‘Well, there he is.’ He nodded at the bunk, the cell’s only piece of furniture.
A body was sprawled face down across it, knuckles touching the floor on one side, feet on the other. They approached, crunching over rank straw.
‘Good clothes,’ Nechen said. ‘Must be an aristo. Wonder what the poor sod did to warrant the Prince sending him down here.’
‘Perhaps he used the wrong teaspoon. Like I said, ours is not to-’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
‘Come on, we haven’t got all day. Turn him over.’
‘Why me? Isn’t it your turn?’
‘I did it last time,’ stated Welst.
‘No, you didn’t. It was me yesterday, too. Why do I have to-’
‘Just do it. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we’re out of here.’
Nechen sighed and rolled the corpse. ‘Gods, he’s in a bit of a state, isn’t he?’
‘Been lying here more than a few days, I reckon. Go and get the stretcher.’
‘It’s my turn for that as well, is it?’
Welst shot him another look.
Fuming, Nechen stumbled out of the cell. Welst watched him go, then bent to the body. Quickly, he searched the man’s clothing. All he found was a few coins, and a glamoured locket bearing the animated, smiling likeness of a woman. The locket was too risky, so he stuffed it back. Grumbling at the poor pickings, he slipped the coins into his pocket.
‘What was that?’ Nechen said, dragging the stretcher in.
‘Nothing. Just…just saying a prayer for the poor wretch.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s nice. I never had you down for the sentimental type, Welst.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve got hidden depths.’ He added briskly, ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we?’
They lifted the body, dumped it on the stretcher and threw a filthy blanket over it. Then they manoeuvred their load through the door.
The guards at the sentry post held their noses as they went past.
A lengthy journey stretched before them, back along winding corridors, up and down flights of steps, through numerous doors. Yet for all the thousands who populated the palace, they met few other people.
In a long, completely deserted corridor, dimly lit by glamour orbs, they put the stretcher down and stopped for a breather. Propped on a ledge, Welst took out his clay pipe and began thumbing dark, coarse tobacco into its bowl.
‘What do you think they’re doing with them up there?’ Nechen wondered.
‘The stiffs? Damned if I know. And I’m not sure I want to.’ He struck flint and lit the pipe, puffing acrid clouds. ‘If you’re wise, you’ll not take too obvious an interest yourself.’
‘It’s a rum do though, isn’t it? What with that and the damned zoo we took aboard.’
‘That I can sort of understand. Our betters like exotic pastimes.’
‘Smelly beasts that have to be fed, when they could have glamours? Makes no sense to me.’
‘Who can fathom the rich?’ Welst’s pipe billowed pungent fumes.
‘And all this going on when there’s unrest everywhere in the country.’
‘In that respect we’re in the best place. There’s probably not a safer billet in the world.’
‘Since when was Melyobar in this world?’
‘Ssshh. Walls have ears,’ Welst mouthed. He knocked out his pipe. ‘Come on.’
They hefted the stretcher with a grunt and continued their journey.
The worst part was the stairs. They had to climb seven floors just to reach what passed for ground level. Their destination was twice as far.
At last, after much struggling and cursing, they reached their goal. It was a section given over to the sanctums and workshops of the small army of magicians serving the Prince. As one of the palace’s more sensitive areas it was well guarded, which meant another quarter of an hour spent negotiating security checks.
Finally standing at the entrance to the chamber they sought, Welst rapped his knuckles on its oak door. Almost immediately a spy-hole slid open and they were scrutinised. The door opened and they were ushered in by a minion, who motioned to them to put down their burden and wait while he went for a superior.
Despite having been inside many times before, Welst and Nechen never ceased to be intrigued by the activity there. The room was cavernous, with much of the floor space taken up by benches where numerous sorcerers toiled. Their work surfaces were strewn with flasks, retorts, herbs and powders, and clusters of mysterious apparatus whose function was impossible to guess. Apprentices moved among the benches, supplying their masters’ needs.
Stacks of cages lined the walls, but too far away for whatever occupied them to be seen. There were rows of great iron vats mounted on furnace hearths, their unknown contents bubbling loudly. The entire chamber was suffused by a misty fug, and perfumed with aromas sweet and foul.
A blue-robed adept appeared. He was young, for a sorcerer, and clean shaven. The preoccupied expression he wore could be mistaken for stern.
Welst greeted him with a deferential dip of the head. ‘Mage Okrael, sir.’
Nechen, always awkward in the presence of his elders, made do with a slipshod salute.
The sorcerer acknowledged them with a distracted nod, his eyes on the stretcher. ‘Do you know how this one met his end?’ he asked, kneeling to pull back the blanket.
‘Nobody said, sir,’ Welst replied.
‘Very well. Bring him over here.’
They lifted the stretcher and followed him, weaving through the bustle. No one took much notice. Okrael led them to a table and they deposited the body on it. The wizard began a cursory examination.
‘No obvious signs of disease,’ he muttered. ‘I’d say he died of brutality and simple neglect. Poor devil.’ He looked troubled.
‘Then he’ll be fitting your purposes, sir?’ Nechen ventured.
‘Probably not. But that isn’t really your concern, is it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen. That’ll be all.’
‘Sir.’
They turned and left, taking the stretcher with them while the sorcerer beckoned a couple of novices to strip the body.
Outside, Welst said, ‘That mage needs to harden his attitudes a bit.’
‘You think so?’
‘Doesn’t do to get too involved with the deceased. Not in this place.’
‘Where to now, Welst?’
‘Back down. Chances are there’ll be another for us by now.’
Making their way to the inevitable staircase, they were passed by four auxiliaries pushing a large open cart containing a dead camel.
One of the men knew them. ‘The Prince’s going to be none too pleased about this,’ he remarked in an undertone as they went by.
The detail pushed their cart towards the same door Nechen and Welst had just come out of.
‘See?’ Nechen said. ‘Glamours don’t peg out like that.’
‘They do if you run out of coin,’ Welst reminded him.
Their return trip took them close to the Prince’s quarters, the most heavily defended section of the palace. Suspicious glances and twitchy sword hands discouraged lingering, and Welst and Nechen hurried on with their descent.
Beyond the hard-faced sentries and watchful sorcerers, through the steel gates and glamoured booby-traps, lay Melyobar’s private chambers. Behind a particular reinforced door, protected by enchanted locks, rested the not quite dead, not quite living body of King Narbetton. Beside the bed, his son sat stiffly.
‘And now they tell me this Talgorian’s coming here,’ the Prince complained. ‘The Ambassador, father. Yes, him. Was I consulted? Did anyone ask my permission? No. Nobody listens to me. Anybody would think…What? I
