘Why would the lindraks be interested in you?’ asked Zimak, as if she were not worthy of their attention.

She patted the mailshirt beneath the sheepskin coat.

‘This thing is important enough to hold the attention of kings, and I am wearing it. Does that seem like a good enough reason?’ She shrugged dismissively, but the night of the fire that killed her family was suddenly fresh in her memory.

‘Well, we should get to bed and prepare to explore the outer city tomorrow,’ she concluded. ‘I’m feeling a bit ragged.’

‘This is tomorrow,’ said Daretor. ‘You were in your trance for a full night and day. A scroll has arrived and four flunkeys dressed in brass and velvet are downstairs, awaiting your reply.’

Jelindel froze with shock in the middle of a yawn. Zimak handed her the scroll, and she noted that the seal had been broken.

‘What does it say?’ she asked.

‘I don’t speak this language,’ he replied sheepishly.

Jelindel unrolled the scroll and read. What colour remained in her face quickly drained away.

‘This is from the King,’ she said when she looked up. ‘A royal summoning. We are commanded to present ourselves as guests of His Majesty’s favour.’

Zimak suddenly seemed as feral as a cornered fox.

‘This is a trap. Last time I was His Majesty’s guest I spent three days in the stocks,’ he said urgently.

‘And I was accommodated in a dungeon when last I did time as His Majesty’s guest,’ added Daretor grimly, his hand reflexively resting on the handle of his axe.

‘His Majesty’s favour means wine, spiced pastries and dancing girls,’ Jelindel explained. ‘His Majesty’s pleasure means bread, water and rats.’

‘He might want the reward that’s on our heads in Skelt.’

‘The King of Passendof, scrambling for a mere three thousand silver argents?’ laughed Jelindel. ‘Zimak, he’d spend more than that on gold beard curlers.’

‘He would?’

‘Yes he would!’ she shouted, growing exasperated rapidly.

‘Now what?’ asked Daretor.

‘We should dress in parade rig … and we should keep our escort waiting about twenty minutes to show we’re not overawed. That’s what my father used to say.’

‘What’s parade rig?’ asked Zimak.

‘Explain to him, Daretor. I’ll be in here having a quick wash.’

Twenty-five minutes later they were riding towards the gates of the palace, accompanied by the ornately dressed footmen on mackrell point geldings. People cleared out of the way as they approached, then pointed and talked as they passed. Parade rig in their case meant clean tunics, clean nails, oiled boots and belts, hair tied back and their horses’ manes and tails brushed.

‘What do I do in front of a king?’ asked Zimak softly, his voice pitched high with fright.

‘Don’t pick your nose or scratch your bum,’ said Jelindel.

‘Or they’ll cut it off,’ added Daretor.

‘Cut what off?’

‘You can find out the hard way if you really want to know,’ snapped Jelindel. ‘Sit up straight in the saddle and stop looking like a rabbit being held over a stew pot! You’re meant to be escorting me because you’re a brave, elite warrior.’

‘So what do I say? “Good day, my liege – ”?’

‘No! He’s not your king, idiot; liege is only for subjects. Just say, “Yes, Your Majesty”, “No, Your Majesty”, “Thank you, Your Majesty”. Also, try to remember the court mage is to be addressed as “Lord Mage”.’

‘Ah, aye, I think I have it. Now, if a princess falls madly in love with me and offers her hand in marriage –’

‘Say, “Thank you, Your Royal Highness”, if she’s the crown princess, and leave out the “Royal” if she’s not. However, Zimak, remember that if you so much as wink at anything female inside the palace walls you’ll be frog-marched off to the headman’s block, and I’ll volunteer to wield the axe.’

‘Aye, all right, just a joke. I know when to stay quiet, Jaelin. You know me better than that.’

‘Sorry, it’s a bad time – for all of us. The, ah, the moons are not in auspicious positions and I have a lot on my mind.’

‘Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,’ Daretor said gravely on Jelindel’s right.

‘That’s good. Speak only when spoken to, bow whenever you begin a reply, and never turn your back on anyone wearing a crown or anything purple trimmed with gold. Oh – damn! Why am I telling you all this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t speak their language.’

Zimak scowled, but gave a sigh that sounded suspiciously like relief.

‘I’d be happier if I knew why the King wants to see the likes of us,’ said Daretor.

‘If we were out of favour he’d have sent guards, not footmen. Try to look alert, lads, not fearful.’

The interior of the palace was meant to overawe visitors, and all three were certainly stunned by the soaring stone arches of red marble, the tapestries as big as all the floors of a rich peasant’s house, and guards in gilded plate armour with winged panthers on their helmets.

Footmen wearing yellow tail-coats took their horses, and they were escorted up a stairway wider than the greatest of the streets of D’loom.

Jelindel noted that Daretor and Zimak were striding slightly behind her, and in the many mirrors they passed she saw that they were both blank of face and rigidly alert. Obviously they were too awestruck by the sheer scale and opulence to deliberately do anything stupid. That was a relief.

The Passendof King received them in a walled garden, where he sat playing chess with a girl younger than Daretor but older than Zimak. She wore blue and orange robes over a red tunic strapped hard against her torso with leather lacings, and was bold and direct in her gaze. When the monarch turned to speak with his guests she lounged back, drawing one leg up on the bench with a rather wanton movement. Jelindel at first assumed that she was one of the King’s courtesans until she saw the gold and purple collar of her gown. A princess.

The King had a flaring black beard and he dressed to impose with padded shoulders and pectoral-quilt breasting, but he was not a big man. His face was sad, and there were crescent smudges under his eyes.

‘Your men must stay by the door, Mage Auditor,’ the court warden explained.

‘Wait here,’ Jelindel translated. ‘The only armed guards allowed near the King are those on his pay register.’

She walked across the green flagstones to the stone furniture where the King sat. Now she noticed a figure standing back among the carved stone tubs and carefully manicured shrubberies. There was something familiar about the man, even though she had never set eyes on him before.

The King was in the process of moving a pawn when he turned and waved the piece at his visitor.

‘Chess is the perfect distraction, do you not agree?’ the monarch asked.

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Jelindel replied after the correct bow.

The monarch turned back to the board, but had forgotten where the piece had come from and to where it was destined. He tossed the pawn to the Princess and again faced Jelindel.

‘Mage Auditor Jaelin, I am pleased to meet the youth behind the legend,’ the King began wearily. ‘Word of what you did in the Valley of Clouds has reached Dremari. Is it true that you slew a master Adept and destroyed a path to hell itself?’

Jelindel bowed and looked up. ‘Your Majesty flatters me unduly. I merely discovered and exposed a dabbler in thaumaturgy who conjured daemons and controlled them. That man was slain by one of his own daemons. I then banished the daemon back to its own paraworld and destroyed the path.’

‘Modestly put, young man. So, now you are in Dremari and you want to see my Supreme Marshall.’

Jelindel’s presumption had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she was not so sure. The King was not obviously angry, but seemed very stressed and distracted. Perhaps it’s some other matter more important than myself, she thought hopefully.

‘Yes, I made that request, Your Majesty.’

‘Why?’

‘A dangerous enchantment is said to have made its way here, to the capital of your own fair kingdom. It is related to that one which afflicted the Valley of Clouds.’

‘Now what of the real reason?’ His tone was soft and bland, but the question nevertheless dripped with distrust.

He is a very sharp monarch and I am a girl pretending to be who knows what, Jelindel reminded herself. Always have a spare story, her father had often told his family over dinner, and now that advice was proving its worth. She took a deep breath, hesitated too long, and had to exhale. She took another breath.

‘The Valley of Clouds supplies the border forts of Passendof as well as Baltoria,’ she began. ‘When the daemons disrupted its services some years ago, your forts and outlying towns fell victim to rebel attacks. Should daemons now appear to prowl your own fair capital, it could be seen as an omen against your rule. Passendof is strong, central and prosperous. It is the key to peace throughout the entire north of this continent. A secure Passendof is considered to be desirable by my masters.’

‘And who are your masters?’

Jelindel bowed yet again. ‘Ultimately, the Temple of Verity and the Verital priests and priestesses. I am charged not to reveal more.’

At that moment there was a deep, rumbling growl to Jelindel’s right, and a huge, spotted cat rose from behind the stone bench and walked into view. It was at once familiar but unfamiliar: massively built like a lion, yet with a finely boned head and a beautiful coat of black spots on gleaming golden fur. It regarded Jelindel with suspicion and growled again.

‘Kasmor, stop that,’ the Princess called. The cat sauntered over and lay at her feet.

‘It’s a lepon,’ the King explained. ‘Half leopard, half lion.’ He made a flourish with his hand. ‘Longrical, come forward.’

The figure who emerged from behind the stone garden tiers near Daretor and Zimak was tall and commanding in stature, yet had the slightly eccentric grooming often seen in those at the top of their profession. His robes were emblazoned with the symbols of a royal court’s master Adept, and all were embroidered in gold. The black cloak that he wore was trimmed with raven down.

The King’s court mage walked forward and stood before Jelindel. The prickly feel of being scanned for her Adept aura swept over her skin. Her recent experiments in the magical arts had built up a weak but adequate aura about her by now, so she did have the touch of a competent Adept.

‘Longrical, this is the Mage Auditor who arrived in the city yesterday,’ the monarch explained. ‘Longrical has been keen to meet you,’ he said as he turned back to Jelindel. ‘He is an Adept 14.’

Longrical looked Jelindel up and down, and something about his manner told her that the man was definitely not friendly. She decided that it would be a good idea to let someone else break the lengthening silence. Longrical obliged.

‘Someone has murdered my prime Adept since you arrived in the city,’ the mage declared ominously. ‘Enchantment was used, even though the attack had all the markings of a lindrak’s work.’

‘I hope you do not think that I was involved, Lord Longrical.’

‘Your reputation preceded you from the Valley of Clouds: a high Adept of few years, escorted by two very capable warriors. Might it not be that those two are lindraks and you are their tame Adept? Where have you been for the day and night past?’

Jelindel’s heart sank. Her aura had brushed him in her searchings, so that he probably recognised her. Worse, she had been locked away alone while Daretor and Zimak were doing … what? She had not asked them – small talk was not one of her strong points.

‘We are here on a dangerous mission. Such is its importance that we are sworn to secrecy.’

‘Answer my question! Where were you?’

‘I was in my room at the Road’s Haven hostelry for the whole time; it’s half a mile from here. Yet … I was elsewhere too. I brushed against your aura once.’

‘That much is true,’ the mage said calculatingly. ‘I recognised yours as soon as I walked in. Note that I am an Adept 14, I can project my senses just over a thousand feet, yet you claim to have projected to half a mile. Are you better than an Adept 14, boy, or did you brush my aura because you were stalking close by the very palace itself?’

‘I was nowhere near the palace, Lord Longrical. I was in my room. As for my abilities, I would not be a Mage Auditor if I did not have exceptional abilities.’

‘Demonstrate them,’ he said shrewdly.

‘I already have.’

‘Demonstrate them here and now!’ he thundered.

Jelindel took several breaths to calm herself. She hoped that her wide-eyed terror came across as outrage.

‘It is undignified to trade tricks like a couple of fair-ground jugglers,’ she managed through a constricting throat. The man’s anger was probably justified, but that did her little good.

‘Oh, but you’re too modest. Come, let us see you escape a simple binding word!’

Jelindel knew that she could do nothing of the sort. She teetered on the verge of panic.

‘No, no, this is dangerous beyond imagining,’ she warned, but the mage shook his head.

‘A little word of binding is quite harmless, except to false pride.’

The royal Adept spoke a strong word of binding, but instead of cutting off as they bound Jelindel, the blue coils kept pouring from his mouth and vanishing into the sheepskin jacket.

It was the mailshirt, she realised. It was somehow absorbing everything, then drawing even more out of the stricken mage. Longrical tottered and struggled, but the vast energies within him kept draining away in writhing, jagged blue traceries that played all about Jelindel without touching her.

He fell to his knees, his face drained white and his mouth still jammed open as weakening coils of blue drained his life away into the fabric of the mailshirt.

By now guards had stormed across the garden to protect the King and Princess, and the lepon was confronting Jelindel with bared fangs and a yowling roar.

Daretor and Zimak were seized and held, yet Jelindel paid them no attention at all. She was being enveloped by a fierce tingling that touched every nerve ending.

‘Stop it!’ commanded the King.

‘I can’t!’ cried Jelindel above the crackling energies and the roar of the alarmed lepon. ‘I warned him but he wouldn’t listen.’

The court mage was finally reduced to a kneeling husk, and he toppled forward to fall on his face. He was dead before he had even begun to fall.

Six silvery globes emerged from his mouth, one by one. They hung in the air before Jelindel’s face, just as had happened when Thull died. They spoke together, and their voices were soft and whispery, like the scuttling of rats’ feet that she had heard from the globes in the D’loom smithy.

‘We are thine to command, as you have vanquished our master,’ whispered the voices. ‘Give thy word and we shall enter thee.’

Jelindel felt distinctly squeamish about the idea. She did not even know what they were.

‘And if I give no command, if I set you free?’

‘In two thousand years nobody has ever set us free. We have great worth, we are passed from Adept to Adept.’

‘Answer my question.’

‘Profound apologies, Lord Adept. If set free we would return to our paraworld, and there would be rejoicing within our flocks.’

‘They would know you still? Even after two thousand years?’

‘Time is different in our paraworld, Lord Adept.’

‘Then I command you to be free and return home.’

The globes began to move, darting about the centre of the group, throwing out coloured tendrils and sparks, and playing textured rainbow lights all over Jelindel. Gradually they faded, and then were gone with a whispered ‘Fare thee well, and retain our thanks.’

Total silence followed. Even the lepon was crouched quietly in front of the Princess, unmoving.

The King, who was by now surrounded by nervous guards, stood up and took several paces towards Jelindel.

‘Did you have to slay him?’ the King asked evenly, gesturing to the dead royal Adept.

‘I did not kill him,’ she replied. ‘He became entangled in one of my defences. He demanded that contest. As you are my witness, Your Majesty. I really did try to caution him.’

‘That you did,’ the King conceded, his eyes still wide with shock. ‘That alone cannot be denied.’

The King looked to where Daretor and Zimak were being held, then glanced down at his dead mage. He locked eyes with the Mage Auditor. The youth was unsure of himself, but far more dangerous than appearances betrayed. He was certainly more dangerous than the King had been led to believe.

‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill an Adept 14, Mage Auditor?’

Jelindel guessed that it was probably difficult. ‘Yes, Sire, but an Adept’s path is a dangerous one. His death was more his fault than mine.’

The King rubbed his hand over his eyes for a moment. Jelindel stood still and silent, guessing that something well beyond her comprehension had just taken place.

‘Adept 14 mages keep the peace in a very real sense,’ the monarch stated, almost as if he were trying to explain something to himself. ‘The kingdoms and empires of this continent have been at peace for two thousand years, apart from minor border squabbles and a bit of piracy. That peace is based on five Adept 14s: one of them was the court Adept in Hamaria until his death last year, another guards a shrine in the far south and has not been heard of for some time. Two others have not been heard of in centuries, and are rumoured to have become lost in other paraworlds. That leaves the man at your feet.’

Jelindel bowed and retained a grave, calm expression, although she was sweating with fear beneath her robes and concealed mailshirt.

‘Your Majesty is well informed and gifted with understanding,’ she replied blandly.

‘There are difficult times ahead of us. I always told Longrical that we should have more Adept 14s, but he insisted that only a very special kind of person could wield such responsibility wisely. Sometimes I think that he and his peers were merely selfish, and jealous of young rivals.’

The monarch looked up from the corpse of the mage and past Jelindel to the door. ‘Unhand the Mage Auditor’s men,’ he ordered.

Daretor and Zimak shrugged off their guards.

‘Stay by the door,’ Jelindel commanded firmly in Hamarian.

Both Daretor and Zimak exchanged angry glances, then Daretor whispered Jelindel’s order in Skeltian for Zimak’s benefit.

A physician finally arrived, and was ushered into the room by two footmen who were wide-eyed with terror. He promptly pronounced the royal Adept dead.

‘Accept my apologies for my Adept’s behaviour,’ said the King, who now seemed resigned and distant.

‘Of course,’ said Jelindel, bowing yet again.

‘I shall order that every assistance be given you in your work. I am convinced of your power, and I must trust that your motives do not run counter to my own interests – for now, at least.’

My next royal audience will surely be easier, thought Jelindel as she watched him leave. Nothing could go worse than what’s just happened.

‘This leaves the royal household in a difficult position,’ the physician explained to Jelindel. ‘Over a single day the palace has lost an Adept 14 mage and his Adept 10 deputy. Only an Adept 9 now survives to oversee the palace defences, and that Adept 9 is me.’

‘I did not kill your court Adept deliberately.’

‘But you did anyway,’ interjected the Princess, who was still lounging on the stone bench, her feet resting on the glaring lepon. ‘You have an obligation to us to guard the palace until Longrical’s Adept 11 brother returns from his pilgrimage to Sunwell Temple.’

‘But Your Highness, I have a search to make.’

‘The palace guard can help with that. You might even find it faster than with just your two assistants.’

‘Your Highness is generous,’ Jelindel replied, unsure of whether this was going to be a help or a hindrance.

‘Royal Highness, as of last night. My older brother was the Adept 10 who was murdered.’

Jelindel gasped. ‘I am deeply sorry to hear that.’

‘There will be a public announcement soon, and I shall be declared heir to the throne.’ She inclined her head a little. ‘You don’t like me, do you?’

‘Your Royal Highness, it is not my business to like or dislike anybody. That would interfere with the sort of work that I do.’

The Princess snapped her fingers and the lepon rose to its feet and climbed up onto the bench beside her. She stroked its glossy fur and caressed its ears, but it always kept a wary eye on Jelindel.

‘My brother was like you, always cold and calm, very serious about his spells, words of power and enchantments,’ the Princess continued. ‘He even kept celibate to maintain his life-force at a higher pitch. It was very hard for anyone to be close to him. In fact even I have much trouble raising an appropriate level of sorrow now that he is dead.’

‘It is the way of the Adept calling,’ Jelindel said.

The Princess did not reply. Instead she looked past Jelindel to Daretor and Zimak.

‘That little guard of yours with the wavy blond hair, sulky face and brown tunic,’ she said, pointing languidly at Zimak.

‘Yes, Your Royal Highness?’

‘He’s cute.’

I have a bad feeling about this, thought Jelindel. ‘He is not of noble birth,’ she said tentatively.

‘That’s all right, I like them witless and pretty.’

The physician came to Jelindel’s rescue.

‘Your Royal Highness, we have need to arrange lodgings in the palace for the Mage Auditor.’

‘Of course.’ She waved her hand airily. ‘You may all go.’

Chapter

16

‘This will be quite a kingdom when the Princess is on the throne,’ Jelindel commented as they inspected their new lodgings.

‘That Princess, she’s just brimming with style,’ Zimak said as he unpacked his few possessions on a huge bed.

‘Just you keep such thoughts to yourself or her father will give you an orchidectomy,’ warned Jelindel.

‘I – what’s that?’

‘They cut off your orchids.’

‘What orchids? I don’t see – What! Oh no, they wouldn’t, they couldn’t!’ bleated Zimak, his smile collapsing with dismay. ‘I’m a loyal citizen of Skelt.’

‘You’re also a fugitive from Skelt travelling on false border papers,’ Daretor pointed out. ‘Keep your hands to yourself and behave. And use those Hamarian phrases I have been teaching you. Use them whenever you can. It’s best not to advertise where we are from, for there are bounty gleaners about.’

The Adept 9 soon arrived and conjured guard spells for their doors and windows. Jelindel argued that she could do it herself, but he was adamant that the job was his.

That night Jelindel made a very detailed inspection of every stone, panel and plank in her room, and was gratified to find two narrow access ways. Even though they smelled musty and long disused, she jammed both shut, then added guard spells. As was her usual practice, she pushed at the bed but found it fixed to the floor.

When she lay down, it was on the floor beside an inner wall.

Slipping onto the paraplane of magical auras, Jelindel was surprised to find the linkrider almost at once, and apparently close to the aura of the physician. If it was indeed within the palace this potentially made the job of finding it easier, but that of obtaining it harder, given the palace protection. The sinister grey globes were nowhere to be seen, but a single bright sparkle of brilliant blue abruptly popped out of a snarl of domains in the mass of auras and spells that was the city. It flew high and unprotected, making for some domain that was so distant that Jelindel could not see it.

A scatter of larger predators flapped after it on billowing streamers of wings, but the bright entity was far faster than they, and had the advantage of surprise. Jelindel was curious as to its nature, but not sufficiently so to follow it.

That very night a strange bird arrived at the homing coops of the Preceptor in Tol. The communicard picked what appeared to be a black pigeon from the outer roost, only to have it crumble to dust in his hands.

Badly frightened, he took the thin brass case that had been on the bird’s leg and rushed to the Preceptor’s study. The Preceptor was reading by lamplight, bare-chested and swatting at mosquitoes with a whisk of angelwing birds’ feathers.

‘Heat and mosquitoes are no respecters of position and power,’ said the Preceptor, looking up with a gloomy expression on his face. ‘What do you want?’

‘This – this just arrived!’ blurted the communicard. ‘A, a thing brought it, not a bird.’

The Preceptor’s expression immediately hardened, his eyes becoming sharp and intense. He held out his hand for the capsule, examined it, then broke the minute seal on the sleeve. Within was a roll of reedbond tissue, and on that was script in black squid ink.

Longrical is dead. Assemble your militia for war games between the edge of Dragonfrost and the Marisa River. Mobilise the peasant reserve and declare it to be just training. Prepare to invade Passendof.

The Preceptor touched the tissue to a lamp flame and it vanished in a puff of brightness.

‘How many Altimak birds do you have?’ the Preceptor asked his communicard.

‘Twelve, Preceptor.’

‘Then arrange an accident. Have all twelve escape, is that clear?’

‘Yes Preceptor, but, but about that bird that brought the message. It just crumbled to dust –’

‘It was just a test of an enchanted carrier. It worked very well. One must keep up with the latest trends in communications, do you not agree?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Go! Carry out my orders and tell nobody about that bird under pain of death. Understand?’

‘Yes, Preceptor.’

Far to the east, in Passendof, the deaths of the crown prince and court Adept were announced some days later. They were pronounced to have been from an accident during a particularly danger ous experiment in the alchemorium. The city of Dremari was plunged into a half-month of official mourning.

The funeral was held at the end of the fortnight, and was as lavish as befitted such an ornate, rich and magnifi -cent city. The two coffins were carried on black war elephants wearing full battle armour, and even the King and Princess were together in the cortege.

Nobility from all over the mountain kingdom flocked into Dremari to pay their respects, and all foreign ambassadors, envoys and visiting nobles were there in formal robes and wearing black sashes of mourning. One was the ambassador from Skelt, who was wearing both his King’s coat of arms and that of the Preceptor. Jelindel shivered as he went past, but he paid her no attention.

The linkrider continued to elude her, although she frequently noted his nearness as she combed the city from her paraplane perspective.

Daretor kept Zimak busy in the inner city, enquiring after anyone wearing a glowing orange ring. It also kept Zimak at a safe distance from the Princess.

