Mage's Blood

16

A Piece of Amber

Periapt

A mage’s powers can be amplified by attuning himself to certain tools which take the gnosis energy and focus it. For example, a periapt made of wood can double the efficiency of a ‘spell’, and a piece of amber or a crystal can amplify it further. Many will have a variety of periapts for different workings. A pendant is best deployed for protective work; a rod or wand for delicate and narrow-focus work; and a large staff for offensive or large-scale workings. But do not make the mistake of believing that the periapt itself is more important than he who wields it. The gnosis comes from within.

ARDO ACTIUM, SCHOLAR, BRES 518

Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros

Decore 927 to Febreux 928

7–5 months until the Moontide

Alaron sat and stared at the ashes in the fireplace. He had barely left his bedroom for three weeks. Daylight glimmered through the ill-fitting shutters and he could hear the muffled sounds of the street: outside life carried on, but his life couldn’t. When Headmaster Gavius had given his verdict, he had effectively killed him. He felt as grey and cold as the ashes.

His father had tried talking to him, but he had retreated to his bedroom and locked the door. His piss-bucket was almost full, the rank odour filling the air. He’d not washed in days, his hair was greasy, his scalp itched, and he couldn’t eat, but he barely noticed. Those final moments kept replaying in his mind and he repeated the same questions, over and over: was it the thesis, or the scene at his mother’s house, or was he truly unworthy? Why wouldn’t they let his father appeal the decision? Why had Muhren ripped into his thesis like that – and who had stolen his notes?

He tried occasionally to rally himself, but the impossibility of his predicament was too much: there was no going forward. They had stripped away his future and left him a figure of ridicule and derision. He couldn’t even show his face in public now. He considered fleeing, maybe to Silacia, to live with Ramon, but he could muster no energy to do anything but sleep.

He shivered. The fire had gone out again. He fell to his knees and started scooping handfuls of embers into the bucket until a still-glowing coal seared his fingers. He hissed in pain as a cloud of ash billowed across the room. Fire was my element, he thought bitterly. I was going to be a Fire-mage. Now I can’t even put out the embers without burning myself.

‘Alaron? Are you going to wallow in self-pity in there for ever, or do I have to come in and get you?’ It took him several seconds to recognise the voice, then he floundered to his feet. Cym? Shit! There he was, clad only in a filthy nightshirt, in an ash-covered room that stank worse than a privy.

‘Alaron?’ Cym hammered on the door again.

‘Go away!’

‘No – open up, you gutless fool.’

He picked up the piss-bucket, lurched to the window and flung open the shutters. His right hand still hurt. Panting, he tipped the bucket into the filthy alley behind the house, ignoring whoever snarled a heartfelt curse up at him as he slammed the shutters again.

‘Alaron: open up!’

‘Wait, I’m—Um, can you wait downstairs? Please?’

‘Why?’

‘I need to wash!’

‘You’ve got ten minutes or I’m walking out of here and you’ll never see me again.’

‘Hel and damnation,’ he swore as he heard her walking away. ‘Don’t go – I’ll be down, I promise!’ All the stable hands were away with Vann at the fur markets in Geidenheim, so he had to draw his own water from the well. Cym was nowhere to be seen, thankfully. He felt weak as a child, standing barefoot in the freezing courtyard and trembling like a leaf as he tipped buckets of clear water over his head until he felt clean again. But it brought back some clarity. Cym is here – but she’d gone back down south, hadn’t she? He scurried into the kitchen, wrapped in a wet robe, to find the fire had been banked up and a pail of water was simmering above it. Cym was sitting on the cook’s bench, clad in her familiar gypsy skirts, her tangle of black hair caught in a ponytail and hidden beneath a bright patterned scarf, her golden earrings glinting in the firelight. He nearly wept to see her.

