by Paul Collins
‘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 sa
ys,’ 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.