Northern Storm

Chapter Nine

With the brightness of magic snuffed, the room felt smaller, darker, colder. Velindre felt as if the leaden grey of the sky above Hadrumal was seeping through the tall lancets of her window to dull the white plaster of the wall, dimming the parchments on the table before her. She shivered and waved a hand at the coal scuttle beside her hearth, sending a flurry of nuggets on to the glowing embers. She abandoned the table and sat on a footstool set before the fire, hugging her blue-gowned knees as she looked unseeing at the golden tongues of licking flame.

So Dev was still enjoying cloudless blue skies and brilliant sun. He hadn’t drowned or burned in that dragon’s fires. There had to be plenty he could tell her, not least how he was managing to work magic as an Aldabreshin warlord’s trusted servant. Velindre shivered again, this time with revulsion. Tales of Aldabreshin savagery were no idle invention to frighten apprentices into caution. She’d learned that much from days and nights reading ceaselessly in the empty silence of Otrick’s study. The old wizard had been intrigued with the Archipelago, not least with the Archipelagan obsession with omens and portents. Velindre chewed at a thumbnail already bitten to the quick. The firelight struck threads of bright gold in her hair which was drawn back from her angular face in a thick, sleek plait, as usual. Dev reckoned the lore he needed so fast was to be found in the endless shelves of Hadrumal’s hushed libraries. No. Velindre had long since tired of reading reams of speculation and half-understood observations in the hope of satisfying any gnawing magical curiosity. Otrick had cured her of that.

But what if she delivered such lore? Could she trust Dev’s promise of safe passage through the Archipelago? Could she trust him not to just take whatever she showed him and twist it to his own advantage? Could she afford to delay and debate such questions? If she was going to do all she’d boasted, she had precious little time to spare. And if she couldn’t, sure as curses no one else in Hadrumal would be able to. If she could, no one else in Hadrumal would ever doubt her abilities again. She sprang to her feet and crossed to the door in lithe strides, catching her dark cloak from its hook, swathing the cornflower blue of her high-necked gown as she hurried down the echoing stone stairs. The raw wet wind buffeted her as she emerged from the base of the tower. She waved an irritated hand and the wind swirled away, forbidden to stir even one pale hair escaping from her hood.

‘I want a fire for my feet and warm ale for my belly’

‘Let’s see what Brab and Derey think about the ocean’s currents.’

A pair of apprentices threatened to cross her path. Youth and maiden both had wet hair plastered to their heads, faces tight with cold and their brown cloaks bulked out with books cradled safely in their arms. ‘Excuse me.’ Velindre swept past them with a shrug of indifference.

Out beyond the ancient stone arch and the weathered oak gate the high road was busy, foul weather notwithstanding. Velindre threaded between men and women of different ranks and ages, master mage and raw apprentice all equal beneath heavy cloaks, hoods and hats worn against the drenching rain. Intent on their own occupations, the commonalty of Hadrumal hurried this way and that, their conversations focused on lives that owed little to wizard halls or affinities.

‘I said, I told him, you want to think who’ll be mending your stockings in ten years’ time before you go playing fast and loose with every girl who catches your eye.’

‘May I get past?’ Frustration building, Velindre found her progress curbed by a pair of slow-footed matrons with a handful of brats in tow. She reached a narrow side lane with relief and hurried between lofty stone walls stained dark with rain, her boots clacking on the slippery, sloping cobbles either side of a rain-filled gully. She cut across to take a back alley where the sodden, hard-trampled earth muffled her steps.

Reaching the back gate of Atten Hall, she paused to catch her breath and compose her thoughts. The five chimes of midday sounded around her, the echoes of different timepieces tangled among Hadrumal’s towers. Good; her father would be rid of his pupils, or if not, her arrival would prompt their departure. He’d have half his mind on what the maid was bringing for his lunch, so he might just let slip what she needed to know.

Pushing open the black iron gate, she walked up the flagstones running through the physic garden. The beds of rich soil were black and empty, neatly dug over and marked out with stones. Here and there, pale scraps of straw bore testament to the stable muck brought to nourish the sleeping herbs and seeds. Hardier shrubs were set back against the walls of the court, dark green and brown against the weathered stone. Withered creepers clutched at skeins of trellis, waiting for spring.

This hall was centred on the broad, squat tower standing alone in the middle of the garden, a style Archmage Atten had brought from his mainland home long ago, along with the coterie of wizards who had chosen to follow his teachings. That tradition had long since outgrown the tower and now its topmost windows could barely see over the ranges of accommodation built inside the walls that enclosed it. Three had serried ranks of casements while the fourth had the long tripartite windows of a large hall where those hopeful mageborn invited by Atten’s successors sat at long tables to listen to instruction, to debate lofty concerns or, more prosaically, to eat their meals. Velindre advanced on the central tower, the door’s brass fittings gleaming in defiance of the weather. Inside, harsh matting was finally losing the battle with the mud of the winter. Velindre paused to wipe her boots and heard her own breath echoing in the hush. The stairs were a square spiral on the southern side of the tower. Subdued light filtered through broad mullioned windows on the landings leading to the apartments on every level. Some doors stood hospitably open, faint sounds of movement within. Others were closed on intense discussions just on the edge of hearing. Velindre ignored them all, heading for the topmost floor.