With the funeral over and the palace returning to normal again, Jelindel decided to pay a visit to her two assistants while away from their lavish quarters. The guard spells that the Adept 9 had left on the doors had an option invoked that was suspiciously like a sound well, and Jelindel was nervous about speaking her mind there.

The Muleteer’s Arms was a large and rowdy tavern at the edge of the market. The alehall held upwards of two hundred drinkers and was full as Jelindel entered. Predictably, Zimak was conducting an exhibition bout of barefist against all comers. Daretor sat patiently to one side, minding the youth’s tunic, shortswords and purse.

‘Has fortune attended your searches?’ Jelindel asked as they sat watching Zimak fighting someone twice his weight.

‘We could be closing in. One of the loafers was seen to wear a glowing ring on the first night that we arrived.’

‘Good. His name?’

‘Charapax Brinkle. He works in the palace gardens sometimes, shovelling lion turds and suchlike. Nobody seems to know him very well. He was alarmed at the glow from his ring, and vanished for about a week.’

‘The gardens. So, he has access to the palace.’

‘Do you think the linkrider is also a lindrak assassin?’

‘The dragonlink was not near when I saw the Prince murdered from the paraplane, but time and space are very different there so who knows?’

‘The Princess makes me wonder,’ Daretor speculated. ‘She shows remarkably little sorrow for her dead brother, and that is not an honourable attitude. She gained most by his death, because she is next in line for the throne.’

‘A heavy show of grief could also be seen as suspicious,’ Jelindel suggested. ‘Do you have a description of the linkrider?’

‘He is perhaps twenty-five years of age, and of a build like mine, apparently. He has a short beard and hair a little deeper blond than Zimak.’

‘When was he last seen?’

‘Why, only this evening but that was the first time in a week. He was not wearing the link, according to my informant.’

‘He might have it in his pouch, or be wearing it on a toe inside his boot. Is your informant still here?’

Daretor indicated a potbellied carter with a shaven head and a silver ring through the bridge of his nose. A year ago Jelindel would have fled in terror at the very sight of him. Now she just went straight up to him without a thought and paid two silver coins to talk with him about Charapax Brinkle.

Within a quarter hour she had sketched a good likeness of Brinkle and noted down as much as anyone probably knew about the man.

The sun was down by the time she set off for the palace, leaving Daretor to watch over Zimak. Jelindel was nervous, because only every third street lantern was burning as a sign of respect for the dead Prince, and the streets were unfamiliar and dark.

After a year on her own, Jelindel had learned to tell when she was being followed. There were two of them now, taking turns to be here and there as she passed. She knew their build, their height, their outlines after a few minutes. They knew that she was aware of them and she realised that she was being herded to wherever they wanted her.

Jelindel had her own alley skills as well. Turning a corner she immediately dropped to her haunches amid the shadows and drew her cape up over her head.

Footsteps approached, passed, receded, then pattered back and passed again. She waited for several minutes to be satisfied that they were really gone. When there was no further sound Jelindel straightened against the wall. As she stepped out into the street again she suddenly noticed fading patches of blackness on the cobblestones. Lindraks! They could walk in silence by evoking the enchantment which changed sound into black patches. They might be closer than – suddenly something glided into view!

Jelindel panicked. She said a word of binding and spat blue ribbons that snared the lindrak’s legs and arms. Immediately her own legs buckled and she cursed herself for having flung too much of her life-force at the man. Where was the other lindrak?

The bound lindrak began a twittering, cheeping alarm call. Jelindel drew her shortsword, but her arm felt as if it were clothed in woven lead.

The other lindrak appeared in the distance. Jelindel backed against a wall, trying to present the smallest profile possible.

The lindrak began spinning something that glittered in the light from Blanchemoon’s crescent. He twittered as he approached and the bound lindrak cheeped softly in reply. Twenty steps away, ten, five, four –

Something streaked past Jelindel with a rolling growl and leaped straight at the advancing lindrak. The lindrak went down under the sheer weight of muscle and bone. A glittering cord tangled about one leg of the huge, wolfish thing that buried its muzzle in the lindrak’s throat. The lindrak’s knife flashed in his hand but before he could stab the beast, it lifted him from the ground and snapped his neck with a mighty twist of its head. After a moment it turned to regard Jelindel. Two huge dagger-fangs hung down from the wolfish snout: a sabre-toothed wolf.

As Jelindel watched in morbid fascination the sabretoothed wolf slowly went limp and toppled over. She clumsily sheathed her sword and crawled over to its body. The weighted cord around its right forelimb was lined with barbs glistening with something wet and acrid smelling.

Jelindel was wearing gloves, and she untangled the cord from the huge beast. Suddenly the blue coils released the bound lindrak and shot back to enmesh Jelindel’s head as they poured strength back into her body.

The lindrak lithely sprang to his feet and flung another weighted cord at her, but she caught it on her arm … an arm covered by chainmail beneath the sheepskin coat. She stood for a moment, feeling the points that pressed against her skin without actually piercing it, then she calmly spoke a lesser word of binding that ensnared the lindrak’s legs without draining her so very badly.

The lindrak chattered a litany of sounds. The alley brightened as his whole body began crackling with violet fire. The coils binding his legs began to disperse and waft in the gentle breeze.

Jelindel drew her shortsword with a prayer to whatever gods might be listening. The lindrak swept towards her.

Jelindel was never really sure what happened next, but her impression was that the sabre-toothed wolf revived sufficiently to seize the lindrak’s leg in its jaws as he passed. Jelindel joined in, and there was a desperate melee of blades, teeth and claws, slashing flesh and scraping across chainmail.

When Jelindel awoke she was lying on her back with a roll of soft cloth beneath her head and a female face just above hers lit by yellow torchlight. The headpiece that she wore was that of a priestess of the Temple of Verity.

‘The lindraks,’ croaked Jelindel.

‘Both dead,’ said the priestess soothingly. ‘I do not know who trained you, Mage Auditor, but they should be proud of their good work. I have never even heard of anyone killing a lindrak before.’

‘There was a sabre-toothed wolf,’ said Jelindel, looking about. ‘It – it seemed to help me.’

‘I saw no wolf. My name is Kelricka – ah, what are you doing?’

‘I have to warn –’ began Jelindel, but the world spun around her as she tried to get up.

‘Let me help, my Lord Adept,’ said Kelricka. ‘Ah, is that the correct way to address a Mage Auditor?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘I did not even know that our order had such an office as Mage Auditor,’ Kelricka began.

‘Please, help me to walk,’ Jelindel hastily cut in. ‘I must get to my friends and warn the Palace.’

Kelricka helped Jelindel to stand, then ordered two of her guards to take the dead lindraks to the city watch-house while another went with her and Jelindel.

The alehall of the Muleteer’s Arms fell silent as Jelindel entered. She had not realised what a spectacle she presented, being streaked with blood and grime, and supported by a Verital priestess dressed in gold and crimson robes.

‘Which of you are the Mage Auditor’s men?’ shouted Kelricka.

A purseguard came forward, anxiously wringing his big, meaty hands.

‘A man came in here and said the Mage Auditor had just killed two lindraks, but was wounded and needed their help.’

‘I – damn!’ exclaimed Jelindel hoarsely. ‘Was he about twenty-five, with deep blond hair and a short beard?’

‘Aye.’

‘Damn – your pardon Holy Kelricka. Please, could you help me to the Palace? I would not ask unless this was most desperate.’

‘My duty and pleasure, gracious Mage Auditor.’

The palace was undisturbed when they arrived, but the physician came running to Jelindel’s room as soon as he heard the news. By then Jelindel was in a trance and scanning the paraplane’s lights. Only her ears registered the flurry of talk and explanations going on around her body.

She quickly found three grey globes in the process of degrading a guard spell of considerable strength. Just then the voices of Daretor and Zimak joined the others.

‘The King,’ Jelindel said, working her jaw and tongue from the remote paraplane. ‘Three lindraks are attacking him.’

Footsteps pattered down flagstones into the distance as Jelindel returned to her own body. Only Kelricka and her guard remained in the room as she opened her eyes and sat up.

‘Stay here!’ ordered Jelindel as she stumbled out into the corridor, but the Verital priestess and her guard came after her anyway.

At the entrance to the royal suite’s wing there were palace guards battling other palace guards, and the lepon was shaking something black like a ragdoll, apparently trying to break its neck.

Zimak had cornered a lindrak and was fighting the lithe, shadow-like warrior with what appeared to be two broken table legs chained together, while Daretor was using twin axes to hold back three palace guards from the door to the Princess’s chambers.

Jelindel made for the King’s chambers. The door was locked. Kelricka’s guard ran at it, but bounced back from the heavy panels without effect.

Jelindel went around to the upper cloisters and looked across to the windows of the King’s chambers. A rope hung ready by the light of Reculemoon.

Leadlight glass suddenly burst outwards, and the shadows in the window seemed to deepen for a moment. Jelindel spoke her word of binding just as a figure leaped. Her blue coils pinned his arms before he could seize the rope, and the cry he gave as he fell was more one of baffled rage than terror. It was cut short by a dull and ominously final thud.

By now the other lindrak and traitorous guards were dead, and Jelindel shouted to Daretor and Zimak to run down to the little stone courtyard while she stumbled along behind, exhausted and supported by Kelricka. Behind them some guards were using a table to break open the doors to the King’s chambers while the lepon stood guard before those of the Princess Royal. Daretor and Zimak were standing over the lindrak’s body as Jelindel arrived.

Just then there was a distant crash as the doors to the King’s suite gave way, followed by a howl of anguish a moment later when the guards found the monarch to be dead. This was followed by the shrieking of the Princess Royal as she learned the news.

‘There is one more assassin to be found, but to me he appears to be an Adept trying to disguise his aura as a lindrak,’ Jelindel panted as she got her breath back.

‘This lindrak’s still alive, but he’s going to croak as surely as a bullfrog in love,’ said Zimak, nudging the ink-black shape with his toe.

Jelindel bent over the lindrak, whose face was painted with charblack, and bleeding from his fall. For all that, there was something familiar about the face.

‘Hullo … little sister,’ whispered the dying youth.

‘Lutiar!’ Jelindel gasped.

‘Jaelin, what does he mean?’ exclaimed Zimak.

‘Jelindel … she is …’ Jelindel’s brother rasped painfully.

Jelindel stood back. The room seemed to reel in crazy circles. Indecision tore at her. He was part of her that had been inexplicably snatched away. But now … here he was. Lutiar. Flashbacks snapped before her eyes like lightning. Lutiar laughing; Lutiar scaling the east wall and falling, fracturing his elbow; Lutiar being praised by their father for deciphering a particularly hard code; Lutiar … sly Lutiar, over-ambitious Lutiar, lying, social-climbing Lutiar.

The surprise faded from Jelindel’s face, to be replaced by hate and contempt as she hastily assembled a handful of facts to draw one horrifying conclusion.

‘Jelindel?’ gasped Kelricka. ‘As in Jelindel dek Mediesar?’

‘You’re a girl?’ exclaimed Zimak.

‘So, this is how the lindraks got past the guard spells and bullhounds of our father’s mansion,’ Jelindel said, looming over her dying brother’s face. ‘You let them in!’

‘That afternoon, ’guised as some of my student friends,’ he admitted, fighting for each shallow, wheezing breath.

‘So they ate with us even though there was murder in their hearts!’ An image of R’mel flashed before her. No wonder he had been so intent on joining the court dance. It was an almost obligatory dance for any banquet attendee, single or not; the one time in the evening when everyone would be in the dining room. The moment to strike.

‘Lutiar … was there so much hatred in you? … You had everything!’

‘Pah. Second son of … a count. Nothing son. I was stronger, a better Adept, more worthy than … damn eldest. Aye, I let the lindraks in … but then I abandoned them, joined the deadmoon warriors. Deadmoons, they take … only the best, bravest. Proved I was … best, bravest.’

‘Brave enough to murder and burn your own family?’ Jelindel cried, nearly hysterical with rage and loathing. But he was her brother! How could his accumulated hatred have manifested itself like this? She strode away from his crumpled body, then turned abruptly and paced back to him. ‘Answer me, damn you!’

‘Brave … brave enough to kill a king,’ her brother whispered.

‘Stupid enough to miss the Princess Royal, and to miss me.’ She felt the helplessness of life itself. What a waste of a human being.

He began a low, gurgling laugh, but it quickly became a bloody splutter. ‘Glory … glory to the Preceptor … great teacher. He will unify –’ He coughed, and blood dribbled down from the side of his mouth.

‘You’re a girl?’ Zimak said again. ‘No wonder you never pissed with Daretor and me – and what the hell is a deadmoon warrior?’

‘So it was you in the D’loom temple four months ago,’ said Kelricka. ‘Students and priestesses swore that they saw you alive, yet the gate guards thought they fought a boy who matched their martial skills. Word spread that it was a shapeshifter, because the real Jelindel could never have fought like that.’

‘Six months living as a boy in the market taught me a great deal, Holy Kelricka,’ Jelindel said wearily.

‘This secret must remain between us here,’ Daretor warned.

Lutiar coughed more blood, and gasped sibilantly as he fought for breath. He looked to Jelindel and his lips moved, but he did not have the breath for words.

‘He bleeds inside and drowns in his own blood,’ Kelricka said.

‘He has nothing more to say that would interest me,’ said Jelindel, tears coursing down her cheeks. She made to stand up but could not.

‘But he’s your brother,’ said Zimak.

‘A brother who was evil enough to murder his own family.’ Her voice was a monotone.

Daretor bent over to examine Lutiar. ‘His pulse has ceased,’ he reported.

Jelindel turned away and was violently sick on the cobblestones, retching over and over again between sobs of dismay and anger. Most of all she resented the shame that Lutiar had brought upon herself and their family. At least he did not live to see me throwing up, she thought as she sat back on the cobblestones, the early warning signs of a bad headache behind her left eye and her stomach was racked with cramps.

Kelricka ordered her guard to fetch water, then knelt beside Jelindel and drew her close.

‘Mind your robes, holy mistress,’ Jelindel croaked. ‘I’m a mess.’

‘Shush, Jelindel, you have done enough and it’s time that others looked after you.’

‘No, I’ve one last duty,’ she replied with her eyes closed. ‘Daretor, take your axe and strike off Lutiar’s head. He may be feigning death by some lindrak trick.’

‘Jelindel?’ Kelricka said, shocked. ‘He’s of your own blood!’

Jelindel clenched her eyes shut against the pain. ‘And in my memory he shall always be!’ she said forcibly. ‘But he cut those mortal ties when he … turned.’

‘He called himself a deadmoon,’ Kelricka pointed out as Daretor drew his axe again. She shook her head, silently pleading for more time with Jelindel. ‘Was he really a Skeltian lindrak?’

‘There are dozens of names for the lindraks; what is one more?’ said Jelindel, who was uninterested in arguing. ‘They look like lindraks, they fight like lindraks and they twitter like lindraks so they are lindraks! Come now, Daretor, make sure he’s dead,’ she said with finality.

The full consequences of Skeltian lindraks murdering the Passendof King were swift and terrible. All known Skeltian subjects from the ambassador to stallholders in the market were ordered to be seized and executed within a handful of days.

Daretor could speak Hamarian fluently, and Jelindel could speak eleven languages, but Zimak knew little Hamarian and was inclined to use the Skelt tongue in public without thinking. Thus it was that Daretor spent much of his spare time teaching him basic words and phrases in Hamarian, but they knew that anyone who exchanged more than a few phrases with the blond, wiry youth would know him for a subject of the enemy.

Being the new monarch, the Princess formally declared war on Skelt, but there was little that a landlocked kingdom with no common border with Skelt could do aside from closing down all trade and slaughtering every Skeltian subject within reach. Some courtier soon remembered that a Skeltian enclave existed right on the very border at Chasmgyle. It was in the free trade and movement zone on Baltorian land, but the Marisa River treaty stated that ‘All persons doing business with either Baltorian or Skeltian merchants should have free and unimpeded access’. The Princess Royal decided that revenge was included in the word ‘business’, and despatched three hundred of her elite royal lancers to destroy the Skeltian enclave.

Jelindel continued to work in the library of the palace Adept, taking notes in her fine, small script. She made frequent trips to the library of the local Temple of Verity as well, and it was on one of these trips that Kelricka invited her to use their baths.

After not having gone fully naked for more than a year, Jelindel felt intensely vulnerable as she lowered herself into the warm water of the creamy stone tub. Kelricka was already in the next tub, with soapsuds spilling out onto the salmon-pink tiles.

Two neophytes took Jelindel’s clothes away to be laundered, while another unbound and washed her hair. In the year since she had cut it the new growth had it down past her shoulders again.

‘I have waited a full year for this bath,’ Jelindel said as soon as the neophytes were gone. ‘Sometimes I wondered if I would ever again have one.’

‘You have led an incredible life in that year, Jelindel. Who would ever imagine a girl of sixteen surviving while disguised as a youth, killing lindraks, even learning magic to … well you must be at least Adept 9 magic – and without a master!’

Jelindel thought before answering. It was transparent that Kelricka doubted her Mage Auditor status. ‘Most of that was luck.’

‘Luck is no more than being alert for the right opportunities.’

‘Luck is also having a fairly thin figure – so far.’

Kelricka settled further into her suds and warm water and closed her eyes while Jelindel inspected some of the scars and scratches that she had collected.

Neophytes who were actually older than Jelindel brought in pitchers of warm water and poured them into the tubs so that both overflowed. One whispered to Kelricka before they left again.

‘I caught something about clothing,’ said Jelindel.

‘No secret is safe from you, Jelindel,’ Kelricka laughed. ‘Your clothes have been washed and are being dried on the thermocal’s stone pipes. Measurements have been taken as well, and a new set is being made in the same style, but of more durable and pleasing fabric.’

‘Oh. Ah, my thanks. I – this was not necessary.’

‘Of course it was. Tomorrow is the coronation of the Princess Royal, and you have to look your best.’

‘Yes, and the Adept 11 will be back tomorrow morning, so that I shall be free to go.’

‘Indeed? I shall soon be going as well, to the Great Temple in Arcadia. I leave this afternoon, so I shall miss the coronation. I am taking the aqueduct boat to where the waterway system joins up with the South Caravan Road at Headport. Will you be going by the South Caravan Road, too? We could travel together if you were to overtake me.’

‘If fortune allows it, why not?’

The priestess gestured with a suds-shrouded hand to the rack where Jelindel’s mailshirt was hanging.

‘That is very old,’ she said. ‘It is also from beyond our world.’

‘From one of the paraworlds?’ asked Jelindel.

The priestess shook her head slowly, then extended an index finger to point straight up through the skylight in the roof.

‘One thousand years ago there was a great war in the firmament, yet it had little effect on our world. There were moving lights in the sky, flashes and sparkles, and then something celestial fell and hit a Hamarian river. It left a flooded crater a league in diameter. A body descended as well, hitting the ground very hard. It was wearing that mailshirt.

‘Soon after that, mysterious strangers arrived in search of the body, but the Hamarian prince of the time had burned it by then. His mage-advisors had counselled him that it had fallen from the heavens, and so it should be returned to the heavens as smoke.

‘The strangers had swords of lightning and rode black chariot-birds, according to the chronicles that survive from that time. They were shown the ashes from the pyre, and they removed some metal amulets and devices that had been unharmed by the flames.’

‘And the mailshirt?’ asked Jelindel.

‘They asked about the mailshirt, but the first man to reach the body was a poor carter. He knew that a fine suit of chainmail was worth more than a lifetime of his earnings, so he took it from the body before anyone else arrived. The strangers eventually left, and the carter tried to sell the mailshirt to a local warlord. The warlord had him killed and took the mailshirt anyway. The trouble was that it gave him such strange visions that he soon grew too afraid to wear it.’

‘Visions. It would have been complete then. What sorts of visions, I wonder?’

‘The obscure texts say no more than what I have told you. After a few decades the warlord’s grandson’s armourer began using links from the mailshirt to repair other suits of mail, and it was found that the individual links and the main body of mailshirt glowed when they were near to each other.’

‘Perhaps it was a simple mechanism to allow lost links to be recovered,’ Jelindel suggested.

‘Quite probably it was just that. Nobles began wearing them as rings, and very soon it was discovered that the links could draw the fighting skills out of one wearer and bestow them onto the next.

‘Several dozen links were removed thus, but they caused such chaos and mayhem that the famous mage Gri-Lagric sealed the remains of the mailshirt in a lead casket and formed the order of the White Lancers. Each of their leaders wore a link on a thong around his neck, and by the glow of the links they managed to hunt down twenty of the scattered dragonlinks.’

‘I have read a little about Gri-Lagric,’ said Jelindel. ‘He bled green when he died by the knife of an assassin. Perhaps he came from the sky but went about disguised as one of us. Perhaps Thull was another of the sky people as well … but if they are so powerful, why do they not descend from the sky at the head of legions of green-blooded warriors riding chariot birds and wielding swords of lightning?’

‘I do not know. However, there have been green-blooded warriors searching here for years in secret, I’m sure of that. You see, if the rightful heir to the mailshirt is a celestial king then he could take it by force from the warrior who finds it, tossing him a mere bag of gold if he were feeling generous. My feeling is that the complete mailshirt is worth more than a thousand bags of gold.’

‘Why?’

‘Why, oh yes, why? Nobody from this world knows that question’s answer.’

Jelindel struggled with a thought before she spoke it. ‘If this chainmail has been around for a thousand years … well, I think it odd that the sky people have taken so long to locate it.’

Kelricka smiled. ‘Very clever. My own idea is that time moves at different speeds in some paraworlds.’ She pursed her lips in thought. ‘The life span of an insect might be several days of our time, yet for the insect it would seem a hundred years. These green-blooded beings might outlive us as we outlive insects. A year of their time could be a hundred of ours.’

‘What an unusual idea,’ Jelindel said wonderingly. ‘Yet now that I think of it, I have met some … beings who said that time in their paraworld runs slower than in our world.’

Kelricka sighed contentedly and slid further into the scented water. ‘Once the old church discovered the links’ potency, they declared them holy relics. The current owners, vain men all, were easily tracked down by their mighty deeds. It has been documented in certain texts that mention of the links was punishable by death.’

‘Praise the unknown gods that such chronicles were not lost during the Great Cultural Purge last century.’ The thought churned Jelindel’s stomach. ‘So many learned people – entire cities – sacked and laid waste.’

‘The Forbidden Library was also razed. Fortunately its administrator at that time had had a premonition. She relocated many priceless tomes. Even so, much knowledge was lost.’ Kelricka rang a bell chime. ‘It’s getting cold.’ She paused in indecision. Then her mind made up, she said, ‘Let your quest take you to the seaport of Centravian, Jelindel. Ask me no more on this matter. I have just broken a vow.’

Jelindel returned to the palace with her new clothing after promising Kelricka to be at the aqueduct dock in the mid-afternoon. She had insisted on bidding farewell to the priestess.

Beneath Jelindel’s sheepskin coat the mailshirt was again glowing with the nearness of the other link. As she sat reading in the court mage’s library, the physician arrived in search of her. Protective enchantments were required for the next day’s coronation, so the two of them went to the Princess Royal’s chambers and applied their work to the garments and regalia for the ceremony.

