The Hickory Staff

THE PRINCE MAREK

Brynne reached out to take hold of the stern line hooked fast to a deepwater mooring; it kept the great ship from turning with the tides and crushing unsuspecting smaller vessels in the harbour.

‘Tie it to this,’ Steven whispered, handing her a length of rope affixed to their bow, short enough to keep them in place; they just had to hope the gentle rise and fall of the waves would not run the skiff into the Prince Marek.

Steven, Brynne and the old fisherman prepared to climb up the line and ease themselves over the stern rail and onto the quarterdeck. Mark positioned himself against the narrow transom, a borrowed longbow and full quiver at his feet.

The trip through the harbour had been marked by several disagreements, the worst of which was between Mark and Brynne.

‘I don’t want you going aboard,’ he said firmly.

‘Garec can’t make it. I have to go.’ Brynne was equally adamant. ‘I’m much better at hand-to-hand fighting than you, Mark. Steven might need my help.’

Brynne bristled with knives, daggers, even Mark’s battle-axe. The light of the Twinmoon glinted on the arsenal of razor-sharp edges. Mark, still unhappy about her decision, insisted he accompany them in the skiff to offer covering fire should a Malakasian sentry approach while they were boarding.

Brynne stifled a laugh. ‘I’ve seen you shoot, Mark, remember? Trying to kill fish, you missed the river three times.’

Mark was not amused. ‘Funny haha. And you’re right; maybe I’m not a great shot, but their soldiers don’t know that.’ He wished he’d paid more attention to Versen’s lessons, but it was too late now.

The old fisherman came along as well – neither Mark nor Brynne knew why, but Steven insisted, and when the seaman offered the use of his skiff, they were happy to accept.

They couldn’t bear to leave Garec alone on the beach, in case whoever had shot him came back to finish the job, so he slept in the bow of the sailboat, wrapped comfortably in their collective blankets. He was definitely alive: his heart thumped, strong and steady, and his breathing, though slow, was deep.

Mark’s stolen vessel made the trip without incident, coursing across the harbour on a swirling southern breeze, the skiff skipping along in their wake. The raiders dropped anchor and reefed sail some thousand paces west of the sleeping giant. Darkness surrounded them, and with the old fisherman at the oars, their approach to the Prince Marek was as silent as a piece of buoyant flotsam on an incoming tide.

‘So far, so good,’ Mark whispered as he watched Brynne reach for the stern rail. She had gone up first, insisting – and even he had to agree – that if anyone saw her come over the transom, no one would be able to silence them as quickly and efficiently as she. Mark held his breath. It was a long climb, thirty feet of hand-over-hand ascent, but it was just a few moments later that she was there, draping one arm over the rail and drawing a slender hunting knife from her tunic belt with the other.

‘Damn, damn, damn,’ Mark cursed: in his concern for Brynne he had forgotten the bow. He quickly nocked an arrow and pointed it aloft, waiting for someone to appear. ‘Please God, don’t let me pierce one of my friends,’ he prayed quietly, but thankfully, none of the Prince Marek ’s crew seemed to have heard them. Brynne motioned for Steven and the fisherman to join her. Mark watched intently as she peered around, then hefted her lithe form over the aft rail and disappeared from sight.

Steven went up next, with the staff tied in a makeshift harness, nimbly pulling himself hand-over-hand until he reached the stern cabin. Mark and the fisherman exchanged a worried glance as Steven slowed his climb to a stop, dangling precariously above the water.

He had paused to look through the cabin window, into an enormous chamber, so opulently decorated that it must be Prince Malagon’s. Tapers burned around the main room, and through the dim, shimmering light he could see gilded artwork on the bulkheads, delicately woven rugs in a thousand hues on the floor, ornate tapestries hanging above a huge bed draped in rich brocaded silk and velvet, and a bookshelf lined with several hundred silver-embossed books – the first books he’d seen in Eldarn.

‘Silver,’ Steven muttered, ‘you bastard. I wonder where you developed a love for silver.’ The staff responded to his anger and flickered to life, its energy lancing though Steven’s jacket. He forced himself to continue climbing.

On the water, the fisherman grabbed the rope and prepared to follow.

