Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 5

In early winter word came to Silk requesting his least favourite duty. The bureaucrats who actually ran the day to day activities of the city, the record-keepers who granted deeds, oversaw the maintenance of roads, sewage tunnels and gutters – all the mundane administrative requirements that any large population requires – had forwarded to him a request to look into disturbances in the western caravanserai district.

Disturbances and complaints that involved an alleged local talent.

It happened once or twice a year. Either a new local talent had emerged, or someone new had come to the city who didn’t know, or was defying, the rules the Protectress had set forth. In either case, one of the five city mages had to look into it and it was his turn.

And so one chilly morning he wrapped a thick cloak about himself and set forth. Of course he was also armed, as occasionally – despite his best efforts to keep things civil – these confrontations turned violent.

Those city bureaucrats had obviously dithered over this problem until the complaints became overwhelming, because no sooner had Silk entered the district than local shopkeepers and residents came clamouring. They pointed out the business – one of the many stablers serving the caravans – and recounted stories of lost sheep and goats, missing dogs, even, some whispered, missing children, all taken by this shapeshifting winged demon child who resided, apparently, above the stables.

Silk raised his hands to quell everyone, and nodded his tired assurances. He regarded the closed and shuttered building. A shapeshifter? Hardly. No soletaken was likely to come to Heng given its ages-long feud with the man-beast Ryllandaras.

He banged on the closed front double doors, now probably barred against the angry neighbours.

‘Go away, damn you,’ a gruff voice answered.

‘It is Silk, city mage. Here on order of the Protectress. You cannot keep me out.’

Silence, then a clatter as a smaller entrance in the broad doors was unbarred. It opened and Silk stepped in. The first thing he noticed in the slanting light cutting in through gaps in the clapboard siding was that every stall was empty. Next he took in the fellow facing him: old and beaten down in a stained leather apron. Silk merely cocked a questioning eye. The man raised his chin to the stairs. ‘The loft,’ he ground out, hands clenched at his apron.

Silk nodded at this, then climbed. A trapdoor led to the upper loft and here he found dusty old crates and bundles of tattered horse-blankets, old cracked leather tack and other equipment hanging from rafters, and amid this jumble, hunched on a box and wrapped in one of the dirty old horse-blankets, a young girl. A tiny yellow songbird fluttered about one of her hands, alighting from one finger to the next. When he drew near, the bird shot off through an open window.

He sat next to her and sighed loudly. ‘You know who I am?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse – probably from crying.

‘You know why I am here?’

‘Yes.’

Her head was hung so low he could not see her face, but in the silence he carefully raised his Warren and studied her. Her strong aura told of talent – but of a strange sort. Not drawn from any of the Warrens he was familiar with. Yet it was there. Old. And wild.

No wonder she’d avoided detection for so long – this aspect was completely unknown to him.

After they’d sat in silence for some time he asked, ‘And what will you do?’

She hugged herself. ‘I will go away.’

He nodded at this, peered round. Bird feathers lay everywhere yet not one bird was in evidence. Now he remembered hearing stories of some sort of bird-tamer in town. ‘Where are your pets?’ he asked.

‘I sent them away,’ she whispered, pain in her voice. ‘People were throwing rocks at them.’

He nodded again. ‘Ah. They’ll do that.’

‘They threw them at me, too.’

‘I’m sorry. They’re just frightened. Ignorant and frightened.’

‘At first it was fine,’ she said, almost dreamily. ‘I made money for Father healing and taming animals.’ Her voice hardened. ‘But then people began to whisper against me. Claimed I’d made pacts with demons or some such stupid thing.’

‘And the disappearing animals?’

She made an airy gesture. ‘Hunters must hunt.’

‘I see. Well … best you go soon.’

She nodded. ‘Tonight. Father will give me a cart and a mule.’

‘And where will you go? There are schools in Unta or Kan that may take you in. Help train you.’

She gently shook her head at his suggestion. ‘No. There are none who can train me. I will go north.’

Silk was surprised. ‘North? There’s nothing to the north.’

‘There are the mountains.’

‘You will not survive, child.’

Her head remained lowered, but at one cheek he thought he discerned the hint of a secretive smile. ‘Yes I will.’

He pressed his hands to his thighs. ‘Well … that is your business, of course. Mine is done. Remain, and we of the Five will see you out – understood?’

She jerked a nod.

‘Very well.’ He stood and stared down at the young girl for a time. So tiny and frail-looking. Dare he say, bird-like? ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, at length, and headed for the trapdoor. Descending, he paused, peering back, and asked, ‘Why north – if I may?’

