‘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 have no idea why he’s coming. No one’s had the courtesy to tell me. Yes, it is absolutely outrageous. What’s that?’

He listened, head tilted, fingers on temples.

‘I’m not sure I agree, father. My inclination is simply to refuse him entry. It’s not as though there’s any official business that…Why should I let it go ahead? I understand the need for caution, but…Hmm? Ah, yes. I see.’

Melyobar pondered the King’s counsel. ‘You’re right,’ he decided. ‘He can come. Whether he leaves is another matter. And as you say, soon that won’t matter. Nothing will.’ He bent to listen again. ‘Yes, very close. But I take your point. The sooner it gets underway, the better.’

He rose. ‘Thank you, father. As ever, your guidance has proved most valuable. Pardon? Yes, of course I’ll keep you informed.’

The Prince backed away respectfully, then turned and left the room.

On exiting, his entourage fell in. Eight hand-picked bodyguards, a personal secretary, a manservant, a scribe, a senior mage, the mage’s apprentice, a healer, two message-carriers, and a pair of baton-wielding vanguards to ensure his way was clear. The usual complement of personnel.

He stated his destination and the mob moved off with him cocooned inside.

It didn’t take them long to arrive at the sorcerers’ quarters. As they approached the very door Welst and Nechen had used earlier, it opened and the sorcerer Okrael stepped out. Seeing the procession bearing down immobilised him, but he had the presence of mind to bow.

‘Just the man,’ Melyobar puffed, winded from the short trip. He let his entourage scrutinise the wizard for imposture, then waved them aside.

‘Sire,’ Okrael greeted him uneasily.

‘How goes the work? Are we on schedule?’

‘It’s progressing well, Majesty. Only…’

‘Yes? There are no hold-ups, I hope?’

‘No, sire. It’s just that…’

‘Spit it out, man!’

‘It’s dangerous.’

‘I know that.’

‘I mean, sire, it presents a danger to everyone, not just whichever enemy Your Highness may choose to turn it on.’

‘This isn’t the first time you’ve dared to question the workings of the project, is it…’ The Prince blanked.

‘Okrael, sire.’

‘…is it, Okrael?’

‘I wouldn’t presume to question anything, Highness. My only concern is the safety of our own people.’

‘Do you presume to think I’m unconcerned about the well-being of my subjects?’

‘No, sire, of course not.’

‘Don’t force me to question your loyalty, wizard. You’re a very small cog in the wheel I have turning here. It’ll spin as well without you.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’ The colour had gone out of Okrael’s face.

‘There’s no reason why what you’re creating shouldn’t be effective?’