Her father’s voice rang through the emptiness as his door opened, encouragement mingled with warning. ‘First thing in the morning, the day after tomorrow. I want arguments on both sides from all of you.’ A trio of apprentice mages appeared on the landing, two girls and a rangy youth not yet grown into his height. ‘There can’t be an alchemist from Selerima to Toremal who still believes in phlogiston,’ he protested under his breath, all the arrogance of the Imperial city in his accent. His linen shirt was snowy white, breeches and tunic impeccably tailored in sober grey broadcloth, only a trimming of scarlet buttons marking his affinity.

‘The Duke of Triolle, he’s been paying out gold for years to all manner of charlatans promising him the secret.’ The shorter of the girls shrugged; Lescari intonation as robust as her figure and the vivid red dress that flattered her pale skin and dark hair.

‘What would he do with it?’ wondered a willowy Caladhrian girl who’d opted for a pale-rose gown. ‘If it really existed’

‘I hate to think,’ muttered her female companion dandy. ‘Madam.’ The Tormalin youth caught sight of Velindre on the stairs and swept a creditable bow given the armful of books encumbering him. ‘Apprentice.’ Velindre inclined her head tautly as the trio hurried past her. Sudden laughter floated back up the stairs to be cut short by the slam of the door below. Velindre took a deep breath and knocked briefly on the open door. ‘Father?’

‘Come in,’ barked the stern voice. Velindre entered and blinked, frowning. ‘Do you have something against daylight, father?’

‘I’ve nothing against it.’ The old wizard sat shrouded in darkness by a hearth whose fire was no more than a feeble glow. ‘Nor yet any great interest in it, either. I’ll leave the skies to you cloud mages.’ His tone was uninterested.

Velindre crossed the room with some difficulty, given the plethora of small tables laden with books and the countless volumes stacked on the floors. She reached the windows and tugged at heavy red velvet curtains, an exact match for the distempered walls.

‘You’ll get precious little light at this time of year,’ observed her father. ‘All you’ll do is let in draughts.’ You still think any apprentice who can’t illuminate his own reading isn’t worth teaching.’ Velindre managed to shed a thin shaft of light on the leather-backed chairs that ringed her father. For all the clutter, the room showed no speck of dust. No smudge marred the gleaming brass of the fender or the white marble of the fire mantel.

‘As rules of thumb go, I’ve always found it sound.’ The white-haired man said. He was sparely built, the height he’d boasted in his prime now bent into a stoop and the flesh fallen away from his aged bones. His face was gaunt, wrinkles carved deep on either side of his beak of a nose, eyes deep set above hollow cheeks. Eyes the same colour as Velindre’s burned with the same intensity, undimmed by the burden of his years. Straight and swept back with pomade, his hair was cut precisely at jaw length, his wrinkled chin clean-shaven above a knotted silk scarf. He wore an old-fashioned gown of maroon velvet over layered jerkins, one long-sleeved, one sleeveless, and knee-breeches the colour of old wine. Thick woollen stockings warmed his shrunken calves, his feet in soft leather shoes that gleamed with polish. Velindre approached and submitted to her father’s dry kiss on her forehead.

‘What do you want?’ prompted the old man briskly. ‘Spit it out, girl.’

‘Do you remember Dew’ Velindre sat on a chair and looked at the fire rather than her father.

‘Of course,’ the aged wizard answered with a hint of scorn. ‘I remember all my students. A great deal of talent that I rapidly realised would go to waste. Far too ready to take issue with the supposed injustices of life. Always harking back to whatever ne’er-do-well village he stumbled away from. He was never going to make anything of his abilities unless he turned his back on such distractions and applied his intellect to his affinity.’ The old wizard’s voice was censorious as he folded his age-spotted hands on his chest.

‘Did you know he’d gone to be Planir’s eyes and ears in the Archipelago?’ Velindre glanced at her father. The old man shook his head, indifferent. ‘Planir’s another one who should concentrate a little less on the wider world and a little more on the proper business of wizardry.’

‘Dev’s found a dragon in the Aldabreshin south,’ said Velindre carefully. ‘One attuned to elemental fire, from what I saw.’

‘You scried it?’ Curiosity sparked in her father’s eyes. ‘What’s your interest in this?’

‘Dev wants to know more about dragons.’ Velindre shrugged with unconcern. ‘He bespoke me, as

()tick’s former pupil, since I’m carrying on his work’

‘Otrick?’ The ancient mage’s laugh was a dry creak. ‘I thought you were finally over that old pirate’s foolishness of sailing hither and yon and whistling up winds to see where they lead you.’ His disdain was withering. ‘Cloud Master or not, Otrick led you astray from your studies. You might have stood a chance of the Council approving you as Cloud Mistress in your own right if you’d stayed here, applied yourself and shown them what you have to offer. You’ve a good mind. You just need to use it.’

He tapped one bone-white finger to his snowy temple before withdrawing into his high-backed, deep-winged chair. ‘Your mother was a fool for encouraging you. She’s another one with her head in the clouds. Well, Rafrid’s no fool, even if he is one of Planir’s cronies. And a mastery isn’t what it used to be. I could have been Hearth Master, but nowadays, well, Kalion’s welcome to people hanging on his cloak day in and day out, knocking on his door with their whines and complaints. I don’t see him adding anything to the sum of wizardry, and that is a waste of a fine mind,’ he concluded sourly. ‘Dev wants to study the dragon’s innate magics’ Velindre returned to studying the fire. ‘He needs to get closer to it without ending up burned to a crisp. Otrick knew how to summon a dragon and how to control it but I can’t find any record of exactly how he did it.’