Her back to him, she answered, ‘I have a promise to keep to an old friend.’

At midnight of that very evening the guards of the Westward Gate of the Dusk were shaken out of their lazy dozing by the arrival of a cloaked city mage who ordered one leaf of the broad double gate opened. Shortly thereafter they eyed one another in puzzlement as a battered cart drawn by a single mule came clattering through the gate and continued onward up the Grand Trader Road.

The sleepy guards, Silk knew, did not notice the dark shapes passing overhead, but he did. An enormous flock of knife-winged silhouettes: birds of prey, and damned large ones, wafting westward high above the cart. He cocked a brow in acknowledgement – yes, this one would survive.

While he watched from the wall the cart lurched off the road and headed north along a track. The shapes lazily circling above shifted to follow.

* * *

Tayschrenn had called a meeting of the mages who to date had enlisted with the formal mage cadre, as distinguished from the minor talents who served as battle mages. Gathered here atop a grassed hill outside Malaz were he, the short and burly Hairlock, the youthful-appearing Calot, and the woman Nightchill, who he speculated must be some type of sorceress. She no longer walked with a cane, but still held an arm pressed across her front.

He mused that a troubadour might name such a meeting a ‘fell gathering’; a less generous observer might call them a troop of fools. Eyeing his reluctant, mismatched collection, he was tempted to name it a cavalcade of clowns.

He did not want this task; this was Kellanved’s duty, surely. However, he had – in a moment of weakness, and much to his annoyance – agreed to stand in the man’s absence. And so he nodded a subdued greeting to all and cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he began.

‘Where’s the little feller?’ Hairlock interrupted. ‘Shouldn’t he be here?’

‘He is travelling,’ Tayschrenn answered tersely.

‘Travelling? What for?’

Tayschrenn drew breath to subdue his annoyance. ‘I believe he is currently pursuing a mystery.’

Calot raised a hand. ‘Mystery, you say? What sort of mystery?’

Tayschrenn clasped his hands tightly behind his back; gods, could anything be worth such aggravation? What must he answer? A mysterious mystery? ‘One that he no doubt believes will lead to power.’

Hairlock grunted at this, satisfied. ‘So, what do you want?’

Tayschrenn let a breath out between clenched teeth. A rising wind from the south cooled his back and sent errant loose lengths of his hair blowing. He drew the hair from his face. ‘What we must do is organize ourselves.’

‘In what manner?’ Nightchill asked.

Tayschrenn nodded, acknowledging the directness and perceptiveness of the question. ‘Indeed. That is what we are here to discuss.’

Hairlock cut a blunt hand through the air, scowling. ‘I don’t work for you. It was the fellow who calls himself Kellanved who invited me to come.’

Calot was nodding his agreement. His night-black curls blew about, and he appeared to be shivering though wrapped in a thick cloak. ‘You said my arrangement was with Kellanved.’

Tayschrenn raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, yes. I serve only as his deputy here, head of this assembly, this cadre. The question, then, is … since we could probably never agree on any hierarchy among us … how do we organize?’

‘We do not,’ said Nightchill. ‘We each answer directly to Kellanved, or you as a coordinator … or,’ she added, thinking, ‘another duly appointed representative.’

Hairlock’s thick lips curled upwards in a smug smile at that addition and Tayschrenn could almost hear him thinking: That’ll be me.

‘Academic,’ supplied Calot, shivering even more – he was quite slight, and seemed to be the only one of them feeling the chill wind. Or at least he was pretending to. ‘Our patron is not here.’

Tayschrenn nodded. ‘Fine. It will do for the moment. Now we can move on to our tasks. Once we are ready we are planning to move against Nap. An invasion of the capital, Dariyal, no doubt. Therefore our duty is to investigate what awaits us there on the isles. How strong are the talents? Do any hidden powers await us? What sort of opposition should we expect?’ He cleared his throat, uncertain what reaction his next words might elicit, but continued regardless, ‘I, ah, suggest, then, that you, Calot, and Hairlock travel by mundane roundabout means to the isles to investigate.’

Hairlock cocked a hairless brow. ‘Really? Him’n’me? Why us? Why not you or this lass here?’

‘I would attract too much attention,’ Nightchill supplied, as if stating a plain fact.

Hairlock smiled crookedly, looking her up and down. ‘You got that right, lass. There’s a touch of the Elders about you …’

She pointed to Tayschrenn. ‘And this one has announced his presence on Malaz already. Neither of you have.’

