They looked at it.
“No, I can’t,” Caldason replied.
“Damn,” Kutch muttered, deflated and embarrassed.
Reeth laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Persevere in all things.”
Karr joined them. “Be careful, Kutch. That’s not something the unlicensed should be seen doing in Valdarr.”
“An unapproved boy sorcerer, a renegade politician on a death list and a wanted outlaw,” Caldason counted off, “all about to set foot in a city with the biggest concentration of state and empire forces in Bhealfa.”
“Valdarr’s size is our ally,” Karr said. “There are a myriad places we can lose ourselves down there.”
“Look!” Kutch interrupted.
Something was flying their way, diving at them. It was hard to make out what it was.
“This could be what I’ve been waiting for,” Karr decided.
“I hope it’s kept better time than the last one,” Caldason remarked.
“What if it isn’t what we’ve been expecting?” Kutch asked. “What if it’s hostile?”
Neither of them answered him. But Caldason’s hand moved to the hilt of his rapier.
The flying thing rapidly closed the distance, then slowly circled above their heads.
“It’s all right,” Karr assured them.
The creature descended and hovered.
This time, the messenger took the form of a giant dragonfly, the size of a large dog. It was fabulously coloured, lustrous blues and greens marking its elongated carapace. Its silvery wings beat so fast they were a smudge. It was grotesquely beautiful.
The dragonfly flitted over to face Karr. It studied him with its bulging, multifaceted eyes, its antennae trembling. Then it let out a loud, preternatural rasp.
“Advance.”
The glamour repeated its message twice more. Then it tore itself apart, disintegrating in a shower of luminous grains scattered by the wind. The glittering particles died as they drifted.
“Time to go,” Karr declared. “Come on, you two, don’t linger!”
When they reached the city’s outskirts, Karr, who was driving, pulled up outside a stables.
He told them, “It’s better to continue on foot, so we have to lose the wagon and horses. But, Kutch, by rights this wagon and team are yours, as they belonged to Grentor. Of course the money they fetch will be yours. Any objections?”
“No. I can see the sense in what you’re saying. Only…’
“What is it?”
“Well, it sounds silly, but they’re the last link with my master.”
“No, they’re not,” Reeth said. “You’re the link. The person he helped you become, the knowledge he gave you. Your memories of him. That’s what keeps somebody alive.”
Kutch nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“There’s a tavern a little further along this road,” Karr explained. “On the way into town, maybe half a mile. Why don’t you two wait there for me? I’ll join you once I’ve made the sale.”
They agreed and set off. The storm was building and drawing closer.
Kutch , apprehensively, asked, “You will stay a while, won’t you, Reeth?”
“I said I would. At least until you’re settled, and Karr’s made a connection for me with these Covenant people. If he can.”
“I think he can. He seems like a good man to me.”
“From your vast experience of weighing people up, eh?” It wasn’t meant unkindly.
“Perhaps I am a bit inexperienced in that way. But he has befriended us, and he’s trying to help you with your problem.”
“We’ll see. But I’ll not be staying in Valdarr forever, Kutch, don’t forget that.”
Kutch wasn’t too happy, but he didn’t say anything.
They encountered more and more people as they penetrated the city. On a broad street corner a group in white robes was holding some kind of vigil. One of their number lectured a small crowd.
“The Thrift Corps,” Caldason explained to a baffled Kutch.
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re afraid the magic will be all used up. They want it conserved by law.”
“It can’t be used up. The Craft says magic’s self-generating and perpetual.”
Caldason looked around, and frowned. A group of militiamen and a couple of stony-faced paladins had appeared. They were eyeing the protest and scanning the crowd.
“We should move on,” he suggested.
Further into town they began seeing Gath Tampoorians. Caldason reflected on how empire citizens always stood out from the peoples they conquered. It was partly the quality and cut of their clothing, especially the magical, ever-changing raiment worn by the richest, and the fact that they often had retinues. But it was also an attitude, a certain bearing, a haughtiness verging on arrogance conveyed by those accustomed to rule.
