by J M Sanford
“We’ve seen enough for the time being, thank you,” she said, eyeing the larger jars warily. What on earth could be in them that she didn’t want Amelia to see? And how much worse could it be to know, than to imagine? A moment later, the magical light went out, the ghostly apparitions disappearing, their riotous noises silenced. Amelia shuddered to think that they must all still be there – unseen by mortal eyes, unheard by mortal ears, but there nonetheless, waiting behind glass. She stared at the many and varied jars: from what looked like tiny bottles meant for rare and exotic spices, to huge vessels that must cost a fortune in glass alone, never mind whatever souls they might contain. Some of the jars could have held a good-sized man, with one or two of them more than big enough for that. In a corner, one tall slender vessel stretched all the way to the ceiling. Each jar bore a label or tag tied to it, but in no language that Amelia could read. She suspected it might be some magical language other than the one Meg had begun to teach her, and guessed that the labels not only identified the contents, but cast a spell to keep them contained. You couldn’t just pop a soul into any old jam jar and expect it to stay put, after all.
“What are you thinking, Madam Storm Chaser? A kestrel, perhaps? Or an eagle?”
“Not an eagle,” said Meg, sharply.
Amelia didn’t listen much as the two discussed the relative merits of different types of soul: wyverns, vultures, giant bats. She knew she ought to pay attention, but all the options Meg suggested sounded perfectly horrible. As she looked around at the many glass jars, she remembered with a jolt where they were: Ilamira, a Flying City. Steady as her footing felt, the entire city was suspended thousands of feet above solid ground, anchored to the trade town below. How fast could it fly, when the time came for it to move on? Despite the City’s name, she couldn’t entirely believe it flew – not in the same way as birds, or even skyships. Maybe it could drift slowly and serenely away. She doubted it, suspecting that even with the slowest and most careful movements of such a behemoth, all the many people within its walls would have to grab hold of something to steady themselves. It showed no signs of being like Meg’s snailcastletank, well equipped with crockery that didn’t spill easily, and furniture bolted down. She hadn’t seen it arrive, but she wished she had. She liked the idea that perhaps it simply vanished like a mirage, only to appear again miles away. But, why call it a Flying City then? Meg had commented on the weather: what happened to a Flying City in storms and gales? It looked as solid and heavy as a rock; levitated like a soap bubble on a breeze. It stood still in fine weather, but she had an awful vision of the whole City tipping dizzyingly in a sudden storm. In her mind’s eye she saw, clear as day, all the jars sliding inevitably off their shelves to smash on the tiled floor in a cacophony of splintering glass. Every soul freed, and then where would they all go?
~
Harold clutched his borrowed sword tightly, now a good deal more afraid of losing it than of having to use it. Unlike Amelia, he’d been to Market Days before, although never anywhere so big as Ilamira. He watched carefully for likely thieves, although he had nothing of value on him besides Captain Dunnager’s sword, which he did his best to hide from view. So many strange people, of so many strange colours and voices and clothes… Not so many down the side streets, but enough to be loud, and enough to smell. Harold reckoned people were worse than pigs for the smell, when you got enough of them together. None of them took much notice of him. Just somebody’s errand boy, idling at a fountain. Anybody who noticed the too-big sword might take him for a squire, perhaps. Not long ago, even squirehood would have been a lofty ambition for the butcher’s boy. He couldn’t help but wonder if Meg’s talk of him being a bodyguard had been only talk, though. Why else would the two women go off by themselves into the unknown dangers of a foreign city, and leave him kicking his heels at the fountain? Better than staying cooped up on board the Storm Chaser, at least. He watched the troupe of dancers cavorting past on the main street, although he’d seen them go past a few times already, the flash of colour, the laughter of bright bells. He watched pretty girls in fine dresses flit from shop to shop, colourful as butterflies visiting flowers, chattering and laughing under the stern eyes of their chaperones. One in particular caught his attention: a delicate and graceful girl with skin the colour of clear tea. A veil covered the lower half of her face, but her dark and beautiful eyes flashed a smile his way. A huge man laden with boxes, bags and rolls of fabric followed closely in her wake, sparing Harold little more than a disparaging glance as the beautiful girl vanished into a jewellers. Harold sighed. She could only be a princess of some exotic land. He wished he could be her guardian, her… what was that word Meg had used? Her paladin. Amelia was nice in her own way, with a pretty-ish face and that long, silky fair hair, but she would look dowdy and plain side by side with the veiled princess.