‘You need a hand, my friend?’ Mark asked, dubious that the old man would make it all the way up.

‘No, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I learned to climb long ago, in another life. My history teacher was quite a mountaineer.’ He flashed Mark a boyish smile and scrambled up the stern line with the agility of someone less than half his age.

Mark allowed the bowstring to relax slowly and stared after the old man in wonder. ‘It can’t be,’ he whispered, and sat down clumsily on one of the skiff’s wooden benches.

Brynne couldn’t see any crew from where she crouched behind a stack of tarpaulin-covered crates. As Steven and the fisherman joined her, she motioned for them to get down. The raised deck stretched out in front of them: a barren expanse of oak planking. Several watch fires burned in large sconces mounted above the gunwales and a warm golden light cast dull, flickering shadows across the ship’s broad beam. Their most difficult move would be from their current position down the starboard stairs to the main deck, and then through the cabin door to get to Prince Malagon’s chambers below. Wisps of Brynne’s flaxen hair blew lazily in the cold evening wind. Thankfully, it had not yet begun to rain.

She drew a second blade from her belt. ‘I will go first-’ it was not a request, ‘and you two come on quickly behind me. I’ll position myself behind the aft mast there on the main deck while Steven makes his way inside. You-’ she gestured towards the fisherman, ‘stay with me.’ She sounded fiercely determined. Reaching into her belt, she withdrew a thin-bladed knife and a small axe. ‘Do you know how to use these?’

The seaman shook his head. ‘I never use such weapons, my dear.’

Angry, she snapped, ‘Well, what in all Eldarn did you come-’ She paused and pushed the unruly strands from her face. Hidden behind the relative protection of the crates, her stoicism suddenly vanished. ‘Is it you?’ Her voice broke. ‘Is it?’

He grinned and kissed her on the temple. ‘It is. No names, mind.’

Unable to contain herself, Brynne dropped the weapons and threw her arms around the old man’s neck, squeezing him to her as if to never lose him again. ‘You don’t- you don’t look like-’

‘No names,’ the old sorcerer repeated. ‘Our plan, my dear?’

Brynne was suddenly serious. ‘Right,’ she said as she wiped away an errant tear with a tunic sleeve. ‘No one’s appeared yet, but this ship is huge and the watch might take their time getting from one end to the other.’

‘Should we wait one cycle to see?’ Steven whispered.

‘No,’ the fisherman answered, ‘if there is a watch, and on a ship this size there must be, even if just to remain vigilant for other vessels, he probably isn’t patrolling.’ He retrieved Brynne’s weapons and handed them back to her. ‘If he does come aft, Brynne can take care of him.’

‘You sound confident.’

‘Only because I’m certain the critical chambers of this vessel are magically warded. No ship is going to run into this one, so there is no real need for an attentive watch.’

‘Magically warded?’ Steven felt a lump develop in his throat.

‘Of course,’ the fisherman said, as if magical traps were commonplace, ‘if you were he, would you leave the far portal in your cabin unprotected?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Then how do I get in?’

‘Delicately, if you don’t wish to be detected.’

‘Or?’ Brynne said.

‘Or crudely, if you don’t care about Nerak hurrying back to destroy us.’

For the first time all evening, Steven laughed. ‘Okay. I opt for delicately.’

Overcome once again, Brynne reached over and squeezed the old man affectionately. ‘It is nice to have you back, even if you are a bit thin. I’ve missed your skill at pinpointing situational danger!’

The old man smiled back at her and went on, ‘So if Brynne is on hand to dispatch any wandering sentries, and you can use the staff to open the door to Nerak’s cabin, we ought to be able to get in and get out before he arrives.’

‘I thought you said if I were delicate, he wouldn’t know.’

‘Perhaps – that’s the one real risk we have to take. I am confident that he has no notion of the true power in that staff.’

‘So how will he know I’m here? As long as you don’t employ any magic, he’ll have no idea we’ve broken in, right? That’s why I had to be the one to save Garec and not you?’ Steven’s voice started to rise in anxiety, and he forced himself to speak softly.

‘True to a point, Steven. He cannot detect the staff’s magic, but I worry he will know when his safeguards have been breached.’

