A Crown Imperilled

CHAPTER SIX

Jim ran.

The vaguely important, always elusive minor noble from the west forced his way past startled courtiers and annoyed servants as he raced through the halls of the King’s palace in Rillanon. Dishevelled and dirty from miles of fast travel, he was nearly exhausted yet found the strength to single-handedly disrupt the business of the palace for the day. His violent haste was understandable and those who recognized him quickly nodded in sympathy: his grandfather was dying.

Jim cursed the gods, the fates, whim, bad luck, any other agency he could imagine who might have conspired to have him away from the Kingdom’s home island when word reached him of his grandfather’s illness. His last Tsurani transport orb had been destroyed by a Keshian agent, and he had to rely on Pug’s son Magnus to return to Rillanon from Sorcerer’s Isle after his last meeting with Pug. He had agents, if he could trust them, attempting to secure more orbs from a LaMutian artificer of Tsurani descent who claimed he could make them, but as yet none of the promised devices had been forthcoming.

As a result of this, when word of his grandfather’s situation had reached him on the mainland he had been halfway to the city of Ran to observe Keshian activities in that region. He had ridden like a madman to the royal docks in the city of Rodez, only to discover the entire royal fleet had been dispatched to picket duty in support of the fleet out of Ran. So he had purchased outright the fastest ship he could find, a dilapidated fishing boat in need of a complete overhaul, and made straight for Rillanon.

Jim had encountered no Keshian ships this far inside Kingdom waters but had been challenged on the outskirts of Sadara, the Kingdom’s second-largest city outside the mainland. He presented his documents, then ordered the crew to sink the schooner rather than bother towing it, and commandeered their frigate.

Riding horses into the ground, sailing on a filthy fishing boat, and having no means to improve his appearance on the frigate lent him an entirely woeful and disreputable appearance when he finally reached the royal docks in Rillanon City But if the naval guards at the quay wondered who this dirty traveller might be, the fact that he was rowed ashore by a very deferential crew of sailors from a royal frigate caused them to stand aside as he hurried past and up the long incline to the main street above.

Jim had dodged indifferent workers, curious merchants, and concerned guards. Rillanon was on a full wartime footing and the appearance of anyone out of the ordinary was cause for alarm. He had been challenged by the officer at the gate, but in less than a minute he was riding on that officer’s horse, racing up the long road from the harbour to the palace.

Nearing his grandfather’s private chambers now, he saw two guards posted outside. He spoke forcefully, ‘Open the bloody doors!’

‘No one is admitted without-’

That was as far as he got before Jim shoved past the guard and started to push open the door. The other guard reached over and found himself on the floor before he could put hands on Jim.

The doors swung wide into the antechamber of his grandfather’s apartment, and Jim was confronted by another pair of sentries, but with the addition of a sergeant of the royal household guard. Rather than try to physically attack Jim, the old soldier merely stood before the door with his hands up, palms out saying, ‘Hold up a minute, Jimmy.’

Recognizing the sergeant, Jim said, ‘I want to see grandfather, Jacky.’

Sergeant Jack Mallory nodded. ‘He’s sleeping, and you’re a fright.’

Jim began to calm down as the guards he had knocked over hurried up behind him. The sergeant made a shooing motion towards the outer door.

‘How is he?’ asked Jim.

Motioning for Jim to follow him, the sergeant moved away and keeping his voice low, said, ‘Well, your grandfather’s old, Jimmy. But there’s something else …’

‘What?’ asked Jim, his eyes narrowing.

‘You know I’ve been with the old man for … well, since you were a baby,’ whispered the sergeant.

Jim nodded.

‘I think I know him pretty well, his moods, his good days, his bad days, you know what I mean.’

‘Yes,’ said Jim. ‘What is it?’

‘Something’s not quite right here. I can’t put my finger on it, but your grandfather started complaining about his stomach a month ago. You know him. He doesn’t complain.’

