The Spell of Undoing Read online

  The Spell of Undoing

  Paul Collins is best known for his fantasy and science fiction series: The Jelindel Chronicles, The Earthborn Wars, and The Quentaris Chronicles, which he co-edits with Michael Pryor. Along with a dozen anthologies, he edited The MUP Encyclopaedia of Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy. His current project is The World of Grrym series in collaboration with Danny Willis.

  Paul has been short-listed for many awards for his fiction, and has won the Peter McNamara, Aurealis and William Atheling awards.

  Visit Paul's websites at:

  www.paulcollins.com.au

  and

  www.quentaris.com

  Also by Paul Collins

  The Wizard's Torment

  Dragonlinks

  Dragonfang

  Dragonsight

  Wardragon

  Swords of Quentaris

  Slaves of Quentaris

  Dragonlords of Quentaris

  Princess of Shadows

  The Forgotten Prince

  Vampires of Quentaris

  The Earthborn

  The Skyborn

  The Hiveborn

  Cyberskin

  Allira's Gift (with Danny Willis)

  Lords of Quibbitt (with Danny Willis)

  THE SPELL OF UNDOING

  Paul Collins

  First published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204

  Melbourne Victoria Australia

  This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests and inquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd, 2 Ford Street, Clifton Hill

  VIC 3068.

  First published 2008

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Collins, Paul, 1954-.

  The spell of undoing.

  ISBN 9781876462536 (pbk.)

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  Interior illustrations © Fernando Molinari

  Visit: www.fernandomolinari.com.ar

  Cover design by Grant Gittus Graphics

  Cover art by Jeremy Maitland-Smith

  Text © Paul Collins 2008. Visit www.paulcollins.com.au

  Ford Street website: www.fordstreetpublishing.com

  Series editors: Paul Collins and Michael Pryor

  In-house editor: Saralinda Turner

  Consultant: Randal Flynn

  Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group

  CONTENTS

  1. A Deal Is Struck

  2. A Spell Backfires

  3. One Year Later

  4. The Clash

  5. The Raiding Party

  6. Kidnapped!

  7. Desperate Escape

  8. Shipwrecked

  9. The Vortex

  10. The New World

  To Jenny Mounfield –

  for much-needed advice

  A DEAL IS STRUCK

  Tab Vidler was having a bad day and it was about to get worse. She wrung out her mop and rested on its handle. By her reckoning, it was her birthday. But no one at the orphanage knew, and none would care even if they did. She couldn't even afford to buy herself something special to celebrate. The Dung Brigaders weren't aid for their work – it was enough, said Mrs Figgin, the orphanage owner, to have a roof over their heads and two square meals a day. Grub ’n’ keep, it was called.

  Bone-weary, Tab sighed. She had just scrubbed the latrines, mopped the floors, washed and dried the morning's dishes, and next she was expected to go to market and collect the dung deposited by an army of horses, oxen, and other creatures used to haul wagons. All she wanted to do was lie down and daydream of being a famous magician like Nisha Fairsight – someone who commanded great respect in the community. A person of restrained power. Someone people left alone. Of course, if she'd had even a smidgen of magical power she would have cast a spell on the orphanage, making it sparkling clean. Then she could have had the day off and gone to the Great River celebrations on the eastern bank, just beyond the cemetery. Everyone was either going or had gone already. Everyone except her, and those Dung Brigaders currently sweeping the streets.

  Tab paused by a window. A family, mother and father, boy and girl, strolled past the orphanage. They were laughing. Tab's stomach churned. If only she had a family. Despondency fell on her like a shroud.

  ‘Wake up, you stupid girl,’ snapped Mrs Figgin.

  Tab jumped. Her green cats’ eyes narrowed as she returned the landlady's glare.

  ‘Look alive! I'll have no shilly-shallying on my deck,’ said Mrs Figgin, prim lips pulled into a thin line. ‘Shape up or ship out.’ Mrs Figgin, whose husband had fled to sea soon after their marriage, liked her naval terms. ‘And get that look off your face, if you know what's good for you.’

  Tab hung her head. It didn't pay to answer back, especially when the old prune was in one of her ‘moods’. Food was scarce as it was, and being sent to bed without supper was just about the worst punishment a Dung Brigader could get. Or so Tab thought at the time.

  Mrs Figgin shook her head. ‘I don't know what I'm going to do with you. There's more water on this floor than what's in the bucket.’

  ‘It leaks,’ Tab said.

  ‘What? What did you say?’ Mrs Figgin demanded.

  ‘It leaks,’ she said stubbornly. ‘The bucket. It leaks.’

  Mrs Figgin picked up the bucket and inspected the bottom. ‘It does no such thing, you little liar.’

  Just then the rusted handle snapped. The bucket tipped.

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Mrs Figgin gasped.

  Water grey as pig swill emptied on her head. She staggered back, stepped on a cake of soap, floundered, and fell with her skirt up around her waist.