‘A charlatan’s festival trick writ large,’ the old wizard scoffed. ‘Otrick was always a mountebank at heart. Among his many other vices.’ Dislike sharpened his tone. Not that such dalliances were any of my business. You were a grown woman.’

Velindre kept her gaze on the flames and held her voice level and emotionless. ‘Otrick is dead, so we can’t ask him about such lore. The only other mage I can find recorded as having this trick of summoning dragons is Azazir.’

Her father threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘If Otrick was a disgrace to wizardry, Azazir was a blight. What that fool cost Hadrumal in lost trust, in sowing fear and ignorance among the mundane of the mainland—there’s no measuring it! We’re still paying the price to this day,’ he growled, fleshless fists clenched. ‘With our Archmage bowing and scraping to every petty prince, just to make sure the magebom can travel unhindered to Hadrumal before their emergent affinity is the death of them.’

‘You knew Azazir.’ Velindre looked up at her father, challenge in her eyes.

‘I did,’ he retorted, ‘and if I’d been on the Council back then I’d have voted for his death, not just his banishment. Do those dolts who laugh over his exploits tell you how many drowned thanks to his fooling with the rivers or how many starved when his meddling caused famine?’

‘I’ve heard all the tales. What they don’t say is when Azazir died,’ Velindre persisted. ‘Rumour has it he’s still alive, somewhere in the wilds.’

‘Does it?’ the old wizard growled with disgust.

In that instant, Velindre saw in his eyes that that much was true. Well?’ she managed to ask, keeping all exultation out of her voice.

‘He used to talk about embracing one’s affinity, about immersing oneself in it.’ The aged mage looked past her towards the slim shard of sky visible through the window. Which is all very well for a water mage, but I told him, just try that with fire. He didn’t care. He was the most irresponsible, most dangerous wizard I ever encountered. He was all for seeking sensation, ever more sensational and never mind making sense of it, never mind understanding the interplay of element and reason and cause and effect. If he thought there was a chance he could do something, work some wonder with his magic, he’d try, never mind stopping to think if he should. He had a higher duty to his affinity, that’s what he would say, to find out where its limits might lie. Never mind his duty to wizardry. Never mind wiser mages than him warning that there might be no limits to some sorceries. Never mind when more than one of his apprentices died a foul and lingering death,’ the old man concluded with cold anger.

‘Do you know where he is?’ Velindre asked in measured tones.

Her father’s eyes snapped back to her. No one will take your scholarship seriously if you associate yourself with a madman.’

Velindre met his gaze. ‘There’s precious little true scholarship about dragons, Father. It’s one of the few areas of study where there’s real work to be done. I want to know more and if Azazir is my only source, that’s where

I’ll have to start.’

‘Stubborn as your mother,’ the old mage muttered. ‘You haven’t told her about this, have you? No, I’d have heard the two of you arguing from here if you had. And I suppose I’ve no small reputation for strong will.’ A reluctant smile cracked his aged face.

The silence in the room was tense and brittle.

‘I’ll find him one way or the other,’Velindre said calmly, ‘I’m going to do this, Father.’

‘Perhaps you should see what it means to go chasing some madman’s idle fancies.’ The old mage pointed to a distant table where flat leather folders lay precisely piled. ‘Fetch me that third folio of maps.’

Velindre retrieved it and he untied the rubbed-silk cord to open the tooled green leather.

‘You’ve been to Inglis, haven’t you, on one of ()tick’s foolish voyages? Do you feel inclined to take the road north at the tail end of winter? That journey’s not for the fainthearted.’ He pulled out a half-sheet and stabbed at the parchment with a chalky nail.

‘So the Council’s banishment doesn’t just mean quitting Hadrumal.’ Velindre’s brow wrinkled as she studied the point he’d indicated on the map.

‘Azazir was told to lose himself. He was told if he injured anyone, ever again, that would be the death of him. You don’t believe the Council would do such a thing?’ The old man mocked Velindre’s startled disbelief. Believe it, and there’s more than me who will call for that madman’s death if he ever shows his face in the lowliest village. And we’ll know if he does. Planir knows what’s due to his office of Archmage. He keeps a weather eye on a menace like Azazir,’ he said with grim satisfaction.

‘So Planir will know if I visit Azazir?’ Velindre asked warily.

‘Would that stop you?’ He thrust the parchment at Velindre. ‘You were easily his equal, even if you were apprentice when he was a pupil, and you’ve twenty years’ standing since then. Besides, he’s another one full of ()nick’s high-flown nonsense about experimentation and observation. You might both learn something from a little closer acquaintance with Azazir, even if it’s not what you’re expecting.’ The hairs on the back of Velindre’s neck prickled at his ominous tone. ‘Something valuable, I take it, if you’re prepared to help me with this.’

‘More valuable than some foolery with dragons.’ The old wizard handed her the green leather folio and leaned back in his chair, gathering his mantle around him. ‘Put those back where you got them. And don’t say I didn’t warn you, if you decide to pursue this folly.’

‘Thank you for the map.’ Velindre rose and left, not looking back.

Outside, the rain had stopped and the clouds had lifted. A breeze was rolling down from the hills to scour the heavy dampness out of the air. Velindre relished the freshness as she walked rapidly through the empty back alleys. There wasn’t time to waste, not given the urgency in Dev’s voice. Whatever his many and varied faults, he didn’t indulge himself in foolish alarm, like some dog barking vacantly at every footfall.

