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  She closed her eyes for a second and uttered the word that sent the flickering light spitting from her lips to the lock on the cage. For a second nothing happened, then she heard a faint noise, as if some part of the inner mechanism was creaking against another part. She stared at the lock for a long moment, then at Daretor. She rushed forward and thrust her arms between the bars, and embraced him. Daretor kissed her as well as the bars permitted. Jelindel realised that she was trembling.

  Between sobs and kisses, she managed to say, ‘It’s coming back. My powers are returning.’

  He pushed her back a step. ‘Then get me out of here.’

  ‘What? Oh, of course. Sorry.’ She tried the lock but it still held fast. She tried the spell again but it had no further effect. She eyed the mechanism, puzzled.

  ‘I think I know what’s happening,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Fa’red’s power was not able to span the portal, and whatever magic he worked on me only dampened my power. It didn’t remove it entirely, as I’d thought. Now the dampening effect is wearing off and it comes back, bit by bit.’

  ‘How long till it’s fully back?’ Daretor asked.

  Jelindel closed her eyes. ‘Who can say? It might be hours. Days. Weeks.’

  Daretor rattled the bars, frustrated. ‘I doubt that we have days, Jelli, much less weeks.’

  ‘I’ll keep trying.’

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘It’s possible that repeated attempts at this stage might delay the full return of your powers.’

  ‘This has never happened before, Daretor.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a gentler magic you can work that might free me.’

  She looked at him. ‘I’m listening.’

  He glanced down at the rat hole. Jelindel’s gaze followed his.

  Chapter 7

  THE UNSPEAKABLE CITY

  T

  he rat’s nest was in a narrow, dark space. It was the way the creature liked it. Normally it would never have emerged while humans were out and about, but some subtle feeling was giving it purpose. It was more single-minded than it had ever been in its entire brief life as it set off, knowing exactly where it had to go.

  The walls on either side rose steeply upwards, but the rat’s claws found plenty of purchase, and it ran straight up. The entire ship was a town full of roads for the rat. It could reach any part of the vessel with ease. It pattered on, moving with a strange new purpose that was both exhilarating and frightening. It had never known a sensation like it.

  At each fork in the path it took the turns without hesitation, until it stopped beneath a tarry beam that became a kind of ceiling. To one side was a narrow gap that appeared far too small for even a rat to pass, yet it wriggled through in moments. Next was a knothole on the inward side of the narrow corridor. The rat crawled through without even pausing to check for danger. It was by now inside the first mate’s cabin. There, hanging on the wall, was a bunch of keys.

  Jelindel and Daretor waited in silence. Jelindel seemed preoccupied, as if her mind was melded to that of the rat. The truth was that she was apprehensive. She feared that something would go wrong. The loss of her powers, even though temporary, had shaken her confidence. It would be a long time before she would dare take her powers for granted again. However, there was an odd reassurance in all of this. She knew that if Fa’red could have rid her forever of her abilities, he would have done so without hesitation. The fact that he had not strongly suggested that the power of magic was innate, something so fundamental that it could no more be removed from a person without killing them than could their heart.

  There was a soft clinking noise at her feet. She looked down to see the rat, sitting on its hind legs, with a bunch of keys in its mouth. Daretor sighed loudly. He had had doubts as well, although he kept them to himself. Moments later he was out of the cage and hugging Jelindel, but this had been only the first small step of many yet to be taken. They had to escape the cabin, the ship, and even the paraworld. Jelindel also needed time for her full powers to return. She had a feeling that she would need them in order to get back to Q’zar.

  Daretor had problems too. After having been imprisoned for so long, his legs were stiff and wasted. He could barely stand, let alone walk or run. Jelindel spent the first hour of freedom massaging Daretor’s legs, and he just groaned.

  ‘White Quell,’ he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘It’s like having red hot needles jabbed into my flesh.’

  Nevertheless, he bore it, though before long he was bathed in perspiration and panting heavily, as if he had run a gruelling race. Finally he was steady enough to stand. He tottered from one end of the chamber to the other, and back again.