  Tab hadn't seen such a funny sight in all her life. One hand flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle the giggles that welled up inside her, but it was impossible. She doubled over with gurgling laughter.

  ‘Get out you little wretch! Out!’ Mrs Figgin screeched.

  Tab backed away quickly as Mrs Figgin gathered her skirt and clambered to her feet. A tall sharp-faced woman with beetling brows and a hook nose, she was a formidable sight when provoked.

  ‘I'm – I'm sorry!’ Tab babbled. Try as she might, it was hard to sound sincere.

  ‘You will be,’ growled Mrs Figgin. ‘Get out of here. Now.’ Tab stared back, not comprehending. The woman's voice became a nasty snarl. ‘You will leave this house at once, do you hear? At once. And if I ever see your useless carcass again, I will summon the City Watch and have you locked up for vicious assault. Now get out!’

  Tab stood stunned, but not for long.

  A bucket came hurtling towards her and she turned and ran. More missiles followed. Ducking and weaving, Tab fled the house. By the time she'd reached the far side of the square, she was starting to realise the dilemma she was in.

  She was homeless.

  Worse, she was without a copper round. Unless she could get back into the orphanage and get her few belongings. These included the silver coins she had stashed under a loose floorboard in the cellar. Without them she was in danger of being arrested for vagrancy. If that wasn't enough, it was strictly forbidden to keep money from Mrs Figgin (not that anyone was stupid enough to hand over any valuables found while digging dung) and if caught, she would be flogged to within an inch of her life.

  The morning dragged by. Tab shifted locations every hour. That was the best way to avoid the City Watch, who would arrest children who stayed in one place too long. Those arrested, if unclaimed, were put to work, sometimes beneath Quentaris, so it didn't pay to get arrested.
Luckily the bulk of the Watchmen were at the Tolrush siege. But even so …

  By midday Tab was footsore, anxious and hungry. The stiff breeze gusting off the river carried with it the lunchtime smells of fried fish, jellied eels, and – from the harbour inns – the divine odour of roast duckling, fresh-baked mince pies, and the pungent Quentaran coffee. Tab's stomach rumbled loudly, but as there was nothing she could do about it right now, she tightened her belt and waited outside the orphanage.

  She knew Mrs Figgin was taking her favourite Dung Brigaders – her ‘shipmates’ as she called them- to the celebrations outside the city; most of the others would be out on their shifts. That would leave the orphanage pretty much deserted. As she was thinking this, Mrs Figgin flounced out the front door, followed by a bunch of smug-faced Dung Brigaders. A wagon pulled up and the woman climbed into the seat beside the driver. The children scampered into the back and the wagon pulled away.

  Tab didn't move till the clip-clop of the horse's hooves faded down the cobbled street. Then, nonchalantly, she strolled down the lane that ran beside the orphanage, pausing to check that no one was watching her. Here at the back of the building, a drainpipe that Tab and the others used when they wanted to go on errands after ‘lights out’ offered easy access to one as nimble as she. Though highly dangerous, certain disreputable people liked to employ the Dung Brigaders as runners at night: it was the only way the youngsters could make any real money.

  One more check to make sure the coast was clear, and Tab shinnied up the pipe. With a little persuasion, a window lifted from its latch. Tab slipped though the opening, flinching as the frame creaked alarmingly.

  Creeping down the stairs, Tab made for the cellar where she had hidden her silver coins. She'd already made up her mind not to risk going for her other belongings, which were pitifully few in any case. She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, listening.

  Where was Masher Mildon, Mrs Figgin's trusted rift world custodian? Masher, who was part-troll, hadn't gone with Mrs Figgin's party. Which meant he was lurking about the orphanage somewhere. The obnoxious creature, who had gotten his name because he liked ‘mashing’ children's faces with his gigantic fists, was always spying and reporting back to Mrs Figgin.

  ‘Wotcha doing?’

  Tab's heart nearly stopped. If she had been thinking clearly she would have acted naturally, as though she had every right to be in the cellar. But no. Masher's voice came so suddenly, and was so suspicious, that Tab took flight.

  ‘C'mere!’ roared Masher.

  Tab leapt forward. Behind her, Masher's rasping breath sounded close but laboured.

  ‘You little wretch!’ he bellowed.

  Tab hit the cellar floor running. She swung around a large boiler. The slab floor was slick. Her feet skidded as though in slow motion and she slid smack bang into a wall.

  Dazed, Tab shook her head. Masher slowed, stop ping just short of her. Already he was smacking his fist into the palm of his hairy hand. Tab's insides shrank. She cast about wildly. There was no escape, and the leer on Masher's face merely reflected that. One entrance – the stairway – was also the exit. In desperation, Tab backed away. Masher advanced. His toothless mouth was wide open and ropy threads of drool dribbled from it.

  ‘Cop your hiding, as is right,’ Masher crooned. ‘You done wrong. Been caught out. Take what's coming to you. Haw!’