While he waited, hoping Amelia and Meg might not return before he caught another glimpse of the foreign princess, an odd carriage rattled down the road, enclosed by heavy velvet curtains, hauled by four strong men on foot. Twin gentlemen in fancy but dark clothing went by arm in arm. A lady with a hat the size and approximate shape of a grand chandelier picked her way through the narrow side street with great care. And Harold, whose brain had taken a moment to catch up with his eyes, stared in open-mouthed horror of recognition at the retreating backs of the twin gentleman. They were headed in the same direction as Meg and Amelia had gone off in. He’d been told to stay put, but that was stupid – he’d seen those two in Lannersmeet, talking about snails. He’d had a bad feeling about them then, and the fire sprite Stupid had got all shy of them too. Surely there could be no coincidence in meeting them again here. Harold unfroze, jumping down off the bench and elbowing through the crowds after the two dark figures. He just caught a glimpse of them through the window of a shop selling crystals and other fancy rocks, where they stood talking to the shopkeeper. A big grey rock shaped like a ram’s horn formed a part of the shop’s counter, and this apparently had drawn the attention of the twin gentlemen. Harold hurried on down the side street, the tall buildings crowding ever further in on either side, closing ranks, making the street dark and unwelcoming. Where had Meg and Amelia got to? He wished they’d told him where they were going, at least. The few shops that had signs above their doors or windows gave him no clues – Harold could read well enough for what he’d needed back in Springhaven, but all these foreign names and weird scripts confused him.
“Amelia!” he shouted, hoping that the two strange gentlemen were still busy with the crystal seller. “Amelia!”
In one murky shop window a smudge of blue appeared, and then a pale face peered out through the glass, resolving into familiarity. Amelia opened her mouth as if to speak, but then stopped, hurrying away.
Harold rapped on the window, and Meg came to the door.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Shouting folk’s names all over the place – don’t you know how dangerous that is? What do you want?”
“I think you’ve been followed!” Harold’s cheeks reddened. “I should’ve said before, but back in Lannersmeet there was two gentleman talking about snails, and I just seen ‘em again, here!”
Amelia peered out from behind Meg, her face white and worried. She opened her mouth, but then said nothing, glancing over her shoulder anxiously. She tugged at Meg’s sleeve.
Scowling, Meg stretched up on tiptoe to scan the crowds. “All right, we’d best get away from here. Walk calmly, and keep close to me.” And with that she struck off at a brisk pace, back up towards Main Street.
“We can’t go that way!” Harold whispered loudly, almost grabbing her by the arm but not quite daring to lay hands on the witch. “I seen ‘em in a shop up there.”
Meg didn’t even break her stride. “If they’re asking around, they might not even know for sure that we’re here. More to the point, there’s no better way out that I know of, ‘less you can climb sheer walls.”
Harold glanced at the
towering city wall that seemed to grow up out of the shops and houses, as high as the tower at Springhaven, maybe higher. Holding on tight to Amelia’s hand, and with his free hand gripping the hilt of his sword, he watched the busy street for any sign of the gentlemen.
Meg whispered something to Amelia, and she slipped her hand away from his for a moment. When he felt her hand seeking the comfort of his again, it was full of cold metal: she had put on her conjuring rings. She caught his eye, and smiled.
