‘Don’t forget you’re talking to two people who don’t know anything about either,’ Tanalvah reminded him.
‘Most people don’t. Why should they? Not everyone’s cut out to be a sorcerer. Anyway, the thing to bear in mind is that because the system draws on the inertia of belief, magic’s an everyday reality.’
‘I think you’ve lost me already,’ Kinsel confessed.
‘I’m certainly in the dark,’ Tanalvah said. ‘You must think us terribly slow, Kutch.’
‘Of course not. I mean, I don’t know the first thing about what you two do. Your singing, Kinsel, or your –’ He locked gazes with Tanalvah. A moment’s embarrassment washed over them. Kutch cleared his throat emphatically. ‘It might be useful,’ he hurried on, ‘to tell you the way my master, Domex, used to put it.’ His hosts exchanged secret grins. ‘He said that our perception of magic is a bit like the way language must have been born.’ He saw them looking baffled again. ‘It’s quite simple really. Imagine a time, long, long ago, when our ancestors were still incredibly primitive.’
‘Would that have been before or after the Founders?’ Tanalvah wondered.
‘After, I suppose. We don’t know. The Founders are a mystery wrapped in an enigma. We don’t even know if they were human in any sense we understand.’
‘That’s a chilling thought. Sorry, I shouldn’t interrupt.’
Kutch smiled. ‘That’s all right. But it’s probably best to leave the Founders out of it. They tend to complicate things. Just think of when people were very primitive, and imagine how language might have started. Chances are, somebody pointed to a tree, let’s say, and made a noise that marked out trees from everything else. Then if everybody agreed that tree meant big leafy thing, trees had been named. Same with anything else: sun, moon, river, mountain, barbcat, whatever you like. When everyone agreed on the sounds, the words, that described them, we were on our way to creating a vocabulary. A language. The philosophers call the process concord. It just means everybody agrees on reality.’
‘Those of us who believe the gods created people,’ Tanalvah said, ‘know that they gave us our tongues.’
‘Yes, but they wouldn’t necessarily have created us with the ready-made ability to communicate in words. Any more than we were created with the ability to … oh, I don’t know, tame horses. The gods gave us brains so we could learn and develop. Otherwise, why didn’t they just cause us to be perfect in the first place?’
‘To better ourselves and become enlightened certainly seems part of the gods’ design.’
‘This is all very interesting,’ Kinsel said. ‘But what has it to do with magic?’
‘The parallel’s about perception,’ Kutch explained. ‘Put bluntly, we perceive magic because we collectively agree that magic’s there to be perceived. But we do it totally unconsciously, of course.’
The singer pondered what he’d just been told. ‘Isn’t that like saying magic doesn’t exist?’
‘No. The tree’s still there, whether we give it a name or not. It’s the same with magic. We’ve developed a kind of vocabulary for magic in the same way we’ve named things in the world around us, that’s all.’
‘How does this connect to spotting?’
‘It seems to be the ability to get back into the primitive mind before things were named, and before we had a collective agreement about magic.’
‘That’s fascinating.’
‘You’re a very smart young man, Kutch,’ Tanalvah told him.
The boy flushed at the compliment. ‘I’ve a long way to go yet. And it really isn’t to do with intelligence; it’s luck. Being able to spot is very rare. I’m just lucky enough to have it.’
‘But it must be in all of us,’ Kinsel reasoned, ‘from those ancestors before they started organising the world. Mustn’t it? Deep down.’
‘I suppose so. I guess spotters just find it easier to get in touch with that primitive state of mind. So maybe being able to spot isn’t an advance but a throwback. A lack of something rather than something extra. I don’t know. Nobody does. It’s just there. The same way some people can dowse or predict the sex of babies.’
‘So you can hone this ability but not develop it from scratch?’
‘It has to be there in the first place. Sometimes, training brings it out more.’
‘And you train how?’
‘By looking but not believing. Not taking for granted. They’re the basic tenets of spotting. Look and Doubt. I can’t explain it any better than that. I expect Phoenix could.’
‘How are you getting on with him?’ Tanalvah wanted to know. ‘It must be hard adjusting to a new master.’
