Wardragon (5 page)

‘No accounting for the tastes of the rich and indolent,’ replied Jelindel as she ate a candied cherry. ‘What will we do when we get home?’

‘Nothing dangerous,’ said Daretor.

‘Sounds wonderful. And after that?’

He paused, as if thinking. ‘I’ll train others to deal with danger.’

‘Bliss.’

Jelindel’s eye was caught suddenly by a flashing trinket. A grizzled stallholder with only one leg, seeing her interest, beckoned her over. His trestle table held a display of carved wooden masks, dolls and figurines, mostly hand-carved. The thing that caught her eye was a necklace on one of the dolls, a ring made of seashells and fake pearls. The doll itself was a little sad-eyed princess, with rosy cheeks, and a wistful smile, as if she hoped someone might adopt her and take her home. Jelindel picked her up, staring, and found her eyes misting.

‘Jelli?’ Daretor said, noticing a sudden change in his companion.

Jelindel quickly smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m being silly,’ she said. Then she murmured, ‘This isn’t her.’

‘That’s a rare one,’ said the stallholder with a kind of gruff honesty. Unlike his brethren, he made no great effort to sell his wares, which made Jelindel curious. She was, in any case, tired of people making demands on her.

‘How much?’

The stallholder shrugged, named a price that was high and yet not too high. Almost apologetically, he said, ‘It’s from Dremari, from the Valley of Clouds, and ’tis said to give voice to the heart, if you believe such things.’

‘We’ve been there,’ said Jelindel, ‘to the Valley.’

She found herself handing over money, and having the sad-eyed doll wrapped in soft tissue paper and placed in a bag of fine vellum. She felt foolish again, as if she had just thrown away half a week’s pay on a piece of frippery.

But she had owned an identical doll as a child, which had surely burnt to ashes the same dark night as everyone and everything she had ever loved. Partially to distract Daretor’s attention from the doll, she picked up a mask. It was gaudily painted and studded with mock gemstones.

‘These remind me of masks I saw in the house of the Lady Forturian. I would like to visit her again.’

Jelindel placed the mask over her face. As she turned to Daretor a feather thudded into the mask, an inch below the left eye. Daretor grabbed his partner and dragged her to the ground. Behind them, the vendor collapsed with a soft cry, a feather in his cheek. Daretor and Jelindel scrabbled around behind the stall, keeping as low as they could. There was a soft hissing sound and a clatter as something fell amongst the dead man’s wares. All around them people were going about their business, most unaware of what had just happened. A watchman rushed up and checked the old man then peered round the end of the stall at them.

‘He’s dead,’ said the watchman. He looked nervously at Jelindel, but was not about to accuse the archmage of murder. ‘What’s goin’ on ’ere then?’

Jelindel sat up. ‘I think somebody’s trying to kill us.’

That night they stayed in a different hostelry under assumed names. The Duke secured them passage on a ship bound for D’loom on the morning tide. It was the Duke’s secretary who voiced a possible explanation for the attack, explaining that the local Magicians’ Guild had been somewhat affronted when the Duke hired Jelindel and Daretor to deal with the aerial scourge.

‘Why not use magic then?’ asked Daretor. ‘Why poison darts?’

The secretary raised his eyebrows. ‘And who would be foolish enough to use magic against an archmage? Especially Jelindel dek Mediesar?’

Around midnight the secretary returned bearing their boarding documents as well as a letter that had arrived for them that afternoon on a trading ship. It was from Zimak, and it was brief but clear.

‘Trouble in D’loom, come quickly,’ Jelindel read aloud. ‘Well, that’s plain enough.’ She frowned in thought.

‘The scribe must have charged by the word,’ Daretor grunted.

Jelindel folded the message and tucked it into her tunic.

‘Remember the letter I received earlier?’ she asked. ‘That too was from Zimak, asking when we’d be heading back. I didn’t want to ruin our last night here so I kept it from you. So much for our rest.’

They spent a quiet night but Daretor found himself being roused about four o’clock. He sat up, puzzled. It was still dark outside. Jelindel was dressed.

‘Get your clothes on, we’re leaving,’ she said. ‘There’s breakfast on the bench.’

‘Where are we off to?’

‘D’loom. I’ve just changed our schedule.’

Daretor dressed, stuffed cold roast boar plastered with congealed herb gravy into his mouth, and shouldered his rollpack. He followed Jelindel through the hostelry’s back door and out into the cool night air. The city was quiet this time of the night and the only sound was the restless waves lapping.