She pictured a very different city in her mind’s eye. So Inglis was the closest place worth marking to this mysterious lake where the equally mysterious Azazir was lurking. A city of white stone, well planned and well built, entirely unlike the haphazard accumulation of Hadruraal. A peaceable city, thanks to the powerful Guilds who paid a well-muscled and well-drilled Watch, which incidentally ensured that they had loyal men to hand to deter any challenge to their hegemony. A city built on the endless resources of timber, fur and metal-bearing ores of the empty northern wastes.

Velindre smiled thinly as she arrived back at the New Hall’s ancient gate, blunted carvings unlike the sharp elegance of Inglis’s cornices. Her father might believe that the city was all respectability and serious trade. Otrick had known better and, thanks to him, so did she. Otrict had known the dockside taverns where those mariners who risked voyages out to the ocean deep could be found. Mariners who should more properly be called pirates, never mind their brandishing of some parchment from the Inglis harbour guild, licensing them to pursue some vessel condemned for not paying the requisite tariffs.

A translocation spell would take her there in short order. Velindre climbed the stairs to her study. Arriving somewhere discreet would be best, to avoid one of the wizards in Inglis reporting her arrival to Planir. Earth mages always found plenty of work and plenty to interest them among the mining concerns around Inglis. Planir had been Stone Master before he’d been Archmage and indeed still was, despite the displeasure of some on the Council. Well, Velindre had no interest in explaining herself to Planir until she had something to show for this boldness, something to give the Council pause for thought over their choice of Cloud Master.

She locked her study door. One of the better inns would suffice, where gold would shut the mouths of any chambermaid or potboy who happened to see her. Tossing her damp cloak over a chair, she went through the inner door to her bedchamber. Throwing open a tall cupboard, she surveyed the gowns lying on wide shelves, linen and stockings in cubbyholes beneath, boots and shoes thrown into the hollow bottom. She’d need heavy clothing as well as some furs and a sturdy saddle-horse when she got to Inglis. Dev’s timing was lousy as always. Velindre grimaced at the thought of the pristine white winter that would still be gripping those mountains. Even half a season later, she might have approached some privateer for passage north, but not now. No sailor would risk his ship among the inlets and coves still choked with floating ice.

Furs and horses would cost money. She found a soft leather bag among her neatly darned stockings and weighed it in her hand for a moment before setting it down again. That should suffice. Planir had been unwont-edly generous when she’d asked for coin to hire ships these past summers to continue Otrick’s studies of Toremal’s ocean winds. More to the point, the Archmage never asked for an accounting and she’d never felt the need to give him one.

She pulled a leather bag with stout handles and brass buckles down from the topmost shelf and threw in a handful of sturdy stockings and smallclothes, woollen chemises and flannel petticoats.

What would her mother do? As soon as word reached her that Velindre had left Hadrumal, her father’s eyrie wouldn’t save him from interrogation. Would he tell her mother where she had gone or keep it to himself, out of simple malice? Perhaps, perhaps not, if he decided he had erred in helping her. Would her mother set Planir on her heels? Possibly. It would be an excuse to remind the Archmage of Hadrumal’s concerns. Her mother was a voluble critic of all the time he lavished on dealings with mainland princes. Velindre rapidly sorted through her gowns for those of the heaviest wool and moved to her washstand to gather up soap and toothpowder and her silver-backed hairbrushes.

Would she come looking for her daughter herself? One of her father’s cruelly apposite jokes prompted a thin smile. It must be her mother’s affinity for air that gave her moods that veered as rapidly as the grasshopper weathervane on the tower of Wellery’s Hall. Velindre knelt to pull the straps of her bag tight with vicious jerks. More to the point, her mother’s rivalry with ()tick hadn’t died with the old wizard. She would dearly love to learn the trick of summoning dragons.

Twisting to reach the laces tied at the small of her back, Velindre shed her gown and petticoats for a close-fitted bodice and divided riding skirt. Picking up her purse she thrust it deep in a secure pocket. She drew on a second pair of thick stockings before finding heavy buckled boots in the bottom of the cupboard. With the laden bag dragging at her arm, Velindre returned to her study and shrugged a thick cloak around her shoulders from a hook behind the door. She closed her eyes and finally allowed herself to feel the currents of air stirring in the room.

There was the dry draught coming under the door, heavy with the tang of stone in the dust it carried Tight-fitted as the windows were, faint breaths of the rain-rich air outside eased through the casements and swirled around the room. The draught from the stairwell curled around the furniture as the air from outside brushed along walls and ceiling. Both currents were inexorably drawn to the fireplace as the heat from the coals sucked at the air in the room. The fire drove away the volatile moisture but had less success banishing the implacable touch of stone. It lost interest, settling for driving the warm air up the chimney, throwing it to the mercies of wind and weather above. Released, the air rushed away, exulting, mocking the fire, revelling in its return to the endless dance that encircled the world.

The air around Velindre crackled with eagerness. She felt its desire to be gone, to join that dance. Pure sapphire light surrounded her, bright even through her closed eyes. Brighter than the crisp chill over Inglis. Pale as icy dawn over snow-capped peaks on that far horizon, where the blue-white of the glaciers melted imperceptibly into the sky. As she drew ever more air to her, pressing it to the service of her spell, Velindre remembered the room where she had stood to see that view. Not the most prized room the Flower of Gold could boast, but luxurious enough for her and Otrick. She pictured the frame of the window, the wide-eaved roofs beyond, every detail of the distant mountains.

