![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
avevale_intelligencerCHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Pride of Tamland eased away from the mooring and moved sedately down the river. The banks on either side still presented a stark contrast; though the land on the Briom side was poorer now, the soil tending to clay and the wild growth along the bank looking rank and dismal, on the Tsenesh side the ground was even more barren-looking, the occasional bare rocks showing streaks of odd colours and scintillations in the watery midmorning sunshine.
And in the boatmaster’s office, Aldro Stychel turned on the two amateur investigators a smile as open and frank and uninformative as a child’s.
“I really don’t know what I can tell you, Lord Ildras,” he said, “that you don’t already know.”
“Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself,” Varnak suggested.
“Myself?” Stychel’s smile drooped a little. “Is that germane?”
“Why don’t you let us determine what’s germane and what isn’t?” Varnak countered pleasantly.
Stychel shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “My name is Aldro Stychel. I’m forty-three years old. I was born in Hyrcassos, in the capital city. I studied at the Royal College of Arts in Kyriopolis, in Briom, and then returned to my own country to take up a position as a teacher, where I have remained ever since. As you see,” he said, smiling again, “not much to tell. It’s a dull life, but I find it rewarding.”
“Is that all there is to it?” Mordecai said, on an impulse.
Stychel looked genuinely dismayed. “You’ve been talking to the boys, of course,” he said. “Gentlemen, I beg you to discount anything they may have told you. Wild stories—”
“They did not tell us anything,” Mordecai said. “Apart, that is, from a general air of ‘we could an if we would.’ They were very loyal and as discreet as such hardened topers can be. It was, however, enough.”
The teacher hesitated. Then he sagged.
“May I rely on your confidence, gentlemen?” he said, in a low voice.
“Absolutely,” Varnak said, looking curiously at Mordecai.
Aldro Stychel took a deep breath. “While I was at college,” he said, “I was...I was approached by a certain person, acting for his majesty the king of Briom. I had got into certain...financial difficulties...purely through inattention, you understand, nothing...um...racy or indelicate.” He tried another smile. “Too busy reading to keep up with the rent. This person offered me a solution to my problems, with a precondition attached. So I became part of a very informal group, quite separate from all the ridiculous mummery of the royal bureaucracy. From time to time...situations arise, which need to be resolved, and in those cases, I or some other will be called upon to assist...on a purely amateur basis, of course.”
“You are not paid for your...assistance?” Mordecai queried.
“Purely a token honorarium. I donate it to the school funds.” Stychel shifted uneasily in his seat. “Unfortunately, it has been impossible to avoid having witnesses to my...um...extra-mural activities, and as a result, as I discovered only a little while ago, an absurd legend has grown up amongst the boys that I am some kind of...er...hero.”
“A legend you find...inconvenient.” Mordecai caught himself making another significant pause, and cursed under his breath.
Stychel’s dismay became almost comical. “Vastly,” he said in tragic tones. “They think my work is glamorous and exciting. They want to join in. They tried to interest me in finding some missing transvestite from Tamland—”
Mordecai flinched visibly, and Varnak shot him a warning glance, but Stychel was oblivious.
“—and now of course there’s this murder,” he went on, “which is nothing to do with me at all, and they want me to solve it. I’ll tell you frankly, gentlemen, if that fellow Hudge were still around I’d pay him to Extricate me from this.”
Varnak and Mordecai exchanged glances.
“Are you engaged in anything for your employers at the moment?” Mordecai forced himself to say the whole thing at once, without the significant pause before “employers.” This did however mean that the question came out sounding rather like an accusation, and Stychel looked at him in surprise.
“No,” he said. “Not that I could tell you if I were, of course, but I tell you honestly that I am not.”
“We’ll take your word for it,” Varnak said.
“I may receive an assignment any time, of course,” Stychel went on. “I never know, you see. I’ll receive a message to go to a certain place, and there I receive my briefing. But this tour is nothing more than it seems, and I am hoping that it will stay that way.”
“Are you aware of any situation which might require your...services?” Damn it, he’d done it again!
Stychel shook his head. “I try to avoid any knowledge about current affairs. It keeps me from developing sympathies that might cause me problems. I am a servant of King Valbogast, and sometimes my duties are not pleasant to me.”
“Master Stychel,” Mordecai said, and was interrupted as the entire boat lurched violently, and somebody knocked on the door.
“Beggin' your pardon, masters,” Boatmaster Flood said, “but we're comin' to the first of the Jags now, and I'll be needin' the room.”
“Does it always do that?” Mordecai demanded.
“Do what, master?”
Mordecai shook his head. “Never mind. All right, Master Stychel, we will conclude this for now. We may wish to speak to you again.”
“You know where to find me, gentlemen.” Was that a trace of relief in the schoolmaster's tone?
They followed him out on to the deck, and Flood closed the door behind them. Ahead of them, the river, that had wound so gently through the landscape before, twisted and bent sharply now through a maze of random and steepening outcrops of rock, themselves twisted into outlandish and disturbing shapes, banded with weird stripes of colour. Both banks were now the same, devoid of plant life and somehow menacing, and the sky itself seemed to have taken on an unearthly hue. Mordecai could sense that the engine, far below, was expending even more of its precious energy, holding the boat on its course and regulating its speed in a river that seemed to be flowing faster now, as if it hastened to be out of this mischancy place. His skin prickled, and he could feel the residual magic permeating the land, legacy of the long-ago war.
“The crew are going to be busy,” he said to Varnak, who was staring ahead and took a moment to realise that he had spoken.
“Oh. Yes,” the prince replied. “Well, then...” His voice trailed off. He gathered himself with a snort, and again Mordecai saw the echo of his father in him. “Let's go and have a look for ourselves at those empty rooms. You might be able to see, or sense, something Master Churidang missed.”
The ap Gavrus sisters were standing at the rail, surveying the jagged landscape ahead. As Mordecai and Varnak drew near, Idyla spoke soberly.
“A dreadful warning indeed,” she said, “of the evil inherent in the use of magic.”
“Indeed,” Maranni echoed. “How right Lord Clatterack is to set himself firmly against such practices.”
