The Hunting of the Princes

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘And Queens,’ Lantic confirmed.

  A relieved King Manokol hurriedly offered Queen Judith his arm, and they led the way out of the study. Katrabeth followed dutifully one pace behind.

  ‘Baa,’ Jemima muttered.

  Katrabeth’s back stiffened, but she kept walking.

  Taggie winced and shook the pain from her aching hands. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Lantic.

  He shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘We really do have to sort out the threat from the Karrak Lords and Ladies first.’

  ‘Yes,’ Taggie conceded. ‘But when this is over, I swear I’m going to slap that smug, arrogant smirk right off my cousin’s cutesy, conceited face, and hopefully all of her teeth with it. As the Heavens are my witness. Forgiveness indeed!’

  Mum chuckled softly. ‘So are you still cross with me for not ever taking you to visit my family before?’ she asked.

  Taggie let out a long sigh, wishing she didn’t feel like a five-year-old again. ‘Why didn’t you?’ she asked, trying not to let it sound too sulky.

  ‘I didn’t want to involve you in the whole dynasty fight, it’s too vicious and lethal. Judith stole the throne a long time ago. I no longer care. And as I can’t ever go back to the Third Realm without starting it all up again, I chose not to tell you and Jemima or teach you any Third Realm magic. Your father and I agreed the First Realm would be your destiny. Besides –’ her face took on a puzzled expression – ‘I never expected you’d ever encounter your aunt. I’m actually amazed Judith came here in person; her position has never been that secure. She knows a lot of the Third Realm houses question her ascension to the throne.’

  ‘You mean there’ll be a revolution while she’s away?’ Jemima asked in wonder.

  ‘No,’ Mum said. ‘Not a revolution. The Third Realm doesn’t work like that. If she shows any sign of weakness, a whole new batch of contracts will be placed with the Invisible Lodge as the houses squabble for status and influence – and a squabble among Third Realm houses is a terrible thing. So her confidence must have grown since we parted. I wonder why . . .’

  The Hall of Council’s representation chamber was found beyond the huge reception chamber, below the massive dome itself. Broad oak desks were arranged in circles around the raised dais in the middle where King Manokol sat. Above his head, playing across the black shell of the dome, stars and comets and moons glowed as they moved around the vast hemisphere, reflecting what was happening in the skies above the Third Realm.

  The Kings (and Queens) settled behind their desks, with their respective advisers sitting behind them.

  ‘My fellow Kings,’ Manokol began, his gaze flicking to Taggie, sitting directly in front of him, before he inclined his head at Queen Judith. ‘And Queens. I bid you welcome to this esteemed Gathering. I only wish it could have been under different circumstances. But these are dark and terrible times. I myself have suffered enormous personal tragedy . . .’

  Taggie stretched her feet out under the desk and did her best not to sigh. Mr Anatole had explained that the opening session was little more than a chance for each King or Queen to make a speech introducing themselves to the Gathering, and boast about how excellent their reign was. Only in tomorrow’s session would they start to debate the new threat from the Karraks and what they were going to do about it. But first there was the formal banquet to be thrown by King Manokol tonight.

  It was going to be a long day.

  JEMIMA’S BIG DAY OUT

  Sheer belligerent persistence on Jemima’s part finally paid off. A whole afternoon and evening devoted to nagging, wheedling and pleading, all directed at Mum, finally resulted in her snapping, ‘Yes, for heaven’s sake, you can go out tomorrow. And don’t blame me if an entire army of Invisible Lodge sisters come after you!’ That was at eleven o’clock at night, after they arrived back at their mansion following the formal banquet. Mum had stomped off to bed, leaving Jemima smiling smugly.

  So the next morning, when Mum and Taggie left for the Gathering, Jemima finished her breakfast by herself, then headed for the front door. Once again she tried to get her iPod to play, but it still wasn’t working. Lady Jessicara had told her that the sheer quantity of magic pulsing through Shatha’hal always interfered with electrical items from the Outer Realm. Jemima missed hearing decent music.

  ‘Where’s Felix?’ she asked Mr Anatole.

  The old equerry gave her a weary smile. ‘Felix has been granted a day off by your sister.’

