by Paul Collins
‘You have no idea, do you?’ she asked finally. Her accent seemed to have disappeared.
He decided to give up the pretence. ‘I find myself in an unfortunate situation,’ he said.
‘Go on.’
‘I mean, I didn’t come here by normal means.’
‘I know that, too. You would never have gotten across the border, let alone within the city gates unless you’re a very clever spy. Are you a very clever spy?’
‘Neither spy nor, it would seem, very clever. At least, I’m not clever enough to avoid detection by serving maids.’
‘How then did you arrive?’
‘I was magicked here,’ Daretor said. She sat up straight, seeming uneasy for the first time.
‘Are you a wizard?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I am a simple fighting man, but a wizard sent me here. He is an enemy of ours … of mine. He tricked me, sending me here. I am on a quest and he seeks to thwart me.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Dremari in the Passendof Mountains.’
She stared. ‘That far? Magic can do such a thing over so great a distance?’
‘So it would seem and much more besides. But I am the wrong person to ask.’ He paused, looking at her. ‘Can you tell me why my appearance would cause trouble?’
‘It is not so much your appearance as the fact that you are a foreigner. That is not a crime here, but it would justify any patrol demanding to see your papers. You would, of course, have none.’
‘How did you know?’
‘The way you talk. All newcomers are placed in detention for months at a time, during which they receive … rather forcible re-education. After that, you would not sound as you do.’
‘Why are they re-educated?’ Daretor asked.
‘To cure them of magic, of course, though many do not survive the cure.’
It was his turn to stare at her.
She shrugged. ‘Magic is forbidden here, unless you are a priest. To work magic is to risk imprisonment and heavy fines. Big magic, of the kind that brought you here, would earn you the death penalty.’
‘Where am I? What is your name?’
‘My name is Elorsa and this is the city of Ishluk.’
His heart thumped, causing his eyes to widen. ‘Southern Gratz? I believed I was in Delbrias. The writing back at the tavern …’
‘Delbrian and Gratzian is similar,’ Elorsa said. ‘No, you are a very long way from there. But I will aid you, if I am able.’
A vast dark shape circled beneath a ragged moon. S’cressling was questing the sky for a scent.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Osric. ‘If they were nearby she would have picked up their scent by now.’
‘Can she actually smell the Sacred One’s blood?’ asked Zimak. He gingerly touched the daubed spot on his forehead.
‘Ordinarily yes. But this is a magical scent. She is questing through layers of space and time, seeking them …’
The dragon banked hard and soared off to the southeast, climbing as she went.
Zimak clutched the sides of his seat. ‘Well, she seems to have found something.’
‘You had better prepare yourself for a long journey, my friend. I do not know where we are going but it will not be a short flight.’
‘We should have roasted that fat pig Fa’red,’ Zimak spat.
Osric frowned. ‘I am sorry if we have misled you, but I don’t think you understand, Zimak. Jelindel was only bluffing. There was little chance of S’cressling killing Fa’red. Not without having possession of the dragonsight beforehand. We need Fa’red to fall back on if we cannot find that which binds us to King Amida.’
Zimak’s face paled. ‘Don’t tell me you need Fa’red alive.’
Osric leaned into the whistling wind. ‘For the time being, until our quest is completed,’ he said. ‘Let us pray we find our companions.’
Prayers were the last thing on Zimak’s mind. The dragon flew on, her great wings beating the night air like vast blankets being shaken out.
Jelindel did not know where she was. Worse, she did not know how she had arrived there. She had materialised inside a closet, accompanied by a great clatter of falling brooms and clanging buckets. Then the door had been thrown open and several shocked faces stared at her.
‘You young scallywag, get outta there!’ cried an outraged woman in scullery garb. She grabbed Jelindel by the ear and hauled her out of the closet. Before Jelindel could gather her wits, the maid had rummaged through her garments and confiscated everything she found.