  ‘That much movement will have to do,’ said Jelindel. ‘I’ll support you.’

  Jelindel unlocked the chamber door and eased it open. She peered cautiously through the gap. No one was in sight and there was no sound of anyone walking nearby. They had long ago become used to the noises of the ship, and sensed that most of the crew had gone ashore. A skeleton crew was sure to have been left behind to deter thieves, but they would not be expecting the prisoners to escape.

  They made it to the stairs leading to the middle deck without encountering anyone, then their luck ran out. A pair of legs appeared, shod with rough hobnailed boots. The same boots worn by the first mate. Daretor immediately lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the man’s legs. With an oath, the first mate toppled down the gangway and into the corridor. When he saw his assailants, he tried to raise the alarm. Jelindel was faster. She intoned a binding spell that wrapped his body in blue flickering light. He fought against the bindings, trying to call out, then stopped, staring with frightened eyes.

  ‘Don’t fight,’ Jelindel advised him, ‘or the bindings will grow tighter. You’re lucky I’ve allowed you to keep breathing.’

  They dumped him on the floor of a nearby cabin and locked the door. By now Daretor’s legs were functioning. They climbed the gangway to the middle deck and scouted the ship. As far as they could see, there were only two crewmen on guard.

  The easiest and quickest way to get off the ship was the gangplank that had been lowered to the dock, but they were not dressed like the crew, and were sure to be noticed.

  ‘Make us invisible,’ Daretor said. ‘You have done it before.’

  Long ago, they had been on another boat, a river barge, and Jelindel had led them safely past prying eyes. She nodded. ‘There’s no time to lose doing it the hard way. I just hope my full power has returned. Invisibility’s taxing enough as it is.’

  She chanted a spell and wove a complex sign in the air. Unfortunately, there was no way for them to tell if it was working. They hesitantly stepped out onto the deck and headed for the gangplank. They had nearly made it when a voice called out. They froze.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the voice called a second time. They turned to find one of the crewmen looking in their direction. Jelindel opened her mouth to reply when a voice behind them answered.

  ‘Minding me own dummart business,’ it grumbled, ‘as you should be doin’.’

  ‘You go fallin’ asleep again and the captain’ll have your guts for garters, and no mistake,’ said the first crewman. ‘Now look lively.’

  ‘Oh, aye aye an’ all that,’ said the man, climbing grudgingly to his feet and trying to look like he was guarding something.

  Jelindel and Daretor breathed a sigh of relief and stumbled across the gangplank to the dock. They made for the first shadow they could find. From there they peered back the way they had come, looking for any sign that they had been spotted. All remained quiet.

  Jelindel relinquished the spell. In doing so she sucked in a huge breath.

  Daretor clutched her shoulder in alarm.

  She breathed out and then drew heavily on the air. ‘I’m all right. It’s just left me a little giddy. No worse than you exercising after a long spell of doing nothing.’

  Daretor ruffled her hair. ‘What a pair we make.’

 
They headed for the city. It loomed above them, adorning the massive cliff face like barnacles on a ship’s hull.

  They found themselves in a dark, narrow alleyway that wound between two warehouses then curved up and away to the left as it started to climb the cliff face. Since most of the city was above them they had little choice but to follow it, and hope that the hour was late enough to prevent them from meeting any locals.

  They climbed what must have been five or six hundred feet in elevation before reaching the city’s edge. Here they came upon several dwellings lining the sloping path. Next to them was a row of inns. Given their proximity to the docks, they were probably designed for the patronage of sailors. Despite the more gothic and forbidding structures higher up, the inns seemed relatively normal, even homely. Jelindel and Daretor stopped outside to consider their situation. They were still in shadows, and fairly safe from casual glances. So far they had seen no one.

  ‘My legs feel as if they’ve walked across Q’zar as well as climbed its highest mountains,’ declared Daretor.

  ‘How steady do you feel?’ asked Jelindel.

