Toller scanned the area and was able to pick out a group at the core of which were Leddravohr, Chakkell and Pouche, all standing close to the seated figure of King Prad. The ruler, slumped on an ordinary chair, was staring at the ground, apparently oblivious to all that was happening. He looked old and dispirited, in marked contrast to the vigorous aspect which Toller remembered.

A youngish army captain came forward to meet Toller as he reined the bluehorn to a halt. He looked surprised when he saw Gesalla, but helped her to the ground readily enough and without any comment. Toller dismounted and saw that her face was totally without colour. She was swaying a little and her eyes had a distant, abstracted look which told him she was in severe pain.

“Perhaps I should carry you,” he said as the ranks of soldiers parted at a signal from the captain.

“I can walk, I can walk,” she whispered. “Take your hands away, Toller — the beast is not to see me being assisted.”

Toller nodded, impressed by her courage, and walked ahead of her towards the royal group. Leddravohr turned to face him and for once did not produce his snake-strike of a smile. His eyes were smouldering in the marble-smooth face. There was a diagonal spattering of crimson on his white cuirass, and blood was congealing thickly around the top of his scabbard, but his manner was suggestive of controlled anger rather than the insane rage of which Zavotle had spoken.

“I sent for you hours ago, Maraquine,” he said icily. “Where have you been?”

“Viewing the remainsof my brother,” Tollersaid, deliberately omitting the required form of address. “There is something highly suspicious about his death.”

“Do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes.”

“I see you have returned to your old ways.” Leddravohr moved closer and lowered his voice. “My father once extracted a vow from me that I would not harm you, but I will regard myself as released from that vow when we reach Overland. Then, I promise you, I will give you what you have sought so long — but for now more important matters must engage my attention.”

Leddravohr turned and padded away, giving a signal to the launch supervisors. At once the balloon inflating crews went to work, cranking the big fans into noisy life. King Prad raised his head, startled, and looked about him with his single troubled eye. The spurious festive mood deserted the various noblemen as the clatter of the fans impressed on them that the unprecedented flight into the unknown was about to begin. Family groups drew together, the children ceased their play, and servants made ready to transfer their masters’ belongings to the ships which would depart in the wake of the royal flight.

Beyond the protective lines of guards was a sea of apparently undirected activity as the work of despatching the migration fleet continued. Men were running everywhere, and supply wagons careered among the lumbering flatbed carts which were transporting skyships to the enclosures. Farther away across the open ground of the Quarter, taking advantage of the near-perfect weather conditions, the pilots of cargo ships were inflating their balloons and taking off without the aid of windbreaks. The sky was now thronged with ships, rising like a cloud of strange airborne spores towards the fiery crescent of Overland.

Toller was awed by the sheer drama of the spectacle, the proof that when driven to the limit his own kind had the courage and ability to stride like gods from one world to another, but he was also bemused by what he had just heard from Leddravohr.

The vow of which Leddravohr had spoken explained certain things — but why had he been asked to make it in the first place? What had prompted the King to single one of his subjects out of so many and place him under his personal protection? Intrigued by the new mystery, Toller glanced thoughtfully in the direction of the seated figure of the King and experienced a peculiar thrill when he saw that Prad was staring directly at him. A moment later the King pointed a finger at Toller, casting a line of psychic force through the groups of bystanders, and then beckoned to him. Ignoring the curious gazes of royal attendants, Toller approached the King and bowed.

“You have served me well, Toller Maraquine,” Prad said in a tired but firm voice. “And now it is in my mind to charge you with one further responsibility.”

“You have but to name it, Majesty,” Toller replied, his sense of unreality increasing as Prad gestured for him to move closer and stoop to receive a private message.

“See to it,” the King whispered, “that my name is remembered on Overland.”

“Majesty.…“Toller straightened up, beset with confusion. “Majesty, I don’t understand.”

“Understanding will come — now go to your post.”

Toller bowed and backed away, but before he had time to ponder on the brief exchange he was summoned by Colonel Kartkang, former chief administrator for the S.E.S. Following the dissolution of the Experimental Squadron the colonel had been given the responsibility for coordinating the departure of the royal flight, a task he could hardly have foreseen carrying out in such adverse conditions. His lips were moving silently as he directed Toller to a spot where Leddravohr was addressing three pilots. One of them was Ilven Zavotle, and another was Gollav Amber — an experienced man who had been short-listed for the proving flight. The third was a thick-bodied red-bearded man in his forties, who wore the uniform of a skycommander. After a moment’s thought, Toller identified him as Halsen Kedalse, a former aircaptain and royal messenger.

“…decided that we will travel in separate ships,” Leddravohr was saying as his gaze flickered towards Toller. “Maraquine — the one officer who has experience of taking a ship past the midpoint — will have the responsibility of piloting my father’s ship. I will fly with Zavotle. Prince Chakkell will go with Kedalse, and Prince Pouche with Amber. Each of you will now go to his designated ship and prepare to ascend before littlenight is on us.”

The four pilots saluted and were about to walk to the enclosures when Leddravohr halted them by raising a hand. He studied them for what seemed a long time, looking uncharacteristically irresolute, before he spoke again. “On reflection, Kedalse has flown my father many times during his long service as an aircaptain. He will fly the King’s ship on this occasion, and Prince Chakkell will go with Maraquine. That is all.”

Toller saluted again and turned away, wondering what was signified by Leddravohr’s change of mind. He had been quick to take the point when Toller had said he was suspicious about Lain’s death. My brother is dead! Was that an indication of guilt? Had some grotesque twist of thought made Leddravohr unwilling to entrust his father’s life to a man whose brother he had murdered, or at least caused to die?

The unmistakable sound of a heavy cannon being fired somewhere in the distance reminded Toller that he had no time to spare for speculation. He looked around for Gesalla. She was standing alone, isolated from the surrounding activity, and something about her posture told him she was still in extreme pain. He ran to the gondola where Prince Chakkell was waiting with his wife, daughter and two small sons. The pearl-coiffed Princess Daseene and the children gazed up at Toller with expressions of wary surmise, and even Chakkell seemed tentative in his manner. They were all deeply afraid, Toller realised, and one of the unknowns facing them was the nature of the relationship to be dictated by the man into whose hands chance had delivered their lives.

“Well, Maraquine,” Chakkell said, “are we about to leave?”

Toller nodded. “We could all be safely away from here in a few minutes, Prince — but there is a difficulty.”

“A difficulty? What difficulty?”

“My brother died yesterday.” Toller paused, taking advantage of the fresh anxiety he had glimpsed in Chakkell’s eyes. “My obligation to his widow can only be discharged by bringing her with me on this flight.”