by Paul Collins
For several frantic moments Jelindel struggled to keep Daretor from getting his hands on Zimak.
‘Enough,’ Jelindel said. ‘Zimak, not all the gold on Q’zar could persuade me to misuse the gift of healing on you.’
‘I don’t see how that would be misusing it,’ Zimak said. ‘No more so than removing Drusan’s scars.’
‘Daretor’s scars were earned in honour. You may not be familiar with the word, but some people value it rather highly.’
Drusan joined them, and they walked most of the way back to the clearing in silence – apart from Daretor, who was muttering about how it was probably not ‘murder’ to kill one’s own former body. Jelindel kept herself between her two companions.
Jelindel introduced Drusan to Osric, and the two men discussed the feeding of the dragon. In turn, Osric told S’cressling that Drusan would be bringing food, and that he was a friend.
‘And you are sure he will not eat me or anything?’ Drusan asked yet again.
Osric smiled. ‘Only if you keep calling her a he.’
‘He’s a she?’
‘Yes. The only female I trust. The dragons are a proud race, and they admire intelligence in whatever form it takes. They don’t harm anybody, unless they’re driven to it.’
‘By being insulted while hungry,’ Zimak joked, but no one laughed.
With the dragon’s care and feeding arranged, the foursome set out along the narrow trails that led from the vales to the canal road that would take them to Dremari. The paths through the Valley of Clouds were narrow, windy, and somewhat precarious. The arches over the many ravines were usually constructed of cut stone cleverly laid together so that even a knife blade could not enter between them. There were no rails or handholds, and the paths had been cut into the sides of steep hills and even cliff faces. Invariably, one side of the trail dropped sharply away into the chasms between mountains. The vistas were such that often they found themselves whispering, as if in deference to the majesty of the landscape. Their normal voices echoed eerily between the peaks. Daretor remarked that the permanent cloud cover made it seem as if they were walking under water.
For two days they wound their way through the mountains as if they were ordinary travellers, concerned only with the cold, the damp, and not stumbling off the trail into half a mile of nothingness that ended in sharp rocks. As they approached Dremari, however, they became wary. All except Osric knew that Fa’red was probably the most formidable man on Q’zar. To underestimate him, or to ignore his fox-like cunning, was generally the last thing that the more foolish of his enemies ever did.
They finally came down out of the clouds and encountered a real road, along which a fair number of pedestrians and horse-drawn wagons moved. They followed the road round a bend and there was the capital of Passendof.
Dremari was a city of wonder, festooned with tall, slender spires and towers, seemingly so fragile that they defied gravity and wind in remaining upright. The Q’zarans had been here before, but Osric’s breath was taken away.
‘It’s … it’s beautiful,’ he cried out.
‘That it is,’ said Jelindel, ‘but it has guards and gates like any other city, so we must gain entry.’
They queued at the customs checkpoint along with a dozen other travellers, paid their transit fee, and demonstrated that they could support themselves for a month or more. After finishing with the inevitable bribe, they were permitted entry.
On the way to a hostelry, they passed a long curving stone canal raised up on a series of red granite arches. In answer to Osric’s question, Jelindel explained that this was the aqueduct that fed Dremari’s artificial lake, and that it was linked to the main canals that flowed down from the mountains to the Marisa River in the lowlands.
They found a suitable hostelry beneath the battlements of the city’s old castle, and immediately gathered in Jelindel’s room to lay their plans.
‘We must assume that Fa’red knows we are here, and why,’ said Jelindel. ‘He has many spies and perhaps still has some deadmoon warriors at his command.’
‘What are they?’ asked Osric, alarmed by the very name.
‘They are highly trained assassins that do not know fear of death,’ said Daretor. ‘They are worthy adversaries.’
‘Gah,’ Zimak laughed. ‘Daretor’s prone to exaggeration, Osric. We’ve taken on many times our number of deadmoons. Why, even Jelindel bested a hundred of them once.’
Jelindel closed her eyes. ‘I am going to count to three, Zimak. If you have not shut up by then, I shall disembowel you, and Daretor will hang you with your own intestines.’