Tayschrenn inclined his head to her – she’d already grasped that salient point.

Hairlock’s jaws bunched as he chewed on this, unhappy. Finally, he gave a curt nod. ‘Fine.’

‘Excuse me,’ Calot began, raising a hand, ‘but when you say “mundane” do you mean by boat and such?’ Tayschrenn nodded, a touch mystified by the question. ‘Then I will need a fair amount of coin, my friend, as I do not travel with the common masses.’

Tayschrenn fought the urge to roll his eyes at the sheer prosaicness of the request, and instead inclined his head in assent. ‘You will both be given sufficient funds, of course.’

Calot shrugged within his bunched, thick cloak. ‘Very well. I’ll go ahead and nose around.’

Hairlock flicked a hand to indicate his agreement as well.

‘Then this first conclave is over,’ Tayschrenn announced. Calot hurried off; Hairlock went thumping after, hands clasped at his back, head lowered, scowling.

‘And what of us?’ Nightchill asked.

‘We remain on guard in case Itko Kan or some other entity decides to strike before we’ve gathered our strength.’

The strange, almost otherworldly sorceress had been peering southward as if distracted, but now she looked to him and extended a hand, inviting him to join her. ‘Prudent,’ she supplied. ‘And what of our patron?’

Tayschrenn fought to keep his irritation and impatience with just that party from his face, and offered, neutrally, ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I will reach out to him.’

The wind plucked at his robes and thorny bushes caught at the cloth as they walked a narrow path down the hillside. The sorceress wore only thin linen trousers and a loose shirt, yet she showed no discomfort from the chill wind, though she walked haltingly, and he thought he saw her wince in pain now and then.

‘And where are you from?’ he asked, now that they were alone and he could focus upon the mystery that the woman posed.

‘From very far away,’ she answered, her voice tired and very soft.

He cocked a brow. Fine. Be all reserved and distant, then. Yet his ruthlessly analytical self could not help but whisper in his ear: And are you irritated with her because she’s better at it than you?

* * *

It was Gregar’s first taste of a foot-soldier’s life and he wondered how anyone could ever be stupid enough to choose it, let alone actually like it. Of course, by now he understood that the word ‘choice’ wasn’t even in the common soldier’s vocabulary. Most of the wretched youths in this troop had no say in the matter at all: impressed or conscripted by force, or offered up by their families to perform obligatory service as taxation owed to their lords in Yellows, or Gast, or Satar, or Netor.

And he couldn’t help glaring and clenching his pike-haft with white knuckles whenever these same lords came trotting past in their fine regalia of flowing tabards, plumes, and intricate painted heraldry. They went bantering and joking, trading comments about the deplorable state of this year’s pike-pushers, or what fun they’d have on the field of colours against the Grisian cavalry.

Gregar didn’t know whether to stab them in their fat arses, or puke; or do both at the same time.

Time passed and he and his fellow infantry remained standing at attention in the chilling rain. Haraj sniffed and shivered. The sun behind the clouds rose to midday and still none of the assembled knights and lords appeared from within their tents. The delicious aroma of cooking wafted over Gregar and his stomach rumbled.

‘How much longer are we going to have to wait?’ he complained to Leah.

‘Till the order to stand down,’ she answered from the side of her mouth.

‘But this is useless. We’re just standing here!’

‘Quiet in the ranks!’ Sergeant Teigan bellowed from down the line.

‘We serve at our betters’ whim,’ Leah murmured – not without a strong dose of sarcasm.

‘So we just stand here while they decide whether they want to get their expensive clothes and decorations wet?’

Leah crooked her lips. ‘Now you’re catching on.’

Sergeant Teigan came storming down the front rank. ‘Quiet!’ he bellowed, halting right before Gregar. ‘You hold the colours – show some dignity and respect!’

Gregar squinted up at the wet rag hanging limp from the top of the pike. ‘Know what I think, sergeant? I think you can take this spear and—’

At that moment Haraj fainted to the muddy ground. Sergeant Teigan gaped at him lying limp in the muck. ‘Insulting the glorious tradition of Yellows!’ he roared. ‘Get up, you worthless piece of human waste! You’ll stand all night for this!’

‘He fell because he can’t stand,’ Gregar supplied, and he knelt to pick the lad up.

‘Not you,’ Teigan snarled. He pointed to two others, ‘You and you. Stand him between you.’

‘But f’r how long, sergeant?’ one of them complained.

Teigan pulled a hand down his flushed face and looked to the sky above. ‘Until the fucking Enchantress invites you into her boudoir – that’s how long!’