Jim nodded again. After a moment he said, ‘You suspect poison?’

‘After the way things have been around here, I suspect everything.’

Jim felt exasperated. He had raced without rest from halfway to the eastern border of the Kingdom only to return to this. ‘What do the healers say? The priests?’

‘No one says anything, and whatever you hear comes from the office of Sir William Alcorn. That’s why those lads outside were so anxious to stop you. Orders are no one sees your grandfather without Sir William’s writ.’

Jim reached into his tunic and pulled out a small purse hanging from a cord around his neck and opened it. A folded piece of parchment was all it contained and Jim took it out, unfolded it and handed it to the sergeant.

Sergeant Mallory read it. Then he said, ‘You play Follow-the-Queen Poker, Jimmy?’

‘Terrible game. What’s the point?’

‘Well, as we’d say in that game, a command from the Duke of Rillanon trumps any orders given by Sir William, despite him having the title of King’s Magistrate.’ He grinned. ‘Or at least that’s how I see it and even if the King should think otherwise, I’ll stand before him and say that’s how I see it right now.’

‘Thank you, Jacky.’

‘Now, you get to your quarters and get cleaned up, and as soon as he stirs, I’ll send for you. You look like you could use a bath, meal, and nap, Jimmy.’

Jim smiled. Sergeant Mallory was one of the few around who called him ‘Jimmy.’ It came from when he had been a little boy and used to play being ‘Jimmyhand’ his legendary great-grandfather, Lord James, the first Jamison.

Without another word, Jim nodded, turned and left the antechamber to his grandfather’s private apartment and walked slowly towards his own quarters. He saw a page hurrying down the hall and stopped him.

‘Sir?’ the boy asked.

‘Do you know me?’

The boy almost squinted as he looked at the dishevelled, dirty man before him, then recognition dawned. ‘Sir James?’

‘Close enough. I’m going to my quarters. I wish to be undisturbed for two hours. After which I want a hot bath, and while it’s being prepared I need half a roasted chicken, a bowl of rice, roasted potatoes, or turnips. A flagon of wine, and whatever fruit and vegetables they have ready to serve. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

Jim walked to his own quarters and was almost staggering by the time he reached them. He fell onto his bed and was asleep before his head struck the pillow.

Jim was vaguely aware of a warm body snuggled in close behind him as he woke up. It took him only moments to be aware of his surroundings, but he still felt groggy as he asked, ‘You awake?’

‘Of course,’ said the female voice behind him.

He rolled over and found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes set in a lovely face of dusky skin — Keshian ancestry that had served her well over the years. James lifted himself on one arm and saw a maid’s dress draped over the chair at his writing desk. He glanced down at the naked young woman. ‘You’re a maid again?’

‘I thought it best to be in a believable role should someone interrupt your sleep. It also explains why I might have lingered after bringing in all that food you ordered.’ She indicated the large tray placed on a table opposite the bed, an ornate silver affair with a matching flagon.

‘The young lord and the willing maid, it is then?’

With a mocking smile she said, ‘Young lord?’

‘I said to be awoken, then brought food while I bathed.’

‘I tried to wake you,’ she returned. With lowered lashes and a half-smile, she added, ‘In several ways. It was obvious you needed sleep. You were exhausted. You slept through the night. I’m afraid the wine is no longer chilled and the chicken is cold.’

‘Better than I’ve had for a while.’

‘No doubt. I can send for fresh.’

‘Don’t bother. Now, what do you know?’ said James as he rolled off bed and realized he was also naked. ‘Did you undress me?’

‘Yes,’ she said standing up. ‘It wasn’t very convincing me being naked under the covers and you being full dressed on top.’ She grinned. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve removed your clothing.’

He returned the smile. ‘Well, you certainly didn’t bathe me,’ he said, wrinkling his nose.

‘Your bath’s been ready for almost an hour. I ordered it when I thought you likely to wake.’