Reeth and Kutch pushed deeper into Valdarr. They passed men at the roadside selling tokens for the glamour lottery. A board on an easel displayed pictures of the prizes. The top prize was a horn of plenty, which would produce an unlimited supply of the finest food for a week. Being magically generated, the food tasted exquisite but had no nutritional value. Some people had been known to favour horn yield so much they gorged on nothing else and starved to death.
At last they came to the inn. It employed a glamour barker to drum up passing trade. This one was a small dragon, about the size of a horse. It sat on its haunches, forked tail curling. Its skin was green, except for its ribbed, pot-bellied stomach, which was white. The glamour-caster had used some artistic licence, incorporating long eyelashes, extraordinarily curvaceous lips and enormous eyes, yellow with flecks of red, shaped like inverted teardrops. It was an insufferably friendly dragon.
As Caldason and the boy approached the tavern’s door, the dragon said, “Come on in!”
Caldason ignored it, making no attempt to hide his distaste at being addressed by a glamour.
“Come on in!” the dragon repeated.
“We intend to,” Kutch replied.
“Come on in and have a flagon of ale or a draught of hot toddy!” The dragon swished its tail and gave them a hideous be-fanged smile. “All are welcome! Enjoy a warming cup of brandy or a goblet of honey wine!”
“We’d like to,” Caldason growled darkly.
The dragon threw out its arms in a gesture of openness and hospitality, blocking the tavern’s door. “Eat here! We have meat, fowl and fish, cooked –’ it breathed a blast of smoky red flame “– to perfection!”
“Thank you,” Kutch mouthed pointlessly.
“The finest stews, breads, fruit, vegetables, served by genial apple-cheeked wenches!” The dragon gave them a lecherous wink.
Caldason reached for his sword.
“No, Reeth,” Kutch said, staying his hand. “Come away, he’s not worth it.”
They marched past the dragon to the entrance.
“Come on in!” the glamour parroted. “All are welcome! Enjoy a –’
The door slammed shut behind them.
Inside it was ill-lit and rather shabby. There were no wenches, apple-cheeked or otherwise. The score or so customers drank, smoked and conversed quietly in small groups.
Everybody stared at Caldason, but the Qalochian seemed totally unfazed. His build, weapons and expression dissuaded anybody who might fancy starting anything, while any thought the inn keeper might have had of not serving him was short-lived.
“Brandy,” Caldason said, “and watered wine for the boy. Generous on the water.”
“I’m starving,” Kutch announced. “What’s there to eat?”
“Just that.” The inn keeper jabbed a thumb at a platter of pig’s feet. They were green-tinged and fly-blown. He rubbed a hand on his grubby apron and reached for the plate.
“Er, no,” Kutch said. “I don’t think I’ll bother, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
He got their drinks and slid them across. Caldason slappe
d some coins on the distressed counter top.
They sat at a bench in a quiet corner, Reeth facing into the room. The other drinkers whispered and kept glancing their way. It didn’t seem to bother Caldason, but Kutch found it uncomfortable.
“How do you put up with it?” he asked under his breath.
“I don’t always.”
“You won’t kill anybody, will you?”
“I’ll try not to. Don’t swill that drink.”
They sat quietly sipping, Kutch’s face taking on a ruddy shade due to the unaccustomed alcohol.
Eventually, Karr joined them. He refused a drink, and showed them a purse. “We got a fair price. Here, Kutch.”
“You keep it. I’ve never had much need for money.”
“You’re going to have to learn to use it, you’ve a new life now.” He crammed the purse back into his pocket. “Just ask whenever you want it.” He glanced around. “It’s time we moved on.”
“Where to?” Caldason asked.
“I’ve the use of a house in the eastern quarter. You’ll find it comfortable enough. Unlike my main residence, we don’t think the authorities know about it. It’s a bit of a journey and we’ll not be taking a direct route for obvious reasons. So we should be leaving.”
“What about putting me in touch with Covenant?”