‘You look bloody awful,’ she told him flatly. She gestured towards the fire. ‘I’ve heated some water for you. Use soap. And shave.’ She got up. ‘I’ll wait outside. I have no desire to see your malnourished body, even accidentally.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘You’re a complete idiot, Alaron Mercer.’

He hurried to pull off his robe, then used a cup to scoop the warm water over his gelid skin. He managed a rudimentary shave, though he was shaking so badly he nicked his face several times, then he ran upstairs to find clean clothes, terrified she would be gone before he was even half-presentable. He threw on the first things he could find, ran fingers through his wet hair and ran back downstairs.

Cym was in the kitchen. She looked him up and down, then held out a hand to him. ‘You may approach,’ she said regally, and he moved tentatively to bend to kiss her hand – but she suddenly snatched it away and quick as light slapped his cheek, a stinging blow that made him reel.

‘What on Urte were you thinking, you fool? Ramon told me everything! Punching a city official? Blathering about the Scytale of Corineus to a room full of Rondian magi – are you rukking suicidal? Are you a moron?’ Her eyes were blazing.

‘You’ve seen Ramon?’ he managed weakly, rubbing his cheek.

‘My family’s caravan went through Silacia and we stopped at his village. He was very worried about his friend Alaron Numbskull, who buggered up his own future. And now I get here to find you’re determined to mope yourself to death.’

‘I’m not moping, I’m just …’ His voice trailed off weakly.

‘I thought you might have a bit more spine than this, Alaron: after seven years of sneaking out to teach me mage-craft, risking expulsion every day, I thought you had a little more cojones than this.’

‘But you don’t understand—’

She folded her arms and glared at him ‘Don’t I?’

He leaned against the bench and folded his own arms. He felt feeble in the face of her fire. ‘When they fail you, that’s it: you’re screwed for ever. You can’t use a periapt, so your gnosis is impaired, and if they catch you using it, they imprison you – or worse. To the people, you’re one of God’s rejects, you’re fair game for – well, everything. And all the time you’re faced with what you should have been. I was going to be a Fire-mage and go on Crusade; now I daren’t even join the legions as a ranker, because the men will tear me apart. I can’t help Da’s business as he hoped, or build that windship keel he wanted. I’ll never be able to repay him the cost of the college – and now Mother’s going to have to leave the manor. The whole family – we’re going to be ruined. And it’s all my fault.’ He buried his face in his hands, then whispered, ‘I think I should just kill myself.’

Cym snorted. ‘Just like a boy: no guts. First thing that goes wrong and they’re snivelling about ending it all.’ She stood in front of Alaron, prised his hands from his face and cupped it. ‘Alaron Mercer, you and Ramon gave me something incredible: you taught me, when no one else in Yuros would. Even if you were both shit-useless teachers who spent most of your time trying to peer down my front. But I owe you. I want to help you – I can help you, if you’ve got the guts to help yourself. So are you going to go back into that filth-hole you call a bedroom and whimper about suicide, or are you going to reclaim your life?’

‘That’s not fair,’ he protested.

‘Poor boy, life isn’t fair.’ She pulled a leather cord at her throat and drew a honey-coloured gem from beneath her blouse. It was crudely cut, but it glimmered in the dim room. He sucked in his breath.

‘This is an amber periapt my people stole from a mage in Knebb,’ Cym told him, letting it spin tantalisingly in her grasp. ‘If you want it, it’s yours.’

He reached halfway, then pulled it back. ‘But … that would be illegal. If I got caught—’

She pulled it over her head and dangled it before him. He wavered, unable to think clearly, reaching, then stopping. She sighed, exasperated, and hung the gem on a kitchen hook. ‘Rukka mio, Alaron.’ She gripped his shoulders. ‘You’ve been cheated – doesn’t that make you want to fight back? Get angry!’

‘It’s not that easy – I can’t just—’

‘You can just: take up that periapt and become the person you want to be.’ She turned and walked out of the kitchen, snapping, ‘Use it!’ over her shoulder.