They were less than twenty feet from Main Street when they caught sight of the two gentlemen coming out of a shop doorway, preoccupied with a large brass and leather device that one of them carried. Even in the noise of the crowd, Harold heard the catch of Amelia’s breath. “Don’t look,” he whispered to her, and they both looked away hurriedly, but it was too late. Out of the corner of his eyes, Harold had seen the two dark gentlemen turn towards Main Street, could almost hear their measured and synchronised footsteps amongst the masses. And then someone grabbed him by the hem of his shirt (or he thought so, at least) and he yelped, letting go of his sword to punch the offender (or someone, anyway) and half the street went up in shouts and swearing, like someone setting off a string of firecrackers. He saw an expressionless, black-eyed face in the crowd for just a second before he lost it again. Meg charged through the noisy churning confusion, head down and snorting like a warhorse as she dragged Amelia along, determined to reach the docks.
“Harold, don’t let go!” he could hear Amelia shouting, barely audible above the commotion – the immutable thump of drums and a piercing wail with a sort of musical intent. The rings on her fingers had warmed up well past body heat, getting hotter by the second, and that was when he realised he’d misheard her. “Harold! Let go!” Amelia yelled, wrenching her hand away from him. Suddenly remembering all her hours of target practice off the stern of the Storm Chaser, he let her go so hurriedly that Meg almost pulled her right off balance, and she misfired what she’d been planning. A rain of pretty, rainbow-coloured sparks showered over the heads of the crowd, scorching clothes and stinging unprotected skin. The crowd pulled back as a mass, individuals cowering with their arms over their heads in fear of Amelia’s pyrotechnics. By the time Harold dared look up again, Meg and Amelia had disappeared. He scanned the swarm of angry, confused and frightened strangers for the sight of their blue cloaks, but they were nowhere to be seen. There was nothing for it but to head for the docks and pray he could meet them there. Would they go straight to the Storm Chaser? The ship would get them safely away from the two gentlemen, but if he didn’t hurry up, Meg might leave without him. Not too far ahead, he recognised the two dark figures moving with slow determination through the crowd and towards the dock, hindered in their progress by the bulky contraption one of them still carried. Harold saw the other one raise something in his hand, and something like lightning arced through the air overhead, landing somewhere in the crowd with a flash and bang. Women and children screamed. The music faltered and died. Again the crowd surged away from the danger, slow as wading through treacle, much too late to avoid the danger that had already struck. The crowd’s movement revealed the aftermath of the weapon’s strike, though. A black flower scorched into the cobblestones, thick grey ash swirling in the air, scattered fragments of fabric. No blood: the victim must have been consumed whole in a moment by the unearthly lightning. Harold’s heart lurched, simultaneously fearing and denying the possibility that the smudge of ash might be all that remained of Amelia, the lady he had sworn to protect. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way; it was unbearable. He’d lost sight of the gentlemen again, too short to see easily over the heads of the milling multitudes. He couldn’t be sure where the tide of the crowd had taken him, even. Tall yellow stone buildings reared up all around, the distant walls enclosing them from the sky. He cast around hopelessly for a familiar landmark in the foreign city, but all he could find was the great spire of the Keystone, and a fat lot of good that did him. He turned his attention back to the crowd and the blood drained from his face. There, trampled in the gutter, lay the blue cloaks he had been looking out for. The lightning gun… But no – he hadn’t seen a second flash, and the cobblestones showed no sign of scorching. Harold struggled on through the crowd. Meg and Amelia had probably abandoned the cloaks to escape the two gentlemen – he must meet them back at the Storm Chaser…
16: ESCAPE FROM ILAMIRA
Meg and Amelia had reached the dock ahead of their Paladin. So had the twin brothers, who stood between the women and the Storm Chaser. A wide circle of empty space had cleared around the four of them, none of the Ilamirans or the visiting traders keen to intervene. They watched, though. So much for discretion. Harold, too, hesitated to approach. Even at some distance he could plainly see the look of fury on Meg’s face as she shielded Amelia with her body.