Zimak took the hint. Osric nodded, as if he understood.
‘Fa’red will be within the castle, if I know him,’ Jelindel continued. ‘Daretor and I will attempt to get inside tonight when only Specmoon is up. Zimak and Osric, you will keep watch. Till then, I want you to scout around, pick up any information you can. Try the taverns and markets.’
Zimak’s eyes lit up at the mention of taverns.
‘Daretor,’ Jelindel said, turning to him, ‘I want you to plan our escape route, should we need to leave in a hurry.’
‘And what are you going to do till dark?’ asked Zimak.
‘I’m going to hire a palanquin and some lackeys for the afternoon. Then I will visit several gem merchants, pretending to be a rich young lady of leisure. If Fa’red has boasted about the dragonsight or shown it to anyone, then someone here will know.’
They each set out on their respective missions for the afternoon. Daylight was fading as they met again at the hostelry. They bought food and drink in the taproom, and retired to a private booth at the back where their conversation could not be overheard. Zimak took a deep draught of his drink and coughed most of it back up into the mug. ‘Black Quell’s butt! That must be the foulest muck I’ve ever tasted.’
Jelindel ignored him. ‘Apart from the quality of ale leaving something to be desired, what did you find out today?’
‘We visited many alehouses, as you suggested, and even spent some time in the marketplace,’ began Osric. ‘Your magician Fa’red is here all right. On the face of it, he is helping the new king secure his realm against the anarchy that is spreading across the lowlands.’
‘Ironic really, given that Fa’red helped to overthrow the previous king,’ Zimak pointed out, spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘I was about to wed his daughter. Why, if not for my so-called friends here, I might well be the king by now.’
‘Actually Zimak, I regret rescuing you from her. Had we not whisked you away from here, the princess would have fed you to her lepon in the morning, after your first night of amorous bliss. All her other suitors exited that way.’
Zimak waved the spoon. ‘I only have your word on it,’ he said. ‘Besides, maybe the other suitors hadn’t measured up in the pre-marital bed. I would have been different.’
‘Well yes, she might have had you soaked in red wine first, to disguise the taste,’ Jelindel sighed. ‘Osric, please go on.’
‘Many mutter that Fa’red has some leverage over the new king, so that the monarch has been forced to give him a wardship, a protected haven.’
‘Sounds like Fa’red still has enemies,’ Daretor mused.
‘Sounds like the sun still rises in the morning,’ said Jelindel.
‘He’s probably already doublecrossed Rakeem,’ said Zimak around a mouthful of food. He was merely putting into words what everyone else thought.
‘That may help us,’ said Jelindel, ‘but our task is unchanged. We must find the dragonsight.’
‘Or die horribly,’ Zimak reminded them. Suddenly not hungry, he dropped the bone that he had been gnawing and looked around gloomily. ‘How come every time I get mixed up with you lot my life expectancy plummets?’
‘Maybe Fate thinks you should be brought to book for your many misdeeds,’ Daretor replied.
‘You should talk,’ Zimak said, sucking his greasy fingers.
‘I have scouted three routes ou
t of the city, should we need them,’ said Daretor. ‘I have also arranged horses to be stabled nearby.’
Jelindel nodded. She had her own escape route in mind, but followed the rule that the best kept secrets are those known only to one person.
‘I had less luck than you three,’ she said smoothly. ‘None of the gem and trinket merchants know of any bauble matching the description of the dragonsight. If Fa’red has it, then he has not revealed it to anybody here.’
She cast her gaze about the tavern to make sure no one was near. Then she cleared a space in front of her and spread a parchment on the table, making quick deft sketches of the castle and its environs.
‘Tonight,’ she said, looking around for objections. She found none.
Zimak and Osric knelt among mountain ferns four hundred yards from the castle walls, while Jelindel and Daretor slunk through the moonlit plaza till they reached the granite arch of the aqueduct. Keeping to the shadows, they scaled the brickwork of the arch, and lowered themselves over the aqueduct wall into the chill mountain water.