After an hour the physician was past the edge of his skills and quite exhausted. He left Jelindel to finish the work while he went to fetch them some lunch.

All the while the lepon was stretched out on a wide stone windowsill, watching Jelindel speak delicate traceries of pink fire into the royal crown.

‘Where is the link, Charapax Brinkle?’ Jelindel asked without turning her head.

The lepon growled deeply and tensed its muscles.

‘That would be a stunningly stupid idea, Charapax. I have powers that you could not dream of, and a sealed note resides in a safe place explaining everything. If I should not return from this chamber that note will become very, very public.’

Jelindel turned to face the lepon now, and saw its throat seeming to shimmer as if crawling with burnished copper ants. It slipped fluidly from the window and sat facing her.

‘What do you want?’

The sound was like Zimak speaking into an empty tankard to make a deeper voice.

‘So then, shapeshifting is considered to be a weapon,’ said Jelindel. ‘Where did you get the link?’

‘I clean turds from the palace beastarium. One day watch great sabre-toothed wolf die, very old. I like, feed him for years, I tell him my sorrows and hopes. He change to man as I watch. Naked man, but wear little ring. He hold up ring and say, “Live better as beast, my friend. Take this.” He die. I wear ring, learn shapeshift. Learn ten shapes. Princess like lepon best, make lepon favourite.’

‘So the sabre-toothed wolf was you?’ Jelindel asked.

‘That me. You seemed like ally. I need your help to protect mistress. How did you know about me?’

‘The scent of the paralysis oil on the lindrak’s cord which entangled you betrayed it as one specific to humans only. I know the scent well from my time in the D’loom marketplace, for it is used by physicians to stop the struggles of patients who need teeth extracted. Thus a sabre-toothed wolf that toppled under its influence had to be a human with a sabre-toothed wolf’s form. That could only happen with a human changeling.’

‘You clever, very clever.’

‘I must have the link, you know. It is a dragonlink, something very dangerous.’

‘If you want expose me, you do it already. Why not?’ ‘I want the dragonlink. I have no interest in you.’

He growled, but it was a spiritless imitation of menace.

‘Without link I am carrier of turd pails. Nothing man. As royal lepon I have caresses from Princess. I have more of Princess than even fancy boy lovers. Fancy boy lovers die. Princess sets pet lepon on them in morning. Very nasty for them. Very tasty for me. Taste like pork. Princess always loyal friend to lepon, she tells all secrets to lepon.’

‘Why not give me the dragonlink and remain a lepon,’ Jelindel suggested.

The thought had obviously not crossed the shapeshifter’s mind. He sat pondering for a time, then got up and padded over to her.

‘Back outer toe, feel carefully,’ he said, holding up a back paw.

There was a fearsome claw, a rough pad of skin, and something hard and circular with fur glued to it. The link came away after some careful manipulation, and a glow spilled out from the inner surface. Jelindel dropped it into her pouch.

‘Good fortune be with you,’ Jelindel said as the lepon turned and sat facing her again.

‘Princess tell me secrets,’ he said. ‘Princess has fancy for your blond guard. On night of crowning she has mind to bed him, then … I have live breakfast in morning. Lovers tell no tales.’

‘Indeed,’ Jelindel said slowly, unsure if what she was feeling was fear, anger or jealousy.

‘She has made tryst with him for night after crowning. You save him, yes? You friend of him.’

‘“Friend” is putting it a little strongly, but thank you.’ Jelindel stood up, her legs unsteady.

‘Mage Auditor, I have many more secrets, terrible secrets but I love my princess. For all what she does terrible things, I forgive her.’

‘Say no more, lepon. If I should learn too much I might become dangerous.’

The physician returned with a servant carrying their lunch on a tray, and they finished their work as they ate. Jelindel tossed a chicken drumstick to the lepon, who snapped it out of the air.

‘It trusts you,’ said the physician in amazement.

‘It recognises me as another of the Princess’s guards. It’s an understanding between equals. The Princess is still his mistress.’

‘Maybe so, but you still have a way with animals, Mage Auditor,’ declared the physician.

‘I ought to, after travelling with two for over a year,’ Jelindel replied with a wry smile.

Chapter

17

After lunch Jelindel went straight to the library of the palace Adept with a pack over her shoulder. She questioned her motives for what she was about to do. Finally she reasoned that her actions were strictly altruistic. She owed Kelricka something for breaking a holy vow. Besides, in these war torn days, ancient texts were safer in temples than in palaces that were prone to insurgency and attack from neighbouring states. Her earlier conversation with Kelricka reminded her that history was all too full of cultures being obliterated by conquering armies.

She carefully selected fifteen of the best books, slipped another two about word configuration and use under her sheepskin coat, then tidied the remaining books and arranged them according to size and the colour of the covers.

Even someone familiar with the library would have had trouble working out that anything at all was missing, let alone which titles.

That afternoon Jelindel went to the city gates and climbed the steps to the aqueduct dock. Three priestesses and their guards were climbing aboard a narrow boat with buffers all along its edges. The current flowed past swiftly, and the polemen stood ready to cast off.

Kelricka was still on the narrow stone quay as Jelindel came panting up the stone stairs.

‘Could you take these south to the Great Temple for me?’ Jelindel asked. ‘They are … donations for the Forbidden Library.’

‘Thank you, yes. But –’

‘Don’t ask, whatever you do, just don’t ask. Now go, Holy Kelricka.’

‘Is there anything I can do in return?’

‘Perhaps. Look … when I have found the other dragon -links I would like to apply to become a neophyte at the Great Temple.’

Kelricka beamed at the words and raised her hands to embrace Jelindel – then forced them down to her sides again. Jelindel was meant to be a youth, after all.

‘There are tests, and strictures on entry, but I shall do all that I can and more when you arrive.’

They parted without any embrace, just curt bows. A priestess seen embracing a youth in public would simply never do. Kelricka stepped into the boat and the polemen cast off. The current in the aqueduct carried the padded boat away swiftly and smoothly. Kelricka turned and waved several times until the aqueduct curved around a terraced field and was lost from sight.

‘How far does the aqueduct take the boats?’ Jelindel asked one of the waiting polemen as he helped to untie the next boat in its rack.

‘The very border of the Kingdom of Serpentire, lad, and the headwaters of the Serpentire River – that’s the town o’ Headport. They should arrive by midnight.’

‘Midnight! So quickly? Are you sure?’

‘I does the trip twice a month. The water flows swiftly, and all we has ter do is keep the bow from the walls. At Headport wheel frames are strapped ter the boats and oxen haul the boats back up here loaded with various goods.’

‘There are barges on the Serpentire River, I hear.’

‘Aye, a much slower current takes ’em down ter the very eastern sea o’ Laka. Horses an’ rowers brings ’em back up.’

Jelindel inclined her head and crossed his palm with several coppers. ‘You’ve been most helpful,’ she said.

The morning of the coronation dawned clear and bright, but clouds began gathering even as the sun cleared the nearby peaks. Zimak was dressed in the finest clothes that Jelindel had ever seen him wearing, but Daretor had refused all offers from the palace tailors.

The actual coronation was held in an ancient stone circle on a terrace high above the city itself. After the ceremony, the new Queen was driven into the city in an open carriage guarded by the elite Palace Lancers.

At Jelindel’s suggestion Zimak and Daretor climbed to the aqueduct dock for a better view of the queen as she passed below, and Jelindel even lent Zimak her farsight to watch the parade all the better.

‘The boy is besotted with her,’ Daretor observed as he stood back holding Zimak’s tankard.

Jelindel nodded as Zimak called out, ‘There she is! She even has the lepon sitting beside her in the carriage. Aye, what style!’

Jelindel touched Daretor’s hand, then sprinkled a pinch of greyish powder into Zimak’s tankard.

‘You know what you are doing, I presume?’ asked Daretor.

‘Just saving his life.’

By now all the onlookers atop the aqueduct quay were cheering themselves hoarse and flinging petals down on the procession as bells rang out from every tower and trumpets blared.

‘I sold our horses this morning and packed the most part of our bags for delivery to this quay,’ she shouted in Daretor’s ear.

‘So we are leaving now, but you sold our horses?’

‘Look behind you.’

A small charter boat stood ready, straining at the aqueduct’s current.

‘No crew can be found for the trip on coronation day, so I’ve said that I have a man of my own.’

‘Where is he?’

‘You’re him.’

Daretor did a double-take.

‘But what about the dragonlink? We have not yet found the dragonlink.’

Jelindel patted her pouch. ‘It’s here. The man who wore it had more honour than the linkriders we have met already. He gave it up quietly, and even seemed relieved to let it go.’

‘You are amazing!’ Daretor exclaimed.

Jelindel held the tankards as Daretor ducked behind a stack of shell boats to change into the sandals and blue drawstring pantaloons of the aqueduct boatmen that Jelindel handed to him. When he returned she pushed forward to Zimak and held out his tankard.

‘Here’s a charge for your voice!’ she called, and Zimak took a deep gulp before handing it back.

Daretor tossed his clothes into the shell boat before selecting a pole from a rack on the wall.

Jelindel emptied Zimak’s tankard into a drain and set it down, slowly counting to eighty and watching Zimak out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to swoon in slow motion, held up by the people crowded around him. The farsight fell from his fingers. Again she pushed forward and pulled him away from the edge, snatching up her farsight as well.

‘Giddy, aye, I’ve lost my legs yet I’ve had barely four tankards,’ he said as she put his arm around her shoulder.

‘Daretor says you’ve toasted the Queen’s health two dozen times,’ Jelindel cried out above the din.

‘You’re juss jealous … o’ her beauti … full, ah …’

‘Come on hero, over to the water and dunk your head.’

‘Mus … be well. Big revel. Big ass, er … big assignment … tonight.’

‘I think you mean assignation. Come on, down these stairs and step here.’

‘Wooo, tower’s falling!’ he cried as he stepped into the shell boat.

‘Nothing’s unsteady, that’s your own legs wobbling. Lie down and sleep now, you’ll be as fit as a bull in spring by tonight.’

‘Jaelin, I’ve never set foot on one of these things in my life,’ pleaded Daretor.

‘Just stand there and look bored – and hold the pole up straight. I watched a boat leaving yesterday. There’s nothing to do that we can’t learn.’

Jelindel sought out the clerk of the quay and got him away from the edge of the aqueduct long enough to pay his fees and bribes, and to get an official stamp on their scroll of passage.

‘Ye have a qualified boatman, then?’ he asked.

‘That’s him,’ Jelindel said, jerking her thumb back at Daretor.

‘Ah – don’t know him.’

‘He’s from the Hamarian aqueduct in the southern Garrical Mountains. I’m told it’s faster and narrower than this one.’

‘I’ve not heard o’ that one.’

‘I want to get to Headport alive. Would I lie to try to get myself killed?’

‘Aye, all right. Hurry along then. The parade’s passing and one doesn’t see a coronation parade every day.’

Jelindel got into the boat. She cast off and the craft began to move with the current. Daretor knelt in the bow area, nervously prodding at the stone walls of the aqueduct.

Jelindel looked back and waved confidently to the clerk of the quay, who was looking after them. He waved back and turned away.

‘This is moving faster,’ said Daretor.

The boat was moving at the speed of a cantering horse, and Jelindel was torn between binding Zimak to the boat and allowing him to float free if they capsized. As she tied their bags and packs down she remembered that she was still wearing the mailshirt, which would weigh her down if they were pitched into the water. What to do? Take it off or leave it on? Decisions, decisions, she thought to herself, then decided to hope that nothing would go wrong.

The aqueduct curved and the quay was lost to sight. Jelindel sighed with relief. The boat continued on its way, and Daretor managed to keep the craft straight. Suddenly the aqueduct emptied out into a vast lake.

‘Now what?’ asked Daretor.

‘Um, I don’t know,’ admitted Jelindel.

‘Those red things on the water are in a straight line. Perhaps we should follow them.’

The pole just reached the bottom, and they steered across the lake following the red buoys. Again the current picked up, then they went down a slipway funnel of stone and the speed increased until they were moving faster than Jelindel had ever moved in her life.

Jelindel realised that she was screaming and Daretor was kneeling in the bows with his head down and his fingers digging into the padding. Zimak was fast asleep, oblivious to everything.

The boat was half full of water when they finally settled into another small lake. They bailed it out, and entered the next aqueduct. Slowly Daretor developed a method of keeping the boat in the middle of the aqueduct. There was a rhythm, he proudly explained to Jelindel.

‘Not too bad for a landlubber,’ he boasted.

‘I’ll leave it to you,’ she replied.

Several hours passed. By now Daretor had become too weary to continue and Jelindel had to take over. Within a further half hour she was in turn exhausted, but Daretor was rested and able to take over by then.

What hurt worst of all was the way they had to wave cheerily to those on the stone quays that they passed. They were soaked and chilled by the constant splashing and spray, made worse by the chill mountain air rushing over them as the shell boat hurtled along.

As they passed across yet another lake Jelindel discovered the tentcloth splash baffle, neatly folded in a locker at the bottom of the boat. While enduring Daretor’s curses she wrestled the baffle into place. The ride became more tolerable, and presently the air warmed as they descended through the mountains.

‘We can’t travel like this in the dark,’ Daretor called back as the sun dipped below the peaks.

Jelindel rummaged in a locker, and found a shielded lantern packed beside a tinderbox. By good fortune both had survived the earlier dousing from their amateurish boatcraft. After some time and many curses she managed to light the lantern.

The aqueduct’s current slowed. They entered a wider canal with reeds and bullrushes growing along the sides. They soon realised that the light was essential when the boat rammed into a tangled mat of ribbon reeds. The strut for the unused deepwater rudder at the back became snagged.

Daretor jumped aft with his sword drawn.

‘Steady!’ warned Jelindel.

‘I’ve little experience in boats, Jaelin, but I think I can master this one!’

The boat rocked and Daretor rode the motion with a newly practised shifting of his body weight. It was when he hacked down with his sword that his weight tilted the boat too far.

Daretor’s arms went out to steady himself, but in that moment he lost his grip on the sword – which had wedged into a rotting log beneath the surface. He jerked over to retrieve it and the darkening waters swamped the splash baffle.

‘Daretor!’ Jelindel screamed. ‘Stop it! We’ll capsize.’

The boat rocked back as he eased the pressure. He placed his leg over the side and into the water until it stopped against the log, then heaved. His sword came free at once and the boat rocked right back until the water poured in through the splash baffle’s access.

Jelindel clung desperately to the thin wooden railings as Daretor lost his grip and fell into the reed-choked water, his arms flailing.

The boat rocked back again, with water now sloshing about inside. For a moment Jelindel thought it was sinking. She had to save Zimak, she thought in alarm. If he should drown in a drug-induced stupor, she knew she would be responsible for his death. She unhitched the cord holding down the splash baffle to drag him out.

Daretor’s head appeared for a moment, covered in reeds. ‘Jaelin, can’t swim!’ he gasped as he thrashed about.

He can’t swim! Jelindel immediately reached out for him, lost her grip and rolled out of the boat as well.

Jelindel could not swim either, and worse, she was wearing the chainmail beneath her sheepskin. She breathed water for a moment as her feet kicked against the submerged willow log, then she felt her hand wrenched. The cord of the splash baffle was tangled around her wrist. She dragged herself back to the surface.

‘Daretor!’ she spluttered as her head broke the surface beside the boat.

She caught hold of the side, then moved hand over hand along the boat’s gunwale until she reached the middle. Daretor was nowhere to be seen. He’s gone, she thought frantically. I’ve lost him. He’s dead.

Then something gripped her leg and gave a sharp tug. Horror-stricken, Jelindel clung tightly to the boat. It rocked wildly as something tried to drag her under. Daretor surfaced and squirted a mouthful of water at her, then he stood up until his waist was clear of the water.

‘But I don’t need to swim when I can walk,’ he added to his earlier cry.

Jelindel hauled herself back into the boat and lay there panting and shivering.

‘Daretor, that was the most foul of tricks –’

At that moment the boat tore free of the ribbon reeds and began to drift with the current.

‘Hie, wait,’ called Daretor.

Jelindel seized the pole and held it out to him. Daretor was pulled off his feet and free of the bank of ribbon reeds.

‘My sword, it’s back there!’ he cried.

‘Damn your frackard sword! We’ll buy you another, we’ll buy you two! Hurry, climb aboard before something else happens.’

Daretor hauled himself along the pole to the boat, then up and over the gunwale. Jelindel held her breath and clenched her teeth as he flopped into the boat. His weight rocked it down to the waterline but it did not cap-size. The boat was by now gaining speed as it was swept along with the strengthening current. Jelindel slumped back, in relief, and was amazed to see that the flame in the lantern had survived all the dousings of the minutes past. Whoever had designed its housing was a genius.

‘If you want to play tricks,’ she panted, ‘throw mud next time we’re on the bank. Don’t muck about in the boat.’

‘Gah, a small revenge for tricking me,’ Daretor chuckled.

‘What?’

‘Into playing poleman.’

‘That petty revenge nearly had us stranded on that reedbank while Zimak drifted off with the boat.’

‘You could have snared it with a binding word,’ he countered dismissively.

‘According to my new books, dryland magic doesn’t work well over water,’ snapped Jelindel. ‘Besides, I’ve not practised the form of a snare-word yet.’

Daretor simply said, ‘Oh,’ and looked sheepish. She doubted that he really regretted anything.

Little of their spare clothing was dry after the incident at the reedbank, and the miles that followed were cold and miserable. Reculemoon and Blanchemoon marked off the hours in the sky as they travelled, and the sky was cloudless. The quays that they passed were lit by torches and signs in the darkness, and villages were distant scatters of light set further back.

At long last a larger mass of lights appeared in the distance ahead, and by now the water had slowed to the speed of a leisurely walk. Upon reaching the town of Headport they got the boat to a quay and tied up, but only after a great deal of floundering and splashing. When a wharfjack asked how they had enjoyed the trip, Jelindel replied that it had been so quiet that one of their number had fallen asleep.

‘Never heard the like,’ the wharfjack said, amazed. He returned to his station shaking his head.

They lifted Zimak out of the boat and carried him over to another wharf where the river barges were moored. One of the barges was due to leave just as Jelindel called out to the master, and they struggled up the gangplank carrying Zimak and their packs. Jelindel had sealed their papers in a roll jar, and she quickly uncorked it and ran back ashore to get the stamps for their entry to the long, meandering Kingdom of Serpentire.

They were in motion by the time Blanchemoon and Reculemoon were coincident at two hours before midnight, and they passed the border obelisk into Serpentire just beyond the town walls.

Jelindel tipped the cook of the big barge to let them dry their clothing by his hearth, and he lent them blankets from the store. Daretor and Jelindel were asleep within moments, lying beneath the stars while Zimak snored nearby.

Zimak woke as dawn broke over the Serpentire Plains. He did not appreciate the wonderful, luminescent splashes of colour above the green, fertile plains – which told him that the mountains of Passendof were long, long gone.

‘What! Where are we? Where the hell is this, then?’ he wailed.

‘You’re still alive,’ muttered Jelindel irritably, every muscle in her body aching and the rough blankets itching her skin.

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘You were invited to the chambers of the new Passendof Queen last night –’

‘Damn you, Jaelin! How did you know that?’

‘Magic. Magic also told me how many swains that lepon of hers has eaten.’

Zimak swallowed, tried to find words, failed. He realised that apart from his cap he was naked under the blanket. He swept off his cap and flung it into the water, then hunkered down with his back to the bows.

‘How long have I been drugged?’ Zimak demanded.

‘All night and half a day,’ Daretor informed him.

‘We can’t have come so far in such a short time.’

‘Look around you, dummox,’ Daretor said, sitting up stiffly and waving an aching arm at the horizon. ‘These are the Serpentire Plains. We rode the aqueduct down from the mountains in a single half-day and night.’

‘Aqueduct? What aqueduct?’

Explanations took quite some time. Jelindel fetched their now-dry clothing from the galley and they dressed amid the bales and sacks that were the cargo.

‘Who undressed me?’ muttered Zimak.

‘Daretor,’ Jelindel snapped back.

‘She didn’t want to look down on the out-of-work,’ Daretor added.

Zimak cursed them both, then went to the bow to sulk alone.

The sun was warming them by the time the cook brought them soupy stygr bush tea and date cakes. Zimak had eaten nothing for a day by now, and he reluctantly joined them for breakfast.

‘What I want is a big tankard of mulled ale and a beautiful maid on my knee – who has no voice!’ declared Zimak.

Daretor cringed back and awaited the explosion that he knew was building up within Jelindel. He was not long in waiting.

‘What you want! What you want!’ shouted Jelindel. ‘What about what I want?’

‘You want books by dead people – and limewater,’ sneered Zimak.

‘Well I want a bath, with clove and cinnamon scented soap and rose scented bath salts, with twelve servants to carry more hot water in, and another twelve to mop up everything that spills. And I want my hair down to my knees again, and to wear it unbound, and cut crystal combs to groom it. And I want a honeynut pie with as much sour cream as fits on the plate!’

‘I was wondering –’ began Daretor.

‘I want a green silk overrobe with a collar of woven, teased goosedown, and a saffron tunic, and kid leather slippers with brushed silk lining. When I go out I want a lounge cart with proper springs, and it’s to be pulled by twenty strong guardsmen who have all had a bath and are wearing clean tunics, and two more guards holding harlgen plume sunshades, and a maid with a ring-tassel fly whisk, and another spraying essence of mint to drive away the odours of the market.’

‘Look, I know –’ Zimak knew defeat.

‘And I want a nice goblet of lathe-polished crystal full of chilled juice from hand-watered grapes, and a machine shop with ten skilled artisans who will make whatever devices it takes my fancy to design – like a farsight tube of polished brass, with moonfish bone inlay and rubies for rangestops, and nice lenses ground to a tolerance of one ten-thousandth of a tig from clear crystal with a main glass as big as the palm of my hand.’

‘A slab of crystal that size would cost three thousand argents,’ Zimak pointed out, but Jelindel ignored him.

‘I want a tower of greenstone and polished aurelite with an open roof so that I can study the moons, stars, planets and comets.’

‘We should reach the Serpentire and Vilder confluence in six days,’ Daretor commented, looking at a passing milestone.

‘I’d like a trip down the Serpentire River on a big, comfortable barge, with a crew of one hundred, and two months’ supply of roast walnuts and almonds coated with nice, sticky Nerrissian delight.’

Jelindel turned away from them and stared out across the grasslands. Daretor turned back as the welcome silence lengthened.

‘We’ll ride along the river,’ he said to Zimak. ‘We can check at each town until we reach the sea port of Centravian. Lots of people pass through there. Perhaps one will have a link. The mailshirt will glow – it’s the one thing we can depend on. That reminds me, Jelindel got the dragonlink back in Dremari. We can get it looped in at the next town that has a discreet armourer.’

‘Maybe we could work our way down the river on these barges,’ Zimak suggested. ‘That way we travel faster, and even by night, like. We could keep watch on the mailshirt by shifts.’