They made their way by lanes and back streets to the docklands and thence to a wharf where a small boat, piloted by a disreputable-looking bosun, took them out to a decrepit three-master at anchor. They climbed aboard, coming face to face with a one-eyed captain whose breath reeked foully of fish and chewing tobacco. He thrust out a hand immediately.

‘Me money. Now.’

‘That wasn’t the agreement,’ said Jelindel.

‘To Black Quell with agreements and to his pit with you if you don’t pay up right now.’

Jelindel pushed Daretor aside as he stepped toward the man. ‘Half now and half when we get there.’

‘Half, half! What about the lot, upfront and frank?’

‘We’re a captive audience, Captain. It’s not as though we can jump ship.’

‘So you say. But a mage you be. Mayhap you can sprout wings and fly off without paying me.’

‘Perhaps I can but if I could why would I need passage on your ship?’

This seemed to stump the captain, who swore blisteringly but took the half payment Jelindel offered before grunting at the bosun to show the ‘passengers’ to the one spare cabin the ship possessed.

The
Sea Goose
raised canvas just before dawn and sailed out of the harbour and into the Bay of Hazards, unremarked and unremarkable. The journey, despite the captain’s unsavoury manner, was uneventful. Jelindel and Daretor spent most of the time in their cabin, but sometimes, in the early evening as the sun sank to the sea, they stood at the gunwale and peered landward, observing the lanterns of towns and villages and sometimes spotting a navigation pyre.

They pulled into the harbour at D’loom on the morning of the fifth day. Jelindel paid the captain, who was now in better cheer, and who even uttered several hearty compliments about mages and their companions.

‘We’d have made it in better time iffin you’d given me a mage-wind,’ the captain said.

‘If my magic worked over water I would have given you a gale, good sir. Fare you well.’

They disembarked and headed up to the main concourse where they hoped to find a carriage. Instead, they found a distraught Zimak. He was pale, puffy-eyed, and looked much thinner than when they had last seen him. This was not at all a bad thing, since he had over-indulged in every possible pleasure and vice since being magicked into Daretor’s body. When he laid eyes on them he clutched on to a railing to support himself.

Daretor’s heart lurched at the sight. ‘What have you been doing to my body?’ he demanded.

Zimak waved him silent. ‘You’re not dead,’ he said. ‘You didn’t drown?’

‘Don’t sound so disappointed,’ said Jelindel, patting herself down. ‘Why should we be dead?’

Zimak explained that word had only just arrived by carrier bird that a ship had been attacked off the coast near Tol with the loss of all hands. Jelindel and Daretor had been listed amongst the passengers.

‘We took another boat,’ Jelindel explained. ‘Zimak, what’s wrong?’ she asked as he led them to a waiting carriage.

‘What’s wrong? What isn’t?’

Jelindel and Daretor stopped when they saw the carriage. It was heavily armoured and three men sat atop bearing crossbows and wearing heavy chainmail.

‘Zimak, maybe you’d better tell us what’s been going on here.’

Chapter 4

The Stranger

T
he clatter of shod hooves echoed back from the walls on either side of the street as the armoured carriage raced through the port city of D’loom. Inside, Daretor sat hunched beside the luggage while Jelindel and Zimak sat opposite. It irked Daretor that Jelindel had taken the seat next to Zimak and was so companionable with him. He knew he was being foolish, but he could not rid himself of an old unease. Ever since he and Zimak had been forced to exchange bodies, it had always bothered him that Jelindel might have only fallen in love with him
inside
Zimak’s body. Despite great effort, he could not rid himself of the possibility that she had given her heart to the wrong man.

Jelindel was not aware of it. She looked around the inside of the carriage, then commented, ‘It’s spell-warded?’

‘Aye,’ said Zimak. ‘By some street-corner charm-vendor whose bill arrived this morning.’

‘Such precautions seem unwarranted,’ said Daretor.

Zimak inscribed the sign of White Quell across his chest. ‘That’s a laugh, coming from a man who’s supposed to have drowned two days ago.’

‘He’s right, Daretor,’ said Jelindel.

Daretor scowled, as much at himself as Zimak. Fear he could cast aside, jealousy was much harder to conquer.

‘What else has happened?’ Jelindel asked Zimak.

‘What hasn’t?’ Zimak widened his eyes, which were reddened from lack of sleep. ‘First, somebody tried to kill me – five days ago, in a back alley. If it hadn’t been for my kick-fist skills, why, I might not be sitting with you right now.’

‘So your attacker was a blind, geriatric cripple,’ said Daretor at once.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s a wonder you can move in that bloated body.’

Zimak shook his head. ‘I still know some fancy moves.’

‘Demonstrate one. A spinning back kick, perhaps.’