‘So what’s your name?’ he asked as he followed her into his bathing chamber, admiring her nearly-flawless body as she proceeded him into the bathing chamber. Her soft curves belied a toughness he had personally honed over the years. Of all his agents, she was not only one of the best at getting information, she was as hard to kill as a cockroach. A childhood with the Mockers of Krondor had trained her in ways few not born on the street could begin to imagine. He had never asked her to play the role of assassin, but he suspected she would do so without question and very effectively.

She opened the door and moved aside so he could step into a warm tub of water in the middle of a room. ‘I’m called Anne right now.’

He settled into the still-warm tub and gave a satisfied sigh. Many times in his life his chosen role had required him to go days, weeks even, without being properly clean. He sat back as Anne poured a jug of warm water over his head and began shampooing vigorously. ‘Weren’t you Anne in …?’

‘Salador,’ she supplied.

‘So, what do we know?’ he asked.

Leaning over the edge of the tub, Anne said, ‘I’ve been here about a month, since I got your message in Krondor. I’ve found nothing substantial, but this palace is awash with rumours.’

‘It’s the palace. There are always rumours.’

‘Yes, but as you taught me,’ she said scrubbing his back, ‘there are rumours and there are rumours.’

‘I don’t have time to sift through rumours. If you can’t tell me what you know, tell me what you think.’

Leaning over to scrub his chest from behind, her face near his ear, she whispered, ‘Sir William Alcorn is putting those loyal to him, or at least in his debt, into key positions and the King seems to have no objection. Your grandfather most certainly did.’

‘And you think this has something to do with my grandfather’s health?’

‘Hard to say, Jim,’ she said as she draped her arms around his neck. ‘I’ve nosed around as much as I can and the healing priests and chirurgeons all seem above suspicion. Maybe one of them might be working for someone trying to get your grandfather out of the way, but the others would have likely found some hint of magic or poison.

‘He is an old man, Jim.’

‘He’s the only family I have left, or at least the only family left that still speaks to me.’

She shrugged. As an orphan she had even less family, but over the years she had come to appreciate that the topic of Jim’s family was only under discussion when he brought it up. She knew there had been many difficulties between Jim and his father, his Uncle Dasher, and his cousin Richard. Some of it was political, for reasons Jim never mentioned, and some of it was family history, for reasons even more obscure. But she had been around Lord James long enough to read his moods. ‘You’re really worried, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

‘I have a theory should you wish to hear it.’

‘Go on.’

‘I believe your grandfather may have been poisoned, but not to the extent of trying to kill him.’

Jim was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Keep him out of the way, but not raise suspicion by a death?’

‘He’s been too ill to be an effective counter to Sir William Alcorn’s shenanigans for over two weeks.’ She paused, then said, ‘He’s very clever, our Sir William, and very deft. It’s as if he has everything slowly moving until he’s poised, then suddenly-,’ she clapped her hands together, ‘-he’s moved two or three people around before anyone can mount an objection. Moreover, even before your grandfather took ill, his influence had grown. His relationship with the King, going back to when they were young soldiers together …’ She let the thought run out, and shrugged. Both knew that the ‘simple’ court knight had become the most powerful man in the Kingdom, usurping the position held by Jim’s grandfather. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

Before he could answer, the door in the other room opened and someone came in. Anne leapt into the tub with Jim with a squeal of laughter, splashing water over the floor.

Jim looked up to see a soldier standing inside his quarters looking embarrassed. ‘Sorry sir, but I knocked and you didn’t answer.’

Feigning annoyance, Jim said, ‘Can’t you see I’m occupied?’

‘It’s your grandfather, sir. He’s awake and asking for you.’

Jim made a show of forcing Anne off him, grabbed a towel and saw the guard trying very hard not to watch Anne as she climbed out of the tub. Whoever he might report to would hear only a sordid narration of a bored noble and a maid of easy virtue, nothing out of the ordinary in the palace.