  ‘I’ve not fallen over. Yet.’

  ‘How would you be in a fight?’

  ‘Hopeless, without another day or so of stretching and walking.’

  ‘Well then, here we have an inn,’ Jelindel said. ‘Inns are where drink is sold, and information is on the house, if you can talk smoothly.’

  Daretor shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think we should chance it,’ he said. ‘Look what happened the last time I used an inn to get information.’

  Jelindel smiled. ‘It worked out all right in the end. And we need to know where we are and what kind of people live here.’

  ‘Some of the sailors from the ship could be in there,’ Daretor pointed out.

  This was correct. It was too big a risk, yet Jelindel was hungry. She had lived for weeks on gruel and scraps, labouring harder than she had for years. She was weary and in need of real food and a bath. There was even the temptation to do a few vaguely unpleasant things to some of the crew. On the other hand, Daretor had suffered even more, and he could not face returning to the cage.

  They kept going, using the darkness as cover, and trying to make as little noise as possible. They had gone only a few hundred yards, and were nearing some odd-shaped buildings, when a sibilant voice called out from the darkness. They stood waiting, expecting the worst.

  The voice came again. ‘Over here. Come on, move it, you dullards.’ This time it sounded vaguely nervous.

  Jelindel sighed and headed towards the voice, still half supporting Daretor. There seemed little point in trying to run. At the very least she knew that her binding spells worked well enough in case of danger. They approached a line of scraggly ornamental bushes. A man, still masked by the shadows, stood up and beckoned them to follow. They did so, though Jelindel felt Daretor’s sword hand grope for the missing grip of his weapon. Daretor without a sword was more naked than Jelindel without her powers.

  The stranger led them through a stand of trees and into an alleyway that led to a ribbed plank, similar to a gangplank. It was very steep and had handrails. Jelindel eased Daretor up the plank. Ever vigilant, she wondered if they were being led into a trap. What was the reward for spies on this paraworld?

  At the top of the ladder a small landing gave access to a round porthole-shaped doorway in the side of the cliff. A door whispered open on silent hinges and they were ushered inside. A faint smell of incense and cooking touched Jelindel’s nostrils. Other than that she felt no sense of alarm.

  A bright light came on overhead. Jelindel squinted at its intensity, but was unable to tear away her gaze. She had never seen anything like it: a glowing line of brightness encased inside a globe of glass. The man that had led them to this place was standing near the wall, his hand resting on a small lever. He laughed when he saw their expressions. Jelindel realised that she knew him.

  It was Hakat, from the Sargasso.

  The girl was gone. Zimak brushed straw from his clothes and picked a strand or two from his hair. He opened the hayloft doors, staring out across the darkened town of Yuledan. The barn was on a slight rise, giving him an excellent view. Zimak could see the town mages dotted here and there on rooftops – unmoving sentinels, faces scanning the dark skies.

  He knew he should be out there, playing his part in the defence of the town, but he felt lethargic after his tryst with the dark-haired girl who had found the flattery of one who flew on dragons more than she could resist.

  In any case, it was not yet time. The dragons did not come till the darkest hour of the night and that was still some thirty minutes away. Zimak decided to rest for a while longer, then make his way to the nearest rooftop and be ready with his sword. Much good that would do me or anybody against fire-breathing dragons, he thought. But one had to put on a good show for the locals. A bit of flashing steel always reassured people. Indeed, if he played his cards right and impressed enough locals sufficiently, by this time tomorrow night he might well be even more exhausted after bidding yet more admirers goodnight.

  His sword hilt was poking him in the kidneys, yet he almost couldn’t be bothered changing position. Finally he decided that comfort outweighed sloth. The movement probably saved his life.

  To shift the sword, he first took hold of the hilt, then tugged it into a new and more comfortable position. While his hand was still grasping the hilt, several shadows swooped out of the night sky and into view scant yards from the hayloft doors. With a soft and sinister whoosh of air they hurtled towards him, gleaming swords at the ready.