‘Wait, Cym!’ He rushed over. ‘How was Ramon?’

‘The little twerp was fine. He worries about you. He’d just done over some thugs the local familioso sent, and now he’s considering offers from said pater familioso to join his gang. That’s how things go in Silacia.’

Alaron tried to grin. ‘That’s good.’

‘Huh – if you say so. The little prick asked me to marry him. As if!’ She turned to go.

‘Cym,’ he said frantically, ‘the periapt – the law—’

‘Law,’ she sneered derisively, ‘that’s just the current opinion of whoever’s in power – it’s got nothing to do with what’s right.’ She tossed her head. ‘The periapt is yours to keep, if you’ve got the guts. See you, Alaron.’ Then she was gone, slamming the door in his face. He flinched and went back to the fire. Finally he reached for the amber periapt and stared into its murky heart. He was lost in its depths for hours.

When Tula the cook came home, he barely noticed. But he did eat the bowl of stew she gave him.

*

‘So, how are you, Alaron?’ Vann Mercer asked.

Alaron looked up from staring into the fire, the amber gem clutched in his fist. He’d not heard his father come in. ‘I don’t know, Da.’

Vann pursed his lips. ‘Your grandpa, Kore hold his soul, always said you need to think of the destination you want, and then work out the road. So what do you want from life?’ Vann settled into his armchair beside the fire and waited for a response.

‘I don’t know – I’m only eighteen.’

‘Most lads your age are married with children by now, Alaron.’

‘Yeah, well, that won’t happen now, will it?’ He swallowed and fell silent while his father puffed his pipe, waiting patiently until his son finally found his voice. ‘All my life I thought I would be a mage – I can’t be anything else. But the authorities – the college – they say I’m not allowed, that I’m not suitable. But I did fine in those tests, Da, I earned a Bronze Star, they said it out loud – but they didn’t graduate me! And my thesis was sound, whatever they said – it was certainly good enough for them to steal my notes—’

‘What?’ Vann leaned forward, suddenly intent.

‘I meant to tell you – someone stole my thesis notes, right after I presented it—’

‘From here? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Um … I didn’t think it mattered, not after they’d failed me—’

‘You didn’t think it mattered that someone robbed you of your thesis notes during the exam? Alaron, that’s wrong – utterly wrong. We have to tell Captain Muhren—’

Alaron broke in, saying hurriedly, ‘No, not him!’

‘What do you mean, “not him”? Jeris Muhren is my friend, and he’s Captain of the Watch. If anyone can find your notes, he can. Maybe we can get you reassessed. I’ll see him—’

‘No, Da, please—’ And he started to tell his father how Muhren had belittled his thesis, how he’d punched Eli Besko – somehow he’d forgotten to tell Da that too – and once opened, his mouth just kept pouring out words: ‘I just wanted to be a battle-mage and join the Crusade, Da. I wanted to be famous – I wanted respect. I’ve endured seven years of constant scorn from those highborn shits at school – Malevorn Andevarion is the most spiteful creep on Urte and he got a rukking gold star, Francis Dorobon isn’t fit to rule a fishbowl, let alone a kingdom, and Seth Korion, he’s just a joke. Why should they have everything when they don’t deserve anything—?’ And then he was crying, acid tears that stung his eyes. He felt his father gather him into his arms, like he had when he was a child, and as dusk became night he clung to his father, oblivious to the passing of time.

Finally he drew back, wiped his eyes and whispered, ‘What should I do, Da?’ He stared at the amber gem, still clenched in his hand.

