The Larion Senators

MONTHS AND TWINMOONS

Gabriel O’Reilly moved undetected through the Malakasian ranks, flitting between rocks and trees in his search for Mark Jenkins. It was obvious the dark-skinned foreigner might look less conspicuous than he had in the Blackstones, when he had been wearing a bright red pullover and a pair of unusual leather boots, but Gabriel was still hopeful.

The infantry battalion stationed at Wellham Ridge did have several soldiers with dark skin, natives of the Ronan South Coast whose families had emigrated to Malakasia generations earlier. Gabriel passed as close to these few as he dared, careful not to make contact for fear of alerting them to his presence. The soldiers were weary and footsore, and it looked like most had been marching about as long as they physically could without a break. Some moved as if in a trance, mumbling strange sounds, barely able to lift their feet. There was a nervous lieutenant and an angry captain, both on horseback.

A rank of horse-drawn wagons loaded with all manner of engineering equipment, shovels, picks, heavy digging tools, pulleys and great coils of rope passed next. Even the horses looked tired out by the forced march. A soldier, a corporal, Gabriel thought, sat astride a splintery wooden bench in one of the wagons, loosely holding the reins and staring south along the trail through slitted eyes, seeing little, allowing the horses to meander down the path at their own pace.

Something – someone – was pushing these men southwards, Gabriel thought, but which one was it? Which one was Mark Jenkins?

A second company followed the wagons and Gabriel searched their ranks, coming as close as he dared to the dark-skinned soldiers but still finding nothing but angry, sick or terrified conscripts on the march into an unknown engagement with an unknown foe. There were two more tired lieutenants and another irritated captain, but no one Gabriel could sense in command of the battalion, no one obviously hell-bent on moving such a large force south into the foothills so quickly, with neither adequate provisions nor rest.

As the last of the soldiers passed him, Gabriel considered actually searching within their ranks; so many were nearly crippled with fatigue that he was sure he could move right through them and no one would be any the wiser…

Then she was there, materialising as if from behind a mystical cloak, a woman, the markings of a major on her sleeve, sitting astride a roan horse, and Gabriel cursed himself for a fool: he had been searching for a man.

‘Lovely to see you again, Mr O’Reilly,’ Major Tavon said.

‘I saved your life in that storm, Mark.’

‘You shouldn’t have.’

‘You wanted to go home.’

‘And you were going to come with us,’ she said as the last squad disappeared over a snowy rise, ‘back home, after one hundred and thirty-five years.’

‘Come with me now, Mark.’

‘You were going to Heaven to see your God.’

‘Our God.’

‘Not any more, O’Reilly.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘And this time, I want you to stay dead.’

Gabriel tried to flee over the river, to let his spectral body fade to fog, but he was too slow. Mark had him. Reaching out, the major – of course it was the major, stupid – caught him in midair, his mystical grip as strong as a blacksmith’s vice. Gabriel dived for the protection of the earth, hoping to bury himself in the frost and frozen mud of the riverbank, but Mark wouldn’t allow it.

Holding fast to the wraith, the major said, ‘You have been a troublesome fellow, Gabriel, troublesome indeed. But not any more.’

The former bank manager and erstwhile Union Army soldier watched as the forest itself began to melt. The colours, green, brown and white, ran together like a child’s drawing left out in the rain, and a dark cleft opened behind the major’s horse. Gabriel had seen it before and the realisation was quick to sink in: this time it would be for ever.

A recalcitrant Mark tried to rise up, to scream, but the presence keeping him inside Major Tavon’s body cried, ‘Shut up, you! Gods, but you are annoying! I expected more from you, more toughness, more resilience.’

‘Don’t,’ Mark pleaded, ‘stop this – he’s never harmed anyone.’

‘Shut up!’ Mark felt the hand again, that invisible weight pressing against his chest, against the major’s chest, stopping his air and leaving him gasping.

It’s killing itself, Mark thought. Jesus Christ, it’s willing to kill itself to make a point.

‘I’m not doing anything to him,’ the voice boomed, ‘you are, Mark Jenkins. I can’t do anything, I can’t harm one forgotten hair on his translucent head without you. So before you start assigning blame, remember, you represent half of this marriage, my friend.’

‘No,’ Mark wheezed, the pain in his chest too great. He saw exploding points of yellow light and then fell back into the space he had been allotted, his arms and legs paralysed, his senses dulled and his breathing jagged.