‘I’d like enough books for the entire voyage,’ Jelindel continued, her back still turned on them. ‘I want a librarian to keep them orderly, and to clean off the dust, mould and book-mites. By night I want lamps burning extra-virgin olive oil for clean, bright flames, and with polished silver reflectors.’

‘Two more links,’ sighed Daretor. ‘They will be harder to find. I can feel it. Maybe months, maybe years.’

‘Months or years of listening to Jaelin complain,’ added Zimak.

‘Every year I want a birthday revel and only people who can read will be invited.’

‘Should have known learning to read would get me into trouble,’ grunted Zimak.

‘Only girls will be invited, girls who bathe at least once a week, who have clean breath, no lice, and who have read at least thirty books. I’ll burn sandalwood incense and serve plates of candied locusts, and riverwort hearts stuffed with honey and crushed palm nuts from North Bravenhurst. We shall drink limewater chilled by snow brought down from the East Algon Mountains by runners.’

‘Jaelin, please!’ shouted Daretor, holding his head.

‘I for one would prefer you as a boy again,’ Zimak muttered.

‘And I for one like being a girl after so long. My name is Jelindel.’ She paused, reflecting on the unfamiliar sound of her real name. ‘Would you believe that?’

‘Jelindel – that’s a pretty but powerful name,’ said Daretor. ‘But I – I don’t think that we could continue with you as a girl, though. Don’t you agree, Zimak?’

‘What did Ellien see in you that I lacked?’ asked Zimak, breaking out of his own thoughts.

‘Common courtesy and someone who asked her what sort of day she’d had.’

‘What? How am I to get a leg over by talking about pouring beer and washing tankards?’

‘See what I mean?’

There was a long and awkward pause. Presently Daretor cleared his throat.

‘Jelindel, what are you going to do now?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I want –’ she began, but Zimak threw his hands up to his ears.

‘Oh no, not again!’

‘Zimak, shut up!’ Daretor snapped impatiently.

‘I want to help you two find the last two links, and to do that I would probably function better as a boy,’ Jelindel answered.

‘Jaelin, welcome back,’ said Zimak, and Jelindel could not help but laugh. Daretor and Zimak willingly joined in.

‘One day I shall return to robes and unbound hair again. I’ve been thinking that perhaps I shall become a neophyte in the Temple of Verity.’

‘You’d become a priestess?’ gasped Zimak. ‘What a hideous fate.’

‘Well, I’m technically a countess just now, and it’s hardly a pleasure.’

Later that day they stopped at the first of many Serpentire river ports and found an armourer to join the lepon’s link into the mailshirt. Jelindel made sure that nothing but cold steel was touching the link when it was split.

Chapter

18

Behind them there were events unfolding that would forever change the face of Q’zar. The lancers of the new Passendof Queen made a stately journey through the mountains to the town of East Chasmgyle, then stopped, rested, had their armour and weapons polished and acquired fresh warhorses from Baltorian merchants. They then attacked the new Skeltian trade enclave without warning.

The enclave had only two dozen troops and another twenty staff and their families. They fought bravely for an entire day, but the place was not built for a siege. When it fell, the Passendof lancers slew all within, whether men, women or children. They then posted the declaration of war to the ruins and hastened back over the border before the local Baltorian garrison was sent to intervene.

One family who had been visiting Baltorian friends, however, returned to find carnage, ruins, and a declaration of war with Skelt nailed to the gatepost and signed by the new Queen of Passendof. They hired a barge that very morning and set off for Tol. Upon reaching the Baltoria-Skelt border they were overjoyed to discover that the Preceptor was exercising his mounted militia in full campaign rig.

The Preceptor was known to be decisive, and he reacted to the news of the massacre so swiftly and firmly, one might have guessed that he had advance warning.

The Baltorian Governor of the Marisa Province had meantime dictated a strong protest to the Passendof Governor across the border, and he despatched riders to his own King with the news. The journey, however, would take them three weeks even at the hardest pace that could be managed.

On the very night that they left, the Preceptor struck with a swiftness and ferocity that had hitherto never been seen on the continent.

Publicly he reacted to the news of the Chasmgyle massacre with righteous anger, but in private he was delighted. He had authority to wage war should war be declared on his King, and such a declaration had been affixed to the ruins of the Skeltian enclave. His entire force of mounted militia was on the Bargehorse Road beside the river within the hour. Riding at a forced pace they travelled the seventy miles of the treaty road to Chasmgyle and there paused only to view the vanquished merchant enclave.

They stormed across the Passendof border to the Chasmgyle garrison’s fortress before the local commander had even realised that he was under attack. The gates were open and the setting sun was at the Skeltian militia’s back as they galloped in on their exhausted horses. The mere three hundred Passendof lancers and local infantry were no match for the elite Skeltian militia -men who outnumbered them by nearly thirty to one anyway.

Not a single Passendof defender was left alive within the walls of the fortress by the time sunset had faded from the sky. Every horse in the nearby town of East Chasmgyle was seized, and a brigade with the Preceptor at its head went on into Passendof on fresh mounts. Reculemoon gave them good light, and within another day ten strategic bridges and crossroads had been seized and blocked against Passendof forces. The Preceptor was within sight of Headport on the Serpentire border before he paused with his remaining militiamen and blocked the Nine-arch Bridge over the Serpentire River.

His troops caught up with him four days later, and reported that a dozen fortresses and outposts had either fallen or were under tight siege. Every village had an officer and five militiamen stationed in it to break up any attempts to organise resistance, and this proved very effective. Whenever these were set upon and killed the entire village was put to the sword and the houses burned. Such measures, however, were needed only twice before word spread.

The little wayside fortresses of Passendof that held out against the onslaught had been built and manned to extract tolls from mountain caravans, not to withstand an invasion. One by one they surrendered as their small stocks of supplies were exhausted. These men were treated well, as incentive for others to give up easily, but when siege engines had to be built to crack the more stubborn fortresses and citadels, none of those within were spared when the walls finally fell.

The invaders had moved so fast that bridges could not be destroyed in their path, and those few Passendof troops who managed to escape and give the alarm were not believed until it was too late. Back in the northern province of Skelt the Preceptor’s deputy mobilised every man who could hold a weapon and put them into barges and carts to pour into Passendof along the free trade corridor. The Governor of Baltoria sent alarmed messages south to his King, pointing out that while the Skeltians were entitled to do such a thing under the strict letter of the Marisa River treaty, it did not seem to be within the spirit of what had been agreed to. By the time the monarch’s reply arrived, Passendof had fallen to the Preceptor.

It took only a fortnight for the Preceptor to gain total control of the roads from Chasmgyle to Headport. By the time he laid siege to the capital he had been joined by twenty of Fa’red’s deadmoon warriors – and Fa’red was still within the walls of Dremari. The deadmoon warriors were masters of disguise, and dressed as Passendof irregulars they infiltrated the great and beautiful terraced city with Fa’red’s help and seized prearranged towers on the walls. The Skeltian forces swarmed in virtually unhindered, and the fighting to subdue the inner city lasted less than two days.

The Queen of Passendof surrendered her throne to the Preceptor exactly four weeks from the day that she had declared war on Skelt. On that very same day the Skeltian King had finally received word that Passendof had declared war on Skelt, and that the Preceptor was retaliating in his name. The King sent urgent despatches to Tol ordering the Preceptor south for consultations before engaging the Passendof army.

The Preceptor now controlled an area nearly half that of Skelt.

‘You were right about that mailshirt,’ the Preceptor said as he and Fa’red gazed out over the mountains from the Great Balcony of the Monarch’s Leisure in the Dremari palace.

The Preceptor lounged on the vanquished Queen’s throne, while Fa’red stood beside him with his arms folded. The Queen’s lepon had died defending her as the Preceptor’s men cornered her in the palace, and its skin now adorned the greenstone railing at the balcony’s edge. The Preceptor’s pennons were flying from all poles within sight and at a distance the city seemed almost undamaged by the short, sharp siege. Repair work had already begun on the towers.

‘So it is confirmed,’ said Fa’red, not so much in answer but as if he were thinking aloud. ‘Any Adept using magical force against the wearer of the mailshirt will be drained of life and killed. Apparently it is merely a minor property of the mailshirt, too. Would you believe that?’

The Preceptor shook his head in wonder. ‘If it can kill an Adept 14 with its minor properties, what are its major properties?’

‘They are probably beyond our comprehension, Preceptor, but we should not need them to realise our ambitions.’

‘Nevertheless, I want them investigated. Where is the mailshirt now?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘What?’ exclaimed the Preceptor, rising from the throne and facing Fa’red with his fists clenched.

‘Those three young outlaws escaped with it on the day of the former queen’s coronation,’ Fa’red explained.

‘But – but how then was the Adept 14, Longrical, killed?’

‘I … set up a confrontation with the girl who was wearing the mailshirt –’

‘Girl!’ exclaimed the Preceptor.

‘– which Longrical very foolishly blundered into. I tried to seize the mailshirt from her on the same night as I ordered the King killed. The damn wench killed two deadmoon warriors that I sent after her and damn near saved the King as well. Still, they were identified as lindraks, and that touched off the war very nicely.’

‘Who in the name of Black Quell is that girl?’

‘The late Count Juram’s daughter, Jelindel,’ said Fa’red. ‘My deadmoon warriors were supposed to despatch her – but there is a lot more to the girl than I suspected. Her name of calling is her truename, however, so she will not be a problem should she ever think to challenge us with enchantment.’

‘That’s some comfort. What did you do to catch her and her companions?’

‘I sent another enchanted messenger bird south, ordering twenty of my deadmoon warriors here, but by the time they arrived the girl and her own two warriors were long gone.’

The Preceptor bowed his head, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Those extra twenty of your elite assassins saved me a lot of trouble in the siege when they eventually arrived,’ he said with resignation.

‘Yes, and you now have a strong and beautiful city from which to rule your new empire,’ said Fa’red.

‘Damn, but we are still at risk, for all this triumph!’ shouted the Preceptor, his frustration overflowing as he turned to gesture across the mountains and city.

‘Not so,’ laughed Fa’red, clapping him on the shoulder as the echoes of his outburst died away. ‘The girl has done what I would have done anyway. Two of the five Adept 14s died of their own researches, two I killed while the mailshirt was mine, and the last died in this very palace. Five from five is zero, Preceptor. There are no Adept 13s, and Adept 12s are merely dangerous but vulnerable mages. One stands guarding your back at this minute.’

The Preceptor’s shoulders drooped as he sighed with relief. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

Fa’red puckered his lips. ‘Shall we say … certain entities – powers not of this world are bestowed upon Adepts who defeat their peers in combat. Should this girl have accepted the powers – and she would be a damn fool if she refused them – she could rightly claim to be an Adept 14.’

‘This is preposterous!’ the Preceptor snapped. ‘You never said anything of the kind!’

Fa’red smiled wanly. ‘Having powers and knowing what to do with them are two entirely different matters. Trust me, Preceptor; have I ever failed you in the matters that really count?’

The Preceptor shook his head, then he descended the steps from the throne to the railing. With his hands on the soft fur of the changeling lepon’s skin, he gazed down on his new domain.

‘Full-scale war is again possible, and the world is suddenly open to all comers,’ he declared to the wonderful panorama. ‘I shall be first. Nevertheless, I feel nervous with the girl out there. And the mailshirt. Whether we still need it or not, I want it found.’

‘In time it will be found,’ said Fa’red soothingly, ‘but in the meantime you have a continent to conquer.’

The Preceptor leaned forward, his hands clasped. After some minutes of thought he turned to Fa’red.

‘How many of your deadmoon warriors remain back at Firebrand Castle in Skelt, Fa’red?’

‘A hundred in total.’

The Preceptor fixed him with a cold, serious stare and asked calmly, ‘Could they wipe out the lindraks?’

Fa’red whistled and ran a hand over his scarred and almost hairless features.

‘Given time, perhaps, but …’

‘Strike now and I could conquer Skelt without having to fight another major battle! That would leave me free and strong to strike out at some other kingdom. Well?’

‘Preceptor, no more than twenty of my deadmoon men back in Skelt are the equal of an average lindrak as yet, but – no, it’s too dangerous.’

‘But what?’

‘Six of my deadmoon warriors are Adept 10 mages, and all are back in Skelt. The lindraks’ Guildmasters forbid their number to mix thaumaturgy with their training, they say it confers too much power. An Adept 9 or 10 rides with them and conjures the enchantments needed for their work. I have had no such qualms, of course. I have another dozen Adepts ready to begin deadmoon training, but they could fight by enchantment alone.’

‘That’s good enough for me. Despatch one of your enchanted carrier birds to Firebrand. Tell them to go in stealth to the woods near Blacklight Castle. There they must wait to –’

‘Blacklight Castle! Preceptor, that’s the lindraks’ very stronghold.’

‘Yes.’

‘My deadmoon warriors are good but not so good that they could storm Blacklight.’

‘Overwhelming odds, speed and surprise are what wins battles, Fa’red. Here we have speed and surprise, so that may be enough. There are never more than fifty lindraks, because they are an elite brotherhood. Two to one might be enough. Prepare two birds, and send my message to Firebrand Castle with one of them. I am returning to Skelt with as much haste as mortals can manage.’

‘And the second bird, Preceptor?’

‘Send it to the Skeltian King in Altimak, exactly two weeks from today. I shall dictate a very, very insulting message for him.’

When the Preceptor returned to Tol, it was with all the speed that a relay of despatch horses and a fast-oared barge could provide. Awaiting him was his King’s earlier demand that he come to Altimak at once, along with a cage of pigeons tagged as Altimak returns. He made no reply, but instead set off down the coast with his fleet of nine war sloops and a marine cavalry transport.

Blacklight Castle was near the coast, and was held in fear by the local peasants. They had no communication with the dark and deadly lindrak warriors who rode back and forth on their stealthy errands, generally at night. Thus it was that the locals paid no heed to a hundred or so riders who arrived one afternoon and passed on into the woods that surrounded Blacklight Castle. They were all wearing dark travel cloaks and were riding swift despatch mares rather than stocky war stallions. Their faces were cowled and invisible.

Although the villagers had never before seen lindraks during the day, they knew not to even mention among themselves the strange new arrivals.

A squad of ordinary lancers also arrived and set up camp nearby. They were polite and disciplined, and apart from buying fodder and supplies, they kept to themselves. This was nothing strange, however, as there was rumoured to be a war beginning somewhere to the north.

Three days later a rider arrived bearing the King’s pennon and escorted by a squad of ten from the palace cavalry. He rode straight through the woods to Blacklight Castle.

Nothing happened until that evening. With Reculemoon high in the sky, the gates of the castle were drawn up and four dozen riders swarmed out to take the road to the capital. Those who lay hiding in the woods were not dressed quite like lindraks and fought less effectively than lindraks, but there were many more of them and they were ready. Six of them could also use binding words.

In the deadly battle in the darkness that followed, the true lindraks were defeated for the first time in their history. The villagers cowered and prayed as blue flashes, screams, clashing blades and blasts of orange light lit up the woods from within like lightning in a thundercloud. Before long the woods began to burn.

While this was happening five more of Fa’red’s deadmoon warriors scaled the castle walls and seized the gatehouse. They raised the heavy gate and jammed the mechanism, then held off the small garrison of trainee lindraks and their two masters who had been left behind.

Now a squad of the Preceptor’s militia appeared, their mounts exhausted from a long ride from the southernmost fortress of his province. These men were accompanied by Fa’red’s remaining Adepts, and they smothered the lindraks in the castle by sheer numbers, losing four for every lindrak and novice killed but prevailing nonetheless.

Those lindraks who escaped the carnage in the woods were ridden down by the deadmoon warriors. In their arrogance the lindraks had never dreamed that they would be attacked by anything less than an army, and had thought that they would thus have ample warning. When the sun rose the only two lindraks to have survived were fleeing for the Garrical Mountains as fast as their wounds and exhausted horses would permit. Each had a squad of deadmoon warriors on his trail.

One lindrak was quickly run to earth and killed. The other reached the mountains, and for a time it seemed as if he would escape. He stole horses, changed clothes, and even cut the lindrak tattoo from his arm, but it was to no avail. The hounds of his pursuers sniffed out the discarded square of bloody skin and kept on his trail, which grew ever more fresh.

With the deadmoon warriors closing in, the last lindrak apparently flung himself over a precipice, and in true lindrak fashion he did not scream as he fell. His pursuers retrieved his smashed body from the rocks below, only to find his head was crushed to a pulp. The square of skin cut from his arm matched with the wound on the body.

‘The lindraks are no more,’ the deadmoon warriors laughed as they trussed their prize to a horse.

Far above them the last lindrak, R’mel, watched the body of the unfortunate mercenary who had crossed his path being taken away by the men who had defeated his supposedly invincible brethren. He was alive, and he knew that he might survive now, but never before had he felt so alone.

When the Preceptor eventually entered the Skelt capital, it was at the head of three thousand militiamen. The palace was already in the hold of Fa’red’s surviving deadmoon warriors, whom the King had mistakenly welcomed as lindraks from Blacklight Castle. Needless to say, the King did not dare to order his standing army against his new and deadly rival. He did, however form an alliance with the Preceptor and generously ceded the entire northern province of Skelt to him.

Meantime, far across the continent, Jelindel, Daretor and Zimak had travelled all the way down the Serpentire River to the great port city of Centravian. From there they crossed into Delbrias, then Unissera, then back into Baltoria where they stayed awhile in the capital of Hez’ar.

From here they took a river barge down the Marisa River into Hamaria and through the great crater lake of Skyfall where the war dragon of one thousand years ago had fallen. Having reached the open ocean they took passage on a ship that sailed north along the coast to the Skelt capital, Altimak.

Almost two years after the death of her family Jelindel was finally on Skeltian soil again.

Chapter

19

In spite of the King’s defeat by the Preceptor, the port of Altimak was prospering. It was still being used by Skeltian merchants and foreign ships from dozens of kingdoms, but the new Baltorian ships and the privateer militia ships in the Preceptor’s pay also docked there frequently. Alongside were the sloops of the King’s navy, but a popular mutiny had seen them go over to the Preceptor. Altimak was a place where even the stallholders in the market needed to speak a smattering of a dozen languages, as well as being skilled and ruthless street fighters.

Jelindel negotiated cheap but clean rooms for herself, Daretor and Zimak in a hostelry between the docks and the market. She had deemed it wise to be close to the centre of the port, but she had not discussed it with the other two. These days she had to resort to subtle pressure rather than reasoning to get her way, as Daretor and Zimak were growing increasingly reluctant to take orders or even suggestions from her.

Once alone Jelindel spoke the word of seeing that sent her eyes and feeling to the paraplane, but she found no more than the sorts of minor enchantments that one might expect in such a port city.

‘Hopeless place,’ muttered Zimak as they later wandered through the market in thick, humid air. ‘We’re already wanted in Skelt for horse-stealing, arson, theft, murder and sundry other crimes that I’ve probably never even heard of. Why come back?’

‘Fa’red frequented these parts for many years,’ replied Daretor. ‘Something must have drawn him here. Besides, we’ve not come up with any more constructive thoughts on where to look throughout the seven kingdoms, twelve cities, eighty towns, ninety-six temples and two hundred and five libraries that we have checked over the past year and six months.’

Faced with numbers that he had trouble counting up to, let alone remembering, Zimak stopped to bargain for a skin of wine. Presently they continued on their way again.

‘I could have bedded a real queen in Passendof,’ Zimak said after taking a swig of the red stream from the wineskin.

‘And gotten yourself eaten,’ muttered Jelindel.

‘She might have married me and made me King.’

‘That’s not the way that things are done in royalty. I risked my life to save you from her.’

‘And I risked my life for you in the Valley of Clouds!’

‘Risked your life for me? Why of all the –’

‘Please shut up, both of you,’ rumbled Daretor. ‘We should search this place quickly and move on, not fight.’

‘Again,’ added Zimak.

‘I’m tired and hot,’ complained Jelindel. ‘Does anyone else want to wear the mailshirt?’

Zimak reluctantly took over their enchanted burden and they split up. Libraries were not considered of great import in Altimak, so while Daretor and Zimak went around the port looking for a glow from the mailshirt, Jelindel hired herself as a relief scribe in the marketplace. She charged low rates and did excellent work, so that after two days she was not short of customers.

‘While passing through the Garrical Mountains on the way to the Skelt coast we saw the devastation wreaked by the flying dragon,’ a salt merchant’s apprentice dictated proudly. This was his first really long trip away from home.

‘Don’t you mean the Hamarian crater lake?’ Jelindel prompted.

‘No, no, I speak of melted rocks and a burned village,’ the apprentice said earnestly.

Jelindel looked up at once.

‘Did you see this dragon yourself?’

‘Alas no, learned sir, and it seems that I was a full month too late for the show. Just as well, perchance. There were but few survivors to tell the tale.’

‘And what tale was that?’

‘Why, that a dragon appeared out of the sky and spat fire upon the village.’

‘Why did it do that?’

‘Who knows the minds of dragons?’

‘Can you tell me where it is that you saw this devastated village?’

‘Yes,’ he said cannily. ‘If you can write my letter for free.’

The location turned out to be twenty miles west of the Dominer Pass, in the Garrical Mountains. The youth spoke of long, deep grooves in the rock, as if a hot knife had been dragged through the surface of a tub of mutton fat.

There had been none of the usual signs of fighting, such as arrowheads in the timbers. Some of the bodies had been burned to char on open ground.

Although it seemed relevant to nothing in particular, Jelindel decided that it was worth checking. The customs office had lists of trade routes, and these had towns and distances included.

Twenty miles west of the Dominer Pass was a village named Lers-Dharek. A penstroke was slashed across the name, and in the margin was scrawled ‘Razed by outlaws. Abandoned’.

The clerks at the office had heard only that it had been attacked and burned by outlaws, and on the surface that seemed quite a reasonable explanation.

A check of the city register revealed the names of twelve people with Lers-Dharek as their previous place of residence. Most had passed through the port and taken ships for elsewhere on the coast. All had arrived a month ago.

Only one man was still living there, a tailor named Korok who now had a stall in the marketplace. By that evening Jelindel found him and hired his services to sew a windcollar into her jacket while she waited. After a time she steered the conversation to the dragon that had burned his village.

‘It comes one night when Reculemoon setting,’ Korok said without looking up from his work. ‘Not a dragon like in crests and tapestries of rich nobles. Beautiful thing, full of facets, lights and intricate patterns. So beautiful, Korok cannot look away, even as – even as it spits blue flames.’

‘Blue flames? From its mouth?’

‘No mouth, and blue flames can only be seen when smoke drifts across them. Not flames, maybe … spears of blue. They are long, thin bars that come from its belly. Not a single house, tavern or stable is standing. Those who run are burned down. Korok watches them running. Just a flash of blue, all about their bodies, then gone! Just a puddle of melted gravel on roadway.’

Jelindel noted that he sat crouched and mumbled his words, and was close-lipped. It was as if he feared that something terrible would notice him if he stood up straight or spoke out loud.

‘Yet I heard that a dozen survived that night,’ she prompted.