Jim dressed quickly, tossing a look over his shoulder to Anne. ‘Be on your way, girl. Perhaps I’ll have time for you tonight.’

‘Sir,’ she said as if annoyed yet hopeful. She knew that meant she was to find him tonight so they could compare notes on what he had learned.

He dressed quickly and followed the guard to his grandfather’s apartment where Sergeant Mallory was back at his post. ‘Sir,’ he said with a quick salute as two guards opened the doors into his grandfather’s apartment.

Propped up in his large bed, James Jamison, second of that name to hold the title of Duke of Rillanon, beckoned for his grandson to come closer. No one needed to say anything; Jim took one look at the old man and knew he was near death. He walked to the bedside and leaned over, kissing his grandfather’s forehead.

‘Good to see you, lad,’ whispered the old man.

‘Good to see you, Grandfather.’

‘Now,’ he said patting the bed beside him, ‘sit down and shut up. There’s a lot I need to tell you and not much time.’

Jim sat down and waited for his grandfather to tell him something vital.

It was a shaken James Jamison who left his grandfather’s quarters an hour later. Even those who knew him well might not see any outward sign, but inside Jim was as near to a state of panic as he had been in his entire life. His world was coming apart at the seams.

Jim was the eyes and ears of the Kingdom, the trader in secrets and hidden truths, but his grandfather had command of the Congress of Lords and knew the temper of the nobility of the two realms, from the Duchy of Ran to the Far Coast. Between the two of them they had pieced together a puzzle that had been baffling them both for more than a year prior to the outbreak of war between Kesh and the Kingdom.

Politics was more the province of his grandfather. His late uncle, Dasher, likewise had been a political animal. Jim’s father had been much more like his great grandfather, Arutha, son of the first James, a gifted administrator, bright and likable, but otherwise not especially remarkable. And his cousin Richard was a soldier with all the noble and annoying traits that required. One thing about Richard, Jim knew, was that he might currently be one of the few soldiers he could rely on, and that he commanded the Prince’s Army in Krondor, which might prove vital before all was said and done.

Not all Jamesons were suited to governance; most were gifted in whatever role life provided, but only Jim had developed the same lethal set of skills and the cold nerve to use them in service to the Crown that his namesake, the original James, Jimmy the Hand, had enjoyed. And now it looked as if he was going to need every shred of talent he possessed as well as every bitter experience, harsh lesson, and the famous Jameson luck to thwart what was now clearly shaping up to be a bid to seize the crown of the Kingdom of the Isles.

While he had been busy trying to uncover who had been subverting or killing off his operatives and why Kesh was moving towards the Kingdom, someone else had been busy plotting a coup d’etat and from what his grandfather had said, they were close to ready.

James stopped as he reached the major hallway bisecting the palace. Ahead were his own quarters and those of other royal retainers and functionaries, while to the right were offices and the guards’ quarters to either side of the entrance to the royal wing, containing the great hall, the King’s apartments and the living quarters of the household staff. To the left was the grand entrance and steps down to the palace’s marshalling yard.

In as many years as he could remember, this was the first time Jim Dasher, Lord Jameson, had no idea where to go next. He knew that he must be in the palace for at least another night and day, but after that?

His network of agents was compromised; yet he had been almost arrogant in his certainty of his own cleverness in taking what his grandfather had begun, grafting onto it his great uncle’s Mockers. He had spent years successfully infiltrating every stratum of Kingdom society and not a little of Kesh, Queg, and the Free Cities in the west with spies and provocateurs. No activity from affairs of state down to smuggling along the coast escaped his notice, and he had been supreme in the Bitter Sea.

Or so he had thought until Amed Dabu Asam had tried to kill him. His most trusted agent in Kesh, one of his most trusted anywhere, and now he was a man Jim would take great delight in seeing dead.

With Amed compromised, Jim assumed his entire ring of spies west of Land’s End must be untrustworthy. Even if he was to survive all this … if the Kingdom was to survive all this, not one man in Kesh could be trusted.