He watched through Major Tavon’s eyes as Gabriel O’Reilly disappeared inside what Mark guessed was one of the tears Steven had seen at the Idaho Springs Landfill. Mark hadn’t been able to see them before. He could now.

‘Blackford!’ Major Tavon screamed along the ragged line of Malakasian soldiers.

The lieutenant hurried to her side. One of the sergeants in Captain Hershaw’s company had built a small fire and was brewing tecan and preparing a hasty meal for the officers. Blackford gulped his tecan, scalding his mouth and throat, and hustled to the front of the line despite aching feet, blisters and a throbbing twinge in his lower back. As dawn approached the major had agreed to a much-needed break. The battalion had marched nonstop since the previous evening and the men were in sore need of rest. They had arrived at the glen where, unbeknownst to them, Steven, Gilmour and Nerak had battled to the death just a few days earlier. Major Tavon rode down to the riverside and stared as if expecting Bellan Whitward to peek out from behind the field of boulders. The ravages of Steven’s fire had been covered by new snow, likewise the chitinous remains of the dead bone-collectors.

‘We’ve made it here in a day and two nights,’ she said to Lieutenant Blackford.

‘I am impressed. You can tell the soldiers that.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. I’m sure they’ll be pleased to hear it.’

‘They are to have a full aven’s rest. My orders are to drink plenty of water – the river is clean enough – and have them eat their fill.’ The major herself had not rested since their departure from Wellham Ridge. She had twice dismounted to allow her horse to feed, but other than that, she had been in the saddle the entire time. ‘Feed them now, and have them go directly to sleep. I want to make twenty, perhaps twenty-five miles, before the dinner aven tonight.’

Like dozen, Blackford had no idea what a mile might be, but he didn’t question the officer, who had been saying indecipherable things for the past five days now. Lieutenant Blackford had resigned himself to the fact that made-up words must be another symptom of the major’s illness.

‘And have Captain Hershaw and Captain Denne ride up here for their orders,’ Major Tavon went on, oblivious to the lieutenant’s train of thought. ‘I want Denne here along the river and Hershaw’s men fanned out to our west. They won’t cross the river, but they might try to move out towards the Ravenian Sea. The terrain that way is unforgiving, but eventually it would bring them closer to Orindale and potential escape.’

‘Er, who, ma’am?’

‘Some old friends of mine.’ Tavon glanced back towards the river. ‘And Blackford, bring me some of that tecan.’

‘Tecan?’

‘Yes, lieutenant, you reek of it. I like mine with an extra pinch of leaves right in the goblet. Like they serve it at the Cafe du Monde.’

Major Tavon discussed the day’s march with Captain Denne and Captain Hershaw, the ranking officers after her.

‘It will be more difficult going, but I still think we can make twenty miles with your men fanned out to the west,’ she announced.

Captain Hershaw, a young man considered a bit of a rising star in the Falkan occupation forces, did not presume to correct the major. He had lost seventeen soldiers to fatigue, injury and illness since leaving Wellham Ridge, soldiers he had been forced to leave behind because the major would not hear of providing an escort to safety. He hoped they would survive the journey on their own; at least the snow had stopped and the trail behind them was clear.

It had been three days since they’d sent riders to fetch Colonel Pace and he expected the colonel to have arrived in Wellham Ridge by the time the battalion returned from this fool’s errand. The colonel would address Major Tavon’s unconventional behaviour and brutality, so until then he would keep his mouth shut.

‘I’d like your soldiers in a line, two-deep, running out from the river, maybe five hundred paces through the forest, longer if you can keep them all headed south at roughly the same clip,’ the major went on, pointing.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Hershaw answered smartly. It was a ridiculous order, but he would ensure his men complied as best they could. Marching all day spread out in a line five hundred paces long would guarantee that by nightfall, he and his lieutenants would spend a half-aven retrieving everyone who had been lost or had fallen behind. No matter; they would weather this temporary storm, and Colonel Pace would reward him for it.

Tavon went on, ‘And you, Captain Denne, will remain here along the river.’

‘Why?’ Denne, a career soldier with more than two hundred Twinmoons’ service, was incredulous. ‘Why stretch Hershaw all the way out into the forest while my men remain bunched up here?’