‘Ha ha, more, maybe thirty surviving, young man. Most are fleeing inland to the Baltorian frontier, others come this way to flee by ship, Korok comes with them. They were from farms nearby, farmers have money to buy passage on ships. Not Korok. Very poor. Korok’s silver argents melted into stones of house. Farmhands are strong, hardy, they fight frontier outlaws and walk through deep snow. Not Korok. Korok must live in a town if Korok is to live. Korok is poor and feeble, see?’

He pushed back his sleeve to reveal a scrawny arm, then returned to his sewing. Jelindel noted that he did exquisite stitchwork, even though he had no more than waxed thread and jackhare leather to work with.

‘Your craftwork is impressive,’ she said as she watched. ‘Your talents were wasted in such a remote village.’

‘Ha ha, sold jackhare gloves and riding caps with vermilion stitching of village coat of arms to rich travellers. Captive market, yes? Did fine repairs for fine garments, but all gone now.’

‘So you were the only survivor from the village itself.’

‘Gah … not quite. Korok is returning, ah, late dusk from farm where Hic’Tofdy boys hunt for jackhares. Fine boys selling fine pelts to Korok. Korok hiding behind rockslide, watched. Terrible, terrible. Those who ran flared alight like hay dropped on coals. Others die in their houses.’

Jelindel reached across to a tray and selected a pair of gloves. They were very finely made, and a snug yet flex -ible fit when she tried them on.

‘Pah, they are lady’s gloves. I make you nice gauntlets for riding, very manly.’

‘No, I have small hands and besides, these are nice for reading beside a campfire.’

‘Reading? You can reading? Ha ha, clever boy. Nine silver argents.’

‘Would you include the work on the collar in that price?’

‘Oh, well … dear, dear, dear … maybe eleven the lot. Very little capital for new materials, still using skins from Hic’Tofdy boys. Not many left.’

Jelindel picked up a patch of leather about the size of her hand. ‘If you would embroider a likeness of the dragon on this piece, then twelve argents. You said it was very beautiful, and I want to have a beautiful but deadly image for when I am awarded arms one day.’

‘Hie! He reads, he fights, and he is wealthy! You are count in disguise, yes?’

Jelindel winced at the nearness of his joke.

‘No, I’m not a count. So, will it be twelve?’

‘Twelve, the lot … is fair. Down in warm seaside port are not many liking Korok’s gloves. Colder in mountains. All want splash collars for fishermen. Ugly things.’

Jelindel practised turning the pages of an almanac with the gloves as Korok finished the collar. A tax collector’s wife stopped to ask Jelindel if the gloves were comfortable, then bought a pair herself. She and her husband had travelled through the remains of Korok’s village a fortnight earlier, and she confirmed that the very rocks had melted deeply.

‘Someone must have offended the dragon mightily,’ Jelindel said when she was gone.

‘Never see dragon before that night,’ said Korok.

‘Had there been strangers in your village around this time?’

‘There were always strangers in village. Village exist to tend travellers. Travellers strangers. Very logical.’

‘Was there any stranger that you remember in particular?’

Korok paused to scratch his thin hair.

‘Warrior, has name Mentrian Hil’Tranl. He buys gauntlets from Korok. Very rich. Five lancers riding with him. Tall, and black, curled hair. Fine clothes, fine weapons. Wants Korok’s gauntlets, good taste you see. Hands not like warrior, more like priest or mage, very soft.’

‘Did he wear a plain ring on one of his lesser fingers?’

‘No ring, but … very strange. Hic’Tofdy boy sees fight in tavern, tells me. Warrior gets cut on cheek from Daba Rouse. Very good with knife, Daba Rouse. Good friend of Korok.’

‘But what did the boy see that was strange?’

‘Ha ha! Green blood. Hic’Tofdy thinks big fight to start, but no. They leave. Ride into night. Hic’Tofdy stays at Korok house, tells all, takes Korok money for pelts, then Korok goes to Hic’Tofdy farm with him but carries no money. Many, many bandits, but want silver, not pelts. Korok not silly.’

Jelindel said nothing. She knew that she was too excited, that she would be over-eager and blurt out something that she might regret.

Korok finished the collar and went on to embroider the dragon. The shape of the dragon slowly emerged under his fingers. At last he held it up, complete. The shape was that of some exotic pendant, rather than a dragon, and it meant nothing to Jelindel. ‘Did you notice which way the … the warrior and his men travelled?’

‘No, no. Might be here! Might be that some churl cut him again then dragon with blue fire comes here too. Maybe Korok learn sailmaking and leave on ship. Hard for Korok to stay alive, easy for Korok to die.’

Jelindel paid the twelve silver coins, then left to find the others.

The night was warm in the port city, but Jelindel wore her new gloves all the way back to the hostelry. The gloves made her hands look a little larger and less feminine, and her old gloves had recently fallen apart. Daretor and Zimak were sitting on a bench under the awning of an open-air tavern across the square and they called her over.

‘These were the price of a great discovery,’ she said as she held up her gloved hands for them to see.

‘Hear our discovery first,’ said Daretor excitedly. ‘The mailshirt glowed orange for a moment.’

They had been sitting in their room in the hostelry, cleaning and sharpening their blades and preparing for the journey to the next town with the mailshirt between them. Before their eyes it suddenly glowed like a pile of dull coals in a grate, then faded almost as rapidly. That meant that another link was within a half-mile of the hostelry.

‘You say it flared up within a heartbeat, then died down almost as fast?’ Jelindel confirmed.

Both of them nodded.

‘Like a casket opening and closing?’

‘A box – yes, yes!’ exclaimed Zimak. ‘Or like the door of a tavern opening to spill light into a dark street, then closing again.’

Jelindel rubbed her gloved hands together, frowning.

‘Then we have two lessons to take from this. The first is that this linkrider has a casket that somehow quenches the link’s emanations. The second is that if he keeps the link in such a casket, he cannot be wearing it.’

‘Another lesson is that he is very close by,’ Zimak added. ‘In this very port.’

‘And a further lesson is that he knows we are here,’ Daretor concluded. ‘Our mailshirt flared, so his link must have flared as well. He must have had the casket’s lid up just long enough to notice the glow.’

‘What luck!’ Zimak chirped, holding up his tankard for a toast.

‘Not so lucky,’ warned Jelindel. ‘My discovery may be connected to yours, and if that is so we are all in danger. This entire port could be burned to a lake of molten rock.’

Jelindel told them what she had learned from Korok, and they both confirmed that they too had heard the story of a village up in the mountains being annihilated a month ago.

Like Thull, Mentrian Hil’Tranl had bled green blood.

‘The destruction of the village may not have been revenge,’ Daretor suggested. ‘He may have been trying to move about unnoticed, and was willing to sacrifice the village to keep his secret.’

‘But he still has that dragon-demon at his call,’ Jelindel pointed out.

‘Nice gloves,’ said Zimak.

Jelindel showed them the embroidery of the dragon, which resembled something between a wedge and a teardrop.

‘No legs or wings, nothing that resembles eyes either,’ said Zimak. ‘It could be a huge magical amulet, the size of a ship –’

‘That’s it!’ exclaimed Jelindel. ‘A ship!’

‘In the mountains? Flying?’

‘There are obscure scholarly theories about the dragon that caused the crater in Hamaria being a huge, powerful flying ship. The crater filled with water, and is now known as Skyfall Lake. We passed through it on that barge, remember?’

Jelindel looked to the sky, which was colouring with evening. ‘Where is the mailshirt now?’

‘In the pack between my feet,’ said Daretor.

‘Then we must keep a watch for any glow at all times. Daretor, I’ll take it to the hostelry while you keep watch here. Every time it glows, I’ll put a lamp on the windowsill for a moment. Zimak, can you get about the port and ask after Mentrian Hil’Tranl? A tall, finely dressed man –’

‘– with black, curly hair and an escort of five men. It may take a day or so, but I can find him if he’s here.’

Jelindel realised as she left them that they were suddenly accepting her authority again. While the days were mundane and routine she was a mere girl to them. Once they were close to the next dragonlink, they suddenly needed her.

The mailshirt did not brighten again, and Daretor joined Jelindel in the hostelry after the tavern closed. He put on the mailshirt and a coat over it, leaving some of the sleeve links visible. Zimak returned much later, and he had news.

‘Hil’Tranl is here,’ he announced as soon as he arrived. ‘He and his men have been taking short voyages over to Kaplus Island, staying at one of the inns there for a few days, then returning here. One of the ferrymen knows them well. Ah, and look at these, I got them for sixteen argents!’

He proudly held up a pair of jackhare riding gloves and Jelindel recognised Korok’s stitching at once.

‘Nice gloves, but you were robbed,’ said Jelindel. ‘Mine cost half as much.’

Zimak’s shoulders slumped for a moment, but he rallied. ‘They’re heavier gloves, with a drip-flap in the wind sheath for riding in the rain. There’s a lot more leather, too.’

‘Mine are jackhare, yours are goatskin. The old devil must have really seen you coming.’

‘He wasn’t there. The woman who was tending his stall said he left in a hurry to do some urgent errand.’

‘Or because he was terrified,’ Daretor suggested. ‘There’s something else, too.’

‘What?’

‘They’re nice gloves.’

Zimak flung the gloves at Daretor’s head but the warrior ducked – and the room lit up with a dazzling blue flash followed by a blast like a thunderclap. The room filled with smoke as they crawled for the door.

A second bolt of blue lightning annihilated the half-open window shutters.

Horrified, Jelindel watched a line of blue light pierce the smoke and blast the opposite wall to blazing matchwood.

Just as Daretor reached the door it was smashed inwards and several men burst into the smoke-filled, burning room. Jelindel rolled to one side as Zimak lashed out with one leg and caught a man in the knee.

Daretor’s axeshaft struck a shadowy face, then he swung back blindly at someone whose blade had scraped across the mail under his coat.

Jelindel spoke a soft word at the legs in front of her and they became enmeshed in blue coils that brought the intruder crashing to the floor. Two others engaged Daretor outside the door, lit only by the fire within the room.

Zimak flung his knife, catching one in the ribs, but the other fled as Daretor tried to get past the body. Daretor threw his axe, catching the attacker between the shoulders. The assailant was dead long before he had tumbled to the foot of the stairs.

The municipal constables arrived to arrest the surviving assassins on charges of malicious affray. Then the Port Authority’s Inspector of Order came to survey the magical damage to the hostelry. Jelindel had already done a quick check herself, and had been amazed to find not a single trace of the aura of enchantment.

They retired to Jelindel’s room. Outside, a steady, soaking rain had set in.

‘Not one of them had green blood,’ Jelindel pointed out as they sat in darkness relieved by a single thumb -lamp.

The constant thrum of rain on the wooden shingles above was like being beneath thousands of stampeding mice. Zimak glared upwards.

‘I hope we’re not meant to be going out in that,’ he said, pointing upwards.

‘They were all local blade-hands,’ said Daretor. ‘I checked with the sergeant of the constables. All were blades-for-hire who usually work as bodyguards, or sail with privateer crews. The tallest of them did have curly black hair and fair skin, like the one Korok described. His blood was red, though.’

‘I had a careful look at the room once the fires were out,’ said Jelindel. ‘Those blue lances of light were near-horizontal, and judging from the direction … well there is only one tower with a line-of-sight to the window. The Morgendros Tower.’

‘That’s over four crossbow shots away,’ scoffed Zimak. ‘A half-mile at least.’

‘Could a crossbow have done what happened up there?’

‘No weapon known to man could do such damage,’ Daretor said with authority. ‘It’s a weapon without honour. I say it’s the linkrider.’

‘That is my thought too, and I feel he is still in that tower,’ said Jelindel. ‘We should go there.’

‘What?’ Zimak exclaimed incredulously. ‘That weapon can roast you whole from a half-mile away, yet you want to get closer? Besides, it’s raining.’

‘She’s right,’ said Daretor. ‘The linkrider will be expecting his blade-hands to return with the mailshirt covered with the splattered remains of my head. There was a lot of smoke about. I doubt he could have seen what happened, even with a farsight.’

‘My beautiful gloves,’ Zimak said miserably. ‘They are soaked with water.’

‘Riding gloves that cannot stand against water are useless as riding gloves,’ said Jelindel.

Zimak grunted, but did not disagree. They slipped away from the hostelry and made their way across the port towards the tower.

They were not far away when a small section of the mailshirt began to glow steadily through a tear in the sheepskin jacket’s sleeve.

‘He has the link out!’ hissed Zimak.

‘Pah, he can’t know whether friend or foe carries it,’ said Daretor.

‘But once he sees that we are none of his lackeys he will cast his lightning bolts again.’

‘But Jaelin has lightning of her own,’ Daretor said thoughtfully. ‘Both of you, run ahead of me to the tower, and I’ll come more slowly with the mailshirt. Your word of ensnaring works at up to ninety paces, Jaelin, does it not?’

‘Yes, but at that range I’d barely have the life-force left to crawl until it returns to me.’

‘Then we must get you closer to him. You go on alone. Zimak, stay with me. I have an idea.’

Jelindel ran in an arc, to come up to the Morgendros Tower from the side. The rain had soaked through her boots and her rain cape was of little use when running through such a heavy fall, but she scarcely felt the discomfort.

She stopped, panting hard, too tired and keyed up to be afraid for the moment. At the base of the tower was some sort of grillwork fence. Jelindel could not tell if it was ornamental or served some other purpose. The only light was from a lantern at the edge of a small square before the tower.

The rain eased as she waited, but still nobody came and nothing happened. Jelindel walked into the square, keeping to the shadows. All the while she kept glancing at the bluestone tower that dominated the square.

There was a balcony near the top of the tower. That had to be where the blue thunderbolts had originated, Jelindel decided. She stared up at the balcony in anticipation. A break in the clouds allowed light from Reculemoon to leak through.

A flash of light erupted from the ground floor portal and a building across the square collapsed in a cloud of dust. A figure emerged holding something small and stubby straight out in front of him. He stopped and seemed to take aim, as if with a small crossbow.

Jelindel took aim herself and spoke a sharp, focused word.

The blue coils were off-target, but not by much. A glowing tangle pinned the linkrider’s hand and weapon to a grille. He struggled frantically to get his hand free.

Unsteady and drained, Jelindel drew her shortsword with a brisk ‘shrick’ and slowly stalked across the small square.

There, in the light of Reculemoon, the linkrider struggled desperately against the blue, glowing coils. A shortsword flashed in his free hand, then he chopped down at the blue coils, screaming hideously as his hand was severed at the wrist.

Jelindel tried to run across the rain-drenched square, but she was fatigued and her legs sluggish.

The linkrider dropped his sword, turned and ran, padding away into the shadows much faster than Jelindel’s legs could carry her. He was clutching his stump of a wrist in front of him. Jelindel had not set a long delay on the entrapment coils, and they suddenly collapsed and let the weapon and hand fall to the ground.

She picked up the angular, unfamiliar object and carefully put it into her tunic pouch. As she examined the hand she noticed something odd about the smell of the blood. Taking it over to the lamp she realised that it was green.

Jelindel had expected Daretor and Zimak to have come running by now. A crowd began to gather about the ruined building. Some speculated about lightning hitting the place. Others deemed it an evil portent.

Suddenly a section of rubble burst upwards and an arm and head emerged.

‘Daretor!’ screamed Jelindel as she scrambled up to help the emerging warrior.

‘I thought you said you could read street signs, you stupid little clown!’ Daretor called back into the rubble.

‘Don’t you call me stupid, you bumbling great ox!’ came a muffled voice from within the pile of plaster-cling and wood slats. ‘Is it my fault if the dummart signwriters can’t spell in this town?’

Jelindel went to tell them about the thunderbolt weapon, but something held her in check. Instead she gently helped Zimak from the rubble. Already blood was smearing his face.

Daretor had three fractured ribs and a multitude of cuts and bruises, while Zimak had a gash down the side of his face and a twisted ankle.

They were dug out within minutes, but it was two days before they were able to ride. By then Jelindel had caught a cold and was running a fever.

‘Just look at this scar on my cheek,’ grumbled Zimak as they rode at a brisk trot towards the foothills of the Garrical Mountains. ‘The heroes of legend never get scars in embarrassing places.’

‘It gives you a rakish look,’ said Daretor. ‘Girls like scars. They like to touch them.’

‘Do you like scars, Jaelin?’ asked Zimak.

‘They leave me cold.’

‘See? See what I mean?’ Zimak retorted.

‘Jaelin’s no stranger to scars; she’s sewed up most of ours,’ Daretor replied. ‘Some smooth-skinned wench may find yours a novelty, though.’

It was over a week before the mailshirt began to glow again. As they rode through the foothills and into the Garrical Mountains there was plenty of evidence that the linkrider had passed that way, and was in a hurry.

The villagers that they spoke to confirmed that a one-handed man had indeed gone before them. He seldom stayed for more than a few hours, bought a new horse whenever he could, and had hired an escort of mercenaries somewhere.

Finally luck turned against the linkrider. The Galenian Bridge had been destroyed in a border dispute with Baltoria, and he was forced to backtrack for more than a day, then take a trail south at Rockwall. The latter was a village cut into the side of a cliff.

Daretor estimated that they had missed the linkrider by only a handful of hours, and they set off after him with no more rest than it took to buy provisions.

The trail became narrower and was poorly maintained. To make progress worse, the linkrider’s men had brought down rockfalls here and there, but Daretor and Zimak were already experienced at making their own trails and leading the animals over broken ground. They relentlessly narrowed the distance between them.

‘The mail is glowing,’ Jelindel said, taking a glance at the mailshirt that she was again wearing beneath her sheepskin coat.

‘So he’s close by at least,’ concluded Daretor.

‘But still many hours away,’ Jelindel pointed out, looking at a charblack map that she had sketched after talking to the villagers at Rockwall. ‘Serpent’s Gap is just ahead.’

‘Long time since my serpent’s been near a gap,’ muttered Zimak sullenly.

‘Unless you have something helpful to say –’ shouted Jelindel.

‘Smoke!’ exclaimed Daretor, pointing southeast. ‘Thick smoke, not just a campfire.’

‘There’s a bridge on the map,’ said Jelindel. ‘They’ve probably set it afire, and it’s at least three hours ahead.’

Jelindel took out her farsight and looked south. ‘There’s a village due south, about two miles away by the look of the figures I can see.’

‘There’s one called Landretal on the map,’ said Zimak.

‘Better check his reading of it,’ said Daretor.

‘One more remark like that and –’

‘That’s enough, both of you!’ Jelindel said tersely. ‘Look yonder, it’s the flood plain of a river. It has cultivated fields and sheep grazing in the pastures. We could get across that in no more than a half hour.’

‘There’s also a thousand-foot drop a few yards to our right,’ warned Daretor.

Jelindel dismounted and walked over to the side of the trail. Kneeling at the edge she peered down.

‘It’s not quite sheer, and there are plenty of ledges. We could leave the horses here and climb down using our ropes.’

‘What about my ankle?’ Zimak protested.

‘You ride along with the horses and wait at the bridge while Jaelin and I climb down and cross the fields,’ Daretor declared with finality.

Zimak shrugged. ‘Aye, then. Jaelin, take my parry-hilt knife; it’s lighter than that demishield.’

Taking only their weapons and ropes Daretor and Jelindel made their way down the cliff in a half hour, then began jogging across the fields of the floodplain. They crossed the river on a board and block bridge and met up with the road again just beyond the village.

After a short rest they started down the road towards Landretal.

A man loafing beside the namestone told them that seven men had arrived from the other direction about an hour earlier, and were down at the stables buying feed for their horses.

Jelindel and Daretor carefully checked the place, noting four mercenaries at the stables. All had both hands.

‘Could you take them?’ Jelindel asked as they stood by the roadside.

‘One, yes. Two, only with luck. Three, suicide. I can see four here, and there are two more with the linkrider.’

‘And he might run while his men engage us.’ Jelindel frowned as she thought. ‘Stay here. When you see the mercenaries running, make an attack on them. With luck a couple of them will stop to engage you.’

‘But what will you do then?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

Jelindel made her way through the village, which was preparing for the weekly market on the next day. Provisions for travellers were available at the tavern, she was told, and she was given directions for finding it. As she approached the place she saw one of the mercenaries bartering with the taverner while the other stood beside … Korok! The second mercenary was chatting with a serving girl while the strange little man sat writing awkwardly at a half-barrel table beneath an awning. One of his wrists ended in a bandaged stump.

Jelindel took out her farsight and studied the scene. The bench was a heavy, crossed-beam type. Perfect. Curious villagers began to crowd around her and she collapsed her farsight and put it in her pouch. She began to walk forward, with the villagers trailing after her.

Korok was intent on his writing and the mercenary at his side had never seen Jelindel. At twenty paces she dropped to one knee and spoke a finely tuned word of binding.

A thin, blue coil lashed Korok’s left leg to the frame of the bench, just below the knee. He screeched in alarm and struggled to free himself, toppling the half-barrel and spilling his notes and writing kit onto the ground.

The villagers scattered back from Jelindel at once.

‘That’s him, kill him!’ Korok shouted, pointing at Jelindel. The mercenaries drew their weapons and moved to surround her.

I’m competent but I’m no veteran warrior, Jelindel reminded herself. The minor word of binding had not left her too drained, but she was standing in the open with no wall or ally to put at her back.

Chapter

20

Jelindel’s opponents closed and she drew her shortsword and the parry-hilt knife. Korok was shouting for the other mercenaries, which meant Daretor would be there soon. Jelindel knew that she could not wait, and that she might be dead by the time he arrived.

The mercenaries circled warily, slowly closing in while Korok hacked at the bench frame with his sword. It must be obvious that I’m hardly more than a child, she thought frantically. Why don’t they attack?

The word of binding! They thought she was a potent Adept! They could not know that as yet she had only a rudimentary grasp of magical words.

She sheathed her parry-hilt knife and tossed her shortsword to her left hand. Holding her right hand out in front of her she spoke a snare word, timed for a hundred heartbeats. Blue traceries enmeshed her hand, and a glowing blue spike about a yard in length stood out straight like a sword. She twirled it in the air for the benefit of the mercenaries. Because the life-force of the snare word was still attached to her, she felt no further fatigue.

‘Take ’im, flank ’im right!’ barked one mercenary.

‘What is that thing?’ cried the other.

‘Flank ’im!’

‘That fire-sword thing’s too fast.’

Jelindel lunged for the wavering man, who jumped back and fell over a pile of trays and pots being unloaded from a cart. The other hesitated, then lunged also, but by now Jelindel had her back to the cart.

Sword met snare word; the blue spike wrapped itself about cold steel and detonated with a bright flash as the snare word collapsed, quenched by the steel. Jelindel had known to blink at the right moment and she chopped her shortsword into the dazzled mercenary’s knee. He toppled and Jelindel skipped clear.

The other man had circled the cart by now. Jelindel spoke a second binding word that bound his left hand to the tie-rail of the cart. She had timed it short, but its strength was too great and her knees almost jellied. She pushed the cart’s brake lever free and slapped the already terrified pony across the rump with the flat of her short-sword. It bolted, dragging cart and mercenary away through the village, off the roadway and into the fields.

Three other mercenaries appeared, with Daretor following at a distance. There was blood on his axe.

