Dragonsight (9 page)

‘You have a plan?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Alin. ‘Tell me more about this Jelindel.’

At that moment Jelindel was hunched on a straw pallet in an ill-lit cell deep within the citadel. A tray of untouched food sat nearby. In a guard station opposite her cell, two priests sat playing some kind of card game that involved gambling with yellow pebbles. Their muttered exclamations were driving her to distraction.

Feeling thirsty, she started to fetch the water jug near the cell door. As she did so, the jug leapt into the air and flew across the room towards her. She cried out and ducked. The jug smashed into the wall, showering her with water and pottery fragments.

The priest-guards looked up. One of them, a surly fellow with a hare lip, lumbered to his feet and crossed to the iron bars.

‘Throwin’ things about ain’t gonna do you no good,’ he grated. He turned to his overweight companion. ‘’Aving a tantrum, she is,’ he said. They both laughed. The guard shambled back to the table. Over his shoulder he called out, ‘Don’t let’s hear another peep out of you, or me and my friend here will come in there and pay you a nice long visit!’ They guffawed again.

Jelindel wasn’t paying them any attention. She was staring at the ceramic shards scattered across her bed and the wet patch on the single threadbare blanket.

The jug had flown across the room unaided. She could not have been mistaken. Was it possible the bump on the head had caused some kind of hallucination, like a waking dream? She actually wished she could speak to the physician in whose house she had materialised.

There was another possibility, however. A more intriguing one.

Magic.

Was it possible that she had worked magic, the very crime for which she was to be executed on the morn?

Did that make her a magician? Or a witch? She didn’t
feel
like a witch, though admittedly she wasn’t sure what a witch felt like.

She looked over at the guards. They had gone back to their card game and were paying her no heed. She glanced over the floor, then picked up a small chunk of pottery.

Taking a deep breath, she slowly stretched out her hand, and willed the pottery shard to come to her.

Nothing happened.

She tried again and kept trying until sweat stood out on her brow. Still nothing happened. She slumped back against the wall and exhaled, almost panting. Perhaps she wasn’t a witch after all. She was oddly disappointed. But that still left a big question: how did a bump on the head cause a sturdy jug to fly?

Upon
that
question she thought long and hard.

Daretor’s head for heights was being sorely tested. His mouth filled with saliva and he experienced a lurching sensation in his stomach as he gazed at the ground some fifty feet below. He was on a ledge halfway up the side of a building, inching along with his face to the stone wall and his back to airy emptiness. He could feel the cool night air prickling his skin, which was already slick with sweat and, he had to admit, the stink of fear. He told himself that there was no shame in favouring the solid earth. If White Quell had meant for man or woman to fly, she would have given them wings.

He reached the end of the building. Now came the tricky bit. He had to round the corner. Unfortunately the ledge, up to now reasonably wide, smooth and unadorned, became somewhat ornate. It rose up like a wave out of which mermaids and fish protruded as if riding surf. This left little space for feet, and the sloping backside of the wave was slippery with night dew. Or perhaps, like him, the cold stone was sweating.

He was wondering what to do when an arm came around the edge and an impatient voice asked, ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Wings,’ he replied tartly.

‘Wings we don’t have. My strong arm we do. Grab it and hold on.’ It was Alin. They were at one of three structures next to the detention building, which was barely a stone’s throw away, looming some twenty feet higher against the night sky. Elorsa looked over impatiently.

Daretor gripped Alin’s arm. Taking a deep breath, he placed his foot on the stone wave and twisted round the corner. He slipped. Stifling a cry, he felt himself toppling, and slid off the ledge altogether. Then he was hanging in midair, still held by Alin. He looked up. Alin, visibly straining, managed a thin smile. His other arm was hooked through an open window, otherwise both of them would be bloody corpses on the flagstones below.

‘Well caught,’ Daretor gasped.

‘I strongly suggest you get back up here, before my arm is wrenched out of its socket.’

Daretor managed to wedge the toe of his boot into the gap between two stone slabs. A moment later, now thankful to the craftsmanship of the design for its plentiful handholds, Daretor was back on the ledge.