A momentary look of irritation clouded Major Tavon’s face. She didn’t appreciate having her strategies questioned, even by a seasoned officer. ‘Because, Captain, we are tracking an extremely crafty and resourceful prey, a Larion Senator and a young sorcerer of tremendous ability.’

‘Two men?’ Denne said. ‘We’ve run the entire battalion down here for two men?’

‘Two very powerful men, Captain. And while I expect they will stick to the river, they probably know we are coming and might try to sneak off to the west and work their way around us. They are hauling a large and cumbersome cargo so their progress will be extremely slow, but I do not wish to lose them because I failed to dispatch at least a token force to keep an eye on western routes around our line.’

‘You’re mad,’ Denne said.

‘Captain, don’t-’ Hershaw interrupted, but Denne ignored him.

‘You’ve lost your mind; you realise that?’ Denne gripped his saddle horn with trembling fingers. ‘We’ve lost men coming out here. Our position north of Wellham Ridge is compromised. Our soldiers are collapsing with fatigue, and for what? For two men – one a Larion Senator? – hauling a wagon loaded with a cargo so large and heavy that we could take them with a squad, never mind an entire battalion?’ Denne’s voice rose as he continued, ‘Please, Major Tavon, I’m begging you to turn us back to the Ridge. You need to see a healer, a team of healers.’ He glanced at Hershaw and Blackford for support, but finding none, he pressed on. ‘People are dying, Major, our people, and more will die if we march all day today!’

The spell struck Captain Denne in the chest, ripping through layers of leather and cloth to his flesh, crushing his ribs, perforating his lungs and tearing his heart free with an audible ripping sound. Blood splashed Captain Hershaw’s face, but it was not the steaming fluid that caused him to shudder, but the unholy sound of whatever Major Tavon had called upon to eviscerate Captain Denne going about its work. He had never heard anything at all like the sound of his colleague, his friend, being torn to pieces in front of him.

Captain Denne, his body torn apart, pumping out blood, gurgled incoherently and tumbled from the saddle.

‘Captain Blackford,’ the major said, emphasising the field promotion, ‘see to it that your men are ready to accompany me along the river. Captain Hershaw’s soldiers will fan out, two-deep, to our right and make their way through the forest today.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The newly minted Captain Blackford was quaking too furiously to hide it.

Major Tavon didn’t seem to care. ‘Very good.’ She looked down at Captain Denne’s carcass. Blood had bubbled up between his lips and one eye was half open. ‘I’m glad to see I can still do that.’

Captain Hershaw swallowed hard. This was no illness; Major Tavon was a demon, possessed by something evil, perhaps from Welstar Palace. He had never been there himself, but he had heard the legends. Clearing his throat, he asked, ‘Might I be excused, ma’am? I have preparations to make.’

‘Of course, Captain, of course,’ Major Tavon said. ‘I’ll see you for dinner tonight.’

Hershaw’s mind was blank. Should he run? Should he order the major taken under arrest? Should he direct his soldiers to sneak away during the day, to circle back and meet him in Wellham Ridge? He needed time to think, but she wasn’t giving him any. He swallowed again, wiped Denne’s blood from his face and said, ‘Very good, ma’am.’

‘One last thing,’ she added. ‘If you should come upon these two men, I want you to keep them alive for me. They can be broken, battered, missing limbs and crying for mercy, but I do need to speak with them before they die. Is that understood, gentlemen?

Blackford and Hershaw answered in unison, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

As he accompanied a trembling Blackford back through the lines of sleeping soldiers, Captain Hershaw overhead Major Tavon say, ‘I’m going to find you, Steven.’

*

‘Where were the moons last night?’ Garec asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Steven said. ‘They were in the north two nights ago. The clouds were heavy, though, and I didn’t see them for more than a moment.’

‘I haven’t noticed either,’ Kellin said.

‘So we don’t know how long it’s been?’ Garec said.

Steven said, ‘We can figure it out.’

‘All right. We left Traver’s Notch the same day Gita sent a rider to Capehill to get that magician, the one Gilmour is going to knock senseless.’

‘Stalwick,’ Gilmour added.

‘That’s him,’ Garec said, ‘and then we were… what? Fifteen days crossing the plains? It was so rutting cold out there, I can’t remember. Was it fifteen days before we ran into that cavalry battalion?’

