by Tim Stretton
As they marched out through the North Gate, Arren looked back over his shoulder. The walls were packed with folk watching them on their way. Lady Jilka, wearing Lord Thaume’s scarlet ceremonial robe to indicate her regency, sat on her strider looking impassively ahead. Beside her were Master Guiles and Lady Cerisa. Arren’s eyes were drawn to the path atop the city walls: he saw standing alone on a tower Eilla’s figure watching the troops as they marched out of the gate.
The army was not as large as Lord Thaume had hoped. Duke Panarre had sent no troops from Glount, and he had been forced to leave before his additional request had even reached King Arren at Emmen. Nonetheless, to Arren’s eyes the force looked as grand and glorious a host as had ever been assembled. The cavalry rode in martial formation at the front of the column, both riders and gallumphers gaily arrayed in canary-yellow surcoats. The yellow and blue banner of Croad rode at the front of all, and as the sun came up it reflected off the knights’ helmets. Who could stand against such a force?
By the time the army stopped for lunch, some eleven miles further on, Arren was not so convinced of the glory of warfare. His new boots pinched his feet abominably, and the city of Croad was not yet out of view. His mail felt heavier than he expected and chafed against his shoulders, despite the cotton undershirt Ierwen had given him.
Oricien, now back with his squadron and on foot, chewed his bread with deliberation. If he was feeling qualms, he kept them to himself. Guigot, meanwhile, evinced a sunny good humour. Arren had never seen Guigot light-hearted before, but he seemed in no way discommoded by the distance they had covered or the discomfort of their equipment.
‘Eat up, Arren!’ he said. ‘Tardolio will never be vanquished on an empty stomach. I aim to ensure my strength is at its maximum when the raiders come in view.’
The lads had been assigned to the care of Serjeant Fleuraume, a wiry veteran of many campaigns. He did not interpret his duties as including excessive deference to his charges.
‘Guigot is right, lads,’ he said. ‘An army marches on its stomach, and this is where we have the advantage over Tardolio. He has brought his army by ship as far as Hengis Port, and then disembarked them on Jehan’s Steppe. He cannot hope to keep them fed in the way that we can, for we can send food up from Croad whenever we choose.’
‘Why then, in that case,’ asked Arren, ‘do we not have more appetizing victuals?’
‘If it was fine foods you wanted, you could have stayed behind with Lady Jilka,’ said Fleuraume. ‘You will find little pampering on the battlefield.’
‘Viator Sleech eats well enough,’ said Oricien. ‘I do not notice Master Pinch stinting himself, and even Master Coppercake appeared to be tucking into a roast fowl when I walked past.’
Fleuraume shook his head wryly. ‘You have much to learn, lord’s son or not. Coppercake is quartermaster for the duration of our campaign; you must expect him to divert the best food for himself. And Sleech is a viator – have you ever seen one of them go hungry? He says he must keep up his strength for when he Finds the Way with the soldiers who call at his coach. Pinch simply finds himself in the right place at the right time, since he travels in the following stout-coach.’
Oricien frowned. ‘This is not right. Sleech, Coppercake and Pinch do not fight, but they eat the best food. And yet we must throw our bodies before the enemy on a diet of bread and cheese.’
Fleuraume grinned. ‘That is the first rule of army life: the less a man contributes to the fray, the more he eats. You must get used to it.’
5
By the time the army camped at nightfall Arren was ready for immediate sleep, but Fleuraume had assigned him cook’s duties. Two men from the squadron – farmers in normal life – had caught rabbits, and Arren superintended a stew bulked with potatoes issued by Coppercake. After supper Lord Thaume summoned them to his own tent. Outside on the ground sat the lord with his war captains, arrayed around the fire. The featureless steppe stretched away in all directions, both Croad and Tardolio’s army lost in the magnificent emptiness.
‘Now we are away from Croad we can think with a clear head,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Pinch, are you able to divine the whereabouts of Tardolio’s force?’
Pinch looked into the fire as if he had not heard, but eventually he said: ‘I have conjured a dimonetto of the least potent sort to scour the countryside. My powers are weak on such matters, but I have compelled it to a kind of truth. The dimonetto tells me that the host is to the north—’
‘That is scarcely news,’ said Sir Artingaume with a harsh bark of laughter. ‘I should be surprised to hear they are to the south.’