‘Well, hell, why should I be delicate if he’s coming regardless?’

‘That’s a great question, my boy.’ The old man pondered the idea for a moment, then shook his head. ‘You’re right. Let’s go for crude and fast.’

‘So there really is no way we’ll get out of here without a fight?’ Brynne was afraid she knew the answer to that one.

‘We – Steven and I – will probably find ourselves in a fight to the death with Nerak tonight.’ The old man rubbed a finger beneath his crooked nose.

Brynne tossed her head. ‘Then why didn’t you say so in the first place?’

His voice darkened and his face lost any hint of boyish charm as he said slowly, ‘If Steven can get through the portal quickly, I will face the dark prince alone.’

No one spoke. Brynne set her jaw and moved silently along the quarterdeck towards the starboard steps. A moment later, she disappeared.

Steven took a deep breath, gripped the staff like a lifeline and followed Brynne’s lead.

Nerak’s cabin was locked, but Steven could see and smell the wax tapers burning through the louvred doors. ‘This is it,’ he whispered. ‘I saw inside while climbing up the stern line.’

The old man gently placed the flat of his palm against the door and nodded. ‘I was right. It is locked with a spell.’

‘How do I open it?’

‘You follow the magical threads and untangle them, one by one.’

‘I’m not that good. I still don’t know how I saved Garec.’ Steven felt his chest tighten and a thin line of sweat ran down his spine. ‘You do it.’

‘The moment I employ my magic on this door, he will know.’

‘But if I try-’

‘He might not detect it.’ The old sorcerer shot Steven a dubious look. ‘It’s our only chance to gain time.’

‘Right.’ Steven felt the magic burst from his body like a thunderclap as he released it on the doorframe. The door exploded from its hinges and fell to the floor in a shower of oak splinters. ‘How was that?’ He smiled proudly.

The old man was dazed. ‘A bit noisy, but not to worry: it’s done. You find the portal. I’ll help Brynne.’

‘Brynne?’ Steven was a bit slow. ‘Does she need our help already?’

‘After your little demonstration here, my boy, she’ll probably need considerably more than just me.’

‘Damnit,’ Steven spat, and cursed his haste. He’d been so focused on Nerak that he’d been oblivious to the obvious: blowing up the door would bring everyone on board the Prince Marek rushing to see what the noise was. ‘Go! Help her!’

The old man took Steven by the shoulders. ‘Find the portal, Steven. That’s all you need worry about now. Just find the portal.’ Then he was gone.

Steven hefted the staff and collected his thoughts. ‘Find the portal. That’s all I have to worry about.’ But as he crossed the threshold, he heard a low roar, a distant explosion that careened across time and distance to reach him, rolling through his chest and leaving him reeling. He braced himself against the bulkhead.

‘Shit,’ Steven said. ‘He’s coming.’

Hidden behind the aft mast on the main deck, Brynne watched and waited, but there was absolutely no activity of any sort. Although she was beginning to wonder if there was anyone on board, she kept her eyes focused through the torchlight. Suddenly a loud explosion reached her ears: this was it: they’d done it! Her body tensed and she gripped her knives with renewed determination. Waiting for the enemy to arrive, she wondered what she would do if Nerak were to appear on deck, materialising before her in a brilliant flash. Would she run, dive over the side? Or would she attack him, slashing and cutting her way through his robes to the vulnerable flesh beneath? Was there vulnerable flesh beneath?

There was no time to answer her rhetorical questions: there was someone on board after all. Below decks she could feel the resonant thumping of people running: enemy sailors making for an open hatch twenty or thirty paces in front of her. She cursed herself for being such an idiot: any moment now a great crowd of sailors would spill from that hatch onto the deck and she would be overrun. Close the hatch, lock it down, then find and secure the others – that would buy some time.

Now she could hear voices, crying out in warning, or shouting orders. She was right on top of them. An arm reached out – too late. She slashed with her hunting knife, slicing the man’s arm across the wrist in her trademark half moon. A muffled cry echoed out of the small rectangular opening as she slammed the hatch closed and set its bolt.