That had been five minutes ago. She was now sitting at a table. Opposite her was an anxious man in his mid fifties. He wore a neatly cropped white beard. His dark eyes regarded her furtively. He had quickly cleared the kitchen of its staff on his arrival. Had Jelindel been herself, she would have known that the man was actually fearful for her safety, although unable to show it.
‘You will tell me how you came to be in my closet and you will tell me now,’ he demanded, thumping the table. Jelindel flinched.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said, nervous.
‘What is your name? Or are you too addled to tell that much?’
Jelindel frowned. Her frown deepened into puzzlement, then alarm. She looked up from the table. She found her inquisitor difficult to understand, but that didn’t seem too unusual, for there were huge gaps in her memory. ‘I don’t think I know my name,’ she said. ‘What is my name?’
She was so obviously confused that the man’s anger subsided. Judging by her clothes and accent, she was no urchin. ‘Have you taken a bump on the head of late?’ he asked, a little more gently.
Jelindel slowly felt her head. There was a tender spot at the back, and when she pressed on it she winced. Her fingers were smeared with blood.
The man nodded, satisfied. ‘It is as I thought. I am a physician. You are very lucky. I have encountered a case like this before, though not for some years. In my experience, your memory will return given time. However, the Provost will have to be informed. It is most likely you came here by magic, since it is impossible for you to have entered my house by any other means.’
Jelindel stared at him. ‘Do I know magic?’
The man shrugged, then clapped his hands loudly. ‘That is not for me to say. I will speak to the Provost about your amnesia. It is he who will be the final arbiter of this matter.’
A man in house livery dashed in. The doctor instructed him to escort Jelindel to the Office of the Provost.
As Jelindel left, the doctor called out, ‘May White Quell be merciful.’
A moment later, Jelindel and her guard were in a cobbled street, walking past a dingy inn. High above an attic window glowed a friendly yellow light. It was in stark contrast to the din in the streets, where harried soldiers were obviously searching for someone.
Daretor awoke suddenly. He had been dreaming of Jelindel. She was being tortured to death. He woke sweating and shivering, calling out her name. Elorsa loomed above him. She motioned him to be still and closed the door, removing a cloak.
Daretor rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘What news?’ he asked. The dream had left him badly shaken.
‘A woman appeared mysteriously in a house not a hundred yards from here. I know the owner. He is a physician, not unkindly. Still, he would have had little choice but to hand her over to the Provost.’ She wrung her hands. ‘His servants, and, well, anyone cannot always be trusted. It would not be worth his life to help her.’
The words alarmed Daretor and he started to his feet. Elorsa waved him back.
‘What does that mean?’ he demanded.
‘She is not in danger, not yet at least. She is suspected of having used magic to get here, but she is very clever. She is pretending to have amnesia, it seems. Also, she is comely, which may sway the Provost when it comes time.’
‘Time?’
‘Time for her hearing. You still do not understand. Magic is a criminal offence here. To practise it, or benefit from it, is
illegal. Only the priests may do so.’
‘But how do they enforce such a law?’
‘They have many ways. Wizards from other realms detect the use of magic. And there are also the Watchers.’
‘Who are they?’
‘What are they. Surely you noticed them. They’re black crystals in brackets on the walls in every building and public thoroughfare. They not only detect magic of a certain power, but enhance the priests’ sorcery by some means. While smaller spells may be practised in privacy, no potent magic can be worked here without instant detection.’
‘Yet my friend and I both arrived by magic,’ Daretor said.
‘Yes, but the magic was worked elsewhere. The black crystals cannot detect such things, but you could not leave the same way without a horde of priests following.’
Daretor combed a hand through his hair. Apparently the local priests wanted all the action for themselves. ‘Why are they so afraid of magic?’
‘Why shouldn’t they be? They fear the unpredictable. More than anything, the Provost fears that one day a powerful adept will come and subjugate him.’
‘When I followed you up here you asked me if I was the courier. What did you mean?’