“Do you say so, dear sister?” Lonira countered instantly. “Have you quite forgot chapter twenty-two of 'Lord Clatterack Disposes'? He should have been quite lost, there in the dungeons of the Witchring, without the spells of the sinister yet beauteous Riyala to aid him.”
“He made it quite clear, though,” Maranni argued, “that he allowed her to assist him only at dire need and against his judgment. And indeed, but two chapters later—”
“And what of Bobolink, Lord Ambril's artful protegé, in 'The Grey Ghost At Bay'?” Lonira pursued. “Why, when he was in thrall to the deadly drugs of the Hyrcassian bandits, only the magical knowledge of the court mage Varvanel--”
“A recent addition to the canon,” Idyla said frostily, “smelling strongly of the lamp. The lamentable prevalence of foreign narcotics in the region of Hyrcassos is, of course, a relatively recent development, utterly unknown in the era of Lord Clatterack. As you well know, dear sisters, I deplore—”
“How well we do know!” Maranni stifled a yawn.
“I say that I deplore,” Idyla went on, a little more loudly, “this pernicious tendency on the part of our authors to fudge the facts. Historical accuracy is absolutely essential in constructing these narratives. A book must be improving as well as entertaining. If it is one and not the other, it resembles nothing so much as a textbook for the use of pedagogues; if the other and not the one, it is a mere potboiler, fit only for servants and other such low people. I have written to the publishers to express my displeasure—”
“Many times,” Lonira sighed. “Many, many times.”
“But what do you think, Master Alonso?” Maranni turned and addressed Mordecai, who along with Varnak had been lingering, unwillingly fascinated by the conversation. “Should sorcerous arts be used in a good cause, or would you say that a strong right arm, a ready wit and a stout sword should suffice in all cases?” She took up a fencing pose and swished an imaginary rapier.
“I, er, well,” Mordecai began, desperately trying to evolve an appropriate clerkly metaphor.
“For shame, sister,” Lonira teased. “Surely this can be no other than the lowly-born but engaging Bobolink himself, in one of his ingenious guises. You know full well that Bobolink has no swordcraft and constantly relies on Lord Ambril for defence.”
“This is not Bobolink, my lady,” Varnak interposed unexpectedly. “Sadly, the good Bobolink was unable to accompany me on this particular mission. He was wounded in a tavern brawl and must regain his strength. This is another of our associates, who has graciously offered his assistance while Bobolink is convalescing. As to your question, lady Maranni,” he went on, “indeed there are times when naught but the dark arts of magic can avail to defend the land against the forces of evil, and at such times it would ill become us to hesitate. When it is a case of hard blows and sudden dashes, though, and strength and cunning alone may decide the issue, then, I fancy,” he smiled, and Mordecai would have sworn the sunlight glinted on one of his teeth, “you will not find the Grey Ghost wanting.”
All three ap Gavrus sisters, in perfect unison, clasped their hands over their bosoms and sighed. Varnak took advantage of the moment to draw a fulminating Mordecai away and along the deck to the stern ladder.
“Take a deep breath and then forget it,” he said crisply. “We have work to do.”
Mordecai had the dizzying sense that their roles had reversed yet again. Without speaking, he followed Varnak down the stairs to the lower level, where the empty rooms were situated.
*
Gisel mounted the last few steps, leaned against the wall, breathed deeply, and then knocked on King Bran's study door.
The king opened it, glanced at her face, took her arm and led her to her usual chair. For a while there was silence, while he poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her, and she concentrated on breathing, and then drinking.
“Is there a problem?” Bran asked, when she seemed able to speak. “We were going to meet in the garden tomorrow.”
“I don't know,” Gisel said. “There haven't been any disasters. He seems to be behaving himself. In fact—”
“What about the Panergodyne?”
Gisel shrugged. “Spinning faster and glowing brighter. I have no idea what that means. But that isn't what I came to tell you.” She frowned. “It seemed urgent when I set off, but all those stairs sort of squeeze the urgency out of whatever it is you're thinking about when you start.”
“I think that's the idea,” Bran said, twinkling. “People only get to the top if whatever it is is really urgent.”
“Or if they're too stupid and stubborn to stop.” Gisel indicated herself.
“Yes, well, that is the flaw in the plan of course. Tam wasn't infallible. So what is this possibly urgent thing?”
Gisel was still frowning. “It's going to sound silly when I tell you...but, well, you remember Shurath? I mean, when he was Chancellor?”
“Vividly.” Bran grimaced.
“Well, I've been watching Zivano at magery. It's only little things really...”
“He's only been at it, what, three days?”
“I know...but yesterday he, well, he gave two clients a discount.”
“Why?”
“Just because as far as I could tell.”
Bran shook his head. “Not him. There must have been an angle. Something in it for him. Good publicity perhaps?”
“Does the Royal Court Magus of Tamland really need publicity?” Gisel quirked an eyebrow. “No, as far as I could tell they weren't people who could do anything for him. Just ordinary clients who were in difficulties about payment. And then this morning...”
“What?”
“He brought a boy in from the street. Said he'd met him while he was on his morning walk. The boy had lost a pet rabbit about a month ago, and he was walking around in a cloud of sadness—so Zivano said—because of it. And Zivano did a finding spell, located the rabbit—it was all right, it had just dug its way out of the hutch—Summoned it, right there in the magery, and gave it to the boy. Didn't charge him a copper. Even conjured up a lettuce for it.”
“That is very un-Shurath-like,” Bran agreed. “Are you sure he wasn't just putting it on? Over-egging the pudding to lull you into a sense of false thingummybob?”
“Those are just the highlights. He's been more and more like that, just in these last few days. And...” Gisel twiddled the air with her hand. “You know I don't have a scrap of magic in me, Bran, but I know people. It feels...authentic. It's coming from him, from right inside him. It's as though...just doing these little magics to help people...was growing on him.”
“Well, well.” Bran stared down at the floor. “You know, it was a considerable blow to him when Mordecai scotched all his plans last year. And from what Mordecai told me, they both had a moment of seeing into each other's minds. Maybe something...cracked.”
