Faerie Lord

Forty-Six

Chalkhill was complaining again. About the dust, about the heat, about the discomfort, about everything. Brimstone was beginning to wonder why he’d bothered to bring him. Then he glanced at the native bearers patiently carrying the crate and remembered. Chalkhill was the one with the gold. Chalkhill had always been the one with the gold.

But that would change soon. Oh yes, indeed.

‘My feet are sore,’ Chalkhill complained. ‘You said we’d have got there by now.’

‘We’re close,’ Brimstone told him.

‘I hope this is going to be worth it.’

‘Oh, it’ll be worth it all right. You have no idea how much worth it it’s going to be.’

The terrain actually wasn’t too bad, despite Chalkhill’s complaints. When they crossed the border there was a little greenery, some shrub and several open roads beaten earth roads, to be sure, but maintained. And there were porters hanging round the Border Post. The trouble was there were no carriages, no horses, no pack animals and the use of spells was strictly forbidden by an exceptionally backward, superstitious Government. Brimstone tried to persuade their original coachman to take them further, but the man refused to cross the border even for an offer of double pay.

Since then, the broad road had become a track, the weather had grown hotter and the surroundings had become a little desolate, but nothing to justify Chalkhill’s incessant moaning. The porters were carrying the crate and their supplies. The only thing Chalkhill was carrying was a mechanical click-gun, a primitive device compared with the spell-driven weapons at home, but what could you do? The penalty for smuggling magic was slow dismemberment and he hadn’t been prepared to take the risk.

‘What’s this place called?’ Chalkhill asked belligerently.

‘What place?’

‘The place we’re going – what’s it called?’

‘Koob ban Eretz Evets,’ Brimstone said. ‘Roughly translates as The Mountains of Madness.’

Chalkhill frowned. ‘Madness?’ he asked. ‘Mountains?’

‘Yes.’ Brimstone wished Chalkhill would stop talking. It was hot and he was tired as well (tired, but uncomplaining) and most of all he didn’t want the natives listening in to his business. They pretended they didn’t understand Faerie Standard, but Brimstone knew differently.

‘Then we’re not close,’ Chalkhill snarled, ‘If we were close, we would see them. You can see mountains for miles.’

Brimstone sighed inwardly. ‘Not these ones,’ he said. ‘They’re screened.’

For a moment he thought Chalkhill might be satisfied, but no. ‘Magic screened?’ Chalkhill frowned, ‘I thought you said there was no magic in -?’

‘There isn’t,’ Brimstone said quickly. It didn’t do to talk too much about magic in front of the porters. The natives had a reputation for killing anybody they suspected of sorcery. He’d told Chalkhill that (and made him switch off his stupid spell-sparkle teeth), but the man never listened. ‘It’s an optical illusion. Like a mirage in reverse.’ It was one of the reasons he’d chosen Koob ban Eretz Evets for this little jaunt. The mountains were hael to find without a current map. The mirage effect changed with the seasons, then changed again due to some random factor nobody quite understood. If you mapped them immediately after a change, you had a six-week window before your map became obsolete. The map Brimstone was following had only days left, but by then they would be there. He planned to leave a personalised tracer to help with the return visit and to hael with what the locals thought about magic.

To his irritation, the illusion intrigued Chalkhill. ‘How do you reverse a mirage?’

‘It’s not really a mirage,’ Brimstone said shortly. ‘A mirage is just a reflection of something a long way away: it isn’t real. The Mountains of Madness are real enough, but there’s something in the atmosphere that reflects different territory on top of them.’

Frowning, Chalkhill said, ‘So you think you’re looking at a field or a lake when you’re actually looking at the mountains?’

‘Something like that. More likely desert. Most of Buthner is a wasteland.’

‘Why madness? Why are they called the Mountains of Madness?’

‘How should I know?’ Brimstone snapped. ‘Maybe the illusion drives the locals mad. How would you like to live where mountains keep appearing and disappearing?’

‘When does it stop?’

‘When does what stop?’

‘The illusion. Or do you find out you’ve reached the mountains when you walk into them?’

It was entirely possible, Brimstone thought, that he would murder Chalkhill after all. The man was a haemorrhoid and always had been. He never stopped talking, he never stopped complaining and he was a total liability on a trip like this. His money had admittedly been useful, but once they reached the mountains, Brimstone planned to pay off the porters. Wouldn’t do to have them see where he hid his treasure. He and Chalkhill could haul it into place between them, but once he’d set up the protections, he had no more need of Chalkhill. Or his money, heh-heh-heh. He’d have more money than he could ever spend for the rest of his life. And more power. It would be a pleasure to enjoy it without Chalkhill in his face.

‘What?’ Chalkhill asked.

Brimstone looked at him blankly. ‘What what?’

‘You’re thinking,’ Chalkhill said. ‘That usually means trouble.’

Brimstone smiled at him. ‘No, not at all. Thinking? Perish the thought! I was just pondering how intelligent your questions were. About the hidden mountains. Intelligent. Very. But you won’t have to walk into them. Bump your nose? Good grief no. You’ll see them soon. One minute not there, next minute they’ve appeared. Just like m – ’ He stopped himself in time. ‘Just like a perfectly natural, completely understandable optical illusion caused by the unique layering of the air in this wonderful country. So keep a look-out, Jasper, because-’ He stopped. Chalkhill’s mouth was hanging open and his eyes were bulging in their sockets. Brimstone turned his head.

Behind him, the Mountains of Madness rose up in all their sudden splendour.