Now the elemental air was shaking her to her very bones, desperate to do her bidding, to carry her wherever she wanted. Velindre gripped the handles of her bag, the ridges of the stitching digging into her palms. Blue light blinded her. Its touch was a shiver on her skin. It rang in her ears on the very edge of hearing. Cold breath filled her lungs, invigorating, cleansing. Eyes snapping open, she gave the magic its freedom and the room vanished in a burst of sapphire fire.

A woman screamed. Velindre raised a hand and scrubbed at her eyes to drive away the disorientation of working the spell over such a long distance. The woman paused to refill her lungs with a shuddering gasp and screamed again.

Still dazzled, Velindre saw that she had arrived in the bedchamber she’d envisaged to find a balding, middle-aged man and a matronly woman staring at her, mouths open. What they were doing abed in the middle of the afternoon was immediately apparent from the clothes strewn haphazardly around the floor. The woman was too astounded to think of covering her pendulous breasts but the man was clutching the brightly embroidered counterpane to his nether regions, a furious blush staining his jowls. He glanced with wrathful frustration at a sword belt hanging from a chair by the merrily crackling fireplace and Velindre realised that the overriding urge for modesty was all that was keeping him from the weapon. ‘I apologise for the intrusion. Forgive me. I’ll leave you to your . . .’ Gritting her teeth against the belated realisation that scrying ahead might have been advisable, she unlocked the door with a snap of magic and slid through it. As she secured it behind her with another instant spell, she heard the frantic jangling of a bell down below.

Curse the aging lecher and his fat, foolish paramour. Didn’t they have better things to do with their time? She certainly did. Velindre managed to get half-way down the hall before a wave of exhaustion overwhelmed her. She leaned against the polished wooden panelling of the corridor and fought the dizziness shivering down from her head to her toes.

‘Madam?’ The blurred figure of a chambermaid appeared. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I am, thank you.’ Velindre forced her leaden feet down the stairs as the maid hurried onwards to answer the insistent bell’s summons. Her knees felt weak and treacherous and the bag she carried seemed twice as heavy as it had in Hadrumal. Stiffening her spine with sheer determination, Velindre reached the inn’s spacious hallway before shouts up above turned curious faces to the painted ceiling. She slipped out of the main door and hurried away down the sloping street. No one raised any hue and cry before she vanished from sight

The cold outside was biting. Velindre’s fingers ached with it and she realised her gloves were buried deep in her luggage.

‘Carry your bag for you, lady?’ A hopeful youth hopped over a trampled gap in the thigh-high ridge of grubby snow swept into the gutter between the high road and the flagway. Bright as the sun was, the winter’s chill was far too well established for the heaps to melt. Lines of soot marked successive snowfalls. ‘Where are you headed?’ He wore fur-trimmed hide boots and thick chequered wool breeches beneath a sheepskin jerkin with long sleeves and a high upturned collar that almost reached the knitted cap pulled low over his ears.

‘Can you recommend a quiet inn?’ Velindre tried to curb her shivering as she surveyed the boy. Blond brows hinted at the Mountain blood that so many shared hereabouts. He had a round, honest face and an engaging smile, which probably meant he was a complete rogue. Honest and dishonest alike made a living serving the traders who were always coming and going in a city like Inglis.

‘Don’t even think of running away with that.’ Proffering her bag, Velindre surprised the boy by winding bonds of clinging air around his feet and knees. ‘I’m a mage of Hadrumal and if you rob me, you’ll regret it to the end of your unfortunately curtailed days.’

He looked down, wide-eyed. Velindre curled a single tendril around his waist and pulled it tight to cut short his startled gasp. She smiled and let the magic go with a momentary flare of magelight. ‘On the other hand, if you help me with intelligence and discretion, I’ll reward you handsomely. Do we understand one another?’

‘Yes, my lady,’ the lad said with a rush of apprehension and excitement.

Seeing honest greed outweighing the guile in his eyes, Velindre let him take the bag. ‘Take me to the closest inn that caters to guests of reasonable quality.’

‘There’s the Rowan Tree, my lady. Will that do?’ he offered hesitantly. ‘I’m Kenin, my lady.’

‘Are you?’ she replied with little interest. ‘If that’s the closest suitable inn, it will do.’

Abashed, the youth didn’t say anything else, simply ushering Velindre towards a wide crossroads where trampled snow gleamed, treacherous as ice, in the interstices of the cobbles. She followed him towards a prosperous-looking building fronted by dark marble steps. It took all her resolution to climb the short flight of stairs, her hand shaking as she gripped the cold iron balustrade.

‘A private parlour.’ Velindre fixed a supercilious hall lackey with a piercing glare. ‘Hot water and herbs. Quick as you like.’

The lackey stood his ground. ‘I’m not sure we can accommodate you, my lady.’

Velindre reached inside her cloak and fumbled with the strings of her purse with numb fingers. She tossed a couple of coins on the polished stone floor. ‘I think you’ll find you can.’

