Dragonlinks (28 page)

Somebody knew her name. Someone was trying to use her name against her – yet Jaelin was not her name, it was the name that she went by, her calling name. The streamers slid back through the blackness to a grey globe suspended between two triangles of similar globes. There was something logical and powerful about the arrangement. They were in a very different domain now.

‘Jelindel!'

This time Jelindel retreated from the speeding, questing streamers as they came radiating out of the cluster of globes.

She felt for the solidity of the mailshirt as pinpoints of pain blazed across her sense of touch like a bath of cold needles.

Suddenly there was a sense of pain that was not hers: of terror, falling, despair, horror – and something losing its form like a snowflake falling into a pan of boiling water. Jelindel opened her eyes and sat up. She was alive and unharmed.

The mailshirt was glowing faintly orange in the cool darkness of her shuttered hostelry room, but even as she watched, it faded back to its usual silvery sheen. No light was seeping past the shutters, for it was now night.

She got up stiffly, drank a mug of water and splashed some on her face. The fatigue of her hours exploring the paraplane weighed on her limbs like robes woven from lead. This was the time to rest and take stock, yet …

Taking a deep breath and gritting her teeth, she lay down again, closed her eyes and spoke the appropriate word.

Within the paraplane there were only seven grey globes now, and they were drifting randomly, bouncing
softly off the walls of their permissions domain as if they were drunk. Even as she watched, twelve green sparkles appeared among them and began to grow in size and sprout fanged streamers. The grey globes began to shrink, but two were caught by the barbs of writhing green ribbons of light.

The pair were quickly surrounded, while the others sacrificed part of their grey substance to the grasping barbs and winked into a subtly different permissions domain. Suddenly the luminescent barbs bit right through one globe's shrinking body. It collapsed, and there was a bright flash as the trapped globe died.

The other suddenly turned black and slashed two green globes with black tendrils that carried blue star-points at their tips. Both detonated in a single dazzling flash. As the light died away Jelindel saw that the black globe was gone too. Did it die with its green victims, or did it escape, she wondered? It was impossible to tell.

Now Jelindel returned to combing the paraplane view of the city for the link. Her reach was much further than the distance that would make it glow in her world, but there was such a clutter of light and movement in the place that she was unsure where to extend her sense of touch. At length she gave up when Zimak began banging on the door and calling out: ‘Jaelin? Mage Auditor? You've been in there a long time.'

Jelindel flowed back to the solidity of the mailshirt. She was surprised that daylight was still leaking past the window shutters.

‘Well, learn anything?' Zimak asked as she unbarred the door.

‘Mage Auditor,' prompted Daretor behind him.

‘Well, aye,' she said wearily. ‘The dragonlink is indeed here, and someone has tried to kill me.'

‘What? In here?' exclaimed Zimak. ‘We were close by, we heard nothing. Who –'

‘It was in a paraplane, but I would have died here too. There were eight Adepts involved, one very powerful, the rest strong enough to be dangerous. They knew my true-name and one of them called it, yet when the boundary of his influence touched the mailshirt … it was as if he was melted and sucked away. Another died in a fight with some local Adepts.'

‘Truename?' said Zimak.

‘Who were they?' asked Daretor.

Jelindel ignored Zimak's question. ‘I could not tell, but there are six of them left now. When they were all alive one always kept aside, and the rest travelled in a tight arrangement. One was at the centre, totally open yet completely covered. “
Hof aloos, hik aloos
”, is the motto of the lindraks in Old Skeltian. “All open, all closed”. Seven is also the lindrak number of power.'

‘Why would the lindraks be interested in you?' asked Zimak, as if she were not worthy of their attention.

She patted the mailshirt beneath the sheepskin coat.

‘This thing is important enough to hold the attention of kings, and I am wearing it. Does that seem like a good enough reason?' She shrugged dismissively, but the night of the fire that killed her family was suddenly fresh in her memory.

‘Well, we should get to bed and prepare to explore the outer city tomorrow,' she concluded. ‘I'm feeling a bit ragged.'