‘I think so,’ Gilmour said, ‘then two in Wellham Ridge, three days to reach the glen, four more days to get here and one day to excavate the spell table.’

‘That’s twenty-five days,’ Steven said. ‘That should be enough time for Stalwick to get back to Traver’s Notch, right?’

‘Assuming they found him,’ Garec cautioned.

‘We have to take that chance,’ Steven said. ‘We have to contact Gita and get her marching on Capehill – we need the distraction to get the spell table out of here and hidden somewhere Mark will never think to look for it.’

‘Wellham Ridge?’ Kellin asked.

‘How about Orindale?’ Garec said.

‘I was thinking more like South Dakota or Paraguay or New Zealand.’

‘Ah,’ Garec said, ‘your side of town.’

‘Exactly,’ Steven turned to Gilmour, ‘and why not? We have the portals; we have that book. All Mark has is the keystone. If we get rid of the table, he’s screwed.’ Steven sounded childishly hopeful.

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Gilmour said.

‘But it would at least allow us to focus on Mark,’ Steven clarified. ‘Except for whatever damage he’d be doing with the occupation army – and I’ll grant that could be significant – he won’t be able to open the Fold. Evil’s ascendancy will be delayed, possibly for ever.’

‘He will come for us,’ Gilmour said, ‘for us, for the portals, and for our knowledge of where the table is hidden.’

‘Exactly. He’d be where we need him to be. We’re the only ones who have a chance of standing against him, and if he’s pursuing us, we’ll know where he is and what he’s doing. Gita can occupy the military in the east for a while, hopefully long enough for us to face Mark on our terms.’

Gilmour nodded slowly. ‘By now the forces called in to secure Orindale will be back on their normal patrols. Gita will face a relatively small force when they march on Capehill. She might just take the city.’

‘That would certainly agitate things over here,’ Garec said. ‘It’d buy us time and a much-needed distraction to get rid of this table.’

Brand interrupted, ‘But if Mark has infiltrated the occupation army, would he not have sent word to Capehill that Gita’s planning an assault?’

‘Probably,’ Steven said, ‘but it’s a long ride up there, so we may still have time to warn Gita that her cover’s blown.’

Gilmour agreed. ‘Right. And I don’t want to contact Stalwick until enough time has passed for Gita to get him into Traver’s Notch. Knocking him senseless on a Capehill street won’t do anyone any good.’

Kellin asked, ‘Steven, when will Hannah’s mother open her portal again?’

‘At seven a.m. on February twelfth,’ he said. ‘It’ll be open for fifteen minutes.’

‘Grand,’ Garec sighed, ‘and when is that?’

Steven started calculating.

‘While he’s thinking, what do we do with the table until febrerry-twelf?’ Brand asked.

‘We find a barn, someplace out of the way, and hide the table there,’ Gilmour suggested. ‘It’s too cold to keep it here, and with Mark coming for us we can’t hide out here in the Vale; we’ll be found.’

‘Or we’ll freeze to death,’ Kellin added.

‘That, too,’ Gilmour said. ‘There were a few farms between Wellham Ridge and the glen where we faced down Nerak. If one of those farmers would permit us to hide this in a barn, we can stay cosy, eat well and get caught up on our sleep while we wait around for Mrs Sorenson.’

‘Won’t Mark search every farm south of the foothills?’ Kellin asked.

‘Probably,’ Gilmour said, ‘but he knows that Gita is marching on Capehill so he might dispatch most of the Wellham Ridge battalion to assist in the north.’

‘That would leave him searching for us by himself,’ Garec said.

‘Just as Steven wants it,’ Brand said.

‘So, when do you plan to clobber this Stalwick fellow?’ Garec asked.

Brand said, ‘I do wish I could be there to see that one.’

‘You know him?’

‘Gods, yes,’ Kellin said. ‘He is, without hesitation, the worst Resistance fighter I have ever seen in my life. He remains the only soldier I’ve ever seen who I wished would defect and fight for the other side, because that would increase our chances of victory severalfold.’

‘Well then, I will delight in contacting him,’ Gilmour said.

‘Make it hurt,’ Brand added with an uncharacteristic smile.

‘I think I’ve got it,’ Steven interrupted. ‘It isn’t exactly right, but all this time I’ve been calculating based on a twenty-four-hour day in Colorado and a twenty-hour day here in Eldarn. I think I’m off by just a bit; I’d tell you exactly how much, but for that I either need a bit of paper or a calculator. At the moment, I have neither; so, you’ll just have to bear with me and accept the error margin. Agreed?’