She sprang to her feet and assessed the main deck as the men below pounded on the locked hatch. She could see six more open, and she was pretty sure there’d be others further forward. There was no hope. She’d never get to all of them in time.

‘But I might get to some. I might delay them for a moment or two,’ she cried and sprinted towards the next hatch, trying not to think that this might be the last thing she would ever do.

Mark was so startled by the prolonged rumble of distant thunder that he nearly fell overboard. He nocked his arrow again and braced himself against the transom. It would be a pretty one-sided fight, but he would make a memorable stand.

A cacophonous roar bellowed out from the city. ‘That has to be Nerak,’ he groaned. ‘Okay, I’ll stand my post. I am not leaving without them,’ he said aloud, as if to convince himself.

Brynne got four more hatches closed before the first sailors emerged from below, spilling out of the narrow opening like a roiling mass of insects. She was greatly outnumbered, but they hadn’t spotted her yet: if she took up a defensive position outside Malagon’s cabin she’d have a better chance. And if they hadn’t seen her, they might not come all at once; for all they knew, the Prince Marek was being attacked by a large force of Falkans, not just one woman with a few knives. She waited for them to come.

As she reached her chosen position she was about to huddle down, to hide for as long as possible, when she spotted the lone sailor above on the quarterdeck, armed with a bow: the sentry. How had they missed him? Where had he been – and how had had he managed to get behind her? He was working his way towards the stern rail; she guessed he had no idea they were on board. He probably thought the muffled explosion was enemies trying to break through the stern bulkhead. She had surprise on her side, but he had a bow. Then she remembered Mark.

Ignoring the potential threat behind her, Brynne hurried back to the quarterdeck: get to the guard before he fires at Mark. She did not muffle her steps, nor disguise her approach. Her lips were pressed together in a grim half-smile, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her hair was tucked beneath the collar of her tunic. She held a knife loosely in each hand and rolled her fingers along the hilts, as if searching for the perfect grip. She watched as the sailor reached the stern rail, saw the look of surprise as he saw the skiff tied to the stern line, and inhaled sharply as he drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it and took aim.

Brynne, unconcerned for her own wellbeing, cried out to the Malakasian bowman, but he didn’t appear to hear. He was focused on his target. He drew the bowstring taut and sighted along the shaft.

Mark saw the Malakasian appear above the stern rail: he’d been spotted. For an instant his thoughts flashed to Brynne. Was she hurt? Had this man killed her? He felt anger burgeon inside himself and suddenly he wanted very badly to deal with this man, this enemy, one-on-one. He drew an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, took aim and fired.

A startled look of surprise passed across the Malakasian’s face as Mark’s arrow flew wide over his shoulder and into the night. Mark drew again. This time he closed one eye, placed the arrowhead in the centre of the man’s chest and fired. The arrow leaped from Garec’s bow, sped towards the sentry and embedded itself in the wood of the stern rail.

‘Come on!’ Mark shouted up in English, ‘take your best shot. Go ahead and kill me, you chickenshit asshole!’

Too angry to feel afraid, he drew another shaft as the sailor nocked his own arrow and prepared to fire. Mark turned his attention skywards for his final attempt.

The sentry peered down at him along the thin black arrow as Mark, crying out, loosed his third shot and watched his arrow sail up and out of sight. It missed the man by a good fifteen feet.

‘Here it comes,’ Mark whispered, and braced himself. He started shuddering as he imagined the burning sensation of the thin obsidian arrowhead ripping through his muscles and maybe piercing a bone. For a fraction of a second he thought of Garec lying immobile and glassy-eyed on the ground in front of the fisherman’s shanty.

The Malakasian drew a breath, held it and fired.

Mark didn’t see the arrow rocketing towards, him nor did he see Brynne as she reached the man an instant later. A dull wooden thud resounded as the Malakasian arrow sank deep into the bench not six inches away.

‘He missed,’ Mark cried in disbelief. ‘You missed, you blind bastard!’ He started laughing maniacally in relief until a splash of cold water snapped him out of it. ‘What the hell?’ He stared into the dark water. His first thought was that the man had leaped over the side to engage him in close combat. Brynne had his axe; now he searched fruitlessly for a weapon until his hand fell on the arrow embedded in the seat beside him. He tugged it free and brandished it menacingly above his head.