‘He’s a master, not mine. That will always be Domex. It’s the way. I can learn from others, but never call them by that name, except as a courtesy. Phoenix is very inspiring. I think he might be a bit insane.’
They all laughed at that.
Kinsel said, ‘How much longer will you have to train?’
‘Forever. Magic’s a lifelong commitment.’
‘And is that what you want?’ Tanalvah asked. ‘After all, your late master brought you into the Craft when you were too young to make the decision yourself.’
‘I’m so glad he did. It’s what I’ve always wanted, though I didn’t know it then. I’m very grateful to Domex. He was a good master, and kind.’
‘You do him credit,’ Kinsel replied, ‘and that’s as fine an epitaph as any man could want. Look, as you know, I’m singing tonight. Eve of Freedom Day concert. Complete farce, but I’m obliged. Tanalvah and the children will be there. Why don’t you come too?’
‘Oh, sorry; no, I can’t. I have to get ready for tomorrow.’
‘The mission. Of course. Stupid of me. You’ll be needing a good night’s rest.’
‘There are some preparations I have to go through with Reeth before that.’
‘He worries me, that one,’ Tanalvah stated bluntly. ‘I hope he’s the right man to lead this mission.’
‘Tan!’ Kinsel protested.
‘I mean no insult by it. But he brings harm wherever he goes.’
‘But you’re both …’ Kutch began.
‘Qalochians, yes.’ She shot a glance at Kinsel. ‘I seem to have had this conversation before. The fact that we’re the same race doesn’t come into it. All I’m saying, Kutch, is that Caldason’s known for a dangerous man. And he’s different. His malady, the years he’s lived … Be careful is what I mean.’
‘I think he’s the most honourable man I’ve ever met.’
‘I’m sure he is. But he has a darkness in his soul.’
Kutch didn’t take offence on Caldason’s part, because in truth he knew her to be right. What he said was, ‘I don’t think he believes in the gods. Or if he ever did, he seems to have lost it.’
‘Nevertheless, I will pray for him.’
They stood in silence for a moment before Kutch announced, ‘Time I went. Thanks for your hospitality.’
Kinsel took his hand. ‘Good luck for tomorrow.’
‘Yes, take care of yourself, Kutch.’ Tanalvah planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘It seems I have a rival,’ Kinsel joked. ‘Teg! Lirrin!’ he called. ‘Come and say goodbye to Kutch!’
The siblings rushed out and marauded around the adults’ legs.
‘What about that bird?’ Lirrin demanded, jabbing a finger at the sky.
‘We’re not playing that game anymore,’ Tanalvah said. ‘Kutch has to go.’
‘It’s all right,’ Kutch told her. ‘That’s just an ordinary bird, Lirrin. Now, that black and white cat down there is definitely a glamour, and –’ He froze. Intently, he gazed down at the streets, then lifted his head to take in the scene more generally. He stared like a newborn seeing a rattle for the first time. Closing his eyes and looking again didn’t change his expression of uneasy bewilderment. He put a hand to his brow, and swayed.
‘Kutch!’ Kinsel exclaimed. He reached out and took his shoulders. ‘Kutch, what’s th
e matter?’
There was no answer. He simply stood there, unfocused, as though in a daze.
Tanalvah was growing anxious. ‘What’s wrong? Kutch?’
The children were starting to get frightened.
Kutch appeared to be aware of them again. He blinked, shook his head, took a breath. ‘Sorry.’ He managed a weak, unconvincing grin.
Tanalvah laid her palm gently on his chest. ‘What is it, Kutch? What’s wrong?’
‘I thought …’ He shook his head again. ‘No, it was nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Your face. For a moment there –’
‘I’m all right. Really.’
Kinsel remained concerned. ‘Are you sure? Look, sit down for a moment, have a drink and –’
‘No. Thank you. I’m just tired, that’s all. Too many late nights, too much spotting.’
‘You should look after yourself,’ Tanalvah said. ‘You’re taking on some big responsibilities for one so young. You hear?’