From what he had been able to discover on his own coupled with what his grandfather had told him, Jim could assume only about a third of his agents were still in place and trustworthy.

He realized palace servants and minor Kingdom officials passing by were taking notice of him. If he was going to dither, he might as well do it while going somewhere. He knew a place near the merchants’ quarters where he could both dine and arrange for certain agents to find him. He turned towards the grand entrance and the outer gates of the palace.

It had been nearly a year since he had been in Rillanon, and while his grandfather’s loyal agents had most of the city under observation, it was clear there was what, as Kaseem Abu Hazara-Khan — his opposite number in Kesh — had observed, ‘another player’ in the game. If Lady Franciezka Sorboz’s spy ring in Roldem had been compromised, and Jim’s in the Kingdom crippled, Kaseem’s had been utterly destroyed. When last Jim had seen him he had been a hunted man. No doubt he was secreted away somewhere until he could safely resurface or give up any hope of continuing in service to the Empire. If the latter and he could safely reach his people in the Jal-Pur desert, he might live to old age as a nameless tribesman. Jim considered that last option very problematical given how far Kaseem had to travel to reach the safety of his family’s camp.

Jim reached the steps leading down into the palace courtyard and made straight for the small personal entrance, the size of an ordinary door set into the large, ornate iron gate that guarded the entrance to the palace grounds. The large gates, opened to admit detachments of horse and large carriages, was closed as a rule, but now he was surprised to find the small gate also barred and two guards posted before it.

‘Sir?’ one challenged him as he approached.

‘I’m James Jameson, the Duke’s grandson. I thought I’d get out in the city and stretch my legs a bit.’

The guard nodded. ‘Well enough, sir. If you can show us your pass.’

‘Pass?’ Jim’s face darkened. ‘Since when does a member of the royal court need a pass to enter and leave the palace grounds?’

‘Since the order was posted this morning, sir. You need a pass signed by the Viceroy’s office.’

‘Viceroy?’

‘You’ve not heard, sir?’ said the guard in affable tones. ‘Why, this very morning the King named his friend Sir William Alcorn Viceroy, to help him run things until the old duke, I mean your grandfather, is back on his feet. Orders came down with the changing of the guard; no one in or out without the Viceroy’s approval.’

Pushing aside his sense of outrage, Jim forced a smile. ‘That must be it, then. I came in late last night, exhausted, and slept in until meeting with my grandfather. I’ll go at once to Sir William’s office and see to the matter. Carry on.’ Jim turned and marched back towards the palace steps.

There was only one possible reason for the new requirement for a pass: Sir William had decided to limit the comings and goings of those in the royal household, including the Duke’s staff. Had his grandfather been fit, Jim had no doubt that pass requirement would not have lasted more than a half-day, but his grandfather was soundly sleeping after being forced to imbibe a sleeping draught by the royal chirurgeon.

Jim knew it would be suspicious if he didn’t put in an appearance at Sir William’s office, but he didn’t feel the need to go straight away. He had a half-dozen ways to leave the palace whenever he wished, and no doubt Sir William knew about two or three of them.

First he needed to find Anne and send her on a little errand — and then make a quick check on his grandfather. And he desperately needed to get something to eat. He was starving, having not eaten for nearly three days. If they hadn’t cleared the tray out of his room, he’d eat whatever was there, no matter how cold, dried out, or stale it might be.

His frustration gave way to a rare flight of fancy. His tasks would have been so much easier if he’d had a magician on his staff, someone like Magnus who could just transport him to one place or another. That returned Jim to thinking about his last visit to Sorcerer’s Isle and he wondered how Pug was getting on with uncovering his own personal nest of traitors.