Kellin shook her head, bemused. ‘What’s an hour?’

‘Actually, Kellin,’ Steven smiled, ‘it doesn’t really matter. Consider it one twenty-fourth of a day in my world or about one twentieth of a day here in Eldarn.’

‘Good enough,’ she said, ‘go on.’

‘When I left Colorado, it was at dawn on a Friday morning, October seventeenth. To my recollection, Mark and I were in Eldarn for sixty-six days before I fell back through the portal into Charleston Harbour. Now, if a day in Eldarn is twenty hours long, then I would take the sixty-six days we spent travelling through Rona and Falkan and multiply it by point eight three, or five-sixths, to get the amount of time that elapsed in Colorado while we were gone.’

‘You’re losing me,’ Garec confessed.

‘I’ll go slower,’ Steven said.

‘Thanks. My mother dropped me when I was a kid. Maths and I have never seen eye to eye.’

‘So what I’m saying is that sixty-six days in Eldarn equals fifty-five days in Colorado. So I should have arrived in Charleston exactly seven weeks and six days later. Right?’

Garec shrugged. ‘Your lips are moving, Steven, but I just hear noise.’

Gilmour said, ‘Steven, you should have arrived in Charleston on a Thursday in December.’

‘Top marks, Gilmour,’ Steven said, ‘Thursday, December eleventh, to be precise.’

‘But you didn’t,’ Brand guessed.

‘No, I didn’t,’ Steven said. ‘I arrived on Tuesday, the ninth, and returned here to the fjord north of Orindale on Friday, the twelfth.’ He grimaced as he remembered the dreadful tragedy at Charleston Airport and his sleepless three-day race to the Idaho Springs Landfill and Lessek’s key.

‘All right,’ Gilmour said, ‘so, you’re off by forty-eight hours, give or take a few. Over sixty-six days, that’s less than an hour a day. Who cares?’

‘We all will if we choose the wrong date to bring this table over to Jennifer Sorenson, and she hasn’t begun opening and closing the far portal yet.’

‘That might drop us anywhere, right?’ Garec asked.

‘The bottom of the ocean, the top of a mountain glacier, anywhere.’ Steven grimaced. ‘Not helpful.’

‘All of a sudden, you have my undivided attention.’

Gilmour looked confused. ‘What does your first trip have to do with when Jennifer Sorenson will open her portal tapestry?’

‘When I left Denver on Friday, the twelfth, Jennifer agreed to open the portal at seven a.m. and p.m. every day and keep it open for fifteen minutes, but she wasn’t going to begin for two months.’

‘Two months? Why?’

‘Because I figured we would need that much time to find Hannah in Praga.’

‘I don’t understand any of what you’re saying, Steven,’ Brand interrupted. ‘How does this tell us when we can get rid of this table?’

‘Sorry, Brand,’ Steven said, ‘it’s a little complicated. Since I came back to Eldarn, I think about seventy days have elapsed – I’m a bit fuzzy on our time at Sandcliff Palace.’

‘It wasn’t the most gripping holiday I’ve ever taken either,’ Garec said.

‘Anyway,’ Steven went on, ‘seventy days here is the equivalent to fifty-eight days in Colorado.’ He’d missed his maths quandaries.

‘Give or take,’ Gilmour clarified.

‘So February twelfth is sixty-two Colorado days since I last saw Jennifer Sorenson.’

Garec sat up, finally grasping Steven’s problem. ‘That means we have to wait four days before Jennifer opens the portal?’

‘We should wait six or even seven days,’ Gilmour said. ‘Remember, you were off by a couple of days last time.’

‘True, but then again, maybe I miscounted the days we were travelling. Some of our time in the Blackstones is more than a little hazy in my memory.’

‘All the more reason to be cautious.’ Gilmour was convinced he was right. ‘The last thing I want to do is to drag this thing through the jungles of Siam just because you made a maths error.’

‘Uh, Gilmour?’ Steven said.

‘What?’

‘Siam isn’t really there any more.’

‘What in the rutting world have you done with it?’ Gilmour feigned shock and horror.

‘We call it Thailand now.’