‘Stupid, fancy show kick, it’s of no use in real fighting,’ Zimak said.

‘Perhaps a standing side kick?’

Zimak squared his shoulders. ‘I prefer to face my enemies.’

‘What about a rather feeble punch from a seated position?’

‘Sarcasm will achieve nothing,’ said Zimak, who shot him a scowl. ‘Your body runs to fat too easily, Daretor.’

‘It never did when I was master of it.’

‘Luckily for me I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve.’

‘They must be very small tricks, what with such fat arms.’

‘Why you –’ began Zimak, then he reined himself back and held up a hand in an imperious gesture. ‘Anyway, that same night somebody tried to break into the shop. Our guard spells went off and must have scared them away. But I found a smooth hole sliced in the door where the lock had been.’

‘Sliced?’ asked Jelindel.

‘Sliced. Very odd it was, sliced clean through and the cut smooth as glass – the sort of damage done by a thundercast.’

‘The weapon that made the hole must be similar to the one Korok tried frying us with in Altimak, four years ago,’ Daretor said. He thought a moment. ‘But Korok is dead. Could it be that his people have come here in search of revenge?’

‘I don’t think his people had anything to do with it,’ Jelindel said quietly.
Your fate is to save magic, or destroy it. The future lies on a knife’s edge
… She shook away the words.

Zimak went on. He explained that things had changed in D’loom, starting shortly after Jelindel and Daretor had left for the north on the first of their commissions. Pirate attacks off the coast had increased, and the King had been unable to negotiate an accord whereby pirates and merchants could coexist, and even make profits. Three months earlier the pirate federation had reportedly turned down a handsome offer. To many it appeared that they did not now want an accord. Traditionally, D’loom had provided the pirates with a secure harbour, immunity from prosecution, and access to markets and trade routes inland. The privateers’ final, transparent attempt to scuttle the negotiations had touched off an economic recession that had hit D’loom hard. Most of its prosperity came from the sea, either directly as trade and bounty, or because of the merchants who flocked to D’loom to set up their trade houses there. The sea trade itself had always been attracted by D’loom’s extensive docks and wharves, its relaxed waterside guilds, and its famously low tariffs. Now unemployment was increasing almost as fast as discontent.

The carriage slowed, and they found themselves at the main produce market. Instead of fruit, vegetables and meat for sale, there were men.

Jelindel and Daretor peered from the carriage as long lines of men edged slowly past accountors seated at small wooden tables, parchment and ink spread before them. The marks and signatures of the recruits were then passed onto managers waiting behind the tables. Recruiting foremen stood on crates and hectored the crowd, offering choice labour conditions and pay. One bald-headed giant of a man, stationed not far from the carriageway, bellowed at the top of his lungs, ‘Argentia! Rich mines and rich wages for those not afraid of a little work. Four days on, four days off, and the best entertainment this side of Baltoria!’

The carriage rumbled on, and soon they arrived at the house they had bought with the gold given them by a grateful client in another paraworld.

While the bowmen atop the carriage watched the streets with hawk eyes, Jelindel and the others unloaded their scanty luggage and carried it inside. Zimak paid off the driver and the bowmen, entered the house, then carefully locked, bolted and chained the door. Jelindel and Daretor watched him at work, now looking worried. Zimak’s precautions made his fears seem more real. Twenty minutes later they were seated around a rough wooden table laden with chunks of cold chicken and lamb, small bowls of relishes, platters of cheese and fresh bread, and pitchers of ale.

Zimak picked up his story as if there had been no interruption. ‘At about that time the recession began to hit hardest. When the labour markets first opened, I noticed something else,’ he said. ‘The demand for magic was on the decline. I thought maybe it was just us, that maybe our customers were getting a better deal elsewhere, but it turns out that it’s the same all over. All the mages and charmvendors are complaining. Now it’s like people have started to distrust magic itself.’

Jelindel, thinking back to adventures she and Daretor had experienced in far Ishluk, nodded. ‘I’ve seen places where such distrust has been carried to extremes,’ she remarked, then looked to Daretor. ‘This is further proof that I might be right, even though I wish I were not. Someone, or something, is weakening people’s belief in magic. Take magic away and what is left?’

‘More opportunities for warriors to earn a living?’

‘Remove magic, and only cold science is left. Some people might like that.’

Zimak blinked. ‘Gah, what a mess. D’loom’s been invaded by merchantmen, the wandering merchants. Rumour has it they all know one another. If you ask me, they’re warriors, campaign veterans disguised as harmless peons.’

‘And they do what exactly?’ Jelindel prompted.

Zimak shrugged. ‘They’re competing with us. But it’s not magic, or not any kind of magic I know.’