‘This
is
tomorrow,' said Daretor. ‘You were in your
trance for a full night and day. A scroll has arrived and four flunkeys dressed in brass and velvet are downstairs, awaiting your reply.'

Jelindel froze with shock in the middle of a yawn. Zimak handed her the scroll, and she noted that the seal had been broken.

‘What does it say?' she asked.

‘I don't speak this language,' he replied sheepishly.

Jelindel unrolled the scroll and read. What colour remained in her face quickly drained away.

‘This is from the King,' she said when she looked up. ‘A royal summoning. We are commanded to present ourselves as guests of His Majesty's favour.'

Zimak suddenly seemed as feral as a cornered fox.

‘This is a trap. Last time I was His Majesty's guest I spent three days in the stocks,' he said urgently.

‘And I was accommodated in a dungeon when last I did time as His Majesty's guest,' added Daretor grimly, his hand reflexively resting on the handle of his axe.

‘His Majesty's
favour
means wine, spiced pastries and dancing girls,' Jelindel explained. ‘His Majesty's
pleasure
means bread, water and rats.'

‘He might want the reward that's on our heads in Skelt.'

‘The King of Passendof, scrambling for a mere three thousand silver argents?' laughed Jelindel. ‘Zimak, he'd spend more than that on gold beard curlers.'

‘He would?'

‘Yes he would!' she shouted, growing exasperated rapidly.

‘Now what?' asked Daretor.

‘We should dress in parade rig … and we should keep
our escort waiting about twenty minutes to show we're not overawed. That's what my father used to say.'

‘What's parade rig?' asked Zimak.

‘Explain to him, Daretor. I'll be in here having a quick wash.'

Twenty-five minutes later they were riding towards the gates of the palace, accompanied by the ornately dressed footmen on mackrell point geldings. People cleared out of the way as they approached, then pointed and talked as they passed. Parade rig in their case meant clean tunics, clean nails, oiled boots and belts, hair tied back and their horses' manes and tails brushed.

‘What do I do in front of a king?' asked Zimak softly, his voice pitched high with fright.

‘Don't pick your nose or scratch your bum,' said Jelindel.

‘Or they'll cut it off,' added Daretor.

‘Cut what off?'

‘You can find out the hard way if you really want to know,' snapped Jelindel. ‘Sit up straight in the saddle and stop looking like a rabbit being held over a stew pot! You're meant to be escorting me because you're a brave, elite warrior.'

‘So what do I say? “Good day, my liege – ”?'

‘No! He's not
your
king, idiot; liege is only for subjects. Just say, “Yes, Your Majesty”, “No, Your Majesty”, “Thank you, Your Majesty”. Also, try to remember the court mage is to be addressed as “Lord Mage”.'

‘Ah, aye, I think I have it. Now, if a princess falls madly in love with me and offers her hand in marriage –'

‘Say, “Thank you, Your Royal Highness”, if she's the crown princess, and leave out the “Royal” if she's not. However, Zimak, remember that if you so much as wink at
anything female inside the palace walls you'll be frog-marched off to the headman's block, and I'll volunteer to wield the axe.'

‘Aye, all right, just a joke. I know when to stay quiet, Jaelin. You know me better than that.'

‘Sorry, it's a bad time – for all of us. The, ah, the moons are not in auspicious positions and I have a lot on my mind.'

‘Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,' Daretor said gravely on Jelindel's right.

‘That's good. Speak only when spoken to, bow whenever you begin a reply, and never turn your back on anyone wearing a crown or anything purple trimmed with gold. Oh – damn! Why am I telling you all this?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You don't speak their language.'

Zimak scowled, but gave a sigh that sounded suspiciously like relief.

‘I'd be happier if I knew why the King wants to see the likes of us,' said Daretor.

‘If we were out of favour he'd have sent guards, not footmen. Try to look alert, lads, not fearful.'

The interior of the palace was meant to overawe visitors, and all three were certainly stunned by the soaring stone arches of red marble, the tapestries as big as all the floors of a rich peasant's house, and guards in gilded plate armour with winged panthers on their helmets.

Footmen wearing yellow tail-coats took their horses, and they were escorted up a stairway wider than the greatest of the streets of D'loom.