‘Now that’s a long time,’ Leah murmured aside to Gregar.

‘Hold him up,’ Teigan snarled, ‘till he can stand for himself, and then he’ll be out here all the night – I’ll see to it!’

‘He’ll die of exposure,’ Gregar asserted.

Their sergeant cocked a brow to him. ‘And what of it? Little loss, I should say.’

Stung by such casual cruelty, Gregar answered, ‘I’ll stand for him.’

The bushy brows now rose, either in astonishment or sarcasm – Gregar couldn’t be certain. ‘Oh, you will, will you?’ The fat man bellied up, nearly pushing against him. They were close to identical height, yet the sergeant stood stocky and rotund, Gregar broad and muscled. ‘Well, maybe I have something to say about that!’

‘Which is?’

Now the brows clenched, knotting together over the sergeant’s tiny eyes, as if the man were momentarily confused by Gregar’s direct response; clearly things were not proceeding in the usual manner. He pushed a stubby finger into Gregar’s chest. ‘Then I say you will stand! There! How do you like that?’

Gregar nodded slowly, feeling rather confused himself. ‘Right … as I offered.’

The sergeant sniffed loudly and peered round triumphantly. ‘That’s right! Ha!’ He brushed his hands together as if having set things well in order, and stomped off.

Gregar cast an entreating look to Leah, who was doing her best to keep a straight face.

The sergeant struck a position at the centre of the line and turned to face the assembled ranks. ‘Anyone else?’ he bellowed. ‘Anyone else have any pressing engagements? Invitations to dine with the chatelaine of Unta perhaps? No? Extra sets of lacy underthings to air? No?’ He set his ham-like fists to his hips and surveyed the troopers, nodding to himself. ‘Then we wait here as ordered! And we wait until the damned hillside crumbles into the sea if need be! For we are Yellows!’ Scanning them once more, he nodded to himself again, then strode onward.

Gregar leaned to Leah. ‘You know, he’s not half bad at that.’

‘You should hear him when he really gets on a roll.’

Limp between his two supporters, Haraj raised his head just enough to peer about. ‘Is he gone?’ His two supports pushed him from them, disgusted, and he stood brushing at the mud smearing the yellow surcoat over his old leather jupon.

Gregar restrained himself from swatting the fellow. ‘So you can stand?’

‘Quite. Thought that rather obvious from the timing, hey? There you were about to commit a punishable crime.’ He held out his pale hands. ‘I had to do something.’

Leah was now laughing openly, though silently. ‘Your friend’s right. He saved your skin.’

Gregar scowled his irritation. ‘Saved me? I don’t see how – I’m gonna be out here all the godsdamned night!’

‘There’s worse,’ Leah supplied. ‘Far worse.’

‘Such as?’

Leah’s amusement fell from her and she half turned away, squinting up at the thin cold rain. ‘Whippings. The stocks. Branding. Maiming. Imprisonment. Hanging.’ She jerked her chin to the tents now lit against the gathering gloom of the overcast sky. ‘Whatever our betters wish. We live, and die, at their discretion.’

‘Not me,’ Gregar growled through clenched lips. ‘Not me.’

*

The order to stand down only came to the ranks after each and every aristocrat and knight had ambled off the field, accompanied by their bevy of aides, squires, attendants, servants and grooms. Only then were the assembled infantry allowed to file back to their bivouacs. By then it was long after dark.

All quit the field save one; Gregar remained, tall pike of the Yellows’ colours in hand. Soaked through and chilled to the bone, still he did not sit and huddle for warmth, for he knew that damned Teigan would pounce and he refused to give him the satisfaction.

Standing there all alone in the broad trampled field, he eyed the pike and the limp sodden rag tied just behind its narrow dagger-like blade. It struck him then that the weapon was really nothing more than a very long stick. And he knew how to fight with sticks or staves – twinned sticks were his preferred weapons. So he began experimenting: spinning, thrusting, trying circling counters, even entire turning sideways slashes. The weapon’s arc was impressive. In fact, it looked as if he’d have the reach on any mounted foe. That made him smile, and he turned to see Leah standing behind him, a bemused look on her face, and a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hand.

‘What in Burn’s name are you doing?’ she asked in wonder.

‘Experimenting.’

She cocked a brow. ‘Right. Well, here,’ and she held out the bundle.

‘What’s this?’

‘Dinner.’

‘This allowed?’

Her answering smile was a half-scowl that held a mischievous tilt. ‘Teigan didn’t forbid it …’

Gregar huffed. ‘That fat oaf.’