‘Jaelin!’ he called, seeing her staggering.

She held up two fingers, then pointed to the ground with them. Two down.

‘Leave me, dolts! Kill those two!’ cried Korok as the mercenaries reached him.

Three against two, but Jelindel could spend no more of her life-force on binding words if she wanted to remain standing. The newcomers had not seen her in action, and were unaware of her magical powers.

‘Mind the smaller one, ’e can do ’chantments!’ warned the man who still lay on the road clutching his knee.

Saved. The boldness went out of the three attackers. Two faced Jelindel while another turned to fight Daretor, knife and sword against knife and axe.

The sword sliced out in a descending snap, which Daretor deflected with a hilt-block of his own parry-hilt knife, but as his axe came around in a flat snap the mercenary tried the same block. It was a foolish move. He discovered that an axe weighs considerably more than a sword and the blade smashed past the knife and buried itself in his throat.

Just at that moment the word binding the mercenary to the now overturned cart collapsed and flew back across the fields to Jelindel. Suddenly strong again, she spoke the snare word onto her right hand and the glowing blue mock-sword flashed out once more.

That was enough for the two mercenaries. Flanked by a large and skilled warrior on one side and a seemingly high Adept mage on the other, they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees with their hands in the air.

Jelindel sauntered over to where Korok was still trying to chop through the piece of wood to which he was bound.

‘Korok, I’ve had a foul day and I’m in a really vile mood,’ she warned. ‘Throw that sword away and hand me the link before I lose my patience.’

He complied, suddenly meek and cringing.

‘Knew this would happen. Korok knew. Fled, but knew in Korok’s hearts that you would catch Korok.’

‘Give me the damn dragonlink!’ Jelindel shouted, swatting at him with the blue spike. He held up his sword by reflex. Word met cold steel and collapsed with a loud bang, startling Korok so much that he dropped the sword.

‘Dragonlink, yes, dragonlink, Korok has link. Very nice ring, it makes.’

He removed the dragonlink from his finger with his teeth.

‘Swallow it and I’ll cut it out of you,’ said Jelindel.

Korok placed it on the table.

Jelindel snatched it up. ‘You will stay bound for two thousand heartbeats, Korok. Cold steel cannot collapse your bindings because they exist only between you and the table’s crossbeam. By then I suspect that the mayor of this village will be very interested in learning who torched the bridge back in Serpent’s Gap.’

‘How you know that?’

‘I’m a Mage Auditor. It’s my job.’

The metal of the link continued to glow as it lay on the palm of Jelindel’s hand.

‘What are the properties of this dragonlink?’ she asked. ‘What weapons skills does it confer?’

‘You Mage Auditor, you find out.’

‘Korok! One more remark like that and you’ll find out what I know about pain.’

‘Korok not afraid to –’

The word that Jelindel spoke to enmesh his remaining hand and wrist was small and brief, but the coil was very, very tight. Korok screamed and howled with the crushing pain of the coils, batting at the blue tendrils with the stump of his other wrist until they suddenly collapsed, flashed over to dance about Jelindel’s lips, then vanished.

‘No more! Korok convinced. The care, servicing and control of thundercast – that is what dragonlink confers,’ Korok whined.

‘How did you come to have the thundercast and dragon -link?’ she asked. ‘Linkriders tend to be rather possessive about their dragonlinks, and you had this thunderbolt weapon as well.’

She took the thundercast out of her tunic and held it up.

‘One man rides into Korok’s village, very sick, very cold. Stays at inn, he does, and has much money. Comes to Korok for warm riding gauntlets, Korok makes them. Takes off ring during fitting. Man falls asleep as Korok works. Very tired. Korok thinks, “Very plain ring for very rich man”, puts on ring and learns about thundercast. Korok … finds thundercast, borrows thundercast. Hides both. Man complains, denounces Korok, but village sides with Korok, beats him and drives him out.’

‘So, he had a better reason than some mere tavern fight to melt your village into the mountainside. How did you learn about the mailshirt?’

‘Korok meets other holder of link, both links glow when close, you see. He teaches Korok about lead locket that stops glow from ring. Tells about mailshirt. Have pact. He makes Korok rich if Korok helps get mailshirt.’

‘Indeed,’ said Jelindel, shaking her head.

‘You not believe Korok?’

‘No. You have green blood, so you are not human. What were you doing as a glovemaker in a mountain village?’

‘Ah, very tragic. Korok exile. Korok speaks out against King of stars.’ He pointed up to the sky. ‘Evil King. Banishes Korok.’

‘Sensible King, I’d say. Why here?’

‘Ah. Lonely exile, all around are humans, nobody of Korok’s race. Very tragic.’

‘A whining, cringing coward,’ growled Daretor, who had come over after binding the surviving mercenaries. ‘As I expect from a linkrider.’

‘What were you writing?’ Jelindel asked Korok.

‘Chronicle of Korok’s suffering. One day Korok’s people come back, check here. Find Korok dead, but find beautiful epic of Korok the Exile. Have many copies transcribed by monks, maybe. Korok be famous.’

Jelindel put the link into the locket and pressed it shut. The glow from her mailshirt ceased at once. She searched Korok’s pack and found a dozen sheets of reed-bond paper covered with close-written but unfamiliar script. There was also another lead-lined locket, maps and some phials of coloured pills and fluids.

Korok was also found to be carrying twenty-five silver argents and fourteen gold oriels.

‘There is now the question of what to do with you,’ Daretor said as Jelindel packed Korok’s belongings away again.

Korok shrugged and spread his hands. ‘Korok poor, helpless.’

‘Korok also has his stall back at the port marketplace,’ Jelindel pointed out.

‘Korok has only one hand now.’

‘But you are alive,’ added Daretor. ‘Back down the trail I suspect that there is a burned-out bridge, and that you and your scabby friends were the last to use it. The money can pay for new beams and planks, and your labour can help build the new bridge. What do you think, Jaelin?’

‘I have a feeling that he’s lying about that other linkrider,’ said Jelindel slowly, turning the locket over in her fingers, ‘but it’s only a feeling. Yes, let him help rebuild the bridge, then go free.’

Based on what Jelindel told him, the mayor had Korok and the four surviving mercenaries riveted into chains and manacles on suspicion of burning the bridge. Riders were sent out with ropes and grapples to confirm the story, and Daretor went with them.

The village blacksmith was a stocky, blue-eyed, cheerful man with a pointy beard. He had seen the fight outside the tavern, and had shackled the prisoners in its aftermath. Jelindel showed him the link and asked if he could attach it to the mailshirt.

‘Aye, but it’s a wee bit out of my usual work,’ he replied brightly. ‘How much time d’ye have?’

‘How much time do you need?’ asked Jelindel wearily, sitting down and rubbing a bruise on her arm.

‘Well now, I’d like to practise making and joining a few links meself, but before that I’ll need to run up some finework tools fer the job.’

‘That seems like a lot of trouble –’

‘Oh no, Mage Auditor. If those rogues really did burn our bridge, then ye’ve provided us wi’ money and labour to help build a new one. We’re in your debt. Now let’s see. I’ll start on the tools today, but tomorrow’s market day, then there’s a big wedding on the day after. Fine young couple, the taverner’s son and my very own cousin.’

‘So three days, you think?’

‘Ho ho, but you’re a direct young man. Three days it is.’

Jelindel stood up and stretched. ‘I had better take rooms at the inn.’

‘Oh, and if you please Mage Auditor, you and your warrior are most welcome at the wedding.’

‘A wedding. I … would be honoured.’

Just then a boy came running in from the direction of the stables.

‘Mage Auditor!’ he gasped. ‘The man Korok’s gotten away!’

According to the mercenaries who had been chained with him, Korok had been able to dislocate the joint of his own ankle with no apparent pain, then he wriggled his foot free of the manacle. He had clubbed down the stablehand keeping guard, then dressed in his clothes and walked off leading a horse. The taverner said that Korok’s pack was missing from the shelf in his taproom.

‘Well, we still have his money, and he was too scrawny to be of much use in repairing the bridge,’ said the mayor. ‘Besides, he only had one hand.’

Jelindel rummaged around outside and found one sheet of Korok’s reedbond paper that had slipped behind one of the benches beside the wall. It had only a few lines of script on it, but she could make nothing of it at all. She sat in the sunlight for a moment, considering what to do. Daretor was away, and she had Korok’s link. Korok had been writing frantically and wearing the link when she had found him. When he had escaped he had taken only the sheets of paper.

Almost of their own volition her fingers popped open the lead-lined locket, and the link glowed faintly in the sunlight. She slipped the link onto her finger.

All at once the script became legible, yet there was very little of it, and she was seeing it out of context.

Giving up for the moment, she took out the thundercast and held it in her hand. Its touch triggered a whole series of associations and facts: settings for stun, burn, cut, blast, something called auto-sighting, feedback shield option, and password.

Password. Jelindel probed what seemed to be her own thoughts, and found that the thundercast was set to Korok’s aura, but that the password was stored within the link and available to her.

‘Reset on password JILG’MIS AK-TO-JI-7-YA,’ she said as she held the thundercast.

‘New password please?’ asked the weapon.

At hearing the weapon speak Jelindel got such a fright that she nearly dropped it. She opened her writing kit and wrote down SENGITO 7-6-F-5, then spoke the password to the thundercast.

‘Please repeat,’ it responded flatly, and she did so. ‘Confirmed. You are the new and exclusive user,’ the flat voice informed her.

Now the little studs on the thundercast made sense. She reset it to ‘cut’ and aimed at the edge of the table before squeezing the trigger bar. A piece of wood about the size of her fist fell away, leaving a charred, smoking surface behind. There had been no blast or flash of light, as there had been back in the port.

With shaking hands Jelindel copied down the settings and operating procedures for when she took the link off later. After putting the thundercast away she turned her attention back to Korok’s page of script. Probing the false memories that the link gave her revealed nothing about what it all meant: MASTER CONTROL INVOKE, NAVIGATION AUTO INVOKE, FIRE CONTROL, DEFLECTION FIELDS, DAMAGE CONTROL SUBSTRATE, SINGULARITY RESONANCE FURNACE, CLOAKING OPTION.

Jelindel wished there was someone to train her in what the thing was meant to do – and the thought TRAIN set off a whole set of link-induced memories! It was training her, just like her governess, kindermaid and tutors once had.

Jelindel sat there, aghast, as she realised what the link was telling her by means of the false memories.

The late afternoon sun was bright; there was little wind, and children played happily among the folk from the outlying farms setting up stalls for the market day. Jelindel tried to imagine it all as a bubbling lake of glowing, melted rock, but her mind recoiled from the vision.

‘Are you all right, Mage Auditor?’ asked a serving girl who had just arrived at the tavern for the evening’s work.

‘Yes, perhaps,’ replied Jelindel, barely aware of her.

‘I’ll get you a nice mug of ale from the chill cellar.’

‘Do you have limewater?’

‘Not so far into the mountains, sir, but I could make a cherrymelt for you.’

‘Yes please,’ responded Jelindel, more to get rid of her than because she was thirsty.

Daretor returned with Zimak just after sunset. The bridge had indeed been burned, and their horses were still on the other side of the chasm that Zimak had been pulled across with ropes.

Daretor was annoyed that Korok had escaped, but said that there seemed to be little harm in it. Because she had used the link, Jelindel could not tell him what she knew, or how she had found out.

All that night Jelindel sat in her room with a lamp and her writing kit, exploring the false memories from the link and growing steadily more desperate. Korok’s other weapon was overwhelming in its power, and she knew that she could barely comprehend it, let alone fight it.

The next day was the weekly market, and in spite of his bandaged ankle Zimak gave a challenge to all comers to wrestle with him for a stake of five silver argents. Much to Jelindel’s amusement, he was beaten in the first round by the blacksmith.

Daretor set off for the wrecked bridge with the prisoners. Several villagers accompanied him with a block-and-beam hoist to haul their horses across the few yards of nothingness that had replaced the bridge.

‘Jaelin, is that you?’ a familiar voice shouted.

Jelindel turned to see Kelricka running towards her, with three temple guards following close behind. The young priestess stopped two yards from Jelindel, as if she had hit an invisible wall.

‘Mage Auditor, I – I am very pleased to see you again,’ said Kelricka.

She can’t be seen to embrace a youth in front of her guards, Jelindel reminded herself, even though she was aching to throw her arms about her.

‘I’m pleased that you reached the Great Temple safely, Holy Kelricka.’

‘And are you still collecting your, ah, links, Mage Auditor?’

‘I have but one to go. What are you doing here in the mountains?’

‘A village was burned away to nothing by a real dragon. I was sent to check for myself and scribe out a report for the local high priest and the governor. I did find the ruins of such a village, and something hideous had indeed happened there.’

‘I am surprised that the Preceptor of Skelt’s governors care about the fate of mere villages,’ said Jelindel, genuinely puzzled.

‘We are in Hamaria, not Skelt. The border is a few miles further along at Serpent’s Gap.’

‘Ah, so that is why they speak both Skeltian and Hamarian here. But what are you doing on such a lonely road?’

‘I was on my way into Skelt when the Galenian Bridge was destroyed by the Baltorians, so I have come down the back roads. Now these villagers tell me that the bridge ahead is gone as well.’

‘Give it a week and the bridge will be up again,’ said the blacksmith as he joined them. ‘Meantime any friend of the Mage Auditor is a friend of ours, so ye can stay here. Mind now, ye wouldn’t be a priestess, would ye?’

‘Yes,’ replied Kelricka.

‘Ho ho, now! We have a wedding tomorrow, but no clergion to do the blessing. I can do it meself under the laws of Hamaria, as any blacksmith can officiate. Joinin’ together couples and joinin’ together metals is seen as a like skill, or so the laws say. If ye be a priestess, though, well so much the better and what a blessing for the young couple.’

That evening Daretor, Zimak and Jelindel walked some distance along the flood plain of the river. Jelindel had the thundercast with her, and she looked very unhappy.

‘I wish to stay in this village for a time,’ she announced as they gazed out across the valley that had been scoured out by a glacier many millennia ago.

‘For how long?’ asked Daretor.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about the last link?’

‘I’m aware of the last link, but this could be even more important. This village is in terrible danger, and I could be the only one who can defend it.’

Zimak laughed. ‘Gah, Jaelin the Mighty, caster of mighty spells and protector of the weak and stupid.’

‘Next time you need protection we’ll look the other way,’ said Daretor to Zimak. ‘Jaelin, if you want us to help then you’re going to have to tell us more.’

Jelindel took out the thundercast.

‘Just as a castle gatekeep knows passwords to admit only allies and keep out enemies, so too does this thing have a password to permit its use. I have just barred Korok and authorised myself, with a new password.’

‘Gah! Prove it,’ cried Zimak.

Without hesitation Jelindel aimed at a boulder across the valley, flicked a safety catch and squeezed the firing bar. The boulder detonated with a blast that echoed up and down the valley, and a few fragments even fell into the river at the valley’s centre.

‘Impressive,’ said Zimak shakily. ‘Could you reset it so that I – er, any of us could use it?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Jelindel coldly. ‘But instructions are from a mind that has very alien paths of thought, and some of them are hard to interpret.’

‘How did you learn to do that?’ asked Daretor suspiciously. ‘You didn’t use Korok’s dragonlink, did you?’

‘No, I just talked to the weapon,’ Jelindel lied. ‘It was lonely, so it told me how to use it.’

‘What?’ gasped Daretor.

‘It’s like a hunting dog,’ Jelindel quoted in carefully rehearsed lines. ‘It’s a sort of live weapon. Korok has other weapons, though, and he might still be dangerous.’

‘It’s a bit late to tell us that,’ said Zimak.

‘How could he use his weapons with the dragonlink in our hands?’ asked Daretor.

‘Until now I thought that he might have used this very thundercast to destroy that other village, but if the tale about the dragon is true, then … Daretor, I – ah, never mind.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Those notes that he snatched from the tavern when he fled may have been instructions for operating some other weapon. He wrote them out while wearing the dragonlink so that he would have the memories back if the link were taken away by us.’

‘You can’t write down a skill,’ Daretor scoffed.

‘No, but this thundercast only needs words and the crudest of movements to operate it. You could still swing a sword when the dragonlink was first removed from your finger, but you couldn’t do it with skill.’

‘Prove it,’ Zimak challenged.

Jelindel held up the thundercast and pressed a stud.

‘Tell them what you are,’ she ordered.

‘I am a Gh’viv 57 Remote Singularity GVG,’ said the flat voice. ‘I have twenty-two settings, resonance absorption charging and –’

‘That’s enough. Note, Zimak, I am wearing no dragonlink.’

Jelindel lowered the thundercast and pressed the stud again.

‘Were I to wear the link and read what Korok wrote on that sheet of paper, I might know more,’ Jelindel suggested.

‘No!’ snapped Daretor. ‘You do not fight a thief by becoming a thief.’

Jelindel shrugged and looked out over the valley again, where the shadows were lengthening. Two shepherds were hurrying over to where the boulder had exploded, one with his pike-hook ready, the other holding up an axe.

‘The bridge will not be repaired for a week,’ Zimak said with a quaver in his voice, ‘so we have to stay here till then.’

‘If we go our own ways I want to take the mailshirt,’ Daretor said emphatically. ‘I can’t find the last link without it.’

‘Hunting alone is a good way to get killed,’ Jelindel retorted. ‘We only beat those mercenaries by fighting as a team.’

‘I killed two!’ Daretor shouted.

‘But I defeated the other four!’ Jelindel shouted back. ‘And I snared Korok long enough to take the link from him.’

Sullen silence descended again.

‘If our luck is good, Korok will be back within the week,’ Zimak suggested as he began to shiver with the chill in the air.

‘That won’t be good luck,’ said Jelindel.

‘And if not?’ asked Daretor.

‘Then go!’ snapped Jelindel. ‘Zimak, will you go with him?’

‘I – I don’t know,’ mumbled Zimak, squirming. ‘With you I could, ah, learn to read better, but, ah …’

‘But with Daretor you two would still be a fighting team. I’m weary of all this – this fighting, searching and hiding.’ She threw her arms up in frustration. ‘I have nothing else to teach you, Zimak. I simply long for a quiet life.’

‘You’ll never have that particular curse,’ Daretor said mirthlessly.

‘All right, then, consider this: you two take the mailshirt and go in search of the last link. I shall stay here and keep Korok’s link –’

‘What?’ exclaimed Daretor.

‘Shut up and listen! I shall stay here for a year. If Korok has not returned by then, I shall come after you. I can use the link to find you.’

‘I don’t like it,’ muttered Daretor. ‘It’s not safe to leave a link in this fleabag of a village with only a girl to guard it.’

Jelindel opened her mouth to reply, but recognised that anything that she said would only make things worse. She pressed her lips together instead.

‘Zimak?’ asked Daretor.

‘I … would go with you, Daretor,’ he said cautiously, ‘but I have to admit that there may be sense in what Jaelin says.’

‘She has no grounds to her fears, Zimak.’

‘Well, she just may. Korok said that he has met the other linkrider. From what he says, it must have been recently, so it could not have been any of those that we have run to earth. Might Korok also not seek him out and bring him back here to fight us? Just think, the link might come to us!’

Jelindel nodded, but was still too angry to say anything.

‘Wisely put,’ Daretor had to admit. ‘We could give him … perhaps a month.’

Zimak and Daretor stood up to go but Jelindel stayed sitting on her rock, the chunky, alien thundercast still clasped in her hand.

‘Are you coming, Jaelin?’ asked Zimak.

‘You go back, I want to have some practice at thunder -bolt archery,’ she said as she pressed another stud.

She aimed and fired. Across the valley there was a puff of smoke beside a rock but no dramatic blast this time. Damn, missed, she thought to herself, but she would not admit it to the others.

The wedding was held mid-morning the following day. Jelindel did not sleep well, and had spent much of the night searching a paraplane for any strange magical auras that might signal Korok’s return.

She was woken before dawn by the taverner next door and his son, who were rolling barrels out to the square. This disturbance was followed swiftly by the young men of the village seizing the groom and subjecting him to a cold bath right outside Jelindel’s window. After that she dozed for an hour, but then the local band arrived at the tavern to tune up and practise between tankards of ale.

Jelindel cursed whoever had built the tavern next to the inn and gave up on trying to sleep. She warmed a pot of water in the taproom fireplace, then back in her room she stripped and washed thoroughly. By the time Kelricka called in she had changed into the clean clothes from her saddlebags and was washing her hair.

Jelindel paused and listened to Kelricka arguing with the guards that it was safe and moral for her to be alone with the Mage Auditor.

‘If only they knew the truth,’ Jelindel said as Kelricka entered.

‘Even this brief meeting will be entered in Yalok’s trip log,’ grumbled Kelricka. ‘They watch me, even though I lead them.’

Jelindel began to towel her hair dry, and was surprised it was now so long when unbound.

‘One day I would like to walk about in robes again,’ she said. ‘Each day I tell myself that, but each day I put on the mailshirt and sheepskins, strap on a sword – then swing my leg over a horse and ride until my backside hurts. Every so often someone tries to kill me, and from time to time I end up killing one of my attackers.’

‘How long before the last dragonlink is found?’ asked Kelricka. ‘Do you have any clues as yet?’

‘Yes, and a strong one. I cannot say anything to anyone, but the end is very near now. The mailshirt will be complete and we may be able to render it harmless forever, but that will be at the price of tears, hate, and possibly deaths.’

‘How can you know all that?’ exclaimed the shocked Kelricka.

‘Were I free to tell you, there would be no problem. Kelricka, that pair I ride with are enough to make me scream most of the time, yet they are my only family now. We have been through so much together, risked our lives for each other, yet … I know in the deepest corners of my heart that the last dragonlink will be the end of us.’

‘I do not follow what you mean.’

‘Don’t try. It’s … almost impossible, yet I have a scheme to ensnare the last dragonlink that may leave us in harmony. But what then? How could we settle down together? Daretor has a warrior’s heart and thinks of little else but honour. His true destiny is yet to be fully realised; I somehow know this. Zimak is an errand boy and alley fighter, but he too could be much more – if he ever grows up. Much as I despair for him, I think that if he stays with Daretor he may be guided to a better path.’

‘And you?’

‘Gah. I am a scholar. I don’t fit in with all that. Besides, I’m a girl. Sooner or later one of them might look my way on some remote road and try to suggest a bit of dalliance. I would not like the idea and, well, things could get quite ugly. Zimak is shiftless, for all his good points, and I know for a fact that he would throw our friendship to the winds to cover himself. Daretor would do the same over some petty matter of honour.’ She gave a mirthless, rueful laugh. ‘While I can admire them both for what they are and can be, I can also see their flaws.’

‘Jelindel, you sound as cynical as some old courtier,’ said Kelricka, inclining her head and raising an eyebrow.

‘I’ve travelled too far and endured too much with those two in my formative years. I’m sixteen, but I feel like sixty.’

Kelricka stared at her sternly. ‘No, you’re still in your formative years.’

Jelindel laughed in spite of herself. ‘Before we reached Dremari I heard what Daretor and Zimak thought about girls in the most candid and lurid of detail. Very few girls hear what men really talk about when they are alone together.’

