‘Look away!’ her companion cried.

She understood and averted her eyes. A tremendously intense light bathed them, illuminating the wall brighter than full daylight before it flickered and died. An optical glamour. A light burst that blinded. She wondered which side had used it. Screams and other sounds of combat drifted up to them. They continued climbing.

The edifice seemed eternal. About two-thirds of the way up, Serrah’s arms grew numb and her strength faltered. Her companion, keeping pace, urged her on. Something sliced the air and stilled his tongue. An arrow quivered in his back. Serrah reached out to him. He fell. A downward glance showed her his fate.

Mixed with phantasms and dazzlements, men were fighting in the grounds below. A couple of her rescuers had made it to the ropes and were hauling themselves up. She kept going, fearful of an arrow meant for her.

At length she arrived at a broad ledge topping the wall, fighting for breath as she dragged herself onto it. She crawled to the far side and looked down. Three more ropes hung on the outside of the wall, tied to a segment of crenellation on the ledge. In a side street directly below, a hay wagon had been parked, full of stuffed sacks. Two masked men looked up at her and gestured furiously.

A whoomp and crackle sounded to her rear. In the palace grounds a geyser of purplish smog billowed high. As she watched, it took on the form of a gigantic red dragon, tall as a temple tower, its green eyes ablaze, spiked tail lashing. A glamour, though the fire it breathed was real enough. She saw men engulfed in flame. But the ones on the ropes were still coming, despite arrows clacking all around.

Serrah crossed the ledge and began lowering herself to the street. All she could think about was getting away, and of her revulsion at being so completely at the mercy of others. In that moment she vowed it would never happen again. When she had scrambled about halfway down, she let go of the rope and dropped.

She landed heavily but unharmed on the pile of sacks. One of the waiting men moved to take her arm. She dodged him and jumped from the wagon. Then she ran. They shouted after her.

Serrah discounted her pains and ran faster still. Perhaps they tried following, she never knew. Soon she was in a maze of bustling lanes.

Barefoot, smock tattered and bloodstained, wet hair plastered to her forehead, she limped into streets where nobody stared.

Rain lashed Bhealfa’s eastern region all through the night. But dawn broke sunny and clement.

Kutch Pirathon sat by a swollen brook, idly lobbing pebbles into the rushing water. He was growing restive. For the hundredth time he glanced at the tumbledown stone cottage further up the barren hill. Its ill-fitting door remained resolutely closed.

He sighed and continued bombarding the stream. There was little else to do. The hillside had nothing to offer but dripping scrub, a few withered trees and a lot of rocks. His only company was a brace of circling crows.

In truth, he could have employed himself gainfully. He was obliged to, in fact. More than obliged; bound by an oath. He should be undertaking the mental exercises necessary to advance in the Craft. His time was supposed to be spent honing his will, recognising the vital currents and channelling them. But they were techniques taught to him by his master and he couldn’t focus properly for thinking about the old man. There was no shaking off the feeling that he had let Domex down, that he might still be here if it hadn’t been for his timidity. Neglect of duty added to his guilt. Yet, for the moment, his heart wasn’t in it.

His melancholy would have deepened had the door of the cottage not creaked open. He looked up to see Caldason emerging. Flinging the last of the stones at the stream, Kutch stood and dusted off his breeches. He watched as the Qalochian addressed a few last words to the elderly hermit he’d consulted. Then he waited as he made his way down the crude path to him.

During their short acquaintance, Kutch had found that Caldason wasn’t one to volunteer information. Nor was he easy to read. Now was no exception.

‘What happened?’ Kutch asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh.’

‘But you weren’t to know he couldn’t help. I’m grateful for you bringing me here.’

They began their descent.

Kutch still didn’t know what Caldason’s problem was, beyond the so-called fits. He tried fishing. ‘Did he, er, say anything at all about your… condition?’

‘He didn’t

say

anything. He wrote his questions on a slate.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course.’

‘Is he naturally dumb?’

‘No. When he was a boy, his father cut his tongue out. To stop him talking about the mysteries of the Craft. It was the kind of thing they used to do in those days.’

‘The world’s just full of delights,’ Caldason remarked cynically.

‘His father would have had it done too, by

his

father. The knowledge was passed down, generation to generation, and that was the price. It was considered normal in some branches of the Craft until not that long ago.’

‘I thought magicians were constrained by secrecy anyway.’

‘True. Though I’m not sure how reliable some of the licensed ones are.’ Kutch jabbed a thumb at the hovel. ‘But he can be trusted.’

‘So why did they go in for mutilation?’

‘It was extra insurance. Some of the older practitioners think it was a good thing and should be brought back. Maybe they’ve got a point. It seemed to work.’

‘You wouldn’t have minded your master doing it to you then?’

‘Well…’

They continued in silence.

After a few minutes, Kutch ventured, ‘You don’t seem disappointed. About him not being able to help, I mean.’

‘I’ve learnt not to be.’

‘There are other seers I can recommend.’

‘Maybe provincial sorcerers aren’t up to what I need.’

‘A lot of them are as good as any you’ll find,’ Kutch replied indignantly. ‘They just prefer the solitude of the countryside. They’re less likely to get harassed by the authorities too.’

‘Like Domex? All right, low blow. Sorry. But the fact is there’s more money and status in the cities, and that tends to attract the best talent. Perhaps that’s where I’ll find the right magician. If there are any left I haven’t already tried.’

‘Come on, Reeth, there must be

thousands

of them.’

‘I’ve been searching longer than you know.’

Kutch didn’t expect any expansion on that and was proved right. Silence descended again. They reached the foot of the hill and struck out for the house. A gentle wind ruffled the trees.

The quiet was broken only by distant birdsong.

At length, Caldason said, ‘So, how far advanced in magic are you?’

After yesterday’s display with the homunculi, Kutch reckoned his companion already knew the answer to that. It was Caldason’s way of changing the subject, or being polite. But he played along with it. ‘Fourth level, going on fifth.’

‘Sounds impressive. Out of how many?’

‘Sixty-two.’

‘Right.’

‘Mind you,’ Kutch quickly added, ‘anything above twenty-three’s considered pretty rarefied.’

‘I think I must need the highest possible level.’

Caldason’s expression was inscrutable. It was difficult to tell if he was serious or making an uncommon attempt at humour.

‘I may have a way to go in my practical studies,’ Kutch admitted, ‘but I do understand something about occult philosophy. Whatever ails you should have a magical remedy. It’s just a case of finding it.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’

‘Let me tell you about one of the Craft’s basic principles.’

‘Careful, you don’t want to lose your tongue.’

‘It’s not really giving anything away. We’re taught that magic is energy, and energy can’t be destroyed. It can only be converted into something else.’