Leah handed over the bundle and Gregar unwrapped it to find a half-round of coarse hard bread and a small portion of dried meat. While he ate, she rubbed her arms for warmth, saying, ‘Don’t be too hard on Teigan. He fights hard for us and he fights from the front – but I think yelling is the only way he knows how to soldier.’

Gregar grunted a neutral demurral. ‘How’s Haraj?’

‘Sleeping like the dead. Why’s he here? This is clearly not the life for him.’

‘Long story.’

She raised her hands in surrender. ‘Right. None of my business.’

‘And you? What about you?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m all that’s left of two brothers and one sister. My parents are old. We have no money. When the baron’s officers came round demanding back rents and taxes I had no choice.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged again. ‘That’s how it is for most of us here. But not you. You’re no farmer.’

His mouth full, he said, ‘No. Apprentice stonemason.’

‘A free craftsman? What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Like I said – long story.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Well, you made a poor swap, that’s what I think.’

‘I don’t know about that. Standing around isn’t so bad.’

‘Not tomorrow. Marching. The Grisians and their allies have moved on. We follow.’

He looked to the night sky. ‘Wonderful. What are we even doing here?’

‘We’re the expendable fodder, friend. We’re just here to stand in the way of a charge, hold some piece of ground, or protect our lords if they’re unhorsed.’

‘What? Protect those arses from being killed?’

Leah appeared almost shocked. ‘Oh, no. Not killed. Ransomed. We get killed – lords and ladies get ransomed.’

Gregar couldn’t believe it. He wiped his hands clean on his sodden yellow surcoat. ‘Just when you think things couldn’t be any more insulting …’

Leah gave him a wink and headed off back to the bivouac grounds.

Not much later Teigan himself appeared. The sergeant looked surprised to find him still standing, then sullenly waved him off. ‘Get some sleep,’ he growled.

Gregar saluted and headed for his group’s tent; he walked stiffly, his legs numb and tingling.

* * *

Tarel, king of the Napan Isles, walked alone through the empty night-time halls of the harbour fortress that served traditionally as the ruler’s palace. He always walked alone as he did not wholly trust his bodyguard, many of whom he suspected would have much preferred seeing his sister upon the throne.

In fact, he was quite certain of it.

And so this night he hurried through the damp and bare stone halls, his pace ever quickening despite his efforts to remain calm, until he reached a certain door that he yanked open and flung himself within.

He turned, blinking in the dim yellow lamplight, to face his closest allies among the ruling council of Nap. Or rather, his most browbeaten, blackmailed, foolish and servile cronies among the Napan Council of Elders. Lady Elaina of the Ravanna line, as desperate to retain the prerogatives and privileges of her aristocratic class as she was determined to retain her line’s riches. Torlo of the Torlo Trading House, as bought and paid for as any of his illicit goods. Lord Kobay of the Medalla line, whose unsavoury habits had placed him under Tarel’s heel. And High Admiral Karesh, lord of all the Napan fleets, a deluded pontificating fool who owed his rank, estate and riches entirely to Tarel’s patronage.

Lady Elaina rounded upon him, pointing an age-spotted hand. ‘What now, Tarel? You have thrown away good troops for nothing!’

‘Commander Clementh has assumed all responsibility for the debacle. She is imprisoned now in the cells below.’

‘She is from a noble family …’ Lord Kobay warned, his barrel stomach making his voice a low rumble, and he making the most of that.

‘Oh, shut up, you idiot!’ Lady Elaina snapped.

Torlo, the eldest of the Council of Elders by far, raised a frail thin hand for silence. ‘Perhaps this dark mage she has enlisted with can be bought …’

‘I doubt it,’ Tarel answered. ‘From all reports all he desires is power. But you are not too far from the mark, I think, Torlo.’

‘Meaning what?’ High Admiral Karesh asked.

‘That this mage may be a weakness.’

Lady Elaina waved her disbelief. ‘How so? Everyone agrees he is fearsome.’

Tarel nodded his agreement. ‘Exactly. And mages are a notoriously envious and jealous breed. Many suffer no rivals. His growing repute has won him enemies.’ He crossed his arms, peering right and left – no turning back now. ‘And one has contacted me to let me know her willingness to confront the fellow.’

Torlo’s already narrow gaze slit even more, making his resemblance to a carrion bird even greater. ‘Who? And how much?’

Tarel crooked a smile; of course Torlo, the canny merchant, would immediately turn to money. He raised a hand in reassurance. ‘I will get to that. As to costs, no cost at all. Just permission to meet him here.’