“And now the walls are crumbling.” Gisel sighed. “Maybe. It would be nice to think so...but I still don't feel I can relax around him.”
“No,” Bran agreed. “Best not to. But don't do anything to antagonise him while this...mood, or whatever it is...lasts. He could still rebuild those walls and go back to being the old Shurath we all know and loathe.”
“And when Mordecai comes back, that'll be the real test,” Gisel said. “While he's not around, there's no threat to Zivano. If the defences snap back up when he sees his enemy...”
“Then we'll know it was just a mood.” Bran strolled over to the window and opened it. There was a fresh breeze, and the papers on his desk rustled, lifting their corners to catch the scents. “I hated him when he was Chancellor, you know, but he was definitely the best man for the job. I still haven't found anyone who can fill his shoes. Efficient, intelligent, and—” He laughed. “I was going to say honest, and in the context of his job he mostly was, but of course he had this whole other life as the Steel Wolf we knew nothing about.” He shook himself. “Anyway. Thank you for telling me, Gisel. It could be a hopeful sign. Maybe magic can make you a better person.”
“Maybe.” Gisel gathered herself together and got up. She went to the door, and turned back. “Maybe some day it will do the same to Mordecai.”
“Oh, now, we can't expect miracles,” Bran said, chuckling. “Go steady on the stairs, m'dear.”
*
Hudge stirred, opened his eyes and sat up. He took in his surroundings at a single raking glance, massaged feeling back into his hands, and tried to stand up. His legs, however, were not equal to the struggle, and he fell back limply against the wall.
The woman tied to the chair in the centre of the room regarded him with interest.
“My apologies,” Hudge said gallantly, “for not rising. My name, if I may be so temeritous, is Hudge.”
“Willibald Volebreath,” said the chairbound one. Hudge glanced back more attentively, and filed away the information for future pondering.
“So, we are both prisoners of the Chotani,” Hudge observed, “doubtless for different reasons.”
“I dessay,” Willibald replied non-committally.
“Suppose, for the moment, that we were to make common cause, and seek to extricate ourselves from this predicament. How would you go about it?”
“Easy,” Willibald said. “They've not bothered to tie thee up, so thee can untie me, and then us can overpower guards and get out on this room. Once that's done, it be just a case of gettin' off boat or whatever.” She paused. “Only one thing I need first.”
“And that would be?” Hudge inquired.
Willibald frowned. “Just—I need just a few minutes in garden. Just a few minutes, stop my brain buzzing. I can't do owt like this.”
“In the garden...?”
“Spores,” Willibald explained. “Calls 'em torashya or summat like.”
Hudge looked grave. “Oh dear. You are aware that torashya is a lethal drug?”
“Sort of gathered.” Willibald smiled lopsidedly. “Kennin' don't help. Can't think without 'em now. Can't do magic nor nowt. Takin' me all my time just to string words together.”
“My dear young—friend,” Hudge said, “it is imperative that you try. I know these people. They have no mercy nor compassion. They are as cruel as nature itself. I doubt they will leave me unbound for much longer.” He heaved himself to his feet, wobbled, stayed standing. “I can unloose your knots, but I hold out no hope of our escaping unless you summon up all your will power and resist the addiction. Can you do that?”
Willibald hesitated for a second, then nodded tautly. “Happen I can try.”
Hudge, moving more fluently as life returned to his limbs, moved round behind Willibald's chair and began to work on the knots. Willibald's face was set in concentration. Her fingers flexed and knotted as Hudge teased out the ropes. The big man worked silently and with assurance, and in a few moments the ropes fell to the floor and Willibald's hands were free. She brought them round in front of her and massaged her wrists.
“Thanks, cully,” she said, as Hudge knelt in front of her to untie her feet. Then, without warning, she let go a shout.
“Oy! Zorn! Prisoners escaping! Oy!”
Hudge looked up, waving his hands frantically, but before he could speak the door burst open and Zorn rushed in.
The lean, moustached man took in the situation instantly.
“Thank you for alerting me,” he said mockingly to Willibald. “You could not, of course, have escaped, but it is best to keep you confined to this room for the moment.”
“Aye,” Willibald said, casting longing glances at the spore-bulb at Zorn's belt. She spared one glance at the drooping figure of Hudge. “Sorry, cully,” she said. “Just couldn't bear it.”
“You wish to dream again?” Zorn raised the bulb, and Willibald caught her breath. “Well, perhaps I should allow it...and then again, perhaps not. You really should have alerted me as soon as this spy awoke. That was a mistake. Mistakes should be punished. Perhaps I should withhold the gift of the spores for a while.”
“Oh,” Willibald said. “Oh, no, please, Master Zorn, please no...” Tears started from the corners of her eyes. Zorn made no attempt to dissemble his pleasure.
“Sir,” Hudge said heavily, “I have never been what anyone might call a moral man, and I have done great evil in my life for my own enrichment, but I make bold to say that in all that time I have never encountered such an unspeakable, unprincipled hound as yourself. Furthermore--”
Zorn's hands darted out, and Hudge's head was enveloped in a cloud of spores. Willibald tried to move her own head in that direction, to catch the edge of the cloud, but her feet were still secured to the chair. She whimpered as the big man crashed to the floor.
Zorn turned to Willibald, and affected to consider for a moment, savouring the pleading in the woman's eyes; then he relented, and squeezed the bulb. Willibald's face was briefly suffused with joy, before the sporedream enfolded her once more.
Chaz stormed in, angry. “What is all this noise?”
Zorn explained. Chaz's brow remained furrowed.
“Will the woman survive till we reach Freeport?”
“Yes, my prince. She is still strong. That strength, however, now serves us.”
Chaz grunted. “I think you enjoy this altogether more than is called for, Zorn.”
“I live to carry out my prince's wishes,” Zorn replied smoothly.
“What of the spy?”
“He too is strong. I think he knows our land. Properly tamed, he might be useful, my prince.”
“Perhaps,” Chaz said shortly. “Bind him anyway. We do not want to waste more time on these scenes. Besides, our stock of the spores is much depleted. We can scarcely return home for more before we have achieved our goal.”