‘So what do these merchantmen peddle?’ Daretor asked.

Zimak thought for a moment. ‘Everything from ailment creams to double-edged razors, the like of which are not of Q’zar. Look here, for example.’ He held out a scarred hand. ‘I sent some bully boys packing last week when they attacked a stallholder.’

Daretor’s brow rose.

Zimak glared at him. ‘If I’d been in my own body I’d have come away unscathed.’

‘Go on, I’ve not had a proper laugh for some time,’ prompted Jelindel.

‘Hie, very well, it was a sideline, protection money. I had to do something while you two were away, having all the fun. Anyway, normally a week’s earnings wouldn’t have bought a charm to heal the wound, but a market vendor sold me this smooth cream. Within the day the swelling was gone. Two days later the wound was healed over.’

Jelindel examined the tube that held the cream. ‘I’ve never seen the like,’ she muttered. She turned Zimak’s hand over as though suspecting he was tricking them. ‘And it doesn’t hurt?’

‘Swelling went down almost immediately. The stallholder was doing a roaring trade. He had a remedy for everything from head pain to colds, to wounds, to bottled potions to take away despair. Within the week the market hacks had packed up and left.’

‘What says Onala, the High Priestess of the Temple of Verity?’

Zimak scoffed. ‘Your “mate” scarpered with her tail between her legs. The Temple shut down a month ago.’

Jelindel stared, open-mouthed.

‘I’ve heard it said that the High Priestess was threatened by these merchantmen. She called their bluff, so the temple was razed one night. Only their ward spells saved their lives. The constables were next to useless. Most resigned their posts at the first hint of trouble.’

‘To be expected,’ Jelindel said. ‘These are all the hallmarks of cold science.’

‘And nobody knows who these merchantmen are?’ Daretor asked.

‘Or where they come from,’ Zimak added. ‘They just appeared over a couple of weeks, throwing their money around like they had their own secret mint. They’ve also bribed their way into the King’s court and purchased positions of power.’

‘All this in such a short time,’ Jelindel pondered. ‘What is the word on the streets?’

Zimak gestured helplessly. ‘As I said, those charmvendors and cauldron witches left complain a lot. Some say the gods have turned their backs on the old magic.’

Jelindel laughed. ‘The old gods gave up their interest in humans millennia ago.’

That night Jelindel and Daretor lay in bed watching rain spatter against the window. She snuggled closer to him. ‘This isn’t exactly what we had in mind, is it?’ she said.

Daretor snorted softly, almost asleep. ‘A holiday is what I wanted.’

‘You? A holiday?’

‘People change.’

‘Next you’ll tell me Zimak wants to rush off into deadly danger.’

‘
Some
people
don’t
change.’

They talked some more but the pauses between answer and question grew longer, and soon the room was filled with soft regular breathing as they fell asleep.

Around three in the morning something awakened Jelindel. She sat up straight, peering around with darkened eyes, eerily alert. Seeing and hearing nothing she put on a nightrobe, slipped on buskins, and went out to the landing. She could hear faint snoring coming from Zimak’s room down the end of the hall. Nothing was amiss there, at least. She crossed to the balcony railing of the mezzanine floor, and gazed down to the ground level, which was cloaked in shadows.

Jelindel stood a moment longer, then shrugged. Obviously Zimak’s stories and hints had affected her nerves. She started back to her room, and stopped. It was not a sound that made her freeze, it was a smell.

Smoke.

She rushed in and woke Daretor, told him to get Zimak up, then grabbed her sword and dashed down the stairs. She flung open the kitchen door and lurched backwards as a wall of flame surged out into the corridor.

The heat was intense. She covered her face with her arm and felt the hairs on her skin shrivel at the very thought of being singed. Daretor came rushing up behind her but he too backed away.

That was when Jelindel noticed something very odd. The flames did not consume what they touched. She caught glimpses of the inside of the kitchen as the fire ebbed and surged, but as far as she could tell, nothing had been harmed. Still, the inferno raged. Now it was in the corridor, licking the ceiling, now skimming across the walls, reaching for the rug.

Smoke filled the air, making them cough violently. Zimak dashed up with a pail of water and threw it on the nearest flames. But instead of being doused, or at least dampened, they surged forward even more hotly than before.

‘It’s no ordinary fire,’ Jelindel yelled above the roaring noise. ‘It’s mage work.’

‘Can you counter it?’ Daretor shouted back. His face was already blackened with soot, in spite of the fact that the fire burnt nothing. Jelindel wondered, in one of those idle moments that always come in the midst of danger and panic, whether she too looked as ridiculous.