“That’s going to take a day or two to arrange,” the patrician returned, slightly piqued. “Be patient.”
They rose and left the inn.
Outside, the dragon was still going through its pitch. The day had grown darker and there were storm clouds directly above. They were laden with rain, but none was falling yet.
Karr strung his cloak tighter. “It threatens to be a wet journey, I’m afraid.”
He led the way. As they walked, lightning flashed, thunder boomed overhead and a light rain began to fall. People hurried by, expecting a torrent.
They came to a piece of open ground between two houses, like a missing tooth. Only the broken foundations of the absent building remained. They were blackened, indicating the damage had been done by fire, and not recently. The lot was scattered with rubble and choked with weeds.
As the trio passed, there was a blinding flash and a deafening boom. A yellow-white javelin connected sky and ground for a fraction of a second.
The lightning strike stopped them in their tracks. It began to rain the harder. Near the middle of the empty plot there was now a smouldering crater.
“Come on,” Caldason said.
“Wait,” Kutch told him, staring at the crater.
“What is it?”
Kutch paid no heed and started walking towards the pit. They tagged on behind him.
“What’s going on?” Karr wanted to know. “What’s the matter?”
Kutch arrived at the edge of the crater and gazed down into it. His expression was rapt. The other two caught up.
Caldason was tetchy. “What are you doing, Kutch?”
In a kind of daze, Kutch replied, “It’s said they’re susceptible to attracting lightning. Particularly when they’re close to the surface, like this one.”
Reeth and Karr looked down.
In making its crater, the lightning had fractured something that looked like a channel. Through the exposed duct, at the bottom of the pit, mercury gushed. Or at least it resembled mercury in colour and constituency. It flowed into one side of the crater and out through a fissure in the other. A pool of the stuff was forming. The silverish liquid, whatever it was, radiated intense cold. A kind of crystalline frost was beginning to appear on the crater walls.
Karr, now awed himself, said quietly, “Is that what I think it is?”
Kutch nodded. “An energy line. I never thought I’d see one. Do you know how rare it is for it to be exposed like this?”
Although it was summer, their breath could plainly be seen.
Caldason stared at the silvery flux. “You’re saying that’s…raw magic?”
“Not exactly. It’s the carrier for it, the medium. Like an aqueduct. Magic’s chariot, the scholars call it. The substance magic uses to manifest itself.”
They saw that the droplets of falling rain were evaporating before they could touch the tide of mercury, disappearing in minute clouds of steam. Yet it was profoundly cold.
“This is dangerous, isn’t it?” Karr said. “Kutch?”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes. Probably.”
Reeth clasped his arm. “Then it might be a good idea to come away from it, don’t you think?”
They pulled back.
For the first time they noticed that other people were gathering. As they moved away, the curious pressed in to replace them. Two men rushed past on their way to the crater, carrying steel buckets. One of them shouted gleefully to the other, “Think of the value!”
Kutch was alarmed. “No! They shouldn’t do that, Reeth. You’ve got to stop them!”
“Exactly how dangerous is this?”
“The magical energy can manifest spontaneously, and without direction. That could be… difficult.”
More inquisitive people streamed past. There was a scrum around the crater now.
A commotion broke out. Cries of alarm, yells and screams resounded.
An eruption occurred. Two bodies, limbs flailing, and two buckets shot high into the air.
“Told you so,” Kutch said.
A series of brilliant flashes lit the crater area. They were succeeded by intense pulsating lights of rapidly changing primary colours. Thick clouds of smoke rose. A strong rotten eggs smell wafted over the crowd.
Panic set in. People were running and shouting. A jumble of shapes appeared in the foggy confusion at the crater’s mouth. Karr, Reeth and Kutch strained to see what was happening.
Suddenly a centaur scrambled out of the hole, rearing and bellowing. It galloped through the stampeding mob, lashing out at people and knocking them aside.
