‘We’ll see,’ the stranger replied.
They moved simultaneously, and fast. Their blades met,
pealing, and for a moment locked. Disengaging, both men pulled back and commenced their duel in earnest. Exchanging stinging passes, hacking and chopping, they set up a rhythmic beat of pounding steel. The paladin was a skilful fighter, and disciplined, but no match for his opponent.
The end came when the stranger parried a stroke and deflected his foe’s blade. The follow-through ruptured a lung and brought the paladin down.
Rivulets of blood fed the lane’s rain gully, colouring the sluggish flow.
The stranger looked around and saw the youth huddled at the wall. Ramming his sword into its scabbard, he swept to him, cloak flapping.
‘Get up,’ he said.
The young man didn’t move, aside from trembling.
‘On your feet!’
Still the youth didn’t stir. The stranger took him by the scruff and roughly hoisted him.
‘Now take that thing off.’
‘
No
. I can’t, I-’
He was slammed against the wall. ‘Take it
off
!’
‘I daren’t.’
Brutally, the stranger ripped the mask from his face and flung it aside. The freed coins bounced across the cobbles.
The youth kept his eyes screwed shut.
‘Open them,’ the stranger demanded. ‘
Open them
.’
With some effort, and timorously, he did as he was told.
‘How is it?’
The young man blinked and looked about sheepishly. ‘It’s…it’s all right, I think.’
‘There’s no need for this. It’s stupid and dangerous, and-’
‘No need? You know what I’ve been seeing. How can you say-’
There was a groan close by. They turned and saw that the
watch captain was feebly breathing. The stranger drew a knife.
‘No,’ the youth begged. ‘Can’t you just leave him?’
‘We don’t take prisoners. Any more than they do.’
He moved to the dying man and quickly finished him. The youth couldn’t watch.
Wiping his blade on a scrap of cloth, the stranger said, ‘You think I’m cruel. But this is a war. Maybe not in name, but that’s what it amounts to.’
The youth nodded. ‘I know.’
‘Come on. It won’t do to linger here.’
They set off together through the fog.
Something that looked like an eel swam past them. It was candy-striped and had a pair of wings far too tiny to fly with. As it made its serpentine way it left a trail of orange sparks.
In a voice much gentler, Caldason asked, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m scared,’ Kutch said.
2
Dawn was near. The fog was clearing.
Valdarr, titular capital of the island state of Bhealfa, began to stir. People were coming out to mingle with the magic that never slept.
As in all great cities, areas of wealth and deprivation sat cheek by jowl. Likewise, there were districts neither prosperous nor impoverished; unassuming quarters where the dwellings and their attendant glamours were humble.
A closed carriage travelled at speed through one such neighbourhood. It was drawn by a pair of jet-black horses, and its driver, swathed head to foot, was unrecognisable. Rattling along narrow, waking streets, it pulled up outside a row of spartan buildings. Most were private homes. Others served basic needs, with paltry wares and tawdry charms stacked outside on rickety tables.
The carriage’s passenger alighted. He wore a tightly wrapped cloak and his expression was sombre. The driver immediately cracked his whip and the carriage moved off. As the sound of its departure faded, the passenger paused for a moment, looking up and down the deserted street before crossing to the open door of a bakery.
Loaves, pies and sweetmeats cooled on wooden racks, waiting for customers. For now, there was only an old woman, standing at a worn counter. They exchanged nods. Without a word, he squeezed past and went to the back of the room, where he descended a stone staircase. This led to a sturdy door, which he rapped on, and once checked via a spy-hole he was let in.
He was hit by the warmth, and the smell of baking bread. The kitchen was long and low, with a curved ceiling, all in unadorned brick. There were sacks of flour, barrels of dried fruits, bushels of salt. One wall held three ovens. Each consisted of two sets of iron doors; the oven itself and a massive grate below. Sweating men, using tongs to unlatch the doors, fed the hearths from pyramids of wood blocks. Bakers in white aprons hefted long-handled, flat paddles, bearing dough shapes to the ovens.
The visitor was recognised and greeted. He shed his cloak, dropping it across the only chair. His appearance was distinguished, and his clothes were of good quality. He had silvering hair, overly long, and an intellect that shone through tired eyes. His age was not as great as wear made it seem.
He walked to the last of the three huge ovens and the workers clustered around.
‘I’m getting too old,’ he decided, half to himself. Louder, he asked, ‘Would you be so kind?’
‘Glad to oblige, sir,’ the master baker replied, signalling. He was plump and sheened with perspiration.
A man came forward and split the oven’s belly. The blast of heat was like a punch. Roaring flames erupted.
Two muscular workers took hold of the visitor. Hands behind his knees, and at his shoulder-blades to steady him, they raised him in a chair lift. With practised ease they swung him back and forth, working up momentum.
Then they tossed him into the furnace.
The blaze seemed so real, and the heat was searing. He nearly cried out, despite knowing.
Instantly he broke through. From intense light to relative dimness. From withering heat to the welcoming cool.
He landed on a heap of sacks stuffed with yarn, but still had the breath knocked out of him. Seen from this side, the glamour he’d passed through was a window-sized square on a wall. It was filled with muted colours, gently swirling, like oil on water. There was no illusion of flames, and certainly no warmth.
‘On your feet, Patrician.’
Dulian Karr looked up. A woman of middle years towered over him. She was well built, though more muscular than flabby, and she had a mordant face. As always, she toted a thick wad of documents, currently tucked under one arm. Her other hand, surprisingly callused for an administrator, was held out to him.
‘Goyter,’ he said, by way of greeting, and allowed her to pull him to his feet. As he rose he made a sharp little air-sucking noise through pursed lips. ‘My aching bones,’ he complained.