  ‘He has?’ Jemima said in perplexity. She hadn’t known that. Felix was somebody her sight could never quite grasp properly. She suspected it was a side effect from his curse; it took an exceptional wardveil to stop her from seeing someone.

  ‘Yes, Princess. I believe it is his birthday today.’

  ‘Oh!’ Jemima pressed her lips together in annoyance. ‘He never said.’ Which was unusual: although he was a squirrel, and duty-bound to accompany her everywhere, she liked to think they were good friends.

  ‘Did you need him?’ Mr Anatole asked.

  Jemima realized this was a perfect chance to be alone, and do whatever she wanted, for a change. How delightful. ‘No, that’s OK.’ She smiled brightly at Mr Anatole, and opened the door. ‘See you later.’

  The plaza on the eighth level was broad and impressive, with lots of fountains and trees rising out of its marble floor. But not very exciting. Jemima wandered around for a while, watching the boats on the vertical canals – she still couldn’t get used to that.

  After half an hour of being on her best behaviour and nodding politely to people, she felt the urge to venture into the lower levels. She got down to level seven via a huge spiral ramp on the corner of the plaza – one of twelve such spirals, Lady Jessicara had told her when they’d arrived.

  The seventh level’s plaza was slightly smaller, although still over a mile across, but here the surrounding amphitheatre of buildings had some stores and cafes and arcades with market stalls. There were more people walking about, and children playing. Some of the open arches showed her glimpses of older children sitting in lessons. So school seemed to be the same no matter which Realm you lived in: a thought that depressed her.

  She made her way down the wide stairs between terrace rings and on to the plaza floor itself. The gaping sunwell in the middle glared brightly, filled with dust and pollen and insects and birds; even some anamage bird contraptions flittered about. It illuminated the seventh level as if it was open to the sky, although the air was very dry and hot.

  Jemima made straight for the next set of spirals. It was something she had to do: she just knew the lower levels were more appealing. She’d long ago learned to follow her instinct in such matters as it invariably came from her sight. As she went she kept looking round, a feeling of unease making her arms prickle. She stopped for a moment and shook her runes. The little black stones had been in Dad’s family for generations, passed down between those who had the seeing talent. She examined how the stones had finished up in her palm, reading the symbols.

  The story they told was of people following her: Lady Jessicara DiStantona, pretending to be shopping as she wore glasses enchanted to a small bejewelled seespy bird that circled high above Jemima; and hanging back some distance behind her was a squad of soldiers belonging to King Manokol.

  Jemima pressed her lips together in annoyance. She supposed some kind of bodyguard was inevitable, given the reason for the Gathering. At least they weren’t trying to stop her going anywhere.

  As she started down the next spiral she caught a glimpse of a boy, maybe fifteen years old, standing in a shop entrance fifty metres away. He was dressed in the usual long robes of all Shatha’hal residents, but what made him stand out was his long mane of white hair. That and the way he kept glancing in her direction.

  Jemima stopped and looked back. The shop doorway was empty. She shrugged and kept going. The sight wasn’t always accurate.

  It was the fourth level where Jemima spent the most of her time. Here there seemed t
o be more shops and arcade markets than there were homes. It was also on the fourth level that she saw a gol for the first time. It was pulling a handcart full of heavy cloth rolls, looking like a suit of armour made from clay baked to a dull rust-red colour. Except she immediately knew there was no one inside; besides there were no eye slits in the bulbous head. Its limb joints were lined in brass that was tarnished from age. One of its knee joints squeaked softly.

  ‘A stone robot,’ she gasped in delight, as the thing clumped past her.

  ‘It’s called a “gol”,’ the owner of a small dress shop told her as she stood outside, watching the handcart go past.

  ‘Oh. What are they?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘The anamages craft them. They do most of the heavy work here in the Second Realm. I have a couple myself to shift my biggest crates.’

  ‘And they do whatever you tell them?’

  ‘More or less. Each has its own command enchantment, so they only follow the orders of their owner. Instructing them is quite a skill – they can’t think for themselves. And they don’t move quickly, at least general labour ones don’t; soldier gols are a lot faster.’

  ‘Could they – oh, I don’t know – tidy up my room?’ The amount of times Mum shouted at her to clear up back home, a gol would be very handy indeed.