‘—but the Steppe is barren terrain. It is unable to tell me more precise geographical information. It can, however, estimate with exactitude the size of Tardolio’s army. This news is not good, since he has about three thousand men – half as large again as our own force.’
‘What of the composition of the forces? How many are cavalry?’ said Sir Artingaume, running a hand through his short grey hair.
‘The dimonetto conveyed no such exact information. The Unseen Dimensions are rather different to our own. The distinction between cavalry and infantry is lost upon it.’
Sir Artingaume stood, grimacing as he shook the stiffness from his legs. ‘Do you still command the dimonetto?’
‘It is pent within my stout-coach by magic. I may use it again tomorrow.’
‘Bring it forth now, that we may interrogate it.’
Pinch shook his head. ‘That would not be advisable. The being requires careful handling. I can communicate with it only with difficulty; restraining it is even more taxing.’
Sir Artingaume scowled. ‘It has seen Tardolio’s army. There is much information it could provide if only the correct questions were asked.’
‘If I sent a bird north to assess Tardolio’s strength, would you expect interrogation to be productive? The dimonetto is no larger than a bird and probably less intelligent.’
Sir Artingaume tipped the dregs of his stew into the fire and looked down to where Pinch reclined on the ground. ‘Could you not secure the services of a more useful dimon? A more intelligent and tractable being could furnish valuable information.’
‘If you wish to make such an attempt, Sir Artingaume, do not allow me to stop you. I find my reserves much depleted from bringing forth this dimonetto. I could not summon a more powerful beast without oversetting my reason. In your case, the potential losses are less significant.’
Sir Artingaume eventually discerned Pinch’s meaning. ‘I meant no offence, although I wonder why Lord Thaume did not secure a more potent thaumaturge.’
Pinch raised his eyebrows. ‘I can think of five, perhaps six, thaumaturges who could summon and control a modest dimon without destroying their minds. They would find this war at best trivial, at worst incomprehensible. I myself agreed to assist Lord Thaume largely from ennui, which reflects poorly on me.’
‘Enough,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘We are grateful for the information you have gleaned, Master Pinch. To know the size of the enemy force is valuable knowledge. We must consider where to force battle.’
Darrien spoke up. ‘In a sense the terrain is irrelevant. Jehan’s Steppe is flat: there are few defensible positions. There are no hills we can defend, no rivers to put at our backs.’
‘True,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Can you draw any conclusions?’
‘We should not push on too far. The further Tardolio must come to meet us, the more his lines are stretched, and the harder he will find it to feed his men. Conversely, the closer we remain to Croad, the more easily we can maintain our supplies.’
‘If Tardolio should defeat us too near to Croad, he can advance upon the city before we can regroup,’ said Sir Langlan.
Sir Artingaume gave a croak of outrage. ‘Defeat! This is not credible! You must apologize to Lord Thaume on the instant!’
Sir Langlan drained his goblet. ‘We are outnumbered. If we do not fight well, we lose,’ he said. ‘Lord Thaume wo
uld be a fool to think victory assured.’
‘Sir Langlan is right, up to a point,’ said Darrien. ‘But if we are beaten, Croad would not fall in a day. We have supplies within the city, and our walls are strong. Unless Tardolio destroys us in a single engagement, he must besiege the city while defending his rear. I say we fortify here. We know where Tardolio is going: let us wait for him.’
Lord Thaume was silent while he thought over the views of his captains. ‘Let Tardolio come to us,’ he said. ‘We will dig in here. Oricien, tomorrow you will learn the life of the labourer.’
6
Arren had found the discussion interesting, although he did not look forward to digging ditches on the morrow. He was more stimulated by the thought that Master Pinch had a dimonetto pent within his stout-coach. What harm could it do to take a peek? Pinch himself had characterized the being as ineffectual, but any dimonetto was better than none. What a story he would have to tell Eilla if he examined the dimonetto!
While the captains debated the best means of fortifying their surroundings, Arren slipped away into the dark. Master Pinch’s stout-coach was identifiable by the lightning-bolt standard flapping feebly above it in the moonlight. Was there really a dimonetto within?