‘But are they typical of all men?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

Jelindel began combing her hair back.

‘Leave the thonging off, Jelindel, your hair is lovely without it.’

‘What? No, it has to stay bound for me to pass as … what am I playing at now? A Mage Auditor passing for a Skeltian freerover, I think.’

‘Not today. This is a wedding and you should go as what you are. Besides, remember that my guards have noticed that I like you and spend much time with you. We cannot have such rumours getting back to my superiors, can we?’

At mid-morning the village bell rang out to summon everyone to the wedding and feast. Kelricka’s guards remained outside the inn, muttering to each other and writing in their trip log.

There was a collective gasp from the tavern as the band beneath its awning caught sight of Jelindel when she emerged into the sunlight. Kelricka’s guards goggled for a moment and dropped the trip log in the dust.

With the guards and village band trailing along behind them, Jelindel and Kelricka walked out into the village square.

Kelricka had taken in the waist of Jelindel’s clean tunic to show her figure to full effect, and the Mage Auditor was wearing it over trews and newly oiled boots. Her hair was down and dancing in the wind. She wore cherry red lip-blush and green eye shade. Her wide-buckled belt was cinched tight, emphasising her figure even further – although she still wore the thundercast on her hip in a leather sheath that she had sewn.

The blacksmith Gemoti took one look at her and dropped a stoneware jar of wine, which smashed at his feet.

‘Mage Auditor!’ he cried, and everyone nearby turned to stare.

‘Yes?’ asked Jelindel. ‘What – what have – I mean, why are you dressed like that?’

‘Because I’m a girl,’ she replied demurely. ‘You said to dress in my very best, so I have.’

Jelindel turning up to the wedding as Jelindel was almost enough to upstage the bride and groom. Although she had transformed from a fairly plain youth into a stunningly pretty girl, she still walked with a pronounced swagger and had learned only the men’s dance steps in her travels since escaping Dremari. Any number of men, Gemoti included, were always there to be dancing partners and give her helpful instructions, however.

Finally the bell rang out again, and Kelricka met the bride and groom at the shrinestone steps. She read out a fairly long and elaborate version of the formal wedding ceremony, but for the villagers the presence of a real Verital priestess was an honour and blessing beyond purchase by mere coins.

After the newlyweds had kissed, the groom carried his bride to the centre of the square, set her down, and gestured to the band. They danced three jigs alone, then other married couples joined in, one by one and in the order of those most recently married.

The rest stood about clapping, then the two groups swapped roles and the unmarrieds all danced. Gemoti and Jelindel were first, followed by Zimak with a serving girl from the tavern and Daretor with Kelricka.

Kelricka’s guards stood back looking unhappy, but they wrote nothing more in their trip log. One had already torn several pages out and fed them to the fire beneath a sheep roasting on a spit.

It was the bride who first saw the approaching dragon craft, and her scream pierced the music of the band and silenced them.

The craft was moving slowly among the peaks, and a deep rumble was audible even though it was still beyond the edge of the fields.

Everyone in the village square stood in silence for a moment, then the place dissolved into bedlam. Mothers gathered up their children and men ran for their swords, axes and bows. Only Jelindel stood where she had stopped dancing.

With legs planted solidly at shoulder width, she watched the dragon craft approach. Her knees were shaking, her bowels seemed about to betray her and there was a sharp, acidic taste of fear on her tongue. Despite it all she stood her ground and slowly drew the thundercast.

With great deliberation she depressed two studs.

As the thing got closer it was obvious that it was about the size of a very large grain ship, vaguely disk shaped, but with a neck-like structure protruding from what seemed to be the front and vanes like wings from the sides. The deep rumble that emanated from it shook the very ground that they stood on. The craft stopped above the market area and hovered. Its hulking mass cut off all sunlight from the village centre.

Suddenly it made a squealing sound and one of the larger cottages exploded into burning wood, thatching and broken stones. A line of blue fire became visible in the smoke.

A patch of heat moved on to the next cottage at the end of the blue beam, leaving a trail of melted, smoking ground in its wake.

Chapter

21

Jelindel stood in the deserted centre of the square, teeth jammed together and heart racing. As soon as she retaliated, her presence would be recognised. She was so small, and the dragon craft was so big.

‘Jelindel, get under cover!’ shouted Kelricka from somewhere behind her.

The words somehow broke the mesmerising effect of the dragon craft. Jelindel slowly raised the heavy thundercast in both hands, aimed at a place just behind what might have been the mouth of the dragon and squeezed the trigger bar.

A blast rocked the mighty flying weapon, but although fragments rained down into the market, the damage did not appear to be serious.

It turned like a ponderous bird of prey.

Jelindel fired again, but a cone of red tracery formed around the dragon craft. It fired back, but Jelindel had set the shielding option in her thundercast. A cone of red tracery formed about her as well, and an ellipse of molten ground formed on the ground beyond its protection.

The reek of burning was in her nostrils. A deep rumble interlaced with the screams of the villagers pierced her ears. Village archers fired arrows up at the dragon craft, but they flashed into smoke before reaching its surface.

A hot wind whipped about Jelindel, flinging her unbound hair into her face. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead but evaporated even as they ran down her skin. She wanted to drop to one knee, but that might seem a sign of weakness and she was determined not to show that.

The beam from the ship snapped off as suddenly as it had appeared, but the cone remained until Jelindel also ceased firing.

For a moment there was no sound other than the rumble from the dragon craft’s interior.

‘Puny GVG cannot stand against Korok’s warship,’ a deafening but familiar voice boomed down. The voice was Korok’s, but it was as if a mighty volcano was now talking in broken Skeltian.

‘I know about this weapon, Korok,’ Jelindel shouted back. ‘The shield utility absorbs the power from your own thunderbolts. It can last as long as you shoot at me.’

‘Maybe so, but Korok can kill all those around unless you give mailshirt.’

‘What is it to you?’

‘Mailshirt is control. Mailshirt is knowledge. Mailshirt is lost sciences and skills from ancients. Find mailshirt, find lost links, Korok will have power to rule stars. You have mailshirt and Korok’s link. Give both.’

‘Korok, hear me. The mailshirt has but one link missing now. I know where that last link is hidden. That’s tempting, isn’t it? The whole mailshirt.’

There was a pause that betrayed Korok’s interest.

‘You lying.’

‘No. We can deal. I want revenge on the King of Skelt for the death of my family. Give me this, and I shall give you the final link.’

‘You lying,’ he said again, but his voice held less conviction.

‘Why not check the truth of my words, Korok? Just as our spellvendors can cast truth charms, so must one of the crew of your dragon craft be able to glean when a person is lying or telling the truth.’

‘Hah, have no crew. This craft needs only com – but wait, yes, Korok can tell if one such as you is lying. Wait for moment.’

The dragon craft dropped lower, and another booming voice replaced that of Korok.

‘Speak your statement,’ it said with a flat, metallic resonance, like that of the thundercast.

Jelindel shouted back as loudly and rapidly as she could.

‘Hear me, Systems Control: authorisation code Prime Override 96-haz-zega-1874! Cancel Korok’s trainee pilot option.’

‘What? No, stop!’ screeched Korok.

‘CONFIRMED, CANCELLING TRAINEE CONTROL OPTION,’ boomed the deep, flat voice from the dragon craft.

A hatch suddenly opened on the underside, and Korok’s head emerged.

‘Now, at my command,’ began Jelindel.

‘No, no!’ Korok screamed through the open hatch. ‘Korok make deal. Korok and you use warcraft to overthrow Preceptor in single hour. Please! You avenge your family, you be Queen of all Skelt, of continent, of entire world!’

Too late for deals, thought Jelindel. She took a deep breath and shouted to the ship again. ‘Ascend to five thousand miles at full inertial acceleration, then execute autodestruct sequence.’

‘No! No!’ screamed Korok.

‘Provide authorisation code,’ boomed the craft’s voice.

‘6998-zega-prinkiv-tol!’ Jelindel shouted back.

The craft slammed the open hatch shut, trapping Korok inside, then the huge mass of metallic glitter rotated smoothly and shot straight up into the sky.

The sudden silence was washed by echoes of the dragon craft’s rumbling engines, and the only evidence that it had been there at all was the fires and damage. False memories from the link that Jelindel wore on one of her toes gave her a new warning.

‘Don’t look up!’ she shouted. ‘Everyone turn to the ground and close your eyes! Don’t look up or you’ll go blind!’

Suddenly an intense light blazed brilliantly white from horizon to horizon as the dragon craft destroyed itself. Even the light reflected back from the ground was so intense that it dazzled those foolish enough to have their eyes open. It faded quickly and the sky was again blue overhead.

Jelindel flopped down to the dust while the villagers heaped sand onto the molted ellipse surrounding her. She was carried over the sand bridge by the blacksmith, who set her down on the shrinestone steps.

Those villagers who were not smothering fires or tending the wounded gathered around Jelindel so quickly that Daretor and Zimak had to push their way through.

‘That was fantastic!’ shouted Zimak, embracing her. ‘You faced that dragon alone, you shot it, you used its magic name to drive it away. Jaelin – Jelindel, you’re the greatest Adept who ever lived.’

‘Nobody but you could have done it,’ said Daretor clapping her on the shoulder.

They pulled away as the mayor made his way through the crowd and thanked her with tears in his eyes. ‘Mage Auditor, you saved our village and our lives!’ he cried.

Everyone else now came swirling about her with their personal thanks. Gemoti held up his hands after several minutes, and tried to clear a space around Jelindel.

‘Ease back now, folks, the poor girl’s getting a worse battering from ye all than she got from the dragon.’

A circle began to clear around Jelindel as the people dispersed to clear up the mess. Only her companions, and Kelricka and Gemoti remained standing at the base of the steps.

‘How did you know all that strange language?’ Daretor asked as she sat resting, her back against the shrinestone steps. Jelindel noted the slight, familiar frown of suspicion on his face as she tapped at the studs on the thundercast.

‘Because I am wearing Korok’s link on my toe,’ said Jelindel as she pointed the thundercast at Daretor and shot him.

The villagers who were still nearby screamed and flung themselves to the ground as the tall, well-muscled warrior collapsed, as limp as a feather pillow.

‘Jaelin! Why did you do that?’ cried Zimak, aghast.

‘Because I know who has the last link,’ Jelindel replied sadly, turning the thundercast towards him.

‘Bawdykin!’ Zimak cursed, then he tried to leap for her.

Jelindel shot him in mid-air. He crashed heavily to the steps and tumbled down to the ground.

Jelindel descended the shrinestone steps. Unsteadily she beckoned Gemoti to come over.

‘Hurry, we don’t have much time,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘Get some men together and take these two over to your shop.’

Once they had reached the smithy Jelindel slipped Zimak’s lead ring from his finger. A bright glow of orange was coming from the inner surface. She peeled the lead casing away with her knife.

‘The last dragonlink,’ said Kelricka, nodding her head in understanding. ‘But was it necessary to kill them both?’

‘They are still alive,’ Jelindel said, sounding more weary than ever. ‘Now help me prop Zimak up beside the anvil.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Gemoti, bewildered.

‘Repairing a dream.’

Jelindel curled Zimak’s hand around the chisel and pressed it down on the link as it lay on the anvil. She took the hammer from the blacksmith and struck the chisel, square and hard. Blue tracery crawled about Zimak’s fist for a few moments, then dispersed.

‘What will you do when they revive?’ asked Kelricka. ‘They will not be well disposed to you.’

‘Daretor hates anyone who would use another’s fighting skills through one of the dragonlinks. His idea of honour blinds him to all other need or necessity. If he wakes up here, he will know that both of the people that he trusted most in the entire world have betrayed him, and have been as dishonourable as his worst enemies – in his eyes, at least. I used a dragonlink to defeat Korok, but Zimak was using one all the time that he was with us. Daretor would … gah, it doesn’t even bear thinking about.’

Kelricka clasped her hands together in alarm. ‘At least you can defend yourself. When Zimak wakes up he will be without his fighting skills. Daretor may kill him.’

‘Not so. I used a special technique to split the dragon -link. Zimak will keep a measure of his abilities for some weeks, and if he works hard he will be able to keep some of them forever. I learned the trick from a … a friend that I met in the Valley of Clouds. I kept it secret, confident there would be just such a day as this. Now then, Kelricka and Gemoti, strip everything from them.’

‘What?’ they chorused.

‘Remove their clothes and weapons. Everything!’

‘But why?’ asked Kelricka.

‘To make them think that nothing but living flesh was able to go with them on their journey. Hurry.’

Jelindel finally reached up to the fine chains at her neck and snapped one. She drew out a blue teardrop shape and stared at it for a moment before putting it in Daretor’s hand.

‘What is the journey? Where are you sending them?’ asked Kelricka.

‘I don’t know,’ Jelindel said as she draped Zimak’s arm across Daretor’s back. ‘The weight is all wrong, so – I don’t know.’

‘Weight?’

Jelindel spoke a word, and Daretor was slowly swathed in blue tendrils that originated at his hand and spread to the rest of his body, then down Zimak’s arm to encase him as well. The pair began to fade within the cocoon of writhing blue lines.

‘Move back,’ Jelindel commanded the blacksmith and priestess, and they pressed against the wall as Jelindel stood with her hands clasped together. The writhing mass of blue suddenly vanished with a loud blast. All that remained was a little pile of blue powder on the floor of the smithy.

‘What did you do?’ asked Kelricka as Jelindel scuffed the blue powder with her boot.

‘The blue jewel was given to me by – well, you would not believe who it was. The device could have transported me to another world, but it is destroyed in the process. Daretor and Zimak are in a paraworld now, and can never return. Ever.’

‘You make it sound like death,’ said Kelricka softly and quietly.

‘It’s as final as death, but not death. Daretor will awake thinking that Zimak is the one friend who never betrayed him, and Zimak will retain his kick-fist skills if he practises them henceforth. Meantime, I am safe from Daretor’s wrath, even if his hate for me burns in some unimaginably distant place.’

Zimak stirred, and beside him Daretor groaned. They were lying on rubble in the half-light of morning or evening, he could not tell which.

In the distance were the sounds of tuneless singing and coarse laughter, interspersed with an occasional scream. Up in the sky was a huge banded moon in a greenish-blue haze. None of the stars or constellations were familiar.

‘Zimak, is that you?’ asked Daretor.

‘Aye, but – my clothes! Everything’s gone.’

Daretor sat up, warily looking about him. ‘Damn that traitorous little bitch Jelindel!’ he spat, enraged. ‘Damn her to Black Quell’s pit, aye and below it too. She’s magicked us to another world and kept the mailshirt for herself. She was probably scheming to do it all along.’ He glanced down at himself. ‘It seems that clothes and weapons cannot be sent to this particular paraworld.’

No ring, thought Zimak in dismay. ‘We, ah, we do seem to be in a new world, indeed,’ he said in almost a whisper.

‘Damn you, Jelindel!’ Daretor shouted at the sky. ‘Damn your learning, there’s no honour in it!’

‘What a strange place,’ said Zimak as the echoes of Daretor’s shout died away. ‘These ruins are smoking! They must have been only recently razed – White Quell save us, there are bodies everywhere!’

There were at least a dozen dead men where Zimak was pointing. Daretor made his way over the rubble to examine them.

‘All have their hands tied, and have been clubbed to death. It’s a dishonourable way to die. They should never have surrendered. They should have died fighting.’

‘They wear strange, fine robes,’ said Zimak as he joined Daretor. ‘We should take a set each to wear. We need warmth more than they ever will again.’

One of the bigger bodies was nearly Daretor’s size, while Zimak had his choice of the rest. Their sandals were a flexible design that strapped on easily.

‘I can’t help but worry about these robes,’ Daretor said, experimentally hefting a wooden beam that he had pulled from the rubble.

‘Why is that?’

‘Because they brand us as being among the losers in whatever fight destroyed this place – look out!’

Two heavily bearded, unkempt barbarians had been drawn to the sound of their voices. They cried out in delighted surprise at finding two more survivors and drew curving, weighted swords to attack at once. Reeling drunk and over-confident, they did not recognise Daretor’s confident, defiant stance.

Daretor parried the swing of the first man’s sword with his length of wood and drove his elbow into his face.

Zimak skipped back from his opponent, hands spread and open to show he had no weapons. The warrior lunged and missed as Zimak executed a step-dodge then brought his heel around in a spinning back kick that landed on the man’s hairy jaw. Zimak’s sprained ankle stung with the impact, but not beyond bearing.

Daretor and Zimak stood over their defeated opponents, staring at each other.

‘Good work,’ panted Daretor. ‘We make a better team of two than three, do you not think so?’

Zimak suddenly realised that he had just fought with skills that he had acquired through his disguised dragon -link – yet the link was gone! How? Perhaps the skills of the dragonlink were threaded into his body when it was magicked into the paraworld, leaving the link behind. Yes, the skills of the link could only be lost if it were taken off, but he never actually took it off. Whatever the case, his secret was safe from Daretor forever.

‘We ought to dress as these two,’ Zimak suggested. ‘They seem to be the victors.’

He began to remove the weapons and clothing from the man that he had kicked. The clothing was too large, but it would have to do. Daretor examined the other.

‘Pah! This one has been drinking,’ he said.

‘Mine too. There’s a big revel somewhere close, by what I can hear.’

When they had changed clothes again they climbed a low wall and surveyed the area. Off to one side were the remains of an angular, precisely laid out garden, and within it a crowd of barbarians was gathered around a bonfire.

Three or four women were amid the crowd, but from their cries and screams it was obvious that they were not willing companions of the hairy revellers.

‘Now what?’ asked Zimak.

Daretor did not reply. He just stared out at the revellers around the bonfire.

‘Daretor, you couldn’t be thinking of us two attacking those yahas, could you? There must be a dozen of them, maybe fifteen.’

‘Maybe more,’ echoed Daretor. ‘Remember the trouble we had from the last girl that we fell in with?’

‘These are helpless, and in need,’ rumbled Daretor. ‘This is what I understand, this is a matter of honour.’

Zimak looked down at the blade he had taken from his vanquished opponent. The design was functional yet unlike anything he had ever seen. This is the end, this is the beginning, a voice kept saying in his mind.

Many worlds away Jelindel sat against the village shrinestone steps in the late afternoon sun, watching the villagers try to restore the celebration of the wedding day. They were avoiding her now, confused and fearful of the girl who had destroyed the mighty dragon that had threatened to annihilate their village, yet who had shot her own companions. Even the bodies of the two youths had been enchanted out of existence by her.

To even begin to explain the reason behind her actions was more than Jelindel dared to tell them. There was a curse on the mailshirt, she told them instead, and it had to be destroyed now that it was complete.

Kelricka walked across, climbed the steps and sat down beside her.

‘Damn, but I’m going to miss them, Kelricka,’ Jelindel sighed. ‘I’ll miss Daretor blustering about his honour and wooing skill back into his swordwork as if it were an angry mistress. I’ll even miss Zimak putting on his all-comers’ challenges at every village and showing off to the girls, then confiding his fears to me as we counted the winnings later.’

‘How did you know about Zimak having a dragonlink?’ asked Kelricka as she squeezed her hand.

‘I listen a great deal. In D’loom the stallholders in the marketplace told me that they were amazed how Zimak had been transformed from a cowering boy to king of the market gangs almost overnight.

‘The great master of Siluvian kick-fist, Mir-gish, even unofficially rated Zimak at black band twelve when he visited D’loom. I was there and I spoke to him. Nobody under the age of fifty has ever achieved that ranking.’

‘So, you became suspicious?’

‘More than suspicious, but I kept my thoughts to myself. We all have our secrets, myself especially, so I decided that Zimak would probably tell me when he was ready. When I learned more about the powers of the dragon links I drew the obvious conclusion. His ring was lead but it was big enough to cover a dragonlink on the inside. The lead smothered its aura while allowing his finger to be in contact with it. Flesh also smothers the aura. That’s why he could be so close with the link yet go undetected.’

The priestess looked down at the mailshirt as it lay across the steps. It was now all silvery gleaming highlights with tiny stars of colours. Gemoti made ready some improvised tools and began to put the last links into the mailshirt that very afternoon. Jelindel watched carefully as Korok’s link was split, heated, flattened, heated, looped in and hammered closed again. The mailshirt ceased to glow, then Jelindel opened the locket where she had been keeping Zimak’s link and the glow blazed up again.

Gemoti split the last link and heated it. As he tapped the ends flat Jelindel unfolded her arms and held out her hand for his tongs.

‘I would like to do the last link,’ she said firmly. ‘Alone.’

‘Meanin’ no disrespect, but, ah, do you know how to?’

‘If my skill is not equal to the task, I shall call you back.’

Gemoti and Kelricka left, and Jelindel worked slowly and clumsily at the forge and anvil. After a full half hour she finally called the priestess back in but told Gemoti to remain outside. She had laid the mailshirt out on a bench, and it was no longer glowing.

‘At last, it is complete,’ said Jelindel. ‘How do we dispose of it?’

‘Oh no, you must wear it,’ said Kelricka as if any other suggestion was offensive.

Jelindel had been standing back with her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork. At Kelricka’s words her arms flopped down and she turned, staring, her eyes wide.

‘What? Are you seriously suggesting that I should put that thing on?’ exclaimed Jelindel. ‘I mean it’s like a loaded crossbow now. It’s not just a mailshirt. It’s dangerous.’

The priestess just nodded solemnly.

‘Why me?’ asked Jelindel.

‘You had the power to seize Korok’s dragon machine and become ruler of more kingdoms and people than I could imagine, yet you chose to destroy it.’

‘The dragon craft could indeed do everything that he promised me, but I could barely comprehend such power, much less use it wisely. It is the same with this thing, only worse.’

‘And that is why only you can wear the mailshirt. Put it on, Jelindel. It is a tool as well as a weapon. It’s complete now, and you will be able to learn all its secrets. Tell us why folk have sought after this thing and its links for so long. It can’t be just for the gaining of specialised skills from people who wear it.’

Jelindel picked up the cold, shimmering metal fabric. Somehow it now felt far, far heavier.

‘I can tell you without putting it on,’ she said. ‘I have done a lot of study over the year past. The Book of Wars holds the teachings of Hawtarnas, who was reputed to have green blood and was probably of the same race as Korok. He wrote “The wardragon dwells in fabric that calls to itself!”’

‘Fabric that calls to itself!’ exclaimed Kelricka. ‘The dragonlinks that are the fabric of the mailshirt. Yet what did he mean by wardragon?’

‘The skills and powers that this thing offers are almost without limit, and can awake the wardragon that dwells in all of us. It would give me the power to set the world right, but that would be “right” as I, Jelindel, think it. What a boring world that would be.’

Kelricka laughed. ‘Oh Jelindel, put it on. Power can corrupt, but it does so slowly. Think of all that you can learn.’

Slowly Jelindel raised the heavy mailshirt. This was knowledge, and thus it was her price. She knew now that she had her price, just as her brother Lutiar – at the thought of Lutiar her body convulsed, and the mailshirt fell to her feet.

‘Jelindel! Are you all right?’ gasped Kelricka.

‘Yes – actually, no. The events of this day have been a terrible strain and I feel weak, far too weak to wear the mailshirt just now. You could try wearing it, however.’