Vann Mercer looked at his pipe, which had gone out, and laid it on the mantelpiece. ‘You must do what you need to, Alaron; I’ve no special wisdom to share. I was just a soldier who fell in love with a mage; nothing in my life could have prepared me for that marriage, or raising a mage-child. I love you, but I have absolutely no idea how you should live your life. What I do think is that a great injustice has been perpetrated against you. I knew about Besko; Harft told me. But this theft, on top of everything – that stuns me, and that’s why I want to talk to Jeris Muhren about it. He’s a good man, whatever happened during your thesis presentation. Son, you’ve been cheated of your birthright, and I don’t have the power to overturn that, but I’ll fight it, any way I can. But in the meantime, your friend has given you a gift – and Alaron, whatever else happens, I’m prouder of you than you can begin to imagine for what you’ve done for that girl. And what kind of person spurns a gift from a friend? If you want to take up that gem, and if it means you need to run, you’ll always be my beloved son.’

That was too much. Alaron started crying again, and he cried for ever.

When he awoke in the middle of the night, lying beside the kitchen fire, he pulled out the gem and began to tune it. It felt curiously exciting to be an outlaw. When Cym returned a few days later, she squeezed his hand and promised to call again soon, and Alaron dared to dream once more.

*

Plane. Smooth. Rub. Cut. Sand. He was bundled in layers of clothes and his hands were wrapped in wool mittens, but his breath billowed from his mouth, the cold biting deep. New Year had gone, barely marked in their silent household. The river was frozen solid, and the heavy clouds dropped fresh white drifts nightly. Winter’s grip might be unrelenting, but it was 928: the year of the Moontide, and that gave the passing days an extra shiver of excitement.

A kind of spring had come to the Mercer household. Alaron was running weapon-drills every day as dawn rose over the glittering frost. He had a new gem, hidden beneath his shirt, and a zest in his step; everyone noticed that energy was most apparent when the Rimoni gypsy girl called by, but it was none of their business, so the cook and stablehands took care not to be caught noticing.

Alaron had a new project. It didn’t matter suddenly that he had no wood-shaping, and only the most mediocre Air-gnosis. He was going to make a windskiff. It wasn’t an especially rational decision, but he had made up his mind, so every morning he went through the drills to limber up, then he dug out his father’s tools and started work.

While Alaron worked the wood, his father was off accumulating stock. Vann was determined to travel to Pontus and cross the Moontide Bridge, along with thousands of other traders who had decided to risk the war, in the hope of trade with the Hebb and Keshi. The Crusade did not preclude all commerce; there were fortunes to be made.

His mother was now ensconced in an apartment on Eastside, together with her books and a new cook. Anborn Manor was up for sale, and old Gretchen was going to stay and serve the new owners. Alaron had visited his mother on Eastside, though it was painful: she appeared to have no understanding of why she’d had to leave the manor – but she did remember him punching Besko, and she laughed about it every time he visited, until he began to feel that maybe it had been the right thing to do after all, regardless of the consequences.

He was hammering in a nail when he heard a voice he’d hoped to never hear again. ‘Mercer,’ it drawled. ‘What are you doing?’

He put down his hammer before it began to feel like a weapon, very aware of the illegal periapt hanging out of sight about his neck as he faced the newcomer. ‘Koll.’

Gron Koll hadn’t changed much in the last few months. His face still looked like an acne farm, and his hair was just as oily. But his clothes were richer now. He stroked his fashionable sable robe as he sauntered into the snow-covered yard, sniffing faintly. ‘What a comedown, eh, from dreaming of the Crusade to bashing in nails? Too scared to step outside his house – just as well, though: there’s a bunch of lads just aching to see what a failed mage can do in a fight. Bugger all, apparently.’ He spat on the snow. ‘So, how are you filling your time, Mercer?’

‘Just pottering,’ Alaron replied, fighting to stay calm.

‘Not been tempted, Mercer? You know—’ He waggled his fingers. ‘Must hurt, to be barred for ever, after seven years’ training …’ He walked around Alaron, peering maliciously. ‘You’re a rukking waste of space, Mercer: you should just fall on your sword so you don’t waste air that real people could be breathing.’

Alaron clenched his fists, but stayed where he was.