As he climbed the wide steps into the palace that thought sent a new chill down Jim’s back: should Pug’s problems turn out to be as grave as his own, the consequences of what he faced was probably far more dire than the situation here. For if Jim failed in his tasks, his King and the conDoin dynasty might fall, perhaps even the Kingdom of the Isles in its entirety, but should Pug fail …

Jim shoved aside the thought. He didn’t want to contemplate what might happen to this entire world if Pug should fail.

Pug sat quietly, his face an unreadable mask as he listened to the debate taking place on the floor of the Academy Council. A strange sense of deja vu struck him for a brief moment: the Academy was becoming more like the Assembly of Magicians on Kelewan where he had trained.

Currently there appeared to be four groups represented among the members, groups that had formed around the teachings of three men, each reflecting a different philosophy, and a fourth, uncommitted, faction. Pug realized that of those in attendance, he was the only person who had actually known those three men. Two of them had been his students, Korsh and Watoom, two very talented magicians of Keshian ancestry. The third faction had been influenced by his close friend for years, Nakor. He wondered what his old friend might think of what had become of the Academy were he alive to see it.

A tall, slender magician named Natiba stood and addressed the twenty members of the council. ‘The Wand of Watoom has met in caucus and we have weighed the warning carried to us by Pug.’ He bowed slightly in Pug’s direction.

As founder of the Academy on Stardock Island, land once ceded him by the Crown of the Kingdom of the Isles, Pug was viewed with veneration but since he had renounced his loyalty to the Kingdom and given Stardock and the Academy autonomy, he was also viewed with some suspicion, an unspoken concern he might some day choose to attempt to reclaim the school of magicians and the town of Stardock.

Pug appeared ageless, looking much as he had for the last century and more, with his dark hair and beard. He was slender and short, but had a wiry strength, an aura of toughness and resilience. He might be the single most powerful magician on this world — though he considered his son Magnus might soon surpass him, if he had not already — but he had begun life as an orphan kitchen-boy in far-off Crydee Keep and had endured four years as a slave on the Tsurani home world of Kelewan. He was no lifelong academic.

Pug had seen death and destruction on a scale unimaginable to nearly every other magic-user in attendance and considered this current debate trivial, pointless, and a waste of time. Yet he endured it, because he honoured his pledge and would let events take their natural course.

The Wand of Watoom was one of the two Keshian-dominated factions in the Academy, the other being the Hands of Korsh. Watoom had been a Keshian, but not a Trueblood, like Korsh had been. The difference between those friends had evolved two groups, who were both conservative by nature. The Wand was by far the more cautious and reactive of the two, keeping themselves focused on internal matters almost to the exclusion of the outside world. The Hands of Korsh was still conservative in its outlook, but was more inclined to take active part in events beyond the Island of Stardock.

The third faction called themselves the Blue Riders in honour of one of Nakor’s more colourful affectations: a grand blue robe that had been a gift to him from the Empress of Kesh. That and a beautiful black stallion he had ridden like a madman until it died. The Blue Riders believed there was no magic, and that anyone could learn ‘tricks’, so they were constantly at odds with the other two factions. They were far more progressive and believed in an active, ongoing engagement with the outside world.

As usual the Hands were the swing faction, standing between the Riders and the Wand, with the uncommitted members likely to bring matters to a resolution. The topic being debated was the warning Pug had just delivered to the Council regarding the demon incursion into Midkemia and the possible threat posed from them and the forces behind the demons, the Dread.

The debate had been taking the better part of a day, and for Pug it had been tedium piled upon pointlessness. He had arrived the night before and conferred with the senior members of the Council, called the Administration: five members, one from each of the three named factions and a further two selected from the undecided members. Pug did not like the idea of any faction having automatic placement on such a body, it reeked too much of the party politics that had plagued much of the Empire of Tsuranuanni for centuries, but he forced himself to remain silent on all matters of governance over the Academy. For it to be truly independent, he must merely be seen as another magician.

Natiba finished his remarks, like many of those before merely a rehash of positions already argued, as if some members felt the need to speak even if only to reiterate what had already been said, in case they somehow might lose position or prestige in this council by staying silent.