“I shall be sparing, my prince,” Zorn said. “Should I also re-bind the woman?”
“No need,” Chaz said offhandedly. “As you said, she is ours now. She may as well spend her last days of life in comfort.”
“As my prince commands,” Zorn said.
*
The empty rooms were...empty.
Mordecai stared at the blank walls, the anonymous bits of furniture, the unused beds. They stared back. He swept the room with his magical senses at full stretch, and even tried a small cantrip to detect any signs of occupancy.
“Nothing,” he reported to Varnak.
“Why engage two rooms for eight people and then not use them?” Varnak asked the air. “We know that our mysterious red-headed lady hired them. She must have had a reason.”
“Perhaps to prevent other people from travelling on this boat,” Mordecai suggested.
“Yes, but who?” Varnak countered. “And why? It doesn't make sense, Mordecai. Lady Redhead paid for bed and board for eight people, that doesn't come cheap, and she hasn't asked for the money back. Nobody—”
“Wait,” Mordecai said, holding up one hand. “That is it.” He headed for the corridor. “Follow me.”
“What is it?” Varnak said. “What is what, Mordecai?”
*
Master Churidang, sitting on the bed in the room that had been Dardash Parrunz's, heard the prince and his wizard clumping by. She waited till the footsteps had died away, then removed a complicated-looking sort of shell from the pouch at her belt, stared at it intensely for a moment, then held it to her ear.
“Freedom for all,” said a tiny voice from the shell. “Churidang?”
“Who else?” Churidang said wearily.
“Report.”
“I've gone through the boat. No sign of the other Shell. Assume it's fallen into enemy hands.”
“Which enemy?”
“I don't know. The situation's complicated. Can it be destroyed remotely?”
“We'll ask the wizard. How complicated?”
“Prince Varnak and del Aguila are on the boat. Trade mission to the Chotani in Freeport.”
“Can we do anything about that?”
“No need. They'll muck it up all on their own. Complete amateurs.”Churidang pulled a face. “Unfortunately, the prince has taken it into his head to try to solve the murder, and law is on his side. When I do find the killer, I'll be expected to turn them over to his highness.”
“Mm,” said the voice from the shell. “Tricky.”
“Can you tell me anything else about why I was originally supposed to be here?” Churidang demanded. “I was set to join the boat at Gerenna, but thanks to Parrunz's death I had to leave early and I never got briefed. What was it all about?”
“Internal assignment,” the voice said. Churidang listened while it spoke on at some length. At one point she interrupted.
“Those two? I don't believe it. Are we using any old rubbish off the streets now?”
“They're discreet and they come cheap. You know what the budget's like for things of this sort.”
“Non-existent.” Churidang laughed shortly. “Well, I've got bad news, or good if you're in Budgeting. The double-act is now a solo. Hudge is missing, presumed dead. Gudge has no idea what's going on any more than I do. I think this 'assignment' is a bust.”
“That's not going to sit well with them Down Below.”
“I don't care if it gives them galloping crotch-rot.”
“Do you want to pull out?”
“Hells, no, are you joking? This was a friend as well as a Brother. I claim Extreme Prerogative.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm going to find the swine who did this, and I'm going to do something truly horrible to them before Varnak can get his lily-white hands on them. Nobody kills a Penny and lives to brag about it to a bunch of soft Tamlanders.”
“Wait.”
Churidang sat with the Shell to her ear while a muttered colloquy took place in its depths. Her other hand was clenched in the bedsheet.
“Prerogative is granted,” the voice said at last, “with Caveat. If you're caught, it was purely personal and you're on your own.”
“Understood,” Churidang said. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”
“Unofficially,” the voice continued, “rip the bastard apart. He was our friend too. Forget the assignment. We'll reschedule. Freedom for all.”
“Be seeing you,” Churidang responded, and took the Shell away from her ear.
*
Mordecai's magical senses tingled. Something was going on, something magical that he didn't recognise, but that seemed familiar. He filed it away and got on with the task at hand.
The cook, Nalleck, was a Lost Islander, with an imperfect command of the tongue of Briom and Tamland, so the boatmaster's daughter Ollamy had volunteered to interpret.
“So you ordered provisions for a full complement of twenty passengers,” he said, and Ollamy relayed the statement to Nalleck, who nodded vigorously.
“And we been leaving the food outside the doors, like we were asked,” she added. “Nobody thought nothing of it. Empty trays left outside after, just like what you might expect.”
“But nobody is living in the rooms,” Varnak put in.
“Please, sir, we didn't know that till yesterday,” Ollamy said earnestly. “Da's most put about.”
“So who is eating the food?” Varnak asked rhetorically.
Nalleck shrugged, and Ollamy looked blank.
Back in his room, Varnak pursued the question.
“Mordecai, are you absolutely sure they aren't magically concealed in there somehow?”
“There is no magical concealment operating anywhere on this boat,” Mordecai declared. “I did a detailed scan when we looked at the rooms.”
“Oh.” Varnak brightened. “Could they be following us in another boat?”
Fish.
“An invisible boat?” Mordecai scoffed. “That kind of magic would be blindingly obvious to any apprentice.”
Fish!
“We have just fed you,” Mordecai told the cat. It was true; Mordecai had taken the opportunity, while in the kitchen, to abstract a bucket of fish parts that Ollamy had assured him was both edible and not required for human consumption. The cat had feasted at some length, and was now passing nourishment on to her five eyeless furry sausages, all squirming at the milk bar.
No. Fish! Big fish!
“If I could have your attention, Mordecai?” Varnak said with elaborate politeness.
“Just one moment.” Mordecai turned to the cat. “There is no more fish till tomorrow,” he said. “You have already eaten your own weight in fish.”
Big fish! Claw! Claw! Big fish!
“There is no point in threatening me,” Mordecai said, and turned back to Varnak. “No, highness, I am afraid I have no answer to this puzzle. As yet,” he added quickly, as a strong image of the brain of a dead dog appeared before his mind's eye. “The best thing we can do right now is speak to Master Churidang. Only by sharing our knowledge will we make any progress.”
“She probably knows a damn sight more than we do,” Varnak muttered.