‘I thought I’d just pop in, see how you were doing, before I go to watch the muster. That’s what real men are doing: mustering for the march – real men, not faggots like you, Mercer, you cock-sucking piece of degenerate merchant-trash.’

Something went red behind Alaron’s eyes and he took a step forward. Koll’s hand went to his periapt, his eyes lighting up—

Both of them jumped as another man entered the yard and called, ‘Hello?’

‘Rukk off and wait your turn,’ Koll said, smirking – and suddenly the young mage jerked as if pulled by puppet-strings and started convulsively smashing his head against the stable doors. Blood splattered as his lip split, over his beautiful clothes, before he slumped to the ground, dazed.

‘I’m sorry, Master Koll, I missed what you said,’ said Captain Muhren. ‘What was that again?’

Alaron smiled grimly as Gron Koll dragged himself to his feet, gasping, then staggered out of the yard. ‘I’m telling the governor about this,’ he mumbled through his swelling lips once he had reached the safety of the gateway, then he was gone. ‘I’m telling on you’ had been Koll’s mantra at college.

Alaron let out his breath slowly, then caught it again as Muhren turned back to him and asked drily, ‘A friend of yours?’

He shook his head, then stopped, terrified the captain would spot the periapt he was wearing.

‘So, young Mercer: how are you keeping?’

Alaron took a deep breath and tamped down a sudden surge of anger. ‘I’m well, sir, for a failure. Though maybe I might have passed if the proof of my thesis hadn’t been ridiculed so completely.’

Muhren sighed and pointed to a bench just inside the stable. ‘Mind if I sit?’

Alaron nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but his temper burst forth and he cried, ‘How could you, sir? I researched that thesis – I checked my facts, more than you did – and you lied, in front of everyone, and ruined my life—’

Muhren let out his breath slowly in an icy cloud. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, lad,’ he said calmly.

Alaron stared. ‘You’re sorry I feel that way? For rukk’s sake, you’re sorry?’

Muhren raised a hand, a pained expression on his face. ‘Hush, lad! Hush.’ He took another breath and said, ‘Yes, I’m sorry, but it was an impossible situation.’

‘An impossible situation? I can hardly have been the first student to present questionable evidence and speculation for the thesis,’ he started, then, ‘Hel, rukking Seth Korion had just spent an hour trying to defend Vult’s surrender at Lukhazan, in front of the governor himself, the goddamned crawler! Did you rip into him, tell everyone that his evidence was second-hand shit? You’re just as gutless as everyone else.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘My father welcomed you to his hearth, and you destroyed me.’

Muhren let out his breath heavily. ‘Alaron, listen, you left me no choice. I couldn’t let you go on like that, not in front of that audience – as it was, I think I did enough, but—’

‘Did enough? You did more than enough: they failed me! They won’t even let me appeal—’

Muhren raised a hand. ‘Alaron, let me finish: yes, you are angry and you have every right, but just stop for a second, will you? Your father asked me here; he says you’ve been robbed. Can you tell me about that? Without ranting?’

Alaron stared at him. I’m not sure I can, he thought, then he took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Sure. When I got home that day, someone had been through my things. My thesis notes were gone. Nothing else.’

‘Why didn’t you report this?’

‘Who to?’ he said bitterly. ‘If it wasn’t Gron Koll and his mates, then it was the governor, or even you – so who the Hel could I report it to?’

Muhren said quietly, ‘Ah, I see. I have indeed let you down, and I am doubly sorry for that.’

‘According to you my thesis was a load of shit anyway,’ he muttered as a wave of self-pity washed over him. ‘So who would even care?

Muhren shook his head. ‘No, Alaron, that’s just the point. It wasn’t a load of shit; in truth, it was too plausible for comfort. I was convinced, and others were too. No one knew about Langstrit’s arrest in the old town except Vult himself, probably, and maybe two or three others who are still alive. I just wish you could have been a little less accurate, or come to the wrong conclusion. But you said right out loud what a few people with very powerful connections have been whispering for more than a decade, and that’s why I was trying to talk you down. I think you may well be right: the Scytale of Corineus really is lost, here in Norostein.’