Lady Elaina clutched her wrinkled neck. ‘Here! He is here?’

Tarel worked hard to keep his annoyance from his face – he wanted to bark at the old aristocrat: Not now, you stupid hag! Instead, he said through tight lips, ‘When the time comes.’

‘And that time?’ the admiral asked.

Tarel nodded his gratitude for the question. The one to bring him to the issue of the night. He cleared his throat. ‘When my sister invades.’

All four co-conspirators displayed their disbelief.

‘All the admirals agree the Malazans are far from ready,’ said Admiral Karesh. ‘And wouldn’t invade in any case. Everyone agrees they are much more likely to raid the mainland for funds and materiel.’

‘My agents on the island report those pirates are busy doing just that,’ supplied Lord Kobay.

Tarel waited for them to quieten then shook his head. ‘You do not know my sister. She is utterly pitiless. She will come for me – I know this. And …’ he pointed to all four, ‘she will come for those who conspired against her as well.’

Lady Elaina regarded him and sighed. ‘It is time to let her go, my king. She is nothing now. She has sold herself to these evil allies – imagine, an assassin and a dark mage! She is their creature now. A slave, no doubt.’

But Tarel knew he could not ‘let her go’. Nor could he possibly convince these four of what he knew of her. None of them grew up in the royal household. None of them knew that the old king, his father, would lean to Sureth and murmur a name and later that man or woman would disappear, or suffer an accident, or be waylaid and murdered by brigands.

She had been his assassin from the start. The dagger in his right hand.

Yet no one ever saw it. Only he. Only watchful Tarel. He’d seen through her all along.

Which was why he struck first to take the throne. He had to. It was a question of self-preservation. So long as she lived, his life was worth a basket of rotting fish.

None of these gaping fools could possibly understand any of this.

He swept a hand before him. ‘She is coming, and that is that. We must prepare. Therefore … with your permission …’ He clapped his hands lightly, twice, and faced a corner of the murky room. ‘A visitor.’

The darkness thickened to the blackness of wet ink. Lady Elaina gasped her dread of sorcery. Lord Kobay rumbled his unease. A burst of air came then, like a gust through a window. Dust blew about the room and the glasses on the table rattled.

Out of the murk stepped an aged woman in long loose robes. Her hair was a dramatic mane of greyish silver, her lined features sun-darkened to the hue of ancient wood. Her most striking feature, however, was her eyes. They flashed a silver light as if dusted in that precious metal.

Tarel held out a hand in invitation. ‘Lords and ladies, may I introduce the Witch Jadeen, terror of south Itko Kan.’

The smile the witch gave in answer to that introduction could only be described as hungry.

* * *

Dancer did not mind the actual physical walk across the central plains; the gentle hills, small copses and tall grasses were pretty, as was the enormous sky with its horizon-to-horizon fronts of massed clouds passing overhead like the fabled sky-castles of the ancients.

Fabled no more, he reflected, as they’d found the shattered remains of one such in Shadow.

No, it was the uncertainty surrounding the errand that bothered him. Were they wasting their time? Could they simply wander for ever, pursuing a will-o’-the-wisp? Had Kellanved finally slipped over the edge into obsession and madness?

How could he discover the answers to any of these questions? Whom could he ask? Certainly not Kellanved.

So for three days they walked in relative silence on a roughly northward path, tracing the ever diminishing escarpment until it lay across the landscape as nothing more than a particularly steep hill. At nights he lay back to study the starred night sky – so much brighter here, far from the lights of any city. There was a delicacy and an intricacy in their arrangements he never would have guessed at before. Perhaps there was some credence after all to the astrologers’ assertion that secrets lie hidden there among such complexity.

That third night he could restrain his unease no longer, and he cleared his throat, turning his head to regard his partner who sat now, hands atop his walking stick, studying the flames of their meagre fire. ‘Do you even know what you are looking for?’ he asked.

Kellanved did not stir – he might have been asleep for all Dancer knew – yet he answered readily enough, ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’

Such unhelpful answers were the main reason for Dancer’s unwillingness to ask the maddening fellow any questions.

‘We really should be heading back. We have no idea how far—’

‘It is close,’ the hunched mock-elder snapped. ‘Close. I feel it.’

Dancer raised a brow; the man was rarely so touchy. Clearly he must be sharing something of his own disquiet. So Dancer relented; he would push no further – for now.

