by Paul Collins
‘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 pee
red 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.’