Elorsa gazed at him, biting her lower lip. She seemed to be struggling with a decision. ‘There is a …’ she started haltingly, ‘… a group of people who … who wish to see things as they were in the old days, before the Provost took over. They wish for …’
Her voice trailed off, but Daretor finished for her: ‘The return of magic.’
She nodded.
‘Is magic such a wonderful thing, then?’ he asked.
‘You do not understand. A bad king may be removed by magic. Tyranny is a difficult enterprise when many great mages and wizards inhabit your realm. It may not be an easy or quick cure, but it is a road back to freedom.’
Daretor sighed. ‘I never thought of it like that,’ he said. ‘But then, tyrants like the Preceptor employ Adept 12s to ward off opposing magic. It usually boils down to who has the most powerful adept in their employ.’
‘Better that than what we have now,’ Elorsa said bitterly.
‘One tyrant or the next, it’s all much of a muchness,’ Daretor said. ‘But now, tell me of the woman who mysteriously appeared. Where is she being held?’
S’cressling streaked through the night, into the next day, then on into night again, moving across many lands. She flew over high mountains, deserts, and great, fertile flood plains. She soared above the homelands of men, and of creatures that were not men. Sometimes attack spells flashed as starbursts around them, but most were content to let the huge creature pass as long as it did not turn upon them. Not once did S’cressling stop for food. On her back, Zimak and Osric were near the end of their supplies.
‘I never knew this much land existed,’ Zimak moaned. His fingers seemed frozen to the saddle straps, and his entire body felt stiff as a sun-bleached carcass.
Osric was too miserable to move, even though he was used to riding dragons. ‘Land is infinite,’ was all he said.
Kagan, Head Priest of Ishluk and Provost Marshal of the Realm, gazed through lowered eyes at the captive standing before him. That she was very beautiful was indisputable. That she was beautiful and dangerous remained to be ascertained.
‘The physician who found you,’ said Kagan, ‘believes the memory loss is genuine, rather than a clever ploy to cloak your true intentions.’
‘Why would I lie?’ Jelindel asked.
‘Why indeed? Why does anybody lie? Perhaps you lie because you know your peril.’
‘But I am innocent of any wrongdoing. What is it that I am supposed to have done?’
The Provost’s eyes narrowed in momentary doubt. ‘You have used magic.’
‘I have? Perhaps I am a victim of magic.’
Kagan steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. ‘And perhaps you are a cunning witchling sent here by our enemies. How can one tell?’
‘Don’t you have some kind of test?’ Jelindel asked.
‘Possibly.’ Kagan was beginning to think the physician was right. The girl did not act like the usual captives. Indeed, she did not seem to have any idea of the peril she was in. It was actually quite refreshing, he found. Whatever the matter, it put him in a good mood. Unfortunately, not good enough to spare her and miss the opportunity of impressing on the townspeople the need for constant vigilance against the practice of dark magic – dark magic being any type of sorcery not sanctioned by him. Furthermore, the pretty ones, as with virgins, made better sacrifices. For some reason, the commoners identified more with the winsome unfortunates, and even got quite emotional at times. Beauty was usually associated with nobility, after all. Finally, he sat back and glanced at the men stationed either side of Jelindel.
‘I have made my decision,’ he said. ‘For the crime of illegal entry into our realm you are hereby condemned to a lifetime of slavery.’
‘But I have done nothing,’ Jelindel said, incredulous.
‘And for the crime of Manifestation of Magic, that lifetime will be sadly short.’ He flicked another look at his guards. ‘Take her to the dungeons to await execution.’
Daretor walked the busy street, keeping out of the path of wagons and the main flow of foot traffic. He wore a brown nondescript cloak, rustic tunic, and leggings. His face was hooded. Thus dressed, he blended with the noonday crowd. Some twenty yards ahead, moving at a steady pace, was Elorsa. She had a basket over one arm. On her way to the markets, or so anyone would think to look at her.