As winter was coming on, morning revealed a thick misty ground fog. The blanket Dancer slept wrapped up in carried a silvery lacing of frost. He rose to see Kellanved still sitting hunched, hands atop the short walking stick. ‘Kellanved?’ he asked.

The lad’s head jerked as he came awake, blinking. ‘What?’ Then his gaze slid aside, probing the rolling fog, and he faced the east, standing. Now Dancer felt it too; though no mage, his training had raised his senses to a point where active Warren magics played upon his nerves.

The fog was not entirely natural.

As if now aware of their regard, whoever lay behind the deception let it slip away and the roiling banks parted, fading, to reveal a band of Seti horsemen and women, some twenty or so.

Their leathers and regalia were impressive. Wolf-tails swung from the tops of raised spears; necklaces of wolf and cat teeth hung at their necks. The foremost, the oldest, rode a dappled grey mount. A thick cloak of white fur draped his shoulders, and the tails of grey-white animals adorned a stone-headed mace cradled in his arms.

‘Shadow mage,’ this Seti elder called to them, ‘did you think your crossing of our lands would go unnoticed?’

Kellanved thoughtfully scratched his chin. ‘Actually, no – I didn’t.’

‘Then you are even more the fool than you appear. You know you are not welcome here.’

Kellanved opened his arms wide. ‘We are merely passing through. That is all.’

‘Passing through?’ the elder repeated, doubtingly. ‘Passing through to what? There is nothing here for you outlanders. No town or settlement. Only our plains, which only we seem to value.’ He pointed the mace to the north. ‘But perhaps you mean to travel to the mountains yonder and the fields of ice beyond. In which case, you are welcome to continue onward and good riddance to you.’

Kellanved tapped his walking stick to the ground, tilting his head. ‘In truth, we are searching for something …’

Now the lean elder frowned suspiciously beneath his long grey moustaches. ‘Searching for something? For what? A quick death?’ He motioned with the mace and the war band spread out to either side, beginning to encircle them, spears lowered. ‘You are not intending to meddle here with the resting place of the Great Goddess, are you? In which case you have earned your deaths.’

Dancer set his back to Kellanved and rested his hands on his heaviest parrying blades.

‘And who will have given us our deaths?’ Kellanved asked.

The elder nodded at the justice of the question. He pointed the mace to his chest. ‘It is I, Imotan, shaman of the White Jackal, who judges. You outlanders push in upon us with impunity. And though we do all that we can to drive you from our lands, game becomes scarce. Hunger stalks our encampments. It is not how things used to be in my forefathers’ time.’ He extended the mace, pointing to Kellanved. ‘Push us no longer, outlander. You may not like where we go.’

Kellanved raised his arms, walking stick in one hand. ‘We are not here to trouble your lands, Imotan. But we are here searching for something.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘This.’ Kellanved flicked his raised hand and the brown flint spear-point appeared between thumb and forefinger.

The elder shaman stared for a moment, squinting, then he did something that made Dancer thoroughly uneasy. The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. And it did not end there; he continued laughing, even pressing the mace to his side as if in pain from his mirth. The rest of the troop joined in then, adding their scorn-tinged merriment.

Dancer and Kellanved shared a bemused look.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kellanved began, ‘but perhaps you would care to enlighten us …?’

Wiping his eyes, and still chuckling, Imotan waved an invitation for them to continue onward. ‘Be our guests, little ones. Do quest onwards. Your efforts will be rewarded – I am certain of that.’ He circled his mace in the air and the troop pulled away as one, cantering off. Imotan followed.

‘But wait!’ Kellanved called after them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I guess he means us to find out,’ Dancer mused as they watched the Seti riders diminish across the hillside.

‘Yes. But find out what, hey?’

‘That’s what’s worrying me.’

Kellanved eyed the spear-point. ‘Well, it can’t be too far. I’m fairly certain of that.’

‘I like this even less now.’

The mage stabbed his walking stick to the ground, impatient. ‘Yes, yes. We’ll be careful.’

You mean I’ll be careful, Dancer answered silently.

Kellanved set off, grumbling to himself. Dancer followed, now even more vigilant – scanning the surroundings, hands on his weapons. As the afternoon waned, he warned, ‘Not much light left. We should halt for the day.’

Kellanved rolled his eyes in exaggerated vexation. ‘Here? But we are close! I’m certain.’

‘All the more reason to wait till morning.’

‘Really?’

Dancer gave a slow stern nod. The mage’s skinny shoulders slumped.

‘Oh – very well.’ He sat unceremoniously in the grass.

‘No fire tonight,’ Dancer warned.

