“You’re telling me,” Coilla agreed. “I could have sworn it was him. Except for the bullshit, that is.”
“How do you do it, Dynahla?” Jup wanted to know.
“How do you do farsight?”
“I was born with it. Like all my race.”
“But it improves with practice?”
“Well, yes.”
“Most beings are born with at least the potential for magic. True, it’s stronger in some races than others. It’s much more latent in orcs, for example, but it’s there. The trick is to develop it.”
“That takes willpower, right?”
“The dominance of the will is the least important factor.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Imagination is much more important.”
“Is it?”
“What’s your favourite food, Jup?”
“Huh?”
“Let’s say… venison. You’re fond of it?”
“Yeah. Who isn’t?”
“Do you feel hungry?”
“Now that you mention it-”
“I reckon we all are,” Coilla said. “We’ve had no chance to eat.”
Dynahla smiled. “Good. So picture a haunch of venison, turning on a spit, running with juices. See it in your mind. Smell that delicious aroma.”
“You’re making my mouth water,” Jup confessed.
“Sink your teeth into the succulent flesh. Think of how good it tastes.”
“Hmmm.”
“Now let’s suppose that you can’t allow yourself to eat the venison. It’s very important that you don’t. Let’s say your life depends on not eating it. You must use your will to resist wanting to eat that meat.”
“Easier said than done when I’m this hungry.”
“Use the power of your will. Really concentrate. Refuse it. Close your eyes if it helps.”
He did, and they all watched in silence for a moment.
“How did you do?” Dynahla asked.
“Well…”
“Not too good?”
“You put a pretty tempting image into my head. It’s hard not to want it.”
“All right. Picture that hunk of meat again.”
Once more, Jup closed his eyes.
“Look at how delicious it is,” Dynahla went on. “It’s golden brown. Succulent. Smell that delicious tang of cooking meat. But hang on! What’s this? Look closely. The venison’s lying in a latrine. It’s covered in filth, and swarming with maggots and beetles.”
“Yuck!” Jup made a face. Coilla and Pepperdyne didn’t look too cheerful either.
“How easy did you find it to resist that time?” Dynahla said.
“No problem.” He looked a little queasy. “I don’t feel quite so hungry now. But what does it prove?”
“That sorcery is only partially about exercising the will. Much more important is imagining the improbable with enough intensity that you make it real. The imagination is stronger than the will. When you understand that, you’re some way towards understanding magic.”
Jup found that intriguing, and began questioning Dynahla about it. Engrossed, the dwarf and the fetch waved vaguely at Coilla and Pepperdyne as they left the bridge together.
“Quite a character,” Pepperdyne said.
“Impressive though,” Coilla replied. “It was the dead spit of Haskeer.” She grinned. “And you’ve got to admit it was funny.”
“Yes. But one thing worries me, just a bit.”
“What’s that?”
“Dynahla can impersonate any of us, perfectly. How comfortable are you about having someone like that in the band?”
16
The veil between the worlds is thin as gauze, unbridgeable as an ocean. It separates an incalculable number of realities, an infinite array of glittering pinpoints hanging in the velvet firmament. Seen closer, if that were possible, they reveal themselves as globes. Some are barren rocks, or beset with volcanic activity, or icebound. A few are fertile.
Two species lived beneath the blue skies and pure white clouds of one such world. The race of humans had carved out a far-flung domain, the Peczan empire, now suffering its first setback despite its great military strength and possession of magic. The newly liberated race of orcs, cause of that humiliation, occupied a more remote, much smaller segment of the planet. Bolstered by their reawakened martial spirit, they were resolved never to fall under human dominance again.
The orcs’ land was Acurial. Taress, its largest city by far and the capital, had borne the brunt of the recent occupation. Free at last, the populace determined to erase all trace of Peczan’s regime. Buildings that had been commandeered were returned to their original purpose. Structures built by the empire were being torn down, with detention camps, torture facilities and execution blocks the objects of particular fury. Guard stations, billets, signposts and anything else pertaining to the overthrown were demolished and consigned to bonfires, along with portraits of Peczan bureaucrats and military chiefs. Marble busts were pounded to smithereens.
At the same time, Taress was rebuilding itself. Invasion and rebellion had devastated many parts of the city, and legions toiled on reconstruction.
The main square had been one of the first areas to be reclaimed. Work there took a commemorative form. Statues had been erected. The tallest, although in many ways the simplest, honoured the late Principal Sylandya. Acurial’s ruler before Peczan’s occupation, and leader of the resistance, her martyrdom was the spark that gave fire to the revolution. She was shown seated, but didn’t give the impression of being enthroned, as would be expected of a head of state. Her attire and demeanour were humble, her expression mild. The sculptor had made no effort to flatter her memory by disguising her advancing years, as might have been the case with a more vain subject. Her frame was slight, even frail. Yet she exuded an unmistakable authority.
Two orcs stood at the monument’s base, looking up at the figure. They were twins, male and female, and less than thirty summers old.
“What would she have thought of this?” Chillder wondered.
“Not much, I reckon,” her brother replied. “Our mother had little time for the conceits of power. It was one of her many virtues.”
“So was dealing with the mountain of parchmentwork that plagues us now.”
“Not as exciting as fighting as rebels, is it?”
“No, Brelan, it’s not.”
“But it’s what running a state’s all about. It has to be done.”
“You’re more like mother than I am in that way. I think you like shuffling paper.”
He smiled. “Like I said; it has to be done. Taking care of the formalities is a price we pay for getting our freedom back.”
“I wish she was here to guide us through it,” Chillder said, nodding at the statue.
“Me too.”
“And if it hadn’t been for that bitch Jennesta,” she added bitterly, “she would be.”
“I know. But our mother’s death wasn’t in vain. If she hadn’t perished as she did the revolution might never
