‘Said? Have you got yourself involved in this folly too?’

There was more heated whispering, and finally one of them stood up. ‘Benzamir Mahmood, I did what I could to persuade him not to come after you. He says you have shamed him and you must die.’

‘What’s more shameful? To learn once in the light, or to repeat your mistake in the dark? Be wise, Ibn Alam.’

The second man screamed his frustration. He rose up in front of Said and unsheathed his sword. It wasn’t the sword of his ancestors.

‘You’ll pay for what you’ve done to me.’

‘This time I have the option of putting you backwards on a camel and sending you home.’

‘We’re ready for you this time. You won’t defeat both of us.’ Ibn Alam got the corner of Said’s kaftan and pulled him ahead.

‘Said’s heart isn’t in this. I’d much prefer that you sit down with me and the boy and eat. I did what I did to earn your father’s favour, not to slight you. Come, sit by the fire. I will apologize, and your honour will be repaired.’

‘My honour will be repaired when I parade your head on a spear.’ Ibn Alam came down the slope to the beach. Said tried to hold him back, and was brushed roughly away.

‘You can’t hurt me,’ said Benzamir calmly. ‘I won’t allow it. I have too many important things to do to let you kill me.’ He could see Ibn Alam’s face clearly now, ruddy in the reflected firelight. It was hard and dark with fury.

Ibn Alam lunged with his sword. The point flickered near Benzamir’s throat and turned away at the last moment. He stepped back on the ball of his foot, spun, and tried to slice him in two at waist level. The sword twisted itself in his grasp and his hand flew open. The weapon skittered across the sand and Ibn Alam held his wrist.

‘What is this?’ he gasped.

Benzamir shrugged. ‘I could explain, but you wouldn’t understand. Just go, before you do yourself any more damage.’

Ibn Alam’s response was to pull out his knife and throw himself at the impassive Benzamir. The knife blade seemed to be heading straight for Benzamir’s chest, but at the last minute he turned aside, and the Arab crashed to the ground. Quickly he was up again, stabbing and stabbing yet never connecting.

Said dragged him away, both arms around him, his own sword quite forgotten. ‘He is a djinn! Run!’

‘I don’t run. I never run! Let me go.’

‘Flee, I say. While you still have your skin.’

Ibn Alam broke free for one last deranged assault when he realized that Benzamir was walking away.

‘Stand and fight, witch.’ In his madness, he grabbed the stumbling Said’s head and put the knife to his throat. ‘Face me, evil one, son of Shaitan.’

Benzamir saw what was happening. ‘You have to put your knife down, Ibn Alam. You’re angry with me, remember? Not him.’

‘Then bare your heart to me so I can skewer it. Only then will I spare this dog.’

‘Master,’ gasped Said, and the knife pressed harder against his windpipe.

Wahir had come from where he had been told to stand, back to the fire. He’d taken a burning branch from it and was advancing on them.

‘Wahir! No.’

‘But Said is a good man.’

‘I know. Let me deal with this.’ Benzamir straightened his right arm and pointed with his index finger at Ibn Alam. ‘Release Said. Wahir is right. He’s a good man, and you’re not.’

‘I will kill him first, then the boy, then you.’

‘No. You won’t. I can’t allow this.’ Benzamir raised the thumb on his outstretched hand. ‘Put him down before something terrible happens.’

‘Who are you to tell me anything? I am Ibn Alam. I own this dog’s soul.’ He started to pull the knife across and back. Benzamir pressed his thumb down and there was thunder. For the briefest of moments, almost too fast to see, Ibn Alam was illuminated in blue light. Then he exploded with a bang that was ripped out of the air. His legs and pelvis, burned black, were thrown to the white sand, the arm holding the knife whipped past Wahir, the other in the opposite direction and into the night. Of the rest of him there was nothing left but smoke and ruin.

Said fell on his face, convinced he was dead. It was only Wahir’s screams that made him look up.

Benzamir crouched down and rolled him over to extinguish the flames flickering away on the back of his kaftan. Said tried to crawl away, digging himself into the beach.

‘Is the cut deep, Said?’

‘It is not deep enough! Allah have mercy!’

‘Said? Look . . . Wahir, be quiet for a moment. If you want to carry on making that awful noise, you can, but later. Please.’

Wahir was miraculously silent, and Benzamir grabbed hold of Said and wrestled him to his feet.

‘Don’t,’ said the man, stumbling backwards.

‘Don’t what? I saved you. I want you alive. I’m not going to change my mind.’

‘What did you do to him? What sorcery is this?’

Benzamir put his hands to his head. ‘I really didn’t want this to happen. Both of you couldn’t live. I had to make a choice.’ He kicked at the sand in frustration. ‘If it makes you feel any better, yes, I’m a sorcerer and I used my magic finger of death to annihilate Ibn Alam. That is not the truth, and I would like to explain it all to you one day, but it’ll have to do for the moment. Are you all right?’

Said put his hand to his neck. It came away bloody, but he could still breathe. ‘Yes. I think so.’

‘We’ll wash it out and bandage it up. Turn round.’ Said tremblingly and obediently complied. Benzamir batted the back of his kaftan. ‘A bit charred, but he was closer than I’d have liked. Sorry.’

‘What manner of creature are you?’

‘I’m just a man. Maybe not quite like you, but not so different either. Come and sit by the fire. I’ve got some beer, if that will help.’

Said walked slowly towards the fire, looking over his shoulder in case he lost sight of this devil in human form.

‘Wahir, please. You too. I have a proposition for the pair of you.’ Benzamir looked at the destruction he had wrought, breathed in the stink of charcoaled flesh and bone and hair. ‘Shit,’ he said in a language only he understood.

CHAPTER 11

THE FIRST THAT Solomon saw of An Rinn was a boy up a tree. There was nothing to do but allow him to stare and stare, and eventually scramble down and disappear. Solomon walked on along the ridge of the hill, then headed down towards the sea, towards the torn spire of wood smoke that rose, source unseen, from the cliffs. Clouds that continually threatened rain hung over his head, and everything seeped damp. His boots, used to plains dust and desert sand, were dark with dew and brown with mud.

There were no black tops – tar roads, they called them in the civilized north – to follow, and Solomon had the feeling that he’d come about as far as he could away from anything and everything. The Outer Ocean beckoned, and beyond that the fallen cities of the Users, full of bones and magic.

He passed the tree the boy had climbed, and stopped for a drink from his stone bottle. There was a trickle of water left, and up until four moons ago he would have finished it and thrown the bottle away, either to smash into shards or to be picked up gratefully. Solomon used to be that rich. Out here, on the edge of the world, he stoppered the bottle and hid it away in his worn leather backpack. Then he shouldered its weight once more and walked into town.

He called it a town, but it didn’t seem much more than a few crude houses, rough stone for walls and turf for roofs. There was a rutted track which led down between the buildings to the sea; it didn’t stop, just went on from land to water. There were boats, little ones, bobbing up and down in the swell, and the paraphernalia of fishing draped over frames hammered into the soft, sandy soil.