Kellanved slanted his walking stick so that he could set his chin upon it, and regarded Dancer through one cocked eye. ‘There is no one nearby. I would sense it.’

‘None the less.’

The mage snorted, glaring. Dancer ignored him, and scanned a full circle of the nearby hillsides. Perhaps there was no threat. Yet why the laughter? What did Imotan know that he and Kellanved did not? It was worrying.

A chill wind buffeted him and lashed the tall dry grasses. He reflected that for all its starkness, the land did hold a certain sort of harsh beauty. It was immense, seeming to stretch on for ever. Yet he did not feel diminished by it. In fact he rather felt at home. Which was strange, as he was city bred and born.

That night he slept poorly, jerking awake to see Kellanved still sitting, seemingly staring off into the distance – or fast asleep upright. At dawn’s first light he rose, stretching and circling his arms for warmth. The two of them ate a cold meal of salted meat, dried bread and watered wine, then set off once more, the mage leading the way.

Their route took them to a broad crested hill and here Kellanved paused. ‘The other side, I believe,’ he whispered. Dancer nodded and the pair climbed. Before reaching the top they crouched among the tall windswept grasses to shimmy forward until they could see what lay beyond.

It was a broad valley that ran more or less east–west. A dried riverbed of pale gravel and stone wended its way down the centre.

‘I see no one,’ Dancer said.

Kellanved grunted his agreement. ‘But it’s there – whatever it is.’

‘There’s nothing there.’

The mage waved for silence. ‘I tell you it’s there. I can sense it.’

Dancer eyed his partner dubiously. He wondered once again whether something was wrong with the lad – that is, beyond all the wrongness he knew about already.

Kellanved’s beady eyes slid to him and narrowed. ‘Don’t look at me that way.’ And he rose, brushed the dust from his travel-worn jacket and trousers, and set off down the hillside.

Dancer followed, heavy daggers drawn, circling warily.

They reached the valley floor and still nothing had risen from the rocks or bushes to attack them; nor was there any structure or ruin in evidence. Clouds of dragonflies did arise, though, as they pushed through the grasses. Dancer mused that they must be the last of the season.

He kicked up against rocks hidden by the thick brush and stands of grass. Looking down, he noticed something else lying among the stones and picked it up.

It was a small stone arrowhead, knapped of dark flint.

He was incredulous. What might be the odds? On impulse, he showed it to Kellanved and was about to speak when the mage himself bent and lifted an object from the ground: it was a leaf-shaped spearhead as wide across as his hand.

Dancer halted in wonder, his words forgotten. Kellanved’s gaze rose to his, wide and brimming with not only a similar wonder, but a strong colouring of dread. The mage staggered off as if drunk. He stooped now and then, scooping up objects as he went, and his sputtering reached Dancer: ‘How … No! … What is this? … What …?’

Dancer let his arrowhead fall. It clattered among a litter of similar weapons and tools that lay among the larger rocks like a layer of fallen leaves that carried on even to the dried riverbed, and here he wandered, picking up a scraper, or a gouge, or what might be an awl. It was appalling, but it also struck him as strangely funny.

Somewhere out of sight Kellanved screamed his frustration and rage.

Dancer sat on a particularly large rock in the ancient riverbed and kicked at the clutter of knapped objects at his feet. Most were manufactured from some sort of native flint, but others shone a creamy white, like chalcedony, while a few gleamed blue-grey.

Eventually, the crunch of footsteps announced Kellanved’s approach. Dancer looked up, not daring to speak; even the smallest hint of smugness or self-satisfaction from him would arouse an explosion of resentment from the fellow.

Kellanved held his walking stick behind his back in both hands. He was staring off into the distance as if unable to look at him. After a time he dipped his head and, taking a deep breath, announced, ‘Very well. You were right. Let us return.’

Dancer couldn’t imagine how much that admission must have cost the man. He nodded, gestured to the trove of countless tools surrounding them. ‘It seems it just wanted to join its brethren here.’

But the mage was shaking his head. ‘No, Dancer. You do not understand. Every one of these arrowheads and spear-points, scrapers and gouges – all were brought here by someone like us. All like us searching for something that is here – but isn’t.’ He continued shaking his head. ‘It is a mystery. And whatever it is isn’t in Shadow, either. I know, I checked.’

‘Then it remains a mystery.’

Kellanved nodded his agreement. ‘Yes. For now, it remains a mystery.’

Dancer rose, stretching. ‘Well … it was worth a look, my friend.’

Kellanved winced as if pained, then hung his head. ‘Let us leave this place.’