‘Not just missing, my Lord. Not only are they not in the cage, we don’t believe they reside in interdimensional space either.’ The old mage swallowed. ‘We believe that their essence and souls have returned to Balaia.’

The silence which followed dragged at the ears. Styliann’s breath hissed between his teeth. He took in the small chamber, its sketches and maps of dimensional space and spell result equation covering every wall. Notebooks were scattered on the single pitted wooden desk. The chairs, arranged in a loose crescent, each contained a terrified mage looking up at him as he stood near the door, Nyer at one shoulder, Laryon at the other. He wouldn’t look left or right; he didn’t have to. The impact of what they had just heard sent ripples through the mana trails.

‘How long have they been gone?’ he asked. It was the question they were dreading.

‘We can’t - can’t be sure,’ managed the old mage.

Styliann pinned him with his eyes. ‘I beg your pardon?’ They looked from one to another. Eventually, a younger woman spoke.

‘It has always been the way of the Watches, my Lord,’ she said. ‘The spells are cast and the calculations made every three months when certain alignments offer us more accuracy.’

Styliann didn’t take his gaze from the old man. ‘Are you telling me that the Wytch Lords could have been in Balaia up to three months ago?’

‘They were in the cage last casting,’ said the woman. ‘They aren’t there now.’

‘Yes, or no.’ Styliann almost believed he could hear their hearts pounding, then realised it was his own sounding in his ears and throat.

‘Yes.’ The old man looked away, tears in his eyes. Styliann nodded.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Clear the room, your work is finished.’ He turned to Nyer. ‘We’ve no choice. Contact the Colleges but say nothing of events here or at Taranspike Castle. We must have a meeting at Triverne Lake. Now.’

‘I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d smelled it with my own nose,’ said Sirendor. He was standing close to Hirad at the bar of The Rookery, appraising the barbarian’s clothes - leather trousers, a close-fitting dark shirt that showed off his upper body to good advantage, and a studded belt on which hung his scabbarded short sword. Ilkar was with them, dressed in a black-edged yellow shirt and leather trousers, and behind the bar stood The Unknown in a plain white shirt and similar leggings to his friends.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Hirad.

‘Well, my dear friend, in the hours that we have been apart, not only have you shed that revolting sweaty leather stuff you wear for talking to dragons, but you have obviously had a scented bath. This is truly a momentous occasion.’ Sirendor leaped on to the nearest table, shouting, ‘Ladies, gentlemen, Talan. The foul-smelling barbarian has had a bath!’ There was laughter and the odd cheer. Hirad even saw Denser smile before the mage, dressed in voluminous black shirt and trousers, returned to stroking his cat and gazing into the fire as he sat in an armchair close to the flames.

‘You can bloody talk, mighty mouth,’ said Hirad, pointing a finger at Sirendor. ‘Just look at yourself. Your clothes must beg questions about which sex you prefer to fiddle with your balls. Your future bride will be heartbroken.’

‘Are you calling me a poof?’ asked Sirendor.

‘That’s right.’

Sirendor pouted and looked down at himself. Embroidered knee-length moccasin boots, laced up the front, gave way to a pair of billowing gold-trimmed brown trousers into which was tucked a huge purple open-necked lace and silk shirt. On his belt was his short sword, and a gem necklace rested on a bed of chest hair.

‘Maybe you’re right.’ Sirendor jumped lightly to the floor of the inn, which had filled quickly as word spread of The Raven’s party, and swept his mug of ale into his hands.

Denser stood up from his seat, leaving the cat lounging by the fire, and weaved his way through a crowd towards the quartet. Ilkar picked up his drink, turned and walked away.

‘I don’t think those two are going to be friends,’ said Sirendor.

‘Not much gets past you, does it?’ returned Hirad, a broad smile on his face as he watched the approaching Xeteskian.

‘Denser.’ The Unknown acknowledged the Dark Mage with a nod.

‘Getting busy in here,’ observed Denser, lighting his pipe.

‘Is red wine all right?’ Sirendor picked up a bottle.

‘Fine.’ Denser watched as Sirendor poured. ‘Thank you.’ He took a sip and raised his eyebrows. ‘Not bad.’

‘ “Not bad”?’ echoed The Unknown. ‘That’s a Blackthorne red, my friend. Expensive speciality of The Rookery.’

‘I’m not much of an expert.’ Denser shrugged.

‘Clearly. You’re on the cheap stuff then.’ The Unknown turned and scanned briefly along the racks to his left, then picked out a bottle and stood it on the bar top, fishing in his pocket for a corkscrew.

He paused, looking out past his friends to the crowded bar. Here he was, the other side of the counter, and he felt comfortable. It was a simple feeling but he felt good. Very good. But behind all his comfort lurked an abyss he wouldn’t let himself see into.

‘This is the life, eh?’ he said, stripping the cork from the bottle and gazing out over the thickening sea of goblets, faces, colours and smoke. He charged a fresh glass. ‘This muck, Denser, from Baron Corin’s yards, is your wine. Try not to choke.’

‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ said Denser suddenly.

‘Oh yeah? More opportunities to be burned alive, is it?’

Denser stared at Hirad. ‘Not exactly. Will you hear me?’

‘If you want, but you’re wasting your time,’ said The Unknown.

‘Why?’

‘Because we retired a couple of hours ago. I’ve taken a new job as a barman.’ Hirad and Sirendor both laughed. Denser’s face briefly betrayed both panic and confusion as he tried to work out whether they were serious or not.

‘Even so . . .’ he said.

‘Go on, then.’ Sirendor leant back against the bar, his elbows resting on it. Hirad did likewise, with The Unknown between them, resting on his arms on the wooden counter and fiddling with a corkscrew.

‘The amulet we recovered is not the only one,’ said Denser.

‘Now there’s a surprise.’ Sirendor turned his head to his friends.

‘Look, I’ll be honest, we are developing a new attack spell that we want to be ready in the event of any Wesmen invasion. There are three more pieces we need to complete our research, and I, that is, Xetesk, want The Raven to help me get them.’

None of them said anything for a time as Denser studied their faces. Eventually, The Unknown straightened.

‘We did wonder why you paid us so much for seeing you back here,’ he said. ‘We also agreed that we wouldn’t work for Xetesk again. Take some Protectors.’

Denser shook his head. ‘No. Protectors are just muscle. I need brain for this sort of recovery work.’

‘And The Raven are - were - a fighting team. We’ve never done recovery work and we aren’t about to start now,’ said Sirendor.

‘But it’s not even a long-term commitment. And the pay will be on the same basis as today.’

The Unknown leant back on the bar top. ‘Another set of five per cents, eh?’

‘I can’t promise it’ll be as easy.’ Denser half smiled at Hirad.

‘Bugger me, but I’d like to see one of your tricky jobs.’

‘Sorry, that came out wrong. I mean the bodyguarding was easy.’

Sirendor’s face broke into a wide grin. He straightened and dusted himself down.

‘Denser, a couple of years ago, we’d probably have bitten your hand off for that kind of money. But right now, I for one am no longer interested. I mean, we’d have trouble spending it. Sorry, old son, but retirement has one very clear advantage.’ He turned and punched Hirad on the arm. ‘See you later.’ He strode off towards the main door, through which a stunning woman had walked with two men. She wore a shining blue cloak and pushed the hood back to loose a mass of curling red hair.