“You keep your distance,” Meg warned the strange gentlemen. “Whoever you are, I’ll bet your magic’s no match for mine. If you touch one hair on this girl’s head, I swear I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
The gentleman who had fired the terrible weapon into the crowd still held it, but low, aimed at the ground. “It would not give us any pleasure to destroy you,” he said.
“Yes it would,” said his brother, who appeared to be struggling with the brass and leather contraption. The two exchanged a brief look of puzzlement, as if unaccustomed to being of two minds.
“Momentary gratification, perhaps,” the first gentleman conceded. “But there is more satisfaction to be had in a job well done. We have been instructed to take the White Queen alive.” Meg didn’t look taken in for one moment. The gentleman holstered his lightning pistol, but even as he did so, his brother with the heavy awkward device managed to hoist one of the carrying straps over his shoulder, and slipped a hand into some kind of metal glove that reminded Harold a little of Meg and Amelia’s conjuring rings. Two long sharp prongs protruded from it, and it connected to the big brass contraption by a long twisted cord. Harold couldn’t so much as hazard a guess what it might be for, and didn’t want to find out. Meg’s own rings glinted in the sunlight as her hands shifted subtly. Had she seen the lightning pistol and the devastation it could cause? Harold guessed that the bigger device could do even more damage, and even if Meg knew what it could do, she’d have to be fast to beat it. Something inside the brass contraption began to glow, sparks bouncing around inside it like fireflies. A low resonant hum seemed to emanate from it; Harold felt it in his teeth. He gripped the hilt of his sword again, paralysed with fear, knowing he should do something, but not knowing what. Meg had faced the wall of fire on the road out of Lannersmeet with nothing short of contempt – he hoped she would show more respect for these strange gentlemen and their awful weapons.
Sir Percival appeared at the railings of the Storm Chaser, taking one look at the scene below before throwing down the rope ladder.
“Perce, don’t you dare!” Meg shouted, as the knight went to climb overboard, but even as she did so, the gloved gentleman turned and raised his hand. With a hiss, lightning leapt from the prongs of the glove.
It missed, but Sir Percival disappeared from view, faster than he should have been able to in all that armour.
Harold, still watching from the fringe of the gathered crowd, could hold back no longer. The lightning pistol was in its holster and the eerie glow inside the brass contraption had gone dark, which Harold could only hope meant it had no more lightning in it, at least for the time being.
“Oi, you!” he shouted, drawing his sword and stomping out into the midst of events. “If you want Amelia, you’ll have to fight me first!” And there he stood, mere feet from the two strange gentleman, his body and his blade between them and the two ladies.
Both gentlemen stared at him with their flat black eyes, each cocking their head to one side in the curious manner of birds. “Our weaponry outclasses yours considerably,” one of them pointed out. “You are irrelevant.”
Harold felt his face
turn flaming red. “I’m bloomin’ well not!” he shouted, although he wasn’t entirely sure what ‘irrelevant’ meant. “I’m the White Queen’s Paladin!”
The two gentleman looked him up and down, their movement in perfect synchronicity. “Oh, we do apologise,” said one of them, drawing the lightning pistol. “In that case, we will eliminate you now. Thank you for drawing our attention to this matter.”
Faced with a real live foe intent on destroying him, Harold forgot everything Sir Percival had taught him about poise and balance and technique. He swung the sword as hard as he could, putting all his strength into a blow that caught the gentleman with the lightning pistol square across the chest. The gentleman crumpled inwards and fell to the floor. This distracted his brother long enough that Meg and Amelia were able to make a run for the safety of the Storm Chaser. Harold froze, breathless. He had felt the crack of his enemy’s ribs, seen the man collapse, lifeless on the boards. He felt sick. Somehow, it felt very much not like slaughtering a pig. The second gentleman stood and stared, his expression unreadable. Harold, wide-eyed and terrified, raised the sword again, ready to defend himself. That eerie crackling glow still burned only dimly inside the machine the second gentleman carried. Too low to discharge again, but not for long. Then, suddenly, the fallen gentleman got up, brushing off his suit. The two brothers exchanged a look.