Arren noted with surprise that there were no guards outside the stout-coach. Pinch had said that the dimonetto was ‘pent’, whatever that meant, but this was negligent conduct.
The stout-coach had small windows set high, and Arren could not see within. Looking over his shoulder to ensure he was not observed, he clambered onto one of the wheels, which brought him closer to the window. He leaned across, one hand on the roof, and by stretching his neck was able to reach the bottom quadrant of the window.
He peered through. Nothing out of the ordinary was evident. His night-vision was good, but there was no cage, no rope, simply a plain couch, a chaise and various chests and robes. Where, then, was the dimonetto?
He pushed further on his toes against the wheel’s rim to afford himself a better view. Was that a flash of movement? Stretching too far, Arren slipped and crashed to the ground, landing heavily on his elbow. He stood up and brushed the dust from his shirt. Even if he had caught a glimpse of the dimonetto, it was not enough to make a proper report to Eilla on his return. What if there were no dimonetto at all? The information it had provided could easily have been fabricated, and none of it was in any way controversial or surprising. Pinch had always stressed that most magical effects could be achieved through charlatanry, and that indeed this was usually the best course. No wonder he had seen nothing through the window, and that Pinch had been unwilling to submit the dimonetto to inspection! He liked Master Pinch – he did not have the hypocrisy of Viator Sleech, or the arid sarcasms of Master Guiles – but nonetheless this matter should be drawn to Lord Thaume’s attention.
He set off back towards the war council. Unbidden, the image of Foulque swinging from the town gallows came to his mind. Lord Thaume was on the whole a fair and just lord, but he tended towards the arbitrary in his exercise of justice. It seemed unlikely that he would hang Master Pinch, but Arren felt that he should at least verify the facts before apprising Lord Thaume.
He turned back towards the stout-coach. Pinch did not even have the door closed; instead a heavy burgundy curtain was drawn across the entrance, with a white lightning-bolt embroidered. This would hardly be likely to hinder a hypothetical dimonetto’s escape, he thought.
With a deep breath he pulled back the curtain. Inside the coach all was as it had appeared through the window. The air inside seemed a little filmy, his perceptions dulled. An effect of the moonlight . . .
He stepped across the portal into the coach: he would have much to explain should Pinch return now. His eye was drawn to the chaise where Pinch presumably relaxed. Was there something underneath it? He dropped to the floor and peered into the shadow. As he looked into the gloom he heard a noise he could not identify. There was something under there! He was conscious of the rapid beating of his heart. Foolish to be afraid of a noise, which could easily come from a rodent.
Clack-clack-clack.
From under the chaise crawled – something. It was brownish in colour; it had wings; and it was about the size of a pigeon – but it was no bird. Its skin was leathery, it appeared to have at least four wings, with four legs terminating in clawed paws. The head was not unlike an eagle’s, with a cruel beak and malevolent golden eyes. Perhaps Pinch was not so mendacious after all . . .
Clack-clack-clack. The noise was the scratch of the creature’s claws on the wooden floor. The dimonetto advanced towards him, its eyes level with Arren’s as he lay prone on the floor facing it. It looked into his eyes with an expression Arren had no hope of deciphering. He told himself this was a dimonetto of no force, less intelligent than a bird, and he had found it hiding under the chaise. It was probably more alarmed than he was. And somehow Pinch had it ‘pent by magic’ – perhaps the symbols on the curtain.
The dimonetto opened its beak. Arkh! Arkh! Arkh!
It leaped into the air, flapped its wings and skipped across Arren’s back to the doorway. In no way inconvenienced by whatever method Pinch had used to bind it, it flew unsteadily out into the camp.
Arren scampered out after it. ‘Come back!’ he called, conscious as he did so that this was a foolish thing to say. ‘Master Pinch! The dimonetto has escaped!’
The dimonetto appeared unsure what do with its new freedom. It circled above the stout-coach croaking with an unpleasant timbre. Pinch ran with a waddling gait, Lord Thaume at his back.
‘What have you done, boy?’ shouted Pinch. ‘Have you let it out?’
‘I only wanted to look,’ mumbled Arren.
‘Fool!’ Pinch ran into his coach. The dimonetto ceased its croaking, settled to the ground and scampered under the nearest coach, which happened to be Viator Sleech’s.