The Pride of Tamland eased away from the mooring and moved sedately down the river. The banks on either side still presented a stark contrast; though the land on the Briom side was poorer now, the soil tending to clay and the wild growth along the bank looking rank and dismal, on the Tsenesh side the ground was even more barren-looking, the occasional bare rocks showing streaks of odd colours and scintillations in the watery midmorning sunshine.
And in the boatmaster’s office, Aldro Stychel turned on the two amateur investigators a smile as open and frank and uninformative as a child’s.
“I really don’t know what I can tell you, Lord Ildras,” he said, “that you don’t already know.”
“Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself,” Varnak suggested.
“Myself?” Stychel’s smile drooped a little. “Is that germane?”
“Why don’t you let us determine what’s germane and what isn’t?” Varnak countered pleasantly.
Stychel shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “My name is Aldro Stychel. I’m forty-three years old. I was born in Hyrcassos, in the capital city. I studied at the Royal College of Arts in Kyriopolis, in Briom, and then returned to my own country to take up a position as a teacher, where I have remained ever since. As you see,” he said, smiling again, “not much to tell. It’s a dull life, but I find it rewarding.”
“Is that all there is to it?” Mordecai said, on an impulse.
Stychel looked genuinely dismayed. “You’ve been talking to the boys, of course,” he said. “Gentlemen, I beg you to discount anything they may have told you. Wild stories—”
“They did not tell us anything,” Mordecai said. “Apart, that is, from a general air of ‘we could an if we would.’ They were very loyal and as discreet as such hardened topers can be. It was, however, enough.”
The teacher hesitated. Then he sagged.
“May I rely on your confidence, gentlemen?” he said, in a low voice.
“Absolutely,” Varnak said, looking curiously at Mordecai.
Aldro Stychel took a deep breath. “While I was at college,” he said, “I was...I was approached by a certain person, acting for his majesty the king of Briom. I had got into certain...financial difficulties...purely through inattention, you understand, nothing...um...racy or indelicate.” He tried another smile. “Too busy reading to keep up with the rent. This person offered me a solution to my problems, with a precondition attached. So I became part of a very informal group, quite separate from all the ridiculous mummery of the royal bureaucracy. From time to time...situations arise, which need to be resolved, and in those cases, I or some other will be called upon to assist...on a purely amateur basis, of course.”
“You are not paid for your...assistance?” Mordecai queried.
“Purely a token honorarium. I donate it to the school funds.” Stychel shifted uneasily in his seat. “Unfortunately, it has been impossible to avoid having witnesses to my...um...extra-mural activities, and as a result, as I discovered only a little while ago, an absurd legend has grown up amongst the boys that I am some kind of...er...hero.”
“A legend you find...inconvenient.” Mordecai caught himself making another significant pause, and cursed under his breath.
Stychel’s dismay became almost comical. “Vastly,” he said in tragic tones. “They think my work is glamorous and exciting. They want to join in. They tried to interest me in finding some missing transvestite from Tamland—”
Mordecai flinched visibly, and Varnak shot him a warning glance, but Stychel was oblivious.
“—and now of course there’s this murder,” he went on, “which is nothing to do with me at all, and they want me to solve it. I’ll tell you frankly, gentlemen, if that fellow Hudge were still around I’d pay him to Extricate me from this.”
Varnak and Mordecai exchanged glances.
“Are you engaged in anything for your employers at the moment?” Mordecai forced himself to say the whole thing at once, without the significant pause before “employers.” This did however mean that the question came out sounding rather like an accusation, and Stychel looked at him in surprise.
“No,” he said. “Not that I could tell you if I were, of course, but I tell you honestly that I am not.”
“We’ll take your word for it,” Varnak said.
“I may receive an assignment any time, of course,” Stychel went on. “I never know, you see. I’ll receive a message to go to a certain place, and there I receive my briefing. But this tour is nothing more than it seems, and I am hoping that it will stay that way.”
“Are you aware of any situation which might require your...services?” Damn it, he’d done it again!
Stychel shook his head. “I try to avoid any knowledge about current affairs. It keeps me from developing sympathies that might cause me problems. I am a servant of King Valbogast, and sometimes my duties are not pleasant to me.”
“Master Stychel,” Mordecai said, and was interrupted as the entire boat lurched violently, and somebody knocked on the door.
“Beggin' your pardon, masters,” Boatmaster Flood said, “but we're comin' to the first of the Jags now, and I'll be needin' the room.”
“Does it always do that?” Mordecai demanded.
“Do what, master?”
Mordecai shook his head. “Never mind. All right, Master Stychel, we will conclude this for now. We may wish to speak to you again.”
“You know where to find me, gentlemen.” Was that a trace of relief in the schoolmaster's tone?
They followed him out on to the deck, and Flood closed the door behind them. Ahead of them, the river, that had wound so gently through the landscape before, twisted and bent sharply now through a maze of random and steepening outcrops of rock, themselves twisted into outlandish and disturbing shapes, banded with weird stripes of colour. Both banks were now the same, devoid of plant life and somehow menacing, and the sky itself seemed to have taken on an unearthly hue. Mordecai could sense that the engine, far below, was expending even more of its precious energy, holding the boat on its course and regulating its speed in a river that seemed to be flowing faster now, as if it hastened to be out of this mischancy place. His skin prickled, and he could feel the residual magic permeating the land, legacy of the long-ago war.
“The crew are going to be busy,” he said to Varnak, who was staring ahead and took a moment to realise that he had spoken.
“Oh. Yes,” the prince replied. “Well, then...” His voice trailed off. He gathered himself with a snort, and again Mordecai saw the echo of his father in him. “Let's go and have a look for ourselves at those empty rooms. You might be able to see, or sense, something Master Churidang missed.”
The ap Gavrus sisters were standing at the rail, surveying the jagged landscape ahead. As Mordecai and Varnak drew near, Idyla spoke soberly.
“A dreadful warning indeed,” she said, “of the evil inherent in the use of magic.”
“Indeed,” Maranni echoed. “How right Lord Clatterack is to set himself firmly against such practices.”
