while there is still a bit of light and continue on the ground.' He looked to the north, trying to judge their rate of motion. 'If we are lucky, it will be far enough north that we quickly can reach a guild that I know of which specializes in the making of those magic jars. Perhaps, if we can intercept a single magician on the road, the odds might not be all that great.'
Kestrel began constructing the details of what to do next, but stopped suddenly in midthought. The urgency of the moment was as great as ever, but somehow he still felt slightly puzzled. Despite the explanation about the balloon, something else was bothering him just under the surface of his thoughts.
Kestrel looked over at Phoebe and saw her smile. He put his arm around her waist to steady their stance as the basket began to rock in the quickening breeze. Phoebe did not protest. Instead she brought her pleasing softness to press against his side.
The full realization of what had happened thundered into focus. First the demon, and now the wizard. By his own cunning, Astron had managed to secure a means of transport over the border. Phoebe had joined him in the gondola. She alone would have been sufficient to see him the rest of the way to the archimage. There was absolutely no reason for them to pull him into the basket as it ascended. No reason at all-and yet they did.
Kestrel bargained with the baron whose crops had been damaged by the descent of the balloon and the metal sphere was traded for another horse and wagon. Soon the trio were on the main road leading to Ambrosia, the capital of Procolon.
While Kestrel guided the steed, Phoebe and Astron held torches aloft on the moonless night. The swarm of imps that tracked their progress would not be deterred by lack of light, and the increased speed was worth the illumination.
They were on the road but for a fraction of an hour when, as Kestrel had hoped, he caught the reflecting glint from a huge bottle on the shoulder of a cloaked traveller on the crest of the hill ahead.
As the wagon grew closer to the solitary figure, bent far to the side by the weight of his load, Kestrel smiled with satisfaction. The cloak was turned inside out, but his trained eye could make out the stitching for the ring logos sewn to the other side. The man was a magician on the way back to the Cycloid Guild.
'Do you care for a ride, stranger?' Kestrel called out as the wagon drew abreast. 'Your load looks heavy and you in the need of a rest.'
The magician looked up with eyes dancing with suspicion. He was short and broad like a plowman, rather than shallow-shouldered like so many practitioners of the arts. 'I can manage my own way,' he said. 'There is no assistance that I need.'
'Not even if you carry an imp bottle?' Kestrel said. 'I recognize the shape, straight sides of wide diameter and the narrow neck.'
'What do you want?' the magician growled. He stopped and gently set the bottle on the ground. With his free hand he reached for a small dagger strapped to his belt.
'Why, to buy, of course.' Kestrel pulled the wagon to a halt. He reached back under the covering and pulled out the wizard's robe Phoebe had abandoned for the dress of the countess. He pointed at the logos of flame. 'We travel simply to avoid notice, just as you do. What is the price that you would set in your guild? We will pay double-double provided that it can be proven to be truly impregnable to the weaving of simple imps.' The magician examined Kestrel critically and then Astron at his side. His eyes widened as Kestrel pulled away Astron's hood and he saw the fine network of scales.
Kestrel reached into his pocket and pulled out the remaining brandels of the Brythian wizards. With a flourish he flung them at the magician's feet. 'Double the price, and three pieces of gold more for the trouble of the demonstration.' He paused and smiled. 'Just think how satisfied the other masters of the guild will be when you report to them that you have sold the bottle, not for the going price, but one and a half times that amount. Twice for you but only one and a half passed on to the coffers of your guild. It would serve them right. You are the one who has had to toil in the blackness while they wined and dined in anticipation of the fruits of your labor.'
The magician looked down to his feet at the gold coins sparkling in the torchlight and grunted agreement. He stooped to his knees, rapidly retrieved the brandels, and thrust them into a purse next to his knife.
'That the bottle is a true prison of imps there can be no doubt,' he said. 'Magic rituals lead either to perfect results or else to nothing. And I have performed the last step myself-alone in a flat field when the moon was at nadir. I completed the square of numbers precisely in the order prescribed. The cymbals were struck thrice and then buried.
'And then the glass hummed of its own volition, sucking strength from the cosmic spheres and forming unbreakable crystal. It would not have rung unless my actions were the perfect last steps to a perfect ritual, producing a jar like the imps it will surround, one that will last eternally.'
Kestrel watched the magician draw the dagger from his side and flip it over in his hand. Pommel first he crashed it down onto the side of the bottle, causing it to ring the seductive harmony of the finest bell. A second time he banged on the glass and then a third but the bottle wall held firm and did not shatter.
'See,' the magician said. 'That is no ordinary container but one that has been transformed by the skills of my craft. You cannot break it or its stopper. More proof than that surely you do not need.'
'Nevertheless, this purchase is not one of little consequence,' Kestrel said smoothly. 'Surely you cannot deny us the assurance of putting imps in the bottle and seeing that they cannot escape.'
'Well, if I were the buyer, then perhaps I would want to know for sure that-' the magician began.
'Wait a moment,' Astron said suddenly. 'There is the matter of volition. Only the wizards that command the cloud that pursues can will them into what they know to be a trap.'
'I have thought about that,' Kestrel said. 'We will just have to hope that the motives that drive your kind are not so different than those that push upon men.'
'What do you mean?'
'Are not imps noted for their curiosity?' Kestrel asked.
'Except for their vanity, it is the strongest of traits,' Astron said. 'They are always chattering that their abilities are the equal of the mightiest of djinns. But their inclinations have nothing to do with control of their will. There is no-'
'Such is what I have heard from the writings in the sagas,' Kestrel said, 'and such I will use. The only other thing I need is a lure. What is it that would attract them the most?'
'In the realm of men? Why, vinegar, I suppose. At least it is said you can catch more imps with it than with honey.'
'Then vinegar it is,' Kestrel said. He motioned the magician into the wagon and grabbed the large bottle as it was pushed upward. 'We will hasten to the next village and buy a few coppers' worth.' He looked at Astron's wrinkled nose and his smile broadened. 'Observe carefully, cataloguer,' he said. 'We will see if there might be another power that operates among the realm of demonkind, another power than what you call your weaving.'
Kestrel shifted uncomfortably in the tree and pushed Astron slightly to the side. It would have been better if the demon had not come, but his curiosity could not be thwarted.
Astron looked down at the bottle directly below them in the nearly empty field and whispered in Kestrel's ear. 'In the first place,' he said, 'this is no hiding place at all. Surely they will spot you to be here as if you were on the ground. In the second, even if one were in the bottle, you could not spring downward and insert the stopper quickly enough before he flew to safety.'
'I know,' Kestrel whispered back. 'Those are exactly the things I am counting on. Now be quiet and watch. The sooner we settle down, the quicker they will come.'
He looked back to the road in the distance where the wagon was parked. The magician leaned against one of the wheels talking to Phoebe and seemed totally distracted. Quickly Kestrel glanced out over the field. In a perimeter perhaps the span of a dozen men, small fires burned at each of the corners of a pentagram under bubbling pots of lilac water that scented the air with a sweet fragrance. Imps hated it, Phoebe had said, and oftentimes wizards used bouquets of flowers to keep them away when they probed for more powerful demons through the flame.
Kestrel sighted the distance between the fires for the last time and judged that they were properly placed, enough of a nuisance to make approaching the bottle under the tree a challenge but not so close together that the