‘What kind of rutting name is that?’ he huffed. ‘I enjoyed Siam, wonderful cuisine.’

‘Sorry.’

Brand said, ‘So we find a barn, hide out for six days and then take this thing across the Fold?’

‘Yup.’

‘Very well,’ Brand said, ‘I think it’s time to alert Gita. With luck, they can be marching on Capehill in six days – and even if Mark has sent riders north, they won’t reach Traver’s Notch until well after the army has begun moving.’ He looked down at his boots.

Gilmour read his mind. ‘Feel free to go, Brand. Seeing us to Wellham Ridge and then through Meyers’ Vale was courageous; both you and Kellin have done more than we should have asked.’

‘I don’t even know how many of my company made it back to Traver’s Notch,’ Brand said quietly.

Steven gestured towards Kellin. ‘You two ought to be able to get back without any trouble. Travelling as a couple, you can pass yourselves off as almost anyone. The work we have yet to do here is all voodoo anyway; Gilmour and I can handle it.’

Brand pressed his lips into another rare smile. ‘Thank you. But I feel as though Gita would want us to remain with you two, at least until the table is safe. With Mark Jenkins almost certainly coming south to find you, I worry-’

‘You can bring nothing to bear against Mark,’ Steven interrupted. ‘Our best option is to avoid him until Gilmour and I can figure out how to divorce him from the spirit holding him hostage.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ Steven said, ‘it’s not your fault. Gilmour’s right: you and Kellin have done far more than Gita expected of you, of that, I’m certain. You belong with your comrades. Go to them.’

Garec had been staring out between the trees, watching the river wind its way towards Orindale. He looked over at Kellin; she avoided his gaze.

Gilmour broke the tension. ‘There is one more thing you can do for us, Brand.’

‘What’s that?’ Kellin was happy to have something to say.

‘Find us a farm. We can’t be carting this table back and forth across the valley. Ride ahead; watch for Malakasian scouts; I’m sure they’re out there.’

‘Unless it’s Mark travelling alone,’ Garec said.

‘Great gods, if you encounter him, don’t engage him, no matter what he might say or do, no matter how innocent he seems,’ Gilmour said in a rush. ‘Turn and flee; get back to us as quickly as you can – in fact, stay off this path. We’ll move into the forest as well. It’ll be more difficult, but riding along this river is inviting trouble.’

‘Very well,’ Brand said, looking at Kellin. The Falkan woman didn’t appear to share Brand’s enthusiasm for the assignment, but she nodded regardless. From what Steven had told her, coming close enough to hear what Mark might have to say, innocent or not, would mean death for them both.

‘Find us a farm,’ Gilmour said, ‘then ride for Capehill. You’ll be there in ten, maybe twelve, days with hard riding and a fair wind.’

‘This time of year you never can predict the storms across the plains; they can be merciless.’ Garec caught Kellin’s eye and blushed. He silently chided himself for a fool; this was no time for childhood crushes.

‘Can you give us a few days? Perhaps three or four?’ Brand asked. ‘Let us find a farm tomorrow, a suitable place for you to secrete the table until the path across the Fold is clear. Then, give us a couple days to ride; I’d like to be north of Wellham Ridge before you knock Stalwick senseless. Maybe if Gita is delayed, even a few days, and we ride hard, we can reach our lines before they engage at Capehill.’

‘I will wait until the day Steven, Garec and I plan to open the portal and escort the spell table into Colorado,’ Gilmour said. ‘That gives you six days. You understand that I don’t want to wait longer than that for fear that we may find ourselves across the Fold for more than just an aven or two.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Garec looked nervously back and forth between Steven and Gilmour. It was apparent that he had not considered making the trip.

‘Ah, Garec, you’ll love it,’ Steven said. ‘I’ll take you for Thai food.’

*

‘Thadrake?’ Jacrys wheezed. He blinked to clear his blurry vision, but it didn’t help. He rubbed his eyes, then closed them and pressed down hard; he saw bursts of yellow, red and gold. Afterward, he could see well enough to discern that night had fallen and someone was moving about in the corner of the room, maybe folding blankets. The master spy was afraid that in addition to stabbing him through the lung, barely missing his heart, Sallax, that horsecock from Estrad, had hit him hard enough to leave his vision permanently out of focus. Remembering the fight in Carpello’s warehouse, the way Brexan had distracted him while Sallax tried to crush his skull with a table leg, Jacrys seethed. ‘I’m glad you’re dead, you bastard rutter,’ he muttered.