The corpse bobbed to the surface; the dead man’s face bore a look of surprise. Almost placidly the body rolled over and sank beneath the waves.

Mark looked up at the stern rail. Brynne looked down at him, brandishing her bloodstained hunting knife.

‘I love you,’ he called out in English.

‘Speak Common, vile foreigner,’ she teased and disappeared.

The old sorcerer met her halfway back to the starboard stairs. ‘Watch your back,’ she whispered, ‘half the crew is coming out of a forward hatch.’ She moved past him, knives at the ready, preparing to leap into the fray.

‘I know,’ he said, grabbing her arm. ‘I met them as I came out of the main cabin.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘They are… resting.’ He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. ‘I’m afraid they’ll all have terrible headaches in the morning. At least they’ll be alive, though.’

‘You’ll give us revolutionaries a bad name,’ she teased as she climbed back to the deck.

‘Nonsense, my dear. I did not come here to kill sailors.’

‘That loud rumble?’

‘The old royal residence is probably going to need a few new windows.’ He looked towards the flickering lights that marked the docks and the city beyond. ‘Nerak knows we’re here.’

She couldn’t repress the look of fear that passed over her face, but she braced herself and banished the feeling of terror. ‘All right then. Bring him on.’

‘Absolutely,’ he said as he checked the knot holding the stern line in place, ‘but your part is done.’ He gestured her over the side.

‘No, I’m staying.’

‘My dear child, you have no weapons to fight him. He is dead already. And I need not to be worried about you.’ He looked back at the dock and, a little impatiently, ordered her, ‘Quickly now, over you go.’

Brynne knew when she was beaten. She sheathed her knives, wrapped her arms tightly about the old man’s neck and whispered, ‘Please be safe. I don’t want to have to go through the rites again.’

He hugged her, and said comfortingly, ‘I have spent half my life preparing for this. I’ll be fine. But please, Brynne, you must go now.’

Brynne nodded, and slipped over the rail.

Steven ignited a small fireball to bring some light to the dark prince’s private chambers, but as its soft glow banished the shadows, it also banished the opulence: the lush decor, the rich tapestries, the brocaded silks and velvets were all an illusion. When the hickory staff had breached Nerak’s magical defences, it had also shattered that spell. The thunderous eruption from across the harbour confirmed that Nerak was coming – how long did he have? A minute? Two? Twenty? Steven tried not to think about it and instead set his mind to finding the far portal.

Contrary to what he had seen through the porthole, Nerak’s cabin was sparsely decorated: no comforts, no bed, no books, no fireplace. There were no clothes in the closet, no tapestries on the walls and no carpets covering the floorboards. The wooden walls, floors and ceilings of the large square room were dark, almost black with age, and dust covered the floor: Steven was leaving boot prints in the grey blanket like tracks in city snow, as he made his way towards the centre of the room. Nerak – and the evil minion that possessed him – did not appear to sleep. He did not eat, read, or entertain guests. It looked like no one had entered this cabin in years, and Steven guessed the dark prince was more a spirit than a man, more the idea of evil than an actual person.

Against the far wall a rectangular wooden table had been pushed back into the shadows. There were two things on it: a leatherbound book and a black metal box with curious raised markings. Nervous that the Larion monster would arrive before he’d found the far portal, Steven moved hastily, kicking up a cloud of dust in the process. He brightened his fireball with a glance and reached out to open the book – then thought better of it.

‘How did he do that?’ he asked aloud, feeling unsuccessfully for any evidence of magic imbued in the table, or within the items upon it. Nothing. He closed his eyes and concentrated, hoping something would happen.

‘Why would I pick them up?’ he asked, his hands stuffed protectively in his jacket. ‘I’ll be eviscerated or some damned thing.’ Too much time had passed: he felt an overwhelming need to hurry. ‘Just do it,’ he told himself, ‘pick them up.’ He reached for the box, then pushed his hands back into his pockets.

‘Right,’ he said forcefully. ‘The room was rigged, so there is no need to rig these two.’ Slowly he took out one hand and reached forward for the book. ‘Right?’ he asked hesitantly of the empty chamber.