Another magician rose and was given the floor. Pug was pleased to see this one was dressed in a plain brown robe, making him look like a mendicant friar of one of the temple orders rather than a magician. Too many of the magicians here, especially those in the conservative orders, affected the black robes similar to those worn by the Tsurani Great Ones. Pug absently wondered how much of that was due to his own choice to wear those garments, to constantly remind him of how he had come to be ‘the Black Sorcerer’.

The magician in brown said, ‘I am distressed that so many of our brothers and sisters are determined to continually revisit the same points without any apparent progress in reaching a conclusion we can, at least, debate. So, I will make this proposal and ask the Administration to put it before the membership and call for a vote.

‘I ask that we agree that Pug would not have come to us save in the face of the most dire threat and that time must be counted as a critical issue. Moreover, without a clear purpose as to where we can best lend our talents to protect our world from the demon threat and the Dread-,’ as he said that, the young magician glanced at Pug with an expression that suggested he wasn’t willing quite yet to believe that such a horror could exist, let alone threaten this world, ‘-we should consider making a plan to answer any call Pug might make and how best to do that.’

The room erupted in comments and chatter. Several members voiced the opinion that it was too soon to be coming to any sort of vote on any issue, while others suggested the young magician overstepped his bounds. The Chairman stood and held up his hands for silence. He was a portly magician from one of the Eastern Kingdoms, by the name of Eslon Makov; he possessed a sense of gravitas well suited to moments like these. He said, ‘A question has been put to the vote of the members. To restate the question-’

Pug let the restatement fade into the background as he saw the young, brown-robed magician move in his direction, climbing the steps of the circular hall to where he sat. ‘A moment, if you don’t mind,’ he said.

Pug nodded and rose to follow the young magician up a few steps to the top tier of the Academy’s main hall, then out of the door to the antechamber.

The young magician said, ‘I am called Ruffio, Pug. I’ve not had the honour of meeting you before.’

Pug smiled. ‘I appreciate your support in there.’

The young man shrugged and smiled hesitantly and Pug was suddenly struck by Ruffio’s resemblance to himself at a much younger age. He had a thick shock of dark hair and a similar build and carriage. ‘It was an obvious point to make, I thought. And if dire events do transpire as you fear, it might make it easier for this august body to reach a conclusion and act before we all die of old age.’

Pug laughed as they walked past a pair of older magicians who cast them a quick glance and continued on their own way.

Pug and Ruffio exited the antechamber and walked down a wide set of steps to a walled garden. When they were alone, Ruffio said, ‘I think if there are members of some unknown agency embedded here, they’ve blended in successfully. For a week now I’ve reviewed every discussion I’ve been involved in, overheard, heard of, and I’m forced to admit … nothing.’ He looked Pug in the eye. ‘It may be that the very nature of this society of magicians is exactly what our opponents desire: a tendency to wish to do nothing.’

Pug nodded. ‘We have traitors in the Conclave, Ruffio. Otherwise how could so many things have gone so dreadfully wrong in the last few years?’

The younger magician nodded, remembering the assaults on Sorcerer’s Isle that should never have succeeded, the worst of which had cost Pug the lives of many, including his wife and son. ‘Still, that doesn’t mean they’ve infiltrated here.’ He looked unhappy. ‘We should return. The vote on the motion should begin soon.’

‘Thank you for putting it forward.’

‘A necessary step.’ The young magician was thoughtful as they reached the entrance to the meeting hall. ‘The Academy lacks the exceptional talents of the Conclave, but we have many powerful men and women in our ranks. If the need arises there are enough of us in the uncommitted faction to force through a vote to help.’ He smiled. ‘Even the most conservative member of the Hands won’t oppose preventing the world from ending.’ His smile broadened. ‘At least I don’t think they would.’

Pug stood alone for a moment and said quietly, ‘I hope you’re right, but sometimes I wonder.’