The Red Knight

back out of his library, leaving the door wide open. He went down one hundred and twenty-two steps to the floor below, picked up a heavy cloak and a hat and fought the urge to pause there. He walked through the open door and shut it behind him, aware that all three cats were watching him from the top of the stairs.

He longed for an ally and, at the same time, doubted everything.

But he had to trust someone. He chose his Queen, stopped at the writing desk beyond the door and wrote.

Urgent business calls me to the north. Please tell the king that I have the gravest fears that I have been manipulated by an ancient enemy. Be on your guard.

I remain your Majesty’s least humble servant,

Harmodius

He walked rapidly to the head of the twisting stairs and started down them, cursing his long staff and making as much haste as he could. He was trying to remember when he had last come down the stairs. Had it been yesterday?

He cast a very minor working ahead of him, now afraid that there might be spells to prevent his departure, but he could see nothing. That didn’t help. If his fears were correct, his eyes might betray him, or be a tool of the enemy. Did his vision in the aether function in the same manner as natural sight?

Richard Plangere used to ask us, ‘What is this natural of which you speak’ and we’d all be silent.

Richard Plangere, the spell on my wall stinks of you.

Caught up in his thoughts, Harmodius almost missed a step. His foot slipped, and for a moment he hung at the edge of a forty-foot fall to the cobblestones below, and the only enemy he was fighting was old age and memory. He got the rest of the way down the stairs with nothing worse than a pain in his side from walking too fast.

His tower opened on the main courtyard, fifty paces on a side and lined with the working buildings of the king’s government, although there were more of those down along the west wall as well, where there high windows looked down on the mighty river.

He walked to the stable. Men and women bowed deeply at his approach. His actions were scarcely secret, and he wondered briefly if he would have been better served leaving in the dark of night. Anyone could be an informant. Equally, he feared to go back to his chambers.

What am I afraid of?

Have I lost my mind?

He built a mental compartment around his chambers and all his associated thoughts and fears and closed the door on them. I may be at the edge of madness, or I may have just discovered a terrible secret, he thought.

There were two grooms in the stable, working quickly and efficiently to unsaddle a dozen royal horses in hunting tack. They stopped when they saw the Magus.

He tried a smile. ‘I need a horse,’ he said. ‘A good one, for a journey.’

Both of them looked at him as if he was insane.

Then they looked at each other.

Finally, the older nodded. ‘Whatever you like, m’lord,’ he said. ‘I can gi’ you a courser – a fine big mare callit Ginger. If it please you?’

Harmodius nodded, and before he could grow any more afraid a big bay was led out, a light saddle on her back. Harmodius looked up at that saddle with an old man’s despair, but the younger groom had anticipated his look and moved to help, bringing him a stool.

Harmodius stepped up on the stool and forced his leg up over the horse’s back.

The ground seemed a long way down.

‘Thank you, lad,’ Harmodius said. The boys handed him up his staff, two wands, and his purse, dagger, and cloak. The elder boy showed him how to stow it all behind the saddle.

‘See that this note makes it to the Queen. Deliver it in person. This is my ring, so you may reach her – every guard in the palace should know it. Do you understand me, boy?’ he asked, and realised that he was a figure of terrible fear to these two boys. He tried on a smile. ‘You’ll get a reward.’

The younger smiled bravely. ‘I’ll take it, Master.’

‘See you do.’ He nodded.

And then they were gone, and he was riding.

He rode through the gate without so much as a nod from the two Royal Guardsmen who stood there, either scanning the approach or sound asleep. The brims of their ornate helmets hid their eyes.

His horse’s hooves rang hollowly against the drawbridge. The palace and its surrounding castle was merely the citadel in an extensive series of works – three rings of walls and two other castles – that towered above the ancient city of Harndon. Twice in Alba’s history the entire Demesne had been reduced to the people that could huddle inside these walls.

When the Wild came.

He rode down the slope of the castle mound into High Street – the main street of the city of Harndon, that ran from gate to gate until it became the High Road and passed through the countryside, out to the town of Bridge where it crossed the mighty river, in the first of seven bridges. The river ran like a great snake from the north to the south of Alba, while the road cut straight across it.

Here the road was a steep street lined with magnificent white-walled houses, each as tall and turreted as small castles. They were adorned in gilt and black iron with red or blue doors, tile or copper roofs, marble statuary painted and unpainted, and windows, clear or stained, high or wide. Each house was a palace and had its own character.

I used to dine here. And here. How long have I been under?

The pressure in his chest eased as Harmodius rode down the hill, looking at the palaces of courtiers and great knights and wondering how it was that he had never visited any of them.

He rode through the Inner Gate without glancing at the guards. It was chilly in the wind, and he struggled with his cloak as he rode through Middle Town, and peered out into the High Cheaping, the city’s principal market. The Cheaping was a market square two or three times the size of the courtyard of the castle, and packed with stalls and the bustle of commerce. He watched it as he passed, and then he was into the lower town, the Cheaping in local dialect, crossing Flood Street at the Bridge Gate, and his heart began to beat faster. He saw no threat – but he expected one.

The men at the Bridge Gate had all of their attention on a magnificent retinue of knights and armoured men- at-arms entering the city. Harmodius looked at it from under his hood, trying to make out the blazon and guess whom the lord might be – not anyone he had ever seen at court. A tall man, heavy with muscle.

The guards clearly wanted no part of making the decision to let the giant and his men into the town. Nor did they have any attention to spare for solitary old men riding out.

The knight commanding the retinue did, though, and turned to watch him as he rode by. His glance sharpened – and then the Lieutenant of the Lower Gate appeared, armoured head to toe and holding not a wax tablet and stylus but a pole-axe, with four more knights at his back. The foreigner stiffened, and Harmodius rode past him while he was distracted.

Through the gate, down the slope past the lesser merchants who were only allowed to display their wares outside the walls – in the Ditch, as men liked to call it. He rode past the mountebanks, the players, and the workmen building bleachers and barriers for the Whitsunday Play.

He pursed his lips and touched his heels to the horse’s flanks, and the mare, delighted to be out in the spring and bored by the pace, sprang forward.

Harmodius cantered along beside the market and continued past the outer ring of homes, the poorest still associated with the city, and past the first fields, each surrounded by a ring of rocks and old, painstakingly cleared tree stumps. The soil here was not the best. He cantered along the road for a further half a mile, pleased with his horse but still in the grip of fear, and came to the bridge.

Still no one challenged him.

He crossed the first great span, stopped, spat into the river, and worked two powerful spells while he was safe in the bright sunshine at the centre of the bridge. Hermeticism functioned best in sunlight; while most workings of