And look they did. Not just at her but all who passed. ‘They’ were the Provost’s priests. Robed in an austere regimental style with tasselled mitres, they hovered on most street corners and were subtly intimidating to religious people. They carried swords, and staffs of power. Handpicked, they all had thin cruel faces and the eyes of hawks.
Elorsa had schooled Daretor as best she could in the ways and manners of the Ishlukians. Submissiveness, never one of Daretor’s strongest features, seemed the predominant trait, along with open-eyed guile. She had also worked on his accent and taught him some common phrases, which gave a clue to the grammar of the streets. In a stroke of irony, it seemed to Daretor that being in Zimak’s body was a blessing in disguise. His bigger frame would have drawn attention, for these people were smaller in stature than most Q’zarans.
Nonetheless, it was a big risk. Daretor had never heard of the expression ‘police state’ but he was now deep in the middle of one.
‘Stupidity is your best weapon,’ Elorsa had told him. ‘When in doubt, act dull-witted. Never try to argue or, White Quell forbid, try to prove you’re right. If you can act the part of a simpleton, so much the better.’
‘It’s a shame my companion Zimak is not here,’ he said.
With Elorsa’s words firmly in mind, Daretor made his way along the street, always keeping the serving maid in sight and staying the same distance to the rear. The people they passed seemed gloomy and downcast. Few looked up or dared to meet his eyes. Elorsa had told him that betrayal had become a way of life in Ishluk, and many made their living from the sale of information.
Ahead Elorsa swung into a side street. Daretor followed, passing shops of a slightly higher standard. Even the clientele here appeared more prosperous. There were even outdoor eateries, and once he actually heard laughter.
‘I shall be glad to leave this forsaken place,’ he muttered.
A fox-faced passer-by shot him a look. Their eyes met for a second, then the man looked away. Daretor cursed himself for a fool. He should not have looked.
Elorsa changed her basket from one arm to the other. That was the signal. As Daretor reached the spot where she had done this, he casually glanced to his left and saw, built far back from the road and behind a high wall, a severe-looking building topped by turrets patrolled by armed priests. This was the Provost’s citadel. If Elorsa’s information was right, Jelindel was being held behind its walls.
Daretor
glanced toward Elorsa and paused. She had stopped to look in a shop window. His breath quickened. It was the sign for danger. Trying not to betray his alarm, he casually looked around.
The fox-faced man was talking to a pair of priests and pointing in Daretor’s direction. The priests looked up. They could not see Daretor’s eyes beneath the cowl, but there was no doubt who they were talking about. They started in his direction – not running, but walking like hounds on the scent.
Daretor looked quickly about. The citadel was to his left. Ahead was a long line of shops and no cross street for nearly three hundred yards, not even an alleyway. He started to sweat. Elorsa was still peering in the shop window but there was nothing she could do to help.
He crossed the street to a recessed area marked by the signs and pennants of butchered animals. It was filled with stalls covered in garishly coloured awnings, each one with a carved and decorated pole that, no doubt, identified the stall’s owner. Ducking between the nearest stalls he lost himself amongst the noisy vendors. The ground was covered in blood-stained sawdust and flies buzzed thickly in the air. Great slabs of raw meat hung from hooks attached to movable rigs, or lay on chopping slabs. Broad-shouldered bearded men in thick bloody aprons wielded heavy meat cleavers, while apprentices sawed doggedly at stubborn bone and sinew. Customers shouted demands for particular cuts. The place was a bedlam that suited Daretor’s needs.
He grimaced as he squeezed between two stalls swimming in blood and entrails. Moving to the rear of one stall, he darted into a forest of hanging carcasses, shedding his cloak and hood in one quick movement. He came suddenly on a butcher who scowled at him.
‘Sorry,’ said Daretor, and snapped a short left hook that connected with the man’s jaw. The butcher floundered, then went down. Daretor removed the man’s apron, donned it quickly, then smeared blood on his arms and face. He rolled the unconscious man beneath the stall, picked up the slab of meat he had been carrying, and slung it over his own shoulder.