  ‘That would require very detailed instruction. You’d have to be quite proficient with gol handling.’

  ‘Shame,’ Jemima sighed.

  ‘You’re the Blossom Princess, aren’t you? I was there in the crowd when King Manokol greeted the Queen of Dreams.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. The Queen of Dream’s sister.’ There wasn’t too much bitterness in her voice, she thought.

  ‘Can I interest you in some of my dresses? It would be a privilege to have you wear one. I’d be happy to offer a huge discount.’

  ‘Really?’

  As it turned out, the fourth level had a lot of small dressmaker shops, all of them filled with swish, colourful garments. Jemima spent a long time going between them. She wound up with several skirts, some blouses, a beautiful pair of glittering boots that were amazingly soft. Then she discovered the terrace of anamage houses. Each one had a grand master presiding over a hierarchy of masters, journeymen and apprentices. They laboured away in workshops at the back of the building, while their showroom was given pride of place at the front.

  They were as fascinated to meet the Blossom Princess as she was to see their magical wares. Most of them had pot plants of fig trees, vines or cacti which she coaxed into full bloom for them. In return they offered her amazing deals, claiming they were losing money by selling to her at such a low price.

  She watched a demonstration of a little wheeled insect which ate up dust and small bits of rubbish. Two of those went into her already heavy bag – if she couldn’t get away with having her own gol, these would come in useful for her room back home. Then the next anamage house showed her seespy birds. She wore some glasses as the little contraption zoomed out over the plaza, and she could see everything from its viewpoint.

  ‘Brilliant!’ she applauded. That went in the bag. No hesitation there.

  She went on to check out revealor glasses, like the ones Felix had, that showed magical auroras. Staring out across the level she saw a remarkable number of people who glowed with power. ‘Yep.’ And how fun it would be when she spotted an approaching mage before Felix!

  She blushed when the anamage also offered her a pair of glasses which he claimed would show if a boy was in love with her. But she handed over her coins and quickly stuffed them down to the bottom of her bulging bag. Then came butterfly hair clips that would carry braids aloft; and cloth that floated in air the way cork floated on water . . .

  The next terrace down housed anamages who specialized in weapons. She didn’t buy anything there, but she couldn’t resist admiring the shining swords that could cut through enchantment shields; shields that could ward off any attack spells; throwing-knives that always hit the target; crossbows with a huge range, and repeat-fire bolt magazines; incredibly expensive armour, with tiny threads of athrodene woven in strategically to reinforce it (she wondered what that house would say about her own armour, which was completely made of athrodene). Halfway along the terrace she spotted Sophie, who was trying out crossbows that had clever, half magic, half mechanical devices to automatically reload bolts. The skymaid was quite a demanding customer, judging from the disgruntled face of the battlemage master. Jemima dodged away: she liked Sophie, but this was her day alone.

  Eventually she wound up outside an anamage house that was showing off a dolphinous, which was like a personal swimming contraption that could speed you through the water. By then she didn’t have enough money left for anything that expensive, though she was sorely tempted by the same house’s skates that they claimed would work on any surface.

  The next terrace down was mostly potion-maker stalls, which she rather fancied sampling. But when she reluctantly turned away from the skates, something like a cold flame lit inside her, making her shiver despite the desert city’s warmth. Jemima instinctively knew she had to go further down Shatha’hal. She was getting a lot better at recognizing the guidance that came from her talent now, the difference between knowing things and mere impulse.

  Just to make sure, she took out the runes and shook them in her hand. When she looked at the symbols and how they were arranged, there was no doubt. There was something odd on the lowest level of the city.

  ‘Down I go then,’ she muttered, as she tucked the runes back away into their little purse.

  The lowest level of the upside-down pyramid was the smallest. But sunlight still shone brightly down the central well, illuminating the vines and creepers which scrambled over the stonework, bringing the level a lushness that was lacking in those above. Markets sprawling along the terraces favoured food, with chickens and sheep and pigs and geese, in cages and pens, squeaking and squawking away. The air was laced with exotic spicy scents and the smell of ripe animals.