“Do you say so, dear sister?” Lonira countered instantly. “Have you quite forgot chapter twenty-two of 'Lord Clatterack Disposes'? He should have been quite lost, there in the dungeons of the Witchring, without the spells of the sinister yet beauteous Riyala to aid him.”
“He made it quite clear, though,” Maranni argued, “that he allowed her to assist him only at dire need and against his judgment. And indeed, but two chapters later—”
“And what of Bobolink, Lord Ambril's artful protegé, in 'The Grey Ghost At Bay'?” Lonira pursued. “Why, when he was in thrall to the deadly drugs of the Hyrcassian bandits, only the magical knowledge of the court mage Varvanel--”
“A recent addition to the canon,” Idyla said frostily, “smelling strongly of the lamp. The lamentable prevalence of foreign narcotics in the region of Hyrcassos is, of course, a relatively recent development, utterly unknown in the era of Lord Clatterack. As you well know, dear sisters, I deplore—”
“How well we do know!” Maranni stifled a yawn.
“I say that I deplore,” Idyla went on, a little more loudly, “this pernicious tendency on the part of our authors to fudge the facts. Historical accuracy is absolutely essential in constructing these narratives. A book must be improving as well as entertaining. If it is one and not the other, it resembles nothing so much as a textbook for the use of pedagogues; if the other and not the one, it is a mere potboiler, fit only for servants and other such low people. I have written to the publishers to express my displeasure—”
“Many times,” Lonira sighed. “Many, many times.”
“But what do you think, Master Alonso?” Maranni turned and addressed Mordecai, who along with Varnak had been lingering, unwillingly fascinated by the conversation. “Should sorcerous arts be used in a good cause, or would you say that a strong right arm, a ready wit and a stout sword should suffice in all cases?” She took up a fencing pose and swished an imaginary rapier.
“I, er, well,” Mordecai began, desperately trying to evolve an appropriate clerkly metaphor.
“For shame, sister,” Lonira teased. “Surely this can be no other than the lowly-born but engaging Bobolink himself, in one of his ingenious guises. You know full well that Bobolink has no swordcraft and constantly relies on Lord Ambril for defence.”
“This is not Bobolink, my lady,” Varnak interposed unexpectedly. “Sadly, the good Bobolink was unable to accompany me on this particular mission. He was wounded in a tavern brawl and must regain his strength. This is another of our associates, who has graciously offered his assistance while Bobolink is convalescing. As to your question, lady Maranni,” he went on, “indeed there are times when naught but the dark arts of magic can avail to defend the land against the forces of evil, and at such times it would ill become us to hesitate. When it is a case of hard blows and sudden dashes, though, and strength and cunning alone may decide the issue, then, I fancy,” he smiled, and Mordecai would have sworn the sunlight glinted on one of his teeth, “you will not find the Grey Ghost wanting.”
All three ap Gavrus sisters, in perfect unison, clasped their hands over their bosoms and sighed. Varnak took advantage of the moment to draw a fulminating Mordecai away and along the deck to the stern ladder.
“Take a deep breath and then forget it,” he said crisply. “We have work to do.”
Mordecai had the dizzying sense that their roles had reversed yet again. Without speaking, he followed Varnak down the stairs to the lower level, where the empty rooms were situated.
*
Gisel mounted the last few steps, leaned against the wall, breathed deeply, and then knocked on King Bran's study door.
The king opened it, glanced at her face, took her arm and led her to her usual chair. For a while there was silence, while he poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her, and she concentrated on breathing, and then drinking.
“Is there a problem?” Bran asked, when she seemed able to speak. “We were going to meet in the garden tomorrow.”
“I don't know,” Gisel said. “There haven't been any disasters. He seems to be behaving himself. In fact—”
“What about the Panergodyne?”
Gisel shrugged. “Spinning faster and glowing brighter. I have no idea what that means. But that isn't what I came to tell you.” She frowned. “It seemed urgent when I set off, but all those stairs sort of squeeze the urgency out of whatever it is you're thinking about when you start.”
“I think that's the idea,” Bran said, twinkling. “People only get to the top if whatever it is is really urgent.”
“Or if they're too stupid and stubborn to stop.” Gisel indicated herself.
“Yes, well, that is the flaw in the plan of course. Tam wasn't infallible. So what is this possibly urgent thing?”
Gisel was still frowning. “It's going to sound silly when I tell you...but, well, you remember Shurath? I mean, when he was Chancellor?”
“Vividly.” Bran grimaced.
“Well, I've been watching Zivano at magery. It's only little things really...”
“He's only been at it, what, three days?”
“I know...but yesterday he, well, he gave two clients a discount.”
“Why?”
“Just because as far as I could tell.”
Bran shook his head. “Not him. There must have been an angle. Something in it for him. Good publicity perhaps?”
“Does the Royal Court Magus of Tamland really need publicity?” Gisel quirked an eyebrow. “No, as far as I could tell they weren't people who could do anything for him. Just ordinary clients who were in difficulties about payment. And then this morning...”
“What?”
“He brought a boy in from the street. Said he'd met him while he was on his morning walk. The boy had lost a pet rabbit about a month ago, and he was walking around in a cloud of sadness—so Zivano said—because of it. And Zivano did a finding spell, located the rabbit—it was all right, it had just dug its way out of the hutch—Summoned it, right there in the magery, and gave it to the boy. Didn't charge him a copper. Even conjured up a lettuce for it.”
“That is very un-Shurath-like,” Bran agreed. “Are you sure he wasn't just putting it on? Over-egging the pudding to lull you into a sense of false thingummybob?”
“Those are just the highlights. He's been more and more like that, just in these last few days. And...” Gisel twiddled the air with her hand. “You know I don't have a scrap of magic in me, Bran, but I know people. It feels...authentic. It's coming from him, from right inside him. It's as though...just doing these little magics to help people...was growing on him.”
“Well, well.” Bran stared down at the floor. “You know, it was a considerable blow to him when Mordecai scotched all his plans last year. And from what Mordecai told me, they both had a moment of seeing into each other's minds. Maybe something...cracked.”