Pinch emerged with what looked like a crystal in his hand. ‘Hnorr hnapp hnopp,’ he said, or something similar. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead.
‘Fnurr fnapp fnopp. Return to your cave.’
The dimonetto appeared disinclined to leave the sanctuary of Viator Sleech’s coach.
‘You, Arren,’ said Pinch. ‘Drag it out.’
‘But sir!’ said Arren.
Lord Thaume said: ‘You released it. You bring it back.’
Recognizing the justice of Lord Thaume’s judgement, Arren dropped to the ground and crawled under the coach. The dimonetto’s eyes gleamed in the darkness as it backed against the far wheel. Arren wriggled further under the coach and reached out. Arkh! called the dimonetto and bit Arren’s hand. He cursed but managed to get his hands around it. The dimonetto was warm to the touch – in fact it was actively and uncomfortably hot.
‘Pull me out!’ he called, waving his feet, which protruded from underneath the coach. He felt hands grasping his ankles and he was dragged into the camp and hauled erect.
‘Hold it still!’ commanded Pinch.
‘It’s hot!’
‘Of course it’s hot – it’s a dimonetto. Hold still!’
Arren did as he was told.
Pinch touched the crystal to the dimonetto’s head. It glowed with a pulsing blue radiance. ‘Avato!’ he cried. Arren felt a puckering sensation on his palms and then a sense of lightness. The dimonetto was gone.
Arren looked at Pinch, his hands throbbing. Pinch was drained of all colour, his face as white as his hair. The irises of his grey eyes were barely visible against the whites.
‘We will discuss this tomorrow,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Arren, you have disappointed me.’
Darrien said: ‘You are my son, but Lord Thaume’s subject. I hope he punishes you well.’
Arren looked at the ground.
Pinch said: ‘The lad’s hands will be burnt. The dimonetto carried some of the energy of the Unseen Dimensions with it. There is a salve in my coach which is effective. See that it is applied to the burns.’
With that, Pinch crashed to t
he ground in a swoon. The cost of dispersing the dimonetto had been considerable.
7
The next morning Lord Thaume made his way through the mists to arrive at Arren’s squadron, accompanied by Master Pinch and Sir Artingaume, who was Arren’s commander. The pain from Arren’s hands had ensured he passed a poor night’s sleep, and he hunched disconsolately before his tent.
‘Take the bandages off,’ said Pinch. ‘I would examine the wounds.’
Oricien unwrapped the linen. After a brief examination Pinch announced himself satisfied.
‘I am sorry, Master Pinch,’ said Arren. ‘I was curious to see what a dimonetto looked like.’
Pinch gave a wan smile. ‘You need only have asked.’
‘I did not bring you to be curious,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘You are here to learn warfare, not thaumaturgy. I take it the dimonetto is gone, Pinch.’
Master Pinch nodded. ‘I had no option but to disperse it. It would have been complex to bring it once more under control. We do not have the option of using it again today.’
Sir Artingaume shot Arren a baleful glance.
‘How was the dimonetto pent, Master Pinch?’ asked Arren. ‘I noticed no obvious restraint, and it escaped at the first opportunity.’
‘You have done enough damage with your curiosity, boy,’ growled Sir Artingaume. ‘Such questions suggest you have not learned your lesson.’
Guigot strolled back in from his morning visit to the latrine trench. ‘Arren is incorrigible,’ he said, stretching the last of the night’s sleep away. ‘But I am sure we are all interested in this aspect of thaumaturgy.’
‘Let the lads indulge their curiosity,’ said Pinch. ‘There is little enough of it about, and a spirit of inquiry is the root of all true wisdom. Lord Thaume’s army would be valiant if composed of five thousand Sir Artingaumes, but his city would be the poorer as a result.’
Lord Thaume compressed his lips against a smile. ‘Arren has paid a high price for his curiosity. Why should he not have the answers?’
Master Pinch paused to collect his thoughts. ‘You may have noticed, Arren, that the air in the stout-coach was different in nature to that outside: thick and heavy. That is the air of the Unseen Dimension, held by a charm in my stout-coach. In entering the coach you burst the bubble, and the spell maintaining it. It allowed the dimonetto the opportunity and incentive to escape.’