  Jemima stepped down on to the plaza floor. It was narrow, no more than a couple of hundred metres between the bottom terrace of buildings and the edge of the sunwell. A lot of that space was taken up with the canals that branched off the main aqueducts, leading to harbour pools.

  Boats laden with crates and foodsuffs glided about sedately on the dark water. Jemima stood at the side of a canal, her head swivelling about as people jostled along behind her, paying her no heed. After a moment she set off without hesitation along the canal.

  The harbour pool it emptied into went right up to the wall of the first tier of buildings. Big dark archways opened into warehouses, where cargo was constantly loaded and unloaded by dock workers and the gols they commanded. Normal boats and barges were tied up at the stumpy little quays, along with several of the unusual metal-cylinder craft. Jemima saw one at the back of the pool that was almost hidden in shadow, right beside a warehouse archway. Its hull was a dark shade of grey, and it thrummed quietly. There were three hatchways open along its upper deck, although nothing was to be seen inside, the holds were so dark. Not even Jemima’s sight could show her what it was carrying.

  Shadecast! she realized. That was what had drawn her down to this level: the boat was carrying something wrong. Something bad. Jemima knew she had to see what was inside, but the loading was nearly finished.

  She was just about to take the seespy bird from her bag, and send it over the odd craft, when she saw two gols pick up crates from a pile just inside the warehouse and carry them to the metal vessel. There were only a couple of crates left.

  ‘Curse it,’ she grunted, and hurried forward.

  For all her sight, it took her a while to notice that the looks of admiration and welcome she’d been given on the upper levels were absent now. Dock workers and ship crews directed sullen suspicious glances at her.

  As she approached the metal craft, one of the crew supervising the gols caught sight of her. Jemima almost faltered then – the hostility comi
ng from him was so great. Determination kept her going, because she knew neither Taggie nor Mum would ever stop and turn tail.

  ‘What you want here?’ a dock worker asked gruffly.

  ‘Just looking,’ Jemima replied airily, and scuttled past him.

  Two more crew had appeared out of the craft’s open hatches; heavy men with scowling faces. Finally their malice succeeded in putting her off. She’d almost reached the gangway up to the craft, but instead of going up she hurried along the quay to the warehouse archway. One of the gols was lumbering out of it, carrying the last crate. She sniffed the air, which had a smell that was almost familiar.

  ‘Hey,’ the dock worker shouted behind her. ‘You! Girl. You not belong here.’

  Jemima was right in front of the gol’s ruddy clay body, and just knew it wasn’t going to stop for her. She pressed back against the stone archway to let it clump past. As it did so, she put her hand on the rough wood of the crate, and closed her eyes. Shadowy images appeared behind her eyelids. Unfortunately the contents of the crate made little sense to her.

  ‘Sathrata,’ someone shouted. ‘Princess ak!’

  The gol stopped, and began to turn. Jemima didn’t need her sight to understand that this was seriously bad news. She darted off along the quayside the way she’d come.

  A piercing whistle sounded loud above the shouting dock workers. Lady Jessicara DiStantona was blowing it, drawing a heavily enchanted dagger as she frantically directed the bodyguard squad onward. Led by their captain, the soldiers were sprinting along the quay towards Jemima, waving their arms and shouting at people to get out of the way.

  Another gol, carrying a crate of oranges along the quay, suddenly dropped its load as Jemima drew close. Its blank head turned towards her. Clay arms stretched out. Jemima backstepped quickly, yelping as she ducked down. A heavy clay hand swept through the air where her head had been a second before. She rolled forward past it. A clay foot kicked – too late. It hit the stone wall behind her, sending chunks of masonry flying. Jemima squealed in fright at the strength of the contraption, and scrambled to her feet. There was fighting right along the quay now, with dock hands defending their territory against what they thought was an invasion by the authorities. Punches were thrown on both sides. Lady Jessicara performed an impressive judo throw, sending a thuggish man flying through the air. He crashed into a pile of sacks and baskets, toppling them on to his mates. Chickens flapped out of broken wicker cages and squawked madly. Two wrestling men fell over the side of the quay and into the water with a huge splash. Jemima barely noticed the hostilities that had erupted: every gol in the harbour pool had abandoned cargo duties and was heading towards her.