His words hung in the air and Alaron felt his skin go slick. He bowed his head and tried to breath.

‘Do you know what that piece of knowledge is worth?’ Muhren asked, then shook his head, answering his own question. ‘No, and neither do I. It’s priceless. If Argundy had the Scytale Pallas would fall. If the Rimoni got it – by Kore, if the Dhassans or the Keshi got it we’d be fighting the heathen right here in Yuros, and we’d be losing. There isn’t enough gold in the whole empire to buy that Scytale. The power to make Ascendants is the Imperial Throne’s greatest treasure, given only to their most trusted servants because they can’t risk making just anyone an Ascendant. And now you’ve voiced what only a few have dared whisper: that the Scytale’s lost … The emperor himself must be trembling every waking minute as he awaits news of some new Ascendant cabal come to destroy him. Can you imagine that?’

Alaron couldn’t. He whispered, ‘I just thought it was an interesting thesis topic … I thought I was being clever. I never really thought I might be right …’

They both fell silent for a minute, then Muhren questioned him about the theft: when had he noticed it, had he tried to work out who did it? He hadn’t. He’d been too broken to do anything that afternoon.

‘If you remember anything, if you think of anyone who might be connected, come to me,’ Muhren told him. He offered his hand, and Alaron slowly took it. Some part of him had begun to forgive the captain. ‘Good lad. You call me if you remember anything else. Or if Gron Koll comes back.’

After Muhren left Alaron just sat and watched the snow falling, wondering. He wished Ramon or Cym were here to talk to, but they were far away, and he was alone.

Vann Mercer drove and Alaron bounced around painfully in the back of the wagon. But Cym was sitting opposite him, and that was worth any amount of discomfort. They were on the road to Anborn Manor on a silver-sky day, their breath fogging in the still air. We’re off to break a few laws, Alaron reflected wonderingly as he stroked the hull of the skiff he and Cym had made.

Cym’s caravan had returned in mid-Febreux as spring woke the countryside, and now they were waiting on the unkempt lawn in front of the manor, under poor Gretchen’s worried gaze. She’d been alone here at the manor for some months, and she shared all the common fears the citizenry had of gypsies. Six gaudy wagons ringed the lawns and their owners spread out across the grass. There were more children in one spot than Alaron had seen since college, clad in a rainbow of colours and swirling about like butterflies. Their clamour was deafening. The Rimoni men were clad in white shirts and black leggings; their hands rested on their knife-hilts. The women, wrapped in shawls, were scowling in suspicion. Cym’d warned them that the Rimoni didn’t like magi, but they were here to cut a deal.

Willing hands helped Vann to empty the back of the wagon and lower the hull onto the ground, then Alaron directed the men as they bolted the mast and rudder together, and dealt with hanging the sail and untangling and fixing the rigging while his father sat with the head of the gypsies, Mercellus di Regia, Cym’s father, a tall, lithe man with flowing hair and an impressive moustache – a man who had made love to some unknown mage-woman and come away with the child – obviously a man to be reckoned with. He and Vann sipped coffee together and laughed over the confusion playing out before them, like lords enjoying a comedy troupe.

Alaron had hoped it would all be a bit more serious, but he wouldn’t even have got this far if Cym hadn’t appeared in the yard the previous week and offered to help. She was better than him at whatever they did, in this instance, enchanting the keel of the skiff so that it would absorb and utilise air-thaumaturgy. He looked across at her where she sat perched among the gypsy women, ignoring the young men hovering about her, muscular-looking youths with long hair and faces that didn’t look capable of smiling. They all looked at Alaron with superior hostility. But you lads can’t make things fly, Alaron thought. Of course, I’m not sure I can either yet. There’d been no chance of any test flight in the city, so they’d had no chance to practise – but if it worked, Cym’s father would buy it for a lot of money. So it had better work, he thought.