As soon as his fingers touched the book he could feel magic surge through him – like the feeling when he and Mark first opened William Higgins’s cylinder back home at 147 Tenth Street. But this time Steven savoured the sensation. He laid his palm against the book’s cover and allowed it to rest there for a few stolen moments, basking in the now-familiar sensation of an untapped, unbridled magical force.

Unfamiliar colours and irregular shapes moved across his field of vision, followed by images and ideas, both evil and benevolent. Some were ancient, others not even imagined: promises of futures filled with growth and with ruin, with pestilence and with prosperity. Steven could feel these possibilities move through his body, slipping through his veins, diffusing through his muscles: a patternless cascade that drowned out his thoughts and filled his mind with the atonal polyphony of imperfection and scattered logic.

Steven lost track of time, revelling in the myriad hues of unknown colours, unfamiliar aromas, untasted flavours and memories both real and imagined. This was a power greater than anything he had ever known and he felt himself draining, spiralling away, losing himself inside the mysterious tome.

He began to sway on his feet until, his hand still resting on the book’s smooth cover, he heard someone calling to him faintly. ‘Hurry, Steven. You must hurry.’ It was his own voice.

He jerked his hand back in a protective reflex and swore vehemently. He shook his head to clear the remnants of the seething thoughts and muttered, ‘Goddamnit. What is that thing?’ He blinked his eyes and leaned forward for a closer look at the book’s spine, frowning when he saw it was blank. ‘Well, what the hell did you expect?’ he asked out loud, ‘an ISBN number?’

He reached for the box, careful not to touch the book again. The box was cold, and he could detect no magic or mysterious energy emanating from within. He ran his hand curiously over the smooth metal container. There did not appear to be a latch and he could find no hinge or crack along which it might open.

The top and sides were adorned with raised silver ornamentations that looked like a child’s drawing of a perfectly formed Christmas tree, smooth on each side and rising to a point in an exact isosceles triangle. On the upper corners of each side were two cones, separated by four more along the centre edge. On the lower corners of each side were single ornaments separated by two more along the centre edge. Steven pushed and pulled against the tiny silver sculptures, trying to find a catch: they could be moved back and forth slightly, or depressed until they flattened flush against the metal. But still the box remained determinedly shut.

He turned it over: the bottom surface was flat and featureless. ‘Okay,’ he said, fingering one of the single cones, ‘so this is the top. Now to open it.’

He considered the box: ‘Two, four, two and one, two, one repeated on five sides… no, four sides and a top.’ He pushed each one, felt them depress until flat, then bounce back against his fingertips. He tried them in combinations: side-to-side and up-and-down, then the single cones, double cones and quadruple cones in order. Nothing happened.

‘Four sides and a top,’ he said, pushing and sliding cones as he spoke. ‘Top first-’ push and slide, ‘-sides first-’ push and slide, ‘-top, sides and top again-’ push and slide, ‘-sides, top and sides again-’ push and slide.

Push-and-slide combinations were followed by slide-and-push, but nothing changed: each time the silver ornaments simply returned to their original positions.

‘Two, four, two and one, two, one… four sides and a top-’ Steven said the numbers slowly again, trying them out in different patterns and arrangements Until a second thunderous rumble roared through the cabin, nearly knocking him off his feet. This one felt much closer.

‘Oh, screw it,’ Steven cried and slammed the staff down on the box, a massive blow that shook the Prince Marek as much as her master’s fury had. Box, book and table were unaffected.

‘Well, shit,’ Steven spat. He’d run out of ideas.

Suddenly the old fisherman was by his side. ‘That was you, was it?’

‘Yep.’

He nodded approvingly. ‘Well, you’ve certainly learned how to produce a fine blast.’ He dragged a boot heel through the dust, drawing an arc. ‘Might I ask why?’

‘This box.’ Steven shook it. ‘I think the far portal may be inside this box, but I can’t get it open.’

‘Did you push these buttons?’ He played with a few of the raised carvings. ‘That’s probably how it works. Maybe one of them opens it.’