The lackey wasn’t proof against Tormalin gold crowns. ‘Of course, my lady. Forgive me. Ametine!’ He scrabbled for the coins, trying to bow and to indicate the door of a private parlour at the same time. ‘Hot water, if you please,’ Velindre repeated to the startled maid shooting out of the kitchen. ‘And herbs for a tisane. Now, if you please.’ She handed the girl her cloak.

The boy Kerrin shoved open the parlour door and Velindre went in. Her eyes fastened on a lavishly cushioned day bed beneath a window opening on to a quiet, snow-covered yard.

‘What now, my lady?’ The boy dropped her bag on the neat carpet with a dull thud.

‘There are things I need you to buy for me.’ Velindre sank on to the green velvet cushions and fought to stop her eyes from closing. ‘A heavy fur cloak, hat and gloves. Don’t think to fob me off with rubbish or to make me pay Toremal prices. Inglis is awash with fine furs at this season, with the trappers coming back from a winter in the mountains. I want a well-mannered saddle-horse hardy enough to take me up into the hills. It’ll need grain and I want food for a journey of ten days or so. The minimum, mind you; I don’t want the bother of a pack animal. Find me a warm blanket and an oilskin for good measure.’ She broke off as the hall lackey appeared with an obsequious smile and a brass oil lamp with a frosted glass chimney. The golden light warmed the chestnut wainscoting.

‘We’re nowhere near a thaw, my lady,’ objected Ken-in, shifting from foot to foot.

‘Did I ask for your opinion?’Velindre raised her brows at him in spurious enquiry. No, I thought not. Can you do what I want or does this lackey earn the commission I’m prepared to pay?’

The lackey’s eyes brightened.

‘I can do it for you,’ Ken-in assured her hurriedly.

‘Leave me your belt.’ She pointed at the tooled leather strap cinching his sheepskin tight to his waist. ‘My lady?’ He was confused.

‘Leave it or just leave,’ she said coldly. ‘As long as I have something of yours, I can find you with my magic. In that case, I’ll trust you with my gold. If not, you can be on your way and this lackey can see to my needs.’

The lackey suddenly looked rather less than eager.

The boy chewed lips chapped from the long winter cold. ‘All right.’ He slowly unbuckled the belt and laid it on the round table in the middle of the room.

‘What’s your business here, my lady mage?’ asked the lackey fawningly as he stirred the banked fire and added fresh logs from the basket.

None of your concern,’ she told him crisply, fighting the weariness threatening to tighten across her brow into a headache. ‘I shall be on my way before nightfall as long as this boy can find me a horse and provisions. Until then I want some peace and privacy. Provide it and you’ll be handsomely paid.’ She turned her attention to Ken-in and held out a handful of weighty gold coins. ‘Waste your time and mine idling with your cronies and you’ll regret it.’ She glanced at the lackey. ‘I shall want a shallow bowl of cold water and some ink for scrying after the boy.’

‘Yes, mistress.’ The lackey took his opportunity to depart.

‘I’ll be quick as I can, my lady.’ Kenin ran a finger around the inside of his collar, sweat beading his forehead.

‘Your tisane, madam.’ The maid Ametine nudged the door open with an elbow, a heavy wooden tray balanced on her other hip. She set it on the table and the tall silver jug breathed a puff of steam. Her eyes widened at the sight of the gold Kenin was tucking inside his glove. ‘Can I blend you a tisane, my lady?’ She smiled eagerly, brushing her hands on her skirts. ‘We have borage and chamomile, linden, dog rose, valerian—’

‘A scant spoonful of dog rose,’ Velindre inten-upted, ‘with just a touch of chamomile and the same of valerian.’ She snapped her fingers to regain Ken-in’s wandering attention. ‘When you’ve found a suitable horse, bring it here. I’m not paying up till I’ve seen it for myself.’

The maid spooned dried herbs into a hinged ball of pierced silver, setting it in a tall glass with a silver holder and pouring in hot water. ‘Honey, my lady?’

‘Thank you.’ Velindre nodded before fixing Kerrin with a penetrating stare. Well, what are you waiting for?’

Ametine brought the tisane over, ducking a curtsey. Will that be all, my lady?’

‘A bowl of plain water,’ Velindre said again, ‘and some ink.’

Kerrin’s shoulders flinched as he left the room.

‘At once, my lady.’ Ametine bobbed her way backwards to the door and disappeared.

Velindre blew the steam from her drink and sipped it carefully. Grimacing at the heat, she cooled it with a breath of enchanted air. That was better. Now she had better get some rest, if she was to be out of the city by nightfall. There might not be many mages who could travel such a distance with a single translocation spell but she was no more immune to the draining effects of working such magic than any other wizard. Careful to keep her boots off the cushions, she drank down the tisane and set the glass cup on the floor. Lying back against the padded headrest of the day bed, she let her eyes drift closed as she waved a hand at the door. The lock snicked and vivid blue light ran around the frame before vanishing into the wall. Velindre was already asleep. A tentative knock at the door stirred her.

‘My lady?’ It was the maid Ametine.

Velindre woke at once and was pleased to find that she was well refreshed. She was less well pleased to see that the winter sun had already quit the sky outside, leaving only its golden afterglow on high, pale clouds. ‘Come in.’ She waved a hand and the door unlocked itself, swinging open.

Watching it with some misgiving, Ametine hovered on the threshold with a tray holding ewer, bowl and snowy towel.

Velindre realised belatedly that no one had brought her water and ink for scrying. Was she going to need it?

‘He’s back, the boy,’ the maid stammered. ‘With two horses.’