‘I’m sorry, sir?’ The voice was male, a soldier, probably. Jacrys guessed he had been straightening up the room.

‘Where’s Thadrake?’

‘The captain, sir? Uh, he’s downstairs, sir, eating a bit of supper.’

Jacrys took a deep breath. It wasn’t much; he guessed something less than half his left lung inflated, and that was with painful effort. When he inhaled, his breath made a sound like air being blown through a hollow tree. Breathing out was even worse, wet and rattling, like wagon wheels rolling over loose gravel.

‘Get him now,’ he managed. Three words without panting. Gods…

‘Would you like some broth, sir? Maybe some soft bread?’

‘Wine or beer,’ Jacrys murmured, ‘I don’t care which.’

Jacrys let his body relax as the soldier hurried to do his bidding. He concentrated on his breathing – in through a hollow tree and out over loose gravel, hollow tree, loose gravel, again and again – until he fell asleep.

‘Sir?’ Captain Thadrake was young and trim and looked good in his uniform. He’d been ingratiating himself to Colonel Pace, perhaps even to General Oaklen – it wouldn’t be long before Captain Thadrake became Commander Thadrake, or even Major Thadrake. If he kept from making any big mistakes or from getting himself, or his company, into any trouble, he might end up serving Prince Malagon as an Eastland colonel. That’s a no-win appointment, Jacrys thought.

‘Wine?’ Jacrys licked his split and swollen lips.

The captain bent to help him drink. ‘Take your time, sir. I’ve got plenty.’

Jacrys drank, revelling in the familiar flavour. It wasn’t the best he’d ever tasted, but given the circumstances, it was a drink worthy of the gods. ‘Am I dying?’ he asked. He wasn’t one to hide from the bald truth. He stared up at the good-looking captain.

‘No sir; you’re a gods-rutting mess, sir, but you’ll live.’ He offered more wine, but Jacrys shook his head. ‘Two partisans broke in here, hoping to kill you,’ Thadrake continued. ‘They started a fire in the encampment, sneaked past the overnight watch, killed Hendrick, my assistant, and then stabbed you, sir. It was-’

‘Sallax and Brexan,’ Jacrys interrupted, wheezing. ‘I saw them here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘More, please.’

Thadrake was surprised to hear the Malakasian spy, usually a disagreeable bastard, say “please”. He held the goblet against Jacrys’ lips.

‘Malagon?’

‘No one has seen him, sir, not since the late-autumn Twinmoon. That’s about ninety days now, sir. There are all manner of rumours going about the city, but the only credible ones suggest that he’s gone into hiding, that he drowned on the Prince Marek the night it went down, or that he was blown up and the locals took his body as some kind of twisted prize. I don’t like thinking that one, sir, but it might have happened.’

Jacrys nodded. It would take too much effort to explain to the ambitious Captain Thadrake how little he cared.

‘And I’ve just heard from a lieutenant who supervises shipments down at the wharf that word is coming in that Bellan Whitward has gone missing as well.’

Jacrys breathed – hollow tree, loose gravel – and said, ‘So no one’s home at Welstar Palace? That’s interesting.’ His last words were lost behind an especially wet and noisy breath.

‘Correct, sir. There’s no one watching the store, so to speak.’

‘Oaklen?’

‘Gone east with the bulk of the division brought up here for the blockade. I think he’s going with them to Estrad, at least into Rona, to meet with the officers down there.’

‘And Pace?’ Jacrys was growing weary; even the few words he had managed were tiring him out.

‘The colonel was called away in a hurry, sir, some trouble in Wellham Ridge. One of his majors, Nell Tavon – do you know her, sir? She’s Malagon’s soldier to the core – has had some kind of breakdown. She’s run up into the hills with most of the Ridge battalion. Denne and Hershaw are the two captains. I don’t know much about Denne; he’s a bit older, but Hershaw and I trained together back in Averil Twinmoons ago. They managed to get a rider out with an urgent message to Colonel Pace. He mustered a guard and left as quickly as possible.’

Jacrys could not have cared less.

Thadrake held up the goblet. ‘More wine, sir?’