A great swarm of tiny flying creatures emerged and set about plaguing the crowd like angry wasps. They proved to be fairies, their faces screwed into fiendish expressions, with wickedly curved claws in place of fingers. Kutch and the patrician struck at them frantically with flapping arms and balled fists. Reeth took wide, powerful swings at them with his broadsword. Scores exploded and vanished.
Horned demons leapt from the crater pit. Red-skinned, chisel-toothed, with crazy eyes. Goats with babies’ heads stumbled into view. Snakes with multiple legs, like centipedes. A flock of white bats, spreading rustling, serrated wings. Enormous indigo scorpions with silver bells for stingers.
“The Dreamtime must have been a bit like this,” Kutch reckoned.
Reeth looked unhappy with the comparison.
“How do we know what quality they are?” Karr shouted. He meant whether they were insubstantial and essentially innocuous glamours, or the more solid and costly variety that could interact and harm.
“I don’t know what kind this sort of rupture would throw up,” Kutch explained. “Probably both.” He swiped at a cluster of vexatious fairies.
“How do we know which is which?”
Kutch shrugged his shoulders.
“Trial and error,” Caldason offered as he decapitated a diving bat. The creature dispersed in a mist of fading embers.
Four or five miniature whirlwinds spun out of the pit. They took off in different directions, gathering masses of leaves and twigs, sucking up bricks from the stubby foundations, battering people aside.
A horde of huge spiders with venom-dripping fangs scuttled over the rim. Some made for the adjoining houses and scurried up their walls. Others began weaving webs of gold to snare the fleeing crowd.
Through the mist and chaos, Caldason thought he saw a mermaid, swimming in air. Gnarled dwarves, malevolent goblins and inebriated pixies hopped from the pit. A pair of black doves soared overhead, cooing impossibly loudly. Fountains of multicoloured sparks burst through cracks snaking out from the crater mouth.
Above the turmoil, the shrill sound of bells could be heard.
Several wagons arrived at speed, loaded with men and their gear.
“Thank the gods!” Karr exclaimed. “A repair gang.”
The crews tumbled off the wagons and began wading through what was left of the crowd. They stepped over bodies on the ground, injured or worse. The crew were shouting, ordering people clear, threatening and shoving them away.
About half the repair crew were sorcerers, wielding elaborate staffs, and they concentrated on cancelling the magic. Their wands spewed fiery nullifying spells. When the dazzling yellow streaks hit, glamours imploded and dissipated. Steadily, the sorcerers obliterated and corralled their way to the crater and started to surround it. More wagons drew up, and men on horseback. There were militia and, inevitably, paladins among them.
“Past time we were leaving,” Karr suggested.
As they slipped away, Caldason muttered, “Did I tell you how much I hate big cities?”
Chapter Sixteen
In the centre of Valdarr the structures of the old kingdom mingled with the newer, more flamboyant edifices of its imperial conquerors. One of the recent additions was a grand stadium. It was the largest covered space in Bhealfa, save the gutted palace, with room for many hundreds of spectators.
For anyone wanting a microcosm of Bhealfan society, the auditorium served well enough.
The private boxes were reserved for Gath Tampoor functionaries, political, military and diplomatic. There were places for wives, concubines, and children with their glamour nannies and companions. Commanders of paladin clans, the priesthood and high-ranking sorcerers had boxes, along with Bhealfan dignitaries favoured by the empire.
Leading merchants, notables from the approved arts, guild masters and usurers occupied the balconies. The stalls were the province of “ordinary’ citizens, albeit the well-connected and those rich enough to afford the prices.
This evening there was standing room only. Except for the Prince’s empty box, which surprised no one.
The stage, which was large, was dressed simply but elegantly. No set or superfluous props, just skilfully arranged layers of coloured velvets, with a rainbow fan centrepiece. Subtle glamoured lighting added its own special glow.
There was just one performer on the rostrum. He was well-built, verging on stocky, as classical singers tended to be, and his height was a little below the norm. His dark hair was short and he had a neat chin beard. He wore a black silk stage costume with a yellow sunburst motif on the chest. At slightly above thirty, he was handsome, in a solid kind of way.
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