‘Yes, Tanalvah, I hear.’ He disentangled himself. ‘Sorry, but I’ll have to go now. Reeth’s expecting me.’
He had no idea how he came to be in this place. Or where this place might be. But he did have a sense of who he was.
It seemed he was in a clearing in a forest or wood. The trees were thick, so it wasn’t possible to see very far through them. They were tall and crowded inwards, so only a small circle of blue sky was visible above.
Caldason realised that he had a sword in his hand. He looked down at himself. He was bare chested, and bore the scars of brutal wounds. But they were mending, so he knew time had passed.
He had no conception of what was going on, yet it all felt familiar.
Someone was standing in front of him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed them before. The figure was unclear. He strained to bring it into focus.
It was an old man. Someone he thought he recognised but couldn’t place. Like a memory at the edge of his mind.
He wanted to speak, to say something to him, but he couldn’t. It was as though the gift of speech was another memory he couldn’t quite summon. Nor could he move towards him. His legs wouldn’t obey.
The old man was impassive. Neither smiling nor grave, and totally still.
Then he did move. He lifted a hand, his fingers in some odd configuration.
There was a sound, which made Caldason realise that there had been none before. Now he distinctly heard air being displaced, the kind of noise arrows made in flight.
Something was coming his way. A swarm of somethings, flying low out of the forest. He saw that they were knives, a dozen or more, soaring towards him. Coming too far, too fast, too hard to have been lobbed by any mortal hand. Stranger still, they seemed to be moving consciously, varying their speed and trajectory.
The leading knife zeroed in on him. Instinctively he brought up his sword. The knife struck the side of his blade and bounced away. Then he was in a storm of hurtling metal. He batted at the incoming blades, deflecting, blocking, swiping them aside.
They attacked high and low, and as he swatted them they shot off in all directions, emitting a shrill whistle before disappearing. He needed his wits and reflexes at their quickest to keep the shiny, wickedly sharp blades at bay. One nicked him, slicing painfully across his shoulder. It wasn’t a deep wound but it spurred his senses further. None of the others hit.
The knives were gone as quickly as they’d appeared.
He looked about to see if any more were in sight. There was no sign.
Touching the gash on his shoulder, his fingers came away covered in blood. He tasted it, the warm, salty tang caustic on his tongue.
The old man was still there, staring at him with that enigmatic expression. There was no doubt he was responsible for the flying knives. But Reeth found it hard to believe his intention was malicious, crazy as that seemed.
Caldason blinked and the old man was gone.
Or rather, he was replaced. Four men now stood where he had been. They were obviously much younger, though their faces were masked with all-over hoods, only their eyes showing. Each wore different coloured garb: red, brown, white and blue. They were all armed in various ways.
The one in red came at him, brandishing a staff. And somehow Caldason was holding a staff too, not the sword. He had no time to think about it. Red was attacking.
Caldason met the first jarring blow, their staves cracking together loudly. There was a brief tussle as they disengaged, then Red tried knocking the Qalochian off his feet with a powerful low sweep. Reeth leapt over it and countered with a stroke to his opponent’s head. That missed by a hair’s breadth and they set to exchanging potent blows.
His attacker’s three comrades looked on, not trying to join in or interfere.
The fight stepped up a notch in ferocity, each man delivering bone-juddering raps in turn. Its pace increased too, their staffs travelling with eye-blurring alacrity.
At last, Caldason forced an opening, his staff knocking askew Red’s latest blow. The follow-up smashed meatily into the man’s midriff. As he reeled, Caldason brought down the staff squarely on his skull with all the force he could muster. Red fell, and kept collapsing until he was nothing more than a cloud of crimson motes. A puff of non-wind scattered them to oblivion.
Reeth stepped back, panting.
Without pause, the man in brown came forward, armed with two wooden stocks joined by a long, sturdy chain. Caldason wasn’t surprised to find that he had a flail in his own hands.
A quite different form of combat ensued. They circled, seeking a breach, lashing out with their flails. Brown whipped one of his stocks at Caldason’s face, and would have had his way if the Qalochian hadn’t swiftly dodged. Reeth replied, scoring a hit on Brown’s chest that had him retreating a staggered step or two.