‘Is he? Come in, girl.’ Velindre swung her feet to the floor and stood up, shrugging discreetly to ease uncomfortable rucks in the chemise beneath her bodice and skirt. ‘I wonder, is there a man born who can do exactly what he’s asked, no more and no less?’

‘Sure I don’t know, my lady.’ Ametine offered a hesitant smile, setting the tray down on the table. Velindre carefully washed the sleep from her eyes and dried her face. ‘I wonder what he’s brought for my gold. Where is he?’

‘Out the back, my lady.’ The maid bobbed an uncertain curtsey.

‘Let’s go and see.’ Velindre found her gloves and rebuckled her bag. ‘My cloak, if you please.’ She left the boy’s belt on the table. Let him ask for it back, if he had the nerve.

‘This way, my lady.’ The maid led the way through the kitchen passages to the Rowan Tree’s extensive stable yard, collecting Velindre’s brushed cloak from a peg as they went. The lackey she’d encountered earlier was nowhere to be seen but Ken-in was waiting on the swept cobbles, a horse’s reins in each fist. He grinned widely as Velindre appeared in the doorway. ‘Here we are, madam mage.’

‘Good evening to you.’ A dour-faced man was standing nearby, muffled up against the cold. ‘These are your beasts?’ At the man’s nod, Velindre set down her bag and pulled on her cloak, considering the animals in the light of the lamps already lit around the stable yard. Both were unrelieved brown with black manes, their forelocks falling over blunt, undistinguished faces. Heavy-set beasts, they were none too tall in the shoulder but deep in the body and thick in the leg. Their rugged coats ran down to feathery wisps falling over wide, black hooves shod with sturdy steel.

Velindre walked forward and held out a hand for the first to sniff It shied away from her, a rim of white around its dark, liquid eyes. Velindre turned to the other horse, which sniffed the fur-lined kidskin without reaction, shifting its hooves with a grating noise. Velindre rubbed her hand down the horse’s thick neck and felt it quiver beneath her as the animal nosed forward, ears pricking.

‘Good lad,’ she soothed as she pulled off a glove, bending to run her hand down the front of his foreleg. With wizard senses to augment her touch, she could be certain there was no heat or swelling in the leg. At her prompt, the horse lifted his sturdy hoof for her inspection. After checking all four legs and feet, Velindre stood upright and rubbed the animal’s velvety muzzle with a smile for the obliging animal. ‘I’ll try this one,’ she said to the horses’ owner.

‘As you like,’ said Ken-in readily. ‘This one’s a bit flighty, I’ll grant you, but he won’t give me bother.’ Velindre looked quizzically at him. ‘I don’t recall offering to buy you a horse.’

Ken-in chewed his lip. You’re not going up into the hills alone, my lady, surely?’

‘I certainly am,’ she assured him, moving to check the girth on the saddle of her chosen horse. She pulled it tight and poked the animal in the ribs just for good measure in case it was inclined to hold its breath. ‘Where’s the mounting block?’

‘You’re not setting off now?’ Ametine gasped, wringing her hands in confusion. ‘It’s nigh on dark.’

‘What has that to do with anything?’ asked Velindre with ominous calm. ‘Or with you, for that matter?’ She settled herself in the saddle and, walking the horse carefully around the yard, she nodded with satisfaction at the animal’s well-schooled responsiveness. ‘You’ll do, won’t you?’ She patted his shoulder and turned her attention back to the disgruntled youth now leaning against the wall by the back door of the inn. ‘Did you get the provisions I asked for? And everything else?’

The boy rubbed a hand over his head, knocking his knitted cap awry. ‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Go and get them,’ Velindre invited with a hint of irritation. Now, Ametine, isn’t it? My luggage, if you please?’ Ametine brought the heavy leather bag over and Velindre secured it to the metal rings attached to the front of the saddle.

Ken-in appeared from a tack room by the outer arch of the yard carrying an oilskin bundle bound with leather straps in his hands, bulky furs slung over one shoulder and a small sack hanging from the other arm. ‘I did what you bid, but you can’t be thinking—’

‘The cloak, if you please.’ Velindre held out a commanding hand. ‘Tie everything else to the back of the saddle.’

‘But madam ‘

She cut off his protest by pulling the cloak off his shoulder. Standing in her stirrups, she settled the heavy fur around herself. She found a round hat in one deep pocket and gauntlets in another, beaver pelt, wonderfully warm and silky. She pulled them over her kidskin gloves, ignoring Karin who was muttering under his breath as he secured the food and grain on the horse’s rump. She wouldn’t go hungry, Velindre noted. In fact, she’d best discard what she could as soon as she was outside the city, lest the horse prove overburdened.

‘You can’t set off now. You’ll be dead and froze by dawn.’ Ametine’s breath smoked in the lamplight and she was shivering in her indoor maid’s livery. Now that the sun was down, the temperature was falling like a stone.

The bells of the city proclaimed the end of the day with ten brisk chimes as Velindre offered the silent horse-trader a double handful of white-gold crowns. ‘That should pay for the horse. What’s his name?’

‘Oakey.’ The horse-trader tipped his hat briefly to her and clicked his tongue to get the unwanted horse walking out of the stable yard. Oakey whickered briefly after his stable mate and Velindre soothed him with a pat beneath his mane before fishing in her purse again. ‘Ametine, here’s payment for your time and trouble. You can share it with your absent friend or not, as you see fit.’