“And now the walls are crumbling.” Gisel sighed. “Maybe. It would be nice to think so...but I still don't feel I can relax around him.”
“No,” Bran agreed. “Best not to. But don't do anything to antagonise him while this...mood, or whatever it is...lasts. He could still rebuild those walls and go back to being the old Shurath we all know and loathe.”
“And when Mordecai comes back, that'll be the real test,” Gisel said. “While he's not around, there's no threat to Zivano. If the defences snap back up when he sees his enemy...”
“Then we'll know it was just a mood.” Bran strolled over to the window and opened it. There was a fresh breeze, and the papers on his desk rustled, lifting their corners to catch the scents. “I hated him when he was Chancellor, you know, but he was definitely the best man for the job. I still haven't found anyone who can fill his shoes. Efficient, intelligent, and—” He laughed. “I was going to say honest, and in the context of his job he mostly was, but of course he had this whole other life as the Steel Wolf we knew nothing about.” He shook himself. “Anyway. Thank you for telling me, Gisel. It could be a hopeful sign. Maybe magic can make you a better person.”
“Maybe.” Gisel gathered herself together and got up. She went to the door, and turned back. “Maybe some day it will do the same to Mordecai.”
“Oh, now, we can't expect miracles,” Bran said, chuckling. “Go steady on the stairs, m'dear.”
*
Hudge stirred, opened his eyes and sat up. He took in his surroundings at a single raking glance, massaged feeling back into his hands, and tried to stand up. His legs, however, were not equal to the struggle, and he fell back limply against the wall.
The woman tied to the chair in the centre of the room regarded him with interest.
“My apologies,” Hudge said gallantly, “for not rising. My name, if I may be so temeritous, is Hudge.”
“Willibald Volebreath,” said the chairbound one. Hudge glanced back more attentively, and filed away the information for future pondering.
“So, we are both prisoners of the Chotani,” Hudge observed, “doubtless for different reasons.”
“I dessay,” Willibald replied non-committally.
“Suppose, for the moment, that we were to make common cause, and seek to extricate ourselves from this predicament. How would you go about it?”
“Easy,” Willibald said. “They've not bothered to tie thee up, so thee can untie me, and then us can overpower guards and get out on this room. Once that's done, it be just a case of gettin' off boat or whatever.” She paused. “Only one thing I need first.”
“And that would be?” Hudge inquired.
Willibald frowned. “Just—I need just a few minutes in garden. Just a few minutes, stop my brain buzzing. I can't do owt like this.”
“In the garden...?”
“Spores,” Willibald explained. “Calls 'em torashya or summat like.”
Hudge looked grave. “Oh dear. You are aware that torashya is a lethal drug?”
“Sort of gathered.” Willibald smiled lopsidedly. “Kennin' don't help. Can't think without 'em now. Can't do magic nor nowt. Takin' me all my time just to string words together.”
“My dear young—friend,” Hudge said, “it is imperative that you try. I know these people. They have no mercy nor compassion. They are as cruel as nature itself. I doubt they will leave me unbound for much longer.” He heaved himself to his feet, wobbled, stayed standing. “I can unloose your knots, but I hold out no hope of our escaping unless you summon up all your will power and resist the addiction. Can you do that?”
Willibald hesitated for a second, then nodded tautly. “Happen I can try.”
Hudge, moving more fluently as life returned to his limbs, moved round behind Willibald's chair and began to work on the knots. Willibald's face was set in concentration. Her fingers flexed and knotted as Hudge teased out the ropes. The big man worked silently and with assurance, and in a few moments the ropes fell to the floor and Willibald's hands were free. She brought them round in front of her and massaged her wrists.
“Thanks, cully,” she said, as Hudge knelt in front of her to untie her feet. Then, without warning, she let go a shout.
“Oy! Zorn! Prisoners escaping! Oy!”
Hudge looked up, waving his hands frantically, but before he could speak the door burst open and Zorn rushed in.
The lean, moustached man took in the situation instantly.
“Thank you for alerting me,” he said mockingly to Willibald. “You could not, of course, have escaped, but it is best to keep you confined to this room for the moment.”
“Aye,” Willibald said, casting longing glances at the spore-bulb at Zorn's belt. She spared one glance at the drooping figure of Hudge. “Sorry, cully,” she said. “Just couldn't bear it.”
“You wish to dream again?” Zorn raised the bulb, and Willibald caught her breath. “Well, perhaps I should allow it...and then again, perhaps not. You really should have alerted me as soon as this spy awoke. That was a mistake. Mistakes should be punished. Perhaps I should withhold the gift of the spores for a while.”
“Oh,” Willibald said. “Oh, no, please, Master Zorn, please no...” Tears started from the corners of her eyes. Zorn made no attempt to dissemble his pleasure.
“Sir,” Hudge said heavily, “I have never been what anyone might call a moral man, and I have done great evil in my life for my own enrichment, but I make bold to say that in all that time I have never encountered such an unspeakable, unprincipled hound as yourself. Furthermore--”
Zorn's hands darted out, and Hudge's head was enveloped in a cloud of spores. Willibald tried to move her own head in that direction, to catch the edge of the cloud, but her feet were still secured to the chair. She whimpered as the big man crashed to the floor.
Zorn turned to Willibald, and affected to consider for a moment, savouring the pleading in the woman's eyes; then he relented, and squeezed the bulb. Willibald's face was briefly suffused with joy, before the sporedream enfolded her once more.
Chaz stormed in, angry. “What is all this noise?”
Zorn explained. Chaz's brow remained furrowed.
“Will the woman survive till we reach Freeport?”
“Yes, my prince. She is still strong. That strength, however, now serves us.”
Chaz grunted. “I think you enjoy this altogether more than is called for, Zorn.”
“I live to carry out my prince's wishes,” Zorn replied smoothly.
“What of the spy?”
“He too is strong. I think he knows our land. Properly tamed, he might be useful, my prince.”
“Perhaps,” Chaz said shortly. “Bind him anyway. We do not want to waste more time on these scenes. Besides, our stock of the spores is much depleted. We can scarcely return home for more before we have achieved our goal.”