From there they moved quickly to a spot adjacent to the roof of the detention building, but they were still two storeys below their destination.

Daretor checked the street and signalled Alin, who quickly threw a knotted rope up to the top of a balcony parapet. Its hooked, padded end caught. Moving rapidly, Alin scaled the rope and hauled himself over the parapet. Elorsa scrambled up next, moving with the agility of a cat. Daretor followed.

Once over the parapet, they forced the embrasured window, and hurried to the thick oak door on the far side of the room. Beyond the door was a locked grille that barred the top of a stairwell. Years spent travelling with Zimak came to Daretor’s aid. Picking simple locks had been child’s play for the little thief, and even Daretor had learned some of his skills. With the aid of two dirks he had the grille unlocked within seconds.

‘A man of many talents,’ Alin said in admiration.

They passed inside, moving softly in the leather slippers Alin had brought. The stairwell was unguarded, at least until they reached the ground floor.

Peering over the banister, they saw two priest-guards squatting by the main entrance. They were too far away to be caught by surprise. They were so close to the entrance that they could have easily escaped to warn others.

Alin considered their dilemma. ‘What to do,’ he thought aloud. ‘Elorsa?’

Elorsa unbuttoned her tunic until her cleavage was displayed.

‘No, wait,’ Daretor said. He was contemplating the walls. ‘I have seen no magic Watchers on these stairs,’ he said.

‘They do not watch their own,’ said Elorsa with a soft snort of derision.

‘Good,’ said Daretor. ‘I’m going to try something. Be ready. I don’t know if it’ll work or for how long.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Alin gazed at him, puzzled.

‘Jelindel has taught me many things, even some I have little aptitude for. We shall see how much of a student I really am.’ He concentrated on his conjuring. One false word, even an odd intonation, could have disastrous consequences. That much he
had
learned.

Muttering beneath his breath, as if chanting to himself, he started: ‘
Vec-akine! … Vac-kine! …’

Alin and Elorsa exchanged a look that plainly said they had misjudged the foreigner. An error that could prove a dangerous liability.

‘Vec-takine!’
Daretor said triumphantly.

Just as Alin decided to do something about Daretor’s apparent madness, a flickering blue light gathered about Daretor’s lips. His brow beaded with sweat and he seemed to be under a great exertion.

Suddenly, the blue light leapt through the air and bound the two priest-guards in writhing cords. They fell to the floor, unable to move or call for help.

Daretor slumped heavily, spent. ‘Quickly,’ he gasped.

Alin and Elorsa did not hesitate. They hurled themselves down the remaining stairs at the guards, clubbing them unconscious. Seconds later the blue light unravelled and sped back to Daretor.

Alin bound and gagged the two men and dragged them to a cellar. Elorsa returned to the exhausted Daretor. She helped him to his feet and draped one of his arms across her shoulders. Together they stumbled down to the foyer. They found Alin by a small storeroom beneath the staircase.

Feeling somewhat safer here, Alin gave the group a moment’s respite. Daretor was squatting on the floor, breathing heavily.

‘A simple enough binding word …’ he said. ‘But it’s how you say it that counts.’

Alin and Elorsa stared at him, partly in awe, partly out of fear. ‘Was that … was that
magic
?’ Elorsa asked, hardly daring to say the word.

Daretor nodded. ‘Simple stuff. First year apprentice level. Had no idea … it was so … exhausting…. I’m not a natural …’

Alin clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. ‘I thought it was amazing. The priests don’t like to use magic in front of us. They’re afraid we might learn how to use it.’

‘Or might want to,’ said Elorsa, her eyes gleaming.

‘Are you ready to go on?’ Alin asked Daretor.

Daretor climbed laboriously to his feet.

Jelindel was trying to sleep. She was scared. She was going to die at daybreak and she hardly understood why. It was like being accused of a crime that you thought you might have committed but couldn’t actually remember doing.

It didn’t seem
fair
. If only she could remember something about the past. It might explain how she came to be in this predicament.

At some point she must have slumbered, because she found herself in the middle of an uneasy dream. She was flying swiftly through a dark, unnatural plane in which globes trailing silken thread were harassing her. A noise woke her. She sat up, blinking.