  Zimak barely had time to draw his sword from its scabbard to deflect the first assailant’s blade. Then he rolled aside and managed to get to his knees as two more blades slashed at him. He parried and jabbed, sinking the point of his sword into one of his attackers. The man barely reacted, which told Zimak that he was up against deadmoon warriors. They were trained to ignore pain and fear nothing, not even a painful death. But Zimak had no time to think on all this. The fight was on, and it was one that he had not been expecting.

  At first he could not make out how many attackers there were. They said nothing and made little noise, except for the soft padding of their feet in the straw and the ringing clash of their blades. Fortunately, the hayloft was long and narrow and no more than two of the would-be assassins could engage him at once.

  Desperate to stay alive, Zimak was barely aware that gouts of fire were now flashing out in the night sky. He dimly heard screams of terror and pain as he struggled to defend himself. His blade bit flesh, a deadmoon fell, but another replaced him. Parry, chop, lunge, back away – despite the advantages of occupying Daretor’s larger frame, Zimak wished for his old body, along with its agility and speed.

  Although he was holding his own, the onslaught was merciless and the numbers were still in favour of the attackers. He gave ground slowly but gave it he did. Behind him, looming closer, was the edge of the loft, promising a sudden drop to the straw-strewn floor some fifteen feet below.

  Zimak’s heel touched the ledge. He knew there was a ladder somewhere behind him. He and his companion of earlier in the night had used it to get up, but climbing down now was not an option. A sturdy rope was tied three feet to his right. He knew, without looking, that the rope went up and over a hoist that was attached to a metal track. The other end of the rope was securely tied around two large bales of hay.

  Zimak had no time for finesse or stylish manoeuvres. He parried a thrust that nearly spitted him, feinted twice in quick succession, then spun about, slashing the rope as he did so and forcing his opponents to step back out of the deadly arc of the whizzing blade. The rope parted, and a dark mass of hard-packed hay dropped from the rafters, side-swiping two deadmoons. Both fell instantly, clutching broken shoulders and arms.

  Zimak took the opportunity to scan the edge of the loft. The ladder was poking several feet up over the edge. He grabbed it and pushed off. The ladder arced over into empty sp
ace and then plummeted downwards. Zimak was on a middle rung of the ladder when it slammed into the adjacent wall. Jarred from his unstable perch, he fell the remaining six feet, rolled onto his feet, then ran into the street.

  Ignoring the spot fires that were spreading through several tenements, Zimak skirted lines of townsfolk carrying water. He ran recklessly in the gloom, in no doubt that the deadmoons would pursue him. He had to alert Jelindel and Daretor to the new danger. While the presence of the assassins did not prove that Fa’red was in league with the dragonriders, the coincidence was too great to ignore. Even if Fa’red was just taking advantage of the mayhem, he couldn’t be too far away.

  Zimak kept running, guided mostly by his ears: the menacing hiss of dragon breath sounded all about, but seemed concentrated ahead, near the town centre. From there also came the sound of voices, confused and loud.

  Zimak made it to the corner of a small square, in the middle of which a fountain bubbled. The tinkling sound of water seemed incongruous in this night of death. The square was busy with townspeople dipping their buckets in the fountain. The sky here seemed clear of dragons and flying assassins. He pushed through the crowd, sighting Jelindel in the clock tower. Daretor stood beside her. Zimak took a deep breath and broke into a run across the square.

  He almost made it.

  A brick, torn from the parapet of the courthouse, flew out of the darkness and, with unerring accuracy, crashed into the back of Zimak’s head. Bricks might not fly, he would later allow, but they did pretty well as missiles.

  Zimak gave one sharp cry and fell flat on his face, unmoving. A bright flash lit the courtyard, temporarily blinding the people. Three black-clad figures swooped down and landed beside Zimak. They tied a special harness about him, each taking a leather strap, then sprang aloft again, lifting Zimak’s limp body from the ground.

  Jelindel stared at Hakat, mentally preparing a spell to disarm him if necessary. But he smiled and gestured around the room.