At last the skiff was ready. It was just a small two-person craft, single-masted, with a deep keel and six retractable landing forks. The woodwork was a little rough, he had to concede, though Cym had helped, and she was a half-decent Nature-mage, which he certainly wasn’t. She was a better Air-mage than him, too, but he knew the theory and had better training, which helped him feel like it was still mostly his project. Working alongside her had been wonderful; better yet was taking her hand and helping her board the skiff in front of all those glowering gypsy boys. All the children went ‘Oooo’ as they settled in readiness for the maiden flight.

‘Ready?’ he asked confidently.

Cym frowned. ‘Are you sure you know how to steer this thing?’

Alaron shrugged. ‘Nothing to it.’ Actually there probably was, but he could remember a few things from college – and anyway, what was the worst that could happen?

His father was holding a cup of thick black coffee. He gave an approving nod and Alaron waved back, then he turned his mind to the flight. Air-gnosis had always been hard for him, for he was an Earth-mage, the diametric opposite. But as he’d worked he had found a small affinity – and he’d also found that he’d enjoyed building the skiff, when he wasn’t picking splinters out of his fingernails.

I’d never have finished it without Cym, but she would never have known how to start without me. He closed his eyes and let the gnosis throb into the keel. The craft gave a small shudder and lifted slightly. He locked eyes with Cym in growing excitement as she poured in her own energy, slowly saturating the keel until the whole craft was straining against the moorings.

‘Cast off!’ he called, Cym translated into Rimoni and the young men jerked the slipknots mooring the skiff. It rose into the air, two feet, three feet, six, a dozen. Everyone gasped in excitement – and then a sudden gust swirled through the glade and filled the sails. Cym gave a small squeal and he grabbed at the tiller.

‘Turn!’ she shouted, pointing at the trees before them, and he laughed at her discomfort and pulled the tiller about so that they glided lazily about the glade. Below them, the Rimoni cheered and the children ran after them, waving wildly. He felt a swelling pride as he waved back. Even their fathers were on their feet.

All sorts of hopes bloomed inside him, but as they turned, they lost the breeze and the heavier aft end of the skiff dragged about so they were facing into the wind. That’s bad, isn’t it? he thought, trying not to worry. The sail flapped against the mast, then caught the wind again, but on the wrong side, and they began to drift slowly backwards, the tiller now useless.

That’s definitely bad, he admitted, while Cym screamed, ‘Alaron – do something!’ and gesticulated frantically behind him to where the giant window of his mother’s drawing room loomed.

‘Shit – take her down,’ he cried, trying to release the gnosis in the keel, but it was circulating inside the wood and he couldn’t draw it out quickly enough. Cym scrambled under the sail, but that just shifted most of the weight to the rear and the craft tipped backwards. Cym fell into his lap with a squeal, and below them the gypsies howled in dismay as the tip of the mast struck an upstairs window.

‘Rukk! Stop—’ Cym’s full weight fell onto him and her forehead caught him a dizzying blow. The craft lurched again, levelling out, then the drag from the mast made it pendulum forward and the rudder smashed through the drawing room window, right where his mother normally sat. The mast sheared off, dragging against the window frame, and the canvas ripped on the shards of glass falling all about them. He clutched Cym and tried to shield them both from the glass and timbers as the hull propelled itself into the room, smashing through an oil-painting of Lord Gracyn Anborn before wedging itself in the hole and settling amidst the ruined furniture.

Gretchen opened the door beside them, shrieked and vanished. Outside, all was silent. Alaron buried his face in Cym’s hair and prayed this wasn’t happening. She smelled of cloves and patchouli, and her body was firm and warm. Perhaps this was all a dream?

‘Alaron, let me go, you idiot,’ she hissed at him. She shoved herself backwards and staggered to her feet. ‘Rukka mio!’