Everything seemed normal at first, then she realised that the priest-guards were lying on the floor, unconscious. The table was upturned and the cards scattered.

Standing in the shadows, looking exceedingly wary, she spied three shadows. One of them stooped low, snatched up a set of keys, and crossed to her cell. A slim but muscular man stood there, smiling.

She stared back. ‘Have you come to rescue me?’ she asked.

‘I have,’ said Daretor. ‘Make no noise, and do everything precisely as you’re told.’

He unlocked the door and eased it open. Then he embraced her and pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes opened wide. Maybe this was the local reward for rescuing somebody, she thought. She shrugged mentally and returned the kiss, since she was clearly being rescued and owed the stranger a debt.

One of the others hissed at them. ‘There’s plenty of time for that later.’

It was a woman’s voice. She sounded irritated. Jelindel pulled back from the embrace.

The man handed her a sword. She wasn’t sure she liked weapons but it did feel familiar. She swung it experimentally.

‘Are you well?’ the man said, concerned.

‘I am now,’ Jelindel said.

Daretor took her hand and led her from the cell. They pattered up a short flight of steps, turned left, and raced to the end of a dark corridor. Here they paused, checking that the way ahead was clear.

Alin gave a signal. They darted across yet another corridor, into a courtyard.

They had almost reached the other side when, somewhere behind them, a bell began clanging.

‘Time to move,’ said Elorsa.

‘We have to make the stairwell before we’re seen,’ said Daretor.

They raced down a corridor, spun into the next and came to a stop. Half a dozen priest-guards pounded into view. Someone was blowing a hitch-pitched whistle.

‘At them,’ yelled Daretor. He and Alin sprang towards the priests, and two went down almost at once. Elorsa engaged another while Jelindel watched. The sword in her hand seemed of little use. But she did manage to dispatch one of the priests who backed into her by whacking him hard on the head with the flat of the sword. He dropped like a stone, and she felt quite pleased with herself. At this point, a larger group of priest-guards appeared behind them.

‘Stop them,’ Daretor yelled at Jelindel.

She stared at him. ‘Stop them how?’

‘You know.
Magic.
A binding word. Anything!’

‘I thought that was illegal here.’

Daretor turned frantically to their pursuers. ‘Do you
want
to be executed?’

‘Good point. There’s only one small problem.’

During the exchange, the priests were advancing cautiously. Daretor and his companions were backing away slowly. With six of their brethren already on the ground, the priest-guards chose to exercise caution.

Elorsa’s jaw set tightly. ‘What exactly is the problem?’

Jelindel shrugged apologetically. ‘I … ah … don’t know any magic.’

‘What?’ asked Alin.

Elorsa looked suspicious and annoyed.

Daretor glanced at Jelindel. ‘Then we’re done for,’ he said, noting the blank look on her face. ‘You really did lose your memory. It wasn’t a trick.’

Jelindel shook her head. Daretor started to say something when the priests attacked with a loud cry. The delay had been calculated. With further yells from behind, a band of more than twenty priest-guards charged from the far side of the courtyard.

Daretor pushed Jelindel behind him.
‘Vec-vec-,’
He paused, trying to remember the intonation.
Vec-’

He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘I remember a word that begins like that,’ Jelindel said.

Before Daretor could engage with the foremost priest-guards, Jelindel said,
‘Vec-takine!’

Blue flickering light appeared on her lips. She waved her hand at the charging priests and blue light flashed across the space, binding every one of them. They fell to the floor, stunned and frightened.

The priests rushing from the opposite direction stopped, amazed and not a little alarmed.

Nobody was as amazed as Jelindel herself, however. ‘By all the gods, did I do that?’ she asked.

There was no time for Alin and Elorsa to marvel at Jelindel’s power. They skirted the bound priests and made for the turret doors. Moments later they reached the stairwell and pounded up. Two floors from the rooftop, Alin paused to place a package on one of the landings. He caught up with the others as they reached the balcony. From there they scrambled across the scalloped roof to the adjacent building. From behind them came a loud explosion and a flash of light. Then great clouds of smoke billowed from the shattered upper floors of the citadel.