‘Ready?’ Jelindel asked. Her teeth were chattering. Daretor nodded, releasing his grip on the wall. Instantly, the current pulled them into the middle of the stream where the water was deepest. In a few moments they saw the castle battlements speeding towards them. The dark gap loomed in the wall where the aqueduct plunged through part of the castle before exiting again on the other side.
Even in this light they could see that an iron portcullis had been lowered across the flow. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Daretor muttered through cold-clenched teeth.
The aqueduct dipped and the water picked up speed, rushing towards the portcullis. Jelindel muttered a spell. Her teeth were chattering so much that it came out wrong, and nothing happened.
‘I’m too cold,’ Jelindel groaned. ‘Besides, magic is weakened over water.’
Daretor held her tightly, sharing the heat of his body. She tried again and though blurry flickering light lit up her lips, nothing happened. The portcullis was growing larger; in moments they would be dashed against it with bone-breaking speed.
‘Arnash ir aramay,’ Jelindel enunciated slowly. Blue light formed at her lips and leapt across to the portcullis. With a muffled groan it slid up out of their path just as the current swept them into the dark mouth.
As soon as they were inside, the grille dropped down again. They hurtled along in near darkness.
‘We’ll only have one chance,’ Daretor said. He pulled a metal hook from inside his tunic. It had a leather grip at one end. ‘Hang on tight. Whatever you do don’t let go.’
Jelindel’s grip on his arms tightened. ‘There it is.’
They saw light ahead, a rectangular shape set in the ceiling, a hatch cut into the floor of the castle’s kitchen so that supplies could be collected and let down. As they rushed towards the hatchway Daretor surged out of the water and whipped the hook in a great arc over his head. He grunted in satisfaction as it slid over the lip of the hatchway.
‘Quickly, scramble up!’ he urged. ‘I can’t hold this for long.’
Jelindel climbed hand over hand up Daretor’s body, grabbed the hatchway, and hauled herself up so that she was standing on his shoulders. Her head poked through the opening. She quickly checked the kitchen. It was empty. She scrabbled for a handhold, found one, and hauled herself up. She turned back for Daretor. Soon he too was slumped on the kitchen floor, shivering and panting. Then they moved away from the hatchway and found an alcove. Here they stripped off their wet clothing and dressed in the dry clothes that Jelindel had brought in a leather bag sealed with wax.
‘Lead the way,’ said Daretor. Jelindel nodded, still too cold to speak coherently.
The castle, like many ancient buildings, resembled a maze, partly from a sense of fun, and partly to confuse intruders. Fortunately, Jelindel had memorised a map of the castle’s layout. Sold as a curio, the map was more than a century old. She doubted that there had been any significant alterations.
She guessed Fa’red would be in the east wing, which was normally reserved for visiting nobility. She could not imagine Fa’red tolerating anything less. The east wing was some two hundred yards from their current position, and the guest suites several floors up. There was no stairway to the upper floors from this service level, but Jelindel knew that there had to be a service stairwell or similar arrangement for the staff.
‘Here,’ she said, indicating a small rectilinear cavity in the wall.
‘Are you seriously suggesting that I get in there?’ Daretor asked.
‘It’s called a dumb waiter,’ she said. ‘The servants place food and drink in it, then pull on those ropes to the side. The whole thing goes up to whichever floor has ordered it.’
‘Like Rakeem’s elevator.’
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s too small. I wouldn’t fit in there,’ he pointed out.
‘Still forgetting you’re in Zimak’s body,’ Jelindel replied. ‘Squeeze in, because this is how we’re getting up into the realms of royalty.’
Daretor scowled. She smiled sweetly back.
‘You know I don’t like small spaces,’ he said. ‘Poxy little body or not.’
‘I’m sorry, Daretor, but there’s no other way. I’ll go first.’
‘No,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘I will.’ He paused. ‘Why must we go up? Surely we could use the stairs around the other side.’
‘They will be charmed against intruders,’ Jelindel said dismissively. ‘Fa’red won’t leave his suite of rooms, so we must meet him.’
