The Blade Itself

“Commands, does he?” Bayaz frowned. “Bring great Juvens back from the land of the dead. He may command me. He alone, and no other.” The frown grew deeper still, and Logen had to resist a strange desire to back away. “You may not. Nor may your father, whatever he calls himself.”

Calder sank slowly to his knees, face twisted, eyes watering. Bayaz looked him up and down. “What solemn attire, did somebody die? Here,” and he tossed the chain of flowers over the Prince’s head. “A little colour may lighten your mood. Tell your father he must come himself. I do not waste my time on fools and younger sons. I am old fashioned in this. I like to talk to the horse’s head, not the horse’s arse. Do you understand me, boy?” Calder was sagging sideways, eyes red and bulging. The First of the Magi waved his hand. “You may go.”

The Prince heaved in a ragged breath, coughed and reeled to his feet, stumbled for his horse and hauled himself up into the saddle with a deal less grace than he had got down. He shot a murderous glance over his shoulder as he made for the gate, but it didn’t have quite the same weight with his face red as a slapped arse. Logen realised he was grinning, wide. It was a long time since he’d enjoyed himself this much.

“I understand that you can speak to the spirits.”

Logen was caught off guard. “Eh?”

“To speak to the spirits.” Bayaz shook his head. “It is a rare gift in these times. How are they?”

“What, the spirits?”

“Yes.”

“Dwindling.”

“Soon they will all sleep, eh? The magic leaks out of the world. That is the set order of things. Over the years my knowledge has grown, and yet my power has diminished.”

“Calder seemed impressed.”

“Bah.” Bayaz waved his hand. “A mere nothing. A little trick of air and flesh, easily done. No, believe me, the magic ebbs away. It is a fact. A natural law. Still, there are many ways to crack an egg, eh, my friend? If one tool fails then we must try another.” Logen was no longer entirely sure what they were talking about, but he was too tired to ask.

“Yes, indeed,” murmured the First of the Magi. “There are many ways to crack an egg. Speaking of which, you look hungry.”

Logen’s mouth flooded with spit at the very mention of food. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Yes… I could eat.”

“Of course.” Bayaz clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “And then perhaps a bath? Not that we are offended of course, but I find that there is nothing more soothing than hot water after a long walk, and you, I suspect, have had a very long walk indeed. Come with me, Master Ninefingers, you’re safe here.”

Food. Bath. Safety. Logen had to stop himself from weeping as he followed the old man into the library.

The Good Man

It was a hot, hot day outside, and the sun shone brightly through the many-paned windows, casting criss-cross patterns on the wooden floor of the audience chamber. It was mid-afternoon, and the room was soupy warm and stuffy as a kitchen.

Fortis dan Hoff, the Lord Chamberlain, was red-faced and sweaty in his fur-trimmed robes of state, and had been in an increasingly filthy mood all afternoon. Harlen Morrow, his Under-Secretary for Audiences, looked even more uncomfortable, but then he had his terror of Hoff to contend with, in addition to the heat. Both men seemed greatly distressed in their own ways, but at least they got to sit down.

Major West was sweating steadily into his embroidered dress uniform. He had been standing in the same position, hands behind his back, teeth gritted, for nearly two hours while Lord Hoff sulked and grumbled and bellowed his way through the applicants and anyone else in view. West fervently wished, and not for the first time that afternoon, that he was lying under a tree in the park, with a strong drink. Or perhaps under a glacier, entombed within the ice. Anywhere but here.

Standing guard on these horrible audiences was hardly one of West’s more pleasant duties, but it could have been worse. You had to spare a thought for the eight soldiers stood around the walls: they were in full armour. West was waiting for one of them to pass out and crash to the floor with a sound like a cupboard full of saucepans, no doubt to the great disgust of the Lord Chamberlain, but so far they were all somehow staying upright.

“Why is this damned room always the wrong temperature?” Hoff was demanding to know, as if the heat was an insult directed solely at him. “It’s too hot half the year, too cold the other half! There’s no air in here, no air at all! Why don’t these windows open? Why can’t we have a bigger room?”

“Er…” mumbled the harassed Under-Secretary, pushing his spectacles up his sweaty nose, “requests for audiences have always been held here, my Lord Chamberlain.” He paused under the fearsome gaze of his superior. “Er… it is… traditional?”

“I know that, you dolt!” thundered Hoff, face crimson with heat and fury. “Who asked for your damn fool of an opinion anyway?”

“Yes, that is to say, no,” stuttered Morrow, “that is to say, quite so, my Lord.”