Jelindel was stooped and haggard, and so her words were quite convincing.

‘Me? Kelricka’s face betrayed shock, even though she smiled. ‘What sort of joke is that?’

‘You want to tap its knowledge for the sake of scholarship, and you are a far better scholar than me.’

‘I do not have your strength,’ Kelricka replied, staring down at the pile of shining links.

‘If anyone is drained of strength just now it is I,’ replied Jelindel. ‘Besides, I have a feeling that strength is not necessary. Pick it up, and put it on. Come now, quickly, before your fears bind your hands. Come, I’ll help. Sit on the bench and raise your arms.’

Jelindel stood behind Kelricka and held the mailshirt up over her arms. There was a definite change in the feel of the thing as she lowered it; some quality was present that had not been there before the last link had been added.

‘Just sit there while I straighten it and pull your hair free,’ Jelindel said, looping a length of thonging through a link and letting it dangle. She then stepped over the bench and walked around in front of Kelricka. ‘How does it feel?’

Kelricka did not reply at once, but just sat with her hands in her lap. The mailshirt took on a faint violet shimmer. In a way it seemed to be moving, or winking in and out of existence very rapidly. After what were in fact seconds but seemed like hours, she raised her right hand to her face, spread her fingers, rotated her hand, then made a fist and returned it to her lap.

Kelricka tried to speak. Her lips parted and she made a sound between a grunt and a snarl. Her jaw worked, and she began slowly speaking strings of unfamiliar, alien words. Lastly she made as if to stand, teetered for a moment, then sat back down heavily.

She moved her head a trifle and stared at Jelindel.

‘Walking always takes longest,’ said Kelricka. With each word the tone of her voice dropped deeper.

‘Kelricka, what is the matter?’ Jelindel asked, taking a step forward. Kelricka’s hand came up, its palm facing Jelindel.

‘The host body is satisfactory,’ said a commanding voice at least two octaves deeper than Kelricka’s. ‘Who are you?’

Jelindel swallowed, trying to comprehend what sat before her. ‘I am, ah, the Custodian of the Mailshirt,’ she improvised quickly. ‘I … chose your host.’

‘You chose well, Custodian. The mind of a scholar is far more deadly than the brawn of a warrior. Stand back and wait now, while I optimise my control of the host body.’

The truth now shone luridly bright in Jelindel’s mind. The wardragon was not just some scholarly allegory for the temptations of power, it was a real being, a spirit that lived within the mailshirt itself. Only when the thing was complete to the very last link could the wardragon awake and seize control of the body of the wearer, however.

Jelindel watched Kelricka’s arms and legs move under the direction of the wardragon as it accustomised itself to her. It moved her head up and down, turned it to one side as far as it would go, then – Jelindel darted forward.

‘Stop!’ boomed the wardragon, snapping Kelricka’s head around. ‘I ordered you to stay clear.’

Now Jelindel hurriedly drew the thundercast and pointed it squarely at the centre of the priestess’s chest. Kelricka’s lips parted for a booming laugh.

‘Interesting. A remote singularity GVG, as grown by the Gh’viv hatchery. How has it come to be in such an obviously backward world?’

‘No questions, just sit still!’ snapped Jelindel.

The thundercast was shaking in her hand as she fumbled with the settings. It was all bluff, she already suspected that the mailshirt would absorb the weapon’s fire as it absorbed sorcerers’ magic.

‘No answers, Custodian?’ the wardragon replied. ‘Well, I shall find out soon enough as I explore the mind of the host.’

‘Wardragon, I am willing to kill your host to keep you confined,’ Jelindel warned.

‘Indeed? This – is an odd test. Well, fire at me,’ it taunted.

Just as I suspected, it does not fear the thundercast, Jelindel thought. Her eyes narrowed, her aim shifted to the left.

‘You will not make me kill my friend,’ she said. ‘I have set the thundercast to a thin, hot setting. I can slice a few links away from one shoulder and render you harmless again. Kelricka will get no more than a fleshwound.’

Jelindel squeezed the trigger bar, pointing at the shoulder of the priestess. Nothing happened, except for a slight surge in the aura of the mailshirt.

‘Energy weapons are easy to control,’ mocked the wardragon’s voice. ‘My makers were using them when your ancestors were using bones as clubs.’

‘Liar, the thundercast is merely mis-set,’ stammered Jelindel.

Please, please be proud and boastful, Jelindel thought.

‘Oh so? Point to one side and fire.’

Thank you, thought Jelindel with such relief that she nearly spoke the words aloud. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the thundercast to the left.

‘Here?’ she asked.

‘Yes, your little toy is armed again, and it will work. You can even try to point it back at me if you wish, and if you wished I could then show how I can turn the beam about and burn your arm off at the shoulder. I could even reattach it, such are my powers.’

Jelindel fired – but swept down and sliced away the end of the bench where Kelricka sat possessed by the wardragon. Kelricka toppled, and as she fell Jelindel dropped the thundercast and leaped for her, sending her sprawling again as she tried to get up. Jelindel tried to hold her in a headlock, but Kelricka’s strength had suddenly been magnified to greater than even that of Daretor. The priestess stood up, holding Jelindel above her with one hand.

‘I am master of all weapons, from GVGs to mere muscles,’ began the wardragon as Jelindel reached down and seized the leather thonging that dangled from the mailshirt’s shoulder. She pulled with all her strength.

There was a brilliant flash of violet light. Kelricka collapsed like a ragdoll and Jelindel crashed down on top of her. At once Jelindel rolled clear, but the priestess just lay still. The mailshirt glowed a soft orange, and Jelindel saw that a link dangled from the thonging that was still in her grasp. It was ripped open, and also glowing.

‘Come, we must get that thing off you,’ she said as she crawled over to the priestess.

‘How … how did you stop it?’ groaned the real Kelricka, who had been a helpless witness to what had just happened.

‘I only pressed the ends of the last link together with a little iron clip that I fashioned. I did it so that the link would tear apart easily, and I looped that thonging in as I helped you into the mailshirt. All that I needed to do was get close enough to jerk the thonging and the mailshirt would be incomplete again.’

‘That’s clever,’ Kelricka panted as she sat up. ‘But why?’

‘Would you conjure a god and expect it to behave and cooperate?’ asked Jelindel as she got to her knees. ‘I wouldn’t. I had no clear plan, but one weakened link seemed like a good idea in case … well, just in case.’

Kelricka bent forward while Jelindel peeled off the mailshirt – taking a few strands of the priestess’s hair in her haste. Jelindel lay back against the leg of a workbench, her emotions exhausted by having to fight the unknown a second time in the same day. Kelricka sat quietly on the floor with her chin on her knees. She was aware that it was her unqualified curiosity that had nearly unleashed the wardragon upon their world. The glowing orange mound that was the mailshirt lay on the floor between them.

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Kelricka.

‘You were not to know.’

‘Your wisdom saved me.’

‘Just commonsense, not wisdom. I had to learn it to stay alive in the D’loom market.’ Jelindel nudged the mailshirt with her foot. ‘It was probably damaged when its last wearer fell from the sky. This is surely the first time it has been complete in a long time. Whoever tried to repair it probably slipped a link about his finger and discovered its properties, so naturally there was more incentive to take links out than put them back. The memories, the soul, the willpower of what Hawtarnas called “the wardragon” is a live thing within the mailshirt. All that it needs is a wearer to possess.’

Kelricka shivered and hugged her knees. ‘Who would give up their very soul to a wardragon-thing, and why?’ she asked, incredulous.

‘People serve kings without aspiring to be kings,’ said Jelindel. ‘Being host to a wardragon is probably the most intimate way of being a monarch’s servant, and to everyone’s gaze the host is the monarch.’

Kelricka shook her head. ‘I learned something of its powers,’ she admitted. ‘They have no place on this world.’

‘I’ll melt it to slag,’ Jelindel decided.

They went outside and set off for the shrinestone steps where the wedding had been conducted only hours earlier. Gemoti joined them.

‘And, ah, what might ye be doing?’ he asked. ‘Is everything all right? I thought ye might be fighting in there.’

‘We are just making sure that we don’t set your smithy on fire,’ said Kelricka.

They reached the steps. Jelindel took out her thundercast, double-checked the settings against notes she had written down, then aimed it at the mailshirt.

‘The wardragon said your thundercast cannot harm the mailshirt,’ Kelricka pointed out.

‘It said nothing of the sort,’ said Jelindel tersely, flicking a stud. ‘I have seen it absorb magical power, but not the power of this weapon.’

‘But the wardragon –’

‘The wardragon was awake when it robbed the thundercast’s power. Now it is asleep again, so this may be our chance. Pray that I am right, Kelricka.’

Jelindel squeezed the trigger bar. The setting was for wide-beam heat, such as would melt without bursting the stone beneath. Within moments the links began to glow red, brightened to yellow, then became white. Finally they melted. Jelindel did not release the trigger bar until the last of the links had flowed down the stone steps as molten metal. A crowd of villagers gathered at a distance to watch and point.

‘It’s just a harmless lump now,’ Jelindel began, but even as she spoke the molten pool began to resolve back into the woven links of a mailshirt.

Kelricka stared with her mouth hanging open, and she made the holy circle in the air before her. Gradually the mailshirt cooled, and Jelindel picked it up on the blade of her shortsword. One link fell free and jingled on the steps. The loose link had not been incorporated, so the metal fabric glowed faintly in the sunlight. The villagers crowded a little closer, fearful yet curious to see what the dangerous sorceress was doing now.

Kelricka sat back down on a cool part of the steps, her fist pressed hard against her lips for a moment. Jelindel peered closely at the most recently reattached links, then dropped the mailshirt and picked up the loose link. It was no longer split.

‘The thing is self-repairing,’ she said glumly. ‘All the rough repair work on the last few links is smooth and seamless now. The loose link was not rejoined; it must need to be properly attached for its place to be known.’

Jelindel kicked at the mailshirt several times. Tears of frustration were glistening on her cheeks.

‘Do what we like with it, the pieces will always call each other back together,’ she concluded.

‘Perhaps we could keep it under guard in the Great Temple,’ suggested Kelricka.

‘It was being guarded closely in Hamatriol but it was still stolen, that much I have learned in my travels. Kelricka, the mailshirt must be hidden if it cannot be destroyed. I am going to have to go into the mountains alone.’

‘Why? What are you going to do?’

‘You will have to trust me, Kelricka. Wait here, if you please. I’ll be gone a day or so, but first I must buy some lead sheeting from Gemoti.’

Leaving the village, Jelindel rode out along a backhill trail for a day and a night. At length she had satisfied herself that nobody was following her, and that she had found the perfect resting place for the mailshirt.

She secured her pony to an outcrop of rock and began to make her way down the side of a canyon to a melt water river. The mailshirt was enclosed in roofing lead in the pack on her back, giving physical weight to the responsibility for its powers. She left the sheet-lead package in a crevice beside the river, substituted a stone in her backpack, then made the arduous climb back up to her pony. After double-checking her written notes she reset the thundercast to full power.

At a quarter mile distance, Jelindel raised the thunder -cast, aimed below a large overhang, glanced down at the crevice that hid the shielded mailshirt, then fired a prolonged, shattering blast. Rock exploded out from the face of the gorge and thunderclap echoes were flung all about Jelindel. Her terrified pony screamed and reared, but she had tied it tightly.

Again she fired through the dust and smoke, and again. She blasted deeper into the rock each time. At last the entire overhang gave way and crashed down into the gorge with an impact that shook the ground beneath Jelindel’s feet. She sat waiting until the dust and smoke began to clear, noting with satisfaction that the river was already pooling into what would soon become a very impressive lake.

Now she disarmed the thundercast and put it away, satisfied. Even an army would take years to dig away the millions of tons of rock that now covered the mailshirt.

She rambled through the mountains for many miles, blasting another four gorges the same way, to further ensure that the trail to the mailshirt was lost. When she finally returned to the village, she had had no sleep for three full days. She practically fell out of the saddle and into the arms of Kelricka and her guards.

‘The mailshirt is beyond the reach of human hands,’ Jelindel reported in a voice slurred by fatigue.

‘Now will you come with me to the Great Temple of Verity to join the novices?’ asked Kelricka.

‘Yes, yes with all my heart,’ mumbled Jelindel. ‘But first I would like just one night’s unbroken sleep.’

The next day Jelindel, Kelricka and the three guards set off along the road south. During Jelindel’s absence Kelricka had sewn the robes of a novice for her to wear as they travelled. While the entire village turned out to wave them off and thank them again, nobody bid them hurry back soon.

Unknown to Jelindel and Kelricka, war had been declared between Hamaria and Skelt some days before, and squads of the Preceptor’s mounted militia had been sent deep into Hamarian territory to seize and hold strategic positions.

One such patrol encountered a Verital priestess, her three guards, and a girl wearing the cowl of a novice.

‘Two ladies,’ said the squad captain to the prime lancer. ‘Two ladies alone, ’cept for those painted dolls as like escorts them.’

The guards faced the militiamen bravely, but the numbers were against them. Three of the militiamen raised light crossbows and trained them on the guards.

‘Two priestesses,’ observed the prime lancer. ‘Priestesses be virgins.’

‘Virgins can cure the pox,’ replied the squad captain.

Suddenly exasperated beyond bearing, Jelindel drew the thundercast and fired in a smooth, fluid movement. The squad captain exploded into smoking, bloody gouts of flesh and charred leather and ringmail armour. One of the crossbowmen fired wildly as his horse reared. Another took aim at Jelindel and fired, but hit her rearing horse in the throat. She slid down the animal’s back, dropping to the trail on both feet.

Again she fired, twice, in rapid succession. The two crossbowmen detonated just as their leader had.

The surviving militiamen shrank back, aghast and splattered with shredded, smoking flesh. Even the temple guards drew well back from Jelindel.

‘Now I’ve been having a particularly hard time lately,’ began Jelindel, ‘but luckily the heavens and moons are in such places that improve my mood and your prospects of living.’

None of the surviving militiamen so much as blinked.

‘Dismount, all of you. Take off the saddles and fling them into the gorge. Good, good. Now your clothes and armour – and weapons. Everything! Do it!’

She fired again, this time into the trail. The earth erupted, leaving a small, smoking crater. The militiamen undressed hurriedly and flung their clothing to the rocks hundreds of feet below.

‘Now mount up and ride. You might reach the Dominer Pass in two days with good weather and a lot of luck. The repair crew can minister to you.’

Jelindel took the saddle from her dead horse and put it on the dead squad captain’s mare. The priestess and guards looked on, rather too nervous to even ask if they could help.

‘Was it really necessary to do that?’ Kelricka asked as they began to ride on.

‘Probably not,’ sighed Jelindel as she drew the thundercast and spun it on her finger. ‘I must have selected the wrong setting – blast instead of stun. Without the dragon -link I need my scroll of instructions and it’s packed away in my saddlebags. Besides, would you feel so merciful if they had ravished you, Holy Priestess and friend?’

Kelricka shook her head. ‘As you just said, prob ably not. Now please, put that thing away.’

Jelindel pressed what she thought was the disarming stud. The thundercast’s voice suddenly cheeped out.

‘Intrusion playback option, first instance: ‘Shoot, you damn thing, shoot! Nothing. Accursed trinket. Pah!’

‘That was Zimak’s voice!’ exclaimed Kelricka.

‘Intrusion playback option, second instance:’ declared the thundercast. ‘Gah! Pah! Shoot! I command you to shoot! I – I request you to shoot. Hie! Stupid bauble, it ignores a true warrior and obeys a girl. You try it, Daretor.’

Daretor’s voice followed. ‘Me? Never. That thing has no honour.’

‘And Daretor,’ said Jelindel grimly. ‘At least he had the honour not to try the thundercast … yet he didn’t attempt to stop Zimak. It must mimic what is said when those without authority are trying to use it.’

‘And that is not the only lesson that it teaches,’ Kelricka said.

They rode on, noting how the mountains were giving way to green foothills with distant farmsteads clinging to them. Mostly they rode in silence, lost in contemplation of all that had happened in the days past.

‘So much for trust,’ said Kelricka, voicing her thoughts.

‘Makes me feel better about shooting them,’ replied Jelindel, who had been thinking along much the same lines.

Chapter

22

The neophyte priestess wa s registered as Countess Jelindel dek Mediesar when she signed the register of the Great Temple of Verity in Arcadia. She swore to abide by the laws and regulations of the priestesses. Then, having laid claim to her dead family’s title and being ratified by the temple geneologist, she formally renounced the title of countess. The renunciation of a noble family or title allowed her to be admitted as a neophyte of the Verital Priestesses.

Payment for the seven years of study that stretched before her was not guaranteed, but her entrance fee was provided by an unknown sponsor. It was decided by the entrance committee that Jelindel would teach the other students Siluvian kick-fist and basic fencing as a means of working her way through the temple’s school for priest-esses. Times were difficult with wars going on to the north, and it was felt that many of the priestesses might have to go about their work unescorted in times soon to come.

After the tutors saw her entrance exam results they thought that she might need only four years.

‘You have mage Adept abilities rated at a marginal level 9,’ noted the Dean of Human Powers. ‘Have you been given a name by a high Adept in enchantment or a band in martial studies?’

A priestess with a truth charm flickering about her ears sat beside the Dean, ready to catch any conscious lies. Jelindel was about to say no in all honesty, then she remembered an incident that was deeply etched in her mind.

‘Yes,’ she declared, and the priestess with the truth charm remained silent.

‘Have you accepted it as your truename?’

‘Yes,’ Jelindel answered again in all truth.

Renouncing worldly wealth was not particularly hard, as Jelindel had very few possessions in the first place. She was taken to the tailor and fitted out with robes and beaded slippers in exchange for the tunic, trousers and sheepskin that had served her so long. She was allowed to keep the few things in her saddlebags after they had been taken away and inspected.

‘I have to return to Hamaria now,’ Kelricka said as they walked back to the student dormitories. ‘The Preceptor of Skelt has annihilated the Hamarian army at Lindfol and I have to organise the evacuation of our temples.’

‘I could help,’ Jelindel suggested.

‘No, your place is here. Now then, the older girls may try to perform some sort of initiation ceremony, if you know what I mean.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Jelindel confessed.

‘It is a sort of … humiliation to put you in your place. The daughters of nobility often have a lot to learn when they first come here.’

They stopped at the door to the dormitory wing and embraced for a moment. When Jelindel entered, she was carrying only the books she had signed out from the library a half hour before and a kit bag.

Beyond the door were a dozen girls wearing cowls and seniority sashes. The door was pushed shut behind her.

‘Neophyte, you are to be taught your place and the rules,’ declared one of the anonymous seniors.

‘My place is room 37B, and I have memorised the rule book,’ Jelindel replied calmly.

Jelindel’s reaction was not the usual bluster or cowering that the initiators encountered from young noblewomen. In fact there was a certain confidence about her that set them on edge.

‘There are rules that are not written down, neophyte!’ snapped the senior. ‘You will not be able to go running to your big brother to fight your battles in here.’

‘I couldn’t anyway,’ Jelindel replied. ‘I killed him last year.’

The senior made an odd choking sound.

‘You – you killed your brother?’

‘He was a lindrak.’ Jelindel paused at her error. Maybe not a lindrak as such, but certainly of their making, she reasoned. ‘And I don’t like lindraks.’

‘You killed a lindrak?’ sneered a senior who had said nothing so far. ‘Tell us how.’

‘With a word of ensnarement.’

Suddenly the first senior’s voice filled with confidence again. Only an Adept 9 could even begin to use that sort of dangerous magic, everyone knew that. ‘Prove it,’ she said after a derisive snort.

Zimak’s image flared in Jelindel’s mind. If only the girl had chosen a challenge other than ‘prove it’, Jelindel might have kept her patience better.

Her binding word lashed out to wrap about the senior’s legs and she fell with a scream of terror, bound from her calves to her thighs by writhing blue coils.

After holding her for ten heartbeats the coils vanished back into Jelindel’s mouth.

The girl clawed her way backwards on the floor as Jelindel approached and the others backed away in an expanding arc.

‘Ser – servitor, take her bag, show her to her room,’ the senior stammered.

A girl without a cowl came forward and offered her hand for Jelindel’s bag. They walked away down the corridor together.

‘And what is your name?’ asked Jelindel as they went. ‘Mine is Jelindel.’

‘I – I am Metriele,’ quavered the terrified girl, who was no less than Jelindel’s age.

‘No need to be afraid,’ said Jelindel. ‘I only bite when cornered.’

They climbed a flight of stone stairs.

‘Did you really kill your brother?’ Metriele now asked in wonder rather than fear.

‘It was self-defence, mostly,’ Jelindel replied. ‘My brother betrayed the rest of my family to assassins, but I escaped and lived alone as a boy scribe in a market. I learned magical and mundane weapons, how to cook, sew and wash clothes, and even how to pretend to shave my face. Eventually I fell in with two youths who …’ They stopped in front of a door with 37B on it. ‘Metriele, we have many years ahead of us. Perhaps we could save my story for later?’

Epilogue

By the eleventh day of Month-Eight 2129, the Preceptor of Skelt had crushed Hamaria. Arcadia had a reprieve, however, as full-scale war had broken out between Skelt and Baltoria. The Preceptor did not like to fight on more than one front at a time, so he turned his full attention east. He declared himself head of his new Algon Empire, although he retained the title of Preceptor rather than Emperor. His Adept 12, Fa’red, became the Imperial court Adept.

The King of Skelt was trapped like a rat and executed after he tried to flee Skelt on a Lycellian merchant ship. The vessel was caught by Imperial sloops, and the King was bound and flung overboard to the sharks without ceremony, or so the story went. Thus the man Jelindel suspected of having her family killed suffered a death no less terrifying, but it brought her little satisfaction. She had learned that revenge was not sweet, only vaguely unsatisfying and laced with guilt. Too, Jelindel had cause to ponder the King of Skelt’s hand in the murder of her family. It was likely that the Preceptor was not without blame – and Jelindel vowed to make amends if she found this to be so. The Queen of Passendof became a prisoner of the Preceptor. Try as Jelindel might, she could not feel sympathy for her. The thought of all her lovers who had spent the night with her and had then become breakfast was not easy to squeeze past.

The Great Temple’s seminary was moved out of reach of the Preceptor. He had sworn a vendetta against the Verital orders after they began preaching against his versions of the truth. Most of the girls were terrified of the prospect of such a journey, but to Jelindel it was just another trip with some dangers, some delights and a lot of discomfort.

The classes that Jelindel conducted in Siluvian kick-fist went well, even though some of the girls were less than enthusiastic students. With the future looking as uncertain as it did, they could need their kick-fist skills very soon. Jelindel missed the mailshirt: had she kept it, she might have combed the paraworlds to see what had become of Daretor and Zimak, but she was only an Adept 9 without it, and her unaided powers were feeble by comparison. Their fate seemed destined to remain a mystery to her.

She relinquished the thundercast, as she had her few other worldly possessions.

Her past became as surreal as a dream.

For now she had a place in the world and real friends. It was still a dangerous and violent world, but at least the dragon links were gone forever. Compared to a lot of people, Jelindel was doing very well indeed.