  Tab stumbled and fell. Something rattled underneath her. A metal grate. Quick as a flash, she fumbled at it with her fingers. Yes! The sluice pit. She yanked with all her strength. The grate didn't budge. Masher laughed. Tab relaxed her grip, pushed and jiggled to loosen the grate in its seat, then pulled again. It came up with a slurping sound.

  Masher's grin hardened. He lurched forward.

  Tab flung the grate across the floor. It skimmed the flagstones and crunched into Masher's toes.

  ‘You li'l horror!’ he screamed, hopping on one foot while he clutched the other.

  Tab sucked in her breath and went feet first into the drainpipe.

  It was a tight squeeze, but grease and oil and slime aided her passage. She dropped like a rock. Down she slid into darkness. Light above cut out abruptly. Around she swirled, panic making her gasp. She would never, ever, be able to climb out of here.

  ‘Argh!’ she screamed. ‘Noooo!’ Tab spread her feet apart. Nothing seemed to slow her race down into some horrible depths but she had to try.

  Bright light flashed overhead. Street grates. Flash. Flash. Flash. She whizzed beneath them. Finally she came to a jarring halt. Every bone in her body ached.

  Tab looked down. Her feet had wedged her at a T-junction. Water and unimaginable things swept around her and fell into a stinking culvert. If she fell in there she would never get out again. Rift world monsters were said to live in the sewers below Quentaris. True or not, she didn't want to find out.

  She was stuck under a street grate. Water fell like a shower, splashing her. She daren't think what else was falling on her. Standing on tiptoes Tab reached up but her fingers fell short by at least two feet.

  Exhausted, Tab slumped. ‘Help!’ she called feebly, expecting no reply.

  Something blocked out the light. Tab looked up. Someone was looking down. It was a man. Tab couldn't be too sure, but he looked to be Simesian. They fancied mutton-chop whiskers and wore what they called classical clothing: ornate, and rather … colourful, with lots of frills and lace. He was lugging a leather case like an out-of-work actor.

  ‘Dear me, what do we have here?’ said the man, peering more closely down through the grille. His eyes narrowed. ‘You appear to be in something of a pickle … ’

  ‘I'm stuck,’ said Tab. ‘Could you lend me a hand?’

  ‘I? Surely you're jesting? I am Fontagu Wizroth the Third. Himself. And I make it a rule never to lend anything to anyone,’ said the man, looking pompously indignant. ‘Especially oversized sewer rats stuck in drainpipes. Good day to you.’

  And with that he walked off.

  Tab was left fuming, and was about to start cursing when the Simesian sidled back into view.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said.

  Tab glared up at him. ‘What do you want now?’ she said.

  The Simesian made a humming sound as though deliberating her question. ‘It may be that I was a little … er … hasty.’ He cast a quick, nervous glance up and down the street. ‘You see, I asked myself, what kind of child would be sneaking around in the sewer –’

  ‘I wasn't sneaking,’ muttered Tab.

  But Fontagu hadn't heard, and he went on: ‘Then the answer hit me,’ he said. ‘A thief.’ He sounded very pleased with himself.

  ‘If I was in the Thieves’ Guild you'd be in big trouble right now,’ Tab threatened. ‘The Venerable Lightfingers would … I only went to get what's mine.’

  Fontagu continued as if she hadn't spoken. ‘It just so happens that I'm in the market for a … a burglar, so to speak.’

  Tab started to say she wasn't a burglar and maybe if he cleaned his ears out then he'd – but she stopped herself. She was down here and he was up there.

  ‘I – I might be able to help,’ she said.

  ‘Experienced, are you?’

  ‘Um … yeah.’

  ‘I don't suppose you have any references?’

  Tab gritted her teeth. Luckily, Fontagu couldn't see because of the grille. ‘In my back pocket. I – can't quite reach them at the moment.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ said Fontagu. He looked up and down the street again. ‘Of course, it doesn't look terribly good, you know.’

  ‘What doesn't?’

  ‘Getting stuck in a drainpipe. Perhaps you're not a very good burglar?’

  Tab said hotly, ‘I'm the best burglar in Quentaris!’

  The man smiled. ‘In that case, I propose a contract. Limited duration. High remuneration, plus expenses. Negligible danger. How say you?’

  Tab frowned. She wasn't quite sure what ‘remuneration’ was, but understood that not only would she escape
her present situation, she might get paid as well.

  ‘How much?’ said Tab.

  ‘Let us retire to a cosy tavern and discuss terms and conditions over a drink.’ ‘I'm too young to drink.’

  ‘Lemonade then,’ said Fontagu, showing some exasperation. ‘Agreed? If not, I'll be on my way and –’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ said Tab hurriedly. She felt she was being forced into something she might regret, but she had little choice.

  The man gripped the street grate and pulled. It didn't budge. He gave a little high-pitched laugh and tried again. His face went red with the strain and his eyes bulged. ‘Bit. Out. Of. Shape,’ he gasped. Suddenly, the grate flew upwards. Fontagu staggered back and fell on his backside.