She tossed a couple more Tormalin crowns to Ken-in, who looked up at her sullenly. ‘I appreciate your offer of an escort and I’m sorry if you’ve made a fool of yourself telling your friends you’re heading into the wilds on some adventure.’ It was too dark to see if the boy was blushing but his ducked head suggested to Velindre that she’d guessed right. ‘Believe me, boy, you don’t want to go where I’m heading,’ she said sternly. ‘And any mage worth the name doesn’t need an escort, whatever the weather, so don’t think of following me in some misguided hope of riding to my rescue in case of marauding trappers. I shall see any such trouble long before it finds me. I’ll also see you if you’re fool enough to try coming after me, and I will be seriously displeased.’

Satisfied to see apprehension replace the mulishness in Kerrin’s face, she carefully gathered up her reins in her double-gloved hands and drew the horse’s head around towards the open archway. The inn’s ostlers watched her ride out, shaking their heads in bafflement. Several turned questioning faces to Ametine but she had already disappeared inside the warm inn.

Out on the road, Velindre turned the horse’s head up the hill. ‘Come on, Oakey.’ The reluctant animal was evidently none too pleased to be heading away from a companionable stable yard with a bitterly cold night coming rapidly on. She used her heels to convince him otherwise, urging him to his fastest walk, wary of the cobbles in sheltered corners already slick with frost. Best to be out of the city gates before dusk, when some watchman was bound to take it into his head to ask where she was going, laden for travel at such a time. Not that any watchman could stop her. All the same, any gate-ward mentioning such a meeting to some superior among the Guilds would increase the chances of her visit being reported back to curious ears in Hadrumal.

The inns of Inglis were doing a roaring trade satisfying fur trappers eager for light, warmth and companionship. Velindre soothed Oakey with a firm hand as a riot of song spilled out of one tavern door along with golden candlelight and a man who’d tripped over his own feet. A linkboy with his lantern swaying on a pole stared open-mouthed at her. Velindre ignored him, forcing her recalcitrant steed on..

She soon reached the long bridge that snaked across the wide expanse of the River Dalas on a succession of tall, solidly built pillars. Ice gathered in the narrow arches shone pale against the black water in the fading light. What would a water mage be doing in the far north in winter? she wondered idly. Was Azazir curious as to the nature of freezing?

The bridge was strewn with sand though there were few enough carts or carriages out to take advantage of the Guilds’ forethought. Most people were content to stay by their own firesides, counting the days till the festivities of the Spring Equinox. Did the Aldabreshin celebrate the Equinoxes? Velindre realised she didn’t know. No matter. Dev would know all the local customs and playing the guide was the least he could do in return for the lore she’d be bringing him. She only hoped Azazir would be able to explain his secrets without too much of the rambling and digression that so many of the oldest wizards seemed prone to indulge in. She didn’t have time to waste and she certainly hadn’t come this far to fail.

Oakey slowed as the animal sensed that her thoughts were elsewhere. Velindre prompted him back to a faster walk with hands and heels. With a shake of his head, the horse pressed on through the empty streets of close-shuttered, primly respectable houses. Velindre paid closer attention to their route. She’d only had a few occasions to come this way on previous visits to Inglis and had never had cause to go far inland before.

A gate-ward was warming himself by a brazier beneath the towering gatehouse astride the highroad. ‘We lock up at second chime of the night,’ he warned as Velindre passed by him. You’ll have to find another way in if you’re late back.’

‘I’ll remember.’ She nodded perfunctorily.

There were plenty of houses beyond the pool of light cast by the torches smouldering above the archway.

^Inglis had gates for the better collecting of tariffs and dues, their tall towers serving as lookout posts, but there were no walls warranting serious defence. Who was there in these northern wilds to attack the city?

Is that what Azazir is seeking? Velindre wondered. She found herself increasingly curious about meeting this notorious wizard. Solitude and freedom to explore all aspects of his affinity, away from the noise and nosiness of Hadrumal. Otrick had always said he learned more from a day out on the storm-tossed headlands of this ocean coast than he did from half a season in Hadrumal’s libraries. She had certainly outstripped every other apprentice of her affinity among her contemporaries once Otrick had accepted her as his pupil and taken her away on those voyages of startling discovery.

Though there had been the few times when she had wondered if their wild trials of wind and wave were going to end in disaster. Best not forget also that Azazir’s experiments had resulted in his banishment from Hadrumal. Her father would be content to see the mage dead and it must have taken something considerable to stir him to that degree. She shivered, not cold inside her cocoon of fur and wool but just a little apprehensive. Oakey slowed again with a whicker of protest and she felt his muscles tensing obstinately beneath her legs. As she let the animal come to a complete halt, he laid his ears back irritably. ‘We’re going to make a good start on this trip tonight, whatever you might think, my friend.’ As she spoke, Velindre leaned forward to stroke the horse’s coarse, bristly mane. Magelight glimmered between her fingers and spread to wrap horse and rider in a shimmering aura, no brighter than the moonlight now shining from above. Velindre glanced upwards. The sky was clear, pricked with bright stars, and the Greater Moon was rising in a golden half-circle above the dark, featureless mass of the forested hills before her. ‘Come on, Oakey,’ she encouraged.

Insulated from the deepening cold by the subtle magic now enveloping them, the horse gave a grumbling snort and plodded obligingly on.