With flails, it was inevitable it would come to close-quarter fighting. They moved together simultaneously. Caldason aimed a stock at Brown’s head. It was off target, missing by a whisper. As he tugged it back, his outstretched arm was briefly exposed and Brown took the chance, flung out his own flail and saw it wrap itself around Caldason’s forearm. He pulled hard, jerking the Qalochian into an iron embrace. The fight became more like a wrestling match, each struggling for advantage.
Exerting every ounce of strength, Reeth managed to reach his flail with his other hand, and transfer it. Then he used it as a club, battering the side of his foe’s head until the hold was broken. Brown reeled, and Caldason went in like an assassin, his chain a tourniquet. He looped it over the other’s head, twisted it and applied choking pressure.
Brown floundered and kicked impotently. Caldason tightened his grip. As Brown’s efforts grew weaker he began to sink to the ground. But before he reached it he started to lose substance. He transformed into a tan cloud and vanished, leaving Caldason empty-handed.
The figure in white came forward, holding out a pair of knives. Reeth found that he was clutching a pair too, as he had come to expect.
They whirled and ducked, their blades scything the air in search of flesh. Occasionally they clashed with a metallic ring, the impact grazing Caldason’s sweating palms. White drove him back with a series of ever wider swipes, promising a gutting if they connected. Reeth side-stepped, and raked White’s unprotected flank as he charged past. It was a deep wound, enough of a distraction to allow an uncontested follow-through.
Reeth wasted no time. Spinning, he arrived at his perplexed foe’s back and sank both daggers into it. White stiffened, head thrown back, and shattered into a thousand milky-coloured shards. They drifted to extinction as fine dust.
Caldason felt a weight form in his hands. He carried a two-handed butterfly axe. So did Blue, and he was swinging it as he advanced.
All Reeth could do to avoid the initial onslaught was drop. The axe sliced the air where his neck had been. He scrambled on all fours, crabbing himself out of range. Then he rolled, regained his feet and rose just in time to meet another blow. Their axes resounded mighti
ly as they collided. They both stood their ground, taking great swings at each other, chipping steel, swerving from the returns. It was combat as aching drudgery. Blue ventured a base stroke, designed to hamstring. Reeth withdrew fast, feigned, went back in, swinging his axe.
It severed the man’s head.
The body stood for a second or two, swaying, before it was consumed by a turquoise miasma. Ten feet away the parted head underwent its own shift to blue-misted nothingness.
Caldason was breathing hard, muscles burning from his efforts. He had sweat in his eyes and an ache in every bone.
The old man winked into existence again, and this time he was smiling. Still he didn’t speak, though it looked as though he was going to, because he opened his mouth. Instead he spat fire. Fiery clods of it, rosy-yellow and hellishly hot.
Reeth had no weapon of any kind now. He could only try avoiding the fireballs with speed and dexterity. He ran, jumped, cart-wheeled out of their path, feeling their searing heat as they roared by. Some hit trees, instantly igniting them. Others skimmed the ground, bouncing, leaving footprints of flame wherever they touched.
They stopped coming. The inscrutable old man had closed his mouth. He raised a hand again.
Caldason held a sword once more. He looked around, wondering what else was in store.
There was a disturbance in the ground nearby. An area of grass rose, like a swelling dome, then split. Something broke through. It was deathly pale, leathery, wet. Large and palpitating. The thing undulated out of the earth and reared up.
At first, Reeth took it for an enormous worm, thick as a man. While it certainly resembled such a creature, it was as much snake and millipede. It had a huge maw, filled with long needle teeth. Its eyes were black orbs, riddled with yellowy-green veining.
The thing heaved more of its bulk out of the hole, its terrible, drooling mouth agape. Its frightful eyes were fixed on Caldason. They expressed sheer spite, and hunger.
He judged the time right to go against it, while the creature was still only partially out of the ground. Though the gods alone knew how much more there was to come. Charging in, he set to hacking at the monstrosity’s writhing, pulpy flesh. What passed for the beast’s blood gushed out; black, thick as treacle and steaming.
Quicksilver Rising Page 30