Jacrys nodded. Yes, Captain, keep it coming. I want to sleep tonight, not the drug-induced sleep of querlis, but the deep slumber of a good wine drunk. He swallowed deeply several times until Thadrake cut him off.

‘Whoa there, sir. This doesn’t mix well with the querlis.’ He set the goblet aside. ‘We’ll never get you up tomorrow.’

‘Brexan?’

‘No sign of her, sir. She just disappeared. If she’d been running with Sallax, then I guess she knows all the places along the waterfront where he was hiding.’ He shifted the bedside candle, throwing a bit more light onto Jacrys’ face. ‘I found them in a tavern I had been searching with a squad of Seron warriors from the blockade; Sallax was posing as a simpleton, and Brexan had been pretending to whore for the scullery staff. We overlooked them a couple times; Sallax was surprisingly convincing as an addled idiot. I guess there really was something wrong with him. Brexan must have known what she was doing to get the two of them into the barracks and all the way up here to your bedside without alerting anyone. We’re blanketing the waterfront with surprise searches. We haven’t found anything yet, but we will.’

No you won’t, you fool, Jacrys thought.

‘Are you sure you don’t want any food, sir?’ He produced a bowl of broth and a chunk of fresh bread. ‘I might be able to find a pastry or two in the city, even at this aven. I know you like those, sir.’

Jacrys braced himself, inhaled through his discomfort and said, ‘I want to go home.’

‘Home, sir?’

‘Tell Pace; tell Oaklen, you’re taking me home.’

‘To… Malakasia, sir?’

Jacrys nodded.

Thadrake tried to hide his enthusiasm. He hadn’t been home in nearly twenty Twinmoons, and while being stationed here at Oaklen’s command post was good for his career, escorting the prince’s personal espionage agent back home to retire, to die – to dance with a malodorous fat man from Port Denis, who cares? – would be a way to remain in Oaklen’s good graces, to serve the prince’s personal staff and to get back home for a Twinmoon or two. He would be packed and ready within the aven. ‘Shall I charter a boat, sir, or would you rather take a naval cutter?’

‘Private-’ Jacrys was fading. One eye fluttered shut, while the other found Thadrake. ‘Carpello’s yacht.’

‘Very good, sir. I’ll take care of that tomorrow and report back when it’s arranged.’ Thadrake paused. ‘Of course, I’ll have to check with General Oaklen’s healer as to when you can be moved.’

Jacrys managed a half-shake of his head. ‘Bring him,’ he whispered.

‘Bring him, sir?’ Thadrake beamed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And send riders.’

Captain Thadrake leaned in close to make out what his patient was saying. ‘Riders to Colonel Pace and General Oaklen?’ He couldn’t just leave; he had to ask. Pace and Oaklen needed to know, and grant their permission. His mind raced. ‘Where should I tell them we’re headed, sir? They’ll want to know where we’ve gone.’

‘Pellia,’ Jacrys whispered. ‘I have a safe house over the wharf in Pellia. I’ll stay there.’

‘Pellia.’ Thadrake waited for Jacrys to drift off, then gulped the rest of the wine. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said to the gaunt, sickly form lying asleep in the middle of the chamber, ‘I’ll tell them you’ve ordered us back to your home in Pellia. I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow, sir.’

Jacrys didn’t hear him; he was already lost in the brilliant dreams that followed closely on the heels of querlis leaves and wine. Brexan Carderic and he were on the narrow strip of sand that passed for a beach outside Pellia during the summer Twinmoon. Across the inlet from the city, the beach could be accessed via private ferries, usually little more than floating flotsam manned by entrepreneurial vagrants. Jacrys had paddled across the river in his father’s rowboat, dodging genuine barges, Malakasian naval ships and fishing trawlers to reach the ribbon of sand. Even now, two hundred Twinmoons and an almost-mortal wound later, Jacrys still dreamed of the beach, where a hundred million tiny seashells lay upon the sand in a jumbled, glittering mosaic of beige, white and black. It was the most beautiful place that Jacrys Marseth had ever seen, and he was there now, back home with Brexan. She had won his respect, proving herself a talented spy, even if not quite a killer. He dreamed of breathing deeply again, of smelling the salt, the tide and the sea air. Breathing with the lungs of his childhood, he quietly inhaled the very essence of Brexan, touching her, feeling her body respond to his gentle caresses, and then cutting her open and watching as her lovely face twisted itself into a mask of terror.