He lifted his head and gazed about him. The room was a sea of debris. The broken mast was still fastened to the hull by tangled rigging, and its tip jutted out through the shattered window. There was broken glass everywhere.

Cym sank to her knees, her shoulders shaking. It took him a few seconds to realise that she was laughing hysterically.

But all that work … He felt more like crying than laughing, but when a sound finally gurgled up out of his throat, it was somewhere between the two. He rolled clear and lay panting in the midst of the destruction.

A few seconds later, a multitude of children peered through the window, chorusing, ‘Ooh!’

‘Cym?’ he finally managed, ‘do you think your father will still want to buy?’

There had been no deal, of course, but they had parted on good terms. ‘My daughter will help your son again,’ Mercellus told Vann. ‘This is better than the circus.’

Alaron didn’t feel too bad, all things considered. Yes, it had been a disaster, and yes, the Rimoni had laughed uproariously … but Cym had put her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. ‘We’ll make it work properly next time,’ she had whispered in his ear. That was worth more than gold.

Alaron sat alone in the stables of Anborn Manor, watching the rain plummeting down. It was the end of Febreux and Vann was away again. Cym was gone too, off with her kin, travelling somewhere in the lowlands to the north. The wind was moaning about the eaves like a man in pain, and the trees bent and branches whipped about. He hadn’t seen another soul apart from Gretchen for weeks, but that suited him, as he poured all of his concentration into the skiff. They had decided to repair it here, where he didn’t have to be so cautious of anyone sensing his gnosis. He worked on the house too, repairing the damage his skiff had caused as well as the depredations of winter.

He read up on piloting too. There was more to it than he’d thought.

‘Perhaps if you’d read all that first, we wouldn’t have crashed,’ Cym remarked before she left.

‘But that isn’t the way men learn things,’ he’d tried to explain.

Somehow his crippling depression had been jettisoned like ballast in a storm. Being active and having a purpose had helped, but mostly it was the company, he realised: people to share things with, to work alongside, to laugh with, to commiserate with. Even just a friendly cup of tea and honey cakes with Gretchen was enough to get him by.

He used the amber periapt sparingly and discreetly. Elsewhere, the legions were drilling and men and munitions were pouring into the capital, readying for the great march to Pontus. He would be one of the few young men left behind when six Noros legions marched off – but he was oddly content rebuilding the skiff and gently fanning the small fire he had built from the ashes of his life.

The spring rains had set in, so there would be no chance to test his repairs that afternoon. He settled his hand on the keel and closed his eyes, feeding it, gently exhaling his energies into the timber. If he had had his eyes open, he would have seen the wood take on a soft lustre in the dim light of the shadowy workroom.

He suddenly stiffened as a small surge of Air-gnosis flooded up the keel to greet him. He opened his eyes and groped about, feeling for the hammer. Someone moved in the gloom and he froze, his heart hammering.

An old man was standing at the opposite side of the workbench, staring down at his hands, which were touching the other end of the keel. Though tall, he was stooped, and his white hair was wild. His unkempt beard had twigs sticking out, and his eyes were unfocused. He looked like he’d been dragged through the undergrowth. Mud and grass stains smeared his ragged clothing – which, when Alaron looked closer, turned out to be just a nightshirt. He was soaking wet, as if he had just walked in out of the downpour.

‘Kore’s Cods – who the Hel are you?’ Alaron gasped, more startled than afraid.

The old man cowered. ‘Mmngh!’ he choked, then flinched at the sound of his own voice. ‘Mmngh!’ He clapped a hand over his own mouth and fell to his knees.

‘Sir – sir?’ Alaron grabbed a horse-blanket and ran to him. ‘Here, let me help.’

The old man looked up at him, his eyes wide with dread. ‘Gggnhh!’ His eyeballs rolled back in his sockets and he toppled over, senseless.

Alaron yelled to Gretchen for help.