‘I tried forty-six different ways, using every combination I can imagine.’ He shook his head dejectedly. ‘There are too many possibilities and I’ve run out of ideas.’

‘Maybe it’s in another cabin – this is a huge ship.’ The old man looked about the sparse chamber. ‘We don’t have much time before Nerak gets here; I want you long gone before that happens.’

‘I know it’s in here: I can feel it.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the curious box. ‘Look: Mark pointed this shape out to me the night we opened the portal in our house. It was there, stitched into the fabric. We thought it looked like a tree.’

Gilmour squinted and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m afraid this fisherman didn’t have very good eyesight; I may have to work on that a bit when we get out of here. But you’re right.’

Steven tried not to think about how little time they had. ‘Maybe we should just take it and run, get back to the boat and try to escape.’

‘No, either we figure it out here, or we use our combined forces to delay Nerak long enough to get it open and then escape. There’s no point running away at this juncture: no matter how quickly we paddle away in that little boat he’ll find us, and we’ll have no chance.’

Steven’s heart raced. This really was it. He struggled to open his mind as he examined the box from every angle. While he paced, the old sorcerer tried using his own magic, but it too had no effect. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and announced, ‘I don’t think it’s magic.’

‘What?’ Steven had not been paying attention. ‘Say that again.’

‘The door, this room, that book there on the table, even the table itself: I can feel the magic in the fundamental fabric of each. Although there’s a spell protecting this box from being destroyed or blown apart by our power, I don’t believe it’s a spell keeping it locked – I would be able to detect it. It’s just a confounding, tricky box.’

Suddenly Steven’s thoughts shifted. This wasn’t a problem he had to address with his limited understanding of the staff or its magic. This was far simpler, like a problem he might have tackled in school, or while working out a loan at the bank, or even- Steven paused. ‘Jeffrey Simmons.’

‘Who?’

‘Jeffrey Simmons,’ Steven grinned. ‘He’s a doctoral student in mathematics at the University of Denver in Colorado.’ His face had changed. This was what he was good at: the abstractions that made sense in layers of cognitive twists and turns; it frustrated and confused most students, but not him. Steven worked the problem.

‘How can Jeffrey Simmons help us? I remind you, our time is alarmingly short.’

‘Two, four, two, one, two, one on four sides and a top,’ Steven muttered to himself, and began pacing more quickly.

‘Steven?’

‘Two, four, two, one, two, one on four sides and a top. Think it through: what makes sense?’

‘To me or to Nerak?’

‘Neither. What makes sense mathematically?’ Steven smiled and continued, ‘You said yourself there was magic protecting the box, but no magic keeping it locked. So it has to be a mathematical riddle. Watch-’ He began moving the silver ornaments. ‘If two from the right and two from the left slide to match the four in the middle-’ He slid the ornaments simultaneously and for the first time both double cones remained in place. Steven repeated the process on each side. ‘And one cone from the left and one cone from the right slide to match two cones in the middle- ’ He slid the single cones towards their matching twins on the top.

‘Now we should be able to open the box.’ He released the cones. Both slid back into place.

‘Bloody demonpiss,’ the old man grumbled. ‘I thought you had it.’

‘Don’t get discouraged. That was only the first side.’ Steven repeated the process with one of the remaining four sides, but the cones slid back to their original position. ‘Shit.’

‘This isn’t working,’ the fisherman entreated. ‘Steven, we’re almost out of time. We have to think of something else.’

‘No,’ Steven said brusquely, ‘there are three more sides. Maths makes sense.’

‘It never did for me.’

‘It does. Trust me. This will work.’ He tried sliding the single cones to match the double cones on each of the final three sides, but each time the raised silver knobs slid silently back home. Steven’s resolve began to flag, but he gritted his teeth and muttered, ‘No, this has to be the answer.’ He ran through the entire process a second time – but still again the uncooperative cones failed to align with Steven’s geometric logic.

His mind raced. This was not right. Curse this miserable land. Nothing made sense here, not even maths. And yet mathematics went unperturbed by the soft philosophies and gummy epistemologies that trapped so many thinkers by the ankles: it was almost truculent in its determination to make sense. That’s why he adored it, because with enough time and intellectual determination, it all added up.