Reluctantly, Daretor climbed into the tiny space, drawing his legs up to his chest. His face glistened with sweat and he was shivering. ‘How will you know when I arrive at the right level?’
‘Stop worrying. It’s all marked here on the side. When you get to the proper level this marker will be next to the name of that floor. I told you, it’s designed for illiterate servants.’
Daretor swallowed, then nodded. Jelindel closed the door and started hauling on the ropes; fortunately, the contraption was counter-weighted to rise smoothly and easily.
Inside, Daretor kept his eyes shut. He was a fearless warrior, known among the Preceptor’s former legions and mercenaries as death on two legs, but this tiny cabin unnerved him profoundly. He sighed with relief when the dumb waiter jerked to a stop. He listened for a moment, then slid the door aside wide enough to peer out. The chamber was shrouded in shadows, and seemed empty.
Daretor pushed the panel wide open and climbed out, cautiously stretching his cramped limbs. Still nothing. He sent the contraption back down for Jelindel. In a short time she stood beside him, having endured the claustrophobic journey with less anxiety.
A tall, turbaned man entered the chamber, padding silently on soft slippers. He was holding an oil lamp. When he saw Daretor and Jelindel he froze, then opened his mouth and drew breath to cry out. Jelindel was faster. Her binding spell wrapped itself around him, shackling his legs and arms, silencing his cry. Daretor caught the lamp as the man toppled to the floor, mumbling for help.
‘That won’t hold him for long,’ Jelindel said. ‘We have to hurry. My plan will only work as long as we have surprise on our side.’
They peered out the door. No guards. They stepped out and hurried along the corridor.
Without warning, Fa’red attacked.
Zimak and Osric crouched in the shadows, conversing softly.
‘They’ve been gone a while,’ Zimak said.
Osric nodded. ‘You say Jelindel is a great mage, and that she has bested this Fa’red and his deadmoon warriors before. Why then has she not displayed her magic? She was easily caught by Rakeem and his men.’
Zimak remained silent for a moment. ‘There is more than meets the eye with that little vixen,’ he said finally.
‘You think she is a traitor?’ asked Osric.
‘I think she loves to be underestimated.’
Osric considered this. ‘According to Daretor, she
could have fled ere now, but stayed to free you both.’
‘He’s bound to say that,’ Zimak scoffed. ‘Daretor’s in love with her. People in love say anything.’
‘Why, then, are you so anxious?’
‘I just don’t like waiting. Besides, she’s never really gone against Fa’red directly. He usually sends his lackeys to do his killing.’
‘I suppose we just wait then.’
‘As usual,’ Zimak said sourly. ‘But wait for what? If they fail, Fa’red’s guards will be swarming over these grounds like ants.’
‘Perhaps the only way to win is to lose,’ Osric said.
‘Osric, I hope that was meant to be a joke.’
Osric shrugged and settled deeper into the shadows. ‘I am going to call S’cressling now. If all goes according to Jelindel’s plan, there will be a sign shortly, and we must be ready.’
Zimak rolled his head, stretching his neck muscles.
There was some cause for Zimak’s unease. Jelindel and Daretor had run along the corridor and burst into a large dimly lit hall. No sooner had Daretor closed the door, than seven deadmoon warriors rappelled from the ceiling, encircling them with startling speed.
Jelindel spat out binding spells reflexively, and three deadmoons collapsed instantly, their chests constricted so tightly that the air was almost squeezed from their lungs. The others launched a coordinated attack. Jelindel pivoted on her right foot, sending a spinning side kick into the jaw of one assassin. The other flicked out his arm and barely missed crushing her larynx. She feinted, dropped, and managed to knock him off his feet with a leg sweep, but he sprang up again as though on a trampoline.
Daretor was faring slightly worse. He managed to wound one attacker with an underhand knife throw, causing him to limp. But he fared worse with his next attacker, who sliced skin from Daretor’s forearm. Daretor locked the deadmoon’s arm beneath his own, and smashed his opponent’s nose with a head butt, dropping him instantly. Cursing his carelessness, Daretor retrieved the deadmoon’s blade from the ground. Blood was dripping from his arm.