Jelindel noted that Daretor and Zimak were striding slightly behind her, and in the many mirrors they passed
she saw that they were both blank of face and rigidly alert. Obviously they were too awestruck by the sheer scale and opulence to deliberately do anything stupid. That was a relief.

The Passendof King received them in a walled garden, where he sat playing chess with a girl younger than Daretor but older than Zimak. She wore blue and orange robes over a red tunic strapped hard against her torso with leather lacings, and was bold and direct in her gaze. When the monarch turned to speak with his guests she lounged back, drawing one leg up on the bench with a rather wanton movement. Jelindel at first assumed that she was one of the King's courtesans until she saw the gold and purple collar of her gown. A princess.

The King had a flaring black beard and he dressed to impose with padded shoulders and pectoral-quilt breasting, but he was not a big man. His face was sad, and there were crescent smudges under his eyes.

‘Your men must stay by the door, Mage Auditor,' the court warden explained.

‘Wait here,' Jelindel translated. ‘The only armed guards allowed near the King are those on his pay register.'

She walked across the green flagstones to the stone furniture where the King sat. Now she noticed a figure standing back among the carved stone tubs and carefully manicured shrubberies. There was something familiar about the man, even though she had never set eyes on him before.

The King was in the process of moving a pawn when he turned and waved the piece at his visitor.

‘Chess is the perfect distraction, do you not agree?' the monarch asked.

‘Yes, Your Majesty,' Jelindel replied after the correct bow.

The monarch turned back to the board, but had forgotten where the piece had come from and to where it was destined. He tossed the pawn to the Princess and again faced Jelindel.

‘Mage Auditor Jaelin, I am pleased to meet the youth behind the legend,' the King began wearily. ‘Word of what you did in the Valley of Clouds has reached Dremari. Is it true that you slew a master Adept and destroyed a path to hell itself?'

Jelindel bowed and looked up. ‘Your Majesty flatters me unduly. I merely discovered and exposed a dabbler in thaumaturgy who conjured daemons and controlled them. That man was slain by one of his own daemons. I then banished the daemon back to its own paraworld and destroyed the path.'

‘Modestly put, young man. So, now you are in Dremari and you want to see my Supreme Marshall.'

Jelindel's presumption had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she was not so sure. The King was not obviously angry, but seemed very stressed and distracted. Perhaps it's some other matter more important than myself, she thought hopefully.

‘Yes, I made that request, Your Majesty.'

‘Why?'

‘A dangerous enchantment is said to have made its way here, to the capital of your own fair kingdom. It is related to that one which afflicted the Valley of Clouds.'

‘Now what of the real reason?' His tone was soft and bland, but the question nevertheless dripped with distrust.

He is a very sharp monarch and I am a girl pretending
to be who knows what, Jelindel reminded herself. Always have a spare story, her father had often told his family over dinner, and now that advice was proving its worth. She took a deep breath, hesitated too long, and had to exhale. She took another breath.

‘The Valley of Clouds supplies the border forts of Passendof as well as Baltoria,' she began. ‘When the daemons disrupted its services some years ago, your forts and outlying towns fell victim to rebel attacks. Should daemons now appear to prowl your own fair capital, it could be seen as an omen against your rule. Passendof is strong, central and prosperous. It is the key to peace throughout the entire north of this continent. A secure Passendof is considered to be desirable by my masters.'

‘And who are your masters?'

Jelindel bowed yet again. ‘Ultimately, the Temple of Verity and the Verital priests and priestesses. I am charged not to reveal more.'

At that moment there was a deep, rumbling growl to Jelindel's right, and a huge, spotted cat rose from behind the stone bench and walked into view. It was at once familiar but unfamiliar: massively built like a lion, yet with a finely boned head and a beautiful coat of black spots on gleaming golden fur. It regarded Jelindel with suspicion and growled again.

‘Kasmor, stop that,' the Princess called. The cat sauntered over and lay at her feet.

‘It's a lepon,' the King explained. ‘Half leopard, half lion.' He made a flourish with his hand. ‘Longrical, come forward.'