But not in Eldarn. Not in this inane land of horse-lion creatures, subterranean demons, dictators evil beyond the ken of mortal man, Cthulhoid cavern-dwellers with a penchant for bone-collecting, murderous spirit wraiths and long-dead sorcerers giving orders on barren mountaintops. What kind of place was this? Damn, damn and curse this hellish land.

Why was he here – and who or what had gifted him the hickory staff? More importantly yet, why couldn’t he stomach the thought of just going home and leaving Eldarn to the natives? Let Gilmour and Kantu – or even Lessek – sort out the problems.

Sweat poured off him as Steven struggled to understand. What am I doing here? Nerak is coming to kill me and I don’t know what I’m doing here. What do I care if Sandcliff Palace crumbles, if the spell table is opened again, if Lessek’s Key is ever found?

Steven stopped abruptly. Lessek’s Key. Lessek. ‘Holy shit,’ he shouted, ‘ Lessek! ’

‘What of Lessek?’

‘My dream – that night on Seer’s Peak, I had a dream. I remember it as if it were last night; you made us go over it, again and again.’

The old man was looking over his shoulder now, as if he expected Nerak to stride into the room at any moment. ‘Yes, yes, your dream. Lessek. Please Steven, focus! What of your dream?’

‘I was at the bank with Howard and Myrna, the day I met Hannah. I thought it was supposed to show me that Nerak was telling the truth, that Hannah was here in Eldarn – but that wasn’t it.’

‘So what was it?’

‘It was the maths.’

‘Yes, yes, I remember, the maths. You said something about pyramids, or Egyptians. I never saw the pyramids, myself – well, once, in a book-’

‘No, it’s not the pyramids, nor the Egyptians – I thought that too, because when I came out of my office to leave for Denver, I caught Myrna Kessler working on a problem, a circle drawn on a notepad, but that wasn’t it.’

‘I don’t want to rush you, my boy, but if you would get to the point, I would appreciate it.’

‘Telephones and calculators.’

‘Now you’ve lost me. And if you don’t get a move on, you’ll have lost us all.’

‘They’re simple electronic devices, each with a series of numbers, zero to nine. The telephone is organised top-to-bottom, one through nine with a zero at the bottom; the calculator is organised from bottom-to-top, zero through nine.’ He laughed.

‘I don’t understand. What is funny? We’re about to lose everything!’

‘It’s a trick question: why are the numbers on a telephone and a calculator organised that way?’

‘Steven, just open the box.’

‘When we use a telephone, we dial a telephone number, but it’s not a number at all: it’s a series of digits.’ Steven did a little jig. ‘On a calculator we use actual numbers, quantities that compare to one another against a common standard… the number one.’

‘So the telething and the calculus machine-’

‘Calculator.’

‘They both contain the same series of numbers. They look similar, but they mean different things.’

‘Exactly. A similar design – with a few key differences – but an entirely different purpose.’

The old man studied the box. ‘So with this box, the two double cones slid to match the four cones together.’

‘Right. Two and two equals four. Couldn’t be simpler.’

‘However, the single cones do not slide to match the twins-’

‘Because they’re not numbers, they’re digits denoting something else.’

‘What?’

Steven’s heart sank. ‘I don’t know. My guess is they denote a progression of sides.’

‘One, two, one. Same on every side.’

Steven was already at work: ‘If we start here on the front side and we call that side number one, then any of the adjacent sides might be side number two.’

‘Don’t wait for me. Just figure it out.’

Steven carried on thinking aloud, in case the Larion Senator picked up something he’d overlooked in the process. ‘If this is side one and either of these are side two, we can depress the first cone on side one.’ He did so and the cone remained in place. ‘Now the twin cones on side two.’ The conical carving remained flush against the smooth metal long enough for Steven to draw half an excited breath, then it popped back to its original position.

‘Damnit. Wrong.’

‘But look-’ The old man’s voice jumped an octave. ‘The first carving’s stayed in place.’

‘Excellent – so that must be side number one.’ He turned it round. ‘The other adjacent side must be number two. Let’s try it.’ He’d just spun the box on the table and was reaching for the twin silver cones when Nerak arrived.