Sourcery

Nijel regarded the other two horses suspiciously. One of them was very large and extremely white, not the off-white which was all that most horses could manage, but a translucent, ivory white tone which Nijel felt an unconscious urge to describe as ‘shroud’. It also gave him a distinct impression that it was more intelligent than he was.

He selected the other one. It was a bit thin, but docile, and he managed to get on after only two tries.

They set off.

The sound of their hoofbeats barely penetrated the gloom inside the tavern. The innkeeper moved like someone in a dream. He knew he had customers, he’d even spoken to them, he could even see them sitting round a table by the fire, but if asked to describe who he’d talked to and what he had seen he’d have been at a loss. This is because the human brain is remarkably good at shutting out things it doesn’t want to know. His could currently have shielded a bank vault.

And the drinks! Most of them he’d never heard of, but strange bottles kept appearing on the shelves above the beer barrels. The trouble was that whenever he tried to think about it, his thoughts just slid away …

The figures around the table looked up from their cards.

One of them raised a hand. It’s stuck on the end of his arm and it’s got five fingers, the innkeeper’s mind said. It must be a hand.

One thing the innkeeper’s brain couldn’t shut out was the sound of the voices. This one sounded as though someone was hitting a rock with a roll of sheet lead.

BAR PERSON.

The innkeeper groaned faintly. The thermic lances of horror were melting their way steadily through the steel door of his mind.

LET ME SEE, NOW. THAT’S A – WHAT WAS IT AGAIN?

‘A Bloody Mary.’ This voice made a simple drinks order sound like the opening of hostilities.

OH, YES. AND—

‘Mine was a small egg nog,’ said Pestilence.

AN EGG NOG.

‘With a cherry in it.’

GOOD, lied the heavy voice. AND THAT’LL BE A SMALL PORT WINE FOR ME AND, the speaker glanced across the table at the fourth member of the quartet and sighed, YOU’D BETTER BRING ANOTHER BOWL OF PEANUTS.

About three hundred yards down the road the horse thieves were trying to come to terms with a new experience.

‘Certainly a smooth ride,’ Nijel managed eventually.

‘And a lovely – a lovely view,’ said Creosote, his voice lost in the slipstream.

‘But I wonder,’ said Nijel, ‘if we have done exactly the right thing.’

‘We’re moving, aren’t we?’ demanded Conina. ‘Don’t be petty.’

‘It’s just that, well, looking at cumulus clouds from above is—’

‘Shut up.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Anyway, they’re stratus. Strato-cumulus at most.’

‘Right,’ said Nijel miserably.

‘Does it make any difference?’ said Creosote, who was lying flat on his horse’s neck with his eyes shut.

‘About a thousand feet.’

‘Oh.’

‘Could be seven hundred and fifty,’ conceded Conina.

‘Ah.’

———

The tower of sourcery trembled. Coloured smoke rolled through its vaulted rooms and shining corridors. In the big room at the very tip, where the air was thick and greasy and tasted of burning tin, many wizards had passed out with the sheer mental effort of the battle. But enough remained. They sat in a wide circle, locked in concentration.

It was just possible to see the shimmering in the air as the raw sourcery swirled out of the staff in Coin’s hand and into the centre of the octogram.

Outlandish shapes appeared for a brief instant and vanished. The very fabric of reality was being put through the wringer in there.

Carding shuddered, and turned away in case he saw anything he really couldn’t ignore.

The surviving senior wizards had a simulacrum of the Disc hovering in front of them. As Carding looked at it again the little red glow over the city of Quirm flared and went out.

The air creaked.

‘There goes Quirm,’ murmured Carding.

‘That just leaves Al Khali,’ said one of the others.

‘There’s some clever power there.’

Carding nodded glumly. He’d quite liked Quirm, which was a – had been a pleasant little city overlooking the Rim Ocean.

He dimly recalled being taken there, once, when he was small. For a moment he gazed sadly into the past. It had wild geraniums, he recalled, filling the sloping cobbled streets with their musky fragrance.

‘Growing out of the walls,’ he said out loud. ‘Pink. They were pink.’

The other wizards looked at him oddly. One or two, of a particularly paranoid frame of mind even for wizards, glanced suspiciously at the walls.

‘Are you all right?’ said one of them.

‘Um?’ said Carding. ‘Oh. Yes, sorry. Miles away.’

He turned back to look at Coin, who was sitting off to one side of the circle with the staff across his knees. The boy appeared to be asleep. Perhaps he was. But Carding knew in the tormented pit of his soul that the staff didn’t sleep. It was watching him, testing his mind.

It knew. It even knew about the pink geraniums.

‘I never wanted it to be like this,’ he said softly. ‘All we really wanted was a bit of respect.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’