‘No,’ the youth begged. ‘Can’t you just leave him?’

‘We don’t take prisoners. Any more than they do.’

He moved to the dying man and quickly finished him. The youth couldn’t watch.

Wiping his blade on a scrap of cloth, the stranger said, ‘You think I’m cruel. But this is a war. Maybe not in name, but that’s what it amounts to.’

The youth nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Come on. It won’t do to linger here.’

They set off together through the fog.

Something that looked like an eel swam past them. It was candy-striped and had a pair of wings far too tiny to fly with. As it made its serpentine way it left a trail of orange sparks.

In a voice much gentler, Caldason asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m scared,’ Kutch said.

Dawn was near. The fog was clearing.

Valdarr, titular capital of the island state of Bhealfa, began to stir. People were coming out to mingle with the magic that never slept.

As in all great cities, areas of wealth and deprivation sat cheek by jowl. Likewise, there were districts neither prosperous nor impoverished; unassuming quarters where the dwellings and their attendant glamours were humble.

A closed carriage travelled at speed through one such neighbourhood. It was drawn by a pair of jet-black horses, and its driver, swathed head to foot, was unrecognisable. Rattling along narrow, waking streets, it pulled up outside a row of spartan buildings. Most were private homes. Others served basic needs, with paltry wares and tawdry charms stacked outside on rickety tables.

The carriage’s passenger alighted. He wore a tightly wrapped cloak and his expression was sombre. The driver immediately cracked his whip and the carriage moved off. As the sound of its departure faded, the passenger paused for a moment, looking up and down the deserted street before crossing to the open door of a bakery.

Loaves, pies and sweetmeats cooled on wooden racks, waiting for customers. For now, there was only an old woman, standing at a worn counter. They exchanged nods. Without a word, he squeezed past and went to the back of the room, where he descended a stone staircase. This led to a sturdy door, which he rapped on, and once checked via a spy-hole he was let in.

He was hit by the warmth, and the smell of baking bread. The kitchen was long and low, with a curved ceiling, all in unadorned brick. There were sacks of flour, barrels of dried fruits, bushels of salt. One wall held three ovens. Each consisted of two sets of iron doors; the oven itself and a massive grate below. Sweating men, using tongs to unlatch the doors, fed the hearths from pyramids of wood blocks. Bakers in white aprons hefted long-handled, flat paddles, bearing dough shapes to the ovens.

The visitor was recognised and greeted. He shed his cloak, dropping it across the only chair. His appearance was distinguished, and his clothes were of good quality. He had silvering hair, overly long, and an intellect that shone through tired eyes. His age was not as great as wear made it seem.

He walked to the last of the three huge ovens and the workers clustered around.

‘I’m getting too old,’ he decided, half to himself. Louder, he asked, ‘Would you be so kind?’

‘Glad to oblige, sir,’ the master baker replied, signalling. He was plump and sheened with perspiration.

A man came forward and split the oven’s belly. The blast of heat was like a punch. Roaring flames erupted.

Two muscular workers took hold of the visitor. Hands behind his knees, and at his shoulder-blades to steady him, they raised him in a chair lift. With practised ease they swung him back and forth, working up momentum.

Then they tossed him into the furnace.

The blaze seemed so real, and the heat was searing. He nearly cried out, despite knowing.

Instantly he broke through. From intense light to relative dimness. From withering heat to the welcoming cool.

He landed on a heap of sacks stuffed with yarn, but still had the breath knocked out of him. Seen from this side, the glamour he’d passed through was a window-sized square on a wall. It was filled with muted colours, gently swirling, like oil on water. There was no illusion of flames, and certainly no warmth.

‘On your feet, Patrician.’

Dulian Karr looked up. A woman of middle years towered over him. She was well built, though more muscular than flabby, and she had a mordant face. As always, she toted a thick wad of documents, currently tucked under one arm. Her other hand, surprisingly callused for an administrator, was held out to him.

‘Goyter,’ he said, by way of greeting, and allowed her to pull him to his feet. As he rose he made a sharp little air-sucking noise through pursed lips. ‘My aching bones,’ he complained.

‘Rubbish,’ she snorted briskly, ‘you’re not that much older than me. I suggest you stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something useful around here; that usually improves your mood.’ Her piece said, she turned and marched away.

Karr had to smile as he watched her bustle off to harass somebody else.

There were plenty to choose from. This particular hideout was much bigger than the bakery he’d just left. It consisted of the cellars of several adjacent buildings, knocked through, and at least a score of people were working here. He dusted himself off and started a tour of inspection.

One section was given over to manufacturing glamours. Men and women, wearing cotton gloves, sat at lengthy tables, gingerly tinkering with magical ordnance. Under the cautious gaze of supervising wizards, stocks of illegal munitions took

shape: mirage pods, dazzlers, mendacity flares, odour grenades, stun poles, eavesdropper shields disguised as necklaces and bracelets.

He swapped brief greetings and wandered on to look at the firing range.

An area several hundred paces long and perhaps thirty wide had been devoted to testing occult weaponry. Given the dangerous nature of the spells involved, the zone was sealed inside a protective screen. This was almost entirely transparent, except for a faint tint of rainbow colours, not unlike a soap bubble.

A number of dummies were propped up at one end of the range. Essentially elaborate scarecrows, they were lashed to timber frames. At the other end, a line of testers took aim.

Energy bolts flashed from staves, decapitating their targets in explosions of straw. Other glamoured devices engulfed them in glutinous ectoplasm nets, or peppered them with ice needles. One of the testers raised a brass horn to his lips and blew. But instead of a musical note, it discharged a cloud of minute, winged lizards with barbed talons and razor teeth. The swarm soared to a dummy and began ravaging it, shredding cloth and wood.

Another tester held a combat wand. It was snub and black, and it joined to a handgrip with leather tendrils that looped around her fingers and wrist. When she pointed, the wand belched apple-sized fireballs. The flaming orbs burst on contact, setting the manikins ablaze. Some missed and bounced around the range before detonating. Falling short of its target, a fireball glanced off the paving and ricocheted towards Karr. It struck the near-invisible shield directly in front of his face, erupting in a brilliant red and yellow flash. Instinctively, he recoiled, though he knew he couldn’t be touched.

The tester gave him a contrite grin. He thought how very young she looked.

Goyter appeared at Karr’s side. ‘We’re working on their stability,’ she said, nodding at the wand. In a lower voice, she added, ‘It’s not like you to be so jumpy. Everything all right?’

‘I’m fine. Just…tired.’

‘Hmm.’ Looking unconvinced, she went back to her chores.

Karr stood with eyes closed, massaging the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.