“I shall be sparing, my prince,” Zorn said. “Should I also re-bind the woman?”
“No need,” Chaz said offhandedly. “As you said, she is ours now. She may as well spend her last days of life in comfort.”
“As my prince commands,” Zorn said.
*
The empty rooms were...empty.
Mordecai stared at the blank walls, the anonymous bits of furniture, the unused beds. They stared back. He swept the room with his magical senses at full stretch, and even tried a small cantrip to detect any signs of occupancy.
“Nothing,” he reported to Varnak.
“Why engage two rooms for eight people and then not use them?” Varnak asked the air. “We know that our mysterious red-headed lady hired them. She must have had a reason.”
“Perhaps to prevent other people from travelling on this boat,” Mordecai suggested.
“Yes, but who?” Varnak countered. “And why? It doesn't make sense, Mordecai. Lady Redhead paid for bed and board for eight people, that doesn't come cheap, and she hasn't asked for the money back. Nobody—”
“Wait,” Mordecai said, holding up one hand. “That is it.” He headed for the corridor. “Follow me.”
“What is it?” Varnak said. “What is what, Mordecai?”
*
Master Churidang, sitting on the bed in the room that had been Dardash Parrunz's, heard the prince and his wizard clumping by. She waited till the footsteps had died away, then removed a complicated-looking sort of shell from the pouch at her belt, stared at it intensely for a moment, then held it to her ear.
“Freedom for all,” said a tiny voice from the shell. “Churidang?”
“Who else?” Churidang said wearily.
“Report.”
“I've gone through the boat. No sign of the other Shell. Assume it's fallen into enemy hands.”
“Which enemy?”
“I don't know. The situation's complicated. Can it be destroyed remotely?”
“We'll ask the wizard. How complicated?”
“Prince Varnak and del Aguila are on the boat. Trade mission to the Chotani in Freeport.”
“Can we do anything about that?”
“No need. They'll muck it up all on their own. Complete amateurs.”Churidang pulled a face. “Unfortunately, the prince has taken it into his head to try to solve the murder, and law is on his side. When I do find the killer, I'll be expected to turn them over to his highness.”
“Mm,” said the voice from the shell. “Tricky.”
“Can you tell me anything else about why I was originally supposed to be here?” Churidang demanded. “I was set to join the boat at Gerenna, but thanks to Parrunz's death I had to leave early and I never got briefed. What was it all about?”
“Internal assignment,” the voice said. Churidang listened while it spoke on at some length. At one point she interrupted.
“Those two? I don't believe it. Are we using any old rubbish off the streets now?”
“They're discreet and they come cheap. You know what the budget's like for things of this sort.”
“Non-existent.” Churidang laughed shortly. “Well, I've got bad news, or good if you're in Budgeting. The double-act is now a solo. Hudge is missing, presumed dead. Gudge has no idea what's going on any more than I do. I think this 'assignment' is a bust.”
“That's not going to sit well with them Down Below.”
“I don't care if it gives them galloping crotch-rot.”
“Do you want to pull out?”
“Hells, no, are you joking? This was a friend as well as a Brother. I claim Extreme Prerogative.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm going to find the swine who did this, and I'm going to do something truly horrible to them before Varnak can get his lily-white hands on them. Nobody kills a Penny and lives to brag about it to a bunch of soft Tamlanders.”
“Wait.”
Churidang sat with the Shell to her ear while a muttered colloquy took place in its depths. Her other hand was clenched in the bedsheet.
“Prerogative is granted,” the voice said at last, “with Caveat. If you're caught, it was purely personal and you're on your own.”
“Understood,” Churidang said. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”
“Unofficially,” the voice continued, “rip the bastard apart. He was our friend too. Forget the assignment. We'll reschedule. Freedom for all.”
“Be seeing you,” Churidang responded, and took the Shell away from her ear.
*
Mordecai's magical senses tingled. Something was going on, something magical that he didn't recognise, but that seemed familiar. He filed it away and got on with the task at hand.
The cook, Nalleck, was a Lost Islander, with an imperfect command of the tongue of Briom and Tamland, so the boatmaster's daughter Ollamy had volunteered to interpret.
“So you ordered provisions for a full complement of twenty passengers,” he said, and Ollamy relayed the statement to Nalleck, who nodded vigorously.
“And we been leaving the food outside the doors, like we were asked,” she added. “Nobody thought nothing of it. Empty trays left outside after, just like what you might expect.”
“But nobody is living in the rooms,” Varnak put in.
“Please, sir, we didn't know that till yesterday,” Ollamy said earnestly. “Da's most put about.”
“So who is eating the food?” Varnak asked rhetorically.
Nalleck shrugged, and Ollamy looked blank.
Back in his room, Varnak pursued the question.
“Mordecai, are you absolutely sure they aren't magically concealed in there somehow?”
“There is no magical concealment operating anywhere on this boat,” Mordecai declared. “I did a detailed scan when we looked at the rooms.”
“Oh.” Varnak brightened. “Could they be following us in another boat?”
Fish.
“An invisible boat?” Mordecai scoffed. “That kind of magic would be blindingly obvious to any apprentice.”
Fish!
“We have just fed you,” Mordecai told the cat. It was true; Mordecai had taken the opportunity, while in the kitchen, to abstract a bucket of fish parts that Ollamy had assured him was both edible and not required for human consumption. The cat had feasted at some length, and was now passing nourishment on to her five eyeless furry sausages, all squirming at the milk bar.
No. Fish! Big fish!
“If I could have your attention, Mordecai?” Varnak said with elaborate politeness.
“Just one moment.” Mordecai turned to the cat. “There is no more fish till tomorrow,” he said. “You have already eaten your own weight in fish.”
Big fish! Claw! Claw! Big fish!
“There is no point in threatening me,” Mordecai said, and turned back to Varnak. “No, highness, I am afraid I have no answer to this puzzle. As yet,” he added quickly, as a strong image of the brain of a dead dog appeared before his mind's eye. “The best thing we can do right now is speak to Master Churidang. Only by sharing our knowledge will we make any progress.”
“She probably knows a damn sight more than we do,” Varnak muttered.